AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hi guys! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing Deformography. This sequel has been a long time coming.

Set midway through season 6.

BEFORE YOU START READING:

Please be aware that this is a sequel to Deformography, which can be found here: s/6559163/1/Deformography. There are many references to past events and situations that won't make sense if you haven't read the first story!

Story title is a Marilyn Manson song, just like the name & chapters of the first fic.


Chapter One

When Greg Sanders stepped into the tiny, one-room apartment behind his boss, Gil Grissom, he was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged man lying face down on the floor. If not for the chalky pallor of the man's skin, he could almost be sleeping.

"Do we have an ID yet?" Grissom asked.

Super Dave, who was standing next to the body with what appeared to be the man's wallet in his hand, looked up at them as they entered. "Oh, hi guys," he said, leafing through the wallet for the man's driver's licence. "Yeah, here we go. Sidney Hobbs, forty-seven. Liver temp was eighty-two, so he's been dead at least eleven hours."

"Sure doesn't look like a crime scene in here, does it?" Greg mused, glancing around the apartment. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere—everything in the room appeared pristine. Puzzled, he turned back to David. "Any idea what COD might have been?"

The assistant coroner shook his head. "There's really no way to tell until we've done the autopsy."

"Make sure you have Henry run an expanded tox panel," said Grissom, setting down his kit and wandering into the kitchen. "A forty-seven year old man doesn't just keel over dead without some kind of help."

"You think he could have overdosed on something?" Greg asked, getting out his camera. "I don't see any drug paraphernalia around here. Not even a single pill bottle."

Grissom shrugged. "For all we know, this isn't even the primary crime scene."

Firing up the camera, Greg took a few initial shots of the body in it's original position before helping David roll the victim over.

"Hmm. Slight petechia in both eyes," the coroner noted, peeking underneath the collar of the man's shirt. "Suggests possible asphyxiation, though there are no visible ligature marks on the neck." Slowly, David rose to his feet and asked, "Grissom, should I leave the body here for a while or is it okay to move him now?"

"No, go ahead and move him," the entomologist said, glancing over his shoulder. "Thanks, David."

The coroner hurried out of the apartment, returning a few moments later with a stretcher and an assistant. Together, the two men hoisted the body onto the stretcher, zipped up the body bag, and headed back outside.

"Hey Greg, come take a look at this." Curiously, Greg crossed the apartment to stand beside his boss. "Broken glass," Grissom stated, pointing into the kitchen sink. Sure enough, there were scattered glass fragments near the drain.

Bringing his camera up to eye-level, Greg snapped a few shots of the sink, making sure to get a close up of the shards.

"These pieces of glass seem like the only thing out of place in this entire apartment," Grissom observed. "I don't think someone who lives so meticulously would leave broken glass in the sink."

Greg brought the camera away from his face, casting a sidelong glance at the other man. "You think the glass could be the killer's doing?"

"If the shoe fits." Grissom turned around and headed for the front door. "I'm going to pop outside and check in with Brass. You keep processing," he instructed. "And don't forget to dust the sink for prints." With that, he slipped out the door and left Greg to his work.

It was a long couple of hours before the two of them had finally finished their examination of the apartment. Greg managed to lift a handful of decent prints from the sink, counter and fridge door handle. He'd bagged the glass shards as well as collecting several hairs and trace samples from the bed sheets.

The sun was rising high in the sky by the time he and Grissom pulled out of the apartment parking lot. Stomachs growling, they decided to stop for breakfast at a little pancake joint a few blocks away. Excited like a kid in a candy store, Greg ordered French toast while his boss opted for a stack of blueberry pancakes.

"This reminds me of what me and my dad used to do when I was little," said Greg, between bites of his food. "He'd take me and my mom out to a place like this in San Gabriel all the time."

"And how does San Gabriel French toast compare to Las Vegas French toast?" Grissom asked, stirring his coffee.

The young CSI smiled. "I think the Vegas toast wins. Although that's probably because I'm eating it right now."

Suddenly, a curious expression crossed Grissom's face. "Greg?" he said. "I think you're vibrating." Sure enough, Greg's cell phone was ringing in the pocket of his coat. Awkwardly, he fished it out with one hand, staring at the caller display. Nick's name flashed on the screen. "It's okay to get up and answer it if you want," his boss told him.

"I don't want to be rude..."

"What if it's important?" Grissom challenged. "Answer it, Greg."

Sighing, the young man slipped out of the booth. "If you insist," he said, putting the phone up to his ear and stepping outside the small diner. "What's up, Nicky?"

"See?" said an aggravated voice. "He only answers when it's you calling."

Greg frowned, placing a hand on his hip. "Hodges?" he asked. "What are you doing with Nick's phone?"

There were some muffled sounds on the other end of the line that Greg couldn't quite distinguish. "He's invading my lab again," Hodges replied a moment later, sounding none too thrilled. "I thought you were going to have a talk with him about that."

"Is this seriously why you called me?" Greg let out a dramatic sigh loud enough for the other man to hear. "Talk to him yourself, David. I'm in the middle of breakfast."

Again, there were more muffled voices. All Greg could catch was Hodges complaining about Nick crowding him before the line unexpectedly went dead. Wearily, the young CSI rubbed at his forehead. Nick and Hodges butting heads was nothing new, but it still managed to exasperate him all the same.

"Everything okay?" Grissom inquired once Greg had sat back down at the table. It only dawned on the young man just then that Grissom had probably been watching him through the window the entire time.

Feeling himself flush involuntarily, Greg nodded.

"I don't expect to be privy to every detail of your life, Greg—I'm sure there are some things I wouldn't even want to know," Grissom began, cracking a sardonic smile. "But if there's anything you'd like to talk about, I'm here."

Greg stared down fixedly at his French toast. He really enjoyed talking to his boss; normally he'd tell Grissom whatever was on his mind, but this was different. "Uh, thanks," he said lamely. "I appreciate it, it's just—"

Grissom held up a hand. "There's no need to explain yourself. I understand."

That's a relief, Greg thought to himself. He wasn't even sure where he'd been going with that statement. All he knew was that telling Grissom about his two male lovers—both of whom were also lab employees—was not a conversation Greg was ready to have with his boss.

After breakfast, it was back to the lab to log in all their evidence and wait for Doc Robbins to post Sidney Hobbs' body. After running the hairs he'd found on the bed over to DNA, Greg crossed the hall toward the trace lab, expecting to find terror and destruction in the wake of the earlier phone call he'd received. Instead, he found the opposite; the lab was calm, and Hodges was sitting at his desk like nothing had happened.

"Thanks for hanging up on me," Greg said, trying his best to sound angry. The minute Hodges turned around, however, the smile on Greg's face gave his true mood away.

"You can blame that on Nick for not charging his phone," said the trace technician. He swivelled around in his chair to face Greg, eyeing the evidence bag in the CSI's hand. "Have something for me?"

Greg smirked, leaning against the man's desk. "You know I do."

Hodges rolled his eyes. "I meant from your crime scene, Sanders. That wasn't an invitation to exchange innuendo."

"In that case, yes," Greg told him. "Glass from the kitchen sink." He held up the bag and extended it toward the trace technician. "I need to know what it's from, ASAP."

Hodges accepted the bag, peering curiously at its contents. "Hmm. I might consider moving this to the top of my list... if you say the magic words."

"Which would be?"

"Hodges is the best lab tech I've ever seen and without him this place would surely fall apart."

In response, the young CSI snorted loudly. "Yeah right," he said, a sly expression on his face. "I'll teach you the real magic words when we get to Nick's later."

The grey-haired man set down Greg's evidence on his desk. "As inviting as that sounds, I'm afraid I can't," Hodges stated. "Ecklie needs me to pull another double."

Greg was unable to hide his disappointment. A frown quickly spread over his face. "That's the third time this week," he complained, almost compelled to shout and stomp his feet like a child at the unfairness of the situation.

Now that Nick was back on grave, he and Greg had the same schedule again, enabling them to spend more time together. Hodges, on the other hand, had been working odd hours at Ecklie's request. The only place Greg ever saw the man anymore was at work—in a strange way, he felt like he was going through withdrawal.

Not that he would ever admit to it.

Still, Hodges was quick to take advantage of Greg's earlier comment. "Can't get enough of me, huh?" the man teased, looking far too self-satisfied. "I'm not surprised."

"Oh shut up," Greg snapped, knitting his brow. "And start processing that glass, will you? I've got an autopsy to attend."

Hodges mumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely insulting, but Greg merely rolled his eyes at his lover and left the lab in search of Grissom.


"Alright Doc, what do we have?"

Both Greg and Grissom stared across the table at Dr. Robbins, who pulled the white sheet down to expose their victim's face and shoulders.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to give you much," the coroner told them, glancing down at the body. "No visible COD here. Hopefully tox will show something—I'm still waiting on it." With his cane, Dr. Robbins pointed at the far wall where Sidney Hobbs' x-rays were displayed. "One interesting thing I did find was a broken left collarbone. Tissue reaction suggests it was perimortem."

Grissom crossed the room to study the x-rays more closely, while Greg let his mind wander over the various scenarios that could have led to the injury. "So somehow," Greg began, "the vic suffered a broken collarbone at, or near, the time of death?"

Dr. Robbins nodded. "David mentioned that the body was found face-down. Since this type of break is consistent with a fall, I think your guy may have sustained it collapsing to the ground."

Just then, the door to the morgue swung open and Henry strolled in, a manila folder in his hands.

"Ah, good," said Dr. Robbins. "Is that our preliminary tox report?"

"Sure is—and you'll be happy to know that I've got your COD for you," Henry stated, opening the folder and handing it to Grissom.

Surprise was evident on the entomologist's face. "One-hundred and twenty milligrams of nicotine in his system," Grissom stated, a look of discovery in his eyes. "That's enough to kill even a chronic smoker."

"Well, he did have several packs of cigarettes in his nightstand, so he was probably a chain smoker," said Greg. "Even still, those levels are way too high. Do you think he was poisoned?"

Grissom closed the folder in his hands. "Looks like it."

"Nicotine poisoning would explain the slight petechia in both eyes—one of the symptoms is difficulty breathing," Dr. Robbins explained. "At the same time he would have been experiencing a headache, stomach pains, and severe heart palpitations."

"Explains why he fell," Greg stated, staring down at the body. Suddenly, an idea came to him, and he glanced up at Henry. "The effects of nicotine poisoning are instantaneous, right?"

The toxicologist nodded. "If it was injected intravenously he would have died within minutes. If he ingested it in food or drink, it would take a bit longer to reach the bloodstream, but not by much."

"That means he must have been poisoned right there in the apartment," Greg thought aloud.

"Probably by someone he knew, since there were no signs of forced entry," Grissom added. "I don't think injection was the method of choice—there are no visible needle marks on the body, and no signs of a struggle at the scene. Plus, the neighbours didn't hear anything according to Brass."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest, still staring down at the body. "I bet Sidney didn't even know he was being poisoned until it was too late."

Grissom adjusted his glasses, looking as though he were deep in thought. "Henry—after Hodges is finished with our glass, I want you to test it for liquid nicotine," he declared, pulling off his latex gloves.

"Onto something?" Greg inquired.

"I don't know yet," the man told him. "Let's go. We need to see a woman about some hairs."

Quirking an eyebrow, the young CSI followed his boss out of the morgue. Due to his silence, Greg could tell that Grissom was still deep in thought, so for once he decided not to disturb him and kept quiet until they reached Greg's old DNA lab. When they got there, Wendy—the new DNA tech—greeted them cheerfully from behind her desk.

"Before you ask, yes I'm finished with your hairs," she said, handing Grissom a sheet of paper. "Quite a few of the hairs had skin tags attached, so you guys were lucky in that respect. As you can probably guess, since it was his bed, most of them came back as a match to your victim."

That definitely piqued Greg's interest. "Most?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes. Two of the hairs didn't belong to Sidney Hobbs. Both came from the same person, who happens to be XX," Wendy told them.

"A woman?" Grissom asked, staring at the test results. "As far as we know, the victim didn't have a girlfriend."

"Oh, but it gets weirder," Wendy continued. "I tested the female hairs against the victim's, and they have four alleles in common."

Greg cast a puzzled look at his boss. "Cousin? Half-sibling maybe?" he wondered.

"There was a half-sister that found the body. I remember Brass talking to her outside the apartment."

"Well it looks like she's got some explaining to do," Greg stated, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. "I'll call Brass to bring her in."

Before Greg had the chance to dial the number, however, Grissom took him aside. "I'll call Brass. You head home, Greg. Your shift ended an hour ago, you should be out of here by now."

The Norwegian glanced up at him in alarm. "Grissom, we're right in the middle—"

"I'll keep you posted if anything comes up," the entomologist assured him. "You worked hard today, you deserve some rest."

The last thing Greg wanted to do was clock out, especially with a possible suspect coming in for questioning—even when he reminded himself that Nick was expecting him. It felt too much like giving up and letting Grissom do all the hark work; and that was a notion that didn't settle well in Greg's stomach.

"I can't just leave with this hanging over my head," Greg implored, hoping his boss would understand the feeling he was describing. "I've barely even dipped into my overtime for the month—I'll pull a double, it's no big deal."

"This isn't a request, Greg. It's an order."

Greg couldn't believe what he was hearing. When he plucked up the nerve to meet Grissom's eyes, they were positively unyielding. In response, a tense, angry knot settled in the young man's chest. Even worse, there was nothing he could do about the situation without losing his job.

"Fine," he bristled, feeling angrier than he had in a long time. Carelessly, he pushed past his boss and stalked out of the DNA lab. As he headed down the hallway, Greg could see both Grissom and Wendy watching him go, but he didn't much care. All he could think about in that moment was getting home to Nick.


Ever since the moment Greg walked through the door, Nick felt like he was caught up in an F5 tornado. Even then it was quite clear that something had set the young man off. It wasn't until quite a while later, once Nick was able to calm Greg down a bit, that he squeezed the full story out of his lover.

"Grissom does that all the time, man. It's just his way of making sure everyone still has a life outside of work," Nick explained, stroking Greg's hair. After some firm insistence on Nick's part, the two of them had made themselves comfortable on the couch in his living room. The Texan was sitting up, one arm slung over the back cushions, with Greg's head resting in his lap.

"Yeah, but in the middle of a case?" Greg posed. "Has he ever done that to you?" The hesitation in Nick's eyes was answer enough for Greg. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. "All this time I thought I was earning his respect, but he still sees me as a little kid. What am I doing wrong?"

Nick continued running his hand through Greg's hair, observing the rhythmic rise and fall of the young man's chest as he breathed. "What makes you think you're doing anything wrong? From what I've seen, Greggo, you picked everything up even quicker than I did when I was starting out," he stated, watching his lover's eyes flutter open.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," Greg accused, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Think I'm lying? Call the Dallas Crime Lab right now and talk to my old supervisor," Nick challenged him. "I messed up evidence collection all the time when I was a newbie. The only reason I got to keep my job was because my dad convinced my supervisor not to fire me."

The look on Greg's face was pure skepticism. "There's no way you were ever less than perfect, Nicky—especially at your job. Admit it."

Nick was sure he felt his heart skip a beat. Hoping Greg wouldn't see how flattered he really was, he cracked a grin and asked, "Trying to butter me up for something?"

"No." The young CSI shook his head and pushed himself up into a sitting position. "I like you better un-buttered," he said, hoisting himself into Nick's lap. As of late, it had become apparent to Greg how much his lover enjoyed having him in his lap. Especially when sex was involved.

Nick smiled knowingly, but accepted the young man into his lap all the same. He let his hands wander down the sides of Greg's torso, enjoying the way Greg seemed to shiver under the touch. "Now I really think you're trying to butter me up for something," Nick told him, quirking an eyebrow.

Pouting, Greg hooked his hands around the Texan's neck. "Would that really be so terrible?"

"Depends on what you're asking me for."

Greg stared at his lover dubiously. "Yeah, like there's anything you'd say no to at this point."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The sternness in Nick's tone surprised Greg, whose hands immediately dropped from around the other man's neck.

"I just meant that you've been into everything we've done so far," Greg replied, somewhat defensively. The last thing he'd expected was for Nick to react the way he did—especially when Greg's comment had been intended as a joke. "Even the kinky stuff didn't scare you away," he continued. "I never thought I'd get to share it with anyone I actually cared about."

A loaded silence fell over the room as Nick gazed at the young man straddling his lap. "I want you to be aware, Greg," he began pensively, "that there are some things I would never do." He brought a hand up to the side of the Norwegian's face and cupped his cheek. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of kink, but sometimes it can go too far and that's when people get hurt."

"Trust me, Nicky. I know," Greg asserted.

The expression on Nick's face said that he was not reassured. "Do you, though?" he questioned, fixing Greg in a probing stare. "What about that time with Hodges at his place?"

Greg frowned and pulled Nick's hand away from his cheek. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "'Cause I know you've been trying to bring that up all week."

The Texan sighed. "It's not that specifically. It's the way you always want me and Hodges to hurt you in one way or another."

"So what?" Greg challenged, determined to stand his ground. "Maybe I'm just a masochist." Playfully, he winked at Nick, but his lover clearly wasn't in the mood for jokes just then. "If you're looking for something to discuss," Greg went on, "how about picking fights? You seem awfully good at it these days."

"This isn't me picking a fight with you."

For a moment, the young CSI frowned, as if to disagree. Then, just as quickly, the frown was gone—replaced by a devious expression that Nick recognized all too well.

"So you're not mad at me?" Greg asked, shifting his weight in Nick's lap. The way he moved brought his groin flush against the older man's stomach, allowing Nick to feel how hard he was through the fabric of his jeans.

At that point, Nick was having a difficult time denying his own arousal. But really, who could blame him with a lap full of horny Greg Sanders? He'd have to be a saint not to find that enticing.

Outwardly, Nick released a brief, tense sigh. "Sometimes I'd really like to be mad at you," he admitted. "Not that you'd let me."

Excitement flickering through his eyes, Greg reached down to his waist and slipped open the button of his jeans, feeling his lover watching his every move. "I don't like conflict... when it's not sexual," he purred, slowly lowering his zipper next. Once his boxers were exposed, Greg pushed them down and extracted his cock. "Don't you want to play, Nicky?" he asked, letting his index finger wander over the head of his penis.

The young man's voice had taken on a syrupy tone that shot straight into Nick's bloodstream like adrenaline. All the Texan's worries about Greg's kinky side were instantly placed on the back burner. He could worry all he wanted at a later date—preferably when his lover wasn't propositioning him.

"Of course I do," Nick told him, raking a hand through Greg's hair. A wicked look passed through the older man's eyes. "What was it you were saying before, Greggo? Something about being a masochist?"

"Mmm, yeah," Greg breathed, grinding his hips into Nick. "I've been a bad boy. I need to be punished..."

Nick quirked an eyebrow. He wrapped his hands around Greg's waist, pulling the young man in closer. "Oh yeah? Tell me how you've been bad."

"I let..." the young man began anxiously, "I let Hodges fuck me without a condom again."

"You what?"

Greg stared at the older CSI hopefully. "Don't I deserve to be punished for that, Nicky?" he asked, continuing the rhythmic grinding of his hips. "I disobeyed you."

A million things were running through Nick's mind at that moment. He understood why Greg had chosen to tell him this now—he wanted Nick angry enough to do something to him. The strange part was that as much as Nick wanted to stop their little game and just ask Greg why he needed this, he also wanted to play along. The urge to give Greg what he wanted was so strong that Nick's darker side won out in the end, and he grabbed the young man by his chin.

"Turn over and lay across my legs," Nick barked, watching Greg suddenly come to life with excitement. The young man was quick to comply; he positioned himself across Nick's legs as specified. In doing such, the tip of his erection dug into his lover's thigh, serving as a reminder of how aroused he was.

In one fell swoop, Nick yanked down both Greg's jeans and boxers, leaving his bare ass exposed to the Texan's hungry eyes. "When you're begging me to stop, remember that you asked for this," warned Nick, bringing his palm down hard against Greg's backside.

A loud, startled noise escaped the young man's lips. Before he even had the chance to recover from the shock of the first blow, the second landed in the exact same spot, making him clench his jaw and writhe. After the next couple of hits, Greg's sensitive skin had begun to turn an aggravated shade of pink underneath the CSI's hand. The sight fascinated Nick as much as it aroused him.

"Harder," Greg moaned. Automatically, Nick paused in surprise. He'd expected begging of the opposite variety—not for harder blows. Nonetheless, he obliged, watching on as his lover buried his face in the couch cushions and whimpered.

After a little while, Nick's palm began to get sore. The blows were getting so hard that it was making his hand tingle. He could only imagine how much worse the pain must be for Greg. The Texan still couldn't reason out why his lover was so turned on; all he knew was that Greg's penis felt like a piece of steel jabbing his thigh.

Slowly, Nick ran his hand over the irritated skin, hearing an audible hitch in Greg's breathing. "Tell me you'll stop letting Hodges fuck you bareback or I swear to god, I'll never touch you again," Nick threatened, feeling Greg tense up immediately. "I mean it, Greg. You can't keep doing this."

The young man glanced over his shoulder nervously. "Okay," he said quietly. "I won't, Nicky. I promise."

"You'd better be serious about that, 'cause I'm not playing around."

Greg nodded soberly. In the wake of Nick's words, his arousal-filled haze had promptly lifted. Where earlier his pupils had been dilated in lust, they were now back to normal size, and the flush in his cheeks was gone.

Gently, Nick lifted his lover out of his lap, trying not to think about the disappointment that crossed Greg's face at this gesture. Rising from the couch, the Texan paced back and forth across the living room several times, trying to work off his frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched an embarrassed, unsatisfied Greg tuck himself back into his jeans. He too appeared discouraged by the situation—perhaps even more so than Nick.

With a stiff, awkwardness to him, Greg stood up and grabbed his jacket off the arm of the sofa. He breezed by the other CSI without a word, only stopping at the sound of Nick's voice.

"Greg... you don't have to leave." There was a quiet, pleading quality to Nick's statement. "Stay for a little while. We'll talk about—"

"No," Greg stated, cutting him off. "I think I should go." After a mumbled see you later, the young man headed for the door. Nick frowned, but knew he had to let him go. When the door closed behind him, Nick was once again alone in his apartment. For the first time, however, it felt strangely empty.