Title: The Old Ball Game (Working Out 11)
By: Shelley Russell
Summary: Candles in the dark, softball in the park, Gris and Tina fight, Warrick makes it right. For now.
Characters: Warrick/Grissom
Warnings: Established couple, Humor, Romance
Note: A huge thanks to my beta Rebecca for her encouragement, keen eye, wicked humor, and great suggestions.

******

It wasn't the conventional way to do it. Probably not the best way, either. Definitely not the most efficient way. But Warrick Brown thought it was the perfect way to learn to sign "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

He reclined comfortably behind his boyfriend Gil Grissom on the lounge end of a large leather sectional--an enormous couch the two men had bought together and housed in Grissom's townhouse. Warrick's long arms rested on top of Grissom's arms, long fingers lay on top of his hands, long legs wrapped around his hips. Grissom leaned back relaxed against Warrick's muscled chest.

"Take me out to the ball game," they sang together slowly, softly, Gris slightly off-key, moving arms and fingers, signing the words as they sang. Warrick's arms and fingers were carried along, making the same elegant movements as his boyfriend. Warrick most enjoyed making the signs for ball game, because he got to wrap his arms completely around Grissom's chest then hug hard.

Even better, at any time Warrick could easily kiss and lick his boyfriend's tanned neck.

"Take me out with the crowd," they continued, though Grissom's low tenor voice shook slightly as full lips kissed where neck and shoulder joined.

Warrick's arms, hands, and fingers floated. He needed this closeness. The day after tomorrow, Gris would be flying off to Philadelphia to conduct a forensic entomology workshop. And, unfortunately, the two men's schedules didn't promise any time for closeness after today.

So, even though Warrick could sing the song and make the signs well enough by now, he wasn't about to let on. Not when the vibrations from his boyfriend's singing rumbled right into Warrick's chest and belly; not when his boyfriend's pink earlobes beckoned in such easy reach.

"Buy me some peanuts and--" a gasp as Warrick lapped the curve of a right ear. The tenor growled a warning, "Anima, do you want to make Latisha happy or not?"

Warrick grinned. Latisha. His twelve-year-old cousin who happened to be deaf. And whom Gris had taught to belt a softball out of the park. Lala was starting her first game as short stop for the Las Vegas School for the Deaf Junior Varsity today, a bright cloudless Tuesday in the middle of April. Warrick and Gris had promised to be at Doc Romeo Park at 3:30 that afternoon to cheer her on. Warrick glanced at the living room clock. In just under four hours, in fact. Which was why he was learning "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in sign language. Even for the deaf, it was the traditional anthem of the seventh-inning stretch.

"Warrick, you're too distracted." Obviously tired of waiting for his boyfriend's response, Gris tried to pull away, but long brown arms made sure he didn't budge.

"I'm getting the tune down, baby. Gonna make Lala proud. Just need the extra practice." He kissed Grissom's bare pale shoulder then nuzzled into his hair. "We got some Cracker Jack to buy, don't we?"

A slightly exasperated sigh, then Gris leaned his head back against Warrick's shoulder. Green eyes widened at the expanse of soft, succulent skin. As tempting as a blackjack table when you can't draw nothing but Aces and Kings. A pink tongue licked full coral lips and slicked over strong white teeth. Warrick closed his eyes against temptation and felt his arms, hands, and fingers coast again, guided by his sturdy boyfriend.

"Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack."

Yeah. No distracting temptations here and now. No distracting temptations earlier, either. Nope, Warrick hadn't been distracted at all when he'd grabbed his boyfriend as soon as he'd walked in the door at 10:30 a.m., or when Warrick had undressed Gris and made love to him and then settled down behind him for some serious singing and signing on their massive couch.

"I don't care if I never get ba--" Gris yelped as Warrick bit tender skin. Damn. Warrick never was any good at avoiding temptation.

Long brown arms hung unsupported in mid-air as Grissom leapt to his feet, right hand clapped to his left shoulder.

"What the hell?!" Gris jerked his fingers away from his shoulder, obviously expecting to see blood. Luckily there wasn't any. Surprise and shock on his face.

Warrick hadn't meant to bite down so hard, but he wasn't sorry he'd done it. Hooding his eyes, he challenged, "Thought since we were going out in public, I'd remind you you're already taken."

Well, if Grissom wasn't surprised before, he was now. But that didn't stop his soft lips pursing in speculation or his blue eyes steeling with determination. Challenge accepted, and Warrick grinned in anticipation.

Suddenly, strong fingers wrapped around Warrick's ankles and yanked. He and his rich blue silk sleep pants slid effortlessly down the sectional's leather fabric. His head bounced on a soft cushion as he landed flat on his back. A heavy, muscled body flattened him deeper into the couch. Vise-like hands held his head immobile while firm lips and an insistent tongue attacked his mouth, chin, and throat.

"Oh, Jesus!" Warrick groaned, arching his back, wrapping his arms tightly around a broad, muscled back. "Baby, god, baby, yeah, damn, goddamn, please, baby, fuck!" Each word louder as his boyfriend's fiery mouth blazed over caramel brown skin, as skilled fingers twisted a chocolate brown nipple. A bulging hardness barely contained by Grissom's boxers pressed hard into Warrick's inner thigh.

The weight, the wildness, the want poured over him. And he suddenly craved it. All of it. If ever there was a man Warrick could give himself to, could open up for, could grant full possession to, it would be Gris. Warrick's breath caught hard at the thought. He'd never considered allowing anyone to penetrate him with anything beyond sly fingers. Never wanted to consider it. He wasn't built for it. Wasn't programmed for it. Wasn't a whisper of his crafted self image. Not today. Maybe . . . Warrick shook his head free. But no. Oh, no. Not ever.

He shoved hard against Grissom's shoulders, surprising Gris, surprising himself. His boyfriend sprawled off the couch and onto the tile floor. His head just missed banging into the coffee table. Face flushed, chest heaving in deep breaths, Grissom looked confused and startled. Warrick fleetingly breathed relief that he hadn't hurt Gris but then launched himself onto his boyfriend's stocky body. The palms of Warrick's large hands slapped the tile floor, but he didn't notice the cold, unyielding surface. He didn't notice how the hard cold tiles might feel to his boyfriend's bare back. And Gris obviously didn't notice, either. His thick legs wrapped around Warrick's hips; thick fingers dug into his skull; thick, cloth-covered cock pistoned against his hard belly. Their lips and teeth cracked together, their breaths and moans fused.

Scalding minutes of kisses and licks and nips and thrusts before Warrick pulled back, voice deep and rough as the Colorado River in flood. "Need you. Now."

He shoved the heavy coffee table out of the way, rolled to one side, then grabbed the top of his boyfriend's gray print boxers. Gris lifted his hips, and Warrick yanked the underwear down, scoring thigh and calf with over-eager finger nails. But Grissom didn't notice the harsh scrapes anymore than he noticed the hard floor. His glazed blue eyes stared into burning green. His mouth fell open, hungry for full lips, hard teeth, slick tongue, and hot breath.

Ignoring the knot in the drawstring of his sleep pants, Warrick skinned the tight waist over his hips and down just far enough to free his stiff ebony cock.

He grabbed the open tube of lubricant off the coffee table, smeared a more than generous amount onto his fingers, slicked his cock. He watched Gris grab under his knees, spread himself, roll himself back. Open his body freely, give his body willingly. Warrick swallowed at the complete trust and love on his boyfriend's face. Shame crept up Warrick's neck. Why couldn't he offer the same?

"Please," Grissom pleaded. "Anima mea . . . my soul . . . please. Fill me." His hips rose. His cock jerked. His eyes burned. His voice whispered, "Fuck me."

Damn. Gris asking. No, Gris begging. Warrick's heart beat double pumped.

What did it matter if Warrick couldn't break through his self image, no matter how selfish or artificial or constraining that self image was? No, nothing mattered right now but Grissom's need and Warrick's aching cock.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I'll fill you up. I'll make you scream, baby." Warrick didn't pause to prepare Gris for entry. Warrick's big body covered his boyfriend; big cock pushed inside. The two men groaned loudly: Warrick from the exquisite tightness; Grissom from the welcome, if painful, completion. Warrick moved quickly, taking away and giving back, filling then vacating Grissom's body. Thrusts so powerful, Warrick slowly pushed their bodies across the floor. They skidded to a halt only when Grissom's head and shoulders lodged snug against the bottom shelf of a book case.

"Oh, god, so good, so good!" Gris keened.

"Yes, baby, yes!" Warrick repeated each time he sank into the slick velvet heat.

Their voices joined in harsh moans, greedy whines, throaty shouts. All soul burning, body firing need. Warrick watched Grissom's handsome face flash into unthinking desire, heard his ecstatic howl, felt his muscles clench and spasm hard around Warrick's cock. The sharp smell of hot come spattering their stomachs and chests. His senses filled, stretched, and shattered as he endlessly emptied himself into his boyfriend.

Several minutes later, full lips smiled crookedly when Warrick could think again. Emptied and filled at the same time. A conundrum. A mystery in the classic sense. He raised his head from Grissom's chest to share these thoughts.

Damn. Gris looked like he'd passed out. Double damn. Warrick suddenly felt the cold hard tile punishing his knees. How must Grissom's back be feeling? And how about his head and shoulders crammed up against the Loeb Classical Library? And how about his body crushed, folded in on itself under Warrick's full weight? Arms shaking, Warrick pushed himself up and off Gris. The muscular legs dropped limply to the floor.

"Baby?" Concerned, even scared, Warrick ran his sensitive musician's hands over his boyfriend's panting chest and limp arms, chafed the blood back into his legs. Warrick cradled Grissom's face, ruffled his soft beard. "Baby?"

Blue eyes fluttered open. "Holy shit."

A relieved laugh. "You okay?"

Slow, deep breaths. "I don't know if I'll ever walk again, but, yeah, I'm okay. Better than okay." Liquid, sky-colored eyes focused in wonder on the dark face. But Warrick felt unworthy of the adoration.

"Let's get you cleaned up and warmed up," he said brusquely, pulling his sleep pants back up over his hips, pushing against the bookcase to lever himself to his feet. His knees and elbows ached. Still, he marched purposefully across the living room toward the hall, in search of a warm, soapy washcloth and a chance to regain his balance.

"Warrick?" a soft, confused voice called after him.

"Be right back, baby."

He powered down the hall, left into the master bedroom, then into the bathroom. Twisting the sink's taps full blast, he waited for the water to warm, took several deep breaths, and avoided looking at himself in the mirror.

When the water at last grew hot, he lathered up a dark green washcloth and breathed in the soap's calming sandalwood scent. He cleaned himself quickly, vibrating nerves echoing with the memory of Grissom's lush body.

Warrick looked up into the mirror and saw shame-filled green eyes reflected back. Over the last five months, he'd pushed his boyfriend to open up, try new things, expand his horizons. And Grissom had done all these things. He'd moved slowly--too slowly for Warrick. But Gris had at least tried. Warrick, though, couldn't, he shook his head, wouldn't budge. He swallowed then bit the inside of his bottom lip.

He would apologize to Gris for being so rough. Damn. He sighed then straightened his shoulders. Honest green eyes reflected determination. He would apologize to Gris for being rough and for being a hypocrite.

Warrick rinsed the washcloth clean then soaped it back up. Turning off the taps, he grabbed a full size towel, draped it over his shoulder, and headed back to the living room.

One step out of the hallway, and he stopped still. Thoughts of confession fled as a neon grin slowly lit up his face.

Completely nude, Gris sat cross legged in front of the bookcase. The fingers of his left hand ran absentmindedly over his stomach, spreading sticky come everywhere they touched. His right hand cradled an open book. Focused on the print, he lifted his left hand to turn the page, realized in time that his hand felt odd. He looked curiously at it, seemingly surprised at its stickiness. Using his left elbow and the thumb of his right hand to flip the page, he turned his attention back to the book.

The sound of dripping water caught Warrick's attention. The hot soapy washcloth was rapidly losing both heat and soapy water. He crossed the living room floor and crouched beside his boyfriend.

"I haven't read this in a long time," Gris said eagerly, blue eyes glowing, intellect engaged.

"What's that?" Warrick gestured at the book with his chin as he took the sticky left hand into his own and began to clean it.

"Moby Dick." A pleased, expectant look on Grissom's face. "It's a whale of a tale."

Warrick didn't make the connection. "You pick that book on purpose?"

"Yep. On porpoise."

Warrick groaned at the pun and flicked the wet washcloth at Grissom's belly.

Unrepentant, Gris smirked, "A book about a sperm whale. Get it?"

"Yeah. You gonna get it, too, you keep making puns like that, boyfriend." Warrick washed glistening sticky sperm off sleek skin then dried Gris with the bath towel.

Meanwhile, self-satisfied, Grissom flipped through the book, possibly looking for a familiar passage. "Herman Melville liked puns, too. Did you know that whalers used every part of a whale? They even used the male's foreskin. They turned it inside out, stretched it, dried it, cut arm holes in it. One of the sailors would wear it like an apron to protect his clothing while he minced whale blubber."

Standing slowly, Warrick pulled his boyfriend to his feet then turned him around. Kneeling beside him, Warrick washed and dried Grissom's inner thighs and ass as Gris continued, "The whalers called this apron 'a cassock.' An irreverent term, considering that a cassock is what a priest wears when saying mass. Melville said any sailor wearing that cassock was fit for an archbishopric." Right eyebrow raised, Gris looked down at Warrick. "Melville added a 'k' to the end of the word."

Warrick rolled his eyes and stood up. He nudged Gris in the direction of the couch. "Archbishoprick. Prick. Penis. Foreskin. Sperm. Sperm whale. I get it. You just read this stuff for the bad jokes and the sex?"

A clean left index finger raised. "While Moby Dick is one of the most homoerotic novels in the English language, it's also the greatest novel about everything: death, love, sex, obsession, science, religion, politics, race, class, language, culture--"

"Life, the universe, and everything," Warrick interrupted, folding then dropping the bath towel on the floor, wash cloth on top. He picked up the gray print boxers and held them out to his boyfriend. "Bet it's not as funny as the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."

Gris ignored the boxers and flipped pages instead. "No, but it's a lot more kinky. There's a whole chapter about sailors squeezing each other's hands in sperm oil. Aha!" Blue eyes shining, he pointed to a passage he'd marked with a light pencil check in the margin. He read in a loud, clear voice, "There, then, Queequeg sat, holding up that imbecile candle in the heart of that almighty forlornness. There, then, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly holding up hope in the midst of despair."

Considering that every day they worked with the messy aftermath of meaningless death, Warrick understood how that passage could have special meaning for Gris. But Warrick would have no truck with despair. "Like that classic Chinese proverb: 'Don't curse the darkness, light a candle.'"

"Well, that's a more positive, practical spin."

"Way I'm built, baby. Just so you know, I prefer a Mag-Lite to a candle."

Gris smiled slyly, taking his boxers from Warrick's big hand. "I would've pegged you for a flamethrower kind of guy."

"Not as portable. I only haul that out on special occasions." Warrick grinned. Six months ago, if you had told him that he'd be discussing Moby Dick and Chinese proverbs with a naked Gil Grissom in his living room, Warrick would've asked you what you'd been smoking. He grinned wider. Six months ago, if you had told him that he'd be fucking a naked Gil Grissom across the floor of his living room, Warrick would've asked you what you'd been smoking and where he could buy some.

Gris set the thick novel on the coffee table and stepped into his underwear. "You know, Carl Sagan's last book was The Demon Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark."

"Yeah. I still have the copy you read and passed on to me my rookie year. You'd underlined 'The Believer Type knows everything about Atlantis, but not a thing about DNA.' Always wondered if that was a message for me."

A quirky smile. "Well, you have managed to learn a bit more about DNA since then."

Warrick laughed at the gentle poke and was rewarded by the rarely seen, brilliant full Grissom smile. Warrick had to remind himself to breathe.

He watched Gris reach for Khepri who perched precariously on the back of the couch. Khepri was the stuffed orange and black toy scarab beetle Warrick had won for his boyfriend at Tut's Tomb Amusement Park. Gris grabbed the stuffed beetle by one of its six black legs, slid onto the lounge end of their dune colored couch, settled himself against the back, slipped Khepri like a pillow behind his head, held out his two arms in invitation.

"Shall we pick up where we left off?"

Warrick crossed his arms and looked suspiciously at his boyfriend. "I believe I was sitting behind you."

"A change in perspective never hurts."

Studying the dark red smudge on Grissom's shoulder, Warrick said, "Me sitting with my back within easy reach of your pearly whites could wind up hurting me plenty, boyfriend."

An offended stare. "I practice kindness rather than revenge."

"Uh huh. Shakespeare in there somewhere?"

A slight smile and quick shrug. "'Kindness, nobler ever than revenge.' Act 4, Scene 3, As You Like It."

"Well, not sure if this is how I like it, baby," Warrick gestured at the couch.

An irresistible challenge. "I thought you liked taking risks."

Green eyes glowed. "Only when there's a suitable reward."

Gris held his arms out wider and lasered a look steamy enough to liquefy his boyfriend's bones. A reward worth any risk. Shaking his head, Warrick melted onto the couch. He scooted back between his boyfriend's muscular legs, leaned against his broad chest. Strong arms slipped underneath long arms, strong fingers underneath long fingers. A soft beard tickled a bare brown shoulder.

"Take me out to the ball game," they sang and signed together, brighter and warmer than a thousand candles in the dark.

******

"Hello. My name is Gil Grissom. I am hearing. My mother is deaf. I learned to sign from her. I also learned at the Las Vegas College for the Deaf. My friend's name is Warrick Brown. He is hearing, too, but he signs little. Warrick's cousin is Latisha Walker. She plays shortstop for the Las Vegas School for the Deaf."

Standing near a bright green softball field in Doc Romeo Park, under a bright 90 degree sun, dressed in a purple LVSD Ravens baseball cap, light green Hawaiian shirt, beige shorts, and dark brown Havana Joe's sandals, Warrick watched and listened. He smiled and nodded at appropriate moments as Gris repeated his monologue with hands and voice to every deaf person they met. It was a painstaking process, but Warrick knew from hard earned experience that interacting successfully with any culture required certain niceties.

Until this moment, he'd witnessed only two occasions when his boyfriend had used his fluid ASL skills in public. And both occasions had . . . sucked.

Dr. Jane Gilbert, an administrator at the Las Vegas College for the Deaf, had angrily thrown Warrick and his colleague Sara Sidle off campus for their unintended disrespect of Deaf culture. Warrick and Sara had reluctantly slunk back to the College carried in Grissom's wake. Gris didn't immediately win over Dr. Gilbert, but he secured her cooperation. On the ride back to the Lab, though, Gris had reamed out Warrick and Sara for showing up to interview a witness without being prepared. Even Sara had sat meekly during that ass whupping.

And then, last February, the disastrous dinner with Grissom's mother Mary Grace. But, well, that hadn't been disastrous because Mary Grace was deaf. That had been disastrous because Mary Grace was a bitch. Warrick and his boyfriend were still dealing with the nasty aftereffects.

Here at Doc Romeo Park, though, Warrick felt completely relaxed. He enjoyed being fascinated and thoroughly entertained by his boyfriend. And Warrick enjoyed thinking how much Grissom resembled an ice cream cone: cream-colored polo shirt, pants the same shade as a waffle cone, and a cherry red Stanford Cardinals baseball cap sitting on top. Warrick's tongue touched his upper lip. Yeah. Oh yeah. He could just taste Gris. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on the conversation in front of him before he got himself and his boyfriend thrown out of Doc Romeo park.

"Jason Monette, Gallaudet, hearing family, graphic design artist." Gris interpreted as a tall, thin young man with dreadlocks, coffee colored skin, and a suspicious attitude signed. He wore a yellow Deaf Pride tank top, blue jean cutoffs, and flip flops. His dark eyes looked Warrick up and down, subtly dismissed him, then turned back to Gris, "You sign okay for a hearie. What do you do?"

"I'm a criminalist for the Las Vegas Police Department."

Warrick sighed as Grissom carried on with the conversation, seemingly unaware of what Jason had done. Unlike Gris, Warrick had encountered more than his fair share of bigots. Although this was the only time Warrick had ever been slighted because he could hear.

With a light, parting touch to his boyfriend's back, Warrick strolled nearer to the short fence surrounding the softball field. Latisha's team was warming up. The LVSD Ravens: girls twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years old, all having the time of their lives. He watched Latisha snag a grounder and snap it to first base. She looked sharp in her purple and white uniform. Lala was concentrating so fiercely, she hadn't yet spotted her cousin.

Of course, all of the LVSD kids concentrated fiercely. Their eyes followed the flight of the ball from shortstop to first base to catcher. Warrick knew that even though most of them could hear a little, they didn't hear well enough to rely on it. And those that benefitted from wearing hearing aids took them out during games. Sweat messed with the batteries. And, to be honest, kids had a tendency to lose small stuff like hearing aids.

The sun bleached LVSD female coach hit a fly ball into left. The left fielder booted the ball. Warrick shook his head. Not that a hearing athlete might do any better, but deaf kids couldn't help but be a little clumsier than hearing athletes. Considering that balance depends so much on the workings of the inner ear, what can you expect when your inner ear doesn't work so good?

Warrick glanced around at the crowd gathering in the bleachers behind the LVSD dugout. Most of the spectators were either fellow students, dressed in purple and white LVSD t-shirts, or members of the Deaf community. Their nimble hands, eloquent bodies, and expressive faces gossiped and laughed and joked. Of all people who share a common language, the Deaf particularly cherish opportunities to gather en masse.

Still, a few parents and relatives showed up, too. Weird that almost all of the kids' parents could hear. Gris once mentioned that about ninety percent of deaf children come from hearing households. Strange to think that birth defects and meningitis are partly responsible for keeping Deaf culture alive.

With that thought, Warrick turned back to look at his boyfriend, still engaged in a lively conversation with Mr. Deaf Pride.

"Shakespeare speaks to all ages and all people," Grissom was saying and signing with emphasis, his face indignant and insistent. "Deaf West gave an excellent production of Romeo and Juliet in the 1990s."

Warrick grinned. Yeah. His boyfriend was in his element. Gris moved smoothly among the Deaf, reaching out to touch complete strangers, allowing complete strangers to touch him, revealing personal information to them, showing more emotion than he ever would to the hearing world. His habitual social awkwardness seemed completely absent. And he seemed completely unconscious of the change. But no way Gris wasn't gonna defend Shakespeare, even if the Bard of Avon was an old dead white male hearie.

"Warrick!"

He spun in the direction of the familiar voice, threw his arms out wide as Cousin Celia scampered toward him. She was still dressed in her nurse's uniform, pink and yellow hearts on a pastel blue smock and solid pink pants. She worked days in the coronary care unit at Desert Palms, but she'd moved heaven and earth to leave early in order to watch her daughter's first softball game.

"Hey, girl! How's my favorite cousin?"

"It's undignified for a public servant to fib, Warrick," she grinned.

They hugged each other tightly. Celia was a couple of years younger than Warrick and a couple of feet shorter. Slim as a whip, she smiled at the least excuse. But her dark brown eyes had seen plenty of hardship: ten years ago, a sweat-covered junkie still high on crack had slipped out of his handcuffs, grabbed a guard's pistol, and shot and killed two guards, a court reporter, and an assistant district attorney before killing himself. The young ADA had been Celia's husband Ben. She'd grieved, she still grieved, but she quickly gave up her dream as a professional singer, put herself through nursing school, and went to work as the sole bread winner for her daughter. Her toughness and resiliency inspired Warrick daily.

He reluctantly released her. "How'd you get your tough as nails supervisor to let you go early?"

Her maple sugar cheeks darkened. "Um, Warrick," she stepped back and indicated a woman dressed in a broad-brimmed straw hat, blue scrubs, and a blue and white lab coat, standing just behind Celia.

Uh oh. Warrick tried to recover, "And I mean that in the best possible way."

Thank god she laughed. Damn, but she was beautiful. Early 30s, dark eyes, dark honey brown skin, golden brown, curly shoulder-length hair, straight white teeth in a sweet, self-assured smile.

"I've been called worse." Damn, but her voice was beautiful. She held out her hand. Even her hand was beautiful. Warrick took it carefully. Not surprising, her grip was firm and confident.

"Tina," Celia sighed. "This is my cousin Warrick Brown. He can't help it. We dropped him on his head a lot when he was a baby."

"Lucky for me, that is my least vulnerable spot," he cribbed a line from Casablanca, one of his boyfriend's favorite movies.

"Well, Mr. Warrick Brown, when I don't go by 'tough as nails supervisor,' I'm called Tina Hopkins."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Tina Hopkins." And Warrick meant it. Hoo. This was a great year for meeting beautiful Tinas. Uh, not that he was gonna do anything more than look. Or maybe flirt.

"Gil!" Warrick snapped his eyes from Tina to see Celia bolt forward, wrapping his boyfriend in a patented Brown family hug. Gris smiled shyly and patted Celia on the back.

"Warrick, I could use my hand back," Tina said softly. He looked down at their joined hands then quickly let go. He took a steadying breath. Good thing his boyfriend was focused on Celia.

"Tina Hopkins," Celia grinned, shepherding Gris over. "This is the handsome man I've been telling you about. Dr. Gil Grissom. He's the one taught Latisha to bat."

A slight chill stiffened Tina's smile. She didn't hold out her hand. "Dr. Grissom."

"Girl, will you relax?" Celia huffed. "He's a Ph.D. not an M.D."

"Oh. Sorry, I--" An embarrassed smile, a slight shake of her head, then Tina offered her beautiful hand. "I've had my fill of medical doctors today."

Grissom's strong hand cradled hers briefly, "Well, what's the old saying?: 'Nursing would be a dream job if there were no doctors.'"

Tina laughed, "You got that right."

Celia hooted, "Gil has the perfect quotation for every occasion."

Warrick grinned, "Yeah, and he's tough as nails, too."

Tina laughed again while Gris looked confused.

"Aunt Tina! You made it!" A girl about the same age and size as Latisha charged up and grabbed Tina around her middle. Unlike Latisha, this girl was dressed in a blue and white uniform, angel's wings logo on the front. The colors of Our Lady of Las Vegas Catholic School, LVSD's opponent for today's game. The Angels.

"Hi, sweetie." Tina hugged briefly, then turned the girl around to introduce her. "Everyone, this is Miss Darcy Hopkins, my sister's child."

"Aunt Tina," Darcy rolled her eyes, obviously embarrassed at the 'Miss.' She squirmed out of Tina's grip. "Coach is calling. See ya after the game." They watched her sprint to rejoin her team.

"Shall we?" Gris gestured toward the aluminum bleachers behind the LVSD dugout. The Ravens were the home team today.

"Well," Tina hesitated then nodded in Darcy's direction. "Much as I'd like to sit with you all, I better cheer from behind the Our Lady dugout. Besides, I'll be able to sit with you after the game," she smiled slyly as she started for the other bleachers. "Since Mr. Brown is buying us all dinner."

"Oh, I am, am I?" he grinned.

"Uh huh," her dark eyes sparkled. "And someplace where the steaks aren't as tough as nails."

Damn. He laughed softly and watched her walk away.

"Warrick," Celia whispered and nudged him in the back. "Go. Sit with Tina. Latisha will understand."

Oh shit. Warrick glanced at Grissom. To the unobservant, his face was neutral, but Warrick knew his boyfriend, now, inside and out. Gris was not happy. Even though he worked hard not to give in to jealousy, Grissom was struggling with the major flirting going on right before his eyes.

"Celia, I--"

"Warrick, go on. Make nice with my supervisor," Celia implored, then suddenly realized what she was asking and in front of whom. She had the sense to look embarrassed but didn't drop her request, "Gil, honey, it's only for the afternoon. You don't mind, do you?"

Disappointed blue eyes held apologetic green for a few moments, then Gris quirked his head and gave Celia a resigned smile. "Of course not."

Gris was a lousy liar, but Celia saw what she wanted to see. She hugged his arm. "Thank you, hon."

"Be sure and tell Lala I'm not a traitor." Warrick discretely brushed his boyfriend's knuckles in reassurance and began walking toward the opposing bleachers. A sudden thought struck him in mid-stride, and he turned around. He wasn't surprised to find blue eyes still on him. He promised, "I'll be back for the seventh-inning stretch."

A soft smile on a handsome face. "I'm counting on it."

Warrick smiled back. Yeah. A reward worth any risk. Then he stretched his long legs in the direction of Ms. Tina Hopkins.

******

"Strike three," the umpire called loudly, gesturing broadly so that those who couldn't hear could still understand.

"Damn," Warrick muttered, watching Latisha hand off the aluminum bat to the next batter. Her teammates and the LVSD supporters sent encouraging signs her way, but she didn't look up. She kept her frustrated black eyes focused on the ground as she trudged back to the dugout. For the second time in the game, her coach stopped her, put a finger underneath her chin, and lifted her face. Chin up, girl.

The fans for Our Lady clapped and hollered for their pitcher. Well, every fan except for the beefy bald real estate guy sitting right in front of Tina and Warrick. Beefy guy's ear and mouth had been married to his cell phone through four innings, cheering only his daughter when she did something good or booing the umps when she didn't.

"Latisha's swing is good," Tina encouraged.

"Yeah, but Lala's closing her eyes again. Bad habit." Warrick shook his head and glanced up at the scoreboard: Angels 3, Ravens 1.

She patted his arm, "It's her first game, Rick. She's bound to be nervous." Tina's concern was real. Man, her patients just had to love her. She was beautiful and smart and caring. And she smelled great. Damn. "Hey," she lightly squeezed his arm. "I'm going to ransom a bottle of water from the concessions tent. You want anything?"

"I'll come with you."

"Rick," she smiled. "That's code for I'm also going where no man should go."

"Ohhhhh." He grinned, "Well, I could get the fresh water while you get rid of the--"

"That's another place no man should go," Tina warned laughingly and let him help her off the bleachers. He stood in line for the drinks while she stood in line for the ladies room.

Amazing. In just under four innings, Warrick had learned all about Tina's family: pharmacist father, teacher mother, attorney older brother, accountant younger brother, computer geek younger sister. Warrick learned that Tina grew up in Detroit, attended Gesu Catholic elementary/middle school, then hitched 30 miles up the road to Our Lady of the Lakes Catholic High School in Waterford. She earned a B.S. in Nursing from Wayne State with extra course work in adult critical care. She'd met her soon to be ex-husband surgeon Robert Hopkins while they were both working at Henry Ford Hospital. Tina and Robert had moved to Las Vegas two years ago when the husband got a sweet job offer. Long hours, no family, few friends, and Las Vegas temptations had slowly wedged the marriage apart. Even when Tina's sister Michelle moved to Vegas last year with her husband and two kids, Tina always felt guilty wanting to spend time with them instead of with Robert.

Amazing. In just under four innings--an hour and ten minutes--Warrick had learned as much about Tina's past as he knew about Grissom's. And he and Warrick had been lovers for five months and worked together fifteen years. Man, Warrick loved his boyfriend, but, sometimes, it was a relief not to have to work so hard to get to know someone.

"Two bottles of water," he said to the rawboned teenaged boy with hearing aids in both ears.

"Five dollars, please." The kid's speech was remarkably clear.

Warrick pulled out his wallet while a girl dressed in a white Oxford short sleeve shirt, blue and white plaid walking shorts, and white Keds dug two small bottles of Oasis water out of a red plastic cooler. Five bucks for two twelve ounce bottles of water was outrageous, but the money did go to support the Las Vegas private schools softball league. Handing over the cash, he flashed the sign for 'thanks.' Warrick scored two overpriced water bottles and two priceless smiles in return.

He caught Tina's brown eyes and held up the two bottles like a prize. A slightly forced smile answered him. She obviously did not want to think about anything other than reaching the first open stall. He thought about cruising over, trying to take her mind off her problems, but Warrick hadn't grown up in a house full of women without learning a thing or two. Last thing a woman desperate to pee wants is some fool making happy talk. He wisely headed back to the bleachers.

Taking his seat behind beefy cell phone guy, Warrick opened his bottle of Oasis water and took a sip. He studied the scoreboard. Two outs, but the LVSD Ravens were still up to bat: runners on second and third plus the team's best hitter Camilla Ortiz stepping up to the plate. Warrick watched her take a few practice swings, the silver and blue bat swiping through the air while her braided ponytail swung side to side. The girl's dark honey-brown arms reminded him of Tina.

He took another sip. Amazing. In just under four innings, he'd told Tina all about his family: grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and nephews and nieces and extended family from church and school and neighborhood. Told her about his education (in the classroom and on the street), about his job, about his aspirations. But he'd told her nothing about his boyfriend, or even that Warrick had a boyfriend.

In fact, at the top of the third inning, just after Tina's niece Darcy had gotten a base hit, Tina had asked, "So, are you married?"

He'd smiled, "Not yet."

She'd smiled back, "Seeing anyone?"

Warrick had paused, only for a couple of seconds, but he'd still paused, "Yeah."

"Serious?" Hopeful and teasing at the same time.

He'd nodded, beginning to feel guilty for not being honest, even while knowing that even the most compassionate aren't always the most accepting. Not when it comes to one man loving another. Especially when one man is black and the other isn't.

"Rats. Should have known a fine man like yourself would already be snapped up. Well, what does she do?"

He'd paused again then gratefully become distracted as Latisha had grabbed a grounder and thrown Darcy out at second base for the third out. Not minding that he was in hostile territory, he'd stood up and clapped for Lala. She hadn't heard the applause, but she'd seen him. She'd waved her glove in his direction as she'd run back to the dugout. When he'd sat back down, Tina had diplomatically changed the subject to her family's summer camping adventures at Bruin lake outside of Ann Arbor.

Yeah, taking another sip of water, Warrick felt guilty about not saying anything about Gris. But it was only a discrete omission. And only for the afternoon.

A loud ping brought Warrick back to the present. Bottom of the fourth inning, and the Our Lady fans were groaning as a softball flew over the short right field fence. Ha. Yeah. He smirked as the scoreboard flashed Our Lady Angels 3, LVSD Ravens 4.

He glanced over at the Ravens fans. They were on their feet, hands fluttering like wings, silently applauding as the runners crossed home plate. He tried to spot the cherry red baseball cap but couldn't see it or Gris.

"Hey, what did I miss?" Tina complained.

"A three-run homer. Ravens are ahead." He hopped down to help her up.

"Are you always so chivalrous, Mr. Brown?"

"My Grams and Aunt Bertha would pluck me bald all over if I didn't assist a lady in need, Miss Hopkins." He grinned and handed the Oasis bottles to her then grasped her waist with his large hands. Lifting her easily into the stands, he tried his best not to stare at her beautiful bottom.

Tina scooted over, and he pushed himself up to sit beside her. She gave the open bottle back to him and sighed loudly. "Never fails." At his curious look, she continued, "Me and baseball, softball, whatever. June 20, 1984. For my birthday, Daddy took me to see the Detroit Tigers play the New York Yankees."

"That's the New York DamnYankees."

"Well, Daddy uses another word, but, yeah."

"1984? The Tigers' World Series year?"

"Oh, god, yes," she moaned. "Bottom of the 13th inning, game tied 6 to 6, two outs, two runners on base--"

"And Third Baseman Howard Johnson, HoJo, comes to the plate."

"Jesus, Rick, were you there, too?"

"Nah. Gris, uh, Grissom told me about it. Man loves his baseball. Worked in Minneapolis at the time, scored a ticket, caught a jet plane. Five hundred miles and five hours later, he's sitting in Tigers Stadium. He'll always pay good money in hopes he can see the Yankees lose. And that's one of his most memorable games." Of course, Warrick did not tell Tina that he'd learned this tidbit from his boyfriend one morning when the two men were wrapped around each other in a post-coital haze.

"One of my most memorable, too," Tina groused. "There I was, dancing in the aisle, begging my Daddy to please let me go. I could not hold it any longer. But no way Daddy was gonna let his ten-year-old little princess go by herself. He grabs me up, hustles me to the nearest ladies room. And so, I'm tending to my business as fast as I can, Daddy's standing just outside the door listening careful as he can to the loud speaker, 'cause he can't see the game, and rotten Howard Johnson knocks the baseball out of the park. Three run homer, bottom of the thirteenth inning, and me and my Daddy miss it."

"Damn."

"Yeah." She shook her beautiful head slowly, "Daddy never took me to another game by myself."

Warrick nodded in sympathy, though he sided completely with her father. Some sins against baseball can be forgiven but never forgotten.

******

Waving her arms in broad swoops, Lala zeroed in on the fly ball. Deaf players can't hear you calling, "My ball! My ball!" You got to use some serious body language to warn other fielders off. She snagged the infield fly for the second out, top of the seventh inning. Proud of his cousin, Warrick suddenly remembered his promise. Only one out away from the seventh inning stretch.

He turned to Tina to take his leave and had to catch his breath. Her beauty did that to him. He swallowed and managed to croak, "Uh, hey, I need to find Celia and Gris. I promised to sing with them."

"Sing with them?"

"Yeah. You know. Take Me Out to the Ball Game?"

Tina smiled, "Well, let's go find them. I want to hear you sing, Rick. I bet you sing like a river, a river that sings a beautiful song."

"You referring to that Maya Angelou poem?" he smiled smugly, hopping down from the bleachers. Oh, it was so good to have a boyfriend who loved poetry.

"Yes, I am," she glowed. "'On the Pulse of Morning.' I never met a man who recognized that. Rick, you are a special man."

Oh, shit. Warrick and his big mouth.

"Uh, Gris--Grissom quotes poetry. A lot. I, uh, must've picked it up from him."

He helped her down and made sure he didn't touch her any longer than necessary for politeness sake.

"How long have you worked with Dr. Grissom?" she asked.

"Fifteen years."

"Wow. Hardly anybody I know stays at the same job fifteen years."

"I like what I do. I'm always learning something new. And I like the people I work with. Well, most of the people I work with." Scattered cheers and feet pounding on the bleachers signaled the third out. Warrick sped up, looking for his boyfriend and cousin.

"Is Dr. Grissom one of those? One of the people you like to work with?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Look, Tina," he said kindly. "You can call him Gris or Grissom. Or even Gil. My family likes to dote on the 'doctor.' He'd never say so, but he's not one for titles, or the privileges that come with them. He doesn't believe he's better than anyone else. Smarter, maybe, but better? No."

"He sounds like a good man."

Warrick stopped and looked her full in her beautiful face. "He is."

"Good. Celia really seems to like him. She's always going on about him working with Latisha."

"He's good with kids, but that's another thing he'd never tell you."

"Well, every girl needs a good man in her life." She looked at Warrick meaningfully, "I'm glad Celia's found hers."

Oh, shit. Warrick's mouth fell open.

"There they are," Tina bubbled and took off for Celia and Gris before Warrick got a chance to explain that Celia and Gris weren't romantically involved. They were . . . were what? Cousins by cohabitation?

"Take me away from this ball game," he muttered just as the familiar opening chords rang out over the loud speaker. But instead of fleeing he hurried to join them, choosing to stand next to his boyfriend rather than Tina. The familiar warm blue eyes, the soft graying beard, the salt spice scent, the elegant movement of hands and fingers, the off-key singing. All reminders of where Warrick could be his honest self. All reminders of home.

******

"Hey! What's that guy doing?" Beefy bald real estate guy shouted. For a second, Warrick thought it was part of another phone conversation then he noticed the thick sunburned hand pointing in the direction of the Ravens dugout. Where Grissom was standing close to the fence, signing through the chain link to Latisha.

It was the start of the bottom of the ninth. The Angels had managed to tie the game in the top of the inning. Angels 4, Ravens 4. Lala was scheduled to bat third.

"No coaching from the stands!" Beefy guy yelled at Gris then said to no one in particular, "Probably deaf as a post. I hate playing this freakin' school. Bunch of freakin' cheaters." He stumped off the bleachers and headed for Gris.

Warrick felt Tina's hand on his arm, but he didn't pay her any attention. From the seventh inning stretch on, he'd been friendly but not flirting. And he didn't have time for any explanations when his boyfriend was being threatened. Warrick slid off his seat and chased after the raging bull.

"Hey, buddy. Hold on there," he placated, grabbing hold of the angry man's shoulder.

He whipped around, knocking Warrick's hand away. Beefy guy stood about an inch taller than Warrick and probably weighed a good seventy pounds more. He was one of those guys nobody wanted to see wearing shorts in public. His sunburned face grew redder. His hands clenched into fists. "What?"

Warrick smoothed, holding his hands up, long fingers spread, "Look, man, he was telling the girl to stay positive." Of course, Warrick actually had no idea what Gris had signed to Lala, but him telling her to stay positive sounded plausible.

"Bullshit! Those people are always coachin' from the stands! Rule book says, 'No more than two coaches.'"

If Warrick were Gris, he would have calmly pointed out that the rule actually stated, 'No more than two coaches in the dugout.' But Warrick wasn't Gris.

"Doesn't matter if it's two coaches or twenty. The man wasn't coaching the girl."

Beefy guy wasn't listening. "Hell, they're always stealing our signs! Freakin' cheaters!"

Warrick purposefully dropped his voice. People tended to listen when he dropped his voice. "Listen, cell phone man, I'm only gonna say this once more. The man wasn't coaching. You got a problem, you can take it to the umpire after the game. For now, you take your seat."

Beefy guy stared, open mouthed. It was obvious that no one had ever talked to him like that. Suddenly he realized what Warrick was saying and what it meant--that Warrick understood sign language. His red face creased into a sarcastic grin.

"Oh . . . you're . . . one . . . of . . . them!" beefy guy spoke slowly, exaggerating his words, waving his hands, pretending to sign. Asshole.

Warrick's voice dropped even lower, "No. I wasn't blessed to be one of them. But I am somebody you don't want to mess with."

The red face flushed to scarlet, but its owner didn't move. Warrick's voice had just the right amount of honest-to-god menace to break through the other man's anger without pushing him into a fight.

While he hesitated, wavered, Warrick readied himself to kick beefy guy's legs out from under him. Neither man heard the cheers coming from the Our Lady bleachers behind Warrick.

"Hey, Mickey! Mickey!" A young man in a blue and white Angels t-shirt raced up to beefy guy. "Your daughter threw out a runner at first. She's lookin' for ya!"

Watery blue eyes glared at Warrick. At last Mickey relaxed his beefy fists. "Somebody better do something about those cheaters before I do." Keeping his distance from Warrick, Mickey stumped back to his seat to cheer his daughter.

"I guess I won't have to get my first aid kit from the car."

Warrick glanced at Tina, standing close by with arms crossed, a disgusted look on her face. He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. "Unless you keep a stretcher in your car, you weren't gonna be able to help that asshole much."

"God preserve us from men and their macho madness. Why didn't you let Gil handle him?"

"Guy like that? Gris would've tried to reason with him and would've pissed him off even more than I did. Can't use logic with guys like Mickey."

She shook her head and touched his arm. His body still cranked with adrenaline. He found it hard to allow her touch.

"I think we better sit with Gil and Celia for the rest of the game. Keep you two macho boys separated."

"Hey, lady, I'm cool."

"And I want you to stay that way," she smiled, pulling him in the direction of the Ravens bleachers.

Tina sat with Celia while Warrick joined Gris stationed outside the fence by first base.

"Hey," Warrick said warmly. He felt his blood pressure drop, his muscles relax just being in his boyfriend's proximity.

A quiet smile in return. "Hey. Latisha's up next."

Warrick stepped closer to the fence. A tiny freckled blonde in a Ravens' uniform crouched down in the batter's box. She had the smallest strike zone Warrick had ever seen. Lala was taking practice swings in the on deck circle. Her chocolate brown face lit up when she saw Warrick standing next to Grissom.

"Tell her to kill the ball for me."

Gris signed Warrick's message. Latisha's nod and fierce expression showed she understood.

"What did you tell her earlier? Through the dugout fence?"

"I told her not to be discouraged."

"That all?"

"Warrick, you know it's against the rules to coach from the stands."

"Uh huh. What else did you tell her?"

An embarrassed smile. "To keep her eyes open, to remember how relaxed and successful she felt at batting practice, to keep her knees slightly bent, to get mad at the ball."

Warrick grinned and whispered, "You are so busted, baby. You got to be a little less obvious next time. Coaching from the stands tends to upset the opposing fans."

Gris looked over at the Our Lady bleachers. "Really?"

"Yeah. See the sunburned big guy, fourth row, on the end, cell phone glued to his ear?"

"What about him?"

"He wanted to make an example of you."

Grissom's right eyebrow arched. "Ah. Well, thanks for watching my back."

A roguish grin. A rumbling purr. "Baby, you know I was watching something a little bit lower down."

Gris rolled his eyes and snorted while the tiny freckled blonde in the batter's box took another ball. "You know," he said, "the three main motivations for participation in sport are sociability, emotional rewards, and self- and group-identity."

Warrick glanced behind him at the Ravens fans, hearing and deaf alike, united for once, all pulling for the same goal. Then he saw beefy boy Mickey glaring at him and Gris, "You sure it's not just about beating the crap out of one another?"

Grissom smirked, "I think that would fall under emotional rewards."

"Ball four!" The tiny freckled blonde sprinted to first base.

That meant Lala was up to bat. One out, runner on first, game tied. She stepped confidently up to the plate, but sneaked a peek at Gris and Warrick. Grissom pointed to his left eye. Watch the ball all the way in. Latisha's dimpled grin echoed the one Warrick saw every morning in his mirror.

She dug in and looked with determination out at the pitcher. The first pitch arced in high. Latisha let it go. The umpire called "Ball high!"

Shouts of "Good eye! Good eye!" came from the Ravens bleachers as Lala stepped out of the batter's box, looked at the third base coach's signals, then settled back in, taking practice swings. The pitch came in knee high. Lala swung and finally connected. But her timing was slightly off. The ball shot foul.

"She's a little too eager," Gris murmured.

"Yeah. I think she's still nervous."

Gris looked as if that had never occurred to him. "But she has all the mechanics of the perfect swing. There's no need for her to feel nervous."

"Baby, she's got a lot of people not to disappoint."

Latisha looked the next pitch all the way into the catcher's mitt. "Ball outside!"

Confusion on the handsome face. "Disappointed about what?"

"Failing."

"To hit the ball?" Gris quirked his head. "I won't be disappointed. Will you? Will Celia?"

"No. But Latisha doesn't know that."

Grissom's eyebrows knitted. "I don't understand."

Before Warrick could explain the vagaries of human nature, a loud ping interrupted them. Latisha sent the softball flying slowly down the right field line, heading for the outfield fence. Unfortunately, at the last second, it curved foul. Lala had already rounded second base. The tiny freckled girl was half-way to home. Head held high, Lala trotted back to home plate. The LVSD fans swayed on their feet, fingers spread and fluttering in applause for the near home run. She smiled and spared a glance at Grissom.

"You've got the measure of the pitcher, now," Gris spoke softly as he signed to her. "Stay relaxed. Oh, and we'll never be disappointed."

A double take at the last sentence, and Latisha looked to Warrick who shrugged. It's just Gris, Lala. She seemed to understand. They shared the same grin.

She picked up her bat and concentrated on the third base coach to catch his instructions.

A sigh from Gris as he also caught the signs. "As fast as she is, she could easily bunt herself on base. If I'm disappointed in anyone, it's the coach."

Warrick nodded his head and watched Lala step back into the batter's box and take her timing swings. The Angels pitcher stared at the catcher's mitt; Latisha stared at the pitcher. A slow wind up, a slow pitch, and Lala hit it hard. A screaming line drive into left field. She dropped the bat and scampered down the first base line as the freckled girl headed for second. But Darcy somehow cut off the ball. She managed to spear it just before it hit the ground. She lifted the ball high in her glove, making sure Lala saw it. Darcy ignored the freckled girl hoofing it back to first.

"I think that's payback to Latisha," Gris said.

"For Lala throwing Darcy out at second in the top of the third? Hoo, yeah," Warrick agreed.

It was Out Two, but both teams' fans were on their feet, applauding the outstanding efforts of Latisha and Darcy. Of course, that didn't prevent Lala from signing //shit!// to Gris and Warrick on her way back to the dugout. The two men did their best to hide their smiles.

Warrick sneaked a peek at Tina, her lovely face glowing with pride at her niece's spectacular catch.

"She is beautiful." Grissom's voice was soft and wistful. He unconsciously rubbed his shoulder, fingering the fabric covering the possessive bruise Warrick had left that morning.

"Yeah. She is." The two men might not reveal everything about themselves to each other, but they never out and out lied to each other.

"A Phenomenal Woman," Gris said, then quoted, "She walks into a room / Just as cool as you please, / And to a man, / The fellows stand or / Fall down on their knees."

Warrick nodded. Maya Angelou again.

Gris sighed, "I wonder if she owns a pair of hoop earrings?"

Hoop earrings. A code phrase for Grissom's jealousy. They didn't have a code phrase for Warrick's jealousy. Neither man saw the irony in that. Understanding green eyes met troubled yet embarrassed blue. "You thinking you'd like to rip them out of her ears?"

Gris seriously considered the idea, considered it for a little too long in Warrick's opinion. At last his boyfriend shook his head. "No. But I missed sitting with you."

"That's good to hear," Warrick grinned. "So, what did you miss most? My amazing insight into the game? Or my buff thigh pressed against yours?"

Pursing his lips, Gris said, "What I missed most was the shade cast by your big head."

Warrick laughed and turned his attention to the last LVSD batter of the inning. Candace Barry. A short, stocky girl with a smooth ebony complexion and determined sable eyes. She swung the blue and silver bat left-handed. Candace hadn't gotten a hit all game either.

"Looks like we're headed into extra innings," Gris sighed, just as the pitcher lofted the ball toward home plate. A loud ping, and the two men watched the softball soar over the left field fence. Game over. Our Lady of Las Vegas Angels 4, LVSD Ravens 6. As the LVSD fans pounded their feet on the bleachers and pulsed their hands in the air, Warrick cut his jade colored eyes at his boyfriend.

"Nice call, Nostradamus."

It was Grissom's turn to laugh.

******

"You could have told me," she said, her beautiful voice barely audible over the restaurant's booming speakers. Creedence Clearwater Revival's Bad Moon Rising rocked the joint.

Innocent face locked on tight, Warrick looked up from his menu. Tina sat across the table from him at the Hard Rock Cafe on Paradise Road. It wasn't the best steakhouse in Vegas, but it was perfect for two kids and four adults who'd been roasting in the sun for a couple of hours.

"Told you what?"

She leaned forward so as not to be overheard. "That Celia and Gil weren't dating."

Warrick glanced to his left. Gris, who was sitting next to Warrick, and Celia, sitting next to Tina, were focused on helping the conversation between Darcy and Lala. The girls hadn't stopped talking since the ball park.

"You didn't exactly give me time."

Small frown lines marred her beautiful face. "Well, I thoroughly embarrassed myself. I thought Celia wasn't going to stop laughing."

"I bet."

"I could've sworn . . . ," she sighed and shook her head. "He's single, he likes kids, he's got a job. He can even talk to Latisha. Celia likes him. Latisha likes him. What's wrong with him?"

"There's nothing wrong with him," Warrick whispered fiercely. Then he stopped, smiled, stretched, and shrugged, "Look, he's . . . involved with somebody else."

"Oh. Well, why didn't Celia . . . ," Tina glanced at Gris. Suddenly her eyes widened and she sat up straight. "Ohhhh. 'Somebody.' Got ya." She leaned forward again, eyebrows raised, dark eyes curious, and mouthed, "He's gay?"

And this was the perfect opportunity for Warrick to say 'Yeah, and I'm his boyfriend,' or 'Yeah, and so am I' or 'Yeah, and I'm tired of pretending to be somebody I'm not just because it might disgust you or piss you off.' But he didn't. He couldn't. He just gave her his best cool, ambiguous smile and turned back to his menu.

When Bad Moon Rising at last gave way to Martha and the Vandellas Motown hit Nowhere to Run, Tina leaned forward and teased, "So, what steak won't be tough as nails?"

A sultry smile. "The New York Strip, medium rare."

She snapped her menu shut and smiled her beautiful smile. "I like being with a man who knows what he wants."

So do I, he thought, but said, "So, what do you want?"

"I want to work hard, play hard, have a family, grow old with a good man I love--and who loves me."

He glanced at his boyfriend, still translating for Lala and Darcy, and grinned, "Yeah. Sounds like a good plan." Then Warrick turned back to her, "But I meant what do you want for dinner?"

"The strip," she raised her eyebrows, tossing in a dash of innuendo. "The strip, of course."

He grinned wider, "Well, I hope all your plans work out one day."

"What plans are those?" Gris asked. He sounded curious not jealous. He'd evidently heard only Warrick's last statement.

Tina smiled coyly at Warrick, "To have the perfect strip . . . steak."

Grissom pursed his lips then said, "Did you know that the word 'steak' derives from the Anglo-Saxon word 'steik'? The art of cooking a thick slice of meat on a pointed stick over a fire."

"Oh, really?" Tina had that look that many people got around Gris--that 'is this guy for real' look. Then she smiled mischievously, "And where does the word 'strip' come from?"

"Well, if you're referring to 'strip steak,' it originated in Delmonico's Restaurant in New York during the mid 1800's. A boneless top sirloin, almost 2 inches thick." Gris demonstrated the distance with his fingers. "If you're referring to 'strip' alone, it has many origins, depending on how you're using the word. In this context, 'strip' is probably from the Middle Low German word 'strippe' meaning strap, thong of a whip-lash, or purse-string."

"Huh. That right? Thong of a whip-lash?" Warrick asked, green eyes teasing.

A right eyebrow jumped. A faint smile. "In certain contexts."

"You know," Tina glanced at the other end of the table where Lala, Darcy, and Celia were talking about shopping for swimsuits. "I don't think this is the appropriate place to discuss that particular context." Tina meant the rebuke kindly, but she sounded a bit like a school-marm.

"Of course it's not an appropriate place," Gris said, voice soft and deadly, glacier blue eyes fixed on Tina.

Oh, boy. Where the hell was a waiter when you needed one? While Gris and Tina fell quiet and avoided looking at each other, Warrick searched for something to say to smooth things over, something to lighten the tension. Highway to Hell by AC/DC blasted from the speakers, not helping Warrick think. He studied Tina's face and desperately reviewed his earlier conversations with Tina. At last, he had it.

"Hey, uh, Gris," Warrick said as Foreigner's You're as Cold as Ice started up. Damn, guy can't catch a break.

His boyfriend's cold as ice face turned Warrick's way.

Warrick mentally gritted his teeth and continued, "Yeah, uh, Tina was telling me about her family going camping in Michigan. Did I ever tell you about the time Cousin Chris and I won Las Vegas Sun fund scholarships to go camping in Tahoe National Forest?"

Blue eyes warmed slightly. A forced half smile. "Oh? Do tell."

"Yeah. Two city boys trapped in the forest with a bunch of other urbanites in a funky smelling wood cabin shaped like a big old boxcar. Twelve cots, two windows, two doors, no heat, no air conditioning, and no indoor plumbing. Man, not one of us knew poison oak from snapdragons, or a bear from a beaver. Would've gotten lost even with a compass, a map, and Hawkeye as our guide."

Tina looked confused. "Hawkeye? The surgeon from M*A*S*H?"

"James Fenimore Cooper. Natty Bumppo," Gris condescended, not helping Tina's confusion and only increasing her irritation.

Warrick took pity, "Hawkeye from the Last of the Mohicans."

She shook her head, still not recognizing the character, so Warrick added, "You know, Daniel Day-Lewis."

Tina brightened, "Oh, god, yes. Daniel Day-Lewis. I loved that movie. Cried for a week after I saw it."

Now it was Grissom's turn to look confused. "Surely you mean Randolph Scott."

"The early 90s movie, Gris. We'll rent it sometime," Warrick said, then realized what he'd said. His face flushed with heat.

Before he could blunder on, a surprised Tina wagged her finger at the two men. "You guys watch movies together? Well . . . that's . . . cool. I guess."

And Grissom smiled that smug, pitiless smile, "Yes. Isn't it."

Tina shot Gris a 'who the hell put your panties in a wad' look while Warrick looked around for a fucking waiter. Damn. Not one would meet his eye. Bryan Adams' Cuts Like a Knife rocketed around the walls. Jesus. Who programmed this playlist? The Marquis de Sade?

Warrick plunged ahead, "Uh, yeah, well, uh, so, Chris and me and ten other nerds are shivering in this big cabin at Camp Me Wa Hi in the Sierra Mountains. And none of the girls will give us the time of day. And--"

"Those girls must've been blind," Tina said.

"Nah. They saw all too good. I was short, thick glasses, ratty jeans and sneakers. I got every shirt, pants, and shoe Chris outgrew. Well every shirt, pants, and shoe that he hadn't worn out or torn up. And they hadn't looked all that great when they were new."

"You obviously don't get your cousin's hand me downs anymore," she said appreciatively.

"They wouldn't fit," Gris sniffed.

Damn. Warrick's boyfriend could be so literal sometimes. Not to mention prissy. Or condescending. And Tina was so not liking his contributions to the conversation. Neither was Warrick.

"At any rate," he glared at Grissom, "Chris and me cooked us up a plan. We found a long rope in the boathouse, put it to good use. One night, we slipped out and wrapped the rope around the girls' cabin."

Tina's dark eyes sparkled. "The cabin had screen doors, right?"

Warrick grinned and nodded.

She laughed, sharing the joke, "Classic campground prank!"

Gris, though, was lost. "Why would you wrap a rope around a cabin?"

"So the girls couldn't get out to, uh, visit the outhouse," Warrick grinned.

"The rope blocked the cabin's screen doors from opening, " Tina added.

"But . . . why?"

Tina smirked. Oh. So, Dr. Know-It-All didn't know it all. "Warrick, what did those girls have to do before y'all untied the rope?"

"They had to kiss us. Any girl that wanted to go to the outhouse had to kiss me and Chris."

"Oh my lord!" Tina squealed. "Bet those girls gave you the time of day after that!"

"Hoo, yeah. But Chris and me were the only guys who had dates at the closing campfire."

Tina and Warrick shared smiles. It felt good. It felt so good to share so much in common with a beautiful woman.

"And a girl dated you because you forced her to kiss you?" Grissom looked perplexed.

Tina leaned in and said not so sweetly, "Maybe you should try it sometime, Dr. Grissom."

Gris blinked, stared at Tina, then turned to his boyfriend and smiled insincerely, "What do you think, Warrick? Should I do that?"

Oh, shit. Warrick swallowed.

"Y'all, I am so sorry for the wait." A harried brunette in a black short sleeve shirt and a black short skirt, scooted up to their table. Thank god, the waitress cavalry had arrived.

"No problem. Your timing is perfect," Warrick blurted.

She grinned, blatantly admiring his appearance. "Well, thanks for your patience. Have y'all had time to decide what you'd like?"

"Hoo, yeah," he said a little louder than he intended.

"Oh," the waitress purred and moved closer to him, "I guess I'll start with you, then."

As if on cue, Queen's Under Pressure slammed into the walls and ceiling of the Hard Rock Cafe. Glancing at Tina then Gris, both watching Warrick narrowly as the waitress flirted with him, he took a deep breath and shook his head, "Yeah, lady. Just get in line."

******

The drive from the Hard Rock Cafe to the townhouse stayed silent, except for the succession of jazz greats--Coleman Hawkins, Thelonious Monk, Dizzy Gillespie, and Lester Young--grooving out from the satellite radio inside Warrick's 1999 Lexus LS400. The occupants of the Lexus never said a word.

Warrick didn't talk because he felt angry and embarrassed and mistrusted and put upon. Gris didn't because . . . oh who the hell knew why Gris did or didn't do anything. Grissom would never say anything self-revealing unless you dragged it out of him. Warrick didn't really care why his boyfriend was silent. Warrick only cared that Gris had acted rude, petulant, arrogant, and snide toward Tina. He'd treated Tina like he would a slow-witted trainee.

When Warrick pulled into a parking space outside the townhouse complex, he turned off the radio, then turned off the engine. The two men sat in perfect silence for several heartbeats then slowly got out of the car. Warrick silently followed Gris upstairs and into the townhouse. Grissom just as silently disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom. Not two minutes later, reaching for a cold bottle of water in the refrigerator, Warrick heard the shower start.

Twisting open the cap, Warrick took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the hem of his Hawaiian shirt. Typical. Gris probably intended on dressing and leaving for work three hours early instead of talking about why he had behaved like a jerk. But Warrick wasn't going to let his boyfriend escape without explaining himself.

Yeah, okay, maybe Warrick had flirted a little more than he should've. But, damn, Gris acted like Warrick couldn't be trusted. Like he couldn't control himself. Like he couldn't ever stay true. And that hurt. And that pissed him off.

Taking several deep, calming breaths, he wandered out of the kitchen into the bedroom and sat down on the king size bed. He waited facing the bathroom door. He waited on his side of the bed they shared.

With another gulp of water, Warrick tried to clear his mind of anger. He'd lost his temper once before with his boyfriend when Gris had let his jealousy get out of control. They'd both said a lot of hurtful things, and a lot of people had suffered from the fallout. So, Warrick did his best to relax. He stretched the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and arms. Then he studied the small abstract painting hanging next to the bathroom door. An artist friend of Grissom's mother had given it to him. Lee Mullican. Pot Dance. Mostly white and black swirling shapes on a gray canvas. Warrick thought he could pick out hints of musical notes and musical instruments. White and black vaguely human forms dancing together with subtle splashes of red. Heart beats? Life Blood? Passion? Warrick nodded his head. Yeah. Definitely passion.

His gaze swept from the painting to the floor. A flash of gold peeked out from under the side of the bed. Bending over, Warrick fished out what turned out to be a book. A strong, confident African American woman with a welcoming, gorgeous smile beamed out from the back of the book. Maya Angelou. The Complete Collected Poems.

Warrick opened the book to a page marked by a strip of newspaper. Warrick looked at the newsprint first and smiled. Not surprising, it was part of a filled in crossword puzzle. Then Warrick looked at the stanza marked with a light pencil check in the margin: "A certain person wondered why / I wait all week for you. / I didn't have the words / to describe just what you do. / I said you had the motion / of the ocean in your walk, / and when you solve my riddles / you don't even have to talk." Another message from his boyfriend left in a book? Warrick shook his head and sighed. And then, slowly, a gleaming spark grew in his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, when Gris stepped out of the bathroom, Warrick's long brown arms wrapped around his naked and pink and damp and all too tempting boyfriend. Warrick kissed the glowing purple bruise on Grissom's shoulder, tongued the stiff column of his neck, ran long brown fingers through graying curls and over unyielding muscles. Slowly, inevitably, warm sea green eyes melted glacier blue.

At last, a yielding, forgiving, and apologetic sigh escaped Gris. And though it wasn't a whisper of his crafted self-image, Warrick yielded, forgave, and apologized, too. Yeah. A reward worth any risk.

The two men kissed sweetly. They used hands and lips and eyes to comfort and reassure and renew.

Then the man with the sea green eyes and the motion of the ocean in his walk lay his boyfriend down on the bed. In silence they made promises to one another. They solved each other's riddles. They burned bright and warm again, brighter and warmer than a thousand candles in the dark.

******

Grissom walked happily into the lab at 1:00 a.m.--an hour late for his shift. He walked in without a warning, without an explanation, and without one word.