Heart Brake

" Don't drive too slowly... Don't put your blues where your shoes should be... Don't put your foot on the heart brake..." - Kate Bush


The bag was sitting in the center of Gil’s desk like an accusation. Gil sighed, then checked the bag: no note, just his clothes as he had packed them. Greg had been avoiding him, though in truth he had to admit they had been avoiding each other. There had been glances to be sure; in the hall their eyes had met then broke away, complicated thoughts jumbled behind blue and brown orbs locked for fractions of seconds.

They hadn’t spoken since Gil left that night. There had been moments of near communication, but every time one of them was about to speak, one of the others came in. First it had been Catherine in Greg’s lab, then Nick and Warrick in the lounge, Sara in his office, even Brass in the hall.

Gil sat in his chair and put the bag on the floor. He sorted through the work on his desk, making notes and glanced at his watch. There had been that couple of minutes Greg had helped with the timeline, those were the only moments they had alone and Gil had been unable to bring himself to actually speak.

He lost himself for a few minutes in the memory; Greg looking nervously at him through the Plexiglas, unable to stand still, calculating the figures and writing them backwards on the clear board for him; a rush of affection and need startled him. That and Sara walking into his office, followed by Nick and Warrick.

“So ah, Grissom,” Sara began awkwardly; rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, “wanna join us for breakfast?” A blush crept up her neck as she watched his non-reaction. Gil jerked from his reverie, taking a deep breath as he put his mask back on. Thankfully, some part of him had heard and digested what she said, allowing him to respond quickly, if somewhat distractedly.

“No thanks, I’m really beat. “ He saw Catherine and Greg hovering in the back of the doorway past Sara’s shuffling and Nick’s pacing in place; Warrick’s blank game face and casual-cool posture interfered as he tried to catch Greg’s eyes. “Maybe next time,” he mumbled vaguely, eyes anywhere other than Sara’s face. He gathered up his bag and the journals he wanted to catch up on, finally looking up at the group still hovering over his desk.

“Is there something else?” he asked. They disbursed, shuffling off with shaken heads and mumbled ‘see ya’s and ‘next time’s; the anticipation of time off and camaraderie of their victory celebration tainted.

Greg pushed the pancake pieces around the plate again, leaving crumby trails in the syrup lake on his plate. Nick elbowed him, again, braying with laughter at some stupid joke between Warrick and himself. Sara was pouting because Grissom hadn’t come with them; maybe she wasn’t the only one. Catherine had already pleaded the kid and bailed before the last round of coffee, Brass pleaded age shortly after, leaving just the four of them at the largeish booth.

He put down his fork and stretched his neck and shoulders, elbowing Nick for good measure with a grin mid-stretch. Nick attacked; pinching and tickling mercilessly, Sara joined in from the other side, trapping him in the booth, helpless with laughter. Warrick dared them to make him piss his pants, if he’d laid money on the table Nick probably would have; Sara finally let him go when he started tickling her back. He stood slowly, drunk with laughter and exhaustion. He said his good-byes, dropped a few bills on the table for tip, then headed to the counter and paid his check.

Gil was almost home when he turned and took a detour, heading back the way he had come. It was impulsive and irresponsible, but he cruised past Greg’s apartment complex anyway. His parking space was empty; likely he had gone to breakfast with the others. Gil sighed and headed back to his townhouse, feeling his desperate little life falling apart around him.

The sun burned Greg’s eyes as he stepped out into the desert day; warm and dry, even in winter. He drove listlessly, barely registering each landmark, each turn and signal, then stopped short as he pulled into his complex. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like Gil’s truck pulling out of the lot at the far end.

“Don’t be an ass, Greg,” he said softly to himself in the rearview mirror. “Like Grissom is going to go all stalker on you.” He shook his head and snorted, then pulled into his spot. He did let some part of his brain think about it though, there was a nasty bruise on his arm; the kind they saw far too often in their line of work, if truth be told. He walked slowly, but felt no eyes on him as he closed the door.

Gil closed the door behind him, dropped the bag on the floor and leaned against the doorjamb with a wretched sigh. He wandered around in the kitchen; made himself something he didn’t taste then headed for a shower. The water couldn’t wash the weariness away, or the fear, or the lonels; js; just the sweat and the jittery ache of not enough sleep and too much caffeine.

Gil stepped from the shower and began to dry himself off, avoiding the distorted patches of his reflection in the steamed mirror. It was just easier somehow. He wrapped up and hunted up some pajama bottoms in the bedroom, then checked on his little companions in auto pilot mode before heading for bed.

He lie there under the covers, enjoying the weight of the comforters and blankets piled over him, the cool feel of the bedding against his tired body; but when he closed his eyes he felt an emptiness. He wanted that space filled; the fact that he clearly wanted Greg to fill it on some level was the part that startled him. He wrestled with the things that bothered him; the age difference, their work relationship, his anger. He drifted to sleep trying to decide if it was too late, if Greg would let him try again.

Greg headed into the shower, the hot water soothing the red marks from Sara and Nicky’s enthusiastic torment-fest and sore muscles from too little sleep. He thought about how good it would feel to have strong hands work out those knots; Gil’s hands in particular.

Greg closed his eyes, water running over his face; down his back, over his hands; but they were Gil’s hands, pressing, kneading, caressing; he tipped his head back in pleasure and got a nose full of water, effectively ending that fantasy with a fit of snorting and coughing.

He laughed at his bedraggled appearance in the fogged mirror; hair plastered to his head, alternately freckled, pale and welted; the bruise from Gil like tribal ink work in the steam shrouded reflection. He tumbled into bed damp and naked, curled up with a Gil scented pillow he’d swiped from the hotel and drifted off to sleep.

Greg shaved and tried to decide which outfit to wear. He had laid out a couple of possibilities, then settled on black cargo pants and a black mesh muscle shirt. He frowned as he got dressed, thinking about Gil and their strange relationship, or whatever the hell it was. He’s... intoxicating, Greg finally decided. That was the word for it. There was just something hot about a man that seemed perpetually three minutes away from a total midlife crisis.

He rummaged around for a belt, rejecting several before he settled on the wide black leather one. It was simple, clean looking, just a plain silver buckle. He secured the belt around his hips, dug for socks and the red Docs; stopping to change the laces to white skulls on black.

A quick stop in the mirror showed the hair needed help. He slid into the bathroom and jacked his hair all up, spritzed a little cologne, then a little more. Mugging at himself in the mirror he decided to throw on a silk shirt over the top before heading out; he hit the closet and was out the door.

The first club was dull; watered drinks and a couple of drunks on the dance floor, the second not much better. The drinks were stronger and the music was better, but the abandon he was looking for was absent; an all too common occurrence in Sin City for the actual residents. By the third stop on their bar crawl of doom Greg was debating whether or not to just call Gil and be done with the games.

He held down a secluded table at the club where this whole mess had started, staring at his phone while his friends were on the dance floor. If he called and Gil didn’t answer... Greg shook the thought from his head. If he did answer, what would he say exactly? ‘Come on down and get your groove on?’ He snickered to himself at the thought il’sil’s face in response; that stunned, wide-eyed gape, followed by the frown and pout, then possibly some biting remark.

Gil sat in his chair and stared at his phone. He wondered if Greg would answer if he called, or block him; if he did answer, where would he be? What would he say to him? ‘I’m a moron, please let me try again?’ Probably not the best approach with Greg. And if he was with someone else; Gil realized with a sinking feeling he didn’t want to even think about that possibility.

He decided to give into impulse; willingly, gratefully, anticipating regret but forging d ind into danger. Gil changed into jeans and a dark blue shirt and headed out into the night. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he was confidant he could find Greg.

Greg felt the alcohol swim through his system; riding the waves of disorientation, the heady first spin of a good buzz; now was not the time to spoil that. He locked the keypad of his phone, headed out on the dance floor and tried to get lost in the music.

Forty-five minutes later, Gil was feeling a little steamed and a lot less confidant. He had stopped in several clubs he had heard Greg mention in passing; paid three covers and been cut off twice in traffic by out of towners.

This night wasn’t going nearly as well as he had planned. He finally decided to go back to the place where the whole mess had started; if Greg wasn’t there then it wasn’t too far to swing by his apartment, then head home to bed.

While he drove it dawned on him that nothing ever worked out how he planned it to around Greg. The first night; he thought that had just happened, but Greg planned it to a tee. Then there was the second time; Greg had taken charge in his house. Gil felt a shiver crawl up his spine and a warmth in his groin at the memories. The third time; again, except for the bad ending, Greg had planned it as well. Worse than that, the bad ending was his own fault. He just couldn’t let it go, then he couldn’t stop.

Gil knew he couldn’t keep this up; something was going to give or he would just implode. Catherine’s sharpness and frank nature, Sara’s neediness, Nick’s insecurity and Wck’sck’s constant need for competition; Eckley’s bullshit in the morning, David’s morbid puppy imitation, Greg’s perfect ass which his mouth tended to overload; he sighed and ran a weary hand through his tangled hair.

Add to it his hearing loss and a general, if controlled, middle age crisis. He caught a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the mirror as he made a turn; he had to admit it wasn’t pretty. He was chasing down a guy half his age that worked for him, wearing cologne and jeans and trying to feel hip enough to pull it off.

Gil saw Greg’s car parked in the lot behind the club and grinned to himself. He pulled into a spot, shut off the truck and realized he didn’t know how to phrase the apology he was going to absolutely have to make. He didn’t even know where to begin, or if Greg would talk to him in public. Once again, Greg was in total control.

Greg had found that place he was looking for; he let go and danced until his body ached; mind off, just drifting on music and alcohol that faded away all too soon. He headed to the bar and ordered another round, then back to the table and contemplatine phe phone once more.

Gil squared his shoulders with a deep breath and walked into the bar. He was immediately struck by a wave of sound, smell and lights, almost physical in the blows to his senses. He headed for the bar, the lights swirling around him as he crossed the crowded room. Gil really needed a drink at this point; Greg could wait a few more minutes.

Greg caught just a glimpse, but it was enough to attract his attention. There. Light glinted in silvering hair, shoulders moving in time with a rolling gait, head slightly cocked, eyes scanning the crowd at the bar while appearing casual. Definitely Gil.

Greg watched as Gil leaned into the service area, shouting his order over the noise and the jostling bodies on either side. He could almost see Gil clenching his jaw, just the merest hint of a pout as he waited uncomfortably. He paid for his drink and tipped the server, then turned to search for Greg.

He could see Gil was going to turn; Greg scooted over to the side oe tae table, semi hidden in the shadows of the room and watched. The server blocked his view as she brought the round he ordered to the table, making the game that much more frustrating for them both. Greg overpaid and sent her along, slammed his shot and searched the crowd for his lover.

Gil took a sip of the scotch, closed his eyes and followed the burn. He reopened them and moved along with the crowd; shuffling slowly, smiling occasionally, sweeping the room with his eyes, scanning for his prey. He didn’t notice the odd looks on faces as he passed; shadowed at the eyes, something off in the smiles, discomfort radiating outward from him in the shuffle.

Greg saw the disturbance, his heart hammered until he caught sight of Gil’s hunting form again. Some part of him wanted to freeze, like a mouse caught in the gaze of an owl; he slammed down the rest of his drink instead, desperately seeking liquid courage in his secretly defiant movement.

It caught Gil’s sweeping eye. He squinted across the crowded room, hyper focused; he felt but did not hear the music, the movement of the lights faded away, he didn’t feel the glass clutched in one hand. In the moment that Greg lifted the glass to his mouth, Gil had him.

Their eyes locked across the room; Greg’s shrouded in shadows and alcohol, Gil stood below a white spot, looking eerily sexy and stern as his gaze burned in the stark glare. Greg’s friends came back to the table as Gil worked his way across the room, weaving between people, bobbing in and out of Greg’s vision as he drained his glass.

One of the guys had ordered another round; they had all seen Gil start to make his way to the table. Greg was oddly calm; even with their jabs and snickers that ordinarily made him blush his answers were automatic and flat, eyes focused on the man nearing them. Gil seemed to look through them as he approached; they slunk off to the dance floor in a pack to watch it all unfold.

Greg knocked back half of the closest drink on the table as Gil came to a stop before him. They looked at each other for a moment, trying to read one another, neither remembering to breathe, afraid to break their silence in the chaos.

“Greg,” Gil shouted over the thump of the music, “Greg, can we get out of here?” He cocked his head to the side, face static; he casually put his nearly forgotten drink on the table; inside he was screaming as he waited for an answer.

“Take me home, Gil,” Greg yelled back, looking up into deep blue eyes. “Please, Gil, take me home.” He licked his lips unconsciously, need pouring off him in waves. Brown eyes lit up as Gil nodded with a somber looking smile and a proffered hand.

Greg slid to his feet, balancing himself with Gil’s support. He craned his neck over at his grinning companions, who waved and made calling motions, among others as Gil guided him gently toward the door. Greg leaned into him cautiously; not drunk enough to want to forget, just drunk enough to remember with a surreal kind of clarity. Gil fought the urge to pet him, to stroke his hair and whisper ‘everything will be alright’; as if Greg were a frightened child instead of a grown man.

Cool air hit them as they walked out into the night; the door making a muffled whump as it slammed behind them. Gil slid his arm gingerly around Greg’s shoulders, steering him toward where he had parked the truck, breathing a little easier when he felt him snuggle closer as they walked.

“You’re gonna take me back to my apartment, right, Grissom?” Greg asked through numb lips, eyes headed for half-mast against Gil’s shoulder as his feet stumbled forward. Part of him was scared Gil would hurt him again, but as the minutes passed he was convinced it wouldn’t happen like that this time.

“Wherever you want to go, Greg,” Gil replied quietly in his ear, “Just tell me and I’ll take you there.” He balanced Greg againne hne hip as he dug the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and helped the young man into the truck; then headed around and climbed in himself.

They rode in silence; Gil pulled into Greg’s space and shut off the engine, then waited. Greg nodded and then jerked awake, realizing they had stopped. He looked around; relieved to see his own door, then noticed the quiet and still man watching him from the driver’s seat.

“You should come in, Gil,” Greg slurred slightly, “there are things we gotta talk about, now’s as good a time as any.” He pushed open the door and stepped cautiously down to the pavement, then slammed it weakly. Gil followed the slightly weaving form to the apartment door; steadying Greg as he worked his key in the lock and threw open the door in drunken invitation.

He hesitated before following Greg into the room; memory, guilt and lust wrestling for supremacy as he crossed the threshold. Greg staggered to the nearest seat and sank into it, waving his hand vaguely toward what Gil assumed to be the kitchen with undecipherable noises. Gil closed the door behind them and headed off to try his hand at making coffee. Guilt wrestled dirty.

Greg nodded in and out of consciousness while Gil puttered in the kitchen; he stirred when Gil was rewarded with coffee like aromas after several minutes of grumbling at the coffee maker. Gil made up a tray with mugs and went back in to face his fears.

He placed the tray gingerly on the table and bent over Greg, soothing his hand through his hair;kingking him gently. Greg opened hazy eyes, a sleepy smile crossing his features as the coffee smell registered; he reached out blindly and Gil placed a mug in his hand.

Gil took a seat next to him and they drank in silence; a comfortable silence that surprised them both. Greg seemed to revive; Gil felt more nervous as time passed, each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak. They looked at each other and smiled sheepishly, both dreading the inevitable false start, awkward smile, sigh, you first, no, you first routine to come.

“Thanksforbringingmehome, uh, Gil,” Greg blurted out loudly into the silence, unable to take it any longer. He felt the blush explode over his face and gave in, giggling uncontrollably. Gil managed to limit himself to three quiet snickers before the snorts took over, sending Greg over the edge.

The mugs clattered mostly on the table as they shared this seizure of laughter; howling, tears streaming, clutching their sids ths they gasped for air; both desperate and afraid, alone and not alone, side by side, laughing at nothing and everything.

“You’re welcome, Greg,” Gil replied with a smirk, unable to resist, redoubling their efforts. Finally the storm passed; there were snickers and smirks, sighs and gasps scattered like tag-a-long clouds as they caught their breath; then they sat in silence once more.

Gil leaned in and nuzzled Greg’s ear with his nose, blowing gently on his neck. Greg shivered and leaned closer; then turned and pulled int into a kiss. It was tentative at first, frail; each man afraid to press the other, to be the one to force the talk they were trying to delay. Gil didn’t want to talk. His lips parted, inviting Greg to talk in other ways; twining his arms around the younger man’s form.

Greg took the invitation, tasting Gil, teasing him; willing them to go back to the way it was before. They devoured one another then broke for air; Gil was flushed, aroused and about lean in for another kiss when Greg looke at at him with an odd expression and threw up.

Gil was stunned, disgusted and moving quickly. He lifted Greg from the couch and hud hid him into the bathroom, willing his own stomach to behave as he got Greg settled over the toilet. He stripped off his clothes and took deep breaths, grimacing fiercely at himself in the mirror to suppress the gag reflex.

He could deal with decomps, floaters; things that made his co-workers leave the room, but this was his weakness. The living are messy in ways the dead couldn’t approach. He found a washer and dryer behind louvered doors in the dressing area and tossed the clothes in, then returned to check on Greg.

He found him clutching the bowl, gasping and coughing in misery where he had left him. Gil helped him to his feet and wiped his face, undressed him and sat him down. He went to toss the clothes in the wash with his own; he returned to Greg crying, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his torso.

“It’s okay, Greg.” Gil said quietly, running a hand through his lover’s hair, then turned to start the shower. He ran his hand back and forth over Greg’s shoulders as they waited for the water to warm, then coaxed Greg into the stall and bathed them both under the warm-hot water; holding him close, as a comfort and to keep him upright.

He wrapped Greg in the robe hanging nearby and threw a towel around his hips, then half carried him into the bedroom. Gil poured Greg into bed and appropriated the robe for himself; tucked the bedding around the young man with a sigh, kissing him gently on the temple. He found a small trashcan by the dresser and moved it into reach at the side of the bed, then went to start the laundry.

He started the washer and headed into the kitchen; dug around under the sink for cleaning supplies and did what he could to clean up the couch and the floor in the living room. He heard Greg stir in the bedroom as he was rummaging in the fridge; he downed half the sports drink he found there as he returned to check on his lover.

Greg had woken, disoriented, panicked; he didn’t remember the trip home or much else of the evening. He was relieved to find himself in his own bed, frankly more relieved when Gil entered the bed in in his bathrobe and settled on the bed next to him. He drank the offered liquid, knowing it would cut the misery he would feel in the morning, when his memory served up an image of Gil’s face twisted with shock and nausea. It suddenly dawned on him what he had done.

“Oh God, Gil. I am so sorry,” he said miserably, burning with shame. Gil fixed his fatherly demeanor in place and smiled tiredly at the young man.

“I’ll live, Greg, but you need to get some rest.” He took the empty bottle from Greg and dropped it in the trashcan. “In fact, I think we both need some rest, so move over. My clothes are in the wash.” He slipped out of Greg’s robe and into his bed; opening his arms as Greg snuggled up to him. This was what he needed, what he craved, it made everything else fade away into nothingness. They settled into one another and drifted apart into dreams.