Disclaimer: I do not own CSI etc.
The next time Sara woke in her bed, it was much lighter—she'd never closed the dark curtains she used when sleeping days. She knew without looking that she was alone this time, and listened instead for any telltale sound from the bathroom or the kitchen—there was none. She mentally prepared herself, before she moved an inch—it didn't make sense to get upset, she had made it clear, when they had fallen back into this bed, dripping and exhausted, that no strings were attached.
They had laid there panting, the white comforter fighting off the chill from the air, though Sara's shoulders still had goose bumps trailing across them. Grissom had seemed moments from sleep, but when she broke their silence with a tentative "Gil…?" his eyes had opened without difficulty, as piercingly blue as ever, and still intense, even in his afterglow. "I don't… want you to feel like… having sex with me… that you're going to hell…" He had opened his mouth to protest—hadn't they already resolved this? But she rushed on, preventing that; she didn't want reassurances he would feel obligated to provide because he was an honorable man. "I know what it means. All I'm saying is… this was a dream come true for me, and I don't want it to be anything less than that for you. So, I'm taking away the consequences. You're too…good to accept my offer of a "freebie," but I'm just letting you know that, as far as I'm concerned, you're off the hook. If you don't want to pursue it, then that's the end of it."
"How can that be a dream come true? Me backing out because I can't face the consequences of my actions..?"
She sighed in frustration, getting a little angry. "Either way, I got to be with you… something I would never have had if you hadn't broken your rules. So if you want them back, you can have them. I don't want to be pursued because you have self-righteous notions of 'facing your consequences' or whatever. You lost control, and I'm giving it back to you."
He opened his mouth again, to protest, but she shook her head.
"No." She said simply, and rolled over, facing her back to him. He sat there in shock, unable to figure out exactly how to argue when there was no argument made—just an absolute refusal.
"Sara—" He began, but he was cut off again, a little more sharply.
"No, Gil. Goodnight."
He sighed, feeling restless and uneasy, but she remained a brick wall, staring determinedly away from him, and eventually he drifted to sleep.
So having set him free, there was no reason to be upset that he had left when he woke. It was possible that he had somewhere to be or simply that he'd wanted to leave. That was fine.
She took a deep breath, and repeated the phrase to herself. It's fine. She sat up, feeling even more stiff after the second bout of lovemaking, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand to her right, the closest one to her. It was ten to three in the afternoon—no wonder he'd left, she'd been sleeping the entire day. That seemed strange… unlike her… but she realized after a moment that she'd only slept a few hours and then gotten up and done it again. No wonder she was tired.
She quickly pulled herself out of bed, making the obligatory walk around her apartment, to make sure he wasn't still there, and then relocking the door—her proof that he had gone. They were unlocked. She then moved back through the bedroom and into her master bath—though she'd been in here only hours previously, she hadn't exactly had time to shampoo and condition, so she started the water up again, gauging the heat of it until it was warm but not hot, and then stepped inside.
She gasped out loud when the water made contact with her back, but she grit her teeth and endured it—the scratches probably needed cleaning anyway, and this was easier… it just hurt more. She relaxed after a moment, when the stinging died down, and quickly washed her hair and body, before stepping out of the shower, dripping wet. Once she had hurried through the shower, however, she regret it. She needed to keep occupied before work today, not sit and think… She moved back into her bedroom, never having been one to towel dry, planning to sit on her bed and find something interesting on television. This was when her eye caught something on the other nightstand, where his glasses had rested the night before.
She dried herself quickly, almost frantically, not wanting to get the small slip of paper wet, and then quickly went and sat on his side of the bed, picking it up.
"Sweet Dreams, Sweet Sara. I'll see you at work. –Gil"
She smiled softly, adoring the piece of paper with his beautiful scrawl. She reread it several times, and then folded it along the crease he had made and tucked it into her jewelry box, for safe keeping. She sighed, giving herself a moment to think. She knew Grissom very well—once he realized that he needed to make a decision based on what he wanted, rather than on what he thought he owed her, that decision would be a long time in coming. He liked to mull over things, debate them, agonize over details and what-ifs. He would not know, tonight at work, what he wanted. And at work, he would not indicate by word or gesture that there were anything to decide. So she could not go in, analyzing his every word and movement, and try to determine where he was, because it would only mislead her. He might not even have realized by tonight that he needed to make a decision.
She would give him time, not dissect his every action. She took several deep breaths, calming herself, and then smiled. Okay. She could do that.
Dry now, she moved into her bathroom to mousse her hair—it was the only way her stubborn natural curls didn't frizz up like crazy in the Vegas heat. Generally she straightened it, but that was more work than she had the patience for, even if her curls never looked like the perfect spirals that Catherine could do with a curling iron and twenty minutes. Once finished, she glanced at herself in the mirror and was surprised—she had bruises on her right forearm. Upon closer inspection, she realized they resembled a band of some kind… Grissom's belt. She looked to her other arm in alarm, seeing the same bruising along the underside. She knew she bruised easier than the average person, but never this easily—the belt hadn't hurt even a little bit. "Well, shit." She muttered aloud, applying deodorant and then stomping her way off to her closet in an attempt to find a long-sleeved shirt that was light weight enough for the Vegas heat. She didn't go in until much later, but the city took a while to cool down, especially in summer.
When she failed to find anything lightweight enough—the television reported that it was 105 degrees today—she sighed, throwing on a white, wide-strapped tank top with her usual dark wash jeans and snatched a brown jacket from the closet—the fabric was light and airy, hopefully she wouldn't feel the need to take it off today.
She left the jacket resting on the bar top in her kitchen and set about making food for herself—had she really not eaten since the night before?—and then made her way back to the bedroom while her soup heated on the stove. She eyed her sheets doubtfully—she liked that they still smelled like Grissom, but she was prone to evaluate everything in a 'what if I don't come home tonight' mind frame. If she were killed, they would search her apartment for clues, and discover Grissom. If he didn't want to be discovered, that was a problem. Sighing, she tore them from her bed, including all pillow cases, and threw them in the wash, her comforter folded beside the washer, ready to be the next load. Then she re-made the bed, white sheets with blue pin-stripes, and a brown comforter, to match the blue/brown/white color palette of her room. She returned to her kitchen and ate in a relatively comfortable silence, perusing a forensic journal while she ate.
The afternoon passed quickly and by the time she was collecting her things to leave for work, her sheets had been folded and put away, the comforter was spinning warmly in the dryer, all the counters had been wiped down and everything used put away. She had her kit in one hand, a purse slung over her shoulder, and her keys and a garbage bag in the other. She stepped out, dumped the garbage, locked the door, and proceeded to work feeling a little nervous, but sufficiently proud that she had managed not to allow herself to obsess too much over the previous night. She arrived early for the shift, as always, and made her way into the break room with a contented air about her.
She dumped out the last of the day-shift coffee, brewing a fresh pot, and sat at the table, pulling a newspaper towards herself. She was not seated more than ten minutes when her presence was noticed by Greg and he came in 'to get a cup of coffee.' "Hey Sara, what's up?"
Normally Sara found Greg to be endearing, his flirtations flattering and never discomforting. Today was no different—she laid the paper down on the table, grinning indulgently. "Not too much. How you been?"
"Good…good…" He paused only a moment, and grinned cockily. "So you gonna miss me?" Her eyes narrowed in confusion. He tutted, a hand on his heart like he was deeply hurt. "I'm off all next week. I can't believe you didn't know!"
"…Well, did you tell me you'd be gone?"
"Sara, if I have to tell you… Aren't you supposed to be a CSI?"
She laughed, noticing that the easy smile had returned; he was teasing her. "I'm very sorry Greg. Why are you leaving me all alone next week?"
His eyes lit up, though it was clear she was only humoring him. "My Nana and Papa Olaf are coming to visit me. They've never been to Vegas before…"
She grinned. "That's great." She was interrupted as the rest of their team filed into the room, getting coffee and preparing for assignments to be distributed. She set a hand on his shoulder, to communicate she was sorry they'd been interrupted, and he smiled further. Grissom entered and all sounds of movement stopped. Sara took a deep breath before looking up to meet his eyes—they hit her harder than they ever had before and she had to remind herself to exhale the breath as he began distributing their cases. Somehow, seeing them in an everyday context after seeing them alight with arousal and drowsy with contentment made it all the harder to endure.
But Sara was never one to let her work fall by the wayside, so she pushed her thoughts away in time to hear that she and Nick were working an apparent burglary turned murder—her eyes flashed to Grissom and away, thinking of her explanation of her multiple locks. Either the reference didn't occur to him, or he was very good at hiding the recognition, because he didn't even glance in her direction. After another moment or so of explanation, she and Nick were off to their crime scene, without a moment of hesitation—Nick had just gotten back from a couple of days off and was excited to get back into the action. That was fine with Sara—the busier she was, the faster time sped by.
The initial processing of the scene took longer than normal—the place had been trashed. It looked like very little was missing—the victim, a young woman, had her purse beside her, though her wallet was missing. Neighbors had called to report a scream and a scuffle and the apartment manager identified her. It had been messy—the murder weapon apparently a lamp—the marble base was broken and bloody, and pieces of marble were visible in her head wound. By the time they'd returned to the lab, shift was more than half over. They dropped their evidence off in the respective labs and headed to meet with the coroner, not expecting to be surprised by the findings.