A/N: Sorry for the delay. Thank you for your encouragement - this one is going to 10 chapters so we did some re-writing! Thanks for reading!

An Unusual Sequence of Events

Chapter 6

Frustration: a feeling of disappointment

Sixteen hours later, Sara's mind and body were so exhausted, she sank onto the bench in the locker room wishing she had not heard the innocent-edged coldness in the young boy's voice as he described his parents. She raked her fingers through her damp hair and closed her locker with her foot.

"Hey," D.B. called to her from the doorway. "Go home! Is your roving husband home from the foreign legion? Aren't you off for two weeks?"

Sara laughed, nodding her head, "Just trying to wrap my brain around all of this—four identical brothers—can you imagine? Is there no end to what can be done in the name of science?"

The tall, long-limbed supervisor took a seat beside her. "You can't let it stay with you."

Sara smiled. "I know that too well." She stretched and laughed softly. "I am going home. The roving husband is home and I am off for two weeks."

"Any special plans?"

"No," she said as she stood. "Nothing special," then she laughed. "I mean yes—every day is special."

D.B. chuckled. "Get out of here. And if I call, don't answer!"

In her car, she rolled the windows down and let the arid breeze blow-dry her hair as she drove. She felt better going home knowing her husband was there, yet Avery Brentson remained in her mind.

When she walked into the house, she knew Grissom had been busy. He had listened to the local news for awhile, but the constant chatter of "breaking news" saying the same thing over and over had grown old quickly; "giving me to much information" he told her and he had turned off the television hours before Sara had texted "not twins, triplets" and after that he had spent time doing other things.

Sara knew he had talked with his mother, answered emails and several phone calls. As she entered the house, she noticed the clothes he had unpacked were piled near the trash bin; she laughed at the sight. She had never figured out how he managed to get his clothes so dirty and stained in such a short time and these were worse than usual.

And the second she had opened her car door, she knew Grissom was cooking. Years ago, he had learned cooking was a science and he knew how to mix, marinate, blend, sauté, steam, grill, and broil. And after they had lived together for a few months, he had learned even more. From the fragrant aromas that met her nose, she knew he had been preparing her favorites by the mixed smells of lemon vinaigrette, smoky black beans, caramelized plantains, roasted vegetables, and hot bread—all within seconds of being home.

From the look on her face, Grissom did not have to ask if it had been a bad shift—the television had made that clear hours ago—but Sara's eyes brightened, a beautiful smile spread across her face as he took her coat. When he hugged her, he knew she had showered at work, doing her best to remove any trace of the lab and it's accompanying pervasive odors.

"Sit down; dinner is almost ready."

"Smells delicious," Sara said as he guided her into a chair.

He left her at the table to get glasses of water and two salads, checking on the bread heating in the oven.

"What a story," Grissom said as he sat across from her and placed salads on the table. He nodded at the plates, "One of your favorites."

She smiled as her eyes met his; he had found time to shop for groceries. The mixed sweet and bitter greens with dates and fennel marinated in lemon dressing and topped with creamy fresh feta had been one of the first meals he had ever prepared for her.

Softly, she said, "Vegas" and shook her head. "You've been busy. Thank you."

He waited; the need to talk was written across her face.

As if reading his mind, she added "I need to eat before I talk—sort of dragged this one home with me."

He took her hands across the table, his thumbs stroking the tops of her hands. He leaned forward, pulling her hands, meaning to move her toward him but finding she was already there. And across the small table, across salads and water glasses, they kissed—it was awkward, but they managed.

When they parted, Grissom said, "We can eat later."

"No—I'm hungry." She lifted her fork. "I love coming home to a meal."

Simple conversation came easily as they ate—the salads were followed by pureed smoky black beans, roasted carrots, steamed rice, grilled asparagus and mushrooms, and hot crusty bread. They talked about the research project—what they found, how much had been recorded, future plans for the project. Sara talked, but not about work, telling him of finding a field of early spring flowers when she and his mother had taken Hank to Red Rocks. And they laughed, realizing her sunny walk in a mountain meadow had been the same day he had trudged down a mountain in pouring rain.

Their talk kept her eating as he placed a plate of hot food before her; she did not hesitate to eat all of it—repeatedly saying how delicious it was.

"You know exactly what pleases me, dear," she teased.

As they cleaned the kitchen she slowly related the details of the bizarre case—the killing of a father masterminded by his child. She admitted she had pulled her gun—he frowned as he always did when he heard that. Briefly, she described the identical guys wearing the orange shirts and talking to the dead man's twelve year old son. And her return to the hotel hoping the son had witnessed something between his father and the triplets.

"I took him for ice cream before I knew," she said. "And then Archie matched his face while we were eating ice cream! Can you believe?" She shrugged her shoulders, sadly saying, "Avery reminded me of Hannah—so much potential wasted." She shook her head trying to remove thoughts and images out of her mind.

Gently, Grissom said, "Let it go, honey."

Giving a sad laugh, "I will, Gil," she said. "I almost—with Jordon Brentson's mother—the biological mother of all the boys," she sighed. "I almost choked up—she never knew the other boys—she had trusted the wrong person in her desire for a child." She gripped the dish towel in her hand until her knuckles whitened and stared out the window. "I can't go there, Gil. As much as I want a baby—we want a family" she corrected, "as much as these drugs drive my hormones, my libido, my maternal desire—I can not do that."

Her chin quivered slightly with her last words. He reached for her, not for the first time realizing how difficult it was to be optimistic. It did not matter how many research articles one read, how many college degrees they had between them, did not matter they were financially set, or how successful fertility treatments claimed to be—this was his wife, the love of his life, who stood before him. It was time for him to do more than echo her optimism and meet her in bed on certain days of the month.

He kissed her, held her tightly, giving his consent to her words without saying anything. Her mouth opened, welcoming the intimacy of his embrace.

"Come with me," he whispered. They went into the bedroom where he undressed her, folding her clothes and pulling a soft shirt over her shoulders, before removing his own clothes; they got into bed, fitted with freshly laundered sheets, Sara noticed, and cuddled together as he started a movie she loved—a series of short films, each a story of Paris, each showing a different kind of love for the city.

Sara said, "You planned this—I haven't watched this in weeks!"

"I know you love it." He said as he wrapped arms around her; she clicked her tongue for Hank to join them on the bed. Gradually, she relaxed, putting her head against his shoulder as her eyes grew heavy.

With sleep, she dreamed of running in a field of blowing grasses and flowers, edged by a great forest with giant trees and trailing vines, and when she ran through the forest, she found the desert basking in the twilight colors of red and purple and blue. A hatless, sunburned Grissom was waiting for her—laughing as he stripped his dirty clothing from his body—amazingly he was sunburned only around his neck and his arms and the rest of his body was pale pink. He laughed as he stepped out of silky black boxers, standing naked in fading light, waiting for her, his arms outspread as the rosy stem between his legs began to stiffen. She laughed—quickly, he was becoming ready for her—her voice causing him to laugh.

"You're home," she whispered.

She opened her eyes to find Grissom leaning on his elbow looking down at her, smiling, his eyes intensely blue; she felt she was seeing him for the first time in a very long time. The small creases around his eyes, the slight indentation in his chin, the curls of hair framing his face, the playful smile of his lips—caused an immediate and surprising desire. With hands as delicate as a butterfly's wings he played along her skin.

Sara reached up and touched his face; her fingers so soft he could barely feel her touch yet it reached into his chest to his heart. Her fingertips traced over his eyes, along his nose, underneath each eye, finally cupping under his chin as she pulled him into a kiss.

They had moved as one, working together, melting into each other as he fit into her hot tight passage. A spontaneous moan came as he thrust into her; he held her, kissed her, feeling her fingernails press into his back as she stiffened with ecstasy. Just as quickly as it had begun, he released his own groan as he spent himself, cradling her in his arms as her body curled and fitted into his. He closed his eyes and listened to the slow rhythm of her breathing; she had fallen asleep as quickly as she had awakened.

The days that followed were easy—they read, slept when sleepy, ate when hungry, walked and played with Hank until the dog was exhausted, and visited with Grissom's mother, Betty. One afternoon was spent in the fertility clinic with Sara going through a round of tests in preparation for a fourth cycle of medication. They spent one day buying new plants and repotting old ones, another day cleaning Grissom's office of an accumulation of journals, magazines, and books.

"We need to move this, you know."

Sara looked up from where she sat on the floor rearranging books on a bottom shelf. "Move? Where?" She asked, a puzzling frown puckering her forehead.

Smiling, he sat in one of the chairs and leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees. "The way I see it, we'll use this room as a nursery—it's small, next to us, easy to get to—and we can move the desk and bookcases to the bedroom upstairs." His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Some of this stuff, I'll move to another place."

Sara's eyes had opened in surprise and as he continued talking, her mouth dropped open.

He said, "Tomorrow, I'm going out to the university."

"Gil! We've talked about this—you love what you are doing!"

He grinned. "I did—but it's time to change. Cliff Garrett has been after me since I retired to work with his project—right here at Red Rocks. There's enough to keep us busy for years." His arms stretched toward her, rolling the chair as he did so. Sara came to her knees to meet him.

"You don't have to do this," she whispered.

"Yes, I do. We've made the decision to have a family, Sara, and I want to be here with you."

She heard a soft chuckle from deep in his chest.

He said, "In a few days, you start another round and I'm wearing full pajamas until," he held up his fingers, "until the tenth day—when that little Sara egg appears, there's going to be so many 'fast swimmers' waiting, she's going to think it's—it's a Super Bowl ticker-tape parade!"

Sara giggled, placed one finger against his chest, and said, "You never sleep in clothes, Gilbert."

A/N: Thanks for reading-we appreciate hearing from you!