The Milkshake Trilogy, Chapter One: Her Milkshake Brings All the Geeks to the Yard

Rating: PG

Warning: Contents are extremely silly and may contain fluff, cliché and terrible songs. No spoilers. Does not take season 6 into consideration (or any of the many other episodes I have not yet seen ;) ).

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It was early on a Wednesday morning at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and Sara Sidle was in the layout room, processing crime scene photographs and singing something about a milkshake. Directly behind her, leaning contra posto against the doorframe, was Gil Grissom. He listened intently, head quirked to the side, smiling quizzically. He liked hearing Sara sing; she had a good voice, a strong, low alto, especially when she thought no one was around. But this was no song he had ever heard before. And judging by her repetition of the same odd few lines, she didn't know it very well either.

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours…" she trailed off, lifted a photograph to the light and squinted. "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…"

"Your milkshake?"

Sara spun around, knocking her hip into the table. "Good God, Grissom! You scared the hell out of me!"

He raised an eyebrow. "What were you just singing?"

"Some stupid song Greg had on the radio. It's been stuck in my head all night… I didn't even realize I was singing." She blushed an attractive pink and quickly changed the subject. "So, you got something for me? Or were you just sneaking up on me for kicks?"

"I wasn't sneaking up on you," he corrected with a smirk. "But I do have something for you." He handed her a sheaf of papers. "DMV records for that list of cars you submitted. Just came in."

"Thanks." She flipped absently through the file. "Tire treads should be pretty easy to match, they're a unique brand."

Grissom picked up one of the photographs on the table and grimaced. "Is this the hit and run?"

"Yeah." Sara exhaled slowly. "She's thirteen years old."

Grissom glanced over the pile of evidence that still needed to be processed. It was only half an hour until shift change. Sara had already reabsorbed herself in the photographs.

"Shift's ending soon," he said casually.

"I know."

Grissom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "If you stay, you'll max out on overtime."

She didn't even look up. "No, I won't. "

"Yes, you will. You've logged almost 20 hours overtime in the last week."

"So clock me out. I'm not leaving. This is important."

It's always important, he did not say, but wanted to. Grissom glanced down at her hands. Her fingers were tapping erratic rhythms against the table.

"How much coffee have you had?"

"I lost count."

"Do you know that it's possible to overdose on caffeine?"

"Hasn't happened yet!" Grissom thought he detected a hint of pride in her voice.

"Doesn't mean it won't," he shot back.

It appeared she had nothing more to add. Grissom flicked his eyes back and forth between her busy hands and the pile of evidence, weighing his options. He wanted to go home. There was an Angels game on in the afternoon and a six pack of beer in his fridge, and he needed sleep. But he hated the thought of her alone in the lab, looking at endless photographs of a dead teenager, someone she couldn't help, not really, no matter how many hours of sleep she sacrificed.

"Would you like some help?"

She finally looked up. "Don't you have that double homicide you're working?"

"Wrapped. The butler did it." They exchanged a smile as Grissom reached for the bag of clothing.

"You guys closed pretty fast for a double homicide," she observed, reaching for her pen. "That's gotta be close to the record."

"Yes, it was very close. As Ecklie was only too happy to point out. But that's not important."

Sara bobbed her head in agreement and fell back into her work. Grissom stole the occasional surreptitious glance as they bagged and tagged. She worked intently, her lips pressed together, her graceful eyebrows inclined into a slight frown. Watching Sara concentrate on something was like watching a concert pianist. Grissom had always enjoyed watching people do what they did best; their skill, their art. But this wasn't an etude; this was vehicular manslaughter. Sara was a very talented CSI, but Grissom couldn't imagine that her work brought her much joy. It was a skill that could never really be mastered. There would always be crime. Yet she invested so much of her life into it. What did she have at the end of the day, when she left the bloodbath behind and went home? Or did she ever really leave at all?

They finished in just under two hours. Sara covered her face and yawned as they walked together to the locker room.

"Got any plans today?" He sat down and began removing his shoes.

"Not really. I was thinking of catching a movie."

"What movie?"

Sara tugged her hair free of its clasp. "Kinsey. Have you seen it?"

"Kinsey? As in Alfred Kinsey?"

"Yup, the sex researcher. It's supposed to be really good. There's a great independent theater near my apartment playing a matinee." She removed her jacket from her locker and shrugged into it.

"He was an entomologist, you know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Before he discovered sex, he studied gall wasps."

She flashed him a grin. "Well, that's an interesting transition. Gall wasps to sex."

Grissom thought fast. He had a choice now: he could go home, sleep, watch the Angels game and worry about Sara. Or he could do something to repair their ailing friendship. One step at a time, he thought, and took a breath.

"Would you mind if I tagged along?"

Sara faltered in the act of reaching for her purse and looked at him, her expression completely inscrutable. There was a beat of silence.

"Um, sure. If you want to."

He heard the hesitation in her voice and studied her cautiously. She was holding the muscles in her face carefully. Grissom felt his confidence leaking away.

"Unless you don't want to spend the afternoon with your supervisor. I understand."

"No! That sounds like fun. As long as you don't mind spending the afternoon with your highly caffeinated coworker." She smiled hesitantly and Grissom felt the familiar, distinct tug in his stomach that seemed to be a direct result of Sara smiling at him.

"There will be no more caffeine for you," he chided, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. She made a face and he laughed as they left the locker room together. "But I will buy you a milkshake."