Marlou is a goddess.
"Tired?"
"A little." She answered him with a yawn, but continued to look on.
Sara sat on a plush ottomon, watching him push a couch into position. Grissom stood back, surveyed his work, approached the couch again, straingtened it and stood back. That being more to his liking, he moved around the piece of furniture and sat on it.
The color didn't suit him, she realized that as soon as she saw the furniture. Burgundy, the hue of rich wine. The type of wine that rolled off your tongue and stayed with you for hours after. That color against the subdued cream of the walls was almost romantic. A color combination that brought a blush to her face just as soon as she caught it.
He wouldn't tell her that he had her in mind when he chose the color. He wouldn't tell her that he had imaginged what her pale, freckled skin would look like lounging against the soft material. He certainly wouldn't divulge that he wondered about the contrast of candlelight on her skin against the feather and down backdrop of the sofa.
But his mind stilled. She was his friend, and the thoughts he was having were far from friendly.
But for some reason, the thought of her there against his sofa, sleepy and sated, plied with wine and talk of what they could be, was far more pornographic than the thought of her splayed naked in his bed.
He didn't want it. He couldn't want it. He shouldn't want it. He wouldn't, absolutely would not want it until she did again, if that was even within the realm of remote possibility.
They were surrounded by rich mahogany and expensive pillows and he suddenly felt foolish for having gone to such extravagance to fix a room that only he would see. Sara glanced at him from her position near the armchair, smiling warmly. "You did good. I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in ya, but you did good."
Again, he surveyed his work, bolstered by her comment. "I like it." His townhouse felt more like a home now, something he could actually come home to, something he could feel comfortable being wrapped in... And the way the couch was holding his body, he almost forgot that he'd dropped three grand on it.
She nodded. "Though your coffee table needs a few accents. It's too bare."
Grissom smiled at her and lithly moved to seat himself on his new couch. "I think Thai is in order. Think that'll go with the wall treatment?"
She laughed and he ambled into his kitchen to produce a menu. He walked back into the room and sat across from her. She'd since abandoned the ottomon and stretched out in the fluffly armchair. It nearly swallowed her. Something twisted in his gut, but he ignored it; he was so good at that.
Sighing, he spoke. "Whatcha want?"
She didn't even bother to think. "Jasmine rice and what's that mushroom and squash? You know, the-"
"Phak thong phat het." He read slowly from the menu, then smiled at her and returned to peruse the selection.
He looked from her to the menu several times. "How much will it offend you if I get the Satayh?"
And something twisted within her. That he had the decency to ask her that to begin with was... well, shocking. But the tone of his voice when he'd said it, actual concern that she would be upset with him. She was so surprised that she wanted to laugh.
Sara shook her head and cracked her knuckles. The sound popped in the nearly silent room. "Not at all. It's not my place to begrudge you meat."
Sara had answered the door when the food arrived and paid for it, much to Grissom's chagrin.
"Hey, you just spent what, like ten grand on this room? Least I can do is pay for the food."
He grimaced and closed the door after she'd handed the man the money. She laid the food out on the table and sat down on the floor, looking on as he retrieved a bottle of white wine from the kitchen.
"You know, your line of logic only works if I'd done all of this for you." His brow was raised as he sat on the couch, leaning over to grab his meal.
She smiled and put a mushroom in her mouth. "Well, for the sake of argument, let's pretend."
They both smiled and began to eat.
A spot of peanut sauce clunge to the side of his lips and she stared, stared, stared at it until it became a blur in her vision. She was suddenly very jealous of the meat rolling across his tongue. Then she realized what she was thinking, was repulsed, and instead became rather jealous of the wine that slid between his lips.
The spoke in smiles and tiny gestures. Sara pushed some jasmine rice onto his plate, which he accepted, thanking her with warm eyes. It was odd how the silence, palpable between them was so inviting. Few words were spoken as they finished their meal.
He looked at her, her flesh the hue of the sky when it was gold, the setting sun teasing the horizon. It was her skin that made him fake a yawn.
She touched his arm, a gesture of... what? But then she walked to the door and shrugged on her coat without a word, struggled with a soft 'goodbye' and was gone.
He left the empty cartons cluttered on the table that evening, whether as a reminder of the evening or because he was too lazy... he chose not to address.