Hours of Daily Show equals brain mushies. Nummy mushies. Thank you Michelle.
Cardboard bits were strewn about the apartment. Boxes were quite literally everywhere. Most of them were packed to the point of bursting, but it didn't really concern her; the packing was merely a formality.
Pictures gone from the walls, morning sun streaming in unobstructed by curtains because the curtains were packed away in one of the overflowing boxes. The entire space looked so much bigger with nothing in it. It was oddly pacifying and yet at the same time it was intensely depressing.
A pang registered somewhere deep within her but she ignored it for the time being, it was too consuming.
Standing back to survey the area, her eyes caught on the seldom-seen places. There were patches of dust all over, impressions on the floor where her couch, coffee table, desk had been. Sara tried to remember what she had placed on the desk when she first moved in; maybe a book, a picture, her keys.
She couldn't remember.
She would remember this time around, she'd be sure of it. Taking that breath that one generally takes when setting out on a new, daunting mission, she smiled to no one but herself.
The patches of sun picked up the stray dust particles and she watched as they lazily floated up and out of the window. It made her wonder how long they had stayed there, with her, in her seclusion.
Oddly cleansed, the light was flicked off and Sara was left standing in the middle of the empty living room, distraught as to what to feel.
Pushing a box out of the way with her foot, she ran through a list of things in her head. She'd disconnected the gas and remembered to clean out the attic space above her closet.
All of her mail was in her purse and she'd sent out her 'change of address' forms to everyone that really mattered.
Grabbing one of the many boxes left, she carried it downstairs to her car, heart heavy in her chest. She couldn't believe she was leaving and couldn't imagine why she was so sad.
Cardboard bits were strewn across the floor, causalities of the inevitable unpack of her old apartment.
There was no dust here, no demons to slay or put to bed. Everything was fresh: the walls, the appliances, the light. So bright, the place was so bright, sunlight bouncing off the blank canvasses that were walls.
Her imagination was wild with thoughts of taking a brush to the lacquered bricks and painting her feelings, her moods, whatever. In the end it would be on strange, blurred, personal masterpiece that would keep people away.
It would be beautiful; it would be haunting. It was an insane thought to begin with.
Sara stood back, looking at all the furniture… the furniture that did no justice to the massive space that it sat in. Would the sofa look better over by the massive panorama window or against the blank, white, brick wall?
And the color, so white, the floor so black. How would she ever manage to keep that clean? Should she paint the walls and what should she begin unpacking? How many chairs did she really need in the kitchen…
Her bed, the large king, sat over by the window, a screen on the right side, hiding it from plain view of the door. The living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, everything was partition by furniture and screens.
In plain terms, her new home was chaos.
The floor was cool on her bare feet and she added 'rugs' to her mental list of things to purchase. Maybe something in green, or perhaps a bright orange. Sara felt dwarfed by the space around her and she sat back on the sofa, simply glancing around.
Could this be a home? If it could, why did she feel so alone in it?
A sigh, a slump and she was on her back, staring at the white, white, white ceiling. Was it because it was a loft that she felt the need to paint? Crossing her legs, she swung her left ankle to and fro, setting up a calming melody juxtaposing her action in her head.
It was simply relocation shock.
From her upside-down view, she saw a box of dishes ready to go in the cupboards, towels for the bathroom (and that clawfoot tub, she should try that out) and pictures to go on the walls… but paint.
A knock at the door tore her away from her makeshift melody and masterpiece musings.
Upon opening the heavy steel door, she was graced with the amusing sight of Gil Grissom balancing two cans of paint on one arm and a brown paper sac in the other. Quickly, Sara ushered him inside, pressing her back against the heavy door in order to shut it completely.
Huffing, he placed the bags down on her counter. She, standing at the door, looked across the distance. Without the divider of a wall or bar of some sort he looked miles away. It was slightly disconcerting.
"So, there's some sort of autumn orange in there… and a brighter red." Grissom gulped a bit, as if he'd just been on a trek. "Whatever, they reminded me of you. And I figured with the walls…"
"How did you know about the walls?"
Grissom chuckled a bit, ducking inside her refrigerator, grateful to find, that though it was mostly bare, it did have a few bottles of water. Watching him lean back and gulp from the bottle made her remember just what lust was and she too swallowed as he did, but for an entirely different reason. "I was the one who started with the classified remember?" Another gulp. "I just figured."
"That my walls would need painting?"
Placing the empty bottle down on the counter, "White walls don't suit you. You need color, Sara."
There was nothing for her to lean on, or sit on for that matter and that threw her off. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips, smiled and licked her lips. "Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess."
Early morning made him look younger, she noticed. She'd probably noticed it before too, but that was the first time that she took the care to take the image and tuck it away. "So don't unpack until you paint."
Sara blinked and before her brain could catch up with her mouth, she spoke. "Let's paint now."
His hands were no longer on the counter, but tucked into his jacket pockets. "Right now, you want to paint." It was a question but he asked a statement to assert his disbelief. "The walls."
Sara nodded and moved forward, past him to gaze into the bag. "There's no reason we can't, right now." Pulling out a roller and a pan, Sara winked at him and grabbed a can of paint. "Let's do it."
"Buh…" He watched as she went into the living room and plopped right down, Indian-style, neither waiting for him nor baiting him. Humming to herself, she popped the lid and poured a bit into the tray. "I'm… not dressed for painting."
Sara shrugged with her back turned, "Okay." A bit of paint on the roller and she stood and attacked a random spot on the wall. Grissom wanted to tell her to put down paper or tarps or something, but she just pushed the roller against the wall and pulled it down, dark orange splotches landing on the floor.
It wasn't like her to be so restless, and all he could do was grab the other roller, push up his sleeves and join her. When he placed his roller against the wall she smiled, leaned over and kissed him gently.
The made the walls orange, each of them taking a portion. Sara took a break about halfway through to turn on her radio.
Three songs in and Grissom was no longer painting, just watching her as she moved her hips and sang along. It was stunningly softening; it was beautiful.
The bucket of paint to his left, wall to his right, he just watched as she smiled and moved around and laid emotion down on her canvas. Paint on his hands, his forearms, his shirt, he moved forward and grabbed her around the waist.
A squeak came forth from her and she dropped her roller with a 'thunk' on the floor.
"Don't do that," he breathed into her hair. "Don't… don't dance."
A large part of her wanted to simply push him down and hurt him and love him all at once. Make up for lost time, that's what he body wanted to do, to finally make it all happen because God only knew how much time they had together.
And were they together? It seemed so but-
"I think I love you Sara," he taunted, voice light as his hands skated over the skin of her lower back.
A smile tickled her lips but she didn't believe it; he couldn't 'learn' that in such a short time. He moved in to kiss her and she darted away, her lips instead making contact with his neck.
"You only think," it was a taunt in return, even as she licked the stubbly skin of his neck.
Chuckling and humming at the same time, his hand came up to soothe over her head, soft hair trailing under his palm. "No. No, no, sweetheart. I know."
"Ohhhh, you know!" she teased, melting in his arms, moving like water around him, kissing his lips, his cheek, his ear and then falling back to look at him. "You know," she whispered, smiling.
Grissom smiled and with loud steps, walked them backwards. "I do. Know."
"Even better," she slurred against his lips and wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him hard. Grissom was about to object, feeling the paint transfer from her skin to his, skin slippery on skin. But his objection died halfway through his throat as she kissed him deeply.
Before either of them knew it, they toppled onto the bed, literally falling down on the sheets. Even though his body landed awkwardly, twisting his back painfully, but he laughed anyway.
She too laughed.
And then she ground her hips against his.
Grissom swallowed hard and grabbed her hips, glancing up with a strange mixture of love and lust. "Sara…"
"Let's christen this place, shall we?" she whispered and draped her body over his and he grasped her hard, hoping he'd never have to decide whether or not to let her go.