Last chapter! Enjoy--

A Few Days in Chicago Chapter 8

Sara shook her head. "Grissom—I'm not—I've…" She stopped talking and turned to him. "This is so hard for me to say."

"You don't have to say a thing." He placed hands on either side of her face as a tear made a damp track down her cheek. "Tell me what I can do." When she sighed a deep trembling sound came from her chest. He pulled her into an embrace. "Whatever it is, it's okay." He moved to the chair where she had slept and pulled her into it with him.

Nearly an hour passed before she began to talk. He had held her and wiped the few tears away that fell, but she never cried. Several times she sighed; a deep sad sound that caused him to press his lips against her hair, to stroke her arm, but he remained silent.

When she began, her voice was a whisper against his neck. "I grew up in foster care, Grissom. It doesn't really matter how I got there—my father died, my mother—she was unable to keep me, so I ended up in foster care."

She talked about college, going across the country, and remaining there for three years as she took as many courses as she could cram into each semester. She made a few friends, learned to party and learned to drink beer, learned how to smile and remain quiet and no one noticed her. She hero worshipped a few of her professors. College was easy.

When she stopped talking or hesitated, he waited.

"I came back to San Francisco after college and found forensics by accident—really found a career that I love." She wiped her face with her hand and sighed again. "My mother lives in San Francisco—we visit each other a few times a month, but we've never been close." Her eyes filled with tears.

"You don't have to tell me any more."

"Yes, I do." She stirred and started to get up.

"Stay here, please."

"My mother—she's not been well in a long time, years. She—she has never been able to…" her words stopped again. "She's not physically ill, Grissom, she's mentally ill. She takes medication to—to function." Her tears spilled down her face.

Over an hour, he thought. It had taken her over an hour to tell him this. Of course, he knew there was much more to her story. He knew about her mother and how her father died. Her boss had provided that information, but he would not divulge what he knew, not now and probably not in the future. This was her story and until she told it, he had no right to know. He did understand why she found some words difficult to say.

"I can't leave her. Not now." She rested her head against his shoulder. "I would like to be with you—I want you to know that. But I can't leave her."

He kissed her again and she responded with one of passion, holding his face against her own. "Let's go to bed," she said.

Grissom moved them to the bed. He remembered how to remove her top. He asked if she wanted something to sleep in. She smiled at his question and shook her head.

"I have you."

He made love to her that night. She was warm liquid moving through his fingers as thought she was waves of the sea. How many men, he thought, in many rooms, in thousands of years, felt as he did about a woman. His entire life had been leading him to this place, this woman, this act with her. He held her as he said the words she could not say. "I love you, Sara. Wherever you are, know that."

Much later, he woke to find her sitting in the chair. She wore his shirt. "Hey."

She unfolded her legs and returned to bed. "Hey."

He pushed covers aside for her to crawl beside him. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Sometimes I think too much, Grissom."

His arms wrapped around her. "We both may think too much." Several minutes passed when neither needed to say words and Grissom was first to speak. "Sara, I am older than you. You asked if I thought about our age difference—I do—a great deal. I think about how young you are. I think about how much older I am." She had found that space against him where she fit so perfectly. "But then you come here, like this, and I forget to think, I forget to be responsible. I want you near me and nothing else matters—not my age or your age or your mother's health or my job. It is a dangerous place for me to be."

He knew she stopped breathing for several seconds before he continued. "There is no place I would rather be." He felt her relax against him.

"I've never been here before, Grissom. I'm not sure what to do, but I know I am safe with you."

He kissed her. "Sleep, Sara. We can figure something out."

XXXX

They stayed in bed longer than they should have but it was where they wanted to be. It meant they had to hurry to the train and hurry to catch their planes.

"Let me take your luggage," he said.

She shouldered her bag. "I can carry my own, thank you."

"Not while we are together."

She kept her bag. "You will not be here always."

He thought it an odd statement, but he did not question her and let her carry her bag. Unlike most women, she traveled light, one bag and a backpack. They talked—about the skull, about golf, about Las Vegas, but they avoided talking about "them" until she was ready to board her plane.

"Sara," Grissom said, "I'll come, soon. Take care of yourself."

She kissed him goodbye as the last call was made for her plane. "I will—Grissom, you know…"

He smiled. "I know. Go, get on your plane. I'll call you later."

A/N: This concludes their Chicago trip—next—identifying the skull!