For a long twisted moment time stood still. Grissom didn’t breathe, didn’t move or say a word. He was aware of the music around them, of the heat coming off his face.

Sara slowly squatted down, picking up the can of soda and shifting it from hand to hand restlessly as she stared at the spill on the carpet.

“Need to get a wet sponge or that will attract ants—“ she mumbled and with a rush, time started again. Grissom gripped the photo tightly as he tried to master his panic, his eyes locked on the tight set of her shoulders.

“Sara—“

She didn’t lift her head as she set the soda down on the coffee table.

“Hey, that’s old history, Gris, just a hard lesson. Never get between a friend and her drunk husband.”

Sara’s voice was a soft monotone as she dipped a finger into the puddle on the carpet.

“Never drink a lot on the Fourth of July. Never argue with him about whether to put the dog in the garage because the fireworks are freaking the animal out. Never shove back when he starts getting angry. Never tell him he’s a fucking coward and should pick on someone his own size instead of an innocent retriever and a wife too petrified to do anything more than cower.”

She looked up at Grissom, and her wide-eyed expression of dim pain wrenched his chest so painfully he wheezed.

“And the biggie, you know, is never EVER assume a woman can outfight an enraged drunk—yep. Learned that one pretty good. I may know self defense and handle a gun pretty well NOW, but fourteen years ago--all I had was my ego and my stupid belief that I was indestructible.”

Grissom moved. He shifted so swiftly that he seemed to flow from one spot to the other, his arms coming around her. Sara tensed, then rose up into his comforting embrace. Her eyes were dry, but her voice shook.

“I stole the photos out of my medical records, Gil—tampered with evidence I guess. It doesn’t matter now, but it did then. I . . . I . . . “

Sara hesitated.

“--I never told my family.”

Grissom buried his nose in her hair, breathing in the smell of it, clean and sweet. He kept his embrace around Sara light even though every instinct was urging him to grip her tightly, crush her to him and feel that kitten-boned body against his. She clung to him.

He held her a long, long time.

Finally Sara pulled back and looked up into his face, reaching one hand to tug the curls at his temple. Her smile was shaky but sincere, and there was no mistaking the glow in her eyes.

“So. Now you know.”

“I know more than I did before—“ he replied carefully. She could see the questions in his eyes and tipped her head. Touching his face seemed to center her, and she gave a tiny nod that he understood. Grissom slowly brushed the back of his knuckles over her throat wondering where to start. He whispered,

“How badly--?”

Sara smiled again.

“Bad enough. I was always a contralto, so that didn’t change. And he didn’t rape me if that’s what you’re asking—“

Gil flinched a little, but Sara’s touch along the side of his face never changed.

“—He made bail before I even got out of Boston General Memorial. I pressed charges, but Jancy was too scared to testify on my behalf, and given the amount of alcohol and the circumstances—he served time, but not much.”

“Why—why didn’t you TELL me?” he blurted, searching her face as he tried to keep his voice steady, but Grissom could feel himself tensing up. “Christ, Sara if I’d known I would NEVER have—“

“—Played any games with me. That’s WHY, lover,” Sara cupped his face in her two cool hands, holding it as she met his eyes with a fierce look.

“I wanted you. I still want you. What happened to me in Boston doesn’t touch that. I have a tough time with cases that hit that memory, yeah, but nothing you and I have ever done is even remotely close to that beating and nothing ever WILL be because I totally trust you. I—“

She paused, a wave of joy and fear crossing her face, realization blooming in a glorious epiphany as she whispered,

“Jesus! I LOVE you, Gil—“

And she cried.

  
***   ***   ***

  
He held her hand; Sara stubbornly set her jaw and wouldn’t look at him.

“Just humor me again here, Sara—“ came Grissom’s soft tone as he lightly squeezed her fingers. She looked down at their joined hands resting on his knee and finally a faint smile touched her mouth as his warm reassuring strength pressed into her palm.

“This is your bubble wrap therapy, isn’t it?” she muttered to him as the safety bars clanked down over their shoulders with a pneumatic hiss. He shot her a sideways look and she elaborated as the car moved forward.

“—Self medication for stress—“ she clarified to him. The noise of the coaster grew louder as they began to climb the first rise. Grissom smiled.

“An adrenaline burn—flush the excess in a safe and sane manner—“ he agreed. “Since I can’t even BEGIN to inflict holy havoc on the shit-sucking ephemeromorph from Boston, this will have to do—“

They’d reached the top and teetered there precariously; Sara shook her head, eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, but tackling The Cyberkill seven times in a ROW, Gris? How much more aggression do you need to purge?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t as the car plunged down the steep incline and Sara gave into her long happy shriek.

Gris looked longingly at the line, but Sara firmly shook her head.

“No—it’s over and DONE, Grissom, and if we go on that thing one more time I’ll never regain my equilibrium. Besides, I’m hungry.”

He looked at her with a hint of disbelief in his amusement, then waved a hand at the food stands off to the right of the main thoroughfare.

“Somehow I think findng something meatless here might be difficult—“ he warned, Sara cocked her head.

“Are you kidding? Cotton candy. Popcorn, Churros, Icees, hot pretzels—“ she replied sweetly. Grissom snorted.

“ALL of them, or do you want to narrow it down a bit?”

Sara merely grinned and dragged him to the nearest vendor. The girl there smiled up at them, scoop ready.

“Flavor?”

Sara glanced at the menu while Grissom murmured,

“One scoop of Pistachio please.”

Sara shot him a look; Grissom shrugged, his big shoulders rising up as she laughed.

“Pistachio?”

“What did you expect? Vanilla?” he teased, and she caught the sly reference as a soft flush of pink crossed her face.

“Never, Gris—I’ve learned THAT about you babe.”

He accepted his cone and watched her choose a scoop of mint fudge, then paid for them as Sara fished for napkins. Companionably they strolled down the main lane of the amusement park, not talking, simply content to bask in each other’s presence. Sara sighed.

“I feel better. You’d think after a decade and a half it wouldn’t matter, but even now, telling you—makes it lighter. Do you know what I mean?”

“They say confession IS good for the soul,” he responded softly. Sara said nothing, but concentrated on her cone for a while. They found a bench to sit on, and she looked up.

“Excuse me, but are you WATCHING me eat this?” she demanded. Gris didn’t answer, but the gleam in his eyes was reply enough, and Sara gave a soft laugh.

“Soft serve soft core, huh?”

“I prefer to think of it as fertile ground for future fantasies,” came his lofty reply. Sara dimpled at that.

“Fine—let me give you something to remember then—“

And so saying, she let her tongue slide delicately over the top of the ice cream in a slow stroke while she purred.

“Mmmmmmmmmint!” she announced in a tone that melted it a bit more. Grissom’s gaze was riveted to her. She batted her eyes and let a thick smear of it coat her upper lip, then slowly licked it off.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars to do that again—“ came his husky request.

Sara laughed. She ran a finger around the rim of her cone, coating it thoroughly and slowly slid the sticky digit into her mouth, sucking the chocolate off of it with little whimpers of pleasure.

“Sara—“ came Grissom’s voice, tinged with humor but definitely strained. She smiled at him as she pulled her finger out with a soft pop.

“You’re dripping and about to lose it, babe—“ she warned.

Grissom glanced down right as his teetering scoop of pistachio slid out of his tilted cone and hit the dirt between his loafers.

“—And I lost my ice cream too—“ he blinked. Sara held out her cone in commiseration.

“You can always lick mine—“

“Oh I fully intend to—“ Gil told her with a ruthless sincerity that made her toes curl. He let his arm drop from the bench rail behind her back onto her shoulders and pulled her closer. The cone in her hand wobbled as he slid nearer.

“May I kiss you?” he asked with grave politeness. Sara blinked, glancing around.

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“No. But it’s what I want—“ Gil dimpled. Sara met his eyes and swallowed hard, nodding.

He dipped his head and dropped his lips on hers with tender finesse, bestowing a kiss of graceful power. Sara let her mouth be lovingly plundered and by the time she broke away to breathe she had trouble remembering her name.

“Wooooo---“ she gasped. Grissom quickly kissed her forehead and rose, taking her hand.

“Midway?”

“ALL the way—“ came her dazed response. He laughed, guiding her along with him towards the gaudy game booths. Sara regained her equilibrium and looked around with delight.

“Dart throw, dime drop, baseball tosses, basketball shots—what are you willing to lose exorbitant amounts of money on?” she demanded. Gil glanced around the crowded fairway.

“What prize is worth the endeavor?”

“No stuffed animals—“ Sara quickly broke in. “I’m too old to be thrilled by fake fur and button eyes.”

“Fair enough—but limiting. The only other prizes I see are basketballs, beer mirrors and baseball caps.”

“And picture frames—“ she pointed to a booth with a ring toss. The frames lined the upper edge of the booth, most decorated with bright designs of nursery rhyme characters. Sara moved closer to the booth, fishing for her wallet while Grissom looked puzzled.

“Picture frames?”

“Shhhhh, I’m concentrating—“ Sara muttered, handing over two dollars to the barker and picking up the three rope rings. Both Gil and the barker watched as her first shot went far over the flared post. Sara grumbled. The second ring was closer, but bounced off. Grissom stepped up behind her, pressing close. Sara leaned back against him happily.

“Spin it—work with the path of least air resistance. Are you sure you’re a physicist?”

“Are you qualified to coach carnival games?” she retorted, but mildly. He guided her hands and they tossed together. The ring flew in a straight line and rolled around the post as it slid down in a perfect win. Sara squealed and pointed to the frame she wanted. Grissom shot the barker an indulgent smile as the man pulled it down and handed it to her.

“Who do these remind you of, and DON’T say George Segal and Barbra Streisand—“

“Fine—Edward Lear—“ Grissom countered, looking at the frame. In the lower left corner a slinky tabby was rubbing up against the edge of the frame. In the upper right corner, perched on a branch was an imposing barn owl.

Sara laughed.

“You lack imagination, Grissom—it’s us.”

“Sara—“ he was about to announce that they were NOT the Owl and the Pussycat when he looked over at her and blinked.

She nodded, grinning. Gris looked back at the little characters again, noting the cat’s graceful pose, the owl’s staid majesty.

“It is—“ he agreed.

  

  
Right as they made their way towards the end of the midway, Sara heard a familiar voice near the first concession stand

“Wyatt, dude, you are SO busted—“ came the slightly tired tones. She looked up and froze as Greg Saunders met her startled gaze.

“Oh hey, Sara—“ he blurted, “Grissom—fancy seeing you two---here. Wyatt, don’t throw the cotton candy, bud, that’s totally NOT cool.”

This last was addressed to a small bundle of energy in a green sweatsuit and a bobble hat. Greg scooped the little one up and tucked him neatly on one hip as he tried to look nonchalantly at his co-workers. Sara blinked.

“Hey Greg. Grissom’s been doing his rollercoaster evaluations again. Who’s this?”

She squatted down and smiled at the baby, who stared back at her with the unblinking delight that only the very young can maintain. Greg shifted uneasily.

“This is Wyatt.”

Grissom smiled. Sara glanced over at the stroller, which was stuffed with toys, a diaper bag, and a bottle holder. Wyatt reached out to touch her nose very gently and she smiled again.

“Cute nephew.”

“Actually—he’s my son,” Greg corrected her softly.