* * * * * * *
"Ok fine. So what do you do out in Hollywood?" she had finally given up. He apparently had not heard her; he was too busy reading a piece of paper in front of him. He looked up to find her staring at him.
"Pardon?"
"Well; you obviously aren't a reporter," she said dryly. He seemed taken aback.
"And why not?" She didn't answer; she took a sip of her coffee instead. He returned to reading the sheet in front of him.
"Actor? Producer?" she was watching him, trying to get a response. He looked up, he seemed confused at best. "Screenwriter?" Nothing. She sighed.
"No, not quite—and definitely not," he finally answered, tossing the paper back in his briefcase. "Those guys work so hard—and make so little money." He leaned back in his chair, stretching.
"So?" she seemed irritated now. He leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the table top.
"I'm a research analyst for a production company." She mulled over that for a few moments.
"A research analyst huh—what does that do?" she finally asked, putting her mug down.
He smiled.
"Research."
* * * * * * *
Grissom remained quiet; not knowing what to say. Sara watched him, waiting for a response, but none came. He seemed to be looking down, seeing nothing. The clocks continued to tick. She inhaled deeply, trying to keep her heartbeat steady; for at that moment, she could hear it in her ears. She turned around, looking out the door, into the hallway, with her hands in her back pockets. She closed her eyes.
"That—was different." He finally spoke. She opened her eyes slowly, regaining focus. She turned around, hands still in her pockets. She didn't say anything for a moment.
"How so?" she asked quietly. He reached down and gripped the desk. She took a step forward. "Grissom—how was that different?" she was cornering him. He sighed, massaging his forehead.
"I-I-I don't know," he answered softly, looking at the floor again. She bit her lip, holding back a response.
* * * * * * * *
"Really." She glared at him. He smiled back. "Smartass." He laughed.
"Ok ok. See basically how it works is that somebody has an idea for a show," he started to explain. She nodded. "And so—they pitch it to some Hollywood exec's." He paused, taking a breath. "And if these exec's like the idea, they hire a whole buncha people to make it happen," he leaned back in his chair. "Like everyone involved in the preproduction phase—screenwriters, proofers, you name it," he counted them off on his fingers.
"So where do you come in?" she interrupted. He grinned.
"Hold on hold on, I was just getting to that," he really didn't like being interrupted, but he didn't show it. "Now before they can actually get the story rollin', they have to know what they're talkin' about," he continued. "So that's where I come in," he motioned towards himself. "They give me a few 'sketchy' details, and tell me to run with it—to find out anything and everything I can." He paused.
"So what do you do?"
"Well—I run of course," he grinned. She opened her mouth to retort, but he continued; he was on a roll now. "Make a few phone calls, get people where they need to be, make sure everything is taken care of, make sure that I'm taken care of," he emphasized. "And then—I let 'em go." He stopped.
"And that's it?" she was searching.
"Well that's the condensed version—but yea—basically that's what I do," he leaned back in his chair, stretching again. "I mean we actually do work, like take notes 'n stuff, but yea—that's mostly what we do." He leaned forward on the table, hands clasped. She thought about that for a couple of moments.
"How—uninteresting," she remarked, giving an evil grin back at him. He seemed to be caught off guard by that response. She smiled at him as she walked over to the counter.
"So why are you here then?" she asked, her back still turned. He didn't respond right away, he was to busy staring. She looked back, and upon seeing his expression, shook her head. 'Men,' she thought to herself. "Dom?" She turned completely around to face him. He blinked several times.
"O-a-um-yea-ok-sorry," he mumbled sheepishly, looking down at the table. She smirked.
"It's ok. So why are you here?" she chose to ignore his crude behavior. That seemed to surprise him.
"Well-a-um-I'm here because it seems that-um somebody wants to produce a show based on-a-crime scene investigation," he answered, tentatively. She paused.
"For what? Like Court TV?" she asked, turning back around. He didn't stare this time, choosing instead to look at the refrigerator.
"Nope—that's a whole nuther ball game," he answered. She glanced back to see if he would explain. "They have their own 'personnel' for those shows," he stated simply, shrugging.
She seemed satisfied with that answer as she put her mug back up on the shelf. She wiped her hands clean then headed back towards the table. She didn't sit down though. He was still looking at the fridge.
"Hey," she tried getting his attention. "You can look at me ya know." He glanced up at her, giving a sheepish grin. "Just don't stare."
* * * * * * * *
Her heartbeat hadn't slowed a bit. The incessant pounding in her ears was driving her crazy—or maybe it was just the man standing in front of her. She felt faint. She quietly walked over and quickly slid into a chair positioned across from him. He was still avoiding her eyes.
"I think you do know," she spoke softly, looking for a response. He didn't say anything for a few moments.
"Sara—I-" he was speaking to the ground.
"Grissom; look at me." He didn't respond. After a moment, he slowly looked up, his face set in a cold hard blank look. However his eyes—his eyes deceived him. As inexpressive as his face was, his eyes told the story. She had never seen that look before—had never noticed the innocence; the fragility—she had never seen him afraid.