Three dates

Title: Three dates
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of CBS and I'm just borrowing for a little story.
Spoilers: Play With Fire and Inside The Box – but I didn't use the episode's timeline, and the dialogue between Gil and Greg isn't faithful to the script.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: First times. Greg called them dates but were they really? First date: 2003. Second date: 2004. Third date: 2005. NEW: a conversation and a real date at last.
***
Three dates in three years
First Date
2003
Greg opened his locker, chose the lightest jacket he kept there and slowly put it on. He was tired –exhausted, actually- but more than that, he was angry.
He pushed his locker shut with a slam, and for a moment he let his hand rest flat on the metal surface. He looked at it, defying it to shake. It didn't, of course. It only happened when he was inside the lab or when his boss came by to give him an assignment, like last night.
"Greg? Your hands are shaking."
That's what Grissom had said. Greg had been genuinely moved by his boss' interest –until the next question, "Does it affect your work?" made him realize what Grissom's true concern was.
Greg had denied that the slight tremors could have any impact in his work, of course. Really, what else could he tell his boss? Besides, it had not affected his work. Not much, anyway. So far, it had only slowed him down. Tests that he used to perform at an amazing speed before, were now taking him longer; he was double-checking every piece of equipment he used -before and after he performed the tests - and then he repeated the whole process just to be sure. Not very cost-effective, was it?
He had been telling himself that it was a temporal problem, and hell, it better be. 'Cause if he continued like this, soon everyone would start complaining to the boss, and then-
"If you need to talk about it, I'll be around." Grissom had said.
Greg snorted. Right.
Ha. No way was he going to spill his guts to Grissom. The man's main concern was the lab, and if someone failed to do the job, then Grissom would simply have them reassigned –temporarily or permanently. Not that Grissom had ever done that, but then nobody had ever had the shakes at the lab. Greg looked at his hand again.
"You'll have to do better." He muttered.
Greg turned to leave and was surprised to see Grissom standing by the door. And –oh, shit- he was staring at Greg's hand.
"Grissom?"
"Everything ok, Greg?" he asked.
Greg looked down and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah." He said. "I'm fine."
"Good." Grissom said, "You're leaving already?"
Greg looked up and noticed that Grissom was smiling faintly at him. He also noticed a look of eagerness on his face –a look that Greg knew well: It meant there was a break in a case, and he needed every CSI to stay for another twelve-hour shift.
Oh, hell. He didn't want to go back to the lab right now.
He managed to speak cordially to his boss.
"I thought I'd leave early, today."
"Could you spare me an hour, Greg?"
Oh, damn.
Just a week ago, he would have been happy to oblige, but now he just couldn't do it.
"I'm beat, Grissom," he said, hoping to appeal to his boss' innate kindness, "All I want is to go home and sleep."
Grissom was immediately interested.
"You haven't had trouble sleeping since the explosion?"
"Actually, I've been having insomnia-" Greg admitted unguardedly, and then he paused. "Why?" he asked cautiously.
"Because I think I can do something about it," he said, "You're stressed out, Greg," Grissom pointed out, "All you need is to relax, and I can help you."
Greg frowned. He had heard those exact words before, back when he was at Stamford. He had ended up in a back seat, half naked, sweaty, and sticky…
And relaxed. Oh, yeah-
Greg suddenly realized he hadn't had sex in a long time.
He looked at Grissom. The older man was smiling his 'our-evidence-solved-the-case-' smile, and his eyes were twinkling.
Greg hesitated. Could it be…? Was Grissom thinking what he was thinking?
"So? An hour?" asked Grissom.
He didn't answer right away.
"Hum-" Greg cautiously cleared his throat, "Ok." He nodded, "What do you have in mind?"
"We're going out."
"Going out, where?"
"It's a surprise," Grissom said, "Come on," he added, motioning him to follow, "I'm driving."
Greg waited for an explanation, but none came. Grissom drove and talked about the case they had closed earlier that day, but nothing else. Every time Greg asked where they were going, he simply said,
"You'll have to be patient, Greg."
Greg tried to be patient and was successful for about ten minutes.
"Why all the mystery?" he asked after a moment.
"Well," Grissom glanced briefly at him, "If I told you where we're going, you'd probably say no."
Greg's eyes widened.
"Why would I-" he started, but the look that Grissom gave him made him stop. "Ok. I'm going to be patient." He said.
His curiosity was piqued now; he didn't think he'd ever be able to say 'no' to his boss, (either inside or outside the lab), but on the other hand, he didn't know what Grissom's plans were either.
It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know his boss at all. He had never been able to pinpoint or classify him.
Greg looked sideways at Grissom.
A few years back, one of Greg's friends had remarked that not knowing anything about Grissom's private life was exciting. Was he a heterosexual? Was he not? And then Linda–a female DNA technician who moved away shortly after- said something that stuck in Greg's memory, 'Maybe we just shouldn't put labels on him; I believe he's open to all possibilities. The trick is to engage his interest and to keep it.'
So, open to all possibilities, huh? Greg glanced at his boss again. Could it be possible? Greg himself had never let anyone pin down labels on him; maybe Grissom was like him?
Greg shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? That explosion had really messed up his head. Greg glared at his hands. See what trouble you've got me into?
He was nervous -and hell, he had a right to be: Grissom had always made him nervous just by being himself, but now he was being weird – or weirder than usual, some would say.
The problem was that when Greg was nervous, he babbled.
"You know…" he said and paused until Grissom glanced at him, "The last time someone offered to help me relax, I was in College." A little voice inside his head frantically advised him to stop right there, but Greg couldn't help himself, "We were up for a whole weekend, cramming up as much knowledge as we could for a test. Even I was making up for lost time," he admitted, "I'd been spending too much time engaged in, shall we say, extracurricular activities."
Grissom glanced at him and Greg shrugged.
"We all were." He said dismissively "Studying, I mean." He smiled, "So, on Monday I took the test, and I did ok, but I just couldn't relax, you know? I was so just so wired- I couldn't even sit still. So, there was this friend who offered- you know." He paused, but Grissom didn't give him any indication that he knew. "My friend, Zenia," Greg said and then he realized he hadn't thought of her in a long time. "Great chemist, by the way; she stayed at Stanford doing research." He smiled wistfully, "I wonder if she still remembers that afternoon. She drove us to a secluded spot off campus, and then -" And then, in a couple of hours she'd taught him more than he'd learned from others since losing his virginity a year before.
Greg suddenly noticed that Grissom was not glancing at him anymore.
Maybe he shouldn't finish his story.
He cleared his throat.
"Hum, by the way… I appreciate what you're doing, boss." He said, but Grissom didn't acknowledge his words, "Grissom?" he said again and then he waved a hand to call for his attention, "Hey, boss? I appreciate what you're doing."
Grissom glanced at him; he was dividing his attention between the road and Greg but fortunately traffic was light.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I appreciate this." Greg said, "I mean, you left the lab to spend time with me, and-"
"That's ok." Grissom dismissed, "This won't take us more than a few minutes."
"A few minutes?" Greg repeated. "Way to sell yourself." He muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing." Greg replied. "Private joke," he explained.
Well, it was a joke, Greg thought. He had started to believe that his boss –Gil Grissom, the great enigma- was going to help him relax in the best way possible. Yeah, right.
He decided to stop speculating, and just sit back and enjoy the ride. It was just as well, because he would never have guessed what Grissom's plans were.
When Grissom finally turned into a parking lot, Greg gaped.
Could things get any weirder?
"An amusement park, Grissom?"
Grissom had been looking expectantly at him.
"Yes." He nodded, "What, you don't like them?"
"Well," Greg hesitated. Ha, like he was ever going to say 'no' to his boss, right?
"I guess-" he added.
"Come on," Grissom said, getting out of the car.
"The park's closed."
"I know the owner." Grissom said, "He opens the park for me now and then."
Indeed, it looked like someone had been waiting for them all along. A little man waved at them from a side door.
"Doctor Grissom!" he greeted in a high pitched voice.
"Doctor Gordon," Grissom smiled back.
Greg exchanged greetings with the man, while busily trying to remember the politically correct term –Midget? Little person? Dwarf? Well, it didn't matter. This was Doctor Gordon, and he was ushering them inside.
"Go ahead," he said warmly, "Sammy's waiting."
"I appreciate the favor, Doc." Grissom said.
"Enjoy the ride," he said, "Oh, and I'll see you on poker night, Doc." He called out as they walked away.
Greg glanced back.
"Where did you meet this Dr. Gordon, Grissom?"
"At a convention."
"It's great to have friends in high places, huh?" Greg joked, but got no response. "So," he said, trying to be more serious, "This Dr. Gordon… is he an Entomologist, too?"
"He's an Endocrinologist."
"Wow. He's his own field of investigation." Greg mused, "You know… it's kinda surprising that he owns an amusement park. Sure, it's not a carnie, but it's close-" Greg looked expectantly at Grissom, but the older man didn't comment.
Greg looked around. The park was eerily silent. Greg found it unnerving; he'd been raised on a steady diet of cheap horror movies, and empty amusement parks were a classic of the genre.
Even the kids' rides looked ominous.
That reminded him of Dr Gordon's comment.
"What ride was he talking about?"
Grissom didn't answer, but it wasn't necessary. He was staring ahead at what was obviously the biggest attraction in the park: The Deadly Plunge Roller Coaster.
Sammy, the guy in charge, fussed over them - he checked on the metal bar that would keep them secure in their adjacent seats, told them to empty their pockets of any loose items, warned them that the Plunge would go off 'in five', and then left.
Grissom was bursting with enthusiasm.
"They call this ride The Great Puker." He said.
"That's promising," Greg muttered to himself. "Grissom?" he said aloud, "Why are we doing this?"
"It'll help you relax." He said as if it were obvious.
"Relax?" Greg asked incredulously, "Do you really think riding the Great Puker is gonna help me?" he shook his head, "No offense, Grissom, but I can think of a better way to get all the relaxation I need."
"Well," Grissom shrugged calmly, "you'll have to do it my way this time."
Greg couldn't resist.
"Are we going to do it my way next time?" he taunted.
Grissom ignored this.
"Whenever I'm too tense, I come here." he said, shifting a little in his seat, enjoying the anticipation, "It's a cleansing process, but only if you don't resist it," he said, in full lecture mode now, "Don't close your eyes, no matter what. If you need to puke, just go ahead-"
"I'm not going to puke," Greg said almost angrily. Did his boss think he was a wimp who couldn't take it?
"What I mean is that if it happens, we'll deal with it." Grissom said gently, "And don't forget to scream," he said firmly, "Just let go, Greg; don't hold back just because I'm here-"
"Grissom, I've ridden roller coasters before, ok?" he said dismissively, "I think I know how to handle thi-"
Greg didn't finish the word because just then the ride began and he felt as if his guts had been suddenly pulled out and then pushed back in, and that's when he remembered that he had done this before, but he hadn't done it in a veeery long time.
He loved it.
"OH, SHIIIIIIT!" he screamed, but he was laughing as well. In just a matter of seconds they were flattened against their seats and then pushed forward, and then, without any warning at all, they were upside down. Greg stretched his arms, as if he could reach the ground with just a little effort.
"IT'S GREAT, ISN'T IT?" Grissom yelled, and he stretched his arms too.
"AWSOME!" Greg shrieked.
And then, it happened. Greg didn't know why he did it, except that it felt right: he reached out and grabbed Grissom's hand.
They screamed and held onto each other's hands as the ride took them through tunnels and peaks and sudden plunges.
It wasn't until the ride was winding down that they realized they were practically holding hands. Abruptly, they let go of each other.
Doctor Gordon was nowhere in sight, but Sammy opened the door for them.
Greg followed Grissom to the car. He was pleasantly tired; he felt as if his legs had turned into rubber.
"That was some ride, huh?" he smiled as Grissom started the engine.
"What?" Grissom frowned.
"I liked the ride," he said, "Thanks."
"It'll help."
"I think you're right." Greg admitted, "I feel like I'm going to fall asleep as soon as put my head on the pillow."
"Good."
Greg sat back and closed his eyes for a moment, but he couldn't stay quiet for long. He glanced at his boss.
"You know," he said, "I'm kind of surprised that you do this to relax. I thought you meditated or something." He paused. Grissom shrugged slightly but didn't comment, "I guess sometimes you really need to do something more physical. Right?"
"Maybe," he admitted.
"So, boss…" Greg said after a moment. "Do you ride the Great Puker often?"
Grissom hesitated.
"Hey," Greg smiled, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"Greg," Grissom started, "We have a highly stressful job. We all find ways of dealing with it."
"I guess riding a roller coaster is better than a beer binge." Greg said. "But you didn't answer my question."
"Every couple of months," Grissom said at last.
"And do you come alone?" Greg asked and he immediately snorted. "Oh, shit." He shook his head, "I'm asking you the kind of questions I ask when I'm out on a date."
"You wouldn't come here for a date," Grissom scowled.
"I guess not. Not ordinarily." He admitted, "But I had fun today." He added good-naturedly, "So I'm going to call this a date, if you don't mind." He joked.
Grissom looked away.
Greg smiled mischievously.
"So, what's your sign, Grissom?" he asked.
It was another 'date' question and Grissom knew it; he smiled reluctantly, but didn't answer. He concentrated on driving… until Greg spoke again.
"Do you date, Grissom?"
"No."
"Never?" he asked. "Never." He repeated, trying to picture himself in Grissom's place. Never go on a date? Impossible. "I guess not everyone would go to an amusement park, huh?" he mused aloud. He looked at Grissom and waited until he was sure he had his boss' attention. "You know what? Next time, we should come when the park is open. Amusement park hot dogs are tasty."
Grissom looked away.
Greg frowned. Grissom was barely talking now. What had happened?
Suddenly, Greg closed his eyes. Oh, shit.
He couldn't believe this. Grissom might not be easy to pinpoint, but in the end he had reacted just like any guy would.
"Hey… Grissom?" he hesitated, "You're not pissed off because I grabbed your hand, are you?"
Grissom hesitated, but Greg didn't give him a chance to reply.
"I really don't know why I did it." Greg said sheepishly. "I mean… Sometimes I just go ahead and do things or say things that piss people off-"
"Greg, I'm not pissed off." Grissom said calmly. "Just forget it."
But of course Greg couldn't.
"The thing is… when we were on the ride, it was like being a kid again, or something."
"Uh, huh."
"Maybe that's why I- you know."
"Probably,"
"You're not going to tell, are you?" He asked. "Shit." He cringed, "If word goes around that I grabbed your hand-"
"Greg?" Grissom interrupted, "Just shut up."
The words were harsh, but he was smiling faintly.
"Ok." Greg said cautiously. He remained silent until he noticed that Grissom had made an unexpected turn, "We're not going back to the lab?"
"No, you shouldn't drive right now. I'm taking you straight home."
Grissom drove in silence until they were in front of Greg's building.
Greg didn't move.
"Grissom… What I said about calling this a date-"
"Greg, just forget it-"
"It was a joke." He said.
"I know that-"
"I guess I haven't been myself these days." Greg admitted, "This last week's been hard, and-" And he was whining, for God's sake. This was exactly what he had vowed not to do.
"Greg, I know." Grissom said, "You've been under a lot of pressure at the lab."
"But I should be able to manage this," Greg said angrily, "I mean, people get stressed out all the time and they don't shake all over the place, do they?"
"Greg, how many of us have been in the middle of an explosion? At their workplace?" he asked reasonably. "Look, you're going to be fine, but it will take time." He warned, "We'll help, Greg." He added, "We'll get you through this, ok?"
Greg looked at Grissom, gauging his sincerity. Grissom's blue eyes met his gaze.
"Ok." Greg nodded, "Thanks."
"Now go inside and sleep."
"Ok." Greg said gratefully.
Greg entered his apartment and for a couple of minutes he simply leant back on the closed door, reviewing the events of the day. He winced when he recalled every damn thing he'd said. He had always babbled when he was around Grissom, but this time he had gone too far.
As for the hand-grabbing…
"Ah, shit." He muttered.
He went to his room, slowly taking off his clothes and dropping them along the way. He sighed when he finally got into bed.
"What a day," he muttered. And this was only the beginning, according to Grissom. "It will take time," he had said, and Greg believed him.
"Oh, hell." He sighed.
He lay under the covers, tired, but unable to fall asleep. He stared at the old clock that he kept on his night table - a gift from his grandfather – and started counting the seconds.
And suddenly, it seemed that the ticking of the clock changed, and instead of the faint tick-tick, he heard words -It-will-take-time, it-will-take-time …
He sighed. And then all of a sudden he remembered that Grissom had said something else.
"We'll help." He'd said, "We'll get you through this."
A slow smile graced Greg's lips.
No matter what he or anybody else had said that day; those were the only words that mattered.
"We'll help. We'll get you through this."
Greg let those words lull him into sleep.
Epilogue
Grissom sat behind his desk. There was a pile of reports that he needed to review, but he couldn't bring himself to start.
He kept thinking of the park and the ride… and the feel of Greg's hand in his.
Grissom sighed.
He had only himself to blame. He had lowered his defenses just enough to do something nice for a colleague and this is what he got. He, who avoided touching anyone but the dead bodies he encountered on the job, and who had successfully kept people away for years, had let someone grab his hand. No big deal, some might say. Except that for him it was a lifetime event, one that he was completely unprepared for. Greg's hand had felt like a lifeline; a source of strength and comfort that Grissom didn't know he needed.
He shook his head. How could such a simple action change things like this? It was as if he had been asleep –cocooned and protected by denial- and now that he was awake, he was discovering how starved he'd been for a little human contact.
He closed his eyes, tiredly.
He did not need this; he had enough problems. The lab explosion had brought unwanted attention from the directors, at the worst time of his life: He was going deaf, the condition might be permanent, and if it was permanent… he would lose his job –his raison d'être.
The otosclerosis was getting worse, too. He'd had trouble hearing Greg and had resorted to lip-reading, something that was pretty dangerous if you were driving.
He'd read the words that had made his heart jump- "Next time, we should come when the park is open." "I had fun… I'm going to call it a date, if you don't mind."
Greg and his endless babbling. Greg and his strong fingers.
Grissom took a deep breath. What he needed now was to keep Greg at a distance, and he knew exactly how to accomplish that: He'd have the operation. It was ironic; he'd spent a whole year putting it off, and now he couldn't wait to go under the knife. He wouldn't tell anyone, of course; he'd ostensibly go on vacation, and if things turned out ok, he'd return with his hearing restored.
Catherine would take care of the lab. She'd make sure that Greg was ok -she'd probably do a better job than Grissom anyway.
By the time he returned, things would be normal again.
But for now…
He looked at his hand –the hand that Greg had touched.
It was shaking.

***

SECOND DATE
Some scenes here will seem familiar to some of you; it's material that I didn't use in my story "Decisions," (the part about the convention).
There's a mention of Stephen Connor, from 'Medical Investigations' and that Greg Sanders' look-a-like Ryan Wolfe from CSI Miami, (I don't usually watch CSI M., but when I saw Wolfe in a promo, my first impression was that he'd been chosen because he looked like Greg. I might be wrong)
I don't usually watch MI so my description of SC might be unfair.
Second Date: 2004 (set about a couple of weeks after Mea Culpa)
The applause was deafening; everyone was happy that the President of the Forensic Sciences Association had finally wrapped up his speech. The old man was gratified by the public's reaction and proceeded to make a lengthy introduction of the next guest, Dr. Stephen Connor and his conference, 'Medical Investigation: Past and Future.'
The auditorium was packed and Grissom had been forced to take a seat at the back, but he didn't mind; he was not interested in the next conference, although he would listen attentively, out of courtesy.
Or at least he was going to try.
It wasn't just that the speakers at the back had malfunctioned and it was hard to hear what Connor was saying; the main reason was that somewhere in the back row, Greg was making comments that were funny and erudite, and every time he said something, Grissom wanted to hear it.
He smiled to himself. If Eckley ever found out that he'd had fun at the convention, he'd be pissed.
A couple of weeks ago, right after taking over his new duties as Assistant Director, Eckley had decided that Grissom should attend the Forensic Sciences Institute Annual Convention in Miami, taking Greg as an assistant. Even before Grissom could say anything, Eckley had smirked and said, "I suppose you'd rather go alone or with Sophia, but I'm sure you'll have more fun with Sanders."
Actually, Grissom would have preferred not to go at all, but he didn't say anything. He refused to feed Eckley's ego by engaging in a fight he was bound to lose, anyway.
"You'll be sharing a suite," Eckley had said, enjoying himself more and more. "I think you'll be a good influence on that guy, Gil." He said, rising from his seat, "Unless…" he paused by the door, "Unless he ends up having an influence in you." He smirked again, "Just don't go out partying with him; you're a bit too old for that."
It was unlikely that Grissom would ever go out partying, and frankly, there had been no time to go out, period. Gil and Greg had been going from one conference to another and from one seminar to the next. At the end of the last two days, they had been too exhausted to do more than sitting in front of the TV.
They had presented their own seminar and it had been a success: Students and professionals alike had approached them for more information. Grissom was pleased by the reaction, but he suspected that the female students had been more drawn by Greg himself than the conference. Greg had practically been mobbed by them.
Grissom smiled again. This convention had turned out to be a nice experience –surely better than Eckley had thought it would be. Greg was never boring, and while he certainly knew how to party, he also knew when to be serious; and more importantly, he made friends easily –something that was very important, since it kept him occupied and out of Grissom's way a few hours a day.
The older man liked to have his personal space –something made difficult by the fact that he and Greg were sharing a suite. True, they had separate bedrooms, but they shared the TV and the bathroom; and while Grissom didn't mind relinquishing the TV remote, sharing the bathroom had taken him a while to get used to.
The first night they spent together, Grissom had been brushing his teeth when Greg entered the bathroom, practically invading his boss' personal space.
"Hey, boss," he had said casually, picking up his toothbrush.
"Hey, Greg," Grissom had mumbled. He studiously avoided looking at Greg and focused on teeth-brushing until Greg yawned lustily. Grissom gave in and looked up at his reflection on the mirror. Greg was wearing pajamas –probably out of deference to his boss- and he looked funny, with eyes shut and mouth wide open.
"You look like an alligator." Grissom said dryly.
"I -awrghhh." Greg yawned again, "I'm tired, boss."
"Well, try to rest." Grissom said, putting his toothbrush back in the holder, "Our conference starts at eight." He added, walking around Greg to reach the door.
"Sure will." Greg nodded. "'night, Grissom." He called out, and when Grissom was well out of sight but still close enough to hear, he added, "Sleep tight, don't let the bugs bite-" He snorted, "That doesn't apply to you, does it? You like bugs!"
Grissom was smiling as he remembered this. This forced intimacy had been hard on him at first, but now he was used to Greg's presence and to their routine: They shaved and ate breakfast together, and then each went to the conferences they were more interested in. By the end of the day, they shared information and watched TV.
The lights were dimmed and Dr. Connor presented some news footage related to a case he had solved. Grissom was squinting at the screen when suddenly a hand grasped his shoulder.
"That guy's intense." Greg whispered in his ear.
Grissom froze when he felt Greg's breath in his ear. The young man was leaning forward, almost touching Grissom's cheek with his own.
"Intense?" Grissom repeated, looking sideways at Greg. "You think?"
"Yep," Greg nodded placidly. "Very."
Grissom looked at Connor again. Intense? Maybe, but it was Greg's tone of admiration that made him pause. Grissom frowned. He could be intense too; just because he kept his feelings purposefully behind a bland façade, didn't mean he couldn't-
Grissom blinked. What the hell was that? He sounded like he was jealous-
"I wouldn't like to work with someone like him, though." Greg said.
"Wouldn't you?"
"No. He looks like he'd put himself on a quarantine if he got a hangnail or a little zit." He chuckled. He patted Grissom's shoulder and turned to talk to his friends in the back row.
Grissom smiled. Maybe there was no reason to be jealous.
Now and then his comments would reach Grissom's ears and not all of them where about Forensics; some were about music or movies ('I prefer Sean Connery as Bond!') Or 'Hey, do you have plans for tonight?'
Grissom shook his head. Greg had been flirting from day one, mostly with the female Pathologists, but so far with little success. The problem was that most of the women had conferences and seminars to attend, and very little time to spare. The female students would have been more willing, but Greg wasn't interested in them.
Sometimes it looked like Greg preferred to put himself in losing situations.
Grissom had refrained from making any comment, until that night, when they were watching TV.
"Why do you do always that?"
"Do what?"
"Hit on every woman who crosses your path."
"Well, I believe in using a wide net," he said cheekily "Then I step back and see what I've caught." He glanced at Grissom, "Why?"
"It gives the impression that you're just playing around." Grissom said, without stopping to ask himself why he cared.
"Maybe I am just playing around." Greg said distractedly. Then he remembered that he was talking to his boss, and he didn't want to appear irresponsible, "I mean, I play around sometimes-" he amended, "But not with everybody."
Grissom wasn't convinced, but he knew he was the last person who should be giving advice in these matters, so he shut up.
"It's harmless fun, Grissom." Greg insisted, "Besides…" he smiled, "You should be glad that I hit on the doctors."
"Why is that?"
"Well, you said you didn't want to attend the CSI's banquet, right?"
Grissom nodded. He didn't like the fact that only the Supervisors had been invited; it wasn't fair to Greg and the rest of the assistants.
"Well," Greg continued, "Thanks to me, now you don't have to go," he said, "And you won't have to stay here all alone, eating room service cheeseburgers either," He paused and then he said smugly, "I got us an invitation to the Pathologists' dinner!"
Grissom was interested.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yeah!" Greg smiled widely, "The lovely Dr. Ann Dawson needed an escort and I told her I was available. As luck had it, her best friend -the equally lovely Dr. Carmen Morris- didn't have an escort either, so," he paused, "I offered to get legendary Dr. Gil Grissom to go with her." He looked expectantly at Grissom, and when the older man didn't say anything, he added, "You're welcome."
It took Grissom a few seconds to find something to say. He cleared his throat first.
"I don't want to go to the Pathologists' dinner."
Greg smiled. He knew Grissom was going to resist at first.
"Grissom, you told me that CSI dinners are notoriously cheap and boring, right? Well, the pathologists will hold their banquet at Le Seine. Le Seine, Grissom. We're talking about a five-course dinner with wines and several desserts to choose from." He rose and put the remote control on the coffee table, "I'll have to rent a dark suit," he muttered to himself, "I can't go to Le Seine wearing the jacket I've worn every day," he turned to Grissom, "Can I borrow the extra tie you brought?"
"I'll give you both," he said dryly. "I don't want to -"
"Oh, come on, boss-"
"-go out with Dr Morris." Grissom finished.
"Grissom," he said patiently, "It's a date, not an engagement. All you'll have to do is sit there, compliment her dress, smile, and tell a couple of stories." He paused, "Oh, and use the correct dinnerware, of course," he joked.
"Greg-"
"Although that may not be enough," Greg said, ignoring his boss' attempts to interrupt him, "These are smart women, Grissom; we can't rely just on our good looks to impress them. Maybe we should take a refresher course on Pathology tomorrow; you know, in case they want to talk about their careers-"
"I don't-"
"Aw, relax, Grissom!" He smiled reassuringly, "You'll do fine. You're a famous Entomologist and a famous crime-buster. And you're a good dancer too, right?" he asked and burst out laughing when he saw the panic on Grissom's face, "Kidding! I'm just kidding. There's no dance involved." He said firmly, and then he smirked, "Unless you want to indulge in some horizontal tango later on…"
Grissom was not smiling.
"I'm joking, boss." Greg said gently, "It's only dinner ok? It'll be fun."
"Greg, I'll have more fun if I stay here and watch TV."
"You don't know that. Listen," he said, more seriously, "A year ago you told me that you never dated, but you could give it a try at least." he paused and looked at him in the eye, "Just think it over. Please."
Grissom didn't move until he heard Greg close his door.
Greg's words reminded him of that day, more than a year ago, when they rode a roller coaster and held hands.
He had successfully blocked that memory until now. He did not appreciate being reminded of it. He sighed. Greg was exasperating, sometimes. Grissom didn't want to be ungrateful, but he just didn't want to go to any dinner party; he didn't want to sit with strangers, no matter how nice they were, or how good the food was. Even if Greg was there, he-
He paused.
Suddenly, he pictured the banquet and the two pathologists, Greg and himself sharing a table at a fancy restaurant. With a start, he realized that he might be willing to do this – being charming and pleasant to the doctors and he even dancing with them, if only out of gratitude-
Gratitude for providing him with an excuse to sit across from Greg at a nice place they would never go to in a million years –a chance to act as if he was on a date with Greg.
Grissom entered the bar and was glad to see that it was almost empty.
Of course it was empty; most people were still finishing off conferences and seminars, or getting ready for a night of banquets. He had come down early because being upstairs doing nothing while Greg got ready for the party was driving him nuts.
They were meeting the doctors down here anyway.
Grissom sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and opened the book he had brought. He was glad he had brought one; it was unnerving, the quantity of mirrors that covered almost every surface at the bar. He didn't need to be reminded what he looked like every minute of the day.
Still, there were advantages; from his spot at the bar, he could see people entering the bar without having to turn. Every time he perceived a movement, he discreetly looked up.
The bartender noticed this and after a while he thought he had the perfect excuse to interrupt Grissom's reading. It was a slow night and he was bored.
"You waiting for someone?"
"No." Grissom said quickly, feeling oddly guilty at being caught on.
"Aren't you?" he was surprised, "I thought you were."
"No."
"I mean," the guy insisted, "you've been looking up every time someone-"
"Hey, Grissom."
Damn, Grissom thought, there he is and I missed the entrance. He'd been curious to see what Greg looked like when he went to a party.
He turned. Party-Greg looked more handsome than Lab-Greg. Even though his rented suit didn't really fit, the white-shirt-and-dark-tie combo looked good on him, and he knew it. There was a seductive smile gracing his lips, and Grissom was not the only one to notice –unfortunately. Several girls were waving at Greg from afar and a couple of them stopped to talk.
Once they left, Greg took a seat beside his boss and glanced at Grissom's half empty glass.
"What are you having?"
"Mineral water and lime."
"Good." He approved, "Dr Morris doesn't drink; she'll appreciate being kissed by a guy who doesn't stink of booze." He added, and chuckled when he noticed Grissom's frown. "I'm joking, Grissom." He said gently. He turned to the bartender, who was hovering nearby, and ordered a drink. "And bring another for my friend, here." He added grandly.
Grissom lifted an eyebrow.
"You have big bucks tonight, Greg?"
The young man smiled. He was in good spirits. He used the mirror closest to him to check on his tie and his hair, while talking animatedly about the convention and about the closing ceremony to take place the next day. But after a moment, he realized that Grissom's attention was not on him but on the book that lay open on the shiny counter.
Greg tried to joke about it. He leant sideways and waved at a mirror, until Grissom looked up.
"Am I boring you, boss?"
For a moment they looked at each other on the mirror.
Grissom avoided having to answer by looking down and picking up his drink.
He wasn't bored by Greg's talk; he was mesmerized by it.
Too late had he realized that he was not going to be able to pull this off.
All day long he'd told himself that he could do it –go on a date, that is. It wasn't like he had never done it before –despite of what he had told Greg. He was perfectly capable of handling a date -he could be charming, attentive, and considerate- but this time there was a problem: Greg.
The young man just looked too good; so good that it was going to be hard not to stare at him, (hell, even now it was difficult not to look); and once Grissom started looking, everyone else was bound to notice –the doctors and Greg himself.
And Grissom was afraid of revealing –with just one look- the feelings that had lain dormant these past months.
Ignorant of his boss' inner turmoil, Greg went on talking. It was like an automatic reaction in him- the more Grissom ignored him, the more Greg needed to talk. Maybe he did it out of nervousness, or maybe it was an attempt to keep some sort of connection between them. No matter the reasons, he just kept on babbling, hoping to break through Grissom's indifference.
In the end, it wasn't his words that drew Grissom's full attention, it was his leg.
Greg was shifting in his seat as he talked, and his knee accidentally bumped against Grissom's. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it –just an unintentional touch, like dozens that might occur every day at the lab. And yet, something happened- It might have been the angle, or the amount of pressure, or the fact that instead of pulling back, their knees briefly rubbed against each other again. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like a surge of electricity had passed from one to the other; a perfect meeting of nerve endings and muscles–
Greg looked up at the mirror again and Grissom met his gaze.
Grissom was the first to look away (and move away), but not before Greg read his expression –actually it was as if Grissom had spoken aloud. 'I'd like more of that,' he'd said.
Greg was stunned.
Well, well…
This felt like déjà vu. Once again he was wondering how open to possibilities his boss might be. Greg lifted his glass to hide a grin.
Last year he had wondered about Grissom; now, he was sure. The thing was, what to do about it? For now they had dinner to look forward to, but what about later?
He was musing on this, when he spotted someone entering the bar.
"Hey," he said, "there's Ryan what's-his-name, that CSI guy who works with Horatio Caine. I'll be right back, Grissom."
Grissom glanced at a mirror to follow Greg's movements until the bartender blocked his view. Distracted, Grissom eyed Greg's drink for the first time. The tall glass held some clear liquid –Vodka? Gin?- and a gelatinous red coloring that was sinking fast to the bottom.
"What do you call that?" he asked the bartender.
"Sangre Dulce." The bartender said in perfect Spanish.
"Sweet Blood?" frowned Grissom.
The bartender chuckled.
"It sounds nicer in Spanish," he shrugged.
"It looks like coagulated blood," Grissom said admiringly.
The bartender was pleased by the reaction.
"I created several drinks in honor of the convention." He leant on the bar, "I put all kinds of synthetic syrups and colorings in a glass and then I top them off with rum." He laughed when he noticed Grissom's expression, "Hey, the kids love this exotic shit; it gives them the illusion that they're not really, you know, boozing it uplike their daddies." He said cynically. He eyed Grissom's mineral water, "You a twelve-step man?"
"No."
The bartender eyed him closely.
"I bet you're a straight-whisky guy," he said with impeccable insight. "What's the deal with the mineral water? You don't think I've got good Scotch here?"
"I just-" Grissom shrugged.
The bartender glanced at Greg and then he looked at Grissom.
"You're hoping to get lucky." he said.
Grissom winced.
The bartender smiled to himself. He'd seen everything in his fifteen years as a bartender; when it came to people pairing off, nothing surprised him anymore.
Grissom was still wondering if he was indeed hoping to get lucky, when Greg returned.
"Hey, I'm back!" Greg said as he slid on his seat. "Did you know," he said, "that people say I look like that Miami guy, Ryan Wolfe?" He grinned, "'Fess up, Grissom." He said, "Are CSI honchos required to hire one exceedingly handsome, brown-eyed guy per shift?"
Grissom glanced over his shoulder.
"He's not that handsome-" he replied.
The bartender snorted noisily and Grissom frowned. Was the guy laughing at him?
He glanced at Greg and was mystified to see that the young man was grinning too.
Why? What the hell happened? All he'd said was-
Oh.
He'd just implied that Greg was exceedingly handsome. Grissom took a big mouthful of his drink.
Greg smiled and took a sip of his drink.
"You know something?" he said, "This feels like a date. I mean, here we are, having drinks-" he lifted his glass and gently touched Grissom's glass with it, "We'll be having dinner at an elegant restaurant-"
"Along with Drs. Morris and Dawson." Grissom muttered without lifting his gaze.
Greg paused. The words –and the bitter tone behind them- sobered him up. He took another sip of his drink and then he slowly put the glass down.
"Do you want us to go alone?" he asked without looking up.
Grissom gulped more mineral water to keep from answering. He had fantasized about having dinner with Greg –he wanted to sit at the same table and talk over a glass of wine- but that was all. He might not like the idea of sharing Greg with the doctors, but he wasn't ready to do anything else. Going out with Greg… No way.
"We can't do that." He said simply.
Greg nodded quietly.
"Ok." he said. He turned to look at Grissom, "And now you're not coming to dinner, are you?"
Grissom winced. Greg knew him too well, apparently.
"No."
"Ok." Greg said simply.
After that, Grissom was vaguely aware that Greg's cell rang and that he was talking to someone. The doctors, probably.
"Yes, I'm at the bar…" Greg mumbled, "No, he's not coming with us… Yeah, you were right. Sure… Great… Yeah, I'll be there." He said, and then he put some money on the bar and left without glancing at Grissom.

***
Fifteenth floor. Stop. Fourteenth floor. Stop.
"Come on, come on-" Greg urged. He was becoming more and more impatient; the elevator had been making stops on each floor and it looked like it would never reach the basement. It was understandable -it was Friday night, after all; surely every guest at the hotel wanted to come down to the disco.
Greg leant on the wall and closed his eyes. All around him people were in a festive mood, going from the disco to the bar and vise versa, or to the garden area. Just a few minutes ago Greg had been enjoying himself too –or trying to- until he started to feel funny.
He didn't feel funny anymore -he felt like shit actually. His head hurt, his gut hurt -if he didn't know better, he would have sworn he had one hell of a hangover.
It couldn't be, of course; he'd barely touched any hard alcohol. It must be the food; he'd had a big dinner at Le Seine and then he'd come back to the hotel bar where he'd sampled everything from tacos to shrimp-
"Ough," he muttered, "Don't even think of food."
He didn't think he could feel any worse...
... Until he glanced at the French doors that led to the garden and saw Grissom coming in.
Greg rolled his eyes in disbelief; what were the odds than in a hotel as big as this –a hotel so big that it was like a self-contained city- he would meet the one person he definitely didn't want to talk to? Now, instead of avoiding Grissomas he had originally planned, he would have to share the elevator with him.
Greg's initial reaction had been to look away, but now he turned and watched Grissom.
The older man had changed into jeans and a leather jacket, and he was carrying a pile of books and catalogs -a pile so high that he had to hold it down with his jaw. In fact, he was so intent on taking care of his books that he didn't see Greg until he was standing next to him.
Grissom was trying to reach the elevator button without dropping his books, when he noticed Greg's presence. Grissom didn't say anything, but then he didn't need to. His face was expressive enough.
It said, 'Oh, shit.'
The elevator got to the basement at last, and it filled so quickly that Grissom and Greg were forced to stand together at the back of the car.
Unexpectedly, it was Grissom who broke the silence.
"So." He said, without turning, "Did you enjoy dinner?"
"Did you enjoy room service?" Greg retorted sarcastically.
Grissom winced. That didn't sound like Greg... but maybe the young man had a right to be pissed off? Grissom decided to make amends.
"I didn't;" Grissom said. "Enjoy room service, I mean."
Greg ignored him.
"The food gave me heartburn," Grissom admitted, "The service was lousy," he added, "And it seemed that every show on TV was a rerun."
If he thought telling a list of his misfortunes would placate Greg, he was mistaken; the young man simply stared ahead.
"I ended up going down for a walk," Grissom said, "I was exploring the hotel grounds when I found a couple of boxes filled with material from the convention. They were throwing these into the trash," He said, lifting the books, "Can you believe it?" When Greg didn't answer, Grissom took a close look at him and noticed that Greg seemed to be barely holding himself together. "Are you ok, Greg?"
"Yeah." he replied defiantly, "Why?"
"You look like you drank too much."
Greg stood straighter.
"I'm not drunk." he said morosely, "I'm not talking to you, either."
Grissom prudently backed off.
They rode in silence until they reached their floor. Despite his earlier claim, Greg was the one who spoke first.
"You should have come with us," he said as he stepped out of the elevator.
Grissom followed Greg down the hallway, but he didn't notice that the young man was walking unsteadily. He was more concerned about not dropping his books.
"I mean," Greg said, "I was just trying to do something nice, Grissom."
"I know."
"I thought you might like to go out."
"Greg-"
"I don't get it, you know?" Greg interrupted, "I mean, it was only dinner. No big deal."
But to Grissom it was a big deal. He had learned the hard way that no one asked you out to dinner –and only dinner- at the end of a convention. And no one extended invitations to five-course dinners just to hear you talk. Those dinners led to drinks, and drinks led to worrying about whose room to go to.
It was a tradition, and one that Grissom had given up a long, long time ago. Until this time, that is. The fact that he had been willing to go to this dinner just to be close to Greg still bothered him.
"-and I had to apologize for you-" Greg was saying as they reached their hotel room. "You should have done that yourself." He added sternly.
"You're right," Grissom said quietly.
"Not that the doctors were surprised," Greg glared, shoving a hand in his pocket, "It seems you have a reputation for not socializing with your colleagues." He frowned and tried the other pocket. "Unless it's for a cockroach race, of course-" he added, and now he was patting every pocket in his suit.
"You lost your key?" Grissom asked.
"I didn't lose it-" Greg said morosely, "I have it somewhere-" And then he froze, "Or maybe I left it in my other suit."
"Let's use mine," Grissom said, handing his pile of books to Greg, who misunderstood and thought Grissom was raising his arms to give him access to his own pockets.
"Ok," Greg said, and reached into Grissom's pocket to search for the key.
Grissom froze.
They were close –very close- and Greg's hand felt warm…hot, almost.
"I've got it." Greg said triumphantly and looked up, only to find himself staring into stunned blue eyes.
Greg realized what he had done but didn't apologize. Slowly -very slowly- and without taking his eyes off Grissom's, he withdrew his hand from Grissom's pocket.
The key made a tingling sound against its ring, but it didn't distract him.
Grissom had that look on his face again; the one that spelled out, I'd like more of that.'
Greg gulped hard. He wasn't feeling too good, but he didn't want to miss this chance.
"We could have had dinner together, Grissom." he said slowly.
Grissom held his books a bit closer, as if they were a shield. Greg smiled and took an unsteady step closer.
"It was only dinner. There was nothing to be afraid of-"
Maybe not, but Greg had a feverish look about him that seemed scary now. He didn't smell of alcohol, so maybe he wasn't drunk, but there was something off about him... And whatever it was, Grissom found it mesmerizing; so mesmerizing that he didn't step back when Greg leant forward.
Greg smiled faintly as his lips touched Grissom's. It was over very quickly –he only wanted to give Grissom a taste of what things could be like – but it was pleasant and Grissom did not recoil in disgust.
That was a good sign.
Greg pulled back a little; he wanted to say something cool like, 'Did you like that, spider boy?' or 'Do you want more of this?', when suddenly he moaned, 'Oh, God' and threw up.
"Do you want more water?"
The voice floated somewhere from above. Greg started to shake his head, but it still hurt, so he stopped.
"No." he said huskily, "Thanks."
"Are you cold?" the voice asked, and before Greg answered, a large towel was draped on his shoulders.
"Thank you," he mumbled.
Greg would not open his eyes. He was mortified and not looking at Grissom made it a bit bearable.
He had done some regrettable things in the past, but tonight he had surpassed himself. He could argue that kissing someone was ok –even if it was your boss- but, oh, dear God, puking all over him?
Greg still couldn't believe it had happened.
And things went downhill afterwards: In his haste to avoid Greg's puke, Grissom had stepped back and accidentally dropped his books- the ones he'd so tenderly taken care of. Then, instead of picking the books up, Grissom had had to take care of Greg:
He'd hurriedly opened the door and hauled the sick man straight to the bathroom, where he held Greg's head while he threw up what looked like every meal he had consumed in the last three days; and then Grissom had cleaned up the mess, removed Greg's soiled clothes, gotten him some medicine-
"Oh, God." he moaned quietly.
"What is it?"
Greg winced; Grissom was still there, monitoring his reactions. He better be careful.
"Nothing." He mumbled. He'd never felt so humiliated.
"How do you feel?"
"Like shit." He said.
"Drink this." Grissom said, taking Greg's hand and putting a glass in it.
Greg drank without looking and handed the glass back. Once he heard Grissom step away, he reluctantly opened his eyes and then squinted until he got used to the lights. He was sitting on the floor, next to the toilet, and from that spot he could see his rented suit lying in a heap, and Grissom's puke-covered shoes-
Oh, God. He was going to moan again, but stopped. He didn't want to have Grissom hovering over him anymore; he had done more than enough and, frankly, watching over a subordinate who's just lost his cookies wasn't part of a Supervisor's job description, was it?
Lost his cookies. Greg snorted. That's how his grandmother called it 'cause she was too polite to say puke-
Snorting only reminded him how much he hurt. He had stopped puking a while ago, but his guts still hurt. Actually, everything hurt -his head, his joints –even breathing hurt. His butt hurt too, but that was only because he'd been sitting on the hard tile for what felt like hours.
He didn't think he could feel any worse -until he noticed that Grissom had picked up one of his soiled shoes and was inspecting it closely. To Greg's dismay, Grissom used a Q-tip to pick up a small sample of vomit.
"Shit, Grissom," muttered Greg, feeling nauseous again, "You're not going to analyze my puke, are you?"
"It's evidence, Greg." He said calmly, "If someone slipped you something-"
"No one slipped me anything. Grissom; I only had a bottle of beer. It was the food."
"It couldn't have been dinner," Grissom argued, "You would have been sick earlier-"
"I ate some stuff at the bar."
"What did you eat?"
"A burger…" he said, "Some shrimp, a couple of tacos…"
"You ate all that besides dinner?" glared Grissom.
"Ah, leave me alone." He muttered
Grissom didn't insist. He felt sorry for Greg. He was a pitiful sight.
"I'm going to make a few calls," Grissom said, "Do you need anything?"
"A loaded gun would be nice," Greg muttered.
Grissom snorted.
After a while, Grissom returned to the bathroom and gave him some orange juice.
"The hotel manager won't admit any wrong-doing, but everything points to the finger food at the bar. The bartender says the hotel hired a new caterer-"
"What was it? The tacos or the burgers?"
"They'll have to do some testing." He said, "But there are twenty hotel guests complaining of food poisoning and they all ate at the bar."
"Great." Greg said weakly. "Misery loves company, is that what you're saying?" He closed his eyes, "I'll never eat tacos again."
"That's hard to believe," Grissom muttered to himself.
After a moment of silence, Grissom sat on the floor too.
"By the way," He said after a moment, "Guess who's in charge."
Greg opened his eyes, surprised at seeing Grissom sitting next to him.
"Who?" he asked.
"Dr. Connor."
"He must be enjoying himself," Greg said dryly.
"He wanted to put the hotel on quarantine." Grissom said with a smirk.
Greg chuckled and then he winced in pain.
"Please, don't make me laugh," he moaned. "It hurts."
"Sorry."
Greg looked up when he heard this.
"Grissom, I am sorry," he said, "You know, about your books and-"
"The books survived, Greg."
"-and about everything else." he finished, "I mean, it was disgusting, Grissom."
"Don't worry about it," he said kindly, "Hey, I saw worse when I was in College," he quipped.
"Yeah, but, still-" he mumbled, "You had to clean up, and-"
"I didn't do the hard work." Grissom said, "But you might want to leave a large tip for the cleaning lady who took care of the hallway." He observed Greg's demeanor and was relieved to discover that he looked much better now. He was about to comment on this when a new thought came to him. "What about the doctors?"
"What doctors?"
"Drs. Dawson and Morris," Grissom said, "If they ate the same food, they could be in trouble-"
"They're not." Greg said, evasively.
"Are you sure? If they ate any of the-"
"They weren't at the bar." Greg said curtly.
"Oh." Grissom frowned, "I thought they were with you-"
"They weren't." Greg admitted reluctantly. When he noticed that Grissom was looking expectantly at him, he added, "It was your fault," he glared, "If you had come with us things would have gone smoothly. But you didn't, and Dr. Morris got herself another date -a guy who was really serious about getting some action, if you know what I mean. He even brought some cocaine-"
"Cocaine?"
"Yeah." He scowled, "There we were at Le Seine, in a room filled with people who work at law enforcement, and he just waved the bag around! After that, there was no question about going dancing anymore; they just wanted to go straight to that guy's suite. And-"
"And?"
"And I chickened out." He admitted, and then he glared at Grissom, defying him to make fun of him for not taking advantage of the situation.
Grissom calmly looked back.
"You should have seen them," Greg snorted, "The three of them were acting like college kids during Spring break."
"Don't be too harsh on them," Grissom said after a moment, "Doing things out of character on the last day of a convention is a tradition. People have flings, they get drunk-"
Greg was skeptical.
"Have you ever done any of those things?"
Grissom chuckled.
"Once in Hawaii, me and my colleagues jumped naked into a pool, in the middle of the day-" He smiled proudly, "We were ordered to leave immediately."
Grissom didn't mention the fact that this had happened twenty years ago. It didn't matter when he'd done it but why… and he still didn't know the answer. Although he had theories.
"There's something about these Conventions-" he said, "Maybe it's peer pressure, or the fact that we're away from home, but… suddenly we start to believe we can do anything." he said thoughtfully. "All the things that we wouldn't even dream of doing, seem possible." he paused, "We tell ourselves, 'It's just this once. Nobody will know…' But sometimes our conscience intervenes-" he said, looking pointedly at Greg, "And we chicken out."
Greg snorted.
"If I hadn't chickened out, I would have probably had an awesome time with the doctors."
"You don't know that. You followed your instincts." Grissom said softly, "You have principles. I admire that."
They were silent for a moment.
Greg cleared his throat.
"Grissom, about the –um- the kiss. You're not pissed off at me, are you?"
"No." Grissom said quietly, "I understand."
Greg frowned.
"What is it that you understand?" he asked.
Grissom opened his mouth and then closed it.
"I don't know." He admitted at last, "I always say 'I understand' whenever I want to end a conversation."
"Oh. So… you don't want to talk about it-" Greg muttered. "That's ok," he said, "I understand."
Greg realized what he'd just said, and couldn't help a chuckle.
Grissom smiled too. He looked closely at Greg. "Would you like to get some sleep?"
"Right now I'd be happy just to sit on a softer surface," Greg said sheepishly.
"Maybe you should sleep on the couch," Grissom said, "It's closer to the bathroom."
"I guess that would be wiser," Greg nodded, "Hey, we don't have to get up early tomorrow, do we?"
"I don't think so." Grissom said as he rose from the floor, "They're suspending the closing ceremonies." he looked down, "Do you need help?"
"No." Greg said without moving, "You go ahead."
Greg wanted to get up and walk by himself; he didn't want to bother Grissom anymore.
By the time he made it to the living room, Grissom had already brought a pillow and an afghan for him.
"Thanks," he said, lying down, "Thanks, Grissom." He said, taking the afghan from his boss. Their hands brushed. They looked at each other.
Grissom slowly released the afghan and then he turned off the closest lamp.
"Call me if you need anything." He said.
Greg watched as Grissom moved around the room, turning off the other lamps and moving the furniture so Greg had a clean path to the bathroom in case he needed to go.
"Grissom." he called out just as Grissom was about to turn off the last light, "Did you like the kiss?"
There was a brief pause. In the semi darkness, Greg could see Grissom's profile, but not his expression.
"Yes," Grissom said at last, "I did."
"Really?" There was a pause, and then he added deliberately. "That's good to know."
Grissom froze. Greg's words seemed filled with possibilities.
Grissom knew that anything he said now could open a door -or shut it down- and the realization gave him an odd feeling of power. He had said it himself, just a while ago - All the things that we wouldn't even dream of doing, seem possible. We tell ourselves, 'It's just this once-.'
But he hadn't done anything this spontaneous in a long, long time, and yes, he had a conscience.
"Actually," Grissom said in a lighter tone, "The first part of the kiss was ok, but I wasn't too crazy about the rest."
"Ah, shit," Greg sighed. "You'll never let me forget that." He shook his head sheepishly, "It was like some kind of Aversion Therapy, right? I've probably traumatized you for life. From now on, every time someone tries to kiss you, you're going to worry about getting vomit all over you."
"Probably," Grissom smiled. He didn't add that being kissed was something that rarely happened to him.
"So," Greg said, "If I hadn't, you know, puked all over you-" Greg's voice trailed off.
"My conscience would have intervened, Greg." Grissom said firmly. "Maybe yours, too."
They were silent for a moment.
"Maybe it was fate's way of sending us a message, right?" Greg said, "You know, 'Don't go there, you two,' or 'Keep your hands off your boss' "
Grissom smiled.
"Probably." He said.
"So…" Greg said, "What happens now?"
"Nothing, Greg." Grissom said, "Remember," He added with a touch of humor, "What happens at a convention, stays at the convention."
Greg watched as Grissom quietly entered his room.
Once the door was closed, Greg distracted himself by thinking of things to do.
Leave a large tip to the cleaning lady who had taken care of the mess in the hallway.
Return his rented suit and pay a fine.
Make sure Grissom's books were really ok.
Buy Grissom a new pair of shoes.
And mostly, thank God for giving him such an understanding boss.
Grissom closed the door and leant against it for a while.
Now that he was finally alone, he could think of the events of the day –but mostly, he thought of the kiss, and the brief moment in which he had actually believed he could do anything he wanted.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
And then he silently cursed fate for doing this to him.

***
Third date: 2005
Grissom signed a report, put it on his 'out' tray and then glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty already.
He signed. He had stayed after his shift ended to do some paperwork. At first he had only planned on staying a couple of hours, but now it looked like he was not going to go home. He hated working on files and reports, but once he started, he couldn't stop.
He picked up another file, opened it and started reading. Soon he became so engrossed by the text that he didn't notice when Greg entered this office. Bemused, Greg watched him for a while, but finally he couldn't contain himself. He had big news.
"The verdict's in!" he announced.
Grissom looked up. Greg was smiling expectantly.
Grissom put down his pen. He knew what verdict Greg was talking about: The McBride rape; the first case that Greg had worked on as lead investigator.
The case had seemed very straightforward at first: A teenager had been raped, and all the evidence pointed to one person only: Kenneth Johnstone, a young college student.
Greg had avidly followed the trial, even after his testimony was over. While he had testified as a DNA expert for years, this was the first time he'd done it as the CSI in charge, and he had dedicated many hours and even used his own personal time to make sure that the evidence against Johnstone was unimpeachable.
Johnstone's lawyer hadn't been able to undermine Greg's testimony, but he'd effectively used the victim's character against her. Even the girl's parents admitted under oath that her wild ways had got her in trouble before. The prosecution had done a good job at closing arguments, however, so it was difficult to predict the outcome.
The jury had retired for deliberations three days before, and Greg had been waiting for the verdict since then. For him, there could only be one: Guilty.
Grissom didn't share his optimism. He had lost count of the times a jury had been swayed one way or the other by a slick defense, a suspect's charisma, or -let's face it- an incompetent prosecutor. He had tried to share his misgivings with Greg; he had tried to explain that sometimes even the strongest evidence was not enough, but whenever he started to say something, Greg's enthusiasm had overpowered him.
And now, the verdict was in.
"So," Greg said, "Do you wanna come along and hear that sweet 'Guilty as charged'?"
Grissom hesitated.
"Greg-" he started.
"I know, I know;" Greg interrupted, "You mustn't get your hopes up." He recited, ably mimicking Grissom's voice and tone. "I can't help it," He added in his own voice, "I'm wired, Grissom!" he said enthusiastically, "This was my first trial as a lead CSI, and I want to be optimistic-"
"I understand that, Greg, but-" Grissom cleared his throat. He was about to explain the facts of life to Greg, but he backed off as soon as he saw the young man's smile. Grissom didn't want to take that from him. "This guy had everybody's sympathy," He said instead.
"Not everybody's-" Greg said pointedly.
"The girl's testimony wasn't impressive-" Grissom added.
"Yes, but-"
"And the DA botched the interrogation-"
"Whatever." Greg said dismissively, "He is guilty, Grissom; you know it and I know it." Greg took a step closer and leant on the desk, "Come on." He said, "I need someone cheering me on and you're the only one left from the night shift."
"I can't." Grissom said apologetically, putting a hand on the pile of files on his desk. "I'm kind of busy right now."
"It'll only take us half an hour." Greg said, and then he added playfully, "Plus an hour for the celebration, of course. Drinks are on me." He teased, "What do you say?"
"Well-" Grissom hesitated. He was not really considering going, but he didn't want to say 'no' just like that. "I have to finish all these reports-" he said, "You go."
"Ok," Greg said good-naturedly. He took a couple of steps towards the door, but he was still looking at Grissom. "You're going to miss my moment of triumph, you know."
"Well, I'll be here, in case you want to tell me about it." Grissom said kindly. He watched as Greg walked away, and just as the young man was about to step out of his office, he added, "Greg? Just try to be realistic, ok?"
"I'll try."
"And don't celebrate too much!" Grissom added, but Greg was already out of hearing range. Grissom briefly shook his head. He had the feeling that Greg was going to be disappointed.
He turned his attention back to the open file in front of him and reread the last page. He picked up his pen to make a check, and then he turned to the next page. He read.
And read.
After a moment, he realized that he had been reading the same lines over and over, yet he couldn't tell what they were all about. He took off his glasses and for a moment he only stared ahead, at the place that Greg had occupied only a few minutes ago.
He shook his head. It was ironic. The night the rape was reported, there had been a murder too. Sara and Greg had been available for the investigations, and Grissom hadn't hesitated when he assigned the murder to Sara and the rape case to Greg. At the time it had made sense to him: Greg was still too green to work a murder case on his own, and rape cases were especially hard on Sara.
He had tried to protect them both, but he had made a mistake, at least where Greg was concerned. The young man didn't handle all of the evidence (a female cop had taken care of that), but that hadn't prevented him from becoming too personally involved in the case.
Grissom closed his eyes and sighed. He needed to give his standard 'don't-become-too-involve-in-the-case' talk to Greg. He had wasted several chances, already; he should have prevailed instead of using Greg's optimism as an excuse. The truth was, he had simply hoped that Greg would be ok, no matter the outcome of the trial, but now it was clear they needed to talk, and the sooner the better.
Even if Johnstone got convicted, Greg needed to learn to approach these matters more realistically. Being a CSI was often a thankless job, and Greg needed to be told of this. Optimism and hope were very good qualities, but they often left you unprepared to deal with reality.
Determined, Grissom put away the files and rose from his seat.
He would talk to Greg today.
Not guilty.
Greg couldn't believe it.
There was a mixed reaction from the public in the courtroom. Some people showed their disapproval by shaking their heads and whispering among themselves, while the rest erupted into applause. Greg simply stood, frozen in place. All he could do was gaze at the jurors, willing them to look at him or at Tina McBride and her parents, who were sitting on the third row, forgotten by everyone now, even the prosecutor.
None of jurors glanced his way, nor did they look at the victim; they were looking expectantly at Johnstone. To Greg, they looked like kids who have done their homework and expect to be praised. Maybe they were expecting that guy to give them one of those 'Tom Cruise' grins of his that conquered everyone and had turned him into a favorite of the tabloids.
Well, Johnstone didn't waste any smile on the jury now; he was smugly accepting his adoring supporters' congratulations, despite the judge's frantic calls for order.
Greg had had enough. He didn't want to be there when the judge set Johnstone officially free – dozens of reporters were waiting outside, and they would surely want to talk to anyone involved in the case. Greg didn't think he was that important in the eyes of the press, but he didn't want to place himself in the line of fire either. He slipped out of the courtroom and was surprised to find Grissom waiting outside
The older man knew the outcome just by looking at Greg's face, but to his credit he didn't say 'I told you so.' He simply motioned Greg to follow him.
"Where are we going?" Greg asked.
"The reporters are crowding the elevators, downstairs." He said as he pushed a door open. "We'll use the stairs." He said, "Cops sometimes use these to protect witnesses." Grissom explained.
They descended the narrow stairs in silence. In fact, they didn't talk until they had left the building. They watched from afar as the reporters circled the Courthouse.
"I'm sorry, Greg." Grissom said.
"You tried to warn me," Greg said flatly. He glanced at his boss, "You knew they were going to acquit him, didn't you." He said it almost like an accusation.
"I didn't," Grissom said, still looking at the reporters, "I've just gone through this more times than you," he shrugged, "Nothing surprises me any more." He looked at Greg, "Come on," he said, "Let's go."
The two CSI's walked to the parking lot a couple of blocks away.
"Maybe the evidence wasn't good enough," Greg said suddenly, "What do you think?",
"The evidence was fine."
"Or maybe I lost my credibility when I testified," he added. "I mean, I'd combed my hair down but it was bleached; maybe the jurors didn't like that-"
"Your testimony was fine, Greg" he said, "You did a good job."
"Then what was it?"
Grissom didn't answer right away.
"You'd have to ask the jury," he said slowly, "My guess is that they didn't like Tina McBride. They saw her as a wasted kid who had it coming, while they saw Johnstone as the all-American kid."
"We should hold popularity contests instead of investigations, then."
Grissom didn't comment. Nothing he said would make Greg feel better now.
Still…
"You mustn't let this case embitter you, Greg."
"I'm not bitter," he retorted, "I'm pissed off." He paused, "You understand, right?" he asked, "I mean, you've done this for years and you have a reputation, and yet you've lost cases now and then. Doesn't it piss you off, working so hard only to have twelve people acquit someone just because he's cute?"
Grissom shrugged.
"Getting angry doesn't change the verdicts."
Greg stared at him and then he shook his head.
"I should have known you'd say something like that." He said, "It seems that nothing ever rattles you."
Grissom smiled faintly.
"Someone told me once that it must be nice to be me," he mused aloud, "because I don't feel anything."
Greg snorted.
"If they only knew, right?" and when Grissom looked questioningly at him, he added enigmatically, "You don't fool me, you know."
They entered the parking lot in silence and Greg walked to his car.
Grissom followed him, trying to say something relevant -anything that might help Greg gain some perspective.
He cleared his throat.
"Greg," he said, "There is something you have to remember: The jury judged Johnstone, not you. This isn't personal; this isn't about pride or about losing face." He paused to emphasize what he'd just said and then he added, "You don't win a case by yourself and you don't lose a case by yourself, either." He shrugged, "CSIs simply do our jobs the best way we can, regardless of the outcome. When we lose a case, we must-"
Greg turned abruptly and muttered something that sounded like "Do you wanna fuck?"
Grissom's eyes widened.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"You heard me," Greg retorted, "Do you want to have sex with me?"
Grissom didn't answer, but his physical reaction was revealing to Greg; there was the softening of his expression, and the pupils becoming so dilated that they made his blue eyes look almost black.
As far as Greg was concerned, that was a 'yes,' but Grissom recovered quickly. Within seconds it was just as if he had put on a mask.
"No." he said calmly.
"Why?"
Grissom couldn't believe Greg needed to ask.
"Greg," he said patiently, "You're too angry right now-"
"Yeah," Greg admitted, "That's why I want this."
"Look-"
"I need it, Grissom." He said, looking intensely at his boss. When Grissom didn't react, he tried a lighter tone, "I mean, we've gone out on two dates already," he said. Greg smiled, but there was something desperate about that smile and the effect was not very reassuring, "That's two years of foreplay, Grissom." He added.
Grissom didn't know what to say.
Greg snorted.
"I get it," he said, looking down, "You only date trannies named Mimosa."
"I didn't date -" Grissom started, but didn't add anything else.
He did not want to talk about it, since it was an incident that he recalled with some degree of guilt. Greg had been there, the day that Mimosa phoned to offer some information. For some reason he had looked at Greg and unnecessarily repeated Mimosa's instructions aloud, as if he wanted Greg to know that someone was calling to make a date with him. It was as if-
As if what? As if he wanted to make Greg jealous? No. No way-
Grissom had tried not to look too closely into his motives then, and now he was even less inclined to do so.
He didn't want Greg to be angry either.
"Greg, you know this is a bad idea," he said gently, "Last time you kissed me you had an adverse reaction, remember?"
"Don't be such a jerk," Greg retorted. "I'm serious."
Grissom lost the smile.
"I'm serious, too." He said.
Greg looked at him, still giving him a chance, but Grissom's silence was eloquent enough.
"Fine." Greg said quietly. He turned to his car and opened the door, forcing Grissom to step back. To his credit, Greg didn't speed away. This was a small comfort for Grissom, who watched helplessly as the young man left.
Mechanically, Grissom walked to his own car. He got in and calmly slid the key into the slot. He didn't start the engine, though. He rested both hands on the steering wheel and took a couple of deep breaths. Greg's words had disturbed him more than he had let on.
"Damn," he whispered. He didn't understand it; why did life get so complicated sometimes? He had almost put it all behind him –the kiss that Greg brushed on his lips and the words that had been uttered in a dark hotel room; Grissom didn't appreciate being reminded of it.
He sat in his car for a long time, reviewing the conversation he'd just had and wondering what else he could have said, or done.
With some regret he realized that he hadn't done enough. Sure, Greg's behavior had been inappropriate but it was more complicated than that. Greg didn't really wanted to have sex with him; he had simply used sex as an outlet for his anger. What he really wanted from Grissom was reassurance. Grissom knew that now; he knew what the young man was going through.
Every CSI –and every other law enforcement worker- had a crisis of faith at least once in their lives; a moment in which he –or she- questioned their choice of careers. These crises were triggered by different reasons –a personal mistake, a difficult case, a botched investigation, or an unexpected verdict. Right now Greg was feeling anger and frustration, and Grissom understood completely, because he had felt like that once upon a time.
He had tried to put those memories behind but now he wondered if there was something in them that might help him deal with Greg's crisis.
But his memories only filled him with guilt. Grissom hadn't looked for a friend to talk to or to have sex with; he had simply gone to a liquor store and bought the first of many bottles. Someone had helped him, sure; but only after he had wasted a whole year…
Regret flooded Grissom. He should have helped Greg today. Instead, he had rejected him; and now the young man was out there, looking for some kind of comfort –any comfort. Greg would not turn to a bottle, of course; he would simply call one of his friends and make a date. Or he would find some stranger, and then-
Grissom didn't want to think of that now.
Two hours later, Greg entered his building. He was tired - so tired in fact, that he didn't take the stairs.
He usually avoided the crappy elevator, but this time he didn't care how slow it was -he just couldn't muster the energy to climb three floors. And for once, there was no reason to hurry home either. He usually had some place to be, something to do…but not this time.
"God," He muttered, "What a day."
He didn't look up; he didn't want to look at his own reflection on the shiny doors and walls of the elevator. And yet, once he reached his floor, he was reluctant to leave the shelter that the elevator had provided. He got out though, and slowly made his way down the hallway, patting his pockets at the same time, searching for his keys.
He didn't look up until he was about to reach his door, and when he did… he wished he had stayed in the elevator.
There, sitting in front of his apartment, was his boss.

***
Grissom's decision to go to Greg's place had not come easily.
At first, he had decided to drive back to the lab. There was paperwork waiting for him, and with it, the chance to put Greg out of his mind. This idea appealed to him, mostly because he didn't think he could do anything for the young man –at least, not until Greg had a chance to cool off.
Grissom could only hope that Greg would be calmer and more willing to talk by the time the night shift started.
With this But traffic was moving slowly, and while he'd used usually used this gave him ample time to think. He usually had plently of
Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Greg and his extreme reaction to the trial's outcome.
Grissom was worried; he could't help but wonder whether Greg could really handle the pressure of being a CSI. Few people could, and that's why Supervisors kept an eye on newbies, ready to intervene in case there was any conflict.
That's what good supervisors did, anyway. Grissom was wondering whether he'd missed the signs where Greg was concerned.
Actually, he had noticed that Greg seemed tired -but then, everybody was. They had been overwhelmed with work since the night shift had lost half its crew.
But that was cop out, and Grissom knew it; he should have known that Greg would be overwhelmed by his new duties; after all, it was one thing to handle DNA samples within the confines of a clean lab, and it was quite another to collect those samples yourself, from a human body –a damaged human body- at a messy crime scene
Grissom should have talked to Greg. The young man would not have come out and said he couldn't handle the job, (people rarely ever acknowledged their weaknesses to Grissom), but at least it would have offered him a chance to talk.
After all,.
To talk...
Grissom shook his head.
How could Greg feel free to talk, when his boss routinely dismissed his attempts at conversation as unwelcome distractions? Hadn't he even asked once, 'Do we pay you by the word, Greg?' Grissom cringed as he realized that he had inadvertently closed the doors early on.
But was it too late to do anything?
Grissom glanced at the red light ahead. He had a choice: Move forward and go to the lab, or turn right and go to Greg's place.
Going to the lab was the safest choice.
Going to Greg's place meant having to wait in case the young was still driving around; and even if Greg was home, he'd probably have company, in which case, Grissom would have to wait too –probably listening as the young man and his partner performed some wild mating ritual.
He didn't want to do any of tha, but when the light turned to green, Grissom unhesitatingly turned right. He owed it to Greg.
Because, no matter what the young man did –drink or have sex- it would not be enough to placate his crisis.
Grissom knew that from experience.
It was with relief that Grissom saw Greg coming down the hallway by himself. His heart sank however, when he noticed the hesitation in Greg's steps.
The young man walked as if each step took an effort from him, and this could only mean that he was drunk -or exhausted after being involved in rough sex. Neither thought was very comforting for Grissom.
As for Greg, he put himself together as soon as he saw his boss sitting on the floor. He stood straighter and walked more purposefully.
"What are you doing here?" he asked expressionlessly.
Grissom rose from the floor before answering.
"I wanted to make sure you were ok."
"I'm Ok." Greg said simply.
Grissom winced. Greg's tone was flat, but there was something in Greg's eyes –defiance. He was challenging Grissom to say anything.
Grissom wisely remained silent.
Greg didn't hold Grissom's gaze for long; instead, he busied himself with the task of picking up the right key to open his door. His hands were shaking a little and he had some difficulty inserting the key in the lock, but when he finally did, he didn't immediately turned it in. He didn't want to open the door while his boss was still standing there.
He turned.
"Grissom, I'm fine." He said, using a more friendly tone. "Really."
"Good." Grissom said without moving.
Greg barely held back his impatience; he didn't want Grissom there, but he couldn't very well shut the door on his boss' face, could he? Not after the things he'd said today.
Resignedly, he opened the door and held it open for Grissom.
Grissom entered the apartment but didn't take more than a couple of steps inside; he didn't want to intrude into his colleague's privacy more than he had to.
And it was obvious that Greg wasn't in a sociable mood. The young man simply closed the door and leant against it, forcing them to stand in the middle of a shadowy vestibule.
"So..." Greg said, "Why are you here?"
"I was worried." Grissom said. "I thought we could talk."
Greg snorted skeptically.
"You're not good at talking, Grissom."
"Well, I'm not good at fucking, either." Grissom replied calmly.
Greg flushed.
It was a good thing that he hadn't turned on the lights; he didn't think he could look at Grissom in the eye just then. It wasn't just the fact that Grissom never swore; the shock came from hearing him repeat a word that Greg would have never uttered in Grissom's presence-
Except that he had.
Greg couldn't believe he had gone this far.
"Shit," he said breathlessly. "I can't believe I said that."
And he seemed so stunned by his own behavior that Grissom spontaneously reached out to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder. But the gesture was short-lived; just as he was about to touch Greg, he realized what he was doing and held back. He awkwardly let his arm drop and used words instead of touch to comfort Greg.
"Hey, it's ok-" he said.
"It's not ok-" Greg said stubbornly. "Jesus, Grissom; I can't believe I said that." he took a deep breath, "I'm sorry; I didn't-"
"Hey, I understand." Grissom interrupted. He wasn't the sort of person to hold a grudge and he wasn't there to extract an apology from Greg, either.
"I was just-" Greg said and then he shook his head, since words didn't seem enough.
"You were angry." Grissom supplied. "You worked hard on that case and you expected the jury to validate your efforts; when they didn't-"
"-I took it out on you." Greg finished. "And now, instead of being pissed off, you are trying to validate my feelings." That was worse.
Greg took a deep breath; the anger that had held him together for the last couple of hours was crumbling away, leaving him bereft. He suddenly felt as if he were crumbling too; he had never felt like this before and he didn't know how to handle it.
He couldn't bear to have Grissom seeing him like this, so he tried to put himself together.
"Grissom," He said solemnly, "I'm sorry." He looked up. "Really, I am. I let my emotions take over, and-"
"Greg-"
"Not that it's an excuse," he said quickly, "But the truth is… This had never happened to me before, you know?" he said, and he waited until Grissom acknowledged it. "All I can say is that it won't happen again," he finished.
"I know it won't," Grissom said reassuringly. Those words spelled relief to Greg, but just when he thought his boss was finished, Grissom added, "Do you think we could sit somewhere and talk?"
That was precisely what Greg did not want to do.
"Hey, boss," he said, "Look, I know you probably have a lot to say about what happened today, but-" He took a deep breath, "Couldn't we talk later? I'm beat, you know." He lowered his voice to plead, "Please."
"I can't leave until we talk." Grissom said patiently, "I just want to make sure that you're-"
"I'm ok." Greg interrupted more curtly than he intended, "I was angry and I said a lot of stupid things that I regret," he admitted, "But you don't have to worry." He said, pointedly moving away from the door. "I'm fine now."
Grissom studied him. Greg didn't look fine; his demeanor spoke of exhaustion -emotional and physical- and this made Grissom wonder what Greg had done in the last two hours. Whatever it was, it had left a mark on him. And since the young man wasn't drunk, there was only one possibility left-
"It helped, then." Grissom said before he could help himself.
Greg looked up questioningly. "Helped?"
"Whatever you did after you left the Courthouse," Grissom replied, "It helped you."
"Oh, that." Greg said vaguely, "Yeah, I guess. I mean, I screamed-" he added with a shrug.
Grissom winced. He really didn't want to hear the details.
"By the way," Greg added, "Sammy says he's retiring next month"
"Sammy?" Grissom frowned.
"Yeah. The guy at the park." He explained. Grissom didn't seem to understand, so he added, "The guy in charge of the Deadly Plunge, remember him?"
"You went to the park?" Grissom frowned.
"Yep." Greg smiled wanly.
"You went there after-"
"After I left the parking lot." He nodded, "I rode the Great Puker along with a bunch of screaming kids." He scowled, "Twice. And I almost puked, by the way." He added ruefully. "The second time I felt as if my guts-"
"You were alone-" Grissom interrupted, and then he stopped.
"Yeah. The last time we rode the plunge, it really helped me, so-"
"Greg?" Grissom interrupted, "Do me a favor," he said sternly, "Don't use the ride again."
"Why?" Greg frowned. "I thought you would approve-"
"I don't." Grissom replied curtly. "I don't want you to make a habit of it, ok? If you ever find yourself in the same situation, I want you to find someone to talk to- someone from the lab, a friend or even a priest -"
"I tried to talk to you," Greg retorted, his anger flaring up again, "Remember?"
"You didn't say you wanted to talk." Grissom said softly.
It was the perfect reply and it effectively put a stop to Greg's anger.
"Yeah, well-" Greg muttered, just because he needed to say something, but he was defeated and he knew it.
Resigned to his fate, Greg didn't resist anymore; he quietly walked into the next room. If Grissom wanted to talk, then they would talk.
By the time Grissom entered the living room, Greg had already opened the blinds and was tidying up the room. It was a half-hearted effort, though; he picked up magazines and some discarded clothes that covered the only couch and then dumped them in a corner.
Grissom discreetly looked away, and his attention was drawn towards the bookcase at the far end of the room; it was crammed with books and magazines, and open boxes of cereal. Grissom wanted to browse, but he didn't move from his corner. First he needed some sign from Greg that his curiosity was welcome.
Idly, Grissom glanced at the rest of the room; there were pictures on the wall and colorful cushions surrounding a coffee table. It was the table that drew his attention next; it looked like it had been made out of some fine wood, but it was hard to tell since it was practically buried under textbooks, empty containers of Chinese food, pizza boxes, and a couple of bowls that bore hardened remains of corn flakes.
Normally, Grissom wouldn't have spared more than a discreet glance at a colleague's home, but this time he was taking in every detail, as if it contained some important clue.
In fact, he hoped it did; he needed help to understand Greg's recent behavior.
Part of Grissom's problem was that Greg had never been in trouble before. Frankly, it would have been easier for him to deal with Nick or Warrick; Grissom's relationship with Nick was colored by father-son undertones while Warrick considered him a mentor. No matter what, they would always accept anything Grissom said, just because he said so.
But with Greg, the boundaries were somehow blurred; yes, Grissom was still the boss, but Greg had always treated him like an equal. Greg had always teased him and challenged him.
Greg had made passes at him.
Still waiting for inspiration to strike, Grissom glanced at Greg. The young man was standing by the window, looking at something outside. He had taken off his jacket, but he still had his tie on, and his white shirt was rumpled and sweat-stained.
He looked like he couldn't wait to take a shower and go to sleep.
Grissom took pity on him; the sooner they talked, the sooner Greg would be free to get some rest.
"Hey, Greg?" he called out gently, "Can we talk?"
Greg reluctantly turned away from the window.
Grissom cleared a corner of the coffee table and sat there. He left the couch to Greg, who plopped down and then put his feet on the coffee table, on the corner opposite his boss'.
Unable to look at Grissom, he stared at his feet.
"What a day, huh?" he muttered after a moment.
"Yeah."
"You must think I'm a wimp-" he said expressionlessly, "-someone who can't take a little pressure-"
"No." Grissom said calmly.
A simple 'no' from Grissom sometimes meant more than a full speech. Still, Greg stared at his boss as if to gauge his sincerity. Grissom only stared back.
Reluctantly, Greg spoke again.
"I don't know what's wrong with me." Greg said at last. He glanced at the window again, as if the answers were out there. "The trial- I don't know why it hit me so hard." He said quietly. "It's not like I didn't know things could be tough for the prosecution-"
"Greg..." Grissom interrupted, "Maybe this isn't about the trial." He said softly, "Maybe something else has been bothering you, and the trial only hastened its manifestation." He paused, "This has been a difficult year," he said cautiously, "You assumed your new responsibilities in the worst of circumstances-"
"You don't think I'm doing a good job?" he interrupted.
"That's not what I said." Grissom said calmly, "On the contrary. You worked on several cases under little supervision and you did great. But I think I failed as a Supervisor." He admitted, "I should have been available to you, I wasn't, so-" he paused, "If you want to talk... I'm here to listen." He said, "I'm here as a supervisor, but also as a friend, Greg."
Greg waited for Grissom to continue, but the older man simply stared back.
Under that gaze –so effective on guilty perps- Greg found himself saying something he had intended to keep to himself.
"I keep thinking of her."
Grissom was momentarily taken aback. If Greg's problems were of a romantic nature, then he was the last person who could help.
"Who?" he frowned.
"Tara Matthews."
It took Grissom a couple of seconds to recognize the name.
"The woman who survived the fire-"
Greg nodded reluctantly.
"It was a difficult case." Grissom said cautiously.
"Her face keeps popping up in my head," Greg said quietly. Now that he had finally mentioned her, he couldn't hold back anymore. "It happens everywhere," he added, "Sometimes, when I'm talking to a friend or when I'm trying to get some sleep, there she is," he said, "I see her face –the eyes movig under the burth eyelids... And it's not just the images, you know? I remember the smell of her the burnt skin, and the sound of her fingers breaking like twigs-"
Grissom was speechless; he never suspected that a single case could affect Greg like this.
"And I know what you're going to say." Greg added, "That 'once a case is closed, we've got to move on.' "
"No." Grissom said quietly. "That's not what I was going to say." In other circumstances, yes; but this was a special situation and he wanted to handle it as such. He chose his next words with care. "I was going to say that some cases remain with us even after we've solved them." He paused to let those words sink in.
"It's inevitable, I suppose." He continued, "I mean, it's difficult to think of closure when it's the victim who gets a life sentence."
"Yeah," Greg nodded.
"And yet-" Grissom said, "Once we've done our job, there's nothing else for us to do for them Greg. We must let others take over; people who are more capable than us -medical personnel, therapists, family members-"
They were silent for a moment.
"I know you're right," Greg said at last, "But it's frustrating. We should be able to do more."
Grissom remained silent, in case Greg wanted to say more. Meanwhile, he took a look around; from this spot he could see the pictures on the wall more clearly. They were all group shots, and Greg was in all of them. He was smiling in each picture. The same smile, Grissom noticed, thoughtfully.
"This case has affected your life," Grissom said, "Do you want to talk about that?
"It's nothing," he started, but under Grissom's attentive gaze, he added, "It's turned into a nuisance, that's all."
"Tell me."
"Well... It's just a matter of proportion, I guess." he said, "I mean, it's hard to concentrate on a friend's conversation when there are more urgent things to think about, right? I mean, how can I talk about books or movies, when Tara's body's rejecting her skin grafts?" He looked at Grissom, as if he really expected him to answer.
Grissom didn't comment.
"It gets silly, sometimes." Greg said in a lighter tone, "For instance, last week my best friends invited me over for dinner; I didn't want to come, but they begged and pleaded, so I said yes-" he paused, "Then, when I went to their place I found out they were having a barbecue –a barbecue, can you imagine? Believe me, Grissom," he said with a bitter chuckle, "It's hard to be the soul of the party when the main course is charred meat."
Greg's mirth wasn't sincere and Grissom knew it.
"What about your friends?" he asked, "What do they say?"
"They don't understand why I'm not the 'soul of the party' anymore," He shrugged. "And I'm not going to tell them." He added.
"Why?"
Greg gave him a look of incredulity.
"Because it's not the sort of thing one can casually mention, Grissom" he said in a slightly patronizing tone, "Talking about burnt people would kill anybody's good mood."
"You don't have to give them details of the case, Greg. But talking to your friends might be a good idea."
Greg shook his head impatiently.
"You're not listening." He said. "Look. People expect some things from their friends, ok? Mine don't expect serious talk from me, Grissom. People come to me with their problems, not the other way around. I've always been a happy-go-lucky kind of guy -or at least, I used to be." Greg added almost to himself.
He glanced at Grissom. "Even Sofia told me the other day, 'You were a fun kind of guy. Don't lose that.'" He shook his head, "Well, maybe I'm not that kind of guy anymore."
"I don't believe that." Grissom said gently. He leant forward. "Greg, listen." He said and paused until he got Greg's full attention. "This was a difficult case and it affected you because you're a good man; you felt compassion." he said pointedly, "That's the kind of guy you are. Don't lose that."
Greg let these words sink in.
He took a deep breath and then he slowly exhaled.
"How do you manage, Grissom?" he asked after a while, "I mean, you've done this for so long-"
"This isn't about me, Greg." Grissom said gently but firmly. He paused and then he added deliberately, "This is about you and the way you will handle your job from now on. The cases will not get any easier," he said gently, "So, maybe this is the right moment for you to decide whether you want to deal with them."
Greg gave him a look of incredulity.
"Are you saying that I should quit?"
"No." He said calmly, "No, Greg; all I'm saying is -you have to accept your limitations. You can't save people as a CSI, but you can help find the ones who hurt them –and you can do that from the lab or out there in the field. Find out what you're good at –whatever you believe that is- and stick to it."
Greg scoffed bitterly.
"So, you want me to go back to the lab."
"It's your decision."
"And you wouldn't care one way or the other, right?"
"No," Grissom said softly. "Not as long as you stay in my shift."
Greg looked closely at Grissom, wondering if there was some hidden meaning in those words. Grissom looked away.
"You should talk to your friends," he said gently, "Give them a chance to help."
"The few I have left." Greg muttered, almost to himself. "I haven't been much fun lately-"
"Talk to them." Grissom insisted. "I'm sure they'll understand. Hey," he added with a lighter tone, "I'm sure the only thing they'll never forgive is your bad taste."
Greg looked up at him.
"Bad taste?"
"Yeah," he smiled, "I mean, you made a pass at me, remember?"
This was Grissom's way of showing that he didn't hold any grudges, and Greg understood. He smiled awkwardly.
"Hey, don't put yourself down." He said, in the same tone, "Bad taste or not, you rejected me, remember? What does that say about me?"
Those words made Grissom pause. No, not just the words; it was actually Greg's good-natured smile that made him stop and realize something about the young man… and about himself too.
But talking about it was not going to be easy.
He cleared his throat.
"I've just realized that I owe you an apology."
"You?" Greg frowned, "Why? You didn't go over the line; I did."
"But I should have handled it better," Grissom said quietly. "All you wanted was help in handling a difficult situation, and I should have known that. I failed you." Grissom said, and then he added slowly, "That was unfair of me, because all these years, you've helped me."
Greg's frown deepened. "I helped you?"
"Yes." He said. What he wanted to say wasn't easy, but this was the right moment to say it, "You've made things bearable at the lab, Greg." He stated, "I'm not talking just about your work, which has always been outstanding; I'm talking about how you always find something funny or erudite to say, even in the middle of a crisis. You've made things easier."
Greg was stunned. He had never expected to be praised like this by his boss.
"I guess I expected you to remain upbeat, no matter what." Grissom admitted, "I never thought you'd need my help."
Greg looked down.
"I didn't make it easy for you either." He said sheepishly, "I mean, I didn't exactly ask for help, either. What I said must have shocked you."
"Well... yeah," Grissom said, and then he smiled self-deprecatingly, "I'm not used to being seen as an object of desire, you know."
Greg scoffed.
"That's because you've never heard what the interns say about -" Greg stopped when he noticed Grissom's bewildered expression. "Uh, forget that." He added quickly. He needed to be careful; he didn't want to say anything that might require him to apologize yet again. Things were getting back to normal between them, and that's how he wanted them to remain.
And there was only one way to ensure that. He took a deep breath.
"Hey," he said brightly, "You know something? I'm feeling better."
Grissom's eyebrows rose. He didn't expect things to turn out well so fast.
"Are you?" he asked.
"Sure," he nodded good-naturedly, "You were right; talking helped."
"Well…" Grissom hesitated, "If you're sure-"
"Yeah." Greg nodded, "I mean, there are things I need to come to terms with," He admitted, "But I'm going to be fine," He said reassuringly.
Grissom was hesitant, but Greg's smile was the clinch; it made him look ok, and that was enough. After all, Grissom didn't know what else to do for his colleague.
Grissom rose from his seat.
"Well…" He mumbled, "If you ever need to talk-"
It was a half-hearted offer and Greg knew it.
"I'll be fine, Grissom; don't worry." he said gently. He didn't rise to walk his boss to the door; he leant back on the couch and closed his eyes. Just as Grissom was turning away, he muttered, "I just wish I could get some sleep -"
Grissom turned.
"You haven't?"
"No." Greg said softly, "Let's just say Tara has been appearing too often in my dreams. She has a knack for intruding at the worst moments, you know? " He paused and then he muttered almost to himself, "Talk about being a romance killer-"
Grissom looked at him in silence.
Finally, he had the full scope of Greg's troubles.
He could almost picture it -Greg and a friend in bed, in the middle of something, (and Grissom almost laughed at his own prudishness. Why couldn't he even think of the word? Sex. There.)
Greg and a friend, having sex until a memory of Tara Matthews intruded and ruined the moment; Greg would probably be unable to perform, the friend would demand an explanation, and Greg would refuse to give one-
A romance killer, indeed.
Grissom looked closely at Greg and for the first time noticed things -the dark shadows under his eyes, the bitten fingernails, and the way his clothes hung on him, as if he had lost a lot of weight.
Grissom felt sorry for Greg. Being the happy-go-lucky guy everybody relied on had taken its toll.
It made him wish there was something he could do for the young man. And suddenly, he realized there was.
"I can help you."
"Mmmh?" Greg looked at him.
"I can help you relax." Grissom said.
Greg frowned at first, and then his eyes opened wide.
"W-what?" he hesitated.
"I'm going to help you relax," Grissom said, more assuredly now. He glanced around, "But there's too much light in here-"
Greg watched in bewilderment as Grissom walked across the room to close the blinds; the older man kept glancing back at Greg, as if he were gauging the amount of light that should be allowed to enter. Finally satisfied, Grissom started to remove both his cell phone and his pager from his belt.
Greg gaped. Grissom wasn't taking off his clothes, was he?
"Grissom, what are you-"
"We'll need some quiet," Grissom said as sole explanation. He returned to the center of the room and put his cell phone, his pager, and his car keys among the debris on the coffee table. "Give me your cell phone." he ordered.
Mechanically, Greg patted his pockets.
"I think I left it in my car." He muttered.
"Good." Grissom said approvingly. "We don't want any interruptions. Do you have any keys or change in your pockets?" he asked.
Greg was confused.
"What do you mean?"
"Anything that might make a noise when you move," Grissom said impatiently as he patted his own pockets, "We'll need some quiet here."
Greg found some change and he dutifully handed it to Grissom. Grissom unceremoniously let the coins drop in one of the dirty breakfast bowls.
"Take off your shoes, now." Grissom instructed. "Oh, and the tie, too."
Greg paused for a moment. If this was Grissom's idea of foreplay, then the older man needed some pointers, but Greg was not going to be the one to suggest them. He silently complied and took off both his shoes and his tie and dropped them on the floor.
"Hum, Grissom? What is this all about?"
"Just trust me," Grissom said simply. "Now, lie down."
Greg paused.
"Is this some kind of joke, Grissom? Or payback for what I said to you?"
Grissom didn't know what Greg was talking about, and didn't particularly care. Now that he'd found something to do, he wanted to go through with it.
"Just lie down, Greg. Here," he added, picking up a cushion and putting it in a corner of the couch, "This is your pillow."
Greg looked at the cushion and then at Grissom. He may have fantasized about his boss now and then, and even made that half-baked pass at him earlier that day; but now that he was facing the possibility that something might actually happen, well… he wasn't sure if he was ready for it.
As for Grissom, he looked just like he did when there was some exciting experiment he wanted to perform –eager and impatient.
Nobody resisted Grissom when he was like that.
Greg lay down on the couch and waited for Grissom to make the next move.
What the older man did was to sit down on the coffee table again.
"Now," He said, "I'm going to ask you to close your eyes and focus on my voice-"
"Ok," Greg said slowly.
"-and do everything I ask you to."
Greg nodded. So far, so good. This actually sounded like some fantasies he'd had before. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms and waited.
"Don't cross your arms," Grissom said, "Let them lie by your sides. Now, listen carefully. For the next minutes, you will put aside today's events, ok? You will only think of a place you feel safe in." He paused, "Are you there?"
Greg opened his eyes and looked incredulously at him.
"Are you trying to hypnotize me?"
Grissom was actually amused at the suggestion.
"I'm not." He said, "Look, this is just an old relaxation technique, ok? All you have to do is take a deep breath... and then slowly let the air out..." And he did it exactly that; then he paused and waited for Greg to follow his example.
Greg shook his head; he didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. What he did know was that he didn't want to do any freaking relaxation exercise. He opened his mouth to say so, but Grissom looked so eager… and he was the boss, after all.
"Are you serious?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes." He said. "Come on, it'll help, you'll see. Just close your eyes, breath along with me- "
Greg obeyed. After all the things that he'd done to his boss, following his instructions seemed like a small penance. But when he heard Grissom say, "I want you to focus on your body now; first, think of your toes-" Greg opened his eyes.
"What do I have to do that for?" he asked.
"You need to focus on a part of your body," Grissom explained, "We'll start with your toes. Just put some tension on them, and slowly count to ten; then let them relax. It'll help, you'll see."
"Could you at least look the other way?"
"What?" Grissom frowned.
"You heard me. I can't relax while you're looking at me."
Grissom's eyebrows rose.
"Are you always this fussy, Greg?"
"Yeah, well, I just want some privacy, you know."
"Fine." Grissom said with some exasperation. He didn't simply turn his back on Greg; instead, he picked up a cushion and wedged it between the couch and the coffee table. He sat on it and leant his back against the couch.
"There," he said, "I'm not looking at you. Happy?"
"Well, yeah."
Greg followed Grissom's instructions from then on. He tensed up a set of muscles, counted to ten along with Grissom, and then relaxed. After repeating that exercise several times, they moved to the arches of his feet... then to the ankles... and so on.
Grissom's voice was soothing and Greg found himself falling under the spell; by the time they started working on his fingers, Greg was so relaxed that he couldn't count aloud anymore. A moment later, he fell asleep.
Grissom knew just by the change in Greg's breathing, but he glanced over his shoulder just to make sure. He smiled, glad that he'd accomplished something.
There was only one problem; he couldn't leave –if he moved, he might make a noise and wake Greg up. But he couldn't stay either; Greg would not appreciate having him there while he slept.
After a moment, Grissom decided to wait an hour at least, and then he would leave. Hopefully, Greg would not notice.
Meanwhile, there was nothing for him to do but try to make himself comfortable. Resting for a couple of minutes was a good idea; he was feeling pretty relaxed, more than he had been in a long time.
Grissom leant back on the couch and closed his eyes.
And immediately fell asleep.

***

THIRD DATE
Spoilers: The Hunger Artist (The diagnosis of Gil´s otosclerosis)
Greg had barely moved since he fell asleep.
Traffic noises had disturbed him a couple of times, but not enough to wake him up –the noises simply became part of his dreams.
In his latest dream, for instance, he was strolling down the street, casually and without a care in the world, while cars rushed by. He recognized some of the people behind the wheels –Catherine, Nick, Doc Robbins- and they recognized him too. They waved at him now and then, but Greg ignored them.
It was his day off, after all.
Besides, there was something else that was calling for his attention; a sound that somehow didn't belong in the street. It was an elusive sound, and sometimes Greg turned around, looking for the source.
Suddenly, he knew: It was a snore. Someone was snoring, somewhere-
Greg did wake up this time, but not in the abrupt manner he was used to. He simply became aware of his surroundings, gradually becoming acquainted with the fact that he was not in bed.
He had fallen asleep on the couch, something he rarely did. Frankly, he consideredit sloppy.
And yet, he was relaxed and pleasantly warm, and it felt like he had slept more than a couple of hours in a row. He smiled to himself. If sleeping on the couch would help him get some sleep, then he would do it more often -sloppy or not.
Besides, he had failed so many of his housekeeping duties lately, that one more would not matter.
With this happy resolution tucked away in his mind, he sighed and turned on his side, hoping to get more z's.
He was falling asleep again when he heard it –the sound that had woke him up in the first place. A soft snoring -there was someone else in the room.
Greg froze. He didn't remember bringing anybody home with him... and he certainly hadn't gone to anybody's place. Unless-
Oh, no, he thought. I didn't pick some stranger, did I?
Greg fought the impulse to open his eyes; first, he needed to remember what he'd done before coming home, and the name or at least the face of whoever was sleeping next to him.
The last thing he remembered was-
The trial.
Greg groaned softly. Johnstone had been acquitted. Grissom had warned him about it, but -
Grissom.
Oh, shit, he thought. Grissom.
Now Greg remembered everything: The trial and its outcome; Grissom's failed attempts to warn him and then to comfort him, the 'f' word that Greg had uttered in anger, Grissom's face as he asked him to take off his tie a-
Abruptly, Greg opened his eyes, half expecting to see Grissom still looking down at him.
What he saw instead was much more surprising, and for a moment Greg wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming: Grissom there, but he wasn't looking at him; he was asleep.
Greg slid a bit closer and peered down.Grissom had somehow made himself comfortable in the smallest of spaces. He was sitting on the floor, wedged between the couch and the coffee table. He looked cozy, with his head resting on the crook of his left arm, and his right hand curled protectively close to his face.
Grissom had never looked so peaceful and vulnerable.
A closer look belied this impression, though; Grissom's sleep was not completely peaceful -his jaw was twitching, and the fingers of his right hand were clutching the loose fabric of the couch.
Now, what? Greg wondered. He didn't have the heart –or was it the courage?- to wake his boss up, and his first impulse was to keep quiet and hope that Grissom would wake up on his own. But what if Grissom had something urgent to do or somewhere else to be?
Stalling, Greg glanced at his watch… and he got yet another surprise.
It was almost six O'clock, way later than he had thought at first.
There was no question of waiting for Grissom to wake up on his own, anymore; he had to wake up now.
Greg tentatively called out his boss' name, but Grissom didn't even stir. After a moment's hesitation, the young man leant forward and whispered into Grissom's ear.
it did the trick; Grissom opened his eyes and blinked. It took him a moment to focus, but when he saw Greg's face just a few inches away, he abruptly lifted his head.
"What-"
"Easy, boss," Greg said, smiling faintly, "You only overslept a little-"
"Overslept?" he said, slurring the word. He looked around in confusion. The room seemed brighter now than it had been earlier, "What time's it?" he asked incredulously.
"It's ok," Greg said soothingly, "You didn't pull a Rip Van Winkle, so relax."
Grissom glanced at the window again and realized that the brightness coming through the blinds wasn't due to sunlight, but to the neon signs blazing on the opposite building. He looked back at Greg, who had a bemused expression on his face. The young man's unconcerned demeanor somehow reassured him.
"What time is it?" Grissom asked again, a bit more in control now.
"Five fifty." Greg replied, "Of the same day."
"Five fifty?" Grissom repeated as if he didn't understand the words.
"Yep."
Grissom closed his eyes again and then, to Greg's surprise, he simply dropped back on the couch. This time though, his face lay flat on it, as if he were trying to hide it.
"Hey, you ok?" Greg asked, tentatively touching his boss' shoulder.
"Uh, huh." Grissom mumbled without moving.
Greg frowned.
"How can you breathe like that?"
Grissom scoffed and looked up after a moment. He was smiling faintly.
"Five hours?" he asked.
Greg chuckled. "Yep. Five."
Grissom shook his head in wonder.
"I hadn't slept five hours in a row since- " he frowned. "I can't remember." He admitted. It didn't matter; it felt great. He laid his head on the couch again -on the side this time.
Greg was taken aback. He had expected Grissom to bolt out of the room, but there he was, going back to sleep again.
"Aren't you sore?" Greg asked after a moment, "I mean, you sat like that for hours."
"I'm fine." Grissom mumbled. "I can take naps in the unlikeliest of places." He added smugly, "Once I fell asleep while cleaning a cage; when I woke up, my pets were crawling all over me-"
"That's creepy."
"My pets aren't creepy," Grissom muttered but without much conviction. He was too relaxed and content to argue about spiders.
After a moment of silence, Greg spoke.
"Grissom... I'd like to apologize."
Grissom opened his eyes. He had momentarily forgotten all about their earlier discussion.
"You already did." He said guardedly.
"I know. But I want you to know that I'm really sorry. For everything." He said with some difficulty, "The things I said-" But Greg faltered when he saw something close to panic flicker in Grissom's eyes. Clearly, the older man did not want to discuss the ' f ' word.
After some hesitation, Greg complied. He would not refer directly to what he'd said, but he felt he still had some explaining to do.
"You were right," Greg said then. "I was angry; I was angry at the jurors and the judge, at Johnstone... When I saw you in the courtroom, I thought you'd be as indignant as I was. Instead, you were so calm and reasonable-" He shook his head, "It pissed me off. " he admitted, "Suddenly, all I wanted was to rattle you, no matter how -" He paused. "I should have known you would not lose your cool." He scoffed.
Grissom looked away. He had been rattled by Greg's words, but he was not going to admit it, ever.
"I was sorry, the minute I drove away," Greg continued, "I wanted to go back and apologize, but I was still angry and… well, I decided to keep going. I kept driving 'til I saw the Park." He glanced at Grissom, "I remembered the last time I was there –with you- and how riding the Deadly Plunge helped, so... I gave it a try." he paused, "It helped." He said. "Once I was up there, I started seeing things clearly for the first time."
"What things?"
"Well..." he hesitated. "I realized that I was angry at you for keeping it together," he said slowly, "But I also realized that that's precisely what I've always admired about you. In fact –and this isn't easy for me to admit- I've always wanted to be like you." He finished.
Grissom froze.
He felt like he had been ambushed with words for the second time in one day.
"I don't want you to be like me." He blurted out.
"You don't?" Greg asked good-naturedly. "Why?" he asked, leaning forward.
And it was then that Grissom realized how close they were, and how they had been talking in whispers, just like two people holding an intimate conversation after sleeping together.
The realization rattled him, but before he found something to say, Greg spoke again.
"It's cool, being like you," he said, "You're focused; you never let your feelings get in the way, no matter how difficult your cases are, you always do the right thing, regardless of juries or judges…You keep it together, no matter what. If I were like that, I'd do a better job, don't you think?"
Grissom shook his head.
"Greg, there's more to life than a job."
"You don't believe that," Greg scoffed.
"What I mean is," Grissom said slowly, "Sometimes, the qualities that help you on the job, end up intruding in your private life. That's the danger." He paused, and then he gently added, "Trust me, Greg. You don't want to be like me."
Greg looked down.
"I want to be a CSI, Grissom." He said quietly, "I want to do a good job-"
"You are doing a good job." Grissom replied, "Greg, listen. What happened to you will probably happen to every CSI at one time or another. People cope in different ways, and -"
"But that's just my point," Greg said earnestly, "I want to learn to cope-"
"And you will," Grissom said gently, "And I promise to help you in any way I can, but-"
"But you're not gonna tell me what your secret is, right?" Greg interrupted. He couldn't hide the disappointment he felt. "I don't get it." He added, "I mean, what's so wrong about wanting to be like you?"
Grissom took a deep breath.
"Greg, it's just-" He hesitated, "It's my life." He said quietly, "It's not a bad life, and I like it, but…" he hesitated. There was really no way to embellish what he wanted to say, "But I am who I am because I have no other choice." he said abruptly.
Grissom let those words sink in, and then he continued.
"You're impressed by the fact that I keep my feelings in check, but there's nothing impressive about it, Greg. In fact, it's very easy for me: I just don't have strong feelings," he said, "For anything or anybody." He paused, "Or maybe I just never learned to express them -" he added almost to himself. He frowned, wondering which of the two statements held the truth.
He shrugged it off after a moment; it didn't really matter.
"This is who I am, Greg." He said quietly, "You don't want to be like that –and you don't have to." He reached out to touch Greg's hand, but he checked himself just in time. "You will learn to cope with the job in your own terms; you'll see." He said gently, "Your friends and your family will help, if you let them."
Greg was stunned; he never thought Grissom would open up like this. For a moment, he couldn't think of anything suitable to say.
Until...
"Did you ever…" he started, "Did you ever have a crisis of faith, Grissom? I mean, did you ever wonder whether your job made any difference?"
"Every CSI does, at least once in his life." Grissom shrugged evasively. He told himself to beware; he had already revealed too much about himself. It seemed that sleeping five hours in a row had an unfortunate effect on him –it lowered his defenses. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up telling Greg the story of his life.
He just couldn't bear the thought.
Still, there was Greg to consider. The young man needed reassurance, some proof that he was not the only CSI in the world who had ever doubted his calling.
Reluctantly, Grissom spoke.
"There was a case, at the beginning of my career," he said, "A teen was murdered. The evidence was almost non-existent, but we finally caught the perp, and he got fifteen-to-life. We were pretty happy about it, but not the teen's mother; she said that she could never be happy, since her daughter was dead and nothing would ever bring her back."
"That's what people always say," Greg muttered, "But I bet they'd feel more miserable if we didn't at least catch the perps." He glanced at Grissom, "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing." He shrugged, "She was right, after all." Grissom said, "In fact, she'd articulated a thought that had been nagging me at the time -the certainty that no matter what we did at the lab, the victims' pain could not be undone. And there were so many cases that got lost because the cops and the lawyers screwed up, that sometimes I felt that my job was redundant. It was depressing. I was depressed." Grissom admitted. "I should have talked to my supervisor about it, but I didn't; I just..."
Grissom stopped. He didn't want to continue his story; it was a part of his life that he never talked about –it was painful and embarrassing. Frankly, he was afraid that if he talked about it, he would lose Greg's respect and -why deny it?- his admiration too.
But he went ahead; there was something more important than his reputation at stake here –Greg's future.
"I started to drink." Grissom confessed.
Greg's eyes widened.
"Needless to say," Grissom continued, "My job suffered the consequences. Suddenly, I was the one screwing up."
Greg was stunned.
"Wow." He whispered.
Grissom smiled faintly at that reaction.
"Yeah, well, it didn't last long fortunately; my supervisor caught me on time."
"What did he say?"
"Not much," he said evasively. It was a long story, after all. All Greg needed to know was that it had a happy ending, "He told me that I needed to work it out by myself," he explained, "That I had to find out what I was good at, and stick to it. If I believed I could do a better job than the lawyers or the cops, then I needed to reevaluate my career choices; and if drinking was what I was good at… then that's what I should stick to."
"That's harsh." Greg frowned.
"Yeah." He nodded, "But he was right; it depended on me."
"So, what did you do?"
"Well..." he hesitated. "I didn't want to be a cop or a lawyer; and since I couldn't hold my liquor... I decided to stick to the lab." That was an over-simplified version of what had happened, but it was all Greg needed to know.
It was enough to impress the young man, anyway.
"Wow." He said, "So, it was difficult for you, at first."
"Our job is highly stressful, Greg." Grissom said solemnly.
"So… what does one do?"
"Well… Having an outlet helps." Grissom said, "Some people choose to party and to drink, but others find safer outlets, like-"
"Like Warrick and those jazz gigs of his?"
"Exactly." Grissom smiled, "Find an outlet, Greg," he said gently, "But mostly, don't keep things to yourself again. That's not your style."
Greg smiled and looked down.
"I did want to talk, but… I don't know." He hesitated, "I guess I was afraid that others would think I was acting like a wimp. Or like a spoiled kid," he added, "I mean, the only one I talked to was Sofia, and her advice –that hugging someone helped- made me look like a little kid who needed mommy to take him in her arms-"
Grissom smiled faintly.
"You don't have to be a little kid to need a hug, Greg, " he said. And when Greg scoffed skeptically, he added, "A couple of years ago I was diagnosed with an illness; it wasn't life-threatening, but for a moment, I felt that my world was crumbling. The doctor said to me, 'We're scientists, Mr. Grissom. This is what you have.' She was right -as a scientist, I had to face life objectively- but when I was at that clinic…"
Grissom shook his head at the memory, "All I wanted was for her to take me in her arms and tell me that everything was going to be all right." heconfessed, "It was a fleeting moment, but it shook me."
"You were sick?" Greg asked incredulously, "What happened?"
"Well..." He hesitated. He needed to be more careful with his revelations; he didn't want to talk about his otosclerosis on top of everything else. "It was nothing." He dismissed. "Nothing serious, that is. I had minor surgery and everything turned out ok."
Greg gaped.
"You had surgery?"
"Minor surgery," Grissom amended.
"And how long ago was that?"
"Two or three years ago," He said evasively.
"And you never told anyone?"
Grissom smiled at Greg's incredulity.
"You see?" he said, glad for the chance to make a point, "You would never do something like that, would you?
But Greg didn't smile back.
"Did you tell your friends, at least?" he asked.
"Well, I don't have any friends that I see every day -" Grissom said, and then he smiled when he noticed the look of concern on Greg's face, "I don't have any close friends, Greg; and the truth is, I wouldn't know what to do if I had them. You, on the other hand…" he tilted his head in the direction of the wall, "You're that guy in the pictures, smiling in the middle of a group." He paused and then he added gently, "That's who you are, and that's fine."
Greg mused on this for a moment.
"Thanks, Grissom." He said eventually. "I appreciate all this."
"You're welcome."
"I know it wasn't easy for you to… to tell me about yourself," he said, "I want you to know that everything you said will stay here." he said solemnly. Then he smiled faintly and added, "Think of my home as a sort of convention center." He said, alluding to the events of the year before, "Anything that happens here, stays here."
They smiled at each other, and for a while neither said anything.
The silence got to Greg after a moment, though, and he fished about for something else to say.
"So," he said casually, "Can I count on you, next time I feel like crap?"
Grissom smiled.
"You better turn to your friends," he said, "For a fresh perspective, I mean."
Greg nodded; that was the sort of response he expected from Grissom. But those words made him curious too.
"Who do you turn to, Grissom?" he asked.
Grissom shrugged slightly.
"I manage," He said simply.
"Well..." Greg smiled faintly, "Next time you have minor surgery, I hope you turn to us," he said, and then he reached for Grissom's hand and held it.

***
Grissom looked down. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had held his hand like this, but he was sure it felt just as oppressive. He tentatively tugged at his hand, but Greg didn't let go.
Grissom looked up questioningly and met with Greg's penetrating gaze.
"Does this make you uncomfortable?" Greg asked, a veiled challenge in his voice.
Grissom would never admit that it did.
"I'm not in the habit of holding hands, Greg." He said simply.
Greg pondered on that response for a moment.
"Is this an assault on your masculinity, then?" he asked.
Grissom seemed amused by the question.
"No, Greg." he said.
Greg smiled in approval, and after a moment he looked down, "It's funny," he mused, "I rode The Great Puker twice today and it didn't do me much good –not like it did a couple of years ago. I didn't understand why," he added, "Until now."
He tightened his grip on Grissom's hand, "This is what helped me, then." He looked up, "There's something reassuring about holding someone's hand, don't you think?"
To Grissom, it was more intrusive than reassuring, but he didn't say so; he simply gazed back at Greg.
"Grissom..." the young man said, "Can I say something –you know, bearing in mind that we're still at the site of a convention, so to speak?"
Grissom didn't answer, but for Greg, that was as good as a yes.
"About the things that I said in the parking lot-"
"I know you didn't mean them," Grissom said quickly.
"Actually, I did mean them." Greg said quietly, "Partly, at least." He added, and he kept his gaze on Grissom, trying to gauge the effect of his words. Grissom stared back expressionlessly, either because he didn't know what Greg meant, or because he didn't want to admit that he did.
Greg looked down at the hand he was holding.
"Remember what you said about attraction, a while ago?" He asked, "That it was subjective and it couldn't be explained?" he paused, and then he looked up. "You were right. I can't explain this. But it's real."
"Greg-"
"I would have never brought it up," Greg continued, "Not in the crude way I did –or any other way, for that matter. I swear, Grissom." He insisted, " It's just- I don't know. Something snapped, I guess."
"You said you wanted to shock me."
"Yeah, but I also wanted -" he couldn't bring himself to say it. He took a deep breath, and then he added, "It's just… These past months I've found it hard to… I mean, difficult to…to relate to others." he said.
Greg almost laughed at himself –he was using euphemisms, for God's sake. Why couldn't he just say the words? He found it difficult to have sex. There. He just couldn't say it aloud. "I feel like I'm- tainted, or something." He confessed. Then he scoffed, "It's hard to touch someone when you feel like that, believe me."
Grissom knew exactly what Greg was going through; law enforcement workers went through this at one time or another.
He felt sorry for Greg, but didn't say so.
Greg continued.
"So, one day I started wondering..." he hesitated, "Wondering whether you'd understand what I was going through. And then I started thinking that yeah, of all the people in the world you would understand -I mean, in case we got together and I failed, so to speak," he smiled with some embarrassment. "I mean," he added, "Since you're so knowledgeable and so tolerant and, well… I thought... I hoped, rather, that you-"
Grissom didn't want to listen anymore.
"Greg," he interrupted, "I know what you want to say. I…" he hesitated, "I wish I could." He said, trying to sound sincere. "But I..." he hesitated, "I'm really the last person who'd be able to be of any help."
Greg's smile froze on his face.
"Because you'd rather be with a girl." he said.
Grissom's expression didn't change.
"No, Greg," he said softly.
"Then..." Greg hesitated, "Because you just keep your feelings in check?" He asked.
Grissom smiled faintly.
"Something like that." He said. They were silent for a moment. Grissom spoke first, "I'm- "
"I know," Greg interrupted. He knew that Grissom was sorry, but he didn't want to hear it. And he certainly didn't want Grissom to think that he couldn't take the rejection, either. "It's ok." he added.
He looked down and noticed that he was still holding Grissom's hand. He smiled faintly. It was funny; in today's world, holding someone's hand was no big deal, but holding Grissom's was.
It felt like a triumph –a brief one, but a triumph nonetheless. Tentatively, Greg caressed Grissom's knuckle with his thumb-
Grissom tugged at his hand immediately.
"I've got to go." He said.
Greg released him this time.
Greg briefly closed his eyes. He had slept for five hours, but he wasn't precisely bursting with energy. It took him quite an effort, but after a moment he sat up.
He noticed with some concern that Grissom was struggling to rise from his little spot on the floor. The poor man was stiff after sitting in the same position for hours, and it was only after a couple of false starts that he was able to get up.
Greg held back any offer of help;he suspected that the last thing Grissom wanted was to be touched again. Instead, he busied himself with the task of finding his own shoes.
When Greg looked up again, he noticed that Grissom was patting his pockets in confusion.
"Something wrong?" Greg asked.
"My cell phone-" Grissom said, "I had it with me-"
"Ah, yeah," Greg said, jumping up, "Excuse me," he said, and Grissom moved out his way. "You put it here, somewhere-" Greg explained, rummaging among the debris on the coffee table. "You didn't want any interruptions, remember?"
Grissom frowned. He had completely forgotten. Apparently, sleeping five hours in a row was not such a good idea, after all –it played tricks on his mind.
"Here they are," Greg announced, setting Grissom's belongings apart, "Cell phone, pager, keys -"
Grissom reached for his phone, but just as he was about to pick it up, Greg noticed something.
"Your hand is shaking." He said.
It was, indeed, and Grissom hadn't noticed it until then. He lifted his hand –the one that Greg had been holding- and looked at it as if it belonged to somebody else.
"It is." He said in bewilderment.
Greg looked up with concern. He knew from personal experience that a shaking hand was a manifestation of deep emotional turmoil.
"Are you ok?" He asked.
"I don't know," Grissom said honestly, and then he shrugged, "I guess I'll have to ride the Great Puke later on."
Greg slowly straightened up.
"Hey, do me a favor," he said sternly, and he waited until Grissom looked at him, "Don't go to that park again."
There was such a quiet authority in the way he said this, that Grissom actually paused for a moment. He smiled faintly when he realized that Greg was repeating what he'd said earlier.
"If you ever need help," Greg continued, "Then talk to a friend." But as soon as he said that, he remembered that Grissom had no close friends –and probably no one to talk to. And by the look on Grissom's face, he knew that the same thought had just crossed his boss' mind.
"Oh, man," Greg muttered compassionately, "I don't know how you can live like this, Grissom."
Greg felt sincerely sorry for his boss; so sorry in fact, that he did exactly what he had vowed not to do –touch him. He reached out and took the older man's hand again.
Grissom didn't resist at first, but when Greg took a step closer, he instinctively stepped back and pulled his hand away.
"Hey, it's ok," Greg said in a soothing tone, the kind one uses to calm a frightened child. "It's ok, Grissom." he repeated, and then, without assessing the wisdom of his actions, (or the consequences), and doing his best to ignore the look of panic on his boss' face, Greg took one last step and pulled Grissom into a hug.
Taken by surprise, Grissom simply stood still.
His mind was spinning, though. He was frantically trying to remember the last time this had happened to him and what he'd done, hoping that past experience would help him deal with the present.
But this had never happened before. People knew that Grissom avoided touch at all costs. No one hugged Grissom –no one dared; one shook his hand when meeting him for the first time and that was that.
Having his hand imprisoned had been uncomfortable for Grissom, but this… this was an ordeal. He only hoped that Greg would not make a pass at him again.
That would be the worst.
"It's ok," Greg muttered then, and Grissom almost laughed because this was definitely not ok. "We all need someone, sometime." Greg added reassuringly.
'I don't need anyone,' Grissom wanted to say, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. Talking would have established a connection with Greg, and that was the last thing he wanted. He didn't even want to acknowledge what Greg was doing, and so he remained still, with his hands firmly clenched by his sides. He even kept his breathing shallow and slow so his chest didn't touch Greg's any more than it had to.
He only wished Greg would stop talking...
"It's ok to need a friend," Greg was saying, "I mean, we're friends, right?" he asked. Grissom didn't answer but since he didn't pull away, Greg assumed that it was ok to do this. He was glad; he liked to think that he was giving his boss some much-needed comfort.
"It's ok," he repeated, and he patted Grissom's back. And then, just to underline what he'd just said, Greg delivered the words that Grissom had longed to hear a while ago. "Everything is going to be all right."
Grissom felt a stab of pain in the middle of his chest, just as if the words had somehow materialized and pierced him.
It was a shock for Grissom; he had always believed in the power of words but he never expected such a heavy load of feeling from a phrase like this -one whose meaning wasn't even remotely connected to the truth. After all, things rarely ever turned out to be all right.
But the words affected him nevertheless, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths before he got himself together. He'd just realized that he had made one mistake after another that day. He shouldn't have stayed to talk –he shouldn't have even come to Greg's home in the first place. By coming here, he had put himself in one dangerous situation after another.
And only now did he realize how wrong he'd been: Having Greg make a pass at him was not the worse that could happen -frankly, he wished Greg had done just that, instead of talking all that nonsense about needing a friend.
Lust, he would have rejected quite easily. But tenderness…
Tenderness was something he just didn't know how to deal with.
Grissom had finally had enough. He took a step backwards and then another, trying to escape from Greg's embrace, but the young man simply held on.
Grissom stopped in confusion. It suddenly occurred to him that short of using violence, he would not be able to shake Greg off. He immediately rejected this thought - he would never resort to violence- but he still felt the need to escape, and so he took yet another step backwards, only to collide with the coffee table.
Greg tightened his hold to keep him from losing his balance.
"Got you," he whispered, his breath caressing Grissom's ear.
"Enough," Grissom said hoarsely, and he impulsively grabbed one of Greg's arms.
All he wanted was to disengage himself from Greg- But he made a mistake.
CSI Gil Grissom had touched countless human bodies in the course of his life; he had studied samples of muscles and pieces of bone, and he had even held hearts and brains in his hands. He'd never proclaim to know everything about the human body, but he'd confidently say that it held very few secrets from him.
Touching a living human being, however, was something he hadn't done in a long, long time, and so he was lost the moment he grabbed Greg's arm. Grissom didn't expect to meet with resistance in the first place; he didn't expect the arm to move… But it did. And so, instead of pushing Greg away, Grissom found himself involuntarily curling his fingers around the young man's bicep and holding it tightly.
He knew the young man had been working out, but he never dreamed he'd be touching Greg's arm, or that he'd be assessing its shape and hardness. Intrigued, Grissom slowly slid his hand down Greg's arm, slowly checking out muscles and tendons and bones, almost as if he were studying them for a case. It was fascinating, the way the muscles shifted under his touch.
He only wished that the thin fabric of Greg's rumpled shirt didn't get in the way...But that was easily fixed. Acting on an impulse, Grissom rolled up the sleeve and reached underneath. He closed his eyes when he felt bare skin at last. He didn't need to see; he could visualize it all –not just the skin itself but its different layers, and the veins and the arteries, and the blood lustily pumping through them. He could actually feel the blood pumping…
It was amazing, being able to hold someone alive; and the best part was that there were other things to discover -scents, for instance. Grissom was used to the smells of decay and disinfectants that filled the morgue, but this had to be different. He leant forward and buried his face in Greg's shoulder and then he inhaled deeply.
Oh, yes. He smiled. No antiseptics there, nothing to remind him of death. Just the scents of soap and sweat, and a faint remnant of cologne, all enhanced by the heated skin. Grissom was completely oblivious to the fact that his behavior might not be exactly appropriate.
He didn't even notice that Greg had stopped moving.
The young man was stunned to say the least. He knew about mixed signals, but this was beyond anything he'd ever encountered before: First Grissom acted like he couldn't stand being touched, and now-
Well, now Grissom was acting like he was making up for lost time.
He was using his fingertips to trace a path on Greg's body, starting at a point on the hip and moving upwards, briefly stopping along the way to explore everything from the young man's ribs to a pointy nipple. These explorations never held his focus for long, though; he kept moving, until he reached Greg's neck, where he let his hand rest for a moment.
Greg had grown more and more confused; Grissom was acting as if he were looking for clues –that was the only way to put it. He seemed to be on a quest for discovery. His touch was not about seduction… But it was seductive, nevertheless.
Unaware of Greg's confusion, Grissom continued his exploration, moving his fingers over Greg's cheek and forehead, as if doing a slow reconnaissance. It wasn't until he touched Greg's hair, though, that he felt like he'd found what he'd been looking for all along. He buried his fingers in it, and then he gently cradled Greg's skull in his palm.
With Grissom finally stopping, Greg wondered if he could get away with some exploration of his own; he pressed his cheek against Grissom's and then tentatively wrapped an arm around him as well.
Grissom didn't reject him –on the contrary; he reacted by slowly rubbing his face all over Greg's cheek and throat. It seemed he found this last place especially warm and inviting, for he kept his face buried in there, while taking deep breaths.
Greg smiled at this; Grissom's beard tickled his skin, and this was a huge turn-on for him.
But the surprises were not over yet, for Grissom did something much more unexpected-
He licked Greg's throat.
"Oh, shit-" Greg gasped.
Laughter bubbled in Grissom's throat. He couldn't believe this; he, Gil Grissom, was making someone shiver and moan in pleasure. The arm that was wrapped around him tightened its hold, and Grissom could feel the ragged edges of bitten fingernails digging into his back. Grissom liked that. He understood too, this need to get closer to someone -it was precisely what he'd been trying to do all along.
Touching and licking were just not enough, though, not with their clothes getting in the way; so, out of frustration, Grissom started to pull Greg's shirt open, and Greg responded in kind. They didn't accomplish much, however, because neither one of them wanted to break off their embrace. They merely stumbled around, clumsily pulling at each other's clothes and bumping against every piece of furniture they encountered.
They chuckled every time this happened, but their mirth was cut short when they bumped against Greg's tall bookcase, making it wobble dangerously. It didn't fall, but all the books and magazines that Greg had carelessly shoved inside spilled and fell on them in a rain of paper and dust.
The sound of books falling around them was a wake up call. They pulled apart just enough to glance at each other, and Grissom saw with disbelief that one of his own hands was wrapped around Greg's neck while the other was hidden underneath a flap of Greg's loosened shirt.
He dropped them immediately.
He looked at Greg as if he didn't recognized him... But it was not Greg he didn't recognize –it was himself. He had never done anything like this before.
He opened his mouth but there was nothing to say -nothing that could erase what had just happened, that is. The evidence was only too clear: Gil Grissom was not an austere man so at peace with himself that he didn't need anybody. On the contrary –strong emotions and desires had bubbled just below the surface all along. He'd held them back through a combination of will and denial and a genuine interest in his job, but he'd never make them disappear.
It was like living behind a façade that time had eroded; in the end it didn't take much to tear it down: Just one phrase and one touch. Now he felt exposed, more naked than if he had removed all his clothes.
"I'm…" Grissom started.
He wanted to say how sorry he was for losing control, and how much he regretted that Greg had had to witness it all, but words failed him.
"I'm…" he said again, and then he shook his head in defeat, "I'm falling apart," he said. It was the closest he could get to an explanation –and an apology.
"Welcome to the club," Greg said, trying to muster some humor. When Grissom didn't smile back, he added, "Grissom... it's no big deal. We just got a little physical; there's nothing in wrong with that."
"You don't understand," Grissom replied, "This is not me."
Greg tilted his head and stared at Grissom for a moment.
"I don't believe that." Greg said softly, "I think this is the real you. It's just as if…" he hesitated, "As if you'd been wearing a mask that suddenly fell off."
Grissom looked at him with something close to fear. It seemed that Greg understood him only too well.
"I need that mask." Grissom blurted out.
Greg stared expressionlessly at him.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because-" Grissom started, and then he stopped. His mouth opened again but the words didn't come out easily. "Because I've had it for too long." he said at last.
"Maybe you should stop wearing it." Greg replied.
Grissom smiled faintly; he knew Greg would say something like this.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"I just don't know who else to be, Greg." He said gently.
They stared at each other for a moment.
Grissom was the first to look away, and he had the perfect excuse. The books. He crouched down to pickthem up.
"No, it's ok." Greg said, "I'll do that later."
"Greg, I have never voluntarily damaged a book," Grissom said, "I'm not going to start now."
Greg watched him work diligently for a couple of minutes, and after a moment he bent down to help.
Grissom couldn't resist browsing, and one of the books caught his attention.
"Cien Años de Soledad," he read aloud, "Do you speak Spanish, Greg?"
"Me? No. A friend of mine left me her books before moving away -she spoke five languages. You want it?" he asked. When he noticed Gil's hesitation, he insisted, "Please, take it."
Grissom smiled.
"Thanks," he said, genuinely grateful. He had always wanted to read that book in its original version. He opened it and read a few lines, and discovered that his Spanish wasn't as rusty as he'd thought.
He glanced at Greg to say so, but didn't. He watched as Greg picked up the last of the magazines. The young man's shirt was still half open, and the sleeve was still rolled up.
Regret flooded Grissom. The reality of what he had done hit him once again.
He had used Greg.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, and Greg looked up in surprise.
"For the books?" he asked. "They're ok."
"No, not the books." Grissom said, "This..." he added, and he rolled down the sleeve until the cuff touched Greg's wrist.
"It's ok." Greg said mechanically, but when he noticed the look on Grissom's face, he stopped what he was doing and added, "Really, Grissom. It's ok."
Grissom shook his head.
"You're just too generous." He said.
"Oh, this is nothing," Greg replied dismissively, "You should see how generous I can be." Greg had intended these words as a joke, but he quickly realized how inappropriate they were, considering that Grissom had rejected his advances yet again. Grissom himself looked quite chagrined.
Greg decided that it was time to put things into perspective.
"You know," he said then, "I said a lot about attraction and all that, but… The truth is, all I wanted from you was a one-night-stand." He admitted, "A quick fix to my problems. I didn't see anything wrong with it." He added thoughtfully, "I mean, in my experience, one-night-stands never hurt anyone-"
Grissom looked down.
"Greg, I'm-"
"Don't be," Greg interrupted, "You see, I was wrong." He said, "Things would never be that simple; not with you. I mean… I've just seen what being with you would be like and...well..." he shook his head, not sure how to explain it, "It's too intense." He looked closely at Grissom, "Isn't it?"
"I don't know," Grissom said honestly. He had no basis for comparison.
"It's like..." Greg continued, "I don't know -like we'll get burned if we do anything. Like life will change if -" he didn't finish this phrase. "I just don't know if I want things to change." He said.
"Me, neither," Grissom agreed.
"It's not like things couldn't change for the better," Greg said after a moment. He looked at Grissom, "You could... you know, get used to this." He said tentatively. "Being without a mask, I mean."
Grissom wondered if that was possible. He stared at the young man and remembered the few minutes they'd just shared. It had been wonderful -more so because it had been spontaneous.
But if anything happened between them now, it would be by choice…
And Grissom would never take the risk.
"It's late." He said quietly, and he mechanically glanced at his wrist, although his watch was still on the coffee table.
Greg knew exactly what he meant. It was late for work, but it was also late to change and late to start living without a mask.
There was nothing more to say.
Except...
"At least your hand isn't shaking anymore." he said gently.
Grissom looked at his hand and smiled despite himself.
"Thanks, Greg." He said.
He put the last book on the pile and then he rose and purposefully crossed the room to pick up his jacket and the rest of his belongings. He didn't even pause long enough to put on his watch; he simply put everything inside a pocket.
Greg silently followed as he walked to the hallway.
Something called Grissom's attention just before he reached the door. A telescope. Not the telescope itself but the box it came in; it was dusty and empty, and it was lying in a corner.
Grissom tilted his head to examine the cover.
"Do you have a telescope, Greg?"
"Yes. A Mead 2130," he said.
"I've got a Celestron 102." Grissom said.
"Oh, yours is bigger than mine, then." Greg replied automatically, and to his chagrin, he blushed. But Grissom flushed too, so they were even.
"Do you watch the stars often?" Grissom asked as he put on his jacket.
"Oh, I haven't used it." Greg admitted, "I wanted to take it to the woods or the desert, but that's just one of the things that Tara's case ruined. There's no way I'm going out there on my own."
"What about inviting a friend over?"
"Well," Greg said, "My friends aren't exactly the outdoor type." He shrugged.
Grissom mused on this. He was the outdoor type, and he knew how rewarding star gazing could be. He went to the desert all the time. Alone, of course; he didn' t need any company on these little trips of his. However, he knew that sometimes people needed someone to share things with.
Greg, for instance. The young man would never gaze at the stars in respectful silence; he'd talk and make those outrageous asides that exasperated –and charmed- those who were lucky enough to hear them.
It was a pity that Greg's friends didn't realize what they were missing…
Grissom was so caught up by this thought that he came this close to offer to come along next time Greg wanted to watch the stars.
But he held back just in time.
With the nagging feeling that he had failed Greg yet again, Grissom spoke.
"So... I hope you give your friends another chance, Greg," he said, "They'll understand that you can't be a happy-go-lucky guy all the time; you'll see-"
"We'll see," Greg said quietly. "Thanks for the advice, Grissom."
Grissom opened the door but he didn't immediately stepped out of the apartment.
He felt that he was leaving something behind-
Not something; someone. He was leaving Greg and his imaginary convention site, and he was also leaving a part of himself; a part that he'd only got a brief glimpse of.
This last thought was painful, so Grissom quickly dismissed it.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"'Bye, Greg." He said.
"'Bye, Grissom."
Grissom walked towards the elevator, but the farther he got, the slower he walked. Finally, he stopped. He didn't know why he stopped in mid-step, and for a moment he was reminded of Greg's bookcase, wobbling insecurely back and forth.
He didn't want to leave like this, but he couldn't go back to Greg's place, either.
Or could he?
He turned.
If the door to Greg's apartment had been closed, Grissom would have left and returned to his old life, mask firmly in place. But the door was till open, and Greg was still standing there.
Grissom gathered the courage to speak.
"I was thinking..." he started, "Next time you have a night off," he said, "I -I could ask Catherine to cover up for me. We could go to the desert." He added more firmly, "We could watch the stars from there." He paused, "It's peaceful on weekdays." he added, and then he waited for Greg's reaction.
"Ok," Greg said tentatively. He liked the idea, but he couldn't help wondering if there was more than star gazing in Grissom's offer. Afterthe events of the evening, he just couldn't be sure.
Not that he'd ever ask.
And maybe it didn't matter, anyway. After all, star gazing with a friend sounded good enough.
"You gave me next Thursday night off." He said.
"Oh." Grissom said, slightly taken aback. He didn't think a chance would present itself so soon. He recovered quickly, though, "Ok," He said calmly. "We can go then."
They stared at each other for a moment.
"I'll dust off my Mead, then," Greg said good-naturedly.
"Good." Grissom said. He had the feeling that there was something else he should say or do, but he didn't know what. "So-" he paused.
"So-" Greg said, feeling just as insecure as Grissom, who was still standing in the middle of the hallway, looking as if he were waiting for a sign. Greg smiled faintly. "So," he said more firmly, "It's a date, then."
Grissom paused for just a second, and then he smiled too.
THE END.

***

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