Under


“Sara, talk to me.”

 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, I’m awake, I’m awake—Oh God. Are we--?”

 

“Buried. It seems that last temblor brought the whole place down around us. On the bright side, we’re not dead.”

 

“We’re not off scott-free either, Gris. Nothing personal, but you weigh a TON and what are you doing on me anyway?”

 

“Misguided chivalry, and I’d hold off on the weight cracks since I’ve got what feels like a four by twenty seven beam resting across my back. I thought you were about to be concussed so I—“

 

“—Jumped on me. Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome. How are you, really?”

 

“Let me check—back’s sore, one of my knees and the back of my head are both going to need an icepack and something’s jabbing my---oh my God—“

 

“Ignore that. And don’t wiggle.”

 

“You LIKE me.”

 

“Sara—“

 

“REALLY like me.”

 

“It’s a perfectly natural response to stress for males. Part of the adrenalin reaction to a life of death situation. And friction.”

 

“Friction?”

 

“I repeat, stop wiggling.”

 

“I will if you will. You have dirt on your face.”

 

“I never wiggle and so do you. Look up—can you see any light at all?”

 

“Over your shoulder, yeah there’s a volleyball sized hole. Looks to be about ten feet up or so but sunset’s going to be in an hour, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes. Cell phone?”

 

“Uh, I left mine in the Tahoe.”

 

“Mine’s in my right front pocket. If I can fish it out—“

 

“Hey!”

 

“Sorry, bad move there. It’s just dust and dirt, nothing fatal.”

 

“YET. God! We’re stuck here, buried under who KNOWS how many feet of debris and all the while you’re acting like lying on top of me in the dark is some sort of NORM for us.”

 

“Sara—“

 

“Stop it. And make that damn thing go down while you’re at it, Gris.”

 

“Yeah, Fette wahrscheinlichkeit.”

 

“What?”

 

“A little appropriate German. Listen, if you get your left hand along my hip you should be able to reach my pocket. We need to let someone know we’re alive.”

 

“Okay. I just need my eyes to focus—“

 

“Did you hit your head?”

 

“Yeah I did. Got a good knot coming up on the back of my skull.”

 

“AND you were unconscious a while. You know what that means.”

 

“Yeah yeah, possible concussion. Nothing serious.”

 

“Serious enough. Phone please.”

 

“Um—If I do that, I think we might get into some Bad Touches here, Gris—“

 

“Funny, Sara. I’d laugh a lot more if I weren’t pinned here by about fifteen cubic feet of dirt and rock. Entombment tends to dampen my sense of humor. Okay, that’s good, that’s my hip—“

 

“Can we bill the Crime lab for dry cleaning?”

 

“Focus—ah—pocket, and-“

 

“—Keys, is that your wallet?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh! Okay, Um—are you sure your phone’s in this pocket?”

 

“Gahhh! No, okay STOP! No phone. Must have fallen out when we got buried.”

 

“Grrreat.”

 

“It was a small quake, and Catherine knows we’re here—she’ll send some one or check herself and find the car. After that, they’ll dig us out. All we have to do it wait.”

 

“Goodie. And now it’s YOUR turn to stop breathing in my EAR, Grissom.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

 

“Oh nothing. I’m holding still, trying not to aggravate your—situation—and now you’re breathing in my ear. It’s like one of those bizarre dreams I have about you, except there aren’t any singing penguins or marzipan cookies around.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Never mind. It wouldn’t make sense to you anyway. I bet you never have weird dreams. I bet all YOUR dreams make perfect sense in some Jungian bug-related context, right?”

 

“Frankly I don’t know where the hell this is all coming from, but I sense some hostility here, Ms. Sidle.  Just for the record, I did NOT cause the earthquake.”

 

“I’m sorry, I know that. I know if you weren’t holding that beam off of us we’d be squashed flat. I KNOW that—I’m just a little—“

 

“—Scared?”

 

“I was going to say aroused, but yeah, scared is definitely in the mix at the moment. That and dizzy.”

 

“The dizziness is the concussion. Don’t close your eyes, Sara, stay awake. Talk to me—does anything else hurt?”

 

“My butt’s numb.”

 

“Not really in a position to do much about that at the moment.”

 

“Gris—not to get all overly personal here, but um—why isn’t it—going down?”

 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that. Let’s talk about something ELSE, shall we? How about the uh, texture of the dirt? Coarse grade, high sand content-- Most people assume this area’s played out for gold and other valuable minerals, but it’s possible that there could be a few—“

 

“Gris?”

 

“—Veins still—yeah?”

 

“It’s—bigger.”

 

“Noit’snot.”

 

“I’m the one in the position to KNOW, and it’s definitely—bigger.”

 

“Sara. It’s friction. Nothing more than pressure in the wrong place at the wrong time. I shouldn’t have to explain this.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“It’s—nothing.”

 

“All right. I can certainly understand I guess. Adrenaline, friction, physiological response, reflex—all of them reasonable, rational reasons for having an amazingly BIG hard-on jabbing my stomach.”

 

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

 

“What are you going to do? Get up and walk away? Why not just admit the truth, Grissom. You’re as turned on as I am to be lying here in the dark with only a few layers of cloth between us. God! What’s wrong with admitting you might actually LIKE to lie on top of me?”

 

“Everything. More than you KNOW. So let’s not talk about it.”

 

“Fine. I can just start wriggling then—“

 

“NO! Don’t. DO. THAT!”

 

“THAT sounded a little desperate—but actually, wiggling feels pretty good from MY side, Gris. A little rolllll of the hips—“

 

“Sara, for the love of GOD, stop MOVING.”

 

“So talk to me. Tell me you LIKE it.”

 

“FineILIKEITSTOP.”

 

“All right then. I’ll stop rubbing all over your massive prick now and stay still. Stop panting in my ear.”

 

“Damn it! Sara, you are the most AGGRAVATING woman and if we weren’t facing eminent suffocation at the moment I’d take you over my knee for this. Las Vegas already has enough cock teasers as it is, understand? We’re associates, coworkers and professionals dedicated to, to—uuhhhhh---“

 

“Got your attention now? Good. Shut up and listen for a moment—I like it too. The difference between us is I like it enough to DO something about it. I am SO tired of pretending and waiting, so it’s time for you to get an earful, Gil Grissom.”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“No.”

 

“Fine then. Speak your piece and then let me have equal time, because you’re not the only one who’s got a few things to say around here.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Okay then. I want to sleep with you. Surprised? Embarrassed yet?”

 

“Flattered. And a little—anxiously confused. Why me? You’ve got Warrick and Nick and Greg and God knows how many other law enforcement types circling in orbit around you waiting for approval—“

 

“Do I hear a note of censure in the voice of the man with the big boner?”

 

“Sara—I’m no hunk. There are choicer selections of beefcake around, and don’t say you haven’t noticed. I have a paunch, grey hair and no social life—what’s the attraction?”

 

“The attraction is that they’re a part of YOU. Jesus, Gris—you look in a mirror but you don’t really SEE what I see, do you? Great eyes, compelling, soulful—you’ve got one of the cutest smirks I’ve ever seen, and sometimes when I watch you reading a crime scene, taking everything in with that intense gaze of yours I go dizzy inside. I want your hands on me with the same exquisite care you give to evidence. It’s a LUST thing that’s getting out of control because it’s filtered through the fact that I want more than just your body.”

 

“I—don’t know what to say.”

 

“Say you want to sleep with me too. Just ADMITTING it would mean a lot to me.”

 

“I don’t even admit it to myself, Sara. It’s a road I can’t choose.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it’s inappropriate. I’m fifteen years older than you are for starters. We’re from two different generations; you were in diapers when I was first dating.”

 

“It would have made a difference then, but not now, Grissom. We’re both adults. I wear thongs these days.”

 

“Don’t TELL me things like that. I don’t NEED to know—“

 

“Sure you do. I’m wearing one right now—“

 

“Damn it, that’s not exactly the most helpful thing you could have said.”

 

“Newsflash, Gris—I don’t want to be helpful. Been doing that far too long in this pseudo relationship and it’s not getting us anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I can still be a great CSI, but don’t count on having a comfort zone around me personally anymore.”

 

“Like I ever did. I know your shampoo and deodorant brands, your mouthwash, Sara. I know what you weigh, I know when you’re having your period—it’s all in the observation of the little things. And the only way that happens is by an acuity to an individual that goes far beyond professional boundaries, and frankly, it hangs on my conscience because I shouldn’t KNOW those things without your permission to know them.”

 

“You KNOW when I’m having my period?”

 

“Yes. It’s due in four days or so—your breath changes slightly, you tend to drag a bit on the first day, and you eat a lot of pineapple, even though what you WANT to eat are corn chips.”

 

“Okaaaaay, that’s getting into stalker territory—but sort of flattering too.”

 

“Eidetic memory can be a harsh mistress. The more I try to forget things, the sharper focus they maintain.”

 

“So putting a positive spin on this, I’m getting to you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Ah! Finally, a little breakthrough accompanied by some—throbbing—if I’m feeling that right.”

 

“Will you STOP coming back to that, please?”

 

“Not much light now but you’re blushing. God, that’s ADORABLE.”

 

“And you DO realize I’m an experienced CSI. If I commit murder I may be one of the few people who might get away with it?”

 

“Never—they could match up the massive dent in my stomach to your boner—you’d be ID’ed pretty quick.”

 

“Funny Sara—hysterical.”

 

“Just whistling in the dark. I’d give anything for a Tylenol right now.”

 

“Keep talking, don’t close your eyes. Talk to me.”

 

“Uh, okay. I’ve got something I’ve been dying to ask you, and the moment seems sort of right for it—are you kinky, Gris?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Are. You. Kinky?”

 

“Define your terms.”

 

“Let’s see—interested or participating in sexual activities beyond the standard vanilla positions and concepts of intimate relations.”

 

“--Why are you asking?”

 

“Inquiring minds—and it seems to fit with some other points of your personality.”

 

“In what way?”

 

“Your intense need for privacy for one. Your reluctance to carry a weapon, even though you’re qualified. Your familiarity with arcane practices like leeching and bastinado. I’d think those might indicate that the usual Ken and Barbie boinking might not flip your flapjacks all the time. That and the spanking comment.”

 

“THAT came out of a sense of irritation, not erotic interest.”

 

“Ah. I don’t know, Gris—I might LIKE being spanked.”

 

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’M the one with the concussion? Look, Sara, existentially bizarre as this conversation’s getting, I’m not going to discuss my sexual preferences with you. Not now.”

 

“Hey! YOU’RE the one who asked me to talk to you, so don’t give me the freedom to ask if you’re not going to answer, Grissom. I’d rather risk the concussion if it comes to that!”

 

“Sara, yes, I’m kinky. Will that give you some sense of perverse accomplishment? I’m particularly fond of tying my lovers down because it caters to my need to control the encounter and allows me to set the pace. Since it’s difficult to find partners willing to agree to those terms without paying for them, my sex life has been somewhat—lacking for the last decade. I wallow in my own passive aggressiveness because it’s symptomatic of my ongoing frustration and NOT a reaction to you.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Happy now?”

 

“Um, impressed. So having me trapped like this under you is—“

 

“---A fantasy come true, yeah, pretty much.”

 

“Whoah—“

 

“Don’t worry. I was and am perfectly happy to ignore the entire situation. You’re not here by choice anyway, so it’s moot.”

 

“Sooo—You’d want me to volunteer to get tied up before it would turn you on?”

 

“No. In your case, standing around and existing is the only qualification you need to pique my sexual interest, Sara. But in a bedroom, in a relationship I need your submission. Your—trust. That’s what would—“

 

“—Give you your jollies?”

 

“--Insure my gratification. Anything else is just sex.”

 

“Sex is still pretty good.”

 

“Sex is biological. I want a relationship on a deeper, richer level than that, something to quench desires more intense than those generated by restless loins.”

 

“You know you’re turning me on something FIERCE here, don’t you, Gris? Nobody’s ever required much more of me than a few good moans and a blowjob.”

 

“Which makes no sense. You’ve got a lot of potential in so many ways, Sara. Brilliance, talent, focus, quirky sensuality—I don’t understand why you aren’t involved with someone worthy of all that.”

 

“Hey Gris, maybe I already am.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“I already take orders from you on a nightly basis, boss. I spend more time with you than I do anyone else and I have your number on my speed dial—any of this sounding incriminating?”

 

“The evidence is weak. All of those could apply to Catherine or Warrick too, neither of whom I’d want to—“

 

“—Tie down and ruthlessly screw through the mattress?”

 

“Not particularly, no. I’m jaded, not masochistic or gay.”

 

“Mmmmm. So what you’re saying is you want someone to trust you in bed. Someone like—me.”

 

“Sara—that’s presuming a LOT.”

 

“So what MORE would I need to make the presumption a fact? All the evidence I need is right here pressing on my stomach, and if you know anything about me, Gris, it’s that I don’t do ANYTHING halfway. You want to tie me up to make love to me, you got it.”

 

“Don’t go there, Sara.”

 

“I trust you, but it’s a two-way street, Gris. If you’ve been holding back because you didn’t think I’d accept what you need, you’re wrong. I’m fine with it. MORE than fine. We can do our jobs like two dedicated professionals, and then go back to your place and have a few nicely sweaty marathons of whatever scenario you need. Because I WANT you, any way I can get you.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, honey. If we do this, it’s a commitment. This isn’t a one night stand we’re discussing, not a casual affair, and I don’t know if it’s reasonable to drag you into that sort of obligation. We have to WORK together.”

 

“And we’d have to work at this too, so why is it any different? Look Grissom, it’s so damn obvious. Neither of us is happy right now; at most we’re tolerant of our situation. Nothing we do outside of work is going to change the fact that I respect you, that I feel lucky to have you as a professional mentor and teacher. But I can’t ignore my desire for you either. I want to make love to you, want to tap into the passion I KNOW is there. Is that so wrong?”

 

“It’s not WRONG, it’s just not—safe. Not safe at all.”

 

“Because with trust comes vulnerability, yes, I know. And yet in all the time you’ve known me, Gris, I’ve let myself be vulnerable to you more times than I can count. Now I just want the chance to take it into that darker sweeter level. Please—“

 

“I—I’m tempted.”

 

“And I’m patient. And tired. I want to sleep, Gris---“

 

“No, Sara, not yet. Don’t sleep. Have to stay awake a little longer, honey. I think I hear voices—“

 

“Mmm? Really? So we’ll be out soon?”

 

“Yes. And we’ll go home. MY home. That I CAN promise.”

 

“Sara? Sara, TALK to me---“

 

 

END





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