I stand there for the longest time after he leaves. Then, I get caught up in motion.

I strip the sheets from my bed. I put my towels in the laundry pile. I add the sheets and the clothes I wore last night. I run down to the laundry room and start a load of dark clothes. I make a grocery list. I dust things that haven't been dusted since I moved here.

My assumption is that the physical action will help me work out my thoughts. It doesn't quite work.

I throw my clean clothes into the dryer and put on hiking gear. I clean my bathroom, remove the clothes from the dryer, fold them, and then drive out into the desert.

.

The desert is stark and parched from a bad dry summer, terra cotta colored earth in all directions, and the heat is already in the nineties, though it is nearly October. The heat is dangerous because it is dry. Evaporating sweat feels good, but it parches. People die out here, having no clue how dehydrated they are.

Dangerous and beautiful, as far as the eye can see.

Now I know why I came here. He is like the desert. I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner.

Danger and beauty, danger and beauty, I think as I shoulder my backpack. The cadence is appropriate to walking. I'll be safe. I have water. My car is nearby.

Satisfied that my physical safety is ensured, I turn to more emotional threats.

It felt good when I had decided to leave. Good in a small, hard, solid way. A fragment of immutable, untouchable, safe goodness amid a great ache. Now, my resolve is gone, questions are nagging every corner of my mind, and the fear is back, larger than it ever was.

Yet I made the choice with little hesitation. The time it took to declare my intent to try was spent not making the choice of a life with him v.s. a life without him, but in defining the conditions under which I would do so. No infidelity. That's not a problem. He told me and I believe it. I trust him to keep that promise.

And no running, no coldness, no cold shoulder. Just honesty. This is what frightens me. I don't trust him in this regard, but have chosen to take that leap. He will have to prove himself to me. It's that simple.

I wonder just how much space he'll need. It feels somehow appropriate that I was the first to ask for space. I don't think this will be a habit for me. I just need time to process the initial shock of his complete about-face.

It's like whiplash. He has gone from zero to a hundred in the space of seconds and I'm left behind, as usual. His decision to do this, my conditions aside, is essentially unilateral, and I admit that irks me a bit.

I shouldn't bitch though. I've got everything I wanted.

I feel the corners of my mouth turning up, a rush of excitement, at the idea of seeing him again. He mentioned dinner. I'm not sure yet if I'm ready for more conversation. Actually, scratch that. I know I'm not ready for more conversation. But I'll see him at work.

My smile fades. What about work? What are we going to do? He can declare his love until he's blue in the face, it doesn't change the fact that he recommended Nick over me.

The hurt of it comes rushing back. I double my pace and feel the burn of fatigue in my calves. I'm sick of pondering why I was less desirable for the promotion because I wanted it "too much." It hasn't made sense the first millionteen times; it's not going to make sense now.

What if he extends that thinking to us?

I stop walking. I stand there absolutely still and try to breathe. I am seriously freaking out.

I can see it, clear as day. "Sara, this thing between us would be great, but you want it too much, so it's over."

I swallow and take a deep shuddering breath. I shrug out of my backpack, and drink an entire bottle of water. I stash the empty bottle in it, and keep walking. The heat is a physical thing.

So, that is number one on the list of issues I need to address with him. It will be hard to do this without discussing the promotion, something that is too sore for me now. But there's no reason I can't express the fear that he'll apply the same logic to my feelings for him. He can address that concern, without us hashing out the painful reality of his recommendation, and without reverting to the boss/underling role.

I keep walking, undeterred by danger.

.

I never cared for rollercoasters. It isn't that the drops and loops and inversions scared me, so much as the fact that I found the manic changes of pace disorenting and annoying.

But tonight I didn't want to have dinner. I'm still not ready for another conversation. I crave motion, a physical release that mirrors the turmoil in my head. I explained this to him, though not in so many words. Ergo, Grissom suggested we meet at the Adventuredome at Circus Circus, and I agreed.

I wait outside. It is chilly in my jean jacket. I have never been able to adjust to a climate with such a differential temperature. So hot during the day, so cold at night. And it's not even fully dark yet.

I hiked for an hour, came home, ate and forced myself to sleep for five hours. That was all that I was gonna get. It's a little known secret that I run optimally on seven hours, but that's rare. Usually I wake consumed with the desire to do something, to get up. Today it was the desire to unravel this puzzle. I have a feeling that this relationship, if that's what it is, is going to exacerbate my already bad insomnia.

I shift my weight to the other side, take a few steps, turn, take a few steps back. Being idle was never my forte. He'll show up. He won't bail.

I want to go inside, where it's warm. I wonder if the purist in Grissom has a problem with riding indoor roller coasters? So many things I don't know about him.

A familiar motion catches my eye. Him. His gait is distinctive. I try to isolate the factor or factors that make it so, but fail. He is wearing dark jeans and a brown leather jacket I've never seen before. Definately not work clothes, though we are going to work, after. The fact that he has made a concession to wear something more appropriate for a date thrills me.

"Hello. Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Just a few minutes." I hold the door open for him and he walks through. I am keenly aware of his presence and its effect on me. He smells different. Nice. Is there a hint of cologne on him? He wouldn't wear it to work, he never does. But apparently he has. It smells wonderful, cold and steely.

My heart is pounding ridiculously as we wait in the line to buy tickets. It's a short line. It's a quarter 'til eight on a Wednesday.

He is looking at me. I feel it like a sudden burning. I scan the interior of the place, what I can see of it, anyway, then turn to look at him.

I see desire there that I haven't seen in a while, and it quickens my heart rate even more. Between the hiking and this I'm getting quite the cardio workout. With the desire I see shyness, doubt, and it is sweet. I give him a smile.

"You all right?" I ask. Only after I say it do I realize that it's the question that changed everything. I hope he doesn't think I'm asking it gratuitously. But I realize that he's so absorbed in his thoughts that this would never occur to him.

"I am," he says. "And you are beautiful."

"Thank you." Never thought there would be a smooth-talking facet of Grissom. I'm not sure if I like it. I look away uncomfortably, but then I dart my eyes back to him. And I see that it's not smooth talking at all. I see it in his eyes.

I relax and let myself linger there.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks.

"No, actually. You can tell me I'm beautiful any time you like." I grin, and it puts him at ease.

His emotions are now so clear, so easy to read. I'm not used to it. This man, I realize, is all or nothing. Either he lets nothing out, or he lets everything out. I find that there's a sort of integrity to that, disorienting though it may be.

"What are you thinking?"

I tell him, explain how his sudden and utter change of heart is disorienting. "It's true," he says. "My mind is made up."

"Can I help you?" the girl at the counter asks.

Grissom whips out his wallet and I am about to object, but he pulls out a VIP card and hands it to the girl. "Welcome back, Mr. Grissom."

"Thank you."

She swipes the card and glances at the monitor above her cash register.

"You have about a million comps. Your friend can get in for free."

I try to imagine Grissom riding rollercoasters alone. Would they give comps for that, though? He must gamble. The girl smiles and hands his card back.

"Thank you," he says, and jerks his head toward the turnstiles.

Thus, we are on the Canyon Blaster an hour later. I have revised my earlier statement. The drops and inversions are scary. It's a visceral, adrenal fear, different from those engendered by the man at my side. Put them together, though, and the net result is interesting: My legs are jelly and something in my belly keeps shaking.

The other result is that I want him something fierce. Acutely. More than usual. I don't know how to explain it. The imminent, physical threat of death, once over, leaves behind rabid desire for life. I want to feel alive. Is this why he likes rollercoasters?

"Are you hungry?" he says, and I contemplate the stubble that surrounds his lickable, lickable mouth.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, actually."

We go to a snack bar where he orders nachos and I order shrimp tacos. "I've got it," I say, reaching into my back pocket.

"No, Sara. When she said I have a million comps she was almost literal. They'll go to waste anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Comepletely."

"What did you do to get so many? I didn't think you gamble."

"I don't, not much," He hands his card over to the guy behind the concession stand. He leans in close so no one else can hear. "I solved the murder of the owner's mistress. I think my comps are actually unlimited. I could probably live here if I chose to."

I pull back. "Really?"

"Really. I haven't been here in maybe two years."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"Vegas. Favors accrue here in strange ways."

Despite my earlier adversion to dinner, we linger over the food at a small table.

"You're quiet tonight," he says.

"Sorry. I've got a lot of thoughts in my head. Parallel processing."

He smiles in appreciation of my geekiness and pops a cheesy chip into his mouth.

"Plus, I'm dealing with the endocrinological aftereffects of the Blaster and the Slingshot. Especially the Slingshot."

"Ah, endorphins."

I think of my raging desire to be horizontal with him. "It's not exactly a runner's high. Endogenous epinephrine. Not the same as endogenous opioids."

He stares at me for a minute. He seems especially focused on my mouth.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"About what?" I smile, sipping my lemonade.

"Adrenaline and endorphins," he says cryptically, and I realize that we are sort of on the same page, with carnal thoughts. The realization comes with warmth that tingles up the length of my spine.

"I see."

We ride the balloon Ferris Wheel, just because he claims the view is worth it. He's right. The sun has gone down and through the Adventuredome windows, the lights of Vegas shimmer every color in existence.

The wheel stops, one car from the top. I reach for his hand, and get a little rush at being able to do so. It feels totally different, much more exciting than when he took my hand this morning, because he relaxes his fingers and then twines them with mine. Because he lets me hold his hand.

"We need to talk about work," I say.

"I agree. Anywhere particular you want to start?"

"Oh, Jeez. There's so much to cover. Well, let's start with the obvious: This needs to be secret for now."

"Agreed." he says, and I am relieved. "And along those lines, I will probably have to let go of your hand when we get to the bottom." He gestures to our entwined hands.

"Okay. So, if anyone asks we're taking steps to rebuild our friendship."

He nods, and for a second I'm not sure what he's thinking.

"Nobody believed my print powder story."

"Nick did. I heard him tell Warrick."

"He didn't believe it. He was just being gracious."

"Oh." I get the impression that Grissom is thrown by that level of discretion. Perhaps he thinks that it's something he would never think of, a level of social grace he could never attain. I again wonder how deep his insecurities run.

I don't want him to be insecure. I smile at him and he smiles back, looking sort of dopey. I must have a similar dopey look. I am probably perma-dopey when he is near.

We have come up over the top of the wheel and are now halfway to the bottom. Two cars have yet to be filled and I have less than five minutes to hold his hand.

"So tell me something about you that I don't know."

His lips move into a slight pucker, then twist into something approximating a smile. I sense that the question, light as it is, is making him want to run. But he doesn't freak out. He thinks for a minute, and says "I was a stoner in college."

"What?"

"I was." He is smiling and I'm not sure if it's to disguise anxiety, or at the memory.

"You."

"Yes. In the interest of experimentation. It was all very scientific."

"Don't you think that first hand experience would make for biased results," I tease, smiling.

"No. Every single thought I had was completely objective, and deeply insightful."

He says it deadpan. I laugh, and the sound of him laughing with me is sweet. I don't mind so much when he lets go of my hand.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice."

His Anthony Hopkins impression is dead-on. I stare at him and shudder.

"That was creepy."

"So I've been told," he says in his regular voice.

"Scary. Hmm. What about me don't you know? Hmm..."

He is smiling. We have moved backward and are starting to rise. He reaches again for my hand.

"I was nominated for homecoming queen in college."

"Harvard has homecoming queens?"

"That's what I said. Yes, they do, apparently. It came out of the blue. I wasn't in a sorority." I look out at the lights. More have come out.

"No mystery there. Someone saw a pretty, brilliant girl."

I glance at him sideways. "You'd better watch it. You're starting to endear yourself to me."

He surprises me again, grining like a little kid. I want to kiss him. Actually, I want to jump him until our balloon is rockin'. Don't bother knockin'. Right here in the Adventuredome, baby.

We are now moving smoothly. The last of the passengers have boarded and we are rising up to the top.

"You think they have cameras up here? Technically we're not in a casino."

"Doubtful." He has no clue where my question is coming from.

I touch his chin with my hand, and he turns to face me, questions in his eyes. Quickly, before I can chicken out, I dart toward him, and gently kiss his lips. I hover there only a second, then pull back.

I stare straight in front of me, and realize his is doing the same. God, we are a matched freakin' set of geeks.

"Sweet torture," he says.

"I wasn't trying to torture you!" I say, laughing.

"You never are." He looks at me, very serious.

"What are you talking about? Why am I such a threat?"

His smile softens. "Temptation. Temptation I'm so used to resisting. I can't think when you're around. Don't you know that?" He says it quietly, desperation in his eyes. I am surprised by him yet again.

"No. No, I don't."

"You have always been," he says, something very intense in the way he looks at me.

"Oh."

"It's almost time for work."

"God, this is gonna be hard."

"You have no clue."

I feel his eyes on my profile. "What? You don't seriously think you're the only tempted one?"

He only smiles, and turns away.

"I have a request." I say, a minute later.

"Okay."

"Work has to stay separate from...not work."

"Also agreed," he says.

"We can't talk about personal stuff at work. Nothing touchy-feely. It might even be easier if you keep ignoring me. And maybe we can talk about work at... while we're together outside work, but for now they have to be separate."

"Okay. But I have a question." The wheel slows and the carnie reaches to undo the bar that holds us in. I slip out of the balloon, and he follows me. We walk until we are in an area fairly clear of people, between the line for the wheel and the bumper cars. We slowly move toward the exit.

"You had a question?" I prompt.

"Yes. What if there's something in a case that makes you freak out and I want to hold you?"

I stare at him. I think I might actually qualify as slack-jawed.

"Well, we are entitled to our lunch breaks, which are not company time, and which don't need to be spent on city property." I say it evenly, though I am taken aback by the question, and the sweetness that it makes me feel. "I have a more important question."

"Shoot."

"What happens if we're on a case that makes you freak out and I want to comfort you? Will you let yourself take a time out and let me be there for you?"

"I don't know... I guess I could."

"If, theoretically, that happened, we would be in work mode. However, you could come to me with the option of switching to non-work mode, even if just for a half hour."

"So what, I just say, yeah, I gave you a million things to sort through, but first do you want to come help me work through my ... whatever."

I smile. "All you have to say is 'Sara, wanna get lunch?'"

"You make it so easy."

"You make it so hard," I say. "Look, if this is going to work, we have to be equals. That's why it's so important to draw the line between personal and work. At work we aren't equals. At home, or whatever, we have to be. That means you let me support you when you need supporting, not just the other way around. Equity."

He looks at me for what seems like a long, long time. I start to freak out.

But he just smiles. "I am in awe of you."

"I have another question." I sigh.

"Okay."

"First I want to say that this isn't about the Lead CSI promotion per se. I'm not ready to go there and I don't want to talk about that. But you said you didn't give it to me because I wanted it too much. How do I know that you won't apply that logic to our relationship?"

"I don't understand what you mean," He says.

"How do I know you're not going to just say 'Hey, you want me too much, therefore you can't have me.'"

He scowls and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I probably didn't explain that well."

"Okay."

"First let me answer your question. Your wanting me is never, ever going to be a problem. My fear of hurting you is the problem, but that's a whole other matter."

"Okay."

"So in short, no, I will never say that to you."

"Allright."

"I think this would make more sense if you'd give me another chance to explain about the promotion."

"Okay, I guess." I didn't want to go there, but I admit I'm curious.

"I was afraid that if I gave it to you you'd work harder than you already do. I was worried about you. I know how you put so much into work. I knew Nick wouldn't do that. It wasn't that you didn't deserve it. It was never that. I wish I'd explained that to you at the time. My explanation was horrible, and that's one of many examples of how I get stupid when you're around."

"Oh." I feel lighter. It makes sense.

"I'm going to ask you to bear with me. Sometimes it might take me three or even four times to explain things."

"I'll wait, if you try."

"Are you angry?"

"No. I'm angry at myself, that I haven't been able to strike a better balance between work and ... well, anything else but work. But that's not your fault."

"I'm going to tell you something, This probably falls into the category of talking about work while in non-work mode, but I'm going to say it anyway. If I get murdered and I'm at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter tells me I get to pick one CSI to investigate it, you're it."

I smile. A grin actually. Definately dopey.

"C'mon, let's get to work. My boss is hot, but he's a real dick."

I glance sideways to see how that is received, and he is smiling sedately.

He leans toward me and very speaks very quietly.

"Sara Sidle, you're lucky we are in public, because otherwise I'd smack your ass for that."

Oh, yeah. Work is going to be...interesting.