SUMMARY: After doing everything he could to be cool, something always got in the way. Usually, it was him.
A/N: I completely blame someone else for the genesis of this little Ficlet… And five points goes to the person who can name the reference and its source in this story.
REVIEWS: Reviews are the way I know if people are enjoying the work or not. So, if you leave one, THANKS! And if not, I hope you found at least a little something to brighten your day, and thanks for taking the time to read.
Greg's Big Secret
After the incident with the decon shower, Greg had become even more self-conscious about bearing his chest. It was a horrifying experience for him, being stripped, blasted with cold water and decontamination chemicals and then paraded out naked to be handed a departmental coverall to dress in. And all of that happened in full view of Sara Sidle, so he knew that a full description of his chicken body would be disseminated to the whole lab.
Immediately after that traumatic experience, Greg had vowed to improve his physical prowess and appearance. He began working out, changed his diet, starting bulking up… Well, as much bulking up as was physically possible for a pencil neck geek like himself. But there was one last thing that he thought would be the perfect part to his new CSI persona, and that was a bad ass tattoo.
He searched any tattoo art site he could find and still had not found the perfect tattoo. He wanted something that would show his wild side, something that would be impressive to any woman that was given the privilege of seeing him shirtless. He poured through art sites and Swedish mythology and chemistry diagrams desperately trying to find something with meaning that he could have tattooed on his new body.
After all that searching, it came down to one drunken night with a bunch of old college buddies in town for the weekend. Halfway through the requested tattooing, Greg started to sober up as the pain of the process continued. He stopped the artist and told him he was done getting tattooed, and even though the guy tried to warn Greg he still got out of the shop in a hurry with his crew trailing after him.
When Greg woke up some time in the afternoon, he and his buddies sprawled all over his living room, Greg had to wonder why his chest hurt more than his head after all the alcohol he was sure they had consumed. He slowly and painfully got up from the chair and walked to the bathroom. He was not feeling the need to throw up, but he needed to splash some water on his face so he could try to clear his head and figure out what the hell was up with the pain on his chest. The pain was not in his chest, but on it and that just confused the heck out of his seriously hungover mind.
Once the water had been splashed on his face, he blinked his eyes a few times and then flipped on the vanity light in the bathroom. In an amazing moment of clarity the entire night came back into focus as he stared at the loosened bandage on his chest. Peeking out from the top of the bandage was a single flame. Instantly, all the color drained from his face, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the worst as he reached his hand up to reveal the rest of the drunken tattoo.
In one swift move, Greg ripped the rest of the bandage off providing a perfect view of the biggest mistake in his entire life. This made letting Grissom drop a three hundred pound dummy on him, or infecting his foot with mold look like sound and judicious choices. THIS was going to haunt him for the rest of his natural life.
As he stared in disbelief at the most astoundingly stupid thing he had ever done, one of his buddies came in the bathroom and viewed the scene with groggy chuckle. "Dude, that has to be the best drunk story we ever had…" The man with the spiked and yellow hair shook his head as he chuckled. "Greg and his Flaming Nipple of Doom!"
And there it was, Greg had gotten a circle of flames, completely surrounding his left nipple. And two little lines over the right one, from where Greg had stopped the tattoo artist. If he thought his chicken body would have been the source of laughter, he could only imagine the hilarity that a Flaming Nipple was going to cause him.
There was only one thing left for him to do… He grabbed the bottle of tequila sitting on the counter and started pouring it down his throat, because he was not about to be sober when it did this time either. As he walked back into the living room again, he just hoped someone remembered where the tattoo parlor was.