Proof

It's amazing, what can happen after six years.

He'd shown up at my door in late May, resignation in his eyes and desperation in his kiss.

You win, his expression seemed to say as he slid into me.

A few weeks, and things began to change. The trademark smirk emerged more often, and there was a glint in his gaze when he looked at me. We went out for dinner and dancing in Sloane. A waltz and a kiss, and his hand on my back as we coasted back to our table. A few men shot him an envious look, and he shot back a clear expression: I win.

It was easier than either of us expected, hiding our relationship at work. Sure, there were times when we slipped up. More than once I'd bend over to get something, then turn to see him staring at my ass, slack-jawed. More than once his low murmurs at a crime scene made me blush and stammer.

There was the time when he and I worked a case with Catherine on the Strip. Dead hooker in an alley, little trace evidence, and a whole lot of rotting garbage. I was distracted by the putrid smell and the heaps of waste, and when I called his name to ask for more baggies, Catherine spun around in surprise.

"Since when do you call him Gil?" she asked, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

He claimed he'd told me to, and it seemed to appease her. Warrick joined us later in the night, and by some stroke of luck, he called Grissom 'Gil' as well. Catherine settled down, and I watched my tongue.

My tongue was too busy at home anyway. Mapping out every inch of his body, from his strong forearms to the belly that he still sucked in self-consciously when I tried to kiss it. Our legs tangled as I drew him closer, closer.

I kept my apartment and he kept his townhouse. We alternated nights and even techniques. Fast and rough at his place, where there were no neighbors to complain about the noise. Slow and sweet at my place, fingers interlaced tightly.

There were arguments, of course. I drew the line at experiments in the refrigerator. It was unsanitary, and his mini-fridge worked just fine. He grumbled something about dedication, but let it go. Just like he let it go when I replaced his sheets with a burgundy satin set, and when I put potpourri in his bathroom. Compromise, that's what love's about. Not that we ever spoke of love, not outright. We were both socially inept scientists. Love was understood, love was implied. It didn't require a proof.

We did talk about the potential disaster of being discovered. It was feasible that Cath could stop by when I was at his house, or that he and I could switch cell phones by accident. He started taking more consulting jobs, more teaching gigs. They took him away from home more often than I would have liked, but the extra income funded our trip to Europe, so I wasn't about to protest.

Teaching revived his intellectual curiosity, too. Debating against fresh minds left him feeling energized in a way that work never did. He'd come home from a seminar, aghast that some student had dared disagree with his theory, and would spend days writing up a research paper on the matter. Just to prove his point. The publications were just a bonus, as far as he was concerned.

We talked daily when he was away. Sometimes banal conversations about work, sometimes heated phone sex that made my toes curl with longing. He had a knack for descriptions, I'll say that much.

It was shortly after our one-year anniversary when he went off to another seminar. Called the first day with the usual complaints about an overzealous student. I chuckled obligingly, folding laundry as we chatted. The second day, his complaints had turned to admiration.

"You wouldn't believe this girl, honey," he said. "I'm telling you, she's the brightest student I've ever had."

"Ever?" I teased, laughter in my voice.

"Ever," he affirmed.

I couldn't decide which explanation would hurt more: that he'd forgotten I was once his student, or that he hadn't.

The third day, I heard her voice in the background. It was four o'clock in the afternoon; certainly not a scandalous hour. But on the fourth day, he didn't call. And on the fifth day, he didn't answer my call.

On the sixth day, he arrived home. Smacked a loud kiss on my cheek before shuffling off to his bedroom to unpack.

"How was your trip?" I asked, cringing at the neediness in my voice.

But he didn't pick up on it. "It was great," he called. "Really great. I'm tired, though. Going to catch some sleep before shift."

I grabbed a nightshirt from the dresser and slipped it on, but by the time I got under the covers, he was snoring.

The calls started after a day or so. He'd take them out on the deck, sometimes for an hour or more. I told myself I was overreacting. Sure he was talking with her, e-mailing her several times a day. But he was also telling me what they talked about afterwards. She was a relatively new criminalist, eager for the knowledge he could share. I was the one in his bed, the one in his heart.

Even still, I started making little changes, just to please him. Set aside a drawer in the refrigerator for his Petri dishes. Let him keep his cage of crickets in our bathroom. Learned how to cook a juicy pot roast, and halfway decent lamb chops. Didn't matter that I didn't eat the stuff, the important thing was making him happy. Keeping him happy.

Then, at a crime scene one night, I missed a key piece of evidence. I could claim it was fatigue, or distraction due to Grissom's two-hour phone conversation with his special friend earlier that evening. But the truth is, I just missed it. When he caught my mistake, he looked up at me with a mixture of disappointment and irritation.

And I caught the meaning behind his glare. She would have caught it.

We came home to my apartment that morning, dirty and exhausted. Stood in the foyer and stared at each other like strangers.

"Do you like her more than me?"

He furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Who?"

"This girl you keep talking to."

He laughed, then laughed again. Pulled me close, kissing my forehead. Led me to the bathroom, where we showered together for the first time in months. With every lather of shampoo, every kiss to my shoulder blades, my doubts began to fade. I wasn't too stupid for him, wasn't too unattractive. My knees couldn't be too knobby, not with the reverent way he was kissing them.

We made a trail of puddles to the bedroom, tripping over each other's legs in our hurry. I sighed with relief when he slid into me slowly, murmuring my name.

We were rebuilding something, right there in my bed. Layers of trust were being mended with every light touch, every quiet endearment. His hands were dancing over the surface of my skin as if it were our first time together.

"Griss," I moaned, as he sped up the pace. "Don't stop, you feel amazing."

He grunted low, burying his head in the crook of my neck. "Oh, Jesus..."

"I know."

"I love you," he gasped, nearing the edge. "God, Sara, I love you. Oh, god. Oh my god, Sara."

I whimpered as he came hard, shuddering a hot breath into my ear.

We lay in silence for a long moment, before he rolled off me. Both on our backs, side by side, staring at the ceiling. I willed myself not to cry. Willed him to come up with an explanation, any explanation.

"I'll go," he said finally, and a tiny sob escaped from my throat.

He stood up, grabbed his clothes off the bathroom floor. Carried them into the living room. I threw on a robe and followed him.

"I'll apply for another job," he said, not looking at me as he dressed. "Teaching somewhere, maybe." He buttoned his pants quickly and reached for his shirt.

"You don't have to leave, Grissom. I'll go."

He just shook his head. "You love it here."

"I don't, really. I mostly stayed for you."

"You shouldn't have to-"

"No," I agreed. "I shouldn't."

He finally met my gaze. There was resignation in his eyes, but relief, too. Neither of us had won, but I knew I was the only one who'd lost.

"I'm sorry," he said finally.

I nodded awkwardly. "I'll write up my letter of resignation right now. Brass has a soft spot for me... might even let me leave without completing the full two weeks."

"I doubt that. Where's he going to find a decent CSI in that amount of time?"

"I have a prospect for him," was all I'd say. Truth was, my friend Jane over in Traffic had been talking about us finding a job for her daughter for months now. She had the political clout to slide Holly right into my position when I left.

"I'm sorry," he said again. But there was a lightness to his step as he headed for the door.