Title: A friendly voice
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of CBS and I'm just borrowing for a little story.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: After the Dog Eat Dog case, Greg makes plans for all those weenies he bought, unintentionally teaching Grissom a lesson. Not slash. Spoilers from season 6.

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It was eight o'clock on a Sunday morning when Greg rushed into the locker room. He was about ready to go home but first he needed something from his locker.

Getting it wasn't going to be easy, though -his locker was seriously cramped. Once he unlocked the door he was careful to open it just enough to stick his arm inside; otherwise, everything he kept inside would have spilled out.

Greg's colleagues had always marveled at the amount of stuff he kept in his locker. Piles of magazines; CD's, books, shoes, clean clothes for any occasion that might arise -a suit for court appearances, a casual jacket in case he got lucky and went out on a date right after work, gym clothes…

And, tucked behind all that, the one thing he was looking for: a credit card. He kept it purposefully out of reach to avoid temptation.

Money had been tight lately.

Achieving CSI status had given him a sense of accomplishment and had earned him his coworkers' respect too, but it had also gotten him a considerable cut on his monthly check. Things weren't so bad so far, but he had to be careful with his expenses; avoid any wild splurges-

Like buying a bagful of hot dogs to solve a case, for instance.

Greg shook his head. He'd spent more than he should but he was glad; his hunch had paid off -he'd matched the hot dog that the dead man had eaten, thus helping with the investigation. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, and he was in the mood to celebrate. It was Sunday, he didn't have to work until later in the evening, and more importantly, he had enough hot dogs to feed an army –or a dozen hungry CSIs and lab technicians. He was inviting everybody over for lunch, but first he had to make a quick stop at the grocery store. He needed mustard and ketchup, pickles, and something green for a salad.

So far, everybody had offered to contribute something; Nick and Warrick had offered to bring the beer, Bobby had offered to make his special potato salad -

Someone's arrival interrupted Greg's thoughts. It was Grissom.

"Hey, Greg. I was looking for you."

Greg cringed. It was uncanny, how Grissom always managed to make him feel bad for not being right there when he needed him…

Greg closed the locker door and discreetly leant on it to ensure that it wouldn't open under the avalanche of stuff inside.

"Catherine told me you matched the hot dogs," Grissom said.

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "I did."

"Congratulations," Grissom said, "You helped break the case."

A few weeks before, Greg would have glowed with pride and satisfaction at being praised like this; but now, he merely nodded and stared back.

"You did a good job," Gil continued, "So I think it's only fair that you get a reimbursement."

Greg watched as Grissom filled out a voucher in his clipboard.

"You don't have to do that, Grissom," he said, "It's not like I spent that much money. And I'm taking most of the hot dogs home with me, anyway."

"Well, you still ought to be reimbursed." Grissom said without looking up. "Your idea paid off; it saved us time-"

"You didn't think it would, did you?"

Grissom stopped writing. He glanced at Greg.

"I never said that," he said quietly. He looked at Greg for a moment. "If I gave you the impression that I didn't believe your idea would work, then I'm sorry."

"That's ok," Greg replied dismissively, "I didn't do it to impress you."

Grissom slowly put his pen down. His eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly.

"I used to do that," Greg said, "Do things just to get your approval, I mean. I think I've outgrown that."

Grissom nodded.

"Good," he said quietly, "No one should do their work just to impress other people."

He signed the voucher and handed it to Greg.

"Cash it tomorrow." He said gently, and then he left.

Greg opened the locker again and rummaged inside until he found his credit card.

"Yes!" he exclaimed as he brought it under the light, "Come to papa!" he added, tucking it inside a shirt pocket.

Greg put everything back inside; he was about to shove the voucher under some books, when he accidentally glanced at it.

And then he did a double take.

Grissom had filled out every space except the line where the amount should go –which was understandable, since he didn't bother to ask how much Greg had spent on the hot dogs. Grissom had practically handed him a carte blanche.

Greg stared at the sheet of paper for a long time, and all along there was only one thought going on in his mind: Grissom trusted him.

Grissom liked to do paperwork on a Sunday. It was the one day he could close the door on the world and work without any interruptions.

This time however, he couldn't concentrate.

He tried, but he kept reviewing the talk he'd just had with Greg. Greg's statement that he would not do things just to impress the boss was somewhat unexpected, but Grissom didn't resent it; on the contrary, he thought sarcastically. Frankly, he felt uncomfortable when people turned to him for praise.

Maybe this meant that Greg was growing up.

Grissom looked at the mismatched visitor's chairs in front of his desk. How many times had Greg sat in one of them, endlessly talking about the events of the day, or about some movie he'd seen or a book he'd read, and then looked up expectantly at the boss, as if he needed approval or reassurance?

Not that Grissom had ever encouraged him; on the contrary, he'd always made it clear that Greg's babbling exasperated him. 'And your point is?' was one of his favorite phrases. But Grissom felt he was entitled; Greg's comments and asides were mostly clumsy attempts at conversation, having less to do with their investigations than with Greg's need to show off his vast knowledge.

Not that Greg wasn't impressive at times. Grissom just had never acknowledged it.

Maybe he should have.

Now, on hindsight, Gil realized that Greg's behavior had gradually changed during the past weeks. The young man had been focusing more on his job and less on talking. Just the day before, for instance, he had sat in this office, barely concealing his impatience as Grissom told him the origin of the term 'hot-dog'. It was obvious that he couldn't wait to go back to the lab to start his experiment, but Grissom had insisted on finishing his tale.

And all of a sudden, it dawned on him that the day before, he had been the one doing the babbling while Greg had acted impatiently.

The roles had been reversed for the first time.

Not for the first time, Grissom realized. He had done this before -babble about things that others might not be really interested in.

Grissom frowned. Why did he do that? It was not as if he were trying to impress people, was it?

Of course not, he thought quickly. He'd never purposefully sought anybody's approval. He just liked to share the stuff he knew-

"You're blushing."

Grissom blinked. Catherine was standing in front of him, as if she had suddenly materialized inside his office.

"I didn't hear you knock." He said testily.

"I didn't knock." She retorted. She took a step closer, "Your face is red, Grissom." she frowned, "What's up?"

He hesitated for only a moment.

"I think I'm embarrassed." He said truthfully. "I've just discovered that other people's sins are my own, too."

Catherine stared at him. Grissom often did this –say something that sounded like a joke or a quote or a riddle. Sometimes it was fun to try and find out, and sometimes she just didn't have the time. Or the patience.

"Right," she said dryly. She shook her head and changed the subject, "Listen, we're all going to Greg's place for lunch today, so -"

"Greg's place?" He frowned, "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing special," she shrugged, "And nothing fancy," she added, "He's feeding us hot-dogs."

"Ah," he smiled, "Of course."

"Anyway, he asked me to tell everyone, so-" she paused.

"Ok." He nodded, acknowledging the invitation. "Thanks."

He was obviously dismissing her, but Catherine didn't take heed. She simply crossed her arms.

"Gil," she said, "It would be nice if you went too."

"I have work to do-"

"It's Sunday, Grissom." She said, but she knew better than to insist. Instead, she added, "We're all contributing something –beverages, mostly- so, if you decide to join us-"

But she was already walking away. She knew that Grissom would not go. He never did.

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Grissom went home shortly after.

He stared at the rows of CDs, trying to decide between composers. After weighing Beethoven's merits against Brahms', he realized that he was not in the mood for music after all. It had been a long week, and all he needed was rest.

And silence.

A nap was a good idea, so he lay down on the couch. It took him a little turning and tossing, but he finally got comfortable and after a moment, he sighed with satisfaction.

Blessed silence.

He closed his eyes and then he took a deep, cleansing breath.

He was starting to relax when his cell phone rang. He had left it on the coffee table, so all he had to do was extend his arm to pick it up.

He frowned when he saw the caller's number.

Grissom didn't take the call; he waited until the caller left a message.

Greg's voice was tentative.

"Hum, Grissom? It's me," he paused, "Sanders." He added, "Listen, I know you like silence and all that, and I also know it's your day off, but-"

. Grissom cringed as he heard the word. Greg was alluding to a recent conversation they'd had, during which Grissom had practically said that everybody in the lab bothered him and that his only consolation was that at the end of the day there was silence waiting for him at home.

Grissom shook his head, in remorse. No wonder Greg had stopped coming to his office; he had gotten the message loud and clear.

Grissom glanced at the phone and realized he had missed the rest of the message, so he replayed it.

"Hum, Grissom? It's me. Sanders. Listen, I know you like silence and all that, and I also know it's your day off, but hum, I'm having a barbecue at my place today and, well, everybody's coming. Guess what the main course is," he added with a chuckle, "I've got about twenty brands of hot-dogs, so there'll be plenty to choose from. Brass offered to do the grilling – no surprise there- and Doc Robbins's providing the buns –go ahead, make a joke, everybody has."

Greg paused, and Grissom just knew that the young man was desperately trying not to babble. But he was failing.

"You don't have to bring anything," Greg continued, "But if you don't like the cheap stuff that Nick and Warrick drink, then by all means, bring your own brew. Oh, and if you're not in the mood for a hot dog, there's some salad I got for Sara. She'll be more than happy to share it with you, so- Oh, and we'll be tuning in to a ball game later too, you know, so the dogs taste better.

"So, if you wanna spend some hours with your noisy coworkers…" his voice trailed off, "Just remember that Hodges is coming too," he added with a touch of humor. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

And then he hung up.

Grissom scoffed softly.

That long speech would have exasperated him at some other time, but not today. This time he even appreciated the babbling for what it meant: Greg had not changed that much. Just because he didn't need his boss' approval, didn't mean he would stop talking to him.

It also meant that Greg had forgiven him.

It was like getting a chance to start anew.

'All right,' Grissom thought. He'd take that chance. First, he'd try to be more tolerant whenever Greg dropped by his office; he'd listen patiently to those endless stories of his. After all –and this thought actually made him smile- guys who babbled ought to stick together.

And maybe –just maybe- one of these days he would finally admit that Greg's vast knowledge did impress him sometimes.

Maybe.

As for the party… He was not going.

He rarely met his coworkers outside the workplace, and he didn't see any reason to change that habit. He preferred to keep people at a distance.

He closed his eyes again.

But sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned again, but nothing worked. It wasn't until his gaze fell on the phone that he realized what was wrong: The silence.

Music was an option, but the phone was closer.

He picked up the phone and pressed it against his ear.

"Hum, Grissom? It's me-"

Grissom smiled to himself. He liked silence, but sometimes hearing a friendly voice was even better.

THE END

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