CHRISTMAS DILEMMA

Some Christmas fluff…

I'd already published this story, but last night I made some revisions.

Dilemma is the one story that I re-read without cringing too much. I speak Spanish, so I'm bound to make mistakes and when I read any of my stories, I tend to moan something like this: 'OMG, I can't believe I published this!'.

I had finished this story, but I couldn't help adding this chapter.

Thank you for reviewing. Your kind words never fail to put a smile on my face.

Christmas Dilemma

I kneeled again to examine the corpse.

The d.b. was a text-book example of the black putrefaction stage, (although 'black' is a misnomer; bodies at this stage can look greenish or brown, or blue); gas was beginning to escape, the swelling was collapsing, and the smell…the stench was overwhelming, even though we were out in the open. The body had been buried in the backyard of a nice townhouse.

The owner had returned home from a three-week vacation, only to discover that someone had used his place to bury a dead man. Talk about nasty surprises.

Brass had interviewed about a dozen neighbors, but nobody had given him any information. That didn't surprise me; it was obvious they didn't want to get involved. I mean, how could they not smell this and wonder about it?

The absence of witnesses didn't bother me. I had my own witnesses - the kind I trust because lying isn't in their nature: Insects. I had enough samples of egg casings, cast-off pupae, dead adults… I smiled as I finished labeling. I felt optimistic - a bit nauseous - but optimistic nevertheless. I kneeled down again, this time to take samples of the soil beneath the body. Blood had seeped through.

After a moment, I had to turn away to get my gag reflex under control. After all these years, some bodies still do this to me.

I heard footsteps approaching.

"Whoever you are, please stop right there." I warned without turning, "Don't disturb my scene."

"Hey, Grissom." Greg said tentatively.

"Greg?" I glanced over my shoulder, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to help you. Brass said you'd be working this case alone -"

"Not quite. Nick is coming by later."

"I'll help until he gets here, then."

"Greg, you've been up for more than 20 hours, I don't-"

"I'm not tired."

I turned to look fully at him. He had taken a shower and changed clothes, but the dark circles under his eyes belied him. He should have gone home after his shift ended early today, but I'd asked him to stay and help Catherine.

"Go home, Greg." I said, turning back to the dead body.

"What? Why?"

I ignored him and concentrated on my work.

"Grissom," he said and paused until I glanced at him, "I didn't work my ass off to become a CSI just for the thrill," he said and then he lowered his voice, "I did it because I wanted to work with you. But it seems that every time I offer you my help, you send me to work with someone else-"

"And now I'm sending you home," I retorted, "End of discussion."

Greg gave me an impatient look, but before he could say anything, Nick called out from a distance, asking for my instructions. Talking over Greg's shoulder, I asked him to measure the air temperature at ground level while I took the body's temperature.

Greg turned away just as Nick entered the crime scene.

"You leaving, Greggo?" Nick asked good-naturedly.

"Yeah." Greg said, loud enough for me to hear. "I got a party to go to."

I ignored the outburst and continued my work.

I was very busy that night. I had paperwork to take care of and several cases that required my immediate attention. I needed to transcribe the notes I'd taken earlier, and an autopsy to go to, but there were moments when my main concern was whether he'd gone to a damn party or not.

But then, that's what love does, doesn't it? It fills you with insecurity.

At about midnight I called him, half expecting his answering machine. But he answered, sounding confused, as if he had been sleeping soundly. Then he recovered enough to ask why I had called and it was my turn to be confused.

I didn't have any excuses, and I frantically looked around my office trying to find inspiration for a believable lie.

I couldn't find any. That another thing that love does: It turns you into a moron. But then, someone said it best, when you're in love your brain empties as your heart fills- or something like that. I read that phrase somewhere, but I can't remember the exact words and I can't remember who said it-

See? My brain is draining at an alarming rate.

"Grissom?" he said, more awake now. "What's up?"

I could have simply told him the truth: 'I was just checking up on you. I wanted to know if you went to a party or to bed… and if you're alone in that bed-'

Yep. That's what love does. It makes you jealous and insecure.

No way was I going to admit it, though.

"I needed a website." I said firmly, "The one you found when we had to investigate the cyanide poisonings. Remember?"

Poor Greg didn't remember the name of the website right away, and not once did he point out that all I had to do was type 'cyanide'.

Maybe his brain is draining too.

But talking to him helped. After we hung up, I went down to the morgue to view my DB's autopsy, and worked steadily until the end of the shift. Then I closed my desk, packed some paperwork and a few other things from my locker, and asked the receptionist to please hold my calls since I was taking the day off.

The poor woman was so surprised, all she could do was gape and stare at me.

Juggling paper bags, a gym bag, and my briefcase, I knocked on Greg's door. When he finally opened, he was seriously pissed off.

"I gave you a key" he said, glaring at me. "Why don't you use it?"

"Want some breakfast?" I asked, pressing the paper bags against him until he took them.

He stepped aside to let me in and closed the door behind me.

"I brought ham and bacon muffins-" I said, while I put my briefcase and my gym bag on the coffee table.

"I'm not hungry." He said, "I ate something when you woke me up at midnight. Did you find the web site you needed?"

"Yeah." I said, "Thanks"

"So, you are investigating another cyanide poisoning?"

"Something like that."

"Really." He said skeptically. He clearly didn't believe me. "By the way," he said, "I didn't go to any party last night."

I didn't react.

"I mean," he added, "in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

"Whatever."

Back when I wasn't in a relationship, I used to hear couples bicker like this and I'd wonder why people put themselves through such misery, or why they just didn't leave each other alone. And now that I have these silly arguments with Greg, I can't help but ask myself why, oh why I abandoned my structured life for this. But then I just have to look at him and find my answer right there. Like that day, for instance: He was wearing sweats and a ratty old t-shirt; his hair was flattened on one side and wildly spiky on the other… He looked funny. He also looked healthy, handsome… cuddly.

All I could think of was, 'who wouldn't abandon that life for this guy?'

"I'm sorry I sent you home." I said, taking him by surprise. He didn't expect me to go straight to the point.

"It's ok," he said, "I'm getting used to it."

I was going to say something about not wanting him to spend all his time at the lab when he frowned.

"Why are you still wearing coveralls?"

"I thought you liked them." I said quietly –and expectantly. He was a little slow, (he was still sleepy after all), but suddenly he looked up, disbelief clearly written on his features.

"You didn't-" he said.

"Yep." I said, smugly.

A while ago, he casually mentioned that he had always fantasized about me in coveralls and nothing else. As fantasies go, that was pretty tame; after all, Greg has a box filled with some truly appalling objects that he calls 'toys'. But he hasn't tried to use them on me yet, and I wanted to thank him. Wearing coveralls was a small thing to do. I was itchy and uncomfortable, and the denim was chafing- but it did the trick.

"Wow, Grissom." he said, and his eyes practically twinkled "If this is your way of apologizing for sending me home, you're forgiven." He started walking backwards towards the hallway.

"Hey," I frowned, "Where are you going?"

"Back to my bedroom, Dr. Grissom." He said, "There's a body you've got to investigate right now-"

Later on, just before he fell asleep he mumbled,

"You know, Gil... If you used your key, you'd be perfect."

I was starting to drift off, but his words woke me up.

That damned key.

A couple of weeks ago, Greg entered my office and put several reports on my desk; then with a flourish, he put a key on top.

"Here." He said.

"What is that for?" I frowned.

"My place." He said, "So you can come on over any time you want."

He paused - in case it occurred to me to say 'thanks', I guess- but I just stared at the key. In fact I stared at it for so long that I didn't notice when he left.

At that moment that key seemed so filled with hidden meaning I couldn't even touch it.

It spoke of commitment, or reciprocity at the very least.

I know little of relationships, but I know that I have to give him a key to my place now.

I don't want to do that, and that's why I don't use his key. I carry it with me all the time, but I pretend it doesn't exist.

I sighed. I wasn't sleepy anymore.

Yep. That's another thing love does. It keeps you awake, even after a 15-hour shift.

I didn't stay for long in bed. I got up, got some clothes from a stash I keep at his place, and took a shower.

He didn't stir.

A couple of hours later I was comfortably settled in his couch, reading a report. I like to work at his place. He usually does his own stuff and lets me do mine. We wear earphones and listen to our own music. We've even found a way of sharing the couch without bothering each other; I sit, he lies down.

Mr. I'm-not-tired appeared at ten at last. Munching on a bacon-and-egg muffin, fresh from his shower, he patted my shoulder in passing.

"I'm going to take some clothes down to the laundry," he said, "I'll take your coveralls too if you want." He smiled

I smiled back. Those poor coveralls would need a thorough washing before I could take them back to the lab.

On second thought…

"I'm not returning those." I said, "No matter how thoroughly you wash them, there's evidence there. I'll just replace them in the inventory."

"I'll keep them here then. I'll add them to my goody box."

My poor denim coveralls sharing space with his leather stuff? Scary.

A half hour later he returned to the couch, eating a second muffin and carrying a pillow and a couple of books. He likes to eat and read at the same time, which is why all his paperbacks have stains. I know what he ate when he read them: Tomato sauce from pizza, mustard from the occasional hot dog, and black beans from burritos. But this time he had a stack of napkins with him; he was going to read a textbook.

"Hey." He said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. He was wearing sweats and thick white socks, his standard at-home clothing. He eyed my reports. "How long are you going to work on those?"

"A couple of hours, I guess."

"That's what you said last time." He said, "And then we got a call about a body in the desert, remember?"

I remembered, but bringing paperwork to his place was the only way I could take any time off the lab without neglecting my work. However, this time I had a surprise for him.

"I turned my pager off today." I said, getting a reaction from him that rivaled that of the receptionist.

He sat on the opposite corner of the couch but instead of putting his feet on the coffee table like me, he turned them towards me.

"Hey, Grissom; can I put my feet on your lap?"

"What?" I frowned, "No."

"Why not?"

"I'm busy here, Greg"

"I'm not going to interrupt your work, Grissom." He said patiently, "I said I wanted to put 'my feet' on your lap not 'my head' or 'my face'."

I glared, letting him know that I wasn't going to give in so easily. My glares don't work on him outside the lab, though. He just stared back, knowing that I would give in eventually.

"Ok." I said, lifting the reports I had on my lap.

"Thanks, baby."

I narrowed my eyes, but he didn't notice. He made himself comfortable and opened a book. Before long, he noticed that I was still looking at him.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Nothing." I said, turning back to my work.

Baby. God, I hate it when he calls me that. I mean, come on. Baby? Me? It's complete bullshit. He uses that word whenever he wants to ask me something. And the worst part is that it works; I hardly ever say no after he calls me that. Say he wants to go to a basket ball game and I don't; we argue about it until he sighs and says, 'Oh, come on' -and as soon as I see him press his lips together, I know what he's going to say. I look away but it's useless; as soon as I hear that damn word… I just fall for it.

I know why, by the way. It's simple, really. I was never a 'baby'. Neither my parents nor anyone I knew when I was a kid ever called me sweet names like baby or honey; so when he does, I'm moved by it.

And the word sounds natural, coming from his lips. I suspect that in his family, words like these were said every day. Greg was 'baby' and 'honey' for them, and I'm sure he still is.

I know he knows what the word does to me, and he uses it accordingly.

It bothers me, sometimes. But then, love is manipulative, isn't it? I read somewhere that love isn't a game for equals; in its truest form, love is played by a tyrant and a slave… Guess who's the slave here.

I looked at him; the book he was reading hid half his face, but I could see his eyes. He was studiously avoiding looking at me. Yep. There was something brewing in that head…

I decided to be on my guard all day.

I continued reading my reports until I noticed that he was looking up at me now and then. But every time I glanced at him, he turned his attention back to his book. By the fifth time this happened, I'd had enough.

"What?" I glared.

"What, what?" he asked, lowering his book.

"What do you want?"

"Me?" he frowned, "Nothing."

"You've been glancing at me-"

"Well, well," he scoffed, "someone has a very high opinion of his looks-"

"Greg, I need to finish this report." I reminded him, "I need to concentrate and you're not helping. It's bad enough that I have your stinking feet up on my face-"

"My feet don't stink!" he sputtered indignantly, getting his feel off my lap. I started to chuckle. He's so easy sometimes. He blinked, "Oh. You're joking. I should put my feet on your face, just to teach you a lesson."

I reached for his feet and put them back on my lap. I patted them, and I noticed that his white socks had little thin patches from daily wear and tear.

"Greg?" I said, "I need to finish this, ok?"

"Ok." He said resignedly. "I won't look at you anymore." And to show me he meant it, he moved his book so it blocked his view of me.

I was glad for this small victory, but I should have known it couldn't be that easy.

"You know," he said after a moment (and without looking at me) "I like your nose."

I ignored him.

"And those lashes… the longest lashes I've ever seen"

I put down my pen.

"Greg, I need a couple of hours to finish these-"

"Funny, that's what you always say." He said from behind his book, "Every two hours you say that you need two more hours."

"Greg…"

"Ok, fine." He muttered, "I'll wait."

He let me work for almost half an hour before he started again.

"I like your cheeks."

I pretended not to hear.

"Yeah, I like them." He said, as if I needed reassurance, "They're meaty and-"

"Meaty?" I frowned, "Is that a nice way of saying that my cheeks are fat, Greg?"

"I wouldn't say fat." He said thoughtfully, "They are round and firm," he added. He lowered the book, "But I admit I got carried away today." He said sheepishly, "I think I bit too hard."

I fell for it, inevitably. I just had to touch my face; if I had a bite I needed to know.

He chuckled.

"Oh, those aren't the cheeks I'm talking about."

This time my pen practically flew from my hand.

Damn.

"You're not gonna let me finish this, are you?"

"Nope." He said placidly.

"What do you want?" I asked, hoping the 'baby' wouldn't cost me much.

"I want you to take a nap," He said, swinging his legs off my lap. "Here," he added, patting the space he'd been occupying on the couch. "You can finish those reports at the lab."

He got up and waited for me to lie down. I considered arguing, but he had a look I know well; his 'this-is-my-home-and-I-make-the-rules-here' look.

"I'm not tired." I said as I crawled to take his place in the couch. I couldn't let him think he could win so easily. "I'll just close my eyes for a couple of minutes."

I didn't hear his response. Apparently, I fell asleep as soon as I put my head down on his pillow.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was his head, a couple of inches away from me. He was sitting on the floor, reading a book, leaning against the couch. I leant forward and kissed the back of his neck. He turned.

"Hey." He whispered.

"Hey." I mumbled, "What time is it?"

"Two, two thirty," he said, "You hungry? Lunch's warming up. Spaghetti for you and hot dogs for me."

"Great," I scoffed, "You'll be farting all afternoon."

"So? You'll be giving me garlic kisses all afternoon." He countered, leaning forward for a kiss. After a pause, he added, "I hope."

I smiled and ruffled his hair.

"So," he said after a moment, "You weren't tired, huh?"

"I was." I admitted, "As tired as you were last night." I added meaningfully.

"Touché." He said. He looked closely at me, "Grissom, hum." He hesitated, "I've been meaning to ask you something-"

Oh, crap.

I'd been duped. The baby word had been uttered for something else.

"Do you think I can have December 22 off?" he said, and then he quickly added, "I'd be willing to work on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve in exchange for it."

Ok, that wasn't so bad. It was a good idea, actually. Sometimes cops and technicians get 'sick' during the holidays. It was nice to know that I'd get some back up. I was relieved too; I thought he was going to ask for something else –a raise, vacation time, and so forth. I should have known that Greg would never take advantage of his position as boss' lover.

"Ok." I said cautiously. "You can have the 22."

"Thanks, Grissom. I appreciate this. I'm going to be really busy, you know? I'm hosting my family's Christmas party this year." He explained, "My grandparents will be here, and some cousins too; even my sister Karen will come all the way from Minnesota. It'll be great. By the way" He looked curiously at me, "you've never told me what you do for Christmas."

"I work."

"I know you work on Christmas day and Christmas Eve." He said patiently, "But what do you do? You're Catholic, aren't you? Do you put up a crèche? A tree? Lights on the driveway? A dancing Santa in your living room? " I shook my head every time he paused, waiting for my answers. "Do you eat turkey? Ham? Tamales?" he paused, "Do you sacrifice virgin moths at midnight while performing some ancient ritual known only to Entomologists?"

"We only do that on Halloween," I quipped.

"So? What do you do?"

"I don't do anything." I said calmly, "And I don't give gifts either" I pointed out, just in case.

"Oh." He muttered, somewhat disappointed. He recovered quickly though, "Well, if you don't do anything then maybe you could-"

"No." I said.

"No, what?" he frowned.

"Whatever," I shrugged, "the answer is no."

"Hey, you could at least wait until I ask." he protested.

"Greg, I'm not helping you to cook or to decorate or-"

"Ha, like I'm going to cook," he muttered, "My sisters will take care of that. All you have to do is be here on the 22nd."

"I'll have to work."

"That's ok; you can come at any time of the day. That's the beauty of my family's party, Grissom. We have a full day of celebrations: We go to church early in the morning; then we have breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. Family members come and go all day-"

"I'll be busy, Greg."

"Come on," he coaxed, "You can leave the lab for a few hours, Grissom. I mean, you have to eat, don't you? Instead of going down to the deli, just come on over and have some great Norwegian style home-cooking."

"Like cod?" I asked skeptically.

"Cod and halibut, yeah; but there'll also be pork ribs and patties, Christmas sausage and spiced cabbage. There'll be desserts too: cloudberry cream, crème caramel and creamed rice. And-" he paused for effect, "My famous punch; a delicate concoction made with fruit juices and vodka that nobody's been able to duplicate. Chemists have hounded me for years for the recipe, and-"

I let him talk. Greg grows enthusiastic over every event in his life –work, sex, holidays, whatever- and his passions are usually contagious. This time I was pretty safe, though. I don't celebrate Christmas. The baby word wouldn't do the trick.

"-back in Norway they used to leave food out," he was saying, "in case spirits and little people- or nisse- visited the farm. The nisse could not be forgotten, you know? Otherwise ill fortune would befall the farm. We've tried to keep these traditions over the years. But you'll have a chance to see all that." he looked expectantly at me.

"Greg… I appreciate the offer, but I just don't celebrate Christmas."

"Well, our celebration isn't just about Christmas, Grissom. Or religion." He added meaningfully, "It's about family. We get together, we make decorations, and we sing old songs… Plus, we meet the new in-laws. Papa Olaf and mama Asty will be thrilled to meet you."

Oh.

No way. I had no intention of meeting the fabled grandfather. I have one recurrent nightmare where I meet him and he's practically my age-

I didn't want to find out that I was right.

No way was I getting into this mess-

"Ok." I said.

He gaped.

"Whoa." He said when he recovered from the surprise, "Whoa, Grissom. You mean it?"

Actually, I didn't mean it. But one thing I've learned lately is that sometimes is better not to tell the truth. Love does that: It makes liars out of us. But telling him the truth would have hurt him and the day would have been ruined.

"Sure," I said.

"Oh, man!" he smiled, "I thought it was going to take me a whole afternoon to convince you! This is great." He patted my chest, "You'll like it. You're right, cod isn't that good, but the pork with the crackling… it's tasty. Or it'll be, if my sister doesn't burn it like she did last year. But I promise you'll like the rice- "

I let him talk.

He didn't broach the subject again until the 21st, when he came to my office and handed me his field report. I was about to sign it when he put something else on my desk. A present, wrapped in colorful Christmas paper. I looked up.

"We agreed there'd be no gifts." I said.

"No, Grissom." he said patiently, "You decided and I complied. I wanted to give you a blue shirt-"

"You gave me a blue shirt." I frowned. A couple of days before he'd given it to me, claiming that he'd never wore it 'cause it was just too big for him. "You said someone gave it to you on your last birthday-"

"Yeah." He said calmly, "If I'd told you it was a Christmas gift you wouldn't have taken it, would you?"

I frowned. I couldn't believe it… It had suddenly dawned on me that I might be the tyrant in this relationship.

But no, it couldn't be; after all, I usually ended up doing what he wanted, didn't I?

Or maybe we ended up doing things only when I relented? Only when I said yes?

"Anyway," he said, "this isn't from me. It's from my grandmother."

"Oh." I muttered.

That was worse.

I looked down and gingerly poked at the package.

"Don't worry," he said dryly, "she killed it before wrapping it."

"What?" I frowned.

"Just open it, Grissom."

"Shouldn't I wait until Christmas Day?" I ventured, but he just threw me a look. "Ok, fine." I said, carefully unwrapping the package.

Socks. Black, with a beautifully intricate design in green, blue, and gray.

"These are hand-knitted, Grissom." Greg explained when I didn't say anything. "I had to borrow one of your socks so she could use it as a model."

"I like them," I said in case he thought I didn't appreciate the gift, "I'm surprised, that's all." And before I could check myself I added, "My grandmother used to knit socks like these."

"Are you sure?" he frowned, "This is an authentic Norwegian pattern-"

"Scandinavian." I corrected, "My grandmother was born in Sweden."

"Sweden? Oh, man, you never told me that!" he smiled, "What was her name?"

"Helle."

"You don't think you and me are distant cousins or something, do you?"

"We're not." I glared, already regretting mentioning my grandmother.

"I was joking, Grissom." He sighed. "Look, I know you don't wear patterned socks, but you'll have to wear them tomorrow. It's one of our traditions. Mama Asty knits something for every member of the family to wear at the party. One year the poor girl wore herself out knitting sweaters. Now all she manages are socks and scarves..."

I wanted to point out to him that I was not a family member, but I wisely did not. I just let him talk.

"… her real name is Astrid, but my older sister couldn't manage it, so she called her Asty, and that's what the rest of us have called her ever since." he paused. "Look…" he said after a moment, "I really –really- hope you come to the party."

"I said I would." I frowned.

"Sure, but we both know how it is, Grissom. You can always find something else to do."

Uh, oh. Busted.

"Think about it, ok?" he said.

Today is the 22 and I've been thinking about it. I'm torn between going to the lab and staying there until tomorrow, or going to his place.

I don't want to go to his Christmas celebration, but there is a part of me who wants to be there and see for himself what the big deal is. The part of me who used to look at unbroken families and happy couples with pity – because he knew that their happiness wasn't eternal, no matter what they thought - but with wistfulness too, because he would have given anything to taste a bit of that joy, no matter how brief it was…

Finally, I make up my mind. At eleven, I call Warrick and ask him to take over my office duties. He says yes without needing any explanations; he simply says that he needs the distraction. I gather these holidays are a difficult time for him.

Well. Join the club.

So, clad in the hand-knitted socks and my only suit, (yes, I want to make a good impression; yes, I feel slightly ridiculous.) I'm ready to go. I know that giving gifts is a big part of the holidays so I make sure that I have my credit card in my wallet. I'll stop somewhere and buy something for mama Asty, and maybe something for Greg too.

But just as I'm leaving my bedroom, I look at the door at the end of the hallway. My storage room. I rarely ever take anything from it, but I know there is something there that could be perfect for today.

I open the door and see dozens of boxes piled up against the walls, all containing treasures and mementos that I've hoarded over the years. I immediately find the one I need. It's a box labeled 'Grandmother'. I don't dwell on the contents for long. What I need is on top, still wrapped in delicate tissue paper: A lacy handkerchief that I bought during a trip to Switzerland. My grandmother had been dead for years by then, but I couldn't help buying it for her. She would have appreciated it.

Maybe now there is someone else who will appreciate it just as well.

So, here I am. I have two packages in my hands; the handkerchief for mama Asty and half a dozen white socks for Greg. I've been standing in front of his door for about ten minutes, mustering the courage to knock. I've been listening to him and his family laugh and talk, and just a minute ago one of the women started to sing and the others joined in. There are other assorted sounds coming from inside too: Someone's using scissors and a glue gun – Greg said something about home-made Christmas ornaments, didn't he? – and someone's using his blender. There are smells too: fresh-baked bread and something spicy and sweet, plus the awful smell of fish. Oh, well.

I'm about to knock, when I notice a basket hanging from a nail beside his door. It's filled with little squares of candy wrapped in cellophane.

"For the nisse" I mutter, remembering his words.

I slowly chew on a piece of candy and lift my hand again, but I don't knock.

I don't have to. I have a key.

I take it and push it into the keyhole, and suddenly I have the feeling that I'm about to gamble the rest of my life and I truly don't know the odds…

But what the hell. I'll do it.

It's what he wants; and deep down, it's what I want to do too.

Besides…This is what you do for love.

THE END