Title: Overhead Press
By: Shelley Russell
Series: Working Out 08
Summary: Don't you ever give up. Don't you ever give in.
Category: CSI: Vegas
Characters: Warrick/Grissom
Genres: Slash
Author Notes: Huge thanks to my betas Rebecca and Buffy, not only for catching so many of my goofs but also giving me so many great ideas.
Story Notes: Throughout the Working Out series, I've tried to stick close to what I thought was canon, and then, well, I got shot out of the canon. So to speak. Heh. Well, it's kind of liberating, actually. So, needless to say, the events revealed about Grissom's past in the sixth season episode "Still Life" differ significantly from what I've written here.

******

Warrick Brown didn't recognize the number on the caller id, but the caller had a Los Angeles area code. "Hello."

"Call for Gil Grissom." Warrick didn't recognize the bland female voice, either.

"He's not here. I'll take a message if ya like." His long dark fingers grabbed the pen and paper his boyfriend kept by his kitchen phone. He looked at the calendar for the date. It was 8:30 on Sunday evening, March 20th.

"One moment, please."

Warrick waited, using the pen to drum on the kitchen island's countertop. A bootleg of Damian Marley's "We're Gonna Make It" jammed from the living room. Warrick roved from countertop to sink to metal burner covers. Yeah. That's the sound. "Don't you ever give up / Don't you ever give in," he sang along with Jr. Gong while listening to the silence on the phone and listening for the washer to finish its cycle.

"Are you Warrick Brown?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Mary Grace Grissom."

He stopped his drumming. Warrick couldn't imagine anyone he'd rather talk with less than Mary Grace, his boyfriend's hating, freaky-ass mother. Hell, Gris was finally getting therapy because of her. How pissed would Gris be if Warrick took this call? Would the satisfaction Warrick might feel at going toe-to-toe with her outweigh the anger Gris might feel at having his privacy invaded?

"Yeah. Warrick Brown. In the flesh."

"Mr. Brown, I am a TTY Operator, facilitating communication between the hearing impaired and the hearing. Are you familiar with the TTY device?"

"Yeah. I'm familiar with it." All too familiar.

"Are you able to plug in and use the device or would you prefer for me to repeat Mrs. Grissom's side of the conversation?"

A disbelieving smile touched Warrick's lips. Lady, unless you want your hair to catch fire, you best let me plug in the TTY phone.

"Give me a sec and I'll plug it in. Thanks, though." Reaching into the storage cabinet, he hauled out the TTY set. This was one piece of equipment he hated. Not because it was complicated to hook up or difficult to use. No. He hated it because it signaled that Gris was going into emotional lock-down. A snap of the handset, powering on the display, a deep breath, and Warrick was ready to go.

**Where is my son hiding?**

And she comes out swinging. All right, Brown, keep it short and sweet. **Hello, Mary Grace. He's working.**

**He never lets anyone stay in his place while he is not there. Where is he?**

Warrick smiled like a shark. **He's on call this weekend. He got called. And I'm his boyfriend, not "anyone." Remember?**

Warrick waited, wondering what line of attack she'd take.

**You told him not to call.**

**No. It was his decision.** His and his psychiatrist's. But that was a tidbit Warrick would never feed Mary Grace.

**Why?**

Warrick blew out a breath. He wanted to type "we're working on an antidote to your poison." But instead he keyed **You have to ask him.**

**You know. Tell me.**

**I'll tell him you called.**

**He is not wealthy.** Blinking, Warrick stared at the display, wondering what she was up to. **He will inherit nothing from me.**

Warrick waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he typed **??**

**Do not play coy.**

**Lady, I've never done coy.**

**You seemed so intelligent when we met. Of course, first impressions can be misleading.**

Warrick waited, not drawn in by her nastiness.

She continued. **I know Gil. He is too emotionally detached to have a friend much less a lover. He is incapable of feeling love much less showing it. How much is he paying you?**

Warrick's green eyes blazed hot. **You don't know Gris at all.**

**I have known him considerably longer than you.**

**Quality trumps quantity,** he stabbed the keypad viciously. He wasn't gonna go the low road. He'd defend Gris but not attack her.

**His pathetic attempts at relationships always fail.**

**Not this time.**

**You will tolerate him another month. Or until he runs out of money. Have you composed any music lately?**

Uh-oh. He stared at the display. She's gonna play the artist card. Keep it simple, man. **No.**

**Lack of time?**

**Maybe.**

**You would make the time if you had suitable inspiration.**

**I get all the inspiration I can use.**

**From one artist to another, I know how difficult it is to share space with Gil. He needs nothing and gives nothing back.**

**He gives me exactly what I need. **

**He has never given anything to anyone.**

"No, bitch, he's never given anything to you," he snapped. Fingers shaking with anger, Warrick typed **Let me tell you about Gris. Couple of weeks ago he taught my 12-year-old cousin to bat a softball. She made the team.**

**How fulfilling.**

**He was great with her. Kind. Patient. He cares. He doesn't judge.** "Unlike you," Warrick snarled with great satisfaction.

**How proud your family must be . . .**

"Oh, don't you go there, Mary Grace," he warned as the rest of the message scrolled onto the display. "Don't you go there!"

**. . . that their musically gifted, college-educated, handsome hope for the future has tied himself to a white, middle-aged, sterile, emotional cripple.**

"Evil bitch!" He stared at the TTY display as if it were a spitting cobra. He took a calming breath. Keep to the high road and end this now. **Is that the message you want me to give him?**

**No. Tell him to contact me in a month. When you leave him. CALL END.**

Warrick's long, shaking fingers scrubbed his face. Damn. Goddamn. Not even a split decision. Mary Grace, the undisputed heavy-weight champ.

He stared at CALL END for several moments until he finally disconnected the TTY. Fuck. And Gris had carried that emotional weight, had endured that woman's shit for half a century. Warrick's generous mouth narrowed to a tight line. Well, at least Gris didn't have to endure her shit anymore. That was one filthy message that would never be delivered.

Closing his eyes, Warrick stretched his arms over his head, lengthening his muscles, trying to dispel tension. Deep breaths, patient stretches, good thoughts about his boyfriend. "Don't you ever give up / Don't you ever give in," Warrick whispered. Then he slapped the kitchen counter and headed for the utility room to empty the washer. He sang louder, defiantly, "Don't you ever give up / Don't you ever give in/ 'Cause I know we're gonna make it / It's not too late, no / We're gonna make it."

******

Ben Harper's "Steal My Kisses" sparked from the speakers at 24 Hour Gym, and a secret smile sparked on Gil Grissom's face. Needing to steal kisses was no longer a problem in his household, not when they were so freely given. Warrick had been particularly affectionate when Gris had gotten home at midnight.

It was 9:30 Monday morning, and he shifted gingerly on the weight bench. Extra particularly affectionate, he smiled. He rolled his shoulders then rolled his head side-to-side. Gris had almost completed his workout, including three intense sets on the overhead press. His shoulders trembled from the effort. Stretching the muscles gained him some relief, but what really gained relief was being able to do some heavy-duty, uninterrupted boyfriend watching.

Warrick sprinted effortlessly on a treadmill. His caramel-brown skin glowed beautifully in counterpoint to his cream colored t-shirt and dark green shorts. Gris stared, intoxicated by the way his boyfriend's sculpted muscles stretched and contracted smoothly, efficiently. The way beads of sweat dropped from his strong nose and bearded chin.

Blue eyes glowing, lips curling into a faint smile, Gris watched as Warrick slowed the treadmill to a gentle trot, slow enough to carry on a conversation. Ah, yes, conversation. Warrick's body was truly awe-inspiring, but it was his intellect and spirit that had completely conquered Grissom.

He stood, stretched, and started toward his boyfriend. But Moira, a gorgeous redhead with a wicked sense of humor and an unchecked need to flirt, chose that moment to leave reception and glide over to chat with Warrick. Grissom sighed. It was no surprise. It was completely understandable. Who could resist a beautiful man with a generous spirit, sensual nature, and powerful soul? Warrick drew people to him as effortlessly as he sprinted a five-mile run. Gris experienced that magnetism first hand, up close, every day. Only, he hated sharing it with anyone else.

Closing his eyes, Grissom took a deep breath. The usual flashing punch to his gut was there, but at least the intensity seemed a little less today. Maybe seeing Warrick consistently deflect greedy, speculative, and frankly lustful eyes was working like a vaccine, building up a resistance in Grissom. A resistance to jealousy.

Shaking his head, he chuckled humorlessly. How pathetic. Jealousy. Dear god, jealousy was not an emotion Gris would wish on his own worst enemy.

He opened his eyes and tried to look objectively at Warrick and Moira, at their easy natural smiles, their easy athletic grace. Grissom appreciated their perfect forms in a moment of perfect peace, then the punch in his gut grew more insistent. He blew out a deep breath, forced himself to look away, and headed toward the elliptical to cap off his workout.

It was then that he noticed the young man hoisting a pair of 50 pound free weights. About 25 years old, close to 6 feet 4 inches tall, a body builder with muscles pumped up and straining, the man was staring at Moira and Warrick. And not in a good way. Gris recognized the barely sane look. He'd seen it often enough in his own mirror. Jealousy. If not on his own worst enemy then certainly not on a total stranger.

Time to intervene. Trying not to feel relieved to have a reason to interrupt his boyfriend, Grissom strolled over to the pair at the treadmill.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hey," Warrick purred and smiled. There was no nervousness, no guilt, no tension. Just joy. Joy at seeing his boyfriend. Grissom swallowed under the intense gaze.

"Hi, Dr. Grissom," Moira winked.

"Hello, Moira. I hope you're well."

He didn't understand why his formal politeness tickled her, "You are the nicest thing." She patted his cheek.

His blue eyes widened as he jerked back from her touch. Moira giggled sweetly.

"Hey, girl, stop messing with my boyfriend," Warrick mock warned, reducing the speed of the treadmill so that he could take long, slow strides.

"God, why is it all the nice guys are already taken?"

"Cause you don't give us nice guys a second glance."

And that reminded Gris. "By the way, you might want to be aware of Sasquatch over there doing his bicep curls."

Glancing over at the body builder, Warrick's eyebrows shot up and his smile broadened to a grin. Meanwhile, Moira rolled her beautiful eyes and groaned, "Oh, shit. Carl's about to go stupid on me again. Excuse me, guys."

Gris watched her stride away to soothe the savage Carl.

"What," Warrick rumbled, "you think I can't take him?"

Facing his amused boyfriend, Gris smiled, "No. But if a fight started, I'd feel compelled to jump in. Quite honestly, I look lousy in a hospital gown."

"Huh. Gown's not about the fashion, baby. It's about easy access." Green eyes glowed wickedly, "And I could seriously go for that."

Gris snorted. His boyfriend's libido could be triggered by the strangest things. "I need ten minutes on the elliptical," Grissom said and started for the machine.

"Hoop earrings?" Warrick asked softly.

Gris stood still. It was their code phrase. He was supposed to tell his boyfriend whenever jealousy raised its ugly head, and Warrick seldom let Gris slide.

Turning back, Gris nodded, "Smallish hoop earrings."

Warrick stopped the treadmill and stepped down. Slowly sipping a bottle of water, he stared at his boyfriend through hooded green eyes. "You finish up your cardio, baby," he challenged Gris with a rough whisper. "Then I'm gonna make sure you think twice before you go givin' in to jealousy again."

Grissom shivered his way over to the elliptical.

******

Fingers and toes dug in, knees and arms braced, Gris eagerly met Warrick's vigorous thrusts. Grissom hid his face in a pillow, but his body welcomed his boyfriend's cock, penetrating deep, stroking hard. Warrick's pelvic bones slammed into Grissom's ass, but he wanted it, craved it, deserved it.

"Who loves you?" He heard the tough question but couldn't answer. "Say it."

A firm slap landed on his ass. "Say it."

"You love me," he whispered.

A quick thrust of hips and a quick slap to his thigh. "Say it louder."

Gris moaned, "You love me."

"Say it like you mean it, baby."

Clutching fiercely at the mattress, Gris hung on as a relentless cock pounded his ass, as a large hand cupped his balls and squeezed. "You love me," he croaked, hoping to be convincing, hoping to convince himself.

"That's right," Warrick thrust hard with each word, "Love you. Only you. Nobody else. Say it."

Gris lifted his hips higher, begging to be filled so full that jealousy had no room to survive.

"Say it." Warrick's voice was hard, his hand harder as it landed on Grissom's ass.

His eyes stinging with tears, sweat rolling off his back, Grissom broke, "You love me and no one else."

"That's right, baby, believe it," Warrick commanded. "Never forget it. Love you always."

A long arm wrapped around Grissom's waist, held him steady as thrusts grew frantic. A gentle hand soothed the stinging flesh on his thigh, then strong fingers wrapped around his cock, stripped it efficiently. Hot breaths blew harshly on his neck. Harsh moans fell on his ears. Too much! Too much! Gris jerked his head up, opened his mouth, but made no sound. He tumbled into silence.

******

Warrick woke, heartbeat racing, sweat prickling through every pore. Exploding blankets and sheets had ripped him from sleep.

He hit the light even though it was 12:30 in the afternoon. Heavy blackout shades protected his bedroom from the bright Nevada sun.

At the foot of the bed, his boyfriend had already pulled on khakis and was rapidly shrugging into a faded green polo shirt. His face looked like he'd just seen a corpse get up and walk. He smelled like fear. He grabbed socks from the drawer of extra underwear he stocked at Warrick's house then sat down on the end of the bed, his back to Warrick, to pull them on.

"Gris? What the hell?"

Voice edged with panic, Grissom concentrated on slipping into his shoes, "Gotta go."

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Don't shut me out, man." Warrick shot out of bed, heart still pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He reached for his boyfriend, but Gris shied away, jumping to his feet, fleeing the bedroom. Warrick raced after. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

Gris didn't answer but grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch then charged out the front door. Warrick almost followed then remembered he was completely nude. He sped back into the bedroom. Shaking with anger and worry, confusion and fear, Warrick yanked on jeans and a sweat shirt, leapt into socks and sneakers. He grabbed up his cell phone, badge, and Thomas Guide. He was out the door not two minutes after his boyfriend, but Gris was long gone.

Warrick slid into his Lexus, cranked the engine. Before he threw it into reverse, he took a deep breath. Calm down. Can't do your baby any good going crazy. Got to think.

So many possibilities. The lab? The zoo? The movies? The desert? Maybe it was insane to try to find one mad scientist in a city the size of Vegas with a population close to 600,000 citizens and another 100,000 daily visitors. But Warrick knew his boy. Two words: roller coaster. There were six in town. Now, which one? The fastest? The newest? Nah. The less crowded one. And at 12:45 on a Monday afternoon, that would be--

Warrick slapped the steering wheel. Pharaoh's Fever.

******

Twenty minutes and two near collisions later, Warrick screeched into the parking lot of the Sphinx Amusement Park. Driving as fast as he dared, he scanned the rows of parked cars for his boyfriend's Volvo. There. Warrick zipped into a space five cars down. He launched himself out of his Lexus, locking the doors by pointing the remote control over his shoulder as he ran.

He sprinted for the entrance and pushed his way past a busload of German tourists sauntering through the gates. Knowing he was skating on the edge of improper use of authority but not giving a shit, he flashed his CSI badge. The bored ticket-taker in a purple Egyptian tunic waved him through.

He ran full tilt down the Midway, past the Egyptian Giant Slide, past Tut's Tiny Train, hellbent for Pharaoh's Fever. It was a short line but no boyfriend. Warrick rapidly scanned the three red and white cars clanking on the white track. Not among the eight passengers of the car pulling into the station platform. Not among the eight topping the highest hill. There. A third of the way through the track, only seven passengers. Gris seated at the back.

Trembling, sucking in breath, trying to calm down, Warrick focused on the car and its dear cargo as it sped around the track, creeping up high hills, plummeting down the other side. Damn. Warrick fought down the acrid bile roiling from his gut to his throat. Roller coasters. If there was a hell, it was built out of roller coasters.

Breathing deep, ignoring the burning sick hanging at the back of his throat, he held up his badge and moved up the line until he was standing on the platform. He hoped his shaking knees held long enough to haul his boyfriend off the coaster. The car rumbled noisily to a stop. Blue eyes stared straight ahead, handsome face blanched with horror.

"Grissom," Warrick shouted. No response. Shit. Gris had locked down, and Warrick knew from bitter experience that there was no way of unlocking his boyfriend until he was ready to be unlocked.

It was one of the bravest things Warrick ever did. He brushed past the teenaged attendant, slid into the seat next to his boyfriend, and buckled in.

Gris reeked with sharp, sour sweat, not the faint salt-spice Warrick loved. His boyfriend's broad shoulders trembled, his strong hands clenched his thighs. Intensely wild, Grissom's eyes were fixed on some unbearable memory or terrible future.

Gripping the metal safety handles with all his strength, Warrick stared down the disappointed couple that had been next in line for the seats on the coaster. He told the attendant, "We ride for as long as it takes. Understood?"

The teenager gulped, "Yes, sir."

The car jerked from the station, clanked slowly toward the first hill. Hanging on to his pride as tightly as he hung on to the safety handles, Warrick kept his eyes open, kept his mouth closed until the car stuttered up to the bottom of the first hill. Then there was no turning back. Warrick sat in a steel cage, completely at the mercy of soulless machinery. He had to give up control. As much as he gave his boyfriend grief about never letting go, Warrick was just as bad. No, fuck it, he was worse.

"Gahhhhhh," he screamed down the first hill. He gripped the safety handles until his knuckles stained an ugly yellow. He tried to concentrate on breathing and not cursing. It was his only sane thought until the car shimmied back into the station.

"Dear Jesus. Thank you lord," he groaned. Panting, he slowly straightened his bloodless fingers. His palms were bleeding from where his fingernails dug in. His fingers were numb. Still he reached over to touch the back of his boyfriend's clinched hand. "Please talk to me."

Gris stared straight ahead, but his head twitched slightly. "Can't." It obviously took everything he had to squeeze out that one word.

Gritting his teeth, grabbing on to the safety handles again, Warrick let his pride flap off to safety. He shut his sea-sick green eyes and hung on.

The third time around, when the mobile torture chamber began rolling to a stop, Warrick knew he was about to embarrass himself all over his pants, his boyfriend's pants, and the roller coaster floor. He grabbed Grissom's tight fist. "Please, baby, let's stop."

Gris blinked, slowly came out of his nightmare. "Warrick?"

Warrick whispered, "Please. I can't ride this thing again."

"No one's stopping you from getting out."

Summoning his waning strength, Warrick moaned, "I swear to god I will throw up on you before I walk out on you."

A fresh group of death seekers were getting onto the coaster car. Grissom suddenly looked beyond his own misery and saw his boyfriend's distress. Nodding, releasing the safety belts, Gris called out to the attendant, "Hector, we're getting out."

Warrick paid no attention to the faces staring at him. He didn't care what they thought. He wrapped his arm tightly around his boyfriend, leaned heavily on him, soaked up his sturdy body's solid strength. They moved together across the platform, down the steps, and out the exit.

"Can I get you anything?" Gris asked, his voice deep with concern.

"Just need to sit down on something that's not moving."

They stopped at the first open picnic table. Warrick sat on the metal bench with his back to Pharoah's Fever. He closed his eyes and felt the March sun warming his ice cold shoulders. A few deep breaths, a swallow to fight back the nausea, and then he said, "Tell me. Please."

"Why did you get on the coaster? Why not wait for me here on the ground?"

Warrick opened his eyes to see his boyfriend's haunted blue. "You're hurting. I wanted to help."

"How?"

"For a start, by making you think of somebody besides yourself."

Gris blinked, looked away. They sat in silence. Warrick breathed deep and watched a couple of brown house sparrows. They were building a nest in the open end of the tubing that supported one of the orange and yellow tents. The birds used plastic straws, paper, other man-made shit. They built a home out of people's trash. Unreal.

Gradually, the screeching metal of the coaster gave way to the delighted screams coming from the Egyptian Giant Slide. He could hear an Alabama accent ordering a Tut burger. He could see a busload of sixth graders in matching orange t-shirts pile onto Tut's Tiny Train.

"It was right before my fifth birthday," Gris began, not looking at Warrick, looking god knows where. His voice was detached, toneless, "Before my parents divorced. It was night. Late. I don't know why I was out with my father. We were in the car. A turquoise and white Ford Galaxie 500. We drove a long way. Long Beach maybe. I remember ships, a dockyard. My father parked. He told me to stay in the car. He didn't have to tell me to be quiet. I was never anything else with him."

So that's where Grissom was. Back in Los Angeles. In the summer of 1961. "My father got out of the car and walked toward a building. A Quonset hut, I think. Two men came out. They wore white t-shirts. I could see their faces. I could hear their voices. But I didn't understand what they were saying.

"Even for August, it was hot. The car windows were rolled down. I stuck my head out of the window to look up. It was a rare night because I could see stars. No clouds or smog. No light pollution. The Dipper was low. I could make out Sagittarius and Lyra. I wanted to see Cygnus. I climbed out of the window and sat on the car door. I leaned on the roof, and I could see the entire sky. It was so . . . beautiful. I remember thinking that, because my legs were still inside, I was technically in compliance with my father's order to stay in the car.

"I heard my father shout. I didn't think anything about it. I was used to my father shouting. As long as he wasn't shouting my name, I ignored him. Then everyone was shouting. I heard a slap and a cry. I slid back inside the car but I didn't hide. I watched."

Paling, Grissom stared at the memory, eyes growing wide as the scene flashed before him, "I watched those men beat my father. I watched them break his arm. I watched blood fly out of his nose and mouth. I watched, and . . . and I-I-I w-was . . . fascinated."

Gris cocked his head, examining the memory. "I didn't feel helpless. I didn't feel sorry. I didn't feel scared. I felt nothing. I just . . . watched."

Warrick sat frozen. Dear god, what to say? "You were in shock."

"Was I?" Gris shook his head. "No. I discovered something horrifying about myself, but I was too young to understand."

Horrifying? Warrick swallowed, "What did you understand?"

He watched Gris turn inside himself, blue eyes unseeing.

"Gris? What did you understand?"

But Grissom was already too deep, lost again to memory. All Warrick could do now was wait.

And as he waited, he slowly began to realize that his nausea was gone. Warrick smiled grimly. How often had Grams said, "Honey, best way to forget your troubles is to help somebody with theirs." Funny thing was, he hadn't helped Gris at all.

Funnier still, all Warrick could do now was watch. Watch and wonder. He watched families on vacation, couples on dates, school kids on field trips roam up and down Pharaoh's Midway. He wondered how many of them had ever seen their mother or father beaten up. Gris would know. Down to the last decimal point. Warrick only knew that he'd seen enough broken mothers and fathers to last a hundred lifetimes.

He watched his boyfriend and wondered if he became a criminalist to catch bad men and bad women because he couldn't help his father. Was it recompense? Penance? At five years of age, no way Grissom could have helped his father. But a son should do something, should feel something when his father takes a beating.

"I shut down," Gris whispered. "If it's too much, I shut down."

Warrick opened his mouth but nothing came out. Where were the comforting words? The wise advice that would make everything all right? He reached across the picnic table and grabbed Grissom's hand. It was all Warrick could think to do.

At least Gris grabbed back with unconscious strength. He picked up his story as if he'd never been interrupted. "I don't remember how we got home. I remember him warning me not to tell Mary Grace. I remember it wasn't long before he left us. I remember her crying, but I did nothing. I remember her hugging me, but I felt nothing. She tried to love me, I gave nothing back. She was patient. Truly. She tried, she did the best she could but--"

Warrick had heard enough. "They gave up on you."

"No. He, s-s-she--"

"Gris, they gave up on you. Your father bailed. Your mother, damn, I don't give a shit how rough life was for her. Don't give a shit that she's deaf. She gave up on you, too."

"No." One word separating Gris from the truth.

Fuck. Warrick hated this. Hated to have to lay on the hurt, but it was the only way. "She ever take you to a doctor, for anything other than a physical?"

"No."

"She ever take you to a teacher, a counselor, a priest, a relative--"

"No."

"No. You couldn't give her what she wanted, so she did nothing to help you. She found a use for you, though, didn't she? Personal translator for life."

A soft, soft plea. "No."

"They gave up on you." Warrick reached out and touched Grissom's cheek, turned his head to look into his eyes. Gris only looked down at the table. "Can't you see? Can't you understand how proud you should be? How proud I am that you never gave up on yourself?"

Gris didn't give an answer. Warrick didn't expect one. All he dared expect, all he dared hoped was that Grissom would listen. Would listen and open up once again.

Warrick let Gris alone for a moment and focused on the sparrows building their nest. The female of the pair was trying to maneuver a plastic swizzle stick into the tubing. She cocked her head, flipped the stick, grabbed it by its end, and pulled it inside. Yeah. A different tack. "You discuss any of this with Dr. Golden?" Grissom's psychiatrist. They'd met a couple of times already.

"We . . . haven't gotten that far." Gris smiled bleakly, raised his eyes from the table. Something scientific to talk about. Something safe. "He wants to run a diagnostic."

"A diagnostic for what?"

"I think I disappointed him. I'm good with my hands. I'm not clumsy. I have a sense of humor."

Warrick waited, unsure where Gris was going but willing to follow wherever he led.

"Mild or Atypical Asperger's Syndrome."

Warrick's forehead wrinkled. Bound for Gris to be atypical. "That's . . . a type of autism?"

Gris slowly blinked his eyes, slowly licked his lips before answering. "Yes. He thinks that I'm wired differently than most people."

Warrick hesitated, wondering if the time was right. Yeah. It felt right. "Don't need a diagnostic to tell that. But I like the way you're wired. Makes life interesting."

Blue eyes focused, seemed to see Warrick for the first time. A wan smile. "Well, I'm thankful for that." Gris took a deep breath, shut his eyes, leaned back, squeezed Warrick's hand, "God, I've never told anyone about that night."

"Yeah. It's obviously been building a long time. Baby, you scared me out of half my retirement pay."

"'Sorry' seems . . . so inadequate."

"So, what do you think triggered it? After all this time?"

It was a good thing Warrick still had a lock on Grissom's hand because he looked like he was about to fly.

"Don't even think about it, boyfriend. Time to fess up."

Gris wouldn't look at Warrick but reluctantly answered, "This morning . . . when we . . . in bed."

Green eyes widened, clouded with worry, "Oh, god, baby, I'm so sorry I--."

"No!" Gris tightened his grip, "No, you gave me exactly what I needed. Please, let me explain."

Afraid he'd pushed his boyfriend too far, might have even hurt him, Warrick waited impatiently but forced himself to be silent. Carefully, he stroked his thumb over the back of his boyfriend's hand while he gathered his thoughts.

At last Gris said, "I believe you. I do. That you love me." He took a deep, deep breath, "But . . . it was too much. The realization." Blue eyes closed. His throat swallowed. "What if this . . . what if what we have . . . becomes too much? What if I shut down on you?"

Warrick didn't answer right away. It would've been so easy to say that he'd just open Gris back up. But it wasn't easy at all. Nothing with Gris ever was. "All I can tell you, baby, all I can promise you, is that I'll never give up on you. Never."

Grissom gave a sardonic snort. "Never is a long time."

Warrick shrugged. He had nothing else to give. Nothing but honesty and patience and respect and love. And it was up to Gris if those gifts would be accepted. Don't you ever give up. Don't you ever give in.

******

Tuesday Graveyard shift proved uneventful. For once, Gris was grateful. After having to deal with his own volatile emotions, the last thing he'd needed was to have to confront a desperate suspect, a devastated victim, a hysterical loved one.

Ducking paperwork, he'd happily immersed himself in experimenting with jewelry modeling wax to make toolmark test exemplars. He'd gone through every plier, wrench, hammer, awl, and screwdriver he could lay his hands on. The wax performed perfectly, producing a 1:1 microscopic match. He smiled. A perfect match. Reminded him of Warrick.

So, it was with a contented smile and a calm spirit that Gris arrived at the door to his boyfriend's house. It might be Warrick's house, but it was Grissom's home. He came bearing a thermos full of Blue Hawaiian coffee that he'd hijacked from Greg and a recycled bag full of everything you'd need to whip up southwestern omelets for breakfast. Juggling coffee and groceries, briefcase and keys, he opened the door and struggled inside.

Half-way down the entrance hall, he stopped. Warrick was playing the piano, playing it with such skill and passion that Gris could feel the power radiating right into his heart. He didn't recognize the piece. It was achingly beautiful, though. A piece that impossibly fused blue jazz with reggae rhythm. It was unusual and hypnotic. He waited until the music drew to a close, when he could envision Warrick's long fingers resting on the keys, letting the closing notes soften into silence.

"Baby, you gonna stand around in the hall all day?"

Grinning, Gris set his briefcase by the front door and quick stepped into the living room. He paused to give Warrick a lingering kiss before heading into the kitchen. "I was mesmerized."

Warrick chuckled, "Yeah. Bet you say that to all the guys."

Gris set the shopping bag and coffee on the kitchen counter. "No, I don't. Well, not anymore."

"Heh." Warrick began improvising on a very familiar tune, Hank Williams' classic "Your Cheatin' Heart."

"Very funny, maestro." Gris opened up a cupboard, took down two mugs. He uncorked the thermos, breathed in the smooth aroma, and poured out the exquisite coffee. He added a packet of sugar to one, grabbed a teaspoon, and stirred in the sugar as he brought the coffee to Warrick.

Heart-stopping dimpled grin on his face, Warrick segued into Bob Marley's "Stir It Up."

"Musical comedy is not your strong suit, anima," Gris smiled, handing the mug to Warrick, kissing him again.

"Oh, this from the man who never met a pun he didn't like," He took a sip of the coffee. He enjoyed drinking Greg's special blend as much as Gris enjoyed stealing it.

"Oscar Levant, also a master tickler of the ivories, once said 'A pun is the lowest form of humor--if you don't think of it first.' You can't Handel my puns. They put your Bach up, make you want to go into Haydn."

Warrick groaned, "Damn, baby, if you didn't cook so good and have the most beautiful booty in Vegas, I would kick your booty and groceries out of my house right now."

Having made his point, Gris shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch. Then he smugly made his way back to the kitchen to start breakfast, completely unaware that he was giving his boyfriend a better view of the most beautiful booty in Vegas. The melody from Miles Davis's "Duke Booty" rang out on the piano. Grissom barked a laugh and sauntered into the kitchen.

He pulled the egg carton out of the bag as Warrick improvised the melody beyond all recognition. Gris set out green chilis, onions, and ham. He unpacked a small block of jalapel cheese, a quart of 2% milk, and a bottle of a local delicacy--Killer Flame Roasted salsa. He opened up the knife drawer.

"Warrick? Where's the paring knife I sharpened last weekend?"

"Ever since you rearranged my kitchen according to scientific principles, I can't find shit."

Ah, there it was, hiding under the Japanese vegetable knife he'd bought last month when he'd stocked and rearranged his boyfriend's seldom-used kitchen. Previously seldom-used kitchen, Gris smiled.

He located a suitable mixing bowl, was about to give up on the whisk until he spotted it wedged behind the organizer tray in the utensils drawer. He rinsed off the wooden cutting board, washed and dried his hands, then got to work. With the knife, he deftly split the chilis then used a spoon to rake out the seeds. He slowly realized that Warrick's improvisation of "Duke Booty" had flowed seamlessly into the melody Gris heard when he'd walked in the door.

He called out, "Tell me about the piece you're playing. Is it one of yours?"

"Yeah. Just this morning. Tune woke me up around 3:00. Couldn't get back to sleep until I got it down. I just finished it when you got home."

Home. Gris smiled. "Two hours of sleep. You're developing my bad habits."

His boyfriend's deep laughter rumbled right down Grissom's spine. He managed not to let the knife slip out of his nerveless fingers.

Warrick said, "It's called 'For Double G.' Starts in G minor, ends in G major." Then he began to play.

It began melancholy and contemplative, filled with a heavy blue sadness.

Gris concentrated on the music as he peeled the white onion and sliced it open. Mechanically, he sliced and chopped, listening intently as the sadness grew, seemed almost overwhelming. And then a funky reggae rhythm began to overtake the minor blue, brightened it, and the piece shifted slowly into major key. Sadness blossomed gradually into joy. Despair gave way to hope. Grissom couldn't help but smile. His knife moved with the rhythm.

When the piece drew to a close, Gris was sitting on a bar stool just outside the kitchen, forgotten bowl of whisked eggs in his lap. He was indeed mesmerized, both by the amazing music and his amazing boyfriend. Grissom had never loved Warrick more.

"That was incredible, anima. Inspired."

"You should know."

"I should?" Confused, Gris watched his boyfriend push back the piano bench, stand up, and stretch. Gris forgot his confusion.

Warrick was wearing only silk sleep pants, so Gris got a lustful look at a hard, toned chest and at sculpted stomach muscles flexing wickedly under lustrous brown skin. And Warrick knew exactly the effect he was having on his boyfriend. A sinful smile snaking across his face, Warrick cruised toward Gris.

"I still have breakfast to do," Grissom's voice wavered. He slid off the bar stool and backed away toward the kitchen, barely hanging on to the bowl of whipped eggs.

"I think I'm hungry for something else."

Oh, god, when Warrick did sultry, Grissom was completely undone. He stood still for a moment, caught between food and lust. Lust won. Hands down.

Gris shoved the bowl onto the kitchen counter, slopping frothy egg onto the formica top. In the next motion, he flattened his boyfriend against the wall of the hallway, knocking a framed Miles Davis poster off kilter.

Blunt fingers latching onto Warrick's rock-hard shoulders, greedy lips latching onto his generous mouth, Grissom tried to express every word of love he had never spoken. When words fail, music speaks, but Gris could barely carry a tune. The only music he could offer lay in his fingers and lips. He played them as skillfully and passionately as he knew how.

For the first time in his adult life, all of his senses were open with another person. And he could trust them to be open and not be overwhelmed. Warrick's orange-pepper scent, his salt-sweet taste, his smooth-velvet voice, his silk-suede skin, his soul-piercing beauty. Grissom welcomed each gift, treasured it, and gave it back with singular intensity, hands and lips moving like a firestorm over Warrick's shaking body.

"Baby?" Warrick's strangled voice startled Gris. He looked up, lips reluctantly parting from Warrick's throat. Green eyes, wide with surprise yet helpless with desire, pleaded. "Gonna die here if you don't let up."

Grissom hesitated, blinked, then released his bruising grip on Warrick's ribs, took a panting step back. Strong arms made sure he didn't go any further. "Don't want you to leave. Just . . . just need to breathe."

"I-I . . . got carried away."

"Get carried away more often, boyfriend." Warrick sucked in a deep breath. "Just give me a heads up before you do."

Gris was astonished that he could affect Warrick so much. Having so much power was both frightening and gratifying.

Long, shaking fingers brushed through greying hair, and Gris began to calm down, began to tone down the intensity. He cupped Warrick's jaw, traced a thumb over his stubbly cheek. Leaning in for a tender kiss, Gris pulled back with a quirky smile. "What say we get carried away into the bedroom?"

Long fingers left his hair and settled on the buttons of his gray plaid shirt, opening it slowly, sensuously. Warrick gentled, "Let's take our time."

Ah, time. Grissom swallowed, getting himself back under control. Yes. Time for a quotation. "Shakespeare wrote, 'Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons.'"

"Is that right?" Warrick smiled indulgently and continued unbuttoning the soft shirt.

Gris chuckled and enlightened, "In other words, what seems fast to you seems slow to me."

Soft lips kissed his cheek, his chin, his mouth. "Well, you just gonna have to settle for some slow cooking this morning, baby."

Grissom's chuckle ended in a gasp when a large hand palmed the front of his trousers. "Slow is good," he managed, voice high and slightly strangled.

A trail of clothing followed them down the hall: shirt, belt, shoes, socks, slacks, sleep pants, boxers. Their hands were slow, their lips slower. Slow kisses, slow touches, slow breaths. Arms and legs entangled. Skin sliding on skin. They made it to the bed before Gris pulled away. Slow was good, but Gris didn't know how long he could make good.

"I want you on your back," Grissom directed, breathing deep, calming breaths and reaching for the thick gel on the bedside table.

Surprised, amused, but compliant, Warrick settled himself on his back in the middle of his bed. Gris quickly coated his palm with the cool gel then took his time coating Warrick's cock. And by the time Gris was satisfied, Warrick had dug his heels and shoulders into the bed, arching his hips high.

"Bayybeeee?" a pleading moan when Grissom's firm hand left.

In return, a sympathetic smile. "I'm right here, anima."

On his knees, slipping his heels beneath his boyfriend's spread thighs, he straddled Warrick's hips. Slowly, yes, oh so slowly, Gris impaled himself on the slick, exquisite cock. Pausing, breathing, inching his way down. Giving his body time to adjust, to let discomfort segue into pleasure. Pleasure made complete by the look of pure love on Warrick's face.

The pace was just right. Gris rocked back and forth, tightening and releasing, pushing and pulling. Large hands gripped his ass, helping him with his rhythm. He struggled to keep it slow, to make it last, to think cool, philosophical thoughts. He studied his boyfriend's beautiful face, green eyes closed, ruddy lips parted, lost in the sensation.

How different they were. Black and white. Extrovert and introvert. Street-smart and scholar. Warm and cool. Musical and scientific. Emotional and logical. Two odd pieces that fit together perfectly. Fit together perfectly and formed something that was complete and whole. Love, and lust, had brought them together. Love--patient, kind, forgiving--would keep them together. But, as a powerful thrust lifted him out of his rhythm, lust was certainly doing its part.

Okay. Time to fuck philosophy.

Warrick was getting close, muscular hips surging off the bed as Gris eagerly slammed back. He reached for his own aching cock, but Warrick's long fingers were there sooner, stripping, pumping, timing it just right.

Yes! Oh, yes! Soft moans growing louder, hearts pumping faster, nerves burning brighter, muscles clenching tighter. Until all the fiery pieces came together. Until all the pieces came together complete and whole.

******

Even with only two hours sleep and a brief post-coital nap, Warrick was still the first to wake. He rested on his left side, curled tightly around his boyfriend. Long dark fingers spread over a pale chest. They rose and fell with each slow, steady breath. Through his fingertips, Warrick felt the slow, steady beat of Grissom's heart. Smiling, burrowing into his hair, Warrick smelled that familiar salt spice that always kicked his libido into overdrive. Unfortunately, right now, it was his bladder kicking for priority.

As carefully as he could, Warrick unwrapped himself from around Gris and eased out of bed. Other than a slight hitch in breathing that quickly evened out, Grissom didn't react. Very unusual. Unless Gris was completely exhausted, Warrick had little chance of getting out of bed undetected. Yesterday's emotional breakdown--no, breakthrough--had obviously laid his baby out. But Warrick had no time to linger.

Hoping to minimize noise, Warrick shot down the hall to the guest bathroom. Avoiding the trail of clothes littering the floor, he skidded to the toilet and jerked up the lid and seat. Shifting from foot to foot, he was finally able to relieve himself. He bit back a satisfied groan as his bladder rapidly emptied. Whew. Cut that way too close.

A shake, a flush, a quick wash and dry of hands, a thorough brushing of teeth, a swirl of mouthwash, and Warrick was almost ready to face the day. He padded into the hallway in search of his sleep pants and found them wadded up under his boyfriend's blue striped boxers. Warrick grinned. Man, Gris had been eager. And demanding. And oh so expressive. Breakthrough, indeed.

Warrick stepped into his silk sleep pants then went in search of coffee. As he neared the kitchen, the smell of chopped onions and chilis assaulted his nose. Guess three hours was a little long to leave things laying around. He scraped the vegetables and ham into the disposal and poured the scummy eggs in after. He'd have to remember to run it later when Gris was awake. Warrick plunked the milk, cheese, and eggs into the fridge, wiped up the counter and cutting board. Only then did he check the thermos, hoping for one last cupful of Blue Hawaiian. Damn.

Resigned, Warrick pulled out a bag of ground Costa Rican coffee from Coffee Roaster. It was great coffee, the best he thought he could afford, but it paled next to Blue Hawaiian. Four level tablespoons. Warrick paused and threw another in the filter for grins. He snapped the filter into the coffee maker, filled the top with tap water. Yeah, distilled water was better, but Warrick wasn't that finicky. Flipping the switch to start the brew, yawning, stretching, and scratching, he wandered out into the living room.

He stood by his piano. Warrick didn't have to play it to hear it. He heard the music of "For Double G" clearly in his mind. Just as clearly as his fingertips still felt the vibrations of Double G's heart.

Opening up the piano bench, he took out some empty score sheets. He still composed old school. He had score transcription software, but he liked the feel of a pencil in his hand marking the notes on crisp, unmarked paper. He stood, using the top of the piano as a writing desk, filling the blank staves with the notes of his heart.

He'd been writing for about five minutes when the ring tone strains of Sister Sledge's "We Are Family" broke his concentration. He snapped his phone from the top of the piano.

"Aunt Bertha!"

"Warrick, child, so good to hear your sweet voice." Along with Grams, Aunt Bertha had been a second mother to Warrick when his birth mother died.

"How you doin', beautiful?"

"Fine, honey. How are you?"

"Keepin' busy. Stayin' out of trouble."

"Uh huh. The day you stay out of trouble, Warrick Brown, is the day I grow wings and fly away."

"You look good with wings."

"Hmmph. And how's your man?"

Lord, but he loved his family. They'd accepted his relationship with Gris, loved him almost much as Warrick did. Well, most of his family did. The ones that mattered did.

"He's great." Warrick smiled and glanced down the hallway where his boyfriend was hopefully still asleep, "Lookin' forward to seeing you and Grams Saturday."

There was a worrisome pause before Aunt Bertha responded, "Hon, . . . we think it best if Gil not attend."

"What?! Why?"

"Your Aunt Shirley--"

"Is a sour old woman who ain't happy 'til everybody's miserable." He tried to speak quietly, but his outrage wasn't helping.

"Warrick," she warned.

"Aunt Bertha, you know it's true."

"Honey, it's her birthday."

"So she gets to dictate what everybody else gets to do. Even if it's wrong. Even if it hurts somebody else." Warrick was shaken, completely blind sided.

"I know it's a disappointment, but we got to keep peace in the family."

They create a desolation and call it peace. One of Grissom's favorite classical quotations. Warrick tried to take a calming breath, but he was too wound up. "Yeah, well, getting rid of anybody you don't like is one way to keep the peace."

"Honey, life is always a compromise. Your Aunt Lucille understands."

Yeah, the only other gay relationship--no, the only other admitted gay relationship--in the family. "You think it's right that Aunt Lucy and Dinah Lee been together, what, 28, 29 years, but they can't never be together with the family at Aunt Shirley's birthday or at Christmas or any other time Shirley's there?"

"I'm not going to debate this with you--"

"Aunt Bertha, you know it's not right! You know if I'd lied about Gris and me, if I'd swore we were just friends, Aunt Shirley couldn't have done nothing. But, no, I gotta be honest. I gotta tell my family that I love a man. That I'm proud to love a man. And now Shirley can raise a stink and y'all let her get away with it. It's not ri--!"

He'd forgotten to be quiet. He'd forgotten everything but his anger. So he almost jumped out of his sleep pants when strong arms came gently around him, when soft lips kissed his shoulder. "Jesus, baby! Don't sneak up on me!"

"May I have the phone, please?"

"Gris--"

"Your coffee's ready. Phone? Please?"

Warrick couldn't read the expression on his boyfriend's face. Not that it really mattered. Warrick really didn't give a shit right now if Gris told Aunt Bertha and the rest of the family to go to hell. "Aunt Bertha, Gris wants to talk to you."

He didn't wait for her reply, just handed the phone over to his boyfriend and stalked into the kitchen.

You think you know your family, you think that love will be enough, you think that people who have been on the receiving end of discrimination and persecution and hatred wouldn't be so eager to discriminate and persecute and hate in turn. And you'd be wrong.

He slammed the mug down on the counter and slammed the cabinet door shut. He would've slammed his head against the counter if he'd thought it would've done any good. Shaking, he poured his coffee, managing to get most of it into the mug rather than the counter. Damn. Goddamn. He ripped a paper towel off the roll and tried to convince himself that he'd gotten something other than tears in his eyes.

"Anima?"

Warrick blew his nose and looked up to see Gris standing in just his boxers just inside the kitchen. Warrick tried to smile, "Yeah, baby."

"You all right?"

"No. But, I will be." He took a deep breath then crumpled up and tossed the paper towel into the garbage can. Two points. "Aunt Bertha tell you the news?"

Gris nodded. "Considering how well Shirley and I hit it off at Christmas, I can't say I'm completely surprised."

"God, baby, this isn't about Shirley not liking you. It's about--"

"Her not wanting a couple of queers in the house."

Well, his boyfriend always could slice right to the heart of a matter. "Yeah. And the rest of my family giving in to her."

Feeling tears beginning to prickle around his eyelids again, Warrick slapped the counter top. Not gonna give in. Determined green eyes met warm blue. "Hell, baby, let's go some place next weekend. Drive up to Zion, over to Flagstaff, some place beautiful, some place closer to the sky."

A soft smile. "Tempting. But I need you to do something for me."

Warrick blinked. Gris actually saying he needed something from Warrick? Unprecedented. "Sure. Anything."

"I need you to go to Aunt Shirley's birthday party this weekend."

Damn. Just like Gris to need something impossible. "Baby, what part of 'we don't want you' do you not understand?"

"True. They asked me not to come." Grissom raised his index finger, "Bertha said nothing about you."

"I'm not going without you. Remember me saying that we're a team, now? "

"And that's why I'm asking you to go. You're the only one of us who has the opportunity to change their minds."

Swallowing, he complained,"Baby, don't you understand? Aunt Lucille's been working on them for decades, and nothing's changed."

"Well, now she'll have help, won't she?"

And suddenly Warrick felt ashamed. All this time, he'd never raised a fuss about Dinah Lee, Lucille's life partner, being excluded from family gatherings. Oh, he'd tsked and said so sorry and shook his head. But now, when it's his boyfriend that gets slammed . . . . Damn.

Something in Warrick's face made Gris move, made him cross the kitchen floor, put his strong arms around his boyfriend, and hug hard. "Anima, you know it's not a hardship for me to have to miss a party." He held up his hand to forestall Warrick's protest. "This hurts you much more than it hurts me. That's another reason you need to go. To show them your strength."

Leaning into his boyfriend, Warrick rested his head on a steady shoulder, "I don't feel strong at all right now."

"No. But you are. You're also the favorite grandchild, and it's now time for you to use that power for good."

Warrick smiled wanly at the gentle teasing and began to relax within his boyfriend's strong embrace, wrapped long arms tightly around the sturdy body. "So, you got any other reasons for me to go?"

"There's Latisha's glove."

"Damn, baby, you're the reason she made the softball team, and you bought that glove for her special. You should be giving it to her."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll explain all of that when you present it to Latisha. In front of all of your relatives."

Warrick sighed. "Who knew I had such a devious boyfriend?"

"I've learned a lot the last four months."

Four months. Four months with Gris. Yeah. The most exasperating, demanding, and crazy four months of Warrick's life. And the best. He rubbed his cheek against his boyfriend's soft beard. "Okay. I help Aunt Lucille, show my family that I'm strong, shame 'em with Lala's glove. You got any other reasons for me to go?"

"Cocoanut cream cake."

Brow furrowing, he repeated, "Cocoanut cream cake."

"Uh-hmm. According to Bertha, Aunt Shirley's favorite."

Warrick thought for a moment, then he pulled back to look into bright blue eyes. "And you're making it."

"Yep."

"She won't eat it."

A right eyebrow sneaked up. "That just means more cake for everyone else."

"Changing the hearts and minds of the Brown family one stomach at a time."

Gris shrugged, "It's the American way."

Warrick tried to smile, but the pain of his family's unexpected rejection shot through him once again. He buried his face in Grissom's neck and held on tight. "It hurts so much."

Unashamed, Warrick let his tears go. Let his pain, his anger, his resentment go. His boyfriend simply accepted the storm and protected Warrick in a safe harbor, enveloped him with quiet love, even after the storm blew past.

Warrick could have stayed in Grissom's strong arms for the rest of the day. But Warrick was stronger than that. At last he pulled back, a little unsteady, a little embarrassed, but a whole lot relieved. Trying to get his breathing under control, he hung on to his boyfriend's shoulders and looked into his handsome, concerned face. Warrick whispered, "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for."

"I got snot all over your shoulder."

"I've had worse things get on me."

Closing his eyes, swallowing, Warrick tried to get to where he could stand on his own. Then Grissom's low, gentle voice washed away any remaining sorrow and gave a gift of renewed strength.

"You know, George Burns once said that happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family," Gris paused, "in another city." The gentle humor seeped slowly into Warrick's soul.

"Anima mea, you are the bravest and most stubborn person I know. You have the love, courage, and patience to make a person change. At least, that's been my personal experience." Smiling, he gently hugged Warrick. "Unfortunately, you and I both know Aunt Shirley will probably never change, either her mind or her heart."

"Got to have a heart to begin with," Warrick croaked.

Gris nodded, "But we can work to change the people around her. Those with open minds. Those who actually possess hearts." One more hug, then Gris gave a quirky grin, "Look, why don't you give me a snotty kiss, then we'll get you all cleaned up and grab some lunch."

"Gee, you make a fella feel so special."

Gris shrugged, "Yeah. It's the romantic in me."

******

Late Saturday morning, Warrick was on his way to Aunt Shirley's birthday party. He felt relaxed and refreshed, calm and loved. Having a boyfriend who could give bone melting massages and mind altering blow jobs was a definite plus.

Warrick had one stop to make before the party. He pulled the Lexus into the small parking lot in the Post Office on Mountain Vista. Smiling, he glanced at the floor in front of the passenger seat. There lay Latisha's softball glove, neatly wrapped in several layers of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger wrapping paper. Beside the glove, the still warm cocoanut cream cake rested out of harm's way. He breathed in the sweet scent of toasted cocoanut then got out of his Lexus.

Softly whistling the tune from the Angels' "My Boyfriend's Back," Warrick grabbed a cardboard Express Mail envelope. He stuffed a copy of the score of "For Double G" inside, as well as a CD that he'd recorded of the music. He sealed the envelope, filled out the information for the Marina del Rey address, then stood in line, waiting for the next postal clerk.

"That'll be 10 dollars and 40 cents," the clerk said.

Warrick paid it, got his receipt, then strolled outside, pausing to put on his sunglasses, pausing to feel great satisfaction.

He'd mailed the score directly to her art gallery. Where other people might see her open the envelope and see the score and the CD and wonder who in their right mind would send music to a deaf person.

"Don't never say your son gave you nothing, Mary Grace," Warrick smiled like a shark.

He got back into the Lexus, cranked it, rolled the windows down, turned up the sound system. And he sang with all the joy in his powerful soul, "Now, don't you ever give up / Don't you ever give in/ 'Cause I know we're gonna make it / It's not too late, no / We're gonna make it."