Chapter 8

Sara sighed and snuggled herself into the curve of Gil's sleeping body. That was probably going to bug him, she realized, the fact that he'd fallen asleep. But she was appropriately drowsy herself, and more physically satisfied than she could ever remember being. For the ten-thousandth time, she wondered why he'd been so damned worried about disappointing her.

She'd had sex before, both recreationally and with guys she thought she loved before she was old enough to know better. It was all fine and good, but there really wasn't anything to raise the rooftop about. Early on, she had dealt with clumsy and inexperienced kids. It hadn't bothered her, because she'd been one herself. Still, looking back she could see why she had never really understood the big deal. Later, most encounters had been more satisfying, but waking up the next morning had been hollow. Most nights she hadn't stayed around, and if it was at her place she moved to the couch. It wasn't something she could place, but there had been something that hadn't felt right. One man she had even moved in with for a while, and that had been a mess. He'd been sweet, and he had treated her well, but something had always been missing. She had liked him, but she'd never really respected him. Without respect, she hadn't been able to fall in love.

She sure as hell hadn't found the same problem with Grissom. From the first time she'd seen him speak, she had respected his mind and his work. Contrary to what many thought, she hadn't fallen in love with him that day. She had definitely fallen in like, and she had wished that she could work under someone with half as much knowledge and confidence. Further, he'd been one of the first dinner dates she'd gone on where a pass hadn't been made. There had been a certain relief in not having to fend off unwanted advances from a man she really didn't know. Why in hell did most men think that paying for dinner entitled them to the dessert of their choice? Grissom hadn't acted that way though. He had been polite, had walked her to her door afterwards, and… he had shaken her hand. Knowing him now, she saw how very in-character it was, but at the time she'd found it hysterical.

If she were to think back, she decided that she'd probably fallen in love with him a few weeks after they'd started working together in Vegas. It had been a nasty case, and as usual she had taken the assaults against women to heart. After a particularly difficult night when they had found two bodies and essentially no evidence, she had lost it. Angry at the world in general and men in particular, she had started on a screaming rant that had sent Nick running and had even made Warrick back down. Grissom hadn't followed suit. As she had stomped off to leave, he had cornered her at the Tahoe, telling her that she was in no shape to drive. The advice hadn't gone over well.

"You can't tell me what to do!" she had screamed.

"I can and I will," he corrected. "The Tahoe is department property, and it's not going anywhere with a screaming woman behind the wheel."

"So I'll stop screaming," she had said, loudly but with at least the illusion of control.

"Not good enough."

She closed her eyes and attempted to compose herself. "I'm okay, Grissom. I just need to get out of here. I just need to get away from it."

"Fine," he had offered. "Give me your keys, and you can wait here until we're ready to go. You don't have to help with the processing; we have it covered."

Looking around the darkened field, she had felt the tears welling in her eyes and had willed him to just leave. She scrambled for her keys, held them out, and muttered a quick, "Fine."

"Sara?"

She had turned to get in the Tahoe, albeit the passenger side rather than the driver's, and she didn't turn back around. She couldn't. "What?"

"Look at me."

She shook her head, not wanting him to see the weakness. She wanted him to be proud of her, and she knew that this wouldn't impress him. No emotion. That was the rule, and she was breaking it big-time.

"Sara?"

She resisted as he stepped sideways and turned her around. Just as he cornered her in the opened door of the SUV, the first tear began its path down her cheek. She couldn't stop it. She just couldn't take any more tonight. She needed food, and sleep, and time to regain her perspective. She would be a basket case until she got those things, and she knew it.

She waited for the lecture that she knew was coming. How many times had he told her that she could feel for the victims but she mustn't feel with them? How many times had he chastised her for getting too close? How many times had he clinically explained that a level of detachment was essential to survive in their line of work? How many times had she heard it all before?

But the lecture didn't come. What did come were two warm arms, one pulling her into the strength of his chest and the other holding her head to his shoulder. He didn't speak at all, but the action itself was enough to break loose the pure frustration inside her. She had cried a multitude of angry tears, pounding fists against his chest, and then into his back as her arms had gone around him in desperation. And somewhere in the tears and the gentle acceptance – not that she was right, but that this was who she was – she had fallen head over heels for Gil Grissom. He might not express emotion, but he seemed to understand it. Later he would make her wonder about that fact, but for that one moment she had just been grateful for a shoulder to cry on and someone strong enough to hold her up when her legs gave out.

When her crying had stopped, he coaxed her into the Tahoe and handed her the box of Kleenex that was kept in the glove compartment. He hadn't said a word about what had happened, either that night or afterwards, and nobody else had brought it up so she was inclined to believe that he hadn't spread the word of her breakdown around. He had been a perfect gentleman. The night hadn't stopped his occasional lecture on emotional involvement, but he had known that she couldn't handle it that one time, and if he hadn't approved, at least he hadn't condemned.

Sara stroked her fingers through brown curls and around the curve of one ear. She had been falling in love for four years, and now she was in as deep as it was possible to be. She knew that he was afraid, and she knew that only time could relieve the fears he must have. But truly, she didn't hold any of it against him. With age, he had gained maturity and understanding. With his hearing loss, he had learned the value of communication and empathy for the handicapped. And as for what anyone thought about her "sleeping her way to the top", she was more than willing to transfer to a different shift and a position lateral to what she held now. She preferred that it not be under Eckley, but she would do what she had to in order to keep them out of trouble. She wasn't going to let anything destroy the first thing that had felt right to her in a very long time.

Eyelids fluttered, and Sara found herself staring into deep blue depths. He smiled sleepily, closed his eyes, and pulled her closer to him for a moment. When she went willingly, his eyes flew open and he looked at her as though she had appeared out of thin air.

"You're here," he said in a confused voice.

"Where am I supposed to be?" she asked him, slightly uncertain. She wasn't known for success with the "morning after", and the fact that it was late afternoon wasn't likely to change that.

"Here," he said, the confusion still present. Then, after looking at her a moment more, he reached up to cradle her face in his palm. Without thinking, she turned her face and kissed his hand before returning to her previous position. "You're real," he said with wonder.

"Last time I checked," she said with raised eyebrows.

He shook his head at that. "I thought it was another dream," he told her softly.

She had to smile at that. "You dream about me?" she asked softly.

He didn't say a word, but his blush told her a lot.

She was more flattered than she would ever admit, and she kissed his hand once more. "I hate to say it, but we have work in two hours," she told him with regret. "I was going to wake you in about half an hour to get ready."

He sighed, threading strong fingers through her hair and rubbing her scalp gently. "Work," he said morosely.

"Yeah," she said with a grin. "That thing you live for?"

"I did," he admitted. "Everyone needs a purpose, otherwise they don't have a reason to get up in the morning."

"Justice for all," she said softly. "Not a bad purpose."

"Some days," he told her. "And other days it's… brown eyes and the hope that I might get a smile out of you. Or it's planning something I think you'll like, and wondering how far off I really am. And sometimes, it's…"

"What?"

"Sometimes it's hoping that I'll get to hear you sing," he said quietly, his cheeks turning a little pink.

She was confused at that. "You have a thing for tone-deaf eighties tunes?" she asked.

He shook his head, and pulled her close for a kiss. She went willingly, tasting him briefly before he pulled back to look at her again. She didn't think she'd ever seen such a soft expression on his face before. "When you first came to Vegas," he explained, "You sang. It wasn't a big deal or anything. Usually it told me that you were so caught up in what you were doing that you should really be left alone. It also told me that you were, I don't know… happy? Well, not unhappy in any case. Maybe content is a better word. It told me that things were okay for you, that the case was going well, and that you had… some kind of hope." He shook his head with a self-depreciative smile. "That sounds really stupid, doesn't it?"

"No comment," she told him with a blush of her own. She'd had no clue that he could tell so much from some off-key humming that she wasn't even conscious of."

"Do you know that you stopped singing?" he asked her, brushing her hair out of her face to tuck it behind an ear. She was coming to like the familiar gesture, especially when his fingers lingered there and brushed along her face, her jaw, her neck.

"I didn't really notice when I was doing it," she admitted. "So I never thought about stopping."

"You did," he told her seriously. "And then, just a couple of months ago, I heard you humming in the lab. I had to backtrack to make sure I hadn't imagined it, but there you were, shuffling slides under a microscope and humming "If". I didn't even realize you were old enough to know that song."

She gave him a gentle laugh. "Actually, it's one of my favorites. I used to love the Hardy Boy's Mysteries, and in one of the episodes they played that song a couple of times. I got hooked; bored my family with it for more than a year and wore the record out."

"You have the most incredible memory," he said almost reverently.

She shrugged at that, unable to take credit for something she'd been born with. "I see words," she said simply. "And they just… stay there. I can tell you that the Hardy Boy's episode was called Last Kiss of Summer, and the character they killed off was Jamie, and probably quote half the dialogue."

"And that was from how many years ago?"

She tilted her head, remembering. "Thirty?" she said thoughtfully. "Maybe twenty-five. But that's the exception. It made an impression, so it stuck with me. I can also quote about half of the lecture you gave at Berkley, and most of the discussion we had over dinner. I also remember cases; the ones we did really well on, and the ones that we blew. The cases in between don't make the same impression, but the things that stand out just… do."

"An amazing mind," he told her, brushing his fingers through her hair.

She smiled at that. "This, from you? You know more than… I ever will."

"I'm older than you are," he reminded her.

She shrugged and gave him a smile just shy of a leer. "Doesn't seem to slow you down much," she commented in her most off-handed voice.

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did she caught a quick glimpse of an ear-to-ear smile before she found herself beneath a very playful Gil Grissom. He'd found all her ticklish spots earlier, and his memory was apparently as good as hers, at least for some things. Within a few seconds, he had her giggling and writhing, and feeling more alive than she had felt in ages. When he finally stopped, it was to kiss her deeply, gently, and oh so very thoroughly.

"Work," he finally said as he raised his head. The word had been almost a sigh.

"Work," she agreed.

They each began shifting in the bed, searching for discarded clothing and sneaking playful glances at one another as they did so. She couldn't miss the almost shy look that remained in his eyes, even after she had gone over virtually every inch of his body with nothing but praise. So when he had his clothes and was tossing them in the hamper, she eased up behind him and wrapped her arms around his body, pressing herself against him. His gasp was audible, and she clearly felt the almost involuntary movement that pressed him back against her. She ran her hands up his chest, enjoying the texture of him and snuggling into his back.

"I don't wanna go," she admitted as she kissed the center of his back, lingering to make tiny circles with her tongue and enjoying the salty flavor of him.

He was quiet for a long moment, and then he turned around to face her. "You can come back in the morning," he said softly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "I mean, if you want…"

She gave a playful smack to the center of his chest and then put her arms around him in a hug. When he returned the action, she lowered her hands enough to find some very interesting territory and smooth her hands over that as well. She had to give him credit for not jumping, but she accomplished what she'd wanted. His eyes were on hers.

"I want," she told him in a very certain voice.

And at that he smiled, and she knew that she had told him what he needed to hear.