A/N: There are major Grave Danger spoilers!
Disclaimer: Mine? I wish.
He still feels the bugs crawling over his body, and no matter how hard he shakes, he can always feel them biting his skin until it's raw. Nick thinks of Grissom, and while he knows that the entomologist saved his life just a few months ago, he cannot possibly imagine how one could study bugs and not feel an urgent need to scratch his skin raw.
He can't chew gum anymore, and the scent of that particular brand still turns his stomach. Every time one of his coworkers pulls out a stick of it, he looks away, swallows, and tries to pretend he doesn't want to run so far away that he'll never feel anything again.
He runs now, in addition to what used to be a workout routine of weight-lifting. He runs because it's hard for him to remain still for long. He runs because the faster he goes, the further he gets from his grave, and that's more important than the muscles and smile he used to be so proud of.
He doesn't turn on the radio anymore, because he's so afraid he'll hear that damn song. He can barely face his parents, because all he sees in their eyes is relief, and he's so sick of being reminded of his fragile mortality. He looks at his gun, and he knows better than to hate it; guns don't kill. People do. But looking at his piece just brings back the feel of a barrel against his forehead, held there by his own free will.
Nick can't even talk to his coworkers anymore, because he can see guilt and pity brewing just below their façades of professionalism. Catherine feels responsible for sending him out on that "case" in the first place, and Grissom uses Nick's abduction as another brick in the wall around himself. Sara attacks cases with a renewed gusto, which Nick didn't think was even possible. Warrick is the worst, because not only does he know just how easily it could have been him, but he can't bring himself to desire a switch of their fates. Nick doesn't blame him for it, but the look in Warrick's eyes tells him he doesn't have too. The guilt engrained on his best friend's face makes words unnecessary.
He's taken up skydiving. Extreme sports had always interested him, but it's not the potential danger that enthralls him. He so desperately wants to learn to fly, or at least to fall. Anything is better than being trapped. If anyone at work asks him, he'll lie. He'll deny his absurd need to feel suspended in midair. But it's there, and it has been since that night.
He shaved his head the day he got home from the hospital. He couldn't stand the thought that dirt and bugs may still linger there, and no amount of shampoo could reassure him that his nightmare had ended. So he's nearly bald now, and he likes it that way. Besides, he doesn't feel the same as he was before. Why should he look the same?
He fears he's losing his status as the Texas gentleman, because he's begun to use sex as a way to escape. It's funny, because as a criminalist, he knows about victims and their various destructive ways of coping with disaster. But that doesn't stop him from lurking in crappy clubs and finding girls who can make him forget his ghosts for a few hours.
He thought he was finished being the victim. Decades have passed, and still he's nine years old, staring at the crack of light coming in from under his bedroom door, desperate for his mother to come home. Nick thought he'd never have to feel trapped again. He thought his nightmares would end. Now, they just have new material to work with.
Nick Stokes has been reduced from Level Three CSI to a coward who can't even sleep without all the curtains open, some lights turned on, and a breeze blasting from his air conditioner, since he can't bear to leave any windows open. He's had guns held in his face, he's been stalked and thrown out of windows. But nothing compares to being trapped in that coffin, just knowing that death would come, and wondering if he'd be brave enough to decide when.
He still scratches his healed bites, because they still itch. He still pushes old country songs out of his mind, because they still twang just a little too jarringly for him to bear. He still splays out on his new king-size bed, because he still remembers vividly how it feels to have no room to breathe. He looks at cassette tapes and he cringes, because he knows there's a tape out there with his own terrified voice, waiting to haunt him again.
CSI Nick Stokes is losing himself. He was left in that box, and he was blown up along with that grave. He can't remember how to feel anything but fear, and he isn't sure anymore how he's supposed to behave. CSI Nick Stokes used to be a persona he could be proud of. Now it's just a shell he has to fill somehow.
Now, Nick's life is just one big after photo taken at a bloody crime scene. He's turned from the capable, helpful policeman to the helpless victim. Again. And no number of extreme sports, haircuts, or new vices can change that.
A/N: Reviews are always appreciated! Tell me if I've made any typos, because I hate those!