Chapter Ten: In Places We Shouldn't Be
Warrick Brown was sick and tired. He wasn't a fan of clichés, as he'd pointed out to Sara earlier in the week, but he was just so damned sick and tired of it all.
He was sick and tired of feeling like he was hiding things from his best friend. Nick had been happy when Warrick told him about Tina, but there'd been a hurt look in his eyes, that question of why. Not why he'd married her, but why he'd kept the seriousness of their relationship from him.
Honestly, Warrick didn't know why he hadn't said anything. He hadn't even thought about it. They'd been out, they'd had a few cocktails, and things just happened. It was Vegas, after all. Just because they were townies didn't mean they couldn't fall victim to the magic of the bright lights and dozens of wedding chapels. Things just happened.
Things happened. People drifted apart. Warrick wished it wasn't true, but he was finding out the hard way how it could happen to anyone, because it was happening to him.
He was sick and tired of feeling like he didn't know his best friend anymore. He'd vowed to be Tina's best friend for the rest of his life, but a game and beers with your woman wasn't the same as a game and beers with your boy. Nick was his boy, or used to be. Drinks after work, the big game – and with them, every game was a big game – at one of their places. Now, it was as though they weren't even putting in the effort to make the time. They saw each other at work and said "later" in the parking lot, a "later" that now implied, 'see you next shift' instead of 'call me to see what we're doing today.' Warrick honestly and guiltily couldn't remember the last time they'd had a meaningful conversation. Probably before "it."
They didn't talk about "it," and Warrick didn't like to think about "it" because "it" made him mad. Not a simple 'the dog pissed in my shoe again' mad; he got so red-hot furious deep down inside, it felt as though he was burning up from the inside out.
The harsh reality of his mood of late came crashing down on him when Tina sat him down in the living room a couple of days earlier when he got home from work. The morning after Nick's suspension.
She met him at the door as usual, armed with a hug and a plate of pancakes. She released him and took a step back, frowning, her brown eyes filled with a loving concern. "Bad night?"
She'd asked the same question the day before. Sara had asked the same question a few days before that. Women were remarkably observant, especially when you didn't want them to be.
"Something like that." He'd answered the same the day before, and a few days before that. It was just another nauseating routine he was getting stuck in.
Warrick shut the door and tossed his jacket into the couch, sinking heavily onto the plush cushion next to it.
Tina set the pancakes on the table and took a seat across from him. "You want to tell me about it?"
Warrick ran a hand over his face. "Maybe later."
Right now he just needed time to sort things out. He hadn't spoken to Nick, or even his voicemail, since everything went down. He really didn't know what to talk about, because he didn't really know what was going on.
Tina wasn't about to let the subject drop there. "What's on your mind, baby?"
Warrick considered answering her in full but doubted they had that kind of time. He sighed and reached out, rubbing her hand. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but seemed to fail miserably.
Tina's eyes dropped, and she pulled her hand into her lap. "I hardly recognize you these days."
The words scared Warrick, but she continued before he could respond.
'You're so…you just look so angry." Tears welled in her eyes at the thought.
Warrick's mouth dropped open. He hadn't been expecting this kind of talk, not one this serious, and especially not so soon into the relationship. "I – I'm sorry, baby," he said softly, squeezing her hands gently.
She had to have known what was on his mind; the same thing he'd been trying so hard to keep out of his thoughts for months. They'd sort of talked about "it" right after "it" had happened. It was Tina's sympathy, and her understanding way of simply being there for him that had helped to convince him that he could make this work with her. That no one would get him the way she could.
Of course, all of that talking had occurred in the later part of the summer. They'd connected, bonded, gotten married…and then Warrick had started falling back into his old routine. But it wasn't just Warrick, it was everyone. Their combined efforts at denial and repression had resulted in positive short-term results; the team had been working tensely, but well, together. The main point – Nick seemed to be doing well. The problem was, the time for short-term results was long past, and they were rapidly moving into the timeframe for long-term effects, and these were proving to be troublesome for all parties involved.
In Warrick's case, he was far too often finding himself with a shorter temper than usual. He snapped at people for almost no reason and was at an almost constant state of irritation while at work. The building seemed filled to the ceiling with a constant sense of tension, and now he knew why. He'd been there firsthand when the top blew off of the whole thing.
"I'm worried about you," Tina continued, and the crack in her voice told Warrick this was hard for her, and she might be struggling to say something even harder. She broke eye contact to stare at the pattern in the couch cushions.
Warrick was worried, too, by her tone and demeanor. Their life as a married couple had recently been feeling strained. There was more than enough love between them; that had never been an issue. Their busy work schedules didn't give them the quality time together they would like, and in the past few weeks the mutual frustration had started to become more and more apparent. It wasn't unprecedented; couples had fallen apart for much less.
"Will you talk to someone?"
Warrick looked at her with wide eyes. "What do you mean?"
Tina swallowed, clearly feeling that what she was about to propose wasn't something he was going to be crazy about. "Doesn't the department offer a therapist for officers?"
"Yeah, after shootings…"
"I'm sure she's there for whomever needs it." Tina brought her eyes up, and they were brimming with the hope and light that had first reeled Warrick in the night they'd met.
He wasn't going to let her down; it wasn't even an option. He nodded and offered her a small smile. "Of course, baby. I…she?"
"What?"
"You said 'she'," Warrick pointed out, frowning slightly. "Did you already look into this?"
Tina didn't even flinch. "Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "A few months ago, right after…"
Warrick had to look away. He knew she trailed off because of the look that had come over his face, and knew that expression was exactly the kind of thing she was talking about. No one could even speak the words. "Kidnapping" and "abduction" just weren't words people were saying these days.
Warrick took a few deep breaths and looked back resolutely at his wife. "I'll do it."
Tina's smile seemed to reach all the way up to her eyes. She gave his hands a shake. "Really?"
Warrick couldn't help but return that sweet smile. It was contagious. "Really. For you, baby."
Tina shook her head. "No, Warrick. Do it for you."
He wasn't hiding.
No matter what people were saying, and with those involved, he was sure they were saying all sorts of things...he wasn't hiding. No matter how many times Sara or Greg wanted to shoot him those innocent, puppy-dog eyes, no matter how many glares Catherine wanted to fling his way as she passed by his office, he wasn't hiding.
It had been three days since Nick's suspension and, as far as Gil knew, three days since anyone had spoken with him. It had been almost as long since anyone had spoken to him. They just gave him those looks.
There seemed to be an unspoken consensus that he was to blame for everything that had transpired, but Gil was inclined to disagree. He was a very methodical thinker, and been thinking very methodically for three straight days. He just happened to be doing so in his office. With the door closed.
Nick was upset, and Gil supposed he was justified to that feeling. His CSI had been through a lot, and he himself found the suspension to be an overreaction on the part of Conrad Ecklie. He'd gone to the man – well, called him from his office – to try to convince him to allow Nick back into the lab sooner than the designated week, and predictably had no luck in the matter. Ecklie was being just as stubborn as could expected, and wasn't about to budge.
Gil had explained the suspension to the rest of the team, but hadn't gone so far as to tell them about the required therapy. He didn't see any need to, and felt as though he was violating Nick's privacy by simply being privy to the fact he was seeing the doctor again. He didn't want to commit any further violation, and didn't want to betray Nick's trust, if there was any left, so he was doing a good thing by staying out of everyone's way, not talking to them about it.
They could say what they wanted to about him. They could shoot him all of the looks they wanted. But no matter what, it wasn't his fault, and he wasn't hiding.
"He's hiding in there."
Catherine looked over at Sara and nodded. "I know."
They were idling around the DNA lab for two reasons; they were waiting for some test results from a nail scraping from their latest customer, and although that would take hours they hung around because the lab had an unobstructed view into Grissom's office. But the door had been closed for days now, and all they could do was stand at the counter and try to see in through the small window.
"Have you talked to Nick?"
Catherine's eyes ticked over again. "No." And back to the window. "You?"
"No." There was something in Sara's voice, like she wanted to say something more, or at least wanted Catherine to say something more.
Catherine sighed. "I'll bite. What's up?"
"I wish he'd pick up his phone."
"We all do, Sara." Catherine straightened and eyed the other woman appraisingly. "I thought you guys were fighting."
"You know how it is," Sara said, shifting uncomfortably. "You get mad, you yell, and then you cool down and just feel…"
"Stupid?"
Sara shook her head at Catherine's bluntness. But it was the truth, and they both knew it. "Yeah. Stupid."
A wave of guilt washed over Catherine. She sighed and propped an elbow on the counter, cradling her chin with her palm. "I know the feeling."
There was a pause. Sara looked at her hands. "Catherine, Nick wasn't the only one I said things to…"
Catherine shook her head. "Hey, don't worry about it, I deserved it. I think I gave him that final little nudge over the edge."
Save gave the floor a small smile. "I think it was a joint effort."
"Go team."
Nick had expected to feel a lot of things over the past couple of days, but he'd never anticipated this particular feeling.
He was bored. Flat out, downright, going stir crazy bored. The previous day had been spent cleaning out his pantry, where he'd uncovered a very questionable-looking jar of salsa. On the agenda for the morning was to tackle and rearrange his closet. Over the past few months, he'd grown lazier and lazier, little by little, and was currently more or less tossing clothes into a pile when he went to bed. Organization wasn't on his list of priorities. Now he was looking for any distraction, anything to keep his mind occupied and off of other, more bothersome things.
He thought about calling Warrick. For possibly the two hundredth time, he thought about calling Warrick. But calling Warrick would open up a whole new can of crap for him to sort through and in this instance he would rather sort through his closet. This way, he could sit around in a blissful, ignorant state, ignoring the problems still to be faced.
Besides, he had another session with the doc in the afternoon, and why waste the headache now, when he was sure to have one in about five and a half hours.
Nick walked back into Doctor Bruning's office with slightly lighter steps than he had previously. He'd left the last time feeling, honestly, a little crappy, still frustrated, and annoyed he was being forced to tell these things to someone who, in essence, didn't matter or affect the results. At the same time, it did feel good to get some things off of his chest, it not out of his system. He felt as though he'd undergone some serious, and seriously overdue, purging the past couple of days. The anger he'd been harboring was finally starting to fade, replaced with the next logical feeling in line, resentment.
He walked into the waiting room and put his name in with the receptionist. The perky, petite blonde told him the doctor was just finishing up with another patient and would be with him momentarily. He nodded and took a seat on a pastel colored couch and thumbed through an outdated Sports Illustrated. His leg jiggled nervously, and he found himself glancing at his watch. He held it up to his ear to hear the faint ticking, and when he'd satisfied himself the watch was still working, he sighed and returned his attention to the magazine. His eyes ticked to the clock over the receptionist's station and he leaned his head back. He wasn't sure why he was feeling so tense all of a sudden, but nervousness had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.
It was the waiting. Waiting of any kind made him nervous. He much preferred to keep moving around than sitting still for extended periods of time, the reason he so often found himself pacing in his living room these days. He couldn't very well pace in the waiting room, and sighed in relief as muffled voices became clearer as the speakers moved closer to the closed door, closing the magazine. His ears were quicker than his eyes, hearing not one, but two familiar voices.
As Warrick came through the door ahead of the doctor, Nick had never before, even when he was eleven and knocked a baseball right through the kitchen window while his mom was washing dishes, wished to be more invisible.
What in the hell? Nick sank into his seat and reopened the magazine, lifting it to hide his face. He was just a split-second too slow, and he felt more than saw the sizeable shadow of Warrick Brown looming over him.
Nick raised his eyes and lowered the magazine back to his lap. He smiled widely, though he felt a blush of shame rise in his cheeks. "Hey, Warrick."
Warrick was obviously surprised to see him there. This was a small mercy, Nick supposed; at least Grissom and Ecklie hadn't told the rest of the team about the therapy sessions he was once again relegated to. "Nick," he said, and seemed to be unable to form another word.
Nick understood the feeling. The two stared at each other uncomfortably, mouths opening and closing in failed attempts at explanations or excuses, further proof of the rift in their once rock-solid friendship. They didn't know how to be around each other.
"Mr. Brown?" The receptionist's voice not so much floated through the silence but crashed its way into Nick's eardrums. "We need to set up your next appointment." She was speaking softly, but her words smacked Nick in the face, seemed to jerk Warrick's head back.
"Yeah." He turned back to Nick, and the look on his face had to be a mirror image of the embarrassment Nick was feeling himself. "Yeah."
"Mr. Stokes?"
Scratch that. Nick was positive he was now winning the shame war. His ears burned as he stood and scooted past Warrick who, although acknowledging he was needed at the receptionist's desk, was remarkably still.
"I'll, uh, I'll see ya," Nick mumbled, and took long strides to cross the room as quickly as possible. He practically shoved past the doctor and into her office, not missing the appraising, analytical look on her face.
Nick's mind was racing as he crossed the threshold. Doctor Bruning knew all about him, more than he was comfortable with, and that meant she knew who Warrick was. Nick might not have talked much with the doctor, but when he did, he'd talked enough about Warrick. And now she'd scheduled them snug up against each other. She'd done this on purpose.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Nick threw his arms out. "I don't even…" he began, before finding himself at a loss for words. His eyes widened impossibly, almost painfully huge and he fumbled for a moment. "That was just so…unprofessional," he finished lamely, glaring accusingly at the doctor.
"Excuse me?" Doctor Bruning asked, with something of an amused expression.
Nick's eyes narrowed and he put his hands on his hips. "What about the patient-doctor privilege?" He wasn't suggesting malpractice; it was just the only thing he could think of.
"I didn't say a word, did I?"
"No," Nick said, growing increasingly frustrated with her amused tone. "You didn't have to!"
Doctor Bruning raised her eyebrows and gave him a pointed look, casually sliding her hands into her pockets.
Nick frowned as the look sunk in, and then he nodded slowly. "No," he said, much softer. "You didn't have to."
"I think," Bruning said, moving across the office to her desk, "that there are a few different ways you can approach this." She leaned casually on the edge.
Nick stood in the middle of the room, shaking his head slowly. This was the strangest therapy he'd ever been subjected to, but he couldn't argue that she'd made her point. "You think I should talk to Warrick."
Cock of the head. No matter who it was coming from, he hated the cock of the head. "I think it's a start," she said.
Nick wanted to laugh. He could try to explain, could talk all hour, could talk for three straight weeks, but it wouldn't matter. She had no idea what was going on with him and his friends.
Easier said than done, Doc, he thought. Much, much easier.
To be continued...
