Title: Six Years
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: pre-slash Gil/Greg
Rating: PG
Spoiler: In Precious Meetal, Gil and Greg talk about being weird.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Gil and Greg met during a convention. One of them never forgot that first encounter, (but who? It's up to you to decide).

***

I lift the yellow tape and enter the secured area. I nod at the cops, I nod at Brass, and then I nod at him. We mutter a casual greeting - "Hey, Greg," and "Hey, Grissom," and then we set to work.

It's just like any other night.

Except that it isn't.

Not to me, anyway.

I don't say anything, but after half an hour working side by side, he asks me if I have something in my mind. He says I seem distracted.

"It's nothing," I say, shrugging evasively.

He's right, though; I am distracted.

Not that I'll ever admit it. It wouldn't do for me to say something like, "Yes, I'm distracted; all day I've been thinking of the same thing -the day you and me met." Or "Did you know that we met exactly six years ago today?"

I wonder what his reaction would be.

But instead of trying to find out, I turn away and focus on my work.

I can't help it, though. I keep thinking of that day. I wonder if he still remembers…

Or if he remembers it the way I do.

We met six years ago, indeed. Not in Las Vegas; we met in San Diego, at a Forensic Sciences Association Convention –a big, noisy affair that had more to do with politics than science. The kind of convention that one ends up attending only because it looks good in a resume.

Still, it's politics that help us keep our jobs, after all.

I spent the three-day-weekend going from conference to conference, meeting old acquaintances and college pals, and piling booklets from manufacturers.

There were really no surprises.

Not until the last day, that is.

The closing ceremonies loomed ahead and I was determined to skip them altogether, only to see my plans thwarted by one of the organizers. The man announced that there was something important he needed to discuss with me, and that he'd look me up at the party. There was no way for me to say no to that.

I remember how desperate people looked at the party that night. It seemed that their only goal was to get laid one last time before leaving San Diego.

I kept my distance. My last significant relationship had ended badly a couple of years before, and I wasn't interested in repeating the story any time soon. And since casual sex didn't appeal to me either, I ended up alone, nursing a beer and eyeing a photo display from the Pathology conferences. It was interesting and informative, but seeing picture after picture of gunshot wounds and diseased tissues somehow put me in the mood for food, and this forced me to go back to the party.

I was examining the buffet spread, when a voice caught my attention.

No; not just the voice, but the tone and the words themselves; whoever this man was, he definitely knew what he was talking about.

And his enthusiasm was contagious.

Forgetting all about the food, I turned and looked around, only to discover that I wasn't the only one doing so. Other party dwellers were already gravitating towards my mystery man, and all of them seemed as mesmerized as I was.

One look at him, and I realized words weren't the only reason people were getting close to him. He was extremely easy on the eyes, too.

He was handsome, yet what impressed me the most was the fact that despite being extremely knowledgeable, this guy didn't come across as pompous. He didn't even seem aware that he had an audience.

I stood in a corner, watching him. I didn't do anything to draw his attention –I didn't even move- and yet, somehow he noticed me. He glanced in my direction once and then he glanced away… only to look back again. This time our gazes met, and for a couple of seconds it seemed that we were entirely alone in the room.

I was becoming infatuated with a guy I knew nothing about, and the realization was enough to make me look away. It was too dangerous. It was out of character, too, and so I discreetly stepped away.

I went back to the buffet area, and tried to drown the sound of his voice by paying attention to other people's conversations.

All around me, pick-up lines were being uttered with various degrees of success, and I found myself following the ensuing conversations. It was entertaining, until I heard someone say that only losers slept in their own beds during a convention.

The words made me pause. I'd slept in my own bed –did that really make me a loser? Probably.

Oh, well. I turned my attention back on the food. The beef salad that I'd heaped on my plate was heavy on onions, so I started picking slices and setting them on the side. I was determined not to eavesdrop anymore, but it was impossible not to hear people's conversations. At one point someone standing close to me uttered what had to be the worst pick-up line I'd ever heard, "Did you know that onions were used during the Civil War to prevent Scurvy?"

I looked up, hoping to see the intended party's reaction... only to realize that the line had been intended for me.

He was standing just a couple of feet away, looking at me and smiling faintly.

He had ditched his entourage -and that was good.

He was looking expectantly at me –and that was bad.

I didn't know what to say. I mean, come on; who would use onions to start up a conversation? It seemed clumsy, to me.

And yet, who was I to criticize? I was not exactly Mr. Smooth when it came to approaching strangers. I always said the first thing that popped into my head -sometimes with disastrous results- and all because my nervousness got the best of me.

Surely this guy would not have that problem –or would he?

I looked at him –really looked at him- and suddenly, it dawned on me that he was nervous, and that he had simply blurted out the first thing that occurred to him.

He was as clumsy as I would have been if I had had the guts to approach him first. Maybe he just didn't do this often –approach someone, that is; maybe he was like me?

This thought gave me the encouragement I needed to speak.

I cleared my throat.

"I thought Scurvy only struck men at sea." I replied, happy to show him that I knew stuff, too. "And they discovered that lemon juice was an effective cure."

There was a gleam of admiration in his eyes as I said this.

"That's true," he nodded, "But soldiers didn't always have access to fresh produce." He took a step closer, "There was a saying, at the time," he said, "Don't send your sweetheart a letter; send him an onion."

This was the weirdest conversation I'd ever held, but I liked it.

"Well," I said, "I already met my vitamin C requirements today," I said, pushing the last onion slice away, "And besides…" I paused. I gulped and then I bravely added, "I want to keep my breath fresh. One never knows-"

He smiled.

And then we spoke at the same time.

"Gil."

"Greg."

And we added at the same time. "Nice to meet you."

We didn't shake hands. I don't know about him, but I was glad that he didn't offer me his hand, because mine was shaking. I had to hold on to my plate so he wouldn't notice.

I was nervous, but fortunately, I wasn't tongue-tied. We seemed to have a lot to talk about.

We flirted. There's no other word for it. We used words as a seductive tool.

We interjected some words about the convention but in general terms, without daring to ask personal questions. It seemed that every time we got too close to ask one, we backed off.

But physically, it was another story. The more we talked, the closer we got, until there was only a narrow space between us. Eventually, we got close enough to touch… or to ask a personal question.

Asking him about his specialty seemed safe enough, and I was about to ask, when someone approached us -Assistant Director Sanchez, the man who had asked me to stay.

He seemed glad to see us together.

"Ah, Grissom, Sanders; I see you've already met. Good." He gently steered us to a more quiet part of the room, "Gil Grissom is a senior supervisor in Las Vegas, Sanders." he said, and then he turned, "Greg Sanders works in New York, but he requested a transfer. He's in my short list of candidates to fill vacancies in Nevada and California." he said, "He could end up in your lab soon, Gil."

Stunned into silence, all we could do was look at each other.

Recognition dawned on both of us. I had seen his picture before; I couldn't believe I hadn't made the connection sooner.

Things changed, then. We were still standing close, but it felt like an abysm had opened at our feet; not wide -just too damn deep for us to cross.

A boss and his subordinate? No way.

We smiled faintly, then. Ruefully.

I looked at him, and I truly believed that I could read his thoughts just as if had spoken aloud, 'Boy, that was close. At least nothing happened,' and 'At least neither one of us said anything.'

We shook hands under the benevolent smile of AD Sanchez. We spoke-

"Nice meeting you, Sanders."

"Nice meeting you too, Grissom."

And that was that.

----------

I like it when we work together, side by side.

We communicate well.

There are times when he are so attuned to each other that we seem to know what the other is thinking, without having to say a single word.

And there are times when we will talk –and talk- just for the sheer pleasure of surprising the other with a choice morsel of information, or a quote.

We're different, and yet, there are similarities between us. There's the love of words that manifests itself in completely different ways, for instance; or the shyness that gets the better of us now and then. Or the quirky behavior that has earned us a label of weird at one time or another.

We still flirt, now and then. We still use words to mesmerize each other…

But the abysm is still there.

Funny. In all these years we've worked together, we've never mentioned the convention.

We never will.

And this is the thought that stays with me the rest of the night.

I realize that it really doesn't matter whether he remembers that night, or whether he remembers it the way I do; it doesn't matter whether any of us remembers anything -

Because we'll always pretend that we don't.

-------

THE END.

***

Next story in series - Stranded.