The Ages of Greg Sanders, part 7
Apr. 28th, 2007 12:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
writingkami.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
nickngregTitle: The Ages of Greg Sanders
Rating: R, possibly NC-17
Spoilers: Play With Fire
Warnings: BDSM and sadism. VERY dark stuff.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I don't profit from them. (If I did, I wouldn't let this sort of thing happen!)
I screwed up, I admit it. I shouldn’t have put up those Crime Stopper fliers all over the lab. It was a really boneheaded thing to do, and now I’m paying for it.
Nick’s trembling. Adrenalin, pain, nerves, all of the above, I don’t know. But I know what he’s feeling, because I used to feel that way when my masters hurt me. After the adrenalin wears off, you get weak and shaky and you want to crawl off and hide. But you can’t, because you’ve got a role to fill, and you have to maintain it no matter what. Nick’s pretending he can tough it out right now, but he can’t keep it up for much longer. One of these minutes he’s going to run out of cope and want to go home, and then he’s going to remember he doesn’t have a home to go to. It’s a crime scene, and on top of that it’s a wreck. He’s not going to be able to live there until the ceilings get fixed, for one thing.
I want to go give him the comfort nobody gave me when I needed it. I don’t know if I have the right to do that, considering the Crime Stopper fliers. I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to get him to forgive me, even though his forgiveness is really what I want. My shoulder still hurts from where his fingers dug in when he told me off. I would think of it as penance if it wasn’t such a little thing compared to what he’s been through.
He’s sitting at the break room table, staring through the tabletop at whatever’s running through his head. I make enough noise to let him know I’m there, and when he looks up, he seems surprised to see me.
“Greg? What are you doing here? Aren’t you off?”
“Well, technically, yeah. But I wanted to know if you need anything. Did you bring your pain pills with you?”
“Nah, I took some before. I figured I’d be OK until I got home…” It hits him then, and the trembling gets worse. I can’t stand it any more and before I think about what I’m doing, I’m in the break room with my arms wrapped around him, trying not to hurt the cracked ribs I’d heard he has, and he’s trying not to cry on me. I wish he would; he’d feel better afterward, but I can understand him not wanting to do it here. I don’t have a spare bed, but I do have a pretty good futon…
“Come crash at my place for a while.” Nick looks up, startled. All my fantasies aside, we don’t really know each other that well, and I don’t know what he expected, but this isn’t it.
“I can’t…” The protest is for form’s sake. If he meant it, he wouldn’t still be holding onto me like this.
“I offered. C’mon. You can’t stay at your place until it gets fixed up, and I live on the top floor. Nothing between me and the sky but the roof.” What I mean is, there’s no attic for anyone to be living in. “We’ll stop by your place for your pills.” I disentangle myself enough to stand up, and he leans on me on his way to his feet and all the way out to my car. He looks wrung out, and I maneuver him into the front passenger seat and drive to his place. By the time we get there, he’s mostly asleep, and I have to shake him to get his attention.
“Mmpf?”
“Where’d you leave your pills? I’m gonna run in and get them.”
He mutters something that sounds like “kitchen counter” and I go duck under the crime scene tape and in past the busted-in door.
There’s broken sheetrock all over the floor, and a huge hole in the living room ceiling. I’m not what you’d call superstitious or anything, but it still creeps me out a little to think about Nigel Crane living in Nick’s attic and Nick never knowing it. I spot the pill bottle on the counter past the living room and grab it, and then get an idea and go exploring a little. I come out five minutes later with the pills and a clean set of clothes and his toothbrush, and find him asleep in the car.
He sleeps all the way to my place, and I have to wake him up to get him in the building. He’s about with it enough to put one foot in front of the other if I steer. Thank goodness for elevators; I have to sort of lean him against the wall to push the button, but we get up to the fifth floor and down the hallway all right. He’s got the “one foot in front of the other” idea down so well that he keeps going after we get through my front door, so I steer him into the bedroom and lay him out on my bed. I’ve slept on my futon before.
It figures, doesn’t it? I finally get Nick in my bed and he’s in no shape for anything.
Rating: R, possibly NC-17
Spoilers: Play With Fire
Warnings: BDSM and sadism. VERY dark stuff.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I don't profit from them. (If I did, I wouldn't let this sort of thing happen!)
I screwed up, I admit it. I shouldn’t have put up those Crime Stopper fliers all over the lab. It was a really boneheaded thing to do, and now I’m paying for it.
Nick’s trembling. Adrenalin, pain, nerves, all of the above, I don’t know. But I know what he’s feeling, because I used to feel that way when my masters hurt me. After the adrenalin wears off, you get weak and shaky and you want to crawl off and hide. But you can’t, because you’ve got a role to fill, and you have to maintain it no matter what. Nick’s pretending he can tough it out right now, but he can’t keep it up for much longer. One of these minutes he’s going to run out of cope and want to go home, and then he’s going to remember he doesn’t have a home to go to. It’s a crime scene, and on top of that it’s a wreck. He’s not going to be able to live there until the ceilings get fixed, for one thing.
I want to go give him the comfort nobody gave me when I needed it. I don’t know if I have the right to do that, considering the Crime Stopper fliers. I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to get him to forgive me, even though his forgiveness is really what I want. My shoulder still hurts from where his fingers dug in when he told me off. I would think of it as penance if it wasn’t such a little thing compared to what he’s been through.
He’s sitting at the break room table, staring through the tabletop at whatever’s running through his head. I make enough noise to let him know I’m there, and when he looks up, he seems surprised to see me.
“Greg? What are you doing here? Aren’t you off?”
“Well, technically, yeah. But I wanted to know if you need anything. Did you bring your pain pills with you?”
“Nah, I took some before. I figured I’d be OK until I got home…” It hits him then, and the trembling gets worse. I can’t stand it any more and before I think about what I’m doing, I’m in the break room with my arms wrapped around him, trying not to hurt the cracked ribs I’d heard he has, and he’s trying not to cry on me. I wish he would; he’d feel better afterward, but I can understand him not wanting to do it here. I don’t have a spare bed, but I do have a pretty good futon…
“Come crash at my place for a while.” Nick looks up, startled. All my fantasies aside, we don’t really know each other that well, and I don’t know what he expected, but this isn’t it.
“I can’t…” The protest is for form’s sake. If he meant it, he wouldn’t still be holding onto me like this.
“I offered. C’mon. You can’t stay at your place until it gets fixed up, and I live on the top floor. Nothing between me and the sky but the roof.” What I mean is, there’s no attic for anyone to be living in. “We’ll stop by your place for your pills.” I disentangle myself enough to stand up, and he leans on me on his way to his feet and all the way out to my car. He looks wrung out, and I maneuver him into the front passenger seat and drive to his place. By the time we get there, he’s mostly asleep, and I have to shake him to get his attention.
“Mmpf?”
“Where’d you leave your pills? I’m gonna run in and get them.”
He mutters something that sounds like “kitchen counter” and I go duck under the crime scene tape and in past the busted-in door.
There’s broken sheetrock all over the floor, and a huge hole in the living room ceiling. I’m not what you’d call superstitious or anything, but it still creeps me out a little to think about Nigel Crane living in Nick’s attic and Nick never knowing it. I spot the pill bottle on the counter past the living room and grab it, and then get an idea and go exploring a little. I come out five minutes later with the pills and a clean set of clothes and his toothbrush, and find him asleep in the car.
He sleeps all the way to my place, and I have to wake him up to get him in the building. He’s about with it enough to put one foot in front of the other if I steer. Thank goodness for elevators; I have to sort of lean him against the wall to push the button, but we get up to the fifth floor and down the hallway all right. He’s got the “one foot in front of the other” idea down so well that he keeps going after we get through my front door, so I steer him into the bedroom and lay him out on my bed. I’ve slept on my futon before.
It figures, doesn’t it? I finally get Nick in my bed and he’s in no shape for anything.
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Date: 2007-04-28 07:35 pm (UTC)Nice work anyway!
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Date: 2009-03-29 07:37 am (UTC)Its good... I love the dichotomy...