Title: Triumph
By: staticdisturbed
Rating: PG
Summary: A quick one-shot in which Greg permanently declares a victory over the trials of his time since he came to Las Vegas. And Nick is there for moral support :)

***

He'd always wanted one, ever since he was a teenager discovering rebellion in the pages of SPIN magazine and in the mosh pits at concerts he wasn't supposed to be attending. Nothing had ever seemed important enough though, not until now.

Nick seems a bit queasy with the whole process and Greg can't help but laugh at the fact that a man who can handle a decomposed body with barely a suppressed gag gets weird about needles.

"In any extreme pain? With a piece this big it's not a big deal to take a small break," the artist offers. Greg shakes his head.

It stings, but not like the heat of exploding chemicals on his back or shards of glass in his palms. Not like skin grafts and long nights in the burn unit where there are children missing limbs with disfigured faces.

There is no comparison between this discomfort and the feeling of standing in front of a computer screen and watching the only person you have ever loved, the only person you have ever let get close enough to hold you, struggle to stay alive inside a Plexiglas coffin. This is nothing like feeling completely and utterly helpless.

The pain is nothing when weighed against the feel of ten sets of boots crunching his ribs and the delicate bones of his fingers, fists cracking his nose; being left in an alley bleeding internally and externally and not knowing if he would ever see his love again.

None of it matches the anguish of watching Demitrius die, of being called a killer, of having his own department throw him under the bus and dump a payout in the hands of a criminal's family. This tiny needle penetrating his skin cannot hold a candle to the terror of waking up in a cold sweat every night, images of a dead teenager haunting him everywhere he goes.

When it is finished he stands in front of a large full-length mirror and they hold a series of handheld mirrors at strange angles until his back reflects perfectly in one.

"It's perfect," he declares.

Done in elegant, curling script the thick black letters stretch the word 'Triumph' across the expanse of Greg's broad swimmers shoulders, large and bold and unafraid. The flesh surrounding the permanent declaration is an angry pink. Most of the scars are lower, centered on the small of his back. There are a few however that tendril upwards and into his hairline; sneak perfectly between the letters that now mark him forever as a fighter, a survivor.

"That didn't take too long, huh?" the artist questions, snapping off plastic gloves and smiling.

Greg shakes his head and can't help but grin at Nick. It had felt like a lifetime, but there was still plenty of it left to enjoy.

***