January 11th, 2007
|03:35 pm - Ficlet offer/request: deathfics|
I have a feeling that NO ONE is going to take me up on this, but I am bored out of my skull right now, so I might as well ask. :-)
Give me a character, and a cause-of-death (anything from dagger to poison to illnes to old age to another character), and I will write you a little ficlet. Yes, I am in a slightly odd mood.
No promises made as to the seriousness (or hilarity) of said death. I like to switch things up.
Allowable fandoms include anything on my interests (except LotR). I'll make a stab at others, if you know I've seen some episodes (for instance, Law&Order:CI, or Supernatural).
Current Location: work, where else?
Current Mood: bored
Grissom, disease he got from a crime scene. Bonus if he talks to Death. 8-)
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:07 am (UTC)|| |
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
note: yikes. this one got longish, and if you like it, there's a possibility that i might expand this into a proper fic. Grissom and Death is like a weird OTP...
When Gil Grissom opened his eyes for the last time, he thought he was alone.
It was a relief, at first. Since the moment his blood tests had come back positive [for anthrax], he had barely had a moment to himself. If it wasn’t a nurse or doctor, it was a member of his team–bringing him news about the case, or music, or just chatting about how things were going at the lab.
He wondered if this feeling was what it might be like to be an insect under his own microscope. A specimen in a glass jar, on display.
An uncomfortable thought, but there was symmetry to it.
If “he who lives by the sword shall die by it,” then it was only fitting that he who lived to study others should die being studied.
Now, the room was empty. Grissom lay still and focused on his breathing, listening to the echoes of the monitor next to his bed. He wondered whether it meant that he still had hours to wait, hours of shortness of breath, of fever and constant pain; or whether time had run out, until there was simply nothing left that they could do. How much longer?
“Not much,” said a cheerful voice.
Grissom found her leaning against his bedrail on the opposite side from the visitor’s chair. At first blurred glance, she reminded him of Heather–who was, of course, still in jail, and could not possibly be here, even if someone had told her. The slender build, the loose, dark hair, the dark tank top....
He blinked, and she came into clearer focus: the hair looked shorter, the face more familiar. Sara. No–she’d been here, but had gone somewhere, to run an errand, or....
An icy knot settled in his stomach, pushing down the persistent nausea, and making him breathe as deeply as the oxygen mask would allow.
He couldn’t remember where Sara had said she was going.
“Your girlfriend needed the ladies’ room,” the voice said. “I thought I’d keep you company while she’s gone. That’s all.”
Grissom forced his free hand, the one not encumbered by the IV and the pulse-oxygen monitor, to wipe his eyes, and blinked again.
He’d had the general details right, but the silver ankh she wore belonged to neither woman. Though now that he got a good look at her face, he was sure he had met her before. She was pale, with laugh lines around her dark eyes, and perfectly applied black lipstick.
She smiled at him. “Hi.”
“Do I know you?” Grissom tried to make the words clear. Between the pain and the mask, he knew they would be muffled.
The girl seemed to understand him perfectly. “Of course!” she said. “You don’t remember where we met?”
Grissom frowned at her. He couldn’t remember Sara leaving the room, or where she had said she was going, but he did remember this young woman. With startling clarity, in fact, and in places where his common sense told him that she could not have been.
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:15 am (UTC)|| |
Re: Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Yes yes yes yes yes!
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:32 am (UTC)|| |
Re: Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Ooo. Not sure I could ask for a better response. :-) Happy to be of service.
(And if that "yes" is also to the possibility of turning this into a "real" fic...I'm seriously considering it right now.)
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:11 am (UTC)|| |
Because I Could Not Stop for Death, cont.
Kneeling in a holding cell, reaching out a hand to the teenage boy who lay on the floor bleeding out from his wrists. Standing behind a distraught kidnapper as he opened his shirt to reveal a belt of explosives. Stepping between himself and a madman with a raised wrench, as a revolver fired three times.
Sitting cross-legged in the corner of a blood-stained bedroom; reflected in a glass shower door; leaning against the banister of a staircase; a hundred different moments, at a hundred different murder scenes.
In his childhood home, the day he found his father on the couch. As he’d come into the living room, he’d seen her there, and she’d smiled at him over her shoulder.
“I remember you,” he assured her, and had to stop, to breathe, before continuing. “I didn’t realize I had so thoroughly personified death.”
She laughed. “Well, don’t worry too much. It’s not entirely your fault.”
Grissom wasn’t in the mood for more mysteries, and let the cryptic comment pass. “Why are you here?”
For the first time, Death-- He couldn’t call her that. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You’ve been walking in my footsteps for a long time. Let’s just say . . . I thought you might like a proper conversation, before.” She put one elbow on the rail and rested her chin in that hand. “I’ve always had a soft spot for people who make it their life’s work to witness the manner of someone’s death. Usually there’s just me.”
She glanced at the clock across the room, then smiled down at him and rested a warm hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”
Grissom couldn’t help turning his head, to see if Sara had come back in. He thought he would have heard her, but with the beeping monitors and the rush of his own heartbeat loud in his ears, he couldn’t be sure.
The chair, and the room, were still empty.
He closed his eyes and sighed, then turned back to the woman, who had straightened up and was waiting. “No, I’m not ready. But isn’t that how it usually happens?”
“Come on, then.” In one movement, she lowered the bed’s railing, then held out a hand to him.
Grissom took her hand, and let her pull him to his feet.
Sara Sidle was three steps from Grissom’s hospital room she heard a noise like the rustling of great wings. She picked up her pace and was actually in the doorway when the alarms went off.
She had about thirty seconds at his bedside before the medical personnel swarmed in. She took his hand, limp and still warm, in hers. His eyes were closed, his weary face relaxed, so at least he hadn’t gone in pain or too much distress. That was something.
As the attending doctor brushed past her to check Grissom’s vitals, she grabbed him by the coat. “No extraordinary measures. That’s what he said. Okay?” Sara didn’t let go till the doctor had nodded confirmation, and then she sank into the nearest chair, where she could see Grissom’s face, and waited for them to call the time of death.
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:17 am (UTC)|| |
Re: Because I Could Not Stop for Death, cont.