Title: Sixty
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler: The Accused Is Entitled.
Warning: There's a mild Michael Douglas bashing ahead. So, in case you're a fan...
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Grissom worries about growing old. And Greg reveals the name of his fantasy man.

***

Grissom entered his office and gave his desk a cursory glance. There were several envelopes and packages waiting for him but he wasn't in the mood to tackle those yet. Instead, he picked the messages the receptionist had left for him, neatly piled under a paperweight.

Gil sighed. The shift hadn't even started and he already had about a dozen messages. It was Friday night after all -the busiest night of the week.

Thinking how a cup of coffee might just help him face the night ahead, Grissom left his office and turned in the break room's direction. It was early still; he had plenty of time. Besides, if the messages were any indication, he would not have a moment's rest until the next morning -and maybe not even then.

Gil found Jacqui and Greg in the break room. They were leafing through some magazines.

"Ugh, he looks awful, here," Amy said.

"Who?" Greg asked, looking up. But before Amy replied, he noticed that Grissom was there, "Hey, Grissom," he said amiably.

"Hey, Greg. Jacqui."

Jacqui squirmed a little at the boss' arrival, but Grissom merely smiled at her. He didn't have a problem with people taking some time off at the break room -even if this included having some questionable reading material present.

Technically, you weren't supposed to keep tabloid magazines in your working area or anywhere else in the lab. But after Greg's magazine collection helped them break the Tom Havilland case, Grissom (and the other supervisors), had begun to appreciate the value of unconventional reading materials.

Since then, the rules had loosened up a bit. As long as the magazines didn't offer antagonistic views on the police and the law in general, you could pretty much read anything.

Right now, it was the Oscars coverage that had Jacqui's complete attention. Grissom didn't have to look at the magazine to know that; he'd been there when Greg bought the magazines not quite an hour before.

Gil smiled to himself. He found this trait of Greg's especially amusing. The young man had a wide-range of interests and more depth than anyone could even suspect, but there was no denying that tabloid reporting held an inordinate appeal for him.

Grissom didn't mind. In fact, he found it soothing. There were times when his work as Supervisor threatened to take over his every waking hour and he desperately needed a diversion; suddenly, there was Greg pointing at some celebrity's clothes and making him laugh.

But tonight, Jacqui was the one making the comments.

"Really, he needs some plastic surgery, don't you think?"

"Who?" Greg asked again, leaning across the table to take a peek, "Ah, Michael Douglas," he said, nodding knowingly.

"His wife's in her early thirties," Jacqui said in a disapproving tone, "He's like 60!"

"He looks it," Greg said dryly before returning to his Star magazine; he was reading an article on Pink, his favorite female artist.

Just then, someone paged Jacqui and she had to leave. Greg continued reading.

Grissom took Jacqui's chair and sat. He eyed the magazine that she had been looking at. Michael Douglas was on the cover, looking good for a sixty-year-old guy.

At least, Grissom thought so.

"You know," Gil said after a moment, "That's probably what I'm gonna look like in ten years."

Greg glanced at him.

"What?"

"I'm fifty," Grissom said, "So, in ten years I'm gonna look like that," and he tilted his head in the magazine's direction.

Greg's eyebrows rose.

"You're gonna look like Michael Douglas?"

Grissom smiled.

"You know what I mean," he said.

Greg looked at Grissom and then he looked down at the magazine.

"Well…"

"I'm going to be sixty, Greg."

"Yeah," Greg said slowly. "So?"

Grissom shrugged.

"So, I thought I should point that out to you."

"And so you did," Greg said. "I like older guys, you know." He added after a moment, "They're more -"

"Grateful?" Gil smiled.

"Actually, yes," Greg said, smiling back, "They are grateful." He looked curiously at Gil, "Where are you going with this? It's not like we didn't talk about this before. I said I didn't have a problem."

"I know," Gil said, "It's just… There's no denying that in ten years you're gonna be forty -"

"Yes…"

"And you're probably gonna look as good as you look today -"

"Hopefully…"

"While I'm gonna be sixty." Gil finished.

Greg considered this for a moment and then he smiled widely.

"Aw, I know what this is all about," he said, "You're worried that I'm gonna regret this." And he pulled the chain he was wearing under his clothes. There was a gold band pending from it.

"It's a concern," Grissom said reasonably.

"There's nothing to worry about, Grissom," Greg said confidently. But Gil was still looking at him, as if he needed more reassurance, "What, you don't believe me? Ok," he added, leaning forward, "Just tell me this. Are you still gonna do that twisty thing you sometimes do with your tongue when we kiss?"

Gil paused and then he nodded.

"Yes."

"And are you still gonna do that thing you do with your index finger when you -"

Grissom flushed.

"Yes, Greg," he said abruptly, "I'm still gonna do that."

Greg repressed a smile.

"And are you still gonna surprise me now and then with some completely unpredictable behavior that will make me wonder if I know you at all -while making me love you all the more for it?"

Grissom actually paused this time. He didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep.

"I can try," he offered.

"Then there's nothing to worry about," Greg said confidently.

Grissom smiled at this.

"Ok," he said, and he rose from his seat. He was taking his cup to the sink when Greg spoke again.

"Besides… You're the closest I'll ever get to my fantasy man, anyway."

And there was so much wistfulness in those words that Grissom stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned.

"Fantasy man?" he asked.

"Sean Connery," Greg said sheepishly.

Gil raised one eyebrow.

"Sean Connery? "

"Yeah. I've never said this to anyone but, hum, ever since I saw him in Red October -" he shrugged.

"Sean Connery," Grissom said again, as if the words were in some strange language he couldn't quite master.

"Yep."

Grissom didn't know what to say.

Greg had a faraway look in his eyes as he added, "Bearded, grey-haired, honorable, smart -" he sighed, "Sexy as hell -"

This time, Grissom raised both eyebrows.

"Sean Connery?"

Greg shook his head.

"Gil Grissom," he said huskily.

He smiled at Gil and after a moment, the older man smiled back.

"All right," Gil said. And then, doing his best Connery impression, he added, "There's a body waiting for us, young Sanders."

"Ooooh, baby," Greg whispered and eagerly followed him out of the room.

THE END

***