Title: Four Words
By: Carol Trendall
Pairing: Gil/Benton Fraser (Due South)
Rating: PG-13
Note: Another Fuh Q Fest challenge. Challenge: The most unlikely pairing you can think of in your fandom without contradicting canon. Must include the line, 'hope you didn't get any of that tattooed anyplace important'.
Summary: CSI: Vegas/Due South crossover A mob hit in Vegas brings a stranger into Gil Grissom's life, who in turn brings someone Grissom already knows into his life.

***

The dead body at Gil Grissom's feet didn't hold that much interest for him. The live body currently examining the bathroom of the five star hotel suite they'd been called to was what really held his attention.

"So who is it?" Nick Stokes' voice echoed from the tiled expanse.

"Armando Langoustini," Gil Grissom announced, pushing thoughts of his young colleague from his mind and snapping his professional persona back in place. "Biggest mobster in Vegas."

"No way." Nick abandoned his inspection of the bathroom and came to stand on the other side of the body in question. "He's dead."

A smile curled the corner of Grissom's mouth. "Very observant, Nicky. Glad to see those years of training weren't wasted."

Rolling his eyes, Nick grinned in the way that always made Grissom weak in the knees. "No, I mean this can't be Langoustini. He died four months ago. Me and Warrick covered the car wreck that killed him. The killer was never found."

Grissom cocked a quizzical eyebrow and dropped into a crouch, ignoring the creak in his knees but having a hard time ignoring Nick's crotch on the way down. He reached into the dead man's breast pocket and pulled out a wallet. The driver's license proving the man was indeed Armando Langoustini was right where he'd expected to find it and he held it out for Nick to see.

"Four words, Nick. Look at the evidence."

"What the ..." Nick huffed and stared down at the body, his confusion warring with a sense of the ridiculous. "Man, someone sure wants this guy dead ... I mean to kill him twice ..."

Jim Brass appeared suddenly beside them. Since they'd arrived on the scene, he'd been pacing in the bedroom speaking heatedly into his cellphone. Snapping his phone shut, he tucked it away inside his jacket and rested his hands on his hips.

"It's not Langoustini," he told the two crime scene investigators.

"Then who is he?" Grissom asked, reasonably enough as he rose from his crouch and held the wallet for Brass to see.

Brass waved it away, his expression hinting there was a lot more to this case than met the eye.

"Ray Vecchio ... " he breathed. "*Detective* Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD."

Nick let out a huff. "Oh man, an undercover cop? That explains it. The Feds'll be all over this."

Brass nodded. "They're on their way. And Chicago PD's sending someone. Should be here by the morning. In the meantime, I suggest we get us much out of this scene as we can before the Feds take over."

Nick exchanged a look with Grissom and the two men set to work. By the time the FBI agents arrived at 3am they had all the evidence they needed and were more than happy to make their way back to the lab.


"So what do you think, Grissom?" Nick asked, as they stepped out of the elevator on their floor. "Was the shooter after Vecchio or Langoustini?"

Grissom looked thoughtful. They turned the corner and stopped in the doorway to his office.

"I still think it's a mob hit. Langoustini is the Bookman in Vegas. Lot of people would want him dead. They think they failed last time. The FBI sent Vecchio in so quickly, no one knew."

Nick nodded his agreement. "But I think Chicago PD are going to say otherwise. They're going to be looking for someone to blame."

"I'd say that's a fair bet, Nicky. I think we should get as much of this evidence processed as possible so we have the answers when their guy shows up asking a lot of questions. And let's hope that the prints you lifted belong to someone other than the maid."

"I'm on it."

&&&


The next evening Jim Brass intercepted Grissom as he got out of the elevator.

"Your Chicago PD Detective? His partner arrived this morning. He's been here all day waiting to see you."

"I thought the day shift team would have gone through our results with him."

Brass shrugged. "They did. He wants to see you."

"Anything I can tell him is in the report he's already seen. He's a detective, he should know that."

Brass smiled in a way that Gil knew should have warned him. "He's not a detective, Gil. He's a Mountie."

Grissom's eyebrows rose. "A Mountie?" His brows settled again as realisation dawned. "So when you say partner, you don't mean as in colleague, you mean as in partner?"

Clapping a hand briefly on the other man's shoulder, Brass grinned again. "Ask him yourself, he's in your office. His name's Benton Fraser." He was halfway down the hall before Grissom could open his mouth.


Grissom wasn't sure what he expected but the tall, dark and handsome man in his office wasn't it.

"Dr Grissom?" The Mountie rose, tucking a stetson under one arm and extending his other hand. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Grissom shook the man's hand, his eyes sweeping over the strong denim covered legs and up to the wide flannel covered chest. Fraser's handshake was firm and he met Grissom's eye confidently, holding his gaze long enough to make him feel he had been catalogued. Not used to such unabashed scrutiny, Grissom swallowed twice before he could find his voice.

"Constable Fraser." He swallowed again. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Fraser nodded almost imperceptibly, his expression giving away nothing. "Thank you kindly. I appreciate you consenting to see me. I have a letter ..." He reached into a backpack Grissom hadn't noticed before and drew out an envelope which he then handed over.

Grissom sat, indicating Fraser do the same, then he read the letter. It was from a Lieutenant Welsh of the Chicago Police Department, authorising the release of all information and the remains and effects of Detective Raymondo Vecchio to Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP as his representative. Grissom wasn't sure what it meant and he wasn't sure what Fraser's relationship to the CPD might be but it was clear that Constable Fraser was a police officer of some standing and held in high regard by the CPD.

"Constable Fraser," he looked up from the letter. "I'm happy to help you, but I don't know what else I can tell you. I understand you read my report this morning?"

Fraser nodded, a strange mix of calm and agitation on his face. "Yes, I did. I was very impressed by the level of detail and quality of evidence. Where I come from, we don't often get the opportunity to retrieve evidence in quite the same way." He ran a thumbnail over his eyebrow and licked his lips before continuing. "I'm sure you appreciate that Ray's death has come as quite a shock ... I'd just like to talk you."

"I'm very happy to talk to you, Constable, but I'm a little confused ..."

"Ah." Fraser gave a wry smile, cleared his throat, then continued in an even voice, as if reading a prepared script. "I first went to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I remained attached as Liaison at the Canadian Consulate." He fixed Grissom with a hard stare that seemed out of context and sent mixed messages to an already confused man. "Detective Vecchio was the officer who found the man who murdered my father. He became my ... best friend ..."

Grissom nodded, at least it explained his relationship to the Chicago PD and went someway to explaining his relationship with Ray Vecchio. As for the rest, it didn't really concern him. Something about this man, though, was both attractive and terrifying and even a little familiar, though he couldn't say why. He had the sudden urge to get as far away from Benton Fraser as possible.

"Please let me introduce you to my colleague, Nick Stokes. He processed most of the evidence last night and prepared the report for the FBI. He's working on fingerprints lifted from the scene now." Without waiting for a response, he stood and indicated the door. "If you'd like to step this way."

Fraser hesitated, nodded tightly, tucked his stetson under his arm, collected his backpack and followed Grissom down the hall. They walked in silence.

Pausing in the hallway outside the lab, Grissom used the glass panel to his advantage to admire Nick Stokes' lean, firm body at work for a moment, before asking Fraser to wait in the corridor.

Fraser watched Grissom push the glass door open. He heard a snatch of music from inside the room and then silence as the door snicked shut again. He watched Grissom drop a hand on the curve of Nick's shoulder and leave it there for a second or two as he spoke to the younger man. Nick Stokes smiled warmly at his supervisor and Fraser couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw him lean slightly into the hand on his shoulder, as if hungering for more.

Grissom stepped into the hall again. He smiled up at Fraser and just for a second he saw something in his eyes that unnerved him. He didn't know what it was, but it was there all the same.

"Nick will go through the evidence with you. You can come in now."

Grissom introduced Fraser to Nick and then left the two men alone. Pausing for a final glance back into the room, he realised the source of his discomfort. Two dark heads atop two sets of broad shoulders were bowed over the bench; Nick and Benton Fraser almost indistinguishable save for the height difference. Two men with dark good looks, strong hands, intensely focussed minds and the same honest nature. He wasn't ready for the feelings that thought raised. He retreated to the safety of his office.



It was an otherwise uneventful shift. Save for a car wreck and a drug overdose, there was little action on street and no crime to speak of. The reprieve gave the team time to work on the backlog of evidence and Grissom the time to wrap up a lot of paperwork he had avoided for weeks. When Nick materialised in his office at the end of the shift, his in tray was empty and his out tray was full. The files Nick carried brought a hasty end to his feeling of victory.

One by one Nick dropped them in the tray, giving a précis of each case as he did. "Hardware store fire all processed, nothing to add, accelerant was mineral turpentine. White substance found at the nightclub turns out to be ground bone ... " he fixed Grissom with a raised eyebrow and quirky smile, " ... go figure. Catherine thinks maybe someone's used it as a 'performance' enhancer ... ground bone for your boner." The last file went into the tray with a flourish. "And finally, the blood found by the lake was fish blood - no mystery there."

Grissom had taken off his glasses to enjoy Nick's performance, watching him with an expression of faint amusement. "And Constable Fraser?"

Nick shrugged and tucked a hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling the denim tightly across his crotch. "He went through the report again, asked a lot of questions, looked at the evidence and then gave up. He agrees that the bullet was for Langoustini, not Vecchio."

Grissom steadfastly kept his eyes on Nick's face. "He left?"

"I took him down to meet Doc Robbins. He wanted to talk to him about his report. I just saw the Doc heading out, so I guess he left."

"Good. Jim said he arrived early in the morning - he's been here all day and all night."

Dropping into a chair, Nick laced his fingers at the back of his head and leaned back. Grissom wondered if the display was deliberate.

"Can't figure that guy out." Nick's Texan drawl was always more pronounced at the end of a long shift. "I asked him what a Mountie had to do with the Chicago PD and he told me some story about a guy who killed his father and how he liaised with the PD on some cases. Still doesn't make sense to me."

"He's Vecchio's lover ... or at least that's what Jim Brass implied."

Nick made a sound that could have been admiration or could have been disgust. "Man, that's unbelievable. He was looking at the crime scene evidence like he didn't even know the guy. How could he do that? He was almost cold. If my lover turned up with a bullet in his chest, there's no way I could do what he just did. I'd be a mess."

Grissom didn't answer for a moment, he was too busy trying to process the fact that Nick had used the words 'my lover' and implication of male gender in the same sentence.

"People handle grief in many ways, Nick. You've seen it yourself."

Nick suddenly leaned forward in his chair, like he was about to say something important that he wanted only Grissom to hear. Grissom had no idea what it could be, but the look on Nick's face told him he really wanted to hear it.

But whatever Nick had been going to say disappeared in a flash. Warrick leaned into the room to say goodnight and Nick suddenly bounced out of his chair making goodnight noises of his own as if trying to cover some guilt. He disappeared down the hall in a flurry of denim and jangling keys and Grissom was alone again, wondering what had just happened.


Grissom didn't exactly know why he decided to detour via the morgue on his way home, but he did it nonetheless and was strangely unsurprised when he found Constable Benton Fraser slumped in a hard plastic chair, head in hands.

"Constable Fraser?" he said as he approached. "I thought you'd left."

Fraser looked up suddenly; he had not heard the other man approach. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears and when he spoke, his voice cracked.

"I ... I couldn't just ... I didn't want to leave him here alone ... "

The tears came, great racking sobs that shook Fraser's large frame. Grissom settled onto the chair beside him, resting one hand gingerly on his shoulder, offering comfort to a stranger, the way he had once been offered comfort by a stranger. A memory almost twenty years old came rushing out of nowhere and his eyes filled before he could stop them. He knew Fraser's loss and his heart ached for the man. Stroking Fraser's back, he let him cry.

"Constable Fraser," he said when Fraser's breathing had evened. "You need to get some rest, and you could use some food. Have you arranged a hotel?"

Fraser shook his head.

Gil took a breath and let it out, coming to a decision. "Come with me. There's a good hotel not far from here.'

Straightening suddenly, Fraser met Grissom's eye. The look made him uncomfortable, though for what reason, Grissom couldn't say.

"I feel like a drink, Dr Grissom. I'd rather you help me find a bar."

Grissom stared for a moment, a myriad of thoughts colliding in his head. Fraser would drink anyway, no matter what he said and it would be better if a man in this state had a companion. He told Fraser he would take him to a bar and then the Mountie rose, gathered his backpack and followed him to the parking lot in silence.

Dawn was touching the sky by the time the two men were settled into a booth of the least seedy all night bar Grissom could find. From the way Fraser's hands were wrapped around his glass and the way his face screwed up after each sip, Grissom surmised he was unaccustomed to strong drink and was doubly glad he had chosen to accompany the man. He didn't speak; nothing he could have said would have eased Fraser's pain.

"Ray was my best friend," Fraser said, as the waitress set their second drinks on the table.

Grissom could think of nothing to say that didn't sound trite. I know how you feel, was what he wanted to say. I've been where you are, he wanted to tell him.

"But there's something else, Dr Grissom. Something no one knows."

Grissom looked away. He shouldn't be hearing this. "Constable Fraser, you don't want to tell me ..."

Fraser cut him off. "I was in love with Ray." Fraser stared until Grissom met his eyes again. "He never knew, I never told him."

So Brass had been wrong. Grissom didn't let his surprise show. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Dr Grissom." Fraser swallowed his second drink in one go and banged the glass down on the scarred tabletop, his gaze unsteady when it settled on his companion. "Just don't make the same mistake."

Grissom opened his mouth to ask Fraser what that meant, but he didn't get the chance. Fraser stood, as if to leave, then collapsed suddenly on the floor.

Stunned, it took Grissom a few seconds to react. He dragged Fraser to a sitting position and looked around for help. The bartender was on his way with a glass of water and a small bottle guessed correctly to be smelling salts. Grissom snatched the bottle and waved it under Fraser's nose.

No sooner was Fraser roused that he announced he was going to be sick and Grissom found himself holding the Mountie upright over a toilet bowl. When it seemed the Mountie had expelled all he possibly could, Grissom helped him to the washbasin and waited while he splashed water on his face.

"I can't apologise enough for my behaviour," Fraser said, a blush staining his fair skin from his collar to the roots of his hair. "This is ...out of character to say the least."

"After what you've been through it's understandable." He'd stayed drunk for three days, keeping the grief at bay as long as he could. By comparison, Fraser was restrained.

Fraser regarded him with warm eyes, his genuine gratitude showing in his deepened voice. "Thank you, Dr Grissom."

Grissom reached over and patted his back. "I think now that I've held you over a toilet bowl you can call me Gil. Can I call you Ben?"

Fraser's face lightened for the first time. "I'd like that. Thank you, Gil."

"Good. Now let me get you out of here."



The sun was well and truly up when Grissom pulled up in his drive and led Fraser into his townhouse. In the harsh sunlight, he could easily see the toll Ray Vecchio's death was taking on the other man and his heart ached anew for his pain.

Inside, he showed Fraser to the guest bedroom, dropping the backpack just inside the entrance to the room.

"Can I get you something? Food? Coffee?"

Fraser shook his head. "Thank you, Gil. You've been very generous. I think I just need to sleep."

"Sleep heals," Grissom told him and then left the man alone.


Alone in his room, Grissom wondered about his motivation for offering Benton Fraser a bed. After all the years he had worked with his team, he could count on one hand the number of times he had invited a colleague to his home and certainly none had spent the night. Why was this man different? Because he knew his pain? Because it was easy to offer comfort to a stranger?

Sleep was a long time coming for Grissom. The heavy drapes in his bedroom effectively blocked the light, but his mind was active. Benton Fraser unsettled him; partly because he reminded him of Nick, partly because of the sheer physicality of the man and partly because his loss reminded Grissom of something he hadn't thought about in a long, long time. When sleep finally came, it was filled with memories he thought he'd forgotten.



A sound somewhere in the house pulled Grissom out of his sleep. The low sun told him it was early evening and time to get up. He could hear Fraser moving around and spared a thought for the other man; he hoped he had slept well. He showered and dressed and went to join his guest.

He found Fraser in the living room inspecting his bookcase. His hair was still damp from the shower and his clean clothes were slightly crumpled from what looked like hasty packing. It made Grissom's heart ache.

"Hello, Ben."

Fraser spun around, embarrassed. "Hello, Gil, I hope you don't mind ..."

"Not at all. Did you find anything interesting?"

A surprisingly heartfelt smile lit the Mountie's face. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"How do you feel?" Grissom stopped. It was a stupid question. "Don't answer that. I already know."

Fraser gave a close lipped smile and looked at the floor.

"Did you find everything in the kitchen? Food? Coffee?"

"Ah, no, I didn't like to ... it's a little personal ..."

Grissom cocked his head. "I would say a man's books tell you more about him than his kitchen."

Ben smiled half-heartedly and clasped his hands behind his back, taking a step closer. "Your books tell me your specialty is entomology."

A proud smile found its way onto Grissom's face. "That and the bugs on the wall."

Fraser looked around at the glass cases, as if seeing them for the first time. "I hadn't noticed."



Grissom put together a simple meal of omelette, toast and coffee and the two men ate without speaking. He was comfortable with the silence and it seemed his guest was, too. And what was there to say, anyway?

"I hope you don't mind," Fraser said sometime later, "but when you were asleep I used your telephone. I needed to speak to Lieutenant Welsh about ... the arrangements. Of course, I'll pay for the calls."

"No need. Do you have everything arranged?"

"Yes, Dr Robbins has been very helpful. Lieutenant Welsh will call me with the flight details. I gave him your number. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. You're welcome to stay here until you leave."

"Thank you kindly. I appreciate your hospitality."

The polite, almost mechanical tone of Fraser's voice brought to mind the conversation he had had with Nick the night before. The Mountie did seem oddly able to detach. But then, he'd been accused of that, and worse, by many people. He was inclined to think there was more to Benton Fraser than first met the eye. Remembering the Mountie's heartbreaking confession in the bar, he was sure this man held many secrets.

"Lieutenant Welsh broke the news to Ray's family yesterday," Fraser said after a time. "I ... I wanted to tell them. I wish I could have been there." Fraser's voice was thin and pained and it wrenched at Grissom's heart.

"I'm sorry," he told him, fighting the urge to reach across the table and take the other man's hand. "This must be very hard for you."

Pushing suddenly away from the table, Fraser scooped up his dishes and carried them to the sink. "I had no choice. I couldn't expect anyone else to come. They need me to be here ... I'm his best friend." Resting his hands on the bench, he leaned forward, shielding his face from sight.

The tense curve of Fraser's back rang warning bells for Grissom. He recognised a man close to breaking.

"What about you, Ben? Who takes care of you? Do you have someone?"

Fraser shook his head, still hiding his face. "I'm well acquainted with loss, Gil." The words were like hard nuts. "My mother died when I was a child and you already know about my father. I'm used to being alone."

That struck a chord. Letting out a sigh, he crossed the room to stand beside Fraser, laying a reassuring hand on his back. He wasn't surprised to find the other man trembling.

Neither was he surprised when the larger man turned to curl against him, his face pressed into the space where neck met shoulder.

What did surprise him, though, was the way his hand stroked up Fraser's back and neck and into his thick, dark hair before he could even think about it.

He froze when he realised what he had done, but it was too late. Fraser was already moving so Grissom loosened his grip to let him get away, already preparing himself for the full gamut of likely reactions.

When Fraser tilted his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Grissom's lips he found there was one reaction he hadn't prepared himself for.

Shocked into inactivity, he didn't move and Fraser seemed to take it as a sign of acquiescence. His large, strong hands moved up Grissom's back, holding him firmly in place.

It took the strength of ten men for Grissom to be able to move his hands to Fraser's shoulders and push him away.

"Ben, stop."

A strangled sound came from Fraser's throat and he dropped his head onto Gil's shoulder. "I just need ... I want ...please ..."

Gil let his hands rest on Ben's back and he squeezed his eyes shut. He knew how Ben felt right now and he understood the need for physical connection. Was it wrong? Some would say yes, that it was taking advantage of someone else's suffering. Some would say it was an act of human kindness to offer comfort to someone in pain.

"Ben," he said finally, pulling back and looking the other man in the eye. "You don't know what you're asking."

The eyes looking back were strong and clear and Ben began to pull out of Gil's arms. "I know exactly what I'm asking. And I understand if you don't want to give it."

Gil's breathing changed. Wanting was not the issue, at the moment he wanted to give Ben what he asked. But should he?

The air between them grew suddenly heavy as the two men contemplated each other. Gil realised he had grossly underestimated Constable Benton Fraser. A million unspoken messages were exchanged in the seconds that ticked by. Questions asked, answers received and finally an understanding was reached.

There was the briefest hesitation and then they moved together, mouths, hands and bodies colliding in a heated rush.

After a while Gil dragged his mouth away, pressing his hands onto Ben's shoulders.

"Come with me."

The other man nodded once, slowly, and then let Gil lead him through the darkening townhouse into an even darker bedroom.

They contemplated each other in the dim room, not speaking, not touching.

"Ray was an affectionate man," Fraser said after a time, his voice low and pained. "He ... hugged me ... often. I wasn't used to it at first - to being touched. But after a while I ... I hungered for it. I found ways to make Ray touch me." With one hand he unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. "Since Ray went undercover no one has touched me. No one has wanted to. But you did ... and I liked it."

It almost hurt to hear Ben's words and Gil opened his mouth to offer comfort, but couldn't quite find the words to say. "Oh, Ben ... "

"You and I are alike, Gil. When was the last time anyone touched you? Held you?"

The sound that came from Gil's throat was strangled and painful and when he kissed Ben there were tears on his cheeks.

The first time was over too quickly and left them breathless, chests heaving with more than just physical exertion. Gil couldn't speak; he stroked the strong pale arm that lay across his chest and wondered at how he was so affected by what had taken place.

Strong fingers ghosted over Gil's chest, hesitating in the place over his heart. He didn't need to look to know that Ben's fingers lay over a tattoo he had worn so long he barely noticed it anymore. It was a small tattoo, faded a little over the years; you had to look closely to see it. Not many people got that close. The tattooist had been a master of his craft and given Gil what he wanted, four simple words in fine, elegant script.

Ben traced the tiny words and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. A faint shaft of light from the digital clock fell across their tangled bodies, casting them in a strange green glow that managed to make Ben's body look like marble and made Gil think of the statue of David. Heat pooled in his groin.

"It's Greek - four words for love," he said, voice smoky, then pulled Ben back to him.


Later, in the ruin of Gil's bed, the two men lay together. Ben's hand returned to the place above Gil's heart. "Agape, storge, philian and eros," he read from the tattoo.

"Four Greek words for love," Gil told him again.

"Yes, I know what they are. Spiritual love, familial love, fraternal love and sexual love. Tell me what it means. Why you have it."

Gil sighed and covered Ben's hand with his own. If he told Ben about the tattoo it would mean telling a story he had only told once in almost twenty years. And even then he hadn't told Catherine everything.

"His name was Adam," he said, each word dragged out of him by some compulsion he couldn't name. "We met at university ... because of a book. I was finishing my masters and he was just finishing his PhD ... in zoology. We'd both ordered books at the library - there was a mix up - he got mine. When the librarian found where my book was, I offered to go to his apartment and swap. I needed it urgently."

A faint smile came to Gil's face and he closed his eyes briefly before continuing. "I knocked on the door and then this ... Greek god ... that was the thought that came into my head ... he was just standing there. He invited me in, said the least he could do was make me a cup of coffee ..." Gil huffed out a laugh. "We were in bed before the coffee finished brewing."

Ben smiled faintly and prompted Gil to go on.

"We'd been together about two years when Adam started to think something was wrong with him. He started dropping things, couldn't see properly, he even fell over on the stairs to our apartment once. At first we thought he was just tired. He was teaching then and I had started my PhD, so things were hectic, but it just ... got worse."

"Cancer?"

"No, at least he would have had a fighting chance with cancer. It was MS."

"Multiple Sclerosis?"

Gil nodded. A rush of memories made him suck in a breath. "He walked with a cane, his eyesight was failing and he couldn't drive anymore ... it was awful. The next step was a wheel chair. And when he got really sick we ... we couldn't ... we couldn't make love anymore. He told me once that we were luckier than most people because we had four kinds of love ... and he told me the Greek names ... he said ... that's why we would last."

"What happened?"

"He was coming home one night, walking from campus. We had a small house then, he couldn't manage stairs too well, so we rented a house near the University. He stepped off the kerb and his cane hit a hole ... he went down ... the driver couldn't stop in time ..."

"Oh, Gil ... "

"By the time I got to the hospital he was already gone. I never got the chance to say goodbye." He remembered the corridor outside Adam's room; the hard plastic chairs, the starkness and the nurse whose name he never learned and who sat with him and held him while he grieved.

Ben flushed. He pressed a gentle kiss onto Gil's chest and stayed there, eyes leaking tears faster than it was possible to wipe them away. He remembered the corridor outside the morgue where Ray lay cold and still. He remembered the hard plastic chairs, the silence and the man who sat with him and held him while he grieved.

"I got the tattoo the day Adam was cremated. I wanted to have those four words close to my heart because ...because I wanted to keep him with me. I didn't think I'd ever love anyone again," Gil said, his voice sounding distant in Ben's ear. "That was almost twenty years ago."

"And did you?"

"Love anyone? No, not the same way." Gil shifted his weight and faced Ben. "I've had my share of lovers, men and women. But no-one has ever ... " he drifted off, unsure what he had been about to say. No-one had what? Loved him?

"Nick Stokes?"

Gil's eyes widened. "Nick?"

"I saw the way you looked at him, Gil. You love him. Like I love ... loved ... Ray."

"That's what you meant in the bar last night?"

Ben nodded. "Don't make the same mistake. Tell him. Don't wait until the choice is taken away."

Gil's eyes clouded and he was back in Amy Hendler's house watching her point a gun at Nick's head.

"Don't wait until it's too late, Gil."

Gil formulated a response full of denial and reasons, but before he could get the words into his mouth, the telephone rang. He disentangled himself and reached for the phone beside the bed, husking a thick greeting into the mouthpiece

A man's voice introduced himself as Lieutenant Welsh and asked to speak to Constable Fraser.

Gil covered the phone with one hand and turned to Ben, who was already upright and reaching for his clothes. He smiled his thanks and took the phone.

He headed off to the bathroom to give Ben privacy. Staring at his reflection, he thought about the man in his bedroom and wondered how someone who didn't know him could touch a part of him he hadn't even been certain was still there. He cleaned up, splashed some water on his face and went back to the bedroom when he heard the call end.

Ben was sitting on the bed in jeans and unbuttoned shirt. He looked up when Gil came back into the room.

"Lieutenant Welsh has made the arrangements. He's booked a flight for midnight. Dr Robbins is preparing the paperwork. I can take Ray home tonight."

Gil sat down beside Ben. "Are you up to it?"

The Mountie nodded. "Yes. I need to take Ray home to his family."

"You're a good man, Benton Fraser. I wish I could make this easier for you."

Ben smiled at him. "Thank you, Gil. You've already helped me more than you know."

"I'm glad I could do that much." Gil ducked his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't have that much time now. I have to leave for work soon."

"Yes. Yes, of course, I understand. Please ... do whatever you need to do. I can ..."

"I don't have to rush off just yet. I can get us some coffee and something to eat and then I'll drive you in. Is that OK?"

Ben nodded and Gil went off to make coffee.


Little more than an hour later, Gil pulled into his usual space in the parking lot. He turned the engine off and tilted his head to look at his passenger.

"We probably won't get a chance to talk later ... "

Ben nodded. "You're right. Thank you, Gil ... for all you've done. I wish we could have met under different circumstances. Things might have been ... different ..., " he broke off, eyes wet.

"Yes," Gil agreed, reaching across the space between them for Ben's hand. "Yes."

"You would have liked Ray. He was a good man and a fine police officer. I ... we ... everyone will miss him."

Gil nodded and squeezed Ben's hand. There was nothing more that could be said. They sat in the dim light holding hands until it was time to go inside.


A moderately busy night kept the CSI team mostly out in the field. Gil stayed behind, ostensibly to work on some samples taken from a warehouse fire, but the real reason was that he wanted to be there to say goodbye to Ben. When the hours ticked by without hearing a word, he figured the Mountie had preferred to leave without any further exchange and he returned to his work.

Sometime later, a sound in the doorway made Gil look up from his samples. He couldn't keep the smile from his face or the warmth from his voice.

"Ben ... I thought you'd gone."

The Mountie shook his head and stepped closer. "Dr Robbins is just arranging a car to take ...I'll be leaving soon and I just wanted ..."

"I'm glad you did." Gil moved away from the microscope and closed the door.

The two men faced each other, their smiles only slightly wistful. Gil ran his eyes over the large, strong body in front of him, easily recalling the silken smooth skin. He noted, with a mix of embarrassment and smugness, that there was a faint red mark on Ben's neck right at the collar line.

Ben broke the silence. "I can't thank you enough ..."

"There's no need. I should be thanking you."

Ben blushed and looked at his feet, an endearing move that instantly brought Nick to mind.

"If you ever need anything, Ben ... I know you're alone in Chicago."

"I have Ray's family. They may be a little boisterous at times, but I know they care for me."

"I'm glad."

"What about you?"

With a sideways shrug, Gil gestured at the room behind him. "I have my work."

Ben smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You know, Gil, for someone with your skills of observation I think you're missing a crucial piece of evidence."

"Meaning?"

This time Ben's voice was firm. "Nick."

He was already shaking his head. "No."

"I saw him, Gil, with my own eyes."

The smile on Gil's face was self-deprecating. "It's a flattering thought, Ben, but what have I got to offer a guy like Nick?"

The Mountie tilted his head and fixed Gil with a look that made heat rise in him.

"You might like to cast your mind back to earlier this evening." Ben's voice was the same smoky bedroom one he'd used only a few short hours earlier.

Gil felt his face redden and folded his arms across his chest, trying not to smile. When he looked at Ben again, his eyes were warm.

"But even you must think a guy with a house full of bugs is pretty weird."

"Not at all. My great uncle Tiberius was a paleo coprologist. You should have seen the things in his house. He managed to find someone."

For just a moment, Gil let his self-control slip away and he threw his head back and laughed like he hadn't laughed in a long, long time. Ben smiled, basking in the warmth of the older man's mirth. Neither of them saw Nick pause in the corridor, regarding them coolly through the glass.

"I'm glad I met you, Ben," he said, schooling his features back into something closer to his usual visage.

"Me too." He made motions as if to leave. "I should ..."

"Of course." Gil said. "And I'll make sure to let you know personally when we have more information."

"I'd appreciate that."

Because he felt a little reckless and because he wanted to, Gil reached out and pulled Ben into a hug that was a little longer than it needed to be and long enough to raise suspicions if anyone saw it.

"Take care, Gil."

"You too, Ben."

Gil stared at the empty corridor for a long time after Ben had left.



It seemed to be the longest night in history for Gil. When Nick appeared in his office just before the end of the shift, it seemed it was about to get longer.

"Can I talk to you, Grissom?" he asked, dropping into a chair without waiting for an answer.

"What's on your mind, Nick?" The tic in Nick's cheek and the agitated tone of his voice made him wonder if he really wanted to know.

"What's the deal with the Mountie?"

"Constable Fraser?"

Nick nodded tightly. "What's going on with him?"

Gil considered several ways to play it but went for obtuse. "The Chicago PD arranged for him to take Detective Vecchio's body back home." He glanced briefly at the clock on the wall. "I'd say he'd be landing right about now."

"I saw you."

For a moment Gil went cold with shock. He closed his eyes for a second. It was the hug, had to be the hug. Gil Grissom hugging anyone was unlikely to say the least, but a perfect stranger? He opened his eyes and tried to keep his voice in its normal register.

"Saw me?"

Nick's expression was accusatory. "Laughing - in the lab."

Gil almost wanted to laugh again as he remembered the moment; Fraser's story about his great uncle. For some reason it had amused him greatly, so much so that he let his usual façade slip away for the briefest time. And Nick seemed upset by it.

"So ... is there something going on?" The words came too bright and too quick.

"The man's partner was just murdered, Nick. What are you getting at?"

"Just want to know, that's all." Nick's face was unreadable, but tension radiated off him in waves.

Gil sat back and thought about his answer for a time. "And would it bother you if there was?"

Nick shrugged one shoulder. "You tell me to look at the evidence. That's all I'm doing."

"You didn't answer my question."

Nick bounced out of his chair. "Four words, Grissom. Look. At. The. Evidence."

Gil stared. Nick waited, whole body vibrating, but when Gil still said nothing he made a sound that was a mixture of anger and frustration and then was gone.

Gil kept right on staring at the empty space where Nick had been. Twice in one night he'd been told to look at the evidence. Was Ben right? Did Nick have feelings for him? Was he not seeing something that was right in front of him?

Ben had told him not to wait until the choice was taken away. What if there was another Amy Hendler? Another Nigel Crane? What if Nick wasn't so lucky next time?

Leaping out of his chair, Gil snatched his keys from his desk. If he hurried he might just catch Nick in the parking lot.


Epilogue

The break room was unusually quiet, but that suited Gil. He had a hefty funding report to trawl through and he wanted to do it in the comfort of a lounge chair rather than at his desk.

The silence was broken by Nick Stokes charging into the room, barely acknowledging his presence on the way to the refrigerator.

Gil pulled his nose out of his report and was rewarded with a back view of Nick bending forward to pull something from inside the refrigerator. The fabric of Nick's pants conformed neatly to the curves of his body and Gil could have sworn the man was wearing a size smaller than usual. Then Nick spun around and Gil looked down again.

Gil continued to stare at the page, studiously ignoring Nick when he dropped into the chair opposite him, legs spread and eating ice cream with considerably more tongue than was strictly necessary.

"Don't do that, Nick," he warned.

"Do what?" Nick asked, the Texan accent drawn out for Gil's benefit.

Turning a page, Gil tried not to look at the display in front of him. "There's a word for people like you."

"Oh yeah?" Nick drawled, giving his spoon an extra slow lick. "What would that be?"

Lowering the report to his lap, Gil glanced around quickly to see if anyone was in earshot. When he was satisfied, he licked his lips and settled his gaze on Nick.

"Cocktease," he said dropping his voice the way he'd learned Nick liked the first time he took him to bed. He tried not to look smug at the flash of heat he saw in Nick's already darkened eyes.

But Nick grinned and upped the ante, lowering his voice to an impossibly deep pitch that Gil could almost feel rumbling up his spine.

"See, that's where you're wrong. A cocktease is someone who doesn't deliver."

"Oh," he said, around the lump in his throat, "you planning to deliver?"

Slumping lower in his chair, Nick spread his legs further, hips shifting forward just enough to make Gil's mouth go dry.

"Four words, Gil; look at the evidence."

Gil could only stare in awestruck lust and when Jim Brass marched into the room calling his name, he whipped his head around, pulling a muscle in his neck. From the corner of his eye he saw Nick bounce out of the chair and out of the room.

Completely clueless about what he'd walked in on, Jim dropped into the chair just vacated by Nick. "You remember the Vecchio case, Gil?"

"Uh, yeah," he swallowed twice, willing his brain out of his pants and back into his head. "Yeah, I remember it."

"You asked me to let you know if something came up."

Gil nodded.

"Something came up. That print Nick pulled at the scene that we couldn't get a match for? It matches the guy I got in the interview room. Name's Joey Zambelli, he's the hitman for the Giacomini family. He fucked up on his last job, a hit on a club owner. That's how we got him."

"So we can place him at the scene. That's not going to get a conviction."

A smirk appeared on Jim's face. "He's shit scared of the Giacomini family, so he's turned states evidence. Confessed to a whole lot of things."

"He did the hit on Vecchio?"

"No, he did a hit on Langoustini. He had no idea he was an undercover cop." Brass gave a bitter laugh. "Turns out Giacomini Jnr ordered the hit for his father, Giacomini Snr. It was a birthday present."

"Jesus, Jim, what sort of world are we living in?"

Jim shrugged. "A fucked up one. Anyway, thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah, I do. Thanks, Jim." He stood. "I've got a call to make, excuse me."


The phone only rang twice before it was picked up, answered by a briskly efficient voice.

"Canadian Consulate, this is Constable Fraser."

Gil smiled, remembering how easily that same voice had softened into something entirely different, given a little encouragement.

"Hello, Ben. This is Gil Grissom."

"Gil ... " Ben's voice was instantly warm and intimate. "How wonderful to hear from you ... oh dear ... this means you have information."

"Yes. We have the man who killed Ray in custody."

"I see."

"I know it doesn't make this any easier, but he didn't know who Ray was. He thought he was Langoustini."

"As I expected."

"I'm so sorry, Ben."

"It's OK, really. I'm fine. It's just that ... I ... I still miss him. I think about him everyday."

"Yes." There was nothing else to say about that.

"But what about you, Gil? How are you?"

Even though he was alone in his office, Gil blushed and looked down at his desk. "I took your advice, Ben. Turns out you were right."

"Oh?"

"Those four words we talked about? Well, I have another four words now. Look at the evidence."

Ben chuckled, voice low. "Hope you didn't get any of that tattooed anyplace important."

Gil laughed out loud, a free, happy sound, enjoying the easy intimacy.

"You're happy?"

"Very."

"I'm glad." The smile in Ben's voice came easily down the long distance line. "You might be interested to know that you aren't the only one who missed a vital piece of evidence."

Gil was smiling, too. "Oh?"

"Yes, very foolish of me, really. The clues were all there, right in front of me. A police officer of my experience should never have overlooked this kind of evidence."

"So ... is this a long term piece of evidence?"

There was no hesitation in Ben's answer. "Yes. A four word piece of evidence."

"Four Greek words?"

"All four."

***