Chapter Eighteen: Role Reversal

For a single homicide, the scene was unprecedentedly chaotic. A whirlwind of law enforcement officers swarmed the front yard of the stereotypically suburban ranch-style brick home and the whole front of the house was lit up with brilliant light; red and yellow and blue and white, coming from the spinning domes atop various emergency vehicles playing border patrol at the curb. Something he'd encountered a hundred times and in this instance, it was truly a headache-inducing image.

There were so many vehicles already on the scene that Nick had to pull the CSI truck to a stop in front of a yard two houses down. He threw it into park, pulled the key out of the ignition, and practically leapt from the driver's seat. He opened the back door to retrieve his kit and met Grissom's eyes through the opening as the older man did the same.

There was a look there Nick couldn't quite interpret, and he wasn't sure he really wanted to try. He couldn't help feeling there was something fishy going on with this whole assignment. Grissom had avoided him at scenes for months, let alone worked a case alone with him. He wanted to know what Grissom was trying to do, wanted to know if this was one of those 'for old time's sake' kind of deals. He really didn't know if he could handle that at the moment. He couldn't be all smiles and laughs and reminisce about fond crime scene memories. I remember one time, there was a blood spatter pattern that looked just like this. Wanna be friends again?

Nick grabbed his kit and started in the direction of the house, adjusting the bill of his baseball cap. At just the right angle, he couldn't see Grissom's expression as the man continued to stare him down.

The pulsing lights increased with every step closer to the house and the remainder of his earlier headache throbbed in time with each flash. Even Nick's teeth hurt. As they drew nearer, Nick risked jerking his head in greeting to Jim Brass, standing perplexed in the middle of the yard as a man in a set of blue satin pajamas yelled at him.

"It was him! I know it was him!" The man was in near hysterics.

Brass tried to be sympathetic but was obviously overwhelmed by the situation, especially when the man suddenly broke down into sobs, latching onto the lapels of the detective's jacket, and pulled him into a somewhat leaning position. Brass patted the man awkwardly on the back, attempting both to calm him and to stand up straight.

Nick pinpointed the reason for the breakdown immediately. David and another M.E. emerged from the house solemnly guiding a gurney across the threshold. Resting atop the stretcher was a black body bag.

His wife, Nick thought, already feeling a pang for the grieving husband. He tilted his head, pressing his lips together. His kit suddenly seemed much heavier in his hand. This was the worst part of this job, and not something he would miss.

"The victim," Grissom observed quietly, somewhere to Nick's right.

Nick's eyes narrowed and his head jerked involuntarily in Grissom's direction. "Yeah," he said hollowly. With that, he wordlessly took the steps required to cover the remaining ground between them and Brass.

An older couple, also slippered and pajama-clad, gently took the arms of the weeping man and led him off to a corner of the yard, further away from the body. Presumably his neighbors, they spoke softly to him as the trio moved slowly across the dewy grass.

As they moved away, Brass caught the eyes of the CSIs and wearily nodded his head. "Hey, Nicky. Gil."

Nicky. All this time, and Brass still hadn't gotten that memo. Or he had, and chose to ignore it, something that seemed a very Jim Brass thing to do.

"Hey, Jim," Nick said, plastering on a big 'ol classic Nicky grin the detective was sure to be expecting.

Brass frowned slightly, not so easily deceived. He was, however, smart, and a good friend, and he let it go. "You guys ready for a long night?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

No, Nick thought. Really not. He resisted the urge to drop his kit and again rub furiously at his temples. "What do you know?"

Brass squinted and looked down at the pad of paper in his hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Barnett. Kevin and Laura. Two little girls, four and six. Husband placed a 911 call about forty minutes ago. Said he and his wife were hearing strange noises coming from outside the back door, and they were worried about a possible burglar."

Nick nodded. He finally gave up, lowering his kit to the ground, and placed his hands on his hips. He squinted and scanned the front of the house. "What did PD find when they responded?"

Brass cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, as if to say 'weeelll,' and gestured to the gurney being hoisted into the back of the Coroner's van.

Nick frowned. That explained the excess of vehicles. Two rounds of emergency response. Too bad that information wasn't going to help his throbbing head. "What has the husband said?"

Brass flipped the page on his pad. "Masked man broke the window in the back door and entered through the kitchen. We're assuming the motive was burglary, but never got that far. Mrs. Barnett, plucky little woman she apparently was, grabbed a baseball bat from the hall closet and ran to the kitchen before Mr. Barnett could stop her." Brass paused. "He said he didn't even make it to the doorway after her before he heard the gunshot."

Nick sucked in the breath, instantly understanding what would make a woman throw caution into the wind like that. "The kids," he said to himself.

Noticing the other men watching him, he cleared his throat. "Sounded to me like Mr. Barnett has an idea who might have done this?"

As Brass started to answered, Nick realized that Grissom had yet to ask a single question of the detective. In fact, he hadn't spoken a word since their arrival, only stood silently a few feet behind Nick, letting him take the lead. He frowned and cast a sideways glance at his boss. Not that he was complaining, it was just very…un-Grissom.

As Nick was noticing this, the look in Grissom's eyes said he was noticing that Nick was noticing, and not listening to what Brass was saying. The supervisor spoke up rather quickly. "What was it he said he heard this kid say, exactly?"

Nick turned his attention back to the detective, struggling to focus on what was being said instead of what wasn't.

Brass sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. It's been pretty hard to understand the poor guy. I caught something about a threat, but we might be able to talk to him more easily tomorrow. You know, give him some time."

Nick nodded, but he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't going to make a difference, no matter how much time they gave Kevin Barnett.

Time. It was always the obvious, however wrong, solution.


Jim had been feeling out of the loop for a while now. Oh, he knew what had been going on, all right; the colossal mess that had become the close-knit group of CSIs making up the Graveyard shift. He also understood why his input hadn't been requested. He wasn't really technically a part of the team, and this was something they needed to work out themselves. Uncle Brass's job was to be there when they needed him, not to jump in and meddle when they didn't. They would fix it. He had enough faith in his CSIs to know and trust that much. It would just take some time.

Unfortunately, time wasn't something they had an excess of. Any fixing that needed to happen, needed to happen in about three days, or that was it for the family he had here in Vegas. That family was threatening to break off, piece by piece, unless they all shaped up. They were trying. Nick and Gil were there together, but that didn't mean it was easy. Jim had in front of him one of the most uncomfortable moments he'd ever had to bear witness to.

Nick Stokes was a good kid who'd been put through more bull than any single person should ever have to endure. A good kid who'd finally thrown up his hands and yelled 'Enough already!' at the rest of the world. And he couldn't be blamed for it. He was grown, and had free will, and could do whatever he wanted.

Gil Grissom was a good man who tried to do the right thing, who thought he was doing the right thing despite the way it came across, and always seemed to come up just a hair short. A good man stacking up a sizeable amount of IOUs for things like this very situation. He was here now with Nick, trying to make things right, and Jim firmly believed if there was ever a time he was going to succeed, it was now.

Despite his faith in his friend, Jim had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was bigger than Gil Grissom. There were things that Gil needed to accept, to learn, and to put out there, but there were certainly things Nick needed to accept, to learn, and to face up to. The Poor Nicky party had been in full-swing long enough. Nick didn't need the pity and attention, just the opposite. He was recently prone to being uncharacteristically hotheaded and at times downright stubborn. It was time little Nicky faced up to whatever was weighing him down, too.

As he looked at his friends, Nick keeping his distance and Grissom keeping a watchful eye and silent demeanor, Jim Brass couldn't help but be disappointed in the both of them.


The next afternoon, Nick stepped into the break room rotating his neck, grateful for the satisfying pop he finally felt and heard after trying to release the tension for what seemed like forever. He'd spent the previous night working a scene quieter than any he'd worked before. Grissom had tried to reach out to him at the house, and Nick recognized that, but still wanted to know what it was exactly Gris was doing.

Nick was hearing the little voices in the lab starting to say all of the things he'd expected to hear, like that he was trying to get special treatment and attention. Like he was a freaking child or something.

Nick shook his head. People just didn't understand; it was about the complete opposite of attention. It was about…he couldn't even remember anymore. All he knew, he'd been angry. Angrier than he'd been in a long time and did what had made sense at the time. With only two days left, it wasn't making so much sense anymore. That's what his job was for, to keep him grounded, and hell, he was throwing that away, too. Why? Because of a bruised ego?

Nick dropped to the couch more than sat on it, and held his head in his hands.

"Nick?"

A hesitant voice, one sounding an awful lot like Grissom.

"Yeah?" Nick answered without looking up, voice muffled by his hands, somehow not caring how vulnerable he might appear to his boss. His resolve was slowly fading as it was.

A hand touched his shoulder, removing itself just as quickly. "We need to get going."

The police station. They had to interview the husband. Mr. Barnett, a broken man left with two little girls and the inevitable funeral costs. Nick hadn't even found out the girls' names. He really wasn't up for this interview, didn't know if there was enough room left inside himself for another person's problems. "Can I meet you there?"

"Sure."

"Okay. I'll meet you there."

"Nick?"

A pause, and Nick thought he was actually going to hear the word 'Nicky' come out of his boss's mouth.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you okay?" How many times in the past months had Nick heard those words? He'd lost count a long time ago. But this…this was different. Grissom's voice was different. It wasn't patronizing or condescending, or laced with any kind of subtext. It was just different.

Was he okay? Laughing would have been an appropriate response. Nick didn't know which way was up or down, whether he was coming or going, or what in the hell Grissom was trying to do with this case. With him.

Nick drew his face out of his hands and looked up into a face filled with genuine concern for his wellbeing, and for once, not hiding anything from him. He just stared and shrugged.


Phase One of the Brilliant Plan to Get Nick to Stay was working with him on a case. A simple enough plan to start, to let Nick know he wasn't avoiding him, that he wanted to spend time with him, and provide an opportunity to give some encouragement regarding his abilities as a CSI. Gil had heard repeatedly that he was lacking in that respect.

Phase Two he'd stumbled upon and put together at the scene that night. Gil was a very intelligent man, and he hadn't gotten to the position he was in now because he wasn't observant. He'd seen and interpreted the look Nick had shot him when they'd arrived at the scene.

"The victim," Gil had said. A perfectly plausible observation upon reaching a crime scene. See the victim, make note of it.

Her.

The "victim" was a her. Not an it. A wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister and there, right there was a bulk of the problem with Gil, at least in Nick's eyes. Gil lacked that empathy Nick possessed, that ability to deeply connect with someone after knowing them less than ten minutes. That inability to see not a faceless corpse but a real person and to connect with the loved ones left behind.

Gil had been doing this job long enough, he had seen what happened to people, to former coworkers and friends, after years and years of making that connecting with every assignment slip that passed through the lab. But if Nick thought he was strong enough to take that one, who was Gil to take that away from him. Nick had proven time and time again he was stronger than anyone gave him credit for, and Gil hoped this would be another of those times, because he couldn't bear to watch Nick lose himself in the victims.

That look from Nick had spoken volumes. Gil didn't get it, and Nick didn't think he ever would. But Gil did get it; he'd blocked that range of emotion from his repertoire a very long time ago. It was something else at the same time; it was a crack in the wall Nick had been so busy putting up around himself.

Phase Two was put into motion at the police station, when he and Nick met with their victim's husband, Kevin Barnett, to try and start to piece together what had happened, as they hadn't been able to collect much evidence at the house. The killer had taken the gun with him and worn gloves and a mask.

When Gil approached the interrogation room – a horrible name for this situation, but it was what it was – he wasn't surprised to see Nick was already there, but was taken aback by the sight of the two men sitting silently at the table. Nick was always speaking with the witnesses, building up that confidence with them.

Nick was seated in one of the metal chairs across from Barnett, in a different version of that worn-down posture Gil had gotten a peek of back in the break room at the lab. His arms were crossed in front of him on the tabletop, bracing himself, and he looked as though without that extra support he'd slide right off of his chair into a puddle on the floor. He looked up as the door opened but Mr. Barnett didn't seem to have noticed, dropping his gaze to his lap.

"Mr. Barnett?" Gil began, stepping into the room. "I'm Gil Grissom. Do you remember me from last night?"

Barnett looked up and nodded. "Have you found that bastard? Sean?" It was the name he'd given Brass the night before, but their work throughout the day hadn't produced anything substantive, not yet.

Gil shook his head as he took a seat, not in the chair next to Nick, but the one next to Barnett. It was gesture enough to cause Nick's eyebrows to jump, but he stayed silent.

Barnett looked away. "I don't know what my girls are going to do without their mother."

Gil paused for a moment, contemplating his next move. He had to show Nick he wasn't the heartless stone statue that people thought he was. The thought entered his head that if he did this, he would be using the man next to him as a way to get to Nick, but he was growing desperate.

"Mr. Barnett…Kevin." Have you even ever tried that before? "We're going to find out who killed your wife, and they're going to go to jail."

Gil maintained eye contact with the man, making sure his words were being taken to heart. "They're going to pay for this. I promise you."

"Say 'I promise.'"

He was significantly more composed than he'd been at the house the night before, but Kevin Barnett's eyes were still lined with the tears he was struggling to keep at bay. Gil's words had the desired effect.

Kevin managed a small, maybe even relieved, smile. "Thank you, Mr. Grissom."

Nick's eyes narrowed and he straightened in his chair. "We're going to do our best, Mr. Barnett."

Gil ignored Nick's tone, the one saying 'what kind of drugs is Grissom on?' He smiled his most reassuring smile and reached out to Barnett, setting his hand on the man's arm. "We'll find the guy."


Catherine was walking down the hall, thumbing through a report on their ongoing arson case, when she came upon Warrick in a comical, and comically enticing, position. His lanky body was pressed tightly against the wall outside of a workroom in a sort of half-bent stance, head cocked to the side, a look of intense focus and concentration on his face.

Catherine shut her folder and cast a quick look around the hallway, an amused smile on her lips. Her heels clicked lightly on the tiled floor as she moved slowly up behind him.

"Whatcha doin'?" she asked in his ear, causing him to jump.

Warrick braced a hand on the wall and turned to her with a wide-eyed expression of surprise. He recovered instantly and emphatically waved his other hand, shushing her.

"What?" Catherine whispered, huddling closer.

Warrick's eyes narrowed and he brought a finger to his lips. He jerked his head to the side, gesturing to the doorway of the room of which he was lurking outside of.

Catherine moved up beside him and pressed her own ear as close to the doorway as she could without being completely on top of him. Once she got close enough, she could hear what it was Warrick was listening to so intensely.

"How long have they been back here?" she asked in a hushed voice, the report she'd been reading completely forgotten.

Grissom and Nick had headed to the police station almost immediately after arriving at the lab and been gone longer than she would have thought, and she didn't realize they'd gotten back.

"About fifteen minutes," Warrick responded in an equally hushed tone.

"How long have you been out here?"

"About five minutes."

Catherine strained her neck a little further along the wall to try to make out the words that Nick and Grissom were saying. "What are they talking about?"

Warrick turned his head. "Shh," he ordered quietly.

Catherine rolled her eyes and leaned over his hunched form. She remained quiet, trying to hear what was being said in the room.

"I was being empathetic."

"You were being…"

"What?"

"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about this."

"About what?"

There was an audible sigh from Nick. "I don't know, Gris. I just…you shouldn't have said those things to him. Not when we don't even have a clue who shot his wife."

"We have a clue."

"No, we have a hunch. And there's no physical evidence to support it, man."

Catherine frowned. "Are they impersonating each other or something?" she whispered in Warrick's ear.

Despite the tension, she heard him stifle a small chuckle.

"Seriously," she said quietly, encouraged. "Are we role-playing now? Should I go vegan and drop Lindsey off with Sara?"

She and Warrick were too busy trying to control and quiet their laughter, they didn't hear Grissom come to the doorway until he cleared his throat.

Catherine looked up and immediately realized how ridiculous the two of them must look, crouching outside the door. She straightened quickly and Warrick followed suit.

"Hey, Gris," Warrick said, running a hand over his hair. He moved just enough to peek past Grissom's shoulder. "Nick."

Though she couldn't actually see him, Catherine judged from Warrick's grimace that Nick was about as amused as Grissom.

"How's the case coming?" she asked, smiling innocently.

Grissom crossed his arms. "Why don't you tell me?"

Warrick coughed. "I think I'm…gonna check with Hodges. See if he's made a match yet on that…yeah."

"I think that's a good idea," Grissom said flatly.

Warrick's head dropped like a scolded schoolboy and he walked off, picking up his pace as he rounded a corner, placing himself out of glaring range.

Catherine held her folder in front of her, and shifted her weight. "Yeah, I think I need to check with Hodges, too."

Grissom quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah."

"Well, see ya," she said quickly, and clacked her way down the hall, as well.

Catherine shook her head. They'd taken advantage of a light moment, but hadn't taken into account that it wasn't so light for the parties involved. She frowned. Obviously, something had happened. And her naturally curious nature really, really wanted to know.


It had never been Gil's intention to cause Nick the kind of mental torment he apparently was. He'd only thought maybe if they worked together again, maybe showed he was able to show a little compassion, maybe it would be enough.

He was slowly starting to realize there was no way this was all about him, not with the way Nick was now acting. Seeing him looking so beaten down in the break room had been one thing, but seeing him now, slumped in a chair in one of the lab rooms, the complete opposite of the man who only twenty-four hours earlier was gripping a steering wheel so tightly Gil feared he would snap it in two…it was eye opening. He didn't necessary need to show Nick anything, he just needed to be there for him. He'd been directing his stab at empathy at the wrong person.

"Nick?" Gil called softly from the doorway.

Nick jumped and turned quickly. "Jesus, Grissom," he said shakily.

Gil cringed. This wasn't really starting out that well. "How's the case going?"

Nicks shrugged, and cracked a small smile. "I was just with you. You know how it's going." He turned back to his work.

Gil nodded, smiling as well. "Things are good?" he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Nick bobbed his head a few times, not looking up. "Yeah, things are good."

"With the case?"

Nick looked up from his papers, mouth and eyebrows quirked slightly. "Yeah…"

"Okay. Good." Gil scratched at his beard, thinking maybe he hadn't thought this plan through as well as he'd previously thought. They weren't getting anywhere, except closer to Nick's final shift.

Nick returned his attention to the reports and photos, not willing to expend so much energy keeping eye contact. His pen tapped nervously on the tabletop and Gil could tell he wasn't really paying attention.

His theory was proven valid when Nick's head snapped up again suddenly. "Did you need something?"

Gil crossed his arms. "It didn't seem like the interview went all that well."

Nick shrugged, continuing to tap his pen. "It went fine."

"You seemed mad about something."

Nick smiled and shook his head. "I wasn't mad. Just…I don't know. Caught off-guard."

Gil pulled himself up off of the doorframe, moving further into the room. He stood in front of the table where Nick was working. "How so?"

This moment was basically the point of his little interview experiment, the moment he'd been hoping would come up, but now that he was faced with it, Gil found himself unaware of how to approach it. He wanted to show Nick that he could communicate with people and if given the opportunity, connect with them. That he was capable of caring. Instead, he apparently came out looking like a crazy person.

"I was being empathetic," Gil said, surprised to hear his voice taking on the defensive edge he'd heard so many times coming from Nick.

"You were being…"

"What?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about this."

"About what?"

Nick sighed. "I don't know, Gris. I just…you shouldn't have said those things to him. Now when we don't even have a clue who shot his wife."

Gil's eyes narrowed involuntarily. "We have a clue."

"No, we have a hunch. And there's no physical evidence to support it, man." Nick turned back in his chair, shaking his head at the reports on the desk in front of him.

Something about the moment struck him, and Gil wasn't sure what to say. But then he heard someone behind him say it for him.

"Are they impersonating each other or something?"

Catherine. Her voice floated into the room ever so quietly, and Nick turned back towards the door, eye narrowed, angry. There were two voices wafting into the room, and the faint sound of light inappropriate laughter.

Gil felt his cheeks burn as he took a few steps towards the door. He didn't look back at Nick, afraid he really would see himself in those once vibrant brown eyes.


To be continued...