A/N:
Disclaimer: I love them, but I don't own them. Many thanks to all the folks at CSI, especially JF and WP, for all the amusement they have given me.
Rating: Mature T, for adult situations and very occasional salty language. No violence.
Spoilers: Although this story takes place mostly pre-canon, I am liable to refer to events taking place at any time (i.e., through to the end of season 1 of CSI: Vegas).
AO3 version: This story is also being posted on AO3, with cover art, (excessive) notes, links to references and my favourite Billy Petersen gifs, etc., but much of that won't work here, so I'm going with something more streamlined. (The story text is the same.) If you're interested in any of that, though, check it out on AO3.
Canon compliance and characterization: I've tried to keep canon-compliant. In my view, pre-canon, Grissom is slightly more outgoing and lighthearted; Sara is slightly more cocky and confident in personal matters; and they are both just slightly more likely to have engaged in the interactions set out in this first story.
Introduction:
Gil Grissom meets Sara Sidle at the 1998 forensic academy conference in San Francisco. They immediately fall in love. Maybe that should have been the end of the story; maybe it should have been that easy. But it wasn't, not for these two science nerds. They live happily ever after, eventually, but not in this story. This story is the first loop in their roller coaster ride, though. This story gets Sara Sidle to Vegas.
October 2000. Las Vegas, Nevada.
"You are…" he trailed off, struggling to find the right word. "You are so…." Again, he couldn't get it. He was usually quite adept with words. He had a good memory and a Shakespeare quotation close at hand for almost any situation. But he currently had a very tall, very attractive, very naked young brunette in his bed, and she always seemed to do this to him. He was at a loss. "You are so… completely fuckable."
She laughed. Of all the words she might have expected to come out of the eminent entomologist's mouth, that was possibly the last. He could have called her a Martian, and she'd have been less surprised. "Fuckable?" she queried, again laughing.
This had also been about the last thing the eminent entomologist would have expected to come out of his own mouth. He didn't think he'd used the word before. He wasn't even sure when or where he'd heard the word used before. He was committed now, though, so he was sticking with his choice. He looked intently at her. "Fuckable," he confirmed.
"Well, okay, then," she told him, with a smirk (always, from her, a smirk). "Please proceed."
And so he did.
UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FEBRUARY 9, 1998. SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. SARA SIDLE.
