Fic: Surprises, Grissom/Brown, PG-13
Title: Surprises
Author: Abbie Strehlow
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Grissom/Brown (with Grissom/Stokes and Brown/Stokes implied)
Summary: Gil's musical choice surprises Warrick. Warrick's POV.
Author's Note: The song in question is "The Trouble with Me is You" by Zoot Sims. From this Amazon page you can listen to the first minute or so of it. Also, I don't think this qualifies as "song fic" as there aren't any lyrics.
Angst level: 2
Disclaimer: Not mine. All theirs. Expanding canon, not diminishing.
Surprises
It shouldn't surprise me that he can still surprise me. I mean, it's Grissom, right? The man's law unto himself, mine fields mixed with dusty academic texts and roller coasters.
Generally, Grissom listens to old white guy music, and I mean dead old white guy music. I don't think there's anything classical about it. It's pretty much a guaranteed turn off, just noise to sleep to, not music with soul.
But tonight, when that damn monkey on my back is eviscerating my spine and my nerves are shot to hell and my hands are shaking like I've got the DTs and I just need something, some one, tonight, the cold slate floors of his place aren't twanging with strings and flutes, or echoing from some fat lady screeching in Italian.
Instead, there's a single saxophone, blowing low and sad through his rooms. Quiet piano backs up the horn, and the soft swish of a snare keeps up a slow beat. It's mellow, and poignant, and so full of heartbreak it's gonna make me do something stupid.
So I chose the lesser of two evil. Well, the least of all the evils tumbling like dice through my brain, cause there's too good a chance it's gonna be snake-eyes and I don't want to lose. Not tonight. Not with Grissom.
"Dance with me," I say, my voice full of gravel and smoke, like I'd just come from a club that plays this kind of music. He turns, his look of confusion covered so quickly with loss. I suddenly understand why he's got this tune on repeat, why he's listing to one side, then slowly coming closer to me, like he's being reeled in, like he's caught in a dream of the blues. We're both hurting tonight, though he'll never say a word. That man couldn't admit to his feelings even if it were the only way to prevent a killing spree.
"Why?" he asks as he steps into my arms, lets me enfold him, lay my cheek against his hair.
I don't say what I'm thinking. I don't tell him it's because we're both hurting, because neither of us can hold the man we really want, because the trouble with you isn't me--because sometimes a friend has to be enough.
"Just dance with me," I reply, swaying slowly, my eyes closed, letting the twilight and music slide around me and soothe my jangling nerves. He sways with me, an unknown--unknowable--weight in my arms, his breathing smoothing out as we circle the room, gliding on that sweet, low horn.
It doesn't surprise me when he pulls me down for a kiss. Not fire, not ice, not any extreme ripples through me as his mouth leaves mine and marks a trail across my jaw, down my neck, under my collar and back. This isn't passion. It's comfort, for an hour, maybe a day. Just enough to see us through.
His bedroom is small, but the bed is big and soft. He examines me as he strips me, no words, just murmurs of appreciation for skin and muscle and bone structure.
That he lets me top him is a bit of a surprise, but not really. He needs not to think, not to speculate about what if's, just to take that sweet ride and only feel for a while.
When he whispers "Nicky" as he comes--that's no surprise at all.
Author: Abbie Strehlow
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Grissom/Brown (with Grissom/Stokes and Brown/Stokes implied)
Summary: Gil's musical choice surprises Warrick. Warrick's POV.
Author's Note: The song in question is "The Trouble with Me is You" by Zoot Sims. From this Amazon page you can listen to the first minute or so of it. Also, I don't think this qualifies as "song fic" as there aren't any lyrics.
Angst level: 2
Disclaimer: Not mine. All theirs. Expanding canon, not diminishing.
Surprises
It shouldn't surprise me that he can still surprise me. I mean, it's Grissom, right? The man's law unto himself, mine fields mixed with dusty academic texts and roller coasters.
Generally, Grissom listens to old white guy music, and I mean dead old white guy music. I don't think there's anything classical about it. It's pretty much a guaranteed turn off, just noise to sleep to, not music with soul.
But tonight, when that damn monkey on my back is eviscerating my spine and my nerves are shot to hell and my hands are shaking like I've got the DTs and I just need something, some one, tonight, the cold slate floors of his place aren't twanging with strings and flutes, or echoing from some fat lady screeching in Italian.
Instead, there's a single saxophone, blowing low and sad through his rooms. Quiet piano backs up the horn, and the soft swish of a snare keeps up a slow beat. It's mellow, and poignant, and so full of heartbreak it's gonna make me do something stupid.
So I chose the lesser of two evil. Well, the least of all the evils tumbling like dice through my brain, cause there's too good a chance it's gonna be snake-eyes and I don't want to lose. Not tonight. Not with Grissom.
"Dance with me," I say, my voice full of gravel and smoke, like I'd just come from a club that plays this kind of music. He turns, his look of confusion covered so quickly with loss. I suddenly understand why he's got this tune on repeat, why he's listing to one side, then slowly coming closer to me, like he's being reeled in, like he's caught in a dream of the blues. We're both hurting tonight, though he'll never say a word. That man couldn't admit to his feelings even if it were the only way to prevent a killing spree.
"Why?" he asks as he steps into my arms, lets me enfold him, lay my cheek against his hair.
I don't say what I'm thinking. I don't tell him it's because we're both hurting, because neither of us can hold the man we really want, because the trouble with you isn't me--because sometimes a friend has to be enough.
"Just dance with me," I reply, swaying slowly, my eyes closed, letting the twilight and music slide around me and soothe my jangling nerves. He sways with me, an unknown--unknowable--weight in my arms, his breathing smoothing out as we circle the room, gliding on that sweet, low horn.
It doesn't surprise me when he pulls me down for a kiss. Not fire, not ice, not any extreme ripples through me as his mouth leaves mine and marks a trail across my jaw, down my neck, under my collar and back. This isn't passion. It's comfort, for an hour, maybe a day. Just enough to see us through.
His bedroom is small, but the bed is big and soft. He examines me as he strips me, no words, just murmurs of appreciation for skin and muscle and bone structure.
That he lets me top him is a bit of a surprise, but not really. He needs not to think, not to speculate about what if's, just to take that sweet ride and only feel for a while.
When he whispers "Nicky" as he comes--that's no surprise at all.