A/N:
Summary: The bees are back. 🐝💕
The first (well, first major) section of this chapter is intended to be a bit ridiculous (some sort of reverse Sally Albright, maybe?), but, as I noted, the bees are back, so I hope you'll enjoy it all! 🐝💕
Spoilers below for The Philadelphia Story (1940), one of the best romantic comedies of all time!
Fall 2015. Las Vegas, Nevada.
Everyone knows that I can't do it
I long for ordinary heaven
Just to be your witness
Yeah, I only wanna witness you
[…]
Don't lose track of our ordinary heaven
In ordinary heaven
You dance around the apartment
And I just get, I just get, I just get
I just get to be there
– Jack Michael Antonoff, Mark Anthony Spears, and Patrik Jens Berger
[for Bleachers], "Ordinary Heaven."
The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the endless skies, my love
To the dark and the endless skies
[…]
The first time ever I saw your face
Your face, your face, your face
– Ewan MacColl, "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face."
Tracy Lord: Dexter, are you sure?
C. K. Dexter Haven: Not in the least. But I'll risk it. Will you?
Tracy Lord: You bet! You didn't do it just to soften the blow?
C. K. Dexter Haven: No, Tracy.
Tracy Lord: Nor to save my face?
C. K. Dexter Haven: Ah, it's a nice little face.
Tracy Lord: Oh, Dexter, I'll be yare now. I'll promise to be yare.
C. K. Dexter Haven: Be whatever you like. You're my redhead.
– Tracy Lord (Katharine Hepburn) and C. K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant), in The Philadelphia Story.
The Philadelphia Story
Over the days that followed, Sara and Grissom spent a lot of their time mostly quite naked. Or all naked. They did a lot of things naked. Because why not. They spent considerable time lying intertwined on the couch, naked. They did their crossword puzzles naked. They watched postseason baseball naked.
They spent a day watching Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant's joint movies, naked. Still naked, they both awkwardly avoided commenting or meeting each other's eyes when the divorced Philadelphia socialites Tracy Lord and C. K. Dexter Haven remarried at Tracy's home.
They slow-danced naked some more. They, as Alanis recommended, walked around naked in their living room. They slept naked, of course. And they followed through with their agenda of making sure they had reacquainted themselves in every room of the house. They were definitely quite naked whenever they did that.
One afternoon, after they'd spent about a week and a half very much enjoying their joint naked activities, Sara and Grissom were once more back in bed. They were again very naked, of course.
"Oooooh," Sara moaned with pleasure. Grissom was extremely skilled in this department. Sara hadn't felt anything like this in a long time.
Grissom laughed internally, pleased at his ability to please.
"Oh, god," she moaned. Again. She was really into this.
Grissom could tell she was really into this. She wasn't exactly hiding it.
"Oh, GOD." She couldn't believe it could feel this good.
She was really, really into this.
"Yes," she panted. "YES! Fuck, yes. Oh, fuuuuuck…." Fuuuuuuuuck.
Grissom was amused. He slowed down a little, a little too much for Sara's liking. He slowed down so much that—
"No, don't stop," she whimpered. "Don't ever stop…." Sara was a bit desperate.
He picked up the pace just slightly.
"Harder, Gil! Harder…."
He increased the intensity.
"Yessssssss. Right there. Oh, that feels good," she gasped. The man really knew his way around the human body.
"You really didn't do this while we were apart, did you?" Being a bit of a tease sometimes, Grissom stopped what he was doing.
"No, I already told you that!" Sara looked at him and scowled. Then she flopped her head down in frustration and buried her face in her pillow. She groaned.
"Have you, perchance, been a little stressed, my dear?"
"Don't even get me started, Gilbert," she said with good humor, despite her mock indignation.
"Shall I continue?"
"Yes, please."
As Grissom continued massaging Sara's back and shoulders, he decided his wife—no, ex-wife, as he continually had to remind himself—seemed quite desperately in need of some more pampering, and definitely some more massages. He could take care of that.
Tap, tap.
He was going to have to take care of that later, though, because, as he was finishing the massage, Sara had turned over and pulled him down onto the bed beside her. She kissed him lazily, and he could tell what kind of ending she wanted for this massage. No surprise there: it was a happy one.
Sara went for a run the next morning. When she got back to the house, she found Grissom had left a note telling her he'd gone to the store, so she took Hank for a walk and a very leisurely and low-key play at the dog park.
When Sara and Hank returned, Grissom was just getting out of Sara's car. As she walked up to him, he went around and opened the trunk, where he had stashed several bags of groceries. Sara was surprised, as they had replenished their supply of some of the more essential perishable goods just a few days earlier.
"Hey," she said, "what's all this?" Grissom had looked up at her approach and given Hank a well-deserved scratch behind the ears but said nothing, so she proceeded to kiss him.
Sara had pulled away, but still he said nothing.
"Something the matter?" She looked at him quizzically.
"Sorry, I guess, ah… seeing you still leaves me a little speechless sometimes…."
Tap, tap.
Sara took this observation a lot better than she had the first time he'd made it. "Hmmm, well, we'll have to see what we can do about that." She grinned, then she put her hand on his neck and briefly kissed him once more.
"I think if we work at it…." He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm willing if you are…." This time, she joined not just their lips but their tongues, not just their mouths but their bodies; this time, the kiss lasted a lot longer.
Eventually Hank, evidently feeling neglected, shoved his head in between them, and Sara again pulled away. "You know, seeing you again left me a little… wanting to pull you into the supply closet."
Now two eyebrows shot up.
She laughed then peered around him at the stash of groceries in the trunk. "So were we running out of stuff already? I thought we'd stocked up pretty well." Sara hadn't noticed they were running low on anything important.
"We're going to have a picnic. I'm putting it together. I bought picnic supplies."
Tap, tap.
"Oh, we are, are we?" Sara was amused, as, at least initially, going on a picnic seemed to her more something she would propose than something Grissom would plan. Of course, on further reflection, she realized he had done his part to bring about more than one al fresco international adventure and—most significantly—had once packed a picnic for a pretty successful stargazing excursion. "And where are we going on this picnic?" she asked her beau, who looked quite pleased with himself.
"Backyard."
"Our backyard?"
"Yes."
"We're going on a picnic in our own backyard?"
"Yes."
"You couldn't come up with any more exciting picnic destinations?"
"It's a naked picnic. I think we'd be breaking public decency laws if we tried to hold it someplace else."
"I guess so. So we're having a naked picnic?"
"Yes. I got the ingredients for Bellinis, and I'm going to feed you peeled grapes and lick things off you."
Tap, tap.
"You're going to lick things off me?"
"Yes."
"Does that mean I'm lickable?"
"Quite."
"How about suckable? Does that mean I'm suckable, too, my love?" She practically purrrrred this at him.
She was occasionally quite ridiculous. He'd missed that. He'd missed everything about her. God, he loved her. "Very." He confirmed that she was by demonstrating on her neck. He loved the taste of her, the feel of her, and the way she still smelled vaguely of creamsicles, though by then he knew the source of the scent.
Sara thought she could live with being suckable. In return, she decided to confirm he was lickable, too. She tasted his neck. "Mmmm, salty."
"Sara!" Okay, she was utterly ridiculous, and he'd really missed it.
She looked him up and down appraisingly and lightly bit her lip. (We might say she eye fucked him.) "I'll suck later…."
"Sara!" He quickly scanned the vicinity to make sure none of the neighbors had overhead.
She put on her most innocent expression. "Hmmm, okay, a naked picnic. Why not?"
Later that day, Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom had a naked picnic. Grissom rearranged some planters in the backyard; Sara spread out blankets, pillows, and towels in the open space he'd created; and they had quite a nice naked picnic.
He licked things off her, which he quite enjoyed. She seemed to have enjoyed it as well, but he was pretty sure he'd enjoyed it more. That was unfortunate, as he was meant to be pampering her. He'd have to keep trying. He'd find some more things to lick off her.
Tap, tap.
He'd find enough treats to cover her body—once or twice—no—three times or more. He'd send his tongue over every part of her; he'd make sure it again knew the taste of every square millimeter. He'd send his tongue over her, again and again and again. He'd send his tongue over and over and over her skin—her silky, satiny skin; her peaches-and-creamsicly skin; her oh-so-nice and dreamy skin. He'd teach his tongue to identify every tart but sweet part of her. Yes. He'd find some more things to lick off her.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
He'd send his tongue inside her; yes, he'd taste every honey-filled part of her. He already knew the taste of her—he'd already eat, sleep, and dream the taste of her—but he'd explore her again—once or twice—no—three times or more. He'd taste her, again and again and again, until she'd cried out his name—once or twice—no—three times or more. Mmmm, yes. He'd find some more things to lick off her.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
The things he'd been licking off her already had attracted some bees. Any other two lovebirds might have been bothered by the bees, but not these; these two lovely science nerds of course had nothing but fond feelings for them.
October being a relatively temperate month—temperate by Las Vegas standards, that is—the late-afternoon sun warmed rather than wilted them, and the ever-so-light wind that wafted through the air and between the nearly bare branches of the neighboring trees and over their bare bodies contributed to the more welcoming climate.
Now that the licking had died down (and her own little death had subsided), Sara was lying on her back, with her head on one of the pillows she'd brought outside, reading a hardcover copy of Between the World and Me that she'd picked up while wandering the shops of Marina del Rey with her handsome hound and equally handsome (ex-)husband. Grissom had rummaged up and brought outside an old, tattered paperback copy of Moby-Dick, with the intention of starting a long-awaited reread, but the book remained at his side. His attentions were elsewhere.
Without thought, he'd started running his right hand over his beloved's body—a body he'd spent years mentally conjuring, even when he'd been of a mind to do his best to forget it; a body he sometimes fancied knowing better than his own; a body he certainly cherished more than any other. His hand's movements didn't take the form of another massage, and they weren't a prelude to something more carnal. He was merely comforted by the sheer physicality of her presence; the warmth of her skin under his hand, under the clear blue Nevada sky, under that late-afternoon sun; the gossamer delicacy of the fine hairs that covered it. He'd spent so many years conjuring her that having her there before him was like the answer to a thousand silent prayers he hadn't known he'd made.
Tap, tap.
After making its way over her delightfully soft stomach, his hand had begun its descent down her nearest leg, and Sara giggled when he hit a ticklish spot behind her knee. He didn't usually think of Sara as giggling—he didn't think Sara would usually like to think of Sara as giggling—but, when tickled, she responded with a definite giggle. He couldn't resist hitting the ticklish spot again. Again she giggled, and he tried not to laugh.
"Yes, my love?" She shifted her big brown eyes over to his baby blues (beloved both). "Were you wanting my attention?"
Grissom thought about his plans for this picnic; he thought about everything he'd promised her. "You haven't had any grapes yet. May I offer you a few peeled grapes, dearest?"
Sara laughed more fully then and rested the book, open and facedown, on her stomach. "So you were serious about the grapes? Did you find pre-peeled grapes at Whole Foods or something?"
"What—no." His brow furrowed. "Pre-peeled grapes? What would be the point in that? That would completely ruin the meaning."
"So you want to peel grapes for me?"
"That was the idea."
Tap, tap.
"I mean, I'm pretty full already from the Bellinis and the cheese and—" She stopped speaking as his brow again furrowed. "How about one grape, just for a start? We can have more later."
"Okay." He smiled then turned away, reaching for the cooler, where he'd left the grapes sitting on ice. He pulled out a single plump green grape, as well as the paring knife he'd left in the cooler, and proceeded to peel it, with a practiced deftness.
Sara laughed as he held up the small fruit for her inspection. "Very impressive."
Grissom smiled, but he didn't tell her about the first bunch of grapes—the bunch of grapes on which he'd practiced while she'd been pulling out the picnic blankets and pillows and towels—the bunch of grapes that was at that moment hiding in the chill of the refrigerator, tucked safely away from Hank (Hank himself being tucked safely away from the heat, inside in the chill of the air-conditioning).
He reached over with the peeled grape between his thumb and forefinger, and obligingly she opened her mouth. He popped in the grape, only lightly grazing her perfectly luscious—ah… luscious—lips as he did so.
It had not, as it turned out, been a midlife crisis he'd suffered right there in the middle of his lecture at the 50th annual AAFS conference: over seventeen and a half years later, he still found her luscious. Over seventeen and a half years later, he was still captivated by those lips.
"Delicious," she told him after chewing and swallowing. She grinned. "Best grape I've ever tasted." It wasn't a lie. She raised a hand to stroke his cheek.
Sara didn't need peeled grapes, but it wasn't really about the grapes. It was about the way he was determinedly making his way through conversations about their relationship history that clearly pained him. It was about the way she'd come home from a run one day to find him reading articles on how to choose "the best ma—er, relationship counsellor" for their needs and another to find him researching said counsellors online. (There were more than a few aspects of their early Vegas (pre-)relationship history that Sara still felt best left for discussion under the attentive guidance of a trained professional.) It was about the way he'd already discussed putting together a spreadsheet of the deadlines and requirements of the doctoral programs that fit her interests and their intended geographical area.
Mostly, it was about the way everything he said or did told her he would rather die than let them fuck up this love story again. In truth, there was only one thing still missing.
"Hmmm." Grissom laughed, but really he was thinking about her smile, about how he could happily spend more than a lifetime (this lifetime and the next and the next and the next, continuing on forevermore) lost in that smile, about how he never wanted her to stop smiling. An airplane passed through that clear blue Nevada sky, far overhead, and he thought of all the plane rides that had taken him away from that smile, that had taken her away from him. No more, he thought.
Having been fed her single plump peeled green grape, Sara picked up her book and resumed reading, but Grissom kept watching her.
One of fall's remaining active bees buzzed unhurriedly past his ear, and he thought back to the day they'd spent recently—of all things—painting bees in a nearby Nevada field. He remembered how that day's light wind had wafted through the dappled green leaves of the not-yet-bare trees, the crumpled ebony mesh of their protective gear, the billowy white sides of her soft cotton shirt. He remembered how he'd rejoiced in her presence, how he'd refused to let an instant pass without wordlessly praising her proximity, how he'd wished fervently never to be parted from her side. Most of all, he remembered how he'd sat beside her under the large open tent that had been assembled, trying and failing—failing quite spectacularly, as it turned out—to discern what was in her mind. He could only hope his understanding of her thoughts and feelings had improved significantly since that day.
Tap, tap.
As he watched her read, Grissom thought that there was—truly—nothing he wouldn't do for this woman. He knew he would kill for her, if need be; he would die for her. He would bleed for her. He would cry for her. He would most certainly peel a grape—a thousand grapes—for her. But that wasn't what she needed.
She needed him to live for her, to listen to her, to learn from all his screw-ups of days and months and years past. She needed him to hold her when she was still, ever so occasionally, shaken by memories of her tragic childhood, by the ghosts she'd long sought to bury, by recollections of the friends and colleagues she'd—they'd—loved and lost. Sometimes he wished he could go back and hold her through everything she'd ever suffered, so she would never have had to know pain; but that he couldn't do.
So she needed him to support her. She needed to be able to trust him, to rely on him, to have confidence that he would follow through on his intentions. She needed to feel comfortable confiding in him, fully and completely, and to have him feel the same comfort—total honesty, he reminded himself—confiding fully and completely in her. She needed him not to let his own insecurities trip him up—trip them up. She needed… well, he could only hope she still needed him. He knew he needed her; he always had.
Tap, tap.
Sara shifted then. She tucked a bookmark in her book and laid the book down beside her on the many layers of blankets and pillows and towels, away from him. Then she rolled over to face him, and she knitted the fingers of one of her hands together with those of one of his.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. God, that smile. He was again mesmerized. It may not have launched a thousand ships, that smile, but he was sure it would launch his ship a thousand times over. That smile had never left him, in all the days and nights he'd spent at sea, but having it there before him was a wholly different experience; as on many occasions past, he couldn't take his gaze off the woman who possessed it. Of course, he'd never wanted to take his gaze off her; he never wanted to take his gaze off her. Given the choice, he never would.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
So, almost three weeks after reuniting on the Ishmael, Sara and Grissom were lying together, slightly sticky from all the lickable things he had applied to her, on blankets and pillows and towels spread out in the backyard of their Las Vegas house, and they were really doing quite a good job of looking lovingly into each other's eyes while they did so.
Unfortunately, Sara could tell something was bothering Grissom, but he wouldn't tell her what it was. "Gil, you're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The tapping." He was tapping the thumb of his free hand together with one of its fingers. He'd been doing the tapping intermittently for days—no, it must have been weeks—at that point. She couldn't remember exactly when it had started, but she'd begun to suspect he'd been doing it ever since the first day she'd set foot on the Ishmael; she frowned briefly, trying to recall whether that could be right.
"Oh, sorry."
"It's…. Oh, don't worry about it. Just tell me what's wrong." Regardless of when it had started, she was sure it had increased in frequency over the preceding days. The tapping itself she wouldn't have minded, but she could tell he was doing it because something was bothering him, and he still wouldn't tell her what it was.
"What?"
"Something's bothering you. What is it?" She searched his eyes but failed to glean an answer.
"Oh, no…. It's nothing," he tried to reassure her.
"It's not nothing. It's clearly bothering you. Won't you tell me?"
"It's just…. No, it's nothing, sweetheart. Don't worry about it," he said, again trying to reassure her, trying to make it sound like no big deal, trying to stay just on the right side of cavalier.
Sara wasn't buying it. "What happened to total honesty?" She smiled at him encouragingly. She really believed they needed to be more open with each other, and she didn't like that he already felt he couldn't share with her something that was so obviously bothering him.
"I know, Sara." He sighed. "It's just…. It's my problem. I created it. And I'm not sure this is a good time to discuss it. Just trust me on this." He said it in an affable manner. "Please," he added. He really didn't want to upset her. But he also didn't want to upset her by telling her what he'd been considering.
Tap, tap.
She trusted him, of course, always. But she was still sad he wouldn't share.
After five minutes, they hadn't spoken again. They were lying there together very naked still, but they hadn't spoken. Grissom was thinking about what he was afraid to say to Sara. Sara was wondering about what Grissom might be afraid to say to her.
Grissom thought about the wonderful life he wished to share with this woman, about the blissful days and nights he longed to spend beside her, just making her laugh, making her smile, making her whimper. Then he thought about all the bitter sunsets he'd watched without her, all the lonesome starry skies under which he'd yearned to wrap himself around her—to have her oh-so-tightly embraced in his arms. Never again did he want to look up at a night's sky and wonder where she was, this most radiant of creatures, this most luminous celestial body, this most incandescent being. He wanted to know.
He tapped his finger again—once or twice—no—three times or more.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Eventually he realized not saying it was going to affect them just as much as saying it would. At least with saying it he had the chance of a good outcome. Total honesty, he again reminded himself. He cleared his throat, and she looked up at him.
"When Ecklie called to ask for my help, he told me my ex-wife had given him my number—charming, as always, that Conrad. Then… you said it for the first time, a few days later. It was like a dagger to the heart." He shuddered. "When we were visiting my mom, we kept meeting people on the street, and I didn't really know how to introduce you. Then my mom introduced you as my ex-wife to someone…. I hate it, Sara. It's the worst thing I've ever done. I hate that you're my ex-wife." He let out a loud breath.
Tap, tap.
Sara didn't look upset. She looked like she might be on the same page. She looked like she might be receptive to wherever he was going with this….
"So, I don't know…. Maybe we should get married?" He laughed at himself a little and hoped like hell she wasn't about to kick him out of the house for his years of monumental foolishness.
Tap, tap.
Breathe, Gil.
Tap, tap.
He couldn't quite look at her, but she wasn't saying anything, so eventually he had to meet her eyes.
Those eyes were open wide, but Sara's lips were pressed together, mouth firmly shut.
The light was making it harder than usual for Grissom to read her expression. "What?" He really hoped she wasn't mentally calculating the volume of moving boxes that would be required to rid the house of all his current and former possessions; that equation wouldn't take her gold-star mathematical mind long.
Tap, tap.
She didn't move to break his gaze by even a millimeter, but Sara's lips remained firmly pressed together.
Her silence continued to unnerve him. Perhaps she'd moved on to determining the optimal size of storage locker for the moving boxes; that too would be quick. "What, Sara?"
Tap, tap.
Finally unable to contain herself any longer, Sara blinked—then burst out laughing.
"What?"
"Well, it took you long enough!"
"Really?"
"You think I like having you as my ex-husband?" Given that he'd been the one to divorce her, Sara hadn't been about to propose (re)marriage of her own initiative, but she hated having him as her ex-husband every bit as much as he hated having her as his ex-wife.
"So…." He shook his head a little. "What do you think?"
"Yes, Gilbert. Let's do it. Let's get married." She smirked at him—again. She too shook her head. It was all so ridiculous, but she couldn't be happier. Gilbert Grissom may not have been the first Gilbert Sara Sidle had loved, but we know he'll be the last.
Looking at this woman, his former and now future wife, Grissom thought, for about the hundredth—or maybe the thousandth, or maybe even that's still too low—time since he'd met her, that he'd never been so happy. He thought this day truly must be the happiest of his life. Of course, again, he'd said that about a lot of days, but they'd still all been with her, and he'd still meant it every time.
He smiled and told her, "Je t'aime, ma petite puce."
She'd missed how silly he could be sometimes—silly and sweet. With the proposal made and acceptance confirmed, Sara couldn't help but beam at him, with the same megawatt smile she'd given him for the first time back in that hotel conference room in San Francisco all those years ago; San Francisco seemed a lifetime ago to them by that point, but somehow in that moment it felt like just a week or two before.
This time, though, Sara's smile held more meaning. Grissom felt himself the luckiest man alive, and Sara was ecstatic never fully to have scared off her eminent entomologist. After a pause, she reached over and kissed him, with quite a bit of enthusiasm. At that moment, as their bodies began to intertwine, they both thought to appreciate the absence of beekeeping outfits.
And, as I'm sure you've guessed, the rest of their naked backyard picnic really was quite marvelous.
Afterward, as they lay together still on the many blankets, pillows, and towels, he curled around her and buried his head in beside her neck.
"Oh, my love," she murmured, "how could you ever have believed you belonged anywhere but with me?"
He didn't speak, but she felt the dampness on his face and knew his response.
It was only some days later that Sara realized her beloved had been tapping his left ring finger and became a little embarrassed by her lack of observational skills in the matter. She had not, however, failed to remember the conversation she and her betrothed had had precisely eight years earlier, which had been strikingly similar in outcome.
UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FALL 2015. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. AN INTERLUDE (OR TWO).
NOTES
On "the first Gilbert Sara Sidle had loved":
On the small* chance that you (unlike me) haven't memorized every reference in this series of stories, "the first Gilbert Sara Sidle had loved" showed up early in chapter two of the first story (Survivors in the Night: AAFS Conference to Las Vegas: A How They Met Story).
*Since the internet is a dark and cruel place, I advise: please infer sarcasm here. (If anyone else remembered this reference, I would be most greatly surprised!)
On that tapping:
The tapping was inspired by Grissom fidgeting with his wedding ring finger (in what I would describe as a more soothing manner) while admiring his ex/wife in both "Immortality" (CSI, 16) and "In the Blood" (CSI: Vegas, 1x07). (You can check out both in my Tumblr GIF-set for those scenes, if you're interested. Some of the "Immortality" fidgeting is also visible in the cover art for this chapter, which will be available on Tumblr.) Many thanks always to the brilliant addictedtostorytelling, who pointed out the ring fidgeting in the latter (which also led to me noticing it in the former). Much love to WP, who is as always an utter delight (and to JF, who is absolutely gorgeous in both those scenes). 💛
I imagine Grissom feels a contentment he hasn't felt in years while sitting out in the field with Sara post-bee-painting in "Immortality." I imagine the tapping then coming about because, after they are reunited, he isn't fully content until he knows they can right their wrongs and once again be married. (I don't think love stories always require a wedding or marriage… but when you've managed to become divorced from the love of your life, they kind of do, you know? This one does.)
SOUNDTRACK LISTING
Bleachers. "Me Before You."
Bleachers. "All My Heroes."
Bleachers. "Ordinary Heaven."
Bleachers. "Let's Get Married" (MTV Unplugged).
Cat Power. "Sea of Love."
Gordon Lightfoot. "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face."
(You can listen to the songs in my playlist for this series, which can be found by searching my username on Spotify. Apologies to anyone who doesn't like Bleachers; this really isn't your week.)
A/N:
Cover art will be available on Tumblr. (I managed to do "Immortality" GIF cover art for this one!)
Once again, I intended to post this chapter a month earlier. This time, the problem was that I'd read it so, so many times that I was no longer sufficiently excited for it—and, given the significant event that occurred at the end, I wanted to be excited for it. 💕 So I added some extra material so I could feel excited about it again. It went from about 2600 words to about 4800 words, and it may have gotten away from me a little bit, but I had fun with it, so I hope you had fun with it, too! 💛
Thank you, as always, so much for reading! Again, as always, I would love to hear from you—that definitely helps with getting excited for posting—but if that's not your thing then that's cool, too! If you're here and enjoying this story, then I'm happy! Happy spring to all of you! 💛
Finally, in light of the recent news about CSI: Vegas's fate, I'd like to repeat some of my sentiments from Twitter:
I'm so grateful to CSI: Vegas. By letting us see Sara + Grissom be as beautiful + perfect + magical as I'd have imagined them to be when finally allowed just to be (happy) together, it made the GSR love story of the original CSI even more satisfying (to me, at least). 💕💕💕
Victories are all too rare, and I can't call getting to see my two favourite science nerds be happy + gorgeous together anything but a win. Thanks always to JF + WP for being so magical. 💕💕💕