Fluff

There are milestones in every relationship. Moments whose very importance seems to transcend time and space, to land them squarely in immortality. Moments which capture and define the state of any given relationship.

Grissom and Sara had already had more milestones than most. There was the day they met. Their first coffee date. Grissom's call, asking her to come out to Vegas. The day she asked him out. Her DUI. A lunatic with a ceramic shard. Nick's abduction. And, of course, the day he asked her out.

But there were smaller milestones, less obvious ones, but which had just as big an impact. The first time he ever kissed her bare shoulder. The first time his boxers accidentally found their way into a load of her laundry. The time they woke up to find they'd been holding hands in their sleep.

And then, of course, there was the other milestone.

They'd just finished pulling a grueling triple, and were looking forward to a mutual day off. There was a Mexican place just off the Strip, one which served decent chimichangas and refried beans at ten in the morning, so they stopped for a quick breakfast before heading home.

Grissom had spent nearly twelve straight hours crouched at the last crime scene, and his knees and back were in agony. A steaming hot shower helped a little, and when he finally collapsed into bed, Sara grabbed the massage oil out of her drawer.

"On your stomach," she commanded, flipping open the lid.

Too sore to argue, Grissom rolled over.

"Clothes off."

They'd been together for four months already, and yet some part of him was still bashful at being naked in front of her. Particularly when the lights were on. But he also knew from experience that Sara had a knack for massages. Stripping off his shirt, pants, and boxers, he lay back down, resting his head on his folded arms.

"Mm, that's more like it," Sara grinned, running one hand down his back appreciatively. "Low back and knees?"

He just grunted in reply.

She poured a drizzle of oil out, warming it between her palms. "Now just relax."

And he did, he really did. He cleared his mind of the frustrating case, the way the undersheriff kept breathing down his neck. He let go of the traffic jam they'd encountered on the way home, and his damned kitchen faucet that wouldn't stop dripping.

He concentrated on the feel of Sara's hands instead. Their sure, smooth strokes. The gentle kneading motion over his lower back...

He heard it before he felt it. For a half a second he froze, wondering if maybe she hadn't noticed. Maybe if he just lay very still, she wouldn't-

And then her hands stopped moving.

"Grissom?"

Oh God.

"Grissom, did you just fart?"

Oh God, this wasn't happening.

"You did, I can smell it!"

Grabbing a pillow, he clutched it firmly over his head, drowning out her laughter.

"Oh no," she squealed, yanking the pillow off his head. "You don't get to fart on me and then hide."

"I didn't fart on you," he groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I farted, um, near you."

She laughed harder, flopping down next to him. "And that's better?"

"I will pay you a thousand dollars if you change the topic."

"How can we change the topic when the evidence is still lingering in the air?"

"Five thousand dollars."

"It kind of smells like the chimichanga you ate, actually."

"Oh, lord, kill me." He rolled away from her onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest in a fetal position.

Unfortunately, in the meantime he also compressed his stomach.

"Grissom!" she shrieked. "You just farted on me again! Are you aiming for me?"

He scrunched his eyes closed, imagining himself on a deserted island. A very, very quiet deserted island, one that had no girlfriends making the mattress shake with the force of their laughter.

"Are you just going to ignore me now?"

"What do you want me to say?" he moaned in humiliation.

"Well, you could apologize for the fog that you-"

"I get it," he bellowed. "I farted twice, and both times I farted in your direction. And it smells bad. I get it."

Twin tears rolled down her cheeks, and she clutched at her stomach, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Sara."

Her laughs turned into loud, barking coughs.

"Sara, come on."

"I can't help it," she managed, coughing again.

"Well then, I'm going to go sleep on the couch."

Grissom stood up and snatched a pillow off the bed, stalking out in a huff. It hurt his knees, marching like that, but his knees weren't half as sore as his pride.

There was a basket of clean laundry on the coffee table, and he grabbed a few sheets for the couch. He could feel his cheeks still burning for several minutes, as he settled down to go to sleep.

But then he opened his eyes abruptly, as Sara pulled back the sheet and lay down next to him.

"What are you doing?"

She shushed him, snuggling against his back and closing her eyes.

He found his reserve softening in spite of himself. "You sure you want to be sleeping back there?"

"I'll sleep wherever you sleep."

"Yeah, but you're in the primary target zone."

She leaned forward, kissing his ear and whispering, "Babe, you fart in your sleep. I've been your target more times than I can count."

He spun around to face her. "Are you serious? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Shrugging, she wrapped an arm around his waist. "Because I love you."

"And, what, love stinks?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nah, love's a gas," she retorted, and he kissed the smile clear off her face.