Title: Good Enough
Author: Lament
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Fandom: CSI
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Warnings: Mention of child and domestic abuse Also, this story contains mention of suicide. WiP
Author's Notes: I haven't seen enough Nick onscreen, so this story is decidedly Nick-focused. Also, it's really angsty and dark.
Summary: While working on a case, Nick battles his own ghosts.

***

Chapter 1

I narrow my eyes at the couple standing next to Jim Brass. They're about forty, well-dressed, and from the looks of the house, fairly affluent. The woman has blonde hair, and her husband has dark, graying hair. The man has his arms draped protectively around his wife's shoulder. They both look pretty shaken up. Not that I blame them. Earlier tonight, they came home from an evening out to find their seventeen-year-old son dead from an apparent suicide.

Exhaling, I trudge toward the couple. I nod at Brass and hold my hand out to the husband. "Sir. Ma'am," I say.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid," Brass says, motioning to me. "This is Nick Stokes from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

Mr. Kincaid shakes my hand. "Thank you for coming." He sounds like I've dropped by for a cocktail party.

"Would you mind answering some questions?" I ask.

"Of course," Mr. Kincaid says, his voice a little shaky.

I clear my throat. "Thank you. Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid, did you notice Daniel behaving differently this evening than he usually does?"

The husband shakes his head. "No," he says. "No differently than usual."

I nod. "Was he alone tonight?"

"Of course," Mr. Kincaid says. "He was studying for a physics test."

Mrs. Kincaid takes her husband's hand. "We told him he should take a break, come out to eat with us."

"But he was just so…" Mr. Kincaid closes his eyes. "Daniel was dedicated to school. He was graduating."

"He'd applied to Stanford. He wanted to be a scientist."

"He was a bright boy."

"Yes, sir," I say. "Is it possible he had someone over to study with?"

"No," Mr. Kincaid frowns. "We generally don't allow company when we're not home."

Mrs. Kincaid nods in agreement. "He was home alone."

"Do you think someone broke in?" Mr. Kincaid says, grimacing.

I glance at Brass, who just stares blankly at me. "We're trying to find out exactly what happened," I say. "Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid, was your son depressed?"

"Absolutely not," Mr. Kincaid says impatiently.

"Our son wouldn't hurt himself," Mrs. Kincaid says. She looks intently at me, as if daring me to disagree.

"What else can you tell me about Daniel?" I ask.

"He was hard-working," Mrs. Kincaid says, wiping her eyes. "He was such a good boy. Popular, dependable, courteous."

"Always doing things for people," Mr. Kincaid says. "Didn't cause us a speck of trouble."

"Did he mention anything he was looking forward to?" I ask. "Like a concert or anything like that? Future plans?"

Mrs. Kincaid looks at her husband. "Dear, there was that sporting event."

"Daniel was going to a football game in Los Angeles with his best friend," Mr. Kincaid says. "It's all he's talked about."

"And college," Mrs. Kincaid reminded us. "Daniel was looking forward to college."

I nod. "Who was Daniel's best friend?"

"Cody Briers. They were in Honors English together."

"Sir," I say. "Ma'am. Thank you for your help. I'm sorry for your loss."

Brass motions for an officer to take the couple aside to answer additional questions. Then he turns to me. "What do you think?" he asks.

I let out a breath. "Well, from the sounds of it, we're looking into the death of the world's perfect child."

Brass just shakes his head. "Every parent has the number one kid in the world after they're gone."

"I don't know," I say. "Sounds like they put him under a lot of pressure."

Brass shrugs. "Ah, they don't have a lot of perspective right now."

"Nah," I sigh. "I know parents like that. The kid was probably born in a pressure cooker."

Brass cocks his head at me. "You know people like that, huh?"

I grin. "Grew up with two of 'em."

Finished with the interview, I leave Brass and head to find the rest of the team. Grissom isn't happy with me. I managed to show up to the scene late. He hasn't said anything about it yet, but even while he was telling me to go talk to the mom and dad, he kept shooting me that look. Entering Daniel Kincaid's bedroom, I take a deep breath, and then exhale. "Hey guys. What should I do?"

"We're about done, Nick," Grissom says, not looking up.

"Look, Gris," I say. "I'm sorry about being late. I ran into an accident."

"That's okay, Nick."

"It's just, you know, I had to take a detour."

Grissom looks at me for the first time since I entered the room. "It's okay, Nicky. How did things go with the parents?"

"Well," I say, my eyes scanning Daniel's desk. "They said he had some big plans. He's applied to college."

Sara walks up to me. "Could that be Mom and Dad's doing?"

"Maybe. Sounds like this kid had a lot of expectations thrown on him." I look around the room. Academic awards sit on the dresser, and a couple of football posters hang on the wall, but other than that, there's not a lot of personality. I look over at Sara, who is packing up her gear. "This kid leave a note?"

Sara shrugs. "Well, somebody did. It was printed out and left next to the computer. No signature."

I raise my eyebrows. "Mom and Dad are convinced he didn't kill himself. They figure a break-in."

"Well," Grissom says, wearing that half-smile he gets when he's discovered something, "They're not altogether wrong."

"This is no suicide?"

"No sign of a break-in," Grissom says, pulling himself to his feet. "But this kid had help getting to the other side."

***

Chapter 2

"Hey Greggo."

Greg glances up at me from whatever he's doing. "Hey Nick!" he says, cheerfully.

"Busy?" I ask. Greg's usually up to his eyeballs in work.

Grinning, he holds up a folded piece of notebook paper. "Perfecting my origami skills."

"Greg," I laugh. "That's not gonna help you get out in the field."

"You never know." He leans forward, so close I can feel his breath on my face. "Have you brought me some goodies?"

Trying my best to ignore the flush that's starting to spread across my cheeks, I hold up two bags. "This one is a sample from the kid we're working on. And this is a soda bottle we found at the scene. We need you to test it for DNA and contaminants. How soon can you get it done?"

"Always rushing," Greg says, shaking his head. "But for you," he points. "I'll start right now."

I swear, sometimes I think the guy is flirting with me. I should stop kidding myself.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, Greg?"

"If I'm going to dazzle you with my magic, you have to give me the evidence."

I look at my hands, both still clutching the evidence bags. "Sorry, man. Spaced out on you."

Frowning, Greg asks, "Want to talk about it?"

"No," I say, a little too quickly, as I turn and walk out of the lab. "I'll catch you later."

The last person in the world I want to talk to about my problems is Greg, considering Greg is Problem #1 on my list of troubles.

Greg and I are close friends, the closest. We hung out a lot until a couple months ago. At that point, I realized I felt something other than friendship for Greg. I mean, I knew I was attracted to him. I've known that for a while, and it's not like I've never been attracted to another guy before. That's been happening to me for years. Attracted I can handle. I always do. But these feelings… They're so intense. And to be honest, they're freaking me out.

I can't imagine Greg feeling the same way about me. But even if, but some fantastic stretch of the imagination, he did, I couldn't act on it. Both my parents would have strokes. And then there are my co-workers and associates to think about. I can just imagine telling somebody like Jim Brass that I'm trading Valentines with another guy, and co-worker, no less.

Tugging my bottom lip, I chance a look over my shoulder. Greg is leaning against the counter, still staring at me. He doesn't have a clue what's going on. He probably thinks I'm mad at him or something. I feel like a jerk for hurting him, but I just couldn't bear to see the look on his face if he ever realizes what's going on inside my head.

After grabbing some lunch from the deli, I walk into the lounge and plunk myself down at the table. "Hey, Sara," I say wearily. Reaching into the bag, I pull out a sandwich.

Sara looks up at me from her newspaper, and then tosses the paper onto the table. "Hey, Nick," she says, peering at my lunch. "Tuna salad?"

I nod. "Yeah. And coleslaw and two chocolate chip cookies. Want some?"

"I'll take a cookie."

Sliding a cookie over to Sara, I say, "So what's up with the kid?"

"Well, his next door neighbor says he had a visitor right after Mom and Dad left."

"Yeah? So what, the visitor forced Kincaid to swallow a bottle of sleeping pills?"

She shrugs. "You're assuming that's what killed him." Crossing her arms, Sara gazes intently at me. She looks like she's about to scold me for something. "So," she says. "You were late."

I take a drink of cola. "Sara, I've been over this with Grissom."

"Was it really an accident?"

My life is an accident, I think.

"Yeah, Sara," I say, letting out a breath. "I ran into an accident on the highway, and the batteries in my cell were dead, so I couldn't call." Of course, I was late to a scene last week, too. I didn't have a good excuse for that one, and Sara knows it.

"Calm down," she says, her voice a little softer. "I was just asking."

I rub my eyes. "Sorry," I say. "I'm a little sleep-deprived right now."

I don't know what's been wrong with me lately. I can't seem to snap out of this…whatever it is. I can't blame it all on the situation with Greg. Even though Greg is Problem # 1, he's followed by a whole laundry list of stuff. If I don't get a handle on my personal life pretty soon, I'm going to wind up in Grissom's office explaining my lack of responsible behavior.

"Well," Sara says. "Just be careful. We're both up for promotions. You don't want to wind up on Grissom's list."

I shrug. "Probably already on it. I can't seem to do much of anything right as far as Grissom is concerned."

She narrows her eyes. "Just keep cool around him."

"Like you?" I half-smile. Sara has her own issues with Grissom.

She gazes at me. "Do as I say. Not as I do."

***

Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Spoilers for "Overload."

"I've been meaning to call you, Mom."

When I got home from work, there was a message from my mother on the answering machine. So, like a good son, I called her back. Big mistake.

"We were starting to wonder if you were alive, honey," my mom says, in a long-suffering voice.

"Well," I say patiently, "you know, with my hours."

"Yes, honey. I know about your hours." She pauses. "You could change shifts."

Shaking my head, I open the refrigerator. "Actually, I like the one I'm on." This is an old argument. One of many my mom and I have.

"It's just that we miss talking to you, Nick. Honestly, I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding me."

Not a thing to eat in the house, I think.

I start to rifle through the take-out menus. "Now, Mom, why would I be avoiding you?" She's right, though. I have been avoiding her. I went to Texas for a visit a few weeks ago, and we had a disagreement. Well, actually it didn't get that far. My mom chose to ignore the issue completely.

"I feel like you were upset when you left," she says.

You think?

I let out a breath. "I'm fine."

Lately, I haven't been a hundred percent, so I took a few days off and went to see my mom and dad. I've been trying to work through some stuff for a while now. I guess I figured the best way for me to do that was to face my problems head on. When I was a kid, my mom left me with a last-minute baby sitter, and to make a long story short, the sitter did some things to me. I'd locked that secret away for a long time, but it got dredged up when I was on a case a while back. I told Catherine about it, and telling her helped. But ever since then, it keeps coming back to me. Every time I'm on a case involving child abuse, or if I see something on the news. So, while I was in Texas, I had the bright idea to try and tell my mom what happened to me. She didn't want to hear it.

"Nick," Mom says, "Have you considered transferring back to Texas?"

Not on my worst day, I think.

"Not really, Mom." I glance over my shoulder when I hear the doorbell. "Hang on Mom. Someone's at the door."

I hurry over to my front door, thankful for the interruption. Opening it slightly, I find Greg standing on the other side. Greg and a pizza. "Hey," I say, breaking into a grin.

"I come bearing food," Greg says.

"I'd like to kiss you right now," I say.

Greg smiles broadly. "I knew you'd admit it someday," he says.

Grinning, I avert my eyes. The only times I can say what I'm really feeling is when I'm being a smart ass.

"Is somebody there?" Mom asks.

"No, Mom," I say. "I've finally snapped, and I've started talking to myself."

She sighs. "You don't have to be flip."

Taking a step backward, I let Greg into the house. "Come on in here, man."

"It doesn't sound like your hours prevent you from having a social life," Mom says.

"Mom," I groan. "He works with me. We keep the same hours."

"I should call my mom," Greg mutters. "Right after that root canal I've been meaning to get."

Fighting back the urge to laugh, I say, "Look, Mom, I got company, so I'm going to let you go."

"Wait a minute honey," Mom says. "I've been meaning to ask you. Did you get that promotion?"

"Not yet, Mom."

"Hey, Nick," Greg calls from the kitchen. "You got any soda?"

"Yeah, look—"

"Never mind. I found it."

"Why not?" Mom asks.

I frown at the phone. "What do you mean why not?"

Greg walks into the room. "I'm sticking the pizza in the oven to warm it up."

"Cool," I say.

"Why haven't you got that promotion?" Mom prods. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

I look at Greg, who's leaning comfortably against the archway that leads into my kitchen. Loads, I think to myself.

"Listen," I say out loud. "I'm going to let you go."

"Nick, you haven't answered my question."

"I'm hanging up." I place the receiver back onto the cradle and cross my arms. "Greggo, let's eat."

"So, are you gonna talk to me or what?" Greg asks.

I glance up from my current slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza. "About what?"

He stretches his arms and crumples a napkin. "You know. Whatever was bothering you today. Or the past few months."

"I'm sorry about today," I say. "I've been tired."

"Oh, don't give me that excuse," he says severely.

I stare at him. Greg doesn't usually raise his voice, so when he does, I pay attention.

He shifts his body so that he's sitting closer to me. "You've been snapping at people, Nick. You've been depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

He ignores me. "You were late to a scene today."

"There was an accident," I protest.

"You were late for a scene, what, last week?"

I exhale. "And every CSI has been late to a scene at one time or another."

"But it's not like you."

"And how do you know?" I almost spit the question at him.

"I'd like to think I know you pretty well," he says quietly.

We sit, not speaking for I don't know how long. Then Greg puts a hand on my shoulder and rubs the muscle. It feels good, so I lean into it.

"Look," he says. "I'm just a little concerned. Not to mention confused. I mean, you act edgy around me, and I don't know why." He glances at the ceiling. "Although I have a couple of theories."

My breath hitches. "What theories?"

He licks his lips and opens his mouth to say something. Then, abruptly, he pulls his hand away. "Ah, what does it matter? We're fine, aren't we?"

"You and me?" I shrug. "Yeah, we're good."

"Okay, cool." He shifts uncomfortably. "So, why waste time with my theories?"

***

Chapter 4

After Greg went home, I crashed and tried to get some sleep, but I woke back up three hours later. Which is why I'm sitting in the lounge, feeling and looking half-dead.

"Hi, Nick!"

I glance up at a well-rested Grissom. "Hey," I say blearily.

"You all right, Nick?"

I rub my eyes and yawn. "I didn't get much sleep last night. I haven't been sleeping too well."

He cocks his head at me. "Try listening to classical music while you're falling asleep."

Grissom is chock full of practical information on all kinds of things. If you have a problem with insects or a scratch on your car, chances are Grissom can tell you what to do. He likes to solve problems with neat, little solutions. But he's clueless when it comes to personal stuff.

Taking the chair opposite me, Grissom scoots a file across the table. "Coroner's report for Daniel Kincaid came back."

"Cause of death?"

"He died of cranial injuries."

"So," I say, trying to work the whole thing out in my fatigue-worn brain. "Kincaid fell and hit his head after the pills started taking effect?"

Grissom leans back. "Well, according to Greg, Daniel Kincaid took a few pills. But not enough pills to kill him."

"Wait a minute," I say, sitting up. "Sara said the bottle was empty."

Just then, Sara walks in. "What did Sara say?"

"Pills didn't kill Daniel Kincaid," I say. "But you told me that the bottle was empty."

"And," Grissom holds his index finger up. "It was a brand new bottle."

I frown. "So, where are the pills?"

"Good question. Maybe the killer flushed them. "

Fighting back a yawn, I say, "So it was staged to look like a suicide."

Crossing her arms, Sara says, "Well, that was obvious by the position of the body and the way the note was written."

"And I would've figured that out if I'd been there on time," I say before Sara has a chance to.

"Nick," Grissom says. "You were late. It happens." He narrows his eyes. "If you want to obsess about something, obsess about who killed Daniel Kincaid." Without waiting for me to respond, he glances at Sara. "Sara? What've you got for us?"

Sara looks at me, and then lets her eyes drift to Grissom. "I talked to some of Daniel Kincaid's teachers. Apparently, he'd been depressed and moody. His grades were dropping. He was having trouble concentrating."

"Sounds like typical behavior of a suicidal person," I say.

"Yeah," Sara nods. "And he was getting into trouble. Mouthing off at teachers. Skipping school. He almost got expelled last week, but his teacher took mercy on him. Sounds like our perfect kid wasn't so perfect after all."

"They usually aren't," I say. I didn't mean to snap, but I guess it came out that way, because both Sara and Grissom are staring at me. Looking down at the table, I exhale. "So what now?"

Grissom scoops the coroner's report off the table. "Why don't you and I pay a visit to Cody Briers?"

When we arrive at Cody's house, Mrs. Briers leads us back to her son's room. "I kept him at home today," she says over her shoulder. "He's so upset."

"What can you tell us about Daniel, ma'am?" I ask.

"Oh, he was a wonderful young man. Cody and Daniel have been best friends since they were in first grade." We pass a photo of Kincaid and a teenaged boy I assume to be Cody. "This was four years ago. The boys had just won a school award for a conservation project they designed themselves."

I smile.

"Honey?" Mrs. Brier knocks lightly on Cody's door. Pushing the door open, she says, "There are some people here to talk to you."

Cody has all the lights in his room turned off, so it's pretty dark. He's got some kind of unintelligible rock music blaring from the stereo. "What?" he says.

"These men are from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Crime Lab?" Cody flips on a lamp.

"It's about Danny." She picks up a sweatshirt that had been thrown onto the floor. "Honestly, Cody. You know how to pick up after yourself."

Cody stares at his mother. "You said Danny killed himself."

I take a step forward. "We're trying to figure out what happened. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"'kay."

Grissom nods. "Were you with Daniel the night he died?"

A look of panic flits across Cody's face. "Why?"

"You have a red car?"

"Can you tell me why you need to know that?" Mrs. Briers asks.

Grissom turns to the woman. "Someone with a red car visited Daniel the night he died," he says.

Cody sits up on the side of his bed. Pulling at the bottom of his t-shirt, he says softly, "Yeah, I was there. I mean, but I didn't stay."

"You were supposed to be at the library," Mrs. Briers says severely.

I glance around Cody's bedroom. Like Daniel's room, it is decorated with a whole lot of academic awards. A family photo rests on the table next to his bed. Looks like Cody comes from a big family. Scattered throughout the room are various pieces of sports memorabilia and some music posters. I frown. This could be my old bedroom.

"Why don't you tell us what happened," Grissom says.

Cody shrugs. "I went over. We were supposed to have this big physics test."

"You went to study?"

Cody smiles guiltily. "We took a break. I brought take out, so we had dinner."

"That would explain why you weren't hungry," Mrs. Briers says.

Grissom lets out a breath. "What else happened?"

"Nothing." Cody shifts on his bed. "Well, we had a fight."

"Did things get physical?"

"An argument," Cody says sharply. "We had an argument."

Undeterred, Grissom says, "Did the argument get physical?"

"No," he snaps. "Why?"

I'd better take over before Grissom totally alienates this kid. Clearing my throat, I say, "Cody, man, we're just trying to piece together what happened. We're not accusing you of anything."

Cody narrows his eyes at me and just stares at me for a few seconds. "It was just an argument. We didn't get into a fistfight or anything. It wasn't physical."

"Okay," I say. "How long did you stay?"

"I went to his house at 5:00." He glances at his mother. "I guess I stayed a couple hours."

Mrs. Briers has been standing off to my side with her arms crossed tightly. She's not happy with us or her son. "He was back by 8:00," she says. "My husband got home at 8:30, and Cody was home before he was. Now, if you will excuse us, gentlemen. My son has homework."

As Grissom and I walk to the car, he turns to me. "So what do you think?"

I glance back at the house. "I think he's telling the truth."

He reaches for the driver's side door. "Well, the coroner has the time of death at 9:30. Kincaid was killed instantly. If Cody and his mother are telling the truth, Cody didn't do it."

I shake my head. "Things don't add up."

"What things?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling." I fasten my seatbelt. "Daniel Kincaid's parents were putting a lot of pressure on him. I'm getting the same feeling from Cody's mom."

Grissom looks at me as if he's waiting for me to make a point. Unfortunately, I don't have one to make.

I shrug. "I don't know. There's just something else going on."

***

Chapter 5

*****

I've been avoiding Greg for two days.  Usually, I can suck it up and talk to him at work.  But ever since his visit to my place the other day, I've been a nervous wreck every time I see him.  And to make things worse, I'm pretty sure Greg has been avoiding me, too.

I had to find out from Sara that the DNA from the soda bottle we found at the scene was not a match to Daniel Kincaid. 

Cody Briers' dad confirmed that his son was in the house when he arrived home from work at 8:30 the night Daniel Kincaid died.  Even so, we asked Cody to come down and give us a sample of his DNA.  Not that it would prove much.  We know he was in the house.  So, Mr. Briers brought his son in.  As it turns out, he has the same sunny disposition as his wife.

I can't help but notice how unhappy Cody Briers seems to be.  I don't know.   Maybe I'm projecting.  It's just that he reminds me so much of myself as a teenager.  His mom and dad are too much like my folks for comfort. 

I should probably stop overanalyzing the situation with Cody.  I should concentrate on the victim. 

Speaking of dads, mine called and read me the riot act for hanging up on my mom.  I apologized like a good son, and then listened to my dad tell me all about my sisters and their wonderful lives.

Sometimes I don't know why I bother.

Letting out a breath, I step into the lab.  "Hey, Greg," I say.

Greg flinches slightly, startled.  "Hey, Nick."  He keeps his eyes glued to the counter.

"Do you have the results back on that DNA?"

Greg darts his eyes up, and then quickly turns his back to me.  He snatches a paper from the table beside him, spins back around, and hands the paper to me.  "No match."

"So," I say awkwardly.  "Daniel's parents said he didn't get much company."

"Well, he had some company at some point.  That DNA doesn't match anyone I've tested."

Greg leans against the counter, shifting uncomfortably.  Great.  Now he's jumpy around me.  Before he left my place the other day, Greg was being pretty cryptic.  Said something about having "theories" about why I act weird around him.  He must've figured out how I feel about him.  Damn.  This I do not need.

"Nick," Greg says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

He licks his lips and crosses his arms.  "I, uh, I wanted to talk."

My muscles tense.  "About what?"

"The other night."

No. No. No.  "What about it?"

At that point, Warrick walks in.  "Hey, Nick," he says.  Turning to Greg, he says, "Got something for me, Sanders?"

Greg looks like he's going to be sick.  "No.  No, I'm on it."  He glances at me, and then starts processing Warrick's evidence.

Warrick narrows his eyes at me.  "No offense, Nick.  But you look terrible."

"Thanks, man," I say. 

"You all right?"

I exhale.  "Why the hell do people keep asking me that?"

He crosses his arms. "Because you've been out of it for weeks."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"  I know perfectly well what he means.  I've been losing my grip, and people are starting to notice.

"It means you've been walking around in a fog.  It means you've been snapping at people."  He frowns.  "I heard you snapped at a tech today."

"He's never snapped at me," Greg says over his shoulder.

Warrick smiles.  "There are other techs, Greg."

Greg turns around.  "Nick, you've been cheating on me with another tech?"  Almost as soon as the words come out of his mouth, a look of panic washes across Greg's face.  He turns his back to me. 

Well, that confirms my suspicions.  Greg knows how I feel about him, and he's freaked out about it.

I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  Swallowing, I say, "I didn't snap at anyone.  We had a slight disagreement."

Warrick nods.  "A slight disagreement that ended with you telling the guy he's an incompetent."

I look down at the ground.  "It slipped out."

I chance a look at Greg, who still has his back to me.  I don't know what I'm going to do now.  How can I ever face him again?  I can't stand to see that disgusted look on his face.

"Well, you've had 'slight disagreements' with other people, Nick."

I look up. "What?"

Warrick is staring at me.  "Now, see.  That is what I'm talking about.  People talk to you, and you just space out on them."

I shake my head, trying to snap myself back to reality.  "I was thinking about something." 

Greg has turned back around, and now he's staring at me, too.

"This just isn't like you," Warrick says.

I laugh bitterly.  "This isn't like me?  What the hell do you know?"

Warrick takes a step toward me.  'Look, Nick—"

I plunge on.  "Maybe this is exactly like me.  Maybe I'm not one hundred percent perfect, like everyone thinks."  I'm shaking now, and my breath is haggard. 

Clenching my jaw, I turn and bolt out of the room, and run headlong into Grissom.

Grissom reaches out and places one hand on each shoulder, steadying me.  "Whoa," he says.  He looks over my shoulder at Warrick, who has followed me out of the lab.  "Is something wrong?"

Warrick sighs.  "No," he says.  Then he looks at me, as if to tell me our conversation isn't over. 

Grissom narrows his eyes at me.  "Is everything okay, Nicky?"

No, Gris, I think to myself. I hardly sleep. I can't measure up to anyone's expectations of me. Not yours.  Not my parents.  I'm slipping up at my job.  And the icing on top of the whole mess is I'm in love with my male best friend, who's freaking about it.     

Yeah," I say.  "Everything's one hundred percent."

***

Chapter 6

*****

Mrs. Ling, the guidance counselor at Daniel Kincaid's school, leans forward and narrows her eyes at me.  "Mr. Stokes," she says, in a throaty voice, "We keep a very strict eye on our students."

I try to smile.  "I'm sure you do, Mrs. Ling.  I'm just trying to find out what's been going on in Daniel Kincaid's life."

Turning her dry lips into a thin, forced smile, Mrs. Ling blinks several times, and then opens a file.  She's a creepy-looking woman.  There just isn't a better way to say it.  She's wearing a pair of tiny, rectangular-shaped glasses, and her hair is wrapped into a stiff bun.  A piece of costume jewelry dangles off her long, bony wrists. I can't imagine a 17-year-old feeling comfortable enough to confide in her about their problems.  I'm feeling pretty unnerved just sitting here.

I glance at Brass.  He's standing across the room, trying to be inconspicuous. 

Brass and I came here today to interview a girl named Molly Cooper.  Turns out, she's Daniel Kincaid's girlfriend.  Mrs. Cooper wanted to be here when we spoke to her daughter, so we're enjoying the company of Mrs. Ling while we wait.

Clearing her throat loudly, Mrs. Ling says, "Daniel had normal problems."

"Such as?" I say.

"He was upset with his parents."

"Why?"

She blinks at me.  "He said they put too much pressure on him."

"Was this a regular complaint?"

Mrs. Ling starts to tap her nails against Daniel Kincaid's open file.  "He mentioned it several times."

"And did you speak to his parents?"

"Of course not."  She breaths loudly.  "Mr. Stokes, Daniel was applying to college.  This is a stressful time.  And you'd be hard-pressed to find a teenager who doesn't think their parents expect too much of them."

"Did Daniel ever talk about suicide?"

"That's irrelevant.  Daniel was killed by a robber or something."

I laugh hoarsely.  Apparently, she's been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid after all. 

I can feel the muscles in my neck starting to tighten. "We're trying to figure out what happened, Ma'am."

Brass finally walks over to stand beside my chair.  "Mrs. Ling," he says, calmly, "Daniel spent most of his time at this school.  He was a student.  He attended sporting events.  He attended dances.  He belonged to clubs.  He was here more than he was at home."

Mrs. Ling blinks at us.

Brass lets out a breath.  "This school was his life.  Chances are, the person who caused his death is here, too."

"Are you implying that one of my students—"

A knock at the door cuts Mrs. Ling off.  A secretary opens the door and says, "Mrs. Cooper is here."

Mrs. Ling frowns at Brass, and then me.  "Send them in."

A teenager with reddish hair walks into the room, followed by an attractive blonde.  Mrs. Ling gestures toward two chairs, so the Coopers sit down.  They look nervous.

I stand up and hold my hand toward them.  "Mrs. Cooper.  Miss Cooper."

Molly smiles when I call her "Miss." 

Then Brass introduces himself.  After we've all exchanged pleasantries, I return to my chair, and Brass, who shoots a cautious look toward Mrs. Ling, lowers himself into a seat beside me.

"Molly," he says.  "I understand you wanted to talk to us."

She nods.  "I don't know if I have anything that will help."

I smiles encouragingly.  "Well, just tell us what you know.  The more we know, the better we can do our jobs."

"Well," she says softly.  "I'd been kind of worried about him."

"How so?" Brass asks.

"He's been up and down.  We've been seeing each other for about a year."  She pauses.  "He started getting depressed and moody about five months ago.  At first, it was just little stuff.  But then, he started saying how he couldn't do anything right and he just didn't know why he bothered."

"Did he ever talk about hurting himself?"

Molly glances at her mother, who nods.  The teenager reaches into her purse and fishes out a package of tissues.  "Yeah.  I was afraid he was going to kill himself."

Mrs. Ling makes an audible choking sound.

Wiping her eyes, Molly says, "I overheard Danny talking to Cody—he's our friend—about this game they were going to in California."

I nod.  "What about the game?"

"Daniel said they weren't coming back."  She crosses her arms.  "He said they were going to go out in style."

"What happened?"

"I confronted Danny after Cody left.  We got an argument, and Danny said he just couldn't take it anymore.  His parents and stuff.  So, I told him he should tell my mom.  He said he'd think about it."

"He never did," Mrs. Cooper says. 

"The next day, he came up to me after Psych and told me he was being stupid.  He said it was just talk."  Molly stands up and begins to pace.  "I guess I wanted to believe him.  I went up to Cody, and he pretty much said the same thing.  That it was just talk.  So, I didn't say anything."

"When was this, Molly?" Brass asks.

"Uh—three weeks ago.  Last week, I started worrying about them again.  Cody more than Danny.  Cody's been out of it.  But I was worried about both of them, so I finally told my mom."

"I called both of their parents," Mrs. Cooper says, her voice trembling.  "Mr. Kincaid said he was sure Danny was fine, but he'd talk to him.  When we heard the news about Danny, well…"  She trails off. 

We sit there in awkward silence until Brass scoots forward in his chair. "Molly," he asks.  "Was Daniel involved in anything else that worried you?"

"You mean like drugs?"  She asks.

Daniel Kincaid's body came up negative for all drugs, except the sleeping pills. 

"That or anything," Brass says.

"He drank a little.  That was unlike him."  She wipes her eyes.  "For a while, I thought there might have been another girl."

"Oh?" I say.

She nods.  "There's this girl.  She's in his English class.  I don't know."

"What's her name?" Brass asks.

Molly grimaces.  "Natalie?  I'm not sure.  She's not exactly in my social circle."

I look up at Mrs. Ling.  "Could you get us a list of the female students in Daniel's English class?"

"Of course," she says nastily.

"Molly, you've been very helpful," I say. 

"Thanks," she smiles feebly.  "Please find out what happened."

"We're doing our best."

"Mr. Stokes," she says.  "Is someone keeping an eye on Cody?  I mean, I've already lost Danny."

*****

Brass and I walk into headquarters.  I haven't said much since we left Daniel's school.  I've been turning the situation over and over in my head.  I knew something was going on.  Daniel and Cody were on the edge, just like I thought.  The problem is Daniel didn't kill himself.  He may have wanted to, but somebody beat him to it. 

Before we left her office, Mrs. Ling said she'd call the Briers and talk to them about their son.  I doubt it'll do much good.  I know people like the Briers.  The last thing they want to hear is that their perfect son is flawed. 

"You okay, Nicky?"  Brass asks, slapping one hand on my shoulder.

I hold my breath.  I'm getting sick of people asking me that.  The thing that bothers me the most is that I know I'm not okay, but there's no way I can talk about it.  I can't talk about Greg.  That's a big no-brainer.  And I can't talk about what happened when I was a kid.  Only Catherine knows about that.  And everything else that's wrong in my life…well, I just sound like I'm whining.

I sigh.  "I've had better days, Jim.  But I'll be okay."

I sneak a look toward Greg's lab as Brass and I walk past.  Greg is standing there, talking to Catherine and Warrick.  He glances at me, shakes his head, and then turns back to Catherine and Warrick. 

Damn.

I exhale, and walk toward the lounge.  Dropping myself into a chair, I lay my head on the table.  My head aches so bad I feel like it'll explode anytime.  I'm glad it's almost time to go home.

I hear Brass pull out a chair and sit across from me. 

"You ever think about it?"  He asks.

"Think about what?" I say, not raising my head.

"You know."

I lift my head up.  "You mean…it?"

"Yeah."

He means suicide. 

I cover my face with my hands.  "Have you?"

"No," he says quickly.  "No. You?"

This is a conversation I definitely don't want to have.  To be honest, I guess I have thought about it.  Not a lot, and I don't think I'd really do it.  But I have thought about it.  If Brass finds out I've thought about ending my life, even for a moment, I'll be in a shrink's office so fast I won't know what hit me.

Fortunately, I'm spared having to answer when Sara walks in.  "What's up?" She says.

"You know what?" I say.  "I'm feeling a little sick.  Headache."  I stand up.  "I'm going to hit the bathroom."  Brass and Sara are looking at me, but I leave before they have a chance to stop me. 

I crash through the bathroom doors, turn faucet on full blast, and splash some cold water on my face.  My head's still throbbing. 

How did I get to this point? I think, gazing at myself in the mirror.  Why is everything in my life going wrong at the same time?

Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open.  Jumping slightly, I glance over my shoulder. Catherine is standing just inside the room, looking very much like she belongs here.

"Hey, Nick."

"Hey," I say.  "Catherine, why are you in the men's room?"

"Because you're in the men's room."

I close my eyes.  Oh no.  They've called in the big guns.

Catherine is the one who handles the emotional stuff around here.  She can even handle Grissom. 

"Come on," she says.  "Shift's over. Let's go grab something to eat.  You want breakfast stuff?"   

I'm not in the mood for this.  "I'm going to head home to bed."

"Great," Catherine says, undeterred.  "We'll get take out and head to your place.  Then you can tell me what's been going on with you."

"I don't feel like talking."

"Too bad," she says.  Grabbing me by the wrist, she leads me out the door. "You're going to talk to me.  It's not optional."

***

Chapter 7

*****

 "I hope they build another gas station," Catherine says, taking a bite off a breakfast burrito.

"What?"  I say, frowning.

She looks at me like I'm an idiot for not knowing what she's talking about. "Where they're knocking down the Mexican restaurant.  Down the street from headquarters. I hope they put up a gas station."

Catherine and I have been at my place for 45 minutes.  And still, she hasn't tried to get me to talk.  She dragged me back here to emote about the problems I've been having. But she just keeps rambling on and on about trivial things. 

I take a bite of toast. "I heard they're going to build a donut shop."

"My thighs will appreciate that," she says.

I smile, then I sigh, "Look, Catherine…"  As soon as I open my mouth, I realize I don't know what to say, so I let my voice trail off.

"Yeah, Nick?"  Catherine says, putting down her breakfast burrito.

I take a sip of orange juice and run my finger along the rim of the glass.  "I'm getting tired."

"Yeah, you haven't had much sleep," she says, conversationally.

I shrug.  "No, not much."

"Did you ask Grissom for a home remedy?"

I laugh, and it almost sounds genuine.  "No, but he gave me one."

She smiles.  "I usually can't sleep when something's bothering me, either."

"Yeah, I don't know.  I just stare at the ceiling, thinking."

"Just thinking about your problems?"

"Pretty much."

Catherine moves from her chair to the sofa, so she's sitting next to me. "So, you are having problems?  And here you were telling almost everybody you were fine."

Damn.  She tricked me.

"Look, Catherine.  I know you're trying to help."  I take a sip of orange juice.  "But I can manage."

She looks me in the eye. "Nick, you've gotta give me something."

"Catherine, I'm sure you got stuff going on in your life, too."

"I do."

"Well, then why do I have to talk about my problems? Talk about yours."

She grins mischievously.  "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

I roll my eyes. 

"Look," she says seriously.  "You've got to give me something."  When I don't answer her, she says.  "One thing, Nick.  Give me one thing."

Catherine's going to sit here until she wears me down.  "One thing?" I raise my eyebrows skeptically.

"One thing," she confirms.  "Just get one thing off your chest." She pauses for a few seconds, takes a bite of her food, and then adds, "If you don't tell me something, I'll go to Grissom and have you taken off this case and sitting in the department shrink's office by the beginning of shift tomorrow."

I stare at her. I'm pretty sure she means it. 

Sighing, I slump back.  The muscles in my neck and shoulders are killing me. There's one thing I can only talk to Catherine about.  So, I guess that's the one thing she's going to hear.  "Remember what I told you about me and the babysitter?"

She reaches over and takes my hand.  "Yeah."

"Well, I've been thinking about that a lot."

"Have you ever thought about talking to a therapist?"

"No," I say a little too quickly.

Instead of launching into a lecture about how I need closure, Catherine just nods.

"I did, however, decide to tell my mom."

Catherine squeezes my hand.  "How did it go?"

"Well, I went to Texas, and I tried to tell her face-to-face.  But, as soon as she figured out what I was trying to tell her, she shut me down."

"Oh, Nick," Catherine says, sympathetically.

I stare at the coffee table because I just can't look Catherine in the eye.  "She changed the subject.  When I tried to tell her again, she told me to leave things be."

Catherine scoots closer and puts an arm around my shoulders.  "Honey, I'm sure she just reacted."

I feel my shoulders tense up painfully.  "Don't try to make excuses for her."

"I'm not.  I'm just saying that she's your mother.  If I found out something like that about my child…"

"Catherine, you're a good mother.  My mom isn't."

"Nick, she raised a good son.  I'm guessing she wasn't that bad."

"You don't know what it was like to live under that much pressure."  I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.  "My mom shut me down because she knows I'm tainted now.  I'm not the perfect son."

Catherine hugs me with the arm she has around my shoulders.  With her other hand, she wipes a finger against my cheek.

I raise my own hand to my face, and realize for the first time that I'm crying.  Not a lot.  There's just a few tears streaking down my face.  But I'm still crying.  Embarrassed, I try to pull away. 

Catherine hangs on, actually pulling me closer.  She reaches down a takes my hand again.  "It's okay to cry.  I think you have a right."

I bite my lip, trying my best to hold back the tears, but it's useless.  Without warning, moisture floods my eyes, and soon, I'm sobbing in Catherine's arms.  It feels pretty good.  I've been holding a lot in, and this is the first time I've really been able to let go.

After a few minutes, I sit up and wipe my face with the ball of my hand.  Catherine crosses the room to the kitchen and reemerges with a box of tissues.  I pull a couple out and clean myself up. 

Catherine puts an arm back around me.  "Feel a little better?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Everybody's been really worried about you."

"I know."

"Greg's a mess."

I frown.  Great, I think.  I've made him a mess.

"I said some things," I say guiltily.

"Whatever's going on between the two of you—if you had fight or whatever's happening—you need to talk to him."

"I can't."

She lets out a breath. "I don't know what he said, but it can't have been that bad.  You know Greg."

"He didn't say anything," I confess.  "It was me."

She frowns.  "He thinks he said something to freak you out."

"What?"  I narrow my eyes.

"I don't know.  He said you've been avoiding him."

I have, but…"

"He said he said something he shouldn't have said, and that you freaked."

Now I'm confused.  Is he afraid he overreacted when he found out about my feelings?  Maybe he doesn't care, and I just misinterpreted things.  Or maybe we're talking about something different.

"Nick," Catherine says. "He really cares about you.  And you know how Greg is.  He's probably sitting at home worrying himself to death about you."

For a moment, I think about telling her about my feelings for Greg.  But then I chicken out. 

Swallowing, I say, "He's really not mad at me?"

"Just worried about you, and scared he did something to hurt you."

I need some time to think. Maybe my friendship with Greg isn't over.  I put my arms around Catherine and hug her.  "Thanks Catherine," I say.  "I'm gonna go to bed, if you don't mind.  You can hang out here.  Just lock up when you go."

She grabs me by the wrist.  "You know, he'd probably still be up."

I lick my lips.  "I'm too tired to make any sense.  I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Maybe.

Catherine grins.  "Do that, Nick.  Talk to him."

I narrow my eyes, trying to read her expression.  For a minute, I almost think she knows how I feel about Greg.  And that she approves.

***

Chapter 8

*****

As I walk into the CSI headquarters, I'm a nervous wreck.  For one thing, I know everyone will be paying extra-close attention to me after my blow-up with Warrick and Greg the other day.  And I'm sure Catherine has already given them an update on their troubled co-worker. 

Grissom, though . . . I don't know if he's even noticed what's been going on with me lately.  Probably not.  Unless I really screw up, he pretty much ignores me.  I really don't need him to start second-guessing me while we're on this case, but it would be nice for him to pay attention.

The main reason I'm nervous is Greg.  Catherine says he's not mad at me, but I won't feel better until I talk to him.  I'm in love with him.  I can admit that to myself now without completely losing it.  Telling Greg how I feel is a different matter entirely.   If I don't tell him about my feelings, though, I think our friendship will collapse.  We can't keep worrying about hurting each other.  It's making us both nuts.

I round the corner to Greg's lab, and stop short.  He's not there. 

Okay, I think to myself.   He's probably sitting in the breakroom.

Taking a deep breath, I head that way.  When I get there, only Warrick and Sara are there.

"Hey," I say, a little uncertainly.

"Hey," Sara says pleasantly.  I recognize that tone.  That's the voice Sara uses if she worried about someone.  The last time she used it on me was when he was wheeling me out of the hospital after I was attacked by a stalker.

"How you doing, man?" Warrick asks.  He looks me over, like he's expecting to see some physical evidence of my depression. 

"Come on in and sit down."  Sara motions to a chair beside her.  "You feel okay?"

"I feel just fine," I say.  Okay, it's a lie, but it's a tried and true answer.

Warrick leans forward.  "We thought you might stay home today."

"Why would I?" I ask. 

"Well," Sara says.  "You know."

"No," I say.  "I don't know."

They both just stare at me.  And then, they glance at each other. 

Real subtle, guys, I think.

"Look," I say.  "I know I've been a little spaced-out lately.  But I'm all better.  You guys can put away the pity."

"We're not pitying you," Sara says.  "We're your friends and we're worried.  Imagine that."  She sounds hurt.

Okay, now I can add guilt to my list of problems.

"Sara, I appreciate it," I say, trying to offer an olive branch.  "But I am feeling a lot better.  I've been dealing with some personal stuff, and I just let it eat at me."

"You and Catherine talk?" She asks.

I nod.  "We talked."

"Good."

We sit in awkward silence for a few seconds.  But it's a long few seconds.  Finally, I speak up.  "You seen Sanders?"

Warrick leans back in his chair.  "He called off."

Damn.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He shrugs.  "I guess he's sick.  I didn't talk to him or anything."

Just then, Grissom sweeps into the room. "What are guys all sitting around for?" He doesn't wait for an answer.  Instead, he waves at me to follow him. 

This I don't need. 

Resigned, I stand up and walk out of the break room.  Would it kill Grissom to say hello before he starts barking out orders?

"We've got an interview with Natalie Ames," he says.

"Is that the Natalie Molly Cooper was telling us about?"  I ask.

"The one and the same."

We walk past the empty lab. 

Part of me wonders if Catherine got it all wrong, and Greg is mad at me, like I thought.  On the other hand, he might have stayed home because he's afraid he freaked me out.  Or he could actually be sick. 

I let out a breath.

I really, really don't need this right now.

*****

Grissom and I walk into the interview room.  Brass is already there.

Sitting opposite him is a girl dressed all in black.  She has her arms crossed behind her head, and she's leaning defiantly back in her chair.  She's either a tough girl, or she wants us to think she is.

A man I assume to be her father is sitting beside her.  He's wearing jeans and a casual button-up shirt, but it's open.  Underneath, he's got on a plain gray t-shirt. He stands up when he see Grissom and me.

Brass glances at us, but doesn't leave his seat.  "Mr. Ames, this is Gil Grissom and Nick Stokes from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Garret Ames," the man says amiably, extending his hand. "And this is my daughter, Natalie."

I smile.  "Mr. Ames.  Miss Ames."  I turn to Natalie.  "Can we call you Natalie?"

She shrugs.  "Yeah, whatever."

I sit down opposite Natalie, and Gris sits across from Mr. Ames.

Leaning forward, Gris says, "Natalie, we understand you knew Daniel Kincaid."

"Danny," she says.  "Nobody called him Daniel."

"How well did you know Danny?" I ask.

"We were seeing each other," she says sullenly.

"We were under the impression he was seeing a girl named Molly Cooper," Brass says.

She shrugs.  "That was over.  You know.  It would've been."

"Did Molly know were seeing each other?" I ask.

"I think she knew," Natalie says.  "She's kind of self-absorbed.  You know."

"Where were you the night Daniel Kincaid was killed?" Grissom blurts out.  The guy has no tact.

"What the hell are you saying?" Mr. Ames says, moving his chair a little closer to Natalie.  He puts an arm on her back, but she shrugs it off.

"I was out," Natalie says.

"Were you at Daniel's house?" Grissom says.

Mr. Ames turns to Natalie.  "Honey, don't answer any questions."  He turns to Grissom.  "She is a child.  Why are you putting her through this?"

Grissom's face remains expressionless.  "I'm investigating a murder."

I start to say something to tone down the situation, but Mr. Ames starts talking first.  "You know," he says.  "I don't like your attitude at all."

Gris, his face still vacant of emotion, ignores Mr. Ames' assessment.  "I'd like a DNA sample," he says bluntly.

Natalie looks at her father. 

"What the hell for?" Mr. Ames asks.

Gris cocks his head at Mr. Ames.  "So we can compare Natalie's DNA to some found at Daniel's house."

Natalie and her father exchange glances.  Mr.  Ames turns to Grissom and glares.  "You aren't touching her."

"I can get a warrant," Gris says evenly.

Sometimes Grissom has a knack for making an already-fragile situation worse.  I don't know if this kid killed Danny Kincaid or not.  But pushing her and her father around is not only getting us nowhere, it's also plain rude.

My boss not the only person who can be rude. I turn to Grissom. 

Apparently sensing that I'm about to cross a line with Grissom, Brass intervenes.  "Mr. Ames.  We're not accusing anybody of anything.  We just need to figure out exactly what happened.  We're talking to several kids at Danny's school."

"Well, you're not talking to this one," Mr. Ames says.  He motions to his daughter, and they storm into the hall. 

I stand up and follow them, shooting a glare over my shoulder at Grissom.

"Mr. Ames," I say as I catch up to the pair.

"What do you want?"  Mr. Ames snaps.

"I want to apologize."

Mr. Ames gestures for Natalie to go on ahead, then he turns to me.  "Okay."

"We're all trying to figure out what happened to Danny.  But things got heated in there, and I'm sorry."

He starts to pace.  "So . . . you think what?  My kid's a murderer?"

"We don't what happened," I say.  "Did you know she was seeing Danny?"

"I don't know much about her life," he admits.  "I try.  But she doesn't tell me everything."  He stares at me.  "I was twenty when Nat was born.  I was twenty-four when I became the single parent of two kids.  I work two jobs."

He seems like a nice guy.  I really don't like putting him on the defensive like this.  Taking a breath, I say, "What time did Natalie get home that night?"

He points at me and half-laughs.  "Now, you see.  You were doing okay.  Almost thought you gave a damn."  Then he turns and walks briskly down the hall.

*****

As Mr. Ames disappears out the door, I spin around and slam the ball of my hand into the wall.  Stupid move on my part, because now my hand hurts like crazy.

Cradling my now-throbbing arm, I walk down the hall.  I see Grissom standing near the breakroom, talking with Brass.  I've been in a damn bad mood for weeks, and I don't know where Greg is.  I'm probably not thinking straight, but I don't care.

"Grissom!" I yell down the hall.

He glances up at me.  "Yeah, Nicky?"

"Do you have any idea how to talk to another human being?"

He cocks his head at me.  "There are many ways to communicate with another human being."

I stop dead in the hall. "Yeah, well, you might want to learn one or two of 'em."

Brass takes a step toward me.  "Let's go get some coffee, Nick."

"I don't want coffee, Jim.  I want to say this."

Brass throws up his hands and walks toward the doorway of breakroom, where Warrick and Sara are standing now, evidently summoned by my yelling.

"What do you want to say, Nicky?" Grissom asks.  He sounds more curious than concerned or mad.

"You treated those people like criminals," I snap.

"They may be," he says matter-of-factly.

I turn my back to him, and then spin to face him.  "But we don't know that yet.  You should've been . . . Ah, hell! You always treat people like this.  And not just suspects."

"You all right, Nicky?" Grissom says.

"Am I all right?" I say incredulously. "Nice of you to ask, Gris.  And here I thought I had to be a dead body before you'd pay a damn bit of attention."

That was the wrong thing to say.

The silence in the hall is deafening.  And suddenly, my mouth feels incredibly dry.  

Sara practically throws herself into the hallway and grabs my arm.  "Come on," she says.  "Let's go in here and sit down."

I gaze at Grissom as Sara leads me into the other room. 

He just stares at me.  Something . . . shock, I think, is plastered all over his face. 

***

Chapter 9

Author's Notes:  Heh, heh.  I threw ya'll a curve with the last chapter.  : D  But don't worry, we'll get there!

*****

"I didn't mean it," I say, for what seems like the thousandth time. 

Sara rubs my back.  "Nick, we can't just ignore—"

Rubbing my face violently, I say, "I was mad."

Warrick, who's sitting beside me, puts a hand on my shoulder.  "What can we do to help, man?"

I need to calm down.  If I let them get me worked up, it'll just add fuel to their fire.  "I'm fine, you guys," I say in my calmest, most serene voice.  "I appreciate all the concern, but—"

"What's going on?  Did I miss a memo?"

Catherine.  Damn.

She stands there at the door, arms crossed, assessing the situation like she would a crime scene. Even if no one tells her what's going on, she's going to know.  She has an innate sixth sense about things like this.  Besides, I'm surrounded by Warrick, Brass, Sara, and Grissom (who's hiding by the doorway).  And Sara has her arm around me. 

Catherine walks over.  "Are you all right, Nick?"

Sara starts rubbing my back again, as if to encourage me to talk. 

I take a long breath, and then release it.  "I'm fine." 

"He's a little upset," Sara says helpfully.

Warrick stands up and offers Catherine his chair.  She sits down next to me and cranes her neck around until she's looking me in the face.

"Whatcha upset about?" She asks.

"Can we do this later?" I plead.

Catherine covers my hand with one of hers.  "Did you talk to the person about that thing?"

I glare at her.  Subtle, I think.  Now Warrick, Brass, and Sara are going to be driving themselves crazy trying to figure out what she's talking about.

"No," I say sullenly.

"Well, maybe—"

"Look," I snap.  I've had enough of this.  I'm probably going to get fired anyway.  "I lost my temper.  I'm sorry.  Now I have a job to do."

"Nick," Sara says patiently.

"No," I say.  "I—"

Just then, Grissom walks over to the table where we're all seated.  "You people find something to do," he orders. When they don't move, he says.  "Like working on a case?"  Then he motions at me.  "Come on, Nicky.  Let's go in my office."

I'm a dead man.

Shoulders sagging, I follow Grissom to his office.  He gestures at a chair.  "Sit down."  Then he walks around his desk, drags his own chair into the middle of the room and plunks down across from me.  He gazes curiously at me for a long moment.  Finally, he asks, "Am I an ogre?" 

I shift uncomfortably in my chair.  "I'm sorry I went off on you, Gris.  I've been cooking for a while now, and I just finally boiled over."

"No, really, Nick," he says.  "I want to know.  Do you think of me as some kind of monster?"

Did I hurt his feelings?

"Of course not," I say.

"You were mad for a reason."

"Yeah," I admit.  "I was mad."

"At me."

I think about protesting, but I don't.  "Yeah," I say.  "I was upset with you."  I lean back in my chair.  "I just thought you could have handled the Ames' with more tact."

He shakes his head.  "There's that, Nick.  But you've been upset with me for a while."

I sigh.  "Yeah, well, I've been upset about a lot of things lately."

He presses on.  "And I'm one of them."

Why deny it? I think.

I run my hand along the back of my neck. "Gris, sometimes, I just don't think I can be good enough for you."

Gris licks his lips.  "Nick, if I've ever implied that you weren't good enough, I'm sorry.  You're one of the best CSIs I know.  And one of the best men I know."

That means a lot coming from Gil Grissom.

"You can just turn off your emotions when you need to, Gris," I say.  "I can't.  Everything affects me."

"That's not a bad trait."

"It makes me get too involved with cases."

"I've been told I obsess over cases."

We stare at each other for a moment, and then I cross my arms.  "I've been screwing up around here lately.  I've been snapping at techs.  I've been late to scenes."

"I know," he says coolly.  "But Nick, that doesn't make you a bad CSI. If I thought there was a real problem, I would have talked to you about it." 

"Why does there have to be a major problem before you talk to us?"

He gazes at me, confused.

I exhale.  "What I'm saying is that . . ."  What?  That I need Grissom's attention?  Or his approval?

"Nick," Grissom says.  "I'm not good with . . . emotional issues.  I know people joke that I'm a robot or something.  But it's not that.  I just . . . Well, it's like you said.  I don't communicate well."

"Grissom."

"But if you need me . . . if you want to talk.  I can listen." He clasps his hands together.  "I just didn't know you needed me," he says quietly.

We sit there in awkward silence until Sara opens the door.  "I'm sorry," she says, flustered.  "I just got some news."

"What is it, Sara?" Grissom asks.

She leans heavily against the doorframe.  "Cody Briers just tried to kill himself."

***

Chapter 10

*****

The hospital waiting room looks like a reunion of all the suspects in Danny Kincaid's death.  Obviously, Cody Briers' parents are here.  So are Danny's mom and dad, Mrs. Cooper and Molly, Garret and Natalie Ames, and a teenaged boy I assume to be Garret Ames' younger child.

Sara's talking to Mr. and Mrs. Briers, while Grissom and I sort of just stand by the door and watch.  I'm not in the best mood to be talking to those people right now.  And Grissom . . . well, he may have had some kind of catharsis when he was talking with me in the officer earlier, but he still has the social skills of a rock. Besides, according to Sara, Gris and I didn't make the best impression on Mrs. Briers when we met her. Can't imagine why.

I glance around the room at the other visitors.  Despite my best efforts, I seem to have picked up Gris's habit of watching people.  When we got here, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid had been consoling the Briers, but when Sara walked over, they retreated to a pair of seats at the far end of the room.  Now, they're sitting quietly, and watching Sara interview the Briers. Mrs. Kincaid looks pretty shaken up, but she's covering it well.  Reminds me of my mom.

Mrs. Cooper pretty much has her hands full with Molly, who's a sobbing wreck.  When we first got here, though, Mrs. Cooper walked over and said hello to me.  This must be heartbreaking for her.  I mean, she talked to the Briers about Cody, but here we all are—in a hospital waiting room picking up the pieces after his suicide attempt.

I'm starting to understand why my friends have been freaking out.  And I'm starting to appreciate it. 

The Ames' are sitting by themselves.  Natalie's sort of wringing her hands, but other than that, she's pretty stoic.  Mr. Ames has one arm around Natalie, and with the other, he's stroking his son's hair.  As I watch them, I notice that there's a distinct class difference between the Ames' and the others.  The Briers', the Kincaids, and the Coopers are all dressed pretty affluently, but the Ames' are wearing worn jeans and faded t-shirts.

About then, Sara walks over to us and crosses her arms.  "Well," she says.  "They pumped his stomach.  It was pretty bad."  She glances at me.  "But he's stable now.  They're going to take him upstairs pretty soon."

"Did he leave a note?" Grissom asks, sneaking a look at the Briers.

"Yeah," Sara says.  "It was pretty cryptic.  Just said he couldn't take it anymore and that he's sorry."

"Pretty standard," I say.

Sara glances at me again.  I can only imagine what's going through her head.

Just then, Mr. Kincaid walks up to me.  "Mr. Stokes," he says, extending his hand.  "This is a tragedy."

"Yes, sir," I say.

He lets out a long, painful-sounding breath.  "Do you have anything new on our son?"

"We're looking into some things, sir."

"Right," he says.  He looks around the room as if he's searching for someone that isn't there. "Well, let me know if you find anything."

"I will, sir," I say.

As Mr. Kincaid walks back across the waiting room, I notice Mr. Ames staring at me.  Part of me wants to walk over to him, but this isn't the best time. 

"Nicky," Gris says.  "Let's get out of here."

"Sure, Gris," I say. 

*****

"Yeah, Mom," I moan. 

I'm slumped on the couch, my phone in one hand, the remote in the other.  I've been home almost an hour.  I want to get off of here so I can order some pizza or something.  I still haven't gotten to the store. 

"Are you listening?"  My mom asks.

"Not really," I say honestly. I was home exactly two and a half minutes before my phone rang.  Like an idiot, I picked it up.  Now I'm stuck listening to my mom tell me how my life would be better in Texas.

"Well, that's nice to know," my mom snaps.

"What?" I say.

"Nick, for God's sake.  Can I have your attention for a few minutes?"

Can I have yours? I think.

"Mom, I'm tired.  I'm hungry."  I hear a knock at the door, so I trudge over to the door. "I've had a rotten day, Mom.  This isn't really a good time."

"There's never a good time with you," she says.

There's no point in arguing with her, so I just say, "I'm sorry, Mom.  You're right."

Sighing, I swing open the door.

Greg.  Greg and a pizza.

"Your mom?" he asks, gesturing to the phone in my hand.

"Yeah," I say vaguely. 

"Déjà vu," he smiles crookedly.

***

Next part of Good Enough.