Disclaimer: It's not that I don't love them, but I'd probably put a couple dents in 'em, so it's probably for the best.

Rating: M. This time I'm serious, please adhere to the warnings.

Trigger/Content Warning: There is very rough sex in this one. Please, please don't read if that's a trigger for you, and proceed with care.

Author's Note: [TW] Buckle up, Baby Teethers. This is the first chapter I've had beta read BEFORE I hit "publish" (LOL, isn't that how you're supposed to do this anyway? What can I say, I'm a rebel) because there's a scene in here I just really wanted to check in on. And while it got a preliminary check, I haven't heard back from her (BLOODY TIMEZONES) so I'm posting it anyway because f*ck it, I want to hear what you think, too.

This is also the most important chapter for me because it has a long-overdue explanation in it, about why this story is called Baby Teeth.

How this turned out was a happy accident. Over a decade ago, I wrote a manuscript with the same name, and the explanation for it was the one Grissom offers here. The manuscript didn't go anywhere (by choice; in it I wrote about my experiences with childhood sexual assault and violence, and I didn't want to set that free in the world. I still don't).

I posted the first few chapters of this Baby Teeth in one go in October last year but I didn't have a title for it. I don't know why I put the name of that old manuscript on it, possibly it was just a tidy and easy-to-say title that could be poetically tied into the concept of the story in the description, I don't know. Anyway, it stuck. Somewhere around Chapter 7, I started thinking about how I could weave in my Baby Teeth story (the explanation for why it is called that).

Of course, I thought maybe I'd stop this at Chapter 12, back then...

Around Chapter 26, I figured it out. I hope it flows through Grissom in a way that makes sense and rings true.

In regards to the rough sex, I hope I've put enough consent markers in there to show they're both still engaging safely with each other and that you feel safe about it too. I don't for a second think that Gil would ever hurt Sara intentionally (or vice versa), I actually reference in Prophecy the fact that I don't think they would be the kind of couple to raise their voices at each other often, if ever. Sara's background would also play into that. This bit is about as far as I'll take them without them clearing the safeword with each other first.

I dunno, please be gentle with me here.

There are also so many directions this chapter could have gone in. Please, I know you have all got your opinions on LHK and I also know some of you have written fics based on this episode. I have not read them yet partly because I wanted to get this out there first and make my own decision where to go without being steered (I am VERY suggestible with good writing). You know I love your thoughts and honest feedback, but please remember I am one person as well. One person who is flawed and who is trying to string together a VERY large (VERY tangled) web of ideas and concepts, some thrown in there by the show, some I've thrown in there myself just because I'm a masochist.

Having said this and with this in mind - particularly with the kitchen scene in this chapter - I do want to hear your ideas, your thoughts, your insights on the show and GSR, and your encouragement if you have it in you for me. I am always so grateful for that. And if this story or anything around it feels unsafe for you, I'd like to know so I can do something about it. You have all taken great care to create and continue a community of safety and support around Baby Teeth, something I will never not be humbled and ever grateful for, beyond words.

Remember how in Chapter 43 I talked about your happy places? Whether it's that cabin in the winter woods with the wine, or a hammock on a beach with a fruity cocktail (and yes, small umbrellas are a must!), or just sitting next to you on a park bench under golden-turned autumn leaves... make yourself comfortable, friend.

I'm here, and this is for you.

xoxo BB

Baby Teeth

Chapter 47

Joy. It had a particular colour, flavour, and feeling to it. Like waking up with the sunrise two hours before your alarm, those precious moments left to burrow into the duvet; like catching dust motes dancing in sunbeams carving bright light through a dark room. Joy. And Sara Sidle felt it, washing over her, the warm butter of joy in the morning - her morning, the rest of the world's afternoon - waking up beside her lover on a Saturday.

I do. I love you.

It was more than enough to last her a lifetime of sunbeams carving through dark rooms.

She didn't mind feeling him stir beside her in the late afternoon. They would both be in the lab soon enough, and she wanted a few moments with him before the world reminded them of its darkness... of its absences of joy, at times.

"Go back to sleep," he mumbled, softly, into her shoulder.

Sara breathed in, sucking the air in through her teeth, and turned over to him where he was curled on his side behind her. Bleary blue eyes peered out at her from a sleepy face. While she had taken him first in his chair, that wasn't the last time they had screamed, cried, gasped each others' names in reverence before finally giving in to their tiredness. Sara smirked at him. "You planted that letter there, didn't you."

Gil closed his eyes, shifting to pull her closer to him. "I did," he hummed, nodding as he did so.

"The Complete Works of William Shakespeare," she murmured.

"Mmhmm," he nodded again.

"Because you love me," she whispered, a self-satisfied smile on her mouth, catlike. The blue eyes appeared again, peering down at her again.

"Yes," he said, a touch of mock-exasperation in his tone. He leaned down and kissed her, shifting his body as though ruffling feathers in his limbs as they settled together in the bed, and he added in a matter-of-fact voice, "I love you. Now go back to sleep."

Everyone has a jealousy gene.

...You think it was a crime of passion?

Yeah. When you have to go outside a marriage for passion, you're in trouble.

And you're asking for trouble.

Grissom broke the speed limit on the way from Lady Heather's house to his own. He parked haphazardly, slamming the door as he marched to the front door and forced the key in the lock.

He'd spent the journey grinding his teeth, flooded with feeling. Closure, resolution, relief that he had left his friend in a better place. Frustration and worry at the state of his and Sara's relationship because of it. Anger that Sara, even after his admission of love for her, was doubting him - even more anger at himself for giving her a reason to.

And underneath it all, realising that Lady Heather didn't turn him on in the slightest anymore. When he looked at her, when she spoke to him, the only thing he could think of was everything that Sara and he had created in their sacred intimacy between each other. Lady Heather may have opened him up to the pathway that ultimately led him there, but she was a closed and locked door as far as his intrigue was concerned.

So he drove. Fast. Towards the one person who he felt an unwavering torrent of intrigue and desire and love for.

He barely noticed the music playing, marching forward with purpose to find her in the kitchen. She was drinking, humming, hovering over the stove with her back to him. She didn't turn as he called her name.

He moved behind her and reached around her arm, turning off the range cooker with one swift movement - he felt her surprise and anger radiating off her as she swung her hand up to swat him back, and he caught her wrist in a tight grip. He pulled her to him and turned her to the bench, trapping her body against it with his. His hands were everywhere on her. All at once. Up her sides, kneading her breasts, and he lowered his head to half-bite, half kiss her on the crest of her collarbone. She moaned, only briefly struggling against him.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he breathed, in between rough, hungry kisses. He only paused for a millisecond, movements frozen in time before she shook her head - no, yes, continue - and flattened her palms against the benchtop. He could feel her shaking, trembling with heat. He pushed her hips back into his so he could shove his hand down the front of her jeans, rough fingers on softer, sensitive skin. She cried out but tilted her hips forward so he could continue, steadying herself against the benchtop.

"Tell me, Sara," he growled, close to her ear, and she shook her head.

"Go fuck yourself," she snarled back, before letting out a yelp of surprise as his fingers met her with a little less tenderness than she was used to. She moaned, "Don't stop."

He was trusting her more than he ever had, as he was being rougher than he had ever been. The raw anger and fiery response from her turned him on no end. Sara came close a few times, before he shoved her jeans halfway down her thighs. Grissom unbuttoned himself, freed and harder than he had remembered being, and grabbed her hip, forcing her forward over the bench so he could position himself.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you want me to stop."

"No." she bit out, instead reaching forward to place her hands on the tile splashback. He thrust into her with a grunt and a moan, hands gripping her hips for leverage as he pounded into her with as much strength as he had. She pushed back, and he could see every muscle in her arms tensed as she did. It was messy, impassioned, and fast - no rhythm, no rhyme to it. Just him fucking her over their kitchen bench.

Gil came just before she did, groaning, "F-fuck."

Sara just shoved her hips back into him, holding her entire body taut as he made a few last shaking thrusts into her. She finally dropped her head and screamed into the countertop as he reached forward to grab her hands. They were slick with sweat. He withdrew from her, tucking himself back into his boxer briefs and zipping up. Without a word, she pushed herself off from the tile and reached down, shaking hands grabbing the waistband of her jeans and her underwear and pulling them back up. She stayed with her back to him as she redressed herself, then turned, refusing to look at him as she shifted across the bench.

"Sara," Grissom said, his voice less demanding than it had when he'd pinned her down.

She ignored him, reaching for her beer with an air of casual indifference, but he caught the shake in her wrist as she did so. She didn't turn the stove back on. She just stood, staring at the pasta sauce in the pot, right hand braced on the edge of the bench as she took a swig of beer.

"Sara." Remembering himself as his heartbeat slowed, his tone softened and he stepped back to lean against the counter. The same counter he had just shoved her against and fucked her from behind on. "Did I hurt you?"

She shot him a filthy look, eyes dark, and he gestured to the counter. "Did I hurt you just now?" he repeated.

"No, Grissom," she rolled her eyes. "Not just now."

"But you are hurt," he said, flatly. Sara made an infuriated sound, halfway between a scream and a heavy sigh, and walked out of the kitchen. He followed her up the stairs to their bedroom. With only a brief glance at him over her shoulder, she walked into the bathroom and shut the door. He sat on the edge of their bed and waited for her. When she re-emerged, drying her hands and throwing her jeans in the laundry hamper, she only briefly paused to glance at him before continuing to her dresser to withdraw some nightclothes.

"Sara-"

"What, Grissom," she snapped, pulling her work tee off and reaching behind her back to unclip her bra. The way she spat his name at him, the name she'd used before he'd felt safe enough with his first in her mouth, felt acidic. Before she pulled on an oversized t-shirt he noticed the reddened skin where he had gripped her along her sides and breasts. He felt a slight twinge of shame, but had no time to wallow in it, as she turned to him and stared him down while she pulled on a pair of shorts. "What? Whatever you need to say, say it."

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

Sara just shook her head. "For what, though?" she levelled at him. Impatient with his inability to answer immediately, she huffed and sat heavily on the side of their bed with her back to him. He could hear she was on the verge of tears, but this time she was holding them back, her anger a source of fortitude. He waited for her breathing to steady.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was going," he said, slowly, quietly. She shook her head but didn't interrupt him, and he knew it was because she didn't trust herself to speak. "I'm sorry you had to find out from Catherine."

"Fuck you," she whispered. She sniffed.

They sat in silence for a while, Gil listening to Sara's wet breathing, punctuated by a sniff here and there. His heart was breaking, he was sure of it. You did this, he berated himself. You were so blinded by your need for an explanation... you did this.

"Sara..."

He could have sworn she flinched, visibly, at his calling of her name.

"Heather and I-"

It pained him, watching how she braced herself physically for his words. It possibly pained him more knowing that she did not fear physical blows - it was the psychological that struck fear into her, and uniquely from him. He had power he did not want, that she had given to him, unlike any others. He could choose his words: to heal, or destroy her.

God, I hope it's not the latter.

"...We've never had sex," he said, plainly. That gave her pause. He waited, hope strung on the way her shoulders relaxed ever-so-slightly, her chin turned slightly towards him. The helix of an ear, open, behind a lock of her hair. He continued, "...And last night was not about... play, or domination. Heather is... hurting, Sara. I care about her, but not in the same way I care about you."

She was crying again, silently weeping with her back to him as she palmed tears off her cheeks, and he was sure it was going to end him.

He wanted to reach out to her, to gather her up in his arms, to show her how much her doubts were a lie. He had never been so sure about anything in his life. He had never been so afraid of her uncertainty, before. I love you.

A promise, not a guarantee.

"I felt-," she whispered, halting, besides a gulp of air. "I felt safe."

"I know," he acknowledged. You asshole. "I know."

They sat like that for what felt like an age. With every passing moment, he had to comfort his aching heart with the fact that this time, she isn't leaving. She's not running away.

Sara felt numb. She was so angry, and so hurt, and she'd just let him fuck her against the bench in their kitchen - and she had enjoyed it. But she was still a storm in a teacup of emotions, and she felt paralysed to do anything but sit and stare into space, trying to gather her thoughts.

"Is it because she's strong?" she asked, eventually, into the silence of their bedroom. Her voice - small, vulnerable, child-like - felt utterly alien to her. Why did the words he had spoken so reverently about another woman - hours ago - still feel like an open-palmed strike, directly on her heart?

She felt the weight on the mattress shift as Grissom stood, and she turned to watch him walk to her dresser. He brushed his fingers over the necklaces hanging from her jewellery tree. His movements were somewhat frantic and purposeful like he was searching for something. He pulled the top drawer and reached in, withdrawing the flat black velvet box containing the gold necklace he'd given her for their anniversary.

Stunned, Sara watched him, unsure of what he was doing but doubtful at its promise. This was where they had come to - full circle, after everything. Him avoiding, her attaching. Her heart felt as though it was sinking inside her, filled with lead. He didn't speak, didn't look at her, just walked to her and sat on the edge of the bed with the box held between his hands, delicately.

Puzzled, Sara found her voice. Still numb, she mumbled, "Gil, that was a wonderful gift, but-"

"No, Sara, please… listen," he implored her, and the tone of his voice shut her down. She sat back a little, but turned towards him. "I need to… I'd like to tell you about something… something my mother told me. At my father's funeral."

She stopped short at his insistence. Surprised, expectant, she nodded for him to go on. Grissom took a breath. He turned the box over in his hands, fidgeting.

"She said," he started, then took another breath. She could hear the shake in it, as he continued, "Every person has baby teeth… She said that every person has baby teeth, and you've got to lose 'em to grow." His words were staccato, as though he couldn't fit breathing around them into his lungs. "O-of course, she didn't say it, but she explained it… We have to lose things to become whole." he signed to her then, and the way he moved his hands in the air between them appeared ethereal, poetry - as though he was plucking meaning from emptiness and presenting it to her, hopeful.

"She told me about how losing her hearing helped her become a better listener," he continued, signing the last part of his sentence - hand to his ear - before letting his hands drop to his lap and looking down at them. "She told me, losing my father would make me a better man, one day. I didn't really understand it, but then I met you, and… I think I do now."

For a moment, Sara forgot her despair - she forgot her hurt. She was listening with her ears, and her heart, and her soul. She could see he was fumbling, struggling with the words… with the silence she left for him to fill. She could hear his nerves and his emotion, and she was captivated by his commitment to communicating this to her, despite how uncomfortable it made him feel. How angry he knew she was.

"Sara, I-" he took another breath, turning the box right side up so he could open it, revealing the delicate gold necklace inside. It glittered in the lamplight. He touched a couple of the links with his fingers, then looked back up at her, uncertain. "I have never met anyone who has lost as much as you, and is still so… whole. So much more than your losses. You are… you are smart, and beautiful, and funny, and… you care, so much. Everything that was taken from you, every... baby tooth you lost... somehow you turned into gold."

He looked down at the box, turning it so she had a full view of the necklace. He stared at it in wonder, as though only just seeing it for the first time. "When I saw this in the museum, I-… I remembered what my mom said, and I thought… it looked like baby teeth. It looked, to me, like all the little teeth you must have lost in your life, all the ways you had been hurt, all the growth you endured before you should have. I thought you could wear a reminder of your strength," he said, and then remembered himself, and grimaced in embarrassment, shoulders hunching upwards in an uneasy shrug. "I wanted to tell you. But I just… I couldn't find the words, and then it just didn't seem like the right time, and-"

She reached for the box, her movements slow and automatic, bringing it closer to herself. She touched the gold links as he had, eyes slightly unfocused.

"Sara, you-" he managed, finally, voice breaking a little. She looked up at him then. With fortitude, he cleared his throat and declared, "You are the strongest woman I know. I just… I just assumed you knew."

Sara couldn't speak. She couldn't even gripe at his poorly thought-out assumption or make a jibe about how he was the last person who should be making them. She just nodded, finally understanding how he saw her. And, while she was still angry - and she was still hurt - she felt seen.

Grissom watched her, waiting for her to say something. You really have the worst timing, he thought. Sara was holding the box with the necklace, moving each gold drop through her fingers, lost in thought. He wanted to say those three words again. He wanted to go back to the joy they'd both basked in, like lizards on a smooth hot rock in the sun of their affection for each other, just hours before Lady Heather had brought stormclouds upon them.

He couldn't find it in him to resent her, but it was hard not to be bitterly disappointed in the timing.

"I'm tired," Sara mumbled. She sounded it. Utterly exhausted, and hollow. She closed the black velvet box, handing it back to him. Numbly, he rose from the bed and returned it to her dresser, unsure of what would happen next. "Let's go to bed."

They undressed in silence, Gil watching her carefully as she avoided his gaze. She climbed into bed and turned her bedside lamp off, curling onto her side, facing his side of the bed. He could have collapsed with relief. She's trying, he thought to himself. As though he couldn't come any closer to critical mass with the feelings he held for her in his heart.

He followed suit, undressing, turning off his lamp as he crawled under the covers and shuffled near to her. He waited for the warmth of her body to tell him how far, how close, where next.

Softly, uncertainly, he pulled her in. She allowed him to kiss her as he gathered her body to him - kisses deepening with a tenderness antithetical to the violence with which they had joined in the kitchen those hours before.

Softly, forgiving, Sara let him love her in the ways he had known before he could speak it.

She let him touch her delicately - but insistent - until she had tears leaking from her closed eyes and soft moans escaping from her lips; she let him fill her body with his, melding together in the darkness until they both forgot where the other began and ended. She cried and he held her with his heart and his arms.

"I love you, Sara," he whispered, finally, the aching remorse of his fumble still bleeding through his feeling for her. Their freshly naked bodies pressed to each other, his words rumbling through her from her skin to her bones to her own heart, relentlessly hammering out a hopeful tattoo.

"I love you too," she mumbled, just before the abyss of sleep took them both.

TBC

Amended AN: So I posted this about 20mins before Jorja posted on Twitter about her decision not to return.

And like.

All the feels

ALL OF THE FEELS

I love her so much. I love them so much. I'm devastated, but also... happy?

They be making masochists out of all of us.

I love you, fan fam. We got this.

She got this.

We good.

I think.

*dies*