Ser Sucio, chapter 1.
Jan. 8th, 2005 11:31 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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nickngregAuthor: Exit Music
Title: Ser Sucio
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17 due to subject matter.
Warnings: violence of sorts.
Spoilers: contains elements from "Play With Fire" and "Overload."
Summary: AU, Ghosts of the past. Chapter one of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
It had been found amongst the brush of the subdivision’s nature path, manmade paradise in the middle of the desert. Two unfortunate walkers had noticed the shine from a plastic tarp that had been feebly draped over the body. They crossed over, pushing thin branches aside, human curiosity. The early sunrise made the scene all the more jarring once they figured out what lie beneath. The younger female screamed, running to call for help, the older woman quietly sobbed, dropping handweights onto loose soil. Not a cloud in the sky.
---
Pulling up to the park’s small circular lot, he noticed how still everything was, no rush of lights, no loud barking over CBs, only the calm stupor of a Tuesday morning. Moving inwards, Nick followed Catherine’s steps closely as if to hide from it, he knew what had been discovered.
“Sweet Jesus.” Inaudible cursing dried his mouth as they approached. She patted his back softly, and with a noticeable frown began her work. Mama Lion. He looked down, and for the first time in a long while had felt as if he would vomit where he stood. The body was posed, face down, limbs splayed in an almost ritual fashion. A deer pelt hanging over the hearth. Skin blued, naked. He began to feel lightheaded as he studied the russet of dried blood streaking tiny buttocks and thighs. Tortured. Stained child spread against the Nevada ground like a mourning flag. Catherine pointed to his camera, giving him a direction, someplace to start. Nick stood, shaking slightly as they surveyed, wincing, face heavy. She gestured towards matted leaves to the right of him, covered in pooled claret. He struggled to find sight through the lens, only catching the blur. Fingers fumbling, he steadied and glanced over at the body, little hands balled into fists, mottled stress lines. Deep cuts, crisp slashing through pale meat. The boy had been alive when the butchery began. He suppressed a gag. A sickness masking rage came over him, he wanted to scoop up the boy, kiss his face, and make it better. The boy was dead, no sweetness could salve. Choking through bitter, he shook his head quickly.
“Ca…Catherine. I can’t.” He paused for only a moment before heading out, turning heel the words flashed inside, Poor little baby.
“Nick. Nick, it’s ok. I’ll sort it out with Gris…” She replied to his back, watching the hurried exit.
---
The door to the apartment looked miles away; he couldn’t seem to find his keys. He was holding them, clutching so tightly that metal teeth crushed through fleshy pads. Droplets hitting the straw mat, he focused on the ground.
“Nick, what’re you doing back so soon?” Greg swung outwards, not expecting someone on the other side.
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Couldn’t.” He felt weightless, dying alongside the small boy, bloodied and bruised. He looked up to see worried eyes, cavernous brown, squinting slightly.
“Don’t just stand out here, baby.” Nick shied away at the word. Baby. It was covered in viscera, reeking as it curdled.
“I’m gonna be…” as sick came to mind, it commanded the action. He doubled over, soiling the entranceway carpet with remains of what had been a good breakfast.
“Oh god…” Greg cringed, trying himself not to be ill. As the retching settled, he guided Nick to the couch and ran to the kitchen.
“Here, sip this.” Copper taste of tap water dampened his lips, and he leaned back, dazed. He couldn’t find a point on the ceiling, a button to press to cease the mad spin. He listened to scrubbing sounds as Greg cleaned up his mess, feeling nauseated again he directed his attention to the open window; the creeping soothe of traffic noise. The breeze was strangely cool, and he inched closer to bathe in it.
“How ya doin?” Disquieted query broke the meditation, and he nodded to the offbeat. He didn’t feel like talking, he just wanted to sleep. Just sleep it away.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or should I call Catherine?”
“Don’t, man.”
“Don’t what? You chucked on the carpet, and you look like hell. I’m worried, ok. Did something happen, come on…”
“I said don’t, goddamit!” With a swift arc, he tossed the glass, slivers capturing light on the downfall. Immaculate floor littered in petty violence. Greg jumped as beads of water hit bare knees, mouth agape. Before an apology was given its chance, he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t sorry.
“Ok, I won’t. And YOU can clean that up.” He stomped to the bedroom, and slammed the door.
Groaning, Nick rolled to face the couch, shutting his eyes. The cars whizzed by as he dropped off.
---
tbc.
Title: Ser Sucio
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17 due to subject matter.
Warnings: violence of sorts.
Spoilers: contains elements from "Play With Fire" and "Overload."
Summary: AU, Ghosts of the past. Chapter one of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
It had been found amongst the brush of the subdivision’s nature path, manmade paradise in the middle of the desert. Two unfortunate walkers had noticed the shine from a plastic tarp that had been feebly draped over the body. They crossed over, pushing thin branches aside, human curiosity. The early sunrise made the scene all the more jarring once they figured out what lie beneath. The younger female screamed, running to call for help, the older woman quietly sobbed, dropping handweights onto loose soil. Not a cloud in the sky.
---
Pulling up to the park’s small circular lot, he noticed how still everything was, no rush of lights, no loud barking over CBs, only the calm stupor of a Tuesday morning. Moving inwards, Nick followed Catherine’s steps closely as if to hide from it, he knew what had been discovered.
“Sweet Jesus.” Inaudible cursing dried his mouth as they approached. She patted his back softly, and with a noticeable frown began her work. Mama Lion. He looked down, and for the first time in a long while had felt as if he would vomit where he stood. The body was posed, face down, limbs splayed in an almost ritual fashion. A deer pelt hanging over the hearth. Skin blued, naked. He began to feel lightheaded as he studied the russet of dried blood streaking tiny buttocks and thighs. Tortured. Stained child spread against the Nevada ground like a mourning flag. Catherine pointed to his camera, giving him a direction, someplace to start. Nick stood, shaking slightly as they surveyed, wincing, face heavy. She gestured towards matted leaves to the right of him, covered in pooled claret. He struggled to find sight through the lens, only catching the blur. Fingers fumbling, he steadied and glanced over at the body, little hands balled into fists, mottled stress lines. Deep cuts, crisp slashing through pale meat. The boy had been alive when the butchery began. He suppressed a gag. A sickness masking rage came over him, he wanted to scoop up the boy, kiss his face, and make it better. The boy was dead, no sweetness could salve. Choking through bitter, he shook his head quickly.
“Ca…Catherine. I can’t.” He paused for only a moment before heading out, turning heel the words flashed inside, Poor little baby.
“Nick. Nick, it’s ok. I’ll sort it out with Gris…” She replied to his back, watching the hurried exit.
---
The door to the apartment looked miles away; he couldn’t seem to find his keys. He was holding them, clutching so tightly that metal teeth crushed through fleshy pads. Droplets hitting the straw mat, he focused on the ground.
“Nick, what’re you doing back so soon?” Greg swung outwards, not expecting someone on the other side.
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Couldn’t.” He felt weightless, dying alongside the small boy, bloodied and bruised. He looked up to see worried eyes, cavernous brown, squinting slightly.
“Don’t just stand out here, baby.” Nick shied away at the word. Baby. It was covered in viscera, reeking as it curdled.
“I’m gonna be…” as sick came to mind, it commanded the action. He doubled over, soiling the entranceway carpet with remains of what had been a good breakfast.
“Oh god…” Greg cringed, trying himself not to be ill. As the retching settled, he guided Nick to the couch and ran to the kitchen.
“Here, sip this.” Copper taste of tap water dampened his lips, and he leaned back, dazed. He couldn’t find a point on the ceiling, a button to press to cease the mad spin. He listened to scrubbing sounds as Greg cleaned up his mess, feeling nauseated again he directed his attention to the open window; the creeping soothe of traffic noise. The breeze was strangely cool, and he inched closer to bathe in it.
“How ya doin?” Disquieted query broke the meditation, and he nodded to the offbeat. He didn’t feel like talking, he just wanted to sleep. Just sleep it away.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or should I call Catherine?”
“Don’t, man.”
“Don’t what? You chucked on the carpet, and you look like hell. I’m worried, ok. Did something happen, come on…”
“I said don’t, goddamit!” With a swift arc, he tossed the glass, slivers capturing light on the downfall. Immaculate floor littered in petty violence. Greg jumped as beads of water hit bare knees, mouth agape. Before an apology was given its chance, he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t sorry.
“Ok, I won’t. And YOU can clean that up.” He stomped to the bedroom, and slammed the door.
Groaning, Nick rolled to face the couch, shutting his eyes. The cars whizzed by as he dropped off.
---
tbc.
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