This story was deleted, so I reposted it with a higher rating to appease the FFnet gods :-P

Title: The Day You Crack

Rating: M

Pairing: Grissom/Sara

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI. Just borrowing.

Author's Note: I debated with myself about posting this, because I know that as the piece of cheese that it is, it is quite full of holes :-P But I figured that I will never improve as a writer if I'm too chicken to accept feedback. So it would be awesome if you can tell me what works and what doesn't in this story. No beta so all mistakes are mine. English isn't my first language either so even corrections in grammar would be helpful.

You must be crazy to be standing in her doorway, somewhat disheveled and still wearing the clothes you wore during shift. Earlier you sat in your empty townhouse, incapable of shutting off the memory of those dead children, their limbs at odd angles, their blood slowly crawling across the carpet. You couldn't stop recalling the expression on her face upon seeing those kids (nobody feels secondhand pain quite like she does) and couldn't stop reliving the anguish of being unable to comfort her—because for so long you had been too afraid of touching her, even more afraid of letting her touch you. You sat in your living room until you simply couldn't any longer, then you grabbed your keys and fled the oppressive emptiness of your home.

Now you're standing before her, caught without an excuse or a proper pretense, just you and your flaws. You can't decide if she looks surprised to see you or not. Maybe it's both. Perhaps she has always known that one day you'd finally crack and yield to her but just hadn't expected that day to be today.

She's holding the door open, she with her bare feet, red-rimmed eyes and freckled shoulders. Your name is the only word she utters in that long moment, but to you those two syllables, shaped by her unique cadence, already sound like a cross between 'What are you doing here?' and 'What took you so long?'.

"I can't do this anymore, Sara," you tell her as you step in and close the door behind you. Her smile is shaky, and so are her hands as she lifts them toward your face. Your mouth is on hers even before her fingers reach their destination. Much later you will look back to that first kiss and remember tasting tears; you will never know from whom they came.

The kiss is rough and hungry. You both know but don't care that there will be angry, red splotches all over her face with the way your beard is scraping against her skin. One of your hands is clutching the back of her neck, the other the small of her back. In a moment of lucidity you attempt to loosen your grip, but she only pulls you in tighter. You know at that instant that there is no turning back.

You reluctantly end the kiss, foreheads pressing against each other as you share the same breaths. She—ever the brave one—grabs your hand and leads you to what can only be her bedroom. You follow willingly, because you can no longer remember why for years you fought so hard against your longing for her.

As she exposes her skin to your probing fingers, to your eager mouth, you wonder what you must give to never be without her again. As she touches and tastes you with a passion equal to yours, however, you realize that you would give anything. Her beauty is raw and all too real as she lies naked and trembling under your weight, looking utterly breakable. Yet you know in the deepest part of your gut that if anyone were to end up broken should all this come crashing down, it would be you. You should be terrified, but the potent combination of need and desire doesn't leave much room for fear. You surge forward.

Physically you are the one penetrating her, but with your every plunge she unwittingly pushes farther into the barriers surrounding your heart. Each new sensation makes you fall deeper and fills you up until you are close to bursting. The feel of her fingers as they tangle with the curls at your nape. The dull thud her head makes against the leather headboard at every thrust. The wet, hot squeeze of her tunnel. The intoxicating flavor of her damp skin. The sliver of sunlight slicing through the dark splash of hair on her pillow. The low moans that you feel more than hear. The fact that you can't tell which heartbeats are whose with the way your bodies are pressed together... That look in her eyes that you're too scared to call love.

The reality of finally being one with Sara is too much for you to bear and you erupt, your release glorious in its suddenness and intensity.

"Saaaarrraaa..." you sigh into her neck as you collapse against her. Her lips—the ones you've fantasized about since the first time you saw her pout—are pressed to your temple, breaths coming in ragged bursts that match yours. You are endlessly thankful that it takes her a long time to finally decide to unfasten her long, lovely legs from around you and even longer to untangle her fingers from your hair.

Your experiences in life have led you to believe that wanting anything as much as you have wanted Sara will only kill you. Yet here you are, woven into your very desire in a warm tangle of flesh, and you have never felt more alive.