Grissom climbed under the blanket and resumed the cuddle that had started so many hours earlier, in the afternoon. It was night time now, and they lay there mostly in silence, Sara apparently not in the mood to talk and thoroughly beyond the point of making polite conversation.
She lay there on her side, one hand clutching her forehead, and under the blanket he held her waist with a single hand, rubbing it every so often in what he hoped was a gesture of reassurance.
After a while, he had to ask.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm starting to hate that question," she confessed, softly in the darkness.
"I know, but I have to ask it," he said, firm. "We have to know if you're improving or deteriorating."
"It's not improving."
He had guessed as much. Her irritability was a giveaway.
"Is your headache getting worse?" he asked, concerned.
"Please stop asking questions."
She was polite enough, but there was a touch of temper in the statement. He clutched her waist again in resignation.
"I'll let you rest," he said.
She did, for a few moments. But then she unexpectedly started talking again, quietly, as though she only wanted him to hear.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Sure," he replied.
"What Catherine said … would you ever do it?"
He hesitated. There was a lot to that question.
"Do you mean now?" he asked, very quietly, so that the others would not hear. "Here?"
"Yeah."
He sighed, surrendering.
"Yes, I would," he replied, in a measured tone. "If it was needed, and if you were okay with it, then yes, I would be comfortable assisting."
Oddly, she didn't reply. She fell quiet for a moment, as though contemplating it.
But then, she reached up under the blanket and momentarily clutched his hand, rubbing it with her slender fingers. He squeezed it momentarily.
"Thank you for staying with me," she said.
"You're welcome."
He rubbed her waist again, and even let his hand wander a little – down to her pelvic bone, where it jutted out of her thin frame. He trailed a finger there, before returning it to the safety of her waist. She didn't protest. It felt surprisingly right, as though he should touch her this way.
For some reason, he ventured a joke.
"I can always ask Nick if you'd like."
She actually giggled, softly, briefly and beautifully in the darkness.
"I think you know my views on that," she said, cryptically.
"Perhaps," he agreed.
He let the statement rest for a minute, and then, under the blanket, she clutched his hand again, and wriggled back into him, ostensibly for warmth. Her rear was then in his groin, her black flush against his chest, a few strands of her hair tickling his face.
He prayed for his body to behave, to not let him down.
This was going to be a long night.
For many reasons.