As soon as the front door was closed behind them, Grissom spun Sara to face him, and tipped his head to kiss her lips. She responded immediately, dropping her bag and sliding her hands across his shoulders and up to cup the back of his head. He settled his hands at her waist, and focused on the feel of her lips under his, the spark between them flaring instantly.

Her breath was ragged when she stepped out of his embrace and picked up her bag. "We're going to come back to that later, but I'm starving and desperately need a shower. I was in the desert all night. I haven't had anything but coffee in twelve hours, and I have sand all in my hair and…places I don't even want to think about."

He laughed and led the way through the living room into the kitchen. He handed her a banana and tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom. "I've got a mushroom quiche all prepped. I'll throw it in the oven and make a salad while you shower."

She hesitated, the laughter fading from her eyes, replaced by something gentler. She didn't have to say a thing for him to know what she was thinking. A mushroom quiche was more than one of their favorite breakfasts. It was the breakfast they had been making together in her tiny apartment kitchen the day he had finally worked up the courage to kiss her.

"You made me a mushroom quiche yesterday?" she asked softly.

He said nothing, but nodded. She said nothing else, just leaned over and kissed him lightly. She ate her banana quickly as she watched him pull the quiche and salad makings out of the fridge, then tossed the peel in the trash on her way to shower.

"These are new," she said, gesturing at the pair of pitiful spider plants in cheap plastic pots at the end of the counter.

"Oh, I got those for you," he said. "They were on display at the grocery store register yesterday. They're rootbound and probably wouldn't last more than a few days in the store. You keep saying I need more living things around here, and I know how you feel about wretched little plants. I thought you might like a project."

She held his gaze for a minute, but said nothing, and he felt it again: that feeling of being whole and complete and capable of being what she needed; what she wanted.

"Thank you," she said finally. "I'll re-pot them later."

He nodded and watched her walk up the stairs until she disappeared from sight.

By the time she emerged from the bedroom wearing a tank top and cotton sleep shorts, her damp hair falling in curls to her bare shoulders, the quiche was nearing completion in the oven, and he was dressing the salad with a raspberry vinaigrette.

She stepped behind him and slid her arms around his waist, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "It smells so good in here. Thank you."

He stroked her hand for a few seconds, then shifted, turning to face her. He stroked her cheek silently and soaked in her presence.

In the living room, the television suddenly blared to life, the muffled droning of the baseball commentator reporting a succession of balls and strikes suddenly replaced by the crack of the bat and the announcer's breathless excitement as the ball was launched over the wall and into the stands beyond left field.

"Was that the Braves?" Sara asked, craning her head to see the television.

"No," he said with a little shake of the head and a rueful grin.

They hung out in the kitchen, chatting casually as they waited for the quiche to finish, then plated their food and took it to the couch where they ate and watched the Braves get deeper and deeper in the hole. By the time they had finished eating, the score was seven to three, and Grissom had little faith that they were going to pull it off.

Sara rose and gathered their plates and bowls, headed for the kitchen. "Just put them in the sink," he said, knowing that if he didn't, she'd spend the next half hour washing dishes and tidying the kitchen, and he wanted her back where he could touch her.

She put the dishes in the sink and the leftovers in the fridge, then stopped by the bookshelves on the way back to retrieve the annotated copy of Frankenstein she had started reading last week, before dropping onto the couch beside him. He slid his arm around her shoulders and she curled into him, opening her book and half watching the game while she read.

By the eighth inning, she was on her back, head pillowed on a throw blanket that had mysteriously appeared on his couch weeks ago, legs draped over his lap. He slid his hand down her shin to her ankle and then back up again, reveling in the smoothness of her skin. She hummed contentedly, and he smiled, then resumed his stroking. He snuck a glance at her, engrossed in her book, sprawled across his lap, and his chest tightened for a moment, his heart squeezing painfully. He had come so close to missing out on all of this, to a life where moments like this existed only in his fantasies.

He took a steadying breath and watched his hand glide over her skin, coming to rest over the tiny sun tattoo beside her ankle. He had asked her about it months ago, before they were even sleeping together, and she had told him it was an impulsive vacation souvenir in Miami, the design chosen at random along with three of her college friends, each of them tattooing the same image somewhere different on their bodies.

She had laughed it off as a spring break lark; a decision made while half drunk on beer and freedom. But he looked at the indelible mark on her skin now and saw the desperate bid for permanency that always eluded her.

He knew the statistics for children who aged out of foster care. Twenty percent of them would become homeless instantly on their eighteenth birthday. Only half would be employed by twenty-four. Seventy percent of the girls would be pregnant by twenty-one. Less than three percent would earn a college degree.

Sara had graduated from high school a year early, valedictorian of her class; earned an undergrad degree in Theoretical Physics from Harvard and a master's degree from Berkeley; built a career anyone would be proud of. She was the exception to every rule. She was one in a million.

But she was also still the little girl who was "an inappropriate fit"; the awkward high school student, too smart to find commonality with her peers even before they heard the whispers about who she was and where she came from; the college co-ed inking her body in a bid to cement lifelong bonds with people she would rarely speak to after graduation.

She had managed to find professional success and stability through sheer force of will, defying the statistics and forging her own path.

Now, he was beginning to realize, she was doing the same with her personal life. She had come to Vegas for him, to a city whose tawdriness she hated; a barren desert where her skin was always dry and it was too hot for her run in the morning. And she stayed. She never gave up on him, no matter how much he deserved it.

When he met her at that conference, when he pressed his card into her hand, he had no idea how quickly and how deeply he would grow to care for her. When he asked her to come to Vegas, when he asked her to stay, he had no idea what that would mean for their lives. He just knew that the only time he truly felt alive was when she smiled at him; that her absence sucked the oxygen from his lungs.

He saw her for a moment as the wide-eyed ingenue who arrived in Vegas at his behest, brash and bold and decidedly prickly, making jokes about how long she could get away with not contributing to birthday celebrations. He understood now how much of that was an act, an armor she wore. If she made it clear upfront that she wasn't looking to make friends, she wouldn't have to risk rejection from yet another pseudo-family.

The irony was that they weren't really a family at all before Sara. He and Brass were friends. And he and Catherine were friends. And Nick and Warrick were friends. They worked together well for the most part. Despite occasional spats and personality clashes, they were a solid team. But they weren't a family. They didn't take care of each other.

He saw her again at Nick's bedside in the hospital; at a crime scene patiently walking Greg through field work protocols; at breakfast last week, soothing Catherine's fears about motherhood and averting the spotlight from Warrick's burgeoning love life. He thought about the fact that he wouldn't even have been at that diner if it wasn't for her.

She came to Vegas for him. And she stayed for him. And she built a family around him, whether he liked it or not.

"Sara," he said softly.

She must have registered something in his tone, because she lowered her book immediately, her eyes seeking his.

"Let's go to bed."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "We should do the dishes," she said.

He shook his head. "They can wait. Let's go to bed."

In the bedroom, he undressed her slowly, his eyes drinking her in, and then guided her to lay down on the bed. He was still mostly dressed, shoes and socks shed and shirt unbuttoned, but otherwise still clothed, when he crawled over her. All he could think about was touching her, kissing her, making her feel every good thing. Showing her how much he appreciated her for all the joy she brought him.

She made a frustrated sound in her throat and tugged at his shirt as he trailed a string of kisses down her arm.

"Gil," she said, her voice breathless and impatient.

"In a minute," he murmured against her, planting kisses along her collar bone.

She took a shaky breath and slid her hands into his hair, urging him up to her. He came willingly, kissing her eager mouth.

Eventually he pulled away to shed the rest of his clothing, and he watched as she lay on the bed waiting for him, so impossibly beautiful. He ached for her, to be inside her, to join with her. Before Sara, he had only experienced sex as a physical release, pleasurable but hollow. He knew in theory that others were capable of using sex as a form of connection, communication. But it wasn't until he was with her that he understood.

She reached for him, and he knew she was as reluctant to be apart as he was. Even just the few moments it took to shrug off his shirt, slide down his pants and boxers and kick them aside, was too much.

His eyes traced her form, lingering along the length of her legs.

"Come here," she said, reaching for him again.

He shook his head and moved to the foot of the bed instead, climbing up to her. He reached out a hand, stroking her shin the way he had been doing on the couch. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch him, the movement thrusting her breasts forward, tempting him from his task at hand. He tore his eyes from the dusky blush of her nipples, and shifted his gaze back to her leg, following the shapely line all the way up to its apex. She took a ragged breath, and he knew she was imagining his hands following the same path.

He dropped his head down, kissing her ankle, and then the tattoo beside it, before continuing up her leg. By the time he reached the top of her thigh, her head hung back, her chest heaving. His mouth hovered above her, desperate to taste her.

"Sara?" he asked softly, wanting to be sure she was ready, sure she wanted him like this.

"For god's sake, Gil. Don't stop," she said, her voice taut with need, softened by a hint of amused irritation at what she normally deemed his 'adorable chivalry'.

He huffed out a brief laugh, and she moaned as his breath grazed her skin. Then he took pity on them both and lowered his mouth to her, teasing and exploring as she writhed beneath him. He slid his hands under her hips, tilting them up, and then closed his lips around the small bundle of nerves, applying just the amount of suction she liked. She bucked against him immediately and a jolt of pleasure shot through him.

Her whimpers soon turned to cries as a string of incoherent pleas tumbled from her mouth. He slid one hand farther under her, freeing the other. He brought it between her legs instead where she was wet and ready for him. He teased her for just a moment or two before sliding two fingers as deep as they would go and then curling them, stroking back toward himself. He sucked harder as he stroked and seconds later she cried out his name, her head and neck rising off the bed to curl toward him, the soft heat of her body clenching around his fingers.

He slowed his movements but didn't stop until she collapsed back on the bed, boneless. Then he continued his trail of kisses over her stomach, to the breasts that had tempted him earlier. He lathed his tongue against the pebbled nipple repeatedly before finally capturing it between his lips and sucking exactly as he had been moments ago.

"Jesus," she moaned, and he smiled, amused that the only time she invoked the name of the deity in whom she didn't believe was during sex. Her hands came to his cheeks and pulled him up the rest of the way, until he lay between her legs and submitted to her wild, frenzied kiss.

When she released him, she pressed a hand to his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. Then she swung one leg over his, straddling his thighs, and he looked up at her, helplessly in her thrall.

He held her hips to steady her as she raised up on her knees, and guided him into her, and then groaned as she settled back against him, surrounding him. She leaned forward, one hand steadying her on his shoulder, and rocked against him. His eyes slammed shut, the stars whirling beneath his eyelids. He opened them again slowly, watching her move above him. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at his reaction to her touch.

She had let her hair dry naturally after her shower, so it fell in soft curls around her face, and for a moment she looked so impossibly young and sweet that he saw her as she had been when they first met. The thought that he might have lost her back then, might have let her go back to San Francisco and move on with her life; might have let his fear and indecision run her off in the years after, made him ache for her even more. He slid one hand behind her neck and pulled her down to kiss her.

Their bodies moved together in perfect rhythm as his mouth moved under hers. Finally, she pulled back, bracing both hands on his chest and began to move faster. His hands roamed her body, his hips lifting up to meet hers, and he could feel himself spiraling out of control. Three days without her and his self control was shattered.

"Honey," he said, biting back a groan, his voice apologetic. "I'm not going to last much longer."

She chuckled deep in her throat, and smiled widely at him. "Good. I'm not either."

He did groan then, and thrust deeper inside her, losing his grip on his control. Soon the world was spinning, and he was hurtling toward release. "Oh, god, sweetheart," he groaned. And then her name was all he could manage as his world exploded. He felt her clench around him, and he eased her down on top of him, holding her as she trembled, stroking her curls and whispering her name.

He held her like that for a few minutes, while they came back to themselves, and then eventually they took turns in the bathroom cleaning up and redressing. She pulled back on her tank top and panties and he opened a drawer and retrieved a clean pair of boxers.

In the bed, they cuddled close, and he gazed at her and stroked her cheek. For all that she made him feel when they made love, this was his favorite part: holding her after. He stroked a hand over her hip and kissed her lazily, both of them tired and sated, but still craving that connection.

After a while, she snuggled closer until he rolled to his back and opened his arms to her, and she settled her head on his shoulder and draped one leg over his. He slid his hand under her tank top to stroke her back and smiled, letting his mind drift back over their lovemaking, and then farther back over the events of the day.

"My parents met when my mother was in college," he said finally, with no preamble.

She said nothing, but inhaled deeply and stroked his chest, waiting for him to elaborate.

"She was a senior at Gallaudet, studying Art History. My father was a professor of Botany at UCLA. He was on sabbatical that year. He had a position as a visiting professor at Gallaudet during the fall semester teaching a series of classes on the representation of plants in art, from an ecological perspective. My mother was in his class. After the class was over, he went back to Los Angeles, but they stayed in touch. When she graduated, she moved to California to be near him. They were married in the Spring. I was born a little over a year later."

She was quiet for a moment, soaking in that information, and then he heard her laugh softly. She raised up on her elbow, and met his gaze, lifting her hand from his chest to cover the giggle that threatened to erupt from her mouth.

He raised an eyebrow, and the giggle burst out.

"You pushed me away for years because of our age difference and because you were my boss…and your mother married her professor? Are you serious right now?"

He smiled indulgently, pulling her hand from her mouth and stroking her cheek. He waited until her mirth had simmered before continuing, his voice gentle and tinged with melancholy. "Sara, my dad died when I was nine. My mother was thirty-three." He let that sink in for a minute, trying to remember his mother at the exact age Sara was now. She had seemed so much older to his young eyes.

Sara reached out and stroked his shoulder, shaking her head slightly, her brow furrowed. "Gil, that's not-"

"She was in the prime of her life, Sara," he said softly, his implication clear, and then paused for a moment before continuing. "She used to sit for hours every day in his greenhouse in the backyard. Not moving, Not talking. Just sitting. She bought him birthday gifts and Christmas gifts for years. They piled up, unopened, in our closets. She never dated again. She still wears her wedding ring. She still keeps a photo of him on her nightstand. He's been gone for almost forty years, and she's so…alone. Her whole life, she's been alone."

He couldn't say any more through the lump in his throat, and he watched her eyes fill with unshed tears.

"Did you ever ask her?" she said finally.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"Did you ever ask her if it was worth it?" she clarified gently. "Because if she loved him that much, if she grieved for him that long and never dated again, then I'm certain she would tell you it was worth it – that she would gladly take those years of loneliness in exchange for the eleven years she had being loved by him."

He leaned over and kissed her, thankful beyond words for her presence in his life.

"I'm older now than he was when he died," he confessed when they pulled apart.

"I'm older now than my father was when he died," Sara said gently, and he sucked in a breath at that unexpected rejoinder. "None of us knows how much time we have. You know that better than anyone. We see people every day in the morgue who thought they had another fifty years."

He nodded, well aware of how right she was, and reached for her again, pulling her back down to settle against his chest.

She nestled against him, her body entwined with his, and he ran his fingers through her silky curls and over her back. The words for how he felt about her stuck in his throat, twisted in his chest. He wanted, desperately, to say them to her in that moment, to tell her how important she was to him, how long he had waited for this, how much he loved her. But the words seemed so small and insufficient. She was the moon, and he was the tides, forever in her sway. Someday, he would find the words for her. But for now, he settled for holding her close to his heart and hoping she heard its message.