Author's Note: This is my first CSI story in nearly two decades. I had to recover multiple old email addresses just to dig out my password and publish this here. ;) It's been so nice to revisit these characters I love so much. The fact that we are still reading and writing these stories after so long say so much about the timelessness of the characters and their romance, and I'm so grateful to the actors and writers and everyone who created these characters. I hope you'll enjoy this take on the missing scenes that finally brought them together. (Edited 11/22/22 to fix formatting and break the stories into individual chapters to make it easier to read. Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! It's so wonderful to find that there are still readers out there for these stories!)
She has a ponytail. And too many questions about anthropology for some reason.
She is seated in the third row. During the lecture portion of the session, she listens intently, head cocked almost imperceptibly to the right, eyes narrowed slightly, as if she is assessing him. His gaze returns to her again and again for reasons he can't explain; will never be able to explain. Not with science.
During the question and answer period that follows his lecture, her hand flies into the air over and over, as if trying to flag down a wayward cab. Her eyes never leave his face.
Her questions are intelligent; insightful. And eventually, the question and answer session becomes just a dialogue between the two of them, the rest of the attendees throwing glances at the clock on the wall, shuffling papers restlessly.
When the hour is up, he thanks the audience and dismisses them. And then, impulsively, casually, mentions that he will be available for additional questions after the session. He has carefully trained his eyes away from her when he says this, extending the invitation to the room as a whole. But he doesn't miss the tiny quirk of her eyebrow, or the straightening of her spine, and he feels something he doesn't recognize and cannot name bloom in his chest.
She lingers in her seat as the room empties, suddenly reticent, and he pretends not to notice, as he packs away his slides and specimens. When she stands and begins making her way to the aisle, he feels his breath catch in his throat as he waits to see which way she will turn.
She says nothing as she approaches, and he continues packing away his belongings, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his body.
"You know…there are computer programs that can create those diagrams now," she says, as he lifts a stack of crime scene sketches and slides them into a briefcase.
He lifts his eyes above the rim of his glasses. Her mouth is pursed in a crooked, suppressed smile, and her eyes twinkle with a playful challenge for a moment before sliding away from him, averting her gaze just over his shoulder.
"I'm aware," he says, his droll tone belying the inexplicable flutter in his breast. "There's a time and place for computer models. But I find the ability to produce the sketches manually informs the final product of the digital versions. It's important not to discount the process."
"Old school," she says, approvingly.
He rolls his eyes, his mouth quirking up on one side, telegraphing his disapproval; his playful displeasure at being called old.
Later, years later, she will tell him that it was that moment she felt her heart stutter. That until this moment, her attraction to him had been purely intellectual, academic. That she had enjoyed their dialogue, their banter during the session, and she had wanted to continue their conversation. But it was this moment, when she first felt…more.
His eyes were so blue, she will tell him. And she wanted to make him smile at her like that again and again.
Her questions tumble out of her like gumballs from a machine, one after another, barely allowing him to finish one answer before another is out of her mouth.
Until finally he answers the question she isn't asking, and offers her his business card.
"It seems you have more questions than I could possibly answer today, Miss Sidle," he says, extending the card across the table. "Perhaps we should continue this later."
Her fingers brush his when she takes the card, her mouth drawing into a tight smile that is already becoming familiar.
He does not expect to hear from her again.
Later, at home in Las Vegas, he convinces himself that the spark he felt with her was all in his head; one-sided wishful thinking.
She is young and beautiful and will surely forget him when she returns to her real life. She is clearly bright and hungry for knowledge, and certainly she approaches all learning opportunities the same way. He is not special. He would be remiss to think he is.
Then her emails begin to arrive.
They are not personal in nature. There is always a professional impetus. Each message is full of questions about articles in forensic journals she has just finished reading or cases she has just finished working.
So he ignores the way his heart leaps when he sees her name in his inbox, and reminds himself that he is always happy to mentor someone with such a promising future in the field. And he pretends not to notice when his eyes linger on her witty asides or her clever word play.
A few months later, she has a case with bugs. A body dumped in the Castro with unusual insect activity. She is struggling to identify the larvae, to find the original crime scene.
She asks him to look at a few photos, and he finds himself comparing the printouts to illustrations in one of his entomology textbooks on a flight to San Francisco.
It is the first time they work a case together. It feels like the millionth. They are in step the whole time. Synchronous.
When he returns to Vegas, gathering evidence in a homicide investigation of his own, he studiously ignores the way his chest aches as he remembers the way she squinted when she looked through the lens of the microscope, the way her hair tickled his arm as she leaned past him to examine a piece of evidence, the way her smile spread slowly across her face when victory was within their grasp.
In his quiet moments alone at home, or in his office, he tries not to hear the echo of his name in her mouth, the second syllable stretched out and lilting in an attempt to draw his attention. As if she doesn't already have his attention. As if he isn't already orbiting her silently, trapped by her inescapable gravity.
He is asked to speak at another conference. In Venice Beach, this time. A smaller, regional gathering specifically for crime scene investigators as opposed to the larger, more generalized Forensic Academy conference where he met her.
One conference per year is usually his limit.
But he could use the conference as an opportunity to go home and visit his mother. It has been too long. She never nags, but he knows she wishes he would come more often. And it is a good opportunity to network with other local departments. That could come in handy if he needs to collaborate in the future.
He chants these justifications like a silent mantra while he composes the email accepting the invitation.
He mentions it casually in his next email.
She never mentions it in her reply, but four months later, on the morning of the first day of the conference, she is in the back of his lecture hall, grinning.
She doesn't ask any questions this time. She only watches him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. And for the first time in a long time, he feels like he can take a deep breath.
Through unspoken agreement, they attend the other sessions together, spending two days whispering and writing notes to each other in margins of photocopied handouts.
Her hair is down, in soft curls that frame her face.
On the last night, there is a happy hour. And in the warm, dim light of the hotel bar, she smiles, and tilts her head toward a couple at a corner booth and makes a joke about conference hookups that he knows is intentionally provocative.
He needs to get out of there. Out of that bar and that hotel and that conference. Not because he doesn't want to imagine sleeping with her, but because he does. Because he doesn't know yet what he wants from her, but he knows it isn't one night with no strings attached.
They walk along the beach instead, and his hands are drawn to her like a compass to true north. Her back. Her arm. Her hand.
She smiles at him as they talk, not the little smirk she uses when she is teasing him or the pursed grin she tries to hold back when he flatters her, but the full, wide smile that makes his heart yearn for something he didn't know he was capable of wanting.
He prefers the company of women to men. Always has. He assumes it is due in part to growing up as an only child to a single mother. But more than that, he likes women. Women speak their minds and say what they mean and show emotions he doesn't always understand but can at least identify. As opposed to men, who talk around important subjects and only ever seem comfortable expressing anger.
Over the years, more than one female friend has misinterpreted his intentions. And more than once, he has unsuccessfully attempted to make the leap that they seem confident is a natural next step in their relationship.
Always, those relationships end with a whimper rather than a bang.
It has been years since he was with a woman.
Never before has he been the one who wants to initiate the leap. His heart trips ahead, racing, anticipating the moment the relationship tips over the edge of friendship into something more.
When they stop at the pier, her gaze drops to the sand, and he reaches out without forethought or planning and tucks a wayward curl behind her ear, working up the courage to kiss her. His hand lingers in her hair.
Then she lifts her face, and gazes at him with unabashed adoration, and he feels his heart slow to a crawl.
He remembers suddenly how very young she is, remembers that she is only just beginning her ascent in a field where he is considered an expert. It is easy to forget, when they are trading theories and barbs and flirty glances, that she is fifteen years younger than him, only a few years out of school, and sees him as a teacher, a mentor.
She is not a child. She is a grown woman. Beautiful and brilliant and wise beyond her years. But they are not equals. Not in the eyes of the world, and more importantly, not in her own eyes.
And the kind of relationship he wants with her, the only kind of romantic relationship he can imagine having with her, is not possible when she is looking at him like that.
He soaks in the warmth of her gaze for just a minute. And then he turns, letting his hand fall to her arm, guiding her back the way they came, toward the hotel.
He tells himself it is the right decision. He refuses to imagine otherwise.
But when he is back home, in Las Vegas, his heart still thrills at the sight of her name in his inbox. And sometimes, when he is tired, and the world is a dark and lonely place, he closes his eyes and remembers the sound of his name in her mouth and the look in her eyes when she smiles at him.