Sara cracked an eye open and then immediately scrunched it shut again. "Who are you and what have you done with Gil Grissom?"
Grissom's only response to that was to yank the covers off of the bed, exposing her skin to the icy air conditioning of the townhouse. She yelped and curled into a tight ball, dragging the other pillow up and over her head.
"I could ask you the same thing," he responded. "Sleeping in?"
Sara considered reminding him that she hadn't finished the chem analysis on the Marshall case until noon, but decided flattery would be the better route. "You wore me out?"
"Sara..."
She loved that tone - slightly reproachful, bashful, tinged with just a hint of pride. It was paradoxically exciting to know that she brought out the prude in Grissom. "Right, I know, the play." She inched the pillow down and looked up at him. "Do I smell coffee?"
"You do," he confirmed.
In one smooth motion, she was on her knees on the bed, facing Grissom and hooking her arms around his neck. "Remind me again why we can't just...stay in and watch the movie? I could make it worth your while," she suggested with a wink.
He responded by reaching up behind his neck to cover her hands with his own, and she frowned slightly, thinking he was going to loosen her grip. Instead, he ran his hands up her bare arms, skimming across the straps from her tank top and cupping her cheeks. For a few heartbeats, he just looked down at her, studying her with the same intensity she'd seen him use in examining a particularly perplexing piece of evidence.
Some people might have said it was demeaning, to be examined like an object. Sara had never minded. Having Grissom's full attention focused on her was far too intoxicating an experience.
He broke the silence first, speaking softly, as if he too were afraid to make the moment flee. "Shakespeare needs to be experienced live. Film is a poor substitute for the energy, the passion of the stage."
Sara tipped her head to the side, leaning further into his hand, and smiled at him slightly. "All right. I'll be out of the shower in ten." She turned her head to drop a kiss onto his palm and bounced off the bed to head for the bathroom.
Seven minutes later she emerged from the bathroom feeling much more refreshed and enjoying the guilty pleasure of one of Grissom's oversized bathrobes - even though she knew she would get a scowl when she entered the kitchen. Sure enough, a slight frown touched his lips when he recognized the bathrobe.
"You're very predictable sometimes," she informed him, accepting the cup of coffee gratefully.
"What?"
"Never mind," Sara answered with a smile. "What time is the play again? You look nice, by the way."
Grissom blinked and looked down at his shirt and pants before looking back up to answer her question. "Seven o'clock."
She sighed with happiness at the first taste of the coffee, and then leaned over to look at the time displayed on the microwave. "I should get dressed then, huh."
He just quirked an eyebrow at her. Apparently, he wasn't in a very communicative mood today. She could handle that. Singing under her breath, she returned to the bedroom to get changed.
Grissom was sitting on the couch, nose in a collection of Keats, when Sara emerged again from the bedroom. He caught sight of her around the edge of the book - she was wearing something red. His pulse sped up accordingly, and he spent a moment in pondering just what physiological quirk of the male body meant that after several thousand years of evolution, red had become such an erotic color.
His very scholarly, very logical train of thought sailed over a cliff when Sara tipped the book down and smiled at him.
"Hey," she said softly, and backed up so he could see the entire dress. "Well?"
Grissom was well aware of exactly how long Sara's legs were - he had measured them with fingers and tongue enough times - but he couldn't quite escape the thought that they got longer every time he looked. Impossibly long, slim legs that disappeared into a gauzy skirt, a material of a color he'd once heard Catherine call fire-engine red, clinging to her curves. Spaghetti straps and a swan's neck, hair pinned up behind her head with just a few curls escaping.
He set the book aside and swallowed hard. "You look stunning."
He loved making Sara blush.
"So, do you come here often?" Sara asked, craning her neck to take in the very impressive chandelier in the theater lobby.
"I have season tickets," Grissom replied easily, his fingers tickling the inside of her forearm as he guided her gently.
"Huh," was the only response she could make as she concentrated on not killing herself while climbing the carpeted stairs in heels. Their relationship, however natural and easy, was still new, and it seemed that every day she learned something new about Grissom.
The usher, whose nametag identified him as Cameron, seemed to recognize Grissom, and smiled widely, not even bothering to check their tickets. He showed them to their seats, and while Grissom was still sitting down, Sara couldn't resist the temptation and checked her ticket. 22A - exactly where she was sitting now. She wondered briefly if he often came here with a guest, and then very firmly told herself not to go there.
There were still ten minutes before curtain, and Sara staved off her need to fidget by reading the program Cameron had given her right before she'd sat down.
"The part of Senor Leonato will be played by Colin Amberly tonight," she read from an inset page. Flipping to the cast page, she found Colin Amberly's picture listed under understudy for both Senor Leonato and Antonio.
Grissom was being suspiciously quiet, and she snuck a glance at him to see that he was reading his program intently.
Sara had never been the play-going type. The last time she'd taken literature had been senior year in high school, and she'd been incredibly glad to go straight into physics at Harvard. Literature offered too many gray areas, too much touchy-feely interpretation. There had been times when she'd wondered if she were missing something, but she'd always shaken herself out of it and delved back into science.
Falling in love with Grissom had spun that worldview the full hundred and eighty degrees. There was nothing that didn't fascinate him, and his love of learning was ingrained even more deply than his love of science. So slowly, she'd been opening herself to his teachings, quizzing him on the books she found in the townhouse, drawing him into a debate over a book she'd picked up at the library because it had been highly ranked by the New York Times.
His response had been gratifyingly overwhelming, and as he opened up to her, she'd only fallen more deeply in love with the complex, incredible man.
"She missed a line," Grissom murmured, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The woman in front of him glanced over her shoulder in an annoyed gesture, but he ignored her.
"Maybe - " Sara hesitated, and then continued her whisper. "Maybe she just decided not to say it," she suggested.
He knew she had almost said "Maybe you didn't hear it," and he was grateful that she hadn't continued in that vein.
"Possible," he whispered back, but inwardly he doubted it. There was something off about this entire scene. Hero had fainted dead away when first accused by Claudio, and she had yet to even twitch. Certainly, the scene was open to interpretation, but he doubted the Las Vegas Repertory Company would have interpreted so far as to cut Hero's responses to the scene.
Her second line passed, and she was still wan and pale, head lolling where it rested on Beatrice's shoulder, and Grissom frowned. Something was very, very off about this scene. She didn't exit so much as she was dragged, slumped between Leonato and the friar's shoulders.
Sara's soft sigh distracted him completely, and he took his eyes from the stage to be completely enchanted by the sight of a smile that could only be described as goofy. Beatrice and Benedick were proclaiming their love for each other on stage, and for a brief moment Sara turned her head to look at him, and then that same smile was directed entirely at him. His heart turned in his chest, and he squeezed her fingers gently before turning his attention back to Beatrice's tirade on stage.
The scene ended, and the house lights went up, signifying intermission.
"Well?" he asked her, intensely curious as to her interpretation of the play thus far.
He was met with the full Sidle smile. "It's good. It's really good. I mean, it stretches the bounds of logic a little far. I don't really get how Claudio is going to completely forget how angry he is with her just because he thinks she's dead."
"Death is final," Grissom suggested. "Claudio loves Hero, no matter what he accused her of, and to have his last words to her be so cruel that they killed her..."
Sara seemed to consider that for a few moments. "And I'm not really going to get into the stupidity of the whole virginity question, because I know that was typical of the time period. But he seemed a little too ready to believe something like that even on so little evidence."
They debated like that, easily, and Grissom was fascinated by the workings of her mind. He could very nearly see the wheels turning as she stretched to apply herself to this new discipline, much as he had observed her from the podium at the seminar so many years ago. There was nothing quite like it in the world.
The lights flickered to signify the end to intermission, and they both settled back into their seats, Grissom once again capturing her fingers with his.
But instead of the house lights going down, a spotlight was trained on the stage, and a man in a tuxedo appeared.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that due to uncontrollable circumstances, tonight's performance of Much Ado About Nothing will not be continued. If you wish to exchange your tickets or receive a reimbursement, please address yourselves to the box office in the lobby at this time, or at a later date. Please accept our utmost apologies."
Hero. The young woman playing Hero - what was her name? Grissom flipped through his program. Bianca Tolmen.
"That's weird," Sara commented. "Does this happen often?"
He shook his head as he stood up to let people by. "Almost never."