Well folks, here it is… the moment you've all been waiting for… Sara and Grissom spending the night together! Damn – I've still got this rated PG… oh well. I hope you enjoy it anyway…

Chapter 6

At least he'd only gotten sick once on the ride to his townhouse. Frankly, Sara was very proud of herself for not throwing up herself. She could handle just about anything in the field, but there was something about watching another person become ill that tended to make one… well… ill.

And Sara was only a little guilty when she let Grissom tie the plastic bag and dispose of it once they were inside. After all, she'd be no good to him if she was as sick as he. So she followed him in, made sure the door was secure, and followed his instructions to find the medication he needed. She'd only seen him in the middle of a migraine once before, and that had been one time too many.

Finally she got him settled on his couch – he refused to go to bed, although that's what she was sure he needed – and found him a blanket. He'd spoken only a few words since coming in, and had responded to her words even less, but she couldn't be sure if he wasn't hearing her or if speaking was just too painful for him at the moment. So she settled into the silence and watched him. At least, she tried.

The ringing that was ever present in her ears became nearly deafening when there was no other sound to concentrate on. She'd learned not be in quiet places when she had the choice. Every once in a while they were on a crime scene that was deathly silent, but since speaking with her doctor she'd begun to carry her iPod in her pocket, and she wasn't above playing music to drown out the high-pitched hum.

She would have done that now, but she wanted to be able to hear Grissom if he needed something. Truthfully, that was why she'd insisted on bringing him home. He had looked absolutely awful. She had realized when she'd done it that she would effectively strand herself there until she decided to call a cab back to Molly's, but she was more concerned about his well being than her own. It was a switch, really; she'd never had anyone she cared enough for to worry about. What did that say about her?

She wasn't altogether sure, but she did know that she cared now, like it or not. As much as she often wanted to, the feelings she had for Grissom did not come with an "off" switch. They didn't respond to her own commands, or Grissom's indifference, or even the berating insults she gave herself after a particularly exasperating conversation with the inflexible man. And it wasn't about mushy stuff, or unrealistic expectations, or anything else. The hell of it was that she did know his faults, and she loved him anyway. She knew he could be a jerk, that he was emotionally unavailable, and he was unwilling to accept even the most involuntary of weaknesses. But he was also gentle, and honest, and he had a way of making her feel like someday – with his help – she could figure out why the world was the way it was. He gave her reassurance that she was worthy of… something. So long as he was willing to tolerate her presence, in any capacity, she knew that she had some value. In the back of her mind she knew that it was unhealthy to look for her self-worth in someone else's opinion, but it wasn't something she had a choice about. He had been the first person to really believe in her, so she had never quite shaken the feeling that he would be the only one who believed in her.

Curled up on an oversized black, leather chair which matched the couch he was lying on, Sara propped her head on one hand and just watched. She wasn't sure why he was allowing it, but she was grateful. If he forced her to leave, then she would worry. Hell, she was worried enough as it was. Intellectually she knew that a migraine was simply a severe headache, but seeing a level of pain that could incapacitate a grown man still sent chills up her spine.

A glance at the clock on the wall told her that she'd been there for more than an hour. She hoped that the medication he'd taken – something that went under his tongue, rather like a nitro pill – had taken effect. She supposed it must have because his face was a little more relaxed, even if his posture was still tense.

"Griss?" she said quietly. If he was asleep, she didn't want to wake him, but if he wasn't then she wanted to know he was okay.

"Hmm?" The grunt was quiet and very noncommittal. At least she knew he wasn't sleeping.

It was all she could do to stay awake herself. She'd pulled a long shift – nearly twelve hours – and had then run five miles before getting the call that had sent her back to work. It was pushing six in the evening, and she'd been awake since two the previous afternoon. She didn't mind missing sleep, but usually it was her body's messed up internal clock and not her job that caused it. "How you doing?" she asked.

"Better," he admitted, but his voice didn't sound it. Granted, his color was better than it had been, but it had been improving since he'd gone horizontal.

"Anything I can do for you?" she asked.

There was no answer.

"Griss?" she tried again.

Again, he remained silent.

"Grissom!" she said in a louder voice, moving from the chair to touch his arm. It terrified her that one moment he'd been answering questions and the next he appeared to pass out. It wasn't until he jumped under her touch and his eyes flew open in clear panic – only to slam closed at even the dim lighting of his living room – that she remembered his inconsistent hearing. Sometimes he heard her, and sometimes he didn't. She didn't understand that, as her hearing was always a little muddled, but that was how his seemed to work. For him, it was all or nothing.

"I'm fine," he told her, and his voice was shaking.

She couldn't have said what told her, but she knew very well that he couldn't hear a word she might say, at least not then. With his eyes closed, he couldn't see her either. Somehow, the thought of such isolation when dealing with such intense pain was unforgivable. Instinctively, she slipped her hand into his.

He didn't pull away. His hand tightened as though he appreciated the touch, and she saw him relax in the slightest degree. She didn't speak then – knew it wouldn't be of any use – but knelt there beside the couch and held his hand. It was all she could do.

An eternity later, his eyes slid slowly open. She saw comprehension there although she didn't understand its source. "Can you hear me now?" she asked.

Briefly he looked panicked again, but then he simply shook his head. She squeezed his hand to let him know she was with him, and she waited. Sometime in the waiting, she lifted her other hand to his forehead as a mother would do to a child, checking for fever. His skin was cool and damp, and his eyes didn't open at the touch. She left her hand there.

When her legs cramped, she slipped down into a crossed-legged position which was more comfortable. She left her hands where they were – one on his head and one in his hand – and at some point the fatigue she'd been fighting finally won. She leaned her head down to the couch and slipped into an exhausted sleep, sitting up.

Gil had no clue how long he'd been lying there, pretending to sleep, before it finally happened. He did know that the deception was over. He had been speech reading off and on for years – initially because it helped him with the job, and later due to his hearing – and he had clearly understood her words. She had plainly asked if he could hear her, and he had told her no. Why he had been honest was still a mystery, so he decided to chalk it up to pained delusion. But whatever his reason, Sara knew.

The sleep he got was fitful, as it always was under the influence of the Imitrex. He hated the disgusting pills, and he avoided them like the plague. Usually, if he got to them soon enough, a couple of Excederine would fend off the worst of the pain. It normally didn't come to this. But then, there had been nothing normal about this day.

When he finally surfaced from the shallow depths of sleep, he became aware of two things. First, he smelled oranges. Right on the heels of that discovery was the recognition of the warmth he held in his hand. He cracked his eyes the slightest bit, letting in as little light as possible, and while every object seemed to have a halo behind it, the stabbing pain had abated.

It wasn't an illusion. Sara's hand was in his, and her head was resting on the couch near his face. That was where the orange scent was coming from, he realized. He decided that she must use a citrus shampoo.

The guilt he felt was nerve wracking. Here she was, taking care of him, and he'd done nothing but lie to her. She had brought him home, nursed him to the best of her ability, and he had repaid her by holding her so that she couldn't leave the floor. She had to be as exhausted as he was, and yet she sat there clutching his hand even as he held hers. The world as he knew it simply didn't apply; nothing made sense.

Her head lifted slowly, startling him. He had thought she was asleep. As her eyes opened, she gave him a tired smile, and he realized that he hadn't been wrong. She looked confused for just a moment, squeezed his fingers as though to make sure he was real, and then looked him in the eye. "Can you hear me?" she asked.

Her words had never sounded so sweet. "Yeah," he told her.

She didn't say anything more, but she did remove her hand from his in order to stretch in a fashion that seemed entirely too feline. Once she'd done that, she gave him another smile. "How's your stomach? Think you can eat?"

"Maybe toast," he told her.

"Dry," she agreed. "Either that or saltines." She looked at him with undeniable mirth in her eyes. "At least it works for women who are pregnant."

"Toast," he repeated. "I have some of that butter spray stuff in the fridge."

She nodded and stood to go into the kitchen. He listened gratefully to the domestic sounds of hands being washed, the refrigerator opening and closing, and the toaster lever going down. Simple sounds – common sounds – and yet to him they were like music. He didn't know how long he would have them, so every one was precious.

He took the opportunity to use the restroom while she was in the kitchen, and to brush his teeth as well. By the time he got back to the kitchen, she had a plate of toast waiting for him and a cold bottle of water beside it.

"Do you need a couple of these?" she asked as she held up the green Excederine bottle.

"Yeah, thanks," he told her as he took the offered pills. "Once I knock it down, I don't let it get back up."

"A good plan," she agreed. "So, you're feeling better?"

He figured she knew the answer to that. "I don't think I could have felt much worse," he admitted. "Yeah, I'm better. Thanks for staying."

She gave a shrug. "Seemed like the thing to do," she said with a wink.

"Lousy way to spend your day off," he said, then took a bite of the toast.

"There are worse things. I think I had a better day than you did."

"No doubt," he admitted, and had to smile.

"So, are you ready to talk about it?" she asked.

"It?" She glared at him, and he knew that the time for hiding was over. "It," he said with resignation.

"There are times you can't hear at all," she commented, opening the conversation effectively and reminding him that she was indeed as good at her job as he'd known she was.

"It's called Otosclerosis," he told her simply. "It's hereditary, and it's progressive. You're right, sometimes I can't hear at all. Other times, I hear every sound just as clear as I ever did." He sighed as he met her eyes. "And I never know from one minute to the next which it will be."

"Is that what the surgery is about?" she asked.

He nodded. "If they remove the extra tissue before it solidifies, then most of my hearing should be salvageable."

"What kind of risk does that have? I mean, bones of the ear are practically microscopic."

"Substantial," he admitted. "But the risk of not having it is guaranteed deafness, probably within the next year. I'm not giving up my hearing without a fight."

She nodded her agreement. "And were you going to tell anyone?" she asked. Her expression was casual, but there was a bite in her voice.

"I didn't want to worry anyone," he said, which was half the truth. The rest, of course, was that he didn't want their pity. "I know I'll have to tell Catherine. She'll be covering my workload on the shift until I recover from the surgery. And, if the surgery doesn't go well, she'll be taking over my job."

Sara's head snapped up. "What?"

"I can't do my job without hearing," he admitted on a sigh. "I've already given up the majority of my field work, and all it's accomplished is making me hate what I do. I'm not a paper pusher; I'm a scientist, a criminalist. I need to be out there, not stuck behind some desk trying to make the facts and figures balance out. I don't want to check other people's work; I want to do the work myself."

"And if you can't have what you want, then you won't take anything," she said. She looked irritated with him, and he didn't understand that.

"I can't be what I'm not," he said simply.

"How will you manage," she asked, and once more her eyes were averted. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of the dreaded pity.

"The townhouse is free and clear," he said quietly. "I've invested well, and it isn't as though I've spent a fortune on entertainment or frills. I can get through the next ten years relatively easily, and after that I have retirement, social security… I'll get by."

"Gil Grissom sitting around his townhouse growing old," Sara said bitterly. "Not one chance in hell."

"I can't work if I can't hear," he said in frustration. "You've seen how… complicated it is. You must have seen it, or you wouldn't have picked up on it."

"Yeah, well, let's just say I was looking for it," she told him cryptically. He wanted to pursue the thought, but she went on. "You know you can't just sit. It's not you, Grissom."

"Well, the goal is to repair the damage and stay at work," he reminded her.

"What about hearing aides or something?" she asked.

"Aides amplify," he said as he shook his head. "That only works with nerve damage. If the actual mechanism of the ear is affected, hearing aides are useless."

Sara nodded. "I didn't think of that."

"No reason you should have," he said, and oddly found himself trying to comfort her. "I've dealt with this for a long time, Sara. My mother lost her hearing when I was eight, and I've always known it was a possibility. I tried ignoring it, and all that did was delay treatment. It's time for me to face this once and for all."

"Your mom is deaf?" she asked.

He nodded. "Completely."

"I never knew that."

He smiled slightly. "It's not something you advertise," he said simply. "She's adjusted, and her life accommodates it. If it comes to that, I'll do the same thing. I just… don't want it to come to that."

She nodded. "I'm glad I know," she said softly. "I mean, if you need someone to talk to, at least you don't have to do this alone."

He shrugged and tried to ignore the fact that she was right, and deep in his soul he was grateful. "Sara, I don't want anyone else to know. Catherine has to, but I don't want this spread through the labs."

She looked insulted for a moment, and then resigned. "I suppose Ecklie would have a field day with it," she reasoned.

"To say the least."

"I won't say a word, but I still think you should. Our team… Griss, they need to know. This explains a lot, it really does."

"It's my business, Sara," he admonished. "I can deal with you knowing, but I don't want it to be general gossip. If the surgery goes well, nobody needs to know. And if it doesn't, well then they'll all know anyway. For now, let's just leave it as it is."

"As it is," she muttered.

"Thank you."

"I didn't do anything," she complained. Then her eyes snapped up to his. "What can I do?" she asked. "Is there anything… I mean, if nobody knows, is there something you need done or… hell, I don't know."

He had to smile at her. "Well, beings you know… a ride home from the hospital might be nice. I don't know how my hearing will be afterwards, but the doctor said my balance would be off. I'd rather not deal with cabs if I don't have to."

"You've got it," she said, and looked absolutely relieved. "I'll drive you there too if you want," she said. "It'll save you the cab fare, and you won't have to leave your Tahoe in the lot."

"I'd appreciate that," he admitted. "Thank you."

She shrugged one shoulder. "It's not that big of a deal. What day do I need to have off?"

"The surgery will be Monday."

"I'll sign a leave form."

He shook his head. "I'll put it down as comp time," he offered. "I sure as hell owe you enough of that. You don't declare half of your overtime; it's about time you got some compensation."

"Whatever's easiest. I'm just… glad I can help. You know there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." She paused briefly, and then added, "Any of us. War, Nick, Cath… hell, even Greg would bend over backwards for you if you'd just give them the chance. You've backed us up enough times; we owe you this."

"You don't owe me anything," he corrected, uncomfortable with the warmth her words had given him. "Just… don't tell them… not yet."

She nodded her agreement. Then her face dropped slightly. "If you're really feeling better, I should probably call a cab," she said. "It's almost noon, and that light will slam you if you leave the house."

"I was just thinking that," he admitted sheepishly. "It's my treat."

She shook her head. "I'll get it. I'm just… glad you're better."

It seemed odd to him that the normally articulate Sara was fumbling with words, but he decided it would be rude to comment. He knew he was often slightly tongue-tied around her, fearing that he would inadvertently let his true feelings slip. Unfortunately, trying to speak around the words he wanted to say often caused him to hurt her, however unintentionally. There was a certain reassurance in her fumbling for words in the same way that he so often did.

He just had to wonder how much longer he would be able to listen to those halting, sweet sounding words.