New Here
Hi
New here, bringing fic and my anxieties with me.
Been living the the Memories Section of Greg/Gil, thought I would post this. Caevat Lector, This is my first CSI kinda slash piece. It's Greg centric but Gil's the object of his affections. Mods, if this is inappropriate I apologize and feel free to delete
Title: Nightswimming
Author: Jlm121
Pairing:Gil/Greg (Kind of)
Summary: It's not stalking really
Nightswimming
There is a fine line between wanting and stalking. Greg’s been fairly conscious about the stalking thing since Nigel Crane, but he’s never lived in an attic or followed anyone with a video camera. His type of stalking had always been the more pathetic love lorn kind. Slow drive bys of houses at night with morose REM or Depeche Mode playing at low volume. He’d been sixteen, when he first did the stalking thing. Natalie had been bright eyes and vivacious energy and had absolutely no idea he existed.
He was chess club and weird hair. Part geek part punk hanging with the math kids in the morning and getting stoned with the skaters in the afternoon. She was a cheerleader, one of those people who crossed the quad in slow motion like the world was their own teen movie, and he was just background. He worshiped her, with his eyes, badly written poetry that never escaped his notebook, and mix tapes filled with punk love songs that he never had the courage to put anywhere she might find them.
He had graduated high school at 17, Natalie was USC and he was Berkeley bound. Obsession waned and then faded. He barely remembered her until he cleaned out his room and found the notebooks. His wants had changed. Dorm rooms and communal showers had given him appreciation for other forms. Smart Professors with glasses and intense gazes pining for youthful enthusiasm had given him new perceptions and experiences. He wanted and was wanted in return, with a few exceptions. The exceptions stuck with him. Walks taken in exclusive neighborhoods watching bright windows that seemed to shun him. Desire blunted and refuted, sometimes with soft words.
Las Vegas had been Candy Land and Oz wrapped in pornography. Men and women, fetishes, clubs, exotic dancers, and he partaken again and again. He’d been tied up, had tied up, covered in latex, hooded, whipped, and covered in whip cream. Indulgences and hedonism served with almost a fast food like efficiency. He’d burned himself out quickly on the scenes, the surrealness of it all wearing him down. The reality of the lab and his coworkers giving him stability. He wasn’t surprised that he crushed on varying members of the team. First had been Catherine, finding out she’d been a dancer had lead to fantasy after fantasy of her pole dancing in the lab. Warrick and Nick had been next, always a team in his mind, book ending him. Then Sara, he wanted to save Sara, to comfort her and take the darkness out of her eyes, but she wanted a different white knight.
None of that really explained why he was sitting in the sunlight on a quiet street in front of a condo.
He could get up and walk to the door and knock. He could concoct a problem that would gain him entrance. He could sit in what he was sure was a bright kitchen and drink offered tea or coffee and just listen to whatever Grissom might feel like speaking about. He could leave his clothes still smelling like the air in the condo. It might be enough to get him through the night without having to walk down to his office, or wait to say or do something stupid that might get him attention.
“Greg?”
He hadn’t realized that the door had opened and Grissom had seen him sitting on the sidewalk.
“Hey boss.”
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You can ask”.
“Greg, I’m asking.”
“Well.” He had to dig deep down into the reserve of excuses he’d created over his entire life for just this kind of situation. He examined them carefully passing some over quickly but apparently not quickly enough.
“Greg.” Grissom’s tone was tired.
“You know any REM songs?”
New here, bringing fic and my anxieties with me.
Been living the the Memories Section of Greg/Gil, thought I would post this. Caevat Lector, This is my first CSI kinda slash piece. It's Greg centric but Gil's the object of his affections. Mods, if this is inappropriate I apologize and feel free to delete
Title: Nightswimming
Author: Jlm121
Pairing:Gil/Greg (Kind of)
Summary: It's not stalking really
Nightswimming
There is a fine line between wanting and stalking. Greg’s been fairly conscious about the stalking thing since Nigel Crane, but he’s never lived in an attic or followed anyone with a video camera. His type of stalking had always been the more pathetic love lorn kind. Slow drive bys of houses at night with morose REM or Depeche Mode playing at low volume. He’d been sixteen, when he first did the stalking thing. Natalie had been bright eyes and vivacious energy and had absolutely no idea he existed.
He was chess club and weird hair. Part geek part punk hanging with the math kids in the morning and getting stoned with the skaters in the afternoon. She was a cheerleader, one of those people who crossed the quad in slow motion like the world was their own teen movie, and he was just background. He worshiped her, with his eyes, badly written poetry that never escaped his notebook, and mix tapes filled with punk love songs that he never had the courage to put anywhere she might find them.
He had graduated high school at 17, Natalie was USC and he was Berkeley bound. Obsession waned and then faded. He barely remembered her until he cleaned out his room and found the notebooks. His wants had changed. Dorm rooms and communal showers had given him appreciation for other forms. Smart Professors with glasses and intense gazes pining for youthful enthusiasm had given him new perceptions and experiences. He wanted and was wanted in return, with a few exceptions. The exceptions stuck with him. Walks taken in exclusive neighborhoods watching bright windows that seemed to shun him. Desire blunted and refuted, sometimes with soft words.
Las Vegas had been Candy Land and Oz wrapped in pornography. Men and women, fetishes, clubs, exotic dancers, and he partaken again and again. He’d been tied up, had tied up, covered in latex, hooded, whipped, and covered in whip cream. Indulgences and hedonism served with almost a fast food like efficiency. He’d burned himself out quickly on the scenes, the surrealness of it all wearing him down. The reality of the lab and his coworkers giving him stability. He wasn’t surprised that he crushed on varying members of the team. First had been Catherine, finding out she’d been a dancer had lead to fantasy after fantasy of her pole dancing in the lab. Warrick and Nick had been next, always a team in his mind, book ending him. Then Sara, he wanted to save Sara, to comfort her and take the darkness out of her eyes, but she wanted a different white knight.
None of that really explained why he was sitting in the sunlight on a quiet street in front of a condo.
He could get up and walk to the door and knock. He could concoct a problem that would gain him entrance. He could sit in what he was sure was a bright kitchen and drink offered tea or coffee and just listen to whatever Grissom might feel like speaking about. He could leave his clothes still smelling like the air in the condo. It might be enough to get him through the night without having to walk down to his office, or wait to say or do something stupid that might get him attention.
“Greg?”
He hadn’t realized that the door had opened and Grissom had seen him sitting on the sidewalk.
“Hey boss.”
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You can ask”.
“Greg, I’m asking.”
“Well.” He had to dig deep down into the reserve of excuses he’d created over his entire life for just this kind of situation. He examined them carefully passing some over quickly but apparently not quickly enough.
“Greg.” Grissom’s tone was tired.
“You know any REM songs?”