Shape of My Heart

"I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier...I know that the clubs are weapons of war...I know that diamonds mean money for this art...but that's not the shape of my heart...that's not the shape of my heart"
- Sting

Shape of My Heart - Chapter 2

Greg watched Gil sleep; the lines of worry and tension smoothed away, his breathing even, a soft snore with every exhalation. He looked so different, not just satiated, but peaceful; something Greg had a feeling didn't happen very often, certainly not recently. Gil had been withdrawn at work, consumed by some private demon; short with people, moody, distracted, not even giving him the time of day. It was more than whatever they'd been doing that's been bothering him.

He clearly was torn about what it was they were doing, Greg had questions about that himself. There was a thrill factor and very good sex, but there was more as well; a connection that last night and today had exposed, a raw nerve in both of them that would have to be dealt with at some point. There were so many things they hadn't talked about. Greg sighed restlessly, torn between the need to watch Gil and the desire to pace around and think.

Gil kept surprising him, throwing him off balance every time they met. Their first night had been intense; not only in the games they had played but the ferocity of Gil's need and his own receptivity to it. He had played games in the past, but this was a whole new level; nothing like his college days, when his roommate had led him down the path of exploration. Gil was wrapped so tight in himself, filled with a weirdly intense but quiet desperation and a touch of resignation; Greg never knew what to expect next.

The guy factor wasn't an issue for him personally, but he did wonder how Gil was dealing with it. He certainly kept playing, there was no hesitation or sense of concern, but how long would it last? He hated the idea that this was nothing; Gil did say he needed this, but he was afraid. Greg was afraid as well. He knew that he had only touched the outer reaches of the complex man that lay in his arms; there was a dark undertow Gil struggled with that could consume him as well.

Gil certainly didn't look like he was struggling with it now. He shifted a little in his sleep; stubbled cheek scraped across Greg's shoulder as he licked his lips, one leg slid sensuously against Greg's. The contrast of Gil's tan and Greg's pale skin remarkable in the light of day, given that they worked the night shift. He shifted again, graceful hands grasping gently, as though he were reassuring Greg he was still there.

"So Greg, what the hell are you doing exactly?" he asked himself quietly. "Fucking the boss is one thing, telling him you love him is something else entirely." He hadn't meant to do it, it just sort of popped out of his mouth. He wasn't sure Gil had actually heard him, he was well on his way to sleep by that point, but he wasn't certain that he hadn't either. The talking thing was kind of sexy weird too, now that he actually thought about it. It really turned Gil on, but it seemed an interesting fetish for a man that liked the company of bugs, the dead and was rather taciturn by nature.

Greg worked his way free and slipped from their bed; arranging the covers over Gil's sleeping form before leaving the room, snagging one of the abandoned croissants off the nightstand. He wandered around the suite as he ate; tossing the candle stubs in the trash, retrieving his clothes from the balcony with a grin. He debated a shower but thought the noise might disturb Gil; he settled on a quick washing up before crawling back into bed. It was a hell of a weekend. He decided to just roll with whatever Gil was up for; no anxiety, no pressure, just Gil.

He slipped under the covers, spooning behind Gil; pressing his face into graying hair with a sleepy sigh, draping one arm over his tan stomach. He was trying to decide what Gil smelled like as he drifted back into unconsciousness, his last thought simply 'comfort' as sleep overtook him.

Gil was hungry. Hungry and itchy, that was what finally dragged him to consciousness. He wanted to lay there with Greg wrapped around him, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He shifted slowly, carefully sliding from Greg's grasp and got out of the bed, noting with a grin that Greg had already hit the croissants. He grabbed one of them and then headed out of the room, pausing at the door to look at Greg's sleeping form.

He was curled on his side, knees tucked up, mouth open; then he shifted with a snort, one foot sticking off the bed, the other out the bottom of the covers. He looked too innocent, but it was an illusion, one Gil was learning to appreciate. Gil went into the bathroom and cleaned up a little, then began to gather his clothes and get dressed. He left a note for Greg; he needed to pick up a few things and clear his head.

He left the suite, had the truck brought around and headed home; first for a shower, then a change of clothes. The drive home was much less frantic than his arrival; he eased into the driveway and headed inside with a bounce in his step. He started stripping off clothes as he closed the door, leaving a trail to the bathroom; jacket, shirt, pants in a heap; hopping as he stripped off his socks.

The hot water felt wonderful as he stood under the spray, soothing away the soreness in places he'd forgotten he had. He stepped from the shower and dried himself off; cleared enough of the mirror to shave and realized he was back where he started. What a difference a few hours can make, he thought, grinning at his reflection while he lathered his face. He shaved quickly, cleaned his razor and flexed a little in the mirror, feeling foolish but enjoying it all the same.

He wandered around picking up his clothes, tossed them in the hamper and headed to the fridge for something to eat. There was nothing to eat, at least nothing that went with his mood. He headed back the bedroom to hunt for clothes. He didn't know what to wear.

"Great. Forty six years old and having a fashion crisis. Greg my boy, you will pay for this," he said to himself with a grin. He finally settled on his one pair of faded jeans and a green shirt, tossing them on the bed. He rifled through his shorts, setting out a pair with lady bugs to wear; another pair with butterflies to take back with him. He grabbed socks, a pair of trousers and another shirt, pulling an overnighter out from under the bed and packed it.

He threw his clothes on, grabbed the bag and headed out the door again, locking it behind him. He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial as he walked to the truck; ordering as he got in and threw his bag on the seat beside him.

Fifteen minutes r her he was hurrying back to the truck with two bags of take out. He got behind the wheel and headed back to the hotel; his cell phone rang while he had both hands full in the elevator. He laughed and shook his head as the doors opened and he crossed to the door of their suite, trying to balance the food, his bag and the key card while kicking the door that wasn't there anymore.

He staggered forward as Greg stepped back, grabbing at the frantically thrust forward bags of food because Gil was going down. His free hand clutched the door frame, narrowly averting a total disaster. Greg lurched forward to catch Gil's other arm, swinging the food about; rich smells filling the air. Once they had their balance, Greg pressed Gil to the door frame, kissing him soundly.

"Did'ja miss me? I'm starving, what is that smell?" Greg asked, glued against Gil in a pair of jeans and apparently nothing else. Gil grinned, a little flushed at the edges from his exuberant greeting.

"Yes, me too, Thai food," he answered, kissing Greg on the neck; his cock stirring as Greg's hardness nudged his thigh. "Is that for me?" he asked with an impish smile.

"It could be, but after the food," Greg replied with a grin of his own, releasing Gil from the doorway and heading for the balcony, food in hand. Gil closed the door and followed, dropping his bag on a chair as Greg headed out the french doors, bright afternoon sun framiim aim against the sky.

They settled in at the table, Greg opening each container with a moan and eye rolling, much to Gil's amusement. They filled their plates and began to eat; the pungent silence warm between them, punctuated with the international hot food hand wave, laughter and the occasional sigh of gustatorial bliss.

"Where did you get this? I can never find Thai this good," Greg finally said, satay dripping down his chin.

"Just a little place I know," Gil answered. He cupped his hand under Greg's chin, wiping the sauce away with his thumb and bringing it to his own mouth with a grin.

"Come on, I love Thai food and I can't identify half of this. How did you swing it?" Greg asked, scooting his chair closer to the older man.

"I know the owners, they make me special dishes. It's always good, even if I don't always know what I had," he said with a laugh. He seemed almost embarrassed by the revelation into his private world. "I, uh, don't cook much."

"Could have fooled me, Grissom," Greg replied with a smirk, bringing a pleased flush to the older man's face. They picked over the remains of the meal, a bite of this, a taste of that; one kiss, then another as dusk chased the sun across the sky.

"Hey, what's for dessert?" Greg asked between lazy kisses, the breeze picking up as the sky turned the color of his lover's eyes.

"I believe you are," Gil replied with a smirk, then kissed him again, warm hands tracing along Greg's bare chest. "I was brunch." They both laughed, but there was an undercurrent of tension that darkened the moment.

"We have to talk about it at some point, Gil," Greg sighed.

"Yes, we do. But please, baby, not now." Gil kissed him again to still his lips, pulling him close, whispering "Please Greg, " into spiky hair, his voice echoing the tremble in his touch. Their eyes met; fear, need and desire echoed in blue and brown under the darkened neon sky. Greg smiled slowly, leaning in for another kiss, sucking gently at Gil's bottom lip before pulling back.

"Okay, but I get the remote afterwards," he said with a grin, bringing a relieved bark of laughter from Gil. "Let's go in, your dessert is getting cold."

"Can't have that, now can we?" Gil chuckled as they stood. They bagged the remains and left them sitting as they moved to the doors arm in arm. Gil pushed them open with his foot, turning to steal another kiss from Greg, then swept him off his feet, carrying him into the room with a complicated smile and laid him on the couch.

"Presentation is everything," he quipped with his voice, eyes saying much, much more. Greg was sprawled across the cushions, jeans slung low, one button undone, already snug fabric strained. Gil knelt, a smirk dancing around his lips as he reached for the buttons of the jeans, popping them open one at a time. He ignored Greg's hardness, stroking him through the denim, bringing little gasps from him as he writhed.

Gil started to tug at the waistband of the jeans, working them off of Greg slowly; chuckling at the speed with which Greg's ass left the couch to facilitate the depanting. He took his time pulling them the rest of the way off; leaving Greg naked and panting as he folded them carefully and put them to the side. He began to run his hands up the insides of Greg's thighs, making slow circles of pleasure, then looked at Greg with a small sigh.

He had been fine until Greg brought it up; now he couldn't let it go. The current surged inside him;sciescience, lust and self loathing battered at his crumbling defenses. His hands slowed, then stopped; Gil sat back on his heels and ran a hand through his hair. "This is wrong, Greg. We can't keep doing this."

"Uh, not the time for this, Gil," Greg answered dryly. "We were working on dessert just fine a minute ago." He scooted forward and hooked his feet behind Gil's ass with a grin, trying to urge him closer, to distract him from this mercurial swing. Gil pushed his feet away with a sigh and tossed Greg his jeans.

"Get dressed Greg."

"What is your damage, Grissom?" Greg asked angrily, covering himself with the fabric. "Strip, Greg. Run this test, Greg. Work late for me, Greg. Talk dirty to me, Greg. Let me experiment on you, Greg. Fuck me, Greg. I need you, Greg. Don't talk about it, Greg." His eyes were dark with anger and frustration. "Well, fuck you, Gil." He got up and put his jeans on facing away from Gil, then began to pace the room. He turned back to him, anger, hurt and pain at war in his eyes. "Make up your mind, Grissom. What do you want from me?"

"I don't know, Greg," Gil snapped. He didn't like Greg towering over him, his own anger and frustration at himself and the entire situation building with every breath. He lurched to his feet and turned to face the young man. "I don't know what I want, I don't know what you want and I don't know what the hell we are doing." He shook his head and sat on the couch with a deep sigh. "I do know we shouldn't be sleeping together for a lot of reasons, not just that I'm your boss AND old enough to be your father... and I don't want to stop." Greg looked at him with disgust and continued to pace the room.

"Yeah, it's all about you and what you want, isn't it?" he spat.

"You started this, Greg, at the bar that first night. Not me." He was angry now, jabbing a fingn thn the air toward Greg. "You followed me and as I recall, we both got what we wanted." He stood and began to advance on the younger man. "Then you showed up on my doorstep and said you wanted more, so I gave myself to you."

Greg tried to circle away as Gil grabbed his arm roughly, turning Greg to face him as he backed him into the wall. "Then I busted my ass to get here for you and this is what I get?" he hissed leaning in closer, his face only inches froeg'eg's; anger radiating from his eyes. "I have enough to deal with already. I don't need your little boy bullshit on top of it, Greg." His features took on a dangerous cast, dark and mean in the semi-shadows.

"I'm not the one acting like a fucking baby, Gil. I'm not hiding behind an attitude and shoving people into walls." He tried to pull his arm from Gil's steadily tightening grip, gasping a little, his arm growing numb.

"Fucking let go of me!" Grtrugtruggled against Gil's grip, only to find himself pinned to the wall with one knee, Gil's other hand closing on Greg's crotch. He could feel Greg's pulse hammer, smell the fear, taste the terror and desire that poured off him. There was no where to go.

Greg pressed himself as flat as he could against the wall, limited by the grip Gil had below, teasing him hard again; shoulder pinned to the drywall, aching. There was no thrill here, only danger. Gil's eyes were dark with fury, his hands rough; demanding, hurting, without pity, without thought.

Gil shifted his grip, shoving his hip into Greg's thigh, hand sinking into his hair; jerking his head back, mouth flying open. Greg panicked; his arm flying out, slamming into Gil's chest, shoving him back a couple of steps.

"Get the fuck off me!" he yelled. "What the hell is WRONG with you?" He shook his other arm to get the feeling to return to it, a handprint bruise forming around the bicep. He moved away from the wall and went into the bedroom, locking the door behind himself. Gil stood frozen, Greg's handprint burning his chest; then remembered to breathe.

"Greg!" He wanted to pound on the door, to break it down; to give into the rage and self destruction. He crossed the room and tried the handle, calling Greg's name again, softer this time, then leaned his head on the door.

Greg leaned against the other side; he could almost feel Gil behind him. He vaguely heard Gil talking through the door, asking him to come out, to talk, saying everything he was supposed to say; except that he wasn't.

"Open the door, Greg." His voice was flat and even, his mood was not. "Stop being a child and open the fucking door. Now." Gil laid his hand flat on the door, as though he could reach through it and force Greg to obey, working to get his breathing under control. He crossed the room, checking his pockets for his keys and turned for a moment. "I'm leaving now, Greg," echoed with the slam of the door.

Greg heard the door slam, tipped his head back with a groan and slumped to the floor of the bedroom. The fear had subsided, the anger and pain had not. He hadn't wanted things to be like this at all. He got up slowly and stripped off his jeans, then crawled into the bed, pulling the covers over himself with a muffled sigh.

The bed smelled like Gil; the sheets, the pillows, the blankets, everything a reminder of the hours they had spent there before. Images flashed behind tightly closed eyes; waking up in his arms, slow kisses, Gil propped against the headboard, the taste of him in his mouth, the weight of his body. Greg started to cry softly as he closed his hand on himself; moaning Gil's name alone and empty as he came, then drifted into uneasy dreams.

Gil pulled into the drive and stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him. He stalked into the kitchen and flung open a cabinet, then took a heavy pull on a bottle of bourbon, grimacing as it burned down his throat. One more and he replaced the bottle to it's rightful place, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and closing the door quietly.

He moved around the townhouse on auto-pilot; locked the door, put the phone on the charger, fed his pets, brushed his teeth, dug out one of several books he was reading that lay about the rooms, changed into pajama bottoms and climbed in bed.

He read the paragraph for the fourth time and realized that he just couldn't forget what had happened so easily. He remembered the fight; white hot anger, the look on Greg's face, the lust he felt as he pinned him to the wall. The adrenaline burn had cooled as he drove away, but not left him completely. He was angry with himself more than anything; he had lost control, lashing out at
himself but Greg took the brunt of it again. The worst part was that Greg was right, there was something wrong with him.

Gil closed the book and took off his glasses; rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. He put the book and his glasses on the night table and turned off the lamp; curling on his side, back toward the wall, covers pulled over his head, a cocoon from the world. The anger and terror nipped at him; he was losing control, losing his hearing, losing his mind. He didn’t deal well with change, order was important and it was all crumbling around him.

Greg had changed everything. Woke things better left sleeping in Gil’s opinion, dreams of impossible things and old painful memories; companionship, happiness, love. He examined them carefully, cutting himself with his private pain, enjoying the bittersweet flavor of lessons learned and relearned. Images drifted behind his eyes; Greg in the lab absorbed in his work, Greg laughing, then Greg naked; by candlelight, neon and moonlight, in the light of day crying out his name.

If he concentrated he could feel Greg’s hands, hear his breath; the heat of his skin burned even from memory. He focused on those moments; a ragged gasp on his lips, the flannel warm and confining, sweat beads formed at the small of his back.

He tortured himself with images of what he should have been doing, what he had been about to do, what he could be doing right now if he hadn’t sabotaged everything. He didn’t hear Greg’s name explode from his lips though he felt it, he didn’t hear his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest or the rustle of fabric as he moved. Gil laid still, frightened and awake for a long time.