Killing Time
Summary: How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.
A/N: Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others are, but grad school is a little hectic right now. I won't have a lot of time to work on it during the next week, and I didn't want to wait to get something posted. The required elements for the challenge listed previously. Thanks to Gibby for her beta services.
Rating: Ehh, let's go with PG-13 with this version. Might put a higher rated one on my site.
Disclaimer: Honestly, this is not a how-to manual. And I don't own the rights to the characters. If I did, you can bet there'd be some changes.
Chapter 3
"I think you lied to me."
Sara's eyebrows rose at the statement, but she made no effort to disguise her amused smile. "I can't help it if you're a good teacher."
"You're a card shark," Grissom insisted, studying the cards in his hand intently. He frowned as he examined the three upturned spades on the table, wondering if she had a flush or even a straight flush. Her overly mirthful mood made trying to read her expression a lost cause.
"Never played before today. Now are you in or out?"
"I'm thinking."
She grinned as she laid her cards face down, folded her hands together and looked at their respective sides of the dining room table. She definitely was winning, a fact that had the self-proclaimed poker expert baffled. "The way I see it, you don't have much of a choice."
He didn't answer, but peeked over the top of his cards with a mock-glare. Whatever he felt about his current predicament, it didn't interfere with his pleasure that she finally agreed to learn to play poker. She smiled as he darted his eyes from his cards to her face and back again, trying to figure out how his student had gotten the better of him.
His crusade to teach her started weeks earlier, ever since her offhand remark that watching the game on television was as boring as watching someone else play golf. Doubly confused, he let the golf comment pass, but insisted that she needed to appreciate the subtle psychology and mathematical skills necessary to play poker. Besides, it had been years since he played against someone with her mental abilities, and the challenge intrigued him. They had the day off, and it was too hot to venture outside, so he finally persuaded her with a direct dare of, "You're not afraid, are you?"
She held his gaze easily, his stare doing nothing to rattle her. "You have enough to call my bet this hand, or you could fold. If you do that, you only have enough to ante the next hand. I think I've won."
"You're making a rather serious assumption," he said, pausing to take a sip from his beer. "I'm going to win this hand, which puts me back firmly in the game."
"You have to bet first."
"Fine. I call," he said, leaning back in his chair.
She grinned broadly, shaking her head as she did so. "Then put your bet in the pot."
"I've called."
"Doesn't count unless you ante up."
Grissom tried another glare, but she only chuckled lightly at him. "I did explain the concept of checking, didn't I?"
"Yep, but you already called. Which means you have to bet. And all you have left are your boxer shorts."
"It doesn't matter. I'm going to win this hand. There's no reason to put them in."
Sara didn't back down, fully enjoying herself. "Uh, uh. It's not a bet unless the article of clothing is on the table. That was your rule, if I'm not mistaken."
"I think it was more of a guideline."
"You didn't see me complaining when you had me down to my panties. And I'm sitting in the draft from the air conditioning."
"I did notice the effect it had on you," he said salaciously as his eyes dropped to her chest.
"Perv!"
"There's nothing perverted in admiring a work of beauty," he said calmly.
"That's sweet," she said softly, giving him an openly affectionate look. "But you still have to bet."
He made a face as he studied his cards again, and then examined the cards exposed in the center of the table. She could see him mentally calculating the odds, wondering if the river card would again give her the win.
"Your shorts are coming off one way or another."
"I wasn't this cold-blooded when you were behind," Grissom noted.
"So you admit that you threw those hands to let me catch up?" Sara asked, her eyebrow rising in challenge.
"No," he answered too quickly.
When they had started playing, Grissom had quickly gotten her down to her underwear, a fact that irked her. He folded the next several hands, letting her win back her clothing and some of his. She suspected he did it to keep her interest in the game, but then her luck changed. The next several hands she had won outright, or he had to fold. She exploited her run of luck by betting heavily. As a result, his suit hung neatly from her chair, with his shoes and socks at her feet. She wore his silk shirt, unbuttoned, with his tie wrapped lightly around her waist.
"It was your idea to play strip poker. You said it would be more fun. And it is," she said, shifting position so the shirt exposed more of her cleavage, smiling when he licked his lips hungrily.
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," he said, failing again to scowl convincingly after he noticed her amusement.
"I'm not cruel. You can wear this after you take off your shorts," she said, holding up one of his dress socks.
"It's not my feet that I'm thinking about."
"It stretches. If necessary."
"Do I need to point out that the male body doesn't react the same way to the cold?" he grumbled.
"You aren't in the draft. Want the sock or not?"
"Okay, I'll bet the sock and keep my shorts."
"That wasn't an option," she said, dropping the sock back under the table. When he let out a mild growl, she laughed.
"I have seen you naked on occasion. It's not like you're going to shock me," she teased. "So give me your boxers."
"I'll get you a fresh pair from my dresser."
"Nope."
"These are used."
"In use," Sara corrected. "But not for long."
He again peered at her from over the top of his cards. "I'm beginning to think you have a strange fetish."
"Stop stalling, Gil. Time to take off your boxers."
"We could move this to the bedroom," he suggested seductively.
"After we finish this hand," she said, adding a laugh when he rested his chin on one hand while his fingers from the other hand drummed the table.
He looked up as inspiration hit. "You don't want me sitting naked on the dining room chair," he stated brightly. "It's not very hygienic."
She nodded her consent, and then smiled sweetly at him. His answering smile was short-lived when she answered, "You can stand up."
He mock-scowled at her again, but his eyes showed his passion. Sara realized this particular game was over, but a better one was about to start. His desire was obvious, and she felt her body responding to his visual invitation. She shifted in anticipation as he finally stood up.
Then the shrieking started, and Sara's hand slammed into the alarm clock hard enough to send it skidding across the nightstand.
"Damn it," she muttered as she glared evilly at the clock. Stretching, she turned on the bedside lamp and let out a frustrated sigh. That was one dream she wanted to finish. Her body had responded to it, and she easily imagined the feel of his hands on her, but she knew it was weeks until he returned.
Looking at his empty side of the bed, she came to the conclusion that time was relative, but not in any way that physics understood. All the years of hoping and waiting, of wondering if she was insane for staying in Las Vegas seemed a lifetime ago. The months they had spent together passed too quickly, far too short to possibly accommodate all the happiness she felt during that time. The time he had been gone stretched out, and the days until he returned were unbearably long.
Worse was the nagging fear that their short time together marked her allotment of happiness for this lifetime. It wasn't logical, but logic never had much do to with their relationship. If it did, she'd have returned to San Francisco years ago. Instead, she gave in to her heart, and while the wait was long, it had eventually paid off.
Her neglected stomach started complaining, so she gave the clock a final glare, wondering how she could justify blowing it up in some lab experiment. After starting a pot of coffee, she munched on an apple as she waited for her caffeine boost. Walking to her desk, she made some mental notes on areas for further research into the deaths of the city's junkies. Doc had only noticed the strange number of deaths after the sixth one in a short time. If the deaths involved foul play, it was possible that there were more of them earlier, but spread out over a longer time frame that didn't draw attention.
When the coffee was ready, she returned to the kitchen, again feeling a sense of loneliness. After years on her own, she quickly grew accustomed to sharing her time with Grissom until being alone felt unnatural. Everywhere she looked, there was some reminder of his absence, and she missed him bad enough without her subconscious continually mugging her.
As she fixed sandwiches for her dinner and lunch, Sara admitted to herself that her subconscious was probably reacting to the fact that she never acknowledged the gift of the cocoon. Rudeness was a trait her parents had, and so she always tried to be polite. She should have told Grissom that she received it, thanked him for it, but she refused to budge on one issue: It was up to him to contact her.
She knew he wasn't the most communicative of men, but whatever flaws he had, he treated her better than anyone had ever treated her before. There was no question that he was faithful, or about how much he respected her. His good side made up for his social shortcomings, and she accepted them readily.
Grissom considered the phone a work tool, not something for personal use. If he had something to tell her, he preferred to do it directly. The only time he'd ever called her that wasn't about work was to let her know he had a flat tire and was going to be late for their dinner reservation. She had accepted that trait as well when they got together.
People often thought he was unemotional, a mistake of which she was once guilty. The truth was he felt things strongly, but he kept it bottled up. She'd seen glimpses of it – his passion, his desire, his sense of humor, but he kept the darker emotions hidden from her. So working the trying case of their miniature killer, then watching Dell kill himself, had to have affected him, even if the most he admitted was his shock over the incident. Again, she accepted that without question.
But she needed reassurance. He left her, had made his plans without consulting her. He hadn't realized how upset she was until he said his goodbyes in the locker room. Even after learning how she felt, he made no move to comfort her. The cocoon probably had some symbolism, but she needed something definitive from him, something more tangible than a bug. This was one thing he had to accept about her, and she didn't think she was being unreasonable.
She really hoped she wasn't.
Once at the lab, it didn't take Catherine long to find her. "So, were you able to tell Doc if that body was yours?" she asked lightly.
Motioning her into an empty lab, Sara quietly filled her in on the uncertain nature of the case, resisting the urge to comment on how openness and honestly helped the team. It didn't take her long to add the few details she'd found in her research.
"That is weird," Catherine agreed. "You left the lab after shift. Did you work on it at home?"
"A little."
She nodded, and then fished through the assignment slips. "Here's a trick roll. It'll help you."
"Yeah?" Sara said quizzically.
"Mr. Sam Hendrix is the victim," she replied, stressing the last name.
"Any relation to the state senator?"
"We might have been under that impression," Catherine said with a wink. "No one would question if you put in a lot of hours on it."
Sara blinked as realization dawned. They clocked their hours either by case number or as doing paperwork. There was only so much time she could justify spending on a case that appeared not to involve any criminal activity, but Catherine was giving her permission to list her time under another case.
"Thanks," she said, wondering if it was a wise move. She knew Grissom wouldn't approve of the deception; he'd have gone up against the sheriff directly if he felt the case deserved more investigation.
He also wasn't there to make the call.
It proved to be a moot offer when an organized gang raided several all-night grocery stores, leaving three people injured. The entire team ended up working the case, and for the next two days Sara never went home, working straight through processing the abandoned getaway cars.
She managed to catch up with Doc Robbins briefly, who told her that further tests by Trace and Tox failed to find any reason for Dough's death. The mold she found at the scene didn't contribute to his heart failure, either.
The only other work on the case came when she took a phone call from Narcotics. They told her that the only dealer working in the area was Jermaine Nassan, a no-nonsense thug unlikely to either kill his customers or tolerate anyone else selling contaminated drugs on his turf. There was no word on the street of any trouble with those particular addicts, and nothing to suggest a common enemy.
Despite her exhaustion, Sara also noticed Greg's anger the morning they finally caught the robbers. She tried to talk to him, but he shrugged her off, telling her to get some rest.
"It's nothing," he said when she hesitated. "Just had a phone call from my lawyer."
"If you need to rant again…"
"And have you fall asleep in the middle of my session? You look like something the cat refused to drag in."
"You so have a way with words. Don't know why you aren't married yet," she said sarcastically, the effect ruined by her long yawn.
"That's okay, I don't know why you aren't asleep yet. Do you need a lift?"
"I'm fine," she said, giving him a friendly smile before heading to her car.
Once home, she went to her desk and set down the additional files she'd brought with her. It was her night off, and she did not intend to return to the lab, but she'd spare some time for the case. First, though, she needed to sleep. Stripping out of her clothes, she vaguely wondered if she her dreams would pick up where they left off the other night. She didn't think about it for long, because she fell asleep as soon as she got under the covers.
When the phone started ringing, it took Sara a minute to get her bearings. Despite being tired, she had slept poorly, finally getting up to order a pizza and grabbing a quick shower while she waited for the delivery. Eventually she went back to bed, and judging by the darkness, she'd slept for a long time.
Climbing out of bed, she forced herself not to get her hopes up. Even if Grissom decided to call her, he wouldn't do it at a time she'd normally be at work. "Sidle," she said sleepily after she found her cell phone.
"You were asleep, weren't you? Sorry, kiddo," Catherine's voice said.
"What's up?"
"I need you to come in. There are more dead addicts."
"Okay," Sara yawned, pulling out a pen and paper to copy down the address. She was about to hang up when her eyes suddenly snapped open. "Addicts? There's more than one?"
TBC
