Notes: 1) to RainbowsnStars - - The thing about Sara calling Nathan to Vegas was part of the "Blood in the Water" summary. Don't worry - - no one's calling Nathan back to Vegas. They hate him and want him very, very far away. So have no fear. 2) I like angst. A lot. That's kind of a side-note, but it's also vaguely important, I promise. And, 3) For the record, I also like this chapter. It has Grissom, the return of the tuna noodle casserole, grocery shopping, and a few other things. And also, these notes would make far more sense at the end of the chapter, so you should probably read them again afterwards.
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Chapter Five: Just Be
**
Greg was starting to wonder if Grissom knew how to make anything other than tuna noodle casserole. When they weren't ordering takeout, it was tuna. They sat in silence at the table, Greg picking the layers apart, covering his fork in cheese sauce. He'd hoped that Grissom had heard something good about his new "normal" attitude from Warrick, but when Grissom had driven him home, the older man's eyes had been dark and he had not said a word. No attempt had been made at dinner conversation, either. Not that Grissom was the most talkative of guys, but lately, his boss seemed to be trying to reach out to him. Not that night.
Greg pressed his fork down on a wet noodle. It sank into the pasta.
"I'm sick of tuna," he said to fill the silence.
"Then do your own shopping," Grissom said harshly. "From what I've heard, you've been doing really well with restaurants lately, so you shouldn't have a problem branching out to grocery stores."
Greg spent a few seconds deciphering that and didn't like the outcome. "Excuse me, are you jealous that I went out to lunch with Warrick and did fine? My mental health is only supposed to improve when I'm around you, is that it?"
"You aren't fine, Greg."
It had been a while since someone had noticed that.
"I went out. I ordered lunch. I ate. I talked with Warrick."
"Don't you dare give me some kind of selective history, Greg. I had the whole story. Warrick didn't know what he was telling me, but I know what I heard. You ran into the bathroom and when you came out, you were acting like you'd never even heard of a coma."
"I get it. You resent me getting better."
"What I resent," Grissom said, "is you thinking that you can fake your way through some kind of recovery. You're not all right. I know it. And if you think that Warrick won't realize it, you're delusional."
"That fits me to a tee, boss. Delusional is right."
"That's exactly what I mean." At last, Grissom's voice softened. "Do you really think that we're all so eager to have you back to normal that we're willing to put on blinders and not see that you still have problems?"
Oh God. He was going to start crying.
No way. No way am I going to cry in front of Gil Grissom. I'll get tears on his shirt and he'll get pissed. Or, even worse, he'll get that comforting look he has right now, times ten. With my current luck, he'll pat me on the back and tell me to have a good cry. But - - he saw. He sees. He gets that I'm not who I was and he doesn't care - -
Crying now.
Grissom didn't pull him forwards into some kind of awkward hug. He let Greg sag his shoulders forward and tuck his face away into his hands. Greg sobbed for almost a minute, feeling disgusted and pathetic, and the only sign that Grissom was there at all was the sudden, steady pressure of a hand on his shoulder. When Greg wiped his eyes and straightened, Grissom withdrew his hand.
"Feel any better?"
It sounded like a polite inquiry, nothing more.
But he noticed. He noticed that I wasn't fine.
It meant something. That Grissom had noticed meant more than any tone of voice. It should have been enough to make him run away again - - but it wasn't. Maybe he really was getting better. Just a little. Just enough. Maybe there had been some sort of improvement, for Grissom's kindness to be a good thing instead of a bad one.
"Yeah," Greg said. His voice was thick. He wiped furiously at his eyes. "Just a little."
"Honesty. Thank you."
"What now?"
"Now? I'm hoping that you'll answer a few questions for me while we finish eating, and I'll answer whatever you want. And then we'll go grocery shopping, since you're so damn sick of my food. But, so there's no problems at the checkout - - you're paying."
"Grocery shopping. Grissom, it's, like, two in the morning."
"We live in Vegas, Greg," Grissom said. "Now eat your casserole."
"It's cold."
"It wouldn't be, if you'd been eating it earlier."
I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say, "You sound like my father," but he's never sounded anything remotely like my father. Dad would have said something along the lines of, "Shut your smart mouth," or maybe, "Then you don't have to eat at all." He sounds like what my father should have sounded like.
Greg took a tentative bite of casserole. It was cold. And the cheese stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"You wanted to ask me something?"
"Several things," Grissom said patiently. "One - - How long are you going to stay?"
"I don't know."
"Honesty, Greg. But also helpfulness. If you don't know, guess."
He picked the longest estimate and tried to bounce it off Grissom's expression for some kind of reaction. "Well, maybe a couple of months."
Grissom only nodded. "That's fine. Two - - Are you going to talk to anyone? In a professional capacity, I mean. You could see some kind of a therapist - -"
"No. Definitely not."
He couldn't see himself trying to explain his entire life to someone paid to listen. The thought made him cringe. All it would turn into was some kind of elaborate explanation about how his father was somehow controlling his life, and, besides, there were exonerating circumstances that he wouldn't be able to explain to a psychologist. He'd never be able to tell a perfect stranger why he knew, when he returned from the hospital, that his friends would be willing to let him stay. Never be able to explain how he wasn't at all surprised that Grissom could see that he'd been playacting an old, comfortable role. Far too difficult to convey in words how he had to delicately balance the line between affection and danger in his new interpretations of his personal life.
"In that case," Grissom continued, unaware of Greg's musings, "you'll talk to me. No trying to lie, either."
"You hate talking to people."
"You're not just anyone, Greg. You're part of my team. I make exceptions, on occasion. If I'm not there, talk to one of the others, but I want you to be able to communicate."
"Sure."
"You're lying again. You aren't sure at all."
Greg's smile, that time, was genuine. "You're very good at this."
"That's why I'm your boss. Greg, the casserole is not going to finish itself. Now, three - - Why did you run away from the waitress?" When Greg only stabbed at a piece of tuna and didn't answer, Grissom said gently, "I have some ideas, you know, but - - communication. You're going to have to tell me."
"She reminded me of Melissa." Greg stifled a laugh in his fist. That unwelcome, jagged hilarity was overwhelming his senses again. "Which is so ridiculous, man, you know that, right? It has to mean I'm crazy, Like, what am I going to do, freak out whenever I see a beautiful woman who isn't Cath or Sara? It's insane."
"It's not insane. It's natural. It'll stop."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll work around it. Four - - last one - - what are you waiting for?"
For you to give up on me. I'm waiting for you to say that enough is enough and I should be better by now. I'm waiting for the day where I make you mad enough to kick me out instead of taking me grocery shopping. For when I can stop being so nervous and go back to being sure that there isn't one person in the world who wants to save me.
He swallowed. His throat was dry, and he took another drink of beer.
Grissom always knew when he was lying, so he simply didn't say anything at all. Grissom's sigh came across the table, heavy and dismayed, but not disappointed.
"Three out of four," Grissom said. "That much, at least." He stood and pushed his chair back under the table with one smooth motion. "Finish eating, and we'll go."
Greg obediently finished, even though the cheese had started to form a skin over the noodles. It tasted flavorless, but he forced it down, for Grissom's sake. He might have to do some of the cooking from now on. He could get recipes from Nick, who would probably be willing to shell them out as long as his reputation as a macho-man wasn't spoiled.
He found a sheet of paper and started making a list. They might as well do this right.
**
Grissom drove them both to a twenty-four hour store at the edge of town. It was quiet and well-lit. Greg walked beside the cart with one hand on the side, feeling stupid and childish, but not wanting to go out of distance. Grissom seemed relieved, more than anything else, by Greg's refusal to separate from him - - he had the feeling that if he did try to branch off in search of some exclusive item, Grissom wouldn't say anything, but he'd be anxious about it. Grissom was worried about him. A stab of pride, so fierce that it almost made him sick, came with that thought.
"Powdered donuts. Sugar-coated cereals. Greg, did you put anything healthy on this list?"
"No," Greg said simply. "I've got a good metabolism."
Grissom gave him a sharp glance. "I don't. We're going to have to get a few other things."
"I want some fruit."
"Fruit's fine," Grissom said. Greg watched in amusement as his boss carefully blocked the list with his elbow so he could cross off the as-of-yet-unfound Oreos and Pepperidge Farm milanos. "What kind do you want? Apples? Oranges?"
"Star-fruit, kiwi, pineapples, and plantain."
Grissom shook his head, bemused. "I should have guessed that you'd choose the
outrageous. What can you make with
plantain, anyway?"
"Hell if I know, but they're cool. Like bananas, only not."
He felt almost giddy - - a little lightheaded to go along with his lighter heart. It was okay. They were in a grocery store. He was with Grissom. No one was going to come after him with a gun in the middle of a grocery store, even if it was three in the morning. Admittedly, going grocery shopping with his boss and bitching about the proper uses of plantain in fruit salad couldn't quite be considered normal, but it was - - okay. It felt safe.
It felt better than anything else had felt lately.
Grissom stocked the cart efficiently, maneuvering eggs, bread, and fruit to the proper places. Greg sighed in attempt at drama as his beloved junk food was buried under items with nutritional value.
His hand tightened around the cart. He thought that he might be able to hear his own heartbeat.
I'm here. I'm alive. Nothing bad is going to happen.
He found himself grinning and kicking his shoes against the tiling, scuffing his toes and not caring.
"You seem cheerful," Grissom said cautiously, unwilling to be fooled if it was some kind of act. He gave Greg a thorough inspection that made him want to squirm. Grissom's mouth stretched suddenly, and it took Greg a few seconds to realize that it was one of Grissom's rare smiles. "Not acting. Actually cheerful. It's good to see."
"Talking helped," Greg said. "I'm sorry about - - "
"Don't apologize."
He didn't, but he did grab a few regular bananas and stack them next to the plantain. He even let Grissom get away with crossing off a few more sugar-frosted items on the sly. The giddiness had faded away, and he was happy about that, because it had been unexpected and somehow dangerous, like standing on the sharp edge of a precipice, or taking up skydiving with a torn parachute. In its place was a small, shy feeling that was less recognizable but more welcome - - contentment.
He paid for the groceries over Grissom's objection that he'd been joking.
"I don't pay you rent, remember? Besides, more than half of this stuff is mine, even without all those cookies you crossed off and didn't get." He smiled at Grissom's pained expression. "Yeah, I noticed that. I told you I'd be good in the field."
Melissa wanted to be in the field, a quiet, sneaking voice whispered. That's why she thought you had to die, so she could be the one to get the promotion.
He shook it off with a quick, defiant slash of his head. Grissom was, thankfully, gathering groceries into the cart, and missed the motion, but the checkout clerk gave him a puzzled glance. He twitched his mouth at her in reply - - it couldn't quite be called a smile, but since it wasn't just an action chosen to suppress the urge to throw up, he was satisfied.
Grissom looked sheepishly at the number of groceries. Properly bagged, there wasn't enough room in the cart. Greg took the remaining bags, wanting to get away from the cashier's prying gaze.
"I'll run these out to the car," he said. "Give me your keys, okay?"
Grissom slipped them to him and Greg nodded, heading out into the silky dark. They were farther from the city's lights out here, and the warm air of the desert wrapped around him, balmy and secretive. It was almost relaxing. He moved through the few isolated cars, squinting to see. A few of the store's lights were malfunctioning, casting a stuttering, weak yellow light over the parking lot.
Peaceful.
He spotted the Tahoe down by the pharmacy end of the store, and shifted the keys into his free hand. The bags were weighing down his arms, almost cutting through his hands- - or so it felt - - and it would be such a relief to shed them into the trunk like old snakeskin.
Something cold pressed against the back of his neck.
His ears thudded with the sudden rush of blood. The touch was unmistakable. Maybe before, he would have been able to confuse it with something else, but now, such an error was impossible to make. He'd been too intimate with this touch.
This - - cold, steel kiss to the skin just below his hair.
"Don't move," a voice said softly, huskily. "Stay still."
No worries. The icy touch of the gun to his neck was freezing him to the ground. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. No words seemed to make it from his brain to his lips - - or even to the rest of him. He was numb with shock, his circulation impossibly slow. There didn't seem to be enough desert in the world to warm him. A fresh burst of gooseflesh rose on his bare arms.
He thought, sickened, I'm going to die.
I'm going to die again.