Rating: PG-13 BUT a WARNING for some strong language (just a few words, but they're the worse kind.)
Spoilers: To PwF and the season finale (don't remember the name just now).
Summary: In a certain point of drunkenness, you start talking to your ceiling and searching for someone to share your armchair with. [Sara's POV, G/S, Gr/S, and NONE of those things you're thinking about]
A/N: This idea came to me a couple of weeks ago and it's been building up ever since. Now, I'm down with the flu, and really bored, so I just started writing it. It's mostly about me being tired of this entire who's-attracted-to-who-situation, and I thought I'd stir it up a little. Don't know how well I succeeded. It's a bit... strange....


Never Listen When Concrete Is Talking


Sara downed her drink with one big gulp, which - she mere seconds later discovered - wasn't such a good idea after all. She started coughing uncontrollably as the bitter, brown liquid burned its way down her throat. Her fist slammed her chest several times, hard. It was a reflex more than anything else; it wasn't like she actually believed it would stop the aching storm that shook her ribcage. After a couple of minutes the coughing eased and she was able to breathe somewhat normally again. She crashed against the cushions of her oversized armchair ("Too big for one, just right for two," her friend had said with a knowing look when she'd seen it the first time.) and let her head loll back, casting her eyes at the ceiling of her living room. The paint was starting to peel off.

"Fuck you, Grissom."

Normally, in the broad daylight, or in her case nightlight, those words would have never passed her lips, not to mention swirled on her tongue tasting like a mix up of Twinkies and Jack Daniel's, but that evening in the comfort of her own living room she was a bit too drunk to be discreet. So she said it loudly and proudly, once again, this time letting the words really tinkle her tongue and bounce from her palate: "Ffffuck yyouu, Grrrissssommm." And she laughed. Chuckled at the ceiling, which, she was certain, was frowning at her. "Fuck you too," she chuckled and stuck out her tongue. The ceiling didn't say a word - as expected.

She didn't drink too often. In fact, the Jack Daniel's bottle now occupying the center of her coffee table had been hidden under the sink for the past two years. The memory of how she'd gotten it was long gone but as it seemed, even the most unconventional skeletons in one's closet - to use the saying quite loosely - may come handy one day. One day such as this.

It had been five weeks since the DNA lab exploded. Five long, excruciating weeks since that awkward invitation she'd blurted out to him. Him, the Mastermind. Him, the Boss. Him, the Trivia-filled, Shakespeare-quoting Plantman. Him, the man, whom she had grown to desire so badly she couldn't even remember the time before their game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately, in this game, the cat was the one to be eaten alive by false hope, fantasies of dream-alike love or at least a response.

She hadn't even gotten that much. Not a response. Not a sparkle of 'maybe'. Just a cold and final 'no'. And five weeks of silence. Cursing him, cursing the ceiling, cursing the liquor bottle or cursing herself wouldn't help. No, scratch that. Cursing herself would help. Banging her head against the wall would help too, but her head already felt too heavy.

She had no one else to blame for the situation but herself. Her stupidity and her teenaged yearning for the older man, her boss, who'd never return her feelings. Instead of being a couple, sharing secret loving gazes at work, getting to know each other inside out, and having raving hot sex from time to time, they'd ended up in a deafening silence, neither of them ever as much as mentioning the aforementioned invitation. She felt stupid, and she wasn't laughing anymore.

The ceiling stared bluntly at her. "Poor baby," she could almost hear it saying pityingly. She grunted and rolled her body to lie stomach down on the armchair. Amy, her friend, had been right; the chair was definitely too big for one. She pressed her cheek against the cool armrest. Not that I have anyone to share it with. The heavy glass dropped from her limp hand to the floor, making a soft thud as it hit the carpet. She heaved a sigh and pursed her lips together. A glance at the Jack Daniel's informed her that it was too far away for her to be bothered at that second.

The position, which she'd at first thought of as comfortable, soon contradicted otherwise. Her left arm that was trapped under her torso was slowly but unstoppably getting numb, so she changed her position yet again, this time turning on her back, resting her head against one armrest and swinging her legs over the edge of the other. She entwined her fingers over her abdomen.

"I'm an attractive young woman, am I not?" she said, slightly slurring, to her nonchalant companion of conversation. "I mean..." She stopped to wave her hand about in the air, gesturing incoherently. "I can pull men. I had Hank, like that --" She snapped her fingers, and then shrugged. "So, he was a worm who couldn't keep his pants up, but I could still pull him."

Or did he pull you? She stared at the ceiling. The ceiling stared back. "Oh, shut up. No one's asking you," she finally groaned after a brief second of silence. "The point is," she continued, "that I am an attractive woman, an even though the men I'm interested in are either cheating bastards or not interested in me..." Her voice trailed off into the darkened evening as her mouth was left ajar. Her face fell.

"Oh crap," she whispered with her tiny voice barely hearable. Whom am I kidding? I'm going to live the rest of my life in a one-bedroom apartment with seven cats to keep me warm at night. And an armchair too big for one. Her lower lip stuck out into a little pout, a miserable one of that. "No one wants me." The thought, finally let out, made a hard knot form into her chest, as if something was squeezing it tight. Had she been sitting up, her shoulders would've slumped. As she swung her feet to the floor, they indeed did slump. She picked up the glass from where it lay next to her left foot with one hand and reached for the bottle with the other. She filled the glass to the brim even though she knew it probably wasn't wise; her head was already whirling.

She was a CSI. She was a co-worker. An employee. Buddy. Breakfast company. Sara. But never, not once, a woman. Not to the people around her, not to her friends, to her co-workers. Always just Sara. No one thought of her as woman anymore. She lifted the glass to meet her lips as another miserable sigh escaped from her lungs.

One does.

The thought came out of the blue. Like a lightning bolt from a crystal clear sky. She let her hand drop, the glass nearly missing the table as she put it back down. "Yeah," she breathed, the realization dawning on her. "Yeah," she repeated, this time with more certainty. She smiled. Grinned.

"Yeah. Fuck you, Grissom." If you don't want me, I know someone who does.

***

Thirty minutes later she stood in front of a gray apartment building on the other side of Las Vegas from her own place. She'd tidied herself up a bit, added a little make-up, and changed her shirt to a more becoming one, a sexier one; a deep red, shirtless top with a very low neckline - a purchase she'd once bought for one crazy wedding shower and then shoved into the back of her wardrobe thinking she'd never be needing it again. Obviously, she'd thought wrong. At that moment, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she felt confident in her costume. Like a woman for once. (Or was it just the alcohol speaking?) At least the cabdriver had given her an accepting once-over.

She swayed slightly at the headlights of the cars that swooped by for a few seconds longer before she made her legs start moving towards the front door. Once there, she stopped to check the buzzers for the right apartment. A small, content smile curved her lips as she found the right one. She leaned on the buzzer.

After what seemed like an hour someone answered at last. "What?" a sleepy and mostly irritated voice barked from the speaker. She leaned closer to it.

"Hiya, sweetie. You're gonna buzz me in?" she chirped in a sing-a-song tone.

The line fell quiet. She could almost see the man's facial expression with her mind's eye; the raised eyebrows and the wondering look. "Who is this?" the bodiless voice finally asked, full of confusion.

She laughed; a throaty, hoarse laugh that emerged from deep within her chest. "It's me, Sara. Now lemme in or I'm gonna climb the wall."

Apparently, the latter option wasn't really an option because it didn't take long until a demanding buzz sounded from the door, and she rushed to pull it open. A cool brush of air hit her on the face as she entered the lobby. A bit unsteadily she crossed the tiled floor to the elevator. Soon the doors slid open and she stepped in. The metal cage jerked to movement.

She felt funny. Besides the fact that the elevator seemed to be shaking a bit more than it was supposed to, her arms tinkled and she couldn't keep them still. Instead she kept them busy all the way up by constantly drumming something with her fingers or fiddling her hair or her clothes. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. She wasn't nervous. No, far from it. She felt adventurous, daring. Like Batgirl, with the slight exception that instead of being a normal woman in her public life and fighting crimes in her personal life, she did just the opposite. The thought humored her and she chuckled.

Once the elevator reached the sixth floor and came to a stop, Sara staggered out and into the corridor. She had to press one hand against the wall for support for a second as her head started to twirl dangerously. The feeling soon passed, and she continued her journey towards the apartment 6D. She'd worn high heels for once, but she was starting to think of it as a mistake as her walking seemed too clumsy. Nevertheless she straightened her back and went on. "The Hell with you, Gil Grissom," she muttered under her breath. "Who needs you anyway? I don't; I've got my good underwear on." She chuckled again to herself.

The light-brown door that had '6D' written on it with black letters was the last door in the corridor. She knocked at it sharply. When she heard steps through the thick wood she quickly rearranged her posture; tugged the neckline of the top even lower, flipped her hair back, and leaned against the doorframe with one hand in a casual yet feminine - she hoped - way.

The safety chain rattled for a couple of seconds and then the door opened a crack. "It's okay, kiddo. It's really me and not Jack the Ripper," she informed before the man could poke out his head to check. With a sour look on his face he pushed the door properly open, yet still holding it with his arm stretched out. "I thought I'd been dreaming or something," he replied and yawned. His brownish hair was sticking out even more than usually, she noted.

She flashed the best smile she could muster even though her cheeks felt strangely numb. "Oh, poor baby, did I wake you up?" He cast a sharp look at her. "Apparently so. But I must say," she mouthed before he could answer himself, letting her eyes wander down his body that was only clothed with a pair of navy-blue boxers and a T-shirt, "I do like this current outfit of yours much better than your lab coat."

She could see a hot shade of red creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, and her smile became wider - especially when she saw his eyes gliding down her own body, stopping for the briefest second just in the right places. She was amazed that the flirtatious words had poured from her mouth as easily as they had - in different circumstances she'd have never even thought of them, but at the moment she felt like she was floating. Clumsily, yes, but still floating. She could do anything, say anything. She could be a woman. Game on, girl! "So, aren't you going to invite me in?" she purred and leant closer.

Which turned out to be another mistake when her hand slipped from the doorframe and she had to take a couple of stumbling steps forward.

His hands pressed against her shoulders to keep her from falling over. Gently he pushed her up and waited for her to find her balance again before asking the obvious question. "Sara, are you drunk?"

She started shaking her head promptly. "No, no, no, nooo."

"Sara..." he said with a warning tone.

She groaned. "Fine! I'm drunk and very much so! God, did you have to pick tonight to suddenly become a responsible adult?"

That caused a very familiar, white-teethed grin to invade his face. "You may call me Greg. There's no need to be too formal amongst friends. And I'm not 'suddenly becoming a responsible adult', I'd never do that, but it's over midnight and I was sleeping. Unlike you, obviously, I'd like to sleep during the night since this is one of the rare times I get that opportunity."

Deciding to ignore his reasoning, she reached out her hand and pressed it flat against his chest. His skin radiated warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. He stirred uncomfortably under her hand but didn't move away. "Sara, this isn't the best --"

"Remember the time you invited me for lunch?" she interrupted. She was slurring, even she could notice. And her eyelids were starting to get heavy. Damn that Jack Daniel's. She tried to fight back the weary feeling by starting to draw small, lazy circles on Greg's chest. From the periphery of her vision she saw him nodding. "Well, I don't know about lunch," she continued, mustering a teasing smile, "but I'd like some breakfast. In bed, preferably. We've both been through a lot and I thought that it would be a good idea if we... spent the night comforting one another."

A low, frustrated, almost pained moan passed his lips, making her look up at his face. They had a strange look on them, the deep brown eyes were hid behind closed eyelids; he looked like she'd just hit him in the stomach. "Some cosmic karma is kicking my ass so bad right now..." he muttered under his breath, so quietly that she almost missed the words.

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Look, Sara..." He lifted his hand to remove hers from where it still was pressed against his chest. "Believe me, had you showed up at my doorstep three months ago wearing that --" He shot a meaningful look down at her red top, and this time it was her turn to flush. "-- I'd taken you up on your offer in a blink of an eye and showed you that we science freaks don't do magic just in the laboratory." She couldn't help matching his grin as he'd spoken out those words. "But..."

Her smile faded. Oh yeah, she had forgotten to wait for the "but". Bad mistake. "But what?" she whimpered.

He was squirming. He scratched the back of his head with an awkward expression on his face. "Well, I just..."

"Honey?"

Sara frowned, puzzled. She hadn't said that. Nor Greg. The voice had come from behind his back, from somewhere within the apartment, from the... Her eyes widened and she slammed her hand over her mouth. "Oh God..."

Then the owner of the oh-so-feminine voice patted into her view, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning widely, wearing nothing but one of Greg's screaming-colored Hawaiian shirts. A petite woman with curly, chestnut hair. A petite woman who had just called the man she'd been hitting on "Honey".

"I think I'm going to vomit," Sara whispered so quietly she wasn't sure that even Greg had heard it.

The woman screwed up her eyes as if the light in the room was blinding as she eyed the doorway from the other side of the room. "What's going on, Greg?" she asked and let out another yawn.

Greg sent a smile over his shoulder to her. "It's Sara from work. Just go back to bed, I'll be right there," he informed. Apparently, that was all the information she needed because she just yawned again and patted her way back to where she'd come from. "You can stop doing that now," Greg said as he turned back to Sara, only to find her still standing there frozen in one pose with her eyes as wide as saucers and her hand over her mouth.

She squeaked as the breath she'd been holding whooshed out. "Kill me." She lifted both of her hands to cover her face that had turned bright red. In her mind she loudly cursed herself for being an idiot, the person who'd ever given her the Jack Daniel's for his or hers complete lack of psychic skills and the US government for ever legalizing liquor. Stupidstupidstupidstupid...

A comforting pair of arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her closer to the warm chest. "Oh, c'mon, Sara, it's not that bad."

"It is!" she protested but her voice muffled against his chest. "I just made a complete ass out of myself in front of the biggest clown I've ever known!"

"Why, thank you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm sure you didn't."

"Plus, I really am going to vomit soon."

He jumped back and let go of her, causing her too lose her balance for a second. "What?"

"Bathroom."

That was all she managed to utter without throwing up right there on the floor. Stunned, unable to do much more than just gape at her, Greg waved his hand at a white door to his left. Sara took a run for it and slammed the door shut behind her. She dropped on her knees in front of the toilet bowl just in time before it was time to re-meet Mr. Jack. After a long round of coughing she finally pushed herself up on her wobbling legs, flushed the toilet and found her way to the sink. She splashed some cold water on her face.

The picture that met her from the mirror that hung above the sink certainly wasn't a gorgeous, flirtatious woman. It was a drunken, miserable woman with mascara all over her face. Her shoulders slumped as she let her breath run out of her lungs in a heavy sigh. "I'm such an idiot." A whine, like a tiny girl's.

To top that, an idiot with a hell of a hang-over tomorrow morning.

She glanced up at the ceiling. "I hate you."

A knock and a muffled voice came from the door. "Sara? Are you okay?"

Quickly, she wiped away the mascara as well as she could. It didn't make her feel any better, but at least she looked decent enough. As she opened the door again, Greg was standing there with one of those trademark grins plastered all over his face. Sara cast a miserable look his way. He just chuckled and shook his head. "Okay, that's it, my Drunken Fairy, you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"I'd appreciate that," she sighed. She could've insisted that she took a cab back to her place, but then again, what's the point in playing strong and confident when you've just thrown up in the other person's bathroom. Instead, she dragged her feet obediently to the living room as Greg led the way. She didn't protest as he helped her on the couch, took off her shoes and spread a big afghan over her body.

She closed her eyes, which, to her surprise, felt extremely satisfying. Her head still felt like it weighed a ton. She had a very strong desire to jump out of the window, though, but for the time being, she pushed the thought away. She'd have plenty of time for that in the morning.

She could feel Greg's hand swiping the stray hairs from her face and she frowned thoughtfully, pursed her lips together. "Greg?"

The hand went away after finishing its task. "Yeah?"

"But I could've had you once, right?" she whispered, very seriously.

A soft chuckle rang in the air. "Hell yeah."

The serious frown changed into a hazy smile that invaded her face. "Good enough," she muttered sleepily.

Just before the dark, soft blanket of sleep wrapped completely around her consciousness, she heard the younger man replying with a smirk in his voice; "You're still so going to hear about this for the rest of your life."


THE END


A/N: Okay, now you're all thinking that I've finally lost it. Possibly I have... ;)