Happiness Unraveled
Chapter One
The first time was just after he saw the Nigel Crane tapes.
An insane man muttering, worshipping, obsessing over him. He stood frozen in the middle of the room as the tape played, muscles rigid. They were all looking at him, no doubt about that, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the video. Couldn't tear them away until the tape ended, static washed the screen, and he found himself walking stiffly from the room, down the hall, out the front doors and to his truck.
He found himself driving home, hopping out of the truck and locking it, walking up the front walk, in through the front door. Locking it. Picking up the phone and the takeout menus at the same time, calling for a pizza because he was too damn tired, confused, stressed-out to cook.
The pizza came, large, with pepperoni and jalapeños. He set it in the very center of the table, sat down, and began to eat it from the box – no plate, no napkins, not even anything to drink.
One piece, two, three – usually he'd stop. Usually he wasn't thinking about stolen laundry, stolen security, stolen identity. He picked up a fourth piece. Screw 'usually.'
Five, six – why don't you stop now? – seven, and then the last one. Three bites and it's gone.
He found himself pushing his chair back, standing up, walking down the hall to the bathroom. He found himself pressing on his overfull stomach, watching it all come back up. The sight of it made him throw up all over again. And again. And again until nothing was left. Again.
He flushed the toilet, wiped his mouth, brushed his teeth. Walked back to the kitchen, picked up the empty box and took it to the garbage outside. Hid the evidence.
He locked the doors, closed the blinds, changed out of his work clothes into loose pajama bottoms. Fell into bed and slept for the first time in almost three days.
That was the first time Nick Stokes made himself sick. It was the last time he didn't feel guilty.
The second time – but who was counting, really? – was after the Warner case.
It would've been easier to hate the muscle-head boyfriend if he had meant to kill her. But, never one to back down from a challenge, Nick hated him anyway. Watched the extreme athlete casually running his millionth mile, evading questions, effortlessly moving past the death of his girlfriend – it was enough to make anyone sick. Or, at least, that's what Nick told himself.
He ate an entire pot of spaghetti, then threw up until his abs hurt so badly he could hardly breathe. The extreme athlete-turned-murderer probably could've gone longer.
Nick hauled himself up, flushed, brushed his teeth, then stopped. Stared at himself in the mirror.
What are you doing? What the hell do you think you're doing? You know better than this, what are you doing?
But he wouldn't do it again. Clearly. It was just this once. Well, okay, twice. Twice, but that wasn't a habit. Twice was just a mistake. It wouldn't happen again.
At least, that's what Nick told himself.
The fifth time – but really, no one here is counting – the case hit just a little too close to home. He spent the day looking far too closely at something he was too close to in the first place. He spent the day watching his friends probe a girl's life, learning her disease. He spent the day praying they wouldn't find his.
"What happened to these girls?" Warrick asked. But really, what happened to anybody? Expectations got too high or life got too hard or they just slipped one day. It happened to everyone.
And who were they to pity Ashleigh James? Who were they to say whose fault any of it was? Was it her fault for wanting too much of herself? Or theirs, for taking too much from her?
Nick didn't eat all day – the fear of discovery strangled his appetite. When he finally got home, he glanced toward his kitchen and all the things he could eat. And he went to bed empty, stomach growling, but if he started he wouldn't stop, and he had promised he wouldn't do this.
He woke up after an hour and ate all the leftovers in the fridge, then threw up until he couldn't stand up.
He spent his night lying on the bathroom floor, promising whoever was listening that this was the last time. Wondering how it ever could be.
The ninth time – if anyone were counting – it was all his fault.
Forgetting case identifiers. Losing his credibility to the jury, to the judge, to Grissom. To prove once and for all that he wasn't ready.
Rookie mistake, stupid, stupid, how the hell could you let yourself do that? Do you enjoy disappointing people?
Tom Haviland was put in jail, despite his screw-up. Because Grissom always saves the day – and that's why he gets to judge. Those that don't screw up get to frown on those who do.
Nick ate three burgers from a fast food joint, along with fries, before he even got home. At home, he threw it all up, then lay on the bathroom floor, thoughts almost silent.
This time he didn't make any promises. Those who screw up, those who have already lost their credibility to everyone who matters – their promises are just another nail in the coffin.
The umpteenth time – no one cares to count – he very nearly got caught.
It was one of the worst ideas he'd ever had – which was saying something – to throw up in the lab. But he'd eaten a huge stack of pancakes and he couldn't remember how to let a meal rest. He had to get rid of it.
To his credit, Nick had checked the whole locker room. The Grave shift had already left anyway. Nick had come back for the clothes in his locker that desperately needed to be laundered. Wouldn't do to let them sit.
Then the pancakes were sitting heavily in his stomach and he wanted – no, needed – for them to be gone. He closed the door to the bathroom in the back of the locker room, went to the far stall, and shoved his fingers down his throat.
It hurt, hurt like hell, but God, at the same time, it felt good. Felt deserved. Made it all better. But still, his eyes watered, his throat burned, his stomach ached. He was glad when it was over.
Except that when he unlocked the stall door and stepped toward the sink, who should be there but Warrick Brown.
"Jesus, Nick, are you all right?" Green eyes wide, surprised, taken aback.
"Yeah." He leaned weakly on the sink, rinsed his hands, wet a paper towel. "Must be coming down with something." He put the cool towel to his forehead, then the back of his neck. He really was feeling too hot, though he doubted that had anything to do with fever.
Warrick frowned. "Want me to drive you home?"
"Nah. I've got it. I'm fine, really." He remembered a time when he and Warrick had shared everything. When they bet on cases and played basketball after work. When was the last time he had talked to Warrick about anything besides a case?
"You sure? You really don't look so good," Warrick said, taking a step forward.
"I'm fine," Nick said forcefully, and Warrick's eyes widened again. "Thanks, though," he added awkwardly.
Before Warrick could say more, Nick was pushing past him to leave, tossing the paper towel in the trash. "See you tomorrow."
He didn't look back, walking quickly all the way out to his car, then resting his head on the steering wheel.
The umpteenth time, he forced himself to say the word. Said it so quietly he could hardly hear it over the soft chug of air-conditioning in his truck. Said the word that was thick in his throat and heavy on his heart.
"Bulimia."