CSI 1. Chapter 1

This was written as a response to geekfiction's 'I Love the 80's' ficathon. I decided to turn it into a series. A few notes before you read, however. This is in present tense and thus a challenge for me. I was hoping that this would make me think more critically about my writing, so there are likely to be errors in tense. Feel free to point these out to me if you come across them. It would be helpful.

On another note, I'm clearly depressed about the departure of one of my all-time favorite characters, so we'll see how long my morale remains on the up-and-up.

Peace out, Sidle.

* * *

It's getting out of hand; the man isn't paying attention, at all. Scratching a note as though he's still in elementary school and sliding it across his desk to the woman next to him. When the woman rolls her eyes, elbow "accidentally" pushing it off of the desk, Grissom almost laughs, but pulls the emotion deep down into his stomach, instead announcing to the class a talk by a prominent chemist at San Francisco University next week.

The young man reaches over and touches the woman, Miss Sidle, Grissom thinks he knows her name from her papers, but she shrugs the man off, smiles facetiously and pulls her notebook a little closer towards her.

The class ends with Professor Grissom suggesting they pick up 'Crime Scene Methods of Forensic Detection, Second Edition', like always. The class files out languidly, their shoes scuffing on university grade linoleum, leaving the lonely instructor to gather his things in silence.

But it's not silence; vague whispering emerges from the back of the room, causing him to look up from the catastrophe of words spilled all over the pages in front of him. "No, no, really, thank, but no, you know?" her voice is stretched, strained and angry and she looks up at the man-Tony? Tom?, something with a T, Grissom thinks-and rolls her eyes again, shoving two thick notebooks into her ratty bag.

Ms. Sidle tosses her hair over her shoulder and slings the bag on it, getting up, preparing to leave, but the man with the T-name grabs her again and she swings around like she's going to backhand him.

Her name is Sara Sidle, Sara A. Sidle, he remembers now and though he doesn't want to, he smiles wryly up at the pair. "Miss, Miss Sidle is it?"

Her head snaps around, and she looks at him, eyes wide and he can't tell if they're pleading or surprised. "Ye-uh, yeah?"

Grissom swallows and angles his chin up, attempting to appear as a figure of authority. "Can I speak with you please, for a moment?"

T-name says, "I'll wait for you," and slides into a desk and crosses his legs, like he belongs, as she begins a slow saunter down the stairs.

"Actually," Grissom says, "I'd like the room, please."

He doesn't see, but rather hears T-name slink away, his departure finalizes by the auditorium doors quietly snicking shut.

Visibly, the woman, who is now before him, relaxes and smiles a little as she shifts uncomfortably. "My um, my paper? Was it my last paper because, well..."

The smile he manages is as genuine as he's ever felt; nervous and stumbling about her words, she must have never had a bad grade on a paper in her life. He could have a million filthy thoughts about her right then and there, with her biting her lip and staring at him, but he won't because she's not his type, not at all.

The large sweater she's wearing slides off of her shoulder and she cringes like she knows she shouldn't be wearing it because it's a decade out of style, like she's now made herself entirely too conspicuous, like she knows he's seen it. "Just... coming to your rescue," he mutters, pretending that he doesn't know that his mouth had gone completely and totally dry. Like he isn't intrigued by the smattering of coffee colored freckles across her shoulder.

What... is going on? He thinks about Linda back at home, at her apartment, writing him an email and he doesn't care. What is... going on?

"I uh, didn't mean to overstep my bounds, and if I did, I'm sorry," he looks up at her over the rims of his glasses. She, in turn, raises a brow and flicks the corner of her lips at him in a strange half-smile.

Sara pushes her long hair over her shoulder, a curl catching on the edge of one of her earrings. "Not at all, I should be thanking you, Doctor Grissom. Tommy, Thomas?-I think that's his name, never cared to ask-he uh, doesn't take rejection well." She licks her lips and he forgets what he's doing, just for a second. Regaining his composure, he smiles an actual smile, full wattage.

Sara matches it; this is... strange. "Or at all," he goes back to rearranging his papers. It's nice, the easy banter, the tiny twitches her lips make, the way she crinkles her nose and sniffles, just a little.

There's a shuffle and it takes her a moment, but she rearranges her bag on her shoulder, shifting her weight to her right leg, standing there like she expects something from him. "That uh, blood spatter pattern analysis was interesting. Recreating it, I mean, I'd be interested to know more about differentiating blood spatter patterns between temperatures." Her thumb begins rubbing against her palm, in between the pointer and middle, the movement creating a low, raspy sound in the still room.

Outside a janitor shuffles by, and they look up to the door. Grissom shrugs and packs the last of his notebooks into his briefcase. "I'm happy to... explain-," the friction increases, thumb rubbing, rubbing, agitated. "Am I keeping you?" It comes out harsher than he intends but she doesn't receive it as such.

"I was, I mean I was gonna have a smoke, you can, you know..." Trailing off, she thrusts her thumb in the direction of the auditorium doors.

Grissom slings the strap of his case over his shoulder and shoves one hand into a pocket, "I don't smoke."

Sara licks her lips again and begins fumbling inside of her bag for her pack. "Doesn't mean you can't join me."

They're outside and it's nippier than it should be, the wind coming off the coast to blow across her face; when her cheeks go pink, he finally realizes how young she must be. Sara doesn't notice him noticing her because she's too busy pulling a hideous knit scarf from her bag, wrapping it around her neck. "I miss winter, you know?"

And then she's smacking the small carton of cigarettes against her palm, wrestling a thin stick out, placing it to her lips. When she retrieves the lighter, hand scratching around inside of her large tote, it takes her a few tries to get the tobacco going, the wind a formidable opponent. "Where are you from," he finds himself asking as she emits a breath of smoke, turning her head away from him, then picking a piece of hair off of her tongue.

Sara licks her lips, takes another puff and leans back against the stone slab behind her. "All over, really, born in Tamales Bay, was in Stockton for a while, next was Fresno, always wanted to wind up in Napa, never did." For a moment, she stares at the glowing end of the cigarette before flicking some ashes off of the end. "But the winter thing, I was in Boston for a while."

Grissom makes sure his briefcase is against the stone and sits across from her, drawing his knees up so that their toes are inches from each other. "For school?" There is no pain in his voice, though there should be, as his back and knees protest at the position.

A chuckle was her answer, followed up by a nod, another drag. "Yeah, I uh, didn't expect that, that chill of the wind, but, it was nice, a nice change."

"New England does have a certain charm," his voice is low and enchanted and he wonders why. He hates smoking, doesn't take to people who smoke, hates addictions. But she's bringing that air into her lungs like she's contemplating every breath and maybe it's different somehow. "New Hampshire in autumn is... is something else."

"Yeah," Sara agrees and crosses one leg over the other, "Didn't get too much time away from school but ah, when I did, I was all over the place. Skiing in Vermont, needed to have lobster in Maine, but yeah, spent a lot, a _lot_ of time studying."

She's smart and smiles a lot, he already knows this. "Where, uh," he's not sure why he finds it difficult to speak, he's chatted with plenty of students, he's just never shot the breeze. "Studying where?"

"Harvard," she says it like it meant nothing, and scratches her cheek, flicking the stub of her cigarette off to her left. "But that's enough about that," comes her voice, tinged with finality. "What about you? If you'd care to share," her hands wrap up in her lap, as though she's settling in for a long story.

There's a blush on his cheeks, he's sure; Grissom doesn't like talking about himself, wonders where she has the nerve to make the conversation so personal. Then again, he'd been the one to inquire about her to begin with. "Sharing is caring, after all," comes her sarcastic quip and she looks off to her right, at the parking lot. "Better yet, come with me," precocious and acting on instinct, she's a breath of fresh air, he thinks, the wind picks up again, blowing frantic curls into her face. "Let's get something to eat, I'm starving. Only had coffee all day."

Her short boots click against the granite as she hops down, picking up her bag from the ground; she looks at him expectantly. It's time for him to put a halt to all of this frivolity. "Fraternizing with a student wouldn't look too good for me, would it?" He almost winks to soften the blow, but doesn't.

For a split-second, a fraction of a moment, she looks taken aback, but she recovers flawlessly. "Fraternizing? I promise we'll both keep our pants on, and I'm a student, or was, so past tense, I'm here on continuing ed with the San Francisco lab." Grissom blinks at her. Colleague then perhaps? "Let's go. I want Thai and I want to talk."

Headstrong, that's what she is, and he's stunned that when she walks away from him without another word, stunned that he follows behind her. Soon they're side by side and she's rubbing her fingers again and he wonders how long she's been a smoker.

"How long have you been a smoker?" he asks, managing to keep his tone level.

Sara chuckles; it's an odd, offbeat sound, too deep to sound normal, but intriguing. "That obvious? Damn..." Sara smiles over at him and he swears she's closer to him than she was before. "Trying to cut back." Then, she grants him a stunning grin, "They can _kill_ you, you know?"

"Is that so?" he plays along and wants to _not_ be enamored with the fact that her mouth is so perfect, even with the generous gap between her front teeth. Linda, Linda would surely email him that evening. About something important, something important, she had told him when he'd hastily cut their conversation short in the early hours of the evening previous.

Sara nods and turns down a side street. "True fact."

They eat with relative ease, though she manages to get peanut sauce on her jeans and swears something fierce as she attempts to scrub it out with a napkin. And she pays, and suggests ice cream and as he watches her take her first lick of the soft serve, he forgets that there's an email in his inbox that he needs to read.

So when he gets back to his hotel room that evening, he's almost shocked at what he finds.

_You can't seem to speak to me over the phone, so apparently it has to be like this. I can't do this anymore, Gil. I'm always at work or you're always at work, and we never see each other. We both knew this wouldn't last._

_But you're amazing, don't forget that._

_I'll see you in Chicago in April for the COSA conference._

_Be well._

_Linda._

Grissom sits back in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his neck; if someone were to ask him, he wouldn't say he was heartbroken. No, not at all.

The next time he sees her, she's in line in front of him, waiting to get a coffee. Her hair is done up, with pieces falling out of the elastic and he watches her swipe at her eyes a few times before he makes his presence known.

"Long night?" It's only 9 a.m., so she could just be tired, but he needs a way to break the ice.

She spins around and nearly falls into him, her bag swinging dangerously below his belt. "Oh, jeez, sorry, no I uh, I just don't sleep... sometimes," Sara turns back around, once again facing the counter and he almost misses her, "a lot."

She's quick to order her latte and he steps up beside her, orders his own coffee and pays the cashier for the both of them.

When she grabs her cup and sips from it, he forgets to take his change and forgets how easily he let Linda go. "Thank you," she sighs to him, into the cup. "I was going to read for class today but, well, clearly, you're here now and..."

"And," he questions, wondering where she could possibly be going with this.

"It'd be rude to ignore the person who bought me coffee," there's a shy grin on her face and she moves out of line and looks over her shoulder at him, demanding he follow. And of course he does, holding the steaming cup in front of him as he meanders through the morning crowd towards the back of the establishment.

There is a small table with two large chairs and they manage to sink into them without spilling their beverages all over themselves. For the first time in a long while, he's not sure what to do with himself and he settles back in the large chair, not trying to fight the lack of posture it demands.

From her bag, she retrieves a large wad of newspaper and reaches across the table; blindly handing it to him as she also manages to pull out the book he'd recommended last class. "Okay. I lied, I'm going to be rude for a minute; I want to finish this chapter. Knock yourself out with my crossword." He glances down at the paper. A few words have already been written down.

In pen.

And she's confident, that's good to know. "Unless you have an aversion to words," Sara mentions, but she's already got a highlighter out and is reading the book. She really won't hear anything he has to say.

Grissom can't help but feel his heart lurch and his mouth turn up; she's well... adorable. It's, again, yes, he finds her refreshing. Refreshing. That's what he'll call it.

Sure.

Reaching forward, he takes a sip of his coffee and allows it to slide down his throat while he reads thirty-two down. He's on fifteen across when she sits forward and grabs her coffee, ignoring him completely in favor of the words in her book. He looks at her now, noticing her spandex leggings and Harvard sweatshirt. He realizes that she's done something, _something_ with her hair. It's... shiny, and seems coiffed.

Is she trying to impress him? Has she chosen to... no, that's an absurd thought and he banishes it, immediately penning in his response to the easy crossword clue. Sara switches her legs, crosses them the other way and leans back in the chair, brow furrowing as she lays down a neon green streak on the page.

He's only slightly taken with her when she goes to dog-ear a page, thinks better of it, and leans forward to rip off a piece of the newspaper, placing it between two previous pages. "Sorry," she mumbles, smiles, highlights one more thing and then closes the book. "That was just... how's your coffee, and how's the, the crossword."

He knows the coffee is too hot as he watches her gulp it; Sara's nervous, and he can't figure out why.

Then again, he can't figure out why _he's_ beginning to feel nervous. "They're both... good?" There's a question in his voice and it makes her laugh. Her voice is so low, the tone, the pitch, the pace. He's never heard anything like it before. And he's fairly certain that he'd like to hear more of it-much more of it-in the future.

Sara's eyes tease him and she moves her body so that she can see over the edge of the paper; he imagines them sitting in bed, on a Sunday morning, doing the same thing. Shaking himself to the present, he places the thin paper on the table for her to look at. "I'm impressed," rushes from her lips as she assesses his work, and she falls back into the chair, pulling her legs up underneath her.

And then comes a question he's expecting, but one that he _isn't_ _really_ expecting. "How long are you in town?" Sara's fingers sift through her hair and push it out of her eyes.

Pieces stick up; he finds it endearing.

He doesn't tell her.

"Why?" is the first word out of his mouth and he immediately regrets it; accusatory.

God, she dips a finger into what little whipped cream that's left in her cup and licks it off. "Why not? I, just, yesterday was nice, I mean, we shared a meal, I managed not to become bored and it seemed like you enjoyed yourself." There's a beat and Sara finally makes eye contact with him again. "Or you're a great actor."

"I did enjoy myself," Grissom agreed and stared her down, unsure of what else to say. What _would_ one say in such a situation? What did one feel in such a situation? Limbo, that's where he felt he was, the loss of his girlfriend with no emotion involved, finding himself thinking about the young woman in front of him far too much in the past day and a half.

Day... and a half.

Odd, it feels like longer.

"Good," she says and hides behind the rim of her mug. "Now finish that puzzle, wouldn't want to be late for class."

He does as told, but leaves the last few boxes for her to fill in. K-I-S-M-E-T.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to Maike for the beta. Let's see if this gets finished by the year's end, shall we?_

* * *

They have a system, almost.

Sara doesn't come into class until the very last second (she won't be late, oh no), and when she does, she jogs down the stairs, all of them, to the very first row. And every time T-name guy tries to get up and move down to sit beside her, Grissom begins his lecture.

It seems that T-name has more dignity than to be the one that disrupts the class.

So Sara is the only one in the front row and the T-guy is in the back and Grissom finds himself smiling down at her, frequently. She doesn't ask questions outright, she's very reserved, but Sara does take endless notes in her spiral bound and gazes up at him with greedy eyes, hoping for more information.

In between words, he finds himself idly wondering, if he were to categorize the color of her eyes, what adjectives he would choose; Grissom has always had a poetic soul, but he can't seem to come upon the words he needs to describe those eyes.

Or the color that her cheeks turn when he winks at her after a particularly challenging litany of facts.

Or anything about her; he can't find the words.

He tells himself that he's "saving" her when, after every meeting, he calls her to the front of the auditorium, always waiting for T-name to take his leave. After the first time, she thanked him by taking him for coffee and allowing him, again, free reign over her crossword puzzle. Three weeks of coffees, walks through anonymous parks, clipped visits to tiny museums.

Now, however, today, he plans on presenting her with the option of dinner, his treat. He hasn't been out in the city much and it would be a chance for him to... to something. He needs to come up with some sort of accompanying explanation for asking her to dinner.

It's completely different in the light of day, he thinks, doing various things with her. Nighttime translates as date time for him, for some reason. And dating her would be... very exciting, but wrong, again, for reasons he can't really define. Maybe because he would only be in the area for another month and processing his feelings for her would be dangerous and cumbersome and might lead to something he's not sure he's really ready for.

Or... something he is ready for.

He doesn't want to think about it. But he does ask her to dinner and she doesn't wait for him to explain himself before she says yes. "Does this mean I have to put on nice shoes?" she asks him and he smiles at her, confused. But she just smiles back and looks down at her feet which are, he discovers, adorned in bright red Converse sneakers.

Grissom licks his lips and considers, for the thousandth time, how young she makes him feel; not that he's old, but she's young and delightful and wearing, of all things, red sneakers. "I'm sure they wouldn't toss you if you wore," he nods towards her choice in footwear, "those, but nice shoes might be... a change."



"A change?" she questions, fidgeting with her thumb again. "For the better?"

Grissom smiles. It's been weeks, and he can't help but want to see how she presents herself in a different setting, "Just something different," but he's blushing and trying to hide it and she sees it and it's all shot to shit.

"Shoe fetish?" she whispers in jest, reaching out to shove his arm. Grissom nearly stumbles, but steadies and glances up at her with dark eyes.

His response is easy and smooth, "You have no idea."

Their eyes meet and for a brief moment there is nothing. And then they both break out into easy laughter; Sara pulls out her cigarettes and motions to the door and he follows her and decides to give up his daily lectures as to why she really should quit.

He swears she's lit up before they even get outside, she's moving so fast. There's something about her demeanor that draws him closer and so Grissom gravitates, placing a hand on her lower back. That makes her jump and he immediately makes to take his palm away but she glances up at him and the glimmer, the depth there, holds his hand. "What's wrong?"

Sara puffs recklessly at her cigarette and smiles around the butt. "I just, this is kind of nerve wracking and... and...-"

"You, don't, I mean, we don't have to-"

"I'm nervous because I want dinner to lead to something else and I'm not sure you want... that," again, she sucks a lungful of smoke and holds it for a few seconds before spitting it into the atmosphere with disdain.

Grissom is, well, stunned as he keeps pace beside her, his briefcase swinging easily at his side. That was unexpected, he thinks but controls his reaction, swallows heavily and slides a hand into his pocket. "Sara, I..."

"Yeah, spare me the embarrassing lecture," and the cigarette is tossed to the ground and snuffed out by the clunk of a heavy boot. "Hey, listen, I'd really like to go to dinner with you." The smile she smiles is genuine, though her cheeks are still tinged pink from her admission. "I'd really like to try something... different." Sara attempts to mimic the cryptic voice he had used earlier but falls short.

His spirits lifted a bit, Grissom walks a few paces in front of her. "Eight o'clock then?" and he hands her a small notepad and a pen from his breast pocket. "Address, so I can pick you up."

With an eye roll, she hastily scribbles the location of her home on the wrinkled paper and shoves the pad back at him. "Eight's good, and I promise, I'll wear appropriate footwear."

The only thing he can think to do is wink at her in response, and he turns away before he can see how weak in the knees it has rendered her.

She goes through the normal rigmarole that all women do when trying to get ready. Sara showers with care, shaving (just in case) her legs, her bikini line. For a fleeting second she thinks she's jinxing herself, but still, she chooses the nicest undergarments she owns; and like a normal woman, a nervous, expectant woman, she frets with what to wear.

First it's a pants suit, but she looks too businesslike, as though she's going to an interview. Then it's a skirt and top, but she looks too young in the mirror and she hates that. Finally, she settles on something like a sundress, light yellow and she's surprised to see how it brings out the light tan of her skin, the freckles that suddenly look much more pronounced. For a moment her cleavage holds her attention-it's much more pronounced than usual-but she fights the urge to change into something more conservative.

There's a fine dusting of bronze blush on her cheeks and a quick slide of lipstick over her lips, but that's it. Finishing her routine with the only perfume she has ever owned-a light, breezy scent that's barely there-she takes one last look at herself and decides she's done with the looking glass for the evening.

When she moves to her kitchen to wait out the clock, a bottle of vodka next to the sink catches her attention and she takes a quick shot, calming her nerves, loosening her frame... she just hopes it doesn't loosen her lips too much. Constantly pulling down her dress, thinking about how knobby her knees look, wondering where they're going, she paces and paces and paces and when there's a knock at the door, her whole body jumps and she nearly runs to answer it.

After counting to fifteen and blotting her lips a few times, she opens the door.

And he's holding daisies and looking incredibly out of place; she loves it. She may love him too, somewhere in the future, but she doesn't think about that, Sara just invites him in. There's an offer of a drink and a polite refusal and then a few seconds of standing and looking everywhere but at each other.

Finally, she breaks the tension and Sara knows he's glad for it because his eyes pick up that secret sparkle. "Listen, let's not do this, okay? How about, we've known each other for years and we're old friends and we're going out to dinner for old time's sake? Okay? No... none of these..."

She wants to say "first date jitters" but she doesn't want to call it a date, so she just says, "Dinner with candlelight jitters."

Grissom smiles at her, it's lovely, and she smiles back.

"Besides, if there are candles, we can just blow them out," he says and shuffles over to the door, watching her scramble out of his peripherals, grabbing a bag that doesn't match and a coat that almost works. Glad to see that she can't transform into someone else that easily (because he can't either, not on his life), he takes her hand easily as they walk out into the night, trailing slowly to his car.

"You look... different," he tells her, carefully avoiding looking over at her side of the car.



There's a little chuckle from her, but she's looking out the window when he turns to catch her laughing. "Yes, well, someone told me that different can be good, sometimes." She makes it sound like it's an inside joke, like they've known each other for years, and it makes him giddy and uneasy.

She orders an appetizer and the wine, and doesn't give Grissom a chance to ask her about it because the nerves she hoped wouldn't be a problem get the best of her and she's going on and on about this and that and after three minutes about the weather he stops her, hand on top of hers and with a wide-eyed look, pours her another glass of wine.

They chat, they laugh, and her cheeks get pinker with every sip of wine she takes.

It strikes him, halfway through the meal that there is candlelight, and neither one of them comment on it. But he does take note of just how pretty she looks, skin glowing and he thinks that maybe she'd taste like warm caramel, because that's what she looks like. Warm and welcome.

The way she twirls her spaghetti against the spoon mesmerizes him for just the slightest of seconds; he's floored. It's so normal, what they're doing, sitting together and eating and talking and being normal and he doesn't feel the slightest bit pressured to do anything further than he already has.

And so he relaxes, and she relaxes and on her third glass of wine, Sara is giggling into the back of her hand, head tilted back and he's laughing too. "I can't believe you said that," she claims, reaching across to slap him lightly on the back of his hand.

"Yeah," he trails off, chuckling into his wine, "I can't either."

They're nearly breathless and a tenderly awkward silence filters in around them, the sort of quiet that only comes after good laughter. She breathes into her glass and he looks away at the other patrons at the restaurant. When he turns back, she's staring at him with a gentle upturn of her lips. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm just... enjoying myself." Sara says, smiling a little more as her body jostles from the way she's swinging her crossed leg. "And I don't get to go out to dinner with... handsome, intelligent, amusing men... very often, so... thanks."

Leaning back in his chair, he regards her carefully. Awkward and flirty and pretty, she's alluring and smart and a lot of other things and that sobers him up quite a bit. "You're very welcome, I had a nice evening as well."

Her lips pull in to an amused purse. "Good."

"Good," he returns; the waiter arrives and asks if they want dessert but he doesn't think he can handle watching her lick chocolate/whipped cream/frosting off of anything, so, taking a quick glance at her, he declines.

When they walk outside, the air is just on the cusp of crisp and she shivers, but only a little; Grissom feigns ignorance.



Ambling once again to the car, they fall into easy conversation. As they round the corner on the street, she grabs his hand and squeezes it but releases it just as quickly as she had done it.

"It's okay," he says, off-handedly, "If you want to light up."

Scuffing her shoe on the pavement, she pulls her purse tighter on her shoulder. "Nah, trying to uh, cut down."

His stomach turns at her statement; it's been days, mere weeks and she's changing. Could it be for him? He doesn't know, never knew it was so easy to change a person... if she is changing for him. Grissom is confused and bewitched and a whole lot more but he needs to keep his mind on track, get her home, to bed, so he can get home and think all of this out.

The car ride is quiet, as they both digest the excellent meal, as she allows the alcohol to slowly slip its way to her head. Sara hums out of tune and he listens, both amused and annoyed, but mostly amused. He turns left, he turns right and they drive for twenty minutes before the car rolls up in front of Sara's building. "Well," she begins but it cut short when he pops his door.

Sara gives him a confused look. "I'm walking you to your door," he explains, flabbergasted that she doesn't understand that sort of behavior.

Sara's cheeks flush, "Oh." And so she gets out too and they walk up to the front door to the building. "Thank you, for dinner and for listening to me." Sara stops talking and looks at her shoes. "And for laughing with me."

"It was my pleasure," he musters as she fumbles around her bag for her keys. "Believe me."

She looks at him, and he looks at her and it's as simple as that. No need to think, no need to process. Just a look, and he forgets why none of this should be happening.

"I'd like to kiss you," comes his urgent whisper; his breath ruffles her hair. "But that might lead to something else, might lead to something else and so forth..."

Sara blushes, "But that's okay." It's innocent and aloof and just what he is looking for.

"Alright."


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to Karen, who is fantastic and always comes through in a clutch. You're amazing.

* * *

His kiss is nothing short of nowhere near what she is expecting. Grissom hovers over her lips for a moment and her eyelids slide down, and she feels like she's falling asleep; it's almost bliss. Then he touches his mouth to hers and her purse slides down her shoulder as her arms come up and wrap around his neck.

And it's bliss and beyond because she hasn't kissed anyone in months and never, ever like this. He takes his time, slowly pressing into her until she sighs and after his brief chuckle, with one hand flat against the door behind her and the other on her hip, Grissom slides his tongue against hers.

There's nothing to do but smile against his mouth-which makes the kissing sloppier, but Sara's a tad giddy, so that doesn't matter much-and kiss him back with matching fervor.

Long minutes are spent against the weak wood of her door, both of them working up a sweat. When she touches his cheek and feels the moisture running from his temples, she thinks that perhaps they should take it inside. "Gil, I, uh..."

Pulling back cautiously, he glances at her and they take in each others' rumpled, flushed appearances. "My keys," she manages as she blushes, averts her eyes, a little embarrassed for reasons she can't quite place. Grissom takes two steps back and leans against the opposite wall of the hallway and is watching her with relaxed grace.

Sara fumbles through her purse until her fingers slip around the cool edges of her keychain and she takes one last look at him before unlocking the door. She takes two steps into the apartment and his hands are on her hips, warm, thumbs brushing over the thin material of her dress and suddenly she wishes she had opted for the skirt/shirt option.

Dresses are one fell swoop and off, and take away from some of the pacing and anticipation of undressing someone that you really want naked. But she can't think any more about that because he's reaching up and brushing the hair off of the back of her neck, stilling a moment before he bends to press a kiss at the base of her neck.

A shiver runs down Sara's spine and her hands take on a life of their own, meandering back to lay over his. This is... erotic.

It's erotic and sensual, and while she has been seduced before, while she's been in plenty of situations like this Sara's never been quite as sure as she is in this moment. Her head falls forward, fingers pressing into his hands, giving him permission and he takes it almost immediately. His lips-warm and just a touch chapped-fall as near to her shoulder as he can get without running into her dress. Repeating the same pressure on the other side, Sara moans, just a little, shuffling forward until she's behind her sofa and abandons his hands in order to hold on to the couch.

"Sara," he breathes, hot breath tickling the tiny hairs at her nape, "We don't have to do this, I mean to say... I'm not beyond the point of..."

She stills in his grasp, takes a few breaths and turns, her nose mere inches from his. "You don't want this to happen?"

Grissom blinks a few times, bewildered at this odd turn. "Of course I do, I was just-"

She cuts him off with a long, deep, languid kiss and pulls away for a moment. "Good, then shush."

By the widening of his eyes, she can tell that he's never been shushed by a woman, and this amuses her. It amuses her, that is, until he advances and retaliates with a kiss of his own, hiking her up until she's seated on the back of the sofa, his hips nestled in the vee of her thighs. She must be clairvoyant, she thinks, as the material of his pants slip against the satin of slip and her panties (the former nude, the latter espresso). She thanks the "higher" powers that she'd worn something, well, sexy.

His face is between her hands, and she is kissing and humming against him, rendering him rather weak in the knees and everywhere else. His hands are shaking as they attempt to move down her thighs, but they still midway as he gets wrapped up in the wonderful things that her mouth is doing.

But Sara gets fed up with that, with the feeling of his hands, heavy and sweaty, doing nothing, so she reaches down with one hand and pulls up her dress, his palm landing against her thigh. "It's okay," she whispers and moves from his lips to his neck to nip at the rough skin there.

He smells wonderful, subtle cologne and heat, and she licks a path to his ear where she pauses to tease, waiting for him to make his move on her.

When he does, it's exactly what she wants, his thumbs smoothing along her inner thighs in sync with one another. Sara sucks in a shaky breath, right by his ear and when he hears it, he groans, palms pressing tighter on her flesh. "Bah, bedroom," she pleads and it takes him a moment to process her words. He pulls back, but not before leaving one last kiss on the side of her neck.

Sara smiles at him, warm and reassuring and hops down from his touch and looks at him, really looks at him for a long moment before silently turning and walking into the darkness in front of her. It takes him a beat or two, but he falls in step behind her, following her into her bedroom.

She can't decide whether she wants to take off her dress or wants him to take the lead. When she turns to him, to say... something, she doesn't have to decide, because his hands trail over her hips and move to the hem of her dress. For a moment, their gaze holds and when she smiles just a bit, he smiles back and lifts the thin material over her head, along with her delicate slip.

It's surprising, how comfortable she is, standing there in her underwear in front of a fully clothed man. And the way he's looking at her, with a combination of awe and lust doesn't make her feel uncomfortable either; she likes it, really likes how he makes her feel.

"I..." he begins.

"Yes?" she questions, but he sweeps her up-quite literally, his arms lift her against his chest-and kisses her; she squeals, giggles into his mouth but manages to kiss him back, manages to keep up.

There's grace in the way he moves, carries her down the hallway to her bedroom, but there's absolutely nothing gentle about the way he deposits her, dropping her onto the bed; he laughs as she bounces a few times, can't help but glance at her breasts as they move along with the rest of her. His gaze holds hers as his smile dims into something more feral and he climbs onto the bed, shuffling towards her on his knees.

It's barely a moment before his hand is cupping her head and he is kissing her, moving his mouth over hers adamantly, demanding the same back. She is laid upon the bed by his arms as he spreads himself over her, nestles Sara's body into his and tones down the movement of his mouth, exploring her leisurely once more. Cheek, ear, neck, throat, collarbone, and when he sweeps his tongue over the swell of a breast, she arches into him and moans.

At that, he pulls back to look at her, all flushed and freckled and without a word, Grissom is on his feet, methodically working himself out of his clothes. She doesn't like that they have to pause in their exploration of one another, too worried that he'll start to rationalize what they're doing. But to her surprise, he only toes off his shoes and manages to get out of his socks, slacks and shirt in little time.

When he clamors back onto the bed, he is clad in a tight-fitting pair of boxer shorts and Sara can't help but admire his ass as he once again covers her body with his.

There are sweet caresses, his hand over her stomach, hers down his back, and it's becoming all too much for her to keep her eyes open. The delightful pressure of him on top of her, the hushed moans he emits, the way he keeps looking at her, like he knows where everything is going, how everything should be.

Maybe it's that, that security about him that makes her trust him to begin with, but she can't think about that much, because his hand slips beneath the material of her panties and strokes her there, causing her to choke out a sound that's between a gasp and a sob.

Her own hands are alive, slipping beneath the material of his shorts to palm his ass, pushing the material as far down as she comfortably can in the position that she's in. Before she gets frustrated however, he moves and shucks them off himself, leaving him effectively naked.

Unabashedly, Sara runs her eyes over his body, noticing the beginning of a paunch in his belly, his strong arms. And she wants it all, all of it. She's the sort of woman to take what she wants, and putting that into effect, Sara reaches forward and slides her hand over him; A groan escapes him, something so gratifying that she has to smile, lay down alongside him.

Her lips are dry and she licks them, eyes closed. It's quite something, just feeling him, hearing him, not seeing him. That's why she is surprised when he reaches over and after a brief fumble, manages to unhinge her bra. There are those brazen hands again, testing their weight, skirting around this and that, pinching, holding, rubbing. It only spurs her on and she moves her hand so she can wet it and moves to feel him.

They're moving in tandem, he shifting from her chest back between her legs until her panties cause too much trouble. So he removes them, pulling them down her thighs until he can toss them towards the foot of the bed.

Both naked, Sara closes her eyes, slides her hands up his arms, across his shoulders to cradle his neck. It's a strange feeling; she feels as though she's coming apart at the seams, her body straining for him but not. Sara feels comfortable, wanton, completely ready and more than excited.

There's this sort of sensation that overcomes her, that something amazing is about to happen, that her blood is rushing faster than her heart can handle. It takes all of her willpower not to shake as she throws a hand into the bedside table drawer and seeks out a condom.

'It's all over now,' she thinks as she watches him sheath himself, watches as he strokes himself a few times over the latex.

Nothing is in the air, no electricity, no excitement. It's all deadly calm and it's overwhelming, hearing nothing but his ragged breathing juxtaposing her own short pants. "Here," she whispers and reaches out to take him in hand, feeling jostled as he positions himself over her.

In a few short strokes, he's inside her and though Sara's eyes want to close, they remain open, focused on his as he pushes into her and sets up a tempo.

And then it's seconds and minutes and hours and eons really before she falls over the edge, she thinks that, 'Yes, this is the beginning of something wholly amazing.'


	4. Chapter 4

The one year anniversary of this was four days ago, so I'd figure I'd finish this. I know, it shouldn't take someone this long to finish a four-part, 9,000 words + fic, but... that's the way some things go.

_Thanks_: To everyone who's bother to read anything that I've written over the past however-many years. It's always a thrill to know that someone is enjoying something that you've created and please know that every kind word given is truly appreciated.

This was not beta'd; all mistakes are mine.

* * *

The first thing he becomes conscious of as his eyes squint open is the soreness in his legs and hips; Grissom stretches this way and that way and this way again as the memories of the night previous filter through his mind. The smile on his face can't be contained and it curls up, lazy.

The second thing he notices is that she is still in the bed with him but instead of waking to find her gazing over at him languidly, she's staring. Wide eyed and unmoving, Sara keeps his eyes on the curve of her shoulder before two quick snaps on his part shake her from whatever she was thinking. "You sleep like the dead; it's kind of refreshing."

It's odd, being complemented for one's sleeping abilities. "Oh, I, yes, good morning."

"Morning," she returns, her voice bouncing over the crest of a quick chuckle; she is happy, bubbly, flushed and he takes these as wonderful signs that she too enjoyed the night previous. Her body twists and the sheets twine around her body in such a way that he is reminded for a brilliant moment of the drapery on Grecian statues. It's humbling and gorgeous.

God, he's thinking in poetry.

Sara is moving towards him, her hand pressing against his shoulder and it becomes immediately apparent that she is intent on a kiss. "I haven't brushed my teeth." Hand against his mouth, Grissom shakes his head but she just purses her lips, rolls her eyes and peels the digits away.

"Me either," her voice is rough with slumber; it does not stop her from cracking wise. "We have so much in common."

Her mouth against his is a relief, a relief in many ways. Mostly because he doesn't do this often-fall into bed so quickly-and doesn't know what to say, can't be romantic after a night of such... intensity. So there is contentment in the stroke of his hand against her spine, anticipation in the way he searches through the sheets at her hip for skin. It's wild, really, how she gets his heart rate up so quickly, how easily her body melts to the hard angles and lines of his.

He'd call it a miracle if he believed in them. Grissom isn't fickle and he isn't prone to flights of fancy, but her laugh and her eyes and her intelligence and he thinks he might be falling for someone that he barely knows. Perhaps, he regresses, he's taking this all too seriously and allows her to slide one leg over his hips, brace her hands on his chest and take him.

But then, who wouldn't? The dawn is breaking through the curtains and she is nothing but bright yellow and orange, clawing at his pecs, panting, asking him for more. Grissom can't help but wonder how much more she wants and his brain lingers off, thinking things that he shouldn't be thinking at a time like this.

He gives willingly, probably too willingly.

The semester would be over in four weeks and it is inevitable that he will drag himself back to the desert to bake away and she will remain in California, all vivid and sunny and brilliant. There would be no more for them, nothing more than their quiet dinners and moments like these, spent in her bed. He would have to tell her this but later, much later.

"Come on," she rasps out and stares down at him, her lips parted, tongue peeking out to wet the corner. "Come on."

His hips respond, bucking into her and she cries out, breath hitching as Sara quietly fractures apart above him. It is something to behold, really, and he follows quickly behind her, grabbing her hips hard and pulling her down on him. Their lips meet in a sweaty, slippery kiss and when she pulls off of him to flop over to her side of the bed she says something that surprises him.

"Ohh, I won't be able to walk for a week."

At that he laughs and she laughs and they laugh together. It is such a strangely wonderful feeling that he lets it fill up his chest and wrap around his heart and his head and Grissom falls to sleep for an hour more with her by his side.

Their morning progresses normally from there: shower (alone), breakfast, paper, leaving for the day's labors. There is however, a kiss at the door and it leaves him starry eyed, looking repeatedly at her door as he walks down the hallway and out into the California morning. And they don't talk about what has happened and it stays with him throughout the day.

She doesn't call him that day or the next and that surprisess him too and he wonders if he is simply attracted to her because she's a mystery; she surprises him at every turn and it is exciting and uplifting and he spends more of his afternoons and early evenings pretending that it is simple attraction and not something-else-he-can't-put-his-finger-on that has him reaching for his phone in order to call her.

It isn't until the Thursday before class that she runs into him at the coffee shop again. "Hey!" Sara is bubbly and happy and blowing the steam off of her chai when he sees her again. Oh no, he has no idea what to say so he settles for a "hello" and claims a seat across from her at a small table.

Grissom doesn't wait for an invitation and doesn't think about that fact until he's already seated.

Her eyes meet his over the top of her paper and her smile is in them; he can see her smile through her gaze. "I know, I just figured you were busy and I didn't want to... I don't know, scare you off. I don't know." A tentative sip of tea and her eyes go back to her reading for a moment. "Sorry."

There's nothing to do but smile back and sip his coffee and ponder that fact that in a few weeks he'll be gone and does this matter and should he go through with this and will it hurt her and what is he doing with this woman who's so much younger than him and is it out of control? Is it?

"Gil? You okay?"

He isn't but he says he is, blows the steam off of his own beverage and just watches her read. It's too easy to do this, to fall into this, but he doesn't want to stop, and so he doesn't. It all feels a little out of control and he likes that, likes that a little and honestly likes her a lot but it has to end somewhere.

They walk to class together and just in the middle of a discussion of a recent visit by the Poet Laureate, she spins him around a corner and grabs him by the biceps and kisses him wild. Completely inappropriate to be doing in public, but she is unhinged a little, so he unhinges a little too and forgets where they are a little and just _feels_ her.

It goes on like this forever, it seems; they have dinner, they have coffee, they have sex and they sleep together and more than once he reaches for her hand when they're strolling together.

It feels normal.

It won't last.

It can't.

How could it?

So they continue on, she pretending not to count down the days until he leaves, and he trying to persuade himself that this is nothing more than a one-time thing, a chance meeting, nothing more. It's strange, this isn't something that he's experienced before and thus he has no idea how to make it go away. He isn't sure he can handle it if this lingers with him.

When he is taking his leave of her apartment for the last time, there's a lump in his throat that he can't wish away. This is taking such a toll on him that there's a fraction of his being that wishes that this never started.

"I, uh, I'm not going to fly out to Vegas when I miss you." The sad smile on her face mirrors his, he supposes. "I mean, that would be, what? In a day... and I really don't have that kind of money right now." She thinks that her attempt at a joke will hide the crack in her voice, but it doesn't.

So he hugs her.

Grissom's chin rests just above her right ear so he remains quiet when he says, "I'm... the last few weeks have been-"

"Yeah," she agrees on a sigh; she can't stand to hear anything more and he can't stand to say anything more so they remain silent, holding each other, needing to leave but not wanting the moment to end.

So he lingers, and almost believes her lie when she says, "It's probably for the best anyway."

The words coming from her mouth make the moment feel like a very real, tacit end to what they've started but there's a knot of anticipation and longing in his stomach that tells him that this is simply their brilliant beginning.

This the point, years down the road, they will claim that they began.


End file.
