A/N: We own nothing and no one, just having fun. GSRForeverOnline & ilovegsr presented a challenge--make Grissom a vampire, so we've taken it on, made Sara a vampire too! It's a party! This is a total fun story, set in the past, one shot, complete in one posting. Read and review!


Sara could not believe she had agreed to this. She smeared the pasty, thick make-up over her face, under her eyes. This was gross—looked gross, smelled gross. She wiped it off. Why on earth had Greg decided on a costume party for pre-Halloween? She did not like most parties, avoided them if she could, and hated theme parties; avoided holidays the same way, if possible. If it were not Greg's party, she would not go.

Everyone else had been talking for days, making plans, deciding what to wear. People were swapping shifts or agreeing to work partial shifts so they could dress up and go to Greg's party. Catherine was wearing a red dress but was keeping details secret. A devil, Sara thought, a devil in a red dress. Nick, no question how he was dressing—a cowboy, he said. Greg had been quiet but she knew his costume involved tearing up a bed sheet.

Sara and Warrick had laughed after hearing Hodges tell someone he was dressing as his favorite television hero. They had snickered and made several guesses.

"Mr. Rogers," Warrick guessed.

"No," said Sara, "Quincy." And they dropped their faces when Hodges walked into the room trying to look important. Sara had a sudden thought, "Mr. Collins," she whispered. Warrick looked confused. "From Pride and Prejudice—the preacher." Warrick shrugged, still confused. Sara giggled harder.

Doc Robbins hinted that he and his wife would be a dynamic duo involving music.

When Sara rode with Warrick one night she had seen a black cape but that could mean several super heroes or vampire or warlock—which would be kind of cute, she thought.

Grissom—Grissom refused to participate in any discussions. At the diner he had mumbled "I might not go" setting off a cascade of insistence that he come or the party would find him. When Catherine ventured to ask how he would dress, all she got as an answer was a lift of his eyebrow.

Sara had researched. She was not going as a super hero—not many were women, anyway. Nor a television character—none appealed to her. She remembered reading a book about a female vampire, not Dracula's bride or an Anne Rice character. This character was beautiful, intelligent, had lived for thousands of years. A few searches later, Sara found Miriam Blaylock who kept her lovers "always", using sex as other vampires used blood. There was an old movie of the book. She grinned. She had found her character and no one would know who she was.

By applying make-up reminisce of the past and finding a black and white silk dress in a style of the movie, Sara replicated Miriam and she did not need fanged teeth. She mixed lotion with the make-up and smoothed it on her face for paleness. Her eyes were finished; with the sunglasses she was wearing, very stylish from the early 1960s with rhinestones in the rims, no one would notice her eyes. The dark red lipstick was her finishing touch. She looked like a vamp, she thought as she tied the dress around her waist. She should have gotten a new bra to fill out the bust of the dress, but it was too late for that. She swirled in front of her mirror. She did not dress up and wearing a dress was enough to get second looks. Her finally piece of costume was a black hat with black net over her face seeded with pearls. It had cost her more than everything else when she found it in the second hand store but was so perfect she had to get it. Catherine Deneuve she wasn't, but she made a darn good looking two thousand year old vampire, she thought.

Greg opened his door dressed as a mummy, trailing strips of white gauze and cotton behind him. Nick, as a cowboy, was already there.

"Who are you other than va-va-voom!" Greg teased.

"Miriam Blaylock."

The two men looked at each other, then back at her. "Miriam Blaylock? Who's she?" Nick asked.

Greg shrugged, "The only Miriam I know is Miriam Ravenwood."

"Keep guessing," Sara said as she sauntered into the room knowing their quiet response was not only from their puzzled expressions but because she looked as good from behind as she did from the front.

She did not see Greg mouth one word "Hot!" to Nick.

Catherine arrived in her red dress, a devil's forked tail strategically placed on her rear, pointed red flames attached to a headband in her hair. More people arrived from other shifts—Greg had invited everyone who did not have to work. There was a king, several queens, storybook characters, movie stars, super heroes, the usual Las Vegas creatures—Elvis, dancers, card players, and a group of fruits, a banana, an apple, grapes. It took several guesses for someone to recognize "fruit of the loom" costumes. Warrick surprised everyone walking in as Darth Vador. And Hodges arrived as some guy from Star Trek. Doc Robbins and wife—Sonny and Cher in old age—had everyone laughing at their wigs, their fringed vests.

A dozen people had attempted to guess Sara's character. She grinned, happy that she had stumped everyone.

She kept watching for Grissom. It would be like him not to come even after asking her if she would be at the party—his interest had been just that, nothing else. She joined in conversations with others, made the rounds of the food tables. Actually Greg had great food, lots of vegetarian dishes, she thought as she filled her plate. The small house was crowded, people grouped in every available space, and she headed to the patio. A few people were there who she knew casually from the day shift but they were talking about some case and she drifted to the small grass area that made up the postage stamp sized backyard.

Without looking back, Sara knew he had arrived. Sixth sense, compatibility, telepathy, ESP, intuition, whatever passed between them reached her before half the guests knew Gil Grissom had walked in the front door. She moved back inside. The noise, the crush of people wearing costumes almost overwhelmed her senses, crowded against her as she sought Grissom.

Somehow, he found her. His hand touched her elbow. "Greg said I needed to find you. Then Nick said I needed to see you." His eyes searched her face, a touch of concern or unease rising.

She smiled and his concern left. "Why?" She stepped back and surveyed his dress—a very formal black tux. "I think this is a costume party, not a fancy dress formal occasion." Her voice teased, a husky tone to it she seldom used.

"Look at yourself, Miss Sidle. Can you guess who I am?"

She knew; it was in her blood, her brain, the invisible something called her soul. "Dracula!" She whispered the name. She knew as surely as she knew her own name. There was no other character Gil Grissom could or would be—the piercing blue eyes, the curly hair, the exquisite formal suit, his very meticulous manners. She could list the traits of Count Dracula and few people would know the difference—astonishing vitality, romantic ties that are temporary, lives for the night, exudes an aristocratic charm, most of the time. She would not say he was well suited for his chosen character.

Instead, she said, "You make a perfect Dracula, but might be better suited as Renfield!"

He looked surprised, and slightly bowed his head, "Correct—and who are you?" His eyes narrowed. His hand moved along her back. "Turn," he instructed.

Sara did as told. He stopped her movements as she came to face him. "Book or movie?"


"Ahhh," he thoughtfully said. "You are teasing all of us." She could not tell if he did not know or was pretending not to know, but he kept his hand on her arm. "If I guess who you are, do I get a reward, a special prize?"

He was flirting! Sara could return his attentions. "Of course, Count Dracula can have what he desires."

He flushed slightly. He made several guesses—movie stars, then an author. "A most intelligent woman, but lonely, I believe." His blue eyes seemed to intensify. "Miriam Blaylock, you must be—the impeccable charming vampire of 'The Hunger' who keeps her lovers forever." His voice had deepened, softened into a whisper as he leaned to her ear.

"Did you figure out who Sara is supposed to be?" Catherine's voice interrupted. And as she could do so easily, she moved between Grissom and Sara, laughing with a drink in one hand, her red devil tail in the other. She continued, "I don't consider wearing a tux a real costume, Gil. Are you supposed to be Simon Crowell or Bert Parks?" She never returned to her first question but took Grissom's arm and carried him away.

Sara was not drinking; she had no plans to close down the party. Greg's attentions were on continuing his party. Nick was surrounded by several girls from the lab, Warrick had disappeared and, again, Sara found herself outside, alone, but not lonely, watching the party as a ghost, she thought. Perhaps she had chosen the wrong costume—the party lacked ghosts. The fruits were clustered together, laughing at some joke. A man dressed as a black devil had Catherine cornered and Sara knew Catherine would not go home alone tonight. Her eyes found Grissom—sitting around a table with three others—discussing baseball. She was certain his animated face, his hand gestures meant he was talking about the latest game. Some invisible filament pulled his eyes to hers, and embarrassed, she dropped her head and turned.

Seconds later, he was beside her, pulled to her as a moth to a flame. "Why are you alone?" He asked.

"I've never been one for parties."

They stood in silence, backs to the noise and light filled rooms.

"The moon is almost full," he said pointing to the eastern sky.

"Does that mean we must disappear? As vampires?" She asked.

His low chuckle rumbled. "Let's—I've never been much for parties either. I'll take you to a place—a special place. We'll be back before we are missed."

This was not usual, Sara thought. Not the Gil Grissom who ignored her one week and called her in on her day off the next week. "Sure," she replied, her voice an unnatural calm.

Instead of going through the house, both reasoning they would never reach the front door, they slipped out the side yard gate and to his vehicle. He was driving his Mercedes, the classic convertible that seldom left his garage.

"Top down, okay?" He asked as he opened the passenger door. Her affirmative nod was all it took to give an answer.

They were out of town in minutes, leaving the congestion of traffic behind with the city lights. He drove into the red hills to the west of the city. Sara had removed her hat and balanced it on her knee as the car picked up speed, the engine purring. He slowed as he reached an area of undeveloped land fenced with metal posts and wire. The paved turn-off was blocked with a simple swinging bar, but he got out raised the bar and waved for her to drive the car.

She slid over and pressed the accelerator, gently moving the car forward. After the gate was closed, he returned to the driver's seat. The car did not have separate seats, but an armrest divided the space into two seats. In moving over, she had lifted the armrest and now reached to pull it back in place.

"Leave it up for now," he said. His hand touched hers and closed over it, keeping it within his grasp.

The road was narrow, used for firefighting, he said. That's the reason the gate was not locked, just in place to keep out those who were deterred by an official looking bar across an entrance. They turned and twisted through a slender gorge, around massive outcroppings of rock, then drove along several switch-back tracks until they were almost at the top of a rather large mountain.

Grissom maneuvered the car in a three-point turn to face the southwest.

"Look up," he said. At some point in the drive, he had released her hand. Now he leaned across her, found what he wanted causing her seat to recline, almost horizontal. "You never get to see this in Vegas."

She made a sound of wonderment. The blue black sky was filled with stars—bright, twinkling, shining as a thousand pinpoints dotted the sky. Her mouth was open in awe when the lights were suddenly blotted out by shadow. And before she could say a word, before her mouth could close, he kissed her. Not a brotherly peck, or a welcome brush of lips on the cheek, but a full-on-the-mouth smothering her lips, exploring her teeth, her tongue against his, his hand was on her chin holding her face to his with a firm, secure touch that meant she was to stay there. If it was seconds or minutes that passed before she responded, she did not know, but she kissed him until both were breathless and not enough air could reach their lungs.

When they finally had to pause, because one can only go three minutes without oxygen, she found he had managed to scoot across the seat so both were in the passenger side of his car, both were horizontal, her hands were around his neck, his hands were—well, she thought, he had found the way her dress closed with one hand while the other was busy holding her lips to his.

"I've wanted to do that for years," he whispered, his warm, smoky voice causing Sara to literally melt.

She said, "Did it take a vampire personality to do it, or is it the time and place?"

His finger ran along her chin, traced an invisible line to the hollow of her throat, and moved to the right, several inches below her ear. "I do believe, if I were a true vampire, I would find this soft spot here one of delectable taste."

Sara shivered as his lips touched her neck, at the pulse point for her jugular vein.

"Are you cold?" He had not thought of the thinness of her dress. In spite of her protests to the contrary, he sat up and shrugged out of his coat. "Here." He pulled her forward and wrapped the jacket around her shoulders. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking." He settled beside her, propping his head on a crooked arm, his other resting across her abdomen, within millimeters of her breast.

Suddenly, she knew what Marian Blaylock felt, what she thought when she found the right man. Sara wanted to live forever with this man. She wanted him as furiously as any conqueror had ever wanted lands of his enemy, as much as a gold digger had wanted the shiny yellow metal. She wanted all of him, not just kisses, not just looks, but his soul, his spirit, what gave him his manhood. She wanted to live forever with him beside her.

The ferocity overtook her thought with a strength, an intensity she did not know she possessed. She moved slightly, just enough to let his thumb touch her breast; her legs moved—not apart, but to wrap around his calf.

This time, they managed to breathe while they kissed—hot waves of breath coming from one or the other managed to warm both. His hands moved along the silky fabric of her dress, found her thigh, and crept upward, slipping around to her backside. He made a sound—a grunt—as he moved above her, his knees trying to find space on the seat. He slipped, his knee slid between seat and car door, and very noisily he fell against her before he could catch himself.

Sara giggled. He had collapsed on her chest, his head lying between her breasts, her dress askew, his butt higher than his shoulders.

Very gingerly, Grissom moved. "I think we are going about this all wrong," he said.

Sara managed to stifle another giggle which turned into a hiccup before she became tickled—not some soft, polite, lady-like twitter—but the snorting chortles of doubled-up amusement. Tears rolled down her cheeks, snot ran from her nose. She tried to sit up, but with the reclined seat and her laughter, her attempts resulted in another round of giggles. Through her tears, she knew Grissom was not amused—at first.

He handed her a large white square of cloth, his handkerchief, and she used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, trying to regain some degree of decorum. By then, he had reclined his seat and she could hear his chuckles.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to laugh—I just got tickled—about us, about everything."

He reached for her hand. "I am the one to apologize, Sara." He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed each knuckle before massaging each finger with gently strokes until her hand relaxed and curled into his. "I've never brought anyone up here. I wanted you to see the stars…" He pointed skyward. "See the bright one—Mars." He had moved toward her, still holding her hand. "O star of strength! I see thee stand and smile upon my pain; thou beckonest with thy mailed hand and I am strong again." He kissed her hand again, this time turning it over to kiss her palm.

"Shakespeare?" Sara asked.


"Grissom?" She asked, speaking rapidly before she could change her mind. "We could go to my place—where it's quiet—just to talk—or—or continue what we started here."

She could see his grin. He practically growled as he said "If I go to your place, it won't be to talk." And he reached to turn the key.

Not much later, taking longer than either wanted and choosing his place because it was closer, he opened the door of his home as they seemed to move in a dream-like trance from car to sidewalk to living room. She had been in his place before and it had not changed—very neat, very masculine—but this time, a shift in circumstances had occurred. She was not entering as his employee or casual work acquaintance. She was coming at his invitation for something more. His hand had not left hers except when he was briefly out of the car. They had managed some kind of small talk—when she had first read Miriam Blaylock, when he had read Dracula. Sara had read both books at an early age, too often left alone, a morbid fascination with death.

Once inside, both stood awkwardly, surrounded in silence for minutes, not quite sure of intentions as they had been in the car.

Grissom found his voice, "A drink—would you like a drink?"

"Yes—sure, water."

They managed to cross the room and he left her to reach for a tumbler, fill it with water, and return to her. In that brief moment, less than a minute, Sara took in his living space, his belongings, seeing the small personal mementos collected during a life, and turned to watch as he fumbled with the glass. She saw Gil Grissom with new eyes. His looks were the same, she thought, but whoever had fitted him with the tux had tailored the pants to fit a lean, neat line from waist to shoe. Fabric fit snugly around his hips and cupped his butt. The shirt had been tucked and adjusted to fit his body. Nothing was baggy or too long or rumbled. He looked as if he belonged in an old movie.

And she noticed the quiver of his hand. She almost missed it; he was as nervous as she was. Something that started as simple flirting at a party had gotten her to his house and he was—looking at her with those astonishing blue eyes, his hair windblown from the ride, the look on his face was at once charming and perplexed and surprisingly young.

At the same time, Grissom looked across the counter and saw a very young woman, dressed to look older in a style she had never worn in her life. Her hair had been tamed and smoothed under the old-fashioned hat she had worn, but now, it was tossed and curled in a careless way suggesting she had just gotten out of bed. Her eyes—those brown spheres with golden flames—smoldered under long lashes and delicate brows, and he would silently swear her eyes were sending a very provocative message.

She took the water, tilted the glass, and drank—all of it while he watched. She would be bold, she decided.

She placed the tumbler on the countertop and, without saying a word, walked to him, placed arms around his neck and kissed him as he had kissed her in the car. Her cold lips met his, the clash of temperatures sent an electrical-like charge coursing through her body in a flash.

At some point, he asked, "Are you sure?" and received a mumbled answer of "yes". And she was on his bed, still in her dress, trying to figure out the damn buttons on his shirt while he had already untied her dress and was making delicious progress with his lips along the top edge of her bra. She finally twisted the buttons and opened his shirt to find a white tee shirt impeding progress to his chest—she wanted to feel his skin next to hers and without thinking, she said a bad word. He laughed one of those sexy, husky, deep in the chest chuckles, stopped what he was doing and managed to come out of his shirt and the undershirt in one or two seconds.

When his arms went around her, closing the space between them so her nose fit against his neck and shoulder, she breathed deeply pulling the aroma, the fragrance of him into her brain. She wanted this smell for a lifetime.

She wanted what was pressed against her thigh for a lifetime! This was a different Grissom from the man at work—he wanted her, desired her, and from the action of his mouth, he was hungry for her. She pressed her lips against his chest, finding his nipple, gently nipping with her lips before applying a very gentle suck against his skin.

He whispered, "Bite me."

She almost stopped breathing, but managed to gently press her teeth against his skin. His hands had been roaming, in her hair, along her back, but with the touch of her teeth, his entire body became rigid. She thought he could not have gotten larger or harder, but from the heat between her legs, he did—and he was still wearing the damn pants.

Suddenly, he pulled away and sat up, leaving her spread upon his bed, her dress no longer closed. He couldn't stop now, she thought.

Seeming to read her thoughts, he smiled. "I've got to get out of these pants," and he was toeing his shoes off—her shoes were lost somewhere between kitchen and bed. When she moved to take off her dress, he stopped her with one hand, reaching to remove it instead. "Let me," he whispered as he pulled each arm from the dress tossing it over his shoulder. She wasn't naked, but for all purposes clad only in her bra and panties, she was nearly so. His pants were still on; he had unbuttoned the waistband.

"You are beautiful, Sara." He said as he sat straddle of her thighs. His hands traced around her bra, moved along her abdomen to the top of her panties. His breath was ragged as he bent over her but smoothed as his face touched her skin; she realized he was smelling of her just as she had taken in the scent of his skin. She felt his lips along her panties and it took her a minute to realize he was pulling them off with his teeth. She bit her own lip to keep from screaming with blissful delight and he was only warming her up.

By the time his mouth reached lower, and this time she moved her legs to provide room for his mouth and his hand, she was on fire and he had turned on some hidden, magical fountain that was making her move as waves pulsated faster and faster. She wanted him inside her and she made an effort to say something.

"Look at me," his voice said, and Sara opened her eyes and looked down her own body to find his blue eyes fixed on hers for just a moment. Quickly, he turned his head; she felt his mouth against the soft space between her leg and the fleshy folds of her vulva. He kissed her, gently sucked her skin, and, just as she had done to his nipple, he pressed his teeth against her skin in the most tender way possible and bit her.

She was certain she had never made the sound that came from her lungs—not for pain, but of intense pleasure and she was aware of everything! His fingers were inside her, his lips were nuzzling her skin in a place no other person had ever touched, his other hand was on her backside doing something that added to what he was doing to her front. Her fleeting thought was, "He's still got on his pants."

In the next few seconds, his mouth was on hers, the pants were off, and the rigid form she had felt against her thigh, was now poised to enter her. With all her might, with every fiber of her body, she ached and strained and finally arched her back to pull him into her. After that act was completed, and he fit into her as a hand in a glove, she relaxed for the briefest of seconds.

Grissom groaned, whispered her name between kisses, before he began to gently rock, never completely leaving her, knowing she was so near the golden threshold of ultimate passion that nothing could stop her climax. He felt the intense tightening of her muscles around him and he moved faster, closing his eyes as he collapsed in her aftershocks.

"Well," he whispered after long minutes of silence, "I do believe Miriam will have this lover forever." His lips touched the area behind her ear.

Sara smiled. "Or perhaps I should be one of Dracula's vixens?"

Her question brought a smile. "Never a vixen." He kissed her hand as he threaded his fingers between hers. His arm wrapped around her and brought her closer as their legs entwined. They gradually rested, both sleeping and waking to find a warm body nestled or curled around their own. Individually, because neither spoke to the other for the rest of the night, each decided it felt right and good and comfortable to have this person as a companion, as a lover, as a kindred spirit. And, for one night, Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom could pretend to be vampires of fiction and in reality find love for always.

A/N: How did we do? Let us know!!!