Author: Knightmusic
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gil/Jim
Summary: In the aftermath of "Smoke and Mirrors," all Gil wants is for life to return to normal. But that's not as simple as it sounds, and may not be what he really wants anyway.
Author's Note/Warnings: I shall be forever grateful to faeryfroggy for being my beta and test-subject, to laurelgardner for helping me talk this out, and to yoru_no_tori for pointing out my typos and allowing me use of her name. Which, incidentally is prononced with an "a" like "Car," not an "a" like "Care."
Disclaimer: I don't even have dreams where I own CSI. I'm way too in touch with reality.
Part one ("Smoke and Mirrors") can be found here.
The biggest problem with being hospital bound was the visitors.
It wasn't that Grissom would have preferred to be left alone, he reminded himself that he'd had more than enough of that recently, it was that everyone was coming to see him. Not ‘see' as in visit, enjoy his company, or shoot the shit, although that was part of it, of course, but ‘see' as in ‘look at,' ‘inspect,' and ‘make sure he's still breathing.' Concern could be a comforting thing. Worry was uncomfortable.
The other major problem was the waking up. Nothing had been as bad as that first night; waking alone, in the dark, and not knowing where the hell he was until Jim had put an arm around him. But even now, he couldn't prevent or hide from the sudden rush of panic that seized him in the seconds after he opened his eyes and before he remembered where he was.
Both of these factors made him very eager to return home, to noises and sights that were familiar, but the doctors weren't ready to release him. Lung infection, they told him. He was lucky, they also told him, that it was the worst side-effect that had manifested. And they told him not to worry; that it was only serious enough to be a nuisance for a few days. They told him how lucky he was; that exposure to-
-and that was where he had stopped them. They would have told him more; told him what kind of gas had been used, but he didn't want to know. At least not yet. If he knew what he'd been breathing, he would be able to find out exactly how close to death he had come. And that was information he could do without, at least for the moment.
He could already make a pretty good guess by looking at his friends' faces.
They tried to hide it, their deep seated worry, their terror; tried to mask it under relief and cheerfulness. But he recognized the dark circles under Catherine's eyes, the lines around Jim's mouth, and it wasn't hard to interpret Sara's nervous fidgeting when she handed him a card signed by the entire lab.
It made his chest clench a little to realize how much his ordeal had affected them. He supposed that if he'd ever really thought about it before, he would have known that they all cared. Of course they did. They were all colleagues; friends. He cared about them. There wouldn't be the camaraderie, the rapport within the team, if they didn't care. But he hadn't suspected that it ran this deep.
They hadn't left him alone since he'd been admitted. Brass had told him so, and Gil's throat had nearly closed completely in gratitude. He'd wanted to tell Jim; tell him how much it had meant to have him there when he'd woken up, but he didn't have words for it.
And he still wasn't alone. He looked over at the spare bed that had been brought in, and at the sleeping woman lying in it. He couldn't quite make out her face; the blinds were open, but it was a new moon tonight, and not even the glow of Las Vegas could do much to illuminate an upper floor room at Desert Palm. But it wasn't as though he needed to see what she looked like.
It had dismayed him to find out that she had been there almost the entire time; sitting up with him, waiting for him to waken, until finally Jim had convinced her to go home and get some rest. But that shock had worn off, to be quickly replaced by heart-aching guilt.
He hated that he'd put this on her shoulders, hated that he had pulled her away from her life, hated that someone had told her what had happened, worried her enough to fly to Las Vegas as soon as she'd found out, hated that she was being strong for him. But most of all he hated how much he wanted, needed her to do all of those things, even if he was grateful at the same time.
Because, after all, you didn't stop being a mother just because your son grew up and moved out of state. That was a fact which Caryn Grissom had reminded her son of on more than one occasion.
He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, even though he knew it would be useless to try. His mind was fully awake and engaged, and there was little chance he'd be able to slow it down again. And he wasn't truly tired anymore; he was mostly restless. He had things to read, a mix of books and journals that Catherine had brought, but he couldn't quite work up the interest to pick one up.
The sound of movement from his mother's bed caught his attention and he looked over. Her eyes were opening, slowly, and she blinked a few times before focusing on him. Her smile was warm and so utterly maternal that Gil almost felt like a little boy again.
"Trouble sleeping?" she signed. Gil nodded.
"I'm not really tired," he answered. She got up and came to sit by his bed. "You don't need to do that," he said. She sat up a little straighter and raised one eyebrow at him, and Gil knew he was defeated. She could make a better argument non-verbally than most people could in an entire prepared speech.
"Nightmares?" she asked. Gil shook his head. Thankfully, it was true. This time.
"I guess I just want to go home," he said.
"I know," she said. "Would you like me to stay for a while?" she asked. "Until you're back on your feet?" She included a look that said ‘on your feet didn't just mean ‘moving around again.'
"If you'd like," he said, and when her face told him that wasn't enough, he added, "I'd like that."
And in truth, it would make his life easier. He appreciated the gentle irony that had her acting as his voice these past few days. His throat was getting better, but it was still raw and burned when he tried to talk, so he avoided doing so as much as possible. Jim told him he'd been coughing up blood.
"Good," she said with a truly pleased smile. "It's been too long since my last visit anyway. And you can take me to the Guggenheim." He almost laughed, the sudden change to light conversation making him feel genuinely better, but settled for a half-smile instead.
"I always do," he reminded her. And something occurred to him. "And there's someone I'd like you to meet."
"Oh?" she asked. "Would that be the person who's been keeping your signing in shape?" Gil blinked, surprised. She laughed, quietly. "Remind me to tell her how impressed I am. Usually you stutter more when I visit." Gil screwed his mouth up, biting on a smile and feeling slightly embarrassed at how true it was; a gentle rebuke that he didn't visit as often as she would like. But she reached out and patted his hand; forgiving him, like she always did.
"You should get some sleep," he said. "I can keep myself occupied." But she shook her head.
"I'm awake now. I may as well talk to you."
He could have argued, but long experience told him it would be a fruitless endeavor. So they talked; he asked her about her gallery, about her brothers and his cousins; she asked him about Dr. Gilbert, and about the college for the deaf.
Neither one brought up his abduction. Not that. Not right now.
* * *
Two weeks medical leave. At least.
That was the pronouncement from Ecklie; spoken as though he'd expected argument from Gil. And when he'd gotten none, he'd added the stipulation that Gil speak to Dr. Kane and attain a clean bill of mental health before returning to the job.
"We don't want anyone to be able to make the claim that any of our CSI's are mentally unsound," he'd said with a revolting smile, looking as though he was trying to pass venom off as lemonade. Gil had been very glad of his excuse to stay silent, and had signed a response to his mother.
Caryn lifted an eyebrow at him. "Gil is perfectly aware of departmental policies," she said, and Gil thought she was letting her pronunciation slip, just a bit. It seemed to be making Conrad uncomfortable, judging from that forced smile. And judging from his mother's smile, she didn't feel at all bad about causing that discomfort.
"But thank you for your concern, Mr. Ecklie," she finished and started to turn away, but stopped.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It is Mister isn't it? It isn't Doctor?" Ecklie went suddenly very stiff. "I wouldn't want to offend you," she added.
And had Gil decided that he didn't mind his mother taking liberties with her translations if it resulted in a humiliated, retreating Conrad Ecklie.
At first he'd thought of all the things he could finally work on; projects that had been on the back burner, getting only slivers of his attention. But now that he was home, that two weeks seemed like a long, lonely time. He'd expected some sense of relief; some sense that it was finally over, and that his life was back to normal. He supposed that it shouldn't really surprise him that he didn't get it, and his time off was nothing at all like the relaxing personal time he was trying to tell himself it was.
And to compound that, nothing felt the way it should. His house was maliciously quiet and empty; throwing soft, unexpected noises into sharp, painful relief; putting him on edge and making him think of vents and mirrors. Not even the added presence of his mother did much to countermand the terminal feeling of emptiness and oppressive quiet.
Once, Gil had agreed with C.S. Lewis's version of Heaven, wherein, "all that is not music is silence," but now the thought made him shudder. But at least the sentiment was halfway accurate. He turned on his stereo, and twisted the volume up higher than he normally liked it; high enough to focus his mind on strings and trumpets rather than living nightmares.
Considering how hard he was focusing on being distracted, it's little wonder that he didn't hear the doorbell or the knocking. He wouldn't have noticed his phone ringing either if he hadn't felt it vibrate in his pocket. He turned the music down to answer.
"Sorry to interrupt your private concert," Catherine said, scathing sarcasm mixing with the smile in her voice. "But we're at your front door. Care to let us in?"
"Oh," Grissom said, and went to do just that, wondering who "we" was. He opened the door. Ah. Catherine and Jim. And both had their arms full.
"We brought dinner," Catherine said, lifting a large white bag with the name of a local Thai restaurant on it. "Figured you wouldn't want to cook." She looked at him, expectantly. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, wondering what she wanted.
"You gonna let us in?" she asked. "Or should we leave it on the doorstep and go home?"
"Oh," Grissom said, realizing that he was blocking the door. He stepped aside and as they entered he finally got a look at what Jim was carrying.
"Sara's idea," Catherine said, setting the take-out bag on the table. "She figured none of us would remember to feed them."
"Or want to," Jim added, doing a commendable job of suppressing a sour face at the two tarantulas in their terrariums. "Why don't you take them?" he asked, just this side of plaintively.
"I keep telling you that they're perfectly harmless," Gil said, giving Jim a long-suffering look, but taking the glass boxes anyway. "Don't you trust me?"
"You, I trust with my life," Jim said, shrugging. "Those, I trust to make straight for my neck if they get loose." Gil snorted and shook his head. He set the terrariums, side by side, on his desk. Down the hall a door closed, and Gil turned to see his mother waving a greeting to Catherine and Jim.
"Hello Caryn," Catherine said, pausing from fishing through his drawers for silverware and chopsticks to wave back. Catherine knew a few phrases in ASL, but claimed she always felt silly using them. Instead, she opted for speaking clearly and being mindful to look at his mother when she spoke. Jim did the same, when he remembered.
"It's good of you to come over," Caryn said, returning their courtesy. Sometimes she wouldn't let on that she could read lips; mostly when she distrusted a person, and then she'd make Gil translate for her. She'd refused to ever speak directly to Phillip Gerard, and Gil wished he'd trusted her judgment then.
She fell instantly into the role of hostess, with an ease and vigor that Gil marveled at. Most of the time he saw so much of himself in her, but her most casual interactions with people shamed his best attempts. It was probably why her Gallery was so successful. She could hobnob and network with sincerity and enthusiasm.
Gil had enough social intuition to bring plates to the table, thus avoiding eating out of the boxes like college students, but that was about the extent of his contribution.
"This is new," Catherine said, pointing to a painting that was leaning against the wall next to the bar. She looked at Gil's mother. "Did you bring it?" she asked.
"It was supposed to be Gil's birthday present," she said, coming over, a pleased smile on her face. "I had it shipped overnight."
"It's amazing," Catherine said, setting down her drink and picking the canvas up. She smiled at Caryn. "You have excellent taste."
"Actually, Gil does," Caryn corrected. "He picked it."
"You picked your own birthday present?" Catherine asked.
"Indirectly," Gil said, and found himself signing as well. It was interesting how quickly old habits re-asserted themselves. "It's from her gallery. I always go when I visit her, and she notices the ones that catch my attention. I get one every year."
In fact, it had become something of a contest between them; Gil testing his mother's powers of observation by deliberately inspecting works that didn't particularly capture his attention. But she never fell for it. He wondered how he consistently gave himself away; she always presented him with a piece from the artist that had impressed him the most.
"You should come out next month," Caryn said, a wicked smile appearing on her face. "We're hosting a Flo Fox exhibit."
Catherine's eye's went wide. "Didn't she do the ‘Dicthology' series?"
"'Dicthology?'" Jim asked, sounding like he didn't really want to know what she was talking about.
"That's right," Caryn said to Catherine, and then smirked at Gil. "Maybe you could pose for her."
Gil didn't miss a beat. "And how do you know I haven't?" he said. Catherine nearly choked on her drink, and Jim looked puzzled.
"What?" he asked. "Did I miss something?"
"Yeah, you did," Catherine said, once she'd worked out which pipe her vodka was supposed to go down. Jim looked back and forth from Catherine to Caryn to Gil, clearly puzzling over what was so funny.
Gil told him.
"Oh," he said, turning a little red around the edges. Then he shook his head. "How in the hell can you say something like that to your mother, Gil? Mine would keel over where she stood."
Caryn laughed and took the opportunity to usher them all over to the table. She directed conversation as well, and Gil took a seat across from her, chopsticks in one hand and signing with the other when Catherine or Jim forgot themselves and started talking around a mouthful of food.
But he followed the conversation only superficially, hearing words and turning them into the appropriate signs, but not hearing the meaning. It was small talk, mostly. A bit of catching up as well; all in all just friendly noise, and the hum of it was soothing to Gil.
Between his slowly increasing comfort level and Caryn's easy hospitality Catherine and Jim quickly relaxed enough to make themselves thoroughly at home; refilling their own drinks and clearing the table when they'd finished eating.
It wasn't until the third or fourth time Jim got up from his chair, that Gil noticed Jim place his hand on Gil's shoulder or arm every time he left and again when he returned. They were casual gestures, innocent in and of themselves, but something in the repetition made Gil's chest tighten in wonder.
The same tight, sudden squeeze came again, later. Catherine and Caryn were comparing notes on motherhood, and Jim cornered him in the kitchen.
"So how're you holding up?" Jim asked, and both his tone and expression said that Gil wasn't allowed to dodge this question.
He tried anyway. "I'm fine," he said. Jim tilted his head, very clearly saying that he didn't buy it at all. Gil sighed.
"Really, Jim," he said. "I'm fine. It's over. I'm..." he tried to elaborate, explain in a way that would satisfy Jim and still be true. "I'm dealing with it," he said, finally.
Jim didn't look convinced, but his expression softened a little. "Are you?" he asked. "This isn't something you get over in a day or two, you know that, right?" Gil just barely kept from rolling his eyes.
"Yes, I know that. And I'm not expecting to. What happened was..." he paused again, "traumatic" seemed like too strong a word. "Distressing," he decided, and Jim looked like he was about to say something, but Gil kept going. "And I'm not pretending it didn't happen. I know what the long-term dangers are. I just want to get my life back to normal as soon as possible."
Jim sighed. "I guess that'll do, for now," he waved a finger at Gil. "Don't think I won't be checking up on you." The warning was mellowed significantly by the grin that cracked his face. He patted Gil on the upper arm, and for a second, it looked like he was almost going to hug him. Gil felt a strong wash of disappointment when he didn't.
"Take care of yourself, Gil. Okay?"
"I promise," Gil said, and Jim went back into the living room, saying something to Catherine about it being time to head out.
Catherine did hug him before she left, but that wasn't a surprise. Neither were her instructions to take care of himself, and call her if he needed anything, or even if he didn't need anything.
"I would like something, actually," he said, stopping her just before she left. She blinked at him, inviting him to ask.
"When you finish...my case," it sounded strange to call it that, and he ducked his head a little at the awkward feeling, "I'd like a copy of the file," he finished. Catherine's inquisitive smile faded into suspicion.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," he hesitated, reluctant to explain the reason why, even to her. "I need perspective," he said. "I need to be able to look at it objectively before I can put it away."
She didn't look at all convinced. He had the authority to see it; as the superior supervisor he could even pull rank on her, and they both knew it. But he would prefer she do it as a favor. Finally, she sighed and her shoulders dropped.
"Okay," she said. "But I'm going on record as saying I don't think it'll help."
"Thank you, Catherine," Gil said, ignoring her warning. She shook her head, smiling fondly at him.
"Anytime, Gil," she said, and hugged him again before leaving.
They hadn't been gone long when the anxious, unsettled feeling returned. He looked for another distraction, and tried to start cleaning up the dishes, but his mind always wandered away, and he ended up standing in the living room wondering what he was doing. After the third time, his mother stopped him.
"You want some help?" she asked. She was still in "speech mode," but she did sign as well. Gil just nodded and she followed him into the kitchen. "Some help" ended with him watching her wash up and tidy. He didn't say anything for a long time, but the worried glances she shot him occasionally told him that at any moment, she was going to try to open him up and drag out the messy details that were bothering him.
When she looked up again, he pre-empted her. "Who has the gallery while you're here?" he asked. She clearly knew what he was doing, and she paused for a minute, looking like she was going to call him on it, but then she relaxed and answered.
"His name is Myers," she said, speaking because her hands were full. "He's young, but very savvy. Brilliant businessman." Another pause. "There's only one problem," she dried her hands and leaned back against the counter.
"He's just not an artist," she signed, and Gil smiled. Whenever she was going to be horribly blunt, she switched to sign language. She liked saying what she meant, at all times, and this was her concession to sparing people's egos. "He doesn't have the eye for it. He knows nothing about putting together a show," she went on. "And that's what he most wants to do."
"You could just tell him ‘no,'" Gil suggested. She laughed. It wasn't the light, delicate, self-effacing laugh of so many women. It was a low, loud, throaty chuckle. And Gil loved it.
"I don't have the heart," she said. "He's so eager to learn. Follows me everywhere, learned ASL to talk to me, always asking me questions."
"Sounds like someone has a crush," Gil teased. She rolled her eyes and snorted.
"Ha, ha," she said, throwing the dishtowel at him. "Although funny you should say that," she went on, tilting her head up and staring at a point on his ceiling, thinking. "It reminds me..." she trailed off, and then suddenly dropped her head to meet his eyes. "That new girl of yours. Sara." She lifted an eyebrow and Gil knew he was caught.
The term "new girl" surprised him, but he realized that the last time she had been to Vegas had been shortly after Nick had been hired. "Sara's a brilliant CSI," he said. "We're lucky to have her."
"I like her. Protégé of yours?" she asked, the raised eyebrow escalating into a knowing grin. "She seems very attached to you."
Gil didn't ask her how she knew; he'd given that up years ago. Caryn could read body language and non-verbal cues better than most people could interpret tone of voice. And generally people were less careful about manipulating and hiding those tells; a fact he'd exploited mercilessly during his poker playing days, and still did now during interrogations.
"It's...complicated with Sara," he said weakly, and added a helpless shrug for good measure. He forced himself to hold eye contact with her; kept himself from glancing over at his desk, where a new potted plant had been waiting for him when he'd returned home. A plant with a card that read simply, "From Sara."
"She's just got a crush on her teacher," she said, and Gil almost blushed at hearing it stated so bluntly. "It'll work itself out." And she paused, then, mouth open as though she was considering saying something else, but instead she shook her head a little before leaving the kitchen to gather the leftovers from their dinner. She opened the refrigerator, and sighed loudly.
"There is no hope for you," she said, arranging the boxes inside, then turning to look at him with fond exasperation.
"What?" he asked, coming over. She fixed him with an incredulous stare, opened the fridge and took something out. She held it out for him.
"Chicken curry," he said. "I made it a few days ago. It's still good."
She placed the curry on the counter. "I'm sure it is," she said, looking back and forth between it and him. "That's not the point. The point is," she caught his eye to make sure he was paying attention, "that you're storing it in, what is that, an evidence jar?"
Gil opened his mouth and blinked in surprise. It was an evidence jar. They kept a better seal than Tupperware. "It's clean," he insisted. She held his eyes for a moment, clicking her nails on the counter, before laughing.
"No hope," she signed, and put the jar back.
* * *
Sleep eluded him that night. When he woke up for the third time, there was no chance he'd drift off again. He knew he'd had a nightmare, the sour pulse of adrenaline in his system confirmed that, and he certainly knew what it had been about, but he couldn't remember the dream itself. He was glad of that.
The nightmares were infrequent, at least he wasn't aware of it if they weren't, but when they came, they didn't bring images and scenarios to his head. He woke with the echo of Zephyr's laughter hanging in the air.
He lay back down, trying to calm himself. For the last three nights, any slight disturbance, either external or just simple variance in his sleep cycle, propelled him into complete, alert wakefulness. The panic was fading quicker now, as he could easily determine where he was.
He rolled on his side, taking comfort in the familiar feel of his bed, the sight of his room, the sounds of Las Vegas. Daylight could strip his memories of their power, make the ordeal seem less threatening and easier to deal with, but in the dark they hovered over him, and the Zephyr in his mind became more dangerous than the real one had ever been. He lurked in the shadows, menacing Gil with reminders of just how close he had come.
But what bothered him the most was the realization that he couldn't shake this off. He'd made it out, he was alive, and Zephyr was going away, really going away this time. Brass had assured him that he had someone sitting on him round the clock. No more escape tricks. He should be feeling better now. It was over, after all.
And suddenly he was given to remember Nick's words after the Nigel Crane affair. "It's not over for me," he'd said. "It's over for Jane Galloway." He hadn't understood what Nick had meant at the time.
But oh, how he understood now.
* * *
His mother tried a few more times to find out what he was feeling, and each time he gently reassured her and changed the subject. She knew very little about what had happened from the time he'd disappeared until Brass had found him, and while she hadn't been happy with Gil's decision to keep the details private, she'd respected it.
What little information she had was already too much to Gil's thinking.
Instead of talking, he took her out. They visited the Guggenheim, Red Rock, the Art House Theatre's showing of Chaplin films, and it wasn't difficult for him to laugh and enjoy himself and her company. Eventually she stopped giving him suspicious, studious glances when she thought he wasn't looking. Because even if she could read body language, Gil knew his tells well enough to hide them from anyone. Even her.
* * *
Market Barbeque looked like the last place on Earth anyone would want to sit down and eat anything. The owners had put minimal cosmetic effort into the outward appearance, and could only barely be bothered to hang a sign above the door. The orange carpet was grungy and thinning in high traffic areas, and the leatherette covering on the booths had worn through on almost all the corners. Nothing about it inspired the appetite.
But then, there was a saying about books and covers of which Grissom was quite fond.
He didn't know how or when Jim had discovered the hole-in-the-wall, but it had been one of their favored dinner locations for years now for two reasons; tourists avoided it, meaning they could always get a table, and the food was second to none.
Jim was already in a booth when Grissom arrived. He frowned at the beer Jim was already knocking back.
"I'm not late, am I?" he asked. Jim shook his head.
"Nah, I'm early," he said and motioned to someone behind Gil. Grissom glanced back, but didn't see anything noteworthy, and sat down across from Jim.
"So," Jim said, setting his glass down. "How're you doing, Gil?"
"I'm just fine, Jim," he said. "And how are you?" Jim leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table, and shaking his head. Eventually, he looked up at Gil, his face caught somewhere in the transition between a smile and a laugh.
"You know you can't bullshit me, Gil," he said.
Gil raised an eyebrow, slightly suspicious. "Did you invite me out here to interrogate me?" he asked.
"Yep," Jim said. "Someone has to make sure you take care of yourself." A young waitress approached from the bar, carrying a tall beer. Jim pointed at Gil and she set it down in front of him.
"And I figured it might as well be me," Jim continued. "Because I know your favorite drinks." He tapped the beer glass.
Gil shook his head. "With friends like you, Jim," he said, with just a touch of sarcasm, and raised the glass in mock salute before taking a drink. He made an appreciative noise. Jim really did know what he liked to drink.
"Yeah, you're lucky to have me," Jim said, a smug smirk finding a permanent home on his face. "I figure, if this is what it takes," he gestured around at the restaurant and to Gil's drink. "Drunk or sober, you're gonna spill."
Gil made a face and put his glass down. There was more truth to that than he liked. Jim was just as good at forcing answers out of his friends and colleagues as he was out of suspects. And while he wouldn't say that Jim could read him like a book, there were a few things about him that only Jim knew.
"Oh, and a heads up," Jim said. "We've got that waiter you think is cute. The one that always flirts with you."
Things like that.
He hadn't meant for Jim to find out, not that he had really been making an effort to keep it a secret of course, but he'd let his guard down, had a few more drinks than he'd intended, and before he'd known what had happened, Jim had been giving him a quizzical, knowing look from across the booth.
"What?" he'd asked, feeling very relaxed, and much closer to giddy than he'd been in a long time.
"You just checked him out," Jim had said. Gil had denied it, and Jim had laughed at him, and insisted that yes, he most certainly had been making a very close study of the backside of one very male waiter. Gil had gone quiet then, wondering how this could possibly turn out. He'd started to say something, to make some attempt at explaining himself, but had only gotten as far as, "Jim...I," when Brass had raised his hands and cut him off.
"Hey, it's cool," Jim had said. "And who am I going to tell, anyway?"
That might have been the moment when he realized how much he really trusted Jim Brass. Not just professionally, but as a person. As a friend.
The waiter in question was approaching their table at the moment, bearing a large plate of hot wings.
"Okay, here you go," he said, setting them down. He looked over at Grissom and his face visibly brightened. "Mr. Grissom!" he said, smiling broadly, and Gil thought he laid his southern accent on just a touch stronger. "Good to see you. How have you been doing?"
"I've been fine, Michael. Thank you," he answered, in his most pleasant, polite voice. And he tried to ignore Brass's silent laughter from the other side of the table.
"That's good to hear," Michael said. "Do you need me to get you anything?" he asked.
"No, thank you," Gil said. "I think this will be fine."
"Okay then," Michael said. "You give a yell if you need anything." He left, and Gil glared at Jim, who was putting the final clamps on his laughing fit.
"Don't even start, Jim," Gil said, leveling a finger at him.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Jim said, innocently. "But really, Gil, he's a sweet kid. Maybe you should take him out sometime. Might do you some good."
"Are you nuts?" Gil asked, shooting him a look of exasperation and disbelief. Brass laughed harder, and Gil shook his head and sighed again. The thing was, Brass was right. Michael was a sweet kid. And Gil had little doubt that he would enjoy a night out with him. Or at the very least, there were things about the night that he would enjoy. But it wasn't worth it.
Being attracted to men was one thing. Even having people know you were attracted was not a major issue. Actually getting involved, well that was something else entirely. And it would have to be an exceptional man for it to be worth it.
"All right, I'll lay off," Brass said, picking up a chicken wing. "Let's get back to how you're doing, okay?"
Gil closed his eyes for a second, collected himself and then looked back at Jim. "Really, Jim," he said. "I'm fine." He put gentle emphasis on the words, which was always enough to get the point across to Sara or Catherine when they were trying to be helpful. But Jim either didn't get the point, or, more likely, was intentionally ignoring it.
"Really?" he asked. "You're fine?" Gil nodded. "Cuz you look like hell, Gil, I gotta say," he said. Gil raised an eyebrow, in an affronted way.
"You been sleeping?" Jim asked, and for a second Gil considered lying. But knew it would be pointless.
"No," he said. "But it's not bad. I just wake up a lot."
"Dreams?"
"No." Little white lie there. It wasn't as if he remembered them. "I promise, I'm not experiencing any adverse lingering affects. I'm not downplaying what happened, but I'm dealing with it. I-" The words suddenly died in his throat, and his heart nearly stopped.
He heard the loud, wicked hiss of gas vents opening.
He jumped, looking around to locate the source of the noise, thinking to himself how impossible this was, how this couldn't be happening. It was only a second or two before he got himself back under control again, and he looked at Jim, knowing his cover was blown.
"Air conditioner," Jim said, keeping his voice quiet and calm. "Jesus, Gil. What the hell happened to you in there?"
Hell. That was a pretty good way to describe it. Gil looked down at the table for a second, then picked up his beer and drained most of it. He sighed and let his shoulders drop, and realized just at that moment how much tension they had been carrying.
"It was a game, Jim," he said, with the darkest humor he could muster. He swirled the rest of his beer in the glass and tapped the table thoughtfully. "And I think I'm going to need something much stronger if you want me to tell you about it."
* * *
Gil didn't really like being drunk. It had been years ago that any sense of novelty or excitement had been lost, and he'd never had reason to drink to forget, or to self-medicate. And the one major effect it had on him, making him much more likely to say what he was thinking, when he could already be too blunt for polite society, made him very careful to limit his intake.
Most of the time. Right now, some part of him thought it was probably a good thing that he was drunk. And it was an even better thing that Jim was there, sober and taking care of him.
When, after a few scotches, Gil's descriptions of Zephyr's puzzle-box-torture-chamber had started to become more graphic and vivid and Gil's mannerisms more pronounced and emphatic, Jim had taken them back to Gil's townhouse.
Now they were sitting on his couch, and Gil felt utterly spent. Every detail of his twelve-hour imprisonment had been blazing in his mind, painted in neon letters, since he'd escaped. And he'd just related all of them to Jim.
And Jim looked like he was trying his best not to be sick.
"Jesus," he kept muttering.
"Told you not to ask," Gil muttered.
"Fuck," Jim said, and looked at Gil. "You've been talking to Kane about this, right?"
"A little," Gil said, speaking slowly. He didn't tend to slur when drunk, and in fact his intellect stayed as sharp as ever. His reflexes though...shot to hell. Same with his judgment. "We've talked about....the pertinent parts."
"How do you decide what parts of that aren't pertinent?"
"He's looking for evidence of post-traumatic stress disorder," Gil said. "We don't think I have it."
"Well, thank God for that," Jim said. He didn't sound like he was speaking ironically.
"What it boils down to," Gil said, trying to sit up and then deciding it wasn't such a great idea anyway, "is that it sucked. And now it's over. My life goes on."
Jim looked at him, mouth agape in disbelief. "Do you really believe that?"
Gil smiled and laughed, although neither action nor sound had any humor behind them. "I have to," he said. "What would I do otherwise?" Jim just shook his head. And then to Gil's surprise, he reached over and took his hand.
"I can't believe you did what you did," he said, softly. "That takes a helluva lot of steel." Gil only sort of heard the words. He was staring down at Jim's hand squeezing his own, Jim's thumb tracing his skin. And his heart wept and sighed in contentment.
"Gil," Jim's voice was barely audible; Gil barely registered that he was speaking at all. And while he could have read his lips, Jim wasn't facing him. He was still talking, and Gil didn't want to interrupt what looked to be something heartfelt and difficult to say, so, almost without thinking, he reached out and touched Jim's face, turning him. Jim looked surprised, and he faltered for a moment, but he kept on.
"...but you don't need to be a hero anymore. You've done enough of that for any lifetime," he finished. "You've got plenty of people who love who and are ready to take care of you now."
Gil smiled. The skin of Jim's cheek was surprisingly soft, and he stroked his thumb over it a few times, enjoying the feeling. Jim's face softened, then, for just an instant, and gripped Gil's hand just a little harder.
"Why don't you let us do that?"
"What is it you want to do for me?" Gil asked. It felt like he was missing something here. If only he could focus, but he was tired, and drunk, and his brain kept slipping off the subjects he tried to pin it on.
Jim grinned. "Hey, how about that. Looks like we're getting somewhere." Gil gave him a tired smile. "How about we talk about a good night's sleep first?" Jim stood up, hauling Gil to his feet after him.
"It's okay, Jim," Gil said, pulling away. "I can walk."
"Fair enough," Jim said. "I have no idea how wasted you are right now."
"Only slightly," Gil said. "I'll probably be sober again in a few hours."
"You think you'll sleep okay?"
"You don't need to worry, Jim," Gil said.
"Yeah, ya know, I kinda think I do," Jim said, stepping closer and putting an arm around Gil's shoulder. "I remember what happened in the hospital. I hate to think of that happening when you're alone."
Gil frowned. "That's a low blow, Jim. There were a lot of factors that time. I was stressed, I was sick, I didn't know where I was-"
"And a lot of those still apply," Jim said. "And yeah, I know it was a low blow. I fight dirty. That's just me." He sighed. "Gil, neither one of us does the macho bullshit. Not really. I can fake it when I have to, but you've never had anything to prove. Why are you pulling it now?"
Gil looked away. He knew it was a defense mechanism. He also knew it was silly.
Gil didn't know what to say. He hardly knew what to think. Not that he could think, not over the keening noise his heart was making. And he wondered again what he was missing; what piece of information would make things fall into place.
"I..." he began, and realized he didn't know what came next. And then, in the next instant, he did. "I don't want to wake up alone," he said, before he could decide it was a bad thing to say. But Jim smiled and any such thoughts evaporated.
He didn't wake up that night. There were no clawing, blinding moments of panic to be contended with. It might have been the alcohol, but he suspected it was the arm around his waist that really did the trick.
