A/N: Just a piece of slashy angst. Nothing altogether special, save for that I don't think many people pair Brass and Grissom together. An introspective piece from Brass' perspective, with a rather apposite poem by Constantine Cavafy at the end. It has the same title as this fic.
Half an hour
I never thought of myself as a romantic, but when we sat together in that bar yesterday, I found the most tender thoughts running through my head. When did I first realise that my feelings for you were more than friendship? It's hard to say. We've worked together for so many years now, and I've been alone for most of them. So have you - I've watched you, a few dates, here and there, but nothing lasting. Seems most people can't appreciate you like I do. I've watched you carefully hide yourself away at work, shielding yourself from emotional contact, trying to be a perfect machine. And I've seen the haunted look in your eyes sometimes, the deep silences, the way your emotions clearly show in your unguarded moments. I've watched you, I can't stop watching you: you're beautiful to me. I wish...if any fairy godmother is watching me...I wish I could be more than your friend, your colleague.
Maybe other people don't find you attractive. Neither did I, once. I never thought I could fall for you; in my case familiarity did not breed contempt. I found myself staring, tracing the line of your face with my eyes, wishing I could touch you. I know I never can. Sometimes...oh, it's so hard, when you look so vulnerable, little boy lost; it's so hard not to touch you, to hold you, to be with you in your solitude. But we are just colleagues, and there I cannot go. All I am to you is Jim, the sometime friend and long-term colleague - I doubt you even know I feel 'that way' about men. We never really talk much, not about private things; it's all work with us, all the drive for justice, but never the drive for love.
I was sitting in that bar, in a seedy part of town. I go there sometimes, just sit and think in a booth to the side, trying to fool myself that I'm not lonely. Of course I know it's a lie, that sitting in a bar with others does not make up for friends, but it soothes me sometimes. Slowly drinking my beer, thinking that maybe, someday I'll have the courage to tell you I love you, and have the courage to face your reaction. Then you walked in and sat beside you. I thought I was hallucinating for a moment, till you looked at me with concern in your eyes and asked if I was alright. I smiled and joked: humour has always been a faithful shield. Still you sensed something was wrong, and you stayed with me. We talked of inconsequential things; cases we were working on, the others' at the lab. Never our private lives: we both know we don't have any. Just two middle-aged men living for work - God help us when we have to retire. A quick slide into death, I suppose, because all we live for is work.
It was strangely intimate, that shabby booth with the fake leather peeling from the seats. I felt like an insect, pinned down by your blue eyes. I studied your face, every line, every shade of skin, transferring you to my memory. You touched my hand, I thought it meant something, but you were worrying; I had not responded to anything you had said, too intent on my longing for you. I blushed, feeling like a lovestruck teenager, and got us another drink.
I drank too much, way too much. So much that I nearly said something, nearly told you what I felt. But it is too great a risk, and I could not bear a pitying put-down. I know I'm no catch, not love's young dream, I know you could not feel for me as I feel for you: but my heart still hopes, regardless of reality. The alcohol made you talkative, you let your barriers down farther than I have ever seen. You told me of your childhood, of your isolation. If I could go back in time, if I could have known you then, I would have defended you against childhood bullies - we never really forget their taunts, do we? You were a lonely child, grown into a lonely man, and I wish I could do something about that. You were more frank, less the machine you need to be, with me that night. I knew you cared for the team, but I did not know how deep that went, how protective you felt for them. But then, you never had children, and I suppose our colleagues fill that place for you. Do you feel protective of me, I wondered, but had not the courage to say. I suppose you do, or else why would you be here, but I cling to my fantasies still, hoping you came here out of more than duty, and even more than friendship.
You'd think, with the years I've put away, that I would be brave enough to tell you how I feel. But I said nothing, and we sat together, talking and talking, drinking beer after beer because lets face it, we've neither of us got any private life to go home to. I could not tell you, now, how long we sat there, sharing those innocuous little secrets colleagues can share, but it felt like a lifetime. Sitting face to face, I could watch you as I cannot normally. Your face, your lips, your neck, it took all I possessed to stop me taking your hand and pulling you toward me. But that would not do: my dreams never did come true, and I don't think I could live with your rejection. All good things come to an end, and we walked out of there as they called time, smiling and waiting for our separate cabs to take us home. I almost said something, but the words caught in my throat, and it came out as 'maybe we should do this again,' rather than the statement of desire I wanted it to be. You just smiled, and waved me goodbye as you were driven away.
I don't think our love will ever set the world alight Gil, never fill the pages of some book somewhere. I will never say anything, you will never know of what I feel, but it was nice, just for that moment, to pretend we were in that bar for another purpose, to imagine that you love me too.
I never had you, nor will I ever have you
I suppose. A few words, an approach
as in the bar yesterday, and nothing more.
It is, undeniably, a pity. But we who serve Art
sometimes with intensity of mind, and of course only
for a short while, we create pleasure
which almost seems real.
So in the bar the day before yesterday -- the merciful alcohol
was also helping much --
I had a perfectly erotic half-hour.
And it seems to me that you understood,
and stayed somewhat longer on purpose.
This was very necessary. Because
for all the imagination and the wizard alcohol,
I needed to see your lips as well,
I needed to have your body close.
(Constantine Cavafy)