A/N: Sorry for the delay guys…I've spent the past week freaking out over taking the GREs and completely incapable of coherent thought or writing. I took the test today and can (almost) think again, so here I am writing again!
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"Guys," Sara whined, laying her cheek on a palm, "is this really necessary? It's not the next Royal Wedding or something!" With her free hand she picked up the wedding magazine Catherine was currently cooing over and held it as far away as she could. "I am not spending, like, ten thousand bucks for a dress. I can get a white dress in Macy's for between one and two hundred."
Susan and Catherine exchanged looks, then Catherine put a motherly arm around Sara. "Listen, hon, this is your wedding. You don't want to go down the aisle wearing some polyester thing that's going to fray before you even leave the reception." She grabbed the magazine back and flipped to the page she had been examining before Sara had spoken up. "Now, as I was saying, this dress looks like you. Not too girly, but classy and beautiful."
"Aw, gee, Cath. You think I'm classy?" Sara asked mockingly, fluttering her eyelashes outrageously. "Classy is as classy does, not as classy dresses." She cast a pleading look at Susan. "Come on Sue, back me up on this!"
"I dunno, Sara. I agree with Catherine, that dress is completely you. I can just picture how good you'd look in it! But it's your wedding," Susan added with a wistful sigh, "and we have to respect your desire to not spend the baby's college fund on a wedding dress."
"Exactly! That is exactly my point." She directed a glare at Catherine, who was studiously ignoring her, and elbowed the blonde in the ribs. "Hear that? Sue agrees with me."
"I didn't say I agreed with . . ."
"Ahem! As I was saying, Susan agrees with me. You're in the minority, Cath, and this is my wedding, not yours." A yawn split her face and she tried to fight it back. "Come on, can we ditch this whole wedding fever thing? This is me and Grissom, we're not having a big fancy shindig, and there's no need for you guys to be spending so much time and energy on a little backyard wedding."
"I'll 'ditch the whole wedding fever thing'," Catherine offered, "if you'll at least let me go dress shopping with you at Macy's so you can get a cheaper dress that's also high-quality."
Sara sighed and gave Catherine a half-smile. "Fine, deal. You know, all the money that could've gone toward an expensive dress is currently either on my finger or around the dog's neck, anyway. Someone's got to convince Grissom to quit the spending spree, and he doesn't listen to me." The smile morphed into a very pointed look. "Someone."
"He doesn't listen to me any more than he listens to you, you dork," Catherine shot back with a laugh. "You're the one who has the whole 'sexual hold over him' thing going on."
"Yeah, well, he won't listen to me about it 'cause he thinks I'm just being modest or something. He's not getting the whole point of he doesn't need to woo me anymore."
Susan shook her head firmly and put a hand on Sara's arm to stop her speaking. "Uh-uh. Don't go that far – don't ever tell him he needs to stop wooing you. That's so not supportive of a good marriage. You two should spend the next fifty years wooing each other constantly."
"Ok, fine. Then he's not getting the point that he doesn't need to spend major money on wooing me, how's that?"
"Better."
"Good. So Cath, I hereby elect you to do the talking and convince him."
"Sar-aaa!" Catherine ran a hand through her hair. "I just told you, he's not going to listen to me. Have Warrick talk to him or something."
"Hmm, Warrick . . . not a bad idea. They can do a whole man-to-man thing. Yeah, when you go home tonight tell Warrick he's been elected."
Catherine cocked an eyebrow. "And what would make you think that I'd have any way to communicate with him when I go home tonight?"
"One," Sara enumerated, holding up her index finger, "you have a phone. Two, you guys are always closeted together at work and I'm sure you know where he lives. Three," she finished with a cocky grin, "I'm pretty sure that he'll be over your house sometime today to, uh 'fix things' or something."
"Brat!"
"Secret-keeper!"
"Time out," Susan called, making a referee's 'T' with her hands and trying to hold back her mirth. "No fair name-calling, kiddies. Can we get back to the subject at hand?"
Sara blinked. "What was the subject at hand?"
"Ummm . . . Warrick talking to Grissom."
"Ohh, right. Well, Warrick gets to talk to Grissom. There, discussion finished!"
"Speaking of which," Catherine asked, "when's Grissom supposed to get home?"
A smirk crossed Sara's face. "Well, they're supposed to be having a daddy-daughter day, meaning he was going to be out until almost dinner time . . . but he gets freaked out about giving her the bottle. I think it skeeves him to know where the milk came from. So I'd say that he's gonna be home in about . . . oh, half an hour or so, max, when she starts fussing for her lunch."
"Man," Catherine said with a shake of her head, "you've really got to whip him into shape and get him doing some of the work. You're exhausted as it is, and you're still only working half-shifts."
"He does help," Sara replied indignantly. "Just because he can't feed her doesn't mean he doesn't take care of her as much as I do. Half the time he gets up with me when I feed her during the day, just so I don't whine at him."
"Mmhm," Susan said, jumping in. "So why are you the one with the black circles under your eyes and not him?"
"I'm still recovering from having a seven-pound baby, thanks very much, and he isn't!"
"Hey, we're not insulting Grissom," Catherine said quickly. "We know he's not a deadbeat dad or something. We're just pointing out that it's been two months, and you can't really use the 'I just had a baby' excuse anymore. You need to start resting more, Sara. Let Grissom learn to bottle-feed her. I don't know why it skeeves him, anyway, it's not like he hasn't been touched the . . . um . . . er, never mind," she said lamely, noticing the bright red flush that had appeared on Sara's face.
She was saved from Sara's wrath when the front door popped open, revealing Grissom, who was wearing a brightly-colored baby sling, muttering to the baby, who was yowling back, probably asking for lunch.
He looked up, finally noticing the convention of females in his living room, and a comical look of embarrassment fell over his face. "Uh . . . hi, ladies."
