The Emancipation of Nick Stokes - Chapter 2
Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of too many cameras and the flashing lights of the police cruisers, Gil Grissom allows his gaze to flicker over the gathering crowd. He sees the usual assortment, the typical mix of tourists and locals, all of them eager for a quick peek of the body, as if the mortal remains of a fellow human being are some kind of weird side-show attraction. Death, it would seem, wins out over the all you can eat buffet at the Tropicana. Well, for an hour or two at least.
For a moment, he has the strangest feeling of being scrutinized, of being observed, and that's just silly, because of course he knows he's being watched. With a rueful smile, he casts one last glance at the looky-lous, and then turns back to the scene and to business.
"So, David. What have we got?"
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By the time the end of shift rolls around, Gil has solved his case.
It turns out that the dead man had been the owner of a nearby store. In the process of preventing a robbery, he had taken a bullet in the chest. The CCTV installed both inside and outside the store captured the crime in impersonal black and white, and had provided a somewhat grainy, but still usable picture of the assailant. Running that picture through IAFIS brought up a match. Their suspect, a local man with a long history of petty crime and drug abuse was tracked down to a low rent motel. When the arresting officers brought him in he was still wearing the same bloody clothing he had used to commit the crime. He was now safely in lockup, case closed.
Perhaps it hasn't been his most challenging case, but at least tonight he gets to go home on time and that, for Gil Grissom, is a rare event. Sitting here in his office, he ponders why he wants to go home. Can he even really call his townhouse home? Yes, it is the place that he resides when he is not at work. Yes, it contains almost all of his worldly possessions, but it feels cold and empty. There is no one there that he's eager to return to. No one to come home to, no one to care for or who cares for him.
He has always believed that his work should come first. Always thought that there would be time to meet the right person, but in truth he had given up looking for that special someone a long time ago. There always seemed to be more to learn, one more case to close, one more bad guy to catch. Now he wonders if that hasn't been the biggest mistake of his life. After all, what does it matter that he is the best in his field? Accolades from his peers and citations from the mayor are all well and good, but in the small hours when sleep will not come they bring him no comfort. His bed is as empty as his heart, and just as cold.
X0X0X0X0XO
"Nicky. My name is Nicky."
He doesn't turn to watch as his trick makes his way out of the alley behind him. His mind is already on other matters, food being at the forefront. He's barely eaten in two days, well, unless you count cum, and even if it is a source of protein, it leaves a lot to be desired.
Even with business being brisk, Nick needs every penny of the money he pulls in to pay the rent on his apartment. It's a modest place in a nice neighbourhood; more than he can really afford but he's not willing to give it up without a fight; hence, his recent activities. Lately he's been working full time at Tony's Gym on East Charleston. The money's OK and he enjoys the honest work but it doesn't always cover his expenses and he sometimes needs to supplement his income in less savoury if more familiar ways.
Deciding to call it a night, he resolves to treat himself, so he makes a quick pit stop at In and Out Burgers for some take out before he heads home. He leaves the meal on the kitchen counter still in the bag while he grabs a fast shower. Standing under the searing torrent, hands braced on slick tile for support, he drops his head and closes his eyes. There is however no absolution to be found in the cascade and it brings no relief; some stains run too deep to be so easily dispatched. Instead, the water beats down on him like angry fists, each separate drop an accusation and a punishment. His tears when they come course unfettered down his face, mingling with the water. A seemingly endless river of shame, sorrow and bitter regret, lost in the deluge.
When he emerges form his bathroom, dressed only in boxers and a soft cotton T-shirt, his appetite is gone and he feels exhausted and weak. Nevertheless, he knows he needs sustenance, so he throws the burger and fries in the microwave for a few minutes to warm them up. From his spartan fridge he draws a cool bottle of water to accompany his meal before retrieving his food. He eats quickly, mechanically, deriving no pleasure from his treat. Afterwards, clean up amounts to throwing the wrapping into the trash before he stumbles off to bed. His last thought before slumber claims him is a fervent prayer.
He prays that he will not dream.