a/n: Thanks for the reviews! Keep them coming! I've got three more chapters written and will post them when I can.

Parental Influence

The door opened, and light spilled into the room. Nick winced at it, but welcomed the light. He'd been in the dark room for awhile, and it was starting to get to him.

"Hey Nick," Nigel said. He crouched next to him. "I thought you might be hungry." Crane started to undo the chain from the handcuffs, and helped Nick to his feet. Nick hadn't bothered to move much. It hurt anytime he did.

And Crane knew that.

"I thought you would want to get out of here for a bit, but you have to take it easy," Nigel said. "I don't want you to get hurt." As if to emphasize his point, he brought out Nick's gun and waved it in the air.

Nick nodded. He didn't feel like resisting right now.

Nigel led him out of the room and up to the living room. He had the TV on to some game—normally Nick would have taken immediate interest, but it just wasn't a priority right now. Nick sat down on the couch.

He felt groggy, and stiff. His head still pounded, and he used his bound hands to gingerly test the back of his head. He felt a bump there, and matted blood.

Great, another head injury.

The smell of food wafted to him, and Nick realized how hungry he was. He glanced at his watch, only to find it gone. Nick frowned, then looked at Crane. He was stirring something on the stove, and on his left wrist was Nick's watch.

He glanced at the window for an idea of the time, but the window he'd broken was boarded up now. However, he did see streaks of sun.

Nick turned his head to the TV. In the corner of the score box was the local time. Five o'clock Nick sighed.

The room was spinning a bit, and he decided to lie down. He braced himself to do so slowly, but felt his hands sting. He held them up to his face. They were cut, but the bleeding must have stopped hours ago. Nick didn't see any glass in the cuts, but he didn't look too hard either.

The food's aroma again tempted Nick, and he thought back to the last time he'd eaten or drunk anything. Yesterday. Was that just yesterday? To him, it seemed like too much had gone on to be just one day.

Nigel suddenly emerged from the kitchen, gun loosely held in one hand, and a plate in the other. He set it on the coffee table. Nick glanced at the food. It was spaghetti.

Joy.

But he ate it, slowly because of his bound hands. He felt Nigel's eyes on him the whole time. Nick tried to push that aside and just get the nourishment he needed.

He pushed the plate away, and leaned back in the couch.

"Uh, thanks," he said. He avoided Crane's eyes. The way they stared at him really aggravated Nick. He glanced at the TV, then back at Crane.

"Can I take a shower, get cleaned up?" Nick asked. He wasn't dying for a shower yet, but he did have to use the bathroom. Besides, it'll get me away from him for a bit.

Nigel nodded. Nick stood up, but stopped.

"Um, Nigel," he said. "I can't shower with my hands like this." He swallowed as suspicion clouded over Nigel's face. Part of Nick was afraid, but he ordered himself to just be cool.

Ever so slowly, Nigel dug into his pocket and brought out a small key. He tossed it to Nick, and raised his gun. Nick was very cautious in his movements. He used the key and unlocked the cuffs.

"Drop the cuffs and the key on the floor," Nigel ordered. Nick was amazed by how controlling he could be one moment, and then docile like a cat the next. Nick dropped the items, and slowly stepped back in the bathroom.

His chest heaved a huge breath of relief. Nick glanced at the mirror. He leaned towards his reflection.

What are you going to do? So far, after his escape, he'd done nothing but sleep and obey. You have to find a way out. Maybe not forcefully again, but he had to get through to Nigel.

He sighed, and started to undress. He discarded his clothing on the floor and unwrapped the bandages on his wrist and chest. Nick quickly stepped into the shower, and relished the warm spray of water.

He was washing the blood out of his hair when he froze at a sudden realization. Jane Galloway had peep holes into her bathroom.

Is Crane watching me now?

Nick washed off in record time, and got out of the shower. He relaxed a bit after he dried off and had his jeans on. He stopped, and just leaned his body forward against the bathroom sink. His body was . . . well, it'd seen better days. His chest showed bruises, and his wrist was swollen. The cut on his head wasn't too bad, but it certainly made the overall picture pathetic. Nick looked down at his hands, and realized the little jagged slits in his palms stung in the air.

He sighed again, rewrapped his wrist and chest as well as he could, and finished getting dressed.

Nigel was waiting for him, gun in hand and aimed at him. Nick stopped as soon as he opened the door.

"Put the cuffs back on," Nigel said. His eyes shifted between the floor and Nick, as if he was nervous. About me trying something, or is it guilt?

Nick hoped it was guilt. He groaned as he bent over and grabbed the cuffs. He put them on, wincing at the feel of steel again. As soon as he was secure and sat down on the couch, Nigel relaxed.

"The game's just getting good," Nigel said. He sat down by Nick, instantly making him uncomfortable. Nick shifted away from the lunatic.

He tried to think of something to say, something to convince Nigel to let him go. But how to do it without him going nuts? Nick thought.

The game suddenly was cut off by news coverage. Nick frowned, wondering what it was.

The anchorwoman appeared, with a 'Breaking News' animation flashing by her head.

"We're sorry to interrupt the game, but we have live coverage of the Stokes family press conference." The screen suddenly cut to a crowd of cameras and people, and focused on a banquet of microphones . . . and Nick's parents. Nick felt his stomach tighten, and he swallowed back the emotions suddenly running through him.

A man in a suit got up. Nick didn't recognize him. "The Stokes would like to make a statement regarding their son, Nick."

His dad came forward. He looked stern, just like a State Supreme Court judge. But Nick could see the fear in his eyes, and it made him take a sharp breath.

"Are those your parents, Nick?" Nigel asked, as if he were asking if Nick wanted a second helping of dinner. Nick ignored him.

"We'd like to thank the members of the press who are carrying our message right now. Our son, Nick Stokes, was taken yesterday while simply doing his job. To the man who's holding our son, we beg of you to release him."

Mr. Stokes paused, and Nick could see him swallowing hard several times.

"Let him go, safely and unharmed." Nick's dad started to lose it, and quickly stepped away. The man in the suit filled the void.

"We ask for the public's help. If you have seen Nick Stokes, or his suspected kidnapper, please call this number. 1-800---"

"Kidnapper?" Nigel suddenly exclaimed. He gave a short laugh. "Nick, you should call them and set them straight."

Nick looked sharply at Nigel, but he was still looking at the screen. Emotions returned, and Nick found himself fighting for breath and control over himself.

"Nigel—" He stopped and another light bulb went off. "You're right." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nigel whip his head around to look at him. "I should set them straight on this."

Nigel studied Nick, his eyes suspicious again, yet with a light of hope in them as well.

"What would you tell them?" he asked slowly. He pushed up his glasses on his nose with the back of Nick's gun.

Nick looked back at the TV. Reporters were shouting questions at the man in the suit. Tell him what he wants to hear. Tell him!

"I'd tell them I'm just out with a friend," Nick said. He fought not to choke on the words. "You know, there's no sense in them worrying about me."

Crane looked away from Nick and suddenly stood up. He started pacing, gripping the gun tighter.

"It's always about you, isn't it, Nick?" Nigel said. His tone bordered on rage. "The press conference, your parents, everyone looking for you! And you never care about anyone else—it's only yourself!"

Where the hell did this come from? Nick raised his bound hands submissively.

"Nigel, calm down. I'm not trying to be selfish here—"

"Don't lie to me," Nigel said. He stopped pacing and just glared at Nick. Nick's eyes flickered to the gun. "Of course it's about you. I'm not stupid." He took a definitive step towards Nick, raising the gun as he did.

"Whoa, Nigel—"

"Shut up, Nick!" He paused, and closed his eyes as if calming himself down. "You calling your parents would just alert everyone about where you are. It's not about us, our friendship. I've always looked out for you, Nick, and this is how you repay me?" His voice was climbing in anger and volume. "Manners, Nick!"

Suddenly he closed the distance between them and swung the gun at Nick's face. Nick's vision went black for a moment as the hard steel connected with his cheekbone. His head whipped back and Nick tried his best to suppress a groan.

"I'm tired of your lies, Nick," Nigel continued on his rampage. "You say one thing, but do another. How are we supposed to be friends if I can't trust you!" He started pacing again. "Tell me, Nick!"

Nick opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He raised his hands again, as if to calm Nigel down with a wave.

"Nigel, I'm . . ." What do I say? He swallowed hard, his head bobbing as he did so. "I'm sorry."

Nigel nodded. "You should be." He stepped towards Nick and swung the gun at his face again. Nick let out a yelp as it hit the same spot, and he tumbled off the couch to the floor.

His vision was swirled but he was awake. His fingers probed the new gash on his face but he realized too late he should have paid attention to what was coming.

Suddenly he felt something against his forehead. Nick ordered his eyes to focus on what was going on.

Nigel Crane pressed the barrel of the gun to Nick's forehead.