80s ficathon - "Like Two Ex-Virgins"

Title: Like Two Ex-Virgins
Author: Ellen K Hursh
Disclaimer: CSI doesn't belong to me. If it did, my student loans would've been paid off a long time ago.
Rating: Adult...ish
Pairing: GSR
Spoilers: Nope, pretty sure not.
Summary: The geeks have a little bedroom convo.
A/N: This is a last-minute second go at an entry, started after the first attempt stalled, crashed into the side of a mountain and burned up beyond recognition with no survivors.




They were sprawled together in bed, the covers long ago kicked down to the foot of the bed. Her tattooed ankle was nestled between his knees; occasionally his fingers made a foray up her bare leg, causing her to gasp and sigh, though neither of them were currently in any state to resume activities. He spoke the first words that had been uttered in the room since her earlier demands that he remove his pants.

"When did you lose your virginity?" She head-bumped his shoulder and rolled her neck to look up at him.

"Hm-mm. What brings that to mind?"

"Just curious."

"Oh. Uh, I was sixteen... no, fifteen - it was the summer of '87. Tom Sinclair, my chem lab partner--" He choked back a snicker.

"What is it with you and men in chem labs?"

"Hmph. If I really had a thing for chemists, I would be having this conversation with Greg. Or Hodges, maybe." They shared a wince at the idea, for different reasons. "Ahem. Anyway, he and I were 'studying' - or at least that's what we told his parents - in his room. Duran Duran was playing on the radio - it's really amazing, the carnal sounds that Simon Le Bon's voice will cover up." It wasn't exactly as though they'd needed a long song to hide the sounds of sex, though she did have to give Tom props, at least, for providing something resembling foreplay before he went in for the score - she'd had partners, later, whose efforts in that department had been perfunctory at best. Though Gil, without a question, was definitely a foreplay artist.

"You listened to that band?" He would never have picked Sara as the sort of person to listen to that, not with her current tastes in music and her past penchant for tie-dyed clothing - he'd always just sort of figured that she grew up on a steady diet of The Mamas and The Papas, or the like. Joan Baez, perhaps. Then again, he'd also figured that she grew up in a family that wasn't like something straight out of one of their case files.

"I was a fifteen year old girl: it was required. I wore out so many copies of their albums on tape, it's not even funny. Knew all their songs by heart. I used to have a sweet fedora too, but I don't know what happened to it - got lost during the move from San Francisco, I guess." A damned shame, too - she looked good in that thing.

"A fedora. Like Greg's hat."

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No. I'm... I'm just trying to imagine what you would look like in it."

"I could get another one, but I'd look pretty damned silly in the clothes I used to wear."

"That's okay. I just want the hat on you. Nothing else. Wouldn't mind a pair of black thigh-high stockings while you were at it, but--" She lunged at him, cutting off his wish list with a hand across his mouth; he laughed at her attempt to silence him.

"Oh, I get the idea! God, you act so proper at work and then you come home and want to tie me up or see me running around the house wearing nothing but a hat and a smile." Not that she was complaining, of course. She had let him bind her wrists together mostly as a show of trust; she didn't find the experience earth-shatteringly erotic and wouldn't go out of her way to get it, but there was a certain thrill to making him do all the work.

"You're obviously a corrupting influence, my dear."

"Uh huh. Next you'll be wanting to join the mile-high club."

"No. Besides, you said it was over-rated."

"Now you're taping everything I say?"

"It was a very memorable moment."

"You should have seen your face when I told you about that. I think I actually shocked you. Like you were surprised that I'd ever had sex." He sighed.

"I never seriously thought you were a virgin, it was just... nice to pretend."

"And I ruined the fantasy for you. Poor baby."

"Well, yeah. But you helped create a few new ones to take its place." He waited for her to ask about the fantasy that involved pinning her up against a wall that didn't have crucial DNA evidence attached to it, and fucking her senseless, but instead she studied his face carefully, a tiny smirk playing around her pursed lips, until he started to feel like she could see into his mind, see all the other unsavory things he wanted to do with and to and for her. God, there was no way she could know about that Christmas catalog of a list... right? Certainly not the one with Sara under his desk, blowing him while he pretended to listen to one of Conrad's little rants.

"So what about you?" He panicked for a moment, misinterpreting the question he hadn't heard properly.

"What about what?"

"When did you lose your virginity?"

"With you." His voice had dropped to that husky near-whisper that caused her tummy to quiver and her panties to get damp.

"Be serious."

"I am."

"You had sex before you met me." He shrugged.

"Sex, yes. But--" He wasn't sure how to explain the distinction - at least in his own mind - between the purely physical act of copulation and the semi-transcendent experience of what they did. The difference always got muddled up whenever he tried to frame it in mere words, and he most certainly did *not* have a quote that would cover the subject. As it was, she was one of the few people who could render him speechless; the only one who could (and had ever) hurt him.

"Then tell me when you first did that."

"Shortly after seeing Star Wars." She smiled naughtily.

"Ooh, kinky. I wish I'd known that 'a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away' turned your crank." He aimed a Look in her general direction.

"It turned her 'crank'. She thought Mark Hamill was 'cute'."

"Really? I was a Harrison Ford girl, myself." He scoffed at the idea.

"You were what, six when the first movie came out?" He belatedly realized that he'd blundered into their age difference, but she shrugged it off with a smirk.

"I was precocious. God knows there have been times I've fantasized about you being frozen in carbonite." Like last week, when he ran off to spend the night babysitting a distraught dominatrix, without bothering to let her know.

"You would've done it, too, wouldn't you?" Catherine's calm assertion that she could rip off a man's head might have "scared" him, but he knew that Sara could do far, far worse to him: she'd leave him alive - if not fully intact - to regret his mistakes.

"You better believe it, sweetheart."