A/N:
*Since email notifications were not working for months (and apparently are now? I hope?), I will advise: I posted chapters 19, 20, and 21 of this story on April 28, June 14, and July 14, respectively, so, if you have not read those chapters, please go check them out first!*
Summary: Someone gets a bit intoxicated (drunk). đź’• Someone recalls some Ishmael intimacy (sexy good times). đź’• They both get a bit amorous (horny). đź’• Everyone has a good (happy) time. đź’•
On Night and Day: Another Intimate Encounter:
This chapter has another intimate (adult) encounter, so, if you are not into that, just skip the second half, which begins with the sub-heading "Night and Day: Another Intimate Encounter—or Technically Two . . . or Three . . . or Four. . . . (It Depends on How You're Counting.)"
Fall 2015. Las Vegas, Nevada.
You are such a woman to me
And I love you
Our love will live
Until the end of all time.
No one else can kill me like you do
No one else can fill me like you do
And no one else can feel our pain.
Love is a healer
And I love you.
– Neil Young, "Such a Woman."
Like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
[. . .]
If I, if I have been unkind
I hope that you can just let it go by
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you
[. . .]
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee
– Leonard Cohen, "Bird on the Wire."
Notorious
Through the course of their discussions, Sara and Grissom had decided that, to keep their small wedding as intimate an affair as possible, they would ask one of their friends to officiate.
"We should try to talk to him today," Sara said while they were still lying in bed the next morning, doing the Times crossword together.
"And somehow, by we, I'm assuming you again mean me."
"Smart man."
"You are going to show up for the wedding, though, right? You're not going to have me marrying Hank dressed up in a wig?"
"Ha. Ha." She didn't laugh but instead moved in closer to him and ran her hand over his bare chest. "I just think it would be nice for the two of you to talk. You have been mostly gone for almost seven years."
"You still remember I left to go after you, right?"
"I will never forget it, my love." She leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. "But you'd barely been back for a couple of hours before he ended up in the hospital. Then you didn't exactly waste any time getting out of Vegas again."
"I stopped at the hospital to see him."
"For how long?"
Grissom sighed. "A few minutes. I had a flight to catch."
"Right. And this is the guy whose medical power of attorney you used to have. Did you ever even talk to him about . . . ?"
"I contacted him after you emailed me about what happened. Thank you for that, by the way."
"Once a wife, always a wife, I guess."
"So it would seem."
At that, they both started laughing. Hank looked up from the spot where he'd snuggled up at the foot of the bed, as if seeking to discover the source of the fuss; clearly unsatisfied with his guardians' behavior, he decided to hit snooze on the day and went back to sleep.
"Catherine said she's still mandated him to be on medical leave—fully paid, of course. So I assume he'll be at home. Why don't you go get some beers or a bottle of Scotch or something and check in on him this afternoon?"
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. But . . . ?"
"Yes. We'll be naked again afterward."
That afternoon, Grissom headed over to Jim Brass's house with both a six-pack of Carlsberg and a bottle of Bowmore 12-year, so the retired detective could pick his poison.
"Gil!" Brass raised his eyebrows upon opening his door. "I won't say you're the last person I expected to see on my doorstep today, but probably not far from it. What are you doing here, buddy?"
"I brought drinks." Grissom lifted his hands and the beverages they contained.
"Yeah, I can see that. I meant more: what are you doing in Vegas? I thought you'd disappeared out to the middle of the Pacific again."
"Yeah, well . . ." Grissom shrugged.
"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with a certain doe-eyed young brunette who's spent the last fifteen years looking at you like you're the best thing since sliced bread—despite the fact that you somehow managed to divorce her?"
"I'm sure she'd appreciate the 'young'—"
"She's always going to be younger than you, pal."
"I'm well aware of that. Thanks. But otherwise I'm not so sure about the characterization."
"Hey, look. You may think Detective's just a job title, but, come on, give me some credit here."
"I, uh . . ."
"I was in the interrogation room when you went off on that whole 'young and beautiful' soliloquy with a murder suspect, remember? I also figured out about Sara's drinking when the rest of you lot weren't paying any attention. You think I didn't notice when you two finally started looking happy and mooning about at the same time, after all that time spent acting like a couple of sullen teenagers?"
"I . . ." Grissom shook his head. "You never said anything."
"I figured that was your business. But, as soon as I say anything or otherwise get myself involved, it's everybody's business, right?"
"Yeah." Grissom didn't quite know what to say. Of course, since he was holding six beers and a bottle of Scotch, his hands were otherwise occupied, so that option was also out. "Thanks."
"So Sara is the reason you're here?"
"Here in Vegas and here on your doorstep. Speaking of which . . . ?"
"Oh, yeah." Brass took the beers from Grissom's hand. "Come in."
Once they were settled in Brass's living room with a couple of beers, he repeated his question, "So, what are you doing here?"
"Well, yes, I'm in Vegas because of Sara, and I'm here because Sara thought we should catch up."
"All right. I heard she's not at the lab, and I've gotten some pretty vague emails from her, checking in. So what've the two of you been up to?"
"You've said you feel Sara's almost like a daughter to you."
"Kind of an ignominious distinction coming from me, but yeah."
"Then you don't want to know."
Brass chuckled. "Well . . . Then tell me what I do want to know."
"We have a favor to ask you."
"Okay, try me."
"Well, we're getting married."
"You and Sara?"
"Yes. Why do people keep asking that? Whom else would I marry?"
"Just checking. I mean, congratulations and all, of course. But maybe we think you're lucky she's giving you another shot."
"I won't disagree with that."
"So you going to run off again to do it—Costa Rica or Nicaragua or Spain or wherever it was you went?"
"Not this time. We're doing it in Catherine's backyard."
"Right. Nice. So I guess I might even make it on the invite list for this one?"
"Actually, we're hoping you'll be on the one to marry us."
"Heyyy . . ."
This time, it was Brass who was speechless.
Several hours after having sent Grissom out to see Brass, Sara had gone out for an evening run. She had just finished the excursion and was at her own front door, fumbling with her keys, when her cell phone rang.
She managed to answer the call, after checking the caller ID. "Hey, Jim. What's up?"
"Hey, Sara. . . . It's Jim."
"Uh, yeah, I . . ." Sara shook her head. "What's up?" Sara had put the phone on speaker and was trying to maintain a solid grip on the device as she unlocked the door.
"Your husband came to see me—he brought some beers and a bottle of Scotch. . . ."
"Yeah . . . So which did you end up drinking?"
"You mean we were supposed to choose?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake—tell me you didn't—"
"We didn't finish the bottle of Scotch, but, uh, if you want your husband and your car back tonight, you may have to come get them."
Sara rubbed her left temple with her free hand. "Why . . . did I not see this coming? Okay. . . . I just got back from a run, so I've got to take a shower, then I'll grab a cab and head over. Just try not to give him anything else to drink in the interim, okay?"
Sara had showered quickly then pulled on clean running shorts, a t-shirt, and a cozy oversized cardigan before calling a cab. Forty-five minutes after speaking with him over the phone, she too found herself standing at Jim Brass's front door.
"Hey, Sara, come in. He's over on the, ah . . ." Brass gestured to the couch.
Sara gave the retired detective a hug. "You're looking good."
"Thanks, and . . . uh, sorry, about him." Brass again gestured to the couch.
"I thought we talked about this last time." Sara narrowed her eyes at Brass.
"Yeah, well, what can I say? It's been a while."
"All right. And you . . ." Sara walked over and sat down beside Grissom on the couch.
Sara! "Sara . . ." Sara! "Darlin', you're here." Sara! He gave her a big grin.
Darlin'? "Oh, man. You really are soused."
"I'm so glad you're here, Sara. . . ." Sara, Sara, Sara. "I think Brass snores. And I think you look better naked." Naked Sara!
"Hey!" came from Brass.
"Not that I've ever seen Brass naked. But I'd much rather spend the night with you either way. . . ." Sara!
"And I'm very glad to hear it."
"You're like a daughter to Brass, you know. . . ."
"That's very sweet." Sara looked up and smiled at the retired detective.
"So I didn't tell him about all the sex we've been having. . . ." Sexy naked good times Sara!
"Oh, god. Okay. I think it's time to get you home. Let's go." Sara took his hand and stood up, so she could help pull him to his feet.
"You're the best wife, you know that, right, Sara. . . ." Oh, Sara. . . .
"Well, thank you, but we're not actually married, you realize."
"Sure, but only legally."
"Right. Okay. Car, Gil."
"Mmm'kay." Sara.
Night and Day: Another Intimate Encounter—or Technically Two . . . or Three . . . or Four. . . . (It Depends on How You're Counting.)
"Night and day, you are the one," a slightly offkey voice crooned out into the darkened sky—and to the dark-haired vixen its owner was serenading. "Only you beneath the moon and under the sun / Whether near to me or far / It's no matter darlin' where you are / I think of you . . ."
Sara was again trying to open her front door. Before she could finish putting the key in the lock, though, she was again interrupted. Her personal troubadour had followed behind her, and he stepped in even closer now, putting his hands on her hips, pulling him to her, and her to him.
"Hey." She turned her head to look back at him.
"Hey." He kissed her neck. Mmmm, Sara's neck . . . "You know, darlin' . . . we shouldn't be separated like that again—we should be near not far."
"Uh . . . you were only gone for a few hours. Surely we can occasionally bear to be apart for a few hours."
"No, I mean . . . I mean . . . you were on a boat, and I was in Vegas. . . . I was on a boat, and you were in Vegas. . . . You were in Central America, and I was in Vegas. . . . I was in South America, and you were in Vegas. . . . I don't care where, Sara, but we should have been together." He moved his left arm around her waist and his right hand under her V-neck t-shirt and onto her bare stomach, holding her closer still. "We should always be together."
Maybe he'd started to sober up, she thought. "Yeah." She sighed. "Together."
"Like you said, darlin', we belong together."
"Yeah," she whispered, "we do."
"It's hard, you know, not to think about all the extra time I could have spent kissing you." He nuzzled his face in even closer to her neck and shoulders, and again he kissed the side of her neck—where it hit her shoulder, just above where her t-shirt collar ended, in a way that still made her quiver. "In my dreams, I was always kissing you, Sara. . . ."
"Yeah. . . ."
He then brought his right hand up and, having pushed out of the way the lightweight lace bralette she was wearing, started massaging her breasts. Mmmm, Sara's breasts . . . "Do I tell you enough how splendid your breasts are, Sara? I should. I really should. I really missed your breasts. . . ." He kissed her neck again, as he continued massaging.
Okay, maybe not so much with the sobering up. She tried not to laugh. "I, uh . . . I didn't realize you were that much of a breast man. . . ."
"I'm not really. I'm, ah . . . I'm more of a Sara man. . . ." Mmmm, Sara . . .
"Is that so?" He really was very sweet, for a man whose breath reeked of Scotch and peppermint chewing gum.
"Yes. . . . I missed all your parts, Sara . . . all of them. . . ." Mmmm, Sara's fine, fine, fine—more than fine—quite divine—parts . . .
"All of them . . ." Sara enjoyed embracing this extra-amorous side of him, on this occasion brought out by the excessive consumption of beer and Scotch. She again looked back at him, puckering her lips as she did so, extending an implicit invitation. "Would you care to show me which other parts you missed, Gilbert?"
"Hmmm, yes . . ." With that, he released her breast and gently slid his hand down, beneath the elastic waistband of her shorts, and between her legs. Mmmm, Sara's pu—
Sara gasped and steadied herself against the still-closed front door.
With his free hand, he held her even tighter. "I missed this part quite a lot, Sara. . . ."
"Mmmmm . . . I, uh . . . I, uh . . ." Sara was getting more than a little distracted by the movements of Grissom's digits. "I . . . I can tell. . . ." Given how closely he was holding her, it would have been hard to miss.
"I missed the feel of it . . . and the sight of it . . . and the taste of it . . . and the . . ." Mmmm, Sara . . . Grissom had again grown distracted by Sara's neck, losing his train of thought—though not the object of his movements.
Sara felt a little faint. She briefly wondered whether her drunken lover—and soon-to-be-second husband—realized they were still outside the house. "Yeah. . . ." She was grateful for the semi-privacy afforded by the vegetation surrounding the front entryway, as well as its distance from the street. Yet she also had to acknowledge to herself a certain amount of thrill added by its inverse: the semi-non-privacy.
They'd never been exhibitionists. They'd never courted danger. There'd been no office oral rewards or Denali afternoon delights. There had been a few careless crime-scene caresses in the latter days of their secret relationship, but that had led to nowhere good.
But then on the Ishmael . . . on their third full day together, she'd tried something new: not the act itself, of course—she still remembered the very first time, in a San Francisco hotel room, that she'd wrapped her perfectly painted red lips around his perfectly hardened cock—but the surroundings.
They'd been relatively far from land or any other vessels when she'd joined him up on the top deck, and initially she'd just stood behind him—arms encircling his waist, head resting on his shoulder—enjoying the morning sun on her back, drinking in the scent of him as it mingled with the salty sea air. She'd been wearing nothing but one of his worn plaid flannel shirts, unbuttoned, and she'd soaked in the heat that emanated from him, too, only a t-shirt and another of his worn plaid flannel shirts separating his flesh from hers.
Her hand had wandered down below the waistband of his blue jeans, almost of its own accord, and its initial touches had been featherlight and fleeting. Nevertheless, his response had been swift, and her strokes had soon grown stronger. Then, following some further consideration, she'd lowered his fly and slipped first her hand inside his jeans, then him outside his jeans. Apparently he hadn't been able to find any of his boxers when he'd dressed that morning, which might have had something to do with the fact that she'd been continually stripping them off him and flinging them places. So she'd stroked him outside his jeans, and, as was expected, she'd soon been impressed with the extraordinary firmness of her results.
"God, Sara," he'd muttered as her strokes, like him, had grown increasingly firm.
God, Sara, indeed, she'd thought, as she'd grinned into his hot skin. Early-morning hand-jobs hadn't exactly been on his seafaring itinerary just a few days earlier—that much she knew.
She could have finished the task that way, but she'd quickly concluded she had a taste for something different that morning. So instead, after removing his sunglasses and tucking them in his front shirt pocket, she'd swung herself in front of him then sunk to her knees. When she'd glanced up at him, his immediate response had been his trademark raised eyebrow of surprise, but, at the sight of her bare breasts and coquettishly puckered lips, his demeanor had almost immediately transformed into the bright blue "fuck-me" eyes of impending pleasure.
She'd taken him in her mouth then, and he'd kept one hand on the helm while the fingers of his free hand had slid through her silky hair, softly holding her to him. She'd always enjoyed pleasuring him, but orally caressing him out in the open sea air had been a completely new sensation, one in which she'd almost luxuriated, and she'd nearly shared in his bliss when finally he'd called out her name, over and over and over again.
Of course, little time had passed before her morning impertinence had been rewarded. His intimate knowledge of the southern California coast had proven useful, and before too long he'd tucked them away in a cozy little island cove, far from potentially prying eyes. He'd gone to the lower deck to lower the anchor but asked her to stay up top.
When he'd returned, he'd gently guided her, so she was again at the helm, again facing him, with a cushion he'd brought from down below propped behind her peachy-keen bottom. He'd pushed the oversized flannel shirt down her shoulders, so it rested at her elbows, with only her lower back and lower arms covered. With a kiss to her flushed cheek and the barest of touches, he'd tenderly spread her legs. Then he'd knelt before her.
At first it had been the ocean breeze caressing her, the cool sea air hardening her nipples, creating the goosebumps that had arisen up and down her arms. Then it had been him. He'd consumed her thirstily—as a man who'd survived several years of deprivation and could now scarcely believe the abundance quite literally at his fingertips, which had at that moment been clutching those lily-white upper thighs of hers.
His mouth, his lips, his tongue were seeking, constantly seeking, seeking just the right spot, just the right stroke, just the right second, to have her arching her back and crying out into the wind. She'd always loved having him there, and that day had been no different: his whiskers grazing those lily-white upper thighs, his mouth pressed against her, his lips and tongue continually discovering—then rediscovering—the surest ways to send her over the edge. There'd forever been a sense of worship in those oral caresses, an adoration, a reverence even, but also something more intimate, something more earthly, something more decidedly carnal.
So her fingers had wandered, swirling, through his now mostly grey curls, holding him tight to her. Her moans and whimpers had mingled with the early fall breeze and been carried up and down along the coastline, with none the wiser but her and her beloved. An occasional gust had whipped her dark brown curls wildly around her face, and when finally she'd given in to that back-arching pleasure, she'd held nothing back, calling out his name like she was trying to reach the gods and the heavens above, but this too had been swept into the swirling coastal airflows.
He hadn't been content with giving her one norm-shattering orgasm, though; no, Gil Grissom had always been something of an overachiever. So, as soon as she was ready, he'd again spread her legs, and that time he'd fucked her hard up against the boat's helm, just like she'd wanted it, right under that bright blue California sky. His hands and mouth had roamed everywhere they could reach—those lily-white thighs, her soft but firm bottom, her pert breasts and hardened nipples, her bare upper arms, her minty lips, her silky hair, everywhere—and she'd been deeply sated by this voyage of discovery, too.
She, meanwhile, had made quick work of her ex's t-shirt and flannel shirt, exposing his comfortingly solid chest and surprisingly muscular arms, and soon her hands had been clutching his familiar warm, bare skin. She'd felt certain her fingernails were creating tracks up and down his back and his bottom—she'd always lusted over the man's ass, among other of his assets—but she hadn't been able to bring herself to care enough to do anything different.
"Gilll. . . . Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . Oh, fuck, Gil . . . Fuck, yes . . . yes . . . yes, baby . . . Oh, fuck, yes, baby . . . Yes . . . yes . . . ohhh, yesssss. . . ."
That second time, Sara had given in even further to the frenzy of the moment. Having embraced the freedom of their location, she'd called out even more forcefully her shattering pleasure as she'd flexed around him, and that time her calls had been answered by his own.
So Sara had realized very quickly the gratification to be had from a life led at sea, but she'd been somewhat slower to recognize the fulfillment that might come right at her own front door. Yet here she was.
"Soon, right, Sara . . . ?" Sara . . .
"Hmmm?" Between the sensations he was creating with his hands, her knowledge of their proximity to the street, and her reveries of a life at sea, Sara was having some trouble concentrating on what the man who had once again embraced her was saying.
"Soon?" Sara . . .
"Aaaah, uh . . . what's that?" she managed to gasp out as she felt herself approaching climax.
"We're going to be married again soon, right, darlin' . . . ?" I love you so much, Sara. . . .
"Yeah," she mumbled as finally she gripped his fingers, trying her best not to cry out her satisfaction into the still nighttime desert air.
"Sara?"
"Yeah, baby . . ." Sara closed her eyes and slumped back as well as she could into Grissom's embrace. "Soon."
UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FALL 2015. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. NOT EVERY WEDDING NEEDS A REHEARSAL DINNER, BUT THIS ONE DOES.
SOUNDTRACK LISTING
Neil Young. "Such a Woman."
Leonard Cohen. "Bird on the Wire."
Frank Sinatra. "Night and Day."
Billie Holiday. "Night and Day."
(You can listen to the songs in my playlist for this series, which can be found by searching my username on Spotify.)
A/N:
Cover art is available on Tumblr/AO3.
The next chapter of this story is about the day before the wedding. After that I've got a few wedding chapters (which I have tried to keep both romantic and consistent with our characters being a pretty low-key but obsessed with each other couple of lovely science nerds). Then there are a couple of post-wedding chapters, and after that this story will finally be done! There are still a few short stories to follow this one, though: a couple holiday-linked stories, an epilogue, and a "post-credits" scene. And I'll probably have to speed my posting rate back up a little bit, so I can get to the holiday stories by the holidays. (I really don't want this thing to take up another loop around the sun!) đź’›
But I also thought before I get these two finally married off it would be fun to revisit their first night together—that is, San Francisco, February 1998—which isn't a task I really felt up to the first time around. I've written a 14k one-shot to accomplish that (not part of this series but canon for this series). It's intended to be true to the characters but also just a bit of a fun romp. So if I am feeling brave that is what I will post next, in September; if not, I will just proceed straight to the day before the wedding! 💕
Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you are having a happy August, and that you will have fun with whatever comes next. Thank you so, so very much for reading. And, as always, if you are still here following along, I would truly love to hear from you, even if it's just an emoji or two (otherwise posting a longish multi-chapter story starts to feel a bit like screaming into the void!). Your kind comments always, always, always make my day. đź’›
P.s. Have I told you lately how much I love them? đź’–