Sometimes at night, he hears her crying.
It's faint, muffled. Like she's trying to cover it up from him; like she knows he can hear her from the next room. And he lies there, and pretends he doesn't hear her, because he knows that's what she wants.
It's been three weeks since Sara Sidle showed up on his doorstep; he remembers the night as clearly as if it had happened that day. He had been on the couch, Claire sitting on the small armchair to his right, eyes focused on the book she was reading, while he flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. It was raining, and even through the thick drapes, he could make out the lightning as it struck across the Las Vegas sky.
And then a knock. And another.
Claire hadn't looked up, and he took that as a sign that he was to answer the door.
Sara stood there, hair dripping, stuck to her face. Even more shocking than seeing her on his doorstep, was the fact that she was crying.
"Nick," she sobbed.
He ushered her inside, his mind spinning. Sara Sidle. He hadn't seen her in years. She'd moved back to Paris, to be with her husband Grissom, after he had suffered a heart attack. They hadn't heard from her since.
But here she was. Back in the United States. Back in Las Vegas.
Claire had taken one look at Sara, and had ushered her into the bathroom, turning on the shower til the steam rose steadily – gave her a towel and a dry pair of track pants and an old T-Shirt. Sara had emerged, 20 minutes later, her eyes blank, and asked if she could stay the night.
Stay for as long as you want, Claire had said, with a quick glance at Nick. He nodded.
Three weeks later, she's still here. Nick can't get much out of her, but from what he's heard from Catherine, there was an accident.
He tries to talk to Sara, but she won't mention Grissom's name. She seems okay during the days, but it's at night when she cries – when she's hurting the most.
It kills him, to hear her so miserable. As Claire sleeps peacefully next to him, her hand resting protectively over her stomach, where his first child is growing, Nick lies there; his thoughts consumed by Sara's pain.
He's halfway to her room before he realises what he's doing. He can't help it. Her pain affects him. As he opens her door, he sees her head pop up from her pillows, tear stained and vulnerable.
"Darlin..." Nick mumbles softly. He crosses the room and lies beside her, and just like old times, her body curves, and folds into his own. She clutches at his shirt, sobbing. His hand comes up and cups the back of her head, pulling her closer, if that was even possible.
"Tell me where it hurts," Nick whispers, and she lets out a shuddery moan, her entire body trembling.
"Everywhere..."
His free arm comes over, and brushes the hair away from her neck, and places a gentle kiss near her pulse point. He can't help it; it's engraved in his very being to help her; to take away her pain.
He peppers small kisses along her neck, and her finger nails rake along his chest, and it's just like falling into old habits. He captures her lips, snakes his tongue in, and she responds wildly; desperately.
A part of him knows its wrong, but he pushes those thoughts aside as he pushes down her pyjama pants. It's hot, and urgent, as he slips inside of her, yet so silent he strains to hear her breaths. It doesn't last long, but it's enough.
No words are spoken as Nick leaves her bed, and closes her bedroom door behind her. He goes to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. He's trembling slightly, as he realises he's just committed one of the ultimate sins, but he can't feel guilty.
It's Sara.
Claire is still sleeping peacefully when he returns to his bed, completely unaware. He lies there again, listening for Sara, but hears nothing except the rustling of sheets as Claire turns in her sleep to rest against him.
He's the protector. The healer. It's why Sara came here, isn't it?
Nick tells himself that as he finally drifts off into an uneasy sleep. But it isn't easy. Not when all he wants is to feel Sara's heart beating against his own, wishing it was her curled up at his side, carrying his child.
He hates himself.