Title: Illusions 3: The Best Trick
Author: Knightmusic
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gil/Jim
Summary: In the aftermath of "Smoke and Mirrors," all Gil wants is for life to return to normal. But that's not as simple as it sounds, and may not be what he really wants anyway.
Author's Note/Warnings: I shall be forever grateful to faeryfroggy for being my beta and test-subject, to laurelgardner for helping me talk this out, and to yoru_no_tori for pointing out my typos and allowing me use of her name. Which, incidentally is prononced with an "a" like "Car," not an "a" like "Care."
Disclaimer: I don't even have dreams where I own CSI. I'm way too in touch with reality.
Previous parts are: Part One: Smoke and Mirrors
Part Two: Sleight of Hand

The night before his mother left to go back to Venice, Catherine came by to take them to dinner. He opened the door, more than a little surprised. He didn't often see her dressed that way.

"You look…nice," he said. She laughed in the way that meant she appreciated his attempt.

"Well, thank you Gil," she said, and cast a critical eye over his clothing. "You….don't," she said, finally, but she said it with affection, the smile still on her face, and lighting her eyes. She stepped inside and gave him a gentle shove down the hall towards his bedroom.

"Go get a jacket," she said. He looked at her in puzzlement. "This place has a dress code, Gil," she laughed, clearly enjoying the hard time she was giving him.

"Oh," said Gil. Dress code. Right. He quickly retrieved one of his nicer sport coats and a tie for good measure. "Better?" he asked, coming back to the living room.

"Much," Catherine said. His mother was waiting with Catherine by the door, wearing a very elegant new dress he'd watched her pick out a few days ago.

"Well good," he said, going over to the door and opening it. "I wouldn't want be outclassed tonight," he said with an impudent smirk at Catherine. She snorted.

"Like you have a prayer," she said.

"Ladies," he said, biting on his lip and just barely keeping the laugh contained. He gestured for Catherine and his mother to precede him out the door.

He didn't recognize the restaurant Catherine had chosen, but he'd been right to add the tie. In fact, he wouldn't have looked out of place in a suit. And yet, for the formality, it managed to feel unpretentious. And the music was quite enjoyable. He listened carefully to the tenor voice, trying to identify the singer, or the recording, before realizing that it was, in fact, a live performance. An in-house tenor. It surprised him that Catherine had chosen this place. It seemed a little high-brow for her, but he knew better than to ever say so.

"Had a date take me here once," she said as they sat down. "We…" she started, squinting at the memory, and looking like she was searching for something tactful to say. "We didn't connect," she said, finally. "But I thought you'd like it, Gil."

"I do," he said. "Thank you."

Catherine, being equal parts a concerned friend, professional observer and mother herself, kept sending him covert glances throughout the evening. Although Gil did have to admit to being impressed; he was halfway through his entrée before he'd even noticed it.

She covered well; laughing and drinking, alternating between teasing him and relaying stories from the lab. But now that he was aware of it, he could practically hear her critical assessment she of him, and he wondered how long it would be until she tried to draw him out.

Not letting his own cheerful front falter for a moment, he sighed inwardly. All he wanted was for this ugly incident to go away; to fade into memory like everything else. He didn't want it burdening anyone he cared about.

"…and almost blew up the whole house?"

He'd been tuning out the conversation between his mother and Catherine for awhile, but some things had a way of leaping out of context and grabbing your attention by the throat. Between Catherine's question and his mother's answering laugh, Gil could feel the bruising around his neck.

He looked at his mother, who was grinning at him in a way that promised an embarrassing story from his youth would be forthcoming. He shrugged, not seeing any reason to stop her. He'd already told Catherine about the incident with his chemistry set, anyway.

"What made you let a six year old have a chemistry set, anyway?" Catherine asked, touching Caryn's hand to get her attention. Caryn rolled her eyes.

"He begged me for months," she said. "Stubborn child," she said, fondly. Catherine snorted a laugh.

"I can't imagine," she murmured into her wine glass, glancing at Gil. She laughed then, too, eyes sparkling and cheeks a little pinker than usual. Gil wondered how much she'd had to drink.

"I finally gave in," his mother continued, her own eyes flashing now. "It didn't look like anything he could cause too much trouble with."

"It was just a toy," Gil offered. "It would make liquids turn different colors. That's about it."

"So you went looking for trouble," Caryn accused, teasingly, and then turned back to Catherine. "I was upstairs, reading, and I didn't have the faintest idea anything had gone wrong."

If he had been a more devious child, he might have tried to hide the evidence and pretend it had never happened. But just because his mother hadn't heard the explosion didn't mean she wouldn't find out eventually. He'd been very young when he'd learned that it was far better to fess up immediately than let her find out on her own.

"I do remember smelling something," Caryn continued. "He came upstairs - smoking, stains and burns on his shirt, with no eyebrows - and waited for me to notice him and put my book down. And guess what he said." Catherine shrugged, looking eager to hear the end of this.

"He said, ‘I burned my shirt, mom. I'm sorry.'" Catherine was silent for a second, then turned to Gil, blinking in utter confusion.

"We had a rule," Gil explained. "I was supposed to change out of my school clothes before playing with the set. I didn't." Catherine blinked two more times and then started laughing.

"How did you do it, Gil?" she asked. "A kid's chem lab?"

Gil shrugged, considering. "Well, once I had exhausted it's intended capabilities, I went searching for other chemicals for my experiments."

"I found every cleanser I owned down there," Caryn added. "And a few things from our garage, too."

"What did you put in there?" Catherine asked, barely able to speak.

"I have no idea," Gil said, calm, but wearing a smirk of his own. "My notes were consumed in the explosion."

After that, the mood stayed light for the rest of the evening. If Catherine was still playing at being a covert mother hen, he didn't notice it. But back at his townhouse, she said goodbye to Gil's mother and wished her a pleasant flight before pulling Gil aside.

She opened the passenger door of her car, and pulled something out. "Here," she said. It was a manila envelope. "It's the, your, case file," she said, handing it to him.

"I still don't know how it'll help," she said. "But I hope it does." She looked at him for a while, studying his face, concentrating, looking for something. He turned away, slightly uncomfortable at being scrutinized like that.

"Thanks, Cath," he said. And she half-smiled.

"Hey," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Anything I can do, remember?" He looked back. She was smiling, trying to downplay her concern and lighten the situation for both of them. He almost wished she was still teasing him.

"I'm fine, Cath. Really," he said. "Just-" she perked up at the opening of his request. "Just tell everyone I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" And she deflated a little, but didn't lose the smile.

"I will," she said, and pulled him into a short, gentle hug. "And call me, okay? If you need anything."

He wasn't used to this kind of attention, in any dosage, let alone this much, but found he didn't mind it as much as he would have thought. "I will," he promised.

* * *

For all that he'd been sleeping fitfully lately, this was the first time he'd been struck with true insomnia. He turned over to look at his clock, and wondered how the hell he could have been laying there for four hours unable to fall asleep. He felt no sense of anxiety, and he hadn't had the chance to suffer from nightmares. It felt more like something was missing, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

He finally gave up on the idea of sleep, got up, grabbed a robe and headed out into his living room. There was little danger of waking his mother, but still, habit had him moving not only without sound, but causing minimum vibration. He'd refined the technique during his teenage years to avoid alerting her, and had maintained it ever since, causing him to scare the wits out of his colleagues with his sudden appearances, and allowing him a slightly perverse pleasure doing so.

There was nothing even remotely engaging on TV at three AM, but meaningless background noise appealed to him, so he flipped the set on, and found something marginally inoffensive. He wandered around aimlessly, finding himself in his kitchen but not wanting anything in his fridge, and finally sat down on his couch with Anansi, the red-baboon tarantula, crawling over his hands.

He lifted her in front of her face, studying the slow movements of her legs. Holding a tarantula could be just as therapeutic for his blood pressure as petting a cat. He loved the look most people got on their faces when he said that.

Part of him wanted to look over the file Catherine had given him. He hated leaving matters unresolved. It made him feel jumpy and anxious, and he knew, just knew, that once he turned an official eye on his recent experiences, gained some kind of professional perspective, that the horror would fade, and he'd be back to one hundred percent in no time.

But he had hidden the file away as soon as she'd left. It was going to stay where it was until his mother had gone home, because the truth had nearly made Jim sick Even if a sterile case file lacked the brutal, technicolor details of his memory, it was more than he wanted her to know. He knew she wouldn't pry; he could leave it sitting open on his desk and she'd leave it alone unless he said otherwise, but he'd prefer for it not to become an issue.

Anansi started crawling up his arm. He let her get a little past his elbow before gently picking her up and moving her back down.

Most people had the blessed luxury of believing that things like what Zephyr had done only happened in fiction. He wasn't going to disavow his mother of that perception.

At least his talk with Jim had done some good. He no longer felt that the memories were fermenting inside him; boiling and waiting to break him apart. Now, there was only an empty, tired feeling where that anxiety had lain. He felt a dry sense of irony that it had taken Jim one evening and a few drinks to accomplish what Dr. Kane still hadn't managed. Oh, he had told Kane the truth, of course, told him what had happened, just as he'd been required to do. But there was the truth, and then there was honesty.

He heard a door open down the hall, and then footsteps. He waited, watching Anansi crawl endlessly over one hand then the other, until his mother appeared in the living room.

She wore her hair much longer than most other women her age, and often pulled it back in braids or twists. Gil didn't often see it like this; snow white, falling past her shoulders and, when coupled with that dark satin robe, making her look a little like a sorceress. With bare feet. A homebody sorceress, maybe.

She sat down on a chair in front of him, and watched his tarantula wander over his hands. He'd long ago lost the ability to creep her out with his insect hobby; she'd gotten used to it quickly, even if she didn't like touching them. And he'd learned at a young age why it was not advisable to put one on her back or in her hair when she wasn't expecting it. Still, her reaction had almost been worth the retribution. Almost.

"Something wrong?" she asked with her hands after long moments had stretched by. Gil shook his head, then placed Anansi on his shoulder, because he didn't feel like speaking, and one couldn't sign with a handful of tarantula.

"Can't sleep. You don't need to worry."

She studied his face, brow furrowed as she tried to read his mood and the truth in his claim. Finally, she relaxed and gave the tiniest nod.

"I think I believe that," she said, and smiled. "You've been better these last days. Since you talked to Jim." If she had thought there was anything odd about getting up in the morning to find that Jim Brass had spent the night, she hadn't said anything. But she did cock her head to one side, and toss him an inquisitory eyebrow raise. He didn't react, just mirrored the expression, and she let it go, laughing softly.

"You've got good people. Like Jim," she continued. "And Catherine," she added after a very brief pause. Gil nodded.

"You should get some sleep," he said, and she laughed at him.

"No. I'll miss my last chance to talk to my son before I leave tomorrow."

"Is this the part where you complain that I don't call, write, or visit enough?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, and affecting an exaggeratedly contrite expression. She was laughing before he'd finished signing.

"Shame on you," she said, giving the back of his hand a light slap. "Don't make fun of your mother like that. I think I'm very understanding."

"Oh?"

"Absolutely. I forgive you for not calling." It was impressive that she could keep such an imperious expression while being so absurd. But her eyes gave her away just the slightest.

Gil shook his head. "Truly your grace knows no bounds," he said.

"Don't forget it," she answered, with a curt nod of her head. "And I've never once pestered you about grandchildren, either." She winked at him. "Unlike most mothers."

"And how glad I am that you aren't," Gil said, and was rewarded with a very warm smile. He didn't know why they always favored this indirect method of sharing affection, but it was so ingrained now, that he wondered if he wouldn't entirely miss her meaning if it were delivered any other way.

"Not that I don't recommend children," she added. "But then again, you've already got a whole lab full of them." The way she looked at him, so confident in her assessment caused a slight heat of embarrassment. It certainly wasn't the first time someone had used paternal terms to describe his relationship with his team, and it wasn't as though he hadn't felt that way himself, but it still felt peculiar to have is stated so boldly.

"Cut you and you bleed CSI, don't you?" she said, grinning fondly. "And I don't mean science." He looked away, hiding his private smile. She reached out and chaffed his shoulder, the one without the tarantula, before standing up.

"I think I will go back to bed," she said. "But some motherly advice first." He looked at her, eyes wide with intrigue. She was grinning in a way that puzzled him. "Don't take overlook something just because you see it all the time."

He blinked at her. "What?" She stopped midway through turning, and smirked at him.

"I thought you liked riddles," she said. "Just remember; if you can never have children, that's fine with me. Good night."

He was still puzzled. Too puzzled to wish her a good night in return, although she didn't seem to be expecting it. He didn't move from his position on the sofa until long after she'd gone back into her room and closed the door. And when he did move, it wasn't because he'd worked out her meaning. It was because Anansi was tickling his neck.

* * *

No.

This wasn't right.

Grissom leafed through the pages of the file again, certain that he'd missed something. But he hadn't. He'd read it all; everything Catherine had collected, all her photos, his statement, everything following protocol to the letter. All the facts corroborated with his memory.

So why did it feel so foreign?

He dropped the file onto the coffee table, and leaned back on his sofa. Pictures of his prison sat, loose, on the top page. Not even those looked right. They were external shots, and as it turned out the walls had been one-way mirrors. From the outside, the box looked like a glass case, displaying a sculpted tree. It was almost beautiful.

A sudden realization of how foolish he'd been struck him, and he sighed, feeling his spirits sink a little more. There was no quick fix for something like this. He knew that. He'd said as much to other people when they'd needed to hear it.

But somehow, he'd thought it didn't apply to him. Somehow, he'd thought he could force his mind and his emotions to obey rules that he wanted to apply. But it didn't matter how many times he told himself that it was over, and life was going on. Every time he closed his eyes, it could come back, and it didn't matter how long he'd been safe.

He picked up the remote from the coffee table and nudged the volume on his stereo up a little more. Extra stimulus would distract his mind a little. That was some comfort.

But he didn't listen long. Someone knocked on his door, and when he opened it, Jim Brass was standing there. He said something, but the music was just a little too loud. He ushered Jim in and turned it down.

"Sorry to interrupt your Beethoven," Jim said.

"Strauss," Gil corrected, softly, automatically. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. But I thought you might like some company," he continued. Gil glanced at the clock.

"Do you have time for that?"

"It's my night off, Gil."

"Oh," Gil said. "I'm really fine, Jim."

"Never said you weren't," Jim said, heading over to the sofa and sitting down. "I said I thought you'd like some company." He glanced at the file folder, and flipped through it. "Somehow I think I'm right," he added with a stern, knowing glance at Gil. Gil sighed.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Only if you're indulging."

Since it gave him something to do, he poured two glasses of scotch and brought them back into his living room. He handed one to Jim, who set it down without looking at it, and took a seat on the sofa.

"So," Jim said, leaning back and looking at Gil. "Did it help?" He nodded at the case file. Gil considered lying. Or at the very least, dodging the question, or telling Jim it wasn't any of his business.

"No," he said. "I don't know why I expected it to."

"Everyone looks for closure in different ways," Jim said with a shrug. "Don't think I'd expect a scientist to get it right on the first try, myself." Gil laughed, humorlessly.

"'How can it be that the human mind is more than the human mind can understand?'" he asked, in a self-depreciating tone.

"Ah, don't be so hard on yourself," Jim said, and laid a hand on Gil's arm. Gil stared at it. It seemed like Jim had been doing things like that a lot lately. He'd never known him to be such a touchy-feely guy. But he didn't shake the touch away.

"So what was wrong with it?" Jim asked, picking up the file and looking over the photos.

Gil thought about it. There were a number of things that had been wrong. Not with the file, but with his plans for it. He hardly knew where to begin, so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"It's not what I remember."

Jim nodded, head bobbing from side to side as he considered that. "Yeah, I can see that," he said. Then, a little more somberly, "Especially after what you told me." He picked up his scotch and took a sip. "Is that all?" Gil shook his head.

"I don't even know," he said, helplessly. "Seeing it, like that," he gestured to file, "so succinct and sterilized makes me wonder what really happened." Jim looked at him, slight puzzlement indicating he should continue. Gil took a deep breath, pausing and considering.

"I wonder if it was as bad as I remember, or…if I let my fears influence my perceptions. If I'm still doing that." For the slightest instant, it looked like Jim was going to laugh at him, but then the expression melted into pained concern.

"Gil," he said, putting more emphasis and emotion on the word than a simple name required. He clearly didn't know what to say in response, and Gil felt his hand on the back of his neck, caressing softly, gently. When had that gotten there? He didn't take the time to wonder, because he was instantly glad of it.

"Maybe it doesn't matter," Gil considered. "Perception is reality. Three different artists, looking at the same tree will create different paintings. But they're all accurate."

"Does it actually help when you say things like that?"

"Yes," Gil said. "It helps me make sense of what I'm feeling." But even as he said it, Gil felt himself sink, and his whole world seemed to go suddenly dark.

"Oh, I know that face," Jim said, and Gil looked at him, brow furrowed. "You're upset with yourself."

Gil pulled back. "What?" he asked. But there was no denial in his voice, just honest desire for an answer. For a while, Jim didn't say anything, just sat there, studying his face. And Gil saw it the moment Jim had the answer.

"You don't like how close it was," he said. That just made Gil more puzzled than ever.

"I don't think many people would choose mortal danger as a recreational activity, Jim," he said. Jim grimaced.

"That's not what I mean. He nearly outsmarted you, didn't he?"

Gil froze.

Despite the flippant terminology, Jim's words struck him to the core. That's really what it had been about. Anyone could have their life threatened. All it took was being in the wrong place at the wrong time in the company of someone with a gun, or a knife, and an agenda.

But to be handed the means to orchestrate your own escape, and to come so close to failure anyway…. To give up before you had really even tried….

He didn't realize he was crying until he felt Jim's hand on his face. He tried to snap out of it, pull himself together, but Jim was saying reassuring things, cradling his cheek and soothing his other hand over Gil's back and shoulders. And Gil gave up.

Jim pulled him against his shoulder, and for the second time Gil felt like a small child. But at least he wasn't sobbing yet. Jim just held him, hugged him, and eventually his throat loosened enough for him to speak.

"I gave up, Jim," he whispered into Jim's shoulder. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't put the pieces together. I couldn't even move. I was lying there…waiting to die. At the end, I… I got lucky." Jim leaned back into the sofa, pulling Gil with him.

"Gil," he said, softly. "You're forgetting the most important thing." There was a pause, and he felt Jim swallow several times before he went on. "You did it. Does it matter how you got there?" Jim's voice sounded thin, and Gil lifted his head to look at him. His heart clenched.

Jim was crying too.

"Jim," he said, reaching a hand to his friend's face. "I…" Jim caught his hand before it made contact and squeezed it.

"You know how glad I am that you did?" he said, smiling awkwardly in an attempt to keep his voice under control. Gil opened his mouth, but found he didn't have an answer. Jim shook his head, making a sound that could have either been a chuckle or a sob, and pulled Gil's head back against his chest.

This should have been awkward; at least in some part. He wouldn't have expected this kind of behavior from anyone, not even Catherine. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried on someone's shoulder - baring the incident at the hospital, of course - couldn't even remember when the last time in his life such a thing would have been likely to happen.

And the even stranger thing was that he was finished crying. This still wasn't the catharsis he'd been waiting for, but it was the first step in the right direction, and he felt better than he had in days.

And yet he felt no desire to pull away from the comforting haven that Jim was still offering. In fact, he wanted to curl himself tighter into it and never leave. Jim had a hand in his hair now, not quite stroking or petting, but curled reassuringly, and his other arm had slid around Gil's waist, holding him tightly.

It occurred to Gil, hardly for the first time ever, but certainly for the first time with the kind of force that made it an epiphany and not just a realization, that Jim was an exceptional man. The kind of exceptional man that Gil had never thought he would meet.

Gil pushed himself up and away from Jim, hating the movement as he did it, and protesting loudly the part of his mind that said he had to. He was in danger of crossing some lines, here. Ones that he'd promised himself he'd never even approach.

He wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting there like that. His CD had finished, and the next one in the player, something soft and full of strings and harps, had started. His face was mostly dry, but still held the salt residue, and he wiped at the trails. He didn't look at Jim, but knew he was doing the same thing.

And now the moment was awkward. He knew he should say something to Jim; thank him for being this kind of extraordinary friend, seeing him through this, going so far beyond what was strictly necessary, but all the words he had sounded hollow and trite in his head, and he couldn't bring himself to use them.

So instead, he stood up and headed for the kitchen. Jim followed, on his feet quickly and so close behind Gil that he was practically touching him. It made Gil's heart ache. He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and offered one to Jim, who declined. Opening the bottle and taking a few long, slow sips, gave him time to consider what to do next.

"I mean it, you know," Jim said, and Gil put the water down and looked at him sharply, confused. Jim seemed to retreat a little, faced shadowed and guarded.

"I'm sorry?" Gil asked, really not sure what Jim was talking about. Jim sighed.

"I'm glad you made it," Jim said, sounding resigned. He tried a good natured chuckle, but it lacked energy, and he dropped his eyes. "It sounds ridiculous, I know," he said, shrugging. "Of course I'm glad you made it." He paused, wetting his lips and looking up. Up, but not quite at Gil; more like over Gil's left shoulder.

"The whole thing surprised me, you know?" he said. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't made it," he said in a rush, and then went on, even faster, "And I don't know what to do with myself…now that you have."

Gil stared at him, so confused now that he could hardly stay standing. Whatever Jim was trying to say, it was far too easy to impose on it what he wanted to hear. So he backed himself away, emotionally and mentally, and smiled.

"I appreciate it, Jim," he said, as kindly as he knew how. "And I don't know how to thank you," he added.

Jim made a dismissive noise. "Don't worry about it," he said, and slung an arm over Gil's shoulder. Gil steeled himself, fighting the urge to return the gesture; turn it into an embrace or something more, telling himself that this was something that friends did, and he needed to keep control of himself.

"So you feeling better?" Jim asked, chaffing Gil's shoulder.

"I am," Gil said.

"You wanna go grab some dinner and a beer?" Jim asked. "I'll buy." That sounded wonderful and horrible at the same time.

"Sure," Gil said, forcing a smile.

* * *

After that, things did go back to normal. Or at least, close enough that Grissom could convince himself that it was normal. He went back to the lab, Dr. Kane having fully signed off on his mental state, and worried briefly about how he would be treated. But no one gave the impression that he was made of glass. Instead, they smiled when they saw him. And if he was a little easily startled, they made an attempt to avoid coming up on him unannounced. He still allowed himself to feel a little annoyed at himself when that happened.

And then there was Jim. Jim who hadn't yet fallen out of these familiar, bordering on intimate, invasions into Gil's personal space and personal life. Jim, who didn't let him slip out after he finished a shift, but pulled him along for a drink, or a meal, or whatever else. Jim, who smiled bigger than anyone else when he saw Gil. Jim, who made him consider things; hope and wish in a way he'd never thought he would.

So maybe things weren't back to normal.

* * *

Jim leaned back on his bar stool and made a thoroughly disgusted noise. "You know, I never believed you actually enjoyed those things?" he said, screwing his face up. "I thought you just liked giving rookies the crawling heebie-jeebies."

Gil grinned. "That's just a pleasant side effect," he said, crunching. The end of shift today found them at Grissom's townhouse for dinner. Although Jim seemed to have suddenly and inexplicably, to Grissom's thinking, lost his appetite.

"Where did you get those, anyway?" Jim asked in a tone that said he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"While I was in the hospital," Gil said. "Warrick, Nick and Greg brought them. They're much better than flowers or balloons," he added. Jim picked up the small jar and looked at it.

"Dipping chocolate," he read. "For strawberries, nuts," he put the jar down. "Or things with endoskeletons," he finished. Gil laughed, selected another fried grasshopper from the bag and covered it in chocolate.

"Remind me to ask Greg about the Mexican market where he got these," he said. Jim made an even more disgusted face.

"No, I think I'm going to forget. In fact, I promise that I'll forget."

Gil made a smug face and popped the insect in his mouth. "Would you like something, Jim?" he asked, and Jim's eyes got big. He leaned back away from Gil, and more specifically, away from the bugs.

"I mean a drink," Gil asked, gently.

"Yeah," Jim said, relaxing a little. "Yeah, I think I would."

Gil poured the drinks, handed one to Jim, and was acutely aware of the touch of Jim's fingers when he took the glass. He looked up, and realized that Jim was much closer than he'd expected. He swallowed and put his glass down on the counter.

"Jim," he said, not looking at him. "What are we doing?"

Jim touched Gil's jaw, turning his head to look at him. "Well," Jim said, smiling wryly, "If I were twenty years younger, I'd say I was flirting." He lifted a hand to touch Gil's face, and then he wasn't just touching, but holding; cradling his jaw.

"Think that term still applies?" Jim asked. His voice sounded harsh and rough, and even though his fingers were gentle, it still felt as though they were burning Gil's skin where ever they touched.

"Yes," Gil said, barely able to speak around the thick anticipation in his throat. "Yes, I think it does."

As Jim leaned closer, Gil's eyes closed, and he instantly regretted it, because it meant he wasn't watching at the moment Jim Brass kissed him. It didn't really matter though, because feeling it was more than enough. He hadn't expected such gentleness, such acceptance. But then, he hadn't expected this at all.

As much as he was elated, relieved, and overjoyed that this was happening, he was surprised as hell. That he was, against seemingly all odds, being given the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world, left him flat on his ass; confused and motionless in the dust.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen this coming, he'd just refused to believe in what he had been looking at. All the time he'd been digging under the surface, looking for way to explain Jim's real motivations, they'd been sitting, plain as day, right in front of him. He could spend the rest of his life trying to figure out how long it had been there, and why he'd refused to see it.

Instead, he kissed Jim harder, holding his head, pulling him close, knowing that he could live in this kiss for the rest of his life and it wouldn't be enough. After all, it would seem that he had to make up for a lot of lost time.

He slid off the bar stool, suddenly feeling very dissatisfied with the empty space between them. Jim made a grunting, groaning sound when he moved, and pulled him closer, tilting Gil's head, and coaxing his mouth open. Gil sighed and slid his arms around Jim's waist, his insides doing flips and heated dances at the feel of Jim's thighs around his waist; Jim's arms around his neck

His chest felt tight, and he considered it a fifty-fifty shot whether it was because he needed to break away from the kiss and breathe, or if it was caused by something else; something stronger. He pulled back, sucking in air as fast and hard as he could, and quickly determined that the tight feeling wasn't in his lungs. In fact, it seems to be worse now that his mouth isn't touching Jim's anymore.

"Jim," he gasped, "I…" But he wasn't quite sure how to finish that sentence. There were so many things he wanted, needed to say, and most of them fell along the lines of getting Jim into his bed in a non-platonic way. So he gave up on words, and let his hands talk for him, sliding his fingers under the waistband of Jim's pants and dragging them around to the front and hovering expectantly over his fly.

"Jim," he said again, whispering the word into Jim's neck.

"Yeah," Jim answered, pushing himself off the bar stool and away from the counter. "Best idea I've heard all day," he said, grasping Gil's hand and pulling him down the hall to the bedroom.

It was a damn good thing Jim had a set agenda here, because Gil's brain was feeling an awful lot like an automatic transmission with a sticky gear shift, and really the only coherent thought he could produce at the moment was, "Yes!" But he thought it hard and loud, and said it with hands and lips when his voice didn't cooperate.

Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. But just because it wasn't frantic, half-mad groping didn't make it any less desperate; a slow boil could get to be just as hot. They knelt on the bed; their clothes coming off slowly, but not because of any sense of moderation. Once he got Jim's shirt unbuttoned, Gil was far too distracted by the span of unexplored skin in front of him to even think about the rest that was still covered.

Every one of Gil's senses was clamoring off the charts; transmitting every detail about the heat and texture of Jim's skin, the taste of his sweat, the smell of his cologne, the timbre and urgency in his voice, and the devastatingly pleasurable places on his own body that Jim was finding with hands and mouth. He felt completely overwhelmed in the best possible way.

He barely knew how they ended up lying down, finally undressed, and trying to crawl under each others' skin, but it was a wonderful, giddy, drunken feeling. He was as relaxed in mind and heart as he'd ever been, but at the same time his body was so tense he knew he would break to pieces before much longer.

It was impossible to touch each other everywhere at once, but both of them were making their best efforts to do so. They shifted, rolled, thrust, trying to fit themselves together; to meld into one being if at all possible.

When Jim's hand finally touched Gil's cock, the sensation ripped all the air from Gil's lungs, dragging shouts, moans and other noises from his vocal chords on its way out. For a second he was rendered helpless; completely captive by this achingly intimate feeling before he managed to gather his wits about him enough to do the same to Jim. Jim's reaction was remarkably similar to his own.

But now he was too wound up to think, to catalogue, to pay attention to anything at all except in the most peripheral way. And the winding continued; tighter and tighter, until Gil was shaking and shuddering, burning up even as he was shivering, until finally it was too much. There was a finite amount of strain a body could withstand, and inevitably Gil reached his, soaring on the feeling as the tension was finally released.

And somewhere along the way, he lost all sense of where he ended and Jim began. Maybe the did manage to meld into each other, if only for a few moments.

* * *

It was dark in the room when Gil woke up, but artificially so. Light was peeking in around the drawn bedroom curtains, asserting that even though his body said it was the middle of the night, the rest of the world disagreed. It gave the room a comfortable, relaxing feeling of twilight.

He tried to move, but found himself stuck, and his right arm complained loudly; needle points of tingling pain shooting across his skin. It only took a moment to realize that it was because Jim was sleeping on it.

He pulled his arm away, slowly, trying not to disturb his bed-mate, but wanting to get some blood flowing back into the distressed limb. It was a wasted effort, as Jim opened his eyes, blinked and smiled at him.

He didn't understand this. And yet he felt the strangest, most unexpected feeling of fulfillment. Odd that he had never suspected that there was a part of him that was missing until he found it. And moreover, he suddenly couldn't conceive of going on in life the way he had been.

It didn't distress him to realize that he wasn't strong enough on his own, because the sister realization was that he didn't need to be.

"You okay?" Jim asked, sounding a little concerned but still smiling. "You're thinking awful hard." Gil grinned, feeling a little embarrassed that Jim could read him so well.

"I'm just wondering how this happened," he said. Jim chuckled.

"I've learned a few things about life, Gil," Jim said. "And one of them is that you don't get many second chances. So you damn well better take ‘em when they're offered."

Well, that certainly made sense, as far as it went, but Gil still frowned, not feeling as though his question had really been answered.

"I should have said something a long time ago," Jim said, and Gil turned suddenly to look at him, eyes wide. "Let's just say I got my priorities straightened out." And the look he fixed on Gil made him feel like the most precious element in Heaven and Earth.

Jim reached up to touch his face and pulled him down into a kiss. And as Gil relaxed into it, he thought of how glad he was that his life hadn't just gone back to normal. Moving on and forward sounded like a much better idea.

Fin