DAD

Grissom watched Nick as the younger man headed down the hallway towards the break room.  His mind was still reeling from the information Nick had revealed to him, and his heart felt as if it was being torn in two.  Retreating back into his office, he allowed himself to sink back into the chair behind his desk, sighing as he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a crumpled wad of pink paper.  One would think that after his many years as a Forensics investigator, with his prior experience as a coroner, it would be hard to shock Grissom with much of anything.  But this – information – that Nick had revealed to him had shocked him.  Scratch that – it hadn't just shocked him – it had hurt him.

 He had known, of course, that there was more to Nick's story than what the younger man had revealed to him earlier that morning.  It seemed more than mere hours ago Nick had told Grissom about Pete, and the role Nick felt he had played in his friend's self-destruction.  But this – he had suspected something serious – but sexual assault?  Nick was stronger than anyone, including Grissom, had ever given him credit for.

 Grissom knew what it was like to be abandoned by a father.  His own had left so long ago he was barely even a memory anymore, but Grissom knew what that pain was like.  Despite the fact that Grissom had tried to pretend that his father's desertion didn't affect him, it had. 

He had been angry for a long time about it, bottling it all inside, denying to anyone who asked that he even missed his father.  But he knew that was not the case.  He had missed his father – or at least, he had missed the idea of having one. Still did, if he were to be really honest with himself.  His mother had never been the same when his dad had gone.  His leaving had almost destroyed her –  the yelling and fighting had stopped, but so had his mother's laughter.  When his father had disappeared from his life, Grissom had lost more than just the man – he had lost his family – such as it was.  And in his father's wake a lonely boy and a shell of a woman had remained.  Grissom had vowed then to never love anyone as deeply as his mother had loved his father, because he never wanted to be hurt as badly as his mother had been.

In effect the same thing had happened to Nick.  His father had abandoned him – maybe not physically, the way Grissom's had; but emotionally.  Nick's father had cut his young son adrift at a time when Nick had probably never needed him more; a time when he was scared and vulnerable and desperately in need of some type of shelter.  The thought of it made Grissom wince.  Both men had – strictly speaking – grown up fatherless.  But where Grissom had tried to lock out emotion to avoid being hurt, Nick hadn't done so.  And despite the turmoil of the last few days – the deep-seated pain he knew the younger man still felt; the grief, the guilt, the anger – Grissom realized he envied Nick.  Nick could feel.  He could cry.  Most important of all, despite everything that had happened to him, Nick knew how to forgive.

Smoothing out the crumpled paper, he looked at the message Judy, the front receptionist, had given him over a week ago.

*Grissom – your dad called.  Call him. Here's his number*

Grissom, of course, hadn't called.  Hadn't wanted to open up that particular can of worms.  But he hadn't been able to throw away the message either.  His eyes were burning.  Picking up his phone, he looked at the message intently, before punching in the numbers now engraved in his brain.

After almost 40 years of silence, he still recognized the deep timbre of his father's voice.  Shutting his eyes, he thought of all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways just talking to his father could hurt him, but he forced himself to respond. *If Nick can do it, so can I.*

"Hi.  It's Gil.  I got a message to call you."

* * * * * * * *

Marsha Middleton had been in the kitchen when Nick had shown up earlier that day with his boss to re-plug his phones.  She had slipped back on the t-shirt she had been wearing earlier – the one with the stoned seagull – and had been eating a toasted bagel with strawberry jam in the kitchen when Nick had strode in, followed by an older man.

Nick had quickly introduced them, exhorting Grissom to sit down while he grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom.  Marsha had tried to act nonchalant about being caught in Nick's shirt, in Nick's kitchen, looking disheveled and sleepy, and had made small talk with the man as Nick had quickly plugged the phones back in.  He had seemed nice enough, in a quiet way – and Marsha had been glad to note the banked affection the man obviously had for Nick. Grissom had slid into an empty seat across from Marsha, studying her intently as he did so.

"Nick told me a lot about you."

"He did?" she tried not to let her shock show, but didn't think she fooled Grissom at all.

The older man merely smiled at her and nodded, "This morning, when he came to my place.  I'm glad you were still here when he got back.  I'm glad you're still here now.  He needs someone around who understands what he's going through."

Marsha had tried not to blush, as she smiled back at him.  "I'm glad I stayed too."

When Nick had returned to the kitchen with a first aid kit, Marsha had watched as Grissom had carefully removed the heavy gauzing wrapped around Nicks' arm, gently cleaning the rather nasty looking wound before carefully redressing it.

"Have you had your antibiotics yet?  I don't remember you taking them this morning."

"Yeah, Grissom – I had them.  I'm due for more after lunch.  Don't worry – I listened to what the doctor said," Nick had replied.

"That's not something to fool around with Nicky," Grissom had replied mildly.  "I should have made you go to the hospital when you first sliced it."

"Not your fault, man. And I wouldn't have gone."

"I thought you told me it was just a scratch," Marsha had interrupted the men, her voice carefully neutral despite the obvious severity of Nick's wound.  Nick looked at her, smiling broadly when he saw the jam covered bagel half-eaten, sitting forgotten on her plate.

"So I under-exaggerated a little.  You going to eat the rest of that bagel?" he teased.

"After seeing your arm?  No way," but she smiled as she slid the plate towards him, "You have the rest."

"Nick?  I think we're done here – you ready to head back to the lab?"

Nick nodded and flexed his fingers, "That feels better, Grissom.  Thanks."

"No problem.  Listen, I need to call Brass about something – give me five minutes before you come back to the Tahoe.  Nice to meet you, Marsha."

"He's nice," Marsha remarked, as she heard the soft click of the front door as Grissom left. 

Nick smiled, "Yeah.  He's a good guy.  Probably better to me the last couple of days than I've deserved.  I've been acting like a dick."  He stood slowly, taking the two steps he needed to in order to be right in front of her.  "I wasn't sure if you would still be here or not."

"You asked me to stay until we could talk," she retorted, smiling as Nick crouched down in front of her, placing his hands on the soft skin of her thighs, sliding the hem of the large t-shirt up just a little.  "What else do you have on under my shirt?"

Marsha shuddered at the husky tone of his voice, "I borrowed a pair of your boxers, and threw my clothes in your washing machine.  Shouldn't you be going?"

Nick slid an errant finger along the inside hem of the cotton boxers, grinning devilishly at her as he did so, eyes flaring as she arched her neck back a little and closed her eyes briefly, "Grissom gave me five minutes.  He didn't need to call Brass – we just saw him at the school."

"Don't start something you can't finish in five minutes, then," she responded.  "I'll still be here when you come back -" she blushed at the forwardness of this statement.  "If you want me to stay, that is."

"I want you to stay.  I want you to be here when I read Petey's letter.  And we still need to talk."

Marsha's arms had drifted up to Nick's shoulders, and her hands traced patterns through the hair on the back of his head, fingernails scraping along his scalp. "I'll stay as long as you want me to, Nick."

"How long are you in Vegas for?"

"As long as I want.  I freelance now.  I can work from anywhere."

"Good to know," Nick replied, before reluctantly pushing himself up from his crouch.  "I guess my five minutes are up.  Don't want to take advantage."

Marsha rose to her feet as well, "No.  The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll come back."

Nick huffed softly at this, before leaning into her and kissing her gently, "I'll be home soon, Marty.  Why don't you go back to bed for a while so I can daydream about you."

* * * * *

Nick looked in his rear view mirror, and half-smiled when he realized his father was – indeed – following him to his place.  Grabbing his cell phone, he quickly dialed his house and grinned when Marsha picked up.

"Hi Marty – it's me.  Listen, I'm on my way home.  I just wanted to warn you – I have my father with me.  Yeah…no.  I didn't know he was coming.  I've told him you're there, so don't worry.  He'll be nice."  He laughed when Marsha responded with disbelief, "No, seriously.  He's – changed.  Or maybe I've changed.  Or maybe we both have.  I don't know – but when I told him you were there, he said he was glad you found me.  Yeah – that's it.  Just glad you found me.  I told him – you're staying, right?  With me?  For awhile, anyway.  Until we get this all figured out and…" 

Nick paused and listened, tilting his head to the side and glancing in his rearview mirror again.  "Yeah.  Steak, eh?  Hope you took enough out of the freezer for three.  So – what did you do this afternoon?"  Nick laughed out loud at her response, "Can't tell me for fear I'll drive off the road.  O – kay.  Now I'm really curious."  Nick laughed again, before clearing his throat, "You still have on my boxers?  Uh huh…under your jeans…the ones with the little Texas flags all over them?  A girl after my own heart.  Listen, Marty – I gotta go – see you in 10 minutes."

* * * * *

So far, Nick was relieved to note, things were going fairly smoothly.  After roughly 20 minutes of awkward conversation, Marty seemed to be relaxing somewhat; taking Garrett's presence with good grace.  For his part, Garrett had been very courteous to Marty, inquiring politely about her parents and her job and even going so far as to apologize – in a backhanded way – for not helping Marsha find Nick when she had called him for Nick's address.

"I'm glad you managed to find him," he had commented as Nick prepared the steaks for the BBQ. "I realize I wasn't very helpful."

Marty had smiled at that, cocking an eyebrow at Garrett, "You had your reasons."

"But they weren't good ones."

"Marty – you still like yours medium-well, or have you finally come to your senses and started eating them the way a real Texan should?"

"If you mean bloody and mooing when you stick a fork in it, then no.  Medium-well, no blood, thank you very much."

Garrett had smiled at that, "That's the way Mary eats her steak too.  The site of rare steak makes her slightly queasy.  So, mind if I take a quick tour, Nick?"

Nick had shrugged, "Go ahead.  I'll go do the steaks.  Marty -"

"Is going to escort me," Garrett interrupted, "Aren't you, Marsha."

"Uhm, yeah.  Sure," Marsha had shot a look at Nick as she followed Garrett out of the kitchen, smiling when he mouthed at her, 'He won't bite.'

So Marty had given Garrett a tour of Nick's house.

"I really like what Nick's done with the ceiling here," Garrett remarked as they entered the living room again.  "This is a nice house.  He's done well for himself.  How long have you been staying with him?"

*Here we go* Marsha had thought, smiling gamely as she gritted her teeth and responded, "Since yesterday."

Garrett nodded, "I really am glad you found him, Marsha.  Maybe you can help him come to grips with everything that happened five years ago.  I've been worried about him."

Marsha felt herself unthaw a little, "I've been worried about him too."

"He blames himself."

"Yes.  But it wasn't his fault."

"No.  When I heard Petey was addicted, I thought that maybe you were into – drugs – too.  That's why I didn't tell you where he was."

Marty started at this, "But I never was. I -"

Garrett held up a hand, "You don't need to tell me.  You're not that type of person.  I've come to realize over the last few months that I can't control Nick or his life.  I'm going to stop trying.  I knew five years ago that you were important to Nick.  I think you still are."

Garrett half-smiled at the expression on Marsha's face, "I promise I won't interfere.  I want to be part of Nick's life – not live it for him."

Marsha smiled at Garrett, "I do have to admit, I was surprised when Nick called me to tell me you were here.  In Vegas, I mean.  And coming here for dinner.  I know you haven't always had the best relationship."

"I needed to talk to him," Garrett responded.  "I'm just glad he invited me back to his place, especially after what I told him today.  Maybe he'll tell you about it one day."

"Dinner!" Nick hollered from the kitchen, effectively cutting their conversation short.  Garrett smiled at Marsha, and offered her the crook of his arm. "Tell me, why does Nick call you Marty?"

* * * * *

Dinner was good.  Less stressful than lunch had been.  Nick had smiled often, laughing and butting in as Marsha had explained to his father where her nickname had come from.

"So Nick said it wrecked his image as a ladies man to have a friend named Marsha – he said that whenever he mentioned me to another girl, the girl would always get jealous.  So he started referring to me as Marty, and his dates thought Marty was a guy and didn't get all miffed at him."

Nick interrupted, "That's the problem with women – they can't accept it when a guy has a platonic female friend.  They always suspect something else is going on."

Garrett had merely nodded, before shooting a wry glance at Nick, "Seems they weren't so wrong." 

Nick winked at Marty when she blushed and fumbled with her napkin, "Nope.  I guess they were right to be jealous."

"What was the case you were working on today with Mr. Grissom?"

Nick sighed, "A little kid was murdered.  We thought for a while we had a pedophile on our hands, but it turns out it was a couple of teenagers.  Sick case, really."

Garrett looked at Nick and frowned, "Is that the one they were talking about on the news today – the little boy who died in the care of his babysitter?"

Nick nodded grimly, noting the sudden distress in his father's face, "She wasn't involved though.  She's just a kid herself.  Just a case of bad timing, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"How did you – how could you investigate something like that without…" Garrett's voice was shaky.  Marsha looked at him with concern, before turning to study Nick.  The sudden undercurrents at the table were incredibly strong.  She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it involved more than just a case Nick was working on.

"It's okay.  I'm fine."  Nick's eyes were gentle as he looked at his father, "It's part of my job.  I'm okay - really."

"Nick -"

"Dad.  Really.  It's okay."

Garrett started when Nick said 'Dad', and felt his eyes tear up when Nick reached across the table and placed a hand gently on his own.  It was the first time Nick had reached out and touched him voluntarily since he had been nine.  Garrett looked at his sons' strong hand pressing against the back of his own, and smiled up at Nick. 

"You called me 'dad'."

Nick smiled, "I know."  His eyes were suspiciously moist.  Garrett chuckled wetly, and quickly wiped the tears from his own eyes.

"I think I've cried more today than I have in 25 years."

Nick grinned at this, even as he blinked back his own tears, "You and me both."

"You even have me crying," Marsha interrupted, dabbing her eyes as she smiled tremulously at the two men, "and I have no idea why!"

* * * * *

Nick stood in the driveway long after his father had left.  He could still feel the strength of his father's hug, tight around his shoulders, could still hear his father's husky voice as he said, "You really can forgive me, can't you?"

Rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, Nick went to his truck and quickly opened it, grabbing Pete's letter.  He figured it was time to face the last of his demons.  Looking towards the front door, he could see Marty standing there, watching him.  Clutching the letter tightly to his chest, he moved towards her.  "I have Petey's letter.  Want to read it with me?"

She shook her head, "You read it first.  After you've read it, if you want me to and you don't mind, I'd love to read it.  I'll be in the kitchen."

Nick watched her retreat down the hallway, before he turned into the living room and sunk into the sofa.  The envelope was starting to look a little tattered.  Nick had shoved the letter above his visor earlier that day, wondering if he would ever be ready to read it.  His name stood out starkly against the white paper, *Nicky Stokes*.

Sighing, he ran a finger up the inside of the envelope, and gingerly removed a couple sheets of lined paper, unfolding them as he did so.  A strange sense of nausea had creeped up on him.  It felt like he had Grissom's entire butterfly collection flying around inside his stomach.

Closing his eyes as he opened the letter, he pictured Pete in his mind as he wanted to remember him.  Big, brash and smiling – brown eyes glinting with mischief, cooking up some practical joke to play on Ford, or Nick, or any of the rest of the guys on the Narc squad.

Nick cracked open his eyes and started reading.  He swore he could hear Petey's voice.

**Hey, Nicky.

I think you know why I'm writing this letter. You've probably heard by now that I'm dead.

Of course, I never let you come and see me, so maybe you don't know. It's hell in jail, in case you couldn't figure it out. I'm in hell. I'm probably going to hell via that nice little hand basket I've woven for myself all these years.

Christ, Nicky. I'm like that guy who touched stuff and turned it to gold. Only everything I touch turns to shit. My marriage, my career. I can't fucking do anything right.

You tried, Nicky. You tried really hard to get me to turn around. You did everything I asked you to. You kept my secrets, you stuck by me when Marsha bailed and you didn't blame me. Then I turned around and put it all on you, because I couldn't see that it was all my fault. I didn't want to see. And you just let me do it.

Well, it wasn't your fault. You were the best friend in the entire world, and I guess I touched you and turned you into shit, too.

I'm sorry about that. I never should have done that to you, because I love you, man. When it was all gone, no Marsha, no job, no drugs, just me in a jail cell, you were the only one who fucking cared enough to even try to reach out to me. You never gave up on me, and I owe you for that. All those letters you wrote me, all the times you came to see me. I sent them back, sent you away. I tried to pretend like I hated you, but it was all part of the act. I didn't hate you. I needed you then more than ever, but I couldn't let you see that. I needed you to believe that it was all your fault, and you did. You were like the sacrificial lamb, offering yourself up for the slaughter to pay off my sins, but I can't let you do that anymore. I need to release you from this nightmare. I'm not your responsibility and I never was. It's time for me to face my own mistakes and deal with them.

I've called Marsha, and she's promised to come and see me tomorrow. I want her to give this letter to you. My biggest regret is not being man enough to tell you all this to your face. Instead, I've written this stupid-ass letter, but it's the best I can do. I don't think I could face you right now anyway, and I know you sure as hell don't want to see me like this.

I know I've asked a lot of you, Nicky, but please do this one last thing for me. Please take care of Marsha. I'm going to commit suicide, and that means she won't get shit after I'm gone. Promise me you'll help her get the life I couldn't give her. I know you loved her, and what's worse, I know she loved you. I knew it before even you two knew it, and I still married her. I guess it was like sibling rivalry. I had something you wanted, and I got there first. I just didn't care who I was hurting anymore. I was a spoiled little boy with a pretty little toy, only you never let yourself get jealous. You just did what you always did and I hated you for that. 

Maybe that was why I started using.  Maybe I just wanted an excuse. Whatever it is, I'm glad I finally get to make things right.

But most of all, Nicky, take care of yourself. Stand strong and don't let anyone push you around. And remember that I dug my own grave. I didn't need any help from you or Marsha.

-- Pete**

Nick re-read the letter, tears flowing freely down his face as he imagined the despair Pete must have felt when he had written it. *Petey, I wish you had called me.  I would have come to you, man.  You were my best friend.*

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Marty, standing to the left of the sofa he was sitting in, watching him with concern.

"I couldn't wait in the kitchen anymore."

Nick smiled through his tears, reaching out and grabbing her hand, pulling her gently onto his lap. "It's a good letter, Marty.  Read it with me."

* * * * *

Garrett Stokes slowly drove back to his hotel, replaying the events of the day in his mind – from his first disastrous interaction with his son early that morning, to the tense lunch and finally the strong hug in the driveway.  Mary had been right.  Nick was a good man – very forgiving.  Garrett felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.  He knew that they still had a long way to go, but he felt – for the first time in years – that he and Nick actually could repair their relationship.

Flipping open his cell phone, he quickly dialed Mary, smiling when she picked up the phone practically before the first ring had finished.

"You been sitting on that?" he teased gently, when he heard her rushed hello.

"Garrett – call display.  So – tell me.  How did it go?"

"I told him I was seeing a therapist.  We had – we talked, Mary, at lunch.  I'm just leaving his place now – he invited me back for dinner.  We had steak, Mary.  He called me dad.  I think…I think it will all be okay."

"That's wonderful news."

"Yeah, it is," Garrett agreed softly, "He's a remarkable man, Mary.  I'm so – I regret so much all the years I've wasted.  I should have done this years ago.  I wish…I wish you were here, so you could see him."

"You need some time with him to work this out," Mary replied gently.  "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"Yes.  I'm just – how have you managed to put up with me all these years?"

"Love, Garrett.  I love you."

"Can I come home when I get back to Texas.  I can't…I don't want to be without you anymore, Mary.  I want my wife back."

"I've always been here waiting for you, Garrett. When you come back to Texas, come home to me."

__________________________________

Author's Note:

Okay – one chapter left – more like an Epilogue, actually.  Maybe a chapter and an Epilogue.  Thanks so much for the reviews and the emails – y'all will never know how much I appreciate them all!  They really spur me on to write, and hopefully you'll continue to review and let me know what you like and what you don't until I finally write a masterpiece. (hee.)

A big thanks to ZHeidi, who wrote Pete's letter for me.  That was giving me an ulcer, as everything I wrote came out to 'Mich' and not enough Pete, if you know what I mean.  Thanks ZHeidi – you rock.