What it is.
Title: What it is.
Author: PaintedRainbow
Rating: G
Pairing: Friendship David/Greg, could be read as more than..
Summary: A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Proverb 17:17 (WEB.)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Empty Eyes.
Warnings: Unbetaed. Written by someone who hopes this'll prompt the real authors in this community to show her how it's really done.
It’s half past nine and there isn’t anybody left. Breakfast, sleep and the school run will always trump sitting and coaxing a self-piteous ramble out of a man on the biggest sugar-rush come-down of his life. He tries to stare into space but space won’t let him make an exhibition of it and instead he is left to sift through each and every one of his thoughts, each as depressing as its predecessor. He blames everything on his lack of mobility; he’s tired, his muscles are resting, he’s not in any condition to drive just yet. His mind forms excuses and rebuttals in the cracks between blanket thoughts of maybes; I’m just waiting for someone, I’m trying to decide where to go to breakfast, what the Hell does it have to do with you? He wishes there was somebody in the World that he’d be brave enough to spit the last at; someone he’d have the guts to vent at and release all the bile that has been building in his throat since seventeen minutes past three.
“Hi.”
He falters slightly, pretending to shake himself out of the comfortable oblivion he’s been trying desperately to lose himself in. Blue eyes and dark hair and shoulders hunched like Atlas. There isn’t any evidence of confusion or questions; there is no snide smirk or the usual venom-filled bite of sarcasm. There is simply David; tired and sad with hair still wet from the locker-room showers and clothes still smelling of chemicals and sweat. Every other day, this David would merit a smile, a chirpy greeting and a mock double-take at the lack of smarm. On special days, he’d receive a forehead creased with concern, a tentative interrogation and a coffee that he didn’t pay for. Today, he receives a dull;
“They bailed me out.”
Something in the back of his mind tells him that he should feel closure, realisation, now that the words have become less ephemeral. Strangely, it’s the part of his mind that speaks in Grissom’s voice, and he feels the bile rise ever higher. If this was any-other-day David, if this wasn’t his David, he would have to explain. He’d have to form more words, fake nonchalance or storm out just for drama’s sake.
“How much?”
Sara would say it with eagerness, Warrick and Catherine with interest, and Nick without wanting to know. This David says it with the same dull, emotionless tone he employs whenever their moods synchronise. This David sits opposite and performs a caricature of his efforts for oblivion. The figure causes no start or eyebrow raise, no exclamation or eye roll, just a curtain-rise, an abandonment of pretence and an intense stare.
“I had to tell someone their daughter was dead.”
"You win."
He always seemed to.
It’s the number one romantic comedy cliché. Well... next to the profession of love in a downpour, anyway. Yin meets Yang and sparks fly; they hate each other, they hate each other, they love each other... What’s the difference? Hollywood loves love. It loves love, it loves chemistry and sparks and lust. It sells it like it sells itself; shamelessly and seductively. But this isn’t Hollywood. This isn’t Los Angeles or California or Beverley Hills or even New York. Hell, this is barely America. This is another early morning, another polystyrene cupful of sludge, another heavy silence, another ride home and another realisation that when all is said and done, This David is all he exists for.
It isn’t love; it’s barely lust. It’s not seduction or chemistry. It’s addiction; it’s hating himself before and hating himself after but only ever feeling alive when it’s happening. It’s hurt and it’s comfort, it’s needing and being needed. It’s conversations made up of hesitations and uncomfortable pauses, heavy statements and lack of effort. Neither needs to reassure the other that they’re okay, that life will go on and everything will be candyfloss and rainbows.
It’s smiling happily at colleagues the next day, bitching about any-other-day David’s attitude and exuding hatred from every pore even if his hand is still spread wide in remembrance of this David’s fingers between his.
Author: PaintedRainbow
Rating: G
Pairing: Friendship David/Greg, could be read as more than..
Summary: A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Proverb 17:17 (WEB.)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Empty Eyes.
Warnings: Unbetaed. Written by someone who hopes this'll prompt the real authors in this community to show her how it's really done.
It’s half past nine and there isn’t anybody left. Breakfast, sleep and the school run will always trump sitting and coaxing a self-piteous ramble out of a man on the biggest sugar-rush come-down of his life. He tries to stare into space but space won’t let him make an exhibition of it and instead he is left to sift through each and every one of his thoughts, each as depressing as its predecessor. He blames everything on his lack of mobility; he’s tired, his muscles are resting, he’s not in any condition to drive just yet. His mind forms excuses and rebuttals in the cracks between blanket thoughts of maybes; I’m just waiting for someone, I’m trying to decide where to go to breakfast, what the Hell does it have to do with you? He wishes there was somebody in the World that he’d be brave enough to spit the last at; someone he’d have the guts to vent at and release all the bile that has been building in his throat since seventeen minutes past three.
“Hi.”
He falters slightly, pretending to shake himself out of the comfortable oblivion he’s been trying desperately to lose himself in. Blue eyes and dark hair and shoulders hunched like Atlas. There isn’t any evidence of confusion or questions; there is no snide smirk or the usual venom-filled bite of sarcasm. There is simply David; tired and sad with hair still wet from the locker-room showers and clothes still smelling of chemicals and sweat. Every other day, this David would merit a smile, a chirpy greeting and a mock double-take at the lack of smarm. On special days, he’d receive a forehead creased with concern, a tentative interrogation and a coffee that he didn’t pay for. Today, he receives a dull;
“They bailed me out.”
Something in the back of his mind tells him that he should feel closure, realisation, now that the words have become less ephemeral. Strangely, it’s the part of his mind that speaks in Grissom’s voice, and he feels the bile rise ever higher. If this was any-other-day David, if this wasn’t his David, he would have to explain. He’d have to form more words, fake nonchalance or storm out just for drama’s sake.
“How much?”
Sara would say it with eagerness, Warrick and Catherine with interest, and Nick without wanting to know. This David says it with the same dull, emotionless tone he employs whenever their moods synchronise. This David sits opposite and performs a caricature of his efforts for oblivion. The figure causes no start or eyebrow raise, no exclamation or eye roll, just a curtain-rise, an abandonment of pretence and an intense stare.
“I had to tell someone their daughter was dead.”
"You win."
He always seemed to.
It’s the number one romantic comedy cliché. Well... next to the profession of love in a downpour, anyway. Yin meets Yang and sparks fly; they hate each other, they hate each other, they love each other... What’s the difference? Hollywood loves love. It loves love, it loves chemistry and sparks and lust. It sells it like it sells itself; shamelessly and seductively. But this isn’t Hollywood. This isn’t Los Angeles or California or Beverley Hills or even New York. Hell, this is barely America. This is another early morning, another polystyrene cupful of sludge, another heavy silence, another ride home and another realisation that when all is said and done, This David is all he exists for.
It isn’t love; it’s barely lust. It’s not seduction or chemistry. It’s addiction; it’s hating himself before and hating himself after but only ever feeling alive when it’s happening. It’s hurt and it’s comfort, it’s needing and being needed. It’s conversations made up of hesitations and uncomfortable pauses, heavy statements and lack of effort. Neither needs to reassure the other that they’re okay, that life will go on and everything will be candyfloss and rainbows.
It’s smiling happily at colleagues the next day, bitching about any-other-day David’s attitude and exuding hatred from every pore even if his hand is still spread wide in remembrance of this David’s fingers between his.