Summary: I've never seen a fic about Griss and Sara doing what they're doing here so I though I'd write it myself. Short fix, good for health.
Author's Notes: I find the oddest things sweet. This fact might help explain this fic. If not, then my nick is not CrazyAngel for nothing. There's no plot here, so don't look for one (yes, put away those magnifying glasses).
I dredged up this fic from some obscure file I had squirreled away ages ago; I hid the thing so well I forgot I even had it. I want to thank all the wonderful people who have reviewed any of my fics, I know I need a lot of work in the writing department but you inspire me to do better (or at least try to do better).
Feedback: Yes, this is very important. Me needs feedback. Me wants feedback. Me Jane. No seriously, I'm a feedback slut, anything good or bad, send it my way.
More than anything, I hope you enjoy this little piece.
Grissom and Sara do it too (Oh yes, they do)
Two pairs of shoes rested on the floor in the same place they'd fell in, after being ripped from the tired feet of their owners. The room was in semi-darkness, total stillness and complete peacefulness.
Laying on top of the covers of the double bed, Sara and Grissom slept off the gruelling triple they'd been forced to pull. There had been barely enough energy to take their shoes off, forget about changing into pyjamas and crawling under the covers.
Sara was on her back, left cheek flat against the edge of her pillow, which gave her lips a pouty look Grissom would've found tempting if he hadn't been unconscious. One of Sara's arms was stretched at her side, the other bent at the elbow, hand fisted and tucked snugly under her chin.
As the alarm clock ticked the afternoon away so her back rose and fell, like a boat bobbing in the sea of oil. The movements of a mind and body submerged deep in sleep.
She'd fallen asleep the second her cheek made contact with the pillow. The last image she recalled was fuzzy. Grissom yawning and scratching his beard.
The AC hummed in the cool air.
Grissom was on his side, facing Sara, one hand outstretched towards her, still fingers brushing her waist.
He scrunched up his nose and frowned. His hand slowly moved to his eye –still closed- and rubbed it. Maybe he was dreaming about bugs.
Then he stirred like a cat who'd just taken a nap under the sun and was getting ready to sashay to its owner's couch. He curled his toes --the telltale pinnacle of his stretching-- and then uncurled them. Rolling to his side, he fidgeted and wriggled over the mattress until he found a comfortable position.
All that movement nudged Sara's mind a bit closer to the edge of consciousness. Her right leg bent and lifted closer to her waist. Her left hand left her side and now dangled from the edge of the bed, wristwatch ticking quietly.
It's not hard to explain why this sight would've be surprising to the people who worked with them. They were both strong forces comparable to tornados and connected in a strange way that made them even more powerful together. Seeing them both asleep was a bit disquieting, as if the world had become somewhat unbalanced.
In a way it was like trying to picture a famous actor sleeping or snoring or doing anything menial. You knew they were human beings who did all the things that you did but the screen made them larger than life. No way you could see John Wayne sleeping like a baby in his crib, sucking on his thumb.
Gil Grissom, bugman extraordinaire. A man whose mind never rested in his wakeful hours and that others found hard to keep up with. Grissom, who was an enigma for 99.9 of the people who knew him was sleeping the afternoon away besides Sara, feisty brunette whose temper was a force to reckon with and whose bad side was something you didn't want to see.
Yes, they also slept. Soundly.
If anybody had seen them that way they would've thought the image was. . .well, tender. Like two puppies curled up next to each other, one tiny head snugly resting on top of another tiny, furry head.
(Grissom and Sara aren't furry, just in case you had gone 'huh?')
Grissom rolled to his back and –eyes still closed- yawned. Sara stirred and dragged her head over the pillow so she didn't face Grissom anymore; apparently annoyed by his yawning. Unknown to her, her left cheek sported two red lines made by fabric folds in the pillow case.
Grissom lifted his arms over his head and stretched again, this time he was awake but not ready to open his peepers yet.
Sara was still deeply asleep. This gave validity to the assessment her mother had made when she was five. Yes, she can spend two days without sleeping if you gave her something to play with and no bedtime to interrupt her. But, when little Sara's tank of fuel marked empty, she was going to drop on that bed like a stone and for at least five hours she was going to sleep like a log.
Grissom rubbed his eyes and through a foggy vision he saw Sara's back. He glanced at the alarm clock. Two hours before start of the shift. He moved behind her. He propped his elbow on her pillow and peeked over her shoulder at her sleeping face.
"Sara?" he whispered. Nothing. He rubbed his eyes again to wipe the last remnants of the fog. There. He was completely awake.
She stirred and groaned. "Two hours before shift," he said.
As if Sara's brain were working at a thousandth of its normal speed, her reply to Grissom's report on the time took a good 20 seconds. That is a lot if you count it.
"You're lying," she mumbled. Grissom yawned again and shook his head even though she couldn't see him.
He watched her back and the curve of her waist. Grissom had always been enchanted by her topography; the gentle hills and valleys of Sara.
He made a fist with his hand –sans index finger up-, he gave it a second's thought, pursing his lips pensively. Then he poked her between her last two little ribs. She flinched.
"Don't," she said, edging away from him and his annoying finger.
He poked again.
"Are you awake now?" he asked over her shoulder, close to her ear.
"Yes, go away, I don't like you anymore." Suddenly she opened her eyes and said. "I know how he did it."
Grissom frowned. He felt like he'd been chugging along a dusty side-road in a battered pickup truck one second and now he was flying over a superhighway at 200 miles an hour.
She rolled around to face him, smiling. Not a trace of sleep in her face –except for the fold marks on her left cheek. "It was there all along. The fridge."
Grissom exchanged his frown for a slightly dropping jaw. "The fridge," he repeated. His head perked up. "Alright." He thought of the crime scene photos. "The blood in the fridge."
They arrived an hour before the start of shift and when Nick and Warrick got there they were in the break room, drinking coffee and going over the movements of their killer.
You couldn't have convinced Nick or Warrick that a few hours before that, Grissom had been scratching his nose because in his dream a bug had bitten him or that Sara's hand had been dangling off her bed.
Grissom and Sara sleeping, riiiiight.
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