Catherine took one look at Grissom's face that night and burst out laughing. Grissom scowled at her, still wondering just what was so funny about his face. He'd forgotten to check it out before he and Sara had left for work. "What, Catherine? Care to share the humor?"

She grinned. "Oh, I don't know, Gil . . . it might be fun to keep you in ignorance and see how long we can make it last." Taking in his dark look, she sighed. "Geez, you always ruin my fun. Here," she said, digging a compact out of her purse, "take a look at yourself."

Grissom took the mirror from her and opened it apprehensively. The sight that greeted him when he focused it on his face would have been funny, he had to admit – if it weren't his face that was bearing a large, purple handprint-shaped bruise. "Oh, damn."

"Either you and Sara made up, or you somehow managed make her more pissed off than she was already. Which is it?"

"Made up," he muttered, furiously trying to think of a way to cover the bruise so that no one else could comment on it. As he snapped the compact shut and handed it back to Catherine, Sara entered the break room, already snickering.

"You didn't tell me!" he accused immediately.

"Can you really blame me? Catherine had to see this. Come on," she teased him, "admit it, it's pretty damn funny-looking." She took in Grissom's expression and grimaced. "Ok, fine, it's not funny at all, whatever you say, Gris."

Catherine clapped a hand over Grissom's mouth, cutting off whatever comment he had been about to make. "You know, Sara, I really think he's going to need some damage control so that no one else sees this baby." She patted his bruised cheek lightly with her other hand. "I've got some foundation, but I don't think it's his color."

Grissom flung her hand away. "You are NOT putting makeup on me, Catherine. No way."

Sara put a thoughtful finger to the side of her mouth. "No, Gris, I think she's right. Either you walk around all day with my handprint bruised into your face – and explain it to everyone you see – or you let me and Cath cover it up with what we have. Meaning makeup," she added with an irreverent grin.

Grissom muttered a curse, knowing that the women were right. "You two better be Olympic-quality makeup artists, then, because if anyone notices me wearing," he shuddered theatrically, "makeup, I'm going to be laughed at harder than if people know that Sara can beat the hell out of me." He noticed Sara's frown at that statement. "I mean, laughed at harder than if people knew I had made you so angry you hit me," he corrected himself.

Sara's frown subsided and she turned to Catherine. "Let me see what shades you have. Between us we can probably mix up a decent color." Catherine nodded, and the two spent the next few minutes mixing makeup and then comparing shades to Grissom's cheek.

"Got it," Catherine announced after five minutes. "Half Natural Ivory and half Tawny."

"'Natural Ivory'?" Grissom asked desperately. "'Tawny'??"

Sara grinned. "Deal with it, bugman. Just think of it as . . . hmm . . . environmental camouflage used to become less noticeable to one's enemies."

Catherine smiled at that. "Ooh, good one Sara." She looked at Grissom seriously and began to dot the foundation onto his cheek while Sara did the same on his jaw line. "Now stay still or you'll end up with makeup in places it shouldn't be."

"Damn," Sara muttered, "it's a hell of a lot harder to put on foundation over a man's stubble than it is to put it on my own face." Catherine nodded emphatically at that comment.

Before Grissom could get out a retort to that revelation, Warrick wandered into the break room. It took the younger man a few seconds to look up and realize what was happening, but when he did he let out a shout of laughter. The women had covered about half of the handprint, and Grissom now had a set of disembodied black-and-blue fingers on his cheek.

"Shut up, Warrick!" Sara hissed, waving an annoyed hand at him. "We'll tell you about it in a second, just sit down and have some coffee or something."

Warrick did as ordered and wordlessly took a seat, watching the goings-on avidly. He couldn't think of a thing to say in response to the situation, anyway. When Catherine finally stepped away and took a last look at her handiwork, he whispered rather loudly, "What the hell, Cath?"

Catherine shrugged and said only, "Sara." Warrick thought for a moment and then nodded in a way that indicated that he definitely understood now.

"Duked it out, did they?"

"Yep."

"We can hear you guys, you know," Sara pointed out. "If you two want to get . . . private . . . go somewhere else."

Grissom let out a surprised laugh at that and nodded. "Yeah, it's about time someone besides me and Sara got the pressure turned on."

It was Catherine's turn to scowl at the others. "You guys know nothing," she said in a voice that told them that if they did know anything, they were to forget it ASAP. "Me and Warrick . . . you, uh . . ."

"Give it up, Cat," Sara snorted. "I was in the hot seat last week; it's damn well your turn now. Not that me and Gris are goingt o be paying much attention," she said, wiggling her eyebrows, "but you know, maybe Nick or Greg could be filled in on this situation . . ."

"You two are so dead!" Catherine shouted.

Hearing the noise, Nick popped his head in the door. "Why are they 'so dead'?"

Four voices answered him: "Go away, Nick!"

"Okay, okay," he said, holding out his hands innocently. "Just wondering. Y'all can just, uh, fill me in whenever you get a second." With that, he beat a hasty retreat out of the room, wondering just what was so secret that they couldn't tell him.