Ser Sucio, chapter 3.
Jan. 13th, 2005 05:42 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
omarandjohnny.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
nickngregAuthor: Exit Music
Title: Ser Sucio, Chapter 3
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 three of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
---
’This is it, right, mister?’
Sitting on his childhood bed, walls covered in tea-stained photographs, plastic smiles hiding bright red lies glared back at him with sterile expressions. The boy kept close, dangling dirtied feet, swinging them off the edge. Playing with the skeleton of a discarded kit car, the little boy furnished a sense of cheerful innocence.
‘This is what, kid?’ Resounding patter of rain pierced through the halt, and Nick looked out, streetlight illuminating the worn edges of a dulled oak dresser. He had spent countless hours painting tiny pieces for racecars in this room; he had tripped over his football every morning in this room. He had crammed for finals, showcased trophies, and laughed out loud, in this room. His world was torn apart in this room.
‘This is where you saw her change.’ Tattered party crepe burned to ash on the headboard. Sirens blaring, he slapped the child’s mouth.
‘Shut up!’ Peering down at blood-soaked hands, he shivered at the sting of force. Shreds of pinked flesh hung from wet fingertips, the boy had lost his face. Crying out, he stared straight ahead, watching the door. With a tick, the hall light blinked on.
‘Here she comes.’
---
The alarm had ripped him from the haze, and rubbing eyes, he turned to the clock. Nearing seven, it was Greg’s wake up call, not his.
“I’m late!”
“What?” A voice clamored over breakfast noises.
“You heard me! I’m late dammit.” He vaulted and shimmied into dirty jeans, fearing the worst. Greg walked in, sipping the usual as he picked out the day’s attire.
“Slow down, slow down. Jeez, don’t freak out. Gris called late last night, you don’t need to go in.”
Nick furrowed, scooping the phone from the desk.
“Who are you calling?”
“Who do you think?” Half the number dialed, he could feel lasers searing holes in his chest. Agitation was in plain sight, a hand cupped steadfastly on hip. Easing back, he clicked off the phone, gently placing it down.
“Alright, what did he say?”
He stood and listened closely, every sentence mutating into a tangled drone. Imagining Grissom’s voice over Greg’s chatter, a toll rang out damnation…
You flipped out, so you’ve been put on leave. You can’t hack it, so you’ve been put on leave. You don’t know how to deal with it, so you’ve been put on leave.
We don’t know how to act around you, so you can’t be here.
“And Grissom said to come back when you know you’re ready, not when you think. I happen to agree.” Cocking an eyebrow, he collapsed on the bed, still wearing one leg of his jeans. He observed Greg standing at the mirror, straightening a smallish shirt, tight fabric flirted with subtle pectoral outlines, fanned shocks of hair stuck up in various directions, masculine beauty. The arousal betrayed him; a sickness grew out.
“Well, I have to get going, Trevor’ll be in full Madonna mode if I don’t put in at least an hour. Are…you gonna be ok? Cause, I can give’em the finger and stay home if you need me.”
Care forging eyes wide open, he handed Greg a warm grin.
“I’ll be alright, I think I might go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure, I‘ll stay. We could talk…if you wanted.” He didn’t want. He didn’t want at all anymore.
“I’ll be fine. Go make your alternative noise.” Nodding, he opened his arms for a hug.
“Call if you need me ok? Love you, Nicky.” A kiss melted on dry lips, hair gel perfuming the air.
“Ok, Love you too.”
He waited for the bolt of locks before heading to the closet.
---
Thoughts flurrying, He couldn’t seem to stop feeling guilty about leaving him alone. Ten minutes into the session, and he’d managed to irritate nearly every member of the group. Trevor’s caterwauling through crude lyrics, Jules snarling directions from the booth; there was no drive, no plan. The guitar cues were off, he thought, fumbling with mixer knobs. Everything was off. Two days ago all was well, bliss in routine. No tense silences, no tears, just normal every day. He wanted that back. He wanted Nick back, the strong happy Nick with light behind his eyes, the one in control. The shattered one who stared vacantly through glossy spheres, madness seething through the busy of grief, that man he didn’t recognize. He could tell the difference between Nick’s smiles, true shined pearly white, false assurance seeped toxic.
“Hey Sanders, I can barely hear myself think, mind killing that scratch?” he had rested his palm on the tonearm apparently, destroying the vinyl. Trevor glowered as he lifted up the record, displaying the long scrape.
“For fucks sake, Greg!” Jules was visibly displeased, hands flapping as new obscenities flowed forth.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry! I’ll get it together.”
“Good to hear, now can we please try it one more time lads?” Trevor pitched up an ok, and they began. Headphones affixed, he floated out. The grind swirled around as a tempo finally came to life. The voice carried over, giving words shape, suspending them in oxygen; he rocked unconsciously. A temporary reprieve from the sinking worry.
---
It was still there, never finding a reason to throw it away, it traveled with him over state lines to pollute and distort. Amongst the collections of his childhood, it hid, a cancerous tumor buried deep. He sorted feverishly through boxes lovingly marked ‘little Nicky’ by his mother, which Greg never ceased to find amusing. He built rows of photos on the couch, searching in every one for a hint of the good stuff. He knew however, that the older he became in the shot, the more his face took on the appearance of a cruel mask. That wide smile that shielded trauma, those eyes that quietly begged for help, dark flags waving pitifully on rocky seas. Nick had pushed it, her, down for so long he tricked himself into thinking she died that night, died beside the little kid with glitter in his eyes and a goofy twang in his voice. The child in the woods brought her back, put electrodes to temples and shocked existence into memory, she was now as vivid as lightning splitting the Texas sky.
Fingering through a shoebox, it caught his nail. He slipped it onto his pinky, metal base of paltry workmanship chipped, engraving rubbed clean by the angry hands of a hurting young man. He used to carry it with him everywhere; it was the fuel that pushed him through, the menacing charm. He carried it the day he graduated highschool, college, and the academy. He wanted to show her that he wasn’t broken; she should be there to witness it all. When he made first made CSI level one, he put it away, concealed it under pictures of a life he wanted to forget. He thought he’d kept his head above water long enough to spite her.
---
“Nick, I’m back! I brought lun…” The livingroom was covered in pictures, sports memorabilia, broken toys, things he hadn’t seen since they first moved in together. It was sorted, stacked neatly as though he’d waltzed into the evidence room; troubled by the controlled chaos he sought his partner.
“Nicky, baby, what happened in front?” he beckoned towards the lit bathroom hoping for an answer. Silence.
“Nick? Nicky, oh my god!” He found him partially slumped over in the water, naked and bloody. One wrist weeping out over the side of the bathtub, he let forth a hoarse scream.
“Jesus, oh Jesus Nick…” Greg pulled and struggled, lifting him over the tub onto the mat. He could feel a weak pulse and crawled out momentarily. Reaching for the phone on the bed, he cried to strangers on the other line.
“Please, I need an ambulance, my boyfriend, oh god!” He belted the arm, wrapping towels, and sat cradling Nick’s dripping frame.
“Nicky, why?” Pale lips formed the words ‘sorry’ and he passed out.
---
tbc.
Chapter 1 HERE
Chapter 2 HERE
Title: Ser Sucio, Chapter 3
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 three of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
---
’This is it, right, mister?’
Sitting on his childhood bed, walls covered in tea-stained photographs, plastic smiles hiding bright red lies glared back at him with sterile expressions. The boy kept close, dangling dirtied feet, swinging them off the edge. Playing with the skeleton of a discarded kit car, the little boy furnished a sense of cheerful innocence.
‘This is what, kid?’ Resounding patter of rain pierced through the halt, and Nick looked out, streetlight illuminating the worn edges of a dulled oak dresser. He had spent countless hours painting tiny pieces for racecars in this room; he had tripped over his football every morning in this room. He had crammed for finals, showcased trophies, and laughed out loud, in this room. His world was torn apart in this room.
‘This is where you saw her change.’ Tattered party crepe burned to ash on the headboard. Sirens blaring, he slapped the child’s mouth.
‘Shut up!’ Peering down at blood-soaked hands, he shivered at the sting of force. Shreds of pinked flesh hung from wet fingertips, the boy had lost his face. Crying out, he stared straight ahead, watching the door. With a tick, the hall light blinked on.
‘Here she comes.’
---
The alarm had ripped him from the haze, and rubbing eyes, he turned to the clock. Nearing seven, it was Greg’s wake up call, not his.
“I’m late!”
“What?” A voice clamored over breakfast noises.
“You heard me! I’m late dammit.” He vaulted and shimmied into dirty jeans, fearing the worst. Greg walked in, sipping the usual as he picked out the day’s attire.
“Slow down, slow down. Jeez, don’t freak out. Gris called late last night, you don’t need to go in.”
Nick furrowed, scooping the phone from the desk.
“Who are you calling?”
“Who do you think?” Half the number dialed, he could feel lasers searing holes in his chest. Agitation was in plain sight, a hand cupped steadfastly on hip. Easing back, he clicked off the phone, gently placing it down.
“Alright, what did he say?”
He stood and listened closely, every sentence mutating into a tangled drone. Imagining Grissom’s voice over Greg’s chatter, a toll rang out damnation…
You flipped out, so you’ve been put on leave. You can’t hack it, so you’ve been put on leave. You don’t know how to deal with it, so you’ve been put on leave.
We don’t know how to act around you, so you can’t be here.
“And Grissom said to come back when you know you’re ready, not when you think. I happen to agree.” Cocking an eyebrow, he collapsed on the bed, still wearing one leg of his jeans. He observed Greg standing at the mirror, straightening a smallish shirt, tight fabric flirted with subtle pectoral outlines, fanned shocks of hair stuck up in various directions, masculine beauty. The arousal betrayed him; a sickness grew out.
“Well, I have to get going, Trevor’ll be in full Madonna mode if I don’t put in at least an hour. Are…you gonna be ok? Cause, I can give’em the finger and stay home if you need me.”
Care forging eyes wide open, he handed Greg a warm grin.
“I’ll be alright, I think I might go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure, I‘ll stay. We could talk…if you wanted.” He didn’t want. He didn’t want at all anymore.
“I’ll be fine. Go make your alternative noise.” Nodding, he opened his arms for a hug.
“Call if you need me ok? Love you, Nicky.” A kiss melted on dry lips, hair gel perfuming the air.
“Ok, Love you too.”
He waited for the bolt of locks before heading to the closet.
---
Thoughts flurrying, He couldn’t seem to stop feeling guilty about leaving him alone. Ten minutes into the session, and he’d managed to irritate nearly every member of the group. Trevor’s caterwauling through crude lyrics, Jules snarling directions from the booth; there was no drive, no plan. The guitar cues were off, he thought, fumbling with mixer knobs. Everything was off. Two days ago all was well, bliss in routine. No tense silences, no tears, just normal every day. He wanted that back. He wanted Nick back, the strong happy Nick with light behind his eyes, the one in control. The shattered one who stared vacantly through glossy spheres, madness seething through the busy of grief, that man he didn’t recognize. He could tell the difference between Nick’s smiles, true shined pearly white, false assurance seeped toxic.
“Hey Sanders, I can barely hear myself think, mind killing that scratch?” he had rested his palm on the tonearm apparently, destroying the vinyl. Trevor glowered as he lifted up the record, displaying the long scrape.
“For fucks sake, Greg!” Jules was visibly displeased, hands flapping as new obscenities flowed forth.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry! I’ll get it together.”
“Good to hear, now can we please try it one more time lads?” Trevor pitched up an ok, and they began. Headphones affixed, he floated out. The grind swirled around as a tempo finally came to life. The voice carried over, giving words shape, suspending them in oxygen; he rocked unconsciously. A temporary reprieve from the sinking worry.
---
It was still there, never finding a reason to throw it away, it traveled with him over state lines to pollute and distort. Amongst the collections of his childhood, it hid, a cancerous tumor buried deep. He sorted feverishly through boxes lovingly marked ‘little Nicky’ by his mother, which Greg never ceased to find amusing. He built rows of photos on the couch, searching in every one for a hint of the good stuff. He knew however, that the older he became in the shot, the more his face took on the appearance of a cruel mask. That wide smile that shielded trauma, those eyes that quietly begged for help, dark flags waving pitifully on rocky seas. Nick had pushed it, her, down for so long he tricked himself into thinking she died that night, died beside the little kid with glitter in his eyes and a goofy twang in his voice. The child in the woods brought her back, put electrodes to temples and shocked existence into memory, she was now as vivid as lightning splitting the Texas sky.
Fingering through a shoebox, it caught his nail. He slipped it onto his pinky, metal base of paltry workmanship chipped, engraving rubbed clean by the angry hands of a hurting young man. He used to carry it with him everywhere; it was the fuel that pushed him through, the menacing charm. He carried it the day he graduated highschool, college, and the academy. He wanted to show her that he wasn’t broken; she should be there to witness it all. When he made first made CSI level one, he put it away, concealed it under pictures of a life he wanted to forget. He thought he’d kept his head above water long enough to spite her.
---
“Nick, I’m back! I brought lun…” The livingroom was covered in pictures, sports memorabilia, broken toys, things he hadn’t seen since they first moved in together. It was sorted, stacked neatly as though he’d waltzed into the evidence room; troubled by the controlled chaos he sought his partner.
“Nicky, baby, what happened in front?” he beckoned towards the lit bathroom hoping for an answer. Silence.
“Nick? Nicky, oh my god!” He found him partially slumped over in the water, naked and bloody. One wrist weeping out over the side of the bathtub, he let forth a hoarse scream.
“Jesus, oh Jesus Nick…” Greg pulled and struggled, lifting him over the tub onto the mat. He could feel a weak pulse and crawled out momentarily. Reaching for the phone on the bed, he cried to strangers on the other line.
“Please, I need an ambulance, my boyfriend, oh god!” He belted the arm, wrapping towels, and sat cradling Nick’s dripping frame.
“Nicky, why?” Pale lips formed the words ‘sorry’ and he passed out.
---
tbc.
Chapter 1 HERE
Chapter 2 HERE
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 12:23 pm (UTC)What?
No!
No!
You..I..Huh...
Ouch, your writing is getting better with each chapter, and you're dealing with Nicky's past damn well.
Can we just let him, like, live?
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 01:50 pm (UTC)YOU. WRITE. NOW.
(by the way, I love your style!)
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 01:57 pm (UTC)Thank you sweetheart, more soon I promise!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 02:05 pm (UTC)My jaw is somewhere very deep down, and my mouth open in a comical gesture... OMG, please update soon.. Pleeeeeeeeeease *begging*
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 02:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 03:54 pm (UTC)1) WOW!!!
2) MORE!!!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 05:11 pm (UTC)2)Soon, I promise! lol
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 05:12 pm (UTC)::loves your icon, hums a few bars::
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 04:47 pm (UTC)Can't wait for the next chapter!!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 05:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 06:36 pm (UTC)I don't take character death well so he better be okay!!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 10:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 01:48 am (UTC)Chapter 4 very soon :D
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 10:57 pm (UTC)You absolutely cannot let Nicky die, or everyone here will be sooo pissed off. LoL. Including me, yes.
But on the flip side, I absolutely adore your writing style. Your metaphors make me wobble into a puddle.
Care forging eyes wide open, he handed Greg a warm grin.
Love.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 01:51 am (UTC)Thank you so much darling ;)