CSINut214's A/N: I love how Leslie tries to keep me from getting fluffy in my chapters. Tries… and fails.

He and Greg were walking away from the crime scene when his cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, Grissom stopped abruptly.

"You know, I'm actually going to do one more sweep of the perimeter," he said hurriedly, backing away. "You go on ahead, I'll catch a ride back with PD."

Greg stared after him for a moment, bewildered, then shrugged and climbed in the driver's seat of the Denali.

Ducking behind the house, Grissom answered the phone. "Sara?"

She was crying again, and his heart clenched at the sound. He walked over to the porch, sitting down and sighing.

"Are you busy?" Her voice wavered, and he bit his lip, wondering exactly how much of her pride she'd had to swallow to call him two nights in a row.

"Nope," he replied lightly. "Wouldn't have answered if that were the case."

Sara didn't respond, except to take some shaky breaths.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about the cat I had when I lived in LA?"

It took her several seconds to manage a "no."

"Got him from the local shelter. He was an orange tabby with two extra digits on both front paws. I named him Pillar."

Grissom waited for her to get it, and she didn't disappoint him. There was a touch of humor in her voice when she said "Tell me it wasn't short for Caterpillar."

"Come on, it's the perfect name," he chuckled. "Want me to tell you about him?"

"Yeah," she said, suddenly sounding very young. "Will you hang up when you know I'm asleep? I don't want to use up all my minutes."

"Sure thing," he said, settling against the porch railing. "Well, Pillar's extra digits made him an ideal hunter. He'd even catch birds, right out of the sky. I put a bell around his neck, but he learned to walk with his chest tucked in, so that the bell was nestled into the fur and wouldn't chime…"

It didn't happen every night. Sometimes she'd go as long as two days without calling, and he'd start to worry, checking his phone every hour or so. But then she'd need him again, and he'd drop whatever he was doing to talk to her.

Grissom wasn't stupid. He knew she was still seeing Peter. Hell, the whole lab knew. It was infuriating to see how no one seemed to care; if anything, they were happy for the couple. He'd amble into the break room to grab a bottled water, and the lab techs would be talking dreamily about the dozen roses Peter had put in her locker, or the chocolates, or whatever else he was bribing her with lately.

But it wasn't working, because she still needed to hear Grissom's breath in her ear to fall asleep.

Once she called when he was interrogating a suspect. He'd caught hell from Ecklie for leaving the room, but it was worth it, because that night when he cracked a joke she laughed drowsily. A soft noise, but he heard it, and was surprised to find his eyes were moist.

Over the course of several weeks, he told her about the tomato patch he'd kept as a child, and his battle to keep the bugs away without killing them. He told her about the first body he ever processed. The time he'd had to give a lecture and had forgotten all his notes and slides, and had to draw pictures of cockroaches on the blackboard. He even told her how his mother's deafness had made his father leave, and that night he'd cried right along with her.

Sometimes their shifts overlapped, and they'd see each other in the hallways. Sara would blush and look at her feet, and he'd study whatever file was in his hands at the moment. They wouldn't make eye contact, and they wouldn't make small talk. But it was okay, really, it was, because she needed him at night. She needed him, and he would be there, and she kept calling.

Until, suddenly, she didn't.

Two days went by, then three, then eight, and she wasn't calling. She wasn't calling, and suddenly he was staring at her in the halls, noticing how well-rested she looked. Noticing how Peter would touch the small of her back as they walked together, how she'd shoot him an amused, affectionate look, and she looked so goddamned well-rested.

Grissom wouldn't go back to her apartment to spy on her. He wouldn't, he just wouldn't. And yet he did, and there they were, leaving to go on another date, Peter's arm slung around her shoulders.

At work, he became distracted, agitated. He checked his cell phone a hundred times a night, to make sure the batteries were working. If it rang, he'd fumble for it wildly. But it was Brass, or Greg, or David.

He'd had a story all picked out for the next time she called, too. He'd tell her about his physics teacher with the halitosis, and she'd laugh, god, she'd laugh. She'd laugh, if only she would call.

In the mornings after his shift, he couldn't fall asleep. He'd think about the space between her two front teeth and wonder how many millimeters it measured. He'd remember the first time he'd seen her, the way that she'd twisted a lock of curly hair around her pencil. One morning he'd even picked up his phone to call her. What would she do if he called in tears, wanting her to talk till he fell asleep?

He tried reading the manuscript that Allison had sent over, but that just made him feel worse. She'd been so gracious when he'd ended it with her. I knew your heart wasn't in it, she'd said simply, smiling and rubbing his arm.

No, Grissom's heart was somewhere else, lying in bed and sleeping easy, Peter's breath in her ear, Peter's hand on her hip.

Finally, he'd had enough. It was midnight when he called the lab, telling Judy tersely that he was sick. He didn't try to sound hoarse or pained, just explained in a steely voice that he was very ill and would not be coming in. His car steered its way to her apartment, and he stared at the light in her window. He wondered if they'd celebrated their four-month anniversary with candles and dancing, wine and soft touches.

His boots scuffed against the sidewalk as he marched toward her door. It couldn't end like this, not before it even started. When she fell asleep on the phone, she whistled a little through her lips, and he needed to know how that felt on the back of his neck. She might not understand, but he'd explain it. He was good at rationalizations.

Grissom was almost to her door when his cell phone rang in his pocket. He slowed, pursing his lips and frowning. There was no way…

"Hello?"

The sobs were back, the ones he could hear coming up from the pit of her stomach, the ones that made his chest ache. "I'm sorry," she whispered, hiccupping a little. "I tried to stop, I'm so sorry."

He cradled the phone to his ear, holding it as reverently as if it were a part of her. "God," he whispered, leaning his head against her door. "Thank god."

"Griss—" Her voice broke, and he couldn't help himself.

"Let me in, Sara."

She sniffled. "What?"

He knocked on the door, hearing her sharp intake of breath. "Please… god, please Sara, please let me in."