Title: Heroes
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler: Who Shot Sherlock?
Note: The story's told from Gil's POV and it starts a few hours after Who Shot Sherlock? ended.
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of CBS and I'm just borrowing for a little story.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Greg passed his proficiency test and the night shift gang celebrated without Gil. Then, G&G celebrated on their own.

***

It was six O'clock in the morning, and my shift had ended a few minutes before. I turned off the lights in my office, locked it, and then I went looking for Greg. It was my turn to buy breakfast.

I glanced into each and every lab, peered into the break room and the locker room... but there was no sign of him.

It was then that I realized that none of my CSIs were around, and that the only technicians around were members of the day shift who had arrived early.

The lab was strangely quiet.

I paged Greg and then I paged my other CSIs, but no one acknowledged me. The last time I saw them, they'd been happily drinking champagne to celebrate that Greg had passed his final proficiency test. So it was possible that they had continued the party somewhere else. Their cars were still in the parking lot, however, and that meant they were still somewhere in the premises.

I frowned. I'd looked everywhere –of that I was sure. The only place left was the Morgue-

I smiled to myself. Of course. People tend to avoid the Morgue when they're on the clock, but once they're off, somehow they gravitate towards it. There are all those empty rooms that get used only on emergencies...

Acting on my hunch, I went downstairs. The Morgue was strangely quiet, but I gradually became aware of a slight hum coming from somewhere close. To my surprise, the noise didn't come from any of the rooms, but from Albert's office. The closer I got, the more I realized that the hum was actually the steady beat of a rock and roll song.

I opened the door and encountered a never-before-scene: There was only one light on –the one on Albert's desk- and was focused on Al Robbins, our venerable coroner, who was playing the guitar and singing a rock song in a manner that would have made Roger Daltry proud. For reasons of safety, he has wedged between his desk and a chair, but he was still a sight to behold.

And his audience was appreciative. Most of the night shift technicians and CSIs were there, sitting on the floor and listening raptly. And Greg was right in the middle, in what looked like the place of honor.

When Albert finished the song, they applauded loudly.

"Thank you, thank you," He said. He handed the guitar to David, and then he looked around, "Now, what about some bubbly for this thirsty troubadour?"

"Sorry, Doc," Nick said, holding a bottle of champagne upside down, "It's gone."

"Well, how about buying some more?" Albert asked, and they all started patting their pockets in search of money.

"This one's on me," Greg said.

"Nah, kid. You're the guest of honor." Robbins smiled and then, in a surprisingly mawkish voice he added, "I still remember when you first came to the lab –a skinny kid with a mohawk haircut- and now you're our new CSI. It's a tough career," he added solemnly, "I only hope you'll last longer than some of the guys who -"

All right; maybe it was time to intervene.

"Excuse me," I said loudly, and turned on the lights.

Funny; they reacted just like cockroaches do when one turns a light: They scattered around the room, frantically –and clumsily- looking for a place to hide. Once they realized there was no such place, however, they stopped. Or maybe they simply remembered they were adults, not little kids misbehaving in the family room.

Too bad the first thing I said made me sound just like a stern father. "Am I interrupting something?"

They started muttering all sort of apologies and excuses, but Amy was the only one who spoke clearly and soberly.

"Sir, we just wanted to celebrate Greg's promotion -"

"I see." I said calmly. "Well. I think the celebration has lasted long enough." I looked around, "The day shift started a half-hour ago, so it's time for us to go home. Oh, and," I looked around, "I suggest that all of you find somebody else to drive you home."

They sheepishly walked to the door and I stood aside to let them pass.

Catherine purposefully remained behind, and took me aside before leaving.

"Don't be too harsh on Greg, Gil." She said, tilting her head towards the entrance.

I turned; Greg was hovering in the hallway.

"It was our idea," she continued, "Not his."

"But you didn't force him to drink, did you?" I retorted.

She sighed in exasperation and left. She patted Greg's arm in commiseration.

I closed the door behind her and turned to Albert –Albert, whom I'd always considered the voice of reason in this place.

"Shame on you." I said deliberately.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied with great dignity. He picked up his guitar and placed it behind his desk. His movements weren't very steady.

"Do you need a lift?" I asked.

"I'm not drunk," he retorted. "I can drive." He glanced at me, "But first, I'm gonna take a nap."

"Where?" I frowned.

He looked incredulously at me.

"Gil, there are dozens of gurneys and slabs in the next room. Where do you think I'm gonna lie down?"

"You're cranky when you drink," I scowled. I watched as he walked to the next room. "Careful." I called out just before he closed the door behind him, "The day shift coroner might not realize there's a live one there."

"That's not funny." He called back.

Greg was still in the hallway. I didn't stop to talk; I made my way to the stairs, forcing him to catch up with me. Once we were there I slowed down, mindful of Greg's possible impairment.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked as he carefully took the stairs.

"No, Greg."

"What about the guys, are you mad at them?"

"No."

"They just wanted to do something nice for me -"

"I know."

"I guess we should have gone somewhere else -"

"Maybe."

"But we kinda got carried away."

I stopped.

"Greg, I understand." I said.

"So, you're not going to give them a hard time, are you?"

"No," I said. There was really no point in scolding them. They would feel bad enough in a few hours, depending on the amount of alcohol they'd ingested. "I'm not mad, Greg; I know the people I work with –I know they would never be careless while on duty. But I had to say something; that's what bosses do."

He smiled faintly.

"You know, I kinda missed you back there," he said when we reached the hallway. He glanced around and then lowered his voice to add, "I've heard you sing in the shower. You would have put some of these guys to shame."

When we got to the parking lot, most of our coworkers had already left, except for Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. They were ostentatiously discussing whether to share a cab... but they were also furtively glancing in our direction. And I thought I knew why: They were waiting for Greg, ready to offer support in case the boss chewed his ears off for drinking in the building.

"Look at them," Greg said, staring ahead. "They must think you're giving me a tongue-lashing. Should I use my best contrite expression?"

"You have one?" I retorted. I glanced at him, "Maybe you should go with them."

"Why?" he frowned.

"You're not planning to drive, are you?" I asked.

"Why not? I'm not drunk," he said evenly, "Look," he added, and he extended his arms, closed his eyes, and then he touched the tip of his nose with his left index finger. He opened one eye, "But I'm not entirely sober, either." He admitted. "I feel... giddy."

"Great," I glared.

"Why don't you give me a lift?" he asked.

I sighed.

"Greg -" I started, but he didn't let me go on.

"I know, I know," he said, "We need to be discreet, and that means we can't leave in the same vehicle or even at the same time." He said as if he were reading a list. "Well, it seems one of those rules has just been shot down, Gil. We're leaving at the same time today. And, in case you haven't noticed, we've got a chance to leave in the same car, and in the open too. By giving a lift to your thoroughly impaired coworker, you will simply be doing what everybody expects from a good boss. We'll leave together... And everyone will approve."

Sometimes I wonder how he does it –utter a string of words without needing any oxygen.

But I had to admit that he was right.

"Fine." I said simply. "Get in."

He waved goodbye at our colleagues. He did use a contrite expression, one that said, 'It's ok. He's pissed... but I'll be fine.'

"They're feeling sorry for me right now." He said, as he buckled up.

"I know." I said. "Catherine asked me not to be hard on you, you know"

"Did she?" he asked.

He glanced outside, in time to see Catherine and the guys get into their cab. Without glancing in my direction, he casually laid his hand on my thigh, "She didn't say anything about you not being hard in me, I hope."

My heart skipped a beat. He didn't turn, but he smiled, as if he knew the effect his words had on me.

"Forget breakfast, babe." He said softly. "Let's go straight home."

I drove. Fast.

***

"Just let me put this in…" Greg said for the third time.

For someone who said he wasn't drunk, Greg was having too much trouble unlocking his door. When he finally did, he ceremoniously held the door open for me.

"Come in, Mr. CSI Supervisor." He said.

That was my cue.

"Thanks, Mr. CSI level one." I replied.

He closed the door and leant against it.

"It sounds good, doesn't it?" He smiled. "Greg Sanders, CSI…"

"It looks good, too." I said, eyeing his new ID, still pinned on his shirt pocket. "I like that picture."

I reached for the ID to take it off but when I pulled at it, Greg followed. He walked straight into my arms.

I brushed my lips against his cheek.

"You did good," I whispered, "Congratulations."

I'd said the same words a few hours before, but we'd only shook hands, while this was what I'd really wanted to do.

"I missed you at the party," he muttered in my ear.

"Nobody told me anything about it."

"You wouldn't have come, anyway," he replied.

He was right -I wouldn't have. It was his party, after all; the boss' presence would have only put a damper on everyone's enthusiasm.

But I wish I'd been there.

"You drank too much, by the way." I muttered.

He pulled back to look at me.

"You're really handsome, did you know that?"

Oh, please.

"You're just trying to change the subject." I said skeptically.

"I'm not." He said indignantly, "You look really hot."

"You're wearing champagne goggles, Greg." I said, "Of course, I look hot to you right now."

"Mmmnnnah, that's not it." he replied, burrowing into my arms again, "I'm just in love with you."

I staggered a little as he leant against me. He smelled sweet –he was already sweating off the champagne.

"I'm in love with you too," I said, "But you still drank too much."

"All right, you got me, officer." he replied, using a husky tone, "What are you gonna do –give me a ticket?"

I didn't immediately reply. He likes playing roles when we're together, but I rarely go along with his games.

"Well?" he insisted.

"You didn't drive here," I pointed out levelly. "And I'm not a cop: I can't give you a ticket."

"Try to play along, will you?" he muttered resentfully.

"Sorry."

"So, officer -" he said, using that throaty tone again, "What can I do to make you forget that ticket?"

I chuckled but didn't say anything.

He pulled back.

"Maybe I should play the cop." he glared. "I'd be more than happy to perform a body search." He glanced down at my crotch, "I'm bound to find one concealed weapon, at least-"

"You can't do a body search," I replied, "You don't have a warrant."

"Oh, for God's sake," he said, and this time he actually stepped back, "Do you have to be so rational every single hour of the day?"

I tried to get a word in, but he didn't let me, "Why can't you just relax for once and play a little? Jeeze, it's like you don't have any imagination -"

"Hey, I can play." I said defensively, "I just don't want to play a cop." Under his skeptical gaze, I added, "I want to be a firefighter."

And before he knew what hit him, I bent forward, picked him and hauled him over my shoulder.

"Shit!" he gasped, "What are you doing?"

Something idiotic, I thought; Greg was heavier than I thought.

"It's ok." I groaned.

"Grissom, put me down right now," he said sternly.

It seemed that my actions had completely sobered him up.

"Don't worry, young man," I hissed, "I'm taking you to a safe place."

His head bounced on my back (and on the wall) as I took a couple of unsteady steps into the hallway. Fortunately, his bedroom was only a few feet away.

"Jesus, Gil. Your back must be killing you -"

"'s'ok." I gasped.

But when my legs finally bumped against his bed, I realized I had a little problem.

"Uh, Greg?" I gasped, "Could you please get off me? Slowly, please?"

He burst into laughs. He carefully slid off my shoulder and did an elegant tumble on the bed; then he rolled until he lay sprawled on his back.

He looked up at me.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"Oh, I am crazy?" I replied, "This, from the man who left his job as DNA technician for one that paid considerably less?"

He smiled.

"I told you." He shrugged, "It's not about the money."

"Then what is it about?"

He looked at the ceiling while he mused on my question.

"It's about... being there, I guess." He said at last, "To help you do the job... to watch your back-" He looked at me. "It's about being your equal."

I sat on the edge of the bed. Idly, I started to untie the laces of his right sneaker.

"My equal?" I repeated.

He nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, back when I was still working at the lab, I'd see you leave each and every night," he said, "You went out and faced all sort of criminals while I stayed behind in my nice, little lab. Frankly, sometimes it felt like..."

"Like what?"

"Like we were an old-fashioned married couple," he said reluctantly, "I mean, you'd leave for work while I stayed behind, cooking dainty DNA samples-"

I smiled.

"So, if I was the husband, you were -"

"The slave," he glared.

I pulled his shoe off and dropped it on the floor.

"A slave, huh?" I said.

"Yep. I remember how all you CSIs would dump their samples on my tray, then call in every hour, demanding results -"

"We put a lot of pressure on you." I admitted.

"I handled it." Greg shrugged. "But I like it better now." He wiggled his left foot in my direction. I took it but didn't make a move to untie his shoe.

"You know," I said, "I never told you this before, but… having you at the lab was reassuring. I knew I could trust you to handle anything -the work, the pressure. The truth is, you always had my back, Greg."

He stared at me in surprise.

"Wow." he said, "You really mean that?"

I nodded.

He seemed pleased. He patted the space on the bed between us.

I pulled off his left shoe without unlacing it, and threw it over my shoulder. I crawled into bed and lay down next to him.

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.

He gently rubbed the back of my neck.

"Your poor back," he said, seemingly undecided between exasperation and tenderness.

"I can take it." I said.

"You're gonna be sore tomorrow," He admonished.

"I was going to be sore, anyway." I replied.

He chuckled. He slid a hand down to my butt.

"Damn right."

***

Darkness… Utter contentment… Silence…

And then -

"So. Who loved Sherlock?"

The words reached me as if from far away.

I frowned. A ludicrous question like this could only be posed in dreams, and that meant I was asleep. Good. If I was asleep, then I wouldn't have to answer.

I sighed contentedly.

"Grissom?"

Another word, and this time I recognized the voice. It was somehow muffled, but it was definitely Greg's.

I wanted to respond, but I couldn't. My body felt heavy, utterly relaxed. I couldn't imagine mustering enough energy to talk or even open my eyes.

I was slowly letting sleep claim me back, when there was that voice again -

"Well? Who loved Sherlock?"

And that idiotic question too.

With some difficulty, I turned my head and opened one eye, only to find something blocking my view -an arm. Whether it was his or mine, I wasn't quite sure. For all I knew, it could have been a leg; when Greg gets creative, we end up falling asleep in unexpected places and positions. That's fine by me; he's the one doing all the acrobatics, after all.

I sighed as I reviewed the numerous positions we'd tried out. No wonder I felt exhausted. And Greg couldn't be doing any better. There was no way that he'd be awake and talking, unless he'd started talking in his sleep.

Whatever it was, I'd find out later… Much later.

"Grissom?"

Oh, no. He was awake.

"Did you ever picture Holmes and Watson together?"

The words were slightly slurred -from alcohol or sleep, I didn't know.

"Grissom?"

"Mmmmh?" This was all I could muster.

"Are you awake?"

"Mmmmh."

"Come on," he said. He laid his hand on my arm (yep, it was my arm) and moved it out of the way. I opened both eyes this time.

Greg was laying on his stomach, his face half buried in a pillow. In the semi-darkness, I got a glimpse of a half-opened eye and the corner of a smile.

"I can't believe you're awake," I said. He'd polished off almost half a bottle of champagne (by his own admission). But as he had pointed out earlier, good champagne didn't have the same effect that beer or hard alcohol would have.

And yet, he had drunk a lot, and he'd done all those acrobatics. He should have been flat out unconscious: Instead, he was wide awake.

Apparently, champagne energized him.

It certainly made him horny, which was one of the reasons why I could barely move.

All I wanted was to sleep for ten hours.

"So, did you?"

I frowned.

"Did I, what?"

"Did you ever picture Holmes and Watson together?"

It finally dawned on me that in Greg's mind, Holmes was gay.

I pretended to actually mull over his question, only to reply with a short 'no.'

"No?"

"No." I repeated, closing my eyes again.

"Well, then who loved Sherlock?"

"No one," I replied impatiently, "No one did."

"Whoa. That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Greg, I just want to sleep -"

"Aw," He said, "You're tired?"

"Mmmh."

He slid a little bit closer and reached for my shoulder.

"Here, let me help you turn 'round," he said solicitously, "I'll give you a back rub -"

"No."

He withdrew his hand.

"No? What do you mean no?"

I opened one eye, "No, thanks?"

"You don't want a back rub? After that stunt you played, your back must be killing you."

"A back rub would be nice." I admitted, "It's what might come after that makes me hesitate."

"You think I'm gonna take advantage of you?" he asked indignantly, "Well, thanks for the confidence. Next time you want me to give you a massage, I'm just gonna-"

"I'm tired, Greg." I groaned, "My arms hurt, my legs hurt –even my lips hurt -"

"Ah, stop complaining -"

"I'm not complaining –I'm bragging," I retorted, "But I'm really tired; just let me sleep, please -"

That last part sounded close to a whine, but it failed to impress him. He simply took a moment to make himself more comfortable under the sheets. He shifted around until he found a position he liked and then, using his folded arm as a pillow, he turned his full attention back on me again.

"So, you never wonder about Holmes?" he asked, "I mean, someone must have loved this guy –even if Conan Doyle didn't think so. Didn't you ever fantasize about it? I mean, you read all the stories, you ought to know: if it wasn't Watson, then who? Lestrade?"

I shook my head. Holmes in a relationship? And with another man, to boot? It was too ridiculous to consider. He was right in one aspect, though; I'd read all the novels, so I was the expert here.

"Not Lestrade." I said.

"Too ugly?"

"Intellectually, he wasn't Holmes' match. Actually, nobody was."

"So, intellectually, who was his match?"

"Moriarty." I said. "But he was his enemy, so... There was no love lost there."

"Well... I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I mean, ambiguity between love and hate seems to be an intrinsic element in the relationships between famous heroes and their nemesis -"

I looked incredulously at him, but he didn't notice my reaction; he had found something to talk about and so he went on and on.

And on.

"... and then, there's Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, of course." he said at the end of a long speech. "It's also the reason why the bad guys never stayed around to watch Bond die a slow death."

I frowned again.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"I think that deep down, the bad guys wanted Bond to escape, and that's why they always left before their gadgets finished him off."

"So, you saw gay relationships in all the Bond films. That's quite an imagination you have."

"Hey, my imagination helped me survive, back when I was a kid." He said, "You know how it is, growing up with absolutely no one to look up to. I mean, yeah, I had my parents and my grandparents, but they weren't gay. I had to create my own heroes."

"Gay heroes."

"Yeah. It was the only way I could get through books like Jane Eyre, for instance."

"Jane Eyre?" I asked, actually perking up, "So, what did you do, fantasize that Rochester fell in love with…?"

Greg smiled.

"… James Eyre." He said.

"But James Eyre couldn't be there to take care of a little girl -"

Greg laughed softly.

"Nah." He said, "In my book, James was there to train Rochester's prized horse."

"James Eyre was a cowboy?"

He nodded but before he could talk, a huge yawn interrupted him.

"It was a great fantasy," he mumbled, "I really liked the idea of two cowboys getting together."

"Two cowboys, Greg?" I asked, thinking of Brokeback Mountain, the movie we'd recently seen.

"What can I say?" he shrugged smugly, "I was ahead of the times." There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he added, "You've got cowboy's legs. Maybe that's what got me attracted to you."

He didn't say more, and after a moment I closed my eyes again.

Maybe now I'd be able to get some sleep.

Unfortunately, talking of cowboys had got me thinking.

"You know..." I muttered, "You look a little like that guy Gyllenhaal."

"Me?"

"Uh, huh. You two have the same build… The bushy eyebrows..."

"Bushy eyebrows?" He repeated.

"Bushy eyebrows," I nodded placidly. I sighed. I was feeling nicely relaxed again, but for some reason I couldn't stop talking, "Dreamy eyes, too." I said.

"Gyllenhaal has dreamy eyes?" he interrupted.

"Then there's the moles…" I whispered. "The white skin… the wide mouth…"

"You seem to have noticed a lot of things about this guy." he muttered morosely.

I knew that tone. He was pissed off.

I glanced at him; he was touching his eyebrows.

"What are you doing?"

"You said I have bushy eyebrows -"

"Well, hum, yes -"

But when he started measuring his mouth using his thumb and his index finger, I knew it was time to intervene.

"Forget it." I said, catching his hand. "Why are we talking about this, anyway?"

"Because someone started rhapsodizing about this guy Gyllenhaal," he said, glaring at me, "It's like you have a crush on him, or something."

Yeah, right.

"I don't have a crush." I said, "Not on him, at least." I added, giving him a pointed look.

"Oh," he said. He rubbed my hand with his thumb. "Does that mean I can give you that back rub now?" he asked, using that husky tone again.

I studiously looked away.

"We were talking about heroes." I muttered evasively.

"Gay heroes." he amended. The subject drew his attention again, "What about you? Did you ever fantasize about any of your heroes being gay? Holmes, for instance?"

I smiled to myself. I never thought of Holmes in those terms. If he was a sort of hero to me, it was precisely because he didn't seem to need anybody, and he never let his emotions interfere in his quest for the truth. It was an admirable trait that I tried to imitate.

I'd modeled myself after Holmes; I had my whole life figured out, and it certainly didn't include romance… And yet, here I was, sharing my life with a man -a younger man who looked just like a movie star.

"What's with the look?" Greg asked.

"What look?"

"The look on your face, right now," he said, "Sort of smug -"

Smug? Perhaps. But then, who could blame me?

"So, Grissom." Greg said after a moment, "Did you ever fantasize about being just like Holmes?"

I looked sharply at him. He was smiling mischievously.

"Well?" he insisted.

"Nah," I lied, "I didn't."

"I don't believe that."

"Well, I was physically wrong for the part," I lamented, "I've always looked more like Watson."

"Aw," he said, patting my belly in commiseration. Then he wrapped his arm around me. "What about now?" he muttered, snuggling against me, "Do you have any heroes? Is there a Scientist or a philosophers or an Entomologist out there -"

I did have one hero. A guy who'd withstood the pressure of working for demanding CSI's and refused to be bullied by any of them. He handled the pressure -and us- with quiet determination… and a quick joke.

A young man whose actions were sometimes maddeningly juvenile or infinitely wise.

I admired Greg for all this.

Not that I'd ever tell him. I rarely let him know what he meant to me. Not in words, anyway.

"I don't have heroes, anymore." I said.

"Not scientists or musicians -" he lifted his head to look at me, "Not even Dr. G?" he teased, "I know you like her a lot."

I smiled.

"What about you?" I asked, "Who's your hero? Some rock star… some MTV deejay? A Calvin Klein model?"

He smiled, and then he laid his head on my shoulder.

"Nah. Not anymore." he said. "There's somebody else now. Well, actually, he's been my hero for quite some time now." He paused, "Remember the first time I went out on the field? A bus crashed -"

"Ah, yes." I said, "You didn't wear gloves, you were freezing in your light windbreaker -"

"Yeah. You know, it was the first time I'd seen you out there. It was then that I realized what you went through every time you left the lab -" he lifted his head again. "I think I fell for you right then and there."

Oh. I didn't know what to say.

"I know it sounds mushy," he said sheepishly.

"Greg… I just do what every supervisor does."

"Not true." He countered, "I mean, sure, every supervisor deals with crimes and a heavy workload, but I don't know of anyone else who's put his reputation on the line for his colleagues. I mean, truthfully, would any of us still be at the lab if we had been working with Ecklie? I don't think so."

He sighed and got more comfortable in my arms. "You do all that, and yet you're a kinda quiet guy. Unassuming. Just like a superhero when he's not wearing tights and a cape."

"I'd look ridiculous in tights." I mumbled uncomfortably.

This talk of heroes was starting to bother me. I didn't want him to think so highly of me. Some day I might not live up to his expectations and then, what?

Greg looked away then. He probably felt as uncomfortable as me, although for a different reason: He had opened up about his feelings for me -more than he ever had before- and my response had been less than enthusiastic.

In the end, he changed the subject himself.

"Do I really have a wide mouth?"

"You're still thinking of that?"

He looked up.

"I'm still not sure if it was a compliment or a criticism." he muttered.

"How can you not know?"

He touched my bottom lip.

"Maybe your mouth is just too small," he sneered.

"Oh, really," I said. Using my own husky tone, I added, "You know it's big enough to hold some, hum, things of yours."

He shuddered.

"Oh, God," he groaned, pressing his face against my shoulder, "Don't talk like that unless you're ready to play, ok?"

"Maybe I'm ready to play." I replied, slowly moving under the covers until I found his erection. It throbbed against my palm, and I was amazed –yet again- by the fact that I had this effect on him. I wrapped an arm around him and rolled us over until I had him laying under me.

"Oh, yeah." I whispered, enjoying the feel of his body under mine, "Now we're definitely ready to play."

He looked up.

"So?" he urged.

"Shhhh, I'm thinking -" I replied, taking my time to decide what to do. There were a lot of things we could do, but there was something he liked more than anything in the world. I looked into his eyes, then. "You know what?" I said, "I think I'm ready for that back rub."

"You are?" he smiled.

"Yes."

"Mmmmh," He sighed contentedly. "All right, then -" He whispered, "Turn over -"

I obeyed.

"It'll be good, baby," he whispered.

I was tired and sore, and I knew that tomorrow I'd be paying for this…

But hey, sometimes a hero's gotta do what he's gotta do.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE END.

***