The Time Before -
Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Pre-Vegas, Grissom/Sara

A/N: This was written as birthday fic for ScullyAsTrinity a couple of months back, but me being as I am completely forgot to post it to :)

She was so young, so carefree. He had given into his desires. His hands had been all over her, traipsing up her limbs, combing over the pale expanses of flesh. The giggle that bubbled from her lips as his tongue tickled up the centre of her ribcage, while she shifted, unable to keep still. She'd fidgeted like nothing on earth, still did. It was all part of her. He learned new facts about her everyday, everything was special, different. He'd never been with anyone who could get under his skin like that before. He couldn't quite believe his luck. Things like this quite simply didn't happen to him.

It had only been five days, and yet is seemed like a lifetime. It wasn't often someone grabbed your attention like that. So rare that they made you take the risks, make the choices, even if they might not work out.

He even remembers that first moment, in the way you never think you will. It was probably the first time she'd ever been late to a lecture – even if it wasn't compulsory. She looked mortified when he met her eyes as she made her way to a seat. He didn't even care about the interruption. That was novel in itself.

At first she had kept her head-bowed silence and embarrassment, that didn't last long. Within minutes she was nonchalantly raising a hand, questioning, probing. Looking to find the answers to every question he'd ever imagined might be asked, and a few that he hadn't. It was infinitely difficult to render Gil Grissom speechless, and yet within half and hour, she had.

He saw her at the crime lab the very next day. They had lunch… to talk. It was never just about that. Not for him at least. Long legs, freckles galore, she was one of those women where all he could do was fantasize about the possibilities, of everything he would do if he ever had the chance. He would dip his fingers below the waistband of her jeans, fingertips sliding across the taut skin, try every piece of her, those many barely repressible urges, the ones that cried out not to be denied. He attempted, and failed to shake himself out of this train of thought several times. She was 30, if that. He was coming up to 45. It was a large enough age difference to get to him. It made him nervous, but he had figured if it was only a week, what did he have to lose?

A week couldn't hurt. Of course it couldn't.

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Her breath was hot against the nape of his neck, teeth hard against his ear, her hiss of pleasure echoing through his head. It was a sensation he would never be able to forget. Something he didn't think he would ever want to forget.

"Sara?" his groan brought him almost back to reality, his normally quiet self couldn't seem to keep control. Her hand's firm grip was wreaking havoc with his head, his reactions. She could unravel him to the point of gibberish in moments. It was a skill he couldn't really comprehend, and for once he honestly didn't care.

Hearing the gasping breaths that spilt from her mouth accompanied by husky words of assent, of gratification, was music to his ears. Her enthusiasm was more than infectious, it was everything.

There's something about her that makes him forget about the rules, about anything that might deter him. Even when it ends, when she's just lying there, draped across his body fingertips dragging over the sheets absently there is still something that stops him walking away, from drawing away.

"Where'd you get that?" his finger lazily circled the scar on her skin, swirling around it in widening curves.

"Chicken pox when I was eight," she tipped her head onto his shoulder, brushing his hand away, "couldn't stop picking at the thing, and it left me with that". She hummed as he dragged his fingertips down her neck, along the pale skin of her chest, so thin that he would swear it were translucent. He sighed, flicking out a tongue to taste the tiny imperfection on her neck, the tang of citrus from her body-wash remaining on his tongue.

The level of comfort between them seemed so alien to him. She brought out something in him, who needed drugs with her there? She brought her very own brand of euphoria, and it was so much better.

She was soft, exciting, warm and beautiful, and right there with him. He wanted to keep that. It was exactly what he needed.

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His hands groped for her, expecting to encounter bare skin and find nothing, vacant sheets and a weight in his gut. In some ways he thinks it might all have been his imagination, in others he knows that it isn't. Dreams didn't leave you aching like that. The fact he still lying in her apartment, in her bed, is also telling.

Grissom only discovered her on the doorstep minutes later. He had nearly missed her when he skimmed his eyes over her apartment. She had been sitting there in just a mint green T-shirt, smoking a cigarette, staring out across the front porch. Her bare legs were stretched out in front of her, dimly reflecting the fading sunlight. She idly flicked her ash, not seeming to care about her neighbors, about what they might think of her. He didn't even think that she had noticed his presence. She wasn't the kind of woman who worried about her reputation with others.

"What're you doing out here?" He murmured leaning against the doorframe, attempting an air of nonchalance even though the evening breeze was rapidly cooling his skin, it was anything but warm out.

Sara gave a wan smile, "thinking". It wasn't the response he was looking for. She seemed so distracted, so unlike earlier.

"This isn't going to last is it?" It didn't sound like she really wanted an answer. She looked lost, eyes clouded and vacant.

He doesn't respond, in some ways it seemed better not to, less final. She lifted her head to look at him when she didn't get a response, noting the darkness of his gaze and knowing that he wasn't going to reassure her, however much she needed it. It wasn't his way, she hadn't known him long and already she knew that. Stubbing out her smoke on the step she tossed it casually into the flowerpot by the door.

He reached a hand down to her and she hesitated only a moment before grasping his hand firmly so he could pull her to her feet. Stumbling a little as he moved backwards and she tried to follow, she steadied herself against him; her palm flat against his chest. Being so close to him left her with little thought as to the future. It didn't seem to matter. The here and now was what counted.

The solution to say nothing strangely seems the best. It allows them both the liberty of not thinking about it. It wasn't a flawless plan, nowhere near, but it worked for them. It was something.

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He woke to find her gone, again. It was beginning to become a pattern. For one painful moment he thought she might have left for good, before the sound of the running water hit his ears. He noticed her T-shirt crumpled on the floor near the bed. With a quirky smile, he simply collected up the trail of her haplessly abandoned clothes, dropped as she had made her way to the shower. He didn't even think about it, it seemed so normal. He tried to pretend then that it was never going to end.

It feels so perfect, even though he knows it isn't.

He has about a week left before he knows he has to leave, to go back to Vegas, back to work. They both know it's coming, and neither want to bring it up again. If they ignore it, it won't happen, or if it does, it'll hurt less. A relationship in any real sense of the word was too much for him. It involved things he quite simply couldn't give, or wouldn't give up. Even for her.

When he did leave, it was in silence.

There were no big goodbyes, no meaningful looks, no note, and no fanfare. He just left, and she didn't even know.