CSI fic, in honor of next week's episode
This was hastily written and not beta'd, but I thought I'd share it anyway. And before anyone says it, I know Grissom isn't psychic, but this was just too fun a snippet for me to pass up. Sorry. :-)
IN THE DARK
by izhilzha
~~~~~
Gil Grissom woke sharply. The cool dark of night met his senses. Every shadow and edge of light was normal, for his own bedroom. Quiet. Nothing at all unusual. But behind his eyes, images still clung.
Hands pounding upward. Harder. Bruising.
He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Took another breath.
A computer screen. Video feed, glowing eerie night-vision green.
Grissom blinked. He would move, get up, away from this
mouth open, screaming, shouting
dream. Slowly Gil sat up, pushing back the blanket to let in the desert’s night air. Waited for his eyes adjust to the dark, to reality. He pushed his feet over the edge of the bed, stood, and walked to the window. Pushing back a corner of the blind, he looked out on his lit city.
And on a cacophony of voices, calling names that he knew; a confusion of faces, wide-eyed, dumbstruck, closed off.
He rubbed his eyes impatiently. Enough was enough.
Cath, her gun raised-Greg, pale and shocky after the explosion--Sara, white shard of pottery pressing death against her throat-Nick, staring terrified down the barrel of a pistol-
“Which one?” Grissom regretted the indulgence the moment the words left his mouth. Who was he asking? There was no one in his apartment. No one to hear him.
Besides, it didn’t take a psychologist (or a psychic, his traitorous backbrain whispered) to deduce that the attack on Sara a mere couple of weeks before might cause her supervisor to have anxiety dreams.
Grissom went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and then went back to bed.
~~~~~
IN THE DARK
by izhilzha
~~~~~
Gil Grissom woke sharply. The cool dark of night met his senses. Every shadow and edge of light was normal, for his own bedroom. Quiet. Nothing at all unusual. But behind his eyes, images still clung.
Hands pounding upward. Harder. Bruising.
He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Took another breath.
A computer screen. Video feed, glowing eerie night-vision green.
Grissom blinked. He would move, get up, away from this
mouth open, screaming, shouting
dream. Slowly Gil sat up, pushing back the blanket to let in the desert’s night air. Waited for his eyes adjust to the dark, to reality. He pushed his feet over the edge of the bed, stood, and walked to the window. Pushing back a corner of the blind, he looked out on his lit city.
And on a cacophony of voices, calling names that he knew; a confusion of faces, wide-eyed, dumbstruck, closed off.
He rubbed his eyes impatiently. Enough was enough.
Cath, her gun raised-Greg, pale and shocky after the explosion--Sara, white shard of pottery pressing death against her throat-Nick, staring terrified down the barrel of a pistol-
“Which one?” Grissom regretted the indulgence the moment the words left his mouth. Who was he asking? There was no one in his apartment. No one to hear him.
Besides, it didn’t take a psychologist (or a psychic, his traitorous backbrain whispered) to deduce that the attack on Sara a mere couple of weeks before might cause her supervisor to have anxiety dreams.
Grissom went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and then went back to bed.
~~~~~