Chapter 14

Awareness made itself known to Sara in the form of warmth. Opening her eyes, she was immediately assaulted by the sun, which apparently had no respect for her delicate physical state. "Ohh . . . someone turn off the sun," she moaned.

To her shock, a voice answered her plea. "I would if I could, Sara, but I haven't mastered that particular superpower yet. Why not settle for turning away from the window?"

He was answered by a squeak as Sara stiffened beside him. "Grissom? What the hell?" Turning slowly over, she eyed him with trepidation. "Why are you in my bed?" A pause. "Oh my god it wasn't all a dream, was it?"

"Was what a dream?"

"Pillow fight . . . flour wars . . . washing my hair? Did I dream all that?"

Grissom couldn't suppress a chuckle. She was starting to sound as confused as he had when he woke up the morning before. For a moment, he considered lying, just to see her reaction, but in the end he gave in. "No, Sara, you didn't dream this afternoon. It all happened."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why are we in bed together . . . again? What's going on?"

The moment of truth was upon him. Grissom felt like there should have been a TV audience watching, waiting to boo or cheer his next line. The problem was that he wasn't sure what line was cheer-worthy, and what was to be booed. "You fell asleep."

"Wow," declared his brain, "you're just a friggin genius with that line, aren't you. Try again."

"So I, uh, thought you'd be more comfortable in your bed," he stammered.

Sara raised an eyebrow. "And you thought I'd be more comfortable with you in my bed?"

Baseball scores weren't cutting it, and Grissom decided to fall back on a strategy his mother had taught him a lifetime ago: before speaking out loud, he visualized saying it in sign language. Speaking with his hands had always come easier than speaking with his mouth.

"No. I thought . . . knew . . . that I'd be more comfortable in bed with you."

Sara gaped. What was Grissom smoking, anyway? Maybe he was just really thankful for being fed this afternoon . . . or maybe he had been too cold to sleep on the couch. The wheels in her head turned furiously as Sara tried to figure out how to answer such an out-of-character comment; after two minutes, nothing had yet come out.

Grissom felt like they had switched places. Here was Sara, waking up in bed with him, confused, and then there was Grissom, knowing exactly what happened, but reluctant to tell. Sara apparently caught in her mind, unable to think of anything to say; Grissom watching in bemusement as no sound came from her mouth. "Déjà vu," he mused, "or maybe in this case it would be 'vu déjà'."

"Sara? You there?" He waved his hand in front of her face. "Earth to Sar –"  He was cut off when Sara's fist connected with his stomach. Wind knocked out of him, Grissom could only look accusingly at her as he coughed and choked. "What was that for?!" he finally managed to squeeze out.

"You know what, I don't even want to know what excuse you're going to make up for this," Sara hissed. "I just can't BELIEVE you did this to me, Grissom!"

"What did I do that was so terrible, Sara? All I did was put you in bed."

"All you did? All you did??" Sara couldn't even put her finger on the problem in her own mind; all she knew was that she felt like Grissom had played some sort of cruel trick on her. She hated not being in control and she hated not having the last word in an argument – both of which were happening right now – and so she did what any rational human would have: she took it out on her opponent. "If you don't know what you did, I'm sure as hell not going to tell you!"

Uh-oh. This was becoming one of those "woman" arguments where he was expected to read minds, Grissom decided. There was never any good defense for this situation; he could either grovel or run away. Or do something else to shock her.

He may have been thisclose to falling in love with the woman currently berating him, but he wouldn't grovel. He was pretty sure he'd done enough of that earlier in the day. He wouldn't run away, either. Grissom had spent his entire life running away from emotional conflict, and now that he'd so deliberately torn apart his mental walls for Sara, he couldn't let himself hide again. He was left with one choice, then: "something else."

Stopping to think for a moment, Grissom realized that his pulse was skyrocketing. He was getting frustrated. Not, not frustrated – angry! He was ANGRY, dammit. What had he done that was so terrible? Nothing!

"Dammit Sara, I'm not going to just sit here and let you treat me like I have no right to do anything. No – be quiet. Just . .  just shut up," he spat when he saw that she would say something again. "My pulse is at 95. Do you remember what I told you that means, Sara? It means I'm pissed.

"Why do you think you can just yell at me, anyway? I'll admit that I usually let you, but for god's sake, Sara, not now. As much as you guys all doubt it – and I've been accused of it enough times – I do have feelings, and I do get hurt. And I get mad if someone hurts me enough. And that 'someone' means you. Everyone says you're the 'emotional' one – and they give you more leeway than anyone else could even DREAM about! You know why I don't let my emotions show? Because if I did, everyone would look at me like I'd gone crazy! But you! You, you get to say whatever you want to whomever you want, whenever you want, and everyone just shakes their head and says 'that's Sara for ya.' Well NOT THIS TIME!"

His voice had risen to a near-scream, and as he stopped his rant to take a breath, he caught sight of Sara. She was sitting stock-still, staring at him, eyes so wide he feared they'd pop right now, and her mouth was hanging open as she watched him.