DECISIONS

Slash. Gil & Greg.

A new chapter, set four months after they returned from the convention.

Spoiler: Harvest (The scene where Greg tells Grissom that he needs to accept changes and that he should trust Mia's work).

Before you read this, please read the previous two chapters; I did a little rewriting on both, (no major changes, though.)

Grissom sighed in his sleep and the slight noise woke him up. He didn't immediately open his eyes, though. For a few seconds, he just lay there, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.

He smiled when he realized he was not at his place.

He didn't need to open his eyes to know. The bed he was lying on might be just like his own, but Greg's body next to his made all the difference. Besides, there were the smells, and the tell-tale spots on his body that were still sensitive.

He loved waking up at Greg's.

Grissom opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, facing the windows. There was a little sunlight coming through the blinds, and by its intensity, he knew it was about ten.

Slowly, he turned until he lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling. He always checked on Greg's resident spider, following its movements as it ventured out of its lacy home in the corner. Reassured that the little fella was thriving, Grissom turned to look at Greg.

The young man was lying on his back that morning, and he was sleeping soundly. Greg was capable of staying awake and alert for long periods of time, but when he fell asleep, he was really out, and Grissom liked it that way, since it gave him a chance to watch him closely.

Greg-watching, he called it; something he didn't dare do when Greg was awake -and even if he had dared, it would have been an exhausting task, since Greg was always moving and talking.

Not that Greg lay quietly while he slept either; he muttered a few unintelligible words now and then -words or whole sentences that made no sense- and sometimes his fingers moved as if he was dreaming that he was at the lab, performing some delicate test.

Sometimes he snored too.

Still, no matter what he did, the young man never woke up until a few hours had passed.

Grissom was just the opposite; he only dozed for half an hour and then he grew restless and got out of bed, no matter how tired he might be. Deep down, Grissom knew why.

It wasn't just the fact that he still felt like a guest who shouldn't abuse his welcome; the main reason was that he just couldn't match Greg's abandon. Grissom was afraid that if he fell asleep, Greg might do a little Grissom-watching of his own, and Grissom knew he wouldn't do cute things like muttering a few harmless words or snoring a little; Grissom was sure that he'd lie there, open-mouthed, drooling all over the pillow, or making all sort of disgusting sounds-

Grissom smiled ruefully.

He'd always be at a disadvantage; he'd never look as good as Greg –awake or asleep. Even the young man's moles were cute, for God's sake. So cute, that Grissom had invented names for most of them: There were 'The Twins,' two moles set close together on Greg's right cheekbone; 'Lucky,' a mole that was just above his mouth; 'Tear,' the mole just below his left eye… And so on.

Grissom smiled again. He had it bad.

He reached to touch Greg, but didn't. He let his hand hover over Greg's head and fantasized about the things he'd do if he ever got the guts to touch him: He'd bury his fingers in the silky mess that was Greg's hair; he'd wake him up and tell him that he loved him (he knew how to say it in twelve languages), and then-

His fantasies never went further. He abruptly withdrew his hand and rolled out of bed.

That was the main reason why he didn't stay in bed: When he lay like this, so close to Greg, he turned into a sentimental idiot.

He covered Greg with the sheet that had fallen to the floor and went downstairs. He needed a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, Grissom wiped the fogged mirror and looked at himself. He looked as tired as he was; he had pulled a double shift but instead of going home, he had followed Greg.

Well, who wouldn't?

At the beginning of their –relationship? affair? he still didn't know what to call it- Grissom had tried not to come to Greg's place too often. Even now, four months later, he still put up a token resistance; when he said yes, he did so only reluctantly, as if staying at the lab or going home alone could ever be as satisfying as sleeping with Greg.

Fortunately for him, Greg simply kept asking –good naturedly, as if it was a sort of game they were playing. And maybe it was a game, Grissom mused; a game they had been playing for four months.

Four months. He still found it hard to believe they had lasted this long.

Now he kept personal stuff here – a toothbrush, some non-scented toiletries, and some clothes. He no longer picked up stray hairs from the bedding or cleaned every surface he had touched, like a bad guy trying to erase his presence from a crime scene. He cooked breakfast, now and then.

Grissom would never admit this, but he had been privately celebrating their monthly anniversary –nothing fancy, just a private toast to himself.

And why not? He was proud of himself. For four months he'd managed to be with Greg while keeping his true feelings to himself, and without putting their working relationship in any danger.

So far nobody from the lab had caught on-

Or so he had thought.

Grissom closed his eyes. He had completely forgotten.

It was amazing; his mind had blocked last night's events so he could have a quiet moment alone with Greg. It was denial at its best.

Well, he could not block the memory anymore…

Last night he had been working on a report when Jim Brass entered his office. The detective took a seat, made some small talk, and then casually asked:

"So, how was the game?"

Grissom looked up, a blank expression on his face.

"Game?"

"The baseball game." Brass said, "The one you and Sanders went to on Sunday."

Grissom was a good poker player; inwardly he was busily trying to remember what had happened on Sunday, but his face revealed nothing.

Brass smiled faintly.

"So?" he asked, "How was it?"

"The Eagles won." He said calmly.

"Uh, huh." Brass nodded slowly. "What about Sanders? Did he enjoy the game?"

"I suppose."

"Funny; I would never had pegged him as a baseball guy." He glanced at Grissom, "But maybe I just don't know him, right?" he said gently.

Grissom held his gaze for a moment and then he turned his attention back to his reports. He wrote steadily, and for a moment all that could be heard was the sound of his pen on the paper.

"So," Brass said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About-"

"About you and Sanders," he said.

"We were watching a game." Grissom said quietly.

Brass snorted incredulously.

"Gil, I know you." he said, "At least," he added, almost to himself, "I think I know you as well as anyone is ever going to." He looked up, "You never socialize with your colleagues, yet you were at the stadium with this guy-" he paused. He was speaking gently, trying to coax Grissom into opening up. He added good-humoredly, "I couldn't believe it, you know? Gil Grissom on a date."

Brass looked up expectantly, but Grissom didn't say anything; he simply kept on writing, hoping Brass would get the hint and leave the matter alone.

Brass didn't. The detective seemed determined to get some answer and Grissom's reticence just pissed him off.

"Now I understand why you gave him a second chance at the proficiency test." he said deliberately, getting an immediate response from Grissom, who looked up with anger flashing in his eyes.

"Do you think I'd do that?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, "Do you think Greg would?"

Brass held his gaze, but he backed down eventually.

"No." he admitted, "You wouldn't. Neither one of you would." Brass paused, "But you know that's what people will think if they find out."

"I've never cared much about people's opinions, Jim." He retorted.

Grissom knew that was only partially true. It was one thing to have people speculating about his private life, but it was quite another to have them questioning his decisions at the lab. His reputation as a CSI was important to him; and now Greg's reputation was on the line too.

Still, he didn't want to talk about it, and he reached for the next report. Brass gently moved the reports away.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.

Grissom kept his gaze on the reports.

"We're talking about feelings, Gil." Brass said softly, "I'm just wondering if you're prepared to deal with them."

Grissom could have denied everything and asked Brass to leave, but Brass was a friend and his opinion mattered.

"You don't think I deserve a break?" He asked without looking up.

"Gil, I didn't say you didn't." Brass said kindly. "It's just…" He paused, "I don't think you know what you're getting into. I mean, let's face it; Greg Sanders is-"

"I know," Grissom interrupted, "He's a man."

"Gil, believe it or not, it's not the guy-guy thing that bothers me." Brass said, "But he's a subordinate -"

"I know."

"Then, there's the age difference-"

"I know."

"And anything you two do -"

"Whatever we do," Grissom said coldly, "It has nothing to do with the lab." Or you. The words were implied.

"Hey," Brass lifted his hands in self-defense, "Whatever you do behind close doors is your own business. But you're wrong, and you know it. This has to do with the lab because your main concern in life is -and always will be- the job. You know next to nothing about relationships." he paused, but Grissom didn't say anything. "So, do you understand why I'm a little concerned here?"

"We've been discreet." Grissom said lamely. Evidently, they hadn't been as discreet as they should.

"Gil, you still don't get it-"

"Are you going to tell everyone?" he asked abruptly.

Brass was appalled.

"Jesus, Gil. You don't think I'd -"

"Just don't tell your buddies at the precinct." Grissom interrupted with a glare, "Cops love gossip and gay bashing."

Now it was Jim's turn to be quietly indignant.

"Now, wait a minute. You know me better than that."

Grissom looked down and took a deep breath. He nodded reluctantly.

"I do," He said. "I'm sorry."

"I never butt into people's private affairs, Gil." He said quietly, "All I wanted-"

"Jim," he interrupted, "I don't want to talk about this, ok? Whatever you saw on Sunday-" he shrugged, "It won't happen again."

"Sanders is-"

"We're going to be more careful." Grissom said curtly. He didn't want to hear Brass' opinion of Greg, and this time, the detective seemed to get the hint.

"All right," He said slowly." Discretion is always good." he added good-naturedly. He rose from his seat but didn't leave immediately. "Listen," he said, "I'm glad that you reached out to someone, pal. I just don't want to see anyone get hurt-"

"I'll be ok." Grissom said without looking up. He didn't want to continue this conversation and Brass seemed to understand.

"Fine." He said casually, "I just thought I'd give you some advice."

Now, almost ten hours later, Grissom still didn't know what Brass had seen. He'd gone over every moment he'd spent at the stadium with Greg, and he was sure they hadn't touched each other or shared food or drinks, the way couples sometimes did.

Frankly, a stadium filled with macho types was the last place where they would have shown any affection to each other.

But Brass' words had made him realize how naïve he'd been; he'd sincerely believed thatas long as they were discreet, no one would know. But being discreet was only part of the problem; only now was he taking note of some subtle changes. For instance, just the other day Greg had chided Grissom for not trusting Mia's work - something he probably wouldn't have done in the old days. And he'd done it in front of Warrick, who had been visibly stunned.

Were there other instances that Grissom didn't remember? And if there were, how long before their colleagues started putting two and two together?

He took a deep breath; he didn't even want to think about it.

Grissom wrapped a towel around his waist and got out of the bathroom.

Since Greg's bathroom was tucked between the kitchen and the stairs, whenever he took a shower he got a glimpse of the living room and its tempting couch. Sometimes he gave in and sat there for a while, or did a little book browsing.

That morning Grissom sat on the couch and looked around. He liked Greg's apartment. It was all there, on sight, with barely enough space to conceal anything. Grissom's house was the opposite; it had rooms, shadows, and locked doors that he didn't dare open.

Grissom smiled when he noticed Greg's Forensics award displayed among family pictures; it had been sent on a tour to Minnesota, where most of Greg's family resided, and it had finally returned home.

Grissom chuckled when he saw a coffee cup sitting on top of a bookcase. It had been there for a week now. He rose and took it down, but instead of crushing it and throwing it in the wastebasket he reverently put it on the coffee table and stared at it, smiling faintly. The cup bore the 'Antigua' logo, and he liked that coffee shop.

There was a time when Grissom bought coffee to go –black, with one sugar- and that was that. Now, thanks to Greg's influence, he was ordering beverages that had long names –names that contained one or two of the words mocha, mint, leche quemada, raspberry, hazelnut, higo dulce…and so on.

And he didn't buy them at Starbucks. Greg patronized 'Antigua', a small shop near his building, and Grissom had become addicted to the place. He liked the décor, the smell of freshly baked bread, the fruit pies, and the candy –authentic Guatemalan candy; guava curls, tamarind balls, and marzipan squares.

Grissom liked the shop because it was the only place where he and Greg felt comfortable enough to try each other's beverages and pies.

That reminded him of Brass comments. What had he seen at the ball game? Granted, Grissom didn't socialize with his coworkers, but why had Brass immediately jumped to the conclusion that he and Greg were having an affair?

Grissom wondered too late if the detective had been only bluffing. If he was, then Grissom himself had supplied him all the proof he needed.

"Not very smart." Grissom said ruefully.

Now he would have to tell Greg that Brass knew, and that they needed to be more careful.

He was not ready to tell Greg that they should stop seeing each other.

Grissom returned to the bedroom as quietly as he could, but he needn't have worried. Greg hadn't even moved. Grissom shook his head indulgently, and turned to pick up his clothes from the heap on the floor. He looked at Greg for a moment and after a couple of minutes he made his decision.

He would not tell Greg about his conversation with Brass. Those two were both bound to work together in the future, and Grissom didn't want to put a strain in their relationship.

Still, the subject would come up some sooner or later. Next time Greg talked about going to see a movie or something, Grissom would have to say no, and then he'd have to explain why, and tell all about Brass and his damn questions.

Do you know what you're doing?

Of course, Grissom didn't; how could he? All he did was take whatever Greg offered and give back whatever he could; it was as simple as that. Neither of them expected much from the other, either in terms of permanence or depth of feelings.

Grissom picked up his shirt and was about to put it on when he remembered another of Brass' phrases: He's a subordinate. At the time he hadn't paid attention to it, but now he wondered why Brass felt compelled to mention it, since being the boss made no difference-

He shook his head. Who was he kidding?

Of course it made a difference, and all the advantages were on his side: Being a subordinate kept Greg from asking more than Grissom could give. Sure, they had sex; but it was not the adventurous sex that Greg must have been used to, and luckily for Grissom, the young man was scrupulously respectful; there was no way he would ever come out and say he wanted to pour a little hot wax on his boss-

Grissom sighed. One of these days Greg was going to become so bored, he'd want to move on.

And Grissom would have to accept it. It would be devastating, sure, but -contrary to what Brass might think- he would not be hurt. He'd let Greg go, and-

But a new thought came to him. What if Greg didn't think he could move on? What if he felt that, as a subordinate, breaking off with the boss might endanger his job? What if-

Grissom shook his head.

'Thanks, Jim,' He thought sarcastically. Brass had posed more questions than he could answer, and he had ruined what seemed like a perfect arrangement.

A sleepy voice interrupted his musings.

"Thinking… thinking…"

Grissom turned. Greg was smiling faintly at him.

"Morning, Greg."

"Hey, Grissom." He said, his voice husky with sleep. He watched as Grissom buttoned his shirt. "How come you never sleep over?" He asked.

"Well," Grissom said, "I would, but you usually claim the whole bed to yourself, so-" 'Oh, that's nice,' he thought sarcastically; 'I'm putting the blame on Greg, now.'

He tried to amend that comment, "I have to go home and, you know, do some cleaning."

"Any plans for the weekend?" Greg asked, "I mean, besides cleaning and going to the lab."

"No." he said, "You?"

Greg yawned and shook his head.

"No parties?" Grissom asked.

"Nope. I'm staying home. I'm on call this weekend, remember?"

Grissom opened his mouth to say something and hesitated. He didn't say anything and instead turned to pick up his socks.

Greg noticed the hesitation.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look worried."

"I'm not." Grissom said. He sat to put on his socks. He glanced at the young man, who was watching him intently. "It's just…" he paused, "It seems that you used to enjoy life more" He said softly. He looked away, "I feel like I'm-" he paused. He got up and reached for his belt.

"That you are what?" Greg coaxed.

"That I'm sucking off your youth, or something-" he blurted out.

Greg snorted.

"Hey, as long as you make me scream, you can suck anything you want."

"I'm serious," Grissom said, tucking his shirt inside his pants.

"I'm serious, too. I mean, I can't go to every party now. I'm a CSI," Greg said proudly, "I have more responsibilities-"

"Yes, but… That doesn't mean you can't go out and have some fun." He said, hoping that Greg would understand the hidden message: Just because you're sleeping with the boss doesn't mean you can't go out.

"I am having fun." Greg said placidly, "At the lab… and here." He added pointedly.

"Are you?" Grissom asked. He hoped it was true, because deep down he did not want Greg to go out.

Greg simply nodded.

And it was true; Greg really liked sleeping with Grissom.

He would never admit this aloud, but part of Grissom's charm was the fact that he was the cheapest date Greg had ever had –one who didn't need to be plied with drinks or dinners to get in the mood, or gifts to keep him from straying.

Greg also got a kick out of seeing Grissom change from the proper, buttoned-up CSI Supervisor everybody thought they knew, to the passionate, impatient man who bound up the stairs and practically pushed him into bed.

Sure, Grissom wasn't around every time Greg was in the mood for a little party, and they rarely went anywhere, but he did nice things now and then, as if to compensate for this. Sometimes when Greg went downstairs (long after Grissom had left), he'd find something that Grissom had whipped up: a glass of fleshly squeezed OJ, a fluffy omelet, or some pancakes.

Greg liked that.

Not that having sex with Grissom was uncomplicated. Sometimes they would glance at each other across the conference table, and Greg could swear they were thinking about the same thing –the things they had done just a few hours earlier in bed. That was frustrating as hell, for they couldn't touch or kiss or even talk about it while they were at the lab.

That was a rule that had been established early on: They couldn't touch anywhere but here, in this bedroom. It was something that Grissom had made clear the first time they'd been together. That morning, Grissom had gone downstairs to brew some coffee, and by the time Greg joined him in the kitchen, Grissom had a cup ready for him. Greg had accepted the cup and was leaning forward for a kiss, when Grissom rose his own cup at the same time, preventing him from getting any closer.

Grissom's gesture had been completely unintentional, but Greg had taken it seriously and had acted accordingly, from then on.

In time, Greg felt it was all for the best, since it help them keep their two worlds separate.

"So, I'll probably be seeing you, then." Grissom said, picking up his car keys from the night table next to the bed.

"Yeah." Greg nodded, "Hey," He said before Grissom turned away. "What about a cup of coffee on Sunday?"

Grissom's first impulse was to say no, but coffee on Sunday meant spending a couple of hours at 'Antigua', a place that neither Brass or any other CSI knew. Or they could spend an hour at the shop, and an hour here…

"There's a new flavor I want to try," Greg said enticingly.

Grissom smiled to himself. Greg would try the new flavor, while Grissom stuck to a favorite one; then they would come back here, and Grissom would taste the new flavor as he thoroughly kissed the young man's mouth-

The thought was enough to send shivers down his spine. He took a deep breath.

"Ok." Grissom managed to say, "Coffee at ten unless something comes up." He took a step towards the stairs.

"Wait." Greg said suddenly, "There's something I wanna show you."

"What?"

Greg crawled out of bed and leant on the rail that surrounded the bedroom loft. From there, they could see the living room and part of the kitchen.

"You said I was wasting my balcony, remember?"

Grissom glanced at the glass doors at the end of the apartment. There was a balcony area that Greg rarely used.

"I cleaned it up." He said, "I got some second-hand patio furniture -some chairs, a huge umbrella-" he smiled, "Maybe we could sit there now and then," Greg said, "You could do some paperwork, work on your tan-"

Grissom was speechless.

"Work on my tan?" he asked at last.

"Yep." Greg smiled, "Your face and arms are tan but your legs are milky white," he teased.

He looked at Greg and suddenly, Brass' warnings and all other concerns faded away.

"Great," he said.

TBC

Thanks for reviewing.

Note: Antigua Guatemala is called a 'living museum' because of its architecture. Starbucks buys some of its coffee there. And yes, the local candy is delicious…

Coming up in July: a brief look at Greg's Mr. Hyde.