Disclaimers, etc.: see Ch. 1, 13
There was nothing particularly eye-catching about the townhouse, but Sara found herself staring at it nonetheless. Her car was uncomfortably warm with the engine off, but she couldn't quite bring herself to move yet. What am I doing here, exactly?
She didn't know what to make of Grissom. Still. Again. Whatever. She'd spent years waiting vainly for him to do something, anything, more than double entendres, and now he'd issued a second meal invitation--and a large part of her feared that he was only checking up on her, keeping an eye on her after her little incident with the police.
The message left on her machine had given her a space to think about it, to decide whether she was willing to open herself up to Grissom again. It still felt so precarious, this new vulnerability, but Sara had to admit that so far Grissom had been worthy of the trust she'd placed in him once more. He hadn't pushed her away, hadn't so much as hinted. In fact, he'd been more open with her than ever before, barring their time out of time in California.
Sara shifted in her seat, uneasy. The dynamics had changed, and not just with those four days. True, she'd laid herself open to Grissom before, often painfully so, but that was before he had been summoned into her own personal little humiliation. He had been the last person she'd wanted to see that night, the last person she'd wanted to disappoint, but somehow he'd lessened the sting with the clasp of his hand. He hadn't lectured, or condemned, or even said "I told you so"; he'd only taken care of her in a way she hadn't let anyone do in a very long time, and yet desperately wanted.
And now he'd asked her over for dinner, on a Saturday night no less. And in a moment of madness she'd accepted. And sooner or later you have to get out of the car and go inside. She could, she supposed, call him on her cellphone and back out, but that seemed cowardly as well as rude.
Give me a break. Sara gave herself a shake and summoned determination. If he pisses me off I can always leave.
Her knock on his door was answered with a shouted "Come in!" and she obeyed. A wave of savory scent reached her as she stepped inside; the big main room was softer-edged without the sun pouring in, the early evening light muting the colors a bit, but Grissom had the lights on in the kitchen and a towel slung over his shoulder, and the sight of him being domestic made her throat tighten a little. "Hey," she called, shutting the door behind her.
Grissom turned, smiling, and pulled the towel off to dry his hands. "Good evening," he returned, looking completely comfortable in his own space.
Sara held up the bag she was carrying, a little awkward. "Salad," she said unnecessarily. She'd insisted on bringing something this time.
"Just put it on the table," Grissom said, folding the towel and setting it down. "You're right on time, this is just about ready to come out of the oven."
The timer rang as he finished, and Sara took the salad container out of the bag, popping off the lid and putting it on the table, which was already set with two places. Grissom could set an elegant table when he put his mind to it, Sara mused, noting the matching placemats and napkins, the simple china that made her plastic salad bowl look a little déclassé, the long-stemmed wineglasses...
The bag crumpled in her hand. Wineglasses, yes, and an open bottle of red wine. Nothing expensive, just a medium Merlot, but it took her breath away. "Um...I'm going to go wash my hands," she called, praying that her voice would remain steady, and retreated into the bathroom.
Once there, she stared at herself in the mirror, ignoring the subtle aura of Grissom that permeated the small room. How does he do it?
The dark eyes staring back at her, a little too wide, had no more answer than He always does. Such a small thing, that was at the same time such a deep gesture of trust. Somehow Grissom knew that she hadn't sought alcohol because of an addiction; the innocuous bottle out there on the table was his acknowledgement that she had moved beyond her mistake, that he trusted her. This was the Grissom she'd first known, the man whose mind worked the same way hers did, whose subconscious was so like her own that they could work together for hours without having to exchange one word. That rapport might have gotten lost along the way, and Sara refused to consider at the moment at whose feet most of the blame could be laid, but apparently it was back full-force.
She couldn't decide whether it scared her or reassured her. Maybe both.
Sara let out a long breath and washed her hands, noticing with a touch of amusement that while Grissom had remembered to put fresh towels in the bathroom he'd forgotten to wipe down the mirror, and went back out. Grissom was putting out a bowl of sliced apples; a steaming dish of lasagne already sat waiting, and Sara was quite willing to bet that it was meatless. "Smells great," she said cheerfully, walking forward to take a seat. "Another secret family recipe?"
"Actually, yes," Grissom said, one corner of his mouth turning up as he sat. He scooped out a healthy portion of the dish onto her plate. "Mom had a lot of them." A hint of mischief lit his eyes. "Aunt Marie says that her entire church group pesters her for the family chocolate torte recipe, but she won't give it up."
Sara laughed, unfolding her napkin. "Smart woman."
It was so easy. I guess I should stop being surprised. They talked and ate and smiled, with Sara unabashed at taking a third helping of the lasagne and Grissom playfully snatching away the last of the apples. They'd pushed away the dishes and were arguing cheerfully about the merits of different soil types for the preservation of bodies when Sara realized just what was different.
He's not hiding.
Grissom's gaze was lingering on her as it had not since they'd worked together in San Francisco, free of the constraints of the Las Vegas lab hierarchy; a little tender, a little shy, but--something in her warmed--complete. There would always be thought running behind those eyes, calculation, speculation, wry commentary much like her own mind, but Grissom's attention was centered on Sara, and he had no barriers up.
And for the life of her, she didn't know what to do about it.
"Sara?"
She blinked. Grissom's gaze had sharpened, and he was looking mildly perplexed. "Sorry," she said, a little sheepishly. "Got lost in thought for a minute there."
One brow went up. "Unfamiliar territory?" he teased.
Sara resisted the sudden urge to stick her tongue out at him, and settled for wrinkling up her nose. "Bite me," she retorted.
Grissom chuckled. "So what distracted you from sand versus alkaline soil?"
There was no way she was going to tell him what she was thinking. Instead, Sara picked up her wineglass, which still held half an inch of the fragrant liquid. "Grissom--why did you ask me over for dinner? Are you still checking up on me?"
It wasn't quite a fair question, she knew that; if nothing else, the contents of the glass she held told her otherwise. And she winced a little as Grissom's humor faded. But I need some answers here.
"No," he replied, picking up his own glass and sitting back a little. "No, I'm not, Sara. Can't I want to enjoy your company for an evening?"
The hint of hurt in his eyes made her drop her own. "Sorry," she said again, and put the glass back down, wrapping the fingers of both hands around its stem as though it had to be held in place. "I'm a little paranoid, I guess."
Grissom sighed, the same low sound he'd made by her side in the police station, as though he were letting something go. "No, I'm sorry, Sara," he said, leaning forward and putting his hand over one of hers. "I haven't given you much reason to think otherwise."
That startled her, and she looked up. His face was drawn and sad again, and she didn't like that at all; it reminded her far too much of how he'd looked in Marina del Rey. "That's not true," she said firmly, and flipped her hand over so she could curl her fingers around his wrist. "Grissom, you've done so much for me lately--and right in the middle of your own problems, too. Don't think I haven't noticed." She met his gaze with her own, trying to set aside the attraction in favor of simple truth. "You've been a wonderful friend, and I've--I've kind of been mixed up in my own stuff." She felt her face heat a little.
His grip on her hand was reassuring. "Sara--it's okay to lean on somebody else once in a while." There was no blame in his eyes, and the strain there seemed to have eased.
She laughed a little. "Yeah, well, I just don't want to make a habit of it," she countered, trying to lighten the mood.
Grissom frowned a little, then shook his head. "Wrong lecture, wrong time," he muttered, and let her go, rising. "Remember that torte I mentioned earlier?"
He held out a hand for her plate, and Sara gave it to him, a little taken aback at the abrupt shift in the conversation. "Yeah?"
His mouth quirked again, the humor returning. "Want to try it?"
She insisted on helping clear the table, and Grissom let her make the coffee, following her out to the living area with two plates while she carried the mugs. They settled at either end of the couch, Sara kicking off her shoes so she could curl her legs underneath herself, and Grissom handed her one plate. The dark slice smelled delicious, and Sara didn't hesitate to dig in her fork.
A smile lit Grissom's face at the expression of bliss that spread over hers, and Sara thought that the hint of smugness there was quite justified. "Good?"
She swallowed carefully before answering. "No wonder your aunt is keeping this a secret, Grissom! It's incredible." She took another slow bite, losing herself briefly in the rich bittersweet flavor, then widened her eyes at him in exaggerated pleading. "Can I have the recipe?"
He laughed outright. "I thought you couldn't cook."
"For this I'll learn."
Grissom shook his head, digging into his own slice. "Sorry, no. It stays in the family."
Sara sighed dramatically, and concentrated on drowning her sorrows in the dessert, scraping up the last crumbs and wishing she could lick the plate. "Seriously, Grissom, if you ever get tired of forensics you could open a bakery on this alone." She set down her plate on the coffee table and picked up her mug.
"Better than sex?" Grissom finished his last bite, smirking when Sara sputtered into her coffee. "Here." He picked up a napkin from the table and passed it to her.
Sara wiped her face. "Care to repeat that?"
"Oh, it was a conversation I overheard in the breakroom a few weeks ago. Something about chocolate being better than sex."
"Oh, Jacqui." Sara rolled her eyes, firmly suppressing any thoughts along sexual lines. Now is not the time. "You should know better than to listen to bored women, Grissom, you'll short-circuit your brain."
"Trust me, after years of listening to Catherine, I'm immune."
Sara snickered. "I'll bet."
Silence crept in as they sipped their coffee, the silliness dissolving into something close to contentment. Grissom seemed to be lost in thought himself, and Sara took a moment to study his face. Grief had etched new lines at the corners of his eyes, and he still looked a little tired, but she guessed that his heart was healing. Uncurling her legs, she rested her back against the arm of the couch and nudged his arm playfully with one foot. "What are you thinking?"
A slow smile spread over his face, and he set down his mug and lifted both her feet into his lap. Her eyes widened again, this time in utter surprise, as he enveloped one foot in both big hands and began rubbing the sole through her stocking. "I'm just wondering why you were staring at me."
The stroke of his thumb along the arch of her foot felt amazing, and Sara struggled to pull her thoughts together. "I...uh...I was thinking that you don't look so stressed these days."
Grissom quirked his mouth, looking down at her feet. "I feel...better," he admitted in a serious tone, though his hands didn't stop their gentle ministrations. He was silent for a moment or two, then turned his head to regard her. "Did I ever thank you for everything you did for me out there?"
"Yes, at the beach, remember?" Sara's toes flexed in his grip, and she drew her foot carefully away, but he only started on the other one. "Grissom..."
He was watching her foot again, fingers sliding over her heel. "Mmm?"
"What--what are you doing?"
His hands slowed, and stopped; one lifted to remove his glasses, and he blew out his breath in the heavy way that meant he was searching for words.
Great. I've screwed it up. Annoyed at herself and expecting no more than her name from Grissom, Sara started to pull her foot back, but he grabbed her ankle, holding her in place. "No," he said, almost sharply, looking back up at her. "Give me a minute."
His gaze were intense with an emotion she couldn't quite identify. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, and Grissom relaxed a little. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly, and Sara waited, curious and concerned both at once. She hadn't meant to back him into one of his nonverbal corners. I never learn, do I--things were going so well, and I had to go and say something. She bit her lip, swearing silently. He's going to close up again, push me away.
Grissom dropped his hand, laying his arm on the back of the couch and turning a little so that he was facing Sara; her foot still rested in his lap. "I'm going to be blunt here," he said, and Sara realized that a light bloom of perspiration had appeared on his forehead--his calm expression was a front. "Do you still want to...try a relationship?"
Sara blinked, not sure she had heard him correctly. Her veins flooded with adrenaline, making her skin prickle and her ears ring. "A relationship? With you?"
Grissom exhaled again, and while the thumb rubbing absently over her ankle was light, the hand resting on the couch cushion had curled into a fist. "Yes. With...me."
Oh...my... Sara's brain fizzed, fast-tumbling thoughts smoothing out into one. She pursed her lips consideringly, and pulled her foot from his grasp, tucking it back under herself again. Grissom watched it slide away, and the bones of his face seemed to sharpen.
Sara curled the other leg under as well, then rose up on her knees. Common sense told her to take the time to think about this, to consider whether she really wanted to offer him that ultimate vulnerability one more time, but she paid it no attention whatsoever, instead following the sense of complete rightness that flooded through her.
Grissom wasn't looking at her; she could see the shutters coming down. Sara reached to cup his face in her hands, and his eyes snapped up to hers, startled.
She grinned. "Hell yes!"
And she kissed him.
He tasted of coffee and chocolate and surprise, and then his arms came around her hard, pulling her off-balance and into him. Sara let herself fall against him, her hands leaving his jaw to brace against his shoulders, but she couldn't bear to lift her mouth from his, not yet. One of Grissom's arms wrapped around her waist and the other hand slid into her hair, and he kissed her hungrily, with all the passion and confidence she'd always suspected was there underneath his reserve.
They shared one long, intoxicating kiss, two, three, then broke apart for air, Sara stroking the side of Grissom's face with wondering greed and realizing with some amusement that she was more or less in his lap. He laughed a little breathlessly, eyes brilliant with feeling. "And here I thought I'd have to convince you."
Sara grinned, loving the feel of his arms around her, of his fingers at the nape of her neck. "Yeah? What was the plan?"
His amusement faded, supplanted by regret. "A lot of groveling, mostly." His brows drew down in a frown that was pain instead of anger. "I told you I make mistakes, Sara. Pushing you away was one of the biggest ones."
Sara was tempted to ask him why he'd changed his mind, but the vulnerability in his face made her heart hurt, and she filed the question away for later. "You're forgiven," she told him softly, watching his eyes slide shut in relief, and then embraced him properly, lowering her head into that spot that fit it so well.
"If you change your mind I'll kill you," she added quietly, smiling. "And I know how to get away with it."
He made a sound halfway to a chuckle, and pulled her closer.
They sat that way for a long time, letting their breathing slow, indulging in the small shifts and touches that settled them against each other. Eventually Sara stirred, pulling back, and Grissom looked at her, not letting her go. "What is it?"
"My legs are falling asleep," she explained ruefully, and he laughed. She straightened out of his grasp, squirming around to put her feet on the floor, but before she could move away he put one arm back around her waist and kept her on his lap.
"Better?" he asked, drawing her head back down to his shoulder, and Sara grinned and fulfilled an old fantasy by pressing a kiss to the underside of his chin, feeling his beard tickle her lips.
"Fine," she said, ignoring the slight sense of ridiculousness at being in such a position. It felt too good to argue.
Grissom sighed, a contented sound, and Sara felt him relaxing, his muscles loosening. She blinked, almost sleepy; she was anything but bored, but being held in Grissom's caring at last was making her relax too, some long-held hardness dissolving.
Then he untangled his hand from hers where they lay knotted in her lap, running the palm slowly up her arm in a reverent caress until he reached her throat. Sara lifted her head, and he continued up to her cheek, fingers light, eyes intent as though cataloging every detail. "I have to do it," he said thoughtfully, almost as though he were apologizing, and Sara raised a brow in inquiry.
"Do wh--" and his mouth was on hers again.
It was like being fed, Sara thought under a hum of pleasure. The slow gentle kisses, the feel of Grissom's hair under her hand and his arm around her waist were filling somehow, a rich fulfillment for a heart hungry so long. She could feel his rapid pulse where her wrist pressed against his neck, and he kept making soft little sounds that sometimes became her name, and sometimes were just muffled against her skin. She was saturated with his scent. This was the man she'd believed in for so long, generous, tender; the match her instinct had realized long ago. The whole thing felt like the antithesis of her nightmares--vivid and unreal, yes, but blissful instead of horrifying.
Grissom buried his nose in her hair, and Sara absorbed his kiss on her temple with an unfamiliar joy. "You know, once you make up your mind, you don't waste time," she commented.
His chuckle ruffled past her ear. "I try."
See Chapter 16