Sara was lost in the memory of that last night in Vegas while Carl spoke at the head of the oval meeting table. She hadn't quite forgiven him, but then again, she hadn't really talked to him either. He'd asked her briefly if she was okay, and she'd blown him off with the traditional answer. She had contented herself in the knowledge that he didn't have the whole story, and that he was never a purposefully malicious man.
He was talking about luncheon menus, but Sara was remembering Nick's strong arm holding her up as they crossed the threshold into the dark of the small townhouse. She'd banged her knee on her suitcase where it sat by the doorway, and had giggled until the pain made itself known through the slight haze. He'd plied her with coffee and a muffin and she'd already begun to sober up a half an hour later when he left her watching the Discovery Channel, kissing her on the top of her head and fighting back tears as he said goodbye.
It was a red-eye flight, four am, which meant she asked the taxi to pick her up at two am. Nick had left a little after eleven, and she'd finally given in and called Grissom's cell phone at one am.
Catherine had answered, and had hung up when she heard Sara's voice.
Sara had called the cab company and asked them to pick her up an hour early.
~*~
"I told Kim that I'd run into you," Ken told her as he taped the poster to the door of room 219.
Sara snorted. "Does she know we..."
"She knows we used to date," he said, giving her the dazzling grin that had made him the catch of the campus.
"Ah." Despite herself, Sara smiled in response. "Probably safest that you keep it at that."
"Probably," Ken agreed, tearing off one last piece of masking tape and tamping down another corner. "Next?"
She slid the next room schedule out of the folder. "That would be room 312, the one with the ventilation system?"
"Oh, yeah," he said in remembrance, and led the way to the stairwell. "Do I...really want to know?"
"Decomposition stages," she told him succinctly, and he turned green.
"Yeah. I didn't. You ever wish you'd stayed in the academic world? I can tell you right now I have never had to determine the decomposition stage of anything, unless you're counting molecular half-life as a decomposition." Their footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as they exited the stairwell and continued toward room 312.
"Never," Sara said definitively, and opened the door to the room, crossing to the instructor's lab table and setting out the basic information packet and day's schedule. "Forensics is applied science. And you get to really make a difference. I wouldn't trade it for the world."
Ken looked at her admiringly. "Huh. Good for you, Sara."
She blushed slightly and ducked past him and out the door. He followed her and ripped off another piece of tape as she held the room schedule against the glass. "So what did Kim think about us working together?"
He snorted. "Actually, she wants you to come by for dinner. I think she wants to show off Jennifer and Mallory."
Sara's insides congealed, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. "Somehow I don't think we have the same dinner hours." Given how little she slept, they probably did, but he didn't need to know that and she didn't need to put herself through Kim Fuller showing off her bouncing, healthy baby.
Ken shrugged, and then frowned as he focused his eyes on something over her shoulder. "Can I help you?"
Sara turned to see who it was, and then it was her turn to frown. "The seminars don't start until tomorrow morning."
"I'm not looking for the seminars," Grissom answered, shifting uncomfortably.
"This isn't exactly a tourist venue," she snapped back, and regretted it instantly. Whatever else had passed between them, there was no reason for her to be deliberately cruel.
"Sara?" Ken rested his hand on her shoulder. She jerked out from underneath his fingers.
"Ken, this is Dr. Gil Grissom. He's an entomologist," Sara explained, pointing between the two men with quick gestures. "Dr. Grissom, Dr. Ken Fuller. He's with the chemistry faculty and has been Boston CSI's liaison for the colloquium."
"Dr. Grissom," Ken said, extending his hand gallantly. Harvard didn't hire idiots. He had recognized the name immediately and every inch of his posture screamed defensive.
In its own subtle way, so did Grissom's. The man had a mind like a steel trap, and there wasn't a doubt in Sara's mind about whether or not he had recognized the name Ken Fuller.
Simpler, sweeter times, she thought wistfully, remembering the lighthearted flirting with only a slight twinge of pain.
Grissom's hands remained in his jacket pockets, and Ken pulled his hand back, disconcerted.
"We should go check and see if the ampitheater downstairs is empty yet," Sara told Ken, keeping her eyes carefully away from Grissom. "And then I have to get home."
"Sure." Ken looked at Grissom one last time. "Yeah."
She made the mistake of looking back. She always had. Lot's wife had nothing on her.
He looked so heartbreakingly lost, standing in the darkened hallway, that she doubled her pace and swallowed hard against the tears.
~*~
"Sara." Megan clasped her hand warmly and dusted a kiss on her cheek. "You were wonderful this afternoon."
"Really?" Sara tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled nervously. "I was so afraid I was going to get up in front of the entire auditorium of forensic scientists and just choke."
"You didn't. I could sit here all evening and feed your ego by telling you how well you did, but I suspect that would bore both of us." Instead, Megan snagged two flutes of champagne from a roving waiter as he passed by and handed one of them to Sara. "To the first annual Boston Forensic Science Conference," she said, tapping the rim of her glass against Sara's.
"Annual," Sara repeated with a mock-groan. "You keep talking like that and I'm going to need more of this." She sipped the straw-colored fluid delicately and while she was well aware of the time it would take for the alcohol to circulate through her bloodstream and reach her brain, and of the near-impossibility of one sip of champagne of impairing her judgement - she still felt as if the bubbles had gone straight to her head. It was probably the relief at the fact that she hadn't botched the opening address.
Megan laughed and obliged, gesturing for the waiter that had just passed them to come back. Sara downed the last of the liquid and set her empty glass on his tray, taking a full one in return.
"You're trying to get me drunk," Sara accused the serologist, running the numbers in her head. Champagne was 12% alcohol by volume, she weighed just over 100 pounds...Megan wouldn't have to try very hard.
"Sara Sidle, I would never," the other woman protested.
"The evidence says otherwise," Sara rebuked, and held up the half-empty glass. "And the evidence..."
"Never lies," he said quietly from behind her, and Sara jumped and nearly spilled the champagne down the front of her new evening dress. "You look beautiful, Sara."
Sara bit her tongue on returning the compliment, however true it might have been. As she could remember all too clearly, when Grissom cleaned up, he was a strikingly good-looking man. The sad, gentle smile on his lips tugged at her before the rest of the memories filled in and she tore her eyes away from him, ducking her head and furious at herself for the sting of tears.
"Gil, I assume you were at the welcoming address this afternoon?" Megan asked in an overly-bright voice.
"I was," he answered, and there was a few seconds' silence before Megan realized he wasn't going to offer any more information than that.
Sara studied the way her fingers were stretched along the champagne glass, pale white digits against the gold of the champagne, bubbles clinging to the inside of the glass. Grissom was looking at her like he didn't already know every inch of her body, and that made her even more nervous than the roomful of world-class forensic scientists had earlier.
Thomas's fingers on her shoulder made her jump for the second time in five minutes, and she ground her teeth in frustration. "You should know better than to sneak up on me like that," she chastised him, glad to escape the oppressiveness of the moment.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, and captured her free hand to bring it to his lips with a quirk of a smile. "You look stunning, Sara." The slight smile became an unrepentant grin. "And you outshine everyone here this evening, much to Maggie's chagrin."
Sara laughed, answering his grin with a gap-toothed smile of her own. Somehow, Thomas could always charm her into a better mood.
"With the possible exception of you, of course, Megan," Thomas amended, spreading an arm in a courtly half-bow toward the older woman, who responded with a snort.
"Honesty will get you much further than flattery, you old cad. Sara is the most beautiful woman in the room tonight, and we both know it." Megan jabbed her finger in Thomas's direction with a light scowl on her face. "And Sara, stop blushing and learn to take a compliment."
"It was Marianne and Julia," Sara evaded. "They're really the ones who...they were a big help."
"I should remember to thank them," Grissom murmured, the blood rushed to Sara's cheeks again, though whether from embarassment, anger, or just high emotion, she had no idea.
From a corner across the room, the small band played a few invitational bars, and couples began to migrate to the dance floor.
"May I have this dance?" Thomas asked, crooking his arm out for Megan. She accepted with a smile, taking a moment to set down her champagne flute down on a table before they reached the dance floor.
No, no, no...
"Sara?" Grissom somehow managed to infuse her name with a world of question, of trepidation, of longing, of love, and of hope.
She trembled, and remembered all too clearly the last time they had danced - the wedding reception. Juxtaposing the two occasions was an exercise in heartbreak.
She blamed it on the champagne when her body reacted against her better judgement, and it was as if the last six months hadn't happened when her hand slid easily into his, her stride matched his as they walked to the dance floor.
The song was unfamiliar, but Sara had the feeling Grissom would recognize it and be able to give her chapter and verse on its origins. Opening her mouth to ask him would start a conversation, which would lead to words that accomplished nothing but more pain. So she stayed quiet, content with knowing only that the words to the song talked of distance and heartache.
She started out determined to make the dance a formality and nothing more, holding herself stiffly apart from him. But his warmth radiated out through the thin silk of her dress, and his hand was pressed flat against the small of her back - bare from the plunging cut of the dress. It made her think of the dozens of other times his fingers had trailed her skin, and when she shivered from the memories, it only brought her closer, until her cheek was just barely touching the rough material of his coat where it grazed his shoulder.
Neither spoke. Sara was afraid to break the quiet reflection of the moment, and Grissom...she'd never been able to figure out what was going on in his head. She had been married to him for almost a year, and still she couldn't pretend to understand him in the slightest.
The song ended far too quickly, and Grissom reached up to cup her chin with his hand, his thumb running gently along her cheekbone.
"Sara..." he began, and she wondered for a moment if he would ever progress past repeating her name.
"Don't, Grissom," she responded quietly, reaching up with her hand to cover his briefly, then tugging his fingers away from her cheek. "Don't ruin the only thing we ever did well."