Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: So I'm soooo sorry this has taken me so long. I can't tell you how much I struggled with this chapter. But, hopefully, I'll have more time when school starts up again (isn't that ridiculous?) and I'll be better about updating. Hope you guys enjoy this. :)

Unbetaed, so the mistakes are mine, and yet Pati still deserves more thanks than she can know. She makes me a better writer, even when she doesn't even look at what I write. Thank you, dear.

Chapter Nineteen:

My eyelids fluttered closed as we collided, full of need, a stumbling mass that slipped from the bright hallway into my lamp-lit bedroom. The door closed behind us just before he pushed me against it, pressing against me with nothing short of urgency, his hands grasping eagerly—almost anxiously—at my waist, like he was afraid I might slip away if he didn't keep an anchor on me. It took me several dizzy, heat-filled moments to realize that despite his earnestness, his kisses didn't taste like anger this time—and not like sex either.

No, they tasted like fervent, furtive, delicious longing, and it was so much sweeter. Like chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne when you were expecting salty bar nuts and the burn of tequila.

And maybe it was that inherent sweetness that had me pulling away, gasping for breath—tempting fate by separating from him. I had no idea what had gotten into him, but the flood of endorphins his kiss had caused was making me dizzy and I just needed a minute to get my bearings. He didn't seem to have any intentions of allowing such a thing as his lips found my neck instead, his tongue sliding over my pulse point in a move that was positively moan-inducing, eye-rolling, knee-weakening. This was not like last time, which meant that it was so good—just what I'd wanted, all along—and so I did not know what made me say the words. Because I really, really shouldn't have said them, but his palms were sliding up either side of my lower back, under my tank top, and his mouth was in the curve between my neck and shoulder, his breath hot and heavy, and I just couldn't keep them in.

"…You're not drunk, are you?"

I cringed as soon as I said it, waiting for him to pull back in sudden realization, the way he had twice before, but he didn't. Or, at least, not immediately; not the sharp retreat I'd expected. Instead he shook his head slowly, his lips on my neck reducing pressure with each repeated press, finally retreating to the simple act of running the tip of his nose back and forth along that sensitive curve, sending another round of goose bumps over my neck and shoulders and straight down my back and arms. I leaned back heavily against the door to remain standing and, when he finally lifted his head just slightly—just enough to meet my eyes—I gazed back with more than a little uncertainty. This wasn't… This wasn't the Dr. Grissom I'd come to know and—

His eyes were over-bright, even through his mask, and he looked younger—more vibrant—than I'd ever seen him. He didn't look torn, or confused, though I wouldn't say that he looked decisive either. I bit my bottom lip, unable to break the eye contact, until finally he sighed, looking regretful, and shook his head again. "…No. But I shouldn't have done that."

I frowned in disappointment and he chuckled softly at me, finally pushing the dark mask off his face. Seeing the entirety of his expression—soft, tender, adoring—it made me ache to taste him again. Made me want to die in this moment so that I might never have to see him look at me in any other way. My heart was beating madly and I thought dimly, through a haze of sweet-lipped satisfaction, that my first—the teacher who had taught me to never believe men's lies—had made me think I was in love… but that had been before this moment. And now… now, I just wasn't sure what I would do if he ran away again, or reiterated his desire to be friends. I knew, much to my dismay, that my eyes were wide and probably slowly filling with the emotion I couldn't restrain, but I couldn't figure out how to turn it off or turn away from him.

He sighed again, this time accompanied by a little smile, and it was soft. Like a lover's breath on you cheek, moments before they slip into a deeply sated sleep. His hands moved from my back and slid into mine, our fingers intertwining just like they belonged. And, somehow, that made my heart beat even harder than the kisses and the soft caresses had. It was almost too innocent for me to stand. Standing close like this, holding my heart quite literally in his hands, he scanned my eyes thoughtfully, a decision of some kind lingering in the depths of his. He bent his head to mine again, kissing just the corner of my lips again, the way he had when he'd told me we had to be friends, but his eyes were wide open. I tried, too, to keep mine open, but the second I felt the soft brush of him, my eyelids were fluttering again and against my will, my lips murmured a soft, "Oh," against his.

His eyelids were heavy when he pulled back and I knew that in a brief moment, I had been so vulnerable—so beyond open to him, and that he'd seen it. I wanted to run, to lash out, to cry, to send him from my room… but he was already tugged me gently towards my bed, his thumb sliding over the back of my hand soothingly. I felt off-balance, my feet heavy and clumsy in my heels, and I just wanted to understand what he was happening. What he was thinking.

He sat slowly down on the edge of my bed and pulled me gently into place beside him. He turned to me, tucking my wild curls behind an ear. Heat filled my face, and I felt like I was waiting for my very first kiss—not just from him, but ever. My hands were sweaty, my breathing erratic… I just knew I'd explode if he didn't say or do something soon.

"…I… Sara, I think you feel this too. Tell me you feel it too, because I don't want it to just be me, or for this to be attraction rather than affection. But I… I couldn't stand watching you up there, moving like that, for just anyone to see… I mean, if you don't, that's okay, Sara. I said we'd just be friends and if… if that's what happened—"

I cut him off with a kiss, in part because he was being beyond ridiculous, and in part because I just knew I couldn't wait any longer for another taste of him. His hands immediately slid into my hair and pulled me closer and I gripped his shoulders tightly, willing to understand and to not make me wait for him any longer. He deepened the kiss briefly before backing off, blinking rapidly, as if in surprise at his own actions. "…Sorry." He murmured, as if he'd kissed me.

"Don't be," I murmured, palms grazing over his smooth cheeks, amazed that he was letting me touch him like this. It didn't really matter that I didn't exactly understand where he was going with this, because that was never where my power in relationships lay. I didn't get to name them, define them, explain them… but I knew that once we were in it, I'd be in control. Not that any of my lovers had been in explicit in telling me either of these things, but I was no fool. And if this was what he needed… "I do feel it. …This "friends" thing…"

"Was ridiculous. I know. I didn't think it would be so difficult. …Do you want this, Sara? I mean, more than a fling or a one-night stand, but something more… meaningful? Because watching you up there—down there—I can't not have you anymore. If you want me, honey, I'll make this work for us…"

It did not occur to me that he meant any real kind of sacrifice—there were words I was used to, and I was just so happy that he was finally speaking them to me… the lies that mean romance and intimacy and a chance to see him naked after all this goddamned time… that I didn't think of what, exactly, he was proposing here. I just sighed happily, beamed at him, and nodded. "I absolutely want this. Something meaningful. More than anything."

And he smiled, and kissed me again, and I felt this deep, overwhelming soaring feeling within me. I was so certain that this time, it would happen… that he'd bend me back into my bed and kiss me even deeper into the mattress while my clothes slowly fell away under his soft, deft hands—slowly, but passionately, because that was how Dr. Grissom was. And, well, if I'm being honest… proceed to rock my world. It had been a long, long time for me, and I'd been creaming my panties for months at just the thought of him, and it really was about time. …And even if it wasn't that good—sometimes they weren't all I built them up to be—that was fine. I would rock his world instead, and he would thereafter never feel like another woman could truly please him. He would continue to desire and adore me, which is what I was after far more than the release.

Although the release would be nice.

…But he did not rock my world, nor did he even try. I slipped my tongue into his mouth and leaned back enough to encourage him to push me into the soft, welcoming world of my comforter, and though he groaned—a low, shiver-inducing sound—he immediately backed away. Smiling sheepishly and kissing my forehead. "…You may be able to kiss like that all day and leave it at that, honey, but after watching you up there… We need to stop, or I won't be able to."

I frowned again, utterly bewildered. Why on earth did he want to stop himself? We'd both been on edge because of each other for months and he wants to stop? He seemed oblivious to my confused indignation, pulling me to his body, my head to his chest, humming happily. "Should we watch a movie? …I mean, if you want to go back to the party, we can do that, but you were already up here and…"

'No," I rushed to reassure him, trying to straighten out the wrinkle of confusion above my brow. "No, I want to stay here with you. …Um, I, I can find something to throw in, but there might be some horror movies on TV—it's Halloween, after all."

"Samhain," he said, thoughtfully, brushing a kiss into my hair. "The earliest history of Halloween—it was a pagan holiday. They believed that on this day, the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest."

I blinked in surprise but smiled despite myself, thinking that I should have expected to learn something about Halloween when I saw him tonight. I shook my head teasingly. "I bet I can find a Freddy Kreuger…" I suggested, slipping off the bed. I took the time to lock my bedroom door, wary of people looking for beds, and then turned the television on rather loud, attempting to block out the noise from the party that had seemed like quiet background noise until I realized I couldn't hear the news anchor who was reporting on some children's trick or treating event. I couldn't find any of the Nightmare On Elm Streets, but there was a low budget horror movie that looked moderately interesting.

By the time I returned, he'd placed himself against my headboard and I tucked myself against his side, his arm coming around my shoulders. It was nice, but it was frustrating. He squeezed me close to him, like my presence was all he wanted. Like being this close and not having me wasn't driving him crazy, the way being close to him was making me.

"…You don't know how long I've wanted to do this, honey." He murmured, and I shivered again. Wanted to do what, exactly? I was wetter than I'd probably ever fucking been, and he sat there cool as a cucumber, content with an arm around my shoulders. And that was what he'd been wanted to do. Sincerely. He didn't try to grope a boob or slide a hand up my thigh or sneak another kiss, though my temple and my cheek and Jesus-Christ-my-ear were covered with the warm, wet press of his lips, off and on throughout the slasher flick and in between commentary like:

"That's not what arterial spray looks like. A first year forensics student could tell you that"; and,

"How is she screaming if he cut her throat? I mean, I know it was deep, but it was deep enough"; and,

"Now, they've got this whole serial killer thing wrong. If the explanation for his behavior is a psychosis induced by childhood trauma, don't you think he'd have more of a pattern to his murders? I mean, unless he just snapped one day, but they've kind of implied that he planned this—built to it, over time. …Wouldn't a pattern make more sense?"

And though I was thoroughly frustrated through the movie (and through at least ten attempts by partygoers to get into the room), I found that I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Despite the gaping chest wounds that reminded me of my father and the psychosis explanation that would normally have worried me about my own potential for violence… I was okay. It didn't feel like it held much weight when he was here, keeping me safe. Well, that, and because now that he'd pointed it out, the film's gruesome special effects were poor enough to be more comical than frightening.

The film was followed by another, similar, low-budget, unrecognizable slasher flick, but I didn't make it through that one—I had my head on his shoulder and my breathing was in time with his. I was out before the first murder. I reached for him when I woke, before I even opened my eyes, thinking that with a little persuasion, a sleepy conscience and a morning erection, we could take care of the problem from the night before that still lingered between my thighs at the moment.

But he wasn't there. Instead, my hand encountered paper.

Sara,

I wanted to wait for you to wake, but I needed to get in to work and I wanted to let you sleep—I figured you could handle missing a class or two, with that brilliant brain of yours. I hope you're not upset—you just looked so beautiful. I'll be taking care of a few things today, and then I'll give you a call… On your next night out, I'd really love to take you out like you deserve. Sweet Dreams, honey.

Gil