WIP AMNESTY
SG1 Selmak/Lantash
This was started because someone egged me on, I think. I'm not really feeling the groove anymore and I freely admit the whole concept just freaked me out a little too much. I like Jacob, but not like that, okay?
Jacob supposed he knew something like this would happen the moment he agreed to host a being that had spent nearly 200 years in the body of a woman.
He just hadn’t expected it to be this easy.
Or this hard.
He was sitting up on his bed, the harsh crystalline wall digging into his back. Martouf was, and Jacob was fairly sure it was Martouf at the moment, sitting between his thighs, back pressed to chest.
Their symbiots had both felt their hosts had been in need of ‘alone time’. On a side note he didn’t think the Tok’Ra were ever going to forgive him for the number of human idioms that had slipped into their everyday use. Selmak, as always, just found it amusing.
Martouf shifted, removing his shoulder blade from an awkward position - pressing directly into his breast bone.
“So, is this as weird for you as it is for me?” Jacob muttered, resting his head on the wall, eyes starting up at the ceiling. He was talking to whatever quixotic being dictated his fate as much as to Martouf.
“Perhaps it is simply a different sort of awkward.”
Jacob let out a huff of amusement and it served as a reminder of how he’d ended up in the position in the first place.
If he was honest with himself - considering where that had gotten him in the past, he vowed to try it less often - he was not in a situation that he’d been coerced into. Or even talked into. It just was.
He supposed there was still some Tok’Ra stuff he was getting used to.
“Jacob?”
“Yes?”
Martouf’s body tensed and began to shift. “If you wish for me to-“
Without letting him finish, Jacob pulled him back against his chest. “Stay right where you are bucko. Fifty some odd years of military training won’t be overcome with a quick snuggle.”
The other man relaxed against him again. “Do you wish to overcome your training?”
He shrugged. “It had its purpose I suppose. But I’ve grown. Hell, if I can pilot spaceships and share my body with an alien then…”
Martouf twisted to his side to meet his eyes, a mischievous smile lighting his face. “Then you can share your body with an alien?” Was the ending he offered for the unfinished sentence.
Jacob stared at him intently for several moments before letting out a raucous, belly laugh.
Martouf laughed with him and Jacob lost himself in the friendly companionship. That at least was familiar. Well it was until Martouf darted forward and planted his lips on him.
They froze, idly, Jacob wondered what sort of tableau they presented.
A few more seconds and he gave a mental shrug as he pulled the thin body to him his lips tentatively drawing the other out.
They broke apart, breathing slightly elevated. He stared at Martouf, muttered something about being in Rome and dove in again.
Sliding down from the wall to a more comfortable and horizontal position on the bed they kissed. Long and hard, short and sweet, staccato and messy. Jacob had no idea how long that went on, but while he wasn’t quietly freaking out, his body had gone a bit to automatic. So he was quite surprised when his brain caught up and found himself shoving his tongue down Martouf’s throat.
It was strangely nostalgic. Only insofar as he had no idea where to put his hands and the strange feeling of another body shoved up next to his was vaguely unsettling. Sensations he had no name for were coursing through his body and if he wasn’t careful this was going to turn into a thoroughly embarrassing repeat of that date he’d had with Susan Williams that had ended up on The Peak.
SGA, John and Rodney on earth
I stopped this one because I wasn't really ready to commit to killing him and I didn't have much plot beyond John possibly dieing and Rodney having to deal with that. If he had lived, well you can probably guess the ending in terms of relationship. It also closely resembles an idea I am playing with, but this specific scene won't ever make it to a story. I think. Ah well.
John dies on a Thursday. Four minutes after five. The weather is clear and bright and the clouds hang in the sky like floating tufts of cotton candy.
It's stupid, Rodney thinks as he watches it happening. Too stupid to have happened. John is supposed to die saving millions of people, for a higher purpose.
John is not supposed to step in front of an ordinary gun with a lazy smile and relaxed limbs.
Rodney doesn't remember being afraid. In fact, it was the most unafraid he's ever been when a projectile weapons has been aimed in his general direction and Rodney's a physicist, so somewhere, there's always a gun pointed in his direction, even if it has to go halfway around the world to do so.
The man-- the mugger-- isn't genii or Wraith or one of a dozen other people who've come to loathe their very existence.
He's a tweaker. Shaking and nervous and illogical. John tries to reason anyway. It's what he does.
But Rodney can see the vectors and the variables, the cause and effect. He can see John dropping like a rock before it actually happens.
After the flash and pop, the lingering smell burns in Rodney's nose as he dives for the guy, fist landing awkwardly on his chin. But he gets the gun in his sweaty palms and now he's someplace he knows. The gun actually feels good in his hand. Warm and heavy and solid and something he knows how to work.
John coughs on the ground and Rodney's first instinct is to go for his headset, but they're on earth and he stares at his freshly requisitioned cell phone blankly for long seconds before he remembers the three numbers.
911.
The tweaker runs.
Rodney is too busy watching John's blood slide from under his finger tips, red and frothy.
SGA The Phantom of the Opera
Abandoned for complexity and research reasons. I love the idea, but I don't think I'll ever spend the time to execute it. What you have here are two fragments of two scenes that feel off to me because there's not enough context for me to get characterization right and such. But hey, hand porn!
Rehearsal was going rather poorly.
John sat in his corner, waiting to change out the instruments and move the heavy blocks around for the next piece and Caldwell just sprang another string on their priceless grand piano.
******
He undid the single button on John’s glove, two warm fingers going for his pulse. “Too fast,” The Phantom-- Rodney whispered, lifting his half gloved hand to his lips. “You are excited.” Hot, slightly cracked lips brushed his skin and John pulled in a shaky lungful of oxegyn.
“Good performance,” John croaked.
Another brush of lips, gentle and smooth. “Better performer.”
The air was thick with candle light and drapery. John’s skin felt tight over his chest as he watched Rodney rub his thumb in slow circles right into the muscle just under edge of his palm that cramped up after a long day of playing.
A long throb of pain, followed by the absence of, a divine pleasure, rushed up his palm, leaving tingles all the way to his elbow. “Oh god.”
“Heathen.” Rodney chuckled, low, working John’s glove off carefully. He wiggled each finger gently, moving it around and all John could feel was the gentle weight of warm hands on his.
He was breathing too fast.
Long fingers, surrounding John’s gently and then-- milking down them firmly, breaking up tiny pebbles of tension. Pressure, between the valleys of his knuckles and up towards the wrist, then around, circling fully, fingers once again resting on his pulse.
It was drawn up for another gentle kiss, but this time Rodney’s lips parted, pulling suction between them and John felt a flush of pleasure from that very spot wash over his entire body.
He shuddered in his seat, squirming. Rodney sucked once more, letting his teeth scrape before letting go and blowing gently on the wet skin.
John wanted to wrap that gentle sensation around him, bury it in his skin, he wanted to reach out and take it and pull it to him. He wanted-- he wanted. His heart beat painfully in his chest as he reached out, touching the unblemished side of Rodney’s face, his fingers, painfully sensitive after the treatment they’d received felt hot and soft and course and relief. Pure relief to finally be doing this. To touch to draw Rodney in, to wrap his arms and body around Rodney and sink into him. To allow himself this.
It was pleasure, uncontrolled, untamed, wild and unbelievably good.
Rodney made a small noise, just a cut off word, maybe a moan, but he folded in over John, pulling him tightly against his body. There was warmth through their many layers, solidity and strength.
“The evidence would suggest that you will not hate me,” Rodney murmured, turning John’s face upward, “if I were to be a bit forward.”
Rodney’s lips touched John’s. He was wrong. John hated him just a little for giving him this-- this-- feeling welling deep inside him as he loses the last thread of control and opens wide, tasting Rodney, feeling his insides relax as they kiss gently, oh so gently.
His lips felt swollen when they finally pulled back and Rodney immediately went for John’s John, actually just under it, brushing his nose along the edge. John strange sensation of heavy plaster covering parts of Rodney’s face not taking away from the low shivers the action caused.
Rodney mouthed the shell of John’s ear and whispered, “We should stop.”
Hot and cold, a part of John was horribly relieved, the other part started aching.
“Or I will find myself on my knees and the floor is so dusty, I’d ruin my pants.” Rodney smiled into the curve of John’s neck even as John let out a started bark of laughter.
John throbbed as Rodney pulled away and then stood walking a few steps away. The draft of the basement room suddenly felt twice as strong. A deep, rusty sound came from the darkness and then Rodney appeared, dragging a large piano bench.
“Up, and move that thing out of the way.” Rodney said, huffing a little.
“Where is the snapping?” John asked, standing on his jelly legs shoving the bench out of the way, feeling his body thrum with each movement.
“Hands full. I’ll snap all you want later.” Rodney huffed, shoving the bench into place. “Now sit.” Snap.
John smiled and sat and then instantly sucked in a deep breath as he felt Rodney slide in behind him. “Let’s play a little music,” Rodney breathed into his ear and John’s eyes crossed.
The next set is all CSI, given up because they're incomplete and I'm not really seeing coming back long enough to really finish them.
I'm a sucker for wrong place, wrong time, make them part of the action shit.
By the time Grissom had arrived at the scene, the main lights at the club had been turned on, yet no one had thought to turn off the stage lights and other accoutrements that seemed to be par for course in an establishment such as this one.
The press of bodies being held back behind police tap was a mass of leather and glitter and flashes of silver and shadows. Each painted face held the wide eyes of the suddenly informed. Oddly, the whites revealed by their dilated pupils did more to add to whatever look they were going for than any amount of eyeliner ever could.
He wound his way towards the center of the room, the vic lay sprawled, a fine sheen covered his skin and his makeup was worn away at the edges. Grissom counted four no, make that six piercings on the face alone. Unnaturally black hair with day-glo white tips topped him off like some sort of weird hedgehog.
“Clear the body yet?” He asked David without looking in his direction.
“All yours.” David said, never looking up from his paperwork.
Grissom nodded. “Nick, you and Sara have the dance floor.”
A grumble and an eye roll and a deep sigh that he didn’t bother to acknowledge were the only responses to his orders.
Somedays he felt more like a parent than a boss. Which on at least three levels should probably scare the crap out of him. But he was too tired to care, next time he woke up early to satisfy a little scientific curiosity, he had to remember to look into the future and make sure it wouldn’t be a night like the one he was having.
“Grissom!”
Brass was walking towards him briskly, a stocky figure out of the lingering smoke in the surprisingly small space.
“Hello Jim.” His eyes were taking in the scene, so he didn’t notice Brass’s lack of his usually stony countenance and wry humor.
“I’ve got a witness you should talk to.” Brass didn’t even wait and see his response.
He shrugged and followed.
Sitting to the side, was a young man. Leather clad legs tucked neatly under the chair, arms hugging himself, fingers convulsively opening and closing against his arms. The tight black t-shirt showed off the kind of physique that couldn’t be achieved in a gym. It was the basic muscle of youth, accentuated only in the arms with slight definition. His hands were oddly competent looking, long and slender. The young man’s head was bowed, almost hanging, giving him the appearance of looking weary and beaten. Most definitely a witness to something.
He approached and the young man looked up. Eyeliner was the first thing he saw, followed by pink lips and pale skin and large, red rimmed, brown eyes.
“Grissom.” He whispered, flushing.
“Greg.” He said, only just realizing who it was as he said the name aloud. “You’re our witness?”
“Guess so.” He sighed.
Grissom realized that dark rings under Greg’s eyes wasn’t makeup. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “Long night?”
Greg hiccupped back a bubble of laughter. “Bloods different in a test tube.” Was all he offered.
Nodding, Grissom kneeled, achieving eye level. “What can you tell me?”
Greg worried at his bottom lip, and Grissom couldn’t take his eyes away from it until, after a deep breath, Greg started speaking. “I was dancing. There was yelling, the crowd parting like Moses and the dead sea, there was more yelling, some shoving and then *bang*.” Greg made a shooting motion with his hand.
Grissom followed the motion with his eyes before letting them travel up Greg’s arm and back to his face. “Cold?” He asked, noting the goosebumps.
Greg nodded absently. “Most of these places don’t need that much heat once the evening gets going, the costumers will provide their own.”
This time Grissom nodded, taking off his outer shirt, more concerned about Greg’s shocky face than his own comfort. He draped it around thin, shaking shoulders before asking, “Did you see the shooter?”
Greg grasped at the shirt, pulling it tight. “You could say that.” He whispered, head hanging again. “He was aiming for me.”
*******
Grissom lead Greg into his townhouse, noting the shuffling sound of Greg’s boots. Probably too tired to lift them up into their customary bounce.
Greg droppped his overnight bag on the table and stretched, arms above his head, shirt riding up revealing a pale patch of skin.
Grissom tore his eyes away. “Guest bedroom’s down the hall on the right, bathroom across the way, towels under the sink.” He motioned in the general direction of the doors. Watching Greg nod carelessly, snagging his bag along the way.
Grissom stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “I need your shirt.” He apologized.
“Right.” The glazed look was back. He dropped the bag again and ripped the shirt over his head letting it dangle from his fingertips waiting for Grissom to take it.
He stared at the low slung pants and flat abdomen. He took back his earlier estimation. Greg had a little more muscle definition than in his arms.
Grissom took a slow blink before taking out a pair of gloves and putting them on with a practiced snap. Taking the garment he nodded thanks and watched Greg resume his shuffle.
Plastic bag, ball point pen, detailed notes, signed, dated, time, sealed, done. He put it in his case, closed it and for good measure put some of that tape used to seal evidence bags over the opening, signed and dated it and the photographed it.
He heard the shower go on before picking up his phone. He left a message with the lab letting them know he had the shirt, but it wouldn’t appear until the next evening. Not that it mattered all that much, but everything with blood needed to be checked.
I don't even remember where this one was going anymore.
Greg really wasn’t surprised when Sara walked right past him without a comment. There was something to be said for hiding in plain sight. Not that he was supposed to be hiding. He was supposed to be working.
Actually, he was supposed to be on a date. But that was neither here nor there at the moment. Being the new guy meant being on call pretty much all the time, that didn’t mean that he was supposed to put every single other thing on hold until he’d achieved some sort of seniority.
At that rate, it’d be years before he got laid again. And that sort of thing was bad for the digestion.
Greg had been in the middle of a really good bump and grind, complete with lascivious hand groping and illegal hip movements when he felt his pager vibrate against his hip. It had taken a good five seconds or so for the new sensation to trickle past the base of the music and the rhythm of his hips.
Outside of the club the phone call went as he’d expected, ‘Sorry about your night off Greg, but we’re slammed.’
He resigned himself to working a crime scene in leather pants and the multi-purpose black button down shirt he’d taken to keeping the back of his car.
He gets a look at his face in a nearby window. Raccoon eyes, the result of a hasty wipe of the makeup wipes stashed in his glove box, blinked tiredly back at him. Liquid eyeliner looked hot going on and like a cheap hooker coming off.
His rings, collar, wallet chain and assorted jewelry were sitting on the passenger seat of his car, like petals off some dying flower.
He wound his way around the crowd, flashing his ID when necessary. Grissom was kneeling in the far corner, examining some small piece of minutia that was probably going to confuse Greg with its significance until it became so obvious he felt like a complete moron.
He set his case down and made every effort to look professional, even if he didn’t feel it. “You rang?”
“That was quick.” Grissom commented without even looking up. “I had you timed for at least another ten minutes.”
Greg shrugged, his entire body tensing and then sagging down. “I wasn’t starting from home, so it took less time.”
Grissom nodded, picked something up with his tweezers and stuffed it into a small evidence bag before turning his full attention to Greg.
Greg stood, uncomfortable, through the required double take.
“Leather pants, Greg?” Grissom’s eyes widened, but it was more amusement than shock.
He shrugged again. “Like I said, I was nearby.”
“You obviously were.”
His assignment was, thankfully, nice and simple, fingerprint everything in sight. There was a moment of levity when he realized that his clubbing boots were actually more comfortable than his regular work shoes, for something like this.
For the most part, he was left alone to do his thing. Grissom checked in with him every so often, looking over his work, checked his notes, made sure protocol was being observed. Sofia wandered over at one point to ask where he got his pants. It was the first bright side of the evening and Greg happily spouted off a website. In turn she gave him some hints for fast makeup removal that wouldn’t make him look like a washed up rock star.
Sara didn’t comment about the pants at all, mostly she double checked his work, pointing to odd corners of the room. She did tell him his fingerprint lifts had gotten an hundred percent better.
Back at the lab, between the third and fourth double take, Greg ducked into the bathroom and took the opportunity to really scrub the rest of the crap off his face. He still looked like some tragic figure from neo-classical rework of some greek tragedy, complete with unhappy mask.
Warrick slapped him on the shoulder and asked who the lucky woman was. Nick just took one look at him and shook his head in amusement. Greg resisted pointing out that not everyone looked good in Texas fratboy chic.
He was scanning print number twenty four of one hundred and seventy-five when Grissom stepped in and without comment, gave him a hand.
“You did a good job.”
Greg jumped, nearly deleting the newest image. “Excuse me?”
Grissom moved on to his next task. “Tonight. At the scene.”
He stopped what he was doing, confused.
It took Grissom nearly a minute to catch up. “What’s wrong?”
Greg squinted at him, head tilted. “It’s just, that felt really out of character.”
That time, Grissom actually stopped what he was doing and looked at Greg. “How so?”
I like it, but I'm not feeling the CSI buzz anymore.
Greg plays it cool. Walking into work, not a care in the world. He’s not limping, he’s walking carefully, avoiding a pebble in his shoe. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
It’s been a shitty twenty-four hours and the bruises are just starting to form. He eases onto the bench on the locker room and takes a moment to himself, running a hand through his hair and trying to decide if he has enough time for a quick shower before his shift starts.
His aches and pains say yes, but the clock says no.
Warrick bustles in and starts doing his thing, but he gets a good look at Greg. “Woah, what the hell happened to you?”
Greg takes a deep breath and puts on a pretty smile. “Good date.”
“Damn.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want know what you consider a bad date.”
Greg gives him a look that he hope says ‘The pain was worth it’ but it’s a hell of an effort not give into the ‘please god let me just curl up into a little ball.’
Warrick must see some of that because he gets a sympathetic look. “Why didn’t you just call in man?”
“Lost my phone and by the time I got my hands on one Grissom practically tore me a new one at the suggestion of bailing out so late, apparently it’s going to be a busy night.” Greg explains, carefully unbuttoning his shirt. There were bits icky stuff on it and that is an evidence exclusion waiting to happen.
Greg turns away to deal with his own shit and is sickeningly grateful when Nick comes in and distracts Warrick.
He hisses in pain when his shirt catches on some of the tape on his side. He’s going to need to change those sometime soon and he’s not even sure he can reach all of them.
That’s when the sudden silence penetrates his own fog. He peaks over his shoulder and isn’t surprised to see both Warrick and Nick staring at him. Or, more precisely, the pretty little pieces of gauze that nice nurse had carefully applied for him.
He sighs deeply and gives them a pretty little spin. “We done gawking, or shall I pirouette some more?”
Nick steps forward, taking Greg’s upfront manner as tacit permission to examine. Greg can see the clinical eye take in the bruising and abrasion patterns. There are dirt stains on his knees that don’t go unnoticed and scrapes on his palms that get ‘hmm’d at.
“You file a police report?”
Greg meets Nick’s serious gaze. “As soon as they let me out of the hospital.”
Warrick pushes on his shoulder and makes him sit down, he winces slightly as a pulled muscle in his back protests.
Nick’s face goes white and sits beside Greg, his demeanor gentling infinitely further. “You should go home.”
“We’ll talk to Grissom.” Warrick assures him.
Greg shakes his head. “Nah guys, I kind of want to work. Take my mind off things, call the rest of the credit card companies on my break.”
Nick frowns at him. “Greg, after something like this you’re going to have trouble concentrating on one thing at a time, let alone several.”
There a tone of something in Nick’s voice that makes him pay closer attention. “They took my wallet, my cell, my good watch, called me a couple of names and pretty much emasculated me. I’m pretty sure I can deal with that.”
Nick’s face relaxes. “You mean you weren’t--”
“No!” Greg is supremely startled Nick even suggests it. “What on earth made you think that?”
Warrick points at his back. “The nature of your injuries. Your initial avoidance of the subject. Our suspicious natures...”
“You guys should watch a Disney movie or something, remind yourselves that it’s not always the worst case scenario.” Greg mutters. “Now someone, hand me that clean shirt.”
Despite the patronizing undertone, Greg finds it amusing that Nick helps him get the clean shirt on and that Warrick searches through his locker for his sneakers.
They practically walk him to his fish bowl and he has to threaten them with goodnight kisses before they leave him be. Nosey parkers.
It becomes clear pretty quickly that his wrist doesn’t like most of his regular movements, there’s a momentary flash of a large sweaty hand holding his hand at an unnatural angle. He shakes it off grabs the wrist brace he promised to wear if he had to anything strenuous. He’s surprised when it doesn’t press against the bruises all wrong, but simply supports it while he does his job.
Nick and Warrick pop their heads in at what have to be predetermined, random times. But Greg knows them better than that and starts to time it. Forty-seven minutes to the nose. And if they’re not actually in the building they call. Each with a seemingly endless string of questions they need Greg to answer ‘right now’.
It’s endearingly sweet and just a little bit annoying. He doesn’t even look up when at 2:07 on the dot he hears the doors open. “Guys, it’s really nice that you care this much, but I do have actual work to do.”
“It’s good to know we agree on that.” Grissom says.
Greg twists in surprise and then hisses in pain. “How can I help you Grissom,” he asks once the sharp reminder of pain passes.
Grissom hands him two evidence bags. “Blood evidence.”
Greg makes an ‘Ah’ noise, takes them and adds them to the queue.
“I’m also, apparently your new messenger service.” Grissom frowns at him. “Detective Gardine wanted to know if you could stop by the station.”
Greg hangs his head, massaging a cramp somewhere near the base of his neck. “I guess that’s up to you, can you spare me for a few hours?”
Grissom spies the edges of the brace from underneath his lab coat. “He sounded pretty anxious to get you down there, is it for a case?”
He blinks at the question, not sure what to make of it. “Yeah, you could say that.”
Grissom nods. “Go ahead, keep me informed.”
Impersonal and professional all the way to the end, it’s comforting on some level that Grissom cares even that much. Even if he doesn’t ask any other questions before leaving.
The lineup is a new and freaky experience. Everyone’s eyes on him while he stares at large anonymous men who all look alike. But number four steps up and a chill runs through his body, there’s a sense memory of being shoved against a wall, knees getting kicked in and falling roughly to the ground. That’s the face he saw when they pulled his hair back, the hand with the knife at his side.
“Him,” he says shakily.
There’s a back and forth, asking if he’s sure, but he is and the shaking of his hands must prove it to them, because they back off pretty quickly.
Detective Gardine takes him aside and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and Greg another bad feeling in his gut. “What is it?”
“We ran his prints,” the detective tells him, “it matched a current partial on file, one of a number collected from a series of assaults.”
The words feel off to Greg and he studies Gardine’s tired looking face. “You mean rape.”
Gardine nods. “They have your personal information, we need to talk about keeping you safe.”
Greg nods woodenly.
“I’m going to assign a uniform to follow you around for now and you should find someplace else to sleep,” Gardine continues. “This is their M.O. rough someone up, make it look like an especially vicious mugging and then corner you alone in your home.”
Greg really needs to sit down. “My shirt and stuff,” he mumbles, “you should have someone bag and tag it.”
“Already done.”
Greg’s head snaps to the door where Grissom is standing.
“They called me as soon as the prints turned up something,” Grissom explains, walking into the room. “Nick nearly ran Sara over in his rush to get to your locker.”
“Oh.”
Grissom sits next to him and it’s like a mirror universe, Greg is the victim and Grissom is unbelievably attentive.
Greg hasn’t showered yet, mostly on account of the bandages, but the information makes Grissom smile reassuringly at him. “Then let’s collect some evidence, shall we?”
Nails are scraped first, Grissom’s hands are gentle, even as the wooden wedge digs in.
“Never thought I’d be grateful for your hair predilections,” Grissom murmurs as he moves to his next target. The comb wanders through carefully, collecting various bits of dirt and sundry.
There’s a weird moment of frisson when Grissom kneels in front of Greg to take samples from his pants. In his mind his vision splits and on the right is calm professional Grissom, methodically searching every part of his pants. The one on the left makes Greg’s palms sweat and his skin flush. This Grissom’s every move is just as purposeful and meticulous, but the intent, far more sinister. The warmth of fingers through the cloth makes his legs shake and the careful movements are a parody of seduction. There’s a moment when Grissom looks up from what he’s doing, over the rim of his glasses at Greg and it’s all he can do to remain impassive and not suck his breath in.
He really needs to let go of his brilliant professor kink.
When Grissom is done he turns to the detective. “You’ve got his statement right?”
Gardine nods. “Yep, we’re done with him, we’ll call if we need anything.” He waves a nearby patrolman over. “This is Officer Fineman, he and his partner will take the first shift.”
Greg gives the man a pathetic wave and is surprised not to get an indifferent nod back. Fineman, instead, gives a supportive nod.
Grissom guides him outside and to his car. “I had someone drop me off here, want me to drive?”
The keys are out of his pocket and offered in Grissom’s direction before Greg can even think. Apparently yes, he does want Grissom to drive. Of course, that probably has something to do with the weird wobbily thing his knees are doing and the random staring off into space.
Greg gets greeted by what has to be the most dysfunctional group hug in all of history. Catherine and Sara bustle off on urgent pages. Grissom hands the collected evidence over to Warrick who double times it down to trace.
Nick hands Greg some folded up clothing. “I picked up your spare jeans in the locker, we should probably process the whole thing, just to be safe.”
Greg plods slowly off to the locker room followed closely by Grissom and his kit.
Grissom politely turns around while Greg struggles with his pants. “S’ok, go ahead and take them,” he says while struggling with the clean pair.
There’s the sound of plastic and tape and rummaging as Greg finishes. He leans over to retie his shoes, but stops when he’s abruptly reminded that his back doesn’t like that movement.
“Sara got me your hospital file,” Grissom says. “They roughed you up pretty good.”
Greg braces his foot on the bench and concentrates on the laces. “Yep, got this cut on my back I have no idea how I’m going to reach when it’s time to change the bandage.” He checks his watch. “Which is pretty soon.”
Grissom shrugs. “Come on over to my office, I’ll help you.”
Greg freezes momentarily. “Er, sure.”
By the time Greg makes it over there, Grissom has a first aid kit out on the desk and a pair of gloves waiting.
“Shirt off,” Grissom says shortly.
Of course shirt off. Greg slips the bottons out of their holes and lets the shirt slide down his arms and onto the nearby couch.
Grissom starts at the front bandage, it’s low on his belly, near the waistband of his pants. “Might as well just get the whole thing out of the way.”
The tape is peeled away carefully and the gauze comes away gently.
Grissom is a complete professional through the whole thing, studying the injury intently. “This one is from being thrown to the ground?”
Greg nods, studiously not watching. He jumps at the cold sensation, but it’s just Grissom applying some antibiotic ointment with a q-tip.
Now that he’s watching, he can’t tear his eyes away as Grissom lays the new bandage on carefully, smoothing the tape down. Greg is pretty sure there’s an all body flush coming on soon. He starts mentally reciting the periodic table of elements. Complete with atomic weight.
Grissom turns him around and starts on the other bandage and now at least Greg can let his eyes wander around the office. He’s made it through three different species of spiders when there’s a stab of pain from his side.
“Sorry,” Grissom mumbles, “the bruising is more extensive here.”
“What color is it?”
Fingers glance across his skin as Grissom leans in to get a better look. “Deep purple.”
Grissom’s warm breath ghosts across his side and Greg shivers.
“Almost done,” Grissom says, apologetic. He applies the strips of tape and this time they each hurt worse than the last.
Greg can feel the sharp pain for the last one before it comes, he knows the tape is going to end smack in the middle of that place in his back that feels tight and unnaturally warm. That doesn’t stop him from hissing in pain and turning sharply.
Grissom is right there, not even inches away, eyes wide in surprise, hands unmoving and now resting lightly on Greg’s stomach.
“Sorry,” Greg croaks out.
Grissom shakes his head, “Not a problem.” He doesn’t move away though.
Greg is mesmerized by the body heat coming off him, the fingers on his skin, burning marks he’s sure he’ll feel for weeks.
There’s a moment, fractured in time were they stare at each other, unmoving. And then Grissom blinks and time moves forward and Greg can feel the subtle tremors in Grissom’s hand and the quick quiver of muscles as he swallows hard.
Obviously under control of a completely separate entity, not in any way attached to his own mind, Greg’s hand reaches out and lands on top of Grissom’s latex clad one.
There’s a gasp, but from who, Greg has no idea.
Greg studies Grissom’s face, it’s a bit flushed, and his lips are parted as he breaths in and out quickly. He can feel Grissom’s chest move in and out. For maybe half a second, Greg thinks they’re going to kiss, Grissom licks his lips and the lean is just right.
Then suddenly Grissom veers away, Greg blinks and Grissom is on the other side of his desk, reorganizing the first aid kit.
Greg is breathing like a race horse and he watches Grissom make it all the way to the 4x4's before he remember’s he’s not wearing a shirt.
Well that was unexpected. In more ways than one.
His shirt is almost completely buttoned when Grissom finally looks up from his task.
“Are you up to working tonight?”
Sure, just let him find a nice private place to jerk off first. When he doesn’t answer or even turn around, he can hear hesitant footsteps approaching him. Each click of heel on linoleum echoes in Greg’s head like some sort of ominous sound of doom.
“Greg?”
He shrugs. “Sure, work’ll be good for me.”
The footsteps stop several feet away and Greg’s shoulders relax marginally. One less thing to worry about.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Greg hisses. “I’m sure. I’m good, I’ll even stick to paperwork if you’re worried about me screwing anything up.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The footsteps resume and Greg closes his eyes tightly, he’s not even sure why he’s suddenly so angry. So irrational. He sighs deeply. “Yeah, I know,” he says in an effort to forestall the slide-click of the footsteps.
“You sure you want to work, no one’s going to blame you if you clock out.”
Grissom’s voice comes from directly behind him and Greg is pretty sure he can feel a wall of heat the size and shape of another body. God he needs out of the room.
Swallowing heavily, Greg turns and is surprised by how far away Grissom still is, a good foot or so. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not really in the mood to go back to my place and sit there alone with a patrol car out front.”
Grissom’s head tilts, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “I can understand that. It’s probably not a good idea for you to stay at your place for a couple days anyway.”
Greg throws his hands up in disgust and throws himself on the couch. “I give up. Lead me oh wise one.”
Grissom snorts. “Go to work, we’ll deal with the rest of it later.”
Thank you god. There’s a moment when he moves to stand up when his knees won’t budge, he stops and takes another deep breath, collects himself, studiously avoiding catching Grissom’s curious gaze and stands. The room does a fun spinning thing and Greg remembers maybe he hasn’t eaten in close to twelve hours.
The room sparkles pinks and greens and he has to lock his knees to make sure they don’t go out from under him. An arm slings itself around his torso and he doesn’t think about it much other than to lean into the new support.
“Woah,” Greg mumbles. “When did the room start spinning?”
Grissom manhandles him back to the couch. “I think the better question is when was the last time you ate?”
Greg shakes his head. “No, I’m fine, don’t make me sit down.” But the death grip he has on Grissom’s arm doesn’t let up.
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Do not.” Because sounding like a twelve year old is really going to help is case. The arm around him feels secure and comforting and he can’t help but lean into it. A hand strokes at his face, pulling under his eyes and ghosting over his forehead.
Greg bats away the intrusion but only manages to tangle their hands up momentarily. Grissom’s face is too close for comfort and it threatens to upset his precarious equilibrium even further. He sees his hand reach out, touching the slight flush, just above the beard line.
Grissom stops and swallows heavily. “Well, your pupils are normal and you don’t have a fever.” His voice has a husky tenor.