Author's Note: Finally, the Document Manager works! (There is an Internet God!) Anyway, these chapters are longer than those in my other works, so brace yourself, enjoy, and read and review as you wish. This is my second (posted) CSI fanfiction, which contains spoilers for "Way to Go" (6x24), has a G-SR beginning with a CGR ending, and is a WIP.Oh yes, and I am looking for a CSI beta -- which means this puppy is going naked for now --, so if you are feeling kind, feel free to offer your services.(I didn't ask my friends because they have to deal with me too much as is.) And as always, thank you to the reviewers of my other works, whose continuous comments and criticism are a joy to read.


Seesaw

Chapter One: Of Souls and Sins and Saints

He lies upon the duvet, stroking it curiously, and wears a blue, flower-patterned shirt, which irritates his nipples and looks awkward on his body. But he still smiles and still sinks lower into the duvet and mattress beneath, feeling his mind unhinge from him, his conscience drifting with it, which leaves a nagging pain in his stomach and an emptiness that has never been in that part of him.

Of course, he thinks, maybe he shouldn't ignore the pain or the emptiness that is infecting the rest of his being now. Maybe he should go immediately and forget about ever coming here, forget about freeing the rules and regulations that have been tethered to him for years upon years and even longer. He thinks this because he knows the pain could be something serious, because maybe the ache is from his soul trying to escape from inside his being and fly free to –

Ridiculous, the cynic within him interrupts, are the souls and spirits and saints. They are all lies to entrance the public, all creations for those seeking fabricated enlightenment and liberation. But his release is right here, his nirvana sitting within the walls of a simple bedroom. More specifically, a single bed belonging to a heartbreakingly single woman with only a heart to offer to a man of a similar position, whose singular goal for tonight has the imminent chance of being accomplished. Single, singular, and single again. The way his life has been for too long a time. It has always been one man eating one cold meal in one plain apartment, with nothing more and nothing less until now. He has always been and is still living a life tending to the death of others, and he knows that it is a disgusting yet enticing paradox just like him, just like religion and everything pertaining to it, just like what is happening here and now.

But should this even be happening? Is she the one he really loves? Or is it—?

"Grissom?" Her curious voice comes to him in uneven waves of sound that gradually become smooth like the smile brightening her features. "Ready?"

He stares at her, her brown eyes, her pale complexion, all of the physical attributes that have always called and never received an answer before tonight. "You're wearing that?" he asks, pointing to her thin, white shirt and lounge pants several sizes to large for her narrow figure. "Yes. Why, Mr. Grissom?" she inquires with a child-like-yet-somewhat-sardonic tone lacing her words. He shifts uncomfortably at the way her voice sounds, even with the sarcasm.

"So much for dressing for the mood, Miss Sidle," he says and smiles lightly, eyes lit with a dim glow. She doesn't notice how faint it is. She's just grateful it's there after so long. Too long.

"Oh fine. I'll 'dress for the mood'," she tells him and walks into the bathroom with a minute skip in her step, which causes another uncomfortable shift from him that she doesn't notice. It's not as if she is planning to wear anything for an extended period of time, anyway, and at least with the shirt and pants there is more fabric to rip from her body as his hands….

Maybe a shower wouldn't hurt – something cold to heal the ache of relationships past, something to refresh her and let her start anew – and maybe it wouldn't hurt to invite him to join her, either. But no, she reasons, as she pulls the over-sized clothing from her body. She wants to fantasize one last time before reality floods the scene like the wide, forceful streams of water hitting her everywhere now.

Oh, the irony, she thinks as the water streams push into her skin, that this could very easily be foreshadowing for later. And she laughs as the liquid falls away from her and weakly to the floor.
---

She leaves the bathroom, her hair dry but her lips wet. The only thing separating his eyes from her naked body is a thin silk robe falling over her miniscule curves. "Hello again, Mr. Grissom," she huskily whispers as she kneels at the side of the bed and leans forward, her arms resting upon the duvet, hands clasped together. The only thought that comes to his mind is a child praying before falling into an innocent sleep. But the situation here is far from innocent. He manages to raise his eyebrows and open his mouth, but the words just will not come.

Sara stands, loosens the tie from her narrow waist, and lets the silky band fall to her sides. He sees just enough for the situation to be risqué and not enough for it to satisfy her. She climbs onto the bed and wraps around him in a somewhat compromising position, still wearing the robe but revealing what she wants to reveal, needs to reveal. She begins to graze at his neck with her lips, and he lolls his head back and….

"Sara, wait, please, stop," he asks in a moan. Ignoring his pleas, she raises her lips to his beard, the whiskers tickling the delicate pink flesh on them. "Sara, stop." Aggravation laces his words, and he is practically begging, the moaning now completely absent in his voice.

Sara decides instead to slip her hands to his trousers, where she fondles the edge of them and moves her fingers closer to the zipper and button.

"Sara!" he scolds as he removes her from him, moves from the bed, and stands, wiping his neck and beard roughly with his right hand. He can't do this. He knew from the suggestion of it that he couldn't, but he still came. Why not now, though? Was it the sight of her appearing to be innocent, her robe closed, her eyes looking upward to him like he was a god, or was it before, with the child-like tones gracing her voice and the tiny skip in her step that made him shift uncomfortably? He knows that this is wrong, that everything is wrong. He has to leave. He throws his glance to the door, the sight of the knob more alluring than the very young woman in front of him is. "Grissom, what's wrong?" There it is again, the innocent tone, that inquisitive voice that reminds him, plagues him for reasons still unknown.

"Sara, nothing's wrong. It's just…" he begins, and stops, looking toward her. What really is so awful about the situation at hand? He doesn't even know, and that is what horrifies him. There must be something wrong here. His thoughts are fretful; his heart thuds in his chest; his mouth fills with saliva, and his head is heavy with emptiness and pain. Everything about his appearance is crazed, wild. It feels different, and he's not sure if he likes it or not.

"Yes, Grissom?" she asks, the same hint of aggravation lacing her voice like it did his just minutes ago. She is sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms across her chest, a pout making her face appear even more youthful. "Sara, it's just that you and I both know this is wrong. Supervisor and subordinate – it goes against regulations. It's not meant to be, Sara. It's –"

"And you coming here doesn't go against that, go against you saying that 'it's not meant to be'? Gri – Gil, you came here, and that says enough, because it says you don't think what we are doing is wrong. I've been waiting too long for this, and I know you have as well. But now you're…willing to just pass up this opportunity we have to finally do what we've been waiting for? I can't believe you," she says harshly, glaring at him, tears in the corner of her eyes.

"Sara," he starts, and then looks at her. She has turned onto her stomach, face lying down on a pillow, her legs crossed daintily but protectively at the calves. He walks over to the edge of the bed and places a hand upon the small of her back, and he feels a shiver run through her under his fingertips. Whether it is repulsion or arousal, he's not quite sure. He moves his hand as she turns to face him. "What do you want to do now? Come on, Gil, we've been waiting years for this moment – years!" She gently places a hand on his cheek despite the chaotic excitement she feels coursing through her. It's all too thrilling to feel like this, to be in this frenzied and stimulated state.

He sighs with indecision – or was it pleasure? – and looks into her eyes. "Okay, Sara." He feels the words roll from his mouth into the open air, and the thought frightens him; now is not the time to rethink what he has already reconsidered, because her lips have repositioned themselves and are now grazing hungrily once more.

And later, as he lies there after what he came here to do has been done without a word spoken, he thinks only of prayers and souls and God and everything that might take away what could be his worse sin performed. "May God have mercy on my soul," he whispers into the night before turning to the woman beside him and swearing he sees the spirit of another crying in the corner.