Grissom pulled a piece of toast out of the oven. "I thought you'd be at work... and what in heaven's name, or who, rather, is Bridget Jones."
She licked her spoon clean and laid back in the bed. Yes, it had indeed been a wonderful idea to get a TV in the bedroom. Her pillows enveloped her as she snuggled down just a bit into the bed. "Bridget Jones, Grissom, is a British woman who has, until recently had absolutely no luck in love. She is, what she deems, a 'singleton'."
He grunted non-committally on the other end of the phone. "That is, until she finally succeeds in snagging leading man, Hugh Grant-"
"That the one who slept with the prostitute?"
"One and the same. Anyway..." She shoved another bite into her mouth. "He turns out to be an ass, and she falls in love with adorable Mark Darcy, who happens to be a rich, successful, handsome lawyer." She nodded as if he could see her. "Classic girl meets boy who turns out-"
"You're trying to tell me you're watching a chick flick." He deadpanned, running his fingers over a book in his bookcase. He'd just finished reorganizing his books, and stood back to survey his handiwork. Not too shabby. Order, such wonderful, segmented order. Grissom sighed happily and turned his attention to the phone conversation.
Sara, for her part, was smiling on the other end, and he could hear it in her voice when she spoke. "Yes, it is a chick flick. And it's great." Punctuating her last remark with a mouthful of cookie dough and flopped onto her side underneath her heavy, wine comforter.
The weight of the phone was rather unfamiliar in his hand. It was rare that he would make a call on his home telephone, simply for the reason he generally had no one to call. The bulk of his phone conversations took place during work hours, on the lab-sponsored Nextels. Damn, he hated those arrogant pieces of technology; the way they beeped so loud and irritatingly.
He steered his mind back on track. "I wouldn't have thought you'd find that sort of entertainment interesting."
Sara laughed in his ear, delighting him in a way he chose to ignore. "Griss, every woman likes this kind of entertainment. Some of us just don't like to admit it." She'd had her fill of ice cream and set the carton on her bedside table, laughing at the television when Bridget's ass appeared on screen.
"Why is that? Why do women feel the need to watch these semi-depressing movies? I mean, they sit in front of the television with a, well, generally, a carton of ice cream or a glass of wine and... and..." There was unusually hostile silence on Sara's end of the phone. "And I'm digging myself into a hole here."
She chuckled, throaty and relaxed, and he smiled at it. "That you are." Sara was warm and comfy in her bed, finding it wonderful that she didn't have to go into work... if she didn't want to. And she didn't. The new chapter of her life saw her relaxing more, indulging herself. After all, if she didn't live for herself, how could she be expected to live for others.
"Then I suppose it would be wise for me to reroute the conversation." His voice was judicious, and it made her smile more than she already was.
"That would be wise, yes."
There was silence from both ends of the phone and he considered, for a moment, bringing up work. But he didn't, he'd done so very well up to that point, he didn't want to spoil the gesture. It was grand, for him anyway.
When he made no effort to speak, she took it upon herself to do so. "So, Doctor Grissom, tell me what you're up to. I can't bring myself to believe you'd be doing anything other reviewing that file I sent you home with this morning."
He snorted into the phone. "I've actually been rearranging my living room. It's high time that I get rid of all of this antiquated furniture." Grissom looked around at the sparse furnishings of what he laughingly called a living room. Sadly, nothing lived in it, not even himself. It was, dank, depressing and just far too white. That was why he'd decided to refurnish and repaint the room. Part of his own personally therapy. He was proud of himself... but refused to tell anyone what he was up to.
He'd decided, on his own, that he needed some therapy himself. It seemed to work for Sara, no reason it couldn't work for him. Yes indeed, Gil Grissom needed some personal rearranging to take place.
He wasn't, after all, that proud.
"Really now? Furniture shopping? Actually going out and-"
"From the internet. How wonderful technology is." Spoken like a true scientist.
Huffing into the phone, he could almost imagine her pushing the hair out of her eyes. "But you're arranging it all yourself, I mean, you picked it all out yourself and you're going to do a little interior design."
Licking his lips, he affirmed her assumption. "I am, I am. I have it all planned out."
"Feng Shui?" Her voice was light and airy and strangely hopeful, though she had no cause to be.
And yes, it made him smile. There was little from her lately that he wasn't fully open to admit made him smile. "Hardly. It's going where it would be, well, logical."
Logic. Of course, it factored into every other aspect of his life, why not interior design? She could see it now. Outdated leather, or something equally as horrendous. He'd be proud of what he thought was good taste, but which was actually decades outdated. And she, well she'd smile for a moment and then laugh, because she was far beyond lying to him, even if it was about something as mundane as furniture design. "Well, I can't wait to see what it looks like when you're done."
"You've never been to my-oh wait, yes. Never mind. Well, I can't say that it needs the Sara Sidle seal of approval, but it will be more than welcome."
Her voice was patronizing when she responded. "You really think you've chosen tasteful furniture? This from the man who only knows how to dress in seven shades of dull?"
"I take offense!"
"Yeah well, you should. So, why did you call me again?" There obviously had to be a purpose, he never called anyone unless it was about something. Actually about something.
Grissom sat on his couch, and pondered for a moment. "I uh, I don't know."
And Sara smiled, turning off her television, pulling the blankets up to her chin, settling herself in for the duration of the awkward, impromptu and wholly welcome pseudo-conversation.