Birthday fic for smacky30
It’s Smacky30’s birthday! You are a queen of smut; I am most definitely not-so instead I’ve sent Grissom and Sara flying away on a magic carpet made of fluff. Many happy returns, smacky.
Thank you so much to losingntrnslatn who somehow managed to find time to do a wonderful beta.
The Awful Tower
September 12, 2008
“So … you’ll be away for a week?”
Grissom nodded.
“And you’re doing this voluntarily?”
He nodded a second time.
“And you swear it’s got nothing to do with bugs, forensics or … anything you might possibly teach or attend a conference on?”
Again Grissom wordlessly indicated the affirmative, but Catherine was too busy glancing around his office for inspiration, and missed the faint sparkle in his eyes.
She was at a loss, and the jars of unmentionables cluttering the nearby metal shelves were not helping to reveal the secret. Catherine studied him carefully from across the desk. He was calm, almost relaxed. He did look tired, but there was no sign of the usual stressed-out, pre-departure Grissom. He’d even been dispensing pithy quotations and groan-worthy puns over the last few days. The desk itself was strangely tidy, bearing just the five-inch stack of files that he’d been briefing her on and was about to hand over.
“You … you’re not …” Surely he would have told her if he was having more surgery. She’d seen no signs of any hearing problems recently. In fact, he’d seemed to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. She gave up, unable to think of anything else. Frowning, and still hoping she was wrong, she asked, “It’s not your ears again?”
A definite shake quickly negated that idea. And Grissom was actually grinning. His grin was contagious and Catherine found herself smiling too, relieved without knowing the reason why.
As she stared at him he composed his face into his best enigmatic expression and gazed blandly back at her. “Gil, I know you think I’m just being nosy …”
This time he kinked an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe I am, but it’s only because I care about you, you know that. And with Sara … gone, I worry about you becoming a workaholic hermit again.” She shrugged. She’d tried her best. If Gil Grissom had made up his mind to stay mum, not even a rocket up his … Not wanting to continue long enough for that thought to produce a visual, she stopped herself and considered her next move.
After inspecting her fingernails to try and save face, she started to stand, resignedly eyeing her silent colleague. He was sitting in an almost meditational pose, fingers steepled and resting lightly against his lips as he stared into space.
“You’ve gone Zen then, is that it?” It was nothing more than a rhetorical question. As Catherine reached the door, she turned and said, “Whatever you’re doing, have a good br-”
“All right, you’ve worn me down, Catherine. But close the door first, will ya?”
Startled, she wondered if she was hallucinating: had the Silent One really spoken?
Grissom beckoned her, gesturing to the chair she’d just vacated. “Sit back down.”
Catherine did as bidden, slipping with alacrity into the still warm visitors’ chair. She waited, tensely expectant, for the big reveal.
Grissom drew in a deep breath, clearly contemplating his words. Then he released it, smiling briefly before he spoke. “I appreciate your concern.”
She squinted skeptically at him.
“I do,” he insisted. “It’s just … I find your direct, in-your-face approach a bit too …”
“Direct and in-your-face?” supplied Catherine.
He laughed. “Yeah. I like to keep my private life … private.” His voice trailed off and Catherine bit back her response, waiting for him to continue. After staring intently at her for a moment, he did. “I’m telling you this in confidence. No one else here knows-”
“I promise,” she interrupted, thrusting three fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
Grissom looked surprised. “You were a Girl Scout?”
“Eh, close-Lindsey was for a while.” She smirked cheerfully at him as she clasped her hands demurely on her lap, hoping the brief distraction hadn’t knocked him off his stride. She was pleased when he picked up where he’d left off.
“Well, that’s not completely true. Al knows; he’s given me some pointers about where to go.”
“Doc Robbins knows what?”
“Oh, and Jim,” he added.
“And Brass.” She echoed. “So I’m the *third* person you’ve sworn to secrecy?”
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know they won’t tell anyone.”
Catherine stared open-mouthed as he looked at her, evidently confused. She could almost see him re-playing his words in his head. Then he dug himself in even deeper.
“Uh, sorry. It’s just … you’re more likely to ‘share’ stuff.” He shook his head helplessly, pinkening at his lack of courtesy and smiled apologetically. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, buster, this better be good.” She huffed at him, showing exasperation, but secretly amused at his fumbling. “No one will hear it from me. Cross my heart.” She sketched a dramatic, flourishing X on her chest and leaned forward, all ears.
xxxxxx
September 13, 2008
They met at LAX, Sara coming down from San Francisco and Grissom flying in from Las Vegas.
This vacation, they’d agreed, would be a break from everything in their daily lives. Afterwards, Sara would return to San Francisco, finish the handing over of her teaching and volunteer work, pack up her few things and return to Las Vegas. She would live with Grissom again while they decided what the future held. They would be together, that was a given, but the where and doing what were still wide open.
But for Sara the more immediate question was, where were they going on vacation?
xxxxxx
Grissom managed to keep the secret until the last possible moment, when they were checking in for the flight. Not for lack of trying on Sara’s part. All he had told her was to “expect temperatures similar to September, maybe October in Boston”. That helped with the packing, but it hardly pinpointed their destination. When she pressed, concerned about appropriate clothing, he had specified good walking shoes and “something nice to wear out to dinner”. The further detail was still not at all revealing, while the special dress Sara included was most certainly on the low-cut side.
She was still completely in the dark when he dipped into his bag and came out with their passports. She gasped. Her brand spanking new, never been used passport fairly glowed. Passports meant another country.
Seeing Grissom’s, its navy blue cover dulled by age and use, and a tad dog-eared, made her feel like a novice traveler. Knowing they were destined for foreign lands, she took comfort in the well-worn passport of her companion. He was like the knowledgeable scout blazing the trail before them on some exotic adventure as she’d seen in so many movies.
It could be Canada though. That wasn’t so foreign; she had even been to Vancouver once, in the days when you only had to show your driver’s licence at the border. That was the full extent of her travel outside the US.
Would Canada seem more foreign, she mused, using a passport? As Sara was considering that, and thinking that Vancouver would be okay because of the great Chinese food there, Grissom was leaning against the chest-high counter handing papers to the check-in agent.
Sara had moved on to wondering whether the Canadian immigration officials would stamp her shiny new passport when suddenly she heard Grissom’s quiet words. “Yes, that’s right, Paris… Sidle and Grissom.”
“Paris?” Sara squeaked, her alto voice suddenly soprano. “Paris?! What about Vancouver?”
Looking very puzzled, Grissom repeated, “Vancouver?”
Sara frowned, trying to focus as bubbles of excitement jostled for space in her stomach. “Uh, wait, forget that … it was just―nothing.”
Grissom was studying her as if she were a jumping spider and he was wary of her next move. She smiled brightly and said, “Did you say Paris?”
He nodded slowly, still cautious it seemed.
“You *do* mean Paris, France?”
He nodded again, eyes crinkling as he started to grin.
A beautiful smile lit her face. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
“I know.” Grissom eyes were gleaming. “That’s why we’re going.”
She stepped closer and kissed Grissom soundly. Grinning broadly now he embraced her, returning the kiss in kind.
The airline agent cleared her throat to interrupt them, and they returned their attention to checking bags, getting boarding passes and confirming what time they needed to be at the gate. As they headed to the security checkpoint, Grissom asked, “What was all of that about Vancouver?”
Sara blushed, blurting, “Really, please, forget it. Just my mind wandering.” She shook her head to emphasize her point, then all at once her head cleared and the full glory of Grissom’s surprise hit her. She stopped in the middle of the concourse and drew him into a tight hug. She managed to get out, “Gil, you-” before emotion overtook her, choking her throat and running down her cheeks. Overwhelmed, she ducked her head into the comforting crook of Grissom’s neck and sniffed loudly.
Grissom pulled back after a moment or two, gently lifting her head so he could see her face. Gently teasing, he murmured, “C’mon now … if you’re upset that we’re not going to Vancouver, I can change the tickets.”
Sara shook her head firmly as she gulped air and swallowed back her tears. He watched with warm eyes as she bit her lip, fighting to compose herself. When she glared good-naturedly at him it was clear she had gotten a grip.
She took his face in her hands. ”Gil, you amaze me. *Amaze* me. Thank you, with all my heart. For this, for everything.”
xxxxxx
As they waited at the gate for the boarding call, Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat and scowled at the throng gathering in the waiting area. She sighed audibly and picked agitatedly at a loose thread on her jeans.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re going to Paris, but I haven’t done any research on what to do.” Sara sounded a touch panicky. “I mean, I know there’s the Louvre, the awful tower …”
“Awful?” Grissom frowned mildly at her. “It has some utility; it sports broadcasting antennas for several radio and TV stations.”
“It’s a kitschy tourist icon of no redeeming value whatsoever.” Sara knew she was being snippy, but going to Paris-Paris!-was a huge thing. She wanted to do it justice. “I know there’s lots of things I’d like to see, but I can only remember the stupid tower.” The poor Eiffel Tower was bearing the brunt of her anxiety.
“I’ve really thrown you for a loop, haven’t I?” He smiled indulgently. ”It’s
not often that I manage to surprise the intrepid Sara Sidle.” Enjoying the frustrated glare of his travel partner, he paused before finally saying, “Don’t worry, we have an 11-hour flight.” Grissom patted his computer bag calmly. “And I have guidebooks.”
“Oh … okay then.” She huffed out a breath, trying to relax.
Later, on the plane, Sara looked across at Grissom, sound asleep in his window seat, and realized she’d been distinctly ungracious. He’d gone to all the trouble of arranging this wonderful surprise, and she had been distinctly whiny. He seemed very understanding about it though, and before he tuned out had volunteered to be responsible for logistics, how they’d get from A to B, so she could concentrate on where she’d most like to go.
She glanced at him once more. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes telling tales of how hard he’d worked to clear his desk before he left. Luckily, he could sleep anywhere.
It was time for her to do her part. Sara turned back to Grissom’s carefully labeled “Paree” folder to find that he had even researched and printed out information on vegetarian-friendly eateries. She didn’t think it was possible, but seeing those sheaves of paper in alphabetical order by name of restaurant made her love him just a little bit more.
Grissom was out for the duration, but the flight passed quickly for Sara, between assiduous study of the guidebooks, jotting down tentative to-do lists sorted by areas, activities and themes, and the occasional fitful nap. She was too excited to get much rest and even when she did drop off she was often roused by someone bumping her elbow or seat on the way to the restroom. Immediately alert, she’d think of something else to look up and delve into an index again.
Grissom awoke when the cabin attendants were bringing around breakfast. He managed a quick pit stop before the food cart blocked the aisle and was soon prodding a rubbery omelet as he peered bemusedly at Sara’s pages of notes. She had screwed up her nose at the meal and was sipping lukewarm coffee as she reviewed them.
“What’s that on page 3B?” Putting on his reading glasses, he leaned closer for a better angle. He read the list out loud, “French Kiss, Da Vinci Code, Ronin, Amelie, Frantic and … Sabrina. All movies with scenes of Paris in them, I assume. But didn’t Sabrina end with them sailing to Paris?”
“The 1995 re-make ends in Paris. Concorde was involved. ” Sara pinkened but continued, “I used to have a crush on Harrison Ford.”
Grissom groaned theatrically and covered his eyes, flapping a hand to stop her speaking. “As Lindsey would say, TMI.”
She grabbed his waving hand and pulled the other away from his face, squeezing his hands together and effectively trapping them. Then she closed in for a good morning kiss.
xxxxxx
September 14, 2008
Despite her previous grumbles, the Eiffel Tower was one of the many sights to see on Sara’s list. Grissom, in his role as transportation supremo, figured out the best route.
As they walked through the extensive Gare du Nord metro station, Sara strode over to look at the map of the system. “So, we want to go here,” she said, pointing to the metro stop with their destination in its name. “We need to go on this purple line, and then change at St. Michel for ‘Champs de Mars Tour Eiffel’.”
Grissom put a hand on Sara’s arm, halting her headlong stride toward the wrong platform, and simply said, “Trust me.”
Chastened, Sara stopped in her tracks, meeting his steady blue gaze, and answered, “You know I do.” Smiling ruefully, she added, “Sorry, you’re doing a great job on logistics, I just ….” Words failed her, so in the middle of the dimly-lit subterranean hall she drew Grissom close and apologized with a thorough kiss.
Grissom’s route required changing lines twice. The second transfer was at Etoile, beneath the Arc de Triomphe. A combination of long hallways, several flights of stairs and an escalator or two brought them to the platform where they waited for the Number Six train to arrive.
High above the tracks arched the tiled ceilings. The lower walls were adorned with enormous posters advertising everything from chain store bargains to a new exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay. Before long the train arrived, surprisingly quiet on its big rubber wheels, and they rode it the short distance to the Trocadero stop.
Walking through the station, Grissom scanned the signs carefully and led Sara to the southeastern exit. As they climbed up the grimy staircase toward the light, Sara asked, “How far is it from here to the Eiff-”. Suddenly speechless, she stopped and stared. Grissom tugged her gently to the side, out of the way of those following behind them.
They stood quietly, his arm around her waist as they took in the view. It was early still, before noon, and beyond the wide courtyard of the Palais de Chaillot the iron fretwork structure rose up before them, silhouetted in the morning sun.
Sara, wide eyes shining, found her voice. “Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Paris, Paris on the Strip doesn’t really prepare you, does it?”
“No comparison.” Sara words were few, but her reaction spoke eloquently to Grissom. He was pleased and relieved and … he felt a pun coming on.
“It’s like you,” he said, ignoring her snort, “tall and graceful, delicate yet tough, with the strength of iron, but still a unique beauty …” He paused for effect and she looked at him. “It’s the eyeful tower.”
xxxxxx
September 15, 2008
“So, mon amour, did ze earse moove fohr yiu?”
Sara burst out laughing. Grissom, flushed and feeling sappy after a vigorous bout of love-making, was naked save for his favorite black cap, worn backwards.
“What?! We’re in France and I’m wearing a beret.” He tried to sound indignant, but was too busy trying to hide his grin as his levity leaked through.
“Gil …” Sara took a few deep breaths to quell her hilarity, which threatened to explode into hysterics. It was the morning of their second day. Grissom had been practicing his French accent since they arrived, and it was pretty good. “Where in Paris have you seen anyone, but anyone, wearing a beret?”
“You need to be more observant. You’re on vacation, but your brain shouldn’t shut down.” He hadn’t seen anyone in a beret either, but-he mentally did a stylish Gallic shrug-we’re having fun; so who cares?
xxxxxxx
They spent a morning at the Centre Pompidou, taking in the eclectic collection of artworks in the distinctive building, all metal struts and primary colored pipes on the outside. September’s featured exhibit was scale models-in silent agreement they quietly passed by.
After a late lunch at the bustling Café Beaubourg, right beside the gallery, they wandered along the shops facing the broad concrete expanse of the gallery’s courtyard.
A dazzling array of postcards under a store’s broad canvas awning attracted Sara, and Grissom wandered inside, finding a huge variety of posters and framed prints. A square picture of a slightly melancholy blue bear caught his eye, but as he ambled closer a distinct “meow” distracted him. He stopped, scanning around the well-stocked store, mentally cataloguing the picture frames, a few canvassed photographs, the flip displays of posters and high up near the soaring ceiling were enormous prints of steel workers atop New York City skyscrapers back in the 1930’s. Finally, he spotted, on a ramshackle wooden chair just below a collection of tiny mounted cartoons, a tabby cat peering hopefully at him.
As he was rubbing the appreciative feline under its chin, he spied Sara the cash register buying a print showing the stages of construction for the Eiffel Tower. The purring cat bunted his hand and was rewarded with behind the ear scratches.
As he and the cat whiled away a few moments, Grissom remembered how they had vetoed the elevators and instead walked up to the second level of the Eiffel Tower. And how his sudden pronouncement as they gazed back toward the Palais de Chaillot had startled Sara.
“A View to a Kill.”
Sara wrinkled her brow in confusion. “You’re thinking of murder in this beautiful place?”
He explained, “James Bond with Grace Jones at the Eiffel Tower. Another movie for your list.” He pursed his lips to hide his smirk.
All along he had been teasing Sara about her movie-related list of sights to see, although privately he enjoyed the relish with which she devoured each new place. He had hoped she would enjoy the trip, but-as usual, he reflected, wondering vaguely why he was surprised-she had exceeded his expectations.
xxxxxx
“This has been great, but bed is calling me. How about we head back to the hotel?”
It was a welcome suggestion considering they had covered a lot of ground in a few days, and it was getting late. But there was one more thing on his own personal list that he wanted Sara to see, and the timing was nearly perfect. He checked a street sign and said, “Yeah, if we go around here, it’ll lead us back to the funicular. Unless you want to walk down the steps beside it?”
“You can walk if you want, I’m riding.” Sara grinned at him. “I’ll wave at you as I zoom past.”
This evening they had taken the funicular railway up the Montmartre hill for a close up view of the Sacré Coeur Basilica, which until now they’d seen only from afar, shining white high above the rest of Paris. As they marveled at the glowing golden mosaics inside, a choir practice began. There was no organ and the voices, pure and clear, lit up the dim interior. Grissom drew Sara into a pew where they sat, eyes wandering and souls at peace, as the soaring sounds swirled around them.
Too soon the unexpected recital ended. After leaving the church, they browsed the little boutiques in the narrow cobbled streets, managing to resist the tourist kitsch and passable, but over-priced, art.
Following dinner, in what Sara decreed to be the least touristy restaurant on the Place du Tertre, they meandered around the square, amused at the artists who offered portraits while you wait-they were displaying sketches of Brad Pitt, Elvis and the aging French rocker Johnny Hallyday. Sara laughed. “Yeah, right. I’ll bet Elvis was here just last week, and posed for this one!”
As they strolled along on the short walk back to the funicular terminus, just below the white glory of Sacré Coeur, Grissom put his hand on Sara’s arm to halt her. He drew her against a hip-high wall where people were gathering to look out over the magnificent panorama of the city.
“Let’s stop here, just for a moment.” Grissom stood behind Sara, clasping her firmly around the waist with his right arm, surreptitiously checking his watch before bringing the other arm down to encircle her fully. “It’s a pretty scene, isn’t it, Paris by night?” he murmured into her ear.
Stifling a yawn, Sara managed a “Yeah.” She roused herself a little and added, “ I like the white light they use to illuminate the buildings.”
“Mmm … after Vegas, the relative absence of neon is refreshing.”
Over to their right, the Eiffel tower glowed a pale gold, at its apex a searchlight beaming up into the night sky, “And I admit, the awful tower has grown on me.”
Grissom chuckled. “Y’know, I’d gotten that impression.”
Somewhere behind them a clock struck midnight and the Eiffel Tower began to shimmer. Thousands of sparkling white lights danced and twinkled in ever changing waves up and down the tower, endlessly flitting across the broad platforms near the base and racing up the slender spire. Occasionally the lights dimmed, then started again from the top, sweeping down in a bright flare out through the pillars.
“Oooooh. I read about this, but somehow I’d forgot. It’s beautiful.”
“Like fireflies on speed,” Grissom ventured.
“Gil … you … what a description!” Sara turned in his arms, angling so they could both still see the spectacle. They watched silently as all around them people oohed and aahed, some trying to take pictures or to describe the scene to someone via cell phone.
Too soon it ended. By the dim street lamp Grissom’s watch showed ten minutes had passed. “Wow, it went by in a flash.” Sara giggled as she hugged Grissom in delight.
For a moment his voice caught in his throat, then Grissom managed to say, “Joyeux anniversaire, ma chérie.”
FIN
Video doesn't really do it justice, but here's a flavor:
Thank you so much to losingntrnslatn who somehow managed to find time to do a wonderful beta.
The Awful Tower
September 12, 2008
“So … you’ll be away for a week?”
Grissom nodded.
“And you’re doing this voluntarily?”
He nodded a second time.
“And you swear it’s got nothing to do with bugs, forensics or … anything you might possibly teach or attend a conference on?”
Again Grissom wordlessly indicated the affirmative, but Catherine was too busy glancing around his office for inspiration, and missed the faint sparkle in his eyes.
She was at a loss, and the jars of unmentionables cluttering the nearby metal shelves were not helping to reveal the secret. Catherine studied him carefully from across the desk. He was calm, almost relaxed. He did look tired, but there was no sign of the usual stressed-out, pre-departure Grissom. He’d even been dispensing pithy quotations and groan-worthy puns over the last few days. The desk itself was strangely tidy, bearing just the five-inch stack of files that he’d been briefing her on and was about to hand over.
“You … you’re not …” Surely he would have told her if he was having more surgery. She’d seen no signs of any hearing problems recently. In fact, he’d seemed to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. She gave up, unable to think of anything else. Frowning, and still hoping she was wrong, she asked, “It’s not your ears again?”
A definite shake quickly negated that idea. And Grissom was actually grinning. His grin was contagious and Catherine found herself smiling too, relieved without knowing the reason why.
As she stared at him he composed his face into his best enigmatic expression and gazed blandly back at her. “Gil, I know you think I’m just being nosy …”
This time he kinked an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe I am, but it’s only because I care about you, you know that. And with Sara … gone, I worry about you becoming a workaholic hermit again.” She shrugged. She’d tried her best. If Gil Grissom had made up his mind to stay mum, not even a rocket up his … Not wanting to continue long enough for that thought to produce a visual, she stopped herself and considered her next move.
After inspecting her fingernails to try and save face, she started to stand, resignedly eyeing her silent colleague. He was sitting in an almost meditational pose, fingers steepled and resting lightly against his lips as he stared into space.
“You’ve gone Zen then, is that it?” It was nothing more than a rhetorical question. As Catherine reached the door, she turned and said, “Whatever you’re doing, have a good br-”
“All right, you’ve worn me down, Catherine. But close the door first, will ya?”
Startled, she wondered if she was hallucinating: had the Silent One really spoken?
Grissom beckoned her, gesturing to the chair she’d just vacated. “Sit back down.”
Catherine did as bidden, slipping with alacrity into the still warm visitors’ chair. She waited, tensely expectant, for the big reveal.
Grissom drew in a deep breath, clearly contemplating his words. Then he released it, smiling briefly before he spoke. “I appreciate your concern.”
She squinted skeptically at him.
“I do,” he insisted. “It’s just … I find your direct, in-your-face approach a bit too …”
“Direct and in-your-face?” supplied Catherine.
He laughed. “Yeah. I like to keep my private life … private.” His voice trailed off and Catherine bit back her response, waiting for him to continue. After staring intently at her for a moment, he did. “I’m telling you this in confidence. No one else here knows-”
“I promise,” she interrupted, thrusting three fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
Grissom looked surprised. “You were a Girl Scout?”
“Eh, close-Lindsey was for a while.” She smirked cheerfully at him as she clasped her hands demurely on her lap, hoping the brief distraction hadn’t knocked him off his stride. She was pleased when he picked up where he’d left off.
“Well, that’s not completely true. Al knows; he’s given me some pointers about where to go.”
“Doc Robbins knows what?”
“Oh, and Jim,” he added.
“And Brass.” She echoed. “So I’m the *third* person you’ve sworn to secrecy?”
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know they won’t tell anyone.”
Catherine stared open-mouthed as he looked at her, evidently confused. She could almost see him re-playing his words in his head. Then he dug himself in even deeper.
“Uh, sorry. It’s just … you’re more likely to ‘share’ stuff.” He shook his head helplessly, pinkening at his lack of courtesy and smiled apologetically. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, buster, this better be good.” She huffed at him, showing exasperation, but secretly amused at his fumbling. “No one will hear it from me. Cross my heart.” She sketched a dramatic, flourishing X on her chest and leaned forward, all ears.
xxxxxx
September 13, 2008
They met at LAX, Sara coming down from San Francisco and Grissom flying in from Las Vegas.
This vacation, they’d agreed, would be a break from everything in their daily lives. Afterwards, Sara would return to San Francisco, finish the handing over of her teaching and volunteer work, pack up her few things and return to Las Vegas. She would live with Grissom again while they decided what the future held. They would be together, that was a given, but the where and doing what were still wide open.
But for Sara the more immediate question was, where were they going on vacation?
xxxxxx
Grissom managed to keep the secret until the last possible moment, when they were checking in for the flight. Not for lack of trying on Sara’s part. All he had told her was to “expect temperatures similar to September, maybe October in Boston”. That helped with the packing, but it hardly pinpointed their destination. When she pressed, concerned about appropriate clothing, he had specified good walking shoes and “something nice to wear out to dinner”. The further detail was still not at all revealing, while the special dress Sara included was most certainly on the low-cut side.
She was still completely in the dark when he dipped into his bag and came out with their passports. She gasped. Her brand spanking new, never been used passport fairly glowed. Passports meant another country.
Seeing Grissom’s, its navy blue cover dulled by age and use, and a tad dog-eared, made her feel like a novice traveler. Knowing they were destined for foreign lands, she took comfort in the well-worn passport of her companion. He was like the knowledgeable scout blazing the trail before them on some exotic adventure as she’d seen in so many movies.
It could be Canada though. That wasn’t so foreign; she had even been to Vancouver once, in the days when you only had to show your driver’s licence at the border. That was the full extent of her travel outside the US.
Would Canada seem more foreign, she mused, using a passport? As Sara was considering that, and thinking that Vancouver would be okay because of the great Chinese food there, Grissom was leaning against the chest-high counter handing papers to the check-in agent.
Sara had moved on to wondering whether the Canadian immigration officials would stamp her shiny new passport when suddenly she heard Grissom’s quiet words. “Yes, that’s right, Paris… Sidle and Grissom.”
“Paris?” Sara squeaked, her alto voice suddenly soprano. “Paris?! What about Vancouver?”
Looking very puzzled, Grissom repeated, “Vancouver?”
Sara frowned, trying to focus as bubbles of excitement jostled for space in her stomach. “Uh, wait, forget that … it was just―nothing.”
Grissom was studying her as if she were a jumping spider and he was wary of her next move. She smiled brightly and said, “Did you say Paris?”
He nodded slowly, still cautious it seemed.
“You *do* mean Paris, France?”
He nodded again, eyes crinkling as he started to grin.
A beautiful smile lit her face. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
“I know.” Grissom eyes were gleaming. “That’s why we’re going.”
She stepped closer and kissed Grissom soundly. Grinning broadly now he embraced her, returning the kiss in kind.
The airline agent cleared her throat to interrupt them, and they returned their attention to checking bags, getting boarding passes and confirming what time they needed to be at the gate. As they headed to the security checkpoint, Grissom asked, “What was all of that about Vancouver?”
Sara blushed, blurting, “Really, please, forget it. Just my mind wandering.” She shook her head to emphasize her point, then all at once her head cleared and the full glory of Grissom’s surprise hit her. She stopped in the middle of the concourse and drew him into a tight hug. She managed to get out, “Gil, you-” before emotion overtook her, choking her throat and running down her cheeks. Overwhelmed, she ducked her head into the comforting crook of Grissom’s neck and sniffed loudly.
Grissom pulled back after a moment or two, gently lifting her head so he could see her face. Gently teasing, he murmured, “C’mon now … if you’re upset that we’re not going to Vancouver, I can change the tickets.”
Sara shook her head firmly as she gulped air and swallowed back her tears. He watched with warm eyes as she bit her lip, fighting to compose herself. When she glared good-naturedly at him it was clear she had gotten a grip.
She took his face in her hands. ”Gil, you amaze me. *Amaze* me. Thank you, with all my heart. For this, for everything.”
xxxxxx
As they waited at the gate for the boarding call, Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat and scowled at the throng gathering in the waiting area. She sighed audibly and picked agitatedly at a loose thread on her jeans.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re going to Paris, but I haven’t done any research on what to do.” Sara sounded a touch panicky. “I mean, I know there’s the Louvre, the awful tower …”
“Awful?” Grissom frowned mildly at her. “It has some utility; it sports broadcasting antennas for several radio and TV stations.”
“It’s a kitschy tourist icon of no redeeming value whatsoever.” Sara knew she was being snippy, but going to Paris-Paris!-was a huge thing. She wanted to do it justice. “I know there’s lots of things I’d like to see, but I can only remember the stupid tower.” The poor Eiffel Tower was bearing the brunt of her anxiety.
“I’ve really thrown you for a loop, haven’t I?” He smiled indulgently. ”It’s
not often that I manage to surprise the intrepid Sara Sidle.” Enjoying the frustrated glare of his travel partner, he paused before finally saying, “Don’t worry, we have an 11-hour flight.” Grissom patted his computer bag calmly. “And I have guidebooks.”
“Oh … okay then.” She huffed out a breath, trying to relax.
Later, on the plane, Sara looked across at Grissom, sound asleep in his window seat, and realized she’d been distinctly ungracious. He’d gone to all the trouble of arranging this wonderful surprise, and she had been distinctly whiny. He seemed very understanding about it though, and before he tuned out had volunteered to be responsible for logistics, how they’d get from A to B, so she could concentrate on where she’d most like to go.
She glanced at him once more. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes telling tales of how hard he’d worked to clear his desk before he left. Luckily, he could sleep anywhere.
It was time for her to do her part. Sara turned back to Grissom’s carefully labeled “Paree” folder to find that he had even researched and printed out information on vegetarian-friendly eateries. She didn’t think it was possible, but seeing those sheaves of paper in alphabetical order by name of restaurant made her love him just a little bit more.
Grissom was out for the duration, but the flight passed quickly for Sara, between assiduous study of the guidebooks, jotting down tentative to-do lists sorted by areas, activities and themes, and the occasional fitful nap. She was too excited to get much rest and even when she did drop off she was often roused by someone bumping her elbow or seat on the way to the restroom. Immediately alert, she’d think of something else to look up and delve into an index again.
Grissom awoke when the cabin attendants were bringing around breakfast. He managed a quick pit stop before the food cart blocked the aisle and was soon prodding a rubbery omelet as he peered bemusedly at Sara’s pages of notes. She had screwed up her nose at the meal and was sipping lukewarm coffee as she reviewed them.
“What’s that on page 3B?” Putting on his reading glasses, he leaned closer for a better angle. He read the list out loud, “French Kiss, Da Vinci Code, Ronin, Amelie, Frantic and … Sabrina. All movies with scenes of Paris in them, I assume. But didn’t Sabrina end with them sailing to Paris?”
“The 1995 re-make ends in Paris. Concorde was involved. ” Sara pinkened but continued, “I used to have a crush on Harrison Ford.”
Grissom groaned theatrically and covered his eyes, flapping a hand to stop her speaking. “As Lindsey would say, TMI.”
She grabbed his waving hand and pulled the other away from his face, squeezing his hands together and effectively trapping them. Then she closed in for a good morning kiss.
xxxxxx
September 14, 2008
Despite her previous grumbles, the Eiffel Tower was one of the many sights to see on Sara’s list. Grissom, in his role as transportation supremo, figured out the best route.
As they walked through the extensive Gare du Nord metro station, Sara strode over to look at the map of the system. “So, we want to go here,” she said, pointing to the metro stop with their destination in its name. “We need to go on this purple line, and then change at St. Michel for ‘Champs de Mars Tour Eiffel’.”
Grissom put a hand on Sara’s arm, halting her headlong stride toward the wrong platform, and simply said, “Trust me.”
Chastened, Sara stopped in her tracks, meeting his steady blue gaze, and answered, “You know I do.” Smiling ruefully, she added, “Sorry, you’re doing a great job on logistics, I just ….” Words failed her, so in the middle of the dimly-lit subterranean hall she drew Grissom close and apologized with a thorough kiss.
Grissom’s route required changing lines twice. The second transfer was at Etoile, beneath the Arc de Triomphe. A combination of long hallways, several flights of stairs and an escalator or two brought them to the platform where they waited for the Number Six train to arrive.
High above the tracks arched the tiled ceilings. The lower walls were adorned with enormous posters advertising everything from chain store bargains to a new exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay. Before long the train arrived, surprisingly quiet on its big rubber wheels, and they rode it the short distance to the Trocadero stop.
Walking through the station, Grissom scanned the signs carefully and led Sara to the southeastern exit. As they climbed up the grimy staircase toward the light, Sara asked, “How far is it from here to the Eiff-”. Suddenly speechless, she stopped and stared. Grissom tugged her gently to the side, out of the way of those following behind them.
They stood quietly, his arm around her waist as they took in the view. It was early still, before noon, and beyond the wide courtyard of the Palais de Chaillot the iron fretwork structure rose up before them, silhouetted in the morning sun.
Sara, wide eyes shining, found her voice. “Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Paris, Paris on the Strip doesn’t really prepare you, does it?”
“No comparison.” Sara words were few, but her reaction spoke eloquently to Grissom. He was pleased and relieved and … he felt a pun coming on.
“It’s like you,” he said, ignoring her snort, “tall and graceful, delicate yet tough, with the strength of iron, but still a unique beauty …” He paused for effect and she looked at him. “It’s the eyeful tower.”
xxxxxx
September 15, 2008
“So, mon amour, did ze earse moove fohr yiu?”
Sara burst out laughing. Grissom, flushed and feeling sappy after a vigorous bout of love-making, was naked save for his favorite black cap, worn backwards.
“What?! We’re in France and I’m wearing a beret.” He tried to sound indignant, but was too busy trying to hide his grin as his levity leaked through.
“Gil …” Sara took a few deep breaths to quell her hilarity, which threatened to explode into hysterics. It was the morning of their second day. Grissom had been practicing his French accent since they arrived, and it was pretty good. “Where in Paris have you seen anyone, but anyone, wearing a beret?”
“You need to be more observant. You’re on vacation, but your brain shouldn’t shut down.” He hadn’t seen anyone in a beret either, but-he mentally did a stylish Gallic shrug-we’re having fun; so who cares?
xxxxxxx
They spent a morning at the Centre Pompidou, taking in the eclectic collection of artworks in the distinctive building, all metal struts and primary colored pipes on the outside. September’s featured exhibit was scale models-in silent agreement they quietly passed by.
After a late lunch at the bustling Café Beaubourg, right beside the gallery, they wandered along the shops facing the broad concrete expanse of the gallery’s courtyard.
A dazzling array of postcards under a store’s broad canvas awning attracted Sara, and Grissom wandered inside, finding a huge variety of posters and framed prints. A square picture of a slightly melancholy blue bear caught his eye, but as he ambled closer a distinct “meow” distracted him. He stopped, scanning around the well-stocked store, mentally cataloguing the picture frames, a few canvassed photographs, the flip displays of posters and high up near the soaring ceiling were enormous prints of steel workers atop New York City skyscrapers back in the 1930’s. Finally, he spotted, on a ramshackle wooden chair just below a collection of tiny mounted cartoons, a tabby cat peering hopefully at him.
As he was rubbing the appreciative feline under its chin, he spied Sara the cash register buying a print showing the stages of construction for the Eiffel Tower. The purring cat bunted his hand and was rewarded with behind the ear scratches.
As he and the cat whiled away a few moments, Grissom remembered how they had vetoed the elevators and instead walked up to the second level of the Eiffel Tower. And how his sudden pronouncement as they gazed back toward the Palais de Chaillot had startled Sara.
“A View to a Kill.”
Sara wrinkled her brow in confusion. “You’re thinking of murder in this beautiful place?”
He explained, “James Bond with Grace Jones at the Eiffel Tower. Another movie for your list.” He pursed his lips to hide his smirk.
All along he had been teasing Sara about her movie-related list of sights to see, although privately he enjoyed the relish with which she devoured each new place. He had hoped she would enjoy the trip, but-as usual, he reflected, wondering vaguely why he was surprised-she had exceeded his expectations.
xxxxxx
“This has been great, but bed is calling me. How about we head back to the hotel?”
It was a welcome suggestion considering they had covered a lot of ground in a few days, and it was getting late. But there was one more thing on his own personal list that he wanted Sara to see, and the timing was nearly perfect. He checked a street sign and said, “Yeah, if we go around here, it’ll lead us back to the funicular. Unless you want to walk down the steps beside it?”
“You can walk if you want, I’m riding.” Sara grinned at him. “I’ll wave at you as I zoom past.”
This evening they had taken the funicular railway up the Montmartre hill for a close up view of the Sacré Coeur Basilica, which until now they’d seen only from afar, shining white high above the rest of Paris. As they marveled at the glowing golden mosaics inside, a choir practice began. There was no organ and the voices, pure and clear, lit up the dim interior. Grissom drew Sara into a pew where they sat, eyes wandering and souls at peace, as the soaring sounds swirled around them.
Too soon the unexpected recital ended. After leaving the church, they browsed the little boutiques in the narrow cobbled streets, managing to resist the tourist kitsch and passable, but over-priced, art.
Following dinner, in what Sara decreed to be the least touristy restaurant on the Place du Tertre, they meandered around the square, amused at the artists who offered portraits while you wait-they were displaying sketches of Brad Pitt, Elvis and the aging French rocker Johnny Hallyday. Sara laughed. “Yeah, right. I’ll bet Elvis was here just last week, and posed for this one!”
As they strolled along on the short walk back to the funicular terminus, just below the white glory of Sacré Coeur, Grissom put his hand on Sara’s arm to halt her. He drew her against a hip-high wall where people were gathering to look out over the magnificent panorama of the city.
“Let’s stop here, just for a moment.” Grissom stood behind Sara, clasping her firmly around the waist with his right arm, surreptitiously checking his watch before bringing the other arm down to encircle her fully. “It’s a pretty scene, isn’t it, Paris by night?” he murmured into her ear.
Stifling a yawn, Sara managed a “Yeah.” She roused herself a little and added, “ I like the white light they use to illuminate the buildings.”
“Mmm … after Vegas, the relative absence of neon is refreshing.”
Over to their right, the Eiffel tower glowed a pale gold, at its apex a searchlight beaming up into the night sky, “And I admit, the awful tower has grown on me.”
Grissom chuckled. “Y’know, I’d gotten that impression.”
Somewhere behind them a clock struck midnight and the Eiffel Tower began to shimmer. Thousands of sparkling white lights danced and twinkled in ever changing waves up and down the tower, endlessly flitting across the broad platforms near the base and racing up the slender spire. Occasionally the lights dimmed, then started again from the top, sweeping down in a bright flare out through the pillars.
“Oooooh. I read about this, but somehow I’d forgot. It’s beautiful.”
“Like fireflies on speed,” Grissom ventured.
“Gil … you … what a description!” Sara turned in his arms, angling so they could both still see the spectacle. They watched silently as all around them people oohed and aahed, some trying to take pictures or to describe the scene to someone via cell phone.
Too soon it ended. By the dim street lamp Grissom’s watch showed ten minutes had passed. “Wow, it went by in a flash.” Sara giggled as she hugged Grissom in delight.
For a moment his voice caught in his throat, then Grissom managed to say, “Joyeux anniversaire, ma chérie.”
FIN
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