Title: Waking Up
By: Caryn OBrian
Pairing: Greg/Warrick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What happens when Greg wakes up. Blame knightmusic for the scenerio, and Evan Nicholas for poking at me because there isn't enough Greg/Warrick fic out there.

***

The first time Greg wakes up, he's alone.

Well, at least he thinks he's alone. He can't really tell. Something's covering his eyes.

He can't figure out by what because his arms are fucking tied to the wall and his feet are spread apart and he can't bring them together either because some kind of bar is jabbing his ankles and holding them apart and he is so, completely, totally, screwed.

His head hurts and his neck hurts and he kind of remembers the insane midget -- okay, little person as Grissom would insist -- who had been so insulted at Greg's insinuation that maybe his girlfriend had been killed by the man she'd been having an affair with. But the image of the screaming red-faced little man had been replaced by sheering pain along the back of his skull and oh yeah, when he moves his head that flares up nicely.

He raises his eyebrows and wiggles his nose, trying to see how tightly the covering over his eyes is. It feels sticky somehow.

And because there's no filter between Greg's brain and his mouth, it's the first thing he talks about when he thinks he hears someone in this place with him.

"Did you use duct tape across my eyes? When they come to rescue me they're going to yank it off and pull out my eyelashes and Sara is going to be so pissed at you if they're ruined. She always tells me they're my best feature."

When a hand slaps him, hard, along some line of bruises already hurting his thigh, Greg wonders at the wisdom of his choice of rant. Because this is also when he realizes that he isn't wearing any clothes.

"Look, just because you're doing a great imitation of the insane Chucky doll from hell doesn't mean you have to go all psycho on me--"

Greg doesn't have time to consider that maybe he should keep a lid on it before a firey pain burns through his skull and he escapes into the welcoming dark again.

The second time Greg wakes up, he doesn't think he's alone. This time, though, he tries to keep hold of his tongue. Really. However, it feels about three times too big -- dehydration, he knows. But he still can't manage to get a grip on it.

"Look, I don't know what you think you're doing, but you really don't want to be doing this to a CSI. I bet the rest of the team--"

"Greg?"

Greg shakes his head emphatically, not caring if his captor is looking at him or not, then he groans for his efforts as all the pain that the fright and the adrenaline had kept at bay come thundering back into his skull. "You can't fool me with your mind-control tricks. That's just a recording of Warrick. Well, you aren't going to break me so easily." Greg isn't sure what kind of torture the evil little person has planned that would involve Warrick, but he's resolved that whatever it is, it won't work.

"Keep talking Greg," he hears someone say in Warrick's deep voice.

"No," Greg replies. "If you want me to keep talking then I shouldn't because it will just play into your insidious mind games so I should just stop."

After an exasperated sigh, the faux-Warrick speaks again. "Damn it Greg! Listen to me. That fucking midget came after me too, and--"

"Little person," Greg automatically says.

"What?"

"They aren't midgets. Grissom will tell you. They're little people."

"Fuck Grissom, man. Just keep talking so I can find you."

Now Greg hears a soft shuffling step. If he turns his head, he can tell that the sound is louder in his left ear than his right. But turning his head reminds him of all the pains he's suffered recently. Along with the dull burning ache of his thigh, just above his knee.

"Why? Can't you see me?"

He wasn't going to ask that, but now that it's out there, he finds he wants to know.

"Damn 'little person' got me too. Only got me blindfolded and partially strapped down before this alarm went off. He thought I was still unconscious. Now just say something so I can find you."

Greg opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say.

"Greg!"

"It's funny how I can always seem to talk when I don't want to, but now that I'm supposed to say something I don't know what to say and are you going to get here soon and what are we going to do Warrick and I hope to god that's you--"

"Shhh," comes the whispered reply as Greg feels something sliding along his arm, Warrick's shoulder, he guesses. He has never wanted his hands free so much as he does right at this very moment because only being able to feel Warrick move across his chest and not being able to touch him is probably the worst fucking thing in the Universe right now.

Well, besides the fact that they've been kidnapped by an insane midget.

Little Person.

Whatever.

Greg rolls his forehead against Warrick's neck and Warrick tilts his head until they're doing some kind of head hug. Greg sighs with relief, convinced finally that it really is Warrick and maybe they do have a chance in hell.

As the euphoria is washing through him, Greg finds that he wants more. Not just having his arms free, because that's kind of a given, but more of that soft skin that's maddeningly far away, more of that scent that tells him it's Warrick, dry and felted, like the desert air at night, more contact that tells him this isn't just some fucking twisted dream his head's concocted as a way of escaping this horrible nightmare of a situation because he'd never be able to make up the kinds of details he's experiencing, like the soft scrape of stubble against his cheek and the way he can feel Warrick's heartbeat through his skin and how the slight press of the other man's body against his makes him recall other, happier times when he was pinned to a wall by another man.

The filter between Greg's brain and his mouth still seems to be disconnected, so when Warrick starts to pull away, Greg says the first thing that comes to his head.

"Kiss me," he demands. He's dying for a taste of Warrick's mouth, for that tongue to touch his. He needs to share breath and space and life and damn it he really, really needs to be kissed.

"What?"

Warrick's response is sharp and okay, maybe Greg deserves that kind of reply but he still really, really needs it.

"We're going to die here and I don't want to die alone and I want a last kiss and you're kind of hot and I've always wanted to kiss you anyway and I don't want to die without a taste and please you have to kiss me you have to--"

"Greg, whoa," Warrick says, interrupting, pressing his head hard against Greg's shoulder. Greg realizes that he's getting a little hysterical, that his voice had started to rise in pitch some, but he's dying here without Warrick's lips on his.

"Please, you have to. We're going to die and I--"

"We are not dying here, man," Warrick states emphatically.

"Please." Greg finds that his voice has cut out and all he can do is whisper. Warrick's reassurances mean nothing at this point, compared to the hysteria taking over his brain. "Please, Warrick. Please. Please. Please. Please--"

Somehow the choked off tone that comes from his own throat sounds more broken to his ear than his earlier ranting did.

Greg feels the sigh Warrick gives against his chest, then there's a glance of lips against his. He strains his neck forward, searching, seeking that font of life that's going to make everything okay. Maybe not forever, but just for now. That comfort that he must have.

And Warrick's lips seek his in return.

The kiss isn't going to be ranked on the top ten romantic kisses of the world. Probably not even the top one hundred. Warrick's lips are dry, maybe even a little chapped, and it's been awhile since the inside of his mouth has seen a toothbrush. But for Greg personally, the kiss has got to be on his list of top five kisses of all time. Not for the romance, or from the hotness, but for the emotion, the life, the way that he can't imagine breathing or living without this pressure, without this taste, without Warrick.

A moan echoes through the room, and he can't tell if it's from him, from Warrick, or from both of them. Warrick shuffles closer and Greg's suddenly covered from knee to chest with warm skin. Greg would give anything right now for his hands to miraculously be free, for him to touch and explore and caress. He's doing the best he can with his tongue and his lips but it just isn't enough.

The first kiss merges into two, three, who the fuck is counting? He isn't certain, but it occurs to him that this string of kisses has probably risen to the top three on his list so far. He's suddenly glad that he's chained to the wall and doesn't have to support his full weight because damn Warrick knows how to kiss. Greg tries hard to give as good as he's getting but he's less able to move and though Greg wouldn't call himself inexperienced there are sure a hell of a lot of things that he can learn from Warrick about using both lips to kiss, as well as tongues and gentle teeth and that twisty thing and holy fuck is it possible to come like a sixteen year old from just kissing?

Greg's so involved with the kiss that he doesn't hear Nick's call -- not until after Warrick pulls away, not until his own whimper echoes through the room. He hears the call the second time and all he can think is, "No fair!" They didn't have enough time together, time to talk and taste and touch.

Then the roof starts to cave in.

He can feel the wall shake, and clods of something start to rain down on him from above. Warrick's cursing and shouting that the place is booby-trapped. Just before the darkness takes Greg once again all he can think is that Warrick was wrong -- they are going to die there. And though he'd been kissed, it didn't help. Greg still wants more.

This next time Greg wakes up he knows that other people are in the room. However, this time, he finds he can open his eyes. Sara's there, close to the bed, holding his hand. So is Grissom and Catherine. Nick isn't there, but Greg understands -- since, well, everything, Nick doesn't care much for hospitals.

"Where's Warrick?" is the first thing out of Greg's mouth and okay, that filter thing still needs more work.

"He's fine," Sara assures him. "He just can't leave his bed yet."

"He protected your body with his own during the cave-in," Grissom adds.

They talk at Greg some more, tell him about capturing the little person and how quickly he confessed, how stupid he'd been, how many clues he'd left behind so it had been pretty easy to follow him, how even Hodges put in extra time and effort to help them crack the case. Greg kind of listens, but kind of not, because all he can think about is Warrick, wondering what room he's in, how long it'll be before Greg can go see him, if there's a chance in hell that he might get to kiss him again.

It doesn't take much for Greg to fake a yawn, though actually, he's starting to feel tired again. His friends and co-workers say good-bye, promise to visit him again soon, send him love from Jackie and Bobby. Greg swears that he isn't going to fall back asleep again, that he's going to call a nurse as soon as they go and demand to see Warrick but the best laid plans of CSI level ones and little people are all skewered and he drops back into a warm, peaceful slumber.

Greg just assumes that he isn't alone the next time he wakes up, and he's right. Warrick is in a wheelchair next to his bed. Greg opens his eyes but manages to not say anything right away, though Warrick looks pretty battered, bruises coloring the skin under his eyes and a huge bandage over the back of his head. Greg hopes that Warrick doesn't feel as bad as Greg does, though he imagines they probably have matching migraines at this point.

"Hey," he finally manages, his voice weak.

"Hey," Warrick replies, the deep tones calming Greg almost as much now as they had the last time he'd heard them.

Greg holds out his hand, marveling a bit that they're free and not tied to a wall. Warrick wheels a bit closer to take it in a warm grasp.

"Thanks," Greg says, squeezing gently. "They, uhm, they said you shielded me from the worst of it."

"Naw, man, you just got knocked over and I fell down on top of you," Warrick says easily, with a small smile.

Greg isn't sure what to do when Warrick makes light of it -- he knows that it was something more. Or maybe he just thinks that it was something more. And if he doesn't stop thinking and start speaking he's never going to get another chance so he makes himself say, "And thanks for the, uhm, you know."

"The kiss? My pleasure," Warrick says, his smile widening.

"Really?" Greg asks, hope rising. Suddenly, his head isn't hurting as much as it had been. "You know," he adds, starting to rub his thumb against the back of Warrick's hand. "I'm never going to be able to fairly rate that kiss, figure out if it's in the top fifty or the top three, you know. Not without some comparable data."

Warrick squeezes Greg's hand. "So you always thought I was kind of hot, huh?" he asks in a teasing voice as he's leaning forward.

"Maybe very hot," Greg murmurs as he shifts and pushes himself off the pillow a little until their lips meet somewhere in between and they're kissing again and Greg realizes that it's impossible to rate Warrick's kisses accurately because his brain is quickly shutting down and no, that isn't a bad thing, not a bad thing at all and he gives himself over to the first kiss and then the second and hopes that maybe the next time he wakes up he won't be alone again and that maybe the other person won't be halfway across the room but in the same bed with him and then Warrick slides a hand up to cup his cheek he completely gives up thinking all together.

***

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