Five
A sudden, deep and profound sense of serenity settled over Sara as she rested her head against Grissom's chest. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat settle back into an even rhythm and simply relished in the feel of the warmth of his hand along her bare back.
And while that tiny whisper of insecurity still lingered -- the one that told her that this was all too good to be true -- she felt at this moment, safe and snug and at peace.
She sighed at the feel of the fingers of his free hand slide between hers. Grissom was not really a man for hand holding or public displays of affection, but she could distinctly remember him taking her hand earlier that day and never letting go.
The physical contact had been infinitely soothing. Sara always felt drained by her weekly visits to see her mother, but the most recent interview had proven far more taxing.
She was tired of the rouse, tired of patiently edging her way to the truth. And just tired.
And cold.
The mere return of Grissom's presence had helped warm her. But then he had taken her hand and brought her home. There had been so much she wanted to tell him, so much she had wanted to say, but she couldn't find the words and he seemed to understand this.
He simply and quietly took her into the bathroom and proceeded to undress her and then himself. The steady spray of hot water had eased some of the stiffness, but it had been those hands that finally relaxed her. He had taken his time, slowly working the shampoo into her hair, before guiding her head under the water to wash it away. He had forgone the use of a washcloth or sponge and instead had chosen to lather up his hands, the better to ease the tightness in her shoulders. Once they were both rinsed and dried, he had guided her to bed. With him beside her, her hand securely enclosed within his again, she had whispered a faint Thank You before finally drifting off.
His hands still warmed her now.
"What are you thinking about?" He asked drowsily. Seven in the evening was usually well past his bedtime and their afternoon nap hadn't lasted nearly long enough.
"You'll just laugh..."
He began to massage her neck in a way that almost always got him whatever he asked for.
"Try me."
She paused, enjoying his touch too much to want to talk at this particular moment.
"Sara --" he urged gently.
She reluctantly disengaged herself from his grasp and propped herself on one elbow to peer down at him.
"Your hands--" She whispered.
"Hmm?"
"I was thinking about how I used to fantasize about your hands," she replied.
Grissom gave her his trademark quizzical expression -- the one where one eyebrow rose higher than the other -- a look that always made Sara want to grin. So she did. The slight smile widened and then turned into an amused purse of the lips that barely contained a laugh as she shook her head and sighed, "Get your mind out of the gutter, Gil."
He smirked as if to retort, Who me?
"Yes, you," she replied, nudging him playfully.
"What?" He queried in wounded tone she knew better than to take seriously.
"Oh, don't play innocent, Gilbert."
"I'm not. Playing at least. In this, I am totally innocent, my dear."
Sara snickered, but made no comment. She sat there for a moment trying not to succumb, but his amusement was catching.
"Well?" He asked when her giggling finally died away.
"Well what?"
"I ask you what you're thinking and you tell me that you used to fantasize about my hands."
"Yes," Sara said simply.
"And then you wrongfully accuse me of having inappropriate thoughts about said response..." Her lips moved to protest the wrongfully part of that assessment, but Grissom continued, "And that's it?"
"It's not what you think..." she replied.
"Since when have you taken up mind-reading, dear? You're stalling..."
True.
She collected one of his hands in hers and turned it over and over in effort to examine it closely.
"I suppose it wasn't fantasizing precisely," she eventually answered. "I guess I was curious."
"About?"
"What they would feel like."
His eyebrow went up again at that.
"Gutter," she warned. He made no reply but to feign a blameless look. She blithely shook her head, but then explained, "You are always so precise with your hands. There is always a purpose to all of their actions. And yet there was this gentleness about them -- and you." Sara began to trace each of his fingers lightly. "Most of the time, we feel so little through our gloves. You can't tell much from the occasional brush. So I was curious."
"And?" He prompted.
"It turned out to be better than I imagined."
They shared a smile. Grissom leaned in to kiss her, but then his stomach rumbled, causing them both to laugh.
"So is the state of your cupboards as bad as I imagine it is?" He asked.
"Probably worse," Sara admitted.
Grissom shook his head sadly. "Whatever am I to do with you?"
"I could say the same," she countered.
"True."
"I suppose we'll both figure something out at some point."
"One can hope."
"There is that."
Series Continued in "Engaging Conversations."