Disclaimer: Would rather they were mine, but sadly they are not.

A/N: I've been hideous at writing lately, and hideous at reading lately. It is my hope to get somewhat back on track. For now, this is all I can offer.

The fic is interspersed into an e.e. cummings poem, from his collection, 73 poems.

silently if

silently if,out of not knowable
night's utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more my life does
not leap than with the mystery of your smile

( Her smile, she brandishes like a weapon. He wants to believe she wields is carelessly, recklessly, though he knows rather, that it is very deliberate. She is well aware of the weapon she holds. A wry smile; a shy smile. An amused smirk. A delighted beam, or a bold grin, it all enfolds him.

He is changed when she is near him. His face softens, but so does hers. His pitch changes, though hers does that as well. He has heard it said that they have their own brand of symmetry. At a crime scene, they work in a kind of harmony. Catherine has eluded to it. Warrick too, though more subtly. It does not feel like symmetry, though. When she is close, his breaths hitch. His heart beats unevenly, irregularly...erratically, skipping beats like Conrad Ecklie skips salutations. Thoughts fire rapidly around his brain and words tangle on his tongue, all because she is near him. There is no measured cadence in any of this. If they are locked in a dance, inside he feels horribly out of step.

Alone together, it is all heightened. She comes nearer and the energy changes. She throws her weapon at him, the soft smile playing at her lips and he is arrested. )

sings or if(spiralling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

( He loves to watch her at dawn, when light first seeps in. After their crime scene has been released, but before any results have a chance to come in. The time for respite.

In the golden hour, he delights in the way the new light casts a glow over her features. He loves the way she throws her head back with her throaty laugh. The way she gasps into his mouth as he runs his tongue over the endearing gap between her front teeth. The way she digs her fingers into his hips, drawing him into her. In their time together he becomes more than just Grissom. A playful or challenging upturn of one brow and he is Gilbert. Softly letting fingers and lips wander over her smooth skin, moving slowly in her, to her pleading voice, he is Griss. Kissing her, just kissing, eyes locked on one another, her breathless whisper against his lips, Gil.

It has changed him, being with her. He was unaware he could love this absolutely. It feels both sacred and profane. Given everything that is between them, he thinks it should feel profane, but admittedly, he is left only with the sacred. He is as solemn and sincere in his love for her as he is in anything. )

losing through you what seemed myself,i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears

( Waking to her, everything steadies. His heart no longer beats erratically. His breathing has become measured. His mind is not a tangle of ideas or decisions, theories or longings or regrets. It contains but one pure thought. How beautiful it is to lie here and watch her sleep. )

yours is the light by which my spirit's born:
yours is the darkness of my soul's return
-you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

- e.e. cummings