Kiss In The Dark, a csi fanfic

Kiss In The Dark

Rating: T

Summery: The more he tried, the more he thought about her lush lips, angelic curves, her hair that he desperately wanted to bury his hands in. And those tale, tale scars that he wanted to kiss in the dark. [GregSara Oneshot]

A/N: Just giving you your fair warning, when I put it under angst, I mean it. I don't often write angst, but when I do, don't expect a happy ending. So if you don't like that type of thing, don't read it. But anyways, hope you like it. Set directly after where the episode went off in Season 8 Episode 2 (Forgot the name! I know I'm a horrible fan!)

A/N Part 2: Okay, so I was not happy how the story ended, some of the parts of the story how I wrote them at the time didn't stick together and flow as well as I hoped it would so I changed it and I HOPE it made it better. No, the story ending didn't change, it's not going to either, but their is quite a few nice add ins, so read it if you would like. Also just a note. This is Sandle and Anti GSR and Anti Greg/OC. I do not support GSR, never have, never will.

A/N Part 3: Last authors note. I SWEAR! I was revising all of my stories so I revised this one as well. Nothing major, just some grammar changes. Hopes it makes it a little better. Anyway, if you all liked my style of writing then expect some new stories in the future! I'm getting back into the swing of things.

It was how he had always loved it. The rush of the wind against his skin, as his foot pressed the pedal just a little bit closer to the floor. A hum of a rock tune budding in his head, shaking his head to the invisible music. His felt that sweet escape, the rush of adrenalin pumping through is veins like heroin. He let out a hiss of glee, pressing the pedal as far as it could, digging it into the leather carpeted floorboard. Cart after cart, he passed them. The sweet victory of the air whipping ever quicker around his head. This by far, had to be the best feeling that he had ever experienced.

Maybe making bombs all through his childhood was a bad idea. Not that the lab wasn't everything he had ever wanted, because it was and so much more. It was just that, unless someone drastically gets their loins cut off, nothing really that gives you that amazing rush happens. This was so much better than anything.

But maybe not as amazing as the fluttering of his heart at her smile.

He looked at her, the long scratches down her face. They would soon become scars, and he had to do everything but rip off his hands to keep himself from tracing his too. Others, they suggested medication, treatment to get rid of them. But Greg told her to keep them, where them with pride. They showed that you were strong enough to live. To fight for the right of that. It shouldn't be what you hide.

And she didn't. Because even with the medical treatments she could have had, the makeup to cover it a bit, they were still there. Grissom would probably not touch them, slid his hand down her other cheek, scared to feel a wound that he caused. He felt a surge of emotion, so much strong than any adrenaline rush. He wouldn't run away from them. He would kiss them; let his hot tongue trace them with glee. He would praise them, because he had them to on the same cheek as she did. They matched.

They matched.

He tried to push the pedal further, tried to refuse to think about her, but it was impossible. The more he tried, the more he thought about her lush lips, angelic curves, her hair that he desperately wanted to bury his hands in. And those tale, tale scars that he wanted to kiss in the dark.

He looked to his side, finding him coming ever closer, with a gleeful smile on his face. He gave him a faint wave and Greg nodded back. He turned back to the wheel, doing everything to keep from breaking it.

He felt their eyes on him, they all knew. They all knew he was broken. He had known for a while, ever since it started two years back. She had told him, called him with glee to tell them about how they made love. Sweet and gentle she said. He had whispered his good lucks and his 'I am so happy for you'. But she didn't see him cry while he said them.

He could have been so much gentler.

He wanted her for more than her body, he wanted her for her smile. He wanted to make that breathtaking smile meet her eyes as she lit with laughter. He wanted to hold her while she cried, kissing away the tears. He wanted to make love, really make love so sweet and tender they felt it deep in the depths of their souls. He wanted her for her. He wanted her because he was an unfinished puzzle, and she was his missing piece. But she had wedged herself into a puzzle she didn't belong, but liked a little bit better.

He wished so badly he could be that puzzle. Just for one night, just to kiss her so softly that she wouldn't be to sure he had in the first place. He wanted to make her dizzy by just his baited breath against her neck.

Soon he felt their eyes on him, even so much more than before. They could all see him, veering off to the left in his thoughts, and soon he exited the track and sat as his go-cart idled for a while. He watched as Grissom zoomed past him, through the finish line and stopped so abruptly that his cart skidding, swinging to a backbreaking halt. He jumped out of the cart, and he saw her again. He smiled, at her, as she came nearer and nearer.

She knew his was upset; she was coming to him, to see what was wrong.

"Hey Sara-"

But he stopped. She didn't even know he was there. She flew toward her man, and into his waiting arms.

Greg threw the helmet against floorboard in budding anger. He left the track abruptly, hoping when he turned back she would have noticed him by now.

He wished he hadn't looked at all. His lips met her is a chaste, knowing kiss.

Greg finally knew what your heart felt like it was not only broke; Sara Sidle ripped it right out of him. He went through the doors, and he never came back in. No one came after him.

And a week later, he still hadn't returned. He didn't mean too.

Sara Sidle had called Greg Sanders 83 times the past week, went past his house

43 times and actually considered busting through the door 23 times. She knew it bothered her too much, the fact that he had just up and disappeared. But this wasn't like her Greg.

She flipped out her phone dialing his number quickly. The phone rung on again until she listened to his dreadful voicemail. They had made it so long back and Greg still refused to change it. She really wished he would.

"This is Greg-"

"And Sara."

"No, this is Greg," Greg laughed, "Sara, oh come on give me the phone."

"No- this is Sara."

"No this is Greg."

"Sara."

"Oh jeez this is Greg Sanders!"

"And Sara Sidle."

"No."

"Yes."

"Oh god," he sighed exasperatedly, "Just leave a message."

Sara couldn't help but giggle. She hung up the phone, turning the wheel of her car into the parking lot. For a while she watched his apartment. The blinds drawn shut, with no signs of life from within. What if he was hurt, or even dead? She jumped out of the car, shot up the steps and knocked on the white door rapidly.

The door swung open.

"Oh Greg thank- who the hell are you?"

This was obviously not Greg Sanders. She was entirely the wrong gender, and entirely to skinny with flaming red long, loose curls. And the fact that she was only wearing her underwear and a t-shirt that seemed entirely all too familiar.

"Hey! That was the shirt I gave Greg for Christmas!" She squealed.

"Yeah," the red sighed, "He told me to take it. Didn't mean to much to him apparently."

"Of course it does! I bought it for him! He is obsessed with Marilyn Manson!"

"Hey Kate who is that- oh Sara."

She looked over at her friend stunned anger shooting through her at the sight of him.

Nothing on except for a blue pair of boxers. The boxers she gave him! Shaking up with some girl, giving away her shirt and wearing her boxers?

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Sara, I think it quite obvious where I have been," he replied bitterly.

"Greg, I have been worried sick about you! You know how many times I have called you?"

"None that I recall."

"83."

"Well, must have miscounted then."

"Greg, what in the world has gotten into you? Disappearing for a week straight? What about work?" she asked breathlessly.

"About that, I don't think I will be coming back. Deliver the message for me would you?"

"Greg!"

"Yeah, I am moving back to New York. Kate is a good friend of mine from up there. We are going on Monday."

"Greg, you can't leave me!"

"Why? You did me," he asked his eyes ice cold.

"Greg, you know why I had to Grissom-"

"Could have changed shifts."

"I couldn't-"

"You know what, I don't care anymore. Call me one more time and I will have a restraining order put on you. Wouldn't look too sweet on your record would it?" he asked tilting his head.

"Greg! What has gotten into you?"

He looked up, his eyes laced with unshed tears, and whispered, "You did Sara You took my heart, didn't give it back. Now I am getting you out of my system. Addictions aren't good for people. Someday, you have to visit the clinic and get off of them, or die. I won't die for you Sara. Not anymore. I have been dead for way to long."

And he shut the door and never opened it back.

Greg Sander's watched slowly out the window as she walked down the steps and got into her car. He never got a close enough view to see the tears around her eyes, or how fast and broken her breath was as she sobbed. How when she slipped on the concrete she busted her knee and couldn't feel the pain because it didn't really matter. Greg Sander's didn't notice that he broke her heart.

Tears threatened but he didn't let them pass. He almost ran after her, was so close that he almost opened the door.

Almost

She loved Gil Grissom, not him. He had to let her go.

He had to let her go.

It had been a long day for Gil Grissom. Three dead bodies plus a cold case that had been dug out of the files. By the end of the day he found himself praying for the clock to turn, something he rarely did. His work settled him, soothed him. He enjoyed his work more than anything else really, but today he just wanted to go home.

Shrugging off his lab coat, he stuffed it inside his lock and grabbed his billfold and cell phone that laid neatly inside. Shuffling a few papers on his desk absentmindedly, he glanced at his room with a sigh. He never really had been the neatest person, and his office certainly proved it. Old Chinese boxes, coffee stains and old paper cups laid tossed aside. The paper's on his desk absentmindedly shuffled into slightly jarred piles, making it look like a controlled disaster. It was really hopeless, because after he put his head to it and cleaned his office up, it ended exactly the way it had been the previous day. But he still tried anyway, that was the obsessive side of him.

"Hey Gil you will never guess who just called me!" Catherine sighed as she plopped in the chair opposite his.

"Who?"

"Guess."

"Barry Manilow," he guessed randomly.

"Barry Manilow? Where did that come from?"

"Sara played him last night, it was one of her mope nights."

"Why- oh right. Well, that is sorta who called me," she whispered awkwardly.

Grissom's jaw dropped. Sara had moped all day yesterday, eating chocolate and drinking two six packs of beers because it was the date that marked him gone for ten years. He hadn't called her, or tried to see her for ten years. Grissom wasn't an idiot. Every night that Sara laid down to bed next to him he heard her whispers. She only married him because she just didn't want to look anymore.

She found her perfection and she let it walk away. He knew she didn't realize she loved Greg until he left her, and sadly, that is the way alot of times it goes. She let it pass her and every night her dreams haunted her. While she slept with the misery in her heart, he had to endure his name as she whispered it breathlessly. He often wondered what she thought of, if when she slipped under the sheets how soft his touch would be? Soft as the sheets her husband bought for her, or perhaps softer?

"Greg."

"How is he?" He asked tentatively.

"He's married."

"To who?" he asked, his blood pressure rising. He knew the fact should comfort him, how he won her and that Greg Sander's was no longer a threat to his marriage but it didn't. It angered him because he didn't even try to come back for broke her heart and left her to deal with it.

They were a few moments of lapped silence, an unsure pause before Catherine Willows looked up tears rolling out of her eyes. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper, so soft he barely caught it.

"Not to Sara."

Greg Sanders was an old man, with bitter joints that ached a bit worse each passing day.

He had lived his life, with many regrets by far. He had been married, with amazing children . He should be pleased by all accounts. He worked by day, the lab dreadfully dull work compared to his crime scene days. There were no attacks, and the most exciting thing that happened on a daily basis was getting the reports in. But by night, as he closed his eyes he betrayed his caring wife beside him. His dream's betrayed her love with a bitter sweet sorrow. He knew she was a good wife, a good woman that any man should feel blessed for. She was a good choice.

But Greg wanted something better. He had settled for less, when he could have fought for more.

He could have fought for Sara. And every night as he closed his eyes, he paid the price for his mistake. He dreamed of her, the touch of her skin the taste of her lips The heat from her body.

They never did. He just never could get himself to go back until it was too late.

He sat on his knees at her grave. A stone carved for an angel, her name written in italic script.

You might have left me physically, but you never left my heart. Forgive me for my mistakes, remember me for my heart.

He had blinked his eyes so much, trying think it was just his mind. But she had chose those words, those words set in stone meant in a feeble hope one day he would see them.

He would forgive her.

"I forgave you a long time ago. I just didn't know if you would me."

The tears nipped at his cheeks in the cold winter air, the breeze buzzing in his ears. He knew he had his fair share of mistakes, regrets, broken promises. He was like everyone else, but why was it that every time he visited her he felt different? He felt out of the loop, alone, like the freak in the back of the class room you threw your Algebra book at because he could actually do the equations. He felt like to other people, he was like quantum physics to a two year old. He just didn't make sense.

But why not? He had two amazing kids, who were both just as brilliant, or perhaps more, than their father was. He had an amazing wife, who was always there for him. He had the life other men would sell their souls for. Why wasn't he normal you ask?

He didn't want it. He didn't want any of it. He didn't want brilliant kids, an amazing wife, a good steady job or a very nice roof over his head. He didn't want it. He loved his kids, but he could still picture a life without them. He still wished that they were all hazel eyed, brown haired and gap toothed instead with an insane need to find all the bugs in the back yard.

He didn't love his wife, he never did. The only reason he married her because he didn't want to take the time to find anyone else. He already had met his soul mate, and he lost her. What was the point of finding better when you found the best and you let it go? An angel stood at his doorsteps, her heart in her hands, so willing to hand it over, and he closed the door.

That was what made him abnormal. That was his torture.

He had perfection, and he let it leave. He had perfect.

He had his prefect and he let it go.

He let it go.

He saw her ahead, a crestfallen smile on her lips that to anyone else, would pass for a look of contentment. He understood her movements, her smiles, all the moods that were written on her features in such a small way that it is hard for you to notice until she is screaming at you.

Unless you watch her endlessly and hopelessly addicted to her, of course.

"You smell like death," he whispered against her ear. And in all honesty, she did. She reeked with the oder of liquefied man in a bag. But liquefied man in bag had never smelt sweeter than it did on Sara Sidle.

"I noticed."

Greg wanted to say so many kick that fouls ass for number one, number two tell her how beautiful she was and how he didn't deserve her. She deserved perfect. But instead, he walked away. His backbone growing a bit, just enough to turn around and whisper, "You know, a real man wouldn't mind."

"You know Sara," he started cryptically, "I really didn't see anything."

In all honesty, he did see. Everything that is. And everything was nothing short of am- az- ing! Absolutely mind blowing beautiful. Body of a goddess, he didn't see how Hank or Grissom could have ever let her run away. He didn't see how they could let such an, an angel get away from them and never even care. Such perfection.

"Really? Well I saw everything."

She gave him a gap toothed grin that made his heart melt. When she smiled he lost his mind, well not enough to wonder if she liked everything she saw too.

Greg never got around to asking that.

"Greg did you get those samples?" She whispered inching up behind him, a hidden smile.

He had smelt her far off, that exclusively Sara Sidle scent that had drove him mad since he first met the woman. He always hated how close she got to him, breathing down his neck with those perfectly perky breasts pushed against his back. Then again he loved it. He loved her this close because he got to feel exactly how hot her body could make him. Literally.

"You say jump, I say, how high," he gave her a smirk and turned to fumble with a folder. He knew exactly where it was, but he took his time with it. He liked her this close. He liked it a lot.

He bent lower down on her desk, taking in her sweet, sweet scent. She looked completely worn out and frankly a bit over the edge. He knew she had pulled a double shift, but he couldn't resist seeing how far he could push her.

"Well, I know something that could bring us even closer."

He waited for what he always got, a cocky response in what he could only assume was an attempt to run him away, or even better try to retaliate back. But nothing came. She only looked over at him with that beautiful soft smile on her lips. Greg stood up slowly, a goofy glazed grin on his face. He drifted for a moment in his heaven, his heavenly fact that she only watched him and didn't push him away from her in such a close distance.

Then work jerked him back to reality because Las Vegas truly never sleeps.

It was how he had always loved it. The rush of the wind against his skin, as his foot pressed the pedal just a little bit closer to the floor. A hum of a rock tune budding in his head, shaking his head to the invisible music. His felt that sweet escape, the rush of adrenalin pumping through is veins like heroin. He let out a hiss of glee, pressing the pedal as far as it could, digging it into the leather carpeted floorboard. Cart after cart he passed them, the sweet victory of the air whipping ever quicker around his head. This by far, had to be the best feeling that he had ever experienced.

But maybe not as amazing as the fluttering of his heart at her smile.

He wouldn't run away from them. He would kiss them; let his hot tongue trace them with glee. He would praise them, because he had them to on the same cheek as she did. They matched.

They matched.

"A kiss in the dark," he breathed, closing his eyes. It felt like an eternity before he moved.

But that was the thing

He wished he hadn't moved at all.

"Kiss in the dark."