Title: Crunches
By: Shelley Russell
Series: Working Out 03
Summary: Warrick learns to trust his friends; Grissom learns what an equal relationship entails; and Nick learns that pigs can fly.
Category: CSI: Vegas
Characters: Warrick/Grissom, Nick Stokes, Catherine Willows
Rating: FRAO

Early afternoon on New Year's Day and Warrick Brown leaned comfortably back on the hand-me-down couch in his living room, legs stretched out, feet propped on the battered coffee table. He was channel surfing between the Rose Bowl and Georgia Tech-Kansas college basketball. And he was keeping an eye on Gil Grissom whose head lay in Warrick's corduroy-covered lap.

Skimming his long dark fingers through graying hair, Warrick marveled at how his boyfriend managed not only to ignore the TV but Warrick as well. For the past two hours, Gris had been immersed in reading articles submitted to Forensic Science Communications. One of Gris's former profs had strong armed him into serving as a peer reviewer for a special issue on applied entomological research. Like Warrick's boyfriend had any extra time away from work as it was. Two hours carved out of their precious time together, and Gris hadn't noticed when Warrick had gotten up to get a beer, or go to the bathroom, or curse idiotic coaches.

When being ignored got to be too much, Warrick's left hand slowly detoured down his boyfriend's face, lightly rubbed his beard, caressed his neck, and dipped into his open Oxford shirt. When honey brown fingers made for rose brown nipples, Grissom snapped to attention.

"Stop."

"Your eyes say ‘yes.'"

Grissom looked over the top of his glasses. "My eyes say I have to finish reviewing these submissions this afternoon."

"I hate to be Master of the Obvious, Gris, but this is New Year's Day. And a Saturday. What editor's working today?"

"Dr. Erickson already gave me one extension. Today is my deadline."

"How many more you got to read?"

"The same as the last time you asked."

"Damn." Warrick's head hit the back of the couch.

"I thought you wanted to watch football."

"That was LSU-Iowa. It finished about an hour ago ."

Grissom looked befuddled and glanced at the TV. "So . . . what have you been watching?"

Warrick smiled down at his clueless boyfriend. "Go back to your peer reviews, oh peerless one," he rested long dark fingers on Grissom's stomach. "Don't worry, I'll be good."

"You always are. That's the problem." Gris looked back up and ordered, "Just keep your hand still."

Smirking at the loud, resigned groan puffing above him, Grissom turned his attention back to the article. He worked unmolested for a few minutes, actually able to flip to a new one.

"Gris?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm meeting Nick and Cath after work Monday. I've been thinking I might tell them about us. That okay with you?"

Grissom bit back an irritated sigh, keeping his eyes on a fascinating study estimating post-mortem intervals of wildlife carcasses using necrophilous insects in the desert southwest. "Warrick, I thought we'd been through this. It doesn't bother me if people know about us. You're a free agent. You don't need my permission."

"I don't have this whole relationship thing down, babe, but I think I ought to give you a heads up before I do something that might cause you grief."

"Catherine already causes me grief. Always has." Gris ran his thumb and index finger under his glasses, slightly massaging sore sinuses. "You think that's likely to be Nick's reaction? To cause me grief?"

"I don't know, man. I wish I knew how they were going to react. I haven't exactly, um, told them about me and other guys. No big deal. Nothing lasted long enough to say anything. But this," Warrick stroked the warm, sleek skin under his palm, "what we've got is different. All I know is that I don't want anyone to think I didn't speak up because I'm ashamed of us."

"It's nobody's business. More specifically and legally, it's not your supervisor's or your colleague's business." Grissom's focus was back on arthropod succession in northern Arizona.

"True. But Nick and Cath are also my friends, and it's my friends who are asking. I hate ducking and weaving, evading their questions. They're relentless. I think somebody trained his investigators too damn well in the art of interrogation."

"I knew that would come back to bite me on the ass one day," Grissom joked off-hand, then realized he'd made a most unfortunate mistake. He glanced up into the face of one of his best trained investigators, green eyes glowing wickedly, evil grin snaking across his face.

"Oh, shit," Gris moaned when long arms hauled him off the couch.

As he was being back-pedaled toward the bedroom, Grissom hoped he could recompile the articles scattered like giant snowflakes across the living room floor before his deadline turned into drop dead.

******

His stomach still on Central Standard Time, Nick Stokes arrived at the Suncoast's Café Siena thirty minutes early. He headed for a table rather than a booth and draped his down quilted jacket over the back of his chair. Pushing up the sleeves of his heather gray sweatshirt, Nick grabbed a menu from the pile stacked in the center of the table and sat down. He'd already read through the menu twice and long decided what he wanted before his waitress Yolanda drifted by, reluctantly leaving the high rollers two tables over. Ever polite, Nick ordered the hot wings appetizer and a Sierra Nevada Pale on tap.

Nick drummed his fingers on the table top and looked around at the café, still crowded after midnight. Yep, the table would work better than a booth. He and Warrick wouldn't have to jockey to sit at the open end of a booth across the table from Catherine. That is, assuming Warrick wouldn't want to sit next to Catherine. Nick shook his head. He was getting gonzo vibes off those two. If Catherine hadn't been so all-fired curious to know who Warrick was dating, Nick would swear that she was the one involved with Warrick. Shrugging to himself, because there wasn't anything he could do about it, Nick reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed his mobile phone, and opened up Asphalt Urban GT. He spent the next ten minutes in a virtual drag race through Tokyo.

As if she'd really rather be someplace else, Yolanda slapped down his hot wings and beer. Nick still thanked her, saved his game, and tucked in. He was washing down the last of the spicy chicken when his dark eyes caught sight of a slim, beautiful woman dressed in a leather trenchcoat, low-cut blue sweater, and skin-tight beige slacks. His boss, looking sexy as hell. "Hey, Catherine."

"Hi, Nicky," she sat down quickly and dropped her purse onto the floor. "Forty-five minutes after midnight on a Monday in January, and traffic's still a bitch. Warrick here?"

"Nope, he was still talking to Grissom when I left." Nick saw her stiffen slightly when he mentioned their former supervisor's name. Nick figured new supervisor Cath was still sorting out territorial issues. For Gris, the top priority was always about the integrity of the work, no matter whose toes got stomped. For Cath, it was about her effectiveness as a supervisor, making sure her authority wouldn't be undercut. Not too surprising, the two supervisors didn't always see eye to eye when they were butting heads. "So, um, you and Lindsey have a good Christmas?"

"Well, there wasn't any blunt force trauma. That's about as good as it got."

"Ouch."

"She's pissed because her father's dead and I'm never home except at five o'clock in the morning when I can drag her out of bed for a little quality mother-daughter time. The after Christmas shopping was a nightmare. Never take a twelve-year-old and five of her closest friends to the mall the Monday after Christmas. Oh, hell, Nick, I'm sorry, I shouldn't dump this crap on you."

"It's okay. We're off the clock."

"Thanks, but, let's switch to a safer subject. Something less likely to spike my blood pressure."

Whether safer or not, and whether or not less likely to spike her blood pressure, another subject swung into his chair.

"Miss me?" Warrick smiled easily. Wearing a plum colored t-shirt, blue jeans, and blue jean jacket, he took the chair across the table from Nick but directed his green eyes to Catherine's blue.

"Well, Mr. Brown, nice of you to squeeze us into your social calendar," Catherine used a touch of sarcasm and a pinch of sultry.

"You know what they say, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Got enough of Nick's tall tales of the Discovery Channel, huh?"

"Hey!" Nick objected.

"You have no idea," she mock sighed, widening long-suffering eyes.

"Hey! Sitting right here!"

Warrick looked fondly at Nick. "It's cool, man. Everybody needs a hobby. How was Dallas?"

Nick swallowed the last of his beer and shrugged. "Not bad. Caught a Mavs game with a couple of frat brothers, and we took a tour of Texas Motor Speedway. Got an earful from the folks about the Texas Legislature gearing up. Judges haven't gotten a raise in four years, and dad's not real hopeful it's gonna happen this biennium, either. Did some quail hunting at a ranch down around Corsicana. Oh, and I saw the Stubbs exhibit at the Kimbell. Man, that guy could paint horses." Nick wanted to add that he got a blow job from a hooker on Second Street. It wasn't true, but it was so obvious that Catherine and Warrick weren't listening. Lately, whenever the three of them were together, even at work, Nick felt himself marginalized, excluded from a private, wordless conversation.

Yolanda buzzed over, obviously attracted by Warrick. Nick shook his head and thought that every woman in Vegas looked at Warrick like he was a honey comb on two legs. She set three glasses of water on the table and looked extra eager to take their order. Catherine got the chicken caesar salad; Nick went with the New York steak. In a surprise move, Warrick ordered the trout florentine. Over the last month Warrick's choice of food sure had turned more adventurous. Nick wondered if it was due to the influence of the new lady friend. Cath and Warrick settled on a bottle of White Zinfandel and two glasses; Nick stuck with beer.

"So, what's yours these days?" Catherine asked Warrick.

"What's my what these days?"

"Your hobby," she smiled.

Warrick paused, looked like he was about to say one thing but settled on something else. "This and that." He sipped his water. "How's Lindsey?"

"You might want to keep that under your hat, pardner," Nick warned while Catherine shot him a squashing look.

Warrick grinned, "Hey, Tex, how is it every time you spend a week in Big D you come back all home on the range?"

"Well, pardon me for trying to bring a more sophisticated level of conversation to the desert dwellers."

Yolanda showed up with the bottle of white Zin and poured a round. Catherine picked up her glass and savored the first taste. "So . . . Nick," she brushed golden hair from her forehead, "you seeing anybody special these days?"

"Me? No." It took a moment, then he realized that Cath was hot on the Warrick mystery trail again. "Uh, you?"

"Nope." They both looked at Warrick.

He pulled back slightly. "Guys, look, they call it a private life ‘cause it's private."

Nick shook his head, "This is weird, man. Six years running I been listening to you crow about the woman of the week and, now, nothing."

"You saying that my love life is the only thing keeping you going?"

"Naw, dawg, I'm more into science fiction than fantasy."

"Funny guy."

"Warrick," Catherine leaned in, "when someone breaks a pattern, people want to know why."

Nick was amazed to see Warrick steady himself with a deep breath. He fixed his green eyes first on Nick and then on Catherine. "I . . . look, y'all ever think that maybe the pattern isn't broken? That maybe you just haven't seen the larger . . . unbroken pattern?"

"Well, that's . . . metaphysical," Nick's eyebrows met in a frown.

"More likely metabullshit," Catherine smiled to take away the sting. "You just don't want to tell us."

Warrick grinned. "Could be. We're still working things out."

Catherine leaned closer, "So, there is a ‘we.'"

Warrick leaned in, too. "Yeah, there's a ‘we.' We want to be comfortable with each other before--"

"Is she a celebrity?'

"No."

"A showgirl?"

"No."

"A worker in the entertainment industry?" A polite euphemism for a hooker.

Warrick laughed, "No."

"Did you take her to meet the family for Christmas?"

A slight pause. "Gris went with me."

Catherine nearly spit out her wine. "Gris? . . . Grissom? . . . Gil ‘The Grinch' Grissom went with you to your grandmother's for Christmas?"

"Yeah," Warrick seemed a bit taken aback by Catherine's reaction.

Catherine sat open-mouthed for a moment, stunned into silence, then she coughed, "Are you nuts?! What possessed you to take Grissom? God, what possessed him to go?"

"I blackmailed him."

If possible, Catherine looked even more stunned. "Whatever for? I bet he hated every minute he was there."

"Pretty much. He did a number on Aunt Shirley, though. It was beautiful."

"Ohhh," Catherine thought she got the picture. "Your childhood nemesis brought down by the Big Bad Gris. Smart thinking, Warrick."

"Thanks."

She shook her head, obviously still puzzled by Grissom's presence at Warrick's family Christmas. It was an oddity she didn't want to examine too closely, though, because she soon returned to the hunt. "So . . . do we know her?"

Warrick laughed at her sheer doggedness, "If we decide to go public, you'll be the first to know."

"You are irritating, Mr. Brown."

"One of my finer qualities, Ms. Willows," he smugly agreed.

*****

Nick half-listened to their playful flirting. If Catherine truly wanted to know who Warrick was dating, she'd find out. She'd stake out his house. Or follow him. Or, hell, tap his phone.

Nick, though, was intrigued by his friend's sincere yet cryptic reference to a puzzle, to a pattern that seemed broken but in fact existed unbroken within a larger whole. For one thing, Nick couldn't imagine anything that would shut up Warrick about women. True, Nick hadn't met every female Warrick had ever dated, but Nick knew for a fact that Warrick was a true democrat when it came to women: old, young, fat, thin, tall, short. Shana had been in a wheelchair. Black, white, brown, red, yellow. Caroline had been married. Warrick always looked beyond the wrapper. And he'd always been proud and vocal about it. So what could be different this time?

Nick squinted his eyes, trying to remember any clue, anything different about his friend. And all of a sudden, listening to Warrick and Cath banter, Nick identified a strange trick of speech Warrick had been using since November. Never mind that he'd never mentioned a name. He had never once referred to gender. Not one female pronoun. No ‘she.' No ‘her.' Holy shit.

What if . . . what if the larger, unbroken pattern included . . . more than females? Nick shied away for a moment. His heart was open but his upbringing conventional. Still, he was trained to investigate, to ask the unpopular questions. If Warrick were dating . . . someone other than a woman . . . .

The question formed on Nick's lips, but he chose not to voice it. Not now. Not in front of Catherine. He drained his glass of beer and signaled to Yolanda that he needed another. And prontissimo.

******

Warrick drove home slowly, buzzed by the wine and by flirting with Catherine. Just because he was dating someone else, didn't mean he was deaf, dumb, and blind. Didn't mean he was going to do anything about it, either. He just liked to keep in practice. Just liked the thrill of the hunt. It was the pattern. The unbroken pattern within a larger whole.

The ring tone trilled ‘She Blinded Me With Science.' Warrick quickly picked up, "Hey, babe."

"You hungry?"

Warrick stretched out on his bed pleased by the obvious sheet tenting going on at hip level. "Always," he purred into his phone.

"For breakfast." Warrick could hear the exasperated smile on his boyfriend's face.

Warrick glanced at his clock radio. Ten a.m., and Gris was ready to leave work. Only two hours after his shift was officially over. "Mmm. Got something else in mind, first."

"Ah . . . would you like company?"

"Oh, yeah. Company's much preferred. You got any other plans for the next four hours?"

"I need to check on a decomp at the body farm. The phormia regina should be propagating by now."

"I love the way you talk dirty, baby, but the only body you need to check up on is at my house."

"Warrick, this is a time sensitive experiment, and it's gonna rain later today."

"I got your time sensitive right here, boyfriend. Get over here, now, or I'm starting without you. Door's unlocked. And so's my cock." He chuckled at the soft gasp on the other end of the conversation before he hung up. Got to keep the Gris boy off balance.

Rolling over to set down the phone, Warrick rifled through the top drawer of the night stand and took out a small bottle of patchouli scented massage oil. He set it within easy reach. With a stretch, he jumped to his feet and stepped into the bathroom, quickly brushing his teeth and swirling mouthwash. Warrick stroked a light, thin line of Burberry's from his throat down to his belly button.

Padding into the living room, he opened up the CD he'd burned last week: ‘Chill Jazz to Seduce Workaholic Scientists By.' He slid the CD into the player, hearing Ella Fitzgerald caress the first track, ‘Our Love Is Here to Stay.' Warrick hit random repeat and adjusted the volume. He adjusted the lights, too. Then he unlocked the door and went back to bed, naked on top of fresh cotton sheets, propping himself up on pillows.

A scant ten minutes later Warrick heard the door open. He grinned and shook his head. Gris must have actually exceeded the speed limit to reach Warrick's house so quickly. He heard the door close softly, the slight snick of the dead bolt sliding home. He pictured Grissom setting down his briefcase, shrugging off his heavy jacket, emptying his pockets onto the kitchen counter, taking off his watch. Quick footsteps made their way up the hall. Bright blue eyes in a handsome face peered in the bedroom.

"I'll just be a moment."

"Nuh uh. Nothing you need to do but come in here. I want to watch you strip."

Surprise and hesitation showed in Grissom's eyes for a few moments but then his lips quirked into a half smile, accepting the challenge. He stepped confidently into the bedroom. "You want things to come off in any particular order?"

"Dealer's choice." Warrick slipped his hands behind his head and let his desire for Gris shine through.

Grissom gathered the desire in and reflected it back.

"Now would be good," Warrick had to remind Gris.

Gris shot his boyfriend a self-assured smile then stood on one foot, pulling off a shoe and a sock. He did the same to the other foot. Warrick loved how Gris could stand solid, unwavering, strong. Gris placed his socks in his shoes and set them aside. He kept his blue eyes glued to his boyfriend's exotic green; Warrick kept his eyes glued to Grissom's deft hands, efficiently unbuckling his belt, opening his trousers, letting the soft gabardine slide on its own down his hips and legs to pool at his feet. Gris quickly unbuttoned the cuffs of his black, long-sleeved shirt then the buttons down the front. Stepping out of his trousers, he picked them up from the floor and turned for the closet, hanging his trousers, straightening the crease. He slipped out of his shirt and hung it up, too.

It was all strip and no tease and yet incredibly stimulating. Warrick loved his boyfriend's wide, powerful shoulders; the deep crease along his spine separating well-defined lats; the stubborn love handles; and the firm, round ass. Gris turned, dressed only in dark blue boxers.

"Enjoying the show?"

"Could stand to work on your technique, but, yeah, it's great."

Warrick also loved how Gris hated being the center of attention, even the center of his boyfriend's attention, but was willing to endure it in order to please him. He pointed at the boxers with his chin. "I don't think you're finished, though."

Grissom pursed his lips in amusement, but he tucked his thumbs into the waistband and slowly skinned the boxers down to his feet. Warrick caught a glimpse of a heavy half-hard cock nestled in dark pubic hair before Gris's upper body blocked the view.

Warrick mused, "Damn. I should've told you to face the other way before you yanked your drawers down."

Warrick got a face-full of dark blue boxers, and then a warm, solid body smacked his chest and filled his arms. The two men laughed softly and kissed tenderly. Warrick welcomed Gris back from the hard indifference of the world outside.

Slowly, their kisses deepened, their hands shifted from welcoming to arousing, their legs wound around each other. Before things progressed too far, Warrick rolled them over and reached for the bottle of massage oil. Thumbing open the top, he squeezed out a large hand full, capped the bottle, and tossed it to the floor. Propped on one elbow so he could look into Grissom's face, Warrick stretched his oiled hand as far as he could around their two cocks, Warrick's dark brown, long and slender; Grissom's slightly shorter, but thick and deep red. Warrick hissed at the cool liquid sliding onto his burning flesh.

They seldom made love face-to-face. Generally their mouths dove for each other, almost careening into physical release. This time, though, Warrick wanted to see Grissom's face when he came. Warrick wanted a clue, some reassurance that he satisfied Gris. Even more, Warrick wanted to know that he mattered to Gris. Lord knows, Warrick had never heard Gris say anything one way or another. Or even moan one way or another. During sex, Grissom stayed completely silent. Warrick didn't know if the silence signified some deep-seated issue regarding control or trust or conditioning or was simply one of Gris's many quirks. This morning, Warrick was determined to find out.

Slowly, but firmly, Warrick pumped their cocks, stripping the shafts, twisting over their plump heads. Grissom's eyes were closed, his lips parted, his face lost in passion. His hands lay open, relaxed at his side. Gris seemed lost someplace far away from their bed, and that hardly did wonders for Warrick's ego.

"Baby?" Warrick whispered but got no response.

"Baby?" Warrick tried louder, stilling his hand. Still no reaction.

A name he seldom used and thus all the more potent, "Gil?"

Eyelids fluttering, his boyfriend slowly surfaced from the depths of Grissomland.

"Where were you, baby?" Warrick whispered. The blue eyes were glazed, confused with arousal. Warrick repeated, "Where were you?"

"Here," Gris barely managed.

"Were you?"

"Yessss," he trailed off, eyes closing again, withdrawing into a separate space.

Warrick gritted his teeth, stifling an irritated sigh. His hand resumed its firm stroking, but he pushed his knees impatiently in between Grissom's thighs, nudging them wide. Edging his way down, Warrick nipped roughly at Grissom's neck and shoulders, sucked hard at his nipples.

"Come on, baby, tell me what you want. Tell me something." It was almost a snarl.

He let go of his own cock, pumping only the dark red, and sat back. Grissom's skin was flushed, almost hot. His chest rose with great lungfulls of air. His face was transported by sensuality. It was obvious that Warrick pleased Gris, so why should Warrick need more? He only knew he did. He needed to hear a lover's encouragement, a satisfied sigh, an appreciative whimper, an ecstatic scream.

Warrick took Grissom's cock in both hands, rubbing fiercely, lubricating both hands, intending to jab his long fingers deep inside Grissom's ass. Temptation wormed at Warrick to take Gris now, to fuck him hard, to force a gasp, a cry, a whisper, anything.

The dark thoughts shocked Warrick. That he almost gave in to them shocked him even more. He stilled his hands and looked guiltily at the trail of enreddened marks running down his lover's body. With careful tenderness, his fingers retraced his rough journey, soothing the skin, seeking forgiveness. He caressed Grissom's cock, leaned down to kiss the head, gently let it go.

"I'm sorry, baby, sorry," he whispered, kissing the smooth skin stretched over Grissom's breast bone, over his heart. Then Warrick settled himself back on top, extending his arms, staring at Grissom's plump bottom lip, slowly working their hips together, pressing their cocks into each other's flesh and muscle and bone.

It didn't take long. As Warrick neared his own climax, he watched Grissom tip his head back and part soft lips, felt his hips thrust powerfully off the bed. Hot liquid splashed their bellies and chests. With a loud cry, Warrick added to the flood and collapsed into a disappointed, soundless sleep.

******

"You're too young to play the blues."

Warrick looked up from the keyboard where he was fingering Muddy Waters' ‘Who Do You Trust?' to see Gris heading into the kitchen. He had redressed in his dark blue boxers and added the plum colored t-shirt Warrick wore last night. A sleepy smile warmed Grissom's face as he opened a cabinet, took down a mug, and poured himself some coffee. All of these things, combined with his boyfriend's severe case of bed head, began to nudge Warrick from his funk.

"Afternoon," he greeted softly.

"Is it?" Grissom blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the living room. A winter downpour outside seemed to slip the world into twilight. Sipping his coffee, he made his way over to the piano and leaned down to kiss Warrick.

"Mmmm," Warrick murmured, "Coffee, toothpaste, and you. A perfect taste sensation."

"Breakfast of champions," Grissom beamed, starting for the couch.

"Sit with me?" Warrick slid to one end of the piano bench.

Gris looked askance at the short bench, shrugged, and squeezed in next to his boyfriend. Warrick slipped his left arm around Grissom's back and snugged him close. His right hand segued into another blues melody.

Grissom listened intently for a moment. "Sounds familiar."

Warrick nodded. "One of Marcia Ball's. I played her latest album for you a couple of times last week."

Gris sipped coffee and made himself comfortable, leaning into Warrick's side. "How does this one go again?"

Warrick hesitated, played a stanza, then sang in a longing baritone, "How can anybody know what a man like you wants? / How can anybody know what a man like you needs?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick watched Gris tip his head, obviously thinking something through, then he attempted a wry smile. "Was it something I said?"

Warrick shook his head at the irony. "No, baby. That's not it." He turned and pressed his lips against Grissom's temple, against the creases at the corner of his eye. A line of soft kisses down his jaw, and then Warrick caught a glimpse of a dark bruise peeking from under the collar of the t-shirt. A bruise made in anger not love. He stopped playing the piano and studied Grissom's profile.

"When we make love, you never say anything. You never make a sound. Why?"

A slight shrug. "It's not necessary."

Warrick wasn't expecting an immediate reply. He certainly wasn't expecting that particular reply. "I . . . okay." He sat for a moment trying to puzzle it out. "I guess I don't understand. Do you mean it's not necessary for you or for me?"

Grissom turned his head, his eyebrows raised. "For me, of course. I wouldn't presume for you."

"Of course." Warrick waited for Gris to elaborate and wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Gris, I'm still in the dark, here."

A faint sigh. Grissom sipped his coffee and looked at the keyboard. "It's difficult for me to give in to what I'm feeling, so I focus on one stimuli at a time. Touch is completely adequate for me to achieve orgasm." He turned back to Warrick and smiled, but his blue eyes were apologetic, "I wish I could say that I simply don't have the words to describe what I feel when you love me."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, and then their old pattern reasserted itself.

"Nah, you'd never say anything so sappy," Warrick said.

Grissom colluded, "No, never."

Warrick played a progression of chords then said, "Baby, are you saying that you don't talk because it's too distracting for you?"

"Essentially, yes."

Of all the reasons Warrick could imagine for Grissom's silence, this had to be the weirdest. But weird was not surprising where his boyfriend was involved. And it certainly explained why Gris seemed to veer off into another universe on occasion. Warrick couldn't help but wonder at why Gris had to concentrate so hard to let go but figured that was a discussion for a later time.

"You know I'm not looking for intellectual conversation or poetry--"

"Those I can do, just not during sex."

"Gris, it's freaky for anyone to be so quiet."

"Would we be having this conversation if I were actually mute?"

Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "No, but--"

"So, it's not the silence that bothers you but the fact that I'm not meeting your expectations."

Warrick paused, knowing he had to argue his case carefully. "No. The silence bothers me. I fill my life with sound; I crave it," he played a few chords on the piano in illustration. "It's hard for me when you go all quiet. Baby, sometimes you withdraw so far into yourself that it's like I'm in bed by myself." He stopped playing and cupped Grissom's chin, looking him full in the face. "To cut to the chase, what I'm saying is that I need more from you and, in an equal relationship, you gotta consider my needs as well as yours."

By the astonished look on Grissom's face, he'd obviously never thought about the nuts and bolts of an equal relationship, certainly not that his needs might not be the same as his boyfriend's. Warrick briefly tightened his arm around the solid body next to him then he returned to the keyboard, playing notes randomly, distractedly, until improvising on Marcia Ball's ‘Give Me a Chance.'

Warrick had moved on to one of his own compositions when Gris said softly, "Tell me exactly what you need."

Warrick rubbed his left hand over Gris's back, "Every now and then, I need you to give me a word or a moan or a whimper so that I know you're still with me."

"It's that important to you?"

Warrick lifted his right hand from the keyboard and brushed his finger tips over the bruise on Grissom's chest. "Yes. It's like music for me."

There was a long pause before blue eyes softened. "I'll try."

"All I can ask, baby. All I can ask."

Nick felt as jumpy as a jackrabbit on cocaine. In the last 30 hours he'd had maybe four of sleep. He'd had a near sleepless night after dinner with Cath and Warrick. The idea that Warrick might swing with a guy buzzed ceaselessly, like a horse fly bouncing around inside Nick's head. It wasn't that he objected to homosexuality. Or homosexuals. He had a cousin who was gay, and there had been a couple of dudes in college he'd wondered about. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing unnatural about it. But Nick was having a hell of a time wrapping his mind around the up-close-and-personal picture of Warrick Brown in a gay relationship.

Stumbling out of bed at his usual time Tuesday morning for his workout at the Athletic Club, Nick threw on his workout clothes only to find that his truck wouldn't start. Two hours waiting for a tow-truck; two more for a replacement; then he discovered that the Club was closed anyway due to a broken water main. It was blowing a monsoon outside, so no chance of going for a run. No chance of blowing off steam before going to work.

And work was bizarre beyond belief. He started the shift by sorting out a knife fight at a Barbie doll collectors convention. Then he processed an altercation between two beauty queen moms at the Little Miss Nevada pageant. The moms were still spitting, and Nick managed to end up in the middle, taking swipes from all sides. When he showed up back at the lab with a set of scratches on his neck, Catherine laid on some psychic ones because he'd forgotten to show up for a deposition. Then she'd bullied him into working a double shift to help out Graveyard-–a parade of trick rolls with surly vics and surlier pros. And to cap it, every time he saw Warrick, the horse fly in Nick's head only buzzed louder. Nick caught himself staring each time Warrick talked with a guy or looked at a guy or blinked at a guy. Any sane man would not be obsessing over Warrick's sex life, and Nick was beginning to wonder if he'd been hit by a crazy stick.

"Jesus," Nick said, stretching his arms over his head with joint popping strength. He had to get to the gym and work off the heebiejeebies before he jumped out of his skin. Glancing at his watch, Nick was amazed to see that it had already gone on 9:00 a.m. He speed dialed the Club and got a recording that it wouldn't open until 1:00. Nick snapped the phone shut in frustration. He thought about hitting the P.D. workout room, an option about as appetizing as kissing his grandmother's mustache. Then he remembered the stack of guest coupons for 24 Hour Fitness that Warrick had tacked to the communal bulletin board. Shooting down the hall, Nick grabbed a coupon and headed for the locker room.

He skidded into 24 Hour about 10 minutes later. The gym was all chrome and blue leather and bright lights, making him feel even jumpier. He filled out the coupon, barely recognizing his signature, and gave it to the fit young woman behind the counter. She had red hair, green eyes, and a bright smile. Her name was Moira, and she was so checking him out. Nick wasn't vain, but he was aware of his effect on the opposite sex. He knew he could take advantage of it a lot more than he did. Today, though, he was too pumped to flirt.

"Mr. Stokes, you look like you know your way around the equipment, but why don't you let me give you a tour?" she offered a welcoming smile.

He offered back an impatient grin, "Nah, I don't want to waste your time. My gym's temporarily closed. I'm just here for the day."

"Oh. Well. Too bad," she sounded sincere. "I still need you to sign a standard release."

He signed without reading it, paused to give her a wink, grabbed a towel, and headed for a treadmill. He was rolling his shoulders to loosen tense muscles when he spied a familiar figure seated on a weight bench. Nick backed up and caught the profile. It was Warrick, laughing and looking down at something on the floor. Nick craned his head. Make that someone on the floor: Grissom flat on his back on a mat, struggling through a series of crunches. Nick shook his head and grinned. Oh, man, Warrick must be loving this.

Nick took a step toward the treadmill then reconsidered. He simply could not pass up the opportunity to listen in on Warrick giving Gris hell. Nick wandered within earshot.

"Make you think twice about that extra biscuit," Warrick laughed.

"Shut . . . the fuck . . . up," Grissom wheezed between clenched teeth, keeping his back flat, body shaking with the effort to squeeze his elbows in the direction of his bent knees.

"Yeah, you say that now, but you remember when Aunt Bertha's shoving that bread basket in your face. Three more then two sets of obliques."

"Shit," Gris hissed.

"Gonna get you in fighting trim. Marco's been taking it easy on you. With your back, you should do these everyday."

Nick blinked. Gris has a bad back?

Grissom began working his right oblique, knees together but legs twisted to the left all the way to the floor, still crunching up his elbows, squeezing the muscle for good measure. Sweat poured off his forehead, soaking his beard.

"Fresh fruit and oatmeal don't sound so bad, now, huh?"

Gris couldn't muster a curse, and Warrick rolled out an evil, evil laugh.

"Switch."

Like an automaton, Gris dutifully rolled his knees all the way to the right, never breaking the crunching motion. He breathed noisily with each motion, sucking in oxygen for his aching muscles.

"Come on. That's it, baby. Be strong, now. Four more and you're done."

Nick watched Grissom fight to complete the set, groaning in exhaustion when he finished, arms and legs akimbo and shaking.

And then Nick realized Warrick had called Gris ‘baby.' No, uh uh, couldn't be. Warrick just used the word ‘baby' casually, right? Like he did ‘man,' or ‘bro,' or ‘cuz.' Only Nick had never heard Warrick use ‘baby' with a man, especially not a man like Grissom.

"Nick! Hey, man, didn't see you. What brings an Athletic Club snob like you slumming to 24 Hour?"

Mouth suddenly dry, Nick stammered under the friendly green gaze, "Uh, hey, I . . . uh . . ."

He watched wide-eyed as Grissom rolled to a sitting position, wiped his face, and turned around to nod a breathless greeting.

Nick nodded back, feeling his lips tighten nervously. He was trying hard not to assume, not to jump ahead of the evidence.

"You okay, man?"

Nick snapped his attention back to Warrick. "Y-Yeah, I'm, uh, I'm good. Just, uh, just fixin' to hit the treadmill."

Green eyes narrowed, studying Nick suspiciously. Warrick looked like he was about to say something else, but then he noticed that Gris was trying to push to his feet. Warrick reached his hand out to pull Gris up. It was so subtle, Nick almost missed it: a softening, a gentle change of expression on the dark face as Warrick popped Gris to standing. Their hands remained clasped a beat too long. Nick looked up into Warrick's proud expression, Grissom's neutral one, and Nick knew, without any question, that the two men were–-

"Jesus," Nick said, staring at them.

"You got a problem?" Warrick warned softly, chin lifting.

"Jesus," Nick said again, shaking his head.

Warrick took a step forward, "You got something to say, say it."

"Warrick," Grissom, who rarely touched anyone, put his hand on Warrick's shoulder. "Nick, sit down before you fall down."

Luckily, the old habit of following Grissom's orders found Nick on a weight bench rather than on the floor, head between his knees, Gris sitting beside him. Nick thought he heard Gris telling Warrick to grab some smelling salts. Nick waved Warrick off.

"No, no. I'm okay. . . Jesus."

"To cover your bases, you might try invoking another member of the Trinity."

Nick looked up into amused blue eyes. Unconsciously, Nick started to scoot back but stopped himself. He gripped his knees hard.

"Is it that shocking?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah," Nick felt his tongue move without checking in with his brain, "like I just saw pigs fly."

Grissom's eyes widened. "Well, that's flattering."

"Hey, I didn't mean–." All of a sudden, Nick couldn't handle looking at Grissom. Swinging his head, Nick lasered his dark brown eyes onto Warrick, "How the hell am I supposed to act?! You're supposed to be my best friend, and all of a sudden I don't know you. Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Warrick actually looked contrite. His eyes shifted to Gris then back to Nick. "I wanted to, man. I just didn't know how."

Nick was seething, more out of embarrassment than anything else. "That's bogus. You know you can trust me. We're friends. We're partners. Instead, you let me get blind sided and almost pass out in the middle of a fucking gym!"

"I'm sorry, Nick. You're right. I should've told you."

"You think?!" Nick realized he'd gripped his knees so tightly, he was beginning to lose feeling in his feet. Unclenching his fingers, he decided to give a little of his own back. He took a deep breath, managing to sound calm, "So, you gonna tell Catherine, or you just gonna keep flirting with her?"

Warrick's chin lifted slightly, defiantly. "I'll tell her when I'm ready."

"Yeah, right. Hoss, you straddle both sides of a fence long enough, you're liable to get barbed wire wrapped around your balls." Nick was pleased to see that neither Warrick nor Grissom had a comeback for that one. Nothing like a Texas truism for a show stopper.

Nick inclined his head toward Grissom, "You know she already thinks you're his spy."

Green eyes slid over to blue. "Yeah. I know."

"Catherine thinks you're my spy?"

Nick glanced at Grissom. He had that baffled, slightly hurt look that he got when he slammed into human contrariness. Nick was tempted to remind Gris that he bore some responsibility for telling Catherine, too. They'd supposedly been friends for nearly twenty years. But Gris would probably aggravate the fire out of Cath just by being there.

Suddenly Nick realized how difficult this relationship was going to be for his friend Warrick, trying to cope with an emotionally challenged, all-around-strange duck like Grissom. Not to mention that while the folks in the lab were likely to accept the situation, the boys in brown uniforms would be outright hostile. The odds in favor of success sucked.

Nick took another deep breath and looked up with compassion into wary green eyes, "Rick, you better hold off until Catherine feels more secure in her position."

Warrick looked relieved--to be forgiven by Nick and to be let off the hook from telling Catherine right away. "Thanks, man."

"And you better ease her into it. She's usually packing."

"I'll remember to wear kevlar."

"Yeah." Nick rubbed the back of his neck, "Promise me one thing, though."

"You got it, bro'."

Dark eyes sparkling, he let loose a slow grin, "I get to be there when you tell her."

Warrick couldn't decide if it was better to hit the body farm before breakfast or after. Either way, his stomach was threatening to do cartwheels. The body farm was one of his least favorite places to be, even in broad daylight. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable around the sight, smell, and even sound of dead bodies. But d.b.s purposefully served up as a banquet for bugs and birds seriously creeped him out. Not a lot of dignity when you're on public display as just another link in the food chain.

That's why, as he trailed along in winter grass still slick from yesterday's rain, Warrick kept a firm picture in his head of Gris as a doctor--a concerned, respectful doctor--slowly making rounds, crouching down beside each patient, listening intently to each complaint, charting each one's progress. Man, only these patients got some really nasty visitors.

"Always thought I'd donate my body to science, but I think I'll just do my damnedest to use it all up before I go."

Gris didn't look up from his tablet PC, "Unless you dematerialize, you'll always have something I can work with."

"Any other place and time, and I'd take that as a compliment."

They'd stopped beside a naked male body, probably dead more than a couple of weeks, half exposed to full sun, half sheltered in permanent shade cast by a boulder. The stench was a living thing. Warrick watched Gris check the reading on each thermometer set in the ground around the body and each one set in the body itself. He entered all the numbers into the computer. Nope, no dignity at all.

"Colder air temperature slows down insect development and body decomposition," Gris was saying, head close to the ground, examining the side of the body's torso. "Maggot colonization increases body temp by an average of 17 degrees Centigrade, so even when the air temp dips below freezing--"

Warrick heard a soft intake of breath and then saw his boyfriend grab a pair of tweezers from his jacket pocket and pounce on a roundish, shiny, jet-black bug. Gris looked like he'd just hit a million dollar jackpot.

"What class of critter is that?"

Gris held the bug up gently. "Coleoptera Histeridae, a hister or clown beetle. He's here for the instar larvae feeding on the body, not the body itself."

"Seems fair."

"I wasn't expecting this little guy for another day," Gris said in wonder, blue eyes shining as he studied his find.

"Maybe he's extra hungry during winter."

"Is that a hint?" Gris gently set the beetle down, exchanged his tweezers for his stylus, and furiously recorded data.

Warrick grinned, "Nah. Trust me. My appetite is non-existent at the moment."

After a few minutes writing, Gris said, "Can't say the same for others." He pointed with his stylus at wounds on the body's neck. "Looks like vertebrate scavengers have made their way in, too. More feral cat than rat. Either there's a hole in the fence or the hotwire's not working again."

Warrick leaned in to look at the bites and nodded in agreement. He'd seen similar marks at other crime sites. Hungry animals reminded him. "Heard anything from Nellis lately?" Gris had been trying for years to talk the military into establishing a study site on the remote miles and miles of Nellis Air Force Base, where all kinds of wildlife roamed. Gris would give his left nut to study the impact of large vertebrate predators on human bodies.

"They've formed another task force. At least this time they're consulting the AFIP." At Warrick's questioning look Gris added, "Armed Forces Institute of Pathology. The Air Farce is having a hard time understanding the relevance of forensic research."

"I guess not many flyboys get eaten by coyotes, huh?"

"Not generally, no." Grissom made some last notations then stood. "Thank you."

Warrick guessed the thanks was for him coming with Gris without any complaints. Well, without many complaints. "I always learn something. And it's entertaining watching you get all crazy over hister beetles." Warrick was rewarded with a brief, embarrassed smile, and he continued as they began walking toward the exit gate, "Besides, I have to walk the talk."

"Walk the talk?"

"Uh huh. If I'm gonna ask you to consider my needs, then I better do the same for you."

"Warrick, I don't need you to be here at the body farm with me."

"No, but you do need somebody to teach, and I've still got a lot to learn," Warrick glanced sideways at Gris, "and you can keep the sarcastic comments to yourself."

Grissom pursed his lips, opening the gate then locking it behind them. "First you want me to talk then you don't."

"Yeah, I'm a mystery."

Gris snorted, "You're about as mysterious as a Mack truck."

Warrick laughed, happy to be with his boyfriend, happier still to be escaping from the body farm.

******

By the time they reached Grissom's townhouse, Warrick had regained his appetite. Luckily, they'd not been out at the body farm long enough to soak up the tell-tale eau de decomp. Driving around with the windows rolled down had helped a lot.

Nothing like staring at death in all its glory to make you want to celebrate life. So, Warrick celebrated by helping his boyfriend put brunch together, if by helping you mean artfully brushing up against him at every opportunity.

"Waffles are tricky enough without distractions," Gris growled, wrapped up in long brown arms while trying to mix yogurt, cinnamon, brown sugar, and blueberries together in a frosty bowl.

"I have full faith in your multitasking abilities." Warrick gently nipped the tanned neck then reluctantly let Gris go, watching him flip up the lid on the waffle iron, skate around the edges of the golden brown cake with a spatula, then flick the waffle onto a warm plate. He spooned half the yogurt mixture onto the top.

Warrick kissed the chef and grabbed the plate. His fork was already cutting and heading for his mouth before Gris had recovered.

"You could sit down first."

Warrick swallowed whole wheat waffle perfection and shook his head. "Nope. Your waffle deserves a standing salute. Like a ‘Hallelujah Chorus' of cooking."

Gris rolled his eyes and ladled more batter onto the hot iron. "God forbid I ever take you to a truly great restaurant. ‘Albert, no need to autopsy. It was euphoric death by haute cuisine.'"

"I embarrass you when I praise your cooking."

"Immensely."

"Remind me to stop sometime," Warrick smirked forking up another big slice. He watched Gris pour himself a glass of orange juice. This was what it was all about. Finding joy in the everyday. And, thinking of joy, Warrick said, "Nick seems okay with us."

"Yeah," Gris took a sip. "Once he regained consciousness."

"Sorry about that."

"Depending on how many people you want to break the news to, I'll have my broker invest in ammonium carbonate."

Warrick finished chewing and swallowed, "Hah and hah. No, just Cath. I'll tell her, Gris, just give me time."

Grissom shrugged.

"You know, there's nothing going on. Nothing more than what's been happening since I first met her."

"Catherine is an amazing woman. I understand why you're attracted to her."

"Yeah, well, she's somethin' else. But her cooking stinks."

Gris pointed his finger, "Don't start."

Warrick laughed and sang out, "If you start me up, if you start me up, I'll never stop."

His boyfriend eyed the bowl of yogurt dressing meaningfully.

******

After they'd cleaned up the kitchen, Warrick washing the utensils, plates and bowls, Gris drying and putting things away, Warrick wandered out into the living room and tried to get comfortable lying down on the short couch, an impossibility for his long frame. No doubt about it, his boyfriend needed more user friendly furniture.

"Man, you have got to get something we can both fit on."

"That's what the bed is for," Grissom said, heading down the hallway. He popped his head back around the corner, "I'll be right back."

"Oh. Thought that was an invitation." Warrick settled back down on the couch and raised his voice, "A change of scenery is not a bad thing, baby. Can be positively inspiring."

Gris came back into the living room carrying a box about the size of a small microwave wrapped in gold foil paper and tied off with a purple ribbon. He held the box out almost shyly.

Warrick sat up. "What's this?"

"A belated Christmas present."

"I thought you didn't believe in Christmas presents."

"I don't believe in mandated gift giving. This is . . . different," Gris set the box in Warrick's lap then sat down beside him.

"Yeah, I should've guessed. Purple's not your traditional Christmas color."

"I like purple," Grissom said simply.

Warrick shook his head and slid the ribbon off the box then ripped off the paper. "A Delphi XM MiFi? What's--"

"I know you love your iPod, so I thought you'd like this, too. It's a satellite XM radio receiver. You get half a dozen jazz stations. You can listen to music anytime, anywhere."

Warrick turned surprised green eyes on his boyfriend, "You got this late yesterday afternoon, after our talk, didn't you?"

Gris cocked his head but didn't offer a contradiction.

"This is beautiful, but, baby, it's too expensive."

"Not at all."

"But it's got a monthly subscription."

"I signed you up for the 3-year package." As Warrick started to protest, Gris held up his palms, "The twelve year old working behind the counter said it was the best deal."

Warrick smiled but studied Grissom, "Still, that's . . . a long-term commitment. You ready for that?"

And Grissom nodded without hesitation, "It's worth the trouble. To me."

Warrick leaned over, kissed his boyfriend powerfully, and hauled him to his feet. "So, you gonna let me hear some music, baby?"

Strong arms wrapped around Warrick and soft lips kissed him back. And then a crooked smile, "Anytime. Anywhere."