Wherefore

Chapter 14

"This overpass wasn't here before... and did they add another lane? Christ, I can't get my bearings..."

Even as he curses to himself about the changes in LA traffic patterns, Grissom is more alive than I've seen him in months. Years, even. His left foot is tapping nervously, and he keeps biting his upper lip. Only when we pull off the highway and roll up to a large parking structure does he settle down somewhat, humming to himself.

"What is this place?" I ask, then notice a sign to my right. "The Getty Center?"

"It's got a great view," he replies. "Just wait."

After he parks the rental car, we head over to a tram, jumping in a few seconds before the doors close. Sliding into two empty seats, we're quiet as the tram slowly climbs the side of a steep hill. Reminds me of the initial ascent of a roller coaster.

When the tram finally stops, Grissom is the first one out the door, heading up the stairs. This guy has fifteen years on me and a set of bowed legs, and I'm still struggling to catch up.

"Griss?"

"This way," he calls out unnecessarily, heading into the building. Once I'm inside I pause for a moment, surprised at the size of the interior. It's an expanse of white and windows and light, an architect's vision of heaven. But then he's heading out the far door into the courtyard, skirting past the groups of school children, and I have to run to keep him in sight.

Into another building, up a flight of stairs, and he turns, beaming at me. "Here we are."

We're on a huge balcony, with hundreds of flowering plants and a panoramic view of Los Angeles. It's pretty, really, it is. But if he thinks this view is amazing, I should really take him to San Francisco. Between Lombard Street and Twin Peaks, our view could kick his view's ass. I'm still puzzling over that visual when he clears his throat expectantly.

"Oh, it's beautiful," I assure him, feeling a little guilty. He was obviously excited about this place. I should be making a bigger deal of it. "I never realized how green the area is. Lots of trees."

"Not only that," he says, touching the small of my back lightly as he leads me over to the edge. "Look over there."

It's the Pacific, sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now I get it - he's trying to make the ocean seem like still water. His face is so hopeful, I can't quite bear to tell him that this doesn't change anything.

"I love it, Griss. Thank you for showing it to me."

"You're welcome," he beams. "Mother used to come here to study the artwork for her classes, and I always enjoyed sitting up here with a good book."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. I made friends with the docents, and a few are still here. Mind if I say hello to an old friend?"

"Not at all."

We walk through a few more sets of doors, past a collection of paintings, then into a room with several small sculptures on podiums. I'm expecting to see a person, a door, anything... but instead Grissom is standing still in the center of the room, twisting his fingers.

"So... where's your old friend?"

He takes my shoulders gently, spinning me around. "Right here."

At first I think he means me. Then I look ahead, and there it is, right in front of us. 'Starry Night,' by Edvard Munch.

I'm not what you'd call a soft-spoken person. I can count on one hand the number of times I've ever been speechless. And yet words are failing me, as I step closer to the painting. It's bigger than I'd expected, brighter than my old poster ever suggested. The blues are more violet, the stars far more luminous. The painting is glowing, and my chest is aching.

"I always liked this one," he murmurs, coming up behind me. "It's the lake shore where Munch spent his summers. The way he uses the paint... it's deep, but also simple."

He's right. I turn towards him, slowly reaching up to cup the back of his head, almost laughing at the confused expression on his face. He catches on right around the point where our lips meet, and then we both see how it's deep, and it's simple, and his arms wrap around me as if he's done it a thousand times.

The smooth slide of our lips, the prickle of his beard against my chin, the faint noise that escapes from the back of his throat - it's all somehow familiar. It's the oddest combination of opposites. Like the first time I tasted good red wine or smelled stargazer lilies, coupled with the feel of my old stuffed bear Martha in my arms. It's like meeting a best friend for the first time.

He hums against my lips, and I hum right back, reaching my fingers into his hair to scratch his scalp lightly. If his tightening grip on me is any indication, he liked that. But now he's getting even, rubbing my lower back with his thumb, and my knees are shaking. Again and again we kiss, breaking only for gulps of air, until several sharp coughs garner our attention. Pulling apart reluctantly, we look over at a stern-looking guard.

"Perhaps you would prefer the outdoor exhibits," he says pointedly.

Looking flustered, Grissom blinks, then takes my hand and drags me out the door. Halfway down a set of stairs, he pushes me against the wall, kissing me hard. The tip of his tongue strokes mine, and my insides turn to liquid. Then we're rushing outside, ending up beside a fountain. Kissing has become as essential as breathing; in fact, breathing has become downright irritating at this point.

"Excuse me? Ah... excuse me?"

A young woman is standing nearby, and a group of wide-eyed young girls in plaid skirts are behind her. "I'm sorry, my class is studying the fountain, could you..."

"Right, sure," Grissom says, and we're running downhill towards a garden, and I can't stop laughing, especially when we get to the bottom of the hill and see several nuns sitting on the benches.

"Maybe we should catch the tram," I suggest between giggles.

"It's not funny," he huffs, red-faced. "They have no idea how long we've waited."

"Well, you can either try to explain it to the nuns - and I'm not sure they'd be sympathetic - or you can join me on the tram. Your call." I'm trying to sound sultry, but all that comes out is a breathy jumble of syllables. Luckily he seems to understand whatever language I just spoke, and we hurry over to the tracks.

I think he had dirty plans for how to wait for the tram, but the presence of two old women has him scowling and scuffing his shoes against the pavement.

The ride down the hill takes six minutes and four seconds, and then we're pushing past the blue-haired ladies and their walkers, racing to the car. He fumbles with the key while I hop from foot to foot, wondering impatiently what the nape of his neck tastes like. And then we're inside, and I find out. He moans when I nip at his collarbone, then pulls my head up roughly so that he can devour my mouth.

It's hot in here.

Our kisses taste like my sweat, and his. Salty and wet and wonderful, especially when he strokes the underside of my tongue with his, and-

A shrill, incredibly loud noise blasts right next to my ear. I jump up quickly, hitting my head on the ceiling as Grissom falls back against the driver's door.

"What the hell was that?" I demand, rubbing the top of my head.

He sits up, trying to stretch his shoulder and wincing. "Sorry, I got... carried away. Bumped into the horn."

I desperately want to tease him, but he looks too pitiful. So I work on getting my breathing under control instead. "You okay?"

"Jammed my shoulder." He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and sighing. "We're not good at this, are we."

"On the contrary," I say with a satisfied grin. "I thought we were really good at it."

He can't help smiling too, and when he opens his eyes, his expression is one of utter relief. "So... you don't think this is an omen or something?"

"Nuns popping up at inopportune moments? I'm thinking not. Unless we play one of those Whack-A-Nun games at a carnival."

"I love those."

"I'll bet you do."

"Back to the hotel?"

"Do you need to ask?"