A/N:

Disclaimer: I love them, but I don't own them. Many thanks to all the folks at CSI, especially JF and WP, for all the amusement they have given me.

Rating: Very, very mature T, for adult situations and very occasional salty language. Very brief mention of Adam Trent's attempted violence against Sara (as per the story summary).

Spoilers: "Committed" (05x21).

AO3 version: This story is also being posted on AO3. The cover art is being posted on Tumblr.

This story follows closely upon the events of my stargazing how-they-got-together story, but all you really need to know to understand this one is that they got together! For anyone who read that one, I will note that the "babe" of the "Romeo and Juliet" song lyrics is completely unrelated to the "babe" Sara once called the bad Hank (just like the good Hank is completely unrelated to that bad Hank!). (You'll just have to take my word on this.)

The story is meant to be told almost exclusively based on Sara's reflections, so the timing jumps around a little bit. I'm including a very short timeline of events at the bottom as a cheat sheet, in case anything's not clear. I hope you enjoy the story!

April 2005. Later that same week. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Commit. To commit. To be committed. Suddenly these phrases had taken on a lot of significance in Sara Sidle's life—too much significance, perhaps.

That week, that very week, she and Grissom had committed to something, something beyond the nebulous non-relationship relationship they'd navigated for years. It was something. Something. Sara knew it was something. Something special. She couldn't have defined what exactly it was yet, but they had time for that. They both knew they had time for that, plenty of time—until, for an instant, it seemed maybe they didn't. A mentally unwell young man had held a shiv to her throat, and Grissom had looked into her eyes while he did it. In that moment, Sara's life hadn't flashed before her eyes—although all she saw was Grissom, so maybe it did.

Sara had seen the terror in Grissom's eyes. She had known what he was thinking when he saw the shiv to her throat; it was what she'd been thinking, too. What if they'd finally, after all these years, embarked on something together, only to have it taken away in less than a week? What if those two days together—those two days of something—were the closest to happiness either of them ever came?

Afterward, he'd told her that, even if she was going to finish the case, she should go home and take a short break—eat something, take a shower, take a nap, put on some clean clothes. Then he'd walked her back to her SUV in silence.

The adrenaline of the moment had worn off somewhat, and neither had known how to address the overwhelming fear. She could tell he wanted to take her hand before she left, but somehow it seemed like an even more significant gesture now that they were something. She had seen him hesitating, so she had reached out and taken his instead, and he had tried to smile, though the terror had not yet fully faded from his eyes.

He'd probably known she wouldn't sleep. It wasn't like she slept much in the first place. But she'd eaten something, she'd taken a shower, she'd put on some clean clothes… and then in typical Sara Sidle fashion she'd hurried back to work.

Back at the lab, Grissom had tried to appear more lighthearted. Sofia had made a joke, and Grissom had riffed on it by referring to her—her, Sara—as "Baby." Clearly he was the real madman; clearly he was trying to get them found out. Saying this in front of Sofia, of all people—Sofia, who had given every indication of feeling she had a personal stake in Grissom's love life. As if there were anyone in the lab more inclined to notice Grissom referring to one of his colleagues as Baby—well, anyone aside from Sara, that is. Could he have made a more careless choice? He had perhaps been overselling this attempt at lightheartedness—and it wasn't like anything was going to diminish the horrors of the Greek tragedy they were then investigating.

Once the terrible case was over, they'd said little, and when shift was done they'd gone their separate ways. Sara had driven back to her small apartment, where she'd immediately stripped and once again headed to the shower. She'd spent thirty minutes under the hottest water the shower could pump out, trying to wash everything about the case off her. After she'd gotten out of the shower, she'd put on an old Tracy Chapman CD she thought might calm her, sat on her couch in her towel, and tried to remember the breathing exercises her PEAP counselor had repeatedly tried to teach her.

This time, when she'd heard the knock on her door, she'd immediately known who it was. Well, if you're here, it can't be good. In a way it was, and in a way it wasn't. When she'd opened the door, she'd seen that, away from the lab and his attempts at levity, the terror still hadn't yet fully left his eyes. That was what had frightened her the most. She knew Grissom wouldn't trifle with her. She knew what he was doing was deliberate. But what if he realized just how vulnerable he was making himself in finally opening his heart to her? She wasn't worried for herself. She didn't imagine her heart could be any more compromised than it already was. (As the years went on, of course, she'd realize she'd been wrong. She'd love him more every day, even when she wanted to hate him. But her fate had been decided back in San Francisco, many years before.) But what if Grissom realized just how much greater the possibility for pain could be? What if he still turned and ran?

He hadn't said anything after she'd let him into the apartment. He'd just kissed her, and she could feel the terror in his kiss, too, a desperation he hadn't shown before, albeit still a caring desperation. She'd led him to her bed for the first time (well, the first time in Vegas), and she'd tried to think of how to reassure him.

"Baby," she'd whispered in his ear once he was inside her, as she'd wrapped her legs around him and tried to draw him in closer, closer, closer still, so close he could never run away. "It's okay, Baby."

Babe. The last man who'd shared her bed on a semi-regular basis she'd called babe, as if somehow that would make up for the fact that he wasn't really the man she wanted in her bed—as if somehow she could just close her eyes and pretend he was the one she really wanted. Even with her eyes firmly shut, though, there was no chance she could make that mistake. She could never mistake him for the man she always wanted, the man she loved, the man for whom she'd come to this godforsaken city in the desert. In their first night together alone, Gil Grissom had shown more care for her than any other man had ever shown her, in all the time she'd spent with any of them. She could never mistake anyone else for him.

Before Grissom, Sara had always chosen the same type of man (more aptly described as the same type of boy)—tall, handsome in a rather dull way; moderately attractive to her; moderately arousing; well enough educated but at most moderately intelligent in any real, substantive sense. They'd all been somewhat interchangeable—men who would have looked like they could have stepped out of the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, if they'd been about a decade younger—men who could have been switched out for any other moderately handsome man with Sara barely noticing.

None of these men had really interested Sara all that much, and certainly none of them had put her heart and soul at risk the way Gil Grissom had within the first day of her knowing him. From that first day, it was almost like she'd been drugged—intoxicated in her affections for him. She was certain that, if he'd known the true intensity of her feelings, he never would have given in and brought her back to his hotel room during the AAFS conference, never would have returned to visit her in San Francisco, never would have moved her to Las Vegas. Sara felt certain that, if he'd ever really understood the true intensity of her feelings, he would have kept as much distance between the two of them as possible. Yet he'd invited her, so she had moved to Vegas for him—because she'd loved him, even if he might never love her. But she'd hoped maybe someday he could.

She'd moved to Vegas because she'd loved him, yet five years later she could see that what she'd felt then had been but a schoolgirl crush compared to what she would come to feel. When she'd moved to Vegas, she'd not known what it would be like to see him on a daily basis, to work with him on a daily basis, to be frustrated by him on almost a daily—well, no, we won't quite say daily—a regular basis. She loved him as she'd never imagined loving anyone; he infuriated her as she'd never before been infuriated. Of course, what really, truly infuriated her was not Grissom's words or actions, but the way that, no matter what he said or did, she always wanted him. The more he infuriated her, in fact, the more she wanted him. Sometimes it seemed almost more than she could bear; sometimes it was more than she could bear.

Sometimes he'd infuriated her so much she'd thought of leaving. She'd threatened to leave once; she'd told him she'd quit if he didn't grant her request for a leave of absence. She'd meant it at the time. She hadn't known if she could abide being in his presence for one more minute; she hadn't known if she could stand more than one day without him. In response to her threat to leave, he'd sent her a plant—vegetation—in some ways perhaps the very least he could do, but his remembrance of her preference for vegetation had given her a glimmer of hope. So she'd stayed. Then he'd told her he'd only cared about beauty since he met her, and she'd realized she could never leave.

Until she'd met him, nothing in Sara's volatile life had been constant. She'd known Gil Grissom only four years at that point, at that time he'd sent her vegetation, but he had been the one constant in her life, perhaps the only thing in her life that had ever been constant. So she felt certain she would go anywhere for him, do anything he wanted. She felt certain, even if he wasn't, that there was something more to their story.

But he'd pushed, and he'd pushed, and he'd pushed her away, until she'd reached a point where she needed someone—almost anyone, really—anyone reasonably attractive, reasonably appealing, reasonably normal (whatever that meant)—to want her. It wasn't really the sex she was after, and it certainly wasn't any serious desire for a relationship. But she hadn't wanted to be the girl who sat home alone with all the catalogues and take-out containers anymore. She'd wanted to know that someone nice (she'd thought he was nice) could still want her. So she'd started seeing the EMT once per week.

She hadn't initially started sleeping with the EMT. In fact, she hadn't slept with the EMT for quite some time. She'd wanted to prove she could be wanted, but she hadn't wanted to start sleeping with someone on a regular basis. As long as she wasn't sleeping with someone else on a regular basis, the possibility of a relationship with Grissom didn't feel that remote. So for a long time she'd gone to the movies with the EMT, and she'd fooled around with the EMT, but she hadn't slept with the EMT. Then Grissom had pushed her too hard, and finally she'd started sleeping with the EMT: a giant fuck you to the man she loved.

After she'd found out about the EMT's infidelity—found out that she, in fact, was the EMT's infidelity—she'd realized that it was only because both were committed to someone else (the EMT to his girlfriend, and Sara to Grissom) that the relationship between them had lasted as long as it did. If the EMT hadn't had a girlfriend, he would have wanted more from Sara; if the EMT had wanted more from Sara, this would have required her to take her attentions from Grissom. Sara never would have taken her attentions from Grissom. She was able see this in retrospect, though perhaps not at the time. (We might set our expectations too high if we expected her to have been able to see it at the time.)

Sara had tried again after that—tried to get Grissom to take a chance on her—but again he'd pushed her away. She'd started to believe he would never stop pushing, but still she knew she could never leave. She knew she would wait years. She had waited years, and she would wait years more.

Then somehow, so slowly she hadn't even noticed it at first, so slowly she hadn't realized what he was doing, Grissom had stopped pushing, and he'd started pulling.

Between when Grissom had taken her out for a night under the stars (and she'd learned he intended something, he wanted something—something with her) and when the mentally unwell young man had held the shiv to her throat and made her wonder whether it would all be taken away already, they'd spent only one day together away from work.

It had been their day for breakfast, but Grissom had told her that, instead of taking her out for breakfast as he normally did, he wanted to make breakfast for her at his townhouse. Sara had quite enjoyed her most recent trip to Grissom's townhouse, so of course she'd agreed.

When she'd arrived at the townhouse that morning, she'd been showered in kisses. They'd come from Hank, of course, but of course she'd still enjoyed them. Grissom himself had been, unsurprisingly, a bit more circumspect.

She'd offered to help with the breakfast, but he'd told her everything was almost ready, so she could just wait on the couch while he finished up. She'd sat there locating Hank's favorite spots to be scratched and marveling at the sudden turn her life appeared to have taken.

Once Grissom had called her to the table, she'd found waiting for her Meyer lemon and ricotta pancakes with maple syrup, strawberries, and homemade whipped cream; crispy breakfast potatoes served with a side of hollandaise sauce; her favorite brand of veggie breakfast sausages; and freshly squeezed orange juice. It was basically her dream breakfast. Though she'd known her nerdy Renaissance man had many talents, Sara had still been somewhat shocked.

Clearly uncomfortable with Sara's praise, Grissom had admitted he'd spent weeks perfecting his execution of the pancake recipe. Sara had remembered that, a month or two earlier, she'd described her ideal breakfast to him, including the pancakes that had been served at a local café that had, unfortunately, closed down a couple years after her move to Vegas. She'd since spent years trying to find the perfect pancake—completely unsuccessfully, until that April morning at Gil Grissom's townhouse, when he'd handed them to her not on a silver platter but on a very nice plate, dusted in icing sugar. When she'd tasted the pancakes, she'd stared at him in wonder. When he'd admitted how much time he'd spent practicing, she'd almost choked.

She'd known, since a few days earlier (since that Sunday morning in Las Vegas, to be exact), that he'd been serious about this something on which they were embarking, but again she'd marveled. He hadn't just given in and fallen into bed with her. He'd planned for this. He'd practiced. And he hadn't practiced for just anyone; he'd practiced for her. She'd slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans and tried to pinch her leg, but that hadn't achieved anything except making Hank look at her funny.

After breakfast, Grissom had asked whether she'd mind if they took Hank for a short walk, since he hadn't had a chance after shift, what with all the breakfast preparations. She had agreed, of course, so they'd walked to a nearby park, where they'd thrown balls for the sprightly young boxer. Sara had been most grateful, because her meal had made her feel as though she belonged passed out in a sugar-coma under her own covers, not naked in bed under the gaze of this man she cherished.

Then, after they'd returned to the townhouse, they'd spent the day in bed, partially asleep, and partially awake, and always deliciously intertwined.

For days afterward, Sara had thought she might be in heaven, but then that mentally unwell young man had held the shiv to her throat, and for a time she'd wondered whether she mightn't be in hell.

Afterward, she and Grissom had spent that desperate, almost wordless night together, and she'd wondered what he'd do when the terror had finally left his eyes; she again wondered what would happen when they returned to the lab, returned to the field, returned to a place where they couldn't always be intertwined and where she couldn't just hold him and never let him go.

But on shift that night they'd worked together seamlessly as usual, and Grissom's relative lightheartedness had no longer appeared a façade.

This time—the next morning—when after shift he'd knocked on her door, Sara had not only known who was there but had been expecting him; she'd been expecting this man she loved. It had been their day for breakfast again, but he'd sent her a message offering to pick it up and bring it over to her apartment, and she'd agreed.

He'd brought over breakfast from the diner. They'd eaten their breakfast, and afterward she'd washed the dishes, while he'd dried. As she'd been washing the dishes, her mind had wandered back to that horrible shift, but instead of the horrors she had thought of Grissom's indiscretion in the lab. She'd again repeated his word choice back to him—"Baby?"—and he'd laughed. Then she'd questioned his choice of audience—"Sofia, really, Gil?"—and he'd winked at her. And, in that moment, she'd realized that his choice of audience had been deliberate; that he'd made that choice for her—to amuse her, to divert her, to assure her; that he'd wanted to be sure, 100% sure, as sure as he could be that Sara knew he was interested in exactly one female member of their team, and that female member of their team was Sara. He'd wanted her to know, she'd realized in that instant, that, were it not for the workplace rules they were now quite clearly violating, he would have had absolutely no problem with Sofia (or anyone else) knowing he and Sara were quite clearly something. He really was serious about this; again Sara had marveled.

So she'd finished the dishes; and then she'd taken him to bed, where he'd tangled his gentle hands in her hair and over her body and inside her until she'd thought that this, too, she could no longer bear; and he'd once more been satisfied in his ability to make her come; and she'd once more been satisfied in his ability to make her come; and now he lay sleeping beside her; and the sunlight drifted in through the cracks in her curtains and onto his face; and she absentmindedly wrapped strands of his curly hair around her finger; and she felt something she'd rarely felt before; and she wondered whether this might be what it was like really, truly to be happy.

The end. But just for now.

UP NEXT: NEXT STORY: NO, I NEVER MEANT TO CAUSE YOU PAIN: GRAVE DANGER TO LAW OF GRAVITY: VARIOUS ENCOUNTERS

NOTES

On telling people about that something:

To be clear, I am not for a second suggesting that, were those workplace rules not in place, Grissom would have been wanting to tell everyone about him and Sara. They're two very private people, and they'd been dating less than a week. I think that, even without the workplace rules, they would have been quite slow to tell people about their relationship. But at the same time I don't think Grissom would have had a problem with anyone knowing. He wouldn't be ashamed of Sara; he's quite proud of this brilliant goddess he adores. And he would have had no problem with Sofia—or anyone else in the world—knowing he was taken; if it meant the rest of the world knew Sara was taken, too, he'd probably be quite happy about that part.

On the timeline:

April 23-24, 2005: The events of my "stargazing" how-they-got-together story take place. Sara and Grissom go watch a meteor shower in the desert. Make-out central. Then they go for dessert at Grissom's and have a marvelous Sunday morning.

A couple days later: Grissom makes breakfast (pancakes) for Sara at his apartment. They go to the dog park. More marveling ensues.

A couple days later: The events of "Committed" (05x21, original air date: April 28, 2005) take place over a couple of days.

After the end of shift following the case in "Committed": Grissom shows up at Sara's apartment unannounced for the somewhat desperate "you could have died" sex.

The following day: They have a less stressful shift. Afterwards, Grissom brings breakfast to Sara's apartment. They have more marvelous times.

The end!

SOUNDTRACK LISTING

Tracy Chapman. "Baby Can I Hold You."

Annie Lennox. "Waiting in Vain."

You can find the songs in my playlist for this series, which can be found by searching my username on Spotify.

A/N:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. The next story in the series will be multi-chapter again, and my goal is to start posting it in two weeks.

It makes me ridiculously happy to know anyone is reading these stories. So, if you're reading this, I'd love to hear from you! (Please feel free just to say hi or to leave a comment with your favourite GSR-related emoji or whatever you like!)

Finally, whatever you are or aren't celebrating today, I hope it has been a good day for you—I'll soon be eating two kinds of fondue (cheese then chocolate, for inquiring minds), and I get to post this story now, so it's a good day for me! On the other hand, I would have been skiing today if I hadn't dropped my laptop's power adaptor on my foot over the weekend—a surprisingly painful business, not recommended at all—so not everything's coming up roses (holiday pun intended).