Author's note: My sincerest apologies, for how long it took for me to offer an update. And apologies in advance, for it being such a short offering. Progress is on the horizon, however, so hopefully I won't be quite so delinquent in the future. Once again, this chapter was an unexpected delivery-by-stork from my muse, a brief deviation from the casefile. Hope you enjoy!

And Geekyfrog, a thousand thanks for the sanity check, the beta work, and the lexical license. All of it was much needed and even more appreciated.

Chapter 26

"Freak…science geeks…never understand 'em…"

Ignoring Brass' grumbled utterance as we pass from the interrogation room into the corridor, I inform him of my intention to check with Greg, on the status of the evidence from Franklin's house. Hoping that he uncovered something incriminating our sole suspect. "And," I add, "I'll let Grissom know that Franklin is now in custody."

Brass nods his agreement, advising, "Be sure to remind him that it's only a 72-hour sentence. With a ticking clock."

I cast him a withering glare as we walk toward reception. To which Brass replies, one hand aloft in a placating gesture, "Right. You don't need me telling you that."

At the continued arch of my eyebrow, he amends, "And neither does Gil."

"Damn right," I state, flashing a quick grin.

"Although," equivocates Brass, "There are a few things he needs to be told…"

Shooting a sidelong glance at his suggestive tone, I catch his knowing look in response. Knowing exactly what he refers to.

Grissom. Me. And the non-relationship of our relationship. I force myself to maintain an even stride and a casual expression.

The chemistry between us, sometimes simmering near reactivity, oftentimes paralytically inert, is the proverbial pink elephant of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. An unspoken yet universally acknowledged truth. Sure, I received some good-natured jibes from Nick and Warrick, over the entomological text. And Greg ribbed me mercilessly for a shift and a half, upon his discovery of the plant. That damn plant, I smile in amused aggravation, remembering the abrupt cessation of Greg's teasing, when his cd of The Cure vanished. Mysteriously.

Catherine, over the years, has directed uncountable looks at me, laden with significance and feminine intuition. And Brass continues to fumble through his clumsy inquiries into my health and general rate of alcohol consumption.

But, somehow, the hulking pachyderm in the corner is always implausibly, impossibly, ignored, never explicitly mentioned or discussed. Certainly not by Grissom or myself, excepting a few monumentally awkward declarations on my part, and his rapiered repartees, swathed in layers of entendre and innuendo. Words are his sword, and silence his shield.

Our verbal cloak-and-dagger jousts, accompanying our non-verbal visual duels, build a tensile intensity between us, volatile, combustible. Unresolved.

Unsolved.

Are we foils to one another? I wonder. Or merely fools?

My verbal faux pas, coupled with Grissom's lack of verbosity, had left us roiling in an undefinable, indefinite stasis. More than colleagues but less than friends. In the past year and a half, however, things have…evolved. Changed, without changing. Events sparking fluctuations in the biochemical reaction between us, upsetting then re-establishing our fluid, dynamic equilibrium:

Grissom's achingly earnest confession, that I witnessed through the looking glass.

My colossal stupidity, in combining angry misery, alcohol, and my Prius. His non-judgmental escort and acceptance.

The revelations of my childhood. His silent comfort.

The incisive innuendos and sparring gazes increasing in frequency, but remaining blanketed under a cover of mutual silence. Change, without changing.

Or, perhaps, growth...without change.

All serving to leave me even more uncertain as to our status, becoming contradictorily less than colleagues, but more than friends.

Our relationship is nothing, I think wryly, if not defined by conundrums and convolutions.

And, within the last few days, it seems as if the slumbering elephant in the corner has been prodded into a lumbering wakefulness. Nothing being said overtly, but what remains unsaid in the silences speaking volumes.

The ubiquitous propinquity existing between us has nothing to do with space, and everything to do with distance.

Shaking my head distractedly, I realize that my silence has extended into a revealing interval, Brass' knowing look having morphed into a devious smirk. He relents, however, under my unyielding stare.

"That damn straw hat of his," Brass revises his intended inquisition. "Makes him look like Farmer Bob. It's ridiculous, and somebody needs to tell him that."

"I find it," I say, grateful for the reprieve, "Eminently practical." That it also imbues Grissom with an air of boyish artlessness is none of Brass' concern.

"You would," mutters Brass.

Although tempted to rebut his claim, I feel that it might provoke the already-irritable elephant into a stampeding evacuation of its habitual corner. And I'm rather accustomed to its stolid, rose-tinted presence.

Hell, I reflect, if Dumbo ever did take flight, I…I don't know how I'd react. The prospect of a pachydermal confrontation is, simultaneously, exhilarating and terrifying.

Of course, the Vegas bookies aren't exactly taking odds on Grissom figuring it out in the foreseeable future.

But, a satanically hopeful voice supplies, he has been there, the past few days…

A branch in the corridor offers a conveniently-timed escape, from my perilously perspicacious thoughts. "Well, I'm off to find Greg," I declare. "As you said, the clock on Franklin is ticking…"

Brass nods distractedly as his eyes, fixing on a point further down the hallway, narrow in concentration. "Or…" his footsteps falter, "…maybe not."

Backtracking a few steps, I follow his gaze, to see Franklin indolently slouched in one of the chairs in reception.