CSI fic: "Human, On My Faithless Arm" Gil/Jim, part III
So in between daubing blood all over my husband and taking pictures of his naked, blood-daubed torso, I wrote another section. Mad props to slashmommy Ker, who made sense of this whole mess and kept me on the straight and narrow. Ok, the narrow. :)
Behind the cut.
Human, On My Faithless Arm: Part 3
By Joanne Soper-Cook
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Gil/Jim
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: none
Warnings: none
As always, enormous thanks and huge bouquets of roses to Ker, who betas with the best of them. All mistakes are mine, not hers.
It may sound absurd:but don't be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed:but won't you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
(Five for Fighting, “Superman”)
Grissom woke to the sensation of Jim stirring beside him; more accurately, Grissom woke to find that they’d somehow spooned together in their sleep. Worse, he was hard, his erection pressing against Jim’s backside. He moved away hurriedly, afraid that Jim might wake up to feel it poking him. He’d slept well, waking only once, around four, to go to the bathroom and check on Jim, yet his dreams were still inordinately fresh in his mind. The lab, Gil’s office, sharing their usual glass of scotch, only Dream Jim was in Gil’s lap, kissing the stuffing out of him. No wonder he had a boner.
"Hey." Maybe, by not mentioning his awkward position, he could ignore it. He leaned over and looked down at Jim. "How are you feeling?"
"Not so hot." The detective's face was drawn and pale. "I think the Vicodin Doc Robbins gave me is wearing off. This hurts like a sonofabitch."
"How often are you supposed to take it?"
"Might be time for another dose."
"Hold tight. I'll be right back." Grissom slipped off the bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom, located the pills and got a fresh bottle of water from the fridge.
"What time is it?" Jim asked. He swallowed two of the pills and lay back against his pillows, exhausted.
"It's nearly seven." Grissom laid his hand on his friend's forehead. "You've got a slight fever. I don't know if that's usual in this kind of case."
"I'm freezing," Jim said. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso. "God, it's cold in here."
Grissom fetched a warm sweatshirt out of the dresser and helped Jim put it on; the detective was shivering violently. "I'm thirsty," he said. "Is there any more water?"
"I'm going to call Doc Robbins," Grissom said. "I don't like this fever."
"Hey, Gil, get me another blanket, will you?"
Grissom covered him with a thick quilt and went into the other room to call Robbins. The coroner was in the midst of an autopsy but David came to the phone. "You'll need to look at the wound,"
David said. "Take off the dressing and see if the edges of the incision are red, or if there are any red streaks radiating down his arm. Then come back and tell me what you find."
Grissom went into the bedroom; Jim was huddled under the blankets, shivering violently. "Jim, I need to look at your cut," Grissom said. "Can you let me do that?"
"God, it's cold." Jim trembled reflexively as Grissom's fingers brushed his chest. "Feels like Jersey in the winter, you know?"
"I know," Grissom tried to soothe Jim with his voice. "Just a few more minutes, okay?" He stripped off the dressing and bent close to the wound: the skin was bruised, but didn't appear infected and he couldn't see any red streaks. Grissom wrapped it up again and tucked Jim back into his blankets. "He's got no redness there," he told David, "no streaks or anything."
"He could be having a psychological reaction," David said. "It's not uncommon."
"Psychological? David, are you sure? He's shivering and feverish."
"I've read about it. There’s a considerable body of research, with Gulf War vets? I’ve got the journal here somewhere…"
"David." Grissom tried to keep the note of exasperation of his voice. "Look it up later."
"Right, okay, yeah. Call it delayed shock, post-trauma, whatever you want. Surgery is hard on the body - believe me, the mind-body connection isn't a myth." He paused. "Tell you what: I'll check with Doc Robbins, make sure he doesn't need me. I'll come by and have a look."
"Thanks, David. I appreciate it."
"Keep him warm and give him plenty of fluids. I'll be there as soon as I can get away."
Grissom rang off and went back into the bedroom. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He caught Jim teetering on the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach.
"Gonna be sick," Jim murmured. Grissom wrapped an arm around him and frog-marched him to the bathroom just in time: Jim skidded to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited violently, expelling his stomach contents with a frightening ferocity. Grissom knelt beside him, rubbing his back until the spasms eased; he helped Jim rinse out his mouth and brought him back into the bedroom.
"I want to check your incision," Grissom said. "You might have busted it open." He examined the wound again, was grateful that the stitches had held. He eased Jim back against the pillows. "The doctor is on his way."
"I don't need a doctor. Jeez, Gil, why do you always do this?" Jim wrapped his arms around his middle. "I'm fine."
"You aren't fine, and I've already told you, I'm taking over your care. So get used to it."
"You don't have the right to boss me around," Jim muttered. "Do you think I'm Sanders?"
"I'd do the same for him as I'm doing for you."
"I don't need this. I'm used to doing for myself, okay?"
"And I'm used to being by myself," Grissom retorted, "but it's not in the cards. Get used to it."
"Gonna be sick," Jim said again. This time Grissom was a bit quicker; he sat beside Jim on the bathroom floor and rubbed his back and shoulders. "Oh God, it hurts," Jim said.
"I know, baby...I know it does." Grissom slipped a hand under Jim's shirt and smoothed his skin, moving in gentle circles.
"Come on, let's get you back to bed."
"What? No dinner and flowers? I’m not that kind of girl," Jim said, smiling.
"Huh?" Grissom was nonplussed.
"You taking me to bed" the detective explained. "I don’t hop into bed for just anybody, you know."
"I’ll take you out to dinner and a show when you’re back on your feet."
"Mmm, that’s more like it. Dinner, a show, and then back to my place. I’d like that. I like you." He reached out as if to stroke Gil’s cheek, but drew his hand back at the last moment, suddenly uncertain. "I think the medication’s working overtime."
Grissom pulled the covers over him. "You like me?"
"Yeah." Jim smiled. "I like you a lot."
"Hm." Grissom thought about this for a moment. "I'm assuming you mean some context other than our professional relationship?"
"Hell, yeah." The grin faded. "I hope that doesn't embarrass you."
"Why would it embarrass me?"
"I'm not exactly a GQ cover model, know what I mean?"
"And you think I want a GQ cover model?"
"Gil, why do you do that?"
"Why do I do what?"
"Answer a question with a question."
"Oh." He sat on the bed beside Jim. "Do I do that?"
"Yeah."
Grissom smiled. "I'm going to fix you some soup."
"I have soup?"
"Sara made sure your cupboards were well stocked."
"With soup."
"Among other things, yes." Grissom couldn't help smiling. Jim was trying his curmudgeonly best but succeeding only in being cute.
"And what did Doc Robbins say?"
"I didn't talk to Albert; he wasn't available. I spoke to David instead."
"David Hodges? That weird lab guy? Are you nuts?"
"David Phillips. 'My Little Doctor' David."
"I'm going to tell him you said that." Jim eased himself upright. "Okay, soup."
"Where do you think you’re going?" Grissom asked.
"You think I’d let you in my kitchen without supervision? Gimme a hand, here." Jim grunted as Grissom helped him up. "Can’t have you burning down my house."
"I would never burn down your house," Grissom retorted.
"Yeah, tell that to Sanders’ feet."
Grissom stared at him. "What are you talking about? I didn’t set his feet on fire." Maybe he ought to check the dosage on Jim’s Vicodin - obviously it had affected his reasoning.
"Gil, you infected him with mildew. You painted the bottoms of the poor kid’s feet."
"It was only one foot," Grissom replied, "hardly what I’d call an infection."
Jim sat at the kitchen counter while Grissom rummaged through the cupboards looking for soup. "Can opener’s in the first drawer," Jim said. "And the pots and pans are in the bottom."
"Thank you, Martha Stewart. Chicken soup is just the thing to settle your stomach," Grissom said. "My mother swears by it. I hope you like chicken."
"Who doesn't?" Jim quipped. His tone was light, but Grissom could see the detective was trying to hide his embarrassment. It wasn't easy for a man like Jim to allow someone else to help him.
"Mind if I make myself a sandwich?" Grissom asked.
"Eat whatever you want," Jim said. "If Sara and Catherine did the shopping, there should be enough food in this house for the entire precinct."
"Mmmm." Grissom chuckled. "If Sara and Catherine did the shopping, all the food is healthy stuff."
He found a succulent range of cold cuts in the fridge, along with some really good, sharp cheese.
"That’d be Catherine," Jim said. "That sandwich stuff." He directed Grissom to a loaf of crusty bread. "Probably Catherine’s, too. She’s big on the healthy eating."
"Motherhood has ruined her," Grissom said mournfully. "Now it’s all vitamins and vegetables and three squares a day." He spread the bread with mayonnaise and piled on an assortment of meats and cheeses, finished it all with a dab of mustard. Behind the milk he found a tray of raw vegetables and a truly excellent spinach dip. "Who’s responsible for this?"
"Sara, probably."
"Sara? Vegetables?"
"Gil, she’s a vegetarian. Don’t you pay attention? Ever since that pig." And, when Grissom appeared confused, "the pig you guys watched, with the blow flies and maggots and stuff?"
"Oh, right. That pig." He glanced at Jim. "You okay there?"
"Yeah, it’s just…my stitches are pulling a little bit. No big. What else we got?"
"We? You’re getting chicken soup, and then you’re going back to bed."
"Yes, Ma. Right away, Ma."
Grissom found some Ghirardelli chocolate and broke off a couple of squares. "Promise I’ll save you some, when you’re up to it," he said. By this time the soup was heated through, so he poured it into a cup and laid it and the sandwich on a tray. "Come on, let’s get you back to bed."
"You keep saying that," Jim told him, "and I’m going to wonder about your intentions towards me." But he went willingly enough, climbed back into bed with Grissom’s help and accepted the cup of soup.
Grissom applied himself to his meal with gusto, wondering how long it had been since he’d last eaten. He couldn’t remember. The sandwich was as good as he’d hoped it would be (God bless Catherine); the vegetable dip and the chocolate no less so. He made a mental note to thank the ladies for their efforts. "I think I ate too much," he said, but there was no response. Jim had fallen sound asleep. "Chicken soup," Grissom whispered, "good for whatever ails you." He gently lifted the cup from Jim's fingers; the detective murmured in his sleep but didn't wake. Grissom tucked the covers around Jim's shoulders and picked up the tray.
"Gil?"
"You're supposed to be asleep. And you have ears like a bat."
"You coming back?"
Grissom knew that it took a lot of guts for Jim Brass to let himself be needy. For a man as proud as Jim it was the emotional equivalent of cutting off an arm. "Of course I am. I was just going to stow this in the dishwasher and maybe watch some t.v. If that's okay with you?"
"Hey, mi casa, and all that stuff." Jim paused. "Thanks."
The house was quiet, and it soothed him. He'd never allowed himself to feel comfortable in someone else's space: the very foreignness of another person's home unsettled him. Jim's house was peaceful, with a certain no-nonsense frankness about it, not unlike its owner. The kitchen was tidy and well-ordered, stocked with simple, steel appliances and clean fluorescent lighting. The living room was decorated in a palette of dark blues and greens, with touches of grey, suggestive of a twilight sky. There was no fussiness, nothing frilly or excessive, and nothing ornamental. It was a perfect "guy" house; it was exactly the kind of house Grissom would have expected Jim to have. He tidied away the remains of his meal and stowed his plate in the dishwasher before heading back into the bedroom to check on Jim.
"Rest," Grissom reminded him gently. "I'll be back."
He settled himself into Jim's couch and did some channel surfing, but nothing caught his attention. He got up and picked through the books on Jim's bookshelves: lots of history and philosophy and some novels. He found a copy of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish and settled in. Around midnight he took a break, went into the kitchen and got himself some tea. He returned to find Jim standing in the living room, wrapped in a blanket and watching him wearily.
"I can't sleep," the detective said. "It's weird, I can't sleep in my own house."
"Want some tea?"
"Yeah, sure, since you won’t let me have a beer."
"Here - " Grissom got Jim settled on the couch. "Take this one. I'll get another."
Jim waited till Grissom sat down. "I had the weirdest dream." His long fingers traced the rim of the cup, around and around. "It was like...it was real. Like life."
"Was it a memory?" Grissom tested his tea cautiously, set it down to cool.
"It was like that, yeah." Jim shifted slightly and grimaced. "Stitches again," he explained. "Feels like something pulling on me."
"Lean back." Grissom moved up till he was tight against the arm of the couch but slightly sideways. "Lean on me if you need to."
Jim sat with his back against Grissom's side, their heads close together. It didn't feel awkward or weird; the late hour and the silence seemed to invite such intimacy. Grissom's arm was resting on the back of the couch; he felt it touching him. "We had a party once - well, more than once. Back home in Jersey, me and Janice. Invited a bunch of the guys from the precinct, some of Janice's friends from work. It started off kinda quiet and got real loud, real fast, and I remember the neighbours lodged a noise complaint. So Fred Vanelli, he goes over next door and flashes his badge, tells them 'don't bother calling the cops. They're all over at Jimbo's place.'"
"Sounds relatively normal."
"Yeah, we did a lot of it in those days. But when I was asleep, it was like I was there again. I could hear everything, I could smell Janice's perfume, the cigarette smoke. I popped the top off a beer and I could feel it. Vanelli was talking to me about hockey; we were gonna play a pickup game that weekend with some of the guys, you know?"
Grissom's voice was quiet. "What happened?"
"He got shot. Yeah, we never did get to play that game."
"I'm sorry."
"I remember his funeral. It was really cold, snowing outside. He was a big guy. It took eight of us to carry his casket. His wife, Maureen, she was good friends with Janice. Turned out she'd been cheating on him. I found out afterwards - after he'd been killed." Jim took a deep breath, rested his head against Grissom's arm. "I felt really bad for him, you know, his wife cheating on him and then…"
"And then Janice did it to you."
"Yeah. Janice did it to me." Jim turned so he could see Grissom's face. "Why does it happen that way, huh?" He realized he was pressed against Grissom, in a position that, while it wasn't necessarily compromising, was certainly intimate. "Sorry." He made to move away.
"It's fine, Jim. We're just guys, talking. You know - " Grissom smiled. "Locker room stuff."
Jim nodded. "Locker room stuff."
"How are your stitches feeling?"
"Much better, thanks."
"And the tea?"
"The tea." Jim raised the cup to him. "What can I say about the tea?"
"It's horrible, isn't it?" Grissom tried to hold back his mirth, and failed. "Sorry."
"Stop making me laugh," Jim gasped, "You're gonna bust my damn stitches."
He looked at Grissom. "I...uh, I need to..." He ducked his head, suddenly suffused with shame. “I'd like to take a shower."
"Would you like me to help you?"
Jim glanced up at him, then away again. "Just getting in and out, you know?"
Grissom nodded. "Of course. Whatever you need." He followed Jim into the bathroom, acutely conscious of the way his own body existed in space, each finite movement of his arms and legs. He wanted this to go right. He didn't want to embarrass Jim, or hurt him - he'd already been hurt enough to last him for a lifetime. He tactfully turned his back while Jim got undressed, occupied himself with the water temperature.
"Gil." Jim sounded exasperated. "I can't get this damn sweatshirt off." He'd somehow managed to get it over his head but his muscles were too sore around his incision for him to completely remove the garment.
"Let me help you with that," Grissom said. He eased Jim's arm away from his side and slipped the sweatshirt off. He taped some plastic wrap over the incision with duct tape. "Hardly glamorous, but at least you won't get the incision wet. Why don't you hop in and I'll get some towels, okay?"
He tried not to stare at the scars that pockmarked Jim's body, but his scientist's mind had already seen and catalogued them before his conscience could halt the invasive inventory: gun shot wounds, stabbing, cuts and gouges, the uncertain ricochet of a life lived in the face of danger. People didn't understand. People who didn't work the streets to keep other people safe, people who didn't walk a beat or carry a gun or go running into danger when everybody else was running out - they didn't understand the sacrifices men like Jim had made for them. There was a song that Grissom liked; it always reminded him of Jim, whenever he heard it: 'You can all sleep sound tonight/I'm not crazy, or anything.' How many more chances did Jim have, before his luck finally ran out? The precinct wall was spangled with the badges of those who hadn't made it, whose sacrifice was proclaimed in heroic language: Those Who Lost Their Lives In The Line Of Duty. Just words, that's all it was - it said nothing about a man like Jim.
"I think I'm okay here," Jim said. He was huddled naked in front of the shower curtain; Grissom held out his arm for Jim to lean on, supporting him as he stepped into the warm spray. He pulled the curtain and left Jim in privacy.
"I'll just be out here," Grissom said. "Call if you need me, okay?"
"Uh, Gil?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm having trouble here."
Grissom pulled the curtain and peered in: Jim held a shampoo bottle in one hand; the other was held protectively against his side, close to the incision. "I can't do this."
Grissom considered for half a second. "I'm coming in there." He saw Jim's skeptical expression and shrugged. "Locker room stuff, right? Just us guys."
Jim nodded. "Locker room stuff, yeah."
Grissom stripped naked and stepped into the warm spray. Some part of him - the sensible, logical part of him - was jabbering away madly in the back of his brain. 'He's naked and you're naked and there's water and who knows what could happen?' He did his best to ignore it. "Lean back," Grissom said. He shivered as Jim's naked back pressed into his chest; it had been so long since he'd been touched by anybody, for any reason, and Jim was warm and pliable and here. He poured some shampoo into his palms and massaged it through Jim's hair, rubbing in gentle circles, reaching down to squeeze the muscles at the back of Jim's neck.
"You know, if being a CSI doesn't work out for you--"
"Don't even say it," Grissom warned. He guided Jim to the shower spray and rinsed his hair, then rubbed some soap onto a washcloth and gave the detective's skin a thorough once-over. He forced himself to remain practical and business-like, but privately he wondered how the hell nurses did this sort of thing day in and day out. 'Nurses don't get naked with their patients.' He wished the nasty voice in his head would die a painful, flaming death. He shut off the water and wrapped himself in a towel, then helped Jim step out of the tub. Grissom chafed the detective with a thick bath towel, then wrapped him in his bathrobe before herding him into the bedroom.
"That wasn't so bad," Jim said.
"Fine," Grissom replied. He buried his embarrassment in the chest of drawers, pulling out clean socks and underwear and a pair of sweats for Jim.
"Hey, Gil, I'm gonna freeze to death over here. Come on." Jim was smiling. "Can I have some clothes?"
Grissom felt hot colour mount into his cheeks. "I'm really sorry, Jim. Maybe I should call an agency, get them to send someone over. I'm probably not the right person--" He dried off at super speed and threw his clothes back on; his wet hair would have to wait.
"Gil."
"Yes?"
"Shut up. And gimme my clothes."
Grissom helped Jim get dressed and tucked him under the covers again, just as the doorbell rang. "That's probably David." "Hey, Gil?" Jim gazed at him, his soul in his eyes. "Thanks.
That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Grissom was suddenly ashamed of himself. "You're welcome." He went to let David in; the young doctor was apologetic that he'd taken so long. "It's okay," Grissom said. "He seems to be doing a bit better. He's had a shower and something to eat - well, soup. He had soup."
"I see." David's gaze traveled to Grissom's wet hair. "A shower is always good."
"This isn't what it looks like," Grissom said.
"That’s a real shame," David replied, and fled into the bedroom.
Grissom was pretending interest in some local cable channel when David reappeared. "How is he?"
"It’s like I told you - psychological," David said, smiling as he zippered up his coat. "You know, just your being here really is helping him. Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks, David." Grissom's throat suddenly felt thick: there was so much kindness, so much good will. He saw the young doctor out, and then went through the house, turning off the lights and shutting everything down. It felt strange to be tired at night, he was usually working, but it was a good sort of tiredness, a fatigue coupled with contentment.
Jim was lying on his side on the bed, drowsing with a blanket over him. He turned when he felt the mattress compress.
"David's gone?"
"He is." Grissom couldn't resist; he reached out and stroked his finger along Jim's cheek. "I don't understand what's happening," he said frankly. "I've never been in this situation before."
"Hey, it isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill for me either." Jim rolled onto his back and smiled sleepily at Gil.
"What are we doing?" Grissom asked. "Here, now? What's this all about?"
"You know something?"
"What?"
"You talk too damn much." Jim reached out, trailed his fingers over Grissom's face. His touch lingered on Grissom's mouth, the tip of his nose, the cleft in his chin. The feeling was electric, it ignited heat in the base of Grissom's belly, but the touching wasn't enough. He wanted more. He turned his face into Jim's hand and kissed the detective's palm. Jim's eyes burned into his, the pupils dilated.
"You better kiss me," Jim said. "Past that, I can't guarantee you anything."
It was the ragged need in Jim's voice that finally undid Grissom's resolve. He clasped Jim's face between his palms and kissed him, and the banked fire that burned at the base of his belly flared up, threatening to consume him. He was so afraid - so desperately afraid, terrified that he was making a mistake - but Jim was with him, Jim was holding him, and Jim's mouth was liquid heat.
"I wish..." Jim's hand curled around the back of Gil's neck. "I wish I could..."
"We don't have to do anything," Gil said. He kissed Jim gently. "We don't have to do anything more than what we're doing right now."
"Where'd you come from, huh?" Jim snuggled into Grissom's embrace. "Where've you been all my life?"
Grissom kissed Jim's forehead, his eyelids, the corners of his mouth, but Jim was drifting, so Grissom contented himself with holding Jim, and murmuring him into sleep.
To be continued...
Behind the cut.
Human, On My Faithless Arm: Part 3
By Joanne Soper-Cook
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Gil/Jim
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: none
Warnings: none
As always, enormous thanks and huge bouquets of roses to Ker, who betas with the best of them. All mistakes are mine, not hers.
It may sound absurd:but don't be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed:but won't you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
(Five for Fighting, “Superman”)
Grissom woke to the sensation of Jim stirring beside him; more accurately, Grissom woke to find that they’d somehow spooned together in their sleep. Worse, he was hard, his erection pressing against Jim’s backside. He moved away hurriedly, afraid that Jim might wake up to feel it poking him. He’d slept well, waking only once, around four, to go to the bathroom and check on Jim, yet his dreams were still inordinately fresh in his mind. The lab, Gil’s office, sharing their usual glass of scotch, only Dream Jim was in Gil’s lap, kissing the stuffing out of him. No wonder he had a boner.
"Hey." Maybe, by not mentioning his awkward position, he could ignore it. He leaned over and looked down at Jim. "How are you feeling?"
"Not so hot." The detective's face was drawn and pale. "I think the Vicodin Doc Robbins gave me is wearing off. This hurts like a sonofabitch."
"How often are you supposed to take it?"
"Might be time for another dose."
"Hold tight. I'll be right back." Grissom slipped off the bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom, located the pills and got a fresh bottle of water from the fridge.
"What time is it?" Jim asked. He swallowed two of the pills and lay back against his pillows, exhausted.
"It's nearly seven." Grissom laid his hand on his friend's forehead. "You've got a slight fever. I don't know if that's usual in this kind of case."
"I'm freezing," Jim said. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso. "God, it's cold in here."
Grissom fetched a warm sweatshirt out of the dresser and helped Jim put it on; the detective was shivering violently. "I'm thirsty," he said. "Is there any more water?"
"I'm going to call Doc Robbins," Grissom said. "I don't like this fever."
"Hey, Gil, get me another blanket, will you?"
Grissom covered him with a thick quilt and went into the other room to call Robbins. The coroner was in the midst of an autopsy but David came to the phone. "You'll need to look at the wound,"
David said. "Take off the dressing and see if the edges of the incision are red, or if there are any red streaks radiating down his arm. Then come back and tell me what you find."
Grissom went into the bedroom; Jim was huddled under the blankets, shivering violently. "Jim, I need to look at your cut," Grissom said. "Can you let me do that?"
"God, it's cold." Jim trembled reflexively as Grissom's fingers brushed his chest. "Feels like Jersey in the winter, you know?"
"I know," Grissom tried to soothe Jim with his voice. "Just a few more minutes, okay?" He stripped off the dressing and bent close to the wound: the skin was bruised, but didn't appear infected and he couldn't see any red streaks. Grissom wrapped it up again and tucked Jim back into his blankets. "He's got no redness there," he told David, "no streaks or anything."
"He could be having a psychological reaction," David said. "It's not uncommon."
"Psychological? David, are you sure? He's shivering and feverish."
"I've read about it. There’s a considerable body of research, with Gulf War vets? I’ve got the journal here somewhere…"
"David." Grissom tried to keep the note of exasperation of his voice. "Look it up later."
"Right, okay, yeah. Call it delayed shock, post-trauma, whatever you want. Surgery is hard on the body - believe me, the mind-body connection isn't a myth." He paused. "Tell you what: I'll check with Doc Robbins, make sure he doesn't need me. I'll come by and have a look."
"Thanks, David. I appreciate it."
"Keep him warm and give him plenty of fluids. I'll be there as soon as I can get away."
Grissom rang off and went back into the bedroom. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He caught Jim teetering on the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach.
"Gonna be sick," Jim murmured. Grissom wrapped an arm around him and frog-marched him to the bathroom just in time: Jim skidded to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited violently, expelling his stomach contents with a frightening ferocity. Grissom knelt beside him, rubbing his back until the spasms eased; he helped Jim rinse out his mouth and brought him back into the bedroom.
"I want to check your incision," Grissom said. "You might have busted it open." He examined the wound again, was grateful that the stitches had held. He eased Jim back against the pillows. "The doctor is on his way."
"I don't need a doctor. Jeez, Gil, why do you always do this?" Jim wrapped his arms around his middle. "I'm fine."
"You aren't fine, and I've already told you, I'm taking over your care. So get used to it."
"You don't have the right to boss me around," Jim muttered. "Do you think I'm Sanders?"
"I'd do the same for him as I'm doing for you."
"I don't need this. I'm used to doing for myself, okay?"
"And I'm used to being by myself," Grissom retorted, "but it's not in the cards. Get used to it."
"Gonna be sick," Jim said again. This time Grissom was a bit quicker; he sat beside Jim on the bathroom floor and rubbed his back and shoulders. "Oh God, it hurts," Jim said.
"I know, baby...I know it does." Grissom slipped a hand under Jim's shirt and smoothed his skin, moving in gentle circles.
"Come on, let's get you back to bed."
"What? No dinner and flowers? I’m not that kind of girl," Jim said, smiling.
"Huh?" Grissom was nonplussed.
"You taking me to bed" the detective explained. "I don’t hop into bed for just anybody, you know."
"I’ll take you out to dinner and a show when you’re back on your feet."
"Mmm, that’s more like it. Dinner, a show, and then back to my place. I’d like that. I like you." He reached out as if to stroke Gil’s cheek, but drew his hand back at the last moment, suddenly uncertain. "I think the medication’s working overtime."
Grissom pulled the covers over him. "You like me?"
"Yeah." Jim smiled. "I like you a lot."
"Hm." Grissom thought about this for a moment. "I'm assuming you mean some context other than our professional relationship?"
"Hell, yeah." The grin faded. "I hope that doesn't embarrass you."
"Why would it embarrass me?"
"I'm not exactly a GQ cover model, know what I mean?"
"And you think I want a GQ cover model?"
"Gil, why do you do that?"
"Why do I do what?"
"Answer a question with a question."
"Oh." He sat on the bed beside Jim. "Do I do that?"
"Yeah."
Grissom smiled. "I'm going to fix you some soup."
"I have soup?"
"Sara made sure your cupboards were well stocked."
"With soup."
"Among other things, yes." Grissom couldn't help smiling. Jim was trying his curmudgeonly best but succeeding only in being cute.
"And what did Doc Robbins say?"
"I didn't talk to Albert; he wasn't available. I spoke to David instead."
"David Hodges? That weird lab guy? Are you nuts?"
"David Phillips. 'My Little Doctor' David."
"I'm going to tell him you said that." Jim eased himself upright. "Okay, soup."
"Where do you think you’re going?" Grissom asked.
"You think I’d let you in my kitchen without supervision? Gimme a hand, here." Jim grunted as Grissom helped him up. "Can’t have you burning down my house."
"I would never burn down your house," Grissom retorted.
"Yeah, tell that to Sanders’ feet."
Grissom stared at him. "What are you talking about? I didn’t set his feet on fire." Maybe he ought to check the dosage on Jim’s Vicodin - obviously it had affected his reasoning.
"Gil, you infected him with mildew. You painted the bottoms of the poor kid’s feet."
"It was only one foot," Grissom replied, "hardly what I’d call an infection."
Jim sat at the kitchen counter while Grissom rummaged through the cupboards looking for soup. "Can opener’s in the first drawer," Jim said. "And the pots and pans are in the bottom."
"Thank you, Martha Stewart. Chicken soup is just the thing to settle your stomach," Grissom said. "My mother swears by it. I hope you like chicken."
"Who doesn't?" Jim quipped. His tone was light, but Grissom could see the detective was trying to hide his embarrassment. It wasn't easy for a man like Jim to allow someone else to help him.
"Mind if I make myself a sandwich?" Grissom asked.
"Eat whatever you want," Jim said. "If Sara and Catherine did the shopping, there should be enough food in this house for the entire precinct."
"Mmmm." Grissom chuckled. "If Sara and Catherine did the shopping, all the food is healthy stuff."
He found a succulent range of cold cuts in the fridge, along with some really good, sharp cheese.
"That’d be Catherine," Jim said. "That sandwich stuff." He directed Grissom to a loaf of crusty bread. "Probably Catherine’s, too. She’s big on the healthy eating."
"Motherhood has ruined her," Grissom said mournfully. "Now it’s all vitamins and vegetables and three squares a day." He spread the bread with mayonnaise and piled on an assortment of meats and cheeses, finished it all with a dab of mustard. Behind the milk he found a tray of raw vegetables and a truly excellent spinach dip. "Who’s responsible for this?"
"Sara, probably."
"Sara? Vegetables?"
"Gil, she’s a vegetarian. Don’t you pay attention? Ever since that pig." And, when Grissom appeared confused, "the pig you guys watched, with the blow flies and maggots and stuff?"
"Oh, right. That pig." He glanced at Jim. "You okay there?"
"Yeah, it’s just…my stitches are pulling a little bit. No big. What else we got?"
"We? You’re getting chicken soup, and then you’re going back to bed."
"Yes, Ma. Right away, Ma."
Grissom found some Ghirardelli chocolate and broke off a couple of squares. "Promise I’ll save you some, when you’re up to it," he said. By this time the soup was heated through, so he poured it into a cup and laid it and the sandwich on a tray. "Come on, let’s get you back to bed."
"You keep saying that," Jim told him, "and I’m going to wonder about your intentions towards me." But he went willingly enough, climbed back into bed with Grissom’s help and accepted the cup of soup.
Grissom applied himself to his meal with gusto, wondering how long it had been since he’d last eaten. He couldn’t remember. The sandwich was as good as he’d hoped it would be (God bless Catherine); the vegetable dip and the chocolate no less so. He made a mental note to thank the ladies for their efforts. "I think I ate too much," he said, but there was no response. Jim had fallen sound asleep. "Chicken soup," Grissom whispered, "good for whatever ails you." He gently lifted the cup from Jim's fingers; the detective murmured in his sleep but didn't wake. Grissom tucked the covers around Jim's shoulders and picked up the tray.
"Gil?"
"You're supposed to be asleep. And you have ears like a bat."
"You coming back?"
Grissom knew that it took a lot of guts for Jim Brass to let himself be needy. For a man as proud as Jim it was the emotional equivalent of cutting off an arm. "Of course I am. I was just going to stow this in the dishwasher and maybe watch some t.v. If that's okay with you?"
"Hey, mi casa, and all that stuff." Jim paused. "Thanks."
The house was quiet, and it soothed him. He'd never allowed himself to feel comfortable in someone else's space: the very foreignness of another person's home unsettled him. Jim's house was peaceful, with a certain no-nonsense frankness about it, not unlike its owner. The kitchen was tidy and well-ordered, stocked with simple, steel appliances and clean fluorescent lighting. The living room was decorated in a palette of dark blues and greens, with touches of grey, suggestive of a twilight sky. There was no fussiness, nothing frilly or excessive, and nothing ornamental. It was a perfect "guy" house; it was exactly the kind of house Grissom would have expected Jim to have. He tidied away the remains of his meal and stowed his plate in the dishwasher before heading back into the bedroom to check on Jim.
"Rest," Grissom reminded him gently. "I'll be back."
He settled himself into Jim's couch and did some channel surfing, but nothing caught his attention. He got up and picked through the books on Jim's bookshelves: lots of history and philosophy and some novels. He found a copy of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish and settled in. Around midnight he took a break, went into the kitchen and got himself some tea. He returned to find Jim standing in the living room, wrapped in a blanket and watching him wearily.
"I can't sleep," the detective said. "It's weird, I can't sleep in my own house."
"Want some tea?"
"Yeah, sure, since you won’t let me have a beer."
"Here - " Grissom got Jim settled on the couch. "Take this one. I'll get another."
Jim waited till Grissom sat down. "I had the weirdest dream." His long fingers traced the rim of the cup, around and around. "It was like...it was real. Like life."
"Was it a memory?" Grissom tested his tea cautiously, set it down to cool.
"It was like that, yeah." Jim shifted slightly and grimaced. "Stitches again," he explained. "Feels like something pulling on me."
"Lean back." Grissom moved up till he was tight against the arm of the couch but slightly sideways. "Lean on me if you need to."
Jim sat with his back against Grissom's side, their heads close together. It didn't feel awkward or weird; the late hour and the silence seemed to invite such intimacy. Grissom's arm was resting on the back of the couch; he felt it touching him. "We had a party once - well, more than once. Back home in Jersey, me and Janice. Invited a bunch of the guys from the precinct, some of Janice's friends from work. It started off kinda quiet and got real loud, real fast, and I remember the neighbours lodged a noise complaint. So Fred Vanelli, he goes over next door and flashes his badge, tells them 'don't bother calling the cops. They're all over at Jimbo's place.'"
"Sounds relatively normal."
"Yeah, we did a lot of it in those days. But when I was asleep, it was like I was there again. I could hear everything, I could smell Janice's perfume, the cigarette smoke. I popped the top off a beer and I could feel it. Vanelli was talking to me about hockey; we were gonna play a pickup game that weekend with some of the guys, you know?"
Grissom's voice was quiet. "What happened?"
"He got shot. Yeah, we never did get to play that game."
"I'm sorry."
"I remember his funeral. It was really cold, snowing outside. He was a big guy. It took eight of us to carry his casket. His wife, Maureen, she was good friends with Janice. Turned out she'd been cheating on him. I found out afterwards - after he'd been killed." Jim took a deep breath, rested his head against Grissom's arm. "I felt really bad for him, you know, his wife cheating on him and then…"
"And then Janice did it to you."
"Yeah. Janice did it to me." Jim turned so he could see Grissom's face. "Why does it happen that way, huh?" He realized he was pressed against Grissom, in a position that, while it wasn't necessarily compromising, was certainly intimate. "Sorry." He made to move away.
"It's fine, Jim. We're just guys, talking. You know - " Grissom smiled. "Locker room stuff."
Jim nodded. "Locker room stuff."
"How are your stitches feeling?"
"Much better, thanks."
"And the tea?"
"The tea." Jim raised the cup to him. "What can I say about the tea?"
"It's horrible, isn't it?" Grissom tried to hold back his mirth, and failed. "Sorry."
"Stop making me laugh," Jim gasped, "You're gonna bust my damn stitches."
He looked at Grissom. "I...uh, I need to..." He ducked his head, suddenly suffused with shame. “I'd like to take a shower."
"Would you like me to help you?"
Jim glanced up at him, then away again. "Just getting in and out, you know?"
Grissom nodded. "Of course. Whatever you need." He followed Jim into the bathroom, acutely conscious of the way his own body existed in space, each finite movement of his arms and legs. He wanted this to go right. He didn't want to embarrass Jim, or hurt him - he'd already been hurt enough to last him for a lifetime. He tactfully turned his back while Jim got undressed, occupied himself with the water temperature.
"Gil." Jim sounded exasperated. "I can't get this damn sweatshirt off." He'd somehow managed to get it over his head but his muscles were too sore around his incision for him to completely remove the garment.
"Let me help you with that," Grissom said. He eased Jim's arm away from his side and slipped the sweatshirt off. He taped some plastic wrap over the incision with duct tape. "Hardly glamorous, but at least you won't get the incision wet. Why don't you hop in and I'll get some towels, okay?"
He tried not to stare at the scars that pockmarked Jim's body, but his scientist's mind had already seen and catalogued them before his conscience could halt the invasive inventory: gun shot wounds, stabbing, cuts and gouges, the uncertain ricochet of a life lived in the face of danger. People didn't understand. People who didn't work the streets to keep other people safe, people who didn't walk a beat or carry a gun or go running into danger when everybody else was running out - they didn't understand the sacrifices men like Jim had made for them. There was a song that Grissom liked; it always reminded him of Jim, whenever he heard it: 'You can all sleep sound tonight/I'm not crazy, or anything.' How many more chances did Jim have, before his luck finally ran out? The precinct wall was spangled with the badges of those who hadn't made it, whose sacrifice was proclaimed in heroic language: Those Who Lost Their Lives In The Line Of Duty. Just words, that's all it was - it said nothing about a man like Jim.
"I think I'm okay here," Jim said. He was huddled naked in front of the shower curtain; Grissom held out his arm for Jim to lean on, supporting him as he stepped into the warm spray. He pulled the curtain and left Jim in privacy.
"I'll just be out here," Grissom said. "Call if you need me, okay?"
"Uh, Gil?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm having trouble here."
Grissom pulled the curtain and peered in: Jim held a shampoo bottle in one hand; the other was held protectively against his side, close to the incision. "I can't do this."
Grissom considered for half a second. "I'm coming in there." He saw Jim's skeptical expression and shrugged. "Locker room stuff, right? Just us guys."
Jim nodded. "Locker room stuff, yeah."
Grissom stripped naked and stepped into the warm spray. Some part of him - the sensible, logical part of him - was jabbering away madly in the back of his brain. 'He's naked and you're naked and there's water and who knows what could happen?' He did his best to ignore it. "Lean back," Grissom said. He shivered as Jim's naked back pressed into his chest; it had been so long since he'd been touched by anybody, for any reason, and Jim was warm and pliable and here. He poured some shampoo into his palms and massaged it through Jim's hair, rubbing in gentle circles, reaching down to squeeze the muscles at the back of Jim's neck.
"You know, if being a CSI doesn't work out for you--"
"Don't even say it," Grissom warned. He guided Jim to the shower spray and rinsed his hair, then rubbed some soap onto a washcloth and gave the detective's skin a thorough once-over. He forced himself to remain practical and business-like, but privately he wondered how the hell nurses did this sort of thing day in and day out. 'Nurses don't get naked with their patients.' He wished the nasty voice in his head would die a painful, flaming death. He shut off the water and wrapped himself in a towel, then helped Jim step out of the tub. Grissom chafed the detective with a thick bath towel, then wrapped him in his bathrobe before herding him into the bedroom.
"That wasn't so bad," Jim said.
"Fine," Grissom replied. He buried his embarrassment in the chest of drawers, pulling out clean socks and underwear and a pair of sweats for Jim.
"Hey, Gil, I'm gonna freeze to death over here. Come on." Jim was smiling. "Can I have some clothes?"
Grissom felt hot colour mount into his cheeks. "I'm really sorry, Jim. Maybe I should call an agency, get them to send someone over. I'm probably not the right person--" He dried off at super speed and threw his clothes back on; his wet hair would have to wait.
"Gil."
"Yes?"
"Shut up. And gimme my clothes."
Grissom helped Jim get dressed and tucked him under the covers again, just as the doorbell rang. "That's probably David." "Hey, Gil?" Jim gazed at him, his soul in his eyes. "Thanks.
That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Grissom was suddenly ashamed of himself. "You're welcome." He went to let David in; the young doctor was apologetic that he'd taken so long. "It's okay," Grissom said. "He seems to be doing a bit better. He's had a shower and something to eat - well, soup. He had soup."
"I see." David's gaze traveled to Grissom's wet hair. "A shower is always good."
"This isn't what it looks like," Grissom said.
"That’s a real shame," David replied, and fled into the bedroom.
Grissom was pretending interest in some local cable channel when David reappeared. "How is he?"
"It’s like I told you - psychological," David said, smiling as he zippered up his coat. "You know, just your being here really is helping him. Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks, David." Grissom's throat suddenly felt thick: there was so much kindness, so much good will. He saw the young doctor out, and then went through the house, turning off the lights and shutting everything down. It felt strange to be tired at night, he was usually working, but it was a good sort of tiredness, a fatigue coupled with contentment.
Jim was lying on his side on the bed, drowsing with a blanket over him. He turned when he felt the mattress compress.
"David's gone?"
"He is." Grissom couldn't resist; he reached out and stroked his finger along Jim's cheek. "I don't understand what's happening," he said frankly. "I've never been in this situation before."
"Hey, it isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill for me either." Jim rolled onto his back and smiled sleepily at Gil.
"What are we doing?" Grissom asked. "Here, now? What's this all about?"
"You know something?"
"What?"
"You talk too damn much." Jim reached out, trailed his fingers over Grissom's face. His touch lingered on Grissom's mouth, the tip of his nose, the cleft in his chin. The feeling was electric, it ignited heat in the base of Grissom's belly, but the touching wasn't enough. He wanted more. He turned his face into Jim's hand and kissed the detective's palm. Jim's eyes burned into his, the pupils dilated.
"You better kiss me," Jim said. "Past that, I can't guarantee you anything."
It was the ragged need in Jim's voice that finally undid Grissom's resolve. He clasped Jim's face between his palms and kissed him, and the banked fire that burned at the base of his belly flared up, threatening to consume him. He was so afraid - so desperately afraid, terrified that he was making a mistake - but Jim was with him, Jim was holding him, and Jim's mouth was liquid heat.
"I wish..." Jim's hand curled around the back of Gil's neck. "I wish I could..."
"We don't have to do anything," Gil said. He kissed Jim gently. "We don't have to do anything more than what we're doing right now."
"Where'd you come from, huh?" Jim snuggled into Grissom's embrace. "Where've you been all my life?"
Grissom kissed Jim's forehead, his eyelids, the corners of his mouth, but Jim was drifting, so Grissom contented himself with holding Jim, and murmuring him into sleep.
To be continued...