Title: Inclined Chest Press
By: Shelley Russell
Series: Working Out 01
Website: none
Permission to archive: WWOMB. All others please ask.
Fandom(s): CSI: Vegas
Genre: slash
Pairing/Characters: Grissom/Warrick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Warrick pursues, Grissom succumbs.
Warnings: First time, second time, third time. Language.
Notes: I'm new to fan fiction. I've written lots of dry, boring stuff, so it's fun to try writing dialog.
Acknowledgments: With deep appreciation for my awesome beta masters: Erika and Rebecca.
Rating: FRAO
Warnings: First Time

On a cool November day at 9:15 in the morning, Beenie Man bounced from the wall speakers at 24 Hour Fitness. Feeling the bass jolt him from ears to toes, Warrick Brown sped up on the elliptical to keep pace with the cranking beat. The elliptical gave Warrick extra height; he could pop up his heart rate and get the best view of the gym. As well as all the bodies in it. Even when he had only one body on his mind.

He looked over at the inclined chest press. Seated leaning back, dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and gray-green sweat pants, Gil Grissom methodically pulsed 140 pounds above his chest. His trainer Marco stood watch, ready to spot if Gris ran into trouble. Grissom was focused and smooth, but Warrick could see the sweaty glow on his handsome face. Sweat he'd like to lick clean.

He'd met Grissom 14 years ago. Fresh out of LVU, fresh into a new job, looking to prove himself, Warrick had openly suspected that Dr. Grissom was not merely eccentric, but certifiably nuts. Not without reason. Grissom's first request of the rookie had been for a pint of his blood.

With time, though, Warrick found his suspicions changing into tolerance, his tolerance shifting first into respect and then into admiration and finally into bone-deep trust. And then, in an unguarded, crystalline moment, trust evolved into love. And it didn't take long before love bubbled into lust.

For the last three years, Warrick had fought the fire. He had toed the line on professional and workplace ethics, out of respect for Gris more than anything. He hadn't so much as dropped a hint that he wanted more than a professional relationship. Instead, he had studied Grissom, looking for clues that Gris might accept anyone's love, never mind the love of another man. No clues were found.

So why move now? Warrick narrowed his eyes at the answer. Ecklie. Conrad "King of the Weasels" Ecklie. The man least likely to recognize an ethical canon if it bit him on the ass. Ecklie had broken up the best forensics team in the nation. All because he would never have Grissom's respect. True, maybe Gris could've tried not to piss Ecklie off so much. Not in Gris's nature, though. Man's a pitbull when it comes to hanging on to the truth. But, because Grissom wouldn't kiss Ecklie's ass, Ecklie broke up the team, and Warrick no longer worked for Grissom. No more conflict of interest; no danger of impropriety. And that was good. But it was also bad: Warrick no longer worked with Grissom. When he found himself hanging around the hallways after his shift just to see Gris, Warrick knew he had to do something. Time to storm the beaches. "D-Day," he growled out loud. At the elliptical next door, the petite brunette with the startled eyes decided to try out a treadmill instead.

********

It had been Catherine's idea: the gym membership for Grissom, on his August 17 birthday. "No more bug shirts," she ordered the troops, "bug ties, bug hats, bug mugs--"

"Edible bug underwear?," Greg suggested suggestively.

Catherine's look would have scorched a lesser mortal, but Greg was used to handling combustibles. She moved on. "Our fearless leader needs to exercise. So, which gym's it gonna be?"

"Uh, Catherine," Nick looked worried, "don't you think Gris might be . . . kinda insulted that we think he's out of shape?"

"He is out of shape, Nicky boy. Facts are facts. Too many long hours and too much stress. And since he's pissed off too many cops to go to the P.D.'s workout room, we're going to have to find him someplace else."

"Can you see Grissom in a body pump class?" Sara asked. "We've got to get him a personal trainer. Warrick, who's yours? . . . Warrick?"

Warrick sat stunned, caught off guard by the pairing of "Grissom" and "body pump." He thumbed his eyebrow, catching a drop of sweat. "Jessie Rodriguez, but she's not accepting any more clients now. She's going back to school."

"Hey, man," Nick sat forward, elbows on knees, "there's a couple of trainers just starting out at the Athletic Club. I bet they'd charge more reasonable rates, and I could personally deliver the bossman after work."

Warrick's head shot up. "Whoa. No way we can afford the Athletic Club." No way am I gonna let somebody else ferry Gris to another gym. He proposed his own, "I say 24 Hour. Besides, it's closer to work."

"24 Hour ain't cheap, my friend."

"I'll call in markers. They'll cut us a great deal. Jessie will know what trainer we'll need." Warrick hoped he didn't sound too desperate, though he noticed Greg's eyebrows and the edges of his mouth hiked up. Warrick made himself relax, leaning back in the chair, hooding his eyes. "I guarantee it."

"Just like in the Godfather," Greg nodded. "So, do we put the head of Hermes the non-so-swift hissing cockroach in Grissom's bed if he won't go to the gym?"

Catherine lifted her eyebrows, leaving no doubt as to whose head she'd use.

******

Grissom hadn't rejected the gift outright, but it had taken powerful persuasion from everyone on the night shift, plus down and dirty bullying from Catherine, to wear Gris down. Finally, the first of September, at 8:30 in the morning, Warrick and Catherine had corralled Gris after the shift, herding him into Warrick's Denali. Warrick had driven as fast as he dared, trying to get Gris to the gym before he bailed. Luckily, his new trainer, Marco Lombardi, a Roman statue of a man with translucent skin and curly black hair, had met them at the door. Warrick stood guard over Gris as Marco explained the equipment and positioning in clinical, academic detail. He'd expounded on kinetic science and nutritional chemistry. Half way through the consult, Warrick had realized this was going to work. He'd watched Grissom's intellect kick in, puzzle-solving juices going, experimental curiosity turned on. Warrick had sighed a thank you to Jessie's wisdom and promised her one fat Christmas bonus for recommending Marco.

******

"Ten . . . eleven . . . twelve, and you're done."

Grissom took a deep breath in through his nose, expelling it noisily through his mouth.

Marco smiled, "You're ready to bump up to 150 next time."

"Oh. Great," Gris drawled insincerely and stood up, abs aching pleasantly from the crunches two days ago. "No resting on the plateau and looking around for a bit?" trying not to sound too plaintive as Marco handed over a water bottle.

"Don't want to lose your momentum. Onward and upward. Five minutes of cardio, and you're done for the day." He handed Grissom a clean white towel.

Grissom toweled his neck and beard then wiped the equipment handles and seat. He swigged a mouthful of water as he walked toward the ellipticals. As always, one of the machines next to Warrick was free. ‘How does he do it?,' Grissom wondered, ‘Chase anyone away who wants to use that machine?' He couldn't keep at bay a wash of sadness. Warrick was no longer one of Grissom's guys. Warrick was now a co-worker, a former pupil, a colleague on swing shift. Not that Grissom resented the career opportunity for Warrick: better hours, better pay. No, in all honesty, Grissom simply missed the young man's camaraderie, the quiet efficiency, the trusted strong presence. ‘I even miss him kicking my butt at chess,' he smiled wistfully, drinking down the last of the water.

"Hey, Gris," the butt kicker in person grinned, beads of sweat dripping from his nose and chin. "Good workout."

Grissom looked down at the front of his shirt, noticing the dark sweat stain between his pecs and on his belly. "Marco knows exactly how much to push me," he said. "The bastard."

Warrick laughed. "Jessie's great that way, too. Just to the edge of exhaustion. But always to the edge."

Looking up at the slender, dark face and broad smile, Grissom felt his breath catch at the royal beauty of the man. Like a Moorish prince. Quickly he slammed shut those dangerous thoughts and blurted, "Did you know that during intense exercise athletes can lose up to 3% of their body weight in fluids in only 30 minutes?"

The broad smile widened. "Quit stalling, man. Marco's on his way over. Borrow your towel?"

"Let me get you a new one."

"Gris, hand me your towel and get on the machine."

Noticing that Marco actually was coming his way, Grissom tossed his towel to Warrick and climbed up on the elliptical. He tried not to admire too openly the movement of stark white cotton against caramel brown skin. He began a steady pace, punched Quick Start, and set the resistance to level 10. He glanced over at Warrick.

Ocean green eyes met sky blue. "You good for five more minutes?" Warrick challenged.

"Oh, yeah," Gris smiled ironically, "Bring it on."

******

Somewhere between the ellipticals and the locker room, Warrick lost his nerve. Sitting on a wooden bench, drying himself with Grissom's towel, Warrick found every crack in the floor, every tiny rust spot on every lock. He'd scrutinized every corner except where Grissom stood, calmly stripping for his shower. ‘Storm the beaches, hell,' he thought, ‘I can't get off the boat.' He grimaced, disgusted with his cowardice, and opened his mouth, "So, uh, Gris, you got breakfast plans?" Voice sounded normal, nonchalant. Good.

"No, I'm free." Warrick heard the wet slap of a soaked t-shirt hitting the bench. "What did you have in mind?"

He bit down before ‘bending you over the cereal bar and licking cream off your back,' shot past his lips. Warrick swallowed, coughed, and said instead, "How about Well Body?"

A faint groan, "You've been talking to Sara. That place is organic, low-fat, tasteless hell."

Warrick smirked, unsurprised at the reply, and started to grasp the edge of an idea, a faint strategy. Keep Grissom away from the ordinary. Don't let him crawl back into routine. Keep him out of his comfort zone. Warrick folded his arms."Tough," he drawled, "if you need taste, add pepper."

A long pause and then Grissom sighed, "I see Catherine's leadership style is already rubbing off on you." Grissom's footsteps headed down the hall to the showers.

"Too true." Warrick stood and peeled off his own soaked t-shirt and shorts. "I could use a heaping of her fearlessness right about now, too," he whispered. He grabbed his shower caddy, hesitated, then picked up the towel he'd snagged from Grissom. ‘This is crazy,' he thought, burrowing his nose into the white folds, breathing the unique scent deeply, finally letting the cloth slip through his shaking fingers. ‘Crazy sick.' On unsteady legs, he made his way to the shower.

******

Warrick looked flustered, a behavior so out of character that it almost made Grissom nervous. He cocked his head, peering over his glasses and his menu.

"What looks good to you?," he asked, noting Warrick's slight, sudden intake of breath and rapid, double blink. He seemed to duck behind his menu.

"Ummmm . . . pecan short stack," Warrick mumbled.

Puzzled, Grissom dipped back into the menu, studying it silently, pondering what could possibly account for his companion's odd behavior.

"Hi, I'm Fanta," the college-aged waitress perked, placing water glasses on the table, glancing at Grissom, and looking her fill at Warrick, "and I'll be your waitress this morning." She turned her too bright smile to Grissom, "What would you like, sir?"

"I guess I'll go with . . . the Light Wrap: Egg Beaters, turkey sausage, hash browns, salsa, spinach tortilla. Mixed fruit on the side," he ended distastefully. "Growing old sucks."

Fanta smiled indulgently as she took his menu. "Orange juice?"

"Pineapple."

Grissom watched Fanta turn her attention to Warrick. Watched her eyes take him in tip to toe. Watched her mouth curve in appreciation. "And, what can I get for you, sir?"

Grissom smirked and thought, ‘I doubt if what you're offering is listed on the menu, honey.'

Warrick cleared his throat, sea green eyes glued to the menu, "Pecan short stack, blueberry syrup, vanilla yogurt with granola. Yeah, turkey bacon on the side. Orange juice. And coffee."

"Right, thanks. . . . Um, sir, could I have your menu, please?" Warrick reluctantly gave up the plastic shield, then clasped his hands in front of him.

Grissom nodded to Fanta and watched her stride away. He tilted his head slightly. "Whatever happened to jello on springs?"

It took a moment, but Warrick at last recognized the remark. "‘Some Like It Hot'," he nodded. "You, Grissom, are making a pop culture reference?"

"The movie is a classic. Nothing pop about it."

"Uh huh." Warrick loosened the clench of his hands. "So, how do you define classic?"

"Anything still infiltrating the language after forty years or more: classic."

"A matter of time, then."

"And purpose, although I doubt Billy Wilder deliberately set out to make a classic. It's a matter of connecting, of striking the chord of memory. Oh, thank you," he said to Fanta as she set down the juices and coffee.

"Your food will be right out," she smiled at Warrick who spared her a brief, dismissive thanks. Fanta only smiled wider, grateful for each morsel, then sped off to another table.

Grissom took a sip of his juice, waiting until the waitress was out of earshot. He leaned slightly toward Warrick and asked, "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Warrick sounded suspicious.

"Basically ignore her and not upset her."

Warrick shifted a little guiltily. "I don't know. Practice I guess."

Grissom shook his head, admiring Warrick's skill at deflecting unwanted attention. "If you ever figure it out, let me know. I could use a hand with Sara and Sophia."

Warrick picked up his coffee, took a long sip, then set it down purposefully, seeming to reach a decision, casting off his nervousness. "Maybe there's another way."

Grissom knotted his eyebrows, perplexed at the statement, but more so at the behavior. "Another way?"

"Help you out . . .with women."

Grissom felt his cheeks and ear tips grow red. He'd obviously lost the thread of the conversation. "Warrick, I--."

"Wait. Wait. Let me . . . let me explain. Damn, Gris," he ran his long, slender fingers over his clipped beard, "this isn't the best place and time. Not what I'd planned at any rate."

Grissom waited, still as a cat, listening for every nuance, watching for every clue.

Warrick took his time, obviously thinking of the right words to say. At last he looked up and took a deep breath. "Would you go out on a date with me?"

******

Looking at Grissom's shell-shocked face, Warrick almost wished he could retrieve the grenade he'd tossed so abruptly onto the table. But, no going back now.

"Saturday night, Marian McPartland is in town. I've got tickets." He waited for Grissom's reply, but he remained speechless. Warrick soldiered on, "Swing shift's on call this weekend, but both Cath and Nick are ahead of me on the call list. . . . Gris? Come on, man, say something."

"A . . . a d-date?," Grissom fumbled, blue eyes gone wide in surprise, "As in . . . a date date?"

‘My boy is definitely out of his comfort zone,' Warrick thought, then forged ahead. "Yeah. A date. With me."

Reaching across the table he easily captured Gris' left hand. A blue collar hand: muscular, calloused, tanned. It looked good sandwiched between the darker colors of Warrick's skin. He glanced up to catch Grissom's eyes, but they were transfixed on the table.

"I . . . I . . . don't know what to say."

"How about ‘yes'?" Warrick offered hopefully, and he waited with all the stores of patience he'd ever accrued. He risked a gentle movement of his right thumb over the back of Grissom's hand. His eyes flickered over Grissom's face: the luxuriant salt and pepper hair, the fine, straight nose, expressive right eyebrow slightly raised, sculpted soft beard, slightly pursed lips. He focused on the ripe, plump bottom lip and felt a slow heat snake through his body. His nostrils flared, recalling Grissom's scent from the white gym towel. ‘Say yes,' he spoke with his eyes.

Of course, Fanta chose that moment to show up with breakfast.

"Pardon me," she spoke overly loud, spilling her disappointment onto Warrick. He let Gris's hand go but was pleased when he drew away slowly, instead of snatching his hand back as if from the clutches of hell.

Not one to chance a tip, Fanta served them politely but with an arctic frost. She neglected to ask if they needed anything else before she left.

Warrick unrolled his napkin, laying it across his lap, and toyed with his fork. He stole a glance at Grissom who sat ignoring his food, obviously processing, considering, and weighing the evidence. Warrick couldn't keep a smile from his face. This was why he loved the man. Even something so fraught with illogic as a mundane date had to be broken down, seriously studied. He resigned his fate to Grissom's thoughts and started his breakfast.

Warrick was half-way through his pancakes when Grissom rejoined the conversation.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

Sticky pecan and pancake crumbs spluttered onto Warrick's chin, shirt, and plate. "Jeez, Gris," he grabbed his napkin, wiping everything within reach, "you got your double nerd on today."

"I'm not risking any misunderstandings," Grissom stated earnestly. "I have an abysmal track record when it comes to dating."

Staring at Gris, captivated by his pure and unsparing honesty, Warrick tried to gather his thoughts, scattering like scudding clouds.

"Warrick?"

Playing for time, he dipped his napkin into his water glass then furiously attacked the stain on his pearl grey knit shirt. At last he decided. Grissom deserved nothing less than honesty in return. "Yeah, okay, sex with you has crossed my mind. Crossed it a lot lately, but . . . "

"But?"

Warrick looked up into Grissom's neutral face. What clues were there? Hope? Love? Mercy? No. Damn. "What I want more than anything is just to be with you. Sex . . . ," he paused, then started over, "Making love with you . . . would be incredible. But that's not all I want. I miss us. I miss your companionship. I miss your mentoring. I even miss your freaky observations. I know it's only been two weeks, but . . . "

"But?"

This time Warrick looked closer. Sparkling blue eyes warmed under a hot Nevada sun. Hope and love and mercy in spades. Then a perverse spirit made him sit back and smile, "But what I really miss is whupping your ass at chess."

"Did you want to be a professional musician?" Grissom asked, stretching one arm along the back of the booth. He'd dressed with more care than usual: dark blue dress shirt lightly starched and ironed, charcoal gray slacks, black leather dress shoes and black leather jacket. He sat across from Warrick, elegantly dressed in a cream colored suit with a heather green open collar shirt. The V Bar at the Venetian was soothing and not so Vegas. "I watched your hands while Marian McPartland was playing. You played the notes along with her."

Warrick shook his head, swallowing a cold sip of Corona. "Nah. I didn't have the discipline and wasn't willing to suffer for my art. Besides, gambling was my full-time passion. I still dabble though," he smiled at Grissom's suddenly concerned face, "with the music, not the cards. You watched my hands?"

"What's the range of notes you can reach?"

"Octave and a half. Good use of a question to avoid my question. You watched my hands?"

The right side of Grissom's mouth curled upwards. "Your phalanges are balanced in perfect proportion to your palm."

Warrick held up his left hand, flexing and turning it to examine closely. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Gris, blue eyes intent on the long, powerful fingers.

"The Sun ran a story Wednesday," Grissom's voice low and soft, "about a group fusing hip hop with symphonic structure." At Warrick's surprised look, Grissom shrugged and added, "It was next to the crossword puzzle."

"The Dakah Hip Hop Orchestra. Yeah, I caught them at the North Beach Jazz Festival in October. Place was jumping." He left off examining his hand and reached out to capture Grissom's. "Is that a metaphor for us? A merger of classical and hip-hop?"

"Could be."

Warrick's full lips quirked. "Mozart and Mos Def."

"Beethoven was mos' deaf, too." Grissom ventured.

"Oh, man, Gris, that was bad, even for you."

Failing to look guilty as charged, Grissom gripped Warrick's hand strongly, then released it.

Taking another sip of beer, Warrick speculated on whether the time was right, whether Gris was receptive. He couldn't deny his desire, but didn't want to move too quickly. "So, you feel like coming by my place? Intro to Hip-Hop 101?"

"I don't . . . ," Grissom began, then reconsidered what he was going to say. The crinkles around his eyes deepened. "What the hell. Let's get jiggy wit' it."

Warrick's explosive laughter lasted all the way out to the parking lot.

******

The small, three bedroom starter house surprised Grissom. He'd assumed Warrick lived in an apartment, young bachelor on the make. Instead, he'd settled roots deep in the community, content and secure with his past and future. Gris's townhouse had framed dead butterflies perfectly arranged and sleek furniture mathematically placed. Warrick's warm home had family photos, brightly colored jazz posters, and mismatched, inherited furniture. The comparison left Grissom feeling vaguely disquieted.

They sat side by side in shirt sleeves on a couch once owned by one of Warrick's aunts, the faded fabric topped by a maroon and blue caftan.

"Hip hop borrows from everybody: pop, rock, heavy metal, jazz, reggae, r&b. I groove on smart lyrics and wicked tunes." So, Warrick sampled his favorites: Grandmaster Flash's "The Message," Mos Def's "Mathematics," and Barrington Levy's "Murderer." Then he moved on to Erykah Badu, Kenye West, De La Soul, and Twista. The fast, intricate lyrics overwhelmed Grissom, unfamiliar words and phrases whizzing past him like a Puccini quartet without a libretto. He had to admit, though, that the driving rhythms penetrated soul deep, seductive and dangerous. Too bad testosterone heavy posturing so often spoiled the effect. Half-way into Usher and Lil Jon's "Yeah," Warrick took pity, switched off the amp, and settled himself gracefully behind his upright piano. Long fingers stroked the piano's keys, weaving a jazzy, relaxing spell.

"I like it," Grissom smiled gratefully and nodded toward the keyboard.

"Just a little something of my own. Thought you could use the break," Warrick murmured, watching Grissom slowly sink into the music, stretching out his legs, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back. Gradually Warrick improvised and pushed his yearning out through his fingers, letting the piano sing for him. Maybe it was too much too soon. Grissom stirred, restless, and got up to re-investigate the living room. Warrick sighed softly, "The books are down the hall."

"Ah hah!" Grissom flicked on the hall light and disappeared.

"Do I know my boy, or what?" He played a few more minutes, banking the passion, winding up with a cascading flourish, then padded the short way to check on his guest.

He'd converted the 10 by 10 bedroom into a home office: two walls lined with shelves, his PC and workstation settled against the third, a stripped down couch wedged between the closet and door. He leaned against the doorway, suddenly self-assured, knowing that it was only a matter of time. His eyes took possession of the thick shoulders and broad chest under the dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled up revealing strong forearms. Grissom's left hand cradled Entomology and the Law: Flies as Forensic Indicators; his right moved rapidly over the text, quickly flipping the pages. Warrick let his eyes slip lower moving over the curvy ass as Grissom rested his weight on one leg, his intellect absorbed, his body keyed up. The heat simmering in Warrick all evening long suddenly shot to high.

Warrick pushed his long, lean body off the doorframe and took a step into the room. Grissom looked up from his reading and took in the young man's intentions at a glance. Gris smiled softly, though apprehension flickered in wide blue eyes.

Warrick waited, sure of what he wanted, telegraphing his desire through his hooded eyes and a seductive lift of lips. Swallowing under the heated gaze, Grissom turned away, sliding the book back into its place on the shelf, lining the spine precisely with the front of the shelf. Warrick smiled at the deliberate movements, tempted to step close and wrap his arms around the man. Warrick held back, though. If they were to succeed as partners, he knew Gris had to make the first move. For a man who insisted on complete control over himself and his environment, he had to come to the relationship of his own free will, with whatever he could offer. Once, long ago, Warrick, reeling from anger and frustration, had accused Grissom of being a robot. He'd known it was unfair when he'd said it. Grissom was capable of deep feeling, but he didn't always allow himself to express it. Could he tonight?

With his back turned, Gris ran his fingers lightly along the spines of the books. "I need your friendship, Warrick. It's safe, comfortable. This next step . . . terrifies me."

"I can't say it shouldn't, Gris. But I've never been more sure of anything or anyone. I put my trust in you years ago. You've never let me down."

"Unlike others," Gris sighed, " you've never asked things from me that I can't . . . or won't give."

"Am I asking too much now?" Warrick asked roughly, voice coated with desire.

"I don't know." Grissom turned slowly, taking a deep breath. The honest, unflagging trust shining on Warrick's face nearly knocked him off his feet. His fear did not evaporate, but it was overpowered by wonder, wonder that he could be worthy of such . . . trust.

He crossed the short distance to stand close, not touching, but looking up into the taller man's smooth, strong features, seeing the rapid pulse in the sculpted neck. Feeling his glacier blue eyes melt into warm sea green, Grissom reached up past a lifetime of barriers and cradled the sides of Warrick's face, pulling the full lips down to meet his own. Electricity shot through both of them, searing away any hesitation. With an added shock, Warrick felt Grissom releasing control, and he immediately intensified the kiss, slipping his tongue deeply into the yielding mouth. His musician's hands aggressively played Grissom's arms, back, and ass. Gris hung on, knees beginning to buckle and sway. But Warrick pulled back, knowing he could drop them both to the floor right now. He wanted to take as much time as possible, to make this first time perfect. Without breaking the kiss, Warrick guided Gris from the office, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

When they drew apart, Grissom gulped in deep breaths, resting trembling hands on Warrick's shoulders as talented hands swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, slid over shoulders, massaged his chest and abs. Warrick delighted in the unfocussed, passion-soaked blue eyes and brought his hands up for sharp tugs on rose brown nipples.

Grissom threw back his head, shocked at his body's frantic and vulnerable response. Warrick grinned wickedly, maneuvering Grissom to the bed, pushing him down onto his back, bringing his hot mouth down to the firm neck. Muscled arms wrapped tightly around his back hugging hard. Within a short time, he couldn't breathe. Ruthlessly, he pulled free of the bear hug, pinning Gris's arms to the bed.

Kissing, licking, nipping his way down Grissom's body, Warrick got drunk on the smooth, almost hairless skin. He lingered as if in Elysium, rubbing his beard against the muscled chest, softer belly, grazing the cloth covered hip.

With a flurry of strength, Grissom broke free, pulled Warrick back up, and rolled over on top, kissing the younger man deeply, arrogantly, and clutching the tight curls of Warrick's hair. Abruptly Grissom broke the contact and sat back on his knees, his bottom brushing Warrick's straining slacks. His tan reddened from hair line to belt line. Warrick waited for Gris to move.

Slowly, tentatively, Grissom leaned forward, brushing his lips over dark eyebrows and eyelashes, ghosting his tongue over cheeks and nose. Warrick's patience grated thin. When too gentle fingers coasted leisurely over his throat, Warrick grabbed Grissom's head, kissing him voraciously, forcefully, then growled, "Strip. Now."

They attacked buttons, shoe laces, zippers, anything getting in the way of skin on skin. Shoes and socks, pants and shirts, two pairs of boxers flew from the bed, and what remained was two bodies entwined, exploring, rubbing, giving, and receiving as equals. They finally settled, heads pillowed on each other's thighs, lapping and sucking each other's cocks, slowly conjuring primal magic.

Whatever perfection Warrick imagined, it was nothing compared to this, the sight of unfocused blue eyes, stripped of thought, hungry for chaos. Perfection meant Warrick's dark cock sinking between reddened lips, strong fingers encircling his balls. He pulled Grissom closer, swallowing the thick cock deeper, sucking harder, clutching the round ass in a bruising grip. A shudder racing through Grissom's body announced Warrick's reward. With difficulty, he drank it down. And then it seemed lightening hit him, shooting out his cock into the hot greedy mouth, short-circuiting rational thought.

******

Minutes later, somewhat sleepy and smugly satisfied, they lay side by side, hands loosely clasped, breaths and heart beats slow and full.

"That was . . . " Warrick trailed off.

"Good?"

"And plenty."

A wry smile touched Grissom's face. "It's been . . . a long time since I . . . "

"Took the bus out for a drive?"

Puzzled, Grissom looked down at his spent cock. "Took the bus out . . . ? That's a new one."

Warrick rolled over onto his side and gently gathered the cock in question into his broad hand. "This baby is impressive." He gently flicked a thumb over the sizeable head.

Gris sucked in air, nerves sizzling. "Just, god, just genetics," he gulped.

"Blessed by the gene pool. Hmmm, I'm gonna need to rethink some of the activities I'd planned for this evening."

"Activities?" Grissom looked doubtful, "As in more than once? I seem to recall us discussing that you wouldn't ask anything I couldn't give earlier this evening, and . . . ah, no, Warrick, don't," he pleaded, as honey brown fingers lightly skimmed his balls.

"You like that?"

Grissom hissed through clenched teeth, but made no move to stop him.

"Uh huh," Warrick crooned. "The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks."

"Not a good, ahhh, idea to paraphrase, ohhhh, from a trage-ahh-dy, right nowwww."

Warrick's snarky reply was muffled by the large cock in his mouth.

******

Like a well-fed panther, Warrick lay nude across the foot of the bed, exotic green eyes trained on his prey. Trying desperately to ignore the psych-out, Grissom sat equally undressed, legs crossed, elbows on knees, studying the chess board anchored between himself and Warrick.

"That pawn won't move itself, you know," Warrick rumbled deeply.

An irritated eyebrow twitched upward.

"Not unless you've added telekinesis to your super powers."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Grissom refused to look up.

Satisfied that Gris was about to crack, Warrick stretched, lightly scratched the back of his neck, and resettled, watching.

Blue eyes squinted momentarily. Grissom reached out and lifted his last sacrificial pawn one square forward. Soft lips murmured, "In ceremonies of the horsemen, even the pawn must hold a grudge."

Warrick's knight pounced.

Soft lips pursed into a pout. "You could at least have the decency to pretend to think about your next move."

"At least I have the decency not to quote from Bob Dylan."

"Don't diss Dylan." Grissom looked bleak, resting his chin in his hand. "How soon am I gonna lose?"

"Two more moves."

"Shit." Gris closed his eyes, resigned. Warrick waited for the sweet words which finally came. "I concede."

Smiling like a shark, Warrick showed no mercy, "You're slipping, man. I had you in under 20 moves this time."

Blue eyes flashed open. "I miss being your boss. Every decomp in a sewer, every floater, every cat piss soaked house would be on your plate."

Laughing with impunity, Warrick picked up the heavy board, and swung to his feet. He crowed,"Don't hate the playah, Gris."

With a shake of his head, Grissom crossed his arms, stretched out his legs, and leaned back against the bookcase headboard. "Insufferable."

Warrick tilted the last standing black and cream chess pieces into the wooden box on the dresser. He closed the lid and set the board on top. "Hey, I learned insufferable from the best."

"Meaning?"

Warrick bent, his hands placed on the bed, looking ready to pounce. "Meaning I learned insufferable from--," his cell trilled. "Damn."

He loped out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the living room, and grabbed his phone off the top of the piano. ‘Damn, damn, damn, damn . . . ,'he flipped the phone open. "Brown," he answered.

******

Gil Grissom lay back, completely nude, completely relaxed, completely content, with an incredibly idiotic smile on his face. He was deaf to his usual gnawing worries and inadequacies where personal relationships were concerned. He fed instead on the sheer astonishment that someone so young, so different, so beautiful could possibly want someone so . . . odd as himself. Warrick's green eyes were so startling, unexpected. His tall, lithe, muscled body was an icon for male beauty. And then Grissom couldn't begin to catalog the qualities he admired: Warrick's trust, honesty, humor, musical talent, scientific mind. Gris sunned himself in the Warrick Brown universe.

He slowly realized that his universe was standing just inside the bedroom door. And looking simultaneously amazed and pissed as hell.

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked.

"That was Vega. Cath and Nick are tied down processing a gang bang downtown. Guess what I got?"

Grissom's lips quirked.

Warrick crossed his arms. "Decomp in a bathtub in a cat piss soaked house."

Yes, and the look on Grissom's face was unquestionably insufferable.

"Don't say a word," Warrick warned.

Smiling like an angel, Grissom ignored him, "Karma."

Warrick's look promised retaliation, but he moved toward the neat stack of early rollout clothes laying on the end table. He grabbed the pair of black boxers off the top and fluidly slipped them on.

Grissom rolled to his feet and started sorting through the clothing on the floor.

"Hey," Warrick touched Grissom's shoulder, "Come with me."

Tempted, but the thought of the ass chewing he'd get from Catherine if he showed up at any swing shift crime scene stopped him cold. "Not a good idea."

"Ecklie?"

A pause. "Yep." He pulled on his boxers.

"I'm still calling you if I've got bugs."

"Call Catherine first."

"Oh, I hear that." Warrick quickly pulled on a rust-colored t-shirt and blue jeans. Zipping up, he stepped behind Gris who'd just bent over to pick up his rumpled shirt. Draping himself over the broad back, Warrick wrapped his arms around Gris's middle and hugged.

"Mmmph."

"You don't have to go." He kissed the tanned neck briefly then sat to draw on his socks and sneakers.

"No, I should go home."

Warrick shrugged, "You got breakfast plans?"

Grissom smiled, "Yeah. You."

"Oh, that's a good answer, babe." Warrick looked up from tying his kicks to see the effect of the endearment.

Busy buttoning his shirt, Grissom managed to hide his pleased embarrassment.

"So, where you wanna meet?"

"Any place but Well Body," he went in search of his slacks.

Long arms once again wrapped around Gris from behind. "Okay. On weekends, you can be totally decadent."

Grissom hesitated, wondering if this was going way too fast, but the firm embrace reassured him. With a deep breath, he took the leap. "My place."

"For real?"

"Yep. Omelets okay?"

"Uh . . . yeah . . . yeah, sure."

The hesitation stung. "Warrick, I grew up an only child with a single parent. I've lived on my own for the last 30 plus years. I can cook, sew, clean, bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan."

"Baby, I wasn't doubting your abilities, just the ingredients."

"Ah, well," he smirked, "Formica ant pupae are always optional."

The arms around him tightened. "No ants, grasshoppers, or anything else with more than four legs."

"You're missing out."

"I can deal." Warrick let him go. "I'll set the lock on the front door. Just close it when you leave. I'll call you from the lab when I'm through," and Warrick was on his way out.

Warrick pulled up at a small rundown frame house. It had probably been a nice place 20 years ago. A sole police car sat in the driveway. Evidently, Animal Control hadn't made it yet. He grabbed his kit from the back of his SUV and sauntered up the front sidewalk. The smell of cat pee was already ripe.

A short, whip of a man blew out the front door.

‘Fuck,' thought Warrick. "Officer Fromanksy," he said coolly.

"I can't spend all night babysitting a crime scene while you CSI screw ups take your own sweet time."

"Where's the db?"

"Follow your nose, pogue."

Warrick felt his rage begin to build, but he knew it was best to walk away. He tried to step around the shorter man, but Fromansky planted himself in the way. "Hey, Brown, you want in on the pool?"

"I don't place bets anymore."

"Maybe your new boss will. She might have an inside track."

Warrick again tried to side-step, but Fromansky grabbed his arm. "We're betting on Grissom's last day. I say Ecklie fires his ass March 12th."

Balling his fists, Warrick roughly shook the other man off. Warrick wanted nothing more than to smash in Fromansky's ugly face. "Looks like I've found somebody who smells worse than a decomp," he said tonelessly and turned to do his job.

******

The euphoria of the Warrick Brown Universe faded the further Grissom drove. Pulling his Denali into the driveway of his townhouse, he put the truck in park and sat wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

Since grade school, he had funneled all his energy–intellectual, emotional, physical–into his studies or his work. Early on he had tried to connect with other people out of scientific curiosity. Then he'd tried out of sheer necessity. His mother, and the mother hens that seemed to collect around him, constantly pestered him to achieve balance and have normal relationships. To appease them, every few months he'd head out on a date, certain it would end in failure. Of course it would. An experiment conducted under the same conditions yields the same results.

He blinked, startled to see that the engine was still running. With shaking fingers, he switched off the ignition, grabbed his keys, and hurried into his townhouse. The familiar emptiness cocooned him. He hung his keys on the key rack, then cued up Bach's Goldberg Variations on his expensive Bang and Olafson stereo. He stood, eyes closed, letting the precisely constructed baroque masterpiece wash over him, cleansing his mind, easing his spirit. With a deep breath, he headed into the bedroom.

As he emptied his pockets and undressed for his shower, he recalled that Catherine, the latest mother hen in his life, had once speculated that he had been "burned bad" in a previous relationship. It followed that Grissom was reluctant to become emotionally invested in another person. He had let her think that, let her share her diagnosis with others. It leant him an air of tragic mystery and gave him a ready-made excuse for any future farces. All along, though, it was his own detachment that kept him from intimacy. He'd never let anyone close enough to hurt him. Or so he told himself.

He gasped, startled as he slid off his boxers. His genitals were almost painfully sensitive. This . . . madness with Warrick had come upon Grissom slowly, growing out of a deep friendship born of common interests, goals, and temperaments. But Grissom had not exaggerated when he'd confessed he was terrified–terrified of opening himself up, terrified of disrupting his life, and, most of all, terrified of failing once again. Oddly enough, it was his head rather than his heart that sanctioned his relationship with Warrick. Grissom reasoned that if he could ever have a relatively healthy, long-lasting relationship with any human being, it would be with Warrick. Warrick was stable, grounded, tolerant, and self-assured. He would never demand anything Grissom could not give.

Mentally restored, he gathered up his clothes and placed them in the hamper. He stepped into his bathroom and turned on the taps, nudging the hot water a little higher than usual, then dialed up the twin sprays. No, Warrick would never make demands.

******

Warrick was dressed in fresh underwear, socks, and jeans in the Crime Lab's locker room. He'd just finished his second shower, this one with Catherine's special recipe of baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, and lemons, to wash the smells off his body and out of his nose, when Nick sauntered in. Warrick still wasn't used to the buzz cut. He'd warned Nick to stay away from Greg's stylist.

Nick's dark eyes looked teasing as usual, "Hey, man, heard you got to play with the kitties."

"Yeah. It was rank." Warrick pulled on a light blue short sleeve shirt and concentrated on buttoning it. "Elderly vic slipped in the bathtub and cracked her head open a couple of weeks ago. Lucky she'd shut the bathroom door, so she missed out on becoming kitty chow. Her twenty plus cats had a party in the rest of the house. Decomp was so bad, David couldn't tell if the death was suspicious or not."

"Sad. Still better than eejits with guns. Seven automatics, 30 feet apart at most, shoot off 125 plus rounds and only 2 gangstas go down. That's some bad shooting."

"About the same as your first firearm proficiency."

"Oh, low blow, dawg. Good thing I can improve over time, unlike some people."

"Yeah, keep talkin'."

Nick grinned, "So, Cath and me are fixin' to grab some breakfast at Manny's. Wanna come?"

Warrick sat down on a bench to slip on his spare tennis shoes. He'd have write off the others as a smelly loss. "Nah, thanks."

"C'mon, man, just get some coffee with us," Nick's voice was almost pleading. Warrick looked up, surprised at the tone. Nick's dark eyes shifted to the floor.

"Sorry, Nick, I got other plans."

Nick scuffed his shoe against the bench. "Yeah, right, I forgot. Sundays. Free steak and eggs with Susan at the Flamingo."

Warrick shook his head, "Susan met Jamahl, and I've moved on."

"Moved on to who? Another stewardess? A showgirl? Model? No, wait, it's Mia, our new DNA expert. She thinks you're hot."

Was that sarcasm coming from Nick? Warrick said evenly, "Mind your own business, man."

At which point, dynamo Catherine breezed into the locker room, "You boys take forever to primp. Let's go."

"He's got other plans," Nick said quietly.

"Oh. Right. Susan," she stated confidently.

"No," Warrick sighed.

"Mia? She thinks you're hot."

"No! Go eat your breakfast already."

"Warrick, Warrick. You know I'll find out who you're seeing. I'm an investigator. Got a badge and everything." Smiling wickedly, she sailed out the door, Nick caught reluctantly in her wake.

Warrick sat staring at the doorway, not sure what the hell just happened. What had crawled up Nick's butt? Warrick shook his head. He and Nick competed on many levels, but they'd never had a dust up over women. Weird. Warrick rolled his chin side to side, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his neck, then he stood up, stretched, and reached for his cell, thumbing in the number.

"Grissom." The voice curled Warrick's toes.

"Hey. I'm heading out."

"I'll start cooking."

"Oh, baby, you already are."

He heard a distinctive snort, then, "Later, Warrick."

"Sooner, babe."

******

"This is good," Warrick managed between wolfish bites of his mushroom, red pepper, ham, and cheese omelet.

"Thanks," Grissom said deprecatingly.

"No, seriously, this is really good. How come nobody knows you're a great cook?"

Grissom paused, shaking out a few more ant pupae onto the last of his omelet. "Think back to your first reaction when you thought I'd be whipping up breakfast, and you'll have your answer."

"Um, yeah, no offense. I guess nobody wants to try a Grissom potluck." He finished off the sourdough toast.

"Only the brave."

Warrick stretched, yawned, then leaned over and gave him a crumb dusted kiss. "Thank you. For this. For last night."

Embarrassment warred with pleasure as Grissom licked the crumbs from his lips. "I enjoyed being with you, too."

Warrick watched Grissom fork up the last bite of omelet a la ant. "So, you wanna hang out together?"

He swallowed, thought, and asked, "Is that the same thing as going steady?"

Warrick also thought for a moment, wondering if Gris was truly so obtuse or if the man was teasing. Innocent blue eyes looked back at him. Guess it didn't matter, and Warrick was too tired to figure it out. "Yeah. Same difference."

"I'd like that."

"Cool."

Grissom got up from the glass topped table, gathering up the dishes. "First thing: bed."

Warrick's tired eyes brightened and his lips arched into a seductive grin. "Definitely cool."

"You need sleep, and I need to do laundry," Gris carried the dishes into the kitchen for a quick wash up.

Warrick's eyes lasered in on snug blue jeans and black polo shirt. "Not good to go to sleep on a full stomach."

"That's swim on a full stomach. Go take a nap."

Warrick stretched out, provocatively sexy. "Nap with me."

Grissom turned around, drying a plate and almost fumbled it. "I had one earlier. A nap," he nattered on under the hot green gaze, "and if I join you, you won't . . . nap."

"That's the idea." Rising up like a slow tide, Warrick glided into the kitchen, plucked the plate and towel from Grissom, and set them on the counter. His hands went loosely around Grissom's waist, testing the waters, then slid them down to the firm ass, pulling Gris towards him, swiveling lasciviously. He kissed Grissom forcefully.

When the tide rushed back, Grissom gasped, "Okaaayy. Fuck the laundry."

******

Warrick was drifting into sleep with his head on Gris's chest, Grissom's hand playing in his hair, when Grissom announced, "I haven't had three ejaculations in under 10 hours since I discovered masturbation."

Green eyes shot open in amazement, "I guess I'm just gonna have to get used to you dropping facts like that on me. But I don't want to hear about any of your experiments."

"Like you never measured how far you could shoot ejaculate."

Laughing, Warrick dug his face into Grissom's chest. When he could breathe again, he confessed, "Oh, god, busted. I know you're looking smug, so, stop it." Warrick felt gentle fingers drawing an invisible pattern on his back. "So, how old were you?"

"Eleven. Going on Twelve."

"Precocious."

"What can I say? It was the 60s. The summer of love."

"The summer of self love."

"Very funny."

Warrick yawned and stretched, digging his face a little deeper into Grissom's chest. "Who did you think about when you . . ."

"Masturbated?"

"Uh huh."

"Mrs. Emma Peel. Leather catsuits and thigh-high boots. Smarter than everybody."

"Hmmm. High ranking on the kinky scale."

"How about you? Who did you think about?"

Warrick squinted his eyes, thinking back to . . . 1984? 1985? "I don't . . . remember."

"Mr. Wizard?"

"What?!"

"Bill Nye, the Science Guy?"

Warrick laughed, "Gris, damn, stop."

"Just speculating if your fantasies showed a progressive proclivity for science geeks."

"Masturbation fantasies don't usually hook up with reality. Not that I'm complaining." He hugged Gris hard.

They lay quietly, amused, relaxed. Warrick was nearing slumber when, "So, you in a leather catsuit . . . ?"

Warrick grinned, nipped Grissom's chest, and purred, "Nuh-uh. No meow for you, baby."

******

Grissom woke at noon, sweating, crushed by the 6' 2" of muscle and bone stretched out dead asleep on top of him. "Gah. Good thing . . . you don't have . . . an extra ounce . . . of fat on you," he gasped, barely managing to shift Warrick off onto his back. He lay sucking in breath, thankful he'd been lifting weights the last few months. Gris staggered to his feet, heading for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Toweling off, he caught a glimpse of his backside in the mirror. He turned, looking at himself over his shoulder. Ten distinct marks, like fingerprints, glowed darkly on his ass and hips, thumbs and pinkies spaced about an octave and a half apart. "Madness," he whispered, looking toward the bed and his Dionysus.

He turned back, flipping on the hot water, and carefully washed and dried his genitals and inner thighs. Then he gathered up the dirty towels and tossed them into the hamper. Pulling on his jeans and shirt, he snatched up the hamper and hauled it into the utility room, sorting out whites and colors, cold and warm. He started the warm color cycle first, enjoying the everyday sound and sight of the washer filling up and the soap bubbles growing. He added the clothes, dropped the lid, then drifted back out into the living room.

His Sunday routine was completely disrupted. He'd usually be asleep at this time of day, assuming he could sleep. He hadn't called his Mother or gassed up the Denali or worked on his latest article. He had to think a few moments before he realized he hadn't even gotten his Las Vegas Sun in off the front porch. He retrieved it, dumping all of the ad inserts into the trash can by the front door, then carried the paper, now two-thirds less in bulk, over to the couch. The Sun carried both L.A. Times and N.Y. Times puzzles. With glowing anticipation, he pulled out the proper section and opened it to the back. A few years ago, the Sun had thoughtfully moved the two puzzles off the fold. Now he could get down to business, pen in hand.

First clue, 1 across, 8 letters: "God of Wine." Grissom shivered.

******

"Mmmm. Smells like Valentino's in here."

"The sleeper awakes," Grissom murmured, closing the door on the rosemary garlic chicken and potatoes simmering in oven. He stood up, looked toward the bedroom door, and felt his breath catch hard. Wiping sleep from his eyes, and completely nude, Warrick cruised slowly across the livingroom toward the kitchen. Grissom flicked his eyes towards the shades, partially open to let in the late afternoon winter sun.

Warrick pecked Gris on the cheek. "What's on the menu?"

Grissom had to check the stove top before he remembered, "Minestrone. And caesar salad. Um, roasted potatoes and chicken."

"Oh, lord, if you can cook Indian, too, I'll marry you."

"I'll keep that in mind." Grissom nodded toward the tall bottle chilling on the counter. "Chardonnay?"

"Yeah. And what's for dessert?" Warrick leered.

A slow grin spread on Grissom's face. A Sunday evening tradition, "Roller coasters."

"Aw, man," groaned Warrick, shaking his head, "No, no, no. Not good to go on roller coasters with a full stomach."

"You've got a cast-iron stomach. You're the only recruit I know who never spewed at a crime scene."

"Yeah, but I'm usually not hanging upside down going 90 miles an hour when I'm processing a scene."

Disappointed, Grissom retreated into pedantic precision: "The Express only hits 67 miles per hour. Speed only 70."

Warrick wasn't budging. "Sorry, Gris, but coasters just aren't my thing."

Grissom shrugged, stirring the minestrone. "Movie, then?"

"Popcorn and sitting in the dark with you?" Warrick lightly rubbed Gris's back," Oh, yeah, I can go for that. Mind if I grab a shower?"

"Clean towels are on the rack. You've got about 20 minutes."

This time a lingering, sweet kiss, then Warrick strolled unselfconsciously toward the bedroom. Although he knew that his life was in free fall, Grissom couldn't help but enjoy the view.

******

Warrick decided that Grissom was a closet hedonist. The towels were thick, dark green spa quality. The shower/tub had water-saver double spray heads and a detachable water pik to reach all kinds of sensitive places. Loofahs, bath pillow, back scrub. Warrick sorted through the built-in, stainless steel shelves in the shower. Gris must own every unscented product the Body Shop offered. Wait, one bottle of lavender foaming bath. Warrick sniffed it suspiciously. Not overpowering, wood spice rather than flower sweet. "Nice."

Warrick smiled as he soaped up. In less than 24 hours, he had learned almost as much about Gris as he'd learned in 14 years: the man could cook, speed read, groove to jazz and hip hop, and possibly swing on the kinky side. Most intimate of all, during sex, he stayed silent. And not just because his mouth was full most of the time, Warrick smirked.

He loved Grissom's intensity when they made love and adored his goofiness after, but, damn, Warrick wanted more. He wanted to hear Grissom scream his name, wanted Gris to take the initiative on occasion, wanted Grissom body and soul. But Warrick would take it slow. He would keep it light, amusing, and non-threatening. Above all, Warrick whispered, "Keep the boy out of his comfort zone." Their love, like their friendship, would grow organically, given world enough and time.

******

"Hokay, that was different," Warrick deposited the empty popcorn bag into the trash at the rear of the theater. Bound for Gris to find the only romantic zombie comedy in existence.

Grissom added two empty water bottles, "Good blood spatter."

"Not a recommendation you're likely to see in a movie review."

"Outside of Joe Bob Briggs."

‘And another name to Google,' Warrick sighed, but spoke out loud, "I liked the scene where they used vinyl LPs as weapons. And it was cool the way no one realized people had become zombies because they normally acted like zombies anyway. Even at work."

"I think we'd notice any zombie conversions at the crime lab."

"Yeah," he held the exit door open for Gris, "Though I have my doubts about Ecklie."

"Warrick," Grissom warned, zipping up his jacket against the cold desert night.

"Sorry. Unprofessional. I'll let it go." At Gris' skeptical look, Warrick added, "I promise."

They walked in quiet through the parking lot. As they neared Warrick's Denali, Grissom said, "In an ironic and incredibly creepy way, we should be grateful to Conrad."

Warrick nodded, "Breaking us up brought us together."

"Exactly," Grissom smiled.

Warrick unlocked the truck, and they climbed inside, Warrick settling behind the wheel. He started the engine, getting the heater going. "Speaking of work, though," he turned to look at Gris who tilted his head quizzically, "how do you want to handle . . . this . . . us?"

"What do you want?" Grissom emphasized the "you."

Taking a deep breath, Warrick admitted, "Nick and Catherine already gave me the third degree about who I'm spending time with this weekend. I don't want to lie to them, but I'm not in any hurry to tell them, either. I'd like some time out of the spotlight to . . . to let us get our bearings. Let things develop naturally. I also want to know that our friends and colleagues won't freak out."

Grissom nodded his agreement.

Warrick reached over to grip Gris's shoulder, "I'm not embarrassed by what I am or who I'm with. I know it'll be hard no matter what. I don't know how anyone will react and, well . . . "

"Law enforcement personnel as a whole are not known for accepting gay relationships."

"Yeah," Warrick thought of Fromansky's ugly face, "well, I think we need to be particularly careful until we're sure. I don't want to run the risk of hurting you or your reputation."

"Warrick, I don't think it's my reputation we need to worry about. I could paint myself blue, run naked through the lab, and not be considered any more weird than I am now. I think most people would be astounded to know that I was normal enough to have a boyfriend."

"Oh," Warrick swallowed, "I like that."

Grissom lifted an eyebrow, "Which? Me running through the lab naked or me having a boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend will do." Warrick checked the rear view mirror, put the truck into reverse, then gave Gris a hot sideways glance. "For now."

end