Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
by
ne'ichan
Part Six (This Part rated FRT)
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?"
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.
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
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.
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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.
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.
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"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.
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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.
