A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Grissom's quote is from a short story called "The Hands of Mr. Ottermole".

After Brass left, I stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes, watching the pink goo in the glass melt.

"Don't make any harsh decisions," Brass had said; but by the time he said this, I'd a already decided what I was going to do. In fact, I think I knew, the minute I started talking about my father, that I would not stay in Las Vegas -not after all that had happened, and certainly not after blurting out all that personal stuff.

I'd never revealed so much about myself -not even to Greg. Especially not to Greg.

Thinking of Greg reminded me of something I should have done the minute Brass left; something I needed to do.

I glanced around, and noticed that Brass had left my phone within easy reach. I picked it up without a moment's hesitation, but once I had it in my hand, I couldn't bring myself to make the call.

I didn't know what I was going to say to Greg. Apart from 'I'm sorry,' that is.

I sat with the phone in my hand for quite a while until it suddenly dawned on me that Greg would probably not be taking the call; according to Brass, his throat was still too sensitive. If I called him, I'd be probably getting his answering machine. At the very worst, I'd be getting Karen.

Well, that made it easier to make my call. If I got his answering machine, at least I'd be hearing his voice. And if I got Karen… well, I probably deserved anything she dished out to me.

I was bracing myself for Karen's tirade when, to my utter surprise, I heard Greg answer the phone with a hoarse 'hello'.

I was taken aback.

"Greg?" I asked, just to make sure.

"Yeah."

Shit.

"Did I wake you? No, wait," I said before he had a chance to answer, "Don't talk."

I paused, searching for something to say. I pressed my ear against the phone, as if this could bring him closer. There were faint noises in the background, and I pictured him lying on the couch, watching TV, just like I'd seen him do so many times.

The silence was too much for Greg, who broke into my reverie.

"You still there?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry -" I paused. I took a deep breath, "I'm sorry, Greg." I said solemnly. "I'm sorry, for -"

I was sorry for so many things, I didn't even know where to begin.

In the silence that ensued, I became aware of another sound: his breathing. It was labored, as if each breath was taking him a huge effort. Of course; Jenkins had held him so tightly that he'd probably done a lot of damage to Greg's upper chest, maybe even to the point of breaking a rib.

And there I was, forcing him to talk.

"Greg? Maybe this isn't the right time to do this."

"Grissom -" he started but I didn't let him continue.

"You should be resting." I said. I'd only meant it as a suggestion but it came out as a reprimand, and the stern tone I used reminded me of the way I'd talked to him when we were still at the crime scene. It probably reminded him of it too, because he effectively kept mum.

I should have never called him.

"Get some sleep." I said in a more gentle tone. "We'll talk some other day. Ok?"

I hang up without waiting for an answer.

-----

Night was falling, and once again I was sitting on the couch, staring at the screen of my lap top. This time I wasn't writing a report for the benefit of I.A.; I was checking on six months worth of e-mails.

I was always getting job offers from colleagues all over the country. I usually gave those messages only a cursory glance, but this time I read each and every one, sorting my job options among them.

As far as I could see, I could choose between teaching jobs or lab jobs. I'd never find anything like my job in Las Vegas –a job I'd created and fought for. Still, it was reassuring, the fact that I could leave Las Vegas whenever I chose and have a job waiting for me.

It was leaving Las Vegas that posed the biggest difficulty, new job or not. For instance, I couldn't just pack my stuff in the back of a car and leave. I'd spent half a lifetime in Las Vegas; even if I didn't take anything with me, I still had to dispose of my belongings.

Just the removal of my 'pets' looked like a daunting enterprise. And there were hundreds of documents and personal archives that I had to sort out, too.

I had a lot to do, but the first step was to let people know I was available.

I started to compose a message, but stopped after a moment. My fingers hovered over the keys, but my mind was a blank. Try as I might, the words just wouldn't come.

It seemed I didn't know how to apply for a job anymore.

Frustrated, I put the lap top back on the coffee table. I stretched my legs to shake off an incipient cramp but in doing so, I became aware of pieces of glass still lying on the floor.

I remembered then. The glass I broke, the photo album…

I hunched down to clean up. I wondered why Brass didn't remark on them. Unless he didn't notice... But that was hard to believe; he must have noticed and simply assumed that I was a slob at home. After all, the entire place was a mess; I'd been definitely lax in my household duties lately.

I picked up the glass and after a moment's hesitation I retrieved the photo album. It was dusty, and the covers were a bit loose after the abuse I'd subjected it to, but it was otherwise unharmed.

I put it on the table and looked at it. It seemed incredible that Greg and me would split over something so small, but then, we didn't really break up because of the album.

It was simply the last straw.

One morning, I came home after work and found Greg here, sitting in my living room. I was taken aback, although maybe I shouldn't have been; after all, I'd recently given him a key to my place. But the key had been given as a sort of consolation prize after my refusal to accept Sara and Warrick's Valentine's Day invitation; I never really expect him to use it.

But having him enter my home wasn't the real problem; it was seeing him with the photo album in his hands that stunned me the most. I kept the album in a room at the end of the hallway among other personal documents. I hardly ever glanced at it, much less bring it out for others to look at.

Greg didn't know anything was amiss; he didn't even look up when I came in. He was happily browsing, making comments like, 'Hey, you were a cute kid, you know. You kinda looked like the Gerber baby -"

I wasn't in the mood for compliments. "Where did you find that?"

He glanced at me.

"This?" he asked, "It was in that room at the end of the hallway. The door was open, and -"

"I don't think so," I interrupted. I didn't keep the room under lock and key, but I didn't think I'd left the door open. (It was only later that I remembered being in the room some time before; it was possible that I'd inadvertently left the door open, just like Greg had said. But by then, it was too late for explanations.)

"It was open," Greg said good-naturedly. He glanced at me again and whatever he saw in my face was enough to make his smile fade. He frowned. "What, you think I was snooping?"

"Greg, you can't go around looking into my personal stuff -"

"I wasn't looking -" he glared.

And from then on, what started as a mere misunderstanding quickly escalated into a fight. I don't remember everything we said, but there was obviously a lot of pent-up anger and resentment on both sides. The verbal fight escalated and suddenly turned physical, with Greg lashing out.

"You know what? Here," he hissed, "Take your fucking album!" and he shoved it at me.

Taken by surprise, I stumbled backwards and missed the album altogether. It fell on the floor with a thud.

I looked at the album and then I looked incredulously at Greg. I couldn't believe he had done this, and, by the look on his face, he couldn't, either.

Just a few seconds earlier we'd been angry enough to lash out at each other, but once one of us did, we were shocked.

Greg even stepped back, his combative mood fading as quickly as it had flared up. For a while, all we did was breathe hard and stare at each other. Neither one of us dared say anything or even move.

We'd narrowly avoided what could have turned into a physical confrontation, and we wanted to leave it at that.

At the time it seemed like the best thing to do, but now that I looked back, I couldn't help wondering whether lashing out might not have been better in the long run. We would have probably hurt each other –literally and figuratively- but at least we would have freed ourselves from the anger we felt.

Instead, we let our anger turned into bitterness.

Greg was the first to speak.

"Maybe we should take a break," he said. He paused for a moment, and then he asked. "What do you think?"

There was something in his eyes -hope, maybe. He was leaving it up to me, and I believe that if I had asked him to give it another shot, he would have said yes.

But I couldn't risk it; by then I was convinced that if we stayed together, we would end up hurting each other.

"Yeah." I said, "I think you're right."

He nodded, as if he'd known all along what my answer was going to be.

"I'm-" he started, "I'm gonna go inside. You know, to get my things."

He left a while later, taking with him the few things he'd brought: an old t-shirt, a few toiletries -

All that was left of him were a few stray hairs on my bed.

And memories.

---

"Hey, you're blind or what?"

It took me a moment to realize that those words were being addressed to me. A big man was standing in my way, and he looked pissed. I'd either stepped on his foot or stumbled against him – whatever. I didn't care. I simply walked around him and kept walking. Behind me, I heard, 'Creep.'

That encounter was like a wake-up call. Until then, I'd been so focused on my thoughts that I'd been only vaguely aware of my surroundings. I'd left home without a clear notion of where I was going. Walk just for the sake of it; keep going -the farther away from my place, the better.

Back home, there were decisions to be made about a new job and a new city to live in. I wasn't ready to make choices. Not yet.

But after my encounter with that guy I started to notice things. Like how cold the night was, for instance, and how it forced complete strangers to huddle close together on the sidewalks. Hookers who usually stood alone to avoid the competition now shared their space with others in forced camaraderie, sharing smokes while sneaking glances at possible clients.

There were tourists shivering in their Hawaiian shirts, cursing the traveling agencies for not warning them about the weather. They were distracted and angry, and they had booze in their hands –a fatal combination.

But people were the least of my concerns that night, so I turned away.

I kept walking, instinctively turning to more quiet areas of the neighborhood. I wasn't really aware of my surroundings until I found myself in a cul-de-sac. When I looked up, I almost laughed in disbelief.

I was standing in front of a church. Saint Matthew's Chapel, to be more exact. It was a Catholic church I'd seen hundreds of times on my way home, one that I noticed for the same reason others might overlook it: It was a small, unassuming place that seemed out of place in Las Vegas.

I hesitated at first, but in the end I decided not to fight my instincts. Whatever the reasons, I'd come up all the way here; besides, I needed the rest.

The church was empty, as I thought it would be. Inside, the church was as modest as it was on the outside, but there were beautiful wood carvings on the wall. They were blackened with the soot of many candles, but I could easily ID some of the scenes represented.

I glanced around after a moment.

Now, what? I thought. I didn't really know why I'd come all the way here. I believed in God but I didn't think you had to go to church to find Him.

But I stayed. I sat in the last pew and then I stared ahead. And waited. And waited -

And then suddenly, I heard steps. Familiar steps.

I recognized the soft sucking sounds that his shoes made on the slick floor, and I recognized his stride, too. I noticed, the minute he started walking on tiptoe in a vain attempt to stop the noise –just like he did whenever he used those shoes at the lab.

But it couldn't be. It had to be a dream; a migraine-induced nightmare like the ones I'd had the other night. There was no way that Greg would be there -

I held my breath as the steps came closer and closer…

And then, a hand briefly touched my shoulder –the ghost of a caress. Greg's caress.

I looked up, half-expecting to find myself back in my bed, waking up from a dream. But it wasn't. Greg was there, looking down at me.

"Hi," he said. Then he smiled faintly, "No, I'm not a ghost or a dream –or a fatal vision." He added, acknowledging my penchant for quoting Shakespeare.

I mechanically made some space for him in my pew but he moved on to the next. He sat and turned half-way in my direction, shifting in his seat until he was able to look at me without turning his back on the altar. He grimaced a little as he did this; he was obviously in pain.

He looked up and our gazes met for a moment. Then he looked away.

I stared. The recent events had left their mark on Greg. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he had definitely lost weight.

He had buttoned his denim jacket all the way up to cover up the bruises on his throat, but I could still see the faint outline of a bruise that almost reached his jaw -so extensive was the damage that Jenkins had inflicted on him.

As I looked at his damaged flesh, I had a sudden recollection of Jenkins grasping Greg so forcefully that he was practically lifting him from the floor. It must have hurt like hell –

And then that flashback was replaced by another, one in which Greg and me were lying together in bed.

I was pinning him flat on his back, kissing his throat as a prelude to sex. I'd always loved to do that, and, judging by his reaction, so did he. He was moaning and whispering words of encouragement, which only added fuel to my desire for him.

And then, suddenly, for some reason I could never fathom, I stopped kissing him and started growling instead, acting like some wild animal intent on eating his Adam's apple.

It was a playful moment between us, and I could remember the moment when Greg's moans turned into uncontrollable laughter…

I shut my eyes close and forced myself to shake that memory away. It was the worst moment –not to mention the worst place- to be thinking like that.

When I looked at him again, Greg was still glancing here and there, taking in the rest of the church.

"Weird," he whispered. "It feels like we're trespassing."

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

He didn't answer. I tried again.

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

He looked at me.

"That's what I should be asking you." he glared.

I ignored that.

"Are you ok?" I asked. Of course he wasn't –anyone could see that –anyone listening to him would know he was not ok. It was obvious that he was in pain. But I didn't know what else to ask.

"I'm fine," he said. And then the ghost of a smile appeared as he added, "I just had a bad weekend."

"You should be home."

He should be taking care of himself –or letting others take care of him.

"Greg?" I said, and waited until he was looking at me again, "How did you know I was here?"

"I followed you." He said reluctantly.

"You followed me? How -"

He smiled sheepishly.

"I was in your neighborhood," he said, "I was sitting in my car gathering the courage to walk up to your door, when I saw you."

I was taken aback by this revelation.

"You shouldn't be driving around," I said mechanically, "You should be home, resting."

"I was home," he replied, "But then you called, and then you hang up -"

Shit.

"I'm sorry." I said.

"It's ok." He said dismissively. "I needed an excuse to get out, anyway," he added in a lighter tone, "Karen's starting to get on my nerves."

"Did you tell her you were coming over?"

"No." he said as if the answer should be obvious, "No. I put a couple of pillows under my blanket and escaped through the window."

I didn't know if that was a joke or not, and he didn't tell.

He was looking at me.

"You're worried about her, aren't you?" he asked, and he gave me the first genuine smile of the night. "It's ok," he said gently, "I left her a note. She's probably going to be pissed, but -"

"You shouldn't be outside," I interrupted, "You look like you need all the rest you can get."

He scoffed.

"You don't look so hot, yourself." He retorted, "Frankly, you look like hell."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious." He replied, glancing down at me. "You didn't even comb your hair. And your clothes -"

I looked down. For the first time, I realized that I hadn't changed my clothes since Friday night. I probably looked like a bum.

No wonder he'd felt compelled to follow me.

"Are you sick?" He asked.

"I'm fine." I replied calmly. "You, on the other hand, look sick and sound sick. You can't even take a breath without wincing from the pain -" I paused.

I wanted to ask his a dozen questions about his condition, but at the same time I didn't want to know. Mostly, I just wanted him to leave. I couldn't bear to see him like this.

"Yeah," he said sheepishly, "I know I sound like Smeagol." He hunched down and made a face, "Hello, my precious," he whispered, and this time he did sound like Smeagol.

He smiled winningly at me but I ignored the joke.

"You should go home," I said, "Sometimes, sleep is the best medicine."

"Hey, it's not like I don't want to sleep," he glared. "But they gave me so many sedatives at the hospital that now I have insomnia." He straightened out with some difficulty, "I gotta wait for my body to flush out the chemicals -"

I groaned.

"I knew this would happen," I sighed, "I'm sorry -"

"Why?" he frowned, "You didn't give me the sedatives."

"I should have called your doctors," I said. "Tell them to take it easy -"

"They did what they had to do, Grissom." he said reasonably, "I needed to sleep but was too wired up -"

I nodded.

"Karen told me." I said.

This time he studiously looked away. Evidently, he didn't want to talk about this.

"You sent her to check on me." I said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

"Yeah." he admitted reluctantly. He looked up. "She didn't give you a hard time, did she? She promised she wouldn't -"

"She was very nice to me," I said.

"Good," he said. "I, hum," he hesitated, "I just needed to know if you were ok, Grissom. I just didn't know who else to ask -"

"I understand."

"-and she needed the distraction, too," he added. "She was weeping and acting as if I was already dead. I was hoping you'd comfort each other somehow," he smiled mischievously as he added, "If you didn't get into a fight first."

I didn't smile back.

"She thinks we're still together." I said.

He looked uncomfortable.

"Yeah, I didn't tell her about the split. Didn't tell anyone, actually. Hate having people say 'I told you, so,' you know?" he smiled faintly.

I was going to say that I was sorry but refrained.

"Dennis guessed," Greg added, glancing at me.

Of course. A psychologist through to the end, Dennis must have easily read the signs.

"I saw him," I said. "He had a floral arrangement with him."

Greg seemed surprised. "You saw him?"

"I was sitting outside of the hospital when I saw him." I explained.

"You were there, then?"

I was there, fantasizing about killing Dennis, I thought.

"Yes," I said simply.

"He's been playing the part of the faithful, disinterested friend," Greg said, looking intently at me. When I didn't comment, he scoffed, "Karen hates his guts."

I smiled despite myself.

"She hates everybody's guts," I replied. "Except yours."

"She did hate mine, once," he said quietly.

He knew about Karen's hostility, then.

But he had forgiven her.

Greg glanced away, and once again I stared at him. Hungrily.

I had more flashbacks of us together –in bed, watching TV, sharing a pizza- and this time I didn't fight the memories, And as I looked at him, I mused on how much I wanted to reach for him and hold him and never let go...

But it was too late for that. All I could do was try to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Greg," I said.

"Why do you keep saying you're sorry?" he asked. He wasn't angry; he merely wanted to know.

"I'm sorry that you got hurt -" I started, "I'm sorry that things got so out of hand that -"

"Grissom," he interrupted. "Look… I know you're sorry," he said kindly, "I'm sorry, too –so what? It doesn't change anything."

"No," I said quietly, "It doesn't."

"Say something else, then," he said. He waited until I was looking at him, "Say you forgive me."

I frowned.

"Forgive you for what?"

"Just say it, Grissom."

"But there's nothing to forgive -"

He scoffed.

"What about forgiving me for screwing up at a crime scene?"

"There's nothing to forgive," I repeated, "None of this was your fault, Greg. You were the victim here."

"Being the victim is no excuse for stupidity, Grissom." he said sternly. "I thought Jenkins was you, and I let him get grab me." He looked at me, "You don't think I brought this on myself?"

But he wasn't really asking. "I mean, what was I thinking?" he continued, "You'd never make a pass at me while we were at a crime scene, right? And yet, that's exactly what I expected you to do," he shook his head in disgust, "No wonder you were so pissed off at me -"

"I wasn't pissed off -" I started, but the look he gave me made me stop. "You're right. I was." I paused for a moment, "I was angry at you for getting in trouble. It was irrational of me. But then, I haven't been rational in a long time." I admitted as an afterthought.

He looked at me, as if gauging the sincerity of my words.

"And then, there was this look on your face -" I added after a moment.

"What look?" he frowned.

I hesitated.

"You were looking at me as if you were afraid of me."

He was surprised.

"I wasn't afraid," he said. "Grissom, I was in awe of you." He paused, letting those words sink in my brain. "I mean, you managed to kill that freak with just one shot –it was amazing. To me it was like, I don't know, like discovering that my boyfriend had a secret identity. "

He shook his head, still amazed by the memory, "When I looked up and saw you standing there, I didn't just see you, Grissom. To me, you were Superman and John McClain and Han Solo and every damn hero I've ever known, all rolled up in one!"

He looked at me. "I wasn't afraid, Grissom," he said slowly, "I was glad."

I winced. He was still looking at me, as if gauging my reaction.

"Does that surprise you?" he challenged. He leant forward and lowered his voice, "Jenkins told me what he was going to do to me, Grissom. He said he was going to rape me and torture me 'til he got bored of his new toy," he gulped down, "He said I would beg him to put an end to my misery -"

I looked away. I didn't want to hear this, but he was relentless.

"He said no one would ever find me; not unless they dug deep in the desert. So yeah," he said defiantly, "I was glad that you killed the SOB."

He glanced around as he said those last words, mindful of swearing at a sacred place. Then he looked at me.

"Only, it wasn't that simple, was it? It wasn't until I got to the hospital that I realized what I'd done to you."

"You didn't do anything -"

"I made you kill someone," he interrupted bluntly.

We looked at each other. His eyes were filled with sorrow as he added, "You killed him because of me, didn't you?"

It was true; if Jenkins had threatened somebody else, I would have at least tried to talk him out of it –and maybe, just maybe, spared his life. But with Greg's life on the line, I never hesitated.

But I didn't regret saving Greg's life.

I took a deep breath.

"Greg," I said, "I'm not sorry I killed him -"

He smiled gently.

"And yet, you regret it." he said softly. "It's not a contradiction, you know. You just have a conscience."

I scoffed.

"What is conscience?" I quoted, "'Simply a polite name for superstition, which is a polite nickname for fear.' Fear of punishment -"

He tilted his head.

"Is that why you came here?" he asked, "For fear of divine punishment?"

"I don't know why I came." I said. I looked down, "I don't know anything, anymore."

We were silent for a moment. And when he finally spoke, so did I.

"Grissom -" he started, but I interrupted him.

"I just don't want you to think of me as a gun-totting killer, Greg."

He seemed surprised.

"I don't think of you as a gun-totting killer," he said. "But I can't help feeling grateful," he argued. "You saved my life, Grissom; that's a big deal to me." He smiled faintly, "In fact… If I hadn't been already in love with you, I think I would have fallen all over again."

That took me by surprise; I didn't expect him to talk about our relationship –not at a church.

He was still looking at me.

"Can I ask you something? I mean, bearing in mind that we're in a church and you can't lie to me just to make me feel better?" he paused until I nodded, "Do you regret getting involved with me?"

I hesitated, then shook my head.

"No."

He exhaled.

"Good," he said. Then he smiled good-naturedly. "I don't regret it, either. I had a great time."

I smiled back.

"Me, too."

He kept his gaze on me.

"It's a shame that it ended the way it did," he said quietly, "I mean, we split because of a photo album –can you believe that?" He waited for me to answer, and when I didn't, he added, "We've never really talked about it."

"No." I admitted.

I didn't want to think about it, much less talk about it.

"The door was open." He said softly.

I sighed. "Greg, it doesn't matter -"

"It does, to me." He replied.

I looked at him. I'd practically accused him of snooping around my house; of course it mattered.

"You're right," I said.

"Do you believe me, then?"

I nodded. "I was in that room a couple of days before," I said. "I must have left the door open. I just didn't remember it at the time." I looked up, "I'm sorry I didn't."

It was a half-assed apology but he seemed mollified by it.

"Well…" he started, "Open or not, I probably shouldn't have crossed that door. And I wouldn't have, except that, well -" he hesitated, "I thought you'd left it open on purpose; you know, as a sign that you trusted me."

The implication was clear: I'd never really trusted him.

He shook his head.

"I still don't understand why you keep pictures you don't want to look at."

I didn't know why, myself. I'd loved the people in those pictures, there was no doubt about it. And yet, I couldn't bear to look at them for long.

Maybe it was because we looked like strangers, my parents and me. A man, a woman and a child, standing close together but never touching. If I hadn't shared some physical traits with both of them, anyone would have thought we'd been captured together in the picture by mistake.

The pictures didn't stir up many happy memories, either. Mostly, they reminded me of a time when I longed so much for my father's approval that I was willing to point a gun at a living creature. I didn't admit this to Brass but the truth is, I almost pulled the trigger. I didn't shoot, but I almost did.

Almost. For years, I called my refusal to shoot 'integrity', while my father called it 'cowardice.'

Suddenly, it dawned on me that had my father been alive, he would have been proud of me: I'd finally stalked and killed my prey.

Greg interrupted my thoughts.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, "If you don't like those pictures, why don't you just dump them? Put them in the incinerator -"

"It's my past, Greg." I replied, "I can't just discard it."

Greg stared at me for a moment. Then he smiled faintly.

"It's evidence." He said.

I looked at him.

Maybe that's what it was. Evidence that I'd had a family once. I needed the reminder, I guess; I'd been on my own for so long that sometimes it seemed that I'd simply sprouted out of nowhere.

"It's evidence," I nodded, accepting the explanation he'd provided.

Greg nodded quietly. After a moment, he patted the front pockets of his jacket.

"If you can't get rid of your album," he said, "Then maybe I can add something to it."

He took something from a pocket and handed it to me -a picture. He didn't wait to see my reaction to it. With an effort, he rose from his pew and went to take a closer look at the wood carvings.

I looked down. It was a picture of Greg and me that I'd never seen before. I did remember the day it was taken, though; and the place. Greg's house, December 22; Sanders and Hojems had flown in to celebrate Christmas in Las Vegas, and I'd joined them for dinner.

It had been a noisy affair, with Mama Asty and Papa Olaf presiding over their extended brood. At some point the old guy rose to take pictures, and when he waved his ancient camera in our direction, we dutifully posed for him.

I examined the picture. Greg was smiling confidently at the camera. He was leaning against me, and I could still remember the warmth of his shoulder against mine, and the weight of his hand on my thigh.

I touched the picture, wishing it was his skin under my thumb.

He looked so happy –

And me? I was happy. I really was.

After a moment's hesitation, I tucked the picture in my shirt pocket. Yes, I would put the picture in my album. It was more evidence -evidence of what I'd once had… And lost.

I looked at him.

It was time for me to say something that I should have said a long time ago.

"Greg? I never -" I paused, "I never loved anyone until -"

Greg didn't turn in my direction but by the way his jaw clenched, I knew he'd heard me all right.

There was so much to say, so much to explain… But it wasn't the place or the time. He'd said that saying 'sorry' didn't change anything but it was all I could say now.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out." I said. "I just… I didn't know how to handle it. I never learned to deal with feelings –I guess I never needed to."

I'd always tucked everything away –feelings, memories, pictures…

"There's always a first time for everything, Grissom." Greg said without looking at me.

I shook my head. "To me, it's easier to run away from my feelings."

Greg glanced at me.

"You're gonna have to stop one of these days, Grissom."

"I can't." I whispered.

Greg didn't say anything. He tentatively reached out to touch a carving, only to refrain at the last moment. There was a pained expression on his face, but by the time he looked at me again, it was gone, replaced by his good-natured smile.

"You still haven't told me why you came here."

I shrugged evasively.

"It seemed like a good place to take a rest." I said.

Greg leant on the wall.

"You know… When I saw you enter this place, I thought you'd come here to rage at God. I thought you'd ask Him why He allowed all of this to happen."

I shook my head.

"It's too easy to put the blame on God, Greg."

"Yeah, well… I suppose I'm not as rational as you are," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" he hesitated, "I've been thinking of God lately -"

"I can imagine," I said.

"I was pissed off at Him." he admitted.

"Why?"

He didn't immediately reply. He seemed to be choosing his words with care.

"When I was a kid and realized what I was…" he said, "I wondered how God felt about me. I'm a Catholic, too, you know." He added sheepishly, "We both know how the church feels about gays -"

"I don't pay attention to what the church says." I said firmly.

He nodded as if he'd known all along I'd say that.

"I know," he said, "I know you always say that the only approval we need to aspire to is our own. But I can't help it. Deep down, I still hope for some sign that He's ok with the way I live my life."

He looked at me, "When I woke up at the hospital and realized that a gay serial killer had tried to kill me, I felt like shit," he said, and he lowered his voice as he said the last word. "I thought I'd finally got a sign from God, and it wasn't encouraging. It pissed me off."

He smiled as if the memory embarrassed him, "I kept asking, 'why me?' 'why us?' I mean, we're good guys, Grissom. It didn't seem fair for us to go through all this."

"Bad things happen to good people, Greg," I said reasonably. "Every CSI knows that."

"Yeah, well…I wasn't thinking of other people, I was thinking of you and me. I mean, I just wanted another chance with you, Grissom. You know, a chance to talk and make up. And make out," he added, with a brief, embarrassed smile. "Instead, we got into this mess. I got us into this mess -"

"It wasn't you," I blurted out.

He looked questioningly at me.

"It wasn't you," I said again. "It was me. Every decision I made in the last couple of months led us to this, Greg." I took a deep breath, "I made so many mistakes along the way -"

"We both did." he interjected.

I looked at him in the eye. "But it's me who should be asking for forgiveness."

He didn't miss a beat.

"Then I forgive you," he said simply.

I was surprised at the casual tone until I realized that he was simply being Greg: Gentle and good-natured. He didn't hold a grudge against Karen, and he would not hold a grudge against me.

I was in awe of his generosity.

He smiled. "I mean, unless you want to turn this into a competition on who made the biggest mistake -"

I smiled despite myself.

"Hey," he said, "You're smiling. That's a good sign."

It was at moments like these that I understood why I'd fallen for him.

"Thank you, Greg," I said.

Greg's smile remained in place but it seemed to me that there was something forced in it –as if he was desperately trying to hold on to it.

"So," he said quietly, "What about you -do you forgive me?"

And he waited.

There was nothing to forgive –but there was no use in arguing, was there?

"I forgive you." I said.

He nodded casually, but he was obviously moved by my response. His eyes were bright.

He walked back to his pew but didn't sit. After a moment's hesitation, he came over and sat beside me.

He didn't say anything for a long time. He was obviously exhausted.

I kept glancing at him, wondering what to say or what to do now. I hadn't planned on seeing Greg so soon; in fact, only a few hours ago I'd been telling myself that not seeing him again was probably the best thing that could happen.

But I was wrong. Now that he was there, I realized that my feelings for him were as strong as ever.

"There's something you should know," he said suddenly. He didn't look up as he added, "When Jenkins was choking me and telling me what he was going to do, there was a moment when I thought, 'this is it. I'm gonna die.'"

I looked away. This was not something I wanted to hear. It was just too painful.

"I was losing consciousness," he continued. "I was giving up, Grissom. But then suddenly, I thought of you. I pictured you looking for me, desperate and half-crazy with grief, clinging to hope, yet knowing that you would never find me alive," he paused until I looked at him. "I couldn't let that happen, and so I started to fight back."

He looked up.

"Jenkins didn't expect it," he said with a satisfied grin, "It rattled him."

He kept his gaze on me, as if making sure that I understood what he'd just said. Then he glanced away.

"It's fitting that we're here, tonight, you know?" he said, "Back at the hospital, I was angry at God for piling it up on us. I mean, He really did, right? Everything that could have gone wrong, did: Jenkins almost killed Warrick, he almost killed me -" he looked at me with what could only be compassion, "You had to choose between two lives -"

"And yet," he continued, "The more I thought of it, the more I realized that things could have been worse. I mean, yeah, Jenkins could have killed Warrick but didn't; he could have taken me with him –but didn't; you could have missed that shot -"

God, I didn't expect him to be so direct.

"But you didn't." he added.

He gulped. "I believe I got my sign at last, Grissom," he said quietly, "His approval. I mean, we're alive," he paused, "If that's not a blessing, then I don't know what it is."

I looked at him.

"Do you really believe that?" I asked.

"I do." He replied firmly. After a moment, he reached out and tentatively touched my face. It was a chaste caress; soothing and reassuring, like a father's.

I closed my eyes and leant into his touch.

"You're too warm." He whispered, "You've got a fever."

I reluctantly pulled back.

"I'm fine," I said mechanically.

"No, you're not," he replied, "You were like a zombie, out there. You didn't even seem to notice the cars or the people around you. You should go home."

"You, too."

"I know," he said. To my surprise, he actually rose from his seat. He moved with some difficulty. "I guess I should be going. The painkillers are starting to wear off." He looked at me. "Will I see you again, Grissom?"

But he left before I could answer.

---------------

I didn't immediately react. He was giving me a chance, but there was too much to consider. To take that chance meant to stay in Las Vegas, and I didn't know if I could do that.

I would have probably stayed in that church, pondering my choices until the next day arrived, if I hadn't suddenly realized that Greg was in no condition to drive.

I practically bolted from my seat and went after him.

To my relief, Greg wasn't gone yet. He was standing on the sidewalk, glancing around and frowning.

"Funny." He said when he saw me approach, "I don't know which way to go."

I looked around, too.

"Where's your car?"

"Back in your neighborhood."

I was appalled.

"You walked all the way here?" I asked incredulously, "What were you thinking?"

"Hey, if I had known you were coming here, I wouldn't have walked," he glared, "I thought you were going to the nearest drugstore or something. You weren't exactly dressed for a night out, you know."

I smiled to myself. He was his feisty self again. I liked that.

"You're right," I said in what I hoped was an apologetic tone, "We'd better get a cab, then," I said, "Come on," I laid a hand on his shoulder.

My intention was to motion him towards the corner, but touching him put an end to any rational thought. I took a step and then another until I was standing as close to him as I dared.

I wanted to hold him tight but couldn't risk hurting him. Instead, I leant forward and pressed my cheek against his.

Standing so close, I was aware of all the scents that I'd learned to associate with him - chewing gum, fabric softener, soap- but this time there were others, like the bitter scent of the drugs he'd been taking, and the scent of antiseptics. I could even smell the bandages on his chest.

My poor Greg.

I laid my other hand on the side of his head –the side that got the blood spatter from Jenkins' wound.

"Greg," I whispered. I love you, I wanted to say. I don't want to lose you -ever. Please, let me stay with you…

There were so many things I wanted to say. I opened my mouth and then I said the one word I'd only dreamed of saying, "Baby."

I waited for his reaction. I didn't exactly expect him to swoon at the sound of that word, but I was hoping he'd be moved by it.

What he did was chuckle.

"He, he."

"What?" I frowned.

"You said 'baby'," he snickered.

I pulled back.

"So?" I replied uncomfortably, "No good?"

"Oh, it's good," he said, leaning forward until our cheeks were touching again. "Very good, indeed. It's just so out of character -"

"Greg, I've done so many things that seemed out-of-character -" I looked at him, "Sometimes I don't recognize myself anymore -" I finished regretfully.

I looked at him. I was waiting for him to say something –I was waiting for a sign.

A sign and a blessing.

And then he gave me one.

"You're still Grissom." He replied simply.

THE END

But there might be an epilogue...

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