RIPPLES
*What the fuck had he done?* Nick was sitting in his truck in front of Grissom's townhouse. He had been sitting there since 4:30 am - five hours before he was supposed to meet the older man. But he had had to get out of his house.
He had barely slept a wink last night. What had happened with Marsha had been - well - mind blowing didn't quite cut it as far as descriptions went. And Nick felt like hell. Guiltier than sin. He had slept with his best friends' ex-wife.
And there hadn't been much sleeping involved.
At 4:00 am, he had slid noiselessly out of his bed and headed to the kitchen. His body had been lethargic and boneless, relaxed in a way his mind was not. His head had been spinning, his thoughts tumultuous. Of course, he had slept - all too briefly, his body sated, Marsha wrapped around him. For a few brief moments, Nick had been absolutely content. Lying in the dark of his room, the incredible smell of her burning itself into his brain, the easy weight of her arms and legs branding his skin, the silky feel of her hair against his chest - it had all coalesced into a pure shining moment of absolute peace.
Of course, that hadn't lasted. After two minutes of lying there, listening to her breath, the doubts had assailed him, followed by the guilt, followed by the anger. He had stiffly slid out of his bed, pulled on the first thing he could find, and headed to his kitchen seeking refuge.
And then his rational mind had intruded.
*What the fuck was that, Nicky-boy? You just fucked Marsha.*
* * * * *
What the hell was wrong with him? Nick just didn't know anymore. He never knew from one second to the next what he was going to feel; how he was going to react to things. Nick let his head slump against his chest, and closed his eyes momentarily.
He had just left her there, in his bedroom, warm and rumpled and sexier than any woman had a right to be. Nick was concentrating very hard on not feeling the imprint of her body still burning his skin. His arm was pulsing, the stitches burning and aching, but the rest of him was so goddamned relaxed it was almost insane.
He couldn't recall the last time he'd been laid. Scratch that - he could remember - he just didn't want to. The experience had been pleasant enough, but the morning after - that had been hell. He sighed as he thought of Kristy. No wonder he hadn't been able to think rationally when Marsha had crawled onto his lap - he wasn't a goddamned monk, and two years without sex was a bit much. No wonder he had accepted what she was offering.
What had she said to him? *I love you, Nicky.* Nick sighed. Wouldn't that be something else? How long had it been since someone had loved him? He knew for damn sure that no one had said that to him in years.
How many times had Marsha told Pete the exact same thing? How many times had she whispered to him in that husky drawl of hers *I love you Pete?*
It didn't bear thinking about. On the kitchen table, the letter she had given him still sat. *Nicky Stokes * Pete's familiar handwriting seemed to mock him; the letters of his name dark and accusing. *Nicky Stokes.*
Nick had slid a hand to the envelope and traced his fingers lightly over the writing. *I didn't mean to do it, Pete. I didn't mean to sleep with her. Seems I'm apologizing to you an awful lot lately.*
He had felt the letter folded inside the envelope, and briefly debated opening it up and reading it. Flipping it over, he looked at the sealed edge and sighed. He couldn't do it yet. He didn't want to know what Pete had to say to him. He didn't want to read the accusations.
He should never have brought Marsha back to his place with him - should have insisted on going for a coffee like he had originally suggested. Christ, she was something else. He still remembered the first time he had met her. Her hair had been longer then, straight and sleek, so shiny and black he had a hard time believing it was real. And her eyes - one minute green as emeralds; the next as deep a brown as a Hershey's kiss. He had been attracted to her from the get go - but she was Pete's girl. She was Pete's girl, and Pete's girl she would remain.
The day she and Pete had gotten married had been one of the worst days of his life. As the best man, he was happy for his friend. As a man, he wasn't so happy. He didn't know when the attraction he had felt for Marsha had turned to something deeper, but it had. After the wedding, Nick made sure he was never alone with her. He made sure Pete was always there before he went over. Seeing her with him had been torture; but at the time it had been better than not seeing her at all. So, he pretended to be just her friend, and never once hinted at the turmoil inside. He made sure he was never alone with her, and he tried to convince himself that what he was feeling was just infatuation.
When the marriage had started breaking down, Nick hadn't known what to think. He had felt conflicted - he had even briefly entertained the thought that maybe this was his chance. The disloyal thoughts had shocked him, and he had vowed to back Pete fully. He had avoided Marsha like the plague, despite her calls. Stupidest thing he had ever done. If he had spoken with Marsha, he would have known about the drugs months before he actually had found out. Ford would still be alive. Pete would still be alive.
The guilt alone would destroy him.
He couldn't sit in the kitchen anymore.
Rising to his feet, he had gone back to his bedroom, silently pulling on the pair of jeans he had discarded in his rush to bury himself in Marsha, and wandered out of his house. He hadn't even left her a note to tell her where he was going. Hell - he hadn't even known where he was going. That's why he was so surprised when he had ended up parked in Grissom's driveway. He wondered idly if Grissom was home, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out Pete's letter. He didn't know why he had grabbed it before he had left, but he had.
Leaning backwards in his bucket seat, he dropped the letter and shut his eyes. He was so tired; and yet not. He was so relaxed; and yet - not. He felt like he had been eviscerated and reassembled from the inside out. How could a man be angry and peaceful at the same time? Guilty and sad; but happy? After days of feeling like he was losing himself, he was finally back on track - picking up the bits and pieces and putting them back together. The question was - would he be the same man when all was said and done.
The sudden tapping on his window made him jerk forwards with a startled yelp. Grissom. "Nicky - what are you doing here?"
Nick could hear him through the glass, and he smiled grimly, before opening his door. "I don't know. You just getting home?"
Grissom sorta smiled, "Yeah. " He looked at the younger man, his concern evident in his eyes. "You alright?"
Nick nodded his head, absently. "I think so," he responded. "I just - I do trust you, Grissom."
Grissom blinked, momentarily nonplussed by this statement, before responding gently, "You ready to tell me what's going on?"
Nick nodded, "You got coffee?"
* * * * *
Grissom's kitchen was spacious. The open air concept of his living space was remarkably well thought out - Nick liked it. Sitting at the kitchen table, watching Grissom putter around with the coffee percolator, Nick wondered idly how the man could remain so silent.
Since entering the townhouse, he had barely spoken to Nick. Nick realized that Grissom was trying to set him at ease - to make him comfortable - to give him time to collect his thoughts. It was one of the things Nick appreciated most about Grissom; he didn't push. He merely waited.
Finally, the coffee was finished. Pouring two large mugs, Grissom doctored them both liberally with a shot of Bailey's, before sliding one to Nick.
"Figured you might need something a little stronger than coffee," he offered. "So, Nick. Where do you want to begin?"
Nick shrugged. Now that he was here, he didn't really know what to say. All he knew was that he needed to talk to someone who would listen to him - without interruption, without judging. He sighed.
"You're the smartest person I know, did you know that Grissom?" Nick began. He smiled slightly at Grissom's non-response.
"You know I used to be a police officer, right? Well - a couple of days ago, I found out my ex-partner had died. He killed himself - drug overdose - Federal State Prison." Nick watched Grissom intently as he spoke, willing his voice to remain emotionless.
"Was he a guard there?"
"No. An inmate. He was an inmate there," Nick's voice was scratchy. "I put him there." The story spilled from him in a jumble after that - Pete and the drugs; Ford's death - the DA who had been happy to send Pete to jail, despite the lack of forensic evidence.
"He's the reason you became a CSI," Grissom interrupted once, softly.
Nick merely nodded. "I thought that maybe I could - help him, somehow. But he wouldn't let me. I tried to visit him, so many times. I wanted to talk to him. I don't know what I thought I could do, but - he was my best friend, Grissom. It's my fault he's dead."
"It's not," Grissom's response was calm. "He chose to do what he did. From the sound of things, he could have cleaned up - with support from you; or from Marsha. But he chose not to. He lied to you and then he blamed you for his actions. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Nick finishing off the last of his coffee. Grissom studied him. His intense regard made Nick squirm a little bit.
"What?"
"You ever throw stones into lakes when you were a little kid?"
Nick gazed blankly at Grissom, before responding, "Who hasn't?"
"The stones create ripples, and the ripples change the face of the water - expanding outwards in ever widening circles, until the ripples subside."
"Your point?"
"The ripples might disappear, but the stone is always there. The people in your life are like stones, Nick. Some of them cause bigger ripples than others, but eventually the ripples are gone. It's the memories of the ripples that remain; just like stones in a pond."
Grissom's tone was gentle, "Do you think the stones sitting at the bottom of a lake feel guilty?"
"I get what you're saying, Grissom."
Grissom smiled at the younger man across from him, "Dare I say you look a little less tense?"
Nick smiled humorlessly, "Is that a good thing?"
"You tell me. You feel better?"
"Yeah. I do. I'm just - I'm so tired of being angry, Grissom. And guilty. The guilt is killing me. What am I going to do about Marsha?"
"What do you want to do about Marsha?"
Nick smiled suddenly, "I don't know."
Grissom looked at his watch. "It's only 6:00. You don't have to meet me at the station for another 3 ½ hours."
"Right. I'll go talk to her, then."
* * * * *
Marsha woke to a silent house, and she knew immediately that Nick was no longer there. Burrowing under the sheets she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the slight tangy smell she so closely associated with him. He was a man of habit, and even though she had gone five years without seeing him, she was not surprised that he still wore the same cologne.
She could just imagine what he must be thinking right about now. Probably in an all out panic; wondering what he was going to do, and feeling guilty because they had slept together. She smiled in semi-amusement, tinged with slight exasperation, and wrapped her arms around his pillow. She wondered if he was coming back, or if the events of the last few hours had spooked him so much that he planned on staying away all day.
He was still loyal to Pete, still torn apart by what had happened - that much was obvious. To be perfectly honest, she was amazed by the fact that she was even here. She wondered if it would be as easy to find a place in his heart as it had been to find a place in his bed.
Nick had changed a lot over the last few years. She had often thought that the REM song 'Shiny Happy People' had been written with him in mind - he had been such an optimist, with a charming innocence about him that was disarming in a grown man. He wasn't a shiny happy person anymore - or at least, not like he had been. The patina was still there, but it had faded. Interspersed amid the glimmers of the Nick she had known, a harder man existed - one not so quick to laugh, or smile; nor so quick to trust. It was like the joy which had always seemed to be in him had been leaked out. She didn't know where the old Nick ended and the new Nick began, but she wanted to find out.
She heard the soft snick of a door opening up and smiled, stretching languidly as she rolled over and looked at the clock - 6:30 am. He had come back. She listened intently as she heard the muted shuffle of his feet on the floor, heading down the hallway - left turn into the kitchen. Muted hum of the refrigerator as the door opened; soft suctiony sound as it closed.
Sitting up, she scanned the bedroom and smiled when she saw a t-shirt hanging off the back of a chair. She recognized that shirt - she had given it to him for his birthday the year she and Pete had been married.
The collar was badly frayed, the color - once a vibrant red was more of a pinky gray - but the seagull with the bloodshot eyes and the joint hanging from its' beak was still visible - as were the words:
**
Did you hear about the guy who gave drugs to seagulls?
He left no tern unstoned.
**
She huffed a laugh softly as she slid the shirt over her head, smiling as she remembered Nick's crazy laughter when he had opened the gift.
"I don't think a Narc should be promoting excessive drug use for birds," he had grinned as he had tried on the shirt. "This is perfect - really, Marty. Perfect."
Padding down the hallway, she headed towards the kitchen. Nick was leaning against the counter top, watching the coffee percolator.
"Hey."
He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled briefly, "Hey. I hope I didn't wake you."
"No," her response was gentle, "I was just wondering where you went to."
"I needed to - uhm - talk to my boss. I was - confused. Want a coffee?"
Marsha nodded and slid out of the doorway into the kitchen, fingers nervously playing with the hem of the shirt, just skating her mid-thigh. "Are you still confused?"
Nick sighed, "Yeah. What was last night all about, Marty?"
Marsha shrugged, "I wasn't planning it, if that's what you're asking."
Nick grinned at that, "Doesn't it - what would Pete think?"
"Pete hasn't been part of my life for five years, Nick. I don't really care what he would say. But I don't think it would bother him." When Nick snorted, she stepped closer, brushing a hand up his side, "After all, he asked me to find you."
"I don't think he planned that through very well," Nick replied, his lips quirking slightly. He turned and studied her intently, before reaching out and tracing her shoulder with his thumb. "I always wondered what you would look like in that shirt."
"And?"
"I think I like you better out of it." Nick smiled when Marsha's breath hitched in her throat and she moved in closer to him. The hand that had been gently stroking his side slid up his chest, her knuckles coming to rest just under his chin. "I wasn't lying when I said I missed you, Marty," he whispered, "I just needed to think for awhile, is all."
"And?"
"I think I'm tired of feeling guilty. I'm tired of being lonely. And, I'm tired of missing you."
*What the fuck had he done?* Nick was sitting in his truck in front of Grissom's townhouse. He had been sitting there since 4:30 am - five hours before he was supposed to meet the older man. But he had had to get out of his house.
He had barely slept a wink last night. What had happened with Marsha had been - well - mind blowing didn't quite cut it as far as descriptions went. And Nick felt like hell. Guiltier than sin. He had slept with his best friends' ex-wife.
And there hadn't been much sleeping involved.
At 4:00 am, he had slid noiselessly out of his bed and headed to the kitchen. His body had been lethargic and boneless, relaxed in a way his mind was not. His head had been spinning, his thoughts tumultuous. Of course, he had slept - all too briefly, his body sated, Marsha wrapped around him. For a few brief moments, Nick had been absolutely content. Lying in the dark of his room, the incredible smell of her burning itself into his brain, the easy weight of her arms and legs branding his skin, the silky feel of her hair against his chest - it had all coalesced into a pure shining moment of absolute peace.
Of course, that hadn't lasted. After two minutes of lying there, listening to her breath, the doubts had assailed him, followed by the guilt, followed by the anger. He had stiffly slid out of his bed, pulled on the first thing he could find, and headed to his kitchen seeking refuge.
And then his rational mind had intruded.
*What the fuck was that, Nicky-boy? You just fucked Marsha.*
* * * * *
What the hell was wrong with him? Nick just didn't know anymore. He never knew from one second to the next what he was going to feel; how he was going to react to things. Nick let his head slump against his chest, and closed his eyes momentarily.
He had just left her there, in his bedroom, warm and rumpled and sexier than any woman had a right to be. Nick was concentrating very hard on not feeling the imprint of her body still burning his skin. His arm was pulsing, the stitches burning and aching, but the rest of him was so goddamned relaxed it was almost insane.
He couldn't recall the last time he'd been laid. Scratch that - he could remember - he just didn't want to. The experience had been pleasant enough, but the morning after - that had been hell. He sighed as he thought of Kristy. No wonder he hadn't been able to think rationally when Marsha had crawled onto his lap - he wasn't a goddamned monk, and two years without sex was a bit much. No wonder he had accepted what she was offering.
What had she said to him? *I love you, Nicky.* Nick sighed. Wouldn't that be something else? How long had it been since someone had loved him? He knew for damn sure that no one had said that to him in years.
How many times had Marsha told Pete the exact same thing? How many times had she whispered to him in that husky drawl of hers *I love you Pete?*
It didn't bear thinking about. On the kitchen table, the letter she had given him still sat. *Nicky Stokes * Pete's familiar handwriting seemed to mock him; the letters of his name dark and accusing. *Nicky Stokes.*
Nick had slid a hand to the envelope and traced his fingers lightly over the writing. *I didn't mean to do it, Pete. I didn't mean to sleep with her. Seems I'm apologizing to you an awful lot lately.*
He had felt the letter folded inside the envelope, and briefly debated opening it up and reading it. Flipping it over, he looked at the sealed edge and sighed. He couldn't do it yet. He didn't want to know what Pete had to say to him. He didn't want to read the accusations.
He should never have brought Marsha back to his place with him - should have insisted on going for a coffee like he had originally suggested. Christ, she was something else. He still remembered the first time he had met her. Her hair had been longer then, straight and sleek, so shiny and black he had a hard time believing it was real. And her eyes - one minute green as emeralds; the next as deep a brown as a Hershey's kiss. He had been attracted to her from the get go - but she was Pete's girl. She was Pete's girl, and Pete's girl she would remain.
The day she and Pete had gotten married had been one of the worst days of his life. As the best man, he was happy for his friend. As a man, he wasn't so happy. He didn't know when the attraction he had felt for Marsha had turned to something deeper, but it had. After the wedding, Nick made sure he was never alone with her. He made sure Pete was always there before he went over. Seeing her with him had been torture; but at the time it had been better than not seeing her at all. So, he pretended to be just her friend, and never once hinted at the turmoil inside. He made sure he was never alone with her, and he tried to convince himself that what he was feeling was just infatuation.
When the marriage had started breaking down, Nick hadn't known what to think. He had felt conflicted - he had even briefly entertained the thought that maybe this was his chance. The disloyal thoughts had shocked him, and he had vowed to back Pete fully. He had avoided Marsha like the plague, despite her calls. Stupidest thing he had ever done. If he had spoken with Marsha, he would have known about the drugs months before he actually had found out. Ford would still be alive. Pete would still be alive.
The guilt alone would destroy him.
He couldn't sit in the kitchen anymore.
Rising to his feet, he had gone back to his bedroom, silently pulling on the pair of jeans he had discarded in his rush to bury himself in Marsha, and wandered out of his house. He hadn't even left her a note to tell her where he was going. Hell - he hadn't even known where he was going. That's why he was so surprised when he had ended up parked in Grissom's driveway. He wondered idly if Grissom was home, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out Pete's letter. He didn't know why he had grabbed it before he had left, but he had.
Leaning backwards in his bucket seat, he dropped the letter and shut his eyes. He was so tired; and yet not. He was so relaxed; and yet - not. He felt like he had been eviscerated and reassembled from the inside out. How could a man be angry and peaceful at the same time? Guilty and sad; but happy? After days of feeling like he was losing himself, he was finally back on track - picking up the bits and pieces and putting them back together. The question was - would he be the same man when all was said and done.
The sudden tapping on his window made him jerk forwards with a startled yelp. Grissom. "Nicky - what are you doing here?"
Nick could hear him through the glass, and he smiled grimly, before opening his door. "I don't know. You just getting home?"
Grissom sorta smiled, "Yeah. " He looked at the younger man, his concern evident in his eyes. "You alright?"
Nick nodded his head, absently. "I think so," he responded. "I just - I do trust you, Grissom."
Grissom blinked, momentarily nonplussed by this statement, before responding gently, "You ready to tell me what's going on?"
Nick nodded, "You got coffee?"
* * * * *
Grissom's kitchen was spacious. The open air concept of his living space was remarkably well thought out - Nick liked it. Sitting at the kitchen table, watching Grissom putter around with the coffee percolator, Nick wondered idly how the man could remain so silent.
Since entering the townhouse, he had barely spoken to Nick. Nick realized that Grissom was trying to set him at ease - to make him comfortable - to give him time to collect his thoughts. It was one of the things Nick appreciated most about Grissom; he didn't push. He merely waited.
Finally, the coffee was finished. Pouring two large mugs, Grissom doctored them both liberally with a shot of Bailey's, before sliding one to Nick.
"Figured you might need something a little stronger than coffee," he offered. "So, Nick. Where do you want to begin?"
Nick shrugged. Now that he was here, he didn't really know what to say. All he knew was that he needed to talk to someone who would listen to him - without interruption, without judging. He sighed.
"You're the smartest person I know, did you know that Grissom?" Nick began. He smiled slightly at Grissom's non-response.
"You know I used to be a police officer, right? Well - a couple of days ago, I found out my ex-partner had died. He killed himself - drug overdose - Federal State Prison." Nick watched Grissom intently as he spoke, willing his voice to remain emotionless.
"Was he a guard there?"
"No. An inmate. He was an inmate there," Nick's voice was scratchy. "I put him there." The story spilled from him in a jumble after that - Pete and the drugs; Ford's death - the DA who had been happy to send Pete to jail, despite the lack of forensic evidence.
"He's the reason you became a CSI," Grissom interrupted once, softly.
Nick merely nodded. "I thought that maybe I could - help him, somehow. But he wouldn't let me. I tried to visit him, so many times. I wanted to talk to him. I don't know what I thought I could do, but - he was my best friend, Grissom. It's my fault he's dead."
"It's not," Grissom's response was calm. "He chose to do what he did. From the sound of things, he could have cleaned up - with support from you; or from Marsha. But he chose not to. He lied to you and then he blamed you for his actions. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Nick finishing off the last of his coffee. Grissom studied him. His intense regard made Nick squirm a little bit.
"What?"
"You ever throw stones into lakes when you were a little kid?"
Nick gazed blankly at Grissom, before responding, "Who hasn't?"
"The stones create ripples, and the ripples change the face of the water - expanding outwards in ever widening circles, until the ripples subside."
"Your point?"
"The ripples might disappear, but the stone is always there. The people in your life are like stones, Nick. Some of them cause bigger ripples than others, but eventually the ripples are gone. It's the memories of the ripples that remain; just like stones in a pond."
Grissom's tone was gentle, "Do you think the stones sitting at the bottom of a lake feel guilty?"
"I get what you're saying, Grissom."
Grissom smiled at the younger man across from him, "Dare I say you look a little less tense?"
Nick smiled humorlessly, "Is that a good thing?"
"You tell me. You feel better?"
"Yeah. I do. I'm just - I'm so tired of being angry, Grissom. And guilty. The guilt is killing me. What am I going to do about Marsha?"
"What do you want to do about Marsha?"
Nick smiled suddenly, "I don't know."
Grissom looked at his watch. "It's only 6:00. You don't have to meet me at the station for another 3 ½ hours."
"Right. I'll go talk to her, then."
* * * * *
Marsha woke to a silent house, and she knew immediately that Nick was no longer there. Burrowing under the sheets she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the slight tangy smell she so closely associated with him. He was a man of habit, and even though she had gone five years without seeing him, she was not surprised that he still wore the same cologne.
She could just imagine what he must be thinking right about now. Probably in an all out panic; wondering what he was going to do, and feeling guilty because they had slept together. She smiled in semi-amusement, tinged with slight exasperation, and wrapped her arms around his pillow. She wondered if he was coming back, or if the events of the last few hours had spooked him so much that he planned on staying away all day.
He was still loyal to Pete, still torn apart by what had happened - that much was obvious. To be perfectly honest, she was amazed by the fact that she was even here. She wondered if it would be as easy to find a place in his heart as it had been to find a place in his bed.
Nick had changed a lot over the last few years. She had often thought that the REM song 'Shiny Happy People' had been written with him in mind - he had been such an optimist, with a charming innocence about him that was disarming in a grown man. He wasn't a shiny happy person anymore - or at least, not like he had been. The patina was still there, but it had faded. Interspersed amid the glimmers of the Nick she had known, a harder man existed - one not so quick to laugh, or smile; nor so quick to trust. It was like the joy which had always seemed to be in him had been leaked out. She didn't know where the old Nick ended and the new Nick began, but she wanted to find out.
She heard the soft snick of a door opening up and smiled, stretching languidly as she rolled over and looked at the clock - 6:30 am. He had come back. She listened intently as she heard the muted shuffle of his feet on the floor, heading down the hallway - left turn into the kitchen. Muted hum of the refrigerator as the door opened; soft suctiony sound as it closed.
Sitting up, she scanned the bedroom and smiled when she saw a t-shirt hanging off the back of a chair. She recognized that shirt - she had given it to him for his birthday the year she and Pete had been married.
The collar was badly frayed, the color - once a vibrant red was more of a pinky gray - but the seagull with the bloodshot eyes and the joint hanging from its' beak was still visible - as were the words:
**
Did you hear about the guy who gave drugs to seagulls?
He left no tern unstoned.
**
She huffed a laugh softly as she slid the shirt over her head, smiling as she remembered Nick's crazy laughter when he had opened the gift.
"I don't think a Narc should be promoting excessive drug use for birds," he had grinned as he had tried on the shirt. "This is perfect - really, Marty. Perfect."
Padding down the hallway, she headed towards the kitchen. Nick was leaning against the counter top, watching the coffee percolator.
"Hey."
He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled briefly, "Hey. I hope I didn't wake you."
"No," her response was gentle, "I was just wondering where you went to."
"I needed to - uhm - talk to my boss. I was - confused. Want a coffee?"
Marsha nodded and slid out of the doorway into the kitchen, fingers nervously playing with the hem of the shirt, just skating her mid-thigh. "Are you still confused?"
Nick sighed, "Yeah. What was last night all about, Marty?"
Marsha shrugged, "I wasn't planning it, if that's what you're asking."
Nick grinned at that, "Doesn't it - what would Pete think?"
"Pete hasn't been part of my life for five years, Nick. I don't really care what he would say. But I don't think it would bother him." When Nick snorted, she stepped closer, brushing a hand up his side, "After all, he asked me to find you."
"I don't think he planned that through very well," Nick replied, his lips quirking slightly. He turned and studied her intently, before reaching out and tracing her shoulder with his thumb. "I always wondered what you would look like in that shirt."
"And?"
"I think I like you better out of it." Nick smiled when Marsha's breath hitched in her throat and she moved in closer to him. The hand that had been gently stroking his side slid up his chest, her knuckles coming to rest just under his chin. "I wasn't lying when I said I missed you, Marty," he whispered, "I just needed to think for awhile, is all."
"And?"
"I think I'm tired of feeling guilty. I'm tired of being lonely. And, I'm tired of missing you."