Title: CSI:Bend But Do Not Break Author: ne'ichan Fandom: CSI Pairing: Greg/multiple Rating: FRAO overall, Category: Slash, m/m. Multiple partners. H/C. Dark subjects, troubling topics. Mutilation. Archive: Yes, if you let me know. Currently at WWOMB. Feedback: Yes. faestion1@yahoo.com No mean stuff. Email: faestion1@yahoo.com Authors Web Site: none Series/Sequel: series, in progress Disclaimers: I do not own any of the characters from the show. Authors Notes: The story deals with human trafficking. A real criminal problem even in the US. Perhaps my view is extreme, perhaps it is not. I am not in the Justice field, I don't know much about CSI. Or the technical stuff.  I am in the medical field and will do my best to be accurate in that realm.  Also, I have no beta for this fandom. I am looking. Spoilers: I don't know the show well enough to spoil anything. Summary: A case begins, and one of the members of the CSI team vanishes. The rest of the team reacts. Warnings: difficult subjects. Sale of human beings. Imprisonment, Non-con. Mutilation. Part One (This part rated FRT) Greg knelt down next to the grate and shone his flashlight in at an angle. The hardwood floor hurt his knees a little, but he barely noticed. He shifted the beam minutely several times, shuffling on his knees, until he had it just right. He saw the lazy, drifting dust motes, but beyond them he saw something much more important. His sharp eyes picked up the fragment at once. There. Half buried in the ash, resting at a slant. A burned paper. Charred black. But intact, fragile, yet legible. He directed his breath away from the paper as he called to Gil, backing a little away, to make room for the bigger man. Any touch, any wind, might cause the paper to crumple into unreadable powder. "Hey. Come look at this." Greg pointed with his chin. The older man got down on his hands and knees, bending low enough that his short brown and grey hair brushed the flooring. He let out the sound Greg was beginning to recognize as Grissom's way of expressing awe. Reverence. For the perfect inconsistency of chance. Why some bits were left to be found, while others, more durable, vanished without a trace. "Beautiful." The smile was so blatant in his voice, Greg didn't' have to look at the older man's face to know it was there. Gil simply radiated his excitement. His love of his work. Gil sat up, and he was smiling. Greg smiled back. Then Gil bent back down. "Can you read it?" Gil Grissom prompted the younger man. He adjusted his glasses, squinted, saw some of the indentations that were words, but not so clearly that he could read them. That was an inevitable part of growing older.  It was why there were tools and younger eyes around. His experience, coupled with younger senses and high technology. It worked well.  "Yes. But, I am not sure how to preserve it for evidence." Greg whispered. Gil was so close Greg could smell his spicy aftershave, faint but unmistakable. Gil shifted, his elbow sliding along the length of Greg's arm as they looked the fragment over. "Read it first. We'll scribe what it says. Then we'll preserve it as best we are able. Try to photograph it. I don't' think we are going to be able to do more than that. Moving it and taking it in as hard evidence, not likely, Greg. But, we can do everything up to that. Let's get the words down first. In case we lose it." Gil sat back on his heels. He had lost weight recently, joined a walking and exercising group. Went religiously, when he was not embroiled in a case. It made getting up and down so much easier. After Greg read the words he could see, and Gil wrote them down, they'd used a mister to discharge a preservative into the air high enough above the paper to avoid any air currents disturbing the fragile evidence. They hoped the liquid would soak into the ash and hold it together. At least long enough to move the grate and get a camera angle on it. Patiently, over and over they'd sprayed, one spray, let the mist fall, soak into the charred piece, and dry. Then they repeated it, a second spray, let it drift down, dry. And again. Finally they lifted the grate, both men holding their breath, and used slanted lighting to photograph the visible indentations, the writing. The preservative bought them time to snap the pictures they needed, but not a second more. The ash chose that moment to crumble. And that quickly, they were left with nothing. Nothing but the photos. And they would be enough for evidence. An address. Clear as day. Greg grinned at his boss in triumph as they leaned in over Gil's note pad, and carded through the dozen Polaroids. They had a lead to the man or group of men who were responsible for trafficking in human cargo. Gil beckoned one of the officers over to him, reciting the address while the cop wrote it down. He radioed it in. The case had broken when one young woman had escaped. Bruised and traumatized, nearly naked, she managed to get to a neighbor's house. She was taken to a hospital, then a translator had to be found, she spoke only Greek. Two hours later, she told her story to the physician caring for her.  She had been kidnapped, transported and was being prepared for delivery to the man who had purchased her. The horrified doctor notified Las Vegas police. And the police came to this house. Only three hours after her escape, and the house was already empty of it's alleged human cargo. But, full of evidence left behind. Some papers had been hastily burned. Though not well enough to hide all the information in them. CSI was notified. And now were processing the scene. Catherine chose that moment to enter the room. Medium height, as sexy and slim as when she'd been an exotic dancer. Moving with a sinuous grace that drew the eyes. "What do you have?" She asked, walking up to them, tossing her glossy, blonde hair back from her fine boned face. Knowing Grissom so well she could read his excitement instantly from a dozen feet away. Greg showed her the address. She patted him on the shoulder. Squatting down next to them both, maintaining her balance with the hand she left on the young man's shoulder. "We are out of film," Gil announced and hour later, stretching his stiffening back. Greg was looking over his shoulder, watching as he worked his way through the house. Catherine and Warrick had, by this time, gone out to meet Nick at the other scene, the address Greg had found. That address had also yielded no people, but plenty of additional evidence. Sara was here, having stayed with Gil and Greg to process this house. She sat back on her haunches, long limbed and far more limber than her older boss. "I have some in the van." She said. Preparing to stand. Greg waved at her to stay where she was. He was just observing for the most part, watching their field technique, helping only when one of them asked. Trying to learn what he could. "I'll go get it." Greg offered getting to his own feet. He turned. "Where..." "In the back, in the zip bag, square, insulated. Purple." Gil told him abstractedly, attention already diverted, already back on what he was doing before he ran out of film. Greg nodded and left to go find the film. He did not come back. Minutes passed, half an hour. Gil reached for the camera again. Stopped, frowned. He lifted his head. Looked around the room they were in. Dim. Mostly empty. With a hollow echoing quality that abruptly raised the hair on the back of his neck. Gil looked around. He saw Sara, but not Greg. He frowned, trying to recall the last time he'd seen the boy. "Where is Greg?" He asked out loud. His internal monitors had started to rev up. Too late, they were whispering to him. It's too, too late. The alarms started to get ready to ring next. His eyes met Sara's. He watched as her lips pursed. Sara shrugged, slow, as if she was thinking. "Haven't seen him for a while. Not since he went for the film." And that was enough to set the alarms off. Gil put the camera down. He frowned. "He was just going out to the van to get it for me. Shouldn't have taken more than a minute or two." Gil remarked, his attention beginning to focus on something besides evidence collection. They exchanged a look. Both standing in tandem. Heading out to the van. Both feeling a sense of dread. Something telling them they were too late. He was gone. They looked everywhere. They found the scuffle marks in the dry dirt behind the van. Grissom questioned the officers who had been outside, monitoring the traffic in and out of the crime scene area. None of them remembered seeing anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. Greg was simply gone. Then one of the neighbors came over. To thank the police for having the pizza delivered. As an apology for being so disruptive in this very exclusive neighborhood. Only the police hadn't sent the pizza. But they had let the van past. Going in and going out. Gil sat on the back bumper of his SUV. Holding his head in his hands. He didn't want to think of Greg in these people's hands. He didn't want to think of anyone in their hands. But, especially not Greg. Part Two (This part rated FRT) Once it became clear that Greg was not going to be found, Gil took out his cellphone and hit the speed dial. He waited until the person on the other end answered. His heartbeat, normally regular and slow in the most difficult circumstances had started to race. Even so, his voice was unchanged, low key, as if nothing was wrong, as if Greg was not gone. "Catherine? Gil here. No, we are still here. Who is there with you? Anything to report?OK.  Greg there? No. Let me know when he gets there, will you?" And he disconnected before the questions started, before it occurred to the other CSI to wonder why Gil was asking about Greg when they'd agreed Greg was going to spend the day observing Grissom. "Where is Greg?" Was the first thing out of Catherine Willows' mouth when Gil and Sara showed up at the second scene. Warrick, standing a few feet beyond her, looked up and froze at her tone. The brush in his hand, dotted with fingerprint powder, hung suspended, the powder falling grain by grain to the floor. Catherine's face, always light skinned, was now bloodless. Gil watched her turn towards him, heard her breath hitch. Warrick furrowed his brow, seeing her react to something he wasn't aware of yet, and looked back at Gil, hand staying still in the middle of his task, even as he stepped back away from the railing he'd been dusting. "He's not here? I...we don't know. We don't know where he is." There had been the tiny hope that Greg had headed out to this scene, for whatever reason. I possibility Warrick, Nick or Catherine had called him asking him to come. Gil knew better, naturally, still he'd hoped. But, now that hope was dashed. Grissom shook his head at last. Faltering under the two gazes, one puzzled the other panicked. "What do you mean, you don't know?" It came out sharper than she intended, but she did not apologize. She was shaking, Gil noticed absently, hands trembling visibly. 'She is usually stronger than this,' he thought. But, she'd always had an extra fondness for Greg, a connection to him, hadn't she? Just as he had adopted the lab tech, decided to play a part in fulfilling the boy's dream of working as a CSI. Because, as quirky as he was, as strange and odd his sense of humor, he reminded Gil so much of himself as a young man. Not quite fitting in, on the edges despite his incredible intellect. Yet, in the midst of all his weirdness, he had an endearing awkwardness, a sweet charm. Gil had wanted, at times, to smooth down that unruly, wild shock of hair and hug him. Hold him. Assure him he belonged. "He disappeared from the first scene." Sara said into the charged silence. She of all of them was the calmest. Her face set, and observant, not showing worry or pain, or fear. Watching the rest. "We looked, and couldn't find him." "The police..." Catherine croaked, throat desert dry, tight. She was growing paler, her eyes larger, darker. "Them, too." Sara said. She frowned, her mouth twisting, perplexed, eyes sharp."Are you alright?" "Gil...." Catherine's legs collapsed out from under her. One minute upright, the next on the floor, before Grissom could do anything, before he knew he should be ready. She huddled on the floor, as he hurried over to her, dropping his case. Her eyes, huge and...lost, filling with tears. Her hands were braced on either side of her thighs, in the dust. Fingers spread like a white spiders tipped with pink nails. Grasping, holding, as if she might fall further. "I know." Grissom said, putting a careful hand on her back, rubbing in a circle, wondering if it was going to be alright. He knew she was thinking exactly what he was. Greg, caught in the hands of the kind of people who made a living buying and selling human beings. Sara was kneeling next to Catherine, still the watcher, and Warrick came to stand next to Gil. His confusion was gone. His voice rough, deeper than normal, as if it was stuck in his throat and he was forcing the unwilling words out. "How long has he been gone?" Warrick was asking. Gil looked up, momentarily disoriented. His hand stopped the careful circles, stayed on her thin upper back. He thought hard, then found he could answer. "Less than two hours." Grissom said. Still no emotion in his voice, no revelation of the adrenaline, the terror that was clawing through his body, his imagination. "Have you figured out where it happened?" Warrick followed up with the next question. He grimaced. Now Gil was going white, his breath coming too fast. And he seemed unaware of it. "You'd better sit." "Uh huh." Grissom said, distantly. Landing on his butt next to Catherine. "Processed? Did you process the scene? Was there a scene? Should I go and take a look, Grissom?" Warrick pressed, face lined with worry. "What little was there, yes. We went through it. Sara and I. We found where he was taken. In a pizza delivery truck. The police waved it in and then out again.  Five, ten minutes tops. Went without a hitch. No one wondered, no one thought anything was amiss. The driver, it was a man, went to a house, dropped off the pizza, all normal activity. Then, Greg was gone." Gil said from his place on the floor, Catherine crouched next to him. "And you are sure it was them?" Catherine's words, her question. He nodded, though she was not looking at him. She felt the movement, and let out a pained sound. "I am sure. This feels like something they would do, Cate. I should have watched him. He is so trusting." Grissom started, her hand was like stone, gripping his arm. She squeezed and he stopped. Turned, gazes locking. "You know what they are going to do to him, don't you? We've found records, pictures, *orders* put in by *customers*...." She faltered, seeing he'd found the same things where he'd been. "Yes. I'm afraid that I do." "I am so sorry, Gil." Warrick said in a tone that drew Grissom's eyes to his face, frowning. Looking up at the tall, younger man. Surprised by the statement, by what it said, without using words.  "We aren't lovers, Warrick. Greg and I, we aren't involved. We're friends." Gil said. Because, the way Brown had spoken made it clear that it was assumed they were. The dark skinned man flushed. His full mouth thinning just a touch. "No?" He said. I the same tone he'd have used if Grissom said the Pope *wasn't* Catholic. "No. Is that what every one thinks?" Grissom looked around.  "Catherine? Sara?" Sara simply nodded. Catherine, with tears running down her face, still looking at him. Offering nothing else. "Where is Nick?" Grissom asked the group, his voice firming again, growing stern. "I don't want anyone going around alone until this case is closed. They could be waiting to grab another one of us. Go find Nicky." Warrick took off through the door, tossing the brush aside, not caring that it missed the counter and dropped to the floor, powder spraying off the bristles. It doesn't matter, not now. Grissom didn't add that Nick was also attractive enough to appeal to the traffickers. Probably the only one safe from them, Gil thinks bitterly, gazing from face to face, is me. I'm too old. Sara is young and female, always a market for that. Catherine is still beautiful, and also female. Warrick has a certain masculine charm, a good build, and he is young enough. And those eyes... eye-catching, literally.  Then Nick. All the same attributes as Warrick, and a killer smile. So. Me and Brass, we're the safe ones. If we are kidnapped, they'll just use us as hostages, or kill us.  That's all. But Greg? Oh, God. Greg. Part Three (This part rated FRT) Nick was not as easy to capture as Greg had been. His years as a police officer served him well. He was walking the perimeter around the house, off to one side and hidden from the road, when he sensed he was no longer alone. The awareness stole over his skin like creeping insects. He had been shining his flashlight into the thick bushes, dividing the area into quadrants and going over it all meticulously. Looking for something, anything that might prove important to the case. He'd made it as far as the end of the side wall, almost ready to go around to the back. Then the hair at the back of his neck headed north, standing on end. Immediately, he knew there were eyes on him, and he was pretty sure they weren't friendly ones. He turned smoothly, his grip shifting just a fraction on the shaft of the heavy flashlight, so the tool became a weapon, just that quickly. The man approaching him from the right got his full attention. Tall, about an inch or two taller than he was, sturdily built, strong looking and intent. Dark hair, dark eyes, big hands, holding a pipe. His flat eyes told Nick more than anything else about his intentions. The young CSI knew he was facing a man who was connected with the case he was currently working, there was no doubt in his mind. A man who would not hesitate to do what it took to take him down and out. Nick stepped away from the bushes and to open ground, he felt the prophetic calm radiate through his muscles and nerves, preparing him to fight for his life. The sound behind him, heralding the second man, didn't result in him turning curiously, being easy prey for either of them. He moved, fast, wanting to get into view of the road, or find a clear path out of the trap he was in. Three rapid steps and he was free of the vegetation, able to move without tripping over it, or falling into it and being concealed from all but a close examination. The men didn't give him enough time for anything else, only time to turn in their direction. To catch the initial attack. The second guy was just an impression of light skin and movement as they rushed him. Greg was an academic, catching him off guard was no sweat, and the men stalking Nick now, had become complacent, expecting Nick to fall victim just as easily.  Nick responded instead with the hand to hand training that had been drilled into him. He twisted out of one man's reaching grip, his arm slipping down and away before the hold could close fully, and moved hard and fast, back and another half dozen rapid steps toward the road. Not giving the man time to use the pipe. His boot connected with the side of one assailant's knee, but low, not a direct hit on the joint, the man stayed on his feet, slowed but still mobile, though he did drop the pipe. Nick was more effective with the flashlight, catching the second man a glancing blow on the side of the head. That man dropped like a sack of potatoes to the grass, blood blossoming across the area of impact, splashing back and onto the grass. His eyes blinked, stupidly, then rolled up, showing white. Nick leaped to the side and away from both men, hand going for the grip of his sidearm. He had the gun out and pointed, quick and efficient, finger tightening on the trigger. Knee man wasted no time, heading away even as the gun cleared it's holster. Before Nick found a bead on his chosen target, the man on the ground. One man to question was better than none. The first man ran, fast even limping on his injured knee, disappearing around the back of the house, the second froze lolling onto his back, moaning, staring up into the barrel of Nick's gun with uncomprehending eyes. Concussion, Nick guessed with more than a little satisfaction. The handsome face of the CSI was grim and angry, as he stood over the injured man, jaw clenched as he fought to slow his breathing. One twitch and the guy was going to be history. His eyes never flickered, not even as he saw help show up behind the man in the form of the other young, male CSI. Brown. Warrick loomed over the prisoner. Grabbing his cuffs, going to one knee, the moisture of the churned lawn seeping damp into the fabric of his jeans. He slapped the cuffs on the dazed man. Looked up at his teammate. "You all right?" He asked. "Fine," Nick answered, shaking the residual adrenaline out of his arms, rotating his head on his neck, holding his gun loosely down by his side. He was not putting it away, yet. The nausea that always followed a physical altercation was fairly light this time. A few deep breaths and it started to fade. "What was all that about?" Greg's POV Greg woke because he recognized the smell. He'd been in places like this before. Too many times, mostly when he was a child, and had no say about it Mums or Da would tell him he had to go. Or grandpa Olaf, and then they'd take him, no matter how he pouted. Now-a-days he avoided hospitals if it was within his power at all. But, he was in one now. He ached. His legs, his back, his hips, his groin. Throbbing in fact. Not good. He wondered if he'd been in a car accident. Pelvic fracture? Or a lot of deep bruising. He could believe either one, the way he felt. His throat was sore. Much like it had been after he had his tonsils out. Or even more like the time he'd needed surgery to repair his broken leg. A compound fracture that time, the bone pushed through the skin. Surgery, to clean out the wound, and screw a plate over the bone to hold the ends together while they healed. And antibiotics. Because you don't want to let a bone get infected. Osteomyelitis. He'd never forget that word. For that surgery he'd been intubated, and on a respirator, just while he was knocked out in the OR. But, you never forget the sore throat it leaves you with. This time, it was that feeling. The tube down your throat feeling. Not the tonsillitis feeling. He'd had surgery. What for? That was beyond him to figure out. Last thing he recalled...Sara and Gil and a crime scene. Absolutely nothing after that, until now. He turned his head minutely. It worked, which was a relief. No spinal injury then, at least not in the cervical spine, the neck. And he realized what one of the other sensations was. A burning, where no man wants to feel burning. A urinary catheter. A latex tube going into his bladder and draining his urine out into a bag. Unpleasant. Definitely the first thing to go as soon as he found someone to ask. His hand lifted to one of the metal rails, gripped it. "H...." He croaked. He cleared his throat. Ready to try again. Someone heard him, because there was someone beside him very quickly. With a syringe. Shushing him. An older woman. Grey hair. Grandmotherly face. Giving him some medication into the IV port. Needle-less port he thought. Nice, new and high tech. Nothing but the best. An innovation to reduce needle sticks for patients and for staff. Greg tried to catch his drifting brain and ask the woman a question. But, the fog was too fast. Had to be a pain killer, or a sedative. He puzzled about it the few moments he stayed conscious. Painkiller? Sedative? Narcotic. He floated away. He didn't hear the doors slamming open or the shouted orders as S.W.A.T. officers stormed into the room. Part Four (This part rated FRM) Grissom sorted through the evidence on the table top. Greg had been missing for just 3 days. Not very long in the scope of things. More than enough time to do unbelievable damage to the young man. After his rescue, Greg was in the hospital, this time a real hospital, not a private house adapted for illegal surgery. But, it was too damn late. Slavery was alive and well, even within US borders. Finding men, women and children to fill the orders that were apparently overwhelming the traffickers was not difficult. People disappear every day, many never to be found again. But, many times a little nip or tuck was required to make the product match the orders. So the traffickers had their own surgeons on call. And a busy surgical schedule. Women might need larger or smaller breasts, or fuller lips, larger buttocks, in order to satisfy a customer's preference. Liposuction, or augmentation. Both men and women might need plastic surgery to alter their appearance, add or subtract epicanthic folds, a nose job, flatten or raise cheekbones, be made to look more like a celeb the prospective owner found attractive. And then there were the men who wanted other men, or boys, who were no longer fully male, from the extreme of gender reassignment to simple removal of the testes. For top end buyers, who could throw one hundred thousand dollars around with ease, the cost of surgery was incidental to getting what they wanted. There had been six young males in the recovery room that had been raided. All to fill the order of one client. A man who imagined himself a re-incarnation of an ancient Indian Rajah, according to the few traffickers captured. They'd sneered at his fantasy even as they sold him people to fulfill it. A man wealthy enough to set up his own harem, complete with eunuchs to guard it, and be part of it. He was by no means an isolated case as far as his desires went, if the traffickers were to be believed. Two of the teen-aged boys had not been taken to surgery when the raid occurred, they were rescued intact. One had been in the OR, and had lost one testicle. Greg, who was the oldest of all the victims, and two others, had lost both testicles to the surgeons knife. Gil dropped his head in his hands. They had missed saving Greg from mutilation by only a few hours. "Grissom." The word was snapped out, impatient. It was Brass. Gil looked up startled. Brass softened his tone at the bewildered look the other man wore. "Come on, let's go. Greg's doctor called. No way am I going to let you drive anywhere. I've been trying to get your attention for two minutes. You didn't hear a word of it. Standing right here talking to you." Brass pointed to his feet and the institutionally carpeted floor, he was shod in heavy, brown/black shoes, the kind Gil always associated with police men. "The good news is," Brass said once they were both in the car and on the road, "The surgeon was a good one. There is no risk of infection and the scarring will be minimal. We know the bad news." "He's been kidnapped and surgically altered without his knowledge or his permission. There are going to be extreme hormonal fluctuations, and psychological factors. They can treat him with testosterone, replace what he's lost the ability to secrete himself, but it is never quite the same as nature intended. In other words he has a long road to recovery." Grissom added after Brass had finished. Brass nodded. "Yeah, what you said." "He is going through something very few people go through in this day and age, aside from people with gender dysphoria, and then it is a voluntary procedure." "Uh, huh. So, they can fix this?" The officer asked, doubtfully. "It's happened before and they know what to do?" "They can do plastic surgery, give him a normal appearance, but he is going to need medication for the rest of his life in order to function normally." Grissom told the other man in almost an absent tone. His brain clicking through all the information he had researched. "But, he isn't going to be living any time under the care of the pervert who made him like this. The guy who ordered him like he was a Christmas turkey." Brass said. "And we have some clues as to who the man may be. We'll catch him, Gil." "Forgive me if I wish it had been last week that we got the break in the case." Grissom said, acerbically. Nick had taken it hardest. That surprised everyone. Gil wasn't prepared for anything worse than Catherine's reaction. But Nick had sat down hard, collapsed really, shaking after they found out. Slammed a fist into the side of the couch. And screamed once, loud and rage filled. Then he'd gone frighteningly quiet. Gil learned the hard way in this job, never to be surprised, but Nick Stokes yelling like that, had surprised him, caught him unaware and unprepared. He saw the underlying fury and clenched fists, then Nick had stormed out of the lab. Grissom had been so shocked he'd just let the young man go. Catherine was the one who had insight to offer on Stokes' reaction. He'd been sexually abused by his baby sitter as a child. Gil was shocked he'd never known it. Yes, Nick was more intense than the rest of the team when they dealt with cases where children were victims. But, those cases were harder on everyone. Nick's behavior was professional, he hadn't done anything during any of those cases that concerned Grissom It made sense after that information. Grissom and Catherine had only their imagination to work off of, Nick had memory. He knew how it felt to suffer violation, the loss of control, the feeling of worthlessness that came after that kind of assault. It had taken some time for him to calm and return to the CSI building. Then he'd insisted on going to visit Greg, his jaw clenched a s tight as a slab of granite. Catherine had gone with Nick. When Grissom and Brass walked into the hospital room, Catherine was in the bedside chair, and Nick was seated on the edge of the bed. Holding hands with Greg, who was awake, but groggy. Nick's hand was larger, darker, just stronger looking, Grissom automatically cataloged the differences. His darker fingers were wrapped around the slender wrist of the man in the bed. And Greg's long, pale ones were loosely around Nick's wrist. Gil fought to keep his eyebrows from rising. Another surprise from macho Nick. Greg and Nick traded barbs all the time in the lab. Enjoying a mildly adversarial relationship in Grissom's opinion. He had not guessed they were friends. Friends enough to hold hands without the least sign of discomfort from either man. Brass moved into the room stepping out from behind Grissom. He showed no reaction to Nick's position, moving up to the bedside. Speaking in a gentle, fatherly voice. "How are you doing, son?" The older man asked. "I'm doing pretty good. They are giving me a lot of pain medication. A lot. Too much. But when they don't, I feel like someone kicked me in the balls." He said slowly with a distant smile on his face. Then Greg winced. "Ow! Nicky! Not so tight." He shook their coupled hands but didn't relinquish his hold. "I should have been born a few hundred years ago. I could make a living as a castrato, you know  a male singer, soprano, who used to be castrated to keep their voices from changing." He smiled crookedly. Clearly high, Grissom thought. Greg was right. Too much pain medication. "We just dropped by to see how you are doing." Grissom said, joining Brass at the beside. "Oh, hi Gris. Boss." Greg's voice was fading. "I'm a little sleepy." "We'll let you rest, then." Grissom told the lab tech. "I'll stay for a while if it's OK, Gris." Nick said, when the two older men and Catherine started for the door. "That will be fine, Nick" Gil said. "Get some rest, Greg." Brass led the way out. He inclined his head at the closed door, when they'd made into the hall. "You think they are an item?" He asked. Part Five (This part rated FRT) "So. Do you think they are together?" Brass repeated after the two men were in his department car exiting the hospital parking lot, having just left Nick and Greg in the hospital room holding hands. "Together? Who?" Grissom asked, absently looking out the window. "Stokes and Sanders." Brass reminded the other man patiently. Grissom was probably the smartest man he knew, but also the most oblivious at times. "Huh. Uh, no. I don't know. They thought I was with Greg." Grissom replied. Still sounding like he was a million miles away. Probably solving the Sunday crossword in his head, purely by memory. In virtual ink. "Naw. Who thought that?" Brass was stunned at the idea of Grissom involved with anyone. Man, woman or beast. If any creature ever caught Gris's attention to that degree, his money was on some form of insect life. Grissom was still deep in thought. "Oh. Catherine, Sara..." His voice petered out. Brass kept driving. It took just about all his will not to shake his head in disbelief. 'Don't say it,' he chided himself warningly, biting his tongue. 'Don't you dare ask it.' Because he wasn't sure he wanted to find out Grissom was having sex with the young man they'd just left. Jim Brass headed down the corridor of the hospital. He was here to give Greg a ride home, and to conduct a formal interview, and get it signed. Back at the precinct he had twelve photos tacked to his cork-board. Twelve men and women arrested so far. For trafficking approximately 600 human beings, give or take, over a two year period. He wanted Greg to take a look at them. See if the pictures  jogged him memory at all, see if he'd suddenly recalled the face of whoever abducted him. So far Greg was a complete blank on the incident. One of the men on the board had been identified by Nick as the one who had attacked him, been wounded in the leg, and escaped. A thirteenth was sitting in the county jail with stitches along side his temple after Nick took him down. That perp was sporting a nice, healthy sized goose egg. And Brass had enjoyed a hearty feeling of satisfaction learning Nick still had the moves. Now that the young lab tech was being released, Brass wanted to see if his memory was better off of drugs than it had been while he was medicated to the gills. Greg had been almost amusing then, even considering the fucked up situation, but not all that helpful. The interviews had not yielded any usable information. The other interviews had been informal, as the young man was under the influence of prescribed pain killers. The police needed a real one, recorded, transcribed and signed. The dosages of the pain meds had been dropped a little every day as the pain lessened with healing. The son-of-a-bitch who had done the surgery had been good at his job, Greg was healing faster than expected. Just without his balls. Brass winced even thinking about it. He'd seen the evidence photos of what had been done to Greg. Now they were under lock and key, to keep out people who had no business but prurient interest in seeing something horrific that had been done to someone they knew. The same kind of people who would slow their vehicles to a crawl when they passed and accident, hoping to see blood, gore and suffering up close. Willing to chance a second accident just to get the thrill. Grissom had said he'd meet him at the hospital. But, Brass was late. A cursory check of the front lobby revealed no absorbed geek buried in a magazine or trade journal article. He assumed Grissom had gone up, and didn't stop to wait. He took the elevator to the third floor. Stepping off and holding the door for the transport orderly and wheelchair the middle aged man was pushing. Then he headed down the corridor to the room he'd been in too many times in the last few days. Brass opened the door, noting the room's lights were dimmed, ready to call out a greeting when he saw what was on the bed. He halted in his tracks, eyebrows climbing for his hairline. The door swung noiselessly shut behind him with muffled whoosh. He stood right where he was, unable to look away, knees locked. He hoped his face looked less shocked then he felt. Greg was laying on his side facing the door, on top of the bed, awake, alert. One arm was bent under his head, pillowing it. He held a finger to his lips urging Brass to silence. A wheelchair stood at the ready next to the bed, unoccupied, waiting for Greg's obligatory, discharge ride to the front of the hospital. Spooned up against Greg's back, one muscular tanned arm snuggly around him, hand in a relaxed curl as it rested against the lab tech's belly, was one of the last people Jim Brass expected to see in such a position. Though the slumbering guest was mostly hidden behind Greg's body, Brass could not mistake the thick, kinky, brown hair. Warrick Brown, usually pretty reserved and full of macho, at least from Brass' perspective, was curled up, asleep, snoring slightly. Brass could see the hilt of the other man's holstered gun on his upper hip, the strap unsnapped, so a split second might be saved if the gun needed drawing. Greg's eyes met his. Serious eyes. Not panicked, not defeated, not destroyed. But not the happy, mischievous eyes he remembered from the joke-cracking, spiky haired, young lab tech, either. The door opened behind the detective and he turned quickly, something making his own hand go for the hilt of his gun. His hand stopped in mid-motion. Grissom entered the room, seemingly unaware of the low lighting, his face frowning as he scanned a sheaf of papers he held in his hand. He looked up, mouth opening, preparing to say something when Brass' grip tightened on his arm, holding up a warning hand. "Whoa?" Was all that made it out of Grissom's mouth, almost soundless. It was half whisper, half question. Brass pulled him out of the room, backing up, eyes fastened on the sleeping CSI's face, and into the hall, managing as far as he could tell, not to wake the drowsing man. "Damn it, Grissom. Why didn't you tell me?" Brass hissed at the other man, who had, predictably, returned to his reading with no comment on the bizarre tableau they'd just witnessed. "Tell you what?" Grissom's face was irritated and curious at the same time, as if wondering what he'd missed. "That those two were the couple." Brass snapped. Annoyed that he'd been left to assumed it was Stokes and the kid who were involved. He was also not happy that he'd even briefly wondered about Grissom and Sanders. "I don't know that they are." Was Grissom's response. His sharp eyes fully focused on Brass' uncomfortable expression. "Oh for crying out loud....." Brass bit off what he was going to say. He was pretty sure that unless he'd woken up in an alternate universe, that Warrick Brown didn't go around sleeping in hospital beds with just any of his male colleagues. Now Greg, he was quirky enough that Brass wouldn't have been surprised by anything he did. The door to Greg's room opened and Greg was wheeled out followed by Warrick pushing the conveyance, his plastic, hospital issued, belonging's bag, hooked over one handle. Brown had the wrinkles from the bed linen impressed into one side of his face. The police officer refused to allow himself to stare at them. "Hey," Grissom said, patting one of Sander's slender shoulders. "Where are we dropping you?" Brass asked, forcing himself not to look at Warrick too long without finding something to say, trying to see how he'd missed this. "Me? I am going to work. Greg, after you get his statement, is staying with Sara. It's her night off. Nicky will pick him up in the morning, when he gets off work." Warrick explained as they walked. Greg was both uncomfortable and shifting in his seat by the time they reached the car. Grissom helped him into the back of the car, Warrick sliding in on the other side, fastening Greg's belt, then his own. He let his thigh rest against the smaller man's. "You up to this? Or you want to go to Sara's? Do the interview later?" Warrick asked. Greg shook his head. "I'd rather get it over with. Then I'm going to take some meds and go to sleep. I just got up and I am already exhausted. Went to bed twenty-six and woke up fifty." Greg groaned. "Hey!" Gil and Brass said, simultaneously. "What's wrong with fifty?"

Jim Brass walked down the long hallway. It was three in the morning. Too damn late. He'd much rather be in bed, asleep, instead of wrapping up loose ends. It was, however, the middle of Grissom's day. The best time to talk to the man. Brass was well into overtime. At least he was being paid reasonably well to work these ghoul's hours. The offices around him were, by in large, dark. No occupants , no lights. The halls at this end, the ones that were noisy during the day, filled with bustling activity, were now eerily quiet. Except the one he was headed to. There were no fresh cases, no reason for Grissom to be away from his desk. So, he would be in the office, reading, or on line studying some new bug phenomenon. As always. Brass could hardly believe the amount of knowledge Grissom was able to absorb. Brass saw that Gris was in the office, but he was sitting on the couch. Unusual. He invariably sat at the big, many drawer-ed desk, where he could see any and everyone coming down the hall. Not on the seldom used, but well upholstered and comfortable, couch. The couch that still looked brand new, no butt-dents in the cushions. People didn't often sit on the couch long enough for the cushions to have dents in them. Gris wasn't exactly the easiest guy to talk to. The detective entered the office raising a hand to knock on the door frame. Then he hesitated. He could see over the back of the couch now. Grissom sat, head bent, reading from a stack of papers piled on one end table. His free hand stroked softly over the hair of the head in his lap. Hair that belonged to his co-worker. Greg Sanders, who was covered with a grey, rescue-type blanket up to his chin, a pillow on the floor as if it had been pushed aside. In favor of Grissom's lap as a resting place. Brass blinked. OK. Grissom looked up, saw Brass. He smiled that Mona Lisa smile, tilted his head toward the end of the couch where Sanders' feet were. "Hey, Jim. Come on in. Have a seat." Grissom murmured, quietly, not wanting to wake Greg. His hand kept petting. Brass had to tear his eyes away from the sight. "What is this about? The kid doing alright?" The list of questions that scrolled through Brass' head all boiled down to the two that he directed at Gil. All the others weren't quite appropriate for his degree of friendship with Grissom. They were more along the lines of questions he'd ask a perp or a suspect. Jim ignored the offer of the end of the couch and pulled up one of the chairs and sat facing the couch's occupants. "Oh. Yes, he's doing well. Can't sleep when he is alone though. It doesn't bother me. I can read like this. Helps me to concentrate, he is like a touch-stone. The repetitive motion is soothing, allows the mind to focus...." Gil said, falling into that tone the detective recognized, a lecture coming up, he thought. But Grissom stopped on his own. Brass nodded as if he understood. He was once more shocked to find that Gil Grissom could make even this seem normal. He inclined his chin towards the snoozing young man. "Never thought I'd see him this quiet. I guess I thought he'd probably talk in his sleep." "Oh. He was. For a while. Until his medicine started working. He wasn't sleeping. We have been taking turns staying with him. Otherwise he doesn't rest at all. The doctor finally prescribed him a mild sedative to help. But he doesn't sleep unless someone is with him." "Nightmares?" Brass inquired, thinking he'd have them, too, if he was kidnapped and woke up without his balls. "Yes." Grissom's gaze kept flicking back to the papers he held. Drawn to the information almost against his will. Brass smirked. Gil just couldn't stop. "I won't take up much of your time. Wanted to let you know we've just got word a second group of victims has been recovered in Seattle. And we have statements being faxed in, if you want to read them tomorrow." The intent eyes were now locked onto Brass'. Attention completely undivided. "I would like to, yes. I want to understand as much as possible, what is happening to Greg. I'd like as much information as I can get." "Fine. I'll drop it by tomorrow." Brass hesitated. Then he shook his head. He *had* to ask it. "You sleeping with him, Gris?"
Part Seven (Rated FRT) It happened before Captain Jim Brass knew what had hit him. Not that it was bad or anything, just...unexpected. Catching him out of the blue. He had noticed over the course of the last several weeks, that every time Greg left the labs or a crime scene, whoever was around would give him a quick kiss good bye. It didn't seem to matter who, Brown, Stokes, Willows, Grissom, Sidle, hell, he'd even seen the medical examiner plant one on the young man's cheek. And no one made a big deal out of it. And when Greg came to work for his night shift, he'd taken to coming in half an hour early, setting up the coffee pot. One by one, who ever was around wandered into the break room and gave him a hug and a kiss. It became almost like breathing, everyone did it. No one mentioned that it was unusual, or odd. And that was nothing compared to the companionable way they sat during breaks, an arm around thin shoulders. So, when Brass was in the room, and close enough, it shouldn't have surprised him all that much when Sanders came up to him, reaching out for a kiss good-bye before he headed home, this time with Warrick. It was automatic, his response. He kissed the younger man. Smack on the mouth. The first kiss he'd ever shared with any man not a relative. Sweet and short, and unremarkable, except it was very remarkable. The two officers with him almost fell through the floor. Captain Brass could only do one thing, he pretended it was normal, tried to ignore it. Continued on with his day after Warrick and Greg disappeared. It helped that immediately after the kiss, Warrick Brown walked up, all six foot something, low key but macho as hell, and put his arm around Greg, hugging him, snuggling the tall, but too thin, young man close to his side, protective. That diverted the officer's attention. They got all twitchy, clearly not having an understanding of just what was going on. Jim Brass, however couldn't forget the event, either. He'd kissed another man. On the mouth. And he hadn't fallen through the floor. Nor had an angel appeared and told him he was forever damned. The two officers with him, recovered eventually, especially when he helped redirect their attention with a sharp word. Swear to ghod, but they were as bad as a pack of teen-aged girls gossiping. Nothing much else happened. Until Thursday, when O'Riley was around and got his own smack on the lips from Greg as he arrived in the break room with Brass, both intending to grab a cup of Greg's famous brew. O'Riley didn't bat an eye, and Brass almost burst a gut holding in his questions until they were out and away from listening ears. Of course he also got his welcome to the night-shift smooch. Not that he tired all that hard to avoid it. O'Riley had one sentence for him in answer to his initial question. "Drink a man's coffee, better not make too much of a fuss if he wants a kiss in return." O'Riley said, bland. It *was* good coffee. But Brass had to stare at him. "What?" O'Riley said, sipping the expensive and damn good beverage. "I'll run almost any gauntlet to get this stuff. He wants me to pucker, up, hell, I'm puckered." The big detective reiterated mildly. "Even my mother's coffee isn't this good." "So. You don't find any of this weird?" Brass asked, when he couldn't hold it back for another instant. "You got brothers, uncles, you kiss? Friends? I know you are married." He said the last to reassure the other men that he was confident of his male, heterosexual status, and wasn't questioning that. "Yeah. I got brothers and uncles and cousins, and hell no, we don't kiss. Grandpa and dad, yeah they got ta kiss us, sure. But my brothers, Bill and Frank. Nope. A manly hug, slap on the back, or a good handshake. No kissing them two. Not with this mug." "So why are you OK with this then? You kiss him before he got kidnapped?" That was the next big question waiting for an answer. O'Riley just shrugged his thick shoulders. Brass had to look at him. OK. So no kissing other men. Not a family tradition. I mean, O'Riley, the name wasn't Italian, Irish men don't run around kissing other men. Nor did men from the family Brass. Women, oh, yes. The more the merrier. But not men. Not unless they were dead or dying. Not unless they were relaitves and way, way younger, or way, way older. Not unless you were at a funeral, or some one in the family was elected...like President of the United States. That would be a reason to kiss another man. Maybe once. Greg Sanders was not ever going to be elected POTUS. This was work. Sure, there were plenty of dead people around. But, no one he knew well. No easy excuse there. So, why? what had made him pucker up and take it from the boy? Uh, uh. Stop there. Need to get the right terminology. He was not going to think about himself kissing a "boy". Young man. There. That was better. Not much, but some. Brass knew he was freaking out about it. He knew it was silly. He knew it was no big deal. The Chief cornered him the next day. Trying to make it seem like a casual meeting as Brass left the night shift and the Chief came on the day shift. They stood, sharing a cup of inferior coffee. Brass' de-caf so he could sleep, and the Chief asked him about it. "So what's with the Sanders kid? He coming along alright?" The Chief asked. "Yeah. He is doing fine." Brass answered. "Glad to hear it." The Chief responded. He knew Grissom. Well, technically *everybody* in Las Vegas knew Gris, but the two men were actually friends as far as Brass could tell. And that said a lot about the kind of man the Chief of Police was. Gil did not suffer fools, in any part of his life. Jim couldn't think of a lot to say, so he nodded in agreement. "So can you tell me why I am hearing for the rank and file that you kissed him?" Gary Henderson asked after they'd both scalded their tongues on the crap the station called coffee. No wonder O'Riley was willing to put out for some of Greg's. The Chief further unsettled the normally placid Brass by adding, in a fatherly tone, though they were the same age to the year. "The Department has a non-discrimination policy." Jim Brass sighed, hanging his head. It had been only a matter of time. Police officers came in a squeakingly close second to high-school girls when it came to spreading rumors. Ya think they'd give him a break, benefit of the doubt. Hell, for all they knew Brass could be related to Sanders....but he knew better than to hope for that kind of generosity. These were grown men and women. They sank their teeth into the juicy tidbit, and ran like dogs being chased by a hungry mob. Shit. The next day, Jim Brass' woke to the ringing phone. Not uncommon. It was his mother. Was there something he needed to tell her? Definitely uncommon.
Part Eight (Rated FRAO) Warrick wasn't sure how it happened. He was asleep, he was sure of that much. Then awake, a bit at a time, a slow return to consciousness. Warm, comfortable. Greg was against him, leg thrown over his hip, pressed very close. Not so unusual, pleasant really. What was different, was how his own body was responding. Enthusiastically, very interested. Not easily concealed in his cotton boxers. Warrick lay still. This was the first time he had had an erection in bed with Greg. The first time his hips wanted to arc up, to rub against the soft inside of Greg's thigh. The first time he wanted to shift himself, and ride the crease where Greg's leg met his torso. The heat that was against him was diverting his attention, and his self control. Greg, in his sleep, murmured and nuzzled into his throat. More heat, as his breath washed over the slightly damp skin there. Then cooled. No briefs. No boxers. Greg was nude. When had that happened? Warrick tried to think. They ate when they got home. Tired, he could barely remember what, frozen pasta heated in the microwave. Then a shower, then...Greg had not bothered to put on anything. Just tumbled, exhausted into the cool sheets. First himself, then Greg. And Greg had snuggled into this chest, going limp within minutes, as Warrick drifted off, not far behind. Which left him with this problem. Dilemma. Was it really a problem? Would Greg freak if he woke and found himself in bed with a naked and erect man? He didn't think so, but a lot had happened to the other man in the last month. And on that subject...Warrick wasn't even sure if Greg could get an erection. Would Warrick having one be like a slap in the face? Warrick thought about moving away. Greg, as if sensing the plan snuggled closer, the corner of his mouth damp on Warrick's skin. Did this happen to Nick, or to Gris when Greggo slept over with them? Or, for that matter, did the potential for sex come up with the girls? Warrick knew Sara at least slept in a shared bed with Greg. Maybe not Catherine, not with Lindsey in the house. It felt...strange, not bad, but strange, different. The bulk of Greg's genitals was...less bulky than he expected. Duh, Warrick, he chided himself, The man has no balls. But it was comfortable. Greg wasn't hard, he was soft and small against Warrick's hip. bare thigh to bare thigh. Trying to salve the puzzle of what to do next, if anything...hadn't done any damage to his erection. It was still hard and happy under Greg's leg. Didn't even have the decency to back off and let a man figure out what was happening and why he wasn't more freaked out about it. The last time he had gotten hard in bed with another male, he was thirteen and about to enter high school and his best friend was staying over for the night. That time it had totally freaked him out. Thank ghod, Manny hadn't been awake, and they both were in flannel PJ's. His pajama jacket long enough to hide what was in his drawers when he scurried off to the bathroom to get rid of it. Warrick wasn't sure how it came about, but his hand was on Greg. Between his legs. Touching him under the covers. And he knew Greg was awake now. He lifted his leg, opening himself, letting the long, strong fingers touch the scars. They felt smooth, slick and warm. Distinctly different than the rougher, lightly haired skin around them. One scar really, down the center, but wide enough that the first impression Warrick had was of two scars side by side. He wished he could see it. He wanted to know what it looked like, now that he had felt it. His finger tips rested there. Greg put his head down, back on Warrick's shoulder. Snuffling sleepily. Warrick's palm was cupped against his pelvis as Greg's leg fell back into it's place over Warrick's belly. And Greg was asleep again. Not bothered at all that his friend was feeling him up. touching him, in the place his balls used to be. Warrick was unsettled but the rush of emotion that washed over him by that kind of trust. What would he do if he woke up with Nick or Gil or even Brass' (what an odd thought that was) hand on his cock, hard or soft? Or around his scrotum? No question he would freak. But somehow, Greg wasn't behind that male-friend line any longer. 'Appropriate' with Greg had suddenly changed in the time since his kidnapping and involuntary surgery. The line wasn't there for him to cross. It had moved. Or disappeared all together. Warrick wasn't sure. He hoped he didn't see Greg as not a man anymore. That would be bad. He would have to think about that. It wasn't just genitals that made a man a man. So, why was he here in bed with a man? Just because Greg couldn't sleep if he wasn't? Did he finally after thirty some years have a hard on to get to know, physically, intimately another man. Did he want to have sex with Greg? Was he turned on by the difference? Was it curiosity? He felt a surge go through is pelvis light a wave, at the question of sex. He was horny. He was a man. He liked sex, and getting off. He also liked getting his partners off. He had a girlfriend, casual, but still he had a woman he slept with. Had sex with. He wasn't lacking in that department. So why Greg? Why the hard on? "What?" Greg said against his shoulder. "You thinking too loud, Rick. Woke me up." There wasn't any complaint in the drowsy voice. The arm across his chest still clung. The leg over his abdomen stayed. Warrick was fine with it. "What'cha thinkin' 'bout?" Greg mumbled, dreamily. "Sex." Warrick answered, his natural tendency to say what he was thinking over running his brain for the moment. Greg stilled, not stiff, but in a "taking an assessment of the situation" kind of way. "You got a woody." He said, still sleep slurred. "Yep, I do." Warrick let the breath he'd been holding out. "You gay? Or bi?" Greg asked, sounding more awake. Words more enunciated. "Not so I've noticed." Warrick replied, running the flat of his hand up and down Greg's slender back. "Huh. So. What do you want to do about it?" He wiggled his hip so the larger man couldn't mistake his meaning, the inside of his leg rubbing over Warrick's hard length. "Pretty big there, guy." He added. Warrick had heard that before. "You gay, Greggo?" Warrick asked, wanting time to think, and wanting to know. He felt the head shake. "Uh, no. Not really." Greg said. "But I've thought about it. wondered what it would be like. But there have always been plenty of girls around. And I never got around to experimenting. So far. I read most men have thought about it, at one time or another." "This one of those times?" Warrick asked after they lay thinking in silence. Greg didn't answer, but he did slide his leg off of Warrick, leaving a lonely place, a bit cooler behind. Warrick discovered he was disappointed at Greg's obvious decision, but not surprised. The man had been assaulted. Sexually assaulted, raped in a tangential way. It was hardly surprising that this short period of time afterward he wasn't ready to fool around yet. He just hoped that Greg would remember that sex wasn't a requirement for Warrick staying with him, giving him reassurance and comfort. He wanted Greg to feel safe. That was more important than.... Warrick grunted when the hand found him, wrapped around his erection, measured it. Greg was curious. He explored. Just like he did at work, in the lab. Carefully, methodically, enthusiastically. Warrick didn't find that unexpected at all. It was Greg through and through. The blankets were flung back The bathroom light, which Greg always wanted on now, and couldn't sleep without, illuminated them and the bed in the weak beam escaping from the partially closed door. Warrick's boxer's were history, tugged off and flung away. He was naked, and Greg was looking at him, touching him. Warrick found he didn't mind it at all, even though Greg couldn't be mistaken for a girl in any light. His foreskin fascinated the other man. Mostly women had been uncomfortable with it, if they said anything. Greg slipped the loose sheath of skin through his clever fingers, fascinated by it. Warrick had an entirely different reaction. His head dropping back, his body clenching tight, a fist forming behind his balls. A hell of a lot faster than he was used to. He was sort of proud of him staying power. This time, he was instantly on the brink. Throbbing, his rod swelling even harder, longer in Greg's grip. "Oh, man." Greg said, wonder in his voice. "Feels so..." Not able to find the words he wanted. His other hand joined the first, stroked Warrick's sack, behind it, pressed the place right there..., between balls and anus. Tickling, erotic, then firm. A jet of precum shot up and out of Warrick's slit, Greg gasped, seeing it. So did Warrick, though he was feeling it as well as seeing it, the involuntary release. Then Greg smeared it over the tip of him. "Oh fuck." Hissed. "Oh Jesus." His pulse thudded in his cock, almost painfully hard. his thighs tensing, rock hard, jittering, losing control. Greg raised his head. "You OK?" He asked, still touching. Warrick groaned, rolling his head side to side. "I can't believe it. Ghod, Greg," Warrick growled. "I am fucking going to cum." "Oh, wow." Greg was fascinated by that, too. His hand moved, a gentle up and down, taking the foreskin with it, covering the moist head of Warrick's cock with the up stroke, baring it on the down. "I want to see that." His breath washed over the sensitive head of the black man's cock, he was leaning down, close, lips parted, waiting. "Oh, Ghod." Warrick groaned at the sight. The choice was out of Warrick's hands. He showed Greg. Up close and personal, all over his face and chin. TBC
Part Nine  (Rated FRAO) Warrick stood in the doorway to Grissom's office. Gil was feeding a spider, the Latin name of which escaped Warrick at the moment. It was big and hairy and just awful. Warrick didn't mind spiders, as long as they were locked in a cage. Having the top of the glass aquarium-like cage off, he shuddered. He chose to stay well out of range. Some of Gris's spiders were jumpers. He didn't remember which ones. "Gris?" He asked quietly from his distant and he hoped, relatively safe position. "You about done for the day?" Grissom looked up, unhurried as always. He replaced the top of the small aquarium, got to his feet and returned it to the safety of the shelves behind his desk. Warrick always wondered about how visitors to the office felt. Did they even notice, in the midst of business or grief, the living ornaments that adorned the  walls? Had anyone ever, suddenly figured out what they were looking at, and screamed bloody murder? "Yes," Grissom said. "I am about to leave. What is it you need?" For a moment Warrick thought Gill was answering the unspoken question, wondering if he'd actually vocalized it...then he remembered his purpose from coming here. He wanted to talk to Gil. About Greg. He had to. Warrick came close to telling Gil right there, standing in the doorway, at work, but he didn't want it to be here. He wanted this to be away from work. He wanted this to be clearly, unequivocally personal. Private. If he didn't' talk to someone about what he'd done, find out if they thought he'd hurt Greg's recovery...he was going to unravel. Explode. He had to know. Greg as far as Warrick knew had not gone out on even one date since his kidnapping and surgery. He did know that dozens of young women called regularly at home, and seemed genuinely fond of the younger man. Greg spoke with them, cheerfully, or solemnly, but no mention of dates or sex had passed Greg's lips when Warrick was listening with half an ear. "Can I talk to you? About.. some things? Let me take you out for a beer." "It is 7am." Grissom said, reminding Warrick that they got off of work at a time that made grabbing  beer not very simple. "My condo?" Warrick volunteered. The older man looked at him, worried now. He nodded. "Yes. That will be fine. Let me lock up." He turned the key in his file cabinet and depressed the lock, then locked the desk. Picking up his coat he moved to join Warrick in the hall, switching off the lights and closing the door. Warrick led the way to the exit, keeping an eye peeled for anyone that might try and stop them to talk to Grissom. He glared forbiddingly at anyone who looked in their direction. On becoming one of the recipients of the glare, Catherine raised her brows giving him a look he didn't want to answer. He glanced away. He would deal with the fallout tomorrow when he had his head on straight. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Grissom accepted the cold, condensation-dripping bottle silently, following his younger colleague to the couch in the living room. They sat facing each other comfortably. Grissom had been here before. Pretty often really, only Nick and now Greg had been here more frequently. The two of them had struck up a strange friendship. Once or twice a month he and Gil had dinner together. Talked. Warrick liked those dinners. Found them relaxing and found Gil good company, some of  the best in fact. "I didn't want to talk at work," Warrick came right to the point. He knew Grissom was wondering about what had prompted the change in their routine, maybe thinking Warrick wanted to resign his position, or something similar. That was not even close to the truth, except...if Gris wanted to ask for his resignation after hearing what 'Rick had to say. "So this isn't about work?" Gil asked him. He seemed relieved, but still had an air of tension. He was picking up an how serious Warrick felt about this conversation. It was obvious he was upset. It was something far from casual and a social invitation that brought him here this morning. "No. I need..." Warrick stopped and thought about how to say this right. Gris was one of the smartest men he knew. He needed advice. Reassurance that he hadn't messed up bad. That Greg wasn't hurt all over again because of what happened. "I slept with Greg." The taller man blurted out, then shook his head. No, he had to be very clear, because he knew that it could be misunderstood. "I understand he sleeps better when he is not alone. He prefers to sleep in my bed when he is over at my place. With me. He needs to feel he is not alone." Grissom offered mildly, not picking up just what was upsetting his friend. His beer bottle was leaking a moist ring onto his trouser leg. He wasn't noticing it right then. "Yeah. I know that. But, what I am trying to say is, we had sex." The handsome African American man said. "Sex." Grissom repeated. He was quiet for a minute then he raised his beer and took  a swallow. And another. He licked the moisture off his mouth. "Yeah." Warrick agreed, nodding, drinking from his own bottle. "We had sex." It came out a tiny bit easier the second time. He had the strangest urge to giggle. He managed not to. "And you are telling me, why exactly?" Grissom asked, his eyes puzzled. It wasn't wrong, Warrick telling him. He sort of felt flattered that the younger man felt he could. "I need to...dammit Gris...I need to know if I hurt him, his chances of recovery..." Warrick began, only to be interrupted by a suddenly tense Grissom. "Physically?" The older man asked with a certain degree of alarm. "Was he injured...." "No. Not physically. We didn't do anything that would put him at risk of...of injury." Warrick mumbled his face growing red. Damn, he hadn't been prepared to have Gris think he'd...had anal sex with Greg. Or that he would have chanced hurting the younger man if they had. "OK. So...why tell me? Are you worried he might have suffered a negative psychological impact? Is that it? I can't offer you much of an opinion if that is the case....I am not a therapist." Grissom said then. He drank more of the beer, a controlled sip. "No, but you are a friend, and I have to talk to someone. If you think I should take Greg to a therapist then I will." "What about yourself, 'Rick? You seemed upset by the incident. Do you need a therapist yourself?" Gil asked, pointedly. Warrick shook his head. He wasn't worried about himself. He was worried about Greg. "Just listen. If you think that I should go, then, I'll go. All right?" The brown skinned man said, letting a tinge of impatience color his reply. Gil looked at his face sharply. "Fine. What happened?" He said evenly, encouraging the other CSI to talk. "We were sleeping. He was naked. We got aroused, or...well I did. Fooled around.  I had an orgasm. Two in fact. He didn't." Gil sat blinking as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to hear more. Warrick looked at him expectantly. "What? That is it?" "Yeah." "And what made you worry about him? Did he tell you no? Was he obviously uncomfortable with you? Agitated? Did he push you away? Was he acting differently?" Gil asked the questions. Warrick shook his head, thought obviously turned inward, going back to his memory of that night. "No. Tomorrow is my night with him again. I want to be sure...I don't want to do anything to hurt him." Warrick said. "What am I going to do if he...if I...if it happens again. I can't let it if it hurts him." "So, you plan to continue this relationship?" Grissom sounded both cautious and surprised at once. It was clear he did not suspect Warrick had any inclinations towards a homosexual relationship. "I am not sure. I don't know... I didn't expect it. I also didn't expect to like it, what we did. It has been on my mind almost every minute since it happened." Grissom set his bottle on the table. He leaned forward catching Warrick's hazel eyes with his own. "Rick. I don't know what to do. I have no idea how Greg feels about the two of you having sex. And you haven't told me how you feel, aside from not wanting to hurt Greg." He took the bigger man's hands in his own. "You are going to have to ask him. Ask Greg find out how he feels about it all. You need to know before you decide anything. He has to be a part of it." "How am i supposed to talk to him about this? How do you talk to a male friend about your first gay experience? When you thought you were straight? And you don't know what to do? I am not sure I want to be gay. Or give up women." "Well, Warrick, what ever you decide, you still are going to have to talk to Greg. He has to be a part of you figuring it out." "I am not sure...I am afraid of being anyone's everything. Gris. I've never been exclusive for long. And that is what Greg needs. Someone who can be there for him. Not someone who can't be faithful." And someone who doesn't know what his sexuality is any more. "Can't? Or won't?" Grissom asked. Warrick bowed his head. He wasn't proud of it. But it was who he was at this time in his life. He wasn't ready to be fully committed to anyone. "Can't." He said. "I can't." "That is what this is about. You think you won't be able to give him what you think he wants. But you haven't asked him." Gil re- emphasized. "'Rick, you have to talk to him." Warrick hung his head. He had known Gris was going to say that. He'd known it all along.
Part Ten (Rated FRAO)    Greg swallowed. The bright colors of the low lights flashed all around him, over his too serious face and his frown. He didn't want to be frowning, or to be here. But what choice did he have? He was supposed to be with 'Rick tonight, staying over at his house, but after their talk an Warrick telling him he was going back into work... Greg wasn't stupid. 'Rick needed him not to be there when he got home. Warrick Brown needed a little female action. And Greg could understand that. So he was gone, not home, out.    It was the first time since...it....happened that he had come out alone to experience the joys and perils of the night life. He used to be good at this. At living it up, getting just high enough on alcohol and...whatever...to enjoy the hell out of a night on the wild old Las Vegas strip. But...he was out of practice. It apparently didn't take all that long to be left behind by this kind of thing. He felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb, all gangly awkwardness. All knees and elbows and razor nicked chin. He ghosted a hand up to be sure he had pulled off the bit of tissue, for the third..or tenth...time.    He wouldn't have come out at all...but...the thing with Warrick, that had hurt. Being told that he couldn't do it, that Warrick couldn't do Greg on a permanent basis. Didn't want to, really was what Greg heard in that faltering, rambling explanation. That Warrick wanted a woman. Warrick was heterosexual. He didn't want Greg. He wanted a hot, sleek, buxom babe, not a skinny, spike-haired geek with not even the requisite man parts. Not that Warrick had said that. But Greg heard it clear enough. At least Warrick had told him how he felt, hadn't let it drag on, though Greg found that cold comfort.    So here he was. Out. In a club. A wild Las Vegas, keep the details to yourself in the light of day kind of club. Anything goes. Bump and grind, why bother with too many clothes kind of place. With glimpses of breasts, both male and female, belly's, both again, and hips, of each gender, flashed from under mini skirts and above scandalously low riding jeans, somtimes low enough to see pubic curls.    And Greg was feeling just sorry enough for himself, just blue enough that he was fully intending to experience as much as possible of those keep it to yourself details he was catching glimpses of. Maybe he could show them a thing or two. He doubted the denizens here had seen much in the way of castrated males. Well, he just might let them all look to their hearts content if things went right.    Greg watched the writhing dancers, the heaving groups of mixed partners, men with men, women with women, men with women, and every possible combo of multiples, but not for long. He was impatient. Restless. Angry. Frustrated. Desperate. Yeah. That was it. The word he was looking for. He was desperate. His life was fucked up. For a while he thought he was handling it well, adjusting. But it turned out he wasn't. And he needed something to take the edge off. Something like sex. He had gotten erections, but only partial ones. And he didn't ejaculate. Though he'd felt something like an orgasm once or twice.  And he'd been turned on big time with Warrick. Wet dreams, too, a few times that were mostly dry. Big thrill.    He looked around. Voila. The dance floor and it's inhabitants were still there, still moving like a wave crashing and receding, over and over. He was there on the edge in one of the darker corners almost before the thought formed.    He danced. Closed his eyes and humped, hunched, shivered and moved to the beat that had taken up residence in his gut. The pounding beat of the music, the harsh, tribal sounds, the kind that took him back to a less civilized time.    Bodies around him. Men and women. Pressing in, sliding along his skin, jeans, silk shirts, hands. Sweaty wet. Not knowing or caring if he had balls or not. Greg danced.    Hands stole around and reached for his zipper, pulled apart the edges of his shirt, touched his nipples. He didn't try to stop them.    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@    "What do you mean he's not with you?" Nick asked his voice never rising but still cutting through every nearby conversation. The area went silent, Nick not noticing, his laser-sharp eyes fixed on Warrick. Warrick feeling like a bug under a microscope.    Warrick frowned at that, for some reason feeling guilty. As if he were in the wrong. A feeling he didn't like. He'd done the right thing, been honest with Greg. Not led him on, not lied to him. The sex had been good, better than really, he'd gotten off, lights and sirens and all that, but the rest of it, the emotional, committment stuff that would come up...he couldn't do that.    "He isn't a child, Nick." Warrick returned defensively, angry at feeling the guilt growing, not lessening now that Nick knew he'd left Greg to his own devices on a night that was his to spend with the young man.    "No, he's not. He's our friend and he can't sleep if someone isn't there. With him. Keeping him from dreaming. Remembering." Nick's voice had descended into the range of a dangerous growl.    "Yeah well, maybe it is time he tried it again." Warrick said defensively, appalled at himself even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, even before he saw the way Nick looked at him. He wanted to take them back, but couldn't. He couldn't even convince himself that he should have left Greg alone after the talk. That he should have agreed to the overtime shift and come in instead of staying with Greg. Being his friend even if he couldn't be his lover. Holding him, offering comfort. But looking at Greg, seeing his face fall, the disappointment...Warrick had run. No other way to say it, he'd punked out and run.    "Why are you acting like this?" Nick asked, his voice still in the dangerous realm. Letting Warrick know he was in trouble. Big trouble. That the problem he thought he'd taken care of with his talk with Gris, his decision to end it with Greg before it got out of hand, and the horribly handled conversation with Greg wasn't his biggest problem.    "Like what?" And the still defensive tone he heard in his own voice was answer enough for both of them. Nick finally remembered where they were, and that everyone in the area was listening as hard as they could. Some not even pretending that they weren't. Archie's dark, almond eyes were fixed on them, anxious, worried, sensing that it had something to do with Greg, this hissed exchange between his two co-workers.    "We gotta talk." Nick said, dropping his voice. "After we find Greggo. He isn't answering his home phone, but let's stop by there first any way."    Warrick didn't protest that it was in the middle of their shift. He didn't say he wasn't going. He grabbed his jacket and followed the shorter figure of Nick, who seemed strangely larger in his outrage, out of the building.    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@    Grissom hadn't let them get two miles down the road before Warrick's cell rang. Warrick glanced down, saw the ID, looked back up to catch Nick's sideways glance.    "Gris." Warrick supplied the answer to the unasked question.    "Give it to me." Nick held out his hand, keeping the other on the wheel of the SUV. Warrick didn't argue with them other man. Not with the expression in Nick's eye. He handed the phone over. Nick answered it.    "Hey, Grissom. We are going to pick up Greg. I don't know where. We have to find him first. No. I don't know what happened. But I am going to find out. No. OK, fine." He handed the phone over to Warrick, casting him a pale, chilled gaze from dark brown eyes.    "Brown." Warrick answered, unnecessarily. Grissom wasted no time in speaking. He nodded. Nodded again. Listened. Nodded. Listened some more. Rubbed his forehead. Nodded. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Nodded. Closed the phone. His ears were flaming. And Gris hadn't even raised his voice once.    Nick held out his hand. Warrick dropped his phone into it, not protesting when the other man pocketed it. Warrick blinked his hazel eyes.    The conversation with Gris hadn't been very long. Only a few minutes. Gil's voice was calm, fatherly, firm. It all boiled down to: he and Nick were to find Greg. They weren't expected back until they did. Nothing was said about what to do if they didn't find him. Warrick stared off into space.    This was not what he'd wanted to have happen. It was supposed to be alright. Honesty was supposed to be the thing. Wasn't it? And he'd been honest. 100%. Hadn't he? He told it like it was.    Somehow, while trying to do the right thing he'd fucked up. Badly. He thought about what he'd do if something happened to Greg. If he was hurt. Warrick's scalp tightened and he thought about the idea that had been pounding at the back of his skull. What if he'd driven Greg to the the edge? What if he hurt himself? Because of Warrick needing to tell him the truth, needing to be independent. Not tied down. Not involved. Not committed. With a man. With Greg.    Fuck. Warrick stole a look back at Nick. The grim set of the other man's face told him how Nick would react if they found Greg with any kind of hurt as a result of this.    Gravel crunched under the tires as Nick turned into the drive leading to Greg's apartment. The place Greg hadn't been in alone since his ordeal. Warrick prayed they'd find him there. Unhurt, just not answering the phone. His eyes swept the parking lot.    Greg's car wasn't there. Impossible to miss if it were, there being only ten parking places for the four apartments in the complex. Only two cars. Neither Greg's.    Warrick felt his stomach turn as he reached for the handle to his door. They'd look to be certain, but he already new, and Nick did, too, that Greg wasn't home.

 

"Brass." Jim answered his cell. He listened to the even, controlled voice on the other end. His lips thinned. "So no one knows where he's gotten off to?"    Brass didn't point out the obvious, that Greg Sanders was an adult, had been for a number of years. That he was capable of making his own decisions. Even capable of going out on his own at night. Without his mommy or daddy trailing along.    He didn't say that, because in his gut, he knew there was a chance that Greg might not make the right decision. The safe decision. He was Greg...and Jim Brass was worried.    He hung up after gleaning all the information he could from Grissom. Grissom had come right out and said it. He was worried. Greg had recently had another shock. No he couldn't go into details. Yes, the shock was sexual in nature. He felt it put the young man at risk. He'd feel better if Brass would make sure Greg was all right. If he would find him.    Jim Brass closed the phone thinking over his options. Putting out a formal BOLO was not an option. Not yet. He flopped open his phone again, speed-dialed.    "O'Reilly." The deep voice of the big man rang in his ear.    "Problem." Jim said. "Sanders has gone off the radar. Just tonight. No real signs of foul play. But definite stressors. Grissom wants him found. Might be no problem at all. But...he worries." He didn't say that he was also worried. Let Gris take the heat for that. Gris could get away with being thought of as the mother hen. Captain Jim Brass, however, didn't want to test how well he'd get along with the tag.    The deep voice again, agreeing to meet him down by the strip, near that area where the locals went. Off the tourist track. Where Greg used to have his less than mainstream haunts. Because Greg used to be, uh, more than a little weird.    "I'll call Nick, then I'll be there." Brass speed-dialed again.    "Stokes." Nick's voice was clipped, hard, Jim Brass heard the strain in it. "Greg?" The younger man asked hopefully.    "No, Nick, it's Brass. Grissom called about Greg. He wanted our help finding him." Jim was not surprised when Nick accepted that. Started bringing him up to date, rather than ask any questions. Nick had been a cop, he understood how time was important, more important than asking too many questions no one had the answers to.    "We just left his place. No sign of him there. Left his cell on the kitchen counter." Took his car and his keys, his driver's license but we found the rest of his wallet in his dresser drawer.    "O'Reilly and I are going to some of the off strip club sites. I saw him there once. A while ago. Gil mentioned something happening to Greg recently. Any idea what it was? Might help us focus the search." He didn't ask why they'd left Greg alone. They never left him on his own. Why tonight?    "Maybe." Nick sounded like he doubted it. There was muttering in the background. Brass distinctly heard Stokes say..."...confession is good for the soul..."    "Yeah, Captain." Brass recognized the voice as that of Warrick Brown. Which clued him in big time. It had been Brown who was in Sander's bed at the hospital. He felt a surge of protectiveness towards Greg well up in him. If Brown had hurt him.... so help...    The shock of the thought he was about to carry to it's conclusion was enough to allow him to stop it before it continued down a very bad road. Before he said anything out loud, before he accused Warrick of something he had no right to say.    "Warrick. Can you tell me what happened that has Grissom worried about Greg's well-being? Can you give me any idea at all why he might want to disappear for a while?" Then he listened while Warrick talked. Reluctantly, but honestly. Jim Brass thanked him. Clapped the phone shut, forced his fist to relax. Confession wasn't good for his own soul.    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@    Greg giggled, laying across the laps of six people he'd only just met. He accepted the tiny glass of shimmering amber liquid. His fifth? Sixth? Downed it with the laughing encouragement of all, and lay back head spinning as he laughed. He was being stroked. Rubbed and fondled. It felt good. He could close his eyes and imagine....    His pants were undone, the zipper open, had been for a while, fingers rubbing over his low belly, touching, tugging on the thin trail of hair leading down. He knew he should feel weird, his pants pushed down, his dick laying along the crease of his thigh, half hard. But it felt good, all those hands, touching him, fingers touching his scars.    "Come on," someone said. "Come on. He doesn't have any balls. Feel." And more hands were on him. Sliding over the slick pinkness of his new scars. He had others, scars from the explosion in the lab, but these were much newer, much more sensitive. Not painful, just...sensitive. He shivered as fingers traced them.    "Sexy." Someone said. "Damn. I wanna fuck him. A guy with no balls. I can fuck him. I can fuck a guy with no balls. Does that count? Is he a guy if he has not balls?" The owner of the voice leaned in, big hand cupping the back of Greg's skull. "I wanna fuck you." The man said. Good-looking, young, big, some kind of college athlete type, hair curling on his chest through his half unbuttoned shirt, more hair than Greg had. Greg blinked at him, smiled sleepily. Damn he was smashed.    More hands. Girls. Guys. And suddenly his pants were way, way down his legs, around his ankles. He was turned over, face down on the table, his legs hanging off. Hands on his buttocks, patting him, petting him, squeezing him.    "Whoa." Greg grabbed for the sides of the table, moisture, spilt alcohol, beer soaked into his shirt. "Wait." He said, his tongue feeling thick. "Wait."    Beer bubbling, cold, down the crevice of his ass. More beer. Mouths on him. On his buttocks, the backs of his thighs. Up the middle of his back, his shirt up and out of the way. Mouths sucking at him, points of heat. Music pounding all around him. he lay his cheek back down on the table. That felt so good. So Good. Mouths on him. Licking him.    "Jesus," someone said, "he doesn't have any balls. He really doesn't. Jesus, that is so hot." It was another guy, sounding almost like the one who had said he wanted to fuck him, but not quite. Greg thought, illogically, "I bet they look alike." Though he had nothing to support that conclusion. No evidence. You had to have evidence before you came to your conclusion. First. Gather evidence. Because evidence doesn't lie. Then analyze it. Because evidence doesn't lie. Then come to your conclusion, set your theory... Conclusion, Greg thought, Warrick doesn't want me....why? Because the evidence doesn't lie.    "Never seen a dude without nuts." A woman was saying as small, sharp tipped fingers played over him, between his legs, up and down his scars. Smearing the wetness of the beer. He felt his shoe being pulled off, heard a thump as it fell.    "Are you going to fuck him?" A face bending down next to his. "Do you want to be fucked? Do you want a dick up your ass, a man who has some balls? Is that what you want? I can give it to you, baby. I can fuck you so good." The man smelled like beer and fruit, maybe cigarettes, but not strongly. Greg wondered what he'd taste like if they kissed.    "Hey," A woman said. "Hey. Stop that." But someone dumped a gooey mass on his butt. Rubbed it in and down between his cheeks. It was slick and slippery and even warmish. He had no guess what it was. But it felt good with dozens of fingers rubbing it in.    "I gotta fuck him. He isn't a guy. Look at him. Look. He's just begging for it. He wants it." The voice changed, deepened. "Damn, Chris, did ya see it? He has no balls."    "Do you want me?" Greg asked the handsome, blurry face. Warrick didn't want him. He reached out his hand, somehow managing to find the man's crotch, his hand massaging the hard bulge. The evidence never lied. "You...want me." Greg moaned.    "Fuck yeah, I want you." The flushed face said. "Hell, yes I want you."
Part Twelve   (Rated FRAO) There were hands on him, hands everywhere, holding him down, touching him, stroking him, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning what buttons were left. He felt the hands, tight and loose, big, medium and smaller, moving and still. He smelled something sweet, thick and almost slippery, like, honey, or caramel, this place served the best caramel sundaes for patrons with the late night munchies...It had to be caramel...smeared over him.    He felt hands and fingers swirling it onto him. Painting him with it. His belly, his groin, his chest, his nipples, up to his throat, down on his thighs, warm caramel. Then they began to clean it off of him. He groaned. Tongues, fingers, mouths suckling, licking, biting the syrup off him, scraping at it with dull teeth, his skin rising in a wash of goose-flesh. Mouths. Nibbling.    Then a tongue, another mouth, his legs pushed out of the way, so the mouth could get to him. Lave at the scars where his testicles used to be. A tongue bathing him, and licking at the thick sweetness, the syrup. Mouths shifting and changing. Hot little points of some tongues and a wide lapping of others. Greg arched his back, felt hands come behind him to support him, lifting him so he could see down his body.    Then he felt someone lick over his hole. "..oh, shit..." He mumbled, his own lips numb. And again, the caramel rubbed in, then the tongue, wide and flat lapping it off, flickering, teasing, crazy. He flushed hot, then shivered, letting out a deep, helpless moan.    'You taste like, candy." A man whispered, low and dark. "Candy man...."    Greg whimpered as the man bent down again.    Intense. He groaned, he struggled to get an arm free, they were all over him, trapping him in the position he was in, on his back now, his legs up. At last, his arm moved, he reached down, touched long hair, silky, straight, moving as the girl lapped at his groin. Hot. Very hot.    Bigger hands cupped his arse. Squeezed. Thumbs pressing into his crevice. He met the eyes of the man, lusting eyes, brown, shining hot. Breath sucked in, harsh, rough, a voice. Familiar as if he'd heard it before. "Gonna fuck you. Wanna fuck. Oh, fuck do I need to fuck you." Big man. Big man, Greg closed his eyes, not wanting to see how big.    "Damn, oh damn, he is hot. He doesn't have any balls. He's not really a guy, right? I can fuck him, even if I'm not gay." The voice muttered on, the tongues and hands moved. People were standing all around him. Fingers touching him, pinching his nipples into hard little peaks, dipping into him.    He was in a bar. Yes, a club. He remembered it, he was drunk, probably drunker than he'd ever been in his life. Drunker than he should be, definitely. And...they wanted him. He smiled, letting his head roll all the way back as someone sucked on him, finally, someone took his cock into their mouth. He couldn't tell if it was a girl's mouth or a guy's mouth. And it didn't matter to him. Not at all.    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@    Nick trailed Brass and O'Reilly into the club. It was dark but for dimly flashing lights, with a sort of trashy feel to it though expensively decorated. The patrons stared at them, pretty boys and girls dressed way down, then dismissed them, shrugging. Eyes blurred with alcohol and drugs. Except for the boy, he couldn't have been legal, who grabbed a painful, assessing handful of Nick before he could stop it, then was gone like smoke, smirking into the crowd.    "What the hell was that?" Warrick asked from behind him, discomfort in his voice, unease. "That kid assaulted you." He made a move to go after him, but Nick growled at him.    "Nothing. Forget it." Nick answered shortly, back to scanning the club for anyone who looked remotely like Greg. "Greg is more important. I am not getting tied up on some shit complaint because a horny kid goosed me."    O'Reilly forged ahead through the crowd, cutting a wide swathe. The much shorter Jim Brass followed closely, taking advantage of the other man's bulk to make a path. He didn't see anyone who looked like Greg, yet at the same time, many of them did, with their spiky hair and wild clothes, and gangly bodies so similar that at time it wasn't until a person turned and he saw the silhouette of a piquant, nipple tipped breast that he knew if the gender was male or female. He forged on. They were almost to the back door.    Nick saw him first. He couldn't believe it for several moments. It was a context in which he'd never imagined he'd see Greg. Greg. On his back. On a table. Surrounded by a crowd of men and women, laughing, some touching him, some watching, some...down between his legs. Faces smeared with something that gleamed strangely. Licking fingers, sucking...    Nick grabbed one by the scruff and pulled him off, away from Greg. His mouth left a little red mark on Greg's skin, just above his hip, his lips pink/red, caramel smeared over the lower half of his face. Greg moaned, rocking his head side to side, his eyes softly glazed.    A dreamy eyed woman lifted her head from the vicinity of Greg's groin, his penis falling from her swollen lipped mouth. Nick felt his skin crawl. He pushed her back into Warrick's arms. The taller man sat her in a chair, but she stood and staggered away.    There was a man between Greg's spread legs, a big, man, young, an athlete, his erection in his hand, shirt unbuttoned, flapping out, showing his bare chest, his six pack and his penis, hard, in his hand as he rubbed it over Greg's groin and down between his legs.    O'Reilly reached out one great paw and the man was gone, thrust aside, letting ou t a grunt. And the large Irish cop was lifting Greg up into his arms. The young man's head lolled back and forth, Nick unable to stop himself from reaching up and steadying it. Brass pulled up the pants that had been around Greg's ankles, and grimacing, wiped his hand on his own leg. Luckily his shoes were still on, because brass had no intention of crawling around on this floor looking for anything short of the Hope Diamond. O'Reilly cradled Greg against his body and began to force his way out of the press.    A girl put a hand on Brass' arm, and he turned to look at her.    "No, don't take him. He's special. He is beautiful." She said. "Have you seen him? I've never seen anything like it before. He is perfect." He turned and left her where she stood looking longingly after them.    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@    "Where to?" O'Reilly asked from the back seat of the SUV. He held Greg, wrapped in a blanket half across his lap. Streaks of the caramel syrup from Greg's body coated his shirt and suit jacket.    "Fuck." Warrick slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "Ghod damn it."    "Hey, cool it hotshot." Nick said. He leaned in to the back seat. "Do you think he needs a doctor?"    "That depends. If one of them had intercourse with him, then yes. If all the did was lick caramel off of him, then no." They all shared a look, all but Warrick who looked away over the top of the SUV, his jaw clenched as hard as granite.    "And how do we find out?" Nick asked. "He isn't in any shape to tell us."    Brass started the engine. "Doctor it is. I'll take him to the medical clinic. See if we can avoid an actual hospital. But if the doc says he's been assaulted, we are going to have to do the whole rape kit."    Greg muttered something as Brass pulled out into the traffic. Nick and Warrick were close behind in their vehicle. Brass could see the phone up against Nick's ear while Warrick drove. Probably calling Grissom. Better Nick, than me, Brass thought. Grissom was worse than a mother bear when it came to protecting his young.    O'Reilly grunted. "What?" Bending down closer to Greg's mouth.    "I don't feel so good." Greg said, perfectly clear. Sounding frighteningly sober.    "What, like throwing up?" O'Reilly asked with a degree of alarm, sitting up and searching the interior of the SUV. "I need something, a bucket, Brass. A bag. Now."    Jim found a large evidence bag, passed it back with one had keeping his eyes on the traffic. In time to hear Greg vomiting miserably in the back. And O'Reilly swearing.    "Wipes? Hand wipes? There any in this car?" The Irishman growled.    "He got you?" Brass was sympathetic as hell, he'd had plenty of witnesses and suspects throw up on him.    "Yeah. All over my pants. Shoes. Soaked from the knees down." O'Reilly sighed, resigned as the sharp acid scent filled the car. Brass lowered the window.    "Nick and Warrick will have crime scene suits. You can put one on when we get to the clinic."    'It's OK. No, wait. Any water, Brass?" O'Reilly was fussing over Greg again. Jim handed back his unopened bottle of water. He needed to buy a new flat of it anyway.    "Slow. Just sip it, rinse and spit first. Then you can drink a little. I don't want you throwing up again before we get to the clinic."
Part 13 (FRAO) Greg moaned when he woke. The mattress he was laying on was anything but comfortable. It was thinner than it should be, harder, and plastic, he could feel that through the thin, rough sheet. He turned his head a little and sniffed. The scent of the sheet decided it for him. It smelled faintly of strong detergent and cleaner. He was in a hospital. The first reaction he had was the almost impossible to resist urge to scream for help. He suppressed it, but only just. He recalled his last waking unexpectedly in a hospital. It had heralded the worst discovery in his life. He shook with shivers of reaction, fighting to keep his breath even, to not hyperventilate. Where was he? He groaned, his fear needing to come out in some way. Oh, Ghod, had they found him again? Was he back in his kidnapper's hands? He moaned, hearing the terror in the muffled sound caught behind his clenched teeth and jaw. He couldn't do it again. If he looked down and saw they had done even worse to him, if they had taken even more... He whimpered, and a hand came to rest gently, warm on his forehead. He pushed into the cupped palm, finding it comforting though nothing else was. No one had touched him last time. His stomach roiled, feeling like he was going to vomit, or had recently been vomiting if the little ache of his belly muscles was anything to go by. He smelled the sharp acid smell of stomach contents, he'd been washed up some, but he had vomited. Nothing less than a long hot shower was going to get rid of the odor of it. The hand, it smelled so much better than he did, and he burrowed his nose against the wrist. Closing down his thoughts, refusing to believe he had been recaptured, at least for  now.... "Don't move, son. The doctor is examining you." The hand stroked his skin. It was then he realized he was laying on his back with his legs up in stirrups. He barely defeated the reflex to lower his legs and slam his thighs shut, to kick out in horror over the position, the vulnerability of it. Shuddering in revulsion, fear rising once again as he felt the gloved hand on him, he turned towards the voice, eyes flying open. He gasped. Gil Grissom was seated at his side, face serious, concerned. A distraction. Greg needed one right now, his skin crawling as the exam went on down below the barrier of the raised sheet. The horror grew, even as he felt his body go limp with profound relief he had not been taken by traffickers again, he felt a gloved finger enter his body, and he stiffened further, trembling. More than trembling, it grew to a whole body shaking. "Greg? How do you feel?" Gil asked in his kindest voice, with an edge of concern growing, as his young colleague shook harder that much more. Greg gripped his hand hard. "Make him stop," he gasped out, his voice strangled. Then louder. "Stop touching me! Stop it!" It was almost a scream, tinged with a note of hysteria. Gil turned his head, stood, bending over him, his face turned towards whoever was hidden behind the drape. "Doctor..." Gil said, and the touch went away, vanishing instantly and Greg squirmed up, out of the stirrups, dragging the sheet around his legs, tucking it around himself, curling his legs up tight to his body, he pushed his face into Gil's shoulder, huddling as small as he could with his lanky limbs, his fingers holding onto Gil's waist and his belt. Gil's arms came up around him as the door slammed open, a cacophony of voices demanding to know what had happened, why Greg had screamed. The doctor was standing next to the group of people in the doorway, a medium sized, middle aged man with thinning hair, talking to Brass and O'Reilly, telling them what he'd found too low for Greg to hear. He burst into tears. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Nick and Brass were the ones who rode with him home. Nick's place not Greg's. Greg didn't mind that at all, once again he couldn't bear to think of being alone. Waking up, fearing for those few short minutes that he was back in the clutches of the traffickers...he'd been terrified. Nick sitting with him, arm around him in the back of the SUV. It was heaven. He hid his face in the hard, strong shoulder. His eyes squinched tightly shut. Keeping everything out. Just aware of Nick. Being held, cared for, breathing in the scent that was the Texan. He'd gotten to know it while sleeping with the man. It was a good healthy smell. Warm and sunny, as if Nick had just come from under the blue sky and wide, dry hay-smelling fields. Gil was staying at the clinic waiting for the evidence from Greg's truncated exam. Greg hadn't wanted to stay in the clinic. Every part of being there reminded him of the surgery he'd had, the converted house he'd woken up in. The doctor, voice calm and kindly understanding, tried to convince him to agree to finishing the exam, but he couldn't. The horror of the situation overwhelmed him. He hadn't been able to wait, not even long enough to put any clothing on. He was still wearing the clinic's gown and sheet, nothing else. O'Reilly had carried him barefoot out over the gravel to the waiting vehicle. Warrick had been there, but Greg couldn't look at him, not yet. Greg felt too ashamed by his actions. He'd gone completely out of control, just because Warrick had told him the truth. Warrick offered to carry him to the car, he was big enough, strong enough, but Greg thought the Irish cop was the lesser of all evils and wordlessly looked over at the big, quiet man lounging just inside the door way. O'Reilly had known what he wanted and stepped over without hurry, leaning down and picking him up. Carrying him not without a little effort, but less than he would have had to use a few months ago. Greg had definitely lost weight. Greg wasn't really angry with Warrick. It was just that he didn't want Warrick to have to do anything for him. Warrick had made it clear, had been honest that touching Greg was hard on him. He couldn't do it, not they way Greg wanted. So, Greg thought it was much better not to force him. O'Reilly was strong enough, and he was safer in Greg's point of view. He felt safe. Being held by O'Reilly. Big and fatherly, kind. Like Grandpa Olaf when he'd been only a child. When the old man was strong enough to lift a little boy up and carry him where ever he wanted to go. A long, long time ago. Nick spoke with Warrick on the way to the car, his words sharp and firm, Warrick listening with a look of stubbornness set on his face. He kept looking over at Greg, but Greg acted as if he wasn't aware of it. Warrick had been truthful to him. Greg had to be grateful for that. He just needed more time to deal. Even so, he strained to hear what was being said. Greg was only able to hear the tone of the one-sided conversation, Nick's normally soft drawl, much harder. A conversation that ended with Nick dropping a set of keys into Warrick's hand, turning and leaving the other man staring after him, jaw clenched. Pissed. Then Nick climbed into the SUV and put an arm around Greg, held him. And Greg needed the touch too much to protest. He leaned over and put his head on Nick's shoulder closing his eyes. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Nick put Greg into the shower, hot water cascading down. Then he undressed himself, got in and stood next to the taller man, washing like they were not sharing a tiny shower at all, one that made them bump into each other at every turn. Bare skin sliding over bare skin, no choice about it. Just like they were two friends on a sport's team. Greg had protested a bit at that, sharing a shower was not exactly what he felt like doing. His head ached and his body felt as if he'd been pummeled, tight and dry and aching. But halfway through the washing up, he felt dizzy, it hit him suddenly, his head spinning, and he conceded that Nick showering with him had been a brilliant idea. Otherwise he'd never have made it out of the cubicle and onto the toilet seat without fainting. Nick stood over him, giving him sips of cold water. Drying his face and back  with a soft towel. Greg moaned. He was so frustrated with all of it. He was not a child, but he was forced to admit he couldn't function alone. He proved it to himself over and over. If his friends weren't so willing to take him in he'd have been in the nut house by now. Or back in the hospital. He couldn't sleep unless someone was with him, couldn't relax if he was alone. At crime scenes he could do the work...as long as he wasn't alone. He was good, he knew, his mind was sharp, he instinctively got things, understood them, could rationalize and analyze with the best of them. He recognized patterns and could extrapolate what they potentially meant. His background as a forensic lab tech had prepared him very well for the role of CSI. He scored very high in all the areas he was tested in. But. He couldn't be alone. Not now, not yet. Maybe, he worried, not ever. When he was alone...and sober, he couldn't stop looking over his shoulder. Nick stayed there on the bathroom floor, crouched in front of him while he drank from the glass. Nick, who's dark brown eyes watched him, hyper-aware of everything, alert. Watching to see if Greg was going to topple over. He wore a towel draped over one thigh and between his legs. So when Greg looked down he could see the edge of his pubic hair, but he wasn't staring Nick's crotch in the face. A few minutes more and Greg was ready to try to make it to the bed. Nick stood first, wrapping and tucking the towel with the comfort of a once high school or college athlete, proud of his body, and in front of other men not feeling the need to be modest. Greg envied him that ease. Then he forgot all of that as Nick cautiously helped him to his feet. Greg swayed ominously, his fingers digging into Nick's arms, his face buried in the shorter man's neck once more. It was the only way he made it to the bed, hunched over, head full of cotton wool, Nick lowering him into the mattress. Fuck, Greg hated the way too much alcohol made him feel. Sick. Dehydrated, Dizzy. If he'd been feeling anything but incredibly humiliated and full of an irrational fear, he would have stayed at the clinic and begged for an IV. If he'd had any sense open to him stronger than embarrassment. The doctor had been doing a rape kit and exam on him. Ghod damn. A rape kit. Greg tried to think back to remember if he had been raped, if anyone had been inside of him. But the night was pretty much a blank after arriving at the club. He'd set out to  get seriously blotto, and he'd managed just that. He'd been feeling so sorry for himself. Well, he wished he could go back to then, before the idiotic idea of going to the club. Now...he thought about the possibility he had been raped. He didn't feel bad. Once that caramel sauce was off his skin actually felt extra smooth, sensitive, like after some silly spa treatment. He flushed. Point was he didn't have pain. He didn't think anyone had gotten inside of him. He was pretty sure of it. Just not absolutely sure. He had been awfully relaxed. Maybe whoever it was was small. He forced himself to think of other things as Nick brought him a tray. Food. Not good. Soup. Well, all right, worth a try. He got half of that down, and a bunch of saltines. The saltines were very bland, and that was good. More plain water. Then he  couldn't face another bite. Nick took the tray away without making an objection. Nick who Greg'd learned to his happy surprise would make someone an excellent mother some day. The vision made Greg smile. Who would have guessed? Nick the nurturer, as much as Warrick had been the protector but not much of a caretaker. Warrick, who's frank honesty had started all this. Nick's best friend, who Nick was angry with. Which wasn't right. "Nicky. It wasn't Warrick's fault." Greg said carefully when Nick came back, dressed in his flannel pj bottoms. He never slept nude, not with Greg at least. Not in all the nights they'd spent together, spooned comfortably. Nick looked at him. "I am not angry with him and you shouldn't be either. This was my fault not anyone else's." Greg offered more. Watching to see how Nick was taking it. Not well, he decided. "It was his night. He was supposed to be with you." Nick said, his clenched jaw relaxing no more than necessary to growl the words. "He didn't want to be. He shouldn't have had to be. I should be over this by now." Greg said next. It was true. He shouldn't still be unable to sleep on his own. Insecure, weak... "It was his night. He said he would spend it with you." Nick said. "He broke his promise." Greg blinked. Warrick hadn't promised him anything. Just who was Nick talking about. What promise? "What promise?" Greg asked, bewildered. "When we found you, found out what you'd been through, we promised each other we'd take care of you, anything you needed to get well." Nick said. "All of us. We'd do anything to keep you safe. We aren't going to let you die because we aren't watching out for you, like we should. I thought he'd learned better after last time." Greg sat there speechless. Last time. Last time..... Then it came to him. He did recall that there had been a young woman, a CSI, brand new to the team, who had been left alone, and who had died. But that was all he had known about it. No details.

 

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