Autonomy

by lilyvonschtup

Not my first endeavor into writing, but first fanfic. Original character works with the lab outside forensics and finds herself bonding with the crew, and Grissom in particular. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Joyceanna. Now finished! Feedback?

2. Part 2

Author's Note: Here's the second installment. Hope you all enjoy. Reviews are definitely welcome. This is the part where it starts to warrant its M rating, and if you aren't into some good old fashioned smut, those sections are set off by a row of slash marks//////////////////////////////////////////////. Like so. As always, thanks to Joyceanna.

Disclaimer: puh-lease. All I got is debt. And a cockatiel.

Part Two Early May 2005

Chapter Nine: Settling In

Whunk!

Both of them started from sleep. Vanessa was searching the front room for the source of the noise, but Gil was already up and moving, cursing the paperboy for hitting the door once again. I suppose it could be worse, he thought, he could land it on the roof again.

She watched as he disappeared down the short hallway and heard the door open briefly, then shut again. The paper landed on the coffee table with another loud whap. The early morning sun was slanting through the living room windows, creating a series of slanting patterns on the concrete floor. As her mind reorganized itself from sleep, she found herself mesmerized by them. As coherency reasserted itself, she looked up at him as he attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"Don't wake yourself up on my account," she told him, "you look tired. Go to bed."

He looked at her with a crooked smile, "you don't look so lively, yourself," he told her. "No," he continued, "once I'm up, I'm up. That couch isn't the best place to sleep, why don't you go to the guest room and catch a couple more hours?"

She shook her head, "unfortunately, I'm with you. I'm awake, which means I'm pretty much done for," she offered. "Hey, are you a morning shower person, or an evening shower person?"

"As subjective as the term is, morning," he replied, "why?"

"That works out well," she muttered considering her tendency to bathe when she got home from work -- an old habit from working in restaurants and cleaning houses during lean financial times. "Just wondering. Why don't you go do that and I'll get coffee started."

He was surprised to find himself nodding and turning toward his bedroom with its adjoining bath -- how had he gotten so comfortable with her being in his space so quickly? She smiled a little as she watched him amble down the hall shaking his head. She had to admit, even if only to herself in the solitude of the kitchen, that he looked kind of cute when he was rumpled. She'd been fighting back an urge to straighten his hair with her fingers. Knock it off, she admonished herself as she reached into the cupboard for the coffee, only to find that it was the whole bean kind, and she would have to search for the grinder. What are you, sixteen? her thoughts continued, he's been gracious enough to give you a place to stay while you look for another apartment and here you are, treating him like a piece of eye candy. And yet, she'd found sleeping on the couch with him more restful than many nights she'd had lately. In fact, she couldn't remember when she'd slept so well.

Her attention wandered again as she stared out the kitchen window. A cactus garden would be nice out there, and easy to take care of. She ran through a few of the more common varieties of flowering cacti that she knew of before she stomped on that thought, as well. This is not a permanent arrangement, she reminded herself, and forced her legs to move back to the cupboards in search of the coffee grinder.

By the time he emerged from the back of the house, the coffee was well underway, and she was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread out before her, scanning local government news first. She had opened the blinds and light spilled over the table. He was struck once more by how limber she was, as she sat with her legs pulled up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees.

"Hungry?" he asked, stepping into the room.

"I'm not much of a breakfast-eater," she said, looking up. "Sorry I took liberty with the paper. I was just going to look through the 'for rent' pages, but got distracted."

"As long as you didn't molest the cross word..." he warned. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Oh, its okay. I'm really not --"

"Scrambled?" he pushed.

"I'm not gonna win this one, am I?" she asked, ruefully. He crossed his arms and shook his head at her, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitching. "I surrender. Scrambled it is. But I'm doing the dishes again."

"Maybe, maybe not," he replied enigmatically, rummaging around for a frying pan. She noticed appreciatively that it was well seasoned cast iron, the black metal gleaming with an almost mirror-like finish. She found herself stepping into the kitchen on the pretense of getting coffee for the both of them, but wound up standing by the stove.

She couldn't resist. She picked up the pan, enjoying the heft of it in her hand, the way the muscles in her forearm pulled against its weight to hold it up. "Now that is a sexy pan," she said.

She saw him stop short for a moment, then recover, "flattery will get you nowhere with it. Its not that kind of pan," he teased.

She laughed at his joke, "seriously. Most people don't understand how to take care of a cast iron pan any more. I find lots of them at yard sales covered in rust. My aunt would roll over in her grave if she could see them. Needless to say, I have a whole collection of restored cast iron in storage with the rest of my stuff..." she trailed off, looking almost wistfully at the pan.

"Your aunt?" He realized that even though they had discussed his family, briefly, last night, he knew nothing of hers. He cracked eggs in a bowl and started beating them with a heavy wire whisk.

"She was a cook," she started, setting a cup of coffee on the counter beside him and taking one for herself, "not a chef, mind you, but a cook. The woman was an absolute legend, though. People still talk about her bread, and pies, and the things she could do with chicken were absolutely inspired. She worked on farms and in small towns in the Midwest -- actually she followed the migrant workers for the most part. Wherever they were, she knew there would be a kitchen that needed her help."

"Is that where you learned to handle a knife?" He asked, remembering dinner the night before.

"Among other things," she smirked. "You really should let me cook for you. Nothing I make would be considered part of a 'low fat' diet, but I do pretty good...not to toot my own horn, or anything."

The sharp sizzle as the eggs hit the hot pan was always one of her favorite kitchen sounds. She turned and started setting out dishes and utensils. "Do you like pepper on your eggs?" he asked.

"Yeah, lots of it, why?"

"No reason. Why don't you go set the table," she could have sworn she saw him trying not to laugh, and she looked at him suspiciously, plates in hand. "Trust me," he finished. Which inspired her to do anything but. Her eyes narrowed, but she walked to the table, cleared the newspaper and set out dishes anyway.

When the food arrived, she pushed the eggs around on her plate experimentally, looking for any odd surprised that might be hidden in them. The surprise was hidden in plain sight, though. "Are those ants?" she said, her face no more than three inches from the plate.

He just laughed. "There are ants in these eggs," she looked up at him without lifting her head. He laughed harder. She made two conscious decisions at that point. He needed to laugh more. And she was going to eat ants. Almost defiantly, she forked the eggs into her mouth and chewed, locking her eyes with his.

"But you won't go on a roller coaster..." he teased.

"Hey, this isn't bad," she replied. "Needs a little more salt," she continued, reaching for the dish of salt on the table. "Awww. You shouldn't have," she told him, looking at the coarse flakes of salt sparkling in the bowl. "Kosher salt. You do know how to get a girl's attention, do you know that?" She batted her eyelashes.

He actually blushed a little. Then his eyes became inquisitive. "Jewish?"

"Converted in college. I speak Hebrew and Yiddish and the gantseh magilla," she replied with a laugh.

He looked uncomfortable, "I'm afraid the salt is probably the most kosher thing in my kitchen."

"Its not a very kosher friendly world," she reassured him. "I place dedication to people and my work in the world around me above my eating habits. Then again, I've known people who kept so kosher they were strict vegetarians. It all depends on the person," she finished.

He didn't precisely look satisfied, and made no attempt at a reply. "Really, there's nothing to worry about. I converted reform. God isn't going to strike you sterile for preparing food for me in a pan that was probably seasoned with lard. I love bacon, have been known to indulge in shell fish on occasion. Was there anything other than food that has you unsettled about this?" she felt like she was babbling, trying to smooth over a situation that wasn't anyone's fault.

"I suppose not," he finally replied, his expression still perplexed.

"Then what the hell are you looking at me like that for?" she snapped. In spite of a few good hours of sleep, she was still exhausted and her temper was a bit ragged.

"I was wondering if you would like to stay in my guest room until you find another apartment, but if you don't like to have me looking at you..." his tone was teasing, surprisingly enough.

It wasn't the first time she wished she could better tell what he was thinking, and this time she felt like an ass. She looked down at her plate. "Maybe I should fry up some crow to go with these eggs."

"That won't be necessary," he smiled, "you still look tired. Understandable enough. The offer still stands."

She hated moving. It seemed like just packing was exhausting enough. The problem with that was that the packing was only half the battle. And with the mess the crash pad was in, she'd be lucky if she managed to get all her things together and get them out in one piece.

So she sat in the middle of the floor in a pair of cut off jeans and a bikini top -- the tee shirt long since gone by the way side because of the stifling afternoon heat in the apartment. Even with the front and back doors open and a box fan running, it was almost unbearable. She was pretty sure she could smell herself, and that didn't sit well with her at all.

There was a tentative knock on her bedroom door. She turned, expecting one of her room mates, and instead saw Greg. He looked her up and down and let out a low whistle, "how come you never wore that to the office?" he asked.

"Is there another problem with the contract? Because if there is, I can go down there and set that rat-bastard sheriff and his cohorts straight," heat wasn't any better for her temper than lack of sleep.

"No, actually, Gris asked me to check up on you. Said you might need help moving? Didn't know you two were a thing, not that a person couldn't have seen it coming and all, what with --"

"We're not." She told him firmly. "I'm just using his guest room since my lease is up and I haven't had time to find another place."

"Oh. Sure. Of course," Greg conceded, while he didn't look entirely convinced. He looked over the room, which was littered with flattened boxes, ready to be loaded with her few belongings that weren't in storage. The rest of the apartment was standard bachelor/student caliber; clothes everywhere, the odd pizza box, dishes piled in the sink. "I had a dorm that looked like this," he said, echoing her thoughts.

"Hell, I don't even know where to start," she said, pushing a strand of sweat soaked hair that had escaped her long braid out of her face.

"Clothes?" Greg suggested.

"You just wanna paw through my panty drawer," she said with something resembling a smile. She never would have dreamed of asking, but having help did make the task a little less daunting. She caught him trying his best to look innocent. "Don't even deny it," she warned. "Fine. Clothes first. I just don't want to catch you with my underwear on your head." She reached over and set up a box while Greg pulled drawers out of the dresser.

"I always thought it went easier this way," he commented, "is the dresser going with you?"

"God no. That thing is absolutely heinous." She glared at the piece of furniture, with its almost baroque over done carved scroll work. Half the drawers stuck, and someone had decided to paint it avocado green at one point. Most of the paint was still there. In the places where the green paint had flaked off, robins-egg blue showed through. No telling what the original wood might have been. "The place came furnished, so its just a question of getting everything else squared away." That included binders and files and books that she had strategically made room in the closet for -- all the necessities of research. Computer paper, printer, ink cartridges, pens, pencils, paper clips...and pray to God that none of it got dropped or dumped or otherwise mangled on the rickety stairs to the ground floor.

"Well, that makes our job much easier," he said as he began laying folded tee shirts and pants neatly into the box. Where does he get his energy from? she wondered. It would be obnoxious if it weren't...Greg.

She crossed the room to the closet and began laying out her more formal work clothes out on the bed, organizing them to be zipped into a garment back rather than folded and creased into the box. After all, it wasn't like she had an iron to fix any small imperfections should they come up, and she didn't fancy taking her clothes to the dry cleaner to be steamed. At least this way, any small wrinkles could probably hang out of the clothing, and if need be, she could hang them in the bathroom next time she took a shower and steam them that way.

She was so wrapped up in the logistics of her packing she hadn't even noticed Greg talking to her. "Huh?" she looked up, startled.

"I was just saying I didn't mean to step out of line, earlier, with the you and Grissom thing. I mean, if you two are trying to keep things low-key, that's cool," he obviously wasn't convinced.

"What makes you think there is something going on there?" she asked, slightly flabbergasted.

"Everyone has been wondering...I mean, Nick and Warrick have even placed bets on you two. Cath said she caught you staring at his ass one night," he laughed a little and went on, "and God knows I've caught him watching you a couple times. I don't know...you two just seem to have a...way with each other..." the sentence meandered into silence.

"I wasn't staring at his ass," she grumbled indignantly, remembering the night in question. The more she said it, the more she almost believed it. Yup. Not staring at his ass. Never happened. Not me. Nope, she thought to herself, finally shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "What on earth are you talking about, he was watching me?" Her tone was still grumpy, but she couldn't help the curiosity that forced the question out of her.

"The day you wore that charcoal pinstripe skirt. Actually, I think all the guys liked that. But he was definitely into it. How does a woman your age manage to have legs like you do?" he blurted.

"My age?" her eyebrows shot up. "I oughtta beat you with this coat hanger," she waved the article in her hand around. "I'll show you age, you whippersnapper!"

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, "please, no! I'll behave, I promise, mommie dearest!"

She had to laugh in spite of herself. "Its called lots and lots of dance classes, Greg. Of every type, shape and size. Ballet to ballroom. Weight bearing exercise is good for your bones, you know. Say, don't you feel a little weird talking about your boss that way?" She tried her best to look stern.

"I think it would be good for him to hook up with someone," Greg started as he closed one box and set another up, this time by the closet for books and papers and such. "Don't worry -- I'll be careful. I know what its like to have to put files back in order after a clumsy move," he reassured her before continuing. "He just seems...a little tired lately, I guess. Being a workaholic will only get you so far in life, you know." He raised an eyebrow in her direction.

"Are you trying to say something about me?"

"Just that I've seen you run yourself into the ground the last few weeks, same as I've watched him do the same thing for the last few years, now." She thought it was the first time she'd ever seen him totally serious.

"Well, you should let the big kids worry for themselves," she scolded softly.

That earned her a snort of sarcastic laughter. "And while you guys worry about everyone and everything else, who keeps an eye on you?"

She was darned if she could find a way around that question. Instead of answering, she pulled a drawer from the night stand and began loading its contents into a fresh box.

"Anyhow, like I said, I totally understand if you guys are trying to keep things under wraps. Grissom has always been kind of funny about his space like that. I wouldn't tell anyone."

"There's nothing going on, Greg. I don't know why you aren't convinced, but its the truth. Nothing is going on, and nothing will be going on." She sounded pushy even to herself.

"Whatever," was the only reply she got.

Luckily, Greg had not only come to help her pack, but had managed to get use of one of the work SUVs to haul her stuff in. Thank God for small miracles, she thought as she threw her key on the counter and walked out the door for the last time -- it would only take one trip to get her things squared away.

Chapter Ten: Exposure

As a 'thank you' she'd set about preparing dinner. Something that could be left on the stove indefinitely, in case it was a late night, but could be heated up quick if it was short. Pasta fit the bill nicely. She stopped at the grocery store, scraping her nearly tapped funds to pick up some French bread, tomatoes, red and green peppers, fresh herbs, garlic, shallots, and as a final splurge, shrimp and a bottle of sangiovese. She hoped he had the makings for something chocolate in the cupboards, because she was officially tapped out. She hadn't made mousse in quite some time, but assured herself it was like falling off a bike. Once you had the knack, you never entirely forgot.

As it turned out, the night was an early one. She was sitting on the couch reading when she heard the garage door open and he stepped inside. It was barely five in the morning. She peered over the tops of her glasses at him, "hope you didn't grab dinner."

"Not yet," he looked perplexed, "why?"

"Think of it as my way of saying thank you," she said, uncurling herself from her book and walking toward the kitchen. The sauce was simmering nicely, the wine was open and breathing, all she had to do was start the linguini and get the shrimp going in some butter. "Go get cleaned up, or whatever it is you do when you get home. This will only take about ten minutes, maybe fifteen. You don't have any objection to shell fish, do you?"

"Not if you don't..." he still looked confused, but wandered back to the master bedroom anyhow. There she was, bossing him around again. And for some reason, he didn't mind, which was even more confusing. In his space, curled up on his couch, reading one of his anatomy texts, using his kitchen, his pots and pans, and to all appearances, whipping up a gourmet dinner to thank him. He was damned if he could figure it out, so instead, he just yanked off his tie, kicked off his shoes, and headed back to the front room.

She was the picture of frenetic activity. She put Greg to shame. She bounced from pan to pan, opening the oven to check on something, stirring pasta in a large pot. The table had been cleared of papers (stacked neatly on the coffee table, he noticed), and where once there was a chaos of case reviews, now there were dishes, silverware, glasses and an open bottle of wine. He just stood at the end of the hallway, watching her work. The way she would pick up the frying pan with the shrimp and give them an almost negligent back handed toss while she set the colander in the sink to her right, then return to stirring the medium pot -- it smelled like some sort of tomato sauce.

Finally he stepped softly into the kitchen, "do you need any help out here?" he asked.

"No, doing just fine," she answered breathlessly, hefting the pot with the pasta in it and heading to the sink after removing the frying pan from the burner. "I love a gas stove," she commented, dumping the contents of the pot into the strainer. "Go," she shooed him from the room, "sit down and help yourself to the wine. Bread will be up in a minute."

True to her word, a moment later she appeared with a platter of perfectly toasted garlic bread. "The shrimp need to rest a minute, but the rest will be up shortly," she set the platter down and started to dash back into the kitchen before his voice caught her.

"What on earth is this about?"

"Me using your guest room. Sending Greg to help. There are generations of Midwestern farm wives running through my veins. We show people our gratitude or our appreciation through food. Sit back and let me do this. I have the dishes, too," she finished, making her escape back to the stove.

"I thought you were taking a break between jobs," he called.

"What? You expect me to sit on my toches and grow moss? This is the least I can do. We haven't even discussed how I'm going to compensate you for utilities and rent and such..." her voice faded as she disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving him to shake his head.

Moments later, she appeared, dinner in hand. Shrimp sautéed in butter and garlic, with a touch of olive oil, still sizzling on a bed of linguini, topped with marinara. She stopped and filled both their wine glasses and sat down across the table with her own plate. She saw his hesitation. "What. You think I'm gonna poison you? Dig in!" She scolded.

Dinner was a success, and dessert was nothing short of a miracle, even by her standards. Without the proper ingredients for mousse, she'd opted to try her luck improvising. She came up with mocha cheese cake -- which was as close to tiramisu as she was going to get on her current budget.

She slid her chair back from the table, looking at him expectantly, and allowing herself an internal chuckle at his obvious discomfort. "Well?"

She obviously expected something -- he could tell that much. What that might be, he couldn't tell, and it was leaving him a bit off balance. He was surprised that she could look so composed and cool sitting across the table from him after watching her frantic pace in the kitchen, handling everything at once. He hadn't appreciated a woman like this since...well, best squish that thought. That hadn't gone well. He'd utterly fouled that one up and he knew it.

"You have plenty of flies already. There's no reason to catch any more," she didn't bother hiding her smile this time. He hadn't even realized that his mouth had been hanging open. She stood up and began gathering dishes, taking her glass of wine with her. It was going to her head a little, but in an almost obscenely pleasant way. Her back finally felt relaxed, she was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and her earlier bad temper had long since faded.

She heard him following her, "really, I can help with this," he started.

"Nope. Over my dead body," she tossed over her shoulder, "especially for someone who won't tell me what they thought of my cooking," she looked at him with eyebrows arched high. "I don't ask for compliments where food is concerned, I expect them. Cooking is one of the things I know I do well."

He mentally stumbled a little as he carried his own wine glass into the kitchen, "it was wonderful. I was planning on making tuna salad and working on case reviews. This was definitely a step up from that. How did you afford this?"

"Never you mind," she told him. At least I'll get it back with my damage deposit, she thought, laughing a little at herself, at her own impulsiveness -- something she rarely indulged, at least not where money was concerned. "You know, I really appreciate you sending Greg out to help the other day," she said, turning the faucet all the way to hot.

"He's almost used up his overtime this month, so I figured there had to be another way he could spend his energy."

"Well it really helped, seriously. I hate moving," she said, putting the leftovers into a single container and sliding them into the fridge. "I guess we're quite the rumor mill favorite at the lab."

"Really? What started that?" he asked, moving behind her and grabbing a dish towel. He could at least feel somewhat useful. It was his house and he would dry dishes if he damn well pleased.

"I have no idea. We've supposedly been ogling each other from across crowded rooms for the last few weeks," she laughed a little bit. "Apparently that's all it takes to become quite the hot item among your colleagues. Well, that and I'm taking up space in your guest room."

He looked irritated as he waited for her to set the plates in the drainer. "I thought I told you I had the dishes."

Giving voice, albeit tempered, to his earlier thought, he responded, "Its the least I can do. Can't I dry dishes in my own house?"

She stopped with the dishes and looked at him carefully, and finally relented, "I suppose," she replied, in an almost comically exasperated tone of voice. "If you're really going to twist my arm about it."

"I think I am," he said, "and tomorrow it looks like I'm going to have a discussion with my team concerning speculation about my personal life."

"Oh, let 'em go, Gil," she laughed, "keep 'em guessing. I'm pretty sure Greg told me that in confidence, anyhow. By the way, if we're just trying to keep things low-key, he's 'cool with that,'" she quoted the former lab tech.

He grumped and dried another plate, "sometimes I think he has an over active imagination."

"I'm pretty sure he does, along with everything else, but that's part of his charm -- along with making him good at what he does. I think I set him straight, so maybe it will take care of itself; he seems to be at the bottom of the gossip mill, after all." Which had made him an invaluable asset in her union contract research. Every rumor had a shred of truth in it somewhere, it was simply a matter of chasing down the variations of the story and finding the common threads. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she had a soft spot for the exuberant young man, and was inclined to spare him the wrath of his supervisor.

The wine was definitely going to her head. Together they'd put a pretty good dent in the bottle, leaving just enough for a glass each another day, or to start a sauce with. She should have known to stop at least a glass ago, but it hadn't been so apparent when she'd been sitting down. Then she heard herself ask, "so, in all that ogling, see anything you like?"

He almost dropped the pan he was drying. What the hell is the matter with you? she accosted herself. She even felt herself blushing. Even though she was wearing a light cotton sun dress, the room seemed far too hot. You dumb ass, she continued to berate herself.

"I do not 'ogle' women," he replied in an almost lofty tone of voice. "My mother would probably slap me upside the head if I even thought about it. Doesn't matter that I'm 50 years old, and that I'm a good eight inches taller than she is," he was rambling.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone there. I've made you uncomfortable --" she stammered, before he cut her off.

"Don't worry about it," he told her, sensing the depth of her embarrassment. Turning to put the pan in the drawer under the stove, he continued, "you're intelligent, talented, tenacious, a damn good cook, and attractive. Some guy will be lucky to catch you."

"I'm a little old for that speech," she snorted, "at forty, they aren't exactly banging down my door any longer, not that they ever were. My friends always tell me I'm too picky, but I don't see why I should settle...jeez, listen to me. That wasn't too much information again, was it?"

"You should never lower your standards," he replied sagely.

"The lowly weed hopper is grateful for your approval," she teased, bowing slightly.

He looked at her quizzically, "does your sense of humor ever fail you?"

"Not usually," she told him, "it helps when I screw up if I can laugh at myself. Like just now,"

"You're too hard on yourself, in everything." He said simply. On impulse, he put his arm around her shoulder. She tried to conceal her surprise at the gesture, and failed miserably.

"Pot calling kettle," she tossed back, regaining her composure, and continued, "so you did see something you liked."

"What if I did?"

She shrugged and leaned into him, "can't a girl be curious?" She turned to watch him formulate a response and found herself locked in his gaze. Before she knew it, there was a second arm around her, and his lips found hers. For a stunned moment, she found herself wondering when the last time she'd been kissed was -- a question that gave way to wondering what day or month it was as thoughts slipped from her mind even while her fingers were slipping into his hair.

And then, almost too soon, it was over, and he hadn't quite hidden the cornered rabbit expression in his eyes before she caught it. She'd been on the verge of deciding that a little human closeness wasn't such a bad thing. For all that she spent her days pouring blood, sweat and tears in the needs of others and in close contact with humanity, she rarely invited such closeness into her personal space. She had always considered herself a poor candidate for such things, figuring that after work, she would have too little energy to indulge another human being's needs at home. And she'd been on the verge of admitting to herself that perhaps -- just perhaps -- she might have been staring appreciatively (it sounded less crass than 'ogling') at his ass. Or his shoulders. Or the way his eyes lit up when he stumbled across some new bit of trivia or found the final piece of evidence in a case.

And yet, there had been that look on his face. She looked at her bare toes, focusing on the fact that the second one was ever so slightly longer than the first, at the uneven nail beds that came from her clumsy tendency to run her feet into things and split the nails. Trying to figure out if she'd botched something -- even if she didn't know entirely what that was.

Tact was usually the better part of successful communication, but tact was something she used when she was dealing with petty beurocrats. Tact was a way of talking around people to get them to do the right thing when what they wanted to do was pad their pockets or their egos or whatever else they figured needed padding. Tact, more often than not, was for people she didn't really have a lot of respect for. That wasn't the situation here.

"So...what was that look for?" she asked her toes.

He was off balance again -- and she had to admit to herself that that was kind of cute, too. He looked at her with an expression that was sincerely startled.

"You know -- that deer in the headlights look you just gave me," she willed her neck to bend so that she could look at him.

Again, he found himself surprised with her. She never missed a beat. How did she catch people at things like that? It wasn't just relatively unguarded moments like the one that had just passed between them. He'd seen her do it dozens of times around the lab. In many ways, she was a better politician and people-person than Catherine could ever hope to be. It was like she had a homing sense for minute facial ticks that allowed her to figure out what a person was really thinking, rather than focusing on what they were presenting to the world. He almost laughed, thinking about how that exact ability had frustrated Ecklie and Atwater to no end. She could hear their words, but whether it was body language, tone of voice, or something more ethereal that lay between words, she could always decipher which way they were trying to jump and step neatly around them.

"Now something's funny?" she sounded a little impatient this time. And she did it again. He thought he was better than that at schooling his expression not to reflect his thoughts.

"No...and yes, I suppose. I was just thinking about how pissed Ecklie got when you'd catch him out in one of his political maneuvers."

"And that has what to do with anything?" a little more impatient. Not too much left before the impending explosion that his Uncle had warned him about all those years ago.

And yet, his smarmy side won, "everything and nothing," he told her almost flippantly. He just couldn't help himself sometimes, no matter how serious the situation was. Besides, there was something like steel, both in her eyes and her posture, when her temper got short that was...oddly attractive. Not cold, set steel. Rather, steel fresh from heating and molding, at the top of its strength, still steaming from being quenched. Even if it was directed at him this time.

Her arms crossed in front of her chest and she leaned back onto the kitchen counter and regarded him coolly for a moment. Her body language seemed almost relaxed, and if he hadn't spent his childhood and part of his adult life studying body language to glean expression from his mothers words, he probably would never have noticed the way her lips were faintly pursed, or that the corners of her eyes were slightly pinched.

"I suggest you make your explanation amazingly good," she said in a quiet tone that rolled through the kitchen like distant thunder. She was angry with herself, mostly. She'd let down her guard, and look what it had gotten her. That cornered rabbit look. And she was frustrated with him for not answering her initial question, and for stifling that grin. Combined, she found that her temper in general was exquisitely short at the moment -- she simply wasn't sure who to lash out at.

"Grab some coffee, and let's sit down and talk about this," he suggested, his tone taking some of the acid from her demeanor.

She sat down next to him on the couch with the suggested cup of coffee. "So. Talk." she started, impatiently. If it had been a cartoon moment, she would have been tapping her foot.

"I'm just not much good at this," he admitted. And that was it.

"I thought you were doing just fine," she commented dryly, "unless, of course, you mean to say that you aren't good at answering a direct question."

"I'm not much good with...relationships," he told her hesitantly. "I usually wind up doing all the wrong things. I don't normally act on impulse...like that," it was obvious what he was referring to.

"Why? Why do you think you aren't good with people? Why don't you ever act on impulse? What are you afraid of?" she neatly turned his statement into a question that went right to the heart of the matter.

He winced visibly at her directness, and for once, she didn't give a running damn. Not even if it was in his own space. She felt like he owed her an explanation. And she waited.

"I..." he seemed lost, eyes gone dark and almost murky. "Shit." He ran a hand through his hair self consciously and wouldn't look her in the eye.

Her mood gentled a little and she sat back with her coffee. "Okay. Why don't you just tell me what you're thinking, and we'll go from there," she encouraged.

"Where do you want me to start?" he replied almost sarcastically. "There was a forensic anthropologist who walked out on dinner a few years ago because my cell went off. There was that mess with Lady Heather. I'd had no idea she was diabetic, and when that made her a suspect, neither of us handled it well."

"I think there's something before all that," Vanessa said softly, mentally reviewing her own success rate in the department of relationships. Not encouraging stuff, she had to admit. "I think you've always been a workaholic, but I also get the feeling that there is something more personal making you reluctant to let people close to you. Normally, I wouldn't push. I've got enough skeletons in my closet, God knows," she took a deep breath, "but I also think that we need to figure out what's going on. In light of that -- usual deal. You talk, and I'll talk. And vice versa."

The offer of a level playing field seemed to help, once again. It was something they'd started in personal conversations since she'd had that panic attack, and had continued to use as they'd grown to know each other and understand each other's space.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, "It was when I was still working in LA county, at the coroner's office. You're right, I was always a workaholic. I met Helen when I was releasing a body one night, and we just kept running into each other after that. She seemed smart, and she was attractive. At any rate, we started going out, and then we were living together. Mom tried to tell me that there was something about her that wasn't right, but I wouldn't hear it. We were actually going to get married, when I found out through a colleague that she'd been..." hesitation, again, "cheating. I was always pulling long shifts or long weeks. I figured it was my fault. I let it go, tried to be home more. Then she was pregnant. She was on the pill -- at least I thought she was on the pill -- we'd discussed things and I thought neither of us wanted kids. Not yet, anyway. I adjusted to the idea. I was actually all right with it. Then, one day I came home early and found her 'in flagrante' on the couch with someone, and I lost my temper. Threw the guy and his clothes out on the porch. Went to discuss things with her -- I just didn't understand what was wrong. What I must have done wrong, when I thought I'd done everything I could for her. When I confronted her about it she told me that she'd gotten rid of the baby. She didn't even discuss it with me, just gone off and done it. And there must have been some shred of my Mom's Catholic upbringing clinging to me, because that was all I could handle. It turned out I wasn't as scientific and objective as I thought I was. She went to stay with friends, and I started looking for a new job. That's how I wound up in Minneapolis, actually, working with Gerard..." he got the last part of the story out in, what seemed like a rush to her, and then just stopped.

Vanessa sat in stunned silence for a moment, "you do understand that it wasn't anything you did, don't you?" the question sounded almost stupid in her ears. It had been a long time ago, and surely between then and now someone as intelligent as he was would have sorted that out. But there was a piece of her that wanted to be sure.

"Most of the time," she was surprised to see one corner of his mouth quirk in a self deprecating half smile. "Most of the time, I've avoided thinking about it too much."

She nodded, bracing herself to spill her own pathetic guts. "My turn, I guess. I had, what one might call a series of misadventures, while I was in college," she started. "I'd never really actively pursued anything in the way of a relationship. I figured that I had too many other things eating up my time and energy, and that it wouldn't be fair to whoever got stuck with me. I was an academic, but never cut out for the ivory tower environment, which made me fairly unpopular with a few of the professors in the social science department," she grimaced, thinking about one in particular. "I wanted to get out 'into the field' so to speak and try out all those lofty theories that they spend endless hours in their offices concocting and seeing if they could stand up to the test of reality. Again, not a popular game plan." She stopped herself. "I'm procrastinating. I got burned by this guy who played guitar in one of the local bands. We had a great deal of mutual chemistry, and if we had wound up together, it would have amounted to mutual assured destruction. He was very intense and very private and yet very extroverted. And he never showed the slightest interest until many years later when he came back for a visit after he'd moved overseas. By then I was involved with someone else; he told me I could do better before he left, and that was the last I ever saw or heard from him again," her voice almost stopped in her throat before she went on, "the one I was with when he came back? Ugh. That one was a doozy," she almost laughed at herself. "Mentally and emotionally manipulative, always trying to push my boundaries and invade my space, then claiming his own insecurities were my own until I believed it. Really, thoroughly believed him. It wasn't until he'd sapped almost all my strength and energy defending him from this or that, dropping what I was doing to be by his side no matter how small the complaint was when he called...well, he tried to put a ring on my finger. And I tried to go along with it. I mean, most women are happy when they get something shiny, right? I should have been happy. But I was miserable -- it was one of the worst depressions I've ever dealt with."

"Are you really sure you wanna hear the rest of this?" she asked, breaking her narrative.

"Keep going," he said quietly, drawing her further out of her shell, reasonably sure that, like him, she'd never told a single other person what she was telling him, and not being able to account for that level of comfort and trust no matter how he twisted the thought in his mind and tried to make sense of it.

"He really had me believing that I was...frigid, untrusting, and a psychological burden for anyone to deal with. I kept coming to the same conclusion -- that if I was such a thorough pain in the ass that he would be better off without me, and I tried to leave. Quite a few times. During one of those attempts, I got wound up with this other guy who, for all we could tell, was slipping me roofies when I'd go to his apartment to catch up on philosophy homework. I don't remember a damn thing about that three months, except that I made Dean's list for the first time. Still don't know how I did that. Best grades I ever got," she laughed a little at that. "It caught up with me though. I tried to throw off both of them at the same time, hold down the home front while my Mom was out of the state helping her brother through chemo. Well, I ditched philosophy guy, but not the other one. He latched on tighter than ever, and used everything that happened, that I didn't remember, to put more doubts in my head about myself. About my character. About what I'd done or hadn't done. And I was trapped again. We were fighting all the time, though. There seemed to be a piece of me that woke up when I came out of whatever philosophy guy had been slipping me that knew I had to leave. I couldn't do it for another year, though. Not until I got involved with the local Jewish community, started going to temple on Friday nights, started the conversion process. It was a place were I sought my center. Figured out what it was that I genuinely wanted, as opposed to assuming that what I wanted was what made everyone else happy."

"He tried everything under the sun to intimidate me into going back to him after I finally told him it was done. I avoided him. I had him thrown off campus. I made it clear in writing and verbally that I wasn't having another thing to do with him, and I got on with my life," she finished. "I guess its a 'woman thing' that my explanation was a bit more elaborate than yours."

"Let me guess. You threw yourself into your work to deal with everything and you haven't ever really come up for air since." He was looking at her intently. All of a sudden she had a disconcerting empathy for the insects he studied. They probably got the same look.

"I suppose that's true. I am nothing if not a quick learner, and I learned in a relatively short period of time that me and romance do not mix. Sorta like 'beer before liquor, never sicker.' I get enough social interaction at work, that area of my life is rarely lacking --"

"That's a point worth arguing," he cut in. "In fact, I seem to remember asking you about that once. You work by engaging individuals or communities and working through problems. You stick your neck out, you get your shoulder cried on, and you carry people when they need it. Who's doing any of that for you?"

"I don't need it, they do," she said obstinately.

"And that's a double standard." He finished the debate neatly.

"That's okay. We didn't start this to discuss my double standards. I think now I understand why I got the scared rabbit look. I'm just not sure what happened earlier, and whether it means I should repack my stuff and find somewhere else to stay." There was a stubbornness in her jaw that told him, quite clearly, that she was going to get answers if she had to sit at his bedside and poke him with a stick to get them.

He gave up. They would still be tending to work the same hours, because she was pushing to get the community center open twenty four hours, for a variety of good reasons. Unfortunately, to do that, she had to put her 'money where her mouth was' so to speak, and work the night shift that no one else wanted until she had enough volunteers that she could trust to run things without her.

"I don't know why I did that," he started, but one look at her face made him back pedal. "Well, I know why," he gave a nervous swallow, "you're intelligent, you have a wonderful sense of humor, you challenge me, and you look very appealing, particularly in that dress. And you made an excellent dinner tonight. I'm just not sure why I acted on it the way I did." His expression returned to one of confusion again.

She was silent while she took in the information. "I guess that isn't the question, here. I thank you for the compliment. I'll even accept four out of five." She screwed up her courage, because she knew how he answered the next question would dictate whether or not she was apartment hunting again. And whether or not she'd let her guard down a little, only to get burned again. But it had to be asked. "The question is, are you interested enough to engage this as something more than a single impulsive act? Or do we quickly bury what happened and go back to being acquaintances?" It came out a great deal harder than she'd intended, but it was the only way she was going to get it out there.

He was silent for a long time. Too long. She finally accepted his silence as an answer, slugged back the remains of her coffee, squared her shoulders and stood up to take the cup to the sink. There was a clipped coolness in each of her moves that spoke more than any number of words could. She was working to ball up the side of herself that had wanted to -- been willing to -- share herself with someone else and hide it again. With any luck, it would be buried deeper than before, and she'd never have to take it out again. It wasn't worth it.

He listened to water running in the kitchen, the soft pad of bare soled feet on concrete flooring as she stepped back into the living room, her voice was as clipped as her posture, "I guess I'll be going then," she said, moving toward the door, small purse and keys in hand. She sounded cold and far away, even to herself. She didn't like it, it made her cringe to hear herself sound that way. Almost cruel.

She was just past the couch when she felt a hand on her wrist. She felt her temper weakening again. Blowing up at him was at least, in her estimation, better than crying and showing more weakness than she already had. She turned on him, "excuse me? Just what the hell do you think you're doing? I'm doing you a favor, here. An out. You don't have to tell me a damn thing. I'll just leave and stop cluttering up your life," she spat.

"Wait," he said, so softly she could have missed it. It could have been a figment of her imagination. She continued to glare at him. "I warned you I'm no good at this."

"No shit," she replied. If she weren't sure she could get charged with some variation of assaulting a cop, she might have given in to temptation and slapped him. Instead she watched as he slowly stood up and faced her, lightly holding her wrist the entire time.

"There are no loose ends on your job at the lab to clean up, are there?" he asked carefully.

She shook her head in frustration, "no. what's your point, now?"

"I didn't want to see all your hard work get tossed out if there were implications of favoritism or conflict of interest," he explained.

"To what end. Get on with it. What do you want so I can get out of your hair?" her eyebrows knit low and her mouth was pulled into a tight frown. He couldn't be sure if the color in her cheeks was from embarrassment or anger. Probably both.

"I don't want you to get out of my hair," his voice was held that introspective quality that made her wonder if he was really talking to her or reasoning out loud. "That is, you aren't in my hair. I wish you'd stay." As simple as that, his arms were around her waist and this time there was no trapped rabbit look.

She still stopped him. "I don't expect a commitment, or for you to run outside and declare undying love, or anything. But I do need to know that I won't be some sort of fling or a fix for a case of loneliness." Her voice was, if anything, harder than before, strong, clear and deep, almost tenor. The anger was dissolving from her eyes, however, which he thought had to be a good sign.

"No flings." He told her. "Nothing frivolous. I haven't felt like inviting anyone to get this close in a long time. I don't have time to play games or pretend, and I've never been able to risk myself for momentary gratification. Is that good enough?"

Her shoulders relaxed a little. "I think I can work with that for the time being." This time, the kiss wasn't the tentative demonstration it had been earlier. It was solid, like the feel of his body close to hers. She dropped her purse and her hands stole up to his shoulders, so she could be sure of him. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she was aware that her purse hadn't been closed and its contents were now rolling around on the floor at her feet.

The moment broke, and she was relieve to see that, indeed, the scared rabbit look was gone from his eyes. She hadn't gone out on a limb for nothing. He laughed softly, "if they're going to talk about us, we might as well have the fun that goes with the gossip."

She pondered that briefly. "I can go along with that. I didn't figure you for the type to make a general announcement, though."

"Not really. I think it would be best to keep things 'low key,' to quote Greg, until they are positive they aren't going to call you in anymore on that contract, since, if I understood correctly, they can under one of the clauses in your employment agreement."

They settled back on the couch, one of his arms still around her waist, holding her close, settling into how she fit into the space there. "Probably wise. I suppose that could be bad for both of us," she let her head rest in the crook of his shoulder, almost drowning in the amount of contact that had taken place between them.

"Hey," he brightened, "maybe now I'll get you on that roller coaster."

She hoped he was teasing.

Chapter Ten:

She managed to stay away from the community center for two whole weeks -- of course, she had help. In one terrible day, Nick had been set up, kidnapped, and buried alive, every miserable minute of it caught on a remote feed to the lab's computers. She'd been stuck at the town house the entire time; a situation that ran counter to her instinct to jump into the middle of the situation and at least support the people she'd grown so close to. She also knew that her instinct was wrong. They were running against the clock and she would only be under foot. The time for support would come, though. At least when Nick's parents arrive she'd gotten to feel a little more useful.

When they had finally found him, he'd been covered with painful welts; evidence of the fire ant invasion he'd been victim to. He was half out of his mind, understandably. They'd gotten to him in the proverbial final hour.

Then there was administrative leave to take into consideration. After Nick was release from the hospital, he'd gone to stay with family for a little while to recuperate. Gil had gotten admin leave, as well -- close proximity to two explosions had to earn a guy something.

Vanessa wasn't satisfied with the outcome. Not entirely. The trouble young woman behind bars had just one more reason to be bitter now. The father who had counted on the departmental restrictions regarding ransom would never be brought to justice for his part. However, she couldn't deny that some good had come from what had probably been the most horrific twenty four hours in the team's experience. Conrad Ecklie apparently did harbor some humanity after all -- he'd arranged for Nick and Gil's time off personally, and when they returned, as requested, the group had been reunited.

They weren't through the woods yet -- Gil continued to deal with guilt for what had happened. He was stuck in the idea that if it had been his shift, it wouldn't have happened. He hadn't meant it as an insult to Catherine's leadership on swing; he simply still felt responsible for the safety and welfare of the people who would always be 'his guys' no matter what shift they were on. Nick's words rang in his head, too, even though he never heard them. What ever had given Nick the impression that he had let the supervisor down?

Nick, of course, was coping with an array of psychological after effects, ranging from post-traumatic stress disorder to relatively simple panic attacks. The young man was now in possession of demons that he would probably never be able to entirely exterminate from his mind, and Vanessa found herself aching to help him, and again finding herself limited, at first by geography, and then by his determination to put the experience behind him.

Now, two weeks later, in the early afternoon heat, she stood in front of a building that was covered in graffiti, some of it gang logos and other examples simply wanton ugliness. She looked at the brick wall with a sense of distaste, all the while she felt a familiar determination sinking into her bones. She could turn this around. She could help people. She could give the people in this neighborhood a chance, especially the young ones. What she saw in front of her was infused with a wrongness that she felt in her soul, and she would do everything in her power to clean it and make it right again.

She found the key that had been given to her by the manager of the community association. He'd looked at her with a measure of disbelief when she'd met him in person for the first time; her small stature belied her inner mettle.

"Are you sure about this?" he'd asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I mean, this neighborhood. It's rough. One of the worst, actually. No offense, but looking at you, I'm not sure you're gonna be cut out for this one."

She'd looked him directly in the eyes and held her hand out for the key. "I think I'll surprise you. And I'm nearly positive that this neighborhood doesn't have anything I haven't seen before. Why don't you stand back and let me prove myself before you make your final decision."

He'd reluctantly dropped the key into her open hand and shook his head, "can't say I didn't warn you," he muttered as he went back to sit down behind his desk.

"If you really didn't want me around, that was your first mistake." She'd told him matter-of-factly before walking out into the late afternoon heat.

Now she stood in front of the double metal doors, padlock hung lopsidedly through the two handles, surveying the territory. Dead, dried plants, she hesitated to call anything a weed, had taken over the dirt border along the brick building. An abandoned basketball hoop sat behind a chain link fence. Taking a deep breath, she put the key in the lock and felt the hasp slip as she turned. She pocketed the lock and opened the doors, taking in her domain for the first time.

About fifty feet square, it was dusty and neglected. The floors were polished concrete. A wooden stage sat at the back of the first room. The ceiling soared twenty feet over her head. She was struck by the echo of her own footsteps in the emptiness of the building. She paced around the perimeter of the room, familiarizing herself with its size and the possibilities it held. There was a large kitchen on the left side of the building. The bathrooms were down a small hallway on the right.

She tried the lights and the water with no result, which indicated what her first priority was going to be. A community center wasn't much good to anyone without the basic amenities. She wondered if that was budgeted in, or if she was going to be on her own to hunt down the funding for it. It would also need a thorough cleaning -- she didn't relish the idea of scrubbing the floors or painting the walls, but it would have to be done, along with painting over the graffiti outside.

She was also going to have to research what the graduation requirements for local schools were, and the areas that seemed particularly problematic for students. She began to envision tables with computers along one wall, another wall with bookshelves full of resources for classes, and scholarship and grant information so the kids could have a fighting chance at going to college. She saw the outside walls covered, not with graffiti, but artwork -- get the kids to put their spray paints to good use. She'd seen amazing murals on walls just like this in other cities, and it would give the kids some ownership in the facility. A place to display the talents no one gave them credit for having.

The possibilities overwhelmed her. Having completed her circuit of the building, she stood in the center of the room, gazing around her, mouth shamelessly hanging open, as she began to pull her ideas together, trying to set them down into something concrete. For the moment, though, they were a heady swirl of possibilities, making her heart beat come faster and her eyes widen with wonder. In a sense, this was always her favorite part of taking on a challenge, when everything was new, and the possibilities were endless, not yet hampered with red tape and the limitations of the sensibilities of petty beurocrats. Anything was possible, if she could engage her ideas and her enthusiasm, and pour blood, sweat and tears into the project in front of her. Which she would do happily if she was making a difference for others. She wanted to pass that on to the residents of the community, as well -- that feeling that there were no limits, that the world was a wide place filled with endless opportunities. This was the only feeling that made her love of books and learning take a pale back seat to anything else.

There were windows -- boarded over, some broken, now that she saw them from the inside. Institutional looking things with bars on them. The way they inhibited the view gave her another feeling of distaste. There was a piece of her that didn't care how often she had to replace them, the bars had to go. It made the place look like a prison. The antithesis of what she wanted it to be. It wasn't supposed to keep people in...it was supposed to give them the resources they needed to go out, into the world, to be successful and to make a difference in the lives of others.

"Hey," a voice said from behind her.

She was totally stunned to see Warrick Brown, leaning against the open door frame. "Grissom said you might be down here."

"I just couldn't stay away," she laughed. "I should have gotten in here sooner," she said, looking around. "There's a lot of cleaning and set up to be done before it will be functional."

"It'll be worth it. I used to hang out at a place like this," he said, stepping in the door and letting his eyes wander over the room, scrutinizing it as only a trained investigator could.

"The bars on the windows have to go, along with the graffiti outside...the floors will need scrubbing, and I haven't done more than glance at the kitchen. I wonder if I've got any bugs or rodents to deal with," she started to voice her ideas slowly. "I don't care what Grissom says -- I'm not bringing him any 'pets.'"

"Yeah, how's that goin'? Stayin' in the bugman's guest room?" Warrick asked, almost over casually.

"Well enough. Once I get working here, it'll probably be like I'm not there at all! I think I may have my work cut out for me," she replied. "Long as he doesn't move those damn roaches in there, I'm fine." She shuddered involuntarily. "They give me the goddam willies, and I've tried to be open minded about it."

He laughed at her reaction to his supervisor's 'pets,' and stepped further into the room, approaching her slowly. "We all owe you, ya know. I didn't think you'd be able to get around Ecklie and Atwater. Not both of 'em like that. I think you'll be just fine here."

"Good someone has some faith in me. The manager tried to run me off before he gave me the key."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't know you like we do, I guess. You're gonna need help with this," he said, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dust on the floor.

"I'll be fine. I'm sure there's some machine or something I can rent," her brows furrowed in consternation. She looked up at him sharply, "what are you driving at?"

"We've talked about it -- the team has -- and they sent me to scope things out. We want to help."

"So when I headed down here, Grissom called you and snitched on me." Her eyes narrowed as she began putting the pieces together.

His gaze didn't waver for an instant, he couldn't fib to her face, either. "That's pretty much how it went down. I can't remember when he's thought so much of someone outside the lab."

The last comment earned him a 'harumph.' "He's developing a nasty habit of looking after me. I can't get him to take a dime in compensation for rent or bills. I'd say I clean and cook out of sheer boredom, but its the only way I have to repay him. Is he always this much of a pain in the ass?"

Warrick laughed out loud. "When he's not busy being enigmatic...yeah. But if you two are together, why are you worried about rent?"

"What the hell?" she muttered, shaking her head. "You get that from Greg?"

"No, I just followed the evidence," he paraphrased his boss. "Neither one of you has to say a damn thing. It was pretty obvious he was into you when you were working from the break room. And he doesn't invite anyone to his house. That sealed it. Grave shift pretty much has it figured out. Sara's a little put out, but she's adjusting."

"Huh?" she didn't know where to start asking questions first.

"You didn't know Sara had a thing for him? She's been chasing him since she came out here from San Fran. It might have been a mutual thing a long time ago, but I think she finally figured out that it wasn't anything he was willing to pursue. Then you came along and grabbed his interest..."

"What do you mean, you followed the evidence? What evidence?"

"C'mon!" he laughed. He had a smile that lit up a room, even the dingy one they were standing in. "You're as obtuse as he is! Actually, you have a lot of personality traits in common."

"That has nothing to do with evidence, as you called it." Her voice became a little terse, indicating her shortening temper.

He just laughed at her again, although to his credit he tried to stifle it. "We've been comparing notes on the two of you since you first ran into each other in the break room. You just seemed to balance each other out..." he trailed off. "You know, I bet I could get Tina to send some of her friends from work down here to help out, too." It wasn't a conscious effort to change the subject, so much as the vocalization of an idea as it came to him.

She let the topic go, "you think so?"

"It can't hurt to ask. The hospital should be really interested in helping with a community center. They see the results of not enough of them all the time."

"Hey, how are things with you and Tina?" she asked.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, "why do you ask?"

"I'm perceptive like that," she said with a tone of mock-smugness. "I just got the feeling that things haven't been all sunshine and roses with all the doubles you've been pulling lately."

"Yeah, well. We both put in a lot of hours. Seems like one of us is always on call, and she's getting frustrated."

"What about you?"

"Okay, I'm frustrated, too." He replied.

"Why don't you ever bring her to breakfast with the crew? Or go to breakfast with her crew? That might be one way for you guys to get some time together," she suggested. "I heard that there's some kind of law enforcement ball coming up -- take her out and show her off a little."

His only response was a non-committal shrug.

"Is there some reason you don't want her around your work-family?" Vanessa asked pointedly.

"Our line of work is," he faltered a little, "I guess I want to protect her from that side of things." He finished weakly.

"Warrick, she works in an ER. Do you really think there's much she hasn't seen? I bet she sees more in one night than you would ever believe. And you know, part of sharing yourself with someone like that is not having to protect them from everything you deal with. You spend all day protecting others, let her take some of that off you for a while."

He hated to admit it, but she was making sense. "The folks at the lab are like family -- would you not take her to meet your family? Tell me honestly that there wouldn't be something missing from your relationship if she hadn't met your grandmother."

"All right, you made your point," he relented. He looked at her with an analytical gleam in his eyes, "you gonna practice what you preach?"

"We're back onto that, are we?" she grumbled, exasperated. "Nice to know you all know what's going on better than I do. Or he does, for that matter."

"So you admit there's something," he said, hiding a smile.

"You know, all of a sudden I understand your reluctance to subject your wife to your work-family," she snapped, then tempered her tone, "you just don't let up, do you? Any of you?"

"If one of the members of your family had a chance to be happy, wouldn't you want them to go after it?" he replied. "I'm not just talking about Grissom, either. You've been adopted, for all intents and purposes. We actually miss you hanging around the break room, giving the administration headaches. You're the big sister our group had been lacking."

"I'm always happy to take time out of my day to give administrators headaches," she offered.

They watched afternoon fade into evening from the steps outside the community center, alternately razzing each other about everything from relationships to their mutual status as workaholics, until the CSI had to find his way to the hospital to pick up his wife. Vanessa watched him leave, not moving from her spot. Instead she pondered the graffiti on the building, wondering if it could yield some clues as to what social dynamics were at work in the neighborhood.

Darkness settled over the neighborhood and she finally stood up from her perch in front of the large double doors. Glancing at her watch, she realized that it would be close to starting time for grave yard shift at the lab, and she had some questions. If her theory about the graffiti panned out, and there was some sort of database identifying which marks belonged to which groups, she would be back the next day to take pictures.

She ambled lazily to her car, parked about four blocks away, lost in thought, wondering how much the graffiti might change day to day, indicating the level of delinquent activity in the center's immediate area. She'd noticed a couple needles littering the ground on the back half of the brick structure and reminded herself to get a sharps container to dispose of such litter in, which would require that she talk to hospitals and clinics about what facilities would take biohazard waste like that, and if she could get the services donated. It cost a pretty penny to process trash like that.

It took fifteen minutes at the pace she was going, but she finally arrived at her car and headed toward the lab, first stopping at the reception desk to talk to Judy.

"Hey! How's it going?" she asked the blonde, genuinely excited to see her.

"We miss all the excitement you used to bring in," she said, laughing, as she sorted through phone messages left over from swing shift.

"Yeah, well, I'm not that far away," Vanessa replied, "I can always come through and put a bee in Atwater's bonnet for you if things get boring. Is anyone from grave in yet?"

"Yeah, Grissom just walked in a few minutes ago, and Nick got here about an hour ago. Guess there were some lab results he just couldn't sit still for. Why?"

"Which one of them would have the best working knowledge of what kind of databases are around? I'm hoping to ID some graffiti on the community center."

"Too bad Brass is off tonight -- he'd have your answer in a snap. I'll call Grissom. I think he's buried in paperwork again since he had a day off, so he'll be grouchy, but I bet it won't take much to get him down here either," the receptionist said with a conspiratorial smile.

To further the 'joke,' Judy didn't tell him who wanted to see him, just that he should come down to the front desk. She could barely hide her smile at the look of surprise on his face when he saw his 'room mate' standing there in grubby jeans and a wrinkled tee-shirt. "You've sunburned your face again," he noted.

"And I'm sure I could use a shower," she quipped back. "I actually have two questions. First, is there a database or someone in the lab that can identify graffiti? Second, would it be an abuse of lab resources for me to avail myself to that knowledge?"

"That would be Vega's department. Is there something wrong?"

"No, other than my building is covered in spray paint and I want to know what's a gang marker and what's just misplaced artwork. That way I can get an idea what I'm getting into here," she replied. "I was thinking I'd go out there with my camera tomorrow and bring the pictures back here to compare to something, if that something is available."

"Are you just leaving the center?" he asked, concerned.

"Yeah, there's a lot of work to do. The place is a hell of a mess, inside and out; but there's a lot of potential there, too. The floors need to be scrubbed, the kitchen looks like some of your little six-legged friends have been having a party in there, and I didn't even look at the bathroom. On top of that, there are a couple windows that need to be replaced, it could use some landscaping, I need to figure out how to dispose of medical waste...oh -- and before most of that can happen, I need to get the power and water turned on, which means I need to find out if there are any back balances on utilities for the building. The list goes on..."

She saw his eyes light up at the mention of bugs. "If you want to take any of them home for pets, you'll have to come and get them yourself." She told him firmly, knowing exactly what he was thinking before he even said anything.

Judy could no longer manage to squelch her laughter. Grissom turned to her, "something funny?" he asked, sounding severe.

His tone did nothing to quell her humor. "The joys of living with an entomologist," she said between chuckles.

"He'd try to rescue them all if he could," Vanessa joined in, suddenly caught up in the moment, "most kids bring home puppies and kittens. Can you imagine being his mother? Faced with a kid who wants to keep...a jar full of roaches...promising he'll feed them and...take them on walks..." the ridiculous image of a young Gil Grissom in this situation left her helpless with laughter, breaking the sentence into fragments while she caught her breath. She leaned back against the desk, holding her sides, tears streaming down her face.

Through massive effort, he maintained his diffident exterior. "With insects, there is no yard or litter box to clean up. Actually my mother encouraged it, as long as I kept them contained," he told them, completely deadpan, making the two women laugh all the harder.

After they settled down a little, it was Vanessa that spoke first, not without a trace of humor, "your mother was an eminently practical woman."

He simply reached across the desk to snag a visitor's pass for Vanessa and indicated that she should follow him to his office. "We can try to catch up with Vega in about forty five minutes. I think he's out on a call," he told her as he led the way through the open door and past the shelves of experiments. He turned to her, his expression devoid of humor now. "Do you know how dangerous that neighborhood is? I don't doubt your building is covered with gang symbols. You could get hurt out there."

She just shrugged. "One of the hazards of the job," she said simply.

"I'm serious. What time did you leave?"

"About 9:30, why?" a note of irritation creeping into her voice.

"So you were in community center that whole time?"

"No, I was sitting on the steps, watching the activity in the area. Again, I ask why?"

"You were just sitting there until 9:30."

"No, it took me about fifteen minutes to walk to my car. Where are you going with this? Aren't there rooms designated for interrogations around here?" she planted her hands on her hips and looked up at him defiantly.

He sat down behind his desk and regarded her carefully over the tops of his glasses. Usually she thought he was exceptionally sexy when he looked like that (at least, now that she had admitted it to herself), but at the moment her irritation won over her usual observation. He'd been silent for a couple minutes when she broke in again, "well. Do I get an answer, or is this just about you?"

He signed and leaned back in his chair, while she remained standing. "I asked Vega some questions about the area. He told me that they get a call out there at least three times a week. That's minimum. There's a lot of gang activity out there. I'm just...worried, I guess."

Her words were sharp, in spite of his conciliatory tone, "well, if it was a great neighborhood, there wouldn't be much point in my working out there. My job is, potentially, very dangerous. I've had guns pulled on me for knocking on doors. I've been mugged. I've got arthritis in my left arm from taking a hit with a night stick. But it was all worth it, otherwise I wouldn't have kept doing it."

"A night stick?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, a night stick. Its a long story. So you're worried about me, huh?" the idea sank in, and she found that she was a little flattered, even though she was still annoyed.

"Well, yes," he admitted. She thought she saw him blush a little in the low light of the office. "Would you mind discussing this over breakfast?"

"I don't know, I may have convinced Warrick to bring Tina out to meet the group. If he does this morning, we should probably all be there," she said, a little distracted.

"How did you do that?" he looked at her with open surprise.

"I asked him if he would even consider not introducing her to his grandmother, and how it was any different not to introduce her to you guys," she told him.

She tracked the conversation back to its original topic, leaning over his desk to make sure she had his attention. "I looked through all sorts of case files. I know that each member of this team has been attacked in some form or another. Most of them more than once. And I noticed you have a tendency to let your curiosity over ride your sense of self preservation. I worry about you, too. But I wouldn't ever ask you to do anything differently. I assume you aren't asking me to do anything differently?"

"Of course not. I just want you to know," he stopped for a moment, "what you're getting into, and I want you to be careful."

She finally sat down in the chair across from him, smiling, "would I be anything else?"

"You just admitted to getting hit with a night stick. I think that sometimes your instinct to help over rides your sense of self preservation," he tossed her words back at her.

A voice from the door way startled them from their discussion, "oooh...are you two having your first argument? Should I leave so you can get to making up?" It was Catherine. She breezed into the office with a few files in hand. "You know, getting you two together was like pushing a rock uphill. You're both so stubborn. Its ridiculous." She dropped the folders on his desk and flopped down in the chair next to Vanessa's. "Anything I can help with?"

Her efforts to help were greeted with a simultaneous, "no."

Vanessa's eyes lit up after she spoke, though, and she saw Grissom cringe a little. "Actually, maybe you can," a crafty smile played on her lips. "The community center I'm working at is a hell of a mess. I'm going to need volunteers to help me get it back up and running again. Maybe you and Lindsey could come out for an afternoon?"

"I think we could maybe do that," Catherine replied, standing up slowly. "If there's anything else, let me know."

"Do you know if Vega is back from that call yet?" Grissom asked.

"I don't think so. It might be a while," she turned and headed to the break room.

Chapter Eleven: Unnamed

Days turned into weeks, and with the help of friends and her surrogate family at the crime lab, the community center was nearly refurbished. They had all pitched in scrubbing floors, repainting walls, pressure washing the exterior walls, and putting plants in outside the front doors. The wood floor of the small stage had been sanded down and refinished. Grissom had worked on the plumbing in the kitchen and the bathroom (although Vanessa suspected that was only because he suspected those rooms were where he would find the most bugs). He'd regretted that for two days afterwards, and Vanessa found herself rubbing liniment into aching knees, scolding him for trying to do it all at once. She found that her own body ached in places she forgot she had after a labor-intensive week of working in the center, badgering city officials and funders to make good on their promises, and getting out to introduce herself to members of the community.

As such, three days before the center was officially scheduled to open, she found herself trying to get the knots and aches in her muscles to relent in a hot bath. She figured if it didn't work, at least by the time she got out she would smell good.

She jumped when she heard the door opening -- she hadn't been expecting Gil to be home for another hour or two, and hadn't bothered to close the bathroom door so she could hear the CD player in the front room churning out Glenn Miller. That, and she'd opted to use the bath tub in the master suite, since it was bigger. Now she'd been caught with her pants down, so to speak. She jumped from the tub, hit the lever to drain the water, wrapped a towel around herself and began a mad dash down and across the hall to the guest room, swearing under her breath the entire way.

She looked furtively over her shoulder only to find him leaning against the wall, watching her with obvious humor on his face. "I brought dinner," he said simply as she clutched at her towel.

"Hell's bells," she sputtered, shaking her head at her own behavior. Acting like a kid who got caught raiding the cookie jar. I guess some things you never outgrow, she thought to herself wryly. She pulled herself up, trying to gather some of her dignity back, and told him "I'm sorry. I'll just get dressed and clean up your bathroom. Its like a sauna in there just now..." she noticed he was still trying not to smile at her, so she stammered to a stop.

"Its not often I come home to find a half naked woman running out of my bedroom," he laughed. "I can't say that its entirely unpleasant. Don't worry about the bathroom, just get dressed and come get dinner."

"Are you making a pass at me?" she asked him.

"We can discuss that over enchiladas," he told her with a shoo-ing motion toward the guest room. "Unless you want to wear the towel for dinner, I suggest you go take care of whatever it is you need to take care of."

"You make it sound so complex," she snarked as she let herself into the guest room and found her robe at the end of the bed where she'd thrown it that morning. She made sure to take the towel back to the bathroom and hang it up so that it would dry before she made her way slowly to the kitchen where he was setting out plates and unloading a paper take out bag.

"You're home early," she remarked, feeling the need to initiate conversation.

"Slow night. I guess all the people who would normally keep us busy had other plans. I'm still on call in case something big comes in, but I doubt that will happen," he told her.

"And you're on call tomorrow? What's this? You're gonna get some time off?"

"Its starting to look that way. What would you like to do with all those free hours? Is there anything left at the community center?"

"I just have to sign off that the new windows are put in, but that isn't for another two days. I saved it for the last possible minute, since I want the bars taken off, too. It looks like a damn prison the way its set up," she grumped at the last.

He reached over to put an arm around her, "if anyone can make it work, its you."

She looked up at him, smiling, and said simply, "thanks. That means more than you know."

"You should take the next couple days off," he told her, setting a plate of enchiladas and rice in front of her on the counter, "no beans, extra rice," he quoted her typical order to her.

"You remembered," she teased, batting her eyelashes at him. She made her way to the coffee maker to start a pot to go with dinner, and was surprised to find a pair of arms tentatively slipping around her waist. She found herself leaning into him a little, "what's this for?" she asked idly.

"For running down the hall half naked," he started, laughing again, "for batting your eyelashes at me," he continued, "and you're showing an awful lot of ankle under that robe," he finally teased her. "Its bound to get you some attention."

"So you were making a pass at me." She concluded.

"Can you blame me?" he asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I can," she said, turning to face him, his arms still around her waist. "But we've covered that topic. I don't get what you see in me, and I probably never will, so I'll just have to leave it at that."

"Moonlight Serenade" came over the speakers in the living room and he slowly began to dance her around the kitchen. "I don't know if my old bones are up to this," she warned him.

"If mine are, yours are." He told her flatly, steering them to the living room.

"I suck at slow dancing. Watch your toes," she warned again, more serious this time.

"Just relax," he told her, letting his head rest on hers. "As with most things, the guy gets to do all the work." He couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"Maybe that's why I suck at it. I just can't follow another person, especially on such a shoddy basis as gender," she felt him wince when she accidentally stepped on his toe. "See, I told you."

Luckily for him, the song wound to a close, giving way to a piece that was more up-tempo. He walked her back out to the kitchen, where he grabbed a cup of coffee for both of them, and stood next to her at the counter while they ate. "So, are you going to take the next couple days off before you start spending every waking hour at the center?"

"I suppose, if you're going to twist my arm about it," she relented easily enough. After the last few days of preparations, she honestly wasn't sure if she could afford to push herself much further before the 'grand opening.'

"Good," he told her, an enigmatic look crossing his face.

"Why, do you have something planned?" she looked at him with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

"Not really," he continued, with the same expression.

In other words, she knew he was up to something. It was just a matter of figuring out what. She also knew that if she pushed him, it would take her that much longer to figure out, so she settled back to wait patiently.

The dinner dishes were washed and put away, and she ambled back out to the living room with a cup of coffee to sit next to him on the couch. They had become comfortable in each other's space over the last few weeks. In spite of the fact that the entire lab seemed to know what was going on, they hadn't bothered to define their relationship in any concrete terms, rather allowing themselves to settle into one another.

They left the TV off and continued to listen to music, talking about idle things like movies and books they'd read. His arm stole around her shoulders again and she felt his thumb running up and down the side of her neck.

She settled against his shoulder with a contented sigh. "Lady Chatterly was a piece of tripe," she criticized, continuing their discussion of so-called classics that, in their opinion, had no business being considered such. "I barely finished it."

"It was pretty revolutionary for its time, though," he returned. "Not that I'm disagreeing with you."

"I guess I can understand why it got the attention it did, and I would no sooner ban it than any other book, I just don't understand why people waste their time with it. I read it simply because it was banned, and I felt duped after I finished."

"How about War and Peace?" he changed tracks.

"Good one. I got half way through and got distracted, though. Seems like it was finals week or something that demanded I put it down. Its on my list of books to finish. Brothers Karamozov was good, too. It just takes a little bit to get into, and you have to be aware that there are parts you can skim through because the authors got paid by the page back then," she laughed a little bit.

"Its nice to have someone to talk to like this; about books that aren't related to work or anything else really, without delving into the realm of crap," he told her.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, "brain candy has its place," she countered.

"Hmmm," he leaned in and kissed her, effectively ending the debate that was brewing. His thumb had slipped under the collar of her robe and was slowly tracing her collar bone.

The kiss broke momentarily, "not fair," she mumbled.

"Hmmm?" he questioned.

"Wasn't done arguing with you," she finished as his arms tightened around her and drew her in for another kiss, this time with more depth and passion.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Her heart fluttered when she felt his tongue caress her lower lip, seeking permission to roam further. She opened her mouth to him with a soft sigh and lost herself in his taste and the sensuous things he was doing to her. For a moment she wasn't sure if she was leaning backwards into the couch or if the world had tipped on its axis. Whichever the case, she couldn't have cared less. If the earth had shifted, she was going to meet the coming climatic alterations a much happier woman.

Sure enough, his weight was pressing her back into the couch. There would be no ensuing ice age or drought and she could allow herself to enjoy his attentions with a clear conscience.

Her tongue caressed his as her hands ran up his chest to curl around his neck and into his hair. She couldn't hide her disappointment when he broke away from her.

"The couch isn't the place for this," he said softly.

"The place for what?" she asked, a little peeved, and a little out of breath.

"To make love to each other," he blushed a little as he said it.

"Oh." she replied, her eyes going a little wide as she realized he was gingerly picking her up and carrying her to the back of the house, to his bedroom. She leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck and nuzzle his ear. "You think of everything," she whispered, and felt his smile against her neck as he turned the corner through the doorway and set her carefully on the bed.

"I try," he said as he pulled his shirt off over his head and crawled over her on the bed, returning his lips to hers. His hands wandered over her shoulders to the sash of her robe, gently tugging the knot loose, pushing the panels of fabric away from her body. Her own hands were demandingly pulling the button of his pants and drawing down the zipper, pushing them down over his hips. She found her libido surging back to life after many years of dormancy, she couldn't wait to feel the heat of his skin next to hers, to get as close to him as possible. Shivers of desire assailed the small of her back as his lips moved from hers, grazing her jaw, her ear, and down her neck. A gasp escaped her when his tongue slipped out to taste the skin where her neck met her shoulder.

Her hands wandered all over his body, from his sides to his shoulders, his back, over his chest, and finally back to his pants, pushing them further, as far as the length of her arms would allow her. Finally, in frustration, she said "those have got to go."

She felt his lips curve into a smile again as he looked up at her from his position at her shoulder. She was struck by how long his lashes were, how they framed perfect blue eyes, and the glint of humor in those eyes. "Yes ma'am," he muttered against her skin, his breath making her shiver. He stood up, and as quickly as he moved, she sat up and yanked the pants and the boxers beneath them down, dropping them in an unceremonious heap around his ankles.

He looked at her with one eyebrow arched. "I'm not going to give your inner smart ass any chances," she explained. "Now, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to finish what you started?"

He looked down at her, smirking, arms crossed over his chest. "What if I don't? Maybe I'll just go to the kitchen, grab some popcorn, and settle in for a movie."

She took his humor in stride, standing up, shedding her robe the rest of the way, letting it fall into the same pile as his clothing. A half step forward, and her body was pressed up against his, her arms snaking around his neck, fingers winding into his hair. "I dare you," her voice had reached a sultry pitch. Her head bent forward, and she kissed his chest, softly, lips barely grazing the soft warm skin she found there, working a trail that followed his sternum up to his neck. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of him, even as she stood on her tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. She smiled slowly when she felt him react as she tentatively tasted the edge of the lobe, caressing the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. She glanced up and saw that his eyes were closed, his head tipped back slightly, and her smile grew. Her hand moved down the other side of his neck, fingers trailing over his shoulder, committing to memory the line of his bicep, the crook of his elbow, closing loosely over his forearm, falling to his hand. Once there her fingers closed over his and drew his hand up to her lips. Her lips lingered over the back of his hand as she caressed his palm, turning it so that it was open before her. Her eyes regarded him through lowered lashes, savoring the shadow of surprise that lingered on his face, and the deepening blue of his eyes. She pressed kisses into his palm, her tongue peeking out to sneak a flickering taste of warm skin, methodically moving over each finger, starting with his little finger and working inward. Finally, she caught his index finger lightly in her teeth, allowing her tongue to play at the tip, circling it, caressing it, before she closed her mouth around it, slowly and lightly sucking for a moment before allowing it to slip from her lips.

Her efforts did not go without reward. She felt arms closing more tightly around her, hands slipping down toward her waist, holding her close so that she not only felt his body along the entire length of hers, but the intensity of his arousal. A perverse part of her wanted to step back and polish an imaginary ring an imaginary lapel. Nice to know some things really are like falling off a bike, she thought, briefly. That was where coherent thought stopped. His hands were exploring her body, one hand at her neck, tipping her head back to receive his kiss, the other roving over waist and hips and butt, down the backs of her thighs, back up the front, finally stopping below her breast, lingering briefly before cupping it lightly, and allowing his thumb to stroke the skin he found there. His tongue had recaptured her mouth, sending her perspective reeling from sensory overload. He seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet she craved more -- more contact, more heat, more touch, more breath, more everything. She wanted to fall off the edge of the world and lose herself in him forever.

She was barely aware of the press of the bed against her back again, hardly as aware as she was of his weight on top of her, a sort of delicious restraint. The hand that had previously tentatively cupped her breast had become more assertive, stroking the nipple until it hardened beneath his fingers. His lips left hers again, wasting no time returning to her neck and shoulder, creeping down toward her other breast. He went to work with his tongue first, running circles over the areola, moving inward toward the nipple, teasing her by moving closer, then backing off. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and her own fingers had become more demanding, tangling aggressively into his hair, holding him in one spot, arching her back to press herself closer to his mouth. After what seemed an eternity, he relented, and she felt his tongue circle her nipple, and his lips close over it. Sucking it, stroking it with his tongue, paying close attention to her body -- grasping at every subtle cue she gave him.

Her breath caught in her throat sharply when she felt his kisses start to meander down over her stomach, covering every inch of bare skin, finding small, sensitive spots she'd long since forgotten she had. His hands were working a step ahead of his lips, grazing her thighs, starting outside and working inward. Soft as silk, his finger tips caressed the inside of her leg, dipping to feel the skin behind her knee, then back to her inner thigh. They continued up, stopping just short of her center.

The moan that issued from her throat sounded almost pathetic in her ears. He had stopped -- what the hell was he thinking? Her eyes snapped open and she regarded him carefully. His eyes had an open look of wonder that she associated with star gazing or a new discovery.

"Do I look telepathic?" she growled, sitting up slightly. She rolled on her side, effectively turning him on his back. She resumed kissing his chest where she had left off earlier, this time slowly inching her way down to his waist, her hands playing over strong thighs, raking her short nails along the skin inside his legs. His eyes quickly closed and she felt his back arch when she allowed her hand to glance over his balls and swollen penis. His breath left him in a rush when her fingers returned, lingering a little this time, long enough to feel him quiver at her touch. Continuing to tease him, she let one finger stray up the underside of his shaft, slowly, almost aimlessly. He gasped when her fingers closed over him, softly pulling at him, twisting one way on the way up toward the tip, then twisting the other way back toward the base.

All the while, she was making good use of lips, tongue and teeth over the warm skin of his stomach, tracing a meandering path to where it would eventually accompany the ministrations of her hand. One glance told her that, for the moment, at least, he was helpless to her attentions -- a fact that gave her great satisfaction. She maintained her leisurely pace, her tongue tracing the line where leg joined waist, paying attention to his every breath and twitch, committing to memory those places that elicited the strongest reactions, noting when his responses were more subtle. She could certainly sock both types away into her bag of tricks.

Her teasing seemed to go on endlessly, until finally her tongue flicked lightly along base of his erection, venturing lower, curving around one testicle and then the other, gently pulling them into her mouth one at a time, increasing the pressure of her tongue as she stroked him. A sound escaped his throat that no one who thought they knew him would have believed he could make. His breath was coming in ragged pants, punctuated by low moans. Again, the groan seemed to come from somewhere in the pit of his stomach when she dragged her tongue over the length of him, lingering at the tip, savoring him. She curled her tongue around him, moving up and down, and was rewarded with another groan, almost a shout. Once more she played over the tip, then closed her lips over him, pulling him into her mouth. Even while she sucked him gently, her tongue never stopped moving -- tickling, caressing, holding.

Suddenly, he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, to look at her, chest heaving, "please..." he started.

Misinterpreting his request, she doubled her efforts, smiling and humming her own satisfaction at pleasing him as she held him in her mouth, savoring the taste of him.

"Please?" he asked again, then let out a soft moan. "Please. stop." His head lolled back between his shoulders.

She stopped, pulling away from him, eyes wide with concern, "did I hurt you? catch you with my teeth or something?" she asked, unfolding herself so that she could put her arms around his shoulders.

His response was stunned silence. In all honesty, she was getting kind of used to that. It no longer made her temper flare quite as quickly as it used to. Concern over rode anything else, though. "Well? Are you okay?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath, studying her furrowed brow and the adoring look of concern in her eyes, loving how they softened to the color of deep, placid water when she let down the barriers she hid behind for the rest of the world.

"I'm fine. Better than fine. You are..." he paused to find the right words, "exquisite. Delicious. And I need to show you the same attention." His voice was soft yet demanding. "I want to know where to touch you to make you tremble, or sigh, or moan." He leaned over her and let his lips brush against her shoulder as he spoke. "I want to taste every inch of you, and I want to feel you wrapped around me."

She found herself melting with every word, conscious thought drifting from her grasp, her body flowing almost bonelessly into his arms. Her last coherent thought was I'm a goner, before his lips dipped quickly down her side, leaving a smoldering trail over the dip of her waist and the swell of her hip. This is where he chose to linger, tracing the lines of her muscles with his tongue while his hand slid between her legs, resting between them to feel the heat emanating from her core.

Sighs turned to whimpers turned to throaty moans and one finger traced the outside of her labia, almost reverently delving between the folds of skin, lightly massaging every centimeter of flesh with soft, circular motions. The finger found her clit, and with that touch she felt herself nearly erupt, back arching, hips pushing forward into his hand, seeking more of everything. "Patience, Aphrodite," he whispered as he gently drew his fingers away from her, and turned his breath over her skin to cool her, pulling her back from the edge of her orgasm.

But his tongue continued to draw lazy circles over her inner thighs, and soon his fingers found their way back to where she felt she needed them most. This time she struggled to keep her body pinned to the mattress, and to control her breathing; she was aching for him and the idea of another withdrawal was almost unbearable.

Almost without warning, she felt a finger teasing her just at her opening, circling, the tip just dipping in, lingering, and then pulling away to start the process over. Each time he entered her, the finger went a little further, in tiny increments. Each time she felt gentle pressure as he explored her, finding places that made her gasp. Further and further, agonizingly slow, he reached into her, massaging her from the inside, all the way back until she felt the tip of his finger brush the very end of her depths, making her lose her tenuous control over her hips and back. She found herself writhing and begging for him, only to have him continue his efforts. She became aware of his breath over her, soft kisses on her labia, a tongue caressing the underside of her clit, circling the nub of flesh that already felt like it was on fire, and finally gentle lips closing over her. He added a second finger and crooked them inside her to tease her pressure points even while he began sucking on her. There was no more hoping for control; "Oh God..." she moaned between harsh gasps, "please. please. need...you...ohgod...ohGil." She was babbling incoherently, begging for him, she even felt tears prickling the corners of her eyes. The world was slipping away from her, and it was wonderful, and it was because of him.

To goad him to action, she reached down between them and grasped his erection, surprised to note in an abstract way that it had only become more impressive than she had initially observed. "Now," she pleaded, opening her eyes and looking down slightly so she could meet his gaze. "I'm yours. I need you. Make me yours."

She felt him shift so that his hips rested between her legs, a feeling that was perfect, like two puzzle pieces coming together. One strong arm slipped under her hips, tilting them up and towards him, while the other rested along side her head on the pillow, his hand absently stroking her hair. She had maintained her hold on him, and with a final soft squeeze, directed him toward her opening, pushing her hips into him when he seemed almost reluctant to progress.

"Yours," she sighed as she felt the head push into her, her muscles already tightening around him as he savored the feel of her wrapped around him, entering her slowly until he was completely buried inside of her. His head dropped down into the crook of her shoulder while his arm tightened around her hips. His pace was deliberate at first, lingering when he was fully inside her, then almost reluctantly pulling back. Her arms reached around him to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles. Finally, desperation drove her hands down to his ass, pulling him into her more quickly, more forcefully. "More, Gil. Take me," she whispered in his ear.

His answering moan indicated he was willing to obey her slightest command, and his tempo increased. She wrapped muscular legs around his waist, pulling him into her again. When he thrust into her hard enough to force the breath from her lungs, she almost screamed with delight. Galaxies were exploding behind her closed eyes as he rocked into her, delicious tension coiling in the pit of her stomach, curling around her spine, winding its way to her brain stem, where it would force her body into paroxysms of ecstasy. Each thrust, each moan, every time he whispered her name, the tension worked its way higher, and she knew that she would lose control soon.

Suddenly, she heard a muffled grunt against her neck -- it was the only cue she needed. She bucked her hips, nearly slamming them into is, not once or twice, but a dozen times, each time tightening her pelvic muscles around his throbbing penis. As her back arched pressing as much of her body into his as she could, and she called his name, she felt him deliver a few short, intense thrusts, and the feel of him spilling into her sent her spinning into oblivion. He was in her, and he was heavenly, and if she wrapped her legs and arms around him tightly enough, they could stay this way forever, and that was all that mattered.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Chapter Twelve: Lost and Found

The next afternoon came upon them entirely too quickly. She awoke, wondering for a second how she came to be so amazingly relaxed until she noticed a warm body next to her own; her leg was still slung haphazardly over his hips (she typically slept in a sprawl). She could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest under her hand and found herself smiling, crawling further under the covers and snuggling closer to him. The feel of a body next to hers, in bed, was not something she was used to, but in the silence of her own thoughts, she thought she could adjust.

Her head found the crook of his shoulder, and she began to doze again, pushing thoughts of work out of her mind and allowing herself to just be in the moment, and to feel comfort in his presence. She could analyze the whole thing later. She knew she would, and she couldn't help feeling a little vindicated in the fact that she knew he would, too.

Warmth, the smell of him, and the relative darkness of the room conspired against her, tugging her toward sleep, when his cell phone rang, making both of them jump.

"Good Jesus, Gil, what do you have that thing set to? Small aircraft?" she groused, sitting up.

He ignored the comment for the moment, instead fumbling for the phone and swearing. "Grissom," his voice was still gritty with sleep.

Then he was awake all too quickly, his eyes wide open and concerned. "Cath, slow down. Tell me what's going on."

Vanessa's head snapped toward him, and she found herself straining to hear the voice on the other end, even though she knew the effort was futile.

His voice continued, calm and measured. "You dropped her off at school this morning. Did you get any calls from any of her teachers?"

Moments passed, like hours.

"We'll find her. Its going to be okay. Where are you? You shouldn't be driving right now," he started. "Why don't Vanessa and I meet you at the school." It wasn't a question or even a suggestion. He hung up quickly and tossed the covers aside, making a bee-line for the dresser.

"Are you going to fill me in?" Vanessa asked, standing up and stretching.

"Lindsey's missing," the smoothness of his voice belied the tension she saw building in his shoulders. Although he never communicated such things, he regarded the teen as a favorite niece.

"Has she done this before?" Vanessa asked, rallying her training and experience engaging young people in difficult circumstances.

"Once. About a year and a half ago. She got picked up on Freemont, trying to hitch-hike. Cath's a wreck. She thought they'd resolved a lot of that," he was dressed and moving into the bathroom as Vanessa nodded and headed toward the guest bedroom to throw a leotard on with her jeans.

They met up again in the living room and within twenty minutes, they had found where Catherine was parked at the school. Gil had brought Vanessa up to speed on the details surrounding Catherine's marriage, then divorce, then the death of her ex-husband. Vanessa simply listened, nodding now and again, committing key pieces of information to memory.

There was someone who Vanessa assumed was a school administrator standing next to Catherine at her car, trying in a very fumbling way to be comforting, if she was any judge.

It was Gil who caught her in a quick hug, letting her hide her tears in his shoulder. Vanessa approached the administrator, extended her hand, and introduced herself.

"Marcia Barklay," the prim-seeming woman returned, "I'm the assistant secretary. I don't know how this happened. Our teachers take attendance at every class." She seemed indignant, as if they simply hadn't looked hard enough for the girl, as if, surely, she must be under a couch cushion or the corner of a closet or some place they hadn't checked yet. Vanessa was unimpressed but hid it.

"That's a good place to start," she encouraged the administrator. She looked at Gil, "I think that Miss Barklay and I should go into the office and talk. Come and get me if you need it. Between us, we can come up with a strategy." He nodded almost imperceptibly, settling Catherine into the driver's seat of her car and reaching over her for a box of Kleenex.

Not waiting for argument, she firmly but politely took Miss Barklay by her elbow and led her toward the building's entrance. "Is there a place where we can sit down and have a cup of tea or something?" she asked, trying to gauge the other woman's preferences, to put her at ease.

"Of course, follow me," she returned, stepping into the lead. Vanessa let her, diplomatically allowing the other woman to re-establish her comfort zone. All the while, she analyzed her, from the tips of her 'just-so' shoes to the roots of her tightly knotted hair. Fingernails manicured to a tee. Demure, mid-calf length dress, small floral pattern, trimmed in lace. Medium height. Back ram-rod straight. Very flowery cologne -- maybe White Shoulders? Whatever it was, it had lots of gardenia in it. Behind her ears, there was a hint of gray hair -- indicating that she dyed it herself to disguise her age.

Vanessa found herself in a small room with a circular table at the center. "Do you prefer herbal or black tea?" there was an almost clipped quality to her words. Not out of emotion such as frustration or hostility. It had the feel of an accent, but Vanessa couldn't place it.

"Black is fine. I think I'm gonna need the caffeine today," she remarked.

The other woman attempted something that might have been a smile. Her mouth moved, at least. Vanessa was struck by the fact that this woman could be the living embodiment of Eleanor Rigby -- wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door, Vanessa mentally finished the lyric.

"Please, sit down. How can I help?" Miss Barklay indicated one of the molded plastic chairs that sat around the table. She was hospitable enough, but she was obviously uncomfortable.

"Well, what are the attendance procedures at this school, for starters?"

"At Lindsey's grade level, they are starting to switch classes. Attendance is taken at the beginning of every class, and turned in to the office, so that we can enter the information into our computers. If there is a discrepancies, that is where it shows up."

Vanessa ventured a smile, sipping at her tea. "And nothing cropped up in the computer?"

"Of course not!" Miss Barklay was shocked at the mere thought.

"Of course not," Vanessa reiterated in agreement, being very careful not to rest her elbows on the table. "How many teachers does someone in Lindsey's grade have?"

"She switches classes three times, starting in homeroom, where they conduct lessons in social studies, math and English. From there, she goes to the art room. Her second switch is to the science building. At the end of the day, she goes to physical education."

"So she has four teachers throughout the course of the day?" Vanessa encouraged.

Barklay looked at her almost sympathetically, as if Vanessa's apparent lack of intelligence was to be pitied. "Yes, she does."

Vanessa bit back the sharp comments that hovered at the edge of her tongue, instead plastering the smile to her face so firmly she thought it would crack. "Would it be possible to speak with them?"

"I can certainly find out," Barklay stood up and headed toward the door, obviously meaning for Vanessa to stay put.

What the hell, play the air head, she thought as she got up to follow the woman out. "Isn't this a lovely building?" she babbled, "when was it built?"

"The original structure was built in 1946, but much of the interior has been renovated since. They had to hire someone to restore the original moldings and fixtures in the late 1980s," she replied, annoyance creeping into her voice.

It was a short walk to the office, where the assistant secretary took shelter behind her desk. "I'll just need to get Lindsey's schedule," she told Vanessa as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

Vanessa looked at the...well, primly...organized papers on her desk, and spied a print out of the young lady's schedule. Apparently an avenue they were planning on taking, just not quickly enough. "Isn't this it?" Vanessa asked, her eyes going wide. "Isn't that handy -- now you don't have to go to all the trouble of finding it again. I'll just take this and track them down myself. I'm sure you have more than enough to do..." she let herself babble a little more while she reached into the tray and picked up the paper.

Barklay was so stunned she didn't even move to stop her until it was too late. Vanessa was already out the door, thanking her effusively for the tea, and the conversation, and all the help she'd afforded them in looking for the girl. She couldn't help chuckling to herself the second her back was turned on the secretary.

She walked right into Gil and Catherine as soon as she rounded the corner that took her back to the double doors at the entrance again. Catherine looked a little more composed than she had, for which Vanessa was thankful.

"Something funny?" the redhead asked sharply.

"Only that the secretary thinks I'm some kind of imbecile," she replied, holding the schedule aloft. "I have an idea. I'm gonna take you guys to the break room -- they have tea and coffee -- and how about you double team calling the parents of Lindsey's friends. See if they know anything. I'm going to take this and talk to her teachers. We can meet back up at Catherine's car in 30 minutes. I'll have my cell phone on in case you find anything out." Vanessa was already leading the way to the doorway on the left, stopping in to quickly snag another cup of coffee before she made her appointed rounds.

A half hour later, she found herself in the school's break room again, going over her notes with Gil and Catherine. None of the teachers had noted anything peculiar about Lindsey's behavior that day, other than she had been quieter than usual. She hadn't made any miscellaneous trips to the bathroom or her locker, and she'd been in all her classes. Vanessa felt like she'd flat struck out.

She tossed the schedule on the table with a sigh and an expletive. "Tell me you have something."

Catherine was on the phone, and Gil just shook his head, standing to walk over to Vanessa. She was stunned to silence when he kissed her, softly and quickly. "I forgot to do that earlier," he whispered. Then he stepped back, "well, if she was in all her classes, then she can't have gotten far. Assuming she's on foot."

"She's absolutely not in the building. I talked to the head custodian and he dispatched himself and two others to check every room in the building. They each took a floor. They headed out to check the grounds, and said they'd call me back when they regrouped or if they found anything."

"Thank you," they heard Catherine mumble into her phone before she snapped it closed. Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her forehead as if to ward off a headache.

This time it was Gil who called the shots. "Let's head back to my place, its closer than yours," he told Catherine. "We'll set out everything we know and figure out where we end up." Catherine nodded in a tired way that told Vanessa she'd have probably wrapped poisonous snakes around her arms, covered herself in honey, and wallowed in an anthill, all before running off the edge of a cliff if he'd told her to. Vanessa tossed the rest of the lukewarm coffee in her cup down her throat, collected the other cups and threw them in the small wastebasket by the door, and followed the other two out the door.

Almost as an after thought, she stopped into the office to leave their respective cell numbers and Gil's home number (already listed as an emergency contact) with the secretary, who glowered at her. Vanessa made a point to thank her again for tea, and promised to stay in touch until they knew something.

The drive back to the town house seemed to take forever. Catherine slumped in the back seat, too worried any more for tears or anger. Gil was focused exclusively on the road ahead of them -- and probably making a point of driving more carefully than he otherwise might -- but Vanessa could sense the thoughts tumbling in his mind. He was probably reciting bug names in Latin in order to refocus himself, she thought with an inward smile.

As they turned on to Gil's street, they saw a small figure sitting on the front steps. Growing closer, they'd found what they were looking for, the prodigal daughter. And to spite Barklay, she certainly wasn't under any couch cushions or stuffed under a desk. Vanessa's jaw just dropped and hung there, where as Gil was spoke first. "What in the name of hell..." his voice was barely a whisper.

Something in his tone made Catherine's head snap up, though. Gil barely had the car stopped in the driveway before she was flying out the door and up the short flight of concrete steps. Gil and Vanessa jumped out after her, hoping to catch her before she reached her daughter.

"How did you get here? What were you thinking?" Catherine raged. Gil caught her up and pulled her aside before she could get any further.

Vanessa just barely caught the quiet conversation as she walked slowly to the steps. "How about we find out why she did this before you come down on her with both feet..." Vanessa, standing behind Catherine, gave him a nod of approval as she sat down next to Lindsey.

"Hey," she started out.

"I guess I'm screwed," the girl said, not looking at Vanessa.

Vanessa laughed quietly, "you could be at that. Was it worth it?" She didn't ask in a patronizing or sarcastic tone of voice. Lindsey could tell she really wanted to know.

"I don't know yet."

"What's the answer depend on?"

The girl had a look on her face that was pure Catherine, right to the soles of her feet. Determined eyes, stubborn set to the jaw, shoulders squared. If Vanessa had to pick one word to describe it -- defiant. "I have a question for Grissom; my science teacher was telling us about camel spiders. He had this picture where it took two soldiers to hold one up. I didn't believe it, but he said it was true. A long time ago, Grissom told me that an organism that has an outer skeleton couldn't support that kind of size. I want to prove it to my teacher."

Vanessa couldn't help laughing out loud. Just like her mother. Doing whatever it took to chase down the answers she wanted, and to hell with the consequences.

"Well, kiddo, if I were in your spot, and I got to slam dunk your science teacher, it would definitely be worth it."

"How do you know?"

"I talked to your science teacher today when we were trying to figure out where you got off to. He's pretty full of himself." Lindsey nodded her agreement.

"I know I'm not the expert here, but you're right. They aren't near that big. Technically, they aren't even arachnids, although they are spiders. I don't remember what their specific designation is. I know which picture you're talking about and it was tweaked before it started making its rounds online," Vanessa replied.

"I thought spiders and arachnids were the same thing," Lindsey questioned, the fight in her eyes turning to curiosity.

"Think of it this way. All Dalmatians are dogs, but not all dogs are Dalmatians. All arachnids are spiders, but not all spiders are arachnids. Daddy Long Legs aren't arachnids, either, but they are spiders."

"How do you know?" in that same 'cite your source,' skeptical tone of voice she'd heard from both Gil and Catherine so often.

"An abiding interest in urban legends, and developing organic gardens in communities that need them. Spiders are beneficial because they eat pests that harm plants. All the better if you can develop a plot that is both compatible with what you want to grow, and will attract the invertebrates you want, like bees, spiders, and worms," Vanessa explained.

Lindsey pondered this quietly and soon Catherine and Gil joined them, Gil moving past them to unlock the door and usher the three ladies inside the house. Lindsey turned to Vanessa half way in the door, "why would you go to all the trouble to attract bugs when you can spray?"

"For a few reasons. Chemicals are expensive -- bugs, if you can attract them, are free. Chemicals can be harmful if you don't wash your produce well enough. Another reason; chemicals tire out the soil too quickly. If you let it do its own thing and rotate your plot, you shouldn't need anything more than compost to keep your soil in good condition."

"How did this turn into a discussion about gardening?" Catherine asked sharply, although without her earlier venom.

"She was asking how I knew so much about bugs. Didn't know that was exclusively your domain," she teased, looking at Gil.

Lindsey shuffled into the dining room, following her mother, her posture still a little defiant, and settled into one of the chairs that sat around the table. Catherine heaved a sigh as chose her spot across the table from her daughter. "Now, how did you get here so quick if you didn't leave until after school?"

"I rode the bus," she replied, in a tone of voice that held surprise.

"So you rode the public bus," Catherine reiterated with a nod. "Why?"

Vanessa and Gil stood in the kitchen, trying to be unobtrusive. "Because I had a question about spiders for Grissom."

"You know, you could have just come home and called him? When I got scared and called over here, I woke him up." Catherine's tone held a hint of scolding.

"I guess I just couldn't wait." Lindsey answered with a shrug. "You were scared?" her eyes narrowed, watching her mother intently.

"Yes. And so was your Grandmother, and Gil," Catherine cast a sidelong look into the kitchen, "and Vanessa. Even though she's only met you once before today."

The gravity of her words sank into the thirteen year old girl's conscience. When she'd gotten in trouble before, when she'd gone through a particularly rebellious streak, her mother had never bothered to explain why she was so upset. This time was different. Maybe it was something Gil had said to her. In any case, some of the defiant pride seeped out of her posture as she looked at Catherine and apologized.

"I accept, but you owe everyone else here an apology, as well," Catherine told her sternly. "While you're doing that, I'm going to call your Grandmother and tell her we found you." Catherine stood and walked around the table, squeezing her daughter's shoulder affectionately as she passed.

In the mean time, Lindsey looked at Gil and Vanessa as if she were at a loss for words. Gil was the first one to step forward, getting a bottle of water from the refrigerator and setting it down in front of her, then sitting to her right. "Its okay. I know," was all he said, bringing a smile to Lindsey's face as she sipped at her cold drink. "I don't think you're out of the woods, but I pointed out to your mom that you're an awful lot like her, so she should maybe expect these kinds of things once in a while. I don't think she'll ground you till you're thirty." His expression was totally deadpan, but the girl picked up on the humor of his comment anyway. "Now, about that spider..."

Gil fixed dinner for the four of them while Vanessa helped Lindsey study for a US History test.

"Why does this have to be so boring?" the teenager complained.

"It usually is until you get into college. That's when they can tell you all the fun stuff without your parents coming down on them for it," Vanessa assured her. "Our culture has always been very focused on what lies ahead, which makes it hard to communicate how exciting things in the past really were," she explained further.

"It just seems like, really, 1918 wasn't that long ago," the girl replied sagely.

"In a lot of places it isn't. But when all the history you've got stems from a loose collection of colonies starting in the 15th century, it doesn't leave you much to work with. And a lot of teachers really don't know how to discuss the things that were going on during World War One in an interesting way. It really is a fascinating time period, though -- there was all kinds of stuff happening. Immigrants pouring in from all over. The labor movement. Isolationism versus globalization. Government corruption and the people who spent their lives trying to uncover it. Repression of first amendment rights. All that and a major epidemic. Its all in there. It just doesn't get discussed."

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Gil was talking to Catherine, who had her hand firmly wrapped around a screwdriver. She took a sip of the drink and listened patiently to her best friend. "She reminds me a lot of you, Cath. Intelligent, intuitive, and stubborn as hell. I think you'd get a lot further telling her why you're so upset rather than just basing your reaction on rules."

"This from you?" she snorted laughter.

He turned wide, innocent eyes on her, hoping to deflect her with a little bit of humor, "what?"

"You're such an open book," she said sarcastically, "but we'll get back to that. I'm afraid that she's just going to get worse as she gets older." The worried mother shook her head and stared into her drink.

"She probably will if she's anything like you. How old were you when you left home? Why did you leave home? If I remember correctly, it was because every time you tried to assert your independence, someone came along and squashed it."

"I know. I don't want her to make the same mistakes I did. With the knowledge I have now, there were dozens of times I should have been killed. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my daughter -- its been me and her against the world for a long time now." The redhead finished with a sigh.

"Look, you don't have to do this alone. You have everyone at the lab. You've got me. You've got Vanessa..." he trailed off.

"So she's gonna be something of a permanent fixture?"

"I suppose you could say that," Gil replied, refocusing his attention on the sauce that was coming together in the heavy saucepan in front of him.

"Sounds serious," the statement hung enigmatically. "What's the score, anyhow, since you should practice what you preach."

"Yeah, she snitched on every last one of you," his attention never wavered from the pot he was stirring. "What's this about folks in the lab thinking I need a break?"

"You really think you can work around these people for as long as you have and they aren't going to see you as something more than a supervisor? And you have been more than that. You've helped them and tried to understand them when administration wouldn't have taken the time or the effort. You go out of your way to thank people. When they see you looking tired, or withdrawing more than usual, they're going to worry. The most plausible answer to the Gil Grissom they've seen lately is burn out. You need a vacation. Take one with your 'lady friend.' " she suggested.

Gil just shrugged at first, "I'll be damned if this sauce breaks," he muttered, adding just a little more butter to the mixture. "Cath, can you come over here and grind some pepper into this? My hands are kinda full."

She watched intently for his nod of approval as she speckled the sauce with black flecks. Then, instead of moving directly back to her seat at the counter, she put an arm around his shoulder. "Thank you for everything. Really. Both of you. She makes you happy Gil -- don't go getting nervous and making two people miserable. Hang on to this one."

It was hardly the first time in his life, but his smart ass side got the better of him. "Well, as long as we have your blessing, I suppose its okay. Just let me know when curfew is."

She socked him lightly in the arm. "Behave. The alfredo smells delicious, by the way. Furthermore, it isn't just my blessing -- its the whole shift. With the minor exception of Sara, and she's adjusting. She couldn't really not adjust, seeing you two together, and all the work Vanessa did for the lab. There's nothing for her to argue with there."

"How did everyone get so interested in my personal life?" he asked, somewhat irascibly.

"You work with people who can't stand not knowing things. You're the ultimate mystery -- how could they stay away?" she laughed at him as she rounded the counter and went back to her drink.

He had to give in to her argument, even if grudgingly. It was the nature of the people he worked with, amplified when a group was as close knit as theirs. They were almost family.

"So..." Catherine was working up to something. Gil cringed. She was his best friend. He wasn't going to lie to her, but he might not like what she wanted to know. "Are you two going to the law enforcement ball?" She was smiling broadly.

"I don't know," he hedged. "I don't know if that's her kind of thing. It isn't really mine. Hadn't really thought about it. Isn't that the kind of thing I'd have to get dressed up for?" he asked with an elaborate grimace.

"You look hot in a tux," she laughed at him. "And I bet she cleans up pretty good, too. You might just go to shock the hell out of the rest of the department. Might be fun. Does she know how to dance?"

"Yeah. I think she was trying to teach Greg how to jitterbug one night," he laughed.

"I think Greg jitterbugs all on his own," she replied. Then she looked at him, and all traces of humor were gone. "Don't screw this up, Gil."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his tone becoming slightly irritated again.

"I'm a little too aware of your track record," she told him bluntly. "If you don't get scared and run off and hide, you wind up putting work ahead of everything else -- at precisely the wrong moment. Which adds up to the same thing, if you ask me. I just don't want you analyzing this to death, Gil. Even Hodges thinks you've been easier to deal with the last few weeks."

"Hodges?" he blurted, a little louder than he'd intended to.

"Don't worry -- he's still in the dark. The team knows how to hang on to a secret when they have to. The shortest information route to Ecklie is Hodges, and we've all taken that into consideration."

"Yes, but Hodges?" he repeated, shaking his head, the corners of his mouth pulled into a frown. He sighed, "I wish that I could have a personal life," he began. "You know, one that the entire lab isn't speculating about." The last statement came out laced with sarcasm.

Catherine just laughed at his irritation. "Is it so terrible that the people you work with care about you? Quit pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"Yes, you are. I don't put up with it out of my daughter, and I think I can expect a fifty year old man to behave better than someone who hasn't reached her full height yet."

Gil just grumped, took the alfredo off the burner, and toted the pot with containing the pasta to the sink to drain it.

"Just think about that, Gil. And think about taking her to that ball. It'd really put a bee in admin's bonnet to see you two there." Catherine told him before wandering out to the dining room, allowing him to stew on what she'd said.

It wasn't a moment later that the ladies heard a yelp from the kitchen. Vanessa was the first one on her feet, running into the room to find Gil holding his left hand in the sink, cold water going full blast. A broiler pan laden with chicken was sitting precariously at the edge of the counter.

Vanessa moved first to the counter, using a hand towel to push the pan back so that it wouldn't fall on the floor, then crossed the room to inspect the damage. Catherine stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging open, her daughter at her side.

"Shit. Goddammit. Sonofabitch," he was muttering clipped obscenities under his breath as he continued to hold his hand under the water.

Vanessa gingerly took his hand in her own, noting the streak of red at the base of his palm, near his thumb, where the pot holder (which had ended up on the floor) had apparently slipped from his grasp. "Have you got any burn cream? Aloe?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he growled, and continued swearing.

"Yeah. Right. And I'm the Empress of Persia. Now, where's the goods?" Vanessa asked.

"I'll get them," Catherine spoke up from behind them, and turned to make her way to the bathroom.

Vanessa held his hand back under the water, while her own hand ran up to his shoulder. He broke off swearing long enough to look down at her, and noticed the well hidden mischief in her eyes. "Would it help if I kissed it better?" she whispered, a smile slowly pulling at the ends of her lips, making her underlying intent clear.

His eyes widened slowly, and before he could formulate a response, she was standing on her toes so she could reach up and kiss him. His right arm curled around her waist, pulling her closer as he sank into her attentions, effectively forgetting his throbbing hand for the moment.

"Okay, kids," a voice from behind them said sharply. They jumped apart, looking almost guilty. "Here's the aloe," Catherine set it down on the counter with a 'thump,' "now, Lindsey and I are going to set the table. If you two aren't out there in ten minutes, we're coming in after you."

It took Vanessa all of two seconds to step into his space again at the sight of Catherine's retreating back. "So...was that working?" she asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

"Admirably," he replied, his voice a little husky, as his right arm found her waist again, this time trapping her between the counter and his body. "However," he continued, "any experiment needs to be tried many times before the results are accepted as truth." This time the press of his lips on hers, more assertive than before, left her feeling boneless as she sagged into him, arms twining around his neck, fingers in his hair.

"I should put that stuff on your hand," she said softly, breathlessly, upon reluctantly breaking the kiss.

"I said I'm fine," he said, giving her quick kisses, "besides, if you put anything on it, it will spoil the experiment," he laughed.

"You're stubborn, you know that?" she asked, parroting his own words back to him from the day he took care of her after her one-woman strike.

"That's my line," he said softly, moving in for another kiss.

Vanessa found, a bit to her chagrin, that she couldn't resist him. She knew that they had guests waiting for dinner, and that their allotted ten minutes was slipping past, and that they were going to be caught in the act again, so to speak.

Then, to her surprise, he stopped, stepped away from her, and turned off the cold water. Her mouth hung open as she followed his movements. "What? You want to get caught again?" he asked, his lips curving into a grin that held a hint of wickedness.

Her mouth closed with a snap as she fixed him with her best glare. "You just watch yourself," she warned. "I might not be gentle when I get ahold of you all by myself."

"That might be fun, too," he said softly as he smeared aloe on his hand.

She ended the conversation walked in by slapping him on the ass, making him jump. She stepped close behind him, this time allowing her hand to linger where it had before moved sharply, "you really think so?" she purred in his ear.

He was about to answer when Catherine walked in. "Can you two give it a rest if I promise to cover your shift, tonight, Gil? No calls -- my solemn promise." She held three fingers in the air, signifying the seriousness of her pledge.

"Its his fault," Vanessa defended herself, trying not to blush.

Catherine moved towards the other woman, slinging an arm around her shoulders, and told her teasingly, "I know, hon. Its been like that for years. Women throw themselves at his feet and he never pays them a second glance. Then you come along and practically ignore him..." conversation drifted away from his ears as his best friend led his lover from the kitchen.

He shook his head, hoping to shake loose thoughts and images that would be inappropriate to harbor in front of a thirteen year old, while he plated up dinner and transported it to the table.

Through out the meal, Lindsey teased them without mercy, and Catherine made no move to stop her. The red head simply sat back and enjoyed the look of discomfort on their faces, knowing that the young woman's teasing was reinforcing thoughts they'd rather not have in a family setting. Eventually they would wind up outing themselves to the rest of the team, and the teasing they were getting from her daughter was negligible to what they would have to deal with at the hands of their colleagues. She couldn't help hoping that Gil would get over himself and take her to the ball. Then she could relish the look on Ecklie's face, along with the other administrators, and anyone else (herself and members of the team included, she admitted to herself) who had consigned her best friend to being incapable of human feeling. She found herself looking at the couple with a certain hint of pride.

Catherine insisted that Lindsey clear the table and rinse the dishes before they left, while the 'grown ups' sipped coffee in the living room and talked idly of anything but work. Eventually, though, mother and daughter departed, leaving the couple to their own devices. It didn't take them long to figure out what to do with themselves.

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Standing by the window, watching as Catherine and Lindsey disappeared, his arms were back around her waist, pulling her almost roughly into his chest while his lips met hers. Losing herself in the moment, she relished the closeness of his warmth, the feel of his desire apparent, even through clothes, against her hip. Her hands were already toying with the buttons of his shirt, negligently freeing one at a time while his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She met his demands with equal passion, her own tongue fiercely engaging his, caressing, stroking, even sucking.

She was ahead of the game so far, she noticed. She pushed the last button through its hole and yanked his shirt free of his pants, exposing his chest. He broke the kiss and backed her into the door, "oh yeah, foul temptress?" he smiled as his hands went to the top of her jeans, freeing the button and pulling the zipper down in one quick movement.

"Yeah," she challenged back, returning his smile. She leaned into him, her hands grasping his hair and pulling him in for another kiss. Thus distracted, she trailed one foot up the inside of his leg, letting it linger for a moment to rub him through the fabric at the crotch of his pants before it moved over his hips and the small of his back. Much to her satisfaction, he groaned. Upping the ante just a little more, she used the leg that was now wrapped around his waist to pull him forward, pressing him into her body as tightly as she could.

He groaned against her lips, again breaking the kiss. This time, as he looked into her smiling eyes, he was panting. Her smiled widened as she ground her hips into his. Every time he looked like he was about to say something, she twisted against him, stealing the words from his throat. Finally, she let her foot trail down the inside of his leg from behind him, until it rest lightly on the floor. She took his burned hand in hers and gently kissed the area that still radiated pink heat, then traded it for the other hand. Her mouth found his fingers, kissing and sucking at them as she turned him around to lead him to what had quickly become their bedroom. She moved to kiss the inside of his wrist, tongue sneaking out to taste his skin and feel the warmth of his pulse, all the while her hands slipped up his chest to push his shirt from his shoulders, and down his arms, finally dropping it to the floor half way down the hall.

He stopped, almost turning back to pick the garment up, out of habit. She caught his wrists in her hands and continued to pull him down the hall with a smile and a shake of her head. At the entrance to the bedroom, she let go and reached over to her own shoulders, sliding the straps of her hastily donned leotard down her shoulders. There was no delicacy in his movements when he picked her up by the waist and set her on the bed, pushing her back into the mattress as his mouth landed on hers. One second his hands were in her hair, the next they were pushing the straps of her leotard down, pulling the form-fitting garment down to her waist. She hadn't even been aware that she had stopped breathing until his mouth left hers, and she was taking in air in desperate gulps. His lips and tongue were pressing into her bare flesh, sucking at her breasts, teeth playing over her nipples, making her gasp and moan. His attentions moved lower, allowing his arms the freedom to pull her clothing from her body in one easy motion. When he was done, his mouth was hovering over her aching center, hands moving back up her legs to her hips, where his fingers dug into her curves, pulling her toward the warmth of his mouth and the furious attention of his tongue.

When his tongue rubbed over her clit, her back arched and she cried out. He pulled her in and suckled her, sending burning waves of need through her body, making her shiver. Without any warning, two fingers were slipping into her, finding her g spot, driving her closer to orgasm. Her hips spasmed, lifting convulsively from the bed, only to be pushed back down again and held by his arm. His fingers were delving in and out of her, each pass pressing into her g spot, bringing another cry to her lips.

Finally, in desperation, she started to form words, "Gil," she panted, "I need you. Now. Please." He looked up at her from his position between her legs, her clit still in his mouth, tongue massaging it in tight, tiny circles. She could have sworn she saw a grin in his eyes and let her head fall back against the pillows in defeat as she felt a third finger enter her, almost making her scream in frustration. She looked down again, trying to focus on him, her voice a growl this time, punctuated by higher pitched wails of need, "Gil, ohhh...ohh God. Please. I need...Gil!...to feel you in me. Make me...ummmm...cum, Gil. Please. Need. Oh God. Ohgod..." her words faded to breathless pleas as he maintained his ministrations.

"I can't..." she whispered, reaching down, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him up as carefully as she could by his damp curls. "Now, Gil?" she was begging. She was granted one last lucid thought as he quickly rid himself of his pants and pulled her hands from his hair, pinning them above her head with one hand. How does he do this to me? was her thought, and anything after it was scattered into oblivion as she felt him pushing against her opening, just a light touch before he plunged into her and her legs wrapped themselves around his waist, holding him as tightly as she could against her. He backed out and thrust into her again, hard enough to push her breath from her, with a guttural grunt. His pace was frantic, almost animalistic, increasing in speed and force. The feel of him sliding in and out of her, throbbing, hot, and wet, the way his body felt on top of hers, smooth skin and straining muscles, was the carnal bliss she had been seeking, and the torment of being made to wait for it through the afternoon and dinner after that, added something to the pleasure. The feel of her arms straining against his hand was more erotic than she'd guessed it would be, a delicious feeling of relinquished control, entrusting herself completely to another person, allowing him to ravage her, and knowing that his grip was light enough that if she really tried to, she could certainly break away.

Instead, as she felt her muscles tighten around him, clenching and unclenching as she reached orgasm, she leaned forward and first, kissed his shoulder, then closed her teeth on the flesh she found there. She was rewarded with a full throated cry from him as his thrusts gained an impossible intensity, filling her, making the room, the world, around them, fade from reality. "Oh God. Vanessa. Please cum for me," he whispered into her shoulder. The gritty desperation in his voice and in his body were all it took for her to oblige, and her hips slammed into his uncontrollably. She heard their voices in a disembodied kind of way, her consciousness compromised by the force of the orgasm that was shuddering its way through her body. Finally, she felt him spill into her, and with a broken moan he slowed to a stop, collapsing on top of her in exhaustion. His grip on her wrists slacked and her arms slipped around his shoulders, slowly and lightly stroking his back as they regained their breath.

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"I'm squashing you," he mumbled from her shoulder.

"Its fine. I like it," she told him quietly. "Stay."

He sighed and she felt him slip out of her as he softened, leaving a void in her that she couldn't describe.

"That didn't go how I planned for it to," he mumbled again, this time lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"Really? I thought it went rather well," she couldn't help smirking.

"But you can still put two words together, which means it didn't go like I planned it," he replied obstinately.

Her eyebrows arched in unabashed curiosity. "You had plans, huh? What kind of plans?"

"It started with keeping you in my bed all day, naked and beautiful," he started, brow furrowing at her look of skepticism. "What? You don't think I can do it?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely certain you could keep me naked and in bed and lusting after you all day, its the beautiful part that's a little..." she faltered, the first word on her tongue being ridiculous, but knowing that would leave the wrong impression, "it just makes me question the quality of your eyesight."

He moved off her, pulling her with him so that she was laying against his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat against her ear was comforting, letting her slip further toward utter relaxation.

He continued, "its been a long time since I invited a woman to my bed," he said slowly. "I'd like to do what I can to keep her coming back," he pressed a kiss into the top of her head, tightening his arms around her as she resumed the comfortable sprawl she'd woken up in that morning, with one leg slung around his hips, maintaining as much contact between them as physically possible.

"Again, no problem there. I think you're turning me into an addict," she laughed lightly.

"You're beautiful, you could have had anyone in the lab. Or outside the lab, for that matter. You must be delusional that you picked me," he told her, returning to his earlier train of thought. "No..." he started, stilling the argument that was forming on her lips with one finger, "I won't have you debating me on this. I wanted to spend all day pleasuring you," his eyes were boring into hers as craned her neck to look up at him, "giving you one orgasm after another. First with my hands, then with my mouth, and finally..." he let the sentence trail off.

She was silent for a while, thoughts arrested by the deep blue of his eyes locking her own into place, intense enough to make her heart almost stop. Finally, she took a deep breath and settled back into his shoulder, "I love you, Gil Grissom," she sighed.

She felt him tense instantly at her words, and for a moment, hid her face in his shoulder. Again, she found herself working up her courage to ask him a question to which she was afraid of the answer. Never the less, she sat up on one elbow and looked him square in the eye, "I shouldn't have said that yet, should I?"

"I think you should say whatever is on your mind," he said carefully.

"Yeah, but I think I just pushed you further than you were comfortable with," she replied, shaking her head. "I shouldn't do that. Considering I wouldn't mind returning to your bed as often as you'd like," she finished, trying to smile.

"Why?" he asked.

"What do you mean, why? Because that was completely earth shattering sex. If the female population at large knew what you could do, you'd have to retire to live in the mountains as a hermit to escape them," she said, frustrated that he seemed to have dodged the crux of the conversation again.

"No. Why did you say that..." he faltered, "you love me?"

She was stunned, almost to the point of tears. His expression was openly confused -- he really didn't get it. "Do you think I'd say it if I didn't mean it?"

His eyes grew distant and she knew he was reflecting on times when he'd exposed himself to someone only to end up worse for it. She'd spent a great deal of time reflecting on her own romantic mishaps in recent weeks, telling herself that whatever was progressing between them was a romantic friendship. She'd finally had to call herself on her own nonsense, though, about a week ago, while working late one night painting the inside of the community center.

She'd gone through her problem in a very linear manner, establishing that there was, indeed, a very deep friendship between them. From there, she acknowledged that the friendship, over the last few weeks, had developed some seriously romantic over tones. It simply didn't feel like 'friendship with benefits,' as many called it. Although they hadn't made love until the night before, there was no lack of physical contact between them -- also known as 'making out.' He made her happy in a way no one else in her life had been able to. That was the hardest part to admit. The question that naturally followed: isn't that something akin to love? And wouldn't you be happier if you just admitted that?

The answer, at first, obstinately forcing itself to the front of her mind: So what's holding you up?

Equally obstinately: he could do way better than you, that's why. There's someone who's just perfect for him waiting around the corner. He deserves her, not a neurotic, workaholic, basket case who really doesn't have time to indulge the wants and needs of another human being.

But that had rang false in her head, and she'd known it, even though it took hours of mental gyrations for her to admit it. And finally she was left with: why don't you deserve to be happy? What's holding you up?

And she didn't have a good answer to that one. She never accepted 'just because' out of anyone else, so she supposed she shouldn't accept it out of herself. And then, last night...

It occurred to her finally that maybe she needed to ask him the same questions she'd asked herself. She started with: "Why shouldn't I?"

She sat up in the bed to look at him as directly as possible, shivering at the loss of warmth now that his arms weren't around her. He stammered, "I told you already; you could have anyone you want. You pick a guy who keeps experiments in the fridge, races cockroaches, farms maggots, works insane hours, and, among many other things, will likely lose his hearing." He sat up as well, crossing his arms over his bare chest defiantly.

"So I'll have to learn sign language. Big deal," she started casually. "I repeat, why shouldn't I pick you? You challenge me. You make me happy. Most of all, you understand me. I've told you things I've never dared tell anyone else, and you didn't judge me or shy away from it. You've got the intellect, and, pardon the vernacular, you've got the balls, to put up with someone like me. Doesn't hurt that you're the hottest thing on two legs..." she threw the last part out with a smile that she hoped would take some of the challenge out of her statements.

She watched color slowly seep into his cheeks, unable to believe she'd made him blush. Although even that was kinda cute. He turned to her with another argument, "I've got ten years on you --"

She cut him off, "Gil, that's lame and we both know it. Have you got anything more convincing in your arsenal? Or should I go back to the guest room while you think something up?" She waited patiently for his reply.

She was rewarded when his arms stole around her shoulders again, pulling her close to him, "I don't know what's wrong with you -- there's probably a medication out there somewhere for it -- but I'll take what I can get for now," his voice was soft in her ear.

"So I make you happy?"

"Yes."

"Is there some reason you don't think you deserve that?"

"I probably don't," he told her, nuzzling her neck, "but I'll let you figure that out in your own time." His lips were moving over her neck again, more delicately than before.

She leaned back into his attention and closed her eyes. "I love you," she repeated, with a measure of confidence that she hadn't had earlier.

His breath on her shoulder chased shivers up her spine as he spoke, "I love you." And over the course of the evening, he made good on the plans he'd so carefully laid out.