Disclaimer : There is no way a woman who barely speaks English own Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle, and C.S.I. CBS and other entities own them. They also run the show, make the money, and provide me a chance to write my point of view on what had happened after one memorable episode: The Good, The Bad, and The Dominatrix.

A/N: Just like poor Anakin Skywalker, I could not run and hide from my gloomy destiny. Sylvie's influence was too strong. I have turned to the dark side. The force could do nothing to help this situation. Angst ahead!

AMEND

"The real fault is to have faults and not to amend them" (Confucius)


Part one: Faults.

The mid afternoon sun beamed weakly as Grissom stepped closer to the door of their townhouse with his key in hand, half of him anxious that Sara had bolted the door dead from the inside. But the key clicked in just right and he could push the door open with ease. Everything seemed fine.

No. Grissom knew better than to celebrate early.

When he reached the leather couch downstairs, he gulped. His grey shirt and his white cotton boxers were neatly folded and situated above one of the cushions. A glass with his toothbrush in it was on the table.

He sighed. Heavily.

You take the couch tonight.

She didn't need to say it out loud. The blue toothbrush with a healthy dollop of toothpaste on it had spoken for her. He got the message. Somehow she had found him guilty.

He stripped off his clothes in the living room, donned the sleep attire she had provided while snatching a cold sandwich from the refrigerator then brushed his teeth in the kitchen sink. All was done on autopilot, his mind otherwise engaged.

What was he guilty of? He had done nothing but visit a friend, offering Heather his support. Sara did the same with Greg, and Nick, and Brass and he had never objected.

Well, maybe his objections had never been as palpable as hers now.

She said it was fine. She said he could do what he needed to do. Hadn't she meant what she had said?

If she felt any objection toward his act, if she was upset about the night he'd spent at Heather's, why didn't she tell him about it? Why couldn't she say she was upset?

She shouldn't have just gone home early without notice. She shouldn't have ignored his attempts to talk about it. All his phone calls and his text messages went unanswered. He didn't deserve this silent treatment, did he?

When he finished dwelling on every reason, every defense, every explanation he was already sprawled on the couch. The leather felt clammy on his skin and he sadly recalled that Sara had often proposed to buy a more comfortable couch. An offer he had simply declined.

He fell into a pitiful sleep, more because of his restless mind than his restless body. When he got tired of bad dreams and the uncomfortable air and couch, he woke up and strode to their bedroom.

Or, for this time being, her bedroom.

The door was unlocked, a fact that he gratefully appreciated. Maybe she wasn't that mad at him. The blinds were shut and the light was low; he easily spotted her lying on her side, facing the wall. Her body curved under the cocooning blanket and he wondered if he could lie beside her. Maybe tomorrow they could wake up as usual, limbs tangled together. Maybe they would forget about this somehow. Maybe he wouldn't need to explain at all.

The bed dipped as he sat on it. The pillow seemed so inviting when he touched it, although not as inviting as the side of her neck, illuminated by the dim light.

Right when he was about to brush his hand on her skin, she turned around and he snatched his hand away, her red-rimmed eyes peering up at him.

He blinked when he saw the raw emotion in those brown orbs. Suddenly it dawned on him that she hadn't slept at all. The tear streaks were a solid proof that she had been crying. God only knew how long for.

The once warm air suddenly became too cold for his skin. His hand moved unconsciously to touch her hand. To his surprise she didn't flinch nor move. Those eyes didn't blink at all. Then, without giving him a chance to do anything at all, she pinned him down. Her hands pressed his wrists above his head, her gaze piercing deep into his eyes, sending shiver down his spine.

"Sara?"

Her knee went between his thighs as her lips dived for his neck. He gasped, feeling her suckling on his skin. His body electrified, aching to meet hers, yet his brain told him to stop.

"Don't." She warned. She looked up to him with a pained look. "Don't ask." Her hands trailed down his torso to the edge of his shirt, tugging the garment upward.

"Sara…" The strength and urgency of her frantic movement made him sit upright. He let her tug the shirt off his body but stopped her when she reached for his boxers. "Sara, sweetheart…" He cupped her face ready to demand some explanation.

"Don't… just don't." She caught his hands and brought them up to the headboard, using his shirt to tie them to the post.

He could have put up a fight; he possessed the strength to stop her. But as she hovered over him, gloom and ache reflected in her gaze, he remained still. Her hands were trembling as she bound him and tears welled up in her eyes. An icy feeling stabbed Grissom's heart as he watched her move about him; he knew then and there that he was the cause of her misery.

But then again, hadn't that always been the case?

He choked out her name as she pulled off her nightshirt, revealing all her glory. When she roughly slid his boxers down his thighs her fingers burned invisible paths on his skin. They stare at each other's naked body. His blue eyes filled with desperation as much as her brown orbs filled with something he could only describe as deep vulnerability.

Questions welled up in his brain but as if reading his thoughts Sara kissed his mouth hungrily, locking whatever word he needed to utter inside. She forced his thighs open with her knee again while running her hands from his bare chest down to his stomach. When she reached his manhood he felt the beginning of a familiar tingle course through his spine.

He lifted his head, a last attempt to find some clarity in this rather absurd event. His eyes searched hers, but she was too busy with the task at hand. Her long hair framed her face, shielding her from his questioning gaze. Grissom gave up. Maybe later he would find out what this was all about. Right now his basic need won over his rational mind.

She started by massaging him from his base upward, slowly bringing him to life. Her adept fingers wrapped around his shaft and balls, pumping and tightening around him while he could only wait and watch. When she lowered her mouth on him Grissom threw his head back on the pillow, knowing exactly what would happen next.

The first contact with her velvety tongue ignited a slight buck of his hips. He could feel her hand pressing against his thigh, physically forcing him to stay still. The sound she made as she gloved him with her warm mouth sent whatever rational thought he had out of his mind. His stomach tightened as she began to suck. The cotton bind loosened as he involuntary tugged at his hands, aching to touch and feel. When she began nipping with her sharp teeth, he clenched his eyes shut, digging his toes in the mattress and moaned. He was close, a mere millimeter away from the edge.

Then she stopped, her warmth left him stranded and cold. He refrained from grumbling his displeasure when he felt her hands on his wrists, freeing them from the binds.

"Look at me!" Sara often intoned those words when they made love but this time the tone was cold and abrupt and unfeeling.

He gulped. Who was he kidding? This wasn't love making. He knew it and she knew it, right from the very beginning. This was nothing but a convulsion, triggered by her profound frustration and his failure to react. He opened his eyes, once again gratified with that dull shine of her eyes, filled with an excruciating mixture of anger and sorrow. He could not bear it so he looked away.

"Look at me Grissom!" She ordered as she lowered herself on him, bracing his arms as she did so.

Grissom felt the familiar tightness around his length along with the strange tug of sadness in his heart. He sat up, reaching for her hips ready to stop this madness. But Sara started to grind against him and he caved in, again. She moved frantically on top of him, as if she was a woman possessed. He had no choice but to follow her desperate rhythm, drowning himself in her sad yet lust-filled eyes.

"Sara…I'm sorry." It felt like those words were the right words so he tried to say them sincerely between jagged breaths. "I'm so sorry." He touched her cheeks, watching fresh tears slide down her smooth skin as she screwed her eyes shut. "I…," His breath caught in his throat as he came, "Sorry…"

Shallow thrusts and groans accompanied his release as he fell head first into the depth of her pain. Tears streamed freely down Sara's face, burdening Grissom with remorse. As if in a trance, he slid his hand down her belly to the apex of her thighs, his thumb and fore finger starting a familiar dance on her swollen bud.

She shook her head and pushed his hand away unceremoniously. Her body trembled with pent up emotion and sobs. "You can't keep doing this to me, Gil," she spat bitterly. "You just can't." She began sobbing uncontrollably against his chest.

Grissom could do nothing but lower her with him into a lying position, stroking her hair. "Honey…." He sighed and closed his eyes, unable to string two coherent words together, even if he had known what to say.

"What am I to you?" She looked up to him, a thousand different questions mapped in her glassy eyes.

"Sara…"

"What do you get from her that you don't get from me?" Their eyes locked; her disappointment met with his startled obvious bafflement. He groped for answers, searching for help to speak his mind, and failed dejectedly.

Later, when he had the chance and mind to think of it, he cursed his lack of response He should have answered her with sincere words of affection, telling her how he would trade himself and the world around him for her love alone. Yet he did nothing but murmur her name in her ear as he ran his hand in her tousled hair, helplessly watching her shed silent tears.

After a moment she rose up from him, turning away as she lay down and tugged the blanket around her body.

"Sara…" he touched her shoulder through the soft material but this time she flinched.

"You can bring the pillows outside if you want." Her words barely audible yet they had the power to shatter his heart. "The extra blanket is on the second shelf." She pointed at the closet.

He retrieved said pillow and blanket and dressed absentmindedly, his gaze on her. She hid herself beneath the covers, closing her eyes as the remaining drops of tears wet her cheeks. At that point he could only give her a kiss on her forehead and a whisper of an apology.

Then he retreated to his gloomy world in the living room.

To be continued


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