.
Title: Dwell on Desolate Land
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: NC-17ish maybe.
Summary: What comes after.
Warning: This follows on roughly after The Other End of the Rainbow (which is also rated NC-17). It's quite rough round the edges and rather weird. It's angsty in a way, but probably incomprehensible in most parts, because I was in a weird mood when writing it. I hope this works. The poem was not written by me, but by this lady whom I met when I was hospitalized. Her husband's terminally ill and she wrote the poem by his bedside. It's intended to be an eulogy, and as an exercise of some sort of an acceptance that he'd pass away soon, I guess.
(Warnings for: metions of non character death and a mention of rough intercourse)
I don't know what to expect in terms of reaction to this fic. I guess I should prep my getaway car before the onslaught of rotten tomatoes?
They ride down the road in silence, Greg on the steering wheel and Nick watching the night lights drift by. Nick watches the road for just a second longer, all the while listening to Greg's measured breathing. They are driving away from Las Vegas, just... away. To nowhere and everywhere, it's anyone's guess. Nick isn't even sure if Greg knows where he's driving towards. Nick tries to convince himself that this is not an act of cowardice. He tries to tell himself that this is not something that they do to run away from the problem. What problem? Nick muses. He likes to think that they are going on a soul-searching trip, to a place uncomplicated by strangers, lights, and confusion.
It is a dead moon night, and a night where the lights of the city outshone the stars above. He screws his eyelids even tighter until star bursts into his vision. He clenches his hands until he feels moons rising on the planes of his palms. He relishes the stars in his vision and the moons in his hands, and for a while he feels like he can will his worries away. They are going away, temporarily.
Driving away from the pulsating, throbbing, loud, wide-eyed city.
The car pitches sharply from side to side. Nick hears Greg releases a strangled sob as the steadied itself again. "Did I hurt you?" Nick whispers softly, unwilling to break the earthly silence that hangs between them, coalescing like gelationous poison. He doesn't even know why he asks the question. He tells himself that the bruises at the back of Greg's neck isn't his fault, at least not the full extent of it. He tells himself that the scabs on Greg's back and stomach will eventually heal.
"Nothing that I didn't want," Greg answers. "How about you?" Greg brushes against his the heavy gauze wrapped around his knuckles.
"It's okay," Nick tells him, because Nick doesn't know what he can say. "I don't mind the pain so much."
The car pitches to the side once more and sputters to a halt. Greg's sigh is loud, cutting through the white noise that is collecting in his ears. There is a small shift from the driver's seat, a click as the door opens, a gust of wind from the outside, and Greg's voice barely registering in his brain. "I'm taking a walk," Greg tells him. Nick counts to ten and opens his eyes. There is an eerie calm as the slivers of headlight cuts across the endless gulf of black. He mentally traces Greg's silhouette moving away from him, swallowed by night.
---
They spoke to the children's parents a few hours ago -- hours that felt like years. The father sat on the chair, staring into space, tears running down those cheeks unchecked. There was a litany of disbelief being recited under his breath, a tribute to two dead children. The mother clung onto him, crying inconsolably, every tear a memory for each passing day. My tiny miracles, she said. My greatest treasures, she said. The whole floor of activity seemed to stop at that time, a deathly silence punctuated by sobs and whispers.
Then just as they stopped, the flurry of activity began in earnest once more. Investigators, detectives, witnesses, and convicts milled around them. The parents were inconsolable; they cried, prayed, and wished somebody would wake them up, clinging to each other because there could never be anyone else. Not for quite a long time. They sank into their own coccoon of misery, unheeding of everything around them. Unheeding of the bowed head of the perp who took their children away marched past them. Too miserable to notice, and neither Nick nor Greg could make a sound. They stood at a distance, arms held firmly by their side, trying very hard not to reach out across the small space between them and just touch.
---
Nick waits in the car until abject misery forces him to open his door and step out. Wind catches the hem of his shirt and grates against the skin of his face, and he inhales the scent of ozone and blinks dust out of his eyes.
"Greg?" he tentatively calls out. "Greg?!" He thinks he hears an echo, vibrating through the air. He thinks he hears the leaves whisper of distant planets and migrating birds. I'm going to go crazy, he thinks. He kicks the nearest wheel and wonders if it can feel pain. Wonders if it can absorb his frustration and absolve his inadequacy.
You can't do anything, Grissom told both him and Greg that morning, as they convened in Grissom's office with their written report, surrounded by dead bugs and facing Grissom's detached ambience. There is nothing you can do. Nothing they could do but write the report and talk to the parents. Nothing can bring the children back alive. Such is life, a priest said one day. Another case, another death, the same desperation. People live, and people die. Some are more unfortunate than others. And there's really nothing that he could have done -- not waking up the dead, not making things go away.
Don't get too attached, he was told years and years ago. Remember, cry, forget, move on. And everything should go like clockwork, unflinching against the trial of time. Until the batteries run out, or the pendulum stops swinging. Or being shattered into fucking pieces, every which way, Greg told him last night. Between the cries, the tears, the blood, the vomit. His thrust, scraping against Greg's skin. Him, wanting to hurt somebody and Greg was willing. Greg egging him on. Telling him that everything would be all right, once tears had been shed and blood had been split. Him telling Greg that it was probably the best for them.
Because they can hurt each other and still forgive. Better than hurting other people. Keep it between the two of them. Sometimes the best way to heal a pain is to inflict more pain. Break the unbroken, sever the cut. And Nick can feel that they are spiralling down into their own madness, into their own chaos.
Nick swears he can hear grasshoppers. He swears he can hear nightingales and owls. He swears he hears promises in the wind, and he tries to stop thinking.
"Greg!" he shouts, and... nothing. Just him and the car, in a field.
He waits, leaning against the hood of the car, watching the sky. He can trace the edges of the trees if he tries, or touch the wind.
Rustles and hesitant footsteps are preludes; Greg's silhouette against the car's headlight. Nick can smell the salt of Greg's tears as Greg leans against him, hair tickling under his chin, and arms curled around his shoulders. "Can we go home?" Greg asks. Greg's mouth breathes the words onto his throat and it vibrates against his collarbone.
"I'll drive," Nick offers.
"What should we do now?" Greg whispers as they drive towards home. They can see Las Vegas from a distance, like a jewel -- bright and beckoning in the middle of a desert night.
"I don't know," Nick answers, as they leave the darkness behind and drive towards light, like moths to a flame.
---
"Both of you," Grissom told them. "Take the week off."
"But..." Greg took a step forward.
"Our pending cases..." Nick added.
"Will be divided between the shifts. You don't have to worry about a thing," Grissom looked up from the report he was reading. "Are you seriously saying that you can function in any case after that?"
Grissom waved his hand in the air, a short side to side wave.
"We can," Greg spat between gritted teeth. "I'm sure..."
"The mirrors in the gents tell me differently," Grissom told them firmly. "They're coming out of your pay." They stood in the middle of the room and nodded almost simultaneously. What are we going to do, Nick wondered. A week of isolation. Where should they go? Where could they go? At home, they would only have each other, the cable, and the playstation. Hardly something to distract them away from the double homicide. Nick thought about crossing several state borders, putting a distance between themselves and painful memories. Nick wanted to pry the pictures from his brain, and throw them into the ocean. Dead children and crying parents. Parents aren't supposed to outlast their children, the old cliche, parents aren't supposed to bury their children. Not one, definitely not two.
"One more thing," Grissom called as Nick followed Greg out of the office. They stopped just beyond the threshold. "The funeral is in four days. The parents, they'd like you to..." Grissom shook his head. "Anyway. I have the details. Call me later in the week if you..."
"We'll call you," Nick cut in.
They'd lie awake at night, side-by-side, watching shadows play on their ceiling. They'd link their hands, grind their teeth and weather their sorrow in a quiet eulogy. They'd recite the names of their loved ones and pray for their safety. They'd let exhaustion claim them and sleep uneasily.
They'd wake up in the morning, and the sun will be beautiful.
---
The sun shines brightly, blue skies as far the eyes can see. There is a slight chill descending upon them from the ceilings, as Nick sits next to Greg in their black suits at the back of the church. There are photographs of smiling children. The girl smiled, eyes glinting joyfully and small hands waving at the camera. The boy grinned mischievously, kitted in muddied baseball shirts.
What does the sun know about us, the mother recites on the pew. About us, the ones who dwell on desolate land. The Pitmans, Nick remembered. My soul used to sing with pleasure, she half-sang under her breath, eyes as bright as the dews fading in the morning, each one dropping like clear streams, turning black as her mascara smeared down her cheeks. My soul used to sing with joy, she whispers, but forgets.
They follow the sombre procession from a distance, watch the sun glint against shiny, black coffins. The ground will welcome them, and shelter them from the storm. Laid to rest.
There is no rain today. Only sun.
---
Pairing: Nick/Greg (CSI)
Rating: NC-17ish maybe.
Summary: What comes after.
Warning: This follows on roughly after The Other End of the Rainbow (which is also rated NC-17). It's quite rough round the edges and rather weird. It's angsty in a way, but probably incomprehensible in most parts, because I was in a weird mood when writing it. I hope this works. The poem was not written by me, but by this lady whom I met when I was hospitalized. Her husband's terminally ill and she wrote the poem by his bedside. It's intended to be an eulogy, and as an exercise of some sort of an acceptance that he'd pass away soon, I guess.
(Warnings for: metions of non character death and a mention of rough intercourse)
I don't know what to expect in terms of reaction to this fic. I guess I should prep my getaway car before the onslaught of rotten tomatoes?
They ride down the road in silence, Greg on the steering wheel and Nick watching the night lights drift by. Nick watches the road for just a second longer, all the while listening to Greg's measured breathing. They are driving away from Las Vegas, just... away. To nowhere and everywhere, it's anyone's guess. Nick isn't even sure if Greg knows where he's driving towards. Nick tries to convince himself that this is not an act of cowardice. He tries to tell himself that this is not something that they do to run away from the problem. What problem? Nick muses. He likes to think that they are going on a soul-searching trip, to a place uncomplicated by strangers, lights, and confusion.
It is a dead moon night, and a night where the lights of the city outshone the stars above. He screws his eyelids even tighter until star bursts into his vision. He clenches his hands until he feels moons rising on the planes of his palms. He relishes the stars in his vision and the moons in his hands, and for a while he feels like he can will his worries away. They are going away, temporarily.
Driving away from the pulsating, throbbing, loud, wide-eyed city.
The car pitches sharply from side to side. Nick hears Greg releases a strangled sob as the steadied itself again. "Did I hurt you?" Nick whispers softly, unwilling to break the earthly silence that hangs between them, coalescing like gelationous poison. He doesn't even know why he asks the question. He tells himself that the bruises at the back of Greg's neck isn't his fault, at least not the full extent of it. He tells himself that the scabs on Greg's back and stomach will eventually heal.
"Nothing that I didn't want," Greg answers. "How about you?" Greg brushes against his the heavy gauze wrapped around his knuckles.
"It's okay," Nick tells him, because Nick doesn't know what he can say. "I don't mind the pain so much."
The car pitches to the side once more and sputters to a halt. Greg's sigh is loud, cutting through the white noise that is collecting in his ears. There is a small shift from the driver's seat, a click as the door opens, a gust of wind from the outside, and Greg's voice barely registering in his brain. "I'm taking a walk," Greg tells him. Nick counts to ten and opens his eyes. There is an eerie calm as the slivers of headlight cuts across the endless gulf of black. He mentally traces Greg's silhouette moving away from him, swallowed by night.
---
They spoke to the children's parents a few hours ago -- hours that felt like years. The father sat on the chair, staring into space, tears running down those cheeks unchecked. There was a litany of disbelief being recited under his breath, a tribute to two dead children. The mother clung onto him, crying inconsolably, every tear a memory for each passing day. My tiny miracles, she said. My greatest treasures, she said. The whole floor of activity seemed to stop at that time, a deathly silence punctuated by sobs and whispers.
Then just as they stopped, the flurry of activity began in earnest once more. Investigators, detectives, witnesses, and convicts milled around them. The parents were inconsolable; they cried, prayed, and wished somebody would wake them up, clinging to each other because there could never be anyone else. Not for quite a long time. They sank into their own coccoon of misery, unheeding of everything around them. Unheeding of the bowed head of the perp who took their children away marched past them. Too miserable to notice, and neither Nick nor Greg could make a sound. They stood at a distance, arms held firmly by their side, trying very hard not to reach out across the small space between them and just touch.
---
Nick waits in the car until abject misery forces him to open his door and step out. Wind catches the hem of his shirt and grates against the skin of his face, and he inhales the scent of ozone and blinks dust out of his eyes.
"Greg?" he tentatively calls out. "Greg?!" He thinks he hears an echo, vibrating through the air. He thinks he hears the leaves whisper of distant planets and migrating birds. I'm going to go crazy, he thinks. He kicks the nearest wheel and wonders if it can feel pain. Wonders if it can absorb his frustration and absolve his inadequacy.
You can't do anything, Grissom told both him and Greg that morning, as they convened in Grissom's office with their written report, surrounded by dead bugs and facing Grissom's detached ambience. There is nothing you can do. Nothing they could do but write the report and talk to the parents. Nothing can bring the children back alive. Such is life, a priest said one day. Another case, another death, the same desperation. People live, and people die. Some are more unfortunate than others. And there's really nothing that he could have done -- not waking up the dead, not making things go away.
Don't get too attached, he was told years and years ago. Remember, cry, forget, move on. And everything should go like clockwork, unflinching against the trial of time. Until the batteries run out, or the pendulum stops swinging. Or being shattered into fucking pieces, every which way, Greg told him last night. Between the cries, the tears, the blood, the vomit. His thrust, scraping against Greg's skin. Him, wanting to hurt somebody and Greg was willing. Greg egging him on. Telling him that everything would be all right, once tears had been shed and blood had been split. Him telling Greg that it was probably the best for them.
Because they can hurt each other and still forgive. Better than hurting other people. Keep it between the two of them. Sometimes the best way to heal a pain is to inflict more pain. Break the unbroken, sever the cut. And Nick can feel that they are spiralling down into their own madness, into their own chaos.
Nick swears he can hear grasshoppers. He swears he can hear nightingales and owls. He swears he hears promises in the wind, and he tries to stop thinking.
"Greg!" he shouts, and... nothing. Just him and the car, in a field.
He waits, leaning against the hood of the car, watching the sky. He can trace the edges of the trees if he tries, or touch the wind.
Rustles and hesitant footsteps are preludes; Greg's silhouette against the car's headlight. Nick can smell the salt of Greg's tears as Greg leans against him, hair tickling under his chin, and arms curled around his shoulders. "Can we go home?" Greg asks. Greg's mouth breathes the words onto his throat and it vibrates against his collarbone.
"I'll drive," Nick offers.
"What should we do now?" Greg whispers as they drive towards home. They can see Las Vegas from a distance, like a jewel -- bright and beckoning in the middle of a desert night.
"I don't know," Nick answers, as they leave the darkness behind and drive towards light, like moths to a flame.
---
"Both of you," Grissom told them. "Take the week off."
"But..." Greg took a step forward.
"Our pending cases..." Nick added.
"Will be divided between the shifts. You don't have to worry about a thing," Grissom looked up from the report he was reading. "Are you seriously saying that you can function in any case after that?"
Grissom waved his hand in the air, a short side to side wave.
"We can," Greg spat between gritted teeth. "I'm sure..."
"The mirrors in the gents tell me differently," Grissom told them firmly. "They're coming out of your pay." They stood in the middle of the room and nodded almost simultaneously. What are we going to do, Nick wondered. A week of isolation. Where should they go? Where could they go? At home, they would only have each other, the cable, and the playstation. Hardly something to distract them away from the double homicide. Nick thought about crossing several state borders, putting a distance between themselves and painful memories. Nick wanted to pry the pictures from his brain, and throw them into the ocean. Dead children and crying parents. Parents aren't supposed to outlast their children, the old cliche, parents aren't supposed to bury their children. Not one, definitely not two.
"One more thing," Grissom called as Nick followed Greg out of the office. They stopped just beyond the threshold. "The funeral is in four days. The parents, they'd like you to..." Grissom shook his head. "Anyway. I have the details. Call me later in the week if you..."
"We'll call you," Nick cut in.
They'd lie awake at night, side-by-side, watching shadows play on their ceiling. They'd link their hands, grind their teeth and weather their sorrow in a quiet eulogy. They'd recite the names of their loved ones and pray for their safety. They'd let exhaustion claim them and sleep uneasily.
They'd wake up in the morning, and the sun will be beautiful.
---
The sun shines brightly, blue skies as far the eyes can see. There is a slight chill descending upon them from the ceilings, as Nick sits next to Greg in their black suits at the back of the church. There are photographs of smiling children. The girl smiled, eyes glinting joyfully and small hands waving at the camera. The boy grinned mischievously, kitted in muddied baseball shirts.
What does the sun know about us, the mother recites on the pew. About us, the ones who dwell on desolate land. The Pitmans, Nick remembered. My soul used to sing with pleasure, she half-sang under her breath, eyes as bright as the dews fading in the morning, each one dropping like clear streams, turning black as her mascara smeared down her cheeks. My soul used to sing with joy, she whispers, but forgets.
They follow the sombre procession from a distance, watch the sun glint against shiny, black coffins. The ground will welcome them, and shelter them from the storm. Laid to rest.
There is no rain today. Only sun.
---