Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Chapter Six: The Cultured Caveman
Characters: Gil Grissom, Greg Sanders, Nick Stokes
Rating: FRAO
Warnings: None
Summary: In which there are worse things than Fraggles
Gil says, "Leave Ecklie and the others up to me."
They're on the sidewalk in front of Greg's apartment building, next to Gil's car which is lopsidedly parked. Greg has his hands stuffed in his pockets and from where Gil is standing it looks like he's trying to keep them from shaking. He doesn't want to think about that, though, because it's the kind of thing that a boss notices and comments on, and he doesn't want to feel like a boss.
Only... the person you're dating would notice something like that, too, right? Dammit, he needs a rule book for this. There's a reason he's never dated anyone he works with.
"You okay?"
He brings his attention back to the moment, to Greg standing with his fists crammed in his jacket a couple feet from him.
He smiles. "Yes," he says. "You?"
Greg shrugs with one shoulder. "A little weirded out," he admits.
"Oh?" It's almost noon and there are people on the sidewalk around them, people in business suits going for lunch and kids with backpacks ditching their classes in favour of the video arcade down on the corner.
Gil watches them move around him and Greg, and decides that nobody is listening to anything that either of them is saying. They have all the effect of a lamppost on the world at large. "We don't actually have to be dating, Greg," he says.
Greg's eyebrows reach for the sky again. "What?" he says. "No, I-" He shakes his head once, sharply. "I want to be dating you. I really, really, really want to be dating you."
That sounds good to Gil, but he manages not to let his stupid sodden grin show on his face. "Greg, I understand," he says. "There's an age difference, we work together, you and Nick-"
"Nick," Greg interrupts, "is a non-issue. That we work together is also a non-issue. I don't see you all that often anyway, so... whatever. And the age difference? Definitely not a turn-off, okay?"
Another little thrill manifests itself along Gil's spine, but he ignores it. Well, tries to ignore it inasmuch as it's wrapped around his brain stem and trying to strangle him. He swallows. "Okay," he says. "Then what?"
"I've never been ambushed by the fact that I'm dating someone," Greg says. "It's usually, hey I kinda dig you, you kinda dig me, wanna get a drink? Only this time it's, hey I'm pathetic, you've just seen me at my worst, Hodges is a meddling prick, have another shot with your breakfast, and by the way we're dating." He shrugs again, both shoulders this time. "Weirds me out a little."
"Oh." Gil watches the movement of Greg's hands in his pockets, clenching and unclenching. "Greg, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." A little too quickly?
"You seem a little - wound up."
"I'm resisting the urge to knock you out and drag you back to my cave," Greg says simply.
Gil's brain short-circuits right about then, and it's a heartbeat or two before he has control over his mouth again. "Oh," he says weakly, and then, "You wouldn't actually have to knock me out."
Greg's turn to blink out for a moment, and there's a protracted silence in which neither of them can hear the traffic or the pedestrians or the indignant squawk of a guilty cat. "Cool," he says when he recovers, licks his lips and says as casually as he can, "so you wanna come up?"
That thunk is Gil's heart hammering to a sudden stop and then starting again. "I'd love to," he says.
Gil hasn't seen Greg's apartment since it was a disaster, and he allows himself to be momentarily distracted from Greg's presence by the cleaned and rearranged living room.
"Looks good," he says.
"It was cathartic," Greg explains, and takes a nervous step towards him. His hands have come out of their pockets but they're still in fists and they still seem to be shaking, and Gil can't quite stop himself from reaching out and taking hold of them.
"Are you sure-" he asks.
Greg rolls his eyes. "Yes," he says emphatically, "yes and yes again. Jesus."
Gil is surprised when Greg leans in without warning and kisses him, and it takes him a moment to respond. It's been a hell of a long time since he's kissed another man - hell, it's been an embarassingly long time since he's kissed anyone - and he hopes briefly that he hasn't forgotten what to do.
For an instant it seems like maybe he has, because this kiss just isn't doing anything for him. He would have thought that something would click when their lips met, and then he has the sad thought that maybe Allan back in college was a fluke and he isn't really interested in men at all.
But then Greg extracts his hands from Gil's and slides his arms around his waist, changes the angle of his head by about point-zero-zero-three of a degree, and everything falls into place. Gil feels a tingling shoot across his shoulder blades and down his back, and he thinks, Like HELL Allan was a fluke. This is what he wants, this is what he's always wanted and that girl he dated for a while - she was the fluke, the statistical anomaly. Because nothing with her, literally nothing, felt anywhere near as alive as this does.
His own hands come up around Greg's back, and they pull him in closer until their bodies are touching head-to-toe, almost, and then one hand climbs up to the back of his neck and draws his head in closer while the other hand drops to the waist of his jeans and settles there.
Greg groans into his mouth and turns his head away, lets his lips find a happy spot along Gil's jawline and kisses him there, and pushes his hips against Gil's body.
Ohhhhh... Gil closes his eyes and pulls Greg in tighter. Bodies touching isn't enough, he thinks wildly, bodies rubbing would be better but bodies naked... He shudders, works his fingers between the denim and Greg's skin and lets his hand sink further down. Fuck, he thinks, I could almost come from this alone.
So can Greg, by the sound of it, because Greg is not quiet. No, Greg is displaying his full range of non-verbal noises, and each and every one of them goes straight to Gil's groin and diverts even more blood from returning to his brain.
He manages, through a supreme act of Herculean strength, to make his body stop when he realizes that he's grinding mindlessly against Greg and about fifteen seconds from passing out. "Wait," he gasps, and realizes with a tremendous rush that Greg has both of his hands down the back of Gil's slacks, "hang on-"
Greg grumbles something obscene and forces his mouth off Gil's skin. "What?" he asks, and even the breathless tone of voice he has is like a spike through Gil's stomach.
"Not - here," Gil says lamely. "Not against the wall in your living room."
Greg grins and it's a slightly scary grin, and he kisses his neck again and pulls back.
Gil immediately regrets having said anything because now they're not touching and there's no way that's a good thing, is there?
But Greg grabs his hands and pulls him away from the wall, pulls him through a door and into the bedroom, and Gil has to admit that it's a strategically good move because there's a bed in there.
Greg drops his hands long enough to whip his shirt over his head and he stands there, half-naked in front of Gil, still grinning in a vaguely predatory way.
Which should in no way, shape or form make Gil any harder than he already is.
Gil's hands are shaking, too, when Greg's fingers drop to his belt and it's not fair that Greg's fingers are perfectly calm now, perfectly steady as he strips himself, and it's all Gil can do to not launch himself at him with his teeth bared.
Greg gets his fly undone and then stops, cocks his head to one side and raises and eyebrow. "Tit for tat, here," he says teasingly.
Huh? Oh, right. Gil is still dressed. He tries to remedy the situation, tries to rid himself of his clothes by the most expedient route, but he has trouble with the buttons on his shirt and it goes rather sharply downhill from there.
Greg laughs at him, a deep-chested laugh that makes Gil's knees lock. "Need a little help?" he asks.
Gil nods dumbly.
Greg laughs again and Gil's semi-coherent thought is what an amazing sound that is, and then Greg's hands are moving over him, touching and stroking and somehow - in a feat of co-ordination that staggers Gil's shattered mind - manages to work his shirt off and let it slide to the floor, and his fingers settle over the fly of his slacks.
Gil is dimly aware that Greg is like a bronze god and that his own body is approaching fifty and not afraid to show it - a sedentary fifty, at that - but Greg either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He leans in and kisses Gil again quickly, a searing touch of lips to the corner of his mouth that is too fleeting to respond to, and what Gil can see out of his half-shuttered eyes is something approaching bliss on Greg's face.
"Fuck," Greg mumbles in something between ecstasy and misery, leaning in for another kiss at the exact same moment that his hand slides in under the elastic of Gil's boxers and touches him.
Gil says something guttural and knows that he either does something now or he does nothing at all for the next several minutes, so he prods Greg in the direction of the bed and follows him. Two and a half steps later Greg drops onto the mattress and Gil tumbles after him, and before he can even figure out whose legs are whose, Greg has climbed on top of him and is kissing the oxygen right out of his lungs.
He submits to it long enough to remember how his arms work, and then he sneaks his hands up the length of Greg's back to his shoulders, and lets his fingernails negotiate the return path.
Greg breaks the kiss and arches into the touch, a look of - of something that Gil can't place etched on his face and he makes a noise that is suspiciously close to a purr.
"Tell me what you want," Gil asks, amazed at how deep his voice has become, how shaky it is around the edges and how desperate he sounds.
Greg makes a half-choking sound and brings Gil's hands around to his front, to rest against the skin just under his bellybutton. "Anything," he moans, leaning into the touch, bending over to kiss him again, "anything, but-"
Gil returns the kiss but deflects the next one. "Anything but what?" he asks.
Greg attaches his lips to his collarbone and shakes his head.
Gil groans and can't quite stop his hips from bucking. "Greg," he says, "tell me what - anything you want, but you have to tell me-"
Greg raises his head and Gil is amazed at the emotion in his eyes, at the lust and the need, yes, but at the sad hopefulness there, too. "Anything," Greg mumbles, "just face-to-face..."
Gil has a horrible flash of what Nick must have been like, pieced together from the little Greg has told him and from the snippets he's caught flying like sparks between the lab techs. He hates the thought that someone had access to this body - to this amazing person and everything that went with it - and didn't celebrate it every goddamn millimetre of it.
He pulls Greg down for a kiss, and Gil is slightly shocked at how possessive and protective he is all of a sudden. He's determined to undo whatever Nick has done to him, to wipe it clean and start anew.
He rolls them over and kisses down Greg's chest and when he reaches his waist he pulls his jeans down, scoots out of the way just enough to pull them free of his feet and then he settles between his legs again, kisses the insides of his thighs and touches his lips to the tip of Greg's cock.
Greg groans somewhere above him, groans and whimpers and Gil touches him again and lets his lips open a bit, and Greg groans again and whimpers and lifts his hips off the bed when Gil takes him in mouth, gently, hums around it for a few moments until Greg jerks his hips again, and then Gil lifts his head.
"You okay?" he asks.
Greg groans again, and Gil sees that his hands are fisting the bedspread and his eyes are tightly closed and he's got his lower lip caught between his teeth, and Gil thinks he's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.
He kisses his way back up his body, lowers himself to the mattress to his side with one leg draped over him, kisses the juncture of his shoulder and his neck, kisses the line of his jaw, tilts his head towards him to kiss the edge of his lips, and whispers, "Open your eyes, Greg."
Greg complies, a slow unveiling of eyes that are more alive than Gil has seen in a long time, and he smiles.
Something in Gil's chest lurches painfully, and he touches the side of his face as tenderly as he can, kisses him lightly and promises, "Face-to-face, Greg."
Greg makes another sound and rolls towards him, pushes Gil's slacks and shorts far enough down that his erection is free of its confines, and he angles himself so that they're touching, sliding against each other in slow, silken torture.
Gil hisses at the maddening sensation, pulls Greg as close as possible and kisses him, rolls onto his back and lets both hands find their way to the beautiful curve of Greg's ass. He wants to tell Greg how amazing this is, how much he wants it to last forever and how badly he needs to feel Greg's orgasm, but he can't find the words.
Greg rocks experimentally a couple of times, finds a rhythm he likes and snakes a hand between them. "Is this okay?" he asks breathlessly.
Gil shudders and nods and pulls him in tighter and feels his breath ripped from his body as Greg speeds up, wishes he knew what had happened to his voice and then suddenly he doesn't care anymore because there are much, much better things than talking and Gil feels his whole body tense around one point, where Greg is holding him and the entire universe is condensed to that one point of unimaginable pleasure-
He comes hard, and feels Greg coming with him, and it seems to take forever and Gil wishes it would take longer and when it's over, when Greg collapses against him and tries to catch his breath, Gil feels a beautiful calm settle over him.
He lets one hand wander to the back of Greg's neck and he strokes him languidly, from spine to shoulder and back again, and he smiles when he feels Greg's heartbeat slip into synch with his motion, and he feels an overwhelming urge to hug him as tightly as he can, so he does.
Greg returns the hug and then shifts to the side and half sits up, and Gil is sure that his own face is matching Greg's in terms of soppy satiation. "Been too long," Greg mumbles and smiles at Gil. "Thank you."
Gil tries to move but can't quite find the energy yet, so he stays where he is, looking up at Greg at a slightly awkward angle. "I should be thanking you, Greg," he says, stunned that he's able to speak so normally on such short notice, "if we're going to talk about how long it's been."
Greg grins and drops his head down to kiss him quickly. "Mutual appreciation society," he murmurs, and relaxes against Gil's body.
Gil smiles stupidly at the ceiling. "Is there a membership card for that, too?"
"So, just the Muppets," Greg asks, "or the Fraggles, too?" They're crammed into the corner of Greg's kitchen where his tiny table is set up, dragging spoons across the top of a slowly-melting bucket of ice cream.
Eventually Gil's arm started going to sleep where Greg was resting on it, and the zipper of Gil's slacks was biting into Greg's thigh, and they started to get itchy and restless and hungry. Greg gallantly let Gil take the first shower but joined him after about three minutes, and when they emerged they were breathless and shivering and it was going to be a couple of hours before there was any hot water in Greg's apartment again.
"Mostly the Muppets," Gil says after a thoughtful pause, "but the Fraggles had their own style."
"Hm." Greg licks the back of his spoon and peers into the bucket. He had forgotten he had ice cream until an examination of his fridge told him he needed to go shopping. He likes eating ice cream this way, thinks bowls are for wusses, and that Gil feels the same way, too, is a delightful gift.
"I mean," Gil says, drawing an illustrative shape of some kind in the air with his spoon, "the magic thing about the Muppet Show was the guests. They had the most amazing people, and had them doing the strangest things..."
"Paul Simon," Greg agrees with a nod. "John Cleese."
"Exactly."
"I never really liked the Fraggles," Greg says, watching Gil's spoon disappear into his mouth and trying not to lose his train of thought. "Well, actually, I was kind of scared of them."
Gil raises his eyebrows and sucks on his spoon.
"There was this hole in the wall under my bed," Greg explains, "and I was sure it was a Fraggle hole and that they were going to come out and get me."
Gil laughs. "They weren't inherently creepy things, Fraggles," he says skeptically.
Greg shrugs. "I was a kid," he says. "Kids are freaked out by strange things."
"That's true," Gil says, and leans forward. "When I was a kid, I was afraid of spiders."
There's a stunned moment of silence. "You're kidding, right?" Greg finally asks.
"No." Gil grins. "They scared the daylights out of me. But my mother wouldn't let me be afraid of them without understanding them, so I started studying them." He shrugs. "And I wasn't afraid of them anymore."
"How old were you?"
"Five."
Greg shakes his head. "When I was five," he says, "I was afraid of the kid up the street so my mother told me to avoid him."
"Bully?" Gil asks.
"Teenager," Greg says. "I don't think he even knew I existed, but he terrified me."
"I have a hard time imagining you being scared of anything," Gil says thoughtfully.
"I'm not really," Greg says, "not anymore." He grins. "But I had one hell of an avoidance mechanism until I was a teenager."
"Modesto?" Gil asks.
"San Gabriel."
"Ah. I've never been."
"You should go," Greg tells him, and then says casually, "We could go together, sometime."
He watches Gil think about it, watches him turn the idea over in his head and wonders if he should have kept his mouth shut. He knows that Gil isn't going to turn into another Nick - he's known it long before he actually knew it - but that doesn't mean he should push his luck. Not this soon, not when they've only been officially 'dating' unofficially for a couple of days. Or a couple of hours, maybe, depending on who you listen to at the lab.
But he knows that Gil is who he's been waiting for for a long time now, since long before Nick condescended to let him into his bed, and he knows that he might as well lay all his cards on the table up front, because he doesn't want to waste another year on miscommunication.
After an interminable few seconds, Gil smiles and says, "Yeah. We should."
And Greg starts to breathe again.