Title: Cardio (Working Out 04)
Author: Shelley Russell
Author's email: srblackburn@yahoo.com
Author's Webpage: none
Disclaimer: All property is theft.
Pairing: Grissom/Warrick
Archive: yep
Rating: NC17
Summary: Warrick and Gris take a road trip and find their way home.
Warnings: Established Relationship. Mild season 5 spoilers.
Notes: A considerable shout out to my beta reader Rebecca who guided me through a much weaker (I hope) version.

***

Warrick Brown drifted awake to feather light kisses on his neck. A soft beard tickled his shoulder, a warm hand caressed his back, and a familiar heat lay by his side. This, he thought to himself, this is how a man should start every morning.

Gentle lips brushed his ear, and a beloved voice whispered, "Jack Kerouac."

Warrick's green eyes sprang open, "Jack Kerouac?"

A delicate tongue traced the curve of his ear, "Bob Hope and Bing Crosby."

"Baby, it's too early in the morning--" Warrick gasped as hard teeth nipped the thin skin over his shoulder blade.

"Willie Nelson."

"Oh, now you done gone and caught the train to Freakytown, boyfriend," Warrick rumbled, though he remained indolent on his stomach.

"Not at your deductive best in the morning, are you?" Gil Grissom said, slowly drawing the top sheet down Warrick's long body, planting a trail of kisses down his spine.

"Not under these conditions."

"Perhaps a hint," Gris licked the dimples just above Warrick's muscular ass. "They share something in common."

"I've never slept with any of them."

"Besides that."

Warrick moaned softly as tender lips and clever hands slowly smoothed over his ass and thighs. He moaned again when the lips and hands left him. A strong arm snaked under his chest and flipped him over onto his back. He looked up into bright blue eyes. His boyfriend fresh home from work.

"Focus, Warrick," Gris smiled, lapping at a chocolate colored nipple. "Roger Miller."

"Men you have slept wi--," Warrick yelped as Gris bit down. "Roads! Roads, roads, roads."

"Good. But incomplete." Gris put his extensive knowledge of the human nervous system to sensual use as he made his way down Warrick's body, aiming for a proudly erect cock. Warrick tried to help, twining his long fingers in thick graying hair, pushing and pulling when Gris strayed too far off course. At long last reaching his destination, Grissom waited, right eyebrow raised in expectation, a soft smirk on his soft lips, hovering over home base. "The Grateful Dead."

A light sheen of sweat covered Warrick's dark face, full lips sucked in deep breaths, green eyes glowed with passion. He tried to push Grissom's head down but couldn't. "Baby, I have `bout reached the end of my road. You better do something now or you're taking that long, strange road trip by yourself."

"`Road trip'. Very good," Grissom beamed, "We have a winner." Then he opened his lips and slid Warrick's rampant cock inside.

Surrounded by moist heat, swirled by a velvet tongue, Warrick let loose a groan of pure pleasure and dropped deep into sensation, lost to his muscles tightening, his blood pounding, his nerves singing. Skilled fingers massaged his balls, giving him almost unbearable ecstasy. And when slick fingers entered him and mastered him, Warrick broke apart screaming, bursting into shards of blistering energy, dissolving into brief nothingness.

His senses reassembled slowly. He felt warmed within strong arms. He heard the soft, slightly off-key hum of `The Pirate King' by Gilbert and Sullivan. He saw the dark brown polo shirt under his cheek. He smelled the clean, natural scent of his lover. He tasted completion.

"We need to be going soon."

"Think I'm already gone," Warrick muttered. Then the meaning of the words sunk in, and he raised his head from Grissom's broad chest, "You mean we're road tripping today?"

"Yep."

"Where are we going?"

"Los Angeles."

"L.A.? Gris, you know I have basketball practice this afternoon."

"Why do you need to practice? You're already the best player on the team."

"You never played team sports, did you?"

Gris shrugged, "Outside of P.E.? No."

And Warrick faced a dilemma. On the one hand, he was delighted that his boyfriend was finally taking some initiative in their relationship, finally starting to be assertive in date planning. And, thank the lord, in love making. On the other, Grissom was making major plans without consulting Warrick. Or giving him advance notice.

Warrick pushed himself up, leaned forward, and kissed his boyfriend. "Baby, I love to be with you, but sometimes I need a little heads up so I can rearrange my schedule. Know what I'm saying?"

"You can't go?" Grissom's bewildered look made Warrick smile. Damn. This was not a battle worth fighting today. He filed the lecture on having more consideration for others for delivery at a later time.

"Let's see, banging the boards with nine smelly guys on a Saturday afternoon or spending all day alone, out of town, with my boyfriend? Hmmm. Difficult decision. You got anything that'll tip the scales?"

Sky blue eyes sparkled, "Tickets to `The General.'" At Warrick's blank look, Gris continued, "Starring Buster Keaton. The Great Stone Face. A special showing at Royce Hall on the UCLA campus. With musical accompaniment on the 1930 Skinner Organ."

"A silent film." Warrick was less than impressed.

"With live music. `The General' is a classic. On a big screen. It'll be great."

"Uh huh. What else?"

Either Gris didn't notice Warrick's lack of enthusiasm or, more likely, chose to ignore it, "The Museum of Jurassic Technology."

Warrick sat up slowly, crossed his arms, and narrowed his eyes, "The Museum of Jurassic Technology."

"It's the Journal of Irreproducible Results come to life. Fascinating exhibits on eccentric views of natural history." Grissom grinned, "They've got a reproduction of Noah's Ark."

"A reproduction . . . Gris, stop shitting me. What else?"

"And dinner at one of the best restaurants in L.A."

"Which one?"

"Michael's."

"Never heard of it."

"It's a four star restaurant in the heart of Santa Monica, right off the Promenade. My mother goes there all the time."

The light dawned, and the day dimmed. "Your mother's back from Mexico, and we're having dinner with her."

A wistful smile touched Grissom's handsome face. He tilted his head slightly, "She wants to meet you. Understandably."

Setting aside for the moment that Gris had just outlined one of the worst road trips Warrick could ever imagine, he zeroed in on his boyfriend's odd tone. Was Gris worried about his mother's approval of their relationship? That didn't seem right, because he never seemed to give a damn about anyone's approval. Plus, even though he was on the TTY phone or instant messaging to his mother every Sunday morning, Warrick got the impression they weren't particularly close, at least not in the way Warrick was close to his family.

"We gonna have to stay in your old room?" Warrick tried not to sound too hostile and watched as Grissom's face and voice morphed into his neutral, unemotional best.

"I haven't had a room in her house since I left for college."

Waiting patiently, Warrick silently encouraged his boyfriend to continue. It was a knack Warrick had learned over their 3 months together.

Gris shrugged, "She always needs space for painting."

Warrick knew there was more but also knew the signs of a steel door clanging shut. He hadn't figured out yet, once that puppy had closed tight, how to pry it back open. Still, he knew how to get his boyfriend back, "Baby, I hate to tell you, but basketball practice is looking better and better."

At a loss, Grissom said, "Warrick, I don't know what--"

"I'm still going with you. But with three conditions."

Grissom nodded his agreement, even before he'd heard the conditions. "Okay."

"One," Warrick held up his index finger, "I get to drive."

"Of course."

"Two," Warrick made the peace sign. "No Museum of Jurassic Technology. We're gonna hit Aron's Records instead."

A pause. Gris nodded again, though begrudgingly.

"Three," Warrick held up three long fingers which he used to stroke gently down Grissom's cheek and to ruffle his soft beard. In his lowest register Warrick said, "You're gonna book us into an expensive hotel where I can do evil things to your body, mind, and soul."

Grissom's blue eyes widened. He swallowed and had the good sense to look nervous under his boyfriend's wicked stare.

******

Sin City to the City of Angels takes, on average, four and a half hours to drive on Interstate 15. Grissom knew Warrick would drive it in under three and a half. Thankfully, highway patrolmen gave professional courtesy to all branches of law enforcement, and both the Nevada and the California patrols were well acquainted with Warrick. The two men would have plenty of time to take a walk around campus before the film. Or go to Aron's Records instead.

Warrick had bought his black 1999 Lexus LS400 at a police auction when he made CSI 3. It already had close to 100,000 miles on it, but it ran beautifully, thanks mainly to all the free tinkering donated by 鑵达拷ber autojock Nick Stokes, Warrick's best friend.

"Know what Nick asked me the other day?" Warrick said as they were hurtling past Halloran Springs on the edge of the Mojave Desert. He turned down the satellite radio, a gift from Gris in January. `Take the A Train' faded into the background.

Grissom drew his attention away from the passenger window. "I wouldn't hazard a guess."

"Asked if I was happy. How cool is that? He's dying to know about us, wants to know some secrets about you, can't figure us out. But the most important thing to him, the only thing he'll ask, is if I'm happy."

Curious to know the answer himself, Gris asked, "And are you?"

Warrick gave a player's grin, "Mostly."

Grissom snorted in response.

Green eyes challenged, "How about you?"

Grissom thought that happiness could not begin to express what he felt, what he allowed himself to feel, with Warrick. It ranked higher than a roller coaster marathon, or watching Hermes, his fleet-footed Gromphadorhina portentosa, blow the competition away at cockroach races, or even solving a triple homicide. So, of course, Gris shrugged and said, "Could be worse."

Warrick laughed, turned the radio back up, and pushed a little more speed out of the Lexus.

Grissom turned his smile back to the window and watched the desert blur by. He'd always loved the desert. He admired its wind-swept ruggedness, its unique sounds and smells. He watched the subtle changes in landscape, the washes of gold and brown and black. Even in one of the bleakest months, the beginning of February, the desert was beautiful. The desert reminded him of Warrick.

******

They took a quick break at a truck stop in Barstow to stretch their legs, empty their bladders, and top off the gas tank. Grissom bought two bottles of water while Warrick pumped the gas. When Gris came back to the Lexus, Warrick was leaning up against the passenger door. Cool shades, cool clothes, hot man.

"You want me to drive?" Gris asked.

"Nah. Just waiting to cop a feel."

"Better than to feel a cop," he smirked, and handed one of the bottles to Warrick.

Side by side, arms barely brushing, the two men leaned against the Lexus and drank in silence. Warrick finished his, capped the empty bottle, and said softly, "Tell me about your mother."

Grissom pursed his lips, "She's sixty-eight. Five foot eight. Gray hair. Deaf. She paints. Owns an art gallery--"

"Gris, you know what I mean. What is she like?"

He thought for a moment, trying to distill her essence. "She's like me," he gestured helplessly, "only more so."

******

At the outskirts of Victorville, Warrick slowed to only 10 miles over the speed limit. The local highway patrol was not so accommodating regarding excessive speed. John Coltrane's `Soul Eyes' jammed on the radio, and Warrick said, "You had a rough week."

Grissom tilted his head, "No more than usual."

"One of your CSIs getting suspended is more than usual."

"Sara will . . . be all right. She's strong. She's a survivor."

"You wanna tell me what's up with her?"

"No."

Warrick groused, "Didn't think so."

"It's nothing personal, Warrick. Sara's statements to me are confidential."

"Catherine said Ecklie wanted you to fire her. Why did you go to the mat for her?"

"Catherine shouldn't be telling tales out of school."

Shaking his head, Warrick sighed, "I respect that, Gris. When you were my supervisor, I knew I could tell you anything, and you'd keep it quiet."

"That's my job."

"I think it's more than that, baby. You have integrity on and off the job. One of the reasons why I'm mostly happy."

Grissom felt himself floating in the warmth of sea green eyes, "What other reasons do you have to be mostly happy?"

"You fishing?"

"No. Just curious." And he was. He had no idea what made him attractive or even companionable to Warrick. Other than the existence of God, Grissom's relationship with Warrick was the one mystery Gris had simply accepted without questioning too deeply.

"You remember about 3 years ago when you dumped the shift on me `cause you had to race cockroaches?"

"It was the finals. Besides, the real show was my tutorial on preserving mass crime scenes."

"Uh huh. You still dumped the shift on me."

"That's why you're mostly happy?"

Warrick shook his head. "No, baby. Like I said this morning, I appreciate some heads up. I don't mind a little spontaneity, but not with something major. And that was major. Nick being pissed. Sara pulling her sulky shit. Brass losing it over his daughter. Damn." He tapped the steering wheel with his long fingers, then reached over and caressed Grissom's knee and thigh.

"No, it was after, after you came back from the races. I could see you were worn out from the convention and from traveling most of the day from Duluth. You even told me you didn't like dealing with people. But you sat and just listened to me for a couple of hours. Even took me out for breakfast after shift. You didn't give me any shouldas or wouldas or couldas. You just listened. You gave me what I needed. Still do." He gave a slow burning grin, "That's one reason why I'm mostly happy."

Gris wasn't sure if he was any more enlightened, but Warrick seemed satisfied with the explanation. "Good."

"Of course," the slow burning grin spread to open heat, "it helps that you possess one extraordinarily fine booty, boyfriend."

Gris looked down at his shoes. Just to tweak Warrick. "But I left my boots at home."

"Oh, yeah. You workin' that clueless routine to death," Warrick trailed his fingers up the inside of Grissom's thigh.

Gris grabbed the wandering fingers and put them back on the steering wheel, "Eyes on the road and hands on the wheel, Mr. Earnhardt."

Warrick banked the heat. But only slightly. "So, how's about a little quid pro quo here? What makes you mostly happy? Or better than worse?"

"Well, the fact that you can say `booty' without any irony whatsoever."

"Nah, you're not getting away that easy. Give it up, man."

Grissom took his time, to examine why, to understand, to get the words right. "You're still here," he said at last with a touch of wonder in his voice, "still with me. I've never had anyone stay with me this long."

Warrick actually looked shocked, but when a look of sadness started to break out on the princely face, Grissom hurried on, "I-I-I brought that up t-to emphasize how remarkable you are . . . for me." He closed his eyes, frustrated that he always seemed to stutter when he was emotionally out of his depth. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, "I don't know how to explain or express--"

"Baby, thank you," Warrick came to the rescue, draping a long arm around Grissom's shoulders, caressing his right cheek. "Thank you. Damn. I think `mostly' just shot up to `completely'."

Grissom didn't understand why his fumbling, inadequate explanation achieved what he thought he could never achieve: making another person happy. Maybe one day he would understand. For now, he leaned his head back against his lover's strong arm and tried to think about the afternoon with Warrick, not about the dinner that night.

******

The Huntley might not be the most expensive hotel in Santa Monica, but it certainly had a most spectacular view. From the 12th floor window stretching the width of the room, Warrick could see the coast line curving north to the Malibu Mountains. The late afternoon sun topped each rolling blue wave with silver light. At night, it would be like stars come to earth, the hills dotted with electric light.

Perfect that the hotel was so convenient, too. A parking garage. Just a hop, skip, and a jump from the beach and the Pier. Just around the block from the restaurant where he and Gris would meet up with Grissom's mother. The room was small, barely holding the queen size bed, but that meant Warrick didn't need to chase hard to catch up with his boyfriend.

Already dressed in his testifying best--black suit, light blue shirt, and patterned red and gray tie--Warrick gave the ocean another appreciative look then turned back to the room. He walked up behind Gris, who was concentrating on the mirror, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he finished adjusting the knot of his black and blue checked tie. Black slacks, white shirt, handsome man. Warrick slid his arms around his boyfriend's waist and hugged hard.

"Do all old people eat at 5:00 in the afternoon?"

"How would I know?"

"You know everything, baby," Warrick said, kissing a tanned neck.

In the mirror, Warrick watched Gris close his eyes, watched him place his arms over Warrick's and lean back, resting against his broad chest. This was so odd. The whole L.A. experience had been so odd. Warrick thought that Gris had never seemed so . . . needy before. When they were in the record store, Gris hadn't wandered off as was typical but stayed close. During the movie, it was Grissom who had reached out his hand to hold Warrick's.

"You done good with the movie. That was fun. Listening to you laugh out loud was the best part."

Blue eyes reappeared in the mirror, a right eyebrow sneaked upwards, a small smile crept out. "I like Chaplin even better. Ever see `The Gold Rush'?"

"Bits and pieces. The snowed-in cabin scene. You want to rent it sometime?"

"Yeah. Maybe instead of us listening to the score on the DVD, you could improvise the musical accompaniment."

"Turn down the sound on a silent movie? That don't sound right," Warrick grinned. "Hmm, still, could be interesting: jazz meets Alaska."

"That's how Cool Jazz got started."

Warrick grimaced at the atrocious pun, then, really, what pun wasn't? One more hug. "I think it's time for us to go. Wouldn't want to be late."

"No," Gris sighed, "we wouldn't." He didn't move, though, and closed his eyes once again.

Studying his boyfriend in the mirror, Warrick suddenly realized how much taller and bigger he was than Gris. For all his ghostlike qualities, Grissom could dominate a room with his intellect, wit, and solid physicality. This late afternoon, though, he seemed somehow diminished.

"Come on, baby," Warrick hugged one final time then pulled his arms free. He reached for Grissom's jacket and held it for him to put on.

"Do me a favor," Gris said as he slipped into his jacket, "don't call me `baby' in front of my mother."

Momentarily stunned, Warrick at last managed, "Why?"

"Things will be difficult enough."

Warrick clenched his teeth to prevent his jaw hitting the floor. He only moved when Grissom walked out the hotel room door.

******

Michael's looked like a place an artist would eat. A rich artist, anyway. White walls, white table cloths, white napkins, white chairs, like a giant canvas serving as background for paintings from local and not so local contemporary artists. As the maitre'd guided Gris and Warrick through the nearly empty dining room, Warrick thought he recognized a David Hockney on one wall.

From one work of art to another: Grissom's mother was a knockout even at age sixty-eight. She sat alone like royalty at a small round table. Her makeup and hair were perfect. She was dressed in a cerulean blue print dress with hand-crafted silver necklace and earrings. She had the same generous mouth and intense blue eyes as her son. She was just as brilliant and twice as blunt.

"God, you're the Olympian Apollo painted in deep ochre," Grissom translated aloud as his mother signed her first words to Warrick. "Do you have children?"

Taken aback by the question, Warrick stood still, unsure if he should try his rusty sign language. He looked at Gris who had taken a seat next to her and was leaning toward her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Considering that it couldn't hurt to show to show a little respect, Warrick slowly signed, //No . . . children//.

Her right eyebrow went up in surprise. //You sign?//

//No . . . good . . . but . . . try//, he spread his fingers as he tried to remember the movements for the signs.

Grissom's mother gave him a wry smile then she moved her hands quickly as Grissom translated, "I read lips, but we will let Gil do the translating. I would hate to miss anything. You can sit down now."

Warrick took the chair across from her. She looked him over with laser-like precision then turned to her son. "Gil, would you care to make the introductions?"

Blinking, hesitating, as if he needed to disengage himself from serving as his mother's translator and become himself again, Gris at last turned shuttered blue eyes on Warrick. Strong hands signing gracefully, Gris said, "Warrick, this is Mary Grace Grissom. Mary Grace, this is Warrick Brown."

Grissom calling his mother by her first name was not what Warrick expected. Good thing Aunt Bertha's training kicked in, and Warrick said, "Uh, nice to meet you."

Mary Grace Grissom acknowledged the standard greeting with a slight nod and signed, "Do you like children?"

"Yeah, uh, yes. They're cool."

"And you would like to have children of your own?"

Glancing at Gris, not sure how he'd take the news, Warrick still chose to be honest. "Sure. One day. I've got a lot of family, though, so I never feel like I'm missing out."

"You are, though," she looked in earnest. "I gave up long ago on Gil ever having a relationship, much less children. But you seem fully capable."

Warrick flashed a look at his boyfriend, but Gris said nothing in his defense, gave no indication that he'd even registered her cutting words. This is different, Warrick thought.

A waiter, Hollywood handsome, stepped to the table and signed awkwardly to Mary Grace, something like //So nice to see you again//. She managed a brief smile in return and accepted a menu. As Warrick accepted his, the waiter announced his name as Aldo and that he'd be taking care of them this evening. Obviously very curious about Gris and Warrick, Aldo looked them over as he recited the dinner specials. Warrick received an unwelcome wink as Aldo swept away.

Without giving it a glance, Mary Grace set her menu on the table. "Gil tells me you are a talented musician." Even though they were Mary Grace's words, it was weird hearing Grissom's voice say them.

"I play the keyboard."

"No need to be modest. According to Gil, you also compose." She looked expectant but like she needed confirmation from Warrick, like she didn't believe her son.

"Uh, yes, I do. Mostly jazz, with a pinch of rhythm and blues and a bit of hip hop."

"Urban jazz. Boney James."

Strange to be talking about a somewhat obscure subgenre of jazz with a deaf person. "Yeah . . . yes. Erykah Badu, Patrice Rushen, Take 6."

She laughed silently at his confusion, "I like feeling the vibrations."

Warrick leaned back in his chair, trying to relax, "I don't like to limit myself, though. I want to hear all types of music. You never know where you'll find inspiration. Never listened to much classical music, but, being with Gris has been a real eye opener." Warrick smiled at his boyfriend, "Make that ear opener."

Buster Keaton, "the Great Stone Face," had nothing on Gris. Warrick got no reaction from his boyfriend at all, and Mary Grace only shot a cool glance at her son, "Nice to know those piano lessons finally came to some good."

Again, nothing from Gris. No, this was not good. This was not good at all. Gil Grissom does not just roll over. Warrick tried to catch Grissom's eye but he seemed focused on something just past his mother's head.

Aldo showed up to take their orders. Warrick quickly looked through the menu as Mary Grace and Gris both decided on the lemon thyme roasted halibut. Finding that he lacked the appetite or the imagination to make another choice, Warrick made it three for halibut.

While Aldo showed the wine list to Mary Grace, Warrick pitched his voice low, "Gris? Are you okay?" When his boyfriend didn't answer, Warrick reached over and placed his long, gentle fingers on Grissom's forearm. "What's wrong?"

Without looking at Warrick, Grissom said simply, "Don't."

Stunned and disbelieving, Warrick stared at the profile of the cold stranger who looked like his boyfriend. At last pulling his hand back slowly, Warrick shook his head. Fine. If Gris wanted to deal with his mother by shutting everyone and everything else out, then more power to him. Warrick sat back glowering in his chair, crossing his arms.

Mary Grace and Aldo selected the Peregrine Pinot Gris, 48 dollars a bottle. Making his departure, Aldo took one look at Warrick's face and lost the wink.

Mary Grace looked at Warrick and then her son and then back. She smiled slightly and signed, "Tell me how you feel when you're composing your music."

Warrick had never been asked that before. He thought for a moment, then uncrossed his arms, laced his long fingers together, and leaned forward, "Depends. When it's flowing, it's like I'm someplace else. Nothing bad can touch me. The music just . . . erupts from inside. It's like . . . I can see, for a second, something beyond myself, something so perfect that everything makes sense."

She was nodding. Her eyes and her smile were bright. She understood completely, "I feel the same way when I paint. The forms and the colors capture a perfect moment of beauty. I have always believed that you achieve the greatest good by creating art and beauty. That is what everyone's life should be about. As Jean Cocteau said, `Art is science made clear.'"

Warrick's eyebrows came together. Art trumps science? He looked at Gris, a man whose life was built on the love of science. He sat silent, stoic, unaffected by his mother's words.

Mary Grace looked at Gris, too, "Gil, you cannot allow this beautiful man's genetic material go to waste."

"I'll have him donate at a sperm bank the minute we're back in Vegas." It was so deadpan, Warrick couldn't tell if Gris was joking. Not so unaffected after all.

Her right eyebrow lifted, but her face was otherwise expressionless as she signed, "Sarcasm is a mark of an uncultured mind."

Warrick shifted in his chair and took his hands off the table. To an unaccustomed observer, Gris didn't react, but Warrick could tell that her words stung by the minuscule tightening of his boyfriend's jaw.

Mary Grace continued, "Anyone, even an idiot can breed. As I have said on countless occasions." Her dissecting blue eyes honed in on Warrick's pole-axed face, "And you are obviously not an idiot. Anyone who can talk about the creative process as you do possesses a sensitive soul. You must pass on your artistic gifts. Surely you can envision yourself at the piano, surrounded by your children, teaching them to play."

Feeling his cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment, Warrick balled his fists under the table. Freaky as the whole conversation was, no one, not even Grissom's mother, was going to use Warrick's artistic ability and lack of children to club his boyfriend over the head. Unlike Gris, Warrick didn't try to keep his feelings from his face.

Reading his expression, Mary Grace shook her head, "I do not understand such selfishness, such dedication to sterility." Frustrated and disapproving, she grabbed up her water glass, wrapping both hands around it, focusing her eyes intently on it, effectively ending the conversation.

The silence at the small table was awkward and tense. Warrick debated whether or not he'd make things worse by saying anything and then he tried to figure out exactly what he'd say. Aldo showed up with the wine and their salads. He poured the wine and departed without the usual ceremony.

They ate without a word, signed or otherwise. Warrick couldn't figure his boyfriend out. Gris had faced down rampaging politicos, armed and dangerous suspects, distraught relatives of victims, all without giving an inch. Damn, he'd even faced down Aunt Shirley, not to mention Catherine, and lived to tell about it. Warrick had never seen Gris just take shit without giving some back, but he was taking bucketfuls tonight. And not only taking, but saying. Gris had to say out loud the shitty words his mother signed.

Warrick ate without tasting, without enjoyment. He tried desperately to think of some topic that might occupy Grissom's mother without being turned into a weapon for her to use against her son. Talk about shooting in the dark, but, maybe he could keep her focused on herself.

After the salads and his second glass of wine, when the silence had grown unbearable, Warrick asked, "So, Mrs., um, Mary Grace, what do you paint?"

In an uncanny echo of his boyfriend, she tilted her head, "Landscapes. Innerscapes. My thoughts, my emotions."

Warrick waited for her to continue, but she merely looked at him. He tried again, "What genre?"

"Abstract."

That was an obvious dismissal, but Warrick was going to try once more, "Cool. You know . . . I think jazz and abstract painting have a lot in common. Conveying colors, shapes, and textures without standard forms. Improvising. Each artist bringing a personal meaning to the mix."

She shrugged. Gris stared into the distance. And the conversation was at an end.

Warrick needed to move. He was bouncing his legs under the table, but he needed more. Plucking his napkin out of his lap, he set it on the table and then pushed back his chair.

"Gris?" Warrick had to repeat himself twice before Grissom snapped out of wherever he was. "Men's room?"

Grissom looked vague for a moment, as if trying to decode the question. At last he pointed in a direction behind Mary Grace.

As he walked behind Gris, Warrick stopped for a moment and placed his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders. The muscles were steel tight.

"I'll be right back," he said, gently rubbing the shoulders. Warrick made sure Mary Grace saw him.

Warrick delayed as long as he could, splashing cold water on his face, taking deep breaths, trying to get his anger under control. The temptation to walk out the door and head for Vegas was strong. The temptation to bang his head repeatedly against the cold tile was even stronger. His large hands gripped the sides of the bathroom sink instead.

Why was Mary Grace so hostile? So what if Gris had chosen a different path: science instead of art? So what if Gris didn't have kids? Was her passion for abstract concepts like art and family so strong that she'd abuse her own son just because his beliefs were different?

And what hold did she have over Gris that he would act so out of character and just take the abuse?

"Fuck," Warrick said.

He took one long look at himself in the mirror, wondering if he had it in him to make it through dinner. But he had no choice. He'd promised Gris to be right back. With one more deep breath, Warrick headed back to the table. The roasted halibut and absolute silence were waiting for him.

He hated to waste great food, but he barely managed to choke down half. Mary Grace and Gris cleaned their plates almost mechanically. Seeing Mary Grace bring her napkin to her lips one final time was one of the sweetest sights Warrick had ever witnessed. Something must have shown on his face because she looked hard at him, set the napkin down, snapped her fingers to get Grissom's attention, and signed.

"Some friendly advice. You wear the wrong colors. Always wear something with green to bring out the color in your eyes. Terre verte, jade, viridian. Don't stray too far into yellow or blue. `Green, indeed, is the color of lovers.'"

Warrick took the advice with a pinch of salt, "Thanks."

But his boyfriend did something extraordinary. He reached out, in public no less, and touched Warrick's jacket sleeve. "`Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place,'" Grissom spoke softly, without signing.

Warrick didn't know what to do, didn't know what was going on.

"Into the sonnets already?" Mary Grace had a sardonic smile on her face, "I suppose you'll go right for number 20."

Gris nodded and again replied without signing, "`A man in hue, all `hues' in his controlling, / Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.'"

"`Being his slave, what should you do but tend / Upon the hours and times of his desire?'"

"`Fair, kind, and true is all my argument.'"

What the hell was going on? Something had reanimated Gris. Something more than Mary Grace criticizing Warrick's sense of fashion. Some subtext Warrick knew nothing about.

"`Now is the time that face should form another,'" she signed, beautiful face marred with indignation.

Grissom's voice softened, "`Him in thy course untainted do allow / for beauty's pattern to succeeding men.'"

Warrick shook his head, mesmerized by the duel. He had witnessed Aunt Bertha and Aunt Shirley hurling Bible verses at each other, but he'd rarely seen a Shakespearean smackdown. Never outside a theater. Never compounded by the weirdness of his boyfriend's voice doing both parts. Never maximized by the near contempt Grissom's mother showed toward her son. It was quiet. It was civilized. And it was deadly.

"`And nothing `gainst Time's scythe can make defence / Save breed,'" Mary Grace signed, her blue eyes boring into Gris. He held her look for an eternity, but some signal or some memory or some misplaced duty made him give up. His gaze shifted to the table top in a reluctant surrender.

Mary Grace did not look triumphant. She did not look vindicated. She just looked like her world had mysteriously tipped then only barely realigned itself.

That did it. Warrick tossed his napkin on the table and stood up. He reached his hand down to his boyfriend. "Gris, let's go." Warrick waited a second and repeated, "Gris, let's get out of here, now."

Even though he didn't take Warrick's hand, Gris finally stood and looked at his mother. He took a deep breath and said quietly, "I'll call you next Sunday." He then turned and headed for the exit.

Warrick watched his boyfriend go then turned and stared one last time at the beautiful woman.

She signed slowly to him, so he would be sure to understand, //I named him G-I-L-B-E-R-T. It is G-I-L, not G-R-I-S//.

Warrick signed emphatically, //I named him B-A-B-Y//.

******

"She's an artist," Grissom said, as if that explained everything, as he and Warrick walked towards Santa Monica Pier and Pacific Park. The sun had set at 5:30, but artificial light shined upon their every step.

Warrick had steered Gris in this direction immediately after their disastrous dinner. What Warrick had wanted to do was carry his boyfriend up to their room, peel off his clothes, cover every inch of him with love and compassion and acceptance. Overload his senses so much that he couldn't think or feel anything but Warrick. But he knew what his boyfriend actually needed.

"That don't mean shit. She's a fucking freak."

"No, she . . . ," Gris, hands deep in his jacket pockets, shaking his head, trying to shake off emotion, trying to look at his mother objectively, "she just wants beauty to survive."

"Beauty?! What the hell are you to her? Some pigment she can mix up with another? Dab you into one of her fucking abstract paintings and nail you to the wall?"

"She named me after Arthur Hill Gilbert. A famous landscape artist. I didn't turn out to be what she expected, no."

"Fuck! Fuck her shit!"

"Warrick, stop. Please."

"Goddamn intellectual bullshit bigot."

Body trembling with suppressed emotion, Gris was turning to head back to the hotel.

Reaching out, Warrick grabbed his boyfriend's elbow. "Sorry," Warrick said between clenched teeth. "Come on." He shut up and tried to clamp down on his rage. He was furious at Mary Grace Grissom for her unyielding disappointment in her son, for her callous remarks about him, for treating him like a cipher. Warrick was pissed at Gil Grissom for not giving some warning about his mother, for not standing up to his mother, for not walking out, for not telling her to go to hell. Pulse racing, heart slamming against his chest, Warrick barely noticed as they turned right onto Colorado Avenue, crossed Ocean, and walked the last quarter mile out onto the Pier.

When they reached the ticket booth for Pacific Park, a collection of amusement rides and fast food booths set out on the Pier, Warrick forked over 22 bucks for an unlimited ride wristband which he strapped to Grissom's wrist. Warrick pointed at the roller coaster, yellow steel cars on a red steel track. "Go ride. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

With shaking hands, Grissom loosened and handed over his tie. "Thanks," he said, brushing his knuckles against his boyfriend's.

Without a word, Warrick stuffed the tie into his jacket pocket, turned, and didn't look back as he headed down the Pier in search of alcohol and plenty of it.

******

Warrick ended up on a stool in the bar at Rusty's Surf Ranch. Rusty's was filled with tourists escaping the brutal Midwest winter and college students taking a break from Pacific Park. Warrick stood out like Cowboy Troy at the Country Music Awards, but nobody bothered him.

He sat sucking on a Bass Pale Ale and watching a delayed feed of the Pistons-Nets basketball game. He nursed his beer and brooded. He wondered if this relationship was worth all the effort. Of course, his Grams would tell him that nothing worth having is ever easy. But, damn, why did it have to be so fucking hard? Why couldn't Gris have said his mother disapproved of them? Why couldn't Gris have said his mother was a freak? Why couldn't Gris say anything? Why couldn't he express any emotion beyond sarcasm? Why couldn't . . .

For the next thirty minutes, Warrick thought of everything Gris did or didn't do that drove Warrick nuts. He thought of every reason why he shouldn't stay with someone so emotionally and socially inept. When Warrick finished his second bottle of Bass, he even pulled a pen out of his inside jacket pocket and began to fill a napkin with all those things and reasons. He was still writing an hour later.

The basketball game ended. He didn't know who won and didn't much care. He had a list seven napkins long and had consumed just enough beer to slow down his heart rate.

It was about time for him to head back up to Pacific Park. Warrick took the last swig from the third bottle when a co-ed stepped up next to him. She was slim and tall with black curly hair and skin the color of hot cocoa. She looked stunning in college chic.

"Hi," she smiled sweetly. "Drinking alone?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

She coyly looked down at the floor then back at him. "Would you like to join me and my sorority sisters?" She looked back over her shoulder at a table where two other scrumptious sisters smiled back.

It was laid out before him like a wide, four-lane highway. She was everything that would make everyone in his family proud. She was everything his friends and co-workers would sanction and applaud. She was a genetic dream to make beauty survive.

He considered it for all of a second. "Nah. Sorry. Got to meet my boyfriend back at the roller coaster."

He hoped he left her confused rather than hurt. As he pushed open the door to leave Rusty's Surf Ranch, Warrick pitched the napkins in a convenient garbage can and smiled for the first time that night.

******

Looking bled out, boneless, but calm, Grissom finally joined Warrick on a bench just outside the amusement park. The temperature had dropped into the fifties, but neither man noticed the chill.

"Hey," Warrick greeted warmly.

"Hey," Grissom smiled back, sitting down and taking one of Warrick's large hands. Warrick was surprised, as were quite a few passers by, but he just cradled his boyfriend's pale hand without comment.

They sat quietly for a few moments until Gris did another surprising thing. He talked about his personal past.

"My mother was 19 when she met my father. They were enrolled in a class on Chinese art at UCLA. She was already working on her masters in art history. My father was . . . older and charming," Gris shrugged. "He was a businessman looking for a niche where he could get rich quick. Importing artifacts from Communist China looked promising." Grissom blew out a deep breath, and Warrick squeezed his hand in encouragement. It was a while before Gris began again.

"Birth control was less reliable in the 50s. I was a surprise. My mother's parents were staunch Roman Catholics, and my parents were poor. Abortion wasn't an option. She put her life on hold. They got married. I was born. I behaved . . . differently than most children. They fought. Mainly over money and me. They divorced. I haven't seen my father since." Gris took another deep breath, and Warrick waited. There was no self-pity, no attachment, no compassion. Gris detailed the lives of crime scene victims with more emotion than he did his own life.

"Being staunch Catholics, her parents didn't accept the divorce. They cut off financial support. They shunned her. She still created a life for herself . . . and for me . . . as best she could. It wasn't always this . . . hostile growing up." He smiled grimly, `The rest is silence.'"

Warrick recognized the quote from `Hamlet.' In the play, though, Queen Gertrude had loved her son.

"Doesn't excuse her treatment of you now," Warrick said.

"No. But as you know, I'm not the easiest person to live with."

"She shares the blame for that."

Gris looked at the ground. "I've made my own choices. It's not every mother who'd let her child into the house with roadkill to dissect."

Warrick shook his head. He still didn't understand why Mary Grace was so hateful. He still didn't understand why Gris just took it. Warrick did understand that, right now, Gris was not going to listen to any criticism of his mother or to any suggestion that he should have nothing to do with her until she showed him a little respect. Given time and strategy, though, Warrick would get Gris to open his eyes. It was one thing to be a loyal, dutiful son; quite another to make excuses for inexcusable behavior. How else would a son know that his mother contemplated aborting him, if she didn't tell him?

One question, though, Warrick had to ask, "What was with the Shakespeare?"

Grissom smiled slightly and gave a tired shrug, "I memorized the sonnets when I was eight. It was always our secret code. In better times." He looked Warrick full in the face, sky blue eyes meeting sea green, "She had no right to criticize you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She means nothing to me. But I hate that she hurts you." Warrick sped on before Gris could again excuse his mother, "You know you should have talked to me. You should have warned me about how your mother felt about us."

Grissom sat silent for a few moments then squeezed Warrick's hand. "I know. It was irrational. I just thought maybe . . ."

"Maybe she'd change her mind?"

"Yeah. Seeing you. Meeting you. S-s-she'd understand h-how I," he took a deep breath and looked away, "how I can create beauty. With you. How I can love you."

Warrick's heart really didn't need another workout this evening, but this time he welcomed the blood shooting through his veins, the deep breaths hauling oxygen to his lungs. It took a while before he could whisper, "I love you, too."

They sat still, watching the midwestern families troop by, laughing, arguing, teasing, complaining. All the things families do on a good night. And, all things considered, Warrick decided it was a damn good night.

Pulling his boyfriend, his partner, his family to his feet, Warrick said, "Let's go back to the hotel," he paused, then said with emphasis, "Baby."

Grissom's lips curved into an apologetic, yet grateful grin, and they walked to the Huntley hand in hand.

******

Sunday morning Grissom woke bathed in warmth. He had a long arm and a long leg wrapped securely around him. A familiar hardness nudged his hip. He was sore, but sore in a good way and in the right places. Warrick had proven exceptionally athletic last night.

"You awake, baby?" A deep voice rumbled behind Grissom's left ear.

"Nope."

"Me neither."

Grissom smiled. "We sound like Nick and Nora Charles from the `Thin Man' movies."

"Is that a good thing?" Gentle teeth began worrying his left earlobe.

"A very good thing."

"Speaking of a very good thing . . . ." A large hand wandered slowly down his stomach and curled gently around his cock.

Gris sighed, "I'm afraid that's a very tired thing."

"Hmm. Too bad. I was hoping we could break your personal best."

"Which one?"

"The three times in ten hours one."

Grissom reached for his watch on the end table in order to check the time. Warrick broke into a soft chuckle.

"What?" Gris asked.

"Nothing. It's a very Grissom thing."

"Don't you want to know if we're within the ten-hour time frame?"

Warrick laughed, "Absolutely."

Grissom's brow furrowed slightly, but he looked at his watch, slightly distracted by the stroking hand at his cock. "I think we've got ahhhh about forty-five minutes," he ended with a gasp.

"Well," Warrick murmured, "much as I'd like to take this down to the wire, I don't think I can last that long."

Grissom felt an insistent, erect cock press hard into his left buttock, and he smiled. "Slacker."

He wound up on his back, hands pinned above his head, blue eyes locked onto hot green.

Warrick challenged, "You think I can't keep you on edge for forty- five minutes? You wanna bet on that?"

Swallowing, Gris croaked, "I'm not a betting man, Warrick. Even if I were, I wouldn't bet against you."

"Smart man." Warrick broke out the evil grin that always made Gris fear for his sanity.

"Because, you know," full, plush lips kissed Grissom's forehead, "forty-five minutes," then his cheeks, "forty-five hours," then his nose, "forty-five days," then his lips, "forty-five years. Doesn't matter. I can lead you to the promised land, let you see it, let you smell it, but not let you taste it."

A helpless whimper forced its way from Grissom's throat.

The evil grin widened for a moment, then mercy of a sort asserted itself. Warrick gave his boyfriend kisses that were sweet then hot then sweet again. Gris was desperate to move, to reciprocate in some way, but couldn't. His hands were held down by Warrick's strong left hand, legs pinned by his long right leg. And Warrick's right hand kept amused by wickedly flicking and pinching Grissom's already sore nipples, his hyper erogenous zone that Warrick seemed to know about without any discussion. One day, Grissom figured he would come based on skillful nipple play alone.

When Gris felt himself starting to slip away, Warrick pulled back, "You still with me?"

Grissom forced his eyes open. "Yes, yes, yesssss," he hissed, his back arching involuntarily as Warrick tweaked a tender left nipple.

"Tell me what you want."

It was a demand Warrick always made and Gris never answered. But after all that had happened this weekend, after all they'd been through the past few months, Grissom wanted to offer what he'd never offered anyone: complete access to his body, complete access to his mind, complete access to his soul. He was still afraid, though, even with all the trust and acceptance Warrick had demonstrated time and again. Wavering, Gris felt the warmth of a large hand stretched over his heart. He remembered the feel of that hand in his own as he and Warrick had walked back from the Pier last night.

"I want you inside of me."

Gris wasn't sure if Warrick's briefly shocked expression was flattering or not, but the heated, sex-drenched expression that soon followed was definitely flattering.

"You sure?"

Gris nodded.

"You ever done this before?"

He swallowed, "No."

Warrick closed his eyes, obviously trying to calm himself, waging some internal debate. Finally, in a voice deep with regret, he said, "Baby, we need to make preparations, get you as relaxed as possible. I don't have that kind of control right now. No way I wouldn't hurt you. And that's the last thing I want to do." He gave a huge sigh, "Rain check?"

Grissom was astounded once again by Warrick's kindness, selflessness. And, to be honest, Gris was a little relieved. "Rain check." He put on his most contemplative look. "So . . . mutual blow jobs?"

The evil grin was back, "Hell, yeah."

Warrick and Grissom broke his personal best with thirty minutes to spare.

******

Thanks for reading. Your feedback is always appreciated. New ideas, new perspectives help me grow as a writer.