TITLE : Y-Chromosome

AUTHOR : Gomey

ARCHIVE : Anywhere, just let me know so I can brag...hehe.


SPOILERS : Meh, probably.

DISCLAIMER : All known characters and premises belong to their respective owners. So there.

SUMMARY : I blame his Y-Chromosome.

NOTES : Companion piece to 'X-Chromosome'. Catherine's POV.

What is it with this man? I advance, he retreats. He actually advances, I stand my ground, he retreats.

Only a man can be so vague with their intentions. No, let me rephrase that: only -that- man can be so ambiguous. When a woman wants something, she'll let the world know, save short of drawing a diagram.

But him...he analyses too much, nit-picks until the moment's long gone but never forgotten. Sometimes I just want to barge into his office, lock the door behind me with a 'do not disturb' sign posted, march up to his desk, strip and order him to just feel me - to touch this skin that I expose with him in mind, hoping that it reaches his expectations.

I wonder if he has ever thought of me in that way, if there really are any expectations to meet. What if all the flirting between us is just our chemistry working, just his natural way of being around me.

God, Gil and flirting - there's an unlikely match. Flirting...it's just not his style. Gil's too innocent to flirt. Though I imagine he probably has a terribly naughty side to him. And now, I'm really feeling all hot and bothered, thinking about Gil being naughty in bed.

Gil in bed. Gil in my bed. Or me in his bed...yeah, someplace new, well for me anyway. Though it might be new for him too; Lord knows how many nights he has slept on that decrepit leather couch of his. I wonder if any other woman has shared his bed. I mean, under the sheets is an intimate place and I wonder if Gil has ever offered a woman the privilege of such closeness. I know he's been with a woman before, but I wonder how many and where. A motel room is one thing, but a bed holds a completely different commitment: it's familiar, safe, generous. I wonder how he is in bed; he strikes me as being the kind of gentleman, waiting for the woman's fulfilment before seeking his own carnal desires.

Foreplay. When I think of Gil, I think of foreplay. I bet he has so many tricks up his sleeve: it's always the quiet ones who do - the ones who never flaunt their skills but when they hit you, they hit you hard. And I bet it's good...real good. I bet he knows how to make a woman scream, writhe in ecstasy with a mere look, or a slip of the hand.

Mm...his hands, ooh I bet he could please a woman for hours with those hands. He's so particular to details, I can just imagine him devoting the same amount of attention to make his special someone happy.

I can close my eyes and imagine his weight pressed on top of me as his hands busy themselves studying my body, his mouth devouring my skin, his heat exchanging words with mine.

I'm hot for my supervisor but I'm in love with my best friend. Does it make me schizophrenic that they are the same person? Either way, carnality and love walk hand-in-hand whenever he's physically near or far. In my mind though, he's always close by.

I look down at my attire, satisfied with my ensemble: black form-fitting dress slacks and a tight cadmium red t-shirt that offers an ample amount of candy for the boys. Don't get me wrong, I don't dress this way to get all the boys' attention - though I can't deny that flattery can get the best of me, but no...I dress this way for -one- boy's attention. His.

I look at him and he barely glances at my style, his eyes holding level with my own. I sigh silently, despite the smiles we exchange, and grimace when he turns his back from me, walking away. I am such an idiot! I should be wowing him with intellect not cleavage! I probably shot straight down on his hierarchy of respect: "dumb bimbo Catherine - sure she's a knock-out, just don't let her open her mouth."

I lean against the wall, berating myself for misreading his intentions, for dreaming of such impossibilities and especially for falling in love with the forbidden. Suddenly, I straighten up and turn my head ever so slowly, feeling a pair of eyes laying heavily on me.

He's staring at me.

Gil Grissom is staring at me. His mouth his slightly open, his tongue is resting between his teeth and he's staring...in what I think is a very appreciative way. Suddenly his eyes dart to mine, feeling the observing action reciprocated.

Busted. His eyes grow wide and he remains there with the pathetic 'deer-caught-in-the-headlights' looks. It's so pathetic that I wanted to body check him into the wall and hold his body close to mine, letting him know that it doesn't have to stop there; that he can touch me with his hands as well as my eyes.

He mumbles to what I construe as an apology and shuffles into his office, face having chameleon'd the colour of my sweater.

See, there's the advance and retreat, once again - wonderfully performed by Gil Grissom. I let out a strangled sigh, now becoming tired of all these mixed signals.

What do you want Gil! Who do you want...? You have the choice of any woman in the world, so tell me...who do you want?

I've somehow ended up in front of his desk, the door closed shut behind me. It's locked. Locking us in. Alone. But still together.

I know what that look was, mister, and this time you're not getting away with it. And I know he's still affected, I can see him trying to regain his posture and I feel like laughing in his face: I have the upper-hand now, Gil. Me, me, me! For once I have the power, and things are going in my favour. I close my eyes with smug satisfaction for two seconds and when I open them again, he's back to normal.

Normal, unaffected, void of emotion Gil Grissom.


I clench my fists, furious at his sudden change in demeanor. How is he able to do that! How is he able to skip from such contrasting emotions, repressing feelings as if they had never materialized in the first place.

Must be his Y-Chromosome - only a man has the ability to go against his heart.

Well this stops here, Gil. It stops right here. You're going to adhere to your heart and tell me what the hell is going on.

And now, all I can do is wait for him to speak. I watch his lips part open slightly, his breath already on its way out with words that will either make or break me.