The cleanliness of the apartment went unnoticed as she stumbled through the
door, worn out from working for almost thirty-six hours and weary from her
interview with Barnes. The smell of almonds wafted through the air, and
she thought, Cyanide smells like almonds. A yawn stretched her mouth wide,
and she chucked her keys and jacket onto the table by the door with her
eyes still closed.
Sara decided, as she walked to the bedroom, that she wasn't going to bother changing her clothes, she was too tired. She nearly collapsed on the bed, smelling like prison and bones, not even aware that someone had changed the sheets.
"I made muffins." Grissom's voice rumbled through her ears, and she forced one eyelid up to look at him. "Almond-apricot."
Sara whined softly, "I love apricots." Her head fell back against the pillow. "But I'm too tired."
"They'll be there when you wake up," he assured her. "Sleep."
"Joining me?" she asked through a yawn.
Grissom pulled the blankets over her, running a hand over her hair, and replied, "You just talked to Barnes. Last time we were in the same bed together after you went near him, I got a black eye. So I'm sending myself to the couch."
She winced. "Sorry about that."
"It's okay. Besides, I don't really care for Eau de Prison." "Don't smell that bad. . ." Sara yawned again, and sniffed. "More like bone than prison."
"Okay, Eau de Bone." He watched her yawn again, then she was out like a light. Grissom sighed. "What am I going to do with you, sweetheart? You're going to work yourself to death on this case, you didn't need another reason to be involved," he whispered to her still form.
He was awakened by the sound of the door opening and dog tags jangling over to jump on the couch. "Scopie!" Sara scolded quietly. "Get off, you'll wake him up."
"Too late," Grissom said, and the dog wriggled over to lick his face. He pushed her off gently, asking his wife, "How long have you been up?"
"Hour, hour and a half," she shrugged, peering into the fridge. "Where'd you put the muffins?"
"Counter."
She rustled through the various items on the counter, mail, crime scene photos, some food. "Found 'em."
A few seconds later, the microwave beeped, and he was forced to share the couch with a bouncy brunette and a warm muffin. "Want some?" she asked, holding out a piece.
"Made them for you, so go ahead." Grissom watched as she fed it to the dog. "Sara, I thought we agreed we wouldn't feed her human food."
She grinned at him. "You're so. . .strict," she mock-complained.
"You're so. . .awake," he riposted. "Have you had coffee yet?"
Sara shook her head slowly, her grin growing.
"Hmm," he thought aloud as she slid down to lie next to him. "No coffee. That's your first bit of food today, right?" She nodded. "I'd say endorphins, from the exercise, but you're more hyper than usual. I don't know, Sidle. Why are you so awake?"
Sara shrugged, leaned up and kissed him. "If I knew, I'd tell you."
He picked off stray hairs from her clothing as they laid on the couch, the grooming ritual was too much like what a monkey would do and she started laughing. "What?"
"Nothing, it's just . . .You're acting like you have to pick insects off of me like I'm a chimpanzee or something."
"Well, you are acting like one today."
"Just remember, before you call me a primate again, that chimps throw their. . . excrement when they get angry or territorial."
"I'll keep that in mind." Grissom looked at his wife, taking in every detail: milk chocolate eyes hiding behind her lids, the hair she kept saying she had to get cut was strewn across her face and the couch, a much faded S-shaped scar on her left cheek, her Glock 9mm pistol-why was she wearing her gun?-that she wanted to trade for a H&K because the Koch handguns were tougher to handle, those red jeans he wasn't sure why she had, and. . . wait a minute. . . "Is that my shirt?" he asked, fingering the hem of the white shirt she was wearing.
"Got a problem with it?" Sara challenged.
"Oh, no. I think it looks better on you that it ever would on me. And you know every man alive likes to see his girl wearing an item of his clothes."
"I'm not your girl," she corrected automatically.
"Oh, right," he said. "You have to remember I'm just a caveman, and that occasionally I think everything is mine."
"Sorry," she answered, the lilt in her voice added to the joke. "I forgot I'm supposed to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen baking a pie. Oh, wait, I am barefoot."
"Woman, what are you doing relaxin' on the couch?" he mock-roared. "Git in the kitchen and make me a sandwich!"
Sara laughed, patted him on the shoulder. "If you want a sandwich, Caveman, you can go make your own. . .but I should warn you, I don't think we have any bread."
A fake glare crossed his face. "So, I can't have a sandwich. . .what're you gonna cook?"
She licked her lips. "Grissom, there's a reason you're in charge of meals around here. . .we don't want to pay for a stomach pump every time I go into the kitchen, do we?"
She found herself caught up in a lingering kiss. "Not a chance," Grissom said. "I'll stick to the cooking, you can stick to thinking about what you're going to do on your night off."
Yesterday's prison trip faded as she asked excitedly, "I get the night off?"
Grissom nodded. "If I see you anywhere near the lab or this case, there will be repercussions. I don't want you to work thirty-six hour shifts, because that just leads to burnout, which leads to pills, which leads to. . ."
"Yeah, I got it," Sara said, cutting him off. "But I can't promise to stay away from researching the Fish thing, okay?"
"Research only," he conceded. "I know you don't like being told what to do, but I'm just trying to prevent. . .things. . .from happening again."
"This is the fish" was entered into the search window at Google a few hours later, and Sara sat back to watch the results come up. Grissom had left almost an hour ago, Scope sleeping in her crate in the back of his Tahoe-a rare but highly prized excursion into work-and their departure had left her alone in the apartment, staring at the computer screen, the stereo playing lightly in the background.
She frowned as the results came back.
"This is the Fish and Game department of Southern Colorado. . ." "Now, this is the fish most commonly found at state fairs. . ." "I spent nearly a thousand dollars on this fish. . ."
Sara groaned. So much for that. . .
She typed "thisisthefish.com" into the location window and hit enter. A "cannot find server" message popped up. "It was a long shot anyway," Sara said out loud, trying to cover the disappointment that this too had failed.
Her fingers tapped absently on the keyboard, not applying enough pressure to make the keys depress, but enough to create the auditory illusion of work. The glaring white screen and the message "This page cannot be displayed" offered no help and no clues, and the music was doing nothing but distracting her. Sara got up and shut the stereo off, cutting off the Chili Peppers' "Rollercoaster."
She wandered through the apartment, treading in a seemingly endless circle, from the living room to the kitchen down the hall to their 'office' and through the bedroom, past the bathroom, back down the hall to the living room. Pacing didn't help, even as she ran the case through her head, every bit of evidence passing by her thoughts. She trailed her fingertips over the spines of nearly a hundred books, forensics and entomological, her unfinished thesis from graduate school, Shakespeare and books of poetry, a condensed version of the Oxford Dictionary of the English Language and a dictionary of quotations, but the infinite wisdom and knowledge held in the pages didn't speak to her.
She was trapped in frustration.
Sara reached for the phone.
Sara decided, as she walked to the bedroom, that she wasn't going to bother changing her clothes, she was too tired. She nearly collapsed on the bed, smelling like prison and bones, not even aware that someone had changed the sheets.
"I made muffins." Grissom's voice rumbled through her ears, and she forced one eyelid up to look at him. "Almond-apricot."
Sara whined softly, "I love apricots." Her head fell back against the pillow. "But I'm too tired."
"They'll be there when you wake up," he assured her. "Sleep."
"Joining me?" she asked through a yawn.
Grissom pulled the blankets over her, running a hand over her hair, and replied, "You just talked to Barnes. Last time we were in the same bed together after you went near him, I got a black eye. So I'm sending myself to the couch."
She winced. "Sorry about that."
"It's okay. Besides, I don't really care for Eau de Prison." "Don't smell that bad. . ." Sara yawned again, and sniffed. "More like bone than prison."
"Okay, Eau de Bone." He watched her yawn again, then she was out like a light. Grissom sighed. "What am I going to do with you, sweetheart? You're going to work yourself to death on this case, you didn't need another reason to be involved," he whispered to her still form.
He was awakened by the sound of the door opening and dog tags jangling over to jump on the couch. "Scopie!" Sara scolded quietly. "Get off, you'll wake him up."
"Too late," Grissom said, and the dog wriggled over to lick his face. He pushed her off gently, asking his wife, "How long have you been up?"
"Hour, hour and a half," she shrugged, peering into the fridge. "Where'd you put the muffins?"
"Counter."
She rustled through the various items on the counter, mail, crime scene photos, some food. "Found 'em."
A few seconds later, the microwave beeped, and he was forced to share the couch with a bouncy brunette and a warm muffin. "Want some?" she asked, holding out a piece.
"Made them for you, so go ahead." Grissom watched as she fed it to the dog. "Sara, I thought we agreed we wouldn't feed her human food."
She grinned at him. "You're so. . .strict," she mock-complained.
"You're so. . .awake," he riposted. "Have you had coffee yet?"
Sara shook her head slowly, her grin growing.
"Hmm," he thought aloud as she slid down to lie next to him. "No coffee. That's your first bit of food today, right?" She nodded. "I'd say endorphins, from the exercise, but you're more hyper than usual. I don't know, Sidle. Why are you so awake?"
Sara shrugged, leaned up and kissed him. "If I knew, I'd tell you."
He picked off stray hairs from her clothing as they laid on the couch, the grooming ritual was too much like what a monkey would do and she started laughing. "What?"
"Nothing, it's just . . .You're acting like you have to pick insects off of me like I'm a chimpanzee or something."
"Well, you are acting like one today."
"Just remember, before you call me a primate again, that chimps throw their. . . excrement when they get angry or territorial."
"I'll keep that in mind." Grissom looked at his wife, taking in every detail: milk chocolate eyes hiding behind her lids, the hair she kept saying she had to get cut was strewn across her face and the couch, a much faded S-shaped scar on her left cheek, her Glock 9mm pistol-why was she wearing her gun?-that she wanted to trade for a H&K because the Koch handguns were tougher to handle, those red jeans he wasn't sure why she had, and. . . wait a minute. . . "Is that my shirt?" he asked, fingering the hem of the white shirt she was wearing.
"Got a problem with it?" Sara challenged.
"Oh, no. I think it looks better on you that it ever would on me. And you know every man alive likes to see his girl wearing an item of his clothes."
"I'm not your girl," she corrected automatically.
"Oh, right," he said. "You have to remember I'm just a caveman, and that occasionally I think everything is mine."
"Sorry," she answered, the lilt in her voice added to the joke. "I forgot I'm supposed to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen baking a pie. Oh, wait, I am barefoot."
"Woman, what are you doing relaxin' on the couch?" he mock-roared. "Git in the kitchen and make me a sandwich!"
Sara laughed, patted him on the shoulder. "If you want a sandwich, Caveman, you can go make your own. . .but I should warn you, I don't think we have any bread."
A fake glare crossed his face. "So, I can't have a sandwich. . .what're you gonna cook?"
She licked her lips. "Grissom, there's a reason you're in charge of meals around here. . .we don't want to pay for a stomach pump every time I go into the kitchen, do we?"
She found herself caught up in a lingering kiss. "Not a chance," Grissom said. "I'll stick to the cooking, you can stick to thinking about what you're going to do on your night off."
Yesterday's prison trip faded as she asked excitedly, "I get the night off?"
Grissom nodded. "If I see you anywhere near the lab or this case, there will be repercussions. I don't want you to work thirty-six hour shifts, because that just leads to burnout, which leads to pills, which leads to. . ."
"Yeah, I got it," Sara said, cutting him off. "But I can't promise to stay away from researching the Fish thing, okay?"
"Research only," he conceded. "I know you don't like being told what to do, but I'm just trying to prevent. . .things. . .from happening again."
"This is the fish" was entered into the search window at Google a few hours later, and Sara sat back to watch the results come up. Grissom had left almost an hour ago, Scope sleeping in her crate in the back of his Tahoe-a rare but highly prized excursion into work-and their departure had left her alone in the apartment, staring at the computer screen, the stereo playing lightly in the background.
She frowned as the results came back.
"This is the Fish and Game department of Southern Colorado. . ." "Now, this is the fish most commonly found at state fairs. . ." "I spent nearly a thousand dollars on this fish. . ."
Sara groaned. So much for that. . .
She typed "thisisthefish.com" into the location window and hit enter. A "cannot find server" message popped up. "It was a long shot anyway," Sara said out loud, trying to cover the disappointment that this too had failed.
Her fingers tapped absently on the keyboard, not applying enough pressure to make the keys depress, but enough to create the auditory illusion of work. The glaring white screen and the message "This page cannot be displayed" offered no help and no clues, and the music was doing nothing but distracting her. Sara got up and shut the stereo off, cutting off the Chili Peppers' "Rollercoaster."
She wandered through the apartment, treading in a seemingly endless circle, from the living room to the kitchen down the hall to their 'office' and through the bedroom, past the bathroom, back down the hall to the living room. Pacing didn't help, even as she ran the case through her head, every bit of evidence passing by her thoughts. She trailed her fingertips over the spines of nearly a hundred books, forensics and entomological, her unfinished thesis from graduate school, Shakespeare and books of poetry, a condensed version of the Oxford Dictionary of the English Language and a dictionary of quotations, but the infinite wisdom and knowledge held in the pages didn't speak to her.
She was trapped in frustration.
Sara reached for the phone.