Hey. Hey. Hey. I'm back.
Title: Laminated with Love
Pairing: David Hodges+ Greg Sanders 4-ever
Summary: It involves death threats, stitches, and a little bit of love.
Authors Notes: This is something I haven't done before, and I don't know how I feel about it. Also, I know things in this are completely against protocol and I'm honestly making shit up as I go, so don't think I'm an idiot, because I didn't think this through, so it has no bearing on my mental capacity.
This is a two part story, so enjoy this first part; I don't know when I'll be done with the second.
Laminated with Love
Most of it started when someone made a threat on Hodges life.
He didn't tell anyone, because a) he didn't take it seriously and b) he worked in a crime lab. The only thing that bothered him was that the note was laminated, as if it were something to hang on a fridge. So really, that's what he did. He pulled his ugliest, strongest magnet from the side of the fridge and stuck smack dab in the middle of the door.
He kept coupons under the same magnet, so it was easy to forget about until he went grocery shopping, which only happened once every two weeks.
In essence, he didn't really remember it ever happened.
Until a Nerf dart sailed through the window and hit a picture of him with his mother four weeks later. It was his favorite one, too, because he thought he looked damn good in it. He still didn't want to make a fuss about it, so he heaved a suffering sigh and went to find something to cover the window with.
He had an extra sheet in his closet, and some thumb tacks in the kitchen, so he went to work. He was on the top left hand corner, having pinned the top right hand corner, when someone knocked at his door. He wondered if maybe someone from Home Depot lived in his apartment building and had come to save him. Unfortunately, he had no such luck, and ended up welcoming Captain Brass into his apartment.
He meant to say hi, but ended up saying, "I haven't gotten a chance to clean yet. What are you doing here?"
Brass shook his head. "Your neighbor, who failed to mention she was seventy-six, said she saw an arrow shatter your living room window."
"No, just a Nerf Dart. Probably just some kids." Hodges shrugged and went back to tacking the sheet over the window.
"Hodges," Brass said slowly, "You realize you're living in what might as well be an old folk's community, right?"
"A lot of people around here have grand kids," Hodges said defensively.
"Yeah, and kids would much rather be outside playing than on a computer."
Hodges didn't reply, thinking maybe sarcasm wouldn't be the best thing to throw at someone who skipped through cases holding hands with Grissom. He also didn't notice Hodges had wandered into the kitchen area, which was what he like to think a stylish addition to the living room.
"Hodges, is this a death threat?"
"Nope, it's a birthday card from my mother."
"Does she usually say, 'I will kill you, you piece of shit?'"
Hodges started for the lower corners of the sheets. "She has quite a way with words."
"Have you mentioned this to Grissom? And why is it laminated?"
Hodges couldn't decide between the red thumb tack and the white thumb tack.
Brass didn't say much more, until, "Yeah, Grissom, we got a death threat and a broken window for your boy Hodges." He paused. "Yeah, he said it's from his mother." There were a few beats of silence, after which Brass laughed. "I'm sure he'll love that."
And then the phone clicked.
"He had a poetic mom too, huh?"
"Better. Greg is being assigned the case."
"Sanders? But this isn't a crime scene!"
Brass's eyes burned into Hodges back. "We've got a death threat, a broken window, and a very well aimed Nerf dart that happened to cover your face in the photo."
When he turned to look, Hodges noticed that wow, yeah, the guy had good aim. Or maybe it was a woman. His ex-wife had been so good at throwing valuable belongings at his head.
"But still, Sanders is hardly qualified to handle a case on his own!"
"He's been good as a CSI, and this is hardly a case."
"Then why are you making such a big deal?" Brass sighed. "I'm leaving, Greg will be here soon. I'm expecting you to file a report, through Grissom."
Before Hodges could offer a reply, Brass was gone, leaving him alone and in dire need of a vacuum cleaner. Of course, he'd have to leave it for evidence.
Twenty minutes later he was watching television and sporting a very large bowl of popcorn. He wasn't really enjoying his day off, to be honest, and couldn't help but feel a little bit sour when someone began knocking on his door again.
He answered it with as little flair as possible, hoping his face showed how not in a good mood he was.
Greg didn't notice.
Greg never noticed.
But Greg looked a hell of a lot surprised. "Hodges? They've got you on the scene?"
Hodges was floored. "This is my apartment."
Greg turned white-ish. "Is Grissom trying to set us up?"
"Well, yes. Only, I couldn't find the candles or the champagne, so you'll have to live with a broken window and a death threat."
"Mm. Oh." Greg regained his color, with a little rid tinge to his face. Then he laughed. "Damn, I can't believe no one has ever given you a death threat before."
"Oh, they have, this is just the first time someone has tried to take me out with a Nerf dart." Hodges looked Greg over as he spoke, noting his Structure style clothing and nicely combed hair. "I'm sure it was just some kids, though."
"Dude, you're like the only person under fifty here."
"Low crime rate," Hodges automatically said.
"Not anymore. So why didn't you just process the threat yourself, and have it taken care of?"
"Because no one takes a laminated death threat seriously."
Greg blinked several times. "It's laminated?" His eyebrows bunched together.
It was actually kind of cute, but Hodges totally didn't notice. "No prints, no distinguishing characteristics to determine the writer's gender, age, or origin."
He went to fetch the note from his fridge, but paused halfway taking it down. His eyes narrowed, and he walked back to Greg, who was starting to take pieces of glass for evidence. "Was it you?" He asked shortly.
"Me what?"
"Did you write me a death threat as some sort of joke?"
"No!" Greg looked completely confused, and a little bit hurt by the accusation. As he lifted another piece of glass, it slipped from the tweezers and he very stupidly caught it.
And got blood on Hodges nice, clean carpet.
"Shit!" He looked up at Hodges, then to his kit, then back to Hodges again. "Do you have something?"
"Uh," Hodges said, taken by surprise. He could only watch as the blood dripped from Greg's clenched fist and think, 'Oh God, I did that, that was my fault.' "Yes?"
He walked off stiffly, through his bedroom and into the bathroom, grabbing a hand towel and some peroxide. When he turned around, Greg had wandered into his room, holding his hand to his chest soblood wouldn't fall on the floor.
"Sit," Hodges commanded, and Greg followed through without a word (just a really nasty look). "Okay, hand."
Greg looked around. "But—"
"Just hold out you hand!"
He did as he was told, and when he unclenched his fist, blood was all over his hand, like a little kid who was going to make a hand print on the wall. The first thing he did was take off the glove, trying to ignore Greg's little hisses as it rolled over his fingers. The first three were cut, pretty badly, with a small cut on his thumb.
Hodges unscrewed the bottle of peroxide.
"It's going to make a mess," Greg argued weakly.
"Okay, okay, Miss Sanders, follow me to the bathroom." He pulled Greg up by his good hand, bravely not looking at the blood trail. Once Greg's hand was over the sink, he did his best not to take pleasure in the way Greg let out one huge, high pitched gasp.
He wrapped the towel tightly around Greg's hand. "Before I take you to the hospital," Hodges said slowly, "how do you spell piece?"
Greg took on the deer in the headlights expression, mouth moving soundlessly. "What the—"
"Be a good boy and tell me how piece, as in piece of pie, is spelled."
"Uh, um, p-e-i-c-e. Or wait, maybe its p-i-e-c-e. I don't know," he whined miserably.
"You passed."
"Hoorah," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "Now can I go get some stitches?"
"First, I have to call Grissom."
Greg made a low sound in his throat. "You couldn't have done that when the glass went into my hand?"
"No, I couldn't."
Surprisingly, the younger man deflated and collapsed back on the bed.
Grissom was there in exactly ten minutes, and when Hodges opened the door with a 'Mi casa es su casa' in mind, was greeted with a breathy, "Where's Greg?"
"In my bed."
Grissom nodded as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer. Like yeah, hey, every time someone came to inspect his house, Hodges got them into bed within an hour.
"Look," Hodges said, "I've got to get him to the hospital; can you lock the door behind you?"
The look he received was a blaring, 'well no fucking duh.'
The doctor was sort of sympathetic, humming in a soft tone as he shooed off Greg, pausing to tell Hodges the anesthetic he'd injected at Greg's request was going to last a while, and that Mr. Sanders was not going to be able to chop vegetables for a few days.
Something about post traumatic stress.
The only thing Hodges could think was that he needed to be out of the hospital, and he pried Greg's death grip from his wrist and shooed him towards the parking lot.
Hodges felt chivalrous when he opened the door for Greg, and parental when he helped Greg into the car. "I really am fine," Greg insisted. "I'm barely numb. And I'm not even—"
His eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled onto Hodges chest, which made it very hard to buckle the seatbelt, but cops were very easy to come by in Vegas, so he pretended Greg was a crash course dummy. Which really meant he was rough.
As he maneuvered his hand back around Greg, Hodges fingers skimmed over Greg's hair, which was really, really soft. He didn't see the harm in running his hands through it, watching the gold and brown tufts fall through his fingers.
He jumped like hell when Greg mumbled, "Huh?"
"You had something in your hair," Hodges muttered stupidly.
Greg smiled slowly, and his eyelids fluttered once more, but didn't open. "Must have been a big something," he murmured.
"Huge," Hodges muttered. He turned around, but stopped short, eyes growing huge. He couldn't breath.
"You had something on your ass," Greg said simply.
Hodges took a deep breath and blamed it on the meds. Or, he figured, four stitches to a finger could do that to a man.
He shut Greg's door softly and walked around the car, feeling completely dazed. And as he started the car, and pulled out of the hospital, he found himself wishing that Greg would not remember a single thing.
And then he prayed that he would forget it as well.
There were three cops on the way back to Hodges' place, all going slowly enough to make him feel as if he was speeding, which in turn made him slow down, which, in the end, just made the ride five minutes longer.
The unconscious passenger was completely silent, which seemed like a Godsend until they were back at the apartment complex. Hodges had no idea what to do, since Greg wouldn't wake up.
He would not wake the fuck up, and it was getting late. Two hours of waiting, and one of surgery, and Hodges was ready to call it a night. He supposed he could leave Greg in the car, but that would be mean even for him. And maybe it wasn't nice, but Hodges woke up Greg the only way he knew how.
He poked Greg's hand.
Hard.
"Mother fucker!"
"Come on, Sanders, this is your wake up call. We're back at my place, you can go home now."
Red rimmed eyes opened to him, and really, it just brought out the green in Greg's eyes. "The doctor said I shouldn't drive tonight."
Hodges glared. "I've gotten stitches before, and I could drive just fine."
"Wasn't that the week your car got totaled?"
"That's never happened."
"It seemed like a viable point anyway."
"You don't get my bed."
Greg huffed and cried, "I just got stitches!"
"I don't care if Gandhi pulled brass knuckles on you. The bed is mine."
"Rock paper scissors?" Greg asked hopefully.
"Fine."
There was a very pregnant pause at that. Greg grinned wolfishly, his teeth flashing in an attractive but slightly scary way. "Okay. Here we go. Rock, paper, scissors."
Greg chose paper, and Hodges chose rock. He was floored.
Greg was also howling with laughter. "I have four stitches in three of my fingers, how was I going to do scissors or rock?"
One thought occurred to Hodges; not even a laminated death threat could make him feel stupider.
-End part 1 of 2-
Tell what you think so far, if I should even continue this.
Bon voyage for now.