Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, Sara, Grissom, or Greg. :) But I do enjoy playing with them.

A/N: So, it's long. Like, really long. But, I didn't really have any good places to break it up into chapters... so I didn't. Sorry about that.

This is my entry for GSRFO's July Summer Sizzler Challenge, although now that I've read a few other entries popping up here and there, I'm waaay less confident about this. :) Ah, well, if you have to be bested, it's nice to be bested by amazing writers. Find your way over to the site to read some amaaaazing smut.

Also, reviews are loved and appreciated. Thanks!

The knock at the door startled me.

Not that it was particularly late or had been a particularly long time since we'd all separated for the night… but we'd been working through several shifts. Grissom had been out here the night before, and Greg and I drove up first thing this morning, despite having only finished logging in evidence from our own 419 less than an hour before we got on the road. And we'd all worked through the day, processing the house.

I was suffering least of the three of us—Greg the most. He wasn't good with the hours of the job yet. He'd been used to working graveyard from the DNA lab, yes, but he'd had a set shift—a clock in and out time, and a defined break, although it was sometimes earlier or later depending on the time-sensitive nature of evidence. Now that he often had to come in during the day, pull overtime almost constantly—especially when Nick had been in the hospital and with his family in Texas—it was messing with him. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was adjusting and he was never so tired that he couldn't do his job… but at the end of a triple, or even a double, you could tell that he was feeling it. In a few years, his body would be used to only sleeping a few hours at a time and to working eighteen hours straight, or longer, when the situation called for it. But right now, you could tell it was a struggle.

Grissom was more used to going without sleep, although I was fairly certain—he wouldn't likely volunteer the information—that before he'd been called out to Lincoln County at the beginning of last night's shift, he'd been in the lab processing insect evidence and formulating a timeline for a dayshift case. Which meant that he was past twenty-four hours without sleep at this point.

And this case was getting to him.

He wouldn't admit that either, but I could tell… cases with kids always got to him. And I had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't believe little Cassie had been killed with the rest of her family.

I didn't say anything—Grissom had given me the detach-yourself lecture enough times for me to know that it generally only made you mad to hear it when you were caught up in those emotions. I wanted to warn him not to expect to find her, because it was unlikely, but he knew that. He knew it better than I did and if he wanted to cling on to a last desperate hope, well, I understood that. …Sometimes those desperate hopes were the only things that got you through the shifts that lasted hours and hours before you got to lay head to pillow and try to shut out the horrors of the day behind heavy lids.

For me, I appreciated the down time to rest, because I was mentally exhausted… but I was used to going without sleep. I think my insomnia started early—my father liked to come into my room at night, when my mother wouldn't know about it. …Somehow the whole experience is worse when you don't see it coming. The footsteps on the stairs, stumbling and clumsy, pausing in front of your door… the slow creak as it swings on its hinges and his shadowy form, just visible in the darkness, leering in… all of that was awful, yes, and the anticipation would make it so that I was positively shuddering in my bed by the time he would step into my room. …But on the occasions when I slept and woke to the heavy, overwhelming scent of whiskey on his breath and the heavier, more overwhelming weight of him above me… the startled, disorienting, befuddled feeling of waking to that and being simultaneously confused and frightened… that was far worse.

It had been a very long time since my mother had killed him, and while I had many, many lingering symptoms and neuroses from that time of my life, the one I had made almost no progress on was my basic, primal fear of sleep—especially sleeping alone. A few months after it started becoming common—once a week, if not more—my brother figured it out. He tried to tell my mom, and she confronted dad—he beat her so badly that the hospital sent cops to our house to investigate. In those days, that was rare…almost unheard of. What happened between a man and his wife wasn't really anyone else's business, not even law enforcement's. Most cops seemed to think that a smart-mouthed woman needed to be put in her place every once and a while, anyway.

After that, whenever my brother tried to bring it up, my mom told him she didn't believe him… that dad would never do that. …Chris started sleeping in my room, and if dad came and saw him there, he'd be angry, but he'd leave us be.

I had just changed out of the clothes I'd been in all day. Luckily I'd had several changes in my locker—always a good idea—so I'd been able to change between shift last night and the drive this morning, and still had a set to bring with. However, pajamas were not something I regularly kept at the lab, so it was either sleep in clothes or in underwear. Which is why I was clad in underwear and a tiny tank top I wore as an undershirt when the knock came.

Understandable, considering how exhausted everyone was, that I wouldn't assume I needed to stay dressed in case of the unexpected visitor. …Unless it wasn't Greg or Grissom. I found myself tensed, my whole body on alert. When the knock came again, I hurriedly slipped into my pants and grabbed my handgun from the dresser, pulled it from its holster, and flicked the safety off. There was no reason in the world that Greg or Grissom would be here. They'd both looked like hell run over and were probably both dead to the world asleep. …Which meant, of course, that if I screamed, there was no guarantee anyone would come running, even if they were just next door. I crept over to the door sideways, my gun extended in front of me and held in both hands—I did most everything according to the textbook—and jumped about a foot when the knock came a third time, a little louder, like the knocker thought I was asleep.

Or was getting impatient.

I drew in a nervous breath and finally reached the door, peering through the peephole…

"Jesus Christ, Grissom!" I huffed under my breath, keeping the gun in my right hand and using my left to awkwardly slide the chain and twist the deadbolt before swinging the door open.

There was a long moment in which we just looked at each other—he had his hands shoved into the pockets of the slacks he'd been dressed in for over a day and his shoes were on his feet, laced neatly as always. But from the waist up he looked different… He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt with a Minnesota Twins logo on a baseball on it and I wondered if he'd had it under his clothes all day, like my tank top, or if he'd been smarter than me and had thought to bring comfier clothing to sleep in. The watch that usually resided on his wrist was absent and though his thick beard looked as smooth and well-groomed as always, his curls were looser than normal and tousled. Like he'd been tossing and turning in bed.

I met his eyes, and watched the corner of his lips quirk almost imperceptibly.

"Greg snores."

I don't know why I didn't hesitate—why it didn't even feel like I took a moment to process his words and see what it was he was actually asking. Maybe it was just that, by this point, I already knew that there was very little I would deny the man. I mean, I would argue… I would demand an explanation… but to out rightly tell him no? …It would likely be an extreme situation that the two of us would never encounter anyway. Regardless, it wasn't as if I hadn't had him in my private space before. So I stepped back, leaving the door open, and he moved inside.

By the time I'd re-locked the door and remembered there was a gun in my hand on which I needed to turn the safety back on, Grissom had seated himself at the end of the bed that was vacant—my duffle bag on the edge of the closer one serving to indicate where I'd intended to spend the night. Replacing my weapon on the dresser, next to the television, I glanced at him, wondering if he merely intended on spending a few hours here before returning to see if Greg had silenced himself or if he intended to sleep in my spare bed. The casual way in which he placed toe to heel and slid first one and then the other of his boots from his sock-clad feet answered my question.

I pursed my lips in a smirk. "I thought this was, uh… against lab policy."

He raised his eyebrows at me in a disbelieving look. "At this point, I'm ready to tell Ecklie what he can do with his lab policies…" Though the words were extreme, coming from the enigmatic entomologist before me, there was no heat in them and so they did not surprise me as much as they might have if he'd said them with malice… he was beyond tired and this case, for him, was one of those you just couldn't put to bed or push aside. And sometimes, when you felt like that, Ecklie was the easiest and most convenient person to blame.

My eyebrows did rise in surprise, but I felt myself smiling all the same. I used to think that Grissom didn't feel anything—that he had perfectly learned to detach himself and that he would be the last person in the world to risk burn out. Over time though, working with him, I saw that that wasn't true. If anything, he struggled with his emotions more than most, because he wouldn't allow himself to acknowledge and release them. They built and built and he hid them for as long as he could… and usually he'd close the case and deflate the growing tension before he couldn't hold them back any longer. But every once and a while…

"Well, uh… I was just getting ready for bed. So, just… make yourself comfortable."

He nodded, and so did I, and then I headed into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind myself. I'd already used the bathroom as soon as we came in—I'd been holding it for over an hour by the time we got checked in—so I could have left the door open. But somehow the idea of washing my face and brushing my teeth in a way that was visible to Grissom seemed…. too intimate. I had learned, in the last few years, that the best way to not be constantly hurt and disappointed by his unwillingness to pursue what was between us was to not let myself indulge.

I started small—when we worked together, I forced myself to come up with a rational reason why he'd chosen me on the case. Sometimes it was simply that he hadn't worked with me in a while and, as the supervisor, he needed to work with everyone. Sometimes it was because the case dealt with something I knew I was particularly good at… or because the other cases that night included things that the others were good at, which simply left me to go with. …When I realized how much this helped stop me from fantasizing that every time we worked together it was because he wanted some alone time with me, I applied it to other areas in my life. Grissom had said, the day I told him about my family, that rationalizations are more important to people than anything—and instead of this making me less inclined to rationalize, I decided to embrace it.

It was part of the human condition and I was too ruled by my emotions as it was. It was nice to be able to compartmentalize, the way I suspected he did.

So when he complimented my work, it was because I had done something worthy of praise and because he was trying to be a more supportive supervisor. When he complimented me specifically, which he'd been doing more and more since that dreaded conversation, it was because he felt bad that my demons had affected my work and that his reaction to that emotion had been to push me away or advise me to get a diversion. He felt bad, and perhaps he was trying to be a better friend… trying to get us back to the comfortable camaraderie we used to have. And, for the most part, we were back to that.

I mean, there were some things different, because we had far more history now than we had when I'd first come to Vegas, and there were things that couldn't be ignored… I couldn't pretend I hadn't heard him tell a murderer that he couldn't pursue me, either because he wasn't brave enough or because I didn't warrant that kind of risk. He couldn't ignore the endless amount of times I'd put myself out there, either in asking him out directly or in my awkward attempts to bring up what it was that was between us.

It was different, but it was comfortable again. That was what mattered. And I'd put my delusions to rest—it wasn't going to happen, no matter how badly I wanted it, and when I wasn't constantly looking for signs to prove that it was, I was much happier. Part of that was the closed door—it might feel intimate to go through my nighttime routine with him in the next room, but there was no reason the two of us should share something that felt intimate. Resisting those temptations had made life a lot easier for me. Closed in the small space with the lights somehow seeming overbright and yet still not serving to illuminate—I looked washed out and so did everything around me—I brushed through my hair, thankful I'd only left the ends curly today, and put it back in a low ponytail, only an inch or so up from the nape of my neck. I washed my face quickly, brushed my teeth in silence, and refused to let myself do a once-over of my appearance in the mirror.

I was going to bed, and I didn't need to look like anything else, no matter if Grissom was in my room. Sleeping in my room. It didn't matter. He was here because he desperately needed sleep and Greg was preventing that. This wouldn't be one of those made-for-TV moments in which, after years of build up and disappointment, something would occur spontaneously. Things didn't work that way in real life. I opened the bathroom door to find the room darker than I expected, but the TV was on, so I was able to make my way to the end of my bed, deposit my duffle bag haphazardly onto the floor at my feet, and move up between the two beds to slip between the sheets.

There was a long moment of silence as I got settled in bed and Grissom turned the TV off before replacing the remote on the nightstand between us. It was dark and quiet and so much hovered in the air, tangible and yet unapproachable. I tried to keep quiet—I was tired, but it was unlikely that I would fall asleep in the next hour. I usually read before bed, and not doing so threw off my schedule and had me wide awake. I waited to hear his breathing slow and relax, thinking that I could then turn on the light on the nightstand and read for a few hours. But after ten minutes, I was still fairly certain that he was awake. I rolled my head to the side, squinting through the darkness at his curls, uncertain, and then…

"Sara?" His voice came soft and vulnerable, and it had me frowning and turning my entire body to face him.

"What is it?" I asked, concerned. It was rare that Grissom ever sounded so unguarded. Usually when something was bothering him, he became more aggressive, more sharp, more self-assured. Sounding uncertain and… weak… it just wasn't like him.

"…Do you think there's any chance any of them are alive?"

Of course, we both knew he meant Cassie. He said 'any of them,' but he meant Cassie. I frowned, reminding myself that I wasn't going to scold him or even gently remind him of what was likely—with Greg, I absolutely would, because he needed reminding on occasion. Hell, even with Nick or Warrick I might, simply because they were my peers… and Catherine I never missed a chance to correct, although I'd learned to be more careful about doing so since my suspension—I knew she hadn't told on me, per se, but Grissom had told me enough about her behavior when she and Ecklie spoke to him about the incident to severely hurt the trust I'd once had in her. But Grissom was my mentor, not my peer, and it wasn't my place.

"You mean Cassie?" I ask, deciding not to beat around the bush when we both know he's hoping it's her. She's the youngest— the least likely to be involved and the smallest threat.

I hear the rustling of him nodding against his pillow, and for the first time in as long as I've known him I can imagine what he was like as a child. I mean—I could always imagine Grissom younger. But once I got down to college age, the details were fuzzier. High school was the furthest stretch I managed, and then it only really included details he'd let slip, like being a ghost or like working in his mother's gallery after school and during the summers. Younger than that was inconceivable before now, but the quiet desperation in his voice, before… the childlike nodding instead of voicing that yes, that was who he meant… it wasn't so hard.

"…I think we have to wait and see what we get back from the lab. …See whose blood is whose."

"But you think it's possible?" I hesitated. I didn't want to encourage the idea when I doubted it very much, because the let down would be that much greater in the end… but once again, I reminded myself that he knew that better than I did. Sometimes you just needed the false hopes to keep you going for the moment.

"…Possible, yes." I said, not continuing on to say, 'Probable, no.' I could tell by the shift of his body in the bed that he knew, without me saying it. He rolled to face me, and though I could only see his outline in the dark, it did feel closer… I tried to push thoughts of intimacy from my mind.

"…We found Nick. We weren't supposed to. Walter Gordon meant for him to die, either before we found him or… when we found him. It was the least likely outcome that we all came out of that ordeal unscathed."

I frowned, but nodded just the same. "…But how likely do you think something like that is?"

"…You made it." His voice was soft and whispery and made me feel like crying.

I shifted, uncertain. We hadn't spoken about it since that day, with the exception of the Adam Trent case, in which neither of us had quite been ourselves. It had been quite some time since then, and the sudden reemergence of the subject surprised me. …But, in a small way, it almost made me feel good. Of the few people I'd told in my life, none had felt like they could bring it up outside that initial conversation. It had been like it'd never happened, despite how much it cost me to reveal so much… but Grissom wasn't acting like it had never happened. I found myself wishing that there wasn't so much space between our beds, or at least enough light to see his face more clearly.

"Not unscathed." I replied, not certain what else to say.

He mmm-ed in thought. "…Nick isn't unscathed, either. Greg wasn't after the lab explosion… Catherine wasn't after that night with Lindsey and Eddie… and Cassie won't be either, when we find her. But she'll go on… we all do."

I wondered what horrors in his past had left him scathed enough to use the term 'we,' but didn't dare ask. "…But not everyone does go on, Griss. We all have, but… we're all highly motivated people. We wouldn't be working at the second best lab in the country if we weren't. …I can't tell you how many girls just like myself that I met in foster care… and the majority of them are not where I am today. And hell—I wouldn't say I'm doing all that well either. …Just because we've been lucky doesn't mean that that's how things usually go."

He swallowed, and the silence crept up on us again. I regretted my words—I hadn't meant to take his hope from him, nor had I intended to say so much about myself. I rolled onto my back, silently telling him that it was okay for him to do the same, and either drift to sleep or pretend to, so that this awkward conversation wouldn't have to continue. …But he didn't roll over. He kept watching me.

"…I think you've done amazingly, Sara." He said softly, and I went from zero to choking back a sob like that. Why was I so freaking emotional? And why did this man seem to have all the power in the world over those emotions?

I tried to make light of it, because I didn't want him to know how foolishly close to crying I was. "Yeah, well, I could've done worse…"

The silence that followed this was the longest yet, and though I hadn't heard him roll back onto his back, I was fairly certain he must have fallen back to sleep by now. I would have gotten up and turned on the light, but I no longer felt like reading… or being alone, for that matter. I wished that my room had only had one bed and that we'd been forced to awkwardly share it. I mean, it would have been awful at first, but now that he was asleep… it would have been nice. …Something out of a dream, really. Something I wouldn't have another chance at probably ever again.

Not that I believed anything would happen, even if such a thing had occurred… but the warmth of him... Getting to spend this time, lying awake, watching him breathe in and out… explore the lines and planes and angles of his face while he slept. Maybe even run my fingers over his beard, if I thought I could risk it. I knew from experience with past boyfriends that it would be rough, but it just looked so soft… this incongruency had plagued me since the first day he showed up for assignments with the growth. I sighed softly, chiding myself for allowing the indulgence again—an all-too-familiar ache was throbbing in my chest, one I hadn't felt this acutely for a very, very long time, and I knew it was because I had let my imagination get away from me.

"My mother was deaf."

I blinked in surprise, turning to him rapidly, a blush filling my cheeks, as though he knew what I'd been thinking. "W-what?"

"…That's why I know sign language… she went deaf when I was five."

I breathed in slowly, putting a few things together. "…The surgery?"

I could hear the frown in his voice. "You knew about that?"

I smiled, feeling relieved that he at least didn't sound angry. "Well… I'd noticed that you seemed more distracted. And the Tom Haviland case…" I twisted my lips. I didn't like to talk about it, because despite everyone feeling like they'd endured the worst at the hands of the movie star's lawyer, I couldn't help but feel like none of it compared to mine. "And when you were gone, for those few weeks… the first days, Catherine left her phone in the break room. It said Desert Palm was calling her and… she rushed in and said, 'Yes, this is his sister… I'll be right there.' …So I called Desert Palm and said I was Dr. Grissom's niece, Lindsey, and that my mother wasn't answering her phone… was she there visiting him? …They told me that she was on her way to pick you up, and they'd let her know I'd called."

More silence, and this time I felt compelled to speak. I thought I'd conquered that overtalking thing, but apparently not. He'd shared something personal with me, and wasn't it only fair that I do the same? …But he hadn't answered me. I fidgeted, waiting for him to say something while the words built up in me, the pressure increasing, until I couldn't possibly hold them in any longer. My toes wiggled and wiggled and then...

"I didn't want to take your lecture in San Francisco."

Shit. I could have told him anything—anything that would be as personal as his confession about his mother and his surgery, and instead I insult him? His head moved up to see me more clearly… and then he was laughing. Like, full-on, bottom-of-your-belly kind of laughing… I'd never heard him like that. My lips quirked. They twitched. A small smile broke over my lips and my toes started wiggling again, needing to explain myself. He was still laughing and I grinned, snorting a chuckle myself before giving in.

"I just… I'd been told you were a really dull speaker but you were the only one in that time slot that wouldn't have been review for me…" He continued laughing. I chuckled again. "I was wrong though! …I mean, I… I loved your lecture." His laughter slowed, and I realized that with the tenderness I'd unintentionally held in those four words, I was saying more than I had intended. Once again I tried to keep myself quiet, but "…but you already knew that…" slipped out.

I bit my bottom lip, willing myself to silence as his laughter softly faded away. Silence loomed again, albeit a bit more comfortable than before, and I promised myself that I would not be the one to break it this time. I bit down harder when the urge to speak came again, and thankfully, he spoke up before I could draw blood.

"…I hated Hank."

My soft gasp revealed how surprised I was, and I clenched my fists, willing him to continue before I could ruin it. Thankfully, with a wry smile in his voice, he did.

"I mean… after I heard… when Catherine told me… what he'd done… I hated him then, but… but I think we all did. ….I hated him before that. I hated him when I thought he was good for you… when you came to work with a smile on your face that I couldn't explain or claim… when you'd take more than twenty minutes to arrive at a scene when I called you in…"

"Why?" I asked in disbelief, and turned to face him. Though it was still dark, I could swear I could see his eyebrows raise as if he were asking me if I really needed him to answer his question… and the truth was, though I could hardly believe he was being so forward about it, I really didn't need the explanation, no. I knew. I pursed my lips, hesitating, and then… "He was never the one I wanted. I mean, I liked him… but he wasn't… he was never…"

He saved me from myself, cutting me off before I made a fool of myself. "I know."

I breathed in and out deeply, half-dizzy with disbelief that we were actually having this conversation. It didn't make any sense… what was making Grissom so… open? Was it the darkness or… his own vulnerability in wanting to believe that Cassie might be alive… or was it just that we'd been building up to this moment for years? …After everything I'd told him about my family… after the renewed friendship he'd been attempting in the past few months… wasn't it inevitable, really?

And if it was inevitable… if we were sharing…

"I heard you talking to Lurie."

He was the one to gasp this time. "…You… what?"

"I was in the observation room. …I heard everything."

The space of a heartbeat passed between us and then he was sitting up in bed, which sent my heart racing erratically. "…Why didn't you say something, before now?"

My head lifted from my pillows, but I kept my body as still as possible. "I… We didn't really… talk, at the time. And… and you'd already made up your mind, so… I told myself to… let you go."

We sat there for several moments—he was breathing heavily and my neck was aching from being held in that position, but I didn't want to miss an expression or a movement in the darkness by resting my head back down. "…I lied to Lurie."

"…Oh." I said, feeling foolish. I had been so certain—Grissom had seemed so distraught over the case, and Debbie Marlin had looked so much like me—but he didn't lie to me, almost as a rule, even if it meant being brutally honest. He rarely said anything directly, but when he did… There was heat in my face and all I wanted to do was turn my back to him and let myself cry in silence. I had learned to accept that he would never act on what was between us, but it was a bigger blow to hear that what there was between us was not as important to him as I'd assumed. …Sure, he might feel jealous of Hank, but he'd no doubt felt jealous of Catherine's various lovers too. Some men were just weirdly possessive of the women in their lives…

"It… it wasn't the job, that kept me from… taking that risk. I said that because I… I understood him. I understood that the bigger part of the risk was personal, but that his career was part of it too… a big part of it. …Our careers—the way they kept us an arm's length from people, never touching directly—they were something we had in common… and I wanted what I said to resonate with him, to get a confession. …But Sara, it… it's never been about… the lab."

His voice was low and desperate, full of something I couldn't define but wasn't certain I liked hearing there, all the same. I sat up slowly, squinting to see him better. "…Then… why?"

This silence—one of many—was by far the thickest we'd encountered so far, and I found it hard to inhale, like there was a heavy, wet cloth over my mouth and nose, thick and smothering. It was when I felt dizzy and realized the black spots blooming in my vision were not in fact the darkness surrounding us but a response to the fact that I had been holding my breath that I tentatively opened my mouth, exhaling and inhaling frantically and yet silently, afraid to tip the delicate balance of the moment. His voice was soft and whispery, almost a little weak, and it brought the dizzy feeling back to me with force.

"…You scare the hell out of me, Sara."

Just how does one respond to something like that…? Why would I—a woman who had all but thrown herself at him, time and again, for years—frighten this large, stoic, strong, beautiful man? …And if the fear was so overwhelming that seven years of trying at this point had not been enough to make him take the risk… then what he'd said to Lurie was absolutely true, even if the motivation behind the hesitation was a lie. He could not and would not take the risk. The piercing pain was back in my chest, pumping through my veins with every deafening beat of my heart in my ears, and I fought back the sting behind my eyes, telling myself that at least we were getting this out in the open. …At least, here in the dark, we would have a chance to discuss what we did not, as a rule, discuss… and then we could move on, with no guesswork this time.

It would almost be a relief, after all this time, to stop wondering and hoping and let myself mourn the loss of him. …It would be a death, and I knew that, and knew that grieving was hard, but it was the only way to heal. I sighed heavily, and though it pained me to my core, I nodded. "Okay."

His pause told me my response was unexpected. "…Okay?"

My lips twisted bitterly, but I nodded in the dark, hoping he could only see the latter action. "Okay. …You're not denying what's between us anymore, which is helpful, and you… you've been upfront and honest. It isn't that the lab is more important, it's that you're afraid… and that fear has told you more than enough times that taking a risk on a… relationship, with me, is… something you just can't do. …Okay."

He didn't respond, and after a long minute I exhaled in a rush and nodded at him, still feeling anxious and self-conscious, but accepting it. I let myself fall back down to the bed, my head sinking into the pillows, and though my stomach was in knots, I no longer felt the urge to overtalk. …Really, at this point, what else could be said? If being with me was a step he was able to take, and the lab was no barrier, he would have taken it before now.

When he lay down again, I assumed it would be the end of us talking. And though there was another long pause in which it seemed he was trying to speak… a pause that made me wish I could tell him that it was okay and that he didn't need to struggle for words… that I understood what he couldn't say and, hurt though it may, I would pass no judgment… I didn't. I had done essentially that more times than I could count, and it just didn't seem productive anymore. If he was done speaking, I would not force him, but his words were the only consolation prize I was getting out of all of this… I wouldn't try to stop them.

"…I used to imagine scenarios just like this one. …Trapped together in a hotel room by some unlikely twist of fate, forced to confront everything between us." He sighed softly, shifting in bed. "…I never dreamed that it would be so… difficult. …That words would continue to fail me and you would continue to frighten and amaze me and I would sit, impotent and useless, watching the drama of our interaction pass before my eyes like a movie instead of real life. …I always thought, if we were simply put in a scenario we couldn't get out of immediately…"

"Everything would work itself out?" I said, a little sarcastically, though my voice didn't hold the bite I had intended it too—I sounded inconsolably sad, even to my own ears, and it dampened the power of my bitterness.

He blew out a breath. "Something like that. …I thought things would come more easily."

I didn't know what to say to that, and simply drank in the sight of the ceiling above me for a few moments. "…This is it, then. You can't do it, even in an extreme and unlikely circumstance, and I'm beyond the point of pushing the issue. …It's never going to happen." I tried to hide the despair in my voice, and failed.

He tried and failed too. "…I guess not, no."

This time I didn't try to stop the tears that bubbled up behind my flickering lids, but I was thankful that they were silent and I was not wracked with sobs. I let them roll out of the corners of my eyes and over my cheeks, sliding over my ear lobes and into my ears. I didn't wipe at them, because I knew that a single brush would give me away, and he would know that I was crying over him. Again. My voice was surprisingly strong, not betraying my tears.

"…Tell me what you thought about, please."

His voice trembled, "W-what?"

I swallowed, heat filling my face, but pushed onward. What more did I really have to lose? "…About our unlikely situations. …If it's never going to happen… if tomorrow, in the light of day, I have to accept that and move on as if tonight never happened and all our almosts meant nothing… indulge me, tonight. You've told me more about yourself and your thoughts since we turned off the lights than you have in the seven long years I've known you. …Tell me what you thought would happen, so I can at least have that."

"…Sara, I…" He swallowed loudly in the stillness. "I don't… know how to… I don't think I can… I…" He trailed off helplessly, and I finally got irritated with the tickle on my cheeks and ears and wiped at them helplessly, nodding against my pillow at the same time, hoping that he would catch the nod but not the other actions.

"...Okay. …Really, Griss, it's… Don't worry about it." My voice gave away my tears, and I cursed it, but idly. Despite the tension of the moment, I felt exhaustion creeping over me. It started in my limbs, but I knew that soon my eyelids would be drooping, and I welcomed it. I needed a little reprieve from all of this anyway. "…Let's just… try to sleep." Hopefully that would put an end to all of this.

I listened to him inhale deeply. "…You were just coming out of the shower."

Drooping eyelids snapped open and a small rush of disbelief slid through me, alerting heavy limbs that we might not be turning in just yet. "…I'm sorry?" I asked, certain I'd misheard.

He cleared his throat. "…In the fa—imagined… scenarios. No matter if we shared a room from the start or I ended up in your room for some reason or… whatever the contrived explanation may have been… it always started with you getting out of the shower. …You would open the door in a towel or… step out from a sweet-smelling, steam-filled bathroom in pajamas, your hair wet and curling and carrying with it that same scent of sweetness, but more concentrated."

My mouth was dry, my head spinning, and the only thing I knew was that I wanted him to keep going. …I wanted to know what happened next. "…And?" I asked, breathlessly, spurring him on softly. He sighed under his breath.

"…And your pajamas were always… surprising. You seem like a comfort-oriented person… sweat pants and t-shirts, tank tops and underwear…" I blushed, grateful that the darkness was hiding it, remembering that his last suggestion was what I'd been intending to sleep in, just before he'd arrived. "And yet, somehow, even when we ended up stranded in a tiny hotel in the middle of the desert due to inclement weather or broken down vehicles or urgent, time-sensitive, small town murders… you always had something sweet and feminine and… lacy… to wear."

I blushed, wishing very much that I had, in fact, brought something lacy and sweet and feminine to wear after I'd let him inside tonight. …Maybe if I were more like his dream-Sara, he'd have been able to act in the moment like he'd imagined. Without thinking, I blurted, soft and low, "…If I had something like that here, Griss, I would…" I stopped myself, face heating again, kicking myself for ruining this. He'd been willing to tell me, but surely now I'd crossed a line…

His head rolled on its pillow, not quite far enough to look at me, but in my direction nonetheless. "…You would?" He asked, needing no explanation for what I would do with such a thing here. That much had been blatantly obvious. I didn't answer, but he continued all the same, his voice seeming a little stronger… a little more self-assured, like my confession had granted him confidence.

"…Sometimes we're in separate beds, and then something happens… mine breaks or we have supper in the room and one of us spills something all over one of the beds, and in the tiny little hotel we're in, the office has already closed 'til morning. Sometimes we start out in the same bed, full of rationalizations… We're adults, professionals, friends… there's no reason in the world to treat sleeping in the same bed as a big, meaningful, awkward scenario. But, of course… it is."

I swallowed, pressing my head back hard into the pillows, trying to remain calm. Trying to hold back the words that wanted to spill forward, to keep him talking. …Nothing seemed especially forthcoming, however, and once again… "…What happens next?"

I'm breathless and squirming and I know that my breath is coming faster than it should. I draw it in slowly, making an effort to guide myself back to a calmer, more controlled state. If there's anything that would scare him away, it would be to hear how real this was… I needed to keep it surreal. Keep him brave in the strange, unreality of the moment and the darkness and his lingering desperation over the little girl he wanted to believe could be alive. …This was as close as I would ever get to having him. That much was clear, now.

He sighed softly, and his voice was soft, but not a whisper. It sent chills through me, because it sounded like… pillow talk. The sweet, soft, gentle tones of a man curled up with someone in the most intimate of aftermaths. "…It's always… different. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sit in silence… but there's always this… warmth. It seeps through us, over us, between us… and even if it was awkward getting into the bed, the warmth takes that away. …Sometimes we argue, and when we finally… it's a moment of intense passion. But more often it's a comfortable, slow, sweet coming together… something we both knew would get the better of us, eventually, and we give into it willingly, almost in relief…"

I closed my eyes at the intensity of his words. "…But you can't do it."

He sighed. "…No. I… guess I can't." His voice was tempered with a bitterness that I felt myself, down to my core.

"…I just don't understand. What is there to be afraid of…?"

This time his sigh came impatiently, almost in irritation. "…You don't think I've done this myself a thousand times, Sara? …Have you ever tried to talk someone out of an irrational but overwhelming fear? …Do you think you could talk Nick out of being afraid of ants or… small spaces? Or even strange cassette tapes?"

I pursed my lips, but at least felt myself relaxing a tiny bit—this was closer to the Grissom I knew. I knew how to argue with him… I'd been doing it almost as long as I'd known him. "No, but… but I know why Nick fears those things. Irrational though they may be on the surface, they're not really irrational… he's had a traumatic experience. …What traumatic experience is making you afraid of a woman falling in—"

"Don't, Sara. Don't say it." He said callously.

I felt the tears against my eyes again, but he continued before they could do more than well up.

"I… I'm just… rational, Sara. You're a young, beautiful woman who… had a crush on her teacher, which makes perfect sense, considering who you are. You had a tumultuous relationship with your father, so you look for approval from another source, another older man… and given your aptitude for learning, it was natural that we should gravitate towards one another. …The problem is, Sara, I'm still your teacher to you. …Or, at least, your mentor. …You still look at me like my approval is the very reason for your existence. …Honey, I've tried to change that… tried to be your friend, to compliment you less at times and more at times, thinking that without my approval you would seek to fulfill that need elsewhere, and more, thinking that it would help your confidence and that eventually you wouldn't need to hear those things from me, you would just know them… hoping that I would become your equal, to you, but nothing changes that look in your eyes, Sara. …You're not still a student to me, and I don't… want you to want the teacher, and be disappointed when you end up with just the man."

I shook my head and wiped my eyes in nothing short of completely exasperated frustration. "…You're wrong, Grissom. You're wrong." I repeated, feeling it bore repeating. "Believe me, my PEAP counselor had me convinced of the same thing for a long time… 'seeking validation in inappropriate places' and all that. But I can't tell you how many older, attractive, male teachers looked at me both as though I was the only student they had and also as though they would love to teach me some other things… I was never interested. …I am and always have been eager for the approval of those above me, teachers and bosses and parents, despite my authority issues… and I still want that, from the Grissom who is my boss. …But that look you see—the look that says your approval is the very reason for my existence… that look isn't directed at my once-teacher, mentor, and boss. …It's directed at the man. It's the man I want. …Who you are, Grissom, not what you are… is all I've ever wanted."

His breathing was ragged, but his tone was sharp. "Sara, there's no way to separate one from the other. …I know that… that you don't really know much of… my past. And that's my fault. But…" He struggled for a moment, and then seemed to come up with an example. "When you break a bone… even years and years later, when it's healed and feels perfectly fine… that bone is always going to be weaker than all the others… more likely to be broken again… more easily hurt."

I was torn, and bit my bottom lip to force myself to think before I spoke. In part I was intrigued—Grissom was admitting to heartache of one kind or another—but also extremely frustrated. Did the man think he was the only person in the world who'd ever suffered from a broken heart? …The only one between us who could get hurt in this? …Did he really know so little of me that he would believe I would ever intentionally hurt him…? Did he think my affection was so fleeting, even after all these years? I settled for saying something perhaps a little extreme, but I wanted to get my point across.

"…Grissom, I… I've wanted this, you, wanted you… for years. I… I would go to the ends of the earth…walk through fire for you. Step between you and a bullet. …I would give up everything in my world, everything I've ever held dear, just to protect you… keep you safe and happy. I… I would do anything."

His sigh was exasperated, his voice stern. "Sara, I'm not… not doubting your devotion to me. Hell, you got yourself suspended trying to defend me when Ecklie wasn't even really attacking me. I… don't doubt that you're fearless and strong and utterly selfless, especially where I'm concerned. …But that's all… romance, not reality."

I frowned in the darkness and, after a moment, realized he probably couldn't see my facial expression. "I… don't understand."

"…Relationships—not flings or affairs or flights of fancy, but long-term, deep, meaningful relationships, Sara—are rarely marked by moments like that, in which one partner proves their devotion by jumping in front of a bullet for the other. …And most don't thrive or falter based on extremes—love is a powerful thing, honey. Lots of people would give their lives for someone. And yet many would be entirely unable to actually spend the life they didn't need to give with that someone. …It's the little things, the small battles, the day-to-day struggles, that make or break."

I swallowed, finally figuring him out. I let my eyes fall closed, desperately. "…And I have shown, time and again, that I don't have as much patience as I ought for your occasional, frustrating, personality quirks. I don't like that you never know what to say or do about us, I don't like that you never ever leap without looking, I don't like how you can treat me so coldly while your eyes move over me so tenderly. I really don't like that the person I trust most in the world is the one who has proven time and again that he would rather allow me to suffer in pain than to come clean and express the feelings we both know he's hiding. …I'm impatient and I have a temper and I will invariably tell you how I feel… and you think that these things will only tear us apart. …You think that I don't have to fortitude to endure."

The sigh this time was soft. "…I think it's easier to sacrifice one's self for another in one large, fleeting moment, even if the results are permanent, than to endure the ebb and flow of small sacrifice, again and again."

…I felt anger shoot through me, but I tamped it down—I had no way to make him believe me, and he had years of evidence to prove my impatience and temper and intolerance of traits that were quintessentially Grissom. It wasn't true or fair—I didn't always love the way he acted, but I loved the man in any setting… loved any behavior I had ever seen him exhibit. Still, I pushed it aside. Life wasn't always fair—and once again, I became aware that tonight was an unprecedented opportunity the likes of which I would likely never encounter again.

I drew in a deep breath and exhaled it loudly, gathering the courage he'd spoken of. "…I never imagined hotel rooms. …I thought… too awkward, too unlikely, too uncomfortable. …I liked to think that it would happen somewhere more… us. We'd be in your office someday, discussing something philosophical, or our eyes would catch across a layout table, in the middle of intensely concentrating on a case… and words may or may not be exchanged, but it would be the gaze… Your eyes would tell me in a delicate, uncertain flicker that you didn't have the energy to keep denying yourself… and though it might cross my mind to be angry or indignant or disbelieving… to demand an explanation… my eyes would be unable to reflect anything but relief and… gentle acceptance. They would welcome you in, and that would be it… I mean, not that we would jump each other on your desk or anything, but that… there would be no more questioning beyond that point."

His breathing was loud in the stillness, and I wondered if my response to his words had been as obvious as his to mine. "…And then what?" He asked, sounding a little desperate and a little afraid. "I mean, I… I know you said no more questioning, but… did you imagine me picking you up for a date…? Did we jump right into curling up on the couch every morning after work, watching TV?"

It was the desperation in his voice that kept me brave… reminded me that he thought I was fearless, so that I could be fearless. "…I'm not sure. I just knew that I was done doubting, and that… that there was a serene contentedness through the rest of shift. And, at the end… we'd end up at your place or mine, consummating what our eyes had already exchanged and understood."

He gasped softly, his breathing noticeably quicker, and with a strange, alarming thought, it occurred to me that he might be touching himself. …Not just aroused, but aroused enough to… I kept my head still but let my eyes flicker over, trying to make out any movement in the darkness, but I couldn't see either way. …Somehow, that lent me a little more bravery and a little more recklessness, lifting my knees slowly and quietly and, under the covers, sliding a single hand slowly down my stomach.

"…When I imagine it in town, it's always at my townhouse. …I feel like, if it were in your apartment… it would still be you sharing all, and me accepting what you offer but not giving anything in return… and it's nice to imagine it happening in the place I am. …Lends a surprising level of reality to the… fantasy."

The word was an admission that pained him, but I grasped onto it, my fingers resting between my thighs, over my pants, just adding slight pressure, playing his words over in my head. "…I liked to imagine it at your place, too. …I have vivid images of being pinned against a wall between beautiful, vibrant, framed butterflies… pinned just like them, waiting to be…mounted, just like them…" My voice trembled over the incendiary word, but the response was exactly what I'd hoped for.

His shaky groan broke though the silence and suddenly every inch of my skin was on fire, burning hot, flushing with awareness and electricity. It was the sound of a lover, being thoroughly loved, and it shot through me with a force that left me gasping for air. Slightly dizzy, my hand slid beneath the waistband of my pants, trying to ease the ache more than encourage it. I wasn't thinking clearly, with the sound of that groan filtering through my senses.

"…Sara, I… I think this conversation has gone a little far…" He gasped out, clearly embarrassed, but I shook my head against the pillow.

"No," I said, sounding desperate and finding myself uncaring. "…This is our only chance, Grissom. The only piece of each other we'll ever have… tell me what you're thinking of, please."

A trembling inhale, "…mounting." He murmured softly, and I curled my toes up, pressing my middle finger gently against my clitoris through my underwear, simply to sooth the ache so I could think clearly. "And…Your toes."

This latter statement was not blatantly erotic, but the heat slid deliciously down my spine at it anyway. "I… what?" In frustration, my hand moved under my panties, moving slow and soft, aware that at this point I was wet enough to risk…sounds…giving me away. But I had been slowly simmering up to this point since the moment I'd met him, and I was about to boil over if I didn't address the problem.

"I… never see your toes." He said, a little embarrassedly. "You're always in boots or tennies or conservative court heels or, on the rare occasion you shower at the lab or get called into a scene without time to change… sweet, petite little closed-toe flats. …I think about your toes, and if they're painted… if they're long and slender like your fingers, or simply cute—short and a rounded in a way that no other part of you could be."

I closed my eyes, increasing my pressure, now picturing his toes with surprise and interest. What did Grissom's bare feet look like? I realized, belatedly, that the thought of his feet was arousing me as much as anything else about him, and that my breathing now must be as obvious as his had been. …And while having my leg up shielded where my hand was gently shifting back and forth, the fact that it was up would be more visible across the darkness than my hand under the covers. I stilled my hand, but it was probably too late. I heard his head shift, and then his uncertain voice.

"…Sara?"

"…Hmm?" I asked, unable to speak, feeling tears in my eyes, frightened now that I had been so mindless…

"What are you doing…?"

Oh God, he knew. I cleared my throat, playing defense. "Nothing. Just laying here. Why? …What are you doing?"

He chuckled softly at my somewhat frantic remarks shooting back at him, though his breath still came fast. I heard his bed creak as he sat up, and though I still couldn't see him, I sensed a new confidence in the air I hadn't expected… "…I'm doing exactly what I'm pretty sure you're doing, Ms. Sidle…" His voice was low and seductive and I felt myself flush from my hairline down to my shoulders and inhaled shakily, but riding on the wave of embarrassment was a spike of pride—he was touching himself too. He had just said as much, hadn't he? "…Sara?"

I closed my eyes in humiliation. "Yes?"

"…You said… tonight was our only chance… to live vicariously…"

My eyes fluttered open. He couldn't be thinking… "Uh-huh…" I murmured, because I was dying of nervousness.

"…If I… talk… will you… be offended?"

"Offended?"

I could hear the smile in his voice—he wasn't used to hearing a shake in mine that wasn't related to my overwhelming anger or grief concerning a case. I could tell I was giving him an apparently necessary ego boost here. "…If I told you that I've spent years imagining what your nipples look, taste, and feel like…?" The gasp fell from my lips in surprise, but the ragged breaths behind it gave me away. There was a smirk in his voice now, "If… if I told you that your mile-long-legs send my senses reeling and that when I touch myself, like you're doing right now, I'm imagining myself between them…?"

A long, slow, agonizing moan slipped from my lips, soft and unmistakable. I blushed, but he chuckled and I heard his bed creak again. He had lain back down, but only half-way, so his shoulders were against the headboard. I thought he'd be watching me, but a glance in his direction told me his gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

"…Your feet are cold."

"W-what?" I asked him in alarm, panting, and I can hear the smile the next time he speaks.

"Your feet are cold and you slide them closer to me, trying to warm them up without touching me. …You push them too far, though, and they brush against me, and the jolt it sends through both of us is… unexpected." He murmurs, and I realize that I can see him much more clearly when he sits up this way. …He is definitely touching himself, and my eyelids flutter as my hands start slowly moving again. "I roll over to face you, and even in the dark I can see your blush… but despite the embarrassed look in your eyes, you give me a grin that's all cheek and that makes me want to run my tongue across it."

I gasped softly again, my body tensing, and he groaned softly in response. "And once again, you throw me off guard, laying your hand to my face in a cool caress that leaves me bewildered, the way it always has, and we both know that there isn't any chalk on my face this time. …My instinct is to roll away, push it aside, forget it ever happened, but your smile and your touch and the warm smell of you in the bed beside me wears down those impulses… and instead I find myself leaning in to you, a palm to your cheek, to guide you into our first kiss, slow and gentle, but… hopefully…seductive."

"Oh, Jesus, Griss…" fell from my lips in a rush, and he let out another groan.

"…What… what happens next, Sara?" He guided me, slow and gentle, but also a little apprehensively. Despite the fear trickling down my spine, I reminded myself that this was Grissom—the man had thrown himself out there to give us one night's poor attempt at feeling what it could be like to give in, despite knowing he won't, and he is not a man who puts himself out there often. Not on a personal level.

I licked my dry lips and closed my eyes, because it was easier that way. "It would be seductive. And… I know that I wouldn't be able to keep the distance between us. I would scoot closer in to you, hands in your hair or wrapping around you or skating over your chest, taking in every inch of you. And if… if you didn't pull away, Griss, I'd slide them up the back of your t-shirt to run over your back to feel your muscles flex beneath your skin… If I thought you'd allow it, I'd lift my arms under your shirt and pull it up and over your head so I could drip kisses over your chest and shoulders, and feel myself wrapped up in the bare, exposed heat of you…" My face was red and hot, and I knew that part of it was embarrassment that I was doing this, and part of it was arousal… waiting on baited breath for his words to break through his labored breathing while the hand between my legs moves a little bit faster, my thighs tensing.

He chuckled, but it was tinged with a deep, lusty edge. "…You sound like the man, here, Sara… constantly afraid of moving too fast."

I smiled, despite myself, "…You can be rather skittish, sometimes…" I accused, and he chuckled again and then groaned, as something he did to himself was apparently particularly satisfying.

"…By the time you have your hands on my back, Sara, reassuring me that I 'm not moving too fast, I have mine slipping beneath the lacy edge of that tiny little tank top you have on, and the feel of your skin… the hollow in the small of your back and each rise of fall of individual vertebrae…" He moaned again, a long, desperate sound, and I realized that the term 'vertebrae' had never seemed sexy until now. But in his silky murmurs and followed with a guttural sound like that, he might as well have said something deliciously dirty like… cock. Or pussy. I blushed and whimpered at my own thoughts and wondered if he would think me strange if I asked him to describe my spine to me again, simply to hear that word again…

He continued speaking before I had the chance. "…And when my fingertips had traced all the way upwards, I would find myself not surprised but thoroughly intrigued when they encountered no bra crossing your upper back."

"N-not surprised?" I asked, the tremble not from nervousness anymore but the desperate desire coursing through me and heat radiating from my hand between my legs.

"No," he uttered softly. "When I walked in this room tonight, Sara, one of the first things I noticed…other than the gun in your hand…was those delicate little peaks pressing insistently against your thin, thin top. …Fear activates the fight or flight reflex, which includes arousal of the bodily systems… I knew instantly that my unexpected knock would have your adrenaline rushing… nipples and clitoris slightly erect, panties damp…"

"Oh god…" I murmured, aware that my motions were loud in the room… much louder than the sounds coming from his side of the bed.

Panting, he shifted on the bed in apparent response to me. "I… shit, Sara… the minute you'd pulled my shirt from me I'd have yours over your head and my mouth would be exploring the newly exposed skin… licking, biting, sucking, nuzzling… I've come so many times just thinking about your sweet, plump, luscious breasts, honey… Can you… have you ever… climaxed… just having them stimulated?"

I let out a shuddering sigh. "No…" My breasts in general were an erogenous zone that did, eh, not so much for me. I mean, sometimes stimulation of them would intensify other things being done to me, but otherwise, I could take or leave foreplay in that department. But the way Grissom described them… the way they were aching to be touched right now…

"I bet I could get you off that way, Sara." He rasped in the deepest, roughest voice I'd ever heard from him, and this first hint of dirty language… the tone… just the thought of that…

"Oh fuck, I want you!" I exclaimed in frustration and once again his chuckle met my ears.

"…Am I moving too slowly for you, honey? …Do you want my hands in your pants… between those silky thighs, touching you the way I can hear you touching yourself…?" My only answer was a long, needy whimper, and that infuriating chuckle came again. "…I sense your frustration, Sara, honey, and I unzip those tight pants you're wearing tonight, sliding them down your long, long legs and dropping them to the floor. I kiss my way back up them, but stop at mid-thigh and jump to your stomach, teasing your naval with my tongue and continuing up, despite your words of protest…"

His pause told me that it was once again my turn, but my head was swimming with his words. I wasn't sure if I could form words and I forced my hand to slow and my lips to open to draw in slow, deep breaths. "I…I would be terrified that you weren't just teasing but changing your mind. I would be frantically trying to open your pants, one hand moving against you through them, just to keep you from thinking too hard… and when they opened… when I got to… feel you…Ohhh…" I shuddered, my eyes all but rolling back in my head. The idea of touching Grissom's hard, silky erection… of knowing it was that way because of me…

"Oh, honey… Don't be afraid. I… I wouldn't be going anywhere. The first step is always the hardest. …Once I had you against me, around me… I wouldn't have the strength to pull away." The groan he releases this time is unabashed, almost deliberate, as if he's vocalizing to emphasize his point… but the words themselves are slow to filter in through my haze. I'm still sorting them when he starts again. He's describing his next actions in slow detail—palms over my back, kisses on my neck, fingers through my hair, teasing me by not touching me even though, in this fantasy, I'm naked except for my soaking wet panties—and while one half of my brain and all of my body is reacting to the words… the other half is taking in his first words… they're trickling in gradually, but I'm starting to process them… the first step is the hardest, but once he had me against him…

"Grissom." I realize, perhaps belatedly, that he was in the middle of speaking when I said his name. He frowned, his confidence waning, because I was no longer caught up in his tantalizing descriptions.

"…Yes?" We both realize, in that moment of reality, that we are on separate beds with our hands in our pants, having phone sex without the phone or the actual sex… an awkward tension fills the room, and I have to force myself to break through it.

"You have to kiss me."

He sighs. "Sara, I told you—"

"But you also just said that once you started, you wouldn't be able to stop…"

"I didn't say I wouldn't regret it after the fact." He snapped, a little ruthlessly. I draw in a sharp, surprised breath, taking a moment to compartmentalize. Separate the hurt you felt from the action necessary in the moment.

"But we're living vicariously, aren't we…?"

"Sara," he spat, the animosity tingeing his voice now. "I can't sleep with you and then just forget about it… pretend it never happened."

"….But you can describe the act of sleeping with me while we masturbate in separate beds and forget about that?"

I expected a long, empty silence, but I didn't get one. There was a brief pause, and then, cold and logical, "Fine. You're right. This is… completely inappropriate and I should have known better. …Forgive me."

"Grissom!" I huffed in frustration. "I didn't want you to apologize…"

"No." He said, sternly. "You just wanted me to do something you know I'm unable to do. I don't know why you're surprised, Sara." I bit back the hurt again, and fought the instinct to roll over and let this all die. I wanted to be fearless, he already thought I was, and so I was going to be. I threw the covers off myself and scrambled to my feet between the two beds. "…Sara…" He said, his voice a warning, like he thought I was going to jump on him.

…Which wasn't a bad idea, but I snorted in disbelief all the same. "I'm not going to assault you, Grissom, relax."

He breathed a shaky sigh of relief, and then seemed to be irritated with himself for the reaction. I could see his frown, through the darkness, now that I was a little closer. "So… what are you doing, then?"

"Pushing you." I replied, hands on my hips.

"…Pushing me?"

"You claim that I want something that is entirely beyond you… I'm going to see if that's true. If, despite… temptation, you still find yourself… immobile." I was shaking now, but telling myself I needed to be more like his dream-Sara, who would answer the door in a towel and sleep in tiny, lacy nightgowns in the same bed as him without batting an eye. …He took risks, with dream-Sara.

"Sara." It wasn't a subtle warning this time, it was a reprimand. I smiled all the same, sliding down the side zipper on my pants quickly, so I wouldn't lose my nerve, and pushing them over my hips until they fell with a whisper down to po0l around my feet. He gasped softly, and as I slowly stepped from them, I tried to imagine what he was seeing based on what I could see of him. …A dark outline, the hint of features… I could see the position in which he was sitting, the outline of his hand on his chest, the wide wariness in his eyes, the slackening of his mouth. …Chances were he could see enough to entice him. I swallowed and tossed my hair over my shoulder in a gesture I generally associated with Catherine, because I was trying to channel some of her unshakeable confidence.

I slowly sat down and scooted backwards, before lying back against the bedspread, my legs open to him. I was trembling—positively shaking—but I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes and slipped my hand between my legs again, this time not obscured by the blankets at all.

"Jesus, Sara…"

I grit my teeth and twisted my hips up, dipping my fingers in and bringing them back up and around the small nub of my clitoris, trying not to think too seriously about what I was doing, because I knew that thought would lead me to stop… and now that I'd started, anything half-way would only lead to extreme awkwardness and embarrassment. …I had to do this all the way.

"W-w-what are you doing?" He asked, and with my eyes closed, I listened to the sound of him sitting up in bed. I wondered what he could see of my actions, and felt a tight coil of desire winding in the base of my spine at the thought that he was watching me… and he would most certainly be watching me—hadn't he just been masturbating and describing how he wanted me?

"Sara…" He swallowed, and this time his voice was sharp. "Goddamnit!" He shot out, in a rush. "Sara, stop!"

I couldn't help it—the realization of the desperation in his voice… the tremble of weakness in the anger of his words... it told me how badly he was struggling not to lose control, and it sent a thrill through me—I moaned out in a low and husky tone, "God, Griss, waaant you!" and rolled my head on the pillows, my back arching off the bed.

"Oh fucking hell, Sara!" he exclaimed, breathing hard, as if he'd reached his breaking point. He scrambled out of his bed and over me, his hands clutching my shoulders painfully as he shook me. "Why? Why, Sara? You make me so fucking crazy!" His lips crashed down hard, ruthlessly, and the jolting spike of disbelief that burned through me at the contact was like an electrical shock. I flinched and cried out and yet wrapped my free arm around him, pulling my other from my panties, intending to clutch him closer to me as well. He caught my hand and broke the kiss, turning his head and sliding his mouth over my middle and ring fingers, sucking on them forcefully.

I moaned and arched against him, in disbelief at his actions. He slid off of them with a gasp a moment later.

"Oh, god, you taste so good!" His lips crashed down on me again, hands clutching eagerly at the straps of my tank top and dragging them down, the flash in his eyes absolutely feral as he worked them down just far enough to reveal my breasts before cupping them impatiently, his beard scraping painfully against the skin over my collar bone and down, until his tongue was curling around my hard, aching nipples. I tried to lift my arms to wrap around him, to remove his shirt, to touch him, but couldn't do more than run them over his back—they were half-pinned to my sides by the straps of the tank top and by his arms on either side while he feasted on me.

He slid his tongue along the bottom curve of them, nuzzled his face between them, scraped his beard over the tops of them, sucked my nipples eagerly between his lips, toying with them between his teeth and his lips and his tongue and in a rush that came over me before I was even aware of it, I was coming hard, my body shuddering beneath his, writhing, my head thrown back against the pillows.

"Oh, fuck." I panted, rolling my head back forward to catch his eyes in the darkness, in complete disbelief. His smug, boyish, self-indulgent smirk was tinged with lust as he eyed me.

"…I told you so."

I was still panting, staring up at him, wondering if this pause would give him a moment to think… to back away… to gain some control back. …If I had had any control over my own body, I would have tamped down the orgasm for fear this would happen, but I hadn't even known I was close… I gasped and jerked against his hand the minute I felt it, his delicate fingers sliding slowly up and down, over my panties. I felt a wave of heat over how wet I was for him, but I couldn't spare more than half a thought on that emotion, because I had so many other, more pressing ones flooding through me.

His smirk molded into a grin, dark and lascivious, and he descended on my mouth again, hurried and needful, as if the brief lull of his passion had not occurred at all. And I was helpless to it, swept up in it, unable to fight even if I had wanted to… and he was everywhere. His mouth moved from my lips, over my jaw, his teeth nipped at my earlobe and the pulse point at my neck, his tongue teased mine before marking a shivering trail over the curve of my shoulder, and I was absolutely mindless, responding bodily only—my mind somehow not entirely present.

His fingers dipped beneath my panties to slide up from entrance to clitoris, teasing me slowly—no penetration, no real amount of pressure where I desperately wanted pressure… and my response felt animal, even to me. I growled and bucked against him, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his, trying to trap his hand where I wanted it, to stop the unbearable teasing. My response seemed to spur him on even more—his growl was louder, rougher, and he tugged his hand from where I'd tried to keep it almost ruthlessly, both hands coming to grip my tank top and trying to tug it first down, running into the arms I had around him, and then up, before releasing a frustrated groan and simply pulling on the straps until they snapped. The garment was pushed roughly further down my stomach and then he tore his mouth from me again, moving down my body and dragging it and my drenched panties down together with a soft and yet still rough expletive.

My hands were freed from this action and I reached down, scrambling to take hold of his shirt, pulling it up and off his head as he moved lower, slipping the remains of my clothing off my feet. He came back to me in an instant, his body falling between my spread thighs, the simultaneously soft and yet rough feel of his slacks making me shudder. His gasp told me that he could feel how wet I was, through his pants, and all these thoughts about pants reminded me that he was still wearing his, and I could think of no conceivable reason why he would be.

"Off." I said, surprised at how demanding I sounded as my hand forced its way through our bodies and tugged at the button on his slacks as if my life depended on getting it open.

"Sara." He countered, and though his voice was still rough, he sounded more rational… Oh god, if he stopped now I would just die!

"Off! Now!" I insisted through grit teeth, and the button slipped through at that moment, the zipper sliding down on its own with a muffled rasp. My hand slid inside, rubbing him through his underwear, and he panted in my ear, rocking against my palm.

"Sara… Sara, just…Sara, wait…Oh, fuck, Sara, harder…" He groaned, all of this low and through his teeth, just against my ear. I lifted my legs, spreading myself wider against him, my feet pushing his pants down until they were at his feet. He kicked them off impatiently, but then rose up on his knees, pulling his throbbing erection out of my open and inviting palm and separating our bodies from the distracting contact.

I reached up to grasp him again but one hand lifted from the bed to catch my wrist roughly. I tried with my left, and he leaned back on his heels, catching that hand as well. I stared up at him, this god of a man with tousled gray hair, naked except for a clingy, black pair of boxer briefs leaving almost none of his hard, protruding manhood to the imagination, kneeling and panting heavily above me, holding my wrists, his eyes burning down at me. "Sara." He said, and this time it was absent the anger, the lust, the desperation. It was a blank sentiment, and I forced my mind back into the equation, taking in the lines of his face.

"…Yes?"

"We… we… I don't have a… I'm sorry. I was… hasty, here."

"…You don't have a what, Grissom?"

He grit his teeth, a tinge of red appearing behind the already flushed appearance of his cheeks, visible around his beard. "Protection, Sara. I… I didn't think that we'd… that this… I lost control. I'm sorry to… tease you."

I shook my head slowly against the pillows. "I've got us covered."

He blinked, and then scowled. "You do?" Even through his panting, there was a bit of an accusation in the question. I curled my lips up in a smile.

"To regulate my periods… not for my oh-so-common-one-night-stands, if that's what you're thinking…"

His breathing was slower, but his broad chest still rose and fell heavily with each one. He was hesitating, but the desire was clear in his eyes, even in the darkness, and the tent in his underwear had not decreased in the slightest. "I… I… Oh." He bit his lip, "I'm… clean. But if you're not… comfortable…"

I laughed softly, shaking my head again, aware of just how wild my hair probably was beneath me, spread across the tousled bedspread. "I'm more than comfortable, Griss… and, uh, I'm… clean too." I added, realizing that he apparently thought this was a concern despite the fact that we both knew each other well enough to know that our lifestyles were not reckless. In truth, it had been a long, long time for me, and I was fairly certain the same was true for him as well… and I trusted him not to take risks with my health, even without the reassurance.

As if he'd just realized we was holding my wrists, he turned his gaze to them and then with a soft glance at my eyes, he slowly move them up above my head and slowly lowered his body down with them, until they were crossed above me and pinned. I gasped softly at the proximity of his face after our brief reprieve and also at the deep, quiet intensity on his face that had replaced the frantic, unthinking need. He released my hands and sat up on his knees again, although I still felt pinned by his gaze and did not attempt to lower my arms, though I was lying beneath him, completely exposed. Slowly he backed off of me, and for a fleeting moment I was afraid, but the ferocity in his gaze reassured me. He stood, hooked his thumbs into his underwear and pushed them down and off his legs. I gasped softly at what I could see of him in the darkness, though it was only enough to tease me, and then all of a sudden he was above me again, between my legs, the head of him pressed against me.

I moaned and rolled my head again, but his large hand caught my chin, turning me to face him. "Sara. …Are you sure?"

I gasped softly and at the sound he twitched forward uncontrollably, pushing through that first tight ring of muscle, arching my back up beneath him. "Yes…" I said, despite my renewed panting. "Yes, oh god, yes, Griss… yes, yes, yes, yes—" He smothered my answered with the first gentle kiss we'd ever shared, and then slowly seeped deeper into me, pressing until he was buried completely. We broke apart, gasping for air, and with our eyes locked, he started moving. Despite the control he seemed to exhibit, briefly, he was gritting his teeth and breathing through them, his hands back on mine, crossed above my head, clenching them tightly.

I clenched my muscles around him, squeezing him, and with the most passionate vocalization yet, he all but screamed out a wordless syllable and then the urgency was back, and Grissom was letting go… letting himself have me. He was rocking hard into me, his head bent and his forehead pressed to mine, the sweat from his forehead gathering along my hairline, a grunt slipping from his lips to mingling with my moans on each thrust. I was trembling, teetering on the edge, deaf, dumb, and blind with the pleasure, when his words came huskily into the air between us. "God, fuck, Sara… never felt… never… anyone… not like this… Jesus, never… like this…"

Even through the haze of the orgasm that ripped through me then, I was surprised at the high-pitched cry that I released, my head thrown back, my legs gripping tightly around the back of his thighs, my back arched up and off the bed. My body shuddered, and I realized that it was still shuddering even once the waves of bliss were subsiding… because Grissom was shaking. My body was trembling right along with his orgasm, and I turned my eyes frantically to take in his face as he came. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around gritted teeth, looking like he was either in extreme pain or the deepest, sweetest of releases… sweat trickling from temple to beard, lines in his forehead.

He collapsed on me, exhausted, and I let my eyes close then, embracing the light feeling of afterglow, all the more intense because of what I'd just seen… We were drifting easily to sleep, tangled in each other, and though I knew it would be to allow it… I didn't want to wake the next morning to find him already gone, or as regretful as he'd said in anger that he would be. …Or, at least, I wanted to be prepared for it. …Because the orgasm wasn't the end of the story, it never was. It wasn't even the…climax…of the story. The climax had been the minute he'd pushed inside me and the two of us had finally been joined in the most intimate way… in the way we'd both been longing for since we'd known each other. Everything after that was just the extras… and the ending, well…

"…Griss?"

"Mmm?" He asked me, his eyes already flickering several times before he could manage to pull them open a crack to peer at me in the dark. After a moment, he tried harder, seeming to realize that he had finished and rolled over to go to sleep, which was supposed to be a big faux pas, but which had merely felt natural to me…

"Do you… regret it?"

His smile was soft and he moved to kiss me softly, his whiskers a mixture between a tickle and a scratch, but deliciously sensual and real all the same. "No, Sara. I could never regret loving you." He murmured, and his voice slurred a little, telling me he was just about asleep again…

I let him be, closing my eyes and letting the comment slide. …I was so over over-thinking… tonight had proven that action was more effective with Grissom… and Grissom was all I'd ever want. I knew that.

And until the real ending… the more conclusive one, in which I could answer questions like what the tragedy in Grissom's past that had made him include himself in those scathed by their pasts was… or who had broken his heart and made him so afraid to let me in for so long… or, like he had said, the everyday things that often made up more of a relationship than the extremes… which foods he preferred for breakfast and whether he liked glasses to be rim up or down in his cupboards and if he slept with a flat sheet or kicked it off the bed as soon as he got into bed like I did… Well, that ending would just have to wait.

Right now, I was content with my partial ending and his scruff-faced reassurances.

The knocking on the door startled me.

I set down the cup of coffee I'd been lifting to my lips and followed it with the pen that had been poised over the morning crossword, ready to fill in an eleven letter word for 'peak', and rose to my feet, all too aware of the bathrobe I was wrapped in. The front of my slacks were covered in…liquids…of an intimate nature, so it would do no good to don them now. I smiled at that, glancing in the mirror as I passed the closed bathroom door where Sara was showering, noting that though I looked showered and awake, the smirk on my lips and the glint in my eyes gave me away.

I was thankful that Catherine was back in Vegas.

I swung the door open to find Greg, of course, showered and dressed with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Sara, have you seen—Oh." He blinked, glanced at the side of the door, checking the room number, as if thinking he'd gotten the wrong room—which didn't make any sense… where did he think he'd woken up himself if he was knocking on the door to my room?—and then looked back to me. "I, uh… I was wondering where you'd gone."

I smiled lightly and took a step back, inviting him into the room. Both beds were tousled and Sara had picked up our clothing first thing this morning, her anal-retentive qualities causing her to neatly fold them into separate piles, leaving mine on the end of the bed and tucking hers immediately into her duffle bag. …There was no lingering scent of sex in the air, but rather the sweet, steamy scent of the shower running in the bathroom. Nothing to give us away.

"Has anyone ever told you your snore sounds like a snow blower driving over rocks?" I asked politely, with a smirk on my face, and the younger man chuckled and nodded.

"Yeah… Sorry about that. I take it I kept you awake?"

I nodded, slipping back into my seat and penning in the word. "Not for long. Sara led me sleep in her spare bed."

"Well, that's good at least." He said, pouring himself a cup of the complimentary coffee offered at the tiny kitchenette area that boasted a mini-fridge, microwave, and coffeemaker. "This any good?" He asked, sniffing it and then taking a drink without waiting for my response.

"It's no blue Hawaiian," I murmured, pushing the crossword aside and turning my mind to the case from the day before. "I should give Catherine a call… she should have DNA results from the blood pools, and then we'll have an idea how many bodies we're looking for." Greg nodded, and so did I. Cassie was alive, I just knew it… and I was going to find her, and then I was going to take Sara home. …She hadn't known, the night before, when I asked what happened after the climax in her fantasies… but I knew what happened in mine. Because I knew that, if I ever managed to take the risk, that would be it for me. I would take whatever she could give me and offer her everything in return…

The bathroom door opened, and before I could speak some kind of warning, Sara was stepping out, tiny white hotel towel wrapped around her dark locks on top of her head and another pressed to the front of her body, not even wrapped around her frame, but thankfully covering everything. "Oh my god, Griss, you'll never believe all the places I have beard burn…"

She looked up, her eyes went wide, and then the door of the bathroom slammed with her behind it once again. Greg stared at the door for a long moment, and then turned to me with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression.

I swallowed heavily, and sighed. "Greg…" I paused, wondering if I should play to his friendship with Sara—I knew he was very protective of her—or if offering him the next six months free of decomps would be better to guarantee his silence. He beat me to it, holding up a hand, palm to me, and shaking his head with a smile. No, not a smile... a self-satisfied, giddy-as-hell, over-the-top smirk.

"Don't worry about it… as far as I'm concerned, you spent the night in my room. Just… don't fuck with her head anymore, okay?"

I blinked in surprise, taken aback, and then smiled and nodded. "Okay."

That, I could do.