A/N: This is a WIP. You may not understand the formatting or the flow. Give it a few chapters, I promise, it will all become clear.

Thank you to Mel, the dragon mistress for the not-so-much-beta.

This is how her day begins.

Her day is night and instead of being awoken by a garish singer crooning out sickly-sentimental lyrics (something nice and paced to keep her from starting too fast), it is the screeching beep of a generic alarm that rouses her. Up and out, Sara always tosses back the sheets and plants two feet firmly on the carpet.

Unless it's Sunday; then she takes the time to stretch before moving about to start her day-night.

It is a Tuesday, so it's straight to the living room floor with the cushy, green yoga mat. There is stretch after stretch before she presses her body into a full lotus and feels the lethargy drain from her body. It's a routine, a sort of subtle stability that keeps her on track.

She doesn't cling to it, doesn't live for it. She simply likes it, enjoys that for once her life isn't in upheaval, that her emotions aren't in turmoil.

The coffee is percolating in the kitchen and her body morphs from position to position as the machine gurgles away happily. The crack of her spine readjusting is strangely pleasant in the dim quiet and for a moment before getting up, she lays flat on her black, closes her eyes and sighs.

Another day, another Sara. She would find another reason to smile and mean it.

The night swirls around her, invades her nostrils and settles at the base of her spine.

A cup of coffee is poured; the first one is always consumed black with just a hint of sugar. Placing it on the end table, she rolls up her mat and stores is back in the bedroom, trailing into the bathroom almost as an afterthought, the aroma of her coffee in tow.

The mug is placed on the edge of the hard, marble sink, within easy proximity of the shower.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but it's the way she likes it and she sticks her head under the spray almost immediately as though to rinse the nightmares out of her hair, out of her head. The soap is next, a delicate concoction squirted onto a rose loofah and spread over her body. The sweat is gone, along with the dead skin.

She regenerates.

Sara takes her time, sips her coffee in between shampooing and conditioning and sings to her shower radio. It's one of the only places she sings anymore and derives pleasure from following Debbie Harry's notes absolutely, swiveling her hips to her own words as she slides around in soap.

Out of the shower Sara wraps herself in a large towel; it's very fluffy and nearly swallows her whole being; that's the way she likes it. Sometimes, she places it over the heat vent in the bathroom and cranks it to seventy so that when it slides over her body, the terrycloth hugs her.

It's a nice feeling; she likes it.

Like every Tuesday, WednesdayThursdayFriday she saunters into her bedroom and nestles into the towel for another moment before allowing it to slide to the floor, her naked body on display for no one but herself. Sara chooses her clothes carefully, finding articles that compliment her frame, bring out her eyes. She enjoys matching her jackets with her outfit; it's a feminine routine that allows her to indulge, but not too much.

She chooses a small pair of panties, something she got from one of those 'free panty with purchase' catalogs, so she can forgive the fact that they would have cost somewhere in the twenties had she bought them separate. They slide into place with a whisper of satin; she wonders how they would sound coming off.

A pink top slides on top of a pair of dark wash jeans. She dries her hair, curling it around her face like she usually does and fastens a slinky little pendant around her neck. Looking plain but rosy and pert, she smears on a bit of chapstick and grabs her modest purse, heading for the door.

A dark denim jacket completes her look.

At the threshold, she pauses and turns back, takes stock of her apartment, making sure that everything she turned on has been successfully switched off. Basking in the monotony of a routine, she blinks, smiles and pulls the strap of her bag firmly up onto her shoulder.

Twisting the knob, she opens the door and takes a last look at her living room before spinning to exit.

She thumps against something hard and pulls back in immediate defense. Grissom is standing hopefully before her; his hands had been in his pockets but when she thumped into him his hands came up to her biceps.

Technically in his embrace, she is confused but can't manage to articulate her emotions.

He blinks.

She blinks, frowns.

"Sara," he sighs and removes a hand from her arm, passes it over her cheek. "Sara," strong fingers and a sturdy palm cradle her chin, cheekbone. She is very, very much in his embrace now and loving it more than she thought she knew how to do.

As she begins to put the pieces of the memory down in indelible ink she shakes her routine, throws monotony to the wind and brings their lips together. And they are kissing very languidly, her purse thumping to the floor in a sort of obtuse submission.

Sara can't believe that it's happening, so she doesn't bother trying to rationalize it.

Grissom kisses Sara on her front stoop, and that is all.