Title: Leg Extensions
By: Shelley Russell
Series: Working Out 02
Summary: Warrick explores the role of protector and catapults Grissom out of his comfort zone and into the Brown family Christmas party.
Notes: Sequel to Inclined Chest Press. Many, many thanks to my amazing beta queens Erika and Rebecca.
Category: CSI: Vegas
Characters: Warrick/Grissom
Genres: Slash
Rating: FRAO

A chill December morning the week before Christmas, and Warrick Brown was a man with a problem. He tried to concentrate on the NBA scores scrolling on the small, flat screen monitor perched in front of his treadmill. He tried to focus on maintaining a proper form as he pounded out his 5 mile run. He even tried to rehearse his carefully plotted strategy for convincing his boyfriend to spend Christmas Day together. He tried not to let his attention stray to the leg extension machine. But in all these things he failed miserably.

With carefully controlled timing, Gil Grissom straightened his legs, lifting 95 pounds, pausing slightly to challenge the quad muscles, then slowly lowering the weight before starting again. Warrick's imagination saw beneath the heavy gray sweats Gris wore. Each movement highlighted the toned muscles in his firm thighs. Each movement fired Warrick's blood.

Warrick jerked his smoky green eyes back to the highlights of the Lakers-Kings game, commanding his swelling cock to subside. He'd worn the loosest sweats and the tightest jock he owned. How could he allow anyone to affect him so much? He shook his head, trying desperately to concentrate on his running.

By the calendar, he and Gris had been together a month. In real time, they'd managed one interrupted weekend and a dozen all-too brief mornings together. Hardly enough time to form a hard-core addiction, but Warrick was hooked.

Powerless, his eyes drifted back, captured by the thought of strong, muscled thighs. And then Warrick's memory triggered.

******

For nearly a week, Warrick had barely seen Gris, much less done anything more strenuous with him. Grissom had even missed his workouts. Ever since A.D. Ecklie had reorganized the department, each CSI shift was scrambling short-handed, and, for once, Sheriff Atwater actually encouraged racking up overtime. Not the best conjunction of events for encouraging a budding close relationship. Not the best timing, either, when Warrick needed to convince Gris about Christmas Day, and a phone conversation wasn't going to cut it. Warrick understood the demands of the job, but, damn, enough was enough.

Yesterday, he'd wound up his stint on swing shift, did a quick tour of the lab to see if Gris was in. He was still out in the field. Warrick reached for his cell, but stopped. No personal phone calls during work. Not even to check in. Grissom had been adamant.

Going home and grabbing a good six hours sleep, Warrick returned to the lab near the end of night shift. He nodded to Archie and Jacqui, checked in with Greg, and glanced through the open door into Grissom's office. Crazy that Warrick's heartbeat ramped up on seeing a rumpled, middle-aged scientist hunched over his desk. Warrick tapped lightly on the door frame, then eased into the office, closing the door behind him. Grissom didn't move, intent on his paperwork.

"Hey, Super Gris, time to hang up the cape." Warrick pitched his voice low, even in the relative privacy of the office.

Dull blue eyes slowly looked up. Warrick swallowed at the sight. He knew that Gris had been wrapped up in a case, chasing down a deranged animal who'd raped and strangled a ten year old boy. But the man looked twice his age, face gray as the hair at his temples, lines cracked deep around his nose, grocery bags under his eyes. The office's blue and gold ambient lighting did nothing to hide the damage. Gris probably hadn't caught more than two hours sleep in the last 48. He blinked, slowly focused, took his glasses off, then managed a slow smile. "Warrick."

"Oh, man, babe, you look bad."

"It's good to see you, too."

Warrick knew Gris was exhausted if he didn't react to "babe" at work. "Greg said you caught the guy. Why are you still here?"

Grissom gestured to the clutter on his desk. "Case review's now due within 12 hours of closure."

Ecklie. Fucking bureaucrat. "Shit."

Gris closed his eyes and gave a weary sigh. "Yeah. Almost done though. Give me ten minutes." He pinched the bridge of his nose, settled his glasses, and went back to work.

Warrick considered staying, just to be in the same room, to soak up stray pheromones. Better not risk being a distraction. Besides he could give Greg some more pointers about tire tread comparisons. He stepped into the hallway, deliberately closing the door, and nearly collided with Sara.

"Hey," she smiled slightly, obviously as tired as Gris but without the responsibility or mileage.

"Hey," he returned, casually blocking her way into Gris's office.

"Grissom in there?"

"Uh, yeah, but, um, he's trying to finish up a report. Doesn't want to be disturbed." He could tell that wasn't going to deter her. "Hey, you got a sec? I . . . need your expert opinion on some fibers I found in the Fitzgerald case."

She looked so pleased to be needed that Warrick almost felt guilty.

******

Forty minutes later, having maneuvered Sara into going home without disturbing her supervisor, Warrick finally had Gris in tow. The man lurched side to side like a punch-drunk fighter. With supreme restraint, Warrick kept his hands at his sides, not even offering a stabilizing touch to Grissom's elbow.

The urge to protect hadn't come naturally to Warrick. He'd had no brothers or sisters. His cousins were all older. He'd grown up pushed and bullied at school with no one to protect him. He'd earned a PhD from the school of hard knocks. Warrick could've been hard and unyielding as titanium. But the moment he accepted his negligence in the death of Holly Gribbs, his failure to protect her, he began to grow up. He'd made a promise to Gris never to let him down. Warrick took promises seriously. He helped his grandmother as she grew frail; went the extra mile for James Moore, a good kid in the wrong place at the wrong time; cared for Catherine and Lindsey as they struggled with, and without, Eddie; and mentored Greg to be a CSI Gris could be proud of. Now, watching his boyfriend jolt toward his Denali, Warrick realized that he would fight anyone, do anything to ease Grissom's path. He'd even fight Gris.

"Give me the keys."

"I'm fine. Just need to sleep," he smiled weakly, "perchance to dream."

"Uh huh. You got at least a thirty minute commute in morning rush hour traffic. I wouldn't want to be on the road with you."

Swaying, Gris leaned against his truck, closed his eyes, then dug into his pockets and hauled out his keys, dropping them in Warrick's palm. Warrick stared at them, amazed that Gris gave in so easily.

"I'll get your spare clothes. You're coming home with me."

Grissom fell asleep the second his butt hit the bucket seat. Warrick enjoyed having a reason to be close to Gris in public, brushing up against him while slowly wrapping and buckling the seat belt around him. With a quick glance to make sure the coast was clear, Warrick leaned in for a kiss, gently ruffling the soft beard. He slipped Nina Simone's Anthology into the CD-player and backed the truck out slowly.

******

Warrick took the long way round to his house. At the first stop light, he breathed in deep as if he could vacuum up the exhaustion, the anger, the horror from Gris. As he drove, Warrick indulged himself, watching Grissom sleep, long eyelashes fluttering, already deep in REM. The early morning light softened his lover's careworn face. An overwhelming tenderness wrapped around Warrick's heart, but a sneaky, determined tendril of sexual desire began to grow. Before long, it crowded everything else out.

As soon as Warrick pulled up in front of his house, his aching need blitzed his common sense. He pulled Gris roughly out of the truck, guided him in a rush into the house. They were heading down the hallway toward the bedroom, when Warrick suddenly dropped to his knees, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unhooking, unzipping Grissom's wrinkled khakis, yanking pants and boxers down his lover's trembling legs.

Grissom gripped the wall, stunned by the passionate ambush. Warrick gripped Grissom's thighs, tonguing and sucking his flaccid cock. Tired as he was, Grissom still responded to his lover's alchemy, his cock expanding quickly. Warrick sucked rapaciously, running his hands over quivering muscles. He could feel Gris trying to thrust, to show his appreciative response, but he was obviously too tired to do more than hang onto the wall.

The smell, the touch, the first taste of his lover calmed Warrick's frenzy. He pulled back, slowly fisting Grissom's cock, staring up into his face. Blue eyes glazed, brow furrowed, face flushed, tongue tip peeked between teeth. Warrick grinned fiercely, proud that he could cause such bliss. Warrick would sear away every trace of death, loss, and sorrow. He would remind Gris that life held joy, peace, and, yes, love, too. Warrick burrowed a hand up Gris's soft teal shirt, sliding over curved taut stomach, rubbing firm pecs, teasing then pinching soft nipples. He felt powerful watching Gris throw his head back in a silent scream.

"One day, baby," Warrick said softly, "you'll trust me enough to let that scream out."

He ducked down, sucking first one ball, then the other into his mouth, still sliding his dark hand over the slick, full cock. He could feel Grissom gathering himself, so Warrick slowed down, gentling his hands and mouth, coaxing rather than commanding.

He looked back up. "Tell me what you want," Warrick rumbled. "Tell me how I can please you."

It took an eternity for the words to register, for Gris to focus. Risking his balance, he let go of the wall and moved his hands to Warrick's head, wordlessly directly his lover's mouth back to the thick cock. Warrick sighed at the stubborn silence but swallowed the dark red cock as deeply as he could. He skimmed his fingertips over Grissom's thighs, hips, and round ass. His fingers circled, hovered closer, brushed lightly, signaling his intent to slip inside his lover's heat. Iron grips caught Warrick's wrists, stilling all movement. Warrick leaned back, looking into Grissom's face, waiting patiently, seeking consent. Every time with Gris required a dance of incremental steps.

Sky blue eyes searched ocean green. At last, wordless questions seemingly answered, Grissom took a deep breath. Iron grip shattering, shaking, he brought Warrick's right hand up and kissed each fingertip, then sucked the middle finger inside. Warrick's nostrils flared; his heart double pumped. Every time with Gris yielded a precious gift.

Warrick slipped his wet finger out of Grissom's mouth, brought it down, and slowly, easily, breached Grissom's body. Warrick kept his finger still, studying Gris's face for any pain, but there was none. Instead, a relieved joy seemed to glow deeply in his eyes. Warrick grinned at the sight, then insistent hands guided him back to business. He wrapped his free hand around Grissom's cock, sliding hand and lips in concert over the velvet steel, providing maximum friction.

Abruptly locking his fingers like a vise on Warrick's skull, Grissom came, giving himself over to Warrick's safe-keeping. Grissom's thighs shook like oak trees in an earthquake. Then he toppled onto Warrick, cut down by exhaustion and release.

******

Warrick came to, nearly toppling off the treadmill. "Dammit," he barked, catching himself, tweaking his left knee. He hopped onto the side rails to regain his balance and massage his knee.

"9 point 9."

He glanced over at Gris, who had finished his workout and now stood close by, holding out a bottle of water to Warrick. Grissom looked smugly amused at catching his normally graceful boyfriend in such a spectacularly klutzy move. With renewed dignity, Warrick dismounted the treadmill and reached for the bottle, fingers sensuously brushing Grissom's. Smug flashed to lust then back again. Warrick twisted open the bottle and took a sip. "Only 9.9, huh. Why not a 10?"

"Didn't nail the dismount."

"Hoo. Nothing like 14 hours sleep and a night off to crank you back to uppity."

"No two men can be half an hour together, but one shall acquire an evident superiority over the other," Grissom smirked, taking a sip of water. Then he frowned, reconsidering his source, "Samuel Johnson was a pompous prick."

"Now, I could go on about a certain pot callin' out a certain kettle," Warrick began as Grissom's offended eyebrow rose, "but I'm not risking a home cooked breakfast."

"Good call. So, breakfast at my place?"

"That . . . and other things."

Gris nodded his head, "Other things are good."

Green eyes burned hot. "Cool."

******

"Oh, man, one week without your cooking is cruel and unusual punishment," Warrick leaned back in the black leather and chrome dining chair, belly warm and full of smoked salmon and asparagus quiche. Grissom's townhouse seemed warm as well, framed butterflies glowing in magnificent colors, Chopin's piano etudes seeping heat into the subconscious.

"Nothing special. Fresh ingredients, real butter. I make my doctor happy by substituting a bread crumb crust for the shell and tofu for some of the eggs."

"Funky fusion cuisine."

"All-American melting pot cuisine." Gris gathered up the dishes and headed for the kitchen, while Warrick enjoyed watching Gris at his most relaxed and domestic. And then the stereo switched to the soaring boy sopranos of Britten's A Ceremony of Carols, and that brought up, front and center, a most difficult task. Warrick debated whether the time was right to ask about Christmas. He knew that he had to ask soon. Gris was already on call for the day and would probably insist on going in to the office. No doubt, he was counting on a slow day to catch up on administrative details.

"Gris?"

Grissom turned from the sink and smiled crookedly, "Other things?"

"Oh, yeah, but, uh, first, I need to ask . . . I need a favor."

"What?" Gris wiped his hands and turned off the water. He didn't sound suspicious, only curious.

Warrick pushed back his chair and stood. "Christmas Day."

"I'm on call."

"I know, but, I . . . my Grams and Aunt Bertha are cooking the Christmas turkey . . . and all my relatives are comin' back into town . . . it's a big family kinda thing."

Grissom's eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up. "No."

"No? Just like that?"

"No no no. Absolutely not. Never. I don't . . . I can't even imagine."

"Can't imagine what?" Warrick crossed over to stand close to Gris who tried his best to look immovable, unpersuadable. "You don't have to go as my date. You can go as my friend, my guest. Look, Grams won't let me in the door unless I bring somebody." He repeated the words he'd heard every December of his life, "This family is not celebrating Baby Jesus' birthday unless we minister to the lonely and less fortunate."

Confusion flickered across the handsome face. "I am not lonely. I just like to be alone."

"I know that, baby. And you know I give you as much space as I can stand, but that's not the point."

"I'm not less fortunate, either."

"The point is that Grams insists that all of us bring someone to share the day with. I want to share it with you. I want you to be with me."

Grissom shook his head. "Oh, no. I suck at social events. I hate crowds."

"I'll be right beside you. We'll hug the wallpaper together. You won't have to mix with anyone else."

"Right. Your family is what, now, 1 grandmother, 1 uncle, 5 aunts, countless cousins, nieces, and nephews, and I'm not going to have to mix with anyone."

"Baby, I've seen you at conferences. The bigger the crowd, the easier you disappear."

Grissom the immovable was starting to crack. And getting desperate. "You do not need me to go with you. You said it yourself: you only need to take someone. Take Greg to get you in good graces with your Grandmother."

Warrick smiled at the lamest excuse yet. "Good alliteration."

"If you only realized how excruciating this would be for me, you wouldn't ask."

Time for the knockout punch. "Okay, let me break it down for you: Grams and Aunt Bertha raised me when my Mom died. Grams cleaned other people's houses and Aunt Bertha worked double shifts at the hospital to put food on the table and clothes on my back. They stood by me no matter what stupid or hateful thing I did. So, I'm not about to invite just anybody. If Grams wants me to bring someone, I'm gonna bring someone special, someone who deserves to meet two of the most important people in my life." He reached out and cupped Grissom's cheek, fingers stroking the soft beard, thumb gently caressing smooth skin. "That someone is you."

Grissom closed his eyes, sighing heavily. "You're gonna hound me about this all week, aren't you?"

"Like a Doberman."

Grissom leaned his forehead against Warrick's chest. "Shit."

"I take it that's a ‘yes'?"

"There better be plenty of alcohol."

"What I thought. That's a ‘yes.'"

******

A cold Christmas Day morning, and Gil Grissom was a man with a problem. For the last week he had tried to think of every possible way of getting out of Warrick's family party. Every argument Grissom ventured Warrick patiently countered. The downside to being a man with no social life was that Gris had no prior engagements he could plead or even conflicting engagements he could beg. Work, well, work couldn't guarantee that he'd get called away, and Grissom wasn't about to wish misfortune on someone just so he could avoid a painful social obligation. He was too honest to ask someone to lie for him and too much of a realist to contemplate suicide, murder, or breaking up with Warrick. He'd finally accepted the inevitable, but he didn't have to like it.

"That casserole smells great. Even Aunt Shirley will love it."

And it really pissed Gris off that Warrick seemed totally immune to the Grissom silent treatment. He shut the oven door with more force than necessary and glared at Warrick, lounging on the short couch in Grissom's living room and leafing through the latest issue of Forensic Science International.

"Cool. ‘Exploratory Study on Classification and Individualisation of Earprints.' You remember Cath and me catching art-forgery-boy with his earprint? I wonder if our write-up got referenced." He flipped to the back of the article to look at the endnotes.

Not only totally immune but totally oblivious. Frustrated and feeling trapped, Grissom closed his eyes and squeezed the kitchen counter, counting to himself slowly. When he got to 27, he suddenly released it, embarrassed by his ridiculous behavior. It was only a party; there were no life and death decisions involved. He faced worse terrors everyday, and none in the company of his boyfriend. He hung his head, recalling each sharp remark, every biting comment he'd inflicted on Warrick the last week.

"I'm sorry."

Warrick looked up, surprised but trying to hide it. Grissom lifted his head and focused on the welcoming sea green eyes. He swallowed down his pride and anger. "That I've been such a bastard this week."

"Got to admit, you had your A game on."

"My A-hole game, you mean." Gris pushed himself away from the counter and walked into the living room. "You wanted to leave at 11:30? I better change."

"Black leather jacket mandatory."

Stopping by the couch, Grissom reached out and brushed Warrick's shoulder. "Any other requests?"

He was rewarded with a slow sensual smile, but then Warrick sighed regretfully, "None that won't make us late."

******

"Oh, my lord, Warrick! Don't you look handsome!"

Grissom silently voted in the affirmative, standing to the side holding the heavy warmed casserole dish like a shield. He had his detached anthropologist's mask securely fastened as Warrick was grabbed up in a fierce hug from one of his female relatives. She looked to be about 60 with light brown eyes and skin a little darker than Warrick's. She was dressed in a bright red dress and shoes.

"Aunt Bertha, you are getting more gorgeous everyday."

"Smooth talker, Warrick Brown. You never learned to lie in my house."

"Truth is truth," he said hugging her a little tighter then releasing her with a kiss. He turned to Gris placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. A quiet pride filled Warrick's voice, "This is my friend Gil Grissom."

Bertha's eyes were warm but slightly wary. "You work with Warrick. I've seen you on the TV. Didn't have the beard, though."

Grissom smiled mechanically, "Hello."

"Well, come on in the house. We got all the men and children in the back yard. It's a mite crowded inside."

Caesar's Palace Casino at midnight on New Year's Eve held less noise than this house. He felt Warrick's hand slip from his shoulder to the small of his back, propelling him through the crowded livingroom toward the kitchen and preventing him from bolting back out the front door. Gris quickly took in the huge Christmas tree exploding with tinsel, the paper angels and Santas taped to the walls, and the sea of female faces--old, young, plump, thin, black, brown, tan, and pink-- scrutinizing Warrick and himself. A screeching pre-teen hurtled past him, harried mother close behind.

The two men escaped into the kitchen, only a little less noisy but a lot more fragrant with the mouth-watering scents of roasting turkey and ham billowing from the oven.

"How you can let that grandchild run wild . . . ," a harsh voice was complaining.

"Warrick!" A tiny woman welcomed. Warrick wrapped his 84-year-old grandmother in a gentle hug and kissed her.

"Hey, Grams. I thought you was gonna stay out of the kitchen this year."

"Someone's got to supervise this circus."

Grissom noticed four other women close in age to Aunt Bertha. The family resemblance was strong in two of them, though the youngest looking one had a pinched and disapproving look, somewhat like a constipated buzzard.

Warrick lifted his Aunts Lucille, Cathy, and Hoan in playful hugs, whoops of laughter crashing round the kitchen. He hesitated then reached to do the same with Aunt Shirley. "None of that," she ordered, avoiding his hands. Warrick didn't seem surprised or displeased. Grissom recognized hers as the harsh voice they'd interrupted. The constipated buzzard.

Involved in watching Warrick, Grissom suddenly realized that seven pairs of eyes were focused on him, some a lot more friendly than others. Luckily the pair of green eyes came to his rescue. "Grams, everyone, this is my friend Gil Grissom."

"Warrick, we raised you better than that. If I remember rightly, it's Dr. Gilbert Grissom," Grams emphasized Grissom's title, looking purposefully around at the other women in the kitchen.

Warrick grinned. Grissom gripped the casserole dish harder and hoped he wouldn't blunder into any of the family undercurrents swelling around him. "Please call me Gil."

"Set that heavy thing down, Gil."

The women somehow made space on the already packed kitchen table. He set the casserole down and quickly backed away. Aunt Shirley took a pot holder and lifted the lid, prepared to condemn the contents. Warrick tried for a neutral tone, but came off sounding defensive, "It's seven vegetable casserole. Gris cooked it himself. You'll like it."

She shot Grissom a suspicious, unconvinced look and set the lid down. Pursing her lips, she glared at Warrick, "Can't be any worse than Susan's cheesecake last year or Marilyn's sweet potato pie year before that. What was the name of the boy with the nasty enchiladas?"

Grissom saw Warrick stiffen, generous mouth chilled into a hard line.

"Shirley, hush!" Warrick's grandmother warned.

"Mama, all I'm sayin' is that it's hard keepin' up with all of Warrick's friends."

Aunt Bertha gave her sister a scornful look, "Yeah, we know what you're saying, Shirl."

Aunt Lucille, evidently the peacemaker in the family, smoothly cut in, "Where do you know Warrick from, Dr. Grissom?"

Not exactly thrilled to have the attention focused back on himself, but glad to have it shifted off Warrick, Grissom replied, "We work together."

"You're a CSI, too?"

"The best," Warrick smiled.

"One of the best," Grissom corrected truthfully. He didn't understand why the women laughed.

"Gris was my supervisor up until I got transferred to swing shift a couple of months back," Warrick added.

"Good to be friends with your supervisor," Aunt Bertha nodded. "Only thing keepin' me from killin' mine is knowing my nephew would catch me and turn me in."

"And I would, too."

"I hear that. My supervisor is barely out of diapers and spends most of his waking hours in management seminars learnin' how to motivate his employees."

"Bertha wants to motivate his butt out the front door!" Aunt Cathy cut in.

Cheers of encouragement echoed round the kitchen while Grissom shuddered, remembering the last management seminar he'd been required to attend. Grown men and women being told to leap up and shout, ‘I'm excited to be here!' He and Ecklie had exchanged one look and immediately bailed for the hotel bar.

The one cold spot in the kitchen sniffed loudly. "Ladies," Aunt Shirley glowered, "we still have work to do."

Aunt Bertha nodded her head and grinned, "Sister, you are too right. Speaking of motivatin' butts out the door, y'all know the rules: men and kids stay in the back yard until dinner's ready." She shoo'd Warrick and Gris in the direction of the back door.

Just as they stepped out onto the porch, they heard Aunt Shirley's voice, "Warrick, introduce Dr. Grissom to your Uncle Roosevelt. They'll have lots in common, being so close in age to one another." She smiled sweetly as she shut the door.

******

At the edge of a small patch of cracked concrete, Grissom stood enthralled, hands deep in his jacket pockets, bright blue eyes locked on his boyfriend. Warrick faked the basketball left, pumped it slightly to get his man in the air, then rose sweetly to sink the basket.

"Nothin' but net!" Warrick triumphed. "Chris, give it up, man, you can't guard me."

The hapless Cousin Chris refused to give in, "Sergeant Schultz could guard you, bookworm."

Grissom was fascinated by the easy athleticism of all the young men, the way they wove in and out of each other's reach, passing the ball or dribbling at seemingly random moments but still managing to score. He was also fascinated by the endless verbal jousting.

"You gonna build a house with all them bricks you throwin' up?"

"You got a ‘This Lane Open' sign on your jersey, cuz?"

"You better pass that ball ‘cause you dribble like my baby eats!"

Grissom smiled, surprised that he was actually enjoying himself. It helped that most everyone left him alone so that he could do what he enjoyed doing: observe, watch, study. He hadn't realized how eclectic Warrick's relatives were. Uncle Roosevelt Brown had married Nguyen Hoan in Vietnam. Aunt Cathy Brown had married (and divorced) Aaron Gonzalez in Los Angeles. The cousins and nephews and nieces were marrying and dating without regard to race, religion, or politics. Gender might be another matter, of course, but Gris felt surprisingly comfortable.

By the back gate, a dozen teenagers gossiped, took pictures with their camera phones, and looked down their noses at the rest of the family. Younger children ran and fell endlessly, suddenly breaking into tears then just as suddenly popping up and running and laughing again. Uncle Roosevelt and his friends, Grissom smiled, men considerably older than himself, gathered around an outdoor heater swapping stories and speculating if they could sneak in a game of poker or maybe borrow one of the neighbor's TVs and watch the Lakers and Heat play.

A tiny movement near the corner of the house caught Grissom's attention. A girl dressed in a dark green and white velvet smock sat quietly at a small picnic table. Her black hair was coiled tightly into intricate rows. Her much too serious face observed the family and, indeed, Grissom with an intensity he recognized all too well. Curiosity drew him from the basketball game toward her, and he realized that she was the screeching child inside the house. He should have made the connection earlier.

//Hi.// He signed tentatively.

She glared at him suspiciously and lashed her hands aggressively, //Up yours, jerk!//

He'd seen this before: she was testing him, probably didn't believe he could sign more than a few words. He grinned and fired back, //Up yours, too, squirt.//

The girl piped a wild laugh. //You can sign?! But you hear.//

//My mother is deaf.//

//Mine isn't. I hate her.//

//You hate all hearing people or just her?//

//Just her. And Aunt Shirley.// She looked hard at Gris as if her list could grow longer at any second.

Grissom shrugged and sat down beside the girl. //What's your name?//

She spelled out //L-A-T-I-S-H-A W-A-L-K-E-R//.

//Mine's G-I-L G-R-I-S-S-O-M.//

She squinted and cocked her head. Then recognition came. //Cousin R-I-C-K says you eat bugs! Do you really?//

//Yes.//

The look on her face was a distinct "eeewwww.' She looked toward the basketball game and Cousin Warrick. //He's the bomb. He can sign.//

Grissom's eyebrows shot up. //He can?//

She nodded her head. //Not as good as you. At least he tries. Him and Mama and Grandmama. Nobody else in this stupid family tries. He's been studying for . . . // Latisha screwed her face up, trying to remember. //Ever since I was nine. Three years. Off and on. He got lazy the last two years.//

Grissom looked over to Warrick, dribbling the ball slowly in great swooping taunts. Two years ago Grissom had undergone surgery to restore his hearing. Had Warrick known that Grissom was going deaf? Or was it simple coincidence? He felt a light touch on his arm and turned back to Latisha.

//Want to know all about the family?//

And for the next 30 minutes, while Warrick ruled and schooled out on the basketball court, Grissom learned about the Brown family saga. About how Aunt Bertha had plenty of boyfriends but never found the right one. How Aunt Hoan cooks the best stir fry and has the most gentle hands. How Uncle Roosevelt still has flashbacks of Vietnam. How Latisha's grandmother and grandfather, Aunt Cathy and Uncle Aaron, used to fight all the time until last Christmas when Aunt Cathy beaned him with the Key Lime pie, and Uncle Aaron called it quits. How Uncle Luther married the most beautiful woman ever, but left when baby Warrick was born. How nobody knows where Uncle Luther is today, except for Aunt Shirley who swears he's dead and in hell. How Aunt Lucille was supposed to have a girlfriend, but Latisha had never seen her ‘cause if Aunt Lucille ever showed up with her girlfriend at the Christmas Dinner, Aunt Shirley would pee in her panties. How Aunt Shirley was too busy being religious ever to be a Christian. Or to have a boyfriend.

And, like Mephistopheles, Aunt Shirley appeared at the mention of her name, stepping out onto the back porch. "Dinner's ready," she hollered, "You kids line up right here to wash your hands." She looked around, searching, and then spotted Latisha and Grissom. Aunt Shirley's sour face puckered even more as she beckoned sternly for Latisha to join the other children.

Grissom quickly signed, //Dinner's ready.//

Latisha rolled her eyes and stood. //I know the drill. You want to know a secret?//

Grissom nodded his head.

//Aunt Shirley's a bitch.//

Grissom shook his head. //Oh, honey, that's no secret.// He watched her drag her feet over to the porch.

"Hey."

Gris looked up at the sound of his boyfriend's deep voice. "Hey yourself." Gris smiled appreciatively at Warrick's lust-inducing healthy glow and then realized that he looked uncomfortable, his green eyes reflecting misery. Grissom quickly scanned to see if anyone could have caused Warrick's condition, but everyone's attention seemed focused on setting up card tables and folding chairs.

"What's wrong?"

Warrick whispered, "Babe, I'm so sorry."

"What?," Gris whispered back.

Warrick swallowed. "Grams says you have to sit at the Grown-Ups' Table."

******

Sweat trickling down his back, anthropologist's mask slipping, Grissom sat stiffly at the formal dining table. To his right, the Brown family matriarch sat at the end of the table. Uncle Roosevelt sat at the other end. Aunts Lucille, Cathy, Hoan, Bertha, and Shirley filled in the rest of the places. Warrick, Grissom thought, was going to pay for this for the rest of his life.

"How long have you and Warrick known each other?"

"Almost fifteen years."

"Pass the green beans, please."

"Where were you born?"

"Mashed potatoes and gravy, Bertha?"

"Santa Monica." He began to understand what it was like to be on the suspect's side of the interrogation table.

"No, dear, maybe Gil would?"

"No thank you."

Aunt Hoan leaned across the table, "I love Santa Monica. The pier is so pretty. There is wonderful shopping. Do you like to shop?"

"Ah, no, not really."

"More turkey?"

"Oh, my lord, this vegetable casserole is delicious. Gil, I need your recipe."

"Ever been married, Gil?"

He blinked, unused to such personal questions. "No . . . no."

"Why ever not? You're a handsome man."

"I . . . ah . . . my job."

"Are you a homo?"

"Shirley, hush!"

Aunt Lucille quickly asked, "Where did you go to college?"

"UCLA."

"Hot roll?"

"Ever meet Coach Wooden?"

"No." Grissom could tell Uncle Roosevelt was disappointed with that answer, so Gris tried desperately to remember something, anything to stay on some subject other than himself, "But . . . I was on campus during Coach Wooden's last championship."

"Macaroni salad, Gil?"

"Now, that was a great run . . . ," and, thank god, Uncle Roosevelt was off and running himself, recapping the last year of the greatest college basketball dynasty ever. Grissom was able to catch a couple of breaths, a few bites of food, and a full glass of wine.

All too soon, Grams called a time out. "Rosie, hon, that's enough sports at the dinner table."

Aunt Cathy jumped in, "So, Gil, how did you end up at the Crime Lab?"

"I like science and solving puzzles. One of my professors encouraged me to study forensics."

"Absolutely no forensics at the dinner table," Grams smiled, and everyone but Aunt Shirley laughed.

"Are your parents still with us?"

"My mother lives in Marina del Rey."

"Why aren't you visiting her then?"

"Shirley," Aunt Bertha leaned toward her younger sister, "that's none of our business."

Shirley's "I don't see why not" was overlaid by Aunt Cathy's "My granddaughter Latisha enjoyed her talk with you this afternoon."

The surprised silence around the dinner table broke out a fresh sweat trail down Grissom's back. "She's . . . very intelligent and . . . has a lot of stories."

"I'll just bet," Aunt Bertha laughed.

"You understand all that hand waving?" Aunt Shirley accused.

"Latisha said that your mother is deaf," Aunt Cathy continued.

"Yes."

"Latisha also said you eat insects. On purpose."

Aunt Bertha added, "You're an entomologist, right?"

"Yes. I study bugs. And eat some of them on purpose." Maybe he was tired of all the questions. Maybe he was tired of the disapproving look on Aunt Shirley's face. Maybe it was just one of the few ways he felt comfortable communicating with a group of strangers. For whatever reason, he launched into lecture mode, "Did you know that in Africa, termites and caterpillars provide a staple source of dietary protein? In Mexico, eggs from aquatic Hemiptera are considered equal to caviar. Wasps cooked with rice is a prized delicacy in Japan. What few people in western industrialized nations understand is that every year we consume nearly two pounds of insects through processed foods. Take this macaroni salad, for example," he easily hefted the nearly full bowl into one palm, "the pasta alone contains close to 100 insect fragments and two to three rodent hairs."

The reactions around the table ranged from amazement to amusement. Except in the case of Aunt Shirley. She was appalled and angry and speechless.

And that's when Grissom deduced who made the macaroni salad. That's also when he threw the tattered anthropologist's mask into the fire. He pinned Aunt Shirley with calculating blue eyes, "As to your questions, I'm bisexual, not homosexual. And Warrick and I will be visiting my mother when she returns from Mexico in February. Now," he looked around the table, "anyone care for some macaroni salad?"

******

He stood on the front step, freshly washed and dried casserole dish clutched in his hands, watching Warrick hug Grams while Aunt Bertha waited her turn.

"Honey, so glad you came," Grams said, patting her grandson on the back.

"Love you, Grams," Warrick kissed her forehead.

She released him to Aunt Bertha and shuffled over to Grissom. "And you, young man, are welcome anytime." Ignoring his touch-me-not body language and the casserole dish, she put her arms around him with surprising strength. He tentatively returned the hug. She stepped back, a grin like Warrick's on her face. "We'll get you used to being hugged, Dr. Grissom."

"Thank you. I think."

And then he was in the grasp of Aunt Bertha. "Hope we didn't scare you off." She released him, leaving him slightly out of breath. "And I'm serious about that recipe for the vegetable casserole."

"I'll e-mail it to you as soon as can." Grissom began backing away from the prospect of anymore hugs from anymore of Warrick's relatives.

"Told you he could cook," Warrick proudly added.

"Now, y'all will be back March 26th?" Grams called.

"Wouldn't miss it," Warrick waved, catching up to Grissom waiting impatiently by the Denali.

"What's March 26th?" Gris asked, a twinge of dread in his stomach.

Warrick smiled oh so sweetly. "Aunt Shirley's birthday."

******

Norman Brown's West Coast Coolin' flowed soothingly from the truck's CD player as Warrick drove home. Grissom slowly began to relax, distanced from the noise, people, and family politics. He took a deep breath, trying to dispel pent-up tension. "I understand now how you relate so well to so many different types of people."

Warrick smiled. "Yeah. It's like we got our own little United Nations. And somebody's always at war with somebody else. I learned diplomacy at a young age."

"A useful skill," Grissom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to self-massage away the tension knotted there. "I didn't mean to be unkind."

Warrick seemed confused, but before Gris could explain himself, Warrick said, "You're talking about Aunt Shirley."

Grissom nodded.

Warrick shook his head and smiled indulgently. He reached over a long right arm, dislodging Grissom's massaging hand. Warrick's strong fingers worked deep into Grissom's scalp and neck. "Everyone knows you weren't trying to insult her. That's what made it so funny. So perfect. Baby, you got the Brown household seal of approval. Highest honor there is."

"Thank you, but I don't want the approval or the attention of the Brown household anytime soon. I can't go through an ordeal like that again. Ever."

"Yeah, well, Grams wants me to pass on her apologies until she can talk to you herself. Even though I warned her, she didn't realize you'd freak out."

"I did not freak out." He grunted as Warrick worked a particularly vicious kink out of Grissom's neck.

"You freaked out. Admit it."

"I was exasperated. I was anxious. I was . . ." Grissom tailed off at Warrick's disbelieving grin. "Oh, god, I really freaked out, didn't I?"

"A thing of beauty. I just wish I could've seen Aunt Shirley's face. That woman put me through hell growin' up, and I would've loved seein' my boyfriend take her down."

"Yeah, I'm a real hero."

"Only thing is I don't think she'll stay down unless we drive a wooden stake through her heart and cut off her head."

"You seriously do not like this woman, do you?"

"Aunt Shirley pushes every bad button I own." Warrick gave Grissom's shoulder a final squeeze and returned his right hand to the wheel, easing onto the I-15 entrance ramp. "So, I owe you big time for today, my man."

Grissom considered that statement and agreed, "Yes. Yes you do."

They rode for a time with only Norman Brown's cool guitar coloring the silence, Warrick obviously enjoying the light holiday traffic by motoring 20 miles over the 65 mph speed limit, Grissom taking delight in watching Warrick.

As they neared Grissom's townhouse, Warrick's green eyes turned warmly on Gris, lips quirked into a sly smile full of challenge, "So, you thinking of collecting on my debt anytime soon?"

Grissom stared back, blue eyes full of heat. "Better believe it, pal. With interest."

******

"You won't move?"

"No. I promise."

"That hasn't stopped you in the past."

"I won't move." Warrick's voice was tight and almost angry.

Grissom cocked his head, examining the sincerity and resolve, also examining the lithe, muscular body stretched out on his back on the king size bed. With a long pause and a skeptical smile, Grissom accepted Warrick's promise and let the black silk scarves float to the floor.

Gris knelt on the bed and began a slow, methodical, yet sensuous massage, starting with the top of Warrick's head. Grissom worked his clever hands down his lover's face, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, and fingers. With a pleased smile, Grissom leaned down and brushed the full flushed lips, pulling back when Warrick tried to deepen the kiss.

"Damn," he moaned, fighting not to move, green eyes glowing hot, barely under control. Grissom waited until Warrick reluctantly nodded his consent to continue.

With unnerving precision, Gris licked and sucked amber brown earlobes. With his fingers and tongue, he traced the intricate lines of the tattoo on Warrick's left bicep. Grissom feasted on the sculpted neck and chocolate-colored nipples. He nipped and tasted armpits and fingers. He bit and worried places where nerves lay closest to the surface.

"Gris, please, baby, please, touch me, touch my cock, please," Warrick begged shamelessly, straining not to arch his back.

But Grissom was relentless. He worked his way down Warrick's beautiful body, savoring each taste, each scent, each reaction. The way taut muscles would spasm and release, the way caramel-colored flesh rippled. And, most incredible of all, the beatific look on Warrick's face when he realized that he wasn't some fascinating specimen laid out for dissection but a man infinitely, passionately cherished.

Deliberately avoiding the proud, elegant cock and tight balls, Grissom concentrated on thighs and calves, massaging pressure points to near agony. Easily lifting the long legs, Gris licked behind each knee then trailed his tongue tip up Warrick's shaking right thigh. Gris rolled Warrick's legs up to his chest, licking every exposed expanse of skin, rimming Warrick until he screamed.

"Baby, please, goddammit, please, suck my cock, please, fuck, baby, let me come!"

Gris shook his head, knowing that he could push Warrick higher. Grissom gently rubbed his beard down each trembling thigh and each quivering calf. He nibbled and kissed the bottom of Warrick's feet, licked and sucked each curling toe. Blue eyes glowed seeing Warrick's hands clenched tightly in the sheets, his face drenched in sweat, his chest heaving with each panted breath.

Green eyes begged, rasping voice pleaded, "Gilbaby, let me come, please, god, please, Gilbaby."

With tender caresses, Grissom straightened the shaking legs and straddled them. He leaned over the beautiful weeping cock and then looked Warrick full in the face.

"Come for me."

The shock at hearing the words sped straight through Warrick's hot wired body to a cock stoked to explosion. His body jacknifed. His hands locked tight on Grissom's shoulders. Warrick cried out as each pulse hammered through his cock. Gris leaned forward slowly, soothing his lover's clenching muscles, kissing his ecstatically tense face, easing him back down onto the bed. The men lay tangled up, breathing the pungent salt sweet scent of Warrick's come, trading deep tongue kisses, sharing passion strong heartbeats.

When the storm melted and almost calm returned, two large hands gently pushed Grissom's face away. "Damn, baby. That was . . . almost too much."

"You could have stopped me at any time."

Warrick slowly shook his head. "I promised. Besides, I trust you."

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not. Can't help it, though." Warrick leaned up for a soft kiss and ended it with a sharp nip of Grissom's lower lip. "So, we even?"

"Nowhere close." Blue eyes offered a solid guarantee. "But we've made a good start."