Disclaimer: I asked my Dad for some monet the other day. He wanted to know how much. I told him I needed enough to buy the rights to CSI, or at least Billy and Gary's contracts. He laughed at me. I don't understand why.

Spoilers: A tiny one for Invisible Evidence

She's imagined it a thousand different ways, in a thousand different places. Fantasized for ten years about the first kiss they would share. Awake or asleep, at home or on the job, she wonders about it. Her and Grissom and a kiss.

They would be at a crime scene, behind a building in an alley. Down on their hands and knees, looking for evidence. She would look up, and find that he was watching her in the patient way he had. Slowly he would rise up, walk towards her, and plant a gentle kiss on her lips. Turning away, he would return to his evidence collection. Like a comment about beauty, it would become another thing they didn't mention.

Sometimes she rewrites the minutes in the layout room, when they worked around the clock to rescue a case from being dropped in court. He had held her so closely against the sheet, pinning her down. His face was just inches from hers. In her fantasies the distance closes and his mouth plunders hers in a move that is sudden and firm. She moans, and leans in to him, deepening the kiss until they are devouring each other. They forget that this is work, that someone could intrude any moment. They don't care, because they are wrapped up in each other.

There are times when she pictures it happening at the end of the night, after a date. He walks her to her front door, waiting for her to disappear inside. She fumbles with her keys, dropping them onto the ground. They both reach down, knocking heads together as they pick up the keys. Grissom lifts his hand to smooth the tender skin of her forehead, then traces his fingers down the side of her face, caressing her cheek. Much like she brushed away imaginary chalk all those years ago. He won't stop there, though. Tentatively he will lean in, pausing halfway to give her a chance to stop him. She won't.

He can make her angry like no other, and when she is fuming at him, wanting to yell and scream, she also wants to grab him and pull him towards her. Surprise him with her power. Scorch him with her lust. Make him writhe with desire until he admits that he knows what to do about 'this.'

When the hard cases come, the ones involving rape and abuse, battered children and wives, she longs to comfort him. She wishes she could hold him as he cries, and wipe away his tears with the palm of her hand. She would give him a kiss of tenderness, of comfort. With her lips she would help his soul to heal.

She imagines that he will taste of mint, or whiskey, or lemons. His lips will be warm. His hand will press against the hollow of her back, pulling her to him.

She imagines kisses that are short and soft and comforting. She revels in the thoughts of kisses that are long and hungry, leading to more then just making out. Kisses of romance, of lust, of love. Kisses of friendship.

She never thought it would be like this. Never thought that when she finally kissed him for the first time his lips would be cold and stiff, his eyes empty. Never imagined that their first kiss would be their last.

"I love you, Gil Grissom," she whispers as she pulls the white sheet back over his face and turns to leave the morgue. As she walks away, she presses a single finger against her lips as if the motion could seal the kiss there forever.