Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit through the writing of this.
A/N: Written for Renegade Hero, who asked for: "Nick being super depressed, then turning to some sort of self harm to cope. Whatever kind of self harm is up to you. Then the others find out and try to help." - I hope that this does not disappoint, I don't typically write stories with self harm in them. I spent most of today marathon watching the final season of, "Grimm" and was inspired to write while watching. I still have four episodes left to watch. Thank you for the writing prompt, Renegade Hero. I hope that you enjoy this.
Nick hasn't been happy for a long time. He knows that there's more to it than that, but it's not something that he can put words to just yet. He's afraid to put words to it, because of his guilt, because it should have been him, and not Benjamin Tilley, son of Margaret and Anthony Tilley, a kind, Wesen family, who should have died.
Nick can't sleep without seeing the dead boy's face, seeing his eyes, blue and full of life, staring at him from a rotting corpse. A trick of his imagination.
This feeling that he has, that nothing is ever going to get better, that there's no way out for him other than death, is not going away anytime soon. He can remember the moment that it started, when he'd let go of Benjamin's hand and watched the boy fall to his death, wonders if it is ever going to end.
It's an unending darkness. A darkness which has entered into his very soul and consumed his heart and mind. A darkness that he deserves because of his failure.
Looking into a mirror, Nick doesn't recognize himself, where his face is supposed to be reflected back at him, there's a gaping maw instead. Benjamin is staring back at him from empty eyes.
He says nothing to anyone, not Adalind, or Eve, not Hank or Monroe or Rosalee. This is a burden, he thinks, that he must bear alone. A burden of darkness, of emptiness, of nothingness that stretches on into eternity. Even if he were to die, Nick has a feeling that he'd just be taking it with him into whatever the afterlife has for him. An eternal punishment for his failures.
It isn't a pleasant thought, but it's a thought that Nick can't seem to shake, no matter how hard he tries. He calls Adalind when the urge to end his life starts nibbling at the recesses of his mind, talks of nothing with her. It's enough, that time, to hear her voice, and the nothingness that threatens to consume him backs itself into the corners of his mind and bides its time. He thinks that maybe Benjamin's haunting him, and can't find it in himself to exorcise that particular demon. He should have held on.
It's an accidental discovery, a happy coincidence, that Nick learns what best keeps the darkness, the nibbling thoughts, at bay - pain, self-afflicted. He discovers it while hanging a picture and accidentally hitting his thumb with the hammer. With its sharp, aching pain, came a revelation. The pain kept the darkness to the edges. It pushed it away so thoroughly that Nick didn't think of it for days.
It comes back again, the all-consuming darkness, and so does the memory of the hammer on his thumb. The sweet pain of it. The way it had smarted and throbbed and then had left his nail bed bruised and aching every single time he put even the slightest pressure on it.
He applies pressure to his thumb, closes his eyes, and relishes the pain that makes the darkness - the look of fear on Benjamin's face - subside. Adalind calls to him, something inane, something loving, and he opens his eyes, smiles at the way that his thumb sends sharp, shooting pains up along his arm through his wrist, and he meets the woman he's not entirely certain he loves, the mother of his child, in the kitchen.
His smile's not forced, but it's fake. He can feel it cracking at the edges. Adalind doesn't seem to notice, though. She keeps talking, and Nick hides his hands beneath the table, presses his bruised thumb between his other thumb and forefinger and lets the pain take away the darkness for a short while, tunes in to what Adalind is saying, and is able to contribute to the conversation in spite of the fact that he can almost see Benjamin there, sitting at their table, watching him. He won't remember whatever Adalind's said to him, what he's said to her, later. It won't matter. Nothing matters.
It's hard to keep the darkness away. His thumb's better, there's just a trace of dried blood still lingering deep within the nail bed, it barely hurts anymore. It's well on its way to being healed when Nick, careless, heedless of what his head's trying to tell his heart, that something is wrong and he needs help, slams the door shut on his hand.
There's blood, and Hank curses as he rounds the car. Nick cradles his hand to his chest, biting his lip at the pain, staring numbly at his trembling fingers. They look broken, swollen to nearly twice their size, and before he can protest, Hank's ushering him into the car and they're heading toward the hospital.
Numb, Nick lets Hank hover, listens to the doctor and nurse with half an ear to what they're actually saying, and is relieved that his fingers are not broken, merely severely bruised and cut. He doesn't need stitches, but gets a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers. He takes the antibiotics as prescribed, but ditches the painkillers. He can feel Benjamin's eyes on him from the grave the boy had been buried in.
He has no need of the painkillers, and they give him dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of permanently ending the encroaching darkness, and joining Benjamin in death.
He keeps his pain, breathes easier for it. It gives him clarity and keeps the darkness away when it starts to take over his mind. He's glad that he's gotten rid of the pain pills. They're calling to him in the dark of his perpetual night, beckoning him into an eternal sleep.
"Hey, Nick, you okay, buddy?" Monroe is standing in front of him, holding him by the shoulders, his concerned eyes boring right into Nick's. He must have said something that Nick missed.
Nick blinks. The darkness is swallowing him. He puts a smile on his face, and does his best to reassure his friend that he's fine, that everything's okay, that he's okay. He nods.
"Yeah, I'm fine," adds a little laughter to his voice and grips his bruised hand a little too tightly to make the darkness recede.
Monroe frowns at him, his eyes search Nick's and he shakes his head, squeezes Nick's shoulders, and then presses his forehead to Nick's.
"You know I'm here for you, right? We're all here for you. You don't have to do any of this Grimm stuff alone."
Nick's smile comes a little easier. It's less forced, more genuine, and he eases the grip he's got on his injured hand. The pain's still there, still sharp, still grounding, and it makes it easier for him to lie to Monroe, to tell him that, "Yeah, I know."
This isn't a Grimm thing, though. It's a cop thing. A failed hero thing.
No one, not even Monroe, can help him through this particular valley of darkness that he's found himself in. He's alone in this, no matter how many offer to stand by his side.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of death..." Nick's heard that somewhere before. Maybe at church. He forgets the rest of it, and it bothers him, because he's certain there's an answer for him there in those words. In Benjamin's blue eyes that stare back at him when he looks in the mirror.
He's walking through the valley of death. Alone. Nick presses his injured hand - the bruises are yellow and brown now, healing, and the cuts no longer bleed when he squeezes - to his mouth, bites down on a bruise and enjoys the pain that takes him away from the valley of his impending death.
We all walk alone, Nick thinks, grimly, gives Wu a smile that he doubts fools the man, and gestures for the man to go ahead of him into the house they've got a warrant to search. Someone's dead. Someone's always dead. Wesen may or may not be involved. Nick doesn't care. He just wants it to end. He wants everything to end.
"Hey, you coming or not?" Wu's on the front porch of the house, warrant in hand, the door hanging open, and Nick digs the fingers of his sore hand into his thigh, wonders if he can find a door or a hammer to slam his fingers with to dull the darkness that's consuming his heart and mind more and more. It's not enough, the dull pain that he gets from his healing injury.
Shaking himself, Nick nods. "Yeah, give me a minute."
Wu shakes his head and enters the house, another officer on his heels. Hank's looking at Nick, really looking at him, and Nick grimaces. He knows that they're not going to find anything good in the house, that whatever it is they do find, it's going to be morbid or sick, or just one more bit of darkness to add to the darkness that's already surrounding him. More failure to add to his long list of failures. Benjamin hadn't been the first he'd failed, and Nick doesn't think the kid will be the last.
He follows Hank into the house, listens and nods at the appropriate places though he's not really paying attention to the investigation. He knows, without having to look, that the crime, the death of a family, is Wesen related. There's evidence of it everywhere.
Nick wants to be sick. He wants to feel something other than the heavy pull of the darkness that eats away at him daily, but he feels nothing, so he slaps his healing hand on the kitchen table, the resultant sting brings tears to his eyes. For a moment, he feels normal when staring at the unseeing eyes of a little girl, dead at the hands of a monster. A monster that Nick, Wu and Hank are going to have to hunt down and bring to justice, or kill.
He wants to run out of the house, get into the car and drive off the edge of a cliff, join Benjamin in the afterlife, or pay for his failures in some dark, stinking pit of never ending torture and despair. Instead, he slaps his stinging fingers against his thigh and brushes past Hank, goes to look at the dead father and mother, the family dog.
The darkness doesn't fade when he leaves the house, not even when he accidentally shuts his foot in the door. It doesn't hurt much, doesn't take away the darkness. Hank isn't looking directly at him, though he's stealing covert looks at him through the rear view mirror.
Hank doesn't drive back to the precinct. Doesn't take Nick to either of their homes. He just drives, and eventually, he brings Nick to Rosalee and Monroe's place, parks the car, though he doesn't turn it off, places a hand on Nick's knee and leaves it there.
"I don't know what's going on, Nick, but I'm worried about you," Hank says.
Nick laughs. It sounds bitter, a little hysterical. He wants to give voice to what he's feeling, wants to yell and rail at Hank, and tell him everything, but there are no words. How can he explain the darkness that's consuming him? The oily darkness that's covering his soul?
"Nothing's going on, man," Nick says. His voice sounds hollow. He doesn't even believe himself, wouldn't believe Hank if their positions were reversed, prays to god that Hank will never be in this position.
"I'd like to believe you, Nick," Hank says, and he places a hand on Nick's shoulder. "But I can't stand seeing you this way anymore. None of us can. If you won't talk to me, or Adalind, she's worried too, man, maybe you'll talk to Rosalee and Monroe."
Nick laughs. Broken and wet. Slightly hysterical. He shakes his head. "So, what, is this an intervention?" He tries to sound offended, instead, he sounds tired.
He can feel Benjamin's dead eyes on him, avoids looking in the side view mirror.
Hank laughs, and it sounds far less bitter than Nick thinks it should. "I guess you could call it that."
"Who's there? When I get out of the car, and walk into the house, who am I going to find?" Nick asks, and there's no bitterness in his words, though his lips are twisted upward in the facsimile of a smile. He's unhappy, but that's nothing new. He knows this, whatever this is, will change nothing. It won't push away the ever present darkness. It won't bring Benjamin back to life, won't change the fact that he'd failed the boy.
"Everyone," Hank says, keeping it simple, keeping his hand on Nick's shoulder to keep him from bolting.
"We're concerned about you. You haven't been yourself for the past couple of months, not since..." Hank lets the words die on his lips before he can even give them breath.
"Not since I lost that kid," Nick says in an anguished whisper.
He blinks back tears that he does not deserve to have. He'd failed that kid. He'd failed that kid's family. He did not deserve to cry. He didn't deserve to feel anything but pain and darkness, and to be swallowed whole by it.
He should have kept the pain pills. Should have done the right thing and ended his life, should never have let go of that kid's hand, even when the boy had let go himself, shoved one his blade-like fingers into Nick's shoulder and forced Nick to let go. Nick should have followed the boy into the abyss and died beside him.
"It wasn't your fault, Nick," Hank says.
He squeezes the shoulder the boy had sliced through. Nick feels nothing. No pain. He has to squeeze the fingers of his healing hand to feel anything besides the cold numbness beneath the press of Hank's fingers in his shoulder.
"Yes, it was," Nick whispers, breath harsh and echoing in the confines of the car. "Yes, it was. I shouldn't have let go."
"The kid gave you no choice. If you hadn't let go, you'd have fallen with him. He saved your life, Nick," Hank says, squeezing against the numbness, trying to press in past it.
Nick shakes his head, catches a look at himself in the side-view mirror. He hasn't shaved for days. His eyes are bloodshot and wild looking. He barks out a laugh. He hadn't been fooling anyone, just himself.
"We're done giving you space, man," Hank says, stopping the engine, pulling the keys out, and pocketing them, and then getting out of the car.
He doesn't wait for Nick to get out, knows that, left to do it himself, Nick won't open the door, won't unsnap his seat-belt, won't get out of the car and walk into Monroe's house. Hank does it all for him, and reaches out a hand for Nick to take.
Nick stares at the hand of his partner, one of his best friends in the entire world, and wishes that he could find pain in it, rather than friendship and understanding. Hank's hand is strong and his movements measured and sure. He doesn't rush Nick, but doesn't give him time to overthink anything either. He gets Nick into the house, past the entryway and into the living room where everyone that Nick has come to love and care for has been gathered.
Nick wants to leave. There's a hard rock in his chest, and darkness at the corners of his eyes. He tries to clench both of his hands into fists, but one of his hands is still being held by Hank, his slowly healing hand.
"Hey, Nick," Monroe greets, and the man sounds as nervous as Nick feels, jarring a laugh from Nick.
"Coffee? Tea? Maybe just some water. I've got a nice red wine, if you'd like," Monroe says.
Nick shakes his head, and nods toward Bud. He's surprised that the timid man is there, but the shy smile that Bud offers him loosens some of the hardness in Nick's chest, and eases some of the tension that he's been feeling for a long time now.
"Good to see you here, Bud," Nick says, and he takes the seat that Hank leads him to.
It's not in the center of the room, and he's not wedged in the middle of the couch, surrounded by his caring friends. It's a comfortable seat that he's offered, one that doesn't make him feel trapped, or signaled out, though clearly that is what's happening. None of his friends are going to let him walk out of this house until they've had their say.
Adalind is sitting to his right, and she reaches for his hand. He lets her hold it, gains some measure of comfort from the warmth of her hand and the tight, concerned smile on her face. She leans into him and presses a kiss to his jaw. It's simple and light, a loving, and friendly gesture and Nick lets out the breath that he'd been holding.
"Nick, we're sorry that we let you down," Rosalee says.
Her hands are resting in her lap, and she's got a sad smile on her face that Nick wants so badly to take away with a smile of his own. He can't though. There's something stuck in his throat and his heart is heavy, and he wishes that he could slam his hand on something to make things better for just a moment, to jar the memory of Benjamin from his mind, to stop seeing the boy sitting there, in the midst of Nick's friends, staring at him with empty, sad eyes.
"You didn't let me down," Nick says.
It's the truth. He let the boy and his family down. He let his friends down.
Rosalee gives him a bittersweet smile, and shakes her head. Adalind squeezes his hand. Hank and Monroe clear their throats. Bud starts examining the blinds. Wu, sitting in a corner of the room, hunches his shoulders.
"Yes, we did. We thought you just needed some space to deal with what happened. We were wrong. We should have -"
"Forced me to talk?" Nick asks, shaking his head.
"No," Rosalee counters. "Not forced you to talk, but let you know that we were here for you when you wanted to talk, and we should never have -"
"Pretended that everything was okay," Bud says, eyes going wide as he interrupts Rosalee. She smiles at him and inclines her head.
"What Bud said," Monroe pipes up. "Being your best friend and all, I should have known how much it would eat you up inside."
There's laughter at that, and at Monroe's offended, "What? It's the truth, I am his best friend." and Hank's countering, "I've known the man longer."
Nick feels something other than the darkness tugging at him as he shakes his head and smiles at his friends' antics. They're both his best friends. They're even more than that, they're his brothers.
"Enough." Eve cuts the argument off with a clap of her hands, though her eyes, so often dark as Nick's thoughts have been recently, are filled with something warmer, and there's no anger in her voice, just a gentle exasperation.
Hank and Monroe glower at each other, and Rosalee rolls her eyes. "Boys, you can fight over Nick another time," she says.
Adalind wraps her arm around Nick's and shakes her head. "I don't think so, no offense, but he's mine now, and I don't share."
Everyone laughs, even Eve.
Nick wants to be offended, wants to give into the darkness that's calling to him, even now, but he smiles instead, that rock loosening even more in his chest as he looks around at the loose circle friends gathered together for him. Wu's, trying his best not to look conspicuous or attract any attention to himself. He smiles at Nick and waves his hand, quietly showing his support.
Nick swallows the lump in his throat when he sees that everyone's eyes are on him, and he doesn't know if he can do this, if he can tell them about the darkness, about what losing the boy has cost him, but, with the ghost of Benjamin looking at him, imploring him, but he does, haltingly, every word painful. He feels like his insides are made of ice, he wants to smash one of his hands with something to help take away the emotional pain, but Hank is holding one hand, Adalind the other, and Nick has nowhere else to pour his pain, other than out of himself and into his friends.
They listen as Nick pours out his heart, a myriad of emotions on their faces and whispered exclamations of support and understanding. When it's over, Nick is spent. He's never felt so emotionally drained, so tired. He doesn't even think he can stand. The ice in his veins is almost gone, though he's shivering. The darkness has receded almost completely.
"You're not alone, Nick," Monroe says. He's sitting on the coffee table in front of Nick, their knees touching.
"I know," Nick says, his throat raw with his outpouring of emotion. And he does know it, wonders how he let the darkness claim him for so long.
Benjamin's ghost is still there, lurking in the corner.
Monroe draws him into a hug, dragging Adalind along with Nick. Nick breathes in Monroe's scent, finds comfort in it, and in Adalind sitting beside him, of Hank's hand, warm and strong, in his, all of them helping to ground him, helping to keep the darkness away.
"Don't forget it," Monroe whispers into his ear. "And if the darkness returns, tell it to go straight to Hell."
Nick laughs at that. His heart feels far lighter than it has in months.
He can still see the boy's face, twisted in fear, and resignation, in his mind's eye, but he can also see the peace that had been on the boy's face when Nick had finally, though not by choice, let go of his hand, and remember the boy's last words, "Tell my parents that I love them, and that I died a hero?" posed as a question, and yet spoken with far more bravery than men twice his age.
He can remember that the boy's parents hadn't blamed him for their son's death, though he couldn't, for the life of him, understand why. They'd hugged him, and the boy's mother had thanked him and kissed him on the cheek, even as she'd blinked back tears.
"It wasn't your fault," Hank says, correctly reading the pained look on Nick's face. "You did everything you could. That boy died so that you could live."
"It should have been me," Nick says, the power of admitting what he'd been afraid to admit to himself, releasing the final flood of emotions that he hadn't even realized he'd been harboring.
It's like ripping out stitches before the wound's healed. Nick can feel everyone with him, can sense Benjamin's presence, and it's overwhelming. He's weeping like a child and he can't stop. It's embarrassing, but no one's laughing, no one's even pulling away from him, instead, they're all surrounding him, holding him until there are no more tears left for him to cry and he can sense Benjamin leaving, content that Nick has let go of his guilt, and finally set the boy free in his death.
When it's over, Nick feels spent, but the numbness is gone, and there's no trace of the darkness left. His skin is tingling and his eyelids and limbs are heavy. He doesn't protest when Monroe and Rosalee offer to let them all stay the night.
He sleeps, and for the first time in over a month, he doesn't dream of the boy, of Benjamin, dying. When he wakes, Adalind's head is resting on his chest, her fingers are locked in the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he gazes around the living room, smiling at the sight of all of his friends sacked out around the two of them.
He'd forgotten about them, about this - love and friendship - in his time of darkness, and is glad that his friends reminded him of it before it was too late, that they hadn't given up on him, and helped him return before it was too late.