Title: Cliche
Summary: Sara and Grissom get stranded in the middle of the desert? Like this hasn't been done before. [Unbound challenge response]
Author's Notes: I apologize in advance. It seems that my muse has decided to take off to Florida of all places for part of her 50 Vacation Weeks per annum that I foolishly agreed too. And since then, anything I've managed to write (an average of about ten words before I throw a temper and close the window) has been very, very cliché. So I finally said 'What the heck' and wrote a slightly parodical cliché in hopes that it will get the creative juices flowing. [/delusional dreaming]
Disclaimer: Look, I know they aren't mine. But somehow I suspect you'll want them to be by the time you finish this; because nobody could be that cruel to the Geeks.
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"Quit picking at it!" Sara snapped irritably.
"I can pick at it if I am so inclined," Grissom responded sullenly, all glimmers of his civilized, rational, adult side gone.
"Well if you don't stop picking at it, I'll be inclined to commit homicide. And since we're stuck out in the middle of the desert with nothing but a broken down piece of crap, I'm not too worried about witnesses."
"Ahh, but what about the evidence? It never lies, and it's always there." Grissom responded logically, and with the slightest bit of humour tingeing his voice.
"You didn't make me move from San Francisco to Las Vegas so that you could flirt and then reject me; that was an added bonus. Somehow I don't think too many people will blink when I say you and your stubborn idiocy went walking to find help- leaving the helpless maiden, I might add- and never returned. I'll make sure they never find the body."
"But how can you guarantee they won't?"
"My brother raises rottweilers, and they love bones. It wouldn't be too hard to bury you in a shallow grave, come back under the cover of darkness and transport you to Iowa."
His initial inclination to give a teasing 'Scared of you' in a sing-song voice was overruled by the serious tone of her voice.
"You'd transport me across state lines?"
"If necessary."
"And half the lab is in love with you… why? Because you'd think they'd realize you're nuts, given the rumour mill in that place."
Sara laughed, and Grissom was surprised by how happy she sounded. Like it was one big April Fools (only it was the middle of August) and he was busted.
"My brother raises poodles, actually, so body transport isn't really an option."
"What a relief," Grissom replied.
Sara stood up, giving herself a chance to stretch her legs and Grissom a chance to check out her ass. They were both sitting in the shadow of the broken down Tahoe, well aware that it might mean the difference between life and death with the way their day was going. The desert (major revelation here) was hot. And not in the 'Come here baby and let me see you' kind of way. More like the 'Going to kill you both, unless you'd be so kind as to kill each other off in a nice temper tantrum' kind of way.
After a minute, Sara sat down again and sighed. Things looked really bad, but at least Grissom had stopped picking at the tear in his loafers. The sound of it was driving her mad faster then the mind-addling heat. And she really didn't care which one was responsible for her next comment.
"Since we're going to die out here anyways, can I ask you a question?"
"We're not going to die Sara," he responded automatically in his best 'Stop being so melodramatic' voice. Though it was less 'Stop' and more 'God, can't I get through one day without having one of these random conversations in which I have to reveal an important piece of myself'.
"Whatever. The point is, I want to know something before they bury me. Because I doubt anyone will remember I want to be cremated."
"Fine, just ask," sighed a resigned Grissom, well aware of the consequences if he failed to do so.
"Why wasn't I worth the risk?"
"What risk?" asked a genuinely confused Grissom; while intuitive leaps of logic were his forte, his mind was hardly on an old case while he was stuck in the middle of the steaming hot desert (in case we haven't established location yet) and was about to die.
"Loving me, dating me, Hell looking in my general direction at some point in the last two years without some added insult. Because I certainly know it wasn't for your lack of interest. Do you remember Dr. Lurie and a little confession?"
"I hardly think that that conversation was a confession; as I remember it, he walked out of the room a free man. An interrogation, maybe; confession, no."
"I was talking about your confession actually."
"Oh," he said dully, "that."
"Yeah, that. Which ranks up with about this on your all time stupidest moves."
Unable to sit still while this adrenaline rush ran through her (survival instinct cried a small voice in the back of her mind; there was no other possible explanation for this conversation to be occurring) Sara stood and began pacing. Grissom, for his part, just watched her quietly as she ranted and raved about all the stupid things he had done and all the stupid things she had done and all the stupid things they could have been doing instead. It was in the middle of ones of these tirades she stopped up short.
"Oh my God," she said slowly, as if something just dawned on her. "You really think you're going to be able to do it, don't you?"
For all his intellect, he had no inkling of what she was talking about so he wisely remained silent; the agitated Sara would no doubt illuminate the matter in due course.
"You honestly believe that one day you'll wake up and realize what it is you want. And you'll figure it's just a matter of tearing down a few emotional walls, because the new Grissom won't need them, will he? But for all your whiney, self-indulgent martyrdom you don't even see it… There's a difference between what you want and what you'll allow yourself to have. And I…" she stumbled for the first time, then gave a resigned shrug. "I never had a chance, did I?"
And Grissom thought about responding, only it wasn't really a question. A flat statement of truth, driven home by the dead look in her eyes. Obviously, the adrenaline rush had passed.
"Sara," he said calmly, "sit down."
Because there was no way in Hell he would ever, ever have a response to her misguided insight. Nope, not Gil Grissom. Maybe she was right; maybe he was too far gone to ever reconnect with society. But he wasn't going to admit it. Defeated, Sara slumped beside him and, from a combination of emotional exhaustion and heat, promptly fell asleep.
And that was how a passing car found them an hour later; Sara asleep with her head in her boss's lap and a newfound resolution to not deprave himself making Grissom both younger and hornier then he had felt in a long time.
"You folks need some help?" asked the Good Samaritan.
"Sure do," Grissom replied, gently shaking Sara awake. "Sara, wake up…"
She stirred, gave a small 'eep' of surprise and embarrassment and desperately fought the blush invading her cheeks. Grissom just smiled, determined to get on with his new life on the right foot. She grinned, knowing that half-smile could only mean some devious double entendre was coming. And she wasn't disappointed.
"Hey, Sara? Next time you want to sleep with me, just ask."
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I warned you, so please keep the spitballs to yourself. Look on the bright side: after the abject humiliation of such a travesty to the fandom, I'll probably avoid writing any more. ;-)