Bear Witness
Summary: A beleaguered fan fic writer is trapped in a story because no one will supply lines that can be used as a final chapter!
A/N: Yet another response to the Unbound Improv Challenge. First and last lines provided, with 1,000 words to fill in the middle. Thanks to Ann for looking this over.
Disclaimer: If I owned CSI, and I was doing this, then something is seriously wrong with me. (No comments from the peanut gallery! Hey, that sounds like an idea for another room …)

Chapter 9

"You should not believe in anything for which there is absolutely no evidence." Catherine punctuated her statement with by swinging her hair out of her face. Dropping another bug into a jar, she flashed her companion an irritated glare. "There's no way that can be true."

Warrick grinned in response, enjoying the open-mouthed stare she directed his way. It took a lot to shock her, and he relished that he managed it so well. "Hey, I'm telling you what I know."

"Grissom? At a fetish motel? No way."

"It's the only motel in that area."

"Well, he's not enjoying it!" she insisted, pausing as she cocked her head in thought. "Not unless there was a dead body or bugs there. Preferably both."

"Or Sara."

Catherine shuddered, and Warrick bit back his laughter as he lifted a beetle from their dead body. This was turning out to be more fun than he imagined, and the bugs had nothing to do with it.

"No way," she said, shaking her head for emphasis.

"You don't believe me?"

"No! There's no way. I'd believe Ecklie went to a place like that before I would Gil does. And I don't believe you'd catch Ecklie dead there. I know how to settle this," she muttered under her breath, pulling out her cell phone quickly. "Remember who you're talking about. Grissom having sex is like … I don't know what. Aliens, or something. There's a logical explanation. And with Sara? Sara?"

On the other end of the line, Sara closed her eyes. She'd done it again – she'd answered Grissom's phone by mistake. Of course, she'd been distracted by trying to get him out of his pants when she picked it up.

"Hey, Cath," she said, stopping her movements and looking up when he let out a long moan. Reaching over, she ran her hand soothingly over his arm.

"Sara?" Catherine repeated.

"I know who I am. You seem confused, though," she replied lightly, trying to ignore the incredulous stammer in her colleague's voice. It figured Grissom would be loud enough for Cath to hear.

"Grissom?"

"He's in bed," she answered with a belated wince.

"Grissom?"

"Sick. He's sick. Didn't Ecklie tell you?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

Sara pulled the phone away and stared at it for a minute. Letting out a sigh, she pointed at Grissom's still damp pants, and made a pantomime for him to take them off. For the first time, he registered that she was on his cell phone. He closed his eyes and rolled into the center of the bed with a load groan when she mouthed 'Catherine'.

"What did Warrick tell you?" Sara demanded, heading to the bathroom to retrieve a glass of water. Walking back to the bed, she tried to ignore what appeared to be a physically impossible sexual activity involving multiple teddy bears stenciled on the side of the glass.

"Nothing. Nothing. You'll be back in Vegas soon?"

"The latest word is the road should be opened in another hour or two. Figure a couple more hours for us to get through the traffic."

"Right. Right."

"You have any messages for Grissom?"

"No. No."

"Okay, then," Sara sighed. "Bye. Bye."

She put the cell phone back on the nightstand and sank onto the edge of the bed. Immediately, she slid into the center and bumped into Grissom. Sara rolled her eyes before scaling the mattress and sitting up. She shook her head in defeat; the whole lab was going to know what happened before they made it back to Vegas. The gesture was wasted, though. He'd yet to uncover his eyes.

"Grissom, get out of those pants. They're still damp. You'll make yourself sicker."

"I'm not sick."

"Right. You're practically green around the gill, Grissom"

On the bed, he lifted his head slowly, fixing her with an ill-tempered stare. He didn't maintain it long; she was too caring, and it was taking too much effort. Just when he thought his body had run out of things to do to embarrass him, it found an entire new avenue.

"It's not the cold," he said, frowning at the congested sound that came from his mouth.

"Yeah."

"No. Ropin' Rob's Raspberry Sauce needed a rancid in the title."

"Shit!"

"Tell me about it," he groaned into the pillow.

Sara quickly went back to the bathroom, this time returning with the trashcan. Grissom tried to wave away her hand from his forehead, but the mattress was too shaky, and the motion upset his stomach. Seasickness was the last thing he needed at this point.

"Let me check your fever," she said with a trace of impatience. "If you have food poisoning…"

"I don't. It's just not sitting well."

"Okay, I'm leaving this by your side," Sara told him, holding up the trashcan for good measure. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"I think there was ginger ale in the vending machines."

"I don't need anything," Grissom pouted, rolling over and moaning despite his best efforts. It was terrible. He managed to get Sara away from work, and despite their hideous surroundings, she was receptive to his advances. And after years of nothing more than occasional migraine, his body picked today to go into complete and total revolt. "Murphy was an optimist," he complained grouchily.

"No, you're bull-headed. And there's probably a room for that here, but I'm not going to look for it."

"I don't need you to take care of me," Grissom said between his groans.

"Fine. I bet I can find your 'Mom' back in the diner," Sara said. She did feel sorry for Grissom's illness, but his pouting wasn't attractive. That threat cut through his sour mood, and he eyed her fretfully.

"You need to keep up your liquids. I'm getting you some ginger ale. I want you," she added, pausing with a wink as she got off the bed, "to get well soon."

"I don't like ginger ale," he told her before she reached the door. "And no orange or cream sodas. I want a root beer."

Sara turned and smiled to see him sitting up in bed eagerly. Still, she wasn't going to let him walk over her. "I'll see what they have. I'm not really a waitress."