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Chapter Two

To endure is the first thing that a child ought to learn, and that which he will have the most need to know.
(Jean Jacques Rousseau, 1762)


"So what happened?"

Warrick shook his head. "Hell if I know. Heard a crash, went to check it out, and Nick's throwing shit around. I grabbed him and got out of there."

Grissom stared at him. "So he destroyed a microscope, exposed you both to hazardous chemicals, and he didn't ever say what was wrong? This is Nick we're talking about?"

"I know. Believe me."

"Nearly puts both of you in the ER, for what? Never mind." Grissom sighed. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No problem."

"Let me know if there is a problem, okay?"

"There is. Nick."

Grissom leaned back in his chair.

"What's with him these days?" Warrick made a face. "I mean, he does the job, you know, but it's like working with his evil twin."

"How so?"

"Cath tell you about yesterday?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "She didn't mention anything, no."

"Look," Warrick said, lacing his fingers together. "I'm not trying to cause the guy some more problems. You know, I mean, he's had a rough gig lately."

"Nigel Crane."

"Yeah."

"That happened six months ago. You think it's related?"

"I don't know. But Cath told me he kinda freaked last night."

"In what way?"

"Went mano-a-mano with McAda over evidence. Said he'd messed with the scene."

"Detective McAda?"

"One and the same. Not somebody you want to fuck with, but Cath says before she knew it somebody punched somebody. Word has it Nick wasn't the one getting punched, either."

Completely at a loss for words, Gil finally nodded. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know."

"Yeah, well, just send somebody else next time he decides to fumigate the lab, okay?"

"Will do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I didn't tell you because I didn't think it was an ongoing problem."

"But you know I have to do a report, anytime something like this happens."

Catherine's face was completely expressionless. "Understood."

Grissom frowned. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"No." She shook her head.

"Because covering for him isn't going to help him. Not in the long run."

"There's no long run, Gil. It was just that one thing."

"Do you think he has some kind of problem going on?"

She didn't reply immediately. He felt as if he could hear her sorting through ways to reply. Finally she said, "I think Nick's -- not as good at hiding his emotions as we are. And sometimes things creep out."

"Question is, was it the case, or something else?"

"I couldn't say."

Couldn't, or wouldn't, he thought about asking, but didn't. "Keep me apprised?"

"Sure."

He watched her walk out, and then he stared at the empty corridor outside
his office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It won't happen again."

"That's fine, Nick. But it doesn't explain why it happened this time."

Nick regarded him impassively. "Don't you ever get mad about any of this?"

"Of course I do. You know that."

"But you keep doing the job. What's so different about me?"

Gil nodded slowly. "Feeling better now?"

"Good to go."

"Could you maybe not break anything tonight?"

The smile on Nick's face was polished, bright, and completely empty. "I'll do my best."

"Nick, are you sure you're okay?"

One smile, gone. "Why do you ask?"

"Isn't it pretty self-evident?"

"Not really, no," Nick shot back, brows drawn together over thunderous eyes. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Fill out the incident report?"

"Yep."

"Leave McAda alone, Nicky. You don't want to get messed up with him."

Nick snorted, shrugging. "Heard about that, huh."

"Yeah. Regardless of how you may feel about his methods --"

"Look, I just did what everyone else here wants to do," Nick interrupted harshly. "You saying you blame me?"

Gil drew a deep, careful breath. "I'm saying I want you to control your temper. That's all."

This time Nick's smile was absolutely cold. "Duly noted. Sir."

"How's your hand?"

Nick stared at him, and then looked at his hands. "Fine. Look, if we're done here, I got work to do." He raised his eyebrows. "We done?"

Gil nodded. "Yeah," he replied slowly. "Yeah. We're done."

It only occurred to him later to wonder why Nick had looked at his left
hand first, when the cut was on his right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

"Once, during Prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water."
(W.C. Fields)

It all would have been just fine, if Mike McAda had left him the fuck alone.

The guy was bent, everybody knew it. Nobody did anything about it because, well, you didn't, with guys like McAda. What you did was walk softly, do the best you could, and hope like hell you didn't catch his eye.

Of course, punching him right in his lying mouth had pretty much assured Nick caught McAda's eye. Thing was, it didn't make him mad, not like Nick and everyone expected.

Instead it got Nick a job offer.

"I'm serious. Just think about it, all right? S'all I ask."

Nick just stared at him. "You gotta be shitting me," he managed after a moment.

That easy smile, that so many people underestimated. People who didn't know McAda, that was. "No shit, I swear to God." He raised his hands. "Way I figure it, I either sue your ass, or get you on my team. Lawsuits make me cranky. So there it is."

"I'm not a cop," Nick returned in a clipped voice, stomping on the impulse to hit the guy again. Once he could get away with, evidently; twice was really pushing it. Even these days he didn't feel like courting that kind of trouble. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"But you were. Back in Dallas, right?"

"You checked me out?"

"Yeah," McAda shot back flatly, smile still in place. "I checked you out. The offer's on the table. You think about it, all right, Nicky?"

"I don't have to. I'm happy where I am."

McAda's eyebrows lifted. "Yeah, well, if that's happy, I don't wanna see you when you're pissed off."

"In that case, I suggest you leave."

Instead of bristling, McAda laughed at that, not jeering, something like genuine appreciation. "You're gonna fit right in, man. You say the word, you're in. I'll check with you later this week."

Nick couldn't think of anything to say to that. He went back to his microscope with a vague sense of irritation. What the fuck good did it do, all this poking around, using tweezers to pick up minute traces of shit, and people still got away with half the stuff they did. Waste of time.

"I take it you didn't punch him again."

Nick glanced over at Catherine, standing by the door. "Not yet," he replied thinly, and went back to his 'scope.

"Nick, what's the matter? What's going on?"

Trust Cath to bulldoze her way through the niceties. Nick put down the slide he was adjusting and crossed his arms. "Why do you ask?"

She came over to lean against the table. He hated the look on her face. Once upon a time he would have called it concern. Now it was just damned annoying. "I think you know the answer to that," she said. "Are you in trouble? You want to talk about it?"

"No, and no. You want a heart to heart? Catch me after work, because I got a lot of stuff to do."

Her expression didn't change. "What did McAda want?"

"What difference does it make?" he countered easily. "He's no different from just about anybody else."

"He's crooked, Nick. And you pissed him off. Why you --"

"He looks after his own best interests," Nick interrupted, faintly surprised at how honest the words felt. "If you don't do that, who's gonna do it for you?"

She stared at him. "You really believe that?"

He snorted. "I don't disbelieve it."

"That why you punched him?"

A faint headache began pulsing behind his eyes. "Maybe. Look, Catherine, I don't have time for twenty questions, all right? Just -- let it be. Okay?"

"Okay, Nick." Catherine nodded slowly, her expression pinched. "Sure, I'll leave it alone. Till next time. You got that?"

"Oh, yeah," Nick whispered, and smiled. "I got it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He met Persimmon at a club. He couldn't quite remember which one. The last of several that night, evidently.

He thought Persimmon was a pretty bizarre name, and told her as much, when the music got to a point where they could actually yell loud enough to be heard.

"My parents are freaky," she screamed at him, flashing perfect orthodontic teeth.

"They named you for a fruit?"

"My sister got it worse."

"I'm scared to ask."

"Fuschia. Everybody called her Fuckya in school."

"That's kind of sad."

"It's fucking hilarious. You can call me Persie if you want."

He danced with Persie and drank a lot of well bourbon, and even though he was pretty sure she was stoned on something, he had no idea what, she was extremely pretty in a kind of goth way, had what appeared to be a spectacular body, and it was really easy to go home with her. She fucked as energetically as she danced, body just as great as advertised, and there were worse ways to spend the night.

She woke up cranky, and while he went for coffee she went for drugs. They met back up in her bohemian-trash apartment and did their respective shit.

"You should try this," Persie told him, grinning at him and pinching his leg with her toes.

"I don't do that," he said.

"Well, you oughta. Loosen up some, something. You're really cute when you're not all tense."

He glared at her. "And you're fucking stoned."

"Yes. Yes, I am." She grinned and flopped back on the bed, spreading her arms and legs and showing him a lot of that very wonderful body. "Life's too short to endure it sober, Nick-eeee."

After a while they fucked again, still pretty nice all things considered, and after she lifted herself up on one elbow and asked, "You mean you never tried *anything*?"

He wiped sweat off his upper lip. His crotch actually kind of hurt; maybe she was TOO athletic. "Nope."

She giggled. "You're a virgin."

"Give me a fucking break."

"Nick-eeee's a virgin...."

He sat up and scrounged around for his shorts. "I gotta go."

"Don't pout. Please?" Persie -- what a fucking STUPID nickname -- slid over and insinuated herself into his lap. "Come on. I want to introduce you to my friends."

He shoved her off and stood to pull up his shorts. "I got work this afternoon."

"It'll be fun." She sat up naked on the bed and crossed her legs, looking hot and painfully young at the same time. "You gotta meet Brandon."

"Some other time." He picked up his jeans.

"So call me when you get done." She was entirely unswayed by what he thought was him being kind of an asshole. Either she didn't notice or she didn't care, and he had no idea which. "We can go to a party."

"What party?"

She grinned and shrugged, making her breasts bob nicely. "There's always a party."

"Yeah, I'll call you," he said insincerely, after buttoning his jeans. Persie pounced on his shirt before he could grab it.

"I'll keep this hostage till you do," she told him, and started putting it on.

What the hell. He didn't much care about that shirt anyway. "Okay. See you."

"Bye, Nick-eeee."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So you a cop or what?"

"Used to be," Nick said distantly, surveying the room. As filled with aromatic smoke as it was, he wasn't actually sure how many people were there. Too many, though.

"It shows," Brandon informed him genially.

Nick turned his stare at him. "Why, because I'm not a stoner?"

"Because you're way fucking tense." Brandon was good-looking, in a kind of dissolute way. A rich-kid-gone-bad sort of way. "You need to lighten up, or you're gonna stroke out or something."

"And that would be by taking something, I assume."

"Perse says you've never done anything."

"Actually that's not true," Nick replied calmly, and sipped his beer. "I spent half my life on Ritalin."

Brandon nodded. "Vitamin R, man. You can score that, too, you know."

"No thanks."

"Bad student?"

"Sort of. Ritalin helped."

"So when'd you stop taking it?"

"When I went to the police academy. Drug testing."

"It's legal."

"Not without a prescription."

Brandon's inscrutable smile broadened, and Nick switched back to watching Persie gyrate to the blaring music. She still had on his shirt. It looked pretty cute on her, actually.

"Here."

Nick glanced over and frowned. "What the hell is that?"

Brandon just shrugged. "It's the grownup version of Ritalin."

"Keep it."

"One bump, Nicky."

"Don't call me Nicky."

"Why not, it's your name, isn't it?"

"Whatever."

Brandon grasped Nick's hand. "Here," he repeated, stuffing the foil packet in Nick's palm and closing his fingers over it. "If you get the urge. That's all."

Persimmon sauntered over and kissed Nick's cheek demurely. She smelled like smoke and booze and a sweet, delicious perfume. "Brandon's not a dealer," she whispered in his ear. "Brandon's just a drug pimp." Nick drew back and stared at her, and she grinned. "He wants us all to have a good time. That's all."

"I don't have to be loaded to have a good time."

"Whatever you say, Nicky-pie."

He did a line of whatever Brandon had given him, about two o'clock a.m. What the hell. Did it really matter, anyway? He looked up at Brandon and Persie and blinked tears out of his eyes. "That hurts."

They wore identical smiles. "Not for long," Brandon said equably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Four

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning)


He'd had a few cases slip through his fingers over the years. More than a few, if he were absolutely truthful. The reasons were as varied as the crimes themselves: witnesses suddenly forgot what they'd seen; the evidence wasn't there; sometimes criminals were actually smart enough to get away with whatever they'd done.

But he hadn't had to contend with his current situation very often, and he wasn't happy to face it now.

"It's what?" Gil asked, staring.

Catherine gave him a pissed-off glare. "Missing. M-I-S-S-I --"

"I can spell it. Somebody lost it in the lab?"

"Ballistics says they never got it."

"A shell casing? Of course they got it."

"No. They didn't."

Gil sat back in his chair. "You worked this with Nick, right? Does he know what happened?"

"Well, I'd ask HIM that, but since he isn't here yet and isn't answering his cell phone, I'm having trouble doing it."

"So somewhere between the scene and here the evidence got lost?"

Catherine sat down and shook her head grimly. "Ballistics got an empty bag."

Gil just looked at her.

"Somebody took the shell casing out before it made it to ballistics," she added rather unnecessarily.

"That's a hell of an allegation, Catherine," Gil said slowly.

"It's not an allegation, it's a statement of fact!" she shot back. "I'm not saying who, I'm just saying what. No casing, and unfortunately that was the only one we found. Makes sense, seeing as how the victim only had one HOLE in him --"

"Calm down, all right? Look, Nick'll be here soon. Talk to him, see what he says."

It did divert Catherine a little, but the sinking feeling in Gil's belly didn't go away. And it got worse about an hour later, when Nick and Catherine showed up at his office. Catherine looked just about as pissed off as Gil had ever seen her, and Nick -- Well.

"I didn't screw anything up," Nick stated right off the bat. Arms crossed, looking pale and angry and more than a little alarmed. "I know I didn't."

"So how do you explain this, huh?" Catherine gave him a stare that should have crisped the shirt off him. "That might have been the ONLY piece of evidence we found that could have given us an idea of who the shooter was. The only one! And --"

"What happened, Nick?" Gil interjected in his calmest voice. "Take me through it."

"Nothing happened. We went over the scene, I found the shell casing --"

"Where'd you find it?"

"About twenty feet from the victim. I figure the shooter either didn't think to grab it or didn't have time."

Gil nodded. "And then?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "What do you think? I bagged it, sealed it, labeled it! Procedure!"

"And you turned it in?"

"Along with about fifteen other items, yeah." He shot Catherine a fiery look. "Any of which might be crucial, not just this one."

"But ballistics never got the casing. Could you have sealed it improperly? Maybe it --"

"I know how to do my job," Nick cut in sharply. His face was flushed now. "Even if Catherine thinks I don't. That shell casing was in the evidence bag."

"Fact remains, it was your job to make sure it went where it was supposed to go," Gil said evenly. "So what happened? Could someone have tampered with your materials at the crime scene? Once you were back here at the lab?"

"No. No, of course not. I do it by the book. You KNOW that, I don't --"

"Have you looked around your vehicle? Was that the car you took to the scene?"

"We drove separately," Catherine told him in a somewhat quieter voice. "I was already out; Nick met me there."

Gil nodded and looked back at Nick. "So?"

Nick gave a faintly theatrical sigh. "I don't HAVE to look, Grissom, I know it isn't there. If it got lost you better be asking ballistics who screwed it up, all right?"

"We will, believe me. But in the meantime, check your vehicle. Look," Gil added when the man gave him a surprisingly venomous look. "This is procedure, too, and you know that. If we don't find it in your vehicle, you go back to the scene and --"

"Yeah, I know. Whatever."

Sudden anger made Gil's heart speed up. "Take some responsibility, Nick," he said sharply. "I have a lot less trouble with screwups than I do denials. Got that?"

Gazing at him, Nick said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Yeah. Got it."

"Go check. Let me know what you find."

He waited until Nick was down the hall, and then glanced at Catherine. "Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

Her previous temper had cooled; she looked uneasy now, brow furrowed. "I have no idea. I want to believe him, but --" She broke off. "I don't know."

"Was he doing good work that night? Did you see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Gil, we've worked together for years. I don't watch over his shoulder every minute. I trust him."

Gil took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Me, too. I'll go over to ballistics, see what I can find out." He looked at her again. "Any reason to suspect this shooting was something other than what it appeared to be?"

Catherine paused, and then shook her head. "Nah. Pretty straightforward gang shooting, from all appearances."

Gil nodded. "And?"

"Just -- The victim was Javier Montelongo. When I started looking into his background I found out he sometimes did some extracurricular activity."

"What kind?"

"Occasional police informant."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "So he pissed somebody off. Somebody found out. It happens."

"Add in Mike McAda," Catherine said softly. "I started to make some connections."

"Whatever else you can say about McAda, and that's a lot, my understanding is that he protects his sources pretty fiercely. What reason might he have?"

"I don't know. Probably just a coincidence."

Gil smiled faintly. "Maybe not. Look into it, okay, but keep it on the QT. I'm pretty sure I don't have to tell you why."

"Right. Nick's already pissed him off; I'm not looking for more trouble."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He spent fifteen minutes in ballistics. Didn't need longer; the empty evidence bag and Nick's prints spoke clearly enough.

His cell phone rang just as he was leaving.

"It's me."

"You looked in the car?"

There was a long pause, and finally Nick muttered, "Yeah."

"And?" Gil stopped in the hallway, concentrating. "Nick?"

"I found the casing under the passenger seat. Damn it, I SEALED it! There is no WAY that could have come open."

"It doesn't matter how," Gil said tightly. "What matters is the evidence. You know you won't be able to use it now."

"I didn't. Screw. This up," Nick told him in a soft, angry voice.

"So who did?"

"I don't know! All right? I just know it wasn't me!"

Later Gil thought about how he might have changed the entire subsequent course of events by saying one simple thing. I believe you. But nothing stopped him from saying what he actually said, which was, "Be that as it may, I'm holding you accountable for it. Your evidence, your responsibility."

After a tiny, shocked pause Nick whispered, "That's not fair. I told you the truth!"

"Go get Catherine and go back to the scene," Gil told him. "See what you can find. And Nick? I don't want this to happen again. All right?"

"Right," Nick grated before hanging up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was morning before he had the chance to speak with Catherine again. This time she looked exhausted, eyes shadowy with doubt. "So?"

"Nothing. Site's clean. Like I said, Montelongo took one bullet. That casing was the only connection."

Gil nodded. "Nick still saying he didn't screw it up?"

Catherine shrugged. "Nick's not saying much of anything, at least not to me." She snorted humorlessly.

"Be that as it may, I can't let it slide. Accidental or not, he broke the chain of custody. That leaves us with a dead body and nothing to tie it to a shooter." He shook his head and made a face. "Damn it. What is going on with him? This isn't like Nick. He's usually a lot more careful."

Catherine stared at him silently, and then went over to push the door shut. Turning, she said, "Maybe we should talk about that, Gil."

He leaned back, watching her sit down opposite him. "If you've got information, I'm all ears."

"I do think there's something wrong." She glanced at him, and then down. "I don't have all the answers. Not yet, maybe not ever. But there are a few things."

"Such as?"

"He's had a hard time lately. That girl that was murdered -- Kristy -- Nigel Crane."

"I take that into consideration. Believe me."

She smiled faintly. "I know. It's -- There is something you don't know about. To my knowledge nobody does, but me."

He frowned. "And that is?"

"Maybe it's a long shot. Nick -- When we worked a case a while back, he told me some things. About his past." She looked up again, a set expression on her face. "It was the boy who died during the rebirthing treatment. Nick struggled very hard on that assignment, and afterward, he
told me he'd been molested as a child."

Gil stared at her. "Molested?"

"A babysitter, when he was nine. Look, it was a long time ago, and I'm not saying I think it explains what he's doing now. I just don't think he's worked through it, that's all. And old shit -- It has a way of working its way back to the surface, years later."

Swallowing his alarm, Gil replied, "Post-traumatic stress, maybe?"

Catherine nodded slowly. "Maybe. And with the stuff that's happened more recently, I think maybe he's just having a hard time coping."

"Any one of those things would be difficult. Taken together, it makes a lot of sense." Gil paused, and sighed. "This is one of those times when I wish I'd studied psychology instead of biology."

She gave him a brief smile. "I hear that."

"So what can we do?"

"You're asking me? Hell if I know." She bit her lip. "I can try to talk to him. But I think I'm on his shit list now. I'm sure I am. If he's really having some kind of meltdown, though, I can't just sit back and watch it happen."

"Right. And if it's affecting his performance here, I can't do that, either." He took off his glasses and folded them carefully. "Why don't you go on home, Cath? We're not going to fix anything right now, and it's been a long night."

"You can say that again. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that. I probably just made things worse by coming down so hard on him."

"You weren't the only one." He manufactured a smile for her. "We'll work it out."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Five

"Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that."
(Shakespeare, "King Lear," I:4)


"I want to see McAda."

The officer stared at him, looking less than impressed. "Who the hell are you?"

Nick shook his head. "Is he here?"

"He was," the man said grudgingly, "but he went off duty an hour ago."

"Then tell me where I can find him." When the officer said nothing Nick grated, "It's important."

"It's okay, Jack," a voice behind him stated. Nick flinched and looked around. "Hey, Nicky," McAda added, an affable smile on his face. "What brings you all the way over here?"

Nick swallowed fury. "You know what, you son of a bitch," he hissed. "What, did you think I wouldn't find out?"

The smile flickered but didn't disappear. "Why don't we step over there, what do you say? Little more private."

Hands clenching into useless fists, Nick followed him into the small office and waited for the door to be shut before snapping, "So? Why'd you do it, huh?"

"What'd I do?"

"The shell, goddamn it!"

McAda nodded slowly. "Heard about that. Bad luck."

"Luck's got nothing to do with it. I don't care if it was you, or one of your goddamn FRIENDS, but you fucked with my job, man, and that's --"

"Whoa, wait a second. Nobody's fucking with your job, Nicky." McAda put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Cool off a little."

"Yeah, well, you'd be hot too if your boss had just ripped you a new one."

"What do you want me to say? Bad luck," he repeated evenly.

Nick nodded jerkily. "Yeah. I got it. Payback, huh?"

McAda sighed. "Look, Nicky, this has got nothing to do with you. You were the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all."

"Tell that to Grissom," Nick shot back.

"So I owe you. All right? You don't say anything, and I owe you big-time. How's that?"

Nick stared at him. "You -- You want me to just -- roll over? You gotta be out of your mind!"

A faint smile quirked McAda's thin lips. "Some little guy gets capped. He's lowlife, a bottom feeder. We ain't talking about the President here."

Nick snorted, still give him a wide-eyed look. "You think I give a crap about your priorities? I care about as much as you do about mine, McAda. You messed with what I DO, man. I'm not gonna just walk away. No fucking way."

"You never know when you're gonna need a favor, Nicky," McAda returned tonelessly. The smile was gone. "And it doesn't hurt to know people. People who know other people. Favors can be real handy things." He leaned back against the metal desk and crossed his bulky arms. "Why do you care?" he added with what sounded like genuine curiosity. "Grissom got his panties in a wad. So what? Ain't the first time, that much I know. So why you getting all bent out of shape like this?"

Nick uttered a helpless cough of a laugh. "Jesus," he managed. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"What I mean is that you're turning yourself into a pretzel over a goddamn shell casing. And you don't even know for sure that was important evidence. For what, Nicky? Pleasing Grissom? Man, you know by now there ain't no pleasing that guy. You want respect? Be a cop. Grissom's all about what you can do for him. Period."

"You totally missed my point. Damn it, it isn't RIGHT! I don't know how you did it, but I'm gonna find out, and then --"

"And then what?" McAda interrupted heavily. "Tell somebody? Tell Grissom? What's that get you, huh? Does it bring that asshole back to life? Huh? Does that make Grissom suddenly sit up and say, 'Gosh, Nick, I never said this to anybody, but I really RESPECT you now?'"

He felt suddenly appallingly close to crying. The realization made him furious all over again. "I don't do this because it makes Grissom happy. I do it because it's the right thing to do."

McAda nodded. "Right for who? You?"

"Just -- right."

"The world ain't black and white, Nicky. Haven't you learned that by now?" A tired smile appeared on McAda's face. "Whatever. Look, I meant what I said about that favor. All right? Nobody meant this to make you look like shit. So whever you need something, you just let me know."

"I won't need anything from you," Nick said coldly.

McAda shrugged. "Maybe not. You thought about that offer I made you?"

Nick blinked. "Off -- I told you, man, forget about it."

"I meant what I said," McAda continued, unperturbed. "I like you. I think you'd be a great asset to my team. Now I know you're pissed at me right now, but you think about it, all right? Where you going over at CSI, huh? Gonna do Grissom's shit work for the next twenty years? Or do you want to turn that sense of right into something that actually makes a difference?"

Nick glared at him, but no words would come out.

"How about you just give it some thought. Cool off a little, think about what I said. And when you wanna talk, you know where to find me."

He stood in the silent office after McAda left, stewing. And finally he left, too, because there really wasn't anything else to do but that.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wow."

He made himself look over at Sara. "Huh?"

"You ever heard of this thing called sleep?"

Nick went back to fumbling in his locker. "That's pretty good coming from you."

"Hey, I know an insomniac when I see one." She leaned one shoulder against the lockers, hands in her pockets. "You okay?"

"Just need some coffee, that's all," he replied, slamming the door shut.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

Man, sometimes he really hated the way Sara's jaw stuck out when she was onto something. Or thought she was, anyway. "Since you slept?"

Nick sighed and faced her. "Not that long," he lied easily. "Don't worry about it."

"Nick, if you --"

"Look, Sara, it's not a problem. I'm functional, all right? So quit dogging me, okay?" He brushed past her and couldn't not hear her whisper, "Whatever you say."

And he WAS functional, yessirree, all pistons firing, if a bit sluggishly at times. So why people were giving him the hairy eyeball, he couldn't figure out and didn't try. Didn't matter. Not much of anything mattered at this point.

From the frying pan to the fire, fifteen minutes later, because he was set to work with Grissom himself. Wasn't that a treat. Nick just nodded when Griss gave out the assignment, and waited for the master to fill him in.

"Everything all right?" Grissom asked him suddenly, after the others had split.

Nick shrugged. "Fine. What's up?"

"Missing person. Seven-year-old boy." But Grissom didn't move. Still regarding him with that piercing stare. "Have you looked in the mirror today?"

"I shaved. Since I didn't cut my lips off I guess I had to look, why?"

Grissom nodded. "You look tired, Nicky," he said in a stupidly gentle voice.

"I'm all right. We should get a move on."

In the hallway Grissom stopped to ask Warrick something, and Nick murmured, "Pit stop," and headed for the restroom. In a stall he hesitated for only a moment before taking the twist of foil out of his pocket.

Ten minutes later they were on their way. When Griss gave him another searching look Nick just smiled. Feel fine, boss. Just -- fine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was a well-kept disaster. The classic rental look: forlorn yard with a little grass struggling to stay alive in desert dryness, a few flowers curling up next to the porch. The kind of place where the landlord didn't want to pay for anything that didn't have to be fixed, and the
renters couldn't. Clean, and utterly dismal.

Nick meandered through the living room not far behind Grissom, glancing around. Shabby furniture and not a speck of dust. The mother sat in a kind of glassy shellshocked silence on the elderly sofa, relatives silent and tense around her.

"Mrs. Gomez?" Grissom stopped in front of her. "I'm Gil Grissom, with the Las Vegas crime lab."

Mrs. Gomez shook his hand limply, eyes welling with tears.

"Can I ask you some questions about Manuel?" When she nodded, he continued, "The police officers tell me you and your husband are separated. Is there any reason to think Mr. Gomez might be involved?"

She shrugged, wiping at the tears. "No hablo ingles, senor, I'm sorry -- Angie, que el dijo?"

A heavyset woman standing behind her spoke up. "Her husband's crazy. He took Manuelito."

"Where has he been staying? Do you know?"

Quick interest fading just as fast, Nick watched the people filing in and out of the house. Family, mostly, or at least that was what it looked like. Cops --

"Hey, Grissom." One of the policemen came up on Grissom's other side. "You need us? 'Cause we gave all we got to Brass, and we gotta roll."

"No, that's okay. Thanks."

Oddly enough, it felt as if there were fireworks going off, only it appeared to be inside his head. Nick swallowed hard, shaking his head, and ducked away to stumble down the single narrow hallway. Nobody around, mercifully, and he found the bathroom with no trouble. He turned the water on before he threw up, and spared a prayer that nobody heard him before he bent over with new spasms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Six

Isn't hate merely the result of wounded love?
(Amy Tan)


"I like happy endings. They're so startling."

Brass gave him a look. "I thought I was the resident cynic around here."

"'The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.'" Gil smiled faintly. "George Bernard Shaw. So we found Manuel." He scanned the front yard, losing the smile. "And we lost Nick. Have you seen him?"

"I didn't even know he was here."

"Great." Gil shook his head. "Don't call off the hounds just yet."

As it happened, he was around, after a fashion. Sitting in the ratty backyard, almost invisible in his dark clothes. Gil drew a careful breath. "Nick?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing? They found the boy half an hour ago."

"Cool."

Nick's face gleamed pale in the murky dark. "What's going on, Nick?" Gil asked quietly, walking up to him. "You disappeared."

Staring straight ahead, Nick said, "Too hot in there. Sorry. Had to get some air."

Gil reached out to do something, maybe touch Nick's shoulder, he never knew exactly what. Nick's words froze him in place.

"If you touch me, so help me God, I'll kill you."

He felt his heart take a startled leap in his chest. The flat malevolence in Nick's voice made him want to shiver.

"We out of here?"

This time he did shiver, because this was Nick's normal voice. Light, easy, nothing murderous about it. "Yeah," Gil replied after a shocked moment. "Yeah, let's go."

They drove back to the lab in absolute silence. And silence was usually just fine, but this particular evening Gil felt his last nerve stretched to the breaking point. He parked the Tahoe and didn't move. When Nick's hand went to the door Gil said, "Wait a second."

He couldn't think of how to start, and finally Nick snapped, "What?"

"I need you to tell me what's wrong," Gil replied quietly. The steering wheel was cool under his fingers.

Nick sighed audibly. "Here we go again."

"You still pissed at me about the Montelongo thing?"

"Nope."

"Then what? What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Gil nodded slowly, clenching his fingers on the smooth plastic. "Gonna take McAda's offer?" he asked softly.

He could feel Nick's shocked glance, like a spray of cold water. "You know about that?"

"I heard. Well?"

Nick shifted, the motion loud in the hushed truck. "No. I don't think so."

"I wish you wouldn't."

In a remote voice Nick said, "Probably won't."

"I have some theories. Want to hear them?"

"Does it matter?"

"You ditched me tonight, Nick." Gil shook his head slowly. "I need to know why you did that. I could have used your help."

"Turned out all right, didn't it?"

"What if it hadn't? I need you to work, not disappear."

"Sorry." The hell of it was, he sounded sorry. "I didn't feel good. That's the truth."

And what has everything else been lately? Lies? "If you don't feel well, you can tell me."

"I'm all right now."

Gil raised his hand and slammed it down on the dash. The noise was wonderfully startling, mostly because it made Nick flinch. "God damn it, you're not all right. You think I'm an idiot? You're having some kind of meltdown and you think I don't *notice*?"

When he looked over at Nick, his quick anger faded to shock. Nick's face was drawn with a kind of rage that left him far, far behind. "It's none of your goddamn business," Nick spat icily, eyes narrowed to slits. "SIR."

"You're making it my business."

Nick snorted. "I don't think so."

"Okay, Nick. Have it your way." Anger surged again, bitter and satisfying. "You can think about what I said when you go home. You're suspended."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even without the details, his staff took one look at him and knew enough to stay out of his way. On another day, in another situation, he would have hated thinking they were afraid of him, in any real way. But tonight it only mattered in that it served his purpose. He was too angry to care.

He sorted through crap on his desk, glanced without interest at the reports piled in his inbox, and finally just pushed it all away and sat still. God, anger was like a cancer, a malignant THING that just spread through everything, affecting the whole body, the environment. And it felt so damn GOOD.

After an hour it stopped feeling so great.

When Catherine risked a wary look inside Gil waved her in.

"I won't bite," he told her pallidly.

"You sure?"

"Have a seat."

She sat like someone perched on top of a tall stack of C4. "What happened?"

"Shows, huh?"

"Let's see. You found the kid, but you look like somebody put Raid on your racing cockroaches." Catherine smiled cautiously. "So since the case worked out fine, I figure it's not that. And Nick's nowhere to be seen. Am I warm yet?"

Gil nodded slowly. "I suspended him."

"Shit," she replied in a weak voice.

"Probably shouldn't have waited this long. I don't know. Not sure about anything."

"So...something happened tonight, I take it."

"He disappeared. In the middle of interviewing the mother, I look around and he's gone. I found him about two hours later, and let's just say his explanation was less than satisfactory." Gil forced a shrug. "Nick's falling apart, Cath, and he's a liability. He won't talk, won't tell me what's going on." He glanced at her. "Has he said anything to you? At all?"

She shook her head. "Not a word. It's like he's -- imploding."

"Yeah. He told me tonight if I touched him he'd kill me. I think he meant it."

"That doesn't sound like him."

Gil snorted. "Evil twin, maybe. But not Nick."

"How long did you suspend him?"

"A week. But it might have been the wrong thing to do. I don't know anymore." He gazed at her. "Mike McAda offered him a job."

Catherine blinked. "A -- Police job?"

"That's what I hear. Nick didn't deny it."

"No way. There is no way Nick would work with that guy!"

"Normally I'd agree with you. Now? All bets are off."

She was silent for a long moment. Finally she heaved a huge sigh. "Gil, I don't even know what to say. Nick's a friend, he's a great guy. But he's set on self-destruct right now. He's not talking to anybody."

"Maybe we should try sodium pentothal." Gil made a face at her surprised look. "Not really." He sat up. "I have to go."

"It's quitting time anyway. You look like you could use some rest."

"I could." He nodded, standing up.

Catherine stood as well, eyes too knowing. "But that's not what you're going to do, is it?"

"No."

"Be careful, Gil. All right?"

"Definitely."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He rang the bell six times before Nick answered. Seeing his face Gil wasn't sure this was the right idea after all.

"What do you want?" Nick asked hoarsely, keeping the chain locked and speaking through the two-inch crack.

"I want to talk to you. Will you let me?"

"You wanna gloat?"

Gil shook his head sadly. "No, Nick. I'd like to understand."

The door closed, and then reopened without the chain. "Go to town," Nick muttered, and turned away.

He hadn't seen Nick's apartment in a while, but he remembered a pretty nice place. This, however, was not at all what he recalled. The mess was catastrophic. He nearly tripped over an empty pizza box -- oh, not quite empty, damn -- and made himself not just stare around himself in complete shock.

If he'd needed further proof Nick was in a downward spiral, he'd found it.

Nick sat on the single clean space on the couch, drawing his knees up against his chest. "You should go away," he said in a low voice.

Gil moved a plate and a half-eaten bagel off one of the dining chairs and sat down carefully. "Please talk to me, Nick," he said, taking in the dark smudges under Nick's flickering eyes, the jittery tap of one foot. "Let me try to help you?"

"What do you really want?" Turned his direction, Nick's gaze was unsettlingly bright, a hot glare of suspicion. "Looking for a reason to go ahead and fire me? Huh? That it?"

"No. No, that's not it at all. I'm not here to fire you." Gil swallowed. "I know you've had some bad things happen recently, all right? But I look at you, and -- I mean, look at this place. How can you stand it?"

Nick blinked and glanced furtively around. "I know, I gotta clean up." With a creeping kind of new dismay Gil felt as if he could SEE Nick not-seeing it. "I'll get to it."

"Is it Nigel Crane?"

That earned him a sharper glance, but not the recognition he'd vaguely hoped for. "Is what Nigel Crane?"

"I thought maybe he --"

"It's not Crane," Nick interrupted stolidly. "Next question, or is that it and you're gonna leave me alone now?"

"What are those?" Gil asked after a moment. He lifted his chin at the bottle of pills on the cluttered coffee table.

"Prescription. Why?"

"What for?"

"Jesus, you know that's pretty goddamned personal, Grissom." Nick gave him a savage grin. "Gonna root through my garbage next, see what else you can find?"

He thought about snapping that he didn't HAVE to root, since it was all around them. "What else would I find?" he asked instead, trying not to show his dismay. "Would I find anything, Nick?"

Nick's gaze hardened to shiny agate. "Get out," he whispered.

"Was it what happened when you were nine?"

It hurt to see Nick's face crumple like this. Utterly shocked, for once. Even worse than when he'd suspended him. "What?"

"Catherine told me." Gil had to swallow. "She told me what happened. Oh, Nick."

"That was a long time ago," Nick told him hollowly. "I'm over it."

"Are you? Really?"

Without warning Nick shot to his feet, moving so fast Gil was taken aback. "So this is it, huh? Take potshots at my personal history and hope you hit a bull's-eye?" He stepped nimbly over the trash on the floor, coming to a halt with his back to the far wall. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said in a hard voice. "No fucking clue."

"Then give me a clue, damn it." Gil stood up, not moving toward him. "Let me in, Nick!"

Nick smiled, and spat, "You can let yourself out."

Gil watched him disappear into the bedroom, the slam of the door reverberating in his very bones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Seven

One of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they seem to sense, once hate is gone, that they will be forced to deal with pain.
(James Baldwin)


Because eventually he couldn't think of anything else to do with himself, he went by Persimmon's apartment. She wasn't exactly overjoyed to see him.

"You could've called," she said, lower lip actually trembling a little. But she let him in.

"Sorry," he replied with a vague sense of discomfort. "Things got busy."

Persie picked up a half-full glass of wine and sipped it. "Don't you gotta work or something?"

"Not this week. Wanna go out?"

"Where?"

"Don't care."

A reluctant smile twitched her lips. "You look kinda skanky, Nick-eee."

He reached up and tried to flatten his spiky hair, and Persie shook her head. "Come on, I'll help you clean up."

"S'not like anybody's gonna notice." But he followed her into the bathroom anyway.

Instead of taming his rebellious hair Persie went with the flow, turning it into a punky sort of scary stand-up crewcut, and that was kind of perfect, so Nick didn't try to change it. He put on the shirt he'd left there before, and waited for her to change clothes.

"What's that?" he asked, touching a bruise on her arm.

"Got it dancing." She grinned while she pulled a microscopic dress over her head. "Got a little too wasted."

"Didn't know there was such a thing."

"Says the Boy Scout."

"Not these days."

They went to a dingy, packed club and hooked up with some of Persie's friends, of course. After all that Nick didn't much feel like dancing, but he watched Persie and drank straight bourbon, and felt as if this was where he should stay forever. Where the music was punishingly loud, the people superficial, and the atmosphere utterly forgiving. There would be no problems here. Couldn't be. It was all fantasy.

He took a tab of something Brandon gave him, around midnight, and that felt so hot and delicious that he fucked Persie in the parking lot, and felt like he could have kept right on going until sunrise. But it didn't last, nothing ever did, and the urge was there. He didn't try to fight it. Fighting just made things harder, and the end was always the same anyway.

"How long you been flying?" Brandon asked, after he'd handed Nick what he needed.

Nick sagged back in the passenger seat of Brandon's elderly Delta 88, wiping stinging tears off his face. "What's today?"

"Sunday, man."

"A while." He opened his eyes and grinned. "Let's get food."

They took him to a diner, but by the time the food arrived he wasn't very hungry. He sat tapping his foot, watching people come and go with a lot more interest than he understood.

"I'm gonna write a book," he announced at some point.

"Cool," Persie said around a mouthful of burger. "What kind?"

"About how fucking stupid most crooks are. You know? Dumb as a box of hair."

That made everyone laugh so much that he had to laugh, too.

Around six in the morning he ended up back at Persie's, but she crashed almost immediately. So he drove around, the good feeling morphing into a kind of creeping horrible tiredness that made him feel sick. He maneuvered home by sheer sense memory. How long HAD it been since he slept? A weird sense of alarm made his skin prickle as he crawled out of the truck. He couldn't *remember*, and that was suddenly terrifying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He woke up drenched with sweat, panting from something already lost in a vanishing dream. 3:00 in the afternoon. It took forcing himself out of bed and turning on the tube to realize it wasn't Sunday afternoon, but Monday.

Monday. Work today. No more suspension. Work, in three hours.

A shower didn't do the trick. Coffee didn't, either. So he did a bump, and another a few minutes before it was time to leave, and felt pretty good again. Wonderfully good.

So when Grissom announced a random drug test at work, he was completely unprepared.

"Waste of time, I know," Grissom stated, waving his hand at the murmurs. "I don't make the rules, people. So please get there, do it and get back fast, all right? This is going to put us behind schedule."

It felt like a dream. Nightmare. He hadn't thought. Hadn't ever, ever envisioned this happening. Stupid, oh Jesus H. Christ, as stupid as anyone he'd ever seen in his life. He went with Warrick to the employee health office, peed in a cup while an impassive, kind of huffy tech looked on.

So this was how it ended. What was it that guy had said? Not with a bang, but with a whimper?

Back at the lab he accepted his assignment numbly, too frozen with absolute dread to care who he worked with, or on what. Not even thinking about no more suspension. Didn't much matter, when he'd be facing termination soon enough. But hadn't he not cared about that, just a few days ago? Now that it was real, he couldn't even imagine it.

An hour later he got a few minutes to himself, and went outside. He dialed with shaking fingers, scanning the business card through a scrim of scared
tears.

"McAda."

"It's Nick."

"Nicky." No trace of anger over their confrontation. He'd never figure McAda out. "What's up?"

"You said you owed me," Nick said in a hoarse whisper. "Did you mean it?"

"Of course," McAda said promptly. "You name it, man."

"You said you know people. Everybody knows you know people. You can -- fix things."

A tiny silence, and then McAda replied, "Maybe, yeah. What's going on?"

He bit his lip so hard it actually made the urge to cry retreat a little. "I got a problem. A big problem."

"After you doing for me, I'm gonna do for you, Nicky. Tell me."

"Drug test."

"Ah." He felt as if he could hear the smile on McAda's face. "That kinda problem."

His hands were shaking so much he had to hold the phone tight just to keep it from squirting out of his grip. "I need you to make that go away," he whispered, feeling like he was reading lines from a cliche'ed play. "Can you do that?"

"Where?"

He gave the name of the lab, and waited for a moment. Then McAda said, "What's your cell number? Call you back when I can."

He spoke it, and added, "I don't -- I fucked up, man, I can't --"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." The smiling voice was back. Sounding a little too warm. "I take care of my people, Nicky. Remember that. All right?"

"Okay," Nick said softly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's good to have you back, Nick."

He gave Catherine a distracted glance. "Thanks, good to be back."

She smiled and touched his arm, a cool press of fingers, and the room blurred and splintered. Sounds, and a flash of blue light, strobing inside his head until he thought he'd start to scream from the idiot repetition. The sense of more than one hand, not cool but warm and strong, on his arm, on his --

"NICK!"

He drew a strangled breath and lurched backward, slamming against the far wall hard enough to push that necessary air right back out of his lungs. Catherine's face was a study in consternation. "Jesus, Nicky, are you okay? What was that?"

Nick shook his head wildly and felt cool air on his face. His wet face, crap, when had THAT happened? He wiped his cheeks and rasped, "Sorry. Sorry, I don't -- Dunno what happened."

"You look like you're about to fall over, come on." She put out her hand again and Nick shrank back against the wall.

"It's okay, I'm fine. Just -- I'm fine. Don't do that."

"Do what?" She looked bewildered, as well as alarmed. "Let me give you a hand, get you someplace where you can sit down, all right?"

"NO!" he thundered, shaking his head so hard it made him dizzy. "No, don't DO that, I told you, DON'T!"

Whatever Catherine might have said next, he never knew. Saved by the bell: His cell phone beeped at him. He peeled himself off the wall and ducked away, heading out the side door.

"Nicky, you okay?"

God, it would be so nice to believe McAda was half as kind as his voice suggested. He wanted to believe it, so damn much. "Yeah," he wheezed. "I'm okay. Did you --?"

"All taken care of, baby. Just like I said."

His knees turned into water. He sagged down on the concrete and didn't even notice the hard jolt through his tailbone. "Thank God," he breathed without strength. "Oh, God."

"You're welcome, Nicky," came McAda's smug reply. "No problemo."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To be continued. EB