"His last MRI wasn't good, Dan. It's into his brain, now." Cheryl Houlihan spoke softly to her husband who had just arrived at the hospital.
"Damn it," he sighed, pulling his wife of twenty-one years into a hug in the wide, white hallway.
"They're going to move him to the terminal ward. His, uh, his doctor said it may only be a few weeks."
"Honey, I'm so sorry."
"They're going to keep him comfortable." She sniffled and dug out a tissue from her pocket. "The doctors told him, but he just didn't seem THERE. He's so drugged and dazed. I can't believe this. He's only sixty-nine."
"Can we see him?"
"Yeah, I was just taking a break. He's been sleeping a lot." Cheryl blinked away tears and took a deep breath. She reached for her husband's hand as she went back into her father's room. They sat, while he mostly slept, stirring only once during the brief visit.
She leaned over the bed and whispered, "We'll see you tomorrow morning dad, okay?"
Howard Mitola opened his eyes and turned his face, blinking at his daughter. "I feel better," he announced with a sudden smile, appearing quite rested.
Cheryl nodded patronizingly, but in a loving way. "Good. That's good, dad." She covered his big, warm hand with her own cool one.
"Is it Christmas yet?" he asked, looking around. "I didn't miss Christmas, did I?"
"No, dad."
"It's only the twenty-first," his son-in-law provided.
"Oh, good," Howard replied, very relieved. "There's so much work to do," he muttered, casting a serious gaze at the window and the early evening sky.
Cheryl shook her head, puzzled, and then kissed her father's cheek before leaving for the night.
Several hours later, just after the Houlihans went to bed, the telephone rang. Daniel answered on the second ring. The caller asked for his wife, so he passed the phone across the bed.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Houlihan? This is Kevin Torek, I'm the head of security at Desert Palm Hospital."
"Yes?" Cheryl's heart raced as she prepared herself for the worst. He couldn't be gone already. Wait—head of security?
"Your father is Howard Mitola?"
"Yes."
"Ma'am, is your father…at home with you?"
"What? What do you mean? He was supposed to be moved to the terminal oncology ward tonight after I left. What happened?"
There was a brief pause before the man answered, "When the nurses went to transport him, he wasn't in his room."
"So, where was he?"
Silence.
"Are you saying you lost my father?"
More silence. And then, "It appears that way, ma'am."
"Oh my God. You have got to be kidding me. Do you know how sick he is? He's got to still be there somewhere!"
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Houlihan. If you could come down, we'll call the police immediately and get the situation resolved. I assure you the entire hospital is involved."
"I'll be right down."
*** *** ***
SARA SCANNED THE HOSPITAL ROOM, seeing nothing overtly out of the ordinary. An IV line hung from a pole, the end draped neatly on the pillow, instead of linked to a patient's arm. A pale blue hospital gown was balled up in the middle of the bed.
Sara turned to the nurse on duty. "He left his gown. Where were his clothes?"
"In the closet. They're gone, but the empty plastic bag is still in there," she explained, pointing to the narrow wardrobe closet.
Cheryl Houlihan stood in the doorway, watching, barely containing her confusion and anger. "I don't understand this. I had to tie his shoes the other day; he was so weak. How could he have gone anywhere? Someone had to have taken him—or at least helped him!"
"You're Mr. Mitola's daughter?" Sara asked, trying to offer a sympathetic smile. She walked to the doorway and introduced herself, shaking the woman's hand. She stepped into the hall, knowing O'Reilly was off trying securing copies of the surveillance video.
"Mrs. Houlihan, how did your father seem before you left?"
Cheryl thought for a moment and shrugged. "He said he was feeling better." She shook her head, still trying to grasp the situation.
"Did he say anything specific? Give any indication that he wanted to leave the hospital?"
"No. He was asking about Christmas. He didn't want to miss it. And he said something about there being a lot of work to do. I didn't know what he was talking about. He was so drugged." Cheryl paused, feeling her emotions swell. "Miss Sidle, my father's dying. His lung cancer has spread to his liver and brain. Please. Y-you have to find him."
"We'll do everything we can."
There was very little to go on.
O'Reilly brought the surveillance video back to the lab, where they watched it. Captured on the main entrance camera, Howard Mitola stepped out of the sliding doors at the front of the hospital, looking around like he didn't know where to go. He headed right, and then stopped and headed left, out of the camera's eye. That was all there was to see.
"Wow. He did walk out," Sara said. "All alone."
"I thought this guy was dying," O'Reilly muttered.
"He is. I think we need to talk to his doctors."
*** *** ***
CHILDREN NEED PRESENTS, Howard thought as he peeked in the living room window of a small house on Mayberry Street. I have so much work to do. So many houses to visit. He swayed a moment, gripping the outside of the house for stability. Then he hoisted his sack over his shoulder. Santa doesn't get to rest.
Grissom was called to the scene of a break-in at a private home located in one of the poorer neighborhoods in Vegas—4314 Mayberry Street. He was glad something came up in the middle of his shift, a good excuse to avoid a backlog of paperwork.
"How come you're working this?" he asked when he saw Brass standing in the small living room. "Is there a body?"
"No, we're short detectives. 'Tis the season." He gave him a quick, phony grin and took out his notebook. "Well, here's a new one, Gil, the suspect came in through a side window. The homeowners don't think anything's missing, but they've found some things under their Christmas tree that aren't theirs."
"What things?"
Brass flipped back a few pages and cleared his throat. "An empty can of motor oil, some rotten broccoli, a clip-on bowtie, several candy bar wrappers and a torn copy of Atlas Shrugged."
Grissom cocked his head a little to the right. "Are you making this up?"
"No."
"They think the suspect left them?" he asked, moving slowing into the living room.
"No other explanation at the moment."
With a subtle shake of his head, Grissom got to work, processing the window first, where he found a small piece of red fabric caught in the glass. He moved to the Christmas tree, and in front of it he found a tiny shred of black plastic that looked similar to a trash bag. Other than that, there was really nothing to find. The items found under the tree were collected and brought to the lab. Though disturbing, the case wasn't exactly top priority, as nothing was stolen and no one was hurt.
*** *** ***
DR. MUNSON WAS A HANDSOME man, early forties, with a few distinguishing gray hairs and bright green eyes. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Munson." Sara shook the man's hand and offered a brief smile, which he returned.
"Of course. I printed out some information on frontal lobe tumors for you. I also have Mr. Mitola's medical records. His daughter has power of attorney and gave permission for me to release them to you." The doctor handed Sara the large file and casually slipped his hand into the pocket of his lab coat.
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
"We're very concerned about Mr. Mitola. He's at a stage where he needs constant supervision. He's likely in pain, very weak, and in need of medication. You'll see in the information packet I gave you. The kind of brain tumor he has can cause a person to behave atypically, and in this case, well, it's troubling that he's just…disappeared."
"We're doing everything we can to find him. Thanks for your cooperation."
"No problem. Look, I have some patients to see upstairs, or I'd talk with you further. If you have any questions, or if there's anything else I can do to help, give me a call." With a flirtatious grin, Dr. Munson handed Sara his card.
She nodded and knew she was blushing. "I will, thanks."
*** *** ***
CSI WAS BUSTLING WITH BUSY EMPLOYEES, all swamped by the sudden influx of criminal activity, but the holiday spirit seemed to make everyone a little more cheerful. Sara hadn't seen Grissom in a while, but they did manage to have a brief conversation in his office before leaving one day.
"You sure you don't need me Christmas Eve?" she said, slipping on her coat.
"It's covered, Sara. You deserve a holiday off every couple years," he teased, writing something down.
She smiled shyly, yearning for more lighthearted banter, like they used to share. "When's the last time you had Christmas Eve off?" she asked boldly, pinning him with a deliberate gaze.
Looking up, he just shrugged. "I don't remember." She raised a brow, but before she could speak he said, "Which is why I took it off this year."
"Wow, I'm impressed."
"Thank you."
"I'll see ya around." She gave another wide grin and headed out.
"Good night, Sara."
*** *** ***
BRASS MET GRISSOM IN THE doorway of the house. "Santa strikes again," he informed him. It was the third break-in of its kind in as many nights.
"Same deal?"
"Very same. Broken window again. This time he left an empty bottle of wine, a broken piece of plumbing, a shattered picture frame and several wadded up paper towels."
Grissom grimaced a little. "You know, I had one of these a long time ago back in Minnesota, only the guy left a much more personal gift under the tree, if you catch my drift…"
"Sick bastard."
Grissom went about his work, collecting the trash evidence on the floor by the Christmas tree. "The good news is, I think he left the whole trash bag on the lawn out front. I saw it on my way in. If there's time, I'll have one of the techs scan it for prints."
"Good idea." Brass was aware they couldn't spend a lot of time on what basically amounted to a weird vandalism case. While definitely disturbing, it was rather ridiculous.
Later that night, Grissom looked up to find Brass coming into his office.
"Hey, we got a break in our Santa case."
"Somebody catch him?"
"Sort of. A couple came home from the movies and found a man passed out on their front lawn wearing a torn, red sweatsuit. When they went inside to call the police, they noticed the house had been broken into. There were gifts…" Brass said, nodding, as if Grissom would know the rest of the story.
"Where is he now?"
"He's in the drunk tank."
"He was drunk?"
"That, or he's on something. Wouldn't tell our officers anything except that he was Santa. Let's give him another couple hours."
"Okay. Call me if you want me there." Grissom wandered off down the hall.
Two hours later, after receiving a page, Grissom slipped into the interrogation room beside Brass, who leaned over to whisper in his ear. "His prints aren't in the system. He still says he's Santa. I don't think it's a matter of him sobering up. I think he might be delusional."
Grissom nodded and studied the man sitting across from them. He hated to use the word jolly to describe the suspect, but given the circumstances, the man didn't even look inconvenienced. His eyes had dark circles under them though, and his face was unusually pale. He appeared a little exhausted.
"Sir, if you cooperate with us, we can have you evaluated by a doctor from the health department," Grissom explained genially.
"I take it you don't believe?" Howard replied, just as cordially.
"In Santa? Not since I was seven, Mr…?"
"Claus—I told Captain Brass that already. And that's a shame. You don't believe—not even for the sake of the children?" he pressed, saddened.
"I don't have any children."
Howard nodded and smiled, clearly oblivious to the amount of trouble he was in. "Why don't you test me?"
Grissom cocked his head to one side and blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Ask me for something. Christmas is coming. Very soon—"
"Okay, I think I've heard enough," Brass interrupted. "We'll move you to a cell for now, until you can think of someone to call and help you make bail." He stood to escort the suspect back to holding. Grissom got up and followed them to the door. Something didn't feel right about the situation.
"Jim, just give me a minute," Grissom requested, feeling unexpectedly sorry for the man.
Brass gave him a perplexed look and then shrugged. "Fine. I'll be down the hall."
Standing in the doorway, Howard gave Grissom a somewhat goofy smile. Then he blinked and frowned and looked around a bit like he was lost. "I—I think I had a home," Howard said, thinking hard. Grissom pursed his lips and sighed, wondering if the man was mentally ill, or homeless, or both. "Sir, there are people who can help you. Vegas has several quality shelters if you're in need of assistance."
Howard was now studying Grissom's face with a sudden twinkle in his eye. "Ask me." He squinted at Grissom's identification a moment. "What do you really want for Christmas, Mr.—Grissom?"
Grissom shook his head and looked around for Brass. He was busy talking to a uniformed officer several doors down.
"Okay, you want to play Miracle on 34th Street…" Glancing at the opposite end of the hallway, Grissom saw Sara, leaning against the reception counter, reading a file, and he almost laughed. The overhead lights highlighted her hair and gave her an unnatural, angelic glow—sort of an inadvertent Look at me! Look at me! reaction.
"Maybe I want something you can't get in a store," he muttered, turning back to the suspect who was now rubbing his forehead and wincing. The hair around his ears was damp with sweat, and he swayed briefly. Grissom narrowed his eyes. The guy almost looked sick.
Howard looked up, expecting an answer.
"Her," Grissom said finally, pointing down the hall to Sara. "I want her."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He'd wanted to fix what they once had for a long time now. The slow and steady job of cautiously rebuilding their friendship was daunting. He wanted to go back somehow and start over, instead—take a chance and see what could happen. It was foolish and impossible—something even a miraculous breaking and entering Santa couldn't deliver.
The man just smiled and patted Grissom on his shoulder. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." Grissom watched an officer walk him back down to holding. Brass muttered something about a homicide and said he'd get back with him about Santa later.
Pausing to give her an admiring head to toe look, Grissom sauntered up to Sara. "How's your missing person?"
"Oh, hey. We've got nothing. It's like the guy just disappeared. Oh, and did I mention he's dying?"
"He is?"
"Yeah, he's got a frontal lobe brain tumor," she sighed.
Grissom looked down at the file on the counter and moved closer to her. He read the name and glanced at the photo the family had provided. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he grabbed the file off the counter. "How the hell did we…?"
"What?"
"This guy's in custody! He's been breaking into houses and thinks he's Santa Claus! Don't these cops talk to each other?" he barked, rushing off and yanking out his cell phone.
"Santa Claus? What? Hey! That's my cancer patient! Grissom!" She followed him down the hall.
*** *** ***
CHERYL HOULIHAN CAME TO THE station immediately to bail out her father and take him back to the hospital. She was shocked at the mayhem he'd caused given his condition. Cheryl agreed to pay for any damages he had caused, and all of the families dropped the charges against him when his medical situation was explained to them.
Within a few hours, Howard's doctors reluctantly released him to his daughter's care. Hospice arrangements were made so he could die at home with his family.
Grissom was packing up his things when Sara came in with her report. It was already almost noon, and she was starting to look as tired as he felt. There was no reason for him to be hanging around so late on Christmas Eve, but some juvenile part of him didn't want to be the first one to leave out of the two of them.
"That was some case," he sighed, taking the file from her and setting it in a pile on his desk.
"I'll say. We were lucky we found him when he did. His daughter was really a wreck."
"I can't believe he was walking around like that in his condition."
"Yeah. Playing Santa, no less. Funny," she said, shaking her head.
Grissom watched her, the way she dipped her head shyly and her hair hung against her face, and he felt a genuine urge to be with her, spend time with her—try something. At a loss for how to proceed, he just gave her a crooked smile and said, "I could use a drink."
"Me too," she replied immediately, thinking she probably shouldn't have said that. It made her sound like an eager drunk.
Without skipping a beat he said, "You wanna join me?" and Sara looked shocked by the question.
She eventually smiled and said, "Sure. What the heck." She watched him stand up and put on his jacket, still not entirely sure of the situation. She slipped her hands into her pockets and remembered something. "Ya know, it's Christmas Eve."
Grissom froze. "Oh, yeah. That slipped my mind. You…probably have plans."
"No, not really." This was awful. Two awkward people behaving…awkwardly.
"Well, good then. I feel like unwinding with an old friend," he said, coming toward her.
She would have wondered what he meant by that, but she was too busy trying to process the soft stroke of his hand near her shoulder blade as they left his office.
They drove to a small bar around the corner from work. Most of the lab had visited it on one occasion or another after particularly difficult cases. Today, at just past noon on a Saturday Christmas Eve, the parking lot was unusually crowded with holiday revelers, which caught them both off guard.
"You know what? Let's go to my place instead. I just need to make a quick stop."
Her jaw dropped for a second, but she quickly recovered and shrugged her acquiescence.
He ran into a convenience store and came out with a bag containing what looked like a pint of milk. For some childish reason, Sara refused to ask why he bought it. Maybe it was eggnog, she mused, hating that she was now rather curious.
When they got to his townhouse, the quietness of it all began to get to her. The quiet, lonely surroundings that were so very Grissom, but yet, somehow not unlike her own apartment. She asked to use his restroom. She splashed some cool water on her face, trying to freshen up and shake off her nervousness. It was just a drink. With Grissom. In his home. Yes, she was technically trapped there without a car, and he seemed unusually sweet and even a little pleasantly resigned. Not normal behavior at all. He was making a friendly gesture, reaching out to her, and here she was, hiding in his bathroom being ridiculous. She dried her hands and went back out to his kitchen, but not before taking a moment to bend her head and smell his hand towels while she had the chance. Clean—like name brand fabric softener. Nice.
"What are you making?" she asked when she found him busy with bottles of alcohol and two glasses. She thought it was odd that he'd just fix her a drink without asking what she would like.
"I'm making you a Cara Sposa. You'll like it."
"What's in it?"
"Coffee flavored Brandy, Triple Sec and cream." He knew she liked coffee, and took cream in it. It wasn't much of a leap that she'd enjoy the rich flavor of the drink.
Sara watched him closely. The cream. That was what he bought at the store. One mystery solved.
"It's my dirty little secret," he deadpanned, winking at her, and Sara grinned. He presented her with the drink in a surprisingly fancy cocktail glass. Visions of Grissom lounging in a smoking jacket entertaining various lady friends popped in her head. Stop being ridiculous, she chided herself.
She did like the drink. The stinging slide of the alcohol down her throat made her sigh happily. She followed him into his living room. He must have made a fire while she was in the bathroom. They settled onto his floor, choosing to bypass his couch and sit by the fire. A small artificial tree, sparsely decorated with a few ornaments and a set of multi-colored lights sat to the right of the fireplace. She didn't know why it surprised her that Grissom would have a Christmas tree; it just did. The whole moment was warm and delightful, despite the underlying weirdness of it all. "This is good," she commented, staring at the fire.
He raised his glass.
Sara blinked. "I'm sorry, what are we drinking to?"
"How about… to Howard Mitola?"
Sara gave a sad smile. "And to Christmas."
"Yes. Merry Christmas, Sara."
"You too." They clinked glasses and each took a drink, staring at each other for a few seconds too long.
"How come you don't ever go anywhere for the holidays?" he asked after a long silence.
Sara shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not that close with my brother, and my mother…well, never mind."
"Is she still, uh…?"
"Yeah." Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and tried to think of something to say. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who's never mentioned his own family, " she said with a hint of challenge.
Grissom smirked and eventually nodded, realizing she was right. "My mother helps feed the hungry every Thanksgiving and Christmas."
That was not at all the response she was expecting. "Are you serious? I thought she ran an art gallery."
"She did. She retired a long time ago though, and yes, I'm serious. Every year. Not just serving them, either. She raises the food donations and coordinates the effort and all. A couple years ago the local news did a story on her." He conveniently left out that the touching twist to the story was her deafness. His mother knew full well the human-interest segment exploited her disability, but she didn't mind. "She only agreed to be interviewed if they promised to include information about how people could help contribute to the food drive. She can be rather shrewd."
"Wow. That's incredibly…philanthropic."
"Yeah. I'm filing her sainthood papers next month."
Sara laughed and marveled at the sight of Grissom, relaxed in his home, sharing with her openly. On the one hand it was bizarre, but on the other hand… it felt wonderfully normal.
"Well, my parents missed sainthood by a mile," she sighed, taking another sip of her drink.
Grissom cleared his throat and his cheek twitched. "You know that…you can talk to me, right? If you wanted to. I'd like it, I mean."
They exchanged glances, and a brief flutter of nerves welled up in her stomach. He was totally reaching out to her—in his house, in front of his fire. Talk about surreal. She wasn't going to ramble on about her abusive childhood to him now. "You know enough already. The details will only depress you. Besides, it's Christmas Eve," she reminded, smiling wanly.
"So?"
It was quiet as they both considered what to say next. Grissom didn't want to push. He had no right, and he wasn't eager to hear about her obviously painful upbringing. He just wondered if she knew he cared. He didn't know how to voice his concern and show his compassion.
"How long were you in foster care?" he blurted gently, suspecting he had officially overstepped a boundary.
Sara blew out a breath—half in exasperation and half in exhilaration. This conversation could end up downright emotional, yet, she felt comforted, knowing that he wanted to talk to her. Grissom wasn't the type to be nosey for the sake of being nosey. He was trying to show her that he cared, and it excited and scared her all at once.
"Almost five years."
"I had no idea."
"Yeah, well, it's not something you put on your resume," she grumbled, moving to sit beside him, both of them with their backs resting against his coffee table, staring at the fire.
"So, what was it like?" he asked, respecting her need to avoid eye contact for the moment.
"Awful. Sometimes very misguided people open their homes to foster children." Grissom kept quiet, letting her get comfortable talking about things. He had no desire to have a repeat of their last conversation about her childhood. It nearly broke his heart. He didn't know what he'd do if she started crying.
Sara set her drink down behind her and continued, "That's where I learned again how much power men had over women physically, and I vowed to outsmart them mentally, which oddly enough, wasn't that difficult." She looked at him and noticed the uncertain twitch of his brow. "Present company excluded," she smiled. "I never have been able to outsmart you."
"I don't know about that," he said, and they brushed against each other in a strangely touching moment. When she looked at him again, he was smiling at her. She turned away and stared at his Christmas tree.
"What's your favorite Christmas memory?" he prodded.
"What is this—some kind of weird get to know you game?"
He shrugged and was surprised to feel his face flush. "I don't know, maybe." He decided not to press his luck with any more invasive questions.
To his wonder, Sara began answering him anyway a moment later. "Before my grandmother died, Christmases were kind of nice. We went to her house as a family, and…it was safe, somehow. Anyway, one year when I was pretty little—four or five I think, she got me this huge dollhouse. It probably wasn't even that big, but it felt big to me. I used to wish I were small enough that I could just move in and live in it." His subtle amusement caught her off guard.
"Kinda funny, huh? I used to like playing house," she laughed, but there was sadness in her voice. He gave a respectful pause, honoring her special memory.
"What's yours?" she asked curiously.
"Well, I think this Christmas is making its way up my list, but I'd have to say the one when my uncle took me hunting.
Sara's face scrunched in mildly disgusted puzzlement. "Really?"
"Oh, don't get me wrong; it was awful," he clarified. "A testosterone-filled day of killing beautiful, innocent animals. I hated everything about it, but I remember feeling very…loved. Included. I don't know. I can't…really explain it." He felt flustered, but when he looked at her, she was just smiling back at him.
"I know what you mean," she said, and that was the only response he needed to hear.
There was a certain light in her eyes that he hadn't seen in a long time. He'd missed that look, and he suddenly felt very lucky that Sara was there with him. Very lucky indeed.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said, squinting at the fire.
Hesitantly, he mumbled an affirmative response.
"Why do you think this is so easy?"
"What?"
Sara tipped her head a bit. "Us. I mean—just sitting here, talking. It's pretty nice."
"I've always liked talking with you, Sara." She fell silent, and he frowned, knowing she wanted more of an answer. She was likely referring to more than just their ability to have easy conversation.
Before him lay two choices. He could easily brush off her hint that they discuss their multi-faceted relationship and leave her wondering what his intentions were. Or, he could cautiously venture into the unknown, for once being honest with himself and with her.
Then again, he couldn't explain something he didn't fully understand himself. His feelings for her were always changing and morphing into new, unidentifiable entities. When they first met, he almost felt a paternalistic pride. A few years back, his feelings toward her took on a passionate, lustful spin. Now they held more of a romantic, devotional quality that felt base and genuine—practically inherent.
Did it really need to be explained? He hated talking to women, risking putting himself out there. He liked the fact that he answered to no one, yet…Sara was someone who deserved answers.
"I tend to compartmentalize things in my life," he began, pausing to finish off his drink, then setting the glass back on the table. He wanted another, to mellow out his nerves, but it wasn't the time to get up and walk away from her. Instead, he took a deep breath and continued. "Like, well, say I meet a woman, and I find her attractive, and I want to date her. That's a compartment."
"Uh huh," she mumbled, having no idea where he was going with this, but feeling a shiver run through her nonetheless.
"And then…there are the people I want to work with. They're intelligent and thorough—the best at what they do. They have my professional respect. That's a compartment."
Sara felt herself begin to deflate internally.
"I guess I just decided a long time ago that you couldn't be in both compartments at once—for whatever reason. Which I'm sure was important at the time," he stumbled, "but now seems vague and…not very important."
She wasn't exactly sure what he was saying, but she gave him credit for talking about their past and being honest with her. It was more than he had ever done before. He deserved the same, she mused.
"I'm sorry I ever crossed the line," she said softly.
"I'm not." Sara blinked, wondering what he meant by that. "I wish things could be different," he added with a somber tone.
Feeling emboldened, she studied his face, looking deep in his eyes. "Do you?"
He only stared at her, and the charged moment lingered on and on. She leaned toward him a little, expecting him to back away, but he leaned in too. Sara stopped, checking his eyes. Desperately checking, wanting him to stop this—shouldn't it be stopped? He didn't say anything. She moved forward again and kissed him. Shock and adrenaline blended with the lusty tenderness of their first kiss.
"They can be different," she gasped, hovering against his cheek.
Intent on holding back, waiting for him to make a move, she stared at his lips, but her desire bubbled to the surface. He smelled so good. She kissed him again, longer this time. It was probably part of his master plan. Make her initiate everything so he could have plausible deniability.
This time, he was the one to pull away, though he didn't retreat an inch. "Sara, what evidence do you have that I'm worth the trouble?"
Perhaps it wasn't part of his master plan. Maybe he really was insecure and doubtful of her affections—after all this time. Now she just wanted to lay here and hold him all day.
"None," she answered, "I'm following a hunch." They kissed again, and he pressed into her this time, mouth sliding against hers warmly.
"I like this way too much," he whispered, looking almost fearful as he held the back of her head in his hands.
"Me too, but let's not panic just yet." Lips still brushed in sensual torture as they spoke.
"No?"
"No, it's just all that pent up sexual chemistry. We'll be fine." She pecked again at his lips.
"We will?" he asked, perplexed, but turning his face to kiss her again.
She lunged at him then, inadvertently knocking him sideways, and then to the floor. She laughed, but he didn't, and his mouth never left hers. The next few minutes were a blur, with lips crashing, tongue colliding, hands fumbling. Still, the underlying gentleness between them proved to make the moment special.
All they did for a long time was make out on the floor of his living room. He was content with that, but then Sara shocked him by putting her hand on his rear end, stroking deliberately. His eyes opened, and he swallowed, waiting for her to look up at him.
"You know you're touching my butt."
"Sorry," she laughed. They were nose to nose, both breathing hard. He looked adorably muffled, and his mischievousness did her in. Resisting her desire for him would be futile.
"No, you're not," he chided, delighting in the heat that was making her cheeks glow dark pink.
"No," was all she said, kissing him again and lacing her fingers through his.
It was hours later that he started working her out of her clothes. He didn't intend for things to go that far, but after kissing her passionately for that long, instinct kicked in. A button here, a zipper there, and suddenly his hand was sliding under her shirt and dipping into her pants.
"Wait."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, I'm not stopping anything, I just…"
"We don't have to—"
"But we can. Can't we? If we want to?" She looked positively beautiful. Trusting. And a little bit timid.
He blinked and licked his lips, unsure how to assure her. "You don't think this would be a one-time thing, do you?" he asked, concern wrinkling his forehead.
She looked thoughtful a moment, lowering her eyes. "I don't want it to be."
"It won't be," he promised with conviction unknown to him. He would make this right. Somehow. Right now though, he would spend the rest of the day basking in the scent of her skin…
*** *** ***
GRISSOM WOKE UP LAZILY, stretching and yawning, blinking away the remnants of a deep sleep. Finding his bed empty and Sara gone, he couldn't say for certain that it wasn't all a dream. Then he rolled over and muscles everywhere reminded him immediately that it was real. He couldn't believe she left—without even saying anything to him. He glanced at the clock as he sat up. It wasn't quite two a.m. He'd slept a lot.
Irritation mounted as he made his way to the bathroom, his mind reeling. Her car was at the lab. Surely she didn't call a taxi. He marched to his living room and froze in place upon finding Sara, sitting under his tree, beautifully illuminated by the lights. Huffing a silent, disbelieving chuckle, he thought about Howard Mitola, and he said a silent prayer for him and his family. Howard was a kind-hearted man who meant well, and though Grissom knew he had nothing to do with he and Sara being together last night, he couldn't help but feel a little giddy over the coincidence.
"Merry Christmas."
Sara twitched in surprise and then smiled at him. "Merry Christmas."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Nothing. Couldn't sleep anymore. I was investigating your ornaments," she admitted shyly, and he walked over to her and sat down. Really, she'd been trying to calm her nerves, praying, actually praying that she hadn't made a huge mistake. She'd long since lost her faith in a God who couldn't protect her from abusive parents, but this was something different. Sleeping with Grissom changed everything. The aftermath warranted some kind of divine intervention. Wrapping herself in the fantasy of a perfect relationship with him wasn't the problem. What worried her was the prospect of losing his leadership at work, his direction, his respect as a supervisor. Everything was infinitely more complicated now. The fact that she was so in love with him didn't help matters at all.
As if sensing her distress, Grissom put his arms around her and kissed her cheek, and she wanted to cry, suspecting that any minute now he'd suggest she leave or tell her he had to go somewhere. What a mess. It pissed her off when tears really did form in her eyes. "You want me to go?" she asked awkwardly, scrunching up her nose a little.
He cupped her cheek, not anticipating the fear spreading in his gut. He never wanted to hurt her. "No."
"You sure? Because I know you probably didn't intend for this to—"
His hand was on her mouth, halting the rest of her words. "Sara, just…we'll figure it out. Okay?" The heaviness of his gaze told her he wasn't simply referring to when she would go home. They would figure this thing out between them someday. Together.
"Okay."
Grissom stood up and offered her a hand, realizing now that she was wearing his t-shirt. She looked ridiculously youthful and very comfortable. He liked that. "Let me fix you something to eat."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to," he shrugged, trying to play down the significance of their intimacy. "We can start our own Christmas tradition," he said lightly, leading her by the hand into his kitchen. "French toast okay?"
Sara realized suddenly she was starving. "Do you have powdered sugar?"
He stopped walking and cocked his head to the side, frowning. Was no powdered sugar some kind of deal breaker? Sara giggled at his expression.
"Yes, I have powdered sugar. In the pantry," he said, motioning for her to get it. He took out a frying pan and went for the eggs.
Sara set the sugar on the counter, barely containing her delight in watching him cook in his own kitchen. This was the best Christmas ever.
*** *** ***
GRISSOM SAT AT HIS DESK, reading the day's newspaper at the end of a slightly boring shift. Hearing a soft knock, he looked up to see Sara saunter in.
"Hey. I need to run to the grocery store after work, but, uh, if you want, I can…um…I'll call you when I get home, and we can…"
"I'll come over," he declared succinctly—assisting her. She still didn't understand that he wanted to be with her. He spent nearly every day with her after work for the past two weeks. The occasional panic-stricken moment affected him too, but he hated that she was nervous around him and could still appear so uncertain. It would take time for things to run more smoothly. "Is that okay?"
"Yes." He returned her wide smile with a crooked one of his own.
"Did you see this?" he asked, hooking his finger for her to come all the way in. She came around his desk and looked over his shoulder at the short article he was indicating.
Las Vegas Santa Dies
Howard Mitola, the man suspected but never officially charged as the "Santa" who broke into homes leaving trash "gifts" last week died Wednesday after a short battle with brain cancer. He was sixty-nine years old. Mitola escaped Desert Palm hospital not long after his terminal diagnosis. Side effects of his condition included hallucinations and delusional, atypical behavior. Victims of Mitola's vandalism antics did not press charges, and he was released from police custody on Christmas Eve. Mitola is survived by his daughter Cheryl Houlihan and son-in-law Daniel. A private funeral will take place on Friday.
"Aw. Well, at least he's not suffering anymore."
"I think I'll send flowers," Grissom said, nodding and folding the paper. It had to be the least he could do. The crazy guy thought he could bring him Sara for Christmas.
"Really?" Sara asked, puzzled.
He'd never told her about their conversation. It was meaningful to him, and for some reason, he wanted to keep it private, even from her.
"Yeah, really."
Sara touched his shoulder and squeezed for just a second before sliding her hand away. "I'll chip in. Sign my name, too."
"I will."
"See ya later." He watched her leave, thinking maybe someday he'd explain why the memory of Howard Mitola was so special to him.
THE END
