Title: Forensic Cupid
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Spoiler: Kiss-Kiss, Bye-Bye
Summary: I watched 'Kiss-Kiss, Bye-Bye' the other day and was struck by how handsome Greg looked in it. I started wondering if Grissom noticed too... and if he did, would somebody else know?

***

Doctor Robbins took one last look at Lois O'Neil, famous chorus girl, notorious girlfriend, notable chronicler. Tomorrow, the press would add another name to her, but tonight, she was simply Lois O'Neil, case LV 135680. No matter what you called her, she still looked splendid; her clothes, her hair, her hands resting half-open by her side. Even the shot in her chest looked like an extravagant addition to her dress. To an untrained eye, she'd probably look like she was merely taking a nap before getting whisked to a party; to an expert, the rigidity of her fingers and the slackness of her jaw revealed the sad story: Lois was dead.

A few hours more, and she would begin to smell…

Robbins sighed. He looked up at the men standing by the door and motioned them in.

"She's ready," he said. The morgue assistants came in with a stretcher and a bag, but they didn't immediately set out to work. They were awed by the luxury of the room, and the sight of the woman lying on her deathbed.

"Go on," Robbins said, "Don't make her wait."

The men unfurled the white bag and set it next to her.

"Careful, if you please," Robbins said, though the warning was hardly necessary, and he knew it: his men were professionals. Besides, they were working under the boss' watchful eye, something that didn't happen every day, which meant they would take every precaution as they lifted Lois. But handling her was less difficult than they anticipated. Soon, they had her inside the bag.

"She made it easy on us," one of them said.

"Very easy, indeed," Robbins muttered. Murder was always messy. Very rarely did they find dead bodies lying peacefully like this, with their limbs nicely positioned and their clothes decorously draped around them. The word 'staged' had crossed Robbins' mind the minute he saw Lois' body, but he didn't voice his suspicions. In this job, off-handed comments had a nasty habit to come back and bite you in the ass. Better wait for the autopsy to be sure.

"Go ahead," he said once the body was put on the stretcher. "I'll be coming along in a minute. Oh, and remember," he added as the men turned to go, "You are not to discuss this case with anyone outside the lab. And kindly refrain from talking to the press." Another unnecessary warning, but one he always felt compelled to add, especially in cases involving famous people.

He glanced at the empty bed now. Save for the gory residue, it looked immaculate. Lois didn't lie down to sleep, he thought. She lay down to die.

Robbins almost picked his camera for one last shot, but in the end, he did not. It was one thing to take a picture of a dignified profile; taking a picture of a bloodied bed put you in a quite different level.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he looked around for Grissom. CSIs had to take over the investigation now. There were samples to be taken from the mattress: blood, flesh and bone, not to mention a bullet that might be embedded in the mattress…

He saw Grissom, standing in a corner of the room. He and Greg Sanders had finished examining the rest of the room, and now they were talking in hushed tones, with Gil doing most of the talking. Finally, Greg nodded gravely.

"Right away, boss!" he said in a very good impression of Humprey Bogart. He smiled at his own joke, then added, "I'll take this to trace," he said, meaning the evidence bags he carried in his kit. "I'll call you as soon as I have some results." And then he was gone.

Robbins watched Grissom during this exchange. The CSI Supervisor followed Greg's every move with his eyes, a slight smile on his lips; but once Greg disappeared from view, the smile faded and he shrugged, a little resignedly. 'Ah, well,' the gesture seemed to say, and to Robbins, it was almost as if Gil had spoken the words out loud.

Robbins' interest was piqued, and he kept his gaze on Gil, who, still glancing at the empty door, slowly put on a new pair of gloves. Gil was clearly lost in thought for a moment, then he finally snapped out of it and turned in the bed's direction, only to find, to his dismay, that Robbins was still there.

He didn't hesitate for long.

"So," he said casually, "Anything you can tell me?"

Robbins smiled.

"Oh, I can tell you lots of things," he said placidly. "You, my friend, are in love."

To his credit, Gil didn't miss a beat.

"I mean, about the case," he said dryly.

"Which one?" Robbins replied, enjoying himself immensely, "If it's the one about the lonely CSI Supervisor who seems to come to life whenever he talks to a certain colleague, then I can tell you plenty." He paused for a moment, giving Gil a chance to put up a denial. He was glad when Gil didn't. "However," he said gently, "I'm only going to say this: Go for it."

Grissom stared at him in disbelief. He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

"I can't do that."

"Are you sure?" Robbins said, "What if I told you he has a crush on you?"

Gil's incredulity only grew.

"What," Robbins said, "You haven't noticed?"

"Who are you?" Gil said, sincerely puzzled. "It isn't like you to pry into people's personal lives."

Gil was right. It wasn't.

"Oh, I don't know," Robbins sighed. "Maybe it's all those stories David keeps telling me about his fiancée. He's happier than I've ever seen him. And that's my point: I'd never seen you like this."

"Like this?"

"Happy," Robbins said. "You're happy, and for the first time it isn't because you found a head in a bucket, or the final clue in a case. You like this man. And, as I have just mentioned, he likes you too. But you've already noticed; otherwise you would have told me I was wrong."

Grissom didn't reply. He looked down, clearly uncomfortable by the conversation.

Robbins decided not to push his luck. He'd already said enough for one night.

"Anyway," he said, reaching for his crutches, "I hope you do something about it. Keep me posted, will you?" He tested his hold on the crutches, then confidently walked to the door. He slowed down, however, and just before he reached the door, he looked at Gil. "You know," he said slowly, "My wife has started reading romance stories. After 20 years of marriage, you'd think she'd be settling for a quiet life, but no; she says it's never late to start over. Luckily, she decided to start over with me. My point is, it's never late, Gil."

He didn't wait for a response.

He only hoped his friend would follow his advice.

THE END

***