A/N: none! gasp
Spoilers: Dialogue from "Pledging Mr. Johnson"; Bodies in Motion
Disclaimer: You know it's not.
.:Personal Stuff:.
Gil Grissom sat at his desk, his head in his hands.
His mind was turned to the conversation that he and Catherine had had several years earlier.
That one question still echoed in his head, as it had numerous times before.
"Grissom...What personal stuff?"
He had not answered her.
And it had been brought up again almost two years ago. He could usually count it down to the day, it had affected him so much. But just not today. He had too much on his mind to concentrate on anything else.
She had asked why he still didn't have any personal stuff, but a minute later, apologized and walked away. He had wanted so much to go after her, knowing she had misunderstood his response. But he hadn't. He had been too afraid. And now every day he wished he had. She had thought he had responded that way because he was still hung up on Heather. He hadn't been. He hadn't thought of Heather in a loving way in years. It was because of Catherine herself. Because she could never love him as he loved her. She was out of his league romantically. Always had been and always would be. But he had never wanted anyone else. None of the few woman he had dated over the years had measured up to Catherine. They never even came close.
He had built up a barrier after Heather. A barrier that he had thought no one could ever penetrate. But he had been wrong. One look and she had sent that wall tumbling without even trying. He loved everything about her. The way she smiled, the way she laughed, the loving way she handled Lindsey. Everything about that woman was amazing. The love he had felt for Heather all those years ago seemed so distant compared to what he felt now.
He needed Catherine. And not just as a friend. That was just not good enough any more. He wanted--no, needed more. He had pushed these felings away for so long, telling himself that it was okay just to be her friend. That he would be satisfied with as much as he could have of her. That was what she needed, so that's what he was. For almost twenty years, that was who he was. Her friend, her buddy. The man who got to hear about all of her dates, as if he were one of her girlfriends, not a potential candidate for her affections.
Quite frankly, he was sick of it. Sick of lying, of pretending that he was not interested when he so desperately was. Tonight, he admitted it. But he was also afraid. Somewhere deep within him, he was scared. Heather had hurt him deeply, and though the wounds fade, the scars stay forever.
And he was sure that Catherine did not return his feelings. The evidence never lies, and the evidence said that she didn't love him. If she did, she would have given him a sign or something...anything. But she didn't. And he did not want to go through the pain of telling someone that you loved them, only to be rejected, again.
Gil lifted his head out of his hands to stare at the opposite wall. He did not want to stay at work where someone could, and probably would, walk in on him. He needed to think, but he didn't want to go home.
Standing, he tossed his jacket around his shoulders, and walked out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Gil paid the cabbie and stepped into the smoky atmosphere of the bar. There were a few men playing pool, and several more sitting down having drinks, watching them. Gil went to sit at the opposite end of the bar than where most of the people were. He wanted to atleast be as alone as possible.
"What will it be?" The bartender, a slightly overweight older man, asked.
"Just a beer, thank you."
The bartender poured the drink, set it in front of Gil, and walked back down to the rest of his customers.
Normally, getting drunk was not an option for him. He knew that it was bad, knew that it didn't solve any of his problems. But tonight, he just didn't care. Tonight, all he cared about was Catherine.
Catherine.
Gil sighed. What was he going to do? He honestly didn't know how much more he could take. To see her every day since the team got back together, especially since he had given them more cases together than necessary, because he missed her. But it was a double-edged sword. Every moment he spent in her presence was bitter-sweet. Her lips, those very same lips he wanted so much to kiss, speaking only of work and her newest boyfriend. Those eyes, the sparkling blue ones one could drown in, looking at him with only friendly affection--not the love he longed for.
Somehow, his beer glass was empty already, and he waved the bartender down for another...and another...and another, with a couple shots of Jose thrown in.
By the time he was ready to leave, he was quite tipsy, but had done what he came to do; ponder his situation for hours. Unfortunately, he still wasn't any closer to an answer.
He loved her. She didn't love him. She thought he was hung up on someone else when he wasn't--not that that had anything to do with her feelings towards him. He just didn't like her thinking something when it wasn't the case at all. He still didn't know what he should tell her, if anything. He had not even spilled his guts to the bartender, which he had heard--if you could trust television, songs, and people who were drunk when they gave out the advice-- was quite therapudic. So he really had not accomplished anything at all besides getting drunk and giving himself a future hangover. All in all, not a very good night at all.
Ten minutes later, he was climbing into the back of the cab that had been called for him. Feeling very lightheaded, he slipped into the heated interior of the car.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that he was telling the cab driver Catherine's address instead of his, but he didn't care.
Less than thirty seconds later, he was out cold in the back seat.