Author's Note: Set in early season six, because now that I've seen the whole show, I like to work loosely within the concept of canon. The case referred to with the old gas station is imaginary, not taken from an actual episode, just in case you were planning to rewatch season one to try and figure out what the hell I'm talking about. And I really, really hate exclamation points being overused, so please understand that they are indicative of shouting over a thunderstorm, and not my inability to creatively or accurately punctuate.

Disclaimer: Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight...is an orbiting satellite, reminding me that my wish has not yet come true and Grissom and Sara belong to a television broadcasting company. (sigh)

When it rains, it pours.

April showers bring May flowers.

Rain, rain, go away…

The endless prattle of childhood poems and old clichés about rain ran through Sara's mind as she stood in one of the Nevadan desert's rare rainstorms, feeling the cleansing wash of the cool drops along her skin, soaking through her clothes, turning her hair into clingy, slightly curly strands that stuck to her cheeks. When the thunder had rumbled through the clouds that had piled on top of one another above her apartment building and most of the city, she had dropped the book she was reading almost instantly, leaping to her feet. She had been waiting weeks for this thunderstorm.

A transplant to the arid Vegas sands from the warm and wet beaches of California, Sara found herself irresistibly drawn to nature when the threat of rain was imminent. Sometimes the air was so dry here that she thought she would choke, and only immersing herself in the sporadic storms of this barren land could quench the thirst in her body that went so much deeper than her skin. It had become her habit to change into old clothes at the first sound of thunder and drive out to this little spot in the desert she had found during a case her first year in Vegas, about half a mile south of a small abandoned fuel station. It was far enough outside the city that the glare of neon lights faded to the peripheral, allowing her to indulge in the brief fantasy that she was all alone, nothing around her but sand and desert plants and the crash of thunder, the brief flare of lightning.

Tonight, she had pulled on a navy blue tee shirt that was a little threadbare, and her second favorite pair of blue jeans. Her feet were nearly bare, in dark blue flip-flops, and she could feel rivulets of water running down her soaked-through jeans and over her feet, between her toes. She threw her arms out and began to spin, slowly, beneath the downpour, laughter bubbling up in her chest. At moments like these, she could forget the haunted faces of raped and abused and abandoned children, and the cold blue visages of the dead. She could forget blood and brain matter, bullet holes and the angry mouths of knife wounds. She could just be Sara, vibrant elemental being, relinquishing all nightmarish memories and sense of self to the rawness of a good thunderstorm.

She really wanted to lie down on the packed and muddy sand and stare up at the weeping sky, but she settled for tipping her chin skyward every now and again as she turned in slow circles, watching the clouds collide in masses of angry grey, the crackle of lightning leaping from one to another.

Suddenly, even over the roar of the storm, she thought she heard a sound. She turned, straining her eyes in the near-blackness, but could not see anything. Holding very still, she waited and listened. There it was again. It sounded like someone screaming her name.

Her clothes heavy with accumulated water, her flip-flops threatening to fly from her feet with every sluggish step, she moved in the direction of the sound. And after a moment, she did see something. A man, too far away to be identified, was moving toward her in the tempestuous darkness, and she stopped, wrapping her arms about her torso in confusion and with a twinge a fear. No one knew about this spot. She had worked this case with Grissom—what, almost six years ago? And it had not even been here, precisely, but at the gas station half a mile away.

The figure was moving closer, and in a flash of lightning she saw a dark blue windbreaker, dark pants, and the shadow of a beard. Grissom! She took a step back. This was her place, her private place where no bodies were buried, where no lab results could find her. Why did the man have to invade every single part of her, even the ones she tried so valiantly to keep hidden away? She turned, contemplating how fast she could run, weighed down by wet clothes and trying to move through thick, waterlogged sand. Still faster than him, she wagered. Kicking off her flip-flops, she started to run.

"Sara!" The wind picked up his voice and whipped it to her, then past her into the darkness. She could feel that the storm had picked up, the rain now beating merciless down on both of them, but she had been outside in storms like these every chance she got for six years now. She would have the advantage over him, no longer wincing at the rain falling into her eyes or feeling strangely exposed by the drenching of her hair and clothes. He would be trying to stay dry, pulling up the collar of his jacket or fumbling with an umbrella. But she had given herself to the elements a long time ago in this desert wasteland, and while he fought them, she would embrace them, and run.

Her toe caught on something—a piece of sun-bleached wood, perhaps, or an old bone—and she tumbled forward, her hands flying out to brace her against the hard impact of the ground. Only her face missed the plummet into the granular mud, and giving in to the primal universe's way of telling her to stop running, she rolled over onto her back and laughed, helplessly, at the sky that was bleeding down onto the earth. He would catch up with her now, and find her muddy and wet and laughing in the desert, and think her insane. She mentally shrugged, unsure if she even cared anymore what he thought of her.

And then he was there, dropping to his knees beside her, his dark curls that were so nicely shot through with grey plastered to his skull, his breath coming in short pants.

"Sara!" He had to shout, even from a foot away, to be heard above the maelstrom whirling above their heads. "Sara, are you all right?"

"I'm perfect!" she shouted back, her joyous delight in the storm still not completely quenched by his arrival. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I tried your phone!" he yelled, leaning a little closer to her. "I stopped by your apartment, and you weren't there!"

"Sometimes I'm not home!" she cried loudly. "Sometimes I don't answer my phone! Does that mean you're going to stalk me?"

"I'm not stalking you!" Even in a shout, he managed to convey indignation. "I was worried about you!"

"How did you find me?"

"I traced the GPS on your cell phone!"

She rolled her eyes. "My phone is in my car, more than half a mile from here! How did you find me?"

In a sudden glare of lightning, she saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "I recognize this place, Sara! From that case we worked, with the missing little boy!"

She scowled. Of course he would remember every case he ever worked, recognize every abandoned gas station he had ever been to. Now she was going to have to find a new spot to enjoy her storms. In a fit of pique, she lifted her hand and pounded it lightly against his chest.

"You've invaded my privacy!" she yelled. "You had no reason to come here!"

"I wanted to find you!"

"Why?" she demanded, as a vicious roll of thunder bellowed through the sky. "What is so goddamn important?"

His face creased with uncertainty, he started to get up. "Nothing!" he called down to her. Annoyed, Sara caught his wrist and tugged.

His feet slipped in the muddy earth, and he tumbled down beside her, landing half on top of her body and half in wet sand. The stunned look on his face was all Sara needed to send her into peals of laughter again, and she lay laughing up at the sky as he squirmed ungracefully to get off her, only to give in and lie beside her helplessly on the sand.

"Serves you right for trying to dodge my question!" she announced through her face-splitting smile. "Now tell me why you're here!"

"I wanted to see you!"

"That's it?" she demanded, rolling over on her side to look at him. He too had adopted a position on his back, seeming almost as comfortable in the downpour and packed sand as she was. He turned his head to meet her eyes.

"That's it!"

"You drove out into the desert following my GPS signal to the middle of nowhere because you wanted to see me?" Her raised voice was incredulous. "I don't believe you!"

"It was a very strong desire!" She knew he would be saying these things in a low voice, perhaps even a whisper, if they were not caught up in a tempest. Somehow, the storm forcing him to shout his admissions made him seem even more vulnerable. She strangely enjoyed it.

"What inspired it?"

Instead of giving her the answer she expected, he too rolled over on his side, his face solemn in the lightning-broken darkness. He studied her for a long moment, and she was very conscious suddenly of the way her wet shirt clung to her chest, how the lightly curling strands of her wet hair clinging to her face must make her look drowned. She licked her lips nervously, waiting for whatever answer he would offer.

"Adam Trent!"

That was unexpected. She lifted an eyebrow. "What the hell does Adam Trent have to do with anything?"

He took a deep breath. "After Adam assaulted you, I've been a little afraid to let you out of my sight!" he admitted. She inched closer to him across the mucky ground, tempted to rest a hand on his bearded cheek.

"So I was right! You are stalking me!" The intensity of the moment, woven with the violence of the storm, forced her to try and lighten things. He reached over and caught her hand, startling her.

"Don't, Sara! I'm serious! I'm worried about you!"

"I'm fine!" she yelled back, resisting the urge to squeeze his hand. She gently slipped hers free instead. "You don't have to follow me out into the middle of nowhere to make sure I'm okay!"

"Well, you don't leave me a lot of choices when you disappear in the middle of the most dangerous thunderstorm Vegas has had this year!"

"Dangerous?" Sara laughed, rolling over on her back again to stare up at the emptying heavens. "This isn't dangerous, Grissom! This is beautiful! This is life!" She turned her face, turned her gaze to his. "'Living is strife and torment, disappointment and love and sacrifice, golden sunsets and black storms.' Sir Laurence Olivier!"

He responded to her pithy words in a way she could never have predicted. He turned to her, half-covering her body with his own, and pressed his lips to her forehead, tasting the rain there. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Do you think the way to my heart is through quotes?" he asked her, no longer shouting since his mouth was hovering inches above her face. She took a moment to catalogue the unusual sensations of his hands braced beside her head, his chest lightly against hers, his pelvis brushing her right hip as his legs still lay next to her in the sand, as opposed to tangled with her own in an even more intimate position. She supposed absently that that would be a little too much to expect from him, even in an impulsive moment. She smiled up at him sweetly.

"I've tried almost everything I can think of," she replied. "If quotes don't work, I fear I'm at a complete loss."

Grissom abruptly moved off her, his rash gesture just as quickly taken back as it had been offered. He started to rise, awkwardly, and Sara caught at his arm.

"What did I say?" she shouted, hating that she once again had to raise her voice above the tempest.

"Nothing!"

"Then why are you leaving me again?" She had not meant the words to come out so needy, so sad-sounding.

"I know you're okay now!" He had managed to struggle to his feet, and she was now on her knees, striving as she had to maintain a hold on his arm. She reached out and caught his other arm, kneeling in front of Grissom in the swampy sand, thunder rumbling above them, clutching his wrists.

"I'm not okay!" she cried. "And you're running away again!"

"What are you talking about? I don't run away from you!"

"You've been running away for eight years!" she fired back. "What the hell are you so afraid of?"

"Sara, it's raining!"

She started to laugh at the ridiculous statement, knowing that an onlooker would see the two of them drenched to the bone, covered in mud. He was telling her it was raining, as if this was a new discovery. She used her grip on his arms to haul herself to her feet, sodden in her heavy clothes, feeling the sand squish under her bare feet.

"Stop avoiding the question!" she said, directly into his face. He flinched a little, returning her blazing stare with a stoic look of his own.

"Don't you think we should get inside?"

"Stop it!" She was screaming far louder than even the storm required. She pushed strands of wet hair from her face. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why you're always running from me!"

"Not everything is about you, Sara!"

"Then what's your problem?" she yelled back.

"I can't do this!"

"What? Talk to me in the rain?"

He seized her shoulders. "Whatever it is you want from me, from us—I can't do it! Because then, if I lose you, I'll lose everything!"

"You're not going to lose me!" she cried, letting her hands come up to cup his face. He closed his eyes briefly.

"When a psychotic like Adam Trent comes along, losing you becomes a very real possibility!"

"Are you going to drive me to clichéd quotes now?" she fired back, dropping her hands. "'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'!"

"People who utter inane drivel like that have never really loved anyone!"

"No, you've never really loved anyone, Grissom!" Sara retorted at the top of her lungs. "You're too fucking scared!"

"Pragmatism is not fear!"

"No!" she screamed. "It's a death sentence!"

"I'm not dead!"

"You might as well be!" Tears were starting to mingle with the raindrops on her flushed cheeks. The fierceness of the thunderstorm was acting as a catalyst, a catharsis, for all of their pent-up emotions. "Don't you ever just want someone beside you when you go to sleep at night, when you wake up to start your day?"

"Every day!" he returned. "But it doesn't work like that!"

"It can!" she sobbed, her fingers curling into the slippery fabric of his blue forensics jacket. She stepped forward into him, pressing her face to his neck, heedless of how he would react.

His arms came up around her tentatively, wrapping around her slim frame. His voice, now so close to her ear, was lower when he said, "Sara, this can't happen."

She pulled her face back, letting it stop inches from his own, her eyes wide and dark and pleading. "Please, Grissom."

His firm expression caved a little. "Sara…"

"Please," she begged again, knowing she sounded desperate and not caring. She pressed her lips to his raspy bearded cheek. "I love you," she whispered, hoping the wind and rain would drown out her words, hoping that they would not. "Please."

His voice wrapping around her name again was a groan this time. "Sara."

She laid her hands on either side of his face, staring deeply into his eyes. "You say you can't be with me because you can't lose me. Grissom, I lose you every day."

He closed his eyes against the pain of her words. She leaned forward, resting her lips lightly against his, not moving them or trying to get him to respond, just pressing her mouth to his gently, tasting raindrops on his, knowing he would catch the faint taste of salt on hers from her tears. His lips were full and warm and fitted perfectly to her own, and her heart broke a little in her chest, knowing that this would probably be the only time she would ever have to realize that.

"Sara." Another groan of her name against her lips, and then he was kissing her, really kissing her, and she gasped. His was a fresh onslaught, heated and filled with longing. She felt his tongue brush against her lower lip, tasted the unexpected flavors of raspberry and coffee in his mouth, and she was sinking into him, feeling his hands gently grip her hips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back eagerly, passionately, trying to pour the desire and love of nearly a decade into this one fleeting moment.

"I love you," she panted into his mouth, into his kisses, relishing in the sensation of his warm solidity against her chilling skin. "God, Grissom, I love you."

"Sara," he whispered, his kisses softening, becoming shallower. He seemed unable to say anything but her name, but it was a sweet mantra on his lips. She rested her forehead against his, breathing quickly, feeling his own quickened breath hot against her face. She let her eyes drift open, taking in the textured surface of his skin, the boyish beauty of his eyelashes against his cheeks.

"Take me home," she murmured as thunder crashed again above them, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Where?"

"Your place," she replied. She wanted to invade every inch of his space tonight, knowing that at any moment he could apply the brakes to this wild ride she was careening along for, and anxious to seize everything she could from him before he did.

He took her by the hand and they hiked slowly through the thickening sludge of the rain-soaked sand, the loss of his body heat sending Sara into violent shivers despite the warm air. Grissom kept his arm around her once he noticed her trembling, but the twenty minutes it took to trudge the half-mile back to her vehicle left her cold and longing for a hot shower and dry clothes.

They stopped and stared at the two vehicles parked side by side on the edge of the road. Sara felt a panicked fluttering in her chest as she contemplated allowing her companion to drive alone into the city. Even with her own SUV following close behind, the solitary minutes afforded to him could cause him to change his mind, to reconsider and retreat back into his shell. She turned to him, pushing hair from her face.

"I'll ride with you!" she called out, and froze inside when he shook his head.

"It's not safe to leave your car out here in the middle of nowhere!" he yelled back. "Just follow me into the city!"

She moved into him, sinking her fingers into his wet curls, resting her nose beside his and breathing in the scent of his skin. "I'm afraid if I leave you alone for even a second, you'll send me home the minute I pull into your parking lot."

"Take the risk," he murmured. "Try to trust me."

She smiled wanly and stepped back. "That's a lot to ask."

He returned her smile, his own filled with sadness. "I know."

She clambered into her SUV and turned the heat on high, leaning back against the vinyl seats and shivering. Turning on her wipers and lights, she waited for him to pull out and followed, her fingers clamped tightly around the steering wheel.

The drive seemed endless, though in reality at 3 am it only took a half-hour. Sara turned her vehicle into Grissom's parking lot, swinging into a guest spot as he pulled into his own numbered slot. She wrapped her arms around her body, waiting for him to come to her driver's side door and lean in, telling her that she was right—that with time to think, he had decided this was a really bad idea.

The soft rapping of knuckles on glass made her turn, roll down her window, and meet his stormy blue eyes. She sucked in a deep breath, bracing herself.

"Coming up?"

She released it in a rush. He had not changed his mind yet. Nodding, she unbuckled her seatbelt and slid out, slamming the door behind her and following him into the townhouse. Her eyes took in the barely familiar white walls, the tiny brown leather loveseat, the dozens of framed butterflies on every wall. Every inch of the room screamed Grissom, from art made of insects' lifeless bodies to the almost stark-simplicity of the colors and furniture. She was very aware that her wet, weighty clothes were leaving puddles beneath her bare feet on his cold cement floor. She watched him cross the room and start coffee brewing in an industrial-sized coffeemaker, and smiled at the subtle indication of his only addiction.

"Would you like a shower to warm up?" he asked quietly from across the room, his eyes trained on the dripping coffee. She summoned up her courage.

"Will you join me?"

He turned, leaning easily against the counter, wet hair plastered to his head and beading off his forensics windbreaker. "Not this time," he replied, rubbing a hand over his beard.

She did not know whether to be depressed at his refusal or filled with hope at the implication that there could be another time when he would agree to her proposal. "Where's the bathroom?" she asked, tugging her sopping shirt away from her torso with a sucking sound.

He pointed down the hall. "Second door on the left. Towels are in the closet. I'll find something for you to wear while your clothes dry."

She nodded and slipped away into the warm darkness of his home. The bathroom was white as well, with bare walls and a dark green shower curtain. She slowly pulled off her shirt, tugged down her jeans. Her bra was almost sealed to her skin, and she made a soft noise of pain as she peeled the white lace from her breasts. Finally, her panties joined the pile, and she turned on the faucet, smiling happily as hot water pounded the shower floor and steam curled up around her.

She stood for a good ten minutes under the flow, letting her skin warm and the mud rinse from her hair, and then studied the shower wall's shelf. Soap—she lifted it to her nose. Smelled like Irish Spring, which she absently noted was exactly what Grissom smelled like when he first walked into the lab every day. Basic shampoo and conditioner, a two-in-one bottle that she imagined he chose for its convenience. She cracked it open and inhaled. It was the scent of his hair.

She could not quite bring herself to bathe with the same bar of soap she suspected he used every day, partially for the sense of intimacy it awakened, and partially due to her own latent germ-a-phobia. She reached for another bottle, turning it to read its label. Grapefruit-scented body wash. The bottle was nearly full. She wondered with a pang of jealousy what woman's presence in his home had inspired the purchase of the bottle. Well, it was what she had. She dumped a generous amount onto the washcloth she had brought in with her and leisurely washed every inch of her skin, luxuriating in the calming scent and the silky feel of the soap. Then she reached for his shampoo bottle and thoroughly scrubbed her hair, twice. She felt warm and strangely alive as she let the steaming water rinse her clean.

Twisting the water off, she reached for the towel she had laid out on the counter and squeezed excess water from her hair, toweling it gently. She dried off her skin as much as she could in the humid room, then wrapped the huge bath sheet around her body and tentatively opened the door. Piled outside of it were a large men's black sweatshirt and a pair of black cotton shorts with a drawstring. Sara smiled faintly, hoping the drawstring would be enough to keep the shorts up on her narrow hips. She picked up the clothes and shut the door again

The sweatshirt nearly swallowed her, but it smelled faintly of his detergent, and she smiled happily as she rolled the sleeves up to free her hands. The shorts required her to pull the drawstring to its limit and tie a knot in it to keep them up, but at last she was sure that she would not abruptly find them around her ankles if she walked too quickly. She draped her towel over the shower bar and opened the door again, padding softly down the hall.

Grissom was in the kitchen, changed as well into a dark blue tee shirt and jeans, his feet as bare as hers against the cold floor. She could tell from his mud-free skin and hair that he must have showered as well, and decided there must be another bathroom off his bedroom. She moved into the kitchen, accepting the huge mug of coffee he handed her gratefully and taking a tentative sip.

"Feeling better?" he asked her quietly, taking a slow sip of his own coffee. She nodded, gazing at him with wide dark eyes over the rim of her cup.

"I used your shampoo. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," he said quickly. "Sorry there wasn't much in there. It only gets used when my mother is visiting, actually." He shrugged.

"Was that her body wash, then?" Sara asked, trying to force a light tone. "The grapefruit-scented stuff?"

Grissom smiled slightly. "I think so." When she nodded, forcing an innocent look, he smiled wider. "Feel better now?"

She laughed. "Am I that obvious?"

"Just a little," he murmured, and then he was very close to her, and her back was against his counter, and she knew that he would not be sending her out into the storm again any time soon.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, hating that she could not just give in to his unexpected tenderness, but needing to know what was going through his head as he went from screaming at her in the rain that he could not let himself be with her to touching her in the privacy of his own home.

He sighed, his warm breath stirring her hair. "Because, Sara, I am very tired of not doing this. You have no idea how much willpower it takes to resist you." He drew back, lifted her chin with gentle fingers. "I can't say no when you beg me like that."

She recalled her earlier words, frantic, filled with the desire born from years of waiting and rejection. Please. I love you. Please.

"I should have broken down in front of you years ago," she said softly, unable to completely disguise the faint bitterness coloring her voice. He winced a little.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said suddenly, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his body against hers tightly. "Just make it up to me, Grissom. Don't let me lose you again."

"I'll try," he promised, and kissed her.

This kiss was not as frantic as the one he had given her in the stormy desert, but instead a study in seduction, as he caressed her lips with his own, tracing her bottom lip with his tongue before teasing her into opening her mouth for him. He did not plunder her mouth, using his tongue as a weapon, but rather suggested to her the intimacy of other parts of him inside her with gentle strokes and teasing licks. She felt a molten heat begin deep in her belly and spread like wildfire through her limbs, and she was clinging to him then, moaning into his kiss, ready to beg him again for everything, anything, that would put out the fire he had started in her eight years before.

His hands roamed her warm skin under the sweatshirt, brushing over the small of her back, the curve of her hips, the softness of her stomach. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, trembling at the sensations he created in her body.

"Do you like thunderstorms?" He was murmuring in her ear, darting his tongue out to trace it in between words. She whimpered.

"I—yes. I love it when it rains."

"Do you go outside in them often?"

She moaned as he ran his tongue down her neck. "Any chance I get. I—I like being wet."

He laughed lightly against her skin then, and she flushed at the unintentional double entendre. "I imagine it feels…amazing."

She caught her breath, laid her hands on either side of his face and drew his gaze up to hers. "Find out for yourself."

They never made it to his bed, or even to his bedroom. He slid the sweatshirt over her head, fumbled with the knot in the drawstring of her shorts until he could slide them from her hips. She made him pause in kissing her to remove his clothing as well, and he smiled at the way she bit her lip in concentration as she worked open the button and zipper on his jeans, then moaned at the feel of her hand wrapping around him. They wound up in a tangle of limbs on the floor, her body above his, hands searching out every spot that might elicit a tremble, or a moan, or a curse. When Sara caught his wrists in hers and pinned them to the floor above his head, he stilled and looked up at her with widened eyes.

"I won't hurt you," she breathed. "But you have a habit of leaving me."

He gave in to her dominance, sucking in a heated breath as she lowered herself onto him, moving so slowly that it took infinite self-control not to wrench his hands free and drive her hips down onto his. She rocked against him, setting a slow, torturous rhythm, until he found that it was he who was begging now, pleading with her to let him take her. At last she acquiesced, and he flipped them so suddenly that their bodies never parted. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, and he drove into her without a second thought, abandoning himself to the sensation of Sara.

When he lost control and succumbed to orgasm, it was from the feel of her body tightening around him in her own climax. She whispered that she loved him over and over again, in a thousand voices, as she writhed and arched beneath him, and he could not help but follow her into the darkness. She pressed her lips to his neck, tasting his sweat, and with a groan he rolled off her and took her in his arms.

After a moment, Sara began to shiver, and Grissom reached for the sweatshirt she had been wearing and helped her tug it over her head, a little saddened by the loss of contact with her skin. She looked impossibly young and adorable, swimming in the black shirt, and he smiled before kissing her forehead.

"I love you." She could not seem to stop saying it, now that it had crossed her lips, but she chilled at the frown that appeared between his eyes.

"Sara—" She pressed her fingers to his lips.

"If you're going to reject me, please don't say it. I'll go."

"I'm not going to reject you," he mumbled against her fingers. She dropped them.

"Then what?"

He sighed. "I just think you should know…I'm not good. With those words."

"I know."

"I'm not even good with those feelings."

She smiled sadly. "I know."

"Promise me you'll be patient."

Her face lit up. He really was not rejecting her. She touched his cheek.

"I've waited for you so long," she whispered. "What's a little longer?"

He kissed her gently as the tempest without roared and spat, and the storm within finally came to an end.

FIN