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nickngregOhhh, finally got around to finishing it.
Title: Tribute
Rating: PG13
Warnings/Spoilers: Self-inflicted wounds, but not self-mutilation, character death. Spoilers for "Playing With Fire", sorta-kinda. Kinda long at 2,494 words. Un-beta'd, excuse the errors. Point out glaring ones. Pretend the shift split never happened. Written for the Scars challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ngchallenge.
Summary: Greg's always the one to think of a tribute.
He can still feel the sensation of fire rushing toward him and being thrown to the ground, and for a moment he thinks that if this is how he felt thirty some feet from the blast, he couldn’t even imagine how Greg felt being right next to it.
No time to think about Greg, though, because the girl lying underneath him was staring up with wide, horrified eyes, and Nick knows in an instant that she didn’t know this would happen when she called the crime scene in.
And then, oh God, he remembers Grissom and the cops were still in the house, and he’s up in a second only to be dragged back down, and she’s screaming something at him about fire, and how he can’t go in there, he can’t, he’ll die, he’ll die.
And he knows she’s right, and besides, the other cops are rushing in and it’s his job to make sure she’s okay, and he realizes he doesn’t even know her name.
She’s grabbing at him as he leads her across the street, ignoring the paramedics now swarming around, waving them into the house, and she breaks down when the first stretcher is wheeled out.
“Please no, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”
And at some point between then and realizing the person lying motionless was Grissom; he realized he was holding onto her just as tightly as she was to him.
Nick Stokes wishes he believed in things like fate and destiny, because that’s easier to explain, and he needs an easy explanation while trying to convince himself that Grissom is dead. But silly things like fate and destiny were never even a part of his vocabulary. He shakes his head slightly and stares at the burning house for a bit longer until he feels the girl swaying slightly beside him, and he forces himself to turn to her.
“My name is Nick Stokes, I’m from the Las Vegas Crime Lab,” he says, almost having to yell over the noise. “And if it’s okay with you, I’m going to take you back to the Lab.”
This is against protocol, he knows, and he knows he might be in deep shit later but he doesn’t care, and leads her back to the Tahoe, opening the passenger door for her and driving off.
She stares straight ahead for over half the drive, but he doesn’t expect her to speak, so that’s okay, and she finally opens her mouth just a little and whispers, “My name is Lily,“ and then, “I’m sorry.”
He wants to respond, but he chokes up every time he thinks about Grissom, so he settles for nodding, over and over, blinking back tears furiously. He doesn’t see her hand until it’s closed around his, and her tiny fingers are prying his apart. “It’s okay to cry.”
And for some reason, he pulls the truck over and breaks down.
They’re back at the crime lab and no one is talking, and not even Eckley says anything to Nick when he leads Lily back into the break room and sets a cup of coffee in front of her.
“I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be in the interrogation room?”
“Probably.”
She looks up at him, surprise written across all her features, and nods once. “Okay.”
He questions her half-heartedly for ten minutes at the most, mainly trivial things. Why she was there, what she saw – her eyes are now all they have of the crime scene. The bomb and fire would ruin most usable evidence. It wouldn’t be impossible to solve, but it would be far from easy.
Catherine walks in as he’s wrapping up the pseudo-interview, and asks to see him in the hall, but he’s too tired, and he knows what she’s going to say by the look on her face anyway, so he tells her, maybe not so politely, that if it’s not case related she can just say it now and get it over with.
“Let me,” Greg says, pushing himself past Catherine and into the room and Nick’s never been so glad to see him. “He didn’t make it, Nicky,” he whispers, and consequences be damned, he collapses into Greg’s arms.
Catherine leaves the room and he’s thinking he just wants to blow off the rest of this shift and drag Greg home, but a muffled sob draws him back to reality and he pulls away from Greg and sits down next to Lily. “It’s not your fault,” he says quietly, putting an arm around her. “You didn’t know.”
She sits still for a few moments. “Can I see a picture of him?”
He pulls out his wallet at the same time as Greg and they both hand over different pictures. In his, Grissom is bent over his desk, studying a new bug he’s found, but Greg, Greg has a rare picture of Grissom laughing and Nick makes a mental note to make a copy of it.
They’re at home later, lying on the bed, silent. He wonders if he should say something, because Grissom was his hero but he was Greg’s too, and they’ve both lost him. So he turns on his side and is ready to say something, anything, but Greg’s shoulders are shaking and he wonders why he hadn’t noticed before.
Greg mentions it first. “Nick? You think there’s anything we can do to, you know, remember Grissom by?”
He frowns up at him. “Like a tattoo?”
Greg fidgets next to him and he knows whatever this is, he probably won’t like what it entails but if it’s important to Greg, it’s important to him, and he’ll do it. “I was thinking something more … personal.”
“What’s more personal than a tattoo, G?” He’s honestly curious as to what crazy idea Greg’s come up with now, because he can’t think of anything more personal than having a reminder of someone tattooed on your body.
“A scar,” he whispers, rolling onto his side so they’re face to face.
“A scar - are you thinking - you mean the one-” Greg cuts him off with a nod. Grissom only has two scars they know of, and the one on his knee would hardly serve as a good memorial.
He still couldn’t shake the sight of Grissom lying on the floor bleeding, and that had happened almost six months ago. The attack had been so bad that the officer who cleared the room had his badge taken, but he still thinks that if it hadn’t been for Greg’s quick reflexes, Grissom could have died there. The knife wound was a little too close for comfort, but Grissom had come back after being confined to bed rest sporting, almost proudly, a jagged scar above his heart.
The second he consented Greg reached into the nightstand and pulled out a pocketknife. “Grissom gave it to me when I made CSI,” he said quietly. “Well, this and my gun, but I didn’t think you’d want to use that.”
“You’re right,” he agreed.
“Take your shirt off,” Greg says, standing up, “and lay on your back.”
“What are you doing?” he asks when Greg disappears into their bathroom.
“Just take your shirt off,” he replies.
So he does what Greg tells him and hopes it won’t hurt too much, but it’s a knife and it will be going through his skin, so the hope is fruitless and he knows that.
And maybe he should hurt. Maybe the pain is God’s way of telling him that even though he escaped death this time (and there always was a ‘this time’ with him), he wasn’t completely off the hook. Or maybe he felt he deserved the pain, because he should have been in there with Grissom, or he should have ran in for him the second he heard the explosion. He thinks this, but he knows that if Grissom could do it all over again, he’d keep Nick outside just the same.
Greg comes back with a small first aid kit but it’s not one like he’s ever had, there’s far more inside when he opens it up.
“Where’d you get all this?”
“Doc,” Greg mutters. “I asked for it.”
“Can he even give that to you?”
“Sure.”
“Greg, there’s - that’s a needle, they can’t give those out to just anybody-”
“I took my MCATs,” Greg said, rolling his eyes, “and I passed. So Doc gave me this, just in case.”
He eyes the kit apprehensively as Greg pulls out little bottles and peers at the labels, tossing most of them to the side. “And what are we using it for?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “I’m going to give to a shot to numb you, but it’ll still hurt, Nick, okay? And then I’m going to stitch it up.”
That he didn’t think of, but he trusts Greg, and he’s already putting the solution in the needle and reaching for his hand. “Greg? Who’s going to stitch you up?”
“You,” Greg says, trying and almost failing to sound confident. “I trust you. I’ll walk you through it.”
The knife slices his skin and he inhales sharply, willing himself not to move, because Greg’s bending over him like this is the most delicate surgery he’s ever done, and he supposes it probably is.
There’s a constant mutter of apology as the knife is pressed harder, and he knows he’s got tears streaming down his cheeks but he doesn’t care, and in a minute it’s over and Greg’s leaning down and pressing soft kisses to where the blood is pooling.
It’s surprising, but the one thing he notices while Greg’s threading the needle and stitching him up is that his hands are perfectly still, and ten minutes later he’s got bandages on his chest and Greg’s wearing a proud smile. “It’ll be scarred,” he says, sitting up straight and peeling his shirt off. “A week and a half and we’ll take the stitches off.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” he says nervously as Greg lays back on the bed. “If you do the numbing yourself, we can take you to the hospital and get you stitched up afterwards.”
Greg cracks an eye open and gives him a dirty look, and he feels guilty immediately. “I’ll talk you through it, Nicky. Put the numbing agent in the needle.”
At least he knows how to do that, but his hands are shaking slightly and he doesn’t think this could be a good sign. When he needle was prepped he looked back at Greg, who’s eyes were closed and he was suddenly struck by how calm he looked, and Nick almost cried when he realized just how much Greg trusted him.
But he could still admit that Greg was proving himself certifiably insane by letting Nick cut him open and stitch him back up.
Somehow, just the knowledge that Greg trusted him this much made his hands stop shaking and he managed to ask Greg what to do next.
“Give me the shot, Nick,” he said slowly. “Right in the center of where you’re going to make the cut.”
He did, with one hand on the needle and the other clutching Greg’s, but Greg doesn’t move, gasp, or otherwise move, so he thinks he must have done all right.
He waits a minute before picking up the knife, still covered in his’s blood and suddenly this is much, much more to him than Grissom, because now their blood will be mixed and his blood will be in Greg.
“Angle the knife down, start with the tip, and make your cut. Press the blade down deep enough, Nick, and don’t worry about hurting me, because if you don’t it might not permanently scar.”
He thinks he holds Greg’s hand tighter than necessary, with far more pressure than Greg’s giving back, but he cuts the knife deep into Greg’s skin, wincing when he realizes that it will be permanent, and he’s the one causing it, and constantly mutters that he’s sorry, much like Greg said to him. He drops the knife beside him on the bed when he’s done and kisses Greg in the same manner as Greg kissed him before, and, hands shaking, reaches for the needle Greg prepared for him.
“No,” Greg breathes, slowly and evenly. “Get the gauze, press down. The blood needs to be out of the way.” He does what he’s told and holds pressure on the wound, listening to Greg talk. “Keep doing that for a minute, and when you pull away, use your left hand to pull the skin close together at one of the ends. Slide the needle through, don’t worry, Nick, I won’t feel it, and continue doing it until the end, and keep the stitches close together.”
He might faint. But he manages to slide the needle into Greg’s skin without much difficulty and it’s painstakingly slow, but he has to be careful.
And soon it’s done and Greg’s telling him how to tie off the end, and the second the last of the bandages are taped down Greg is reaching for the knife.
“Nick,” he whispers, “there’s something else I want to do.”
And his palm is in Greg’s hand before he knows what’s going on, and Greg’s got the blade against his skin and is looking up at him with those eyes, and Nick understands what he wants to do and nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice.
It doesn’t hurt when Greg presses the blade against his skin for the second time that night, and when he hands the blade over, he takes it awkwardly in his left hand and makes a clean cut against Greg’s palm before he can stop.
The blood bubbles up as soon as the blade leaves the skin and he presses his hand against Greg’s and they fall back against the bed, and the last thing he remembers his Greg’s warm lips across his cheek and thinking that Greg is a part of him now before he succumbs to sleep.
He woke up the morning after with a gauze bandage wrapped around his hand as well as the one on his chest, and slowly the wounds began to heal, and it almost became a ritual for the next week and a half to change their bandages before bed each night, until Greg announces that it’s time for the stitches to come out.
When the bandages are off, and the stitches out, Nick leans down and presses a kiss to Greg’s scar. It is an act of reverence, a silent tribute to a hero taken too soon. Because he refuses to call him fallen, Grissom has not fallen from anything.
When he lays there at night, Greg’s head buried in the crook of his neck, he slowly runs a finger over the raised scar, knowing that even though Grissom is gone, he’s not forgotten.
Grissom is never forgotten.
x-posted @ngchallenge
Title: Tribute
Rating: PG13
Warnings/Spoilers: Self-inflicted wounds, but not self-mutilation, character death. Spoilers for "Playing With Fire", sorta-kinda. Kinda long at 2,494 words. Un-beta'd, excuse the errors. Point out glaring ones. Pretend the shift split never happened. Written for the Scars challenge at
ngchallenge.Summary: Greg's always the one to think of a tribute.
He can still feel the sensation of fire rushing toward him and being thrown to the ground, and for a moment he thinks that if this is how he felt thirty some feet from the blast, he couldn’t even imagine how Greg felt being right next to it.
No time to think about Greg, though, because the girl lying underneath him was staring up with wide, horrified eyes, and Nick knows in an instant that she didn’t know this would happen when she called the crime scene in.
And then, oh God, he remembers Grissom and the cops were still in the house, and he’s up in a second only to be dragged back down, and she’s screaming something at him about fire, and how he can’t go in there, he can’t, he’ll die, he’ll die.
And he knows she’s right, and besides, the other cops are rushing in and it’s his job to make sure she’s okay, and he realizes he doesn’t even know her name.
She’s grabbing at him as he leads her across the street, ignoring the paramedics now swarming around, waving them into the house, and she breaks down when the first stretcher is wheeled out.
“Please no, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”
And at some point between then and realizing the person lying motionless was Grissom; he realized he was holding onto her just as tightly as she was to him.
Nick Stokes wishes he believed in things like fate and destiny, because that’s easier to explain, and he needs an easy explanation while trying to convince himself that Grissom is dead. But silly things like fate and destiny were never even a part of his vocabulary. He shakes his head slightly and stares at the burning house for a bit longer until he feels the girl swaying slightly beside him, and he forces himself to turn to her.
“My name is Nick Stokes, I’m from the Las Vegas Crime Lab,” he says, almost having to yell over the noise. “And if it’s okay with you, I’m going to take you back to the Lab.”
This is against protocol, he knows, and he knows he might be in deep shit later but he doesn’t care, and leads her back to the Tahoe, opening the passenger door for her and driving off.
She stares straight ahead for over half the drive, but he doesn’t expect her to speak, so that’s okay, and she finally opens her mouth just a little and whispers, “My name is Lily,“ and then, “I’m sorry.”
He wants to respond, but he chokes up every time he thinks about Grissom, so he settles for nodding, over and over, blinking back tears furiously. He doesn’t see her hand until it’s closed around his, and her tiny fingers are prying his apart. “It’s okay to cry.”
And for some reason, he pulls the truck over and breaks down.
They’re back at the crime lab and no one is talking, and not even Eckley says anything to Nick when he leads Lily back into the break room and sets a cup of coffee in front of her.
“I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be in the interrogation room?”
“Probably.”
She looks up at him, surprise written across all her features, and nods once. “Okay.”
He questions her half-heartedly for ten minutes at the most, mainly trivial things. Why she was there, what she saw – her eyes are now all they have of the crime scene. The bomb and fire would ruin most usable evidence. It wouldn’t be impossible to solve, but it would be far from easy.
Catherine walks in as he’s wrapping up the pseudo-interview, and asks to see him in the hall, but he’s too tired, and he knows what she’s going to say by the look on her face anyway, so he tells her, maybe not so politely, that if it’s not case related she can just say it now and get it over with.
“Let me,” Greg says, pushing himself past Catherine and into the room and Nick’s never been so glad to see him. “He didn’t make it, Nicky,” he whispers, and consequences be damned, he collapses into Greg’s arms.
Catherine leaves the room and he’s thinking he just wants to blow off the rest of this shift and drag Greg home, but a muffled sob draws him back to reality and he pulls away from Greg and sits down next to Lily. “It’s not your fault,” he says quietly, putting an arm around her. “You didn’t know.”
She sits still for a few moments. “Can I see a picture of him?”
He pulls out his wallet at the same time as Greg and they both hand over different pictures. In his, Grissom is bent over his desk, studying a new bug he’s found, but Greg, Greg has a rare picture of Grissom laughing and Nick makes a mental note to make a copy of it.
They’re at home later, lying on the bed, silent. He wonders if he should say something, because Grissom was his hero but he was Greg’s too, and they’ve both lost him. So he turns on his side and is ready to say something, anything, but Greg’s shoulders are shaking and he wonders why he hadn’t noticed before.
Greg mentions it first. “Nick? You think there’s anything we can do to, you know, remember Grissom by?”
He frowns up at him. “Like a tattoo?”
Greg fidgets next to him and he knows whatever this is, he probably won’t like what it entails but if it’s important to Greg, it’s important to him, and he’ll do it. “I was thinking something more … personal.”
“What’s more personal than a tattoo, G?” He’s honestly curious as to what crazy idea Greg’s come up with now, because he can’t think of anything more personal than having a reminder of someone tattooed on your body.
“A scar,” he whispers, rolling onto his side so they’re face to face.
“A scar - are you thinking - you mean the one-” Greg cuts him off with a nod. Grissom only has two scars they know of, and the one on his knee would hardly serve as a good memorial.
He still couldn’t shake the sight of Grissom lying on the floor bleeding, and that had happened almost six months ago. The attack had been so bad that the officer who cleared the room had his badge taken, but he still thinks that if it hadn’t been for Greg’s quick reflexes, Grissom could have died there. The knife wound was a little too close for comfort, but Grissom had come back after being confined to bed rest sporting, almost proudly, a jagged scar above his heart.
The second he consented Greg reached into the nightstand and pulled out a pocketknife. “Grissom gave it to me when I made CSI,” he said quietly. “Well, this and my gun, but I didn’t think you’d want to use that.”
“You’re right,” he agreed.
“Take your shirt off,” Greg says, standing up, “and lay on your back.”
“What are you doing?” he asks when Greg disappears into their bathroom.
“Just take your shirt off,” he replies.
So he does what Greg tells him and hopes it won’t hurt too much, but it’s a knife and it will be going through his skin, so the hope is fruitless and he knows that.
And maybe he should hurt. Maybe the pain is God’s way of telling him that even though he escaped death this time (and there always was a ‘this time’ with him), he wasn’t completely off the hook. Or maybe he felt he deserved the pain, because he should have been in there with Grissom, or he should have ran in for him the second he heard the explosion. He thinks this, but he knows that if Grissom could do it all over again, he’d keep Nick outside just the same.
Greg comes back with a small first aid kit but it’s not one like he’s ever had, there’s far more inside when he opens it up.
“Where’d you get all this?”
“Doc,” Greg mutters. “I asked for it.”
“Can he even give that to you?”
“Sure.”
“Greg, there’s - that’s a needle, they can’t give those out to just anybody-”
“I took my MCATs,” Greg said, rolling his eyes, “and I passed. So Doc gave me this, just in case.”
He eyes the kit apprehensively as Greg pulls out little bottles and peers at the labels, tossing most of them to the side. “And what are we using it for?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “I’m going to give to a shot to numb you, but it’ll still hurt, Nick, okay? And then I’m going to stitch it up.”
That he didn’t think of, but he trusts Greg, and he’s already putting the solution in the needle and reaching for his hand. “Greg? Who’s going to stitch you up?”
“You,” Greg says, trying and almost failing to sound confident. “I trust you. I’ll walk you through it.”
The knife slices his skin and he inhales sharply, willing himself not to move, because Greg’s bending over him like this is the most delicate surgery he’s ever done, and he supposes it probably is.
There’s a constant mutter of apology as the knife is pressed harder, and he knows he’s got tears streaming down his cheeks but he doesn’t care, and in a minute it’s over and Greg’s leaning down and pressing soft kisses to where the blood is pooling.
It’s surprising, but the one thing he notices while Greg’s threading the needle and stitching him up is that his hands are perfectly still, and ten minutes later he’s got bandages on his chest and Greg’s wearing a proud smile. “It’ll be scarred,” he says, sitting up straight and peeling his shirt off. “A week and a half and we’ll take the stitches off.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” he says nervously as Greg lays back on the bed. “If you do the numbing yourself, we can take you to the hospital and get you stitched up afterwards.”
Greg cracks an eye open and gives him a dirty look, and he feels guilty immediately. “I’ll talk you through it, Nicky. Put the numbing agent in the needle.”
At least he knows how to do that, but his hands are shaking slightly and he doesn’t think this could be a good sign. When he needle was prepped he looked back at Greg, who’s eyes were closed and he was suddenly struck by how calm he looked, and Nick almost cried when he realized just how much Greg trusted him.
But he could still admit that Greg was proving himself certifiably insane by letting Nick cut him open and stitch him back up.
Somehow, just the knowledge that Greg trusted him this much made his hands stop shaking and he managed to ask Greg what to do next.
“Give me the shot, Nick,” he said slowly. “Right in the center of where you’re going to make the cut.”
He did, with one hand on the needle and the other clutching Greg’s, but Greg doesn’t move, gasp, or otherwise move, so he thinks he must have done all right.
He waits a minute before picking up the knife, still covered in his’s blood and suddenly this is much, much more to him than Grissom, because now their blood will be mixed and his blood will be in Greg.
“Angle the knife down, start with the tip, and make your cut. Press the blade down deep enough, Nick, and don’t worry about hurting me, because if you don’t it might not permanently scar.”
He thinks he holds Greg’s hand tighter than necessary, with far more pressure than Greg’s giving back, but he cuts the knife deep into Greg’s skin, wincing when he realizes that it will be permanent, and he’s the one causing it, and constantly mutters that he’s sorry, much like Greg said to him. He drops the knife beside him on the bed when he’s done and kisses Greg in the same manner as Greg kissed him before, and, hands shaking, reaches for the needle Greg prepared for him.
“No,” Greg breathes, slowly and evenly. “Get the gauze, press down. The blood needs to be out of the way.” He does what he’s told and holds pressure on the wound, listening to Greg talk. “Keep doing that for a minute, and when you pull away, use your left hand to pull the skin close together at one of the ends. Slide the needle through, don’t worry, Nick, I won’t feel it, and continue doing it until the end, and keep the stitches close together.”
He might faint. But he manages to slide the needle into Greg’s skin without much difficulty and it’s painstakingly slow, but he has to be careful.
And soon it’s done and Greg’s telling him how to tie off the end, and the second the last of the bandages are taped down Greg is reaching for the knife.
“Nick,” he whispers, “there’s something else I want to do.”
And his palm is in Greg’s hand before he knows what’s going on, and Greg’s got the blade against his skin and is looking up at him with those eyes, and Nick understands what he wants to do and nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice.
It doesn’t hurt when Greg presses the blade against his skin for the second time that night, and when he hands the blade over, he takes it awkwardly in his left hand and makes a clean cut against Greg’s palm before he can stop.
The blood bubbles up as soon as the blade leaves the skin and he presses his hand against Greg’s and they fall back against the bed, and the last thing he remembers his Greg’s warm lips across his cheek and thinking that Greg is a part of him now before he succumbs to sleep.
He woke up the morning after with a gauze bandage wrapped around his hand as well as the one on his chest, and slowly the wounds began to heal, and it almost became a ritual for the next week and a half to change their bandages before bed each night, until Greg announces that it’s time for the stitches to come out.
When the bandages are off, and the stitches out, Nick leans down and presses a kiss to Greg’s scar. It is an act of reverence, a silent tribute to a hero taken too soon. Because he refuses to call him fallen, Grissom has not fallen from anything.
When he lays there at night, Greg’s head buried in the crook of his neck, he slowly runs a finger over the raised scar, knowing that even though Grissom is gone, he’s not forgotten.
Grissom is never forgotten.
x-posted @
ngchallenge
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 07:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:21 am (UTC);)
Kidding. I'm glad you ... thought it was wow. LoL.
I ::heart:: your icon.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 06:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 03:30 pm (UTC)It was a healing process in a way, you're right, but this is where I actually came from: Native Americans used to do something similiar to show solidarity or brotherhood.
The blood brothers thing was an afterthought that wrote itself, to be honest. I hadn't thought of it until the part where Nick picks up the knife with his blood on it, and Nick took over in my head. Greg, of course, picks up on more than I do as well, so he wanted Nick to experience it, too. I thought it was fitting, though, so I kept it in.
And, eek, cutting squicks me too. Self-inflicted harm of any kinda, actually. I'm surprised I wrote it.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-16 10:04 am (UTC)I'm surprised you wrote it too. If it squicks you, then you are really talented. I have put up a couple smut pieces and they were really difficult for me to write. I had to push myself. I don't know, I guess I think pushing yourself is good: courageous, positive. Anyway, great job. :-)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 07:43 am (UTC)Okay, that was sad and powerful and I'm going to go sniffle some more. But, um, first... may I suggest a warning at the top? Character death is a pretty major squick for some.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 01:46 pm (UTC)I don't know what they'd do if Gil died. He is one of those people who's there all the time and you just don't realize it till he's gone and you showed that very well.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:26 am (UTC)It was going to be Warrick, originally, who died, but then I was watching the CSI where Gris goes to the cockroach thingymajig and everyone looks like a little lost without him, so I changed it.
Actually, I was going to make it a happy fic at first. Ha. I should know I don't do happy well. The last time I tried happy, it didn't turn out well. Still posted it, LoL, but I didn't like it.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 08:15 pm (UTC)X
no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:30 am (UTC)Which I will now use this opportunity to do a bit of shameless self-promotion and tell you that you can find everything else on fanfiction.net/~mywheezy. "To Dwell On" is the NickGreg CSI stuff, I decided to put it all in one story instead of have thousands of drabbles littering my authors page. LoL.
Eek.
I wanted to do something different with the scars theme, you know? I love the fics about Greg's scars, and psychological scars, but ... dunno. People actually give themselves scars like that as a tribal ritual, and I thought Greg's just crazy enough to suggest it.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:31 am (UTC)You know, this is one of the only times I'm happy that I made someone cry.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-14 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-15 12:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-17 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-17 03:31 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked it :)