MoiraiThanatoio (moiraithanatoio) wrote,

FIC: Hand That Feeds - Gil/Greg, NC-17, 04/??

Title: The Hand That Feeds 04 / ??
Author: Lakhesis
Pairing: Gil/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Sterling Dragonfly
Summary: Greg is unable to trust until he finds the perfect Master.
Warnings: Unsafe sex, BDSM, Kink, Angst
Disclaimer: CSI is the property of CBS Broadcasting, Inc. and Alliance-Atlantis Communications. Nothing was incurred in the creation of this fic other than a little amusement.


Gil Grissom hurried through the busy halls of the Las Vegas Criminalistics lab. He sipped from a nearly full water bottle, his lunch curtailed. Jim hadn’t explained, just called that there was a problem with Sanders.

Disturbingly, it was Greg’s night off. The problem with having a CSI’s mind was the range of options one could imagine for a ‘problem.’

Gil stepped up his pace until he was practically jogging. His worry at the call, the strength of his pure protective impulse, had surprised him.

He went through the door into the private waiting area and halted. The latch clicked shut behind him but Gil was consumed by his shock.

“What the hell happened?”

Judging by the absolute reek of alcohol, he suspected a repeat of the incident with Sara and a DUI. But after flinching at his presence and voice, Greg looked up and Gil knew the situation to be much worse.

There was a small gash at Greg’s temple, taped with a butterfly bandage. That side of his face was beginning to bloom with a colorful bruise.

Jim finally answered Gil’s question, still staring disdainfully at the seated junior CSI. “Sanders here was picked up in a bar fight at Cuir Noir.”

“Cuir Noir,” Gil repeated, correcting Jim’s pronunciation while making his distaste clear.

Brass, relishing the downfall of the lab rat with pretensions, smirked. “That’s the one. Gay leather bay at the end of the Strip.”

Greg was hunching into himself, his face hidden once more.

Gil sighed. “Thank you for calling me, Jim. I’ll take care of this.”

“It’s not quite that easy.”

Grissom looked over when Jim continued. “He wasn’t the only one picked up. Other guy says Sanders started it. He wants to press charges.”

Jim watched curiously as Grissom scowled briefly. After thinking for a moment, Gil replied. “Let our complainant know I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

Brass nodded reluctantly. He’d clearly been looking forward to hearing Greg’s chastisement.

Once they were alone, Grissom settled into a chair across from Greg and leaned forward. The bottle was abandoned next to the chair leg to leave his hands free. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Greg’s hard, bitter chuckles were a shock. So was the resigned anger on his face as he raised his head. “Why?” he bit out. “Will it do any good?”

Gil held the same calm he used when speaking with suspects, confused as to the source of Greg’s obvious pain. “Greg,” Gil spoke slowly and resolute. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

At the voice that didn’t request but assumed command, Greg crumbled. His harsh bravado faded. When he spoke, his voice cracked and his eyes began to fill. “I just wanted… to know. It keeps happening, so there has to be a reason. If you keep getting the same result, something's causing it.”

Gil’s brow furrowed in confusion. This wasn’t the result of orientation confusion or anxiety. After all, he had personal experience that proved Greg was comfortable with his sexuality.

“I don’t understand,” Gil finally admitted.

“Neither do I,” Greg whispered. The tears slipped past his lashes, sliding unimpeded down his cheeks. “They keep leaving. Even when I need them to stay.”

Grissom stared in horrified frozen fascination as he received his first true glimpse at the depths of Greg’s soul.

“You see? There has to be a reason. I just want to know what’s wrong with me… why no one wants to keep me.”

Gil straightened as Greg hid his face once again and attempted to muffle his gasping breath. Heather had warned him… and she’d been right.

This was his fault. As surely as if Gil himself had put that contusion on Greg’s face, this was his fault.

Grissom reached out to touch Greg’s shoulder and draw his attention. The dazed, grief- stricken features were a harsh blow. “Stretch out, Greg. Lay down.”

Gil waited to make sure his request was being followed before reaching for his own water bottle. “Drink this,” he ordered, holding it out. “It will help with the hangover later.”

“Gris?” Greg questioned as the supervisor straightened.

Gil absently patted Greg on the shoulder. “I’ll fix this, Greg.” Then, repeating the promise, “I’ll fix this.”


Jim found Gil in his office, rooting through the back of a desk drawer. “You want to tell me why Sanders is sleeping in the waiting room?”

A look of satisfaction on his face, Grissom sat back in his desk chair holding a small black box. “Because I told him to,” he remarked absently.

The answer didn’t satisfy Brass. “Then, how about why we’re coddling Sanders for being trashed and in a bar fight?”

Gil had opened the box, revealing it to be a ring-sized jewelry box. “Surely it would be hypocritical to suggest that Greg is the first person to drown his troubles in a bottle?”

By the face Jim made, he didn’t appreciate the taste of that particular comment. Gil, having made up his mind, slipped the ring from its box and onto his left hand. It glinted dully in the light, bright but too long neglected for his work.

“What’s that?” Jim asked.

“Something I misplaced,” Gil answered with a shrug.

“You found it now?” Stressing the last word, Brass made it obvious that Grissom’s actions were incomprehensible.

Gil only smiled enigmatically. “I just remembered where I left it.”


The man looked up slowly as Gil closed the door and they assessed each other. Grissom was, as always, unimposing and easy to underestimate. The seated man would be taller than he when standing, Gil decided.

Shaved bald, it added a sense of menace to his thirty plus years. He was dressed as probably most had been in that particular bar. Black leather pants and boots were topped with a tight black wife-beater.

Now that it was brought to Gil’s attention, Greg’s attire had been the oddity. Sneakers, jeans, and a pale blue t-shirt that were all looser than standard for a club.

“Mr. Nelson? I’m Gil Grissom, Mr. Sanders’ superior.”

The words, as well as offering his left hand to shake, were carefully chosen. It caused the man to pause, to look again, to reevaluate his first impression.

As Todd Nelson released his hands, Gil saw the man look again at his ring and then shoot that gaze to his face. The slightest of twitch to his lips escaped Gil’s control as he sat at the table. His right hand fisted, with left draped over it, was the center of attention.

Gil spoke, his voice neutral and showing none of the undercurrents. “I’ve been given to understand that Greg has, this evening, behaved in a manner unsuited to his position.”

At the lack of response, Gil continued. “I have also been informed that you feel the best resolution would be a formal complaint, as is your right. You may also choose to press charges. Although, as Greg is quite bruised, he may have the same option.”

The other man finally ripped his gaze from the golden raised form of the ouroboros, the snake perpetually swallowing its own tail. “I didn’t hit him,” Todd Nelson asserted with an edge of worry. “I didn’t know, so yeah I grabbed him. But he got hurt when he pulled away and fell.”

Barely a pause, then he added in a rush, “if he’d said anything, I wouldn’t have touched him.”

Gil nodded as if this was the most sensible speech he’d ever heard. “I appreciate that, Mr. Nelson. However, we still have an issue to resolve.”

The silent defiance had vanished in the face of cooperation. “Well, uh, Mr. Grissom, sir… If he’d apologize, I’ll do the same. I know you’ll handle the situation without an, uh, outside report.”

Grissom smiled slightly. “A perfectly reasonable suggestion.”


Greg woke from his slight doze to an insistent hand on his shoulder. It was Grissom, accompanied by the guy from the bar who thought ‘not interested’ had been foreplay.

“Gris?” he managed muzzily.

“Stand up, Greg.”

He did, blinking in muddied confusion that increased as the cause of all this spoke.

“I’m sorry for my actions. I’ll not be filing a complaint because there are better ways to resolve this.”

Greg continued to blink, completely lost. Grissom raised an eyebrow and bit out two words. “Apologize. Now.”

It snapped his attention to the fact that his boss had indeed fixed the situation. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have been there…”

He started to trail off, but Grissom didn’t look satisfied. “And my behavior was inappropriate.”

Greg frowned as the guy shook Grissom’s hand before leaving. He was very drunk. There couldn’t have been a meaningful glance exchanged by Gil Grissom and a total stranger.


From the expectant look, he’d been asked a question. “I’m sorry?” he attempted.

Grissom sighed. “It’s okay. I’ll drive you home.”

Nodding, he followed Grissom to his Denali in silence. After making sure the seatbelt was latched, the supervisor urged, “Go back to sleep.”

Greg was already dozing as they pulled out of the lot. He never noticed that Grissom didn’t turn in the right direction for his apartment.

End Part Four

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  • Weird epiphanies...

    On a glut of H50 fanfic, I came to a realization.... There are not many military people in fandom. Either that, or they're hiding it better than I…

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