Title: Philadelphia Story (Working Out 12)
By: Shelley Russell
Summary: Separated by a continent, Warrick and Gris still grow closer.
Characters: Jim Brass, Warrick/Grissom
Genres: Slash
Rating: FRAO

This story is dedicated to Karen, Eby, kaelleigh, and my beta Rebecca for coming through for one seriously blocked writer. Their inspirational (and hilarious) suggestions got my rear in gear. Ladies, this one's for you.

Thanks to Buffy for as always careful and honest editing. And to my new beta Sara who kindly fed me some great lines.

Author's note: Parts of the conversation between Grissom and Brass are word-for-word out of the episode "Way to Go," specifically Brass's monologue beginning: "I know how my daughter Ellie lives" and ending with "There's no one I trust more with my life, or my death . . . than you."

******

Gil Grissom felt parched, bone-dry, as if he'd hiked Death Valley in the heat of the day in the middle of July. But it was only the middle of April, and instead of enduring a 115 degree dusty trek, Gris had endured three hours with close to two hundred law enforcement officers, attorneys, medical examiners, and forensic science students crammed into the Liberty Ballroom, Salon A, of the Marriott Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. All two hundred attended for the prestige of participating in a workshop on the taxonomy of blowflies given by one of the world's leading forensic entomologists. Some participants attended in order to pick the brain of said forensic entomologist. A few participants even attended in order to learn about the taxonomy of blowflies.

The workshop was supposed to end at 3:00, but with the questions, the anecdotes, the observations, the clarifications, 3:00 had all too quickly raced to 4:00. And if it hadn't been for the hotel crew needing to set up for a banquet honoring the Outstanding Young Citizens of Philadelphia, 4:00 could have easily turned into 5:00.

As the hotel elevator whisked its single occupant non-stop to the twentieth floor, Grissom rolled his head side to side, trying to stretch tight muscles in his neck and shoulders. He breathed deep, hoping to speed oxygen to those same tight muscles. The exhilaration he got from teaching, from sharing and exploring intellectual concepts, had deserted him. He slumped against the back wall. His laptop felt as if it weighed fifty pounds instead of five. His briefcase felt like it weighed even more.

When the elevator doors opened, Gris pushed himself away from the wall with his elbows and wobbled slowly out into the elevator lobby. He turned left and trudged down a long stuffy hallway. At last. Room 2027. He dug the key card out of his suit jacket pocket and slid the card in and out of the lock. Grissom swung open the door and shuffled inside. Housekeeping had set the air conditioner to full blast. The cold air felt great. Especially to a man who'd spent the last three hours sweltering in a suit and tie.

Dumping briefcase and laptop on top of the double bed closest to the door, he stumbled into the bathroom. He relieved himself, washed and dried his hands and face, and gulped down three glasses of water. It helped a little but not enough. He staggered across thick carpet to the hotel's unyielding gray armchair and collapsed, weary legs stretched out in front of him.

Usually Grissom would find complete relief in an empty hotel room. A sanctuary. A refuge. He smiled wryly. His boyfriend Warrick Brown would no doubt call it "a hideout." Of course, his boyfriend was why Gris no longer found complete relief in an empty hotel room. Without Warrick, the room felt all too empty. Without Warrick, there were no mischievous green eyes, no soothing long fingers, no tender plush lips, no hard muscled body. Without Warrick, there were no teasing challenges or probing questions or loving whispers.

Closing his eyes, Grissom let his head fall against the back of the armchair. Without Warrick, Gris couldn't even find relief in sleep. He'd averaged only two hours out of every 24 since he'd left Vegas. For the last five months, Grissom usually had long arms and long legs wrapped tightly around him when he slept. The hotel bed's luxurious goose down comforter fell far short as a substitute.

Grissom sighed. He missed sleeping with his boyfriend. Missed talking to him, too. Three days. Weary blue eyes opened and glanced at his watch. 4:30 p.m., Saturday, April 23rd. Make that three days and thirteen hours. Accounting for the 3 hour time difference from east coast to west.

Early Wednesday morning, just before 1:00, Gris had left Warrick stretched out and dozing on their bed, looking like a sleek leopard after a heavy meal. For the first time in years, Grissom had been late for work. And for the first time in years, he hadn't cared. Work was still important, but it wasn't the be all and end all that it used to be.

Nine hours later, striding out of the lab after his shift to meet Warrick at the gym, Grissom had checked his phone for personal messages. He'd been surprised to see a message from his boyfriend posted at 6:30 am: "Yeah, um, Gris, some bad-ass flu paid a visit to Connie Pirsig last night. Knocked her out faster than Tyson did Berbick. She's in no shape to travel. I'm subbing for her. Probably be in Los Angeles through the weekend." A pause as a blurry loud speaker voice echoed over the phone. "Damn. They just called my row. I got to board. America West flight 102. Greg's gonna look in on the hairy menagerie. He's got the key and the instructions. Told him he'd get flushed along with any bug that dies. And . . . baby," Warrick's voice dripped dark, sweet molasses, "check out the hall closet before you finish packing. You gonna need some extra room in your suitcase."

Sitting alone in the hard gray armchair of his hotel room, Grissom felt his lips curling into a pleased, if weary, smile. Gris was proud of his boyfriend. When Dayshift CSI Pirsig fell ill, Warrick could step right up at a moment's notice, fly to the HIDTA conference in Los Angeles, and deliver a presentation on new developments in identifying anhydroecgoning ethyl ester in the urine of drug overdose victims. He could also find time to arrange for a pet sitter. He could also leave four presents, each perfectly wrapped in a different color wrapping, on the floor of the hall closet of his boyfriend's townhouse. Each package had a gold tag that read "PACK AND DO NOT OPEN UNTIL I TELL YOU. WB." Gris had needed a bigger suitcase.

He glanced at the four packages still wrapped and lined up like smartly dressed soldiers on the desk. Then he tilted his head, scratched his chin through his beard, and reached into the pocket of his suit pants. Digging out his cell phone, he opened it and powered it on. He scrolled through his messages: the Lab, the Lab, the Lab. On it went. Only the Lab. Sighing, Grissom knew he should return the calls, but instead he closed the phone and set it on the small side table next to the armchair.

"The absence of the beloved, short though it may last, always lasts too long," he quoted into the silence of room 2027. Moliere. A great playwright. A comedic genius. A man who'd lived life to the fullest. A man who would no doubt ridicule old man Grissom's childish moping, mooning, and obsessing. Gris shook his head and snorted. Tomorrow. He'd be flying back to Vegas tomorrow. He'd have his arms wrapped around Warrick by 9:00 tomorrow night. Assuming Warrick wasn't still in L.A.

With a grimace, Gris loosened his maroon and gray striped tie and flicked open the top button of his white dress shirt. Just as he was about to kick off his shoes, he spotted the empty chrome colored ice bucket on top of the TV console. The vision of a bourbon over ice flashed in front of blue eyes. He felt too tired and surly to head down to a crowded bar. Lucky he'd picked up a couple of single serving bottles of Jim Beam on the way in from the airport. But was he too tired to go in search of a working ice machine?

Gris smiled wryly. He could work 24 hours straight at a crime scene and not feel as exhausted. But three hours spent interacting with living human beings, and he was ready to hole up with a bottle for the night. Even though those three hours were spent teaching--something he enjoyed doing--having to deal with people always sapped a lot of energy from him. He shook his head. Stop being such a wuss, Grissom. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back. Then he hefted the metal ice bucket from the top of the TV and headed for the door.

The tune of 'At Last' stopped him in his tracks. The ring tone of Etta James' classic song signaled a call from Warrick's cell phone. Warrick had laughingly programmed the tune into his boyfriend's phone a week ago. Gris pitched the ice bucket on the bed and forgot he was tired. He dove for his phone, fumbling it open.

"Hi," he just managed.

"What are you wearing?" The deep, teasing, beloved voice.

Momentarily confused, Grissom glanced down at his rumpled, dark gray suit. Then he took a big breath, pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and teased right back. "A lab coat and leather thong."

Warrick's laughter rumbled from the phone, "Oh, baby, I'm catching the next flight to Philly!"

"You do that." And Gris meant it.

A regretful sigh. "Would if I could. How was your flight?"

"Good." Not a stellar conversationalist at the best of times, he practiced minimalism over a phone. Even when he wanted nothing more than to keep his boyfriend on the line.

"You want to elaborate on that one for me, Gris?"

"We didn't crash."

Grissom waited, hearing nothing but John Coltrane's soft saxophone playing over 2,000 miles away. That probably meant Warrick was back in Vegas. Back home. Grissom smiled, feeling the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax.

When it became obvious that Warrick wasn't going to help out, Gris continued, "I looked over my lecture notes. Edited the PowerPoints. Got the chatty insurance adjustor sitting next to me to move."

"Uh oh. Which slide did you show her?"

"The botched gender reassignment."

"Damn, babe, that's cold."

"Maybe she'll think twice before disallowing somebody's health claim next time." Grissom shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the padded desk chair.

"Yeah. Picture that. Any trouble getting to the hotel?"

"I didn't show slides to the cabbie, if that's what you're thinking."

"Cabbie's probably seen weirder shit in the back seat."

"Probably." Gris plopped down on the hard hotel bed. His palms tingled, itching to run over smooth, caramel-brown skin and firm, powerful muscles. His fingers prickled, wanting to mold soft chocolate-brown nipples into rigid tipped peaks.

"Workshop go okay?"

"About as much fun as 200 forensic science wannabes can have."

"Whoa. Big audience . . . Baby, please tell me you wore more than the lab coat and thong."

Grissom smirked, "They thought the buckskin chaps were a nice touch."

The deep chuckle vibrated out of the phone and into his ears. His toes curled. Warrick whispered, "So that's why people pay to attend your workshops."

"Yep. It's all in the presentation." Grissom struggled to think of something to say, to keep his boyfriend talking. He realized he hadn't asked about Warrick's last few days. Shifting the phone over to his left hand, Gris asked softly, "When did you get back home?"

"Trane gave me away, huh?"

"You usually play 'A Love Supreme' when you get back from a trip."

"Damn. I got to stop being so predictable."

Gris smiled and glanced toward the brightly wrapped packages on the desk, "I don't think I could handle many more surprises from you." Thinking of presents, he asked, "Did you get home in time to go to your grandmother's birthday party?"

"Well, baby, I got good news and bad news. Good news is, with so many of her children out of town this weekend, Grams decided to celebrate her 85th birthday next weekend. Bad news is--"

"I still have to go," Gris sighed.

"Yeah. Knew you'd be thrilled. Celia's already taking bets on how many hugs it takes before Dr. Grissom runs screaming from the house."

"I'm not that bad," he huffed.

"Baby. You are that bad."

It was time to change the conversation. "How was your presentation?"

Warrick chuckled, knowing exactly what Gris was up to but letting him get away with it. "Presentation went great. Didn't have to rely on a leather thong and chaps to keep their attention, though."

"No. You wouldn't." No. Warrick could dress in a burlap sack and clown shoes, and he'd still spellbind the audience.

"Conference went great, too. Vegas leads the way as usual. Even had a little added excitement."

Odd thing, though, Warrick didn't sound in the least excited. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Um, Ellie Brass."

"Jim's daughter?" And a cause for constant worry and heartache for her father.

"Yeah. She, uh, got mixed up in some bad business. Got her dad involved, even though she treated him like shit when he tried to help her."

"Well, no one ever said being a parent was easy." Grissom reached down and loosened the laces on his dress shoes. He slipped off the stiff shoes and flexed his toes.

"Baby, Jim's arrested crackheads that would've treated him better. She calls her dad 'cause one of her hooker friends goes missing and local P.D. won't do nothing about it."

"And Jim charges down on a white horse from Vegas."

"More like a brown Taurus, but, yeah."

"And you, my knight in shining armor, just happen to help out." Gris could almost see the pleased embarrassment on Warrick's face even though the two men were a continent apart.

"Well, yeah. Kinda by coincidence. My L.A. CSI buddy Matt Glazer? He got called out. Thought I should go along."

"Did you find Ellie's friend?"

Grissom heard a quiet sigh. "Yeah. Murdered."

"Ah."

"You know, you'd think seeing your dead friend pulled out of a lake beaten to death might shock you. Straighten you up. Especially when your father cares enough to . . . damn," Warrick coughed. Even Gris could recognize a cough that covered pain.

Ironic. Though Grissom didn't say it. Didn't need to say it. Neither Gris nor Warrick had ever had a father who'd cared enough to show up much less drive nearly 300 miles to find a friend. "Was Ellie concerned about her friend being murdered or that she might be next?"

"Both. Girl was right to be scared. Some powerful people were involved."

As usual, Gris leaped to the right conclusion. "Would this happen to involve a former tough guy actor with political ambitions and a party gone wrong?"

"Damn, baby, freaks me out when you go all Kreskin on me like that."

"A lucky conjunction of insomnia and too much cable TV news."

Grissom stood up, padded in his sock feet around the bed, pulled pillows out from under the spread, and stacked them up against the bed's headboard. He stretched out on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up on pillows, his left hand cradling the phone close to his ear, his right hand reaching unconsciously toward the empty space next to him on the bed.

Warrick growled softly, "Yeah, well, looks like some bigger L.A. boys might be going down on this one, too."

"Good." Though Warrick didn't sound good. Curious. "You don't seem as pleased as usual. Catching the bad guys getting boring?"

"Nah. The thrill's still there, baby. It's just . . . Jim. He's hurting. Bad."

Grissom bit back a sigh. Warrick always looked out for his family. Especially his chosen family. And that meant Gris wouldn't be putting his arms around Warrick tomorrow night until after seeing Brass. "I'll talk with him when I get back."

"Thanks, baby. You got the knack for helping a man get some perspective."

Only his boyfriend's love could filter Grissom's objective precision into compassionate concern. Shaking his head, Gris said, "So, I thought you were staying in L.A. the rest of the weekend."

"Well, I'm not saying we got the bum's rush, but L.A.P.D. wasn't too happy with me and Jim sticking around any longer." Warrick's concerned voice shifted back to gentle teasing, "Plus, I had to get back and check in on my boyfriend's hairy menagerie. Not a single beetle, cockroach, or eight legged spawn of Satan lost."

"So, young Greg is still with us?"

"Uh huh. Greggo lives. Ziggy and Speedy are fat, happy, and still scary as shit. And Shelob sends her love."

Letting Warrick name Grissom's beautiful new Ecuadorian brown velvet tarantula was not the brightest thing Gris had ever done. "Did Greg let her out for a walk?"

"Baby, you know Greg's still scared enough of you--plus being plain crazy enough--to do most anything for you. But even he ain't messin' with no six-inch spider. Shelob digs the crickets better than the mealworms, by the way."

"Crickets are tastier."

"Heh. Yeah. You would know." And then Warrick's voice shifted again, from teasing to tempting. "Speaking of tasty, did you open up those presents I put in your suitcase?"

Gris snorted and rolled his eyes toward the desk top and the four wrapped packages. "No. I have not opened them, sir." Gris zipped the "sir" with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Of course, Warrick simply laughed. "Good boy. You going out anytime soon?"

"The guys and gals from GWU and Penn State are buying me dinner. We're meeting in the lobby around six."

"Where they taking you?"

"The Monk's Cafe, I think."

"What kind of grub is that?"

"Belgian."

"Uh huh. Y'all ain't gonna be eating, are ya? Y'all gonna be drinking Belgian beer."

Grissom shrugged. "Could be."

"Heh. Yeah. So, it's . . . a quarter to 5:00 in Philadelphia now? Perfect." Warrick's voice rumbled low and dangerous. Gris shivered and started to sweat.

"Open the blue one first."

Gris blinked. He lay stretched out and relaxed on this hard bed, and now his boyfriend wanted him to move? "Now?"

"Yes. Now, baby."

Dear god. How could his heartbeat speed up and body tremble just by hearing Warrick's voice? Gris creaked to his feet and walked stiffly over to the desk. He picked up the small box wrapped with light blue foil paper and a dark blue ribbon. He tucked his cell phone between shoulder and ear so he could rip open the paper to reveal a white cardboard box just a little bigger than a deck of cards. Gris lifted off the top. Inside was a protective bubble wrap envelope. Inside the envelope was a silver and black device about the same size and shape as a Swiss army pocket knife. If the knife was attached to a hook designed to fit over the human ear.

A right eyebrow lifted. "An ear piece, Warrick?"

"A Bluetooth enabled headset. Blue paper for Bluetooth. Get it?"

"Clever. Of course, Thomas Carlyle once said, 'Clever men are good, but they are not the best.'"

"Well, we just gonna see about that. Switch and volume controls are on the bottom. Set your phone down, pick up the headset. Flip it on and slip it on, Gris."

Grissom did as he was told. The headset fit comfortably over his right ear.

"Can you hear me, baby?" His boyfriend's voice came through clearly over the device.

"Yes," Gris said with wonder. When had Warrick found the time not only to buy the headset but pair it with Grissom's phone?

"Good. I want you hands free. You can leave your phone where it is."

"What's the transmission range?"

"About 30 feet, but we can discuss the specs later. Open the green one next."

A larger box. About the size of a thick hardback. It weighed considerably more than the first box.

"Green for greenbacks?" he asked as he broke the light brown ribbon and ripped the forest green paper off the box.

"That's what it cost. Not what it is."

Grissom opened the top flaps of the thick brown cardboard box. Inside was another bubble wrapped item. But this was a book. A gorgeous leather-bound book with gilt-edged paper. His large, rough hands reverently drew the book from the wrap and smoothed gently over the dark brown covers.

"Anima . . . it . . . it's beautiful."

"Thought you'd like it," Warrick's voice purred smugly, deservedly so, but Gris didn't mind.

Engraved in gilt on the spine were the title and author. Grissom read, "Insects Abroad! J.G. Wood!" Delighted, excited, Gris still opened the book with care, noted the lovely marbled endpapers, the tight binding, the near pristine paper. His large hands delicately turned the pages to the title page. "Warrick, Reverend John George Wood was the Isaac Asimov of his day. A prolific and popular writer, though Wood wrote about natural history rather than astronomy."

"Yeah. So I heard. Nick steered me to Mr. Pratt, librarian at Western States Historical Society. Only guy I ever met who has a chance of beating you at Jeopardy. Man rattled off Wood's biography plus everything he ever wrote. Said you'd like this particular book and this particular edition."

"How is Aaron?" Gris asked, half-listening, as he slowly turned pages, fascinated by the detailed 19th century wood engravings of beetles, saltatoria, orthoptera, and weevils. Then he reached the color engraved plates: lepidoptera, butterflies, moths, and hymenoptera in vivid blues, yellows, reds, and greens.

"He's, uh, good, I guess. He remembered you."

"Aaron remembers everything." In awe, Gris lightly ran his fingertips over the colored plates. He smiled. Aaron Pratt had made Grissom do the same with an illustrated manuscript to show that what was supposed to be old vellum had obviously been faked.

"Told me everything, too. Everything about meeting you. What you said, what you wore, what you did. Good thing Aaron's straight or he'd have been after you like a dog after a bone."

"Warrick, this book is so beautiful, but it's too expensive. I don't--"

"Baby, do you have any idea how much scratch you've saved me over the last five months? Home cooked meals every day, no nightclub cover charges, no dance club cover charges, no fancy-assed alcoholic beverages. Even the money I lost to you at poker got spent on me. You're the cheapest date I ever had."

"I don't know whether to feel insulted or complimented."

"Oh yes you do, boyfriend," Warrick lightly reproved. "You figure out yet why I wrapped the book in green paper?"

Gris narrowed his blue eyes in thought, "I'd guess either because green is a traditional color for life sciences or else it's for the publisher--Longmans, Green, and Company."

"That's my boy. Got it in one."

A silly, pleased grin brightened his handsome face. His boyfriend's phone call had captured three of Grissom's favorite things--opening presents, working puzzles, and loving Warrick--all in one.

"You can scope out the book more later. We got more packages to open."

Reluctantly, Gris set Insects Abroad onto the desk.

Two boxes remained: one about the size and thickness of his hand and covered with bright rainbow colored striped paper; the other the largest box of all, wrapped in dark red foil with a black and white zig zag ribbon. The box's shape reminded Gris of a liquor box, but it looked too big and weighed too little to hold anything so rewarding. Or so Gris thought.

"Open the rainbow, baby," Warrick teased into Grissom's right ear.

Gris shivered then smirked. He picked up the slim box and shook it. "Is there a leprechaun and a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow?"

"Heh. Close, but no cigar. And, no, before you ask, it's not one of those freaky reproductions of Noah's Ark from the funky ass Museum of Jurassic Technology, either."

Grissom stopped in the middle of peeling back the rainbow paper to protest, "Hey, pal, we would've had a great time at that museum."

"Admit it. You liked Aron's Records as much as I did."

Grissom did. But he didn't have to admit it. He tried not to sound petulant as he said, "The museum would've been fun, too."

A rolling chuckle vibrated out of the Bluetooth enabled headset. "Okay, baby. Next time we're in L.A.? First stop: the funky ass Museum of Jurassic Technology."

"Thank you," Grissom huffed.

His wicked boyfriend laughed. "You are welcome, baby. Now open that rainbow."

Pursing his lips, Gris tore the rest of the paper away from a thin blue box. He opened the end and slid out a clear plastic picture frame with a fold-out stand. He flipped the frame over. Inside was a 5 x 7 photograph of two men embracing under glowing blue lights. No. He looked closer. Two men dancing under glowing blue lights. He grabbed his glasses out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slipped them on. They sat crookedly because of the headset, but Gris could finally focus on the details. Yes. The two men were definitely dancing. And the two men happened to be Gris and Warrick.

Grissom's eyes began to blink rapidly and his jaw dropped.

"You still there, baby?" He heard in his right ear. "Baby? . . . Baby?"

"Who . . . how . . . what--"

"Sanders."

"Sanders?!" Was Grissom's voice normally that high?

"Yeah. Sanders. Man's got a camera phone that takes some high quality photos. He's got 5 megapixels in that bad boy."

It took a few seconds, but Gris pushed aside his surprise and objectively studied the photo. It was indeed high quality. Even though it was a candid shot, the composition was first rate. Grissom's head rested on Warrick's strong shoulder. Warrick's head rested on Grissom's greying hair. Both men faced the camera but with eyes closed, obviously unaware of anyone but each other. They looked relaxed. They looked happy. They looked like two men in love.

Slowly taking off his glasses, he folded them and dropped them into his shirt breast pocket. Unconsciously, his fingers reached out and brushed the plastic separating him from the image of Warrick's thick curly hair.

Gris cleared his throat. "Greg was at The Dance All?"

"Yeah."

"And he took this picture?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ask him to take this picture?"

"No."

Blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "So he deliberately invaded my . . . our privacy."

"Yeah. And that's why I made sure you didn't see the photo until you got to Philadelphia. Figured you'd have time to calm down before you killed him."

"Revenge is indeed a dish best served cold," Grissom nodded, then a sudden thought made him catch his breath. "Did Greg have his camera phone when he looked in on Speedy and Ziggy?"

"If he did, he didn't use it. Told him he'd only be able to shoot pictures of the inside of his lower intestine if he snapped any photos inside the townhouse. Greg's too busy trying to stay alive. He figures if he can convince you to make him your perennial bug sitter--"

"I won't make him a perennial corpse."

"Something like that. Greg's more than happy to feed the eight legged spawns of Satan so he can skip becoming feed for them."

"Warrick, no arachnid can ingest anything as large as a human. And no arachnid eats carrion."

"Baby, I was speaking metaphorically."

"Oh," Gris shrugged and unfolded the stand on the back of the frame. He set it on the desk facing the bed. His fingers outlined the image of Warrick's body. "Well, I'll consider granting Greg a reprieve."

"Take all the time you want to consider it. Do Sanders good to sweat a little. So how about the rainbow?"

"Hmm?" Grissom paused from studying the photo.

"The rainbow paper."

"Ah . . . well," he cocked his head, blue eyes drawn back to the picture of his boyfriend's beautiful face. "Judy Garland singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'? A cultural icon for middle-aged gay men?"

Warrick snorted. "Not even close, my Wizard of Odd."

Grissom reached out and touched the photo again. "All right. Going back to my confirmation days: God put a rainbow in the sky as a promise. Even in the darkest times, there's hope."

"That's more like it." Then Warrick whispered shyly, "You're my rainbow, baby."

Yes, it was silly. It was sappy. But Warrick's sentimental, romantic confession delighted Gris even while it made him speechless. All he could manage was a goofy, embarrassed smile.

A soft chuckle finally broke the silence. "You like the photo, baby?"

Gris swallowed, rough voice croaking, "You're . . . so handsome."

"Keep thinkin' those good thoughts." Then Warrick's voice vibrated as low and gentle and smooth as John Coltrane's saxophone, "One more box to go."

"Yeah," Grissom barely managed, still stunned. He fiddled with the headset and took a calming breath. His fingers brushed the soft cover of his beautiful book then lingered over his beautiful boyfriend's photo.

"C'mon, baby," Warrick encouraged. "I saved the last for best."

"Okay," Gris murmured, picking up the last present. He hefted the dark red box from large hand to large hand, wanting to prolong the suspense but eager to find out how Warrick could possibly top their first photograph together, much less Insects Abroad. He carried the package back to the bed and sat down. He contemplated the dark red wrapping, the black and white ribbon. What was the significance of these colors?

"You still there?" the teasing voice rumbled from the headset.

"Yeah. I'm . . . thinking." He swung his feet up on the bed and leaned back against the pillows.

"Yeah? That's a surprise," Warrick snarked.

Pursing his lips, Grissom said, "The black and white ribbon. You and me?"

"You know it. And the deep red foil?"

Grissom nodded. He and Warrick rarely said the word, though they tried to show each other every day--through kindness, through respect, through touch, through joy. Sometimes, though, they needed to say it.

"Love."

"Yeah. Love. Love you."

The goofy grin grew wider. "Love you, too."

"Always good to know." Then the deep voice growled, "So . . . what else besides Love?"

Grissom shivered. "Lust."

"Oh, yeah. Lust for sure. Now open it for me, baby."

Dear god. His cock pulsed against his pants and started to lengthen with every dark velvet word. As if he'd been commanded to open himself rather than the package. Shaking fingers slipped off the black and white ribbon then tore open the dark red foil. His palms were sweating by the time he finally opened the nondescript box. The contents, whatever they were, were packed tight. He reached in and drew out a bubble wrapped cylinder about 5 inches in diameter and 9 inches tall. Setting the empty box by the side of the bed, he peeled off the tape securing the bubble wrap, then unrolled the contents onto his lap.

"Holy shit."

"You like it?"

Holy shit. He stared at his lap.

"Warrick?" Grissom's strangled voice rasped, "A dildo?"

"Baby, I will have you know that's not just any dildo. That is an exact replica of yours truly."

Gris dug the glasses out of his shirt pocket with his right hand and picked up the dildo with his left. Dear god. Yes. The same elegant shape, the same breadth, the same length. The familiar pattern of veins. The way the rampant cock sat proudly on its thick base of familiar balls. The color was off, though. Too much like solid black. Warrick had more of a plum-colored cock. And the dildo, while pliable and smooth as skin, held no warmth. Still, Grissom blinked and looked away, trying to catch his breath. His blue eyes settled on two small white tubes still caught in the bubble wrap. He recognized the plastic ampules immediately.

"Warrick?! You--you sent me through airport security with a replica of your eight-inch cock and anal lubricant?!"

"Damn. I owe Catherine 50 bucks."

"What?!"

"I bet her you'd give me the measurement in centimeters."

Grissom gripped the dildo tighter. "Catherine knows about this?!!"

"Baby, who do you think held the cock mold?"

The rushing blood in Grissom's ears prevented him from hearing anything else for a few moments. When deep breathing and silent Buddhist chants finally helped calm him down, all he heard from the headset was Warrick's wicked, gleeful laughter. Gris knew then that he had just been had.

"You bastard," Gris moaned weakly.

Warrick's laughter wound down to soft chuckles. "Wish I coulda seen your face. You know I'm just messin' with you, boyfriend. Cath doesn't know a thing."

"Bastard," Gris repeated softly.

"C'mon, now, those TSA baggage screeners at McCarran have seen kinkier shit than a dark chocolate rubber dick, no matter how lifelike it is."

Grissom shook his head as his heart finally settled back to its regular speed. He snatched off his glasses and skidded them onto the bedside table.

"I can't believe--"

"Just keeping you out of your comfort zone, baby. Don't want you getting bored on me."

"Like that would ever happen."

"Well, I try never to leave anything to chance." Uh oh. The rumble was back. Grissom stopped worrying about airport security and started worrying about his own. "Let's get down to work, baby."

"Work?"

"Uh huh. Work. You think I cast a copy of my cock just for you to look at? Made you some kind of novelty paperweight?"

"Warrick, I--"

"You what? You got no place else to go for another hour. You got nothing else to do." Warrick's voice rumbled even lower, "I'm already hard and aching for you, baby. Been missing you for three and a half days. My cock's gotten as big as its clone. I'm unbuttoning my jeans right now to make room."

"Jesus," Grissom moaned at the exquisite image of Warrick in tight blue jeans and an elegant, plum-colored, erect cock. Shifting on the bed, Gris spread his legs and adjusted his pants to accommodate his own growing cock.

"Yeah. I like to hear you moan. Now, here's what I need you to do: go into the bathroom, fill up the sink with warm water. About the same temp as what you'd shower in. We're gonna let Little Ricky soak for a few minutes. Get him all warmed up for you."

"Jesus fuck," Gris gasped. Sweat beaded on his forehead, pooled in his palms. Never in a million years would he have even dreamed he was about to do . . . whatever Warrick was about to have him do. But Gris would do anything for his boyfriend.

"Talk to me, baby. Tell me what you're doing."

He had to take a shaky breath before he could start talking, "I-I-I'm getting off the bed. I'm walking into the bathroom." He swallowed, "I'm turning on the taps. Adjusting the temperature. Depressing the stopper. I'm filling up the sink."

"Good. You still wearing a tie?"

He looked down at his chest. "Yes."

"Take it off."

He set the replica of his boyfriend's penis on the bathroom counter. Hands shaking, Gris yanked off his gray and maroon striped tie and hung it on the bathroom door knob.

"The sink is full."

"Turn off the taps, drop that big boy in the sink."

Grissom followed his boyfriend's directions. Little Ricky sank to the bottom.

"Does your room have a full-length mirror?"

"Yes."

"Stand in front of it."

Gris blinked, took another big breath, stepped out of the bathroom, and faced the sliding closet doors inset with mirrored glass.

A deep growl from the headset, "Tell me what you see. What I'd see if I was there."

Groaning softly, Gris closed his eyes trying to calm his trembling body. Seconds passed.

"Baby? I'm waiting."

He opened his eyes and looked at a man hotwired for sex. "My--my face . . . and neck are flushed. My eyes burn. My lips . . . my lips are red. They ache to kiss you."

A humming whisper, "Yeah. Yeah. Take off your watch. Unbutton your shirt. Pull it off. Drop it on the floor. Think about my lips and fingers working their way down your chest."

Gris fumbled with the buttons on his dress shirt. He jerked the tail out of his pants then shed his shirt. His hot skin shivered in the air conditioned room. He set his wrist watch on top of his rumpled shirt.

"What do you see?"

Swallowing, Gris stammered, "M-m-my throat and chest glisten w-w-with sweat. My chest . . . my chest rises . . . a-a-and falls . . . gulping in deep . . . deep breaths."

"My bruise still there?"

Grissom reached up to his left shoulder and lightly stroked the faded, possessive mark Warrick had left on Tuesday morning. "Yes."

"Good. Remember what it's there for, baby. What else?"

"My nipples--"

"They're rosy and hard as pink granite."

He closed his eyes and hissed, "Yessss."

"You want me to let you play with them, don't you?"

"Yes, yes."

"Do it, baby. Like I would."

Trembling fingers brushed lightly over stiff nubs. Dear god. Grissom almost dropped to his knees. Gritting his teeth, he gripped his nipples, pulled them, flicked them. Like Warrick would. A muffled cry forced its way from his throat.

"That's right. Yeah. Turn those rose buds red."

A gulping cry and Gris propped his hot hands against the cool mirrored door. He leaned on his arms and sucked in air. His nipples ached and his cock pulsed hard.

His boyfriend's dark baritone murmured, "Take off everything else you got on. Don't touch your cock. Not until I tell you."

Somehow Grissom managed to unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his pants. He wrestled pants, underwear, and socks off his sweating flesh. When he stood free, he glanced at the mirror. And Warrick somehow knew it.

"Tell me. Tell me what you see."

"I--I look like I'm a crazy man. Sweating. Heart beating like mad. Heavy breaths. Muscles pumped. Cock pointing at the ceiling."

"Damn. Goddamn. You better not miss that plane tomorrow. Fuck."

Grissom wanted to smirk at his boyfriends's groans but couldn't. Not until Warrick told him to.

When Warrick came back on the line, he sounded cool and steady, "Okay, baby. My substitute dick should be nice and warm, now. Get it out of the sink, shake it dry. Get the bed ready. I want you on the sheets, on your knees. Legs spread wide. You know the drill. Break open two ampules. Slick up your strong, hard fingers. Then slick up that chocolate dick."

Cold gel coated the middle and index fingers of his right hand but in just a few seconds the gel turned warm. He balanced himself on the bed on his knees and his left hand and waited for Warrick's command.

"Ready?"

"Yessss."

"Tell me."

A quaking sigh. "I'm slipping--god!--I'm slipping my middle finger inside."

"You're tight, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Hot and tight."

"Yessss."

"Hot and tight and begging for it."

Gris managed a faint whimper.

"You know what to do. You know how to open yourself for me, welcome me in."

Deft fingers spread lubricant inside and out. They relaxed tight, anxious muscles. They prepared the way for the copy of his boyfriend's beautiful cock. One finger became two. Two became three. Cascading moans let Warrick know he was more than ready.

"Wish I could be there, baby. Wish I could sink my stiff, hard cock into your sweet ass. But you'll have to do it for me. Talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling."

Grissom's slick fingers tried grabbing the base of the dildo. They slipped so much, he had to use his left hand. He steadied himself on his knees on the hard bed. Slowly he guided the lubricated tip inside. "Uh. Uh. God. It's good. So warm. So fucking good."

"C'mon baby. Say it. Testify."

Gris pushed harder. "Anima, you're always too big. Have to wait. Breathe."

"Relax, sweetheart. You know it's gonna feel so good." Warrick's voice was as tight as Grissom's ass.

Big breaths helped Gris relax. He eased the dildo in further, moaning as each inch sank deeper inside him. Finally, he felt the base snug up against his flesh.

"It's all the way in," he gasped, lungs working like over-heated bellows.

"Damn. Yeah. Baby, tell me."

"Hurts . . . hurts good . . . Fills me up."

"Oh, oh fuck. Wish I was in your ass. Fits me like a glove. Hotter and tighter than my fist could ever be."

A deep moan wrenched Grissom head to toe.

Warrick rasped, "Fuck yourself. Hard and fast. Like I'm gonna do to you when you get home."

A shattering groan and Gris moved the dildo in and out, slow at first but soon his body craved forceful strokes. He powered the copy of Warrick's cock deep inside, dreaming that it was his boyfriend pounding hard into him, hitting every hypersensitive spot, rocking him into blistering pleasure. Moans and grunts and sighs and pants, until--

"Please," he whimpered, "please, anima, please."

"Not yet," Warrick gasped.

Gris burrowed his face into the cool sheets, muscles straining at the awkward position, at the effort it took to plunge the dildo in and out of himself. But his body hummed brightly with the shape of his boyfriend's cock in his ass and the sex-drenched words in his ears.

"Almost there, baby! Sweetheart! Yeah!" Warrick's ragged voice chanted in Grissom's ear. "Yeah! Come for me, baby. Come with me. Come as I come! Now! Now!"

Gris abandoned the dildo and reached for his own cock. One, two, three strokes, and he came, geysering over the sheets in pulsing waves. He cried out, body shaking uncontrollably. Rough, wailing groans electrified his ears, vibrated through his body, made his cock pulse in sympathetic beats.

Slack jawed, he collapsed onto his stomach, falling onto wet sheets. His heart and lungs burned, trying to suck up every square inch of oxygen from the room. Sweat rolled off his back and off his legs. Slowly Grissom grew aware that the big cock was still inside of him. It wasn't getting any smaller. He drew his right leg up, stretched his right hand back, and eased the dildo out.

"Uhhnn," he moaned.

"Oh, oh, baby," Warrick gasped. "The only way . . . that could've been better . . . is if I'd actually . . . been there."

"Uh huh," Gris managed. His breathing was getting easier. His heart rate was slowing down. His trembling muscles were growing lax.

A soft gasping chuckle. "So, you still think . . . a clever man can't be the best?"

Grissom sighed and rubbed his left cheek against the cooling sheets. "Thomas Carlyle . . . can go fuck himself."

Delighted laughter. "Oh, baby, I just love the way you talk so erudite after sex."

"Listen, pal, let's see how erudite you talk after having Little Ricky in your ass for half an hour."

Why the sudden intake of breath? Could Gris have shocked Warrick? "Uh, no. No, no, no, baby. Little Ricky is for you and you alone."

Gris smirked, "Just like Big Ricky, huh?"

"For you and you alone?"

"Yep."

"You know it," Warrick whispered.

And Grissom's smirk blossomed into a smile.

"Uh oh, damn."

"What?" Gris asked lazily.

"I hate to tell you, but you got just 15 minutes to get down to the lobby for your six o'clock dinner."

"The guys from GWU know I'm always late."

"Yeah, but, baby, it's six o'clock right now."

Grissom's head jerked off the bed. He swivelled to look at the small clock radio provided by the Marriott. Bright red numbers glowed 6:02.

"Shit!" He pushed himself off the bed, feet smashing the dildo gift box flat.

"Damn it!" He shot into the bathroom, yanked back the shower curtain, and turned on the tub's taps.

"Hate to have to let you go," Warrick rumbled.

"Me, too," Gris said, testing the jetting water for temperature.

"So, I'll see ya tomorrow night after you talk to Jim?"

He twisted the shower lever to start the spray in the tub. "Yes."

"Call me when you get in to Vegas. I'll clue you in on his location."

"Okay," Gris said as he stepped into the shower, warm water pelting his chest.

"And, baby, could you do me a favor?"

"Of course," he said reaching for the soap.

"You might want to take off your headset before you get in the shower."

"Shit!"

He could still hear Warrick's laughter echoing around the bathroom long after the dripping wet, Bluetooth-enabled headset landed on the bathroom counter.

******

"Passenger Gil Grissom. Gil Grissom. Please return to ticketing," the pleasant female voice announced over the loudspeakers at Philadelphia International Airport. With a headache knocking behind his right eye and a slight queasiness roiling in his stomach, Grissom took a little longer than usual to get going.

It was completely understandable. Last night hadn't ended until early this morning. Gris and the guys and gals from Penn State and GWU had sloshed from The Monk's Cafe to Nodding Head to Fergie's Pub to Dirty Frank's. Grissom hadn't gone pub crawling since college. Somehow the debauched afternoon with Warrick had inspired a hunger for sensation, for fun, and for several pints of microbrewed ale.

Around 2:00 am, Nicole Calhoun and Melonie Malouf, forensic science graduate students from Penn State, poured themselves along with Gris into a cab back to the Marriott. As it turned out, Nickie and Melonie had been after much more than an advanced tutorial on the taxonomy of blowflies. Or a review of their dissertations. Or a theoretical discussion of human anatomy. Even sober, Grissom would've taken longer than the average adult to realize what they were actually looking for. But buzzed, he only figured it out as they were riding the elevator up to the 20th floor--when Nicole's lips tickled his earlobes and Melonie's hands explored his ass. Gris had stammered his way out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened and fled down the hallway. He'd drunk both shots of Jim Beam and stared at reruns of the 2003 World Poker Tour for a couple of hours before he finally fell asleep.

He'd slept through his wake-up call. When he'd finally regained consciousness at noon, he had less than an hour to shower, dress, pack, check out, and catch a cab for the airport.

So it was completely understandable that, on hearing the airport announcement, Gris would need to blink a few times, clear his throat, and take a deep breath before he started moving. He slipped a bookmark between the pages of Insects Abroad and slipped the book back into his briefcase. Shouldering his laptop case, he began the long journey out of the passenger screening line for Concourse D, Philadelphia International Airport.

He felt like a salmon swimming against the stream. Carefully, he navigated past the rapids: children darting under feet, vacationers with way too much carry on baggage, and loud, excited high schoolers making the pilgrimage to Washington, D.C. He just missed getting smashed between two overstuffed backpacks.

It was almost 2:00 p.m. Sunday. His flight was scheduled to leave at 2:45. In slightly rumpled casual shirt and slacks, he walked swiftly back to the United Airlines ticketing booth.

"Mr. Grissom?" A short, curvy woman with long black hair and almond shaped black eyes intercepted him just as he was about to enter the passenger ticketing line. She wore a dark blue jacket with a United Airlines logo on the pocket.

"Yes?"

"Please accompany me to checked baggage screening," she smiled pleasantly, but firmly, and spun around to lead the way.

Gris fleetingly wondered what she'd do if he said "no," then immediately wondered why the hell he'd been summoned to checked baggage screening. "Why?"

She gestured toward the screening area. "Please."

He shrugged and followed her over. Despite his headache and queasiness, his curiosity shot into overdrive. What could've triggered this? He wasn't carrying anything illegal. In fact, he wasn't carrying much more than he'd carried out from Vegas. His brow wrinkled as he tried to remember what he'd hurriedly stuffed into his luggage: beetle carcasses from Venezuela as a thank you from the Penn State guys and gals for giving the workshop; a copy of the draft of Melonie Malouf's dissertation on Spatial and Temporal Variation in Carrion Blow Fly Communities; and a brand new jazz CD for his boyfriend. Thinking in any further detail hurt too much. He used his free hand to massage a throbbing temple.

The checked baggage screening area buzzed with controlled, efficient chaos. Bags all shapes, sizes, colors, and conditions were lined up, headed for the EDS machines. Busy men and women in white short sleeve shirts with dark blue epaulets on the shoulders and round Transportation Security Administration badges on the sleeves slung bags onto conveyer belts and luggage racks. X-ray machines whirred non-stop.

The United Airlines representative guided him around a corner where a dozen partitioned tables held bags in various states of undress. TSA employees wearing blue safety gloves meticulously hand searched through the luggage. Well, at all but one table. There, a woman flanked by two young men stood expectantly, obviously waiting for Passenger Gil Grissom. They blocked his view of the table where he assumed his checked bag lay. The woman was middle-aged, white, thin lips wound as tight as the bun of greying hair at the back of her head. She wore a supervisor's tag, and she stared at Gris with the same intensity as he would a crime scene. The two men--well, they looked more like boys, actually--bore faint blushes and shifted uncomfortably. They were trying to look as stern as their supervisor. They succeeded in looking as stern as SpongeBob SquarePants.

"Gil Grissom?" the TSA supervisor asked brusquely.

"Yes." Gris knew enough not to be chatty or rude. Not with the Feds.

"Your permit," she snapped, holding out her hand.

He blinked. "My what?"

"Your permit. Your United States Department of Agriculture permit," she said self-importantly. "For transporting insects across a state line."

A right eyebrow shot up. "I don't need a permit. I would if I were transporting live specimens. Or viable ova, larvae, or pupae. But I'm not."

The woman's sour lips tightened even more. "You have insects in your luggage."

Dull ache behind his eyes intensifying, Gris just managed to keep his voice level. "I have dead insects in my luggage."

"Dead or alive," she sniffed. "Your permit. Or we confiscate these bottles."

Ms. Thin Lips stepped aside and pointed disapprovingly at three small transparent film canisters on the table. And just behind the canisters sat Little Ricky. Oh fuck.

Grissom swallowed, but that was the only sign of discomfort he allowed himself. He focused intently on the canisters. They were filled with small pieces of wood soaked in ethyl acetate and a single beetle a piece: a shiny green, gold and black rutela laeta; a Christmas-colored pelidnota aureocuprea; and a brilliant jade oxysternum conspicillatum. Beautiful specimens. Beautiful specimens no bureaucrat or any SpongeBob SquarePants look-alike was going to take from him.

He drew himself up to his full height, to his most dignified, professorial best. "USDA Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service regulations require a permit, first," and he held up his right index finger, "if a person is transporting living insects. Second," he held up two fingers, "if the living insects qualify as plant pests. Unless APHIS has added dead beetles to the Regulated Pest List or has quarantined the entire order of dead coleoptera, then I don't need a permit."

They stared at each other for a beat, then her thin lips squeezed into a tight pucker. She lifted a walkie talkie to her mouth. "Manager Nair to inspection point Alpha Five."

Grissom smiled insincerely. "Ask your manager to grab a copy of title 7 of the Code of Federal Regulations on the way. The one with parts 300 to 399 in it."

Ms. Thin Lips narrowed her pale blue eyes and stared at him. And then she, too, smiled insincerely. "Well, while we're waiting for our manager, would you care to explain this?" she dramatically waved her hand in the direction of the black licorice dildo.

He didn't even stop to consider his response. He didn't say something whimsical like "It's a novelty paper weight"; or snarky like "Why? Don't you know?"; or straight-forward and simple like "No." What he said, he said proudly, without hesitation, with blue eyes glowing and a gentle smile on his face: "That is a near exact copy of my boyfriend's fully erect, eight-inch penis."

Well. That was not the answer Ms. Thin Lips was expecting. She stammered, pale eyes blinking, pale face losing any trace of color. The SpongeBobs blushed bright red.

A giggling snort sounded to his left. Gris had forgotten about the United Airlines rep. She had her hand clapped over her mouth, her dark eyes staring at the floor.

"Supervisor Larson, is there a problem?" A short, thin, dark-skinned woman with a pleasant face joined the group. She wore a TSA uniform and a manager's tag.

Uncompromising blue eyes on Supervisor Thin Lips, Grissom quirked his head and lifted a right eyebrow.

Supervisor Larson stared at him for a moment then shook her head. "No, ma'am," she huffed to her manager. "We have resolved the misunderstanding."

She snapped off her gloves and snapped at the SpongeBobs, "Replace those . . . items in Passenger Grissom's suitcase." Then she marched away to look in on another search.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, sir," Taller SpongeBob muttered. Both TSA screeners reached for the film cannisters. Neither was eager to grab for Little Ricky.

Though she maintained her professional demeanor, Manager Nair's black eyes twinkled as she addressed Gris. "I apologize for the delay. And for the misunderstanding."

Grissom nodded briefly, acknowledging the apology but watching closely as Shorter SpongeBob distastefully snatched up the dildo and stuffed it back in the suitcase.

"Impressive," Manager Nair said softly.

Studying Nair for a moment, determining that the manager was completely sincere, Grissom at last stated, "Yes. He is."

Nair's dark eyes flashed enviously. "Lucky man."

"Yes," Gris smiled smugly. "I am."

******

He stood uneasily around the corner from Captain Jim Brass's office. Dealing with people was never Grissom's strong suit. Dealing with people experiencing strong emotions was an automatic losing hand. Still, he'd promised his boyfriend. Grissom took a deep breath before approaching the open door.

"Jim?" he asked softly.

"Hey, Gil." Jim looked up from studying papers on his neat desk. Round face tired and worn, blue eyes dark and bleary, he looked like he was the one who'd drunk all night and traveled all day. "I thought you'd at least wait until tomorrow to show up."

"Well," Gris shrugged, crossing the short distance from the door to sit in a chair in front of Jim's desk. "I needed to check on some things."

"Yeah. Sure." Brass rubbed the back of his neck. "So how was Philly?"

"Good."

"Cross the Delaware over into Jersey?"

"No. No time."

Jim slowly nodded his head then shrugged. "Back in '85--when the wife and I were still talking--we took a trip to Camden to see the ponies run. Garden State Park. It had just reopened. The old grandstand had burned to the ground in the late 70s. You know, one of those wiseguy 'electrical fires.' But along comes wheeler dealer Robert Brennan, and he pumps out $140 million of his own and other people's money and builds this huge, glitzy grandstand. Vegas in Jersey."

Gris tilted his head, listening carefully, trying not to anticipate where Jim was going.

"So, we see a pony called Spend A Buck race. Horse was lightening quick. A bay colt. He'd just won the Kentucky Derby, and get this: his owner turns down racing at the Preakness for a two million dollar payoff from Bob Brennan." Jim shook his head. "Really pissed off the Triple Crown junkies." Jim paused, rubbed his face, stared down at the papers on his desk. "Same year Ellie was born."

Waiting for Brass to continue, Grissom studied the commendations on Jim's bookshelves, the military patches framed and hanging on his wall. Most people really didn't want you to solve their problems. Most people just want you to listen to their problems. Listen without judging. Gris was usually good at that.

Brass at last looked back up, disappointment carved into his face. "Well, Bob Brennan got sent up the river for fraud. Garden State Park got leveled for condos and apartments. Spend A Buck is dead. So is my marriage. And Ellie . . ."

Grissom shifted uneasily in his chair as Jim slumped back in his. Perhaps it was time for an unemotional, objective observation.

"You know," Gris said, "Carl Jung posited his theory of Synchronicity to counteract the tendency to draw a causal relationship between two unrelated occurrences."

Jim blinked, nodded, explored the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Finally he shook his head and sighed. "In English, Gil."

"Your divorce . . . your job . . . you. You didn't cause your daughter to make the choices she's made."

"Gil--" Brass started, obviously exasperated, though Grissom couldn't think why. Then a sarcastic note crept into Jim's voice, "Yeah. Sure. Why don't you thank Dr. Jung for me? Next time you see him."

Ah. Brass evidently wasn't ready for an objective observation. Gris restrained himself from pointing out that Carl Jung had already been dead for over forty years.

Jim waved his hand, "It's okay, buddy. I know you mean well. I know you're here because of Warrick."

"I'm here because of you," Grissom stated honestly.

Brass snorted dismissively. "Well, whatever, I'm glad you dropped by. Perfect timing, actually."

Gris watched Jim fiddle with the papers on his desk. Then their blue eyes met. Brass rasped, "I know how my daughter Ellie lives. I know the company she keeps, and I know what she does to get by. And," he shook his head, "anyway, I mean, I'm . . . I'm . . . a couple of nights ago I'm in L.A. and sitting in my car on Hollywood Boulevard watching her work a corner, and my eyes are playing tricks on me because I don't see what she's doing, I see what she was. I see a little six-year-old girl with a ponytail, playing with crayons . . . singing a little tune to herself. It's . . . I don't know, all I want to do is save her."

Gris sat still, listening intently.

"But the thing is, you know, if something happened to me . . . I don't think Ellie would, uh . . . care." Jim picked up the papers off the desk and handed them to Grissom. "So I'm asking you to do me this favor. There's no one I trust more with my life, or my death . . . than you."

Grissom glanced at the papers. There were two legal forms. A living will and a durable power of attorney for health care. Jim had named Gil Grissom as the principal agent. No one had ever asked Gris for this favor. Not even his mother.

"Jim--"

"Just . . . take the stuff home. Read it. Let me know Tuesday. If it's yes, we'll grab a couple of witnesses. Hell, we'll make it extra legal and get Donna in the Sheriff's Department to notarize everything."

Stunned, speechless, Grissom sat still. Out of habit, he began reading the forms. When he reached the part where Jim had specified that life-sustaining or prolonging treatments not be used, Brass cleared his throat.

"So . . . uh . . . you and Warrick, huh?"

Wary blue eyes snapped up.

An almost smile. "I am a pretty good detective, you know."

Studying Jim's bland, non-judgmental expression, Grissom at last gave a noncommital nod.

"It's good to have somebody. Somebody special," Jim continued.

Gris slowly licked his lips and closed his eyes. He was so used to safeguarding his privacy that he forgot what it meant to be a friend. "Yes. Warrick is . . . very special." A shy shrug and a soft smile. "I . . . love him."

Jim's eyebrows shot up, but that was the only clue that he'd been surprised. "Good for you, man." Strong, blunt fingers rubbed his eyes. "Look, Gil, some . . . some advice from a guy who's been there. Never take Rick for granted. Work hard. Every damn day . . . work hard not to fuck it up."

Grissom blinked. His brow furrowed. "I have no intention of fucking it up."

A disbelieving snort. "Well, you might start by not flirting with women--or anyone else--in front of Rick."

"I don't--" Gris began indignantly. The cynical look on Jim's face stopped him. Ah. Oh. Grissom blushed and shifted in his chair. Yes, he'd flirted with Sofia Curtis in front of Warrick. Maybe a little with Catherine Willows. Maybe even a little with Sara Sidle. Maybe other women, too. But men?

"I-I-I know that . . . now. Uh . . ." Maybe he should finish reading the legal forms at home. He stood up, inclining his head toward the door, "I'll . . . I'll see you Tuesday graveyard?"

"Yeah." A faint smile, and Brass looked more at peace, more like an unbearable weight had been lifted off his shoulders, than when Gris had first entered the office.

Pausing at the door, Grissom knew he needed to say something reassuring, but he couldn't think what. Wonder what Warrick would say?

"Jim, I . . . I'm sorry about Ellie." Gris thought for a moment and added, "It's her loss."

Brass shook his head. Weariness settled once again on his shoulders. "She can't lose what I didn't give her."

******

It was half an hour past midnight when Grissom pulled the Volvo into its usual space in the townhouse complex parking lot. He should've felt tired, but he didn't. He was less than a minute from his boyfriend's embrace.

Grabbing briefcase and laptop from the back seat, Gris slammed the car door and beeped shut the locks. Swiftly he crossed the concrete, unlocked the entrance to the complex, and headed for the stairs. He attacked the steps two at a time, laptop slung over his shoulder, briefcase gripped in his left hand, keys jingling impatiently in his right. He barely noticed the fresh, leaf-green paint coating the walls of his landing or the new, dark-blue weave welcome mat lying in front of his door. A welcome mat where none had lain before.

He did notice the slow hip-hop beat thumping like a lion's heart through the front door, but he didn't mind the noise. Even if he had some apologizing to do to the neighbors tomorrow, Gris was home and almost in his anima's arms.

He shoved the key in the door, twisted the bolt free. Before he could push the door open, it swung back, yanking the keys out of his hands. Long brown arms wrapped around him and lifted him up into a fierce hug.

"Ooof," he wheezed, feeling his spine pop with great satisfaction. Plush lips took the rest of his breath away.

"Welcome home, baby," Warrick's deep voice sighed as he set Grissom back on his feet.

"Well," he gasped. "I won't have to visit the chiropractor this month."

Brilliant green eyes and a brilliant smile. "Yeah. You should let me take care of all your anatomical needs, boyfriend."

God, Warrick looked good. Thick, springy black-brown hair; glowing caramel-brown skin; bare muscled chest and arms. And he smelled good. Orange-pepper scent and honest sweat. And he felt good. Strength and joy and love. Gris pulled his boyfriend into another powerful kiss.

"Warrick! Gil!"

Gris whipped around in Warrick's arms. Oh, shit. Pastor Stephanie. His downstairs neighbor stomping up the stairs. A slightly stocky woman in her late 30s with short spiky hair, deep brown eyes, and a gorgeous smile. Only, she wasn't smiling right now.

"Beethoven. Brahms. Rachmaninoff," she growled. "Even wretched Shostakovich at all hours of the night, and I haven't said a thing. But I draw the line at De La Soul at full volume at one o'clock on Monday morning for crying out loud! Some of us work days, you know!"

"My boyfriend just got home, Steph," Warrick's deep voice vibrated behind Grissom's left ear while strong arms hugged his middle.

"Well, hallelujah, welcome home, Gil. Turn that crap down before I have to send Claudia up here!"

"Yes, ma'am," they both said sheepishly. Neither man wanted a butt kicking from a pissed off
Metropolitan Community Church assistant pastor and her black-belt airline pilot girlfriend.

"Give our love to Claudia," Warrick called as his strong arms backed Grissom inside the townhouse. Gris kicked the door closed then found himself spun around and mashed up against it. He dropped his briefcase. Lips locked, tongues clashed, arms hugged, bodies pressed. As if they'd been apart years instead of days.

Grissom had to breathe. He pushed Warrick back. "Go. Turn down the music. Before we get laid out by the lesbians downstairs."

One more kiss, then Warrick broke away and loped over to the Bang and Olafson stereo. He scaled down the beat. Grissom stood admiring his boyfriend's graceful stride, his back and arm muscles flexing under flawless brown skin. With a deep breath, Gris picked up his briefcase and crossed over to his desk. Briefcase and laptop hit the top just as long fingers reached around him, flicking open buttons, pulling shirttails from his pants. Strong teeth nipped his neck.

"My suitcase," he gasped, squirming around.

"Is that what you call all that junk inside your trunk?" Warrick mimicked the Black Eyed Peas and ran large hands down to cup his boyfriend's round ass.

"Very funny. I need to get my suitcase out of the Volvo."

Another hard hug. "I'll get it. You make yourself comfortable."

Warrick swirled away and picked up a gray sweatshirt off the couch. Pulling it on, he gave Grissom a great look at hard, toned abs, then Warrick and his low-slung jeans and high-cut sneakers ambled out of the townhouse.

Good god. Gris shook his head. He had to be the luckiest man on the face of the planet.

He hurried into his bedroom and tore off his shoes, shirt, pants, socks, and boxers. Clothes into the hamper and Gris into the bathroom. He quickly washed up. He was just stepping out of the bathroom when Warrick entered the bedroom with the suitcase.

A wicked grin. "Oh, baby, I sure love you comfortable."

Gris gave his best wicked grin right back and went right for his boyfriend, wrapping muscled arms around his hard body, pushing him against the bedroom wall. Strength met strength. In a toe-to-toe contest of brawn, Gris would lose to Warrick every time. And Gris usually didn't mind losing to Warrick. At least not in the bedroom. But this time, Grissom wanted to be in control.

A slick pink tongue cruised in and around a brown sugar ear. Warrick shivered and gasped.

"I'm going to take your big cock into my mouth," Gris whispered into his boyfriend's ear.

A low needy groan.

Grissom licked the side of Warrick's face. "I'm going to take your big cock down so far, I'll be able to lick your balls at the same time."

"Jesus, baby!"

Smirking at Warrick's suddenly weak grip and trembling arms, Gris stared into spellbound green eyes as he sank to his knees. He slowly unbuckled his boyfriend's thick belt, slowly unbuttoned his jeans, slowly drew the zipper down. The long, muscled body trembled uncontrollably. The deep voice moaned ceaselessly.

Pushing up the gray sweatshirt, Grissom leaned forward and kissed hard sculpted abs, soft silky skin. He tongued his way down the delicious body as his blunt fingers slowly drew down jeans and boxers. Gris rubbed his beard, lips, and nose into tightly curled pubic hair. He almost got sidetracked there. The scent, the taste, the touch proved too intoxicating. But he felt Warrick begin to shift, to regain strength. And Gris did not want to lose momentum.

Hands kneading and squeezing Warrick's magnificent muscled ass, Grissom sucked in just the head of his boyfriend's cock. Just enough to draw a loud "Fuck!" from Warrick. Just enough to set his arms and legs trembling uncontrollably again.

Lips tight, tongue flicking, teeth nibbling, Gris focused solely on pleasuring his boyfriend. And not in a disengaged, analytical, experimental way, but in a fully engaged, heart-giving, soul-sharing way. For once, he did not want to analyze how or why he made his boyfriend feel good. Grissom simply wanted Warrick to feel good.

"Baby, baby, baby," Warrick chanted. Over and over. He began to thrust tentatively. Gris relaxed and welcomed the long, thick, elegant cock driving in and out of his mouth. The taste, the warmth, the power of the real thing. He stared up into his boyfriend's beautiful face, transformed now into pure want and focused need. Blunt fingers urged thrusting hips. Humming sounds vibrated along the thrusting cock. Blue eyes burned into glazed green eyes.

It didn't take long. Warrick was more than primed. Gris felt the tension rising, the cock swelling, the ass flexing. Long fingers tightened in his graying hair. And Warrick's melodious voice grew harsh, uncontrolled, until he came with an ear-rending shout. To Grissom's ears, it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

Warrick slumped and slid slowly down the bedroom wall. Green eyes glazed, full lips flushed. Gathering him in, Gris cradled his beautiful, loving, ingenious, caring boyfriend. Kisses and sighs and purrs. Soothing blunt fingers splayed out under a gray sweatshirt.

"I love you," Grissom said, without prompting, from the heart.

Green eyes blinked then stared amazed. Full lips opened and closed. A deep breath. "Baby, I . . . I'm almost tempted to say you ought to go away more often if this is what our reunion's gonna be like."

"I'd almost be tempted to go away more often. As long as no more embarrassing surprises end up in my suitcase."

A slow-cooking, wicked grin. "Can't fool me, boyfriend. You loved it. You love Little Ricky."

Gris nodded and lifted his right eyebrow. "So did the baggage screeners in Philadelphia."

His boyfriend's wicked grin grew wider, his shining green eyes sparkled. And then he laughed. That deep, rolling, joy-filled laugh. And Grissom could only laugh, too.

******

By Monday morning at 9:00, Gris had finished his coffee, his croissant, and his crosswords. He'd checked in on the hairy menagerie: his tarantulas Ziggy, Speedy, and (sigh) Shelob, his racing cockroaches Hermes, Artemis, and Ares, his Indian stick insect Indira, his red-spotted assassin bug Brutus. And, of course, the formica rufa coloradensis ant farm.

Gris stretched out on the living room sectional, feet resting on the coffee table. Khepri, his stuffed toy scarab beetle, rested in his lap. Warrick's new jazz CD, a reissue of Charlie Parker's Liveology, jammed on the stereo. Ooh Bop Sh'Bam. A little too bright and loud and up tempo for Grissom's tastes. Especially on a Monday morning. But that didn't matter.

Dark face beaming, green eyes sparkling, Warrick had slapped the CD on when he first woke up. This was the second time through, but Grissom didn't mind. Warrick was happy, and that's what mattered.

Gris stretched out his arms and legs and suppressed a yawn. He settled his shoulders a little more comfortably against the couch. He was dressed for the gym: University of Illinois Insect Fear Film Festival t-shirt, gray sweats, and white cross-trainers. He was happy, too, waiting for his boyfriend to finish dressing for the gym.

His amazing boyfriend. Blue eyes glanced over at his desk where he proudly displayed the picture taken at The Dance All. Then his eyes shifted to the bookcase filled with entymology texts where he proudly shelved Insects Abroad. Then back to the desk where he'd set his Bluetooth enabled headset. And then . . . a shy grin. Little Ricky. Little Ricky, on the other hand, lay ensconsced in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Under several t-shirts, a water-proof poncho from the Amazon rainforest, and a shrunken head from Peru.

With an embarrassed sigh, Grissom turned his attention back to the papers in his hands. The forms Jim Brass had given him Sunday night: "If there is to be a memorial service for me, I wish for this service to include the following (list music, songs, readings or other specific requests that you have)." Jim had hand-written:

Songs:
1. "I've Had the Time of My Life," Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley.
2. "Life Is Eternal," Carly Simon.
3. "Taps," LVPD or Marine Corps trumpet. Whoever loses the coin toss.

Music:
No fucking bagpipes.

Readings:
Pick something appropriate. In English, Gil.

"Hey, baby, what ya got there?"

Gris looked up over his glasses and stopped breathing. Warrick in a tight black sleeveless t-shirt and tight black fitness shorts. Great merciful god. Gulping, Grissom stuttered, "Ah, uh, s-s-something Jim wants me to do for him."

"Yeah? Hmm. If it includes trying to knock some sense into Ellie, I'm there with you."

"No. No, it's . . . it's something else." Gris dropped the durable power of attorney back into his briefcase and took off his glasses.

"How was Jim?" Warrick softly asked.

"Dealing with it. He'll be okay."

"Yeah?"

Grissom smiled, pleased by his boyfriend's deep concern for Brass. Pleased that Warrick and Jim had moved beyond fighting to friendship.

"Yeah. Jim's a lot like Muhammad Ali."

Warrick grinned and quoted, "Inside of a ring or out, ain't nothing wrong with going down. It's staying down that's wrong."

"Exactly."

"Well, speaking of it being wrong staying down, baby," Warrick teased, extending his large hand.

"Hey. I've been up and ready, long before you rolled out of bed, bud," Gris protested but grasped his boyfriend's big hand.

Pulled smoothly to his feet, Gris leaned in as long, gentle fingers ruffled his beard. As plush lips kissed his nose then his lips.

A mischievous grin. "Well, some of us take longer to look our best."

Grissom snorted and rolled his eyes.

Warrick chuckled and kissed his boyfriend again. "You ready to work off that Belgian beer?"

"No. But something tells me I'll be working it off, ready or not."

"Oh, yeah." A bone crunching hug, and then Warrick murmured, "Love you, baby."

Never more sure of anything in his life than his love for Warrick, Grissom looked up, sky blue eyes into sea green. But, being Grissom, he only smirked and said, "Of course you do."