Ser Sucio, chapter 5.
Jan. 16th, 2005 07:48 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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nickngregAuthor: Exit Music
Title: Ser Sucio, Chapter 5
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 five of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
"You have to take a break, Greg." He had slept at the hospital going on three nights, making a nest out of the padded chair. Only leaving for caffeine and an assortment of vending machine delicacies, he was broken down, an addict’s jitter in full swing. Catherine glared, picking at his grubby shirt.
"You're filthy. Go home. Take a shower and get the place ready for Nick, they're releasing him tomorrow." He shrugged, pointing at the bed. Calm expression lit by the warmth of desert sunlight.
"The last time I left him, I almost lost him. I'm not going anywhere." She then pointed to the door.
"You're exhausted, and the plastic fichus wilts whenever you walk past it. Sara and the guys are coming over this afternoon to check in, it'll be a full house."
"I can't."
"He's asleep, and doped up; he'll be ok for a few hours. Please sweetie, Lindsey and I will be here, it'll be fine."
"Yeah Uncle Greg, I'll be here. Can you bring back another game for me?"
"Lindsey." Catherine grimaced.
"What? I'm a kid, I get bored, ok?"
He brushed a hand over Nick’s exposed foot, and nodding, he rose to leave.
"I'll be back VERY soon, call me if anything…call me."
---
The apartment was a mess; boxes overturned when medics tried clearing the doorway to the bathroom, the gurney’s wide angle leaving a crude gash in eggshell painted trim. Not wanting to start with the tub cleanup, Greg gathered photographs strewn along the couch. There were so many different faces, all connected by slight similarities. A nose, a chin, eyes. They all looked like pieces of Nick, or Nick looked like them, he couldn’t decide. A picture of a scrappy bright-eyed boy in his baseball uniform, posed, ready to swing. A teenager embarrassed, decked out in his prom tuxedo having to stand next to his mother. A proud young man sporting a shining cap and gown, shaking hands with his father. He knew parts of that person, a quiet gentleman who always opened the door for him, a sleepy jovial puppy who lounged on Sundays, glued to the television. The cheering boy who gave out kisses when his team scored a point, those parts gave a luster akin to the person in the pictures. Greg couldn’t understand how the person he knew, the man in the pictures, could break as easily as a porcelain saucer, just fall off the shelf and shatter. Packing away history, he shoveled the remainders of a life unknown back into cardboard.
The bathroom. The scene, he felt as if he were observing slides of a textbook case. The tang of copper left him sickened as he sponged blood from the tile. Nick was not a heavy man at all but it looked as if a hog had been slaughtered, spray from the initial slice peppering the terrycloth mat. The water draining, clear muddied with pink, he couldn’t stop himself, vomiting sickly sweet junk food into the open commode. As he straightened out, a clink echoed beside him.
“What the hell?” Something caught in the stopper. Fiddling around, it broke free of the drain’s grid. A girl’s school ring. Smooth, worn down by time, stone holding no original sheen, it was sadly plain. Thoughts bubbled, her and she and old photos and sadness. It was a girl, or had been a girl. He quickly remembered the dead boy, but it didn’t jive, maybe a highschool abortion, a son he never met. New information, assumptions jarring clouds to part.
Hurriedly he cleaned, a second wind propelling him forward. The place resembling a freshly made up motel room, Greg forced himself to quit. He showered and shaved, crisp and new reflected back in the mirror.
Heading out the door, his phone rang, and a wave of fear washed over.
“Hello?”
“Where the shit have you been, Sanders? Do you know how much money you’re wasting!”
“Trevor, there’s been an emergency, Nick’s in the hospital.”
“You could have called, if we had rescheduled, we wouldn’t have had to keep paying for time we’re weren’t using.” He couldn’t be bothered; lead singers had the worst timing imaginable.
“Do me a favor Trev, go fuck yourself.” Click.
Second wind in full effect.
---
They waited patiently as the Catherine prepared the room for more guests, Sara played with a few petals of the withered supermarket flowers as Warrick leaned on her shoulder, overworked due to staff shortage. Grissom stood quietly, observing the worker ants as they kept the hospital going, the ebb and flow of white shoes.
“Ok, he’s ready for you.” They didn’t know how to react; falling back on office etiquette, they entered with usual hellos.
“Hey guys,” He grinned amiably as they situated.
“Didn’t have time for all the bells and whistles, so instead, here’s a bundle of weeds.” He laughed, startling them with happy noises. Awkward conversation quickly led to sports babble, Sara and Grissom finding spots on the wall to focus on, lost by scores and averages.
“So, man, when you planning on coming back?” Gang visibly uncomfortable, Nick eased Warrick with promises of ‘soon.’
“Sara, why don’t you and Warrick head out to the car? I’ll be there momentarily. We have to get back, Nick, I’m sorry.”
They found their feet with astounding speed, goodbyes faded quickly in the air. Catherine smiled, patting Gil’s hand.
“I’m going to go pry my daughter off the Coke machine, be back in a sec."
Shutting the door, he settled next to Nick, concern cast on the face of different breed of father.
“Nick, I spoke with Catherine. I don’t understand what you were trying to accomplish with this, but I’m glad you failed. I’m sure Greg’s just as glad.”
“He is. He doesn’t know why though.”
“You haven’t told him?” Grissom lowered his head, thoughts rearranging, new speech forming.
“Nick, he needs to be aware of it, how can he help you if he’s in the dark about it?”
“I know.”
“I can see things need to be taken care of in order for you to come back and be an asset, therapy, vacation, whatever you need. Don’t shrug this off, you learned the hard way that things don’t just go away with time.”
“Gris, I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what to do, but I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Ask yourself this, do you have the courage to take it back?”
With a strange wink, he walked out, leaving Nick to solve the puzzle on his own. He watched as Grissom exchanged greetings with Greg in the hallway. Catherine zipped in, grabbing coats and Lindsey’s menagerie of essentials.
“Kay, kiddo, we’re outta here. You need anything, call, got it?” She hugged him tightly, the girl right behind her.
“Hurry up and get home Uncle Nick, so you can help me beat this dumb football game Uncle Greg bought me, ok?”
“That’s a deal, blondie.” Tousling her ponytail, she pinched his nose playfully and followed her mother out.
“I’m back, how psyched are you?” He garnered a kiss with loose laughter, letting Greg wiggle into bed with him. He wrapped the good arm around the sweet smelling man, shampoo scent intoxicating him.
“I’m totally psyched, babe. You shoulda been here for Sara and Warrick, I swear I’ve never seen the like. It’s as if they had a gun pulled on’em, they didn’t know what the hell to say.”
“Well, you know what that’s like,” he quipped, resting his head, planting tiny nibbles along Nick’s ear. Feeling a mood of receptiveness, he turned, kissing him hard, wanting to feel the heat of his mouth. Tongues found each other, and Greg produced a moan, making lips vibrate. Knowing his limit, he pulled away, breathing out.
“Greg, I am sorry.” Apologies sprung from a love place, things needing to be said.
“I’m sorry too.” Perplexed, Nick dug further.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel like you could come to me, you know I’d never judge you.” A tense sigh coated the room in remorse.
“Greg, there’s some stuff I need to tell you, but not here, not now.”
“Ok. I can wait.”
---
“Home sweet icebox…” He walked slowly behind, grocery bags in tow.
“Real food, and a real bed, how does that sound, baby?” A gesture of yes and he watched Nick disappear into the bedroom, shower in great demand.
“Oh, you need some plastic around that arm, can’t get the stitches wet!” He rummaged for scotch tape, salvaging an emptied bag with ‘Food 4 Less’ obnoxiously blaring from the sides. He helped Nick undress, gently removing the shirt over his head, inching down his comfiest pair of sweatpants and tugging off gym socks. Bagging the arm, he wrapped tape as if he were working with fine china, not wanting to cause any pain.
“Um, I don’t think I can do this on my own. No funny business though, ok?” He grinned wide, giggling nervously.
“I am at your disposal, Mr. Stokes, no funny business, I swear.” He slipped hastily out of his own clothes, reminding himself to think of things other than Nick’s nude body, dripping wet and soapy. Running the water, a slide fell into the projector, blood spattered against white, Nick’s slightly blued skin, the sound of his own screams. Shaking the vision away, he stepped in, lathering a rag. He ran the washcloth softly over defined back muscles, carefully going over limbs, tenderly grazing over vulnerable places. Nick leaned back, short hair tickling his neck. He massaged solid shoulders, stress forcing sinew taut. It worried him, the feeling of concrete under his fingers, wanting to work it away. He noticed a quaking in Nick’s legs; he was still weak from it all. Rinsing off, he wrapped his own fluffy bathrobe around Nick’s frame, and went to prepare dinner.
---
“You didn’t eat very much, appetite not up to snuff yet?” He watched Greg get ready for bed, shimmying out of boxers, and snuggling under the plush duvet.
“Nope, not quite yet.” Nick settled in as Greg arranged himself around him, a smooth leg wound around his thigh, head cautiously placed on his chest. The warmth of exposed skin calmed him, natural closeness.
“You good?”
“I’m good, yep.” He could feel Greg quietly count his heartbeats, not believing that he’d actually tried to cease the beat indefinitely. A tune played off in the distance; softly he sang a few words.
“Oh the wayward wind…is a restless wind…a restless wind…that yearns to wander…”
Greg looked up, feeling the sprinkle of Nick’s escaped tears fall against his face.
“You have a beautiful voice, Nicky.” A whimper broke the lullaby, and he inhaled to speak.
“Nah, my mother has a beautiful voice, she used to sing that to me all the time. She always had Patsy playing on Saturday afternoons. All the rest of the kids got to go with daddy to run errands, so of course the runt stayed home and folded laundry with momma. She’d always sing that song whenever I was sick or couldn’t sleep.”
“It is a good one.” Nick nodded, continuing. A long strained breath channeled shame through his body.
“I made her sing it three times the night it happened.”
“The night what happened?”
“The night my babysitter raped me.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was nine; I think she was about sixteen, pretty girl, brunette. Celia.”
Greg reached for his jacket, pulling out a small object.
“Is this hers?” The stone caught the light, and he fell apart, weeping, gulping air as Greg held him.
“Yes…hmm. She forgot it on the desk. She took it off saying she didn’t want to leave any marks on me. I was a little boy, Greg. I was so small. I couldn’t fight her!”
“Oh baby, I know.” Consoling embrace, he was engulfed. Pushing out years of hate, boiling anger, his body gave out; boneless sighing of a damaged man.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He paused, adjusting a sore arm, studying thick gauze and surgical tape.
“Because telling you is like admitting to myself that it really happened. I told Catherine cause I don’t have to lay next to her every night. I don’t want you to suffer over something that’s not your problem.”
“I can handle it, Nick. I want to help; I want to have a hand in your life. We promised to share everything, right?”
“That’s right.” He pulled Greg up, longing for contact. He pushed mouth to mouth, latching tightly with fingers clutching at handfuls of subtly spiked hair. Breaking the seal, Greg whispered.
“What’s next, Nicky?” Hugging him close, he replied.
“I guess I’m going back to Texas.” Greg slapped his chest lightly in protest.
“Not without me, mister.”
“What about the band?” Greg roared with laughter, remembering the phone call.
“I am soooooo fired.” Nick exchanged giggles, and kissed his nose.
“Well, I guess we’re going to Texas then.”
---
tbc.
Chapter 1 HERE
Chapter 2 HERE
Chapter 3 HERE
Chapter 4 HERE
Title: Ser Sucio, Chapter 5
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 five of a WIP.
A/N: I do not own these characters, I merely worship them.
"You have to take a break, Greg." He had slept at the hospital going on three nights, making a nest out of the padded chair. Only leaving for caffeine and an assortment of vending machine delicacies, he was broken down, an addict’s jitter in full swing. Catherine glared, picking at his grubby shirt.
"You're filthy. Go home. Take a shower and get the place ready for Nick, they're releasing him tomorrow." He shrugged, pointing at the bed. Calm expression lit by the warmth of desert sunlight.
"The last time I left him, I almost lost him. I'm not going anywhere." She then pointed to the door.
"You're exhausted, and the plastic fichus wilts whenever you walk past it. Sara and the guys are coming over this afternoon to check in, it'll be a full house."
"I can't."
"He's asleep, and doped up; he'll be ok for a few hours. Please sweetie, Lindsey and I will be here, it'll be fine."
"Yeah Uncle Greg, I'll be here. Can you bring back another game for me?"
"Lindsey." Catherine grimaced.
"What? I'm a kid, I get bored, ok?"
He brushed a hand over Nick’s exposed foot, and nodding, he rose to leave.
"I'll be back VERY soon, call me if anything…call me."
---
The apartment was a mess; boxes overturned when medics tried clearing the doorway to the bathroom, the gurney’s wide angle leaving a crude gash in eggshell painted trim. Not wanting to start with the tub cleanup, Greg gathered photographs strewn along the couch. There were so many different faces, all connected by slight similarities. A nose, a chin, eyes. They all looked like pieces of Nick, or Nick looked like them, he couldn’t decide. A picture of a scrappy bright-eyed boy in his baseball uniform, posed, ready to swing. A teenager embarrassed, decked out in his prom tuxedo having to stand next to his mother. A proud young man sporting a shining cap and gown, shaking hands with his father. He knew parts of that person, a quiet gentleman who always opened the door for him, a sleepy jovial puppy who lounged on Sundays, glued to the television. The cheering boy who gave out kisses when his team scored a point, those parts gave a luster akin to the person in the pictures. Greg couldn’t understand how the person he knew, the man in the pictures, could break as easily as a porcelain saucer, just fall off the shelf and shatter. Packing away history, he shoveled the remainders of a life unknown back into cardboard.
The bathroom. The scene, he felt as if he were observing slides of a textbook case. The tang of copper left him sickened as he sponged blood from the tile. Nick was not a heavy man at all but it looked as if a hog had been slaughtered, spray from the initial slice peppering the terrycloth mat. The water draining, clear muddied with pink, he couldn’t stop himself, vomiting sickly sweet junk food into the open commode. As he straightened out, a clink echoed beside him.
“What the hell?” Something caught in the stopper. Fiddling around, it broke free of the drain’s grid. A girl’s school ring. Smooth, worn down by time, stone holding no original sheen, it was sadly plain. Thoughts bubbled, her and she and old photos and sadness. It was a girl, or had been a girl. He quickly remembered the dead boy, but it didn’t jive, maybe a highschool abortion, a son he never met. New information, assumptions jarring clouds to part.
Hurriedly he cleaned, a second wind propelling him forward. The place resembling a freshly made up motel room, Greg forced himself to quit. He showered and shaved, crisp and new reflected back in the mirror.
Heading out the door, his phone rang, and a wave of fear washed over.
“Hello?”
“Where the shit have you been, Sanders? Do you know how much money you’re wasting!”
“Trevor, there’s been an emergency, Nick’s in the hospital.”
“You could have called, if we had rescheduled, we wouldn’t have had to keep paying for time we’re weren’t using.” He couldn’t be bothered; lead singers had the worst timing imaginable.
“Do me a favor Trev, go fuck yourself.” Click.
Second wind in full effect.
---
They waited patiently as the Catherine prepared the room for more guests, Sara played with a few petals of the withered supermarket flowers as Warrick leaned on her shoulder, overworked due to staff shortage. Grissom stood quietly, observing the worker ants as they kept the hospital going, the ebb and flow of white shoes.
“Ok, he’s ready for you.” They didn’t know how to react; falling back on office etiquette, they entered with usual hellos.
“Hey guys,” He grinned amiably as they situated.
“Didn’t have time for all the bells and whistles, so instead, here’s a bundle of weeds.” He laughed, startling them with happy noises. Awkward conversation quickly led to sports babble, Sara and Grissom finding spots on the wall to focus on, lost by scores and averages.
“So, man, when you planning on coming back?” Gang visibly uncomfortable, Nick eased Warrick with promises of ‘soon.’
“Sara, why don’t you and Warrick head out to the car? I’ll be there momentarily. We have to get back, Nick, I’m sorry.”
They found their feet with astounding speed, goodbyes faded quickly in the air. Catherine smiled, patting Gil’s hand.
“I’m going to go pry my daughter off the Coke machine, be back in a sec."
Shutting the door, he settled next to Nick, concern cast on the face of different breed of father.
“Nick, I spoke with Catherine. I don’t understand what you were trying to accomplish with this, but I’m glad you failed. I’m sure Greg’s just as glad.”
“He is. He doesn’t know why though.”
“You haven’t told him?” Grissom lowered his head, thoughts rearranging, new speech forming.
“Nick, he needs to be aware of it, how can he help you if he’s in the dark about it?”
“I know.”
“I can see things need to be taken care of in order for you to come back and be an asset, therapy, vacation, whatever you need. Don’t shrug this off, you learned the hard way that things don’t just go away with time.”
“Gris, I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what to do, but I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Ask yourself this, do you have the courage to take it back?”
With a strange wink, he walked out, leaving Nick to solve the puzzle on his own. He watched as Grissom exchanged greetings with Greg in the hallway. Catherine zipped in, grabbing coats and Lindsey’s menagerie of essentials.
“Kay, kiddo, we’re outta here. You need anything, call, got it?” She hugged him tightly, the girl right behind her.
“Hurry up and get home Uncle Nick, so you can help me beat this dumb football game Uncle Greg bought me, ok?”
“That’s a deal, blondie.” Tousling her ponytail, she pinched his nose playfully and followed her mother out.
“I’m back, how psyched are you?” He garnered a kiss with loose laughter, letting Greg wiggle into bed with him. He wrapped the good arm around the sweet smelling man, shampoo scent intoxicating him.
“I’m totally psyched, babe. You shoulda been here for Sara and Warrick, I swear I’ve never seen the like. It’s as if they had a gun pulled on’em, they didn’t know what the hell to say.”
“Well, you know what that’s like,” he quipped, resting his head, planting tiny nibbles along Nick’s ear. Feeling a mood of receptiveness, he turned, kissing him hard, wanting to feel the heat of his mouth. Tongues found each other, and Greg produced a moan, making lips vibrate. Knowing his limit, he pulled away, breathing out.
“Greg, I am sorry.” Apologies sprung from a love place, things needing to be said.
“I’m sorry too.” Perplexed, Nick dug further.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel like you could come to me, you know I’d never judge you.” A tense sigh coated the room in remorse.
“Greg, there’s some stuff I need to tell you, but not here, not now.”
“Ok. I can wait.”
---
“Home sweet icebox…” He walked slowly behind, grocery bags in tow.
“Real food, and a real bed, how does that sound, baby?” A gesture of yes and he watched Nick disappear into the bedroom, shower in great demand.
“Oh, you need some plastic around that arm, can’t get the stitches wet!” He rummaged for scotch tape, salvaging an emptied bag with ‘Food 4 Less’ obnoxiously blaring from the sides. He helped Nick undress, gently removing the shirt over his head, inching down his comfiest pair of sweatpants and tugging off gym socks. Bagging the arm, he wrapped tape as if he were working with fine china, not wanting to cause any pain.
“Um, I don’t think I can do this on my own. No funny business though, ok?” He grinned wide, giggling nervously.
“I am at your disposal, Mr. Stokes, no funny business, I swear.” He slipped hastily out of his own clothes, reminding himself to think of things other than Nick’s nude body, dripping wet and soapy. Running the water, a slide fell into the projector, blood spattered against white, Nick’s slightly blued skin, the sound of his own screams. Shaking the vision away, he stepped in, lathering a rag. He ran the washcloth softly over defined back muscles, carefully going over limbs, tenderly grazing over vulnerable places. Nick leaned back, short hair tickling his neck. He massaged solid shoulders, stress forcing sinew taut. It worried him, the feeling of concrete under his fingers, wanting to work it away. He noticed a quaking in Nick’s legs; he was still weak from it all. Rinsing off, he wrapped his own fluffy bathrobe around Nick’s frame, and went to prepare dinner.
---
“You didn’t eat very much, appetite not up to snuff yet?” He watched Greg get ready for bed, shimmying out of boxers, and snuggling under the plush duvet.
“Nope, not quite yet.” Nick settled in as Greg arranged himself around him, a smooth leg wound around his thigh, head cautiously placed on his chest. The warmth of exposed skin calmed him, natural closeness.
“You good?”
“I’m good, yep.” He could feel Greg quietly count his heartbeats, not believing that he’d actually tried to cease the beat indefinitely. A tune played off in the distance; softly he sang a few words.
“Oh the wayward wind…is a restless wind…a restless wind…that yearns to wander…”
Greg looked up, feeling the sprinkle of Nick’s escaped tears fall against his face.
“You have a beautiful voice, Nicky.” A whimper broke the lullaby, and he inhaled to speak.
“Nah, my mother has a beautiful voice, she used to sing that to me all the time. She always had Patsy playing on Saturday afternoons. All the rest of the kids got to go with daddy to run errands, so of course the runt stayed home and folded laundry with momma. She’d always sing that song whenever I was sick or couldn’t sleep.”
“It is a good one.” Nick nodded, continuing. A long strained breath channeled shame through his body.
“I made her sing it three times the night it happened.”
“The night what happened?”
“The night my babysitter raped me.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was nine; I think she was about sixteen, pretty girl, brunette. Celia.”
Greg reached for his jacket, pulling out a small object.
“Is this hers?” The stone caught the light, and he fell apart, weeping, gulping air as Greg held him.
“Yes…hmm. She forgot it on the desk. She took it off saying she didn’t want to leave any marks on me. I was a little boy, Greg. I was so small. I couldn’t fight her!”
“Oh baby, I know.” Consoling embrace, he was engulfed. Pushing out years of hate, boiling anger, his body gave out; boneless sighing of a damaged man.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He paused, adjusting a sore arm, studying thick gauze and surgical tape.
“Because telling you is like admitting to myself that it really happened. I told Catherine cause I don’t have to lay next to her every night. I don’t want you to suffer over something that’s not your problem.”
“I can handle it, Nick. I want to help; I want to have a hand in your life. We promised to share everything, right?”
“That’s right.” He pulled Greg up, longing for contact. He pushed mouth to mouth, latching tightly with fingers clutching at handfuls of subtly spiked hair. Breaking the seal, Greg whispered.
“What’s next, Nicky?” Hugging him close, he replied.
“I guess I’m going back to Texas.” Greg slapped his chest lightly in protest.
“Not without me, mister.”
“What about the band?” Greg roared with laughter, remembering the phone call.
“I am soooooo fired.” Nick exchanged giggles, and kissed his nose.
“Well, I guess we’re going to Texas then.”
---
tbc.
Chapter 1 HERE
Chapter 2 HERE
Chapter 3 HERE
Chapter 4 HERE
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Date: 2005-01-17 03:41 am (UTC)I thankee ;)