Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I know some people said they didn't see this Sara as that OOC. But, there have been others who really think this is a stretch, which is why I said it was OOC. I don't think real Sara was like this Sara, but I definately think she had the potential for it. Either way, I hope you enjoy it-for some reason, I really enjoy writing her this way. :)

Also, in the last chapter I had Sara saying she was a sophomore, but she's supposed to be a junior. I'm going to fix it once I post this.

Let me know what you think! Next chapter, I think, will be Grissom's point of view. Probably. Pretty sure.

Chapter Two:

I worked in a bar called The Lantern. Its signage, hanging old and wooden above the doors, carried the words, "One if by Land, Two if by Sea." Chris Eddison—who went by Eddie—swore up and down that some cousin's mother's niece of Paul Revere had lived here, during the revolution—thus the name. Of course, he had absolutely no historical documentation to prove such a thing and the only thing about the building that was historic was one large brick wall with a fireplace set into it. Everything else was… well, not new, but had definitely been built in the last fifty years.

Still, the atmosphere made you believe him, a little bit, despite your better judgment. It just felt so old-world… quiet and still and a little dark. Part of the reason I'd started working here was because of the feel of the place. …The other part, of course, was that Eddie was probably the only bar owner in the city who'd let a sixteen year old work in his kitchen making frozen pizzas and plates of microwaved extreme nachos. And he was definitely the only one who'd let me be a cocktail waitress at eighteen, despite the law requiring I be nineteen to serve alcohol, just because he knew I needed the tips.

Eddie really was a good guy.

It was early, just past seven, and there were a few of our regulars—older gentlemen who came alone to drink, a couple in their thirties who ran a little boutique down the street who usually stopped after they closed up for the night—and then my group, in their usual spot. It was a round booth, made to fit five or six but which was usually forced to accommodate eight or nine, and it was about as far from the bar area as possible. They choose this spot, in part, because it was the only large booth in the place… but also because Eddie asked me to tell my friends to hide in the back if they insisted on being so "young and loud."

I didn't know how they insisted on being young, although my best guess is that that was his way of telling me that he knew I was serving alcohol to the ones who I knew damn well were underage, and he just wanted it out of his immediate line of vision. He didn't confront me or tell me stop, however, and so I didn't. I did cut them off, however, when they got out of hand—the last thing Eddie needed was the fuzz here, asking questions. Hell—it was the last thing I needed.

Anni had brought some guy I didn't know with her, though I suspected he was the Creative Writer, and they were accompanied by a few others—Stacey, Josh, Derek. Stacey and Derek were fucking. No, not dating—they each had casual relationships outside of each other, and they never went to dinner or held hands or exchanged sweet nothings. But once every week or so, they would go home together instead of alone, and didn't bother to hide it or the evidence of it the next day—beard burn on her neck, love bites on his. Josh was single, and lamented it deeply—and was presently eyeing the new guy with nothing short of lust in his eyes. I looked him over again from where I stood at the bar, waiting on their order.

He reminded me of Vanilla Ice.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste and wondered if I genuinely felt this way or if I was just being mean because the past week had absolutely not gone my way.

Friday, the next time I'd had class with Dr. Grissom, I'd taken extra time over my lunch hour to primp—I didn't want it to look like I was trying too hard, but I had broken out my tightest pair of jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved shirt, sans the bra. He had spent the hour going over the different areas of forensics, and had tried to tailor his lecture to our class. He'd asked everyone's majors and had had someone from each help him. For example, he'd taken an art major and had them speculate on how you could recreate faces—talking about facial symmetry and the typical facial features for people of different races and ages. He had to use a few stand-ins where there wasn't representation, but when he got to physics, he chose the only other student in the class. And she was sitting in the back, hardly paying attention, while I'd had my hand in the air.

So on Monday, I decided I needed to be a bit more aggressive. …The only way I really knew to get close to a teacher so that seduction of any kind could begin was to become their favorite student. From there, it was easy. But despite coming early, he'd hardly spoken to me, having been immersed in his notes, and then he'd snubbed me in class… I borrowed a red plaid skirt from Anni and donned white knee socks and a little white t-shirt, baring my midriff. If anything would draw his attention—and put him in the mind frame I wanted him in—it was having a naughty school girl sitting front and center in his lecture. Anni asked me if I wanted a sucker to take with me when she saw me (because, of course, she knew what I was doing…) and I snapped where she could shove her tootsie pop before slamming the door.

Maybe I should have gone with the lollipop, however, because my outfit didn't seem to faze him.

Well, no—that's not true. He raised his eyebrows when I first walked in, my usual twenty minutes early, but turned back to his notes again. I had time to note the look of surprise in his eyes—the question pressing against the inside of his lips that he wouldn't let escape—but I didn't see anything close to it again. He didn't even let himself eye me when he thought I wasn't looking. But he didn't seem to be avoiding me with purpose either. Not like he wanted to look and wouldn't let himself… But just like I sincerely didn't draw his interest. We were going over some of the basic "laws" of forensics. Everyone takes something in and takes something out… and I knew them like the back of my hand.

I asked intelligent questions, I contributed to discussion, I answered his inquiries correctly, and I stayed late to ask further questions.

The man was nothing but polite to me—answering my questions, but not indicating that I was anything but just another student to him. …I had never been just another student—not even to female teachers. I had always been a favorite… a breath of fresh air… a new challenge to re-inspire them to love their tired subjects… I couldn't decide if I was more angry or upset. I knew that I had tears pricking my eyes as I left class that day, smarting with indignation at his blatant lack of interest.

Wednesday, I toned it down again. Looking like a hoochie wasn't going to make a sometimes-dowdy, serious professor like Dr. Grissom look up from his notes and his bugs. At least, if the plaid skirt hadn't done it, that certainly wouldn't. I went back to only slightly provocative—short shorts, but a t-shirt that was plain and offered full-coverage. It was the first morning he spoke to me, other than to say hello and that, yes, it was okay for me to be there early again.

I stood in the doorway, tilting my head once again in a silent request—one I had never felt the need to make of another teacher—and he quirked a smile. "One of these days you'll just be on time for class and I'll already be filing a missing person's report." He teased. I blushed and felt my face light up.

I wanted to lean over his desk and ask in my best bedroom voice, "So you're saying you'd miss me…?" But I didn't. I bit my bottom lip in my very best attempt at looking sweetly uncertain and moved to take my usual seat. "I'll probably always be early… I've got a long lunch period before this and I get impatient waiting for this class to start…"

There. Not only had I let him know that I was available for some private "tutoring" before class, I'd complimented his class—and it was clear that the subject matter was more a calling than a career. But though he smiled, he didn't seem… like the information meant anything to him. He just did that polite nod again and let his eyes flicker to his notes. I had to act fast before he got lost in work again!

"You grew up in California, right?"

He lifts his head, a little uncertainly. "That's right…" He's waiting for me to explain why I would ask, and I shuffle my feet beneath my seat in what I hope is an endearing fashion.

"I just… I grew up outside of San Francisco. It's nice to meet another native—it's so hard to get used to the snow…"

He smiled genuinely then. "It is—Chicago was that way for me. Minneapolis too. Everyone is excited about a white Christmas and I'm wishing I could still walk down to the beach to see Christmas lights on the boats…"

"My brother had a sail boat, when I was little… He used to let me string Christmas lights on it, though he pretended that it really bothered him…" I feel the smile on my face twisting a little and I quickly adjust it—I hadn't necessarily meant to get personally involved in what I was telling him. I just knew from experience that people opened up when you did—something in the human psyche, maybe, I don't know. I just know that it works.

And his smile is a little softer, though his eyes hold something I can't distinguish, and that bothers me. He clears his throat and glances from his notes to me. "It's nice to meet a fellow sun-lover. I, uh…" He gestures to the papers in front of him, and though I feel like snapping at him inside, on the outside I give him a small smile that I know makes me look like a sex kitten.

"Oh! Of course. I'm sorry…" I tug my textbook from my backpack and open it—a little conspicuously—to the page I'm on—about twelve chapters in, though we're still on chapter one in class. I can't tell if he notices, and he doesn't speak to me again until class starts. I spend the time mulling over what our brief encounter means—we'd had a moment, of that I was sure. I just… wasn't sure if the moment was because he missed California, or because of me. The former was far more likely, especially considering his abrupt break in the conversation.

I had just resolved myself to stay after class and ask questions when he stopped his lecture a minute early in order to tell us that he had an appointment to keep immediately after class so if we had any questions or anything we needed to discuss, we could call his office and leave a message or talk to him on Monday. And he was one of the first ones out the door.

It was now Thursday night, and I had done almost nothing but think about him in the intervening time between now and then. Nothing I was doing even seemed to register with him, must less tempt him, but I wasn't quite ready to ask Anni for her advice—she didn't have a problem with me sleeping with teachers, but she thought my interest in "geezers" was not only hilarious but disgusting. I would endure endless harassment and, should we ever run into Dr. Grissom in public, she would be… less than discreet. And I was beginning to think that with a man like him, discretion was pretty important.

I took my tray of drinks—mostly cheap beer—and dragged my ass up to their table, passing them around and collecting wadded bills that were tossed my way through the midst of laughter. I've walked in on the end of a joke, apparently told by Anni, and New Guy is giving her a look like he wants to put her up on an alter and spent the rest of his days staring at her in supplicating worship. Which is not an altogether uncommon response to my curvy, vivacious roommate… She'd had a boyfriend, last year, who had said she was like the sun—this beautiful thing, too bright to look at directly, that had this gravitational force that could and would not be resisted. He was going to be an astrophysicist, but clearly not a very good one…

Anni wasn't a sun, bright and beautiful though she may be. She was a black hole, and her pull was inescapable… but there was no life-giving force within. She was as simultaneously hollow and full of baggage as I was, and heat didn't always mean warmth.

She gives me a look—an arch of a carefully shaped eyebrow—and I know she's asking for an opinion on Vanilla Ice. She had clearly liked him if she'd only made him wait a week for this little liaison, and I supposed he was cute, in a strange kind of way. He wasn't really Anni's type—she generally went for guys with tattoos and piercings who played in bands (featuring lyrics with absolutely no originality, and an extreme amount of angst), who were ripped and dangerous and treated her like 90% of a person once they'd slept together. …Come to think of it, Vanilla Ice might be a nice change of pace for her.

I gave her a small smile before introducing myself, and her resulting smile told me that she got it. His name was Todd and when he lifted his arm to shake my hand, I caught sight of a tattoo on the inside of his bicep… Well, at least I knew that some things didn't change.

I got off at midnight, but I stayed for a few drinks, feeling particularly depressed at the idea of heading to class the next day and being ignored again. I couldn't remember being so impressed by a teacher before, which was certainly saying something—if nothing else, Dr. Anderson was a rather inspiring man in his own right. But there was just… something. And maybe I would have been able to accept his disinterest in me as a lover if he'd still revered me as a student… But the lack of attention was grating on me.

When Josh caught sight of some sexy man meat at the bar, he asked me to go grab shots at the bar with him, so he had an excuse to talk to them… and I spent the rest of the night pounding shots and playing quarters with three gay guys who couldn't seem to decide in which order they wanted to fuck each other. I'm about to suggest a sequence which my tequila-ridden brain has deemed the most fair for all involved when Eddie tells me that he's called me a cab, and it's waiting for me outside. He's always doing that—taking care of me. Anni and New Guy… Todd… pile in with me, and then we're headed home, and I'm trying to find the words to tell her not to sleep with him, because then he'll realize that she isn't the sun, but they don't come.

I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed, but I woke up to squeaking springs at least three times. My brain was too fogged to be entirely sure that it was three separate times—it certainly could have been one time. I had no concept of how long I drifted in between them. But when I woke for class the next day, to an alarm—one I rarely had to use and usually turned off when I left the house, without ever giving it a chance to ring—I felt like shit.

Like shit run over twice and then shit on again.

A single glance in the mirror told me that, at best, I would look like I'd been up all night. At worst… Well, I wondered what Dr. Grissom's opinion on coming to class with a hangover was.

With my luck, he wouldn't even notice.