Title: Hair
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler: In Precious Meetal, Greg says he wants to work in the field. This story takes place right after Gil's operation in 'Inside The Box'.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Greg was determined to become a CSI. He only had a little problem: He liked Gil's beard. A lot.

***

"… and the DNA is a perfect match," Greg said, handing a report to Sara.

"Great," she said, then smiled at him, "You broke the case."

Greg smiled back, then glanced at Grissom, who was making a check on his clipboard.

They were in the conference room, doing a quick review of their current cases. Catherine, Nick and Warrick had already had their turn, and as their DNA expert, Greg had had something to say about each of their cases, too.

Grissom looked up from his clipboard.

"Thanks, Greg." He said, then he glanced around, "Ok, that's it then. Keep me posted on any new developments. As for tonight," he added, picking a sheet of paper from the table, "I've got a new case for -" he paused.

Greg saw the four CSIs turn their eyes on Grissom as if he were about to announce the winner of some big prize.

"Warrick," Grissom finally said, handing him the sheet. "Home B and E. Take Nick." His cell phone rang then, and Grissom immediately took the call.

"Castañeda Avenue," Warrick said, reading the address from the sheet. "I know the place."

"I'm driving," Nick announced, and he was quick to pick the car keys resting in front of Warrick.

Greg smiled at this. Nick liked his coworkers, but sometimes he resented being the secondary investigator in a case. Driving was a small victory for him.

Catherine and Sara rose too, but they went their separate ways; Sara had an autopsy, and Catherine had a field case.

The meeting over, Greg started picking up his reports. He'd prepared a separate file for each of the cases, and they were strewn all over the table.

He was ready to go back to his lab, when Grissom looked up.

"Greg? We've got a DB in the desert," he said as he pocketed his cell phone, "You're coming with me."

Greg hesitated.

"Right now?"

"Yeah," Grissom said, glancing at his watch and then making a note on his clipboard.

Greg cleared his throat.

"Gee, I…I'm not sure I can make it, tonight, Grissom."

Grissom didn't look up.

"What do you mean you can't make it?"

"Well, I've got those DNA samples from Warrick's shooting case -"

Grissom cut the explanation short.

"You'll take care of those later," he said dismissively. He rose and turned to the door, only to stop when he noticed that Greg hadn't moved, "What?" he asked impatiently.

"Well," Greg hesitated. "I also got Catherine's blood samples, and the gloves from the -"

"They will be there when we come back," Grissom said in a slightly patronizing tone, "Right now we've got a dead body that's decomposing as we speak. That cannot wait.

"Come on," he said, softening his tone a little. There was a gleam in his eyes as he added, "This will be your introduction to Forensic Entomology 101. You're gonna have a lot of fun with it."

Greg walked to the door, but his reluctance wasn't lost on Grissom.

"Greg? What happened to your enthusiasm?"

"Nothing," Greg muttered defensively. "I just thought I'd do some of this tonight," he said, pointedly glancing at the files under his arm. "You guys can be pretty demanding sometimes, you know."

"Well, if anybody gives you a hard time, just tell them to talk to the boss."

And he put a certain emphasis in the word 'boss'

Greg got the message: The boss was ordering him to take a case, not asking if he wanted to.

Greg nodded briefly.

"I'll meet you in the parking lot in a minute," he said, "I'll just take the reports back to the lab."

***

Grissom was right; the body was decomposing quickly.

The smell was like nothing Greg had ever encountered before. Even being in an open space didn't seem to help much.

Beside him, Grissom spoke.

"You ok, Greg?"

Greg didn't look up.

"I'm fine," he said curtly.

Actually, he was fighting the urge to turn around and puke. Taking shallow breaths helped, as did the fact that Brass was there, too. Greg knew the detective was skeptical about his future as a CSI, and Greg wanted to prove him wrong.

"What do you want me to do?" Greg asked.

"Just watch, for now," Grissom said. He hunched down and, oblivious to the smells emanating from the dead man, leant to examine it closely. He gently patted the clothes.

"I found a wallet," he said, handing a faux leather object to Brass.

The detective gingerly took it, then complained.

"It stinks," he said, his nose wrinkling.

Grissom gave him a 'duh,' look then continued his examination.

Greg watched him attentively. Under the artificial lights, the dead man looked like a prop; but as Grissom's gloved hands became stained with gore, it became obvious that this was a human being, someone who'd been alive just a few days before.

"I've got an ID," Brass said, "See you fellas later," he added, then walked away.

With Brass gone, Greg felt more confident. He hunched down beside Grissom to get a better look.

"Can I help?"

"Pass me the glass jars," Gil said, and Greg promptly obeyed.

The young man watched as Grissom gently removed larvae from several areas of the body and put them in clean glass containers that he'd previously filled with tiny bits of liver.

"So, how long have you been doing this?" Greg asked, but Grissom didn't answer.

Greg glanced at Grissom as the man continued methodically filling glass jars.

"See this?" Gil said suddenly, pointing to the dead man's mouth. It was one of the few areas that looked relatively intact. "See how the flies have stayed clear of this area? This strongly suggests that the man ingested a toxic substance prior to his death. Swab it."

Greg didn't move.

He didn't even hear Grissom's words.

Right now, Greg was completely focused on a tiny bead of sweat precariously perched on Grissom's cheek. Under the harsh artificial lights it looked like a tiny diamond, until a sudden movement from Gil revealed its true nature. The bead slowly rolled down, leaving behind a thin line of moisture before disappearing into Gil's beard.

Greg's gaze was immediately drawn to another bead, this time on Grissom's temple. Greg couldn't help wondering what it would be like to reach out and collect the moisture with the tip of his finger, or better yet, with the tip of his tongue –

"Greg?"

Greg blinked. He'd been so focused on his boss' sweat that he didn't notice that Grissom was looking at him, piercing blue eyes silently questioning him.

'Shit,' Greg thought.

He knew that look; Grissom wanted him to do something or say something –only Greg had no idea what it was. He stalled.

"Yes, Grissom?"

"I asked you to swab the man's mouth," Grissom said, tilting his head in the body's direction.

"Right. Ok," Greg said, dutifully opening his kit.

Grissom stared at him for a moment, then proceeded to swab a different area of the body.

Greg worked diligently, but inside, he was cursing himself for getting distracted like this.

Things were definitely getting out of hand. It was one thing to get distracted by Grissom in the break room or at the conference room; but to get distracted at a crime scene…

'This is not good,' he thought, then almost laughed at that word. 'Good' was an understatement. It was a disaster, that's what it was.

***

"So, Greg," Grissom said suddenly, "What can you tell me about the body?"

For a confusing second, Greg didn't know whose body Grissom was talking about. But Grissom was looking at the dead man, and so did he.

"He doesn't have beard," Greg blurted out, then winced. It wasn't the right thing to say, but Grissom merely nodded.

"Uh, huh," he said, "What else?"

Greg studied the dead man and for the next five minutes he made a pretty accurate description of the body and the crime scene in general.

Grissom nodded now and then.

"Very good," he said. He looked up and gave the morgue attendants the go-ahead to remove the body. After they were gone, he hunched down to study the ground.

"It still stinks," Greg muttered.

Grissom nodded.

"See this?" he asked, pointing at the dark stain left by the victim, "Fluids from a decomposing body leak into the ground," he explained. He looked up at Greg. "We're gonna have to take some samples. If there was poison involved in the death of this man, there's a strong possibility that we'll find traces of it in the soil."

Greg immediately set out to scoop out small amounts of dirt.

"What about the ants?" Greg asked, as the tiny insects crawled all over his hand.

"We'll take a few," Gil nodded, "Insects who live underground can provide us with clues even if they never come into direct contact with a body."

Greg finished taking the samples and when he looked up, he found that Grissom was looking at him.

"We're finished here," Grissom said. "You drive," he added, tossing him the car keys.

Greg caught the keys in mid-air and then smiled to himself. He felt that by letting him drive, Grissom was somehow approving his work so far.

-----

The drive back to the lab was a quiet one. The minute he got behind the wheel, Greg had decided to keep his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. Considering his current problems, he believed it was the safest course to take.

The safest... but not easiest, he thought ruefully. Driving like this went against his own nature. Even when traffic was difficult, he liked to look around and talk -and talk.

If Grissom only knew the effort he was putting in this... Thinking of Grissom made him involuntarily glance in his boss' direction.

Grissom was reading a book, apparently oblivious to his surroundings.

It suddenly dawned on Greg that Grissom was too quiet this morning. He wasn't exactly the talkative type, but it wasn't like him to be this silent, either. By this time, he should have at least made some comment about their case.

As if on cue, Grissom looked up and stared at the road ahead.

"There," he said, pointing at a large sign looming in the distance. It was a Loving Bear Donuts coffee shop sign. "Let's grab a cup of coffee," he said, then added ominously, "We need to talk."

----

A while later, they settled in a corner booth with cups of coffee and donuts (Greg) and fruit salad, (Grissom).

Aware that Grissom was looking at him, Greg poured all three packets of sugar into his coffee and then looked up. He was expecting Grissom to make some sort of comment about the sugar but Grissom merely raised an eyebrow, then turned his attention back to his fruit salad. He poked at it with a fork but didn't seem too eager to eat it. The fruit had been dyed with bright colors; it looked pretty, but completely unappetizing.

Greg glanced at the salad, then at Grissom.

"I bet there are less chemicals in a donut than in that salad."

"Probably," Grissom nodded ruefully.

"You want one?" Greg asked cordially, pushing his plate towards Grissom.

They ate in companionable silence for a while. Then Grissom cleared his throat.

"Greg," he started, "A couple of months ago you told me you wanted to become a CSI." He waited until he got a casual nod from Greg, "Has anything changed since then?"

Greg shook his head no, but to his surprise, Grissom didn't seem convinced.

"I haven't changed my mind," Greg said slowly. "I still want to be a CSI."

"Good," Grissom said simply. "Then maybe it's time for me to tell you a few things about this job." He leant on the table, "Being a CSI isn't easy Greg. Wanting it isn't enough; you've got to be willing to make some sacrifices too."

"I know that," Greg started but Grissom raised a hand.

"I'm not talking about the pay-cut or even about the overtime," he said, "This is a stressful occupation, Greg. When a CSI is on call, he was to put aside friends and family. And it's harder for those in the night shift, " he added, "Did you know that the average crime scene investigator lasts only ten years on the job? Some end up applying for desk jobs, others leave the field altogether -"

"You've lasted longer than ten years."

"Yes, but let's face it, I don't have a family or friends demanding my attention."

Greg raised his eyebrows. Grissom rarely spoke about himself so candidly.

"My point is," Grissom continued, "If you don't think you can handle the added responsibilities of a field job… Then it's all right. You do a great job at the lab and I'd rather have you there than on the field, doing a half-assed job."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked indignantly, "I've never done a half-assed job -"

"And I don't want you to start now," Gil said quietly. He paused for a moment, then added, "You've been distracted, lately,"

Greg's first impulse was to deny it, but under Grissom's blue stare, he found himself nodding.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I have. It's just -" he looked down just in time.

He had to think fast. He knew Grissom would not leave this alone till he got an answer.

"There's something I need to sort out," he said slowly, "Something personal," he added deliberately, knowing how much Grissom disliked getting involved in his coworkers' personal lives.

"Personal," Grissom repeated slowly. He hesitated, then picked up his cup and rose to get a refill.

'Bingo,' Greg thought with some amusement as his boss walked away. He watched Grissom turn on the charm for the girl behind the counter, then return with more coffee.

Before he could stop himself, Greg blurted out, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why did you grow the beard?"

Grissom raised one eyebrow. Clearly, that wasn't the question he was expecting. He scratched his cheek in a distracted gesture.

"It wasn't a conscious decision," he said. "I just stopped shaving one day."

"So, it wasn't because somebody asked you to?"

Grissom frowned almost imperceptibly.

"Somebody?"

"Yeah. You know. A girlfriend...?"

Gil stared blankly at him.

"- Or a boyfriend," Greg added bravely. He held his breath while he waited for a reply.

Gil's expression didn't change. He didn't answer either.

Greg smiled faintly.

"See, that's what I like about you. Anyone else would have smashed my face for asking that kind of question. But not you."

"I don't mind people asking me questions," Gil shrugged. "It's up to me to answer, anyway." He looked at Greg in the eye. "Now let me ask you a question. Why didn't you want to come to the desert?"

"I told you," Greg said uncomfortably, "There were some DNA samples I wanted to-"

Grissom shook his head.

"I don't believe that," he said quietly. "There's got to be some other reason." When Greg didn't reply, he added, "Look. I know how it is. Back in the lab, you set your own pace and you get to choose which case you'll be working on first. You can choose Sara's case over Nick's if you want. But when you're a CSI, you don't get to choose; you do the case you're assigned to -"

"I know that," Greg replied but Gil ignored him.

"- and those cases are always messy," he said, "We can't always work in nice neighborhoods, Greg; sometimes we have to work in dumpsters, or in the desert," he added pointedly. "That's the job and we all have to do our fair share. You've been putting all sort of excuses not to work on these cases lately, so I need to know if it's going to be a problem -"

"That's not true," Greg interrupted, "I worked at a dumpster with Warrick last week-"

"But you didn't want to work the Trenton case," Grissom countered, "And then today -" he paused, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him.

His brow furrowed for a couple of seconds, then cleared.

"It's not the cases you've been avoiding," he said slowly, "It's me."

***

"So," Grissom said, "You can work with Warrick and Sara but not with me." There was no resentment in his voice as he said it; he was simply establishing a fact. He looked at Greg and waited.

Anyone else, Greg would have found it easy to lie to. But this was Gil Grissom -a man he cared about; a man he admired and respected… but more importantly, a man who, as a trained CSI, could spot a lie even before it was uttered. Knowing this made it difficult even to look at him in the eye; Greg's gaze wandered from Grissom's forehead to his nose, to his chin, and then back to his forehead. Finally, he focused on a tiny scar on Grissom's eyebrow, a likely remnant of a bout with chickenpox.

"So," Grissom said, "Is it something I did or -"

"No," Greg said quickly, "Grissom, it's not you, it's -" 'it's me,' he was about to say but stopped just in time. "It's my problem," he said instead.

"Well… Apparently, it's my problem, too," Grissom said reasonably.

Greg was amazed at how levelly Grissom was taking all this. He looked just like he did when he was mentally reviewing some case, taking each piece of information and making it fit with the others. But to finish this puzzle, he needed more information, and so he turned to Greg once more.

"Greg, I know I've been unfair to you lately," he said slowly, "I've been adding to your duties without stopping to consider whether I-"

"That's ok," Greg said quickly, "I can handle the extra work. I asked for this job, Grissom. I can do it."

"So, if it's not the job itself," Grissom said slowly, "Then it's something personal, like you said." He was silent for a moment. "In that case, there's little I can do except maybe getting you a transfer to another shift," he said calmly, "Unless you tell me what it is that I said or did that pissed you off."

"I'm not pissed off," Greg said, "And I don't want a transfer. I just -" he paused.

Grissom didn't insist; he simply arched his eyebrows in a manner that was familiar to Greg. It meant he was still waiting for an answer.

Greg looked around for a way out but there was none. He either had to come up with some plausible lie, or find some way to convince Grissom not to worry, 'cause there was no way he'd ever tell his boss what was in his mind. What could he say, anyway? That after five years of working side by side with a man -an older guy; his boss, no less- he'd suddenly found himself attracted to him? And that it was all because of said man's new beard?

Greg still couldn't believe it himself.

Come to think of it, the whole situation was unbelievable from the start: First, Grissom had surprised everyone by taking a vacation; then, two weeks later, he'd surprised them yet again by returning with a new look -a hot new look that seemed to turn him into a different person. Exit benevolent-looking Grissom, enter hot-and-dangerous-looking Grissom.

Amazing, what a little hair on the face could do to change one's perception.

Suddenly, Greg had started noticing things he'd never noticed before -like how blue Grissom's eyes were, for instance. Or how curly his hair was, and how muscular his arms were.

After that, it was only a matter of time before he started wondering what it must be like to be held by those arms, or whether Grissom's beard was prickly or soft to the touch, or whether there were other furry areas on Gil's body that he ought to know more about, (which had in turn led him to spend way too much time trying to take a peak inside Grissom's roomy shirts).

To say he'd never felt like this about any man before was an understatement. It had come to a point where a bead of sweat on Grissom's cheek could hold his attention for minutes at a time.

"Greg?"

Greg looked up and noticed that Gil's curiosity had been replaced by genuine puzzlement.

Unfortunately, even a puzzled expression looked good on him.

"So," Grissom said patiently, "Are you gonna tell me what it is?"

"You don't wanna hear it," Greg said, shaking his head wearily.

Grissom smiled faintly.

"You'd be surprised at the things I've heard in twenty years as Lead Supervisor," he said. He paused for a moment. "How about this," he said, "Tell me what's in your mind and, whatever it is, it'll stay here," he said, laying his hand flat on the table.

Greg perked up.

"You mean it?" he asked cautiously. "No matter what I say…?"

"It'll stay in this coffee shop," Grissom finished.

"And no one else will ever know -"

"Unless this place is bugged," Grissom said humorously. "Just think of this as our own private Vegas."

"Ok," Greg said slowly. This seemed too good to be true; here was a on-in-a-million chance to come clean about his feelings... Unfortunately, he still didn't know where to begin. Feeling self-conscious under Grissom's stare, he looked down and noticed Grissom's hands lying on the table. He'd often watched those hands at work; they were skillful and strong -but amazingly sensitive, too. Greg had spent countless hours wondering what Gil's touch would be like -

"You ever had a crush on someone?" Greg blurted out, then winced when he realized what he'd just said. "Crush," he repeated, almost to himself. "That sounds like we're back in high school." He was silent for a moment. "But it's appropriate, somehow. A crush implies that you're in love with someone who's unattainable, right?"

He paused for a moment, then frowned, "Come to think of it, I never had a crush when I was in high school. I was too young," he added. He looked up, though his eyes never met Grissom's, "I was always the youngest guy everywhere," he explained, "High school, college-"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"The bane of child geniuses everywhere," he said.

"Yeah," Greg smiled back, "I was always behind. Not academically," Greg added emphatically. "But emotionally..." he shook his head. "That was something else. I used to hear other guys talk about having a crush on someone, and I wouldn't get it. I didn't understand how anyone could feel this intensely about people they barely knew. Not that I even tried to understand. I was too busy studying. And then, when I grew up, I thought I knew," he added. "But I didn't. Not really. Funny, the easiest it is to have sex, the hardest it is to really fall in love -"

Grissom was leaning forward, listening attentively and nodding at everything Greg was saying, but by the look on his face, it was obvious that he still didn't understand what this was all about.

"Greg…" he said at last, "If this is about Sara -"

"Uh?" Greg raised his eyebrows, "Oh. No. No, it's not about her. I mean, I like her. A lot. But -it's not about her. It's -" He didn't quite know how to say it. It was simple, really. He'd been having lustful thoughts about one man who had never shown any interest in that direction -or any other direction, for that matter. Sometimes all he wanted to do was hold Grissom's face between his hands and rub his beard like it was some kind of lucky charm -

Greg took a deep breath.

"It's not about Sara, but she's got something to do with it," he confessed, "I think I like Sara because she's the only woman -no, not the only woman," he amended. He looked up and met Gil's eyes at last, "She's the only person in the world who's remotely like you."

***

To his credit, Grissom didn't freak out. His eyes widened in surprise, (or was it panic?) but only for a short moment. Soon after, his face was devoid of any expression again.

Greg didn't miss any of this.

"See?" he said, smiling faintly, "I wasn't kidding when I said you didn't want to hear it." He kept his gaze on Grissom for a moment, then lowered it. "But it's your fault," he added, in what was clearly a weak attempt at humor.

Grissom raised his eyebrows.

"My fault?"

"Yeah," Greg said, "Ever since you grew that beard, I -"

"My beard?"

Poor Grissom had been reduced to repeating everything Greg said.

"Yeah," Greg said again. He raised his gaze, "You look good with it," he said boldly.

Grissom's eyebrows couldn't have risen any higher.

"I do?" He asked, completely mystified.

Greg gave him a curious look.

"No one's ever told you that?" he asked. He paused for a moment, then deliberately added, "You're a handsome guy."

He noticed Grissom's confusion. His boss looked like someone who hasn't received a compliment in years and doesn't know how to handle it, and suddenly, Greg realized -to his utter amazement- that he'd finally done to Grissom what the older man had been doing to him for years: Make him nervous.

It was an exhilarating feeling, and Greg got carried away by it.

"You didn't expect that, right?" he asked, smiling faintly -and a little bit smugly, too. "To tell you the truth," he added, "This isn't how I'd envisioned telling you. I thought I'd take you somewhere for a drink first; somewhere classy. Classier than this," he added ironically, tilting his head in the direction of the coffee shop counter. "I was thinking of some place where they'd have a large selection of wines… Do you like wine?"

Grissom moved his head almost imperceptibly.

"I thought you might be a wine connoisseur," Greg said, "I'm more of a beer man myself," he confessed sheepishly. "Anyway, I thought we'd talk, have a drink, and then, you know -" he let the word trail off.

But Grissom didn't know, and so he didn't say anything.

His silence didn't help Greg, who didn't quite know how to tell the rest of his story. That was the problem with his fantasies; he didn't talk much in them. One minute he and Grissom were in a classy restaurant, then the next they were in room 718 at the Bellagio, (why this room precisely? Well, because he'd recently been in it during a drug-overdose investigation, and it had looked like the right place to impress Grissom –minus the DB on the bed, of course).

The point was, Greg had never planned on what to say to Grissom, and now he realized he should have.

But maybe that was the least of his problems; so far Grissom hadn't said anything. He wasn't even looking at him. But it was the silence that bothered him the most. Grissom was shocked –not unexpectedly, maybe; but there was a possibility that the source of his boss' discomfort was one that Greg hadn't considered till now.

"Shit," Greg said breathlessly. "I offended you." He wasn't really asking. He tried to read the older man's expression but couldn't. "Shit," he said again. "You're always telling us not to make assumptions about people, and that's exactly what I've been doing -"

He winced at his own words, "Not that I actually assumed you were gay," he rushed to add. "I mean, I've never seen you show that kind of interest in men -but then you've never shown any interest in women either, so -" He stopped again. He knew he was probably making things worse with his babbling, but he couldn't help it. "I just thought -I mean, you're so open-minded, I thought maybe –just maybe, you might be interested in-"

"I'm not offended," Grissom said abruptly. He probably said more to put a stop to Greg's nervous outpouring than out of any personal conviction, but his words had the desired effect.

Greg didn't say more. He was relieved by Grissom's mild reaction, but he knew he wasn't off the hook yet. Grissom wouldn't look him in the eye; when one looked up, the other looked down. In the end, both looked down the table.

Greg ventured a question.

"Sure you're not angry?"

"I'm not."

"But you're not thrilled," Greg added knowingly. He closed his eyes as a sudden realization hit him: He'd just fucked up what had been till now, a great working relationship.

Forget about keeping things in this coffee shop -Grissom had only said it to put him at ease, anyway. Now that he knew what Greg's 'personal problem' was, there was no way that this conversation would stay in here.

Forget about becoming a CSI; forget about staying in the night shift -

Greg lifted his gaze but only to look at Grissom's chest.

"You know, it would help if you said something," he said. He smiled faintly, "I mean, I've just outed myself to you. There's gotta be something you wanna say about that." He gulped, then asked, "Am I out of a job?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Grissom looked up sharply at this.

Grissom didn't immediately speak but when he did, it was to ask a question of his own.

"So," he said. "Does this mean I look better now that my face is half-covered with hair?"

The casual tone took Greg by surprise. He cautiously sat up and looked Gil in the eye.

"That's one way to put it," he said slowly.

Grissom nodded thoughtfully.

"It reminds me of a movie I saw once," he said, "A musical. There was this girl who stopped wearing glasses, and suddenly, everybody found her attractive."

Greg snorted.

"No way," he said.

"It was a very old movie," Grissom explained.

Greg stared at Grissom for a moment.

"You're not angry, Grissom?" he asked. When Gril shook his head, Greg added, "I thought you might be. I mean… This isn't the kind of thing we talk about every day, right? Feelings, I mean. Not that I've actually told you about my feelings yet, but -"

Grissom quickly interrupted him.

"So," he said, "This is all because of my beard."

Greg smiled self-consciously.

"Yeah. It's -It's kind of distacting." He tilted his head, "You think it's shallow of me?"

"No," Grissom said. "Attraction is subjective. And appearance is an important element in the development and perpetuation of race. Visual impact is an essential part of what we Entomologists call a-"

"We're not insects," Greg muttered, but not loud enough to interrupt Grissom's speech. He wasn't surprised to hear Grissom try to reduce love to its biological roots. It probably made it easier for him to handle the situation.

The silence that ensued was broken by Greg.

"So," he said, "Did you ever have a crush, back when you were in high school?"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"I had a job, I was on a scholarship -" he shook his head. "I was too busy to have a crush."

"Then you should try having one now," Greg said good-naturedly, "It makes life more interesting."

Grissom smiled faintly -a little sadly. He looked at Greg for a moment, then down.

"I guess I'll shave my beard," he said quietly.

Greg wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly.

"What?"

"My beard," Grissom said, "If I shave it, then things will go back to the way they were. We can even forget we had this conversation."

"It's not that simple -" Greg said incredulously.

"Yes, it is," Grissom said quietly. There was a quiet plea in his eyes, one that Greg immediately understood.

For their friendship to survive, it had to be this simple.

Grissom didn't even wait for a reply, "Come on," he said, pushing his chair back. "We've got to go back to the lab."

Greg hesitated for just a second.

"Right," he said, "Ok."

----

They walked back to the car in silence. Greg mechanically reached for the driver's door but Grissom stepped in.

"I'll drive," he said kindly.

Greg resented the implication that he couldn't drive, but he didn't have the energy to protest.

It was probably just as well. He didn't think he could concentrate on driving, anyway. All he wanted to do was to curl up in a corner and sleep -which was, incidentally, what his friends used to do whenever their hearts were broken. They drank too, but Greg wasn't as self-destructive as that.

Greg handed the keys to Grissom, and their fingers briefly touched.

Their glances met.

Suddenly, Greg knew he'd made a mistake by trying to explain his feelings to Grissom -he should have simply acted on them. He should have pulled his boss into some darkened corner and kissed the hell out of him. Words were Grissom's forte –feelings were not.

And the wonderful part -the terrible part- was that he knew Grissom was thinking the same thing. He saw it in the older man's eyes and in the way his whole expression seemed to soften at the mere touch of his fingers.

Then Grissom looked away.

"We have to go back," he said quietly.

***

Gil Grissom took a deep breath and slowly exhaled the air through his mouth. He did this again. And again.

A moment later, he opened his eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was 4:30 pm. He sighed. He'd been lying in bed for over an hour now, yet sleep kept eluding him.

He closed his eyes again and burrowed more deeply under the covers. Even if he didn't get to fall asleep, he needed the rest. Hopefully, the warmth would help him relax.

It didn't. After a moment, Grissom opened his eyes again.

It was no use; there was something troubling him and he would not get any rest until he faced that fact. He knew this by experience. While he was usually able to keep his job back in the lab, cases sometimes got to him and followed him even into the sanctity of his bedroom. What he did in those occasions was to get up and make notes or go on line for a couple of hours; once he knew he'd done everything in his power, he was finally able to relax.

But none of this would help him this time, because it wasn't a case that was bothering him -unless one considered falling in love a crime.

Not that he was in love. But Greg was. At least, that's what the young man thought.

Gil groaned when he remembered their earlier conversation. He still felt bad about it; remorseful. He'd tried to be kind, but there was little one could do to soften rejection.

He had hurt Greg.

On their way back to the lab, the young man had leant against the passenger door, listlessly looking at the cars passing on the other lane. Concerned, Grissom had been glancing in his direction, hoping Greg would do or say something that showed him that things were ok despite what had just happened between them.

When Greg finally spoke, he made it clear that things were definitely not ok.

He turned a morose glance in Grissom's direction.

"You don't take me seriously, do you?" he asked.

Grissom, who knew exactly what Greg was talking about, pretended he didn't. "I believe you're on your way to become a great CSI, Greg," he'd said gently. "I do take you seriously."

And that was the last time they talked. Actually, it seemed that it was the last time Greg spoke at all, judging by his behavior in the break room, later that day. He'd sat staring into a cup of coffee while Nick and Sara talked animatedly.

Grissom sighed.

He sincerely hoped that this incident would not put a damper on Greg's work. Emotions could be disruptive but if the young man got over this, then he'd be ok. He had what it took to become a CSI -

Gil scoffed at this last thought. He was deliberately missing the point and he knew it. He was conveniently overlooking the fact that he was the source of Greg's problem. But then, he still couldn't believe it. After all, he didn't set out to get Greg's attention -or anybody else's. All he'd done was stop shaving.

He couldn't understand it; how could a man like him get a man like Greg to say –well, what he said?

And now that he'd asked question one, how about question two: How could a trained investigator; a supposed observer of human behavior -a reputable scientist no less- come up with such a simplistic solution to Greg's problem?

Grissom groaned again and burrowed his face into his pillow. Shave his beard, indeed.

But it was all he could do.

He couldn't put it off anymore.

-----------

Luckily, he'd kept all his shaving stuff.

He took the necessary implements from a cabinet and laid them on the bathroom sink: Scentless shaving cream; shaving brush; razors; scentless aftershave lotion; scissors. A couple of squares of toilet paper, in case he nicked himself…

Grissom looked at the shaving paraphernalia somewhat mournfully. He'd enjoyed not having to shave. True; keeping his beard trimmed symmetrically was something of a problem sometimes, but it was nothing compared to having to shave every day -twice a day, when he had to go to Court.

Morosely, he looked in the mirror, then frowned. Seeing his face reminded him of what Greg had said earlier that day.

Suddenly curious, Gil leant over the sink and took a close look at his face. He turned his head to a side and then to the other, and then he raised it to take a look at his jaw.

He was trying to reconcile Greg's appraisal with his own but, try as he might, he just couldn't see what Greg had seen. What he saw under the stark bathroom light was the face of a 48-year-old man who had never really cared about other people's opinion. A man who took care of his personal appearance mostly to please himself –except when it came to his job, of course; he knew what juries needed to see and so he'd dressed accordingly. But other than that, he'd cared little.

Now, Grissom was taking a critical look at the man in the mirror, and finding him lacking.

Grissom looked into his eyes and mimicking Greg's solemn tone, said, "You're a handsome guy, Grissom."

Gil kept a straight face for a couple of seconds, then snorted. He shook his head in amusement.

"Crazy kid," he muttered indulgently.

A part of him protested almost immediately. Calling Greg a kid was unfair, and he knew it. Greg had shown, time after time, that he was wise beyond his years and that, below the easy-going exterior, there was unsuspected depth.

But he needed to think of Greg under those terms; they made it easier for him to dismiss the young man's overtures as a clumsy flirtation, not to be taken seriously. They also helped him believe that by shaving his beard, things would go back to the way they were.

He didn't think he could do things any differently.

With his mind made up, Grissom picked up the small pair of scissors and decisively started trimming his beard. He was about to start working around the cleft in his chin, when his gaze fell on the shaving cream container. The lather pictured on the label had always looked to him like the foam on a cappuccino, and the simile seemed especially poignant to him today; it reminded him of the cappuccinos they served at Loving Bear donuts, which, in turn made him think of Greg again.

Reluctantly, Grissom thought of how much he'd enjoyed sharing a cup of bad coffee with Greg, (at least before the conversation led them into forbidden territory). He smiled when he remembered how Greg had made fun of the 'radioactive' fruit salad they served at Loving Bear Donuts, and how Greg had sneaked a sample of it to analyze back at the lab.

Grissom looked in the mirror to continue the beard-trimming, and was surprised to see he was smiling wistfully. He'd never seen that expression before.

It almost felt like he was looking into a stranger's face.

The realization sobered him up. The shock practically erased that smile from his face but it was too late. He'd seen something that was symbolic of what he had just realized.

He could lie to Greg –and he had, very easily- but he couldn't lie to himself.

The truth was that, contrary to what Greg believed, Grissom took him seriously –very seriously. And based on the way he'd reacted to the touch of Greg's hand, it was obvious that he could fall only too easily if he wasn't careful.

Just as a minute spec of human skin yielded enough information for him to build a case, so had this brief touch given him an overview of what things could be like between him and Greg.

Just a hint of warmth from Greg's fingers, and Grissom suddenly pictured himself grabbing the young man into some dark corner of the lab and silencing his endless babbling with a long kiss, his entire body feeling Greg's -

"Crazy kid," Grissom muttered abruptly, but his voice lacked conviction.

Grissom mechanically finished trimming his beard, then put the scissors down. He reached for the shaving cream container, but didn't take it. He stayed like that, with his hand posed over the container, while his mind reeled over the consequences of this simple act.

If he shaved, he'd be sending a clear message to Greg; and if he didn't –

Well, if he didn't, then he'd also be sending a message.

A part of him didn't want to shave.

A part of him ached for a new chance at life.

After his successful ear operation a couple of months before, Grissom had taken a hard look at himself. He knew the prospect of deafness had had an impact on the way he'd related to others. Seeing his mother sink into isolation because of her condition had taught Gil a hard lesson about personal relationships. Gradually, and without really noticing, Grissom had isolated himself from the world even before deafness became an issue.

And the truth was, he'd liked it this way; life was complicated enough without adding romance to it. He knew he was missing something –he just didn't know what.

He didn't know, until Greg had looked at him and said –well, what he said.

Gil wished he were younger to fully appreciate what he was being offered. Younger, less weary of love. As it was, he'd been emotionally dormant for so long that he didn't know how to handle a relationship.

With this thought in his mind, Gil decisively picked up the shaving cream and poured some onto his open palm.

Seeing the white foam put another thought in his mind.

He'd been dormant, yes; but what if he was like the wooly bear caterpillar that slept for 14 years in the Antarctic ice, then emerged as a moth to lead a full life? True; the caterpillar only lived for four weeks after that, but on the other hand, how many things could one do in a 4-week span?

Grissom stared at the foam for a long time.

***

Grissom walked down the hallway, glancing into each of the labs. Amy and Bobby looked up briefly and then continued to do their jobs, unlike Hodges, who actually rose from his chair, an expectant look on his face.

The Trace Expert never missed a chance to suck up to the boss -which was why Grissom made it a point not to come to his lab except when strictly necessary.

Gil pointedly turned away from Hodges' lab and retraced his steps. The man he was looking for wasn't anywhere around.

Gil glanced at his watch. His colleagues were already waiting for him at the conference room; he couldn't put the meeting off any longer.

Determinedly, Gil walked back.

-------

At that precise moment, the object of Grissom's search was hurriedly entering the building.

Greg didn't have to look at his watch to know it was late. He had overslept -which shouldn't have been a problem, except that things continued to go wrong after that. First, his shower malfunctioned; then his car refused to start. Then the taxi he took got trapped in traffic.

And now, as he tried the elevator, it turned out to be out of order.

---

By the time Greg hurried to the conference room, the meeting had started, and his friends were listening attentively to Grissom.

'Shit,' Greg muttered to himself.

This was not good.

Earlier that day, just before falling asleep, Greg had vowed not to do anything that put him at odds with the boss. After making a fool of himself at Loving Bear Donuts, the last thing he wanted was to draw Grissom's attention in any way.

It's not like he was despondent by the fact that Grissom didn't want a relationship (or so he kept telling himself). Mostly, what he felt was something closer to anger.

Yeah, that was it: He was pissed at Grissom.

But being angry at the boss wasn't the wisest sentiment either, and so Greg simply decided to ignore his boss as best as he could.

And there he was, coming late to a meeting.

So much for not being at odds with the boss.

Greg discreetly peered into the conference room and noticed that Grissom was sitting with his back to the door, thus completely unaware that Greg was in the hallway.

This gave Greg a little time to decide whether to go in or not. Technically, he wasn't duty-bound to sit in every meeting unless he had some results to offer. If he'd come to every meeting it was only because he wanted to learn all about being a CSI –and also because Grissom was there, of course.

So technically, he could simply go to his lab and start his shift as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened…

It was tempting, but Greg couldn't do that. He still wanted to be a CSI; he still wanted to learn. Nothing would change that.

Greg took a deep breath, and, before he had a last-minute change of heart, barged into the room.

"Sorry," he muttered. He didn't want to interrupt the flow of Grissom's speech in any way, and so he pointedly ignored his friends' glances and muted greetings. He determinedly walked in and grabbed the first available chair he saw.

The chair creaked under his weight, and it was then that Greg remembered why nobody ever chose this particular chair: it had a wobbly leg.

Before Greg could react, the leg broke with a crash and he fell on his butt.

The first thing Greg noticed was that the crash had effectively put an end to Gil's speech.

The second thing he noticed was that Sara had thrust her hand into his line of vision.

"You ok?" she asked kindly.

"Yeah," Greg said evasively as he rose unaided.

The last thing he needed was people making a fuss over him; he only hoped Sara would get the message.

Sara did, but he others did not.

"Gee, Greg," Warrick said with a smirk, "You putting on weight or something?"

"Maybe his new tasks are weighing heavily on his mind," Nick said.

Even Catherine had something to say.

"That chair will come out of your salary, young man," she joked.

"Aw, that chair was an accident waiting to happen -" Sara countered.

"Are we finished?" Grissom asked suddenly, and the stern tone of his voice effectively caught everybody's attention.

Ignoring his friends' glances, and mustering all the dignity he had left, Greg grabbed another chair and sat on it. He immediately opened a file lying in front of him; it probably had nothing to do with this meeting but he didn't care. He just wanted a legitimate excuse not to look at anyone –not even his boss. Especially not his boss.

Grissom didn't continue reading; instead, using an excessively kind tone, he addressed the newcomer.

"Are you ready, Greg?"

Uncomfortably, Greg nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said without raising his gaze.

Greg didn't think things could get any worse but amazingly, they did. Apparently, Grissom was determined to make him pay for the interruption. He started peppering the young man with all sort of questions, even questions that had nothing to do with their current cases. Greg had his notes with him and so he managed, but just barely.

Since looking at Grissom was the last thing he wanted to do, Greg kept his gaze on his notes all along. But it wasn't easy; it seemed that the more Greg tried to ignore Grissom, the more his boss demanded his attention.

To Greg's relief, the meeting ended soon after. He vaguely heard as Grissom assigned new cases to his friends. The last one was for Nick.

"Body in a cave," Grissom said, handing a report to Nick. Then he added casually, "Take Greg."

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg noticed that both Nick and Grissom were looking at him. Greg glanced in their direction but didn't actually look at either of them.

"…Unless you've got something else to do," Grissom said with gentle irony.

Greg flushed.

"No," he mumbled, "I've got nothing to do."

"Good," Grissom said. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he were to add something, and then he turned to the door.

It was only when Gil was on his way out that Greg finally looked up, but all he got was a glimpse of Grissom's back.

---------
"Another stinky one," Greg muttered as David worked on the dead man.

Martin Greene had died inside an abandoned mine -one of many littering the desert. He would have stayed there decomposing and turning into dust, if a drinking pal of his hadn't come looking for him.

According to the man's statement, he and his Greene had bought a lottery ticket the week before.

They'd won a thousand dollars.

Greene was already dead by the time his pal came but the obvious signs didn't deter his buddy from trying to help. He'd dragged Greene outside and tried to revive him until he finally gave up.

Or so he said.

"Well," David said straightening up at last, "I'm taking the body."

"Keep me posted," Nick said.

The morgue assistants put the body in a stretcher. Their van was about three blocks away; the rocky area had prevented them from parking any closer.

"Next time find us a body in the city, ok?" David joked.

Once David was out of sight, Nick turned to Greg, "So, Greggo; you took pictures of the body -"

"- and I took pictures of the cave," Greg said. "I took samples of all the food containers in there -"

Nick was nodding as Greg enumerated his actions.

"Good," he said, "Now we've got to -" But Nick didn't finish; something else caught his attention. "Well, well," he muttered.

"What?" Greg asked.

Nick was looking at something over Greg's shoulder.

"The boss is here," Nick said under his breath. Aloud he said, "Hey, Grissom."

***

"Hey, Grissom," Nick said.

Greg's first impulse was to turn around and look, but on second thought he decided not to. Instead, he picked up his camera and pretended to be checking something on it.

He was determined to ignore Grissom but didn't quite succeed. He couldn't help it; it was too easy to picture Gil calmly coming towards them, blue eyes taking the entire crime scene at a glance and noticing things no one else had...

It was only when his heart started beating faster at the sound of Gil's steps that Greg finally snapped out of it.

"Oh, come on," Greg mumbled, disgusted with himself for reacting like this. Why was he acting like this? He wasn't a teenager; he was 27, for God's sake!

This infatuation had to end -the sooner the better. The question was how long it would take. In the past, getting over a guy had taken him just a few days, but those were guys he saw only rarely; so, getting over someone he saw on a daily basis would probably take him longer. Not days or weeks but months…

Damn.

But then, a new thought occurred to him: With Grissom back to his shaven self, wouldn't it be easier? Greg didn't quite remember how he felt about Grissom before he grew that damn beard, (although sometimes he had the impression that he'd always loved Grissom –but hey, that was only because he was so damn besotted) but now he firmly believed that once he saw Grissom sporting a smooth jaw, the obsession would come to an end.

Right?

There was only one way to find out, but for some reason Greg couldn't bring himself to turn and look.

Maybe a part of him didn't want to find out.

Behind him, Gil spoke at last.

"Hey, Nick. What do you have?"

Greg studiously kept his eyes on the ground as Gil and Nick talked -not a bad idea, since there were still a few pieces of evidence he had missed. He immediately set out to work while Nick described their findings.

After Nick was finished, Grissom took a couple of steps closer.

"So, Greg," he said in a gravely tone, "Tell me what you've done so far to preserve the scene."

Feeling self-conscious under Grissom's scrutiny, Greg rose and dutifully explained what he'd done.

"Very good," Grissom said. It seemed he was about to turn away but instead he took a step closer to Greg and in an ominous tone, said, "I don't suppose you collected soil samples -"

Greg flushed.

"That's what I was about to do," he mumbled.

Now Greg was more pissed off than ever. Why was Grissom acting like he had a personal vendetta against him? True, he didn't collect soil samples but neither did Nick; why didn't Grissom pick on him too?

And all of a sudden, the answer to that question came to him: Nick didn't make a pass at Grissom. But Greg did. Evidently, Grissom wanted to make him pay for his temerity.

Oh, how he wished he'd never said anything to Grissom...

"You finished, man?" Nick asked after a moment.

"Yeah, I'm finished," Greg said, and just to show that he was finished with it all indeed, he grabbed a bottle of water he kept in his kit.

He didn't know whether carrying water in his kit was allowed or not -and if it wasn't, then Grissom would let him know soon enough- but he didn't care; Grissom was going to give him hell regardless of what he did, anyway.

Bring it on, Greg thought, and he defiantly lifted the bottle to his lips.

As he threw his head back, he covertly threw a glance in Grissom's direction. He just wanted to see his boss' reaction to the water -or so he told himself. Deep down, he knew there was another reason: He just needed to look at Grissom. Like it or not, he still had feelings for the man; he couldn't ignore him for long.

And so, using the bottle as a shield, Greg looked...

And suddenly, his eyes bulged out.

He was so stunned by what he saw that for a brief moment he didn't know what to do -gulp down the water and speak, or spit the water back into the bottle and then speak. In his confusion, he tried to do all three things at once and ended up choking. It wasn't pretty.

Nick immediately intervened.

"Jeeze, man," he said, "What's wrong with you?" and he started smacking Greg on the back.

The whacking wasn't really necessary but Greg couldn't tell Nick; he was too busy coughing and trying to keep the water from spilling all over their crime scene -the water in the bottle, that is; there was little he could do about the water pouring from his nose. Mostly, he was busy looking at Grissom –more specifically, his beard.

Grissom had trimmed it down but it was still there.

Which could only mean…

Actually, Greg wasn't sure what it meant; he just knew that Grissom looked good with it.

And finally, Greg understood why Grissom had been asking him all those questions earlier in the night –even questions that had nothing to do with their cases. He was simply trying to get Greg's attention.

Greg shook his head. Why the hell didn't Gil simply take him aside and tell him, well, whatever he wanted to say? Why did he have to act like a clumsy jerk? A handsome jerk, sure, but still…

"Take a deep breath," Grissom said kindly, and kept his gaze on Greg until the young man's breath went back to normal. There was concern and mild exasperation in the tone of his voice as he asked. "You ok?"

Greg gulped. His throat and chest felt raw and his eyes were teary, but he nodded all the same. With an effort, he straightened up and looked levelly at his boss.

"I'm fine," he croaked.

Grissom nodded, then raised his hand and languidly scratched his furry jaw.

Greg's jaw dropped.

He couldn't believe it. Grissom was flirting with himOr was he? Was it an innocent gesture, or was it designed to provoke some reaction from Greg?

Greg wished he could ask but with Nick there, it was impossible.

'Go away, Nick,' Greg thought morosely.

To his surprise, Grissom voiced his exact thoughts, though in different terms.

"Nick," he said, his gaze still on Greg. "I think you should take the evidence back to the lab."

'Good!' Greg thought.

Nick hesitated.

"What about the perimeter -"

"Greg will stay and do the perimeter," Gil said casually. "Right, Greg?"

Greg glanced at Nick; the older man was looking at him with compassion. Working the perimeter alone was not the most glamorous of jobs, and they both knew that. Nick's look said, 'I'm sorry, man.'

Greg nodded back in silence, carefully concealing his true feelings. He wasn't worried or angry at having to do the dirty job; he was actually looking forward to it. If working the perimeter on his own was what it took to have Grissom all to himself, then he was willing to do that and more…

Unfortunately, Grissom ruined things once gain.

To Greg's utter surprise, he reached for one of Nick's bags.

"I'm coming, too," he said, turning away and leaving Greg more confused than ever.

***

Greg was in the cave, his work almost finished.

First, he'd done an inventory of the late Martin Greene's earthly possessions; then he'd gone over the whole cave, inch by inch, in search of evidence. While David had tentatively mentioned exposure as cause of death –with malnutrition playing a part – Greg was duty bound to look for alternative explanations.

He'd done a meticulous job, though a casual observer might have thought otherwise. For one thing, Greg had talked nonstop while he worked. Being alone hadn't deterred him –in fact, being alone was the reason he'd felt so free to speak. But it wasn't the fact that he was taking that the casual observer might have found unusual; it was what he was saying.

"'Greg can do the perimeter,'" Greg said at one point, ably mimicking Gil. "Ha!" he added in his own voice, "Like I don't have better things to do back at the lab? Like I'm some sort of slave he can order around 24/7? Like -"

And so on.

The muttering had begun right after Grissom left.

"What the hell does that mean?" Greg had wondered aloud as Grissom and Nick walked away.

He followed them with his eyes till the two men walked past the rocky wall that hid the cave from the road. Greg didn't see them get in their cars but was aware of the exact moment when they drove away.

Greg had felt utterly lonely, then. Not that he was actually alone; there were a couple of cops down there by the road, guarding the scene. But the cops meant nothing to him; it was Gil he cared about.

It was Gil who kept acting in ways that had Greg more puzzled than ever. It was Gil who should have stayed; they had things to discuss, things to do…

Thinking of the things they could be doing inevitably led him to play Gil's jaw-scratching gesture in his mind, and the memory had sent shivers down his spine. It was amazing, how this little scene had affected him. Seeing Gil touch his beard was the equivalent of watching some hunky guy fondling his dick –no; it was even better…

But Greg had eventually forced himself to snap out of it. Like it or not, he had a job to do. His boss had trusted him with a crime scene and he was not going to disappoint him… even if his boss seemed bent on disappointing him time and time again.

----

Greg was examining the walls, looking for signs of violence.

"Nope, no blood on the walls," he muttered. "But I suppose Mr. 'did-you-take-a-soil-sample-Grissom,' won't believe me unless I use a full container of Luminol and take a hundred pictures -"

He took a couple of pictures, just in case.

After that, it was only a matter of hauling his evidence outside. He'd bagged and tagged Greene's possessions; he'd taken evidence from every little corner –even from Greene's makeshift bathroom at the back, an action he would definitely include into a list he was compiling under the tentative title, "Top Ten Reasons I Should Stay at the Lab."

Not that he had second thoughts about becoming a CSI. He was just making fun at himself.

"Number two reason," Greg said, mimicking Dave Letterman's voice, "Lab rats leave the shit-picking to the CSIs!" he paused for a moment, then added, "Number one reason: lab rats don't fall in love with their bosses!"

He piled a couple of bags on top of a box and dragged everything outside. He kept muttering all along.

"Oh, Grissom, you'll have to compensate me for this. I swear, next time you order me to stay alone, I'm gonna -"

He'd been so long inside he didn't realize it was already mid morning. When he stepped out of the cave, the glare from the sun hit his eyes.

"Shit," he muttered, hastily pulling his dark glasses out of a pocket.

And suddenly, somebody spoke.

"What took you so long?"

Greg dropped the glasses at the sound of that voice. He quickly turned around.

Grissom was there, perched on a rock, placidly looking at him.

***

Grissom had sat on that rock for hours, relishing every minute of the wait, picturing the moment when he'd get to ambush Greg. He'd kept his eyes on the mouth of the cave all along; he didn't want to miss a single gesture, a single word…

Not that he expected Greg to be overjoyed at the sight of him -not after the things he'd said and done to the young man since the night before. But even a pissed-off Greg would be a welcome sight.

This last thought had made him smile. In the last few hours he had discovered some things about himself -things whose existence he may have vaguely suspected but didn't acknowledge because to do so would only disturb his orderly life. But now that he'd finally looked inside, he found that the truth didn't scare him anymore: He liked Greg.

A lot.

He always had; it was just after their conversation at Loving Bear Donuts Gil had got a glimpse of the man behind the lab rat genius; a good guy -a guy who was cocky and bold but whose shyness still came through at times. It was an appealing combination, and Gil couldn't resist it.

Now it was time for him to take the next step.

Unfortunately –and Gil was the first to admit this- he could be clumsy when it came to personal feelings. His own, that is. When it came to victims' or criminal's feelings he was knowledgeable and cool; once his own feelings were involved however, forget it; he just had no clue.

Which is why, instead of taking Greg aside and telling him something pointed and direct, he'd been tormenting the poor guy with questions and mixed signals -the equivalent of a little boy pulling a girl's braids in class to show her he liked her.

Which also explains why, instead of telling Greg, 'there you are' or something like that when Greg finally stepped out of the cave, he'd said, in what he recognized as his petulant tone, 'What took you so long?'

No wonder Greg was looking so pissed off right now. Actually, Greg's first reaction was one of shock; the poor guy had practically jumped when he heard Gil's voice.

But he recovered quickly, and now he was pissed.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a slightly belligerent tone.

"I was waiting for you," Gil said matter-of-factly. He glanced at the bags behind Greg. "Is that all you got?"

"Yeah," Greg replied, "Why? Did you want me to haul out all the rocks, too?"

Grissom ignored the sarcasm.

"If the rocks are part of the evidence, yes," he said calmly, "So, did you find any signs of violence in there?"

The moment Gil mentioned the word 'evidence' Greg's manner changed.

"None," he said promptly, "No blood spatter, no broken objects. Food seems rotten, though. And the guy did have diarrhea, so food poisoning might -" Greg suddenly frowned, "Where's Nick?"

"He's gone," Gil said succinctly.

Greg looked up again.

"Gone?"

"He went back to the lab," Gil shrugged. "Remember?"

Greg nodded. He kept his gaze on Gil as if waiting for some further explanation, but when Grissom didn't offer any, he shrugged and decided to go on with his work. He put his kit on the ground and opened it. He looked around; there were a few pieces of equipment he'd left outside and he started to pick them up.

"Greg -"

"I know, I know," Greg muttered without looking up, "I shouldn't have left them here." He glanced at Grissom and the sight of his boss sitting there seemed to irritate him. "You could help me with this, you know."

"It's your kit, Greg."

Greg turned away. He didn't say anything for a while, but he couldn't be quiet for long.

"So," he said conversationally, "You're checking on me, or something?"

Grissom smiled to himself.

"Checking on you… Checking you out…" he said, "It's hard to tell the difference anymore."

Greg looked up sharply. For a few seconds his face showed all sort of conflicting emotions; hope, disbelief, elation…

Disbelief eventually won, and he looked down at the ground again.

It was then that Grissom realized he had probably gone too far. He'd been hinting at possibilities all night, only to hold back at the last minute. It was obvious that Greg had had enough of that; the look in his eyes said he wasn't falling for it anymore.

The sight sobered Gil up.

"I'm not checking on you," he said quietly. "You can do this job."

"You think?" Greg muttered skeptically, shutting his kit with a snap.

"I do. Nick does, too. He said you did a good job here."

Greg looked up.

"He said that?"

"He did." Gil rose and looked down. Jumping from the rock he was perched on didn't appeal much to him but neither did scrambling down. Hoping not to end up falling flat on his face, he jumped… and miraculously managed to land in front of Greg, to the young man's (and his own) surprise.

"He also said I was being too hard on you," Gil said. "So, when I wondered aloud whether I should stay here and apologize -" Gil smiled, "He said it would be a good idea."

Greg reluctantly smiled back. By making it look like it was Nick's idea, Gil's staying behind wouldn't seem odd or suspicious.

Greg looked him in the eye.

"So. You wanted to stay?"

"Yes."

"So -" Greg said, and he took a step closer to Gil.

"So," Gil said simply.

Greg lowerd his gaze and focused it on the one part of Gil's face he'd been avoiding till now. His jaw.

"You didn't shave," he said.

Gil didn't reply; he was studying Greg's face. They'd stood closer than this before, yet he'd never really taken the time to really look. He was gazing at Greg's moles and at the bluish five O'clock shadow, wondering why he'd never noticed them before.

He looked into Greg's eyes and realized that the young man was still waiting for some kind of response.

Gil shook his head.

"I didn't shave."

"Why?"

Gil shrugged noncommittally.

"Lots of reasons," he said.

"Oh, yeah?" Greg replied, and he took a step closer. "What reasons?"

Grissom's lips parted but he didn't speak. He didn't dare. Not yet. Instead, he walked around Greg and picked the empty bottle of water that Greg had discarded earlier on. He handed it to Greg without a word, and then started to pick the bags that Greg had hauled out.

He glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Greg was still waiting for a reply.

Gil put the bags down again.

"I was curious," he admitted.

"About?"

Gil hesitated. He still couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't even know what exactly it was that he wanted to say.

He opted for a less direct road.

"Well, you never told me which classy place you were planning to take me to -"

"Oh."

Now it was Greg's turn to hesitate. It seemed like this was the last thing he expected to hear. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said, "I, hum, thought we could go to Zeffirino's -"

Gil raised an eyebrow.

"That place at the Venetian?" he asked in surprise, "Wow. That is a classy place." He bent to pick a bag, then paused. He looked up again. "Was that all or did you have other plans?"

Greg had smiled smugly at Grissom's reaction to Zeffirino's, but now the hesitation was back. Clearly, he didn't know whether to tell the rest of his plans.

"I thought we could get a room at the Bellagio," he blurted out. He looked at Gil as if to gauge his reaction, and then added, more confidently, "There's a room there that caught my eye recently. Room number 719 -"

Gil frowned.

"Is that the one with the sunken Jacuzzi?"

"Uh, huh." Greg smiled smugly, "And the black satin sheets, and the wide-screen TV -"

"And the dead guy on the bed," Gil added ironically.

"The guy isn't there anymore," Greg said reasonably, "Besides, did you see the pictures I took? There are frescoes painted on the ceiling!"

Grissom shook his head.

"What?" asked Greg.

"You have very expensive tastes," Gil said, unable to keep the disapproval off his voice.

Greg shrugged.

"I just thought we should have the best."

Grissom considered this for a moment.

"Maybe you're right," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we do deserve the best." He picked a couple of bags and hauled them over his shoulder. "So, when are we going?"

Greg frowned.

"Huh?"

"I accept the invitation, Greg," he said clearly. "Oh, and I like red wine, by the way," he added placidly, "And I really don't mind sleeping in a room someone has died in."

Gil was watching Greg closely as he spoke, and he noticed the young man's every reaction: first there was a sudden look of panic; then came Greg's very obvious move to reach for his wallet. Greg had checked that impulse almost immediately, but by the look of concentration on his face it was obvious that he was making a quick mental assessment of his funds. Panic returned, which could only mean he didn't have enough for a splurge.

Gil smiled to himself. For someone who was so good at keeping his feelings to himself, Greg could be very easy to read sometimes.

Gil took pity on him.

"It's ok, Greg," he said kindly, "I was only joking."

Gil turned and started to walk away. He glanced around and was surprised when he didn't see Greg walking along with him. He looked over his shoulder and realized that Greg hadn't moved an inch.

Gil put down the bags and turned. The young man was gaping.

"What?" Gil asked impatiently.

"You're joking?" Greg asked in a wounded tone.

And Grissom realized that Greg had completely misunderstood what he said.

"I was joking about the hotel and the wine, Greg," he said patiently, "Not about the rest." He smiled, "A diet coke will do."

Greg paused for just a few seconds, going over what Gil had just said.

"So, you -" he said, "You really -I mean, do you really...?"

"Yes," Gil said as if the answer was obvious, "I want this."

Greg exhaled the air he'd been holding.

"Oh, for God's sake," he growled, "Why didn't you just say so?" And then he walked up to Grissom, grabbed him brusquely by the front of his CSI vest, and then kept walking, forcing Gil to stumble backwards.

Gil didn't protest. As much as he liked Greg's shy side, he was glad that the young man had opted for boldness this time. Gil needed him to take the lead in this. He willingly let Greg push him, until a hard surface suddenly stopped them.

Gil noticed only vaguely that they were back at the entrance of the cave. He was more focused on Greg. The young man's breathing was harsh, as if he'd run for miles. He was looking at Grissom's face, taking in every detail; but when he finally looked at Gil's beard, he seemed mesmerized by it.

"Jesus," he whispered, his hands releasing the hold on Gil's vest and rushing to touch the older man's face. He took a deep breath as he gently cradled Grissom's face between his hands.

"There," Gil said, rubbing his jaw against Greg's palms, "You were curious about my beard, weren't you?"

"It's softer than I thought," Greg said breathlessly. "You trimmed it," he added, making it sound like an accusation.

"But I didn't shaved it," Gil countered, "Satisfied?"

"Not yet," Greg said, and he leant forward and rubbed his cheek along Gil's. He chuckled as he rubbed his nose and his lips all along Gil's jaw.

He was about to touch Gil's lips with his own, when Grissom suddenly pulled back.

"Wait," he said. "There's something I've always wanted to do -" And he reached out and buried his fingers in Greg's hair. He frowned. "What the hell do you put in it?" he asked, "It's all stiff!

Greg smiled indulgently.

"It's gel, Grissom. What, you have a thing for my hair?

"You have a thing for my beard," Grissom retorted.

They looked at each other, and suddenly they both burst out laughing.

Gil thought it was funny that touching each other's hair could mean so much to them. But his laughter eventually died as he found himself staring into Greg's eyes.

Slowly, Gil let his hands slide from Greg's hair until they were holding Greg's face between them. He gently rubbed Greg's bottom lip with one of his thumbs.

Greg's lips parted.

"Now," he said, leaning forward again. "Can I have a -"

A phone rang all of a sudden. Gil immediately picked his cell and peered at the caller's ID.

"Uh, oh. It's Officer Padilla."

"Hmmm?" Greg asked, his gaze on Gil's mouth, "Who's Officer Padilla?"

"The cop who brought me here."

Greg looked up.

"The cop who brought you here?" he repeated incredulously. "You mean you didn't bring your own car?"

"No. I thought I'd be going back to the lab with you and Nick. I got Officer Padilla to give me a ride; then I asked him to come back -" He let the word trail off. He didn't want to admit the real reason he left his car at the lab: he didn't trust himself; he had the feeling that once he was alone with Greg he'd simply drive them to the nearest motel –job be damned.

"Let's go," he said in resignation.

"Wha- what?" Greg asked but he dutifully followed Gil. "You mean we're gonna have to ride back with this guy? But… but what about -"

But Grissom was already picking up his bags again.

---

Once they walked past the rocky wall, the sounds of the highway reached them.

Gil glanced at the police cars parked along the dirt road. Officer Padilla waved a hand at them. He was talking to the cops who'd made the initial call after Greene was found.

"He doesn't seem in a hurry," Greg said. He glanced at Grissom. He'd been glancing at him ever since they started back but hadn't said anything till now. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Greg said. "Why did you do all this? You could have called me; you could have pulled me aside in the break room -"

"Well, I did try to talk to you but you were late, remember?"

"Yeah, but… You know what I mean. You could have been more direct."

Gil nodded.

"So," Greg said, "Why didn't you?"

Gil smiled. "I was enjoying it too much. The anticipation, I mean. You know, knowing that something would happen." He paused for a moment, "Or could happen," he added cautiously. "Or might happen -" he said, glancing tentatively at Greg.

He wasn't taking anything for granted.

Greg smiled.

"Oh, it will happen," he said. He glanced at Gil, "You know what I'm gonna do when we're finally get a moment alone?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna kiss the hell out of you."

Grissom frowned.

"Kiss the hell out of me?" he repeated.

"Oh, yeah," Greg said. "It's something I've wanted to do for a long time. I've never kissed anyone with a moustache before," he added casually, "Is it prickly? Nah, don't tell me. I want to find out by myself -"

But Grissom was still frowning. "How do you kiss the hell out of someone?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"You're gonna find out soon enough," Greg replied smugly.

Grissom smiled despite himself. There was Greg's cocky side yet again.

Greg was still looking at him.

"I suppose you want to take things slow," he said tentatively.

Grissom didn't reply.

"I can do slow," Greg continued. "Kisses on the first date, heavy petting on the second, sex on the third -"

"That's your definition of going slow?" Gil asked in mock surprise.

Greg blinked.

"Are you kidding me? That's ketchup-slow. I usually have sex on the first date -" he paused, "Which might be the reason I rarely have a second date."

"You're that bad, huh?" Gil teased.

"Au contraire," Greg countered, "They're just too exhausted to keep up with me."

They were smiling, enjoying the banter.

Greg glanced sideways at him.

"Can I ask you something?" Greg said tentatively, "Are you really gay?"

"What do you think?"

"It's hard to tell," Greg said honestly. "You give off all sort of vibes, to tell you the truth. How about this: have you been with a man before?"

"Does it matter?" Gil asked, looking at him.

"It would. Kinda. I mean, I don't want to freak you out or anything."

Grissom smiled to himself. There was a brief moment when he did freak out, but that was the day before. He'd looked in the mirror and wondered if he could really do this. He was scared, thrilled… Freaked out.

But by the time he started putting his shaving things away, he'd started to feel better. Reassured.

He'd felt great, actually. Happy. Renewed. He was emerging from his life-long sleep, about to embark on a new life. Whether it would last more than four months, he didn't know.

Officer Padilla waved again.

"Are you ready, Mr. Grissom?" he called out.

"Yeah," Gil said. He glanced at Greg as he added, "I'm ready."

THE END

***