Disclaimer: I do not own CSI. But we knew that already, right? Hell, I don't even own the DVDs (until Christmas, anyway!). I do, however, own a cat, a perfect husband, a degree in biology, a passion for entomology, and an insatiable desire for Sara and Grissom to hook up.

A/N: This is my first fanfic—hopefully the first of many. I will warn you, however, that my stuff will be all GSR, so if you're not into that...I hate it for you. There will probably also be a constant fluff alert, so if you're not into that, either, too bad. Oh, yeah, one more thing. I don't give a crap if G and S are OOC or if we're living in an AU. It's my story and I'll do what I want with them. Steps down off soapbox One last thing, TriplePirouette, I hope you enjoy this—it's right up your alley!

Facades

Sara looked around her as she stepped out of her Tahoe with her gym bag. Thankfully, she didn't see anyone she knew. That would be just exactly what she needed—someone from the lab finding out about her newfound "diversion." Slipping the bag over her shoulder, she headed through the morning sun toward the door to the gym.

----------

Grissom pulled into the gym parking lot and cursed under his breath when he didn't see Jim's vehicle. He was dead-tired after shift and wanted nothing more than the comfort of his bed; however, an agreement was an agreement, and he had agreed to start working out with Brass three mornings a week. But where was that man? With a sigh, Grissom grabbed his bag and headed into the gym alone. The receptionist nodded at him as he walked in. Grissom was pleased that it had only taken a couple of weeks for the gym staff to get to know them. It was nice to be noticed...occasionally.

----------

Walking into the dance studio, Sara dropped her bag in the corner. Plopping down next to it, she kicked off her Chacos and rummaged in the bag for her ballet slippers. She was still sore from yesterday's session, and she wondered for the millionth time if she wasn't crazy to try to start dancing again after nearly 15 years. When she had begun coming to the gym to work out, she had noticed the dance studio. One of the staff members, a petite girl named Jessica, mentioned that it was mostly used for aerobics classes, but when Sara had commented on the fully mirrored walls and the presence of a barre, Jessica smiled knowingly. She helpfully mentioned that the studio was empty in the mornings, and that gym dues included use of all of their fine facilities. Sara had smiled at that as Jessica walked off. 'Hmm,' she thought. 'Grissom said I needed a diversion...'

Sliding her ballet slippers onto her feet, Sara moved to the stereo for some music before she began stretching. After some basic floor stretches, she moved to the barre and kicked her left leg up. Moving through some simple pliés and relevés, she smiled to herself as she imagined the looks on her coworkers' faces if they could see her. Sara, a dancer? That would be almost as shocking as Sara as a cheerleader. Almost. She had begun dancing when she was 9—her mother had thought it would be a great way for her awkward daughter to learn some coordination, and with any luck, a little bit of grace. To everyone's surprise, Sara had been good. Very good. Within a month, her dance teacher had taken her on for private lessons, in order to catch her up with her peers who had been dancing since they were three or four. Within a year, Sara was dancing en pointe. Dancing became her refuge, her passion. Dancing was the initial reason for her interest in physics. By understanding physics, she reasoned, she could improve her skills as a dancer. She continued to dance until college, and even took one or two classes at Harvard to relieve the stress of her physics-laden courseload. When she had gotten to her last couple of years of course work, though, everything else had fallen by the wayside as she hungrily devoured 15- and 18-hour semesters. By the time she graduated and moved on to graduate work at Berkeley, dancing had been effectively shoved to the back of her mind, where it stayed for nearly 15 years. Then, a couple of months ago, when Jessica had hinted that she could use the dance studio, she decided to bite the bullet and dig out her ancient ballet gear.

As Sara moved away from the barre and began moving through some basic footwork, she was glad she had decided to splurge on new slippers. She hadn't wanted to buy new pointe shoes until she knew whether her ankles were still strong enough to dance en pointe, but one look at her ancient slippers had told her that new ones were in order. She had eagerly gone to a dance supply store in search of new leotards, tights, and slippers. After selecting five leotards in varying colors of pink and black, she had moved on to tights and slippers. Tights were easy enough—several pairs of classic pink. Same story with slippers: classic pink. When she had gotten home, her first order of business was to open all the packages of tights and cut the feet off. Unless she was performing, she couldn't stand to have anything on her feet besides her ballet shoes. She had tried her selections on and had been marginally satisfied at what she saw. At 33, she knew she should be thankful that she was still so trim and toned. 'Still,' she had thought, 'there's always room for improvement.'

On Sara's first day in the studio, she had been relatively pleased at how quickly everything came back to her. She knew that in some respect, dance was like riding a bike—you never quite forget how. On the other hand, she knew she would probably have major problems with form, flexibility, and most of all, strength. She had no idea if her ankles were strong enough to allow her to do something as simple as a piqué turn en pointe. As it turned out, they were. On her first day back in, she managed to do two or three rudimentary pique turns and something resembling an arabesque—all while en pointe. She was glad that she could do that much, but her real desires—pirouettes and fouettés—were still far out of her reach. She resolved to perfect the steps in slippers, and recondition her ankles. Two months, she told herself.

As Sara finished warming up on footwork, she smiled as she thought to herself, 'Today's the day!' Today she would begin attempting more difficult steps en pointe, and if all went well, she would try to begin to choreograph something for herself. She decided to spend a few more minutes in slippers before progressing to pointe shoes. She moved to the center of the floor and did a single pirouette. Perfect. She spun into a double pirouette. No problem. Now for a triple...yes! Sara grinned as she came to a stop. She thought about attempting a quad, but decided to leave well enough alone. Now for some fouettés.

TBC...

Chapter 2: Flashback

A/N: I am aware that many of you have no idea what all these French ballet terms mean. You don't really need to. All you need to know is that if you haven't been en pointe in many years, your ankles get weak and you can't do the same cool stuff you used to be able to do. Oh, yeah, and fouettés are hard. Really hard. If you want a demonstration of fouettés, you can Google the term and you should get some really good sites with demos. Enjoy!

Sara did a few fouettés in her slippers before she decided to risk killing herself by trying it en pointe. She went back to her corner and pulled off her slippers and reached for her pointe shoes. 'Well,' she thought, 'at least I don't have to worry about breaking them in...' She adjusted the wool in the toes and slipped them on her feet. She hadn't worn them since her first day in the studio two months ago. She tied her ribbons and tucked them under and stood up. Rising up, she did a few piqué turns, feeling much more confident than the last time she had tried it. 'Good,' she smiled to herself.

A few perfect pirouettes later, Sara's confidence was soaring as she realized that she had indeed managed to get back into some sort of dancing shape. As she prepared to attempt her fouettés, she thought back to her senior year in high school and smiled.

"Sara! Come on!" Natalie poked her head into the changing room impatiently. "Mme. Paula's waiting on everyone to start auditions!" 17 year-old Sara Sidle hurriedly finished adjusting her pointe shoes and took a deep breath as she looked in the mirror. 'This is it, Sara,' she thought to herself. The final auditions for Swan Lake were today, and she was in the running, along with 6 other senior girls, to play the role of Odette/Odile in the classic ballet. Mme. Paula, her dance teacher, insisted that whoever won the role must perform it exactly as Pierina Legnani had—with the famous (or infamous, to ballerinas) 32 fouettés. Long cursed by her ballet descendents, Legnani had been the first woman to perform such a feat, making her a legend. Mme. Paula Bernard had one of the top dance schools in the Bay area, and had a number of extremely talented young ballerinas. She wondered how many could of them could consistently perform 32 fouettés in a row, however. She would soon find out.

Sara stepped out of the changing room and walked down the hall to Mme. Paula's main studio. She was the last of the 7 senior girls to arrive. As she took her place at the barre for warm-ups, her nerves began to get to her. 'Calm down, Sara...being nervous isn't going to help you at all. You haven't been practicing for months just to blow it now.' They spent a few minutes at the barre and then began working on footwork. Now the final portion of the audition would begin. Mme. Paula began with grand jetés. Sara leaped into the air, thanking God for her natural flexibility, and landed like a cat. She smiled as she noted Mme. Paula's approving nod. The other girls completed their jumps as well. A few more exercises, and then it was time. Natalie was first. Mme. Paula watched as Natalie began whipping around. 'One, two, three, four...' Sara counted in her head. Natalie lost her spot and spun out at number 26, and Sara's heart couldn't decide whether to break or jump for joy at her friend's misfortune. Natalie looked so sad. 26 was pretty close, though, and it didn't necessarily mean she wouldn't get the part. The only problem was that Mme. Paula wanted each girl to attempt MORE than 32 fouettés in a row, just to prove that they could do it consistently, and with confidence. Emily was next and made it to 30. Dawn lost her balance at 19. Catherine made it to 32 but lost her balance on the last one, making a less than graceful exit out of the spins. Blair got to 28. Sami hit 26, like Natalie. Finally, Sara stepped to the middle of the floor, took a calming breath, pulled her center of gravity up as far as possible and began the turns. 'One, two, three...pull up, pull up! No, stop, don't think, just count...six, seven...' Sara let her mind go blank and she concentrated only on pulling up as far as she could. She let her body fall into auto-pilot mode. On the 32nd rotation, she thought she might pass out with relief, but kept spinning. 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38...on number 39 she figured she was safe (and besides, her working leg was killing her) and she gracefully came to a stop, with a small smile on her lips. Mme. Paula looked at her intently. "Beautiful, Sara," she breathed. "Just beautiful."

The next afternoon, the cast of Swan Lake was posted. At the very top, next to the words "Odette/Odile" was her name. Sara Sidle. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, a sweet smile spreading over her face. She was the star.

The five performances of Swan Lake went nearly flawlessly. She performed the famous 32 fouettés as if she was a professional dancer. And to make the whole experience even sweeter, on the day of the last performance, she got her acceptance letter from Harvard in the mail. That night, she danced as if she had wings on her feet...

Sara's mind snapped back to the present. She took a deep breath, prayed she wouldn't break an ankle, pulled her head up high, and began a series of fouettés...

----------

Grissom sighed as he looked at his watch yet again. Where on Earth was Brass? He briefly considered calling him, but decided against it. 'Whatever,' he thought to himself. He was here, though, so he might as well go ahead and work out. He wondered if Sara had noticed the subtle changes in his body since he'd begun hitting the gym. 'Yeah, right, Grissom...' he thought dejectedly. 'You blew it once, and she's never going to give you a second chance. She probably hates your guts by now. You are a first-rate ass, you know that?' He gritted his teeth and fell back into that familiar old habit of trying to shove the ever-present Miss Sara Sidle out of his mind.

Walking over to the nearest weight bench, he added one 45-pound disk to each side of the bar. 135 pounds would make for a decent warm up. Cursing his aging back, he positioned himself under the bar and hoped he wouldn't regret doing this without Brass to spot him... After three sets of ten, his pecs and triceps were beginning to burn—a lot. 'Time for a break, old guy,' he thought to himself. He stood up and walked around the weight room, swinging his arms to loosen them up. He walked by a window he had not previously noticed and looked through it curiously. The window led into some sort of dance studio, and as he paused, his breath caught in his throat. "What the...?" he whispered to himself. On the other side of the window, an angel was dancing. An angel that looked exactly like Sara Sidle.

TBC...