Title: Working Out 14: A Matter of Trust
By: Shelley Russell
Pairing: Gil/Warrick
Note: Set after "Iced" and during and after "Grave Danger"

"It was nasty, baby. Like something out of Star Wars. Han Solo would've shot its ass," Warrick Brown shook his head and picked up speed on the elliptical.

"Well . . . a T. saginata . . . infestation . . . in a citizen . . . of the United States . . . is quite rare," Gil Grissom panted, failing to keep pace with his boyfriend.

It was the morning of Friday the 13th, and things had already gotten freaky. A body gone missing from the morgue then turning up--party hat on head, unlit cigar in mouth--on a park bench. A toilet exploding at WLVU, maybe not an uncommon occurrence in a college dorm, but all too eerily suspicious happening only a few doors down from a double homicide. And then the tape worm from Planet Dune snaking out of a D.B.'s mouth.

With the Foo Fighters' DOA blasting over 24 Hour Gym's loud speakers, Warrick and Gris sweated off the stress of being crime scene investigators on a freaky day in freaky Las Vegas. At least nothing freaky was happening at the gym. Yet.

"What a way to go," Warrick breathed easily, even with the elliptical cranked to its highest setting. "Blindfolded and pushed out of a helicopter. Having heart failure before you hit the ground only four feet away. And then Alien pops out of your mouth. Damn."

Grissom nodded. In his opinion, it wasn't the most bizarre or tragic death he'd ever witnessed. Kevin Staniland's death was sad, yes, but his death was also needless, stupid, and entirely preventable. Then again, perhaps the fact that his death was indeed preventable made it a tragedy: one man's hubris causes harm to another and results in his own downfall? Yes. Perhaps--

"Don't slow down, baby. Got to keep your heart rate up."

Blue eyes blinked. "Just . . . just taking . . . a little break." Whenever Grissom got to thinking, his body tended to coast. Good thing his eagle-eyed boyfriend was there to remind Gris to speed up. Better to be reminded by his eagle-eyed boyfriend Warrick than his take-no-prisoners trainer Marco.

With a deep breath, Grissom purged all distracting thoughts and reached for the white gym towel draped over the elliptical's front panel. He quickly mopped his forehead and beard. Then he plucked his water bottle from the holder and took a quick sip. Towel and bottle back on the machine, his hands back on the handlebars, he picked up his pace once again.

He absent-mindedly watched CNN headlines scroll across the bottom of the monitor attached to his elliptical. Then he watched the gym receptionist Moira flirt with another customer while her latest boyfriend seethed. Then he studied the hard-toned bodies spilling out of the 8:30am spin class. Then he risked a glance to his right. A glance at Warrick.

Royal blue sleeveless t-shirt and exercise shorts clinging, caramel-brown skin glowing, beautifully defined muscles flexing, sweet sweat rolling down. Dear god. Grissom tightened his grip on the elliptical's handlebars to keep from falling off. His mouth fell open, and his cock pulsed at the sight of his beautiful boyfriend. Foot pedals and handlebars grew slower the longer he looked. And then sly, amused green eyes caught Gris staring.

"You like what you see, baby?" the deep voice rumbled.

With an iron will, Gris snapped his gaping mouth shut and tore his eyes away. Breathing deeply, refocusing on the CNN headlines, he sternly and silently lectured his cock to go back to sleep.

Most people who knew him would assume he'd watch the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet or National Geographic or even the History Channel while he exercised. But Gris needed something completely mind numbing--not to mention cock numbing--when he worked out. And if his cock didn't go back to sleep soon, he'd have to do the unthinkable: switch over to EWTN and "The Holy Rosary with Mother Angelica." He gulped a deep, deep breath and lasered his attention on the CNN headlines: "Pentagon recommends closing 33 major military bases across the United States"; "John Bolton's nomination clears the Senate Foreign Relations Committee."

Ten minutes crept by before he felt balanced enough to speed up and work his legs and arms to the steady beat of Beyonce's Crazy in Love. More headlines scrolled by: news to weather to entertainment. Beyonce gave way to Nelly Furtado who gave way to Ciara who gave way to Janet Jackson. He glanced down at the elliptical's display. Fuck. Still fifteen more minutes to go. Gris was already sweating like a drunk chasing a leaky beer truck on the 4th of July. He much preferred lifting weights to cardio. Lifting weights seemed somehow more productive. Straightening his shoulders, slinging sweat out of his eyes, he concentrated on taking deep breaths and maintaining a good posture. More because his boyfriend would nag at him than from any great desire to keep perfect form.

When Janet's So Excited segued into Alicia Keys' Heartburn, Grissom anticipated Warrick's question.

"I got . . . the tickets," Gris wheezed.

"Yeah? Hoo, my baby's got connections! Disco Placid is tha Man!" The look of grinning adoration made Grissom's heart beat soar. Two heavily muscled arms raised overhead, two big caramel brown fists punched the air as Warrick shouted, "Yeah! Gonna see Alicia!"

Every head in 24 Hour whipped around to stare at the two guys grinning with unbridled joy over at the ellipticals. No wonder. Even though Alicia Keys had added a third show at the MGM Grand, her "The Diary" tour was already sold out. Warrick ignored the stares, "So where we sitting?"

Taking a deep breath, Gris puffed, "Floor . . . twelve . . .rows . . . from stage."

Plush lips fell open. "Holy shit! For real?"

Grissom nodded.

"Best anniversary present ever!" Warrick chortled and gazed lovingly at his boyfriend. May 29 marked their six month anniversary and coincidentally Alicia Keys's last show in Vegas. Gris enjoyed watching his boyfriend celebrate, watching the stone cut muscles in his arms contract and lengthen. And then Warrick lifted his chin, green eyes serious, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I gave out the invitations yesterday," he said. "All but one, that is."

Blue eyes shifted guiltily away. Suddenly CNN headlines seemed absolutely fascinating.

"Baby, you've got to tell her."

Without a word, Gris reached for his water bottle and gulped a mouthful. The clock counted down, the headlines scrolled by. He could feel green eyes boring a hole in the side of his head.

"You know it's the right thing to do," Warrick stated firmly.

But that didn't mean Grissom wanted to do it. A small gathering to celebrate their six month anniversary had not been his idea at all. Not if it meant he'd have to break the news of their relationship to Sara Sidle.

So Grissom pedaled his feet and rowed his handlebars and completely ignored his boyfriend.

An exasperated sigh exploded to his right then the sound of arms and legs pumping faster. His breathing stayed smooth and even, though. It was as Alicia's Heartburn gave way to her Rock Wit' You that Grissom felt a change in the air. In less than a minute Warrick began to sing softly in his rich, sensuous baritone. He sang along with Alicia, "I wanna rock wit' you / Come give me all your love / No matter what we do / I wanna rock wit' you."

Staring straight ahead, Grissom dared not look at his boyfriend. Not if he wanted to avoid being arrested for public lewdness. Instead, he gasped, "Show . . . off."

Warrick let loose a deep, spine melting chuckle. Good god. No hope of Grissom's cock going back to sleep now. It was sheer torture watching the elliptical's digital clock count down. Sheer torture listening to Warrick's beautiful voice crooning, "I wanna rock wit' you / No matter what we do / Wit' you wit' only you / I wanna rock wit' you." Sheer torture knowing that Warrick meant every word, and Gris couldn't do anything about it until the clock ran down and they could escape to someplace more private.

"War . . . rick," he growled in warning. Unfortunately his warning growl came out as a rasping squeak.

Again the deep chuckle.

Grissom shivered and redoubled his concentration on the headlines: "Jury in Michael Jackson trial expected to hear today from former attorney Mark Geragos"; "U.S. conservatives salute Republican leader DeLay at $250 plate dinner."

"I wanna rock wit' you," rumbled soft and low and oh so sexy into his ear.

Headlines, Grissom ordered himself, headlines. But rebellious blue eyes swept to the right. To where Warrick stood, slowly wiping himself down with a white cotton gym towel. Soft white cotton gliding over silky brown skin. Green eyes hooded, coral lips parted. A teasing pink tongue licked a full upper lip.

And there were still ten and a half minutes left on the elliptical.

Looping the towel around the back of his neck, Warrick held on to the ends and flexed his biceps. Showed the groove below the bicep where Grissom loved to trace his tongue. Grinning wickedly, Warrick purred, "See you at the townhouse, baby." Then his long legs swinging from slim hips powered him toward the locker room.

"Hnnnn," Grissom moaned, mesmerized by the view of the powerful back and muscular ass. Mesmerized by the dream of what he'd like to do to that powerful back and muscular ass.

"Gil? Gil!" A familiar authoritative voice interrupted the spell.

Irritated, Grissom turned toward the voice and snapped, "What?"

His trainer Marco, a Roman god of a man, took a step back and raised his dark bushy eyebrows. "Gil, slow down and decrease the resistance. Your heart rate's too high."

"Oh." Blinking, Gris looked at the display. A hundred eighty-five beats a minute was definitely too high for a man in his age group. He lowered the resistance and slowed his pace. Dammit. Nine minutes left on the elliptical.

"Breathe." Marco looked worried.

Grissom sucked in deep breaths.

"We'll bring your heart rate back down and then do some stretches. You obviously need to relax."

"But . . ." Grissom looked longingly in the direction of the locker room and Warrick.

Frowning, Marco crossed his rock-hard arms over his sculpted marble chest. "Breathe, Gil. Forget about the clock. You get your heart rate back down to around 90, dismount, and head over to the mats."

"But . . ."

Marco turned on his heel, ending any chance of an argument.

With a moaning sigh, Grissom slowly worked his arms and legs and glared at the heart beat monitor. As if intimidating the monitor could make his heart rate fall faster. In three minutes, his heart beat was finally down to 120. In seven he was approaching 90, and then his boyfriend walked out of the locker room. Freshly showered, dressed in a butter cream colored tank top and navy blue warmup pants, Warrick hefted his gym bag over his shoulder, flexed his chest and biceps, and shot a hot sexy smile to Gris.

Damn.

By the time he looked back down at the heart rate monitor, his pulse had shot back up to 125. "God . . . damn . . . it," he puffed. With a big breath, he concentrated once again on the CNN scroll: "single-engine Cessna flew into restricted space forcing evacuation of White House and Congress"; "Air France jetliner diverted to Maine"; "highway retaining wall collapses in Manhattan"; "fire at New Jersey railroad bridge hampers commuters."

At least there wasn't a headline for "crazy, middle-aged scientist drops dead from heart attack after being teased remorselessly by gorgeous boyfriend." At least not yet.

******

An hour later, Grissom wheeled his Volvo into the townhouse complex parking lot. He felt tired, but it was a good tired, muscles loose and relaxed, joints stretched and limber. He grabbed his gym bag and slid out of his car then walked rapidly across the parking lot to the entrance to the complex. Taking the stairs two at a time, he bounced up to his landing and noticed that Warrick had already scooped up the newspaper.

"Blessed morning, Gil."

Ah. Pastor Stephanie. Gris looked back down the stairs at his neighbor, an assistant pastor at the Metropolitan Community Church. She had short, spiky hair, a tan from helping to build homes for Habitat for Humanity, and a gorgeous smile. She also had a gorgeous girlfriend with a black belt in karate.

"Good morning, Stephanie."

"I am so proud of you." Her dark eyes shone.

A right eyebrow arched. "You are?"

"Yes. We got the invitation yesterday. You and Warrick. Six months together is quite an achievement."

He gripped his gym bag tightly and shifted uncomfortably. "Well, it won't be six months until the 29th."

She smiled indulgently. "Well, I'm proud that you're willing to celebrate a milestone. And invite other people to celebrate with you. That's remarkable for you. Claudia and I are looking forward to it."

"Oh. Good," Grissom nodded, an unconscious frown on his face. He was not looking forward to the anniversary party. For the last two weeks, ever since his grandmother passed, Warrick wanted to be around other people. Not that he didn't want to be around Grissom. Just that Warrick wanted to be around other people, too. Losing his Grams had spurred him to reach out to others, to reaffirm that life goes on.

Unfortunately, Warrick's need for other people proved hard for Gris. For most of his life, he'd been alone. He liked being alone. True, over the last six months, he had grown to like being alone with his boyfriend. But that didn't mean Gris liked spending his time with anyone else.

Shaking her head, spiky dark hair waving, Stephanie looked like she'd followed his train of thought. Grissom drew himself up as she said, "Go on in to Warrick, dear. By the way, he's sharing Dvorak's New World Symphony with us this morning. I'd swear the orchestra was playing right in my living room."

"Ah," Grissom started backing away. "I'll, uh, I'll turn it down."

"Thank you, Gil."

He escaped to his townhouse door, fumbled the keys, discovered the door was unlocked anyway. Inside, the scent of sandlewood and old paperback books welcomed him. As well as the dramatic, and incredibly loud, fourth movement of Dvorak's Ninth. Allegro con fuoco. Quick with fire. He hissed as his cock twinged in anticipation. Ah. Yes. That's exactly how he needed it.

Grissom strode out of the entry hall and into his expansive living room. And there was Warrick, all six feet two inches of sex incarnate, stretched out on their shared enormous leather sectional. Still in his tank top and warm up pants, he lounged with his head propped up on a couple of pillows plus Khepri, the stuffed toy scarab beetle he'd won for Gris. Warrick's strong legs were crossed at the ankles with bare feet showing, He browsed Emerson's Essays, a book Grissom had recently re-read and left out on the cluttered coffee table.

"Warrick?!" he shouted. "Warrick? Turn Dvorak down!'

Without taking his eyes off his book, Warrick aimed the remote control over his shoulder and scaled down the sound. And then a sly smile brightened his beautiful face, "Hey, SuperGris, you get lost along the way?"

Gris stared at his sleek boyfriend, relaxed and purring like a well-fed panther. "No, I didn't get lost. Marco put me through some extra stretches."

"Heh. Baby had to stay after school."

Dropping his black canvas gym bag by his messy desk, Gris narrowed his eyes. "And whose fault is that? You deliberately . . . tease me . . . and arouse me then abandon me." He crossed over to stand by the couch. Hands on hips, Grissom scowled down at his insolent, and oh so gorgeous, boyfriend. "Marco thought I was going to have a stroke. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to do a downward dog while you've got a hard on from hell?"

"Hoo, baby, that's one of the freakiest things you've ever said to me." A deep, dark, wicked chuckle, and Warrick reached out and cupped his boyfriend's package. "Maybe you could show me sometime."

Feeling his cock immediately spring into action, Gris stepped back with a pout. "Maybe I don't want to show you."

"Baby," the deep voice rumbled straight down Grissom's spine and into his quivering knees. With ease, Warrick rolled to his feet. He set Emerson on the coffee table and wrapped his long arms around his resisting boyfriend. "How many times I got to tell you? How much it means to me that I can turn you on so fast? That you get rock hard for me even in a public place? Hmm?" Coral colored lips whispered into a reddening ear, "Top of the world, sweetheart. Top of the world."

As Grissom shivered and placed trembling arms around strong shoulders, full lips tenderly kissed pouting lips.

When he could breathe again, Gris whispered, "Anima, please, it's fine in private, but in public--"

A sweet gentle kiss cut off his words. Talented musician's fingers skimmed under his t-shirt and over his back. A low growling moan vibrated from his chest.

Warrick purred, "Did Marco say anything? Throw you out of the gym for scaring him with that monster in your pants?"

"No, but--"

Another lingering kiss. Long fingers migrating south, squeezing and kneading his ass.

"But what, baby?"

Licking his lips, Grissom looked up into warm sea green eyes, "It-it makes me uncomfortable."

Oh god. Another long kiss, whisper light, but soul deep. Long warm fingers making promises, dipping inside the waistband of his sweats, down the curves of his ass, between his cheeks.

"Makes you feel exposed?"

"Yessssss." He pressed back into those firm fingers, urging them to go further.

A nibbling kiss to his throat. Strong fingers teasing him, rimming him.

"Makes you feel vulnerable?"

"Jesus," he thrust against Warrick, signalling his need. Allegro con fuoco, dammit.

A deep, rumbling chuckle. "Makes you feel nekkid?"

Gris pulled free and ripped off his t-shirt. "Makes me want to get nekkid!"

Deep laughter rippled right through him. Long fingers reached out, grabbed the tops of his gray sweat pants and black boxers, and yanked them both down to the ankles. Gris still had on his Nike cross trainers. He struggled to bend down and untie his shoes, but Warrick had another idea. Grissom felt himself pulled upright, arm pulled over strong shoulders, long arm reaching between his legs, strong hand grabbing one of his thighs. In the wink of an eye, Grissom lay draped across Warrick's shoulders in a classic fireman's carry.

Across the living room, down the hall, left into the master bedroom, Gris rolled with his boyfriend's powerful strides. If Grissom hadn't been so horny, he would've taken pleasure from viewing his townhouse from a completely different vantage point. But all he could think about was getting his constricting clothing off then getting himself off.

Gris bounced hard on his back on the king size bed. Warrick had already cleared the decks for action: the acorn brown bedspread and beige top sheet furled to the foot of the bed, the bottle of gel lubricant displayed prominently on the end table on Warrick's side of the bed.

Quick brown hands unlaced his left shoe and threw it over a brown left shoulder, unlaced a right shoe and threw it over a brown right shoulder. White socks, gray sweat pants, and black boxers followed. And then musician's fingers wrapped around his ankles and held his legs open wide. Plush lips kissed the bottom of his feet, and Gris moaned. A hot mouth swallowed his toes, and Gris keened. Lips and teeth and tongue cruised slowly up his calves, and Gris begged.

"Anima, please, please, please! I'm about to explode!" Even with his legs split into a wide V, he bent double, reached up, grabbed the tight curls of Warrick's thick hair, and pulled.

"Damn, baby! Those yoga stretches are doing you a world of good."

"Warrick!" Grissom tugged on his boyfriend's head.

Moist lips and a slick tongue sailed over the tender pale skin at the back of his knee. Gris chewed on his bottom lip and tried not to yank black brown hair out by the roots.

At last Warrick rumbled, "How you want it, baby?"

"Dvorak, goddammit!"

A deep chuckle. "Allegro con fuoco, huh? Yeah, I give you the allegro now and the fuoco later."

Oh, god, yes! Yes! That boiling hot teasing mouth finally wrapped around Grissom's cock, sucking, licking, nibbling, scraping. All the things that drove him crazy. His blue eyes burned watching Warrick's full lips smack up and down, teasing then sucking. Blunt fingers clenched hard in thick hair. Clenched harder when 30 seconds later Gris came like a flash flood down Warrick's throat.

"Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god," Grissom sobbed, sweat dripping down his face and chest.

He slowly resurfaced. Fingers twitching, muscles trembling, voice moaning. He moaned loudest when his boyfriend's hot mouth slipped away. Rustling noises tipped Grissom that Warrick was stripping but Gris was too wrapped up in the erotic waves cresting through his own body even to watch his boyfriend's.

At last soft lips and a gentle tongue returned, cleaning him, soothing him. They moved slowly up his belly and chest, lingered on his nipples, cruised up his throat, trailed through his beard, until finally they reached his needy lips. Kissing Warrick was fast becoming Grissom's favorite sport. Lips and tongues teasing and licking and gliding and sighing. Low growls rumbling from both men's throats. Strong hands gripping and rubbing.

God. How could Warrick hold out so long? And how could Gris get another erection so soon?

One more searing kiss, then he reluctantly let his boyfriend push himself up and away. Warrick leaned back on his knees, flexing the sculpted muscles in his thighs. Green eyes sparkled with teasing heat. Strong, musician's fingers gripped a dark plum colored cock and squeezed heavy balls. Warrick flaunted himself. Bewitched, Gris watched the skillful fingers stroke up and down, spreading pre-cum over the thick dark head and elegant shaft.

Licking his lips, he leaned up on his elbow and forward, wanting to take that magnificent cock into his mouth, to taste his boyfriend's sharp salt sweetness. But Warrick moved back, a challenging grin on his princely face. His long arms grabbed the pillows at the head of the bed and stacked them up, one on top of the other, in the middle of the bed. He reached for the lubricant on the bedside table, thumbed open the bottle, squeezed out a palm full, and slowly slicked up his cock.

Grissom's hungry eyes followed every deft movement. His white teeth gripped a plump bottom lip. His blunt fingers traced slowly down his hairless stomach heading to grab a handful of aching cock.

A deep commanding rumble. "Stop."

Blue eyes snapped up to green.

"I want complete control."

Right eyebrow raised, hoping he kept the trembling desire off his face--for, after all, who wants to be considered a pushover--Gris said, "What do you mean exactly?"

A wicked glint of white teeth. "Not gonna tie you up. Not unless you want me to?" Oh, god. Was that a question? A promise?

"I--"

Warrick patted the top of the pillow. "Over easy, baby. I want your sweet ass on display. Served up like angel food cake."

Grissom could feel his heart rate speed up, his breathing hitch, his face flush. But he didn't move.

Long fingers stroked through silky graying curls. Plush lips pressed against his temple. Then that low sexy voice growled directly in his ear. "With you on your elbows and knees, I can move like I want. Fast and hard, slow and deep. No matter how I give it to you, you just gotta take it."

Holy fuck. In an instant, Gris scrambled belly-down onto the pillows, his hips angled up, his legs spread wide. Well. So much for not being a pushover.

Lush lips scorched down his spine. The lips joined two large hands smoothing over his bare cheeks. Gris lifted his hips, adjusted his straining cock, and reminded his boyfriend that dessert was served.

Thank god Warrick took the hint. Insistent thumbs parted Grissom's cheeks, and finally that long, large, lubricated cock began to push inside.

"Uhhhh," Gris moaned, taking deep breaths to relax, pushing back to embrace his boyfriend's cock.

"Yeah. Oh, Jesus, baby, you're so tight. Always so tight."

Inch by inch, breath by breath, heart beat by heart beat, the two men joined their bodies together. Grissom loved this joining. Craved it. Craved feeling the intense fullness, the pleasure-pain of possession. He rejoiced as Warrick's considerable weight settled on him, considerable cock settled deep inside of him.

The two men rested as if gathering strength, then Warrick began to move. Slow and easy at first, Gris could still feel every inch of every thrust. Amazing that Warrick stayed in control. Stayed gentle even when fired with lust. Remained tender even when in command.

"Damn," Warrick moaned. "I love sinking--yeah--into your ass, baby. Feeling you--hnhuh--gripping me--damn--squeezing me--fuck! Yeah!"

"So good," Grissom sighed with each sliding insertion. "So good, so good, so good."

Somehow Warrick knew exactly when Gris was ready. Ready to be taken hard, fast, and deep. "So good" changed to "oh god" and then to a nonstop, wordless moan.

The steady slap slap slap of Warrick's muscled body against Grissom's firm ass, the exquisite friction of a hard cock in and out of his body, the hot panting breath on his back, the hard teeth grazing his shoulder. Oh, yes, Gris moved as much as he could, as much as Warrick would allow, moved to meet each slap, each thrust, each kiss, each bite. Racing ever closer to the edge. Ever closer. Almost there. God! Almost there!

And suddenly Warrick stopped.

"Whuh?" Gris whined. No moaning completion. No ripping oblivion. No exhausted breaths. "A-a-anima?"

And then a commanding voice rumbled in a pink ear, "Sunday."

Grissom rubbed his face on the sheets. "Wh-what?"

"Sunday," Warrick repeated, slowly drawing his big cock out, leaving Grissom empty and wanting. "We tell Sara."

"What?!" Gris tried to move, but Warrick held him fast.

Warrick ground his hips against his boyfriend's ass but refused to penetrate him. "We tell Sara that you're mine."

"Warrick, Jesus fuck, please, not now," Gris barked, worming his hand under his body, trying to grab his cock, trying to send himself to heaven. But long fingers clenched his wrists and pinned him to the bed, pinned him like a helpless butterfly on display in one of his shadowboxes.

"You've had months to tell her. Time's up, boyfriend."

"This . . . this is blackmail," he croaked, trying to lift his hips, to entice that hot elegant cock back inside him.

"Yes it is. And so am I. And proud of it."

Grissom's mouth fell open. The supreme humiliation that Warrick could pun even when fully aroused.

"In-in-inappropriate," he gritted his teeth, hiding his face in the sheets. He could imagine nothing more difficult or mortifying than a conversation with Sara about his love life. On top of which, he was her supervisor and shouldn't have a personal conversation like that with her anyway.

"Bullshit. You just don't want to tell her."

Well. Gris couldn't argue with that. The tip of Warrick's long cock teased between Grissom's cheeks. Fuck. Oh fuck!

"We tell her. Sunday. That you're mine. You are mine, aren't you, baby?"

"Y-y-y-yessssss, but--"

"Then we tell her." A long, teasing stroke. "Agreed?"

"I-I--"

Another teasing swipe. "Agreed?"

Goddammit. Gris would rather run his tongue along an electrified fence than use it to talk to Sara.

And another stroke. "I can do this all day."

"Bastard!" Gris exploded, trying to escape.

His wrists wound up gripped hard in one large hand while another large hand came down hard on his ass. He yelped, but couldn't move. Warrick's strong legs had Grissom anchored to the bed.

"I can do this all day, too." Another hard smack. "But you'd probably like it too much."

Well. Gris couldn't really argue with that, either. His ass blossomed with stinging pleasure, but his cock and balls suffered with unrelieved tension. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out.

One more yelping smack, and then he heard a soft sigh. The hard hand turned tender, soothed over his smarting ass. Warrick stretched out on top of Gris, kissing the back of his neck, tonguing his ear.

"Please, sweetheart," Warrick crooned. "Please. For me. I want you to talk to Sara for me."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Grissom could stand up to serial killers and sleazy politicos and dirty cops. But he couldn't say no to Warrick. Grinding his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, Gris sought that private, far away place where he could ignore his boyfriend. Lush lips brushing his cheek, moist tongue tickling his eyelashes, gentle hands combing his hair cancelled any hope of escape.

"Say you'll do it for me, baby."

"Fuck," Gris groaned.

"I'll set everything up. I'll pick someplace neutral. Someplace public. C'mon, baby, say you agree."

"Shit," he hissed.

"Leave everything to me." More kisses. Long fingers ruffled his beard. "Agreed?"

A deep, exasperated sigh, then against his better judgment Grissom whispered, "Agreed."

"Thank you, baby," Warrick whispered back, low and sweet and full of love. "Thank you."

Kisses on the side of Grissom's pouting mouth, along his clenched jaw, down his tight neck. The heavy but comfortable weight on his back left him. Long arms shifted him onto his back. Gentle hands rolled his legs back, settled his bent knees over strong shoulders, slid a pillow underneath his lower back for extra support.

Gris frowned up into his boyfriend's beautiful face, into his sparkling green eyes. Eyes that slowly closed as Warrick slowly sank back into his boyfriend. A brilliant, satisfied grin shone down on Grissom, like a life-giving sun. How could he resist any longer? His personal sun warmed rigid muscles, melted tense nerves, liquified icy resentment. And even though it was a musician's fingers that teased him and stroked him and played him, it was a singer's voice whispering "I love you" that fired him to climax.

******

Friday, almost midnight at the LVPD Crime Lab. Time for the changing of the shifts, from Swing to Graveyard. Warrick had finished up a little early, processing recovered jewelry from a pawn shop heist. So he hung out in the locker room and waited for his CSI colleague Sara Sidle. Straddling the long bench in between facing lockers, he rocked in time to Damian Marley's Welcome to Jamrock thumping into his headphones.

And, speaking of headphones, in strutted Graveyard CSI Greg Sanders wearing a Lucky 13 Tattoo Your Soul t-shirt, blue jeans, blue jean jacket, and canvas sneakers, head bopping to something Punkish by the looks of it.

Warrick powered down his iPod, took out his earbuds. Yep. Punk it was.

"My Chemical Romance. Thank You for the Venom," he named the band and tune. "When you gonna start branching out? Listening to real music?"

Greg yanked his earbuds out by the cords and cut a captivating pie wedge grin. "Maybe when you finally break down and violate copyright laws and share your iTunes with me. I'm willing to learn, big guy. I just can't afford the music industry payola."

"Yeah. Right."

Spiky blond hair waving to a beat only he could hear, Greg yanked open his locker. "I took a major pay cut to go from the lab to the field."

"Maybe if you bought your t-shirts from Sears instead of a designer boutique, you'd have extra cash," Warrick teased.

"Oh, man." The wedge-shaped grin grew larger. "Being around Grissom all the time is turning you into a nag."

"Greg, you wanna not broadcast that to the whole lab?"

His fair face grimaced. "Sorry. I forget not everyone knows."

"'S all right, man. I'm--" Warrick smoothed long fingers over his forehead. "I'm a little on edge."

"Evenin', gentlemen," Nick Stokes, Warrick's best friend, ambled in. Clean cut and athletic, wearing a long sleeve polo shirt and khakis, he leaned his shoulder against his locker and smiled at Warrick. "Thought you were cutting out early."

Warrick shrugged. "Waiting for Sara."

"Oh," Nick nodded. Then realization hit. "Ohhhh."

Warrick sighed, "Yeah."

Spiky blond hair and a fair face shot back out of his locker, "Yeah, what? What about Sara?"

"You and Gris gonna tell her here?" Nick scowled. "In a building full of guns, explosives, and toxic chemicals?"

Greg's face lit up. "You're going to tell Sara? That you and Gris--"

"Yeah."

"All right!" he bounced on his toes. "Finally."

"Sanders, show a little concern, here," Nick scolded, handsome dark eyes clouded with worry. "Sara's gonna get her feelings hurt."

"Yeah, but, well, not to sound too overly opportunistic, although I know I'm close to being exactly that--in High School I learned never to be too proud to catch them on the rebound--but that means I'll finally have a shot."

Nick's dark eyebrows met. "A shot at what?"

"At Sara."

"Oh, lord," Warrick shook his head.

Hands on hips, Nick glared at his younger colleague. "Just when were you planning on firing your first shot?"

Unfazed, Greg confessed, "I want to ask her to go with me to the anniversary celebration." And then he turned to Warrick, "Grissom is cooking, right? Word is Gris can have a second career as a top chef if Ecklie fires him. Well, as long as he stays away from those 'special six-legged sauces.' I like my Sandefjord Sauce with prawns not pill bugs."

Green eyes flaring in defense of his boyfriend, Warrick snapped, "Gris garnishes only his own plate with insects. And a pill bug is an isopod not an --" and then Warrick caught himself. Both Greg and Nick were grinning at him. Warrick stabbed a long index finger in Greg's direction, "You better be on the up and up with Sara."

"Oooo. You need to take a chill pill, daddio." The pie-wedge grin again. "I promise to ask Sara as a supportive friend. Not a stretch. I happen to be her supportive friend. And when she says 'yes' she'll go as my friend. And designated driver. But the timing of this cunning plan is contingent on when you let Sara know," Greg finished with a flourish.

"Let me know what?"

Warrick watched Nick and Greg spin around, and then he saw what they saw: Sara Sidle standing ramrod straight in the doorway to the locker room, arms crossed in front of her. She was wearing a dark green scoop neck sweater, dark brown blazer and trousers, and a dark suspicious look.

"And who is 'you'?" she added.

"Hey, Sara," Greg chirped, slamming his locker shut. "You're looking particularly lovely this evening. If you'll excuse me, I must start my shift." Highlighted hair waving, Greg squeezed past her and hurried out the locker room.

Sara's coffee brown eyes followed him down the corridor then shifted to first Nick then Warrick. "Any chance I can be enlightened?"

Clearing his throat, Nick said, "Hey, uh, Sara."

She raised her left eyebrow.

"I'll, uh," he opened up his locker. "Just get my jacket and, uh, see ya," he plucked out his jacket, shut his locker, and scurried for the door. "See ya later, Warrick."

"Yeah." Warrick waved good bye to Nick and opened up a genuine smile for Sara. "Well, now that the circus has left town . . . "

She pursed her lips and finally released a small grin. Her arms remained in a defensive position, though.

"How are you this evening, Ms. Sidle?"

A curious, puzzled look. "I'm fine, Mr. Brown. What is going on?"

"The better question is: what are you doing Sunday morning around eleven?"

The puzzled look deepened, "Nothing other than watering my plants and doing the laundry. Why?"

"I was hoping we could do brunch."

Puzzlement gave way to astonishment. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

He coughed back a snort. "No. No. No date. I . . . I need to talk with you about . . . some stuff, and I thought it would be better to talk away from work. Someplace much nicer than work."

Dark brown eyes looked at him suspiciously. "Does what you need to talk about affect work?"

"It could." Warrick rubbed the back of his neck then stood up. "Look, this will work better if I can explain the whole situation start to finish. So, Sunday," he looked at his watch and smiled, "tomorrow, about eleven at Sterling Brunch? It's on me."

Sara's mouth dropped open. Her arms fell to her sides. "Sterling Brunch?! At Bally's?! Are you sure you're not asking me out on a date?!"

A languid smile. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Free food? Great free food? Unlimited great free food? Oh, I am so in, mister!" She punched him lightly on the shoulder then whirled for her locker. She slipped out of her jacket and hung it up. In a flash Sara was out the door, her Cheshire cat grin lingering in Warrick's mind long after she was gone.

Damn. That happy, Cheshire cat grin made Warrick feel like a jerk. Sara was his friend and here he was going to treat her to a fancy meal only to kill her dreams. And how insulting was it to think that she could be bought off with sufficient free food and drink? He blew out a big breath. Well, as he was reading in Emerson's Essays this morning, "Never keep back the truth for fear of making an enemy." Better to make an enemy than lie to a friend.

******

Sunday morning, Warrick sat alone outside Bally's Steakhouse, beautifully transformed into the elegant Sterling Brunch. Sipping on Perrier Jouët champagne and orange juice, he watched a group of older ladies play slots while he did his best to relax. It didn't help that Gris was late. Well, later than usual.

Warrick should have suspected trouble when Grissom left their warm bed early that morning to visit an experiment at the body farm. But Warrick had been more than willing to let Gris run that errand alone. Warrick had sleepily kissed his departing boyfriend and reminded him to be at Bally's by 10:15. Yes, Warrick had told Gris 10:15 so that he'd be sure to arrive by 10:45, maybe even ahead of Sara. But, no, it was 11 on the dot, and here Sara came, looking fine in a simple black dress, delicate silver beaded necklace, and black sandals. And Warrick's boyfriend was nowhere in sight.

Standing up, Warrick smiled appreciatively. "Don't think I've ever seen you in a dress."

A wide grin. "Special occasion, big guy. Sterling Brunch is legendary. Business casual, right?"

In his best suit and tie, Warrick nodded, "Right."

He sneaked a peek at her legs. Hoo. Girl's got a tattoo on her ankle. He was just about to ask her about it when the maitre’d bustled up. His name was Jeromie Wolfe, a short, lithe, chocolate-colored man dressed in a perfectly fitted tuxedo.

"Mr. Brown, would you and your party like to be seated now?" he asked.

"Yeah, Jeromie, that would be great." Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick could see Sara's amused look.

Jeromie quickly led Warrick and Sara over Persian rugs and hard wood floors, past heavily upholstered booths and framed hunting scenes on the walls, past the crowded buffet tables and the strolling violinist to a cloth-covered table in a quiet spot away from the buffet crush. The table for four was stocked with crystal, china, and sterling silver.

"Wow," Sara gawked at the decor as Jeromie politely pulled out her leather padded chair.

As she was sitting down he asked, "Is Mr. Grissom running later than usual this morning?"

Sara stopped in mid-sit and stared up at Warrick. He grimaced. He'd wanted to break that news to her himself. Taking his seat, and cooler than he had any right to be, he said, "Yeah, I'm afraid so."

An amused look crossed Jeromie's face as he realized Sara had not sat all the way down. "My dear, I promise not to levitate the chair out from under you."

She flushed and sat down hard. He scooted her and her chair up to the table.

"I shall be alert for the prodigal. Bon appetit!" Jeromie flourished and bustled away.

"Grissom?" Sara floundered. "Grissom is meeting us? Here?"

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Still, Warrick answered in a soothing voice, "He likes it here."

Explosive brown eyes flashed annoyance. "I meant: why is Grissom coming?"

Luckily the waiters showed up at that exact moment. Warrick recognized them. Samantha Chu and Bonnie McBride, the best wait team in the place. Sam was working her way toward a Master's degree in geoscience at UNLV. Bonnie had three kids and six horses to support.

"Good morning, Mr. Brown," the two women greeted. Bonnie's gray eyes shone appreciatively at Warrick and friendly enough at Sara. Sam's black eyes gazed only at Warrick.

"Morning, Bonnie. Sam." Warrick still felt uncomfortable, calling the wait staff by their first names while he was addressed by his surname. It was old fashioned and patronizing. But some traditions die a hard, hard death. "This is my friend, Miss Sara Sidle."

Not amused, Sara crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest.

Bonnie smiled professionally. "Would you prefer champagne or something else to drink?"

A few seconds went by before Sara realized Bonnie was talking to her.

"Coffee, hot tea, iced tea, lemonade, fruit juices, milk, Evian water, mineral water, tap water, soda," Bonnie rattled with practiced patience.

Sara blushed and unfolded her arms. "I, uh, yeah. Um. Oh, Champagne. What the hell."

Warrick grinned at her. "And orange juice. Fresh squeezed."

Ill at ease, Sara stared at him while Bonnie whirled off with the drink orders. Damn. Maybe he should've picked someplace less fancy. Or someplace where he wasn't so well known.

"Is Dr. Grissom coming?" Sam sounded hopeful as she filled the crystal water glasses.

Or someplace where he and Gris weren't so well known. "He should be here any minute." Warrick hoped.

"Good. My seminar in paleobiology is about to kick my butt." Yeah. Nothing like watching Sam and Gris talk science. They'd both light up like Christmas and talk for hours if Warrick and Bonnie would let them.

"Please help yourself to the buffet," Sam winked impudently at Warrick then swept away.

"Why is Grissom coming here?" Sara demanded.

"Lady, you've got a one-track mind," Warrick calmed and took a sip of water, watching the strolling violinist stop for a request from an elderly couple at a booth across the way. The strains of Red Sails in the Sunset wafted over the table.

All of a sudden, Sara sat back, sharp mind obviously racing Grand Prix style. "This is about work, isn't it? This is about . . . Swing shift, isn't it? Something you need to tell Grissom and me . . . Oh my god! What's Catherine done now?"

Choking on his water, Warrick considered blurting out the real reason. But that was just the alcohol thinking. "Look, Sara, I been drinking Perrier Jouët for half an hour. I need some food. How about we get comfortable and then all will be revealed."

She squinted. Uh oh. He could tell she was about to slip into her stubborn sulky stage. Best thing to do was head for the buffet. He pushed back his chair and sauntered for the seafood table. By the time he got to the short line, she was right beside him.

"I'm a vegetarian, you know," she sniffed.

"I don't think you'll have any trouble unless you're a vegan." Warrick pointed at a serving table dedicated to cheese, fruit, and vegetables, then to a chef whipping up butter and eggs. "They do a mean mushroom and green chile omelet."

Sara gave a noncommital hmm.

Warrick loaded up on steamed lobster, stone crab, lamb ribs, wild-mushroom ravioli, and fresh fruit. He'd hit the dessert room later. When he got back to the table, the champagne, the orange juice, and his usual cup of drawn butter for his lobster was waiting but not his usual boyfriend. Warrick gave the restaurant the once over, hoping somehow that Gris had just gotten lost in the crowd. The only familiar face Warrick spotted, though, was Sara who'd just gotten her cook-to-order vegetarian omelet and was heading for the waffle station. Setting his plate on the table, he pulled out his cell phone. Nope, no calls from Grissom. Dammit. Warrick stuffed his phone back in his suit pocket and sat down. With another swallow of champagne, he picked up his heavy sterling silver fork and began to eat.

By the time Sara made it back to the table, Warrick had already finished off the lamb ribs. She balanced three plates: a mushroom, green chile, and onion omelet and jalapeño fried potatoes; two waffles coated in real maple syrup and pecans; and a pyramid of strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

"Oh my god, have you seen the dessert room? They've got crème brûlée, blueberries and cream, and bananas Foster. You're gonna need a forklift to get me out of here."

Warrick helped her set down the plates. "That can be arranged. Cousin-in-law Chuckie's a Teamster. He can get us anything in the way of transportation."

"You do have a big family," she smiled and sat down. Reaching for her white linen napkin, she said, "Um, I meant to ask earlier, how are you and your family doing?"

"We're holding on. Holding each other up. It's hard losing the . . . cornerstone of the family."

She looked a little sad. "I . . . wouldn't really know. I never had much family."

Warrick didn't want to get started down that road. "Hey, now, no getting down in the dumps." He took a sip of champagne. "Tell me about your tattoo."

"What?" she laughed nervously.

"The tattoo on your left ankle. What is it? A blue star? A blue sun?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, technically, a sun is a star. But it's a blue flower. It's a reminder for me to seek new experiences."

"Huh. Well, next time you seek a new experience and get another tat, hire a professional."

"Ow. Mean. Just for that, you're buying me dinner, too."

A deep chuckle. "Yeah, right. We'll catch a couple of forklifts over to Picasso's later."

With a giggling sip of champagne, Sara buried herself in her omelet. Warrick excavated his lobster. Every time they got to half a glass of anything, either Bonnie or Sam refilled it. Sara looked about as relaxed and happy as she would let herself get. Warrick was feeling no pain. Everything was perfect except for the missing Gil Grissom.

"So what's the story with your tattoo?" she asked around a sticky waffle.

"College," he shrugged. "Faith with wings. Just seemed the manly thing to do at the time."

"Greg has a tribal dolphin on his hip."

"Seriously? When did you . . . oh, yeah, the decontamination shower."

"Uh-huh. It's from his surfer days."

And that gave Warrick a brilliant idea. He took a bite of his ravioli then a sip of his champagne, so as not to seem too eager. He waited until the wandering violinist strolled past, the soft sounds of Cole Porter's I Get a Kick Out of You fading into the distance. "Hey, uh, Sara, you know Greg's interested in you."

She rolled her eyes. "Warrick--"

"From day one. You ought to go out with him."

She pointed at Warrick with her fork. "Greg is just a boy. He's a flirt. And he's hyperactive. He'd drive me crazy."

Damn. "Yeah. I can see that. But the kid's got a great heart. You'd have a lot of fun."

Shrugging, Sara stabbed a mushroom that had escaped her omelet. "So when's Grissom getting here?"

Double damn. "Sara, you know you need to get out there. Away from work. Or you're gonna burn out big time."

Her dark eyes hardened. "I get out. I've got friends. I've . . . is this what you wanted to talk to me about?!"

Goddammit, where the fuck was his boyfriend? "No, it's, it's, look, um, could you excuse me? Just for a minute." He pulled his cell phone out of his suit pocket and pushed back his chair. "I'll give Grissom a call."

She brightened up so quickly, Warrick's heart sank. "Tell him they've got tekka-maki. That's his favorite sushi."

Warrick almost said, "I'm his boyfriend! I know that!" but stopped just in time. "Yeah. I'll be right back." He headed for the front of the restaurant.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?" Jeromie the maitre'd asked as Warrick headed out into the waiting area.

"Yeah, Jeromie, it's great. Gotta make a call."

A sympathetic smile ushered Warrick out the door. He aimed away from the busy slot machines to a quiet corner of the casino level. Speed dial to Grissom. The tune from Etta James's At Last should be ringing out. Warrick waited, left hand spread and drumming against a wall, right hand cradling his phone to his ear. The longer it rang, the madder he got. No answer. It rolled over to voice mail.

"Gris . . . I can't . . ." Fuck it. Warrick shoved diplomacy aside and snarled into the phone. "You sniveling coward. You sure as hell better be in the hospital, boyfriend, or I'm gonna put you there." Of course, Warrick didn't really mean it. He exaggerated. But if Grissom thought he was gonna get away with not showing up, the man needed schooling. "I'm gonna do the right thing, even if you won't."

Warrick snapped his phone shut and gave the wall an unsatisfying punch. He took a deep breath and dropped his phone back into his jacket pocket. Squaring his shoulders, steeling his heart, he forged back into Bally's Steakhouse.

When he got back to the table, he looked into Sara's normally wan face, now flushed with pleasure as she nibbled on chocolate covered strawberries. Damn. He felt like the Killjoy of the Western World.

"Get a hold of Grissom?" she mumbled while chewing rapturously.

"No. I don't know where he is," Warrick shook his head and sat down. Reflexively, he reached out and took her left hand. "Sara, I've got something to tell you that's . . . gonna be difficult to say. It's probably gonna be difficult for you to hear."

She stopped chewing, stared at Warrick's hand gently clasping her own. Puzzlement replaced pleasure.

He swallowed. "I know this seems like it's out of left field, and I'm sorry if it hurts you--"

"Just say it," she snapped.

"Gris and I are dating."

Dark brown eyes blinked, grew stormy black. Her wide mouth fell open then clamped shut. And then she shoved his hand away. "That's not funny."

"Sara--"

"Shut up. It's not funny." People at adjacent tables looked up from grazing to stare.

Keeping his voice low, he soothed, "I'm completely serious. We've been seeing each other since late November."

"Shut the fuck up. Why are you doing this?" Damn, Sara looked at Warrick as if he'd just admitted to being a child molester.

"Listen to me--"

"No. You're full of shit. This whole thing with Grissom . . . he was never coming, was he? You planned the whole thing. Just to hurt me. Why?"

Well, fuck. This was going well. What could he do to convince her? And then he realized he was sitting on it. He rocked forward and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He opened it to one of his most treasured photos.

"Here," he said, showing her the snapshot: Warrick and Gris dancing together. Dancing in each other's arms and lit by dreamy blue lights. Even though a picture can be deceiving, the love the two men shared shone out loud and clear.

She stared at the photograph. "It's fake," she pronounced, brow furrowed, lips frowning, eyes blazing. But she leaned forward looking closer.

"It's real. We're celebrating the opening of my Cousin Chris's club. The Dance All. Greg took the photo."

Dark feral eyes jerked up."Greg was there?!"

As nonchalant as he could, Warrick assured, "Yeah. Not with us, though. We . . . shocked him, too."

Jaw tight, teeth clenched, Sara glanced back down at the photo then up at Warrick. "He's not gay."

Warrick leaned away from the curve ball, folding up his wallet, putting it back in his pants pocket. "He's Grissom."

"He's not gay!" she gripped the edge of the table, table cloth bunching under tight fingers. "I know! I know from personal experience!"

Well, shit. Warrick should've known. His sniveling, cowardly, close-mouthed boyfriend hadn't said word one about that. And that personal experience sure as hell better be an ancient personal experience.

Taking a deep breath, Warrick reasoned, "Whatever you two had in the past--"

She shook her head, crossed her arms, rocked back and forth, and murmured, "He can't be gay. He knew what to do. He liked doing it. He told me he liked doing it. He loves women's bodies. He loves my body. He made love to me!"

Warrick reached out to touch her shoulder. She stopped rocking and looked at him with pleading, angry eyes. "And you're telling me it was all a lie?"

"No, Sara, no," he crooned. "All I'm saying is that Gris is with me now. And it's serious. We're serious. Lifetime serious."

Warrick never endured a more sorrowful yet furious scrutiny. "Then why isn't he here?" she lashed out.

"I don't know."

Tears percolated. Sara fought them, tried to hide them, but they rolled down like burning lava. "I know." She scrubbed her face. "He never could face me. He didn't tell you about us, did he?"

Damn. Warrick couldn't answer. He'd just claimed that he and Gris were serious. But when a couple is serious, they don't hold back, they don't keep important secrets from each other.

So Warrick stuck to his script. "I don't want you getting hurt," he sighed. "Well, hurt anymore than I'm hurting you now. You can't go on thinking you still have a chance with Gris when you don't."

More angry tears rolled down her cheeks. "Do you know how he broke up with me? When we were in San Francisco? He got a new job in Vegas and left. Just left." She brushed the tears from her face and gritted her teeth. "He didn't even tell me he'd applied. He didn't tell me he'd given his two week notice. I found out he was leaving when the lab tech from trace carried a cake into the break room. 'Good luck Grissom.' He didn't show up for that, either."

"Jesus, Sara," Warrick said squeezing her shoulder. "You're a smart, strong woman. Why you wanna get together with a man who treated you like that?"

Her face almost crumpled, but her anger wouldn't let her soften. "Because he asked me to come here."

To investigate me, Warrick thought. Now there's an irony.

She resumed her rocking. "He missed me. I know he missed me. He flirted with me. He gave me gifts. He told me, he told me he never knew what beauty was . . . until he met me." She scrubbed her face with trembling hands.

"Gris flirts." Warrick lightly rubbed her back and left shoulder. "He says clever things without understanding how they might sound to other people. He doesn't always . . . mean what he says."

She shook her head and sat back, dislodging Warrick's comforting hand. Face stern and unyielding, Sara wiped stray tears from her face with her napkin. "I heard him once. Interrogating a suspect. He said that I'd offered him a second chance at life. But he couldn't . . . couldn't accept."

Frowning, Warrick asked, "He named you to a suspect?"

"He said, 'Someone young and beautiful offers us a second chance at life. But I couldn't do it.'" Words obviously engraved on her memory. "He meant me. I know he did."

Damn. Who knew whom Gris meant. Or what. One thing Warrick knew for sure, never ever assume anything with Grissom.

Snatching her champagne glass from the table, she drained it, stared at it, then slammed it back on the table. Her brown eyes stormed almost completely black. Her pale face pinched and stubborn. "I knew there was someone . . . I thought it was Sofia."

Linking his long fingers together, leaning forward slightly, Warrick comforted, "You deserve happiness. And there are lots of guys wanting to give you happiness if you'd let them." Her sarcastic sneer drove him to another tack. He took a quick sip of orange juice and gave her a cool stare. "You think Greg would drive you crazy? Damn, Gris would drive you crazy, break you in two, and walk away completely unaware of what he'd done. I have to be on top of my game everyday not to let him get away with shit. And it's tough."

"Why you?" she flared. "You . . . you're not gay either! Why?!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick saw Bonnie and Sam trying to look busy but compelled to listen in. Most everyone at every surrounding table was listening in, too. Damn. Even the strolling violinist was listening. Well, y'all wanna listen, listen up.

"We click," he said proudly. "We complete each other. We make each other better. He loves my music. I tolerate his bugs."

"This is just . . . You're the last person I ever expected . . . You're so . . . straight. It's not right. It's not fair."

"Can we move past the labels, here? I'm still me. I'm still your friend. I'm still somebody who cares about you. I just happen to be in love with Gil Grissom."

"Oh, god, this is . . . just--" She grabbed her empty champagne glass and realized it was empty. She looked wildly about for one of the wait staff. Sam shot over, refilled the glass, then ghosted away. Yeah. Don't want to interrupt the show.

Taking a big gulp, then wiping her mouth, Sara grumbled, "Does Catherine know?"

"Yeah."

"Nick?"

"Yeah. Shocked the shit out of both of them."

She nodded, her jaw clenched, her lips tight. "And Greg knows. And they're all okay with this?!"

"Nick and Greg are cool. Cath . . . well, she's, uh, dealing. In her own way."

"Yeah, I bet . . . I bet she doesn't believe it anymore than I do. Does she?"

Well, Sara was no doubt right about Catherine. But Warrick wouldn't do anything more to convince Catherine, anymore than he would Sara. He'd done what he knew to be right: to be honest and up front with his friends. And no matter what Catherine or Sara or any of his friends chose to believe, his love for Gris was real. End of story.

When Warrick failed to answer Sara, she purposefully looked away, sipping her champagne, staring at the hunting pictures on the wall, looking like she'd like to join in. Man, for a touchy feely vegetarian, this girl looked like she could commit some serious mayhem.

Sitting back and taking a deep breath, Warrick glanced around the restaurant. Suddenly everybody seemed overly interested in their food. Bonnie and Sam swiftly and smoothly circulated around their assigned booths and tables. The violinist started strolling again, playing "I'm Coming Out." The cheeky bastard.

Ladies and gentlemen, floor show's over. Warrick hoped. He picked up his heavy fork and finished up his stone crab. In fact, he went back for seconds. When he got back, Sara still wouldn't look at him. Sweeping by to refill his orange juice, Bonnie gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Sam did the same when she refilled his and Sara's champagne glasses.

He finished up his second plate and ventured, "You gonna be okay?"

"What do you think?" she bristled, refusing to meet his eyes.

And he understood. Damn, he was angry enough at Gris to make him crawl on his hands and knees for forgiveness. What must Sara be feeling? What would it feel like to be dumped without a word, then called as if nothing had happened, convinced to give up your job and come to Las Vegas? What would it feel like to receive unique gifts, coy flirtations, whispered sweet nothings? And then, out of the blue, to find out you have no chance with the man of your dreams? And you're told by the man's lover no less? Warrick gulped half a glass of champagne. Yeah. There'd be a sudden vacancy at the LVPD Crime Lab, that's for sure.

"More champagne." He heard Sara's gruff voice demand. Green eyes snapped up to see Sam filling the glass but looking a warning at Warrick. He took the hint.

"How about I get you some crème brûlée to go with that Perrier Jouët?" he asked, pushing back his chair.

"How about you mind your own business?" Sara bit, slopping champagne on the table top as she brought the glass to her lips.

"Sara," he bit back, grabbing her wrist, "you've had enough."

"What the hell do you know?" she tried to break free, spilling champagne drops over her dress.

"I know about addiction. I know about obsession. I know it took good friends to save me from myself."

"Is that what you are?" she snarled. "A good friend?"

"Yeah. I am."

They stared at each other, daring the other to yield, to break first. At last dark brown eyes dipped. Gently Warrick teased her stiff fingers into releasing her grip on the glass. He set it on the table, then encompassed her trembling hands in his calm ones. "Think about it. We've always told each other the truth. Even when it hurts. What is it Emerson says? 'Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than his echo.'"

"Oh, Christ, you're even starting to sound like Grissom." She was still angry but that edge of fury had dissipated.

Warrick grinned. And he judged the time was right. He let go of her hands. From the inside pocket of his suit coat, Warrick slipped out a creamy vanilla envelope. Holding the edges in his long fingers he said, "Gris and I are celebrating our six month anniversary with our closest friends. Saturday the 28th. An informal evening. This invitation belongs to you."

He slid it across the table. Shaking her head, Sara stared at the hand addressed envelope like it was a double tailed scorpion.

"Think about it, please. Gris makes great vegetarian."

"No. No, how can I . . . "

"Because you're strong. Because you're part of my family. My chosen family. And Nick and Cath, Greg and Sofia, Al and Jim, they're all gonna be there to hold you up."

Her hard brown eyes iced. "And Grissom?"

Warrick smiled grimly, "Depends on whether or not he can still walk after I whup his ass for not showing up here."

Sara nodded slowly, and then a strange look crossed her face. Suddenly she looked a lot like one of those framed hunters hanging on the walls of Bally's Steakhouse. One of those cruel hunters chasing terrified foxes through the woods.

"Can I help?" she said far too eager, far too hopeful.

And, lord help him, for a split second Warrick considered it.

******

As he sterilized the surface of a blow fly maggot with 20 percent bleach solution, Grissom had no idea how narrowly he'd escaped. Of course, at the time that Warrick was turning down Sara's offer to help whup Grissom's ass, Gris was so zeroed in on his research, he'd completely forgotten his promise to meet his boyfriend and Sara for brunch. Well, to be honest, Gris had allowed himself to forget.

With practiced skill, Grissom sliced open the p. regina third instar larvae and carefully extracted the crop, the tiny organ located between the mouth and stomach. A storehouse of concentrated food, the crop afforded the best place to extract DNA for comparison to the food source, which, in Grissom's line of work, was generally a human body. Certainly, extracting DNA from the crop yielded a purer sample than pureeing the entire maggot then filtering the results.

Usually decaying bodies and carrion feeders are found together. But what if only maggots are found? When a maggot's food source is gone and the maggot ceases to feed, how long does recoverable DNA remain? How long will a maggot's crop store its food? No one had ever designed an experiment to test that. Until now.

Grissom had originally conceived his experiment last year when a hapless LVU pledge made a shocking discovery. Running away from hazing pledge masters, he'd fallen face first into a pool of maggots. It turned out that a fellow student's body had been dismembered, chopped into a horrific mulch, then spread around campus landscaping. By the time CSI began sifting through the evidence, only the body's bones remained. By the time the disturbing case was over, Gris had forgotten all about the experiment.

At 4:30 Sunday morning the idea for the experiment came rushing back, rocketing him out of a deep sleep, straight out of bed, and onto his feet. At least he'd remembered to kiss his boyfriend goodbye. By 5:00 a.m., Gris was showered, dressed, and at the body farm. He'd plucked 60 live maggots off a body, barely 3 days dead. He'd honestly intended to store the maggots at the Crime Lab and return to them after he escaped from brunch. But everything was so quiet when he got to the lab, and Kira Peschke, the DNA tech for dayshift, just happened to be there with nothing much to do.

By 1:30 p.m., he'd separated 15 maggots from their crops. One every 30 minutes. He was now working on number 16. Tongue tip peeking out of the corner of his mouth, Grissom carefully lifted out the crop, placed it on a sterile pre-numbered slide, then skidded the slide across the Chem Lab table to Kira. He watched her squeeze out a drop of a fixative to set the tissue, set a slide cover on top, note the time, then slip the slide into a small, chilly refrigerator to incubate overnight at 4 degrees C. Once the tissue was fixed, Gris would be able to take his time measuring the amount of food in each crop.

With a slight push of his feet, he set his rolling lab stool in motion and glided back to the Journal of Medical Entomology, spread out on the lab table safely away from the maggot slicing and dicing. He immersed himself once again in the article on Insect Succession and Decomposition of Wildlife Carcasses During Fall and Winter in Louisiana. Kira meanwhile turned her attention back to her computer monitor and the online Journal of Microbiological Methods.

He had just turned a page when he heard, "Grissom?"

His head snapped up to focus on beautiful green eyes. Even though he was at the lab, he couldn't keep the shy, pleased smile off his face anymore than he could keep the excited lilt out of his voice. "Warrick! What a surprise! I'm cropping my crop of crops!" He smirked at his wordplay.

But Warrick didn't. In fact, Warrick looked . . . pissed off. He stared at Gris and rasped, "Could I see you in your office for a moment?"

Eyebrow raised, Grissom studied his boyfriend for a few moments but failed to puzzle out what could be bothering him. With a shrug, Gris popped to his feet and set his journal face down on the lab stool. Then he looked at Kira. Well. He ought to be used to it by now: the yearning looks on the faces of most females in Warrick's presence. But still that nudge of jealousy tweaked his gut. Really, though, who could blame them? Especially when Warrick looked extra fetching in a navy blue pin stripe suit and matching silk tie. With a shake of his head and a knowing, crooked smile, Gris said to her, "If I'm not back in ten minutes, page me."

"Sure thing," Kira threw Warrick a last yearning look, glanced at the lab clock, then turned back to her monitor.

A resigned lift of lips and Gris briskly led the way to his office. He unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. Stopping in front of his desk, he spun around, blue eyes twinkling. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Shaking his head, Warrick chuckled. Or seemed to chuckle. No amusement shone in his eyes, though. Closing the office door, he stood stiffly beside it.

"Warrick?" Grissom took a step toward his boyfriend, but a large hand signaled Gris to stop.

"Where's your cell phone?" The normally deep, smooth voice sounded strained, rough.

Perplexed, Gris patted the left front pocket of his lab coat, then the left front pocket of his pants. Both pockets were empty. He thought for a moment then glanced at his desk. Of course. He'd left his phone in his office so he could concentrate on his experiment without interruptions. "It's on my desk. Why?"

Full lips creased into a sardonic smile. "Because I left you a message or two. You might want to wait to listen to them after you finish with the maggots. Wouldn't want you to lose your concentration."

Was that sarcasm? From Warrick? Grissom furrowed his brow. "Okay."

He watched his boyfriend take a deep, deep breath and a hesitant step forward.

"Warrick? Wh--?"

"I need you to listen and not interrupt. Can you do that for me?"

Pursing his lips, keeping the offended look from his face--after all, he prided himself on being able to listen carefully, closely, without interrupting--Gris simply nodded. And then he really looked at Warrick. Full lips drawn tight, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, green eyes hard. Long musician's elegant hands curled into fists. Posture stiff and pumped. Warrick was angry. Check that. Warrick was furious. Why?

"I met with Sara."

Sara? Light brown eyebrows drew together. What about Sara? Blue eyes blinked. Oh, shit. Sara. Brunch. Gris opened his mouth to apologize, but the steely look on his boyfriend's face stopped all words.

"Yeah. I met with her. Made her angry. Made her cry. For you. For us. And you forgot all about it. Like yesterday's news." Warrick took another deep breath.

Grissom stood stock still, trying with eyes and soul to convey his sincere apologies. But Warrick wasn't accepting any apologies today. His explosive temper was a button push away from detonating. Gris could be dumb, but he was most definitely not stupid. He wasn't doing anything to trigger an explosion.

"So you not showing up got me to thinking," Warrick's rasping voice continued. "Things Sara said got me to thinking, too." Another deep breath. "Even after working together for fifteen years and after being . . . whatever the hell I am to you for the last six months, I don't know you. I thought you loved me enough to trust me, but you don't."

Shock chased the color from Grissom's face, set his knees to trembling. "But--"

Warrick jabbed a long, shaking finger at Grissom. "No. You had your chance to be a man and speak up, but you didn't even show up. Let me finish."

The two men stared at each other. Grissom was a fair man. He knew he'd fucked up. But it was still hard to yield and stay quiet when his character and commitment were under attack.

Seconds ticked by and at last Warrick's face softened. "I love you. From the depths of my soul, I love you. But a one-sided love, man--" Green eyes teared up, but Warrick shook his head, drying them. "A one-sided love lasts only so long. So I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," Gris blurted.

A resigned smile. "Yeah. I've heard that before."

Grissom clamped his jaw shut.

"I need a break. From you. Only a week. But I need to think things through, and I do that better when I'm not around temptation. I'd appreciate it if you'd respect that."

Stunned, Gris barely heard the rest of Warrick's words.

"I'm hoping you'll think about things, too. 'Cause thinking is something you do really well." Full lips quirked a bitter smile. "Next time we meet I want you to tell me why you didn't show up today. I know you forgot. But I want to know why you forgot. The real reason.

"I want to know why you never told me that you and Sara had . . . been intimate. You'd never send me alone to interview a suspect if you knew she was armed and dangerous. Hell, you'd never let me walk into an interrogation room without knowing a relevant piece of evidence like that. You knew I was gonna talk to Sara about us. So why didn't you tell me?"

Long fingers uncurled from tight fists. Like leaves trembling on a swaying branch, they reached toward Gris but stopped before making contact. And Grissom stood too frozen to move.

"Most of all," Warrick rasped, "I want to know what I can do so that you will trust me. I still want to be with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But you've got to help me make us work." He swallowed, "Assuming you want what I want."

A mute and unfeeling statue, Grissom watched Warrick wrap his big but gentle hand around the door knob.

"I'll call you in a week. Maybe you'll answer your phone this time." Opening the door, he stepped out of the office without looking back.

******

"--som? Grissom? Grissom?!"

His eyes snapped into focus. Big, concerned blue eyes in a long pale face stared back up at him. A small hand gripped his shoulder. The name came to him slowly.

"Kira?"

"You didn't answer your page." Her eyes swept over his face, then down his body, scrutinizing him. What the hell? "I took care of maggot 17 and came looking for you. Are you all right?"

"Am I . . . I . . . don't know."

Concerned escalated to scared. "You better lie down. I'll call the paramedics."

"No. No. There's . . . no need to do that. I-I-I've . . . just heard . . . some news." He wasn't convincing her. Mustering all the confidence he had left, he said, "I'm fine."

Scared shrank down to dubious. "You sure?"

"I'm fine," he stated imperiously, glaring at her hand on his shoulder, then back at her.

She quickly removed her hand. "Ohhh-kay. I can keep working on the experiment until you're--"

"I'll be right there," he dismissed her, straightening his shoulders.

Kira studied him for a moment, pursed her lips in disbelief, shrugged, then left his office, presumably to return to the lab.

Grissom leaned back against his desk and looked up at the ceiling. As if the ceiling would help him. One week. One week to confront his weaknesses, his failures, his justifications, his excuses. One week to understand them. One week to figure out how to explain them. One week to save his life with Warrick.

******

Damn, Warrick sighed, long legs carrying him slowly through the tile corridors of Desert Palm Hospital. Ten o’clock Sunday morning, and what a week it had been.

To start it off by talking with Sara and walking away from Gris. Damn.

To get a call from his cousin Celia begging a favor for her boss Tina Hopkins. To meet up with Tina at the Spur because her date had canceled and her ex was gonna be there, expecting her not to show, or show with someone never so fine as Warrick on her arm. To enjoy the date because it was such a relief to be out with somebody who appreciated him and wanted to please him and actually talked to him.

To get threatened by a couple of incredible bulks outside the Spur, and Warrick naked without his revolver because Tina would have no truck with guns. To spend the next day at the Spur looking for the bulks, knowing that he was only doing it because he was still so pissed at Grissom he felt like shooting somebody.

To walk into the lab late Monday afternoon, rumors swirling thick as flies on a week old corpse: that Warrick was gonna quit; that Grissom was gonna be fired; that Warrick was gonna be fired; that Warrick and Grissom had screamed at each other, threatened each other, thrown punches at each other; that Grissom had almost ended up at the ER; that Grissom had ended up at the ER. All because Kira Peschke had run her mouth.

It only took Sara blowing in like a hurricane at midnight to stir the flies up into hornets: cutting Warrick dead, snapping at Nick, blistering poor Greg, shooting daggers at Catherine, shooting bullets at Gris. And Greg just had to run his mouth that Sterling Brunch was gonna double their fire insurance coverage after Gris, Warrick, and Sara had eaten there on Sunday.

Things were buzzing so bad on Tuesday evening that A.D. Ecklie had actually pulled his nose out of the mayor's ass and called Grissom into his office. Warrick hadn't been there to witness what happened next, but Nick had. Ten minutes after Grissom steamed out of Ecklie's office, Sara was creeping around the lab, sweet as apple pie, apologizing for her behavior to Nick and Catherine; Greg was cowering silently--and gratefully--in the storage vault inventorying solvents, reagents, and all the other nasty and exotic chemicals the LVPD Crime Lab owned; and Kira Peschke was calling in to say she'd be taking the next couple of days off to attend a workshop on workplace ethics in Carson City.

And then, Jesus. And then Thursday night. Nick. Warrick's best friend and the sweetest soul he knew, Nicky had been drugged and kidnapped and buried in the ground. Nicky tortured, almost suffocated, almost stung to death. And the whole lab had a front row seat to the man's suffering. Damn. Goddamn.

And apart from the damage done to Nick, it haunted Warrick, damn near killed him, to know that just a flip of the coin let him escape the same fate. Except that he would've put a bullet through his brain long before any rescue party yanked him out of the ground.

But everybody working together found Nick. They yanked him out of the ground to an accompanying explosion of dirt and plexiglass and aluminum and fire ants. They thought the worst was over.

The ambulance ride to Desert Palm proved them wrong. Not too surprising, really, considering that Nick had damn near run out of air plus suffered over 500 fire ant stings. Once the ambulance doors had closed, he'd started showing signs of anaphylaxis: wild, labored breathing, racing heart beat, abdominal cramps, flushed and itching skin. Warrick held on to his best friend's shoulder while the paramedics double checked Nicky's airway and blood pressure. The first was squeezing shut, the second rocketing out of control.

And Nick freaked. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't talk. Couldn't scream. Couldn't move but to thrash his head helplessly. Warrick tightened his grip trying to keep Nicky grounded. Catherine talked to him like he was her own child, petting his hand, trying to reassure him. One paramedic jabbed epinephrine into Nick's thigh while the other set up an IV drip to hurry saline, diphenhydramine, and plasma expanders into his system. Ten minutes later, still struggling to breathe, he got another dose of epinephrine. Damn. It took another dose and some dopamine before his airways opened up and blood pressure leveled off. Whether the anaphylaxis was due to a delayed allergic reaction to the fire ant venom or to a psychotic melt down or to both, Warrick didn't care. He only knew that he'd never been happier than when those ambulance doors had flown open and cool desert night air rolled in.

And if that wasn't trauma enough, there was always Grissom. Couldn't leave well enough alone, could he? Oh, no. He hadn't sufficiently pissed off Warrick. Completely unarmed, completely alone, carrying a million dollars of gangster Sam Braun's money, Gris had walked into a madman's trap and almost gotten blown to bits. Son of a bitch. What the fuck was the boyfriend thinking? Only he could make the drop? No cops around who could do it? Couldn't trust anyone else to do it? Of course not.

But Grissom immediately expected trust in return. Would Gris even wonder why Warrick looked at him so strangely when he asked Warrick to step out of the hole and leave Nicky? Leave his best friend lying alone and in pain in that plexiglass coffin, even though it was wired with explosives? Leave his best friend lying alone and in pain simply because the great Gil Grissom asked Warrick Brown to trust him? And Sara thought she could cope with this shit? Fucking son of a bitch!

Stopping suddenly in the brightly lit hallway, Warrick gulped in the antiseptic air of the hospital and tried to snuff out his roiling anger. Damn. Nick wasn't the only one in danger of going into anaphylaxis. Think happy thoughts, Brown. Stretching, breathing deep, Warrick felt his racing heart begin to slow. One thing Nick didn't need: more emotional baggage loaded onto his get well trolley.

Warrick stared at his feet and tried to summon up some music, his comfort, his salvation in troubled times. And wouldn't you know it, the only tune that circled through his brain like a hungry shark was the one inspired by Gris: For Double G. Well, shit. Warrick wiped his face and grinned helplessly. He still loved that tune. Still loved his boyfriend. Even though sometimes the man didn't deserve it. With a shake of his head and one more deep breath, Warrick softly hummed For Double G as he strolled toward Nick's room.

The wide metal door to the room stood open, partly to let hospital personnel in and out with the minimum of noise but mostly to combat any hint that Nick was enclosed. The hospital had checked him into the biggest private room they had with the biggest windows. Only the best for a wounded hero, especially when the city was footing the bills.

As Warrick approached, he heard a familiar voice. Soft, gentle, low. He stepped quietly inside, tip toed past the bathroom and peeked in.

Dark eyes closed, Nick lay back in his hospital bed. To be honest, his eyes were partially swollen shut anyway. Angry red pustules caused by the ant stings dotted his eyelids and the corners of his eyes. The few patches of skin not stung or bitten were almost as pale as the hospital sheets. Over 500 nasty looking blisters left on his legs, arms, neck, face, ears, even on the top of his head. He was slathered from head to toe with fluocinonide cream, pumped full of antihistimines and corticosteroids, probably flying on a shot or two of a painkiller for good measure.

Even though he looked like shit, he looked beautiful to Warrick. Even better, for the first time in two days, Nicky looked like he might be getting some sleep. His face seemed relaxed and nightmare free. Yeah. Great pharmaceuticals coupled with Grissom's steady, reassuring voice were working some powerful mojo on Mr. Stokes.

Leaning against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, Warrick listened to his boyfriend's soothing voice and soaked in his solid presence. Dressed in a black short sleeve shirt and black pants, Gris sat back in a cheap, ratty green recliner and read to Nick. Warrick noticed for the first time dark bruises on Grissom's face and neck, scratches on the backs of his hands. The consequences of barely escaping a bomb blast.

"There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship," Gris read, "each so sovereign that I can detect no superiority in either, no reason why either should be first named. One is Truth. A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another. Sincerity--"

Blue eyes at last grew aware that someone else was in the room. They peered over eyeglasses and instantly warmed with welcoming pleasure. But all too soon they cooled with wary reserve. Taking off his glasses, putting them in his shirt pocket, Gris quietly let down the recliner's foot rest and stood, obviously intending to vacate the room, to give Warrick the distance he asked for a week ago.

Warrick shook his head. "Week's over, baby," he whispered, stepping swiftly to his boyfriend, engulfing the sturdy body in strong arms.

And Gris hugged back, almost desperately so. "I'm so sorry I messed up," he murmured, planting soft, silent kisses on Warrick's neck. "I missed you so much."

Warrick buried his nose in curly graying hair. "I missed you. Missed this, too," he breathed. "And you know I forgive you. I truly do. But forgiveness don't mean you're off the hook. You still got some questions to answer."

"I know. I--" Gris tried to pull away but Warrick wouldn't release him.

"Not yet."

Who would have ever guessed that Gil Grissom and Warrick Brown could cuddle? Not that either man would ever use that term to describe how they burrowed their faces into each other's shoulders, gently ran their hands over each other's backs, put as much of their bodies as possible against one another, joining together like when one chemical atom meets another.

"Emerson?" Warrick chuckled quietly into a pink ear. "You were reading Emerson to Nick? No wonder he's sound asleep."

A gentle shrug lifted his cheek. "I grabbed the first book I saw before I left the townhouse."

"I recognize that essay. The one on Friendship."

"Mm-hmm."

Breathing in his boyfriend's intoxicating salt spice scent, Warrick realized he'd been absolutely right to stay away from Gris for a week. The making up would've been all too sweet and easy. And the forgiveness, the true forgiveness, would have been held back and locked away, to fester and poison. Even now, Warrick had to pull his mind back from his boyfriend's all too tempting closeness.

"How are the elder Stokes?" Warrick murmured.

"Relieved but tired. A recliner and a rollaway bed aren't easy to sleep in at anytime, much less in a hospital."

"You sent them to Nick's place, I hope."

"I strongly suggested it."

"Good for you, baby." He meant it as a playful hard hug, but it resulted in a stifled cry. Warrick immediately relaxed his grip but didn't let go. He pulled back to see pain on Grissom's face. "What's wrong?"

"Bru-bruised ribs," Grissom gasped.

"From the bomb you shouldn't have been anywhere near?"

"My responsibility." A hint of steel in the soothing voice.

"No. It wasn't. A trained negotiator should have conducted that meet, and you know it."

They stared at one another, green eyes locked on blue, until blue eyes gave way. "I thought I could reason with Gordon. He'd been clever. Planned meticulously. His voice on the tape indicated education, high intelligence. I thought I was the only one--" Grissom swallowed.

"Smart enough to talk to him?"

Shame and embarrassment flooded Grissom's face but he bravely looked Warrick in the eye. "Yes."

"You still think that?"

"No."

"Good. I believe your favorite author Mr. Emerson once wrote that 'true greatness is a perfect humility.'"

A small lift of lips. "I've never been much interested in greatness."

"Well, I'd say now's the time to start, baby." Huh. Maybe Gris had learned something during the separation. Before now, he never would’ve admitted that his superior intellect could’ve gotten him into so much trouble.

"Would y'all get your own room and leave a poor sick man in peace?" a dry, rough voice complained through swollen lips.

"Hey, man," Warrick grinned at his best friend, before giving his boyfriend one last very gentle hug. "You about ready to blow this joint?"

Dark eyes, more joyful than they had any right to be, peeked out from under puffy eyelids. "Think I'll hang around here a bit longer. They got good drugs and pretty nurses." Yeah. And that included Warrick's Cousin Celia and her boss Tina Hopkins who dropped by before and after their shifts in the Cardiac Care Unit.

Warrick took a step toward the bed then noticed a black line painted on the tile floor. The painted line appeared to run all the way around the bed in an unbroken circle. This hadn't been here yesterday.

"Uh, Gris, you know anything about this?" Warrick pointed at the black line.

"Black latex paint with microencapsulated chlorpyrifos," Grissom explained as if anyone should have known what the painted line was.

"Chlorpyrifos?" The chemical sounded vaguely familiar.

"An especially effective barrier against ants."

"Ah, yeah," Warrick had it, "Dursban." He cut his eyes at his boyfriend. "I thought the EPA banned its use as a paint additive."

Innocent blue eyes looked back. "It did."

Green eyes shone with pride. Full lips stretched into a grin. Oh my lord. Dr. Gil Grissom the world renowned forensic entomologist had just admitted to using a highly toxic insecticide in an unlawful way in order to paint a completely unnecessary protective circle around Nick. All because it might make Nick feel safer. It might help Nick heal faster. And Warrick remembered why he loved his boyfriend so much.

Still grinning, Warrick stepped within the protective circle and lightly stroked Nick's hair. "I'm guessing this is the one place you don't hurt."

"Don't be too sure of that, pardner," Nick croaked.

Damn. Was there anybody braver than Nick? Maybe not braver but certainly as brave. Warrick didn't stop to think how incredibly brave it was to practice forgiveness. How incredibly brave it was for his boyfriend to admit he was wrong.

Refilling Nick's plastic water cup, Warrick said, "Any nightmares last night?"

"Some doozies," Nick admitted. "Like I'm an extra in 'Empire of the Ants' or 'Avalanche of the Empire of the Ants' or something."

Warrick held the cup and straw up to Nick's lips, "Guess you're not going with me to see 'The Amityville Horror' remake."

"Nope." Nick took several straw fulls then, more like his old self, said, "Gris won't go with you or is he still in the doghouse?"

Warrick glanced up to see his boyfriend, a look of offended innocence on his face. "He's out of the doghouse but on a short leash for now."

While Grissom looked shocked, Nick snorted, "So, he hasn't told you why he didn't show up at Sterling Brunch, yet?"

Grissom drew himself up. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to carry on your conversation, I'll--"

"Baby, c'mon now, we're teasing. We're best friends."

"We tell each other everything, Gris. We trust each other."

Uh huh. Boyfriend got the message loud and clear. Even in a hospital bed, slathered with ointment, IV stuck in his arm, doped up to the gills, Nick still tried to protect his best friend. And somehow Grissom heard from Nick what Warrick had been saying all along. It's a matter of trust.

Warrick watched Gris gnaw his lower lip, shift uncomfortably on his feet, cross his arms, uncross his arms, put his hands in his pants pockets, draw them out again. Hesitant blue eyes sought amused green.

"Perhaps . . . perhaps you can call me tonight? I will answer my phone."

Huh. If only Warrick felt like making it so easy. But he didn't. "Let's have that conversation now."

"But--" Grissom looked pointedly at Nick then back at Warrick. Blue eyes silently pleading.

Shaking his head, Warrick said, "Matter of trust, baby."

"Um, Gris," Nick rasped, "Warrick's just gonna tell me all about it anyway. Might as well get it straight from the horse's mouth. So to speak."

Flushing a deeper shade of red with each word, Grissom looked like he wanted to bolt but knew he couldn't. Good. Man needed to understand that hard consequences fall from major fuckups. With a deep breath, with blue eyes closed, with strong hands clasped in front of him, Grissom at last began to confess.

"I slept with Sara. One night. It was . . . I made a mistake." Another deep breath, then blue eyes opened in resolution. "I knew it when I . . . stayed that night. Sara was a graduate intern at Berkeley. I was one of her supervisors. I never could make her understand that we could be friends, colleagues, but not . . . lovers."

"You slept with her only once?" Warrick asked, trying to keep the surprise from his voice.

Impossibly, Gris blushed even redder. "Only one night."

Ah. More than once during one night. Warrick glanced at Nick who raised his eyebrows in surprise. Hmm. "Only one night" was not the impression they'd gotten from Sara.

"Sara said you left San Francisco without a word to her," Warrick said.

Gris shrugged, "I didn't even consider it. The only person I told was my boss."

"Why did you sleep with her?" Warrick had to know.

Shifting from foot to foot, Grissom's eyes swept to Nick then to the floor then back to Warrick. "I could tell you that I drank too much, that it had been too long, that she was too willing. But the truth is I simply wanted to touch something besides a dead body." His shoulders slumped. Shame weighed heavily on him.

"So when you brought her to Vegas?"

"She was--is--the most dogged investigator I know. No one would question the results of her research into your actions." Grissom took a deep breath. "To answer your first question, anima, I purposefully forgot to meet you and Sara. I purposefully forgot because I can never get through to her. I cannot convince her that I'm not interested. I couldn't see how this time would be any different. I didn't consider that it would be different because you would be there."

"And the second question?"

Nodding, swallowing, Gris explained, "I didn't tell you I'd had sex with her because I was ashamed of myself for using her for my own . . . gratification and thought you would be, too. I couldn't bear that."

"Baby," Warrick shook his head and shared a knowing glance with Nick. "Did you make any promises to her beforehand?"

"No. Of course not."

"Promise to love, honor, and obey until the end of time?"

Grissom snorted.

"Tell her you loved her?"

"No!"

"You don't owe her anything, Gris," Nick said, puffy eyebrows miraculously drawn together despite the blisters. "I think she's kinda built up a whole fantasy thing about you. Like you said, she's the most dogged researcher I know. But she's pretty much the most dogged anyone I've ever known. She's got it in her head that you're the one for her."

Warrick smiled down at Nick then up at Grissom. "Even after I told her we're together baby, showed her the photo from The Dance All, she wouldn't believe it."

"You showed her the photo?" Gris moaned, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Best way to get through to her that I knew. The thing is, baby, you didn't have to tell her why you don't want to be with her. You just needed to tell her that you wanted to be with me."

Eyes still covered, Grissom licked his lips and nodded his head. "I know. I will. Tell her."

"Yeah?"

A loud sigh. "Yes."

"You won't forget this time?"

Hands dropped to his sides, blue eyes popped open. A soft, determined voice. "I won't forget."

"Good," Warrick grinned. "'Cause the next time you 'forget' . . . you gonna have to 'fess up in front of Catherine."

"Dang, bro'," Nick gasped. "That is way too harsh."

Yeah. And the look on Grissom's face echoed Nick's assessment. But Warrick was through playing nice.

Stroking Nick's hair, Warrick smiled down into dark brown eyes. "Man, I'd still let you listen in."

Nick brightened, "Oh. Okay then."

A narrowing of blue eyes. A tightening of pink lips. Warrick watched Gris struggle to tamp down his irritation. Good thing because he had one more question to answer. But no need to keep him standing.

Motioning toward the ugly green recliner, Warrick said, "Take a seat, baby. Let's get comfortable." He dragged a hard-backed chair away from the wall and close to Nick's bed. Sitting down, stretching out his long legs, Warrick watched Gris slowly cross the floor to the recliner. He sat down, leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. He looked at the wall rather than at Warrick and Nick. Well. So much for relaxing.

"I trust evidence more than people," Gris began at last. "I always have. DNA, fingerprints, footprints. Evidence is predictable, quantifiable. People are . . . messy." He risked a worried glance at Warrick, "I . . . want to trust you. You're my lodestar." An apologetic lift of lips. "The fault is not in my lodestar but in myself."

Yeah. Boy's got to bring on the Shakespeare. Even if it was a paraphrase.

"You give me every reason to trust you. But I . . ." Gris suddenly straightened up. His gaze returned to the wall. Warrick and Nick looked where Grissom was staring. They saw nothing but the wall. Well. Sometimes Gris got like this, all senses turned inward, step-maidens to thought.

Warrick caught the quizzical expression on Nick's face. Shrugging, Warrick whispered, "He's gone deep."

"Oh," Nick softly responded. They watched Grissom for a while. His mind racing like a Ferrari, negotiating tricky philosophical turns with ease, but all motion, all life hidden away.

"You doing okay?" Warrick leaned close to Nick.

"Yeah. Most entertainment I've had since you freaked out at the tapeworm."

"All right, tough guy," Warrick grinned at his best friend. Nick was enjoying the show, but he was also getting tired. Warrick wondered if maybe he shouldn't just grab Gris, get the hell out, finish the conversation someplace else.

"Don't even think about it," Nick murmured, eyes slowly sinking closed. "I gotta see what he comes up with."

"Me, too," Warrick sighed and stroked Nick's hair.

At last Grissom blinked. Blue eyes as clear and deep as the sky turned to Warrick. "Tell me to trust you."

Warrick glanced at Nick then askance at Gris.

"Tell me, anima. Tell me to trust you."

Warrick waited for Nick, his best friend, his confidant, his advisor--especially when it came to Grissom--to dispense some wisdom, but Nick merely shrugged.

So Warrick did as his boyfriend asked. "Okay. Trust me."

Grissom nodded. "Yes. Tell me again."

A puzzled sigh. "Trust me."

"Again."

Lips parted, tongue exploring his cheek, green eyes hooded, Warrick at last understood. His boyfriend couldn't trust instinctively. He had to learn. And a part of learning is repetition. Repeat so that the mind remembers. Repeat so that the behavior becomes second nature.

"Trust me, baby." Warrick said with all the conviction in his heart. "Believe in me. I won't betray you. I won't leave you. I want to please you more than I want to please myself." All the things Warrick had always wanted to say but never had for fear of embarrassing Gris or scaring him off. Somehow, though, here, in this hospital room, in front of his best friend, recently resurrected from the grave, Warrick wanted to pledge his love and life to Gris. "Trust me."

Blue eyes twinkling, Grissom said, "I do."

Black eyes closing, Nick slurred, "Amen." A heartbeat of silence, and then he growled, "Now y'all hush up so I can get me some sleep."

******

Saturday, 8:30 am, May 28, and Grissom leaned up against a concrete column in the mostly deserted LVPD parking garage. He lingered in the garage next to Sara Sidle's white 2004 Toyota Prius. He waited in order to keep his word to Warrick. To tell Sara. As much as he'd prefer to write a letter or send an e-mail or even call her, Gris knew Warrick would expect nothing less than a face-to-face explanation.

As he waited for her, Grissom skimmed Emerson's essay on Spiritual Laws, an intellectual diversion to quell emotional panic. "It is vain to attempt to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it. It will tell itself," Gris read and then shook his head. Well, Ralph Waldo, you certainly nailed that one.

The sound of quick, long-legged strides made him look up from his book. Sara, in bell bottom blue jeans and a pullover gray knit shirt, speeding towards him, a look of hope and eagerness on her face. How could she still not understand?

"Hi," she said, brilliant smile lighting up the garage.

Slowly removing his glasses, he shifted uncomfortably. "Could I talk to you a moment?"

Her smile froze. "Is this about work?"

"No."

Sharp chin thrust out, she snapped, "Then I don't think this is an appropriate place for a personal discussion, is it?"

Well, technically, she was right. They were still on city property. Nodding, Gris said, "Where would you like to talk?"

"My apartment," she challenged.

Gripping his glasses and book tightly, Gris countered, "That's not entirely appropriate, either."

Her dark eyes burned. "Why not? Are you afraid something will happen? Like in San Francisco?"

"No," he slipped his glasses into his jacket pocket. "I'll take you to breakfast."

"Oh, no. I want to be able to slap you without causing a scene in public."

Ah. Well. He studied her pinched, angry face and then brightened. Yes, the perfect place. "The body farm?"

She doubled her fists. "Jesus! You have no fucking clue. No fucking clue at all. Honestly."

He blinked, completely at a loss. All he wanted to do was tell her and escape. She glared at him then threw up her hands, "Just get this over with."

"Sara, I-I-I'm . . ."

"A jerk?"

Gris straightened his shoulders. "I should have told you about Warrick and me. I apologize." And, lord love him, he said it as if he was convinced that she would accept. But of course she didn't.

"Well, that's great," she sniped. "That makes me feel soooo much better."

To be honest, he didn't really care how she felt. He'd kept his word to Warrick. That was the important thing. With a nod, Gris spun and headed for the garage stairs.

"That's it?!" her harsh, wounded voice rang out. "After everything . . . That's all you're going to say?! You should have told me?"

Stopping but not turning back around, Gris held his hands out from his sides in a helpless gesture.

"Tell me now," she demanded.

Gritting his teeth, gazing longingly at the blue door leading to the garage stairs, he wondered if he sprinted for it, could he get to his Volvo on the next level before she caught him. But he knew he could never outrun her long legs. He heard her heavy footsteps and watched as she came into view, placing herself between him and the stairs. Arms crossed, face stubborn, she wasn't going to let him go until he told her whatever she wanted to know.

"Tell me," she repeated, face stubborn and flushed. "Tell me why. Why him and not me?"

Squirming inside, he struggled to breathe in the fresh morning air. Fresh even in the parking garage. Why was she so insistent? Why did she want him to hurt her?

"You owe me that!" Sara raged. She gripped her biceps tightly, obviously fighting the temptation to smack him across the face. "At the very least you owe me that."

"Sara," he licked his lips. "It's never been about you."

"Goddammit! I am so sick and tired of men feeding me that line. 'It's not you, Sara, it's me.' Tell me the fucking truth, Grissom!"

Puzzled, he said, "I'm not saying 'it's not you, it's me.' I'm saying 'it's never been you.' Not ever." Disbelief flooded her face. Shit. He stumbled on. "I-I-I was . . . am . . . physically attracted to you. But I sh-should," he took a deep breath and started over. "I should have never slept with you."

"Slept?! We did a helluva lot more than sleep! We made love!"

Grissom stated matter-of-fact, "We had sex. It was just sex."

"No!" she shouted, tears starting to bubble in her dark eyes. "No. Don't say that."

"I used very poor judgment. I was your supervisor. I never should have--"

"Is that why?! You're my supervisor but not his?!"

Mouth dropping open, patience scoured thin, Gris stared at her. Why? Why did she refuse to understand? "No! No, Sara. That's not--"

"You begged me to come here."

"I didn't--"

"You begged me. Is that why? Because I dropped everything to come here? To come to you? Was I too obvious?"

And he simply lost it. He threw Emerson's Essays across the garage and grabbed her arms. "Listen to me! For once in your life! I am with Warrick because I love him! Not because I don't love you!"

"But why?!" she wailed, the question echoing throughout the garage.

Studying her dark, uncomprehending eyes, he felt extraordinarily helpless. Releasing her, taking a step back, he closed his eyes and blurted, "Trigger."

Complete silence. He opened his eyes and saw profound confusion. The nonsequitur had stopped her cold.

"What?" she at last managed.

"Trigger. And Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys."

She eyeballed him as if he'd lost his mind. The look. The look that Sara always gave him whenever he said or did anything out of the ordinary. The look, more than anything, told him. The look told him that if he had entered a relationship with her, Sara would have never let him be himself.

Wearily, Gris tried again, "Warrick accepts me for who I am. He indulges my whimsies. He tolerates my hobbies. He loves me. All of me. My failures, my successes, my weaknesses, my strengths."

"I--"

"No. You don't."

Grasping a last straw, she pleaded, "You told me I was beautiful."

"You are, Sara," he gentled. "But I don't love you. I never did. I never will."

And she finally understood. His love for her was as barren as the empty parking garage. All she had left was anger.

"You asshole!" she howled, slapping his face. She tried slapping him again, but he grabbed her wrist.

"One is all you get," he warned.

"Just like in San Francisco?" she hissed, trying to yank free.

"Gil? Sara? What the hell?"

Shit. Grissom recognized the voice of Captain Jim Brass. Letting Sara go, Gris stepped back and faced his old friend.

Round face as neutral as he could make it, Jim said evenly. "You two do realize you've just given the weekend crew the show of the century?" His concerned blue eyes glanced at the security camera in the corner.

Sara didn't care. Either about the camera or Brass. Her storm brown eyes never left Grissom's face. "You're a fucking asshole!"

Jim shrugged. "Sara, you can call him anything you want, but if you hit him again, I'll have to arrest you."

Lips pressed tight, body wound tight, Sara ignored Brass and hissed at Grissom, "You're a complete asshole. But maybe that's why Warrick likes you, huh? So he can fuck you all over?"

Even Jim Brass was stunned at her vulgarity. Grissom stared at her for a moment. Then he sealed off his heart and his mind. She became less than a thought to him. Touching Jim's elbow, Gris aimed Brass toward the stairs. "Jim, will Warrick and I see you tomorrow night?"

"Uh . . . um, sure."

"You know we'll be at Catherine's rather than the townhouse?"

"Uh . . . yeah." Jim threw a look back over his shoulder but kept pace with Gris. "Safer for Nick. Too many bugs on the wall at your place."

"Exactly."

"Hey, uh, you're cooking, right? Not Catherine?" Brass said hopefully.

"Of course," Gris smiled, opening the blue steel door to the garage stairs.

Grissom and Brass disappeared into the stairwell. Only the weekend crew saw Sara Sidle slowly sink to the cold and barren garage floor. No one heard her cry. No one ever did.

******

Warrick had never felt this way before. Treasured. Cherished. Brand new. As if his body was freshly discovered, uncovered, washed clean.

A soft yet insistent tongue parted his toes and investigated every tiny nook and hidden cranny. Sweet Jesus. Who knew it could be like this? Being licked from head to toe. Slow moving tongue spreading intense pleasure. Every inch of his body explored, honored, and loved. Not so much sex as worship. Not that sex didn't bubble close to the surface. Especially as Gris finished up with Warrick's big left toe, sucking it between pink lips, into the warm wet mouth. Oh my lord, Warrick trembled, muscles melting into a sea of warmth. And he wanted nothing more than to taste that sea. Drink it down. Happily drown in it.

"Grisss," he moaned. "Baby, kiss me."

With a rolling chuckle, his boyfriend's lush body swept up Warrick's like a cresting wave, white foam on brown sand, refreshing and life giving. Soft lips meeting, hard teeth nipping, facile tongues teasing. Blunt fingers threaded in springy black brown curls. Long fingers ruffling silky beard and graying hair. Semi-hard cocks nuzzling one another. Bright sky blue eyes shining down on deep ocean green.

"I love you," the two men whispered in between deep kisses.

Yeah. Gris had needed this. Warrick too.

Man, if he hadn't gotten the call from Jim, the heads up on the ugliness at the LVPD parking garage, Warrick would've never known what went down. Certainly not from the expression--or lack of expression--on Grissom's face when he'd walked in the door. Warrick might've noticed the dull red spot on Grissom's left cheek and eked out an explanation. An abbreviated explanation, no doubt. A sigh, a shrug, a statement that things didn't go well with Sara. But no details. Good thing Warrick had good friends who watched over Gris. Good thing Warrick could bide his time before letting Gris know he'd managed to fuck up again: first for not warning when he was going to confront Sara, second for not spilling the results.

So when Grissom walked in Warrick's front door and acted like nothing had happened, Warrick simply left off playing the piano and wrapped his long arms around his boyfriend in a hug as strong as love itself. And Gris had given back as good as he got. When Warrick pulled back to take the lead like he usually did, his boyfriend gave a slow, seductive grin and said in a voice smooth as silk, "Let's do things my way this morning." And, yeah, Warrick had ended up on his back, washed head to toe, like a cub groomed by a lion. By far the most methodically tender yet intensely erotic experience of his life.

Now that bath time was over, the tender gave way to the erotic. Uh huh. Sex boiled up like rich thick chocolate frosting.

"I want you," Warrick growled.

A tiny quirk of pink lips. "You got me."

Muscled thighs straddled slim hips, poised over Warrick's hard and rampant cock. And even though he wanted nothing more than to sheathe himself with one stroke, Warrick took his time. Skillfully, sensuously, musician's fingers prepared the way, slick lubricant spread inside and out. Gently, slowly, large hands eased Grissom down.

Unbelievably tight. Incredibly hot. Slick velvet flesh encasing rock hard cock. Whimpers and moans and gasps as they joined.

Steepling long legs, Warrick snugged his strong thighs against his boyfriend's back, supporting him, easing his position. Gris swept his left hand over chocolate brown nipples and curly black chest hair; he wrapped his right hand around his own cock. Throwing back his head, he started to ride up and down.

"Stay still," Warrick murmured. "Except for your right hand."

A right eyebrow rose, plump lips pursed.

"Please," Warrick smiled back.

An indulgent smile and Gris settled back, tightening the muscles around Warrick's cock. With an uncontrolled hiss and then a hungry growl, Warrick tightened his grip on Grissom's hips.

A few moments passed and Warrick's right hand joined Grissom's in stroking the thick, dark red shaft. Brown and tan fingers caressed the mushroom-shaped head, down and up, over and again.

"Ohhhh," Gris moaned, rhythmically tightening the strong muscles surrounding Warrick's cock. Like a primal drumbeat.

Restricted movement concentrated all sensation into Warrick's hands and cock and eyes and nose and ears. The sight of Gris gilded with late afternoon sunlight. His flushed skin glistening with sweat. His rose brown nipples stiff as bricks. The sound of his soft unhesitating groans. The smell of his sweet salt musk. And the feel, dear lord, the feel of his rhythmic pulsing.

"Damn, baby. Damn, you're amazing. Fucking amazing."

"Oh god!" Panting groans. "Anima . . . anima . . . s-s-s-o good."

Slick precum mixed with slick sweat mixed with slick lube. Hands sliding easily but providing just enough pressure, just enough friction. Warrick tightened his fingers around the fat cock to keep Grissom grounded.

"Jesus," he hissed. "Please."

"Yeah, baby, I know. Stay with me . . . a little longer," Warrick breathed, nearly pitching over the edge himself as the muscles around his cock squeezed hard.

"Hhhnnnhh," Gris protested.

Warrick smiled fiercely and lightly pinched a rose brown nipple. He watched Gris bite his plump bottom lip. Watched the sweat run down his face. Watched the drops gather together in his beard. Watched them overflow and splash down onto his own chest. Like scattered rain drops on rich dark earth before a thunderstorm.

Hands stroking and twisting and sliding. Muscles tightening and flexing and pulsing. Oh, yeah! Yeah! They were there! There!

"Come for me, baby! Now!" Warrick cried.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god!" Gris shouted, cock erupting, spattering Warrick's chest and throat. Ass clenching, squeezing, milking, and Warrick came, shooting hard again and again into his boyfriend's body.

Like race horses straining for the finish line, the two men sweated freely, breathed deep, harsh breaths. Their overheated and overworked muscles trembled. Their heart beats galloped and only slowly cooled down.

Grissom collapsed on top of Warrick. Long arms encircled the stocky body and held Gris close. A silky beard nuzzled under Warrick's chin. Gentle breaths cooled his cheek.

"Mmmm," Gris said.

"Uh huh," Warrick agreed, tightening his arms.

A slight gasp.

"Your ribs still hurting?" Warrick felt Gris shake his head no, but Warrick knew better. "You want me to hug you again?"

A soft pout. "My ribs are still a little tender."

"Uh huh. Thought you'd learned not to keep information from me."

A soft sigh. "Sorry."

Warrick waited, hoping Gris would take the major league hint, would open up about the confrontation with Sara. Gentle lips and teeth worried Warrick's bearded chin while he stroked long fingers through curling gray hair.

At last a faint whisper. "I told Sara."

"Yeah?" Long fingers gently massaged tense neck muscles.

"She . . . " A soft sigh. "She was very emotional."

Warrick decided he didn't have the energy to draw Gris out. "Yeah. I heard about that."

The lush body in his arms stiffened. Grissom groused, "You seem to have spies everywhere."

"More like guardian angels," Warrick continued to stroke his boyfriend's body.

In a short time, Gris relaxed again. Then he sighed, "By now . . . I'm sure everyone in the lab has heard about it."

"No doubt." Warrick kissed luxuriant hair. "She actually hit you?"

"Yes." A slight shrug. "I guess I deserved it."

Warrick slowly shook his head, "I'm so sorry, baby."

Gris lifted his head. Curious blue eyes met apologetic green. "For what?"

"For insisting you tell her. For getting you slapped."

Pursing his lips, Gris said, "Never apologize for doing the right thing. Years ago, when I finally realized how she felt about me, I should have told her that I . . . didn't reciprocate."

Warrick suddenly leaned up and kissed his boyfriend with passion and forgiveness. Lying back, looking up into bright blue eyes and a goofy smile, Warrick sighed, "She probably wouldn't have believed you."

"Probably not. But it would've been the ethical thing to do."

Blunt fingers traced the features of Warrick's face. He kissed the fingers each time they strayed close to his lips. He caught a pinkie that wandered too far and sucked it into his mouth. When he was done savoring its flavor, Warrick said, "You know, I bet that even now she's not convinced. I bet she's gonna dog you until one of us kicks the bucket."

The fingers left Warrick's face and crossed Grissom's heart. A mock solemn look. "Anima, I promise not to have sex with her until at least two weeks after your funeral."

Stunned, Warrick blinked, coughed, and snorted, "Two weeks, two years, two whatever, you get busy with anybody else, I'll come back and haunt your ass!" Warrick grabbed said ass and gave it a good squeeze. "And who says I'm gonna go first?"

"Shakespeare."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Henry VI, part III, Act V, scene ii." Blue eyes flashed expectantly.

"Not Hamlet? No 'Alas, poor Warrick. I knew him, Horatio'?"

Oh, Jesus. That superior look. That look that said "I'd never sink so low for a pun." Even though they both knew he'd sink that low and lower.

"You wanna enlighten me, Gris?"

"As he dies, the valiant Earl of Warwick says, 'For Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven.' What more perfect eulogy than that?" A sudden thought clouded blue eyes. "Not that I ever want to deliver that eulogy."

"Well, I'll do my best to see you never have to. Of course, I'm not the one who goes to dinner with serial killers or shows up unarmed at crime scenes or drives alone to abandoned freight yards with a million dollars of a gangster's cash tucked under my arm to chat with mad bombers. Am I?"

Uh huh. Not so smug now, are we, Dr. Grissom?

Bottom lip sliding forward in a slight pout, Gris sulked, "I said I was sorry."

"'Sorry' ain't gonna keep you safe, baby. 'Sorry' ain't gonna make me feel better if you're hurt. 'Sorry' ain't gonna help me live if you're dead. Hell, I bet you weren't even packing when you talked to Sara."

The right eyebrow soared. "You're joking."

Sliding large hands up Grissom's back and grabbing his shoulders, wrapping long legs around his hips, Warrick rolled them over. He glared down into surprised blue eyes. "Baby, I am serious. You think I went to Bally's without my Smith and Wesson? You think I go anywhere without it? Baby, you ever do something fool crazy . . . put yourself in danger again . . . and walk in defenseless . . . and I'll . . . I'll . . ." Warrick stared at Sara's mark on Grissom's cheek. "I'll slap both sets of cheeks red."

Pale skin flushed and blue eyes hardened, but Warrick didn't care. "You ever think about doing something fool crazy and not talk to me about it . . . Damn, baby, I won't be able to take it. I won't." He didn't mean for his voice to crack, but it did.

And that's when steel colored eyes softened, when rough, calloused fingers gently smoothed Warrick's brow. "Anima, I won't put myself heedlessly in danger. I'll try not to cause you any worry. I . . ."

Warrick waited, partly because he didn't trust his voice but also because Grissom was obviously thinking. About what, Warrick wasn't sure. But blue eyes had that far away, focused look. At last Gris blinked, looked at his boyfriend with sudden understanding.

"You're still angry because I didn't talk to you. About Sara."

"Oh, I'd gotten over being angry 'cause you didn't tell me you'd slept with her. I'm angry now because you didn't tell me when you were going to talk to her. I'm angry because you weren't gonna tell me she hauled off and hit you until I gave you the major league hint."

"Anima, I . . . I would've . . . " A defeated shrug. "No, I wouldn't have. But I should have."

"Yeah. You should have."

A mournful sigh. "God. I so suck at this. Relationships."

Caramel-brown skin at the corner of green eyes crinkled. "Yeah. You do. But I got hope for you."

"You do?"

"You're willing to learn. You just gotta do better at showing you trust me by talking to me." Warrick studied his boyfriend's solemn face until a shy smile peeked out. "Yeah, that's my baby."

They leaned into each other and kissed tenderly. When Grissom reluctantly pulled back, he quoted his old friend Ralph Waldo Emerson, "'Let us approach our friend with an audacious trust in the truth of his heart.' I will try. With all my heart. I will try to trust you."

A soft chuckle. "That's 'audacious' trust, baby. And if there's anything I know about you, you're absolutely audacious." A wicked glint in green eyes. "Bodacious, too."

Gris rolled his eyes, "Warrick, I am not--"

But before he could finish his protest, Warrick sealed their lips together. In friendship, in love, and, yes, in trust.

******

"C'mon, Grissom, how much longer is this gonna take?" Catherine demanded, hands on shapely hips, blond hair glowing like a lion's mane in the light cast by the charcoal grill. Amazing how beautiful she could look in a simple Mexican dress and sandals. Beautiful, but bossy.

"The secret to grilling chicken, my dear, is a thorough soaking in succulent marinade followed by slow, attentive cooking over a low, steady open flame."

"You grill any longer and Jim and Al will start repeating their stories."

"Ah. Well, we can't have that, can we?" he smirked reaching for his glass of wine. He took a sip, blue eyes teasing as she waited impatiently for him to remove the chicken. When he didn't, she snorted and glared.

"You can start bringing out the other food," he directed.

She rolled her eyes and stalked off.

Chuckling, he used the metal tongs to turn the slightly charred thighs and legs for a few more minutes cooking. He took another sip of crisp chenin blanc and scanned the patio.

Catherine had gone all out decorating for Gris and Warrick's six month celebration: tiny white lights twinkling from the branches of Russian olives, flowering vitex, and live oaks; brightly colored papel picado strung overhead; Mexican wool blankets for table cloths; ristras and tissue paper fiesta flowers for centerpieces. Good thing Grissom hadn't decided to fight her decision on what to cook. He'd originally planned on Memorial Day cuisine--hamburgers, hotdogs and the like. Catherine told him he was cooking Mexican.

And that's what Gris cooked. For the meat eaters, in addition to the grilled chicken, a seafood paella simmered in the oven. For the meat avoiders, baked pastel de vegetales (layered vegetables with cheese and poblano cream sauce), bubbling frijoles borrachos, and broiled tofu enchiladas. Everything made with vegetable oil rather than lard.

For the last hour or so, the guests had been snacking on tostadas with a choice of dips: black beans, homemade yellow pepper salsa, or chile con queso. For some odd reason, though, everyone but Sofia, Nick, and, of course, Grissom avoided the big bowl of chapulines sitting on the buffet table. Odd because Gris thought it was obvious that the bottles of Pine Ridge Chenin Blanc and even the Moctezuma Sol Cerveza perfectly complemented the crunchy, shrimp-like flavor of the fried grasshoppers. Well, there's just no pleasing some people.

Warrick had cautioned against including the chapulines, especially because of Nick's recent close encounter with the class insecta, but Gris had insisted. "It's traditional Baja California fare. And they'll help Nick."

"How?"

"By reminding him he escaped to eat his enemies."

Grissom wasn't sure that Nick appreciated the sentiment, but he'd bravely tried one and decided he liked the taste.

So Gris had to admit that the celebration hadn't been so bad so far. Of course, it helped that he'd spent the last hour meticulously readying the grill, coaxing the flame from the charcoal to just the right temperature, scattering mesquite beans on the fire for just the right flavor, and then finally placing the chicken precisely for just the right cooking. His slow precision not only irritated Catherine, which he enjoyed immensely, but also excused him from participating in chit chat. Not that he hadn't been busy listening in.

"Soon as Sofia sprung me from Desert Palm, we headed for Jean Ridge," Nick said, skin still mottled with blisters, though the redness and swelling had decreased substantially. "Caught a great 10 mph southwest wind, thermals kicked in. Man, we coasted for a couple of hours and kited back to launch point." Nick used his hands in graceful, sweeping motions to illustrate the paragliding experience.

His audience included Sofia, looking absolutely charmed by Nick yet protective at the same time, and Claudia, Grissom's downstairs neighbor and an airline pilot.

Thin and tall with short curly black hair, Claudia nodded, "I love Jean Ridge when I just want to fly. Goodsprings when I'm feeling competitive." Her dark brown eyes obviously issued a challenge to Sofia and Nick.

Sofia, long blonde hair loose and slightly curled, grinned wickedly, "So you're in the mood for a butt kicking?"

"Hey, now," Nick warned. "I just got out of the hospital."

"I've paraglided with a broken foot," Claudia admonished with a smile.

"My first flight," Sofia sipped from her bottle of Sol Cerveza, "I sprained my knee and broke my nose. Got a ride back up the ridge, cleaned up, and jumped off again."

"Yeah. Men are such wusses," Claudia teased, winking at Nick.

"Here's to strong women and the wusses they love," Sofia clinked her beer bottle with Claudia's wine glass, a toast to sisterhood united.

Nick looked like he wished he'd never heard of paragliding.

"I told her I was not buying her a $300 pair of jeans!"

Grissom's attention veered from Nick, Sofia, and Claudia to the source of the exclamation. Catherine and Celia, Warrick's favorite cousin and, like Catherine, mother to a twelve-year-old, had just come out the back door toting the pastel de vegetales and frijoles borrachos.

"The ABS embroidered jeans, right?" Catherine commiserated, setting the vegetable platter on the buffet table. "I had the same shouting match with Lindsey outside Bloomingdale's."

"Girls think money grows on trees," Celia growled, one hand on her hip, the other plunking a big spoon in the bowl of beans. "I don't care if Hilary Duff wears them. Don't care if Raven Symone wears them. Or if Mandy Moore wears them. Don't care if the Queen of Sheba wears them. I don't buy anybody anything that costs $300! Including myself!"

Grissom nodded and took another sip of wine. He'd never paid much attention to fashion. Certainly not to expensive fashion. But that was before he saw Warrick try on a $1200 custom tailored suit from Noble House. Gris decided that the old adage could be true: clothes do make the man.

Blue eyes flicked over to where his well-dressed boyfriend lounged in a white plastic chair, in deep conversation with his Aunt Bertha and Jim Brass. Warrick seemed to glow in a white linen short sleeve shirt, baggy cotton shorts, and leather sandals. Hmmm. On the other hand, maybe it's the man that makes the clothes.

Sudden laughter drew Grissom's attention to the trio of Doc Robbins, his wife Julie, and Pastor Stephanie.

"They'll never let us shop in that Safeway again!" Julie chortled, evidently repeating the punchline of a joke.

"You know," Al smiled broadly. "That reminds me of a story."

"Al," Julie warned, her laughter taking on an edge. A petite, plump woman with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, Julie had heard Al's stories so often that she could tell them herself. And make them funnier.

Robbins ignored his wife--as usual when a pair of fresh ears was available. "When I started my long, illustrious career as an assistant county coroner in the bustling metropolis of Milwaukee, one of the first customers on my table was a gentleman who'd tried to rob one of the local Safeways. Left jugular transected neatly by standard issue police--"

"Al," Julie warned louder and tugged on the sleeve of his sports jacket. Pastor Stephanie looked positively amused.

"At any rate, the cause of death was obvious but I wanted to try out our new General Electric hospital diagnostic x-ray machine. I found a slug in his right thigh. Surprising because he didn't have an entry wound in his right thigh. I extracted the bullet and sent it to trace. Turns out the slug was fired from the gun of a cop ten years before. At another Safeway in Milwaukee. We finally put together that he was a bagman for the Balistrieri family. He picked up extra cash by knocking off supermarkets."

"So he liked shopping at Safeway, too?" Pastor Stephanie grinned.

"Much to his misfortune," Al shook his head.

And that reminded Gris to check on the chicken. With this crowd, overcooked fowl might result in foul play. He smirked crookedly at his foul pun and reached for the tongs. He also picked up the elaborately patterned blue and yellow Talavera serving plate. It was a gift from his mother Mary Grace several Christmases ago. This was the first time he'd ever put it to good use.

Halfway through stacking perfectly grilled thighs and legs onto the large plate, Gris noticed a momentary lull in the conversation. Ah. No doubt everyone anticipating culinary magic and the rush for the buffet table. But then he heard:

"'Bout time y'all showed up."

Blue eyes looked over the grill to see Warrick embracing a very uncomfortable Sara Sidle and shaking hands with a very pleased-with-himself Greg Sanders. The latest arrivals were wearing jeans and scruffy tennis shoes. Sara had on a gray t-shirt; Greg a lime green and turquoise bowling shirt. She held a brown paper wrapped package; he a bright orange and blue package.

Greg beamed. "Special episode of 'COPS'. The one where they pull over the truck with the dude dressed in a leopard pattern one piece swimsuit. He's got one heel missing, one hand carrying a wig, the other hand wiping mascara out of his eyes. Who could miss it?"

Warrick scoffed, "Man, you can see that everyday in Vegas."

"Ah, but not everyday on TV."

Shaking his head, Warrick glanced at Grissom. Gris smiled back in reassurance as he removed the last piece of chicken from the grill.

"Your timing's perfect!" Catherine announced as she snatched the Talavera serving plate from his hand. She marched the platter over to the buffet table. "Colonel Grissom has finished cooking his world famous chicken. Finally."

Waving the last piece of chicken still captured in the tongs, Gris protested "I need to squeeze lemon over that!"

Hands on hips, Catherine snapped, "Well we can't wait for you to gather Mexican lemons for the authentic taste. Everyone can squeeze their own from the lemons I bought at Safeway." She frowned as Al, Julie, and Pastor Stephanie dissolved with laughter.

"Hey, Cath, ease up on the chef," Nick came to Grissom's defense. And only incidentally to the start of the buffet line.

Her face softened. Standing on tip toes, she brushed her lips against the only unblemished patch on Nick's left cheek. Then she handed him a sturdy paper plate. "Okay, Nicky, but you get to be royal food taster."

"My pleasure, ma'am," he grabbed the plate and dug in.

Sofia crowded in next to him. "You want to leave some for the rest of us?"

And the rush was on. Grissom watched Greg whisper something into Sara's ear then he stuffed the orange and blue package into Warrick's large hands and bolted for the buffet line.

"Hey! We said no gifts!" Warrick called after.

"It was Greg's idea," Sara groused. She glanced at Warrick then at Gris, then she took a deep breath. Her first steps faltered, but she straightened her shoulders and crossed the patio straight for Grissom. Warrick followed her closely.

"Here's your book." She held out the brown paper package, eager to be rid of it. "I cleaned it for you. Professor Rambar gave me some tips."

Still gripping the chicken thigh with the tongs in his right hand, Grissom gingerly accepted the package with his left. "Thank you."

They stood uncomfortably, studying each other. Her face seemed paler than usual. Drawn, sleepless. Her hands shook. Grissom wondered if she'd started drinking again.

"I read 'Self Reliance' in college," Sara said at last, shuffling her feet. "I found it . . . difficult to understand. Once I finally got through it, I liked the message: be an individual, believe in yourself." She wiped her sweating hands on her jeans.

Gris nodded. "Well, I think it's best to read 'Self Reliance' along with 'The Over-soul.' Rugged individualism tempered by the need for a communal search for truth. I think Emerson wanted each individual to help create truth through respectful dialog with other individuals."

For a moment, Sara looked like she would walk away, but for some reason her face tightened. "Well, I don't think Emerson was particularly respectful. He may have been a genius, but he was a jerk. He treated the people around him with contempt. That's why Thoreau left him."

Grissom knew she wasn't talking about just Emerson. So did Warrick. Green eyes flared, but Gris jumped in before his boyfriend said anything he'd regret. "I think his . . . displeasure with many of the people around him occurred when they disappointed him. When they didn't live up to their potential. And I believe Emerson and Thoreau's split was exacerbated by Thoreau's attraction to Emerson's wife."

Sara clenched her jaw and her fists.

"Hey, you're not gonna hit my boyfriend again, are you?" Warrick asked, voice soft and thus all the more menacing.

She spun around to face him. Grissom saw her shake her head, shake her fingers loose from her fists.

"God, Warrick. Like hitting him would do any good." She glanced back at Grissom over her shoulder, years of disappointment focused on him. Then she snapped back to Warrick. "You can have him. And, you know what? I'm gonna wish you the best, because you're going to need it."

"Oh, I hear that," Warrick agreed, much to Grissom's dismay. But teasing green eyes eased the sting.

"Hey, Sara," Greg swept up carrying two overflowing paper plates. "Here ya go: cheesy vegetables, tofu enchiladas, and beans, beans, beans, the musical fruit. All guaranteed meat free."

"Thank you, Greg," her low voice sounded sincerely grateful.

Gris thought it interesting that Greg's plate looked exactly the same as Sara's. "Giving up meat, Greg?"

"Well, I thought I'd give it a shot." Puppy brown eyes glanced sideways at Sara. "You know what they say, 'How can you eat anything with eyes?'"

Sara seemed to unbend a little. A soft smiled carefully crept out.

Grissom pursed his lips. "Good."

He watched Sara and Greg walk away, Sara stiff and purposeful, Greg loose and joyful. A contrast in temperament perhaps as great as that between himself and Warrick.

"They also say 'Vegetarianism fills a man with gas and self-righteousness,'" Warrick's deep voice opined, once Sara and Greg were out of earshot. "That probably goes for women, too."

Sky blue eyes met sea green. "Oh, most certainly."

"Happy anniversary, baby," Warrick smiled seductively.

Soft lips met, soft sighs mingled.

"Happy anniversary to you, too, anima," Gris said shyly. Then, with a mischievous grin, he proffered the chicken thigh still gripped in the tongs and sang to the tune Bob Hope made famous, "Tongs for the memory."

At the atrocious pun, boos, moans, and catcalls rained down from his friends, colleagues, adopted relatives. Warrick groaned the loudest. Unrepentant and unbowed, Grissom leaned forward and soundly kissed his boyfriend.

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