Title: Perfect Quirks
Disclaimer: While some of the following quirks might be mine, the characters in which I lended them to are not.
Author's Note:o) Thanks to Sol, for listening to my rants and ramblings, and somehow managing to get this beta-ed in between the two, you rock Solomynne, and I promise to try to keep my FS to a minumum next time ok? So this story niggled its way right out of my brain and onto the computer screen. I had no control over it, I swear to goodness. I'm thinking it's a oneshot, though I could be persuaded to write one from Grissoms POV. Reviews are very much appreciated and very very much loved. So you know what to do...
Let me start out by telling you that I am normally a pretty patient person. I'm not a 'sigh-er'. I'm more likely to roll my eyes and smile than get annoyed at little things. That said, right now I'm living with the one person who can push my exasperation past the point of no return.
So we'd been dating for a while, like almost a year. And eventually, I just sort of moved in. It wasn't something we planned, and it wasn't something we talked about. Had we talked about it, maybe I would have been better prepared for all of his little quirks.
Don't get me wrong, I love him. He's the most wonderful man, but you know how you act when you're alone - would you subject someone you love to that? I know I should feel flattered that he can relax around me - it was a long road getting to this point, but sometimes in the back of my mind, I wish we could rewind this relationship back to the point where he was comfortable - but not so... weird. Yeah, that's a good word. Believe it or not ladies and gentlemen, the famous Dr. Gilbert Grissom is weird.
For instance, did you know he lives in his socks? Honest to God, the only time I ever catch a glimpse of the man's toes is when he's fresh from the shower. And trust me, the first time I walked into the bathroom as he was stepping out, I was almost relieved not to see sopping wet socks clinging to his feet. For a while there I thought maybe he never took them off - he just showered with them on to wash them. Now I know he doesn't, but I also know that they are the first things he puts on when he gets out of the shower. Yep, even before his boxers. First time I walked in on that, I actually had to leave the room to control my giggle fit.
I realize that it sounds insane, but really I had never seen his feet before that day. And yeah, we had slept in the same bed. We'd made love. The first time, I figured he just, I dunno, forgot to take them off. After all, it was a spur of the moment, hungry attack; for lack of a better word. I'm pretty sure I had my bra pushed up instead of off. It was that kind of hot. Oh memories...
Anyway, that second time I just dismissed it. But now, months later - I'm still waiting on the day he toes his socks off before he climbs into bed with me. Not that I'll ever complain mind you - I'll never have to wake up to cold toes pressing against my legs. It's still weird, but it's something I can live with.
And while we are on the topic of feet, the man who never so much as lets me see his; is fascinated with mine. Like border lining on a major foot fetish. It was almost nice, that first time he grabbed my ankle while we were sitting on the couch watching a movie. He moved so I was lying down with my feet in his lap, and believe me - it was the best foot rub a girl could ask for. I wasn't complaining. Who would, right?
Then it just got weird... there's that word again. I never honestly believed I would ever use that word to describe so many things about him. But I really can't think of anything better. It's amazing how your perception of people changes after you live with them.
Anyway, where was I? Oh right, the feet thing. After that first time I let him touch my feet, I guess he just assumed he had full rights to them. It's funny you know? I can just be sitting there and he'll keep staring straight at the TV, but he'll grab my foot and remove my socks. And just hold my feet. I know what you're thinking. So what? Right? Well, it's not so much that he holds them, but sometimes (and he would probably die of embarrassment if he knew I was telling you this) but sometimes, he will sit there for a full hour watching TV - swear to God - petting my foot. Over the top, under my toes, or just a single finger up and down my arch.
It's strange how into it he can get. Like he doesn't even know he's doing it. I worry about the day that he finally admits to only loving me for my feet... and I'm only half joking. I mean, I personally like my feet. I've always taken special care of them - most of the time; my toenails look better than my fingernails. And there is a part of me that loves the fact that he notices, and that he approves. But really, it's a foot - how attractive can it really be?
But let me assure you, his obsession with feet isn't the only thing that makes him...special. Oh no, there are hundreds of little things. Things that I knew before I moved in - I mean I was practically living there long before I actually moved in…. but until you see the same things every single day, you can never really be sure if it's a random quirk, or if it's something you have to deal with every day.
Take for instance the fact that he's the only person I know who wakes up when you turn a light off. He can sleep with full daylight streaming through the windows, or he can sleep in the pitch black. But if he falls asleep with the light on, the light needs to stay on. Don't ask me how it works, but he'll be wide-awake before the darkness has completely settled over the room. However, if I turn a light on - he just keeps snoring. Again, weird. Can you think of a better word? For all the years of spelling bees and college essays, the English language has me stumped.
I know so far it doesn't seem like enough to warrant me getting all defensive, but trust me, I'm just getting warmed up. Those are all things that I can deal with, things that I'll be ok with if he does forever. But believe it or not, even Grissom needs to be trained. In fact, him probably more then others. He's just a man, which means that he's flat-out stubborn, he likes to be in control... and he's scarily stuck in his ways. Some of those are good things, like he does the dishes when he gets done eating. Or that he was raised with only a mother, which means that he knows how to put the toilet seat down. Those things are ingrained in him, and that's nice. But at the same time, there are not-so-good things ingrained in him.
Like leaving his boxers flung over the bathroom sink. Like I want to go to brush my teeth and find his underwear sitting on top of the toothpaste. Apparently, he can't take them off in the bedroom like everything else and put them in the hamper. Oh no, he wears them into the bathroom, takes them off - and refuses to just leave them lying on the floor, they might get wet from the shower. So he throws them on the sink. And leaves them there instead of taking them back out and tossing them in the hamper on the way through the bedroom. Every day. His dirty underwear is not something I plan on being greeted by every morning for the rest of my life.
And then there's another problem in the bedroom. No, you pervert, not that. That is wonderful. That is better then I even imagined it would be. Oh no, it's what comes after that that bothers me. I don't even know why I'm complaining about this, it's sweet, it's endearing, but it's just - not me. The man's a cuddler. And not a "just-a-few-minutes" cuddler, nope, he will fall asleep while murmuring in my ear. And then do you think I can get him to let me go? Of course not, the man has a vice-like grip. I don't know if you've ever lain awake after sex, but unlike some people, I can't sleep - sex energizes me. So let me explain this to you, we make love, and all I want to do is go hop in the shower. I love him, I love being with him, and I love it when he holds me. But after sex... not so much. I'm hot, I'm sweaty, I'm sticky... I feel gross. And then he snuggles right up to my back, and I can feel his sweat, and his body heat. And why is that a bad thing? Because - sweat cools. And eventually all I can feel is the clamminess of my exposed skin and the wet warmth where our bodies meet. Ugh.
Maybe if I wasn't such an incurable insomniac. I think he gets offended that I still have problems falling asleep, even with him there. I've tried to tell him that it has nothing to do with him. My lack of sleep really never had anything to do with my being lonely. And much of the time it doesn't have anything to do with the hours I work - or the job.
It's nothing he can control, or help me with. Sometimes, my brain just doesn't want to sleep. But try to tell this to a man who can flip his mind off at will, unless he's obsessing over a case, and he just thinks I'm lying to "protect him" from so-called horrors of my life. Yeah, what he doesn't seem to get is the fact that he did help with that. It's been a long time since I've woken up in a cold sweat. It's been a long time since I've lain there and thought about how terrible the world is.
Because really? Who can have scary nightmares about the past when they have the future laying beside them? And how terrible can the world really be, when it's finally looking up for me? No, my brain just fights sleep. My body will be so tired - achingly so, but when I'm lying in bed, it starts thinking. Not about work anymore, not about anything really important. Take last night - I lay there for over an hour wondering what color we should paint the kitchen this weekend. Then I thought about whether or not I paid my car insurance.
And I can't explain to him that there's nothing he can do. Just lying beside me, he's doing everything I ever needed him to. But he'll wake up a couple hours after he initially falls asleep, roll over, and there I'll be, wide awake. That gets him started on the 'What's wrong?' 'Talk to me Sara...' When I try to tell him that there's really nothing wrong, and that I'm not hiding anything from him - he feels hurt that I can't trust him. That turns me into the afore-mentioned 'sigh-er'.
Deep breath, blow it out through pursed lips. Cue the eye-roll in the dark - and suddenly my thoughts of paint have become some sort of an issue. So I try to tell him that I'm thinking of paint. And it's not that he doesn't trust me, I guess it's just that he wants to be needed. And when I tell him it's nothing and to go back to sleep he gets grumpy.
Grumpy Grissom isn't a fun Grissom. So I roll over, wrap my arms around him, and thank him for being with me. I tell him I love him, and assure him that if ever it's something - I'll wake him up. That I understand that I don't have to go through anything alone anymore. What I'm sure I should tell him, what I know he doesn't know, is that just the knowledge that I don't have to face those demons alone anymore makes them a lot less scary. And when I'm not scared of them, they can't hurt me. I should tell him that just his presence makes me feel better.
But in the back of my mind, I can't do that. Because then if he ever left - temporarily or permanently, he'd think I was scared again. And I don't want that. He means too much to me. Maybe one day I'll tell him. Until then, let's just keep it as our little secret, ok?
Why am I still complaining? This man is my best friend. He is the one person I can trust to always be there - whether I'm in a bad mood, or a down right silly one. I trust him to never up and leave me. He's my world - and that he does know.
Wow - all this has softened me up. I mean there are still a hundred and fifty more things about him that bother me. Two hundred if he's in a bad mood. But that can never change the fact that to me... he's perfect. Weirdly so.
I know nobody's perfect, and it's not fair for me to put him up on that pedestal. He makes mistakes; he has flaws just like everyone else.
He calls his mother every morning after work, and he forgets to take the trash out. He hates the way I organized his cupboards and he won't let me set a glass on the coffee table without a coaster. He laughs at all the wrong parts during a movie, and he hates it when I read Harry Potter in bed. He brushes his teeth and leaves the cap off the tube and he dog-ears the pages in his books. His answering machine at home is still the robotic voice it came with and he still has the first love letter any girl ever sent him. To name a few of those hundred of things that bothers me...
He's him and I'm me and sometimes we clash. After all, we are two very private, very personal entities trying to share a space. But most of the time? We're good together. So good it's...weird.
I never expected him to love me like he does. I never expected him to remember the date that he first kissed me, or the first time I called him Gil. I never expected him to ignore his pager when we go out to dinner. But he does.
I never thought I'd be the type to love Valentines Day or sappy movies. I never thought I'd love anyone the way I love him. It's powerful and it's amazing. It's the fact that I can smile and he knows that I love him...it's that fact that I can be sure that he knows.
It's the way he chews his thumbnail when he did something wrong, and the way that his eyes grow wide when he really is sorry. It's the way that those same eyes shine when he's happy, and the knowledge that they shine the brightest when I'm around. It's the way that it's not him that tells me that - it's others.
Others that don't know that he's with me and I'm with him. It's Catherine, Nick, or Greg asking me if I know why he's so happy. It's the belief that I made him that way. It's the knowledge that he made me that way. It's us.
He's mine - and I'm his. We belong together, we belong to each other.
So yeah - maybe I do love him. Quirks and all.
Ah, fluff. I needed to write a good fluffy piece, and I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please review and let me know.