TITLE: Your Feet
AUTHOR: jenbachand
PAIRING: Grissom/Sara
RATING: Teen
SPOILERS: 7x24 Though this is my supposition on after.
DISCLAIMER: I made no money from the writing of this fic.
NOTES: For the prompt of Pablo Neruda. Thanks to phdelicious for the wonderful beta. And yeah, I too am a sheep.
SUMMARY: My dreams and wishes for a post rescue of Sara interlude featuring Grissom's further use of poetry to express his feelings of love.

CSI CSI CSI

When they first lifted the car off of Sara, I quit breathing. Her fingers were no longer moving like that little doll's had been. She was still, too still, wet, dirty, and in very bad shape. When I saw her chest move a bit, my lungs decided to work as well. She was alive.

The paramedics allowed me to ride along, but I was forced to sit in the front seat while they worked on her. She was a mess. But she was alive. And I didn't think I'd seen a lovelier site in all my life as a still breathing Sara with wires and tubes confirming her continued existence.

Cracked ribs, broken clavicle, concussion, bruises, taser burns, scrapes and scratches all over every exposed bit of her skin, and hypothermia from exposure to the rain.

I stood there listening to the doctors rattle off everything that crazed woman had done to Sara. My Sara. The only person I've ever loved. And all of it was my fault.

Well not really. But if I hadn't become so obsessed with the mini crime scenes, so intent on solving the case, perhaps Ernie Dell would still be alive, and Sara would not have been targeted.

I didn't deserve to even be around this woman. This strong woman who had fought for too much of what she had good in her life. She would overcome this too, and I would be right there beside her, supporting her, helping her, loving her.

I was encouraged to bring some of Sara's favorite things from home, and maybe rest for a bit myself. She would be staying a while. At least until she could move around with minimal pain, because they didn't want her to reinjure herself. So I ran home, showered, checked on Bruno (thanking Sara for the automatic dog water and food bowls), and gathered up some of Sara's stuff. A nightgown, some sweats and tee shirts, some toiletries, and finally the foot care stuff. The fluffy socks and body butter I had been talked into when I went to buy her some stocking stuffers last Christmas.

The overly friendly saleswoman had commandeered my hand, rubbed this thick cream on it, and slipped a fluffy sock over it. She then spent the next 15 minutes telling me all the benefits of a proper foot massage and how foot care was often disregarded but could make a person feel so much better. When she removed the sock, I was amazed at how soft my hand was.

I bought two sets, one vanilla and one a pretty floral one that reminded me of spring. Cammie, the foot care guru wrapped the floral one for me. I had plans for the vanilla cream and polka dotted socks.

My phone rang and I was brought out of my memories. It was Dr. Rogers asking about any medications Sara had been taking. I asked him to check her for her Ortho Evra Patch and responded that she was only taking vitamins otherwise.

"What kind of vitamins was she taking," the doctor asked. I could feel my face heat up.

"Pre-natal" I replied.

"Were you planning on having a child anytime soon?" I'm sure he's thinking of Sara's recovery time versus any plans we might have.

"Not any time soon, if ever. But her gynecologist advised her to be on them for at least six months to a year before conceiving, so we were being cautious." I'm not sure that when I get to the hospital I'll be able to keep from blushing when I see him again.

"That's what a lot of OB/GYNs are recommending these days. We have something we can give her that's similar so that she won't do without, and it will help her recovery along as well," he finished. "She's doing fine for now. We just took her in for an MRI to make sure we didn't miss any internal bleeding or anything, but it looks the same as earlier, so we're still optimistic that she'll wake up soon."

I breathe easier as I close up my phone and head out the door. Sara will be fine. Whatever she needs to get better I'll do it.

CSI CSI CSI

I come out of the darkness and am overwhelmed by sensations. My head is aching, my throat is raw, and I feel like I've been run over.

Oh, that's right, just a car put on top of me. And left in the desert. Where it rained on me.

There is also someone rubbing my feet and speaking low and soft. I strain to hear and recognize the voice. It's Gil, and since I also smell vanilla, he must be the one rubbing my feat. The first time he gave my feet "the treatment" was overwhelming. I wound up having an orgasm before he even left my ankles. His voice sounds rough and I can't help but wonder how little sleep he's had since I was found.

I have vague memories of the ambulance and people talking to me, but it's all pretty blurry. I relax and listen to Gil continue to speak.

"I found this poem. It just spoke to me, and this was before I even started worshiping your feet." There is a bit of amusement in his voice.

He clears his throat and starts speaking again in a lower tone, never wavering in the attention he is paying my metatarsals and phalanges.

"When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me."

"Neruda," I croak out. Damn my throat really is sore.

"Sara," Gil says. He's suddenly in my field of vision and holding my hand. His grip is strong and he's staring at me with a very frenzied look. His hair is a mess.

"Pablo Neruda right?" I ask. It's a bit bright and I start blinking up at him. He takes the hint and pulls the light cord until the light dims.

"Yeah, it's Neruda." He's smiling at me and I do my best to smile back, wincing as the injuries to my face make themselves known. He frowns at my wince. "It's Your Feet. I think it fits you."

The PCA machine next to my bed must be set to dispense pretty frequently, because I'm drifting out again.

"S'Good," I slur. I give his had a squeeze as I murmur, "Love You."

"Love You Too," is the last thing I hear, but it's enough to chase away the demons in my mind.

And when I wake up again later, he's still there, but in a fold out chair asleep. And my fluffy, polka dotted, sock covered feet are poking out from the end of the bed.