Weak in the Knees, a csi fanfic

A/N: I'm eternally grateful for the help of the very talented, and always lovely, saracupcaked. Without her, this piece would be horrible in comparison, and I would've probably lost my sanity.

A/N2: This is inspired by and loosely based on the song Weak in the Knees by Serena Ryder.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of CSI, however, I do enjoy writing The Bug Man and the Brown-eyed Beauty.

"With this ring, I promise to love and to cherish you…"

She sits quietly between Nick and Catherine and watches the ceremony unfold.

At the front alter of the church, Mandy repeats her wedding ring vows; her eyes locked onto the face of her future husband. She can feel the love between the two, even from several rows away, and sadness washes over her. Fighting back tears, it occurs to her if any fall everyone will assume she's being unusually sentimental.

Seeing Mandy and Jay, she cannot keep herself from wishing things were different, from pretending that she and Grissom are together, that maybe one day it will be the two of them repeating those same sacred words.

She risks a sideways glance at him. He's seated on Catherine's other side dressed in a charcoal gray tux, looking entirely too handsome for his own good, and completely oblivious to her wayward thoughts.

Catherine begins to sniffle, and as a few tears fall, Grissom—ever the gentleman—hands her the handkerchief from his suit's breast pocket. She looks away, almost embarrassed by the flash of jealousy that courses through her. She's envious of the natural camaraderie and affection the two have and wishes she and Grissom shared the same.

"You may now kiss the bride," the minister announces.

Jay turns to flash a quick boyish grin at the guests before facing Mandy again and lifting her veil with care. He wraps an arm around her waist, the other around her neck, and tilts her backward kissing her soundly.

Loud cheers and applause erupt throughout the church, and when the kiss continues longer than what's considered proper, laughter breaks out and Sara has to turn away.

As she drives to the reception, Catherine keeps up a steady stream of chatter, all centered on the wedding.

From phrases like "Wasn't Mandy's dress gorgeous?" to "Did you see how Jay looked at her when he repeated his vows? That look on his face… he loves her so much. You can just feel it, can't you?" and finally to "They're going to be so happy together. I wouldn't be surprised if they started a family in the next year."

In the backseat of the vehicle, next to Greg, she remains silent.

There is too much life and joy in the air she fears she'll be smothered by it, if that is even possible. All she knows is seeing Grissom on a daily basis is becoming more and more difficult—being so close to him but so far away in every other sense is taking its toll and she's not sure how much longer she can go on with how things are.

In the front of the car, Grissom smiles at Catherine, and she watches. She tries hard to remember the last time he smiled at her like that and, with despair, realizes she can't.

Sometimes at night—more often than she will admit to herself in daylight—she finds herself lying awake, thinking of him. And, in her dreams, she pretends she isn't his subordinate and he isn't her supervisor. There, she is someone he loves, someone he wants. Someone he will risk the consequences for, no matter what they are.

She knows those are just nocturnal fantasies, never to come true. Things never change.

Before Grissom, she never believed she could become the weak girl in a one-way relationship destined for nowhere. But now, she's not so sure. She hadn't realized how hard it would be to walk away from love, from even the slightest possibility that maybe—just maybe—the love will be returned one day.

For a while, though, she fooled herself into thinking she is over him, as if she can ever truly be over Gil Grissom.

Then again, with each lie she tells herself, it becomes easier to believe. She almost begins to believe she feels nothing for him.

And she's okay if she doesn't stop to think about it too much or too deeply. She makes it through the days and the weeks, until one day, she wakes up and realizes she can't handle the self-deception any longer.

It's a double-edged sword; loving Grissom is painful, yes, but pretending not to care is even worse.

Catherine finds a vacant spot in the crowded parking lot, and after he exits the passenger side, he opens the door for Sara.

"Thank you," she says, surprised by his action.

He nods his head in acknowledgment and hesitates a moment before speaking. "Sara, I um, didn't have a chance to tell you earlier but, uh, you look lovely this evening."

She's wearing a silk sheath of a dress, deep royal blue in color, and only after she steps down from the vehicle do his words register in her mind, causing her to falter.

"Whoa," he murmurs, holding out an arm to steady her. "You okay?"

"Yes." Her voice is breathy. "My, um, knees just gave out on me," she explains rather flustered. "Thank you. Again." She is certain her heart has skipped multiple beats.

When Catherine calls out, "Come on, you two… we didn't come here to stand in a parking lot," Sara is still trying to steady herself and she doesn't have to see Catherine to know the blonde is rolling her eyes.

The reception hall is nothing less than stunning.

She walks into a sea of black and ivory accentuated by rich burgundy. A chandelier hangs down in the middle of the room, light reflecting off the crystal glass. Tables surround the polished, wooden ballroom floor in a horseshoe shape and are laden with lighted candles and overflowing with sweet-smelling arrays of roses.

Waiters and waitresses, dressed in black and white, stand to the side and wait for their cue to begin serving the first dish of the evening.

"Ladies and gentleman, please turn your attention to the ballroom floor. The bride will now share a dance with her father," the deejay announces, as the beginning strains of Cinderella start.

She pushes her chair back and quietly excuses herself from the table she's sharing with her friends.

Passing a waiter carrying a tray full of champagne, she plucks a flute and says a quick 'thanks'—downing half of its contents before disappearing into the ladies room, where she remains until the father-daughter dance is over.

She returns later with a new glass of champagne, and seeing her, Nick stands and extends his hand. With a grin and a wink, he asks, "Sara, will you do me the honor of having this dance with me?"

She cracks a smile at his formality and bites back a smart retort before nodding. Taking a final emptying sip, she sets the glass down on the table and places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her away.

An hour later, Greg is spinning her around the ballroom so quickly she's seeing circles. So fast she can hardly breathe, let alone think of Grissom.

Which is a good thing.

Brass, Warrick, even the fathers of the bride and groom had already claimed dances with her, everyone but the one person she wants to ask her. And, damn it, he has danced with Catherine—though, admittedly, Catherine had to practically drag him onto the ballroom floor.

She just wants to feel his arms around her—if only for a moment—and his body pressed against her. Just the two of them, swaying to the music and getting lost in the moment and in each other.

When the next song comes to an end, she's relieved and tells her dance partner, a cousin of Jay's, she needs to take a break. He's young, handsome and possesses a wicked sense of humor and a devilish smile. He also has roaming hands. Though he seems disappointed, he nods in understanding, and she smiles thankfully.

She grabs another flute of the bubbly liquid and walks toward her table again. Grissom is seated, deep in conversation with Brass, Catherine, and Warrick.

What will he do if she walks up to him right now and kisses him?

She allows herself a moment of delicious, iniquitous thinking as she pictures him rising and wrapping his arms tightly around her. She imagines him kissing her back without hesitation, without reserve, imagines him imagining what is going through her mind.

She then shakes her head at her inane thoughts and sighs, knowing that will never happen, and more than likely, he would push her away, bewildered.

Or have a heart attack.

It's late, nearly one in the morning, and the wedding reception is well into its sixth hour with no signs of winding down anytime soon.

"Can I have your attention, please?" The deejay's voice breaks through the noise and her stomach drops in response. "It's that time for all the single, husband-hungry females in the room to gather out on the dance floor for the customary tossing of the bouquet."

Loud whistles are called out, and she groans quietly.

Catherine is on her feet in an instant, ready and clearly excited, with a hand extended towards her.

"No…no." She shakes her head vehemently. "Catching the bouquet isn't really my thing."

Catherine refuses to accept her answer and pulls her out of her chair. Amidst encouraging words from the boys, she reluctantly allows herself to be dragged away. With one self-punishing glance back, she tries to catch Grissom's eyes but he adverts his gaze.

Seconds later, Mandy asks, "Ready ladies?" with a wide grin as the opening melody of It's Raining Men begins and the countdown starts.

"FIVE… FOUR… THREE…"

She is not going to do it. She is not going to try to catch the bouquet.

Other women surround her chatting, nervous excitement in all their voices; as if catching the bouquet actually means the recipient will be the next to marry.

"TWO…"

Her arms are crossed in self-defiance.

"ONE!" Mandy shouts.

The women shriek and the flowers are flying. Flying through the air, right in her direction.

She backs up, as if it's a ten-day old decomp and not an innocent bouquet of flowers.

It's falling, and it's falling… and she does not have the heart to let the flowers drop to the floor.

Her eyes close, her arms open. She feels the weight of the bouquet land against her chest. Sighing, she lets her eyes drift open and stares down at the hand-tied bouquet of burgundy and ivory white roses.

She smiles weakly as envious women convey their congratulations on her lucky catch, purposely avoiding Catherine's smug gaze.

He's walking away from the dance floor again (this time it's Mandy who coaxed him to dance), and she grabs him without thinking, dragging him into a secluded corner away from prying eyes and ears.

Her hand grasps his tie and tugs it until he stumbles forward. This is the closest they'd been since they stood outside of Catherine's vehicle, and she takes the moment to breathe in the beautiful, intoxicating scent that is distinctly him. They're only breaths apart, and she has to tilt her head to look at him, seeing questions cloud his eyes.

"Sara?" His voice is deeper, rougher than usual, and she allows herself to believe it's because he isn't unaffected by her being this close to him.

She lets go of his tie while her other hand dances lightly up his arm, coming to a rest on his shoulder. She leans forward, her breath warm against his neck, and grins when she hears his sharp intake of breath.

"Will you come home with me tonight?" she asks emboldened by the glassfuls of pale liquid courage she'd consumed throughout the evening and the adrenaline rush from the bouquet toss.

Still, to be honest, she's not sure who is more surprised by her softly spoken question.

"I want you," she goes on, "and I think… judging by the way your heart is racing and your uneven breathing that you want me too." She nuzzles his neck, feeling a shudder run through him, and kisses the pulse point below his ear.

He draws back, placing both physical and symbolic distance between them.

She lifts her eyes to his face and sees the blue depths of his eyes staring through her. Before he begins to speak, she knows what he will say.

"Sara, look." He pauses and shifts in front of her uncomfortably. "You've had a lot to drink; you don't know what you're asking. It wouldn't be right of me to take… advantage."

"Yeah, let's blame the alcohol." Her eyes hold no mirth as she lets out a hollow laugh. "You and I both know that's not the real reason you're saying no right now."

He wants to protest but cannot find the words.

"You're scared," she continues. "Too afraid to even try… afraid of the possibility that you might actually come to give a damn about someone." She takes a breath, willing herself to finish what she started. "I… I don't know about you, but I'm tired of this hot/cold game. I'm trying to do something about this, about us, but I cannot keep trying. I can't keep playing this game forever; I have to move on someday. Sooner to later, you… you have to realize it really could be too late."

She turns, sending a silent prayer that her knees are strong enough, and walks away.

A week elapses before she walks into his office, exactly fifteen minutes before shift.

He looks up, surprised to see her standing in front of his desk since she has done her best to avoid him.

She hands him the sheet of paper she's holding, and he takes it without thought.

As he skims the page, one word jumps out and makes his world tilt. "What's this?" he asks, amazed he can speak much less form a coherent thought.

"It's my letter of resignation," she says. "I told you I was going to move on, I'm keeping my word." She shrugs, struggling to appear nonchalant. "I'm going back to San Francisco," she adds when the silence becomes stifling.

If he thought his world was spinning, he was wrong. Now, it's not even moving. He rises and finds that his legs are not quite steady. "I didn't think you meant move on as in move six hundred miles away," he says. He is stunned and something else he cannot put his finger on. It isn't until much later that he will realize it is fear he had felt.

"Yeah, well… it's my decision. When I left California, my boss told me I would always have a job to go back to… I'm going to take him up on his offer."

"Sara," he says her name so softly it's hardly a whisper. "You don't have to do this. Don't go because of…" he breaks off.

She wants to laugh except there's nothing funny about the situation. Even now he cannot voice his feelings, he cannot bring himself to acknowledge that there is, or can be, something between them.

She gives up and turns to leave.

Grissom says her name, but she keeps walking.

He says it again. "Sara, wait!"

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying in frustration, she turns to see his face—his expression unreadable. "Yeah?" she asks with a world full of weariness lacing the single word.

He opens his mouth but chokes; he doesn't know what to say or where to start.

She begins to turn once more.

"Wait. Please."

"I'm done waiting, Grissom," she murmurs. She takes one last look at him, and with a final smile, she walks out the door and out of his life.

It is a smile that confirms his worst fear, one that screamed the two words she left unspoken.

Too late.

Two days later, she is at Nick's apartment.

He had invited her over, and when she arrives, she's pleasantly surprised to see her other friends already there. It's her farewell party.

His place is filled with people; even the newlyweds—tanned and fresh faced from their tropical honeymoon—are in attendance.

Notably absent is Grissom, and she really does not care.

Right?

"Sara, don't go," Greg pleads, coming up behind her and giving her a big hug. "You're breaking my heart."

She smiles at him and shakes her head. She has to bite her tongue to keep from crying out, "Join the club."

Her heart is already broken.

There is a knock at the door, and she is both pleased and frantic the movers are early. Her door's cracked open slightly since she's already made several trips to her car to put away small things.

"Come in," she calls out as she bends over to tape up another box. She's dressed in a tank top and a pair of old running shorts and shoes. Her hair's piled on top of her head in a messy ponytail, with strands already falling and framing her face, and her face is freshly scrubbed and without makeup.

"Sara."

She stiffens at the sound of his voice, and despite her best intentions, a small spark of hope flares. She quickly extinguishes it though, determined to be strong. She's not going to let herself be talked into staying, so that they can go back to before—which was what? Nothing. No, thank you. She's tired of the pain, of the hurt, of being so blindly in love with someone who refuses to even risk it for her.

"What are you doing here, Grissom?" she asks, straightening and turning to face him.

"I, uh…" he stammers, taking in her apartment, which is painfully empty. White, white walls and boxes and boxes everywhere.

She sighs because nothing has changed and bends to tape another cardboard box. "Unless you're here to help me move, I don't think we have anything left to talk about."

She rises again and faces him when he says nothing. "You shouldn't be here." Making it harder for me, she thinks but doesn't say aloud.

"I know," he responds quietly, surprising her. "Can I… can we talk for a few minutes?"

She stands silent, fighting to not give in to him and his blue eyes.

"Please?"

She doesn't speak; she just walks to her couch and sits down, knowing he will follow.

He faces her on the sofa and takes a deep breath before beginning. "I'm not good with expressing my feelings," he says and then breaks off, smiling wryly. "Not that you don't know that already."

He notices his fingers are tapping nervously on his leg, and he clasps his hands together. Clearing his throat, he says, "I know I've hurt you and I know I should just let you go… I should be the better person and not bring you down—"

"Grissom…"

"It's true," he says. "But, still, I couldn't let you leave without you knowing that I do feel something for you… that every time I see you standing in front of me you take my breath away and make me weak in the knees."

"Are you sure it's not just because you have bad knees?" she asks, with a hint of a smile showing. Inside, she can feel herself softening at his words, words she never thought she would hear.

"No. It's you… it's probably you." He pauses. "It's probably definitely you." His lips quirk upward and he moves closer to her. "But… if it's too late," he says, his smile fading, "if you decided you don't want this… don't want me anymore, then I'll stand aside, let you go—"

"I don't want that," she says quietly, her eyes lifting to meet his and she sees relief and happiness flood into the blue depths.

"Okay. Good." He nods. "I know you have plans to move, and I know it's not fair for me to ask you stay, to ask you to trust me… after everything." He pauses when he feels her hand cover his and he turns his palm upward, intertwining their fingers together. "I think we can make it work… figure things out. I can visit… maybe I can—" He stops, hearing a knock at the door.

"That would be the movers," she says. She sees the quick flicker of pain in his eyes before she rises and walks to her door.

"Hello. Miss Sidle?" a young man asks, standing on her doorstep with two other burly-looking gentlemen.

"Hi, yes." She smiles at the three men. It is this exact moment that will change everything. She thinks of the man sitting on her couch, and she knows her answer. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience," she begins, "but I won't need a moving van, after all…"

A few seconds later, she shuts the door and turns to see Grissom standing behind her.

"Sara?" He takes a step closer to her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She steps into his embrace. "I'm sure." She loops her arms around his neck, tilts her head closer, and kisses him. Drawing back, she murmurs, "You make me weak, too."

She pauses and then whispers against his lips, "Especially in the knees."