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By Emily Brunson

©2004

He doesn’t leave. You’re sure he will – so sure you’d have bet your life on it, and in a way you have – but he doesn’t. He sticks around. You won’t screw him that first day, so the bitter part of you figures he’d at least keep the flames going until he got you in bed. With that in mind you don’t screw him the second time, either, although it’s a really close thing. The man knows how to kiss. Knows how to everything, apparently, including eye-fuck, and you escape with your virtue intact, but just barely.

The next weekend he takes you out. And as if you have to test him – and you do, because he’s going to flunk eventually, he can’t be this perfect boyfriend material, perfect doesn’t happen to you – you’re an absolute bitch at first. You make him wait 35 minutes before you’re ready, and even then you’re fussing about things. Your clothes aren’t right. Traffic is appalling. Could he have picked a busier time for this? The restaurant is crowded, and you’ve heard the food is barely edible anyway.

You trot out every one of your most annoying and mostly fake mannerisms, just to see how annoyed he gets. Mostly fake, but not completely; you have a streak of diva in you, a kind of wide streak at times, and you like drama. Have to have it, because your real life, your butch life, is so goddamn boring. The drama is always someone else’s; you’re Dependable Nick. So by way of compensation you swing your hips, you primp, you roll your eyes, you just about out-swish yourself.

And he takes it all in stride. Perfectly content – seemingly – to play your opposite number, calm when you’re flighty, smiling indulgently when you make a catty remark. And about the time your dinner arrives, you run out of gas. You poke your fork into your food and slump.

"Feel better?" Gil asks, and takes a bite of his pasta.

You glare at him, but his eyes are amused, and after a moment you give a breezy shrug. "Maybe."

"Good. How’s your dinner?"

"Too salty." But it really isn’t, and you know he knows it.

Dinner is fine, and then you do some window-shopping, because it’s a beautiful night made for just strolling around. You wish fervently he’d hold your hand, although you know he won’t. And then he does, not for long, but as if he’s read your mind yet again, and that makes you feel ridiculously good.

There are drinks at the bar, and you introduce him to your friends. He’s an instant hit: suave older guy, sexy as fuck, and you see Toby practically fawning over him, even Jake is not his usual taciturn self when he finds out who Gil actually is. It’s a little awkward seeing Matt, but not as much as you’ve expected it to be. He moved on long ago, and he gives you this little smirk that says, Not bad, sweetie, not bad at all.

And then it’s late, and you’re a little smashed, and when Gil looks at you over Toby’s blond head and you see the hot blaze in his blue eyes, you figure your demure act’s about to go flying out the window. Maybe fucking will do you in, the two of you, maybe Gil’s gonna head for the hills once he’s tasted the goods. But the feeling in your belly’s like the floor dropping out from under you. Saying no is no longer an option.

He kisses you outside the bar, and it takes all the swing out of your step. You’re draped all over him like a tight-fitting shirt, can’t take your eyes off him, feel like you’re high on something, something fantastically good and addictive.

"Let’s go home," he says in that matter-of-fact way he has, tilting his head a little, and you nod and say nothing because you can’t anymore. Not and not sound like an idiot.

He takes you to your condo, and the door is barely shut before you’re all over each other. Nothing coy now; this is breathless unspeaking can’t-get-your-clothes-off-fast-enough urgency. For once you’re not even thinking about how you look naked. Who cares? You stumble into the bedroom shedding clothes, kissing like you used to picture yourself kissing Trent Huddleston back in high school, the guy who clinched it, yeah, you were gay, little gay Texas boy, and you’d have given anything, anything in the entire goddamn world, for Trent to even know you were alive, much less kiss you. This is the way you saw him then, that perfect guy, and it’s better than that now, so good you’re actually making these funny little sounds, little impatient whines that make Gil smile and then push you down on the bed, hard.

He’s got a big dick, very big, and the things he does with it have you singing fucking arias before much longer. You’re noisy in bed, and he’s not, but he grins at you and hoists your legs higher over his shoulders and twists his hips, and you warble something that would put Beverly freaking Sills to shame.

After you’ve come, nearly breaking a couple of glasses in the process, and after he’s come with a hoarse grunt that sinks into your bones the way his dick is buried in your sore ass, and when you’re lying there sweating and breathing like you’ve just finished a triathlon, you think, It’s too good to be real. Too damn good to last, that’s for sure.

He sits up on one elbow. His face is still red and he’s sweating more than you are, his hair is sticking up in ways you never even pictured, not Gil Grissom with this freshly fucked look, gorgeous, and he frowns. "What?"

"Nothing."

His fingers rub the sweat on your chest, trace over your erect nipples. Blunt-fingered hands, capable hands. Incredible hands. "You’re lying. Why do you do that?"

"I don’t know."

"Aw, Nicky."

You sit up sharply, making a face when your ass twinges. Big dick, check. Deftly avoiding his reaching hand you slide off the bed. "Want some wine? I’ll get it." Unhooking the robe from the back of the door, the one you really shouldn’t leave lying around, pink and soft and the embodiment of not-butch if there ever was one.

You’re pretty much crying by the time you reach the kitchen. And that, you think, would exasperate him, not at ALL the sort of thing Nick Stokes would do, nossir, so you wipe your eyes and open the refrigerator, take out a bottle. He’s standing there when you close the door. Naked, little pot belly that doesn’t bother you at all, as vain as you usually are. Just standing there, frowning, and you turn away and try to get glasses out of the cabinet and drop one.

"Shit," you gasp, and burst into tears.

"Careful." That calm voice, warm hand on your wrist. "Don’t cut your feet."

He guides you over the broken glass, since you can’t see a damn thing, and ignores the way you bat at him when you’re clear, takes your other wrist and holds you until you give up, lean against him and gasp out a few hard sobs.

"It’s just a glass, honey," he says, hands stroking your back. "Don’t worry about it."

You hit him, not hard, but angrily. "I’m not c-crying about the fuh-fucking GLASS."

"Then what are you crying about?" He sighs and leans back a little so he can look at you. "Please tell me?"

You wipe your face on the floppy arm of your robe and shake your head. "I don’t know."

"Yes, you do."

You shove at him, enough that you can get some space, and get a broom from the closet. "Ask me again next week." If you’re still around next week, you think, and clamp down on another bewildered sob.

He watches you sweep up the glass, hands you the dustpan. And finally you get another glass out of the cabinet and pour the wine, but you missed something, some tiny sliver that escaped the broom and found your foot, and you curse and limp into the bathroom.

You pick the sliver out with tweezers, not so bad, just a bead of blood in the ball of your left foot. You use alcohol to wipe it away, and look up at him. He’s standing in the door, wearing his pants and shoes but nothing else. Maybe ready to go, maybe not. Maybe he’s been ready to go since the day he first walked in.

"Better?"

There’s no annoyance on his face. A little bewilderment, maybe, lots of concern. You can’t see what you’ve been so sure you’d find. But it’s too hard to believe it isn’t there. The man’s a world-class poker player. Open books have nothing on you. You aren’t the best judge.

"No," you whisper.

"Come here." He holds out his hand, and after a very long moment you take it. He leads you back into the bedroom, no frenzied wrestling this time, just padding back to the bed, coaxing you down beside him. Toeing his shoes off again.

"Don’t want to get blood on the sheets." You hold your wounded foot up.

"No," he agrees gravely.

"These sheets were expensive. 400 thread count."

"They’re very nice sheets. What’s wrong, Nick?"

You flop back against the pillow and look away.

"Is this about tonight? Did I do something? Did –"

"No," you say shortly. "You did everything right. Perfect."

He gives a helpless shake of his head. "Then what –"

"Nothing perfect lasts." It feels good to lapse into flip mode. You put an arm over your head, purposefully flirty, even though flirting is just about the last thing you feel like doing right now. "Didn’t you know that?"

"Jesus, Nicky. Why do you have to shut me out like that?" Gil crosses his legs, a few inches away that feel like the Grand Canyon. "Why is it like this?"

"Welcome to Life With Nicky," you say in a hard voice.

"Stop it." He lifts his chin sharply. "Stop – attacking. I mean it. Are you afraid I’ll leave? Is that it?"

"No," you snap, even though yes, you are, you are terrified of it. "Why would I think that?"

"I don’t know, you tell me." He sounds honestly befuddled. "What have I done to give you the idea I would?"

After a moment you say, just as honestly, "Nothing."

"God damn it, Nick." He does a complicated little roll maneuver that you’d really admire if you weren’t this close to losing it, and ends up leaning over you, glaring down at you with a half-angry, half-laughing look. "I can handle the drama-queen thing, honey," he says, shaking his head. "But would you listen to yourself? For God’s sake, look at the evidence. Remember? I’m still here! This is stupid!"

"I’m not stupid," you say hoarsely.

He gives a slow nod. "No, you’re not. But I wish you’d tell me what really scares you." He braces himself on one hand and uses the other to push the hair back off your forehead. "I had a great time tonight. I know you did, too. Why can’t you just…enjoy it?"

The abysmal ignorance in the question staggers you. "Right," you say dully after a long moment. "Enjoy it."

"Or tell me why you can’t. Tell me, Nick."

You take a breath and slither out from under him. "You should go. I need some time to think." Yanking the sash tight around your waist, you turn at the doorway to look at him. "I mean it," you add when he just lies there gaping at you. "Go home, Gil."

"Come on."

"Fine, I had a great time, too." You shrug. "Of course. You’re a dreamboat, honey, do I need to tell you? Everything a boy could ever want. And divine in bed. But now you go home and think about it, and I’ll stay here and think about it, and." You heave an expressive sigh. "If we’re both thinking the same thing tomorrow, well, there you are."

He’s sat up, and there’s a reserve to his expression that’s been absent since that odd morning a few weeks ago. "That’s what you want?" he asks tonelessly.

"What I want doesn’t really matter, Gil," you tell him softly.

"Yes. Yes, it does."

"I want lots of things." Your voice hardens. It’s like listening to a recording; you don’t think of the words, they just pour out, like the magazine of a gun emptying onto the floor, patter of metal bullets bouncing on the wood. "I want to eat eggs Benedict every morning and not worry about cholesterol and calories. I want a house with a white picket fence and a dog that knows the sound of my car driving up and a pool in the back. I want to bitch-slap Sara when she gets moody. I want to paint my toenails red and wear sandals to work and do a whole lot of other things."

Gil gives a tight nod. "But what do you really want?"

"I want some time to think!" you bellow, flinging your hands in the air. "Is that too much to ask? You’ve been a gentleman all this time; now I want you to keep on doing it and leave! Go home! All right? Can you do that?"

"Of course." Gil gets up and picks his shirt up off the floor. If he was reserved before, he’s remote as Jupiter now. He puts on the shirt, managing in spite of his rumpled clothes to look as perfectly composed as if he’d just stepped out of a staff meeting with the mayor and the sheriff, both.

You’re going to keep it all together until he’s gone. Feel it building inside, fast and painful, but it’s not going to come out yet. He pauses by the door. Too close for comfort.

"I don’t understand," he says quietly.

And that’s probably for the best, you think, not without some pity. "Go home," you say instead, even softer. "It’ll be all right."

"Will it?" He shakes his head.

You don’t say anything to that.

Closing the door after him is like cutting an invisible cord you didn’t realize was connecting you. You’re exhausted, and the bubbling misery in your belly rises up to your throat, choking you. In the bedroom, the rumpled sheets just remind you of what happened not very long ago. It’s like a rebuke, but it’s also a reminder: he has no idea. For all his smarts, for all his experience, Gil Grissom doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

You do. Wish you didn’t, but you do, oh yeah, on this subject you are fully and goddamn intimately informed.

You can still smell him on the bed. Feel him against you, in you. You’re tired, you’re sticky, and you probably stink. But instead of getting up and showering, you just lie there.

Funny. Now that you’re alone, now that you can cry all you want and not hold anything back, your eyes are dry as stone.

END