Hum, well, this one took a while. Sorry! But I started school, and am trying to get used to the new homework load (I mistakenly thought that junior year would be a little easier than sophomore). Honestly! What is the point of two hours worth of math homework?

Good news is, I'm taking Creative Writing, and although I don't care for the teacher, I'm definitely getting ideas for new CSI fics from some of the prompts in the textbook. Hey, maybe I'll even improve my writing style!

So. Remember last chapter-waaaaaaay back when-where Enza was leaving. Ha, I'll give points and a cookie to anyone who can identify where I got her surname from. I'll give you a hint: It's from a television show.

Umm, the Italian translations (which I forgot to put in my last author's note) are as follows: molto-very; bambini-children; si-yes; in bocco al lupo-good luck…and these are all gotten from an online translator, so if they are completely wrong, don't blame me. IT'S NOT MY FAULT, I SWEAR!

Onwards!

A week had passed since the first practice and the epiphany that followed, and Sara was still shaken by the very idea of being in love with Greg. Attraction she could deal with, but the soul-shattering, mind bending, emotional feelings she was experiencing were not just a case of simple lust.

However, she hadn't had much time to think about this dilemma in earnest because there was really no room in her brain right now for much besides work and the steps to that god-awful, way too confusing dance called the mambo. Honestly, it was a good thing that the person who invented it was probably dead; otherwise she would've shot them. And she was a CSI, she knew how to cover it up. Although with her luck, Sophia would end up solving the case and saving the day by finding that one tiny piece of physical evidence needed to get an arrest. Sara could imagine that scenario…

Wait. Better not to imagine it, and save herself the depression that would plague her the rest of the night.

Given different circumstances, she probably would have started avoiding Greg at all costs, but that was rather impossible when more often than not they were partnered up, and then they had to meet up to work on their routine. At least her car was out of the shop and she no longer depended on him for a ride.

Sighing as she entered the dance studio for one of their before-shift practice sessions, Sara flung the bag with her work clothes on one of the visiter lounge's chairs. She had taken to wearing athletic shorts over the leotard; she was less self-conscious that way. As it were, she still felt a little unsteady in the shoes, though they were definitely not as hard as she'd first projected they'd be.

Greg, as per usual, was already there. It was possibly one of the only things he was ever earlier than she was for. Of course, that had more to do with her trying to put off getting to the practices for as long as possible than anything. He grinned at her, and unwillingly she found herself smiling back. He had that effect on her, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not

"Sara! Ready for today's Lesson of Doom?" he greeted buoyantly. Sara groaned.

"Not even close. My feet are still screaming from last night's torture." His countenance immediately switched from bright to concerned.

"Do you want to hold off on tonight's session then? I mean, if you don't feel up to it…"

"No, I'll be fine," Sara insisted. "No pain, no gain, right?"

"Funny, my grade school gym teacher always said 'stop when it hurts'," Greg said wryly. "Although I think liability had more to do with that than actually worry for our health."

Then he clapped his hands, and smiled mischievously. "So. To spice up otherwise monotonous proceedings, I have devised a little game for tonight. You see, I've realized that in all of our work together, I know…" he thought a moment. "Next to nothing about you. I mean, I know your moods, and which ones to avoid, and to some extent I know what you like, but that's it. And the same goes for you with me. Tonight I shall remedy that." Sara sighed.

"Are you going to actually tell me what we're doing at some point, or not?"

"Impatient." He sent her an exaggerated glare. "I was just getting to that. The name of the game is this: you get a step right, I tell you something about myself; you get a step wrong, you share something about yourself. And since I know how much you like to keep your private life private…" his grin widened wickedly "…you'd better get all of the steps right."

"You're using the fact that I keep things close to heart for your own purposes of making me a better dancer?"

"Or trying to, anyways." Greg shrugged. "Whatever works. Ready?"

Mutinously muttering under her breath, Sara grabbed his hand and took the starting stance.

"Here we goooo…" sang Greg. The first step went off without a hitch; Sara smirked triupmphantly. The former lab tech appeared unfazed. He thought a moment.

"Let's see. Um…" He brightened. "Oh! I know." Dramatic pause. Sara was about to smack him. "I can swear in six different languages."

Sara was actually surprised.

"Really? Which ones?" she asked, curious.

"Weelll-English, obviously. Norwegian, because my grandparents made me speak it whenever I came over, and my grandfather had the mouth of a sailor. Chinese, because in San Francisco, where I grew up, me and my friends would always go down to Chinatown, and those immigrants were trash talkers if I ever heard any. Spanish, because California has so many Hispanics, and Italian, because of Tori. Lastly, French, because my high school required four language credits to graduate, and that's the one I chose." He stopped a minute, and snickered. "Of course, I had to do a little extra research for the French curses. They didn't teach us THOSE in school."

"I should hope not," Sara replied dryly. "Can we continue?"

"Your wish is my command." The next sequence was a little shakier; still, though barely, Sara made it through without messing up. "You're turn again," she said smugly.

"I went with a silly one last time; maybe I'll go for a serious one this time," he contemplated. "Er…" he blushed. "I really WAS a virgin until I was twenty-two." Sara's eyes widened.

"I was right! I was just joking when I told Mia that! You're not fooling around?" she exclaimed, trying to stifle her laughter. "You were still one for a year after you came to the lab!"

"It wasn't because I couldn't get any," he mumbled, "it's just that I kind of wanted to wait, y'know, for someone right…" his words became more and more incoherant as the sentence went on, and his look was akin to that of a kicked puppy. Sara instantly felt horrible.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh; I just didn't expect to be right. It was a funny coincidence. I actually think it's sweet that you waited that long," she admitted truthfully. "And I wish I had done the same." He brightened a bit.

"Ah ah, no sharing until you mess up," he warned.

"IF I mess up."

"Well that's a given." Sara swatted him.

"Shut up." For the next two steps, Sara's footwork prevailed and she learned that Greg's favorite color was purple mountains majesty ("The coolest named crayon in the box!") and that he'd played the drums in a band in college. ("At Stanford!" Sara had to exclaim. All she received was a shrug in return.). Alas, this streak was not to continue, and she fumbled over one foot in the next round.

"Damn!" she swore.

"Come on, Sara," Greg goaded. "It's not fair for you to be learning all these interesting facts about me, while I'm still in the dark about you." She sighed.

"Okay, okay." She thought a moment. "Alright. Don't laugh, but…" Deep breath. "I used to be in love with Grissom." A moment of silence.

"Well duh," Greg said blankly. "You call that sharing? Sara, I'm not supposed to already know what you tell me."

"What do you mean, already know?" Sara demanded indignantly.

"What I mean is that it would have been less obvious if you were to wear a sign stating 'I'm Head Over Heels For Gil Grissom'. Everyone in the lab and probably a few not in the lab could tell."

"You're not joking?" Sara whispered, mortified. "Everyone?" Greg immediately looked alarmed.

"You mean you didn't realize we all knew? Shit. We weren't making FUN of you," he reassured. "We just hoped you would realize you were fighting a losing battle before you got your heart smashed into pieces."

"A little late for that," Sara stated, a bit bitterly. There was a heavy, morose silence that lasted a few moments before she broke it. "Can we go on, please?" She flawlessly performed the following maneuver. Greg looked down solemnly at her.

"I think Grissom is a genius. I also think that Grissom is a complete, total and absolute moron for not realizing what he had and hanging on to it with all of his might."

Sara absolutely melted; as a result, she tripped over her next step.

"I was in love with Grissom," she repeated softly.

"You used that one already."

"You didn't let me finish," she corrected gently. "I was in love with Grissom. I'm not anymore." She glanced up, holding Greg's gaze steadily, and his brown eyes darkened with some unidentifiable emotion. Without even realizing it, they were inching closer; leaning forward into each other. Sara's whole being buzzed with anticipation, her lips tingled as his face came nearer and nearer.

They were so achingly close; there was a hairs breadth distance and then…

BANG!

They jumped apart faster than you could say 'Speedy Gonzalez' (which, for a word, takes a little longer to say than others, so perhaps that's not the best example). Disappointed and oddly hollow, Sara followed Greg's stare to the door of the studio, where Enza passed by, apparently upset.

Sara certainly hoped so; at that exact moment, she LOATHED the Italian woman.

"Tori?" Greg called, heading for the hallway. "What are you doing back so early? You were supposed to be there for two more weeks." Enza popped back in, looking disheveled and puffy eyed. "Oh," he said forebodingly. "Things didn't go as expected, did they?"

"No," Enza said in a strangled sort of voice. "Things went exactly as expected. They just didn't go as planned." She sniffed, apparently holding back tears, and Sara suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable. She checked her watch.

"Greg," she said quietly, feeling like an intruder, "there's not much time before shift. We need to go."

"You go," he said distractedly, eyes still fixed on Enza. "I'll follow. Could you tell Griss that I'll probably be a little late?"

"Sure thing." As she passed by, he gave her arm a squeeze and smiled with gratitude at her. Sara couldn't help but be warmed by the slight gesture, and she went on her way. Glancing back, she was just in time to see him put his arm around his friend, and the warm feeling was replace by void.

As she got in her car, she wondered why she had such rotten luck in choosing the men she loved.

Woo, I'm not dead! And I got this chapter out semi-before my deadline! It wasn't as funny as previous chapters, I'm afraid, and as I'm writing this at ten to one in the morning, it might not be as good, either. But it had an almost kiss!

Hopefully next chapter will be quicker in coming. Until then, adieu, mes amis!