Chapter Seven

Nick took his time emerging into the busy halls of the lab. He wasn't sure how long exactly he had been standing, dumbfounded, in the middle of the workroom, but it didn't seem to have been long enough to warrant someone to come looking for him. They were probably all gathered in Grissom's office, practicing their 'I-told-you-so's.

Nick was bitter and resentful and thought he was perfectly entitled to be feeling so. The way he saw it, Grissom had played with his mind and preyed on his insecurities, and that was neither excusable nor forgivable in his eyes. At the same time, he was awestruck at the power that his supervisor had over him. A few simple words had been all it took to get out the things that Warrick, Sara, and Catherine had tried so desperately to get him to reveal. He hated it, and at the moment, he hated himself and how embarrassingly easy he'd made it for the man. It was that incessant and seemingly uncontrollable need to please his boss, to make sure that Grissom didn't think poorly of him. He was ready and willing to say anything to the man. It was pathetic.

Nick had been thinking too hard and too much, his head pounding. He'd never been the type to have chronic headaches, but had been recently plagued with them. It all stemmed from his inability to deal, his therapist would say. If he was still seeing his therapist, that is.

It had been three months since Nick had last gone. It had been part of the requirement for his reactivation in the field, so he had gone for the mandatory six weeks. And then he had stopped. His therapist hadn't understood that he didn't need to talk, something his friends were having a hard time understanding now.

The first couple sessions had gone by as whole hours of nearly complete silence. And then one week, he had tried something out.

"How are you doing today, Nick?"

Nick shrugged. "Better, I guess."

Nick had never thought of the word "better" as one of the most powerful words in the English language, but it was. "Better" kept people quiet, kept them happy. You couldn't argue with someone when they said that they were doing better.

This led Nick to try out other non-committal, non-specific phrases.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Not too bad."

The doctor looked hard at him. "Could you be more specific?"

Which brought Nick to his new favorite word.

"It's fine."

Nick didn't need the therapy. He didn't need pills. He didn't need talking and talking and more talking, until his throat was raw. He needed time. And space. And to be left the hell alone.

He wasn't an invalid, or a child, but they didn't seem to have gotten that memo.

Nick thought about what they were all probably doing right now. Talking about him, and that was basically a given. He was sure they'd been doing a lot of that lately. They should just stuff him and put him next to the front desk like a statue, give him a water bottle and a wheel and cram him into a terrarium on Grissom's shelf. He was a great conversation piece.

Nick couldn't imagine facing any of his coworkers at the moment, couldn't handle another single tear or accusation, so he stayed in the small room for as long as he could. But he couldn't think of himself forever; there were things to do, evidence to process, and he would have to come out eventually.

"That was it?" Catherine asked incredulously, leaning against Gil's desk.

She was frowning, and didn't look at all as happy as he would have expected. Not to say that finding out Nick was keeping his thoughts and emotions so much to himself that he felt he would crack if he wasn't able to have the distraction of work was anything to be happy about.

Gil raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."

"That was it? That was all you said?" Catherine cocked her head. "'Why' and 'Okay'?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause.

"And he told you…just like that?"

Gil sighed. "Catherine, I'd really rather not talk about this right now. I have a lot of work to catch up on."

Catherine didn't move from her seat on the edge of the desk. Gil could feel her eyes on the top of his head and looked up at her.

"You're going to talk to him again, right? Like, really talk to him."

Gil pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Catherine – "

"Gil, it's obvious that you're the only one he's going to talk to. He's so invested in what you think about him, he'll talk to you."

"You sound like Sara."

Catherine gave a small grimace but shrugged. "Maybe she has a point."

Gil folded his hands in front of him. "Have we given any consideration as to what Nick wants?"

Catherine shook her head. "I don't care what he wants. This is what he needs."

"That may be, but if he doesn't see it that way, then the whole thing would be pointless."

Catherine threw her arms up in frustration. "So what are we supposed to do? Stand back and wait for him to fall apart?"

Gil didn't answer. He didn't know how to.

Greg was making his way to the DNA lab when he saw Nick poke his head out of a door to his left. He jogged up to his friend and clapped him on the back. "What's up, man?"

Nick jumped about two feet in the air and regarded Greg somewhat warily, with wide eyes. "Hey," he said evenly.

Greg frowned. Nick looked pale, was grasping papers so tightly in his hand that they were creasing.

"Careful, man. You'll ruin those impressions," he said, adding an easy grin.

Nick looked down at his hand and back up at Greg sheepishly. "We can't have that," he drawled. He moved the pages to his other hand and made eye contact with something over Greg's shoulder.

Instinctively, Greg turned his head just a bit to glance behind him. There was nothing there. He looked back Nick, once again frowning. "You okay, Nick?"

Nick's eyes shot back over. He smiled. "Yeah, yeah. Just getting a bit of a headache. I'll be cool." He pulled at the neck of his tee shirt.

"Alright." Greg pointed down the hall. "DNA."

Nick made a gesture in the opposite direction. "Treads."

"Later." Greg paused just long enough to shoot another look behind him as Nick moved past him, massaging his right temple.

Greg chewed on his lip. He wasn't stupid. Nick was clearly in some serious repression or denial or both. Anyway you looked at it, it wasn't healthy. He contemplated following Nick for just a moment, but the recent failures of his coworkers kept him stationary.

Everyone was talking about him, and Greg was sure that Nick knew it. He wasn't an idiot. Greg wanted to find a way to talk to Nick without making his friend feel like they were all ganging up on him.

Warrick was coming down the hall, and jerked his head in greeting. "Hey. Have you talked to Gris yet?"

Greg shook his head. "No, about what?"

Warrick nodded at Nick's retreating form.

Greg frowned, confused. "No."

There was an implied question mark at the end of the word, but Warrick chose to ignore it.

"Nothing," he said. "I'll see ya later, man."

Warrick walked in the direction that Nick had just left in, and Greg had a hunch what he was going to do. He just wasn't sure if that was such a good idea.

Nick once again pulled at the neck of his shirt. All of a sudden, it had felt all too tight, and he thought about the spare button-down hanging in his locker. Surely he would be able to breathe easier in that. He could leave the top unbuttoned and hopefully not feel like he was being strangled.

Nick dropped the tire treads off with Hodges, promising that he would be right back, and headed for the locker room. He had just finished buttoning the dark shirt, breathing much easier, when he heard the door open.

"Hey."

It was Warrick. "Hey," Nick said, rolling up his sleeves. It still felt a little stuffy.

He turned and saw that Warrick was just standing there. He knew exactly what Warrick was there for, but he pretended that he didn't, because if one more person asked him how he was doing, he was probably going to go postal.

'What's up?" he asked. Before Warrick answered, Nick's pager went off. He looked down at the screen and sighed. Hodges. I told him I'd be right back.

He looked up at Warrick, and his expression was genuinely apologetic, mostly. "I gotta – "

Warrick held up a hand. "Hang on a second."

So Nick waited, hands on his hips, willing Warrick to just let it go.

He didn't. He took a few breaths, and Nick knew what was coming: the same old shit. It was a good thing Warrick was avoiding making eye contact with Nick, otherwise he would have seen one hell of a frustrated eye roll.

"What's goin' on with you, man?" Warrick asked, finally looking up at Nick. "I thought you could talk to me. I thought you did talk to me. Now I find out you're lying to me and opening up to Gris?" He sounded hurt.

"Nothing is going on with me, man," Nick replied, thoroughly sick of the same old questions. "I'm fi – "

"If you say 'fine,' I swear I'm gonna knock the hell outta you." Warrick's tone was low and even.

"Fine," Nick finished, glaring at Warrick. He was daring him to do it. On some level, wanting him to do it. Maybe just to feel something he knew was real.

Warrick pulled his fist back and slammed it into the locker next to Nick's head.

Nick flinched in spite of himself. Both men glared at each other.

Warrick pointed an angry finger at him, his eyes dark and cold. "You need to get your shit together, man."

He seemed to think that this was the end of the conversation, and turned to leave.

"Why?" Nick asked, not really thinking. He was angry and reacting, wanting to see if he could really get Warrick to do what he threatened. "It seems like you guys are having a fun time trying to do it for me."

When Warrick whirled around, he wasn't messing around this time, and his fist connected solidly with the side of Nick's face.

To be continued...