He loitered on the front steps for a bit, eyes hidden by a new set of designer shades. Nick chewed on a fresh stick of gum just observing the comings and goings of everyday folk whose lives were touched by mental illness. He took the opportunity in stalling to stroll around the courtyard as he tried to keep his back nimble. He wasn't allowed to do anything strenuous; no running, lifting, bending or exercise. For someone who took pride in staying active it was a damning sentence.

Nick stonewalled until he heard a lightly accented voice mock him.

"Hey, Stokes. You gonna just window shop or come inside?"

The CSI grinned slightly as Franco strutted down the concrete steps. The man's alarmingly bright purple shirt made him thankful for his new purchase for his eyes. The fact that the cast on his arm could change colors to match the silk garment made him wince at the time spent on picking out clothes. Nick still held his hand out as if the glaring rays of the sun were too much. "Um, dude, you might want to put a warning label on that snazzy get-up."

Nick laughed while the prison guard turned around on an imaginary catwalk, shooting his cuffs. "What, no words for my dope pants, man? Spent a bill alone on these pimp threads," the man chuckled.

Nick shook his head. The black pants seemed to glitter under the light, but it was the odd silver belt buckle in the shape of a pair of dice, way beyond anything he'd seen in Texas that caught his eyes. "You trying to win an award for most outrageous outfit?"

Franco snorted. "You're just jealous, man." He pointed at Nick's T-shirt and jeans. "The whole black on black thing is kind of LA to me. What, you a rock star profiling with the new buzz cut? Dug that long hair. Mine always ends up too curly when it grows out like yours was."

Nick shrugged good-naturedly. "Time for a change."

"Someone drive you here?" the Latino inquired.

"Nope," he replied, and waited for a lecture. Operating a vehicle wasn't a physical activity, although Lord knew that he was weak as a kitten most days. He couldn't even clean his own house without feeling worn to the bone with his back muscles shredded.

The prison guard looked at him, no judgments, and no handy-dandy set of advice.

"You ready to do this thing, Mr. CSI?"

Nick looked past him, but nodded. It was sad knowing he felt more comfortable with a semi-stranger, but then again the Latino was easy going. Franco took the time to visit and they kept each other company in the hospital. This wannabe pimp though carried no baggage and that lightweight feeling was just what he needed. The bruises had faded against the man's darker complexion, but they shared a similar set of mental pain.

"Yeah, Man." He cleared his throat unnecessarily and followed the younger man back into Hell. This time though, with a much more informed tour guide.

The third floor contained general population, a full-fledged library, workout room, and a center to mingle with other inmates. The therapy rooms and countless offices were all located on the north wing, the nexus of the ward, where counseling and interactions took place.

Psychiatrists' offices no matter where though still seemed the same. Maybe they all ordered from the same catalog or had some secret order in which every room had to be arranged. Nick scanned the bookshelves with some interest, noting every shrink journal in the known universe. Oddly enough, this room didn't belong to one particular doctor; it was just a central room like the half a dozen along the hallways used for the psychiatrists and their patients.

Franco had gone to his own required meeting, while he lounged around getting a bit anxious. This wasn't an enforced session; in fact he wasn't here for any sort of treatment. No, the department shrink had him scribbled in her date book before he was allowed to return to work. That was still two weeks away and with lab duty at that.

He heard the door swing open and Dr. Bale entered the room, just before Joey Brighten followed behind him. A guard looked in on them and took his post outside the door when the kindly physician closed it. The African-American doctor gestured for the inmate to take a seat in one of the comfy over-stuffed chairs and then looked at Nick indicating he should do the same.

Nick raised his eyebrows and then dawning on him that there was a matching one behind him, sat down easing his back against the large cushion.

Joseph looked at the criminalist; still the most average looking guy, someone to get lost in the crowd. The man crossed his legs and tapped his fingers on his knees. "I was told you wanted to speak to me. As I understand it, I've been cleared of any wrong doing or crime."

Nick found the ends of his mouth curling in a surprised grin. Joey's voice was soft but firm. No accent, polished punctuation, intelligent vocabulary. It wasn't exactly what he was expecting.

The man tugged at the collar of his standard issue jumpsuit. "Something bothering you, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick realized he was being a tad bit rude and ducked his head as he gave an embarrassed laugh before he looked up. "No, sir. I...well this is our third meeting and the first time I've heard you talk."

The man scratched at his strands of brown hair, bangs falling over his forehead. "I promise I don't speak in tongues or riddles."

"Of course not." Nick stammered just slightly, not wanting to offend the inmate.

"Or I could. Who knows what some of the new medications can do. I could learn a new language and never know about it with some of the pills I've taken," he stated, voice even.

Nick adjusted in his seat, trying to change positions before muscles stiffened on him.

"It was a joke," Joseph said leaning forward.

Nick allowed a larger grin, then really laughed. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

The inmate shrugged. "I've had tougher audiences."

"I bet you have." The small talk was a bit of a strain; Joseph Brighten wasn't the scared field mouse trapped in a farm full of predators, but he was someone glib, a hollowness in his tone, dull, loneliness in his eyes. The man looked ten years older than his true age, slight muscle tone lost, movements that were far from smooth or graceful. He used short sentences and didn't give more information than needed.

Any slight emergence of a personality with an attempt at humor evaporated into thin air. After idle chitchat, Nick took a deep breath and the other man leaned in his chair braced for anything.

"Do you recall anything of the night of the murder, Mr. Brighten?" Nick asked. Of course he could read the man's statement and file on the case that had been closed. No need for this little interview at all. Except for an odd need to finally converse with a man that Nick felt a bit of kinship with.

"As I told the other investigator, it's all very much a blur; something I'd rather not recall."

Nick nodded not really wanting to push things too much, his eyes staring at his hands. "Sometimes starting off with the smallest details can help."

Joseph shook his head. "Nothing."

Nick swallowed, knowing what it was like to try to gather information from someone who didn't want to share. He even knew a little about not wanting to do so himself. "What about sounds?"

The inmate began to chew on a nail, eyes searching the room. "Shouting... screams." He gnawed on a finger and closed his mouth, head still gesturing in a negative.

"If you try to forget… things... things can still sneak up on ya when you don't want them to," Nick offered. He took a deep breath. "Images… voices... in nightmares...even during the day. Then...then you let it slowly take away something from you one piece at a time." Nick looked way his voice thick. "No reason to hold on to it... didn't learn that 'till
recently."

The fragile prisoner looked at the CSI. "What's the point of trying?"

Nick looked at the man, one set of uneasy eyes to another. "Remember, share, then maybe, after time...it won't hurt so much."

The inmate shook his head and stared at the floor. "I obsessed about my personal tragedy to the point I couldn't think straight. I filled the void with hate and guilt. I don't want to remember what happened the other night... or any night for that matter." The inmate looked up at the CSI. "It's better not to react to emotional things. Then there's nothing left out there to harm you."

Nick frowned, his voice gruffer. "Something inside you still wanted to help. While you were severely affected by the drug, you still tried to defend a helpless man. You attacked Ivan with a chair."

Joseph Brighten chewed on his lips, shaking his head even harder. "No, no. The old me is gone, lost forever." The prisoner wrapped his arms around his body. "I had a real life once. A long time ago." Joseph looked Nick right in the eye. "I don't recognize myself in the mirror, don't know that stranger reflected back. Then some days I just let that stranger take over and I take a little walk inside my head, not to be bothered for a while."

Nick didn't feel pity very often, but thought Joseph Brighten might crumble in his chair, the air about him so fragile… so breakable. A puff of wind could simply blow his body and mind away. He was left speechless, unsure what words could help.

Joseph wiggled in his seat, glancing at the time. "Doc said all I had to do was meet you." He looked at the physician. "Can I go now?"

Dr. Bale nodded, his voice soft. "Of course, Joey."

The inmate stood up and Nick got to his feet a tad more slowly, hiding a wince. The inmate brushed back his wispy hair. "I guess the only good thing to come from this is that I get a new bunkmate."

Nick glanced at the physician who seemed to silently tell him to wait. "Maybe you'll get someone who isn't as talkative."

Joseph chuckled. "Yeah, right. That man never spoke; really unnerving thing if you ask me. All he did all day was clean the floors and stare at people from afar. Guy creeped me out. He read a lot though. Always up early enough to read the newspaper, or be in the common area to watch the news. Loved the metro section."

Nick stood there for a moment. "Hope you do better, Mr. Brighten."

The inmate fiddled with his hands. "Every day is exactly the same, Mr. Stokes."

The criminalist watched the man get escorted out. Dr. Bale glanced at his watch. "I had hoped to speak to you about that possible next appointment."

Nick rubbed at the growing spasm in his back muscles. "Maybe later, Doc."

Dr. Bale peered at the CSI through his glasses. "Why? Do you think if you just forget about it, then it'll go away?"

Nick allowed a faint smile, feeling slightly played. "How about next week? I can only handle so much of this place."

The physician smiled. "I'll make the arrangements."

The air filled with mesquite and spices, waft after waft of seasonings and the crackle of heated charcoal. Nick balanced a plate while deftly flipping the burger onto a toasted bun with a giddy smile. He handed the plate to Catherine who accepted it with a cheeky grin.

"Might make you play grill master more often," she said winking.

Nick smiled a genuine grin, twirling the spatula in one hand, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his left wrist. Then smearing grease on his white chef's apron. He pointed his flipper at Warrick who only openly mocked him for his fashionable attire.

"Don't you start on me, Bro," he warned even if it was obvious he was kidding.

"I don't need one of them things. I'm too impeccable," Warrick jibed.

Nick tried his best to be offended. "Well, if that's the case you get to take over... I'm supposed to take it easy," he said still grinning.

"Uh huh, still convalescing, hmm?" Warrick said sauntering towards the grill as Nick removed the apron.

Nick threw the garment at his buddy and made his way towards a lawn chair, sinking down carefully. He'd been joking, but then again he still seemed to be a walking set of aches and pain.

"How you take it?" Warrick asked donning the barbecue apron.

"Medium rare," he said, offended that his best friend even had to ask.

"Comin' up," the man replied already adding more fluid to the searing fire.

Sara wandered over, her plate full of cooked vegetables from a separate grill, and plopped herself down next to her co-worker. She appraised him with her eyes not hiding her assessing way.

"You seem loads better." She leaned closer. "You need to take a break inside?"

Nick slouched into the uncomfortable chair. "Nah. Kind of used to feeling like I ran a marathon after the simplest things. I'll go to bed early tonight after a round with my friend the heating pad."

Sara adjusted her hair, messing with her sunglasses perched atop her head. "I'm glad you came to this. The last one...well, it got postponed."

Nick tested his back, turning slightly to stretch. "Yeah… the one at Catherine's. Wasn't planning on goin' to it."

Sara studied him. "And now?'

"Now... Now I'm not sitting in my house in the dark." He shrugged not wanting to make too big a deal about the admission.

She grabbed his hand. "Good to hear you found your way out of that."

"I'm still tryin."

"You're not alone in the dark any more. You never were." Without adding anything else Sara got up to talk to Greg who began challenging for rights over the cooking.

Oddly enough, he hadn't known that. Never felt Sara's words until very recently.

"How's the arm?"

Nick looked to his left never noticing Grissom's approach. The man had kept to the sidelines for the most part. He looked down at his forearm, covered by a long sleeve knit shirt. "Better. Shouldn't leave much of a scar."

The older man was hard to read behind his dark sunglasses. "That's good."

"And your knee? You seem to be movin' around all right," Nick observed.

Grissom took a seat in Sara's vacated chair. "Off the crutches. Just badly twisted ligaments. Not much pain now. Back at work, just not so much in the field until this week."

"About that..." he said letting his question drift.

"Not until you get a clean bill of health," the supervisor replied.

Nick knew that there was more than one kind, but sort of expected it. Knew deep down that it was needed to re-enter the field.

They sat in silence, both submerged in the camaraderie around them; Catherine whispering in Sara's ear, Warrick and Greg trading barbs.

"You plan on seeing him again."

Nick didn't take his eyes off of Greg and Warrick now getting into verbal combativeness, the other criminalist watching in amusement. "Yeah."

Nick waited for it.

"If you want. I can take you there, that way... well, if you want to get away afterwards you don't have to worry about it."

He was surprised to say the least.

Nick played with the ring on his finger, thinking, then, as he spun the silver around and around he knew that this wasn't the time to study, to predict. He went with his gut…a natural thing he'd long forgotten.

"Okay."

Grissom didn't really react, just nodded. "Let me know when."

"Sure will," he replied, trying to get back with the flow. Learning to let his instincts go to work again.

His boss got up from his seat to request his food order and Nick allowed his body to relax, to take a load off for once.

"I knew you would come see me again."

Nigel Crane wasn't a scary looking man. He was thin, with a little pudge hidden by his jumpsuit, eyesight that was bad without corrective lens and hair that had begun thinning out. He slouched in his chair and clasped his hands together to keep them from fiddling with anxious energy.

It was his voice. Crane's matter-of-fact tone, laced with venom, certainty, and pride.

Nick sat across the man, a wide oak table separating them, this time in an office, and not a detention interview room. Dr. Bale was in a chair to right of the inmate, to take notes, offer a reasonable voice when necessary, but his place was as observer.

The atmosphere was supposed to be more casual, it was far from it.

"You wanted to thank me properly," Nigel went on, even if Nick had not said a word.

"You're right." Nick finally spoke. "If it wasn't for you, then we might not have made it out in one piece."

Nigel straightened in his chair. "Of course. You needed me." He pushed the glasses back up from where they slid down. "I showed you. Demonstrated what you've been missing, what you misunderstood this whole time."

Nick leaned back against the relentlessly hard plastic, jaw moving back and forth, working on another piece of gum. "I've been confused about a lot of things lately. But not about you, Nigel."

The inmate wiggled around at the tone of the criminalist. "I don't understand."

"We don't have a relationship. We're not friends, or pals. The only things you know about me are the ones you stole with your little cameras." Nick didn't know where the calmness of his voice was coming from, but everything rolled off his tongue with such ease.

Nigel on the other hand looked like a fish out of water gasping for words. "No, no no no no." It seemed his vocabulary shrunk by a mile. He wrapped his hands together, face scrunching up. "You're wrong, Nick."

"Really?" Nick retorted, still fairly collected, while Crane continued to fidget.

"I know what your favorite music is- country and classic rock. That you obsess over birds, your favorites are eagles. You love Labrador Retrievers. I know what you like to do in your time off," he kept countering, voice rising in defensiveness.

Nick stole a glance at the physician who must have understood that his patient would get a bit out of sorts. The CSI placed his hands on the table. "Why?"

Nigel stopped mumbling under his breath, still listing facts about Nick's life before he stopped. "Why what?"

Nick gestured with both palms opened. "Do you know why those things are my favorites? Or why I like the things that I do?"

Nigel huffed again, jockeying for answers that he didn't know. His face contorted as he mouthed words, tiny little sneers under his breath.

The Texan's eyes gleamed for once, robust and dark. "Why's the hard part isn't it?" It was Nick's turn to crank up the attitude. "It's easy to watch. To be cast as a spectator."

That got Nigel's attention, eyes darting rapidly back and forth.

"A glorified fan," Nick stated almost rocking back on his chair.

Nigel Crane was silent, his mouth shut up for once. Nick enjoyed the victory for just a moment. Then leaned on his arms that rested on the table. "Learning why, that's the real part of being someone's friend. In fact, half the time, friends have it all wrong."

The ex-stalker glared at him.

Nick laughed softly, making connections he never knew were right there. "It's trying to figure it out that's half of it." Nick gestured again. "It's a learning experience that we can screw up, cause misunderstandings, but that's the point. Friends mess up. They get things wrong, fight with each other, and are there during the worst moments."

Nick rubbed at his sore arm, but his eyes bored into the little man. "It's about tryin' and getting it wrong. It's the effort, the care involved in screwing up and trying to fix it. In being there in thick and thin, then shelving things when it all goes to hell."

The criminalist leaned back; the ache along his back grew, but so did his adrenaline. "You're the school yard bully who acts out in anger, because you want so badly something you simply can't understand."

Nigel sat there and fumed, hands curled tightly, but his body was still. An evil mix of extreme command and anger. Then his face clouded over and relaxed within seconds. "It would seem you've been bullied too much by your boss. The experience with big bad Ivan was too much for your fragile world view."

The inmate snorted. "I think it's time to face the fact that you're not capable of handling stressful situations any more, Nick. You're not designed for that. So traumatized by recent events to let your mind be so easily dominated." Nigel looked over at his physician. "I think maybe you should talk to him. He seems to have been played. Maybe his time in the box last summer did more damage than anyone realized. And I thought the police took care of their own."

Nick didn't give in to the obvious jabs. Instead he smiled, knowing that he had won.

Finally.

Maybe Nigel knew it too, deep inside.

"I hope one day you get better, Nigel. Then maybe you'll realize how little authority you ever had." Nick looked at Dr. Bale who studied him thoughtfully, the prisoner off on another one of his babbling fits.

"Should I set up another appointment?" the physician inquired.

"No, sir. I think this has been enough," Nick said getting up.

Dr. Bale nodded. "What about---"

Nick held up his hand cutting the man off. "I already have the ball rolling with another physician. One that's a bit more familiar with my past."

The psychiatrist stood up. "I'm glad you're seeking help with someone."

Nick cocked his head. "Yeah. One step at a time I guess."

He took one final look at his ex-tormentor; the inmate had lost himself in a diatribe, no longer paying him much attention. Wrestle with your own demons, Nigel,he thought.

Nick nodded at the physician and let himself out, closing a chapter on one part of his life that he had the chance to deal with on his terms.

Nick wandered into the lobby, not so much in a daze but in sheer wonderment at what had transpired. Feet took him the familiar route and he found himself in the middle of the lobby, people passing him by while he remained caught in his own little moment. He dug fingers into a now beaten track along his spine settling in a small indention. An imagined set of scars. He massaged there for a moment, working out kinks and staring at the floor.

"You get the answers you sought?"

Grissom's voice made him still his actions. He pondered the question, grateful it wasn't one of a small handful that his boss had memorized. Nick gave him a slight but genuine smile. "Most of them, yeah."

The supervisor looked at him, hands stuffed into his pants pockets, eyeglasses that reflected the lights about them. He tilted his head, moving his body towards the door. "Want to blow this Popsicle stand?"

Nick looked at him like he had grown two heads.

Gil Grissom smiled then shrugged.

Both men exited the Reynolds Institute, neither of them looking back. They reached the supervisor's ride. "Where do you want to go?"

Nick didn't know really; the first location that popped in his head he blurted out. "Lake Mead."

Grissom looked at him a bit oddly. "You up for that kind of hiking?"

The younger criminalist laughed, knowing things were not that easy. What had he been thinking? "Um, actually home sounds good."

His supervisor stared at the sky, eyes taking in the early afternoon. "How about the park?'

Nick looked down at the pavement, a feeling of deja vu hitting him. Not caring what it meant he just went with that tiny tingle instead of the old tired, but quieter voice in his head. "Sure. Why not."

Grissom went to the driver side and Nick opened his own car door. His instincts told him to look back at the looming building. Instead he climbed into the seat, hit the radio dial before his boss, and relaxed against the more comfortable seat and allowed his mind to roam free for once. Unburdened, and a bit more clear-headed.

The End.

I wanted to thank everyone who took the time to read and let me knew their thoughts. Most of the elements of this story had been circulating in my head when I was writing "Dark Days", but held off until all the pieces fell together. When "Daddy's Little Girl" aired, it evoked strong reactions and enough anger to find that one theme to tie everything together. This was a huge challenge for me, creatively, and I'm glad that for the most part everything I wanted to try and explore worked out.

I want to thank Beth, my Beta, for who constant support and words of encouragement. There when I wasn't quite sure about a section. To prod me here and there, for her casual and not so casual suggestions. You're the best!

Special thanks to Amy for all of her medical expertise. For answering all my countless questions via IM, or crazy late night e-mails. Your help aided in my need for a drug culprit for our unstable suspects. Your guidance made all the aspects of Nick's injury gain the realism that I really wanted.

Next Up, after a couple one shots. Back with my partner in crime Beth for another co-authored piece. Plot's pretty cool, not act/adv, but def, something not explored before. Um..Nick-Centric...Team fic this time around.