The Third Day of the Convention,

In which Greg decides he really likes conventions.

…………

The third day they spent apart from each other, Greg in one room with a talk about how to be a better student, Sara in another room, with a talk about how to be a better mentor. Greg allowed his mind to wander through about half of his discussion, the level ones around him asking boring, stupid questions, with boring, stupid answers. His thoughts wandered to Sara, who must be getting the same feeling towards her own discussion.

He was brought back to reality with thirty level ones staring expectantly at him, and the mediator of the discussion raising an eyebrow at him.

"Vegas? Care to put your two cents in?" The guy sitting at his right spoke to Greg. Greg turned to him, suddenly growing a large distaste for this loser sleazebag from Detroit, who already thought he was better than Greg, because he had reached level one at 26 and not at 31 like Greg.

"Mr. Sanders, we were discussing the limitations that are put on level ones, and how sometimes these limitations can be hindering to our development as CSIs. Would you please tell us of these limitations in the Las Vegas Crime Lab?" Greg was suddenly grateful the inquiry was lab related.

"Of course. I personally feel that I don't really have all that many limitations in the field, my mentor, Sara, she trusts me 100 to do my job, and if I have any questions or are unsure about anything, I have always felt that I could ask her, she's very approachable. She lets me carry as much of the load as she does, and we are held to the same standard by our boss." The shocked look on the other level ones faces lead Greg to believe that the conversation was really about how the mentors were holding the pupils back. Feeling a soapbox slip under his feet, he continued. "See, though, I'm only couple years younger than my mentor. I have been a level one for only ten months, but I was the senior DNA tech in the Las Vegas Lab for 8 years before my proficiencies started, and she and I have known each other since her arrival at my lab more than six years ago. I actually had seniority over her until I passed my proficiencies. We have an extremely egalitarian relationship. She and I play off of each other's strengths and weaknesses in a manner not unlike a regular CSI partnership." Greg shrugged, and returned Detroit's foot-in-mouth grin with a casual, lopsided one. He turned his attention to the mediator of the discussion.

"We never really played by the books in Vegas. I technically have seniority over my mentor." Greg settled into his seat more comfortably, enjoying the confused looks he was receiving. "She outranks me, of course. Up until ten months ago I was blazing a professional career path through the DNA lab, and at the time that I passed my proficiencies to become a CSI level one, I had taken a pay cut to become a CSI, as I'm sure none of you realize when you treat your lab techs like dirt, techs get paid roughly twice as much a level one." Greg glanced around at the level ones around him, pleased to see the distant expressions on their faces as they thought of the techs in their own labs getting paid way more money than them. "So when I took a huge pay cut to become a CSI, she knew that I was serious. I was wild and childish in the DNA lab, and no one ever took me seriously. Making a drastic change in my professional mannerisms and letting my hair dye grow out proved to her that I genuinely wanted to be a CSI. She knew I was dedicated, and she took me seriously." He saw a few heads nod, and looked at the mediator of the discussion, who signaled for him to continue.

"Perhaps you have a few tips for some of us who are a bit newer to work in a Crime Lab, then, Mr. Sanders." Greg nodded at the mediator.

"Yeah, ok, I have one." At her encouraging smile, Greg started spilling his secrets. "Never go to bed angry. Talk to your mentor, but listen when they respond. Never let your head hit the pillow after a shift with something on your mind. Resolve your differences."

…………

Not fifty yards away, in the next room, Sara was having the same conversation as Greg.

"Is there anything you would like to add, or share with your colleagues, Miss Sidle?" Sara snapped her gaze up to the mediator of the discussion, thirty pairs of eyes looking her way. She had done it again. Dozed off. She really needed to pay attention. Greg wasn't beside her to wake her up.

"Sorry, what?"

"Las Vegas Crime Lab, yes?"

"That's right. We don't actually abide by such rigid guidelines, however."

"Elaborate."

"Well, I seem to be the only mentor CSI in the room that actually trusts my student to do his job."

"But they're green. They don't know what they're doing." The guy next to her, some middle-aged, balding whiner from Detroit, interrupted Sara.

"They passed their proficiencies, didn't they? The only way they will learn is if they do. All we have to do is catch their backs so they won't fall."

"Vegas. That's the number two Lab in the country."

"Yes."

"Alright then." The Detroit guy sat back in his chair, challenging Sara. "How do you guys do it then?" Sara settled into her chair, crossing one leg over the other, getting the green light from the mediator.

"We work together. I recognize my level one's abilities, I know what he can do, I have made myself aware of what he needs to learn. On his behalf, he's a studious, serious, dedicated level one, and after ten months is four cases away from being my professional equal and no longer my student. Not only is he on his way to breaking the Lab record for fastest promotion from level one to level two, he has started catching my mistakes, finding evidence that I and my team missed. On his behalf, he's a brilliant CSI."

"So you've got a kid who's easy to teach."

"He's not a kid, he's only a few years younger than myself. He technically has seniority over me, even though I outrank him. He was the best DNA tech our lab ever had, but he always wanted to be out in the field. When the position opened up, he got a haircut, started matching his clothes, brought all his Manson CD's home, and took a huge pay cut to train to pass his proficiencies. He was lying in wait for the moment to become an investigator. He's been an employee of the Las Vegas Crime Lab for eight years now, which is more than my six." She glanced back at the guy from Detroit, and he seemed to be taking in her words.

"You and your student, then, it seems, already communicate well." Jeez this mediator didn't miss a thing. "Care to share your methods?"

Sara swallowed, suddenly feeling like she had backed herself into a corner. Methods. Yeah. Sleep with your student. Turn evaluation day into a stripping game. Cuddle up to him every night. Listen to him breathe, watch his chest rise and fall. Kiss him awake, kiss him asleep.

"I have a few general rules I go by. Always tell them where you are. Bring them coffee every once in a while." Sara took a deep breath. "And my golden rule is never let anger or discontentment stew. Always address it directly."

"You get results with that touchy feely bullshit?" Sara turned her gaze away from the mediator, towards Mr. Bald Detroit.

"Our shift has the highest solve rate in Vegas, and myself and my student have the highest solve rate on the shift." Sara grinned cheekily. "And the informal education of the best level one I've ever seen. The coffee really helps."

…………

Back in their room, six floors above the function rooms they had spent the day in, Sara flopped onto one of the neatly made beds, curling up on her side, leaving room for Greg. They had an hour and a half to be back down in the lobby for the formal dinner. She watched him as he pulled off his shoes, and unfastened the buttons of his oxford shirt, revealing a Black Sabbath tee shirt underneath. He shed the shirt, and stood against the opposite side of the bed, hands on his hips, weight on one foot, head cocked to the side.

"We only have ninety minutes to relax after the massacre downstairs and get ready for the formal dinner." Greg smiled at her.

"Did you play nice with the other kids?" Sara kicked her shoes off, and pushed them off the bed.

"Absolutely. How was the PTA meeting?" The bed dipped under Greg's weight, and he lay beside her, facing the ceiling, on his back, eyes closed.

"They all moaned about how their students suck."

"I only do that when you do that thing with- oof." He felt her fist playfully come in contact with his arm. "Abuse, woman."

"How was it, seriously?"

"Everyone moaned about being held back. Complained about how their mentors never let them do anything but run samples to the useless lab techs, how they never got their hands on the evidence before their mentors had already processed it."

"What did you say?"

"I told them that the easiest way to get to process the evidence first is to just sleep with their mentor." She sat up and smacked him fully, but the expression of mock horror of her face made a grin spread broadly over his own. "Ouch. Honestly woman. I may look a fool, but you know as well as I that looks are deceiving."

"I had my own brush with spilling our beans in with the other mothers."

"Do tell."

"I only closed my eyes for a moment, and no one woke me up before anyone noticed. The mediator asked me if I had anything to contribute to the discussion, so I told all those overbearing, impatient pains in everyone's asses that there is no reason not to let level ones do anything a level two or three would do."

"It's because I've wooed you into a daze, you're so enamored with me you let me do whatever I want."

"No." She propped herself up on her elbow, facing him, laying an arm on his stomach. "It's because you are well on your way to being a better CSI than any of us." Greg was caught off guard by this odd surfacing of praise, and was contented to roll on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, dropping a slow, tender kiss to her lips.

The soft moan below him told him that he had already caused that whisper of damp in her panties. His chuckle had a low, throaty quality that barreled through her body, settling below her belly. She ran her fingers from his shoulders to his waist, searching out the button of his jeans.

Sara grinned widely as she realized her favorite kind of Greg was hovering above her. The side of Greg no one ever saw at work. The sweet, compassionate, attentive, gentle Greg she only saw every once in a while. She lay on her back against the bedspread, bringing her hands to cup his face as he left a feather light trail of kisses along her law. She felt his fingers fumbling lazily with the buttons of her own shirt, brushing the soft skin of her breasts. He dropped well placed, loving kisses at seemingly random places on her exposed skin, his attention devoted to exploring the plains of her stomach in a painstakingly ritualistic manner that brought a lazy grin to her lips. She loved when he got like this. He treated her as if she was a sacred treasure to be handled with the most delicate of care with his gentle kisses.

In the three months that their relationship had become physical in this manner, Greg had only gone through the motions of this particular form of foreplay twice before. She watched him as he reached the waistband of her pants, and, unfastening the button and tugging the zipper, he folded back the material, and placed a lingering kiss on her hipbone before making his way back to her neck in a slow, leisurely path. She ruffled his hair, letting her fingers remain tangled in his hair at the base of his neck. She tried to remember the circumstances of the other two occasions for this worship she was receiving. That time after the police award ceremony, when Warrick had received an acknowledgement for above and beyond for being the central figure in a huge high profile sting operation, and then again after Thanksgiving at Catherine's house. He had slipped her out of that black dress expertly, not even wrinkling it- oh. Greg had made his way back to her neck, and nibbled gently on her ear. She rolled him off her, and sat up abruptly.

"I'm on to you Sanders."

"What?" He boyishly squinted up at her, completely confused. She straddled him, and he pulled her body to him without question or inquiry. "I wasn't up to anything, Sidle. I have no hidden agenda." She pressed a kiss to his lips, and he accepted it, propping his head up with a pillow.

"No I get it now."

"What in the world are you on about?" His brow crinkled in confusion, but an amused smile played at his lips.

"You only do that when I wear the dress." She smiled back confidently, arching a brow at him. He grinned in realization.

"I love that dress."

"I haven't worn it yet."

"Yeah but by the time you bothered to put it on we would have to be downstairs for dinner."

"So that there was what, exactly?"

"That was me promising you that you would have help taking that dress off tonight." He flashed her a suggestive smile, and rolled her off of him, climbing off the bed, and standing on his feet. "Shower?" He laughed as she finished shedding her clothes, and followed him into the bathroom, letting her hair fall around her shoulders.

They were only fifteen minutes late for dinner downstairs.

…………

A/N: ok, a few chapters… not quite finished with this yet… more to come  thanks for the kind words