Emily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-10-13 07:30 am
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-10-13 07:30 am
Greg - The Price of Altruism
*upset that she doesn't have appropriate icon* oh well.
Fandom: CSI
Title: The Price of Altruism
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iluvroadrunner6
Rating: FRT
Character: Greg Sanders
Prompt: N/A
Content Warning: Spoilers for "Fannysmackin'"
Summary: Suddenly, the title of ‘hero’ didn’t rest as comfortably on his shoulders.
Author's Note: Written forgoddess_loki who requested for me to write angsty!Greg centered around something other than the bombing. Beta'd by my friend, Will (Eben Antipel on ff.net), because i wrote this so fast, i really wanted to make sure i wasn't just writing jibberish, and that there actually was something there.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of CSI. They're owned by CBS.
Too many contusions to count.
A few broken fingers, a couple broken ribs.
Some internal bleeding. A serious blow to the head. His face swelled up so bad he couldn’t even open his eyes, and barely speak. Once the swelling had gone down some he could still talk a little better, but he could barely see. It hurt, God, it hurt like a bitch but he wasn’t about to complain about it. He could barely move in the beginning, but eventually he got some of the mobility back, but it still ached when he had to get up.
Sara told him later, once he was seeing people and taking visitors, that she was amazed how he could give her information on the case while he was just lying there like that. That he must have been in so much pain, to even try to tell her things that could help them find the people who did this. She didn’t mention that she was amazed at his still persistent urge to flirt with her, but that was more between them than everyone else. They had all come to see him: Sara, Nick, Warrick, Catherine. They didn’t tell him how Nick had punched someone on the sidelines, out of anger and frustration, but he heard about it later on. He didn’t mention it, though. If Nick wanted him to know, Nick would have told him. That much was understood between them. Pre-beating Greg Sanders might have taken a subtle hint of pride in the fact that they all cared that much. That they all loved him that much. But post-beating Greg Sanders couldn’t let that moment of pride outweigh the unimaginable hole of guilt that was tearing him apart.
He was trying to get back that Cloud Nine feeling he had had before the whole mess had began. He had just gone to dinner with the, he had to admit, very hot prosecutor working his case, and although they had both stressed that it was purely a celebratory dinner, and completely platonic, that still didn’t excuse him from flirting with her a little more than he should have, and it didn’t exactly stop her from flirting back.
Then Grissom had put him on a scene as a primary. Granted it was only a robbery, but it was a step in the right direction. All he had to do was work a little harder, and he would be working solo on his own murder investigation. He was high on life at that point, and this robber, whoever he was, was never going to know what hit him.
But pulling up in that alley, seeing that mob attacking that poor man—he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. It was his duty, as a CSI, to protect those who didn’t have a voice. He followed procedure to the letter. He called for backup, called for EMS. ETA in five minutes. Five minutes was too long. Greg didn’t know how long they’d been beating him, he didn’t know how long the attack had been occurring. The man could be dead in five minutes. He had to act now, not wait for later.
He expected the kids to just scatter when he came driving up, horn blaring and signal flashing. He expected them to run, and he didn’t care, he just wanted to make sure their victim was OK. Human life outweighed the need to catch them right then, and he could always process the scene later.
But the problem was, they didn’t run.
The kid charged him. The kid picked up a brick and charged him with it in his hand. He pushed the gas pedal on impulse, on instinct. He had to protect himself now. He was the one who needed to be defended. He was protecting himself and the man from a bunch of teenage kids who thought they could get their cheap thrills through beating up innocent tourists and hard-working men.
After the kid pulled him through that window, he didn’t remember much. He remembered scratching someone, and he remembered being spat on. He remembered a car driving off. Then everything went hazy and everything went dark, and then there were paramedics, and then Sofia and Sara, and the hospital.
The hospital with Grissom he asked what he wanted to know. He wanted to know about the original victim, what happened to him. Grissom told him that he was fine. Then he asked about the kid he had hit, the one he had defended himself from. Even as he was asking the question, the words felt bitter in his mouth. He didn’t have the right to ask about him. He didn’t deserve to know whether or not he had killed someone. He shouldn’t know. It would rest easier on his conscience if he didn’t know. Grissom told him he was in surgery.
So he was alive. At least for right now.
The burden became a little lighter. Grissom then asked him if had called his parents, and he was adamant against it. He didn’t need his parents to know. He didn’t need his overprotective mother coming to Vegas and insisting on taking care of him, and yelling at Grissom and Brass, and just causing trouble at the lab. He could already hear her voice in his head, standing in front of Grissom’s desk and giving him the same speech she had giving Principal Malone when the school bully gave him a black eye and a bloody nose for sticking up for his best friend:
“How dare you let this happen to my baby boy! What kind of lab are you running here, a boxing ring? Look at him, look what those monsters did to my Greg. He should have stayed in the lab, where he belongs—”
He didn’t need that to happen. Things were going to be uncomfortable enough at work as it is.
Things had really started to look up when the man he had saved came in to see him. The way that man looked at him, which such gratitude and admiration, Greg had never had someone look at him like that before. Hands to bruised and broken to shake them properly, they now had this unexplained bond between them. Greg didn’t feel like he was owned anything, or even that he was expecting anything. He had done what he’d done out of his obligation to the community, and he suddenly felt, for the first time since he had hit that gas pedal and drove up that alley, that he had done the right thing.
“I make a mean barbecue, if you ever manage to make your way through Union County, Tennessee.”
“I’ll definitely take you up on that.”
He did love a good barbecue.
If he had left the hospital, without knowing what had happened to the kid he had hit, he might not have felt as guilty. He was defending himself and someone else. He did what he had to do to do his job and protect a fellow citizen of Clark County, Nevada. And that would have been the end of it.
But he didn’t. He left the hospital with the images of the boy’s body flipping over the hood of his SUV intermingled with the screaming cries of a mother in mourning, and the dark look of sorrow and, in Greg’s mind, justifiable anger when his eyes met those of the boy’s brother. The young man who’s heart was breaking as he watched his mother mourn the loss of his brother, and unable to do anything to fix her pain or make things at least seem a little lighter. The visions that would cause him to wake up for weeks in a cold sweat, his stomach turning with the fact that he had so easily, so simply, had taken a human life just by applying some a bit of pressure to a gas pedal.
Suddenly, the title of ‘hero’ didn’t rest as comfortably on his shoulders.
Fandom: CSI
Title: The Price of Altruism
Author:
iluvroadrunner6Rating: FRT
Character: Greg Sanders
Prompt: N/A
Content Warning: Spoilers for "Fannysmackin'"
Summary: Suddenly, the title of ‘hero’ didn’t rest as comfortably on his shoulders.
Author's Note: Written for
goddess_loki who requested for me to write angsty!Greg centered around something other than the bombing. Beta'd by my friend, Will (Eben Antipel on ff.net), because i wrote this so fast, i really wanted to make sure i wasn't just writing jibberish, and that there actually was something there.Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of CSI. They're owned by CBS.
Too many contusions to count.
A few broken fingers, a couple broken ribs.
Some internal bleeding. A serious blow to the head. His face swelled up so bad he couldn’t even open his eyes, and barely speak. Once the swelling had gone down some he could still talk a little better, but he could barely see. It hurt, God, it hurt like a bitch but he wasn’t about to complain about it. He could barely move in the beginning, but eventually he got some of the mobility back, but it still ached when he had to get up.
Sara told him later, once he was seeing people and taking visitors, that she was amazed how he could give her information on the case while he was just lying there like that. That he must have been in so much pain, to even try to tell her things that could help them find the people who did this. She didn’t mention that she was amazed at his still persistent urge to flirt with her, but that was more between them than everyone else. They had all come to see him: Sara, Nick, Warrick, Catherine. They didn’t tell him how Nick had punched someone on the sidelines, out of anger and frustration, but he heard about it later on. He didn’t mention it, though. If Nick wanted him to know, Nick would have told him. That much was understood between them. Pre-beating Greg Sanders might have taken a subtle hint of pride in the fact that they all cared that much. That they all loved him that much. But post-beating Greg Sanders couldn’t let that moment of pride outweigh the unimaginable hole of guilt that was tearing him apart.
He was trying to get back that Cloud Nine feeling he had had before the whole mess had began. He had just gone to dinner with the, he had to admit, very hot prosecutor working his case, and although they had both stressed that it was purely a celebratory dinner, and completely platonic, that still didn’t excuse him from flirting with her a little more than he should have, and it didn’t exactly stop her from flirting back.
Then Grissom had put him on a scene as a primary. Granted it was only a robbery, but it was a step in the right direction. All he had to do was work a little harder, and he would be working solo on his own murder investigation. He was high on life at that point, and this robber, whoever he was, was never going to know what hit him.
But pulling up in that alley, seeing that mob attacking that poor man—he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. It was his duty, as a CSI, to protect those who didn’t have a voice. He followed procedure to the letter. He called for backup, called for EMS. ETA in five minutes. Five minutes was too long. Greg didn’t know how long they’d been beating him, he didn’t know how long the attack had been occurring. The man could be dead in five minutes. He had to act now, not wait for later.
He expected the kids to just scatter when he came driving up, horn blaring and signal flashing. He expected them to run, and he didn’t care, he just wanted to make sure their victim was OK. Human life outweighed the need to catch them right then, and he could always process the scene later.
But the problem was, they didn’t run.
The kid charged him. The kid picked up a brick and charged him with it in his hand. He pushed the gas pedal on impulse, on instinct. He had to protect himself now. He was the one who needed to be defended. He was protecting himself and the man from a bunch of teenage kids who thought they could get their cheap thrills through beating up innocent tourists and hard-working men.
After the kid pulled him through that window, he didn’t remember much. He remembered scratching someone, and he remembered being spat on. He remembered a car driving off. Then everything went hazy and everything went dark, and then there were paramedics, and then Sofia and Sara, and the hospital.
The hospital with Grissom he asked what he wanted to know. He wanted to know about the original victim, what happened to him. Grissom told him that he was fine. Then he asked about the kid he had hit, the one he had defended himself from. Even as he was asking the question, the words felt bitter in his mouth. He didn’t have the right to ask about him. He didn’t deserve to know whether or not he had killed someone. He shouldn’t know. It would rest easier on his conscience if he didn’t know. Grissom told him he was in surgery.
So he was alive. At least for right now.
The burden became a little lighter. Grissom then asked him if had called his parents, and he was adamant against it. He didn’t need his parents to know. He didn’t need his overprotective mother coming to Vegas and insisting on taking care of him, and yelling at Grissom and Brass, and just causing trouble at the lab. He could already hear her voice in his head, standing in front of Grissom’s desk and giving him the same speech she had giving Principal Malone when the school bully gave him a black eye and a bloody nose for sticking up for his best friend:
“How dare you let this happen to my baby boy! What kind of lab are you running here, a boxing ring? Look at him, look what those monsters did to my Greg. He should have stayed in the lab, where he belongs—”
He didn’t need that to happen. Things were going to be uncomfortable enough at work as it is.
Things had really started to look up when the man he had saved came in to see him. The way that man looked at him, which such gratitude and admiration, Greg had never had someone look at him like that before. Hands to bruised and broken to shake them properly, they now had this unexplained bond between them. Greg didn’t feel like he was owned anything, or even that he was expecting anything. He had done what he’d done out of his obligation to the community, and he suddenly felt, for the first time since he had hit that gas pedal and drove up that alley, that he had done the right thing.
“I make a mean barbecue, if you ever manage to make your way through Union County, Tennessee.”
“I’ll definitely take you up on that.”
He did love a good barbecue.
If he had left the hospital, without knowing what had happened to the kid he had hit, he might not have felt as guilty. He was defending himself and someone else. He did what he had to do to do his job and protect a fellow citizen of Clark County, Nevada. And that would have been the end of it.
But he didn’t. He left the hospital with the images of the boy’s body flipping over the hood of his SUV intermingled with the screaming cries of a mother in mourning, and the dark look of sorrow and, in Greg’s mind, justifiable anger when his eyes met those of the boy’s brother. The young man who’s heart was breaking as he watched his mother mourn the loss of his brother, and unable to do anything to fix her pain or make things at least seem a little lighter. The visions that would cause him to wake up for weeks in a cold sweat, his stomach turning with the fact that he had so easily, so simply, had taken a human life just by applying some a bit of pressure to a gas pedal.
Suddenly, the title of ‘hero’ didn’t rest as comfortably on his shoulders.