CSI: In Stitches - Knit (1/3)
Fandom: CSI
Characters: Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle
Pairings: Hints of GSR
Rating: PG
Summary: Sara finally gets a hobby and learns a couple lessons along the way. A hint of GSR, a slightly Christmasy ending, and some seriousness amongst the fluff.
Originally written: December 2004
Sara Sidle sat in the break room at the lab, wondering how much force it would take to push a knitting needle far enough through someone's eye socket to reach the brain. Specifically, how much force it would take her to shove the offending object into her PEAP counsellor's brain.
Sighing, she held up the crooked, holey, 6-inch piece of knitting she'd spent the last couple days working on. It looked like an army of moths had attacked it, as though she'd used it for target practice at the LVMPD shooting range.
Actually, right now that didn't sound like such a bad idea.
In a decidedly uncreative move, her PEAP counsellor had suggested she get a hobby. It wasn't anything new, Grissom had told her as much on a couple occasions. Her counsellor had specifically suggested something which would relieve stress, however. Sara had dismissed meditation and yoga as too flaky-sounding--the kind of things her ex-hippie mother had undoubtedly tried at some point, then abandoned when some new fad came along. Finally, she had given in on the suggestion of knitting. At the very least, it didn't sound like something her mother would do. Her mom had been one of those 70's feminists that declared anything even vaguely domestic as "the symbols of women's slavery". For her part, Sara didn't care about the sexual politics of it. She just wanted to get her PEAP counsellor (not to mention Grissom) off her back. Any time he mentioned her working too hard she could just wave her knitting in front of his face like a white flag in front of a charging army. "See? I have a hobby! Now leave me alone."
So the previous weekend, she had driven to one of the yarn stores listed in the phone book, where the proprietor had sold her a couple balls of the thickest yarn she'd ever seen, as well as a pair of knitting needles that could have doubled as broomsticks in a pinch. Sara had also bought a booklet with instructions, and the store owner--a rather friendly 50-something woman--had showed her how to cast on (which she now only vaguely remembered) and how to do the knit stitch.
She'd done two rows under the store owner's watchful eye, then had gone home. At that point, she found out that apparently the drive home had erased any memory she might have had about how to do the knit stitch. She hadn't given up; far from it. She wasn't about to let two pointy, plastic rods and a mass of oversized string defeat her. She'd struggled on, referring to the booklet and trying to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do from that.
So far it looked like the needles and yarn had won the first battle. Which was how she'd ended up in the break room during her lunch hour, cursing steadily at the ratty piece of knitting she'd managed to make. Those first two, perfect, rows were laughing at her, she was sure of it.
She was so intent on making her second charge against her enemy that she didn't notice that someone else had entered the room for their lunch break until finally she slammed the needles and yarn to the table with a roar of frustration and saw Grissom staring at her curiously over his crossword puzzle. Sara gave him a momentary glare, then stood up and stomped over to the coffeepot, to get herself another cup. She was definitely going to need more caffeine if she was going to beat this...this...temperamental textile.
She fixed herself a mug of dark, sweet coffee and turned around to face her enemy again, only to find the yarn and needles in Grissom's hands. He was looking at it curiously, the same way he looked at every puzzle, like he was gathering evidence to figure it out. She watched, frozen, as he picked up a needle in each hand, and slowly began knitting backwards. She was just about to crow at him that he was doing it in the wrong direction when she noticed he was actually carefully pulling out the stitches she'd done on that row.
He stopped near the beginning, where a large hole had formed, looking at it carefully. Then his face brightened, obviously having figured out the puzzle. "Ah. See here? You wrapped the yarn around the right-hand needle in between the stitches, which made this hole. It's called a yarnover." He pointed to a crooked loop of yarn on the needles, and when she took a position just behind his shoulder, she could see where it had wrapped around in between the third and fourth stitches. Grissom pulled the fourth stitch out, then looked at the knitting with his thinking face again. After a moment, he twirled the yarn around his index finger and slowly stuck the right needle through the stitch on the left needle, wrapped the yarn counterclockwise around the right needle, then pulled the new stitch through the old one, sliding the old one off the left needle. He repeated the movement, a little faster this time, and continued making new stitches until he hit the end of the row. Once he reached the end, he switched the right needle into his left hand and started knitting again, faster this time, his movements smooth and coordinated.
Sara watched, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. She wasn't sure whether she was surprised that he of all people knew how to knit, or incredibly pissed off that he could just figure it out when she was fighting every stitch. At the moment, a 30/70 split seemed likely. "Are you going to tell me how you know how to knit?" she asked incredulously.
Grissom suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and appeared a little self-conscious; whether because he was knitting or because he'd hijacked her project, she wasn't sure. "No," he said, flatly. He put the knitting back down on the table, and looked like he was about to make a break for the exit, doubtless retreating back to his office. Sara wasn't about to let him get away that easily.
"Grissom, you are not going to walk out of here without telling me this." She stood by the door, blocking his path, her arms folded across her chest.
Grissom sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "I got sick the summer I was ten and couldn't read because it would give me headaches, and my mother wouldn't let me watch TV all day. I was driving her up the wall because I couldn't play baseball, so she taught me to knit, to keep me busy. Will that do?"
Sara gaped at him. "And you still remember how to do this?" How in the hell did he remember all this stuff?
He shrugged, looking at her innocently. "It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, your hands remember." With that, he sidestepped around her, walking quickly out of the break room. Sara stood there for a moment, staring at her piece of knitting, the row and a half of perfect stitches Grissom had done joining in with her first couple rows in mocking her.
Sitting down once more, she picked up the needles again and slowly mimicked the movements Grissom had made; a perfect, if loose, stitch popping off the end of the needle once she'd completed the movements. Her mouth set in a hard line, she made her counterattack, going onto the next stitch, then the next. If Grissom could do it, then she sure as hell wasn't about to ask for a ceasefire any time soon.
Characters: Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle
Pairings: Hints of GSR
Rating: PG
Summary: Sara finally gets a hobby and learns a couple lessons along the way. A hint of GSR, a slightly Christmasy ending, and some seriousness amongst the fluff.
Originally written: December 2004
Sara Sidle sat in the break room at the lab, wondering how much force it would take to push a knitting needle far enough through someone's eye socket to reach the brain. Specifically, how much force it would take her to shove the offending object into her PEAP counsellor's brain.
Sighing, she held up the crooked, holey, 6-inch piece of knitting she'd spent the last couple days working on. It looked like an army of moths had attacked it, as though she'd used it for target practice at the LVMPD shooting range.
Actually, right now that didn't sound like such a bad idea.
In a decidedly uncreative move, her PEAP counsellor had suggested she get a hobby. It wasn't anything new, Grissom had told her as much on a couple occasions. Her counsellor had specifically suggested something which would relieve stress, however. Sara had dismissed meditation and yoga as too flaky-sounding--the kind of things her ex-hippie mother had undoubtedly tried at some point, then abandoned when some new fad came along. Finally, she had given in on the suggestion of knitting. At the very least, it didn't sound like something her mother would do. Her mom had been one of those 70's feminists that declared anything even vaguely domestic as "the symbols of women's slavery". For her part, Sara didn't care about the sexual politics of it. She just wanted to get her PEAP counsellor (not to mention Grissom) off her back. Any time he mentioned her working too hard she could just wave her knitting in front of his face like a white flag in front of a charging army. "See? I have a hobby! Now leave me alone."
So the previous weekend, she had driven to one of the yarn stores listed in the phone book, where the proprietor had sold her a couple balls of the thickest yarn she'd ever seen, as well as a pair of knitting needles that could have doubled as broomsticks in a pinch. Sara had also bought a booklet with instructions, and the store owner--a rather friendly 50-something woman--had showed her how to cast on (which she now only vaguely remembered) and how to do the knit stitch.
She'd done two rows under the store owner's watchful eye, then had gone home. At that point, she found out that apparently the drive home had erased any memory she might have had about how to do the knit stitch. She hadn't given up; far from it. She wasn't about to let two pointy, plastic rods and a mass of oversized string defeat her. She'd struggled on, referring to the booklet and trying to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do from that.
So far it looked like the needles and yarn had won the first battle. Which was how she'd ended up in the break room during her lunch hour, cursing steadily at the ratty piece of knitting she'd managed to make. Those first two, perfect, rows were laughing at her, she was sure of it.
She was so intent on making her second charge against her enemy that she didn't notice that someone else had entered the room for their lunch break until finally she slammed the needles and yarn to the table with a roar of frustration and saw Grissom staring at her curiously over his crossword puzzle. Sara gave him a momentary glare, then stood up and stomped over to the coffeepot, to get herself another cup. She was definitely going to need more caffeine if she was going to beat this...this...temperamental textile.
She fixed herself a mug of dark, sweet coffee and turned around to face her enemy again, only to find the yarn and needles in Grissom's hands. He was looking at it curiously, the same way he looked at every puzzle, like he was gathering evidence to figure it out. She watched, frozen, as he picked up a needle in each hand, and slowly began knitting backwards. She was just about to crow at him that he was doing it in the wrong direction when she noticed he was actually carefully pulling out the stitches she'd done on that row.
He stopped near the beginning, where a large hole had formed, looking at it carefully. Then his face brightened, obviously having figured out the puzzle. "Ah. See here? You wrapped the yarn around the right-hand needle in between the stitches, which made this hole. It's called a yarnover." He pointed to a crooked loop of yarn on the needles, and when she took a position just behind his shoulder, she could see where it had wrapped around in between the third and fourth stitches. Grissom pulled the fourth stitch out, then looked at the knitting with his thinking face again. After a moment, he twirled the yarn around his index finger and slowly stuck the right needle through the stitch on the left needle, wrapped the yarn counterclockwise around the right needle, then pulled the new stitch through the old one, sliding the old one off the left needle. He repeated the movement, a little faster this time, and continued making new stitches until he hit the end of the row. Once he reached the end, he switched the right needle into his left hand and started knitting again, faster this time, his movements smooth and coordinated.
Sara watched, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. She wasn't sure whether she was surprised that he of all people knew how to knit, or incredibly pissed off that he could just figure it out when she was fighting every stitch. At the moment, a 30/70 split seemed likely. "Are you going to tell me how you know how to knit?" she asked incredulously.
Grissom suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and appeared a little self-conscious; whether because he was knitting or because he'd hijacked her project, she wasn't sure. "No," he said, flatly. He put the knitting back down on the table, and looked like he was about to make a break for the exit, doubtless retreating back to his office. Sara wasn't about to let him get away that easily.
"Grissom, you are not going to walk out of here without telling me this." She stood by the door, blocking his path, her arms folded across her chest.
Grissom sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "I got sick the summer I was ten and couldn't read because it would give me headaches, and my mother wouldn't let me watch TV all day. I was driving her up the wall because I couldn't play baseball, so she taught me to knit, to keep me busy. Will that do?"
Sara gaped at him. "And you still remember how to do this?" How in the hell did he remember all this stuff?
He shrugged, looking at her innocently. "It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, your hands remember." With that, he sidestepped around her, walking quickly out of the break room. Sara stood there for a moment, staring at her piece of knitting, the row and a half of perfect stitches Grissom had done joining in with her first couple rows in mocking her.
Sitting down once more, she picked up the needles again and slowly mimicked the movements Grissom had made; a perfect, if loose, stitch popping off the end of the needle once she'd completed the movements. Her mouth set in a hard line, she made her counterattack, going onto the next stitch, then the next. If Grissom could do it, then she sure as hell wasn't about to ask for a ceasefire any time soon.