Disclaimer: :) I think you know...

A/N: So I always mean to wait more than a day to post the next chapter, so that I have time to actually write more to it rather than just posting what's done already.... and then I get excited to hear what everyone will think, and I post it the next day anyway.

Being as I apparently have so little self-control, I would really appreciate reviews for all the chapters, even if by the time you check the story again it's been 3 days and 3 chapters. The smallest of praise makes my whole day...

Sad, I know. :) Enjoy!


Chapter Two: Gilbert Grissom

We sat together in the lecture hall, waiting for it to start. He snatched the schedule from atop my notebook, to see what we would be learning about today. "Directionality—interpreting blood spatter, cast off, wound tracks, and bullet holes."

He read the title softly, and glanced at me out of the side of his eye. "Both of us know you don't need this lecture… if you knew who committed the double murder in the garage, you understand directionality."

I smile and nudge him. I miss his hand in mine, but it feels childish here, in this hall full of professionals, so I avoid the urge to take it. "Wound tracks, however, I'm not a master of."

He rolls his eyes. I wonder what he's getting at as he begins to speak. "Wound tracks are simple—did the bullet come from up or down? Stick a pole in, measure the degree. Determine the position the person was in when shot. Easy."

I laugh, looking around as the seats are beginning to fill. "Do you not want to be here, Dr. Grissom?" I ask playfully, and he looks around to make sure no one is listening to us.

"I'm sure it would be a very well-delivered review… that neither of us needs. …Show me some of the city."

I look around uncertainly, and then nod quickly—we gather our things and hurry to the back exit, sliding out the doors just as the lecturer enters the doors at the bottom of the hall, about to start. We laugh as we make our way out of the building.

"Oh my god, I feel like I'm a teenager playing hooky…" I giggle. He hesitates, but then asks anyway.

"Did you play hooky a lot, as a teenager?"

I smile, sliding my hand into his again now that we're out in the open. "No, not really. I mean… a little, but… I really liked school. …You?"

He chuckles. "I don't think I ever missed a day without really being sick."

My eyes narrow, and my voice is disbelieving. "You never pretended to be sick? Never?"

He laughs. "I tried. My mom was just too smart... I couldn't fool her."

I consider this, and smile. "I like thinking of a teenage you…"

He laughs. "You need a lot more imagination than I do…"

I shake my head at his comment—I don't want to talk about how young I am. I'm afraid he's going to get scared away again. "So, uh… I don't know that there's much to show you. You said you'd been to Frisco before... so I imagine you don't want to see the bridge."

He squeezes my hand. "Show me the things you care about, here… not the tourist spots."

"I live in Berkeley, you know, not Frisco…"

"So take me there." I'm surprised, and I'm sure my face shows it, because he laughs a little. "We're already playing hooky… why not be a little adventurous?"

Who could argue with that? He made me feel adventurous… I was excited just by his presence. "Okay… should we drop your car off at your hotel then?"

He seems surprised by this, and I wonder if I've overstepped myself. But does he expect to drive an hour in separate cars?

"Yeah… yeah, we'll do that. Here," he said, opening the passenger door of his car for me. "I'll drive you to yours, and you can follow me to the hotel."

I direct him, and then follow him in my car, trying to tidy up as much as I can. I wasn't messy by any means—if anything I was a compulsive cleaner—but I had been in a hurry this morning, and I'd picked up fast food for breakfast. Now the bag sat in my car. I groan, and tuck it under the seat, hoping that I'd get a chance to remove it before he noticed it—true, it was only wrappers and napkins, but still, gross.

He slides into the passenger seat and takes my hand immediately into his own, smiling. I love that smile.

I squeeze his hand and, as we pull off the campus and I head towards the freeway, I glance at him. "So… I know that you lived in L.A. until you were 25, moved to Chicago for your PhD, lived in Minnesota sometime in there, because you said Professor Kemmel was your supervisor there… How did you get to Vegas?"

"They recruited me. I was working at the lab in L.A., doing speaking tours, conferences… and they offered me a job."

"…It must have been strange, going back to a lab you'd worked at, so many years ago…" I was thinking in my mind how hard it would be to go to Tomales Bay again.

He shakes his head. "I was actually a coroner in L.A., before I moved back. So it was different, working as a CSI, you know? Enough of a change…"

I smile. "Tell me about L.A."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell… they wanted me because of my reputation, and so I worked a little in the lab, and had a lot of freedom to speak around the country. I liked the travelling, but not the living out of hotel rooms. But my mother lived close and it got me out of Minnesota so…"

He stops, like he feels he's said too much. I wonder whether I should ask—he'd made it clear that he had some secrets that were off-limits too. But… if he was willing to tell me, if this part wasn't secret… I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything about him. I compromised.

"Okay… tell me about Minnesota."

His jaw tensed and relaxed again. It was a nervous tick he had, when thinking deeply. I wondered if he played poker… "It was my first job working as a CSI. My, uh… direct supervisor, Dr. Philip Gerard… he was an amazing man… a mentor, really. I wouldn't be half the CSI I am if it hadn't been for him. I idolized the man."

"How come you left?"

"I… needed a change of pace." That was the reason I gave for transferring from Harvard to Berkeley. I didn't think he was being any more truthful than I had been. But that was his right, after all. I bite on my bottom lip, thinking.

"Tell me about Chicago."

He laughs then. "I take it you haven't travelled much?"

I smile sheepishly. "I've been to Boston… Miami… Seattle… different places in California… I drove my U-haul from Boston to Berkeley!"

A sly grin crosses his face and his thumb moves gently over the knuckles of the hand he holds. "Did you stop anywhere other than at restaurants, hotels, and rest areas?"

"…No."

"It doesn't really count then."

My mouth opens in mock indignation. "I've been…. focused. I haven't had a chance to get paid to go prance around the country and talk about bugs!"

"…Prance?" He's grinning though. "…I'll have to take you on a trip somewhere…"

I turn my head, and our eyes meet for a moment—more electricity. "Oh yeah? I dunno if you'd want to do that… I have some pretty high expectations," I tease.

Yeah, right. As long as nobody had stabbed my father, beaten somebody I loved, or raped me there, I'd love it. I push the thoughts to the back of my mind. The nightmares had mostly gone away, and thinking about it brought them back.

He squeezes my hand. "I like a challenge…"

I smile softly. "Why me, then? I've hardly been a challenge… apparently I should be playing hard-to-get."

He trades my hand from his left to his right, and lets his left forearm drape over my seat, gently running his fingers across my shoulders and neck. I shiver. "No, Sara, you… you are a challenge, a puzzle, just not in the traditional way. But I don't think I would have done this any differently, even if you weren't…"

I blush softly, and glance at him—he's watching me intently. It deepens the blush.

"Las Vegas. Tell me about Vegas."

He laughs again, but his fingers keep up their pace. "Happiest I've been in… in a long time. We're working on the lab pretty meticulously—since I've been there it's gone from being ranked in the hundreds—I think we were something like 130, when I started—to the seventh in the country. Jim Brass, my boss, is a great man… a good friend. We both kind of keep to ourselves, but that works for us… two middle-aged men with a lifetime of baggage don't really need a bosom friend—just a bottle of scotch and some conversation every month or so."

I grin. "Scotch is your drink?"

He inclines his head to the side. "I guess it is, yes. Yours is… Sex on the Beach?"

I incline mine as well. "That or a Strawberry Daiquiri." There's a brief lull in the conversation, and I turn to him, my eyes narrowed. "You're not middle-aged, Gil."

"I'm 41…"

I roll my eyes. "Sounds like you're just a man. An adult. Middle-age doesn't start until you're in your fifties."

"You seem to think you're going to live to a hundred?"

"I'm a survivor."

There's more silence. He can tell by my tone that he isn't allowed to ask about that comment. I asked about others in Vegas, and he continued talking until we arrived in Berkeley and I began to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. "I uh… I guess I didn't think very far ahead. I don't know that there's much to show you…"

"I don't need tourist spots, or anything that's a big deal… what's your favorite coffee place? Where do you go when you're upset? Or feeling really good about something?"

I smile sheepishly. "I'm a bit of a homebody. Other than my apartment, and the beach, I don't really go anywhere. I drink coffee from the university coffee shop, unless I'm driving somewhere—in which case any drive through will do."

He smiles almost hesitantly. "I'm a homebody too. We could… just go to your apartment, unless… unless that's weird for you, so soon…"

I chuckle. "You must really think I'm young. You act like you're pursuing a teenager…" I drive quickly home, parking and locking the doors once we've both stepped out. I lead him up a couple flights of stairs and let him into my apartment—it's the nicest one I've had so far—a two bedroom, with new appliances in the kitchen, laundry, and a walk-in closet in my master bedroom. He looks around.

"Nice place. You don't decorate like a teenager…"

I roll my eyes. "I hid all my boy band memorabilia before I left the house, just in case I brought home someone middle-aged…" He grins at my teasing, and I lead him into the living room. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, juice, milk, water, soda… I have beer, as well, but it might be really old…"

"Coke, if you have it." He moves over to my large bookshelf which also housed all my movies and glanced at a few picture frames that were perched there. "…Am I allowed to ask about the photos?"

I come into the living room with two cold cans in tow. I glance at the one he's looking at. "My old roommate Kelly and I, on my nineteenth birthday."

He looks more closely at the picture, but doesn't ask about Michael, who has his arms around me. "Is this in Boston?" I nod. "I… I think I've been to this restaurant… at least twice. It's a college place, right? A few blocks off campus?"

"Yeah, usually really loud, but it had the best pasta in town."

He looks at me strangely, as if I've said something wrong, but then he moves onto the next picture, and he doesn't seem upset. I hand him the coke, cautiously, and glance at this one. Me with the group who had gone to Miami, in front of the chemistry building, minus Ken. I had had to search for one in which he'd taken the picture—he had been so freaking vain that it had been quite the challenge.

"Group of science nerds, from Harvard. And then there's Kelly… I was there six years, got a degree, almost two, and started grad school… she was a semester away from a single bachelor's degree when I left…"

He chuckles. "You probably balanced each other out." We had. We still did. As if in tune with my thoughts, he asks, "Do you still talk to these people?"

"Just Kelly, once a month or so… we're both busy… She's an art teacher, married, having a baby… so that's good."

He moves to the next one—Michael with my tucked back against his chest on his sailboat, his arms extended out and off picture on either side of me—having taken the picture himself, our hair thrown back in the sea breeze and beaming smiles on our faces,. I move around him, to intercept the picture following this one—Jim and Marlene with their arms around my shoulders, at my high school graduation. I put it down on its face as subtly as possible, glancing again at the picture he's still engrossed in. His voice is soft when he speaks.

"He was very much in love with you."

My eyes shoot up in alarm. "W-what?"

He smiles. "Sorry, I don't know if that's something I can't talk about… just, the way he held you. …I think he would have spent his whole life loving you."

My mouth is dry. "You, uh… you can see that from a picture?"

He nods. "You loved him too, but it wasn't the same… when he looked at you, he saw his future. …When you looked at him, you saw your present."

I swallow convulsively. "I think we're done with pictures."

He looks down. "I'm sorry Sara."

Despite my discomfort, his slight distress moves me more. I slip a hand into his and step closer to him—the proximity makes him look up at me, and the longing is there in his eyes again. His eyes flicker to my lips.

"I, uh… Michael. His name is Michael Malone. I haven't talked to him since I left Boston. He… he isn't part of what I won't talk about, I just… felt guilty, because you were right. I was always more to him than he was to me. …I hated myself for that."

He nods. "…Rebecca Andrews. I hated myself for it too."

We have a moment, and then I smile softly. "Why don't you pick a movie? I'll pop some popcorn…"