(no subject)
WHO: csi_nick_stokes
WHEN: Christmas Eve
WHERE: Greg's Apartment.
As far as the cookbook was concerned, roast beef was not supposed to look like that. Or smell like that. Or feel like that. Or be smoking like that.
Greg swore under his breath, covering his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as he coughed and tried not to inhale the smell of too-charred meat. He ran to every window in his apartment, opening them wide and breathing in the crisp Las Vegas night air, which smelt extra nice and wintry somehow, maybe due to the fact that it was Christmas Eve.
The rest of Greg's apartment, however, didn't smell like Christmas at all, rather, it still smelt like burning cow flesh. Now there was a mood killer if Greg ever saw one, and frustrated, he sank down onto his couch and buried his face in a pillow.
The truth was, he hadn't been in the greatest of moods all day. Ever since he had gotten back from Atlanta, Greg had been mentally wrestling with his guilt over what happened with Grissom, and so he ended up over-compensating everywhere else, not that that had worked out greatly either. He had went to buy a tree, but all that was left were the depressing half-dead ones, he had attempted to decorate it but instead had cut his foot twice by stepping on broken glass ornaments, and well, his culinary genius was proving to be lacking as well.
Swearing again, Greg walked up and limped on his bandaged foot back into the kitchen. Maybe if he covered the roast beef with some vegetables no one would notice...