Category: Fluff and Romance. Like peanut butter and chocolate, they taste good together.
Geekfiction Ficathon Prompt: Television of the 80s.
Disclaimer: This is not mine. And it's not theirs either. I mean, really. Do you think this would actually happen on the show? NEVAH!
A/N: Last in what has turned out to be a series (uh, how did that happen?)…it should be able to stand alone with no problem, but—for a richer experience--if you want to read them in order, it's a sequel to PUT on Your Red Dress, Mama and Kick in the Pants.
Thank you to: Wiske. For being such a nudge about me continuing this story;-) I was just going to ignore you but…decided you were probably right.
This time, she blamed it all on that bitch, Catherine.
Well, no. To be fair, she didn't really think Catherine was a bitch. Not full-time, anyway. But she certainly had her moments and two days after the very first annual CSI convention and farewell soiree, Catherine was in full-metal-bitch mode.
And, for some reason, she was directing said bitchiness at Sara.
Of course, 'some reason' may involve the fact that Cat now had a shift of her own to supervise. Or that she was Ecklie's Golden Girl of the moment, Or that she had some sort of a notion that Grissom may have, just possibly, dumped Sofia at the ball, to look for Sara, although she had no concrete proof. Since Sofia was a former Ecklie Golden Girl, and Sara would never even be Technibond in Ecklie's book, Catherine had clearly sided with the blond.
And this new 'blond bond' resulted in a sight that would haunt Sara's dreams for quite some time. As Sara stepped out into the hallway with a tray of newly sanitized beakers fresh from the autoclave, she saw Sofia walk up to Grissom, thank him for the dance the other evening and kiss him soundly on the mouth.
The tray suddenly slipped from Sara's grasp and landed squarely on top of her foot.
Luckily, once there, the beakers bounced off her boot, and ended up on the floor, not cracking, but still making one hell of a lot of noise.
And drawing attention to Sara and her so-red-it-was-bordering-on-purple face.
"Sof—Sara! Are you all right?" Grissom tore his attention from the cool blond cucumber and ran over to help Sara. She picked up the beakers, got up after a mumbled "I'm fine," and went into the lab.
The closed door couldn't muffle the sounds of Grissom in full-lecture mode.
Sara didn't know exactly what she had just witnessed but—in spite of expectations to the contrary—she didn't envy Sofia at that moment.
But, getting back to Catherine.
She was the one who had dared Sofia to go after Grissom and 'throw him for a loop.' She explained that Grissom admired women who challenged his equilibrium. And Sofia was misguided enough to believe that this intensely private man would appreciate the 'grand romantic gesture.'
And, as proof of just how much he appreciated it, he treated Catherine to an even longer lecture than Sofia's. Unfortunately, placing blame on Catherine was like putting water on a duck's back. It just slid right off, not displacing so much as a feather.
Sara, in the meantime, listened while Nick filled her in on all the office gos…er, news…and then went off to the break-room to eat her pre-midnight version of breakfast.
Which is where she encountered the…Catherine, sitting there with Warrick and Greg, ticking off the minutes until her shift ended.
"The Greatest American Hero," Greg said, his big brown eyes shining in excitement.
He was greeted by a bark of laughter from Catherine and Warrick nearly spitting out a bite of his taco.
"What? I was like…6 when that thing was on. I thought he was awesome," Greg continued.
"Red tights and all?" Catherine said.
"Sure. Hey, he could fly. Sort of."
"So could Superman, but he was the real deal. No crashing into trash cans for him," Warrick countered.
"Did I mention I was 6?"
"What about you, Sara?" Warrick said, taking pity on Greg and diverting Catherine's talons away from the young man.
"What about me, what?" Sara asked.
"What was your favorite tv show when you were a kid? The first one you remember going crazy about?"
"Um. Let's see. I didn't watch much before I was in my early teens. Spent too much time outside. You know, fresh air and all that unhealthy stuff? But…oh, I know. Remington Steele."
"What? No Quincy?"
"No, Catherine. I've never even watched Quincy."
Catherine sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under her ample bosom, making them seem more…ample.
"The least romantic woman I've ever known considers a romantic comedy-drama as her all-time favorite show. Will wonders never cease?"
"I never said it was my all-time favorite. I just said it was my favorite when I was young. I was about 13, I guess, when it started. Maybe 12. I don't remember. It appealed to me, okay? And—just what do you mean by the least romantic woman you've ever known?"
Catherine puffed out her lips in a quasi-smirk. "Hmmm. What could I mean? You come in here, dressed just one step above a guy, no perfume. Walk like a truck driver. Don't do anything the least bit girly. I could just imagine you feeling the urge, grabbing some guy, saying 'you, me, here, now!' –having him service you and then tossing him out the second you were done."
Warrick let out an unconscious laugh, and Greg looked a little perturbed.
"I don't think Sara dresses like a guy," he said.
Sara gave him a small smile, as Grissom walked into the break-room. He grunted a greeting at the suddenly quiet assembly at the table, and went over to pour himself a cup of coffee. Catherine, in the meantime, got that cat-who-swallowed the canary look on her face.
"Oh, I get it," she said, staring at Sara.
Sara shifted uneasily in her chair, even though she had no idea why.
"You get what?"
Catherine quoted the first lines from the old opening of the 80s television show, "With his blue eyes and mysterious ways…that explains A LOT."
"Blue eyes and mysterious past, Catherine."
"Close enough," she said, nodding toward Grissom's back and mouthing the words, 'you, me, here now!'
Sara's shift hadn't even officially started, and she found a blush rising to her cheeks for the second time that day.
Sara wadded up the paper her sandwich had been wrapped in, and dumped it in the trash.
"I've got to start working on my report."
"Of course you do," Catherine said, secure in the knowledge that victory was hers.
Sara paid no attention to the bi… her former co-worker and left the room.
She was typing up a storm. When in doubt, work.
But, she was in doubt. Big-time doubt. Because after shift ended on Tuesday morning, she needed to think about Tuesday evening and her long awaited (well, since Saturday) date with Grissom.
Although, he had been drunk the night of the ball when this new 'connection' had been made.
And he'd been hung-over Sunday night, when he asked her out.
And he hadn't even had the opportunity to talk to her tonight, except to ask her if she was all right after the beaker incident.
So, how did she know he hadn't changed his mind?
A night in his townhouse, in formal wear…it sounded…well, romantic at the time. Now, it just sounded a bit foolish. Maybe the whole notion of romance in Sara's life sounded foolish.
Perhaps Catherine was right. At least, partially.
Catherine and Sofia oozed femininity. They were smart, but never forgot they were women. Sometimes, Sara had to check in the mirror to make sure she still had the necessary equipment, because she didn't feel like she was oozing anything.
It was a sham. It was a farce. This date was so not going to happen.
A nice little shiver ran through her nether regions at the sound of his voice. At the very least, she was now able to confirm that all her girl-stuff was in fine working order. Grissom walked into the lab, and sat on a stool, which he rolled over to sit next to her while she worked on the computer.
"What are you working on?" he asked.
"The Connors case. Just typing up my field notes."
"Ah. Well, I…just wanted to touch base. Um…the thing with Sofia in the hallway…"
"I know. It wasn't your idea. Nick told me."
"Nick knew about this?"
"Not before. He just overheard the yelling afterwards."
"Yeah," Grissom said, with a soft smile. "Catherine is going through…an adjustment period. Um…her increased duties have…"
"Led to a power trip?" Sara supplied.
"I'm afraid so. I hope she didn't make you uncomfortable in the break-room. She seemed to be goading you about something."
Sara looked at the screen, but didn't dodge Grissom's unspoken inquiry.
"She seems to think that because I liked Remington Steele when I was a kid, it has some sort of connection to you since you have 'blue eyes and mysterious ways.' Even though she misquoted that line."
He smiled. "That was the one with that James Bond guy? I'm flattered. Although, she'd have a field day if I told her about my first television crush."
"It was not a crush, it was just a … " Sara looked at him. "Who was she?"
"You probably won't even know her. It was this show called the Avengers…I was…quite young."
Grissom smiled. "Shoulder length brown hair, big brown eyes…"
Sara smiled. He really could be quite something, sometimes.
Grissom looked around quickly, then covered her hand with his own. "We still on for tonight?"
"Unless you've come to your senses."
"Not a chance. 8 o'clock?"
"I'll be there."
"Good. I'm looking forward to it."
And with one final squeeze of her hand, he was off.
There was a part of her that just felt incredibly stupid. Although, she would admit, she looked pretty damned good.
Felt stupid, looked good.
Grissom had confirmed their date, but he never said a word about their formal wear pact. What if he forgot? What if she showed up in full-finery only to find him in casual duds?
Sara stared at herself in the mirror. Red dress, check. Hair down and slightly curled, check. Gold heels, check. But she was still no Catherine, no Sofia. And it had nothing, whatsoever, to do with looks. It was all about attitude.
"You. Me. Here. Now!'
No matter what the urge, there was really only one man she wanted. And one slight diversion along the way (partially brought on by the words and actions of aforementioned man and partially brought on by one thing she couldn't ignore—severe, heart rending loneliness). And then one hell of a long time waiting for…something. She didn't even know what that something was.
And she didn't know how to get it.
The hints didn't work.
The blatant asking for what she wanted didn't work.
She was pretty sure he wouldn't have appreciated the you, me, here now! Approach.
But the dress, for whatever reason, seemed to move him a bit.
So, who was she to question it? Even if she didn't have the attitude.
She took her evening wrap and headed for the door.
"Hi!" said the bearded GQ model leaning against her outer doorframe.
With a startled yelp, Sara took a step backwards and nearly tumbled off her heels. Grissom, in full formal wear, reached out to steady her, grabbing her with both arms.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he said.
"Well, why didn't you just ring the bell? Or tell me you were picking me up?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Mission accomplished," she said, and then put all irritation aside. He looked—as good as she remembered. "I'm glad you're wearing the tux. I was afraid I might be the only one dressed up."
"That wasn't part of the arrangement," he shrugged.
She went out into the hallway and locked the door behind them. She walked down the stairs holding the left banister rail while he held the right.
Walking in heels was a lot more fun when she was slightly buzzed, she thought. The pain didn't seem as intense, the self-conscious thoughts about falling didn't seem quite as dire and if the worst had occurred, she probably would have just laughed. Now, she was watching every move her toes made as they descended. Catherine would laugh. She now resembled a truck driver on ice.
Grissom actually beat her down the stairs. She didn't really remember that ever happening before.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Gil Grishom?" Sara said, punctuating her 'Gil Grissom on champagne' imitation with a flop over to the side of the table.
"I did not say that," he said, but his eyes twinkled in amusement.
"No, you actually said 'Are you trying to sheduche me, Shara Shidle?'" she corrected, lifting herself up to full sitting position.
"I wasn't that bad."
"Yeah, you were," she said, taking a sip of the non-alcoholic sparkling cider he had provided to go along with their dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries. For old times sake.
Sara was surprised at how much fun they were having. There was a nice blend of the romantic and the normal. The romantic felt—odd. But the normal felt…well, quite normal.
Grissom's townhouse had been warmed up a bit by softer lighting, candles and twinkle lights blinking from various parts of his ceiling and walls. He admitted to serving catered food, so he could concentrate on his company, and not on how many more minutes the tofu roast needed to be in the oven. And there was nice, light music playing in the background.
Grissom suddenly leaned forward across the table. "Well, to answer your question…"
Sara frowned. "I asked a question? What question?"
"The answer is 'yes.'"
"Yes to what?"
"Yes to, I am trying to seduce you, Sara Sidle. And there's no slurring involved."
There it was. The reason why the romance seemed odd. Right there, out in the open.
Alone. Dinner by candlelight. Music in the background.
Just the next step in a journey they fabricated Saturday night.
"You think you do. It's a fantasy," she said, reluctantly sharing her insight.
"Two days ago, we walked into a fairy tale. You kind of told me that yourself, in your own drunken way. No, actually, you told me that when you were hung-over. We were taking a break from real life, from our old routine. We were having one 'moment.' And it's hard to let go of that moment when it seems so …unfinished."
"No credits rolling saying we lived happily ever after—the end?"
"I didn't say that. There's still…I don't know. I'd like to believe there's still some sort of chance for us. But, it's not a given. When the tux is off and you're back in your sweats or whatever you wear, and I exchange the red dress for a bathrobe…poof. We'll finally be back to normal and see that what we're doing here is not real at all. It's just afterglow from a nearly perfect, really odd—unfinished--encounter."
Grissom stood up. "Excuse me for a moment, please. Stay right here."
"Where else am I going to go? I didn't bring my car."
Sara sat around and waited. There. It was all rationalized and brought out into the open. She waited some more. Maybe he was in the bathroom?
"Sorry, my cummerbund stuck." Grissom said, coming out of his bedroom: tux gone, sweats on.
Sara didn't even try to hide her disappointment. "You changed."
"I did. Might as well find out if the fantasy disappears like that old coach turning into a pumpkin thing you were referring to the other night," he held out a bathrobe. "Take off the dress, Sara."
"Here's a robe for you. Take off the dress," he said, and went around to her back and started unzipping the garment. Sara automatically put her hands up to her chest.
"Grisssom! There's a built-in bra in this thing."
Grissom had slid the zipper down as far as it would go, which was pretty far. Edge-of-the-panties far. He placed his hand on her back in the spot where her bra would normally fasten, if she was wearing one that wasn't a part of her garment. His hand felt big and warm.
"I can see that. I don't mind, if you don't mind," he said.
"Well, I do mind," she said, trying to pull up the zipper with one hand while holding the front of her dress with the other. Grissom moved her hair to one side and kissed her lightly on the neck, then made a show of peeping down the front of her dress. "Gris! Stop that."
'Sara, we're scientists. You presented a strong theory of why this little fantasy is flawed. And I understand your skepticism. I applaud it. Initial catalyst: booze. A foreign substance that affects people's thoughts and actions. Not a good start. Further actions were complicated by detoxification of subject number one's body and the inherent, but understandable cynicism of subject number two. And now that we've removed the unstable components, what are we left with? What caused the reaction to continue? Wishful thinking? Fancy clothing? Or something more powerful than either of us could ever understand? It's up to us to find the answer Sara. And the only way we're going to do it is to take out the last foreign component: the finery. Then your inherent, but understandable, cynicism will be quieted if the result is still the same. If we still feel…what we feel…when we both just 'hang out,' without the abnormal trappings."
Gilbert Grissom could be one giant pain in the ass sometimes.
She turned to him. "Fine. Give me the robe."
She took the black and red plaid flannel robe, moved a few steps away from Grissom, dropped the straps and part of the top of her dress down, and put the robe on. Then she shimmied out of the dress.
When she turned around, Grissom was watching her with a glimmer in his eye and amusement on his face.
She kicked off her shoes. She knew that would get to him. He liked those fancy heels. He probably had kinky fantasies about those them, too.
He frowned but then smiled again. "Do you hang out in your robe and stockings at home?"
"Then you have a way to go yet, don't you?"
She hiked up his oversized robe to her upper thigh, reached up and pulled down each stocking, taking her time. By the time she looked at Grissom again, his expression had lost some of the amusement and the glittering eye phenomenon was on high. And, well, she did suspect if she checked among the hairs of that lovely beard of his, a river of drool might be found collected in the convenient cleft of his chin.
"Uh…I saw a glimpse of one more garment before. I don't suppose…"
"They're staying on. I keep them on at home, too."
He shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying."
"So, now what?" she said, as he went around, blowing out candles and unplugging twinkly lights.
"We watch sports," he said, calling over his shoulder.
"Yup. I'm not all that fussy about what type. I just need a game to divert my attention from the day. So, if we're doing our regular routine…you'd be sitting and watching me watch sports."
"Why wouldn't you be sitting around watching me do what I do?"
"Because a game is more fun than listening to a police scanner."
"For your information, I don't do that anymore. I..read. Watch tv sometimes."
"Remington Steele reruns."
She looked down a bit. "No. I haven't seen it in a long time."
He grabbed her hand and pulled her down on the couch, then turned the tv on to a basketball game.
"Tell me about your fascination with the show."
"I don't know. It's…I was young. I was with my first foster family at that time and they weren't used to kids at all. So, I had a lot of time when I could watch tv. This one just grabbed me. Maybe it was the idea that even independent souls can find someone. What did you find so fascinating about the Avengers?"
"Mrs. Peel in black leather jumpsuits."
"Ah. Your hormones reared their ugly heads quite early in life, huh?"
"Yeah. You're stuck with remnants, I'm afraid."
"Nothing," she said, leaning her head back against his couch. This was nice. She wasn't particularly interested in the game he was sort of not-watching, but it was still nice. It was more "them" than the red dress and tuxedo, even though she would admit to being terribly turned on by that penguin suit.
"I, uh, have no interest in the game."
She smiled. "No?"
"No," he said, his voice deep and certain.
"You want to take me home?" she asked.
He turned to her and gathered the lapels of the robe in his hands, pulling her closer to him. "You already are home," he said, in a whisper, and lightly brushed his lips against hers. She pulled back and looked in his eyes.
He definitely was no James Bond now. No Remington Steele (although, really, that was a rather redundant thought—she thought). He was Gil Grissom, bug man and CSI extraordinaire. And just a regular guy. A regular guy she loved beyond measure.
And he was telling her she was home. They kissed a few times and spent a grand total of three hours in his apartment, alone together, but she was home. In his home.
And she no longer ever wanted to leave.
"Well, if I'm home, maybe I should acquaint myself with the other rooms in this townhouse?"
"Sure. Come on. I'll give you the grand tour."
He grabbed her hand and brought her to the bedroom, then gave her a tiny, playful shove and closed the door behind them. He pointed to a door within the room. "Master bath," he said. "And this is the bedroom."
She looked around at a bed that could only be described as masculine and massive.
"That's the biggest bed I've ever seen, Gris."
He smiled. "I'll let you in on a little secret. A few years back, I was…eating way too much. I think it was a combination of stress relief and feeling sorry for myself. My old bed was uncomfortable and I bought this one purely because I thought I might need the additional space in case my eating continued."
Sara smiled at him and he winked at her. She put her hand to the side of his face and stroked his beard. "You can be so adorable at times, Grissom."
"And you can be so…irresistible."
"Oh, I don't know about that. You've managed to resist me just fine all these years."
He took his hand in hers and kissed it quickly. Then he moved away from her, leaving her…confused. As usual.
Grissom went over to his bed, and started turning down the covers. Sara was at war with herself.
On the one hand, she was kind of turned on.
On the other, she was slightly put-off.
She did ask for a tour of his home, with one thing in mind, and he was giving it to her, but it all just seemed so detached.
But this was Grissom, wasn't it?
Grissom-sans tuxedo. No alcohol flowing through his veins. This was the man without the entrapments of fantasy.
Just as she was the woman. No-frills Sara Sidle.
Two dry scientists about to attend to a biological imperative.
Grissom stopped what he was doing and sat down. "I'm…not very good at this."
"This?" Sara asked, glancing at the bed.
He shook his head and smiled. "I've been told it's just like riding a bike. And if that's the case, we should be just fine. I just mean—beforehand. I know I'm being presumptuous. And hopeful. But I also know there are so many things I'd like to say—I need to say. To you. But, I won't."
Sara nodded her head. "I know," she said softly.
"Come here?" he asked, with a definite tone of uncertainty in his request.
She took a few steps forward and he playfully guided her to stand between his legs. "May I?" he asked, touching the sash on the robe.
She shrugged. God, she was almost unnaturally nervous. But this is what she wanted. It's what she always wanted: a beginning. "It's your robe," she said.
She noticed his hands shaking slightly as he undid the knot and separated the two sides. He took a long, hard look at her chest before tentatively reaching out and running his fingers around the inner curve of first her right breast, and then her left.
Grissom then moved his hands down to her waist and slid them over to the middle of her back—pressing her closer to him so his face was nestled in the space between her breasts. She automatically wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer still. He was placing soft kisses up and down her breastbone until she moved his head slightly and he covered one hardening peak with his lips. Sara could feel the warmth of his tongue brushing against her nipple and then a strong sucking sensation that shot a liquid heat straight down to her toes.
She must have moaned. Loudly. It wasn't even a voluntary thing.
Grissom looked up at her face, smiled slightly and then switched breasts. This time, her knees buckled a bit and he chuckled against her skin and pulled her closer.
"You're not just trying to flatter me, are you, Sara?"
"Uh-uh," she managed, clumsily running her fingers through his hair.
Suddenly, she wanted the lights out and both of them naked—and sated. She just wanted 'the moment' to be over so she could gauge his reaction before fully giving her heart. If it were just a continuation of a brief fantasy, she'd live with it, but she'd brace herself beforehand. If not, she fully intended to plunge in, throw caution to the wind and give it her all.
"Sara?" he said, moving back a little and loosening his grip.
"Yeah?" she said, finding it very difficult to meet his eyes. She wanted, yet didn't want, to see the answer she was looking for.
"Are you having second thoughts? Because, really. I'm not entirely sure I invited you here for this. I'm not entirely sure I didn't, either. I—it just seemed right, but if it's not, that's fine. We can wait."
"No, I want this."
"Then what's wrong? The whole fantasy versus reality thing?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"How do I make it better?"
"There's nothing really wrong. I'm just feeling a little insecure," she pulled herself together and decided to lighten the mood. "Probably because I'm standing here in panties while you're wearing your winter woolies. Strip already!"
Geez. The only theory she ended up proving so far was Catherine's.
You, me, here, now!
But Catherine still wasn't right about anything else. Because even if she needed to rush this moment along a bit, it was still a moment that would stay with her through her lifetime.
Sara helped Grissom out of his sweatshirt and then temporarily lost herself in the feel of his smooth chest under her fingertips. Her lips soon followed until he stopped her rather abruptly.
"Sara, I haven't done this in quite some time. Overloading the circuits will cause me to…"
"Blow?" she asked with a smile.
"Yeah," he agreed, quietly, turning her body and laying her back against the bed.
She watched him pull off his sweatpants and smiled when she saw he chose to go commando. She smiled at other things as well. He climbed up next to her and lightly touched the sides of her panties with both hands. He looked at her and she nodded.
He pulled them down slowly and then ran his fingers up her inner legs until she thought she'd explode from his soft touch alone.
"Do you need more time?" he asked, as his fingers gently sought a non-verbal response to his question.
She shook her head and he settled himself into position.
Sara closed her eyes as she felt him enter her. He did it slowly, allowing her a few seconds to adjust before going further. She felt herself getting…fuller. Everywhere. How she had loved this man in spite of the fact that this moment seemed to be destined only for dreams. And how she loved him now, as the dream was beginning to come true.
She felt his fingers on her face.
"Open your eyes, honey," he said, pulling out and returning, again.
She opened her eyes and saw his fixed on hers. He didn't say a word, just kept looking right into her soul, and she let him. It belonged to him, after all.
For a few incredible minutes in their lives, Sara's world was filled with soft moans and sloppy kisses. For her, it exploded when she let one final glimpse of his blue eyes mix with the myriad of colors behind her closed eyelids. She threw her head further back into the pillow, riding out every spasm. Then she just listened to the sounds he made…they made. The slight slapping of skin against skin, the ever increasing grunts as his warm body sought, and found its own release. She opened her eyes and found his head nestled into the crook of her neck and she managed to slide her completely relaxed arms over the sweat-slicked back of the man who was now, officially, hers.
And he was hers. Of that, she was certain.
Proof could be found in the soft kisses he kept pressing to her lips, as she finally drifted off to sleep.
And the fact that he was staring at her, when she opened her eyes hours later.
"What are you doing, Grissom? Aren't you going to sleep?" she asked, suddenly looking down to make sure she was covered. He smiled, reached his hand out to cover hers and then yanked down the sheet on one side to lightly cup her breast.
"You are so soft," he said, leaning down to kiss the spot he was touching. "I slept. But I wanted to see what you looked like while you slept. And when you woke up."
He gave her breast one last nuzzle and then returned his head to his own pillow.
"You're a strange man, Gris."
"Not strange. Mysterious," he said, with laughter in his voice.
"Well, you know how I feel about unraveling a good mystery," she said.
"So, we've moved from fantasy to mystery?"
She sat up a bit, still keeping herself covered. He smiled in response and she knew he'd take that as a personal challenge in a few minutes. "I think we've moved on to the reality section now, Gris. Are you still intrigued?"
"More than ever."
As was she.
And intrigued they stayed.
Never finding the exact answer as to why two near-geniuses should be so overcome by a power that seemed far greater than their accumulated knowledge. Or why two people could sometimes communicate so badly, and other times have a near telepathic understanding of one another. Or why they suddenly found great joy in the simplest of moments--moments that had been passed over completely before they were together.
And never really caring that much if they ever found their answer. In spite of their scientific leanings.
Because…sometimes just living the dream is enough.
Well, you guess it.
They lived happily ever after.
A/N: Damned if I sit around waiting for someone else to give them what they deserve! They are getting it from me. The fingers that hover over the computer keyboard, rule the world!
I'm nuts. I know. It's been a strange week already. I'm so keyed up about Sara's last episode, it's sickening, and I not only decided to write fluff but made it the tre-quel to my stories, PUT on Your Red Dress, Mama, and Kick in the Pants.
I must be completely insane.
Anyway, my mantra is belief. I believe. I believe.
They will have a happy ending eventually.
In the meantime, thank you, Jorja. Not that she would ever read this but I do believe that putting out a little love gives a person a nice, unexplained warmth in their lives and she's added quite a bit to mine with her lovely character. So…thank you, Jorja. We'll see you again—SOON!