Fandom: CSI Rating: R Pairing: G/S Summary: A sequel to Rollercoaster, which really should be read first. Disclaimer: Some of 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.  Others strongly resemble characters that sort of belong to ABC, though I seriously doubt anyone cares at this point.  The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first.  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: general fifth season through "Unbearable" Note: This is an AU futurefic that includes a number of original characters.      ********* “Sara.” Grissom reached out to catch Sara’s hand as she slid past the couch on her way to the armchair, and she looked down inquiringly. “Hm?” He drew her down to his side, keeping hold of her hand. “Can we talk about the, uh, our wedding?” Sara blinked, but didn’t laugh at his stumble. “Okay...” For a moment they just looked at each other, Grissom not quite sure where to start. It had been almost a week since they’d returned from California, and a rush of cases for both of them had left little time for the necessities, let alone any discussion. But now that Sara had voiced a preference, Grissom was determined to make plans. “So...before Thanksgiving?” he prompted. Sara turned her palms up, an open gesture. “Yeah, I was thinking. If everybody can get time off. I mean, we could have a private ceremony, but no one would forgive us.” The idea appealed, Grissom had to admit--exchanging vows with Sara in some secluded little chapel, devoid of Vegas kitsch and all but the necessary witnesses. But she was right; it would be unfair to their friends and family. “We couldn’t just have a party afterwards?” Sara’s grin was wistful. “I wish, but no. Your mom would kill us both, and Kimmy would help.” “True.” Grissom leaned back, resigned to the necessity. “Well, how do we do this? I’ve never had to plan a wedding.” “Me neither.” Sara shrugged. “But we can research it.” Two hours later they were sitting at the dining room table, staring at their collection of books with mild dismay. “Between the library and the bookstore, I think we’ve got enough guides to plan one in the Himalayas,” Sara grumbled, picking up Weddings for Dummies and riffling through it without enthusiasm. Grissom skimmed the index of a thicker, more intimidating book. “Well, this way we won’t have to make a second trip. Do we need a planning binder?” Sara grimaced. “I hope not, but we’ll probably be making lists. Starting with guests, I suppose.” “Every time I think about it there are more people,” Grissom said with a sigh. “Pass me a pen?” He scribbled down all the names he could think of; at Sara’s look of dismay, he shook his head reassuringly. “We don’t have to invite everybody, but this way I won’t forget anyone.” “Good idea,” Sara agreed, and when he was done took the sheet and added a fair number of names herself. “Okay, what have we got?” They had a brief, mild argument over invitations versus announcements, with Grissom maintaining that most of his family wouldn’t accept and Sara countering that they weren’t planning big enough to take the chance; she won. In the end, the list was short. “Your mother and aunt and uncle,” Sara said, tapping the pen on the page as she counted. “My brother, the kids, and Gracie; Cath and Warrick and Lindsey; Jim and the techs; Al and his wife; David and Sylvie; Greg, Nick, Gen, Abdul, and Betty; and possibly dates for the single people.” “What about your work?” Grissom asked, concerned, but Sara shrugged. “I love those guys, but not enough to invite them to California for our wedding. It’s not that kind of relationship, you know?” “Wait a minute,” Grissom said, confused. “California? We didn’t--” “It has to be California,” Sara said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Gil, your mother gets tired so easily, we can’t ask her to come out here. We’ll have it right there, and that way she can party with everyone else without having to quit early.” Grissom stared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice, just snapping her fingers as an idea came to her. “Hey, doesn’t her place have a garden?” He found his voice. “Yes, it’s a nice one--it was one of the criteria.” “We could have it there, then, if they don’t mind. Does that sound good to you?” Her gaze was frank, casual--she had no idea, no idea at all of how much her words meant to him. Grissom leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her slowly and reverently. She let him, but gave him a puzzled look as he let her go. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For caring.” Sara had to admit, once they actually sat down and started planning, the wedding seemed to fall into place fairly easily. The venue for the actual party proved a little more difficult when Verde Ridge said that they could have a ceremony but no party. “They say it’s against policy,” Sara complained to Ed, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she folded laundry. “I don’t know why--I know they have birthday parties there all the time.” “They’re probably not insured for it,” Ed replied. Sara could hear Kimmy’s clarinet in the background. “What other places do you have on your list?” She sighed, pairing socks. “A couple of restaurants, but nothing really ideal. We really wanted a more casual atmosphere.” “Too bad you don’t have more time, or I might be able to get you someplace on campus,” Ed said. Sara laughed. “Thanks, but a microbiology lab is not quite what we had in mind!” Ed gave her a raspberry over the phone. “Not what I meant and you know it. Hey, you could have the party here!” “At your place?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Ed.” “So’m I. C’mon, sis, it’s perfect! We’ve got room for that many people--” “Barely.” “Yeah, but you never get all the guests showing up, you know how it is. I’ll beat the garden into shape, find a good caterer, and bingo!” “Ed, I’d love to have the party at your house, but honestly, that’s too much work. We can’t impose--” She jumped, startled, as the phone was lifted from her hand. Grissom cocked a brow at her and spoke into the headset, his eyes not leaving hers. “Ed, that’s a great idea, thank you.” He listened for a moment, evading Sara’s half-hearted grab, then spoke again. “We’ll handle the catering end of things...no, I insist...yes. No, I’m sure we can come to an agreement. All right...goodbye.” Grissom gave her back the phone. Sara glared at him without much force and lifted it to her ear. “Do I get any say in this?” “Talk to your husband-to-be. Seriously, this’ll be a good excuse for me to tame the jungle out back. It’ll be fun!” Ed’s cheerful voice was suddenly undercut by a repetitive beeping. “Oops, that’s dinner, got to go.” “Coward,” Sara accused fondly, and disconnected before turning to Grissom. “Now, what the hell…” He was leaning against the wall, arms folded. “It’s the perfect solution,” he insisted. “A comfortable venue, and you know it’ll be clean.” “Yeah, but it’s a lot of work for him!” “Sara, he wants to do it. You know your brother…he doesn’t make idle suggestions.” Grissom gave her an appealing look. “And you were going to refuse.” “Nngh.” Sara had to admit that Grissom had a point, and the idea was certainly appealing. “Okay, okay. But if he starts complaining, I’m sending him to you.” “Deal.” Grissom smirked at her. “And in the meantime, think of the fun you’ll have ordering him around.” Sara rolled her eyes. They chose a date in late October and went back to life as they knew it--sleeping, talking, laughing, and work. To Grissom, the time didn’t seem to go fast enough, even though days slipped easily by. Upon discussion they decided to put off a honeymoon until they both had more vacation time saved up, but he couldn’t help doing the occasional bit of research. Spending a week in Florida on a sailboat had its merits, but then so did flying to Kyoto to see the cherry trees blossom. Every so often he would feel a spasm of obscure apprehension, the primal fear that things were too good to last. But then Sara would come home in a foul temper, or a crime scene would be compromised, or some other irritation would occur, and he’d realize that life was just life, good and bad. Well, that and he was still a lucky SOB. But he knew that. It wasn’t until twiddling the microscope’s focus knob brought no result that Grissom realized how far gone he was. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes, but that didn’t work either, and with a hiss of irritation he threw the switch on the machine before breaking into another round of coughing. The fit took a while to ease, and finally he leaned against the lab counter, panting a little. The cold had started the day before Sara had left for a seminar in Sacramento, but at the time it had been hardly more than a sniffle. In two days, though, it had blown up into a raw throat, coughing, and a constant headache, as well as joint aches and chills. Grissom had ignored the symptoms as best he could, stocking up on non-drowsy cold medicine and skipping the coffee that made his throat hurt worse, but nothing really seemed to help. “Hey, Grissom?” Greg’s voice cut across his daze, and Grissom straightened hastily, fumbling for his glasses at the sight of a file in the younger CSI’s hands. “Are you…” “I’m fine,” Grissom snapped feebly, and reached for the folder. “What have you got?” Greg surrendered the file with a wary, considering look. “Tox results, and they’re really screwy. Griss, I know everyone’s been working doubles for the bombing at the Pharaoh, but--“ “I’m fine, Greg,” Grissom repeated, ignoring the small pang of shame at his shortness. “It’s just a cold.”  He looked down, forcing his eyes to focus on the printout. “You have nothing to worry about as long as you avoid catching it.” Greg sighed exaggeratedly and left, throwing a “Whatever” over his shoulder. Grissom frowned at the file, trying to bludgeon the information into his brain with only partial success. Some of the body parts recovered after the bombing had apparently had some very strange chemicals in their veins, but he couldn’t quite figure out if there was a connection to the bombing itself. Then a big hand reached into his line of sight, pulling the file smoothly away. “That’s enough,” said Abdul’s resonant voice, and the hand came back, pressing briefly against Grissom’s forehead. “You’re quite right, Greg.” “Right about what?” Grissom said, or tried to, but a cough rose up in his throat and distracted him. “Right in that it’s time for you to go home,” Abdul said firmly. “You’ve been working almost nonstop for two days. I don’t want to have to explain to Isabeau that I let you work yourself into pneumonia.” Grissom found the rather crumpled handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his eyes. “May I remind you that she is my supervisor, not you?” Abdul’s smile was ironic. “But I am in charge of the night shift, and as of this moment, you’re not on it until you’re well. Come on, Grissom.” His tone shifted. “The bulk of the processing is done. Go home and get some rest, before you pass out.” Grissom almost protested, but then remembered the slide sitting in the microscope, the one he simply no longer had the ability to read. “All right. As soon as I finish--“ “No,” Abdul interrupted, shaking his head. “Either you take a taxi home right now, or I have Jim send over an officer to drive you.” Greg, standing behind Abdul, gave Grissom a rather apprehensive smile. Given the options, and knowing he didn’t have the energy to protest, Grissom gave in. “All right. I’ll take a taxi.” “Good.” Abdul gave a stern nod. “One will be at the front door in about three minutes; you’ll be waiting for it.” He turned towards the door, gesturing for Greg to precede him. “I’ll be checking, Doctor.” Grissom frowned at the departing men, but even Abdul’s “Good job, Greg,” couldn’t snuff the small spark of relief he felt at the idea of getting home to his own quiet bed. And admit it. You really can’t do your job at this point. But it was easy to rationalize; the truth was, the house was empty and cold without Sara, and he hadn’t wanted to go home. It reminded him far too much of what life had been like before she’d come back. His headache was deepening as he went out the lab doors, and Grissom flinched at the morning light and slid his sunglasses on hastily. Fortunately for his eyes, the cab pulled up within a minute, and Grissom climbed stiffly inside, having to repeat the directions when his voice quit working properly. He almost fell asleep on the way home, and then nearly couldn’t see clearly enough to pay the driver. But the house welcomed him with a hushed coolness that felt good on his flushed skin, and Grissom made his way to the bedroom, disregarding tidiness for once and leaving items and clothes scattered behind him along the hall. He detoured into the bathroom for a drink of water--one effect of the cold was a near-constant thirst--and then the bed, empty though it was, accepted him into rest and sleep. He dreamed of Sara, though the dreams were disjointed and confusing; sometimes they were vague images, sometimes sensory impressions so sharp as to be almost real. Her low voice; her hand touching his cheek; the slim solid length of her next to him, so that he threw an arm over her and tried to get amorous until she twisted away with a soft laugh. None of them ever lasted very long, and he worried a little about her, even underneath the heavy sleep. When Grissom finally woke completely, he felt as limp as a wet rag, and itchy with the need to bathe, but he could tell that the worst of the cold had passed. In fact, he was actually hungry. Blinking, he pushed into a sitting position on the bed, letting a small wave of dizziness crest and subside, and swallowed experimentally. His throat was still sore, but nowhere near as badly. He was just about to try standing when Sara came through the bedroom door carrying a tray, and he stared at her, his brain spinning in place as he tried to figure out why she was there. “Sara?” His voice was still hoarse. “I thought you were in Sacramento.” “I was.” She managed to bend and brush a light kiss over his chapped lips without tipping the tray. “Greg called me.” Grissom closed his eyes in mingled embarrassment and relief. “I’ll kill him.” “No you won’t.” She sat down on the bed next to his legs. “He did the right thing, Gil. I couldn’t wake you when I got home, I was starting to get worried. Then I found out how long you’d been up.” She handed him a glass of orange juice, her expression gentle. “I’ll wait to yell at you for that until you’re feeling better.” The juice reminded Grissom how thirsty he was, and he took it, sipping slowly in deference to his throat. “Greg shouldn’t have called you away from your seminar.” Sara gave him a tolerant look. “Of course he should have. It’s just a seminar, Gil. I can always take it again if I have to.” She set the tray in his lap. “You’re what’s important.” Grissom reached for her hand, squeezing it once. “Well, I’m glad you are here. I missed you.” Sara laughed and squeezed back. “I missed you too.” The tray held a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, and another glass full of milk. No bacon, but Grissom didn’t expect any. “I can’t eat all this.” “Try,” Sara said sternly. “You’ve been asleep for most of the last twenty-four hours, and I seriously doubt you were eating much before that. You need the nutrients.” When she took that tone, there was really no arguing with her. Grissom picked up his fork obediently. It’s either that or she’ll start feeding me herself. To his surprise, he was able to finish almost three-quarters of the food, but the energy it brought only made him more aware of how badly he wanted a shower. Knowing that his knees were going to be wobbly, he tried to shoo Sara. “I think I’ve had enough. Have you eaten?” “Yep.” She stood and took the tray from his lap, and for a moment Grissom thought he’d succeeded, but instead she just put it on the bedside table. “Feeling better?” “Yeah.” He plucked at the T-shirt he was wearing, conscious of its dampness. “I could use a shower, though.” She grinned, stood, and held out a hand, and with an internal sigh Grissom realized there was no getting out of it. So he put his hand in hers and let him pull him to his feet. Sure enough, he nearly lost his balance, and Sara put a quick arm around his waist to steady him. “I hate this,” he muttered, embarrassed, and she gave him a puzzled look. “You’re sick, Gil. It happens.” “I feel old.” He stepped away from her and headed for the bathroom, feeling petulant and stubborn. Sara walked beside him, but didn’t reach out to take his arm. “You’re not old. You’re recovering from what was almost pneumonia. You’re allowed to feel shaky.” Grissom reached the doorway and leaned against it. Her eyes were on him, warm and caring and concerned, and he sighed again, letting some of the irritation out with it. “Am I whining?” Her smile started slowly, but took over her whole face, and he couldn’t help a reluctant, answering smile. “Yeah.” Shaking his head, Grissom let her put her arm around him and lead him to the shower. Sara waited until the water was hissing at full force before scooping up Grissom’s discarded clothes and dumping them in the hamper. The steam would make him feel better, but she knew he’d probably want to go right back to sleep when he got out, so she went to strip and remake the bed. Tucking in sheets and fluffing pillows gave her an outlet for some of her suppressed emotion. She’d been more worried about Grissom than she’d let him know; Greg’s call had sent her driving home at once, and she’d found Grissom sunk in a deep sleep and wheezing, and had nearly called 911 on the spot. But a call to their insurance’s nurse service calmed her a little, and instead she had tended him and let him sleep, rousing him just enough to swallow some aspirin and water and keeping an eye on his temperature. He had sometimes stirred and muttered in dream, and at one point, when she’d laid down beside him to rest for a bit, had nuzzled up against her in a fashion that had made her think his dreams were pretty pleasant. And just when she’d planned to wake him so he could eat something, he’d woken on his own. Was that luck, or our sense of timing? Sara smoothed the comforter over the crisp sheets, then headed back into the bathroom. Grissom was dimly visible through the frosted glass of the shower, still leaning against the wall; he’d started to shiver as soon as he’d stripped, and she figured he was still warming up. Quickly she pulled off her own clothes and slid the door open to follow him inside. At his look of surprise, she smirked and held up her scarred palm. “Turn about is fair play.” It was her pleasure to bathe him, healthy or not, and his half-formed protest trailed off as she reached for the washcloth and lathered it up. Sara stroked soap slowly over his skin and rinsed it off again; not trying to arouse, just caring for him as she had so long wanted to do. Grissom blinked at her like a sleepy child and let her, turning obediently at her direction, and humming a little in appreciation as she cleansed him. His hair was fun to do; Grissom loved having his scalp rubbed, and always grumbled with delight when she worked the shampoo through the curly strands. But by the time he was clean she could see his knees shaking a little, and Sara shut off the water, slipped into her robe, and wrapped Grissom in the largest towel they had. He drew the line at letting her dry him, though, so she squeezed the water out of her hair and dressed again as Grissom blotted away water and pulled on a pair of pajama pants. He even managed to brush his teeth before making his way back to bed, and though he was ill Sara couldn’t help admiring a little as he crawled between the sheets--the pajamas didn’t leave a lot to the imagination when he was bent over like that. Then he was rolling over and looking at her with tired eyes. “Come here. You need sleep too.” Well, he’s right. Her hair would dry funny, but that didn’t really matter. Grissom held out an arm, and Sara lay down, letting him pull her close so that he could rest his head on her shoulder. His slightly damp hair tickled her chin, and Sara settled her arm so that she could stroke it. Mutual comfort. It doesn’t get any better than this. “Love you,” she whispered to the back of his skull, and he mumbled sleepily, settling his head more comfortably, his hand finding a place on her hip. They slept.             Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3     Chapter 4     Chapter 5     Chapter 6     Chapter 7     Chapter 8     Chapter 9     Chapter 10    Chapter 11     Chapter 12     Chapter 13     Chapter 14     Chapter 15     Chapter 16     Chapter 17    Chapter 18     Chapter 19     Chapter 20     Chapter 21     Chapter 22     Chapter 23     Chapter 24     Chapter 25     Chapter 26     Chapter 27     Chapter 28    Chapter 29     Chapter 30     Chapter 31     Chapter 32     Chapter 33     Chapter 34     Chapter 35     Chapter 36     Chapter 37     Chapter 38 Chapter 39     Chapter 40 CSI Home Feedback