Part Two: Pocket Full of Posy
When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve. And while they were eating, he said, "I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me."
They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, "Surely not I, Lord?"
- - Matthew 26:20 – 22
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Chapter Fourteen: The Last Supper (GREG)
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It had been eight at night when he'd stormed into Grissom's office and said, "You know what I haven't had in a really long time? Pancakes."
Somehow, ten minutes later, Greg, Grissom, and Sara ended up in a small, sixties-themed diner, eating stacks of hotcakes that oozed butter and syrup. Greg and Grissom had sides of bacon, and Sara had scrambled eggs and watched in amusement as Grissom gave Greg all his softer pieces of bacon without asking and Greg shuffled his burnt ones over to Grissom's plate.
"This," Sara said, pointing her fork at him, "is the best idea you've had in a long time."
"This," Greg said extravagantly, "is the best idea I've ever had, period. No wound cannot be healed by a lot of pancakes in a cheesy diner."
He was being extravagant on purpose, because extravagance was expected and necessary. It was soothing the extra worry out of Sara's face and calming Grissom, who had been a little wary when Greg had entered his office. And it wasn't all a lie - - he really was happy to be there, eating pancakes with Grissom and Sara and waiting for the other shoe to fall. It was the waiting that was killing him, and the extravagance was a cover for that fear.
It was easy to sit there and pretend nothing was wrong. It was easy to watch Grissom pour Sara's syrup and move his hand just a little too close to her. It was simple. Watching the two of them dance in and out of their bizarre, never-ending courtship was something he understood, and was used to.
Devil he knew; devil he didn't.
He took another huge bite of pancake as an excuse not to talk, and by the time he could get it down his throat (much to Grissom's look of amused disgust), he had thought of something to say. "Hey, tempt us with some trivia, Grissom."
"Why?"
"Because I'm paying for dinner," Greg said. "And Sara, of course, would never have to pay her own way - - not with me, any way - - but you're going to have to sink or swim. Come on. Pay up. Tell me about bugs and stuff."
He loved pleasing Grissom, and he loved pissing Grissom off. It was a twofold game. Teasing his boss as inconspicuously about Sara as possible was incredibly entertaining.
"Bugs and stuff?"
"Bugs and blood," Greg said with a smile. "Enlighten me, Mr. Crime Scene Investigator."
"Greg, are you or are you not taking field training in addition to your lab duties? Because I seem to remember authorizing you to attend quite a few courses. I was under the impression that you'd be an avid enough learner to have already picked up quite a few facts about 'bugs and blood.'"
That was the most backwards compliment ever. In fact, I'm not even sure if it was a compliment. I'll probably stay up late tonight wondering what exactly he meant by that.
He lapsed into a puzzled but grateful silence. It might or might not have been a sort of left-handed compliment, and it might not have answered his question, but he could see Sara smiling behind her hand, and Grissom's eyes were - - a rarity in any time and especially since the Zimmer crisis - - unexpectedly cheerful. He had company. At this point, he could almost consider Grissom a friend, and not just a boss. Not just someone to be unquestioningly respected and adored, but someone almost human.
He didn't need to be alone-Greg. He could drive away any of his darker thoughts and content himself to pancakes instead.
"You're smiling," Sara said.
"I like pancakes." Greg took another bite to emphasize his point. "And I'm feeling better right now than I have since - - you know, all this started."
"Hard to think that it's only been two days," Grissom agreed, sounding distracted. He broke out of whatever reverie was drawing him and smiled at Greg. "And I should apologize for what I said when you called. I shouldn't have acted like that."
"Apology accepted," Greg said. "I was jumping at shadows anyway."
He wasn't at all sure that he had been - - there was still something eerily off about Hodges and Ecklie - - but Grissom seemed reassured, and if Greg could grant some reassurance by pretending that his unease was nothing more than tilting at windmills, than all the better.
Sara looked at him, puzzled. "What was it about?"
He was deprecating towards himself. "I thought something was wrong with Hodges and Ecklie - - which, of course, makes sense, since there's always something wrong with Hodges and Ecklie - - and I turned into a conspiracy theorist overnight. Grissom's being polite. I was really ridiculous - - I should be the one apologizing."
Really ridiculous. If the jumping at shadows phrase had been reassuring, the really ridiculous phrase was downright disarming.
Because, said the soft, whispery voice of alone-Greg, they know you're ridiculous. They know that you're the one who should be apologizing, and they know that Grissom's just indulging you by pretending he did anything wrong.
But there was something! he thought desperately. I swear it wasn't just in my head!
The smug silence that filled his head seemed to indicate that whatever other voices were residing in there, they were quite satisfied with their former point.
Oh, shut up, Greg thought crossly. Besides, I'm not schizophrenic, anyway.
He smiled, and said aloud, "Grissom, can I ask you something?"
Grissom raised his eyebrows. "If you can say it in public."
"Why on earth are you drinking that?"
"It's just grape juice," Grissom said defensively. "It's good."
"One may or may enjoy grape juice," Greg said, the flush in his face heightening (ridiculous so ridiculous), "but one most certainly is not to enjoy grape juice with pancakes, as the only appropriate beverage to drink with pancakes is milk, or perhaps coffee."
"You teach proper eating etiquette now?"
"I do. And I reiterate my point - - I am insulted to be paying for you to drink grape juice." He signaled for their waitress and ordered a coffee for Grissom and neatly liberated his boss of the glass of grape juice.
Grissom looked amused. "Go ahead, have some, if you're so tempted."
"I am not tempted."
"I am," Sara said, stealing the glass and sipping at some. She made a face. "Tastes kind of sour, actually. Try it."
Greg sipped delicately, like he was at a wine-tasting party. "A very poor vintage."
The waitress brought the cup of coffee and looked at them as if they might, very well, be the strangest people she had ever seen - - taking their personal communion with pancakes and grape juice so late in the night. Greg thanked her, reminded himself to leave a good tip to repay her for dealing with all of the weird, and handed the coffee to Grissom with a very satisfied look on his face.
"There," he said. "Problem solved."
Only he wasn't sure if he had solved a single thing. Drinking problems aside. He felt suddenly dizzy - - the relief and happiness that had filled him just minutes before had all but evaporated, leaving him in actor in his own skin, struggling frantically to play the part of himself as best as he could. They had done something - - said something - - something that should have rung a bell with him, but didn't. It wasn't connecting.
He kept seeing that eight ball he hit roll into the pocket.
In the pocket of his own jacket, his hand curled around the lucky rabbit's foot and he concentrated on breathing as smoothly and neatly as possible. Keep the inhalation/exhalation process quiet, too - - didn't want them to notice that he was drowning.
He watched them. They were sitting too close for coworkers, and too far away for assured lovers. Sara was looking up at Grissom with a smile - - lovely, so beautiful - - and Grissom was smiling back at her.
They don't feel anything. Why do I have to be so damn nervous? There's nothing wrong. We're just having dinner, for God's sakes. There's nothing out of the ordinary, except that Grissom takes grape juice with his pancakes. Which, as I said, he shouldn't.
He filled in conversation at all the right moments with all the right touches. By now, this was automatic. He split off into two paths of thinking, one part of him answering the questions thrown at him by rote, and the other meandering, wondering, and losing itself in the distance.
His fingers tightened on the rabbit's foot.
Warrick had said that they were going to do a press interview for the nine o'clock news - - it was probably happening right now. Greg wished he could be watching, and suddenly, cruelly, thought that the pancake-idea wasn't his best idea at all, but really, one of his worst. Something that he should have avoided. He should be sitting in the lab on pins and needles, doing his experiments and nibbling his nails as he watched Catherine and Warrick on the fuzzy break room television set. It would be painful and unsettling, but it wouldn't have had that desperate flavor of hidden danger, as if there were something he was not quite understanding or reaching, despite his efforts.
Some cloud, some future.
"Grissom," he said, surprising himself with both the question and its awkward neediness, "can I take off early tonight? I mean, I know, I shouldn't, it's hectic, and I don't want to leave you guys hanging, but - - "
"You're not feeling well," Grissom said, evaluating him. "You don't look entirely well, either. You're a little pale. Go home and get some sleep." He smiled, undoubtedly intending to comfort. "This isn't really your problem anyway. I'll see you tomorrow - - and thanks for dinner, by the way."
This isn't really my problem, Greg told himself as he thanked Grissom and stood. Remember that. This weird sense of foreboding isn't my problem, and this rape charge isn't my problem, and Hodges and Ecklie aren't my problem. They're his. They're all his. Take the weight of the world off me, Griss - - I'm kinda tired of it.
At the exit, he glanced back and saw Grissom and Sara continuing to talk. Sara was lightly flushed, her head bowed as she talked to Grissom, and Grissom was smiling at her with uncommon gentleness.
Probably just now realizing how close he's come to losing everything, Greg thought. Good. Maybe that'll do him some good.
He put his hand on the doorknob.
It's not my problem.
He looked back again and saw them, still there, still talking with that quiet earnestness that seemed so vital - - Sara so lovely and Grissom so attentive - -
But I do worry, he thought. No matter what, I do worry about them, my problem or not. Oh God, I do worry.