life isn't always...
Title: Attack of the Rebel Virus
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: PG/PG-13 for language?
Summary: David Hodges is ill. What is a lab to do?
Note: Slight craziness to follow when having fun with the characters. Crack!fic-cy almost...
---
David Hodges is ill. As ill as a fish out of water; or like a seafish in a fresh-water pond. Ill, and not above puking on anything that is within puking distance. The fact that it is Greg he pukes on, doesn't really mean anything; although there is an incentive to be had.
"Man, gross." Greg tells him. And this particular line comes from a person who handles blood, gore, and decomp as a living.
"I thought you're used to it," he answers back, before breaking into a fit of coughs and sneezes. Hodges hates this. He went in to work healthy and walks out sick?
"Not from you, I'm not," Greg huffs. And Greg pulls out a set of clothes out of the locker and goes about changing right there. And Hodges tries to look away. He really does try to look away, but eyes are fickle things.
"You can look, you know," Greg tells him and he snorts. Come on! As if?! But, eyes really are fickle things, aren't they? And Hodges finds himself looking at Greg's back and the map of skin. "Weird huh?" Greg asks and instead of answering coherently, Hodges lets out another series of coughs.
"Man, you have it bad, haven't you? Hacking half a lung out like that." Greg dumps his soiled clothes in a plastic bag and grimaces. "You owe me laundry money, you know that, don't you?"
"Yeah, whatever." Hodges doesn't like the way the room does a jiggy around him and the taste of shoe in his mouth. He closes his eyes and rides another wave of dizziness, and the next thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Greg -- who is kneeling in front of him. Head level to his crotch. And Hodges praises himself for not bolting up and kicking Greg into the wall. Instead, he proudly settles with "What the fuck are you doing, Sanders?" which comes out sounding like a goat with a severe case of constipation.
"Hold still," Greg tells him. "I'm trying to clean up down here. God! Your puke stinks..."
And Hodges has no answer to that, but instead watches the flow of personnel outside the locker room and notices Nick walking towards them. The posterboy of the Crime Lab himself. Fuckin' great.
"Yo, Greg. Car's parked out front."
"Jus' a sec," Greg replies, as he bags soiled tissues and his latex gloves and throws it into the bin. "Come on." And David fully expects Greg to skip over to Nick to skip together into the sunset and will finally leave him to wallow in his illness. But he feels arms underneath his armpits and hauling him up onto his feet. "You're not exactly the lightest person in the whole world, are ya?"
Fuck you, he wants to tell them, but the abrupt rise sends the room spinning again and he swings to one side.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
"Home. Your home. We volunteered. Either this, or the triple DB down at the Strip," Greg answers.
He hobbles towards the car, coughs, and pukes all over Nick's paintwork.
---
David Hodges is ill. That much he knows as he wakes up with an icepick in his head. Or what feels like an icepick through his brain. The smell of coffee makes him want to puke, but the growl in his stomach tells him that there's nothing left for him to throw up. There's a pill, a glass of water, and plain brown bread on the nightstand and he stares at it for the longest of time.
"Eat them," a voice from his doorway. "When you're done staring at them." Nick leans against the jamb, bedhair and rumpled shirt. There's a nice bruise developing just above the neckline.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, really," Greg appears next to Nick, bedhair and rumpled shirt, and an identical bruise just above the neckline. "What a comfortable couch you have out there," Greg tells him. "Relax, we're careful not to leave any DNA on it."
David wants to make threats but the tickle in his throat wins out. Greg crosses the space between the door and the bed and makes soothing circles on his back as he coughs. A glass of water appears in his line of sight and he grabs it with such vehemence, half the water ends up on Greg's shirt.
"What are you doing here?" David asks, voice raspy and with a mouth that tastes like what a decomp must taste like. Must smell like one too, when he sees Greg cringe.
"Making sure that you survive the night," Greg answers, extracting the empty glass from his fingers and pushing him back into bed.
"Making sure that you'll be the first one on the scene if I die, you mean?"
"That too. But we're playing the 'survival' card a bit more," Greg waves the empty glass and Nick walks over to take it from him. "Griss is worried that nobody'll be around to take care of you, seeing that you live alone an' all."
"And you guys draw the short straw?" Because he doesn't want people to go Samaritan on him. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
"We get the rest of the night off, if that makes you feel any better," Greg offers. "Plus, we get to dig around your house." Which, one might add, is as sparse as the Death Valley.
"Greg, let him go back to sleep." Nick comes back with a refill and places it carefully on the table.
"Right," Greg pulls the sheets on top of him and steps back. "We need to go now. Meds in the kitchen, numbers on the fridge. Call us, or call the lab, or whatever."
"Fine," David gruffs and turns to his side and puts his back towards them.
"We'll uh..." Nick starts. "We'll show ourselves out."
David wants to tell them that he appreciates the gesture, but is sure that they don't expect him to, so he keeps quiet. Instead he listens to their footsteps and their voices and waits for the front door to close and leave him to his own again.
---
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: PG/PG-13 for language?
Summary: David Hodges is ill. What is a lab to do?
Note: Slight craziness to follow when having fun with the characters. Crack!fic-cy almost...
---
David Hodges is ill. As ill as a fish out of water; or like a seafish in a fresh-water pond. Ill, and not above puking on anything that is within puking distance. The fact that it is Greg he pukes on, doesn't really mean anything; although there is an incentive to be had.
"Man, gross." Greg tells him. And this particular line comes from a person who handles blood, gore, and decomp as a living.
"I thought you're used to it," he answers back, before breaking into a fit of coughs and sneezes. Hodges hates this. He went in to work healthy and walks out sick?
"Not from you, I'm not," Greg huffs. And Greg pulls out a set of clothes out of the locker and goes about changing right there. And Hodges tries to look away. He really does try to look away, but eyes are fickle things.
"You can look, you know," Greg tells him and he snorts. Come on! As if?! But, eyes really are fickle things, aren't they? And Hodges finds himself looking at Greg's back and the map of skin. "Weird huh?" Greg asks and instead of answering coherently, Hodges lets out another series of coughs.
"Man, you have it bad, haven't you? Hacking half a lung out like that." Greg dumps his soiled clothes in a plastic bag and grimaces. "You owe me laundry money, you know that, don't you?"
"Yeah, whatever." Hodges doesn't like the way the room does a jiggy around him and the taste of shoe in his mouth. He closes his eyes and rides another wave of dizziness, and the next thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Greg -- who is kneeling in front of him. Head level to his crotch. And Hodges praises himself for not bolting up and kicking Greg into the wall. Instead, he proudly settles with "What the fuck are you doing, Sanders?" which comes out sounding like a goat with a severe case of constipation.
"Hold still," Greg tells him. "I'm trying to clean up down here. God! Your puke stinks..."
And Hodges has no answer to that, but instead watches the flow of personnel outside the locker room and notices Nick walking towards them. The posterboy of the Crime Lab himself. Fuckin' great.
"Yo, Greg. Car's parked out front."
"Jus' a sec," Greg replies, as he bags soiled tissues and his latex gloves and throws it into the bin. "Come on." And David fully expects Greg to skip over to Nick to skip together into the sunset and will finally leave him to wallow in his illness. But he feels arms underneath his armpits and hauling him up onto his feet. "You're not exactly the lightest person in the whole world, are ya?"
Fuck you, he wants to tell them, but the abrupt rise sends the room spinning again and he swings to one side.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
"Home. Your home. We volunteered. Either this, or the triple DB down at the Strip," Greg answers.
He hobbles towards the car, coughs, and pukes all over Nick's paintwork.
---
David Hodges is ill. That much he knows as he wakes up with an icepick in his head. Or what feels like an icepick through his brain. The smell of coffee makes him want to puke, but the growl in his stomach tells him that there's nothing left for him to throw up. There's a pill, a glass of water, and plain brown bread on the nightstand and he stares at it for the longest of time.
"Eat them," a voice from his doorway. "When you're done staring at them." Nick leans against the jamb, bedhair and rumpled shirt. There's a nice bruise developing just above the neckline.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, really," Greg appears next to Nick, bedhair and rumpled shirt, and an identical bruise just above the neckline. "What a comfortable couch you have out there," Greg tells him. "Relax, we're careful not to leave any DNA on it."
David wants to make threats but the tickle in his throat wins out. Greg crosses the space between the door and the bed and makes soothing circles on his back as he coughs. A glass of water appears in his line of sight and he grabs it with such vehemence, half the water ends up on Greg's shirt.
"What are you doing here?" David asks, voice raspy and with a mouth that tastes like what a decomp must taste like. Must smell like one too, when he sees Greg cringe.
"Making sure that you survive the night," Greg answers, extracting the empty glass from his fingers and pushing him back into bed.
"Making sure that you'll be the first one on the scene if I die, you mean?"
"That too. But we're playing the 'survival' card a bit more," Greg waves the empty glass and Nick walks over to take it from him. "Griss is worried that nobody'll be around to take care of you, seeing that you live alone an' all."
"And you guys draw the short straw?" Because he doesn't want people to go Samaritan on him. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
"We get the rest of the night off, if that makes you feel any better," Greg offers. "Plus, we get to dig around your house." Which, one might add, is as sparse as the Death Valley.
"Greg, let him go back to sleep." Nick comes back with a refill and places it carefully on the table.
"Right," Greg pulls the sheets on top of him and steps back. "We need to go now. Meds in the kitchen, numbers on the fridge. Call us, or call the lab, or whatever."
"Fine," David gruffs and turns to his side and puts his back towards them.
"We'll uh..." Nick starts. "We'll show ourselves out."
David wants to tell them that he appreciates the gesture, but is sure that they don't expect him to, so he keeps quiet. Instead he listens to their footsteps and their voices and waits for the front door to close and leave him to his own again.
---