Nick shut the door behind him, and stayed leaning against the door, trying to figure out why he was so pissed off. And why was he pissed off at his best friend? The gesture Warrick had made with the dirt bikes was just about the most touching thing he'd ever had done for him. The man could lie all he wanted, but he didn't get them for 'nothing'. It had been a fantastic day right up til the end…til the stupid rabbit. May as well have been a black cat. More bad luck crossing my path…
That's really what it was. It was a stupid accident. He hadn't gotten too badly hurt. Just his pride. But he'd hated wiping out in front of his friend and getting that look again. The fearful look, mixed with the what the hell did you do to yourself now? look. The look he got when he got back to the lab after the Hendler thing. The look he'd gotten when Warrick had brought him to the hospital after Nigel threw him through the window. The look when he foolishly told Catherine about the babysitter. The look he'd seen when they took him out of that godforsaken box. Pity. That's what it was. Pity and guilt. And he was getting really fucking tired of it. The head shake. Poor Nicky.
It was just bum luck that rabbit crossed your path.
It was nothing personal you did to Walter or Kelly Gordon, Nick…it was just …I don't know…bad luck?
I don't think it was about you, Nick. Or Jane Galloway, for that matter. I think it was more about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.
"Bullshit!" He yelled to his empty house.
Did that solve anything, Stokes? There's no one here. Maybe you really are crackin' up…
He sighed and pushed off from the front door. Grabbed a beer and eased himself back down on to the couch, his ribs an annoying reminder of his stupid accident.
Sighed again when he remembered the stupid freaking remote was on top of the TV…'where I always leave it'…
He didn't even have the energy to get up and snag the remote. Considered the pile of magazines and work journals on his coffee table. Most had already been thumbed through at least once.
He looked at his watch. Still early. But he was wiped from their afternoon out. Maybe he could try sleeping.
Sleeping…now that's a novel concept there, Nicky my boy.
He hadn't been totally lying when he told Warrick about the Ambien. The first few nights home from the hospital when he was still physically sick and exhausted, the sleeping pills had done wonders. He'd slept through most nights. After he began to heal and his body didn't need so much sleep, the nightmares came. The Ambien sometimes took the edge off. Especially when he doubled or trebled the dose. But his thirty-day supply was already down to a few pills.
I could tell the pharmacy I spilled them down the drain…like they haven't heard that one before…
Well, they haven't heard it from me. Yet.
He considered asking his psychiatrist for a stronger dose, but didn't want to let that weakness show. He was supposed to be showing improvement. If he had any chance at getting back to work any time soon he had to do better.
Might as well start with a good night's sleep…worry about the pills at the next appointment.
He groaned and got off the couch, and shuffled towards the bathroom. A quick look in the mirror showed fresh scratches from the scrub brush he'd rolled into. Another lovely reminder…
Okay…first things first. Hot shower. Shower door definitely open, tile be damned.
Next, grab the pills. Amber bottle with a small handful of little yellow pills left in the bottom. Take one…two? Definitely two. Go back to the kitchen and grab another bottle of beer. Strictly for medicinal purposes. Wash pills down with same. Grab a pain pill. Lortab. Supposed to be mostly Tylenol anyway. Can't hurt, and his ribs did. Wash down with remainder of beer.
He'd taken to using a window fan to block out daytime noise when he was working nights. He'd bought the biggest, loudest fan he could find. It sounded like a jet engine on high. Fan on? Check.
Paperback on the night table. A crappy crime procedural that he enjoyed more for picking apart the errors the author made.
Why did going to bed feel like planning the attack on Normandy?
With what he hoped was his final sigh for the night he crawled under the covers, enjoying his central air on high. Fluffed the pillow up under his head and grabbed the paperback.
Half an hour later he was sound asleep, the light on his bedside table still on.
And when the nightmares came later that night, he woke, turned off the light, and was back asleep in minutes.