Author's note: Thank you all for the very kind reviews. Clarification on the timeline of the first chapter--my premise is that Nick had been in and out of consciousness for several hours, enough time that everyone else would have gone home, leaving only Grissom to watch over him. Anyway, on with the story. . .

Ch. 2 Golden Boy

I wake up gasping, pushing at the lid of a box which disappears as soon as I open my eyes. Dim lights. Antiseptic smell. Beeping. Must be the hospital again. This is reality, I remind myself sternly. Breathe in and out. Plenty of oxygen here.

I look to the right, expecting Grissom, but instead it's Warrick, leaning forward in the chair with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks up and sees me, smiles and steps up next to the bed.

"Hey, Buddy."

I put on a small smile for him, but can't come up with a greeting.

"How ya feeling?"

I wonder briefly how I should respond to that question, but nothing appropriate comes to mind. Warrick's smile seems forced, and he has that little crease between his eyebrows too, like Grissom. My eyes, which are still having difficulty focusing for longer than a few seconds, zero in on that crease.

"Glad to see you awake," he says, brightly, also like Grissom. He grabs my hand, squeezes, but doesn't let go. His face goes through a series of contortions that probably fall under the category of "Warrick trying to think of what to say," or maybe, "Warrick trying not to cry." Probably the latter.

"Look, man, I--uh--"

Yep, definitely the latter because he's biting his lip now. He has my hand in a death grip, but I don't really mind. I need the connection.

He tries again to speak, voice cracking, "It's just--I just--"

But I don't get to hear what he is about to say, because at that moment the door swings open and my mom sweeps in. Warrick drops my hand and steps back. I see him sniffle and wipe his face before my mom eclipses my view.

"Nicky, honey. I'm so happy to see you're all right! How are you feeling? Are you all right?" She looks around at Warrick as if he might try to hurt me. When she turns back to me, her smile is hopeful. She's hoping that I'll just say everything's fine, I realize. In my mom's world, if you say things are fine, then they are fine. Wish your problems away.

She's waiting for an answer, I guess, but I can't even remember what the question was. After a moment, her smile falters a little. "Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up earlier. I had to go with your father to the airport. He had to get back home, dear. The trial, you know," she finishes vaguely. Of course, the trial. There's always a trial. God forbid the Great Judge Stokes should interrupt the proceedings of the Almighty Criminal Justice System with his trivial family issues.

Why my mom had to "go with" him to the airport is beyond me. He is perfectly capable of taking a taxi to the airport on his own. My guess is that she didn't want to be left behind in the hospital alone. My mother has always been much too dependent on my father for guidance and approval. My sister Elizabeth used to joke that the reason they had so many kids is that my mom didn't know how to say "no" to my dad.

Mom is stroking my arm now, lightly, in a way that feels a lot like ants walking on my skin. I shiver involuntarily and clench my jaw, and the beeping of the monitor cranks up a notch.

"Nicky, sweetie, calm down. What's wrong, honey?" Her eyes dart accusingly to Warrick, who has backed into the corner of the room, as if he might be the source of my anxiety.

I want to tell her that I'm fine, there's nothing wrong, but for some reason the words won't come out of my mouth. So instead I push her hand away from my arm and concentrate on controlling my breathing. After a moment the beeping slows again, enough to satisfy my mom. Enough to make her believe that everything is fine. The hopeful smile returns. "I'm sure you're just tired, honey." She starts stroking my hair now. When she leans in to kiss me on my forehead, I smell alcohol on her breath. I had thought she was done with that.

"I have to go back home tomorrow. My roses need me, you know."

She pauses, apparently waiting for me to make a comment about her roses, but I have nothing to say on that subject. My hand comes up to scratch at my itchy face.

"Nicky, stop scratching, dear," my mom chides. "You don't want scars, do you?

My fingers freeze and my hand drops back to my side. I have to force it to stay down. My mom is big on avoiding scars.

"Do you want to come home with me, dear?"

Hell, no, I think. My lips press together and I shake my head, jerkily. The smile disappears, but her voice is still hopeful. "We could keep better track of you if you were at home, Nick."

I shake my head again.

"Why not, honey? After your little--incident, you need a break from all this." Her eyes sweep around the room, lighting on Warrick briefly and then moving on as if he's a piece of garbage, one of the things that I "need a break from."

I want to yell at her, that my friends, that my life here are not a worthless distraction, an unfortunate detour from the happy, successful life I was always destined for. The life of a district attorney, perhaps, or a doctor. The life of a Golden Boy, the one I was never quite able to attain.

Of course, I don't yell at my mom. My mom is not the type of person you yell at. Yelling only makes things worse. Instead I bite my lip, close my eyes, and shake my head one more time. I keep my eyes closed until she steps back from the bed, not wanting to see the expression on her face. I know what it will be. It's the same expression I saw when I told her I was moving away: Disappointment. With a capital D.

"I can see I'm not getting through to you, Nick. You are just as stubborn as ever."

This is an attempt to make me feel guilty, and I know it. I don't take the bait.

"Fine, stay here with your. . . your friends and your job that's so important to you."

I'd like to say something to her, something to defend my friends and justify my existence, but the lump has returned in my throat and I can't speak.

"I love you, Nicky," she says, in a wounded voice, and the implication is obvious--'even if you don't love me back.' There is silence for a moment, while she waits for me to respond, but I have nothing to say. Do I love my mom? Of course I do, but not in the way she expects, and nothing I say can change her expectations. I'll always be a Disappointment to her.

After a moment of silence, I hear her heels click on the hard floor, then the door opens and closes. I keep my eyes shut tight.

Footsteps again, then I feel the warmth of Warrick's hand on mine. "She's gone," he says, with a note of amusement in his voice. I open one eye and give him a wry smile.

"Look, Nick--" the amusement is gone from his voice, replaced by raw emotion. His eyes squint, lips twist. "I wanted to say--" he breaks off, choked up. Wanted to say what, I wonder. That he's glad it wasn't him in that box? But once again he's interrupted before he can finish, by the door opening again. I bite my lip, afraid it's my mom, back to try once again to bully me into returning home.

Instead, it's a slight, mousy-looking woman in a white coat. She steps up next to Warrick and smiles at me reassuringly. "Hi, Mr. Stokes. I'm Doctor Jenkins."

I blink at her silently.

"I'd like to examine you, see how the healing process is coming along. Would that be all right?"

I nod hesitantly. Warrick tries to pull away, but I grab his hand and don't let go. The beeping picks up speed. Dr. Jenkins glances briefly at the heart monitor, then smiles at me again. "It won't hurt," she reassures me. "No more needles."

I have a vague recollection of needles, back when I was drifting in and out of awareness. Since I am terrified of needles, I can guess what my reaction must have been, although the details are fuzzy.

"All right, Nick--Can I call you Nick?"

I nod.

"Nick, can you sit up? Maybe your friend . . ."

"Warrick," Warrick supplies helpfully.

"Warrick can help you," the doctor finishes. Warrick slips his arm around my shoulders and raises me up to a sitting position, while Dr. Jenkins helps me swing my legs off the side of the bed. "Comfy?"

I nod again.

I feel her fingers at the back of my neck, untying the gown. As she pulls it down off my shoulders, Warrick gives a low whistle. I follow his eyes down to my left side, which is deeply bruised, almost black, from my shoulder to my waist. So that's why it hurts so much. I still have no recollection as to how that damage occurred.

Dr. Jenkins probes the bruised area with the pads of her fingers. "Does that hurt?"

I look down at my trembling right hand in my lap. I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant to admit that I'm in pain. For some reason it seems very important to be strong.

"Nick?" She says, waiting.

I nod my head, slightly.

"How much does it hurt? On a scale of one to ten."

This requires a verbal answer, but once again words fail me. I can't come up with a number.

"Nick, look at me."

My head comes up and my eyes meet hers. I see sympathy there, maybe even pity. I don't want pity. I say nothing.

"Do you want some pain medication?" she asks quietly.

My head jerks back and forth. No more meds that send me to that half-delirious state of perpetual nightmares.

"Ok, that's fine. You don't have to have the medication." She is watching me with a concerned expression.

"Nick, can you tell me where you are?" I look around. It's a hospital, of course. Why would she even ask a question like that?

"Humor me, please. Tell me where you are."

Ok, fine. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. I'm getting a little worried now. Why can't I talk?

Her concerned frown deepens. "How about your name. Can you state your name for me?"

I try but the results are the same. Nothing comes out. I grip Warrick's hand harder, and he grips back.

The doctor opens my chart and flips through the pages. She pulls out a pen and writes something on one of the pages. I stare at the pen, at the pattern it makes, trying to figure out what she is writing. Finally she glances up and sees the fear in my eyes. She flashes me that reassuring smile again, which completely fails to reassure me.

"I'm sure it's temporary, Nick. Your speech should return soon." She closes the chart with a snap. "Why don't you rest for a while? I'll come back later."

The lump in my throat has grown, and I'm afraid I'll start crying right there in front of her, but the tears don't come. Maybe they're stuck inside somewhere too, like the words that don't want to come out of my mouth.

"Do you want Warrick to stay?" she is asking, but I barely hear her.

"I'm not going anywhere," Warrick responds before I can nod. Of course I want him to stay. His hand holding mine is the only thing tethering me to sanity right now.

"All right. I'll come see you before you're released."

"Will that be today?" Warrick asks.

"Probably tomorrow. We'll see how things go." She sticks my chart back in the holder at the foot of the bed and slips out with one last smile.

Warrick reaches back, pulls the chair up beside the bed, and sits, without letting go of my hand. "It's just temporary," he says, with a little catch in his voice. I hope he's right.

"Do you need anything?"

For this never to have happened, but there's no way to communicate that, so I just shake my head.

"Ok, just let me know if you do."

Let him know how exactly? Morse code, maybe?

He settles back in the chair, still gripping my hand, and closes his eyes. "Doctor said to rest. Sounds good to me." He opens his eyes to slits and looks at me, so I settle back on the pillow and close my eyes as well. But I don't sleep. Instead I focus on tomorrow--getting out of this place, going home, leaving it all behind me. Things will be better tomorrow.

&&

More to come . . .

While you're waiting, you might as well write another review.