A/N Thanks for all your comments! I know this story has been coming along slowly due to real life constraints, but I am fully committed to completing it. I've become aware that Sophia is really spelled Sofia, but for this story, I'll be consistent with what I started with. Special thanks to Leslie, Ms. Grits and smryczko for their wonderful insight and suggestions!

Chapter 4 A Night at the Opera

Sara

Sara issued a sigh of relief as she easily pulled up the zipper of her burgundy evening gown. Although she'd purchased it back in San Francisco for some long forgotten departmental event, the lines of the dress were classic so it was more than suitable for the current occasion. She was surprised to discover that she'd lost some weight since then, the dress didn't fit as snugly as it once had. Yet as she examined her reflection in the mirror, it was still very flattering.

She wasn't accustomed to the plunging neckline, which exposed some of her cleavage. The top was fashioned like a halter; it fastened behind her neck, while completely exposing her shoulders and a large portion of her back. Wearing a bra was not an option and she felt deliciously decadent. Although the silky fabric hugged her curves, slits cut up to her thighs allowed her to move smoothly.

As she searched her jewelry box for the accessories she'd purchased for the outfit, she smiled. She could remember shopping with her girlfriend Lisa better than she could recall the actual formal event she'd attended. Lisa had insisted that she go all out and purchase the right jewelry and shoes to complement the dress, along with a matching evening bag.

Consider it an investment, she'd urged.

At the time, she'd been annoyed by her friend's persistence. She resented spending money on items that she'd rarely use. They'd even argued about it in one store. Now she was pleased that she'd finally broken down and heeded her friend's advice, for she was confident that she looked stunning in her fully coordinated ensemble.

The rhinestone necklace and matching dangling earrings glistened in the sunlight as she put them on.

Something that sparkles and captures the eye, Lisa's voice reminded her.

The sandals, adorned with matching rhinestones, lay on the floor. She'd wait before putting them on; she wasn't as comfortable with heels, they hurt her feet after a while.

Next she moved to the bathroom to apply make up. Sara scrutinized the face that stared back at her from the mirror. Noting the familiar dark smudges beneath her eyes, she tried applying a dab of foundation then blending it in. She hadn't slept well over the last few days, seemingly a fact of life for her. The last case she'd worked on had somehow insinuated itself within her subconscious. She was having trouble letting it go.

Mentally she continued to review each piece of evidence, as she tossed in her bed. But no matter how many times she attempted to re-interpret it, no matter how many questions she asked, her analysis always lead to the same conclusions. William Reynolds had killed his wife. They could prove that beyond a doubt.

Yet the ambiguity of the situation troubled her. Was Cheryl Reynolds's death accidental, taking place during a mutually agreed upon sexual activity? Or had she been the victim of depraved abuse, this event merely marking the culmination of years of torture?

Detective Larson considered the case to be closed after they interviewed the spouse. As far as he was concerned, they had an abundance of evidence along with a confession; the guy was definitely going to serve time, regardless of the finer details of the crime. Their job was done. Grissom, on the other hand, seemed to understand and possibly share her reservations. While Detective Larson was going through the motions at that point, Grissom was still actively investigating. However, eventually, even he felt as if they'd exhausted their options.

Grissom's invitation had taken her off guard. When she commented to him about Detective Larson asking her out, she was being sarcastic. Although she was flattered by the attention from the handsome detective and she hadn't discouraged him, she was rapidly becoming less and less impressed by his police work and his flippant attitude towards the end of the case.

That's not completely true. Be honest Sara.

She had no intention of dating Detective Larson; she wasn't interested in him. She wasn't proud of the fact that she'd wanted to prod Grissom, to throw it in his face so she could observe his reaction to the fact that another man was clearly interested in her, and remind him that she had other viable, even attractive, options. She wasn't a fool, she'd noticed Grissom frowning and fidgeting uncomfortably as the other man spoke with her over the past few weeks. She'd caught onto the underlying tension between those two. Although she had no desire to hurt him, she enjoyed feeling like she had some power over him for a change.

Breathe Sara.

Her heart was beating faster. She was rapidly moving from shaky ground to downright dangerous territory. Her hands began to tremble slightly as she arranged her hair in a classic chignon. She was trying very hard to remain calm, to be somewhat casual about the evening ahead of her. Although her pulse rate had skyrocketed when Grissom asked her out, she kept reminding herself that it didn't necessarily mean anything more than that. She needed to keep things in proper perspective.

But, her heart argued, things had been changing between them. Grissom had changed. He was no longer avoiding her; he'd even made an effort to talk with her more over the past weeks. He seemed to be opening up some, actually sharing details of his personal life. She could swear that his eyes searched for her at a scene, and that they lingered upon her, whenever she entered a room.

Normally these would be signs of a man's interest in developing a romantic relationship. However, the rational part of her mind reminded her that this was Grissom. With him, nothing was ever easy or straightforward or anywhere near normal. She couldn't allow herself to get too caught up in the moment, no matter how tempting it was; she might just be setting herself up to get hurt.

Her counselor had advised her that, given his intimacy issues and past behavior, she needed to hold back and let Grissom initiate, to allow him to set the pace for their association, regardless of her own feelings.

Don't do it. Don't go there. Do not think about those feelings now.

A real date seemed like a significant move, especially one that involved Grissom wearing a tuxedo. She could hardly wait to check him out.

Take that Sophia.

Stop it!

It was almost healthier for her to dwell upon the case.

Thankfully, the doorbell rang before she got herself more deeply enmeshed in the quagmire of her thoughts. She gave a fleeting glance towards the mirror. Satisfied with what she saw, she slipped on her sandals and answered the door.

Wow.

She hoped that she wasn't staring; he looked strikingly handsome in his tuxedo.

"Hi."

Grissom grinned with frank appreciation as he examined her outfit. "You look incredible."

"You're not so bad yourself." She reached for her bag. "So, what are we seeing?"

As they left her apartment and walked towards his Denali, he explained. "I was hoping to get tickets for Turandot since we've both seen it recently on PBS. Being familiar with the music and the plot line tends to enhance the experience. However, it's not in town anymore. So we're going to see a production of Madama Butterfly, which I hope you'll enjoy just as much. It's by the same composer, Puccini, but it has a less complex plotline. I read that the Broadway show Miss Saigon was loosely based on it."

"More to do with love?" Sara joked. Most of the operas she was familiar with had fairly dramatic story lines.

"It's practically the foundation for most operas, a primal force. Though most of them have a tendency to end tragically, rather than happily. It's more moving that way. Operas tend to driven by strong emotions, that's what makes the music so passionate and stirring."

Sara listened with interest as they drove. It was odd to hear Grissom using the words stirring and passionate to describe something. She wasn't an opera buff, but she appreciated many different types of music. She didn't limit herself to any particular genre.

In one of their recent conversations, it turned out that Grissom enjoyed opera. He recommended one that was being shown on television so she watched it. She didn't understand a lot of it, since the lyrics were in a foreign language, she could translate much better on paper than by ear; yet parts of it were appealing.

"The productions can be extremely elaborate, with ornate costumes, complicated sets, and lots of extras. It's a completely different experience than just listening to the music or watching it on TV. I hope you'll like it," he explained.

"So how did you get into opera? Did your parents like it?" She was curious, for she couldn't imagine her mother or father listening to it. It was definitely not their style; they'd never patronized the traditional arts, being counter culture rebels. She'd always envisioned Grissom as coming from a very cultured background, one quite unlike her own.

He paused before responding, seemingly considering something. "No, my dad left us before I turned five and my mother is deaf."

What?

Grissom had never publicly acknowledged his own hearing problem, nor had he ever confided in her about it. She'd noticed that he was struggling for a while, they all had. His music was turned up a little too loud, he'd frequently ask people to repeat themselves while intently watching their lips, or he wouldn't respond at all to comments made while his back was turned. Then it suddenly wasn't an issue anymore.

Now some of the pieces were coming together for her. Perhaps that accounted for why he knew sign language and why he seemed so comfortable with the administrator of the deaf school. And maybe since his mother was deaf, he'd felt as if his own situation was inevitable too. How ironic that Grissom had issues with his father as well.

While she was secretly thrilled by that admission, it also made her nervous. In her mind, she frantically searched for another topic of conversation, because she had no desire to talk about her own family. Just thinking about them made her uneasy. Lacking any other innovative ideas, she fell back on the familiar. Considering how long they'd been working together and how the case had haunted her, it was almost impossible not to.

"So you asked Brass about any other abuse reports from non-traditional sources?" Sara changed the subject.

"Yes Sara. If anything had come up, I would've told you," he assured her.

Her frustration, which was lying just below the surface, began to well up again. "I just don't get it. How can they cover up their lives so completely? Either way, either scenario, you'd think there would be some evidence to support one of them."

"People with secrets know how to hide them."

The enigmatic way he said that, made her wonder if he was hiding any secrets of his own. Or more likely, he was just being Grissom.

She continued, "We found videotape evidence that she entered those sex stores alone to purchase items, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it was her idea. She didn't look very comfortable. Her husband could've been waiting in the car, trying to protect his precious reputation. Maybe she was coerced. Did she really have a choice? But why wouldn't she tell anybody?"

Grissom replied more firmly, "Sara, it's private. She wouldn't want people to know about her sex life even if it was supposedly normal; it's no one else's business. Or in the other case, she might feel ashamed or trapped or afraid to tell anyone that she was being abused. I know this is upsetting to you but we've done all we can do."

She frowned.

"Um…since this is a date, can we…maybe…talk about non-work related topics?" he tentatively suggested.

Her face became flushed; she couldn't believe that he was the one to say that.

"Okay."

They managed to make casual small talk for the rest of the drive.

After they arrived at the theater and then located a place to park in the garage, they walked towards an elevator. Sara was amazed to discover how dressed up people were for the event. Of course, Vegas formal was always a little splashier, a little more garish, than the rest of the nation, with the possible exception of Hollywood, with more smatterings of sequins, feathers, rhinestones and exotic colors. As he pressed the button for the elevator, Grissom asked, with some hesitation, "Sara, since this is date, do you mind if we get something out of the way first?"

The elevator door slid open.

"Sure." She had no idea what he was talking about.

As they stepped into the elevator, rather than moving back as was customary to allow more people in, Grissom swiftly punched the close button on the door, shutting it before anyone in the garage could join them. Fortunately, no one else had been waiting with them, yet they could've held the door open for another couple that was walking towards them. Before Sara could comment about his unexpected rudeness, he pulled her close to him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her firmly.

The kiss was not tentative, nor was it invasive. She didn't have the feeling that he was trying to mark his territory, more likely he was making a statement that perhaps he finally knew what he wanted. Her heart pounded in her chest as she enthusiastically kissed him back, her tongue eagerly stroking his as her arms wrapped around his neck. As the initial shock wore off, her knees were practically buckling, she almost giggled. He was nervous too; she could taste the remnants of Scotch lingering on his breath. All too soon, the elevator doors opened and they broke apart.

He put his arm around her shoulder to steady her, and she gratefully accepted the support. She was feeling a bit lightheaded. Then he guided her to their seats.

As she smoothed her dress beneath her, to sit down, she turned to ask Grissom, "So what's this opera about?" She knew there were detailed notes in the program; she just wanted to hear it from him.

"In a nutshell, an American service man, Pinkerton, marries a young Japanese girl, Madame Butterfly, and sets her up in a house. But soon he returns to America and leaves her. Butterfly has his son, and she waits for his return. Three years later, he comes back with his American wife, only to take his son away from her. Butterfly is heartbroken and she kills herself."

"Sounds uplifting," she half-joked.

"There's some beautiful music in this opera. It's considered to be one of Puccini's most moving works," Grissom explained.

When the production started, Sara realized what a great idea this had been. The formal attire and atmosphere, along with his kiss, had clearly shown her that he meant business. Yet, being able to focus on the show would allow them to get used to being with each other under different circumstances, without the immediate necessity of hours of forced small talk. At their late supper, they could talk about the opera; that would ease the transition for them into more non-work related topics.

The house lights dimmed and the production commenced. Grissom's palm cautiously rested upon her thigh, and she allowed it to stay there, somewhat excited by the sensations coursing through her body.

I want him.

But she was getting way too far ahead of herself. Their relationship was only just beginning, and it was complicated. They both had significant baggage, their own issues that needed to be dealt with. She didn't know what Grissom wanted from a relationship, only that the tide seemed to changing her way.

Be careful. Let him make the first moves.

"What language is this?" she leaned against him to whisper into his ear. She fought her urge to stroke his bearded cheek. She almost laughed at herself, for making lame excuses to be closer to him, for she knew the answer to her question.

"Italian, it's the best for opera," his voice rumbled back.

Between the synopsis in the program, and the actions on stage, Sara was able to figure out what was happening in the story. Yet, Grissom continued to periodically murmur in her ear, telling her minor plot points or translating lyrics that he thought were especially beautiful or meaningful. She didn't mind. She enjoyed the rustle of his words in her ear, and even the prickle of his beard against her neck. It sent shivers up her spine.

All she'd have to do was turn her neck slightly, if she wanted to kiss him.

Where did that come from?

Public displays of affection certainly weren't her style. Like Grissom, she also greatly appreciated privacy. In fact, that was another reason why his kiss in the elevator had taken her off guard. She needed to be extremely cautious, since her body and her mind weren't in agreement about the agenda for the evening.

During the first act, Grissom leaned over to explain to her. "Here Pinkerton unknowingly realizes that he's going to destroy Butterfly in the end. Listen, this part translates:

Suddenly light as a feather she flutters,

And like a butterfly, hovers and settles,

With so much charm, such seductive graces,

That to run after her a wild wish seized me

Tho' in the quest her frail wings should be broken."

Sara found herself not liking the American soldier very much.

At the end of Act I, they wandered into the lobby for intermission. Grissom brought her a glass of white wine, which she sipped as they spoke.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I like it. You were right; the music is fantastic. I just find it a little disturbing that this sweet girl's hopes and dreams are going to be crushed. It's almost like she represents innocence which is eventually destroyed."

"I wouldn't say that Sara, lost is a better word. It essentially happens to us all at some point in our lives," he replied philosophically.

She disagreed, "I don't know about that. Where do you go after you commit suicide? She's the ideal victim, the destitute young girl exploited by the older more experienced man. Look at the image of the butterfly itself that he alludes to – beautiful, fragile and vulnerable, with a very short life span."

"That's true. But time isn't necessarily a reflection of quality," he pointed out.

"And is he saying that the idea of true love is completely naïve? That it's such a fantasy that only a fifteen year old girl like Butterfly could possibly believe in it?" This theme was a little close to home for her, yet she was enjoying their discussion.

"I don't think so," he grinned, seemingly pleased by her observations. "Remember Sara, the main point behind any tragedy is the cathartic experience. It takes you away from your own troubles when you carry the weight of some one else's problems for a while. The greater the tragedy, the greater the release."

"Kind of like roller coasters?" she grinned mischievously, her brown eyes sparkling. She'd forgotten about this aspect of Grissom. It'd been a long time since they'd delved into a non-case related discussion in such depth.

"You could say that."

She was thrilled by the fact that he was entirely focused upon her that evening.

The lights in the lobby began to flicker, indicating that intermission was over. Grissom placed his arm around the small of her back, to escort her back to their seats.

The second act was just as entertaining as the first. Grissom continued to whisper comments in her ear. And they were holding hands, their fingers intertwined. Still, Sara found her mind wandering, wondering if he would come up to her apartment after dinner tonight. She wanted him to. She was a little embarrassed that she was thinking this way; she wanted their relationship to be so much more than physical. But that was an important aspect of a relationship too. And this wasn't an ordinary first date, not in the least. This was a man whom she'd known and cared about for years. She forced herself to concentrate on the music and simply bask in the attention that he was lavishing on her.

Just as the climatic third act began, she felt her cell phone vibrating in her evening bag.

No.
It's not fair!

Apparently Grissom's had vibrated too. They exited as quietly as they could to answer their phones in the lobby. Dispatch calmly informed her that they had a quadruple homicide and that they needed all hands on deck. Her throat choked up, she wanted to rail that it wasn't fair. Of all the nights, why now? Why? But, it was the nature of the job. She dutifully noted the address.

After turning off her phone, she examined Grissom, who was still speaking on his.

"Can't you call Catherine?" He was annoyed.

Was he trying to get out of reporting at the scene? From the tidbits of his conversation she was over hearing, it sure sounded like he was.

"What about the dayshift supervisor?"

He was disappointed too. That restored some of her faith that he'd been enjoying the evening as much as she had. He abruptly shut his phone.

"It's okay," she assured him

"No, it's not," he replied bitterly.

"It's part of who we are." She wanted to thank him properly, to kiss him again, to officially end their date, but apparently the phone call had already done it for Grissom. His impassive mask rapidly replaced his anger. He was already slipping into work mode; his invisible barriers had shifted into place.

His withdrawal was so abrupt that she wondered if she'd done something wrong. She was fighting the impulse to ask him to continue their date another time. She didn't want it to be over.

Let him make the moves.

They walked to the elevator, though no longer as a couple. Grissom had physically and emotionally retreated. She found herself blinking back tears. It was over.

She had no hopes that he'd kiss her again in the elevator; he no longer seemed interested. Her supervisor had switched places with her attentive date. Yet, as they took the elevator to their floor in the parking garage, he asked.

"Could we try this again sometime?"

She smiled with relief, "I'd like that."

He removed his suit jacket to place it around her shoulders. "Here, take this. You'll be cold."

"No, I'm okay."

More firmly, he insisted, "Please. Take it." So she complied, putting her arms through the sleeves.

As they drove towards the crime scene, she began to mentally prepare herself to switch gears, so she could concentrate on her job. Perhaps that's what Grissom had already done.

Then it occurred to her that Grissom might have ulterior motives in offering her his jacket. Her co-workers couldn't help but notice how she was dressed. She could already hear Greg's comments. The jacket would partially obscure the view for him and other curious male staff members. But more importantly, it would indicate that she hadn't been alone.

TBC