Sara slowly returned to a standing position, rubbing the small of her back. Distractedly, she thought that if Grissom were here he would tell her she ought to be glad she could stand up at all, considering the size of her stomach.

Nick's worried voice cut in on her thoughts. "You want some help there, Sara?" He cupped a hand around her elbow, offering support to help her balance. "You know Grissom's gonna kill you if he finds you in here. Hey, I'm tempted to kill you. You belong behind that desk for the next two months, not hanging around the labs."

"Oh, come on," Sara moaned. "You too? This is the print lab, for god's sake; there's nothing harmful in here. I'm not even standing near the print powder! Besides, there's just no way I'm spending eight hours straight behind a desk. Or in a sitting position at all. No way," she repeated for emphasis.

"Hey," Nick said lightly, "I surrender. I'm just glad it's not my job to keep you under control. Poor Grissom!"

Luckily for him, Sara's hormones had chosen to behave today. "Watch it, buddy, or I'll tell him you dragged me in here."

Nick grinned. "Ok, ok. But could you at least do me one favor, though?"

"Depends."

"Can you just not shift your center of gravity by bending over or sitting down when you're around me? I'm getting slightly sick of having to push and pull to get you back to standing."

Sara hated the feeling that she was about to topple over every time she shifted her weight. She sighed. "I am so sick of being pregnant!"

A chuckle came from the doorway. "You don't have much choice at this point, dear," Grissom said with a smile. "And what are you doing in here, anyway? I told you to stay out of the labs that housed substances."

"Fingerprint powder generally isn't considered a threat, Gil. Well, most of the time, anyway. And look," she said with a sweep of her arm, "I'm not standing anywhere near it. I'm standing, if you'll notice, against the wall and looking over Nick's shoulder to see everything. And," she concluded with another glance around the lab, "there isn't even any loose powder anyway. I checked."

"But Sara, I told you . . ."

"Oh give it up! Both of you! Please! I don't want to be pregnant anymore if you're all going to be policing me, it's too frustrating."

Nick had to laugh at this comment. "Shoulda thought of that . . ." He paused to count. ". . . 33 weeks ago."

Sara groaned. "Oh, wonderful." Giving Grissom a baleful look, she said, "Now you've got everyone counting, Gris? Like I don't have enough baby stress going on?"

"Come on, out," Grissom instructed patiently, trying to shoo her toward the door. "If you come with me, you can have a cookie."

"What am I, the dog? I get treats if I obey?"

"Not exactly," he said with a laugh, "but you and I both know you'd do anything for an oatmeal cookie with chocolate syrup on it right now."

"Gil Grissom, you are an evil man, using my weakness against me!" Despite her protests, though, Sara's mouth was watering at the thought of said cookie and she allowed herself to be ushered out of the room. Grissom led her down the hall to his office and prodded her inside, then shut the door.

"Coooookie," he cooed.

"This child is going to be born hating cookies, Gris." She narrowed her eyes. "Now, gimme."

Grissom shook his head. "In a minute. We need to talk first."

"About cookies?"

"No, about you staying put."

Another groan from Sara. "Oh, come on. I let you take me out of the field completely last month without arguing. I don't hang out in the morgue with David anymore because you had a shit fit. The dog's not allowed in the bedroom anymore because you were worried about her making me sick or walking on me. And now you don't want me to even be allowed to walk around?"

He furrowed his brows. "Well, not exactly. But you know, someone has to control you, since you won't control yourself." He shrugged. "You know better than to expose yourself to all the dangerous substances that are wafting around the labs."

"DVT."

"What?"

"DVT. Deep Vein Thrombosis. Potentially deadly blood clots in the legs that are much more likely to develop if a person sits in a cramped position – note the length of my legs and the depth of the foot-well at that desk - for long periods of time." She stuck out her tongue. "So there."

"I'll tie you into that chair and have Greg come in every few hours to move your legs around. Don't think I won't."

A deep laugh escaped her. "Ok, that just might be the strangest thing you've said to me in the past eight months. But Gil, in all honesty, I can't just sit here. If you don't want me near anything in theses labs, then you go to Mobley and try to get me an advance month of maternity leave. That's the only way you're going to keep me away from all the horrors you see in here.

"Now give me the damn cookie."

Grissom sighed. "You and I both know you're not going to be allowed leave before your ninth month. Mobley'd have you working until the moment you went into labor if he could."

"My point exactly. And if it were my choice, I would work nearly up to that point. I can't just sit at home and be bored. You said I was worse than the dog about being left alone, remember?"

"I know, I know." He hated when she was right like that. "Let's compromise, ok?"

"How?" Sara asked suspiciously. "The last time you suggested a compromise, it involved me doing what you wanted. Not exactly the type of compromise I'm looking for."

"Well . . . how about: I won't limit you to the desk and I'll trust you to use your own judgment about where to go and not go in the building."

"Uh-huh. Go on."

"In return, you take leave a few weeks earlier than you wanted, at your thirty-fifth week instead your thirty-eighth. Which is," he noted, "only a week before a pregnant woman's supposed to take leave."

Sara contemplated the offer. She really did hate being shut up alone at home, but then again, she also hated trying to drag her heavy load around for the eight hours a day Grissom allowed her to work. But what would she do if she stayed at home?

"You could start setting up her room."

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You said it out loud," Grissom said with a grin. "Besides, you know I can read your mind when you're feeling rebellious. How about I bring home some case files for you to go over, just so your brain doesn't atrophy for the last month or so."

Sara snorted. "Well gee, if my brain atrophied, I'd be just as smart as you when you're in this baby-madness phase." Giving his offer another minute of thought, she nodded. "Ok, deal. And I'm gonna call you on it if you start trying to limit me in the labs again."

Grissom let out a relieved breath, but his thoughts were interrupted when Sara spoke again. "But wait . . . how are you going to convince Mobley to give me leave a week before the typical start time?"

He grinned. "You're not the only one who knows how to fight dirty with him. I've been keeping my ears open." With a smug look, he then disappeared behind his desk. A few seconds later, a box of oatmeal cookies Sara's mother had sent suddenly materialized in his hands. "Now you can have the cookie."

"You know . . . I'm going to find where you keep those and then I'm gonna eat 'em all. All at once!"

Grissom carefully selected a cookie and handed it to her. "If you did, I'd be glad. Maybe that would help you put on the 15 more pounds you need. And chocolate syrup's in the fridge," he added with a nod toward it.

"12 pounds," she corrected absently. "Wonderful. My chocolate syrup's in the fridge with your maggots and decaying blood, and you're worrying about me inhaling dust. You, Grissom, are a total hypocrite." She snatched the cookie out of his hands, though, and retrieved the syrup eagerly. "Mmmm, cookie," she groaned in a voice that Grissom generally didn't expect to hear anywhere but in bed.

Grissom sighed. He was being replaced by a mixture of flour, sugar, oats, and chocolate.