One Step at a Time

“Greg, a little respect for the dead, please.”

Greg looked up at his mentor with an expression of confusion. “What?”

Grissom stared at the young man, an amused crinkle around his blue eyes. “It’s not polite to sing while examining the deceased.”

“I was singing?”

“I believe the words were ‘and then if you really love me, tell me I can hide the body’.”

“Oh,” he said, blushing as he looked back down at the victim, “sorry. I didn’t realize. Not exactly appropriate for a murder, is it?”

“You could say that. Though, to be honest, I’m glad to see you in a good mood.”

“You are?”

“Yes, Greg, I am. I know you don’t believe it, but I’m not entirely indifferent to my team’s feelings. You’ve been. . . quiet lately. It’s refreshing to have you singing again.”

“Oh, well, thanks. I guess.”

“Just not here.”

“Right. Gotcha,” he said, flashing his boss a grin. Grissom shook his head, a smile appearing at the corners of his lips as he returned to examining the scene.

Warrick observed this exchange with narrowed eyes, a terrible suspicion lurking in the back of his mind regarding the cause of Greg’s good mood. He had a feeling that more than one form of protein had been ingested the night before, and as soon as he could corner the former lab rat, he was going to get a confession out of him. Greg seemed to sense this and had been avoided being caught alone with Warrick, but he couldn’t hide forever.

“You slept with him,” Warrick said when he trapped Greg in the locker room.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Greg, you hardly know the man.”

“What, and you’ve never slept with someone on the first date?”

All right, the kid had him there, but it wasn’t entirely his fault most of his dates were one-night stands. If pressed, he could always blame his job. “That’s not the point. Are you seeing him again?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m calling him when my shift ends and we’re going to grab something to eat.” Though I’ll be damn surprised if we make it past the front door, he added to himself, not needing to endure Warrick’s reaction to that little tidbit of information. “What’s it matter to you anyway, Rick? I thought we had this discussion already. I’m an adult, capable of making my own decisions and my own mistakes. Why are you making such a big deal about this? You’ve never taken an interest in my personal life before.”

“He’s a musician, Greg, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s musicians. They’re sluts, they’re junkies, and they can’t be trusted.”

Greg’s eyes turned defensive, his voice hard and barely controlled as he spoke. “First off, I doubt the Las Vegas Symphony would let a junkie sit second chair cello. Second, I’ve never held anyone’s sexual experience against them. And third, I’ll judge whether or not Jack can be trusted once I get to know him--if the relationship lasts that long. I’m not some starry-eyed teenager. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. It’s just. . .” Oh, hell, he was going to have to think of something, and fast. He didn’t know why Greg’s personal life had become the focus of all his spare time, or why this particular guy bothered him so much. He just knew he needed to keep an eye on them. “Look, Greg, after nearly losing Nick, I took a closer look at the people in my life. I thought I’d been holding all of you at arm’s length, but I see now that you mean more to me than I thought. I’m just trying to take care of my family.”

“Warrick, I’m just dating. If I end up in a life and death situation, you’ll be the first person I call.” Greg reached out and drew the older man into a hug. Warrick stood stiffly for a moment, then relaxed into his embrace, hugging him back. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, I promise.”

“Yeah, you just be sure and keep that promise.”

“You know what,” Greg said, smiling up at him, “your next day off, why don’t you join us? Come on your own or bring a date, doesn’t matter. Give yourself a chance to get to know Jack so you can stop worrying.”

Warrick looked into those big brown eyes wide with hope, and smiled. “All right, I’ll go.” Anything to make Greg happy, and still make sure he didn’t get hurt.

“Good. And maybe you’ll play for us,” he said, hopping around Warrick and heading to the door.

“Yeah, maybe.”


“So why’d Jack say to meet him here?” Warrick asked as Greg opened the back door to The Blue Note and gestured for him to go inside.

“Jack likes the acoustics so he practices here a lot. Have you ever heard a cello before?”

“Of course.”

“So’ve I, but you know, I never really gave it much thought. I never realized what a sensual instrument it is until Jack serenaded me. The cello makes these deep tones that pull your emotions right from the center of your being. I’ve gotten hard listening to music before, but watching Jack and hearing him play for me, it took all my control not to come right then and there--and that was without ever being touched.”

“Greg, why are you telling me this?”

“Just want to make sure you’re prepared,” he grinned and they walked into the main area of the club.

Jack was sitting center stage, so engrossed in his playing he never saw them. They took care not to make a sound as they slid into the same booth they’d occupied before, and listened.

Greg had been right. The soulful notes of the cello reached right out to the core of his being. The cello captured him, held him, caressed him, and he didn’t even realize it until it was too late. He was mesmerized by the music, by the lights shining of the deep red finish of the instrument, and by the musician himself. Jack’s eyes were open, but he was oblivious to the room and anyone in it. Instead, the story the music was telling him was played out before him, and he saw only the scene it created, the players it defined for him, and he was lost to its telling.

Warrick had never seen anything more beautiful.

Finally, the song finished and Jack slowly came back to himself. Breathing heavily, his arms resting on the curves of the cello, he blinked to realize he wasn’t alone. A sheepish smile crossed his face as he brushed the damp curls from his forehead. “You’re here.”

“Told you we would be,” Greg said, walking over to him. He leaned over to kiss Jack softly on the lips, and Warrick felt a pulse through the erection he hadn’t even known he’d had. He tried to reassure himself by saying only a dead man would have been to both the power of the music impervious combined with the two of them, but he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. It was the musician as much as the music that had gotten to him.

“Warrick,” Jack said, turning to him with a smile that only sharpened his discomfort. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“If I’d known how talented you were, I would have come sooner. That was. . . amazing.”

“You’re too kind. Please, keep going,” he winked, and Warrick chuckled, almost giggled--god, he could use a drink. “You know, you’ve heard me playing twice now and I haven’t heard you once. Perhaps you would give us the pleasure?”

Oh yeah, right, the pleasure, because the first thing he wanted to do right now was stand up and reveal just how much pleasure he’d been feeling on his end, and how much pleasure he wouldn’t mind giving them.

“Maybe later,” he said, shaking his head. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear you play some more.”

Greg gave him a sharp look, perhaps recognizing in his voice that something was off, but the kid showed astounding restraint by not saying anything.

“If that’s what you want,” Jack said with a gracious nod, pulling Greg down for another kiss before readying himself to play again.

Greg was smiling a little too smugly as he made his way back to the booth and Warrick narrowed his eyes, needing to set the kid straight. “Just because I like his music doesn’t mean I like him.”

“Uh-huh,” was Greg’s only reply, but Warrick could tell he wasn’t convinced.

“Just shut up and listen.”

The next piece Jack played was a bit livelier and less. . . moving. Warrick was able to regain control over his body and focus on the music. He had to admit, the kid had talent. His fingers glided effortlessly up and down the fingerboard, his bowing was crisp and vigorous--he put so much energy into each movement, it was a wonder Jack didn’t need to be carried off the stage at the end of every night--or that he had the energy left for anything else.

Yeah, Warrick could definitely see the appeal, but then, he’d always understood Jack’s appeal. It was a question of whether or not anything lay under that pretty exterior and those beautiful notes that had Warrick guessing. But then, that’s why he was there.

Both CSIs applauded when Jack ended the song with a flourish, Greg adding to his clapping a whistle and a whoop of appreciation. Beaming beneath Greg’s enthusiasm, Jack set the cello aside.

“That’s it--I’m finished for the day. I’ve been practicing all afternoon and I think my arms are about to fall off. But now, Mr. Brown, I believe you owe us a song.”

“Happy to oblige, though anything I play will look pretty shabby compared to your performance.”

“I doubt that,” Jack smiled, cuddling next to Greg in the booth and gesturing towards the piano. “The stage is yours.”

Warrick walked over to the baby grand and sat down, brushing his fingers lightly over the keys without actually pressing down. It had been a long time since he’d played the piano, longer than he cared to remember. Music had always been his means for escape, but lately, there’d been so much to escape from, the music refused to come. There were too many things that needed release and he didn’t know where to begin. As he sat in front of the instrument, the others waiting patiently for him to begin, he discovered he wasn’t able to play a note.

After a few moments of silence, he caught Greg out of the corner of his eye placing a hand over Jack’s before sliding out of the booth to join him. The younger man sat down on the bench, using his bony hips to force Warrick to scoot over.

“Hey.”

Warrick looked over at him. “Hey yourself.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to let go?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders ever since the night Nick was taken. I know you feel responsible, but Warrick, this is a burden he never asked you to carry. I think it’s hurting him as much as it’s hurting you.”

“Greg, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know more than you think. Jazz is all about improv, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Place your hands on the keys and close your eyes.” Warrick started to object, but Greg shook his head, stopping him. “Please, just do as I say.”

Seeing the kid wasn’t about to let up, Warrick sighed and obeyed.

“All right, now what?”

“Play Nicky for me.”

His eyes flew open. “What?”

“Close your eyes and listen.”

Warrick glared at him for a few seconds, then faced forward and closed his eyes.

“Think of Nick. Picture him in your head, but only picture what I let you see. The camera, the box, the ants, the gun, the hospital, the recovery--forget all of that.”

“I can’t,” he said in a tiny voice, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Yes, you can. Just listen to me. My words are the only things that matter. Nothing else exists.”

“Sanders, you’re getting a little freaky on me here.”

“Trust me, Warrick. Trust me with this, and I’ll trust you.”

Understanding just what it was Greg was saying, Warrick couldn’t help feeling surprised. He’d really let Warrick take Jack away from him in return for. . . for what? Some fucked up sort of therapy? It didn’t seem right.

“Let’s just go one step at a time,” he said, letting Greg off the hook, and damned if the younger man didn’t relax a little. He’d been willing to put everything on the line for this, and somehow, that made Warrick feel even more guilty.

“All right. Now picture Nicky. Think of his smile. We all know he’s got one of those smiles that always makes you want to smile back. Think of his smile and his slightly squinty eyes--”

“Nick’s eyes are not squinty!” he protested and Greg chuckled.

“Of course they are. I have no doubt it’s from growing up squinting into that Texas sun all the time.”

“I’m telling him you called his eyes squinty.”

“Go right ahead. Now stop distracting me and get that picture of Nick back up in your mind. See his smile, the happy crinkles around his eyes when he grins--”

“That’s better,” Warrick grumbled.

“Do you see him?”

What could he say? “Yeah, I do.”

“He really does have an amazing smile, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“And his laugh--he’s got such a willing laugh. He always tries to find the humor in everything. He likes things around him to be light, and friendly, and joyful. He’s one of the few people who never used to look down on my antics in the lab. He was always willing to give me an encouraging grin when things were rough or keep me entertained when things were going slow.”

“I remember walking in on you one time playing ‘name that smell’ with the pipettes. His face had turned green, but he wasn’t about to quit.”

“That’s one thing you two have in common--your competitive streak, but you never let it turn serious between you. It’s all just for fun. You don’t want to risk ruining your friendship because Nick’s one of the best friends anyone could ask for.”

“Yeah,” Warrick said, a smile starting to warm his lips, “he is that.”

“You feel it, Warrick? The way your heart is growing? That’s what Nick means to you. That’s the way you should feel every day when seeing him, instead of automatically looking around waiting for the next disaster to strike so you can jump in and save him. That’s no way to live your life, Warrick, and he doesn’t want you to live like that. Picture Nick, picture what he means to you. Feel it, and then let me hear it.”

“Greg--”

“Shh. . . Jazz is improvisation, remember? So just put your fingers down and play.”

Still feeling uncertain about all this, Warrick placed his fingers on the keyboard and sounded out a couple notes, and then a couple more, until the notes began to tie together. It started off with just a slow, languid sort of tune, but the more Warrick concentrated on Nick and how he felt about his best friend, the more complicated it became. Sometimes there was a slight twang to the sound when he thought of Nick’s lazy Texas accent, and he threw in a bit of honky-tonk when he pictured the way Nick’s eyes lit up when he spoke of home or when A&M was winning a football game.

The music quickened, growing harsh, when he pictured Nick getting worked up over a case, or seeing his friend’s pale face against the hospital bed, but then Greg’s hand was soothing his back and he focused again on the good things.

He thought of the times they’d spent hanging out away from work, the conversations about nothing that somehow meant more because it kept them sane. Barbecues, birthday parties, late nights at a strip club, Nick’s enthusiasm when he talked about his extreme sports or when they were playing basketball, he put all of this into his music. He realized just how much he’d missed the fun he and Nick used to have, the fun that had been missing because he was so worried about how to act around him.

The song he ended up with was a peaceful flow of music, easy-going, comforting, but with backbone and hidden strength found in the low notes. It had high points of lightness and fun, and more serious tones with a hint of melancholy, but the sadness always returned to the light. It was something smooth that flowed right into his ears and through his body all the way down to his toes, and yeah, Warrick smiled, that was Nicky.

The sound eventually trickled to a stop, unfinished because he and Nick still had a lot of life left to go. His hands resting on the keys, he became aware of a warm body pressed to either side of him, warm hands caressing his stomach, his thighs, his chest, warm lips on his neck. He kept his eyes closed and let the warmth take him over. Slowly, his hands slid off the keyboard and he gave them control, his silence providing his permission for them to do what they needed.

When they later went their separate ways, he was never sure who exactly had done what to him, or what he’d done to either of them. He’d kept himself purposefully blind, perhaps thinking that if he didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. His body, however, told him that not only did it happen, but it was all he could do to keep from hunting them down and making it happen all over again.

Warrick drove home, sat down at the piano, and didn’t stop playing for the rest of the night. The song, however, was no longer Nicky’s. The song belonged to the three of them, and he knew from the music, he was in trouble.