FLASHBACKS
When Nick woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt awful. He felt worse than awful. His entire body was achy and clammy, and his arm itched like hell. And his bed smelt funny.
Turning his head sideways on his pillow, he blinked in surprise when he saw the silver metal of bed rails; a little beige push button dangling from a cord.
"What the fuck?" he muttered.
"Hey, you're awake." Warrick sat up tiredly in the chair he had been dozing in, smiling at the look of shock on his friends' face. "How you feeling?"
"I feel like a cat crawled into my mouth and died," Nick responded hoarsely. "Why am I in the hospital?"
Warrick shrugged and stretched his arms up over his head, "Sepsis - blood poisoning. The gash on your arm got infected. And you needed stitches."
Nick frowned and looked down at his arm. It was wrapped firmly in pristine white gauzing. He realized for the first time that he had an IV dripping into his hand. "Well, that's just great."
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! You're awake!" Greg's cheerful voice preceded him into the hospital room, and Nick smiled tiredly at the younger man. Greg held a tray of coffee in one hand and a large paper bag in another. "That means you get to drink your coffee while it's still hot. Good timing!"
"How long have I been here?"
Warrick looked at his watch, "Well, we dragged you home from Jupiter Club at 3:30 am, realized you needed medical attention almost immediately and have been here at the hospital since about 4:00. It's almost 8:00 now."
"What's the IV for?"
"The little bag is drugs to fight the infection, the big bag is to re- hydrate you. Doc said you were in bad shape. When was the last time you ate?" Greg plopped himself into an empty chair on the other side of the bed and handed Warrick his coffee, before quickly doctoring Nick's for him and handing it over. Smiling, he reached into the paper bag and pulled out a new toothbrush and paste, some disposable razors, and a bag of Doritos, which he tossed at Nick. "Here's your breakfast."
* * * * * *
Sara hated hospitals. Always had; always would. They always smelled so - sickly. Nick was in there, somewhere. Room 11A-WestB. She sighed as she looked at Grissom and Catherine, who were intently studying the large map / guide standing in the middle of the main entrance. A large yellow arrow pointed to a bright red dot. *You Are Here* she read, *And there's no other place I'd rather be. Right.*
"When did hospitals get so large they needed information panels like they have at malls," Grissom muttered, not expecting an answer. "I think this is where we need to go." He pointed to the West Wing, finger taping a large B.
Catherine smirked at him, "You see, that's why you have the doctorate."
Grissom didn't respond, and Sara sighed. The man had hardly spoken since Warrick had called them earlier that morning to tell them they were taking Nick to the hospital. Grissom not speaking was not all that unusual, but Grissom not speaking while looking vaguely guilty and extremely tense was.
"I'm amazed he got looked at and into a room so quickly," Sara spoke into the silence as the three of them headed towards West B. "Don't you normally have to sit for hours in emergency? Isn't that a hospital law?"
"The last time I had to bring Lyndsey to emerg., we where in the waiting area for 3 ½ hours before a doctor even looked at her," Catherine agreed.
"Blood poisoning is no joke," Grissom muttered. "They take acute cases much faster."
"It's not your fault he's here, Griss," Sara's voice was gentle. "You didn't know this was going to happen."
Grissom shot an annoyed glance at her, "I'm his boss. I should have forced him to come here the minute I saw that gash."
Rounding the corner, Grissom headed left into the section clearly marked 1A - 22A, scowling at the room numbers until he found the one he was looking for. Knocking lightly on the door, he pushed it open and walked in, Sara and Catherine hot on his heels.
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Nick's tone was dry as he greeted his friends. Grissom was frowning at him, and Nick scowled back.
"Hey Nick - how are you feeling?" Nick tried his best to smile reassuringly at Catherine, congratulating himself on a job well done when Catherine smiled back.
"As good as can be expected," Nick responded. Sara stepped forward and eyed the open Doritos bag with amused disdain.
"That's healthy," she teased.
"I don't see you bringing me breakfast," he retorted. His eyes darted to Grissom again, who still hadn't said anything, and his jaw tightened.
"Grissom," he grated.
"Nicky," Grissom's response was strained. "How's the arm?"
"Well, they haven't amputated yet, so I guess it's doing okay."
Catherine walked to the corner of the room and grabbed a chair, sliding it in beside Warrick and sitting down. "Blood poisoning, huh?"
"That's right."
The room fell into an awkward silence. Nick smiled grimly as he crunched a nacho with great exaggeration. "So," he finally said, "what did you guys do last night?"
"Managed to close the murder/suicide we were working on," Sara spoke up. "Pretty shut and dry."
"Find anything else out on the Steeply kid? His parents back yet?" Nick asked.
"Nope and not yet," Grissom responded. "After we leave you, I'm going back to the crime scene and see if we missed anything last night."
"I didn't miss anything," Nick ground out.
"I didn't say you did," Grissom replied tightly.
Another awkward silence; broken only when a doctor walked into the room. "Mr. Stokes. Nice to see you lucid. I'm Dr. Weiss." The doctor quickly checked his chart, before turning to smile at him again. "You seem to have a lot of friends."
"Some better friends than others," Nick muttered. Sara gaped at him in shock, before quickly turning to look at Grissom. Grissom's face was shuttered, but Nick's words had made him blanch. Muttering a quick good- bye, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sara turned to glare at Nick, a disappointed frown marring her features.
"I've never known you to be deliberately cruel, Nick. What the hell is wrong with you lately?" Turning to Cath, she said, "I'll catch up with him. I'm supposed to be going back to the crime scene with him anyway."
Nick watched Sara as she rose to her feet gracefully, a slight sense of shame niggling in the back of his mind. He tamped it down ruthlessly when Sara turned to look at him again, and smiled passively when she leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before whispering in his ear, "I miss the old Nick. I hope he gets better soon."
* * * * *
Dr. Weiss was proficient. Ignoring the sudden tension surrounding him, he checked Nick's chart, asked him a couple of questions, and wrote him a prescription for pain killers and penicillin.
"I'll have a nurse come in and remove the IV once the rest of the cephalosporin is gone," he stated, "and you can go home. You need to take all the prescription, and if you experience dizziness, nausea, continuing high fever and / or chills, you must come right back to the hospital. Do you understand me, Mr. Stokes? This is not something to play with."
Nick nodded absently, and Catherine spoke up, "Don't worry, Doctor Weiss. We'll make sure he takes care of himself."
* * * * *
Nick tried to ignore Greg. The younger man was in his kitchen, foraging for something to eat. He had pulled the first babysitting shift, and was adamant about sticking around, despite Nick's protestations that he should just go home and get some sleep.
"You've got a comfortable looking sofa," Greg had responded. "And I'm more scared of Catherine than I am of you, so I'm staying. Live with it."
Nick had simply shrugged, "Whatever. I'm going to have a shower."
"You need one," Greg had retorted. "Where's your linen closet? I'll set up the sofa."
Stumbling into his living room after his shower, Nick rubbed a damp towel against his hair. He had slid into a pair of ratty old sweat pants with the knees ripped out and an old frat shirt that had seen better days. Even though he knew he should be sleeping, he felt oddly wired.
He quickly flipped through the channels on his TV, sighing in disgust as he settled for some game show that Donny Osmond hosted. Donny Osmond!
Greg joined him a few minutes later, a TV tray carefully balanced with two bowls of cereal, a glass of milk and a hot tea. "Wonder if Marie's still a hottie?" he grinned.
Nick shrugged, "She was always a little too goody-goody for me."
"That's rich," Greg responded as he handed Nick one of the bowls, "coming from the king of white bread."
"That's me," Nick said grimly, before flicking off the TV. "I'm going to bed."
* * * * *
Of course, sleep wouldn't come easily. When Nick had woken up earlier that morning in the hospital, he had felt fairly normal. A little off his game, perhaps, but all in all, not that bad. Even though he resented the fact that Greg was basically babysitting him, it was sort of nice to know that his friends were concerned about him. Hell, if he knew someone who was behaving as erratically as he was, he'd be concerned too.
The ringing of his phone made him start, and he realized he had actually managed to drift off for a few minutes. He grunted as he rolled over onto his side, momentarily forgetting about his damaged arm and hissing in pain when his weight crushed it into his mattress.
"Fuck, that hurts," he muttered as he grabbed the phone and pulled it to his ear. "What?"
"Nicky? Is that you?"
Nick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mom."
"How are you doing?"
"Didn't we just talk yesterday?" Nick tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but realized he had failed when his mother didn't respond right away. He could feel the guilt vibes she was sending him mentally all the way from Texas.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," his mother finally responded.
"Couldn't be better."
"Nicky -" his mother paused, and Nick could picture in his mind, mouth pursed as she carefully chose her words, "I heard about what happened to Peter. So, how are you doing - really."
"I'm fine, Mom," he managed to grate out, "and I'm trying to sleep before shift, so can we cut this short?"
"But Nicky -"
"Bye Mom." Nick hung up on his mother and rolled over onto his back, throwing his arm up over his eyes, still tightly gripping the portable receiver.. Shit.
The phone started ringing again, and Nick grimaced at it before standing and popping the cord out of the jack. He proceeded to disconnect the other two phones in his house before he crawled back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. His arm was throbbing mercilessly, and he wondered idly if it was too early to take another painkiller, or five.
He was so damned sad.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Houston was hot in the summer time. Nick was sweating as he sat there on the park bench, ball cap pulled down tightly to shield his eyes. Small beads of perspiration beaded in the scruff on his face, making the half- assed goatee he was trying to grow to give him a more disreputable look itch like crazy. He ran a palm over his chin and smiled as he saw a young woman and a little girl walk past him with a couple of ice-cream cones.
"Stokes," a voice crackled suddenly from the small earpiece hidden by his ball cap, "he's coming in now. Doesn't seem to have anyone with him. Just seal the deal man, and we'll come in."
Nick looked across the soccer field and tapped his nose with his finger, *Loud and clear, Pete. You've got my back.*
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"You've got to get rid of that fucking goatee, man. You look like you're molting."
Nick smiled good-naturedly as he shrugged out of his t-shirt and quickly pulled on a clean one before shutting his locker. "I thought it made me look tougher."
"Ain't nothing gonna make you look tougher, white bread. Tell 'im, Petey."
"I gotta agree with Ford, Nicky. You're too 'pretty boy' to get away with that. Looks bad."
"Thanks a lot, partner. Weren't you the one that told me I needed to change my look?"
"You can change your look without doing that to your face. Get a crew cut, for chrissakes! You'd look a lot less frat boy if you got rid of the bangs."
"You're just jealous 'cuz I have more hair than you," Nick retorted. Ford started laughing, and rubbed a large hand over Pete's smooth scalp.
"He's got you there, Petey."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nick had never been so upset in his entire life. Sitting in the diner, he stared into his coffee cup and tried to regulate his thinking. Across the table, Pete scowled at him blurrily.
"It's not like I'm hooked, man. I can stop any time I want to."
"Shut the fuck up, Pete, and let me think," Nick hissed back. "How the hell did you get into this? You're a narc, for fuck's sake. You know how bad this shit is."
Pete just glared at him. His eyes were glassy and hollowed, his complexion waxy, "You gonna tell on me?"
Nick sighed, "When did you start?"
"Manny 'Bumps' - started then."
"How?" Nick was startled, "why?"
"I had to do it. Would have blown my cover if I didn't." Pete shrugged. "It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal. It's a big fucking deal, man."
"I can stop. I'll stop. Please, Nicky. Just give me a chance. I've only done it a couple of times; it's not like I'm addicted."
"You know it's not that easy, Petey. This is unbelievable. I can't believe you're doing this!"
Pete sighed, and his glassy eyes filled with tears, "I'm sorry, Nick. I promise - I promise I'll stop. Just don't tell anyone - I'll lose my badge. We're best friends, man. Trust me. I won't let you down."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Officer down! Officer down!" Nick whispered into his walkie. The warehouse, which moments before had been a blazing shoot out, was now eerily silent. Nick was crouched behind a large shipping container, feeling frantically for Ford's pulse before starting chest compressions. "Stay with me, Ford. Come on, man. Stay with me! Ambulance is on the way." The larger man had caught a couple of bullets, and Nick had barely managed to drag his bulk out of harms way before all hell had broken loose. He had no fucking idea were Pete was, but it wasn't with him.
"Come on, Ford. Come on, Ford. Breathe, man. Breathe."
When the EMTs arrived, they found Nick covered in blood that wasn't his, compressing the chest of a man who they guessed had probably died with the second bullet, more than 30 minutes ago.
Nick had stumbled shakily around the warehouse, noting where other bodies lay - a couple of cops he worked with but didn't know all that well had been shot but were still breathing; a couple of men who were obviously not cops were dead. And Pete was nowhere to be found.
Nick was the one who had managed to track him down. Pete was his partner, after all. They had worked together for three years. Nick had been best man when Pete married Marsha, and had stood by him when Marsha had left him after 14 months, saying she couldn't live with a cop anymore. So it was Nick who found him, sitting in the diner where Pete had sworn to get off the drugs.
"No one was supposed to die, Nicky. That's not how it was supposed to go down," Pete had whined.
"Ford died, Pete! What the fuck did you do?"
"It was Rico. He just wanted a diversion while he moved some stuff, I swear to God, that's what he told me. What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna do what I shoulda done when I first found out you were using. I'm taking you in, Petey. You're under arrest."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"I don't wanna fucking talk to you." Pete glared at Nick from behind the Plexiglas barrier of the state prison. Further investigation into the warehouse shooting had provided ample evidence - none of it forensic - that Pete himself had set the squad up. Nick hadn't believed it - had refused to believe it. Pete was a strung out junkie, not a murderer. And Ford had been one of his best friends. Nick knew Ford's death was eating Pete up. Pete had been made the fall guy by a smart dealer, who knew how to work the circumstantial evidence.
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, what Nick knew and what the evidence said were contradictory. The DA hadn't honestly cared that Pete had been a pawn - an officer had died and someone had to pay. And the fact that it was a narc gone bad that the DA managed to convict looked good in the press. Pete had been charged with murder and several counts of attempted murder, had been found guilty by a jury of his peers, and had been sentenced to life in prison.
"I just came to tell you I quit the squad," Nick had replied. "I've quit, and I'm moving to Vegas."
"La-dee-fucking-da," Pete had responded, bitterly. "Don't call me, 'cuz I sure as fuck won't be calling you, friend."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nick woke in a cold sweat, his sheets sticking to him. Sitting up groggily, his mind reeling and his heart pounding, he wiped an arm angrily across his eyes. Reaching over, he opened the drawer of his night table and pulled out the cigar box sitting inside.
Sighing as he opened it up, he smiled grimly as the picture taped to the inside of the lid. Nick, Pete and Ford were sitting in the squad room; smiling for the camera. A couple of yellow newspaper clippings caught Nick's eye, along with several letters address to Pete but returned to sender. Nick ignored them. Instead, he lifted out the newest clipping; Pete's death notification. His ex-best-friend - his ex-partner - had died in prison a few days ago. One of Nick's old buddies on the force had called to tell him about it; saying the coroner had ruled the death a suicide. Drug overdose. Sighing, he looked at the picture again.
*I'm sorry, Ford. It's my fault you're dead. I'm sorry, Petey. It's my fault you're dead.*
Fingering the small stack of unopened letters, Nick let the tears fall.
________________________________
Author's Note: Okay, tried something different with this chapter. Hope it worked. Guilty!Nick is breaking my heart, here.
When Nick woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt awful. He felt worse than awful. His entire body was achy and clammy, and his arm itched like hell. And his bed smelt funny.
Turning his head sideways on his pillow, he blinked in surprise when he saw the silver metal of bed rails; a little beige push button dangling from a cord.
"What the fuck?" he muttered.
"Hey, you're awake." Warrick sat up tiredly in the chair he had been dozing in, smiling at the look of shock on his friends' face. "How you feeling?"
"I feel like a cat crawled into my mouth and died," Nick responded hoarsely. "Why am I in the hospital?"
Warrick shrugged and stretched his arms up over his head, "Sepsis - blood poisoning. The gash on your arm got infected. And you needed stitches."
Nick frowned and looked down at his arm. It was wrapped firmly in pristine white gauzing. He realized for the first time that he had an IV dripping into his hand. "Well, that's just great."
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! You're awake!" Greg's cheerful voice preceded him into the hospital room, and Nick smiled tiredly at the younger man. Greg held a tray of coffee in one hand and a large paper bag in another. "That means you get to drink your coffee while it's still hot. Good timing!"
"How long have I been here?"
Warrick looked at his watch, "Well, we dragged you home from Jupiter Club at 3:30 am, realized you needed medical attention almost immediately and have been here at the hospital since about 4:00. It's almost 8:00 now."
"What's the IV for?"
"The little bag is drugs to fight the infection, the big bag is to re- hydrate you. Doc said you were in bad shape. When was the last time you ate?" Greg plopped himself into an empty chair on the other side of the bed and handed Warrick his coffee, before quickly doctoring Nick's for him and handing it over. Smiling, he reached into the paper bag and pulled out a new toothbrush and paste, some disposable razors, and a bag of Doritos, which he tossed at Nick. "Here's your breakfast."
* * * * * *
Sara hated hospitals. Always had; always would. They always smelled so - sickly. Nick was in there, somewhere. Room 11A-WestB. She sighed as she looked at Grissom and Catherine, who were intently studying the large map / guide standing in the middle of the main entrance. A large yellow arrow pointed to a bright red dot. *You Are Here* she read, *And there's no other place I'd rather be. Right.*
"When did hospitals get so large they needed information panels like they have at malls," Grissom muttered, not expecting an answer. "I think this is where we need to go." He pointed to the West Wing, finger taping a large B.
Catherine smirked at him, "You see, that's why you have the doctorate."
Grissom didn't respond, and Sara sighed. The man had hardly spoken since Warrick had called them earlier that morning to tell them they were taking Nick to the hospital. Grissom not speaking was not all that unusual, but Grissom not speaking while looking vaguely guilty and extremely tense was.
"I'm amazed he got looked at and into a room so quickly," Sara spoke into the silence as the three of them headed towards West B. "Don't you normally have to sit for hours in emergency? Isn't that a hospital law?"
"The last time I had to bring Lyndsey to emerg., we where in the waiting area for 3 ½ hours before a doctor even looked at her," Catherine agreed.
"Blood poisoning is no joke," Grissom muttered. "They take acute cases much faster."
"It's not your fault he's here, Griss," Sara's voice was gentle. "You didn't know this was going to happen."
Grissom shot an annoyed glance at her, "I'm his boss. I should have forced him to come here the minute I saw that gash."
Rounding the corner, Grissom headed left into the section clearly marked 1A - 22A, scowling at the room numbers until he found the one he was looking for. Knocking lightly on the door, he pushed it open and walked in, Sara and Catherine hot on his heels.
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Nick's tone was dry as he greeted his friends. Grissom was frowning at him, and Nick scowled back.
"Hey Nick - how are you feeling?" Nick tried his best to smile reassuringly at Catherine, congratulating himself on a job well done when Catherine smiled back.
"As good as can be expected," Nick responded. Sara stepped forward and eyed the open Doritos bag with amused disdain.
"That's healthy," she teased.
"I don't see you bringing me breakfast," he retorted. His eyes darted to Grissom again, who still hadn't said anything, and his jaw tightened.
"Grissom," he grated.
"Nicky," Grissom's response was strained. "How's the arm?"
"Well, they haven't amputated yet, so I guess it's doing okay."
Catherine walked to the corner of the room and grabbed a chair, sliding it in beside Warrick and sitting down. "Blood poisoning, huh?"
"That's right."
The room fell into an awkward silence. Nick smiled grimly as he crunched a nacho with great exaggeration. "So," he finally said, "what did you guys do last night?"
"Managed to close the murder/suicide we were working on," Sara spoke up. "Pretty shut and dry."
"Find anything else out on the Steeply kid? His parents back yet?" Nick asked.
"Nope and not yet," Grissom responded. "After we leave you, I'm going back to the crime scene and see if we missed anything last night."
"I didn't miss anything," Nick ground out.
"I didn't say you did," Grissom replied tightly.
Another awkward silence; broken only when a doctor walked into the room. "Mr. Stokes. Nice to see you lucid. I'm Dr. Weiss." The doctor quickly checked his chart, before turning to smile at him again. "You seem to have a lot of friends."
"Some better friends than others," Nick muttered. Sara gaped at him in shock, before quickly turning to look at Grissom. Grissom's face was shuttered, but Nick's words had made him blanch. Muttering a quick good- bye, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sara turned to glare at Nick, a disappointed frown marring her features.
"I've never known you to be deliberately cruel, Nick. What the hell is wrong with you lately?" Turning to Cath, she said, "I'll catch up with him. I'm supposed to be going back to the crime scene with him anyway."
Nick watched Sara as she rose to her feet gracefully, a slight sense of shame niggling in the back of his mind. He tamped it down ruthlessly when Sara turned to look at him again, and smiled passively when she leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before whispering in his ear, "I miss the old Nick. I hope he gets better soon."
* * * * *
Dr. Weiss was proficient. Ignoring the sudden tension surrounding him, he checked Nick's chart, asked him a couple of questions, and wrote him a prescription for pain killers and penicillin.
"I'll have a nurse come in and remove the IV once the rest of the cephalosporin is gone," he stated, "and you can go home. You need to take all the prescription, and if you experience dizziness, nausea, continuing high fever and / or chills, you must come right back to the hospital. Do you understand me, Mr. Stokes? This is not something to play with."
Nick nodded absently, and Catherine spoke up, "Don't worry, Doctor Weiss. We'll make sure he takes care of himself."
* * * * *
Nick tried to ignore Greg. The younger man was in his kitchen, foraging for something to eat. He had pulled the first babysitting shift, and was adamant about sticking around, despite Nick's protestations that he should just go home and get some sleep.
"You've got a comfortable looking sofa," Greg had responded. "And I'm more scared of Catherine than I am of you, so I'm staying. Live with it."
Nick had simply shrugged, "Whatever. I'm going to have a shower."
"You need one," Greg had retorted. "Where's your linen closet? I'll set up the sofa."
Stumbling into his living room after his shower, Nick rubbed a damp towel against his hair. He had slid into a pair of ratty old sweat pants with the knees ripped out and an old frat shirt that had seen better days. Even though he knew he should be sleeping, he felt oddly wired.
He quickly flipped through the channels on his TV, sighing in disgust as he settled for some game show that Donny Osmond hosted. Donny Osmond!
Greg joined him a few minutes later, a TV tray carefully balanced with two bowls of cereal, a glass of milk and a hot tea. "Wonder if Marie's still a hottie?" he grinned.
Nick shrugged, "She was always a little too goody-goody for me."
"That's rich," Greg responded as he handed Nick one of the bowls, "coming from the king of white bread."
"That's me," Nick said grimly, before flicking off the TV. "I'm going to bed."
* * * * *
Of course, sleep wouldn't come easily. When Nick had woken up earlier that morning in the hospital, he had felt fairly normal. A little off his game, perhaps, but all in all, not that bad. Even though he resented the fact that Greg was basically babysitting him, it was sort of nice to know that his friends were concerned about him. Hell, if he knew someone who was behaving as erratically as he was, he'd be concerned too.
The ringing of his phone made him start, and he realized he had actually managed to drift off for a few minutes. He grunted as he rolled over onto his side, momentarily forgetting about his damaged arm and hissing in pain when his weight crushed it into his mattress.
"Fuck, that hurts," he muttered as he grabbed the phone and pulled it to his ear. "What?"
"Nicky? Is that you?"
Nick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mom."
"How are you doing?"
"Didn't we just talk yesterday?" Nick tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but realized he had failed when his mother didn't respond right away. He could feel the guilt vibes she was sending him mentally all the way from Texas.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," his mother finally responded.
"Couldn't be better."
"Nicky -" his mother paused, and Nick could picture in his mind, mouth pursed as she carefully chose her words, "I heard about what happened to Peter. So, how are you doing - really."
"I'm fine, Mom," he managed to grate out, "and I'm trying to sleep before shift, so can we cut this short?"
"But Nicky -"
"Bye Mom." Nick hung up on his mother and rolled over onto his back, throwing his arm up over his eyes, still tightly gripping the portable receiver.. Shit.
The phone started ringing again, and Nick grimaced at it before standing and popping the cord out of the jack. He proceeded to disconnect the other two phones in his house before he crawled back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. His arm was throbbing mercilessly, and he wondered idly if it was too early to take another painkiller, or five.
He was so damned sad.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Houston was hot in the summer time. Nick was sweating as he sat there on the park bench, ball cap pulled down tightly to shield his eyes. Small beads of perspiration beaded in the scruff on his face, making the half- assed goatee he was trying to grow to give him a more disreputable look itch like crazy. He ran a palm over his chin and smiled as he saw a young woman and a little girl walk past him with a couple of ice-cream cones.
"Stokes," a voice crackled suddenly from the small earpiece hidden by his ball cap, "he's coming in now. Doesn't seem to have anyone with him. Just seal the deal man, and we'll come in."
Nick looked across the soccer field and tapped his nose with his finger, *Loud and clear, Pete. You've got my back.*
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"You've got to get rid of that fucking goatee, man. You look like you're molting."
Nick smiled good-naturedly as he shrugged out of his t-shirt and quickly pulled on a clean one before shutting his locker. "I thought it made me look tougher."
"Ain't nothing gonna make you look tougher, white bread. Tell 'im, Petey."
"I gotta agree with Ford, Nicky. You're too 'pretty boy' to get away with that. Looks bad."
"Thanks a lot, partner. Weren't you the one that told me I needed to change my look?"
"You can change your look without doing that to your face. Get a crew cut, for chrissakes! You'd look a lot less frat boy if you got rid of the bangs."
"You're just jealous 'cuz I have more hair than you," Nick retorted. Ford started laughing, and rubbed a large hand over Pete's smooth scalp.
"He's got you there, Petey."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nick had never been so upset in his entire life. Sitting in the diner, he stared into his coffee cup and tried to regulate his thinking. Across the table, Pete scowled at him blurrily.
"It's not like I'm hooked, man. I can stop any time I want to."
"Shut the fuck up, Pete, and let me think," Nick hissed back. "How the hell did you get into this? You're a narc, for fuck's sake. You know how bad this shit is."
Pete just glared at him. His eyes were glassy and hollowed, his complexion waxy, "You gonna tell on me?"
Nick sighed, "When did you start?"
"Manny 'Bumps' - started then."
"How?" Nick was startled, "why?"
"I had to do it. Would have blown my cover if I didn't." Pete shrugged. "It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal. It's a big fucking deal, man."
"I can stop. I'll stop. Please, Nicky. Just give me a chance. I've only done it a couple of times; it's not like I'm addicted."
"You know it's not that easy, Petey. This is unbelievable. I can't believe you're doing this!"
Pete sighed, and his glassy eyes filled with tears, "I'm sorry, Nick. I promise - I promise I'll stop. Just don't tell anyone - I'll lose my badge. We're best friends, man. Trust me. I won't let you down."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Officer down! Officer down!" Nick whispered into his walkie. The warehouse, which moments before had been a blazing shoot out, was now eerily silent. Nick was crouched behind a large shipping container, feeling frantically for Ford's pulse before starting chest compressions. "Stay with me, Ford. Come on, man. Stay with me! Ambulance is on the way." The larger man had caught a couple of bullets, and Nick had barely managed to drag his bulk out of harms way before all hell had broken loose. He had no fucking idea were Pete was, but it wasn't with him.
"Come on, Ford. Come on, Ford. Breathe, man. Breathe."
When the EMTs arrived, they found Nick covered in blood that wasn't his, compressing the chest of a man who they guessed had probably died with the second bullet, more than 30 minutes ago.
Nick had stumbled shakily around the warehouse, noting where other bodies lay - a couple of cops he worked with but didn't know all that well had been shot but were still breathing; a couple of men who were obviously not cops were dead. And Pete was nowhere to be found.
Nick was the one who had managed to track him down. Pete was his partner, after all. They had worked together for three years. Nick had been best man when Pete married Marsha, and had stood by him when Marsha had left him after 14 months, saying she couldn't live with a cop anymore. So it was Nick who found him, sitting in the diner where Pete had sworn to get off the drugs.
"No one was supposed to die, Nicky. That's not how it was supposed to go down," Pete had whined.
"Ford died, Pete! What the fuck did you do?"
"It was Rico. He just wanted a diversion while he moved some stuff, I swear to God, that's what he told me. What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna do what I shoulda done when I first found out you were using. I'm taking you in, Petey. You're under arrest."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"I don't wanna fucking talk to you." Pete glared at Nick from behind the Plexiglas barrier of the state prison. Further investigation into the warehouse shooting had provided ample evidence - none of it forensic - that Pete himself had set the squad up. Nick hadn't believed it - had refused to believe it. Pete was a strung out junkie, not a murderer. And Ford had been one of his best friends. Nick knew Ford's death was eating Pete up. Pete had been made the fall guy by a smart dealer, who knew how to work the circumstantial evidence.
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, what Nick knew and what the evidence said were contradictory. The DA hadn't honestly cared that Pete had been a pawn - an officer had died and someone had to pay. And the fact that it was a narc gone bad that the DA managed to convict looked good in the press. Pete had been charged with murder and several counts of attempted murder, had been found guilty by a jury of his peers, and had been sentenced to life in prison.
"I just came to tell you I quit the squad," Nick had replied. "I've quit, and I'm moving to Vegas."
"La-dee-fucking-da," Pete had responded, bitterly. "Don't call me, 'cuz I sure as fuck won't be calling you, friend."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nick woke in a cold sweat, his sheets sticking to him. Sitting up groggily, his mind reeling and his heart pounding, he wiped an arm angrily across his eyes. Reaching over, he opened the drawer of his night table and pulled out the cigar box sitting inside.
Sighing as he opened it up, he smiled grimly as the picture taped to the inside of the lid. Nick, Pete and Ford were sitting in the squad room; smiling for the camera. A couple of yellow newspaper clippings caught Nick's eye, along with several letters address to Pete but returned to sender. Nick ignored them. Instead, he lifted out the newest clipping; Pete's death notification. His ex-best-friend - his ex-partner - had died in prison a few days ago. One of Nick's old buddies on the force had called to tell him about it; saying the coroner had ruled the death a suicide. Drug overdose. Sighing, he looked at the picture again.
*I'm sorry, Ford. It's my fault you're dead. I'm sorry, Petey. It's my fault you're dead.*
Fingering the small stack of unopened letters, Nick let the tears fall.
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Author's Note: Okay, tried something different with this chapter. Hope it worked. Guilty!Nick is breaking my heart, here.