| Title: The Florence Nightingale Effect
Author: Scarlet Pairing: Nick/Greg Rating: R Archive: Ask and you shall receive. Feedback: Oh please, yes, yes, yes! Email: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com Authors Web Site: www.oocities.org/scarletsfiction Disclaimers: I don’t own CSI. Quite obviously. Authors Notes: No real spoilers, per se. Thanks to Katie for the beta. Summary: Nick is hurt (sort of) and Hodges tries to help (sort of) and everyone’s the better for it (sort of). He didn’t figure it would hurt so much, a glorified paper cut. But cardboard cuts deeper than paper. Wider, too. And Nick is spitting mad that he chased the perp into the warehouse instead of just waiting for him to reemerge like Catherine said. Mad and embarrassed, which is why he’s standing under the showers at two a.m. instead of basking in the tepid warmth of Ecklie’s praise for a job well done. Nick wiggles his toes in the streams of pinkish water flowing from his elbows. For some reason it’s where the blood from each nasty cut seems determinedly drawn. As sweat rinses from him, its salty agony reminds him again to always listen to what Catherine says and he mutters under the staccato of the shower, “She’s always right.” “Who’s always right?” Nick’s head snaps up and his heart thunders. It’s a natural reaction to being caught talking to yourself and he blushes, grateful that he’s already red from the warm, pounding water. “Catherine.” He smiles ruefully at David Hodges, who is sitting on a bench, fully-dressed in the locker room. “Shoulda taken her advice.” He holds out his arms and Hodges twists his face in disgust. “If you’re open to advice all the sudden, might I make some suggestions? I’d start with your cologne and go from there—“ “Can it, Hodges.” Nick dips forward to take one final rinse and makes a mental wish that Hodges will be gone when his eyes open. Whoever grants wishes isn’t shining her luck on him today, though. He turns off the shower. “So, about that cologne. If asphyxiation was the effect you were going for—“ “Why are you here, Hodges?” “Free country.” Nick glares at him. It’s the look he’s honed after years of working with careless crooks and murderers. He’s pissy and short-tempered and the cuts are still bleeding, seeping into the puddles of water on his arms and running down his waist. “Get out of my way. I need a towel.” “You need a lot more than a towel.” Isn’t that the truth, Nick thinks. His body is still thrumming with adrenaline and he’s highly aware of being naked. He doesn’t mind that part; he’s got a good body and showing it off doesn’t embarrass him. He *would*, however, like to be alone sometime soon to take care of it. Hodges shrugs. “Catherine told me to bring you this.” Nick scrubs water from his eyes and steps closer. He can’t see for shit without his contacts in, but he wouldn’t tell Hodges that. Or anyone else for that matter. Hodges is carrying a first aid pouch and he shakes it gently. “Dr. Hodges, at your service.” Nick grunts and reaches for a towel. “You know, the doctor part is true. I hold a doctorate in biochemistry and physics.” “I’m fine, Hodges. Move.” Hodges has managed to neatly block all avenues that would bring Nick to his clothes and freedom. “You’re bleeding like a stuffed pig, Stokes. You’re going to bandage those all by yourself?” “A ‘stuck’ pig.” Nick is clutching a wet towel at his waist. It’s turning an odd shade of pink in some places where gravity is drawing the blood and water downward and into its absorbent folds. With a nod, Nick acquiesces. He’s not up to an argument tonight. At least not with Hodges. Barfight he might be able to stomach, lay some guy out with one punch. Show them how a queer’s not a queer if he can hit like Tyson— “You’re wet. The Band-Aids don’t stick if you’re wet.” Hodges grabs a stack of clean towels and gestures for Nick to sit on the long wooden bench running between rows of lockers. Then he proceeds to dry Nick’s arms. The rough cotton scratches over tender skin. “Geez! Don’t push so fuckin’ hard!” “Nice, Stokes! You kiss your mother with that mouth? Never figured you for a baby. The guys in Trace are gonna love—lift your arm, please.” Without relaxing his brutal strokes, Hodges finishes drying Nick’s arms, leaving a pile of blood-streaked towels on the floor. “You’re a slob, man. When janitorial finds out you did that—“ “*I* did that? *I* did that? I wasn’t the one charging into a cardboard factory alone in the dark. Corrugated cardboard is a bastard on the hands. Haven’t you ever moved before?” “How’d you know it was a cardboard factory?” “Catherine. “ “Oh.” Nick paused. “And yes, I’ve moved boxes.” “What happened when you were done? Did you just rip them open with your bare hands, Mr. Perfect?” “No, I used a box opener, Hodges, like everyone else.” “Hold still.” Hodges has the case open; bottles and tubes of products Nick has never used before begin to litter the bench. Usually he’d use a Band Aide. Maybe some rubbing alcohol like Nana Stokes used when he was little, but Hodges has bottles and scissors and tape. “They’re just papercuts, not surgery.” Hodges shakes his head, exasperated. “You always want things quick and easy, don’t you? Now turn your arm this way.” He hefts Nick’s arm toward his body so the inner damage is revealed. “Shit.” Hodges hisses it low and its intensity startles Nick, who hadn’t realized the damage was so bad. “I’m not sure I’ll be enough. You might want to get this one looked at.” As he coats the wound with ointment and gauze, Nick surreptitiously glances at the top of Hodges’ head. His critical eye notes that he needs a haircut. Jackie would do a good job, or Chantal, but he’ll never to tell Hodges that he gets his hair cut at a salon on the strip. He’d rather take a second run at the box factory. “Why didn’t you wait for Warrick? It sounded dangerous, what you did.” Nick’s not sure, really. Something about adrenaline and glory. Or foolishness and stupidity, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, Hodges’ hair is too long, but it’s shiny and looks surprisingly soft. It smells good, too. Like fruit or flowers or something. “Did you just sniff my neck?” “No.” “You did. I think you sniffed my neck.” He could cop to a lesser charge of hair-sniffing, but decides to try and beat the rap. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Now, could you get a move on, Florence Nightingale? I don’t know what you’re doing but you’re sure taking a fucking long time to do it.” “Shut up. Your bandages have to be secure or they’ll tear off when you get dressed. Then you’ll have to do this all over again.” Nick becomes acutely aware of his lost clothes as Hodges reaches across his body for the other arm. “Woah—Why don’t you just switch sides?” Nick scowls. “All of my stuff is here. Why don’t *you* switch sides?” “Cause I’m the injured party.” But Nick concedes, clutching the damp towel at his waist with one hand while he stands and tries to keep the second arm elevated. As he sits down on the other side of Hodges’ pile, a drop of blood speckles the floor. “Now I’m going to tell the cleaning staff that they have to watch the Blood Borne Pathogens safety video AGAIN because one of our CSIs was too twitchy to let a guy touch him. But don’t worry. A couple of sit ups a day, work on that Bowflex of yours, and no one will mistake your manhood again.” “Damn, why do you have to be that way, Hodges? You just—you drive people crazy. You don’t *think* before you talk.” The adrenaline is kicking in in all new ways now. He’s itchy for a fight. His palms sweat. “Sor-ry,” Hodges whines and begins dressing the cuts on his other arm. Nick feels the twitch of pre-fight energy burn off, mellow. It’s replaced with an odd kind of shame. “I’m not trying to be a dick, man, it’s just you can’t make friends when you’re so fucking rude.” Hodges chuckles mirthlessly. “Is that why you think I’m here? I’m trying to be friends?” “No. I know—Catherine told you to. Still…” He doesn’t know what else to say. They’re quiet for a moment. “I’ve got plenty of friends, you know. Tons. They don’t work here, though. You wouldn’t know them.” “Right. Look, I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t—“ “Yes, you did. It’s okay. I might have been…was an ass.” An apology from Hodges’ mouth is enough to stun Nick quiet while the other man finishes his work. Hodges’ manner is obtuse, but his fingers are delicate. They pluck and tear and bandage with ease and Nick wonders why he never noticed the trio of freckles below Hodges’ left eye. “All done,” Hodges says. Nick stretches his arms experimentally. “I look like a mummy.” Nick stands and wads up the towel at his waist, shooting it toward the laundry shoot for a 3-point victory Warrick would be proud of. He turns to claim his clothes but Hodges is there, ointment in hand, mouth gaping open. It snaps shut with a start and Hodges hurriedly stuffs the rest of the products into the kit, but it’s too late. “Were you just staring at my ass?” Hodges scoffs. “Not everyone is enamoured with your ass, Stokes.” “But *you* are.” Nick is grinning, grateful to finally get something right tonight. “You wish.” His voice is distasteful but Nick notices that Hodges doesn’t look him in the eye. “You know, it’s okay. You’re not the first guy to stare at my ass. It’s a nice ass.” He enjoys the squirm that ensues as Hodges snorts his contempt. Oh, he’ll have fun with this game for a week or two. “If you like my ass, you should really check out my package. I’m told it’s pretty nice.” Hodges blushes, an event Nick thought he’d never be witness to. “Don’t tell me I’m offending you, Hodges. Not after your reenactment in front of Ballistics last week about that Vietnamese masseuse that—“ “I lied.” “Huh?” “I lied.” “Yeah, we thought so. Actually, Wiston bought it, so I guess that means most of Ballistics—“ “No, I mean I lied earlier. Catherine didn’t tell me to come down here. I did it on my own.” Nick is still, not sure what this admonition is supposed to mean. He’s conscious of his clothes, in a neatly folded pile only an arms length away. He’s aware of his skin, damp and hurting and beginning to tingle. He’s mindful of Hodges, standing still and silent. “Now why would you do that?” He wants to make it sound condescending, insulting as Hodges is insulting, but it comes out too husky, barely above a whisper, and he curses himself. “Don’t know. Thought you’d need the help. And I was right, you know.” He waggles his finger at Nick, who’d like to break it right about now. Or possibly just walk away and leave, like Hodges should be doing. “So you thought I’d need help?” “Yeah.” “And the reason you didn’t just say that?” Hodges shrugs. “Uh-huh.” Nick licks his lips, which gets Hodges’ attention in a hurry. “You know, thinking your ass is—” “Hot.” “—mildly attractive is completely normal.” “It is?” “Completely. From a purely scientific aspect, the Florence Nightingale Effect is a legitimate psychological complex.” “The Florence Nightingale Effect?” “You know, where people who are entrusted with the care and wellbeing of vulnerable patients begin to form a romantic, and often erotic, attraction towards their charges.” “So…you’re staring at my ass because you’re suffering from a psychological complex.” “Yes.” “That’s…lame.” “It’s not lame. It’s science.” “Just say you want to look at my ass, Hodges.” “I do *not* want to look at your ass.” “Just a peek.” “No.” “It’ll do you good. Put hair on your chest. Make you a man.” “That’s drinking alcohol, you cretin.” Hodges tries to move, but Nick shimmies discretely into his line of sight. “That’s it. I’m leaving.” Hodges slams the kit closed begins to stomp angrily toward the door while Nick laughs. “Aw, come on…” Hodges shakes off the hand that takes him by the shoulder. “Hey, Hodges. Come on, don’t get pissed, man. I’m just kidding.” Nick tries again to stop the tech from stomping, childlike, to the door. Suddenly Hodges whirls around, sliding a hand behind Nick’s head and pulling him down until their lips meet in an awkward kiss. Nick pushes away after a moment and Hodges rubs his mouth petulantly. “Why’d you stop?” “David Hodges, you do *not* want to play this game.” “Maybe I do.” His words might be perceived as seductive, if it weren’t for the fact that they’re delivered like a spoiled teenager. “Uh-huh.” Nick smiles. Oh, yes, he’ll *really* have fun with this game. He clutches Hodges by his navy blue Members Only jacket and slams him against the wall of lockers. “Ow! What the hell are you—“ Nick attacks his mouth with frenzy, licking and biting at Hodges lips. One hand slides directly between Hodges legs and *grinds* while the other slides under his shirt and jacket to pinch at a nipple. Hodges’ left leg is flailing vainly, as though not sure whether it is supposed to wrap around Nick’s legs or kick him in the ass. Nick breaks away and steps back. Hodges’ face is red and stubble-burned. His mouth is swollen and he’s sweating unattractively. Nick takes a few steps back and gathers his clothes, dressing quickly. As he leaves, he passes Hodges who is still pressed against the lockers with his mouth hanging open resembling one of those pale pink kissing fish. Nick claps him firmly on the back. “You take care of that Florence Nightingale Effect, you hear?” Hodges nods and grunts out a tiny, “Okay” in reply. The End |
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