The air in the car is very quiet. I am dying to ask him how his session went but I've barely said a word to him.

I glance sideways for the upteenth time, and he catches me.

To my surprise his lips curl into a slight smile. "I'm not going to bite you, you know."

"I know. I just... I dunno? I didn't wanna crowd you." Am I that bad at guessing his needs?

"It's okay."

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you too."

"I scheduled an appointment for myself."

He turns to look at me. Something about this clearly surprises him.

"Honey. Traffic." I remind.

"Right." His head snaps forward.

"That really surprises you."

"Yeah, I... I guess it does, yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you always seemed to be the sane one. The uncomplicated one."

What? "Are you on crack? I'm plenty complicated."

"I know. I guess I'm not used to seeing you that way."

"No, if nothing else the last few days have convinced me of it. My baggage has baggage."

"Well, then I'm glad you're getting help. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay now. I just need to deal with some stuff. Stuff I've blown off for years. How was your session?"

"Uncomfortable."

"Well, how was your shrink?"

"He had a picture of the Thunderbolt in his office." He says it with optimism, and something about it srikes me as boyish and adorable.

"No kidding?" What are the odds that the guy would be a coaster buff too?

"Nope. It wasn't... it wasn't that bad, it was just geting to know you stuff, family history and all that."

Anxiety spears through me. For a man who can be so oblivious, he picks that moment to reach over and squeeze my hand.

Suddenly there are tears in my eyes. I glance at him, and his eyes flash to mine, and when he squeezes my hand a second time, I fall somehow even deeper in love with Gil Grissom.

.

Sunday night is mercifully busy. I am occupied all night with a rape at the Sands. Part of me wants to blow off the appointment, say sorry, I had to work, I fight crime for a living and that's very important, but I've been doing that for years and I know it's bullshit. So, I clock out and head toward the shrink's office on Flamingo.

My heart feels like it's gonna stop when a young guy calls me into the office. Becky is not there, and in the morning it feels eerily quiet and deserted.

He shakes my hand warmly and says "Welcome." It makes me feel a bit less creeped out. He leads me to a room full of plants and tells me to "sit anywhere."

I remember this from years ago. There is of course the chair adjacent to the shrink's desk, and a chair at the other side of the room, and the couch. It's like a test, I think, and I will be judged on which chair I pick. I wonder if anyone ever picks the shrink's chair. How would that be interpreted? I bet it wouldn't go over well at all.

I sit at the chair adjacent his desk. The couch seems lower somehow. I feel more on his level this way. Less vulnerable. I can pretend we're just two professionals, consulting over a desk.

Mark sits down in his chair and leans back. There is a blank file in front of him which he ignores. "Welcome," he says again. "It's good to meet you."

"Likewise." It comes out sounding as if I'm either very constipated or in tremendous pain.

Mark smiles. "Are you feeling anxious now?"

I nod, taken aback by his bluntness. I'm not used to people commenting so directly on emotions.

"Okay. Well, we're not going to go very deep today, in fact we're not even going to talk about you at first."

What? I'll give him this, the man is good; he deflates my anxiety like a balloon.

"First what I'd like to do is explain our policies to you. It should be relatively painless, I promise." He smiles, and I can't help but smile back.

I watch him as he explains the office policies on no-shows and call-outs. He explains how many sessions my insurance covers and exactly what he will be required to divulge to them. To my relief it isn't much.

The guy is a bona-fide people person. I study him like an odd creature. I've been living in Grissomland for so long, I'm simply unused to someone so socially adept. It's a bit foreign. Maybe it's a night shift thing, feeling different, isolated from the non-nocturnal world as a whole, but his gregariousness is a bit shocking at first.

I'm sure I'll be able to get used to it, though. It's not a bad thing.

"That brings us to confidentiality. Anything which you tell me, I won't tell a soul, with two exceptions. The first is if you tell me about an active case of child abuse. I'm a mandated reporter."

"I am too. I understand that."

"Great. The second case would be if you were a threat to yourself or others. I would be obligated to get help for you, even if it meant disclosing the reason why to someone."

"I've never been suicidal a day in my life, and I manage to keep my homocidal fantasies to a dull roar."

He smiles, and I'm struck by the realizaton that I like him. In a sort of guarded, provisional way.

"Glad to hear it. That about wraps up the nuts and bolts stuff."

I nod, afraid of what comes next, but also sort of eager to get it over with.

Until now, he has been idly flicking his pen in his hands. Now he tosses it on the desk, crosses his legs, and looks at me. "So tell me about Sara."

The hell? Is using the third person supposed to make me more comfortable?

What the hell do I tell him? Sara is thirty three years old and has no clue how to relate to another person. She only knows how to work, then work some more. She is falling in love with a man perfect for her, and it scares the hell out of her. She is so fucked up that even good things, like Dora, freak her out.

Mark waits patiently while I formulate an answer.

"Sara is a workaholic."

Mark nods, an interested and open smile on his face. "Tell me about your job."

I straighten up in my seat and I'm sure he notices it. This I can do. This is my turf. "I'm a crime scene investigator with the Los Vegas Police. I came here five years ago to work. I work nights. We have the second best lab in the country and we are damn good at what we do. Don't commit a crime in Vegas, because we will nail your ass."

He smiles, a full smile for the first time, and I realize that he is quite handsome.

"You seem to take a lot of pride in your job."

"Absolutely. I love my job."

"That's great. Can you tell me what you like about it?"

"There's a lot of science involved. It's like solving puzzles. And we get to put away the bastards who are out there murdering and raping. Everyone I work with, almost, is a first-rate scientist."

"It sounds fun."

"It is. Sometimes tedious, but mostly fun."

"It also sounds like you see some horrible things?"

"Yeah. Really bad things. There's a high burnout rate."

"Are you burning out?"

"No!" I realize that it comes out a bit too emphatically.

His eyes flicker to the open file on the desk. I can tell he wants to write something there, but he doesn't. This irritates me.

"I mean, no," I say in a quieter tone, as if I can erase my telling outburst. "Looking back I can see times where I was dangerously close, probably drinking too much, but that was related to something else."

"So you are comfortable with your job and where you are now?" He says as if he believes me.

"I am. Except... My boss at the moment, is also my boyfriend. He's leaving the lab because of our relationship. And I feel really bad about that, even though it's what he wants."

"How do you feel about working without him?"

"I dunno. Bad. Sort of... I don't want to say lost because I'm a grown woman and a damn good CSI and I don't need him or anyone to hold my hand."

"But you'll miss him?"

"Yeah. Which is stupid because the whole point of him quitting was so we could be together, and we're practically cohabitating so I'll see him every day anyway."

"Well, it sounds as if what you're feeling is normal given the circumstances. Tell me if I'm wrong, but going from being one's subordinate to one's girlfriend involves a lot of shifting roles, and not just for you."

"Totally. And... now that I think about it, I'm kind of surprised. I'm proud of us, for making that transition as well as we did. I remember telling him at one point that at work we weren't equals - this was before he decided to leave the lab - but out of work we have to be. And that means that he can come to me for support, as well as me leaning on him. I... I'm so glad I said that."

Mark nods. "That was very insightful. A lot of people have difficulty when a professional relationship becomes more, especially if one has to supervise the other."

"I think if I hadn't told him that things would have wound up being not so good between us."

"Tell me about him."

"Okay. His name is Gil. He's 49. He's one of the top forensic entomologists in the country."

"Bugs?"

"Right."

"What attracted you to him?"

"I was in a seminar about eight years ago. I was an engineering grad student at the time but I was intrigued by the concept of forensic entomology so I took it. He was the instructor."

What attracted me to him? Oh. Wow. The intensity of those blue eyes, the hands I wanted to be touching me, the way his ass looked in those khakis. That was long before the days of absurdly baggy pants.

"Initially, I thought he was hot."

Mark smiles and is quiet. "Um, then I realized that he was as much an antisocial geek as me. I thought he was adorable but at the same time very passionate and focused."

I blush and Mark mercifully turns the topic back to neutral ground. "Where did you do your grad work?"

"UCB. I never finished it. After that lecture I got hooked on forensics. It's one of the things that complicated our relationship. That lecture changed my life, in terms of my career. And I don't regret it one bit. I love my job. But the fact that I followed him into it, then came to Vegas when he asked, really... it made things seem as if they were about him when they weren't. This wasn't helped by the fact that I was attracted to him and I thought he was attracted to me."

"Well, he was, I assume, since you are now together?"

"He was, but we didn't get together until this September. That was his choice, not mine."

"That's a long time to work with someone you have feelings for."

"Yeah. No kidding."

"It must have been hard."

"It was incredibly hard. He broke my heart."

"Why?"

"He had a lot of reasons why he felt it would be wrong to have a relationship with me. He has a lot of insecurities and baggage of his own. We're fifteen years apart."

"So he was calling the shots in your personal relationship as well as in your professional one."

"Exactly."

"How does that play into your relationship now?"

"If your asking if he's the dominant partner, he's not. Neither am I. We're equals, and now that I think about it I'm really surprised at how well we've adapted to that."

"That's great."

"It really is."

"Have your feelings for him changed since you've been involved?"

"Of course. I know him much better and I love him more."

"What are the best parts of your relationship?"

"Believe it or not it's very simple. We both have a lot of baggage, so when he's upset I support him, and when I'm upset he supports me. We admire the same things about each other, so there's always this mutual admiration thing. It's a very equal relationship."

"You still work for him?"

"Just for another week."

"Wow. So it sounds like there are lots of big changes."

"Yeah."

"So what made you decide to come for therapy?"

I sigh. I've been expecting this question.

"Well, first because Gil did. No, that sounds wrong, as if to say that I blindly do whatever he does. It's not like that. But it made it more convenient, easier. He asked me to come with him to the first session for moral support. It just so happened that that was Friday, and some stuff had happened Thursday to freak me out. I already know you guys took my insurance, because his is the same as mine. I was already here. It was easy. Becky hooked me up."

He nods. "Any other reasons?"

"I have... a lot of crap in my past that I've just dealt with by working, running away from it. I went to Harvard on a scholarship. I've been working about six days a week since I was twelve years old."

"Are you tired?"

"No. Part of it is my personality. I don't need as much sleep as most people. I'm just naturally a worker. I like work."

"You seem to tie a lot of your personal identity to work. When I first asked you to tell me about yourself you said 'I'm a workaholic'."

"Yeah. I guess. Are you saying I should define myself in other ways?"

"No. I'm not saying anything about shoulds. I've known you for all of... a half hour." He glances at the clock. "It was just an observation."

"Well, how do other people define themselves?"

"A lot of people do by their work. A lot of people see themselves as primarily sons or daughters, mothers, fathers, you name it. That's of course a gross oversimplification."

"Of course." I smile slightly.

"So, we have fifteen minutes left. Is there anything in particular you'd like to talk about during that time?"

"Um... I dunno." He has picked up my file and has turned a few pages. I see the psychosocial eval I'd filled out and feel somehow alarmed to see my own handwriting in the chart.

"You want to ask me about my family."

"It isn't about what I want, Sara. I can see from what you've written that there are a lot of traumatic things about your family, but the question is, what are you ready to talk about?"

I glance at the clock. I have about thirteen and a half minutes. What could be so bad in thirteen minutes?

"Okay, I'll give you the brief rundown. When I was four my father left us. My mom could never live without a man to validate her existence so there was a revolving door of boyfriends. I kept hoping that one of them would step up and be a father to my brother and me but her neediness always drove them away, even the good ones. Then, there were the not so good ones, who were abusive. One of them in particular got us noticed by Children's Services and bam, we were shipped away to foster care when I was eleven. I was in... seven different foster homes by the time I left for college at seventeen."

He nods. Have I just dumped a whole bunch o condensed crap on him? I guess I have. I wait for him to examine the particulars but he doesn't. "Go on," he says softly.

"I think over time I've experienced every kind of abuse there is. I used to be really angry. It helped a lot to channel my anger into physical outlets, like running, swimming, target practice. I'm not so much angry any more."

"What are you?"

What am I? Hell, I don't know. "Scared. Hurting."

"Is there anything in particular you're afraid of?"

"Failure. Losing Gil. Losing... things that I've worked for. For so long my only escape was school and work, so I'm probably what you'd call your basic Type A overachiever."

"That makes sense," he says. "Though no one is ever that simple."

"Guess not."

"Sara, are you ever afraid you'll hurt someone else?"

"Like, physically? No. And I don't want to hurt myself either."

"Good." We are both quiet for a minute and the silence stretches awkwardly.

"Okay, now I want you to analyze me. How as this session for you? Do you think we can work together?"

What the hell? I feel myself blushing for no reason. That's totally unfair of him! I sit there dumbly for a few seconds.

"Yeah, I can talk to you. So far, anyway."

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"No?"

"You seem taken aback by my question."

"I am. I just... you're so blunt."

"And you feel a bit put on the spot?"

"Yeah."

"I ask that question of everybody at the end of their first session. It's important that you be comfortable talking to me. The work we do together depends on it. So think about it between now and your next session, if there's anything that could make you more comfortable. You seem like a very self-reliant person who is used to bottling things up and I just want to make sure you're comfortable talking to me."

"Oh. No, you're good. You've very good and open. You're calm, which helps calm me down. How old are you?"

He smiles. I have a feeling he's used to answering this question. "I'm twenty-seven."

"You're younger than me."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. You seem competent enough. It just... kinda threw me at first."

He laughs, and I feel a bit more calmed down. "Thanks."

"Well, what would you like to achieve in therapy? What goals do you have?"

"I don't know about goals... I just know that like you said there are things I've bottled up for decades. I can't explain it, but I just need to talk about them. Let them breathe. Get them out. Maybe get someone else's take on them."

He nods, as if assessing something.

"Great. I think you're very intelligent and focused on the things you'd like to do, and you're already brave enough to make steps toward dealing with the past. I think we can work well together, and I think that some therapy will be very beneficial to you."

I nod. Somehow this is very encouraging.

"So is Monday good for next week?"

.

I drive home without noticing the landmarks. I keep replaying the session in my mind. Not sure what I think of Mark.

I was tense and uncomfortable to varying degrees the whole time in that office and now I feel it, physically, in my back and shoulders. However, the tension is probably part of the process, and not due to Mark. Though his question took me aback, the more I think about it, the more comfortable I am with returning to see him. He is perceptive, not insulting to my intelligence, and non-threatening. I imagine telling him about difficult things, and it is easier.

I drive home because unlike Grissom I need space after my first therapy session. There are too many things on my mind. To my surprise, I see his Tahoe in the lot. I'm more curious than annoyed.

I smell breakfast even before I open the door. I walk, puzzled, into my kitchen and see Gil cooking, brewing coffee. There is a single lily in a vase on the breakfast bar, and he turns around and puts a perfect looking omelette on a plate.

"You're here." I blurt stupidly.

"I hope that's not a problem."

"Of course not. You're cooking."

"I've trained such a shrewd investigator."

I press my lips together in an effort to not smile and drop my purse on the bar so I can playfully swat his shoulder.

"What's the occasion?" I stroke the elegant curve of the lily stem with a finger, admiring it. Beautiful.

"Just thought you could use some support after your first therapy session." He turns off the burner and pushes the pan back.

I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. Surprised, he staggers back a little.

"I love you."

"I love you too." His hand moves, so soothing and sweet, over my back.

"You're such a great boyfriend."

He pulls away, surprised. "Really?"

"Really. Since you've pulled your head out of your ass you've exceeded all my expectations."

"Um, thanks?"

I laugh. "Seriously. I was telling my therapist about how well we work as a couple, considering you were my boss for so long."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"So it went well?"

"Yeah, really well. It was hard, but it went well. I'll talk more about it later but right now my brain is full. But I just wanted you to know that."

"Thank you." He looks gratefully into my eyes, then kisses me. Desire coils warmly through my body, despite the waiting breakfast. I love his lips. I love the way he kisses me. He tastes like green tea and I love that too. Love him. I want to make love to him right now. I feel a little high.

"Is that my omelette?"

"Yep."

"I'm starving. Thank you."

"Some juice?"

"I'd love some. Are these mushrooms?"

"Shiitakes."

"Peppers?"

"And feta cheese."

I take a bite, and it is amazing, warm and filling. "Holy crap, this is good."

"Thanks," he says, pleased. I can tell that he is touched by my praise, not just of my cooking, but of his status as "good boyfriend." He's tickled, it's obvious. And it pleases me to make him feel that way.

He makes his own omelette and sits down opposite me, and we eat, companionably. "Thanks for cooking. This is wonderful."

"Glad you like it."

For a minute it is quiet, peaceful.

"Your last day at the lab is coming up soon."

"Yeah." he says, and I can tell he is a bit apprehensive.

"How do you feel about it?"

"Kind of panicked. It's such a big change."

"Do you regret quitting?"

"Nope. Not a bit." He takes a big bite and washes it down with juice. "How do you feel about me leaving?"

"Well, I'll miss you but I'm getting you in a much better capacity so it's really not an issue. I'm getting used to it. You have no idea how much you'll be missed, though."

"But we are practically living together."

"I didn't mean by me."

"Oh."

"Seriously, Grissom. I know you and Cath have been friends forever. Nick, Warrick and Greg look up to you immensely, especially Nick and Greg. For the longest time you were the heart and soul of the lab. You should know that, you know?"

"Yeah. I guess I never realized that. Guess it was hard to see with my head up my ass."

I smile and gently kick him. Then, my foot seeks out his naked shin and moves over it.

"So, Catherine wants to throw a party for you."

He sighs. "I know."

"You don't seem happy."

"I never thought I'd have a going-away party. I never thought I was a cake-in-the-break-room kind of guy."

"But you're not inherently opposed to the idea?"

"No, I guess not."

I make a mental note to give Cath the green light on the party she wants to throw.

I shovel the last of the omelette into my face and put my fork down. "That was great."

He smiles and finishes the last of his omelette. I put our dishes in the sink and he moves behind me, pressing his fingers into my most tense spots. I groan and loll my head forward.

He has come to know me, know what I need, and it never fails to amaze me. I stand there for a long time and slowly melt under his fingers.

"I think we should institute a post-therapy massage protocol. That is heavenly."

"That could be arranged." I feel fingers pulling my hair to the side, then soft lips and rough whiskers on my neck. I moan quite loudly in the kitchen silence.

"Do you want to talk about your session?" he whispers. I feel the words in my ear as well as hear them.

"No." I turn around and feast on his beautiful face, blue eyes, steady on me. "I want you to take me back to the bedroom and make love to me, then I want to sleep for hours."

His eyes widen and darken. He moans, and pulls me close with a forceful hand on my waist. I love the way he does that. This man is amazing. He can take me from zero to sixty in no time at all.

We walk to the bedroom and rush to shed our clothes. But once they're off, we are leisurely and slow and calm. There are few words, except for those rolling through my head. I love him. I love him so much. He feels the same way, and it gives him pleasure when I trace his lips, kiss his neck, arch into him. We are both quickly on the edge and he falls over a second or two after me.

After, we lay tangled and sweaty. "Hmm. It's always so good. Zero to sixty."

"Sorry I didn't last long."

"It was perfect. In case you didn't notice, I didn't either. No one has ever been able to turn me on so quickly, with just a touch or a look." My voice sounds husky, post-coital.

"Me too. Somehow now that we're together I lust for you more."

I smile, close my eyes, and burrow into his shoulder. "I've always lusted for you like this."

"You know, we're both off tonight."

"Wonderful."

"You want me to take off so you can sleep?"

"No, I want you to stay right where you are so I can sleep."

"Anything you plan on doing tonight?"

"You, if possible. You?"

"If I had my way, I would not leave this bed, except to eat, shower, or pee."

"Sounds like a plan, love." I rest my hand on his chest. He pulls the sheets up and around us, and I sleep.