A Renaissance Affair
By Chicklit
Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.
Disclaimers: The usual. Still don't own these characters. Wish I did.
Notes: Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I'm glad you are enjoying my tale!
Chapter 5
Unsteady legs carry me to my car. I grip the crate like a lifeline, as if its solid presence can keep me sane in the wake of Grissom's sensory onslaught. Sometimes I hate the effect he has on me. I hate the power that it implies. And yet, there is nothing in the world that makes me feel more alive.
There's a distinct sense of déjà vu when I enter the break room several minutes later. Greg is standing before the coffee maker, mesmerized by its brewing capabilities. The aroma of high-grade caffeine fills the air.
"Do something to annoy Grissom again?" I ask sweetly.
He laughs. "Not yet. But I've learned that it's best to be prepared." He turns and gives me a suspicious, knowing look. "So, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, this and that."
"Sara." Greg shakes his head back and forth, obviously dissatisfied with my response. "I am a trained investigator, as I hope by now you are well aware. I clearly recall an invitation from Grissom this morning. Don't you have something to report?"
Suddenly, I too am mesmerized by the brewing capabilities of our coffee machine.
I'm too raw from the session in Grissom's office to have this discussion with Greg. I don't want to be at work. I want to be at home, sitting in the dark, savoring my memory of the untamed heat in Grissom's gaze. I want to bask in that look and the accompanying knowledge that I haven't imagined his feelings for me. If I was stranded on a deserted island with no food I could feast on the words 'I'm trying' for days.
"I saw you two in his office."
Oh…. Crap.
What must we have looked like? I know what we felt like, and it certainly wasn't professional. I can still feel his solid warmth pressed against my side. If this gets out Grissom will never come near me again. Crap!
Greg answers my unspoken question. "Don't worry. No one else did."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. You were way in the far corner, I had to crane my neck to see you."
"You were spying on us?"
"Of course." He's completely unapologetic. "If I'm going to play Cupid, I have to know the score. So… Did you?"
"Did I what?"
He gives me an exasperated look. "Score."
I'm trying really hard not to whack him on the arm again. He's just begging for it. But I know that deep down his heart is in the right place so I offer up a secret smile instead. "In a manner of speaking."
"Oh, this I have to hear." He grabs me by the arm and propels me away from the door. "Spill it."
"There's nothing to spill. You saw all there was to see."
"Perhaps. But I missed the soundtrack."
"He brought me some old art books. We paged through them. End of story. Can we please move on?"
"Really? I'm not so sure. I might need a second opinion from Nick."
"You wouldn't!"
"I would."
Twerp. I really should not be having this conversation with him, but at the same time I can't help myself. I need the validation. "Okay, since you claim to be an interpreter of this mysterious male code that I supposedly know nothing about, riddle me this. Hypothetically speaking, if a man tells a woman that he's 'trying,' what does that mean exactly?"
"Hypothetically speaking?" Greg crosses his arms and ponders me like a piece of puzzling evidence. "Trying or trying?"
"Trying."
He grins an evil grin. "You go, girl."
In a rare karmic event, Sofia waltzes in at the exact moment Greg opens his mouth to ask more questions. Oblivious to the topic of our conversation, she offers a friendly "hello" and makes a beeline for fresh java. For once I'm actually glad to see her and the buffer that she represents.
Greg is jonesing for more information. His eyes shoot daggers at me from behind Sofia's back, but I merely smile serenely and take a seat at the table. I scan the newspaper and resolutely refuse to acknowledge his existence.
We're all sitting down by the time Grissom wanders in with our assignments. He seems completely distracted and for a moment I'm unable to breathe. Years of uncertainty and rejection well up, making me wonder if he regrets his earlier revelation. I can't take another rendition of 'one step forward, two steps back.' I simply can't.
Then he looks at me. Straight at me. And he smiles the most beautiful smile. "Sara, you're with me."
-------
Grissom and I fall easily into our professional rhythm and the drive to the scene is comfortably silent. He loads a CD into the stereo while I sit back and watch the kaleidoscope of neon signs unfolding outside. Madame Butterfly isn't really the music that I would choose for Vegas at night, but somehow with Grissom it seems to work. As the lilting sounds of an aria fill the car I feel like we've been transported to another world.
We meet Brass in a filthy alley just off the Strip. He's flipping through his note pad and wearing a dark scowl. "Hey," he grunts, then returns to his notes.
"Evening," I reply back. "What have we got?"
"See for yourself."
We follow him to the scene and it takes us about two seconds to recognize a gang fight gone bad. There are multiple bodies, multiple semi-automatic weapons and enough shell casings to keep the ballistics department employed for a month. In the distance I can see a cluster of eyewitnesses sequestered behind yellow crime scene tape. Any hope I may have harbored for a leisurely evening spent continuing my earlier conversation with Grissom is immediately dashed.
I grab my camera and state the obvious. "This is going to take some time."
Grissom sighs heavily, pulls out his cell phone and calls in the rest of the team.
We end up working a double. Close to a triple, actually. There aren't enough weapons on site to account for all of the bullets, so the team spends hours upon hours combing nearby alleys for discards. I take perverse pleasure in the fact that Grissom puts me on primary and makes Sofia and Greg sweep all of the dumpsters. I once heard that Las Vegas produces more garbage per capita than any city in the world. I don't know if that's true, but tonight it sure feels like it. By the time Greg gets back to the principal scene he smells like a rotting bordello.
He gives me a sour look. "Did you put Grissom up to this?"
"Up to what?"
He doesn't even bother to reply. He just wanders off, grumbling about what a lousy ingrate I am.
Our frustration with the scene is compounded by the fact that the eyewitnesses are a complete nightmare and seem to be making up contradictory stories on the spot. Brass is so annoyed he's practically twitching and I don't envy him the job of trying to sort out the truth from the lies. At one point he walks by me and rolls his eyes dramatically. I give him a sympathetic shrug. The evidence will have to speak for itself on this one -- assuming we are able to find it in all of the trash.
I'm functioning on pure adrenaline by the time we get back to the Lab. I haven't slept in days, I'm punchy and my blood sugar is so low I think my vision is fraying at the edges. When I reach down to handle a key piece of evidence and realize at the last second that I don't have gloves on, I know it's time to go home.
Yes, contrary to what the rest of the team thinks, I do occasionally stop.
As I walk out of the locker room I run into Grissom and we automatically adjust our strides to match. "Heading home?" he asks as we walk down the main hallway. He's using his supervisor voice and from the tone I can tell he thinks I should have left hours ago.
Last year I'd have gone on the offensive and pointed out that since he's still here I have every right to be. Today, however, I tell him the truth. He's earned it. "Yeah, I'm beat."
He does a double take, shocked that I've actually admitted to being tired.
"Since I had class I didn't get much sleep before shift, so I've basically been up for two days straight."
"Are you okay to drive? Do you need a ride home?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Are you sure?"
"Grissom, I'm fine. Really."
He gives me the once-over and seems to accept that I'm capable of getting home under my own power. At the same time, he insists on walking me to my car. The implications of this behavior are causing my stomach to do somersaults. I can't help but notice that he's really cute when he gets protective.
There's a moment of awkwardness when we reach our destination and he spots the crate of books in my back seat. He stares at them, perplexed, as if he's completely forgotten about the interlude in his office. Or thought he imagined it.
"Thank you again for the books." I give him a small smile and pray that it doesn't look too sappy or eager. "It's nice to know you're still interested."
Oh no. I did not just say that! No. No. NO. That's got to be the worst double entendre in the history of double entendres. What must he think?
There's an answering gleam in his eye and I just want to die.
"Um, well, when I say 'still interested' you know, I mean, in the Renaissance. Interested in art. You know, painting. Architecture. Pasta!" Oh God, I'm overtalking again. I've got verbal diarrhea and there's not enough Immodium on the planet to save me.
He's just standing there, dumbstruck. I can't even look at him. I turn, open my door and hop inside with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances. Thankfully my car starts quickly and I suppress the desire to rev my engine and tear out of the parking lot at warp speed. Only after I shift into reverse do I realize that Grissom hasn't left. He's still standing there. Now, however, he's patiently tapping on my window.
Go away. Please, go away. I'm so tired. I want to go home and sleep and pretend I've just hallucinated the last five minutes of my life. Today was going so incredibly well. If I open my mouth again I'm going to have to take a leave of absence to repair the damage.
He's not going away. The knocking is becoming more persistent.
I want to weep with frustration. Instead, I take a deep breath, roll down the window and look up. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can start pretending it never happened.
I bite the inside of my lip. I will not overtalk.
He wants to laugh at me but he's too much of a gentleman to do it to my face. Beneath his obvious amusement there is a symphony of emotions swirling in his eyes. Sympathy, uncertainty, and a hint of something else. Something fiercely possessive.
"I am still interested," is his cryptic reply.
I don't trust myself to respond appropriately so I just bite my lip harder.
"Perhaps after you've had a chance to read through the books, you'd like get to together over breakfast to discuss them in more detail?"
Whoa. That was smooth. I know I'm sleep deprived, but that sounded suspiciously like a date. Or, a dry run for a date, since it's just breakfast. Then again, he has meals with Sofia and those aren't dates. Are they? No. He doesn't bring art books to Sofia. And he certainly doesn't snuggle on his couch with Sofia. Does he? I'll kill him if he does. Wait. Did I just say all of that out loud? No. I have got to get some sleep.
"Sara?" He's standing there looking like he regrets having opened his mouth.
I will not overtalk. I formulate a response that is mature, professional and succinct. "Thank you. I would like that very much."
"Good." He smiles and steps away from my car. "Sleep well."
Yeah, like that's going to happen now. I still don't trust myself to speak coherently so I give him a wave and pull out of my parking spot. As I drive away I see him still standing there, staring after me with a satisfied grin.
Back in my apartment I drop into bed like a ton of bricks. My last coherent thought is that I am going to read Grissom's books cover to cover and memorize every single word. I have a Harvard degree and I am going to use it. Our breakfast will last for hours.