helsinkibaby (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
helsinkibaby) wrote2004-05-07 09:13 pm
helsinkibaby) wrote2004-05-07 09:13 pm
(no subject)
As promised last night, fic.
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csi100 and John Michael Montgomery yields two.
Rope the MoonNick’s used to being the lab whipping boy, the one that people laugh at, the one who doesn’t get to work solo, the screw-up.
He’s not used to people looking up to him, and when he and Catherine began dating, he was worried about how Lindsey would react.
He thought she’d hate him.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she grins at him over the breakfast table, insists on sitting beside him at the movies, goes to him before Catherine for help with her homework.
Lindsey looks at him like he could rope the moon.
And when she does, he knows he’d try. which is Cath/Nick with a little bit of Lindsey thrown in.
Friday at Five
Walking through the lab, Grissom pauses when he sees, through a window, Warrick and Sara talking.
Well, Sara is talking.
Warrick is looking at her, and that’s what draws Grissom’s attention.
The look is a little amused, mostly affectionate; then his hands reach out to land on her shoulders, rubbing there gently. Sara looks up, smiling, before leaning into him, laying her head against his shoulder. Warrick’s chin rests on the top of her head, a contented smile on his face, and Grissom can’t look at any more.
It is Friday at five, and shift’s not over.
He leaves anyway. is Warrick/Sara with a twist of Grissom angst.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
csreports and their scent challenge, we have
The Sting of Lavender
Even with the window open, the room still smells of chemicals, making Sara’s eyes water. Funny that they didn’t do that while she and Warrick were actually painting the room, walls a warm shade of yellow, turning almost amber now against the setting sun. On top of the new paint smell, there is the sharper scent of varnish, lovingly applied to the floorboards, the chest of drawers, the cradle in the corner.
That’s what draws her attention now, that and the small lavender bear lying in it. Holding it to her nose, there is the combined scent of washing detergent – because Mom had sent it from Tomales Bay, and it had been the worst for transport – and lavender – because Mom had sent sachets of lavender with it, all ready to be popped in the little pouch at the back.
One hand clutching the bear, the other falls to the bed sheets, and she thinks she can just about still smell the vague scent of packing plastic. It offends her somehow, because such a smell should have no place here, not in this cradle, and she sees, as if it belongs to someone else, her own hand reaching out to the sheets, all ready to strip them off.
Then she stops, because to disturb the crib seems more obscene.
She takes a deep breath, lavender filling her nostrils, and it’s meant to soothe, but it aggravates her eyes more than the chemicals did, blurs her vision, sends tears rolling down her cheeks. She’s not prepared for the sob that rips from her throat, because she hasn’t cried, not yet, and she doesn’t want to.
If she cries, that makes everything real.
She battles back the tears with all her might, but then she senses a presence behind her, feels a hand on her arm. She doesn’t look up, because she knows who it is, but Warrick’s not going to take no for an answer, pulls her into his arms. His familiar scent – soap and cologne and the same laundry detergent that’s on the bear – surrounds her, and it breaks down the last of her barriers, pulls another wrenching sob from deep within her.
“I know, baby,” he whispers, one hand moving through her hair. “I know.”
From anyone else, it would be just words. But Warrick does know what she’s going through, and the memory of waking up in the hospital, seeing the pain in his eyes, makes her knees buckle. He supports her, lowers her to the ground, but that’s no good either, because here all she can smell are paint and varnish, and that’s too close to the smell of the place where they picked out the tiniest white coffin she’s ever seen.
Maybe he feels the same, because she feels herself being lifted, and then she’s in their room, their bed, the place that has long been her sanctuary. Once there, she holds on to him tightly, the smell of lavender between them, and they cry together. which is Warrick/Sara with more angst than you can shake a stick at.
And in the same mode, and all Nora's fault (can up with this one on the phone to her) an Angel fic, that contains spoilers up to Shells and is a Gunn POV.
Flowers for Fred
You learn a lot of things growing up on the mean streets of Los Angeles.
How to be tough, a fighter, how to survive.
How to be a leader, to make your gang respect you, to make the girls like you.
You learn to be loyal, and you learn to be a lover, but you don’t learn what it’s like to fall in love.
You don’t learn that until Fred teaches you.
Not that you expect that to happen when you first meet her. She’s just a little too whacked out for your tastes, but sanity suits the girl, and before too many weeks of living in close quarters in the Hyperion, you’re thinking of her as more than just a friend.
But she’s smart and beautiful and smart and vivacious, and did you remember that she’s smart too? She’d never look twice a street punk like you.
Then you stand before her in a tux and she stands before you in crimson and she laughs at you, and you learn that maybe that’s not such a bad reaction. And later on that night, when her lips touch yours, you learn that maybe her being a little bit crazy is a good thing. Either that, or that miracles do happen, you don’t know which and you don’t really care either.
Not the way she makes you feel.
You’re together and you’re happy, but there’s always a part of you that’s worried that one day she’s going to see the light, see you for who you really are, namely someone who’s not a quarter as smart as she is. You’re worried that she’s going to find someone else, someone who deserves her more, someone like Wesley, and why not? You know English has a thing for her, has always had a thing for her.
Breaking up the way you do is a surprise, but it’s not a surprise.
What would she want long term with a guy like you?
She’s brains, you’re muscle, and they don’t go together. Brains go with brains, that’s the way it is, and you’re left out in the cold.
Put that way, who wouldn’t have taken the deal offered by Wolfram and Hart? An entire law library, downloaded into your brain, and all you have to do is sit there and say nothing?
Who wouldn’t accept that?
Who wouldn’t do anything to keep it?
Anything…
That last “anything” is always where your learning falls down. Because you know a hundred different ways to get out of a legal contract, a thousand loopholes you can exploit, and you know that most of them involve reading the small print.
But you didn’t read the small print, did you? You didn’t even look for it. A basic lesson you never bothered to learn, even with all these new smarts you have.
It wouldn’t be so bad if you were the one paying for it.
But you’re not.
You didn’t want to be Flowers-for-Algernon-Boy, so instead you find yourself buying flowers for Fred, the spring flowers she always loved, flowers for her grave. A grave that doesn’t exist, can never exist, because instead of her body lying at peace, a demon desecrates it, parades in its shell.
As the days go by, you’re learning that she’s not the only dead body walking.
So you tear the petals from the flowers, watching them float away in the breeze one by one. There’s a petal for every time you wished you could take it all back, one for every tear you’ve cried for her, one for every lesson learned.
There are never enough. It's done for thewriters_choice you live you learn challenge, and yay me, not an Alanis lyric in sight!
csi100 and John Michael Montgomery yields two. Rope the MoonNick’s used to being the lab whipping boy, the one that people laugh at, the one who doesn’t get to work solo, the screw-up.
He’s not used to people looking up to him, and when he and Catherine began dating, he was worried about how Lindsey would react.
He thought she’d hate him.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she grins at him over the breakfast table, insists on sitting beside him at the movies, goes to him before Catherine for help with her homework.
Lindsey looks at him like he could rope the moon.
And when she does, he knows he’d try. which is Cath/Nick with a little bit of Lindsey thrown in.
Friday at Five
Walking through the lab, Grissom pauses when he sees, through a window, Warrick and Sara talking.
Well, Sara is talking.
Warrick is looking at her, and that’s what draws Grissom’s attention.
The look is a little amused, mostly affectionate; then his hands reach out to land on her shoulders, rubbing there gently. Sara looks up, smiling, before leaning into him, laying her head against his shoulder. Warrick’s chin rests on the top of her head, a contented smile on his face, and Grissom can’t look at any more.
It is Friday at five, and shift’s not over.
He leaves anyway. is Warrick/Sara with a twist of Grissom angst.
For
csreports and their scent challenge, we have The Sting of Lavender
Even with the window open, the room still smells of chemicals, making Sara’s eyes water. Funny that they didn’t do that while she and Warrick were actually painting the room, walls a warm shade of yellow, turning almost amber now against the setting sun. On top of the new paint smell, there is the sharper scent of varnish, lovingly applied to the floorboards, the chest of drawers, the cradle in the corner.
That’s what draws her attention now, that and the small lavender bear lying in it. Holding it to her nose, there is the combined scent of washing detergent – because Mom had sent it from Tomales Bay, and it had been the worst for transport – and lavender – because Mom had sent sachets of lavender with it, all ready to be popped in the little pouch at the back.
One hand clutching the bear, the other falls to the bed sheets, and she thinks she can just about still smell the vague scent of packing plastic. It offends her somehow, because such a smell should have no place here, not in this cradle, and she sees, as if it belongs to someone else, her own hand reaching out to the sheets, all ready to strip them off.
Then she stops, because to disturb the crib seems more obscene.
She takes a deep breath, lavender filling her nostrils, and it’s meant to soothe, but it aggravates her eyes more than the chemicals did, blurs her vision, sends tears rolling down her cheeks. She’s not prepared for the sob that rips from her throat, because she hasn’t cried, not yet, and she doesn’t want to.
If she cries, that makes everything real.
She battles back the tears with all her might, but then she senses a presence behind her, feels a hand on her arm. She doesn’t look up, because she knows who it is, but Warrick’s not going to take no for an answer, pulls her into his arms. His familiar scent – soap and cologne and the same laundry detergent that’s on the bear – surrounds her, and it breaks down the last of her barriers, pulls another wrenching sob from deep within her.
“I know, baby,” he whispers, one hand moving through her hair. “I know.”
From anyone else, it would be just words. But Warrick does know what she’s going through, and the memory of waking up in the hospital, seeing the pain in his eyes, makes her knees buckle. He supports her, lowers her to the ground, but that’s no good either, because here all she can smell are paint and varnish, and that’s too close to the smell of the place where they picked out the tiniest white coffin she’s ever seen.
Maybe he feels the same, because she feels herself being lifted, and then she’s in their room, their bed, the place that has long been her sanctuary. Once there, she holds on to him tightly, the smell of lavender between them, and they cry together. which is Warrick/Sara with more angst than you can shake a stick at.
And in the same mode, and all Nora's fault (can up with this one on the phone to her) an Angel fic, that contains spoilers up to Shells and is a Gunn POV.
Flowers for Fred
You learn a lot of things growing up on the mean streets of Los Angeles.
How to be tough, a fighter, how to survive.
How to be a leader, to make your gang respect you, to make the girls like you.
You learn to be loyal, and you learn to be a lover, but you don’t learn what it’s like to fall in love.
You don’t learn that until Fred teaches you.
Not that you expect that to happen when you first meet her. She’s just a little too whacked out for your tastes, but sanity suits the girl, and before too many weeks of living in close quarters in the Hyperion, you’re thinking of her as more than just a friend.
But she’s smart and beautiful and smart and vivacious, and did you remember that she’s smart too? She’d never look twice a street punk like you.
Then you stand before her in a tux and she stands before you in crimson and she laughs at you, and you learn that maybe that’s not such a bad reaction. And later on that night, when her lips touch yours, you learn that maybe her being a little bit crazy is a good thing. Either that, or that miracles do happen, you don’t know which and you don’t really care either.
Not the way she makes you feel.
You’re together and you’re happy, but there’s always a part of you that’s worried that one day she’s going to see the light, see you for who you really are, namely someone who’s not a quarter as smart as she is. You’re worried that she’s going to find someone else, someone who deserves her more, someone like Wesley, and why not? You know English has a thing for her, has always had a thing for her.
Breaking up the way you do is a surprise, but it’s not a surprise.
What would she want long term with a guy like you?
She’s brains, you’re muscle, and they don’t go together. Brains go with brains, that’s the way it is, and you’re left out in the cold.
Put that way, who wouldn’t have taken the deal offered by Wolfram and Hart? An entire law library, downloaded into your brain, and all you have to do is sit there and say nothing?
Who wouldn’t accept that?
Who wouldn’t do anything to keep it?
Anything…
That last “anything” is always where your learning falls down. Because you know a hundred different ways to get out of a legal contract, a thousand loopholes you can exploit, and you know that most of them involve reading the small print.
But you didn’t read the small print, did you? You didn’t even look for it. A basic lesson you never bothered to learn, even with all these new smarts you have.
It wouldn’t be so bad if you were the one paying for it.
But you’re not.
You didn’t want to be Flowers-for-Algernon-Boy, so instead you find yourself buying flowers for Fred, the spring flowers she always loved, flowers for her grave. A grave that doesn’t exist, can never exist, because instead of her body lying at peace, a demon desecrates it, parades in its shell.
As the days go by, you’re learning that she’s not the only dead body walking.
So you tear the petals from the flowers, watching them float away in the breeze one by one. There’s a petal for every time you wished you could take it all back, one for every tear you’ve cried for her, one for every lesson learned.
There are never enough. It's done for the
writers_choice you live you learn challenge, and yay me, not an Alanis lyric in sight!