Title: Working Out 10: The Dance All
Author: Shelley Russell
Author Email: srblackburn@yahoo.com
Category: Established Relationship, Humor, Romance, Series
Rating: FRAO
Pairing: Warrick/Gil
Status of Story: Complete
Summary: Grissom and the god of love, Warrick and the worst dancer ever, and one very surprised CSI.
Spoilers: Fifth Season
Author Notes: "The Dance All" is dedicated to Karen for her generous and untiring support of the writers in this group, for asking all the important questions, and for sending Sara over a waterfall. Thanks also to my betas Rebecca and Buffy for, well, y'all know.
Story Notes: "The Dance All" takes place a week after the fifth season episode "Spark of Life"

Don't think of a pink elephant. But, of course, you do. You think of a pink elephant if only to dismiss it. Unfortunately, some pink elephants are easier to dismiss than others.

It was a beautiful Friday morning at the beginning of April, but Gil Grissom sat trapped in administrative hell. Otherwise known as the LVPD Crime Lab Monthly Supervisors Meeting. Otherwise known, to Gris at any rate, as Assistant Director Conrad Ecklie's monthly shit-dumping session. Ecklie couldn't touch Grissom's reputation for scientific research and innovation, couldn't dispute his record for crimes solved. But Ecklie could relish every chance to hold Gris up as the poster boy of bad supervisors everywhere.

The Monthly Supervisors Meeting challenged Grissom's endurance and attention span at the best of times. In the past, boredom reigned supreme. He used to entertain himself by silently reciting the orders of insects from Archaeognatha to Zoraptera, the list of Roman Emperors from Augustus to Constantine XI Palaiologos, the winners of the Cy Young award from Don Newcombe to Johan Santana and Roger Clemens. But, now, all that filled his mind was a persistent pink elephant in the shape of his boyfriend Warrick Brown. When all Gris could think about was full lips sucking his neck or long fingers pinching his nipples or a slick tongue swirling around his cock or a hard cock plundering his ass, the Monthly Supervisors Meeting rocketed from boredom to torture.

"I see Catherine and Chang completed and logged their case reviews in time," Ecklie smarmed, large teeth bared in an insincere smile. "Gil?"

"Conrad?" Grissom's pleasant voice offered just a twinge of insubordination.

"The status of your case reviews?"

"Ongoing."

"Ongoing." Ecklie sadly shook his balding head, like a schoolteacher hearing the excuse that the dog had eaten Grissom's homework.

It was a game Ecklie and Grissom played. Gris was the ineffectual, absent-minded administrator for Ecklie to torment. Ecklie was a bureaucratic speck almost beneath Grissom's notice. Still, even with his seniority, Gris couldn't afford to act with out-and-out defiance.

"Gil," Ecklie the Long-Suffering sighed, "when can I expect your reviews?"

"Beginning of next week." It was an empty promise. And everyone knew it.

"Well, see that you do." Ecklie shuffled the stack of manila folders in front of him then straightened them before opening the top folder. "Turning to budget projections for the next fiscal year . . . ."

Gris shifted restlessly in his chair. That was a mistake. He'd worn the softest shirt he owned, and still the fabric irritated his sore nipples. He covered his gasp with a cough. Catherine shot him a scrutinizing look. He lasered his best icy stare back. Of course, it had no effect on her. She'd worked with him too long. Besides, Catherine wasn't afraid of much, and icy stares wouldn't even make her "bother to notice" list. He knew that when the meeting ended, he'd better make his escape as quickly as possible. The Monthly Shit Dumping Session might be an hour's worth of torture; Catherine interrogating him about his sex life would be eternal damnation.

And, with that thought, the pink elephant burst again into his mind: in the wee hours of last Sunday morning Warrick had pinned Grissom to the bed, and greedy lips, tongue, and teeth vacuumed hypersensitive nipples to aching peaks, painting rose-brown buds a burning red. Sucking them until Grissom had screamed in climax.

Yes. Oh, yes. Dr. Gil Grissom, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., world-respected forensic entomologist, award-winning member of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, esteemed member of the Entomological Society of America, and terror of lab techs everywhere, had cursed, begged, screamed, howled, and bellowed in mindless, ecstatic pleasure. The complete loss of control over his mind and body had frightened Gris. It had shaken him to the atomic level.

And all he wanted was for Warrick to do it again.

Grissom took a deep breath, schooled his face to polite interest, and tried to re-focus on the meeting.

". . . travel funds will probably take a 12.3 percent cut, so encourage your people to submit all requests by the end of April," Ecklie announced. "Gil, I hear you're speaking in Philadelphia the middle of this month?"

Shit. Gris had forgotten to tell Conrad. How had he found out? Catherine was pointedly looking away. Of course. Warrick knew, and he had told his supervisor Catherine, and she had told Ecklie. "Yes. A Forensic entomology workshop. The Philadelphia police department and Penn State are covering all expenses."

"What's your topic?"

"Topics. Entomological scene investigation, homicide and necrophagous arthropods, and taxonomy of blow flies."

Ecklie tapped his finger against his chin. "You haven't filed travel documents."

"As I said, Conrad, I'm not requesting departmental funds."

"Be that as it may, Gil, you'll still be an employee of Clark County, and you still need to file proper travel documents. If you're not officially on approved leave, the County, and this department, could conceivably face liability issues if something unfortunate should happen--and you never came back." Of course, to Ecklie, Gil not coming back wouldn't be all that unfortunate.

"Well, in that case, Conrad, I'll be sure to submit my paperwork before I go."

"The deadline is one week prior to departure--"one week" being defined as five business days."

Grissom's jaw muscles clenched. "Of course."

"We've talked about this before. Many times."

Grissom managed not to roll his eyes. He gave a non-committal smile and looked down at Catherine's legal pad. Good thing she was taking notes. Gris made a note on his legal pad to get a copy of hers.

Once again, Ecklie shuffled and straightened his folders. "Good work, guys, on wrapping up the Stewart-Matthews case so quickly. A double murder, manslaughter, attempted suicide, and accidental drowning." He shook his head at the body count. "I'm pleased to see my shifts cooperating. And, thank you, Catherine, for getting your case review in promptly."

Grissom kept a firm grip on his tongue. Ecklie said "my shifts" with complete conviction. No matter that it had been Grissom who had trained every investigator involved with the case. No matter that every investigator involved with the case thought that Ecklie was an ass.

The case had been particularly tough. A murderous jealousy had resulted in the death of two parents and the accidental death of their five-year-old daughter. The killer's wife had desperately tried to purge her guilt for instigating the jealousy by lighting herself on fire. The resulting conflagration had burned an innocent stargazer to death and left the wife worse than dead. Fire and passion. Love and flame.

Grissom knew this line of thought was in bad taste. But he was a man used to making connections, to seeing patterns. "Love is a spirit all compact of fire," Shakespeare wrote. And, for the first time in his life, Gil Grissom was experiencing the licking, searing heat. He'd watched others struggle through the furnace. He'd watched others consumed by it. He'd always felt slightly smug, even superior, insulated as he thought he was from the fire.

But now. Yes, now.

Grissom read the classics. In the original. Tibullus, a contemporary of Caesar Augustus, and, to be honest, a particularly boring poet, once elegized, 'deus crudelius urit, / quos videt invitos succubuisse sibi.' Cupid burns most fiercely those most reluctant to surrender. Boring or not, Tibullus spoke true. Grissom had not surrendered for half a century, and now he burned ceaselessly.

Grissom's books hadn't prepared him. His observations of others hadn't prepared him. His infrequent dates hadn't prepared him. His one night in Lady Heather's Dominion hadn't prepared him. He hadn't been prepared for the emotional giddiness or his idiotic behavior. He certainly hadn't been prepared for the lip bruising, skin burning, cock throbbing, ass aching power of love. He was caught in the maelstrom, but he didn't want to be rescued.

". . . out for bid in two weeks. Get your kit inventory requests in to me by next Friday." Ecklie stared at Grissom. Grissom stared at the wall. "That's a firm deadline, Gil."

That's not all that's firm, Conrad. Grissom gripped the table top and desperately willed his hard-on to deflate. He'd never escape Catherine if he was too embarrassed, not to mention too incapacitated, to stand. For once, Gris didn't want the meeting to end. But all too soon, it did.

"Gil?" Conrad, Chang, and Catherine were staring at him. Conrad actually seemed concerned. But Grissom desperately needed to be alone. Time to clear the room with his Mad as Hamlet routine.

"Did you know that the words succubus and succumb are based on the same Latin verb? Cubo, cubare. Alternatively cumbo, cumbare. To lie down, to rest. Adding the prefix 'sub,' or 'suc' in this instance, means you lie down beneath something. Succubus, you lie down beneath a female demon. Succumb, you lie down beneath everything else." Grissom pinned Ecklie with a cold stare. "I'll meet your deadlines, Conrad. But I won't succumb to them."

Well. Now Conrad, Chang, and Catherine were staring at him, shaking their heads, and, thankfully, getting up, and fleeing the crazy man at the table. Grissom was left in the conference room with nothing but his trembling thoughts, aching erection, and one leering pink elephant.

******

He was finally home. Warrick's house, but Grissom's home. Odd being home without his boyfriend being there. But Warrick was doggedly logging a third shift so he could finish processing a kidnaping scene. Speed is everything when someone's kidnaped.

Gris had almost not been able to leave work, either. With deep breaths and visualizing every cold night he'd ever spent out in the desert, he'd finally been able to stand up and leave the conference room. The reprieve had been brief, though.

How humiliating to have to hide his arousal with a legal pad, to sprint into the men's room, to dive into an empty stall, to unbuckle his belt, to unbutton and unzip his trousers, to yank trousers and boxers half-way down his thighs, to spread his feet, to prop himself against the back of the stall with one hand while he jerked off into the toilet with the other, to bite back the groan of physical release, to clean up and wash up and hope that no one noticed his extended stay. How humiliating to have to jerk off in a public restroom before he could even leave the lab.

He'd gone to the gym, hoping Warrick would show. Instead, Gris had worked out alone. His trainer Marco was attending a workshop, learning how to incorporate yoga into weight-lifting routines, so Gris pushed himself, adding a few extra reps to each set, working in extra crunches, spending an extra ten minutes on the stairmaster. Trying to focus. Trying to gain control over his rebellious body.

Grissom prided himself as a man of science. He'd studied the biological imperative, the compelling impulse of the sex drive of a healthy human male. Only, he had never been so . . . healthy. Not even as a hormone-driven teenager.

He was a man of science. A man who practiced moderate, cool, rational thought. It wasn't that he didn't want to feel desire or even abandon his intellect on occasion. But he should not be tyrannized by passion. He should not succumb so easily, so publicly.

"Living with lust is like living shackled to a lunatic," the philosopher Simon Blackburn wrote. At times Grissom thought he wasn't just shackled to a lunatic; he was the lunatic. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising. After spending his life ignoring or sublimating his sexual needs, he'd only traded one prison for another. From sexual ascetic to sexual lunatic in under five months.

Gris now stood under the cool spray of the shower in the master bathroom. He stood with his back to the spray, the water shooting off his shoulders. The last thing he needed was anything jetting onto overly sensitized nipples or cock or ass. He ran a soapy washcloth carefully over his chest, over the swell of his hairless stomach, down his lightly furred thighs, avoiding erotic land mines. Would he ever re-gain control? Re-gain balance? Be able to think of Warrick without immediately getting hard?

Sighing, Grissom rinsed and wrung out the washcloth. He draped it over the shower towel rack. Warrick didn't use a washcloth, but he thoughtfully kept a supply on hand for guests. And lunatic boyfriends.

Rinsing the unscented conditioner from his hair, Gris stood still as the water grew cooler. He hoped the cold would help him focus, help him think of something other than warm hands and warmer lips. He finally had to shut off the spray before he froze to death.

Shaking, he drew back the shower curtain and reached for a gold, orange, and black towel. The towel repeated a design based on a bird image traditional to the people of Dahomey. Warrick loved vibrant colors. Grissom had grown to love them, too.

He patted himself dry, again careful not to stimulate himself, and hung up the slightly damp towel. He combed his hair. He trimmed his beard. He brushed and flossed his teeth. He rubbed unscented SPF 15 lotion onto his elbows and knees. Surviving in an arid landscape meant protecting his pale skin. It wasn't vanity. It was necessity. Cracking knees and sore elbows hampered job performance. He checked himself for any suspicious looking spots or moles. Again, surviving in a sun-drenched, arid landscape required it. Gris looked at himself in the mirror. Wry blue eyes looked back. And now he had another reason for protecting his skin: the treasured feel of warm hands and warmer lips upon it. Amazing. He'd gone a whole ten minutes without thinking of Warrick.

Grissom stepped naked out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom.

"That's a good look for you."

He jumped. Heart slamming in his chest, Grissom spun around to see Warrick leaning up against the bedroom doorframe. He was looking exhausted but beautiful. Hooded green eyes, full coral lips, glossy brown skin. A hard-muscled body in loose-fitting clothes.

"Hey," Gris managed, his startled heartbeat beginning to slow, but his stubborn cock beginning to fill, his abused nipples tighten. Dear god. He headed for the chest of drawers and a fresh pair of boxers.

"Just 'hey'? That's all a hard-working man gets?" the teasing voice rumbled from the doorway.

He opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of dark gray boxers. "Let me get dressed, and I'll fix you lunch."

"Lunch can wait, baby. Come over here for a minute."

Grissom took a deep breath. "If I come over there, it'll be for more than a minute."

"Sounds like win-win to me."

Standing stock still, Grissom acknowledged that Warrick was right. What did it matter how frequently or how rapidly Gris became aroused in private? Of course, that wasn't the problem. The problem was his fear that if he failed to exert control in private, he wouldn't in public, either. But his failure was no reason to deny Warrick. Gris sighed. Why did he have to make love and lust so fucking complicated?

At least he could preserve some dignity. He stepped into the loose gray boxers and pulled them up. They hid his growing arousal. Mostly. Then he slid the drawer shut and turned for his boyfriend. Warrick still leaned against the doorframe, patient and smug, challenging and gorgeous. Gris nodded his head once in determination and quickly crossed the floor. He wrapped Warrick in a fierce hug. A deep chuckle vibrated through his chest and deep into Grissom's body. He shivered, hugging tighter.

"Now, that's more like it, baby." Long arms enveloped Gris, musician's hands smoothed over his shoulders and back, more to gentle and soothe than to stoke the fire. "Have a good workout?"

"Yeah." His voice was slightly muffled against the strong throat. Gris stood three inches shorter than Warrick, but when bare feet and work boots were involved a good five inches in height separated the two men. Breathing in deep, catching the warm orange-pepper scent that was his boyfriend, Grissom sighed. "Missed you giving me hell, though."

The deep chuckle again. The soles of Grissom's feet tingled. "Always suspected you liked being bossed around."

Raising offended blue eyes to teasing green, he growled, "Look, pal, just because you're taller than me--"

Firm, full lips cut off his words. Ah, sweet Cupid. Grissom kissed back, using lips, fingers, his whole body. His cock stiffened, his balls ached. He pressed himself hard into his boyfriend.

When Warrick pulled back at last, Grissom gulped in shaky breaths.

"Baby, are you packing a bazooka in those boxers or are you just happy to see me?"

"Both," Gris gasped.

Warrick laughed and reached down a large hand to palm the prominent outline of his boyfriend's engorged cock. Grissom moaned with the touch and clutched the big body tighter. The deep voice purred, "Well, we better take care of this locked and loaded weapon now. Don't want any sudden explosions, do we?"

Closing his eyes, Gris melted beyond speech. He whimpered as he was pushed toward the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, and he flopped onto his back. He opened his eyes to watch Warrick strip off his olive green canvas jacket, pull his black t-shirt over his head. He leaned down and untied his boots and kicked them off.

Entranced by the perfectly sculpted muscles flexing under flawless caramel-brown skin, Grissom lay motionless, blue eyes glowing, white teeth gripping his bottom lip. Completely aware of his boyfriend's state, Warrick grinned slyly then loped around to the other side of the queen size bed. He jumped on his knees onto the mattress, slipped his large hands under Grissom's arms, and pulled him to the center of the bed.

Warm hands and warmer lips scalded Grissom's shaking body. He gasped. He moaned. He keened.

"Nipples still sore?" the deep voice asked as long fingers tweaked the aching buds.

"Yessss."

"Good. Reminds you who you belong to, baby."

Gris reminded himself never, ever to flirt with Sofia Curtis again. Or give the appearance of flirting. Or even look at her in Warrick's presence. Ever. God! Grissom's back arched off the bed as long fingers tugged a throbbing left nipple. His head slammed against the bookcase headboard as a clipped beard raked down his belly. His muscles spasmed as a hot tongue flicked inside the waistband of his boxers.

"Anima," he moaned. "Anima, don't tease." His strong fingers latched onto Warrick's skull, trying to direct the talented mouth to a very needy cock.

But Warrick ignored the fingers, instead slipping his own under the waistband. Urging Grissom's hips up, Warrick drew the boxers down slowly, sensuously, teasingly. He licked every inch of skin exposed. With one major exception.

Gris was rapidly losing any shred of calm. His fingers clutched at springy black-brown curls, the soft texture doing nothing to relax him. "Anima!" he warned. "Warrick!"

His boyfriend gleefully ignored the warnings, nipping now at the thin skin where leg met torso.

"Please!" Grissom groaned, raising his hips, trying to call Warrick's attention to a straining cock, but Warrick started nibbling on his boyfriend's balls instead.

And that's when Gris lost it. "Goddammit, Warrick, suck my cock, now!"

Startled green eyes looked up. Coral colored lips fell open in shock.

Embarrassed, Gris closed his eyes and swallowed. "Please, anima, please suck my cock." He opened his eyes to see an unholy grin on his boyfriend's beautiful face. Grissom tried the magic word one more time. "Please."

"Well, since you command so nicely," Warrick chuckled.

At last the firm lips, hot mouth, and hard teeth surrounded Grissom's cock, the large hands cupped his balls and squeezed his ass, drawing him up, swirling him down. Bathing him in heat, submerging him in sensation. He succumbed once again to the god of love. His muscles clenched, trembled, and strained. His fingers and toes curled. He threw his head back and howled as he came, screaming like a lunatic. A lunatic for love.

******

"You're not going to back out on me?"

Grissom looked up from the frying pan where he was searing the tilapia filets. The smell of freshly baked bread, garlic, orange peel, and red pepper filled the kitchen. His boyfriend, dressed in a mostly unbuttoned white short sleeve shirt and tight black jeans, sniffed the air appreciatively. Fresh from a short nap and shower, he looked like sex incarnate. Gris swallowed, breathed deep, and reassured, "I'm not letting you loose on a new dance club unaccompanied."

Warrick smiled then curled behind Gris putting long arms around him and pressing close. Firm lips kissed Grissom's neck. A curious nose nuzzled into his hair. "Mmmm. There's likely to be loud music and drinking and drugs and wall-to-wall humanity."

"Well, at least it will be smoke-free."

"Yeah. For once, Cousin Chris's allergies guarantee a good time." Another kiss, this time on the earlobe.

Shivering, Gris tried to focus on preparing lunch. The mixed green salads were already on the table. The brown rice with corn and peas was warming. The crusty bread had just come out of the oven and was cooling. The tilapia cream sauce was ready to go. He clumsily flipped the filets with a spatula and spattered olive oil on the stove top. He quickly mopped the oil up with a paper towel. "You know, I still smell cigar smoke every time I go into the townhouse."

"Not surprising. Man, we must've dumped more ash than Mt. St. Helens. Heh. Maybe you need to call in crime scene clean up." Large hands rubbed his stomach, and a soft, slightly menacing voice rumbled in his ear, "But I don't think we'll be playing poker at the townhouse anytime soon."

"No."

Not after Grissom's ill-conceived tactic of trying to psych out Sofia Curtis by flirting with her. He had thought only about winning the poker game not about what effect flirting with her might have on his boyfriend. Gris truly sucked at personal relationships. Good thing his boyfriend was so forgiving.

Reaching for the salt, Grissom's right arm brushed the fabric over his sore right nipple. He hissed. Well, his boyfriend was forgiving after a fashion.

Chuckling, Warrick dropped his large hands to Grissom's hips and swayed behind him. "You'll dance with me."

"Warrick, I'll go with you, I'll sit with you, I'll even converse with other people with you, but I won't dance with you."

"C'mon, baby, live a little. It'll be fun."

Grissom took a deep breath. He couldn't believe he was becoming aroused again. This wasn't physically possible. At least not for him. "No."

Warrick snorted. "So what you gonna do? You gonna have fun watching me dance with other people?"

"I'll have fun watching you have fun." Grissom concentrated on the simple movements of cooking, hoping to divert his body's blood back to his brain and away from his cock. He removed the frying pan from the heat and turned off the burner. He scooped the fish out onto paper towels to soak up excess oil.

"Uh huh. What if I can't have fun unless you dance with me?" Large hands gripped his hips and spun him around. He looked up into pleading green eyes. Grissom might as well try to hold back the ocean as to withstand those sea green eyes. "Just one dance, baby. A slow one."

"Warrick, I--" Gris sighed. It was time to confess. "There are two reasons I won't dance with you. One: I don't know how to dance. Two--"

"You don't know how to dance? Hell, baby, I'm not talking ballroom or break dancing, here. You just move to the beat."

"I don't . . . I've never danced."

"Never?" Warrick's disbelieving face looked like Gris had just announced that he'd never had sex.

Grissom turned around to take warmed plates out of the microwave and set them on the counter. "No."

"You told me you'd been in dance clubs before."

Shrugging, he grabbed a large wooden spoon and scooped rice, corn, and peas onto the plates. "I have. I just never danced. I watched."

"You watched? What? You watched for patterns? Like John Nash?" Warrick and Gris had recently watched 'A Beautiful Mind' together. Throughout the movie, Warrick had teased Gris about his similarity to the brilliant but schizophrenic physicist.

"Actually, yes. A dance club is one of the best places to study vomit patterns."

"Oh, baby, I should've known." Warm hands caressed Grissom's waist, warmer lips kissed the back of his neck. "Okay. Problem solved. I'll teach you some simple steps."

Gris shook his head and smoothed the rice into a level layer as Warrick mimicked the voice of an unctious commercial announcer, "Yes, Mr. Gil Grissom, in just two short lessons you'll be swaying to the slow song stylings of John Mayer, Luther Vandross, Marvin Gaye, and Toni Braxton."

"Anima, I'm not--"

Big hands landed on Grissom's ass, "In just two short lessons, Mr. Grissom, you'll be shaking your--"

Grissom spun and pointed the spoon at his boyfriend. "Don't say it."

"Say what? Booty?"

"Warrick, 50-year-old men do not have bootys."

Large hands cupped his round ass. "Somebody forgot to tell your anatomy, boyfriend."

Grissom rolled his eyes and pitched the spoon into the sink. He slipped out of Warrick's grasp and used the spatula to lift the tilapia onto the top of the rice. He drizzled the sauce on top of fish and rice then picked up the plates.

He turned around to see the grin that always curled his toes. Warrick purred, "One reason shot down. One to go."

Grissom took a deep breath. He'd promised himself to be open with Warrick. It was still a struggle, though. "Look . . . Let's sit down and eat while it's still warm."

An indulgent smile on his gorgeous face, Warrick leaned in for a kiss, took both plates, then ambled over to the table. Watching the long legs swinging, the graceful, sexy stride, Grissom knew he'd already lost the dancing battle. But he didn't want to give in too easily. His boyfriend preferred a challenging fight to a simple victory. Gris cocked his head. And, perhaps, he just might be able to work this to his advantage.

Warrick set down the plates then crossed over to the stereo. "Etta James work for you this evening?"

"Of course." Drawing a bread knife from the knife drawer, Gris quickly sawed open the loaf of crusty Italian bread. He put the warm white and brown slices into a small cloth-lined basket. A dish of olive oil and crushed garlic for dunking the bread was already on the table. He carried the bread basket to the table, sat down, and poured two golden glasses of Pessagno Sleepy Hollow Chardonnay. He laughed softly when Etta James's distinctive voice growled out her hit "Something's Got a Hold on Me." Great song and entirely appropriate. He leaned into a warm hand on the back of his neck and a gentle kiss to the top of his head as Warrick came back to the table.

Grissom watched his boyfriend eagerly pick up his fork and dive in. Except for Warrick's appreciative mmmms at the tasty tilapia, they ate with only Etta James for sound. The two men felt comfortable without words. They exchanged glances and smiles. They respected each other's thoughts.

Eating slowly, Gris savored the food and savored the view. He loved to watch Warrick eat, loved to watch Warrick do anything: eat, drink, walk, run, drive, work, play, sleep. Boyfriend watching reigned as Grissom's favorite sport.

But every sport has its pitfalls. Given his close observation of his boyfriend, how could Gris have so misjudged Warrick? Not anticipated his jealousy of Sofia Curtis? Not anticipated his unwarranted possessiveness? After all, Gris was the jealous one. He had every reason to be jealous. Warrick was incredibly attractive, to men and women alike. And Warrick could have anyone.

Grissom, now . . . Grissom might attract a look or two, but most everyone was scared off by his job or his hobbies or both. Or grew frustrated with his social awkwardness. Or angered by his emotional distance. Warrick had overcome all of those barriers. Warrick had even collided with Grissom's mother Mary Grace and still stayed with Gris. Warrick had done the impossible, so how could he possibly think that Grissom could ever want anyone else?

He shook his head then looked across the table at his gorgeous boyfriend. A man who gave his love freely, who didn't shy away from giving or receiving pleasure. Who, for reasons Gris still did not understand, loved him.

Perhaps that was the root of the problem. Grissom did not know why. He knew how. Every day Warrick showed his love: through words, through touch, through kindness, through respect. But Gris did not know why. And even if he asked why, he probably would not understand the answer. It wouldn't be rational or quantifiable or predictable. He sighed, and Warrick smiled at him. Instinctively Gris smiled back. Yes. Perhaps he should stop making love so fucking complicated and just go back to simple boyfriend watching.

******

With all of the bread and salad and most of his tilapia and rice gone, Warrick looked up, green eyes shining, and said, "I saw Greg today. Looks like he's got his mojo back."

"I doubt anything could keep Greg down for long."

The Stewart-Matthews case again. It was rough for a seasoned CSI to gather evidence off a woman scorched entirely by third degree burns. Especially when that evidence included amputated fingers and toes. And Greg Sanders was a newly minted field CSI. His cocky ebullience had completely vanished by the time he'd returned from the hospital with the gruesome evidence.

"He told me what you did for him."

Grissom blinked. "What I did?"

"Yeah. And not just me. The whole lab. Got him another piece to the Grissom Enigma."

Gris frantically tried to think what he could have done for Greg. Over the years, Gris had done plenty of things to Greg: stolen his coffee, infected his feet, piled nearly 300 pounds on his chest, collected his blood, urine, and feces. All in the name of science, of course.

"You don't know, do you?"

"No."

Warrick sat back, a look of pure affection on his face. "You cut him some slack. Showed him you cared. You made him take a break and took over fingerprinting the amputated fingers."

Shrugging, Grissom said, "He was tired. He could have made a mistake."

"Uh huh. Couldn't be because you allowed yourself to feel compassion for him?"

Gris gave nothing away. Of course he cared for all of his guys. He just wasn't the best at expressing it. Even to his boyfriend.

"Yeah. Thought so," Warrick grinned. "You're getting to be more like your old self, baby. Pre-supervisor days. Wonder how that could happen?"

Pursing his lips, Grissom said, "You might be overestimating your importance in my management decisions."

Teasing green eyes saw right through Gris. "Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that."

Warrick took another bite of fish and rice, chewed thoroughly, showed his appreciation for the taste. His unabashed, open sensuality fascinated Gris. So, he was caught off-guard when Warrick said, "What's reason number two?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why you think you're not gonna dance with me."

"Oh." A blink. A deep breath. Grissom looked down at his plate. "Lately, every time you touch me, I get an erection."

"Yeah, I noticed your tendency to grow a boner in my proximity."

A right eyebrow shot up. Surprised blue eyes met amused green. "Elegantly put. You noticed?"

"Baby, 'bazooka' isn't exactly an exaggeration." Warrick laughed at the exasperated look on Grissom's face then pitched his voice low, rumbling pure sex. "You know how flattering that is for me? That I make you hard just by looking at you? That you want me so bad you can't help yourself?"

Gris blushed, shivered, and, yes, started to grow a boner. Damn it. "I can't control . . . ." The frustration was too much. "It's fucking embarrassing."

"Oh, baby, I have so been there." Warrick reached a large hand across the table and stroked Grissom's beard. Like a cat, Gris hooded his eyes and pressed into the touch. Warrick smiled, "I used to masturbate before a date. Tried to ease the pressure."

"But you were, what, in your teens, your twenties?"

A bright smile. "Actually, that was just last week."

"Anima," Grissom warned, pulling back from the hypnotic touch.

"Baby, trust me. Even though the desire grows stronger, in time, the immediacy will grow less."

Shaking his head, raising his index finger to emphasize his argument, Gris said, "But, you see my point. I don't have the time. Not if the opening is next Tuesday. And I can't dance with you with a bazooka in my pants."

"We'll just have to take care of you before we go."

"That doesn't last very long." Oh, dear. He may have over-played his hand. Warrick looked like he was about to give in and let his boyfriend off the hook. But Grissom's faith in Warrick's resiliency paid off.

"Gris, an erection in public, even in the middle of a dance floor, isn't fatal. You dancing with me will mean everything to me. You looking like you're really having a great time will mean everything to Cousin Chris."

Grissom sighed. Who knew that pleasing a boyfriend meant pleasing his family, too? Then Gris focused on Warrick's pleading face. He was helplessly hooked. Fighting down a grin, Gris began reeling in his boyfriend.

"All right. I'll dance with you." The best wide, blue-eyed, innocent look. "If you'll do something for me."

"Sure, baby. Anything short of kissing Ecklie's ass, and you got it."

"Well, you know I'm presenting at the Forensic Entomology workshop in Philadelphia in a couple of weeks?"

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. You need a lift to McCarran?"

"No." Gris leaned forward slightly, letting a hint of steel creep into his voice. "You told Catherine."

Green eyes grew wary. A flawless brow wrinkled. "Uh. Yeah."

"She told Ecklie."

A long pause. "Damn. Sorry, baby." Long brown fingers passed over errant lips. Warrick looked sheepish and apologetic. "It just slipped out. Look, I promise I'll watch my mouth around Cath from now on."

But, as Gris maintained his silence, Warrick's embarrassment and apology gave way to suspicion. "Oh, no, I am not kissing Ecklie's ass."

"Oh, no?"

"No, no, no. Baby, I will do anything for you, but not that."

Bingo. "Well, good, because I don't need you to kiss Conrad's ass. I need you to feed Speedy and Ziggy for me."

Green eyes grew round. The deep voice suddenly shot up two octaves. "Would that require me getting within three feet of the bug room?"

A slow blink and a slower smile. "Actually, that would require you going into the bug room."

Open mouthed, Warrick stared at his boyfriend. "You sneaky bastard. You been playing me all along."

The smile grew wider. Gris tried not to let it blossom into a smirk. But that was another physical reaction he had difficulty controlling that morning.

******

"You're thinking again."

"It's what I do." Grissom had just stepped on Warrick's insole for the fifth time in ten minutes. At least Gris was improving. The first afternoon of learning to dance, he had tagged his boyfriend's feet five times in ten seconds.

The two men moved together slowly in the spacious living room of Grissom's townhouse. Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell harmonized perfectly on 'Your Precious Love.' Barely lifting his feet from the floor, Gris concentrated on shifting his weight side-to-side, swaying from the waist, slightly dipping his left shoulder as he moved left, dipping the other shoulder as he moved right, maintaining his balance, and not stepping on his boyfriend's feet. All this and trying to follow Warrick's lead. One good thing, though. Gris was concentrating so fiercely that, for once, his cock was behaving itself.

"Ah, baby, I thought you'd be different, but you're proving the rule."

"Oh, really?" Grissom was sweating and trying not to watch his feet. It had taken half a week's worth of lessons to get this far. It was Tuesday afternoon. Less than eight hours until the grand opening of The Dance All, the newest dance club in Vegas, partly owned and managed by Warrick's cousin Chris Gonzalez. It had taken some wrangling, but both Gris and Warrick had the night free. Warrick took family obligations very seriously. Particularly when they involved a party.

"Yeah. White boys really can't dance."

"And how many white boys have you danced with?"

A slow-cooking smile. "I have danced with white boys, brown boys, black boys, yellow boys, red boys, café a lait boys. Hands down, white boys are the worst dancers. And, baby, you are the worst dancer ever."

Even though he knew Warrick was teasing, exaggerating, Gris still felt the blow to his ego. He excelled in so many areas. Granted, none in the social arena, but still. Keeping his feet moving, he pulled back slightly from his boyfriend's loose embrace and looked hard into sparkling green eyes. "We can always stop."

The wicked, soul-piercing grin. "You want me to take care of your eight-legged sons of Satan or not?"

"Ziggy is female," Gris snapped.

"Eight-legged spawns of Satan, then," Warrick poked back, half-teasing, half-serious.

This was why Grissom seldom played politics. Whenever he tried to manipulate people, his manipulations usually turned around and bit him on the ass.

The two men stared at each other for a few beats, then Grissom started to laugh. As uncomfortable as he felt dancing, it was nothing compared to the spine-shaking revulsion his boyfriend felt for spiders. If Warrick wasn't going to back down, then neither would Gris.

And that's when he finally relaxed into his boyfriend's arms. Falling into the music, Gris let the rhythm and Warrick guide him. Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell gave way to Etta James and her amazing 'At Last My Love Has Come Along.' Yes. Grissom forgot his awkwardness, breathed away his stubbornness. He concentrated instead on the slight pressure of a large right hand on his waist, the warmth of a large left hand clasped in his right, the strength of the shoulder beneath his left hand, the beauty shining on his boyfriend's face, the soul sweet sound of Warrick singing, "And life is like a song."

Warm green eyes looked down. "Yeah," Warrick purred. "That's more like it." And Gris agreed.

They danced out the song. They swayed tenderly as Etta James crooned, "And here we are in heaven for you are mine at last." For once, Grissom didn't want to stop. The strings of 'At Last My Love Has Come Along' faded, and Nat King Cole's smooth baritone caressed his classic 'Unforgettable.'

"You feel like dancing closer?" Warrick whispered.

A quirky smile. "Think your feet can take it?"

"Uh hmm. It's all about the thrill, baby. Besides, I got my Frankenstein boots on for protection." Smiling sensuously, Warrick released Grissom's right hand, encircled his waist, and nudged him closer.

Gris hesitated for a moment. How dangerous could it be? Though still sensitive, his nipples no longer ached. He and Warrick had already made love in the shower that morning. Grissom's cock had behaved itself so far, so he stepped in close. Resting his hands lightly on the strong shoulders, Gris pressed carefully up against Warrick and tried not to trip him. A deep chuckle vibrated between them as plush lips softly kissed tanned skin: forehead, cheek, nose, lips. With a satisfied sigh, Gris caressed Warrick's neck and brushed his cheek. Then Gris leaned his cheek against his boyfriend's.

True closeness, patient affection, unhesitating protection. Three things Grissom never thought he'd experience. Certainly never thought he'd experience in one place. He needed to respond in kind. To make up for his harsh tone earlier.

"Sexing tarantula spiderlings is difficult," he apologized.

A brief silence. "Baby, just looking at tarantulas is difficult."

"I've been fooled by the shape of the chelicerae before."

"Yeah. Who hasn't?"

Gris nuzzled his beard into Warrick's jaw. "Spotting the male spinnerets only works for some species. Oh, sorry," he said as he clipped the toe of Warrick's thick boot.

"S'okay. And I guess some narrow-minded folks got to be 100 percent sure which sex they got."

"Yes. Most collectors want a female. Females live longer."

A tender hug. "They have to put up with any sex-crazed boyfriends?"

"Only in the wild. Adult males live only a year, wild or captive."

Warrick shook his head, raking his clipped beard along Grissom's cheek. "Damn. Life is too short."

"And nasty and brutish. For a male tarantula at any rate."

Large hands skated over Grissom's back. "So, how can you be 100 percent sure?"

"Well, nothing's perfect without a microscope, but the spermathecae cuticle presents the best evidence." Interesting, Grissom had almost completely forgotten he was dancing. Maybe they should try dancing a tarantella next. He snorted at his pun.

Warrick ignored the snort. "Is that a fact? Hmm. The spermathecae?"

Grissom smiled against his boyfriend's shoulder. "Where the female stores the male's sperm."

"Oh, right."

"As tarantulas mature, they shed their tight exoskeleton and form a newer, bigger one. The molt from the female's abdomen is relatively thin. With a little alcohol, you can make it flexible."

"Boyfriend, I know you've got some kinky tastes, but--"

Grissom lightly nipped Warrick's shoulder. "You check the flexible molt, boyfriend, for the spermathecae cuticle."

"Hmm." A brief silence, then Warrick's voice dipped into its lowest register, "So, what you're saying is that you can only tell for sure what a young tarantula's all about when he, or she, sheds its skin."

"Yesss," Gris started as large hands caressed his ass.

"You got to wait until he sloughs off that hard shell."

"Yesssss," he hissed as moist lips and a wet tongue kissed his neck.

"You got to be patient and let him grow at his own pace."

"Oh, god, yesssss," he moaned as sharp teeth nibbled on his ear. Needless to say, his cock was no longer behaving itself.

"Who knew spiders could be so sexy?" Warrick rumbled.

Gris gazed up into sex-charged green eyes. "Why do I think we're not talking about spiderlings anymore?"

The heart-stopping, dimpled grin. "Maybe because I've slyly maneuvered you over to our giant couch for a little pre-Dance All celebration."

A slow, deep kiss, then Warrick sat Gris down and began unbuttoning his Oxford shirt. Grabbing the front belt loops of his boyfriend's blue jeans, Gris pulled Warrick down to the couch. Threading blunt fingers into short, stiff curls, Grissom became momentarily distracted by the springy, soft texture. But Warrick's lips soon put an end to that.

Kissing and nibbling each other's lips, sucking each other's tongues, nipping each other's necks, the two men tasted each other, categorized the flavors, learned them by heart. They let their hands roam over and under clothing. They peeled the fabric shells willingly from each other's bodies. They unlaced and kicked off the hard leather shells from their feet. Their soft skins lay bare and unprotected to one another.

Gris wound up on his back, his head resting on Khepri, the stuffed toy scarab beetle Warrick had won for him. He locked his passion-full blue eyes on passion-full green. Wrapped his strong pale legs tightly around a hard brown waist. Threaded his blunt tan fingers into black brown curls.

Lifting his hips, welcoming each slow penetration, Gris whispered, "Warrick. Anima. Need you. Love you. Only you."

And as he sank tenderly into the sweet, tight, welcoming heat, Warrick whispered, "Yes, baby, love you. Want you. Need you. Every day."

Grissom watched hungrily as Warrick neared his climax, as his beautiful face transformed into open need: brow furrowed, eyes clenched, nostrils flared, teeth bared. When lightning hit, when the melodic voice groaned with harsh completion, his face grew lax, his full lips parted, his forehead rested on his boyfriend's broad shoulder.

Seeing that transformation, knowing that he was responsible for it, Gris received sudden insight. Like a gift from the god of love. Lust was about the body. Love was about the soul. Lust was selfish. Love was giving. But Grissom still needed both in his life. He just needed to let them work in balance. He would consent to be a lunatic for love, but by giving himself, sloughing off his hard protective shell, he could calm the lunatic and become himself again.

Heart filled with pure affection, he studied Warrick as he raised his head, a smug and satisfied grin on his face, green eyes sparkling with completion. Good to see though that he was still sucking in air. Especially when Gris squeezed the muscles encircling Warrick's hypersensitive cock. "Damn, baby. Yeah. Oh, yeah. Just gets better. Every time."

Warrick took another deep breath then with a wicked grin slipped a large hand between their bellies.

As the large hand wrapped around his aching cock, as a soft tongue flicked his tender left nipple, Gris tilted his head back and moaned. A deep voice chuckled, "Sounds like it's time to take care of my friendly neighborhood spiderman."

Grissom chuckled, too, then gasped as Warrick quickly spun his boyfriend into oblivion.

******

The Dance All rocked with the thumping beat of De La Soul. Rainbow colored lights flashed and swirled about the sunken, reflective dance floor and the rainbow sea of faces. Hands in the air, bodies swaying, laughter and smiles and joy, pulsing in color and music and dance.

Chris Gonzalez and his partners had decorated The Dance All in world eclectic style. Pilgrim bells from Tibet, sleigh bells from Norway, finger cymbals from Jordan, a giant gong from India. Native American petroglyphs, Aztec symbols, and Egyptian hieroglyphics painted on sand colored walls. Bartenders, wait staff, bouncers, and DJs dressed in caftans, liederhosen, toreador suits, and cowboy boots. One crazy, messed up world united in dance.

Yes, Cousin Chris had done himself proud. The Dance All proudly catered to all. Well, all over the age of 21. All sexes, all races, all ages, all occupations. Even bisexual, white, middle-aged, reclusive scientists who could barely dance.

Grissom was content to sit and watch and sip his eighteen year old Macallan single malt scotch whiskey. The fact that the scotch was free brought him a little closer to heaven with each sip. Heaven also meant that he was close enough to the dance floor to keep an eye on his boyfriend yet far enough away not to get sucked into the frenzy. He lounged like a lazy lion in a plush leather booth. A booth constructed to baffle much of the driving beat and pounding feet on the dance floor without obstructing the view. The perfect place to practice his favorite sport.

Warrick was dressed in a cream colored suit and tan loafers. His shirt shimmered in burnt orange silk. It was unbuttoned to his stomach, showing off the hardened pecs, dark curly chest hair, and just a hint of his six pack abs. Warrick danced with men and women, all ages, all shapes. A rainbow of colors. Red and yellow, black and white. All precious in his sight. Gris sipped more scotch and smiled at his slightly sacrilegious train of thought. His jealousy kept at bay as long as his boyfriend's partners changed frequently. Watching the god of love in his element.

"Hi."

Gris snapped his attention to a shapely, tanned woman, long blond hair, mid-thirties, dressed in a glittery low-cut, little black dress. She leaned against the booth and smiled speculatively at him. She was beautiful in that healthy, self-confident way. Like Catherine Willows. Like Teri Miller. Like Sofia Curtis. Like most of the women he was attracted to.

"Hello."

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" The blonde sat down unasked in the booth across from Grissom and pointed out at the dance floor. Her long red fingernail aimed in the direction of Warrick and his current dance partner, a tall, graceful woman with skin the color of glowing midnight and the cheekbones of a Nigerian princess. Understandably, Warrick looked mesmerized. A disco version of Mary J. Blige's 'Be Without You' pumped the dancers. Gris smiled. His knowledge of popular music had increased exponentially since acquiring a boyfriend.

"I'm afraid I wasn't looking at her."

"No? Well, that's good news," she smiled, settled back into the booth, but then considered the alternative. "You were looking at him?"

Gris gave nothing away, but she knew. A wry smile graced her perfectly painted lips. "Just my freakin' luck. The one gorgeous guy sitting alone all evening, and he's the only gay man in America who doesn't dance."

He shrugged in mock apology and wondered if she'd leave the booth now so he could get back to boyfriend watching.

"Ashley King." She held out her right hand in friendship as she flicked her long hair back with her left. She wore elaborate gold rings on every finger. Including her thumbs.

"Gil Grissom," he said, taking her studded hand in a careful grip.

"I'll let you buy me a drink. An appletini. Only one, though. It tastes like a sour apple Jolly Rancher so I have to pace myself."

Grissom wondered if maybe she hadn't already outpaced herself, but he signaled to the waiter assigned to the booth. Dressed in a tuxedo, turban, and workboots, the young man hustled over. He was slim and eager with fair skin and dark brown eyes. He reminded Gris a lot of Greg Sanders. The name on his uniform read "Seth." Grissom ordered an appletini and another Macallan scotch. In return, he got a universal male conspiratorial wink wishing him good luck with the hot chick. Only, Grissom thought Seth must have gotten something in his dark brown eye.

Ashley also had dark brown eyes. They flashed over Grissom appreciatively. "I love your suit."

It was his light charcoal gray suit. His professional speaker's suit. Warrick had insisted he wear a royal blue t-shirt underneath. "Thanks."

"Armani?"

"J.C. Penney."

"Oh."

He could tell his stock had just dropped through the floor. Grissom wondered if he was the only gay man in America who shopped at Penney's. Even worse. Shopped the J.C. Penney catalog. He glanced at the dance floor. The Plump DJs were growling on 'Get Kinky.' His boyfriend seemed to be paired with a pudgy young man with spiky pink hair, but Warrick wasn't looking at his dance partner. Instead, Warrick was staring at his boyfriend in the booth. Grissom waved jauntily and turned back to Ashley. Well, he might as well go for the trifecta.

"I race cockroaches."

Yep. Strike three. Her eyebrows knit together. "For a living?"

"For a hobby. I investigate dead bodies for a living."

And you're out. Her brown eyes paled. Laughing nervously, she shook her head, long blond hair lashing her face. "God. Only in Vegas. Look, Gil, it was . . . interesting meeting you." Ashley slipped out of the booth and stood up.

"Don't you want your appletini?"

"No. Sorry to put you to the trouble," she turned to leave then looked back. "Thank you, though."

A raised right eyebrow.

"For the reinforcement," she continued. "To listen to my common sense. Gorgeous guy sitting alone in a dance club not dancing, well, there's gotta be a good reason." She strode away, embarrassment and frustration snapping at her heels.

"Who was that?" Warrick, aglow from the dancing, eased into the booth, hard green eyes staring at Ashley King's retreating back. Odd that he would leave the dance floor in the middle of a song. "Let's get kinky tonight" reverberated around The Dance All.

"She wanted an appletini."

"Did she get one?" Warrick asked curtly. Once again, Grissom's right eyebrow shot up. Was Warrick jealous of that woman? No. Impossible.

"I ordered her one, but she wasn't interested in sticking around."

"You tell her about your boyfriend?"

"Not exactly. I think it was the cockroaches that proved the clincher."

Warrick nodded his head and seemed to relax. "Remind me next time I complain about the bug room. It's better than kryptonite to ward off boyfriend poaching superwomen."

Grissom blinked. Warrick was jealous. Warrick was jealous? "Anima, you really have no reason--"

"You have no idea, baby. You notice every eye that looks at me but don't see all the eyes lookin' at you."

"But they never look long." He wasn't complaining. Just stating a fact.

"Maybe that's because of your 6 foot 2 inch ripped boyfriend glaring back at them."

Open-mouthed, speechless, Grissom stared at his boyfriend. This made absolutely no sense. But, as Gris well knew, sense had little to do with jealousy. No logical argument could convince Warrick. No emotional argument could, either. Gris sighed. Montell Jordan's 'This Is How We Do It' had bodies moving on the dance floor, but Grissom and Warrick waited in silence until Seth brought the scotch and the abandoned appletini to the table.

Grissom slipped the waiter a tip, even though Cousin Chris had insisted on covering all expenses at this reserved booth.

Long fingers snatched the glass of Macallan single malt.

"I thought you didn't like scotch," Gris pouted, looking yearningly at the dark amber liquid disappearing down his boyfriend's throat.

"Oh, I like free eighteen year old scotch just fine," Warrick smacked his lips and grinned.

"Hey, bookworm!" Well, speaking of Cousin Chris. Deep black eyes, curly black hair, a dark permanent tan. Built like a squat fire hydrant on steroids. Except for the brilliant grin, you'd never suspect he and Warrick were related. Chris was two years older than Warrick and the eldest of the four children Aunt Cathy and Uncle Aaron Gonzalez raised before they split last year.

Warrick slid from the booth and hugged his cousin. They slapped each other on the back then pounded their fists together. Giving "big ups" Warrick called it.

"Hey, Gil," Chris and Grissom shook hands. The greeting was warm and open. The perfect host. "Having a good time?"

"Yes." Gris looked over the packed dance floor before turning back to Chris, " I'd say the same for the two hundred and seventy-eight others in here."

Chris looked impressed.

Grissom shared his secret. "I'm sure you'd never exceed the occupancy limit on your first night."

Warrick's grin in stereo. "Oh, I'm always on the right side of the law, right, cuz?"

Slinging a long arm around his cousin's shoulder, Warrick laughed. "Oh, yeah. Especially back in the day when we hung out together. We were always on the right side of the law."

Dark eyes winked. "Yeah. Especially then. Well, except maybe for that time when we boosted Aunt Shirley's Mercury and drove to Reno on US 95. Gil, you shoulda seen the look on those troopers' faces. Like they'd never seen a ten year old driving a car before."

"We were driving the speed limit," Warrick protested. "I kept the needle frozen on 55 the whole way."

"Man, you were on the floor board pressing down on the accelerator while I steered. Kinda hard for you to keep your eye on the speedometer."

"Fuck that, man. We was never doing no 73 mph."

Grissom wondered if they were exaggerating, but Warrick's outrage at being stopped by state troopers for speeding seemed all too real. How his boyfriend ever lived this long . . .

"Well," Chris sighed, "I better check in with the bouncers." He grinned slyly at Grissom. "And verify the occupancy count."

Warrick's long fingers touched his cousin's elbow. "That special request still on schedule?"

Chris looked at his watch. "Ten minutes and counting, cuz."

"Thanks, man. Great place, great service, great music. Proud of you, boy."

Leaning down toward Gris, Cousin Chris said in a mock whisper, "Yeah, they're always impressed the first night. But, like my papa always says, 'Del dicho al hecho, hay mucho trecho.'"

Gris nodded, "Wise advice. Seneca said 'Labor optimos citat.' Roughly translated, 'el trabajador atraer los mejores.' I'm sure you'll succeed."

Dark eyes glowing, Chris grinned, "Gracias, man. Well, I better get to el trabajador."

Warrick huffed at his boyfriend, "Showoff."

"The benefits of a well-spent youth," Grissom smirked.

Trading big ups with Warrick, Chris sailed off, schmoozing his way toward the entrance to The Dance All. Grissom sat back and managed not to look too smug. Especially since even more of his scotch was being slurped up by his boyfriend.

"Look, baby, I'll get you another glass."

"No, I'm good." Sometimes Gris wasn't so sure he wanted someone to read him so well. He ran a blunt index finger around the top of his empty glass and just managed to stop himself lifting a stray drop of single malt to his lips.

Amused green eyes studied him. Then Warrick signaled to Seth, the turbaned waiter.

"Another Macallan?" Seth grinned.

Warrick grinned back. "Make that two. And you can take this candy-assed drink back to the bar."

"I can deliver it to the lady that was here," Seth winked at Gris.

"Or you can take it back to the bar," Warrick snapped.

"Uh, yes, sir." Seth swept up the green frosty glass and just managed to keep the turban on his head as he hurried off to the bar.

"Was that necessary?" Gris asked.

"Very." Warrick wasn't teasing at all.

Shaking his head, Grissom leaned toward his boyfriend. "So, what's this special request?"

"Etta James."

"Oh."

"You didn't seriously think you'd get out of dancing with me."

"I hoped." Gris sighed and looked into teasing green eyes, "I'll need that scotch after all."

"Thought so."

Grissom looked out at the glowing floor, at the experienced, graceful dancers who seemed magically conscious of where each other was on the dance floor. No tripping, no stumbling, no awkwardness. Like a smoothly operating machine, each component in its place. "But you're having a such good time. Why get sore toes?"

"No such thing as love without the pain. Besides, I'm not leaving you here alone. Don't want any other boyfriend poaching superwomen getting bright ideas."

Gris stared at his gorgeous, and completely serious, boyfriend. Grissom had always thought a jealous lover was an insecure lover. It certainly was true in his own case. But, how could Warrick be insecure? How could he not know that Gris would never want anyone else? How could Warrick not know how minuscule the chance that anyone else would ever want Gris? Well. After all, Love is blind. And deaf. And dumb.

"Wait a moment," he told their waiter when the two glasses of single malt arrived. Gris downed his drink in one swallow. It was complete disrespect to the distiller not to savor the work of eighteen years, but Gris needed the extra courage. He set the glass back on the serving tray with a five dollar tip. "Another, please."

Seth smiled warmly at Gris but didn't risk looking at Warrick. "Sure. Coming right up."

Tami Chynn was belting out 'Hyperventilating.' Bodies swirled and jumped like cells of a larger living organism. He could appreciate this kinetic, communal joy without wanting to be a part of it. He threw out one more plea to his boyfriend. "I'm perfectly content to watch you dance."

"I know. But this isn't about you and what you want. This is about me and what I want."

Self assurance bordering on arrogance. A trait that had intrigued Grissom about Warrick from the beginning. A trait Grissom found incredibly attractive.

His whiskey showed up at the same time as the DJ announced, "Time to get your slow, smooth groove going, ladies and gentlemen. For all the romantics out there, the great Etta James." The soul stirring strings soared out of the club speakers. "At last my love has come along."

Gracefully jumping to his feet, Warrick flashed a bone melting grin and reached out his big hand. "Saltatus optimos citat, boyfriend."

Grissom laughed. Seneca thought hard work summons the best. But Warrick was right. Dance summons the best, too. And Gris needed both in his life. Just like he needed both love and lust.

As he accepted Warrick's right hand and was pulled from the booth, Gris snatched the Macallan off the serving tray with his left hand. He quickly downed the fiery liquid then followed an insistent but gentle hand tugging him toward the dance floor. He set the empty glass down on a random table right before they stepped onto the polished floor.

Under the smoky blue lights, breathing a soft sigh, Gris succumbed to his boyfriend's warm embrace. Head on Warrick's shoulder, feet moving slowly, body swaying in time to the music, Grissom didn't think of insecurities or inadequacies or jealousies or spiderlings or lunatics or even pink elephants. For once he didn't think at all. He simply placed himself in Warrick's large hands. There was no safer place.

******

A pole-axed Greg Sanders stared at the empty whiskey glass sitting on his table.

"So, Sanders, you gonna buy the old white guy a drink or what?"

Greg tore his eyes from the glass and looked at the grinning faces of his friends.

"Greg doesn't go for old guys," Alyssa the pale-faced Goth announced.

"Dude, Greg goes for girls and boys and girls with boy toys," Ronnie Z grinned, brushing his light blue bangs out of his dark black eyes.

"Wrong. Greg goes for anything with two legs. Or is it four?" Quentin laughed, picked up the whiskey glass in his slender brown fingers, and sniffed. "Ooo. I don't know. Old white guy has expensive tastes."

Alyssa sighed, "Old white guy gets to dance with the good looking brother. What's he want with Greg?"

"I thought I was the good looking brother," Quentin protested.

"That's my boss!" Exploding out of his shock, Greg leapt up from the table and pointed at the distant couple. Dancing. Slow dancing. Together. Grissom's head on Warrick's shoulder. Warrick's cheek stroking Grissom's hair.

Everyone at the table stood and craned their necks.

"Dude, which one? Old white guy or good looking brother?"

"Jesus," Greg stared.

"Oh," Quentin nodded. "Old white guy with the beard."

"Your boss wants you to buy him a drink?" Alyssa admired. "Swwweeeet!"

"You never said he was one of the family," Quentin accused.

"I never knew he was one of anything," Greg stared, amazed. He rubbed his eyes. Nope. No hallucination. Greg's CSI supervisor Gil Grissom and CSI mentor Warrick Brown were still dancing. Up close and personal. "And he's dancing with the straightest man in America."

Ronnie Z laughed, "Dude, your gaydar needs serious adjusting. I danced 'Get It Up' with him. Maybe we better head for Krave or Gipsy so's you can get a reset."

Oh, man. Greg looked at his watch. 11:30. Damn. He had to be at work in half an hour. Damn damn damn. Wait a minute. He patted down his jacket until he had it. His phone. His camera phone. He flipped it open.

"Honey, I know this seems like the opportunity of a life-time, but do you really want to snap that photo?" Quentin was always the conscience of the group. "Remember cute cowboy Nick?"

Greg had once posted copies of a p.r. article featuring Nick Stokes around the lab. Good ol' Nicky. Mr. Nice. Mr. Boy Scout. And Nick had threatened to rip Greg's head off. Grissom and Warrick weren't nice, and they sure as hell weren't boy scouts. They'd rip Greg's balls off through his throat. Then rip his head off.

He took the picture. "Can't live forever. Well, guys, gotta go."

"Baby, I'll look fabulous at your funeral," Quentin kissed Greg on the cheek.

"Send me a copy," Alyssa smiled dreamily out at the two men.

Greg grinned. "This isn't for general distribution. It's for hours of payback fun."

Ronnie Z slapped Greg's hand. "Dude, good luck with that. We'll give what body parts we can find a decent burial."

Greg laughed and snapped another photo on the way out.

******

The next evening, a few minutes before the stroke of midnight at the Las Vegas Police Department Crime Lab, in a black leather jacket and black cargo pants, black leather boots and Dresden Dolls t-shirt, Greg strutted to the beat of the New Pornographers. He spun in and out of labs and layout rooms and break rooms and garages. He avoided supervisors' offices, though. He hunted the formerly straightest man in America. Greg at last found his target in the locker room changing out of the skankiest pair of coveralls he'd ever smelled.

"Whoa. Who died and decomposed in pig shit?"

"Don't start with me, man. I ruined my favorite pair of kicks." The coveralls hadn't done their job. Warrick's buffed brown body was coated in a fine gray dust. Nasty dust. Warrick did not look happy.

Greg took his ear buds out and powered off his iPod. He took a quick look around the locker room, empty but for him, Warrick, and the nose hair searing smell, and reconsidered his mission. For a nanosecond.

"How long have you and Grissom been dating?"

"What?!" Gray dust flew off of Warrick's hair as he whipped his head around to stare at Greg.

"Judging by the way you've been dropping by his office every day for the last 5 months, I'd guess 5 months." Warrick did astounded better than anyone Greg knew. Maybe it was because Warrick was usually so cool and smooth that astounded really looked like astounded on his face. "I'm not here just for my stunning good looks, you know."

Tired and smelly as he was, Warrick was still no fool. "You were at The Dance All Tuesday night."

Greg shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't notice the EMS crew dragging me back from death's door after seeing you two dancing together. I guess you were too involved to notice much. So, what's the attraction?"

"Greg, we are not having this conversation." Warrick tossed his coveralls onto the bench, pulled his t-shirt off, then started stripping off his jeans. Gray dust swirled everywhere.

"Oh, come on, man. Me? Let this go? When I've got photographic evidence?"

"You did not just say that."

Uh oh. Who knew Warrick could move so fast? Who knew Warrick's green eyes chilled to steely gray when he was really pissed? Who knew Warrick didn't even need to touch Greg to collapse him to the floor. Oh, man, there weren't gonna be any body parts to find.

"Joke! Joke, man!" he squeaked, quivering up at Warrick like a mouse at an angry leopard. The big cat stared at Greg for an eternity then offered a big paw to lift him off the ground. He swallowed. He didn't know if Warrick was going to help him off the floor or have him for a light snack. He finally trusted himself to Warrick's better nature. Greg almost got vertigo as Warrick yanked him to his feet. Duly noted: in the future, do not piss off the big guy.

"You know how things work around here, Greg," the deep voice rumbled. "Gris already's got Ecklie breathing down his neck. He's got uniforms making bets on when he gets fired. You think he wants any added attention?"

Interesting. Warrick didn't seem concerned about losing his title of straightest man in America. He was only concerned for Grissom. Cool. And Greg had sense enough not to reveal that he'd bought June 2nd in the Ecklie firing Grissom pool.

But Greg's Norwegian ancestors hadn't braved the Arctic blasts for nothing. "You gotta at least tell me how you two got together."

Warrick picked up his skanky coveralls, t-shirt, jeans, and socks, then grabbed a clean pair of underwear and his shower caddy. He slipped his feet into his shower sandals. Dressed only in gray boxers that probably used to be white, he headed toward the showers. Greg thought he wasn't going to get an answer. He watched Warrick dump the reeking clothes in the hamper then stand still for a moment. When Warrick looked up, he smiled faintly. "I asked him out on a date."

"You asked him out? Just like that?" At Warrick's nod, it was Greg's turn to look astounded. A look that transformed quickly into sheer admiration. "You're my superhero, Balls of Steel Man."

Warrick shook his head, sending more gray dust into the air, and turned to head into the shower. Greg's curiosity overcame his sense of self preservation, "Wait! Where did you go? What did you do? Did he give it up on the first date?"

"Greg--" the leopard snarled.

Holding up his hands, somehow not sinking to his knees, Greg slowly backed up, "My mistake. Go take your shower."

Warrick blew out a big breath. "Okay. We went to a jazz concert, had a drink at the V Bar, then back to my place. And none of your business."

Greg knew he was teetering on extinction but couldn't help himself. He backed up a few more steps then croaked, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you ask him out?"

Hard green eyes studied Greg then eventually relented. "Because he listens and doesn't judge. Because he accepts me good and bad. Because he loves my music. Because he learned how to dance to please me. And because he smells great."

Grissom smells great? "Cool."

Warrick grinned, "Yeah."

Greg grinned back. He judged the space between him and Warrick and calculated the distance to the locker room door. Greg could risk it. "So, other than the obvious--that you're built like the Taj Mahal and seriously hung--the Hojems are renowned for great peripheral vision which I occasionally put to use in the men's room--why did Grissom say 'yes'?"

Uh oh. The green laser stare was back. Thankfully Warrick shrugged instead of pounced. "I make him laugh. I accept him weird and all. I whip his ass at chess. And I don't let him get away with shit."

Greg backed up a little more and glanced at the locker room door. Yeah. He could just make it.

"Well, I didn't think it could be because you smell great."

He shot out of the locker room just before the bottle of African Pride shampoo and conditioner slammed into the door behind him.