No Room To Wiggle
Summary: Grissom tricked Sara into going to a conference with him. What's going to happen now that she knows the truth?
A/N: A follow up to my Improve Challenge short story, Wiggle Room, that one of my betas blackmailed me into writing. A few sprinkled spoilers for season four. Thanks to Burked, Ann and Marlou for looking over this.
Rating: PG-13 - may change later.
Disclaimer: If I haven't figured out a way to own CSI by now, I'm never going to.

Chapter 4

Grissom woke early the next morning and immediately went into damage-control mode. So far, his carefully thought out plan of advancing his relationship with Sara hadn't exactly gone as expected. At every stage, something had gone awry, with last night's public humiliation being the zenith.

Bob really was a good friend, but he was, well … Bob. He honestly didn't understand that other people didn't share his sense of humor or his complete lack of self-consciousness. Grissom never expected him to bring up the sorority story. It had been years since he mentioned it. Of course, all of the people they both knew had already been subjected to it numerous times; Sara had been a fresh – if ultimately unimpressed – audience.

Gathering his clothes, Grissom scowled at the memory. After nearly 30 years of friendship, he'd learned the easiest way of dealing with Bob's stories was to let him get it over with and move to the next subject. He feared Sara would take his silent submission as a sign of weakness, or be disappointed in him, especially considering she'd come to his defense, but that didn't appear to be the case.

Still, her leaving the meal early had shot his plans of asking her to join him in an after-dinner stroll. The convention center and their hotel were beside the Maumee River. Grissom was certain they would have been able to find a bistro or coffee shop where they could sit and talk, rebuild the foundations of their friendship.

Not to be deterred, he'd inquired at the reception desk the night before and gotten a list of diners and bakeries in the area that opened early. From what he remembered of the meals at conventions, breakfasts tended to run heavy on pork products. He would grab them a vegetarian-friendly meal, brew some fresh coffee, and have his surprise ready for Sara before she woke up.

He opened the door to the communal area carefully, not wanting to awaken Sara before he returned. Padding across the darkened room silently, Grissom started when a voice called out, "Hey."

Turning around, he found Sara hunched over the laptop. The remnants of an individual serving-sized box of cereal and a banana peel rested on the table in front of her. So much for his idea of a romantic breakfast.

"I've double-checked your presentations. If the computer in the conference room acts up, this is ready to go as a backup."

"You didn't have to do that," Grissom said, suddenly very aware of the fact he was standing there in nothing but his underwear. Worse, a small voice in the back of his mind insisted on pointing out that he hadn't checked his boxers for holes. That was insane. He hadn't bought new underwear for the trip, but it wasn't like his clothes were threadbare.

"I'm supposed to be your assistant. I should be doing something," Sara said with a hint of annoyance, but smiling when she looked up and noticed his lack of attire.

"Right," Grissom said softly, holding his clothes in front of him, and resuming his trip to the bathroom, his mind on the lookout for unexpected and embarrassing drafts.

"Help yourself. I picked up some food last night. Never know what's going to be at these catered meals."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"You were?"

Grissom froze by the table. Sara had really sounded surprised that he remembered her dietary preferences. Oh, this definitely wasn't going well. Thinking quickly, he decided the time was ripe for a compliment.

"You look nice," he said after taking in her soft-gray suit.

"So, is it the color or the cut?"

Again Grissom froze, turning around with a baffled expression. Sara seemed amused, but her question had lost him. The cut or color of what? Was this some sort of code women used? That was one area he had a noticeable lack of understanding. Was this another of those mysteries, like why women went to the bathroom en masse?

"Both times you told me I looked nice, I was wearing this outfit," she chuckled when he continued to gape uncomprehendingly at her.

"Oh," he responded, hoping his confusion hadn't been evident. Had he only told her twice? Considering Sara's voracious memory, he wasn't going to contradict her. Was there a minimum frequency for giving compliments? Deciding to err on the side of caution, Grissom offered her another one. "You have nice legs."

He resumed his trip to the restroom, smiling broadly when she offered a flattered "Thanks". He'd made it most of the way there when an amused, "So do you" followed. Turning quickly, Grissom bumped into the edge of the counter, hoping Sara was too far away to hear the sound of his boxers ripping as they snagged on the corner.

Smiling sheepishly, he rapidly sidled the rest of the way into the bathroom, letting out a groan when he closed the door.

If Sara knew about his boxer rebellion, she never mentioned it in the suite or when she joined him in the dining area later that morning. While he foraged among the steam trays, she gathered their up-to-date schedules, handouts and complimentary containers. She held out one of the mystery jars to him, raising an eyebrow when he excitedly dumped part of the contents over his breakfast.

"Red ants. Great on eggs," he said, smiling when she tossed her container to him with a look of mock-horror. He settled into a happy meal as they chatted in between interruptions from his colleagues. Even though they weren't a couple, Grissom felt a flush of pride every time he introduced her to a friend.

One friend who didn't stop to talk was Crothers, who directed an annoyed look their way.

"I think I insulted Bob last night," she said apologetically, tracking the convention organizer as he disappeared deeper into the room.

"I don't think that's actually possible," Grissom added truthfully, chortling when his friend returned with a plate loaded down with donuts and fruit.

"I didn't know how deeply you're in denial of your omnivorous nature," Crothers chided Sara. "Gil, you can't let her skip meals. She's too skinny."

"I already ate," Sara explained in annoyance as the entomologist moved towards the next group.

Knowing he lacked a safe response to that exchange, Grissom quickly shoveled food into his mouth. When Sara turned to him with a challenging expression, he shrugged and pointed to his chewing jaws. The toothy grin she flashed him made Grissom's heart race.

Sara knew that he had ulterior motives for asking her to the conference. She might even know what they were. But she still agreed to attend, and despite all the setbacks in his plans, things seemed to be going well between them. There hadn't been this level of ease between them in years.

He didn't even mind when a scowling figure sauntered towards them. When he ran his eyes over Sara lecherously, however, Grissom did get upset. "Bring a 'friend', Caudal?"

"An assistant who happens to be a materials expert, Malcolm. She's here to help with my presentations," Grissom replied coolly. "Sara Sidle, this is Malcolm McLeery. He's a teacher."

"Professor of entomology at Plymouth State College, head of the New Hampshire Lepidopterists' Association, and past director of publications for the Entomological Society," he corrected snidely. "Your credentials?"

"Not much," Sara said with a shrug and an innocent smile. "Magna cum laude from Harvard, graduate degree from Berkeley."

"Humph. Healthy breakfast," McLeery snorted sarcastically, giving Grissom an evil look as he left. "See you around, Caudal."

"Caudal?" Sara asked lightly as she pushed the untouched food towards her companion.

"Some insects, like dragonflies, have a set of caudal gills," Grissom explained. "Caudal. Gil."

"Ah," Sara said, nodding her head as she picked up her juice. "Caudal. Pertaining to the tail or the, uh, posterior?"

Grissom let out a sigh as he set his fork down. "If you're asking if that's his clever way of calling me an ass in public, yes."

"I never said he was clever," Sara pointed out with a smile. "So, what's the deal with you two?"

"I received an award he wanted back in college."

"And he still holds a grudge?" Sara asked.

"It was prestigious."

"But you never mentioned it before."

Grissom considered his response as he chewed. Luckily, the eggs were somewhat rubbery, so it gave him plenty of time. Sara was watching him closely. He didn't think her curiosity had to do with the award, but with his reasons for not discussing it. It wasn't the first time during the trip that she'd questioned him; maybe she wanted to see how open he was willing to be. Unfortunately, there wasn't really any clear reason why he never talked about it before.

"It was a long time ago," he finally offered as he gathered up their dishes.

"Does that make it any less prestigious?"

"Maybe less pertinent. Or interesting. At the time, you would have been very young."

"Prohibition occurred before I was born. So did both World Wars, the Renaissance, the invention of the wheel and sliced bread. Time hasn't dimmed the impact of any of those."

"I'm not sure my getting that award ranks with those. Well, maybe sliced bread. How hard is it to slice bread?" he asked with a confused expression.

Sara laughed lightly, giving him another grin as they made their way to the conference room where Grissom would be giving his first talk. "I'm just saying that you've had an interesting life."

"This coming from the woman who's a member of the Mile High Club," Grissom said skeptically.

"I said interesting, not a dumb mistake," she replied, quickly scanning the room to make sure none of the early stragglers were close enough to overhear their conversation.

"You think that incident was a dumb mistake?"

"Maybe. Telling you about it? Pretty sure about that," she said, her smile not completely diluting the seriousness in her voice.

Grissom waited until another acquaintance offered her greetings before stepping closer to Sara as she checked out the computerized projector. If he'd offended Sara in some way, he wanted to know the details so he could hopefully avoid a repeat performance. "Why?"

"I think it gave you the wrong impression. That was one time, in college. It's not really me. I'm not a sex fiend. Not a party animal. I'm actually, uh, pretty tame, in my tastes. That way."

"So am I," Grissom admitted, moving away to talk to another colleague before Crothers gave the introduction to officially start the conference.

Any qualms Grissom had with social interactions died when he was behind a podium. This was his world, and he excelled in it. Usually, his talks were to fellow criminalists, and he needed to explain the bugs. But among his fellow entomologists, the forensics needed to be explained. Grissom made sure to direct a number of the questions to Sara, smiling as she easily clarified different aspects of their job.

Even McLeery was unable to trip her up as he grilled her about a seeming contradiction in one of the cases. Normally, Grissom would have been impressed if a criminalist had caught the paradox, but coming from his nemesis, it sounded forced. He shot Sara a beaming smile full of pride once McLeery conceded her point.

His second talk went much the same as the first. Afterwards, he quietly whispered explanations to Sara during the lectures they attended. Lunch was a busy affair, with no time or opportunity to continue their earlier, personal conversation.

The final talk of the day was also Grissom's last talk. Unlike the first two, this one had nothing to do with forensics, but was a study of competing beetles. The influx of irrigation and imported plants had brought non-native species into southern Nevada. His use of clips from 1950s-era horror movies to highlight the struggle had even Sara laughing.

Once finished, Grissom quickly excused himself to retrieve his racing roaches from their suite, feeling a bit uncomfortable to find Sara the center of attention among his friends when he returned. From the look she directed at him, he surmised she wasn't enjoying the situation.

With a hurried excuse about the bug races, Grissom pulled Sara along with him. "You don't have to attend if you don't want to."

"And miss the opportunity to be a cheerleader for a hissing cockroach?"

"Good luck charm," he corrected, smiling that she was willing to attend. This was good. One thing he hoped to accomplish this week was to show Sara it was possible to have outside interests from work. The bug races, his research on invading species and the roller coaster excursions were his examples.

"I thought we covered that already. Not that lucky," she smirked.

"Definitely charming, though," he said, escorting a stunned Sara into the race area.

His proclamation seemed to have been accurate, as all three of his roaches managed to qualify for the next round.

"Started doping your roaches, Gil?" a tall blonde asked teasingly.

"Cheryl! You haven't escaped yet?"

"No, but it looks like you've been caught," she replied lightly as Sara made her way to join them.

"Sara, this is Bob's wife, Cheryl. Sara Sidle."

"Your protégée. It's nice to finally meet you. We've heard so much about you over the years."

Grissom felt a cold sweat start down his back as Sara slowly turned her head to stare at him. After a moment, her lips started twitching as she directed her attention back to the other woman.

"I'm not nearly as homicidal as he tells people."

"That's good to know! I won't have to worry about leaving my drink unattended at dinner tonight. You two will be joining us, won't you? It's the social highlight of the conference, Sara. We've been trying to get Gil to attend every year."

"We hadn't discussed it yet," Grissom said quickly, noticing that Sara was once again staring at him.

"Well, it's at the Center of Science and Industry in about two hours. They rent out the place for parties. It's only a few blocks away. I need to go find Bob before he gets himself into more trouble. He has managed to get himself into trouble already, hasn't he? Who am I kidding? Of course he has. Sara, it was nice to meet you. I hope we can talk some more later."

"Bye," Sara replied, giving Grissom an inquisitive look.

"Every year, the first night of the convention includes a dinner at a local venue," he began explaining as they made their way to the elevators. "Since the conference lasts a week, a lot of the attendees bring their spouses or significant others. There's always a dance."

"And you've never gone stag?"

"I used to. With a friend, Mary Lou Malone, but she died about 10 years ago. We don't have to go. That's not why I asked you to attend."

"I don't mind going," Sara reassured him as they approached their room. "But I'm not much of a dancer."

"Nor am I. But it's basic stuff. The Electric Duck is strictly forbidden."

"Chicken."

"No. That's not a dance. It's a ritual of public humiliation," he stated, wondering why Sara started laughing.

"The Electric Chicken is the dance. And I agree with you. It should be banned everywhere. And I still can't dance."

"It's really not hard. You go around in small circles, trying not to bump into other couples."

"You say that like it's easy," Sara said.

"You make it sound hard," he teased.

She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. "You might have a point. A lot of things aren't as difficult as people imagine they'll be. Once they're willing to trust, to try, things can be good."

Grissom acknowledged her statement with a brief nod, quickly putting his bugs away. Returning to the living room area of the suite, he found Sara staring at the floor. His suspicions that she had been referring to more than dancing seemed to be true.

"The problem is that some times, things that seem like they'll be easier, turn out to be more difficult than you could ever imagine."

"It doesn't really matter, then," Sara answered with a resigned huff.

"Hold on." Grissom raised an eyebrow playfully before scanning the room quickly. Finding the small radio, he tried to find a station playing music. Then he tried to find a station that played music that he considered danceable. He turned quickly when light jazz began playing behind him.

Sara stood by the laptop, holding up an empty CD case, giving him a bashful shrug. Holding out his hand Grissom stepped into the middle of the room, never breaking eye contact until Sara's hand slipped into his.

"The first thing to do is get comfortable," he said softly, slipping his free arm around her. "Comfortable?"

Again, their gazes locked. His question referred to more than their stances, and Sara's slow nod confirmed she knew that.

"Very," she breathed out.

"Good."

"So far," she replied. "What's next?"

"Small steps. That's the key. Just take small steps."

"Right."

"Let it come of its own accord. Don't rush it; don't force it," Grissom whispered, enjoying the sensation as his hand slowly massaged the small of her back. "Let the rhythm come naturally."

"Not rushing. Natural."

Grissom licked his lips nervously as he guided them in the slow dance. While their steps became more relaxed as they progressed, the physical tension between them grew until it was almost palpable. When he tugged slightly, Sara willingly moved closer to him until he could feel her breath on his neck.

Leaning his head back, Grissom watched her intently. She matched his expression as he brought her hand to his chest, then moved his hand to her waist, where it joined its partner in a tender exploration. He closed his eyes briefly when her long fingers began to play over his suit jacket.

They didn't stop their gentle twirling when the CD moved to the next song, but moved even closer together until Grissom could feel her body's warmth. Looking into her eyes, he felt himself drawn into their dark depths. Seemingly of its own accord, his head moved forward, tilting slightly to line his lips to hers.

Sara's hands moved towards the center of his chest then up to his shoulders where she pushed.

"Don't," she whispered, turning around as she walked away from him.

TBC