A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys rock! :) It does my little heart good to see that y'all are enjoying it.
Please forgive my feeble attempt at being bilingual. You'd think, after five years of Spanish in school, one would be somewhat proficient at it but, in my case, no. :) I did the best I could with my old college textbook and an Internet language translator, but I hope those of you who really speak the language will give me some grace if it's incorrect.
I'm not sure if the term "PC" is known to everyone, especially to those outside the US. It means "politically correct" and is a fairly common catchphrase here; it's usually used as terminology for language that is so watered-down that it couldn't possibly offend anyone. Just thought I'd define that for those of you lucky enough to not have it crammed down your throat at every opportunity. :)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I'm not a CSI: owner or writer, but I play one on the Internet. :)
Chapter 11: Food for ThoughtTo say Sara was startled by his comment would have been an understatement. It quite literally rendered her speechless, and she stood immobilized for a long moment before she realized he was awaiting her response. When she did, she merely nodded, still muted by shock, and began to slowly gather the contents of the Shea case file.
She watched as Grissom, seemingly unfazed by either his own statement or her reaction to it, closed the computerized photographs and walked towards the door, pausing at the entrance to wait for her. She absently followed him down the hall and to his Denali, too engrossed in her own stunned thoughts to absorb his bemused expression.
She didn't know why a comment as innocuous as, "Let's go home," could both thrill and frustrate her to the core. After all, she had used those same three words herself on a hundred separate occasions with Nick, several times with Warrick, once or twice with Catherine. For that matter, she'd even uttered them once to Grissom himself. At the conclusion of a harrowing case involving a pair of teenagers who had drunk morphine liquid in a misguided attempt to be Romeo and Juliet, she had used those words to herd him out of his office after they'd each worked three consecutive days of double shifts.
But they hadn't been going to the same "home" then. Maybe that's why the words sounded so much more intimate this time. Maybe it was because Grissom was saying them to her rather than vice versa. Or maybe it was just because she wanted them to mean something more than their literal definitions.
At first, Grissom welcomed the quiet drive, as he had initially been afraid that Sara would call him on the flirtatious nature of his comment. He never really set out to say things like that but, on occasion, his feelings would overflow into his words before he could stop them. The truth was, he was both excited and terrified that she would be staying with him. And he felt a little guilty about both emotions.
As the stillness stretched out between them, it became palpable, and his thoughts wandered to what she must be thinking. He could remember the one time she had said those words to him. The case had been exhausting both mentally and physically, and it all came down to the desire of two teenagers to be together over their parents' objections. He and Sara eventually discovered that the star-crossed pair, hoping to feign suicide in a desperate bid to get their parents' attention, had died accidentally because they'd followed the dosage label on the prescription bottle of morphine left over from a terminally ill grandmother. Unfortunately, that dose had been 40 times the amount that a person who didn't routinely take narcotics would be given. The official cause of death was respiratory arrest. But Sara's description had been more accurate: "They weren't trying to die. They were just trying to get their parents to listen. This was a senseless tragedy that could have been avoided if everyone hadn't been so caught up in themselves. Those kids died because of selfishness."
When the silence at last became oppressive, Grissom could bear it no longer. "What are you thinking?" He really did want to know, if only to see if he had guessed her thoughts correctly.
The question shook her out of her reverie. "Huh? Oh, uh... nothing really. Just about a case." She didn't elaborate further, not really wanting him to know which case or the reasons behind the thoughts. Glancing about quickly for something to divert his attention, it surprised her to see that they were stopped at a traffic light only a few blocks from the interstate's on-ramp. They had come several miles without her really noticing. Suddenly, she saw something that caught her eye. "What day is today?" she asked, almost frantically.
"What?" The distress in her voice caught him off guard. He looked down at his watch. "Um... Wednesday."
"Crap." She turned to face him then, an apologetic look in her eyes. "I really hate to ask you this, but, um..." She stopped, biting her lip as she considered the situation. He was being so nice, and she had no desire to ruin things by being inconsiderate. Maybe she could skip this week...
When she didn't continue, he glanced sideways at her. The light turned green, and he pushed in the accelerator as he spoke. "What is it, Sara?"
Just ask him. The worst he can do is say no. She pointed to a small roadside stand with a battered truck parked beside it. "Um, I usually stop at that produce stand on Wednesdays. The owner kind of knows me now, and she'd worry if I didn't show up. Would it be OK if we stopped? It'll only take a minute."
"Of course we can." He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice. Did she really think he'd deny her such a simple request? He sighed as he maneuvered the big SUV onto the shoulder and turned off the engine.
They had not even gotten their feet firmly on the ground when a yell of "Sarita!" came from inside the dilapidated shack. Grissom was astounded to see a smile come across Sara's face as she saw a gnarled elderly woman with a matching grin. Glancing over at him as they walked towards the stand, she shrugged, saying quietly, "I like to buy her produce. She's trying to help support her family back in Mexico, and she's all alone here. I feel for her." She shrugged and added with a grin, "Plus, she's teaching me Spanish."
Ducking under the hooded front of the produce stand, she spoke happily to its occupant. "Hola!"
"Hola, Sarita! Buenos días!" Eying Grissom through narrowed eyes, the old woman said, "Quien es el?"
"This is my boss, Gil Gri-"
The old woman cut her off with a cluck of the tongue. "En español, Sarita."
"Sí," Sara said with a chuckle. "Um... es mi... uh..." She thought for a moment and finally gave up on trying to remember the Spanish word for "boss," opting instead for one she hoped he wouldn't mind. "...amigo, Gil Grissom."
She looked over at him timidly, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes were unreadable behind sunglasses, and his face was nearly impassive as well, but the slight upward curvature of his lips gave away the fact that he was pleased with her wording change. With a smile, she informed him, "Grissom, this is my friend, Lupe Hidalgo."
"Ee-dalgo." Lupe corrected Sara's mispronunciation of the silent "H" in her last name.
"Ee-dalgo," the younger woman dutifully repeated.
Giving Grissom a quick once-over, Lupe nodded approvingly and fixed the younger woman with a knowing glance as she said, "Es muy hermoso. Hace una pareja agradable." Sara shook her head in confusion. She understood that Lupe had said he was handsome, but the last part was a little beyond her rudimentary skills.
Grissom looked questioningly at Sara, patiently awaiting her translation. Hating herself for the slow flush that crept up her cheeks, she shrugged and said, "Uh... she said you're very handsome, but that last part was a little beyond me."
Lupe looked at her with surprise. "Sarita, no comprendes?"
But, to Sara's great surprise, her boss broke in. "Gracias, Señora," he said with perfect intonation. "Estoy de acuerdo." As he spoke, he looked directly at Sara. With a mischievous wink, he intrepeted, "She said we make a nice couple. I just agreed with her." And, for the second time that morning, she was stunned speechless.
Lupe, on the other hand, was overjoyed at this unexpected turn of events. She began to chatter in her native language, and the younger woman could only pick up the odd word here and there. Grissom, however, participated fully in the conversation, leaving his astounded counterpart to wonder how he came to be fluent in Spanish. After a few minutes of lively dialogue, he turned to Sara. "She says the tomatoes and corn are especially good today."
"Sarita, good... uh... como se dice... good fruit." She punctuated her statement with an emphatic point at the aforementioned fruit, proud that she had remembered the English word without prompting. "Vaya." She gestured toward the interior of the stand, indicating that they should inspect her wares.
Sara nodded and headed off towards the fruit, with Grissom following closely behind. But, as he walked past Lupe, the older woman suddenly grabbed his arm. Waiting until he looked at her, she fixed him with a serious look and said, "Señor, tratarla bien. Ella te quiere." She then dropped his arm and ambled off toward her pickup, ignoring his dumbfounded stare.
But Grissom could not believe his ears. Treat her well? She loves me? Did I hear that right? He knew he had, but he could not fathom how Lupe had come by this knowledge. Had Sara confessed her feelings to the old woman? He quickly dismissed that thought, knowing she was much too private for a revelation of such magnitude to an acquaintance at a roadside produce stand. But that left him with only the questionable ramblings of an elderly stranger, unreliable to even be considered as evidence. Why then had her statement so enraptured his heart?
Sara's voice shook him out of his musings. "Hey, Griss? Wanna come help me decide?" He nodded and walked toward her, smiling a little at the confusion evident on her face. Turning to face him, she held out the objects of her deliberation. "Apples or oranges?"
He laughed out loud then, and seeing her surprised expression amused him all the more. "Boy, you're taking a walk on the wild side, Sara. Why don't you really live on the edge? I think I saw some bananas over there."
She pursed her lips into a pouting smirk before responding, "You are so less than helpful."
"Hey, come on, I'm helpful," he argued, taking her basket in a conciliatory gesture and cocking his head in thought as he considered the options. "Go with the oranges." Upon seeing her quizzical look, he queried, "What? I like oranges." When she continued to stare at him, he finally dropped his head shyly and added, "They remind me of home."
She smiled warmly as she obligingly dropped several of the colorful fruits into the basket. His timid admission had pleased her more than she could imagine, but she knew he wasn't comfortable sharing personal information. Trying to put him more at ease, she changed the subject. "So I didn't know you spoke Spanish."
He grinned. "I'm from California. What'd you expect?"
She shot him a mock glare as she moved to a table covered in plump red tomatoes, expertly selecting three of the riper ones. "Well, so am I, wise guy. And I took three years of Spanish in school, but I still can't speak it to save my life."
"Sara, you're from San Francisco. You'd be more likely to speak Chinese than Spanish." Seeing her mildly annoyed pout, he smiled and continued. "I, on the other hand, grew up three hours from the Mexican border. If I didn't speak Spanish, I couldn't have shopped at half the stores in my neighborhood."
She chuckled as she looked over a table covered in beans, mentally adding the interesting tidbit to her rapidly growing Grissom file. She wanted so badly to ask him more about his childhood, to find out everything she could about this man who so fascinated her. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that it surprised her when he grabbed her arm as she reached for lima beans. He shook his head when she looked up. "Not those. Please."
The smile that originally developed at his words faded when she saw his pained expression. "You don't like lima beans?"
He shook his head again, meeting her eyes and trying his best to smile. "Bad memories. I had this stomach virus when I was a kid and haven't eaten them since." He shuddered slightly, a move that was vaguely reminiscient of a little boy, and she found it completely endearing.
Remembering his manners, he peered at her closely, his desire to be a good host warring with his aversion to the offending vegetable. "Of course, if you really like them, it's OK if we get some."
She smiled as she dropped the beans. "Nah. I can take 'em or leave 'em."
He heaved a sigh of relief. "Good. Let's leave 'em."
She laughed as he steered her away from the table.
XXXXXXXXX
Sara's eyes widened when they pulled into the grocery store's parking lot, and she looked at Grissom quizzically. He shrugged in reply. "Fresh produce aside, I don't have much in my house that can sustain a vegetarian. Besides, I have no idea what you like to eat, so I probably don't have your favorite foods. I thought we should remedy that problem."
The thought that he was trying to make her feel at home in his house warmed her heart, and she was smiling as they stepped out of the SUV. Maybe this situation wasn't as bad as she had originally thought it would be. As a matter of fact, threatening note from crazed serial killer notwithstanding, she was pretty happy to be here right now. After all, she was staying with the most intelligent man she'd ever come across, able to bounce ideas off of him whenever she wanted, watch how he behaved in his own home, maybe even see him in less professional attire again... Down, girl. Don't go there. She shook her head to clear the inappropriate thoughts as she followed him across the parking lot.
He pulled a shopping cart from a column at the front of the store and gestured for Sara to go ahead of him. "You lead, I'll follow."
One corner of her mouth quirked upwards, and she started to do as requested. But it didn't take long for her to realize that the store's layout was unfamiliar, and she would never be able to find things quickly. She stopped and looked at him. "Um... I don't really know where I'm going in here."
He nodded, understanding the problem immediately. "Why don't we just go down every aisle? That way, we don't miss anything important. For either of us," he added with a smile.
"Sounds like a plan."
Sara found the shopping trip an entertaining educational experience. It didn't take long for her to discover that Grissom was meticulously accurate in his search for value ("The spaghetti's only 10.5 cents an ounce, as opposed to 12 for that linguini"), methodically unhealthy in his desire for taste ("But I don't look for what's better for me. I just buy what I like. And I like white bread"), and maddeningly consistent in his disdain for desserts ("I've never seen the attraction of sweets").
Grissom wasn't sure he'd ever actually enjoyed a trip to the grocery store before. He'd always seen it as something of a utilitarian chore and, thus, one to be completed in as expedient a manner as possible. But Sara made it... fun. Her analysis of various pasta values ("But linguini is a larger noodle than spaghetti so, even though it's $1.48 rather than $1.27, it's more bang for the buck"), her scientific approach to choosing bread ("You know, it's been documented that wheat bread is more nutritious than white"), and her paradoxical passion for all things sweet ("Twizzlers are the fifth food group, you know") all combined to make the task altogether a pleasurable one.
By the time they started down the frozen food aisle, their cart was nearly full and Grissom found himself disappointed that the shopping spree was nearing its conclusion. Leaving her side briefly, he walked to the end of the aisle to retrieve a gallon of milk, choosing one from the back of the shelf and checking to ensure the date emblazoned on its plastic surface was yet many days hence. When he turned back, he observed her for a long moment as she opened various freezer doors to make selections from the contents inside. He allowed himself to fully absorb the fact that he was enjoying himself and the reasons behind it. The playful conversation, the education on her likes and dislikes, even the shopping itself. But he knew that it all came down to the fact that he just enjoyed spending time with her, and it didn't really matter what they were doing.
It came as no great revelation that he found her company enjoyable. He'd known that for years, but his usual approach was to try not to focus on how much he liked being around her. Unfortunately, with the amount of time they would be spending together in the coming weeks, his typical solution would become increasingly difficult to enact. But he didn't want to think about the consequences of straying from his normal path. Forcing away the inevitable thoughts of how he would feel once she left his home, he chose instead to live for the moment and take pleasure in what he had available to him now – Sara's presence.
Returning to stand beside her, he found her staring contemplatively at one of the freezers. When he saw its contents, he laughed aloud. "Ice cream?"
She turned to face him with a frown. "Yeah. So?"
He smirked. "How is it that a vegetarian has such a sweet tooth? I thought you people were supposed to be healthier than the rest of us."
"'You people'?" She repeated with a mock glare, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Geez, Grissom, how very PC of you. You make it sound like we're alien creatures or some undesirable species of insect. You know, we're really not that unusual. And, besides, everybody likes ice cream. It's a well-known fact." Her twitching lips belied her stern tone.
He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. "I never said you were aliens or insects. And, for your information, there are no undesirable insects. Oh, and I beg to differ with your ice cream comment. I would be the exception to that so-called 'well-known fact.'"
"What?" She gaped at him. "You really don't like ice cream? Or are you just trying to prove me wrong?"
He shook his head as the left side of his mouth climbed upwards into a lopsided grin. "Much as I do enjoy proving you wrong, that's not my goal here. I just really don't like ice cream. Who knows, maybe I had too much as a kid. Yuck."
"What brand did you have?"
"Huh?" The question caught him by surprise. "I don't know. Some generic brand, I guess. We never really had an overabundance of money."
"Well, that explains it," she responded. "'Yuck' is the scientifically correct term to describe store-brand, which is often incorrectly labeled as ice cream. Really, it's ice crap." She grinned when he laughed. Pointing to the freezer as she spoke, she said, "This is the good stuff, Professor. Breyer's. Just a step down from homemade, and a small step at that. And, for the sake of science, you must allow me to prove it to you. Are you willing to participate in a little experiment?"
"That depends. What's your hypothesis?"
"Well, since I can't prove that everyone likes ice cream without conducting this experiment on a large representative sample, it can't be that. But I can prove that one person who claims to be the exception to that – who says he doesn't like any ice cream – will like Breyer's."
"And how exactly do you propose to prove – or disprove – this hypothesis of yours?"
"By having you try some. You game?"
He narrowed his eyes at her for a second before replying, weighing his options. In the end, it was her smile that was his undoing. Just like always, he thought as he nodded in response to her question. Rolling his eyes, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "The things I do for science."
She grinned, studying him for a second before turning her eyes back to the freezer. Scanning its contents quickly, she opened the door and selected a carton. Holding it up for him to see, she said, "We'll start you off nice and easy. Nothing exotic, just basic vanilla. We'll work you up to the good stuff next time." She dropped the container into the cart and grasped the front of the basket, pulling it down the aisle as Grissom pushed behind her.
He couldn't resist teasing her a little more. "Next time? You seem pretty assured of how this little experiment will turn out, Miss Sidle. Not very scientific of you, as it may bias your results."
She beamed at him as they rounded the corner toward the cash registers and tossed back over her shoulder casually, "I'm not worried about the results. I know my subject. Breyer's won't let me down, and you're gonna love me when I prove my hypothesis."
He knew she was talking about the ice cream, but he couldn't stop his scientific brain from invalidating her statement. But that incorrectly assumes I don't love you already.
TBC...