Sobering

Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Category: General/Romance
Archive: FF.net and here. Anywhere else ask first, I might say yes.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. I'm over it now.

Summary: Sara hits rock bottom, but there's only one way to go from there.

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I'm awakened from a wonderfully deep, alcohol-induced sleep by the most obnoxious sound I've ever heard. The alarm. The alarm must die. I lift my head. Wait, oh, on second thought, maybe I'm dead. Oh, Jesus, this is bad. The alarm is still going. In one swift motion, I fling it, ripping it from the outlet, sentencing it to die a horrible death. My eyes slam shut again, while I bask in the silence.

My head is exploding. It has to be literally exploding. I swallow, and immediately regret it, feeling bile and God knows what else inching its way back up. This is bad. My heart starts to pound. I take a deep breath and force my eyes to open. Licking my lips is like licking dirt. Lovely image. Saliva pools in my mouth. I sit up slowly, willing myself to get control of this and not wretch.

I make it to the bathroom, and am blessed with an energetic bout of dry heaves. Damn it. I sit on the floor for I don't know how long, until I realize I must be late for work by now. An interesting thought occurs to me. I officially have a drinking problem. It just interfered with work. I lean my head against the wall and think about that for a while. It's a good that this happened now, at the beginning. This is a wake up call. Step one: admit you have a problem. I have a problem. And the problem is going to be addressed. I am done. What the hell was I thinking, carrying on like this?

I stumble back to bed and grab my phone. I've never called in sick. Never. Once, Grissom sent me home because I had a fever and kept falling asleep on the evidence, but I've never actually called in sick. This will be new for me.

As I dial Grissom's number and it begins to ring, all I can think about is Brass. For some reason I'm so paranoid about him finding out. His new paternal spiel is cute and all, but I'm done. I was depressed, and I was self medicating. But now, I'm done. I don't think I could cope with his Ward Cleaver routine over me missing work because of my drinking. Thank God I can handle this on my own.

Grissom answers on the fourth ring.

"It's Sara," I say, not attempting to hide how awful I feel.

"What's wrong?"

I try to ignore that gentle, concerned lilt in his voice. It means nothing. It just means he'll make some woman really happy one day, talking to her like that.

"I'm not going to be able to come in tonight." Suddenly, I'm wracked with guilt. I'm hung over, and I'm calling in sick. I'm lying to him. I'm lying to Grissom. My heart is pounding, and I want to cry. I cannot believe I let it get this bad.

"What's the matter?" Again, entirely too sweet. Does he realize he's talking to me?

"I've got..." I pause for a moment, both from fear and from a new wave of nausea that is plaguing me at the moment. "... Some kind of flu or something."

"Oh. Okay." Okay. He says okay, but his voice sounds like he's saying, "Aw, sweetheart, I'm sorry." Damn him. Then he hits me with, "You all right? You need anything?"

Water. I'm so damn dehydrated. And a shower. And sleep. And I need to stop drinking myself into oblivion after every shift. I need to not feel so lonely. Anything you'd like to do about that?

"I'll be all right," I reply, smiling through the phone and relaxing a bit. After a beat, I realize that's true. I always am all right. I bounce. I still can't believe I'm calling in sick to work because I'm hung over. Consider me officially bounced. What an idiot. It's amazing how just the thought of alcohol makes me want to vomit right now. I may never drink again.

"You're missing out on good stuff," he says. His tone is lighter now, and I swear I can see him smiling at me. Well, almost smiling. Grissom never really smiles.

"Like what?" I ask, forgetting for a moment that I feel like death. Maybe I could just stay on the phone and chat with him. He seems so friendly. Maybe this is how he likes it. So he can't see my face. Maybe Sara in person is more than he can handle. Is that what the problem is?

"I've got a gang shooting at a residence on Vale Road. Just happened ten minutes ago," he says enticingly, and I can just picture him fingering the paper with the details written on it. "It's got your name written all over it," he adds a second later.

My mind is a mess, and my head doesn't like it one bit. I want to flirt with him and work with him. Why is he talking to me like this? It's like the last year hasn't happened all of a sudden. I think back to that 'I haven't seen you in a while' comment. What the hell was that about anyway? His signals are mixed, and my stomach is jumbled. My head must stop pounding.

"Ugh...I am sick," I mutter, before I realize I'm talking.

"I know you are. I'm just teasing you."

I feel the threat of tears. Why does he have to pick this moment to be sweet and charming-when I'm lying to him? When I've hit rock bottom. Over him.

"Sara?" he says, jolting me back to the conversation.

"Hm?"

"I hope you feel better."

"Thanks."

"I'm going to go work your shooting now."

I smile. I want him to tease me forever. "Bye."

I hang up the phone and collapse back into my bed. I'll ponder his randomness some other time. First on my list of things to do: sleep for at least three more hours. Second on my list: rid my apartment of all alcohol. Third: shower. I smell. If I can smell me, it must be bad.

Hours later, I've accomplished all three things, and I'm starting to function again. I consider going into work, but that would blow my 'mysterious flu' ruse, so I watch television instead. There's nothing on at 4:45a.m., so I'm flipping between the weather channel and the 'so-freaking-early-nobody-ever-watches-it' news.

It was such a brief story. Maybe I imagined it. No, my heart is pounding because it was real. They even showed footage of the house. Brass was in the background. The newscaster said, "A Las Vegas crime scene investigator is in surgery now at Desert Palm Hospital because of injuries he sustained after a suspect returned to the scene of a gang shooting that occurred late last night on Vale Road. The suspect apparently snuck in through a back window of the house, and attacked the CSI while he was working inside. The suspect is in custody. No word yet on the condition of the CSI."

I'm frozen. I'm absolutely frozen. The newscaster is joking with the fucking weatherman about early spring temperatures, and I can't move. I have no idea how long I sit there in shock. My cell phone rings, and I know immediately what it's about. How did they time that just right? I'm shaking as I pick it up.

"Sara, it's Catherine. I know you're home sick, but I wanted to call and let you know what's going on." All business. She's in 'I'm the boss' mode. I hate her when she's like this, but I'm hanging on every word. This can't be happening.

"They weren't deep wounds," she says a few minutes later, and I can't help but want to kill her for being so nonchalant. A stabbing? Grissom? "He's going to be fine," she added.

"Sara? You there?"

"Yeah." That's all she's getting out of me because that's all I can give.

"It's his shoulder. The rest were scratches, really, but the shoulder one was kind of deep. He's in surgery now."

"Oh. Okay." For a moment, I have to remind myself to breathe. Focus, Sara. Shoulder. Surgery. This cannot be happening.

"Anyway, I just wanted to fill you in. I hope you feel better. We won't be able to function with two of you out." She sounds like she's joking, only not.

I'm off the phone with her before I think to ask her what I should do. What should I do? All I manage to do is cry. I cry for a good fifteen minutes before I get pissed off. At myself. How could I have done this to him? I'm really angry now. God, I was wallowing in my own self pity, drinking like a low class slob, and now I've hurt the only person I... I can't even complete the thought. Damn it, I'm a loser. I'm awful. No wonder he didn't want anything to do with me.

I finally decide to do the only thing I know how to do: work. I call Catherine, and she's thrilled that I'm offering to come in. I meet her at the Vale Road scene, where she's been all night. Now it's considered a double crime scene. This is all I can do.

While working, I'm haunted by visions of what he went through. His blood is on the floor of the kitchen. Grissom's blood. My heart is pounding, and I keep wondering if my blood would have looked the same. Maybe there would have been more. Maybe less. Maybe it wouldn't have even happened at all if I were here. Playing 'what if' with fate is giving me a headache, so I end up back at the lab with my evidence. Catherine heads to the hospital because Grissom is out of surgery and now has his own room. She's a good friend. I'm suddenly grateful to her. He needs someone.

She calls me several hours later, and is surprised that I'm still at work. I tell her I'm running with this case, and I'm fine.

"How's Grissom?" I ask, not entirely sure if I want to hear the answer.

"Sore. And whacked out on morphine. Nick and I just left, and Warrick said he was leaving in a few, if you wanted to come by--"

"I... think I'll... give him some time..." I finally spit out, knowing there's no way I could face him. I panic a moment, thinking I'd like to never face him ever again. It's a ludicrous thought. A deeply buried part of me is desperate to see him. But I can't.

I show up for work that night, after hardly any sleep. But I didn't drink. It didn't really enter my mind, and I thank God that I'm not as addicted as I could have been. I make considerable progress on the original case. Grissom's attacker was definitely one of the shooters. His gun was found at the scene, and he was likely going back for it when he encountered Grissom. All I want to do is solve this case. So many hours go by, and by mid-morning, Catherine pulls rank and insists I go home.

I still haven't been to see him. I manage to blow off everyone's offer to take me to the hospital. I know they are getting suspicious. I'm just not ready. I just can't do it. Today, I think about drinking something, just to help me sleep, but then I'm so sickened by the thought that I cry myself to sleep. How did I let this happen?

I'm so grateful for the work. At least I'm making a difference doing that. I'm the first person to arrive for work that night.

Nick comes up behind me while I'm examining glass evidence under a scope.

"You're here early," he says, his voice softer than normal.

"The glass from the window matches the glass found on the suspect's pants. He definitely went through that window."

Nick crinkles his eyebrows, but I ignore him and go back to the scope. Then he says, "You been to see Grissom yet?"

I shuffle papers and avoid eye contact. "No, I... uh, haven't made it over there yet. How's he doing?" I ask, feeling a rush of guilt, and suddenly, I'm nervous.

"I was there a couple hours ago. He's still in a lot of pain, but he'll be all right. He asked about you. He wanted to make sure you got over that flu." There's nothing accusatory in his tone, but I still avoid his eyes incase he suspects something.

I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear that he's asking about me. Why is he thinking about me at all? He should be thinking about himself, recovering, resting. I feel tears brewing inside me, and I have to get out of here. I pack up my evidence a little too hastily, and Nick notices.

"Where ya goin?"

"Nowhere. I'm just, done with this." I can hear my own voice quivering, which means Nick can hear it too. Damn it. I have to get out of here.

"Sara, are you gonna go see him at all?" he asks, and his voice is deeper, like he's pitying me or something.

"I don't know." I shake my head and keep moving. Got to go. Got to go. I will not look at Nick.

"Sara. What's going on with you?" He's not angry or even raising his voice. He's sympathetic, concerned. "You're the only one who hasn't been to see him."

"I know that," I say, closing the file in front of me. I close my eyes for a minute, hoping I'll be able to regroup.

"So what's the problem?" He's moved closer to me, and it makes it really hard not to cry.

"I just can't. You don't understand." Now the tears have filled my eyes, and I'm shaking.

"So explain it to me. I mean, I know you guys have this love/hate, genius mind meld thing going on, but what's the deal? I didn't think you'd let it interfere with something like this. Geez, Sara, the guy could have died."

That did it.

"I know that!" I shout, making no attempt to hide my face. "Don't you think I know that?" I spin around quickly and run right into Brass, who's been standing in the doorway for God knows how long, his face full of concern.

Damn these men. How could I have ever thought no one cared about me? I've been so selfish. I barrel past Brass into the evidence vault.

He's waiting for me when I come out. I knew he would be.

"Let's take a walk," he suggests, though it sounds more like an order. An order from Dad. I don't want to be this person-this person who needs intervention and guidance. How did I get here?

"How ya doin?" he asks, as we step outside the building. He meanders along the brick wall, stopping to lean his back against it.

"I'm fine," I say less than cheerily, and I unconsciously wipe at my right eye.

"You don't look fine." He's studying my face now.

"Oh, shut up. We're short handed around here, in case you haven't noticed. I've been working overtime." I'm trying not to be snippy, but it comes out anyway.

"Sara. I'm not gonna beat around the bush, all right? There are people you can talk to."

I breathe out in frustration. Can't he see that I've moved on to bigger and better problems now? Drinking is over. I almost killed someone I care about. I'm on to guilt, now, pal. Catch up. "Would you give it a rest?" I try to smile, but even I can tell it doesn't look right. "It's not a problem. That problem that you're so convinced I have-it's not a problem anymore, okay? It was a problem, and now, it's not."

The tears are back. Oh, I hate him. Why is he confronting me like this? "I've handled it," I say, but it can barely be heard between my sobs.

"Okay," he says, watching me with a sad, stupid look on his face. Oh, this is awful.

"I just..." Forget it. I'll talk later. I'm going to let it out. Right now. Right here. I couldn't stop it if I tried. I'm blubbering now.

"Sara." He's a typical man. He cares, but he doesn't have a damn clue how to show it. Perhaps acting on some paternalistic instinct, he reaches out to hug me.

"I didn't handle it quite fast enough," I whisper, grateful when he doesn't react. He didn't understand me, and I'm glad. I don't want him knowing about this. He knows too much as it is. I can handle this. Get it together. We hug for several minutes, until I've got it under control again.

I move away from him and take a deep breath, letting it out forcefully. I feel good. As much as I've cried in the past three days, I'm amazed it still feels so cleansing to me. "I'm okay. Can you just believe that? If I ask you, will you just believe me?"

He gives me a suspicious once over and then smirks. "Okay. Done." I wipe my cheeks and try to smile. "Would ya do me a favor?" he asks before I can step away. His voice is too deep-too serious. I meet his eyes and sniffle quietly.

"The two of you are doing a number on yourselves, and it's just not even entertaining anymore. Would you go see him? Please?"

My eyes widen and my heart pounds. How am I supposed to respond to that?

"Ya gotta keep pushing, Sara. He's not like the other boys. Doesn't mean he doesn't feel it."

Oh, Jesus. Like I need this right now, on top of everything. I swallow back more tears and pat him on the shoulder.

"Yeah." It's barely a whisper, but I say it. It's reconciliation, defeat, and acknowledgment all in one. I turn and head back into the building, knowing that when this shift is over, I'll have to do the hardest thing I've ever done.

For a brief moment, I think that maybe I should have a couple beers before I go, but that thought quickly nauseates me. I will get past this. And so will he. It's just time to face it.

When I get off the elevator, I see Catherine at the nurse's station. She must have come right from work too. She seems glad to see me. Well, glad isn't the right word-more like relieved.

"I just saw him," she says before I can even ask how he's doing. "He's tired, but I know he'll want to see you. He's asked me every day if you're all right. I think you really threw him off, calling in that night." She's smiling, but I can't seem to smile back at her.

"Well, he's in 414, that way," she says, pointing to the corridor on the right. I want to grab her hand and drag her in there with me, but I know I have to do this by myself. It's time to be a grown up, Sara.

"See ya tonight," she says, and I watch her walk to the elevator. She's dumping me here. She knows this is hard for me, but she also knows the last thing I want is confrontation. This is what I need. To be left here to my own devices. I begin the walk to room 414. I have to just go, or I'll talk myself out of it.

He looks like he's asleep. It's a double room, but the bed beyond Grissom's is empty and perfectly made. I stand in the doorway for a second, thinking maybe I should just come back later. No, I'm here now. I'm doing it. I take a few steps into the room, trying to be as quiet as possible. I stop at the foot of his bed and reconsider fleeing for a moment. Then, I walk slowly along the left side of the bed.

The closer I get to him, the more I panic. He's so pale. Not 'about to die' pale, just... not like himself. He looks so strange in a hospital gown, although I guess everybody does. I can see a large bandage through his gown over his right shoulder. His head is tilted toward me; his eyes are closed. If it were a different situation, I'd say he looked adorable.

There's a purple bruise on the right side of his forehead. My eyes search out more injuries. There's gauze wrapped around his left forearm, and there's bruising where his IV was inserted. The blanket covers him from the waist down, but I'm wondering if he's hurt anywhere else.

My eyes travel the length of his body, down to his feet, and then they slowly roam back up to his face. I almost gasp when I see him staring back at me.

"Hi," he says, completely expressionless, except for his eyes. He did want to see me. I've missed that look, and I already think I'm going to cry.

"Hi." I can't help it, and I smile one of those 'thank God you're all right' smiles. It's broad, and he reciprocates with a small, closed mouth grin.

I can't seem to find my voice, so I just stare at his bandage-the big one over his shoulder, and shake my head in disbelief. I'm starting to get scared. He's going to expect me to talk eventually.

"It's not that bad," he mutters, barely shaking his head.

I huff out a breath. Not that bad. Right. "So, what's the verdict?" I ask, avoiding his eyes and nodding at his shoulder.

"Ripped deltoid. Rotator cuff was a mess too, but they fixed it. I'll be fine."

"That's so painful," I blurt, grimacing. He looks tired.

"Well, they took away my drip last night, but I still get great pills."

He's joking with me. Why is he joking with me? I'm suddenly distracted by an urge to kiss him. Damn, that hasn't happened in a long time. I clear my throat and say, "Are you going to be able to work?"

"Yeah, eventually. I should go home tomorrow." He shifts a little and winces. Then he stares at me, and for some reason, I'm drawn closer to his bed. "They started physical therapy today." We just stare at each other for a few seconds. He really does seem happy to see me. It's making me feel good and awful at the same time. "At least I get out of paperwork for awhile." One side of his mouth rises, and my stomach flutters.

"You get over that flu?" he asks, and my heart stops. He's staring at me. He's concerned, and I can't possibly look at him for another second. I look down at his left arm, resting on the bed in front of me and begin studying the gauze wrapped around it. I can feel him staring at me, and I can also feel myself getting emotional.

"I'm so sorry. I--" I'm not crying yet; it's just bubbling very close to the surface. "I didn't have the flu, Gris." God, I want to touch his hand so badly, but I don't. I still can't believe this happened. I risk a glance at him, and he's confused, furrowed brow and wrinkled lips staring back at me. I have to do it. All the way. I have to be honest with him. He deserves that. "I had a... a problem."

"What happened?" Now it's both concern and fear I see on his face. I'm coming dangerously close to crossing that line-that 'Sara must remain just an employee' line. He's not sure if he wants to know about my problem. Yet, he does want to know. He does care. I can actually see it now, and it's killing me.

"Don't. Don't act all sweet and concerned, okay, because... you're lying in a hospital bed, and that's more than I'm going to be able to handle right now, okay?" I'm babbling, and he's even more confused. He remains quiet, and I go for it, tears and all.

"I've been sort of... depressed, lately. And I..." I'm back watching the arm now, and my fingers reach out and trail over the bandage as I blubber. "...I wasn't handling it very well, and I..." I sniffle pathetically, trying to get this all out before he interrupts me. "I was drinking." I glance at him, and he's expressionless. Well, not really, there's a hint of pity there. "Often," I clarify. "And it was becoming a problem." I meet his eyes again and now, it's definitely pity. Sad, sad pity. Ugh, I hate that I've put that look on his face.

"And that was the first time it ever interfered with work, and it's not a problem anymore. And I'm not lying to you. It's really not. I haven't had anything to drink since that day. And I'm not going to." The tears are coming in unstoppable waves now. "I knew when I couldn't get to work it was out of control, but I'm just..." I trail off, humiliated beyond belief. I try to breathe, thankful that he hasn't interrupted me.

"I'm just having a little trouble with the fact that..." I look at him, and he has tears in his eyes now, which only makes me cry harder.

He turns his hand over and lifts it slightly. He's reaching for me. "What?" he asks softly, and I think if he were able to, he'd hug me. I can't speak. "Sara?" His eyes stare into mine, and I can't see anything else in the room.

I don't think I can take his hand, but at the last second, I do. He is so warm. I knew he would be warm. "Grissom, you were working my scene. That was my scene." I'm crying through the words.

"No," he whispers, as he realizes what I'm getting at. He closes his eyes and he licks his lips.

"Yes, Grissom, I should have been there, and I--"

"No, Sara." His voice is louder than before. He tightens his grip on my hand and tugs just slightly. It feels like he doesn't want me to leave.

"I should have been at work, but I wasn't because I-I'm a mess, and I'm so sorry." As some kind of a desperate act, I touch his face with my other hand, pulling it away just as quickly.

"So, what, you think I'd feel better if it were you laying here?" He is so serious. He's emotional, and his eyes are dashing around us nervously, yet they keep landing on my face. I've never seen him like this.

I can only stare. I'm so confused.

"Please, don't do this to yourself," he says, his voice perhaps sweeter than I've ever heard. He tugs again on my hand, pulling it closer to his chest, and I step closer to his head. "I'm a mess, too, Sara." We stare at each other for a moment, and it's all gone. All those months we couldn't even look each other in the eye-that's all over. He's here. It's time to face it, and he is. Right now.

"I'm such a mess," he says again, his eyes never leaving mine. "Come here."

I move closer to him, unsure what he wants. There's no place for me to go. "Please. come here," he says again.

"Where?" I whisper, blinking and wondering where I can touch him without hurting him. I lean toward him and feel his warmth. God, he's warm. He turns his face toward me, and I can tell he's having trouble lifting his head. I lean even closer to him and my other hand cradles his face. "I'm so sorry," I say, crying again.

"Stop it. Please stop it," he whispers. My face is hovering over his, and we just look at each other. I'm still touching his face. The hand that was holding mine moves between us, and then I feel it touch my back. I'm just staring into his eyes because I'm certain this is not really happening, but it is. He's holding me, and I'm touching his face. I close the last gap between us and rest my cheek against his in a makeshift hug. I'm suddenly glad I'm at a hospital because surely I'll go into cardiac arrest being this close to him.

I want to lie here all day. I'm more content than I've ever been, and then I feel his facial hair brush against my face. He's moving. He wants me to move. Duh, get off him. I turn my face, but before I can back away, his lips touch my cheek. Once. And then a few seconds later, he does it again, a little closer to my lips. And then I kiss his face. My heart is pounding so hard, and it appears all the oxygen has left the room. I can't breathe.

Just when I remember how badly I want this man, his lips are on mine. I'm frozen. He's kissing me, and I can't move. Then again, he's not really kissing me. We're touching, but no one is initiating movement. He's just as frozen as I am. My God, we're like twelve year olds, and it's almost funny. Okay, it's not funny. I'm looking directly in his eyes when I finally move my lips against his. He's staring back when he moves his so very, very slowly over mine. It's so frightening and tentative and wonderful. He's so warm. The hand that was touching my back has moved to the side of my face. I can feel his fingers in my hair. My head is spinning.

We both seem to remember how to kiss quite nicely, and we do, for several minutes. Only, we're in a hospital, and he's a patient. And he's in pain. This can't go on. I must be hurting him. I stop kissing him, leaving my face very close to his. Breathe, Sara, breathe. "Are you all right?" I whisper, but it comes out so breathy I barely recognize my voice.

He's just staring at me, and I don't understand how he looks this good in a hospital bed. He doesn't appear entirely comfortable with the situation. He blinks a few times and licks his bottom lip, offering me a subtle nod. I back away a few inches and straighten some. His left hand slid down to my back at some point.

"What kind of... pain medicine are you on?" I ask, deadpanning it and topping it with a suspicious look.

He laughs. It's very small and quiet, like a huffed breath, but he laughs. And then he says, "You're not funny," but his eyes are still smiling.

"Are you all right?" he asks a moment later, so seriously that he makes me nervous. He's studying me intently, and he's not just referring to the kiss.

I nod quickly, but I'm already wondering how we will possibly survive. We have to be the two most emotionally dysfunctional people alive. We're a mess. We both said it, and we were right.

I take a deep breath and sigh. He remains quiet, still watching me. I wish he would say something. What are we going to doing now?

"Will you talk to someone?" he says finally, and he sounds so caring I want to kiss him again.

I nod, and slide half my rear end up onto his bed. "Can we let Brass think it was his idea?"

"O-kay." He's confused. "He knew about this?"

My lips wrinkle, and I stare at his chest. Then I shrug. "I guess."

He's thinking. He's worried. I can see he's struggling to say something. I wish it wasn't so hard for him. I focus on his expression, his eyes. That's where it all is. "I knew something was wrong, but I--"

"Don't," I interrupt, reaching for his hand again. I let out a pathetic sigh. "We're never going to get past this, are we?" I try to smile, but my eyes are teary again, so I imagine I look pathetic.

"I hope so." He's looking right at me. He looks scared and happy and tired. I want to sleep with him. Sleep, like fall asleep next to him. I start to smile, just thinking about how warm he'd be next to me. He looks positively panicked. "Sara, I don't... I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to make it--"

"Shh, don't." I wince at his words. I don't want to hear them. I just hold his hand and try to show him that I don't expect him to figure it all out this minute. He seems so worried. I don't want him to worry. "You should get some rest," I say abruptly, but we both know I don't want to leave. I slide off the bed and stand next to him. My fingers are still linked with his. "Just... relax, okay? It'll... be all right." I don't sound very convincing.

"Will you come back later?"

I almost say, 'do you want me to?' but I stop myself. He does want me to, and that's so much more than I ever expected.

I nod and smile. It's big, and he's happy to see it. "Bye," I whisper, still grinning like a dope. Suddenly, I'm a little giddy. Grissom kissed me, and he's looking at me like he wants to do it again.

I lean back over the bed and kiss him softly. I linger a lot longer than I meant to. When I start to pull away, his nose brushes against mine, and I look at him. He teases me for a moment with his mouth, and the sides of his lips are curling up. I think I see the elusive Grissom smile. Then he kisses me again, and I can feel him smiling, which is better than seeing it. God, this is nice. Wait, I was leaving.

"I'm gonna go now." I kiss him one more time.

"Okay," he laughs. It's so quiet, and he kept his mouth closed, but I love it. I'm blushing; I can feel it. He's amused, and I can tell.

"I'll see ya later." I head for the door before I change my mind. I don't look back.

- The End -