Author's Notes: I have a thing for vignettes involving random body parts. How wrong does that sound? g

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. I'm not making a profit. I wonder if there's a correlation.

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And the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes to her feet, as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petticoats!
-William Congreve, Love for Love(act I, sc. 1)

Just when he thought that all he needed to know about Sara Sidle could be summarized in exactly ten words (at the moment those words were ' Beautiful, dedicated, intelligent, witty, discreet, funny, stubborn, rebellious and spunky', but they were prone to change), he would always discover something else about her. Little things that, for whatever reason, took his breath away.

Not that he'd ever phrase it that way. Not Gil Grissom, no matter the situation.

Some of these things were bigger than others. Some were good, some were bad, others were just plain odd.

She preferred smooth to chunky peanut butter.

When she was twelve she had a guinea pig she called Curie.

She had been sexually assaulted when she was twenty three and still tensed when anyone touched her throat.

Her CD collection was even more diverse then his, though she would never admit it.

She had taken three ballet lessons when she was seven, but had dropped out because she was better than the other girls.

The last was his favourite:

She never wore socks at home.

It was such a stupid thing, in reality. The first time she brought him home after work she had taken her socks off at the door. He had gone to do the same, but she told him he didn't need to. Confused, he had left his socks on.

Close observation led him to conclude she never wore socks unless she was at work. Or on a date, though she had once complained they were just another damn thing to take off. She was half asleep at the time, and he had merely laughed quietly and told her she hadn't seemed to mind at the time.

As time passed, he became enthralled at the sight of her bare feet. They were perfectly ordinary feet; five toes and a heel on each. Above her left big toe was a scar, a reminder of her tomboy tendencies as a child, long before she discovered the rigid discipline of science. But to him they were something that only he saw, a secret beauty that only he was privy to. When their relationship became a stable routine she'd often stretch her feet onto his lap, deeply engrossed in the book she was reading.

On bad days, he'd bring to mind the image of Sara's feet. They were oddly calming, something he only saw outside the walls of CSI. Other pictures of her were too deceiving. She smiled at the lab; the long neck he had once spread lavished kisses on, before he realized that it made her nervous, was still in plain view; an exertive stretch could cause her t-shirt to rise above her belly button. But her feet… she wore socks, and shoes and booties. Her feet belonged to him and him alone.

One day she went to his house, too emotionally exhausted to argue when he offered to drive her home. She had raised an eyebrow when they pulled up to his townhouse, and he did his best to appear innocent. Sara shook her head, letting him know that he wasn't getting away with it that easy.

"I had to pick up a file," he explained.

She burst into raucous laughter, an emotional release.

"You had to pick up a file, but I had to sleep," she replied. She unbuckled her seatbelt and headed for his front door. Shaking his head at her apparent enthusiasm, he followed her.

"You'll never get in without a key," he informed her quietly. She twirled around to face him, a slight blush rising in her cheeks.

"You never know."

He reached around her and turned the lock.

"Ladies first."

Entering the hallway, she slipped her shoes off. Her socks joined them quickly, one of the few times she had done it in his house. The ritual she had still perplexed Grissom, but such was life. His came off too, and he headed into the kitchen.

"Tea Sara?" he asked, knowing that as much as she needed sleep she wasn't ready to do so yet.

"Yeah," she called, rifling through his book collection. Finding something to her liking, she sat down and began to read.

The kettle whistled; he made two mugs and brought them into the living room. Handing one to her, he settled into the other corner of the couch. She hadn't looked up, preferring to continue reading. When they both realized the rustle of a turning page hadn't interrupted the silence periodically, they exchanged a small smile. Setting the book aside, Sara took a long sip and pulled her feet onto the couch.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't think I could actually stop you."

"What's with the socks?"

She laughed, a full-blown belly laugh.

"I can't believe you haven't asked before. It's my… thing. My attempt to separate home and work."

"You take off your socks?"

She shrugged. "I used to go all summer without wearing socks, so I figured 'what the hell', right? At least my separator isn't collecting hula hoops or something."

"Hula hoops?"

"Jeanne Adams, Boston PD. Had over 600 hoops at last count."

Seeing his incredulous stare, she added, "Internet insomnia."

"Okay, so you don't collect hula hoops. Doesn't really explain the socks, but I'll let it pass."

"How very kind of you," Sara said, rolling her eyes.

"So I guess that means we don't talk about work if you're not wearing socks?"

"Yes."

"And this is supposed to make sense to whom exactly?"

"Me," she grinned at the absurdity. She let out a small chuckle when she saw Grissom's bare feet on the couch beside hers. She turned away quickly, underhandedly slipping her foot out to stroke his. He did the same, though both pretended nothing was going on.

After a few minutes of footsie, Sara glanced over at her companion. He was lost in thought.

"What?"

Grissom looked up at her, almost embarrassed.

"I was just trying to think about something profound about socks, but I'm speechless."

..........