Internal Conversation

Author: Belinda
Email: Loc6401@cs.com
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Greg Sanders pre-slash
Rating: PG, I think. A couple of swear words.
Status: Complete
Archive: WWOMB & The Greg Sanders Appreciation Society, if they want it. Anyone else, just ask first.
Feedback: Constructive criticism appreciated. Praise abjectly sought. Flames will be used to roast marshmallows.

Series/Sequel: Prequel to my fic "Conversation By a Hospital Bed". Part of the Conversations Series (tentative title).

Disclaimer: As much as I'd love to pretend they're mine, I've never been quite that deluded. Property of CBS, no money being made, nothing to see here.
Spoilers: Major for "Lady Heather's Box".
Summary: Gil does some thinking, and comes to a conclusion. Begins immediately after "Lady Heather's Box". And I do mean immediately.
Author's note: I noticed Greg seemed awfully tense in that last scene he had with Grissom, and I got to wondering why. This is the result.
Warnings: Slash. Some angst. Spoilers for 3rd season ep "Lady Heather's Box."

**What am I doing here?** Gil Grissom wondered silently. He'd been sitting outside Lady Heather's place for the better part of an hour trying to get up the courage to go ring the doorbell. Or was it courage he was waiting for? He could almost sense her watching from a window, waiting for him to make a decision, more and more certain with each moment that passed without movement from him that his decision would disappoint her. Again.

Damn it, it wasn't like it was his fault. He was just doing his job. The vics had died of insulin shock, and she had the right kind of insulin. She even had the damn pressure syringe. How could she not be a suspect? Except...

Except she was right. He'd known from the start that it wasn't her. Follow the evidence, he told his people, but instinct played a significant part in their work, too. His instincts told him she was innocent, but he'd treated her like a suspect.

But she ^was^ a suspect.

Maybe, but he could've handled it better. Made it softer, somehow. Let her know it was routine, let her know he didn't really think...

She ^had^ known. That's what she couldn't forgive. That he ^knew^ she hadn't done it, and he still acted like he thought she had. It was the lying, to her, and to himself, that angered her. Disappointed her. She couldn't accept his apology because he hadn't been apologizing for the real transgression, and she knew it.

Why had he behaved that way? Even with having to add her to the suspect list, he could've salvaged their burgeoning relationship if he'd just been a little more careful. Or at least a little more honest. So why had he sabotaged himself? Because that's what he'd done, right? Even if it was unconscious, on some level it was deliberate.

For his career? He'd berated Nick for getting involved with a prostitute, but Lady Heather wasn't a prostitute. She was a legitimate businesswoman, albeit in an unconventional business. It would raise eyebrows, but it wouldn't destroy his career. Besides, he was such a private man that it would be a while before anyone found out about it anyway. So, scratch the career angle. What else is there?

For his friends? His subordinates? Again, his privacy would protect him there. Not many of them would be comfortable commenting, even if they found out. Brass would, and in fact, already had. Catherine might. She respected his privacy, but their longstanding friendship gave her liberties no one else could boast of. But Catherine wouldn't disapprove, she'd be happy for him, provided he was happy. If nothing else, it would appeal to her wicked sense of humor. So, not that either. Think, Grissom. Be honest, with yourself, if no one else.

Unbidden, a face came to his mind. He wanted to push it away, but he had just admonished himself to be honest, and he couldn't disobey himself in that short a timeframe, no matter how much he didn't want to do this.

Greg, looking at him expectantly, wanted to plan their next excursion. Their "cultural exchange", as they jokingly referred to it had become such a part of their lives over the last few months that it had become habit to spend any concurrent night off in each other's company, and it was Grissom's turn to decide what they would do. What hobby or favorite place to share with the younger man this time. But Grissom not only brushed him off, which was something he'd never done, but he was almost mean about it, which was uncalled for. He knew how Greg felt about him, even if Greg was unaware he knew, and the way he'd treated him, rejecting him completely out of the blue, was just cruel.

The lab rat was so open that sometimes Gil could practically read his mind. He could see the dawning realization on Greg's face, as more of Gil's own attention was focused on Lady Heather. Greg could see where it was going. He saw again Greg's confused, hurt expression when he'd delivered the vials of insulin for processing, and remembered thinking only that it wasn't like Greg was his boyfriend or anything. Hell, they'd never even held hands. Nothing untoward had ever happened between them, only vague hints of possible attraction. He didn't owe him an explanation. So he exited the lab as quickly and as curtly as he had entered, leaving Greg standing there in a puddle of his own crumbling hope.

But Greg had done his job, matching the epithelials on the pressure syringe to their source, and in the process exonerating his rival. The tension vibrating his frame when he'd delivered his report spoke to the fact that he was well aware of that, and now, belatedly, Grissom wanted to soothe that tension, to reassure Greg whatever it took.

And suddenly, he understood. His own behavior toward Greg, and toward Lady Heather, became shockingly, painfully clear, because Gil Grissom was falling in love, and he didn't want to. Greg was his subordinate. Greg was male. It was unacceptable. But there it was. And Greg was already in love with him. This he knew.

Lady Heather, despite who she was and what she did, was far less dangerous than Greg was. Loving Greg ^could^ destroy his career if he wasn't careful, and falling in love at all could destroy ^him^. The fascination, the attraction Lady Heather held for him was safer, because while there was desire, there was no love. He wouldn't be risking his heart. With Greg he would be risking everything.

With Greg he wanted to risk everything.

So his heart had sabotaged him with Lady Heather, because his heart knew to whom it belonged, even if the rest of him hadn't caught up yet.

Shaking his head ruefully at his own stupidity, Grissom sent a final mental goodbye to the woman he knew was watching from the house, and drove away.

* * *

It occurred to him that he ought to make some sort of peace offering after the way he'd behaved, so instead of going directly to Greg's apartment, he pulled in at a pizza place that was right next door to a Blockbuster. Pulling out his cell phone, he called a number that had been on his speed dial for quite a while now, hoping against hope that Greg was home.

"Hello?"

Gil sighed with relief and responded gently, "Hi, Greg."

There was a pause. Then, "Hey, Gris." The careful neutrality of the reply tore at Gil's heart, and he knew if he didn't fix this now, he'd never get another chance.

"Listen, Greg, it occurs to me that I've been unkind to you the past few days, and I was hoping for the chance to make it up to you?" He made it a question, well aware that he was a supplicant here.

"Thought you'd be busy tonight," Greg pointed out, his voice still heartbreakingly even.

Gathering himself, Grissom resolved again to be honest. "That door is closed to me now. Even if I wanted to go that way, I couldn't."

"Don't do me any favors, Grissom." The barest hint of anger had crept into his voice, and Grissom winced, realizing that he'd blundered. Again.

"That came out wrong. I'm not good at this emotional shit, Greg, you know that. Let me start over?"

Another pause, longer than the last. Then, "Alright."

"I've had a chance to think about things. The way I've behaved recently, and why. I don't want to be with her, Greg. I thought for a while that I did, but I don't."

Silence.

"I miss you, Greg. I miss you, and I'm sorry I was such an ass."

A dry chuckle floated over the line. "You were that."

Gil grinned, relaxing a little as he realized he had chance. "I know it's my turn to plan something. It's not much, and it's short notice, I know, but I was hoping you'd accept pizza and a couple of movies as an apology."

"That depends."

Grissom tensed again. "On what?"

"On exactly what movies you were planning to rent," Greg responded teasingly, and the tension left Gil's body completely. He was forgiven. If Greg was teasing him, he was forgiven.

"Well," he teased back, "I hear there's a fascinating new documentary on the African dung beetle-"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're supposed to be groveling, Dr. Grissom," Greg chided playfully. "That means no bug movies, and no documentaries of any kind."

"Fine, fine, how about..."

They wrangled back and forth for several minutes, both feeling better than they had all week, and finally haggled out a list of titles Greg would allow him entry with.

"Ok, I'll order the pizza and get the movies, and I'll be there in an hour or so. Ok?"

"Sounds good. Hey, Gris?"

"Yes, Greg?"

There was a hesitation, and then Greg said shyly, "I missed you, too."