The Ayers case made the news as the lead story for several days running, and everyone at the crime lab grew heartily sick of dodging reporters and avoiding phone calls. Grissom was grateful that he and Sara were at the house instead of their respective former residences, but he fretted about the possibility of either of them being followed there. Fortunately none of the reporters were willing to sit on a stakeout in the early pre-dawn hours, so they were left in peace to collapse in exhaustion and catch what sleep they could.

And Grissom worried about Sara. The surgery was two days away, and although she claimed she wasn’t anxious about it, he sensed her restlessness, which she kept channeling in slightly—odd—ways. To wit:

Sara single-handedly took the Christmas tree down swiftly in one afternoon, with new plastic tubs for garlands, ornaments and lights, labeled and inventoried in neat handwritten lists taped to them in meticulous fashion.

The bathroom had never been so clean; Grissom swore he could see his reflection in the toothy smiles of the mermaids, which was disconcerting, particularly when he was standing in there naked taking a morning leak.

All of Doreen’s boxes had been restacked, alphabetically, in the garage, and neatly covered with painter’s drapes. Color-coordinated ones.

Figaro had taken to slinking out of any room Sara was in, and coming to Grissom for extra petting, settling down into his high-pitched motorboat purr as he curled up worriedly in the man’s lap. For the most part Grissom was patient, but things came to a head on the afternoon before Sara’s surgery.

“We don’t need to buy my ring right NOW,” he muttered in a perplexed tone as she tugged on his arm, practically dragging him through the mall. Initially they’d come in for the bookstore and ice water, since Sara was forbidden to eat anything for the next twelve hours, but she’d spotted the tiny corner jewelers and was now dragging him to it. Sara was surprisingly strong when she wanted to be, and Grissom gave in rather than cause a scene.

“Not backing out on me are you? Typical, Grissom—you’ll wait until I’m under and skip out to Corsica or someplace.”

“Sara, in the first place, I’m NOT going to skip out on you, and in the second place, Corsica is boring. If it came down to it, I’d rather go to Cairo and get some field work in with beetles.”

She looked over her shoulder at him in a patient glare, but the little twitch at the corner of her wide mouth sent a pang through Grissom’s chest. The tiniest little quiver there showed him how close her emotions were to the surface, and seeing it, he stopped. Ever so gently he reached out and brushed a stray curl back from her face, letting his puzzled expression ask the question for him. The quiver grew a little stronger.

“I’m fine, really. I just thought since we’re here, and the store’s here, it might be nice to . . . go look. Just . . . because . . .” her husky voice trailed away and she looked off, over his shoulder, working very hard at keeping her expression from falling apart. Behind her, families bustled by, pushing strollers and chattering noisily as they streamed around the two people standing stock-still. Slowly, Grissom smiled at her, feeling pure, powerful longing rise up through his chest and to his throat in a surge so strong it nearly rocked him back.

“I’d love to, Sara,” he relented, sliding her hand into his, trying to warm it against his palm. Tentatively her slender fingers wove around his, clinging for a moment. Grissom tightened his grip and strode forward; leading her in the direction she wanted to go.

It was a small shop, empty of customers, but rich with atmosphere. In sparkling glass cases, various rings and necklaces glittered on green velvet cushions, and the carpet muffled footsteps. Sara looked around for a proprietor while Grissom kept his gaze on her. She absently wriggled her fingers free of his, not seeing his little flinch as he reluctantly let go. A woman sailed over to them, her green eyes sharp behind half-moon lenses, her smile a little stern.

“How may I help the two of you today?”

“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” Sara announced softly. The woman gave a thoughtful nod, her smile warming up a bit more.

“Congratulations,” she offered with a twinkle, taking Sara’s hand and patting it gently. Her touch was cool, and calming; Sara blushed a bit.

“I’m getting a ring for HIM,” she stressed, “My . . . “

“ . . . Fiancé,” Grissom stage-whispered into her ear. The woman behind the counter smiled, looking gravely amused by Sara’s bewilderment.

“Unusual, but not unheard of. I assume YOU proposed, my dear?”

Sara nodded; Grissom gave a pained little sigh. “For the record here, I’m constrained under a prohibitive parental mandate.”

The woman turned her gaze to Grissom and blinked merrily.

“Don’t tell me--your mother objects?” she asked him with a straight face. Sara snickered; Grissom’s mouth twitched.

“Hardly. Of the many things my mother is, subtle is not one of them,” came his arch reply.

This made Sara actually giggle, and the saleswoman’s mood lightened as she joined in.

“Fair enough. My name is Lila Nagatoma and I’d be delighted to help you choose something to memorialize this important step in your lives. This way—“

She led them to an alcove with two upholstered stools and a polished mahogany table and bade them sit. They did, moving close enough to press against each other, seeking and sharing a warmth between them. Sara rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

“Nervous?” she demanded in a low voice. Grissom held her gaze for a moment.

“Yes. I’ve never worn a ring in my life. Not even in high school or college.”

“Really?”

“Really. And by the time I was working in the coroner’s office in L.A. I was scrubbing up or donning latex gloves so often I don’t think I could have been able to. So this will definitely be a first for me.”

“Ah,” Sara nodded. She picked up his hand, squeezing it comfortingly as Mrs. Nagatoma returned with a few grey boxes. She pulled up a rolling stool and sat opposite Grissom and Sara, then drew in a deep breath.

“First a sizing—your hands are fairly large, but not out of proportion, so I’ll say a size nine—“ she slipped the silver loop onto Grissom’s left hand ring finger. It slid easily, and Mrs. Nagatoma frowned. Sara hid her smile.

“Eight and a half?” She whispered to Grissom. He gave her a boyish look in return.

“I know that because played around with the sizers when I was shopping for your ring,” he confessed back in a soft voice. Sara blinked, stunned.

“You—went shopping?”

“Eight and a half then,” Mrs. Nagatoma grumbled, working the silver sizer onto Grissom’s finger. It sat comfortably beyond his knuckle; he flexed his hand and nodded as Sara continued to stare at him.

“Not too loose, not too tight,” he murmured softly. The older woman nodded and took the band off of him and then looked over at Sara.

“Miss?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, eight and a half, right—“ Sara tried to refocus on the conversation. Her smile was dazed, her espresso eyes wide and wondering.

“Most men’s rings are of two designs: bands and mounts. For an engagement ring, man’s or woman’s, a mounted stone is traditional, with the option to join it to a wedding band. Which would you prefer?”

Stymied, Sara glanced at Grissom, who shrugged. Mrs. Nagatoma sighed.

“You two haven’t talked about this much, have you?” came her soft little chide, even as she popped open one of the boxes on the table and pushed it towards them.

“We’ve been . . . busy . . . fighting crime. Ooooohhh—“ Sara responded, picking up the ring and studying it closely. Grissom studied her, glad to see her focus on something other than the upcoming surgery. Sara held the ring up and let the light catch it.

The heavy gold ring had a flat, polished rectangular faceplate with subtle edging around it. Grissom took it from Sara and slipped it on, twisting it over his knuckle with a slight wince.

“Tight—“ came his observation. Mrs. Nagatoma nodded sympathetically and tugged it off again.

“It’s a nice style, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have it in stock higher than an eight at the moment. Here, try this one while I see—“ she pushed another box towards Sara and rose, slipping into the back of the store.

Sara pulled the box open and smiled. This ring was a flat band, deeply engraved with a Greek key design around it; she held it up and shook her head. “Too busy.”

“I thought I get some say in this.”

“You do, babe. You get to agree with me that it’s too busy.”

Grissom said nothing, but his eyes twinkled. He was fighting a warm tremble deep in his stomach as he watched Sara open another box and breathe in deeply.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” he demanded, unable to see what made her blink rapidly. She pulled the ring out of the box and cupped it in her two palms reverently. With a shy, proud look at Grissom, Sara fluttered her eyelashes.

“Give me your hand.”

Warily he did so, not missing the way she kept the ring hidden.

“Close your eyes—“

“Sara—“

“Please.” It was a soft, serious plea and he sighed, shutting his eyes even as he felt the cool slide of gold onto his finger. The ring felt light, but solid, a reassuring sensation.

“May I open them now?” his fingers were resting on hers, and Grissom savored the feel of her hands, strong and graceful as they supported his bigger one.

“Uh huh.”

He looked first at her, and then down.

Elegant. The first impression he got was of elegance. The ring on his finger was a rounded band with a thin channel cut around the center of it; not a deep groove but defined. On the front of the ring, embedded in the channel were three small square-cut diamonds in a row, sparkling in the light of the shop. Grissom drew in a slightly surprised breath and looked up at Sara’s blissful expression.

“It’s perfect, Grissom. Masculine, unpretentious, and strong. Like you.”

He flexed his fingers, getting used to the feel of the band and trying to fight the hot lump in his throat. Odd sensations kept spinning through his chest: love, fear, pride, astonishment and over all of it, an almost overwhelming rightness of the moment. To be here; to wear this; to love Sara; all of it coalesced within him and his fingers gripped hers tightly as it hit.

“For . . . me?” Grissom whispered shakily. Sara smiled.

Her smile was full and sweet, her teeth showing, the depth in her mahogany eyes lovely and unfathomable as she nodded.

“Oh yes, Gil. For you.”

When Mrs. Nagatoma returned, she smiled to herself, holding back a moment in the doorway to let that intriguing couple finish their kiss.

  
***   ***  ***

  
Clem looked to the right, and then the left before venturing into the break room. Her first week on the job had made her a little wary, and it was only after she sat down with her back to one of the walls that she actually managed to relax.

“Hey Clem . . . so . . . whatcha got for lunch?” came a familiar wheedle. She looked up to see Greg hanging off the doorway, staring not at her, but at her Three Stooges lunchbox. She wrapped her fingers around it possessively, shaking her head and making her gold curls fly around her face.

“Ah come on, it’s been three days—“ he flashed a hopeful grin at her. “You’re not still annoyed about the joke, are you?”

Her withering expression indicated that yes, she was. Not everyone’s first round of interoffice mail delivery started with finding a severed human limb sitting on the pile with a note in the fingers that read: Need a hand with this?

Not that she could shriek or scream even if she wanted to, but she did drop the arm off in Grissom’s desk at the end of her route with another note that commented on disrespect for the dead and the need for some people to grow beyond a seventh grade sense of humor. The resulting memos had been brief but scorching; she’d enjoyed delivering those quite a bit.

“I keep telling you it’s over. So what is it tonight? Peanut butter and sweet onion sandwiches? Macaroni, cheese and salsa casserole? Mango steak?” Greg pleaded, pulling the most shameless puppy eyes since Benji hit the big screen. Clem softened.

With an imperious wave of her hand she flicked open the lunch box and pulled out a foil wrapped tub. Greg bounded over and leaned across her shoulder, watching raptly while she unpeeled it as slowly as a stripper toying with a stocking.

“Ooohhhh--anise chicken with egg noodles, “ Greg whimpered. Clem looked up at him and waited. He pursed his mouth, not quite begging but close to it, and with a sigh—

She caved.

She always did, sharing the treats she and her mother made with the one man she knew needed them. Not that Greg’s mother didn’t feed him well, but having a toddler around the house made cooking tough, and Greg’s lunch had been coming out of vending machines for the past couple of months.

“Who made it, you or your mom?”

Clem lifted her chin, indicating herself, and Greg dashed over to the cupboards, pulling a paper plate out eagerly. Catherine and Warrick wandered in, deep in discussion as Clem divvied up the food.

“—Evidence is clear. We’ve got the fact that he checked in, the lipstick stain on his collar and that hug outside Interrogation One,” Catherine enumerated. Warrick shook his head.

“He could have gotten the smear from any number of encounters on New Year's—that party was pretty crowded. Checking in is flat out inconclusive, and as for the hug . . . “ Warrick gave an eloquent shrug. 

Catherine breezed over to the coffeepot and dumped the tepid sludge out without missing a beat.  "Okay, individually those facts wouldn’t hold up in court, but given what we know of the man, and piling them up in the short space of time in which they occurred, I’d have to go with my initial instinct. They did it.”

“Who did whaf?” Greg demanded through a mouthful of noodles. Clem shot a puzzled look at the two CSIs as well. Warrick snorted, reaching over Catherine’s head for the can of coffee in the cupboard.

“Never you mind—and where’s my report on that shooting in the Atlantis?”

“I am on dinner break,” Greg announced after swallowing his mouthful. Catherine grinned, sniffing the air appreciatively.

“And chowing down on someone else’s cooking—Geez that smells good, what is it?”

Clem scribbled on her whiteboard, holding it up as she sipped her Doctor Pepper. Warrick glanced at it as well.

“Niiice. You know you keep feeding Sanders like that and he’s going to follow you home.”

Clem rolled her eyes in mock-horror; Catherine laughed and finished setting up the coffeepot. She crossed her arms and sighed.

“Still, I’m convinced something’s up between those two.”

“What, Sara and Grissom?” Greg sighed, carefully cleaning his plate and eyeing Clem’s longingly. She pulled it out of the reach of his fork.

“Yeah. Nancy Drew here is trying to solve the Mystery of the Cuddling Co-Workers,” Warrick shot an amused look at Catherine, his eyebrows waggling. She pouted, but before she could say another word, Grissom strode in, files in his hands.

“Warrick we just got the warrant for the back offices at the Atlantis, you’re on it. Catherine, Judge Pedrini moved up the Ochoa trial to Tuesday, so you need to be ready; go over the file until you know it forwards and backwards. Greg—what are you eating?”

“Chifkn,” came the muffled reply through a forkful. Clem shot him a dirty look and held her plundered plate up high over her curly hair. Grissom cocked his head as he handed a file to Catherine. Warrick grinned and slipped out the door.

“Is it yours?” came the weary question. Caught, Greg shook his head and finished his mouthful, blushing. Grissom sighed.

“Sara’s off tonight, so we’re short-handed. Be ready for the field if I need you,” he told the younger man. Greg nodded dutifully. Catherine did a double take, her glance lingering on the band adorning Grissom’s finger.

“Nice ring.”

He glanced down, mouth twitching.

“Yes.”

“So--is there something you should tell us?” came her low voice, half-teasing, half-curious. Grissom’s eyebrows went up and he seemed to give her question some thought.

“No. Get the Ochoa case memorized and be ready to testify by Tuesday. Oh, and Nick mentioned it’s your turn to file the weekly cases.”

Huffily Catherine stomped out as Grissom headed for the coffee pot. Greg carried his plate to the garbage.

“Is Sara sick?” he asked softly. When Grissom shot him a piercing look, he shrugged. “I just wondered, with the nosebleed thing. Some of us around here care . . . too.”

Grissom hesitated. He poured his coffee before speaking. “She’s having minor surgery tomorrow around noon. Nothing serious.”

“Ah,” Greg sighed. Clem was carefully leafing through a copy of GQ, pointedly ignoring them. Greg tried again.

“For her nose?”

“Yes,” Grissom managed with more patience than usual. He looked over the rim of his cup at Greg before he took a sip.

“Ah. That IS a nice ring. So. Did you get engaged?” This last came out as an attempt at a joke; Greg trailed off with a sickly grin that Grissom didn’t return.

“Yes Greg. In fact, Sara and I have mutually pledged ourselves to the sacred bond of future matrimony forsaking all others in this lifetime and plane of existence. Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

“Okay, right, sorry I asked—“ came the soft mutter. Greg washed the fork and carefully stacked it in the dish drain then loped out. Grissom sat at the table with Clem and fished for the crossword in the newspaper. She paused, then signed something to him.

“Thank you,” he replied absently, looking for an eight letter word for domestic union.

 
***   ***   ***

  
Sara wandered from room to room in the house, drifting through them quietly, but steadily until Grissom set down his journal and caught her gaze.

“You’re wearing a path into the carpet, and every time you head in the kitchen, Figaro thinks you’re going to open a can for him.”

"Oh—“ She bent down, scooping up the small black cat, stroking his white chin as he thoughtfully stretched it out for her. Sara sighed heavily, and Grissom recognized the sound. He set the magazine aside and beckoned, pulling her into his lap on the rocker, the three of them making a warm little pileup on the chair for a few quiet minutes.

“I’ve never been operated on before. I’ve had my collarbone set, and spent the night after . . . Boston, but other than that—nothing.”

“It’s a little scary,” Grissom admitted in a soothing voice. “When I had my tonsils out, I stayed for two days.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight,” he told her. “I was afraid my mother wasn’t going to come back and take me home when it was over.”

Her hug around him tightened a little and Grissom leaned into it, laughing softly, “It was quite a long time ago, Sara.”

“Still, must have been terrifying for a little kid. But that’s not what I’m afraid of,” came her confession, shy and slow. Grissom scooped up Figaro and set him down; he shook himself and bounded off, patrolling to make sure no crickets had slipped into the house. Sara continued.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Me?” he asked curiously. It was still well before dawn, and Grissom wished Sara would at least try to sleep for a while. She nodded, brushing a strand of her hair back.

“You. Sure I’m a little concerned about a laparoscopic probe up my sinuses while I’m unconscious, I mean who wouldn’t be? But I just worry about putting you through it. Stuff like this is always harder for the people waiting than it is for the ones going through it—all WE have to do is show up and let it happen.”

“I never thought of it that way . . .” he muttered slowly, “but I guess that could be one of the reasons I never told you about MY surgery.”

Sara nodded, managing a faint forgiving smile that made him feel better and worse at the same time. Grissom took it, though.

“My point is I just don’t like the idea of you worrying.”

Grissom shook his head; he patted her leg and she shifted, letting him get up. He laid his palms on her shoulders.

“Too late. I’ll always worry about you, Sara. It’s ingrained on my neural pathways, carved into my psyche.” He tried to say it lightly while he herded her towards the bed, but a note of seriousness came through. 

She nodded at this statement of fact and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his shoulder.  “I’m aware of that. Let’s ease each other’s concerns then.” Raising her head she smiled at him and whispered, “Love me, Gil.”

He could resist that plea no more than he could stop breathing; pulling her to him he kissed her, intending to be gentle, but the heat of Sara, so warm and alive urged him on. Grissom slowly undressed her, delighting in uncovering the curves and hollows of her slim body, kissing secret places he’d long lusted for and now had the privilege of tasting: the inside of her elbow, the base of her neck, the deep dimples between the knobs of her spine. Pliantly Sara stretched out, arms around Grissom as he feasted on her in lingering kisses and strokes.

When he knelt between her parted knees, drinking in the sight of her flushed skin and bright eyes, she blinked, holding up her hands, wrists pressed to each other in a wordless plea. Grissom moaned softly then at her unexpected entreaty. He kissed her fingers as he wrapped the black silk stocking around her wrists, trying to leave the binding loose. Impatiently Sara shook her head.

“The right way,” she insisted, urging him to tighten the bonds. Grissom did, lingeringly, looping the ends in a graceful bow before tickling her wriggling palms with a few hot tongue strokes. Sara let a hungry sigh leak out of her. She lifted her tied hands over her head and stretched herself out luxuriously, well-aware of the effect on Grissom.

His eyes glittered fever-bright. Carefully he slid his hands around her hips and rolled her over, tugging Sara to her elbows and knees, letting his big palms slide over her bare skin with a possessiveness that left hot prickliness in its wake. Sara closed her eyes and let her senses go, savored Grissom’s kisses and strokes. He refused to rush, and when he let his beard stroke against the taut curve of her ass she thought she’d go mad. His fingers slid between her thighs, brushing the fur there, the tips moving in little circles, caressing her enough to make her spread her knees willingly.

“Grissom—“ she pleaded, one cheek pressed against the pillows. He had the audacity to chuckle a little; the sound low and strained as he kissed each rounded half of her bottom.

“You look edible this way . . . are you, Sara?” he teased, his breath hot against her tender skin. Her wriggle amused him, but he caught her hips in his hands to lift them higher, and slid his tongue along the slick ruffled flesh of her sex, nosing her happily.

She sucked in a quick couple of breaths, her pulse pounding hard, almost matching the slippery wet strokes of Grissom’s hot tongue as it probed sweetly in teasing sweeps along that rosy wet valley, flicking on the underside of her taut, sensitive bud. Sara shivered. The slow relentless coil of desire grew and spiraled through her, making her rock back against his mouth, wanting Grissom’s sensual kisses there, wanting them so much . . .

And then he hummed. Instantly the low vibrations of his mouth on her aching flesh tightened in glorious waves of molten pleasure; Sara cried out her joy but it was smothered on the pillow. When Grissom finally gave one last wet kiss to the back of her thigh she shuddered and dropped to the mattress, spent and dazed. Trembling.

“Sara, look at me . . .” he pressed his mouth to the damp nape of her neck as he stretched out on her. Shakily she lifted her head and turned her face to him, sweat making her hair curl around her flushed face. The hot prodding of his cock against her hipbone brought a lazy smile to her face.

“I need to be with you, I need you watching me when I come—“ he whispered, his big chest along her back. Sara could smell her own musk along his beard as she nodded. Grissom rose up and rolled her over, stroking her sleek legs as he parted them. Sara lifted her arms and lovingly hooked them around his strong neck when he braced his hands. She tensed as the hot thick head of his cock wetly pushed between her thighs in a slow stroke of powered pleasure. Grissom’s eyelids half-closed as he gave a low growl, his stomach clenching, moving his proud flesh into hers.

“Sara, mine. I need you, love you like this under me, mine by choice—“ came his words, choked and soft. His cock slid deeper, the stroke relentless and strong. Sara’s legs wrapped around the small of his back and she let her mouth fall open, moaning a little as her still sensitive flesh welcomed him in. He pulled back and the rhythm began, strong and steady as Grissom fucked her.

Sara clung to him, loving the rub of his chest on hers, the slick fire between their thighs, and most of all, the haunted wild look in Grissom’s face as his pleasure relentlessly mounted and his breathing grew louder.

“Oh God, Sara—“ one hand clumsily cupped the back of her head, pressing her face to his shoulder, “Bite me. Mark me, make me yours NOW---“ he begged, and instantly Sara nipped her teeth into the rock-hard muscle there, feeling the searing flood of his physical passion fill her in heavy hard pulses. Grissom groaned against her damp temple, the sound of his animal pleasure a raw, sweet thrill to Sara. His hips moved in successively slowing thrusts, his spine arching less with each until he gently shuddered to a rest on her soft body.

Sated.

Sara lay half under him, drifting off to sleep like a leaf in a lazy river; content, loved and bound to the man in her arms in ways both civilized and primitive as the first light of dawn glimmered beyond the curtains.