DECISIONS
The ant story Gil tells is based on 'Ants' by Chet Williamson.
The phrase 'He was shy of tears…' is from the short story 'Taboo' by Geoffrey Household.
Grissom took a sip of water from the bottle in his hand, then glanced at the window. It was raining. The day loomed grey and cold, but Greg's bed was warm and cozy, and Gil was glad he'd accepted the young man's invitation to come.
"Well?" Greg said, interrupting his musings.
Grissom glanced at Greg but didn't immediately reply.
They were lying next to each other under the covers, their bodies still warm and sweaty from their recent love-making. Staying in bed after sex was a luxury Gil rarely indulged in, and he wanted to savor the moment. This was the more relaxed he'd been in a long time and he liked the feeling. Suddenly, anything seemed possible.
For instance, he found it only too easy to believe that the look on Greg's eyes was one of adoration, not expectation. And he could easily fantasize that they were not coworkers killing time after sex but lovers holding an intimate conversation. Any time soon, one of them would say something like, 'I love you,' or 'I've never loved anybody like this,' or… Well, whatever one says to a loved one in similar circumstances.
What Grissom really wanted to say was, 'I miss you back at the lab,' and 'I wish Ecklie hadn't decided to reinforce the annual vacation program.' Not the most romantic of phrases, but certainly more romantic than the words he actually uttered:
"Mr. Piersall had sought refuge in the bathroom, but the ants inevitably found him."
Greg smiled and nodded. He'd obviously expected this twist in the tale.
"There were only a few at first," Gil said, "Then more and more, until the floor, the walls, and even the door, were covered by a black, glossy, squirming layer."
"Oh, man," Greg muttered. "I know how that is. Back when I was living in New York, there were these huge cockroaches -" he stopped. "But I digress," he added, motioning Gil to continue.
Grissom smiled.
"Mr. Piersall's first reaction was one of disbelief," Gil said, "It didn't seem possible that y these lowly creatures would band together against him; but when the ants started to fall on him like kamikaze warriors, he realized he was facing a powerful, well-organized enemy. Too late did he realize that he'd effectively locked himself away in the bathroom. He made for the door but that first step he took was the last; the sound –and the feel- of a thousand ants being crushed under his foot was too much to bear.
"He froze. Killing like this just wasn't his style," Gil added thoughtfully, "He was a coward; he used insecticide. Anyway, Mr. Piersall was at the end of his tether, and so he looked around and cried, 'What do you want from me? I'll do anything!'
He paused for effect, then continued, "The next day, Mr. Piersall went to the grocery store like he did every morning. Only instead of asking for ant killer like he always did, he asked for a gallon of male syrup."
Greg chuckled appreciatively.
"To the guy behind the counter, this was odd enough," Gil said, "But there was something that struck him as odder, and he would mention it time and time again after Mr. Piersall disappeared. "'Mr. Piersall was shivering,'" he said, "'He was shivering, even though it was a scorching Summer day. He was shivering despite the glossy black scarf tightly wrapped around his neck…'"
"An ant scarf!" Greg exclaimed gleefully.
"An ant scarf," Gil nodded, then added, "The End." His story finished, he drank the rest of the water, then put the bottle back on the bedside table.
When he turned back, he noticed that Greg was still looking at him, only this time there was a bemused expression on his face.
"What?" Gil asked, but Greg only shook his head, the smile –and the gaze- still in place.
Gil glanced away and for a moment, he simply lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the gentle patter of the rain. He took a deep, satisfied breath. Again, he congratulated himself on his decision to stay. Usually, he could hardly wait to leave this room, urged by work and personal engagements and -why deny it? – sheer fear of intimacy. But this was nice, he realized; there was something deeply satisfying about staying in bed, basking in the afterglow of sex and the warmth of a body next to his.
Gil rarely took the time to examine his feelings but he he did an exception this time, and was surprised at how happy he felt. Hopeful. For the first time, he actually felt like he belonged in this room and in this bed –that he belonged with Greg.
It was a nice change from the way he'd been feeling lately. Ever since his return from Portland he'd been cautious around Greg. The young man's less-than-warm reception took him by surprise back then, as did the conversation they had afterwards. It was tense and unfriendly, and the only reason it didn't turn into a full-blown argument was because they were at a crime scene.
They'd had a reconciliation of sorts, but Gil still felt uneasy. He'd been avoiding Greg lately, though so skillfully that Greg hadn't caught on it yet. What he did was assign Greg to work with others, thus cutting down their chances for conversation. Usually, by the time they got together, they were just too exhausted to talk -sex on top of a 24-hour shift tended to drain every bit of energy from them. Then Ecklie had inadvertently helped Gil avoid Greg by deciding that all CSIs should take their vacation time in a lump instead of taking days off throughout the year.
Which meant that Greg was on a two-week vacation he hadn't planned for. The poor guy was 'kinda bored' (his own words), and so when he called Grissom at midnight, asking him to drop by, Grissom took pity on him. Gil had never left work before the end of the shift, but now he was glad that he did.
Very glad.
He casually glanced at Greg, only to find that the young man was still looking at him, the slight smile still in place.
Grissom looked back at the ceiling again, but now he was conscious of Greg's gaze on him.
It was unsettling.
It wasn't like he'd never been somebody's scrutiny, but it was one thing to be observed at the lab, and quite another to be watched while he was in bed. Not being a vain person, the thought that maybe –just maybe- Greg was simply admiring the view never occurred to him.
Then there was the silence; it wasn't like Greg to be this quiet –but then, it wasn't like Greg to stay awake after sex in the first place. Usually, he simply turned his back on Gil and passed out –which in turn gave Grissom a chance to make a quiet exit. But that morning Greg had simply rolled onto his side, folded an arm under his pillow, then looked at Grissom as if he were expecting something, only he wouldn't say what. And it was the silence that finally got to Gil. He, who was usually comfortable with silence –and sometimes even craved it- suddenly started looking for ways to break it. Hence, the ant story.
Now, as he looked at the ceiling, Gil started to wonder about Greg's behavior. Did he act like this when he was with men his own age, for instance? Somehow, Gil didn't think Greg would lie quietly like this. He would say something at least. With such a wide range of interests, surely he'd find something to talk about. Or maybe he didn't talk but play some kind of game?
It wasn't that Gil actually wanted to know what Greg did with other men. He was simply curious. What if there was some sort of post-coital etiquette that he wasn't aware of? Maybe there were some activities that might help make this relationship –or whatever it was that he and Greg had going- more acceptable. He didn't want Greg to miss anything.
Grissom was mulling this over when suddenly, it dawned on him that he'd just done something that was probably a big no-no as far as post-coital activities went: tell horror stories in bed.
He froze.
Nice going, he thought ruefully. Who told horror stories in bed? No one; absolutely no one. And they weren't even good horror stories -not by today's standards. They weren't gory or bloody enough; they were old-fashioned stories, the kind where danger and menace were left to the imagination and you had to suspend disbelief to enjoy.No wonder Greg had that amused look on his face.
Gil closed his eyes and held back a groan.
"You look like you've just remembered leaving the iron plugged-in." Greg said suddenly.
Grissom opened his eyes. Greg hadn't moved; he was still looking at him, the amused smile still in place.
Gil looked away.
"Hum, Grissom?" Greg waited until Gil glanced in his direction, "You want to sleep or something?" And he solicitously reached for the headboard light.
Gil shook his head.
"It's ok," he said. Darkness would have given him some respite but he refused to act like an old man needing his sleep. He'd always made it a point to keep up with Greg as best as he could; if the young man didn't want to sleep, then he wouldn't either.
But if Greg wanted to talk, then he'd have to start a conversation himself because Gil had decided not to open his mouth again any time soon.
He only wished he'd come to this decision sooner.
He still couldn't understand why he'd told those stories. What was he thinking? If he was hoping to coax Greg into sleep, then he'd failed miserably; Greg seemed perkier than ever. And if he'd only done it to fill in the silence, then the question remained: Why tell horror stories? Why not just quote a science article, for instance?
And suddenly, the answer came to him with a name and a face: John.
John had loved horror stories.
To everyone -professors and students- John was a no-nonsense scientist; but there was another side of him that few ever knew. A dreamy side. John used to read horror stories; horror, sci-fi, fantasy -it didn't matter, as long as he could lose himself in an alternate reality.
It was a trait that he shared with Gil. In fact, reading became their favorite post-coital activity. They used to spend entire evenings in bed, reading aloud from Gil's second-hand book collection and John's old Weird Tales magazines, or simply recounting something they'd read before.
Sometimes they would stop and reread something, either to memorize it or just to savor the sound of a well-thought-out phrase.
There was a phrase from that time that Gil still remembered because it summed up John so well: '…he was shy of tears and laughter, and he had armed his whole soul against them…' and John had merely nodded when he heard it, not offended at all. He loved books too much to resent them.
On hindsight, they were probably filling some emptiness left by their lonely, screwy childhoods. But the reason hardly mattered to Gil now; all he knew was that those were about the happiest times they'd shared.
Gil smiled wistfully as he imagined John's reaction to the ant story. He wouldn't have thought it odd that Gil would tell a horror story; he would have enjoyed it. And he would have appreciated the irony of a hunter being hunted by its supposedly-weaker prey…
"So, what's with the smile," Greg asked quietly.
Gil shook his head. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want to talk about John. It wasn't the right place for that. It seemed disloyal–
Gil paused over that last thought. Who was he being disloyal to? Greg or John?
"Thinking…. Thinking…" Greg muttered.
Grissom glanced at Greg and smiled reluctantly.
"It's a curse," he admitted sheepishly.
Greg smiled good-naturedly.
"So, what are you thinking of?"
"Something I read," Gil said, looking at the ceiling, and wishing Greg would turn his inquisitive gaze elsewhere. He didn't want to answer questions; didn't want to explain. Didn't know if he could do either, in the first place.
What he did know was that only a few minutes ago he'd been feeling content and now he was feeling guilty; guilty for thinking of John…. and for missing him.
His eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly at his last thought. He did miss John. He missed the easy relationship they'd had. 'Easy' wasn't a word he'd used before but it was valid; being with John was easy. He would engage you in heated discussions about anything from the environment to politics but he didn't need to know what you did for Christmas, for instance. He didn't care about people's personal lives -which was all right with Gil, who definitely did not want to talk about Christmas.
Greg, on the other hand, liked to know what you did for Christmas. He cared about people's personal lives.
And he was always asking, asking, asking…
As if on cue, Greg posed a question.
"Do you have any friends, Grissom?"
Gil frowned.
"Yeah," he said, as if the answer should be obvious, "You've met some of them."
"I'm talking about friends you see every day," Greg replied, "Or every week, or every month -" he let his voice trail off.
Grissom shrugged slightly.
"I see them occasionally," he said.
He didn't have to look at Greg to know that the answer wasn't satisfactory.
That was part of the problem in this relationship; no matter what he said, no matter how much information he volunteered, somehow it never measured up to Greg's expectations.
"So," Greg said, "These friends… Are any of them gay?"
Gil raised one eyebrow.
"I don't know," he said slowly.
"You don't?"
"I've never asked." He met Greg's incredulous gaze with a shrug, "It doesn't seem important."
"Well, I think it's good having friends one has something in common with."
"We have things in common," Gil replied. 'We don't pry into each other's lives, for one thing', he thought dryly. Aloud, he said, "We play chess on line. We watch the same baseball games, we exchange press articles -"
"You just don't talk about sex," Greg interjected.
"Not within a personal context," Gil said slowly. He didn't like this line of conversation. He didn't want to talk about these friends of his; he respected their privacy, just as they respected his. They were misfits - something they seemed to be proud of – but they were protective of each other. Somehow, he knew that Greg would never understand.
"So," Greg said, "How come you never talk about them?"
"There's nothing much to say," Gil shrugged, "Do you tell me everything about your friends?"
"Yeah." Greg replied matter-of-factly.
And this was true. It was one of Greg's characteristics -his complete lack of reticence. He chattered freely about friends and family, and while he didn't actually disclose intimate aspects of their lives, what he revealed was enough to make Gil feel like he knew them personally.
There was a time, back in the beginning, when Gil felt flattered by Greg's willingness to talk about those friends. Gil would never admit it now, but he used to feel that Greg was conferring him some special privilege by sharing so much personal information with him.
Then one day, while discussing a case with Warrick, Gil had casually mentioned a cousin of Greg's with a knowledge on electronics. To his surprise, Warrick had replied just as casually, 'Ah, yeah; Curtis. He might know what to do. I'll give him a call.'
And in that brief moment, Gil realized that there was nothing privileged about Greg's brief personal revelations. He'd told others, too.
It was a wake-up call, and Gil was grateful for it. At the time, he'd been dangerously close to falling more deeply in love and, frankly, he couldn't afford to do that.
Greg interrupted his musings.
"I've told you everything about my friends," he said.
Not everything, Gil thought.
There was one friend Greg rarely mentioned, except in the vaguest of terms: Tim.
But then, Tim was probably not a 'friend.'
"Speaking of friends," Greg said suddenly, "Did you finally decide where to go for the Summer?"
"The Summer?" Gil asked, sincerely puzzled.
"Yeah," Greg said, "You, Janice, Dr. Bernie… You were supposed to go on a fishing trip together, remember?"
"Oh," Gil muttered cautiously. It was the first time that Greg alluded to that trip. "The Forensic Cruise, you mean," he added with tentative humor. "We're still discussing dates. It's difficult to get everybody together for a whole week."
"Why don't you take them to Lake Mead?" Greg asked. Without waiting for an answer, he added with growing enthusiasm, "The fishing's great, and having Las Vegas this close would be an added bonus; I bet the guys would jump at the idea of catching a couple of shows. And Janice would be happy to come back. She's said so over and over in her e-mails."
"Well -"
"I know; there is a draught," Greg said, as if Gil had actually voiced an objection. "But the fishing's still good. In fact, you can fish all through September and October. And the prices aren't as high as you might think. All you've got to do is rent a houseboat; if you take package deals, they take care of everything from licenses to gear. And -" he paused for a moment, then added enticingly, "With you this close, I could drop for a visit. I haven't scuba-dived in a long time."
Grissom took his time to reply.
The truth was, he'd already considered Lake Mead for the fishing trip. He researched prices and locations and even contacted a charter company, but in the end he'd abandoned the idea, ironically, because of Greg. Gil had decided long ago not to let him come near his friends ever again. Janice's recent visit had only served to reinforce this decision.
But Greg didn't know any of this, and right now he was looking at Gil as if he were actually expecting an invitation.
Grissom avoided the matter altogether by glancing at the ceiling again, and this time he found something legitimate to focus on; the spider web in the corner. It looked dusty and unkempt.
"Where's your spider?" he frowned.
"Uh? Oh, yeah," Greg said, glancing at the ceiling. "I forgot to tell you. The poor guy bit the dust last week. Literally -I found it entangled in a dust bunny. I gave it a hero's funeral in the bathroom."
Grissom tilted his head in the web's direction.
"And you didn't think of cleaning that up?"
"Nah," Greg shrugged, "I thought I'd leave it intact for my next tenant. There are plenty of spiders in the balcony."
The stared at the cobweb in silence.
"I could get you one," Gil said suddenly.
"What?"
"A spider," Gil said. "I could get you one."
Greg smiled.
"Ah, yeah," he said, "I heard you breed your own spiders."
"Who told that?" Gil frowned.
"Someone at the lab." Greg said evasively, almost guiltily. He glanced away. Idly, he stretched his arms until he touched the headboard, then he stretched his legs, too. He groaned at the effort, then winced at a popping sound his joints made. He took a couple of deep breaths, then let his body relax.
Greg closed his eyes, completely oblivious to the fact that the covers had slipped away due to his exertions.
Grissom wasn't as oblivious. He rarely got a chance to look at Greg and he didn't let it go to waste. He studied Greg's face for a moment, then let his gaze slowly travel down the young man's half-naked body, from the long, white neck to the chest, then to the abdomen.
Gil eyed him wistfully. He never voiced his feelings but this time he almost did.
"You're -" he started. You're beautiful, he wanted to say, only it didn't seem appropriate. Beautiful might not be the right word to describe a man. Yet another thing he needed to research…
Meanwhile, he got an eyeful. Greg's genitals were still under cover, but that was ok; the sight of Greg's belly was enticing enough. All Gil wanted to do was rub his face against it, feel the peach-like texture of the skin and kiss every inch of it. Taste it –
"What?" Greg asked.
Gil looked up and realized that Greg had caught him staring.
Before he could put up some explanation, Greg spoke again.
"I know," he said wearily, "I'm putting on weight, right?"
"What?" This time the word came from Grissom, who looked in disbelief as Greg mournfully patted his stomach.
It was flat as a surfboard but apparently Greg disagreed.
"Hey, it's not my fault," Greg said defensively, even though Grissom hadn't made any comment. "It's all those pies and cakes from Antigua. All the gourmet coffees -"
"And the donuts?" Grissom added helpfully.
"Ah, yes, the donuts," Greg said with more longing than regret, "I still haven't worked off those."
Gil shook his head in amusement.
"Vanity, thy name is Greg."
"Nah," Greg replied without missing a beat, "Vanity wouldn't choose such a lame name."
"Your name isn't lame," Gil protested, but Greg didn't reply. He was looking at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thoughts.
With Greg's gaze averted, Gil felt safe to sneak another glance at Greg's belly.
"Speaking of food," Greg said suddenly, "You know what I've missed?" He looked at Grissom and waited until he had his attention to add, "Your omelets."
"Omelets?"
"Yeah. You used to cook me an omelet now and then."
Gil smiled faintly. Ah, yes, he thought. The omelets. They used to be a part of his own post-coital routine; he would either cook an omelet, or squeeze the juice off a half a dozen oranges, or, if in a hurry, simply leave a bagful of fresh fruit.
At the time, Gil hadn't stopped to analyze why he kept leaving those little gifts of food; but his trip to Portland had given him ample time to think, and so, in a moment of quiet introspection he'd recognized those gifts for what they really were: humble offerings left for a god.
"You haven't cooked me anything since you came back from Portland," Greg added thoughtfully.
And the reason was simple, Gil thought; he'd decided to stop seeing Greg as a god.
But this wasn't something he could even begin to explain.
"I didn't realize," Gil said casually. "Did you like those?"
"Well, yeah," Greg said matter-of-factly. "Though I was kind of surprised that you would cook for me."
"Why?" Gil frowned, "Can't a guy cook for another?"
"Well, yeah, he can. It's just… I was afraid you might be putting more than eggs and cheese in them."
"Like what?" Gil asked in surprise.
"Hell, I don't know," Greg shrugged, "Red ants, for instance. Or crickets. So at first, I'd tear the omelets apart and scrutinize every bit. It's not that I haven't eaten insects in my lifetime," he added, "Back when I was living in New York, I used to eat at this dingy coffee shop where the peanut butter sandwiches were suspiciously crunchy. But I was too hungry to spit the food; hungry and broke."
He was quiet for a moment, probably reminiscing on those times. "Who knows? Maybe cockroaches supplied me with the nutrition I needed."
"You were broke in New York?"
"Money was scarce," Greg said simply. "But back to the omelets… Make a note, will you? One: Get spider for Greg. Two: Get eggs and cheese for Greg's omelet -"
"I thought you were concerned about your weight," Gil teased.
Greg smiled.
"So? Make it without cheese."
Grissom smiled noncommittally. He had no intention of cooking anything for Greg ever again.
But there were other things he wasn't ready to give up yet.
He turned on his side and tentatively reached for Greg under the covers. He laid his hand on the young man's hip, his fingers gently digging into the soft flesh covering the pubic bone. Greg was right; he had put on some weight indeed.
"See?" Greg muttered as if he'd read Gil's thoughts. "That's fat."
"I like it," Gil countered.
Greg raised his eyebrows.
"You do?"
"You've been a little too thin at times," Gil said. "This feels good." And to show him that he meant what he said, he leant across and laid a kiss on Greg's belly.
It was an unexpected caress, and Greg stifled a nervous laugh.
"You're not gonna tickle me, right?"
Gil didn't answer. Tickling Greg was not a bad idea, but there were better things to do. He rubbed his face on the smooth skin, noticing how the muscles underneath tightened at first, then relaxed as Greg gave in to the sensations.
Grissom kissed every inch of Greg's belly though refraining from exploring any further. He was waiting for a word of encouragement from Greg.
Suddenly, a sign of approval came, though not in the way that Gil expected. Greg's erection poked him on the cheek.
Gil chuckled as he pulled back the covers.
"Well, well," he said huskily, "I haven't had sausage for breakfast in a long time."
Greg laughed out loud but the outburst was cut short at the first touch of Gil's tongue. He gasped.
"Oh, that's good -" he said breathlessly.
Gil threw him a glance, only to find that Greg was staring at him; he'd even raised himself on one arm to get a better view of Gil going down on him. This was a first; usually, they were too pressed for time to actually stop and look at each other while they made love.
Grissom felt his face burn.
Greg reached out for Grissom and buried his fingers in the curly hair.
"Go on," he said huskily, gently steering Gil's head down. Grissom didn't hesitate anymore; he set out to give his all to Greg.
Hearing Greg's groans was the best reward, and yet it wasn't enough; he also wanted to look at the young man -put a face to those breathy sighs. He couldn't very well turn to look, so he did the next best thing; he blindly reached out with his free hand until he found Greg's face and touched it like a blind man trying to memorize someone's features.
Now he was aware of Greg in ways he'd never experienced before, and he reveled in these new sensations. He was tasting him, feeling his every move. He felt Greg press his face into his open palm; he felt him breathe into it, and groan. He was also aware of Greg's hand still entangled in his hair, sometimes grabbing at it, sometimes simply holding it tightly.
And suddenly, Greg gasped and said a name- Gil.
----
After it was all over, Grissom laid his head on Greg's belly and closed his eyes. He felt Greg's body grow lax as the intensity of his orgasm ebbed away. Greg's breathing grew calmer, and he loosened the hold on Gil's hair, although he didn't remove his hand. It was as if he didn't want to let go of Gil yet.
Gil was ok with it; frankly, there was no other place he'd rather be.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe they'd finally get some sleep after all…
Or maybe not.
" 'issom?" Greg said. Actually, slurred would be a more appropriate term.
Gil raised his head, causing Greg's hand to slip and fall on the bed, where it lay limply. He was exhausted, yet he didn't seem ready to give in to sleep yet.
"'issom," he said again, and this time he motioned Gil to get closer with an almost imperceptible head movement.
Gil smiled. He crawled back to his former position on the bed, only this time he raised himself on one arm so he could look down at Greg..
"Hey," he said.
"Mmm," Greg nodded, his eyes having a little trouble focusing on Gil's face. "Mmmm," he sighed again.
Gil's smile widened. He'd never seen Greg like this. A sated Greg Sanders was a wonderful thing to see.
Gil longed to touch him but wisely held back. He felt too emotionally close to Greg right then, and he didn't trust himself not to do or say anything that he might regret later.
He was content with merely looking.
Greg opened his eyes again.
"Man, that was -" he stopped, seemingly at a loss for words. "Wow."
Grissom smiled.
"Wow?"
"That was -" again, Greg faltered.
"A ten?" Grissom offered hopefully.
"Hmmm," Greg mulled this over for a moment. "Nah. Not a ten. A nine."
"A nine?" Gil repeated indignantly. "All that effort and you're only giving me a nine?"
"Yep," Greg said, enjoying what had become a joke between them, "There's always room for improvement, Grissom." He smiled languidly for a moment, then frowned. He pulled back a little, as if to get a better view of Gil's face, "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"That," he repeated, giving Gil's mouth a cross-eyed look, "I mean, it's not like you've got Mick Jagger lips-"
"Mick Jagger lips?" Gil repeated.
Greg touched Gil's bottom lip with his thumb.
"You took me whole," he said huskily, "How did you do it?"
Grissom didn't really know what to say. He shrugged in an 'aw-shucks' gesture.
"Well, I don't know," he said, then smiled mischievously. "I guess I've just got a lot of space in my cheeks."
Greg blinked, then snorted loudly.
"Oh, I get it," he said, "Chipmunk."
"Exactly."
Greg impulsively raised his head and kissed Gil on the mouth, then wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. When Greg finally ended the kiss, Grissom gave him a surprised look.
It was his turn to say "Wow."
Greg smiled and playfully rubbed Gil's cheek with his thumb.
All this was unexpected for Gil. It was one thing to be touched and kissed while in the throes of passion, and it was quite another to be touched and kissed just for the sake of it. And all of a sudden, there was something in Greg's eyes… Tenderness, yes; but also something else Gil couldn't readily ID.
And then Greg spoke.
"Chip -" he said huskily, and there was something so seductive in the way Greg said the silly nickname, and in the way he was looking at him, that Gil's heart began to beat faster.
He had the sudden feeling that whatever Greg said next would somehow change their lives.
But when Greg finally spoke, it was the last thing Gil expected to hear.
"Did John call you Chip, too?"
Grissom didn't move a muscle.
"He called me Grissom," he said expressionlessly.
"Huh," Greg said. He paused for a moment, thinking this over. He looked up at Gil again, "What about you? Did you call him Garrison or -"
"Greg -" Gil said, a warning implied.
"Ok, ok -" Greg said, backing off, "I'm not gonna ask anymore." He studied Gil's face for a moment. "Hey... You're not angry, right?" he frowned, "I mean… It was just a question."
Grissom started to roll away but Greg grabbed his shoulder to stop him.
"Wait," Greg said. He looked anxious, "Look, I'm sorry, ok? Tell you what," he added, forcing a smile, "You're right. Talking is overrated, anyway. I bet we can find something better to do instead -" and he let his fingers wander from Grissom's shoulder to his back. There was no mistaking his intentions; when he touched Gil's bottom, he gave it a little squeeze.
Grissom sighed, then shook his head.
"I'm too tired."
"Are you sure?" Greg replied, reaching down between their bodies, "'Cause I'm starting to feel something down there -"
It was true; Grissom's body was responding to Greg's touch -and Grissom despised himself for it. He knew what Greg was doing: trying to compensate for his blunder. It didn't do to piss off the boss, so now he was trying to make it up to him.
And the worst part was that it was working. He was stroking Gil's incipient erection expertly; he was doing everything right.
"Grissom?"
Gil looked down.
"What?" he asked.
Greg didn't immediately answer, and once again, Gil had the feeling that there was something important he wanted to say.
Greg gulped. He stopped stroking Grissom's erection. He even stopped breathing.
"What?" Gil said again.
"Grissom, I -" Greg's mouth moved but no words were forthcoming. He tried again. "I… I was thinking," he paused, then said in a rush, "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?"
Grissom wondered if he'd heard right.
"I guess," he said slowly.
"Good," Greg said. He stroked Gil's erection a couple of times, then added, "My friends are coming over."
Gil frowned.
"Friends?"
"Yeah. We meet here about once a month. I thought maybe you'd like to meet them -"
Grissom vaguely heard as Greg talked about ordering a pizza and opening a bottle of wine, and about getting some of his gay friends to come over too. He wasn't really paying attention; he had no intention of meeting Greg's friends. He didn't know any of his coworkers' friends and he wasn't about to start.
"… They lead busy lives just like you and me," Greg was saying, "So we have that in common. We usually go see a movie after dinner -"
"Greg -"
"-but we could skip that and stay here -"
"Greg," Gil said, more firmly this time. When he was sure that he had Greg's attention, he shook his head, "I don't think I can make it."
"Oh, come on, Grissom. You're the boss. You can take a night off now and then -"
"I don't want to meet your friends," Gil said abruptly.
Greg raised his eyebrows.
"Oh," he hesitated. " Why?"
"I don't socialize with my coworkers," Gil said as if it were obvious.
Greg snorted in disbelief.
"What do you think this is, then?" he asked, glancing at their locked bodies.
Grissom stared at Greg. His lips parted but he didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say.
He slowly extricated himself from Greg's embrace, then swung his legs off the bed.
"Grissom?"
Grissom didn't turn. His face was hot. He probably looked like a kid who's been caught doing something utterly wrong. At least, that's how he felt.
All he wanted to do was to get out and fast, but he didn't. He took his time picking his clothes and putting them on. He winced as he tucked his slowly deflating erection in his boxers.
Behind him, Greg cleared his throat.
"Hum. Grissom?"
Gil glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Greg was sitting up now. He didn't see the young man's face, but the tone of his voice said it all: he was clearly puzzled by Gil's behavior.
"I thought you were going to sleep over," Greg said tentatively.
"No," Grissom said, then he cleared his throat. "No, I've got to go back to the lab."
"People gotta sleep sometime."
Grissom finished getting dressed, then looked at Greg.
"I've got to -" Gil started but didn't finish.
"Sure," Greg nodded.
Grissom picked up his car keys, but once he had them in his hand he hesitated. He wondered if there might be something he could tell Greg, some sort of explanation he could give him. Or maybe he didn't even have to talk; maybe all he had to do was drop the keys back on the dresser and sit on the bed and let Greg finish telling him his plans -
But he didn't do any of those things. In the end, he found that leaving was easier.
It always was.
TBC
Thank you for reviewing! I think the next chapters won't take me too long.
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