Title: Feed Me
Author: Ann
Summary: Oh, I hate this part. Just read it! And while you're reading it, remember that these characters are not mine.
Rating: PG-13ish. I don't think I ventured into R-territory. But if anyone is offended, I'll definitely change the rating for you.
--This is a response to the weekly Unbound challenge. It should come as no surprise that I'm over the word limit or late. I thank you for your support nonetheless!
--Also, this would never have been written without poking and prodding from Mossley, my wonderfully evil beta! And since someone has to poke after Mossley goes to bed, I'd like to thank Laura Katharine too!
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Grissom approached the tomato warily. Man versus nature. Incapacitated or no, surely he could conquer the produce. His first swipe at the plump fruit missed entirely. With determination –evident in his furrowed brows- he swung his blade again, finally making contact.
"Shit."
He watched as his barely wounded tomato went rolling off the counter and across the kitchen floor. A knock at the door quelled his impending tantrum.
"Coming," he announced gruffly, really not wanting to deal with company right now. The crowds assembled at the hospital that morning had been enough company to last him two lifetimes.
"Take your time." Hearing the muffled, but unmistakable, voice through the thick door, he tossed the knife in the sink and quickened his pace, futilely straightening his worn sweatpants and t-shirt on the way.
Okay, so company may not be so bad...
After fumbling with the lock for a split second, he pulled the door open, hoping his enthusiasm was well hidden. "Sara." He flashed a half smile, feigning surprise.
"Hi," she greeted hesitantly, but cheerfully nonetheless. "I was off tonight, and Catherine might have mentioned that you were being stubborn...so," she drawled, raising two bags to chest level, "I brought food."
"I am not stubborn," he argued while ushering her into his home and towards his kitchen.
"No, no, of course not." She was totally patronizing him, and he couldn't quite figure out if it pissed him off or if he found it incredibly adorable. He didn't want to think about the latter, so he continued grumbling and trailing behind her as she sought out, and pulled down, pots and dishes from his cabinets.
His stomach rumbled, but he realized that it wouldn't be in character if he didn't at least put up a brief argument. "What are you doing?"
"Making you dinner," she responded indifferently, as if this were a normal, everyday activity. If she was affected by his proximity, she did a damn good job of not showing it. Grissom was surprised at just how unsettled that thought made him.
"You don't have to do that."
"Well, it doesn't look like you can do too much with that arm." She stood in front of his stove, turning knobs and throwing ingredients into pans, not providing him time to shoo her out of his home just yet. "Does it still hurt?"
Ah, yes. There was the soft timbre of her voice that made his knees weak.
"A little," he answered so pitifully that he wondered if that was, in fact, his voice. Cradling his casted right arm with his left, he wiggled his fingers slightly. "The pain is normal until the swelling goes down. The doctor said that the cast should feel comfortable within a couple of days."
"Well, that's good." Sara paused her cooking long enough to turn and flash him a genuine smile. "You really scared the piss out of me," she laughed.
"Imagine how I felt!"
The previous evening they had been combing over the bedroom of a missing twelve-year-old boy. The absence of his piggy bank had initially hinted at the boy being a runaway, but the small scattered blood drops on the carpet suggested foul play. When Grissom had moved to investigate the closet, he ended up with more than he bargained for. The preteen had apparently booby- trapped the area against potential snoopers. Opening the door triggered numerous layers of falling rubbish. The shock of the sudden physical impact set Grissom off balance. Sara had watched him tumble to the floor, not realizing the seriousness of the fall until she heard his humerus cracking beneath his weight.
Sara winced again at the fresh memory. She had practiced her amateur bedside manner for a few minutes while waiting for Catherine and Jim to arrive and haul Grissom to the hospital. Against her heart's wishes, she had stayed to finish up the scene.
"Oh, did you know that Benny Johnson showed up at home right after you left for the hospital?"
"No. I didn't have a chance to stop by the lab and pick up any paperwork. Where was he?"
"Apparently, he was playing with some of his father's tools that he was prohibited to use. Ended up cutting himself, hence the blood on the rug. So, he gathered up his allowance money, hoping to buy some carpet solution before mom or dad noticed the stains."
"Hmm. See what happens when the truth gets shuffled within lies?"
"I have the perfect quote for this," she offered as she turned off the burners and began preparing their plates.
"Do share."
"The best intentions are fraught with disappointment," she rattled off, smiling widely in his direction. Quoting him always gave her the oddest sensations. It was the excitement of knowing she had retained something important, mixed with a strong arousal deep within her belly.
He returned her smile with one of his own. Grissom remembered a time when he never thought there was a chance to be on the receiving end of that smile again. When those same words had come from his own mouth, they had been riddled with regret over his own intentions and disappointments. Was the fact that she was goading him with it now a sign that they had moved on from those horrible times? God, he hoped so. "Wherever did you hear such nonsense?" he teased.
"Oh, some crazy guy I work with," she winked.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
"I'm an invalid," he sighed, dropping his fork onto the plate. Several failed attempts to eat with his left hand had left him frustrated and irritable. A few vegetable slivers had landed in his lap, and he found his humiliation increasing ten-fold by the second.
Now he remembered why he didn't want company.
"Oh, please. You broke your arm. Quit being a baby."
He was a bit surprised and disillusioned that she didn't offer him a little more pity. Wasn't that what happened when people got sick? Other people babied them until all was well again?
An image of Sara kissing his boo-boos flashed in his mind, drawing a flushed smile of embarrassment to his face.
"Well, if I had broken my left arm, I'd be just fine. But, I can't do anything with this full cast." He raised his plastered arm up, shaking it defiantly for emphasis. "Do you know just how much I use my right hand for?"
He watched quizzically as a fiery blush crept up her neck and face. "No need to elaborate," she giggled, holding her palms up in a 'stop now' gesture.
Oh. Oh, God.
He groaned deeply. "You know what I meant!" he growled. Sara knowing...thinking...that he did that... He should have been mortified; why the hell was he aroused too?
He needed to get her out of here. "Look Sara, I'm just tired and petulant right now. Not my best side, I know," he grinned. "So, before I get more temperamental, and before you get fed up with me, let's just call it a day and go to bed."
Silence.
Then a snort and fits of giggles.
What now? Oh. Shit! Backtrack...he needed to backtrack. If he kept this up, she was definitely doing to think the innuendos were intentional. They weren't, were they?
"Okay, look," she started, her snickering subsiding a bit, "let's at least feed you before we go to bed."
She flashed him a seductive, heart-stopping grin. Oh, she was definitely toying with him now. This woman would be the death of his sanity. Or the life in his libido.
Choices, choices.
"What are you doing?" he asked, as she rolled his chair around to face hers, letting her knee slip in between his. This was not good.
"Stop asking me that. Feeding you," she replied hastily, bringing a loaded fork to his mouth.
Why was it that he could manage all day at work without ogling her like a horny teenager, but now he found himself staring at her chest as she leaned into him? "I can do this." He grabbed at the fork, sending food flying in all directions.
"Gris-som," she whined, picking food out of her lap and automatically moving towards his.
"Don't!" He shouted, startled when her hands moved to his thighs.
"Well, you've got bits of—oh! Wow. Sorry." She held her hands up in surrender as she rolled slightly away from him.
"It's not you," he began rambling abruptly, grabbing the arm of her chair to keep her from escaping. Didn't he just want her gone? What the hell was this? "Well, it is you. It's just...it's—" Utterly embarrassing.
"I know what it is," she announced, foolishly. As soon as the comment slipped her lips, she was ready to suck it right back in.
Why the hell couldn't they say anything right?
Like a flash, Sara got the most insanely brilliant idea. Well, not quite as brilliant as asking him to dinner in his office. But almost...
Before he knew what was happening, her lips were on his. Soft, moist, lovely lips. Lips he had dreamed about. On his own...on his body. Wait. This was not helping...the issue. No, the issue was definitely not going away.
But neither was she.
Grissom groaned against her lips, pecking and licking on the swollen edges. He awkwardly eased her onto his legs, knowing that this was momentous and he should slow down to savor it. When she opened her mouth to him, thoughts of faltering this progression flew out the window.
His tongue swept into her mouth quickly; just enough to taste and take before curling back into his own mouth, luring hers to follow. When she complied, tongues collided between open lips, twisting, caressing, and savoring, before retreating then beginning again.
When her fingers crept under his shirt and onto his belly, he moaned into her neck. Following her lead, he allowed his left hand to make its way between her loosened buttons, fondling a bra-clad breast.
"Feels so good," she mumbled into his hair.
"Imagine what it would feel like with two good hands," he retorted, prompting her giggling mouth to join with his again.
Knowing that if he wanted this to last, they needed to get out of this precarious position, he attempted to lift them both from the chair. The fact that it was a bad idea presented itself when his plastered arm gave way, flailing about until it cracked against his plate, showering them with even more food.
"Good Lord. Is this your idea of foreplay?" she grinned, running her fingers through her saucy hair.
"I was trying to take you to bed," he admitted sheepishly.
"Well, how about a shower first?"
She chuckled as he picked debris from his beard.
Author: Ann
Summary: Oh, I hate this part. Just read it! And while you're reading it, remember that these characters are not mine.
Rating: PG-13ish. I don't think I ventured into R-territory. But if anyone is offended, I'll definitely change the rating for you.
--This is a response to the weekly Unbound challenge. It should come as no surprise that I'm over the word limit or late. I thank you for your support nonetheless!
--Also, this would never have been written without poking and prodding from Mossley, my wonderfully evil beta! And since someone has to poke after Mossley goes to bed, I'd like to thank Laura Katharine too!
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Grissom approached the tomato warily. Man versus nature. Incapacitated or no, surely he could conquer the produce. His first swipe at the plump fruit missed entirely. With determination –evident in his furrowed brows- he swung his blade again, finally making contact.
"Shit."
He watched as his barely wounded tomato went rolling off the counter and across the kitchen floor. A knock at the door quelled his impending tantrum.
"Coming," he announced gruffly, really not wanting to deal with company right now. The crowds assembled at the hospital that morning had been enough company to last him two lifetimes.
"Take your time." Hearing the muffled, but unmistakable, voice through the thick door, he tossed the knife in the sink and quickened his pace, futilely straightening his worn sweatpants and t-shirt on the way.
Okay, so company may not be so bad...
After fumbling with the lock for a split second, he pulled the door open, hoping his enthusiasm was well hidden. "Sara." He flashed a half smile, feigning surprise.
"Hi," she greeted hesitantly, but cheerfully nonetheless. "I was off tonight, and Catherine might have mentioned that you were being stubborn...so," she drawled, raising two bags to chest level, "I brought food."
"I am not stubborn," he argued while ushering her into his home and towards his kitchen.
"No, no, of course not." She was totally patronizing him, and he couldn't quite figure out if it pissed him off or if he found it incredibly adorable. He didn't want to think about the latter, so he continued grumbling and trailing behind her as she sought out, and pulled down, pots and dishes from his cabinets.
His stomach rumbled, but he realized that it wouldn't be in character if he didn't at least put up a brief argument. "What are you doing?"
"Making you dinner," she responded indifferently, as if this were a normal, everyday activity. If she was affected by his proximity, she did a damn good job of not showing it. Grissom was surprised at just how unsettled that thought made him.
"You don't have to do that."
"Well, it doesn't look like you can do too much with that arm." She stood in front of his stove, turning knobs and throwing ingredients into pans, not providing him time to shoo her out of his home just yet. "Does it still hurt?"
Ah, yes. There was the soft timbre of her voice that made his knees weak.
"A little," he answered so pitifully that he wondered if that was, in fact, his voice. Cradling his casted right arm with his left, he wiggled his fingers slightly. "The pain is normal until the swelling goes down. The doctor said that the cast should feel comfortable within a couple of days."
"Well, that's good." Sara paused her cooking long enough to turn and flash him a genuine smile. "You really scared the piss out of me," she laughed.
"Imagine how I felt!"
The previous evening they had been combing over the bedroom of a missing twelve-year-old boy. The absence of his piggy bank had initially hinted at the boy being a runaway, but the small scattered blood drops on the carpet suggested foul play. When Grissom had moved to investigate the closet, he ended up with more than he bargained for. The preteen had apparently booby- trapped the area against potential snoopers. Opening the door triggered numerous layers of falling rubbish. The shock of the sudden physical impact set Grissom off balance. Sara had watched him tumble to the floor, not realizing the seriousness of the fall until she heard his humerus cracking beneath his weight.
Sara winced again at the fresh memory. She had practiced her amateur bedside manner for a few minutes while waiting for Catherine and Jim to arrive and haul Grissom to the hospital. Against her heart's wishes, she had stayed to finish up the scene.
"Oh, did you know that Benny Johnson showed up at home right after you left for the hospital?"
"No. I didn't have a chance to stop by the lab and pick up any paperwork. Where was he?"
"Apparently, he was playing with some of his father's tools that he was prohibited to use. Ended up cutting himself, hence the blood on the rug. So, he gathered up his allowance money, hoping to buy some carpet solution before mom or dad noticed the stains."
"Hmm. See what happens when the truth gets shuffled within lies?"
"I have the perfect quote for this," she offered as she turned off the burners and began preparing their plates.
"Do share."
"The best intentions are fraught with disappointment," she rattled off, smiling widely in his direction. Quoting him always gave her the oddest sensations. It was the excitement of knowing she had retained something important, mixed with a strong arousal deep within her belly.
He returned her smile with one of his own. Grissom remembered a time when he never thought there was a chance to be on the receiving end of that smile again. When those same words had come from his own mouth, they had been riddled with regret over his own intentions and disappointments. Was the fact that she was goading him with it now a sign that they had moved on from those horrible times? God, he hoped so. "Wherever did you hear such nonsense?" he teased.
"Oh, some crazy guy I work with," she winked.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
"I'm an invalid," he sighed, dropping his fork onto the plate. Several failed attempts to eat with his left hand had left him frustrated and irritable. A few vegetable slivers had landed in his lap, and he found his humiliation increasing ten-fold by the second.
Now he remembered why he didn't want company.
"Oh, please. You broke your arm. Quit being a baby."
He was a bit surprised and disillusioned that she didn't offer him a little more pity. Wasn't that what happened when people got sick? Other people babied them until all was well again?
An image of Sara kissing his boo-boos flashed in his mind, drawing a flushed smile of embarrassment to his face.
"Well, if I had broken my left arm, I'd be just fine. But, I can't do anything with this full cast." He raised his plastered arm up, shaking it defiantly for emphasis. "Do you know just how much I use my right hand for?"
He watched quizzically as a fiery blush crept up her neck and face. "No need to elaborate," she giggled, holding her palms up in a 'stop now' gesture.
Oh. Oh, God.
He groaned deeply. "You know what I meant!" he growled. Sara knowing...thinking...that he did that... He should have been mortified; why the hell was he aroused too?
He needed to get her out of here. "Look Sara, I'm just tired and petulant right now. Not my best side, I know," he grinned. "So, before I get more temperamental, and before you get fed up with me, let's just call it a day and go to bed."
Silence.
Then a snort and fits of giggles.
What now? Oh. Shit! Backtrack...he needed to backtrack. If he kept this up, she was definitely doing to think the innuendos were intentional. They weren't, were they?
"Okay, look," she started, her snickering subsiding a bit, "let's at least feed you before we go to bed."
She flashed him a seductive, heart-stopping grin. Oh, she was definitely toying with him now. This woman would be the death of his sanity. Or the life in his libido.
Choices, choices.
"What are you doing?" he asked, as she rolled his chair around to face hers, letting her knee slip in between his. This was not good.
"Stop asking me that. Feeding you," she replied hastily, bringing a loaded fork to his mouth.
Why was it that he could manage all day at work without ogling her like a horny teenager, but now he found himself staring at her chest as she leaned into him? "I can do this." He grabbed at the fork, sending food flying in all directions.
"Gris-som," she whined, picking food out of her lap and automatically moving towards his.
"Don't!" He shouted, startled when her hands moved to his thighs.
"Well, you've got bits of—oh! Wow. Sorry." She held her hands up in surrender as she rolled slightly away from him.
"It's not you," he began rambling abruptly, grabbing the arm of her chair to keep her from escaping. Didn't he just want her gone? What the hell was this? "Well, it is you. It's just...it's—" Utterly embarrassing.
"I know what it is," she announced, foolishly. As soon as the comment slipped her lips, she was ready to suck it right back in.
Why the hell couldn't they say anything right?
Like a flash, Sara got the most insanely brilliant idea. Well, not quite as brilliant as asking him to dinner in his office. But almost...
Before he knew what was happening, her lips were on his. Soft, moist, lovely lips. Lips he had dreamed about. On his own...on his body. Wait. This was not helping...the issue. No, the issue was definitely not going away.
But neither was she.
Grissom groaned against her lips, pecking and licking on the swollen edges. He awkwardly eased her onto his legs, knowing that this was momentous and he should slow down to savor it. When she opened her mouth to him, thoughts of faltering this progression flew out the window.
His tongue swept into her mouth quickly; just enough to taste and take before curling back into his own mouth, luring hers to follow. When she complied, tongues collided between open lips, twisting, caressing, and savoring, before retreating then beginning again.
When her fingers crept under his shirt and onto his belly, he moaned into her neck. Following her lead, he allowed his left hand to make its way between her loosened buttons, fondling a bra-clad breast.
"Feels so good," she mumbled into his hair.
"Imagine what it would feel like with two good hands," he retorted, prompting her giggling mouth to join with his again.
Knowing that if he wanted this to last, they needed to get out of this precarious position, he attempted to lift them both from the chair. The fact that it was a bad idea presented itself when his plastered arm gave way, flailing about until it cracked against his plate, showering them with even more food.
"Good Lord. Is this your idea of foreplay?" she grinned, running her fingers through her saucy hair.
"I was trying to take you to bed," he admitted sheepishly.
"Well, how about a shower first?"
She chuckled as he picked debris from his beard.