Summary: Sara's secret hideaway (short G/s)

Disclaimer: Like I said once before, if y'all helped me, we could kidnap them and make our own set. Maybe we'll choose a fic per week, maybe make a script out of it and wham! Instant eppy! Anyhow, no. I don't own them and that just…sucks.

Author's notes: I give up, I can't write anything longer than 2.000 words anymore. This story is my answer to two questions: giving the present situation between Griss and Sara, what's the last place you'll expect to find them? Once you found them there, how would they act?

Big thanks to hisluvpet for the beta. Fic Jr. loved camp!


Grissom inhaled a lungful of the balmy, salty breeze that crawled in from the Pacific Ocean and swirled around them. Lounging in a swaying hammock under the cool shade of a weeping willow and hearing the waves break, he felt like the life of crime and blood in Las Vegas had never existed.

It would exist again in three days, when their short vacation was over though.

"Penny for your thoughts," Sara said, looking up at him from the crook of his shoulder. He smiled.

Grissom laid on his back with Sara stretched on her side, her inner thigh resting comfortable at the edge of his right hip bone.

"You've never talked about this place," he said, his hand tracing sluggish circles on her lower back, close to the waistband of her shorts. He did it as absently as if he were doing it on the grainy sand instead of soft, recently-tanned skin. Sara never complained, and he found it soothing.

"I didn't want to taint it with work," she replied, hand lolling across his belly. Then, she admitted. "You were right."

The drooping leaves of the weeping willow swayed, and over the white deck shadows flickered. His finger drew a triangle as he nodded, confirming what his gut had been telling him for months.

Time and work had changed her, and while Sara Sidle continued to be a hard-core workaholic, not all aspects of her life were related to forensics. The two-story cabin in California was proof of it. She'd set a ground rule: the house would never hear or see anything related to the dark, vicious world of crime and the rotten side of humanity she'd become eerily accustomed to deal with. She didn't want that part of her life to intrude into this one.

It was the logical next step, Grissom thought. Any CSI could only last so long without having any kind of sanctuary, and Sara had already had a brush with burnout. Crime and suffering would ensnare your soul if you didn't reserve a piece of mind's real-estate for yourself.

Sara's safe-haven smelled and felt like it had never seen a winter since it had been built. A cute little two story cabin to outsiders, a last-ditch attempt to keep a CSI's sanity to Grissom.

He felt Sara yawning; her body stiffened as she stretched, then relaxed again. Grissom drew a square that pushed a soft groan out of her lips. "To the left," she said. Grissom complied. "An inch higher. There." They both smiled. "We need orange juice."

"Yeah, I made a list yesterday. We can go to Finn's later," Grissom said.

Sara smiled approvingly. "My aren't we organized."

Such a simple conversation for such a complicated relationship.

Grissom closed his eyes and let the smell and sound of the ocean and Sara's body and voice to be the only sensory input he got from the world. "You own this place?"

"Yup. Every square inch of it." She sounded proud. She should be. "I had my eye on it since I was twenty-five. Took me awhile to get the nerve to plunder my savings," her voice was soft, not a worry in her mind. Very different from her voice in Las Vegas, Grissom mused.

As an afterthought she added, "Almost half of it is overtime money anyway." The house had, after all, a thin connection to crime. He didn't bring her attention to the fact.

He ran his hand over her still damp hair and felt a few grains of sand. She'd taken a dip in the ocean a while ago. He inhaled her scent and smiled. Salty and sandy. A faint trace of coconut sunscreen.

Grissom's brain would forever associate the ocean with Sara, the sun with Sara's voice, and Blue Bayou with long, slow lovemaking.

"You named the house?" he asked, eyes still closed. He thought about the sign nailed to a pine tree in the fort yard.

"No. The last owner asked me if I would leave it up. He was. . .eighty, I think. Made me promise to take good care of his baby."

She snuggled closer to her crook of his neck with one slinky move of her hips, seeking a warm familiar place. He had a flash of last night. Sheets. Heat. Kissing.

He thought he'd been partially right about being afraid of getting involved with Sara. She made him feel too good, and the more he knew her, the more he became afraid of losing her.

He opened his eyes and took her warm hand in his to chase away the cold insecurity that had wormed its way into his spine.

She continued. "Said he'd built it himself. His wife picked the name Blue Bayou. It was her favorite song. Fits the house like a T, if you ask me. Besides, I think changing a house's name is bad luck."

Grissom's blue eyes observed her delicate hand, long fingers and smooth skin, "I think that applies to boats, not houses." His hand looked big and rough. And old. He wondered if their hands belonged together. "Close enough anyway," he said, rubbing his thumb over her wrist a few times before giving it a tender squeeze, which she returned.

The sun was an orange ball, sinking slowly below the ocean. The air got colder and Sara pressed herself closer to him. Grissom merged the Sara he'd come to know with the one he'd known for a decade and, surprisingly, they fit together like a hand in a glove. Sweet but strong, loving but with a mind of her own.

He thought of a wild horse. She might stay; she might leave. But, he knew it now; it was all up to him.

"When did you buy it?"

"After the lab explosion," she replied. Her back tensed, and he didn't inquire any further.

Night crept in and found them still in the hammock. Sara shuddered. It was a bit too cold for shorts and T-shirts.

"Cold?" He rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

"Hmmmm. . .not really." She propped herself on one elbow so she could see him face to face. "I'm a bit hungry though." She licked her lips and glanced inside the cabin, past the living-room and into the kitchen.

He held her brown sleepy gaze until his intentions reached her head and tugged at both corners of her lips. Her eyes opened perceptively wider, and she laughed, "No, Griss. Hungry. For food," she said as she got off the hammock in one graceful movement.

He watched a Sara with no kit in hand, no gloves on, no gun strapped to her hip and smiled at the beautiful perfectionist - the funny, smart as a whip person he had in front of him.

He'd been saying 'no' to all that for more than a decade.

The end.