Title: Free Weights Fly
By: Shelley Russell
Series: (Working Out 05)
Summary: Two men, a couch, a 'green-eyed monster,' good advice, and a fabulous dinner.
Category: CSI: Vegas
Characters: Catherine Willows, Nick Stokes, Warrick/Grissom
Many thanks to my fabulous betas Rebecca and Buffy.
I gratefully appreciate your feedback. Hope you enjoy.

******

"You told Catherine you missed her tush?!"

Lounging on the short leather couch in his living room, Gil Grissom gazed over his glasses and up from the crossword puzzle in the Las Vegas Sun, "It's a great tush. You've said so yourself."

"Yeah, but, baby, that's not something you just blurt out to somebody. Especially not to a female somebody." Lean and tall, Warrick Brown shrugged out of his blue jean jacket and draped it over a dining room chair. He dropped his keys, including the new key to his boyfriend's townhouse, into his jacket pocket.

"I know that, Warrick. I thought it would help break the ice between us."

"Oh, it pretty much busted the iceberg all right." Green eyes glowing, Warrick chuckled as he crossed the hard tiles of the living room floor to sit beside Gris. "Between you taking Sophia out to dinner last week and you commenting on Catherine's anatomy this morning, I don't know what's gotten in to you," he shot a killer grin, "besides me, of course."

Gladly accepting the quick good-to-be-home kiss, Grissom ignored his boyfriend's blatant sexual reference, "I left Jim and Cath only half an hour ago. What, she's got you on speed dial, now?"

"We're friends, baby," Warrick brushed his honey brown fingers through Grissom's graying hair, "That's what friends do--call each other when something unusual happens."

"I don't call my friends when something 'unusual' happens."

"Considering all your friends have six legs or more, I'd be worried if you did."

"I have friends with two legs. I don't call them with 'unusual' trivia."

"Uh huh." Warrick's strong, musician's fingers were now kneading the tight muscles in his boyfriend's neck and shoulders. "When was the last time you talked to one of your friends on the phone? About something other than work? And for longer than 15 seconds?"

Grissom knew that Warrick knew the answers to those questions, so Gris ignored them. "How often does 'unusual' happen?"

"This is Vegas, babe. Every day."

"So, Catherine calls you every day?"

"You jealous?" Warrick lifted his chin in an appraising challenge.

Gris lifted his eyebrow in response, challenging right back, "Should I be?"

Swiping the pen and crossword, Warrick tossed them onto the coffee table. Slowly, he slipped Grissom's glasses off and trailed long fingers over prominent cheeks and soft beard. Warrick folded the glasses and set them on top of the newspaper. With predatory stares, calculating blue eyes warring with insolent green, the two men leaned toward each other, arousing, daring, provoking. At the last moment, laughing, they gave in to each other, eyes closing, lips caressing, tongues dancing. Muscled arms wrapped tightly around each other's backs, strong hands gripped each other's shoulders. With the self-assurance that comes from total trust in one another, the two men matched each other's strength.

When at last full firm lips drew back, leaving Gris flushed and breathless, Warrick purred, "No need to be jealous if you keep doin' what you're doin'."

"And what am I doin'?" Grissom rasped.

"Driving me crazy, boyfriend," Warrick grinned and dived against the solid body again, sharing long, heat-stoking kisses and touches.

Gris broke away and pleaded, "Bedroom."

Warrick groaned, "Dammit, baby, you gotta get a bigger couch. Don't know if I can even walk, now." It was not the first time he'd complained about the unfriendly furniture in Grissom's living room.

"This . . . afternoon . . . we'll look," Gris promised, in between steamy kisses. "Right . . . now . . . bedroom." Sliding off the short couch, he pulled his exceedingly aroused boyfriend to his feet and in the direction of the bedroom, their greedy lips never losing contact.

Past the kitchen, down the short hallway, left into the master bedroom, losing their shirts, shoes, and all inhibitions, the two men stumbled toward the bed. Their lips broke apart only so they could shuck off the rest of their clothing. Using his considerable strength and low center of gravity, Gris quickly levered his taller boyfriend onto his back on the king size bed.

In command, Grissom licked and kissed his way up caramel colored, delectable skin then lasered his blazing blue eyes onto scalding green.

"Make me come," he growled, "then come inside me." Gris watched his boyfriend's face tighten with want and heard him groan with sharp, rough desire. Kneeling to one side and gripping the tight black-brown curls, Gris fed his thick cock into Warrick's eager hands and mouth. With an arrogant, raw rhythm, Grissom fucked his boyfriend's mouth.

Grabbing the thick gel lubricant off the nightstand, Gris held the small bottle between his teeth as he unscrewed the lid then tossed it onto the floor. He spit the bottle into his fist.

"Give me your hand," he ordered. Warrick held up a shaky left hand, and Gris coated the middle and ring fingers with the cool gel. Long, skilled fingers quickly entered him, preparing him for Warrick's long, elegant cock.

Caught between a boiling, sucking mouth and skilled, strong fingers, Grissom rapidly approached oblivion. At the last moment, teetering on the edge, he remembered: sounds for his boyfriend to hear. Gris opened his mouth, opened his throat, opened himself. Soft, rusty moans, and he lunged headlong into orgasm.

Sucked dry, he was vaguely aware of being manhandled onto his back, knees rolled to his chest then spread almost uncomfortably. Large hands rested on the backs of his straining calves and an insistent cock stretched resisting muscles. Deep breaths, a brief punch of pain, then Gris gave way, pierced and filled deeply. He treasured that transforming moment every time.

A beloved baritone chanted words, but Gris didn't understand them. He concentrated solely on the exquisite sensation of a slick cock plunging in and out of his body, loud slaps of heavy balls slamming into his ass. Snapped with the same raw, arrogant rhythm he'd set earlier, Grissom never thought he'd achieve such freedom of expression nor such balance between command and submission. Freedom and balance achieved simply by giving himself.

"Baby? . . . Baby . . . you with me?"

Reconnecting, he opened his eyes and looked up into the intense, dark face, a face filled with royal beauty and divine lust, a face filled with desire for him. Reaching up and linking his hands behind Warrick's neck, Grissom pulled his boyfriend's head down for a scorching kiss.

"Damn," Warrick moaned, pulling back, thrusting hard into Gris with each word,"damn, baby, let me hear you. Let me hear you while I fill up your sweet, tight ass."

"Unng," Gris managed, "Ah . . . oh . . . yes! . . . so good . . . so . . . god! . . . so good!"

And that's all Warrick needed.

"Bayyyybbeeee," he cried, plowing fiercely into Gris. With each strong slap against the firm, round ass, Warrick came and came and came.

Clutching each other, breathing into each other's mouths, the two transformed slowly back to their mortal selves. Gradually, legs and arms entwined in comfort rather than passion. Warrick tucked his head beneath Grissom's chin. Gris reluctantly released Warrick's depleted cock. Back to normal heartbeats and spent bodies, the two lovers drifted together into sleep.

******

Warrick loved this almost as much as he loved sex: waking up slowly, strong arms wrapped around him, his head cradled on a firm, broad chest, his leg draped across muscled, relaxed thighs. The smell of come and sweat and his boyfriend's musk. Deft fingers massaged Warrick's scalp and neck. He settled his ear over one rose brown nipple and blew soft breaths across the other.

"If we're going to shop for a sofa, you need to stop that."

Loving the feel of his boyfriend's voice vibrating through his chest, Warrick broke out a sleepy smile. "I think these buttons are hot wired to your cock, baby. I've never seen a man so sensitive. Not many women, either."

"I'll defer to your experience and judgment."

"Seriously. None of your other partners ever mentioned it?" The strong fingers massaging his scalp paused. Warrick gave them a gentle head-butt to continue, and they did.

"No."

He smiled wider and scraped his clipped beard over Grissom's belly. Three and a half months. Gris and Warrick had been together fourteen weeks, yet he still knew very little about Grissom's personal past. "Baby, this is where you take the opportunity to elaborate. You know, bust a move about the guys and chicks you've been with."

"Why would I want to do that?"

Oh, yeah. Warrick knew this game: Gris avoiding a subject by playing Captain Clueless. Warrick pushed himself up so that he could look into brilliant blue eyes. "Because your boyfriend is interested in everything about you. Give. How many partners you been with?"

While Gris struggled between his lifelong obsession for privacy and his new determination to be open, Warrick admitted to himself that he was interested in everything about Gris, with one exception: the hairy menagerie lurking in the guest bedroom. From the first time Warrick had visited the townhouse, he'd wondered where Grissom housed the giant beetles, hissing cockroaches, man-eating tarantulas, and all the other spiders from Mars. He'd found out last Sunday. He'd had three throat screaming nightmares since.

A soft sigh caught Warrick's attention. "I've had sex with five . . . no, six others. But," Gris shrugged and added matter-of-fact, "I was far more interested in exploring their bodies and far too reluctant to let them touch mine."

Once again, Warrick realized what an incredible gift he'd been given. Gris trusted Warrick enough to permit his touch, to allow his questions, to accept his love. He leaned in for a gentle kiss then sat back, straddling Grissom's thighs. A sudden thought struck Warrick. Now he understood why Gris occasionally seemed a little awkward in bed, why he hugged too tight or lingered too long. "You didn't have a whole lot of . . . hands-on experience before we hooked up, did you?"

"Not extensively, no."

In fact, Warrick suspected that they'd probably made love more in the last fourteen weeks than Gris had his entire life. So how was it that Gris sucked cock with as much skill as he lifted fingerprints? "Baby, either you're a quick study or you practice a lot when you're alone."

"Woody Allen. 'Love and Death.'"

Warrick blinked. "What?"

"You referenced a line from the movie."

"I've never seen a Woody Allen movie, and, no, I don't want to see one, and stop changing the subject."

Gris was looking stubborn and smug at the same time, "Never doubt the benefits of a firm grounding in the classics."

"You consider Woody Allen one of the classics?"

"Yes."

Warrick was used to Grissom's freaky thinking, but this, "Please don't tell me you learned to give a blow job watching Woody Allen movies."

A slow cooking, know-it-all quirk of the lips. "Well, I probably learned more from Ovid and Catullus. And 'The Joy of Gay Sex,'" he added before Warrick could. "I need to take a shower."

"You smell fine to me."

"Furniture sales staff may be more discriminating. Let me up."

Leaning forward and kissing his boyfriend with a lingering sweetness, Warrick reluctantly let Gris go and watched the pale plump ass disappear into the bathroom. Rolling onto his back, Warrick stretched out all four limbs, looking like Leonardo's ideal man--if the ideal man grinned like the Cheshire cat and had half a hard-on.

Who could have imagined this? Gil Grissom not only giving up his ass but commanding Warrick to take it. Damn.

Two weeks ago, he didn't think that could ever happen. The first time Gris had offered, they'd been in a hotel room in L.A., and Warrick had been too far gone to even try, afraid he'd hurt his boyfriend. The second time, back in Vegas that evening, even with the hot bath, the hot bourbon, extensive foreplay, lubricated fingers, lubricated condom, and two blow jobs, Gris hadn't been able to relax. Gris on top, on his side, on his belly, on his back--no position had helped. The two men had wound up frustrated, covered with sweat, muscles aching. Grissom had been embarrassed and miserably silent. Warrick had spent the rest of the evening and most of the next day trying his subtle best to soothe and encourage his boyfriend.

One thing, though, you can say about Gris: the man is bulldog persistent. Finally on the fifth try, on a glorious Wednesday morning after a particularly intense workout at the gym, Gris threw some switch in his head, his muscles responded and relaxed, and Warrick slid into that fine, round ass like a hot knife into warm butter. And, oh lord, it was so fucking good: Gris on top, on his side, on his belly, on his back, on his hands and knees, on his feet leaning on the piano bench in Warrick's living room. Undeniably addicted to Grissom before, Warrick had now gone completely crazy for his boyfriend.

******

Showered, dressed, and lunched, Warrick keyed open the driver's side of Grissom's eight-year-old, second-hand Volvo sedan. It was a cloudy February afternoon in Las Vegas with the mercury hovering in the mid-fifties. "Where we going?"

"Top Line Furniture on South Maryland," Gris said, getting into the passenger side.

Warrick adjusted the seat and mirrors, buckled in, and started the engine. He reached over to change the radio station from Classical KCNV to the considerably cooler jazz of KUNV.

"Hold it right there, pal. You can drive my car but not my radio."

"Gris, Tchaikovsky don't put me in the mood to buy furniture."

"That's Prokofiev, and the dial stays put."

Warrick sighed dramatically for his boyfriend, backed out of the driveway, then headed for South Maryland. "Hey, I'm proud of you, baby. I thought you'd try to buy a couch on eBay."

"I considered it, but Consumer Reports strongly advised sitting on a sofa before buying it."

Warrick smirked. "Huh. Consumer Reports."

"Last month's issue. We need to consider style, comfort, construction, and fabric. I'm partial to leather."

"Not a surprise." Warrick cut his eyes at his boyfriend, "You actually researched buying a sofa?"

"Of course."

"When?"

Blue eyes looked a little shifty. "Ever since you started complaining in January."

Warrick couldn't help the rolling chuckle. "Oh, baby, you are something else. So, what's the bottom, heh, line?"

Even when faced with derision, Gris wasn't about to let good research go to waste. "Broyhill and Flexsteel rated as best buys. Flexsteel rated higher for sturdy frame construction. Broyhill rated higher for a firmer back."

"Well, considering the demanding activities I have planned for you and our couch, sturdiness and firmness are important considerations. But, even more important, do they have cup holders?"

"Warrick, I am not buying a couch with built-in cup holders."

Surreptitiously biting his bottom lip, Warrick tried not to laugh. Oh, lord, but he loved yanking his boyfriend's chain. Especially when his boyfriend knew his chain was being yanked but played along anyway. "But they're practical."

"No."

"No more hunting up coasters for me."

"Some things are simply unnatural. No."

Warrick turned left onto South Maryland as Prokofiev gave way to Copland. "So, um, where did La-Z-Boy rank?"

"Number 6 out of 12."

"Uncle Roosevelt owns one of their big-ass sofas. Recliners on both ends. Most comfortable couch I've ever been on."

Gris cocked his head, "Well, personal experience is one factor to consider, but it's suspect when compared to objective, scientific research."

"Nuh uh. Not when we're talking personal comfort, baby. Subjectivity is the major factor. Besides, I'm paying half."

"You are?"

"Yeah. Happy Valentine's Day five days late."

"Oh."

Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick watched his handsome boyfriend weigh the ramifications of sharing the costs of a major purchase, one that couldn't easily be divided if they went their separate ways. But Warrick wasn't at all surprised when Gris said, "No cup holders on your half of the couch, either."

******

Warrick and Gris poked, stroked, sat on, and lay on every sofa in Top Line Furniture. They tipped each acceptable couch back so Gris, Maglite in hand, could check out the construction underneath. Then they measured each one that met the specifications for a well-constructed sofa. In one hour, they wore out two sales clerks. In two hours, they wore out two more and threw out the Consumer Reports. In three hours, the two men had narrowed the selection down to two couches: Warrick championing an L-shaped sectional that glowed in creamy yellow-brown leather; Gris holding out for a more traditional, sleek sofa covered in soft, saddle brown leather.

"Baby, this is perfect." Warrick stretched back on the lounge end of the sectional, lazy grin fixed on his boyfriend who sat a few sections down, arm draped along the back of the couch. "It's versatile. Gives us plenty of room to maneuver."

Gris shook his head. "It's too big. It'll overpower the living room."

"Nah. We move the big leather chair nobody sits in into the bedroom. We shift your desk to that wall, scoot the dinner table over, and, bam, this big boy fits."

"I don't . . . We don't need this much . . . couch."

"On your imaginary forces work."

Gris pursed his lips, "Shakespeare, Warrick?"

"Yeah. I thought you'd like that."

"I do. I like you, too. But this couch is too . . ."

"Too what?"

"It's too expensive."

"You're only paying half, and you make half again as much as I do." At Grissom's startled face, Warrick grinned, "What you get for being a public official, baby. Everybody knows your business. You doin' all right with that 4 percent raise last year."

Gris digested the public nature of his salary for a moment then offered up another objection, "I don't like the color."

Warrick pointed at the four sales clerks currently helping other customers but obviously keeping an eye out for a decision from the two men. "The Swatch Patrol over there's just dying to hook you up with any shade of cow, calf, or kangaroo available. C'mon, baby, let's try it on approval. If you still don't like it after two weeks, we'll get the boring one. No arguments from me."

"I can't believe I'm letting you talk me into this."

"Ain't no 'let' going on, here. Just the evidence talking to you. Besides, I know you've got a detailed, to-scale sketch of the living room in your shirt pocket, and you'd've had it out by now if you seriously thought this wouldn't work." Thinking he might have overdone it by the irritation on Grissom's face, Warrick decided to lighten the mood. "Tell you what. How about we test one final, objective criteria?"

Gris perked up, "What?"

A sensuous smile. "Can you bend over the back of the couch, keep your feet on the floor, and stay comfortable for 10 or 15 minutes?"

Perplexed, Grissom sat still for a few seconds, and then he got it. "Don't you mean more like 15 to 20?"

"Oh, baby, have I told you lately that I love you?"

Smirking, Gris stood. Somehow Warrick should have anticipated this. He might have the more vivid imagination, but, when it came to actual experimentation, his boyfriend was positively fearless. And, lord love him, shameless. Glancing at the sales clerks, two of whom smiled back expectantly, Warrick nervously watched Gris walk around to the back of the short side of the L-shaped couch. Casually, he leaned over the back and put his hands on the cushioned seat.

"Like this?" he looked up with the innocense of an angel.

Grateful that he couldn't see his boyfriend's ass, because, otherwise, they'd never be able to shop at Top Line Furniture again, Warrick swallowed, "Uh huh."

Rocking slowly back and forth, Gris tested the comfort of his position. "I might need a thin pillow between me and the top."

"That's gotta be do-able," Warrick barely managed, glancing back at the sales clerks. They were all looking a bit stunned.

"Maybe I should try the other couch, too, for a different perspective."

Warrick shook his head. "Not unless you want to set off the smoke alarms, baby."

Grissom straightened back up, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "Shall we pick a color?"

"I'll let you handle that." Having won the battle of the couches, Warrick could afford to be magnanimous in the skirmish of the swatches. Besides, he wasn't sure if he could even stand up, much less look any of the sales clerks in the eye. Not after his boyfriend's spectacular performance.

******

Grissom had just ordered Warrick out of the townhouse's kitchen when the phone call came. Stir-fry was one of the easiest dishes on earth to cook but frustrating as hell when over six feet of sex continually brushed up against Gris as he minced the garlic or hugged him as he measured out soy sauce or rubbed large hands over his ass as he reached down into a lower cabinet for the sesame seed oil.

"Yeah, Brown." Grissom heard from the living room as he diced the chicken.

"DJ SmoothB?! Man, I ain't been called that in this century!" Gris remembered Warrick used to DJ for private parties when he needed extra cash for gambling.

"Get outta here. All of them? Bro, I . . ." A long pause allowed Grissom to concentrate on slicing the mushrooms.

"A'ight. Funk, jazz, soul, and hip-hop. No trance shit. . . . Not even if they double it. And I slip in some of my own. . . . Yeah, that's right or I'm hangin' up now. . . . I'm pressing the End button . . . A'ight. Now you talkin'." The oiled wok was heated and ready for the ingredients. In went the ginger and garlic. And an end to eavesdropping on Warrick's conversation.

Gris was tossing the chicken and vegetables for the last time when Warrick sauntered back into the kitchen. "Blast from the past, baby. DJ 21 threw a bad-ass party last night, but the shrimp and avocado dip sent everybody to the hospital, including the DJ and his backup that were gonna work the private party at OPM tonight."

Setting the hot wok to the side, Gris lifted the lid off the rice cooker and ladled out two scoops of steaming brown rice onto each plate as Warrick continued, "Man was frantic. Everybody's booked or out of town. Finally remembered my digits. Also remembered I owed him a favor."

Raking out the chicken stir fry, Gris said, "So, you're going to DJ tonight?"

"Yeah," Warrick picked up the bottle of Tsingtao beer Grissom had been sipping on while cooking and took a swig. "Gig starts at 9:00. One hour to set up. Music starts at 10:00, goes to 6:00 in the a.m. Forty-five minutes to break down. I'm doing four ninety minute sets. Come with me."

Disappointed, Gris had counted on a quiet night, hoping to watch Warrick watch 'The Maltese Falcon' for the first time. A master at hiding his feelings, though, Gris smiled slightly and shook his head, "No."

"Come on, baby. New experience."

"I've been in dance clubs before."

"Name one that didn't have a dead body in it."

Irritated by the insinuation that he was a novice to the club scene, annoyed that his boyfriend could blithely make a change in plans without discussing them, stung that Warrick should jump so quickly at the chance to party, Gris still kept his face neutral but dug in his heels, "Smoke, loud music, drunken jerks, and wall-to-wall humanity is not my idea of a good time."

"Don't hate on the music, man. Okay, yeah, there'll be smoke and drunks and dopers, too, unless I got the only private party of Mormons in town, but the music will be tight and just right."

"I stand corrected. But I'm not going." He held out the plate of stir fry chicken and vegetables to Warrick who looked a touch sulky. Melting, Gris smiled softly, "Warrick, I enjoy listening to your music, but I'm too selfish. I'm only interested in a private performance."

Warrick took the plate with a resigned shrug which brightened into a firm hug when Gris grabbed his boyfriend around the waist and kissed him. Breaking out the slow cooking, dimpled grin that always curled Grissom's toes, Warrick rumbled, "So, what you got on tap for tonight? Latest issue of Forensic Sciences International come in?"

"No." Feeling amused, disbelieving green eyes upon him, Gris got another bottle of Tsingtao from the fridge, picked up his plate, and headed for the table. He sat down, draped a napkin across his lap, and picked up his chopsticks. He snapped up some snow peas, then looked up at Warrick and confessed, "The Annals of the Entomological Society of America, actually. Happy?"

"Uh huh. And?"

Pausing from chewing the snow peas, Gris admitted, "Coleopterists Bulletin."

"And?"

Gris swallowed, "I'm finishing the article on hister beetles. Sit down before your stir fry gets cold."

Taking another swig, Warrick grinned and eased over to the glass-top table. He set down his plate and beer, and leaned over and kissed his boyfriend's cheek. "That's my boy. You know, if you need a break from all the excitement, I'm off 1:30-2:30."

Although flattered by his boyfriend's persistence, Grissom was unwilling to give up a night of quiet, uninterrupted reading, writing, and research. "Warrick, I'm tempted, but I want to work on my article. Why don't you come by here when you're through? I'll make you breakfast, and then I'll be at your disposal."

"Waffles with that blueberry yogurt topping?"

"Yep."

"And you're at my disposal. To do whatever I want, huh?" Warrick's tone was light and teasing.

Grissom's was full of promise, "Exactly. Whatever you want."

"Oh, baby," Warrick nodded his head slowly, "am I gonna have plans for you."

******

Forty bodies, toned and all under 30, swayed, jumped, and jammed to Warrick's cranking beat. The small dance floor in the Edge room at OPM was, as Grissom had feared, wall-to-wall humanity soaked in smoke, booze, and drugs. The blue and red laser lights pulsing to the music only added to the alternate reality.

Even then, there were a number of sober honeys vying for Warrick's attention. Girls and boys.

"Hey, Mistah DJ, you gonna play 'The More I Get the More I Want'?" A slow, simmering smile from a brown-eyed, brown-skinned beauty.

"You a Teddy Pendergrass fan?" Warrick smiled back.

"Nuh uh. It's my theme song."

"That right?"

She slowly licked her bright red lips, "Yeah, sugah, that's right."

"I'll see what I can do," he flirted, admiring as her generous hips swung back to the dance floor.

Not ten minutes later, five foot nine inches of muscles and looking all of eighteen straddled a chair next to Warrick. "What's a brother got to do to get 'Hot, Funky & Sweaty'?"

"Damn, boy," Warrick laughed, "I left the Soul Lifters at home. Maybe 'Can't Fight the Funk' will help you kick it."

"A'ight. Long as you serve up 'Can't Get You Out of My Head.'" The young man's smoky dark eyes sent an obvious invitation.

"Sorry, man, . . . that's not on the playlist."

"Too bad. Think about what you missin', Jade," he said, getting up, running his hand over his crotch.

"Jade?"

"Your eyes, man. Mos' beautiful thangs I evah see'd."

"Hoo," Warrick sighed as the tight t-shirt and low-riding jeans ambled away. He put 'Hold On Tight' on the turntable and swallowed as the preamp mixer flashed only 11:00 p.m.

******

Around 4:00 a.m. Sunday, Grissom grew restless. He'd read through all of the articles in the Annals and the Bulletin, and his article had been progressing nicely, but suddenly he realized he'd been staring at his laptop screen for the last 30 minutes. Something . . . someone was missing.

Gris had gotten used to being interrupted while he read, wrote, and researched. He'd gotten used to Warrick sampling the townhouse's extensive collection of classical music, Warrick asking probing questions, Warrick teasing, Warrick running his musician's hands through Grissom's hair or over his shoulders or down his chest. Gris had gotten used to being pestered, and now he missed it. He missed his boyfriend.

Abruptly shutting his laptop, putting it into hibernation, Gris shot up from his desk. He quick stepped over to his CD collection searching for something to fill the silence. Nothing seemed remotely interesting. Not Bach. Not Ellington. Not Led Zeppelin. Trying one of Warrick's tricks whenever he was looking for inspiration, Gris closed his eyes and randomly ran his fingers along the CD cases. He stopped, opened his eyes, and pulled out a double CD set. Kurt Weill's "The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny."

"Well," Grissom snorted, "this is certainly going to cheer me up."

Still, he slipped the first disc into the player. Discordant, driving woodwinds and trumpets leapt out of the speakers. Yep, nothing like an opera about a city much like Las Vegas descending into bestial anarchy to lift a man's spirits. An opera that ends with 'Können uns und euch und niemand helfen.' 'Cannot help ourselves and you and no one.'

Tossing the case onto the short couch, Gris headed for the nearest bookcase. He picked up and set down books on art. Books on art made him think of his mother. He did not want to think of his mother.

Stalking to the next book case, he fingered the writings of Emerson, Poe, and Melville. He grabbed up the Riverside Shakespeare and put it down. He opened up Conan Doyle and snapped it shut.

Unaccustomed to feeling at odds in his own home, Gris turned on his heel, crossed to the coffee table, and snatched up his pen and crossword puzzle. Settling on the couch, he took a deep breath and dove in.

Five minutes later, he threw the pen and crossword back onto the table. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Dear god, he had to admit it. He wasn't just missing his boyfriend. Gris was aching for his boyfriend. And not just aching. The clawing feeling inside his chest couldn't be anything other than the embarrassing, debasing, and maddening emotion of jealousy. There was no denying that women and men constantly showed interest in his boyfriend, but Warrick had never shown any interest back. At least not in front of me, the pessimistic part of Gris added.

He chastised himself, reminded himself that not twelve hours ago, he and Warrick had each committed over $1500 to, of all things, a sofa. Then the pessimist whispered that Gris could still cancel delivery.

Disgusted, he popped to his feet and went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. As he lifted the bottle to his mouth, he caught his distorted reflection on the side of the stainless kettle. After all, Warrick was young and beautiful, an extrovert and selfless, while Grissom was . . . Grissom: middle-aged and worn, an introvert and selfish. He leaned against the kitchen island, grappling with jealousy, trying to intellectualize something beyond the intellect.

And then, the lyrics of the 'Alabama Song' filtered into his consciousness:

"Oh, show us the way to the next pretty boy! / Oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why! / For we must find the next pretty boy / for if we don't find the next pretty boy / I tell you, we must die!"

Grissom let loose a sardonic laugh, aching for his boyfriend even more.

******

Warrick's resistance to all the offers finally wore down. Not enough to do anything he'd regret, but enough so that he didn't want the party to end. Girls and boys. Boys and girls, all at least ten years younger than Warrick, all competing for his attention. He was skying on the flirting, the playing, and the soul-pumping music.

When his gig ended, everyone who could still walk helped him break down his equipment and carry it to his Lexus. Then they moved the party. Warrick was dancing with eight gorgeous girls and five bewitching boys in the lobby-size living room of video game entrepreneur Ruben Williams. Ruben's 25th birthday had been the reason for the private party, but Ruben was currently passed out on top of the grand piano, completely unaware that 'Got Myself a Good Man' blasted from his $25,000 Verity Audio speakers.

All the boys and girls looked enticing, but Warrick had zeroed in on one Martina Reyes, Tina for short. Smart, witty, flirty, sexy. A third-year law student, she would be starting the February Bar exam on Wednesday and was blowing off some serious steam.

Aretha Franklin's 'Chain of Fools' rocketed around the living room, and Tina shouted, "I need to sit this one out. You wanna come with?"

"Yeah," he shouted back.

The rest of the dancers tried to hold them to the living room, but Tina and Warrick broke free, laughing their way out the back door. They tumbled out onto the huge, shaded patio. Aretha was still plainly audible, only just a little quieter.

Gulping in some fresh air, Warrick suddenly caught a whiff of his smoke-saturated jacket. "Whew! Man, I'd forgotten how concentrated that smell can get."

Tina pulled thick, black hair away from a heart-shaped face. Her cheekbones highlighted a Native American heritage. "You've been away from the scene too long, then."

"Nah, I . . ." and then he realized she was right. He hadn't been in a nightclub since, well, since November. And Grissom.

"Damn," Warrick raised his left arm to look at his bare wrist. He'd left his watch in the glove compartment before his gig. DJ SmoothB does not wear a timepiece. "Know what time it is?"

"Time to get serious?" Tina smiled slyly.

He couldn't help but smile back, "I need to find a clock."

"Got a cell phone?"

"What?"

"Your phone. It also tells time."

"Oh. Yeah." He pulled the phone from its holster on his belt. He could see the time display through the small window on the front. 12:06 p.m. "Shit." He flipped open the phone. Two missed calls from Gris. Warrick had forgotten to set the phone to vibrate, and no wonder he didn't hear the tiny ring over the massive wall of sound.

"Tina, I'm sorry, but--"

She shrugged, "You've got to go."

"Yeah, um . . ."

"No apologies necessary. I had fun. You?"

He smiled and said sincerely, "Yeah. I did."

"Good. Maybe we can go dancing again sometime."

"About that, Tina, I uh--"

She shook her head and said sweetly, "Give me your phone."

"What?"

A beautiful laugh. "No tricks. Give me your phone."

He handed over his phone. He thought she was going to use it to make a call. Then he realized what she was doing: putting her name and phone number into his address book. Damn. When she finished, she handed him the phone and melted him with a smile. "Don't be a stranger, Tall, Dark and Handsome." Then she flowed back inside the mansion.

He stood stunned and breathless on the patio. "Oh, man, I am way out of practice."

******

Taking the stairs up to Grissom's townhouse two at a time, Warrick wondered why his boyfriend hadn't picked up his phone. Warrick had called before leaving the mansion. Then he'd called again when he'd stepped out of the shower. He'd even tried after dropping off his smoke-infested clothing at the dry cleaners. He'd gotten voice mail each time.

Warrick wasn't worried, though. Both the Denali and the Volvo were parked out front. Nah, Warrick wasn't worried. What he was . . . was horny as hell. What with the dancing, the flirting, the looks, the moves, Warrick was flying high and wanted to sink into his boyfriend now. Key out, Warrick opened the townhouse door as soon as he reached it. He could hear something avant-garde and in German blaring out of the stereo. He powered down the short entry hallway and into the living room.

"Gris?" Nothing but a screeching soprano answered him. Newspapers were scattered over the living room floor with faint, stick-like outlines of black paint on them. A cordless screwdriver, small saw, glue, can of spray paint, and other assorted tools lay on the dining room table. Warrick glanced in the kitchen for signs of life then started up the hallway. He heard a high-pitched whirring noise coming out of the door at the end of the hall. The bug room. Warrick braked. He wasn't going in there, horny or not. He considered not even knocking on the door.

Standing uneasily just outside, he called, progressively louder, "Gris? . . . Gris? . . . Baby? . . . Gil?"

The whirring stopped. Warrick took three giant steps back. The door opened. Dressed in loose khakis and a dark blue short sleeve shirt, his boyfriend looked not welcoming nor happy nor even pissed. Just looked like he'd opened the door to a stranger.

"Hey," Warrick smiled hesitantly.

"Warrick."

Oh shit. Gris had his stone face locked on tight. Warrick's sexual fire plummeted to lukewarm. He didn't think his being late could be the cause for the lockdown, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what was.

"Uh, yeah, hey, baby, whatcha doin'?"

"Finishing up the new enclosure for Hermes, Artemis, and Ares."

The racing cockroaches. Catching himself before he started shuddering, Warrick indicated the open door and said, "Nothing's loose in there, right?"

Blinking shuttered blue eyes, Gris turned around and looked. "No."

"Cool. Uh, so, you wanna shut that door and grab some . . . lunch?"

Gris stood still for a moment, then nodded, "Give me five minutes."

"Sure," Warrick said, as his boyfriend disappeared. Multiplying five minutes times four, Warrick figured he had at least a twenty-minute wait. He returned to the living room, turned off the stereo, and began picking up scattered sheets of newsprint, wadding them up as he went. What could have put Gris into Mr. Roboto mode? The last time Warrick had seen Gris so unemotional, they'd been in L.A. at dinner with--

"Aw, fuck," Warrick stood still, his generous mouth crumpling into a grim line. "Mary Grace." Grissom's mother. Yeah, it was Sunday, and Gris had no doubt done his weekly duty and called her on the TTY phone. That explained why Warrick kept getting voice mail.

"Fuck," Warrick said again, only louder, ripping newspapers up from the floor.

In Warrick's eyes, Mary Grace Grissom was self-absorbed, opinionated, controlling, hurtful, and hateful. She didn't respect Gris or his work and didn't hesitate to tell him so. Yet, like clockwork, he called her every Sunday morning, took his weekly serving of shit, then went into emotional lockdown for a couple of hours. In any other human being, Warrick would suspect some destructive co-dependency, but this was Gil Grissom. This was a man who wouldn't back down to anyone. This was a man Warrick respected, trusted, and, yes, loved, and it hurt like hell to see Gris not only receive the abuse but come back for more.

"Fuck!" Warrick yelled, throwing the mangled newspapers into the kitchen garbage and kicking the cabinet for good measure.

This had to stop. It had to stop now.

"Warrick?"

He looked up to see his boyfriend standing just inside the kitchen. Gris actually looked mildly interested.

"What did she say this time?" Warrick snapped.

The stone face slid in place. "It's not your concern."

"The hell it's not. I guess you think shutting everybody out don't affect nobody but you, huh?"

"I don't want to discuss this right now." Grissom headed back down the hall.

Warrick plunged after him and called out, "I'm sure you don't. You freeze up like Juneau in January every time you call her."

Walking quickly away from Warrick, Grissom shot back, "At least I know how to use a phone."

Dumbfounded, Warrick watched his boyfriend stride into the bug room and shut the door. "You angry 'cause I didn't call?"

Staring at the closed door for a beat, Warrick felt his anger return, fueled by ungratified sexual tension and unacknowledged guilt, "Gris? Gris? Goddammit! Don't you walk away from me! Don't you shut me out!"

The door sprang open. Grissom stood, arms crossed, face like granite. "I am not shutting you out. I simply do not want to discuss my relationship with my mother at this time."

Warrick threw his long arms out wide, "Why do you do this to yourself every week?"

"Why do you go to family gatherings knowing Aunt Shirley will be there?"

"That's family, man."

"Exactly."

"Nah, nah, man, that's different. My family loves me. They love you, too. And while one sour old lady's trying to run my life, you're letting Mary Grace poison yours. And us."

"Don't judge me."

"Telling you the truth ain't judging."

"Warrick, back off." It was a command, not a warning.

"No! Every week I spend a couple of hours getting nothing out of you after you get off the phone with her. It's wrecking us, man."

"Is that why you didn't return my calls? You were wrecked? Or did something 'unusual' happen, and you called Catherine instead?"

Mouth tightening with anger at the unfair accusations, Warrick snarled, "Look, all right, I had a great time last night and this morning. Is that what you want to hear? I had a great time, and I had offers coming in left and right. But I turned them all down."

"Your sacrifice is duly noted."

The colder Gris got, the hotter Warrick grew. "Fuck! I turned them all down because I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be with you, and what do I find when I get here? The usual goddamn Sunday afternoon ice show."

"Oh, I see. You thought about me all night but just neglected to call to tell me. Well, as flattered as I am, I will not serve as your sexual surrogate for the afternoon."

"That what you think?" Warrick shouted, unwilling to admit to himself, much less Grissom, that Gris was right, "You think I want somebody besides you?!"

"Follow the evidence. Boyfriend." Grissom's sarcasm slapped Warrick hard.

"Son of a bitch. Yeah, I can see the family resemblance real clear, now. You go on and hold your weekly hatefest with your Mama, Gris, 'cause I am gone."

******

Grissom swayed in his hallway, eyes wide, heart hammering, limbs trembling. Without making a sound, he watched Warrick bolt out the door. Grissom's world-class intellect rapidly tried to figure out what had happened, to peel away distracting emotion, but his body would not cooperate. Closing his eyes, he frantically fought an involuntary groan climbing out of his chest and into his throat. He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, but the sound exploded, high, mournful, unearthly.

God, he'd done it again. Destroyed a relationship. Only this time, it wasn't because he'd been too emotionally detached, and a lover had lost interest. No, this time, it was because he hadn't been emotionally detached enough, and he had driven Warrick away.

Grissom knew he had a meltdown whenever he spoke with his mother. Knew he had to find some way to deal with it. Knew he should seek professional help. But his pride had always stopped him. And now, when he should have confronted the problem with the help of the one person who loved him, he attacked instead of listened.

Jealousy had ripped through Gris like a hurricane, and he'd said things. Oh, God! He'd said things that he would take back in a heart beat. But he couldn't. Once again, he was reduced to silence. Head bowed, eyes closed, he stood grieving for his loss.

******

Warrick blew out the front door and down the steps as if the Furies flew hot on his trail. Halfway home, he pulled into the parking lot of a seedy strip mall. He stopped because he suddenly realized that he hadn't remembered jumping in his Lexus, cranking the engine, wrenching into gear, peeling out, and driving blind.

"Fuck!" He screamed and punched the dashboard. "Fuck this shit!"

No one had ever made him so furious. To be honest, he'd never cared for anyone so deeply as to hurt so badly. He hurt because Gris couldn't deal with his mother and shut out Warrick instead. And he was completely twisted up that Gris didn't trust his boyfriend, could accuse him of cheating. Warrick could barely breathe. Leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, he forced himself to take deep breaths.

At last able to sit up, he grabbed for his cell phone and flipped it open. He dialed down his list of contacts until he got to 'Willows, Catherine.' He almost hit Talk then he remembered that he hadn't even told Catherine about his relationship with Gris. And now was not the time.

Besides, Warrick grimaced, it was hardly 'unusual' news. It was not the first time a lover had accused him of being unfaithful. Yeah, and he had to admit it, more times than not, he had been. This time, though, Warrick shook his head, this time he'd played it true. He hadn't given in to temptation. And he'd been treated like shit for his trouble.

He snapped the phone shut, flipped it onto the passenger seat. Taking a deep breath, he reached to turn on his satellite radio, a gift from Gris in January. Warrick stared at it for a few heartbeats, then he pulled back his hand and drove to his house in silence.

******

Warrick hadn't intended for it to happen. Four days later, he was just living in the moment, still resenting Gris, still avoiding him, still hurting. Warrick had found it all too comforting to slip back into old routines. Yeah, Warrick could make all the excuses he wanted, but he'd still bet his female supervisor "a fabulous dinner." Not only that, but Warrick had let Catherine claim the dinner even though she'd lost the bet. And not only that, but Catherine was obviously looking right past dinner. She'd done that thing with her tongue, sticking it into her cheek with her mouth open, looking him up and down like a cat planning a date with a mouse. And the mouse had agreed. Saturday night. His place. A fabulous dinner. Doom.

What was the mouse to do now? He felt like a fucking hypocrite. He'd made his self-righteous way out of the townhouse when he'd been accused of cheating. Yeah, maybe he hadn't committed the physical act, but he'd certainly thought about it. He'd certainly been hot to fuck his boyfriend because of it. And, now, Warrick was looking to cross the line for real. He needed some advice. He needed to talk to his best friend.

It was 10:00 p.m. on Thursday, and Warrick finally found Nick Stokes in the layout room. In a light blue lab coat over t-shirt and jeans, Nick was organizing evidence he'd collected off of shotgun victim Kelvin Russell.

"Hey," Warrick said from the doorway.

Nick looked up from across the table, "Heard you nabbed Cesar Dabo."

Warrick nodded, stepping inside. "News travels fast."

"He roll over on Urbana?"

"Not a chance. Said he shot Lou Barnes and Kelvin Russell on his own. Said he did it for the money and for making Mitch Urbana look bad."

"Got to admire the man's loyalty." That statement hit Warrick in the gut. Speechless, guilty, he stood watching Nick work.

"Hey, War, you wanna help, or you just here to learn?"

Troubled green eyes met curious dark brown. "I messed up, man."

"Bad enough to affect the case?"

"No, not that. I . . . ," Warrick glanced at the empty corridor behind him and lowered his voice. "This afternoon . . . I sort of asked Catherine out on a date."

Nick stood still and glared at Warrick as if he'd just crawled out of a shit-filled sewer. "So, when you gonna nail the day supervisor?"

"Yeah, all right. I deserve that."

"You deserve that and so much more. What were you thinkin', man? Aren't you and Gris--"

"We are. Damn, I hope we are, but we had a fight Sunday."

"A fight?"

"A bad fight."

"How bad?"

"On a scale of one to ten?" Warrick sighed. "Twelve."

Nick set down his pen and clipboard, crossed his arms, and leaned against the table. "Okay, I'm gonna take a wild guess. You did something stupid with a woman."

Studying the table top for a moment, Warrick admitted, "That figured in."

"Always comes down to women in the end, my friend."

"You have no idea."

Appraising Warrick, looking him over from olive drab jacket to dark brown work boots, and not liking what he was seeing, Nick said, "So, I'm just gonna walk this through. You and Grissom have been together, what, close to four months, right? And you had a fight because of you and a woman?"

Warrick nodded, "There's some other stuff, but, yeah, that's about it."

"You still want to be with Gris?"

Warrick nodded again.

"But, now, because you are such a smart guy, you just asked Catherine, your supervisor, your female supervisor, out on a date. Man, you remember me telling you about straddling a fence?"

Groaning, Warrick said, "Yeah. Barbed wire's cutting pretty tight right now."

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't know."

Pointing his finger at Warrick, Nick snapped, "Yes, you do, Hoss. You gotta talk to Gris."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I'm . . . I'm not ready."

Shaking his head, Nick said, "You know, this explains one whole hell of a lot. Sara told me Gris has been holed up in his office most of this week. Only time he'd come out was to rip somebody a new one."

"Damn," Warrick stared at the table.

"Sara said she and Greg were gonna kick his ass to the curb."

Green eyes flashed. "They touch Gris, I'll lay them out."

Laughing, Nick held up his hands, "Hey, man, joke. Relax."

"Sorry. Not much sleep." Warrick looked into concerned dark eyes. "I miss him. A lot."

"Listen, Rick, I . . . better tell you something else. Before Greg does, and it gets him, um, laid out."

"What?"

"He's pretty proud that he's collected a new piece of the Grissom Enigma."

"The what?"

Nick shrugged, "It's Greggo, okay. Just listen. Greg was in the break room looking at some magazine with plus-size women in it, bragging about how he has an open mind when it comes to dating, and he asked Grissom what gets his juices flowing."

"He asked him what?!"

"You heard me."

Warrick clenched his jaw, "What did Gris say?"

"According to Greg, and I quote, 'Someone who doesn't judge me.'"

Words from the fight echoed in his head, and Warrick closed his eyes. "Aw, fuck."

"Barbed wire just got a little tighter, huh?"

"Fuck you, man."

Nick laughed, and then he got a strange look on his face, "You sure you're not ready to talk to Gris?"

"No."

"Too bad," Nick looked scared, "'Cause he's right behind you."

Warrick whipped around and saw nothing but an empty doorway. Then he heard Nick's wicked laughter, "Got you, man."

Restraining himself from throttling his best friend, Warrick turned back around and admitted, "Good one."

Nick smiled, "Go find Grissom. Kiss and make up. Just don't let me see it."

"You afraid you gonna pass out again? Or that you'll get turned on?"

"I hate you, man," Nick said placidly. "Now git gone."

Warrick paused in the doorway, "Thanks."

"Anytime, man. I'm here to set you straight." Nick grinned, "Pun intended."

******

Friday morning at 9:00, Grissom lay flat on his back on a weight bench at 24 Hour gym. Elbows slightly bent, he had a twenty-five pound free weight in each hand and was slowly bringing the weights together over his chest then spreading his arms back toward the floor. He was half-way through a sixteen rep set of chest flies. His trainer Marco stood watching, making sure Grissom's form was smooth, that he was working the right muscles.

His control today was tenuous, erratic, as it had been Monday and Wednesday, his mind honed-in on Warrick. Gris had hoped Warrick would at least keep to the same workout schedule they'd shared the last six months. But Gris suffered disappointment each day. His boyfriend, Grissom swallowed, his ex-boyfriend, had switched to working out in the early afternoon, right before swing shift.

"Focus, Gil," Marco reminded.

"Sorry," Gris mumbled, correcting his form, trying to keep his arms even. He was exhausted. He was sleeping even less than usual. He ached through and through. Closing his eyes, he struggled to concentrate only on moving the muscles in his arms and chest and on breathing full, measured breaths.

But his mind swung back to Warrick, and a swell of grief washed over Grissom's body. His arms started to tremble. His left began to dip lower than his right. Feeling a light, correcting touch on his elbow as he strained to bring the weights back up over his chest, he opened his eyes.

Green eyes looked back. Warrick.

Gris almost dropped the weights on himself. Warrick grabbed one; Marco the other.

"Hey," Warrick smiled. "Thought I'd find you here."

Heart pounding, more from seeing Warrick than from lifting weights, Grissom sat up slowly. "I . . . I'm trying to stay consistent."

"Good," Warrick nodded.

Gris noticed that Warrick wasn't in his workout clothes but was wearing a chamois colored pullover sweater and black jeans. He looked so . . . fine.

"Hey, Marco? Mind if I borrow Gris for the rest of the day?"

"Not if you make him do thirty minutes of cardio sometime today."

Grissom felt hot green eyes upon him as Warrick said, "Yeah. I think that can be arranged."

******

They decided to meet at a neutral location: Seattle's Best Coffee on Alta Drive. Grissom toyed with a full cup of the house decaf; Warrick sipped on the Tazza d'Oro espresso flavored with chocolate and cinnamon.

They talked about the cases they'd worked this week. Then they talked about the cases they'd worked last week. They were starting on the cases they'd worked a month ago when Gris blurted, "I was foolish. I'm so very sorry."

Holding his breath, he watched Warrick nod slowly, seeming to accept the apology but keeping his cards close to his chest.

"I-I-I was jealous," Gris stuttered then sighed. "I am jealous. I'm jealous of the time you spend with others, the attention and affection you give to others."

"I wish you'd told me," Warrick said softly.

"I honestly didn't know until it grabbed me by the throat Sunday morning." Grissom spoke hesitantly, reluctant to reveal what was obvious to others, "I'm uncomfortable with highly-charged emotion. I never know what to do when it overpowers me."

"You either lock down or freak out."

Grissom looked away, though he agreed. "Pretty much."

Studying the piles of pastries, cookies, and breads in the display case, he realized he hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday. He still didn't feel hungry, but at least he felt calm. The soothing presence of Warrick saw to that.

"Gris . . . "

Grissom turned his head back as Warrick hesitated, "I . . . I can't promise you that I'll never do something to make you jealous."

"I understand that. This 'green-eyed monster' is mine to slay. Hopefully."

"You don't have to fight it alone. You need to talk to me, tell me when you feel jealous."

Gris glanced toward the cash register and the young woman gazing openly at Warrick. With a resigned voice he said, "So, what do you want me to say when the blonde with the hoop earrings and the tiger tattoo over at the counter says she wants to take our order but looks like she'd rather take you home instead?"

Warrick smiled. His smile reached his eyes. He didn't turn around to look at the girl, but kept his gentle green eyes on anxious blue. Grissom felt warm for the first time since Sunday.

And then Warrick said, "You start by quoting some passage from Shakespeare about true love. You end by saying how you gonna rip her hoop earrings out."

Grissom couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Good advice. I feel better already."

"Me, too." Then Warrick became serious. "We've never discussed . . . monogamy."

"No, we haven't."

"We've been together nearly four months. Gris, I haven't been with anybody else. You?"

"Me?! No." Completely surprised, Grissom dropped his gaze to the table, to his rough hands clenching the half-empty cup of decaf. That anyone could think Gris capable of relating intimately to two people within the same time span left him speechless. But most astonishing of all was the notion that he could ever want an intimate relationship with anyone other than Warrick.

It was some time before Gris was able to order his thoughts, and even longer before he could express them openly, "Before we . . . made love, I hadn't had sex for more than two years. And that was once in one night." Seeking Warrick's understanding, Gris looked up and admitted, "Monogamy is simply a given for me. Fidelity by fiat. You, on the other hand, are extremely attractive, incredibly desirable. You can't help but get offers."

Warrick drank the last of his espresso, then he spoke plainly. "Just 'cause I get offers don't mean I'm gonna accept them. You understand me?"

Grissom nodded his head, "I understand."

Green eyes softened. "Look, Gris, I know myself well enough. I can't guarantee that I'll never look at, flirt with, or even fantasize about somebody else. But I'll try hard not to go the distance. I'll try hard never to hurt you."

"Intellectually I accept that. Emotionally," he swallowed, "I'll work on it."

The tension, the awkwardness between them began to dissolve. Warrick took a deep, cleansing breath, and said, "Yeah, well, speaking of something to work on . . ."

"Mary Grace?"

"Well, I was thinking of . . . but, yeah, Mary Grace."

Grissom tried not to look bleak but failed. "I'm all she has left."

Full lips shrunk to a thin line, Warrick accused, "If she treats everyone the way she treats you, I'm not surprised."

"Warrick--"

"Gris, I'm sorry, man, I never should have laid into you like I did. And I'm not trying to judge you. I got a quick temper and a quicker mouth. But let's not talk about me. Let's not talk about her. Let's talk about you."

"I know I don't handle my relationship with her well," he shrugged. "Or at all."

"I got some suggestions for you, but I don't think you wanna hear them."

"Probably not."

"So, what do you want to do?"

Sighing, Grissom confessed, "All my life I've prided myself in being able to think my way through any problem. It . . . humbles me that I cannot work this out."

While Warrick waited, rolling the empty espresso cup between his palms, Gris drank lukewarm decaf and worked his way to the inevitable. "I'll talk with Phillip on Tuesday. He can refer me to someone."

Warrick released a deep breath. "Dr. Kane's a good psychologist and a good man. He gave me plenty to think about besides gambling. And myself. Gris, man, I--" Warrick swallowed, "I know how hard it is for you to say that. How hard it is to admit you need help. Thank you. You make me proud, baby."

Gris closed his eyes, savoring the sound of that last word. Baby. Diminutive of 'babe' from 'baban.' Origin uncertain. Used as early as the fourteenth century to refer to an infant. Passed into use as a term of affection for an adult in the early twentieth. He thought he'd never hear it again. Clearing his throat, Gris said, "Well, we'll see if it helps."

Long brown fingers stroked his wrist. "In the meantime, I want you to understand that you're not all she has left. She's got me, too. Whether she wants me or not."

"I think that will come as a surprise to her."

Green eyes hardened slightly. "Do her good. Next time you call her, you put me on the line."

Gris paused and thought. An elegant solution. "I will."

Grinning, Warrick grabbed Grissom's hand then looked away for a while, obviously studying the traffic outside. Gris studied Warrick instead, seeing the signs of sleeplessness around his eyes, the tired droop of his shoulders, the pain that still lurked around his full lips. Shaking his head, Gris resolved never again to cause his boyfriend such grief.

When at last Warrick looked back, Grissom was surprised to see hesitation and embarrassment on the dark face. "And . . . yeah . . . speaking of surprises, baby, . . . I . . . baby, I need you to cook the best meal of your life."

Cocking his head, Gris watched Warrick take a deep, deep breath, "Saturday night . . . my place . . . I promised Catherine a . . . fabulous dinner."

Grissom sat staring at his boyfriend. "She better not wear hoop earrings," was all he could think to say.

******

Saturday afternoon Grissom stared down into passion-glazed green eyes. Strong fingers spread to either side of his boyfriend's head, arms straight out, Gris rocked slowly, sliding his lubricated cock along Warrick's hard abdomen. Large hands gripped Grissom's ass, kneading the heavy muscles, bruising soft skin. Eyes open, ears open, heart open, Gris moved to the rhythm of his boyfriend's heartbeat.

"Come on me, baby. Do it," Warrick rumbled.

Groaning at the words, Gris thrust faster and harder. He stared at Warrick's princely face, fascinated by the shades of brown and gold and black in his skin.

"Come on my cock, baby. Slick me up. Slick me up so I can slide easy into your ass, fuck you hard, make you scream."

Blue eyes grew wide. Sound and sex. At last Gris understood why his boyfriend insisted on words, why he needed to hear them. The words flew in Grissom's ears, down his spine, into his balls. And this time, without prompting, he truly opened up, let his passion out, let the words ring out for his lover.

"Warrick!" he cried, "Ah, Warrick!" Moaning harshly, back arching, Gris came hard, "Anima mea!" Then he flew beyond all speech and collapsed on top of his lover's hard, muscled body.

Strong arms wrapped around Gris and hugged him. He gulped down breaths, almost sobbed with release. Large hands soothed over his back and cradled his head. A deep voice crooned, "Shhh, baby, yes. Missed you, baby. Missed you so much."

"Missed you, too," he gasped, expecting at any moment to be flipped over onto his back or his belly. Or draped over the back of the couch. Instead, musician's fingers skated over his back and ass, arms and neck. "Don't you," he panted, "don't you . . . need to--"

"No, baby. Couldn't get it up again even if you begged me. Just thought I'd give you some verbal inspiration."

"Well, you . . . certainly . . . inspired me." Slowly, his breathing leveled out, his heart beat calmed. He rested his head on his boyfriend's shoulder and kissed his throat. For the first time that week, his body and mind were at peace, skating blissfully toward sleep.

Warrick's deep voice murmured, "Ovid or Catullus?"

Grissom gave a lazy blink. "Hmm?"

"Anima mea." A tight hug and a voice filled with awe, 'My soul.'"

"Oh." Gris paused, trying to remember. "St. Augustine of Hippo, I think."

"Huh. You sayin' I give you a religious experience, baby?"

"Every time," Gris smiled into caramel brown skin and then felt hard muscles stretching beneath him, "Am I too heavy? You want to clean up?"

Strong arms made sure he stayed in place. "Nuh uh, you're perfect. Just like our new couch. Was I right or was I right?"

Running a hand over the soft, dune colored leather of their new sofa, Gris agreed, "It is . . . versatile, sturdy, and comfortable." Two hours earlier, Grissom had barely closed the door on the departing delivery men when long arms grabbed him, stripped him, and pushed him onto the sectional. He'd never imagined how comfortable he could be balanced on the arm of a sturdy sofa, knees pushed tight against his chest while Warrick drove his long cock deep inside his boyfriend's eager body. And from there, Warrick had proceeded to demonstrate to Gris just how versatile their new couch could be.

The two men lay in loving silence, Warrick's hands coasting over soft skin, ruffling a soft beard, combing soft hair. Grissom was drifting into sleep when he heard a hesitant voice, "So . . . you're cool with cooking for Catherine and Nick at my place tonight?"

"Mmmm. The better question is: 'Are Catherine and Nick cool with you and me cooking?'"

"Uh, yeah. Funny, man. Answer the question."

Still drifting, Grissom shrugged. Sometimes Warrick just did not appreciate good humor. "I'm cool." Gris rubbed his cheek against Warrick's shoulder and settled in for a nap, "Now that she knows this is not a dinner for two."

Taking his boyfriend's silence for agreement, Gris quickly dropped into the best sleep he'd had since Sunday.

******

"Dawg, you're gonna wear a trench as deep as the Marianas if you don't sit down."

Warrick paused in his pacing and looked down at his best friend stretched out on the hand-me-down couch in Warrick's living room and calmly flipping through the latest issue of Down Beat. Ella Fitzgerald sang soothingly in the background, but even her smooth voice couldn't relax Warrick. "You don't like my walking, you can walk right outta here."

Grinning like a hyena, Nick shook his head, "Nah, man. I wouldn't miss this even if all the showgirls in Vegas were streaking down the Strip."

"Fuck you, man."

"Warrick?" Fuck. His boyfriend's scandalized yet concerned voice called out of the kitchen.

"Sorry, babe. Everything's cool."

"Everything except Warrick," Nick chimed. Then he dropped his voice, "Gris doesn't know that you haven't told her, does he?"

Warrick snapped, "No."

"Man, why didn't you just tell her?"

"I don't know." And he didn't. He didn't know if maybe she'd hate him or be disappointed in him or laugh at him or shoot him. He didn't know if maybe he might be ruining any chance of having her. All he knew was that every time he tried to tell her, he ended up telling her something else. Just like he knew that every time he'd bitten his boyfriend's ass for keeping secrets, Warrick had been busy keeping his own.

"Mr. Warrick Brown," Nick drawled, "are you a man or you a mouse?"

Warrick cut short his scatological retort as Gris emerged from the kitchen, a chilled bottle of wine tucked under his arm, three empty wine glasses in one hand and a tray in the other. "Sauvignon Blanc and Sonoma Jack?"

"Ah," Nick said, "cheese for the mouse."

Warrick glared at his former best friend while Gris set the glasses and cheese tray on the battered coffee table. As he deftly poured three perfectly even servings of wine, Grissom said, "Did you know that mice actually prefer chocolate to cheese? Mice are vegetarians, and chocolate is closer to being a vegetable than is cheese."

Nick choked hard, trying not to laugh, while Warrick said, "Uh, no, Gris. Didn't know that."

Lifting his eyebrow, looking from Warrick to Nick and back, Grissom shrugged, sipped his Sauvignon Blanc, and returned to the kitchen.

"So, I reckon you'll be preferring the chocolate."

"Shut up!" Warrick hissed.

The door bell rang, and he froze. God, why hadn't he just cancelled the dinner with Catherine? Why hadn't he just told her about Gris? Why had he ever promised to include Nick when telling Catherine about Gris? Why had Warrick allowed this to escalate into a full-fledged farce? Why wasn't he fleeing instead of opening the door to his boss?

"Hey, Catherine," he managed.

"Hey, Rick." And she looked incredible: red gold hair curling and flowing softly around her glowing face; a short, sky-blue leather jacket over a low-cut white silk blouse; a short leather skirt and high heels; and, thank the lord, not a hoop earring in sight.

"Strangest thing," she said suspiciously, as Warrick took her jacket, "there's a jeep parked in front of your house that looks exactly like Nick's."

"Um . . . yeah . . . I . . . sorry, Cath . . . change of plans . . . sorry . . . uh, Nick and Gris," he nattered, following her down the entry hall into the living room, jacket still clenched in his large hands.

"Hey, Cath," Nick called out joyously as he popped up from the couch.

"Nicky?" Catherine stopped dead then whipped around to Warrick. Her blue eyes glowed dangerously. "What's he doing here? Who changed our plans?"

"That would be me." Gris strolled out of the kitchen cradling another glass. Solemnly pouring the light golden wine, he held out the offering to Catherine.

Twisting the collar of Catherine's jacket in his large hands, Warrick suddenly realized his boyfriend was dressed all in black, a color associated with death. Hopefully Gris chose the color because he looked oh so hot in it, not because of its symbolic value.

"That would be you?" Catherine took the wine and stared quizzically at Grissom.

"Yes," he set the bottle down and pinned Warrick with a deadly, accusing stare. Warrick decided black was not such a good color for his boyfriend.

Catherine sipped her Sauvignon Blanc, obviously confused and just as obviously put out.

Looking for help from Nick, who offered up a Texas sized grin but not much else, Warrick said, "I, uh, hope you like fettuccine. Gris is gonna do something amazing with scallops and vegetables and garlic and lord knows what else."

"Warrick, if you're about to say that Gil is a 'fabulous' cook, I will kick your ass."

Nick made the mistake of snorting, and Catherine flashed her eyes in his direction. Everybody knew that Nick's ass would be next.

"All right, boys, what is going on?" she demanded, setting her glass down on the coffee table and resting her fists on her hips.

Catherine, Nick, and Gris looked expectantly at Warrick. Warrick looked like a mouse with his tail caught in a trap. At least until Grissom took pity on his boyfriend and bravely faced the tigress.

"Catherine," Gris spoke, his voice warm and soothing, "Warrick and I are dating."

Catherine's blue eyes widened then crinkled. She chuckled, "Yeah, right. Oh, god, Gil, your sense of humor gets weirder every day."

"It's no joke, Cath," Gris said quietly.

That really broke Catherine up. Laughing hard, she wound up, hands on knees, gulping in air while the three men stood helplessly, hopelessly, by. She straightened up at last, using the backs of her hands to wipe tears from her cheeks. "Whew! I needed that. Thanks."

Warrick watched as she reached for the glass of wine and drank in a mouthful, then as she seemed to notice the sincere looks on the men's faces. Moving closer to Gris, standing behind his shoulder, Warrick determined to show solidarity with his boyfriend. It was merely coincidence that it got Warrick out of the direct line of fire.

Ella Fitzgerald's 'Miss Otis Regrets' played softly while Catherine stared at the men. Then she picked out the most vulnerable target. "Nicky?"

An armadillo in the headlights, Nick blanched and swallowed, "It's true, Catherine. They're, uh, together."

She shook her head. "This is no longer funny, guys."

"You're right," Grissom said. "On our first date we went to a jazz concert. We had a drink, listened to hip-hop, and played chess. We spent Christmas with Warrick's family. Three weeks ago, we visited my mother in L.A. We go to movies together, work out together, and sleep together." Then he spun around, grabbed his astonished boyfriend in a powerful embrace, and kissed him fiercely.

Shocked green eyes stayed open. Warrick saw Catherine's mouth fall open, her wine glass fall to the floor; he saw Nick fall flat on his ass, laughing hysterically. Long, nerveless fingers let Catherine's leather jacket go, let it fall to the ground. Then Warrick closed his eyes and fiercely kissed his boyfriend back.

Warrick was just coming up for air when he heard Catherine say, "Yeah, right. Since when do you listen to hip-hop?"

END