WEAK

Revised and revamped.

Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Maybe one day when I come into my full power, but till then, nothing.

It had started with a butterfly. He really should have guessed.

Sara had been assigned the case of a deceased male. No identification, no dna, no suspects, all he had, all they had was a butterfly lodged in his trachea. Grissom had been unable to immediately identify it by sight and had invited her to his townhouse that afternoon to research it using his books and specimens.

Therapy had been working for Sara. They'd had several slightly awkward conversations about it in passing from his office door but their interaction had taken a playful turn again and thinking about her didn't make him feel tired or confused anymore. Her smile had returned as well as her ability to distance herself from her work and he was glad. He didn't want to lose her but refused to analyse that thought beyond the surface.

This was - he realised, his first error.

The second had been actually letting her past his door when she arrived.
It was mid-morning and she had showered and changed, wearing the same outfit as him, jeans and a t-shirt. Only his jeans weren't as form fitting and his t-shirt didn't cling to such enticing curves.

Standing on his step she offered him a smile of gratitude as he let her past him into the house's cool interior away from the gathering heat of summer. He could smell the last lingering scent of her shower gel as she entered.

He'd never had her in his home before, not without another person there to buffer their reactions, and as they had sat on his floor, backs resting against his sofa with various books and illustrations scattered around them he felt good, he relaxed.

An offer of coffee led to breakfast led to her full low groan of appreciation over a full stomach.

He took her empty plate to the kitchen and scraped the remains of his own apple pancakes. Placing the dishes in his sink he searched his fridge for a carton of orange that actually contained the juice and poured a glass for each of them.

"That was good Griss, Who'd've thought you could cook?" Sara smiled up at him and took the glass he offered.

"I'm a man of many talents Ms Sidle." He told her solicitously, the innocent expression he wore made comical by the smirk that shone in his eyes. "Some merely hidden better than others."

"Hidden talents? I am intrigued Dr Grissom. But right now I need you for your well documented talents." She smirked back and pulled an oversized book onto her lap. "Come teach me something," as she patted a space on the floor next to her.

The teasing felt good, like finding himself inside a life he'd once had and lost. To sit so close and pour over the books with her- a secret hidden dream come to life.

He dropped himself unceremoniously beside her and reached across to smooth out the pages she was looking at. The illustrations it held had very little in common, beyond species, with her specimen and he carefully turned the pages explaining to her the differences and the specifics of her butterfly.

Oh, he told himself that it was innocent, the way he brushed her thigh with his, how he leaned into her to draw her attention to certain things he found interesting, touching her to get her attention, the way she smiled across at him, finding himself completely fascinated with her bottom lip.

He couldn't really berate himself for these things; he'd long ago accepted a certain amount of control would be lost when he interacted with Sara one on one.

But he had continued, completely ignoring social mores on personal space, maintaining contact even when he did not need her attention and becoming fixated on her bottom lip.

And when she had tried to move the mood away from his intense gaze on her and back to the professional, with a hesitant "Uh, Grissom.." he had moved in and satisfied his curiosity about that lip.
And the wickedly long curve of her neck.
And then even more.

He'd been weak.

That evening he had awoken with delicious aches clustered on his skin and the memory of her above him, sucking along his fingertips. He'd felt glorious. Triumphant, exalted in the hazy seconds before he reached for her and found only cold bed sheets.

"This is a bad idea Grissom." The murmur came from beneath his lips but her hands were on his back. He pulled back to search past the uncertainty in her eyes. "The only bad thing about this is that I waited so long."

That had been his last mistake, and the one that had cost him.

He checked his bed, the table beside it and his chest of drawers, the tables in the living room, kitchen counter tops, his answering machine and the mirror in his bathroom, but no note or message offering an explanation was found.

He knew there wouldn't be but couldn't stop himself. Wouldn't admit that he wanted there to be a note, an explanation, a good sign.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes."

All that was left then was an uncomfortable heat and uncertainty in his chest. He wanted to cry. He hadn't felt that since he was ten years old and realising for the first time that his parents, his life, would not be coming back to him ever again.

Mechanically, he had stripped the bed and put it in the wash with the clothes he had worn the previous night. Tidied away the hastily left texts still out in the living room and then stood under a hot shower for the better part of an hour soaping himself.

It was just water on his face.

That night he was off but had intended to stop by the lab to gather some texts from his office, only now the thought of running into Sara rolled in his stomach like bad coffee and he stayed home doing all that he could do with the information he had to hand. She hadn't called, hadn't made any attempt to contact him and he couldn't bring himself to reach back out to her.

The next night though, he had to go in and with every step into the lab he had simultaneously felt his heart harden and a thick lump form in his throat stealing his voice.

He refused be caught off guard and had arrived earlier than usual to give himself time to be at assignments before her.
Let her come to him, this was his turf and he was strong there.

But when she had arrived in the room and looked at him like it was every other day, as though he had been the only one to have had the sweetest moment of his life ripped from him, something in him had ripped but he could never quite put his finger on what had been lost, only knowing that it could have been the most important part of him.

The mid afternoon light made a valiant effort at infiltrating his room, casting patterns over his walls and possessions, over them, over her hand that lay on his chest, the hand whose fingers he was toying with lightly.

"You were right. We should have done this years ago."