Title: Five Ways Warrick Wasn't Gay
By: Julian Lee
Pairing: Warrick/Speed

NOTES: Ah, Warrick. Perhaps the straightest of the CSI men. And yet, the one I like slashing the most. Written for Tobias Charity & Oro's wondrous CSI 5 things project. For Perpetual Motion, for the drooling & the arm-check beta.

(~(~)~)


i. in a pinstriped suit and pink shirt

Leaning back in his chair, Warrick tried to appear suave. Nonchalant. He had no idea how well he was succeeding.

At least he was dressed damned well. He'd balked when Linney first showed him the fabric, but now that he had the suit, there was no denying how good it looked on him. Double-breasted, black with a pink pinstripe. Seriously, who made fabric with pink pinstripes? But on Warrick, especially with the pink silk shirt, top three buttons open - and don't let anyone say that Warrick Brown didn't have a set, because here he was, playing high-stakes poker in a pink shirt - it had became the ultimate statement of cool.

That's right, motherfuckers, he thought, grinning. I'm a black man in a pink shirt. You got a problem with that, Officer? He snickered.

Madeleine had a boyfriend with a violent temper - Had had, he reminded himself sternly, having trouble thinking of Madeleine as dead - and a sister with ties to organized crime, so he was pretty far down the list of suspects. Still, the fuzz would get to them eventually - how could a roomful of gamblers in a high-stakes poker game fail to attract their interest? Especially when one of its players had been brutally murdered in the middle of it. Warrick looked around at the other players. He still wasn't quite clear on how that had happened.

When the door opened, a couple of the players jumped to their feet. Warrick wasn't one of them. The people who came into the room weren't cops; that was clear as much from the way they carried themselves as from the lunch-box like affairs they carried. Warrick studied them. The guy was sexy. Not the kind of guy he usually went for, but there was something about the curly hair and the obvious intelligence behind the glasses that made Warrick want to lick him all over.

Judging from the way that little slip of a girl was following the guy around, she felt the same way.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the guy said. "I'm Gil Grissom--" He gestured to the girl. "This is Sara Sidle. We're from the crime lab, and we need to take a look at your hands."

Warrick felt confusion radiating off his fellow players. And he had to admit he was curious about what the crime lab needed with their hands. But mainly he was tickled by the fact that this Grissom guy would have to touch his hands. Tickled pink, even.

Warrick pulled his feet under his chair and sat up, looking more alert. The insolent slouching could only take him so far. This guy looked like he wouldn't appreciate it anyway. Grissom pointed to the other side of the room. "You start over there," he told Sidle, "and we'll meet in the middle."

Warrick made a quick calculation. He was, technically, on Sidle's side of the circle, but he was betting on Grissom being a faster worker. He just had that look to him. Even if the girl ended up checking his hands, he had faith that he could attract Grissom's attention. After all, he was wearing the shirt.

Sure enough, Grissom got through two players for every one of Sidle's. He didn't look like he cared, but Sidle was pissed, and her frustration slowed her down more. Warrick shook his head. 'Haste makes waste,' Gran always said, and as stupid a cliché ¡s it was, Warrick believed it. He was the slowest person in the game in terms of placing bets. Drove the others nuts, but it won him hands. The only times in his career that he'd made really big mistakes had been when he'd allowed somebody to rush him.

He looked up and over at Grissom. Oh, yes. He was a patient man.

Grissom finished checking Stinson's hands. Warrick was next. Grissom moved over to him. "Warrick Brown?"

Warrick smiled up at him. "You did your homework."

Grissom shrugged. "It's my job."

Letting his grin become more of a smirk, Warrick held out his hands. "And I bet you do it very well."

Grissom blinked, startled. His hands closed around Warrick's - they were warm and soft. Warrick looked at their joined hands, the way his dark skin contrasted with Grissom's pale fingers. He liked the effect. Grissom examined the hands in his with a disconcerting intensity. Not that Warrick was concerned - he didn't know what they were looking for, but they wouldn't find it on him. Still, having someone looking that closely at any part of him was unnerving.

Grissom looked up from his examination, sharp blue eyes searching Warrick's face. This kind of scrutiny Warrick could get used to. With an answering smirk in place, Grissom said, "Yes, I do." He dropped Warrick's hands and stepped back. Warrick held still until Grissom moved away. Then he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets to counteract the unexpected chill he'd felt when Grissom let go of them. He scowled. Who was seducing who here?

Sidle and Grissom moved into the center of the room. "Thank you for your patience," Sidle said, and her voice was stronger than Warrick had expected. Maybe he'd have to reevaluate the threat she posed. "We'll be in touch if we need anything more from any of you."

"You're free to go for now," Grissom added. He flashed a small smile around the room - and another, pointedly, just for Warrick - and they left.

Instantly, the other players were on their feet, buzzing around talking in panicked whispers about what had happened to Madeleine and whether they were in danger. Only Warrick remained in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at the closed door where the CSIs had disappeared.

Gran had taught him to be a good citizen. Maybe it was time to show just how civic-minded he could be. Ignoring the others' confused questions, he strode across the room, jerked open the door, and stepped into the casino proper.

For a minute he was stuck, staring. He hadn't ventured onto the floor in several years, and the swirling chaos of people and machines made his head swim. But he spotted the crime scene easily enough and made his way to it.

A scan of the crowd around the taped-off area turned up Sidle but not Grissom. Warrick frowned. This would be easier if he didn't have to deal with the girl. Then again, he could size her up this way. See if she was just infatuated with her boss or if she had a claim on him. Because Warrick was a lot of things, but home wrecker was not one of them. He stepped up to her. "Excuse me? Miss - Sidle, was it?"

She turned fast, looking edgy and defensive. She drew back when she saw him, blinking rapidly. "Mr. Brown," she said. "What are - what can I do for you?"

Good catch, honey, he thought, but he saw something not entirely professional flash in her eyes. He chuckled. Claws in, little girl. "I need to speak to Mr. Grissom."

Sidle planted her feet wider apart and put her hand on her hip. Warrick remembered that she was armed. "He's pretty busy right now," she said, the challenge clear in her tone. "Is this about the case? Something I can help you with?"

Warrick calculated fast. "Well, it's sort of related to the case, but I'd rather speak with him about it, if you don't mind."

Sidle's jaw clenched. Clearly, she did mind. A lot. Warrick held his ground, and she sighed. "I'll let him know you're looking for him."

Warrick flashed his most disarming grin. "Thank you," he said sweetly.

"I won't guarantee he'll have any time to talk to you," she warned.

He shrugged. "That's all right. It's not like I have anywhere to be for a while, right? I think the casino's gonna shut down our game until the case is solved."

Sidle huffed and ducked under the tape. Warrick grinned and leaned against an abandoned slot machine.

Grissom must've set some sort of land speed record, because Warrick had barely had time to figure out exactly what he was going to say when the guy showed up before the guy showed up. "Mr. Brown."

Warrick smiled. "Please, Mr. Grissom, call me Warrick."

The side of Grissom's mouth quirked up. "Then you can call me Gil."

"Gil," he said experimentally, like he was tasting it.

The quirk in Gil's mouth went higher, but he just motioned down the hall where the poker rooms were, away from the confusion of the crime scene. "Sara said you wanted to talk to me?"

"I appreciate you taking the time," he said sincerely. "I know how busy you must be."

"This case is going to be a challenge." He shook his head. "The seven people with the most readily apparent motive and opportunity are professional bluffers." Warrick chuckled at that, and Gil looked over as they moved down the hallway. "Did you know Miss Dunkirk well?"

Warrick shrugged. "Some, I guess. We played together every week for almost a year; you get to know a person in that situation. Still, like you said - we're professional bluffers, and that doesn't always end at the game. Hard to say what I really knew about her."

Gil nodded thoughtfully. There was an empty room in front of them; Gil opened the door and gestured for Warrick to enter. "Thank you," he murmured and slipped inside, making sure to brush against Gil more than necessary. Gil's breath hitched, and Warrick put his hands in his pants pockets and tried not to look smug.

Closing the door behind them, Gil leaned against it, regarding Warrick. "So, Warrick, what was so important that you tell me?"

Warrick grinned. Gil was throwing down a gauntlet, but he hadn't known Warrick long enough to realize that when it came to getting what he wanted, he was dealing with a man with no shame. He took a sizeable step closer. "The Las Vegas PD and your lab have my full cooperation in this case. I want Madeleine's killer caught so we can start our game again. I know it sounds cold, but we've got to make a living too, ya know?"

Gil looked him up and down - slowly. "You don't seem to be doing too badly for yourself."

Warrick shrugged. "You wanna be successful, you gotta look successful," he said, taking another step forward. For a minute, Gil looked like he was regretting having stood against the door. Then his gaze flickered briefly down to Warrick's lips. Warrick grinned. "Anyway. I just thought you oughtta know."

"Full cooperation, huh?" Gil's smirk was firmly in place.

Warrick nodded earnestly. "Anything you need to make this case go faster, I'm your man."

One silver eyebrow went up. "Anything?"

By this point, Warrick was crowded right up against Grissom. His hands were still in his pockets - he didn't want to touch just yet. He let his voice drop. "Anything."

Gil just stood there, looking at him. Suddenly Warrick feared he'd catastrophically misjudged the situation. Gil wasn't interested. Or he was, but he was too professional to do anything with a suspect in an investigation. Or he was, and he would, but he was having some sort of affair with Sidle and she had him on a short leash.

And then Gil's hands were on his chest, sliding under the lapels of his jacket and up his chest to his shoulders, down his back to grab his ass. And Gil's lips were on his - hot, hungry, starved, almost. Warrick gasped as Gil's teeth closed - not gently - on his lower lip. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and slid them around Gil's waist, bringing him even closer. He ground his hips hard against Gil's, swallowing Gil's moan down his throat and answering it with a breathless gasp.

Warrick brought one hand back and tried to slip it between them, tried to get to the fly of Gil's pants, but Gil grabbed his wrist and held the arm away from their bodies. With a few more desperate kisses, he forced himself away from Warrick's mouth. "I can't - we shouldn't - you have to--" He shook his head.

Warrick stepped back, but he left his hand in Gil's. "I suppose this is a really bad idea," he mused, as though it had just occurred to him, "when I'm a suspect in a murder and everything."

Gil smiled, a secret sort of smile that went straight to Warrick's head. "Your hands were clean," he said. "You're not a suspect - not in my mind."

Warrick smiled back. "That's good to know." He leaned in for another kiss, and Gil didn't stop him.

"Still," Gil said when he'd managed to get away again, "I shouldn't be gone too long. Sara will wonder what's happened to me."

Frowning, Warrick freed his hand. "What's the story there? 'Cause I don't get in the middle of couples, you know?"

Gil's eyes popped. "Couples? Sara and I are coworkers. Nothing more."

That was something, at any rate. "Maybe you'd better tell her that."

Shaking his head, Gil stepped forward and kissed him again. "Not an issue," he said firmly.

Some men would never learn, Warrick thought, kissing back. He felt Gil's erection hard against his leg and grinned, snaking his hand around to the front of Gil's pants. "You sure you don't want me to take care of this for you?"

"I'll be fine," Gil insisted, dropping feather-light kisses along Warrick's jaw. "We can continue...this...tomorrow...at the station."

Warrick jerked back. "The station?"

"Just some standard questions all the players have to answer." Something highly self-satisfied entered the blue eyes.

"You said I wasn't a suspect!"

"In my mind." Gil's eyes were dancing. "You still have the Las Vegas PD to impress."

Wait a minute! "Wait a minute--"

"See you tomorrow. Eleven o'clock? Great." And before Warrick had time to protest, Gil was gone.

Well, damn. Gil had bluffed a bluffer. He'd batted his eyes at Warrick, and Warrick had fallen for it like - how did that line go? Like an egg from a tall chicken.

But he was grinning as he opened the door and headed out of the casino, not bothering to look for Gil in the mass of police personnel. He'd be at the station at eleven tomorrow.

And they'd play another hand.


ii. magically

When the clouds crossed the sun, the shadows chilled the room, and Warrick shivered, folding his arms across his chest. "An ill omen," he said darkly, "on a day that has been rife with them."

Greg frowned, but it was an expression without real anger. As he moved among the smoky vials and stoppered bottles of the workroom, he let his fingers brush the nape of Warrick's neck. "We are men of science," he said. "Do you still put stock in peasants' superstitions?"

For a moment, Warrick leaned into the touch, but then he pulled angrily away. "No superstition," he spat. "I recall a time when my grandmother's magicks were more than satisfactory for you." Greg flushed and opened his mouth to protest. Warrick ignored him. "Besides, it takes little enough augury to see that I am fallen out of favor."

Greg pressed his hands to Warrick's shoulder blades. "You are not out of favor, Warrick. Conrad's anger will cool. He was not pleased to see his pet outdone, but in time even he must admit that yours was the better solution to the problem." Warrick felt Greg's grin at his back. "And no matter if he does not; you have the king's accolades upon your work - what can Conrad say against him?"

"What he can or cannot say matters far less than what he can or cannot do. Conrad - not the king - decides where we are to work. He could separate us if he had a mind to."

"Why would he have a mind to?" Greg scoffed. "Together, you and I form one of the most successful teams in the realm. He would be a great fool to separate us for the sake of his vanity."

Snorting, Warrick turned and wrapped his arms around Greg's waist. "A man's vanity does often make him a great fool."

Greg was about to say something in answer - something snide and laced with innuendo, no doubt - when the workroom's heavy doors blasted open and Conrad and his pet were among them. "What is this?" Conrad asked, his voice laced with poison as he looked slowly, lazily, over his alchemists. "I do not believe this was in the instructions I left for today." Behind him, Hodges smirked superciliously.

Warrick tried to pull away, but Greg gripped his arms and would not let him move. "An experiment, sir," he said, looking their superior straight in the eyes. "You asked me to determine how Dame Jeannine's demise could have been malice, despite the lack of marks on her body. Warrick is of a height with Squire Foley, and I with Dame Jeannine; we were reproducing the circumstances that may have led to her death."

Conrad looked fit to burst with rage, but there was little answer he could make to that. "Indeed, you have a quick tongue, Gregory," he snapped. Then he looked pointedly at Warrick, who felt the blood rushing into his face. "Have a care what you do with it." Looking in disappointment at Greg, he added, "Your choice of companions is lamentable, Gregory. You show great promise, but I fear you will be judged according to the inadequacies of others."

Warrick would stand for no more. Surging out of Greg's arms, he snapped, "Of all people, sir, you should be the last to speak of the inadequacies of others."

Conrad froze. "What do you say?"

Greg's hand landed desperately on Warrick's arm, begging him to hold his peace, but he would not stand down now. "I say I have never worked for as incompetent a supervisor as you."

Everyone in the room stiffened. Hodges even gasped. Warrick and Conrad stared at each other, their eyes at last revealing the depths of their enmity. Warrick's hand curled at his side, and he knew he could easily - even, perhaps, joyfully - put his fist to Conrad's face, should the other man raise so much as a finger to him.

But Conrad just sneered ever wider. "Very well. If being in my employ causes you such pain, then I release you from it - and from all other in the castle. You are no longer an alchemist to the king."

The blood drained from Warrick's face, but what else, truly, had he expected? Indeed, he should count himself lucky. For the insubordination he had shown, Conrad could demand a far harsher punishment than simple dismissal.

Conrad crooked a finger as though he expected planets to leap into orbit around it. And if the planet he wanted was Hodges, then the action was successful. He gave Greg another appraising look and said, "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Gregory." The 'alone' was more than implied. Conrad spun on his heel and led his pet from the room.

Warrick sagged. At his back, Greg was a warm - but silent - force. "Whatever rebuke you would make me, Greg, I pray you save it until we are home."

Grudgingly, Greg snorted. "My only rebuke is that you let pass such a golden opportunity to loose your cutting wit upon the pet." He moved around the workroom, collecting such small personal items of theirs as had accumulated over the years. "Come. Help me pack this up."

Warrick's eyes narrowed as they tracked the movements. "What are you doing?"

"Collecting our things." Greg paused and looked at him. "Would you leave our personal belongings to the jackals who remain?"

Warrick was to him in three fast strides. "Our belongings?"

A wicked smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, Greg removed his fingers from a small red pouch. "Are you so protective of your magicks that you will not suffer even me to touch them?"

Warrick clasped Greg's hands to still them. "I am in no mood to be trifled with," he warned, voice low.

Sighing, Greg turned his hands over in Warrick's. "I do not trifle. Do you truly believe that I would allow that fool to dismiss you from service and yet continue to work here myself?"

"Greg--" Warrick groaned in frustration and shook his head. "For whatever his legion of faults, Conrad spoke true about one thing: you have great promise. I cannot allow you to compromise your future on my behalf."

When Greg looked up at him, Warrick's heart moved to lodge somewhere in his throat. "And I cannot allow this insult against you to stand without protest. I swore my vows, Warrick."

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Warrick leaned down and pressed a grateful kiss to Greg's lips, his hands rising to twist briefly in blond spikes. "And I mine," he said. "Still, I cannot simply allow you to--"

"You allow me nothing." Greg moved away, placing their possessions in a small box. "What I do, I do of my own choosing."

Sighing, Warrick helped pack. When Greg started speaking of his own choosing, there was nothing more that anyone could say.

Everything was gathered, and the box sealed tight, when the king's messenger arrived. "Sirs!" he said, saluting.

"Be at ease, boy," Warrick said.

The boy relaxed. "I bid you follow me to the king's throne room; His Majesty would have a word with you."

Warrick gulped. Turning, he saw panic writ large in Greg's eyes. Had Conrad so quickly reached the king with whining about Warrick's insolence? Was he now to receive sentence far worse than the mere loss of a job?

The messenger giggled. "I am also to tell you not to fear; you are not to be punished."

Startled, Warrick looked at the young messenger, who grinned at him and gestured grandly toward the door. He shrugged and followed. "Take us to His Majesty, then," he said.

The curly-haired boy led them through the castle with the ease of long years of familiarity, though he must certainly have been younger than Greg had been when Warrick first met him. At last they stood before the throne room, and the messenger was holding open the door for them.

"Thank you," Greg murmured, and the boy saluted again before disappearing.

"Warrick! Greg!" The king's booming voice rattled the windows of the throne room. Their monarch was a large man, immense muscles at last going soft. He sat on his enormous, overworked throne, half a dozen giggling girls lounging on pillows around his feet. "I am glad you came so quickly." Taking in the box in Greg's hands, he beamed at them. "Ah, excellent. You've already removed your things from the workroom."

"There seemed no point in leaving them, Your Majesty," Warrick said tightly.

"Ah, Warrick, relax!" The king clapped his hands twice, and immediately one servant stood at each elbow. "Would you care for wine? Bring these men wine."

"Really, Sire," Warrick began, but the servants had already bowed and disappeared as if they had evaporated into the air. Warrick looked at Greg in frustration; Greg shrugged and set his face in a familiar 'I am prepared for any eventuality' expression before turning back to the king.

"So," the king was saying, leaning down to stroke the hair of the nearest young woman, who all but purred as she stretched up against his hand, "I hear you are dismissed from Conrad's service, Warrick."

Warrick shifted uneasily. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The king turned to Greg. "And you, I assume, have left as well."

Something wary flashed across Greg's eyes, but he nodded. "I have, Your Majesty."

"Wonderful." The king regarded him with almost paternal pride. "I am heartened to find that there are still some who treat the old vows with the gravity they deserve."

The something wary in Greg's eyes transformed into a bright spark, and he smiled at the king. "Indeed there are, Sire."

"Good." The king nodded. "Very good. Ah, the wine." He accepted a cup from the servant at his elbow, motioning for Greg and Warrick to do the same. Drinking deeply, he smacked his lips appreciatively before turning back to the alchemists. "Now, Warrick, under the circumstances, I ought to discipline you for what happened in the work room." He drank again and grinned. "But I daren't, when you only said what I've thought for many a year myself." He shook his head. "Conrad is hardly a fit alchemist, let alone a supervisor of others. Truly, it is a shame that he is the Queen's nephew. You are far better out of his clutches."

Thinking of the stack of unpaid receipts on his desk, Warrick was disinclined to agree, but he could scarcely contradict the king. "Sire," he said noncommittally.

"Cheer up, Warrick!" the king boomed. "I said out of Conrad's clutches, not mine." He looked between the two men. "Well do I know the fruits of your labors. I should be a greater fool than Conrad if I let you go."

"Sire?" Greg asked, throwing a confused glance at Warrick. If they were not to work under Conrad's aegis, what remained?

"Do you know a gentleman named Grissom?"

Greg made a strangled sound around a swallow of wine. Warrick could only stare. Who among the alchemists had not heard of Grissom? The man was conducting experiments that had the potential to carry their practices ahead centuries in mere months. He had been given more or less free reign in the kingdom; castle gossip had it that the king had authorized any amount of funds the man needed. "We have not met him, Sire," Warrick said, "but we know well his reputation."

This seemed to please the king. "That is excellent news, indeed." He set aside his empty wine cup and rubbed his hands together. "Grissom has asked - and received - permission to use the workroom during night hours to conduct his experiments. He has often asked about the possibility of the two of you coming to work for him, but I considered you too important to release from Conrad - the gods know what state of disrepair his alchemists will fall into now that you will no longer be present to save them from themselves. Since Conrad has the temerity to take the decision from me, I see no reason why you should not become a part of Grissom's team - unless you object to it for yourselves?"

They needed barely a glance between them to make the decision. "We have no objections, Your Majesty," Warrick said.

The king glowed. "That is excellent to hear! Go home, gentlemen; get some rest. Tomorrow night after compline, return to the workroom and present yourselves to Grissom. And may you have the best of luck in your new lives."

Warrick and Greg recognized the end of an audience when they heard one. Bowing their thanks to the king, they fled the room.

The instant they were out of the castle, Greg whooped. Warrick caught his hands and dragged him close, catching his mouth in a triumphant kiss. "We are still employed!" he crowed.

"By Grissom, no less! Oh, Warrick," Greg breathed, "the things I have heard of this man--"

Warrick beamed at him. "I have heard them as well. I suppose only time will reveal if any of them are true."

Laughing, Greg tugged him toward home. "Whatever else is true of him, surely this much must be: working for him will be a hundred times better than working for Conrad."

Warrick smiled and let himself be led.

By the time the following night had fallen, and the compline devotions sung, Warrick felt less certain. A change in situation as extreme as this, after so many years? And should Conrad discover that Warrick had not, after all, been dismissed at his word, he could see to it that life within the castle became unbearable for himself and Greg.

Still, there was nothing for it now but to return to the workroom as the king bade them.

As Greg pushed open the door and peered around, he was almost run down by a man carrying a beaker near overflowing with a thick purple liquid, grayish smoke pouring over the sides. Warrick couldn't quite stifle his gasp - he recognized the substance; it was a newly discovered compound that allowed far greater accuracy in the detection of poisons in the blood. He and Greg had begged Conrad a score of times to be allowed to use it, but he had proclaimed it rubbish and forbade it in the workroom. If Grissom's men were using it, they had fallen into a better situation indeed.

The man with the beaker backed up hastily, cradling the glass against his chest. "Careful!" he warned. Then he stopped and looked at them, and a broad smile broke across his square jaw. "You'll be Warrick and Greg, then?"

Greg nodded and grinned back irrepressibly. "I suppose we will, at that."

"Just in time. I'm Nick." He jerked his head toward the back of the room. "Catherine and Sara are the ones setting things afire in the back."

And, indeed, just as he said it, a large spurt of flame erupted from what had been Greg's work station just a day before. Greg and Warrick stared; two women with work smocks over their gowns huddled over the station, arguing over the results of the explosion. Women alchemists. Warrick shook his head in wonder. No Conrad and women alchemists. He would have to work hard not to die tonight from sheer happiness.

"Sadly, you'll not meet Grissom tonight; he is in the countryside gathering information about the insects of the western provinces." Nick shook his head. "We cannot fathom why, but by now we have surrendered all hopes of understanding the man." Motioning them forward, he continued, "Come; let me put this in a safer place, and I will introduce you to the others." He smiled his broad smile again. "We are very glad to have you here at last."

Smiling back, Warrick reached down and twined his fingers with Greg's. "None gladder than we are."


iii. desperately

Warrick would wait for ten more seconds. If Nick hadn't noticed him by then, he'd--

"Jesus Christ, Warrick! What the fuck are you doing, man?"

Warrick smiled grimly. Good. Nick had noticed him.

Nick slammed his locker shut and leaned against it while he tried to catch his breath. Warrick got up off the bench and stood next to Nick, hands in his jeans pockets, waiting. "Hey, Nick."

"What the hell are you doing, sitting in the dark?" Nick demanded.

Warrick shrugged and wished Nick would keep his voice down. "I'm trying to stay under the radar. I doubt Grissom would be happy to see me."

"No shit." Now apparently pissed at Warrick for making him lose his cool, Nick glared as he pulled off his old shirt and fumbled for the bottom of the new one. "You're not supposed to be here."

Warrick scowled. "Just because I'm on suspension doesn't mean I can't come into the damned building."

"Yeah, Rick, I think that's pretty much exactly what that means." Nick pulled on the new shirt. "You don't look so good."

Tugging a hand through his tangled hair, Warrick rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. I've been calling you." He eyed Nick accusingly. "You're not taking my calls anymore?"

Suddenly, Nick wouldn't meet his eyes. Turning unnecessarily back to his locker, he fiddled with the lock. "It's been real busy," he said defensively. Warrick noticed absently that Nick's accent was more pronounced, the way it always was when he was cornered. "We're trying to pick up your slack - and Gris is kinda fast-tracking Greg's training--"

"That's dumb," Warrick mused. "Training somebody when you're a man down. That should wait 'til I come back."

Sounding even more stricken, Nick said, "It's in case you don't come back."

"Don't come back?" Warrick repeated numbly. "Why wouldn't I?"

Nick sighed and turned back to him - although he was still avoiding eye contact. "Grissom isn't sure he's reinstating you at the end of your suspension."

"What?" Warrick demanded, voice rasping. "He has to reinstate me."

Nick grimaced. "He said something like, 'Now that Warrick has proven himself less than dependable...'"

"Damn it!" Warrick slammed his hand against the lockers. "He can't do this, Nick. He has to reinstate me."

Nick reached a hand out and put it on Warrick's arm. "I'm sorry."

Shaking the hand off, Warrick closed his eyes briefly. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. Not your fault, right? Hell, I'm glad you had the guts to tell me where I stand around here. Gris sure as hell wouldn't when he suspended me. Bastard barely even looked at me."

"He's disappointed. Keeps talking about how he'd been so sure you'd turned yourself around."

A fetid mixture of anger and guilt bubbled up in Warrick's stomach, and he turned away from Nick. 'What the hell does he know about it?" he snapped.

"He knows he trusted you, and you let him down." There was a harsh edge to Nick's words.

Warrick whirled back to him. "Is that how you feel, too, Nick? That I let you down?"

Spreading his hands, Nick rocked back, away from Warrick. "Hey. Everybody makes their own choices, right? Doesn't matter how I feel - you're the one who has to live with it."

When Warrick swallowed, he tasted bile. "Yeah, I'm living with it, all right," he muttered.

Desperately attempting to lighten the mood, Nick punched his shoulder playfully. "So, what are you doing here, anyway? Miss us that much?"

"Sure." Warrick rolled his eyes. Then he remembered what he was doing here. He dropped his gaze to the floor and stuffed his hand back in his pocket. "No, I needed to ask you for a favor."

Nick turned to him, expression shuttered. "What is it?"

There had been a time - not long ago at all - when Nick would have offered to help instantly, without needing to know what Warrick was going to ask. There was a time when Warrick could trust himself to be asking for something that Nick wouldn't hesitate to give. "I was looking at my account balance today - and the bills are piling up pretty fast, and--"

"Money." Despite the relative lack of inflection in Nick's voice, he managed to make it sound like a really dirty word. Warrick cringed. "You came to ask me for money." He shook his head. "Shit, Rick--"

"Just a loan to hold me over until my suspension's over." Warrick's eyes glittered like green embers. "When my suspension's over, I am coming back here, Nick. No question."

Nick opened his mouth to argue with that, but he shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea, me loaning you money."

"You think I'm not good for it? When have I ever backed out of a debt to you?"

Nick blushed. "Most of your debts have been repaid in...other ways," he muttered.

Warrick took a step forward. "We can do that, too."

Nick backed up, pressing his back flat against the locker. "I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "I just meant - look, have you thought of getting another job? Just until you come back?"

Scowling, Warrick shrugged. "I didn't think I was going to be gone long enough to get another job."

"What about Matthew? He said he'd let you come work at the rec center if you ever got into a crunch."

Something in Warrick quivered, preparing to snap. "I, ah, went to him. He said I'm too much trouble now; bad influence on the kids."

"Oh. Shit." Nick stared at some point over Warrick's head. "I'm sorry. But still, there has to be something--"

"I'm suspended for three more weeks," Warrick said. "That's not enough time to get another job."

'What if you aren't reinstated?" Nick asked softly. "What will you live on then?"

"I'll be reinstated, Nick," Warrick said firmly.

"I'm not so sure, Warrick."

"Then I'll get another job," he said, his anger spiking. "But for now--"

"What happened to your savings?" Nick cut in. "You had quite a bit stashed away."

Warrick felt his face flush. "That money. Well, that money went..." He couldn't finish.

From the sneer that curled Nick's lips, he figured it out just fine, even without the end of Warrick's sentence. "You lost it at the casinos."

"Not all of it!" Warrick drew himself up indignantly.

"Just enough that you can't live on what's left for three lousy weeks."

Warrick stared. After everything they'd been through together, Nick was really going to look him in the eye and tell him no. Well, every man had his price, and Warrick knew Nick's. It was ridiculously low. He took another step forward. Nick had stuck himself to the lockers to avoid looking Warrick in the eye, but from the trapped look in Nick's eyes, he'd realized that had been a tactical blunder. Warrick was encroaching fast, and he had no place to go. Nick's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Warrick...ah...don't."

"You sure?" Warrick pitched his voice low and kept his eyes locked on Nick's.

"Rick, come on..." Nick didn't finish whatever he was going to say, and Warrick knew he was about to cave.

Reaching out his hand, Warrick rested it low on Nick's stomach, letting his thumb brush behind the waistband of Nick's jeans. Nick's breath hitched, and his head fell back against the locker. "Say the word, Nicky," he murmured. "Say the word and I am out of your hair. Swear." And he would be. If Nick told him to go, he would turn and walk out of the building. But watching Nick struggle to keep his eyes open against the steady rhythm of Warrick's stroking thumb, he knew that wasn't going to happen.

"Warrick, please," Nick begged, and from the way the words rushed out of him, from the way his hands reached out blindly and fumbled under Warrick's shirt for a touch of skin, it was clear what he was begging for - and it wasn't for Warrick to leave him alone.

Grinning sharply, Warrick unbuttoned Nick's jeans. He yanked the zipper down and shoved the pants and the briefs beneath them down Nick's thighs. He wasn't gentle, and he didn't pause when the elastic of the briefs caught on Nick's growing erection.

"Rick, Jesus," Nick managed, his voice strangled. "Careful of the goods."

Warrick dropped to his knees and looked up at Nick. "Don't shit me, Nicky. You like the rough stuff. Don't you?" He reached up and slapped Nick's ass, and Nick's whole body jumped. Warrick grinned, and before Nick had time to recover, he took Nick's cock into his mouth.

There was a dull metal clang above him. He didn't need to look up to know that Nick had banged his head against his locker. Warrick licked and sucked his way along Nick's length, and Nick bucked hard against his mouth. He put a hand to Nick's hip to hold him still. Nick forced himself to stay put, but Warrick felt fine tremors rocking his entire body.

"Warrick. Christ, Warrick. Please. More."

Warrick frowned. The stream of babbling wasn't doing them any favors. He pulled his mouth away with an audible pop. Nick sent up a chant of "Nononono--" Warrick stuck his finger in his mouth and made a show of sucking it. Nick's eyes widened, and Warrick watched his brain short out. With a low chuckle, he returned his mouth to its original position. His slicked finger traced around Nick's testicles and then further back, across his perineum. Nick's flow of words trickled off to a prolonged whimper. When Warrick slid his finger into Nick's opening, the whimper hit a sharp spike and then fell away altogether. Flicking his gaze up, Warrick wasn't surprised to see Nick's hand stuffed into his mouth to swallow any screaming he might do.

Warrick pressed his tongue flat against the head of Nick's cock, letting the pressure build, letting Nick squirm. He could feel Nick's orgasm building. Nick writhed desperately under Warrick's hand, but the grip was too strong.

Just when he thought the top of Nick's skull was going to blow off from the pressure, Warrick pulled his tongue away. He sucked once, extra-hard, on Nick's cock, and flexed his finger once. And that was all it took. Biting his hand so hard he probably broke the skin, Nick poured his release down Warrick's throat. When Nick was spent, Warrick pulled his mouth and finger away.

Nick removed his hand from his mouth. "God, I wish you wouldn't do that," he blurted.

Returning Nick's clothes to their rightful places, Warrick raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

Nick flushed, a gorgeous combination of humiliation and anger. Warrick licked his lips, thinking of his own erection going sadly to waste. "I feel like you're just using me."

Warrick pushed himself to his feet, a wounded expression settling over his face. "How can you say that, Nicky?" He kissed Nick, pressing his palm against Nick's chest to feel the slowing heartbeat beneath the thin cotton. "If I was using you, I would've waited 'til now to ask for the money." He drew back, looking at Nick. "Though, since we're back to the money..."

To his shock, Nick groaned and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Rick, but I just can't."

"Nicky, come on. You're my last hope."

Nick kept shaking his head, more emphatically now. "I can't. Doc says if I give you what you want, I'm an enabler."

Eyes wide, Warrick demanded, "Doc Robbins?"

"Yeah." Nick nodded. "He and I got talking one day - I swear I didn't mean to talk about you, but it came up, and - you're not mad, are you?"

"I'm not mad," he lied. "I'm a little worried about you taking psychological advice from a coroner, though."

"It's not like that," Nick insisted. "We were just talking. A lot of what he said made sense to me."

"You're an enabler."

Nick nodded.

"And you're not going to give me the money?"

Nick shook his head sadly. "I don't dare."

"'Don't dare.'" Warrick snorted. "Don't give me that crap, Nick," he spat. "Doc Robbins can say whatever he wants; you make your own decisions."

"So do you, Rick," Nick said softly.

Just like that, Warrick's world collapsed. No air was coming into his lungs. He had to get out of the building now. He staggered away from Nick, out of the locker room and down the hall.

"Warrick?" Greg swam into focus, staring at him from up the hall and looking deeply concerned. For a minute Warrick swayed in his general direction, thinking he could ask Greg for the money he needed. Gris was fast-tracking Greg. He was Warrick's replacement; he'd probably be eager to give Warrick a loan - for all the wrong reasons. At this point, Warrick didn't give a shit about reasons as long as it got him the cash.

But then the panic of self-preservation kicked in. Greg had called his name fairly loudly down a central hallway. If Grissom had been anywhere in the vicinity - suddenly, Warrick wasn't sure he was allowed in the building while he was suspended. He whirled away from Greg and stumbled out of the building.

Nick had been his last hope. And Nick could never know how many options Warrick had exhausted - how dire the situation had become - before he had lowered himself to this.

The glare of the parking lot flood lamps struck Warrick's eyes cruelly as he hit the sidewalk. Night had fallen in Las Vegas; the city was waking up. As he crossed the parking lot, a small wind sprang up, whipping sand and grit around him. Eyes blind with dirt and tears, Warrick climbed into his car and pointed it toward the Strip. Vegas was his city; he knew a thousand ways for a man to find himself there, if he were lucky.

He would hit the casinos tonight. He would win back enough to survive the next three weeks.

If he didn't, well, the sun would come up soon enough.

The desert was Warrick's, too. And he knew a thousand ways for a man to die there.

Warrick's eyebrow rose as he looked at the glass Benjie set on the stool beside the piano bench. He tried to stifle the irrational coil of excitement and anticipation in his stomach - or at least keep it from showing in his face. "He's back?"

Benjie's eyebrows waggled. "After nearly four long, lonely months."

Warrick snorted. "Lonely," he repeated dismissively.

Shrugging, Benjie straightened. "Deny it all you want, honey child. I know how many people you haven't gone home with in the past four months."

Discomfited and embarrassed, Warrick made a great show of picking up his glass and drinking. Benjie snorted and left the stage. Warrick set down the drink and turned in the direction of the bar. He craned his neck, but it was a hopeless gesture. He had made a second career of trying to spot the man who sent the drinks, and the man who sent the drinks had made one of not being spotted.

Warrick took a slow, appreciative swallow of bourbon. He wouldn't see the man tonight. He knew that as well as he knew the keyboard. When this game had started, that would have disappointed him, but he was used to it by now. Over the years, any number of admirers - male and female - had bought him drinks in hopes of buying his favor. They'd been everything from aspiring musicians looking for an in with the trio's label to aspiring lovers looking for an in to his bed. Some he'd allowed to succeed; some he hadn't - there wasn't much pattern to it beyond his mood on any given night.

But he knew, on some visceral, primal level, that the man who sent the bourbon was not like the others.

For one thing, the others always made damned sure he knew who they were.

The first drink had arrived...was it six months ago now? The trio had just finished their first set when Benjie arrived with a glass of Warrick's favorite bourbon on his small tray and an enormous smile on his boyish face. "For you, sir," he'd said with a great, showy bow.

Andre had looked up from where he was putting away his bass for the break and rolled his eyes. "Another drink for Warrick," he'd teased, looking at Smythe. "What do you think, man? What do you and me have to do to get as popular as him?"

Smythe had shrugged and flipped his drumstick in the air.

Warrick had raised his middle finger to Andre before turning back to Benjie. "Who sent it?"

That was the first time Warrick caught that particular twinkle in the waiter's dark brown eyes. "No clue, man. Gina just handed it to me and said to bring it to you."

"No shit?" Warrick had taken a drink and relished the burn, scanning the crowd lazily. Already, whoever had sent the drink had an advantage. Most people, when they bought him a drink, ordered whatever they thought he would like. The fact that this person had bothered to ask Gina what he preferred won them major points. And if Gina liked them well enough to let them send her musicians anonymous drinks, that definitely spoke well of their character. "Well, whatever. Thanks, man." He'd smiled at Benjie. "I'll figure it out soon."

But he hadn't. Every week for the next two and a half months, the drink had arrived at the end of the first set. Warrick watched like a hawk, but he'd never seen anyone who looked like they cared if he was enjoying his drink. There was never any message with the drink; no phone numbers or hotel keys or other signs that this person hoped for things to escalate.

He'd thought he had it, once - a quietly handsome young man he spotted several weeks in a row, sitting near the front. From the way he dressed, the bourbon seemed out of his price range, but Warrick was willing to suspend judgment. But his third week there, he'd gathered the nerve to strike up a conversation with Smythe during the break (much to Andre's chagrin). Warrick only knew for sure that the drinks were coming from a man - the Daily was a gay bar, but not so exclusively that there were no straights, especially on Friday nights when the trio played - because once when Benjie pestered her about his benefactor's identity, Gina slipped and said, "He'd rather be anonymous."

And then one night there'd been no drink. He'd made a joke about it - something about the guy finding some other pianist he liked better - but it rankled. All that week, as he'd gone about his life, but especially when the trio was practicing, he'd thought of how empty the small stool had looked without the glass.

When the drink had been absent the second week, he'd gone so far as to flag Benjie down and ask about it. Looking sheepish, Benjie admitted that he'd already asked Gina. Gina, he reported, had looked up and down the bar and said, "He's not here," as though she'd just noticed it herself.


That was when Warrick made one of the most startling, disconcerting, and sort of embarrassing realizations of his adult life: he was attracted to a man he'd never seen. A man he knew nothing about, save that he came to the Daily fairly regularly and liked Warrick enough to buy him a drink every week. He was attracted to him, and he missed him now that he was gone.

Every week since then, he'd waited hopefully for Benjie to return with the small glass. And every week that Benjie had failed to do so, something inside of him slipped a little. Something that believed in magic and fairy tales and happily ever after. If Smythe or Andre - or anyone else - noticed that he invariably played the second set with more melancholy than the first, they kept it to themselves.

And Benjie was right, though Warrick would never admit it: he hadn't gone home with anyone since the night the drinks had stopped coming. But it went further back than that, and Warrick was eternally grateful that the others hadn't figured that out. He hadn't gone home with anyone since the week after the drinks started coming.

Picking up his glass, Warrick came off the stage and moved through the crowd, greeting old friends and lovers who were regulars at the Daily. His eyes drifted repeatedly to the bar, looking at the men sitting there and trying to decide which one was 'his.'

And if Smythe or Andre or anyone else noticed that he played the second set with more energy than the first, they kept that to themselves, too.

By the time Friday rolled around again, Warrick had reached a decision. A week is a long time to think about one thing pretty much exclusively. The trio was between recording projects; he wasn't fighting with any of his relatives or friends; and sales of the second album were good enough to let him lay off worrying about money for a while. Thoughts of the man at the bar - and pretty much entirely the man at the bar - had been free to hold his attention all week.

And so he had reached a decision. He didn't want his secret admirer to be secret anymore. He wanted to look the man who'd been sending him the drinks in the face and know him. Ask him why. Kiss him so hard his toes curled.

And so he waited. He played the first set with an anticipatory haste that, fortunately, most of the audience mistook for simple vigor. He caught Smythe and Andre giving him funny looks once or twice, but he was technically the trio's front man, so they followed his tempo.

At the end of the first set, like clockwork, Benjie arrived on the stage, drink in hand. As he moved to set the glass down on the stool, Warrick put out his hand to intercept it. "No."

Benjie looked up, blinking fast. "No?"

Warrick licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Take it back and tell Gina to tell the guy that if he wants me to have it, he'll have to bring it to me himself. After the second set."

Benjie's blue eyes widened so far Warrick was afraid they were going to pop out. "For real?" he breathed, awed. "You're really going to meet him? Face-to-face?"

Warrick shrugged, wiping his hands on his pant legs and hoping Benjie wouldn't notice how much he was sweating. "If he's got the balls to show up."

Benjie shook his head and took the glass back. "You are a brave, brave man, Warrick Brown." Then he grinned. "And I am so jealous of you."

Laughing, Warrick wandered off stage into the crowd. He didn't look toward the bar once.

The second set was probably even more rushed than the first.

As soon as they finished for the night, Warrick hopped down and snagged the tiny table right next to the stage. It was never occupied during the performance because it was so close to the piano. Sitting at that table, you'd never guess there was a bassist and a drummer even up there. Warrick placed his back to the bar. He wasn't going to move until either his challenge had been accepted or Gina announced last call (the Daily was one of the few Vegas bars that actually closed), but he wasn't going to give Mystery Man the satisfaction of seeing how badly Warrick wanted this. Although, if the guy knew anything about music, he could've guessed it from the way Warrick played tonight.

Smythe and Andre came to the edge of the stage. "Warrick, you okay?" Andre asked.

Warrick grinned up at them. "I'm great," he promised.

They looked skeptical, but Andre said, "Okay, man, if you say so," and they moved on.

He had been sitting there for ten minutes when the adrenaline started to wear off. What if the guy had no interest in meeting him? What if he was just a guy who liked buying drinks for a jazz pianist he happened to enjoy and was insulted that Warrick had demanded to meet him - had demanded anything of their association other than the friendly anonymity they'd had until now?

He had just about decided that this was his dumbest idea ever when the hand appeared, setting the drink on the table in front of him. "Sorry I was gone so long," said a rough, quiet voice.

Warrick looked up fast, stunned. It was him. No question. This was the guy. His guy.

Warrick stared. The man wasn't what he had expected. He was white, for one thing. Middle-aged - late forties, maybe even early fifties. His brown hair was cut in a severe buzz that couldn't conceal the way it was receding along the forehead. He had muscles - that was clear even through his clothes. They weren't gym muscles, either; Warrick didn't know what this man did for a living, but it didn't involve eight hours in front of a computer. He was dressed simply - charcoal gray turtleneck, black slacks, black shoes. It suited him.

All in all, this was the sexiest man Warrick had ever seen. Then again, looking up at him, he knew he would think that no matter what the man looked like. Because he'd been waiting for this for six months. Forcing his voice steady, Warrick said, "Were you gone? I hadn't noticed."

Chuckling softly, the man settled into the chair beside Warrick. He held out his hand. "Jim Brass."

Warrick took the offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he just held it, his fingers gently stroking the palm. Jim's eyes lost focus, and Warrick grinned - until those unfocused eyes looked into his. His breath caught, the laughter dying abruptly in his throat. "So, Jim Brass," he managed, "do you want to get out of here?"

Jim smiled. "Mr. Brown, I thought you'd never ask."

Keeping his hold on Jim's hand, Warrick stood, working his way toward the door. He looked toward the bar, where Benjie was turning away from Gina with a tray of drinks. When he saw Warrick leading Jim out of the bar, he almost dropped it. Warrick laughed. Then he stopped and whirled to face Jim. "Wait. Why have you been doing this all these months? Why me?"

Instead of answering, Jim reached out his hands to Warrick's face. Warrick leaned forward, bringing his lips to meet Jim's. The kiss was long, and started sweet, but it had just started getting dirty when Warrick ripped away, breathing hard. He stared hard into Jim's eyes and knew he could easily fall ass over teakettle for what he saw there. And he realized that maybe that kiss hadn't been instead of an answer at all.

v. in Miami

"Speed, man, are you doing what I think you're doing?"

From his precarious perch at the top of the ladder, Speed grinned. "What do you think I'm doing?"

Warrick leaned against the wall, enjoying his view. "I think you're changing a light bulb."

Speed turned his attention back to the ceiling. "Then I'm doing what you think I'm doing."

Pushing away from the wall, Warrick resumed his path to the vending machine. "I'm pretty sure we have a maintenance crew."

Speed chuckled. "Looked at a clock lately?"

"Not really. Delko and I were trapped in a small room with the detective who would not die. My brain checked out somewhere in the middle."

"Hagen?"

Warrick slammed the heel of his hand against the machine glass. "I feel for him, but..." He shook his head. "You'd think the man never got dumped before." The soda dropped to the bottom of the machine, and he grabbed it gratefully. "I hope he gets over it soon, so we can go on with our lives."

"I don't know." Speed had the fixture off the light. "Calleigh's not the kind of woman you get over easily."

Warrick took a huge drink and raised his eyebrow at Speed. "Voice of experience?"

"No way." Speed shook his head. "Observation. Sometimes it seems like every man in Dade County's been after her at some point." He paused, looking under his arm at Warrick. "Except you."

Warrick shrugged and didn't answer.

With a little huff, Speed went back to his light bulb. "Anyway. I'm just saying what I've seen. Calleigh's not my type."

"Wow." The other man whistled. "Brilliant, strong, gorgeous - and not your type. Think maybe you're setting your standards a little high?"

That got a real laugh out of Speed as he tugged on the light bulb. "It's got nothing to do with Calleigh's qualities and everything with my - SHIT!"

Warrick moved without thought. In half a breath he was across the room, arms wrapping around the bottom of Speed's legs and the frame of the ladder. He didn't dare breathe until man and metal had both stopped swaying. Then he looked up at Speed. "You okay, man?"

Speed nodded shakily, his breath coming in shallow rasps. "Thanks."

"No problem." And it hadn't been. It had been one heart-stopping instant of fear as he'd watched Speed weave on top of the ladder, and then he'd just jumped. Because - well, because Speed was a co-worker, and a friend, and he'd seen too many broken bodies. Anything else he could still plausibly deny.

"I think I'm okay up here," Speed said gently. "You can probably let go."

"Oh." Warrick hadn't really realized that he was still holding Speed's legs. "Oh, yeah. Sorry." He started to remove his arms, and the ladder started rocking again. His arms returned automatically to Speed's legs.

Speed frowned. "Maybe not," he said. "Hey, listen, Warrick, would you mind..." He gestured vaguely at the ladder, and the light bulb, and Warrick's arms.

Warrick nodded. "Let me know when the bulb's changed," he said.

"Thanks."

It was strange, holding onto Speed's legs while he changed a light bulb. But it was just strange - not awkward, or embarrassing, or anything they would have to apologize for or laugh off or explain away once Speed was on the ground. Holding onto Speed's legs was something Warrick could get used to. Too easily. "So, you were saying?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Speed was making very good time with the light bulb.

"About Calleigh, and why the two of you never..."

Speed's laugh was overlain with nervousness. "I'm no so sure you want to hear that now, given the way we're standing."

Warrick frowned. That didn't make sense. "What? You got some kind of communicable disease or something?"

Laughing more genuinely, Speed tucked the burned out bulb in his shirt pocket. "Listen to you pull out the big words." He shook his head. "No, it's...what I was going to say, before, was that it had a lot less to do with Calleigh and a lot more to do with me."

"You don't like blondes?" Warrick guessed.

Speed grimaced. "That's not--"

"Is it because you work together? I get that. There was somebody back in Vegas who - well, it's a good thing I cut out when I did, because if I'd had to work with them every day and not make a move..." He shook his head, thinking of everything he'd left behind in Nevada, of everything better he'd found now that he'd started putting down roots in Florida, and of all the wandering missteps in between. "Workplace romances can be a bitch."

"No. I mean - you're right; they can be. That's not to say I wouldn't have one if it seemed worth the effort. It's not Calleigh's hair color, or her status as a CSI, or anything like that."

"So, what?" Warrick tapped Speed's calf with his fingers. "Come on, man."

"I'd really rather not say, Warrick."

Warrick tightened his grip on Speed's legs. "Well, just keep in mind who's holding onto who here."

"You'd keep me trapped on a ladder unless I tell you?" The squeak in Speed's voice spoke volumes on how he felt about that possibility.

Warrick grinned. "I might."

"God, you can be such a shit." Speed shook his head. "All right, but I gave you fair warning, right? I told you you weren't going to like it."

"Whatever, man. So, what's wrong with Calleigh?"

"Nothing, I hope!"

Warrick groaned. He was nuts about Calleigh. Really. But sometimes her timing sucked. "Hey, Calleigh," he said. He shifted his grip on Speed's legs and hoped Calleigh wouldn't ask what they were doing.

"What are you guys doing?" There went Warrick's faith in good luck.

"I'm changing a light bulb," Speed offered helpfully. "This stupid ladder is a piece of crap."

She nodded and retrieved her can of soda from the machine. "It sure is." Taking a drink, she regarded the men closely. There was no judgment in her scrutiny, just careful consideration. "Now, what are y'all saying is wrong with me?"

Warrick stared at the denim-covered calf in front of him, avoiding Calleigh's gaze, but he felt a subtle shift in Speed that seemed to indicate a shrug. "Warrick was wondering why I'd never pursued you romantically."

Calleigh laughed, a bright, rich sound that made the whole room brighter. "Aw, Warrick, that's sweet of you, looking out for us like that." She was teasing him. Definitely, that was teasing in her tone. "But I don't have the equipment Tim's after." She winked at Warrick, took another sip, and walked out of the room.

Warrick kept staring at Speed's leg. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Couldn't believe he'd missed something this big. About Speed.

Above Warrick's head, Speed cleared his throat. "I did warn you," he said apologetically.

Warrick forced his eyes up to meet Speed's. "Did she - did Calleigh just out you to me?"

Speed laughed easily. "Looks like. I'm amazed you never figured it out." He peered at Warrick. "Since you're such a good CSI." Warrick's tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth. Speed was openly staring now, but he couldn't make his mouth form words. "Come on, Warrick, say something. What are you thinking?"

Warrick's brain kicked into gear. Here he stood, at the base of a ladder, with his arms around the legs of a man he'd been covertly lusting after for months - a man who suddenly was way more attainable than he'd thought. Warrick's voice, when it decided to work again, had dropped half an octave. "I'm thinking you'd better get off the ladder, Tim."

Speed swallowed so hard Warrick felt vibrations in his legs. "Uh, okay," he said, and Warrick was enthralled by how the voice had gone out of Speed's voice, leaving him sounding breathless and wanting.

Holding the frame of the ladder, Warrick stepped back enough to give Speed a little maneuvering room. But just a little. Smiling a very secret smile, Speed shimmied down the ladder. Warrick's heart rate doubled.

The instant he was on the ground, but still held in the circle of Warrick's arms, Speed began studying the other man's face as though a great secret of the universe was written there. Warrick looked back, keeping his expression as open as possible. He didn't know what Speed was looking for, but if it was in Warrick at all, he wanted it found. At last, Speed shook his head wonderingly. "Really? You? I thought you were, I don't know...uber-straight or something."

Warrick laughed softly. "I don't advertise it. But I've known my preference since high school." He leaned closer to Speed, loving the way Speed's pupils dilated, swallowing the irises. "And since I got to Miami, my preference has been you."

Speed swallowed hard. Warrick let a little more tooth show in his grin, but his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Speed smiled back and leaned closer, too.

Warrick dove in, crushing Speed's mouth against his. Speed groaned and pressed hard against him. His tongue plunged into Warrick's mouth, tasting, plundering, running along every surface as though trying to commit it to sense memory. Speed's hands found Warrick's hips and shuffled him closer; Warrick let go of the ladder and wrapped his arms around Speed's back.

When Warrick ran out of air and drew away gasping, Speed chased his mouth, nipping along his lower lip. "Maybe," Warrick panted as he tried to collect himself, "we should do this someplace else."

"Locker room," Speed said, laying kisses and bites around Warrick's mouth.

Warrick staggered backward, hauling Speed along by the hips. Every now and then he stopped and pressed hungry kisses to Speed's jaw and neck. Speed whimpered, and Warrick wondered how long he'd been missing the signals. He thought maybe he heard the ladder crash to the ground behind them.

Warrick slammed Speed against the locker room wall and went to work on his shirt. Speed wasn't helping, running his hands along Warrick's arms, up and down his back, grabbing at his ass. Warrick groaned as the last button surrendered and the shirt fell away. He licked Speed's chest, kissing his way to a nipple. He ran his tongue around it until Speed was whimpering, sagging against the wall. Raising his head, Warrick grinned ferally and lowered his mouth toward the other nipple.

Everyone has limits. Apparently, Warrick had just hit Speed's.

Fast as lightning, Speed had Warrick turned around, face to the wall. He shoved Warrick's shirt up under his arms, running his hands over Warrick's chest and back. "Pants off," Speed rasped, and Warrick's fingers went to his belt. Speed groaned as Warrick's jeans and briefs slid down his legs. "Christ, Warrick," he breathed, crowding right up behind him. His hand curled around Warrick's cock and started a frenzied rhythm.

Normally he had all sorts of stamina, but after half a year of watching, wanting - and now, to be here, with Speed's hand wrapped around his dick, and Speed's warmth against his back, he wasn't going to last. Couldn't last. "Fuck, Tim," he gasped, and came all over Speed's hand, and his own chest, and the wall.

Speed didn't give him long to recover. Something soft and square pressed into his hand. Speed's wallet. "Back compartment," he said, kissing Warrick's neck again and again. Warrick opened the wallet and found the condom tucked in the corner. His hands shook as he pulled it out and dropped the wallet to the floor. He held the foil between his teeth and turned - carefully, because his pants were somewhere around his knees. He unzipped Speed's pants and shoved them to the floor. He hooked fingers behind elastic and yanked the boxers down. "Oh, God," he said, staring at Speed's cock.

"Warrick, please," Speed begged, and Warrick took the package out of his mouth and ripped the foil. He took his sweet time rolling the condom over Speed, stroking unnecessarily often - just to watch the beads of sweat break out on Speed's face and his eyes roll back in his head. As soon as he stepped back, Speed held out his hand. The palm still glistened with Warrick's come. "Spit," Speed said, and for a second Warrick's mouth was so dry he wasn't sure he would be able to. But he did and watched with dazed eyes as Speed slicked the condom with his own spit and come. "Turn around," Speed ordered, and Warrick turned, bracing his arm against the wall and his forehead against his arm.

When one slick finger entered him, his whole body strained back against it. "Don’t waste time with that shit," he gasped.

Speed froze. "I don't want to hurt you--"

"Tim, now," Warrick snarled.

Speed laughed, low, and Warrick felt the sound travel his body. "Pushy, pushy," he muttered, but the finger disappeared.

Speed tried to go slowly as he pushed inside Warrick, but Warrick had waited too long to put up with slow. He shoved back against Speed's thrust, reaching his free arm around to grab Speed's hip and pull him closer. "Warrick," Speed groaned, too out of it to form a more convincing protest.

Warrick pushed back again. "Move. Now." He paused, grinning. "Please."

Speed moved. Warrick gasped. They set up a rhythm, each stroke sending sparks showering behind Warrick's eyes.

"What was his name?" Speed asked.

"Huh?" Warrick barely had the energy to say that much.

"The guy you left in Vegas," Speed panted. "What was his name?"

Oh, shit. This? Now? But Speed had stopped moving. So, yes, now. "Nick," he said.

Speed started moving again, faster, harder, pounding against Warrick's prostate. Warrick's internal organs were melting. "What...was...his...name...?" Speed asked again.

Warrick's brain was an internal organ, right? "N...N..." He couldn't form the word.

Speed picked up the pace again, pulling almost all the way out and then slamming back in on every thrust. "What. Was. His. Name?"

Whose name? Warrick gasped, pressing his forehead hard against his arm. "Tim, please," he begged, not sure what he was asking for.

Speed wrapped his arm around Warrick's stomach, pulled them even closer together. He moaned; his rhythm fell apart; he came in a rush, gasping Warrick's name.

They stood regaining their breath and higher brain functions. Warrick started laughing. "That was a totally shitty thing to do, Tim."

Speed's mouth was pressed to Warrick's back, and Warrick felt the smile that curled his lips. "It was, wasn't it?" he mused unrepentantly.

Warrick laughed. "Unbelievable."

Reluctantly, Speed disentangled from Warrick. They both winced when he pulled out. Warrick turned, catching him in a long, lazy kiss. He stepped back and tied off the condom, and they looked around in dismay as they got their clothes in order. "I'll get a towel from my locker," Speed said. "To clean the wall."

"Right." Warrick picked up the fallen wallet and slid it into Speed's back pocket, making sure his hand lingered. Speed's eyes glazed, but he closed his eyes and moved out of reach.

"You're going to be a bad influence on me," he said, laughing, as he walked across the room.

"I hope so," Warrick said fervently.

Speed paused like he was about to say something, but then he shook his head and walked on. "So, this Nick guy," he called, "is he why you left Vegas?"

And...there went the afterglow as the image of Holly's lifeless body floated in front of his eyes. He and Nick had cost her her life - their ruthless competition, their desperate, futile attempts to be the first to impress Grissom. "I didn't like the person I was when he was around."

"Hey. I'm sorry." Out of nowhere, Speed was beside him, a hand strong around his arm. "I should've realized - I didn't know it was that bad."

Warrick started to dismiss it, say it hadn't been that bad, but who would've bought that? It had been that bad - and worse. He looked at Speed and smiled instead. "That's the past," he said. "This is the present."

Speed smiled back, but suddenly he looked shy and uncertain. "And the future? What's in the future?"

A wide yawn overtook Warrick. "Well, in the immediate future, there's a bed." He looked hopefully at Speed. "Any chance you're in it?"

The tension rushed out of Speed so fast Warrick almost saw it go. "It could be arranged." He squeezed Warrick's arm once, let go, and tossed over the towel. "After we clean this place up."

Warrick feigned indignation. "Me? Why do I have to clean the wall?"

Speed snorted. "Whose DNA is plastered to the plaster, buddy?" Then he grinned. "Besides, I'm done doing maintenance duty around this place. I changed the damned light bulb."

END