TITLE: Sense and Sensitivity

AUTHOR: Minttown1, Amber, the elfs, whoever

RATING: PG-13

CATEGORY: VA

SPOILERS: "The Hunger Artist"; a heated debate at TWoP

SUMMARY: Grissom reflects, observes, and confides after the events of 'The Hunger Artist'

ARCHIVAL: Sure, I say, go for it.

DISCLAIMER: Mmmmmmm...Sorry, I was humming. C.S.I.? The characters? All that related legal junk? Not mine...Yeah, I was surprised, too! I thought it was, but then I looked around my bedroom, especially this piece of sh*t computer, and it turns out I was wrong.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks once again to Devanie for profuse amounts of help. Also, she told me the title was "cool", so it's all her fault. Grissom POV, because I hate myself that way. If I have to dedicate, it will be to the weather, for making it too cold to sleep.

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I know it's wrong not to tell her. She should know.

They all should, as my colleagues and my friends. But it's really Sara who I know I should have told. Because it was Sara's hand that I wanted to hold when I was waiting to find out. Because she's the one who, like many nights before this, is lying beside me, forehead against my shoulder, sleeping. Because she's the one that I love.

I can feel her breath on my shoulder. She is so warm, every part of her.

I can hear her breath, too, but not like I could all those years ago. Not even like I could three months ago, if I were to be honest with myself.

I want to be able to accept this, but I can't. Even if I did not need my hearing to do my work properly, there are so many things I want to hear.

I want to hear Catherine's little girl sing. She calls me 'Uncle Gil', but I've never heard her sing.

The sun is starting to rise, so I move a few inches up in bed to close the crack in the curtains.

"You should be sleeping." I can barely hear her, but it's because she is talking to the mattress and isn't really moving her lips.

"I'm trying." I move back beside her and comb her hair with my fingers. She wraps her arms around me and presses her face against my neck again. She's asleep again in moments. Her hair smells good. The entire house will smell like her for days, or at least I'll imagine that it does.

I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her again. I can't see the sense in going to sleep now. I'd rather just make coffee. I pull the top sheet up over her shoulders. The green contrasts with her light skin, skin that I know to be incredibly soft.

Maybe there's nothing I want to hear anyway. It would be a relief to convince myself of that. The comfort of percolating coffee and Sara's "Damnit, Grissom, since when is your bed that wide?" combine within seconds to end that delusion.

I want to hear Sara tell me she loves me. Hell, I'd like to hear myself tell her that.

Sara suddenly appears next to me, limping slightly. "If you stay in the bed, then it's not a death trap. Do you see the clock? This is an hour that you should either be working at the lab or sleeping. You do not make coffee when you're trying to sleep."

"Stub your toe?" The rest of her rant had stemmed from this first fact, and I didn't need to address anything else.

"Yes." She pours herself a cup of coffee and opens the refrigerator. I watch her hold the door open with her body while she adds milk to her cup. I drink mine black. The taste never bothers me like it does some people.

"Are you okay?" I ask when she turns and leans against the refrigerator, just watching me.

"I'm fine. Are you?" Her eyes are clear. No accusation, no sarcasm, no expectation. I want to tell her more than anything. I can hear the birds outside. The hum of the refrigerator. Sara sipping her coffee. I don't need any of it. I really don't.

I almost answer yes. That's the only acceptable answer when asked if you're fine. "I have otosclerosis," I say instead.

"What?"

"It's when bone--"

"I know what it is." Her hands are shaking, and she sits her coffee on the counter before it can end up on her t-shirt instead. The shaking hasn't stopped, and now she's blinking back angry tears. I'm surprised by her reaction, and I cross the kitchen to hold her, sitting my coffee beside hers. Instead of letting me, she clasps her hands behind my neck and kisses me deeply. Soft and warm, she tastes like mint and coffee, she smells like me.

"What's wrong?" I ask her softly in reference to the tears once the kiss ends.

"Nothing. I'm sorry," she says, seeming somehow frightened and apologetic.

"Sara." Could she be more perfect? For me, at least. "Don't apologize."

"Okay." She self-consciously brushes away the one tear that dared to venture from her eye to her cheek. "I was just surprised. I didn't even know you were having problems."

"It's been getting worse," I admit to her.

"I wish you would have said something," she says, not expecting a reply. She shakes her head lightly to clear her thoughts. "Okay. What did your doctor say about surgery?"

"Surgery?" I ask. This sounds familiar, though.

"A prosthesis--" she begins.

I nod. I knew this already. "The doctor never mentioned a reason that we couldn't try that.

She smiles. God, I love her smile. "Then there's that. It's definitely worth looking into." Her smile fades a little as I watch her pick her coffee back up. "Are you leaving if you can't do it, or it doesn't work?"

"I'd rather not," I answer.

She looks at me, then back down at her coffee. She doesn't want to talk about the possibility of me leaving. "I can't believe you still have this."

"What?" I ask. She changes thoughts too quickly sometimes.

"The coffee mug I bought you years ago. When you complained that you didn't want to drink out of mine."

I look at the oversized mug in her hands. I hadn't really noticed. "That's probably the only thing I have left from before Las Vegas," I tell her.

She smiles at me, carefully sitting the mug down. "Let's go back to bed."

I actually feel like I can sleep, now that I told her. I follow her, get into bed, and am immediately rewarded by her arms around me and her head on my chest. I let my eyes go closed and just make myself listen. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is a break in Sara's slow, steady breathing as she whispers, "I love you, Gris."

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