Spoilers: Through 'For Gedda' and the previews for 'For Warrick.'
A/N: I don't own CSI or the characters. This is the first thing I've written for CSI in a long time. It's also been quite a while since I've read anything for CSI, so any similarities to other fics is purely unintentional. I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine.
Gil Grissom sat on his couch nursing his fourth—no, fifth—drink. Alcohol never quite numbed the pain, but this time, it didn't stop him from trying. They had been too late. He had been too late. Logically, he knew that someone shot at such close range had a small chance of survival, but emotionally, that was a tough pill to swallow. He felt responsible for Warrick's death even though he hadn't been the one who pulled the trigger.
Images of holding Warrick's bloody body in his lap flooded Grissom's mind like a scene from a horror movie stuck on repeat.
He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the key turn in the lock or the door shut behind the woman after she entered. It was only when she sat down next to him that he noticed her. He slowly turned his head toward her. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his.
"What the hell happened, Cath?" he whispered.
"I have no damn idea, Gil," she replied hoarsely as she took his drink from him and finished the contents of the glass.
"I thought they sent you home to get some rest," Grissom uttered.
"They sent you home, too. And I got about as much rest as you did."
They grew silent and rested their heads on the back of the couch. He didn't need to ask why she was there. It had been a while since she'd used her key, but he was certain the reason hadn't changed. The situation was always different, but the end result was the same. They were two consenting adults coming together for the sole purpose of comforting in times of anxiety and despair.
Their hands found each others' in the minute space between their bodies, and they felt the tension begin to ease. Hands still joined, they stood in unison and walked to his bedroom as they'd done many times before. They removed their own clothes and slid between the sheets, needing to ease the pain and momentarily forget the world outside.
Catherine moved to straddle him, silently communicating that she was in charge this time and wanted him to just feel. She slid down onto him as his hands clenched her hips, and he rocked up to meet her in the one-two-three rhythm of a timeless waltz. As always, their eyes remained locked, even through release.
Afterward, he twirled her hair around his fingers as she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat return to normal. For the moment, they are content to stay wrapped in each others' arms, even though they both know she'll be gone in the morning.
They're not ashamed of their actions, and there has never been anything dirty or sordid about the sex. It's become their therapy, their way of coping with the everyday stressors of their jobs and other relationships. And as long as there are stressors, they will be there to comfort each other.
Thanks for reading!