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Despite the abundance of pools in Las Vegas, Sara rarely found herself lying beside one. But Catherine had given her a look as she invited her to Sam Braun's party for Lindsay's 13th; the kind of look that had a touch of desperation. The look that one woman gave another when both of them were less than comfortable around women, and Sara had known that she didn't want to be the only grown woman there who wouldn't fawn over Sam.
Sara and Catherine didn't always get along, weren't best friends, but Sara had the day off with no real reason to say no except that she didn't want to hear young girls splashing and screaming. She figured that, at the very least, she'd get some sun (she'd been in the lab almost constantly, only cases she went on were at night) and Catherine would owe her a favor.
In retrospect, that was how things began. A favor, a pool, and a hot day in March.
And a pitcher of sangria, carried out by a sultry young woman sporting a bronze tan and little else. She set it on the table near Sara, gave her a slow inviting smile, and turned on a pivot, heading back inside. Sara didn't bother to stop her, to ask for something different, not after that look. Besides, she already had her own pitcher of lemonade, right next to her on the right, innocuous, and a half-empty glass of it on the deck next to her chair.
Still, she found her gaze drawn to the wine punch, mostly because it was a color of red she'd rarely encountered outside of a crime scene. Admittedly, the ice and orange and lemon slices floating in the pitcher distracted from the fairly macabre idea that came to mind, as did the fact that sangria was translucent and the sun was bright. Sara frowned; she knew that if Catherine caught her staring, she'd think the worst, even when it had nothing to do with her problem. That was under control now, and she wasn't going near the sangria. So she tore her gaze away, turning back to get her lemonade--
"La primavera la sangre altera," a familiar, male voice said, in a clear tone yet fairly bad accent.
Catherine had said nothing about Grissom being invited. Maybe she'd thought he wouldn't come. After all, it wasn't his sort of thing. Sara blinked a few times, pretending the sun was in her eyes, and shaded her face with her hand.
The voice--Grissom's voice, because that was him--clarified things. "'Spring changes the blood.' Spanish proverb. Sap rises in the spring, and…"
Sara recognized the teacher's tone and cut him off at the pass. "And since the sap is the blood of the tree, it's a suitable metaphor. I didn't think pool parties were your thing, Gris." She squinted at him as he settled into the vacant deck chair alongside her lemonade. Good god, was he wearing shorts? And that damn hat? And her own shorts were…well…short. Maybe he wouldn't notice if she didn't call attention to them.
"Not usually. I'm here as a favor to Catherine. And as a sociological investigation; the pre-teen set is very popular among researchers these days. Just have to be careful not to be thought of as a dirty old man, fortunately Lindsay likes me well enough not to cry wolf. These days I think she appreciates me keeping her mother out of her hair." Grissom gave her a bit of an embarrassed smile.
"Uh-huh." Sara gave him a skeptical look and picked up her lemonade, sipping it slowly. "I didn't know you spoke enough Spanish to know old proverbs."
"I don't. It seemed appropriate."
Laconic as always when it counted. Sara really didn't know how he'd been promoted this far with social skills at that level, or so she thought until he continued. "Sangria comes from the Latin sangre, or blood, as I'm sure you know. That--" he gestured over her body and towards the slowly melting pitcher, "is a fine specimen, an example of the reason that the beverage got its name."
He was looking at her. Sara found that she was turning said color herself, and turned away to glance at the sangria again. "Awfully bright, isn't it. That's why I..." She cut herself off. Like Grissom would believe that, he'd think it was the lamest excuse he'd ever heard.
"It's intoxicating, isn't it, just to look at it. Even after seeing so much real blood, the color still attracts the eye, brings the mind around to the twisted yet vaguely valid idea that maybe, if one drank it all, one would gain power, immortality..."
Grissom sounded almost wistful, and Sara turned to glance at him, her brow furrowing a little. He looked her in the eye. She looked back at him, and saw that he understood. That he actually saw what she meant, comprehended it, and agreed. If anything called for a drink, that would probably be it. Or maybe it meant no need for a drink at all.
"Instead of merely a raging hangover," she finished.
Grissom nodded and quirked a half-smile at her, then flicked his gaze to her lemonade. "You're almost out," he said. "And that has to be badly watered down from the ice. Conduction rate's high today, I'd guess."
"I'd guess," Sara echoed, his comment making her smile.
He stood up and offered her a hand. "Want to go get a fresh one?" he asked, and this time, she knew what he was trying to do. It made her smile even more…maybe he did get it, after all.
So she took his hand and he pulled her up. "I'd like that," she said, and set the glass on the table, next to the sangria pitcher, as they turned to leave.
From there, things simply progressed. Naturally. Or as naturally as either of them did things...perhaps not naturally at all.
One thing was certain--it didn't end there.
FIN