MARSHA
Marsha Middleton had known this wasn't going to be easy. She had already been in Vegas for three days - three tense days - trying to build up the courage to come see Nick. She didn't know why she needed to see Nick after all these years, but the first person she had thought about when she learned of Pete's death had been him.
What did you say to someone after five years of silence? How did you open yourself up to the potential hurt of being rejected; scorned? Her mind drifted back to the day she and Pete had been married - she had been so happy, so serene with the knowledge that she was making the right decision. The music had started, she had drifted down the aisle of the little church, practically floating on a cloud of white satin and lace. Pete had been so handsome in his tux, beaming at her as she came towards him. And then her eyes had drifted to Nick, met his even gaze and smiling regard, and her heart had stopped - or at least it had seemed that way. She had realized with stunning clarity as Pete reached out a hand to envelope hers, that while she cared about Pete, she loved Nick.
*How the hell did this happen?* she remembered thinking, even as she smiled at her husband to be. *It must be nerves, that's all. You love Pete, Marsha. Pete!* The urge to flee, to turn tail and run back down the aisle had been great, but she had stayed where she was. The minister had asked the proper questions, made her 'repeat after him', and had solemnly proclaimed 'I now pronounce you man and wife'.
And she had known, with brutal clarity, that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. She had just married the wrong man.
Of course, she managed to push these thoughts aside. Had smiled and laughed, accepting hugs and kisses and handshakes from the myriad guests they had invited, and tried to convince herself that it was just her imagination. After the dinner reception, she had danced with Pete and her father, before being swept away by Nick.
"You look stunning, Marty," he had teased, "absolutely beautiful."
"You don't look so bad yourself, Nick. And I wish you wouldn't call me Marty," she had managed to respond.
Nick had just grinned at her, eyes serious, "You've made Pete really happy, you know. He's like a brother to me. Please take care of him."
Her eyes had filled with sudden tears, "I will. I promise I will."
His hand splayed at her waist had branded her through her dress, and she had shut her eyes against the sudden aching wail that had filled her. *What have you done? What. Have. You. Done!* She hoped Nick would think the tears suddenly sliding from the corners of her eyes were tears of joy. "You're a good friend, Nick. Pete's best friend."
"He's lucky that he saw you first," he had responded, squeezing her waist gently, "He always was the lucky one."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"He doesn't want to see you," the gruff voice immediately in front of her startled her from her reverie, and she jumped. "He asked me to tell you to go home."
Brass. Captain Brass. That was his name. Marsha felt the sudden heat of tears, the thick cloud of regret choking her, and shook her head mutely. "I need to see him. It's important."
Brass looked at her momentarily, judging her, weighing her, before sighing. "He's on shift right now. He won't be done for a while. I've delivered my message, and that's all I can do. If you sit against this wall here, he won't see you on his way out later on. You might be able to talk to him then."
Marsha nodded her head jerkily, attempting to smile, "Thank you."
The older man shrugged, "Don't thank me. The mood he's been in lately - might be better if you left like he wants you to."
* * * * *
Clay Peters was a typical 18-year-old jock. Nick had the disturbing feeling he was looking in the mirror, seeing himself as he had been as a senior in high school. The kid sat at the table in the interview room sullenly, a disdainful sneer curling his lips even as his eyes were fearful. Nick stifled an annoyed sigh.
Beside him, Grissom shifted in his seat when Brass walked into the room. "Good, you're here. Let's begin, shall we?"
After quick introductions, Grissom started asking the regular questions - You heard about Nick Steeply? - We know you were with Jen Letch at the Steeply house? - Did you see anyone suspicious? Notice anything odd? - The list went on.
Beside Peters, his parents sat stoned-face and disapproving. His mother's face had curved into a disagreeable little smile when Jen Letch's name had been mentioned, and Nick could have sworn he heard her whisper, 'Little slut'. He wanted to smack her.
Clay's responses had been equally predictable - Yes, so, No and No.
Nick had flexed his hands into fists, and turned towards Grissom, waiting for Grissom to notice him. "Can we talk outside for a second?"
Grissom tried not to look surprised, nodding briefly. He and Nick quickly stepped out into the hallway.
"Let me talk to him." He made the statement point blank, no working up to it. Before Grissom could object, he had held up a hand. "Hear me out - we need to get his parents out of there. He's not going to offer anything with them sitting beside him. Take them into the side room and let them watch through the one-way mirror. I'm younger -closer to his own age. I remember - vividly - what 18 was like. Let me talk to him."
Nick could see the mental gears clicking in Grissom's mind, "Trust me, Grissom."
Three little words - *Trust me, Grissom* - yet they were so important. Nick felt like he was holding his breath waiting for the response, trying to bank down the anger and pain of the last few days, trying to convince himself that it didn't really matter if Grissom trusted him or not.
Grissom sighed and nodded, "Okay."
* * * * *
It hadn't been as hard as Grissom had anticipated getting Mr. and Mrs. Peters to leave Clay alone with Nick. They had refused at first, of course, but it had been Nick who had convinced them.
"He might not be comfortable talking with you here," Nick had pointed out calmly. "You were eighteen once, Mr. Peters - would you want you're parents to know what you were up to with your girlfriend at that age?"
Simple question, but it had sealed the deal. Mr. Peters had nodded curtly and had stepped out of the room, Mrs. Peters following meekly behind him.
The two now watched their son from behind the one-way mirror. Brass stood patiently out of earshot in the room, at the doorway. Nick and Clay had moved to the far end of the table.
Grissom watched the younger CSI intently. He could read the young man like a book lately, and knew that Nick was still angry. About what, Grissom didn't really know - but he knew it was more than this case. When Nick had asked him in the hallway to trust him, agreeing to do so had been one of the hardest things Grissom had ever done. It's not that he didn't trust Nick to do his job - he did. But Nick wasn't himself, and the last thing the department needed was for him to snap and do something stupid - like get rough with the Peters boy or make another accusation similar to the one he'd thrown at the Letch girl just yesterday.
Grissom had realized, however, that Nick wasn't really asking him to trust him on just this one matter - Nick was asking Grissom to trust him, on everything. How could Grissom say no? He didn't know what Nick was going through; didn't know what the problem was. He hoped that by placing his trust in Nick, Nick would return the favor and tell Grissom what was going on.
"What time did you arrive at the Steeply house last night?"
"After football practice - so around 7:30."
"Nick was still home?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you and Jen send him out?"
Clay shifted, embarrassed and uncomfortable, "You know why, man."
Nick smiled grimly, "Guess I do." He paused for a moment, studying his hands intently, "What time did you leave?"
"Around 10:00."
"Did you see anyone at all when you went to the Steeply house, or when you left?"
Shrug. "A couple of kids from school. They were on their way home."
"Where did you see them?"
"They were on the corner of Madeira and Madison."
"Did you talk to them at all?"
"No. We hang in different crowds."
"Names?"
"Uh. Eric Minet and Samantha White, I think."
Nick nodded, but didn't say anything. Clay started squirming.
"It's not my fault the kid died."
"Didn't say it was," Nick responded.
"I just - I just -"
"Wanted to get laid."
Clay sighed, "Yeah. I didn't think anything would happen to him." The younger man looked at Nick, tears welling in his eyes. "Poor little kid."
* * * * *
Nick sighed heavily as he poured himself a coffee. Brass was hunting up addresses for the two kids Clay had seen the night Nick Steeply went missing. The corner of Madeira and Madison was less than a block away from the park. Maybe they might have seen something.
Grissom was watching him. It made Nick nervous.
"You handled that nicely, Nicky."
Nick smiled faintly, "You surprised?"
Grissom shrugged, "You have been a little unpredictable lately." The tone of his voice was gentle, but the words still stung. Nick stiffened defensively.
"I already apologized for that. Isn't it enough?"
"I'm just worried about you, Nick. Everyone is walking around you on eggshells - not sure what they're going to say that may set you off."
"I'm not a firecracker," he ground out. "I was out of sorts yesterday and this morning, but I'm coming to terms with it. Things are getting better." The words were unconvincing, even to his own ears. He sighed suddenly, and looked at Grissom, wondering if the older man could see the emptiness he was trying to hide.
Grissom returned his look, face inscrutable, before shaking his head, "I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what's going on."
Nick quirked his lips bitterly, "Trust me, Grissom, you don't want to know." Reaching into his jean jacket pocket, he quickly grabbed his painkillers, "Christ, my arm hurts. I'll be glad when this shift is over and I can go home to bed."
Grissom recognized that Nick was trying to change the subject, and sighed, before looking at his watch. "It's almost midnight. We won't be talking to anyone else tonight about this. Why don't you go home? Meet me back here around 9:30, and we'll go with Brass to talk to Minet and White at the highschool. You look exhausted."
"What if -"
"Nick, go home. The rest of us can handle anything that pops up. Take you're pager, just in case, but go home."
Nick smiled grimly, "I look that bad, huh?"
Grissom smiled back, "Worse."
* * * * *
She could here him coming down the hall. His voice was still the same, drawling and deep and husky. Someone had hollered at him, "Hey, were you going so early?"
And she had heard him respond, "Griss is sending me home. Thanks for the help last night, Greggo."
Marsha stood nervously, smoothing her hands over her hair and hips, trying not to hold her breath, as she stepped out into the main hallway from the small sitting area, directly into his line of vision.
Nick froze, mid-stride. Marsha smiled at him weakly.
"Hi, Nicky."
She flinched when his eyes flicked over her contemptuously, a strange mixture of coldness and angry heat. "Didn't Brass tell you to leave?"
"He did, but I wanted to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk to you." He continued walking down the hall, brushing past her in his haste, face tight. Marsha turned quickly and followed him out the main entrance and into the parking lot.
"Nick. Nicky, please!"
"Go away, Marsha."
"Please, Nick."
He was at his truck now, fumbling for his keys, shaking with anger. "I don't want to talk to you."
"Pete's dead, Nick." Her voice was a whisper.
Nick visibly flinched, before turning to glare at her. "You think I don't fucking know that already?"
Marsha felt like crying, "Please, Nick. I came all the way from Texas to talk to you."
"Should have called first, I'd have saved you the trip," his voice was harsh, but he was still looking at her. His eyes glowed like wet obsidian in the muted lighting of the parking lot.
"That's why I didn't call," Marsha stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand but pulling it back before she touched him. The man standing in front of her wasn't the Nick she had known. He was harder, more brittle, and - if at all possible - even more wildly attractive to her than he had been five years ago. "Please Nick, just give me an hour."
Nick glared at her, "Fine. One hour - and then get the fuck out of Las Vegas and don't come back. Coffee shop?"
She shook her head, "No. I need to talk to you privately. We could go to your place?"
Nick sighed, "Fine. You have a car?" When she shook her head, he leaned across the cab of his truck and pushed the door open, "Get in."
* * * * * *
The drive back to his place had been incredibly tense. Nick hadn't said two words, but she could feel his eyes flicking over to her every once in a while. She could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, and wondered - not for the first time - if she was doing the right thing.
His house was nice, but she would have expected as much. He always had been meticulous. Pete had often teased Nick about his obsessive neatness. "You should have been a woman, man!"
It had been a running joke among the three of them. Pete was a slob. Nick and Marsha often commented to each other that without her to look after Pete at home and Nick to look after him at work, he would have been crushed to death under all the junk he tried to accumulate long ago.
She followed Nick into his kitchen silently, watching as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, before he turned to her. He didn't offer her one.
"Why are you here, Marsha?" His voice was harsh.
"I wanted to explain to you - why..what.why I left Pete."
"I already know. And why should I care, anyway? It's been five fucking years."
"You only know what Pete told you. You never bothered to ask me."
Nick shrugged, and took a swig of his beer, "What were you gonna say? Can't take being married to a cop? So sorry?"
Marsha sighed, "I left him because he was doing drugs."
The words hit Nick like a bomb. "What?"
"He was using. I couldn't - I didn't know what to do. I didn't know him anymore. I was scared, and I had to get out."
Nick shook his head, "Bullshit. You would've told me. He didn't start using until after you left him."
"I tried to tell you, Nick. The last few months I was with him. I told you I needed to talk to you alone, but you never made the time. I only ever saw you when Pete was there. How could I tell you when he was around? And after I left him, you wouldn't return my calls."
Nick slumped into a chair, "He told me he started when he was undercover working Manny's case."
Marsha shook her head, "Not true. He was using way before then. I was afraid - I thought - maybe you were using too, for a while. And then, when Ford died - and all that stuff in the paper. I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn't. You're parents wouldn't tell me where you were."
"You talked to my parents?"
Marsha nodded, miserably, "I told them I needed to talk to you, and they told me I couldn't. You'd moved, and they refused to tell me where."
"Fuck." Nick replied. "How did you find me?"
"Pete," Marsha whispered. "I went to see Pete last week, the day before he -. He called me, asked me to come see him. So I went. He told me you were in Las Vegas."
The kitchen fell silent for a few moments, before Marsha cleared her throat nervously, "He gave me something to give to you."
She reached into her purse and pulled out a letter, sliding it across the table to him. Nick closed his eyes against the familiar scrawl of Pete's handwriting across the white envelope. *Nicky Stokes*
"I sent him letters, you know. Tried to visit him a couple of times." Nick's voice was soft. He picked up the envelope, fingering the edges, "He sent all the letters back. Never let me see him."
"I know. He told me," her voice was just as soft, gentle and sad. Nick glanced at her and saw she was crying, "He told me he missed you."
Nick felt tears, hot and thick and salty, fill his own eyes. "It's my fault he's dead."
Marsha shook her head, "It's not your fault. It's his fault. You can't blame yourself, just like I can't blame myself."
"I should have turned him in, forced him to go to rehab. I should have talked to you."
"I should have made you listen," she gave Nick a watery smile, "I shouldn't have given up." She slid her chair across the floor, listening to the scrap of metal on tile as she moved closer to him. He still held Pete's letter in his hand. "You going to read that?"
Nick shook his head, "No. Not ready yet. Maybe later." He looked at her suddenly, and the pain in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. "He was my best friend, Marty. I - let him down."
Marsha tried not to smile when Nick used her old nickname, "He let you down. He let me down. It's not your fault, anymore than it is mine."
She leaned forward and placed her hand on the one he had sitting on the table, smiling when he turned it palm upwards, twinning his fingers with hers. His thumb absently stroked the back of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. "I missed you, Marty."
"I missed you too, Nicky."
The tension between them shifted subtly as they spoke. It was no longer taut and tense with anger and impotent rage, but heavy with unspoken words and guilt and long-buried affection.
Nick looked at their hands intently, enjoying on a visceral level the heat and weight of her small palm against his own. He HAD missed Marsha; had missed her quick wit and intelligence and her exotic beauty. She had always been the most attractive woman he had ever met; but Pete had claimed her first, and Pete had loved her, and Nick had been happy for him.
Marsha leaned a little closer, "You're the only one I've ever let call me Marty." Nick's brown eyes met her hazel ones, searing her to her very core. Her free hand traveled up to his face, her palm rubbing against his jaw, enjoying the rough scrape of stubble. "No one else is allowed to call me Marty."
Nick closed his eyes, trying to hide the sudden arc of electric need tearing like wildfire for his system. *Your ex-best friends ex-wife* his mind whispered. But her hand on his face felt so good, he could feel her heat radiating through his system, filling the voids that had been burned away by anger with pure unadulterated lust.
He cleared his throat and put the letter on the table, before covering her handon his face with his own, "I should take you back to - where are you staying?"
"The Desert Palms," she whispered back. Her breath was warm against his face, and he opened up his eyes to clash with hers, mere inches from his own. She was practically in his lap.
"Marty -" his voice was thick with warning. She cut him off.
"I wasn't completely honest with you earlier, Nicky. About why I left Pete," she whispered. "The drugs - they were just the final straw. I left him mostly because I realized I didn't love him as much as I loved you."
Nick dragged air into his lungs, before forcibly exhaling, "What?"
"I love you. I wasn't sure - I mean, it's been five years. A lot of anger and pain and regret under the bridge. But it's still there. I have never stopped loving you."
Nick didn't know how it happened, but suddenly she was on his lap, straddling him. He was gripping her face tightly, kissing her with such ferocity it was primal. Her hands were in his short hair, fingers scratching through his scalp. She tasted of Crest and coffee and a sweetness that was uniquely hers. Nick could feel the tears seeping from her eyes trace his palms like a benediction. Pulling from her mouth briefly, his traced his lips over the warm saltiness, before returning back to her mouth. Deep in her throat, she was making little mewling sounds. Nick growled, and released her face to travel down her back and under the rim of her jeans, fingering the edge of her t-shirt before he lifted it and dragged it in a tangle over her head.
He could feel the heat at the juncture of her thighs pressed against him, and felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. Shrugging roughly out of his jean jacket he jerked to his feet, strong hands cupping her bottom as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He barely made it to his bedroom.
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud, mingling with hers as they pooled around her feet. A couple of the buttons on his shirt skittered across the floor as Marsha hastily fumbled with them, before riding her palms across the smooth expense of his chest and over his nipples. Her bra tore as Nick, tired of struggling with the little hooks at the back, just ripped it off her and tossed it to the side, followed quickly by her underwear.
Laughing and breathless, hands everywhere, mouths nipping and licking each other, they sank into his bed. He almost cried out when his body slid into hers, and he shut his eyes tightly against the tears. He could feel Marsha surrounding him, arms and legs gripping him as tightly as her body, hips rolling underneath him, so unbearably hot Nick felt like he was being burned alive - purged and cleansed, the conflagration of passion and redemption he found in her arms enough for now.
__________________________
Author's Note:
Thanks for all the great reviews and emails on this story - I really appreciate the input, as always. For Sylphide and EricB - just to point out, Brass was actually a career officer (according to the CBS website) before becoming the Forensics Supervisor. That's why, when he was demoted with the Holly Gribbs incident in Pilot, he was sent to Homicide.
Only a few more chapters to go - resolution to the case, some more Nicky angst, yada yada yada.
Marsha Middleton had known this wasn't going to be easy. She had already been in Vegas for three days - three tense days - trying to build up the courage to come see Nick. She didn't know why she needed to see Nick after all these years, but the first person she had thought about when she learned of Pete's death had been him.
What did you say to someone after five years of silence? How did you open yourself up to the potential hurt of being rejected; scorned? Her mind drifted back to the day she and Pete had been married - she had been so happy, so serene with the knowledge that she was making the right decision. The music had started, she had drifted down the aisle of the little church, practically floating on a cloud of white satin and lace. Pete had been so handsome in his tux, beaming at her as she came towards him. And then her eyes had drifted to Nick, met his even gaze and smiling regard, and her heart had stopped - or at least it had seemed that way. She had realized with stunning clarity as Pete reached out a hand to envelope hers, that while she cared about Pete, she loved Nick.
*How the hell did this happen?* she remembered thinking, even as she smiled at her husband to be. *It must be nerves, that's all. You love Pete, Marsha. Pete!* The urge to flee, to turn tail and run back down the aisle had been great, but she had stayed where she was. The minister had asked the proper questions, made her 'repeat after him', and had solemnly proclaimed 'I now pronounce you man and wife'.
And she had known, with brutal clarity, that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. She had just married the wrong man.
Of course, she managed to push these thoughts aside. Had smiled and laughed, accepting hugs and kisses and handshakes from the myriad guests they had invited, and tried to convince herself that it was just her imagination. After the dinner reception, she had danced with Pete and her father, before being swept away by Nick.
"You look stunning, Marty," he had teased, "absolutely beautiful."
"You don't look so bad yourself, Nick. And I wish you wouldn't call me Marty," she had managed to respond.
Nick had just grinned at her, eyes serious, "You've made Pete really happy, you know. He's like a brother to me. Please take care of him."
Her eyes had filled with sudden tears, "I will. I promise I will."
His hand splayed at her waist had branded her through her dress, and she had shut her eyes against the sudden aching wail that had filled her. *What have you done? What. Have. You. Done!* She hoped Nick would think the tears suddenly sliding from the corners of her eyes were tears of joy. "You're a good friend, Nick. Pete's best friend."
"He's lucky that he saw you first," he had responded, squeezing her waist gently, "He always was the lucky one."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"He doesn't want to see you," the gruff voice immediately in front of her startled her from her reverie, and she jumped. "He asked me to tell you to go home."
Brass. Captain Brass. That was his name. Marsha felt the sudden heat of tears, the thick cloud of regret choking her, and shook her head mutely. "I need to see him. It's important."
Brass looked at her momentarily, judging her, weighing her, before sighing. "He's on shift right now. He won't be done for a while. I've delivered my message, and that's all I can do. If you sit against this wall here, he won't see you on his way out later on. You might be able to talk to him then."
Marsha nodded her head jerkily, attempting to smile, "Thank you."
The older man shrugged, "Don't thank me. The mood he's been in lately - might be better if you left like he wants you to."
* * * * *
Clay Peters was a typical 18-year-old jock. Nick had the disturbing feeling he was looking in the mirror, seeing himself as he had been as a senior in high school. The kid sat at the table in the interview room sullenly, a disdainful sneer curling his lips even as his eyes were fearful. Nick stifled an annoyed sigh.
Beside him, Grissom shifted in his seat when Brass walked into the room. "Good, you're here. Let's begin, shall we?"
After quick introductions, Grissom started asking the regular questions - You heard about Nick Steeply? - We know you were with Jen Letch at the Steeply house? - Did you see anyone suspicious? Notice anything odd? - The list went on.
Beside Peters, his parents sat stoned-face and disapproving. His mother's face had curved into a disagreeable little smile when Jen Letch's name had been mentioned, and Nick could have sworn he heard her whisper, 'Little slut'. He wanted to smack her.
Clay's responses had been equally predictable - Yes, so, No and No.
Nick had flexed his hands into fists, and turned towards Grissom, waiting for Grissom to notice him. "Can we talk outside for a second?"
Grissom tried not to look surprised, nodding briefly. He and Nick quickly stepped out into the hallway.
"Let me talk to him." He made the statement point blank, no working up to it. Before Grissom could object, he had held up a hand. "Hear me out - we need to get his parents out of there. He's not going to offer anything with them sitting beside him. Take them into the side room and let them watch through the one-way mirror. I'm younger -closer to his own age. I remember - vividly - what 18 was like. Let me talk to him."
Nick could see the mental gears clicking in Grissom's mind, "Trust me, Grissom."
Three little words - *Trust me, Grissom* - yet they were so important. Nick felt like he was holding his breath waiting for the response, trying to bank down the anger and pain of the last few days, trying to convince himself that it didn't really matter if Grissom trusted him or not.
Grissom sighed and nodded, "Okay."
* * * * *
It hadn't been as hard as Grissom had anticipated getting Mr. and Mrs. Peters to leave Clay alone with Nick. They had refused at first, of course, but it had been Nick who had convinced them.
"He might not be comfortable talking with you here," Nick had pointed out calmly. "You were eighteen once, Mr. Peters - would you want you're parents to know what you were up to with your girlfriend at that age?"
Simple question, but it had sealed the deal. Mr. Peters had nodded curtly and had stepped out of the room, Mrs. Peters following meekly behind him.
The two now watched their son from behind the one-way mirror. Brass stood patiently out of earshot in the room, at the doorway. Nick and Clay had moved to the far end of the table.
Grissom watched the younger CSI intently. He could read the young man like a book lately, and knew that Nick was still angry. About what, Grissom didn't really know - but he knew it was more than this case. When Nick had asked him in the hallway to trust him, agreeing to do so had been one of the hardest things Grissom had ever done. It's not that he didn't trust Nick to do his job - he did. But Nick wasn't himself, and the last thing the department needed was for him to snap and do something stupid - like get rough with the Peters boy or make another accusation similar to the one he'd thrown at the Letch girl just yesterday.
Grissom had realized, however, that Nick wasn't really asking him to trust him on just this one matter - Nick was asking Grissom to trust him, on everything. How could Grissom say no? He didn't know what Nick was going through; didn't know what the problem was. He hoped that by placing his trust in Nick, Nick would return the favor and tell Grissom what was going on.
"What time did you arrive at the Steeply house last night?"
"After football practice - so around 7:30."
"Nick was still home?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you and Jen send him out?"
Clay shifted, embarrassed and uncomfortable, "You know why, man."
Nick smiled grimly, "Guess I do." He paused for a moment, studying his hands intently, "What time did you leave?"
"Around 10:00."
"Did you see anyone at all when you went to the Steeply house, or when you left?"
Shrug. "A couple of kids from school. They were on their way home."
"Where did you see them?"
"They were on the corner of Madeira and Madison."
"Did you talk to them at all?"
"No. We hang in different crowds."
"Names?"
"Uh. Eric Minet and Samantha White, I think."
Nick nodded, but didn't say anything. Clay started squirming.
"It's not my fault the kid died."
"Didn't say it was," Nick responded.
"I just - I just -"
"Wanted to get laid."
Clay sighed, "Yeah. I didn't think anything would happen to him." The younger man looked at Nick, tears welling in his eyes. "Poor little kid."
* * * * *
Nick sighed heavily as he poured himself a coffee. Brass was hunting up addresses for the two kids Clay had seen the night Nick Steeply went missing. The corner of Madeira and Madison was less than a block away from the park. Maybe they might have seen something.
Grissom was watching him. It made Nick nervous.
"You handled that nicely, Nicky."
Nick smiled faintly, "You surprised?"
Grissom shrugged, "You have been a little unpredictable lately." The tone of his voice was gentle, but the words still stung. Nick stiffened defensively.
"I already apologized for that. Isn't it enough?"
"I'm just worried about you, Nick. Everyone is walking around you on eggshells - not sure what they're going to say that may set you off."
"I'm not a firecracker," he ground out. "I was out of sorts yesterday and this morning, but I'm coming to terms with it. Things are getting better." The words were unconvincing, even to his own ears. He sighed suddenly, and looked at Grissom, wondering if the older man could see the emptiness he was trying to hide.
Grissom returned his look, face inscrutable, before shaking his head, "I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what's going on."
Nick quirked his lips bitterly, "Trust me, Grissom, you don't want to know." Reaching into his jean jacket pocket, he quickly grabbed his painkillers, "Christ, my arm hurts. I'll be glad when this shift is over and I can go home to bed."
Grissom recognized that Nick was trying to change the subject, and sighed, before looking at his watch. "It's almost midnight. We won't be talking to anyone else tonight about this. Why don't you go home? Meet me back here around 9:30, and we'll go with Brass to talk to Minet and White at the highschool. You look exhausted."
"What if -"
"Nick, go home. The rest of us can handle anything that pops up. Take you're pager, just in case, but go home."
Nick smiled grimly, "I look that bad, huh?"
Grissom smiled back, "Worse."
* * * * *
She could here him coming down the hall. His voice was still the same, drawling and deep and husky. Someone had hollered at him, "Hey, were you going so early?"
And she had heard him respond, "Griss is sending me home. Thanks for the help last night, Greggo."
Marsha stood nervously, smoothing her hands over her hair and hips, trying not to hold her breath, as she stepped out into the main hallway from the small sitting area, directly into his line of vision.
Nick froze, mid-stride. Marsha smiled at him weakly.
"Hi, Nicky."
She flinched when his eyes flicked over her contemptuously, a strange mixture of coldness and angry heat. "Didn't Brass tell you to leave?"
"He did, but I wanted to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk to you." He continued walking down the hall, brushing past her in his haste, face tight. Marsha turned quickly and followed him out the main entrance and into the parking lot.
"Nick. Nicky, please!"
"Go away, Marsha."
"Please, Nick."
He was at his truck now, fumbling for his keys, shaking with anger. "I don't want to talk to you."
"Pete's dead, Nick." Her voice was a whisper.
Nick visibly flinched, before turning to glare at her. "You think I don't fucking know that already?"
Marsha felt like crying, "Please, Nick. I came all the way from Texas to talk to you."
"Should have called first, I'd have saved you the trip," his voice was harsh, but he was still looking at her. His eyes glowed like wet obsidian in the muted lighting of the parking lot.
"That's why I didn't call," Marsha stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand but pulling it back before she touched him. The man standing in front of her wasn't the Nick she had known. He was harder, more brittle, and - if at all possible - even more wildly attractive to her than he had been five years ago. "Please Nick, just give me an hour."
Nick glared at her, "Fine. One hour - and then get the fuck out of Las Vegas and don't come back. Coffee shop?"
She shook her head, "No. I need to talk to you privately. We could go to your place?"
Nick sighed, "Fine. You have a car?" When she shook her head, he leaned across the cab of his truck and pushed the door open, "Get in."
* * * * * *
The drive back to his place had been incredibly tense. Nick hadn't said two words, but she could feel his eyes flicking over to her every once in a while. She could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, and wondered - not for the first time - if she was doing the right thing.
His house was nice, but she would have expected as much. He always had been meticulous. Pete had often teased Nick about his obsessive neatness. "You should have been a woman, man!"
It had been a running joke among the three of them. Pete was a slob. Nick and Marsha often commented to each other that without her to look after Pete at home and Nick to look after him at work, he would have been crushed to death under all the junk he tried to accumulate long ago.
She followed Nick into his kitchen silently, watching as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, before he turned to her. He didn't offer her one.
"Why are you here, Marsha?" His voice was harsh.
"I wanted to explain to you - why..what.why I left Pete."
"I already know. And why should I care, anyway? It's been five fucking years."
"You only know what Pete told you. You never bothered to ask me."
Nick shrugged, and took a swig of his beer, "What were you gonna say? Can't take being married to a cop? So sorry?"
Marsha sighed, "I left him because he was doing drugs."
The words hit Nick like a bomb. "What?"
"He was using. I couldn't - I didn't know what to do. I didn't know him anymore. I was scared, and I had to get out."
Nick shook his head, "Bullshit. You would've told me. He didn't start using until after you left him."
"I tried to tell you, Nick. The last few months I was with him. I told you I needed to talk to you alone, but you never made the time. I only ever saw you when Pete was there. How could I tell you when he was around? And after I left him, you wouldn't return my calls."
Nick slumped into a chair, "He told me he started when he was undercover working Manny's case."
Marsha shook her head, "Not true. He was using way before then. I was afraid - I thought - maybe you were using too, for a while. And then, when Ford died - and all that stuff in the paper. I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn't. You're parents wouldn't tell me where you were."
"You talked to my parents?"
Marsha nodded, miserably, "I told them I needed to talk to you, and they told me I couldn't. You'd moved, and they refused to tell me where."
"Fuck." Nick replied. "How did you find me?"
"Pete," Marsha whispered. "I went to see Pete last week, the day before he -. He called me, asked me to come see him. So I went. He told me you were in Las Vegas."
The kitchen fell silent for a few moments, before Marsha cleared her throat nervously, "He gave me something to give to you."
She reached into her purse and pulled out a letter, sliding it across the table to him. Nick closed his eyes against the familiar scrawl of Pete's handwriting across the white envelope. *Nicky Stokes*
"I sent him letters, you know. Tried to visit him a couple of times." Nick's voice was soft. He picked up the envelope, fingering the edges, "He sent all the letters back. Never let me see him."
"I know. He told me," her voice was just as soft, gentle and sad. Nick glanced at her and saw she was crying, "He told me he missed you."
Nick felt tears, hot and thick and salty, fill his own eyes. "It's my fault he's dead."
Marsha shook her head, "It's not your fault. It's his fault. You can't blame yourself, just like I can't blame myself."
"I should have turned him in, forced him to go to rehab. I should have talked to you."
"I should have made you listen," she gave Nick a watery smile, "I shouldn't have given up." She slid her chair across the floor, listening to the scrap of metal on tile as she moved closer to him. He still held Pete's letter in his hand. "You going to read that?"
Nick shook his head, "No. Not ready yet. Maybe later." He looked at her suddenly, and the pain in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. "He was my best friend, Marty. I - let him down."
Marsha tried not to smile when Nick used her old nickname, "He let you down. He let me down. It's not your fault, anymore than it is mine."
She leaned forward and placed her hand on the one he had sitting on the table, smiling when he turned it palm upwards, twinning his fingers with hers. His thumb absently stroked the back of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. "I missed you, Marty."
"I missed you too, Nicky."
The tension between them shifted subtly as they spoke. It was no longer taut and tense with anger and impotent rage, but heavy with unspoken words and guilt and long-buried affection.
Nick looked at their hands intently, enjoying on a visceral level the heat and weight of her small palm against his own. He HAD missed Marsha; had missed her quick wit and intelligence and her exotic beauty. She had always been the most attractive woman he had ever met; but Pete had claimed her first, and Pete had loved her, and Nick had been happy for him.
Marsha leaned a little closer, "You're the only one I've ever let call me Marty." Nick's brown eyes met her hazel ones, searing her to her very core. Her free hand traveled up to his face, her palm rubbing against his jaw, enjoying the rough scrape of stubble. "No one else is allowed to call me Marty."
Nick closed his eyes, trying to hide the sudden arc of electric need tearing like wildfire for his system. *Your ex-best friends ex-wife* his mind whispered. But her hand on his face felt so good, he could feel her heat radiating through his system, filling the voids that had been burned away by anger with pure unadulterated lust.
He cleared his throat and put the letter on the table, before covering her handon his face with his own, "I should take you back to - where are you staying?"
"The Desert Palms," she whispered back. Her breath was warm against his face, and he opened up his eyes to clash with hers, mere inches from his own. She was practically in his lap.
"Marty -" his voice was thick with warning. She cut him off.
"I wasn't completely honest with you earlier, Nicky. About why I left Pete," she whispered. "The drugs - they were just the final straw. I left him mostly because I realized I didn't love him as much as I loved you."
Nick dragged air into his lungs, before forcibly exhaling, "What?"
"I love you. I wasn't sure - I mean, it's been five years. A lot of anger and pain and regret under the bridge. But it's still there. I have never stopped loving you."
Nick didn't know how it happened, but suddenly she was on his lap, straddling him. He was gripping her face tightly, kissing her with such ferocity it was primal. Her hands were in his short hair, fingers scratching through his scalp. She tasted of Crest and coffee and a sweetness that was uniquely hers. Nick could feel the tears seeping from her eyes trace his palms like a benediction. Pulling from her mouth briefly, his traced his lips over the warm saltiness, before returning back to her mouth. Deep in her throat, she was making little mewling sounds. Nick growled, and released her face to travel down her back and under the rim of her jeans, fingering the edge of her t-shirt before he lifted it and dragged it in a tangle over her head.
He could feel the heat at the juncture of her thighs pressed against him, and felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. Shrugging roughly out of his jean jacket he jerked to his feet, strong hands cupping her bottom as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He barely made it to his bedroom.
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud, mingling with hers as they pooled around her feet. A couple of the buttons on his shirt skittered across the floor as Marsha hastily fumbled with them, before riding her palms across the smooth expense of his chest and over his nipples. Her bra tore as Nick, tired of struggling with the little hooks at the back, just ripped it off her and tossed it to the side, followed quickly by her underwear.
Laughing and breathless, hands everywhere, mouths nipping and licking each other, they sank into his bed. He almost cried out when his body slid into hers, and he shut his eyes tightly against the tears. He could feel Marsha surrounding him, arms and legs gripping him as tightly as her body, hips rolling underneath him, so unbearably hot Nick felt like he was being burned alive - purged and cleansed, the conflagration of passion and redemption he found in her arms enough for now.
__________________________
Author's Note:
Thanks for all the great reviews and emails on this story - I really appreciate the input, as always. For Sylphide and EricB - just to point out, Brass was actually a career officer (according to the CBS website) before becoming the Forensics Supervisor. That's why, when he was demoted with the Holly Gribbs incident in Pilot, he was sent to Homicide.
Only a few more chapters to go - resolution to the case, some more Nicky angst, yada yada yada.