DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, the evidence was stacked against me in my claim to own even a single stock option in the many partners who make up the CSI franchise. Therefore, I plead guilty to the charge of having fun with the crew and promise to have them back in time for the next night shift to start.

- - - - -

If Grissom thought that after his encounter with Hank he was going to get any sleep, he had been fooling himself masterfully.

"Idiot," he said to the face in the mirror as he washed his hands, having successfully transplanted two cacti and fed all of his various insect and arachnid pets. He'd only done that because in two hours of horizontal mattress occupation, he'd lain awake thinking of every stupid thing he'd ever said to Sara that would make her reject him.

What really made him an idiot was that he was quite sure his list was far from exhaustive. After all, he'd had just over four years since her decision to stay in Vegas to hurt her while trying to protect himself from his feelings.

Where would they be now if he had accepted her invitation to dinner? Further back, what if he had taken the time after the baby case to talk to her about the difference between taking every case personally and having a special victim? What if he had told her when he asked her to stay in Las Vegas that it really was more because he loved her than because he needed her on his team?

A thought struck him with such bitter irony that he had to spit the taste out of his mouth. Hank Pettigrew. Hank Fitzhenry. One nearly destroyed any hope of even friendship between him and Sara, while the other might be the savior of their relationship. Maybe a daughter named Henrietta Sidle Grissom could go by "Hank" in homage, but damned sure no son of his would ever . . .

Children? I don't want children. Do I?

He never had before. But he had never conversed with Sara about it, and what if she did?

Hank did, he knew that. It would be criminal to deprive the world of her children, based on what he had seen when he watched her interact with a group of her colleague's children in the pool.

It would also be criminal to deprive the world of Sara's children. She had so much to offer, nature and nurture. Did she know that?

He didn't know. And deciding that he couldn't know until he knew the answer to at least one other question, he sat down in his recliner and turned on his TV and DVD player. Silence of the Lambs resumed just before Anthony Hopkins said his famous line, "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

With any luck, the movie would drag his mind away from his turmoil and allow him to sleep for at least a little while.

- - - - -

His dreams left him feeling logy and unfulfilled. Sara and Hank – Fitzhenry, not Pettigrew – traded places in his bed as often as he blinked, their voices blending into one melodious scolding interrupted by cries of ecstasy.

He did, however, sleep long enough to make further rest pointless. He didn't think that he would sleep any better, or any longer, until he had spoken with Sara, who was working a double. Would it be better to talk to her on her resulting hour-long break at 1:00 in the morning or to meet her for breakfast when her shift ended at 7:00? One would be sooner for him. Seven would give them more time to talk if they needed it, or time to process and get over any awkwardness before either of them had to be at work again if she turned him down.

Breakfast it would be. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, wondering now when to call to make the date. Sara was off for the next two nights after this shift; would she have made plans already that precluded a breakfast date with him? He didn't think so, based on her history, but the thaw between them wasn't yet fluid enough for him to know her leisure time plans.

"There's only one way to find out," he told himself, reaching for his cell phone on the end table to his left. It still took him half an hour and seven attempts before he actually pressed the "send" button.

"Grissom, you're supposed to be off," she said in greeting after two rings. "If I remember correctly, that means you don't call us, we call you."

He laughed a little. He had once given her that exact lecture when she kept calling in looking to cover shifts on her nights off. "Well, true, but there's nothing that says I can't make a, um, social call." He hated that his voice dropped when he got to the end of his statement.

"A social call? While I'm on the clock? Gris, are you okay?" He wished he could hear laughter in her voice, but her tone reminded him of the one she used when she was worried about a piece of evidence that wasn't adding up.

"I'm fine, Sara." Taking a deep breath for courage, he spoke in a rush. "I'll be even better if you meet me for breakfast at the 'Niner's Nook." That was her favorite place for breakfast, but he knew she didn't treat herself to it often because it was on the pricey side for Vegas eateries.

"Wow. I mean, the 'Niner's Nook. You remembered. I'm, uh . . ."

He visualized her standing with one hand on her phone at her ear and one hand running through her hair, trying to overcome her hesitation or embarrassment or whatever it was that left her speechless at the end.

"Seven thirty?" If she turned him down, would it be a sign of her lack of interest or of her wariness, after all he had put her through?

"Make it eight thirty so I can shower and change before I meet you. I don't want to go to a swanky place for breakfast smelling like what I'm going to be processing out back."

He could just hear the ubiquitous bells, whistles, and coin chinking of the Strip in the background and felt a bit guilty for interrupting her not just at work but on a case. He'd hear soon enough what case she had caught; right now, he wanted to confirm their date before either of them could think about it. He pushed himself up from the chair with more energy than he thought he could have after such a poor day's sleep. "Eight thirty it is. And Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"I figured it out." He clicked off before she could ask him what he meant.

- - - - -

If Sara didn't return to his place with him, at least he wouldn't have to worry about inviting people over for a while – every surface had been dusted, vacuumed, sterilized or polished twice over before 1 a.m. Grissom arrived at the restaurant a half hour early to avoid staring at the now spotless walls of his apartment with the desperate anxiety that had invaded his consciousness when he finally sat down.

The question before him was whether to sit in the truck until Sara arrived or to go in and claim a table for two in the back, out of the way of the Las Vegas glitterati and accompanying paparazzi who looked for their daily scraps of gossip based on who sat with whom after a night on the town. On the one hand, he could escort Sara in if he waited, but if he didn't claim a table before the morning rush, they might have to wait as long as 45 minutes for a table. He had just about decided to wait when three limousines pulled into the lot.

He scrambled out of his truck and made it inside the door just as the first limo disgorged three Hollywood couples and their two bodyguards. With a sigh of relief, Grissom asked for a table and followed a smiling host to a table for two by the corner window. He would be able to see Sara when she walked in, which he knew she would do because she couldn't miss his truck in the lot.

Time had never passed so slowly. His server came back with two glasses of ice water only a minute after walking away, but it felt like an hour. Individual flashes of the paparazzi cameras lasted so long that Grissom swore the sun had gone nova a dozen times over. He aged three years in the ten minutes he waited for Sara to come in the door.

When she did, however, twenty years dropped off of him in a single breath. She stunned him silent as she glided her way toward him at the host's direction.

"Grissom?"

He had no idea how he had risen to his feet, or how long Sara had stood before him in his dumbfounded state. He did know that he needed to say something, anything, that would give her at least an inkling of how beautiful she looked in her short, slim emerald skirt and black v-neck tank sweater. She had pinned her hair up, leaving just a little bit hanging loose to draw attention to her long, graceful neck. More of Sara Sidle's creamy white skin showed now than he had seen in a long time, and if he weren't careful, a part of his body other than his lips would have the first say this morning.

"Oh, my God, Sara, you are . . . exquisite."

She blushed and looked away for a moment, but turned back to face him when he moved to hold out her chair for her.

"You are, you know." He leaned down to kiss her cheek before he pushed her chair in again, restraining his urge to claim her lips on the spot.

He watched her as she watched him settle in his seat before she spoke. "Thank you. And thank you for inviting me to breakfast. I've missed . . ." She waved her hands around as though searching for a word in the air.

"Our companionship?" he supplied. He wanted to capture her hands and hold them to his chest so she could feel his heart pounding his love for her.

"Yeah." She raised her water glass. "You don't look so bad yourself, Gris."

He shrugged. "The 'Niner's Nook requires slightly more formal attire than what I wear to work." He might, someday, if things went the way he hoped they would today, tell her how much he had worried about what to wear. The charcoal pinstripe suit was one he owned mostly for the stuffiest of academic and professional events. For those, however, he would never have worn his royal blue oxford. He might have worn the tie, though – tiny white ants on a black background.

That brilliant smile graced her face again. "We weren't thinking about this place when we gave you the tie for your birthday, but I think it works with the ensemble."

"Thanks."

They talked about her shifts, about the decomp in the kitchen dumpster at the Mirage, and about how strange it was to be working without Catherine, Nick, and Warrick on their team. And, for that matter, how odd it was to have Sophie on their team. They talked about a new species of cockroach recently identified in the Amazon rainforest, and about the increasing aggression of the wild cats in the mountains around Vegas.

Their server had to come back three times before they were ready to order, which wasn't all that unusual an occurrence, he assured them when they tried to apologize. He smiled at them after he confirmed their orders of Eggs Benedict for Grissom and their famous chocolate-chocolate chip pancakes for Sara. "I will say, though, that it's nice for the reason to be romance rather than over-consumption of alcohol and drugs." He nodded toward the table at the back of the restaurant where eleven famous couples sat, all trying to be hip and cool while suffering varying stages of hangover.

Grissom tensed, wondering what Sara's reaction would be, but her smile and the look she sent to the Hollywood intruders eased his concern. More so her words when she looked back into his eyes but answered the young man standing beside their table. "It is, isn't it?"

The server just grinned and walked away with a promise to bring their coffees.

"Why did you invite me to breakfast?" Sara's eyes narrowed at him as she played with the condensation on her water glass.

He looked away from her as he answered. "For the same reason you said yes."

"Don't be so sure about that, Grissom."

He looked back at her, blinking hard at her raw tone. "You said you missed our companionship."

"I do." She smiled up at him and went on in a warmer, more hopeful tone. "But that's not really why I said yes."

Could it be? The possibility that she wanted to come because she loved him had never really crossed his mind; he was too focused on getting his own feelings out to worry much about what she might feel. God, what if she said yes because she needs to tell me she's met someone else?

He felt her take his hand across the table, feeling at his wrist for his pulse. "Gris? You okay? You look peaked all of a sudden."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she spoke before he could. "Your pulse is racing. Have you seen the doctor lately?"

He smiled at her grimace of concern and took her fingers in his hand. "Last month, clean bill of health, I'm just supposed to monitor the tachycardia and tell him if it ever goes about 130 or if it comes with shortness of breath or chest pains." He squeezed her fingers between his thumb and his palm. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for quite a while longer, Sara."

"The rest of my life, I hope."

Two cups of coffee arrived just at that moment, giving him enough of a distraction to avoid the chest pain and shortness of breath he felt coming when he realized the implications of her words. He wrestled with a response as she fixed his coffee the way she knew he took it when he wasn't looking for the caffeine hit at work, then added cream to hers and sipped at it as she watched him with a wry smile.

Her eyes crinkled after a moment and she once again beat him to the spoken word. "That's why I said yes, by the way."

He smiled back at her. "That's why I asked."

"Because you hope to be around for the rest of your life? How . . . existential of you, Gris."

He wanted to lean over the table and kiss the perverse smile off her beautiful face. He could tell by the surprise flying across her brown eyes that she knew exactly what he meant despite her teasing lips. "Only if you're in it."

Sara raised her coffee cup to him in a toast, conceding the verbal joust. "Seriously, thank you. I really do want to fix . . . this."

He didn't miss her emphasis on the final word. "This" had plagued him for over ten years. Hank was right – it was past time to set "this" to right and to trust that together, he and Sara would figure it out. He raised her fingers to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the pad of each as if he would only have this one chance to show her exactly how he felt about her.

His reward was a gasp of what he hoped was desire awakening. "I want to fix . . . this, too."

He didn't let go of her hand until their plates arrived, and then they ate in silence. He didn't know why she was so quiet, but he was afraid to spoil the sensually charged atmosphere with words not worthy of the moment – and the only words worthy of the moment needed to be said in the privacy of wherever she was most comfortable continuing the conversation.

He studied her as they ate, feeling himself blush more than once as thoughts of what he wanted to do to show her the depth of his love intruded on his survey. But he never looked away. Neither did she. He wondered if the pink that crept across her face every so often had the same cause as his and hoped he would have the chance to find out one day.

Only after their unobtrusive server had cleared their empty plates and come back with the check did she speak again. "That was delicious. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Sara, can we continue this morning, or are you too tired?" It wasn't the smoothest invitation, but he hoped it got his point across.

She stretched her arms over her head, revealing an expanse of her flat stomach between her sweater and her skirt. "I would very much like to continue this morning's adventure. I'd invite you back to my place, but I haven't cleaned it since Warrick's birthday bash." She grinned. "Except the beer bottles and the left over dip, that is."

Grissom smiled back at her as he took in her exposed skin. The party at her apartment three weeks before had been a smashing success, if the amount of beer consumed was any indication. He was still convinced that Greg had been hung over at work the next shift, but since even in that condition he as a trainee was better than anyone else in the lab save the now splintered nightshift, he'd let it pass. Besides, he had gone to the party and allowed himself to get a bit buzzed, even though he had to leave early for a supervisor's meeting. "You've been busy since."

She nodded and brought her arms back to her sides, leaving him feeling lightheaded at the loss of his view. "Slightly."

"May I entice you back to my place?"

Sara sat back and cocked her head at him with an unmistakably quizzical look.

"Yes, I'm serious. I'd really like to spend some more time with you. If you're okay with it, my place is cleaner than yours." She would probably laugh at him for how clean.

Her whispered reply sent shivers running the length of his spine. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do on my nights off."