Fandom:
CSI
Pairing: G/S
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Another post-ep for "Snakes". More fluff!
Disclaimer: The characters and situations in this story belong to
Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do
not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any
way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine,
no you can't have any.
Spoilers: through "Snakes".
Note: Written for Cincoflex, who insisted I post it. This was spawned
by a line or two in "Unbreaking," and further developed by a
speculative conversation on just how one could achieve this particular
maneuver with any degree of believability. In other words, it's her
fault. Mostly. Really. Stop looking at me like that.
*********
"Well, if I'm going to do this, I want
one of the double drawers," Sara said impatiently. She folded her arms
and waited as Grissom surveyed the wall of gleaming brushed-metal
rectangles.
"All right. I don't think any of them are occupied," Grissom said
equably, and reached for an unlabeled drawer. It slid open with a
well-oiled zip, and he ran a hand over the hard surface to make sure
that it was clean. Robbins was inflexible about sterility, and David
was a neat freak--always a good trait in coroners--but there was no
harm in double-checking. "Since you may have to be here for a while,
we'll have to find you a blanket or something to lie on."
Sara sighed, and Grissom ignored the sound as best he could. It had
taken a bit of persuading to get her to play the role of corpse in his
ambitious murder-mystery-cum-lab-evaluation, but pointing out that she
couldn't participate because she'd solve it too fast had mollified her
somewhat.
The truth was, he was having trouble. He was glad for Sara that her
counseling sessions seemed to have straightened things out for her, but
seeing even the illusion of her caring snatched from him had hurt, to
say the least. It was difficult, treating her just as a respected
colleague and someone who'd once been his friend, but he was trying.
He didn't want to screw her up any further.
"So let me get this straight," she said behind him, as he ducked his
head inside the double-depth drawer to make sure that she could open it
from inside if she had to. "Robbins is gone to that conference, so he
gave you permission to play in his sandbox?"
Grissom straightened and nodded. "All bodies are going to the morgue
across town, since the dayshift coroner's gone too; inconvenient, but
it can't be helped. And since the place wasn't going to be in use, I
asked Al if I could use it for this project."
Sara snorted. "And you really think that putting the swing and night
shifts through this 'mystery' of yours is going to get the department
off your back about on-the-job training."
He shrugged. "It'll prove their competence, at least. Do you really
want to have to take mandatory classes just because dayshift's
personnel aren't up to snuff?"
"Got me there." A hint of a smile appeared. "So all I have to do is lie
here and play dead."
"With the appropriate make-up, of course." Grissom looked her over
analytically, thinking about where the abrasions and wounds should be
placed. "And before you ask, no, you won't have to take anything off.
Though I might need you to have your shirt pulled up a little."
Sara snickered dryly. "Fair enough, but I definitely want a blanket
then."
Grissom slid the drawer shut, and then opened it again, making sure it
glided easily. "You may have to be in here for a while; it depends on
how long it takes them to 'find' you. If I were you, I'd catch a nap."
He didn't wink, but her dimples appeared nonetheless.
"So I'll get made up, climb in, and pull it shut after me?"
"No, leave it open a little, or you may run out of oxygen. You'll hear
them coming, and then you can close it and lie in wait." Grissom looked
around. "Remind me to unlock the morgue door."
"Okay." Sara stepped up to the other side of the drawer. "So how do you
want me to do this? Typical morgue pose?"
"No, not quite. On your back, yes, but..." Grissom trailed off, trying
to visualize. Before he could ask her to climb in so he could pose her,
Sara interrupted his thought.
"Tell you what--why don't you lie down here and demonstrate?" She
patted the cold metal and smiled brightly at him.
He eyed her suspiciously, but he couldn't think of a good reason to
refuse, and it did seem fair. Besides, if he did it this way, he could
make sure she would be reasonably comfortable while dead. "All right.
But Sara--no photos."
This time she laughed out loud, and he had to smother a smile as he sat
on the drawer's edge and lifted himself into place. It was going to be
hard enough seeing her playing a corpse--he'd already had to shut down
a couple of flashbacks to the Marlin case--but at least her humor was
good.
Sara watched with interest as Grissom lay down in the drawer, nervous
with the impulse that had hit her only moments before. She felt a
little like Hansel luring the witch into the oven--now if only...
She was in luck. Grissom shifted, settling his back against the metal,
then bent his arms over his head in the space allowed by the extra
length of the drawer. "We'll have ligature marks on your wrists, but no
actual bindings; the 'killer' will have taken them with him."
Sara gave herself one second to admire the sight of Grissom stretched
out before her, then put her agility to use. Within another three
seconds, she had swung herself on top of him, chest to chest, and
grabbed his wrists; she got one glimpse of his stunned face before she
hooked her heel under the upper lip of the cabinet and yanked. With a
rattle of well-balanced runners, the drawer banged shut.
Instant darkness. Grissom jerked beneath her, but she didn't let go of
his wrists. "Sara! What are you doing?"
His voice was a little breathless, though whether with surprise or some
other emotion she couldn't tell. "Getting your attention."
Grissom pulled at her grip, but she had better leverage, and he was
distracted. She tangled his legs with hers, keeping him from pushing
against the ceiling above them, and kept her own head low. His breath
puffed against her face. "This is...this is..."
"Shut up, Griss." Sara looked down at the eyes she couldn't see. "I
want you to listen this time, and we're not getting out of here until
you do."
She heard him swallow. "If you wanted to talk to m--"
Her hands were occupied, and she was going for broke anyway. She dipped
her head, tilting it slightly, and--thanks to a good visual memory--cut
him off mid-word with her lips. It was just a quick press, but it was
effective, and as she lifted her head again Sara was a little sorry
that she couldn't see what was no doubt a memorably flabbergasted
expression. "I said shut up."
She grinned when no other words were forthcoming. "That's better. Now.
Those damn counseling sessions were good for one thing; they showed me
that if I want to straighten out my life, I have to take action. So,
I'm taking action."
This time, she took her time. Grissom's arms tensed under hers, then
relaxed, even as his mouth softened and gave in to hers. For a long,
slow moment they kissed, sweet and wet in the darkness, all the
acrimony and doubt missing for that little space.
Sara could feel Grissom's chest rising and falling rapidly under hers
when she broke the kiss, and her own pulse was a good deal higher than
usual. His wrists tensed again, and she didn't hold him; but instead of
pushing open the drawer, he linked his fingers with hers in a warm,
unexpected connection.
"What are you doing, Sara?" he asked at last, his voice a little
hoarse. "You'll have to explain it to me."
She sighed, but this was better than fury or rejection. "I'm giving you
one more chance, Grissom. I know you feel...something...for me. I know
I definitely feel something for you. If you want to do something, now's
the time."
She let her voice soften slightly. "I've been waiting for you for
almost five years. I made a move, and you turned me down. Last chance,
Grissom. I want you, but I can't let waiting for you control my life
any more."
For a moment, there was silence in the stuffy space. Sara pictured
Grissom's face, saw him licking his lips and eyeing her warily, but she
couldn't put an emotion to the image. Then he unlaced his hands from
hers, covered the back of her head with one, and shoved the drawer open
again.
Cold sliced through her, and Sara blinked down at him, feeling the
first icy burn of humiliation. Their faces were mere inches apart;
Grissom was looking up at her with the complete lack of expression that
he used whenever he was feeling something more intensely than usual.
Maybe he was considering reporting her for sexual harassment. Sara
braced her hands by his shoulders, getting ready to push off him,
wondering bitterly if she would ever follow an impulse again.
Then wide palms slid over her back, and somehow in the narrow space he
turned them, so that Sara was supine and Grissom was leaning over her.
"Far be it from me to keep you waiting any longer," he said with just a
hint of humor, and all of a sudden his expression was both tender and
shy.
She didn't have long to study it, though; he lowered his head and
brought their mouths together, and she felt a faint moan rise in her
throat at the perfection of it. One of Grissom's hands pushed under her
back, lifting her closer, and she let her own hands find his hair, and
realized dimly that the shyness seemed to have vanished.
Eventually they parted again, just enough to look at each other, and
Sara rejoiced in this new vision of Grissom--flushed, surprised,
pleased, and slightly lipgloss-smeared. He laughed a little, looking
down at her. "Sara, I honestly don't know what to say."
She pursed her lips in mock thought. "Is the morgue door locked now?"
He blinked. "Yes."
She grinned. "Then don't say anything." And pulled him back down.
He went willingly.
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