Have no words anymore to justify the lack of presence here. Sorry! The next one will be released quicker. I made a change on this and I really hope you like it.

As always, I do not own CSI.

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Chapter 11

He was glad to have finally given himself the opportunity to love Sara.

Love?

Yeah, he felt like he loved her. Always had. Always would. There was no point in denying it—being in love with her. How could he not be?

She was authentic and smart. Sometimes he made the mistake of thinking she wouldn't be into something like… foreign movies. But he was wrong, as he often was. She could discuss the director's choices, the quality of the script, and the depth of the film's message.

Sara was cool.

He felt like they could talk for hours, and on many occasions, he had proven himself right about that. They could talk endlessly about science, books, their jobs, the things they wanted to do, nature, and life.

Even though they could talk so much, Sara often needed her space. As someone who had been used to being by herself since she was a kid, he respected that. In fact, he related to it. He often saw her with headphones on, listening to music, or she'd go for a run—and sometimes it felt like she was gone for hours. Or she'd read quietly. Eat quietly. Did everything quietly.

Sara was a good companion. And he was mesmerized by her.

She was sensitive, yet strong. Serious, yet fun. Impatient, yet extremely empathetic. One of a kind, really.

"Have you ever taken an IQ test?" he had asked her once.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I haven't," she replied.

"No one ever told you to?" he asked, hardly believing it.

"Yes, when I got into Harvard," she answered, without much emotion. He wanted more.

"So...?"

She glanced at him and shrugged.

"I didn't want to take it, and nobody forced me to. It would've just isolated me even more from the others. I didn't want to stand out more than I already did with straight As and early acceptance, you know?" After a second or two of silence, she added, "I never felt like a genius or particularly smart. I'm just…" She lowered her voice suggestively. "I'm just very dedicated to everything I do."

She smiled.

That smile sent an immediate shiver through his body, and he reacted quickly. Sara was stunning, and their sex life was beyond amazing. Intimate, unashamed, fun, open to pleasure and discovery.

Hours later that day, as he lightly ran his fingertips against her skin, he thought back to their conversation and knew exactly what she meant. She was young, poor, with nothing trendy in her wardrobe, nowhere to go, trying hard to leave her past behind. No parent or relative had ever shown up for her or helped her with anything. She never traveled for Thanksgiving with anyone. No one cheered for her at her conquests or graduation. She was an outsider to those people.

Did she need an IQ test to prove she was different?

No, he guessed not.

If she didn't want to know, he was fine with that. But he knew she had all the signs: a strong desire to learn and understand the world, CHECK; the ability to solve complex problems, CHECK; the ability to see patterns, CHECK; adaptability, CHECK; intense focus, CHECK. He could go on.

On another occasion, while they were driving to a crime scene, he had asked her what she didn't know about, which made her laugh.

"A lot of things, actually," she replied.

Hardly.

"Tell me one, then," he said, looking at her. Her long fingers gripped the wheel, her eyes never leaving the road, though he knew she wanted to steal a glance at him. She thought for a while, and he wondered if she wouldn't answer, wouldn't share.

But then she did.

"Well, I don't really know how to dance. I never went to prom, and all the nightclubs and parties I've been to never required dancing. So... I guess that's something people have been doing since they were sixteen, and I don't know how."

He didn't have time to respond then, because they had arrived at the crime scene, and personal talk was forgotten.

Years later, in another country, surrounded by people speaking different languages, he pulled her onto the dance floor. The band played a version of a song they both liked. When his arm wrapped around her waist and his other hand took hers, they began to move slowly. As the singer sang, he softly sang along in her ear:

And if she's beside me I know I need never care
But to love her is to need her
Everywhere
Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes
And hoping I'm always there
I will be there
And everywhere
Here, there and everywhere

When the song ended, she looked at him, her hand moving from his shoulder to his chest. He kissed her long and hard. When they finally pulled apart, she said she loved him.

"And I love you, Sara."

He led her through another song, but soon enough, she caught on to how this dance thing worked. Of course, she had learned quickly.

Sara was a genius. A genius with a soft heart who just wanted to be "one of the kids" for a little while longer.

Suddenly, he wanted to cry.

"Hello, Gil! Gil?" Catherine's voice snapped him out of his trance. He blinked, realizing everyone was looking at him, including Sara, seated right in front of him.

They were at the bar to celebrate Brass's release from the hospital and his full recovery. Right. He was genuinely happy about it, but his mind was elsewhere. He felt like he'd been pulled from a delicious dream.

He often thought about Sara, and sometimes he was tempted to send her a message—just to check in, tell her a bit about himself. As if she wanted to know. Frankly.

But in the past few weeks, they'd been working together again, which felt like being together, sort of. Just yesterday, they had dinner. He held her hand, wanting desperately to ask her to his hotel or invite himself over to their, no, her place at the end. But he couldn't. He respected her too much. She was tired, restless, and vulnerable. It wouldn't have been fair to either of them.

"Sorry, I was just… thinking," he told Catherine.

"Yeah, we could tell. You've got plenty of time to think on that boat. Enjoy our company, will you?" Catherine said as the waiter approached to take their orders.

When the waiter reached the end of the table, where he and Sara were seated, Gil turned to her.

"What'll you have, Sara?" he asked.

"Uh… Heineken, I guess," she replied.

"Two Heinekens," Gil told the waiter, nodding. "Thanks."

Those small gestures always threw Sara off balance—he could tell. She never knew quite how to react. But he couldn't help himself. He wanted to be kind, to show her he cared. And if he couldn't hold her or cook for her, at least he could handle the little things. He almost hoped the waiter wouldn't open their long necks, just so he could do it for her.

TBC