There was a long moment of silence, while Grissom processed that statement, before he stood up and gave her a small, relieved smile. "I can handle pain. Here's what we're going to do..."

Surprised by his sudden about-face, Sara just cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

"...I'm going to help you out to the couch, where you will lounge comfortably while I cook you something resembling breakfast. After I've done that, you will take a Vicodin-"

"Grissom..."

"You will take a Vicodin," he repeated. "And then you will eat what I cook. That way you won't get sick."

"What if I do?"

"Then I'll clean it up again," he said with a shrug. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Sara sighed. "Fine. Help me up." When Grissom blanched, she realized that she was still half-naked and added, "But first, get me a pair of pants. Third drawer."

He went to her dresser and was relieved to find that the selection of pants wasn't as distracting as what he'd found in her shirt drawer. After a few seconds of consideration, he selected a pair of pajama pants decorated with screen-printed fingerprints and held them up. "Where'd you find these?"

His interest was unexpected, and she had to stare at the pants for a few seconds before she could remember. "A specialty vendor on eBay. They sell forensics-themed stuff for the groupies among us."

"You're kidding."

"Nope," she said, holding out her hand. "It's true. Just give them to me." Grissom's scrutiny of her taste in clothing was making her uneasy.

He tossed the pants to her and headed for the door. "Call me when you've got them on."

"Grissom."

Damn, he'd forgotten. "Sorry," he told her, trying not to show his unease. Bunching the legs of the pants down like a pair of women's pantyhose, he slipped them over her ankles, turned his head away, and pulled them up her legs.

She put her hand on his when he reached the top of her thighs. "Thank you. I can do it from here."

Letting out an audible breath, Grissom stepped back. "Right." He waited as she inched the pants over her hips and tied the drawstrings at her waist, then moved toward her again. "Ready?"

"Mmhmm." The pain in her leg intensified when she moved to stand up, but she gritted her teeth, not willing to allow it to show. "Let's go."

A few minutes later, Grissom helped her balance as she lowered herself onto the couch. "Now stay there."

Giving him a tired look, she said, "Trust me, I'm not exactly up to running away right now."

"Good. Now, what do you want to eat?"

"Ugh, food."

"Sara," he said sternly as he headed for the kitchen.

"Toast, or something else basic. Nothing heavy, please."

He smiled. "So that means my famous omelets are out of the running?"

She shuddered theatrically. "Ugh, eggs."

"Toast it is," he said agreeably, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. "Butter? Jelly? Jam?"

Oddly enough, the thought of jam made her mouth water. "There's blackberry jam in the fridge."

As Grissom went through the motions of preparing her toast, she arranged the pillow behind her head and closed her eyes. "Grissom?" she said after a few seconds.

Looking up from his search of her refrigerator, he replied, "Yes?"

"Did you have to carry me out of the bathroom, before?"

He froze. Why did she want to know? Did she suspect something? "Uh, well..."

"You could have woken me up. I know I'm way too tall to be a featherweight."

In the face of such a challenge to his manhood, he could only respond one way: "I had no trouble. You're lighter than you think, I guess."

"So, you did carry me?"

He ignored her question, focusing on putting the jam on her toast instead.

"Grissom."

He put another layer of jam on the bread.

"Grissom!"

Given his continued silence, she wasn't expecting an answer, so she jumped in surprise when he slammed the knife down on the counter and growled, "Does it matter?"

Sara blinked, taken aback by his reaction. "Well, no, I guess it doesn't 'matter.' I just wanted to know."

"It's not important. Leave it."

"What's wrong with you? You were in a perfectly good mood five minutes ago and now you can't even carry on a civilized conversation!"

"I'm sorry," he said quietly as he carried the plate toward her. "I'm a little...stressed."

"You don't have to stay here this whole week, you know. You could switch off with Nick or Catherine, or you could ask someone to take over completely." Sitting up, she accepted the toast and took a bite. "Mmm, it's been a long time since I tasted this jam."

Taking advantage of her forced silence while she chewed, he sat down on the edge of the couch and looked down at her. "I'm not leaving you here with someone else. I'm the one who hurt you; I'm the one who'll take care of you."

Swallowing hastily, she glared at him. "I'm not some form of penance, you know. You don't have to take care of me just because you think this is your fault. Which it's not," she added.

He sighed. "I didn't say I thought you were a penance. And I can handle- Mmph!"

His protest was cut off when she shoved the rest of the slice of toast she'd been eating into his mouth. "Stop it. No one - least of all me - is going to think less of you if you don't want to be stuck here with me for days on end."

He could only glare at her while he chewed and swallowed the bread. "I do want to," he finally protested.

Sara rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. No one, no matter how wonderful a person that are, wants to be stuck playing nurse if they don't have to be."

"I don't mind."

"Then why are you so freaked out?"

"I'm not--" He was interrupted by her snort of derision. After a few seconds, he sighed. "You make me nervous."

"Nervous? How do I make you nervous?"

"Sara..."

"How do I make you nervous?" she demanded.

"You just do! I'm not...used to...being near you."

Sara let herself flop back on the couch with a huff, breaking eye contact. "And whose fault is that?"

Pushed as far as he was willing to go, he set the plate down on the coffee table and stood up. "I'm not discussing this now. Eat your toast."

"I don't want it," she said petulantly.

"Eat it anyway, because in five minutes you're taking a Vicodin."

"I'm not."

"You promised," he reminded her.

"Yeah, well, that was before I knew how much I make you 'nervous'," she said, drawing out the word nervous mockingly. "Who knows, you might be so 'nervous' that you give me the wrong dose or something."

"This is not negotiable," he said flatly, turning away and heading for the bedroom. "I'll be back in a few minutes, and you will take the painkiller when I come back."

"No!" she retorted, but found herself answered only by the sound of the bedroom door slamming.

With a sigh, she took another bite of the toast.

When Grissom returned five minute later, having splashed some water on his face and slowed his pulse to below 95, he found Sara on the couch, arms crossed, trying to glare at him and only partially succeeding - he was sure he could also see a smile trying to work its way onto her face.

Watching him approach, she held out her hand for the medication and said, "Remember, you're cleaning it up if this makes me sick."

"I know." He handed her the bottle of pills and went to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. "But I bet you won't get sick, anyway."

"Wanna bet?" she asked, taking the glass he offered her.'

"No way."

She smirked, swallowed the pills, and handed the water back to him. "So, uh...how are we going to keep ourselves occupied for five more days of this house arrest?"

"Um..." He looked around the room. "Read?"

Sara sighed. "This is going to be a long week."

x

x

x

"We could play Scrabble," Grissom suggested a few hours later, spotting the game on her bookshelf.

Sara looked up from her book and followed his eyes. "We could," she agreed.

"Do you want to?"

She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. It would be rude to kick the crap out of the person who's taking care of me."

"You think you'd win?" Grissom said, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

"I'm the Scrabble champion of the night shift, Gris. Of course I'll win!"

"But then," Grissom said as he retrieved the game and set it on the coffee table, "you realize I never competed in those contests."

"So?"

"So...you have no idea if I'm good or not," he pointed out as he unfolded the board.

She grinned and grabbed the velvet bag full of letter tiles. "I'm willing to take that chance."

"Are you, now?" he said with raised eyebrows. "In that case, let's play." He reached into the bag and pulled out seven letters, setting them onto the wooden rack in front of him.

"Oh yeah," Sara said confidently as she fished for her own letters. "You're going down."

She had just finished arranging them on her rack when someone buzzed her apartment.

Giving Grissom an expectant look, Sara said, "Go get it. I'll just stay here and...plot."

"Oh, no you don't!" He snatched both tile holders and set them out of her reach. "No extra time for you."

She gave him a dark look. "Just get the door."

"Yes ma'am."

x

x

x

Grissom wasn't surprised to find Brass standing outside Sara's door, but he didn't expect to also see Catherine, who was standing next to the detective and looking impatient. "Let us in," she ordered. "Sara's probably dying for the company of a female."

Brass just shrugged as Catherine pushed past him. "Running interference," he explained at Grissom's questioning look. "Plus, I did tell Sara I'd come by and visit a lot."

"You did?" Grissom asked, giving Brass a confused look as the man brushed past him and entered the apartment.

"Yeah." Brass turned toward the couch, where Sara was giving Catherine a wary look. "How ya feeling?"

Sara, who was starting to feel just a tad loopy as her most recent dose of Vicodin kicked in, shrugged. "Alive."

"You must feel disgusting," Catherine said, fingering a piece of Sara's hair. "You haven't had a shower since...when? The day you came home from the hospital?"

"Um...well, I…"

"She doesn't look that dirty to me," Brass cut in when Sara just continued to stammer. "She probably hasn't been exerting herself all that much, given that she can't move off the couch."

Grissom snatched at the lifeline Brass had provided. "Yeah, she really hasn't moved much. No sweating."

"No sweating," Sara echoed. "I'm not dirty."

"Are you sure?" Catherine said, frowning. "If I were you I'd be desperate for a bath, even if I wasn't completely filthy."

Sara cut her eyes to the side, giving Grissom a desperate look. Stepping forward, he used the only distraction he could think of: "So! Who wants coffee?"

While Grissom hid in the kitchen with the brewing coffee, Sara was stuck in the living room with two curious friends. Brass spotted the Scrabble board and, nodding toward it, asked, "Did you guys play?"

"We were about to, but you guys interrupted us."

"Ohh," Brass said suggestively, poking Catherine in the arm. "We interrupted them."

"Did we, now?" Catherine responded, eyebrows raised.

"Guys!" Sara protested, throwing a leftover bit of toast at Brass's laughing face. "Stop it; I'm too drugged to fight back."

"Drugged?" Brass asked with sudden interest. "So you're taking the Vicodin now?"

"Yeah," she admitted.

"How the hell did he finally talk you into that?"

"Bribery and begging," Grissom answered, overhearing the question as he carried three cups of coffee out of the kitchen.

"Ah."

"Typical," Catherine said, rolling her eyes.