Title: Just one kiss
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler: Kiss-Kiss, Bye-Bye
Note: "You Make Loving Fun
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of CBS and I'm just borrowing for a little story.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Set after Kiss-Kiss, Bye-Bye
***
Grissom stares attentively at Greg, as if he still doesn't understand or as if this is the first time he hears any of this. ( I have another explanation ).
Later in the investigation, Greg makes some discoveries of his own, and when Grissom makes a comment, Greg happily replies, 'Right-O, daddy-O.' (another double-kiss?)
'Toni C.' was O'Neil's ganster boyfriend.
The episode ends as Greg puts on a hat and leaves, while Grissom picks up a book. This is what happened next.
The story's told from Grissom's POV.
It had been a long day, and it was towards the end that I finally returned to my office. I was clearing my desk, when I saw the book that Lois O'Neil had given to Greg. I opened it and read, on the first page, "To Greg: The best is yet to come," and recognized Lois's handwriting.
It seemed sadly ironic, that Lois O'Neil had written this, since she'd been planning her own demise all along.
I was musing on this when Greg entered my office.
He was wearing a suit, (the one he keeps at the lab for Court appearances) and a hat that seemed taken out of one of Tony C's wardrobes. He looked like a character from a gansters' movie. Reading Lois O'Neil's book had turned him into a fan of fifties lore, but now it seemed that he was taking it too far.
"Hey, Greg." I said. "Nice hat." I said.
"Thanks," He said good-naturedly, "I see you're reading Lois O'Neil's book."
"You left it here, so -"
"It's ok. By the way, do you know how much this book could get me on E-bay? Five thousand. I checked. It's one of only two or three that she autographed."
"And?"
"And... nothing." He shrugged. "I'm not gonna sell it. I'm gonna keep it and save it for a rainy day. Or I'll will it to my children." He added.
I smiled.
He stepped closer to my desk.
"Listen," he said, "I was going out for a drink. Do you wanna come?"
"Uh?" I frowned.
"A drink?" he repeated, "You know –whisky on the rocks… Gin and Tonic… Tequila with a little salt…" he paused, expectantly. When I didn't reply, he added, "I'm buying."
"Well... I..." I hesitated. I was fishing around for an excuse not to go, when all I had to do was tell the truth, "I'm on call tonight." I said.
"So? Let's go anyway." He smiled encouragingly, "Look, I was thinking... Maybe we could do something in Lois O'Neil's memory. It's not like we're gonna get invited to her funeral, right? And we kind of liked her."
"Kind of." I muttered.
"Exactly." He nodded, "So why don't we go and have a drink, and... I don't know, make a toast, or something? Her favorite cocktail was a thing called Between-the-Sheets, by the way. Never heard of it before, but I suppose I could order one in her memory. If the bartender knows the receipe." he added almost to himself. He looked at me, "So, what do you think? Do you wanna come?"
"No."
"No?" he frowned.
"No… thank you?" I added as an afterthought.
"You don't want to have a drink with me? How come?"
"I have work to do." I said in a slightly patronizing tone.
"The night shift is still an hour away," he retorted in a slightly patronizing tone of his own.
"I'm busy, Greg." I said firmly.
Greg looked at me for a moment, and then he shrugged slightly.
"Fine." He said. "Enjoy the book." He added, and then he was gone.
I shook my head. Toasting a dead criminal was a first.
And yet, Greg was right; I'd kind of liked Lois O'Neil, and I was sorry for her. And, just like he'd pointed out, I wasn't on call yet –I didn't even have to be there. Being on call meant that I could go home or go to the movies, waiting for a summons.
I could even go have a drink – a non-alcoholic drink, of course.
A drink, I thought. Why not? Maybe going out would clear my head.
With this thought in mind, I picked my cell phone and my pager. I reached for Greg's book too, but I didn't take it. If Greg wanted to turn this book into an heirloom, then he better keep it in a drawer.
I walked to a coffee shop a few blocks away from the lab. My favorite; since it's not hugely popular, I can always count on getting a table all to myself.
Unsurprisingly, the shop was half-empty.
I ordered my coffee and looked around, even though I knew the place by heart. It hadn't changed in fifteeen years –not the furniture, nor the color on the walls and the posters that hung on them.
And certainly, not the music: New artists and styles had come and gone but they never made their way into this shop. The owner had stuck to her favorite era: the seventies. Early seventies, she would quickly point out, before anybody inquired about Disco music.
Abby, the owner, was behind the counter that night. She handed me the coffee and a slip of paper, asking me to fill it out.
I glanced at it; 'We would like to hear from you!' it said, followed by a list of questions. Since I hadn't brought anything to read with me, I was grateful to have something to do while I drank my coffee.
I sat at my favorite table, picked a pen from my shirt pocket, and quickly scanned the list, looking for the one question that I wanted to answer: Do you want us to change anything in this coffee shop -Yes or No? My answer being a resounding NO.
But Abby had made things more complicated than this; she had provided multiple-choice answers hersef, and they ranged from 'Bad' to 'Excellent,' with little boxes to fill.
The questions were very specific, too: did I like the posters on the walls? The paint on the ceiling? The music? Well, since most of the posters were authentic 70s memorabilia, (Pink Floyd was one of her favorites) I immediately put an X on "Excellent."
But writing that first X immediately reminded me of the large X-X that Lois O'Neil, the Double-Kiss girl, had drawn under her signature in Greg's book.
And thinking of Greg and the double-kiss girl inevitably reminded me of the lengthy explanation he'd given me shortly after Lois's death.
And I say inevitably, because, well, who would forget the way his mouth puckered to form the two perfect Os in her name? Hell, his whole face changed as he said, 'Lois O'Neill'.
And for an insane moment, I just stood there, as if hypnotized, thinking, 'Two kisses. Mmmh.'
It was over very quickly, of course. I probably would not even remember it, if that had been the end of it... but it wasn't.
Yesterday, just as I was peacefully feeding my spider, Greg burst into my office with some information related to Toni C., Lois O'Neil's ganster lover. Greg managed to break a decades-old case, and yet, once he said to me, Right-O, daddy-O', I couldn't think of anything, but the fact that there was another double kiss: Right-O, Daddy-O.
I recovered quickly again, but since then I'd found myself playing those scenes in my mind. And I kept thinking. Thinking and wondering; wondering what it would be like -
I abruptly closed my eyes and shook my head, hoping this would clear my head, but of course it wouldn't work. I kept hearing his voice, and seeing his mouth –
I shook my head again, but now I was more exasperated than worried. I wanted to laugh at myself. I mean, who would have thought? Really, it was about time I stopped thinking like that. It was unfair to think of Greg in those terms. Worst of all, I might just make a fool of myself every time I talked to him.
Maybe if I kept him at a distance for a little while...
But my plans got thwarted.
"There you are."
I looked up. Greg was standing there, smiling at me.
***
Greg put his hand on the opposite chair and looked expectantly at me. I merely stared back."You mind?" he asked good-naturedly.
I was wondering how to say 'I do mind,' in the kindest terms possible, but he decided that silence meant consent, and pulled out the chair and sat.
He took off his hat and put it aside. His hair stuck out in all directions, just like it did when he purposefully combed it that way.
With him so close, I got a whiff of different scents –hair gel, cologne, chewing gum...
Greg was glancing around.
"Quiet place." He mumbled. "No wonder it's half-empty." He looked at me and smiled. "So," he said. "Aren't you going to say it?"
"Say, what?" I asked morosely.
"You know," he replied, "'Of all the coffee joints, in all the towns, in all the world, you walk into mine...?'" he said, in a surprisingly good imitation of Humphrey Bogart. I didn't reply, so he added helpfully, "I'm paraphrasing a line from Casablanca."
"Uh, huh."
"It's a movie classic, you know," he said, "Humphrey Bogart plays this guy who -"
"I know, Greg." I retorted testily.
He smiled.
"Relax," he said gently, "I didn't mean to imply that you didn't know something."
Uh. Busted.
He was still smiling.
"Do you wanna know how I managed to find you?"
I didn't, but once again he didn't wait for my answer.
"I saw you walking by on the other side of the street," he volunteered, "I was trying to get into the Panama Disco- You know it?"
This time he did wait for me to answer.
"I don't know the place," I said, just to show him that I was capable of admitting ignorance.
"It's about a block away," he explained, "I was trying to get past the velvet rope." He explained, "I thought dressing in old Vegas style would help, but the guy up front was just too young to get it.
"Anyway," he continued, "When I turned to look again, you weren't there anymore. You couldn't have reached the corner so fast, so I figured you'd gone into one of the shops on that street. By a quick process of elimination, I decided to look in here."
He drew barely a breath before continuing, "Not that it was that hard to figure it out; I mean, it was either this place or the Santa Marina Wedding Chapel next door. Of course, you could have also entered the Hot Mammas' Strip Club, but somehow I couldn't picture you doing that -not while you were on call. So -"
"So, you found me." I interrupted.
"... Here, drinking alone." He finished. He eyed my coffee, and to my surprise, he picked it up and sniffed the open lid. "Man, this is strong stuff!" he said comically. And then, ably mimicking Humphrey Bogart's delivery again, he added. "No wonder you didn't want a sissy drink like whisky on the rocks!"
He grinned. I didn't grin back.
"Seriously, though." He said, "Did they put any alcohol in this?"
"They put some Irish Cream in it." I said, knowing how lame that sounded.
"Irish Cream? Whoa," he exclaimed, "You're gonna need a designated driver to take you home, then." He joked. I didn't smile. "You're not your sunny yourself tonight." He scowled, "Must be the coffee," He added, almost to himself.
He glanced around, taking in the posters on the walls, the rattan furniture. "So," he said, "This is where you go when you don't want to have a drink." He looked at me for a moment, "Can I ask you something?" he paused, "Why didn't you accept my invitation?"
I shrugged slightly.
"I don't socialize much, Greg." I said.
"No kidding." He scowled. He paused for a moment. He seemed to be choosing his next words with care, "You know, Grissom... I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but... it wouldn't hurt you to go out more." He said slowly, "That way, you wouldn't get all freaked out by a single invitation."
"I didn't get all freaked out." I retorted. But my nose and my cheeks were burning, thus ruining the effect that my words were meant to convey.
Greg seemed to notice it, but to his credit, he didn't mention it.
"It was just a drink, Grissom." He said gently, and then he added with a smirk, "I mean, you didn't think I was making a pass at you, did you?"
"Of course, not." I scoffed, as if I found the idea amusing.
"But it did freak you out," He said, looking at me thoughtfully. "I guess few people ever sneak past your defenses." He mused aloud. "You're not used to that, huh?"
My eyebrows shot up. I'd never had anybody assess my personality so quickly… and accurately.
He continued, "If you went out more, you'd get used to people asking you out." He said, "You should try it, Grissom. Otherwise, one of these days some girl will bat her eyelashes at you, and you know what will happen, right?"
"What?" I frowned.
"You'll fall in love right then and there." he replied, and then he smiled knowingly, "Oh, yeah. I can picture it: One kiss, and you'll be a lost guy."
Now my ears were burning too, and suddenly, I realized I'd had enough.
"Greg," I said impatiently, "Why are you here?"
"I'm keeping you company." He said matter-of-factly, "Just think of me as a drinking buddy."
"But you're not drinking anything." I pointed out.
"Hell, no." he said, "I don't think they've got Blue Hawaiian here."
"You're a snob."
"I know what I like," he shrugged. He glanced around at the shop again. "Nice music." He said casually. "Who's that?" he asked.
A powerful female voice rose above the noises coming from the street to sing something about Blue Bayou.
"It's Linda Rondstadt." I said.
"She's good." He said. He listened for a moment, and then he looked at me again. "Talking about personal stuff really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Do you like to talk about personal stuff?" I replied.
"We do it all the time, the guys and me." He shrugged, "You would too, if you ate breakfast with us." He added pointedly.
He didn't insist on this point, however. It seemed that away from the lab, Greg found it difficult to focus in a single matter. Now, his attention was drawn to the sheet of paper in front of me. "What's that?"
I glanced down. I'd forgotten all about Abby's survey.
"Oh. It's just something I have to fill out."
"You've been doodling all over it." He pointed out, and I realized he was right; after answering the first couple of questions, I'd simply drawn circles and lines here and there, while musing on Greg and the kisses. But I'd also written words here and there, and to my dismay I realized that it was one word only; a name –Greg.
I couldn't believe it. What the hell was the matter with me? I was acting like a teenager with a crush!
"What did you write?" he asked, tilting his head to read.
"Nothing!" I said quickly, and I lay my hand flat on the paper.
"Gee, Grissom," he scowled, "Anyone would think you wrote your girlfriend's name, or something."
"I didn't." I replied quickly –too quickly, perhaps.
He seemed surprised at my defensiveness.
"Oookay," he said slowly, "What did you write then?"
"Well, hum, I just-" I gulped and said the first thing that came into my head, "I was just making a list of double-kiss names."
"Really?" He said, his eyes widening in surprise. "How many did you come up with?"
Here was my chance to come clean about the fact that I didn't really have any list, but I didn't take it. Instead, I bragged that I'd come up with a dozen names of famous people.
"Oh, really," he said skeptically. His eyes narrowed. "I smell a challenge." He added, "I bet I can come up with more names than you. Better yet," he added, "Why don't you tell me the first name of those famous people, and I'll come up with the correct last name? What do you say?
"Greg, we don't have to make a competition out of -"
"Yes, we do." He interrupted, "But first- First I need a drink," He said, mimicking Bogart again. He picked up my cup of coffee and took a swig from it. "Aah, that hit the spot!" he said, acting like a drunk who's just got a much-needed drink. Then he seemed to realize that it was my drink. "Do you mind?" he asked.
"No." I said, "No, go ahead." I said generously.
"I just wanted a taste, Grissom." he said, pushing the cup back to me. He stared at me, as if daring me to take a sip from my own cup. I picked it up. I didn't dwell on the fact that his lips had touched the rim, or that his fingers had left some of their warmth on the cup. I took a sip and then put the cup back. There, I'd done it.
He seemed pleased.
"Good for you, Grissom." He approved, "For a moment, I thought you were going to pull a 'Mia' on me."
"A 'Mia'?" I frowned.
"Yeah. You remember Mia, our former DNA lab rat? She wouldn't have let me touch her cup of coffee, let alone drink from it. She didn't eat out, she didn't eat birthday cake... she was obsessed with germs." He smiled at the memory. "Wonder if she ever let anyone kiss her -" He said almost to himself.
I glanced at his mouth... and then I glanced away.
"Ok," he said, "Are you ready?"
"Greg," I sighed, "I came here for some quiet -"
"Aw, come on, Grissom. Another half hour of this quiet and we'll both need resuscitation. Come on," he said, with renewed enthusiasm. "Go ahead!"
I resigned myself. Deep down, I liked the idea of competing with him. Greg's younger, but he's knowledgeable, and I would have to make a huge effort to keep up with him.
I liked the challenge.
"Ok." I relented. I glanced beyond him and the first thing I saw was a vintage poster of Tom Jones' first presentation in Las Vegas.
"Tom." I said.
"Wolfe?" he replied, "Robbins?
"It's Jones I had in mind." I replied gleefully.
"I assumed you were thinking of a famous writer!" he protested, "You should have told me it was a singer!"
"You didn't establish any rules, remember?"
"Mmh. This game has flaws," he muttered. "All right, go ahead."
"John" I said.
"Ball? Ford? Collier? Locke? You've gotta be more specific. I could go on and on with names -"
"Now you're just showing off." I retorted, "Locke will do. Conan." I added.
"Doyle." He promptly replied, "And I didn't say you had to make it so easy."
"Robert," I said, "The politician," I added helpfully.
"Dole!" he exclaimed.
We went on like that for about ten minutes. It was like an intense tennis match, back and forth, back and forth. Now and then he would interject a comment. "This is fun, right?" or, "You know, this is not the kind of game one could play with just anyone!"
He was good. Soon I had to resort to using the names of characters from novels, which proved more difficult for him... but not impossible.
"You're sneaky," he said admiringly, "Crawford." He added correctly.
Now I was running out of names, which might be why, out of nowhere, I blurted out, "Maurice."
I didn't expect him to come out with the correct response, and yet, without missing a beat he surprised me by replying, "Hall."
More surprising than the quick response, however, was the fact that he reddened, when he realized what he'd just said.
We stared at each other and spoke at the same time.
"You read the book?" he asked.
"You read the book?" I asked.
"Yeah," we both replied at once. It sounded like a confession. But of course, how often do two guys who are supposedly straight, blurt out the name of a character from an obscure gay novel?
He leant back on his chair and glanced away. Suddenly, the posters on the wall closest to us claimed all his attention.
"Those are vintage, right? Half of these groups, I'd never heard about," he admitted, "Except the Rolling Stones." He glanced at me, "There's a perfect double kiss." He said. "Rolling Stones."
"Or U2," I added helpfully.
He smiled and then he looked down again. "Funny." he muttered.
"What is?"
"Well..." he said, and then he slowly lifted his gaze, but only up to a point on my chest. "It's just... It's like we've been practically blowing kisses at each other tonight."
Well, that was one way of putting it. In the heat of the game I'd overlooked the fact that every time he spoke, his mouth pursed just right for a kiss, or the fact that as we avidly waited for the next name, we'd been leaning forward and forward, thus getting way too close for comfort. But he was right.
"It's funny." He repeated.
It was my turn to look down.
"You don't think it's funny?" he insisted.
"I guess."
We were silent for a moment.
"Listen... hum…" he hesitated. He waited for me to look up, "I know better than to ask you a personal question, but, hum, have you ever... you know, kissed a guy?"
He was smiling reassuringly, letting me know that whatever I said, it would be ok by him. I knew it already, but once again, I couldn't give him a straight answer. Maybe I just couldn't do anything 'straight' that night, who knows?
But I couldn't tell him a lie, either. I had the feeling that he would know if I did, anyway.
"I never discuss my private life, Greg." I said instead.
"Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, smile still in place. He kept his gaze on me, but when I didn't answer, he shrugged, "Fine. Don't tell me. It's none of my business, anyway." But he kept looking at me, as if he expected something.
"What?" I frowned.
"You're not going to ask me if I've ever -"
"No." I said abruptly.
"No?"
"It's none of my business, either." I said curtly, "Morgan," I added, restarting the game again.
He seemed reluctant to get back in the game, but eventually he did. "Is that a male or a female character?" he asked.
We continued playing, but it was not the same anymore. I studiously avoided looking at his mouth again, and he looked everywhere but in my own direction.
Fortunately, my phone rang just then. Under Greg's attentive gaze, I listened as Brass asked me none too kindly where the hell I was. There was a crime scene waiting, he said; a body in a septic tank.
"A septic tank?" I asked. Great. Just what I needed to get the scent of Greg's cologne off my nose. "I'll be right there." I said. I hung up and started to rise.
"Is it a case?" Greg asked.
"Yeah."
"Where are we going?"
"You're not on call." I pointed out.
"I am, now." He retorted. He picked up my cup and downed the last of the coffee, and then he rose too. "I can help."
I didn't argue. I picked up the sheet of paper, crumpled it and shoved it in a pocket. I waved at Abby on my way out, and pretended not to hear her ask for her survey.
"You didn't fill it out?" Greg asked.
I ignored him, too.
The PD building was three blocks away, but I knew a faster way to get there. I turned into an alley without warning Greg, and he had to retrace his steps to catch up with me.
"Oh, a shortcut!" he said appreciatively, "So, Grissom," he said, "What is this case all about? What did Brass say? Grissom!" he insisted, and then he actually stopped. "Hey!"
I turned.
"What?" I asked impatiently.
"I didn't realize it before." He said wonderingly. "Your name has one kiss in it."
I couldn't believe he was still thinking of that.
"Greg -"
"No, really. Look," he said, as if he actually expected me to look at his mouth as he carefully said, "Griss-Om. See?" He smiled expectantly.
I stared silently at him.
"You don't see it?" he asked incredulously, "Oh, come on! See? Gri-" And he said my name again.
Or at least, he tried to. Because just as he was saying, "Gri-" I did something-
And I still don't know why I did it. I mean, I do know why I did it; what I don't know is why I didn't stop myself from doing it: Just as his lips were about to form that perfect 'O', I took a step closer, grabbed him by the neck, and pressed my mouth against his.
I wasn't fast enough, though; by the time my lips touched his, his mouth was already closed. As a result, my name sounded like this: 'Grisso-m-Mmmmmmmmh!'
I opened my eyes and met his gaze. In the semi darkness of the alley I thought I saw something close to amazement (or panic?) in his eyes; and suddenly, I realized it was a look that I'd seen years before, when I almost destroyed a tray full of DNA samples in order to make room for a case of mine.
It was a look of panic, all right.
Seeing that look on his face again sobered me up. I dropped the hand that I'd draped around his neck, and then I pulled away –or at least, I tried to. Our mouths were sticky from the coffee we'd shared, and my lips tugged a little at his at first.
And that's the last thing I remember clearly. The rest is a blur.
I know I didn't apologize or explain; I just took a step away and then another, and another, until somehow I got to the PD parking lot. I found my SUV, got in, and then I waited for him to turn up.
He didn't.
I couldn't wait long; I had a case to take care of, after all. I drove away, but I kept glancing at my rearview mirror, just in case he decided to follow. I hadn't told him where the crime scene was, but he could easily find out if he wanted.
If.
I arrived at the scene, placated Brass with a few comments about my being a Supervisor and therefore, my own boss, and then set out to work. And while I did all this, I kept glancing around, hoping against hope that he'd show up.
He might be just a few blocks away, I kept telling myself.
But as the minutes passed, I stopped hoping; instead, I reminded myself that it was his night off, and that he was under no obligation to join me. Maybe he'd just gone home.
Or maybe he'd gone back to the Disco? Maybe he'd been luckier this time; maybe he was dancing-
Or maybe he was still in the alley, frozen in place, with his eyes open wide in surprise…
***
David and I lifted the dead man and turned him on his side. The mucky bottom of the tank clung on to the body, but David patiently patted him until he found something that gave us a clue as to cause of death: A bullet hole just under his left shoulder.David looked up and waved at the morgue assistants who were hovering on the edge of the tank.
"Let's take him," he said.
Whoever killed our vic had dumped him in an abandoned septic tank just a few days earlier. He -or she- probably thought the body would remain undetected for years, slowly decomposing until ID became impossible. Unfortunately for the killer, the owner of a nearby trailer park was expanding, and had ordered a clean up of the land.
I studied the grounds while David and his assistants bagged the body and took it away. Once I was left alone in the tank, I took my shovel and started digging for evidence. I was carefully removing the soil, when I heard-
"Well! It's nice to see somebody else doing the dirty work, for a change!"
I looked up. Greg was standing at the edge of the tank, smiling widely at me.
He was enjoying himself, and with reason: Rookies like him traditionally got the foulest assignments, while the older members of the shift got the easier tasks. But this time the boss was ankle-deep in mud and getting dirtier by the minute, while he merely watched.
No wonder he looked happy.
"I'd offer to take over," he said, "But I'm sure you'd rather do the job yourself. I've heard you like to commune with bugs -the slimier the better."
Oh, yes. He was enjoying himself. But his mirth was contagious, so I smiled back.
We stood smiling at each other... until I remembered what I had done an hour earlier. I studiously looked away.
I had a task to perform, after all. I hunched down and examined the soil I'd removed. There was plenty of insect activity in the sample. It was going to keep me busy for the next couple of days.
"Seriously, though," Greg continued, "Do you need any help down there, Grissom?"
"I'm fine," I said without looking up.
"Are you sure?" he said doubtfully.
"Yes."
"It seems to me there's a lot to do down there."
I ignored him. "I don't need help," I muttered to myself, "I've done this on my own for years; hell, I was doing it even before he was born -"
"What did you just say?" he asked curiously.
"Nothing!" I replied.
No way was I telling him that last part. Earlier in the Louise O'Neil case, Greg had called money printed in the sixties, 'ancient'. Imagine the jokes he'd tell if I mentioned doing something before he was born.
I focused on my job then. I picked up a sliver of what looked like wood and examined it closely.
"Are you sure you don't need me?" Greg asked. "I mean, I came all the way here, and -"
"Greg?" I interrupted, without looking up. "Aren't those your party clothes?"
"Yeah. So?"
"So, you can't come down here with those clothes on."
"I can't?"
"They'll get drenched in a minute." I said reasonably.
"Oh. Ok." He said slowly. But just when I thought he was going to wave goodbye and leave, he casually added, "I'll have to strip, then."
I winced, and involuntarily broke the piece of wood in two.
I was labeling my second bag of trace elements, when someone stepped down the ladder. I didn't turn.
"What can I do?" Greg asked, moving into my life of vision. He had removed his party clothes, all right... But now he was wearing boots and denim coveralls.
Greg had evidently come prepared to help. He had even brought his kit with him.
"Take over that corner," I said, pointing at the farthest part of the tank.
We barely talked while we worked, and soon we were finished. We hauled our evidence to the surface, and then we took the bags to my van. Before I could close the back door, Greg put his kit in too.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Mmmh? Oh, I didn't drive here," he said casually, "You didn't give me an address, remember? Vartan gave me a lift." He tilted his head in the detective's direction. "I'm coming back to the lab with you. You don't mind, right?" Greg asked, but without waiting for my answer. He simply walked to the passenger door.
I glanced around. Vartan and Brass were discussing something, and I considered joining them… But there was really no use in stalling. Sooner or later, I'd have to talk to Greg.
Resigned, I got into my car.
It should have been a short drive back to the lab, but it was almost six o'clock in the morning, the time when most people traveled to and from Las Vegas. Cars moved slowly along the highway.
Silence hung heavily between us, and I tried to fill it by turning on the radio. A familiar voice rose above the sounds of traffic.
"Hey," Greg said, "That's the same singer we heard back at that coffee shop."
He was right. There was Linda Rondstadt again, only this time she wasn't singing about Blue Bayou; she was telling us we were no good -over and over.
"Do you think it's her birthday, or something?" Greg asked, "Maybe there's a song of hers playing in every station right now." He paused, but not long enough for me to speak, "Or maybe she's in town." He added, "Hey, I only hope she didn't die, or something. What do you think?"
I was thinking that I should have put Greg in a patrol instead of letting him come along, but I didn't say that.
I just didn't want to talk.
But I couldn't stay mum forever, either. It was time for me to face up to what I'd done, and so I reluctantly glanced at him and started what I was hoping would be a reasonable apology.
"Greg -"
"Grissom." he said, gently mocking the solemn tone I'd used.
I took a deep breath.
"I guess I have a lot to explain." I said.
He considered this.
"Do you want to explain?" he asked.
"Not really." I blurted out.
"Then don't," he said reasonably.
I looked sharply at him. I thought he would jump at the idea of seeing me sweat bullets while I tried to explain the unexplainable. Instead, he was letting me off the hook.
Could things be really that easy? I looked at Greg again. He was placidly watching the cars going faster on the other lane. It seemed the answer to my question was a resounding 'yes'.
And yet, I couldn't take the easy way out. I wanted to apologize to Greg, but mostly, I needed to explain my actions. Not that I really knew how I was going to do that, but the least I could do was try.
I got off the highway, and took an alternate route to the lab. There was a park nearby, and I drove there.
I turned off the engine, and then I cleared my throat.
"Greg. I'm sorry." I said solemnly. "What I did was inexcusable, and -"
"Gee, Grissom." He interrupted. "It was just a little kiss. No big deal," he said dismissively. He casually glanced at me, and what he saw made him pause, "Is it?"
"I shouldn't have done it." I said.
He mulled on these words for a moment.
"You're serious," he said. He leant against the passenger door and looked at me, as if he were studying me. "I think I know what this is." he said suddenly.
"What do you mean?"
"You're afraid that I'll start making assumptions about your sexuality just because you read a gay novel and then planted a kiss on me."
I opened my mouth but didn't say anything.
"I'd never do that," he said.
"You wouldn't?" I asked.
"I wouldn't," he said firmly, "And if you assumed I am gay just because I admitted reading a gay novel-" He paused. (He paused long enough for me to start thinking that I'd made the worst assumption of my life), "-Then you'd be right," he finished, smiling faintly.
Oh.
"It's just not the sort of thing I'd mention over breakfast, Grissom." He added.
"Of course, not." I said.
"I mean, I talk about lots of stuff, but this is like, way too personal. Not that Nick or Warrick would ostracize me, if they found out," he added quickly, "But things would change. They'd never hit the showers, or change clothes with me around; they'd stop talking about girls, thinking I wouldn't understand-"
He glanced at me, "But then…you must know how it is," he added pointedly.
It was his way of reminding me that I still hadn't admitted anything. Not with words, anyway.
"It's too personal," I said evasively.
He nodded slowly. He was still looking at me in the same inquisitive manner.
"You don't do this very often, do you?" he said after a moment, "Kissing, I mean."
I frowned. Was that a put down?
"Was it that bad?" I asked a bit testily.
He chuckled.
"I didn't say that." he said, "Not at all. It's just that if you did this more often, then you wouldn't feel so uncomfortable about it." he said reasonably. He looked at me closely and then he nodded, as if he were only confirming something. "It freaked you out, didn't it?"
"No, it didn't." I lied.
"Yes it did." He countered, "You were so freaked out that you practically ran away."
I frowned. I didn't remember running away. But I didn't remember walking away either. To me, it was as if I'd floated away from the alley.
There was the truth at last: The kiss didn't freak me out; it mesmerized me. I was sure that years from now, I'd still remember the texture of his lips against mine, the shape of his neck under my hand, the sharp intake of breath that told me a kiss was the last thing he expected from me, and the -
But I abruptly stopped that line of thought. Nice, Grissom, I thought sarcastically. There I was, saying I was sorry, while reliving the very sin I'd committed.
"What about you?" I countered, "Didn't it freak you out?"
"It didn't," he replied cockily. But his self-assurance quickly withered under the skeptical look I gave him. "Actually..." he hesitated. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "It did freak me out."
He glanced outside for a moment, and then he looked back at me, "I couldn't even move, Grissom. I stood in that alley for about five minutes, wondering 'what the hell was that?' And the only explanation I could come up with was that I'd just been Punk'd!"
"You'd been what?" I frowned.
"Punk'd." he repeated, "You don't know what that is?" he asked in surprise, "It's a TV show, just like Candid Camera."
I scoffed.
"You thought I would take part in something like that?"
"Hey, what else did you expect me to think?" he protested, "I mean, that kiss came out of nowhere, Grissom."
I looked down.
"You're right," I nodded uncomfortably.
"And yet," he said, and then he paused. "And yet, the more thought about it... the more I realized that I really shouldn't be that surprised."
"What do you mean?"
"Well..." he paused, "It's just that... You always keep a hold on your emotions, Grissom." he said quietly, "You deal with other people's feelings on a daily basis, but you keep yours under wraps, so to speak. That's helpful on the job, but, come on, it's got to be hell on you.
"So, it's no wonder that you snapped," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm just surprised it hadn't happened before."
There he was again, analyzing me, explaining myself to me. And the worst part was that he was probably right.
"You should be thankful, though." he said then.
"Thankful?" I repeated.
"Yeah." He said, smiling mischievously, "You should be glad that it was me, keeping you company last night. It could have been Ecklie, you know."
I gaped.
"Ecklie?" I repeated. I was appalled, "Do you think I would have kissed Ecklie?"
He looked appraisingly at me.
"Actually, I don't know." He said slowly, "Frankly, it's hard to tell what's going on in that head of yours, Grissom. For all I know, you might simply be going through the Entomologist's equivalent of Pom Farr -"
I smiled; it wasn't the first time someone compared me to Spock.
"Or," he said, and then he paused, "You could simply be one of the many lucky guys who've found me irresistible."
I looked up sharply.
He was grinning, as if he had just told a big joke.
I looked away again.
"I wouldn't kiss Ecklie." I said after a moment. "But..." I took a deep breath, "I still don't know why I did what I did."
He smiled good-naturedly.
"Well, like I said before... It's no big deal. I'm ok with it, Grissom. Don't worry." He paused, and then he added casually, "It's not like it was a real kiss, anyway"
Ouch.
"It was not?" I blurted out, again stung at the implied criticism.
He seemed surprised at my question.
"Grissom, you didn't give me a chance to kiss you back." he said, "You just bolted -"
I was about to deny this, when it suddenly occurred to me that keeping my mouth shut might be the best course.
"I'm not saying it wasn't a good kiss," Greg said magnanimously, "I just didn't have any time to make any judgment." He glanced at me, "Be sure to take your time next time you kiss someone, ok?" And he actually looked stern as he said this.
"Ok," I muttered, a bit testily.
"Take your time to enjoy the -"
"All right," I interrupted.
"-ride." He finished, "Kissing is a two-way street, you know." He said, in a slightly patronizing tone, "Sometimes you've got to -"
"I get it." I said curtly. There was a warning in the tone I used, one that he knew well -it meant he'd better shut up.
He didn't finish his bit of advice, but he didn't stay mum, either.
"So," he said, "You're ok with this?"
I should have probably thanked him for making things so easy for me, but all I could do was mumble a 'yes'.
"Good." He said simply, and then he glanced outside, "Nothing more to say, then. Not a word. Unless... " He paused, and then he added in that deceptively casual tone of his, "Unless you're the kind of guy who falls in love after just one kiss."
He had to be kidding.
I scoffed.
"I am not." I said.
He seemed surprised at my answer.
"You seem pretty sure of yourself." He noticed.
I shrugged.
"I'm not the kind of guy who falls in love, that's all."
"Really." He said.
I wondered what the tone behind that single word meant. Was it surprise or skepticism?
And then, as if on cue, another of Linda Rondstadt's songs began. Maybe it was her birthday.
Just one look and I fell so hard
In love with you Oh, Oh
I found out how good it feels
To have your love Oh, Oh
Just one look and I knew
That you were my only one Oh, Oh
Greg glanced at me.
"Then I guess you're not the kind of guy who'd fall in love after just one look, huh?" he smiled.
I smiled back, "I'm not."
But he kept his gaze on me, as if he expected something else from me.
"Well?" he asked, "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm the kind of guy who -"
"No."
"No? Ok." He said. But he wouldn't let the matter alone that easily, "I guess I'm not." He said thoughtfully. "It's never happened to me, anyway. It's all a matter of first impressions, right?" He glanced at me, "Do you remember the first time I came to the lab?" he asked.
I didn't know what this had to do with anything, so I cautiously answered.
"Vaguely." I said.
"Vaguely is right," he grinned, "You barely glanced in my direction; you mumbled, 'welcome to the lab,' and that was it. No handshake, no 'I am the senior supervisor and my word is sacred here,' talk-" he smiled, "You didn't even notice the loud clothes I was wearing, nor the bad haircut I had at the time-"
"Every haircut of yours has been a bad one," I interjected, but he ignored me.
"But just when I was beginning to think you were just an absent-minded, dried-up scientist with no sense of humor, you announced that you needed a pint of my blood. And you had this devilish look in your eyes..." he grinned at the memory. "It was then that I started noticing things."
"What things?"
"Like how you good you looked." he smiled, "You were wearing a suit that day. A dark one."
Well, all my suits are dark; they're slimming. At least, that's what I like to believe-
And then, all of a sudden it hit me: He'd just said that I'd looked good. Oh.
I thought I was dreaming
But I was wrong Oh yeah yeah
Ah but I'm gonna keep on scheming
Till I make you, make you my own
Just one look and I fell so hard
In love with you Oh Oh
Greg glanced at the radio.
"You know, I think I'm gonna download this singer's music. She sounds hot. Linda something, right? Linda Fairstein -"
"Rondstadt." I mumbled.
"Fongstan?"
"Not Fongstan, Greg," I said peevishly. I looked at him, "Rond-stadt."
"Bonstand?" he asked.
"Not Bonstand!" I said with exasperation, "It's Rondstadt, Greg. Linda Ro -"
But before I could finish the name, he pounced.
Should I have seen it coming? Maybe. I just never thought he'd do something like this. And he was fast -so fast, that I doubt I could have done anything to avoid him.
I doubt I would have wanted to.
What he did was grab my face with both hands and shut me up in the most effective way -with a kiss. A wet kiss. A slow, delicious, wet kiss. A possessive kiss. A-
But you know what I mean. At least, I hope you do. Because if you don't know, then all I can say is I'm sorry.
He must have realized that I wasn't going anywhere, because he relaxed the hold he had on me. I relaxed too, and started to notice things -like how the skin of his face radiated heat, just as if he were burning up with a fever, and how the taste of cinnamon gum in his mouth was slowly erasing every other taste in mine.
He was right; kissing was a two-way street, and I did my best to show him that I'd learned that lesson well… and that I knew a thing or two about kissing, too.
I was warming up to the idea of spending the entire morning kissing Greg, when he pulled slightly away.
"Whoa," he whispered, "Now, that's kissing."
I was too breathless to talk; I merely stared at his mouth, just a few inches away from mine.
"You look cute with your eyes crossed." He said huskily.
I looked up.
"You kissed me." I said, trying to make it sound like an accusation... and failing.
"Yep." He said smugly. Then he shrugged. "It was payback, Grissom. You kissed me, I kissed you -"
Oh.
Payback.
Of course. What else could it be?
I pulled farther away, then. My hands were shaking, and I had to grab the steering wheel to steady myself.
It took me a while to realize that he was looking at me.
"Grissom?" he asked.
Gone was the cockiness; he was obviously concerned about my reaction.
"It's no big deal." I said mechanically. "I'm ok with it." I added, using his own phrase.
He backed off, then.
"So..." he said, and then he paused. He obviously didn't know what to say. "This Linda Rondstadt's famous, huh?" he said, using a conciliatory tone.
"She is."
"Do you have any of her records?"
"No." I said, forcing myself not to tell him to please shut up, so I could put my thoughts in order. But talking was his forte. Only later did I realize that he was so nervous, he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"I was hoping you'd tell me which DVD to get." He was saying. "Or maybe I'll just download a couple of her songs, see if they're as good. But I like this song. Just one look..." he sang. "Hey, that's funny -" he said. He looked expectantly at me.
Don't ask, I told myself, but I heeded my own advice for about two seconds. I glanced in his direction, but wouldn't look at him in the face.
"What's funny?" I asked.
"Well... It's just that if you change one word... you can sing that song like this:
Just one kiss and I fell so hard
In love with you Oh, Oh
Just one kiss and I knew
That you were my only one Oh, Oh...
"It's funny." He said thoughtfully, "Falling in love after just one look, or after just one kiss, I mean." He glanced at me, "You don't think it's funny?"
Funny wasn't the right word.
It was enlightening.
I'd just remembered how my heart did a tumble when I saw Greg for the first time, all those years ago; and how I immediately forced myself not to look, making it seem like I wasn't paying any attention to him.
I'd spent years ignoring the attraction I felt…
…Until his kiss hit me like a wrecking ball.
Suddenly, I had to deal with the realization that I was the kind of guy who fell in love after just one look, and the kind of guy whose defenses crumbled after just one kiss. It was too much.
For the first time in years, I was facing life unprotected, and unmasked.
"It isn't funny." I said.
"It's not?"
I looked at him.
"Do you want to know what funny is?" I said, "Those jeans you were wearing when we first met. They had holes all over them. And your shirt… It was orange, with big blue dots. And the worse part is that those colors matched the ones in your hair -"
He gaped.
"You remember that?" he asked.
"I do." I said, "I remember everything you said that day, too –the atrocious jokes, the brilliant comments…" I gulped, "But what I remember the most is how I forced myself not to look at your face -" I paused, and then I confessed, " 'Cause I'm the kind of man who falls in love after just one look, Greg."
I was surprised at how easy it was for me to admit this.
Not as surprised as he was, though. He was gaping again. Poor guy.
"Who's freaking out now," I said gently.
"I'm not freaking out," he replied indignantly, "I'm just..." he gulped down, "I mean, I'm, hum-"
"Flabbergasted?" I suggested.
"Uh, huh," he nodded. Then he gulped, "Agreeably flabbergasted," he added.
Oh. I looked sharply at him.
He cleared his throat.
"What I'm trying to say is, that, hum, I, hum," he gulped with some difficulty. "I'm not the kind of man who falls in love after one look, but, hum -"
He didn't finish the phrase. Instead, he reached out and lay his right hand on top of mine.
I looked down. His hand was shaking -it was shaking almost as badly as mine, only I had the steering wheel to hold on to like a lifesaver.
All he had to hold on to was me.
Slowly, I released the steering wheel and turned my hand until my palm was lying flat under his. Those slight tremors of his found an echo in mine, until I wrapped my fingers around his. I held on tightly until the shaking stopped.
"But, hum..." he said, and then he stopped again. He took a deep breath, "But I'm the kind of guy who falls in love after just one kiss." he said in a rush.
He looked expectantly at me.
I leant backwards, as if to get a better look at him. He seemed confused by my reaction.
"What?" he asked.
"Am I being Prank'd, Greg?" I asked.
"It's not Prank'd, Grissom." he said testily.
"Oh," I frowned, still leaning backwards, "What's the name of that show, then? Trick'd? Scamm'd?"
He narrowed his eyes, but after a moment the corners of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. He knew what I was doing.
"It's not Scamm'd, Grissom." he said slowly. "And it's not Prank'd of Trick'd -"
I leant forward.
"You tell me, then." I said, and I made it sound like a challenge.
"It's a one-kiss word," he replied, getting closer, "It's called P -"
And then, just before he finished saying the word... we both pounced.
***
Epilogue
A couple of nights later, Greg and me went back to Abby's coffee shop.
While I was taking a sip of my coffee, I casually glanced at him over the rim of my cup. He was staring incredulously at me.
"What?" I asked.
"That's your third cup tonight, Grissom." He said, "How much more caffeine do you need?
"It's good." I shrugged.
Actually, I didn't know how much more coffee I'd be able to tolerate. I'd tried to make each cup last, but since the alternative to drinking was talking, I'd ended up finishing each cup of coffee sooner than expected.
And Greg had been looking closely at me all along. His brain was feverishly working, I could tell. He was probably trying to come up with an explanation to my behavior.
And now, all of a sudden, there was this look in his eyes –as if he had just come up with the answer.
"So, Grissom." he said nonchalantly, "How long do we have to wait before the Viagra kicks in?"
I almost choked on my coffee.
"I'm not taking Viagra!" I said indignantly.
His eyebrows rose comically. He reacted as if my answer had surprised him, but he had overdone it.
He's a really bad actor.
"You're not?" he asked, his eyes still wide open.
"No." I said morosely.
"Oh." he paused. He seemed to mull on this piece of information, "That's good to know," He said slowly. Then he looked up, "Not that it would really matter, Grissom." he said magnanimously, "I mean, I'm a live-and-let-live kind of guy. If you take Viagra, then it's ok by me-"
"I'm not taking -"
"It's no big deal nowadays," he continued, "And after all, you're a bit older than me, so it would be only natural if -"
"I'M NOT TAKING VIAGRA," I said loudly, only to have the couple sitting next to us look in my direction. I lowered my voice, "I'm not taking Viagra." I repeated testily.
"Ok -" he said, disbelief still clear in his tone.
"As a matter of fact, I don't need it," I added smugly.
"All right," he said. Then he frowned theatrically, "But if you're not taking Viagra, then what are we still doing here?"
Uh. Excellent question.
Unfortunately, I didn't have a ready answer.
I pretended to be really interested on my coffee.
"I mean," Greg continued, "We've been here for over an hour now, Grissom. The coffee's good, but come on, it's not that good."
"Well, hum." I mumbled.
He leant forward.
"I thought we'd agreed on this," he said quietly, "I was all for jumping into bed the minute we, hum, realized we were in love with each other, but you said you wanted us to wait a couple of days to think it over, and I said 'fine, let's do that,' even though I didn't need to think things over since, let's face it, I was all for doing it right then and there in the first place, and so were you -or so I thought."
Wow. It never ceases to amaze me, his ability to put together such a long string of words without taking a single breath.
It used to exasperate me when he did it at the lab, but now I've come to appreciate this, hum, talent of his: It's very useful when it comes to kissing. Those kisses of his last so long…
Mmmmh...
"Hey," he said sharply, "Are you listening to me?"
I blinked.
"Yeah." I said.
"For a minute you looked like you were daydreaming, or something." he said testily, "You tend to space out when I'm talking to you, you know.
"Anyway," he continued, "I took a couple of days to think it over, and I haven't changed my mind, Grissom. And if you haven't changed your mind and you don't need Viagra... Why don't we just go home?" He lowered his voice, "My bed is a-waiting." he sang.
I cleared my throat.
"I thought we should talk first."
"About what?" he retorted, "I don't wanna talk," he added, "I don't want to think it over anymore."
I tried to put in a word, but he ignored me.
"Frankly," he muttered, "The longer we put this off, the freakier it'll get."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"Well, it's just..." he started, and suddenly, the man who's never at a loss for words found himself fishing around for the right thing to say. He looked around as if hoping for inspiration. He glanced at the posters on the walls, but Fleetwood Mac didn't seem to help.
"It's just… I'd never felt like this," he muttered awkwardly.
I looked at him in surprise.
"I know," he said sheepishly. "It's a cliché. But I don't know how else to put it. It's… freaky."
There was that word again.
"I mean," he continued, "You're older than me - you've got grey hair and all, but... When I look at you I don't see any of this; all I see is how blue your eyes are, and how handsome you are, and - shit, it's like I'm looking at you through rose-colored glasses, for God's sake."
I winced. With just a few phrases, he had managed to flatter me and put me down, all at the same time.
"And that's not all," he continued, "I've been downloading all sort of music -your kind of music. I've been listening to Pink Floyd, The Guess Who -" he faltered as he gave me a long list of rock groups.
"Take a breath," I interjected.
"-Led Zeppelin," He finished, "And I really liked them."
"Well..." I hesitated, "I'm glad you did."
He seemed disappointed by my answer.
"You don't get it." he muttered.
I tried to be reasonable.
"Greg," I said, "Just because you like my kind of music doesn't mean you're going to lose your identity." I said tentatively. "But if what you're trying to say is that you're having second thoughts about this -"
"I'm not." Greg replied, "I don't have second thoughts, Grissom, and I don't want to wait. What I want is to go ahead and do it. Now. Strike while the iron is hot, so to speak."
I winced. That didn't sound very romantic.
Romantic.
The word made me wince again. Maybe there was a problem, after all. All of a sudden, I realized that I may have been looking at this relationship though rose-colored glasses, too.
The truth was, I'd been envisioning a lifetime with him, this past couple of days. I'd even picture us moving in together, and staying in love forever, for God's sake.
How realistic was that?
Maybe it was time for a wake-up call.
Feeling at a loss for words, I looked at him.
"So..." I said, "Which Pink Floyd song's your favorite?"
"Run like Hell." He said pointedly.
"I like that one, too."
"That's all you can say?" he glared.
"Greg... Look," I started, "You'd never been in love with an older man. You're bound to feel confused. I guess I have it easier," I added, "I mean, nobody would question me for being in love with you."
Greg frowned.
"They wouldn't?"
"No. I mean, anyone would fall for you. You're -" I tried to come up with the right word, "... Special."
"Special?" he repeated. He was clearly disappointed at my choice of words.
"Unique?" I suggested, but I could see he wasn't satisfied.
"Special and unique." he said wearily. "Gee, that sounds like some poor guy who's being profiled on the Discovery Heath Channel."
"I didn't mean it like that." I said. "What I'm trying to say is... I'd never met anyone like you, and -" I paused, "I don't think I'd ever felt like this before, either."
"Oh." he paused while he reviewed my words, "You mean that?"
"Sure." I said.
"Oh. Good. That means we're on the same track, here. Right?"
"It seems so, yes."
"That's great," he said. Then he looked down, "The problem is... I don't know how long it'll last, Grissom. I mean, I do want it to last, but the truth is, I've never been a fan of long-term commitments."
Wow. He was being more honest than I expected. Too honest, in fact. He'd just shattered my 'lifetime-together' fantasies.
I didn't visibly react, however; I am a good actor.
"I understand." I said simply.
"That's why I want us to do this -now." he said. "I don't want to miss a minute of it -whether it's a week, or a month of a year." He looked up, "Ok?"
"For as long as it lasts." I said firmly. (Hey, it's not like I had a choice, there.)
"Good." He said, "So... What did you want to talk about?"
I scoffed.
"Nothing." I said, glad that I never had a chance to tell him about my own visions of the future. "Nothing." I repeated, "Let's go."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I buried my face into his sweaty neck while I cradled his body from behind. We were both out of breath, still shaking with the aftermaths of our shared orgasm.
I remained inside him for as long as I could, but I couldn't stay there forever. We both gasped as I slipped out at last. Still, I didn't let go of him. I'd been gripping him so tightly that it felt as if my fingers had dug little hollows into his arms. They fit in.
I was exhausted, and in other circumstances I would have simply rolled over and fallen asleep. But not this time; I needed to know what the verdict was; I needed to know what our chances were. Whatever he said would determine whether we had a night, or a week, or a month… or more.
But it turned out that Greg was not as talkative during sex or after it as he was the rest of the time. He just lay there.
Trying a little tenderness, I dropped a kiss on his shoulder.
This made him react at last.
"Oh, man…" he whispered. Then, to my surprise, he laughed softly.
"What?" I said testily.
"Nothing. It's just…" But he didn't say more.
I needed to look at him -I was sure that as soon as I looked into his face I'd know how he felt about our relationship- but before I could make him turn, he rolled out of my reach. Worse yet, he crawled out of bed and without glancing back, stumbled out of the room.
This, I didn't expect.
There was no use in going after him, so, wearily, I leant back into the pillows and waited for his return.
Absent-mindedly, I looked down. In the faint light I saw faint bruises on my skin. I was staring at these mementos of his, when suddenly, a familiar song broke the silence.
Sweet, wonderful you,
You make me happy with the things you do,
Oh, can it be so,
This feeling follows me wherever I go.
I never did believe in miracles,
But I've a feeling it's time to try.
I never did believe in the ways of magic,
But I'm beginning to wonder why.
He came back and leant on the doorway.
"Like the song?" he asked.
"Yeah."
Don't, don't break the spell,
It would be different and you know it will,
You, you make loving fun,
And I don't have to tell you you're the only one.
You make loving fun.
You make loving fun.
Greg took a couple of steps towards the bed, and then he stopped.
"It's a bit mushy, I guess." He said doubtfully.
"It's not."
He smiled, and then he practically leapt in the air and landed right on top of me.
I groaned at the impact, but he was unapologetic. He was laughing, and after a moment I started to laugh, too.
Well, at least he sounded happy -it was a start.
After a while, we simply lay together. He was still on top of me, and his cheek was touching mine. That was nice, but I was still hoping he would say something. The song wasn't enough.
And then, just as if he'd read my thoughts, he lifted his face and looked straight into my eyes, and said -
"Wanna marry me, Grissom?"
And that was enough.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
THE END
***
- Main CSI page
- The new stories
- Gil/Greg stories
- Gil/Nick stories
- Gil/Warrick stories
- Nick/Greg stories
- Nick/Warrick stories
- Greg/Warrick stories
- Nick/Bobby stories
- Jim Brass stories
- David Hodges stories
- f/f stories
- CSI: New York stories
- CSI: Miami stories
- Other pairings & threesomes
- Gen CSI stories
- C.S.I. Crime Scene Investigation: The Complete Ninth Season
