Chapter Eight: Storm Movin' In

I talked to absolutely no one

Couldn't keep to myself enough

And the things bottled inside

Had finally begun to create so much pressure

That I'd soon blow up

Something about what happened that night finally did it for Nick, and brought him back to that door. It was more than a piece of paper signed by Ecklie instructing him to take a nice vacation and not come back without a letter from the psychologist; he felt it inside, this was really something he needed now.

He hadn't been here in more than four months, and it was no more inviting now than it had been then. He felt an energy radiating from the threshold, and while his body wanted to take it as a sign to turn and hightail it out of there, his brain somehow conjured up the nerve to reach for the handle. He wasn't going to run away from it this time.

The door was a warm shade of deeply lacquered wood, a balmy tone meant to be inviting and comforting. In this instance, it was not. The plaque next to the door read Audrey Bruning, M.D.

Doctor Bruning's office was on the fourth floor of the West Las Vegas Medical Center, and she specialized in counseling those in the law enforcement profession. It was Doctor Bruning Nick had been sent to after his abduction and ensuing ordeal. Their therapy sessions had ended after the requirements set by the lab director for his return to work. Each session consisted of an identical routine, week after week. The doctor would start the conversation with some kind of prompt and Nick would answer with whatever short, clipped answer he felt would satisfy the woman enough for her to tell Ecklie, Grissom, anyone else she needed to, that he was fine.

"How are you feeling today, Nick?" would be met with a shrug and, "Okay." Sometimes, she would inquire as to how he was sleeping, and he would answer, "Fine." "How have your work relationships been since you retuned to the lab?" "Okay, I guess."

It turned out she wasn't so easily manipulated, and after only three weeks had her fill of shrugs, 'okay's, 'fine's, and 'I guess's. The afternoon, she refused to be the one to open the dialogue and give Nick something he could brush off with one word, and the two spent the forty minutes sighing and staring at each other until Nick had finally spoken up.

"Why is this so hard?" he'd asked quietly, staring determinedly at his hands.

"I don't know," Doctor Bruning had replied honestly. "But if you actually talk to me, maybe we can figure it out."

So Nick talked, for a few weeks. Nothing too specific, though that had been the intended purpose of the counseling, and as soon as he'd completed the required number of sessions he'd stopped going, and stopped talking about it altogether. There was no denying this could account for the repression he was now carting around with him on a daily basis. Things didn't remain repressed forever, and he'd finally hit his limit. And now here he was again.

Sitting now on that supposedly comforting and inviting leather couch, once again staring at his hands, Nick felt just as uncomfortable as he had on his first visit. What was really unnerving him was the amount of notes she was taking. She hadn't stopped writing since he'd sat down.

"Have these episodes been happening frequently?"

Nick winced away from the word. Episode. Made it sound like he was a bedridden invalid, or a loony. Maybe both. He shrugged.

Doctor Bruning cocked her head and her pen momentarily paused in its scratching along her paper. "Nick." It was a warning tone, almost maternal, and odd coming from a therapist. It said, very clearly, I'm not doing this with you again.

Nick sat back heavily against the back of the couch. "I don't know. I guess."

The scratching resumed. "How frequently?"

Shrug. Wait, they don't like that. "Once a week?" He tapped his fingers nervously on the smooth surface on the sofa cushion. "More so lately."

"How much more so?"

Tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Once a day." He suddenly felt vulnerable, admitting this to the doctor, who was more or less a stranger.

Nick really wanted to know what she was writing about. How crazy he was? Maybe if she took enough notes, she could turn his case into a really nice article for some psychology journal. Lord knows, he had his share of problems, and probably a couple of other people's shares, too.

"Any thoughts as to what is bringing these episodes about?"

Plenty of thoughts. No answers, though. "I don't know."

"Maybe something someone said? Something you saw?" She had yet to really look up from that legal pad and make eye contact. Maybe she thought it would be easier for him to talk to her if he didn't feel the pressure of being watched. Maybe she was right.

"Greg asked me what was going on." As if she knew who Greg was. Tap, tap, tap.

She glanced up at his fingers. Good, maybe she would understand how annoying all that writing was. He was on his last nerve as it was.

"Was this the other night?"

"Yeah."

"And what exactly happened the other night?"

Nick chewed on his lip. He didn't like her tone. She had to have known he wasn't there one hundred percent of his own free will; she had to have gotten a phone call, during which things had been said. He was sure she knew exactly what had happened, and he didn't like that she was feigning ignorance and insulting his intelligence.

But whether he liked it or not, if he wanted to keep his job, he was going to have to start talking. "I started thinking, and I guess I just wasn't paying attention to what I was doing."

"What were you doing?" She already knew. He could hear it in her tone.

"Driving." His voice was low. His fingers were cold.

Her pen was scratchy. "And what else happened that night that brought you here?"

Nick sighed. He stopped tapping and clasped his hands together between his knees. His fingers were like ice. "I told them."

"And then what happened?"

All hell broke loose.


"Nicky, what happened to the truck?"

Nick was already constructing a lie before they all turned to look at him, before his mouth even opened. He realized pretty quickly there was no getting away with it. Nothing he could come up with on such short notice could encompass the scratches on his vehicle, Greg's shoulder, and the reason why Greg both said he'd been driving then and was in fact driving now. His brain wasn't processing information very quickly at the moment.

All he had to work with was the stern, investigatory look of Grissom, the wide-eyed concern of Sara, the pinched face of being on the receiving end of too many lies from Warrick, an I'm-going-to-hug-you-if-you-don't-stop-me cock of the head from Catherine, and a-glad-to-fall-on-the-sword-for-you-if-you-ask-me-to-right-now look from Greg. He had all of that, and he had the truth.

And for the first time in months, he decided to go with the truth. He felt cornered, exposed and vulnerable, and knew there was no way he was going to get out of there without it.

"Okay," he said, and choked up, suddenly feeling like he was back in middle school, giving the clichéd "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" report in front a group of his peers who couldn't care less he had spent nine weeks working at the stable of a friend of his parents for free lunch and riding lessons.

The big difference here: his audience was exhibiting very much the opposite of disinterest. No, they were focused and listening with rapt attention, close but scattered in the middle of the parking lot, like poorly tossed confetti. The big similarity was, with all of those people watching and waiting for him to speak, how much he wanted to run into the bathroom and throw up.

"Okay," he tried again. He chewed his lip again. "It was really nothing to worry about – "

"Nicky." Okay, so Catherine wasn't going to let him stall. And she apparently wanted to continue this conversation with a ten-year-old version of himself.

Nick's eyes narrowed and he felt a familiar frustration start to stir up inside of him. He put his hands on his hips and looked away. If it really wasn't anything to worry about, then how come he couldn't even say the words? Because he knew they would worry.

"I just…I don't know, spaced out in the car and we went a little off of the road." There. Ha. That was all there was to it. Wasn't that hard.

Sara's fingers softly traced the grooves in the side of the truck. "A little off of the road," she repeated in a near-whisper. "Nick, these are deep."

Damn, if Greg had just parked next to the wall. "It's okay," he found himself saying. "We're fine."

Greg was quick to nod in agreement, and Nick didn't miss the look Warrick shot his way. Greg shrank back.

There was a blessed quiet moment while everyone seemed to be pondering the situation. Nick waited anxiously, trying not to chew his lip to pieces, to see what their reactions were going to be.

"Has this sort of thing happened before?" Okay, waiting over. And this was from Grissom. Christ Almighty, the world was coming to an end.

Nick wouldn't have been nearly as surprised if he had known then those were going to be close to the only words he would speak to him that night.

Nick didn't want to meet his supervisor's eyes. He didn't want to meet any of their eyes, but more than anything, he didn't want to give Grissom the opportunity to read him. Grissom had that little Grissom way of his that he just saw every damn thing, but only when you didn't want him to.

"Nick, man. Come on." He didn't want to look at Warrick, either. Definitely didn't want to look at Warrick.

He had done a lot of lying to Warrick over the months. A lot of withholding information, which he thought was a little better than the lying. A lot of 'I'm fine's. A lot of 'nothing's. A lot of 'Nah, I think I'm just gonna turn in early's. That was, of course, during those too few times Warrick had tried to talk about it.

"Once or twice." His voice was a hoarse whisper, because that's what happens when you lie under pressure. He wrapped his arms around himself and suppressed a shiver. It wasn't exactly warm outside, but it didn't seem to be bothering anyone except himself. No one spoke, and that was evidence enough for him that they didn't believe him.

He looked even further away, if it was possible. His neck was twisted nearly all the way around. "A lot of times."

It was even quieter. The breeze running through them was louder than the words. He just wanted to disappear.

One of them sighed, and Nick detected a hint of anger. Probably Warrick. He would be the one to be pissed. Grissom would be disappointed. He didn't really know what the others were thinking, but he knew Grissom was disappointed. He could feel it, and it made him wish for a hole to open up in the concrete under him and swallow him up, spit him out in the morning, and let him pretend this wasn't happening.

"Aw, Nicky, why didn't you tell us?"

That calm, soothing, patronizing tone combined with Catherine's hand, cold as his own, gripping his and he was ten again. Not an adult. Not capable of handling himself. A child who needed someone to hold his hand. Needed someone to tuck him in and tell him the monsters in his closet were just in his imagination.

It was the tone. It was the hand. It was the 'Nicky.' It was the proverbial last straw.

Feeling his face start to flush and his temper start to rise up again with more force than ever, Nick looked back at them and pulled his hand away. "Why do you think?"

That's what he wanted to say. "Is there any way I could have told you that you all wouldn't be looking at me the way you are right now? Like I'm made of goddamned glass? Like I can't take care of myself?"

It was what he wanted to say. And it took him a whole three seconds to realize he had said it.

After four seconds, Nick realized his mouth was still hanging open, in awe of its own betrayal to his thoughts. He sure didn't feel cold anymore, but numb. It spread throughout all of his limbs, and he bit his lip harder, just to make sure he could still feel something.

"That's…that's not what we think." Sara's face seemed to be trying to close in on itself, trying to keep all of her emotions from rushing to the surface at once. She'd spoken so quietly, it seemed to have been said in Nick's head, for him alone to hear.

He didn't want to answer.

"That's a load, Sara. Do you guys think I don't see all of those little looks you throw around at each other?"

He didn't want to answer, but that didn't mean he wouldn't.

"We're just worried about you, man," Warrick said, stepping forward. In his eyes was an out of character look of desperation. His voice hit a rarely heard high. Warrick was getting emotional.

Batten down the hatches, there's a storm movin' in.

"Only when it's convenient though, right?" Nick's mouth was now working independently of his brain's better judgment. He heard himself saying the words, and at the same time he was screaming in his head to shut up, before things got any worse. And on another level, he really didn't give a damn.

Greg stepped forward, his face drawn and serious. "That's not fair, Nick."

"We thought we were doing the right thing by giving you some space," Warrick said. There was now a defensive edge in his voice. The others nodded their agreement.

Nick shook his head. Maybe this strategy had worked at first, but space had been the last thing he needed. All he'd done was to retreat further and take up an even more solitary lifestyle than he'd begun with. He'd forgotten how to be open with people, and without anyone offering to listen, well, he supposed that's how they got to this head.

Sara moved to stand next to him. Her hand twitched as though it wanted to grasp his, but she knew better. "You just haven't been yourself lately," she said tentatively.

The words were coming again, and there was no fighting them back. "What did you think was going to happen?" Nick demanded, throwing his arms side. He was unable to keep his anger out of his voice. He felt all of the things he'd been keeping inside for months to collect in his mouth, all fighting to be the first one heard. "That I was going to come back to work and everything was going to be like it was?"

"It can be," Warrick started to say, but Nick didn't let him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It can't be. Things are different." He swallowed, refusing to give into those looks, and looked away. "I'm different."

There was something wrong with him. There had to be.

"Nicky – "

"Catherine, I'm not your damned child!" he snapped. It was an overreaction of the very best, the epitome of blowing things out of proportion. Nick was rapidly losing control over what he was saying, what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

She predictably recoiled, mouth open, and no one else spoke. Probably out of fear for unleashing whatever beast had taken up residence in the body of their soft-spoken, mild-mannered friend and colleague.

Their soft-spoken, mild-mannered friend and colleague stared straight ahead, straight into Grissom's chillingly blue eyes, as if daring him to say something. Perhaps pleading with him to say something. Nick really wasn't sure.

Grissom had remained stony and silent thus far. It was too bad, because he had the words Nick needed to hear.

Nick wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he was simply standing there, waiting and wanting to get something, anything out of the man that had been his mentor, his colleague, and his friend.

It felt as though this whole thing had been for nothing. He didn't feel any better, personally, and didn't think anything had been helped by him having said, or yelled, what he had. Everyone was avoiding eye contact, looking away at some leaf on a tree, a crack in the pavement. Everyone except Nick and Grissom, eyes locked in a silent battle of stubbornness and will. The air was loud with emotional static, and Nick thought his head might finally explode from it all.

Suddenly, the silent timer went off. Nick let out a long, loud, agonizingly frustrated breath, and turned and left them all standing there in the parking lot.

That had been his plan, anyway. To have them watch him storm off into the lab, letting him find a place to cool off. Instead, a hand gripped his arm and he whirled to find himself facing Warrick.

"We're not leaving it like this," he said.

In his voice, Nick heard a lot of things. Desperation, an unfamiliar hollowness. He heard a threat. He heard fear. He heard nothing that he wanted to hear; Grissom was standing just as calm, just as still, just as silent, and just behind Warrick.

Watch me, Nick thought, somehow keeping the words inside, and he angrily yanked his arm away from the other man. He picked up his pace as he stalked through the glass double doors.

"Nick!" Multiple sets of footsteps came after him, and he stupidly turned to see Warrick and Sara coming in the doors behind him.

"You can't just say these things and then walk away," Sara said loudly. The stopper had finally been removed, her words stuttered with the sobs she'd been fighting.

Nick shook his head. "It's not like we're going to talk about it, anyway," he said sarcastically.

Over their shoulders, he caught sight of the others heading for the doors. Catherine appeared to be yelling something at Grissom, and Greg walked a few steps behind, keeping an uncomfortable distance between them, shoulders hunched like a guilty child.

"Not with that attitude we're not," Warrick said firmly.

Nick sighed. "Just forget it," he said, and tried again to walk away.

The doors opened behind him and there was more stomping as the others entered the building.

"Nick, wait a minute," Catherine called, having apparently found her voice once more in his momentary absence.

"Just forget it!" he repeated, yelling it back without looking over his shoulder.

"Hey!" A new voice sounded in the melee, ignored by all.

"Nick!"

That new voice should have stopped him, but it was too little, too late, and Nick ignored Grissom's call.

"Damn it, Nick!" Warrick yelled, stalking after him.

"Hey!" The shouting stopped as Conrad Ecklie, none too thrilled about being ignored the first time, stepped into the picture. "This is a workplace, not a schoolyard," he said loudly, storming down the hall towards the assembled graveyard shift. It must have been like Christmas morning for a man like him.

Ecklie's eyes shot daggers at Nick, already labeled the instigator, but he spoke to Grissom. "These walls aren't soundproof, and your team has been disrupting and distracting my staff all week, Gil."

Nick glared back, and his stoic boss made no move to apologize.

"What is this, Gil?" Ecklie continued. "Get this together, or get it out of my lab." Ecklie jabbed his index finger viciously at Grissom's chest.

Nick opened his mouth, but was quickly silenced.

"Don't even start with me, Stokes. You're already out of here." He sneered as Nick frowned. "Do you think I don't have ears? I have them all over this lab, and every one of them has been telling me you're the one starting all this trouble."

Grissom stepped forward, not looking anywhere in the vicinity of where Nick was standing. "Conrad, there are things going on you don't under – "

"I understand just fine, Gil," he interrupted, drawing himself up to his full height. "If he's not able to work in this lab, then he shouldn't be in this lab."

Nick felt his cheeks grow hot. He didn't like being talked about like he wasn't standing right there. Grissom moved to protest further, but Nick held out a hand to stop him. "Don't do me any favors, Grissom," he said, his voice sounding surprisingly cold to his own ears. "I'll go. Wouldn't want to make your precious lab look bad," he said to Ecklie, venom in his tone.

Nick turned, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone in the hall, and left the lab. He didn't even bother to go to the locker room to change clothes.

Ecklie didn't go through the trouble of waiting for Nick to be out of earshot before refocusing his anger and whirling on Grissom. "Your boy scout needs a timeout, Gil."

Nick could practically feel his ears redden to match his flushing cheeks. He might have been a lot of things, but he was not Gil Grissom's anything.


Nick relayed the events to Doctor Bruning, in not so many words. He'd had two days to dwell already, and had calmed down considerably. He was left now with a temper simmering on low heat, but knew as soon as someone turned up that burner, he would boil over all over again. He hadn't spoken with anyone in those two days. Not for lack of trying; not on their part, anyway. He'd missed three calls in just the time it took to drive home that night, and another four as he sat steaming in his living room. They seemed to be taking turns, but everyone was reluctant to leave a message. Everyone except Greg.

"Nick, don't stress it. Ecklie's a dick, and everyone knows it. Don't take it personally, he's got that lab review or something, and you know how he is…I'm not really sure what happened tonight, but I do know that it's totally fixable. If you don't want to call back tonight, or even tomorrow, I understand. Everyone else will, too. Just think about it, okay?"

Yeah, he would think about it. Ecklie had made sure he would have plenty of time to think about it.


To be continued...