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Chapter Text

February 9, 2022.  The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

Where do I begin
To tell the story of how great a love can be
The sweet love story that is older than the sea
The simple truth about the love she brings to me

[. . .]

I know I’ll need her ’til the stars all burn away
And she’ll be there

– Carl Sigman, “(Where Do I Begin?) Love Story.”

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

– Sarah Williams, excerpt from “The Old Astronomer to His Pupil.”

So don’t ever, don’t ever, don’t forget
That I never, never meant to break your heart
All I ever wanted was to stand beside you
Survivors in the night

– Phil Collins, “Survivors.”

Survivors

“24 years.”

“24 years.”

February 9, 1998. San Francisco, California.

Wise men say
“Only fools rush in”
But I can’t help
Falling in love with you

– Luigi Creatore, George David Weiss, and Hugo E. Peretti, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

50^th Annual American Academy of Forensic Sciences (“AAFS”) Conference

On that otherwise unremarkable day in February 1998, CSI Level 2 Sara Sidle of San Francisco sat, unsuspecting, in a conference room at the Hilton San Francisco and Towers Hotel, awaiting her first in-person encounter with Gil Grissom, forensic entomologist. She could not possibly have comprehended what the consequences of that meeting would be.

One must conclude that on that fateful day in February 1998, at the Hilton San Francisco and Towers Hotel, Gil Grissom was very much unprepared for what lay ahead for him, in the almost but not quite empty conference room where he would soon be speaking. A young woman of whom he had no prior knowledge, CSI Level 2 Sara Sidle of the San Francisco crime lab, lay ahead for him. And, like Sara, he could not possibly have comprehended what the consequences of their meeting would be.

The two lovely science nerds continued amicably in their half-conversation for some time, but eventually the conference room began to fill up a little more, and the entomologist thought perhaps he should head to the front to prepare for his lecture. Before he got up, though, he turned fully to the young woman, told her it was nice (almost) meeting her, and asked her name.

“Oh, Sara Sidle,” she said and turned toward him, with a friendly but not yet full smile and an outstretched hand.

“Gil Grissom,” he said and smiled at her, right as she looked at him and shook his hand.

No planets or satellites shifted their orbits at that time—the earth continued in the same manner around the sun, and the moon around the earth—but Sara and Grissom would many years later claim that a little spark passed between them in that moment, and who are we to doubt them. The meeting may not have changed the world, but it certainly changed their two lives, though of course they were not to know it at the time.

Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom would tell you, both then and now, that they didn’t—and don’t—believe in love at first sight. Really the whole idea was an insult to the concept of love. How could you love someone you’d just met? You couldn’t. Sara and Grissom would surely give you some sort of scientific explanation for it. An initial intense attraction that, over time, allowed love to grow up beside it—something like that.

Yet, if that was how Sara and Grissom explained love at first sight, was that not also what they experienced? If we were to define the concept thus, would they not meet this definition? Examining the evidence, how then can we say they did not fall in love at first sight?

February 9, 2022. The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

And I’d like to know it’s more than love at first sight
And I want a Sunday kind of love, oh yeah, yeah

[. . .]

Love for all my life, to have and to hold
Oh, and I want a Sunday kind of love [. . .]

– Stan Rhodes, Anita Leonard, Barbara Belle, and Louis Prima, “A Sunday Kind of Love.”

A Sunday Kind of Love

The sun was almost setting over the Pacific. Waves lapped the shore, a bird cooed from the nearby rainforest, and Sara Sidle smiled as she squished the sand between her toes. Sara was slowly making her way back along the beach to her husband, who was at that moment performing grilling duties aboard the Ishmael—well, the Ishmael (II).

The stretch of beach was deserted aside from a rundown fishing shack and a rickety old dock. During the roughly two and a half years he’d spent sailing the seas without her, her husband had picked up acquaintances up and down the Pacific coast of the Americas. One of those acquaintances owned the fishing shack and—more importantly—the dock, of which they were currently making use, as they and the Ishmael finally made their way back north from Peru.

Sara and Grissom were that night having a celebratory dinner in honor of the 24^th anniversary of their initial meeting. Ever since their reunion in San Diego six and a half years earlier, they’d tried to celebrate as many occasions as they could: meetings and marriages, stargazing excursions and starry-eyed engagements, and everything else in between.

Sara and Grissom even celebrated the anniversary of their divorce. Once per year they would spend the day drinking and talking about all the things they’d missed while they were apart. Then they’d spend the night having quite a lot of really quite excellent sex. They had decided, during the first year of this, their second marriage, that this was preferable to spending that day awkwardly failing to acknowledge the miserable, soul-crushing occurrence that was the divorce.

Thankfully, the anniversary of their first meeting was a more thoroughly happy occasion. Sara had already set up a pile of pillows and blankets on the deck of the boat as a makeshift picnic area, and she’d prepared a salad and a mezze platter. Grissom was overseeing the grilling: fish; vegetables; and, that night, halloumi, which he’d brought for Sara when they’d flown down from the States to Peru.

While she’d been in the galley, carrying out her share of preparations for the meal, Sara had received an interesting call on their satellite phone. A colleague had wanted to alert her and Grissom to an email that had just been sent to them and, while they were on the call, had given Sara a little background information on the proposal it contained.

After the call had ended and she had finished her share of the dinner preparations, Sara had changed into her chosen anniversary outfit: a black string bikini and a white ankle-length silk and lace bathing suit cover-up, which she had purchased together from one of the Eclipse shops. The ensemble was more than a short step up from the worn shorts and t-shirts she and her husband typically sported while the Ishmael made its way through warmer climates. This was her first time wearing it, and she was quite looking forward to testing it out.

When she’d walked out on the boat’s deck, Sara had been amused but not really surprised to see her husband once again wearing his—also now very worn—“lucky shirt.” He’d acquired it shortly before first meeting her, having traded for it in the jungles of the Philippines while on sabbatical for a short-term forensic entomology project. He’d also worn it the night she’d finally agreed to move in with him.

“How can it not be lucky?” he’d always ask her, whenever she had the audacity to question the scientific origins of said luck. It was quite funny, really, that Gil Grissom would consider anything lucky, but he continually professed his unwillingness to question anything that connected him to her.

With his head down as he fiddled with the grill’s controls, Grissom had informed Sara he needed an extra half hour or so with the grilling, as he’d had some trouble getting the device working properly. Sara had in return advised him she was going for a short beach walk and snuck past him while he was distracted with the grill issues.

So, while the waves came up to dampen the sand and the wind whipped the bathing suit cover-up around her, Sara had walked the beach and ruminated on their colleague’s proposal for a research expedition. She didn’t have any strong feelings on the proposal thus far, but she had to admit to herself that she was intrigued. Sara was, after all, always up for an adventure—just as long as her husband would be by her side.

UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FEBRUARY 9, 2022. THE PACIFIC COAST OF NICARAGUA. MY DEAREST DARLING.

Chapter Text

February 9, 2022. The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

– E. E. Cummings, excerpt from “[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].”

Oh nothing, nothing, nothing in this world
Can keep us apart
Unh, my dearest darling
I offer you my heart

– Eddie Bo and Paul Gayten, “My Dearest Darling.”

My Dearest Darling

The sun was setting as Sara arrived back at the dock. Once she had made her way to the end of the rickety structure and over the top of the boat’s hull, Grissom came over to take her hand as she stepped down onto the deck.

“Hey. Perfect timing, darlin’. I just took everything off the grill. If you want to go get the—” Now that Sara was standing before him on the boat’s deck, Grissom had finally had the chance to take in her wardrobe—or lack thereof.

“You want me to get the salad and the mezze platter?” she prompted him.

“Ahhh . . .” His eyes went up and down her body. He still hadn’t learned any discretion. Once again, he eye-fucked her. “What is this?”

“What’s what?”

“This . . .” He gestured toward her body.

“What?” Sara feigned innocence as she looked down at herself.

“What you’re wearing.”

“It’s a bathing suit.”

“I don’t recall seeing it before.” He raised an eyebrow. “Not that there’s much to see.”

“I saw it in the window at one of the stores at the Eclipse, and I thought it might work for when we got back out on the boat. I bought it with some of that hotel store credit Catherine kept throwing at us. Do you think she was afraid we were going to embarrass her by looking like a pair of salty sea captains?”

Grissom ignored her question. “And were you planning to wear it for dinner?”

“Well, yes, that was the plan. Is that a problem?” Sara continued to feign innocence.

“You don’t think it might be a bit distracting, my dear?”

“Distracting to whom?”

Grissom rolled his eyes. “To whom do you think, Sara?”

“You see me without clothes nearly every single day. Are you seriously telling me that after seeing me naked literally thousands of times, the sight of me in a bathing suit is going to distract you?” Sara, still, feigned innocence—as if testing her ability to distract him hadn’t been the motivation for her wardrobe choice.

“I’m sure the Mona Lisa retains her splendor after thousands of viewings.”

“You don’t even like the Mona Lisa that much.”

“True, but she is considered the most valuable of her kind, as are you to me.”

“All right, if you say so.”

“Fine. Degas’s ballerinas.”

“Now I’m one of Degas’s ballerinas?”

“If you like. You’re a work of art. A masterpiece.”

“And you can’t have dinner with a work of art?”

“I think the problem is that the artwork isn’t fully on display.” He stepped closer to her. “If you were naked, my mind wouldn’t have to do so much work. But, as it is, it’s spending all its time thinking about the part of the artwork being covered up by the bathing suit.”

“Is that why you couldn’t even remember you don’t like the Mona Lisa? Your mind was otherwise occupied?”

“Hmmm.”

“And what’s your solution? That I should eat dinner naked?”

“Well . . . if you don’t mind.” He raised his hand to the string behind her neck.

Sara signaled her agreement.

Grissom pulled on the string to release the top of the bikini top. Then he lowered his hand and released the string at her mid-back. When gravity didn’t fully finish his task, he pulled off the small pieces of black fabric.

“Are you happy now?” Sara smirked.

He stepped back to appraise his handiwork. He shook his head. “No. I think we need to finish the job.” He stepped back toward her and, with one hand for each, released the strings on either side of the bikini bottoms. He pulled away the second bit of black fabric.

Sara now stood before him in only the open bathing suit cover-up. “So? Is this appropriate dinner attire?”

Grissom was again surveying the results of his efforts. He shook his head. “No. No. No, this was definitely the wrong way to go.”

“I can tell.” Sara looked him up and down and quirked her eyebrows at the evidence of his ardor.

“You, my dear . . .” Grissom was still appraising the sight before him. “Are a luminescent sea creature.”

“Oh, god. You didn’t drink all the champagne without me, did you, mon amour?”

“No, ma petite puce. So . . . what now?”

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” She put her hand behind his neck.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“To be honest, I really thought you’d make it through dinner.”

“Maybe if you were a little less persuasive . . .” He kissed her then, because sometimes a girl—nay, woman—likes to be kissed. He kept kissing her as he walked her over to the pile of pillows and blankets she’d set up. Then, after divesting her of her final article of clothing, the bathing suit cover-up, he laid her down in the middle of the makeshift dining area and bed.

“You’re not worried about the food getting cold?”

“My appetites have changed.”

FEBRUARY 9, 2022. THE PACIFIC COAST OF NICARAGUA. KISS OF FIRE.

Chapter Text

February 9, 2022. The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

I touch your lips and all at once the sparks go flying

[. . .]

My whole world crashes without your kiss of fire

– Richard Guy Bailey and Tom Galley, “Kiss of Fire.”

Sweetheart, come to me

[. . .]

Walk with me now under the stars
It’s a safe and easy pleasure
It seems we can be happy now
It’s late but it ain’t never

– Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, “Sweetheart Come.”

Kiss of Fire

Gil Grissom gazed down at his wife, who reclined casually on the pillows she’d piled up into a makeshift dining area and bed for their anniversary celebration. Even after all the years he’d known her—all the years they’d shared a bed and a bedroom and a life together—he still found himself easily distracted by her naked form. In this instance, her form itself had drawn his attention from his recently reawakened appetites, and he stood there, motionless, diverted completely by the view before him.

“Come on, old man! Take me to bed or lose me forever!” Sara called up at him from the pillows.

With her words, she broke him from his daze, if but slightly. “First of all, you’re already in bed, essentially. Second, are you sure you didn’t start drinking the champagne without me?”

“I absolutely did not!”

He squinted at her.

“I may have fixed myself a pisco sour while I was working on dinner.”

He continued squinting at her.

“Okay, maybe two pisco sours.”

“Mmmm?”

“With a slightly heavy hand.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Anyway, I thought you liked me tipsy and amorous.” She smirked up at him.

“You know that’s just another way of saying drunk and horny?”

“Your point being? You still like it.”

“I like you in all states and stages, Sara.”

“Gilbert . . .”

“Sara . . .”

She knew, of the two of them, who would break from their position first.

Of course, so did he.

She spread her legs a little, as enticement.

As if he needed any added enticement. He would always break first; he never stood a chance. “‘Ah, to see you really drunk sometime—that would be a treat! I am almost afraid to suggest it—but . . . when I think of how you press against me, how eagerly you open your legs and how wet you are, God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away.’”

“Hmmm . . . ‘I want to feel again the violent thumping inside of me, the rushing, burning blood, the slow, caressing rhythm and the sudden violent pushing, the frenzy of pauses. . . . I want you desperately, I want to open my legs so wide, I’m melting and palpitating. I want to do things so wild with you that I don’t know how to say them.’ . . .”

Grissom raised an eyebrow. “Well done, my sweet.”

Sara couldn’t help but smile up at him. Damn those gold stars. “Gilbert . . .” she sang out, as she spread her legs a little wider still.

She could tell she had his full attention—his full and upright attention—that had been clear for some time. She took her hand—a well-kept finger—and began to run it down over her body, starting at her clavicle. The movement brought his gaze higher than it had been, and she could see his pupils following the direction of her finger as she circled her areola. His eyes tracked her movements farther down, as her finger made its way over her stomach and between her legs. There she circled again, and again, and again, as his eyes became transfixed. Finally, she dipped a finger inside, breaking his trance.

“Fuck, Sara,” he said as she stroked herself.

“Yes, my love—that was the idea.” She laughed. “Come fuck Sara.”

He shook his head. Her most recent action had finally roused him from his reverie—and reminded him of his previously reawakened appetites—and he now moved to remove his jeans and “aloha” shirt as quickly as he could.

“Don’t trip, baby,” she called out as, in his hurry, he struggled to get his jeans off without having remembered to remove his sandals.

“Mmmm. Helpful. Thank you.”

When finally freed from the confines of his clothing, he knelt beside Sara and put a hand over hers. “May I?”

“Say the magic words first, please, Gilbert.” She smirked. Sometimes she thought she should be a little embarrassed at how wet those words made her, but damn they really did the trick; of course, she was plenty wet already, but she’d never let that stop her before.

“Sara . . .”

“Gilbert . . .”

They both already knew he’d say or do whatever pleased her, but his mock reluctance made the whole affair a little more amusing for both. His hand remained over hers, and still he feigned hesitation.

“Just three little words, Gilbert, and all this can be yours. . . .” She gestured, with both eyes and free hand, up and down her bare body.

He laughed. “Sounds like a fair trade.” Fighting back a smirk of his own, he told her what she wanted to hear: “I need you, Sara.” As both we and our two lovely science nerds know, truer words were never spoken.

“Well, then.” She too laughed. “Please proceed.”

He lifted her finger to his lips, where he gently licked then sucked the sweetened digit.

Sara moaned. “Gilll, get over here.”

Finally, he joined her on the pillows, and his mouth joined hers.

Sara thought few people would believe the way Gil Grissom kissed her. Sure, sometimes he’d kiss her chastely—while waiting to ride a roller coaster—while riding a roller coaster, for that matter. Sometimes he’d kiss her in a manner she could best describe as oh-so-romantically—before the Golden Gate Bridge, before a Costa Rican monkey, before their not-so-many assembled wedding guests, before they’d set sail into the sunset for their happily-ever-after ending.

Here, though—alone, under a rapidly darkening sky—he kissed her like he wanted to devour her—like he wanted to consume her—like she was his life force, his one and only source for oxygen.

She thought few people who knew him would believe the way he devoured her—the way he consumed her. But that was all well and good, because here they were, together, just the two of them—he with her, and she with him, and she wanted nothing more than to be consumed—by him, by the flame that lit her from within, by the devastating heat that burned from tip to toe whenever he joined his body with hers.

She had him here just as she wanted him: the full length of him, against the full length of her. She could scarcely tell where she ended and he began; there was no demarcation, no light to pass between them, but she knew that didn’t matter. He was as much a part of her as she was a part of him—as much of her as she was of herself; there was no point trying to separate one from the other.

And she laughed sometimes at the thought that they had ever been apart—that there had ever been a time when they did not belong to one another, these two seemingly harmless elements that burned and burned and burned when pressed together.

“Gilll,” she moaned again, and once more they stoked the fire.

UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FEBRUARY 9, 2022. THE PACIFIC COAST OF NICARAGUA. A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON.

OTHER REFERENCE(S)

Chapter Text

February 9, 2022. The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

Sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on

– Oscar Hammerstein II, Bert Kalmar, and Harry Ruby, “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”

Sara Sidle: They had champagne. They were celebrating something.

[. . .]

Gil Grissom: Sexual intercourse.

– Sara Sidle (Jorja Fox) and Gil Grissom (William Petersen), in “Organ Grinder” (CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, 02x11).

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

After they’d finally satisfied their immediate appetites, Grissom had made up plates of freshly caught fish (for himself), halloumi (for Sara), grilled veggies, salad, and mezze selections and had poured glasses of pink champagne—that very same Moët & Chandon Brut Rosé, which they had both drunk for the first time on the banks of the Seine in 2009. They had then consumed both food and drink in the middle of their pile of blankets—eat, drink, and be merry.

Once they’d finished the meal, Grissom had moved the dishes aside, then they’d laid down again in the blankets together.

“24 years,” Grissom said, as he ran a hand up and down her bare back.

“24 years,” Sara confirmed, from her position half-draped over him, with her head tucked between his head and his shoulders and her left hand on his chest.

“That first night at dinner . . . could you have imagined we’d end up here?”

“My mind definitely wandered to the possibility of . . . something. But this? Never in my wildest dreams.”

Grissom whistled a few bars of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” at her.

Sara laughed, her head still tucked in between his head and shoulders.

“You really were a dream come true, Sara.”

“Ha!”

“What?”

She raised her head. “You didn’t even want me!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You think I came back to San Francisco to see you, or kept calling you up even though half the time you’d end up telling me about all the things you wanted me to do to your naked body, or asked you to move to Las Vegas . . . because I didn’t want you? Of course I wanted you.

“I still remember lying in bed in my room at the Hilton that first night, after we got back from the Mexican place, thinking about how you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I knew I’d never thought that about a woman before.

“But you’re right—I didn’t expect you. I most certainly didn’t know what to do about you. You were a singular event in my life. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand what to do about it. I repressed a lot, that’s for sure.”

Sara tried not to look amused. “Repressed a lot” was an understatement.

“You’re right, too, that you weren’t a dream before that. You never know what you need until you find it.” Grissom’s mind briefly flashed back to a case from some 20 years earlier, when an inexplicable force had drawn him—through the streets of Vegas—like a moth to a flame—to the highway underpass where their victim had initially been found; upon his arrival, he had been surprised to discover Sara standing there, as if waiting for him.

“I wouldn’t possibly have been able to imagine you, let alone . . . let alone imagine you were something I could dream for,” he continued. “But you definitely became a dream—even if it was a deeply repressed one.”

“Well, I think we can both agree about the deeply repressed part.”

“By the time I had that, uh, conversation several years later, though, about the wonderful life—the one with the, ah—” Grissom gestured with his hand.

“The murderous doctor?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “You were definitely a dream by then. But I never could have imagined this. You—we—really have surpassed my wildest dreams.”

“You’ve surpassed my wildest dreams, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I knew I wanted to spend my life with you. It may not surprise you to know that your first proposal, with the rescued bees, was not the first time I’d thought about marrying you.”

“Really?” Grissom was in fact genuinely surprised.

Sara’s eyes opened wide. “You’re surprised by that?” She was genuinely surprised at his surprise.

“It wasn’t exactly the first time I’d thought about it, either. But I never really pictured you as the type to daydream about your wedding.” He smirked a little.

“I did not daydream about my wedding. I told you I never cared about weddings. I told you repeatedly.” Sara’s indignation quickly passed. “Even though I loved our wedding—our weddings.” She laughed. “Wait, so had you thought about it before you asked me? When did you first think about marrying me?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly—I don’t know when it went from an idle ‘what if’ to something more concrete. But it must have been before we started dating. I don’t think I’d have started dating you if at least part of me hadn’t felt like I was prepared to marry you.” Grissom clarified, “Like I would want to marry you—eventually, I mean.”

Sometimes the man really said the most bewildering things. “I told you I was in love with you on our first date—accidentally, I’ll grant you—and it took you at least six months to reciprocate—”

“Yeah, but I knew I was in love with you. I just had a hard time figuring out how to say it the first time.”

“Oh, I know that, baby; I knew that when we started dating. But can we get back to the marriage part—part of you was prepared to marry me?”

“Yeah. Of course. Who wouldn’t want to marry you? Best thing I ever did.” He grinned at her, a bit cheekily. “Both times.”

“I . . .” Twenty-four years she’d known him, and sometimes the man would still come out and say things like this to her. “I . . .”

In a long overdue reversal of the natural order, he came in to save her. “So what about you?”

“I, uh . . . I . . .” Sara shook her head. She still felt a little scattered from her husband’s most recent disclosure, but she was trying to pull her thoughts together. “Oh, uh . . . Like I said, I knew I wanted to spend my life with you. I knew you were the only person I’d ever want to spend my life with. . . .

“I just . . . Until a few months before we got engaged—until Natalie intervened—I was having trouble even getting you to text or to call me when you got focused on a hot case. We were doing two steps forward, one step back. I told you that you were improving, and you were, but . . .”

Grissom didn’t flinch. He knew by then that he would never need to flinch at Sara’s words. But he was still always saddened to recall the times he hadn’t been there for her.

“Even though you said I was more important than everything else, I always felt like a part of you would never be mine. I didn’t think I’d ever be competing with another woman for you, but I always thought I’d be in a bit of a competition with the job, and I just hoped that in the end someday I’d be the one to win.”

“There is no part of me that isn’t yours.”

“I know.”

“You do?” Grissom still always wanted to make sure she knew just how much she meant to him.

“Yeah.” Sara smiled. “Like I said, you have surpassed my wildest dreams. You are the best, sweetest, most doting husband and somehow still the man I fell in love with 24 years ago. And you always make me happy. So if you want to talk about things we didn’t expect . . .”

“I don’t always make you happy.”

“No, you do. Even when part of me is mad at you, or wants to be mad at you, you always make me happy, Gil.”

Could he love her any more than he did at that moment? Oh, wait, still he always loved her more. He shifted them then, so she was on her back, and he was on his side, looking down at her.

“Hi,” she said.

“You make me very, very happy, Sara.” After he’d shifted them, his hand had begun massaging her soft inner thigh. “And I’m very, very, very glad I haven’t had to spend the last six years missing you.”

“I thought you said you missed me every time I left the room—every time we were apart,” she teased him.

“I do. But knowing we’ll be together again makes it bearable.”

“Yeah.” Sara looked up at him with hearts in her eyes and nothing but love in her heart. “Yeah. It does.”

As he’d gazed down at her, slowly his hand had been making its way higher. Now it made its way a bit higher still.

“Ohhh,” she moaned. Her face was flushed. “Oh, fuck.”

And so they did—again—of course. It was all still fucking marvelous.

UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER (FINAL CHAPTER!): FEBRUARY 9, 2022. THE PACIFIC COAST OF NICARAGUA. NORTHERN SKY.

Chapter Text

February 9, 2022. The Pacific Coast of Nicaragua.

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons, knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you’re here
Brighten my northern sky

– Nick Drake, “Northern Sky.”

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

– E. E. Cummings, excerpt from “[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].”

Northern Sky

Later that night, they lay together intertwined, looking up at the clear sky over the Pacific. Sara was in her happy place, snuggled up to Grissom, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her.

“Where’s my star?” she asked him, though she already knew the answer.

Back in 2016, for the first anniversary of their second marriage, he had named a star for her. They’d been, as usual, out on the boat, still the first Ishmael at that point. They’d planned to end—well, not quite end—the evening with some stargazing, so he’d already had the telescope out.

With no ready printer access, he’d simply told her he’d named a star for her and handed her his phone to show her the information. (She’d finally succeeded in getting him to upgrade to an iPhone, even though they didn’t get reception away from the coast.)

“You named a star for me?” Sara was somewhat shocked.

“Yeah. With the International Star Registry. It’s unofficial, obviously.”

“Yes. Obviously.” She laughed. She was still a little shocked. Coming from someone else, it wouldn’t have seemed like such a surprising gesture. But for Gil Grissom to do something so unofficial in a scientific realm . . . It was a little shocking to her. She couldn’t believe he would deign to do something so un-scientific, just to try to please her—although she should probably have learned by then that he would do just about anything, just to try to please her. (She would learn. Eventually.)

“But, yeah . . . a gold star for my star pupil.” He pointed up in the general vicinity of where he knew the star to be.

She laughed again. “You know, if you keep referring to me as your star pupil, eventually someone is bound to think you were actually my teacher.”

“I really don’t care what other people think anymore, Sara.”

“I hope I’m not included in that.”

He shook his head at her and grazed the back of his pointer finger along her lower lip. “Other people, Sara. There’s you and me, and then there’s everyone else.”

She puckered her lips at him.

“Anyway, there’s one for me, too.” He faced the sky once more and pointed in the same direction.

“One what?”

“A star.”

“You named a star for yourself?” She’d been a little shocked he’d named a star for her. She was very shocked he’d named one for himself.

“Yeah.” He glanced over at her again. “They’re binary stars. They—”

“Orbit each other.”

He nodded.

“You got us stars to orbit each other.”

“It seemed appropriate,” he said, nodding again. “So we can always be together in the night sky.”

“Like Zhinü and Niulang.” The shock was wearing off, and Sara was starting to feel some things.

“Yeah. But without the Milky Way to separate us.”

“That’s . . .” She was trying not to cry.

“Sara . . .”

“No, it’s just . . .” She was really trying.

“Sara, honey . . .”

“It’s just very . . .” She was trying very hard.

She was failing. He could see she was failing. This time he used the back of his pointer finger to brush the first tear away from under her eye.

“It’s just . . .” She too could tell she was failing. So she just kissed him. It didn’t help this time. She still cried. But still she kept kissing him. She still liked kissing him.

Back in 2022, Grissom pointed in the direction of their stars.

“Right about there. With mine.” He winked at her. “You want me to get the telescope so we can take a closer look?”

“Mmmm . . . Maybe later.” Right then Sara was still lying snuggled up to him under the blankets, with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her, and she didn’t have any desire for either of them to move anywhere anytime soon. Her mind drifted back momentarily to their first night of stargazing, almost 17 years earlier, until—

“Oh, hey, so what was that call about earlier—the one you got on the sat phone?”

“Oh, right.” She laughed. “So . . . how would you feel about a research expedition in the Arctic?”

“The Arctic? Really?”

She nodded.

“Well, I guess that is one corner of the globe we haven’t tried yet. And I did promise I’d take you to see the aurora borealis one day.”

“This is very true.”

“Only thing that could light up a night sky half as much as you do, sweetheart . . .”

Happily for Sara, she no longer had to stop herself from laughing at all her eminent entomologist’s many puns—ridiculous and flattering, ludicrous and charming, silly and sweet.

“Of course, if we end up near the Yukon—” he continued.

“I am fully aware that you would be reciting Robert Service to me on an almost daily basis.”

He laughed. “Good. Now, you know, there’s no time like—”

“‘There are strange things done in the midnight sun / By the men who moil for gold; / The Arctic trails have their secret tales / That would make your blood run cold. . . .’”

“God, you really are perfect.” He reached his right hand over to cup her cheek.

“I mean, we have been married—wait, how are we counting it these days?” she asked.

“Oh, let’s just say 24 years.”

“Seems about right to me.” She laughed. “We have always had a relationship.”

“So the research expedition . . . ?”

“It sounded pretty interesting. Obviously we’d need more details first, but in theory . . . do you think you’d be up for it—a trip to the Arctic, that is?”

He looked at her intently. “I’d go anywhere with you, darlin’.”

She nodded again.

“How about you?”

“Anywhere with you, Gilbert.” She gave him her brightest, most dazzlingly megawatt smile.

He grinned back at her. So she kissed him. Of course.

I’m still not ready, but this time I mean it . . . probably.

THE END.

NOTES

For previous references to Zhinü and Niulang, see the following:

No, I Never Meant to Break Your Heart: This Area Was Always a Good Place for Stargazing: A How They Got Together Story: chapter 5.

All I Ever Wanted Was to Stand Beside You: Costa Rica to the Ishmael, and Then Some: A How They Fell Apart & How They Came Back Together Story: chapter 3.

OTHER REFERENCE(S)

Robert Service, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”