Title: Scary
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler: mention of agent Culpepper from The Strip Strangler.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: A Halloween story. Greg takes a seminar on criminal profiling against Grissom's wishes. Will his new knowledge put him at odds with the boss? Some violence and OOC behavior.

***

Gil Grissom was in his office reading a report, when someone knocked on his door.

Greg Sanders.

"Hey, Grissom?" he said, "You've got a minute?"

Without waiting for a reply, Greg barged in and placed a booklet on top of Grissom's report.

Grissom gave the booklet a perfunctory glance, then looked up.

"What is this?"

"It's a brochure for a Seminar," Greg said in a slightly patronizing tone. He even pointed at the word 'Seminar', "See?"

"I can see it's a brochure for a seminar, Greg," Grissom said calmly, "I also noticed the title: 'Journey into the Mind of a Murderer'; but it doesn't explain why you put it on my desk, thus interrupting my work."

"I was about to do that," Greg said, taking a seat. "It's a two-day seminar," he started, "The speaker is a former FBI profiler -"

"'Martin Reese'," Grissom said, reading the name from the brochure.

"Yeah," Greg said enthusiastically, "He's the man, Grissom. He's the best profiler the FBI's ever had! He's responsible for the apprehension of dozens of murderers; he caught the Martínez brothers -remember those guys?" He paused but not long enough for Grissom to answer, "Anyway, he's retired, and he's giving talks to law-enforcement groups. Grissom? I'd like to take this seminar."

Grissom frowned.

"We don't need profiling at the lab, Greg. We deal with physical evidence -"

"I know that," Greg said patiently, "But I think having some insight into a criminal mind could help us do a better job. I mean, it wouldn't hurt, right?"

Grissom sighed tiredly.

"Greg, FBI profilers are -"

"–interfering bastards you just don't trust?" Greg finished. He'd obviously foreseen Grissom's lukewarm response.

Gil shook his head.

"I was going to say that FBI profilers are notoriously competitive, which means that their need for publicity sometimes overrides their accuracy. And you're right; I don't trust them."

"Well, all right," Greg said calmly, "You don't trust them. Maybe in a few years I won't trust them either. But this is one seminar I'd like to attend."

"We're on a tight schedule, Greg. I can't spare you."

"The seminar won't interfere with my hours here, Grissom," Greg said quickly. "I made sure of that. But, hum," he hesitated. "The seminar's kind of pricey, so I was wondering if the Department would -"

Grissom didn't let him finish. He simply put the booklet down and shoved in Greg's direction.

"No."

Greg raised his eyebrows.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'? I thought we had a budget for seminars -"

"We do," Gil nodded, "But it's up to me to approve the funds. If a seminar isn't deemed a priority…" he let the word trail off. "Sorry, Greg."

Greg knew better than to insist. He rose and turned to go, but just as he was reaching the door, Grissom called out.

"Trust me, Greg," he said. "You don't need this seminar."

--------

Later that night, Greg drove to a crime scene, with Sara riding shotgun.

She noticed the brochure on the dashboard.

"Ah, this is the Seminar you were telling me about. Did you ask Grissom?"

"Yeah," Greg said dispiritedly. "But -"

"But he said no," Sara said knowingly, "I told you."

"What's with him and FBI profilers, anyway?"

"I don't know," Sara shrugged. "I guess he's had bad experiences with them. Not that I blame him," she added, the memory of Agent Culpepper still fresh in her mind.

"Well, it's not fair, you know. I want to learn."

"Well, you can learn from me," Sara said, smiling.

"Yeah, sure," Greg said, smiling reluctantly, "What can you tell me about profiling?"

"Zilch," Sara said cheerfully, "Grissom didn't let me take the seminar either."

Greg glanced sideways at her.

"I didn't know you wanted to take this seminar."

"Not this one. A couple of years ago, John Douglas, the FBI guy who's written a ton of books, came to Las Vegas. We all wanted to go –Nick, Warrick, and me. Grissom made us take a Biology refreshment course instead. He said taking a course on profiling would ruin our personal perception of people."

"And you were ok with it?"

Sara shrugged in a 'what can you do' gesture.

"Well, I think it's wrong," Greg said firmly. "If I have the time why shouldn't I get the dime? I should be encouraged, not shot down for trying to learn more." He drove in silence for a while, and then he said, "You know what? I'm gonna take the seminar, no matter the cost."

"You seem very determined," Sara said, "Good for you." Then she added, "Just don't let Grissom catch you."

"Why? What is he gonna do?" Greg retorted. "As long as it isn't the lab's money, it isn't his business what I do with my time."

"Greg," Sara sighed, "If it's got to do with the lab, then it is Grissom's business."

---

It was around this time that Teri Miller, the famed anthropologist, was reported missing by her husband. Though the case was being handled by the day shift, the members of the night shift had a personal interest in it, since Teri had worked with them at one time or another.

That night, Warrick and Nick were in the break room, discussing the case. Sitting at the table but not taking part in the conversation was Greg, who was more interested in the book open in front of him.

He took notes from time to time, adding to the ones he'd taken at the seminar.

Earlier that day, Reese had talked about what he called, 'The quiet murderer by your side." "He's your coworker," Reese had said solemnly, "The guy next door. Your best friend at school. He can be a teacher, an office worker -"

"Or an FBI profiler?" someone called up, and everybody laughed.

Reese had merely smiled.

"Being a teacher or a cop -or an FBI profiler- doesn't exempt you from committing a crime," he said, then went on to describe some of the suspect's characteristics.

"Outwardly, he seems very well put-together; he's good at his job -brilliant, even. He pays his taxes on time, he never breaks the law…" he paused, "But it's all a front; deep inside, there is a conflict. And he's aware of this. He makes sure he doesn't attract people's personal interest. He dresses in neutral colors; he's a loner -in a room full of people, he'll be in a corner, watching -always watching.

"He doesn't have long-lasting relationships with the opposite sex. If he gets involved at all, it's more for the sake of appearances, than a real need for a connection. He can't handle emotional intimacy. He's -" he paused, then smiled, "He's married to his job, so to speak. And society applauds him for that."

"Then one day he dies, and when a family member goes over his possessions, he discovers the deceased's kiddie porn tape collection. Or they find human bones buried in the backyard."

Greg was so focused on his notes that he didn't notice when Grissom entered the break room. It wasn't until Warrick greeted him that Greg realized he was there, and that he could easily see the notes strewn all over the table. Greg discreetly picked up the notes and piled them under a magazine, but there was nothing he could do about the book on profiling open on the table. He just hoped that Grissom wouldn't see it.

Fortunately for him, Grissom seemed more interested in what Warrick and Nick were saying about Teri Miller's disappearance. Though he didn't intervene at any moment, it was obvious that he was closely following the conversation.

It suddenly dawned on Greg that this was something Grissom often did: quietly stand around while others did the talking. Even when they were in a case, Grissom often preferred to watch and listen, to a point where witnesses forgot he was there.

With his dark, inconspicuous clothes, Grissom easily blended into the ground.

Funny, that was exactly what Reese had said earlier that day. That 'the quiet murderer by your side' was, "a loner… in a room full of people, he'll be in a corner, watching -always watching…"

What else did he say?

"He doesn't have long-lasting relationships… He's married to his job, so to speak…"

Greg was amazed by how well Grissom seemed to fit into Reese's description of the 'quiet murderer.'

'Maybe Grissom is right,' Greg thought. 'Maybe profilers ARE full of crap.'

His thoughts were interrupted by Sara, who leant into the room to make an announcement.

"Guys? The sheriff's about to speak to the press," she said, then stepped away. They needed no further explanation; they immediately left the break room and followed her into the conference hall, where sheriff Jackson was already addressing members of the press and the Police Department.

Greg, who didn't share the same concern over the anthropologist's fate, stood in the background, glancing around, more curious about his coworkers than the sheriff's speech. Now that he had a new insight on people's behavior, he wondered what his friends' private lives might be really like.

A few feet away, Grissom stood leaning against the wall -blending in with it, so to speak -his whole attention on the sheriff. Greg looked back at Jackson, who was explaining how the efforts made in the search for Teri Miller had begun to pay off.

"We have a break in the case," he said, "Teri Miller's car's just been found."

As the reporters started peppering the sheriff with questions about this information, Greg casually glanced at Grissom.

What he saw chilled the blood in his veins.

***

Greg casually glanced at Grissom and what he saw chilled the blood in his veins.

There was a smile on Grissom's face; a cold, cynical smile. Cruel, almost. It was as if he were gloating about something, except that there was nothing to gloat about -on the contrary.

Greg looked away in confusion. He'd never seen Grissom like this, and all of a sudden, Martin Reese's words, 'How well do you know the man standing next to you?' seemed to take on a new meaning.

Almost immediately, however, Greg dismissed this thought as too farfetched. So, he didn't know Grissom -so what? It didn't mean anything. As for that smile, well, that could be easily explained. Maybe Greg had simply misunderstood what was surely a smile of satisfaction at the Sheriff's announcement. Maybe Grissom smiled so rarely, that any smile looked odd on him.

Maybe.

Confident about this assessment of Grissom, Greg glanced back at his boss, only to find that Grissom's gaze was fixed upon him now.

Grissom wasn't smiling anymore -thank God- but there was an odd look in his eyes; an intense, penetrating look. For a moment, Greg had the unpleasant feeling that Grissom was reading his thoughts as clearly as if they were written on his forehead.

Greg looked away again and, after an uncomfortable moment, left the conference room altogether. He went back to the break room and mechanically started to pick up his stuff. He was putting his notes back in a file, when someone entered the room.

It was Grissom.

"Hey, Greg," he greeted.

"Grissom," Greg said, forcing himself to sound casual. "Is the conference over?"

"Not yet," Grissom said, pouring himself some coffee, "But I knew what the Sheriff was going to say," he added. "I wrote the announcement, after all."

"Oh. So you knew about Teri's car."

"Uh, huh. It was found in the desert."

Grissom brought his cup of coffee to the table, then sat.

Suddenly, Greg realized that his book on profiling still lay open on the table. He didn't want to draw Grissom's attention to it, so he kept talking, hoping Grissom wouldn't notice.

"So, what do you think?" Greg asked, "Are you gonna find her?"

"You can rest assured, every effort is being made in this matter," Grissom said solemnly, then he smiled. "That's how the sheriff's speech ends, by the way."

"Oh."

Grissom watched Greg over the rim of his cup. It was as if he were studying the young man.

"Well," Greg said to hide his discomfort. "I guess we're gonna be working double-shifts from now on till we find her."

"Probably," Grissom nodded. He finished his coffee, then rose from his seat. "I guess I'll have to see to that," he added, as he took his empty cup to the sink.

The minute Gil turned away, Greg grabbed the book and put it under the rest of his papers.

Grissom turned back.

"You're leaving?" he asked good-naturedly, glancing at the empty table.

"Yeah. I've got to –I mean, yeah, I had a long shift. Unless you need me to stay -"

"No, that's ok. Go home," he said kindly. But just as Greg was about to reach the door, Grissom said, "Hey, Greg? I heard Martin Reese's staying in the city. He's gonna do an encore presentation for the hundreds who couldn't get into his seminar the first time around. So," he smiled, "If you're still interested, I can authorize the funds for -"

"You don't have to do that, "Greg said abruptly.

"No?" Grissom asked curiously, "I thought you wanted to learn more about profiling."

"No. I mean, yeah, I did. But -"

"Yes?" Grissom asked.

Greg realized he'd made a mistake. By saying 'no', he was only confirming what Grissom probably guessed by now –that he'd gone ahead and taken the seminar.

He should have simply come out and admitted the fact but something held him back. Fear. Yes. He was afraid of what Grissom's reaction might be.

To his relief, Grissom didn't insist.

"Ok, then," he said. "Let me know if you change your mind."

---

Greg was busy the next couple of days. Apart from his normal work load he had the seminar to contend with, and also a few new tasks related to the search of Teri Miller.

Some of these tasks were self-imposed. He couldn't get Grissom's gloating smile out of his mind, and so he set out to find out what lay behind that smirk.

Later, Greg would wonder if his actions would have been different had he not taken that seminar. Probably. As it was, Martin Reese's theories had taken such a hold of him, that when the idea that Grissom might have had something to do with Teri's disappearance first crossed his mind, he didn't reject it: He actually set out to find out.

It wasn't like he expected to find anything incriminating against Grissom; what he wanted was to prove that there was nothing incriminating in the first place. Unfortunately, by the end of the week, he'd gathered enough evidence to warrant a closer look on his boss.

Greg could have gone to the cops, but a sense of loyalty prevented him. He didn't want to do anything that might hurt Grissom –not unless he was a one-hundred percent sure. And he wasn't.

There was only one thing left for him to do and, incredibly, it was Grissom himself who gave him the chance he needed.

That night, Grissom caught on with him at the end of the shift, and asked him for help. When he said what he needed him for, Greg stared at him in disbelief.

"You want me to do what?" he asked.

"I know," Grissom said, as if he'd been anticipating Greg's reaction, "It's not the right time for a party. But I believe we all need a break."

"Forget about the time," Greg replied, "I just can't believe you're organizing a Halloween party."

"Well, it won't be your typical Halloween party" Gil replied with a shrug, "Not by today's standards, anyway. I won't have people playing dress-up or children knocking on my door. What we do is discuss how commercialism has distorted the holiday; we do a reading of 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow'; we sample foods cooked with original recipes from colonial times -"

'Boring,' thought Greg as Grissom explained what his party was all about. But the idea of going to Grissom's house intrigued him.

"So, are we all coming to this party?"

"I haven't decided yet," Grissom said. "First, I need to get things organized -that's where you come in handy."

"Ok," Greg smiled good-naturedly, "Count me in."

"Ok, then. Let's go."

"Now?" Greg asked in surprise. "Halloween's three days away -"

"I need to set the decorations, Greg. I'm not talking about crepe-paper hangings or plastic pumpkins. I need you to help me do everything from scratch. Now, are you in, or not?"

'Not,' a part of him said, but he couldn't let this one chance go.

-----

Grissom's house was less intimidating that he'd anticipated. The furniture was modern and expensive, though not very comfortable; bookcases and butterfly collections competed for space on the walls.

Greg's eyes covertly darted here and there as he searched for evidence. He didn't think he'd find anything obvious as a ring or a monogrammed handkerchief tucked behind a bookcase; all he could do was hope for something that might indicate whether Teri Miller had been here or not.

Behind him, Grissom cleared his throat.

"Here are the decorations," he said.

He was holding a large cardboard box. Greg dutifully took it from him and set it on the nearest table.

"Whoa," Greg said, picking a skull from the box, "These look real, Grissom."

"Don't they?" Grissom asked, genuinely pleased by Greg's reaction. "Nothing like a skull to set the mood."

Greg peered into the box.

"How many you have there?"

"Oh. About half-a-dozen. I was thinking we could set them throughout the living room and use them as candle holders.

For the next half-hour, they worked around the room, placing skulls on different surfaces, then glued some tall candles on them.

At one point, Greg's attention was drawn to a particular butterfly display.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing at a particular butterfly.

"That's Regina Sangría," Gil said, "I brought it from Spain. It's the only blood-sucking butterfly in the world."

"A vampire butterfly? Wow."

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Grissom said.

"Is it dangerous?" Greg asked.

Instead of answering that question, Grissom said, "The first time I ever saw one, it was posed on a tiny bird's head. We all thought it was a beautiful sight," Grissom added with a wistful smile.

He glanced at Greg, "Then, suddenly, the butterfly flew away, and the bird dropped dead from exsanguination."

"Wow," Greg muttered.

"I learned a lesson that day," Grissom said.

"What lesson?"

"To beware of beauty," Grissom replied. He looked at Greg. "Beauty's misleading. It draws you in and tells lies in your face."

Greg squirmed under Grissom's penetrating gaze. To avoid it, he glanced at the books in a nearby book shelf.

"For a guy who doesn't believe in profilers, you've got quite a lot of books written by them," he said. He picked up a book and read the title, "Jeffrey Dahmer," he read, "That's the murderer from Milwaukee, right?"

"Uh, huh." Gil nodded. He watched as Greg browsed through the book in question. "Did you know that when Jeffrey Dahmer was still a teen, his parents divorced and left him alone in their empty house? They didn't want him. But after he died, they fought over the right to get his remains. Sad, isn't it?"

"You feel sorry for him?"

"I feel sorry for the kid who was left behind in an empty house," Gil said quietly. He was silent for a moment, and then he added, in a more casual tone, "Let that be a lesson to you, Greg. Never try to get inside a killer's mind. You may find you have something in common with them."

Greg didn't know what to say, so he purposefully changed th subject.

"I'm finished with the candles," he said. "What do I have to do now?"

"Well… that depends," Grissom said.

"On what?"

"On what you need to build up a case against me."

Greg almost dropped the book, then recovered.

"What case?" he challenged.

"You know," Grissom said calmly, "Teri's case. I know you've been asking questions, Greg." He took a step closer and lowered his voice, "You can't lie to me, Greg. You can't mislead me."

Greg gulped, but he didn't back off.

"Yeah, I've been asking questions," he admitted. "But you're the one who misled me, Grissom," he added. "You drew me in here. Are you gonna lie to my face, too?"

Grissom smiled widely at this.

"Very good, Greg. You're using my own words against me. Fine," he said, "Ask me whatever you want."

"Teri Miller was seen in your company a day before she disappeared -"

"That's not a question." Grissom interjected ironically.

"You had a thing going for her but she rejected you yet again, didn't she?" Greg challenged, You tried to convince her and when you couldn't -"

Gil laughed.

"She rejected me? Oh, you're not as smart as you think you are, Greg," he sneered, "You attend a seminar and then read a couple of books and suddenly you think you know me? She came on to me, Greg. She kept pursuing me. She was married, for God's sake, she should have known better. She barged into my home as if she owned it…" he shrugged, "She was asking for it."

Greg gulped. He didn't expect Gil to be so casual about it.

"You killed her?"

"I'd like to think I simply eased her into a better world," Grissom said casually, "She was depressed over the fact that Anthropology computer programs were taking over her field."

"What did you to with her body?"

"I took her to the basement. My pets took care of her overnight."

"Pets?"

"Flesh-eating beetles." Gil said casually. "They picked her skeleton clean. They did a great job, don't you think?" And he picked up the skull that Greg had just placed in a bookcase. He delicately followed its contour with the tip of his finger. "They did a great job on Hank, too," he added, glancing at the skull atop the TV set. "Remember Hank Pedigrew?"

Of course, Greg remembered the EMT who cheated on Sara. Horrified, Greg looked at his skull, and then at the others.

"Everyone thought Hank jilted his bride," Grissom said, "But he's been here, all along."

"Jesus, Grissom." Greg whispered. "Why -"

"He hurt Sara," Gil shrugged. "I could have let that pass, but I knew it was going to happen again. I know his type. He was bound to cheat on his girlfriend again, and then it was only a matter of time before he came back into Sara's life, only to break her heart again and again. I couldn't let that happen."

"You did it for Sara?" Greg asked, desperately trying to find some trace of nobility behind Grissom's actions.

"I did it for the good of the lab," Grissom replied curtly. "Emotions are disruptive, Greg. Anything that causes turmoil in my lab has to go." He looked at Greg, "Anyone who defies me has to go."

Grissom put the skull back in its place and walked back to the cardboard box on the coffee table.

"What about the other -" Greg started, but stopped when he saw Grissom pick up something from the bottom of the box.

It was an axe.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I told you not to go to that seminar, remember? I knew it would put ideas in your head. But you wouldn't listen. Now I'm gonna have to take care of you, too."

Greg didn't move. He looked at the axe in disbelief, then at Grissom.

"You're not serious," he said, "You'd never hurt a member of your own team -"

"-unless my own survival depended on it." Grissom finished, and he took a step in Greg's direction.

The young man took an involuntary step back.

"I don't believe it," Greg said, "This isn't you, Grissom. The Gil Grissom I know would never -"

Grissom's laugh was chilling.

"Didn't you learn anything from Reese, Greg? That's the essence of his seminar: You can't know anybody, no matter how close you may think you are. You don't know me. Nobody does," he added as he took another step.

"Wait!" Greg said, "You won't get away with this! The guys at the lab are bound to get suspicious; they're gonna ask questions -"

"- and I will answer each one of them, don't worry," Grissom replied calmly, taking yet another step. "I'll be the first to demand a full investigation; I'll personally organize the search groups;. I'll even write another speech for the Sheriff," he added, "I promise you; even the toughest cop in town will be moved by it-"

"But… but what about Sara?" Greg asked desperately, "You know she's gonna be sad if something happens to me! You don't want her to suffer, do you?"

This actually made Grissom stop.

"Hmm. You might be right." he said thoughtfully. "She is fond of you." He pretended to mull this over for a moment, then shrugged, "But you know what? She'd be sadder if she knew the truth about me," he raised the axe.

Greg took one last step back but he knew it was useless.

The corners of his mouth dropped down in fear as the truth finally downed on him. He was going to die.

"You should have stayed in the lab, Greg," Grissom said just before he swung down.

-------------------THE END

"So?" Grissom asked, looking expectantly at Greg. "What do you think? Was it scary enough?"

Greg didn't look up. He turned the page he'd been reading as if he'd expected to find something else written in the back. There was nothing there.

He reread the last couple of paragraphs.

"Come on," Grissom prompted. "Tell me."

Greg looked up at last.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Sure," Grissom said good-naturedly.

"It sucks," Greg glared.

***

"It sucks," Greg glared.

Grissom was taken aback by the blunt response but didn't say anything. He didn't even move as Greg rose from his seat and started pacing around.

"I mean, what is this supposed to be, some kind of cautionary tale?" Greg asked, waving the pages in his hand, "A warning against me disobeying you?"

"It's just a story, Greg," Gil said calmly.

"A story in which you turned me into a wimp who can't even defend himself!" Greg replied, "I mean," he said, and he browsed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, "'The corners of his mouth dropped down in fear…'"

"I'm not a professional writer, Greg," Grissom said with dignity.

"This isn't about your writing abilities," Greg retorted. "Is this how you see me, Grissom?" he asked, "As a little boy who'll just crumble down and let you strike him?"

"I don't see you as a little boy," Grissom said calmly. "Quite the contrary."

"Well, it doesn't read that way," Greg said, "According to this, not only am I a childish 30-year-old, I'm also a moron who'll fall for an invitation from a man suspected of murder." He glanced at the pages for one last time, then tossed them on the table, "You could have at least put a little sex in it."

"A little sex?" Grissom asked incredulously. "Greg, you barely gave me enough time to think up the story -"

"Whatever," Greg replied, clearly putting an end to the discussion.

They gazed at each other from opposite ends of the room, and suddenly, they knew -they just knew- that it was all over.

They both looked away at the same time. Greg's gaze turned to the buffet-style spread that Grissom had laid on the table.

"Can we eat now?" Greg asked morosely. Without waiting for an answer, he picked up an empty plate and set out to pile it high with food. There were chicken wings, veggies and dip, sandwiches of different sizes, and assorted beverages in a bucket of ice.

Balancing a plate and a bottle of beer, Greg returned to his place in the table.

Grissom, who hadn't moved from his seat, glanced at the food.

"Shrimp salad." he said when Greg picked a particular sandwich.

Greg finished it in two bites.

"I love shrimp salad," he mumbled appreciatively.

"I know."

Greg paused in his chewing. He suddenly remembered that Grissom had prepared this spread to celebrate their first-month anniversary. If he hadn't insisted on challenging Grissom to write a horror story, they would have been toasting each other by now.

Instead, they were silent and uncomfortable.

Greg sighed. He knew he'd been too harsh on Grissom. On the other hand, he was tired of having to walk on eggshells every time he was with Gil. Lovers should be able to talk about everything, no matter how unpleasant. Lovers should be equals.

Unfortunately, being one's boss' lover didn't lead to equality -hence, he eggshell-walking.

It was a pity, 'cause Greg really liked Grissom. He wished there was some way to keep this relationship going, but… it looked like it was a losing battle.

Greg casually glanced at Grissom and found that the older man's gaze was fixed upon him now. An unblinking stare, the kind that Gil directed at squirming witnesses in the interrogation room. The kind that made people feel Gil was reading their most intimate thoughts.

Greg tried to hide his discomfort by picking another sandwich.

Grissom rose from his chair and quietly put the rest of the platters within Greg's reach. Gil picked a chicken wing and gnawed at it. But there was no enjoyment in this. After a moment, he put the food down.

"I'm sorry you didn't like the story," he said, then looked at Greg.

"Oh, that's ok," Greg said dismissively. "You were right. I didn't give you enough time. But the food's great," he added as if to compensate. "Did you get the food from the Deli?"

"Most of it," Gil said, and he managed to smile a little. But it was over too soon. Grissom looked down. "It looks I disappointed you yet again," he said softly.

Greg cringed. It looked like Grissom was going to make this a bigger deal than it already was.

"That's not true," Greg said gently. "I mean, I didn't like the story but… I don't know. I guess it was seeing myself as a victim that pissed me off, the most. The story wasn't so bad -" he added kindly, but Grissom didn't seem to listen.

"That's how it's been from the beginning, isn't it?" Gil said. He glanced at Greg. "You, putting me to the test, me, failing. I think I've been failing from day one," he added almost to himself.

Greg frowned.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the dancing test, the meet-the-friends test, the family-reunion test… All designed to find out if I could measure up to your former boyfriends. "

Greg stared back in silence. He didn't know what to say.

Grissom had nailed him with eerie precision.

"Gil -"

"Like today, for instance," Grissom continued, "You asked me to write you a story because your ex-boyfriend Tom, the columnist, used to write you stories. On our first date, you took me to a night club to find out if I could be as fun as your ex-boyfriends were -"

"Hey, I was just trying to make you a part of my life -"

"Did you really thought I would be comfortable meeting all those people, Greg?" Grissom countered, "Or that I would enjoy being at that place?" he added, his voice dripping contempt, "The music alone was -" he hesitated, in search for the right word.

"It was music from this century, Grissom," Greg retorted. "If you bothered to listen to new stuff, then it would have been familiar to you. But you got stuck in the seventies and the eighties, and Pink-fucking-Floyd -"

"You're right," Grissom said quietly.

"-And you know something? My friends did everything they could to make you feel welcome; while you -"

" -while I sat there, jealous of each and every one of them." Grissom finished.

"But I told you there was nothing to be jealous about!"

"How could I ever be sure?" Grissom replied. He shook his head. "I knew you were testing me," he added quietly. "I knew it all along. And now -" he took a deep breath. "And now, I failed you again." He looked up. "Only, this wasn't just another test, was it?" he asked softly. "This was the test."

Greg sighed.

"Grissom -"

"You're gonna break up with me."

Greg looked down. He hadn't really planned on breaking up with Grissom -not tonight, anyway- but now it seemed inevitable.

"Grissom," he started, "It's not that I don't like you. It's just -" he hesitated. It was too late to start pointing out each other's flaws, and so he simply said, "It's complicated. Being with the boss, I mean."

"I know," Gil said quietly.

"I'm sorry -"

"It's all right," Gil said quietly. "I always knew it wasn't going to be easy. I just thought -" he paused. He was silent for a moment, then seemed to pull himself together. He forced a smile, "We had some great times," he said. "Didn't we?"

"Sure," Greg nodded.

"We did," Gil said, as if to reassure himself. "And there's no reason for us not to meet now and then for a cup of coffee or a movie -" he let the word trail off, waiting for Greg's response.

"Sure," Greg said mechanically. It was obvious that he didn't intend to do any of those things, and he didn't even bother to lie convincingly. But Greg didn't care. He was just relieved that it was all over.

"There's no reason for us to share a meal," Gil added pointedly. He picked up a plate that Greg hadn't touched and set it in front of the young man. "You didn't try any of these."

"Oh. I thought those were for desert," Greg said, eyeing the tiny morsels of golden dough. He sampled one. "These are good," he mumbled with his mouth full.

"Snail sandwiches." Gil said quietly.

Greg stopped chewing.

"Snail?"

"Escargots Provençal," Grissom said in impeccable French. "I made them myself; I used an old French recipe."

After a moment's hesitation, Greg gulped the last of the sandwich and reached for another.

Gil watched him attentively.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he said, "You'd never eat a snail sandwich, but once I called it Escargot..."

"It tastes good, whatever it is," Greg replied. He picked up another.

"I'm glad you liked it," Gil said quietly. He picked up a sandwich and looked at it, "Did you know that prior to their death, snails must go through a few preparations?"

Greg sighed. He knew that tone -it meant that Gil was about to embark on some boring lecture. He only hoped the story wouldn't be too long; he wasn't in the mood for this.

He yawned.

"Really?" He asked politely.

"Really," Gil nodded, "They must be fed cornmeal for two days in order to have their insides cleaned -"

"Cornmeal colonics." Greg said with some amusement.

"Exactly." Gil said, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "Then, on the third day, the snails -excuse me, Escargots- are dumped into a vat of hot olive oil."

Greg winced.

"That sounds harsh."

"The hot oil sears their flesh and gives them their unique texture," Grissom explained. "It also enhances their flavor."

"Can't argue with that," Greg said, picking up a few crumbs from the plate.

They were silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry about the story," Gil said.

"Oh, it's all right," Greg said tiredly. There was no use arguing about it, anymore. But he tried to be nice. "I'm sorry it didn't work out -you and me, I mean."

Grissom looked down.

"We can still be friends," Greg said gently. It was the standard phrase and it meant little, but to Grissom, who had never been in a relationship, it sounded like a true promise.

His smile seemed genuinely happy.

"You'll always be a part of me, Greg." He said.

Greg almost rolled his eyes at this phrase. It was just another example of Gil's archaic turns of speech.

"Yeah," Greg said with some sarcasm, "I'll live in your heart, right? Listen," he added, "I think it's getting late, so -"

He put his hands on the table but when he tried to rise from the chair, he found that he couldn't move. That was odd. He looked down. He could see his legs and his feet, but he couldn't will them to move. He couldn't even feel them.

Grissom's face loomed close.

"Well?" he asked.

Greg blinked. He tried to move a hand but it just lay on the table, like a useless appendix.

"I… I can't -"

"Can't move, can you?" Grissom said, smiling faintly.

"I… Ah… Ah…" Greg realized, to his utter horror, that his tongue refused to move anymore. He looked imploringly at Grissom.

"There's a simple explanation, Greg," Gil said calmly, "You see, I added something to the Escargot Provençal filling. A different breed of escargot, what the French peasants call, 'L'escargot du diable' or 'Pupette Italien'; a slightly toxic kind that can be quite lethal if eaten in large quantities.

"In small quantities it's fed to womanizing husbands by their tired wives." He glanced down at Greg's crotch. "No action down there, I suppose."

Greg would have loved to punch that sneering face but couldn't even will himself to speak.

But Gil's sneering gradually faded. Genuine sadness filled his eyes as he looked at Greg.

"The thing is… I love you, Greg." he said quietly. "I was hoping that love would be enough, but it wasn't. Not to you anyway. And I understand that," he added gently. "Believe me, I do. You're young; you needed more than I could offer. But you're all I've ever wanted, so… I can't let you go."

He turned away from Greg's line of vision, then came back holding a large bowl filled with a yellowish liquid. He set it on the table, and then he sat down again. He peered into Greg's eyes. He moved his index finger from side to side to check on Greg's ability to follow movement and was satisfied when Greg's eyes moved.

"Good," Grissom said, "You still have control over basic functions. There was a possibility that the amount of Escargots du Diable would prove to be too strong," he explained. "But I can see it was perfect." There was a faraway look in his eyes as he added, "Perfect. Just like you and me always were."

He took Greg's lifeless hand and pressed it against his face.

"You made me happy, Greg," Gil whispered against Greg's palm. "I'd never loved anyone until you came along. I was so lonely…" He closed his eyes. "You don't know how lonely it was."

After a moment, he opened his eyes again and then, as suddenly as it appeared, the sadness was gone. Instead, he smiled.

"But that's over now," he said, putting Greg's hand back on the table.

Greg's lips were moving frantically. He couldn't form the words but he was trying, he was fighting –

Gil leant closer and nodded as if he could hear what Greg was trying to say.

"I know. I know what you mean. You regret what you said, and now you want us to start over."

'Not even close,' Greg thought, who only wanted to jump out of his chair and run, run until he reached the nearest precinct.

"But don't worry," Gil said, "I'll take care of you. You see, I didn't lie when I said you'd always live in me, Greg. From now on, there'll be two souls in one body. You and me…together, forever."

He leant back so Greg could see the bowl on the table.

"You know what this is?" he asked, tilting his head in the bowl's direction. "Cornmeal."

Greg's eyes opened wide. The corners of his mouth turned down in fear as Grissom drew closer.

"A little cornmeal..." Gil whispered in Greg's ear. "And then, on the third day..."

-------------- THE END

"Well?" Grissom asked.

Greg looked up. Grissom was leaning on the table, waiting for his opinion. He was smiling. Actually, he was beaming; Gil seemed to be proud of his story.

"I gave you two stories in one," Grissom said, "What do you think?"

"I'm afraid to answer that question," Greg said wearily.

***

"I'm afraid to answer that question," Greg said wearily.

"Go ahead," Grissom said good-naturedly. "I can take the criticism."

Greg looked back at the lap top screen and reread a few paragraphs in silence. He was taking too long but Grissom didn't prompt him; instead, he went to the kitchen and got busy, unwrapping the platters of deli food he'd brought earlier that day.

"I was afraid that introducing cannibalism might be a mistake," he called out, "I mean, cannibalism still stirs up feelings of apprehension in all of us but, let's face it, it's also been trivialized by people like Thomas Harris -to a point where eating a human is now considered the act of a gourmand with finicky tastes, instead of the ritualized act of soul-snatching it really is."

He came back to the table and presented Greg with a plate piled high with sandwiches cut in tiny triangles.

"Here," he smiled, "Shrimp salad. Your favorite."

Greg looked at the plate but didn't reach for the food.

Gil wasn't discouraged by Greg's marked lack of enthusiasm; on the contrary, he was amused by it.

"Do you want me to try one first?" he asked with gentle irony. He picked a sandwich and finished it off in two bites. "See?" he said mischievously.

Greg looked expressionlessly at him, then he slowly rose from his seat. Once he was face to face with Gil, he finally spoke.

"Do you think that's funny?" he hissed.

Grissom froze.

It wasn't the words but the tone that took Gil aback. There seemed to be a lot of repressed anger behind Greg's question, and for a moment, Gil didn't know how to react to it.

Greg took a menacing step closer.

"Do you think murder is funny, Grissom?"

Gil shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"No."

"Well, it doesn't seem that way," Greg said, cocking his head in the lap top's direction.

Gil looked at the lap top, and then he looked back at Greg.

"I don't think murder is funny," he said calmly. "But that's a piece of fiction. And you should know the difference."

"What I know is that you see me as some sort of dupe," Greg retorted, "You killed me twice, for God's sake. Do you think that's funny?" He stared at Gil, waiting for an answer. He got none. He shook his head. "You went too far, Grissom," he said, his words filled with disappointment. "I… I feel like I don't know you."

He paused for a moment, then he took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can get past this."

"Greg, it was only a story -"

"Maybe we should stop seeing each other for a while."

Color drained from Grissom's face. His lips parted but no word came. He was looking at Greg in disbelief; disbelief and hurt.

Greg kept a straight face for as long as he could -which was about five seconds. He suddenly leant and planted a kiss on Gil's lips.

"Gotcha!"

Grissom didn't move, not even after Greg burst out laughing and pulled him into his arms for a tight hug. The young man was enjoying his little joke so much he didn't immediately notice that Gil wasn't laughing along with him.

Gil stood frozen in place, his arms hanging limply by his sides. It wasn't until Greg began kissing him that Gil finally exhaled the air he'd been holding.

"Jesus Greg," he said breathlessly. He pulled away from Greg to look into his face, "What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack, or something?"

Greg chuckled.

"Hey, I'm not the only one with a sick sense of humor," he said pointedly. "All those jabs at poor Teri Miller -" he trailed off when he noticed the look of panic still lingering on Gil's face. Greg's smile faded a little. "You didn't think I was serious, did you?"

Gil shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"I don't take you for granted."

"Oh, shit," Greg muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry, then." He rubbed Gil's jaw with a thumb. "So, you really believed me when I said we should stop seeing each other?"

Gil nodded wearily.

"Yeah. That was scary."

THE END

***