Hello, Baby Teether!
[Trigger warning: mention of sexual assault]
I thought I would put an introduction message as kind people are sharing this beyond the context of FFnet (thank you! I am honoured) and I would like to preface this on-going work with some context. You're welcome to skip to the story, please don't feel obligated to read! Just scroll down until you see the underlined text in the middle.
I started this fic in October 2021, kind of as a knee-jerk reaction to the episode Dead Doll (8x02) - where we finally get an indication of the timeline of how 'GSR' actually came to be a real, tangible, in-canon thing. With the exception of Invisible Evidence (4x07), Butterflied (4x12), and Nesting Dolls (5x13), it was pretty much all coy looks and double entendres for six years until - bam, bathrobes on a double bed (Way to Go? More like Woah to Go). As I know many of us have done this year while waiting for and in response to first the announcement of CSI Vegas and then the weekly wait for each episode, I started re-watching CSI from the beginning - particularly S4 onwards - trying to map out a timeline of my/our favourite characters and how their paths eventually converged. And when.
Suddenly, every coy look had some hidden subtext, and all those double entendres became triple homicides.
Of course, re-watching CSI from the beginning made me appreciate that there's no way they were jumping the shark with these two. Whether by written design or JF and WP's genius, Sara and Gil had heavy chemistry from the get. Then, Long Pig (CSI Vegas 1x04) went and almost blew my initial guesses out of the water, adding further clues that could either corroborate or contradict the story I'd started weaving. It didn't help that Jorja and Billy are exceptional actors and can somehow portray the ultimate; just enough emotion to be convincing, just enough enigma to leave us hanging.
For the most part, chapters occur after the episode they are named for. Other episodes preceding Season 6 are mentioned and small vignettes added, too, in my hope to add further context to what I think (or would like to think) happened.
And yes... there's smut. A lot of it. There are graphic descriptions (hopefully, tasteful, but that's up to you to decide) of intimacy in all its forms... and I hope that I've at least offered enough substance that makes that intimacy seem believable and true.
This is not your grandmother's bedtime story, I'll put it that way. (Or maybe it is, go grandma!)
Writing smut online can be both a terrifying and liberating experience. I feel it keenly that we still - yes, in 2022 - live in a society where feminine pleasure and sexuality is seen as something taboo. Less so, of course - and things are changing for the better (thank you, Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion). If I could postulate any reason why (statistically, most often) women feel more comfortable exploring their sexuality through the ciphers of written male characters and female characters they identify with, it's that we know that fictional characters can't hurt us if we don't let them.
As a survivor of childhood sexual assault and domestic violence, I know the process of reclaiming (and discovering) my own sexuality has been made harder by the fact that there are so many ways that our pleasure - and the simple, human need for affection - can be weaponised against us. Against men (and all genders, of course) as well. I have plenty of sexual trauma that taught me to choose safety over adventure.
Perhaps you do, too.
If you read any part of this fic and feel shame, or you cringe, or you felt something else you don't want to admit to yourself - I hope you will take a moment to consider what, or who, told you to feel that way. (It might be that I'm just a terrible writer, and soz if so). I hope you will be kind to yourself and let yourself enjoy what you enjoy if it truly does not harm anyone. I can't think of a scenario where reading fanfiction - while adhering to the warnings and ratings - causes harm, but I could be wrong. I hope I'm not.
At the end of the day, Baby Teeth is a (long, hopefully fun) love letter to two distinct parties. One I hope will never read or know of its existence, and the other... well, I hope you'll keep reading for as long as it benefits you.
The first is CSI (and later CSI Vegas); and mainly Jorja Fox and Billy Petersen - but also the entire cast, crew, and writers for creating this incredible series that has inspired entire mythologies in its audience. These kinds of communities of imagination and fantasy don't just spring up out of nowhere. GSR is a 21-year-strong love story that has captured me, and all of us, very tightly in a spell of something real, and raw, and convincing. We are living in an age where I believe we sometimes need to be convinced by love. Not just the "sail off into the sunset", but the heartache and the hope that gets us on the boat.
While I try to make my 'Disclaimers' a small bit of comic relief at the start of every chapter, I am very aware that I cannot take credit for the canvas I'm using, or the richness of the materials I'm borrowing from. That's all on Anthony E. Zuiker and his amazing band of cast and crew. (So when I say 'love letter' I really mean some kind of tribute, because I am pretty sure I'd die of mortification if they did read it).
The second is you. I started this story because I was scratching an itch and trying to solve a puzzle. I kept going because people I didn't know, in places I probably haven't heard of, were telling me that I wasn't alone.
Much of the content that informs Baby Teeth are real conversations, even real… uh, activities - from past relationships and traumas that I feel align with or add context to the relationship between Grissom and Sara. Experiences I may have healed from in secret, but not in community. Love-wounds that I didn't get to honour until now. Not performatively, but cathartically.
I've done whatever I can - including hefty re-watches of many, many episodes; hours spent agonising over language, tone, and mannerisms - to keep our favourites as in-character as possible. Where I haven't achieved that for you... I am sorry. I hope you understand that this is simply one interpretation, and I don't pretend to believe for a second that it should be 'the' interpretation. It's just me, taking a wild guess, hoping we have some fun along the way. I do (would you believe) have a more than full-time job and other time-commitments in my life...
If this fic makes you feel things, that's cool. Please tell me about them. Good, bad, I'd love to hear (but please keep your criticism constructive).
In the end, I just hope you enjoy it.
Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, thank you for being here on the journey - even if you're just passing through.
See you on the other side...
xoxo BB
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just taking them for a spin to make sure they still work.
Rating: This chapter is T, but later chapters are definitely M+. Consider yourself warned. Fellow smut-lovers, enjoy!
Trigger/Content Warning: All. Alcohol use, drunk (consensual) sex, Grissom being... Grissom; later chapters will refer to child abuse, sexual assault, disordered eating, suicide, self-harm. If those are subjects that cause you harm, please don't read. There are so many other good stories on this website.
Baby Teeth
Chapter One
Sara was on her second beer when the soft knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. It was still the early hours of the morning - blue-grey pre-dawn light was barely visible, if you could look hard enough beyond the glaring lights of the city surrounding her apartment building. She stood, knees cracking, from her sofa and shuffled toward the door. There was almost an air of premonitory awareness of who was waiting for her - but she checked the peephole in case. He stood back from the doorway, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast on her welcome mat. Gil Grissom barely looked up when she opened the door. "Gil," she breathed, cautiously. "What are-"
"Can I come in?"
She stepped back, waving her hand toward the lounge area. He was carrying a bottle of whisky at his side, unopened, and placed it gently on the counter. "What's going on, Grissom?"
He began hunting through cupboards, as though he hadn't heard her. She knew this wasn't his usual behaviour. Gil Grissom was quirky, yes, sometimes a bit oblivious to social airs and graces - but he wasn't rude. There was something… panicked about his movements. She cleared her throat and pointed to the cupboard nearest her left shoulder, by the fridge, and he reached for it, locating two short tumblers and bringing them down to the counter. He made quick work of the seal on the bottle, popping the top and pouring three fingers' worth for them both.
Grissom handed her one of the tumblers. She grasped it, beer in the other hand, and watched as he raised his own to his lips with a shaking hand. He cleared the glass in a single mouthful, sloppily placing it back on the counter and pouring another.
"Woah, Griss," Sara stopped him, her tone gathering steel. She put both her glass and her beer on the edge of the countertop and stilled his hands, guiding the bottle back to the bench, closing her slender fingers around his wrist. She looked at him, searching.
"I'm, ah, I'm sorry," he said, quickly. He was breathless. "I didn't know what to do, or… where to go."
"I'm glad you came here," Sara answered, slowly, as though she were speaking to a wild animal. She willed the shaking in her own voice to still. "…Why don't we sit down."
He nodded, and she let her grip on his wrist loosen, picking up her tumbler and guiding him over to the couch. They had sat there, once, what felt like many moons ago as she had poured her darkest secrets out to him. He had listened and held her hand. He felt so steady, then.
Grissom sat gingerly, as though he was afraid any sudden movements would trigger something large and tragic, something altogether undoing. He leant forward, elbows on his knees, holding the whisky between them like a baby bird. He only looked up briefly to watch as Sara took her own seat, folding her legs gracefully under her, turning to face him. When their eyes met, his dropped again to his drink.
"How's Nick?" She asked. She knew he'd been to the hospital more recently than she had.
"He's," Grissom started, but his voice caught in his throat. "He's ok."
Sara nodded. She let the quiet fall, knowing there was more to say, and wanting to create the space for him to say it. So much had changed in the ways they communicated since that afternoon many moons ago. She no longer filled their silences with nervous rambling.
"Sara, he- when he thought he wasn't going to make it," he started, slowly. "He was worried he'd disappointed me. And all I could think was-" he covered his eyes with a shaking hand. His voice broke. "I never tell the people I love what they mean to me. And all of them could die without knowing. I don't know if I can live with that," he took a deep, shuddering breath. His face, contorted in pain, wet with tears.
Sara put her glass on the table and unfolded herself, slowly, moving towards him and crouching down. With her right hand, she reached for his glass, gently taking it from him and placing it on the coffee table beside hers. Then she reached up for his shoulders, waiting for his eyes to meet hers. Their blue, ringed with the redness of crying, was wide and pleading. There was no guardedness that told her to back away. She folded her arms around him, pulling him tightly to her shoulder as she felt his body shake with deep grief. She could feel the tears rising to her own eyes.
"We know more than you think," she murmured, voice thick with empathy. She felt him bury his face, hot and wet as he cried, into her neck as he pulled her tighter to him than she'd ever remembered them being before.
They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, as they both cried on each other. Sara wept more quietly than Grissom did, combing her fingers through his hair and rubbing his back. He smelled like sweat, and salt, and dirt. He hadn't showered since they'd found Nick, she knew. She felt him loosen his hold on her - a hold almost vice-like, it would have been crushing if it hadn't been so comforting - and she sat back, her hands framing his face. His face was ruddy from crying, eyes still pleading, and she thumbed away tears that gathered at the edges of his beard.
"I'm sorry," he said. She shook her head.
"Don't," she said, and softened the admonishment with a small crooked smile.
"Sara, I-" he pulled away, turning to pick up his whisky glass. She felt cold as they broke contact - the longest they had touched in years, for no reason other than to be connected to each other - and just as she was going to stand she felt his hand rest on her left knee, closest to him. It was large enough to cover the joint as he flattened it. Her stomach jolted as she felt the heat of his hand through her jeans. "I've been keeping everyone out of my life, thinking that would keep me safe. But it's just put all of my relationships at risk. I'm tired of it. I don't want to do it anymore."
Sara could hear her heart thrumming in her ears, surprised he hadn't stopped at its violent thudding. "What are you-"
Grissom moved his hand, reaching up to grasp hers, squeezing it when he felt the clamminess and tremor in her. "I don't know," he said, honestly, eyes wide. "I don't know what I'm suggesting. But I just wanted to see you tonight. And tell you that I'm not… the door isn't closed on my end."
She shut her mouth, brow furrowed as she searched his face for confirmation, and then remembered she had a glass of whisky. Suddenly intensely focused on her drink, Sara grasped for it with both hands, taking a deep swig of the liquid and stifling a cough as it burned the back of her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, fresh tears in her eyes from the shock, and looked back to Grissom. His face was a blend of puzzlement, and slight amusement, but also… pleading. Hopeful. She lowered her glass and cleared her throat.
"I don't know what to say." she blinked at him. Grissom seemed to shrug, his eyebrows raised, before he seemed to remember something heavy and his eyes darkened, sadness clouding his features.
"Am I too late?"
She looked up at him, sharply, biting her lip. She shook her head, hardly believing the conversation they were having - all that they weren't saying, that was being said in that moment.
"Sara," he started, in a low voice, taking a sip of his whisky before returning it to the coffee table. "I'd like to kiss you."
"O-ok," she whispered.
"Is that alright?"
"Yes," she said, suddenly aware he was very close, and his hand was on her cheek, and then his lips were on hers, and she was on fire.
The kiss was gentle, chaste even, but no mere peck. She could feel the heat and the promise in them, and it was more than the secondary taste of whisky on his tongue. She put her own glass back on the table, shifting her weight so she could push him back on the sofa. He relented, opening his mouth so they could deepen their contact, as she straddled him with her legs. She felt his left hand shift from gently cupping her shoulder to firmly gripping her back, his right hand at her neck, twisted in her hair. Dizzy, she broke their contact, breathing heavily.
"I've wanted to do that for a very long time." Grissom whispered, and she marvelled at his confidence, not knowing where or how he'd gained it. His left hand was still roaming up and down her back as she pulled back and tucked her hair behind her ears, surprisingly shy.
"No kidding," she breathed, almost frightened the moment would vanish. He blinked, a number of emotions passing over her features - a twinge of sadness.
"Are you ok?" He asked. Neither seemed too bothered or awkward that she was astride him on her couch, and their bodies' reactions to each other were plain. She nodded, swallowing, licking her lips, her eyes sliding away.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time, too," she said, quietly. He knew not to say 'I know', knew that it would be cruel to acknowledge. For too long, he had held her at bay. It was a miracle she'd waited so open-heartedly for him. He held her face with his hands, gently guiding her to look at him, wishing he could see all of his regret and gratitude in his eyes. He let his hand drop to her shoulders, tracing them down her upper arms to her elbows. Her brown eyes were wet and bright with tears, her lips full and swollen from their first kiss.
"You are so beautiful," he told her. She smiled, eyes straying to his hairline, and she reached up to pick and imaginary speck of fluff from his hair to distract herself. "Sara," he cleared his throat. "I-"
She looked down at her hand, where it rested on the button of his shirt. The button right above his heart. He waited for her to look up at him again, studying her, senses clouded with whisky.
"I-... am sorry for keeping you at arms' length for so long. I hurt you, and I-," he swallowed, her brown eyes finally meeting his. "I'm so sorry." His face crumpled again, and the tendon in his neck twitched, almost as if he was wincing at the memory. She touched it with the fingers of her right hand, delicately, and then cupped his jaw with her palm. He leaned into the touch, eyes locked with hers.
"You're here now," she said, hoarsely, unable to find anything else to respond that felt genuine. They stayed there for a moment, connected, touching, but not moving. Strung taught with tension and the fatigue of the events of the last few days, Sara let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "It's been a… horrible few days," she said, eventually. "And you just polished off four units. Why don't you take my bed? I can sleep here."
He shook his head. "Sara, I can't take your bed. You need rest."
She shifted so she could stand and offer him her hand. She seemed bashful when she offered, "Join me?"
He looked up to her and smiled, cautiously, unsure how much happiness he could handle in this moment... but willing to find out.
TBC
Thanks always for constructive reviews and kindness :)