Sara spent more than half an hour in the bath, savoring the feeling of being clean again. She couldn't believe she'd had to ask Grissom to take her clothes off. Was there anything she could have done that would have embarrassed both of them more? Probably not. With a sigh, she let the washcloth fall into the water with a plop and lay back in the tub, tipping her head so the water covered her hair, which still had a bit of shampoo in it.

While Sara was enjoying her bath, Grissom was laying on his bed - her bed, that he'd commandeered - and counting the number of cracks in the ceiling, busy trying to avoid wondering what the hell he was going to do when she called him back into the bathroom. It wasn't that he was afraid he'd completely lose control and ravish her; he was more concerned that his control would just slip a little and he'd touch her or say something. The last thing he needed when he was spending a week with her was to make things even more uncomfortable than they already were.

Sara flipped open the drain in the bathtub and sat there, feeling silly, as the water drained around her. She'd decided to give this a try herself first, rather than call Grissom in. She'd only call him if she really couldn't do it. That would be better for both of them.

When the tub was empty, she grabbed the towel from where Grissom had left it and managed to get herself mostly dry. Her skin was still a little damp, with a few wet spots she couldn't reach, but it was better than nothing, she decided. She dropped the towel onto the toilet seat and reached for the clothes he'd brought her, shaking out the raggedy old t-shirt with a smile. It was her favorite shirt to just lounge around in, and she supposed she'd be doing a lot of lounging this week. She pulled the t-shirt over her head and reached for the next piece of clothing, but her hand hit the cool porcelain, not cloth. Had Grissom brought her only a t-shirt? She thought back to when she'd asked him to get her clothes to change into...

Damn! She'd just asked him to bring her a nightshirt, and he'd taken her at her word and brought only the shirt. She groaned loudly, then stopped, realizing that he might be able to hear her. Taking stock of her situation, she noted that she was sitting, still wet, in a bathtub, wearing only a t-shirt that came down to mid-thigh. Now what the hell was she supposed to do?

Procrastinate! She was going to procrastinate, a lot. Leaning back in the tub - it was still wet, but it wasn't like she had many other options - she closed her eyes and tried to relax while searching her brain for a way out of this.

In the bedroom, Grissom looked at the bedside clock. Sara had been in the bathroom for more than an hour. Was that how long it took women to bathe? Should he be worried? If not now, when should be start being worried? He decided to give her ten more minutes, then check on her.

x

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Ten minutes later, he still hadn't heard anything from the bathroom. He stood up, steeled himself for the task ahead, then hesitated for a moment, hoping for a last-second reprieve and sighing heavily when there was none. He was going to have to bother her. She was probably just fine and she'd be annoyed that he barged in, but he had to check.

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door and listened for an answer, but none came. He tried again, this time saying, "Sara?" as he knocked. When she still didn't answer, he felt a trickle of fear start to seep through him. Had she passed out? Tried to stand up and fallen?

"Sara?" he said again as he turned the doorknob. "I'm coming in to check on you." He gave her another long moment to answer, then pushed the door open.

She had managed to pull on the t-shirt, he saw, and now she was lying in the empty bathtub with her eyes closed and her head leaning against the back wall. "Sara?" he whispered. Still no answer. He walked closer until he could stand at the edge of the tub and look down at her. She had fallen asleep, he realized. Not terribly surprising, given what had happened to her in the past few days. What was surprising was that she was wearing a t-shirt which didn't cover nearly enough for him to avoid noticing that she wasn't wearing anything else.

He forced his eyes away. What was he going to do now? Leave her, wet and half-clothed, sleeping in the hard bathtub? She'd be freezing when she woke up! "Sara?" he tried, one last time. She didn't move.

He could go get the wheelchair, he supposed, and lift her into it to roll her to the couch. Or he could indulge himself and try to carry her; with her as deeply asleep as she was, she'd never know if it turned out he couldn't do it.

When else would he get a chance to touch her with no possibility of looking stupid? he thought, kneeling by the tub. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity. Carefully, he slid his hands under her and, somewhat clumsily, managed to stand up with her in his arms. She wasn't as heavy as he'd feared, but she wasn't light enough that he could easily carry her as far as the couch, either. He stood for a moment, looking back and forth at his options: the couch, two rooms away and a small target to get her onto; or the bed, a mere fifteen feet away, with a much larger area for him to drop her on. The bed it was!

He walked slowly, half of his brain concentrating on keeping a good grip on her wet body and the other half concentrating on how good the same wet body felt against him. She was so soft, he thought. His arms were pulling the wet t-shirt tighter around her and her figure was clearly outlined, much to his guilty delight.

He reached the bed with little trouble, although sooner than he'd have liked. Struggling to keep his muscles under control as he bent over, he lowered her to the bed as gently as he could and removed his hands. He stood there for a moment, not sure what to do with himself, then drew the blanket over her and stepped back. At least she'd be warm now.

Picking up a crossword puzzle he'd started that morning, he turned the desk chair so it faced the bed, sat down, and started working.

x

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Sara slept quietly for almost an hour before she caught his attention with one of the squeaking noises he'd tried to describe to Brass earlier. The strident sigh she produced caught his attention and he looked up, over the top of his folded newspaper, and watched her, waiting to see if she would wake up.

She didn't open her eyes, only slumbered on for a few more minutes before moving again, her face contorted in pain even in her sleep. He observed two more cycles of this sleep-pain, feeling more and more uneasy, before he decided he couldn't watch it any more. He hated seeing her in pain; he had to do something.

Caught up in his concern for her, he didn't consider what future problems might be caused by his actions, just moved onto the bed and slid an arm under her neck, holding her head still. "Shh," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him, as he stroked her cheek. "It's ok." She moaned and twisted around again and, doing the only thing he could think of, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pinning her body to the mattress and forcing her to stop moving.

God, he thought as he looked down at her face, she's so beautiful. So fragile. He allowed himself to run his hand up her side, dragging the material of the t-shirt with it, and he couldn't help sneaking a glance at the body he'd uncovered. Beautiful, he thought again, pleased that she seemed be calmed by his touch. "Sara..." he breathed, laying his head on the pillow next to hers. As his eyes closed, he cupped her bare hip in his hand and added with almost no sound at all, "I wish I could touch you like this when you're awake."

x

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She awoke about two hours later to find herself held tight against another body. Her nightshirt was crumpled up around her waist and she was sweating from being pressed up against his hot skin for hours. How had she gotten from that nice, warm bath to being cuddled up to Grissom in her bed?

One of his hands was cupping her bare hip, holding her to him, while the other lay under her head, fingers splayed out as he slept. She thought about this. She was half naked and in bed with Grissom, who was fully clothed. He was touching her in places he'd never even seen on her before.

She jerked in surprise when his fingers began to knead at the skin of her hip. "Gris?" she said after a second. He didn't answer, just skimmed his hand across her belly. "Grissom!" she gasped, covering and stopping his hand with one of hers. "Wake up." She pushed his hand away, dropping it on top of his own hip.

Grissom grunted and opened his eyes. "Wha?"

"You were...touching me."

He blinked. "I was?" Oh no. This was what he'd been afraid of ever since those bricks fell on her!

"I mean, not that I really have anything against it," she continued, not pulling away, "but uh...somehow this doesn't seem like the time."

His mind had caught up with his hands now and, panicked, he scrambled away from her. "I'm sorry!" He looked at her, looked away, looked back and jerkily pulled her shirt down to cover her. "Sorry," he said again, then a second later as her words penetrated his panic, "You don't have anything against it?"

"Not necessarily," she said with a shrug. "But right now I'd really rather have drugs. My leg is killing me."