New CSI fic: When The Ghosts Wander, Nick/Greg, PG15
OH GREG. OH. OH. WHEN WILL THE HORROR END??
ILU. SO I WRITE FIC.
Title: When The Ghosts Wander
Rating: PG15 for nekkidness, inappropriate drug use, and slash.
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Spoilers: Up to and including 'Post Mortem' (Nov. 9)
Summary: Greg just wants to sleep again...
A/N: Behind the cut (for spoilers).
A/N: Totally the fault of Greg for saying he isn't sleeping and Nick for FONDLING HIS TIE WTF??
Everyone has a defining moment. For Catherine, it was the first time she held her daughter, her very own screaming pink bundle of skin. For Sara, it was a long-distance phone call and a flight to Las Vegas.
For Greg, it was a rock, and the heavy press of the accelerator. Broken glass. Fists and nails and torn hair.
For Greg, it never ended. His face was still swollen and he was slow to roll out of bed in the morning, stiff and awkward. For Greg, it was the pain killers he swallowed dry, trying to blur the edges.
Nick watches him from the corner of his eye. Nick always watches. And Greg knows that he's slipping, that Grissom wants him back - and that he isn't ready, yet.
He tries to sleep - all the time, he tries. Greg spends most of his time in bed these days, just in case he finally succumbs to the exhaustion. But he never does.
That's where he is when Nick shows up with take-out and a Texan smile. Greg answers the door in his day-old wrinkled clothes, but Nick doesn't bat an eye, just sidles in, finds the plates and forks, and tells Greg about work.
Greg doesn't so much eat as stir the chow mein into the fried rice, and Nick notices. Nick always notices.
He falls silent, watchful, and Greg doesn't meet his eyes, doesn't even look up. He is focused on his wontons.
"Were you sleeping when I got here?" Nick asks, and Greg shrugs. Admitting that he wasn't would be like baring his underbelly - a weakness he can't afford.
Nick slowly wipes his mouth, ponders the slope of Greg's hunched back.
"Sometimes," he confesses, "when I wake up, and the room is dark and quiet, and all I can hear is my breathing? I think I'm in that box - that I never got out."
Greg lifts his head, sees the ghosts in Nick's shadowed face.
"Part of me never did, I guess," Nick continues. "It's in the evidence room on a tape recorder. It's in those ants. Part of me is in that dirt. In that fucking glow stick." He swallows audibly, throat working around the words. "In that one bullet."
Palpable. Bare soul scraping against Nick's teeth.
"If that's how you're feeling, Greg, you need to talk about it. It doesn't have to be me, but it has to be someone."
Greg's lips are dry, numb, and his voice chokes out. He doesn't recognize it.
"My foot felt so heavy on the gas, like lead. Like dead weight. And that kid, when he hit the car -"
He has to stop because he can hear it, now, the echo that's been keeping him awake. The ghost that's been wandering in the dark.
"I watched him die, Nick. In the hospital." Then, so quiet: "I killed him."
Nick's chair scrapes across the floor and then he's hovering next to Greg, hand warm on the back of his neck. His face presses close, earnest.
"You put yourself in danger to save one man's life. That's more than anyone should ask of you, and you did it freely. That kid," and here Nick pounds the table, "should have fucking walked away! But he turned on you, and you reacted. That's it. A reaction, Greg. Not pre-meditation, not murder."
Both hands are on his face now, turning him, making him see. "You have to stop doing this to yourself."
Nick looks so desperate, and Greg knows this isn't entirely about him - it's about Nick, too, about surviving the horrors of this job and coming out of it with as real a smile as you can muster.
"I don't know how," Greg admits.
Nick gives him a wry grin.
"I'll show you."
----
Greg sleeps now, a few hours every night. When he wakes, it's always to the screech of tires and the slap of a body against metal, but he's learned not to thrash. He's learned how to cope.
When the inquest is over, Greg thinks he'll finally be able to sleep through the night.
There's a rustle of bedclothes and he tries to breathe deeper, slower, to feign sleep. Nick mouths his shoulder in a sloppy kiss before slinging an arm around him.
When the inquest is over, Greg thinks he'll finally be able to wake up with Nick.
ILU. SO I WRITE FIC.
Title: When The Ghosts Wander
Rating: PG15 for nekkidness, inappropriate drug use, and slash.
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Spoilers: Up to and including 'Post Mortem' (Nov. 9)
Summary: Greg just wants to sleep again...
A/N: Behind the cut (for spoilers).
A/N: Totally the fault of Greg for saying he isn't sleeping and Nick for FONDLING HIS TIE WTF??
Everyone has a defining moment. For Catherine, it was the first time she held her daughter, her very own screaming pink bundle of skin. For Sara, it was a long-distance phone call and a flight to Las Vegas.
For Greg, it was a rock, and the heavy press of the accelerator. Broken glass. Fists and nails and torn hair.
For Greg, it never ended. His face was still swollen and he was slow to roll out of bed in the morning, stiff and awkward. For Greg, it was the pain killers he swallowed dry, trying to blur the edges.
Nick watches him from the corner of his eye. Nick always watches. And Greg knows that he's slipping, that Grissom wants him back - and that he isn't ready, yet.
He tries to sleep - all the time, he tries. Greg spends most of his time in bed these days, just in case he finally succumbs to the exhaustion. But he never does.
That's where he is when Nick shows up with take-out and a Texan smile. Greg answers the door in his day-old wrinkled clothes, but Nick doesn't bat an eye, just sidles in, finds the plates and forks, and tells Greg about work.
Greg doesn't so much eat as stir the chow mein into the fried rice, and Nick notices. Nick always notices.
He falls silent, watchful, and Greg doesn't meet his eyes, doesn't even look up. He is focused on his wontons.
"Were you sleeping when I got here?" Nick asks, and Greg shrugs. Admitting that he wasn't would be like baring his underbelly - a weakness he can't afford.
Nick slowly wipes his mouth, ponders the slope of Greg's hunched back.
"Sometimes," he confesses, "when I wake up, and the room is dark and quiet, and all I can hear is my breathing? I think I'm in that box - that I never got out."
Greg lifts his head, sees the ghosts in Nick's shadowed face.
"Part of me never did, I guess," Nick continues. "It's in the evidence room on a tape recorder. It's in those ants. Part of me is in that dirt. In that fucking glow stick." He swallows audibly, throat working around the words. "In that one bullet."
Palpable. Bare soul scraping against Nick's teeth.
"If that's how you're feeling, Greg, you need to talk about it. It doesn't have to be me, but it has to be someone."
Greg's lips are dry, numb, and his voice chokes out. He doesn't recognize it.
"My foot felt so heavy on the gas, like lead. Like dead weight. And that kid, when he hit the car -"
He has to stop because he can hear it, now, the echo that's been keeping him awake. The ghost that's been wandering in the dark.
"I watched him die, Nick. In the hospital." Then, so quiet: "I killed him."
Nick's chair scrapes across the floor and then he's hovering next to Greg, hand warm on the back of his neck. His face presses close, earnest.
"You put yourself in danger to save one man's life. That's more than anyone should ask of you, and you did it freely. That kid," and here Nick pounds the table, "should have fucking walked away! But he turned on you, and you reacted. That's it. A reaction, Greg. Not pre-meditation, not murder."
Both hands are on his face now, turning him, making him see. "You have to stop doing this to yourself."
Nick looks so desperate, and Greg knows this isn't entirely about him - it's about Nick, too, about surviving the horrors of this job and coming out of it with as real a smile as you can muster.
"I don't know how," Greg admits.
Nick gives him a wry grin.
"I'll show you."
----
Greg sleeps now, a few hours every night. When he wakes, it's always to the screech of tires and the slap of a body against metal, but he's learned not to thrash. He's learned how to cope.
When the inquest is over, Greg thinks he'll finally be able to sleep through the night.
There's a rustle of bedclothes and he tries to breathe deeper, slower, to feign sleep. Nick mouths his shoulder in a sloppy kiss before slinging an arm around him.
When the inquest is over, Greg thinks he'll finally be able to wake up with Nick.