Title: Manumit
Author: Kalimyre
Rating: R
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Vignette, Character Study
Summary: Grissom walks in his front door, closes it, and leans against it, arms slack at his sides, eyes closed. Okay, he thinks, now I'm allowed to fall apart.
Warnings: Slight non-con, but only a little.

***

Grissom walks in his front door, closes it, and leans against it, arms slack at his sides, eyes closed. Okay, he thinks, now I'm allowed to fall apart.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and waits for the shakes he's been fighting off for hours to take over. He waits for that feeling of crumbing, of high tension wires snapping, of dissolution; he waits for the knot of pressure in his chest to dissolve. He hates to cry, even though he knows all the reasons it's beneficial, the release of stress salts in the body, the lowering of blood pressure, all those things, but he still hates it. He doesn't like being out of control. Today, though, today he wants it, because he's been keeping himself in strict control for what feels like forever and if he doesn't let go soon, he thinks he'll... he'll what? Break apart? But no, he wants to break apart and he can't.

He tries another deep breath. Tries to relax his muscles, but they continue to thrum and twitch with tension, his hands clenching involuntarily. And damn it, he knew this would happen. This was exactly what he was afraid of. Because staying in control has never been hard for Gil Grissom; no, his problem is that he can never seem to let it go.

"Fine," he mutters, angry all over again, stalking down the hallway. He wants to punch something, but he holds himself in check. Always in check, always rational. He knows it's okay to be irrational sometimes, to be emotional, to be human, but somewhere along the line he forgot how to do it and now he can't get it back.

He strips quickly, methodically, wanting to fling the clothes across the room, to hear buttons smacking the walls, but he puts them neatly in the hamper instead. He climbs into the shower, the shower he's been wanting desperately for hours and hours, but feels no relief when the water pounds his shoulders. His skin is still crawling, he can still feel hands on him, can still smell blood, and the soap isn't helping.

Grissom shakes his head and ignores the urge to scrub frantically, chafing his skin, erasing the sensations that linger there. Instead he washes himself in a thorough, clinical manner, his eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the tile walls.

When he's done, he dries off and dresses in loose, warm clothes, soft cotton on clean skin, which should make him feel more relaxed, but doesn't. He wanders aimlessly into the kitchen and stares at the coffee pot for a few minutes. Habit, really; the last thing he needs right now is caffeine, but he always has coffee after work. He knows the familiar pattern of making the coffee would soothe him, so perversely, he doesn't allow himself that luxury. Because he's not ready to let go yet, and somewhere in the back of his head he thinks a psychiatrist would have a field day with him. He's got issues.

He sits at the kitchen table (not the comfortable sofa, oh no, too soft, too easy, and he's not ready to be easy on himself), props his chin in one palm, and frowns at the fridge. He's not hungry. Hasn't been hungry since, well...

Oh, just admit it, he thinks. Hasn't been hungry since it happened. The others noticed him not eating, and he noticed them noticing, but nobody said anything. They're still walking on eggshells around him. Greg would have said something, but he's been avoiding Greg. It was all he could do to keep it together during shift, and he knew one look at Greg's earnest, concerned face, one casual touch of his hand, and he'd lose it. Greg is dangerous that way, the antithesis of control, and Gil loves that about him, but not at work.

Greg will be coming home pretty soon, he knows. He wants to get this out of the way, this feeling of barely-hanging-on released before Greg arrives, because he knows if he hasn't dealt with it by then, he'll crumble in front of Greg and that's not okay. That would be embarrassing. He can share his home and his bed and even some of his secrets with the man, but to lose control with an audience, even Greg, is simply not acceptable.

Maybe if he thinks about it. He's carefully thought about everything but what happened in that house at the start of shift, steered his mind around it with precision control, but maybe what he needs now is to think about it. To remember it, even to relive it if that's what it takes to let it go. He feels full of potential energy, like a ball poised at the top of a ramp, and he just needs that nudge to go spinning down.

So Gil folds his arms on the table, rests his head on them, closes his eyes, and remembers.

000

The way it happened was so foolish, so predictable, that Grissom almost wanted to laugh, except there was nothing funny about the man springing out of the little space beneath the stairs and wrapping an arm around his throat. Some nervous rookie cop hadn't cleared the scene properly, too shaken by the girl lying raped and murdered on the floor between the bedroom and the hall, half wrapped around the door frame like she'd been trying to crawl somewhere and had run out of life.

It had started as simple B one of the neighbors had spotted the guy breaking into the back door and had called the police. It was a slow night and Grissom took Nick and Catherine to the scene with him just to keep them busy. When they arrived, they found out that burglary had been upgraded to homicide, and the scene was an unholy mess. He was glad he'd brought help.

He sent Nick to do the perimeter, Catherine to process the bedroom where the rape had most likely taken place, and he started going over the rest of the house. It was the blood that first caught his eye, and the slightly open door to the little storage space beneath the stairs. He swung the door open, there was a flurry of movement something grabbed him, spinning him around, and then he was pinned against the man's chest, one arm hooked around his throat and the other around his waist, pinning him.

Grissom had never thought of himself as weak; middle-aged and not exactly athletic, yes, but certainly not a weakling. This man, though, he held him casually, like he wasn't even making an effort, and Gil thrashed a little but the arms tightened inexorably and god, he'd never in his life felt this helpless.

"Let me go," he said, and was dismayed to hear the quiver in his voice.

"Shut up," the man said, sounding distracted, unconcerned. Like Gil wasn't worth his attention.

Gil tried to think, tried to get logic and reason past the white rush of adrenalin coursing up his spine and making his heart thump like a trapped animal. The girl had been stabbed, so the killer might still have a knife, or he might have tossed it somewhere. But if he hadn't left the house yet, chances were he still had the knife. But Gil didn't feel a blade anywhere, just impossibly strong arms and hands on him, rough and grasping, but he could have a knife, he could...

He gave himself a little shake, trying to silence the increasingly panicked circle of his thoughts. "Hold still," the man hissed in his ear, and his breath smelled of blood and Gil remembered the girl had been bitten repeatedly.

"I haven't seen your face," Gil said quickly, painfully aware of how high and tight his voice was. "You can still get away. I don't know who you are. Just walk away."

"Are you here alone?" the man asked, still a low murmur right in his ear. Gil could feel the man's lips brushing his earlobe slightly and he shuddered, hunching one shoulder up in an attempt to wipe it off.

"No," he replied. "More of my team is here, they could walk by any minute. You should get out now, while you can. Just let go and walk away."

The man gave a harsh, nervous laugh, and Gil realized he was scared too, he didn't know what he was doing. That made him more likely to do something impulsive and foolish, like murdering the CSI he'd just happened upon. Gil swallowed and tried to shrink in on himself, away from the man and his bloody hands.

"There are cops outside," the man said. "I'll need a hostage."

Shit, Gil thought, and he twisted, trying to wrench out of the killer's grasp. He drove an elbow into the man's gut and kicked back with one foot, aiming for his knee but only getting a glancing blow. The man grabbed his wrist and twisted hard and Gil couldn't suppress a sharp cry of pain as he pulled back. Then there was an arm around his waist again, so tight he could barely breathe, and oh yes, the killer still had his knife after all. There it was, sharp and sticky with drying blood, stinging the skin of his neck.

Gil stood very still and tried not to think about arterial spurt, and how fast he would bleed out from a sliced throat.

"Don't be stupid," the man said, and his voice was shaking now, too.

Gil almost laughed, because he'd been called many things in his life, but never stupid. He bit it back and nodded carefully instead, wishing he could cradle his throbbing wrist in his other hand, wondering if it was broken. Wondering if Catherine or Nick or one of the police had heard him yell and where the hell was everyone, anyway?

"Grissom?" That was Catherine and he sagged with relief because she was coming this way, must have heard him, or maybe just wanted to ask him a question and this would be over. He felt the man tense behind him, and the blade pressed a little tighter against his throat, the arm like steel around his belly.

"Did you hear—" Catherine stepped around the corner and froze, her eyes going wide, one hand rising to her mouth. Her gaze flicked to Gil, then just over his shoulder, and she put her hands up, palms out in a warding gesture, or perhaps it was meant to be soothing. "Okay," she said, her voice pinched and breathless. "Okay, take it easy."

"Stay back," the man growled, and he sounded more confident. Some busy little part of Gil's mind noted that; perhaps the killer felt stronger intimidating women, but had trouble with men, or maybe Catherine's obvious fear gave him a thrill. It didn't matter why, really, any confidence was good, because if the man was self-assured, he might let his guard down. Gil focused on that, on being analytical, on assessing the situation with detachment, but it was hard to stay cool when the man's hand started drifting down.

"What are you doing?" Gil protested, and that really was stupid, because it was perfectly obvious what he was doing. He was groping, and Gil met Catherine's frightened eyes and just like that he wasn't afraid anymore, he was furious. The bastard had no right, no fucking right to touch him, and especially not in front of Catherine because how could he ever look her in the eyes again?

"Maybe I'll take you with me," the man murmured in his ear, and then he licked him, licked the rim of his ear, and Gil felt the brush of teeth on his skin and fingers on his zipper and Catherine was saying something but it was lost in the rush of white noise that flared in his head.

The arm holding the knife to his throat had relaxed slightly; the bastard was distracted, and Gil moved fast, getting a hand against the hilt of the knife and shoving it away, gaining a slice on his chin in the process but protecting his throat. Gil forced the man's wrist backwards until his hand lost its grip and the knife dropped to the floor. Then he whirled, planted his hands on the man's shoulders, and kneed him hard in the balls. He crumpled with an indrawn gasp and Gil kicked the knife away, dimly aware that Catherine was hollering for help at the top of her lungs.

Things went quickly after that. Gil retreated to the far corner of the room and concentrated on breathing while the police handcuffed the bastard and Nick came running and he and Catherine hovered worriedly over Gil. He told them to go collect physical evidence from the killer, but he was really telling them to leave him alone until he could get a grip, and they seemed to hear it, because they backed off.

No matter how many times he said he was fine, Nick insisted on looking him over, making a worried little tsk noise at his bruised and swollen wrist and cleaning the cut on his jaw. Gil remembered that Nick had been a paramedic and he tolerated the attention with poorly concealed impatience. He asked Catherine to take a swab of the killer's saliva from his ear, to match his DNA to that left inside their rape victim, and then he pulled alcohol pads from his kit and sterilized every place the man had touched.

Catherine and Nick wanted him to go home. They kept giving him these worried, sympathetic looks and asking if he was sure, really sure he was okay. Catherine even took him aside and explained that really, nobody would blame him for being shaken up about this. Hell, she was shaken up and she'd only been a witness. It was okay for him to go home. Everyone would understand.

He brushed off her concern, gently at first, and then he became snappish and impatient and she finally gave up and let him work. Nick wrapped his wrist for him and said he should probably have x-rays done just to be sure, but he thought it was only a bad sprain. Gil took a few Tylenol and kept processing. He found a certain numb reassurance in the routine of it, and as he looked at the streaks of blood on the floor and sheets, he could at least take comfort in knowing the man responsible was already behind bars.

Plus, kneeing him in the balls had been damn satisfying.

Word of what had happened made it back to the lab before he did, and by the time he arrived, everyone from the front receptionist to the lab techs were eyeballing him. Much as he knew it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help the sick sense of shame that welled up, because they knew, they all knew, and he was different now, tainted.

Gil avoided the DNA lab, because he knew Greg would have heard, and he'd want to express his concern, his relief that Gil was okay. He was getting that from everyone, sympathy and support and friendship and he kept it all at a distance, because that way he could keep the reason for all that concern at a distance, too. Nothing could touch him, but Greg had a way of slipping through his defenses like they weren't even there and he couldn't take that right now. He needed his defenses. They were the only thing holding him together.

Greg was perceptive, and he took the hint and allowed Gil his space, and Gil finally caved to the relentless pressure from Catherine and went home an hour early. That would give him enough time to have the stress reaction that he knew was inevitable and get it over with before Greg arrived. It would all be neat and contained. Just the way he liked it.

000

Except it isn't working out that way, and thinking about the attack only makes him feel helpless and ineffective again. His hands are trembling slightly and his headache is worse, the pressure in his chest rising and clotting in his throat, but his eyes are stubbornly dry. He's been holding on so long, and he doesn't know how to let go.

Gil sighs and walks into the living room, but once he's there, he realizes he has no purpose. He's exhausted, but sleep is clearly not an option. The quiet house is oppressive, but he doesn't feel like listening to music. He knows he should eat, but can't summon the will to force something into his tight, tense stomach, so he just stands, and knows what he's really doing there. He's waiting for Greg to come home. He wants Greg, wants him to come and take care of things and when did he become so dependent on the other man? When did he let himself need Greg like that? It happened so slowly, so stealthily, the same way he fell for Greg. It happened when he wasn't looking.

So he waits, deliberately blanking his mind, looking across the room at his perfect butterflies, so certain and reliable and safe. All his insects in their cases, specimens of form and function, each one designed to do a specific job and doing it absolutely right. Each one having a place in the world, a niche they fit in perfectly. Gil has often wished he had such a place, such an inborn purpose.

When the doorknob rattles, he's afraid for a moment, absurdly certain that it's the killer, come back for him, but then the door opens and it's Greg. He pauses just inside, looking at Gil, then shuts the door behind him. "Hey," he says, and his eyes are full of unguarded warmth.

Gil nods, his throat suddenly too tight to speak. He takes a step forward and spreads his hands a little, feeling helpless all over again. He knows what he wants, but he doesn't know how to ask for it.

Greg comes to him, takes his hurt wrist, and lifts it gently, cradling it in his palms. He traces the mottled edge of a bruise that peeks out from beneath his sleeve, his touch feather light, reverent. Gil swallows and closes his eyes. Greg always does this, unravels him with simple gestures, with kindness.

His eyes still closed, Gil feels a touch on his face, brushing over the cut there, then knuckles grazing his cheekbone, stroking him. A warm hand curls around the back of his neck, pulling him in, and he goes willingly. Then Greg's arms are around him, deft, clever hands running up and down his back and Gil burrows into the hollow of his neck and breathes him in. He still smells a little like the DNA lab, chemicals and latex, but also like sun-dried cotton and skin and like himself, like Greg. Something intangible and wonderfully familiar and when Gil lets his breath out, a lot of the fear and tension goes with it.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Greg says, his voice soft, with little puffs of air on Gil's skin with each word. "When I heard what happened, I kept thinking..." He pauses, and Gil feels his throat move as he swallows. "God, what if he—he could have—I can't lose you. Don't you know that?"

Gil brings his arms around Greg's waist and leans on him and thinks how strange it is that Greg, skinny little Greg, can carry him this way, can hold him up. But maybe it's okay to need this, because doesn't Greg need him too? Sure he does, he just said so, and it goes both ways. Balanced, he thinks, and he likes that idea. Maybe he has a place after all. Maybe his place is right here, in Greg's arms.

000

Fin

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