Title: Stretches
By: Shelley Russell
Series: Working Out 07
Summary: Warrick dons shining armor; Nick gives good advice; Grissom asks for what he needs.
Category: CSI: Vegas
Characters: Nick Stokes, Warrick/Grissom
Genres: Slash
A huge thanks to my betas Rebecca and Buffy.

******

Let sleeping dogs lie.

The phrase echoed in Warrick Brown's head as his long legs strode powerfully through the corridors of the Las Vegas Police Department. It was late afternoon, the middle of March. Let sleeping dogs lie. Warrick could hear his grandmother's voice saying the phrase, repeating it over and over. Let sleeping dogs lie.

This time, though, he was gonna stir the dogs up.

Warrick ignored the surprised and concerned looks coming his way from people who knew him. He ignored the alarmed looks coming his way from people who didn't. He wasn't aware that his green eyes shimmered ice cold or that his generous mouth cut knife thin. He only knew that he needed to take a man to task for betting against his lover, for insulting Gil Grissom. Warrick felt like a knight riding to protect his king.

Warrick spotted his target: a short, wiry man in his mid 40s, dressed in a brown uniform, and shooting the bull with fellow cops. "Officer Fromansky." Warrick's voice was as cold as his eyes.

Fromansky spun on his heel. The two patrolmen with him took one look at Warrick's face and fanned out in support.

"CSI Brown." Fromansky stopped just short of a sneer. His face was hard and unafraid, unlike his two companions.

"It's the Ides of March," Warrick smiled like a wolf. It was good to have a boyfriend steeped in the classics.

"What?" Fromansky snapped belligerently. That's what ignorance does to a man. Makes him angry.

"March 15th."

"So?"

"You picked the 12th, right? Makes you a loser. Check that. Confirms you're a loser."

"What the fuck are you flapping about?"

Warrick eyed the two nervous cops on either side of Fromansky. Garcia, squat, dark, and young shifted from foot to foot; Yancey stood tall and taut with orange-red hair. Neither was a threat. Inconsequential idiots.

Warrick stepped closer, using his height to make Fromansky look up. "The P.D. betting pool you set up. Ecklie firing Grissom. I hear the pool splashed into the toilet when Ecklie picked Grissom to head up Bruce Eiger's murder."

This time Fromansky did sneer. "Game's not over, clown."

Fighting back the rage and keeping his head cool, Warrick stepped in closer, towering over the shorter man. Fromansky didn't flinch, but that didn't matter. Warrick's voice was low and dangerous. "Game's over and done."

"Get out of my face, boy."

If there was ever a word to make Warrick lose his cool, "boy" was it, but he was too focused on his mission. His voice rumbled even lower, like distant thunder, "Soon as you apologize to Supervisor Grissom, Officer Fromansky."

Their eyes locked, searching for any weakness, any tell, any cracking advantage. Did that eyebrow twitch? That lip tremble? That eye blink?

"Gentlemen," a calm, rugged voice slid like an iceberg between two battleships. Warrick recognized the speaker: Captain Jim Brass.

"Let's not give everybody a show. Time to go to your opposite corners." Brass waited a beat, then he issued the command, "Now."

Fromansky's buddies grabbed his arms and pulled him away at the same time that Warrick took a step back. Steely eyes, though, wouldn't break contact.

"Get him out of here," Brass ordered the two policemen. They back pedaled Fromansky down the corridor. Just as the three men were about to round a corner, Fromansky cocked his hand like a pistol, thumb hammering an imaginary bullet at Warrick's heart.

Disgusted, Warrick let his frustration loose on Brass, "You wanna tell me how that piece of shit stays on the force?"

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" Gesturing for Warrick to move in the direction of the crime lab, Brass wearily trudged away. Warrick glanced angrily at where Fromansky had disappeared, took a deep, unsatisfactory breath, then caught up with Jim. The crowded corridors were suddenly vacant.

"You know about the P.D. betting pool Fromansky set up?"

"Which one?"

Warrick gave Brass a blistering sidelong look.

"Oh," Jim admitted. "That one. Look, Rick--"

"That's poison, man. Betting on when a guy gets fired. It's disrespectful. Busts morale." The anger Warrick had kept at bay when confronting Fromansky raged up and out.

"Well," Brass shrugged, serene even though a volcano seethed beside him, "if it makes you feel any better, Gil laughed about it when I told him."

Warrick stopped short in the hallway. "You kidding me? Gris knows about this?"

"Yeah. He took May 5th."

Complete surprise blew anger away. Only Warrick's boyfriend would make a bet on himself being fired. Deflated, Warrick stared open-mouthed at Jim.

Brass shook his head, "Gil will probably win, too. Just to spite Fromansky."

******

Around eight o'clock that same night, Warrick was driving his Denali back to the lab after photographing a misunderstanding between neighbors--a misunderstanding that had escalated into a fatal stabbing. Sad what can happen when people won't listen to one another. Driving on autopilot, he was grooving to Billie Holiday on KUNV. Even though the Denali's sound system was far inferior to that in his Lexus, her yearning, slurred rendition of Crazy He Calls Me cut him to the bone. It also made him think of his crazy mad scientist boyfriend. Not that Gris was too far from Warrick's usual thoughts in any case.

Stopped at a red light, singing along, Warrick realized he was only a few blocks from Grissom's townhouse. Warrick knew it was nuts. Gris was probably asleep, and the man needed every second of shut-eye he could score. But before Warrick knew it, his long fingers muted the song then activated the two-way on his mobile phone.

He found himself saying, "Dispatch, CSI Warrick Brown breaking for lunch."

"Copy," a disembodied female voice answered back.

Shaking his head, Warrick stared at his phone then holstered it. Why did he feel this sudden urge to see Gris? Was it the confrontation with Fromansky? Was it the constant reminder that ugly things can happen to anyone at anytime? Was it the compulsive need to protect his boyfriend? Warrick didn't know. Taking a cleansing breath, he toggled the sound on the radio. He listened for a moment, then laughed at himself, and joined in as Lady Day drawled to a close, "Crazy he calls me / Sure, I'm crazy / Crazy in love am I."

******

Warrick keyed open the deadbolt to the front door of his boyfriend's townhouse. It was a short way down the entrance hallway and into the expansive living room. Light from street lamps filtered through partially closed blinds and revealed a room definitely lived in, stuffed with overflowing book cases, an overflowing desk, scattered books, framed beetles and butterflies, anatomical models, abstract paintings, a spectacular sound system, and what always lit a fire in Warrick, a large leather sectional. About a month ago, he had talked Gris into splitting the cost of the enormous couch. They "celebrated" the purchase weekly.

Warrick began to cross the hard tiles of the living room floor and paused when his boots squeaked. As he crouched to unlace them, he noticed that Gris had propped Khepri up against the center corner of the couch. Warrick grinned. In anyone else's living room, Khepri would stand out like a pink flamingo in a churchyard. In Grissom's living room, an orange and black stuffed scarab beetle fit in perfectly.

Padding silently in sock feet, Warrick slipped across the living room, past the kitchen, down the hallway, and left into his boyfriend's bedroom. The only source of light was the clock radio that gave off a faint blue glow. Warrick stood at the foot of the bed and breathed in his boyfriend's presence.

Grissom slept neat. He lay curled on his left side, white cotton sheet and pale gray cotton blanket pulled up midway to his chest, right arm resting on top, right hand in a loose fist close to his face. Warrick was usually all over the king size bed, or all over his boyfriend, arms and legs stretched out, crowding Gris into an ever smaller fetal position. He never complained, but Warrick couldn't help but wonder if Grissom ever got a decent sleep when they shared a bed.

"Damn," Warrick sighed softly, wanting to hold his boyfriend but not wake him.

"Warrick?" a sleep-hazy voice smiled. Half lidded blue eyes blinked slowly trying to clear the dreams away. Always a light sleeper, Grissom could hear two gnats mating a county away . . . when he wanted to.

"Sorry, baby, didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

A half smile. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"Well, give it a shot. I'll see you at the lab." Warrick turned to leave and heard the mattress shift as his boyfriend rolled out of bed.

"Is something wrong?" He asked.

Great. Just like Gris to get all curious at an inconvenient time. "No. Just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in. I better go."

"And I thought I was a bad liar."

"Hey." Warrick turned around to find his boyfriend standing close dressed in a white t-shirt and maroon and black plaid pajama bottoms. Strong arms hung relaxed at his side, strong hands curled but open. He looked drowsy, deliciously vulnerable, and unguarded. But one mocking eyebrow let Warrick know that Grissom could spring at any moment.

Warrick couldn't help himself. In one step he had his arms around his boyfriend's sturdy body, soaking up his calm and quiet strength. He slipped his large hands under the t-shirt, palms and fingers sailing on the smooth warmth of his boyfriend's skin. Warrick knew that there was nothing permanent in this world, but he was embracing the closest thing to it. Even though Warrick had seen the cracks veining the foundation, Gris still radiated a welcoming stillness, a gift of peace in an ever-changing, indifferent world.

Burying his nose in Grissom's hair, Warrick breathed in the warm scent, took pleasure in the soft texture. Finally, firm arms came around Warrick's waist and hugged him tight. Warrick hugged back.

"Tough night?"

"Nah. Not really." He took a deep breath. "I had some words with Officer Fromansky, though."

Grissom pulled back though he stayed in Warrick's embrace. Amused blue eyes looked up into uneasy green. "Define 'some words' for me."

"I called him a loser. Told him his game was over. Told him to apologize to you."

Gris actually looked shocked. And Warrick smiled. "And then Brass informed me that you'd actually placed a bet on your own ass getting fired. Does Fromansky know?"

A tiny quirk of soft lips. "I think Jim may have let slip he was buying the day for me."

A deep chuckle rose from Warrick's gut, "Baby, you are something else. Wish you'd told me before I went and made a fool of myself."

"Maybe you should let me fight my own battles." A warning voice, deceptively soft.

Warrick shook his head, "Nuh uh. We're a team, now."

Grissom studied Warrick's sincerity for a few moments then relented. "Point taken. But check with your teammate before you head off to slay dragons."

Warrick knew he looked sheepish. The look got him an indulgent smile and a gentle hug from Gris. "Still, I appreciate the gesture."

That was not what Warrick wanted to hear. Confronting Fromansky had been more than a gesture. Confronting Fromansky had meant publicly defending the most important person in Warrick's life. And now that most important person had just patted Warrick on the head with "good boy." Quite a fall from knight in shining armor to watchdog. Warrick tried not to let his disappointment show.

"You're here on lunch break," Gris continued, "Let me fix you something. I'll get ready while you eat."

He started to pull away, but Warrick held on. "Get ready for what?"

"Work."

"Baby, you're going back to bed."

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "Unless you're coming to bed with me, I'm making you lunch then going to work."

Yeah. Warrick knew that tone of voice. Sighing, Warrick released his boyfriend and watched him head for the kitchen. Somehow, the fall from watchdog to lapdog didn't seem nearly so steep.

******

"Tell me the real reason you're here."

Warrick looked up from the dinner table and the last of his gumbo and cornbread as his boyfriend entered the living room. Freshly showered, hair still damp and curling, Gris was fastening his watch to his left wrist. Ten minutes flat to shower and dress. Ten minutes to work up a line of interrogation. Warrick decided on evasion.

"Where else can a man get spicy seafood gumbo at 8:30 on a Tuesday night in Vegas?"

"At his Aunt Bertha's?"

"Yeah, but yours tastes better. You know she's gonna stop swapping recipes with you if she finds out you keep changing them," he slurped up the last spoonful, "and making them better." Gris had slow cooked the gumbo last Sunday from a recipe that had been a guarded secret in the Brown family for at least three generations.

"Cut down on the salt, increase the cayenne, add thyme. And the only way she'll find out is if her nephew spills the beans."

"Is that part of the recipe?" Warrick sopped up the dregs with the cornbread.

"Leave the puns to me, pal."

Warrick thought he was safe, but he was wrong. His boyfriend sat down at the table. His blue eyes looked expectant. And relentless.

Warrick took his time, looked down at the table, chewed and swallowed the cornbread, grabbed a paper napkin, wiped his fingers. He shrugged, "I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Yes. I am prone to injury lying in my own bed."

Sea green eyes met sky blue. "Gris--"

"Warrick," the soft voice stroked his ears, vibrations chasing ripples down his spine. "I've lived most of my life without a knight in shining armor."

Warrick's head shot up. A knight again? "I know that. I know--"

"Do you think I need a knight in shining armor?"

"Sometimes." Warrick smiled feebly as Grissom's right eyebrow shot towards the ceiling. "To be honest . . ."

Gris nodded, expecting nothing less.

"To be honest, you're the most self-sufficient person I know. Sometimes," Warrick picked up his glass of iced tea then realized it was empty of tea. He swirled the ice in the glass, "sometimes all I think you need from me is for me to watch your back."

Cocking his head, Gris queried, "What brought this on?"

Warrick set the glass down, watched as the ice spun for a moment, catching the light briefly, then slid to a cold stop. What to say? Was it that Grissom scored points off of Fromansky but never bothered to tell Warrick? Was it that Grissom was still too reserved in their relationship, too suspicious of deep emotion, too reluctant to reach out? Was it that on the rare occasion Grissom initiated anything, Warrick only craved more?

"You never ask me for anything," Warrick said at last.

He watched his boyfriend think that over, and Warrick wasn't at all surprised that Gris didn't understand, "What should I ask for?"

Warrick took a deep breath. Ask me to hold you. Ask me to kiss you. Ask me to love you. Ask me to protect you. Ask me to matter to you. How to tell Gris without sounding weak, without sounding pathetic?

"Ask for what you need."

"You already give me what I need," Gris stated simply.

And that was the crux. Grissom never needed to ask because Warrick always gave. Grissom didn't need to initiate because Warrick always moved first. But he was getting weary of playing point man. If only he knew that Gris actually needed him, Warrick might catch a second wind.

"But what if I need you to ask?"

Green eyes watched as Gris tried to work out what to do. Anyone else would've known. Anyone else would've stood up, rounded the table, wrapped arms around Warrick, and squeezed half the life out of him. But Grissom wasn't just anyone. Even though Warrick knew this, knew that Gris would have to deliberate his response, Warrick was still disappointed. He craved an immediate, visceral, emotional reaction. He didn't get one.

But what he did get almost made up for it. Hesitantly, as if Warrick might scatter into pieces, Gris reached across the table. Warrick shivered as fingers so strong yet so gentle smoothed over his cheek, as a thumb traced the line of his lips. He leaned into the caress and kissed the thumb. He wrapped his large hand around Grissom's and squeezed.

"Anima mea." A tender smile and blue eyes shining, "You are, you know. You are my soul." And then Gris stood, leaned across the table, and kissed Warrick.

Damn. The kiss was sweet but not chaste, lingering but not burning. Just what Warrick needed. When their lips inched apart, he whispered, "Guess there are times you don't need to ask."

A slow blink. A slower lick of lips. "You're right, though, I should. I'm not as self-sufficient as you think. Not anymore." Gris kissed Warrick lightly once again then drew back with a quirky smile, "Maybe I do need a knight in shining armor, Sir Warrick."

"A black knight, though."

"The Black Knight in Ivanhoe was quite heroic," Gris nodded, and then the association made him grin, "Warrick the Lionheart. It fits you perfectly."

And Warrick caught his second wind.

******

"Maybe he forgot," Nick Stokes said as Warrick snapped his phone shut with a little more force than necessary. Grissom still wasn't answering. It was early Friday afternoon at the Makino Sushi buffet just off of West Flamingo, and Gris was an hour late.

Always more than fair, always thinking the best of his co-workers, even including former supervisors who had a habit of being late, Nick was trying his best to reassure his best friend. Only Warrick was having none of it.

"It's on his Outlook calendar which is synched to his phone. I stopped by his office and reminded him. Twice. I left voice mail. I would've reminded him again if he'd bothered to show up at the gym. And, no, I didn't page him 'cause that's only to be used for work even if technically he's not supposed to be at work right now." Warrick's lips tightened, "He didn't forget."

"S'okay, man, let's eat. I'm starving. If he shows, cool. If not . . ." Nick ended with a shrug, then eagerly picked up a skewer stacked with barbeque pork and sucked the first piece off the end.

Seething, Warrick snapped up shrimp tempura. He'd picked Makino Sushi buffet because Gris had raved about the red snapper and tekka-maki. Warrick and Nick would've been far happier with Mexican food and shooting pool at Money Plays, a sports bar a little further to the west down Flamingo.

"Heard you got to babysit Lindsey last Saturday," Nick said around his barbeque pork.

"Yeah." Warrick knew Nick was waiting for an elaboration, but Warrick didn't feel much like talking. Gris had promised to join them. He'd promised. Warrick didn't know if he was angrier at Gris for not showing or at himself for feeling so angry about it.

"So, what did y'all do?"

"The Sphinx."

"Grissom go with you?"

"Yeah. He managed to show up for that."

"Oh ho, man, are you listening to yourself?" Nick pointed a naked skewer at Warrick.

"What?"

"Cosmic payback, man." Nick looked smug and took his time wiping his mouth and fingers.

Tired of waiting, Warrick slapped his fork onto the table. "All right, lay it on me."

Nick's grin could've lit up half of Vegas. "You remember a few years back, you were juggling three women? April, Consuelo, and . . the little spitfire, short, curly black hair?"

Having to focus on his mental rolodex chilled some of his anger. Green eyes squinted as he remembered. "Marilyn."

"Oh, yeah, M-m-m-arilyn," Nick savored the name, dark eyes flashing in appreciation. "That morning after Thanksgiving when she came gunning for you, wanting to nail your hide to the fence post 'cause you didn't pick her and her parents up from McCarran? And you didn't pick her up--"

"Because I was at the Tangiers with Consuelo. Yeah, what's your point?"

"You whine just like her."

"Fuck you, Stokes."

"Hah, you know I'm right, dawg." Nick neatly speared a tuna roll, flipped it into his mouth. "So Grissom doesn't show up. What's the big deal? You afraid he won't eat? You his mother, now?"

"Trust me, I am nothing like his mother," Warrick muttered.

"So, I ask again, what's the big deal?"

The big deal was that earlier this week, he thought he'd reached a new understanding with Grissom, an open channel of communication. Today that channel looked like two tin cans with a broken string. Warrick thought Gris had actually seemed excited about eating lunch with his boyfriend and Nick. Warrick thought Grissom seemed pleased to be included, to be one of the boys. So how could Gris just blow them off without a word?

"It's a matter of respect," Warrick said finally. "He doesn't . . . Look, I know I'll never be as important to him as his work or his research but would it kill him to show a little courtesy and call?"

"He told you that? That you'll never be as important?"

"Doesn't have to."

Nick shook his head. "Hoss, if you went makin' assumptions like this at work, Catherine would bust you back to CSI 1."

"You don't know him."

"And you do?"

Warrick looked away, focusing instead on blue, yellow, and silver tropical fish swimming placidly through a large, bright aquarium. Kind of creepy to be under the gaze of critters while feasting on their relatives. Swallowing, he acknowledged that Nick was right. Even after four months together, Warrick barely knew Gris. Warrick might know more than most people. He might know that Gris was a great cook, that he loved jazz, that he had a freaky ass-mother, that he drove Warrick crazy. No, Warrick didn't know Gris much at all.

"You know," Nick popped a rainbow roll into his mouth, "I've never seen you stay so serious about someone for so long. You miss chasing the thrill?"

"Nah, believe me, I got all the thrill I want. I've just never been with anyone who . . . damn."

"Go on, man, get it out."

"It sounds . . . so egotistical."

"Tell me something new, bro."

Warrick narrowed his eyes. Only his best friend could get away with a comment like that. "A'ight. I've never dated anyone who seemed like he . . . she . . . whoever, wouldn't miss me, wouldn't be, I don't know, hurt if I walked out the door."

"Whoa, now. You better check with Sara and Greg about that. I don't think they'd ever want to see that happen again. Gris turned A-1 asshole last time you walked out on him."

"Yeah, man, but," Warrick swallowed. "Shit. It was me who walked out; it was me who walked back. It's always gotta be me who makes the move."

Nick's eyebrows drew together. "Well, Rick, not like I'm gonna say 'I told you so,' but just what were you expecting from a guy who's barely been friends with anybody much less, well, been in a serious relationship with anybody? As far as we know?"

Warrick stared down at his plate. He'd lost his appetite. "I don't know," he sighed. "Sometimes it's so good, and sometimes . . . sometimes it's so tough, man."

"Know what?" Nick leaned back in his chair, tipping it back on its two hind legs.

"What?"

"You're missing how much Gris has changed since y'all been together. Too close to see the changes, I guess. He looks different, walks different. More confident somehow, not so arrogant. Like he's finally found someone who accepts him for who he is. Weird as that might be."

Warrick shot Nick a warning look. Warrick might call his boyfriend weird. Didn't mean that anybody else had that privilege.

Nick smirked and leaned forward, setting his chair down four square, "Believe it or not, you're changing, too, hombre. You're stretching. Growing up. You never would've put up with this much shit from anybody before."

Warrick opened his mouth to protest then relaxed into a grin. He shook his head, "Damn. You got that right."

"Funny thing is," Nick drawled, "I'd bet my last bottom dollar that Gris has no clue how much trouble he stirs up."

"Too true," Warrick nodded. "Hey, you know so much, how come you're not in a relationship?"

Nick laughed, "Already got a full-time job, bro."

Warrick laughed, too, "Oh, yeah, I hear that."

Abandoning his empty plate, Nick scooted his chair back, slapped Warrick on the back, and headed for seconds from the buffet. Warrick went to work on his first plate, forking up a mouthful of spicy crab. He had to admit it, Nick was right. Twice in one day, Warrick smirked. Yeah, Gris had changed. Slower than a glacier at times, but at least he cared enough to try. Or so it seemed. Warrick's brow furrowed. Why the hell hadn't Gris called?

"Well, Mr. Brown, formerly known as Mr. Too Cool for School, this would be so fucking entertaining if you weren't so obviously worried." Nick set down his re-filled plate, took out his phone, flipped it open, started thumbing buttons.

"What are you doin'?"

Sitting down, Nick said, "Finding out where your boyfriend is."

"Nick--"

"Hey, Debbie, Nick Stokes. . . . I'm good, thanks. You?" He leaned back, smiling, relaxed. For once in his life, Warrick envied Nick. "Good to know. Say, I'm trying to get a hold of Grissom. You know his last location?"

Nick's left hand mimicked the dayshift receptionist working her keyboard. She wore two-inch removable fingernails and could type 80 words a minute with them on. Greg had tried wearing a set in the lab once. He gave up after almost stabbing himself in the eye, causing him to spill nitric acid on a new $600 lab chair, nearly giving Day Supervisor Conrad Ecklie a heart attack.

Smiling briefly at the memory of Ecklie's horrified face, Warrick absent mindedly pushed the last shrimp tempura around on his plate. The smile faded. Damn. It wasn't unusual for Gris to get wrapped up in a case, not unusual for Gris to forget to call Warrick, but it was unusual for Gris not to return a call.

"That's odd." Warrick's head snapped up at Nick's words. "Who were the officers on scene?"

"Yancey and Mills," Nick repeated for Warrick's benefit. The name Yancey sounded familiar, but Warrick couldn't place it. "Yeah, do that for me, would ya, Deb, and uh, would you transfer me to the morgue? Yeah, thanks."

Warrick's worried green eyes met Nick's concerned dark brown. Nick shrugged, "Debbie's gonna page him. Grissom got called out to a d.b. around seven. Some new exclusive gated community, SunVista Estates, in northwest Vegas. Case should've been closed by now. Body's been transported to the morgue. Prelim ruling is suicide, even Gris agreed, but scene's not been released, and police haven't filed paper."

"Gris still at the residence?" Warrick reached under the table to still his bouncing knee.

"Last known--" Nick turned back to the phone, "Hey, SuperDave." Assistant Coroner David Phillips on the line. Warrick pictured the nervous, slightly pudgy young man who had quietly managed to impress not only his boss Dr. Robbins but even Grissom.

"Yeah, man, that's great," Nick was saying, "um, hey, that suicide you had this morning at SunVista Estates? Was Gris still at the crime scene when you left?"

Focusing on slowing down his breathing, Warrick watched Nick listen to the assistant coroner.

"Butterfly house?" Nick asked and waited for David's explanation. Warrick's eyebrows shot for his hairline. If ever there was anything that could distract his boyfriend, it would be a house full of bugs. But, even then, surely Gris would answer his phone. Surely he would. Irritation sparked at the edge of worry.

"Grissom tell you that?" Nick smiled into the phone, then said after a pause, "Nah, s'okay, SuperDave. Longer we hang around Gris, the more money we'll pull down once we get on Jeopardy. Thanks a bunch, man." Nick snapped his phone shut. "He was still there at 9:30 when David left. Um, Grissom was gonna go out into the backyard to, uh, to spend some time in the greenhouse the, uh, vic had turned into a butterfly house. Hey, uh, did you know that there's no correlation between owning a pet and being less likely to commit suicide?"

The longer Nick talked, the more Warrick's irritation grew into anger. And it obviously showed on his face.

"Damn. Goddammit." He leaped up, drew out his wallet, and threw three bucks on the table.

"Wait a minute, Warrick," Nick grabbed a skewer of barbeque pork and barreled after his friend. "Let's not go off the deep end, here. Let's call P.D. and--"

One look from Warrick, and Nick shut up.

Warrick stopped at the cashier and paid for both meals. Then he silently stalked out of the restaurant, Nick close behind.

"I'll call you later," Warrick's voice was tight as he keyed open his Lexus.

"Say, you know, man," Nick pitched the empty wooden skewer onto the ground and dusted his hands. "I suddenly have a hankering to tour one of the newest and most luxurious developments in Las Vegas. SunVista Estates. Mind if I tag along?"

Staring at his friend, Warrick considered the offer. If there was trouble, Warrick wouldn't mind the help. If there wasn't trouble, well, Warrick wouldn't mind the witness. That way, Warrick was less likely to nail his boyfriend's hide to a fence post.

******

Warrick was doubly glad that Nick had insisted on riding out to SunVista Estates. First so that Warrick wouldn't give in to temptation and kick his boyfriend's ass when they found him. Second so that he didn't give in to temptation and kick in the few remaining teeth of the redneck rent-a-cops guarding the gate at SunVista Estates.

Even with an official City of Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigator ID, even in broad daylight at two o'clock in the afternoon, no way was a black man in blue jeans getting inside this upscale gated community. Warrick glowered like a thundercloud inside the Lexus while Nick pattered on outside, delivering his best good ol' boy routine, smoothing and aw-shucksing their way past Gomer and Goober.

Nope, neither had seen a black Denali with an LVPD seal on the side drive past the guard shack since coming to work at 8:00 this morning. Nope, neither had seen a nearly 50-year-old, 5 foot 11 inch, bearded, blue-eyed scientist, most likely with a preoccupied look on his face, wandering around the property. Nope, neither were any fucking help at all.

"Ignorant assholes," Nick drawled as he got back in the Lexus and buckled in. Warrick eased the Lexus from the gate. Studying the map on the back of the SunVista Estates brochure he'd gotten from Goober, Nick said, "Take the first left. We got a ways to go. The Allyson house is at the rear of the development."

Warrick suddenly stomped on the accelerator. The powerful engine shot the car down the street, then he braked hard, taking a quick left, scoring 40 feet of coal black skid marks onto the pristine entryway. He pressed hard again, shooting the Lexus up the street.

"Feel better?" Nick asked, peeling himself off of the passenger door.

"It's a start," Warrick growled.

They careened past immaculate, water-wasting green lawns that were busy sucking up Lake Mead. The houses were post-modern McMansions, brick mostly, two or three stories tall. Their high-peaked roofs and bay windows sneered out at the desert, lurking just on the other side of the compound's 10 foot high wall.

The Lexus skidded, literally, down Sunset Lane, right into SunVista Road, left into Sunburst Avenue, right into Sunspot Place.

"I'm sensing a theme here," Nick squinted as Sunrise Terrace blurred past.

"Tell me when we get to Sunovabitch Way," Warrick snapped, taking a squealing sharp left into SunDevil Boulevard.

"All the way down then left." Nick checked the map one more time. "That'll be us. Sundown Avenue. The genius who named the streets in this development should be shot. No, better, staked out in the sun."

"On a Sunday," Warrick grinned fiercely, gunning the Lexus then slamming on the brakes. The heavy car slid straight and true, skidding perfectly until it lined up with the stop sign.

Nick opened up the passenger side door so he could get a good look back at the marks left behind the Lexus. "Beautiful!" he crowed. "Sixty feet of prime Goodyear rubber smeared all over the concrete, my friend. Perfecto!"

Oh, yeah. It was perfectly juvenile, but Warrick felt much, much better. He turned leisurely onto Sundown Avenue.

Half a block down, they spotted Grissom's Denali parked in the driveway of the last, and biggest, house in the subdivision. Unconsciously, Warrick picked up the car's speed. He deftly pulled the Lexus right in behind the SUV.

No black and white cruiser, no uniforms. Warrick didn't like this at all. If the scene was still active, there should still be a uni on premises. There should be crime tape on the front door. From all appearances, though, the big house stood deserted.

Nick pulled out his phone as Warrick reached under his seat and drew out his handgun lock box. He pressed his thumb to the biometric pad and unlocked the box.

Nick stared as Warrick removed the heavy black Smith & Wesson 1911 pistol from the box. "You really think we're gonna need that?"

"Better safe--"

"Than sorry. Yeah, I know. Let me check in with Debbie, first." Nick dialed the lab as Warrick fitted a full magazine into the pistol's grip.

"Hey, Deb--" the receptionist cut Nick off. Warrick could tell it wasn't good news. He eyed the front of the house for any movement. "Well, thanks for trying. I appreciate it."

Eyebrows knitted, mouth drawn tight, Nick closed the phone. "Grissom didn't answer his page. Debbie tried to reach Mills and Yancey, too, but they're clocked out. This is fucking weird." He looked longingly at the Smith & Wesson, "You carrying an extra?"

Warrick stared at the house. "No."

Nick shrugged, "After you, then."

The two men slowly got out of the car and carefully approached the front door. Warrick rang the doorbell. He pounded on the front door. It was locked. So were all the ground floor windows.

"Gris! Hey, Grissom!" Nick called. No answer.

They rounded the left side of the house. The white cement block wall enclosing the backyard towered at least 10 feet high. The thick, smooth wooden gate matched the height and was locked tight.

"Friendly place," Nick said.

"Give me a boost." Warrick knew he could jump and pull himself up, but what are best friends for?

Nick laced his fingers together and bent his knees. Tucking the automatic into the back of his jeans waistband, Warrick stepped up into the firm stirrup and quickly found himself launched upwards. He caught hold of the top of the wall and easily swung himself up with the momentum provided by Nick.

Warrick scanned the backyard. In contrast to the putting green front lawn, the backyard had gone native: gravel paths lined with mesquite, desert willow, brittlebush, California poppy, blue lupine, yuccas, cherry red sage. And in the middle of it all was a converted greenhouse, protected from the sun's excess by a stand of Russian olives and a whirring air conditioner. The structure measured maybe 12 feet by 20. It seemed as deserted as the house.

Although it was only in the upper 60s on this cloudless day, Warrick's black and gray striped shirt was already soaked with sweat. Worry sweat. He wiped his damp palms on his blue jeans then reached down and helped Nick up to the top of the wall. They dropped gracefully to the other side. Pistol back in a sweaty grip, Warrick led the way as he and Nick carefully scouted the back of the house. All doors and windows locked tight. No movement. Not even a breath of breeze.

Nick started to call out again, but Warrick motioned for silence. Something didn't feel right.

They slowly circled the greenhouse. They studied the gravel paths for footprints but found nothing suspicious. Occasionally, faint spots of color flashed through the glass as butterflies skipped close to the windows, but nothing else inside moved. Nearing the front of the butterfly house, Warrick noticed parallel grooves scuffed a short way in the gravel path leading to the greenhouse door.

"Drag marks?" he silently mouthed to his friend. Nick looked closer then shook his head.

Sweating, heart beating rapidly, Warrick crouched beside the only door and released the safety on the automatic. He nodded as Nick took position to open the door. Nick counted softly, "One, two, three." Nick jerked open the door, and Warrick pointed his .45 inside.

All Warrick could see was a tiny vestibule with heavy wide strips of rubber curtaining the entry into the greenhouse. The strips probably helped keep the butterflies from escaping. The inside of the greenhouse felt humid and surprisingly cool, but sweat rolled down Warrick's back as he crept toward the curtain. He strained to hear something other than the air conditioner, but the soft drone was all he heard.

With the gun barrel, he carefully pushed aside one of the rubber panels. Gray-green butterfly bushes with plump purple blooms blocked his view of the greenhouse. What he could see was a sluggish fountain splashing into a shallow pool in the back right-hand corner. Butterflies of all sizes and colors pulsed and drifted, flitted and sailed. It would've been beautiful had Warrick not been so keyed up.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly eased through the curtain and around the butterfly bush. Planter boxes lined the sides of the butterfly house creating a four foot wide aisle. And there, to the left, half-way down the greenhouse, he spotted a pair of legs sticking out into the aisle. His view of the rest of the body was blocked by one of the big planters, but he recognized the shoes. Warrick fought to breathe and tried to slow down his heart. The legs were completely still.

"Gris?" It came out as a whisper. Warrick's throat had gone dry. No movement.

Warrick thumbed sweat out of his eyes. Trembling, he crept down the aisle, eyes and ears open for any movement, nostrils wide to catch any scent. Except for the butterflies and the fountain, everything was still. And only rich earth and living plants perfumed the air.

Reaching the legs, Warrick swallowed, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, firmed his grip on his pistol, and slowly peeked around the corner of the planter.

******

Warrick blinked once. Twice. Could barely take in what he was seeing.

His boyfriend lay flat on his stomach, head resting on his left hand while he studied a brilliant orange butterfly perched on the back of his right hand. Butterflies dotted the back and shoulders of his red shirt. White, orange, yellow, green, gray, blue; checked, swirled, piebald, solid. An orange and black monster, with a wingspan of at least 7 inches, pulsed on top of his head. A monarch no doubt.

Shaking with relief and anger, Warrick lowered his pistol and set the safety. Slumping, resting his head against the planter, he croaked, "Gris."

Grissom's head snapped around. The monarch took off, shooting past his nose. Blue eyes glowed, a smile as bright as Christmas. "Warrick! Look at this! The Carson Valley Silverspot! It's a female. See this blueish tinge? I've never seen one outside of a book. And I've seen a desert orangetip, a clouded tailed copper, a Mojave giant-skipper! All Nevada butterflies, but mostly rare these days. There must be 15 different local species in here. This place is amazing!" Completely oblivious to his boyfriend's baleful face, Grissom rolled to a sitting position, careful not to dislodge any of the insects crawling on his back.

Staring at him, wanting either to slug him or kiss him, Warrick at last stood up, muscles aching with tension. Loudly he called out, "Nick, it's safe."

"Be careful where you step," Gris added, turning his attention back to the Carson Valley Silverspot. Amazing is right. He accepted the sudden appearance of Warrick and Nick without a second thought.

"Wow!" Nick exclaimed as he emerged through the curtain, obviously struck by the undeniable beauty of the butterfly house. "This is cool!"

"Oh, yeah," Warrick snarled. "It's a fucking butterfly Garden of Eden."

Nick took a step back and mouthed, "Settle down."

Yeah. Like that was gonna happen. Warrick turned his back on his best friend and stared at the fountain in the back corner. He felt as if he could turn the water to steam. The silence crowded thick around Warrick and magnified his righteous anger.

Not too surprising, it was Nick who tried to calm the waters. "Hey, uh, Grissom, why would a guy, who obviously invested a lot of time and lots of money into something so, I don't know, so spectacularly beautiful, kill himself?"

"Maybe he felt useless," Warrick muttered, glaring at the fountain.

"That's probably not far from the truth, Warrick. Mr. Allyson was recently retired, recently divorced."

Warrick glanced murderously at his boyfriend, "What, the bugs weren't doing it for him anymore?"

Grissom looked back blandly. "They never did. When Brass contacted the former Mrs. Allyson, she said her husband raised the butterflies to please her. But he spent so much time back here, she found somebody else."

"Man, that's, uh, that's . . . ." Even Nick couldn't find the right words. There was a long pause, then he tried again, trying for a lighter tone. "Soooo, uh, Gris, you still hungry or did you manage to chow down on a few butterflies to tide you over?"

A disgusted expression crossed the handsome face, "Nick, no one eats adult butterflies. You know Vladimir Nabokov? The novelist?"

"Not personally."

Gris snorted, "Well, Nicky, he was also a lepidopterist. A fine one. He sampled a raw Viceroy once. He said it tasted vile, like a mixture of almonds and maggoty cheese. Now, fried caterpillars on the other hand are extremely tasty, nutritious, and . . . ." Warrick watched as his boyfriend slowly made the connection between eating and the arrival of Nick and Warrick, "Oh, guys, I--"

"You forgot." Warrick tried not to sound too hurt. Or too pissed. He failed on both accounts.

"Actually I got locked out of the house." Gris didn't sound embarrassed or apologetic. He was just stating a fact. And that pissed off Warrick even more.

Lips in a thin, dangerous line, Warrick took in that Grissom wasn't wearing his work jacket or vest. His kit was nowhere to be found. "Something tells me your kit, pager, and cell phone are inside the house."

"Astute deduction." Green eyes widened. Was that sarcasm?

Hanging on to his temper by sheer will, Warrick spat, "What? You been out here five hours or more? Neighbors not at home? Couldn't get anyone to let you use a phone?"

Gris shrugged, "I couldn't get over the wall or unlock the gate. Besides, I knew you'd come looking for me. Only I didn't think you'd come armed."

"Jesus, baby, why you think I'm toting this pistol?!" Warrick was vaguely aware of Nick backing out through the curtain, of him shutting the greenhouse door. Smart man. Not good to hang around when Warrick Brown was on the verge of losing it. "You're at an active crime scene. You don't answer your phone. You don't answer your page. You don't clock out. Nobody knows where the fuck you are. What the hell am I supposed to think?"

He watched Grissom stiffen, watched his shocked face harden with each harsh word, watched his jaw work back and forth, probably summoning a scathing rebuke. Warrick waited for it, determined not to back down or give in. For an eternity, stormy sea green eyes held glacier blue. And then the blue eyes softened. Warrick was completely surprised when the lion gave way to the lamb.

"I'm sorry if I worried you." The orange butterfly with the blueish tinge flew off as Gris lifted his right hand to Warrick.

"Goddamn right you worried me." Gris wasn't getting off this easily. "How'd you come to get out here without your stuff?"

Grissom blinked and thought for a moment. "I didn't want to be interrupted, so I left everything inside. I asked Officer Yancey to tell me when he and Mills were leaving."

Yancey. Fuck. Now Warrick recognized the name. Closing his eyes, Warrick recalled the cop standing by Fromansky three days ago.

"Warrick?"

He blew out a big breath, "Baby, this Yancey? Tall, lean, clown-red hair?"

"Yes. He 'has a lean and hungry look.'" Gris tilted his head, thinking it through. "Only, unlike Cassius, he doesn't seem to think too much. Or at all."

Cassius. A dangerous man to Julius Caesar. Yancey. Not such an inconsequential idiot after all. Yancey locked Gris out on purpose. It was petty payback but it had the potential to embarrass Grissom, to subvert his professionalism. Warrick could just imagine Fromansky and Yancey slandering Gris: "Absent-minded civilian. Too dangerous. Too unstable. Too much a liability to trust in the field." From a poison acorn, a poisonous tree grows.

"Why so interested in Officer Yancey?"

Warrick swallowed, "He's buddies with Fromansky."

Gris connected the dots. "You think he intentionally locked me out."

"Yeah." And Warrick had stirred him up.

Grissom nodded, considering and at last understanding Warrick's concern, "From here on out, I'll be more careful."

Warrick reached down and pulled his boyfriend to his feet, gently brushed the fragile butterflies off his back, then crushed him in one serious bear hug. "Damn, baby, you better be. Don't you ever do this to me again. Not ever. My heart won't take it, and my health insurance ain't that good."

"Anima," Grissom's voice muffled voice vibrated against Warrick's throat, "if you don't let me go, I'll never have the opportunity to make this up to you."

Long, muscled arms eased the pressure but didn't let Gris go. "Damn right you're gonna make it up to me. Spent 20 bucks on that sushi buffet and only got one plate full. There's a steak with my name on it sizzling at Ruth's Cris Steakhouse right now. You owe Nick, too. And Debbie, the dayshift receptionist."

"Anyone else I owe?"

Warrick thought about Gomer and Goober, one of whom would have to trundle over to Sundown Avenue to unlock the door to the house so Gris could get his stuff. But neither guard had enough teeth left for sushi much less steak.

"Nah, nobody else. But if you think a great steak's the only thing that's gonna get you off the hook, you are dreaming, baby."

******

Hot water sheeted off his lean body, easing aching muscles, relaxing taut nerves. And the hot mouth wrapped around his cock didn't hurt, either.

He was standing in the roomy shower of the townhouse, the shower's twin sprays caressing his skin, his boyfriend on his knees on a cushioned shower mat. Flexing the muscles in his ass and legs, Warrick slowly pumped himself in and out of Grissom's talented mouth. Warrick loved the contrasts: the sight of his dark cock sinking between pale lips, the feel of his hard, aching cock sinking into the soft, sweet mouth. He shivered and closed his eyes, wanting to hold the feeling as long as he could. Strong hands kneaded his lower back and ass, stroking the tension away, then building it back up.

Warrick cracked his eyelids open, took in his boyfriend's long eyelashes resting on wet flushed cheeks, his beard beaded with water drops, curling gray hair plastered against his skull, firm shoulders solid under Warrick's large hands.

"Yeah, baby. Like that," he groaned. Grissom's tongue flew like a butterfly over Warrick's cock, whisper soft, erratic, beautiful. His groans grew louder as skilled fingers massaged his balls, as gentle teeth nibbled carefully on the underside of his cock. And then he was back inside that hot, glorious mouth with that wicked, fluttering, butterfly tongue.

"That's right. That's it, baby. Right there," he panted. Erotic pressure building, heart pounding, muscles trembling, nerves sizzling. And then a firm fist curled around him, joined with the hot mouth, and he thrust hard and fast. Oh dear lord, yes, there, god, there, yes! Warrick came, throat keening, knees buckling, hands clenching. He staggered, but strong hands and arms held him up, caressed him, loved him. He breathed deep and held on to rock solid shoulders.

He stayed inside that hot mouth until he softened. Even then, it seemed like Gris didn't want to let Warrick go.

"Baby?" he whispered, running his long dark fingers through the soaked curls, pulling slowly out of his boyfriend's heat.

Grissom looked up, blinking water spray from warm blue eyes, smiling crookedly with swollen red lips, "Thanks for the rescue."

"Yeah, well, let's don't go making a habit of it."

A soft kiss to his soft cock, "I thought you wanted to be my knight in shining armor."

Warrick smiled back, "Think I might want to renegotiate my job description."

Helping Gris to his feet, Warrick tasted himself on his boyfriend's lips and tongue. They kissed slow and languid and deep, as if drinking each other for the first time. Their hands slipped over warm, wet skin. Then Warrick reached down a large hand and began to fondle a large cock.

"It's getting late," Gris warned then gasped as nimble fingers found just the right pressure.

"I know what time it is," Warrick rumbled, skillfully twisting his fingers over the end of the thick cock.

Blue eyes closed. White teeth grabbed a plump bottom lip. Grissom's face relaxed into pleasure. He widened his stance and rested his hands on Warrick's shoulders for support.

With his free hand, Warrick plucked the bottle of unscented hair conditioner from the shower's built-in stainless steel shelves. He thumbed the bottle open, squeezed out a generous serving onto his palm while his fingertips continued stroking gently. With the improvised lubricant, his hands slipped easily, slickly over Grissom's cock.

Warrick watched his boyfriend's face, measuring, calculating when Gris passed the point of no return. When that time arrived, Warrick spun Gris around and pressed against his broad back, secured him with long arms, circled and flicked his nipples with a deft left hand, stroked and stripped his cock with an insistent right. His head slumped back against Warrick's shoulder; soft moans echoed off the tile walls. Grissom still managed to reach back, grip his boyfriend's firm ass, and pull him closer.

Warrick pushed Gris to the edge, made his legs tremble, his heart beat accelerate, his lungs guzzle down moist air. Then Warrick backed off, held his boyfriend still, waited for his protesting groans, and began all over again. With his sensitive musician's fingers, Warrick expertly played Gris to a crescendo but delayed the finale time and again.

"Please," Gris shivered, voice soft against the shower's warm spray.

"Please what, baby?" Warrick nipped the tanned neck but otherwise kept still. He wouldn't give in to pleading moans or pleading hands. He had to hear Gris say the words, had to hear him ask for what he needed.

The solid body shuddered, walls crumbled, "Please, please make me come."

Thrusting his hips forward sharply, nudging his reawakening cock against Grissom's round ass, Warrick tested his boyfriend's reaction. Gris didn't disappoint. "Anima, please!" he wailed.

"You tellin' or askin', baby?"

"Begging," he whimpered, arching against his boyfriend.

"That's what I needed to know."

With finesse yet with love, with practiced strokes and skilled flicks, Warrick quickly brought Gris to a ripping, quaking climax. Wide eyed, ears ringing from the shouts, amazed at the power of Grissom's response, Warrick cradled his boyfriend's limp body, watched his slick come slowly disappear down the drain. Warrick kissed and held Gris close until the hot water began to cool.

"Can you stand on your own for a sec?" Warrick said, reaching for the taps.

A tired chuckle. "Yeah. I think I might just manage that." Propping Gris up with a steadying hand, Warrick shut off the taps. He opened the shower door and reached around for a large, thick, dark green towel. He quickly dried off, wrapped the damp towel around him then grabbed another. He draped the thick towel over his boyfriend's broad shoulders and dried his hair with the ends.

"I can do that."

"I know. That's why I'm doing it."

"Would that make sense even if I wasn't tired?" Gris yawned, closing his eyes and leaned against the shower wall. For once, he let his boyfriend do all the work.

Rubbed dry, even the bottom of his feet as Warrick helped Gris out of the shower, he leaned on Warrick as they made their way into the bedroom.

"Time to pour you into bed, baby," Warrick rumbled.

"You're going to be late for work." Grissom's jaw cracked with the yawn.

"Let me worry about that." Warrick turned down the covers, retrieved the neatly folded t-shirt and sleep pants from under Grissom's pillow. Warrick held the maroon and black pants as Gris stepped in, steadying himself with a hand on Warrick's sturdy shoulders. Pulling the sleep pants up slowly, running his large hands possessively up Grissom's thighs and over his ass, Warrick settled the waistband just over his boyfriend's hips, tied the drawstring loosely.

Warrick sat Gris on the bed. "Arms up."

"I'm not an invalid."

"No, you're a pain in the ass. Arms up."

A loud sigh. Gris raised his arms, and Warrick slipped the t-shirt over his boyfriend's head and arms, smoothed it in place over his back and belly. Warrick watched as Gris slowly toppled sideways onto his pillow. Lifting the covers, sliding Grissom's legs underneath, Warrick settled Gris onto his left side, right arm on top of the covers, right fist curled loosely by his face.

"Love you," soft words slurred up from the pillow. "Need you. Always."

Swallowing, Warrick reached out a big hand to stroke silky hair. "Love you, too, baby."

Yeah. It was crazy. But you do crazy things when you're crazy in love. Warrick stood watch, long after his boyfriend had fallen asleep.