Bear Witness
Summary: What would Grissom's mother think of this?
A/N: Yet another chapter using the Improv Challenge lines. First and last lines provided. G/S. Thanks to Burked and Ann for beta services.
Disclaimer: I don't have one.
Chapter 8
It was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Over the years, Grissom had sat across from some of the toughest criminals, the most dangerous minds in Vegas, but no one made him as uncomfortable as the woman now across the table from him. By nature a private man, the series of unfortunate events that highlighted the past several hours were bad enough, but this simple meal was proving to be the most difficult thing.
And she had The Glare.
Sara noticed his discomfort and tilted her head to give him a quizzical look. Grissom gave her a small smile in return, then resisted the urge to square his shoulders. The disapproving look did not go away, and the memories of his mother finding his magazine stash when he was a teenager floated to his mind.
"Do you have ants in your pants, boy? Stop squirming!"
"Yes, ma'am," Grissom said, his voice automatically taking a mild tone.
Sara, now completely confused, turned her head to him, her eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. Grissom tried to ignore her, uncertain how to explain his unease. It was embarrassing enough that his attempt to spend some time outside of the lab with her turned into a meteorological disaster cum assault by sexual teddy bears. Or that he was sitting next to her in waterlogged jeans, and his body picked this time to succumb to a virulent cold.
No, to top it off, they were now facing the last person he wanted to run into in this situation.
He and Sara had made their way to the diner to grab something to eat, but the place was filled with travelers lucky enough not to get a room at the motel. In the end, they had to share a table with an elderly couple. While he understood they wouldn't be able to share their meal alone, it was who they ended up sitting with that was causing his problems.
The woman bore an ungodly resemblance to Grissom's mother. Everything from her build, to the way her eyes lit up when she was displeased. Except this woman could hear. And to the best of his knowledge, his mother had never worn clothing made from yarn and empty beer cans. Still, it was spooky, complete to her patented, can-make-her-son-squirm glare. He hadn't seen a look that severe since the time he used her best dishes during a seagull autopsy.
When the waitress brought their menus, Grissom gladly hid behind one. His relief was short-lived; the diner and the motel had to be connected.
"What kind of menu is this?" his pseudo-mother's companion asked. "Monkey Business Sandwich?"
"That's peanut butter and bananas. You don't like that. Ursula's Honey Glazed Chicken sounds okay," she replied. Hearing Sara's snort, The Glare was directed at her. "What?"
"Nothing," Sara said, grinning as she ran over the rest of the menu. "They have Quacks A L'orange."
"I noticed," Grissom said, his blush threatening to raise his body temperature even further. He kept reminding himself that the woman opposite of him wasn't his mother, and he didn't have to explain how he ended up in a sexual retreat with a woman considerably younger than himself. Despite his growing embarrassment, his attention did go to one item.
"What did you find?" Sara asked, a cautionary tone in her own voice.
"Cowboy Charlie's Chocolate Cake, served with Ropin' Rob's Raspberry Sauce."
"You cannot be interested in that," Sara said, dropping her menu to fix him with her own version of The Glare. The double-ogled assault was especially disturbing.
"I like cowboys," he offered weakly.
"Yee-ha," Sara muttered under her breath, frowning as she continued to read. "Prurient Pansy's Perky Pancakes?"
"I wonder what makes them perky," pseudo-mother's companion asked.
"What's prurient?"
"You don't want to know," Grissom and Sara answered in unison.
"I don't like this place," pseudo-mother announced once their orders had been placed. "They wouldn't rent us a room. It's age discrimination."
"The rooms are a bit …" Sara began to explain. She stopped, frowning deeply at Grissom's mildly panicked expression, and his frantic attempts to shake his head without making any motions. "It's not a great place to stay."
"What's wrong with them?"
"They're dirty," Grissom offered, turning to give Sara a look that indicated he didn't want any further discussion.
Much to his relief, the meal concluded without his mother's doppelganger wanting to know details of their relationship, although he noted she stared at their bare ring fingers pointedly. On multiple occasions.
Paying for their meal, Grissom slid out of the booth with a loud squishy sound, and quickly escorted Sara from the room.
"Do I want to know?" was all she asked as they made their way to the lobby.
"Would you believe me if I said that could have been my mother?"
"No way!"
"Except she doesn't take recycling to that extreme," Grissom noted, smiling at her lightly. "This is not a place I wanted to meet my mother."
"Especially with a woman of ill-repute," Sara teased.
"I thought I was the ill one."
"Oh, no. You are sick. Don't even go looking for that cowboy room."
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"That had better be the fever talking, or I am so out of here," Sara stated, only half-jokingly.
"Sorry. I'm still a bit on edge from that encounter," he replied with an abashed shrug.
"I can understand that. She really gave you some looks."
"They even made me remember the time Mom found the stack of magazines under my mattress when I was thirteen," he said, glad to see Sara's broad smile. "It took me forever to convince her I wasn't going to order all that morgue equipment."
"You had morgue supply catalogues? As a kid?"
"Yeah. I knew what I wanted to do. Why wouldn't I?"
"Most guys that age would have had other magazines hidden from their mothers."
If Grissom had thought that his blushes had reached their full potential earlier, he was wrong. How had they ended up discussing that? It wasn't a subject he wanted to discuss with Sara. In reality, that was one reading material he didn't have to hide. He just kept copies of certain art gallery listings. His mother never suspected why he had those.
He hoped.
In retrospect, hadn't she smiled in relief whenever he asked to keep a copy?
"You okay?"
Grissom realized he'd stopped suddenly and his jaw had dropped open. He nodded, then thought to close his mouth.
"Just remembering something from my childhood."
Sara reached back and linked her arm through his before giving him a salacious wink. "Teenage wasteland," she grinned.