Several bored Nick Fic writers sat down one day, but not together, as they were scattered all over North America, but still, they sat down one day and decided, since they were bored, that they would answer what began as a simple challenge from one of their cohorts. Each writer was given 3-400 words to write, then told to present the next on the list with ONLY THE LAST THREE SENTENCES, along with a prompt of something to appear in the next section. This is the little Story-go-round that resulted, and the secret cabal that became BadNickFicsRUS was thus born. We promise nothing will be canon, or kept sacred- all manner of pairings will appear, along with the occasional bad grammar, malapropism, and outrageous foolishness. Approach with caution, and your sense of humor firmly strapped on.
It was dark because it was after midnight and it's always dark after midnight. Nick Stokes was tired because he'd worked everyday this week, so naturally he was tired. He was also tired because he hadn't slept and not sleeping had a tendency to make him tired. He sometimes still had nightmares of being buried alive by Walter Gordon. Nightmares made him tired, too. Grissom had said things were over, but they weren't over.
Now he stood in the parking lot of Captain D's, the smell of fish frying filled the air. It really smelled fishy, like deep fried fish. He stood there by a dead body waiting for Super Dave to finish his work. So, he took pictures of the dead body while he waited for Super Dave to finish. The camera flash filled the darkness like lightning.
Flash!
Flash!
Warrick joined him in the parking lot. There was also an empty car near the dead body, so Warrick was busy taking pictures of the empty car. His camera flash filled the darkness like lightning, too.
"Do we have a time of death yet?" Nick asked Super Dave, because he was the coroner and knew how to figure that kind of thing out.
"Uh, yeah," the man nodded taking out the meat thermometer that read the liver temperature. "She died about two hours ago."
"So time of death is around ten o'clock," Nick nodded.
"I'd say," the ME nodded.
Warrick crossed the parking lot to join his partner. "We've got a double whammy," he said.
"A double whammy, huh? Nick smiled revealing a perfectly straight row of teeth. He had pretty teeth.
"A double whammy," Warrick nodded as he watched the coroner stand from his crouched position.
"Please explain to me the scientific nature of the whammy," the ME scrunched his brow.
"The whammy," Nick smiled taking the object from his partner's hand. "A towel used to wipe up, wipe off…whatever. There's two of them here. I use one to wipe off my golf clubs."
"Oh," Super Dave nodded, "sure. Well, it could be what was used to kill the vic. I found some fibers in her mouth."
"Well, now you're just adding to the whammies," Nick smiled taking another look at the victim. She was probably pretty once. But now, death clouded her beauty, like storm clouds during a thunderstorm.
There was a sorrow that veiled the CSI's chocolate brown eyes. Warrick could see it, could sense the veil clouding his partner.
"What's up bro?" he asked sensing something was wrong. He had a sixth sense, a Nick sense. He knew when something was wrong with his friend.
"I bet she was pretty once," Nick shook his head, his chocolate eyes still on the victim.
Nick's Nick sense was really kicking into high gear. There was something very wrong with the whole situation. He met Warrick's eyes and nodded. The other man knelt to retrieve their crime scene investigating things from his field kit, and jumped back with a startled, but not necessarily frightened, yelp as something large fell out of the kit.
The eyes of everyone huddled around that formerly pretty body followed the object. They watched in horror as the bowling ball rolled to a stop near the head of the body.
"Where did that come from?" Warrick asked, a little too loudly, eyes wide.
Grissom knelt by the ball and the body, a calculating look on his face. He brought up a hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully. "I've only been looking at this ball for about two seconds, but I already have a theory."
Catherine readied her "Grissom's Crazy Theory" baton. They waited for Grissom to build up a dramatic pause before he continued.
"I believe that someone planted that bowling ball in your kit."
"But why?"
"To contaminate this crime scene."
"So, it's a contaminated bowling ball?" Nick asked skeptically, cocking his head to examine what looked to be any ordinary bowling ball.
Nick thought that what Grissom was saying was a bit of a stretch, and that he was overreacting. But then again, why else would there be a bowling ball in Warrick's kit?
Unless…
Nick looked up at his friend. He had thought that something was wrong. His Nick sense had been tingling, after all. Was this it? Was Warrick keeping things from them? Maybe he had joined a bowling league and hadn't told them because he was embarrassed. Maybe it was a secret bowling league.
Warrick avoided his gaze, and Nick started to think that maybe there was some validity to his theory.
Grissom reached out with gloved hands and gingerly picked up the bowling ball. He hefted in his hands and frowned. "This has got to be a fifteen pound ball, maybe sixteen."
"What does that matter?" Warrick asked quickly.
"Well, it starts to rule out those who could have planted the ball in your kit. It was most likely a man, or a strong woman."
"And why would anyone want to contaminate our crime scene?" Nick asked. "And why in the world would they use a bowling ball to do it?"
"Ah," Grissom said, raising a finger. "Therein lies the answer to this mystery."
"I'm not following you, Gris," said Nick, tugging at his sweat-soaked, black t-shirt.
"Did you know historians have discovered forms of bowling as early as 3200 BC in Egypt, though some argue that it originated later in Germany in 300 A.D.," said the entomologist. "The first written reference to bowling was from King Edward III of England, banning his troops from playing in the 14th century."
"I knew that," said Greg, looking up from his "Sara Sidle: CSI" coloring book.
"No you didn't," said Nick, and then addressed his supervisor. "So, okay, Gris. That's all fine and good, but what does that have to do with our case?"
"Absolutely nothing. I just really like wowing people with my vast collection of trivial knowledge."
"I knew that," said Greg, again, choosing an appropriate crayon from his box; the picture he was working on showed Sara using an ALS on a dorm room mattress.
"We ALL knew THAT," said Warrick, holding up a pair of bowling shoes. "But did you know only one alley in Vegas carries forest green and burgundy rental shoes in a 10 ½ narrow?"
"Sour Apple's," said Nick. He again, self-consciously, tugged at his tight, wet, black t-shirt. The dampness made the cotton snap back against his abs, as if it loved them too much to be separated for long. "Got league there Saturday mornings."
They all pretended to ignore the horror welling in them; Nick had just admitted to being a LEAGUE BOWLER. And that he had a rather slim and dainty foot for a man.
"Stupid name for a bowling alley," said Warrick.
"Sour apple's actually a bowling term," said Greg, scribbling away with a cornflower blue Crayola. "It's what you call a weak ball that leaves the 5-7, 5-10 or 5-7-10 split."
"I knew that," said Grissom.
"Anyway," said Nick, "I gotta say these don't look like 10 ½ narrows to me."
"You mean, because of the big '10 ½ N' on the back of the heel?" asked Warrick sardonically.
"Hang on," said Nick, kicking off his boots. He slipped his foot into one of the ugly rental shoes and shook his head, "This is a wide…"
"And so is our case…wide open. Excellent job," said Grissom, clapping the Texan on the shoulder.
Nick smiled and blushed. He pulled up his red and blue striped socks, and strutted out of the door.
But something was wrong. Grissom's approval, his warm words of praise, and the tactile contact of his hand on Nick's trapezius, especially the added little Dad-like squeeze had been too much. He was happy. Too damn happy. Practically bathed in the sunshine warmth of happiness. Wasn't natural for him. So he sought out the one person who would be certain to sour his mood, to dampen his spirits, and ruffle his feathers. It was either that or seek out a small dark closet and lock himself in for a bit. If he got desperate.
The red and blue striped socks, being made of mohair, itched something fierce and as he headed down the hallway he bent over to stick his ballpoint pen underneath the too-tight elastic binding that stretched tautly around his firm well-defined calves.
"Hey! Watch where you're going. This a lab facility, not a bumper cars ride at the amusement park that all the hooligans and ruffians go to to seek out and destroy careful cautious drivers that just want to make it around the track without being bothered. What are you wearing? And what are you doing with that pen? What kind of tomfoolery are you up to? I'll tell you, young man, with shenanigans like this you will ruin the reputation of this lab and I will not tolerate such hi jinks, do you understand me?"
Nick stood up to meet the eyes of Conrad Ecklie glaring pointedly at him, Detective Chris Cavaliere standing with him, trying, quite unsuccessfully, to muffle his derisive laughter at the excoriating scolding the Texan had just received.
Much better. Bonus points for getting both of them at the same time. Nick adopted his more typical hangdog look, sighing in acceptance of his upbraiding. This was much more comfortable. Fit him like a well-worn baseball glove. He gazed penitently upward, moist brown eyes veiled behind long lashes.
"Into my office. Now." Conrad's pale bony index finger quivered with fury and Nick's heart sank. This was working out better than he expected. He considered morphing into belligerent, defensive, and hacked off mode, but Grissom's words weren't that impressive and his approval had been limited to this one particular case, not to Nick's performance as a CSI in the gestalt, so he quietly slunk into the Director's office to take a seat in front of the desk. Pushing it too far could have him back on the MAOIs.
The shelving behind the director, instead of being covered in reference materials and books, was covered in a cornucopia of crap. The only sign of life ( and yes, that was even when Conrad was in the room ) was a poor lonely beta, fins eaten by ick, eyes cloudy as it forlornly circled within its small glass bowl. It was shoved in between a VCR tape, labeled "Grey's Anatomy" and a Little League Uniform encased in Plexiglas.
"Nick," the director sighed, "I think the socks are indicative of a deeper problem. Please… get some help. Before it's too late."
'Get some help.' Those words replayed themselves in Nick's head until they almost made him crazy, which just proved that he should get some help. Who should he turn to?
Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks only softer because that probably would've killed him.
He drove to the police station and searched for the person he was looking for. He found her - his Sofia - in the holding cell, playing Scrabble with an inmate.
"Up for a Scrabble tournament, Nick?" Sofia greeted.
"I can't spell," Nick admitted. "I need to talk to you."
Sofia followed him to a corner, eyeing his backside. Nick was physical perfection personified. She longed to grab him and -
"Holy crap, Nick! What's with your socks?" Sofia shouted.
"The director said they were indicative of my mental issues and I needed help so here I am." Without a pause, his words came tumbling out. "When I was nine, a babysitter sexually abused me. I was scared, so I never told my parents. I got over it and was doing fine - until other things happened. Then this lady pulled a gun on me. I got scared and cried like a woman and then Grissom rescued me. Then this guy threw me out of a 2-story window. He was so puny but I couldn't defend myself. It turned out that this guy was stalking me. He crashed through my ceiling, took my gun, and threatened me until Brass came and rescued me and I started crying. Then I got buried alive and eaten by ants and was rescued and I cried again. Then that murderer Kelly Gordon overdosed on me and I thought about crying but didn't. That's why I have mental issues."
When he finished, Sofia kissed him. "You're so brave and only slightly pathetic for telling me that! I love you and want to wipe away every tear."
"I can't believe you want to be with me, Sofia."
"Don't be stupid, Nick. I'm the lucky one."
"Sorry, I'm out of practice with the ladies. The last girl I slept with was only using me," Nick confessed.
"I'd never do that to you. I want to protect your fragile heart, not abuse it like that whore did." Sofia caressed his cheek.
"How'd you know Kristy was a prostitute?" Nick asked.
"You slept with a prostitute! Mental issues are one thing, but sleeping with a prostitute is entirely different! I can't be with a man who's so cavalier about sex!" Sofia stormed away.
Nick's eyes brimmed with tears. Another cruel blow had been struck. Would he ever stop being Fate's Whipping Boy?
Just then, a man who looked like that scary guy from The Killing Time pulled up on a bicycle.
"Hey, buddy."
Nick looked up.
"I'm Fate's Messenger. This is from Mrs. F. Straight off the new line." He tossed Nick a t-shirt that read "Fate's Whipping Boy."
Figures. Nick sighed and put it on.
"Oh ah… one more thing," he paused, reaching into his fire-proof, rain-proof, assassin-proof, nerve gas-proof, man-purse and handed Grissom a small object. "This is for you."
"A Snickers bar?"
The man shrugged and pedaled away.
"Nick, if you stop crying, I'll give you some of my Snickers." Grissom waved it in front of his red-rimmed eyes.
"I hate Snickers!" Nick buried his face in his hands.
Sara put down her butterfly net. "Oooh, Gris, I love Snickers. Give me some!"
"Well, your hands are dirty from catching butterflies with your butterfly net. So I'll have to tear small pieces off the Snickers bar and then slowly and sensually stick the gooey, melting chocolate in your mouth so you won't get sick from any germs."
Sara quickly agreed and Grissom got right to work.
"The germs would just find their way over to me, anyway," Nick sighed, trying to ignore Sara's moaning. "After all, look who I am." He pointed at his shirt and sighed again.
"You know, Nick," Greg started, "You can prove that shirt wrong. As Dave Thomas used to say, it's not the clothes that make a man. It's whether or not you eat at Wendy's."
Everyone stopped and stared at Greg.
"What? Superman would still be Super even if he didn't wear… oh wait. Clark Kent always had to rip off his reporter clothes to get to his Super Spandex. There goes my theory," Greg sulked.
"Nick isn't doomed by his shirt," Warrick insisted. "Spiderman didn't need to change clothes. He just did it for style points."
"Does it matter?" Greg whined. "Superman would totally kick Spiderman's butt in a fight. Hello! He's SUPERman!"
"Mmmm, yes."
"See? Sara agrees with me."
"I don't think she's talking to you, Greggo."
"Can we please get back to me, here?" Nick complained.
When no one answered him, he left the group with a huff. Nick walked away and was too distracted with trying to figure out if his new shirt was cotton or a polyester blend. He tripped over the "Caution: Manhole" sign and careened into the dark abyss. After unceremoniously landing on his ass, he stared back up at the scant light filtering through. He really wished he took Grissom up on that Snickers bar offer.
He gingerly got to his hands and knees, nose filling with such lovely smells of decay, trash, and spoiled milk. Nick's hand searched for purchase on the junk-slicked floor, and slipped when he added more weight to push off with. He lost his balance and fell back down, like one of those Saturday morning cartoon characters. With a 'swoosh' he fumbled again, til he saw the culprit behind his newest predicament.
"Great, banana," he grumbled.
The sweet temptation of caramel, peanuts, and chocolate battled with the pungent odor of dumpster juice of the sewer. Why did he just have a flash of Sara propelling down to whisk him away? He looked around for her enchanting arms, recalling his pal's magic moment in the dank underbelly of the streets.
Nick sighed, knowing that this was his 'luck', only Rick could emerge from a drainage labyrinth, stinky and covered in muck, only to share some sexy moment with their co-worker. Nope, no noise from above that anyone was aware that he somehow fell down a hole in the middle of the street. Not like the things were very well marked.
Knowing he hadn't had a date in over five years, flirting with a store clerk, pyromaniac suspect or another hooker not withstanding, it occurred to him, fantasizing about a friend wasn't such an abnormal thing to do. He sighed, knowing nothing like that was possible. Wasn't like Sara would simply emerge from his shower one day while he sat around in his penguin pajamas, waxing nostalgic about life and death, if he simply invited her over after so many years of flirting.
No, things like that never happened.
However, the growl of something unfriendly and menacing was exactly the type of thing that did happen to him. Nick scrambled up the shoddy ladder, knowing how this day went, he'd end up part of an urban legend. Eaten by some reptile flushed away by a kid, that merged with the toxic garbage down here. Grissom would undoubtedly rebuff his death as a simple mythical explanation at his funeral.
Could be worse, he thought, as he nearly twisted an ankle scrambling up. Some clown from Stephen King's IT could be lurking around; somehow his boss would accept his murder by an deranged circus act, then a snack by some over grown crocodile.
As Nick emerged from yet another dark prison, he realized he really needed some sleep. His thoughts needed to stop drifting around so much.
After a long shower, a few odd looks from his teammates that he cut off short with a daggered look, he was finally relaxed on his comfy sofa, flipping through channels. It was early for him, but considering the day he just had, it was all good.
His finger hovered over the remote, channel surfing, when his cell phone chirped. Brow furrowed, he looked at the caller ID. "What's up Warrick?" He really hoped the guy had gotten over their incident earlier.
"Yeah. I'm bored, thinking maybe you were still too keyed up by your sewer diving and wanted to grab a late dinner, unless you were watching some good porn, or maybe another rerun of the Dog Whisperer," Warrick teased.
He ignored the last remark. "It's 3am. I have to choose between another re-run of Bonanza, or three people making cheese. Chinese sounds good."
Warrick laughed at the other end. "Be there in ten," then hung up.
Nick stared at his screen. The Spanish man's hands along the poodle's ears, eyes closed, studying the canine. Nick flipped off the channel, "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm in the wrong field."
After watching the guy explain the pet's need to attack the mail man as separation anxiety, Nick knew the answer to his question.