A Renaissance Affair
By Chicklit
Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.
Disclaimers: The usual. Don't own these characters. Wish I did.
Notes: Angst. What angst? I'm having too much fun to write angst.
Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, and to Laredo Grissom for the shout out on YTDAW. I am honored!
Chapter 4
It's late Tuesday afternoon. I haven't had much sleep, barely managing to carve out a quick nap on my couch. I'm running late and I rush to meet Mike for dinner at Backdoor Café, a quaint eatery on campus.
I think that there must be a law out there somewhere stating that in order to become an accredited college or university, an institution must first open a quasi restaurant/bookstore that offers obscure literature, exceptional food and a walled patio with lots of plants and flowers. The UNLV version of this hallowed place is Backdoor Café. You can order a latte and browse aimlessly, wandering between cherry-stained shelves to discover new authors, old authors and an array of artfully arranged gift items. Their baked goods are out of this world.
I meander quickly through the store, purposefully ignoring the jewelry section, and head outside to the rear patio. Mike is already there, sitting at a small table underneath a large overhanging tree. He's got a glass of iced tea and it looks like he set up camp a while ago.
"Sara!" He smiles and waves to me from across the way. When I reach the table he stands up, gives me a strong hug and pulls out a chair. "Here, have a seat."
"Thanks." I can't believe I've known this guy for a week and he's hugging me. Even more bizarre, it feels totally normal to let him do it. It's like hanging out with an older, metrosexual version of Nick.
After we place our food orders he's all eager to hear about my week. Like most 'civilians' he finds the idea of forensics fascinating so I fill him in on the cases I closed and avoid the high profile ones currently under investigation. He respects that I can't talk about most of it and eventually we migrate to other topics.
"Now that we've covered my work week, what have you been up to?" I ask between bites of spinach salad.
Mike shrugs. "Not much."
"Come on. You must've done something. How was your weekend?"
He's chewing his garden burger and can't respond. I take a long look and realize that he seems a bit off.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Not really." Mike drops what's left of his burger on his plate and starts in on his sweet-potato home fries. He's stabbing them violently in ranch dressing, then swallowing them whole. "I miss Caroline."
Okay. My new non-work buddy has invited me to dinner to lament his long-distance girlfriend. This is not good. My plan to get a life outside work is evaporating rapidly.
"Hey!" He points a fry in my direction and waves it in a threatening fashion. "Don't give me that look. I promise I'm not psycho."
"You'd be amazed how often I hear that in my line of work."
Mike just stares at me, then throws his head back and laughs out loud. "Thanks. I needed that."
"Obviously."
"No, really. Thanks. You don't know me well enough for me to be going on about my girlfriend… It was an inappropriate comment and I apologize."
Is he for real? "Mike… last time we met I insulted the wardrobe and tobacco preferences of your entire profession. I think we're even." Clearly, the guy needs to talk, and for some reason I'm actually in the mood to listen. "So, I take it you're not used to being apart?"
"Not lately."
"How long have you been together?"
"Dating?" He scrunches his eyes in thought. "Nine months? We've been friends for years, though."
That's an interesting tidbit that I file away for future reference. I'll have to ask him sometime about the transition from one to the other.
"We each travel for work a fair amount," he continues. "But that's different than actually living in another city."
We've hit the part of the conversation where we're supposed to share war stories, but the reality is that I've never dated anyone long distance so I have no stories to tell. What's wrong with me? Everyone else seems to be able to have long-term, long-distance affairs. Why can't I?
Then again, I think of Grissom and our pseudo relationship. We were long distance for several years in our own dysfunctional way. Phone calls, e:mails, the occasional forensics article in the mail. I planned my existence around the date of his next seminar. The mere suggestion of him made it impossible for me to date anyone seriously in San Francisco, let alone the rest of the country.
"It's hard," I agree, thinking of the nights I would sit at home reading Grissom's entomology articles, imagining his voice in my mind, "but at least the end is in sight. You know when the semester is over."
"True." He nods, considering.
"She can come visit you, you can go visit her."
"Also true."
Feeling cheeky, I decide to have a little fun. "If you miss her so much, why don't you ask her to marry you?"
There's that smile again. He's got a shit-eating grin that puts Dennis Quaid to shame. "I knew I liked you."
Now I'm confused.
"I just love scientists," he explains. "You're so practical. You don't get trapped in life's psychological BS. You evaluate the situation and drive straight to a solution." He takes a sip of his drink and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "I was having the exact same conversation with one of my colleagues earlier. I explained how I was missing Caroline and that the emotion was really foreign. And so my friend wants me to explore my feelings. Blah blah blah. I had to invent a student appointment just to escape."
"You're not answering my question." I grin. Ribbing someone else about their love life is so much fun I'm beginning to see why Greg likes to interfere in mine so much.
He raises an eyebrow. "If you must know, I spent my weekend looking at engagement rings."
"Congratulations!" I raise my glass and salute him. It's soda, but who cares.
"Thanks. I didn't see what I wanted, but I met a designer who'll do the ring from scratch so now I just need to wait for her to finish and then I can pop the question."
"She's a lucky woman." And I do mean that sincerely.
From there we move on to a variety of topics, and finally get to the point of the dinner – a quick summary of the semester-to-date. We're already three weeks in so I have some catching up to do. I recall quite a bit from the college, though, so I feel armed by the time we get to class. I take a seat in the back, prop up my feet and watch the Professor go to work.
Mike is even more engaging in class than he was at the alumni lecture. This is clearly a man who loves his job, and his passion is infectious. It's pretty easy to fall asleep while sitting in a dark room watching slides roll by, but the students are engaged and continue to pepper him with surprisingly cogent questions.
I stare at the paintings and I realize how much I miss college. I miss the joy of discovery and the fearless quest for information. Professors made me feel like no question was too stupid to be asked, no hypothesis too ridiculous to be suggested, because you never knew where the next big idea was going to come from. By the time I got to grad school education had become political and mired in bureaucracy. Professors were too busy publishing to care about educating. And my fellow students weren't my friends. They were the competition.
The only exception was Grissom. Sitting at one of his graduate seminars was like being in college again. He loved his material and it became impossible not to love him in return because of it. Sitting there, watching him wax poetic on the subject of larvae, I would have followed him anywhere.
Come to think of it…. I did.
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Class wraps up at 10:00pm which gives me plenty of time to see Grissom before shift starts at midnight. As I drive to the Lab I realize that I haven't thought about an active case in over three hours. Nor have I thought about any inactive, unsolved cases, which is even better. There really is something to be said for having a life outside of work.
Although, my life inside of work seems to be looking quite promising lately.
The mystery behind Grissom's summons is killing me. I furiously park my car and breeze in the front door, walking purposefully toward the back the building. Nick and Warrick are in the hall, deep in conversation.
"Hey, girl," Warrick turns and gives me an easy grin. "What are you doing here so early?"
"Slumming."
Nick guffaws and gives me a high five.
"Later," I crack as I saunter away toward Grissom's office. I hear them laughing behind me and I realize how much I miss interacting with them on a daily basis. We had such a great team. Such a great team.
Ecklie is a mewling little toady and I really hope he gets what's coming to him someday. The sooner the better.
Visions of Ecklie in a wide variety of embarrassing situations distract me momentarily and the next thing I know I'm at Grissom's door. He's got the top off his tarantula's cage and he's leaning so far over his face is practically inside the tank. His lips are moving but I can't hear a thing.
"Hey," I greet softly.
His head pops up and he gives me a small smile. "Hello, Sara."
"You have something for me?"
"Yes, I do." He quickly puts the lid back on the spider's cage. "Here. Have a seat." He doesn't indicate the chair that I usually occupy. Rather, he directs me to the small sofa in the far corner.
I plop down and watch Grissom with interest. He's now walking toward me holding a small red milk crate, the kind that you use to store hanging file folders. He sits down on the couch and we're so close that our thighs are touching. The muscle of his leg is solid against mine and I savor its warmth. I should move away but I don't.
"These are for you," he sets the box on the ground between us and turns to me with a bashful expression. "I thought you might find them interesting."
Intrigued, I lean over and look inside. The box is filled with art books. Large, small, thick, thin. The only thing they have in common is that they all pertain to the Italian Renaissance. I'm at a loss for words so I pick up the volume closest to me and take a look. It's simply titled Italian Renaissance Art. I flip it open and find "Gil Grissom" printed in neat block letters on the inside front cover. My fingers trace the lettering reverently and I lift my eyes to his.
He's watching me expectantly, his expression both curious and hopeful. "This one is a pretty basic history," he explains. "It'll provide a solid background for your class. Now this…" He leans over and hands me another book. "This is fascinating."
It's an old, heavy cloth-bound tome that's seen better days. The text is all in Italian and the publication date is 1972. I flip through the pages and find plate after plate of photographs from the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The frescoes are muted and dingy with age but the level of skill is as breathtaking as I remember from college.
"Now, try this." He hands me a second, newer book.
It's the Sistine Chapel again, only this time the frescoes are alive with color. They are so clean, so clear, so pastel, that they are almost unrecognizable from the images in the first book.
Our eyes meet again, and we smile at our discovery.
I can't restrain my astonishment. "Obviously, I knew about the restoration. I remember the spread in Life magazine. But it happened right around the time I started college so none of our class slides were updated. It was too new. To think that this was there the entire time, lurking beneath the surface… It's just amazing."
His hand brushes against mine as he turns the page and murmurs, "It makes you wonder what else is out there waiting to be discovered."
I shiver at his touch, I can't help it.
There's something so intimate about sitting here with Grissom in his dimly lit office pouring through the books of his youth. I forget sometimes that teaching is his preferred mode of communication, the one that puts him completely at ease. Determined to relish the moment, I lean back and let the gentle cadence of his words flow through me. Soon he is leaning back, too, and we are fused from shoulder to knee.
Grissom is a fan of the Venetians, and he eagerly pages through plates of Titian and Tintoretto. I listen to his enthusiastic words but mostly I watch the way his strong hands caress the contours of each portrait. He talks of chiaroscuro and all I can think about is what it would feel like to have those capable fingers trace me. I want to be that woman in the portrait, with her lustrous hair and worldly eyes. I want to be the one that captivates him so completely.
I honestly don't know how long we sit there. At some point my head gravitates to his shoulder and he puts his arm around me like it's the most natural thing in the world. We talk of Renaissance art theory and favorite paintings. Favorite museums.
"The Uffizi," Grissom pronounces definitively.
I sigh. "Can't say, I've never been to Florence." I feel him looking at me, but I'm not about to take my head off his warm shoulder to meet his questioning gaze. I don't think I've ever been this comfortable. "Actually, I've never been to Europe."
Silence stretches between us and now his thumb is tracing absent patterns on my arm. "You should go," he softly replies. "You'd like it there." Then he chuckles and gives me a squeeze. "Italy has lots of vegetarian food. Pasta."
I laugh and finally raise my eyes to his fathomless gaze. I was going to make a witty comeback, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. His eyes are the most incredible shade of cornflower blue.
Suddenly, there's a loud crash from the hallway outside. I hear Bobbie swearing and Archie apologizing profusely.
Grissom and I separate like guilty schoolchildren. We've done nothing wrong and yet it distinctly feels as though we have. I don't think I'm alone in the knowledge that somehow we've just crossed a line.
Taking a deep breath, Grissom leans over and puts all of the books back in the crate. Once everything is in place he slides it over to me. "Anyway. I… Um… I… hope you enjoy them."
I'm charmed by the fact that he can't seem to look me in the eye. "I'm sure I will." My hand closes over his. "Thank you."
Another deep breath. "You're welcome." Then he stands up and walks to his desk where a pile of manila folders awaits his attention.
A quick inspection of my watch reveals that shift is scheduled to start in just a few minutes, which means Grissom and I have been pouring over art books for over an hour. I scoop up the crate and clutch it to my chest. "I'm going to go put these in my car. Back in a sec."
"Okay."
I turn and start to walk away. After a few steps I pause and look back at Grissom. I can't say why, I just follow the compulsion. It's like a biological imperative.
He's still seated at his desk, but he's not doing paperwork. He's staring at me with an expression that I've never seen before. It's possessive, almost feral. His eyes, full of dark knowledge, bore into mine.
The hairs on the back of my neck ripple to attention.
"Sara. I…," He blinks and looks down, then turns the full force of his gaze on me. "I'm trying."
I smile and clutch his gift even more tightly against my chest. "I know."
TBD…