Author: Shelley Russell
Author Email: srblackburn@yahoo.com
Category: Angst, Established Relationship, Romance, Series
Rating: FRAO
Pairing: Warrick/Gil
Status of Story: Complete
Summary: Warrick learns what it means to be a real man.
Disclaimer: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is the creation of Anthony Zuiker, and the property of Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and a whole lot of other people. I don't own a dog in this fight. These stories are for entertainment purposes only.
Spoilers: Fifth Season
Story Notes: Episode takes place right after "Committed." Episode spoilers also for "Random Acts of Violence."
Thanks so very much to my betas Buffy and Rebecca who make my writing so much better than it has any right to be.
This story is for lilyvonschtup, for her faith in strong women.
******
"Man, I thought it would never stop raining," Nick Stokes groused, shaking out his rain slicker and throwing it into the back of the Denali. He climbed wearily into the driver's seat of the Las Vegas Crime Lab SUV. It was late Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning, the last day of April.
"Yeah, I hear ya," brushing the last stray drops off of his bright yellow slicker, Warrick Brown stowed it in its proper place in the back of the Denali then slid his tall, powerful body in beside Nick.
Both men were caked with mud. The two crime scene investigators had spent the last six hours processing a gruesome scene just off U.S. 95, a couple of miles south of Goldfield and a hundred eighty miles northwest of Vegas.
Early Friday morning, Dusty Conrad, a laid-off miner, forty-five years old and living out of a 1992 rust-blue Chevy Cavalier, had finally had enough of living. He'd clubbed his forty-three-year-old wife Becky then buckled her body into the front passenger seat. He'd driven south out of Goldfield until he aimed the Chevy straight off a curve. The Cavalier had crashed through a guardrail, tumbled down a steep embankment, and ejected dirty clothes, blankets, bowls, empty liquor bottles, garbage, car parts, himself, and his wife's body when they hit bottom.
Around noon a Nevada Department of Transportation worker noticed the guardrail damage. He'd taken a look, seen the busted-up Cavalier, the debris, and then the bodies, and immediately called Nevada Highway Patrol. The troopers showed up, thinking it was another drowsy driver accident. Trooper Sonia Rodriguez immediately knew otherwise. Most auto accident victims don't have a perfect puncture hole in the middle of their foreheads. Halfway between Las Vegas and Reno, Officer Rodriguez knew to call the CSIs out of Vegas.
Four hours later, Nick and Warrick had rolled into the crime scene in a late spring downpour. Five hours after that, Warrick had managed to find the weapon Dusty had used to kill Becky: a hammer about as rusty as the Cavalier. The claw end of the hammer had lodged itself in the underside of the front seat.
Shivering, Nick cranked the Denali's engine and turned on the heater. Alabama's "Mountain Music" twanged on KIBS 101.7 radio out of Bishop, California. The Voice of the Sierra. Warrick winced. Man, he hated losing rock, paper, scissors to Nick. Bad enough Warrick had to endure his partner's "gotta stay the speed limit, man" driving for the next three hours. But losing also meant Warrick had to endure Nick's abysmal taste in music.
"I'm gonna sleep good tonight," Nick sighed, all too slowly easing the Denali onto southbound U.S. 95, a two-lane road with not a whole lot of traffic this time of night.
"If we make it back to Vegas in time to sleep before our next shift." Damn, Warrick hated to whine, but sitting covered in mud icing listening to redneck music in a slow-moving vehicle at 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning was more than he could take. And then Nick had to go and shine that big country grin. Warrick and Nick were best friends, but sometimes you wouldn't know it.
"You been bitchin' all night, pardner. Who put a burr under your saddle?"
"I'm beat. I'm hungry. I stink. I haven't seen my boyfriend since Wednesday." Warrick's long fingers scrubbed his tired green eyes.
"Uh huh," Nick said, nodding his head in that I-know-something-you- don't-know way. That way that pissed Warrick off even more than he was pissed off already. He gritted his teeth and stared out into the darkness. The sky was still too cloudy to see even Sirius, brightest star in the sky.
The Denali poked along on U.S. 95 for half an hour. The emptiness of Nellis Air Force base lay to their left, the remains of Scottys Junction to their right. Alabama gave way to George Strait who gave way to Jo Dee Messina who gave way to Brooks & Dunn. Commercials for Budweiser and Cabin Essentials and the Santa Fe Motel & Saloon. Warrick thought his ears might start bleeding at any moment. How could he have forgotten to pick up his iPod? Settling back into the padded seat, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. He focused on a composition he'd been working on for his Grams's birthday. Something closer to George Clinton than George Strait. Yeah. More funk, less junk.
And then, as best friends have a habit of doing, Nick picked up their conversation right where they'd left off.
"Speaking of your boyfriend, this snit wouldn't have anything to do with him taking Sara home after shift yesterday, would it?"
His boyfriend Gil Grissom took Sara Sidle home? Sara, the woman who'd dropped everything in San Francisco five years ago to hustle out to Vegas at Grissom's call to investigate Warrick? Sara, who still carried a torch for Gris as big as the Statue of Liberty's? Warrick was only vaguely aware that Gretchen Wilson's "Homewrecker" rocked out of the radio.
His green eyes snapped suspiciously to dark brown. "Say what?"
Nick grinned. His dark eyes twinkled. "Grissom didn't tell you?"
"Man, I've barely talked to Gris since Wednesday." Holding his thumb up to his ear, pinkie to his mouth, Warrick replayed the brief conversation he'd had with his boyfriend. "'Yo, baby, how ya doin'? Yeah, I know you're at work. You're always at work. Just wanted to make sure you're still alive.'"
Nodding his head, Nick waited for Warrick to continue. When he didn't, Nick asked, "So, what did he say?"
Warrick huffed, "Said he'd see me Saturday after shift. Said that if he died, Judy would notify Catherine who'd notify me. And he reminded me not to call him while he's at work."
Nick started laughing. Warrick snorted and looked out the window hoping to see something. "Homewrecker" segued into Lee Ann Womack's "He Ought to Know That by Now." Yeah, Warrick loved his boyfriend, but Gris sure could act like a horse's ass on occasion.
A few more miles later, and Nick said, "He won't say anything about Sara. Will he?"
"Nope." Of course not. Warrick's boyfriend never revealed anything about himself unless you asked the right questions and waited a few years for the answer. Staring out the passenger window, Warrick craned his head, watching for any sign of a break in the clouds. Gris had once said that you could get a perfect view of the constellations Leo and Virgo in the Nevada desert in late April. Man, you could always get Grissom to talk about science. Talking about himself required an act of Congress.
Then KIBS played Martina McBride's sappy "God's Will," and Warrick cringed.
Generous lips tightening, he glanced over at the speed indicator. Nick had dropped the speed to 55 mph, fifteen miles below the limit. "Hey, buddy, you wanna set the cruise control to 70? I'd like to get out of these coveralls while I can still walk."
Slowing down to fifty, Nick smirked, "Sure you don't want me to speed up so you can check on your boyfriend?"
"Nick, I am gonna check you right outta this vehicle if you don't push it up to the limit."
"Hey, now, simmer down. Don't get your spurs in a tangle."
"Nick . . ." Warrick warned. God, but he hated the cowboy patter.
His friend's grin settled into smug as Warrick's scowl darkened. He wished he could play it cool where his boyfriend was concerned. After all, Gris didn't actively seek out attention from women. Or men, for that matter. But he wasn't the most astute individual when it came to recognizing yearning looks. Why the hell had Gris taken Sara home? And exactly to whose home had he taken her? And exactly how long had they been there? Warrick took a deep breath and ran his strong fingers over the tight muscles in his neck. They were just beginning to loosen when "God's Will" segued to Toby Keith's "Honky Tonk U."
"Damn, Nick, you have got to change the channel before my head explodes."
"Only if you ask nicely."
"Goddammit, would you change the fucking channel, please?"
Laughing, Nick's handsome face beamed. "Bro', we've worked together way too long. You better ask me for what you really want."
"A'ight. I want you to drive 80 and switch the radio from country crap to . . . whatever the hell else we can get out here."
"Well, ain't no jazz stations out here, pardner. Mostly country, inspirational, or talk radio. But, tell ya what. Compromise. I'll do 70 and switch it to KHWK, if you ask me what you really wanna know."
The back of Warrick's head hit the seat's head rest. He blew out a big sigh. Well, compromise was better than listening to Toby Keith any day. Still, Warrick couldn't give in too easily. "I hate you, man."
"Nah, you love me, hombre."
Warrick glared out at the straight, empty stretch of U.S. 95, lit by the Denali's bright headlights. Then the sound of Toby Keith's pompous baritone broke Warrick's will. "Shit. Okay. So . . . why . . . the fuck . . . did Gris take Sara," Warrick swallowed and hoped he was right," to her apartment?"
Nick grinned, "Now was that so hard?"
Green eyes glared fiercely. Chuckling, Nick sped up the Denali to 70, set the cruise control, changed the radio to 92.7. The Dave Matthews Band chugged from the radio, tolerably better than Toby Keith. The two men listened to the first few lines of "American Baby" as the grin on Nick's handsome face slowly faded.
At last he spoke quietly, "A crazy guy attacked her."
"What?! One of those pervs at Desert State Mental Hospital?"
"Yeah."
"Damn. She okay?"
"Okay as can be expected. She got shook up bad, though. Too shook up to drive. So Gris drove her home."
Whoa. She must've been really shook up for Gris to notice. "Sara tell you this?"
"Nah. Next best thing, though. Heard it straight from Greggo himself." Nick couldn't keep his grin away for long, "Quick, which is faster: telegraph, telephone, or tell a Greg?"
Warrick grinned, too. Both men said at the same time, "Tell a Greg."
And then the grins faded as they considered what Sara must've gone through. Warrick asked, "What the hell happened?"
"Well, Greg said Sara and Grissom were processing the secured Nurses' station. He left to find somebody to unlock some drawers. When he got back with one of the guards, one of the crazies had gotten inside the station and locked the door. When the guard couldn't open the door, Gris looked in the window to the station. Crazy guy had an arm around Sara and a sharp piece of pottery at her throat."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. The guy's screaming at Sara not to look at Gris. One of the nurses runs up and starts shouting at crazy guy. He sees her and flips out, screams at her to go away. Sara elbows the guy and breaks free. The guard finally gets the door unlocked, and she shoots out of the station and down the hallway. She told Greg she just freaked out, started banging on a security glass window, trying to get the hell out. In the meantime, crazy guy slits his own throat, and everybody from security starts pounding into the station."
"Where the hell was Gris when all this happened?"
Nick shrugged. "No idea. Sara said she couldn't remember how long she hammered on the window. She remembers that when she finally stopped, she leaned against the wall and cried for a couple of minutes. When she stopped crying, Grissom was there standing beside her. He handed her some gauze pads to wipe her face. Then he finally asked her if she was okay. She said yeah, and he led her over to a bench, made her sit down, offered to bring somebody else in to finish the case."
"That's all he offered?" Damn. That shouldn't have slipped out.
Obviously fighting back a grin, Nick said, "Offered to drive her home to her apartment, evidently. So, how do you feel about that?"
Warrick's eyebrows met each other. "What do you mean 'how do I feel about that?'"
"How do you feel about Gris taking her home?"
"I trust him, if that's what you're getting at."
An odd, almost embarrassed look crossed Nick's face. He turned away and stared out at the road.
Warrick's flawless brow furrowed. What the hell was up with Nick? Did something happen with Gris and Sara? Nah, nah, Warrick trusted his boyfriend. Long fingers scrubbing a tired and dirty face, Warrick told himself he even trusted Sara. But he knew that people who've been traumatized will seek solace wherever they can. And other people who normally wouldn't--or even couldn't--unbend and give some comfort might find themselves doing just that. A damsel in distress tempts most men. Even Grissom wouldn't be immune. And Sara? Well, Sara was a little too persistent and a little too candid about her attraction for Gris. In Warrick's opinion, at any rate. But why should Nick be so concerned?
Warrick waited, trying to work out what was bugging Nick and to block out the The Backstreet Boys' "Incomplete."
At last Nick shrugged his shoulders and said wistfully, "You think he'd do that, take any of the rest of us home if we'd been attacked?"
"Man, figuring out what the hell Gris would or wouldn't do is a full time job, and I ain't got the time for that." Warrick noted Nick's tense shoulders and arms. "Why you so upset about it?"
"Nothing, man. Forget it."
"Uh huh." Green eyes studied his best friend. Something was definitely up with Nick. Something personal. Something maybe Gris had done or not done? Maybe in a situation similar to Sara's? A sudden thought struck Warrick, and he knew what was bothering his friend: CSI Nick Stokes stalked and attacked and at the wrong end of a gun. And all Gris had done was give Nick a lecture. Nope, no words of comfort or a ride home. Just a lesson in psychology. Could Nick still be hurt by that? Even after three years? Well, if that's what it was, Nick didn't need coddling. He needed to get over it.
"You're still pissed about Maslow's hierarchy of needs."
"What?" Nick's dark eyes cut in Warrick's direction then returned to watching the road. "No."
"Uh huh. Admit it, Nick. You're still pissed that Daddy Grissom didn't pat you on the back and tell you everything was gonna be all right."
"Fuck you, man."
"You wish." Warrick grinned as Nick blushed bright red. "Yeah, you can dish it out, junior, but you can't take it."
"Yeah? Well, you'll talk different when a stalker nut job shoves a gun in your face."
"Wasn't a stalker, but how about a meth dealer?"
Nick snorted, "Yeah? When?"
"When I was in L.A. week before last. Brass, Captain Kramer, and me busted into this trashy apartment. Had all the makings for home- brewed meth: coffee filters, cough medicine, hot plates. I was lighting up the free iodine on the walls when the tweaker-in-charge shows up, waving his piece in my direction. Crazy enough to pull the trigger even with two 9 millimeters trained on his bugged out skull. Thought we were robbing him. Worse. We were arresting his ass for running the meth lab."
Nick's wide jaw fell open. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Warrick shrugged, "It's over and done."
"Bullshit, man. You gonna look me in the eye and tell me you haven't had one bad dream about it?"
Damn. Nick was too sharp. Warrick looked out the window. If it wasn't so dark, he would've been able to see Grapevine Peak out on the California-Nevada border. U2's "Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own" provided the only sound.
"Rick, it's okay. The nightmares go away. Eventually."
Warrick looked back to Nick as he rubbed his chin. Dark brown eyes met soft green.
"So . . . you tell Grissom, yet?" Nick wasn't going to let this go.
"Nope."
Dark eyebrows lifted. Dark eyes stared at him. Warrick sighed. Damn. His best friend was just too caring and too concerned to ignore. With another sigh, Warrick faced Nick. "All right. Lay it on me."
Shaking his head slowly, Nick said, "You and Gris are something else, you know that? If one of my parents gave a ride home to somebody who'd been bird dogging them for years or, God forbid, got threatened with a gun? And didn't mention it? And the other found out about it?" he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. "That would be one balls- frosty mornin' in Dallas, my friend."
"Yeah? Well, Gris and me aren't married. And, no, don't go there."
Nick pursed his lips then muttered, "Y'all sure act like it."
"Let's just drop this, buddy."
"Heh." The smug look was back on Nick's face. "Or what? You're gonna drop me?"
Rolling his eyes, Warrick looked out at the horizon but couldn't see a thing. Well, at least, Nick shut up. After a few minutes, Warrick relaxed. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about his boyfriend. Thinking about Gris without having seen him or touched him or held him in 3 days tended to lead to embarrassing physical reactions. Like having a dry mouth or sweating palms or a stubborn hard-on.
And thinking about Gris with Sara also tended to lead to embarrassing physical reactions. Like grinding his teeth or squeezing his fingers into fists or kicking in the radio. So, Warrick shut out the Pussycat Dolls' "Don't cha?" and returned to "Mrs. Brown Wears a Crown," his musical gift for Grams. Her birthday present. Warrick was her favorite grandchild, and everyone in the family knew it. Lucky for everyone in the family, Warrick had too much integrity to exploit his position, and Grams had too much good sense to spoil him.
They at last lost KHWK (and any other radio station even remotely worth listening to). Nick reluctantly turned off the radio.
"You want to hear my latest?" Warrick asked.
"Yeah, hoss. Anything to stay awake," Nick teased.
Warrick grinned at the response. Then he crooned the melody for "Mrs. Brown Wears a Crown," his fingers tapping his thighs as if hitting ghost piano keys. His feet tapping out the beat. Nick bounced his head in time to the music.
"Man, that is awesome!" Nick crowed when Warrick finished.
"Thanks. Birthday present for Grams."
"She's gonna love it. You got any other tunes to keep my eyes open?"
A sly smile. "Buddy, if you're so sleepy, I can always take over the wheel."
Nick pursed his lips then grinned. "Nah. That's okay. Think I'll just sing some country favorites to stay awake."
Warrick immediately began to sing.
The Denali had run 60 miles closer to Las Vegas when Warrick had to take a break. He grabbed a couple of bottles of water out of the small cooler behind Nick's seat. While Nick took a sip, Warrick drank half the bottle.
They'd just passed the sign for the junction of U.S. 95 and state highway 160, the road south to Pahrump, when Nick resumed the conversation they'd left 50 minutes ago, "So, man, I gotta know, if y'all don't talk about each other, what the hell do you talk about?"
Shaking his head at his friend's tenacity, Warrick took another gulp of water before replying, "What any two guys talk about: sports, cars, music, food, women, the life cycle of black soldier flies."
Surprise and confusion on Nick's face. "Y'all talk about women?"
"We talk about men, too, but I didn't want to mention it while you're driving. In case you tried to pass out or something."
Yep, Nick blushed again. Warrick grinned, lucky to have a friend like Nick. He didn't really understand how Warrick could be attracted to-- much less actually have sex with--another man, especially another man like Grissom. But Nick was far too well mannered ever to say so. And Nick would never let prejudices he'd been taught as a child get in the way of friendships he'd made as an adult. But that didn't mean Nick was just gonna ignore Warrick's barb.
"Look, hombre, me passing out was just 'cause you never had the decency to tell me you and Gris were . . . together. That sound familiar, bro'? You not tellin' somebody something important?"
Warrick held up his hands. "Yeah, all right. Touche, my man. You got me."
Nodding his head, Nick stuck out his chin, "So, you gonna tell him?"
Long fingers rubbed tired eyes. Warrick would be pestered mercilessly until he fessed up. Groaning, he said, "Yeah, I'll tell him."
Nick pointed his finger at his friend, "I'll hold you to that."
Warrick shook his head and drank his water.
Twenty minutes later, a faint glow in the southeast brightened the horizon. Still an hour to go before sunrise, though. Forty miles outside of Las Vegas, and the city's glitzy lights were already turning the desert night sky to artificial dawn.
"So . . . uh . . . you wanna shoot some baskets this afternoon?" Nick broke the silence.
"What? No plans with Sofia?" Warrick grinned slyly.
A shy smile, then Nick cleared his throat. "Not this weekend. Unfortunately."
"Huh. Okay, make it Sunday, and you got a deal."
"Oh, yeah, right. Your grandmother's birthday party's this afternoon."
"Eighty-five and still alive." Warrick shrugged at Nick's surprise, "Her words, not mine."
Nick nodded his head. "Graveyard's on call this weekend, and Gris is still going?"
A brilliant grin. "Oh, yeah. Boyfriend ain't gettin' out of going with that excuse."
Nick shook his head. "Man, I can't even imagine him at a party. What does he do? Check for bugs in the basement? Tell lame jokes? Talk about the nastiest crime scenes he's ever seen?"
"He hides in a corner with Latisha while she dishes on the family."
"She's the cousin who's deaf, right?"
"Yeah. And nosey as a cat. She picks up more dirty laundry than a maid at the Sphere."
Nick's dark eyes shone with understanding. "And now there's somebody outside the family who she can talk to."
"You got it."
Once again, Warrick was struck by how perceptive Nick was. And how kind Nick was, not only to remember the names of the folks in Warrick's huge family but to know how important someone like Gris could be to someone like Lala. Such a good friend deserved a good friend in turn.
Warrick's long fingers rubbed his chin. "Nick, man, sorry about the 'Daddy Grissom' crack. I know it was a tough time for you, and, trust me, I know how harsh and . . clueless Gris can be sometimes. Well, most times."
"Hey," Nick took his right hand off the steering wheel and gave Warrick a light punch to his upper arm. "Best friends tell each other the truth, even if it hurts, right?"
"Yeah," Warrick nodded. "But best friends don't hurt each other so carelessly."
They shared an apologetic and forgiving glance, as best friends do. Then Nick grinned that sly, wicked, country grin, and Warrick knew he was in trouble.
"Well, thanks, pardner. You know, though, for some reason I don't feel so guilty now doing this." Nick leaned forward, turned the radio back on, and punched a pre-set station.
A male voice way too perky for 5 o'clock on a Saturday morning boomed, "This is KFLG-FM, Kingman, Arizona, and you are listening to a repeat of the Country Classic Show with Charley Connor." And then George Jones and Tammy Wynette's nasal harmonies leapt into the Denali, "We're gonna hold on / We're gonna hold on / We're gonna hooooold on / To each other."
"Oh, Jesus lord," Warrick groaned and covered his ears.
Nick slowed the Denali down to 55 and just laughed.
"She'll die without her son," Gil Grissom spoke softly, looking through the observation room's one-way glass. He watched Captain Jim Brass arrest Joanne McKay Trent for the murder of Robbie Garson.
"That would be better for both of them," Sara Sidle pronounced, pain and disgust clear in her voice. Sara stared at Nurse Trent as Captain Brass handcuffed her and recited her Miranda rights.
Sara's grief and anger threatened to overwhelm Gris. Since being with his boyfriend, Gris had grown in being able to express his emotions. Also since being with his boyfriend, Gris had grown in learning how to cope with intense emotions expressed by other people. Granted, it had taken almost losing Warrick plus going to a psychiatrist to learn how to cope, but Gris had swallowed his pride and done it. Extreme emotions, such as those roiling off of Sara, still proved too much for him. He could feel himself shutting down. Managing a brief nod of understanding to Sara, he fled the observation room.
As he hurried through the busy corridors of the Las Vegas crime lab, he also tried to flee his sense of failure. Failure to protect Sara. Failure to comfort her. Failure to give her the attention she so desperately wanted. For once, though, he had tried. He had tried to reach out to her, in a fumbling, unsatisfactory way, yes, but at least he'd tried. In the past, before Warrick--and Dr. Golden--, Gris would've either given a lecture or simply booked.
Stern blue eyes focused straight ahead, tight lips pursed and frowning, he didn't notice the raised eyebrows, knowing looks, or abrupt silence as he shot past. Everyone in the lab suddenly had plenty of work to do or other places to be.
He plunged into his office and dove into mind-numbing paperwork: the case review of the death of Robbie Garson. What a sad ending for a disturbed young man, to be suffocated by a nurse at a mental hospital for the criminally insane. Suffocated by a jealous woman who'd pursued an incestuous relationship with her son Adam Trent, even after he'd been committed to the Desert State Mental Hospital as a serial rapist. Joanne McKay Trent had killed her son's male lover. Her son had almost killed Sara.
Gris looked up from his desk and blew out a tension-filled breath. Sara. He knew that Sara wanted so much more from him than he could give--either ethically or emotionally. He'd made the mistake several years ago, getting involved with an employee he supervised. He'd made the mistake with Sara, actually, when they worked together in San Francisco. He'd been flattered by her devotion. He'd been attracted by her intelligence. He'd been impressed by her determination. But even back then, back before the weight of added responsibility and years had toughened a hard shell harder, he could not give Sara the emotional comfort and support she needed. Grissom had proven his incompetence as a companion, a partner, a friend. Why Sara thought he would prove any different now in Las Vegas was a complete mystery to him.
But more troubling than any thoughts of Sara were the thoughts of his failure to act. Would he have responded in the same way if Warrick had been in danger? If it had been Warrick with death held to his neck? If it had been Warrick running out of that bloody room instead of Sara, would Grissom have still stood frozen, caught between duty to preserve the crime scene and need to protect his lover?
Shaking his head, Gris drove away thoughts of Sara's emotional neediness or his emotional disabilities or especially Warrick in danger. Grissom glanced at the clock: 4 a.m., Saturday morning, the last day in April. He looked back down at his case review. The sooner he finished the review, the sooner he could go home. A slight smile touched his face. "Home." From the Old English word hám, meaning a dwelling place, house, abode. But that definition no longer applied. Not for Gris. "Home" now meant wherever Warrick happened to be.
******
At 7:00 a.m., Grissom locked his office and sped for the parking garage. As he swung past the front desk, the night shift secretary Judy called to him, "Mr. Grissom? A message from Judge Mason's chamber."
He reluctantly skidded to a stop and grabbed the message. His court appearance scheduled for next week had been postponed to May 14.
"And Mr. Stokes and Mr. Brown got back from Goldfield at 5:30."
Even though he'd never asked, all of the lab's secretaries kept Grissom up to speed on his guys. The guys he'd lost to Swing Shift because he wouldn't play politics or kiss A.D. Ecklie's ass. Gris didn't know if the secretaries were simply reporting to him out of habit or if they enjoyed sticking a phantom thumb in Ecklie's eye.
Quirking his head, Grissom raised his right eyebrow. A signal for Judy to keep talking.
The petite young woman perked up, surprised that Gris seemed interested. "Oh. They--they determined murder/suicide."
Nodding, Gris asked, "Is War--," he caught himself, "Are Nick and Warrick still here?"
She smiled nervously and adjusted her eyeglasses. This had to be one of the longest conversations she'd ever had with him. "No, sir. They were, um, dirty. And, quite frankly, sir, they smelled awful. They-- they said they were logging out to clean up and sleep." She blinked owl-like eyes and pursed her lips, trying to recall detail. "Warrick, I mean, Mr. Brown must have been very tired. I've never seen him so, um, well, surly."
A faint smile tugging at his lips, Gris nodded again in encouragement.
Clearing her throat, Judy dropped her voice to conspirator's level, "Well, when Mr. Stokes offered to give him a lift, he said he'd 'rather walk all the way home barefoot on broken glass than ride in the hickmobile and endure one more fucking steel guitar.'"
She looked proud to have remembered everything. And then she realized she'd just said the word "fucking" to Dr. Gil Grissom. Her owlish eyes blinked in horror; her pale face flushed bright red.
"Well. I'm sure he was tired," Grissom's lips curled slightly upwards. Eight hours listening to country music had killed men stronger than Warrick.
"Thank you, Judy," Gris said, and meant it, and then hurried on his way to the parking garage.
He didn't notice Judy straightening to her full 5 feet in height and beaming like she'd just won a free trip to Acapulco. He didn't realize that his unfailing courtesy toward the secretaries, even when they might slip up in front of him, was why they continued to think of him, rather than Ecklie, as the boss.
Gris slung his briefcase into the passenger seat of his well- preserved, second-hand Volvo, buckled in, and started the engine. Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of his townhouse, scanning to see if his boyfriend's Lexus was parked in its usual spot. It wasn't.
Sorely tempted to drive immediately over to Warrick's house, Grissom reluctantly decided to let Warrick sleep. After all, Gris hadn't visited his townhouse in two days. He picked up his Las Vegas Sun newspapers, flipped through his mail, and cued up his stereo to Handel's glorious aria "As with Rosy Steps the Morn." He remembered at the last second to turn down the sound. The last thing he wanted was his downstairs neighbor Pastor Stephanie pounding up the stairs and pounding on his front door.
He tossed all of his mail into the garbage. He ate a toasted bagel and drank orange juice as he worked through the Friday and Saturday newspaper crosswords. Once he finished them, he tossed all of the newspapers into the garbage, too. Padding down the hallway, he entered the bug room--a room where his boyfriend feared to tread. Gris dropped unsuspecting crickets and mealworms into the terrariums as food for more predatory insects. He let his three adult tarantulas Speedy, Ziggy, and Shelob out for a stroll--one at a time, of course. When each pet had been watered and fed and walked and he couldn't think of anything else to kill time in the bug room, he wandered back out into the living room.
He paused by his cluttered desk, rifling through the stack of entomology and forensic journals he needed to read. But he knew what he really wanted to do. With a sigh, he gave in and picked up the 5 x 7 framed picture: Gris and Warrick dancing in each other's arms under smoky blue lights at The Dance All. The beautiful and tender look on his boyfriend's face made his knees tremble. Suddenly weak, Gris sat down in his desk chair. Chuckling at his juvenile reaction, he still rubbed his thumb over Warrick's image.
What an unexpected gift. What a treasured gift. Funny thing was, while Gris was undeniably grateful for the photo, he was seriously pissed at the photographer. And CSI Greg Sanders knew it. He had surreptitiously snapped candid photos of the two men with his camera phone, hoping to have a little fun tweaking Warrick. But Greg had gotten tweaked instead. Warrick had first scared the bejesus out of Greg. Then Warrick had promised Greg that, when Grissom got back into town from conducting a forensic workshop in Philadelphia, he "would bury Greg's skinny pale ass so deep, not even a forensic seismologist would be able to find him." Ever since Gris had returned from Philly, he'd noticed that Greg made every effort never to be alone with his boss.
Staring at the picture, at his boyfriend's princely face, a small smile lifted Grissom's lips. He glanced at his watch: only 8:30 a.m. The back of his head hit the desk chair. A big breath. Fuck it. He slapped the top of the desk. He couldn't stand to wait any longer. He needed to be with Warrick. Setting down the picture, Gris rushed into the bedroom, threw off his clothes, and jumped in the shower. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and out the door, and on his way home.
It usually took Grissom 30 minutes to drive to Warrick's house. Today Gris made it in 15. He pulled in behind the Lexus and smiled to see that his boyfriend had left the porch light on.
Unlocking the front door, quietly moving inside, Grissom breathed in deep. The familiar soft scent of cinnamon candles and furniture polish and coffee grounds. With a contented sigh, Gris locked the deadbolt and stepped down the entry hall and into the living room. The early morning sun highlighted the yellows and greens and browns in a mohair wall hanging picturing a village in Lesotho. The light caught the brilliant faces of the Brown family in framed photos on the wall. And posters of jazz greats seemed to glow--Ella Fitzgerald, John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk bursting with life and music. Which was somewhat odd, because, for once, Warrick's house was completely silent. At this time of day he would be playing jazz or hiphop or R&B or reggae or even classical music on the stereo as he read or cleaned or did other chores about the house. Or, and Grissom's favorite, Warrick seated at the piano, working on a new composition or revising an old one. He must be sound asleep for this house to be silent.
Stepping over to the piano, Grissom carefully unloaded his pockets onto the top. He smiled at the framed pictures displayed there. The special pictures. A fading color photo of Warrick as a short, gawky teenager wearing thick glasses and highschool graduation robes, his Grandmother Helen Brown and Aunt Bertha Brown standing proudly on either side of him. A fading Polaroid of Warrick as a tall, lanky young man in ULV graduation robes encircled by his Grams, Uncles Roosevelt and Aaron, and Aunts Bertha, Lucille, Cathy, Hoan, and Shirley, all beaming, all proud of the first four-year college graduate in the Brown family. Well, all beaming and proud but Aunt Shirley, who looked like she'd just swallowed a live rattle snake.
And then there was the annual Memorial Day photo, a color panorama of Warrick with all the other grandchildren and great-grandchildren, plus all the neglected kids Grams had unofficially adopted from around the neighborhood. Nearly 100 people in all. Warrick once compared the Brown family to the United Nations, and anyone could see that in this picture--differing races, religions, economic standings, and temperaments.
But the photograph that made Grissom smile the widest was the framed 5 x 7 of the same picture he had on his desk at the townhouse. He studied the photo for a while, his blunt fingers tracing the outline of the springy curls on Warrick's head. Then Gris glanced once again at the picture of Grams's family. An embarrassing, yet hopeful thought struck him. Perhaps he would be included in this year's Memorial Day picture. Snorting at his presumption, he stepped quickly down the hallway to Warrick's bedroom.
As quietly as he could, Gris opened the bedroom door and slipped inside. Blackout shades created deepest night even in brightest day. Only a soft golden glow from the clock radio illumined the muscled body lying on his back on the king size bed. Stretched out, completely at rest, Warrick's right hand hung limply off the side of the bed, his left burrowed underneath the pillow that Grissom usually slept on. Warrick slept completely nude. His only covering was at hip level, the "Star of Bethlehem" quilt hand-stitched by his Grams and her church sewing circle.
Gris stared entranced, watching deep, even breathing lift Warrick's defined chest and abs. Fingers twitching like cat's whiskers, Grissom longed to reach out and touch the springy black-brown curls, the thick dark eye lashes, the broad masculine nose, the lush parted lips. To touch a body so strong and muscled yet so tender and caring. A man so gifted and bright yet so unselfish and loving.
The longer he watched Warrick, the more Grissom became aroused. As much as he wanted to make love to his boyfriend, Gris could see the lines of exhaustion on his anima's face. With a supreme effort, Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Well, to be honest, he could stand to get a little sleep, too.
Trying to keep his eyes off Warrick, Gris undressed as quickly and silently as possible. He could get into bed naked, but he knew he'd be more likely to sleep if he had a layer of clothing in between himself and his boyfriend's beautiful and oh-so-tempting body. Cautiously tipping up the pillow covering his t-shirt and sleep pants, Gris paused when he saw his navy blue t-shirt clutched in his boyfriend's long fingers. Pursing his lips, Grissom slowly eased the shirt out of Warrick's grasp. With even more caution, Gris slid his blue and green plaid sleep pants out from under a strong caramel- colored hand.
Quickly pulling on shirt and pants, he climbed carefully into bed. Lying on his right side close to the edge of the bed, he reached out his left hand, hovering just over Warrick's face, tracing the outline of his profile, imagining the feel of his smooth, warm skin, lingering over the plush, moist lips. Reluctantly, Grissom drew back and closed his eyes. He smiled and contented himself, listening to soft breaths and breathing in the orange-pepper scent that was uniquely Warrick.
"'Bout time you got home," a deep voice murmured, teasing even in half-sleep.
Keeping his eyes closed, Grissom smirked, "I wanted to give you a chance to 'chill out' from HeeHaw Hell."
A mournful groan. "Damn, baby, I am gonna need some major TLC later this morning."
Blue eyes cracked open to see shadowed, half-hooded green. "Later rather than sooner?"
"Uh huh. 'Fraid so." The eyelids drooped, but Warrick held out his long, muscled arms. "C'mere, sweetheart."
Dear god. Grissom hoped he never grew accustomed to the thrill he felt scooting into those welcoming arms. Or the glow he felt, being rolled onto his back, feeling a man larger and stronger than him snuggle into him, needing him, wanting him. Even though Gris no longer believed in Paradise, he believed he had found the closest thing to it.
******
When Warrick awoke at noon, he was alone. He lay on his stomach, arms and legs spread to their greatest extent, obviously reaching for someone who wasn't there. Although he still felt sleepy and comfortable and just a touch lazy, he needed his boyfriend's warmth. So, Warrick pushed himself up and went in search of said boyfriend.
The strong smell of warm chocolate cake directed him to look first in the kitchen. Sure enough, he found Gris, barefoot and in his pajamas, glasses perched on his nose, scooping chocolate icing from a large glass mixing bowl into an icing bag. Muffin pans that Warrick didn't even know he owned were stacked up in the sink along with batter- flecked wooden spoons, measuring cups, measuring spoons, a flour sifter, and almost every bowl he had either bought or inherited. Cupcakes cooled on every inch of kitchen workspace. About half of the cakes had swirls of chocolate icing on top.
Leaning up against the door jamb, Warrick watched amused as Gris filled up the icing bag, the same intense concentration on his handsome face as if he were preparing an experiment at the Crime Lab. When he topped off the bag, he began squeezing out a swirl of icing onto the top of each cupcake. Tongue tip poking out of the corner of his mouth, blue eyes focused solely on his task, he frosted the cupcakes precisely, breaking the top of the icing curl with a flourish, then moving on to the next cupcake.
Warrick stepped into the kitchen. "How long you been up?"
Gris turned his head and looked up over his glasses. A small spot of chocolate icing smudged his brow. "Since around 10."
Warrick crossed over close to his boyfriend and kissed reddish lips and ruffled a graying beard. Then curling around behind a broad back, Warrick snaked long arms around his boyfriend's middle. Squeezing firmly, Warrick rumbled into a pink ear, "So, did you actually sleep or did you just pretend to?"
Leaning back, Grissom offered his cheek for another kiss. Warrick complied. "I catnapped."
Warrick rubbed his big hands over a taut belly then sneaked under the t-shirt for extra warmth.
"Anima," his boyfriend growled softly, "I need to finish these up for the party."
Big hands stopped moving. "I thought you were baking Grams's favorite for her birthday?"
"I did. Red velvet cake." Somehow even with arms and hands wrapped tight around him, Gris could resume icing cupcakes with precision. "But Latisha doesn't like red velvet cake."
Lala doesn't like--? "I never seen her turn down a piece."
Grissom shrugged, frosting another cupcake. "She said it reminded her of a dead baby."
A long, thoughtful, and frankly appalled pause. "Gris, Lala ain't never seen a dead baby. Thank the lord. You're gonna have to explain this one to me."
"Well, something along the lines of 'You think it's a regular cake. But you cut into it, and it's red as blood inside.' Latisha likes chocolate cake, though." Another two cupcakes frosted.
Shaking his head, rubbing his short-cropped beard along the back of Grissom's neck, Warrick chuckled, "Oh, yeah. That little girl's got my boyfriend wrapped around her little finger. You spoil her rotten."
A harumph. "They're not just for her. A lot of your cousins like chocolate cake."
"Uh huh." Warrick hung onto Gris, giving him occasional squeezes and kisses, and watched him work his magic with the rest of the cupcakes. One last squeeze, one last twist, and four dozen little chocolate cakes sat temptingly within easy reach on the kitchen counter. But an even greater temptation was already in Warrick's arms.
Plush lips nibbled on a tanned neck. Warrick heard an appreciative gasp.
"You know, baby. It's not just my cousins who like chocolate cake." He turned Grissom around and licked the smudge of chocolate icing off his forehead.
Blue eyes looked stunned. A supremely wicked idea formed in Warrick's brain. He reached into the glass bowl, scooped up a dollop of icing on his index finger, stroked the rich sweetness across his boyfriend's lips. Spreading his long fingers to either side of Grissom's head, Warrick licked and sucked the sugar from soft, plump lips. Trembling arms hugged him and pulled him close. Needy moans echoed throughout the kitchen.
When he'd cleaned the skilled, pliant mouth, he plucked the glasses off Grissom's face, set them on the counter, then reached for the icing bowl again. This time Warrick drew a curvy line down his boyfriend's strong throat and tongued it away. The next time Warrick coated and washed clean a pink earlobe. Then he peeled the t-shirt off Grissom and painted a target on each rose-brown nipple. "Yessss" and "anima" and "so good" and "holy fuck," Grissom moaned.
When Warrick reached for the icing bowl once more, Gris somehow grabbed it first. Sky blue eyes burned with heat. Oh, yeah. Warrick loved it, craved it when his baby let his passion loose, let out those emotions he usually reined in.
A sinister pirate's grin cut across Grissom's face. Oh dear lord. Green eyes grew round. Grissom sank to his knees in front of his naked captive. Warrick's body trembled as Gris expertly drew patterns of chocolate icing on caramel-colored thighs. A moist tongue slowly licked, hard teeth gently nibbled, teasing mouth firmly sucked up the icing as strong fingers drew more patterns--behind Warrick's knees, up the inside of his thighs, around his balls, the length of his stiffening cock.
"Damn. Yeah, baby. There. Yes, there! Oh, Jesus!"
Long brown fingers threaded roughly into salt and pepper curls. Warrick thrust blindly, hoping to sink into that hot, teasing, and so very talented mouth. But that wicked mouth evaded him, licking and nibbling and kissing everywhere. Butterfly touches that fired his nerves but refused to satisfy. Helpless, he felt his legs spread further apart, icing spread behind his balls, along his scrotum, all the way up to--
"Jesus!" he cried out, voice high, strangled. Gentle fingers circled while an insistent mouth sucked his balls, tongue licking every trace of icing from them. Nearly sobbing, Warrick felt himself turned around, muscled buttocks spread. He bent forward, braced himself against the kitchen counter. And then that sweet mouth and tongue went to work between his cheeks. "Jesus! Baby! Jesus!"
He was dying. Swear to god, he was dying. He couldn't suck enough air into his lungs. Insistent fingers and lips and tongue stroking and kissing and licking his most intimate place. Hot waves of pleasure rolling over his body. Hot moans cascading from his throat. And he wanted it. Yeah. He needed it. To be taken, possessed, conquered. To give Gris what Gris always gave him. To let his secrets go. To be whole at last.
A gentle, slick finger slowly entered him. He bit his bottom lip, stifling a shout of joy. A miraculous tongue licked him, softened him as the finger tenderly worked in and out. And then another finger joined the first, relaxing him, opening him, readying him for--
"Yeah!" he keened as the fingers angled into his prostate. A tsunami of lust buried him. His muscles quaked, his skin rippled.
And then soft lips kissed him, anchored him. A firm hand stroked his cock. Two fingers worked in and out, sending him closer to orgasm. His trembling knees nearly gave way.
"Anima?" Grissom's deep, passion-soaked voice. "Anima? May I? May I make you feel what I feel when you come inside me?"
Damn. Goddamn. Gris would ask for the one thing Warrick couldn't give. He wanted to. He did. But he couldn't. No, no, no. He wasn't . . . that way. Those hated words rose up in his mind: sissy, punk, queer, faggot. Words he'd heard growing up. Words he'd said himself. Words that too often turned into exile or threats or beatings. He wasn't anything like those words. But he wanted--
"No," he groaned, pulling abruptly away. Warrick spun around, back against the counter, long cock sticking accusingly out in front, pointing directly at Grissom.
At Grissom who was on his knees on the floor, handsome face confused and surprised. A soft question. "I hurt you?"
Swallowing, Warrick managed to shake his head. "No, no. I--" he took a deep, deep breath. Tell Gris. Tell him. "I'm not--" that way "--I'm not ready for that."
A right eyebrow went up. Curious blue eyes lingered on his face and then a slight smile. "I was going to let you lie down first. Maybe even someplace other than the kitchen floor."
Warrick shut his eyes. Shame crept up his neck. God, how to explain? "Gris, I'm just not . . . ready. Not ready . . . for that."
An infinity of silence. And then--
"Well," the quiet, calm voice smiled. Warrick opened his guilty green eyes to twinkling blue. Gris quirked his head. No condemnation, no disappointment, no frustration. Just a loving smile. "You will tell me?" he paused and pursed his lips. "When . . . or if . . . you're ever ready?"
Damn. Warrick gripped the counter behind him to keep from collapsing to the floor. He nodded once.
His boyfriend stood up slowly, rubbing his knees. The front of Grissom's sleep pants tented, steepled by his large cock. He set the bowl of icing in the sink then wrapped his arms around Warrick. Strong hands soothed tight muscles. Soft lips eased away tension. A hard cock rubbed insistently against his own.
Tears stung green eyes. But Warrick didn't release the tears. He held on to them, just like he held on to his tattered self-image. He was a strong man. He was a real man. And a strong, real man doesn't bend over for anybody.
Easing back, Warrick looked down into deep blue eyes. Eyes that showed nothing but love and acceptance. And infinite patience. He needed to reassert himself. Somehow his voice stayed even when he said, "Let's take this party to the bedroom."
A full Grissom smile answered him. Although sunk in misery, Warrick still had to catch his breath. And then a smug look crossed his boyfriend's handsome face. He held up his right index finger, a sign Warrick recognized as a prelude to quote.
"'We'll have thee to a couch,'" Gris recited, "'Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed.'" Grabbing Warrick's hand, Grissom pulled him in the direction of the living room.
Warrick resisted for a moment then let himself be pulled. He stumbled along, holding on to calloused, blunt fingers. He allowed himself to be lowered onto his disintegrating, hand-me-down couch. He allowed himself to be pushed onto his back as a sweet, hot mouth surrounded his aching cock. Gentle hands smoothed over his overwrought muscles. A soft beard rubbed over his thighs and groin and cock.
As he climbed the peak to ecstasy, Warrick told himself that the tears leaking slowly from his eyes were those of a real man. Certainly not those of a sissy, punk, queer, or faggot.
It was late Saturday afternoon, and Femi Kuti's "Do Your Best" jammed the interior of the Lexus. The satellite radio was tuned to Afro-Pop, one of Warrick's (and Grissom's) favorite channels. Manu Dibango, Salif Keita, Zap Mama, Youssou N'Dour. Hip swinging, head bopping, joy jumping music.
Usually Warrick would be singing along if he knew the words or humming in harmony and soulful flourishes if he didn't. But he sat silent, unnaturally pre-occupied with driving the thirty-five minute route to his Grandmother's house. And Grissom, normally comfortable without conversation, sat puzzled and uneasy in the passenger seat.
Was Warrick worried about this family party? Worried about how some of his family might react? It was the first time that Gris was attending a family function openly as Warrick's boyfriend. As a matter of fact, it was the first time Aunt Lucille's long-time girlfriend Dinah Lee was attending when Aunt Shirley and the other homophobes were there. Gris had promised to be on his best behavior, promised to avoid Aunt Shirley if at all possible. Was Warrick worried about that? He didn't need to be. Nobody but a complete fool would defy a truce laid down by Grams.
So, why did Warrick stay so unusually quiet? Was he still tired? In Grissom's experience, nothing short of absolute exhaustion would keep his boyfriend from singing or teasing or talking. Perhaps their lovemaking in addition to Warrick's near double shift had indeed exhausted him. Yes. More than likely that was the case. Except that Warrick looked more sad than tired, more depressed than fatigued.
Of course, Grissom could simply ask his boyfriend why he was so quiet. But Gris was used to Warrick sharing unasked. Blue eyes studied his boyfriend's profile. Well. Gris crossed his arms and pursed his lips. He would wait. Wait for Warrick to bring up what was bothering him. No need to pry. Shutting his eyes, Grissom settled back and mentally prepared himself to face the Brown family horde.
Warrick drove slowly by his grandmother's house looking for a parking space. Grams's party had officially begun at 4:00, but everyone knew things didn't start happening until around 5:00. It was now 5:30, and the curbs were lined with cars.
"How about the church parking lot?" Grissom suggested. FAME Church lay a few blocks to the south and west. Grams walked there every Sunday morning.
Warrick nodded, drove to the church, and pulled the Lexus smoothly into a parking space close to the street.
How odd. No teasing crack from Warrick speculating if Gris would be able to walk all the way back to Grams's house. No teasing wager about how many bugs would distract Grissom off the path between the car and Grams's house. Just silence.
Sighing, he unbuckled his seat belt and helped unload the back seat. Warrick carried the red velvet sheetcake and the birthday presents. Well, both gifts wrapped together in one pastel blue box: his tribute CD of "Mrs. Brown Wears a Crown" nestled in the folds of the dark purple and gold cotton shawl Gris had bought. Grissom carried two boxes of cupcakes and a bouquet of red and pink roses. Dressed in jackets and ties, the two men looked more like they were headed for a double date than for a grandmother's birthday party. They walked up Revere Street, turned right at W. Nelson, then left on Count Avenue. Count fed into Royal. Up north on Royal until they turned east onto Duchess. Grams's house was down toward the end of this block.
"Isn't that Matt Phelps's house?" Grissom said, nodding toward the corner house.
A little over two years ago, he and Warrick had investigated an especially tragic case at the Phelps home. Tyrel Constantine, an angry teenager who felt he'd been humiliated by Coach Phelps, had stolen a van from the 26th Street Recreation Center Matt managed. That same night, Tyrel sped the van through this neighborhood, spraying bullets in the direction of Matt's house. Tyrel had only wanted to scare Coach but wound up killing his nine-year-old daughter Aimee.
Before Gris and Warrick discovered that it was Tyrel who'd pulled the trigger, though, Warrick mistakenly pegged Gene Jaycobs, an ex-con and all-around sleaze, as the shooter. Along the way in his blind pursuit of Jaycobs, Warrick had publicly insulted Grissom in front of a dozen lab techs, lied to the District Attorney's office to find out where Jaycobs had been relocated, and led an explosively vengeful Matt Phelps to Jaycobs' safe house. Warrick had not meant to reveal the safe house location. He hadn't known that Matt had been shadowing him. But Warrick's intentions didn't keep Coach Phelps from putting an innocent man in the hospital. Or himself in prison for three years.
Warrick stopped and stared hard at the house then gave a sigh deep with regret. "On top of everything else, Matt could've lost his home when Jaycobs threatened the civil suit."
"Good thing Brass warned Jaycobs off."
Warrick nodded, sorrow evident in his green eyes.
God. If one of Grissom's hands had been free, he would've whacked himself in the forehead. He was an idiot. An absolute idiot for bringing up Coach Matt Phelps. Matt had been a mentor to Warrick, had saved him from falling in with a dangerous crowd. Matt Phelps had been one of the few good guys in Warrick's teen years.
Shaking his head, Gris tried to think of something positive to say. "Anima, you--"
"Fucked up." Warrick turned his back on the Phelps house and his boyfriend and walked determinedly away.
Gris hurried to catch up. "You made mistakes, true. But you learned from them."
Warrick stared straight ahead. "Yeah. That's a real comfort to Travis Phelps. He gets to visit his daddy at High Desert State Prison every Saturday. Every Saturday his aunt lets him ride the bus fifty miles out to Indian Springs."
"Warrick--"
"It's a comfort to all the kids who don't have Matt staying on their asses so they stay off the streets. Who don't have the Rec Center to go to. It's a comfort to the whole fucking neighborhood that I learn from my mistakes."
Shit. Grissom bit his tongue. Anything he said right now would only pour gasoline on the fire. Better to let Warrick burn himself out than feed the anger.
Long legs fueled by self disgust, Warrick quick stepped down the sidewalk of Duchess Avenue. Gris let his boyfriend go. Blowing out a deep breath, he glanced back at the Phelps's place. Good to see someone was keeping the house up. Fresh paint on the eaves and trim. Watered and pruned shrubs. Maybe Matt had sublet the house. Maybe . . . Damn it, Grissom. Stop analyzing the house and think of something to help Warrick. Gris spun on his heel and sped after his boyfriend.
Grissom found Warrick standing stiffly and sweating in the 85 degree heat in front of the house next to his Grandmother's. Balancing the cupcakes and roses in one hand, Gris placed his other lightly on Warrick's back. The firm muscles shivered.
"I know," Warrick said sharply, green eyes refusing to meet blue. "Go ahead and say it."
A surprised blink. "Say . . . what?"
"Getting angry doesn't change a thing."
Gris shrugged. "No. It usually makes you feel worse. That's why I ride roller coasters." He studied Warrick's stony, unyielding face, and felt extraordinarily helpless. Which might explain why Gris revealed something about himself that he usually kept under wraps. "Sometimes, I'm so angry I start screaming even before the coaster leaves the platform. Sometimes I'm screaming in the car as I'm driving over to the coaster."
"Glad that works for you, Gris." Without a glance at his boyfriend, Warrick stalked angrily toward Grams's house.
What the hell? Grissom didn't move, but he felt as if he'd been slapped. His jaw fell open. He stared at his boyfriend's retreating back. Always before, when Gris would say something strange or witty or revealing, Warrick would start to snap out of his funk. Never had he shot back with sarcasm. What was so different this time? Confused and frustrated, Gris followed Warrick up the walk.
Grissom stepped onto the porch beside Warrick just as the door opened. Laughter, overlapping conversations, and big band music blasted out of the house. Not to mention the aroma of roasting chicken and pork.
"Warrick, child!" Aunt Lucille, nearly six feet tall and model thin, pushed open the screen door and hugged her nephew. She was dressed in a slinky silver and navy blue pant suit straight out of Vogue.
"Hey, gorgeous," Warrick hugged back. His smile was genuine, if less brilliant than usual. They pecked each other on the cheek.
"Hah. Right back at you, baby. And speaking of gorgeous," she giggled, letting go of Warrick and throwing an arm around Gris. She squeezed him hard, pressing her hip up against him. He clumsily balanced the cupcakes and bouquet in his right arm and self- consciously patted her back with the other. Gris glanced over to see if Warrick was enjoying his boyfriend's discomfort, but Warrick had already disappeared inside the house. Gris frowned. Something was definitely wrong if his anima didn't stick around for that.
The strong arm around his waist began to loosen, and Grissom mustered a smile.
Aunt Lucille grinned, "One hug down, 53 more to go."
"Oh, god," he groaned, playing along.
She tilted her head. Her skin was a little darker than Warrick's, but she had the same green eyes. And the same brilliant smile. "Hmm. Guess I better not try a kiss, then."
His most innocent pout. "Well, if you insist."
They kissed each other's cheeks. To be honest, he didn't want to be smothered with affection. But 99 percent of the Brown family lavished hugs and kisses and pats on each other. If Gris wanted to be accepted, he'd have to give a little. Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't joke about his aversion to being touched.
A loud screech came from the house. "Here comes hug number 2!" Lucille laughed.
Latisha burst out the screen door, smacked into his legs, and wrapped her small arms around his waist. The bouquet of roses shot off into the air, but Lucille made a neat grab before the flowers hit the porch.
"'illll!" Lala's best rendering of his name. Outstanding for someone born completely deaf.
Gris patted Lala on the back then smoothed his left hand over her tightly braided hair. He nodded his thanks to Lucille who was displaying the infamous Brown family grin.
"I'll drop these in Mama's best crystal vase before something tragic happens. Gil, honey, you better hop on back to the kitchen soon. Bertha's been waiting for you to investigate what went wrong with the barbeque sauce."
"Ah. Thanks for the warning."
Lucille went back inside, and he looked down at Lala in consternation. In addition to wrapping her arms around his middle, she'd wrapped her legs around his left leg. She was looking up at him, laughing silently, daring him to move.
He'd been attacked by serial killers and psychotic suspects--not to mention the near run in with the nursing jaguar in Paraguay--but he'd never had a twelve-year-old girl attach herself like a barnacle to his side. With his left hand he signed, //Let go please.//
She stuck out her tongue then hid her face in his hip.
Not for the first time that day, he had no idea what to do. Should he pry her off with brute strength, possibly hurting her or even himself? If he could get her to look at him, should he try to reason with her or threaten her or bribe her? Or should he just beg loudly for help from someone inside the house? Would Warrick bother to come to his rescue?
He was tapping Lala lightly on the head and shoulders to get her to look at him when he heard: "Sugar, come on out here and meet Gil."
He glanced up as Lucille swept out onto the porch followed by a short, round woman with a dark chocolate complexion. Eyes not only shaped like almonds but the same color. A smile you could sink into, warm and cozy as a fleece jacket. Lucille hugged the woman's shoulders.
"Gil Grissom, Dinah Lee Humphrey, the love of my life," she said proudly.
"Hello," Gris said, still trying to figure out how to peel Latisha off.
Dinah Lee chuckled, "Looks like you could use some help."
"Yes," he said gratefully.
She plucked the cupcakes from him. "Tickling over the ribs and under the arms works best."
A confused look. A raised eyebrow. And then he got it. Ah hah! With both hands free, he attacked Lala's ribs. She wiggled and squealed and finally let him go, slumping to the porch, giggling and gasping.
A pleased and amazed smile for the successful technique. Unconsciously, Grissom moved his hands, signing the conversation for Latisha, as he said, "Thank you."
"Dinah Lee teaches fourth grade," Lucille beamed.
"And raised two children with limited help from my loving but always too busy regional manager for Nordstrom spouse," Dinah Lee smiled.
Lucille grinned and hugged her spouse harder. "Uh huh. That's how we could afford to send those two children to USC."
Dinah Lee leaned into the hug, "Kevin and Jonathan would've gotten all the scholarships they needed. You just couldn't stand to admit that you were hopeless at something. Defeated by a diaper." Their shared grins grew wider as Grissom's blue eyes shifted uncomfortably from one woman to the other.
"Gil, honey," Lucille crooned, "don't worry. It's a long-standing schtick between an old married couple."
A relieved grin. It was like they had their own language, their own world. Grissom wondered if he and Warrick would ever have that.
And then Dinah Lee jumped back to a previous topic. "Unfortunately, tickling is no longer an approved method of discipline in public schools."
Blue eyes blinked. Ah. Gris looked down at Lala, lying on her back on the porch, still sucking in air, but watching his hands closely. He signed and spoke aloud at the same time, "We can't use it on suspects, either." A raised eyebrow as Lala frowned up at him, "You okay?"
"Not fair," she pouted as he translated.
"Tell her, 'Neither is attacking a defenseless man,'" Lucille scolded.
Latisha shot her great aunt a scowl.
"Gil! Gil Grissom! I need you in the kitchen, now!" an irritated voice soared above the din. The voice of Aunt Bertha, second in command to Grams.
Uh oh. The two women shared "there's trouble on the way" looks and stepped away from the screen door. Dinah Lee said, "Honey, I'll help you with twelve year olds, but when it comes to in-laws, you're on your own."
Gris dusted himself off and straightened his tie. And then he felt a small hand pat his knee. He looked down.
"I'll protect you," Lala signed, face sincere and open.
Dinah Lee giggled while Lucille's eyebrows arched, "And a little child shall lead them."
Isaiah 11:6. Gris didn't point out that he hadn't seen any lambs living with wolves or leopards lying down with goats, or lions and cows getting along together lately. But with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided smile, he still took Latisha's hand and opened the screen door.
******
Warrick felt miserable, but he couldn't show it. Otherwise he'd have everybody in the Brown household trying to cheer him up or suss out what was wrong. He was angry at himself for not being able to give Gris what he asked for, especially when Gris so seldom asked for anything. And then Warrick had taken his anger out on his innocent boyfriend. Of course, it hadn't helped Warrick's mood to be reminded of his most spectacular professional failure, either. Despite his mood, he forced the infamous Brown family grin to his face and worked the crowd.
Cab Calloway sang "Wake up and Live" on the stereo as Warrick slowly crossed the living room. Hugs and kisses from cousins Celia, Adele, Nuri, and a dozen others. Back slaps from Uncle Roosevelt and Dr. Clarence Nelson, Aunt Bertha's latest boyfriend. And the usual hostile stares from cousin Jackson, a reverend who believed more in hating than healing, and cousin Chai Sharai, a psychologist who disapproved of a black man dating anyone but a black woman. Children ran, tottered, and crawled everywhere. More friends and family gathered outside in the back yard. Dropping off the pastel blue box with the other birthday presents stacked up by Grams's favorite rocking chair, Warrick made for the kitchen. The delicious smell of roasting chicken and twice-pulled pork grew stronger with each step. Even though he didn't feel hungry, that familiar aroma always represented happy times. It helped to raise his spirits.
"Warrick, honey!" his frail grandmother stood up shakily when she caught sight of him.
Setting the red velvet cake down on the kitchen table already groaning with food, he hugged and kissed her gently. "How's the most beautiful woman in the world?"
"Boy, you make an appointment with your eye doctor. You need a stronger prescription," she patted him on the back but looked at him closely. She knew something was wrong. Damn.
"I see just fine." He avoided her wise dark eyes and helped her sit back down. Before she could start quizzing him, Warrick grabbed Aunt Hoan who was putting the final touches on the fruit salad. She squealed and hugged back. He gave Aunt Cathy a kiss and a hug as she swept through with big bowls full of potato chips. Then he put his arms around Aunt Bertha standing in front of the stove. With one hand on her hip and stirring a thick, red brown liquid in a big pot, she looked distracted but accepted the hug and kiss.
"Hey, baby. Where's your man?" Bertha demanded.
"He'll be along in a minute. Anything I can do to help?" he asked, knowing that his kitchen skills were limited to heavy lifting.
"Tell your boyfriend to get his handsome self in here. This sauce is not working." She stared at the liquid as if she could intimidate it into tasting better.
"Yeah. I'll do that." He hugged Aunt Bertha once more, plotting all the while how he could escape the kitchen without an interrogation from Grams. And then salvation came from an unexpected source.
"Warrick. There you are," a distasteful, croaking voice entered the kitchen.
He gritted his teeth in a smile and turned towards her. "Hello, Aunt Shirley."
She stood upright and righteous in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, the closest she could get to a smile on her sour face. "Well, don't I get a kiss, too?"
He didn't bother to hide the surprise on his face. He glanced over at Grams who flashed a pleased grin. Oh. The Brown family truce.
"Uh. Sure," he cautiously approached Shirley and quickly pecked her cheek. It was surprisingly warm. He'd always imagined it as cool and dry as snake skin.
"Guess who I ran into at church last Sunday?" she said.
"Satan come to collect your soul?" he wanted to ask. But instead, he smiled insincerely and shrugged, "No idea."
An irritating look of superiority on her face. "Well, he's out in the back yard. He's looking forward to seeing you. And I know you'll be . . . happy to see him."
Yeah, right. He trusted Aunt Shirley about as far as a mongoose trusted a cobra.
"Warrick," Grams reassured, "Shirley's right. Go on out back. You'll kick yourself if you don't."
He relented, stopping to give Grams another hug and kiss, as well as a "happy birthday," then followed Shirley out into the back yard.
"And where is Dr. Grissom?" she asked in that sickly sweet, judgmental way the self-righteous have perfected.
"He's here." Warrick took a deep breath, scanning the crowd. Pretty pathetic that the strong men in the family would rather wave their greetings to him long distance than risk a run in with Aunt Shirley.
"Oh? He is? I haven't seen him. He's usually glued to your side. You two didn't have a fight, did you?" she simpered.
He would never hit a woman. He might shoot her, though.
Shirley headed for the small patch of concrete with a basketball goal at one end. A three-on-three basketball game banged on the court. Jackets and ties draped over the backs of metal folding chairs; hard- soled, slick shoes unlaced and scattered on the ground. The men played all out even in dress shirts, pants, and socks. Wives and mothers were going to suck their teeth when they spied the condition of their men's clothes.
As he neared the court, Warrick could see that his cousins Chris, Mikey, and Jonathan were battling cousins Cary and Jordan and . . . an older man who looked awfully familiar.
"Is that all you got?" Cousin Chris, short and muscled like a body builder, challenged the man.
"How much you want?" the man responded, and Warrick immediately recognized the voice if not the face.
"Matt?" he called. "Matt Phelps!"
Coach Matt Phelps turned his head to grin at Warrick. Chris swiped the ball and drove for a lay up. While his teammates shouted foul, Matt leaped from the court to hug Warrick. They pounded each other on the back.
"Damn, it's good to see you, man!" Warrick laughed.
"Trust me. It's good to be seen." Matt's intense black eyes and dark brown face shone with joy. He'd gone gray while in prison but bulked up with muscle and grown a coal-black goatee. He didn't look like an ex-con but like someone with his life in order.
"You, uh, out for good?"
Matt nodded. "Time off for exceptionally good behavior. And because lots of people like you said good things at my parole board hearing. Thanks, man."
"Least I could do," Warrick said, jamming his hands into his pockets.
A large hand slapped him on his shoulder. "None of that, Rick. You have any idea how many young men I taught in prison? How many lives I helped redirect? God sent me there for a reason."
Damn. Now, that was optimism.
"Well, Warrick," Aunt Shirley's voice cut like gravel into bare knees. "Didn't I tell you?"
"Yeah. You were right." But no way he was gonna say thank you to a woman who talked like a Christian but acted like a crocodile.
She pursed her lips then glanced knowingly at Matt. "Humph. Well, I better go back into the house. I need to find Warrick's," her lips curled up in distaste, "boyfriend. Bertha needs him in the kitchen." Shirley swam away triumphantly, as if she'd just snatched an unsuspecting innocent from the banks of the Nile.
Matt frowned and spoke in a low voice, "Boyfriend? It's true? You gone soft on us?"
"Hell no!" Warrick sputtered, blushing and forgetting that he was a grown man. Like he was fifteen again. Like he was getting slammed for not hustling on a play. Like he was a punk. And then he remembered who he was, "I mean, Hell no I ain't gone soft."
Coach Phelps stood with pumped up arms crossed, dark eyes scowling.
And then Cousin Chris stood at Warrick's side. Cousin Chris who never liked Coach Phelps. Cousin Chris who always backed up Warrick, right or wrong. Cousin Chris who always managed to diffuse a tense situation. "Hey, you two ladies gonna woof all day or you gonna play some ball?"
"Huh. Only one lady standing here that I see," Matt challenged.
"Oh, I'm in," Warrick challenged right back, shrugging off his jacket, loosening his tie.
"Heh, looks like the lady's about to kick your butt, Coach," Chris grinned.
"Yeah? And whose place you gonna take, Rick?" Cousin Mikey blustered. He was only 17, the youngest of the group. He knew very well whose place Warrick was gonna take.
Chris punched Mikey in the arm. "Set your ass down. I need somebody who knows how to pass, ballhog."
"This sucks, man!" Mikey tried to punch back.
"So does your game, pendejito," Chris said affectionately, grabbing Mikey around the neck and mussing his hair.
Any other time, Warrick would have felt sorry for the young man, maybe sorry enough to let him keep playing. But not today. He had to prove himself to his former coach. Had to prove that he hadn't gone soft. That loving Gris didn't make Warrick a punk.
******
Twenty minutes later, Matt and his team called game. They looked like they'd been on the wrong end of a good old fashioned ass whuppin. Which was in fact what had just happened. Warrick, Chris, and Jonathan were up 30 to 12. At one point, they'd scored 10 unanswered baskets. Warrick hadn't played dirty, but he'd played nasty: when Matt went up for a rebound, Warrick grabbed it first; when Matt took a shot, Warrick slapped it into the fence; when Matt tried to pass, Warrick stole it; even when Matt tried to dribble the ball, Warrick smothered it. He'd answered the challenge. Proved his athletic prowess. Proved he wasn't soft. And though Coach Phelps didn't acknowledge the victory, he seemed more relaxed. More like his old self.
"Damn," Matt puffed, sitting down hard on a metal folding chair. "Gettin' too old for this shit."
Mopping his forehead with his tie, Warrick sat down beside his former coach. "Nah. You're just out of practice."
"Maybe. Once I get the Rec Center going again--"
"You gonna reopen the Rec Center?" Warrick said, watching Cary and Jordan trot into the house to get cold beers for the winners .
"Yes. All I have to do is find someone with an unblemished record to help me with fund raising and administration."
Surprised green eyes met determined black. "Why? Your rep in the neighborhood is solid."
Matt shook his head. "We were barely scraping by, Rick. One thing about prison, you have a lot of time to think, and I did a lot of thinking. For the 26th Street Recreation Center to work, we need to look beyond the neighborhood. Believe me, folks out there don't want to donate their hard-earned cash to an outfit run by a jailbird. They don't want to see a youth program supervised by an ex-con."
"You did your time, man."
"It's just the way life is." Matt shrugged then glanced toward the house. And he sneered. Not so much in anger as disgust. It was no more than a flash. Warrick would have missed it if he hadn't been watching Matt's face.
When Warrick looked at the house to see what could have caused that sneer, all he saw was Cary and Jordan coming back with the beers. And close behind was his boyfriend talking on his cell phone. Warrick glanced back at Matt. His face had returned to neutral.
"Heads up!"
Warrick caught the cold beer just before it slammed into his face. "Damn, Cary."
"We ought to play with a beer can next time. Your aim's more accurate than with a ball," Coach joked. The guys laughed at Cary who took a swig of his beer and laughed, too.
"--pick up my kit on the way," Gris ended the call and shut his phone. "Warrick, I'm sorry. I've been called into work."
Warrick shrugged, "Can't say I'm surprised. Man, the only time I am surprised is when you don't get called in to work." Blue eyes blinked. Shit. He didn't mean for that to sound so bitchy. Especially not in front of Coach. Thankfully, neither Matt nor Gris seemed to notice Warrick's sour mood. They were too busy eyeing each other. Warrick took a settling breath. "Um, Grissom, you remember Coach Matt Phelps?"
"Of course," Gris nodded amiably. "How are you?"
Phelps nodded back. He had a smile on his face, but it didn't look genuine. "Good. Good to be back among my people."
Warrick caught Matt's emphasis on "my." Was Coach trying to say Gris didn't belong? That these weren't Grissom's people, too?
Gris quirked his head and smiled, "Well, I know you've been missed."
"Oh? Is what you girls talk about in the kitchen?" Matt joked. Only it didn't seem like a joke to Warrick. Matt's grin grew wider, "Maybe I've got a chance for a little female companionship in this neighborhood if all the girls missed me."
Puzzled blue eyes and startled green stared at Phelps. How dare he? He had always seemed to care more about a man's character than anything else. True, Coach had sometimes been kinda harsh on boys who were more into books than sports. Or who seemed a little effeminate. But not when they'd proven themselves. Had prison changed him so much?
A soft, unperturbed voice ignored Coach. "A black and white is picking me up out front. Would you mind waiting with me?"
Lingering on his boyfriend's handsome face, right eyebrow raised, blue eyes patient and gentle, Warrick felt his anger at Phelps slip away. "Absolutely."
A slight smile, and Gris turned back to the house. Not bothering with a farewell for Matt.
Unflinchingly, green eyes met black. "I'll catch you later."
"Yes," Phelps nodded. "How about drinks later? We need to catch up."
Warrick held Matt's look, challenging it. Yeah. Looks like Coach needs some serious coaching. "Yeah. We sure do."
"How about I drop by your house? After I've cleaned up? Maybe we can go someplace. Someplace where the beer is cold and the women are hot. If you can remember where that is."
Warrick's full lips tightened, then he let them slip into a cool, self-assured smile, "Yeah. I remember. Maybe even some place that won't be embarrassed to let in an old guy like you."
He heard a snorting chuckle behind him as he trotted after his boyfriend.
"Nice place," Matt said appreciatively as he walked into Warrick's living room, taking in the jazz posters, the African wall hanging, the pictures of family on the walls, the comfortable, unpretentious furnishings. He was dressed in a gray crew t-shirt, tan jacket, and tan pants. His judgmental attitude turned down a notch. Maybe Timmy Thomas singing "Why Can't We Live Together" on the stereo was working some magic.
It was nearly 10 p.m. but lots of Vegas watering holes were just getting started. Buttoning the cuffs of his cream-colored long-sleeve shirt, Warrick watched Matt step over to the family pictures on the wall: Chris and Charisse's wedding; Latisha's first place medal in the 100 yard dash; Nabilah and her National Guard unit; Aunt Lucille, Dinah Lee, and Jonathan celebrating Kevin's graduation from USC. Interesting. Matt didn't flinch at that photo of same gender loving on display.
"You want something to drink first?"
"Sure. Ease me into the evening."
"Beer, wine, or something harder?"
"You got any Bud?"
Uh oh. One problem with being in love with a man who could cook gourmet, you don't generally keep run-of-the-mill domestic around the house.
"Let me look," Warrick strolled into the kitchen and scanned the fridge. "We got Sam Adams, Anchor Steam, and Sierra Nevada." Waiting for an answer and not getting one, he shrugged, grabbed a couple of bottles of San Francisco's Anchor Steam, and sauntered back into the living room.
He wasn't surprised to see Matt standing at the piano and staring at one of the pictures on top. Warrick's favorite pictures. His inspirational pictures. By the disgusted look on Coach's face, Warrick knew which picture it was. Damn. Well, Coach always said it was best to take the bull by the horns.
Holding out one of the bottles to Matt, Warrick kept his tone matter of fact. "That's Gris and me at The Dance All. Cousin Chris's club. I thought we'd go there. I get a major discount."
Ignoring the beer, Phelps continued staring at the photo. "I never saw it coming. You. Of all people."
"What? That I could finally find somebody to love? Or that somebody could love me back?"
Matt looked up and snorted, "Love? . . . Love?" He waved dismissively at the photo. "That's lust. And selfishness. Perversion and sickness."
Fuck. Warrick took a deep breath and moved slow. He set the beers on top of the piano. "I sure as hell don't feel sick. I feel better than I ever have."
"But you were never interested in . . . boys," Matt scoffed.
A small shrug. "Still not interested in boys. Or girls. Gotta be a man or a woman."
"No," Matt shook his head. "I don't believe it."
"Look," Warrick held out his hand, hoping for understanding, "you knew me on the court, the diamond, the field. Man, you taught me how to be tough. To be persistent. To be respectful. And I thank you for that. But you never knew my heart."
"Rick, it's unnatural."
"Anybody who knows anything about biology knows that it's all too natural. You can find homosexual activity in most species."
"Humans aren't animals," Phelps said sharply.
"Biologically we are. After all, you can find heterosexual activity in most species, too."
Coach snorted. "You know what this homo sex is? For us? Sexual genocide for our culture. I saw it in prison. Black men sodomizing each other 'cause they're too sick and oppressed to be real men, to take up their responsibilities and raise a family."
"That's just power trippin', man. That's got nothin' to do with me and Gris." Warrick could see in the dark eyes that nothing he said was gonna make a difference. Damn. Coach broke eye contact, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and whirled away. Warrick braced himself. He knew it was about to get ugly.
Pacing back and forth across the living room, mouth opening and closing as if finding words then rejecting them, shoulders hunched, strides long and angry, Matt hunted around the room, looking for what Warrick didn't know. At last Phelps stopped in front of a picture of Warrick's high school baseball team. The Rancho High School Rams.
"You should've played semi-pro," Matt growled. "You could've been with real men. Earned enough to get an education without getting caught up in temptation. But you had to go your own way."
"Semi-pro paid shit. You know that. And you're the one who always said that an education was worth more than gold."
Back still turned, Coach shook his head slowly. "You should've gotten out of Las Vegas. Away from the gambling, the drugs, the sex. You've been exposed to too much. You've become infected, working with that . . . cracker faggot."
Warrick's jaw dropped. Unbelievable. Unbelievable that Phelps would repeat the big lies. The lie that no black man could ever be born to love another man. The lie that he must have learned to be a homo from a white man. Unbelievable, too, that Phelps could think he could viciously insult Gris and get away with it.
"Prison turn you stupid, Matt? You got a death wish to talk that kind of trash in my house?"
Black eyes turned from the photograph, "Don't threaten me, boy."
Bristling, voice dropping to deadly serious, Warrick warned, "I am not your boy. I was never your boy."
A dismissive wave. "You've got no pride left. No pride at all if you bend over for the devil."
Warrick stared at the stranger who used to be his mentor. Who had almost been a father. With barely concealed rage, he choked, "Get out of my house."
"Hurts to hear the truth, doesn't it?"
"That's not truth. It's blind ignorance. This is what hurts: that you were once a man I looked up to, and now all I see is a bigoted fool."
Phelps marched over to the piano and grabbed the annual Memorial Day picture. He waved it in front of Warrick's face. "What about your family, Rick? Do you think they enjoy seeing you wallow in this filth?"
Arms trembling, hanging on to his cool by a thread, Warrick took a step toward Matt. "My family loves me. They love Gris. You should have seen them. When he was leaving the party. Grams hugging him around the neck. Bertha begging another recipe from him. Celia and Latisha cornering him for help on her science project. Everybody loving on him but the ones too narrow minded to see beyond the end of their noses."
Dark eyes flashed. "You think they love you? You think they love him? They don't love you. They don't love him. They don't want to embarrass your grandmother. She puts up with anything from you, doesn't she. Your gambling. Your drinking. Your whoring."
Long, elegant fingers tightened into fists. "Better leave now, Matt."
"Answer me one question, Rick. Truthfully. What would your grandmother say if you asked her? Would she say, 'I want you to marry a beautiful woman in the community and raise a family that all of us can take pride in?' Or would she say," and here Matt took on a querulous, weak voice, "'Whatever makes you happy, child. Go ahead. Bring shame on this family. Bring shame on our community, our women, our history, our pride. Go on and be a selfish faggot ass punk.'"
An unthinking fist flew at Matt's face. Reflexes honed in prison stopped it, shoved it aside. "You even punch like a sissy."
Straightening himself, drawing back his fist to knock Phelps on his ignorant, hating ass, and then Warrick saw it. On Coach's face. Hurt and pain enough to make a man crazy.
What is a real man? One who cares what bigots think? Who loses his temper? Who turns to violence? No, no, no. A real man doesn't tear down, he builds up. A real man cares about another man's character, not the color of his skin, the name of his god, the gender of his mate. A real man doesn't speak with hate, he speaks with love. Yes, love.
Green eyes blinked. Long fingers unclenched. Tight lungs gulped in breath. God. How ironic. One of the most real men Warrick had ever known was Gil Grissom. Gris didn't give a shit what ignorant people thought. He rarely lost his temper. He never turned to violence. He spoke with respect and honor and love. Yes, love.
"Matt, your body may be out of the joint, but your mind's still there. You're hurting, man."
"Shut up," Coach snapped, bunching his big hands into fists.
Warrick held his arms out wide. "Hating me and Gris ain't gonna bring back Aimee. Hating me and Gris ain't gonna get you back the time you lost with Travis."
"Shut the fuck up," Matt howled, slamming his fist on the top of the piano. Pictures and bottles tumbled onto the floor. Frames cracked. Glass shattered. Beer exploded.
Unflinching, Warrick stood at peace, arms and hands relaxed at his side. "What's that proverb? From our African Djuka brothers? 'It's not what you call us, but what we answer to that matters.' Yeah. All right. You can call me a sissy, a punk, a queer, a faggot. But what I'm gonna answer to is this: I'm a proud man who loves and honors his family, his community, his culture, and his friends. I'm a proud man who loves and honors another man named Gil Grissom. And I wouldn't turn my back on him for all the shit names you throw at me."
The two men stared at each other, one with hate, the other with love.
And that's when, of all times, Warrick's cell phone rang. The "We Are Family" ringtone. Warrick waited half-way through the chorus, then said softly, "I'm gonna take this, Matt. Don't go anywhere."
He headed into the kitchen and pulled the cell phone off the holster on his hip. "Hey, Aunt Bertha."
"Warrick, child. Honey . . . ," her voice trailed off. She sounded off, choked up.
"What's wrong?"
"Baby. Baby, I'm afraid I've got some bad news."
His knees trembled. "Tell me."
"It's mama."
"Grams?"
"We're in the emergency room at Desert Palm. They think it's a heart attack."
He steadied himself against the kitchen counter. "I'll be right there. Anything you need me to do?"
"No, child. Just . . . just hurry," she sobbed.
Stunned, Warrick stared at his phone watching the seconds tick away on the display. At last he snapped his phone shut and shot down the hallway to his bedroom. Grabbing his jacket, he hurried into the living room where Coach Phelps stood slumped and lost like a defeated soldier.
"Matt, my grandmother's in the hospital. I've got to go, now."
But even a defeated soldier stays dangerous. He snarled, "You'll find out how much your family loves you when your grandmother's gone."
Clenching his jaw, clenching his gut, Warrick gave no answer. He simply ushered Coach Matt Phelps out of his house and out of his life.
******
"You really like that song." Gris could hear the smirk in Sara Sidle's voice as she stood just a little too close.
"Don't you have a bathroom to process?" he asked, snapping a photo of the storage compartments beneath the victim's bed. His cell phone continued to ring out the tune of "At Last," meaning Warrick was calling again. The third time in the last thirty minutes. The third time Grissom hadn't answered.
"Oh. You can hear. I was afraid your otosclerosis had come back."
Definitely a smirk. Closing the storage compartment, he maintained his squat and inched along the bed looking for anything out of place, anything probative.
"It hasn't come back, has it?" Sara wasn't one to let things go.
"An impossibility after a stapedectomy." He took more photos, intent on his work, not looking at her, not answering his phone. A loud irritated sigh blew on the back of his neck, then long-legged footsteps stalked away. His phone went silent at the same time. Pursing his lips, he finished up with the bed. He stood, looked around to see if he'd missed anything. Even though Mr. Capleton had been shot in the living room, the reasons for a man's death and clues to his killer could be anywhere.
Reasonably certain he'd cleared the bedroom, Gris headed into the large bathroom to join Sara. She was already at work, pale face pinched and annoyed. Odd. She usually had no difficulties processing a bathroom. Shrugging, he took pictures of the bathroom overall then focused on specific areas: the tub, the toilet, the sink. The latter seemed all too clean in comparison with the rest of the bathroom.
He bent over the sink and breathed in deep. A faint whiff of copper.
"Check this drain for blood," he said.
Flashlight in hand, looking for trace around the commode, Sara snapped, "I know how to do my job."
A raised eyebrow and a soft voice. "Then do it."
Another explosive sigh answered him. One more photo, then he was out the bathroom door, across the bedroom, and into the hall. He picked up a couple of evidence boxes, skirted the blood stain on the living room carpet, and headed out into the night.
"You guys almost finished in there?" said the blond cop assigned to the front door. She had her thumbs stuck in her gun belt, teeth working her chewing gum overtime.
He smiled insincerely and quoted, "'Patience, and the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown.'"
She stopped mid-chew and stared at him. Ah, it was good to have a boyfriend who loved to quote Chinese proverbs. Grissom smirked his way out to the Denali.
Loading the boxes into the back of the SUV, Gris next secured his camera's memory card into an evidence envelope. Everything signed and dated, he locked the rear doors, circled around, and climbed into the driver's side. He locked the door then pulled out his phone. He smiled, as he thumbed the speed dial for his boyfriend's cell, knowing that the beginning of "She Blinded Me With Science," would have Warrick scrambling for his phone.
"Baby, thank you, lord," his worried voice leapt out of the receiver.
"Anima, I swear Judy will contact Catherine if I'm ever in trouble," Gris joked. An awful silence greeted him. He gripped the SUV's steering wheel. "Warrick?"
"Please, you got to come over to Desert Palm."
His chest muscles clenched, but his voice stayed calm. "Are you injured?"
"No, no. It's Grams. She's . . . in Cardiac Care. Damn, baby, I need you here. Now."
Grissom glanced at the Capleton house. At his primary responsibility. Licking his lips, he asked, "Isn't your family with you?"
"You're my family. And I need you."
Blue eyes blinked. Pink lips fell open. "Warrick, I-I--," Gris swallowed then straightened in his seat. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Hurry. I love you, baby."
Gris murmured, "I love you, too." He rang off. He sat still for a moment, letting his breathing and heartbeat come back down to normal. For some reason his right hand ached. He looked, realizing at last that he'd gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his nails had cut into his palm.
As much as he wanted to start the Denali and take off for Desert Palm, he had to act sensibly. Under normal circumstances, he would just call a cab and leave. But with AD Ecklie watching for every deviation from protocol, Gris couldn't risk it. He had to go back inside the house and hope Sara would let him leave without any explanation.
Right. As Warrick would say: Picture that.
Gris tapped his fingers on the dashboard. Yes. Maybe Sofia Curtis was through with the 426 in Henderson, the sexual assault. She had seniority on Sara and knew about him and Warrick. If Sofia needed an explanation about why Gris was handing off a crime scene, he could tell her. And not have to face Sara.
He began to dial Sofia's extension just as a pair of headlights drew up behind the Denali. His thumb hovered over the last digit when the driver's door opened and the vehicle's overhead light flashed on. He immediately recognized the square jaw and handsome dark eyes: Nick Stokes. Nick?
Dressed in a long sleeve t-shirt and blue jeans, forensics vest on top, Nick hopped out of his jeep, crime scene kit gripped in his right hand. Gris shook his head. The energy of youth. Unlocking the Denali, he eased out of the SUV.
"What are you doing here?"
From Nick's pocket, a strong hand pitched a ring of keys at Grissom. Surprised, he still managed to snag it.
"Warrick called about half an hour ago. Sorry to hear about his grandmother," Nick looked toward the Capleton house. "I thought I could do the most good here. What's left to do?"
Gris stared at Nick then at the keys in his palm then back. Nick had seniority over Sara. Thank god. "I-I . . . kitchen," Grissom said at last. "Sara's in the bathroom off the master bedroom."
"Got it," Nick nodded, holding his hand out, palm up. Man, Bossman sure was thinking slow tonight. "You want to toss me the keys to the Denali?"
Hesitating for a moment then rapidly patting down the pockets in his jacket, vest, and pants, Gris finally located the keys in his right pants pocket. He underhanded the SUV's keys perfectly into Nick's palm.
"Give Warrick my best," Nick started up the walk to the Capleton house. "Oh, the clutch is acting pretty sticky, lately. Looks like I'm gonna have to pay a visit to the credit union. See what their interest rates are. Think I'm ready for a pickup."
Other than blinking a few times, Grissom stood motionless watching Nick meander up the walk, whistling a tune that sounded vaguely like Randy Travis's "Heroes and Friends."
"Evening, Vanessa," Nick nodded to the blonde uni on the door.
"Hi, Nick," she brightened, unhooking her thumbs from her gunbelt, eager to show him the crime scene. Because of Nick and Warrick, CSI had finally reached an entente cordial with the police. Well, at least with the female members.
Before he stepped inside the house, Nick turned back to Grissom and called out, "Hey, Boss, don't you think you better get goin'?"
As if waking from a spell, Gris leapt into the jeep, cranked the engine, depressed the clutch, shoved the stick into gear. He didn't see Nick's wince as the jeep squealed away from the curb.
Wheeling the jeep into a space in the visitor's parking garage, Grissom barely remembered to lock the vehicle before he bolted for the stairs. Some people might think it strange that someone who'd never worked at Desert Palm would know its layout so well. Would know that the closest place to park to the Cardiac Care Unit was not on the ground floor of the parking garage, but on the fourth or fifth level, near the southeast corner, near the stairs, which led to an unmarked door, which led to a hallway, which led to an entrance that said "staff only" which Grissom ignored.
He strode past empty gurneys and wheelchairs parked in neat rows in an otherwise empty storage room, then through a swinging door into a sparsely furnished lounge for nurse's aides. Surprised eyes followed him as he cut through and out and left into a busy tiled hallway, brightly lit with framed pictures of flowers and green hills and seascapes on the walls. A forty second brisk walk and then a turn to the right.
Two dozen of Helen Brown's grandchildren and great grandchildren lined the hallway leading to the Cardiac Care waiting room. Some were crying aloud, some sobbing softly, some stone dry and stunned.
Even with tears blurring his sight, Cousin Chris spotted Gris. Pushing away from the wall, he slipped through the crowd and wrapped his tree trunk arms around Grissom's shoulders. For once, Gris paused only momentarily before he slipped his arms around one of his boyfriend's family and hugged back.
"I'm so sorry," he said. He held Chris tightly, wishing for words of comfort that wouldn't sound like cliches.
At last Chris let Grissom go and pulled back. "Rick's in the waiting room."
"What happened?" Gris kept his voice low, wanting to know the background before he stepped into emotional onslaught.
Rubbing his eyes, Chris shook his head. "The party was winding down. Grams . . . she hadn't been herself all night. No appetite. No energy. Trouble breathing. Then Celia overheard her complaining about her jaw aching. Grams never complains, so the pain must've been . . . considerable."
Grissom nodded. Celia worked in the Coronary Care Unit and would recognize the symptoms.
"We called an ambulance. Celia made Grams chew up an aspirin. The EMTs got there quick, slapped some oxygen on Grams and took her blood pressure. Hooked her up to some heart measurement thing."
"A mobile electrocardiograph."
"Yeah. Indications of a heart attack." A grim smile. "You should've seen her face, Gil, when they brought in the gurney. Grams was so pissed that they wouldn't let her walk out of her house and into the ambulance."
"Have you heard from the doctors?"
He looked away. "It's not good. Clots in at least two arteries. The ER doctor didn't want to give her drugs--" he coughed and tried to clear his throat.
"So they're going to perform surgery," Grissom completed the news. Not surprising. Thrombolytic therapy to dissolve blood clots wasn't usually recommended for anyone over 75, although some recent studies had begun to indicate--
A piercing wail broke into Grissom's thoughts. Julia, one of Warrick's cousins, had broken down. She struggled loudly as others came to comfort her.
Waiting until she quieted back down to quaking sobs, Chris at last answered, voice rough and tight, "Yeah. Soon as space opens up."
Gris nodded. The faster Helen got treated the better. "Angioplasty and stenting?"
A choking cough. Thick fingers ran through coal black curly hair. "I think that's what they said."
"Good. If performed within two hours after a patient arrives at the hospital, those procedures have a near 100 percent success rate for opening the veins. Unfortunately, stroke and renal failure present all too often in the elderly."
Chris shook his head and smiled crookedly at Grissom. "Man, Rick said you'd do that."
Blue eyes blinked in confusion. "Do what?"
"Said you'd get all scientific to deal with this."
Speechless, Grissom struggled for something to say, then large, meaty hands slapped him on the shoulders, "It's okay, man. We need somebody clear-headed around here. Better check on Rick."
With a deep breath, Gris walked slowly toward the waiting room, slowly because every single person in the hallway seemed to need to hug him. He was nearing overload by the time he got to the waiting room. It was jam-packed but eerily quiet. Reduced lighting, carpeted floor, upholstered chairs. Filled with tense and worried families hoping and praying for good news.
Spotting Warrick seated in the far corner, Gris began to thread his way over. Warrick had his long arm around Aunt Bertha's shoulders. She had one arm entwined with Aunt Cathy's. Uncle Roosevelt and Aunt Hoan sat across the aisle, huddled together. Aunt Lucille and Dinah Lee held hands. Aunt Shirley seemed to be missing. A woman in scrubs crouched in front of Bertha talking to her.
Green eyes found him before he reached the corner. A look of pure relief, then Warrick squeezed Aunt Bertha, shot up out of his seat, and stepped quickly to meet Gris. Long arms wrapped around him, hugged hard, wouldn't let him go. Grissom hugged back fiercely. His strong hands moved up and down Warrick's back, giving comfort, giving strength. The two men didn't need words, only closeness.
"Warrick?" a vaguely familiar female voice intruded.
He pulled back and wiped his eyes. "Yeah."
Grissom blinked, surprised to see someone he recognized. Tina Hopkins. Head nurse in Cardiac Care. She acknowledged him with a nod and laid her hand on his boyfriend's arm.
"I've got to go," she said softly. "We'll do all we can."
"Thanks," Warrick nodded back then reached for Gris again. Enveloped in long arms, Grissom saw the shock and confusion on Tina's beautiful face. But he didn't take pleasure in it. The only emotions he felt were love for his anima and concern for Helen Brown.
"Thank god you got here in time," a hoarse voice whispered into his ear.
"Thanks to you and Nick."
A ragged sigh, then Warrick released his boyfriend. "Cousin Jackson and Adele are in with Grams right now. Shirley and Celia are waiting. Two people every two minutes. I was holding off until you could go in with me."
Grissom didn't point out that some of the family would no doubt condemn his accompanying his boyfriend. Fuck it. If Warrick wanted Gris to go in, then by god he was going in. With a nod to Helen Brown's son and daughters, he followed Warrick out of the waiting room.
******
Celia's dark brown eyes brightened when she saw Warrick and Gris. Aunt Shirley's didn't.
"What's he doing here?" she hissed, glaring hellfire at Grissom.
"Aunt Shirley, don't," Celia ordered. Even though they stood in a staging area just outside of Cardiac Care, this was her territory, and nobody trespassed. "Grams doesn't need you going in there with your feathers ruffled."
Shirley harumphed, thinned her lips, narrowed her eyes. Warrick ignored her. "How's Grams doing?" he asked Celia.
"Better than she has any right to. Lord, there's a time for suffering in silence, and a time for raising the roof," she said, hands on hips, fighting back tears.
"Hey, now," Warrick took her into his arms. "Think you need to take your own advice."
"No ruffled feathers?" she murmured into his chest.
"Uh hmm," he kissed the top of her head.
The swinging metal doors opened out, and Cousin Jackson and his wife Adele were ushered out of CCU by a male nurse. He smiled and looked curiously at Warrick and Celia. "Hey, Celia, we got time enough for two more pairs into the ark. Who's next?"
Pulling away from Warrick, she brushed the tears from her face. "Hey, Esteban, me and my Aunt Shirley." Celia started toward the door then looked back at Warrick and Gris, "And last, my two cousins, Warrick and Gil."
Grissom's right eyebrow shot up at the same time as Esteban's; Shirley and Jackson sputtered; Warrick looked stunned; Adele hid a smile. Celia simply sailed toward the swinging door. "Aunt Shirley? You coming?"
Clutching her purse tightly in front of her, Shirley gave Gris and Warrick one more hellfire glare then stomped after her niece into Cardiac Care.
Unfortunately, Reverend Jackson Brown picked up where Shirley left off. His glare burned hotter than hellfire. Tall and stiff, in a three-piece navy blue pinstripe suit, he looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ pulpit, "How you can bear the shame to bring your sinful abomination before our grandmother's--"
"Jack," Adele's voice soothed low and soft, but her tone rang firm and uncompromising, "this isn't the time or the place. Your job right now is to comfort the family not rebuke the wicked."
Well. It was the only time in his life Grissom had ever been called "wicked" to his face. Somehow, though, the little lift to her plump lips at the end of her statement undercut the label.
Crossing his arms over his chest, the Reverend glowered at the two sinners. His two hundred dollar Oxford shoes clacked hard on the hallway tile as he stalked back to the waiting room.
Adele glowed peacefully like an amused saint, "He'll come around. If he can get over the ordination of women, he can get over this." She leaned forward and kissed Warrick. She pulled back with a smile. "You know Jackson's stubborn. Like his Cousin Warrick."
Pink lips twitching at his boyfriend's indignant look, Grissom accepted a kiss and hug from Adele. "See you later . . . Cousin," she winked at him then floated calmly away.
"Your family is simply remarkable," Grissom said.
"Oh, yeah," Warrick sighed, tucking in his lips then blowing them out. Sorrow like a heavy yoke settled on his shoulders.
Gris shifted uncomfortably for a moment then reached out and lightly rubbed a hand up and down his boyfriend's arm. "You okay?"
Warrick slowly shook his head. "It's not like I thought Grams would live forever, but it still seems so . . . sudden. There's too much I've never said. Things I never told her. Things I never asked her." Red-rimmed green eyes looked away.
A slow blink. A slow lick of lips. "Anima, she knows you love her. Everything else is just . . . details."
Green eyes looked back. A sad smile on his princely face. "Thank you, baby," Warrick whispered, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Grissom's.
The couple stood there, eyes closed, wordless, giving comfort and strength to one another with merely a touch. When the swinging doors swung out, the two men felt renewed, able to face whatever the universe threw at them.
With warm hugs from Celia, disapproving sniffs from Shirley, the two men followed Esteban through the doors into Cardiac Care. A short hallway led to a large central nurses station. Eight individual rooms with clear glass walls radiated off the station. The nurses could not only monitor the equipment but see into each room.
Esteban led Warrick and Gris to room 6. "Two minutes," he whispered then stepped aside.
Helen Brown lay small and motionless in the dim light of hissing and beeping machines. Her caramel skin had paled to ashy beige. An IV snaked into her neck--an arterial line--allowing constant monitoring of blood pressure. Another IV dripped a mixture of fluids, probably nitroglycerine with a morphine chaser. Electrodes were stuck to her chest, arms, and legs. Supplemental oxygen flowed through a nasal cannula. Even with the pain and the drugs and the machinery, though, her eyes sparkled bright and welcoming.
"Warrick? Gil?" she rasped. "Or did the lord . . . answer my prayers . . . and send a pair . . . of Chippendales?"
Gris sent his boyfriend an amused smile and pointed at himself, "One Chippendale," then at Warrick, "One La-Z-Boy."
"Oh, I'll remember that, boyfriend," Warrick worked to match the light tone set by his Grams, as he stepped around the bed, took her small hand, leaned down, and kissed her. "We'll see if we can talk Gris into stripping later. "
She gave a wheezing chuckle and studied her grandson's beautiful face. "I think watching you . . . try to convince Dr. Grissom . . . would be about as . . . entertaining . . . as the actual event."
Warrick grinned. "How are you doing, gorgeous?"
"Child, please . . . get your eyes checked," she smiled, breathing deep but noisily. "I am doing fine. I'm in the hands . . . of Jesus . . . my family . . . and the best doctors."
Hands in his pants pockets, Gris stood just inside the door, admiring the tender love passing between grandmother and grandson. A love confident and strong even in the face of a potentially fatal illness. And then he realized bright brown eyes and gentle green eyes had focused on him.
"Gil, honey . . . now's not the time . . . to be shy." A small hand rose shakily from the bed and beckoned him over.
"C'mon, baby," Warrick invited.
Hesitantly, Grissom crossed the floor. Green eyes directed him to take the small hand reaching out to him. He took it gently into his rough hands, encasing the fragile skin and bones and lax muscles with warmth.
"You didn't know . . . your grandparents?"
Surprised by the question, Gris glanced at Warrick who nodded reassuringly.
"No." He'd never seen his mother's parents after his mother divorced his father. He'd never met his father's parents.
She feebly squeezed his hand. "Then you're not used . . . to a grandmother . . . speaking her mind . . . to her family."
Blue eyes blinked. "Um, no."
Her smile faded, and she took a rattling breath. She looked at Warrick. "I'm glad . . . you're finally happy, honey."
Warrick nodded, "Me, too."
"But you weren't happy . . . earlier today."
"I know, Grams," Warrick sighed. "I was being more concerned about what other people think than about keepin' it real."
Grissom's right eyebrow rose. When had Warrick been concerned about what other people think? And what were they thinking that so concerned him?
"Mm hmm," she nodded her head slowly. "What did I . . . always tell you?"
A shy grin. "'To thine own self be true.'"
"That's right. . . . So, you gonna . . . be true to yourself . . . from now on?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"There's nothing shameful . . . about love."
Sea green eyes gazed into sky blue. "Nothing shameful at all."
Dark brown eyes closed. A soft smile touched a wrinkled face. And then a gulping breath. "So, when . . . are you two . . . gonna raise me . . . some grandchildren?"
Both eyebrows shooting up, jaw dropping, Grissom stared at his beautiful boyfriend. Warrick blushed and dipped his head. "Grams!" he moaned. "I haven't . . . we haven't seriously discussed that, yet. We need some time."
"And a womb," Gris blurted.
A creaking chuckle. "Honey, there are children . . . already in this world . . . needing a grandmother . . . No reason . . . to make more."
"Time's up, please," Nurse Esteban bustled into the room. An assistant pushing a gurney followed behind.
"Behave yourself, Grams," Warrick teased through his welling tears and kissed her.
"Depends on how . . . good looking . . . the doctors are," she teased back, releasing his hand. She didn't release Grissom's though.
He hesitated, but the tender look on Warrick's face gave a clue. Gris leaned down and kissed her, too.
"Thank you, child. Keep my grandson . . . safe," she whispered.
He cleared his throat. "I will."
The two men stepped aside as the aide slid the gurney up beside the hospital bed. Esteban loosened the bed's sheets and arranged the IV drips. Nurse and aide picked up the corners of the sheets and lifted Grams from the bed to the gurney. In the next moment, Helen Brown was out the door and on her way to surgery.
******
"What's taking so long?" Aunt Shirley whined, twisting the handle of her purse.
"The doctors are doing what they can, Shirl," Aunt Bertha let go of Warrick's large hand to comfort her youngest sister.
Taking the opportunity to stand up and stretch, Warrick schooled his face to calm. Aunt Shirley was right to be worried. An angioplasty usually takes about 30 minutes to two hours. A rookie might take longer, but the Desert Palm cardiologists inserted vascular balloons and stents everyday. Still, it was going on three hours. Somebody from the surgical team should've visited the family by now.
With a deep breath, Warrick plodded across to his boyfriend leaning against the wall, inhabiting the only place in the waiting room where he wasn't pressed in by another person. Warrick was proud of Gris. He hadn't freaked out or shut down or booked. He'd stayed strong.
"Hey," Warrick smiled wanly.
Grissom nodded, face filled with concern.
Long fingers brushing his boyfriend's elbow, Warrick asked, "You, uh, wanna take a walk?"
A furrowed brow. "Do you?"
"Yeah. I think," he swallowed. "I think I could really use a break."
"Warrick?" Tina's tired voice, soft and low, came up behind him.
He spun around and saw her sorrowful face, her wet eyes, her trembling lower lip.
"Oh, god, no," he pleaded. His knees began to buckle. Strong arms slipped around him from behind and held him up. Quiet strength seeped into him.
"Warrick, I'm sorry. We did all we could. The damage was too extensive. Her heart . . . gave out."
He shut his eyes. He wanted to whirl around and bury his face in his boyfriend's neck, to wrap his arms around his boyfriend's sturdy body, to release his sorrow and grief into comforting arms. But Warrick needed to be strong for his family. Still, he gripped the strong arms around his chest, hanging on to keep from folding to the floor.
He at last opened his eyes to see Tina standing rigid in front of him. Her beautiful face was closed off, as if she was finally beginning to believe what her eyes had been telling her all along. But Warrick still could've kept up her illusions. He could've pulled away from Gris. Warrick could've easily slipped back into the tattered role of the great heterosexual player. But he chose to keep it real.
"Tina, I'm sorry. I should've told--"
Lips tight, beautiful eyes hard, she threw up her hand, cutting him off. Yeah. She at last understood. Warrick wasn't available, even if he might look interested.
Tina waited a few seconds, collecting herself. At last she said, "Dr. Patel would like to debrief the immediate family," she looked pointedly over Warrick's left shoulder at Gris. "In the conference room." Her stormy eyes flicked back to Warrick. "I'll escort you there when you're ready."
He nodded, standing up straight, composing himself. "Tina, thank you. For everything. I know you all did your best."
She nodded once, then with a deep breath and a lift of her chin, she transformed into the consummate professional. Warrick watched her walk with shoulders back and head held high over to his aunts and uncle. He watched as she delivered the news, as his family's hope gave way to despair. Reactions ranged from stunned silence to loud wails.
For some reason, his legs began to tremble uncontrollably, his knees to give out. Strong arms tightened around him and lowered him gently to the floor. Strong arms tightened around him and held him close and safe. Even when the world dissolved into tears.
******
"I never realized how many lives Grams touched. There must've been a thousand people crammed into that church." Warrick lay on his left side wrapped bonelessly around Gris. They curled together, worn out but sleepless, on Warrick's bed underneath the Star of David quilt.
It was Wednesday evening, three long, long days since Grams had passed away early Sunday morning. The enervating visitation and wake Tuesday night, the overwhelming homegoing service this morning, the intimate grave side service this afternoon. People from the neighborhood and the church. Family, friends, friends of friends. Nick and Catherine stopping by the wake on their way to a crime scene. At the funeral, Nick and Catherine plus Greg, Sara, Sofia, and several others from the Crime Lab; Brass, Vega, and Vartann from LVPD. Even A.D. Ecklie had put in an appearance. While he was honored that so many would give up their sleep out of consideration for him and his family, Warrick was still peopled out. Peopled out and cried out.
"Sometimes the most humble make the biggest impact."
"Yeah." Warrick nuzzled into Grissom's sweet smelling hair. More for familiar comfort than sensual excitement. Thank god for Gris. Through every service, he'd stood quietly by, giving Warrick support as he had supported Aunt Bertha. "What's that quote, baby? 'Humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights'?"
A soft chuckle, and a sturdy body snuggled back deeper against him. "The conclusion to Thoreau's Walden. I wouldn't have thought that was your kind of read."
"Since I met you, I've read all sorts of books and listened to all kinds of music I never thought I would."
"Well, I can certainly say the same. Especially the music part."
Warrick grinned, considering Jill Scott's Love Rain played softly on the stereo. Blunt fingers stroked lightly down the long arm he had wrapped around his boyfriend.
"After the past few days, I think I have a greater understanding," Gris continued, "of why your family is so essential to you. All the stories about your grandmother. How she gave kids in the neighborhood a safe place to do homework or play. Encouraged them. Fed them. Listened to them."
"Bailed them out of jail."
"Even that. She never seemed to give up on anyone."
"She didn't. Sometimes I think she should've, but she always thought everybody could turn their lives around."
They fell silent, Warrick with his thoughts of his grandmother, Gris with his thoughts about mourning and burial ceremonies.
It was when Jill Scott was singing "Gettin' in the Way," (I see your intentions / You can't handle the truth), that Gris said, "I saw Matt Phelps in church. Did you have a chance to catch up?"
"Yeah," Warrick sighed. "We caught up all right."
Even though he tried to keep his boyfriend close, Gris pulled away and rolled over. Blue eyes looked closely into green. An unspoken question on his handsome face.
"It didn't go well," Warrick admitted. "Coach got twisted up in prison. Or, hell, maybe he was twisted up before he went to prison."
"About what?"
"About one man loving another."
"Ah." Gris waited a few beats. "And?"
Warrick shrugged, "Let's just say that Coach won't be having me over to the Rec Center anytime soon for a pick up game. Probably won't want me within a mile of the Rec Center anyway. Too many tempting boys to recruit to the homosexual agenda."
Grissom's face creased in confusion. "But androphilia doesn't lead to homosexual pedophilia."
"It does in Matt's mind." Warrick reached out and ruffled his boyfriend's beard, trying to distract him from getting caught up in the demographics of sexuality. Besides, Warrick had a confession to make.
"I'm grateful to Matt, though. For making me see how much baggage I still had to let go." A strong hand cupped his long fingers still stroking the soft beard. "Grams knew, though. She saw how much I love you. Saw if I kept frontin' I could drive you away."
Gris shook his head. "It would take much more than that to drive me away from you. About all I can think of is a gun to the head and being forced into the trunk of a Lincoln Towncar."
Warrick's eyebrows shot toward his hairline, "That's not an immediate possibility, is it?"
A crooked grin. "Only if I manage to piss off Sam Braun again."
"You might want to watch yourself with Sara, too." Oh, boy. That sure slipped out. Gris looked surprised, as if Warrick had just grown a third eye.
"Sara?"
"Yeah. She seriously believes she has a chance with you. You need to come clean with her. I will if you won't."
Blue eyes looked thoughtful for a moment. "Anima, our private life is no one's business. Least of all an employee's business."
"Whether you want her to or not, she's making it her business. And if I've learned anything these past few days, baby, it's that withholding the truth hurts everybody. I know a conversation with Sara about your private life is the last thing you'd ever want to do. But she needs to know where we stand."
Not exactly a deer in the headlights look, but Grissom was obviously not willing to go that route. At least not alone.
Smiling softly, Warrick gathered his reluctant boyfriend into long arms and squeezed. "We'll tell her together. In the meantime, do me a favor, baby, don't work too hard to piss off either Sam or Sara." Warrick pulled back so he could kiss pink lips, long and slow and sweet. Only when he was satisfied did he break free to whisper into a pink ear. "So if I can't ever drive you off . . . sounds like you like hanging around me."
Somewhat breathlessly, Gris growled into a brown ear, "I do. It's certainly never dull."
Sea green eyes flashed with laughter into sky blue. "Yeah. And just wait until we tell Sara."
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