Title: Indecisions
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: Grissom watches Greg's private life unfold before his eyes. The question is, will he merely watch or will he intervene?

***

Gil Grissom leant back on his chair and looked at the handsome man standing in the middle of his office. John Garrison, his old college pal, was holding a glass jar up in the air, taking a close look at the specimen inside.

Away from the stark light of the room, John looked just like he did twenty-five years before, when he was on his way to become Chicago's most prominent Forensic Entomologist.

Only the silvery hair belied this impression.

"So," Gil said, "What do you think?"

He smiled as he posed the question. He'd just taken John on a tour of the lab -his very up-to-date-lab- and he knew John would have little to say in the way of criticism.

Garrison put the jar back on the shelf, and then he looked at Gil. He smiled.

"I'm impressed," he said. "You know I am. In fact, I'm a little envious. Your Trace lab is better than mine."

"I thought the Chicago PD could afford the latest equipment."

"They've got priorities," John shrugged. "My lab isn't one of them." He glanced away, his attention drawn back to the shelf again. "And you know me," he added casually, "I've never had the patience to suck up to the powers that be."

"I don't suck up to the powers that be," Gil replied.

"I didn't say you did." John said. He smiled, "Relax. I didn't mean to put you on the defensive. You don't suck up to anybody -on the contrary; you've always been rude to authority figures. But in your case, it works, somehow. For some reason, the more insolent you are, the more they strive to keep you happy."

He looked at Grissom, "You've got charm, Gil; you know how to use it."

Grissom frowned over this assessment of his character.

"I meant that as a compliment," John added, still smiling.

Grissom smiled back. As he watched his friend continue examining his shelves, he found himself thinking yet again how glad he was that the National Forensics Association had decided to hold their annual meeting in Las Vegas. It had given him a much-needed chance to catch up with John.

They'd known each other for decades, yet they didn't see each other very often. E-mails gave them a chance to stay in touch, but there was a side to their friendship that could only be fulfilled in person. That's why they'd been going to John's hotel at the end of the day; to share John's bed for a few hours just before work. They talked, they made love, and then they talked some more. It was almost like being back in college. Except with better sheets. And a few more wrinkles, of course.

Gil liked being with John. He looked up to him; he always had. No matter how much Gil learned, it seemed that John always knew more.

"I'm glad you're here," Gil said quietly.

John looked up from a book he was examining. He stared at Gil for a long while.

"What?" Gil asked.

John put the book back. After a moment's hesitation, he moved away from the shelves and sat on the chair opposite Gil's.

"I think I saw your Greg at today's conference."

"He's not -"

Gil had started to say that Greg wasn't his, when it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn't introduced Greg or any of his younger colleagues to John yet.

"How did you know he was there?"

John smiled.

"Isn't he tall and slender, with bushy eyebrows, a nice mouth and an atrocious sense of fashion?" he asked. He leant back in his chair. "He was standing next to Albert Robbins and Catherine Willows during cocktails," he added for more clarity.

Gil frowned.

"How did you know it was him?"

"He kept glancing at us," John said, then. "It wasn't a casual interest, Gil. Frankly, it was almost as if he expected to catch us in some sort of compromising situation. And he had this look -"

"What look?" asked Gil.

John wasn't smiling anymore.

"He had the look of someone who knows he's about to lose everything." He paused for a moment. "What did you tell him about me?"

"I told him you were a friend from college -"

"And you didn't tell him the rest," John finished. "Well, it seems he's already figured it out."

"Just because he saw us stand together side by side?" Gil asked skeptically.

"Maybe he knows you better than you think."

John stared at Grissom for a moment.

"Listen, Gil. You haven't been exactly forthcoming about this guy, so… I have to ask. Do you like him? And by like I mean, do you want to fuck him?"

The word was unusual in John's lips.

"He's my coworker," Gil said evasively.

"A coworker you've gone out with a couple of times, according to that e-mail you sent me a month ago."

Grissom seemed uncomfortable.

"We had dinner," he said, "We went to see a movie -"

"Gil, I know you; you don't do those things with just anyone. What about him? Does he intend to pursue a relationship with you?" He paused for a moment, and then asked, "Do you?"

Grissom hesitated. He didn't want to talk about it, but there was no use keeping the truth from John. After all, he was the only person in the world he could trust with this.

"I thought I did," he admitted. He met John's gaze, "It was one of those things you daydream about," he explained, "And then one day you wake up and you realize it can never happen."

"And did you explain this to him?"

Gil shook his head almost imperceptibly. He didn't. He was enjoying those outings too much to put a halt to them. They'd gone to a couple of museums, they'd visited a butterfly reservoir, they'd eaten at a small restaurant Gil had never been in. It was all very innocent, really; just a couple of friends enjoying each other's company…

Except that for Greg it may have been more serious than that.

"I thought he'd get bored and stop asking me out," Gil said. He looked at John. "I didn't want to hurt him."

John shook his head.

"Gil, I think you already have."

***

Gil Grissom reached for the light switch on the wall and turned it on. He looked around. The copy room was just like every other small-business copy room he'd ever been before: windowless and cramped.

It smelled the same, too, he noticed, wincing a little.

Copy rooms were always grubby but this one looked as if a toner cartridge had exploded inside. Every surface was covered with a faint sprinkling of black powder -from the photocopiers to the walls, to the reams of paper piled on the floor.

Beside him, Greg spoke.

"Guy in charge was sloppy," he muttered.

It was because of said 'guy in charge' that they were there; he was the primary suspect in a series of assaults. Gil and Greg had already searched the perp's house, and now they'd come to his workplace, hoping to find some evidence.

"One thing's for sure," Greg added, "We can't use black fingerprinting powder here."

"We'll use red," Gil agreed.

After a brief discussion on who would do what, Greg immediately set out to work on the far side of the room while Gil remained near the door.

Grissom covertly glanced at Greg. He'd been doing that all night, looking for some sign that might prove or disprove John's claims. So far, he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary; Greg was his usual good-natured self, and he was working quietly, (too quietly, perhaps?) and efficiently.

But Gil couldn't rest easily yet; not with John's words still weighing heavily on him.

That John didn't ask for any explanations was fortunate, because Gil couldn't give any; he'd let things go too far with Greg and he still didn't understand why; although hecould pinpoint the moment it all started: Right at the end of a criminal investigation. A man was found dead in a hotel room, and their investigation eventually revealed he'd been accidentally smothered by an overweight woman. Not the bloodiest case he and Greg had ever investigated -not the most disturbing or even the most emotional- yet for some reason it had touched their lives like no other.

Was it because the case drew attention to one of Gil's sensitive spots, (weight)? Maybe. It was the one thing no one ever talked about-not his colleagues, nor Gil himself- yet, all of a sudden, Gil found himself alluding to it often, though mostly in relation to the victim's and the murderer's state of mind. He was only doing it to help their investigation, (or so he told himself)but to Greg, it meant much more. As he later explained, it was the first time Grissom had revealed something personal, and so it was a big deal.

Once Gil opened this door, they started talking about matters that were probably too personal for mere colleagues to discuss, although Gil didn't see it that way; after all, they were merely discussing human nature. That explains why, when Greg casually asked him what kind of person he was most attracted to, Gil didn't hesitate to say that he liked people who didn't judge him.

That Greg might have crossed a line by asking such a personal question didn't occur to Gil till a couple of nights later, when Greg entered Grissom's office, sat, and, after a moment's hesitation, looked at Grissom in the eye and said, "There's something I'd like you to know. I'm not a judgmental person."

Gil didn't reply. He didn't move, either, and this was something that bothered him still; the fact that he stayed. He could have pretended to have an appointment, a call to make, or a witness to interview; he could have simply bolted from the room, just like he did whenever Greg came into his office to chat. Instead, he merely looked at Greg as if he'd been waiting for this moment, and now wanted to hear the rest.

Greg didn't hesitate; he talked -a lot. He talked about his own views on attraction and how open he was topossibilities; then he sat back and looked at Grissom. He was obviously leaving the final decision to the boss.

Gil knew he could -and should- have said something. A simple 'I can't,' would have sufficed; there were plenty of reasons for them not to get involved, after all.

But he didn't say anything. He didn't say yes, he didn't say no. And for Greg, silence meant compliance.

---

"Oh, this guy's an idiot," Greg said suddenly, bringing Gil back to the present.

Gil looked up and noticed that Greg had moved a photocopier in order to examine the boxes piled behind.

"Did you find anything?"

"Yeah," Greg said incredulously. "Condoms."

"Condoms?"

"Can you believe it? I mean, sure, the guy's still living with his mother, it's not like he's gonna keep these in his room. But to put them in here -" He shook his head in disapproval.

Gil frowned.

"What's the problem?"

Greg seemed surprised by the question.

"You know that condoms are made of natural rubber -"

"Uh, huh," Gil nodded, not sure of where Greg was going with this.

"- and rubber degrades when it's exposed to ozone," Greg finished. "Ozone is a gas…?" He paused so Gil could draw his own conclusions, but Grissom impatiently motioned him to go on. "Well, ozone's also that special smell that you noticed the minute we came into this room. In short, you should never store your condoms near a photocopier."

"Oh."

"Oh, yeah," Greg said, and he was smiling placidly, just like he did whenever he had a chance to lecture his CSI colleagues. He looked at Gil in the eye, "Gotta keep your protection protected, you know."

Grissom held Greg's gaze for just a moment, and then he glanced away, his attention drawn to a couple of boxes marked as 'Recycling Material'. He hunched down and opened one. About a dozen toner cartridges were neatly piled inside, all bearing the same 'recycling' note.

Grissom picked up two at random, and wasn't really surprised to find that one felt heavier than the other. Could this be the perp's hiding place? He set the lighter cartridge aside and set out to examine another.

All along, he was aware that Greg was still looking at him.

"I thought you'd appreciate the advice," Greg said casually. "I mean, with your friend in town, and all."

Grissom winced. He didn't reply; he just braced himself for whatever it was that Greg was going to say.

"You slept with him, didn't you?"

***

"You slept with him, didn't you?"

Gil winced again -he didn't expect Greg to be so direct. He looked up.

Greg was still smiling.

"Wonder how I knew?" he asked.

Gil didn't answer -he had the feeling that Greg didn't really expect him to. Instead, he reluctantly put the toner cartridges down, and then rose to face the young man.

"Give up?" Greg asked. He waited a moment, and then said, "You were standing too close together." He let these words sink. "You don't let anyone do that, Grissom. Except at crime scenes, that is," he added with soft irony.

Gil frowned. He really didn't' remember standing too close to John. Evidently, they'd both been careless.

"You know what the funny part is?" Greg said, "If that had been a woman invading your personal space, people would have jumped to all sort of conclusions. But it was a guy, and so nobody cared. But then, nobody knows you're into guys."

He paused, then added, "And you still haven't answered question one."

It took Gil a second to remember what that question was. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I did," he said.

To his surprise, Greg seemed taken aback by the reply. He stared incredulously at Grissom, his lips parting once or twice before he could finally manage a word.

"Wow," he exhaled. "And here I thought you'd say you didn't sleep with this guy." He looked like he was more surprised at his own reaction that at Gil. "I even thought you'd offer me some kind of proof that you didn't sleep with this guy."

It was Gil's turn to be taken aback; he thought honesty was his one and only option there. But he didn't have time to brood over this, because Greg recovered very quickly from his initial surprise; even the smile was back, though it seemed forced. Bitter.

"So," Greg said, "Did you have a good time?"

Gil shook his head evasively.

"I'm nor discussing that," he muttered.

"Why?" Greg asked, more animatedly now. He took a step in Gil's direction. "It's only a question. All you have to do is say is yes or no. How difficult can that be?" He took another step, and this time Gil instinctively took a step backwards. "How about this: Was it better or worse than you thought it was going to be? Do you want to do it again, or -"

"It was good," Gil said abruptly, mostly to stop the interrogation.

Once again, Greg seemed unprepared for the answer. He forced himself not to show it, though.

"Great," he said lamely. "I'm glad for you. So, what's next?" he asked casually, "You're moving to Chicago? Is he moving to Vegas…?"

Grissom shook his head.

"I'm not moving," he said. "John's going back to Chicago at the end of the week."

He could see that Greg was waiting for some further explanation, but he didn't offer any. Greg stared at him for a moment.

"So, how come you two -" he started. "I mean, how long have you -" he trailed off.

Greg didn't finish, but Gil thought he knew what the question was. Once again, he opted for the truth.

"About twenty years," he said quietly.

Greg's eyes widened.

"TWENTY YEARS?" he repeated, and this time he looked at Grissom as if he were seeing him for the first time ever. Emotions played fleetingly on his face -surprise, hurt, anger, and then surprise again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Gil shook his head almost imperceptibly. There were many reasons for not telling; from the obvious, to the not so obvious.

Bottom line was, he'd kept this part of his life to himself for so long, he wouldn't have known where to begin, had he wanted to tell -which he didn't. In fact, he was seriously considering pulling rank and ending the conversation right then and there. He could deal with any sort of interrogation as long as he could answer as Gil Grissom, the scientist; once the questioning delved into his private life, however, he was lost. Being at a disadvantage was something he wasn't used to.

Greg was still looking questioningly at him.

"So, how does this work for you?" he said slowly, "I mean, do you fly to Chicago over the weekend, or what?"

A corner of Gil's mouth moved almost imperceptibly.

"We don't see each other that often," he said quietly, "We meet every couple of years, and -"

"Every couple of years?" Greg interrupted. It seemed each revelation was more shocking than the last. He stared at Grissom. "So, what you're saying is… You wait till there's a convention nearby to get together," he said slowly. He waited till Gil nodded. "And that's it?"

"That's it," Gil said.

Greg frowned. "And that's enough for you?"

Gil shrugged almost imperceptibly. It was enough.

There was a time when it wasn't, but he rarely thought about it anymore. Back when they were in college, Grissom had envisioned working with John and sharing an apartment with him as well. What he didn't know was that John had already mapped out his own future, and romance wasn't a part of it. He didn't want anything to interfere with his job.

To say that Gil took the news badly would be an understatement; in fact, he couldn't even face staying in the same city, and so he left. But that's not what John wanted, either; he wanted Gil to stay. He believed they could still be friends, and have a physical relationship of some sort -just as long as it didn't interfere with their jobs.

Gil was adamant, however, and it would be years before they spoke to each other again.

By then, Grissom had learned the hard way that relationships did interfere with the job, and that when it came to choosing between your private life and your job, you had to take the one you were better equipped to deal with.

Gil chose the job.

But he didn't tell Greg any of this. He didn't think Greg would understand.

"We're there for each other," Grissom said quietly. "Unconditionally."

"Sounds idyllic," Greg said expressionlessly, but there was a malicious gleam in his eyes as he added, "But how do you know he's not seeing someone else, back in Chicago?"

"I don't," Gil said simply. "It wouldn't matter," he added gently, "It's not that kind of relationship."

"Well, what kind is it?"

"It's hard to explain -"

"Try," Greg said curtly, and then he leant on a photocopier and crossed his arms, as if he had all the time in the world.

Gil hesitated. Talking about John felt like a betrayal. Whatever he and John did was private; it was as simple as that. He didn't like talking about it. Hell; not even John talked about it. They were well-matched in that sense.

"We don't expect much from each other," Grissom said tentatively, "Neither one of us has the patience or the time for a relationship, so -"

"You mean you're lazy," Greg muttered scornfully.

The tone piqued Gil. He didn't like feeling that he had to defend his friendship.

"It's comforting," Gil argued.

Greg shook his head.

"You mean it's comforting to spend years apart and then meet a couple of times to mate?"

Grissom frowned. Greg had found a very interesting description for what he and John did. Interesting and… accurate? Yes, it was accurate. And if the contempt in Greg's voice was any indication, he didn't approve any of it.

"Maybe it makes sense to you," Greg sneered, waving a hand at Gil, "I mean, with you two being Entomologists and all."

Greg's disdain irritated Gil; he, who disliked having to justify his personal choices, found himself doing just that.

"It's comforting," he said again. "We're friends, no matter what. We don't have to change who we are in order to make the other happy; we don't agonize over whether anything we do will disappoint the other," he added, pointedly looking at Greg. "We don't judge each other."

Greg stared back expressionlessly. Then he nodded, as if he understood what Gil was trying to say.

"You know what pisses me off?" he said, the soft tone belying the words. "All this time you've been acting like you'd never been in a relationship before. When we went out, it was almost as if -" he paused. He shook his head, as it to dismiss what he was going to say. But after a moment, he said, "It was as if I was the first guy you'd ever been interested in."

He snorted softly. "It made me want to go slow –you know, for your sake. I kept telling myself, 'gotta be patient; gotta give Grissom a little time -just a little time 'till he gets used to the idea.' And you knew," he added, more sternly this time, "You knew what I was doing. I mean, you had to -even you couldn't be that obtuse."

"Greg, I'm -"

"I was courting you."

Images crowded Gil's mind all of a sudden; Greg, smiling at him from the other side of a museum display; Greg, sitting at a movie house and holding a giant bucket of popcorn in his lap; Greg's fingers -those long, strong fingers he'd been watching for years- brushing against his as they both reached for popcorn at the same time…

Gil didn't finish his apology. Saying he was sorry seemed too little, too late now. Greg was right; he should have said something before.

"I thought you wanted a relationship," Greg said, "And now, it turns out you and this guy already had one -"

"We don't," Gil blurted out.

Greg gave him a skeptical look.

"It's not a romantic relationship," Gil added. That was the truth. "We're friends," he added simply.

"Yeah, right," Greg snorted. "Friends. You don't have sex with all your friends, Grissom -or do you?" he kept his gaze on Gil, as if challenging him to answer.

Gil shook his head uncomfortably.

"So," Greg said, "Do you love this guy? And don't tell me he's your friend," he added just as Gil was about to speak. "You've already said that."

Grissom looked down for a moment.

"We're not in love," he said truthfully. "But that only makes it easier to be together."

"That doesn't make any sense," Greg muttered.

Grissom raised his gaze. What he was about to say wasn't easy, but there was no use in keeping it to himself anymore.

"I liked being with you," he said quietly. "And I thought I could overlook our differences, but -"

"What differences?" Greg retorted, "That you're the boss and I'm a CSI III, or that you've got all those diplomas and I only got two or three, or -"

"Age, for instance," Gil said quietly.

"Age?" Greg frowned. "It didn't bother me."

"It bothers me," Gil said sheepishly. He shook his head regretfully. "The truth is, I'm never as conscious of my age as when I'm with you."

Greg blinked. He stared at Gil for a moment, as if he were studying him.

"You know what I think?" he said softly, "I think you're just too scared to try something new." He let those words sink. "So, maybe you're right," he added, "Maybe age is the problem, here. It's made you a coward."

Gil blinked at the insult, but didn't reply.

"So," Greg added, "You're either lazy or a coward. And I don't know which is worse."

He didn't wait for a reply; he turned and continued doing his job. After a moment, so did Gil.

***

"Here's your breakfast, sir -"

With practiced ease, the waitress placed a plate laden with food in front of John, then walked around the table in order to serve Gil's breakfast.

She smiled winningly as she set a small plate on the table.

"Your grapefruit, sir," she beamed. "Enjoy!"

She obviously approved of Gil's choice, but Grissom didn't feel as enthusiastic. He was looking at the grapefruit he'd ordered for breakfast, and the sight was almost depressing, especially when he compared it to John's own breakfast -huevos rancheros with salsa, bacon, and what looked like an entire loaf of fresh bread. And lots of butter.

It was enough to make him envious of John, who could eat anything without any visible weight gain. In fact, he was thin as a rail -he'd always been.

Just like Greg,

Gil held on to that thought for a moment, then quietly put it away. He didn't want to think of Greg. Thinking of him inevitably led him to remember the last words the young man flung at him just before going back to work -just before going back to being Greg Sanders, the rookie CSI who spoke respectfully to his boss.

Lazy… Coward…

Gil winced every time he remembered.

Deep down, however, he knew it wasn't the name-calling itself that bothered him; after all, as a member of the Las Vegas PD, he'd been called worse. No; what bothered him was the fact that he'd let Greg say the things he did. No one had ever dared to talk to him like that -not even his closest colleagues.

On the other hand… None of his colleagues had ever dared to court him either, so maybe Greg was entitled.

"You're not hungry today," John said suddenly.

Snapped out of his gloomy thoughts, Gil realized he hadn't yet touched his grapefruit.

John pushed his own plate a couple of inches closer to Gil.

"You want some of this? It's not the healthiest meal in the menu, but -"

Gil smiled.

"No, I'm ok." He picked up his spoon and managed to eat a few pieces of fruit.

"Oh, I'd forgot," John said after a moment. He put his hand on a manila envelope he had by his side. "Here are the pictures I told you about."

"Pictures?" Gil frowned.

"For my conference, today," John said matter-of-factly. When this didn't ring a bell with Gil, he added, "The cold case I managed to break after ten years…?"

"Oh." Gil put his spoon down. "Yeah," he said vaguely, but his friend wasn't fooled.

"You forgot," John said impassively. He pushed the envelope in Gil's direction. "Wanna take a look?"

Gil took the pictures and set out to examine them right away, partly because he was intrigued by the case, but mostly to make up for the fact that he'd forgotten all about the conference. He started by sweeping aside his breakfast; then he took the pictures from the envelope and placed them on a corner of the table. Then, just like a magician performing a trick with a deck of cards, he spread the pictures to a side, till he had a clear view of each one of them.

He examined them attentively. Since John had withheld most of the details of the case, it was up to him to find the clues now.

The more he looked, the fastest his heart beat…

Finally, he got his reward; a clue. His eyes twinkled; he was sure that after that first clue, the rest could come up easily. But the gleam faded when he realized there was an inconsistency there; something didn't make sense. Frowning, he went back to the first pictures and looked closely at each one of them.

Suddenly, the twinkle was back; he'd just realized what the problem was: John had put the pictures out of sequence. The discovery brought a faint smile to his lips. With another magician's touch, Gil put the pictures in their proper order.

John chuckled softly.

"I can't outfox you, can I?"

"I can see how the perp manipulated the evidence," Gil said without looking up. "No wonder the cops first thought this was a suicide."

"Ah, yes," John said, "Without the photographer's documentation, we would have never known what happened." He picked a piece of buttered toast and bit off a corner, "Did you see the victim's eye cavities?" he said, "The maggots did quite a number on them."

Gil's eyes twinkled again as he studied the picture in question.

"A beauty," he said reverently. "Life, surging from the depths of death." He grinned at John, then he happily looked back at the pictures again.

Grissom didn't notice the passing of time; he was so focused on the pictures, he didn't immediately register John's next words.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Grissom looked up questioningly.

"Last night," John said. When Gil didn't say anything, he added, "You told me you and Sanders had to work together, but you didn't offer any details."

Grissom's gaze dropped again. He stared at the pictures with something close to disappointment. The game was up.

"He figured it out," he said. He looked up. "You were right."

John shook his head.

"You say it as if this were some sort of competition I expected to win," he said musingly. He looked at Gil. "What did he say?"

"We didn't talk much," Gil said. He was definitely not going to describe that conversation. "It's over," he said simply.

John didn't seem to hear. He was looking at Gil as if the real story were to be found in the younger man's eyes and not in the words he was saying. Finally, he shook his head again.

"That's odd," he said, "I would have thought Sanders would put up more of a fight. After all, he took a big risk when he asked you out," he said quietly. "It sounded serious."

They were silent for a moment.

"You know," John said, "The first time you wrote about Sanders, I thought what you were trying to say was, 'hey, guess what? A young dude's been asking me out, ha, ha,' and that you wanted me to laugh along with you." He smiled a little. "But now I wonder whether I supplied the wrong tone to your messages. Maybe you were more serious than I thought," he said, and then he looked up. "Maybe there was more than daydreaming on your part."

Gil held John's gaze for a moment. John was right; he'd purposefully written those e-mails in a light tone. He'd only been trying to make fun of what had been for him an awkward, unexpected, exhilarating new experience. And he knew the reason: By taking it lightly, he'd successfully kept himself from studying his true feelings too closely.

But now there was no use in trying to hold back anymore. Now that it was all over, he could see things clearly -and be honest about them.

He smiled in self-deprecation.

"Do you remember me, at twenty-three?" He asked. He looked up. "Wide-eyed and naive; open-hearted; trustful...?" he paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he added, "Wanted to marry every guy I fell in love with...?"

He saw the recognition in John's eyes. Years ago, John had flung all those words at him, making them sound like an accusation. It was right after Gil decided to leave Chicago. John couldn't believe he was leaving just because they wouldn't be sharing a house. It was the one and only time John lost his cool, ever. He said Gil was making things more complicated than they ought to be; that what Gil needed was a father, a brother and a lover all rolled-up in one, and this was too much to ask from anybody.

He'd ended his speech with the words, 'Grow up, for fuck's sake!'

That Gil could smile now was a testimony of how well the wounds had healed in over twenty years.

John, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed.

"I should have known you'd remember every word I said," he said uncomfortably. He kept his gaze on Grissom. "It was a harsh thing to say," he said apologetically.

"Well, I was too emotional," Gil shrugged. "And, you were right: I did need to grow up."

John seemed relieved at Gil's response.

He smiled tentatively.

"So…" he said, "What you're saying is, Greg Sanders is like you at twenty-three?"

"No," Gil said, "But I am." He glanced at John, "Or was," he amended. "At least, for a while. Back when I was dating Greg, there were a couple of times when I caught myself wondering what living with him would be like." He kept his gaze on John, letting these words sink in. "I suddenly realized I was thinking of life-time commitments again." He smiled as if he'd just said something funny and was hoping John would get the joke, too.

But John didn't smile back.

"You mean -"

"Yeah," Gil said. "After all these years; after all the things I've learned -" He didn't finish. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

He was smiling with genuine amusement; yet, as he remembered how his friendship with Greg had gradually evolved into something deeper and more meaningful, he realized that the mirth was slowly being replaced by something he didn't particularly want to feel: Longing.

He shook his head.

"I was probably heading for a heartbreak," he said almost to himself.

 Gil thought, and he smiled as he remembered the young man's penchant for super-sizing his meals. Popcorn, burgers, fried chicken… everything. Greg had a big appetite; he ate and ate, yet managed to stay thin. He was definitely blessed with good genes.

"Why?"

"Because Greg isn't looking for a life-time commitment," he said quietly. "He's been in and out of relationships for years."

John seemed surprised.

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to," Gil said smugly, "I'm a trained observer, remember? I've always known when he's in a new relationship. First, there is excitement," he added, "He can hardly wait to leave at the end of the shift, he wears a certain type of clothes -you get the idea. Then, there is disenchantment -a gradual process that lasts about two weeks. And then, it's all over."

He stared into space for a moment, then added, "Then, sometime later, the excitement is back, and I can see that a new cycle is about to begin."

John didn't immediately react. He seemed to be processing what Gil had just said.

"So, you've been watching him," he said expressionlessly.

"Who wouldn't?" Gil retorted. He'd meant it as a joke, but he could see how John might get the wrong idea if he didn't explain.

"I watch all my colleagues," he said. "And before you ask, no; I'm not prying into their private lives; I'm simply watching out for them. You know how it is when CSIs get romantically involved," he added, "They're not always prepared to handle the situation. These are people whose jobs require them to behave rationally at all times, so emotions can really create havoc in their lives."

John smiled. "And you're an expert on how to deal with emotions?"

Gil didn't resent the sarcasm.

"I don't expect them to come to me for advice," he shrugged. "But I can still help in my own way. An unexpected night off can do wonders on a depressed CSI."

"And is that what you're gonna do with Sanders?" John asked gently. "Give him a night off?" He kept his gaze on Gil, but he didn't press for an answer. He looked down. "Do you love this guy?"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"You know, Greg asked me the same thing about you."

John looked up. "And what did you say?"

Gil looked up sharply. He was surprised that John should even ask.

"You're my friend," he said. "You know I love you."

John stared at Gil, and then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I know," he said softly. "You're just not in love with me"

Grissom frowned. John looked down again.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"Nothing," Gil said. He sighed. He'd wondered about the possible consequences of his conversation with Greg, and decided to wait and see. "I don't think anything's going to change," he said slowly. "I hope not. He's got a great job here; I don't think he'd want to lose that." He paused for a moment, then smirked, "At least, I know he won't be threatening to leave town, the way I did," he said ironically.

John didn't smile at that. His lips parted a couple of times, but he didn't immediately speak.

"I was too harsh with you," he said suddenly. He looked up. "All those years ago. You just wanted to share a house with me; I could have done that -"

"Hey, it's ok," Gil said. "You were right, you know; we couldn't have come this far if we'd tried to keep a personal relationship going. You know how difficult that is; I mean, most of our friends from that era are divorced now." But he could see John wasn't convinced, and so he added, "I don't regret any of this."

"But I do," John said softly. "It's just… I was scared shitless of being in a relationship," he confessed. "But you were not. And now I can't help to think that -"

Gil didn't like where this was going.

"I don't regret it," he said again. "I like my life as it is."

John stared at him for a moment.

"You asked me if I remembered you at twenty-three," he said. "Well, I do. I also remember the way you used to look at me, back then." He added pointedly. There was a far-away look in his eyes for a moment, as if he were picturing Gil all those years ago. "Yet in the last twenty-five years, the only time I've seen that look in your eyes is when I've showed you pictures of my prized butterflies or pictures from one of my murder cases."

He paused. "Or when you talk about Greg Sanders."

Gil frowned at the bitterness in John's voice.

"Can you blame me for that?" he whispered.

John shook his head.

"No," he said. "I know it's my fault. And there's a part of me that knows I did the right thing, back then. I know I couldn't have handled a relationship. But you could have. Maybe."

He kept his eyes on Grissom for a moment, then he blinked, as if he'd only realized where they were. "Look at us," he said, with a faint smile. "We're talking about love and feelings, yet to the rest of these people, we might as well be discussing the weather." The smile turned bitter. "Very civilized."

Grissom didn't know what to say. John took a deep breath.

"I know would have made a lousy housemate, Gil," he said quietly. "But now I wish I'd taken a chance."

***

9:15

Grissom shook his head almost imperceptibly. He'd been sitting in his car fifteen minutes now.

He ventured a glance at the building on the other side of the street. Five-story high, moss-green with gold railings on the all the balconies, a name - 'Aurora Apartments' - etched in huge black letters over the front door -not a five-star place but not a dump either. Just an apartment building like many others in Las Vegas...

To Grissom it had started to look like a fortress.

Greg's building.

It wasn't the first time he'd done this –sit in his car and glance at the building. He'd done it a couple of times before, right after dropping Greg from one of their 'dates.' He'd looked up at the building and wondered all sort of questions about it, ('were tenants screened?' 'did it have a back emergency exit?' 'Was it really safe?' because, after all, it was a building like many others in Vegas, and he'd seen a lot of them in his job).

Mostly, though, he'd sat and wondered whether he should have accepted Greg's invitation to come in –and whether Greg was serious about it, in the first place. It was hard to tell, sometimes. 'Let's go inside and have a drink,' he'd say, using a line from the first movie they'd seen together -a drama that hadn't aged well- and ably mimicking the hero's tone. And he always smiled -a slightly ironic smile that only widened when Grissom muttered an excuse.

He obviously didn't believe Grissom's excuses, yet they were all true. Gil did have something else to do –he always did. And not just at the lab; there were tasks awaiting him at home. There was always so much to do…

Now he wished he'd said yes to Greg, at least once. Maybe then, the idea of going up to the building wouldn't seem so daunting.

He didn't even know if Greg was home. It was a Saturday –he could be anywhere. Grissom had picked up the phone to find out, only to put it back every time. What he had to say couldn't be said over the phone; he needed to face Greg when he told him –well, whatever it was that he was going to tell him. It wasn't something he wanted to rehearse for.

Idly, he looked at his watch again. 9:53. He'd been sitting there for 23 minutes now. 23 minutes. He shook his head. He couldn't understand it. All he had to do was open the damn door, get out, cross the street, ring up Greg's apartment– It was simple, really; so why couldn't he do it? He couldn't even let go of the steering wheel, he noticed; his hands were tightly wrapped around it, almost as if his life depended on it.

It was the sight of his hands on the wheel that finally stirred him into action. Determinedly, he reached for the door handle, he grabbed it -he almost opened the door –

But a new glance at Greg's building made him stop.

There was someone standing by the door now. Lurking, actually. A young man. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, muscled and tall, he was looking at someone or something down the street, and for some reason, Grissom followed his line of vision. It was hard to tell what he was looking at; was it the street vendors? The hooker standing in the corner? The cops coming out of the donut shop? Not that it really mattered -the guy was a stranger, and he didn't seem particularly menacing despite his muscled arms. But for some reason, Grissom kept looking.

And then, he saw him. Greg, coming out of the corner deli shop, his arms laden with grocery bags, a gym bag hanging from a shoulder. He nodded a casual greeting at the cops, at the street vendors, even the hooker. He didn't notice the stranger till he was face to face with him, the young man practically blocking his way. Greg seemed startled, then visibly relaxed. He smiled, said something, then exchanged a kiss on the cheek.

The young man playfully tugged at Greg's bags, then pretended to pick something from one of them. Greg protested, but they were smiling all along. Friendly. Then the man touched Greg's bicep and made a comment. Both laughed.

The man's hand remained where it was, his fingers lightly stroking Greg's arm. A gesture that bespoke of familiarity… And intimacy.

Grissom abruptly looked away. He forced himself to stare ahead. There was so much to look at, fortunately. From this angle, he could see most of Greg's neighborhood: A little park, two blocks down; a second-hand bookstore –the one he'd fantasized of going into with Greg by his side; an Italian restaurant and a taco & carnitas place that, according to Greg, were owned by the same Pakistani man; and dozens of small businesses dotting the street. Sometimes, after sitting there for a long while, he got the impression that he wasn't in Las Vegas but a small town, the kind of place where everybody knew everybody else.

Even the hookers pacing the street looked wholesome.

Grissom smiled and shook his head at that last thought. He'd been looking at Greg's neighborhood through rose-colored glasses. If he looked closer, he'd probably see the decay in the buildings, the diseases lurking under the make-up.

And if he looked at the other side of the street again -

But he wasn't about to do that. He didn't move, except to put his hands back on the steering wheel. He sat and stared ahead, he didn't know for how long, until a noise caught his attention. Someone tapping on his side window.

Greg. He was huddled against the car to avoid passing traffic.

When Gil lowered the window, Greg put a hand on the edge of the glass, as if to keep it from closing again.

"You ok?" he asked, eyes filled with concern.

"I'm fine," Gil said good-naturedly enough.

"I waved at you through the window and you didn't seem to recognize me."

"I didn't see you," Gil frowned. But then, he wasn't really looking.

Greg nodded slowly. He stared at Grissom for a couple of seconds, obviously waiting for some further explanation. He got nothing.

"I was surprised to see you here," he said casually. "When I saw your car, I thought maybe you were on a case. I was half-expecting to see Brass or Vartann -" he smiled.

"I'm not on a case," Gil said quietly.

"Then I thought maybe you were here for the books." He tilted his head in the bookstore's direction. Grissom shook his head. "You sure? They've got a great collection of medical books in there. History, too. There's even an early edition of Walden –it's not on sale, but still… You might want to check it out."

Greg was giving him an easy way out, Gil realized; a simple explanation for his presence there.

"Unless you're here for the food," Greg added good-naturedly. "I'd recommend the Italian place; the carnitas are only good if you've got plenty of Pepto Bismol in the glove compartment. Do you?"

Gil shook his head. "I didn't come for the food."

"All right," Greg said slowly. He was having some difficulty with his grocery bags by now. "Look…. I can't hold these anymore. Do you wanna talk, or something?"

Gil didn't reply. Instead, he simply leant sideways and opened the passenger door. Greg hesitated, then walked around the car and got in. He put his bags on the floor.

"So," he said.

Grissom was looking at the grocery bags. One held DVDs, the other, food: bags of snacks and two large subs wrapped in waxed paper.

"Another balanced meal, Greg?"

"Hey, this is good food," Greg said. He picked one of the subs and waved it at Grissom, "These are famous around here. Besides, I ordered them with extra vegetables." He was speaking lightly, but the tone seemed to be forced. Now that he was sitting next to Gil, he found it difficult to look him in the eye.

Grissom nodded at the bag filled with DVDs.

"It looks like you're going to spend the weekend holed up at home."

"I just might."

"What movies did you get?" Gil didn't wait for an answer; he actually picked a DVD from the bag. He examined it, then glanced at the others. "Ah," he smiled. "The immortal works of Mick Sheridan."

"Hey, it's great entertainment," Greg replied, irked by Gil's tone. He took the DVD and put it back in the bag. "But I guess you'd rather watch something deep and meaningful," he muttered, "A tearjerker -"

Gil smiled.

"You've never cried at the movies, Greg?"

"Nah," Greg said. "Well, yeah," he amended, "I did, a couple of times, when I was a kid. I cried when King Kong died -"

"Who wouldn't?" Gil smiled.

"- and I also cried when the guys from OCP gunned down RoboCop."

Gil frowned.

Greg saw the look. "Hey, I was barely eight when I saw it the first time," he said defensively.

"I never saw RoboCop," Gil said, struck by the realization.

"Then you missed a great movie, Grissom. Parts 2 and 3 sucked, but the first one's a classic."

"A classic?"

"Yeah. Oh, I know you think it's a kid's movie, but it's not; the story's an allegory of the evils of Reaganomics, and -"

"It's still a movie about a cop turned robot, Greg."

"It's more than that. Look, I'll get you a copy, ok? Then you'll see for yourself."

"Ok," Gil said good-naturedly. They looked up at the same time, and this time their gazes locked. Gil looked for traces of their last conversation in Greg's eyes but didn't find any. At least, he didn't see any anger, and that was enough for him.

Greg leant back in the seat.

"So, Grissom," he said, "If you're not here for the food or the books… And if you're not here for Ana María, over there…" he glanced in the street's direction.

Grissom looked over his shoulder.

The hooker on the corner.

"Ana María?" he said, the tone incredulous. "You know her name?"

Greg shrugged. "Ah, she's ok. Even the cops leave her alone. You're not here for her, are you?"

Grissom smiled a little.

"No."

They were silent for a moment. Idly, Grissom looked down, found that his hands were, again, tightly wrapped on the steering wheel.

"You know," Greg said, "When I saw your car, I thought, 'I'd better hurry; Grissom must be in my building, looking for me.' But then I thought, 'no way; he's not at my apartment. He'd gotta be in his car.' And I was right."

Grissom nodded. "I was thinking -"

"-about the conference you didn't go to?" Greg said, ironically. "How's John, by the way? Does he know you're here?"

"He knows I'm not there," Gil said reasonably. And that should be evidence enough of his decision, he though. He was there –he'd made his choice.

But Greg didn't seem to think so. He just nodded thoughtfully.

It wasn't going to be that easy, Gil realized. He took a deep breath.

"You were right," he said then. "Last night, I mean. I should have said something. I knew you were courting me -"

Greg looked down uncomfortably.

"Oh, jeeze," he muttered, "I was hoping you'd forget I said that."

"Why?" Gil frowned.

"'Cause it was a stupid thing to say. And you're my boss. It's like you said, Grissom: it wasn't the right time or place. Besides, you once said you wanted someone who wouldn't judge you, and that's exactly what I was doing. And I assumed; I assumed lots of things." He looked up, "I broke your number one rule, Grissom. That must have that pissed you off."

"It didn't."

Greg eyed him speculatively.

"Are you gonna tell me why you're here?"

Relentless to the end, Gil thought. Well, he would hardly like the answer to that question –if Gil were stupid enough to give it. The truth was, he was there because he didn't want to do to Greg what John did to him all those years ago. Rejection had done something terrible to him; he didn't want that to happen to Greg.

What he didn't realize was that Greg was an entirely different man; he would hardly crumble just because someone had said no to him. And he was hardly alone, Gil thought, glancing outside.

And where was the handsome, dark-haired man, anyway?

Before he could stop himself, he asked, "Where's that guy?"

"Who?"

Grissom gave him a look. "The one you were talking to," he said, tilting his head in the building's direction.

"I thought you were thinking, not looking."

Grissom didn't reply; he just kept his gaze on Greg; his 'I'm not moving till you give me an answer' gaze –the one that worked so well on perps.

"'s a friend," Greg muttered reluctantly.

"A friend."

"Sort of. Yeah," he added more casually. His initial discomfort seemed to be fading fast. "His name's Carlos."

"And he's more than a friend," Gil said casually.

Greg didn't reply.

His silence was as good as 'yes,' anyway. Grissom looked away. Well, he didn't really expect Greg to be celibate, did he? Just because he lived like a monk didn't mean everybody else had to. Still… The idea of Greg with that man stung. And yet, it made sense to him. That guy –Carlos- had intrigued him at first sight, and when he saw him with Greg, he knew why.

They looked good together; they fit.

Gil could hardly imagine looking that good alongside Greg. It was sad, but true.

"YIsn't he?" Grissom insisted, even though he hardly needed the answer; his skills as an observer rarely failed him.

Greg kept his gaze on the street.

"He's more than a friend," he admitted reluctantly. "Or was," he amended, "For a while."

"And now he wants to be more than a friend again."

"Yeah."

Grissom nodded. He pictured the young man's predatory fingers kneading Greg's arm, his own arms rippling with muscles -

"His body's riddled with steroids," Gil blurted out.

Greg burst into incredulous laughter.

"You're kidding, right?"

"What, you haven't noticed?"

"Well, yeah, but -" he paused. He was looking closely at Grissom, and as he did, his smile turned cynical. "Oh, I get it," he said slowly. "That was a very good impression of a jealous man, Grissom."

"Do you think it was an impression?"

"Sure. And if it's not, then all I have to do is turn the tables around and ask you about John."

"John doesn't take steroids."

Greg looked up suspiciously. Gil stared back, with a perfectly straight face. He was smiling though, and Greg reluctantly smiled back.

Greg kept his gaze on Gil for a moment, then reluctantly looked away.

"So," Gil said, "You and Carlos…"

Greg sighed.

"You know how it is, when you meet someone you could trust your life with?" he asked.

Grissom nodded solemnly.

"Well, he's not it," Greg said. "But he's fun. And he lives in Nevada," he added pointedly. He paused for a couple of seconds, then he said, "He's just not you."

"That's what I don't understand," Gil said softly, "Why me?"

"Why not someone more accessible, you mean?"

"Or younger."

"I don't know," Greg shrugged. "You said attraction couldn't be explained, remember? Besides, you're attracted to me –do you know why?"

"That's easy," Gil said. "You're devastatingly handsome."

Greg gaped.

Gil smiled. "You still haven't answered my question, Greg."

"What question?"

"About that guy. Where's he?"

"He's not here," Greg said ambiguously.

"But you two had a date."

"We did. Sort of. But then I saw your car –end of story. I had to bribe him, by the way," he added, "Had to give him my double-pepperoni sub to get him to go."

"It would take more than a sub to get me to leave," Gil said gallantly.

Greg scoffed, but he looked pleased.

They were silent after that. Greg kept fidgeting and glancing at Grissom, but the older man was content with things the way they were. Sitting with Greg by his side was enough.

"You know," Greg said then, " I'd never taken the time to look at my own neighborhood; it's nice."

"It is, yes."

"I feel like I could stay here all day, looking at it," Greg added.

"Me, too," Gil said.

Greg looked at Grissom one last time, then started picking his bags.

"What are you doing?" Gil asked.

"Gotta go," Greg said matter-of-factly. "I have to put these in the fridge," he explained, lifting the bag with the food. He paused when he noticed the surprise in Grissom's face. "Look. The thing is… I like talking to you, Grissom. I like sitting here, bantering, and looking at people passing by. It's cozy. And I have a feeling that if I stay, that's all I'm gonna end up doing." He took a deep breath. "I love you, you know. I really do. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking while other people have a life."

It was Grissom's turn to gape. He looked on helplessly as Greg got out of the car and walked around it once more. He watched as the young man crossed the street, narrowly avoiding a couple of cars before reaching the sidewalk.

There was a slight hesitation in Greg's step as he walked to his building, but once he mounted the stairs there was no turning back. He opened the door, pushed his way inside, and that was it.

He was gone.

Grissom remained motionless. He kept watching, even though he had little hope that Greg would come back. He kept watching, the way one does at the end of a favorite movie. And it was like watching a movie, he realized, suddenly struck by the truth behind Greg's words.

He'd been a spectator all his life. From the safety of his car –or his office, or his home- he'd watched other people live while he merely studied them.

He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

His hand was shaking when he picked his cell phone. His fingers hurt after being wrapped around the steering wheel for so long, but he ignored the pain. He punched a number, then waited, the ringing drowned by the beating of his heart.

Idly, he looked at the papers on the dashboard.

The invitation to John's conference lay on top.

Grissom paused for a couple of seconds, then forced himself to look away.

A voice finally answered. A cautious, "Yeah?"

"Hey Greg?" Gil said, "What's your apartment number?"

THE END

***