He wants it, he needs it, he has to have it. Revenge.
For Warrick, he thinks, and that's all there is. For my colleague, my best friend, my brother. For Warrick.
The man in front of him chokes out the words, words flawlessly designed, sculpted into perfect form. Words meant to make him angry.
Nick's already so mad he sees red, the red of the man's blood where it clings to his face, embraces his shirt. The sharp scarlet of blood, hemoglobin and serum in a perfect mix designed to give life. All he sees is a sign of death.
It's that red, that hard-edged, jagged, burning crimson of blood. The same crimson of Warrick's blood.
Warrick's blood that pulsed out of him, bubbling in his throat, dripping into his lungs, going everywhere but where it was needed. Warrick's blood that wound through the threads of Grissom's clothes, of Warrick's clothes, of the sheet they used to cover the body.
Innocent blood permeating the pavement, fading into the violent history already, always to be remembered. He'll see that blood on the pavement of every alley, throbbing to the beat of club music instead of a heart.
This man lying in front of him bleeds that same red, but his blood wasn't innocent. Warrick's blood on his hands was masked in his own guilty, guilty blood.
The man smiles, laughs, the blood trails on his face splintering around the lines of a sinister grin. His eyes reduce to squints, peering into the depths of Nick's soul. It isn't very hard. His soul is revenge, and nothing more.
"He was smiling, when I shot him." His vision goes dark, his mind shrieks into overdrive. He sees Warrick smile, sees the bullet slam into him, his head snapping to the side as the impact carries through. He sees the blood, a shiny red waterfall with the black mist of gunpowder.
Nick feels his world shudder, fracture, shatter under him, and he opens his eyes to this man. Not even a man.
He wants to break something, to hear the shimmering sound of a million pieces raining down onto the ground as the something is blown into dust. He wants to, he needs to, he has to break something.
He has to break this man. The man in front of him, who isn't a man, because no man is this cowardly, no man is this bad. If Nick is to have hope for humanity, then this isn't a man.
He needs to break him. And his gun is right here. Heating up under his grip as it shivers with anticipation. He feels his grip tightening. He yearns to feel it jerk under his hand, to hold it steady, to have that power.
Because he does have power. That's what his gun is. It's his power to take life or to leave it, to kill or not, to live or not. It's his standing army, his enforcement. His will is the law, and his gun is the enforcement.
He has the power to kill this thing in front of him, to pound bullets into it until it looks more like a colander than a human. Until every drop of that blood oozes into the grass.
The grass will die with it, it can't take that much blood, and then there will be a marker, here, right here, a circle of death because this is where it ends.
He could do it. He could, so easily he could. He can rationalize, justify, and he could take the shot. He'll get the death penalty anyway. Save the taxpayers a few bucks. World's better off without him. Why not now?
The man is telling him to do it, and doesn't that make it so much easier? Begging, pleading, he isn't a man. He's a coward. He killed Warrick.
"Shut up," Nick says, his voice fragmenting a little at the edges. "Shut up."
He can't think. Does he need to? Does it matter at all? A conscious decision or not, won't it be the same?
"Shut up!" he roars, voice scraping from his throat and the man laughs just a little.
He takes a step closer, his gun a little closer. He wants this man to feel the burning hot metal of the gun, feel it sear his skin, brand him, obliterate the tissue.
His gun almost touches the blood, just barely misses, and Nick freezes. Blood is blood is blood is blood and if it spills it's a crime. Innocent blood, guilty blood, any form of living blood, it's a crime.
Could he do that? Could he take a life? Could he have that blood stain his hands?
Is it different? Is it taking a life if he deserves it? Is it a murder? Or is it a favor to the people?
Is it for Warrick? Or is it just revenge?
"Shoot me," the man orders, voice sticky with blood.
Can it be right, if it's what he wants? Is he just playing servant, giving this person everything he wants? A free ride out of punishment?
"Shoot me."
His teeth press together and his muscles tighten. Including the ones in his finger.
BANG! A sharp, hollow sound, searing through his ear drums, humming through his hand. He doesn't look at the bullet hole.
Brass runs over, and he's staring, waiting, hoping he didn't and hoping he did.
Nick gives his report, doesn't look at the man. The vic. The criminal. Whatever the hell he is.
"A gunshot wound to the stomach. We should get a medevac here ASAP."
"What was that shot?"
A stab of anger, a jolt of fear, an instant release. Not fatal, not painful, not satisfying.
"A miss."