Author's note: I just wanted to say thank you to all of the people who've given me feedback - especially those who took the time to email it to me when ff.net was poorly.
Warning: Spoilers for 'Overload' people, there are non-graphic references to child abuse.
Part 2
The insistent rapping at the front door of his bungalow was eventually what pulled the youngest CSI from his already restless sleep. He groaned as he blearily padded towards the sound, half-dreading that he was still asleep. As much as he'd tried to dismiss the small part of his subconscious that connected the noise to the psychic who'd appeared to warn him of the imminent invasion of his safe, private world, the nightmares that plagued him night after night had planted more than a small seed of doubt in his mind. His words to Sara that night had come back to haunt him – it wasn't over for him. He'd meant that he could go on living, he'd be able to get past it but it wasn't over, it felt like it was never going to be over.
"Nick?" Called Catherine from the other side of the door reassuring him that this wasn't a dream. Of course it wasn't. It was a waking nightmare, bringing back the events earlier that morning. How he'd steadied his hand and schooled his face into a suitably mournful expression. How he'd clarified, while avoiding Cat's gaze, that their Jane Doe was in fact Jane Peterson, who'd babysat for him twenty-five years ago. How he'd hoped that his face showed fond recollection as he explained that she used to bake him cookies. The slight smiles of his colleagues told him that his face mirrored nothing of his inner turmoil, his inner disgust. He didn't say that the cookies were a reward. He didn't say that the smell of cookies meant that she was going to be coming upstairs and that he'd sit on his bed in the dark and wait to hear her footsteps on the stairs. He didn't say that he couldn't eat cookies now without being physically sick. Instead he'd smiled sadly and told them how nice she was, what a terrible waste, and wondered who would do such a thing to a harmless old lady.
"Nick, open up!" Catherine brushed passed him as he opened the door. He'd expected her to come. She'd been silent during his masterful performance for she had known that that was exactly what it had been. When she was securely inside she turned to face him. "We have to talk." She stated, slipping out of her jacket and depositing it on the coat rack by the door. They really did.
"Hey Catherine, come on in," he quipped trying to lighten the mood. "Make yourself comfortable," he added more sincerely. "I have to, uh, go get dressed." Willows blushed slightly at this. She hadn't noticed that he was only wearing silk pyjama bottoms, since Nick's announcement in Grissom's office she'd been focussing her own agitation. How did this happen in Vegas? How could it have happened now of all times? As she'd listened to him fool those who cared about him, it had occurred to her that that was probably what he'd been doing his entire life, protecting himself and pretending that all was well as he'd done earlier that night. She didn't doubt that there had been truth underneath the façade – that woman had played a part in his childhood, she'd moulded him into the man that he'd become. He'd told the team she'd been there as he'd been growing up. He'd told her the process had been tainted by systematic and continuous abuse. God, she wanted to throw up.
"You know I was so happy when I turned twelve and my folks decided I could stay by myself…" Nick trailed off, smiling self-deprecatingly, as if chagrined or embarrassed by his childish delight at the prospect of escape. He hadn't understood why it had been wrong, he'd just known as children do that something was happening to him that shouldn't and somehow knowing also that it was something he powerless to prevent.
The redheaded CSI started. She hadn't realised that he'd returned, now fully clothed and bearing coffee. She must have been completely out of it if he'd been able to make coffee mere feet away without her noticing. He handed her a cup as he took a seat opposite. She stared at him – he looked like their Nick but not. He wasn't the happy-go-lucky kid who'd signed up straight out of college because of all the cool toys they got to play with, this man had ghosts. He wasn't even the happy-go-lucky guy who'd enter their boss's office earlier that evening (or rather morning) so that he could gloat about not having to work. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last few hours. Of course it had been more gradual than that, they just hadn't really noticed. She'd thought that he'd lost his innocence during the whole Jane Galloway thing but looking at the figure across from her on the couch and having heard what he'd disclosed about 'Jane' she had to wonder whether he'd ever had any innocence at all. Whether the whole thing wasn't just an act like the one Nick had put on in Gil's office for the others. Whether the real Nick Stokes wasn't sitting in front of her right now.
"You think I should tell Grissom." Nick's voice once again pulled her away from her thoughts. It wasn't a question but she nodded anyway.
"I do," she affirmed. "I mean, what if the perp was…" she stopped there, she didn't want to say it, she didn't even want to think it.
"Someone like me?" It was the easiest way to put it. She nodded again. This whole situation was surreal. He'd first told her months ago to rationalise his actions during a case and at the time she'd almost been able to distance herself from what he'd said. This happened to other people it didn't happen to her friends. "You realise," he continued, "that I'd be setting myself up as the prime suspect." The boyish CSI winced almost imperceptibly – his sense of humour, his coping mechanism, kicked in at the most inappropriate times. And that was apart from it being a lousy attempt at a joke. It sounded false even to him. Catherine would realise that of course. As well as everything else, what she didn't know already, she'd probably guess. His persona was being gradually stripped away leaving him bare.
"And if it's not?" He asked, returning to the earlier thread of their conversation. "What if it's something completely unconnected?" Nick sighed and slumped back against his couch. He met Catherine's eyes for the first time since she'd arrived at his door. Telling her had been hard enough. Could he bear to confess all to Grissom as well and then have it be meaningless? Could he really drop his shield and show his friends who he really was? God, did he even want to?
