Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.

Summary: Pre-GSR. Maybe this happened last year some time? It is GSR, though.

To say Sara was sore was perhaps the greatest understatement ever made. She hurt everywhere. The last time she worked a scene that expansive, with so little help—wait—never, she decided in the shower. She'd never worked herself so hard.

Grissom must be dying right now, she thought to herself, popping three ibuprofen and crashing onto her couch. He'd walked the same rocky desert acres she had, crouching and bending for hours, sweating like a pig, collecting casing after casing.

The carnage had been wretched. At last count, twenty-six wild horses, shot at fairly close range along the outskirts of Red Rock National Park. The initial discovery of five dead horses was made just before sunset. Swing shift wasn't able to respond right away, so graveyard ended up with the case.

Grissom chose Sara to help him lead the break-of-dawn investigation. Within the first hour, another horse was found, and then another, and another. It went on and on, and they worked diligently in the scorching sun, searching for not only bullets, but also any evidence of the lunatic who committed this heinous crime. The free roaming mustangs never stood a chance.

It was all over the newspaper, Sara discovered, skimming a few articles before tossing it aside. She turned on the TV and flipped channels lazily, finding nothing worth watching, so, she picked up an old John Irving novel that had been sitting on her shelf unfinished. She was totally out of whack, as far as her sleep schedule went, and she ended up napping on and off until her cell phone rang.

Sara didn't have to look at the display; she knew exactly who it was. He'd started calling her every other day or so, just to talk, especially after draining cases. It was habit now.

"Hey, Grissom," she said after he said hello. "How are you doing?"

"I'm beat, if I may be frank," he moaned.

"You may. We worked our asses off today, and there's so much more to do tonight," she sighed.

"I told you we're off, Sara. We worked all day. Greg's fully capable of processing what we collected." He stretched out on his sofa and tried not to groan into the phone. God, he was feeling every bit of his fifty years. The three hour nap he took did nothing to alleviate his muscle pain. "It'll make me look bad if you go in and I stay home," he added rather pathetically.

Sara felt a yawn brewing and relented. It wouldn't kill her to stay home and rest up. "All right, all right," she said, knowing she'd end up bored.

"How's your ankle?" he asked, confusing her for a moment. She'd forgotten she slipped on a particularly steep incline and twisted it earlier in the day.

"Oh, fine. I forgot all about it, actually."

"Good. Good."

"The rest of my body, on the other hand, is killing me. I'm so achy, I actually considered getting in the hot tub," she said, shuddering automatically.

"Your apartment complex has a hot tub?"

"Yeah. Next to the pool."

After a pause, he blurted, "Would it be too forward of me to invite myself over?" and Sara laughed, assuming he was kidding.

Then Grissom was quiet, and Sara had no idea what to say. "You are joking, right?" she said finally.

"I haven't decided," he admitted, and she giggled again. "I can't stand up without groaning, Sara. C'monnnn," he cajoled. "You'll feel so much better."

Sara frowned and sat up a little. "Haven't you ever heard of 'hot tub lung'? How do you think you get it?"

His soft laugh surprised her. "I had no idea you were so germophobic. You know your complex has to keep it regularly serviced. It's much cleaner than a private one. —And you can get hot tub lung from a hot shower in your own home, you know."

Sara listened to him argue, at a loss for how to respond. She wasn't really germophobic; she was just…generally cautious when it came to needlessly exposing herself to bacteria breeding sources. The hot tub wasn't the problem, she knew. The deeper issue was what was going on between her and Grissom.

"I'm coming over," he announced, and she could tell he was moving around, getting ready.

"You're nuts," she said, looking around her apartment in a panic. He sounded practically playful. She had no idea what had gotten into him.

"Okay?" he asked, giving her a chance to nix this whole plan.

"All right, whatever," she replied, wondering where her bathing suit was. "Give me twenty minutes."

When she opened her door to him half an hour later, he looked…anxious and worried. He had that subtle, nervous expression on his face, and he shifted back and forth slowly on his feet. Something had changed, Sara realized quickly.

"Well," he began, "you should know that, until this moment, I was under the spell of a promised hot tub, and I didn't think this all the way through."

"What do you mean?" she smiled. "What's wrong?"

He blinked, and then replied very seriously, "It's not normal to see your old, stuffed shirt of a boss in a bathing suit."

Sara pursed her lips so she wouldn't laugh. Nodding patronizingly, she drew out the moment and pretended to consider his comment. Finally, she said, "Since when have we ever been normal?" fixing him with a deliberate gaze.

The acknowledging twitch of his eyebrows was immediate. "Good point."

"And you're not old," she added under her breath, turning away from him.

He watched her curiously. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"No. Hot tubs are disgusting, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice just this once. I'm sore," she whined.

Grissom just stared at her. She was ignoring the issue at hand—the sheer, potentially awkward intimacy of this situation. A woman after his own heart, he thought. Yes, ignore away, Sara.

"Okay. I forgot a towel," he said, casually leaning against her kitchen counter.

"Mooch. First my hot tub, now my towel," she deadpanned, slipping down the hall to retrieve one for him.

"We should bring some water, too," he called after her, smiling as he watched the slight shake of her rear end as she left the room. Oh, yes, they were getting quite good at ignoring this thing between them.

Something was changing, and if Sara didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to bring it up. He'd just…enjoy the ride for the time being.

The walk to the hot tub was silent, which made things a little awkward. It wasn't Grissom's fault. He couldn't talk due to the fact that he suddenly realized Sara must have a bathing suit on under her clothes. How could he have wasted time worrying about her seeing him in a bathing suit, when he'd be seeing her in a bathing suit? —A major oversight, he realized. His mind wandered as he envisioned a skimpy two-piece number. Something black and sexy.

Restraint was the word, he decided.

Eventually, they reached the pool, which was deserted at this time of night while all the normal nine to fivers ate their dinner and turned in for the evening. The hot tub was tucked away in the corner, and Grissom was grateful no one was around. The iron fence surrounding them was covered with overgrown bushes, giving some semblance of privacy. He adjusted the settings, promptly making the jets roar.

In one fluid motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes and got in the water. Sara missed it all while unclasping her sandals. Damn, she thought when she turned around. How'd he get in there so fast? His wide chest could barely be seen above the bubbles. He looked blissful and relaxed, and some part of her longed for his body…the way she used to. What was she thinking, agreeing to this? This had to fall under the category of incredibly asinine ideas.

Grissom glanced up as Sara removed her t-shirt, revealing her one-piece suit that was partially concealed by blue board shorts. Looking back at the water, he was mildly disappointed it wasn't a bikini. Only mildly. He saw her fiddling with some kind of a hair clip and turned back again. He didn't need to get caught gawking at this point.

She stepped in the water, and he cocked his head at her shorts. "Aren't you going to take those off?"

"They can get wet." She stood there, looking at him, and swore a bit of disappointment registered on his face. This was very weird. She gave a sigh of indecision, letting her feet and calves adjust to the water temperature. Feeling more than a little self-conscious, she stepped out of the hot tub and shimmied her shorts off, tossing them with her things, mumbling under her breath. Grissom swallowed hard, unable to stop watching her.

He seemed pleased when she got back in the water, but he frowned when he caught and then quickly lost a glimpse of some colored mark on her upper thigh. He'd noticed the daisy on her ankle years ago, but…this was something different.

Sara sunk in quickly, up to her shoulders, moaning on impact. "Oh my God, this is nice. Trying not to think of all the bacteria. It's just hot, bubbling, chemically treated water. Niiiiice."

He gave a lopsided grin, amused at the sight of Sara Sidle—relaxing, or at least trying to.

"Was that a second tattoo?" he asked, startling her.

"What?"

"On your hip."

"Oh, yeah." She looked away and said nothing, essentially dropping the topic. She remembered the conversation in the break room, years ago, which led to her revealing her flower tattoo to most of the graveyard shift. He'd looked at it, but with an air of disappointment, she swore. She wasn't about to explain a stupid tattoo an old boyfriend dared her to get, fresh out of high school.

"So, what is it?" he asked, as if he had every right to know.

Sara cleared her throat, still not meeting his eyes. "It's a crown and scepter," she replied, offering no further details, and leaving him bemused. "Don't ask," she interrupted when his mouth opened again. "It's not worth explaining."

And then, the light bulb went off. Sara, one of the more common and well-known Hebrew names, meant princess, he remembered. "Huh. I get it."

"Then leave it," she said as a warning. Of course he would automatically know things. Jay Ralston was an idiot, and his nickname for her would forever be illustrated on her hip. Small coincidence it was also the meaning of her name.

"Saaa-raaa," he drawled out, smirking.

Crown. Tiara. Princess. —Sara?

One of those things did NOT belong, and he couldn't stop a subdued laugh from escaping him as he clarified doubtfully, "Princess?"

She immediately fired a splash of water at his face.

"Hey!"

"I said leave it." She was clearly annoyed, but on the verge of laughter herself. Amazing, how he could connect the dots in a completely incorrect way and still get the same answer.

"When did you get it?" He futilely wiped at his face with his wet hands.

"A long time ago."

"So, hot tubs bother you, but a tattoo parlor, on more than one occasion...no problem." He was teasing her, and some part of her thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Oh, give me a break. One-time use needles. Completely sterile, and can you not see me sitting in this hot tub with you?"

One side of his mouth rose. Oh, he could see her, all right. There was something so amusing about this conversation. He decided to inch his way over the line, test the proverbial waters. It wouldn't hurt to ask.

"Let me see it."

Sara's eyes widened. She seemed to consider it for about 2.3 seconds, and then, "No!"

Well, that was that.

Grissom put his head back against the edge of the hot tub and rested for a few minutes, willing his muscles to loosen and relax. Then he opened one eye and checked on her. She was doing the same, it seemed, head back, eyes closed.

"Please?"

"Please what?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Let me see it."

"Oh my God! Why?" She was blushing now.

"Because I want to, and I asked nicely." Did this really have to be a big deal?

"So what? I want a lot of things too, but I don't always get what I want," she spouted back.

This confused him. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a veiled reference to his previous rejection of her? He was clearly treading into dangerous territory.

"What do you want?" he asked gently.

"I—I don't know!" she answered, her voice lively and full of frustration. She looked visibly flustered on the outside, and on the inside, she felt slightly aroused and extremely annoyed, and dammit—how did she get herself into this situation? She should have seen this coming. Why else would he start calling her and talking to her? He was sucking her in again. Like always.

"I don't think you know what you want anymore," he commented lightly, and that did it.

"What are we talking about here?" she asked, giving him the infamous Sara Sidle death glare.

"I don't know. I just asked to see your tattoo," Grissom answered innocently.

"What is your problem lately?"

He blinked and suspected she was about to blow. Sure enough, off she went…

"This is not normal—what we're doing. Why have you been calling me after work? More importantly, why are you in this hot tub with me?—and why are you flirting with me? Are you trying to torture me or something?"

Grissom looked around uneasily. Where was that water they brought? Damn, his throat was dry. "No," was all he could muster.

"Then, what—"

"Look, calm down, Sara. I—I can't help myself, okay? I like you." He gave a vague shrug of defeat and added softly, "And I like being around you."

She just stared at him, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to figure him out, right there. That was a substantial admission from him. Finally, she sighed and put her head back. "I like you too," she grumbled, but it was more of a complaint than a sweet revelation. Maybe she could ignore him, and they could just sit in silence.

He sighed too, and then he drifted a little closer to her.

When she opened her eyes and noticed his new proximity, she knew she was in trouble. Sure enough, he scooted even closer, watching her reactions. He looked positively enamored by her face, and her stomach began to flutter. His eyes kept lowering to her lips, and—shit. He was going to—

"Don't you kiss me in a hot tub!" She hated that she couldn't stop herself from smirking.

"Why?" he smiled, leaning into her. "Does it increase the risk of hot tub lung?"

"No!" She glared at him, and licked her lower lip, leaning back a tiny bit. "It's…entirely too strange."

"Where can I kiss you?" he asked, glancing at her long neck and freckled shoulders, leaving her to contemplate his double meaning.

"You don't want to kiss me," she announced with renewed determination, looking away anxiously.

His eyebrows went up and his face was unusually animated. "Yes, I do."

"No, you don't. It'll end up being a giant pain in the ass, Grissom."

She was nervous. He didn't expect that. "I doubt that," he said, backing off for the time being.

"Man, you are not thinking beyond this moment," she mumbled out loud.

"I've thought beyond this moment for years. I think I've thought it to death," he admitted sadly, touching her knee under the water. She stiffened. So much for backing off.

"Don't do this. You're going to regret it." She looked terrified, and it upset him.

"No, I won't, Sara. If you don't want me to kiss you, that's one thing, but if you're convinced I'm not thinking rationally, you're wrong. I know exactly what I'm doing."

She looked at him, really looked in his eyes, and practically lost it. God, he was a handsome man, and here he was all adorable and wet, gazing at her, wanting to kiss her. What the hell? Was there a full moon or something? She turned away again, thinking perhaps this was all a dream. She considered for a moment that maybe she was still asleep on her couch. No, definitely not. Oh no, he was moving closer, trying to look in her eyes.

"I won't go away," she blurted, feeling suddenly emotional.

"What?"

"When you decide this wasn't a very smart thing to do, and you close yourself off to me, I'm going to hound you like never before. You start this, and I—"

"You'll what?" he challenged, reaching up to cup her face.

He looked genuinely interested in her reply, and Sara lowered her eyes, unable to come up with one. Her heart was racing, and she couldn't breathe properly. She wanted to touch him so much. He still had his other hand on her knee. Screw it, she thought, putting her arms around his shoulders. He hugged her then, and she thought for sure she was melting.

"We're technically in public, you know," she said in his ear.

"That thought just occurred to me."

She tipped her face and smiled at him. He smiled back and ran his hands across her back in the water. They kept looking at each other, and everything was different. It wasn't really awkward, just…new. Mildly scary, but…nice. A nice little hot tub rendezvous.

He leaned forward slightly and checked her eyes. She sucked in her bottom lip and glanced away. She did not, however, pull away from him. He slanted his head and gradually moved his face closer to hers. She just kept looking down, even though their lips were almost touching.

"Look at me," he whispered.

She did, and she'd never felt so nervous in her life. She was shaking, and it annoyed the hell out of her. It was just Grissom. Gil, Gil, she corrected. She had to at least call him Gil subconsciously.

"Are you going to let me kiss you in a hot tub?"

She rolled her eyes and nuzzled his cheek, relishing the feel of his whiskers against her skin. "I guess so."

"Lucky me," he replied, touching his lips to hers softly. She grinned, and he did it again. Sara leaned into him for a third kiss that lasted longer than the first two combined. She pulled away abruptly when she heard voices behind them.

The people kept walking, passing the pool and hot tub by, but still, she wasn't up for getting caught making out in public, despite the enormous temptation.

Fortunately, neither was he. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer, silently encouraging her to rest her head on his shoulder. Perhaps it was the droning hum of the hot tub, or the relaxing pressure of the bubbles surrounding them, or just the weightless feeling of the water that took over his senses and led to such an overwhelming feeling of tranquility—

No, he was pretty sure it was the peace that came with releasing a little sexual tension. He finally kissed her. She didn't reject him. No promises were made. It was progress, slow and steady. Tilting his head, it pleased him to see her eyes closed in repose. She was quiet and rightfully reluctant. He could handle a quiet Sara. A talkative, inquisitive, emotionally open Sara made him nervous.

Forty-five minutes and several discreet kisses later, Sara insisted she was turning into a prune. They got out, and he watched her dry off, eying the tattoo unabashedly.

"Would you stop it?" she laughed, turning away from him and stepping into her shorts.

"It's getting dark out here, and I don't have my glasses on," he complained, still staring as he slipped on his shirt.

Sara pulled up her shorts and put on her t-shirt. Purposefully, she moved toward him, and before she lost her nerve, she put her arms around him. "Knock it off. You'll see it some day. You're making me a nervous wreck." He caught her around her waist teasingly, not releasing her, and she timidly initiated another kiss.

"Sorry. I'll tone it down," he mumbled into her mouth, enjoying her deliciously sweet aggressiveness.

They went back to her apartment and shared some ice cream. They talked about the slaughtered wild horses and the lab and cautiously planned a date for the following day. He made her laugh and kissed her a few more times. Then he left, leaving Sara feeling less reluctant and a lot less nervous.

It was a start. They were going to give this a try, and that did wonders for triggering some much needed, unexpectedly peaceful sleep.

THE END.