Disclaimer: I don't own CSI and its characters. Just borrowing. No copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers: This story does not have enough of a plot to contain spoilers :-P
Author's Note: This is a big ol' plotless pile of shameless fluff. I've never tried writing fanfic before (or any type of fiction for that matter hehe), so please don't send out evil monkeys to hunt me down if this sappy thing induces vomiting (which it probably will). I had no intention of writing this, it kind of just happened. You can blame my hormones for unleashing this sap into the universe.
This, right here, was a miracle. It just had to be. How else could one explain how Sara Sidle came to be lounging on Gil Grissom's living room couch with her feet on his lap, watching some documentary on insect mating rituals on the Discovery Channel? Several months into their relationship and Grissom still can't fully fathom exactly how he and Sara had managed to work their way through the colossal mess that was their non-relationship and had finally gotten to this point, this miracle. The miracle wasn't in their relationship being perfect, because it definitely had its flaws. Instead, it was in the way things he had only fantasized about before were now possible, normal even, like having the scent of her shampoo in his shower, tasting the skin between her breasts, and this right here—watching bug documentaries on TV like the nerds that they were.
Grissom dropped his eyes to the bare feet resting on his jean-clad lap. Most of the people at the lab would never peg Sara as someone who painted her toenails, and Grissom felt a smug satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who gets treated to the sight of her pretty toes occasionally dressed in soft pink, deep plum, or breezy teal like today. He lightly circled the tip of his finger on the flower-shaped tattoo on her left ankle, recalling the luscious surprise he felt when he first discovered the mark. This brought his thoughts to the memory of another delightful discovery. Grissom and Sara had recently and accidentally found out that she had potent erogenous hotspots at the soles of her feet.
It happened a few weeks ago when he had given her a foot rub after a long and tedious night at work. She had been practically purring throughout the massage, but at the instant he pressed on the spot where the ball meets the arch, Sara had curled her toes and let out what sounded like the mutant child of a squeak and a gasp. The meeting of two pairs of widened eyes had given birth to tiny but nonetheless naughty smiles and quickly led to a playful romp on Grissom's living room carpet.
Grissom smirked at the memory and unconsciously rubbed the part of his neck that had sported a hickey the size of Russia for an entire week after the incident. Oh yes, he was seeing a foot rub in their very near future. He gazed at her feet again and wondered if he was developing a foot fetish. He had never been interested in feet before and couldn't really imagine thinking anything much of anyone else's toes, or even his own. Yup, he was pretty sure his fascination with feet was limited to the slender brunette lounging next to him. So would it still be considered a fetish if one feels it with only one person?
If it were, then it would mean that he had a gap-toothed-smile fetish as well. (If she wanted to, she could get him to do a pole dance in lederhosen with that irresistible grin of hers—but that's a whole other story.) Then it would logically follow that he had fetishes for porcelain skin radiant in moonlight from parted curtains, for looks of trance-like concentration while working on a case, and for a brilliant mind paired with a beautiful soul. It was an ever-growing list, really, and one could just sum things up by saying he had a Sara fetish. However, he knew it was much more than that. It was an irrepressible (and Lord knows he tried to fight it) attraction, a profound fondness, an inexplicable fascination... if he weren't so relationship-challenged, maybe he'd even finally admit to himself that it was love.
He wondered when this fascination with Sara will end, or if it ever will. Will the rose-petal feel of her lips stop catapulting his pulse through the 95-beats-per-minute mark after their ten-thousandth kiss? If he wakes up next to her enough times, will the longing to stay forever wrapped up in each other beneath the covers fade away? Will the uniquely sultry melody of her voice ever lose its power to cause that delicious tingling at the base of his spine? He had a pretty strong feeling he was going to spend the next several eternities enthralled with Sara and found it impossible not to smile.
"What are you smiling about?" Sara curiously asked, tearing her gaze from the bugs on TV and wrinkling her nose as she squinted at him. Grissom couldn't resist pulling her across his lap and giving her a delightfully soft kiss right then.
"Nothing," he replied when they finally broke apart and added wrinkly-nosed squints to his mental list of Sara fetishes.
Grissom was certain. This, right here, was a miracle.