FIC: Five Ways Warrick Wasn't Gay (2/2)

[julianlee]

LJ decided to hate me for a minute, which is why I made this 2 posts. Sorry for any inconvenience it might've caused ye.


iv. musically

Warrick's eyebrow rose as he looked at the glass Benjie set on the stool beside the piano bench. He tried to stifle the irrational coil of excitement and anticipation in his stomach - or at least keep it from showing in his face. "He's back?"

Benjie's eyebrows waggled. "After nearly four long, lonely months."

Warrick snorted. "Lonely," he repeated dismissively.

Shrugging, Benjie straightened. "Deny it all you want, honey child. I know how many people you haven't gone home with in the past four months."

Discomfited and embarrassed, Warrick made a great show of picking up his glass and drinking. Benjie snorted and left the stage. Warrick set down the drink and turned in the direction of the bar. He craned his neck, but it was a hopeless gesture. He had made a second career of trying to spot the man who sent the drinks, and the man who sent the drinks had made one of not being spotted.

Warrick took a slow, appreciative swallow of bourbon. He wouldn't see the man tonight. He knew that as well as he knew the keyboard. When this game had started, that would have disappointed him, but he was used to it by now. Over the years, any number of admirers - male and female - had bought him drinks in hopes of buying his favor. They'd been everything from aspiring musicians looking for an in with the trio's label to aspiring lovers looking for an in to his bed. Some he'd allowed to succeed; some he hadn't - there wasn't much pattern to it beyond his mood on any given night.

But he knew, on some visceral, primal level, that the man who sent the bourbon was not like the others.

For one thing, the others always made damned sure he knew who they were.

The first drink had arrived...was it six months ago now? The trio had just finished their first set when Benjie arrived with a glass of Warrick's favorite bourbon on his small tray and an enormous smile on his boyish face. "For you, sir," he'd said with a great, showy bow.

Andre had looked up from where he was putting away his bass for the break and rolled his eyes. "Another drink for Warrick," he'd teased, looking at Smythe. "What do you think, man? What do you and me have to do to get as popular as him?"

Smythe had shrugged and flipped his drumstick in the air.

Warrick had raised his middle finger to Andre before turning back to Benjie. "Who sent it?"

That was the first time Warrick caught that particular twinkle in the waiter's dsrk brown eyes. "No clue, man. Gina just handed it to me and said to bring it to you."

"No shit?" Warrick had taken a drink and relished the burn, scanning the crowd lazily. Already, whoever had sent the drink had an advantage. Most people, when they bought him a drink, ordered whatever they thought he would like. The fact that this person had bothered to ask Gina what he preferred won them major points. And if Gina liked them well enough to let them send her musicians anonymous drinks, that definitely spoke well of their character. "Well, whatever. Thanks, man." He'd smiled at Benjie. "I'll figure it out soon."

But he hadn't. Every week for the next two and a half months, the drink had arrived at the end of the first set. Warrick watched like a hawk, but he'd never seen anyone who looked like they cared if he was enjoying his drink. There was never any message with the drink; no phone numbers or hotel keys or other signs that this person hoped for things to escalate.

He'd thought he had it, once - a quietly handsome young man he spotted several weeks in a row, sitting near the front. From the way he dressed, the bourbon seemed out of his price range, but Warrick was willing to suspend judgment. But his third week there, he'd gathered the nerve to strike up a conversation with Smythe during the break (much to Andre's chagrin). Warrick only knew for sure that the drinks were coming from a man - the Daily was a gay bar, but not so exclusively that there were no straights, especially on Friday nights when the trio played - because once when Benjie pestered her about his benefactor's identity, Gina slipped and said, "He'd rather be anonymous."

And then one night there'd been no drink. He'd made a joke about it - something about the guy finding some other pianist he liked better - but it rankled. All that week, as he'd gone about his life, but especially when the trio was practicing, he'd thought of how empty the small stool had looked without the glass.

When the drink had been absent the second week, he'd gone so far as to flag Benjie down and ask about it. Looking sheepish, Benjie admitted that he'd already asked Gina. Gina, he reported, had looked up and down the bar and said, "He's not here," as though she'd just noticed it herself.

That was when Warrick made one of the most startling, disconcerting, and sort of embarrassing realizations of his adult life: he was attracted to a man he'd never seen. A man he knew nothing about, save that he came to the Daily fairly regularly and liked Warrick enough to buy him a drink every week. He was attracted to him, and he missed him now that he was gone.

Every week since then, he'd waited hopefully for Benjie to return with the small glass. And every week that Benjie had failed to do so, something inside of him slipped a little. Something that believed in magic and fairy tales and happily ever after. If Smythe or Andre - or anyone else - noticed that he invariably played the second set with more melancholy than the first, they kept it to themselves.

And Benjie was right, though Warrick would never admit it: he hadn't gone home with anyone since the night the drinks had stopped coming. But it went further back than that, and Warrick was eternally grateful that the others hadn't figured that out. He hadn't gone home with anyone since the week after the drinks started coming.

Picking up his glass, Warrick came off the stage and moved through the crowd, greeting old friends and lovers who were regulars at the Daily. His eyes drifted repeatedly to the bar, looking at the men sitting there and trying to decide which one was 'his.'

And if Smythe or Andre or anyone else noticed that he played the second set with more energy than the first, they kept that to themselves, too.

By the time Friday rolled around again, Warrick had reached a decision. A week is a long time to think about one thing pretty much exclusively. The trio was between recording projects; he wasn't fighting with any of his relatives or friends; and sales of the second album were good enough to let him lay off worrying about money for a while. Thoughts of the man at the bar - and pretty much entirely the man at the bar - had been free to hold his attention all week.

And so he had reached a decision. He didn't want his secret admirer to be secret anymore. He wanted to look the man who'd been sending him the drinks in the face and know him. Ask him why. Kiss him so hard his toes curled.

And so he waited. He played the first set with an anticipatory haste that, fortunately, most of the audience mistook for simple vigor. He caught Smythe and Andre giving him funny looks once or twice, but he was technically the trio's front man, so they followed his tempo.

At the end of the first set, like clockwork, Benjie arrived on the stage, drink in hand. As he moved to set the glass down on the stool, Warrick put out his hand to intercept it. "No."

Benjie looked up, blinking fast. "No?"

Warrick licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Take it back and tell Gina to tell the guy that if he wants me to have it, he'll have to bring it to me himself. After the second set."

Benjie's eyes widened so far Warrick was afraid they were going to pop out. "For real?" he breathed, awed. "You're really going to meet him? Face-to-face?"

Warrick shrugged, wiping his hands on his pant legs and hoping Benjie wouldn't notice how much he was sweating. "If he's got the balls to show up."

Benjie shook his head and took the glass back. "You are a brave, brave man, Warrick Brown." Then he grinned. "And I am so jealous of you."

Laughing, Warrick wandered off stage into the crowd. He didn't look toward the bar once.

The second set was probably even more rushed than the first.

As soon as they finished for the night, Warrick hopped down and snagged the tiny table right next to the stage. It was never occupied during the performance because it was so close to the piano. Sitting at that table, you'd never guess there was a bassist and a drummer even up there. Warrick placed his back to the bar. He wasn't going to move until either his challenge had been accepted or Gina announced last call (the Daily was one of the few Vegas bars that actually closed), but he wasn't going to give Mystery Man the satisfaction of seeing how badly Warrick wanted this. Although, if the guy knew anything about music, he could've guessed it from the way Warrick played tonight.

Smythe and Andre came to the edge of the stage. "Warrick, you okay?" Andre asked.

Warrick grinned up at them. "I'm great," he promised.

They looked skeptical, but Andre said, "Okay, man, if you say so," and they moved on.

He had been sitting there for ten minutes when the adrenaline started to wear off. What if the guy had no interest in meeting him? What if he was just a guy who liked buying drinks for a jazz pianist he happened to enjoy and was insulted that Warrick had demanded to meet him - had demanded anything of their association other than the friendly anonymity they'd had until now?

He had just about decided that this was his dumbest idea ever when the hand appeared, setting the drink on the table in front of him. "Sorry I was gone so long," said a rough, quiet voice.

Warrick looked up fast, stunned. It was him. No question. This was the guy. His guy.

Warrick stared. The man wasn't what he had expected. He was white, for one thing. Middle-aged - late forties, maybe even early fifties. His brown hair was cut in a severe buzz that couldn't conceal the way it was receding along the forehead. He had muscles - that was clear even through his clothes. They weren't gym muscles, either; Warrick didn't know what this man did for a living, but it didn't involve eight hours in front of a computer. He was dressed simply - charcoal gray turtleneck, black slacks, black shoes. It suited him.

All in all, this was the sexiest man Warrick had ever seen. Then again, looking up at him, he knew he would think that no matter what the man looked like. Because he'd been waiting for this for six months. Forcing his voice steady, Warrick said, "Were you gone? I hadn't noticed."

Chuckling softly, the man settled into the chair beside Warrick. He held out his hand. "Jim Brass."

Warrick took the offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he just held it, his fingers gently stroking the palm. Jim's eyes lost focus, and Warrick grinned - until those unfocused eyes looked into his. His breath caught, the laughter dying abruptly in his throat. "So, Jim Brass," he managed, "do you want to get out of here?"

Jim smiled. "Mr. Brown, I thought you'd never ask."

Keeping his hold on Jim's hand, Warrick stood, working his way toward the door. He looked toward the bar, where Benjie was turning away from Gina with a tray of drinks. When he saw Warrick leading Jim out of the bar, he almost dropped it. Warrick laughed. Then he stopped and whirled to face Jim. "Wait. Why have you been doing this all these months? Why me?"

Instead of answering, Jim reached out his hands to Warrick's face. Warrick leaned forward, bringing his lips to meet Jim's. The kiss was long, and started sweet, but it had just started getting dirty when Warrick ripped away, breathing hard. He stared hard into Jim's eyes and knew he could easily fall ass over teakettle for what he saw there. And he realized that maybe that kiss hadn't been instead of an answer at all.

v. in Miami

"Speed, man, are you doing what I think you're doing?"

From his precarious perch at the top of the ladder, Speed grinned. "What do you think I'm doing?"

Warrick leaned against the wall, enjoying his view. "I think you're changing a light bulb."

Speed turned his attention back to the ceiling. "Then I'm doing what you think I'm doing."

Pushing away from the wall, Warrick resumed his path to the vending machine. "I'm pretty sure we have a maintenance crew."

Speed chuckled. "Looked at a clock lately?"

"Not really. Delko and I were trapped in a small room with the detective who would not die. My brain checked out somewhere in the middle."

"Hagen?"

Warrick slammed the heel of his hand against the machine glass. "I feel for him, but..." He shook his head. "You'd think the man never got dumped before." The soda dropped to the bottom of the machine, and he grabbed it gratefully. "I hope he gets over it soon, so we can go on with our lives."

"I don't know." Speed had the fixture off the light. "Calleigh's not the kind of woman you get over easily."

Warrick took a huge drink and raised his eyebrow at Speed. "Voice of experience?"

"No way." Speed shook his head. "Observation. Sometimes it seems like every man in Dade County's been after her at some point." He paused, looking under his arm at Warrick. "Except you."

Warrick shrugged and didn't answer.

With a little huff, Speed went back to his light bulb. "Anyway. I'm just saying what I've seen. Calleigh's not my type."

"Wow." The other man whistled. "Brilliant, strong, gorgeous - and not your type. Think maybe you're setting your standards a little high?"

That got a real laugh out of Speed as he tugged on the light bulb. "It's got nothing to do with Calleigh's qualities and everything with my - SHIT!"

Warrick moved without thought. In half a breath he was across the room, arms wrapping around the bottom of Speed's legs and the frame of the ladder. He didn't dare breathe until man and metal had both stopped swaying. Then he looked up at Speed. "You okay, man?"

Speed nodded shakily, his breath coming in shallow rasps. "Thanks."

"No problem." And it hadn't been. It had been one heart-stopping instant of fear as he'd watched Speed weave on top of the ladder, and then he'd just jumped. Because - well, because Speed was a co-worker, and a friend, and he'd seen too many broken bodies. Anything else he could still plausibly deny.

"I think I'm okay up here," Speed said gently. "You can probably let go."

"Oh." Warrick hadn't really realized that he was still holding Speed's legs. "Oh, yeah. Sorry." He started to remove his arms, and the ladder started rocking again. His arms returned automatically to Speed's legs.

Speed frowned. "Maybe not," he said. "Hey, listen, Warrick, would you mind..." He gestured vaguely at the ladder, and the light bulb, and Warrick's arms.

Warrick nodded. "Let me know when the bulb's changed," he said.

"Thanks."

It was strange, holding onto Speed's legs while he changed a light bulb. But it was just strange - not awkward, or embarrassing, or anything they would have to apologize for or laugh off or explain away once Speed was on the ground. Holding onto Speed's legs was something Warrick could get used to. Too easily. "So, you were saying?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Speed was making very good time with the light bulb.

"About Calleigh, and why the two of you never..."

Speed's laugh was overlain with nervousness. "I'm no so sure you want to hear that now, given the way we're standing."

Warrick frowned. That didn't make sense. "What? You got some kind of communicable disease or something?"

Laughing more genuinely, Speed tucked the burned out bulb in his shirt pocket. "Listen to you pull out the big words." He shook his head. "No, it's...what I was going to say, before, was that it had a lot less to do with Calleigh and a lot more to do with me."

"You don't like blondes?" Warrick guessed.

Speed grimaced. "That's not--"

"Is it because you work together? I get that. There was somebody back in Vegas who - well, it's a good thing I cut out when I did, because if I'd had to work with them every day and not make a move..." He shook his head, thinking of everything he'd left behind in Nevada, of everything better he'd found now that he'd started putting down roots in Florida, and of all the wandering missteps in between. "Workplace romances can be a bitch."

"No. I mean - you're right; they can be. That's not to say I wouldn't have one if it seemed worth the effort. It's not Calleigh's hair color, or her status as a CSI, or anything like that."

"So, what?" Warrick tapped Speed's calf with his fingers. "Come on, man."

"I'd really rather not say, Warrick."

Warrick tightened his grip on Speed's legs. "Well, just keep in mind who's holding onto who here."

"You'd keep me trapped on a ladder unless I tell you?" The squeak in Speed's voice spoke volumes on how he felt about that possibility.

Warrick grinned. "I might."

"God, you can be such a shit." Speed shook his head. "All right, but I gave you fair warning, right? I told you you weren't going to like it."

"Whatever, man. So, what's wrong with Calleigh?"

"Nothing, I hope!"

Warrick groaned. He was nuts about Calleigh. Really. But sometimes her timing sucked. "Hey, Calleigh," he said. He shifted his grip on Speed's legs and hoped Calleigh wouldn't ask what they were doing.

"What are you guys doing?" There went Warrick's faith in good luck.

"I'm changing a light bulb," Speed offered helpfully. "This stupid ladder is a piece of crap."

She nodded and retrieved her can of soda from the machine. "It sure is." Taking a drink, she regarded the men closely. There was no judgment in her scrutiny, just careful consideration. "Now, what are y'all saying is wrong with me?"

Warrick stared at the denim-covered calf in front of him, avoiding Calleigh's gaze, but he felt a subtle shift in Speed that seemed to indicate a shrug. "Warrick was wondering why I'd never pursued you romantically."

Calleigh laughed, a bright, rich sound that made the whole room brighter. "Aw, Warrick, that's sweet of you, looking out for us like that." She was teasing him. Definitely, that was teasing in her tone. "But I don't have the equipment Tim's after." She winked at Warrick, took another sip, and walked out of the room.

Warrick kept staring at Speed's leg. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Couldn't believe he'd missed something this big. About Speed.

Above Warrick's head, Speed cleared his throat. "I did warn you," he said apologetically.

Warrick forced his eyes up to meet Speed's. "Did she - did Calleigh just out you to me?"

Speed laughed easily. "Looks like. I'm amazed you never figured it out." He peered at Warrick. "Since you're such a good CSI." Warrick's tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth. Speed was openly staring now, but he couldn't make his mouth form words. "Come on, Warrick, say something. What are you thinking?"

Warrick's brain kicked into gear. Here he stood, at the base of a ladder, with his arms around the legs of a man he'd been covertly lusting after for months - a man who suddenly was way more attainable than he'd thought. Warrick's voice, when it decided to work again, had dropped half an octave. "I'm thinking you'd better get off the ladder, Tim."

Speed swallowed so hard Warrick felt vibrations in his legs. "Uh, okay," he said, and Warrick was enthralled by how the voice had gone out of Speed's voice, leaving him sounding breathless and wanting.

Holding the frame of the ladder, Warrick stepped back enough to give Speed a little maneuvering room. But just a little. Smiling a very secret smile, Speed shimmied down the ladder. Warrick's heart rate doubled.

The instant he was on the ground, but still held in the circle of Warrick's arms, Speed began studying the other man's face as though a great secret of the universe was written there. Warrick looked back, keeping his expression as open as possible. He didn't know what Speed was looking for, but if it was in Warrick at all, he wanted it found. At last, Speed shook his head wonderingly. "Really? You? I thought you were, I don't know...uber-straight or something."

Warrick laughed softly. "I don't advertise it. But I've known my preference since high school." He leaned closer to Speed, loving the way Speed's pupils dilated, swallowing the irises. "And since I got to Miami, my preference has been you."

Speed swallowed hard. Warrick let a little more tooth show in his grin, but his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Speed smiled back and leaned closer, too.

Warrick dove in, crushing Speed's mouth against his. Speed groaned and pressed hard against him. His tongue plunged into Warrick's mouth, tasting, plundering, running along every surface as though trying to commit it to sense memory. Speed's hands found Warrick's hips and shuffled him closer; Warrick let go of the ladder and wrapped his arms around Speed's back.

When Warrick ran out of air and drew away gasping, Speed chased his mouth, nipping along his lower lip. "Maybe," Warrick panted as he tried to collect himself, "we should do this someplace else."

"Locker room," Speed said, laying kisses and bites around Warrick's mouth.

Warrick staggered backward, hauling Speed along by the hips. Every now and then he stopped and pressed hungry kisses to Speed's jaw and neck. Speed whimpered, and Warrick wondered how long he'd been missing the signals. He thought maybe he heard the ladder crash to the ground behind them.

Warrick slammed Speed against the locker room wall and went to work on his shirt. Speed wasn't helping, running his hands along Warrick's arms, up and down his back, grabbing at his ass. Warrick groaned as the last button surrendered and the shirt fell away. He licked Speed's chest, kissing his way to a nipple. He ran his tongue around it until Speed was whimpering, sagging against the wall. Raising his head, Warrick grinned ferally and lowered his mouth toward the other nipple.

Everyone has limits. Apparently, Warrick had just hit Speed's.

Fast as lightning, Speed had Warrick turned around, face to the wall. He shoved Warrick's shirt up under his arms, running his hands over Warrick's chest and back. "Pants off," Speed rasped, and Warrick's fingers went to his belt. Speed groaned as Warrick's jeans and briefs slid down his legs. "Christ, Warrick," he breathed, crowding right up behind him. His hand curled around Warrick's cock and started a frenzied rhythm.

Normally he had all sorts of stamina, but after half a year of watching, wanting - and now, to be here, with Speed's hand wrapped around his dick, and Speed's warmth against his back, he wasn't going to last. Couldn't last. "Fuck, Tim," he gasped, and came all over Speed's hand, and his own chest, and the wall.

Speed didn't give him long to recover. Something soft and square pressed into his hand. Speed's wallet. "Back compartment," he said, kissing Warrick's neck again and again. Warrick opened the wallet and found the condom tucked in the corner. His hands shook as he pulled it out and dropped the wallet to the floor. He held the foil between his teeth and turned - carefully, because his pants were somewhere around his knees. He unzipped Speed's pants and shoved them to the floor. He hooked fingers behind elastic and yanked the boxers down. "Oh, God," he said, staring at Speed's cock.

"Warrick, please," Speed begged, and Warrick took the package out of his mouth and ripped the foil. He took his sweet time rolling the condom over Speed, stroking unnecessarily often - just to watch the beads of sweat break out on Speed's face and his eyes roll back in his head. As soon as he stepped back, Speed held out his hand. The palm still glistened with Warrick's come. "Spit," Speed said, and for a second Warrick's mouth was so dry he wasn't sure he would be able to. But he did and watched with dazed eyes as Speed slicked the condom with his own spit and come. "Turn around," Speed ordered, and Warrick turned, bracing his arm against the wall and his forehead against his arm.

When one slick finger entered him, his whole body strained back against it. "Don’t waste time with that shit," he gasped.

Speed froze. "I don't want to hurt you--"

"Tim, now," Warrick snarled.

Speed laughed, low, and Warrick felt the sound travel his body. "Pushy, pushy," he muttered, but the finger disappeared.

Speed tried to go slowly as he pushed inside Warrick, but Warrick had waited too long to put up with slow. He shoved back against Speed's thrust, reaching his free arm around to grab Speed's hip and pull him closer. "Warrick," Speed groaned, too out of it to form a more convincing protest.

Warrick pushed back again. "Move. Now." He paused, grinning. "Please."

Speed moved. Warrick gasped. They set up a rhythm, each stroke sending sparks showering behind Warrick's eyes.

"What was his name?" Speed asked.

"Huh?" Warrick barely had the energy to say that much.

"The guy you left in Vegas," Speed panted. "What was his name?"

Oh, shit. This? Now? But Speed had stopped moving. So, yes, now. "Nick," he said.

Speed started moving again, faster, harder, pounding against Warrick's prostate. Warrick's internal organs were melting. "What...was...his...name...?" Speed asked again.

Warrick's brain was an internal organ, right? "N...N..." He couldn't form the word.

Speed picked up the pace again, pulling almost all the way out and then slamming back in on every thrust. "What. Was. His. Name?"

Whose name? Warrick gasped, pressing his forehead hard against his arm. "Tim, please," he begged, not sure what he was asking for.

Speed wrapped his arm around Warrick's stomach, pulled them even closer together. He moaned; his rhythm fell apart; he came in a rush, gasping Warrick's name.

They stood regaining their breath and higher brain functions. Warrick started laughing. "That was a totally shitty thing to do, Tim."

Speed's mouth was pressed to Warrick's back, and Warrick felt the smile that curled his lips. "It was, wasn't it?" he mused unrepentantly.

Warrick laughed. "Unbelievable."

Reluctantly, Speed disentangled from Warrick. They both winced when he pulled out. Warrick turned, catching him in a long, lazy kiss. He stepped back and tied off the condom, and they looked around in dismay as they got their clothes in order. "I'll get a towel from my locker," Speed said. "To clean the wall."

"Right." Warrick picked up the fallen wallet and slid it into Speed's back pocket, making sure his hand lingered. Speed's eyes glazed, but he closed his eyes and moved out of reach.

"You're going to be a bad influence on me," he said, laughing, as he walked across the room.

"I hope so," Warrick said fervently.

Speed paused like he was about to say something, but then he shook his head and walked on. "So, this Nick guy," he called, "is he why you left Vegas?"

And...there went the afterglow as the image of Holly's lifeless body floated in front of his eyes. He and Nick had cost her her life - their ruthless competition, their desperate, futile attempts to be the first to impress Grissom. "I didn't like the person I was when he was around."

"Hey. I'm sorry." Out of nowhere, Speed was beside him, a hand strong around his arm. "I should've realized - I didn't know it was that bad."

Warrick started to dismiss it, say it hadn't been that bad, but who would've bought that? It had been that bad - and worse. He looked at Speed and smiled instead. "That's the past," he said. "This is the present."

Speed smiled back, but suddenly he looked shy and uncertain. "And the future? What's in the future?"

A wide yawn overtook Warrick. "Well, in the immediate future, there's a bed." He looked hopefully at Speed. "Any chance you're in it?"

The tension rushed out of Speed so fast Warrick almost saw it go. "It could be arranged." He squeezed Warrick's arm once, let go, and tossed over the towel. "After we clean this place up."

Warrick feigned indignation. "Me? Why do I have to clean the wall?"

Speed snorted. "Whose DNA is plastered to the plaster, buddy?" Then he grinned. "Besides, I'm done doing maintenance duty around this place. I changed the damned light bulb."

END