Fic: The View from Here (Gil/Greg)

[laurelgardner]

Title: The View from Here
Author: Laurelgardner
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Summary: Greg encounters a touch of danger during a day of field work. Gil reacts badly.
Author's Note: Chronologicallly, I believe this is the last story in this series. Technically, I suppose it's a futurefic, since it takes place many months down the line from the last one in the series and Gil and Greg are now living together. However, there will be other chapters that take place between then and now. BTW, please give feedback. I'm a whore for feedback. Anything. Just tell me you read it, liked, printed it and smoked it, whatever. Thanks to knightmusic, as always. You are the wind beneath my wings.
Disclaimer: TTTTHHHHHHBBBBPPPT!!!!! *smacks hands on head in a Monty-Python-and-the-Holy-Grail-type-way*



Greg realized his hands were still shaking. Well, he thought, wasn't that just the last thing he needed right now? He knew it was a natural response to a dangerous situation, but what kind of sense did that make, anyway. From an evolutionary standpoint, it was ridiculous; if a bear was trying to eat him, for example, he seriously doubted trembly hands would be an asset to his survival. They certainly hadn't helped him much today.

He fumbled with the key in the lock of his home, breathing deeply and willing himself to be still. The thing was, he didn't feel nervous anymore, or scared for that matter, he just felt...drained. He'd had a night from hell, and all he wanted was to relax and to disconnect himself from all of it, with the help of his lover.

He managed to get the door open, finally, and stepped into the comforting familiarity of the townhouse. Greg felt as though his very skin was sighing in relief. It was nice in here, it had a calming affect, partially due to the austerity of Gil's choice in decor, but slightly warmed by the few touches he'd allowed Greg to bring when he'd moved in. Dinner (if you could call it that when you ate it at 9:00 in the morning) was cooking on the stove, filling the place with a pleasant, homey smell.

"Hey," he called from the doorway, by way of announcing his presence. When he heard no reply, he poked his head around the corner and into the living room. Gil was reclined in his leather sofa, reading. It had been his night off.

He looked up at Greg, peering coolly over the tops of both his book and his glasses. "Hi," he said, sitting up. He tossed the book onto the coffee table and tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket.

Greg stepped out of his shoes, leaving them where they were, then shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it carelessly onto a chair. He strode quickly across the room and slumped heavily into the couch next to Grissom.

Gil gave Greg a surmising once-over with his eyes, talking in the bandages on his forehead, the black eye, the cast on his wrist.

"Brass called," he said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"He gave me the details." There was a cold kind of distance in Gil's voice, like he might be just on the verge of getting very, very angry. He stood up and strode forcefully into the kitchen

Greg suddenly felt very, very tired. "What?" he called after Gil.

"You know 'what', Greg," said Gil, tugging drawers open to fish out utensils. "You entered a room at a crime scene that wasn't cleared, and you nearly got killed!"

Greg gaped at him, utterly astounded at the outburst. True, he had entered the room before it was cleared, but it had been due to a miscommunication, nothing else; partially the results of him not fully understanding procedure, and partially the results of an experienced team forgetting they had a rookie on hand who needed to be better informed. Brass had advised him afterward without chewing him out, and had even taken much of the responsibility upon himself.

"Are you sure you talked to Brass?" he asked, dumbfounded. "Because he didn't think this was such a big deal."

"Well, Brass was wrong!" snapped Gil.

Sighing heavily through his cheeks, Greg stood up and crossed the room.

"Look," he said tersely. "I didn't want this." He held up his casted right arm. "And I don't think this," he gestured to the shiner over his left eye, "is exactly the height of fashion right now. I didn't really feel like having the shit scared out of me and then spending half my shift at the hospital, and I really didn't need to come home and have my boyfriend get mad at me for it."

Grissom was checking dinner, keeping his back resolutely to Greg and not replying.

"Fine," said Greg, throwing his hands up. "Don't talk to me. You know, I really don't have to take this from you!"

"I'm still your supervisor, Greg."

"No!" Greg spat. "Not here, you aren't. This is where I live!"

Then Grissom did wheel around, eyes blazing. He thrust an outstretched index finger in Greg's face.

"Greg, I'll fire you before I'll let you get killed!"

And Greg froze, stupefied. Gil's words hung thickly in the air between them as a long moment passed.

Finally, Greg said, softly: "Since when is that how it works?"

Gil frowned, not his usual, thoughtful frown, but a confused and angry one. He turned around again and continued with the cooking, working self-consciously. Greg watched him for a long time, his gaze softening as he realized what was probably going on. He came around the bar to Gil's side of it, then approached him and tentatively wrapped his arms around his waist.

"I get it," he said gently. "I scared you today, didn't I?"

One thing that made fights with Gil marginally less painful was that when the guy knew he was wrong, he did a complete one-eighty. Gil sighed, bowing his head, and Greg could feel the tension leave him.

"More than I would have imagined," he said. He shook his head slowly. "What Brass said was, 'Greg's at the hospital, but he's fine.'.. and that shook me. I don't know what it would have been like if there had been real trouble."

Greg squeezed him briefly. "Well," he said, "That's why Brass is always getting on your case about having your gun with you."

Gil looked up at him suddenly, a look of sudden comprehension dawning on his face.

"It works both ways, Gil," said Greg, his voice firm but still calm. "You don't get to lecture me on safety. I mean, which one of us was it who went to talk to certain serial killers all by himself? Not me."

Gil looked appropriately chagrined. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just hadn't thought of it that way."

Greg dropped his forehead against Gil's shoulder in a gesture of futility. He was going to go prematurely grey living with this guy, he just knew it.

"Look," he said. "I promise I'll take care of myself if you do the same, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good." Greg glanced at the stove. "So...how long for dinner?"

Gil reached for a kettle, lifting a lid and glancing inside. "A while, I'm afraid," he said. "This needs to cook for at least 45 minutes."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "I think that's enough time." He hugged Gil closer, insinuating his body suggestively against him.

He didn't expect Gil to be up for the idea. He expected him to roll his eyes and tell Greg he could wait an hour and fifteen minutes for sex, that it wouldn't kill him.

But instead, Gil froze, eyes fixing Greg's in an odd kind of stare. He was looking at Greg as though he hadn't seen him in years. No, not just that; as if Greg had come back from the dead.

"Yeah," Gil said softly. "I think it is."

He raised his hands to either side of Greg's face, gently touching it and stroking little circles with his thumbs. Greg felt a sigh escape him involuntarily, and he smiled.

"Hey," he said. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Shaking his head, Gil said. "Don't do it again." But it wasn't an admonishment this time; it was a plea.

He leaned forward and kissed Greg so softly he barely felt it. It left him tingling, and he tried to recapture the contact, but Gil pulled back, thwarting him. He groaned.

"You're gonna take your time, aren't you?" he guessed. "Won't dinner get burnt?"

"No," said Gil. "The longer it simmers, the better it tastes. Same as you."

“Ungh,” Greg replied. Gil kissed him again, and this time he was serious about it. He could tell Gil had been tasting the pasta sauce as he cooked it; his mouth was spicy and sharp.

Gil’s hands caressed his hair, moved to the back of his neck and pulled him in closer. Before Greg knew it he was being kissed with a depth, a ferocity he only rarely encountered. The stopped only when both were breathless and stared at one another, panting.

“Wow,” said Greg. “Someone missed me tonight.”

“Hmm,” Gil confirmed.

They made their way to the bedroom, kicking off shoes as they went, Greg trying to undo Gil’s shirt buttons but finding the cast on his hand to be an obstacle. He groaned in frustration.

“Here,” said Gil, once they’d reached the bedroom., then hastily set about unbuttoning his own shirt. In response, Greg whipped off his own shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and shivering slightly in the air-conditioning.

Gil glanced up from his work at his own shirt, mouth hanging open as he took in the sight of a bare-chested Greg sitting at the foot of the bed. Greg smiled a little shyly; he knew the effect he had on Gil, and felt almost embarrassed by it. Almost.

Gil all but pounced on Greg, pressing him on his back and into the mattress and once more devouring his mouth. It would have been easy, so easy for Greg to just let go, to lose himself in what was a very clear agenda on Gil’s part, but he had other plans. He wanted to undress Gil, to get his fill of the sight of him first, then there would be time for the feel of him. He rolled Gil onto his back, first pulling his shirt the rest of the way off. Gil was trying to kiss him, to pull him down on top of him, but with a mammoth effort he fought off these advances.

“Just hold still for a minute, okay?” he instructed. Looking into Gil’s eyes, he saw understanding light them and the man nodded. Slowly, Greg stripped off the pants and briefs, not touching or tasting the exposed skin yet, just...watching.

Gil was...oh, man. Gil was Gil, not looking like anyone in the world so much as he looked like himself, and Greg couldn’t imagine a more beautiful sight. Eyes filled with soft heat, Greg took in every quirk, every imperfection. His sloping shoulders, powerful arms and chest that belied the adorable softness of his gut . his feet, visibly pigeon-toed even when lying down, sturdy leg and thighs, leading up to...

Okay, enough waiting.

He dove for Gil’s mouth, wrestling himself out of his jeans with lover’s help. Then their bodies were pressing together in a jumble of limbs, kissing, touching, exercising all the knowledge they’d gained in their months together. Greg forced himself to pull away from it long enough to roll to the edge of the bed, reach into the drawer of the bedside table and find the damn lube. He prepped himself for their joining, not remotely willing to suffer through the lengthy teasing that would undoubtedly be Gil’s approach to the matter.

Then he lay on his side in front of Gil, the two of them spooned together. This was the best position for making it last, and right now he just needed a long, slow screw like he couldn’t begin to express.

And there was nothing in the world like it, nothing at all like being slowly and surely filled up like this, feeling hot sparks of what was almost pain, but too good to be pain as his body adjusted to what was actually a pretty impressive girth.

“You good?” Gil asked in his ear. No matter how much they did this, he always checked.

“Never better,” Greg gasped.

Gil kissed the nape of his neck tenderly, then started to move inside him while reaching his hands around, seeking Greg’s stiff cock. Then Greg gasped, because Gil’s hands touched him at the exact instant his thrusts inside him found the perfect angle.

Greg groaned, awash in sensation and happy to just lose himself in it. He relaxed as minutes passed with no particular urgency, unable to suppress the occasional sigh of contentment. Gil actually hit the finish line before he did, something that didn’t often happen given their respective ages. It made it even better, because it meant Gil could finish him with his mouth, which he did without being asked.

Afterward, as he lay boneless and sated in Gil’s arms, he couldn’t help but feel blessed. He could be a pain in the ass sometime, this guy, but he was the most generous, exciting, and best lover Greg had ever been with.

Besides that, dinner smelled fabulous.

He kissed Gil’s cheek and tried to raise himself to his knees, but they seemed to have turned to jelly. He fell onto his back next to Gil, laughing.

“I think I’m gonna be stuck here forever!” he cried. “We can’t have spaghetti in bed, can we?”

Gil looked for a moment like he was determined not to laugh at that, but then a chuckle burst forth. The chuckle turned into a belly-laugh, one that warmed Greg’s insides. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Gil Grissom laugh like that at something he’d said, for all that he’d spent years trying to get him to. The sound went on an on, like he was laughing at every joke Greg had ever made in his presence, all at once.

Gil wiped a tear from his eye as it ended. “No,” he said. “No, we really can’t.”

* * * *

Looking back, Greg always remembered that night with an unusual clarity. It had seemed ordinary enough at the time; fight, make-up, good sex, good dinner, nothing particularly momentous. Yet somehow, after that night, things between him and Gil were undeniably different.

Greg thought that maybe, just maybe, his little brush with danger had forced Gil to make a decision, to finally let go of the last shreds of reserve that stood between them. Greg had breached the wall long ago, done it with a quick kiss that had brought Gil into his world, him taking tentative steps all the way. He’d said to hell with safety then; now, months later, Gil had finally done the same.

Now Greg was in Gil’s world, too. And he liked the view from here just fine.