Fandom: CSI Pairing: G/S Rating: NC-17 Summary: You can put off Armageddon, but you can't cancel it. Disclaimer: Most 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. All the others are mine, 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: through "Swap Meet" Note: Again, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would never have seen daylight. ********* Sara frowned thoughtfully at Grissom’s toaster, a shiny retro model that cast back her distorted reflection and gave forth the enticing fragrance of crisping bread. She could barely tell from the curvy image that she was wearing one of Grissom’s shirts, but the faint scent of him embedded in the cotton was enough to remind her. That, and other things. She ran the tip of her tongue over the skin below her lower lip, which tingled just slightly. It’s been a while since I had beard burn. Smugness, she decided, suited her toaster reflection no better than a frown. She turned away, cocking her head at the hiss of the shower, and opened the refrigerator in search of juice. The smell of toast was beginning to compete with that of the brewing coffee, and to Sara it felt slightly surreal to be so comfortably domestic in Grissom’s small kitchen. In the past few hours they had basically inverted their relationship, and she was still trying to take it all in. Inverted...transformed...not sure yet. I don’t think Grissom’s going to freak out, but… It was a bewildering thing to realize that she really didn’t know what he would do. Then again, I’m not sure he does either. If nothing else, his sudden deafness would require major changes in his life. Most probably, he could no longer be a CSI. But he could consult. All he’d need is a translator. Maybe not even that. Sara fished up a juice carton and opened cupboard doors until she found glasses, snagging two. He could teach, though he’d definitely need a translator for that. He’s good at it. She smiled over the memory of the lecture where she’d first seen him. For all he was a solitary soul, Grissom was a superlative lecturer when the subject interested him. All bright eyes and that grin of his. And the puns…! Sara chuckled to herself and filled the glasses, returning the carton to the fridge and glancing over the contents. One shelf was apparently reserved for petrie dishes and other nonfood items, most of which she didn’t care to examine too closely, but the rest of it was either commercial items or unlabeled containers. Curious, she popped one open, finding a gelid slab of lasagna. The sharp scent of the sauce made her stomach rumble, but she noted the ground beef layered within the noodles and replaced it, closing the door and leaning against the breakfast bar. The notebook and pen from Grissom’s room were there; she’d brought them along when he’d gone to take a shower. Sara picked up the pen, rolling it absently in her fingers. I’ll have to learn to sign. I wonder how long it takes to get a working vocabulary? For that matter, would Grissom be able to use hearing aids? He said there wasn’t any more treatment, but... She grumbled a little. I need more information. The toast sprang up, and she pushed off the counter, reaching up for a plate. Her imaginings of classes and silent conversations gave way to a bleaker vision of the lab without Grissom. Geez, who’d make sure Greg got his CSI slot? Or buy us breakfast after tough cases? I don’t even know who Ecklie would appoint. She swallowed. The idea of anyone else in Grissom’s office, stripped bare of its preserved oddities and fishy accents, was upsetting. Catherine wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, or Warrick, but what if it’s that blonde from Dayshift? She’s Ecklie’s pet, it wouldn’t surprise me if she got it. Sara put the toast on the plate and stared at it. I...don’t know what we’ll do without him. A touch on her arm made her jump. “Sara?” She hadn’t noticed the shower stopping. Grissom stood next to her in bare feet and jeans, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair still damp. His gaze was clear, but she could see tension in him. “Having second thoughts?” And suddenly it didn’t matter. Work was work. This was life. She smiled at him, taking full enjoyment in the way his eyes lit in response, and slid her hands up under his shirt, stepping into his embrace to answer him without words. Grissom’s arms closed around her easily, and she felt him sigh, as though he were letting go of doubt. “Am I dreaming?” he muttered into her hair. “I almost expected to step out of the shower and find I imagined this.” Sara snorted. “Fat chance,” she said, more to herself since he couldn’t see her face, and then pulled away, reaching for the notebook. You’re not dreaming. He grinned, one of those rare, startling smiles, and took the pen. Then why are you wearing my shirt? She grinned back. I’ve always wanted to. Grissom laughed, and opened a drawer for knives. “There’s butter and jelly in the fridge.” They made a slow breakfast of it, swapping the pen back and forth and getting crumbs on the notebook as they chatted on paper. On some level, Sara was astounded at the ease of the situation--they were talking as though the last awkward months had never taken place. As she polished off her last bite of toast, though, she decided it was time to face facts. She turned to a fresh page in the notebook and wrote. You still need to see a doctor. Grissom read the words, and sobered. There’s nothing anyone can do, he wrote slowly in return, and Sara winced as his face became drawn again. But she took a deep breath, and the pen. You don’t know that. What’s the number for your doctor? Grissom stared at the page for a moment, then glanced up at the kitchen clock. Silently, he rose, disappearing back down the hallway. Sara bit her lip, uncertain whether to follow him, wondering sickly if her insistence had pushed him into retreat. But before she could make up her mind what to do, he reappeared, holding a business card. He laid it in front of her and pulled over the notebook. Her office has early hours. Give the receptionist my name, and she’ll probably be able to fit me in today. Sara let out her breath, and reached for the phone. Grissom was at the sink when she was done, rinsing out the coffeepot; he’d already swept their few dishes into the dishwasher. She walked over to him, stepping heavily so as not to startle, and slid her arms around him from behind. Grissom set the pot in the drainer and surprised her by pulling one of her hands up to his mouth and pressing a brief kiss in the palm. Sara swallowed against the lump in her throat as he turned in her arms. “Success?” She stepped back and drew a two, a three, and a zero in the air with her finger. Grissom nodded. “Fair enough.” Sara went back for the notebook. I’ll drive you. She expected him to argue, but he only nodded. They stood staring at each other for a moment; Sara knew they should sleep before then, but she didn’t know what Grissom expected or wanted. He was an intensely private person--did he need some time alone? I think…this had better be his move. Grissom pursed his lips, eyes wary, then reached for her hand again. “Will you stay?” he asked softly. “I have a spare toothbrush…” She had to smile at that, though she also had to let go of him to write. You talked me into it. She added a smiley face for good measure. He laughed again. “I’ll even find you some clean towels.” When she came out of the bathroom she was wearing his shirt and a clean pair of his boxers, though they threatened to drop off her hips, and he wasn’t in his bedroom. Sara tracked the clinks into the spare room, where she found him feeding the two tarantulas that he kept at home. Sudden cricket death wasn’t one of her favorite sights, but she walked in anyway, and Grissom looked up. The smile that spread over his face was equal parts awe and pleasure, and she realized with a pulse of warmth that he was seeing her--not her damp hair or the too-big clothes. “Tired?” he asked, and she held out a hand and tilted it back and forth, shrugging. Grissom put the lid back on the tank and pulled a wipe from the canister next to it to clean his hands. “I want to apologize for something, Sara,” he said gravely, and her stomach twisted a little. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. It’s not the right time yet-- Grissom threw the wipe in the trash and stepped forward to stand in front of her. “I owe you a lot of apologies, but--“ Sara laid one hand on his lips, trying to stop him, but he pulled it away gently. “No, let me finish.” He cocked a brow, and she nodded reluctantly. Rubbing her palm with his thumb, he went on. “I owe you apologies, but now’s not the time to make them. Just the one.” He sighed, and she saw a bit of a flush edging up from his beard. “Earlier…I…I was too hasty, Sara. I know you enjoyed yourself, that was pretty obvious, but I didn’t take the time I should have, and I’m sorry.” Her mind spun briefly as she was assailed by the memory of his slow kisses, of his weight on her and in her, the way his touch had rendered her unconscious of anything but him and the way he made her feel. He thinks that was too fast? She gave him an incredulous look. One corner of his mouth turned up. “I may be pushing my luck here, but…will you give me another chance to--“ This time she used her mouth to cut off his words. This time he didn’t protest. Eventually his kisses reached her ear, and he muttered into it. “I can’t hear you, Sara. I want to see you instead.” For answer, she towed him to his bedroom. She would have waited for him in the doctor’s waiting area, but Grissom took her hand and pulled her with him to the examining room. Whatever news he was going to get, he wanted Sara there. The desire surprised him somewhat, but he had too much on his mind to question it right now. Dr. Roth listened to his explanation, then took a scope to his ears. He waited patiently, feeling his stomach knot in anticipation of the verdict, but she was frowning when she straightened. Just a minute, she signed, her lips moving along with the words, before leaving the tiny room. Grissom exchanged puzzled glances with Sara, who was sitting on one of the small chairs. She rose and came over to him, reaching for his hand again, and they waited without words. The doctor returned a few minutes later. Dr. Grissom, you have no new growths and your stapedectomy is still functioning; your sudden hearing loss is probably not related to your otosclerosis. Grissom felt his jaw drop slightly, and he and Sara glanced at each other again. “It’s not?” he asked weakly, wondering dizzily what was wrong--a tumor, perhaps? Sara must have said something, because Dr. Roth spoke and signed again. Probably, yes. Have you been ill recently? Experienced vertigo? she asked, turning towards Grissom. He frowned. “I’ve had a cold this week. And yes, I’ve had a few dizzy moments.” The doctor nodded. The most likely explanation is that you have contracted neuronitis in your inner ear, which has caused the loss of hearing. I need to do a culture on you to determine whether it’s bacterial or viral, but if you haven’t experienced any symptoms of earache, that and your cold tell me it’s probably viral. “Is it permanent?” he asked, suddenly dizzy for another reason entirely. If it was temporary-- The doctor opened her hands in a gesture of uncertainty, then went on. Most sufferers recover most of their hearing; almost half get all of it back. But the only way to find out is to wait. Grissom blew out a breath, astonished. He’d been so certain-- Dr. Roth’s eyes flicked towards Sara, and she answered the question Grissom couldn’t hear. There’s no treatment for viral neuronitis, though I can prescribe an anti-vertigo medication if the dizziness gets severe. As I said, I’ll do a culture and we’ll see. She smiled at them both. If there’s no change within a few weeks, or if other symptoms show, we’ll have to consider other causes, but at the moment I’m pretty confident that all you’ve got is a cold in the head. Grissom had to laugh at that, part amusement and part an acute relief. Sara’s hand tightened on his, and they looked at each other. Grissom knew there were no guarantees, but the odds in his favor were much higher than he’d thought, and the terrible resignation in the back of his mind shrank under the pressure of hope. And under the pressure of Sara’s fingers. She grinned at him. Told you, she said, and he grinned back. “Yes, you did. Good thing I finally listened.” End. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 CSI Home