Author's Note: I'm estimating that this story will be complete at around 80K words/16 chapters. It's currently over half finished (50K words/11 chapters), and the rest is outlined, so I felt like I had enough buffer to start posting. I'm not sure exactly how often I'll be posting new chapters, but probably every 3-4 weeks until I finish the story, and then a little quicker, so if you enjoy the story and want to be notified when new chapters are posted, please subscribe.
This story begins during late summer between Seasons 5 and 6, and is fully canon compliant. It is technically a continuation of the universe I created in my earlier story More Myself Than I Am, which consists of several short stories spanning pre-canon to late Season 5 and explores how they become a couple. Since both stories are canon-compliant and references in this story to my previous story are minor, you don't need to read that first in order to read this one. (But you should, because it's really sweet!)
Grissom slammed the trunk, closing in both of their kits as well as a pile of evidence bags, and then turned to face Sara. He lifted the keys, letting them dangle between his fingers in obvious invitation, and she reached forward and closed her hand around them with a grin. Her fingers brushed his as she pulled away, and he tried, and failed, to stifle a smile.
His gaze was drawn to her pursed lips, instinctively recalling the feel of them against his skin last night. The twinkle in her eyes said she had a pretty good idea of the direction of his thoughts. She spun on her heel and strode toward the driver's side door, leaving him alone at the rear of the SUV.
He turned and caught the attention of the uniformed cop lingering nearby, giving him a nod that said they were finished with the scene, and the man reached for his radio to call in his own departure.
By the time Grissom slid into the passenger seat, the air conditioning was already blowing, taking the edge off the stifling heat of the enclosed vehicle, and the radio was tuned to a song he didn't recognize. Sara had her sunglasses on, so he couldn't see her eyes, but her face was relaxed, and she was humming along to the radio. She put the Denali in drive and then lifted a hand to wave at the officer as he pulled out ahead of them onto the quiet suburban street.
Their work at the crime scene had been routine: processing the site of a burglary that had gone awry when a homeowner surprised an intruder with a shotgun blast to the arm. The intruder's wound had not been fatal, and the attempted burglar had fled on foot, leaving plenty of DNA and fingerprint evidence in his wake.
The upscale residential neighborhood had been plagued by a string of burglaries over the summer, and the lab had DNA or fingerprints on file from all of those open cases. Given the similar M.O. of this intruder, Grissom suspected they would be able to link this crime to those as well.
Based on the amount of blood at the scene, police officers assigned to the case were confident the suspect would need to seek medical care, and as such were canvassing local hospitals. If the officers were successful in their quest, they would have their suspect in custody by the time the lab was able to link him to the previous break ins.
"I'll submit these samples as soon as we get in," Sara said, as if reading his thoughts. She kept one hand on the wheel, while the other tapped anxiously at the gear shift between them. "Hopefully we beat Nick and Warrick back, and our evidence doesn't wind up in line behind theirs."
"It's not a rush," he countered. Nick and Warrick had been sent to a double homicide. If they needed DNA to identify their suspect, he was fine with letting them jump the line.
The sun was just beginning to rise, and he let his gaze linger as the warm light spilled through the windshield illuminating her face. He wondered idly how many times they had sat like this, alone on the way to or from a crime scene; how many hundreds of mornings he had spent watching her surreptitiously, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.
He reached forward impulsively and slid his hand under hers, twining their fingers together. Her eyebrows shot up, and she stilled for a second, then she gave his hand a squeeze as the corners of her mouth curled up.
He smiled back and pulled her hand into his lap, stroking gently with his thumb.
"We're at work," she chastised, but there was no censure in her tone.
He shrugged. There was no one to see them here, and they both knew it.
For months now, they had been spending their nights as amiable coworkers and then slinking away as the sun rose to the privacy of their homes to live a second, secret life. If anyone had noticed that they worked together a little more often or with a little less strife, they likely chalked it up to the upheaval at work over the preceding months – the restructuring of the team, Sara's suspension, Nick's kidnapping, and the reintegration of the two teams back into the original night shift. All of them had been affected, to some degree, by the disruptions in their routine and the terror they had felt at nearly losing one of their own. If their taciturn supervisor and his hotheaded protege had both mellowed a little in the aftermath and now found it easier to work together without sniping, that must seem an unremarkable and welcome development.
So, they all went about their jobs as they always had, looking past the lies and finding the truth in the evidence of the crimes they investigated. Meanwhile, he and Sara concealed evidence of their own, and every day committed the sin of lying by omission to the people they considered their closest friends.
But despite the lies, and the violation of lab policies that had held him back for so long, he could not bring himself to feel guilty.
His days were no longer spent sitting alone in his sterile townhouse, filling his time with study or work or the mindless watching of television sports to keep himself from contemplating too deeply his solitary life. Instead, they were full of laughter, and sweet smiles, and rambling confidences, and comfortable, companionable silences. He no longer slept every night alone in his bed, his book and glasses abandoned beside him. Instead, more often than not, he fell asleep, sated and well loved, curled around the beautiful body of the woman beside him.
Yesterday he had turned forty-nine years old, and for the first time in decades he had actually enjoyed the day. He hadn't planned to acknowledge it all, but Sara had surprised him with tickets, and they had spent the evening eating popcorn and cheering in the stands for the Aviators, Las Vegas' minor league baseball team, before returning to his townhouse for a private celebration of their own. He could not — would not — feel guilty for this happiness.
For the first time in his life, rather than lingering at work, racking up hours of overtime, he found himself watching the clock, eagerly anticipating the end of his shift so they could be alone together. Stolen moments like these, holding her hand in the car on the way back to the lab, made the long hours of subterfuge bearable.
"I have a breakfast meeting today," he told her, wrinkling his nose in distaste. His monthly shift supervisor meeting, something he had never enjoyed, was even more insufferable since Conrad Ecklie had taken the helm. Today, the thought of eating bagels and drinking coffee while Ecklie pontificated – when he could be on the couch beside Sara eating breakfast and watching an obscure documentary or an old movie, sneaking glances at her and counting the minutes until he could take her bed – made him irrationally angry.
She nodded, clearly unsurprised by this news, and something in him warmed at the simple domesticity of her knowing his schedule.
"I was going to do some laundry, water my plants…you know," she said with a casual shrug.
In the beginning, they had spent most of their time at her apartment, but over the last few months they had gravitated more and more to his townhouse until their time was more evenly split.
He had never liked having someone in his space; had never had an overnight guest before Sara. Even the occasional visitor – Catherine or Brass dropping by uninvited usually – left him unsettled, unable to relax. But he had pressed through her first few awkward visits, resolved to move their relationship forward. Then suddenly the awkwardness was gone, and having her there meant he could be in his favorite place with his favorite person, and he wasn't quite sure why he had resisted the idea for so long. Months later, he was still surprised by how comfortable it felt having Sara there.
She had spent the last three nights at his place. It made sense that she was looking forward to spending a little time at home getting caught up on some chores. He would be tied up at the lab for hours with his meeting, and they would likely both be in early tomorrow, looking for the lab results on the evidence currently sitting in the trunk. So it probably wasn't a bad idea for them to spend a day apart. They were not lovestruck teenagers. He could go home after his meeting, get a good night's sleep, and head back to the lab once he awoke. He would see her at the lab, probably hours before either of them were scheduled to be there. There was no reason he needed to see her in the interim. No reason except the keening want twisting in his breast.
The silence stretched between them, and he saw Sara dart a sideways glance at him before training her eyes back on the road. Still, he said nothing, and finally he saw the corners of her mouth twitch up.
"Would you like to come over after your meeting?" she asked finally, her words laced with tender amusement.
His immediate instinct was to deny it, to tell her he was busy, that he had other plans or was looking forward to having the day to himself. Anything to avoid showing the tender belly of his need for her. But he bit back that response and nodded instead, his desire for her overriding his desire to protect himself.
She said nothing, just nodded back in confirmation, and he settled back into his seat and let the hum of the car on the empty road and the music from the radio quiet his mind. One song ended, and another began. And then he felt her squeeze his hand again gently.
"You don't need an invitation, you know," she said softly, her eyes never leaving the road.
He inhaled deeply, his heart tight in his chest. He would never understand what he had done to deserve her and her endless generosity; her innate ability to give him what he needed; her willingness to make herself vulnerable to him.
He lifted their joined hands and slid their palms apart, keeping his fingers tangled in hers. Then he tilted his head forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm. He heard the hitch in her breathing and prayed she could feel the words he could not say.