Title: I Put A Spell On You
Author: sandersyager
Characters: Greg/Warrick
Category: relationship, silliness
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Nina Simone is not a porn star.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to CBS, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: juneprota requested a Christmas fic over here, Secret Santa Slash. It's not Christmas, but this is for her for rocking my world with QAF/CSI crossover fic and cheering me on in the pursuit of Warrick porn, which this is not.
Cross-posted: csi_slash, warrickgreg

"Man, what is this?" Warrick reaches past Greg to grab the stereo remote and turn down the volume, not quite silencing the distorted guitar.

Greg scowls up at him, waiting for him to move so he can readjust the volume. "Marilyn Manson, I Put a Spell on You. This is like classic, Warrick. How do you not know it? I mean, it's from the first cd and basically helped make them legendary. C'mon."

Warrick looks at Greg for a long moment, resisting the urge to check his ears for bleeding. Really, it's not so bad, the bass is a nice addition, almost like a heartbeat, but it's just not... "Classic? Greg, do you know anything about music? Actual music, not just some guy screaming like he's at the end of a hard round of shots and being forced to do karaoke?"

"Um, actually, that's Tom Waits. Subtle difference, 'Rick," Greg says, reopening the book on his lap. "And this is music, thank you very much. Who asked you to be Mr. Critic anyway?"

"Music. Right," Warrick says, nudging Greg's feet off of the coffee table as he sits down at the other end of the couch. Greg gives him another look and turns to drop his feet into Warrick's lap. "Have you even heard of Nina Simone?"

"Yeah," Greg looks up with a faint smile. "Isn't she that porn star?"

It's another of those moments when Warrick can only stare and wonder how on Earth he's fallen for this man, how this man manages to walk and chew gum at the same time, how this man has replaced his sweet and intelligent Greg and where the fuck did he hide the pod?

"Nina Simone is not a porn star," Warrick manages to say, feeling his teeth grind together. "She's the high priestess of soul, and how do you own that many cds," he points at the far wall, lined with shelves of jewel cases and old vinyl sleeves. "And still know nothing about music?"

"Not everyone has to know the historic origin of every piece and who did the seventy three covers and how each one ranked in the charts," Greg mumbles, steeling himself for a potentially long night. "Some of us just like music for the sake of music. Keeps people from feeling the need to talk so much."

"Remind me why we're dating?" Warrick sighs, running his fingers over Greg's crossed ankles and under the hem of his jeans.

"Because you like my ass," Greg smiles. "I mean, because you value my mind and witty conversation. Because Nick has a straight boy crush on you but could never actually—"

"Greg," Warrick reaches over to place one finger over Greg's lips. "You said you weren't going to mention that any more."

"So, what am I allowed to talk about? Apparently I know nothing about music, and Nick's off limits, and you get distracted when we talk about my ass," Greg pouts under Warrick's fingertips. "I guess I could talk about how hot your ass is. Would that save me from a lecture in musicology according to Warrick Brown?"

"No," Warrick laughs, leaning in to kiss Greg's cheek. "And just for that, it's not going to include a field trip."