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 very adult situations.* Occasional salty language. No violence.
*I was really uncertain on the FFN rating for this story. (I generally pay fairly little attention to ratings when reading, so I am definitely the worst at this.) There is an intimate encounter (I'm talking PIV sex, to be clear), but it really seems kind of PG-13 compared to what gets posted under M on this site. So I've stuck with T, but please proceed according to this warning.
Spoilers: Super, super vague spoilers for post-season 9 and "Immortality" (16).
AO3 version: This story is also being posted on AO3. The cover art is being posted on Tumblr. The cover art shows how I picture our two lovely science nerds in this story: it's younger JF with long, curly hair and younger, To Live and Die in L.A. WP (specifically, the scene where he's drinking a beer on his beachfront balcony).
This story was written for ficwip's 5k 2023 AU challenge.
I very much believe the events referenced in "Toe Tags" and "A La Cart" are (canonically) one and the same, but I thought it would be fun to try separating them out. So this is a thought-experiment that is technically consistent with what is stated in canon but spiritually very much an AU take (in my heart, at least!). The hot-dog cart idea comes from a presumably authentic (unused) excerpt from the "Cool Change" (01x02) script (as posted to Tumblr)—more info on that below, in the end notes.
I've probably pushed Grissom's characterization a bit here (hey, this is just some summer fun!), but I always assume (1) that he was a little less withdrawn before the events of early season 1 (as evidenced by, e.g., "Pilot" Grissom) and (2) that meeting Sara Sidle was always going to be a singular event in his life, whenever it occurred. 💕
Also, I made a fun little early '90s (mostly '92 and first half of '93) Spotify playlist for this story, so please check it out if you'd like some June 1993 mood music for your reading! (You can find it by searching my username on Spotify.) 🎶
"I only wanna be your one life stand."
– Hot Chip, "One Life Stand."
ONE LIFE STAND: A HOT DOG CART AU
June 10, 1993. Berkeley, California.
UC Berkeley Campus, College of Letters & Science.
Sara Sidle arrived early as planned and found the small lecture hall still mostly empty. She made her way to her preferred seat in the middle of the fourth row—close but not too close. She took out her pen and her notebook, as well as a few journal articles she'd photocopied earlier in the day, and looked around the room.
Sara didn't expect attendance to be high. Though the lecture was open to the public, summer semester meant there wouldn't be as many students present as there might have been a couple months earlier. Sara had also heard from a colleague in the physics department that the speaker, a forensic entomologist, was a bit dull.
Sara had been unable to attend the speaker's first lecture, two nights earlier, because of her commitment to her night job—oh, her night job. (That was a whole different problem….) But she'd still decided to check out the speaker's second (and final) lecture for herself and form her own opinion based on the evidence. She was a scientist, after all. Plus one couldn't rely on one's first blush—which was to be the subject of the speaker's talk that evening.
As Sara looked around the room, a man entered whom she hadn't seen before. Oh, fuck me, she thought. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown V-neck sweater, and he was carrying a backpack. He looked about 10-15 years older than she was. He had curly brown hair and distractingly bright blue eyes. Sara could already foresee she'd be having some deeply impure thoughts about him later that night.
Sara wondered whether he was perhaps a more senior doctoral student or an assistant professor from one of the other departments. As he made his way to the lectern at the front of the room, however, Sara realized he must be the speaker; Sara was already quite sure she was going to find him anything but dull. She instinctively shook her own long curly brown hair back over her shoulders and felt glad she hadn't tucked it into her usual ponytail.
Once the room had half filled and the appointed time for his lecture had arrived, the speaker—a Dr. Gil Grissom, of the Las Vegas crime lab—introduced himself and gave some opening remarks. He had a nice calm voice, which Sara quite liked.
"As criminologists, we're the victim's last voice," Grissom told the audience. Sara quite liked this, too, so she wrote it down at the top of her notes, underlining it several times.
He then turned to his main topic, which he was illustrating through a discussion of a double murder in a garage. Sara didn't know what her colleague had been talking about when he called Grissom dull; Grissom was passionate about his topic, and she was entranced.
Eventually Grissom began asking questions of the audience. Growing up as the girl whose father was stabbed to death, Sara had learned to fly under the radar; as such, she was usually slow to speak up in large (or moderately large, as this was) lectures. After several attendees had been unsuccessful in providing the answer the speaker wanted, however, Sara raised her hand.
Based on the smile he gave her once she was finished speaking, Grissom was pleased with Sara's response. When, several minutes later, he was once more unsuccessful in eliciting the answer he wanted from those assembled, she again raised her hand. The smile he gave her this time sent shivers through her to places best not mentioned in polite company.
As his lecture progressed, Grissom began to look automatically to Sara when the audience's responses were otherwise lacking. She raised her hand several more times before the end of the lecture, and each time the smile he gave her sent a shiver right through her.
After the lecture had concluded, Sara was gathering up her papers to leave when Grissom approached her.
"Sorry, Ms…. Uh, sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Sara. Sara Sidle."
"Gil Grissom."
He shook her hand then, and she couldn't help but feel that a little spark had passed between them in that moment.
"Yeah, I know." She laughed, trying not to let the brief contact between them fluster her; she couldn't tell from his demeanor whether he'd been similarly affected.
"Are you interested in a career in forensics, Ms. Sidle?"
"Oh, I don't know. Honestly I'd never really considered it before. I just like to take advantage of the lectures the different departments put on."
"You should consider it. I think you'd have quite the mind for it."
Now Sara tried not to blush.
"I should let you go. But… think about it. And… uh… have a good night." He smiled then one final time, before turning and walking up the stairs to exit the lecture hall.
"Oh, have a good night!" Sara thought to call after him when he was already almost out the door. He turned and gave her a wave goodbye before stepping through the door to the hallway. Sara wasn't sure whether she'd be giving much more thought to forensics, but one thing she knew: she'd certainly be giving more thought to this man.
June 13, 1993. San Francisco, California.
Just outside Candlestick Park. A hot-dog cart.
"Would you like a soft drink with that?" Sara asked the customer who'd just placed his order. Drinks had a good mark-up, and customers would often neglect to order one but say yes if prompted. At his request, Sara handed the man a can of Coke, then they concluded their transaction.
Sara looked at the long line behind him and the large group of guys currently dressing their dogs and sighed. She lifted her black baseball cap, rubbed the sweat away from her forehead with her bare arm, then replaced the cap. She hated this job.
Sara had found the job through someone in her building—someone knew someone who knew someone else, who owned a few hot-dog carts. The guy was looking for someone to run his cart outside the ballpark for the 1993 baseball season. He'd initially been reluctant to hire a young woman, but he'd ultimately decided Sara had certain… certain assets that much of the baseball-going population might enjoy.
The pay was good, and the hours—mostly evenings and weekends—worked well with her academic schedule. But Sara thought it might be 10-15 years before she willingly ate another hot dog.
As much as it benefited her financially, Sara also hated the way hers had quickly become one of the more popular hot-dog carts in the area. As the weather had warmed, Sara had realized that the less she wore (tank tops rather than sweatshirts), the longer her line became. Initially customers were drawn by those assets, then more customers would be drawn by the line—a busy hot-dog cart meant fresh dogs.
Sara longed for a job where her pay would have no correlation with the amount of skin she was prepared to show. Sara liked to dress up when the occasion called for it, but, if she had her way, she'd spend much of her life in jeans and a comfortable t-shirt or shirt.
"I can't believe we came to this stand for the third day in a row," complained the only Cubs fan in the groups of guys dressing their dogs. "We came here before the first two games, and the Cubs lost both times!"
"Yeah, but just look at…" one of his buddies whispered loudly.
It was barely past noon, but Sara could tell they'd already been drinking. Without even looking up, Sara could also tell the man was nodding toward those assets of hers. She really hated this job.
"I tell you, if they lose again today, I'm gonna come back here and demand a refund!" the somewhat surly Cubs fan continued.
"Post hoc, ergo propter hoc," a calm voice from a man behind Sara's current customer stated.
Sara couldn't see the man, but she could swear she recognized the voice.
"Huh?" the drunk Cubs fan grumbled out.
"Post hoc, ergo propter hoc," the calm voice repeated, slightly louder then.
Now Sara knew she knew the voice. Of all the gin joints…. Sara still couldn't see the man behind the voice, so she doubted he'd recognized her yet; she wondered whether he'd recognize her at all.
"Post hoc, ergo propter hoc," Sara stated, echoing the calm voice. "After it, therefore because of it. It's a logical fallacy. It means a causal relationship has been assumed from a merely sequential one. In other words, your team didn't lose because you ate my hot dogs. Do you know why your team lost?"
Drunk guy was now a bit (more) dumbfounded.
"Because the Cubs tend to lose," the calm voice responded.
The drunk Cubs fan looked menacingly over at the man with the calm voice. Sara was trying to suppress her laughter.
"Hey, no hard feelings, buddy," the man with the calm voice said. "My family's all from Chicago."
The drunk guys had finished dressing their dogs and now moved away, Sara's current customer moved over to let the next customer order, and Grissom moved to the front of the line.
"Ms. Sidle," he said with surprise.
"Sara's fine." Sara looked around her. "Not a lot of people around here calling me Ms. Anything."
Grissom laughed. "This isn't exactly where I might have imagined running into you again, Ms. Sid—sorry, Sara."
Had he imagined running into her again? She'd certainly imagined running into him again. She'd imagined it every night since his lecture. The previous night she'd imagined it at least twice, in fact. "Well, a girl's got to eat." She smiled.
"Of course." He smiled back.
He placed his order then moved to the side, so he could continue talking to her while she served other customers.
"Have you been at Berkeley long?"
"Just since September. I'm in my first year of a physics doctoral program."
"Impressive."
As much as she loved gold stars, Sara only ever considered her academic achievements par for the course. She tried to laugh off his praise.
"And before that…?"
"East coast."
Grissom smirked. "East coast. Let me guess—Harvard, or maybe Yale? Possibly MIT?"
"Harvard," Sara admitted.
"Hmm, why am I not surprised?"
They continued chatting then, with Grissom asking Sara more questions about her studies and Sara asking Grissom some tentative questions about his experiences as a criminologist. Eventually Sara realized she had no other customers left and looked at her watch.
"Oh, it's almost 1 p.m.!" she exclaimed. "Your game's about to start. You're going to the game, right?"
"Right…. Well then…." His mouth was slightly agape, and he looked like he didn't quite know what to do next.
"Hey, uh, listen…."
He looked at her.
"Well, I was just thinking…. What are you doing later? I have to keep the cart open here for a while after the game ends, and then I have a couple hours of clean-up, and I like to shower to get that nice hot-dog aroma off me…. But if you're not doing anything, maybe we could meet up later? You could tell me more about the exciting life of a forensic scientist?" She laughed.
"Uh… yeah. Sure. I didn't really have anything else planned."
"Great! Um, where are you staying?"
"The Mark Hopkins Hotel? At the top of Nob Hill?"
"Yeah, home of the Top of the Mark. I know it. Uh… do you like noodles? Noodles and dumplings? We could walk down to Chinatown for noodles. I know a good place really close to where you are."
"Sounds good." He smiled.
"I'll meet you at your hotel, okay? I'll aim for 8:00 p.m., but I'll have to see how things go here. It might be closer to 9 p.m. Or is that too late for you?" Maybe he was an early riser and would be in bed by 9 p.m., she thought. He was from Las Vegas—was that still in the Pacific time zone? She wasn't sure; she'd never been to Nevada.
"Criminalists tend to work kind of unusual hours, and I'm on the graveyard shift, so… basically any time is good for me."
"Oh. Oh, perfect." Sara smiled. "So I'll meet you at the Mark Hopkins."
"Sounds good," he said again. "Just get the front desk to call up. The room's in my name."
"Great. Perfect. I'll see you later, Dr. Grissom."
He paused for a moment, as if contemplating something. "Uh, Gil. Just call me Gil, please. Or else it won't be a very relaxing dinner." He gave a half laugh.
"Right. Gil. I'll see you later, Gil."
"I'll see you later, Sara." He waved at her as he turned to walk away.
She watched him intently as he headed toward the stadium. The man had a very nice ass, and she was not above admiring it.
Later that same day. San Francisco, California.
Chinatown.
After she'd showered and changed into fresh clothes—short, faded blue jean skirt; faded black Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt, barely covering her midriff; light brown plaid flannel shirt tied around her waist; brown Birkenstocks on her feet—Sara had picked Grissom up at the Mark Hopkins. He was wearing the same blue jeans and brown sweater he'd been sporting at the lecture she'd attended, and they were, despite the age gap, a fairly well-matched pair.
They walked down to Sara's favorite noodle and dumpling spot. As they walked, Sara learned Grissom had stuck around over the weekend because, in addition to the two lectures he'd given at Berkeley the week before, he would be speaking at an in-house conference for the San Francisco police department that Tuesday.
(Grissom downplayed his attendance at the Cubs-Giants game the day before. So it was not until many, many, many years later—after they were first married, in fact—that Sara learned he had scheduled his lectures around the Cubs' three-game series against the Giants and attended all three games.)
They ordered up platters of noodles and dumplings, along with bottles of beer and a pot of green tea. For several hours Sara peppered Grissom with questions about his profession. He appeared only too happy to answer her many questions and, if she was reading him right, to try to steer her toward the idea of forensics as a possible career choice. If she was reading him right, he was also maybe trying to flirt with her a little bit—she couldn't really tell if she was reading him right on that one. But she was definitely trying to flirt with him.
After finishing their meal and paying their bill, they each opened the fortune cookies that had accompanied the latter.
"What does yours say?" she asked him.
"And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul."
"In bed," Sara added.
"Hmm?" Grissom furrowed his brow.
"Oh." Sara laughed. "It was a thing we always did…. You add 'in bed' to the end of your fortune. So yours would be, 'And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul in bed.' Actually, I think that's a John Muir quotation—without the 'in bed' part, obviously." Again she laughed.
"Okay." He slowly ran his tongue over his teeth. "So what's yours?"
Oooh, the way he was looking at her… Sara suddenly felt a little flustered. "Uh, mine is…. Mine is…. 'Sitting in silence with you is all the noise I need.'" Sara really hoped she hadn't started to blush. "Doesn't sound much like a fortune, does it?" This time her laughter was forced. She hoped he couldn't tell how much she agreed with the words she'd just uttered.
"In bed," he said.
"Uh… what?" Sara was still flustered.
"Sitting in silence with you is all the noise I need in bed."
Sara didn't say anything right away, but she was feeling…. Well, she was feeling quite a lot. "Huh?"
"'Sitting in silence with you is all the noise I need in bed.' Isn't that how it works?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. That's how it works." She shook her head and tried to smile. Get it together, Sidle.
To Sara's great relief, she and Grissom then headed outside, where they spent some time wandering the streets of Chinatown, which were quite quiet, late on a Sunday night.
They were standing very close together, talking in front of a shop window, when, without having consciously reflected on what she was about to do, Sara leaned in to kiss him. When she realized what she'd done (or nearly done), she paused almost at his lips, giving him time to stop her before she proceeded—but he didn't. Once her lips met his, she started kissing him rather intensely, and she wasn't at all inclined to stop. She might have wondered what his response would be, but she immediately realized he didn't seem all that inclined to stop either.
Eventually they broke apart. Sara's heart was pounding. She felt a little exhilarated.
"Sara, uh…. I, uh, I'm kind of seeing someone…. Back in Las Vegas, I mean."
"Oh. Is it serious?"
"I mean… we've been out five—maybe six—times. It's just been a few weeks."
"Have you had the talk?"
"The talk?"
"Have you talked about being exclusive?"
"Oh. No." He shook his head.
"Do you want it to be serious?"
"Honestly, uh…." As he spoke, his face got a little red. He looked away and looked back at her. "It was my mom's idea," he said dryly. "She's convinced we'd be a good match."
"And you…?"
Grissom looked like he was pondering this. Once he shook his head a little, though, indicating no, he seemed set in his answer.
"Okay, here's another question. What do you think your mother would think of this?" She gestured between them.
Sara could tell Grissom was trying not to smile. So she stuck two fingers in each of his front pockets and pulled him closer, so they were almost up against the window of the storefront. She tried to ignore the large barbecued pig hanging behind her in the window.
"Well, to be perfectly honest…. I don't think I really care what my mom would think of this."
With that, Grissom once again joined his mouth with Sara's, and soon he had her pressed up against that store window, hands in her long, curly hair. Sara was now entirely oblivious to the large barbecued pig hanging behind her. It wasn't long before she felt his hands moving down over her t-shirt, then under her t-shirt, to the bare skin at her waist.
Eventually she felt his hands moving higher, and she definitely felt the very instant he realized she wasn't wearing a bra under that t-shirt. She tried not to laugh at his response. She held him even closer then, so she could feel almost every inch of him, just as he by that point had felt almost every inch of her.
Although Sara Sidle could have stood there all night, happily exploring Gil Grissom's mouth, after some time she realized the Sunday night streets were, while quiet, not completely deserted. She pulled away—but only slightly.
"So… um…" she said.
"So…. Uh, where do you live?"
"A pretty shitty little studio apartment in Berkeley."
"Right." He half sighed and half laughed.
"But you…. You have a presumably pretty nice hotel room right up the street…."
He looked at her as though spinning the options over in his head before speaking. "Sara…."
"What?" She shook her hair back over her shoulders.
He laughed and shook his head at her. "My seminar on Tuesday is in…." He checked his watch. "My seminar is in 36 hours. Then I'm flying back to Vegas. And I don't exactly find myself in San Francisco a lot."
"36 hours, huh?"
"36 hours."
"Well, then." She smirked at him. "We better make them count."
With that, she took his hand and led him back toward the Mark Hopkins. Once again, he didn't try to stop her.
Even later that same day. (Maybe it was technically the next day by this point?) San Francisco, California.
The Mark Hopkins Hotel.
A few guests had joined Sara and Grissom in the hotel elevator, but the other guests exited on one of the lower floors. Soon Sara and Grissom were left alone, staring at each other, as they each leaned back on opposite sides of the elevator. As Grissom looked her up and down, Sara wondered whether it was possible to fuck someone with just your eyes. If it was possible, he was doing it. This time, she was sure she shivered all the way down to the depths of her soul, as well as right down to the depths of her… well, polite company, etc., etc.
They walked together to his hotel room then—silent, not touching. As soon as they were inside, though, his mouth was on hers, his tongue tangling with hers. The next thing she knew, he had her pinned against the hotel room wall—or maybe she was pulling him against her on the wall; she really couldn't tell. Either way, they were pressed together against the wall.
He broke away momentarily. "Sara, are you sure about—"
"Yes," she murmured before she went back to kissing him.
He broke away again. "But, I mean, we don't have to if you don't—"
"I'm sure," she responded emphatically. "I mean, I'm sure if you are…."
He nodded slowly.
"Okay." With that, she managed to pull out and hand him the condoms she kept in her purse for just such an occasion. (Well, she didn't keep them for exactly just such an occasion—the 21-year-old Sara Sidle had never before found herself in a hotel room on Nob Hill, pinned against the wall by a very attractive 36-year-old forensic entomologist.)
"Okay." He pocketed the condoms. Then, almost as if no interruption has taken place, once again his mouth found hers.
It seemed like no time had passed before Sara's t-shirt was off and her skirt and shirt were on the floor beside her Birks. Then Grissom's sweater and t-shirt were off, and her hands were running over his smooth chest. She knew she must have been the one to pull the garments off him, though she'd hardly been paying attention to what she was doing; she was too distracted by the way his hands were making their way down her now almost entirely naked body to be able to think straight. She could already tell where at least one of those hands was about to end up.
One moment, they were against the wall, with his fingers inside her; the next moment, it seemed, they were on the bed, and he was inside her, calling her name. She already loved the way he said her name.
He was everywhere, it felt like: over her, on her, inside her, enveloping her, all around her. His hands were everywhere. His mouth was everywhere. But then so was Sara's. She tasted his lips, his earlobes, his neck, his sweat. She wanted to taste all of him. She wanted all of him.
"Oh…" Sara moaned as the pleasure washed over her. "Oh, fuck." This was not a Katz's Deli theatrical; this was the real deal. "Fuck me."
"Yes," Grissom replied. "That was the idea."
Sara laughed. Who was this man who'd try to make her laugh in the midst of all this, she thought. Then she returned her mouth to his. She thought perhaps they could just stay like this forever. She thought she might be happy just to stay with him like this forever.
Sara could tell he wanted her—that was easy to tell. But she could also tell that, even more so, he wanted her to be enjoying herself. He wanted her to be comfortable. He wanted her to be happy. Sara wasn't sure she'd ever been with a man who'd put her first like that before.
It may not surprise you to learn that, for the 21-year-old Sara Sidle, this really was the best she'd ever had. (Of course, if you know Gil Grissom, you may not be surprised to learn this was also the best he'd ever had.)
They continued on like this for some time, then eventually they slept; without even thinking about it, Sara had curled up around him, but he didn't seem to mind. In the morning, they resumed their activities, pausing only for room service and to nap, before returning to their activities once more. Their cycle continued like this—hazy, almost dream-like—late into the night.
By the time Sara fully realized what was happening, Tuesday morning had arrived, and they were saying their goodbyes. She had to return to her studies. Grissom would be checking out of the hotel, giving his lecture at the San Francisco crime lab, and then flying back to Las Vegas late that afternoon.
As they stood together in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, where he was about to put her into a cab home, Grissom told Sara she could reach him in Las Vegas if she needed him. As she gave him a slightly awkward hug goodbye, Sara again shivered, this time pondering whether she'd ever see this man again.
February 9, 1998. San Francisco, California.
50th Annual American Academy of Forensic Sciences ("AAFS") Conference. Hilton San Francisco and Towers Hotel.
It was only the first day of the AAFS conference, and Sara Sidle was already late. To be fair, though, Sara was not so much late as she was neither as early nor as prepared as she would have liked.
Sara had submitted her request to attend the conference years earlier, as soon as the AAFS had announced the 1998 conference was to be held in her hometown of San Francisco. But the crime lab had been short-staffed the night before the first day of the conference, and Sara—unsurprisingly—had, when asked, agreed to help out for a few hours. Unfortunately, those few hours had turned into a few hours more, and ultimately Sara was left showering at the lab, putting on whatever clean clothes she could find in her locker, and pulling her still-damp hair into a ponytail before it got too curly.
Sara then hightailed it directly to the hotel where the conference was taking place. When she arrived, she went straight to the conference room where the first session was being held. A few conference organizers and volunteers were in the room, but they didn't seem to mind her presence. She chose a seat in the fourth row, as usual, and opened the conference materials.
Sara had opened the materials, but her mind couldn't quite focus on them. Now that she was there, sitting in the conference room, she found herself pondering—as she'd done many times since the conference agenda had been released—whether that morning's speaker would recognize or even remember her.
Sara hadn't been in contact with the speaker since those two nights they'd spent together nearly five years earlier, but she'd thought of him many times in the intervening years.
That first summer, she'd read up on his journal articles and book chapters, always laughing when his corny dad-puns and Shakespeare references would pop up. She'd become so interested in the subjects he was discussing—well, the less buggy ones, at least—that she'd found herself reading more and more forensic science materials, by many different authors. By the time the 1993 summer semester had ended, she'd applied for a work-study placement with the San Francisco coroner's office.
She'd begun her placement in January 1994, and ultimately she'd found she liked her work at the coroner's officer so much that she'd left her doctoral program following the completion of her master's degree and gone to work for the San Francisco crime lab. As expected, she enjoyed seeing the application of science to real life, and she liked the idea that she helped speak for the victims.
Grissom had told Sara she could reach out to him in Las Vegas if she ever had any questions or wanted help getting into the field of forensics. Initially Sara had hesitated because she didn't like the idea of getting ahead professionally because of a two-night stand she'd had at the age of 21. Then, after she'd become a forensic scientist—a rapidly advancing forensic scientist—something of a prodigy, one might say—she'd wondered whether, now that so much time had passed, he would even remember her or their encounter.
Part of her may have feared she'd ruin the memory of those two nights. For all she knew, he had a girl in every port, so to speak. Truth be told, of course, he hadn't seemed that type. Still, Sara would be saddened if he'd forgotten her. She knew she would never forget the care he'd shown for her in those two nights they'd spent together—more care than any other man had ever shown her, either before or since.
Sara was still pondering those two nights when she heard a calm voice just behind her.
"I hope you're not here so early because you're that keen for the lecture. I'm afraid it may disappoint."
Once more a shiver ran through her. Despite the nearly five years that had passed, Sara would have recognized that voice anywhere. The man with the calm voice was now standing beside the fourth row. As she turned to look at him, she again wondered whether he would remember her.
"Sara." He said her name like a man returning home after a long voyage at sea.
"Gil." She smiled and said his name like the wife to whom he'd finally returned.
The end. But really just the beginning.
NOTES
On hot-dog carts:
The hot-dog cart idea came from a presumably authentic (unused) excerpt from the "Cool Change" (01x02) script (as posted to Tumblr), in which Sara states that she put herself through Berkeley with a hot-dog stand across from the ballpark. You can read it on Tumblr.
In the script, Sara tells Catherine, "I used to own a hotdog stand before this…." But I read a few articles about hot-dog stands/carts, and the startup cost is pretty high; I cannot imagine how, at the age of 21, just graduated from Harvard and effectively alone in the world, she could have had the cash for that. Given how the character develops and what we later learn about her, I find hot-dog stand ownership highly implausible for her.
On Berkeley:
I've taken Sara's San Francisco mention in "Toe Tags" as referring to their initial 1993 encounter(s) here and the San Francisco Bay Area generally.
On the man returning home after a long voyage at sea and the wife to whom he'd finally returned:
I'm kind of obsessed with the scene where they see each other for the first time in "Immortality" (the "Sara"/"Gil" exchange) and that is how I imagine it sounding when they greet each other here.
On what happens next:
I consider this story pre-canon divergent and canon convergent. So, from this point on, I imagine the two lovely science nerds' story playing out almost exactly as it does in my canon series, Survivors in the Night: A Las Vegas Love Story, with the small difference being the fact that they had met and spent two nights together four and a half years before the 1998 AAFS Conference in San Francisco where this story ends and that series begins.
I may also have borrowed a little from my first story, on that AAFS Conference, because there are some things about Sara and Grissom's first meeting I imagine being the same no matter when it occurs and there are many things about the AAFS Conference I also imagine being the same regardless of whether they had previously met.
SOUNDTRACK LISTING
Lemonheads. "Mrs. Robinson."
Blind Melon. "No Rain."
Mr. Big. "To Be with You."
Spin Doctors. "Two Princes."
Collective Soul. "Shine."
The Cure. "Friday I'm in Love."
The Proclaimers. "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)."
The Cranberries. "Dreams."
10,000 Maniacs. "These Are Days."
Sophie B. Hawkins. "Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover."
The Cranberries. "Linger."
k.d. lang. "Constant Craving."
Sting. "If I Ever Lose My Faith in You."
UB40. "Can't Help Falling in Love."
The Who. "Bargain."
Hot Chip. "One Life Stand."
You can find the songs in my playlist for this story, which can be found by searching my username on Spotify.
A/N:
Thank you so very much for reading! 💛 I hope you have a wonderful week! 💛