I don't own CSI

Rated M

Guess I have to catch up on what happens once Warrick rescues Trista from the alley, right?

Ok then, here ya go...a nice long chapter that should make my Warrick & Trista fans happy.

This is a Warrick & Trista ONLY chapter.

As for my Nick & Jules fans...no worries...they will be following right behind this.

Please give me feedback on Warrick & Trista...love it or leave it?

Review...because I need it.

He leaned over the console and grabbed her purse off the floor. Digging through it he found her keys and tossed her purse back on the floor by her feet. He groaned as he got out of his truck and he walked up the dark walkway, up the stairs, and to her front door. Once he opened it, he tossed her keys on the little table in the foyer, and leaned in to turn on the porch light to guide his way for when he brought her inside. Leaving the door open, he turned and walked back to his truck. Warrick grabbed his own keys from the ignition and slammed the door before walking around to the other side to get Trista out of his truck.

"Sure hope you listen to me or we are going to get that stomach pumped, Ann Testa," he told her quietly knowing she couldn't grasp what he was saying.

He looked at her for a second and shook his head sadly before he pulled her out of the passenger's seat and up over his shoulder. He made sure to pull her dress down as he walked with her up the walkway. He knew no one see it, but he just felt like he needed to keep her dignity as best as he could. Just as he got to her front door he remembered he left her purse and phone in his truck and so he turned around, and clicked the alarm to lock his truck.

Warrick carried her into her house and continued his lecture.

"You're gonna either throw up, eat something, or flush yourself out with fluids…you cannot drink yourself unconscious and expect me to hope you wake up…uh-uh, nope…not a chance," he grumbled the entire way.

Kicking the door shut with his foot, he was carried her inside. Flipping on the light with his elbow he looked around. Her small townhouse was decorated with Trista flair and he liked it. He wasn't sure when he had been there last but whenever it was he never noticed the décor or how nice it smelled. It smelled like candles or scented lotion or something feminine and pretty. He looked into her living room and decided to put her down on the couch.

He sat her upward and said, "Hey, Hey, Trist," as he knelt on his knees in front of her to keep her from falling over.

"Trista, listen to me…you listening to me?"

"Hhhhmm" was the only sound she made.

"Trista, look at me…look at me…" he rubbed the sides of her upper arms.

"Stop it, Warrrrrrick…leave me alone," she grumbled and pushed him away.

"No, you have three choices…you eat and drink for me, you puke, or we go to the ER…what's it gonna be?

"Fuck off."

"No way, Trista, I mean it," he ignored her cursing him.

"Warrrrick, leave meeee alone!"

Warrick didn't listen. He reached up, cupped the side of her face and opened her eye with his thumb and index finger to get a look at her pupil dilation.

"Okay, no…uh-uh, I don't like what I'm seeing…get up…let's go…I cant take a chance with you, sweetheart," he decided, "I should have fucking done this before," he admitted, stood up in front of her, and prepared to get her to the hospital.

"NOOOO!" Trista cried out, "Why can't ya just leave me alone, Warrick, please…"

"You listen to me, Trist…you are on the verge of alcohol poisoning…Do you hear me! Trust me…you got three choices…choose one or I make it for you, got it?"

Trista gives him a shaky nod and Warrick goes into her kitchen. He looks through a couple cabinets before finding the one with the glasses. He grabs a large, red, plastic, cup, fills it with water, and brings it back to her.

"Drink this…all of it."

"I can't"

"TRISTA! Drink it!"

She listens to him and drinks nearly all of it.

"I can't anymore," she says to him.

Warrick looks in the cup, felt satisfied, and pulls her up off the couch.

"Where?" is all she could say.

"Come on, Sweetheart, this will help, I promise," he says and takes her into the bathroom, kneeling her in front of the toilet.

Warrick spent an hour with her in that bathroom. He got her to stick her finger down her throat which got the ball rolling and she vomited over and over again. He held her hair back as she threw up her liquor, he rubbed her back as she heaved, and he sat with her on the cold tile floor as she slumped limply in his arms.

She had fallen asleep in his arms in that small bathroom and he took that opportunity to deal with her deep wounds on her knees. He rested her in the corner between the wall and the bathtub and pulled her legs out in front of her as her head wobbled to the side. He looked under the sink and grabbed the first aid kit. He smiled when he opened it and spotted the princess band-aids inside; he knew then that she had this kit for Emma.

"Just another reason I love you," he whispered. He loved how much she loved Emma.

Kneeling back on the floor in front of her, he cringed when he saw how badly hurt she was. The cuts were deep and he spent a long time tediously removing every shard of glass and gravel from each wound. Trista never moved; she was oblivious to the pain. Warrick took good care of her and by the time he was done, her legs were wiped of all blood, and her knees were cleaned, disinfected and well bandaged. So, he leaned his back against the wall and scooped her back into him and let her sleep in his arms for a little while longer.

He stared at the ceiling as she slept and thought about how far his feelings had come since the first time they hooked up. He never expected this. It was true that he had helped Trista out of trouble, or jams, or whatever she got herself into, but he did it with a different kind of feeling behind it. He had always cared very, very, much about her, even when they fought like cats and dogs, but now, as he sat with her curled in his arms, damp with perspiration, he felt something he didn't think he had ever felt before. He didn't want to snap at her, yell at her, give her a nasty dig. He didn't want to throw her in bed, make sure she was fine, and call it a night. No, he wanted to hold her and never let her go. It was a very strange feeling for Warrick and he wasn't sure if he was happy about feeling it.

As he continued looking at the ceiling in deep thought, he felt her stirring and looked down at her. He lifted her head by her chin and made her look up at him; he wanted to see her eyes again.

"How ya feelin' now?" he asked her softly feeling relieved that her eyes were dilating properly.

"I think I'm dying," she mumbled and sat up.

Trista felt so weak and sick but she was grateful that at least the room finally stopped spinning. She looked up at Warrick again and gave him a look of confusion.

"How did I get here and why are you here with me?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not," she mumbled and flopped back into his arms.

Warrick wasn't ready to let go of her just yet so he stroked her dampened hair for a little while longer before finally telling her he would be right back. Leaving her propped against the wall, he went back into the living room and grabbed the nearly empty cup of water from the table next to the couch and walked into the kitchen to get her more.

As he headed down the hallway, he sighed a sigh of relief that he got her through that ordeal. It was rough. She was in bad shape and she really did scare him more than she will ever know. But he was not prepared for what he would see when he walked into that bathroom with the cup of water in his hand.

He was shocked by what he saw before him. So shocked, in fact, that he actually dropped the plastic cup on the floor, splashing water everywhere.

"TRISTA!" he yelled.

There she stood, stripped down completely, wearing nothing but bandages on her knees, leaning over to turn on her shower. His mouth fell open and his eyes betrayed him and looked her up and down with carnal desire.

She looked back at him.

"Oh, I forgot you were here," she mumbled, felt the water's temperature, and looked back at him without even attempting to cover herself.

Warrick stood frozen.

"You dropped your water," she informed him.

"You can't take a shower!" he yelled ignoring her observation.

"Why the fuck not? I am gross! I feel dirty! I puked! Ewww, I gotta shower!" she wobbled left and right and then began to fall over.

Warrick caught her naked body in his arms before she hit the hard bathroom tiles.

"Whoa, that was a close one huh, Homeboy?" she giggled.

"Yeah, yeah it was," he smiled at her.

Warrick knew when she began calling him names that she would be okay. He also knew he could not hold that stunningly perfect naked body in his arms for much longer without getting noticeably aroused. So, he brought her back to her feet making sure she was balanced and steady.

"Hey, Trist, I just got your knees all bandaged…come on…do you really have to shower?" he pleaded actually worried she could not stand in that shower alone.

"You're bleeding, Warrick, did you know that?" she said oblivious to her own bandages or what it was he was trying to tell her. "Wow, that sucks…is that from work? Did you forget to change your dead body covered shirt?" she squished up her face not remembering that he hadn't even been working. "I don't know how you and Stokes do it…all that deadness…dead people…dead, bloody, heads and arms and chunks and fingers…." she rambled on and on.

"Trista, listen, rinse yourself down and I will help you, but you're gonna just get in and quickly get out…" he ignored her death ramble.

"Big dead heads, ugly dead heads, lady heads…WHOA! Bet you found an arm! Yeah, you found an arm without the rest of the body, right? But everything bloody and dead…dead…dead…"

"Did you hear me or are you on a decedent kick?"

"A decedent? Call it what it is…dead. And you have dead body blood on you, Homey…and that's gross."

Warrick helped her toward the shower ignoring her completely. He didn't even bother to tell her that the blood she was referring to was her own.

"Just get in and stop worrying about my job with death, okay? Just get in and I will help you. You are gonna make it fast, ya ready?"

"You're funny, Warrick," she giggled, "…like you can tell me what to do!"

Warrick's eyes betrayed him again and they scanned over her breasts and down to her neatly shaven vagina. "Oh God, this is killing me…I've never been with a naked chick and not banged her…." he groaned silently to himself.

But instead of making any moves, Warrick opened the shower curtain and held her arm as the water sprayed over her. Although he was afraid she would see the hard-on he was sporting just from watching the water and soap suds glisten over her sensuous body, he still reused to let go of her. He held onto her and made sure she didn't fall out or hit her head and, in the process of keeping her steady, which wasn't an easy task, he became soaking wet himself.

"I don't think I can do this anymore, Warrick," she slurred with a whine and went to sit down.

"I told you, Trista! No, no, no! Don't sit…"

"Don't yell at me, Warrrrrick!" she grumbled.

"UGHHHH!" he yelled out, "…then come here, ya got soap all in your hair."

He leaned her against the shower wall to keep her steady as he rinsed the shampoo out of her hair. In order to do that, he had to lean one knee on the edge of the bathtub and lean forward halfway into the tub.

By the time the brilliant shower idea Trista had was finished, Warrick's shirt was saturated and her bandages were soaked too.

Wrapping her in a towel and walking her down the hall to her room, he looked through her drawers to find her something to wear to bed. He looked at the tiny little nightgowns she had in her top drawer and his heart pounded. He took a deep breath, grabbed a red one and turned to hand it to her.

"Ohhh, Trist," he gasped when he saw her shivering. Her towel had fallen to the floor and she was standing up by leaning against the wall.

"I don't care, Warrick…you've seen me naked before, you think I forgot?" she slurred, "I wish I could…," she whispered the last sentence.

Warrick heard her but he didn't answer her. He picked up the towel at her feet and wrapped it back around her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder to walk her to the bed but she turned her body toward him suddenly and grabbed his face with both hands, pulled him to her and kissed him passionately. Her towel fell to the floor once again. His fingers trailed down her soft back.

Warrick wasn't sure how long that kiss lasted, but he knew it was long enough to give him another hard-on but short enough to let it go farther.

"Whoa, whoa, Trista…stop!" he stopped her and pulled away.

"What?" she said.

"You don't want this…stop,"

"I kissed ya didn't I!" she giggled.

"Trista, come on…let me get this on you…" he said and pulled the nightgown over her head.

"You gonna put my panties on too, Homeboy? Or you want me to keep them off for you?"

Warrick ignored her and grabbed a pair of underwear from her dresser.

"Here," he tossed them to her.

She fumbled to get them on and nearly fell over; he knew he had to help her. He stood in front of her, grabbed each side of the panties and slid them upward. Their eyes locked as he pulled them up. No words were spoken; they just stared silently never taking their eyes off each other.

Without warning she hopped up on her bed, knelt in front of him making herself eye level with him now. She leaned in and kissed him letting her hands roam his shoulders.

Warrick jerked away.

He stared at her and she stared back.

"Your shirt is wet, Dumbass," she laughed drunkenly.

"I know."

"Take it off."

"I will…later."

"How about now…let me help you…" she growled seductively and began to pull his shirt up over his head.

It was killing him.

He wanted her so bad he could taste it.

She was so drunk she couldn't possibly know what she wanted anymore. Before he knew it he heard his soaked shirt slap to the floor. He stood in front of her shirtless.

Trista reached her hands out and trailed her fingers down his chest. Again there was silence as he closed his eyes as she traced circles around his muscular chest.

Trista was the first to break the silence between them.

"Want me to be your Honey again tonight, Rick?" she said seductively.

That word "honey" snapped Warrick back to reality. It brought him back from the brink of losing his self control.

"Whatttt?" he stumbled get that one word out.

"You heard me…I know what you want…so let's go…trust me, I want you too…"

Warrick closed his eyes again for a minute, shook his head, leaned down and grabbed his shirt up off the floor. He looked at her again.

"Go to bed, Trista," he snapped.

"Don't be so mean to me, Warrick," she whispered sadly.

"I'm not…I just cant do this…I don't think of you as a 'Honey'…I told you that."

"Warrick…" she whispered looking hurt.

"Hey, it's not your fault…you're drunk," he sighed when he saw the hurt in her eyes, "Look, I'm not mad at you…here get under the covers," he said holding up the blankets for her to crawl under.

He watched her scoot under them, and covered her, "Listen, I'm not leaving you tonight…I will be on the couch right down the hall okay? You call for me if you need me, okay?" he nodded and turned to walk out.

Trista grabbed his arm and clutched it.

"Don't leave me," she begged.

"I won't... I will be right on your couch, I promise."

"NO! Just…don't leave me…" she choked up.

Her words sounded much more vulnerable than just asking him to stay. He wondered if those words meant more than she wanted him to know.

"Trista…I will be…"

"Warrick, don't…don't leave me…don't walk out….stay with me...," her eyes pleaded with his.

Without saying another word, Warrick climbed shirtless on the bed and laid himself down on the covers next to her.

He draped his arm over her and whispered back to her.

"I'm won't leave you, Trist, I promise you…I won't leave…."