A/N Because it is summer, and because it is hot, and with the eager goading of the gang at CSI Files, I present this trifling "amuse-geule" ofGreg/Sara fluffiness to you all.
Enjoy! (And remember that feedback--of any sort--does a body good)
Goosebumps pebbled Sara's naked skin as she stood peering into Greg's fridge. Nothing had changed since the last time she'd opened the fridge not more than ten minutes ago. Inside were two jars of salsa, both half empty, a desiccated lemon half, wrapped in saran like a bizarre futuristic mummy, and the remains of the last meal they'd eaten here, nearly two weeks ago now, in a Tupperware container that common sense told her wasn't worth opening—she had anyway, fuzzy grayish matter of indeterminate origin that was once vegetarian risotto greeted her when she had—assorted esoteric condiments, and six bottles of Sam Adams' finest chattered against each other when she sighed and swung the door closed cutting off the cheery glow of the fridge. The kitchen was plunged into gloom once more and Sara rubbed her bare arms against the chill that long minutes of standing in front of Greg's fridge contemplating her need for "just one beer" had given her.
She glanced at the clock, 2 pm, middle of the night for her and Greg considering they'd have to be up for shift in a few hours, and sighed. She really wanted that beer. She wondered if it would always be like that, if her first instinct would be to reach for the cold comfort of a beer, or if gradually, over time, she'd be able to get past that need. She looked at the fridge door again. The cheerful magnets there—3D plastic fruit, cartoon characters, and a truly hideous neon representation of a flamingo promoting its namesake casino were mute on the matter. But she thought she could almost see shrewd cunning in the flamingo's lurid gaze; as if it knew the beer wouldn't help her sleep, if perhaps she should consider gambling instead. Sara sourly flicked the flamingo with her finger.
"Whatever, Pinky…nice try. But I don't need you or the beer."
She turned and put on the kettle instead. If sleep wasn't an option, and after that last dream Sara was pretty sure it wasn't, she may as well take consolation in a cup of tea and maybe some of those pecan sandies, sly Greg had thought he'd hidden from her. While she waited for the water, Sara padded silently through the apartment, its shuttered midday dimness almost as familiar to her as her own apartment now, and leaning against the doorjamb carefully reached into Greg's bedroom and snagged one of his shirts from the floor where he'd dropped it. She told herself she was just checking for "freshness" and not trying to catch traces of Greg's scent when she buried her nose in the fabric as she watched him sleep. He was in his habitual sprawl; blanket wrapped around him twice, still managing to leave most of his ass exposed, she noticed with a grin, one hand shoved up underneath her pillow, invading her personal space even when he was unconscious. She knew she could awaken him, push the door wide open and run her cold hands along his arms until he woke up and turned to her, but she let him sleep. No sense in both of them being awake, besides she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him about her dream. Or even if she could—aloud—her dreams always sounded so silly to her; they were robbed of their terror once spoken, and she felt stupid then.
She made it back to the kitchen, cut the kettle off just as it started to send a tentative whistle of steam up the spout, and slipped into his shirt at the same time.
She grabbed her mug of tea, a handful of purloined cookies, and settled herself in a chair she'd dragged in front of the large window in his living room. Reaching out with her foot she pushed the heavy drapes apart until she was bathed in the intense light of a Vegas midafternoon, she could feel the heat reaching her even through the double glazed glass and cool conditioned air of the apartment—good—maybe the sunlight would make her drowsy. Leaving one of her feet propped on the window ledge she cast about for something to occupy her while she waited for oblivion, anything to keep her brain from turning over the images from her dream. The small still form, the pale fingers, so tiny and perfect. Even the bright sunshine couldn't stop her from shivering. Anytime they had an abuse case it was hard, but God, kids were the worst. Rationally, she knew the dream was merely her brain's way of trying to process the horror but Sara hadn't realized she'd started to brood on it until she felt a sharp pain in her thumb. She'd chewed the skin raw again and hadn't noticed. She frowned in annoyance; sometimes having a one-track mind was a curse. Okay, time for a distraction.
She spied Greg's collection of "coffee table" books. He'd tried telling her that the books had made the ladies think he was cultured and a deep thinker and stuff, but he couldn't quite keep his face straight when he did. Neither could she when she saw most of them had been glossy paeans to exotic automobiles or devoted to "erotic art".
"This is porn, Greg," she'd told him at the time.
"What! A Lamborghini isn't porn."
Sara had flopped the book open to the middle where a large gateway fold opened to reveal the slick organic contours of a car sensuously beaded with water.
"Tell me that isn't a money shot."
"How does a nice girl like you know about the money shot?" He'd pretended to be shocked but her words had put a devilish gleam into his eyes.
Sara felt a frisson of desire when she recalled where the rest of that conversation had taken them. She was pretty sure all the warmth she was feeling in her belly wasn't just from the mug of tea she had propped there. She grunted as she leaned over awkwardly and grabbed the topmost book off of the pile. Sucker was heavier than she expected…
"Shit!" Sara cursed softly as hot tea slopped over the rim of the mug and soaked through the shirt. Quickly she set the tea down and jumped up. After dancing around for a minute to cool her reddened skin, she looked down at the book she still held: "Bettie Page: Queen of the Pin-up's".
Sara thought the black haired woman smiling saucily up at her on the cover looked familiar, so this was Bettie Page. She opened the book and flipped through a few pages, she didn't notice when she slowly sank back down into the chair again, so absorbed was she in the book.
More to come, wherein Sara loses her temper and Greg gets a rude awakening...