Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

WARNING: This is a CD fic. If that isn't your cup of tea, I wouldn't read.

A/N: Technically, these are two separate stories, but they're so similar, I'm posting them in one. Sara's POV will come first, followed by Grissom's. Much thanks to mingsmommy for the wonderful beta. And to princessklutz04 for the title idea. Mortem obire means "to meet death".

The quote at the beginning of Grissom's POV can be traced to both Pope Paul VI and Michael Landon. I can't figure out who said it first, so I'll credit both.

"Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

--Eskimo Proverb

Looking at myself, I realize how old I am. I mean, I'm ninety-three, I know I'm old. I guess I just never noticed it before. Reaching out, I touch my wrinkled cheek and feel the sag of my skin. I let out a small laugh.

Death isn't a time to be vain.

It's odd, this sensation, watching over my self. Sitting here, I feel like I'm breathing, I can hear myself laugh, I can feel the slight clamminess to my skin, but my body isn't moving.

I feel like I should be sad, but I'm not. I've lived a long, healthy, life.

It's funny though. I always expected to die tragically. My entire life up to a certain point was a string of tragic events, sometimes, but rarely, intercepted by happiness. Like a tattered sheet, or broken blinds, that lets the sun's rays shine through.

But, to tell the truth, I'm glad I didn't. I remember my brief time trapped under a car where I almost drowned, and then almost died in the cruel, intense desert heat. I couldn't imagine dying there, leaving behind everyone I loved, feeling like my life was incomplete. And tragedy always leaves someone feeling guilty like there's more they could have done. I wouldn't want anyone to feel guilt over my death. Everybody dies. It's only natural.

Now, more than fifty-seven years later (has it really been that long?), I feel like I've accomplished everything I could have hoped for. I married a wonderful man, the love of my life and found happiness with him. I had two beautiful children who grew up in a loving household and now have children of their own.

But even that came with a price.

Marrying Gil, I knew he would die before me, barring tragedy, anyway. Being fifteen years older than me, it was almost a certainty. He died when I was seventy-five, eighteen years ago, and with him went a piece of my soul. At that point, both Lucy and Noah were grown with families of their own, and I was alone.

I survived, living out the rest of my life quietly, surrounding myself with family. I reveled in the joy of watching my grandchildren grow up and spoiling them rotten any chance I could. I always wondered what Gil thought when he looked down on us. Did he know how hard it was for me to live without him? But every day I lived, I was one day closer to seeing Gil again.

Part of me felt it was cliché, but in my older years, I gained a sense of spirituality that made me believe we'd see each other again. We spent so many years dancing around each other, that when fate finally stepped in, I knew that was it; we'd never be apart for long.

"Mom?"

I turn towards the sound of Lucy's voice, and I feel my heart sink. Today we all, Lucy, her husband, Frank and their daughters Cecelia and Cassandra, Noah, his wife, Nicole and their son Daniel were suppose to go out for lunch. Glancing at the clock, I simply stare at the numbers, the concept of time now lost on me, but I'm thirty minutes late.

"Mom, are you ready?"

Her voice is closer now and any minute, she'll push open the door and find my lifeless body resting under the sheets. I rise off from the bed and walk towards the door just as it opens. Lucy walks in with a smile on her face, and she slowly walks over to my body.

Her smile falters as she gets closer and worry creeps into her voice. "Mom?" She reaches out for me, but jumps back when she feels the cool touch of my skin. Letting out a choked sob, she runs for the door. "Noah! Oh my God, Noah, come here!"

I hear the rush of footsteps and a moment later, Noah rushes in, almost being knocked over by the force of her hug. He wraps his arms around her, and glances over at my lifeless body. "She's dead, Noah."

All he can manage is a nod as silent tears roll down his cheeks.

I feel a sob bubble up within myself and I can feel hot tears run down my face. There's never a time in a mother's life when she wants to leave her children. Even when children leave the house and start families of their own, that strong maternal bond still exists. These are my babies.

I wipe at my eyes and step towards my son. With shaky hands, I dry his tears, even though I know my ministrations don't affect him. I find myself running my fingers through his hair—the same curly hair his father had—and whispering "shhh" in the same calming voice that soothed him as a baby.

I keep my voice soft as I talk to him. "You are so much like your father, and that's helped me a lot after he died. I look at you and think of how proud he was of you, and how proud I am of you." My voice cracks, but I press on. "I love you, Noah. And while I'm not going to be around any more, I'll always love you."

Kissing his cheek, I notice the slight shiver that shakes through his body. I turn towards Lucy, her face still half hidden against Noah's chest. I go to move the hair from her face, but she does it for me and I press a kiss to her forehead.

"Oh, Lucy. We were so scared when we had you, but you were more than we could ever have hoped for and you've made me so happy. You're bright, smart and funny, and you're still my little girl. But now you've got to be a mom to your girls and watch them have babies." I pause, at wipe at my eyes. "I love you."

I hug them both one last time and step back. I feel the nagging pull at my body away from Earth; I know I don't have much time. But I know he's waiting for me.

Turning around, I see him, standing before me with big smile on his face. He looks exactly the way he did the day we got married—incredibly handsome, fresh faced and clean shaven, wearing that wonderful black tux I always loved.

A gasp escapes my lips and my tears of sadness are replaced with tears of happiness. Eighteen years has been too long.

Extending his hand towards me, he smiles wider and I can't help but return the favor.

I'm coming, Gil.

------

"Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows."

–Pope Paul VI

Being a man of science, I knew one day that death would claim me. Death is an inevitable fact of life. I thought that when that day came, I would accept my fate and let biology run its course.

My experience was all together different.

For a long time, I never expected to leave anyone behind when I left. Up until a certain point, I had accepted the fact that I probably would die alone, leaving behind only the great memory of my work. I never expected to miss someone and be missed when I left.

It turns death into a whole new ball game. A game I wasn't sure I wanted to play.

I only really started living half way through my life. While I don't have many regrets, I do regret never following my heart sooner. Sara and I shared thirty-nine years of married life together, but I spent almost half as much time trying to convince myself a relationship between us could never work.

I wish I'd had more time with my children.

Sara and I both knew our kids would be young when I died; such is the fact of having kids well into your fifties. When Lucy was born, I was more afraid of messing up as a father than leaving her fatherless at a young age. But as I grew older and my body started betraying me, I started to feel guilty that she'd lose me earlier than she should. And with Noah being six years younger than Lucy, his time with me was even less.

But I revel in the fact, that with the precious time I was given, I was able to see both my children get married and see my daughter bring two beautiful girls into the world. And I saw Sara as a wonderful, devoted mother and loved sharing that experience with her. I loved falling asleep beside her and waking up with her still by my side. She completed my life.

I now understand the very strange feeling of floating away from your body and knowing you're dead. Part of me didn't want to believe I was looking down on myself and the other part knew the inevitable happened. The last thing I remember was Sara telling me she loved me. Those three simple words, the most beautiful words she ever told me.

But in that moment, I felt worse that Sara would wake to find me gone.

When she couldn't wake me up, I cried with her. I smoothed her hair and tried to dry her eyes, I held her in my arms and rocked her gently. I told her how much I loved her; how I'd always loved her and that I was forever grateful that she never gave up on me. Kissing her lips, I thanked her for our two beautiful children and told her I'd be watching over them.

Once I accepted the fact I was dead, I was pulled away from her, destined to spend the rest of my time watching my family from above, waiting for Sara to join me.

"Death ends a life, not a relationship;" I'm so glad that's true. Eighteen years since I last saw her and I still love her just as intensely as the first day I met her.

And now I watch over her as she struggles with the idea of her death. She'll never admit it, but I know she's scared. We're both lucky to have died peacefully with no dramatic sense of tragedy. No wires, no machines, no drawn out illness, no pain.

But it's still a scary experience to go to bed alive and wake up…well, dead.

She's taking her time saying goodbye to the kids, trying to comfort them the best way she can in her non-corporeal state. While she feels the irreversible pull of her body away from Earth, I can feel her impending arrival and I straighten my shoulders and stand up taller. I feel almost as nervous as I did on our first date.

I've been watching over her for eighteen years, and every year she aged gracefully and accepted the wrinkles that adorned her face and the sags that stretch her skin and she's never complained of the ache in her bones.

But right now, in this moment, watching her accept her death, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Sara turns towards me, and I am overwhelmed. She's younger; her hair seems to glow and regain it's youthful appearance and her skin regresses to it's firmer, porcelain texture. It's like the first time I ever saw her.

I feel myself grow anxious at the thought of being able to touch her again and I can't help the smile that stretches across my face.

Looking up at me, she smiles and I can see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Extending my hand, I reach for her, waiting, my smile growing wider.

She's coming.