Fandom: CSI Rating: M Pairing: G/S Summary: Even in love there must be a balance of science and faith. Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All other characters are our invention, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask us first.  Spoilers: Time of Your Death By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski ********* Sara Grissom is just so utterly cute when he blushes.    I didn’t mean to make him do it when I pointed out the tag on his coat, but he did anyway, and I have to say I enjoyed seeing the color run up under his skin.  He pulled the tag off and stuffed it in his pocket, then gave me that sweet lopsided grin.  “Thanks.”    I grinned back.  “No problem.”  Stepping through the door, I closed it behind me.  Grissom moved back out of the way, and as I turned the key in the lock I heard his voice, almost too low to catch.  “You look very elegant, Sara.”    Well, that’s one advantage of having a bod that’s bone structure and not much else.  Hearing him say it, though, made my stomach all warm and gooey.  “Thanks,” I parroted to the door, and managed to get the key out of the lock without fumbling it.    Everything was awkward again as we headed for his car, and Grissom actually opened the door for me, which didn’t help with the gooey part.  We started chatting about the lecture and the Bog People and it got easier; they were one of my interests back in college for a while, so I had a little background info.  The auditorium was filling up by the time we got there, but Grissom snagged us seats near the front, and before we sat down I turned to look up at the other rows.  “Looks like a big draw for an anthro talk.”    Grissom pursed his lips in one of his little smirks.  “Ancient death is as classic a topic as the identity of Shakespeare or the fate of the Romanovs,” he said, and I laughed, wondering if we qualified as sensation hunters tonight.  Doctor Kammelman was making his way through the rows, so we took our seats as the lights dimmed.    He was tall and kind of spare, graying and messy in that absent-minded-professor way, and all the pieces of paper hanging out of his pockets made me think of Grissom stuffing his memos into his jacket so he won’t have to deal with them.  When he got to the podium, Kammelman focused on the slip he was holding.  “Good evening, my name is Doctor Ari Kammelman.”    I leaned back in my chair, ready to learn, but instead of diving right into the lecture Doctor Kammelman looked out at the audience.  “I wrote that this morning because my assistant Genevieve is constantly reminding me that I need to introduce myself at the beginning of each lecture.  So that’s for YOUR benefit, since I’m perfectly aware of who I am.”    Some of the audience started to snicker as he continued.  “Frankly, I see my reflection in the mirror every morning, so I’ve never had trouble identifying myself.”  With a grin directed at the audience at large, he started the talk with some PowerPoint slides.  And he was good.  He kept moving, which was slightly distracting, but not as much as the professor I had in grad school who would wander up and down the aisles while lecturing.  I suppressed the urge to take notes, and listened.    It was fascinating.  There’ve been over a thousand bodies found in bogs, some of which were obviously deliberately killed, but there’s not a lot of evidence as to why--sacrifice, murder, or execution.  Doctor Kammelman eschewed the wilder theories for the most part and explained what was known about the bodies.    Grissom wasn’t paying the same attention, though, which kind of surprised me.  For a minute I thought he was bored, but when I glanced over he looked kind of upset, tense and distracted.  When it didn’t let up I reached out and put a hand on his arm.  “Grissom?”    He blinked, relaxing a little.  “Sara…”  His smile was small, but it was there.    “You went sort of pale for a moment.  Migraine?”  If it was, no way was I going to let him stay.  But as I was trying to figure out how I could get his keys away from him and drive him home, Grissom shook his head.  I gave him a doubtful look, trying to figure out how to ask him if he wanted to leave, but before I could frame a sentence he slid his hand over and pushed his fingers through mine.    Wow.  I wasn’t expecting that, but I was hardly going to pull away.  I tightened my fingers a bit and savored his grip; the last couple of times he’d taken my hand I had been too distracted to really pay attention, but there was no major crisis in my life at the moment, thank God.  Grissom has warm hands, with tough skin from all the work he does, and his palm was dry and smooth.  I let my thumb explore the texture of his skin and tried to concentrate on the lecture, but it wasn’t exactly easy to get back into the facts about the Yde Girl, even if someone had done a facial reconstruction on her.    Besides, Grissom wasn’t exactly holding still either.  His fingers kept flexing gently, sliding between mine as though trying to learn the shape of them, and frankly it made me want to get rid of the armrest between us and snuggle up against him.  His touch was soothing and arousing simultaneously--a constant reminder that not only was he spending time with me outside of work and of his own free will, the goal of this whole thing was seduction.    Of me.    Damn, was it working.    We had to let go of each other to applaud, and I was surprised at how reluctant I was to release his hand, but Doctor Kammelman deserved the acclaim.  Grissom glanced over at me, and I could tell that he didn’t want to let go either.  That warmed up my stomach as much as his compliment.    Most of the audience started to leave, but a few were lining up at the front to talk to Kammelman.  “Did you want to ask him any questions?” Grissom asked.    I looked over at him.  He nodded at the stage encouragingly, but I knew that if I started talking to Kammelman we’d be there all night.    “Nnnnnnot really,” I temporized, glancing back at the cart full of what the doctor had dryly termed “visual aids”.  “I wouldn’t mind looking at that skull, but I doubt we’re allowed to handle anything.’    “Probably not,” Grissom admitted.  It was funny--we two were most likely the only other people in the auditorium with extensive experience handling bones, but I didn’t think that would count.    I wasn’t sure what Grissom had in mind to do after the lecture, but taking my hand again as we left the building wasn’t one of the possibilities I’d thought of.  It was more…public, really, than holding hands in the middle of an oblivious audience.  We looked down at the point of contact almost as though our hands had joined on their own, then up at each other, and I couldn’t help smiling a little.  “You’re holding my hand, Grissom,” I pointed out.  I wasn’t going to let him pretend it was just a fluke.    But it didn’t look as though pretending was on his mind.  “And you’re holding mine,” he answered.  “Amazing how such an action can be passive and active at the same time.”    Passive, huh?  That was a whole can of worms I didn’t want to open right then.  “Yeeeeeah,” I managed, and let the subject drop.    But his hand sure felt good around mine.  Still.    Dusk was cooling the air, and we didn’t hurry on our way back to his car.  It was…nice…just to walk with Grissom, without work or anger or frustration getting in the way.    He actually helped me into the car this time, which was not something I was used to.  It made me feel feminine, and kind of pleased and vulnerable at the same time.  Maybe it was those feelings that made me speak when he got into his seat.    “So--“ I said, making it a question.  Grissom smiled a little.    “So the night has barely begun.  I was thinking that while it’s too early for dinner in our case, maybe a good cup of tea?”    How did he come up with something so perfect?    We drove for a little while, talking about the lecture.  Like when we were walking, things were easier; work wasn’t interfering.  I knew I was rambling a bit, but Grissom didn’t seem to mind, and it felt good to just talk with him--to get his opinion on something besides the odds of catching Vegas’ latest murderer or rapist.    Finally it dawned on me that we’d been driving for a while, and I asked him where we were going.  He directed my attention to the sign down the street.  “The Mile Chai Club.  Is that all right?”    I could feel the blush crawling up my face.  His words took me right back to that airplane bathroom and the way he’d maneuvered me into telling him about Ken and that less-than-memorable flight.  But at the same time, I was flattered.  When he’d mentioned tea, I’d thought he was taking me to Starbucks, or one of those flashy casino cafés, not an independent tea house.    And I was impressed by his taste, too.  Mile High has the best blends in town.    I laughed a little and managed to glance over at him.  “You’re…taking this whole seduction thing seriously, aren’t you?”    His fingers tightened on the wheel, and all of a sudden I remembered that he was probably just as nervous as I was.  It gave me a weird sort of tender confidence, and I put my hand on his leg, trying to reassure him.    Whoops.  That was a good deal more intimate than holding hands.  Grissom made a faint noise, then swallowed.  “Yes, I am,” he muttered.  “Utterly.”    He looked over at me, and the depth and the appeal in his eyes went right through me.  “Is it working?” he asked softly.    Oh man.  I almost blurted out just how well it was working, but in the end I only smiled, and he gave me the same look he had over the lab table, and I just about melted on the spot.    We held hands on our way into Mile Chai, too; it just seemed right.  I wasn’t sure that the place was really Grissom’s style--most of its customers were my age or younger--but he didn’t look uncomfortable.  It’s a good space, with a high ceiling and lots of little tables, and groovy art on the walls; and unlike Starbucks, it isn’t full of accessories you can buy.  If you want a Mile Chai-themed mug to take home, you have to ask at the counter.    “I’ll have a summer peach tea with two spoonfuls of molasses sugar please,” I ordered.  Instead of using their own names, the staff all picks literary aliases; I was glad that it wasn’t Orsino’s shift, because he always flirts with me, and I didn’t want anything interrupting the mood.  I let myself lean against Grissom, just because I could, but he was looking up at the menu board with the air of a man confronted with way too many choices.  “Darjeeling,” I suggested, whispering it into his ear.    He drew in a breath.  “One cup of Jeedarling please.”    I almost snorted.  It was a very close thing.  The brewmistress just started giggling, but I managed to control myself as Grissom glared at me.  “You got flustered--interesting,” I said.    “I got distracted,” he grumbled, paying for the tea.    “It was cute,” I told him.  “And that’s not a word I get to apply to you very often, Grissom.  I like it when you’re distractible.  And cute.”    His mouth was twitching the way it did when he didn’t want to smile, and that just made me laugh, so I led him over to a window table.  He held my chair for me, which I wasn’t expecting.    “You are SO into the date manners,” I commented, taking his hand again as he sat down.  He relaxed--I could see his shoulders loosening--and let out the smile.    “Why peach tea?”    I shrugged.  “I used to drink it back in San Francisco; in the winter it gave me a little taste of summer, and in the summer it was great when it was ice cold.”  And it was a change from boring old Lipton.  “This was before the big boom in coffee bars; back in the dark ages, so drinking tea was practically required for a bohemian like me.”  I smirked at him.    “Bohemian,” he said, looking at me like he was picturing it, and I felt a little exposed.  I glanced down.    Grissom took a breath.  “I never had the courage to be bohemian.  When I liked something off-beat, like Monarchs or haggis or Edgar Rice Burroughs, I had to keep it to myself.”    He liked haggis?  I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask.  “Burroughs?  As in the creator of Tarzan?”  I had trouble picturing him watching old Tarzan films, but he nodded.    Our tea arrived, and I took out the tea ball before mine got too strong, stirring it to get the residue of sugar off the bottom.  Grissom added plain refined sugar to his own from the selection on the table, and I wondered if he would like the Darjeeling; it’s a nice subtle variety, not too weird for the tea novice.    He seemed a little distracted, staring out the window, but then he put his hand on mine, and started rubbing his thumb over my wrist.  I felt goosebumps come up all over my skin, and shivered.  “Okay, THAT was a seductive move,” I said, my voice a little uneven.    “You have delicate wrists,” Grissom said, his mouth curling into a small smile.  I shrugged.    “I’m a woman, slighter of build than you are; not as strong but potentially faster.”  And don’t think I hadn’t thought about the inherent contrasts.    “Capable of longer endurance and able to withstand more pain, according to the anthropologist Desmond Morris,” Grissom noted.  His thumb was resting on my pulse point.  “But I don’t think he considered how appealing some of the innate delicacy of a woman is.  I look at your wrists and wonder if kissing them would affect you.”    Whoa.  I meeped and grabbed my cup, completely floored by the images his words conjured up.  The mere idea of his lips on my skin was enough to make my heart speed up.  Grissom’s thumb moved again, a slow tingling stroke.  “Too much?”    “No.”  I shook my head, above all not wanting him to stop.  “Good.  Very…sexy.”    He blushed a little at that, and I had to wonder what had made someone normally unflappable so shy.  And speaking of which…I put down my cup.  There were some things that I just couldn’t ignore any longer.  “Not that I’m not enjoying all this, and I don’t want to break the spell here, but I HAVE to ask--why now, Grissom?”    He cleared his throat, and I half-expected him to put me off, but instead Grissom looked me straight in the eye.  “Sara…back when I first asked you to come to Las Vegas, I wasn’t ready for you; for everything you were, and are--intense, dedicated, vibrant, impulsive.  All of those qualities fascinated me then and now.”    I bit my tongue, not wanting to interrupt him.  Grissom went on.  “But the man I was six years ago was…immature, emotionally.  I had no idea of how to begin any sort of relationship that wasn’t centered in my work or connected to it somehow.  And when I realized how you felt about me, I panicked.”    Oh.  There was a lump in my throat.  All this time, all the frustration--I wanted to yell at him, and at the same time I wanted to comfort him.  His hand squeezed mine, his words speeding up.  “A lot happened in that time--I became your boss instead of your coworker; I nearly lost my hearing; I was stalked and lost my perspective on cases and had a lot of maturing to do.  But when I saw you begin to fall apart it shook me out of my self-centeredness.  I understood that I was a part of that; a cause of your unhappiness.  And I realized too--“    He looked at me, as though asking for permission to continue, and I nodded.  He sucked in a breath.  “--That you have always been my constant.  You are the one element in my life that comforts me.”    Oh, that did it, I was a goner.  I’d doubted for so long, wondered whether he really did care, whether I had any effect on him at all--he was breaking and mending my heart at the same time.  It hurt, but there was no way I was going to give up one second of the pain.    Grissom kept going.  “I’ll never figure you out, never understand why you stand by me the way you do, Sara.  And I can’t make up for all the lost time and the misunderstandings and general grief we’ve gone through since I reached my realization, but if you’re still willing to give me a chance, I’m more than ready to…”    He trailed off, and I finished his sentence, trying not to sob or laugh.  “Seduce me?”    Grissom let go of my hand and touched my face, and the coolness that followed the brush of his fingers made me realize that a tear had gotten loose.  I grabbed my napkin and wiped at it, giggling a little despite myself.  “Sorry, umm, I just wasn’t expecting…honesty.”    He took the napkin gently out of my hand and blotted up the moisture, and there was so much tenderness in his touch that I just wanted to lean into his hand and never let him stop.    There didn’t seem to be a lot to say after that.  We touched instead, light casual connections, as though now that we had the freedom to do so we were making up for lost time.  I didn’t want to go when we finally finished our drinks, didn’t want that spell to break.  We dawdled back to the car eventually, and I got in and belted up, untangling my scarf from the seat belt with a smirk.  “We’re both really bad at this, aren’t we?”    Grissom huffed a laugh.  “I’ve NEVER been good at this,” he said.  “I suppose I should take you home now.”    I did not want this night to end just yet…and he’d promised to seduce me.  “You could come in,” I offered, staring out the windshield.    He didn’t say no.    We were quiet on the drive back, too.  I couldn’t help wondering what his next move would be, the next step in seduction, and felt my whole body come alive at just the imagining of a kiss.  If he could do so much to me just by touching my wrist…    When Grissom shut off the engine and spoke my name, I turned to look at him.  He seemed tense, nervous almost, and it occurred to me that he might still be worried that I was going to back out of this.  I cupped my hand over his cheek, letting my fingers trace the warm contour, feeling the light prickle of his beard in my palm.    “You have no idea how it makes me feel to know you want this too, Grissom,” I told him.  “I know tonight is supposed to be all about me, but I’m SO glad you…we--talked.”  His confession had made the whole thing real, told me he was truly invested in this.    In me.    His face lightened under my touch, and I stopped worrying.    Our bodies flirted as we went inside, brushing and bumping in a sensual little dance.  I led Grissom into my apartment, realizing that I’d forgotten to leave a light on, and heard him close the door behind me.  Grissom, in my personal space, with no crisis hanging over us…I laughed with the incredulous delight of it.  “The closest light is the lamp on the end table.  Think you can find it?”    It didn’t surprise me that he turned it on without tripping or fumbling.  After all, he’d been here before.    The light behind him put his face in shadow, edging his hair with silver and making him loom just a little.  I felt vulnerable again, and it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation.  He shifted his weight, and it struck me that my Grissom--could I say that?--my courteous, chivalrous Grissom, was letting me have control.    I let my breath out, feeling warm anticipation spreading through my veins.  “This is where I sit with you on my sofa, and we neck.”    And he smiled.  The Hypothesis of Seduction CSI Home Feedback