Title: Notes
Author: Lament
Pairing: a hint of Nick-Greg slash
Fandom: CSI
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Warnings: Dark, WiP
Author's Notes: This is what happens when I ponder seasons 1 and 2, especially "Evaluation Day." Grissom pretty much demoralized poor Nick. :(. It's also what happens when I try to write when my blood sugar is low. ;) But it's fine. I'm about to have some Cheetos! I don't know exactly where this little story is going, but I guess we'll find out. Also, this takes place during Season 5.
Summary: The kind of note no one wants to find. Nick angstorama.

***

Dear Everyone,

I'm not an eloquent man, but I'll try to say everything I have to say without yammering on too long.

I've lived for a long time with the hope that I can outrun my past, and that my present will start to look like I've always envisioned my future. But I've finally realized that my hopes are in vain. No matter what I say or what I do, I can't seem to make life work for me. So here I am, writing you all this note in an attempt to explain what I've done.

I've never been quite as smart as the rest of you, and certainly not as intellectual as you, Sara, or you, Grissom. Sometimes I feel like I have to struggle just to keep up. I'm not whining, mind you. I'm stating facts.

Over the years, though, I think I've become a pretty good CSI. Grissom, I know you had your doubts early on, but even you have to admit I have a knack for it. Right? Well, I guess you don't have to admit it. If you did, it would be first.

Over the years, I've learned a lot about myself, too. I've learned that the one and only thing that makes me special is my ability to read people, and to tell them what they want to hear. And that ability makes me a pretty good actor. Or a fraud, depending on how you want to look at it. Right now, I'm going with fraud. Which brings us to today.

Looking back over the past few weeks, I wonder if maybe I should've come to one of you, told you what was going on. But then I ask myself…who would I have come to? Who would've understood? Ah…it's water under the bridge, now. Right?

Anyway, that's about it. So…I guess I'll end now. I've enjoyed working with all of you, and I've valued your friendship. Thanks for being a part of my life.

Nick

***

Author's Notes: This takes place three months prior to chapter 1! We'll be working our way toward the events leading to Nick's cryptic note from here on in. (Don't throw things. It's not nice!)

This is probably going to be pretty dark. I'm in the mood to write some major Nick angst. Also, I decided to write this in third person so that I can maintain a distance from Nick's inner thoughts. That way, I can build up his sense of isolation more effectively and get a look inside other characters' heads. And also, so I can be sneaky and not reveal what's going on!

Three Months Ago

Nick leans against his truck, clutching the creased and tattered piece of notebook paper in his left hand. His eyes scan the smudged words one more time. Soon, he'll have this thing learned by heart, committed to memory so it can haunt him in his sleep.

This is the end, Nick, the note says. I just can't do it anymore. This never should've happened in the first place. It's not fair to you, or to me.

Kicking at a stray pebble, Nick crushes the note into a mangled ball and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. He isn't in the mood for this kind of melodrama right now. He's got a shift to start, and God knows this job's usually filled with all the tragedy and excitement he can stomach.

Glancing up at his approaching supervisor, Nick summons up his game face and says, "Hey, Cath. Ready to rock and roll tonight?"

Catherine furrows her brow. "You've got to be kidding me," she grouses. "I was here two and a half hours late finishing up paperwork. Two and half hours, Nicky."

"Pitfalls of being a supervisor," Nick says, a pleasant but forced smile decorating his features.

Catherine glares at Nick over the top of her sunglasses. "Come on," she says, waving at him to follow. "We need our afternoon coffee."

Nick chuckles softly as he follows Catherine through the doors leading to the lab. Catherine's been his supervisor for a few weeks now, and they, along with Warrick, have managed to establish a pretty good rhythm. Still, Nick misses the old days. Life wasn't perfect then, but he was comfortable, and he'd learned how to handle Grissom's moods.

Catherine's moods, however… They're stormy and ever-changing, and some days, Nick feels like he's in a life raft, about to be pitched into the murky and chaotic sea.

"Hey, Nicky," Catherine says, as she and Nick round the corner into the break room. "Remind me to check with DNA tonight. I want to find out if the day shift dumped half their work on them again."

Tugging off his baseball cap, Nick slumps into a chair and releases a long breath. "Will do, Catherine," he says.

"Hey, you all right?" Catherine asks.

Nick shrugs. "Why wouldn't I be?"

As he watches Catherine fill a large mug with coffee, Nick feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He doesn't need to turn his head to know whose arm the hand is attached to. The cold shiver that shoots through his skin and bones is enough to tell him it's Ecklie.

"Hell of a job on the Maxwell case, Nick," Ecklie says. Nick can't see Ecklie's face, but he imagines that Ecklie's grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Nick clenches his jaw and says, "Thanks, Conrad."

Ecklie walks into Nick's line of sight and points his finger at Catherine. "You hang on to this one, Catherine," Ecklie says jovially. "He's a great CSI."

"You don't have to tell me," Catherine says. Crossing her arms, she leans against the edge of the counter and gazes evenly at Ecklie.

Chuckling, Ecklie says, "Well, I'll let you two get back to work." He raps on the table in front of Nick. "Keep up the good work."

Nick turns to watch Ecklie breeze out the door, and he realizes for the first time that Warrick is standing just inside the room. Ecklie nods at Warrick and mutters a greeting as he disappears into the hall.

Warrick gazes after Ecklie for several seconds, and then he ambles over to Nick. Clapping a hand onto Nick's shoulder, Warrick says, "Hell of a job on the Maxwell case, Nick."

"Shut up, Rick," Nick gruffs.

Warrick laughs and pats Nick on the shoulder. "Man can't take a compliment, Catherine."

"Apparently not," Catherine smirks.

Nick's mind searches for a snappy comeback, but he comes up blank. Something great will come to him a half an hour from now when he no longer needs it.

As Nick ponders his inability to make witty retorts, Grissom darts into the break room and snatches an empty mug. "Hello, Catherine," he says cheerfully. "Nick. Warrick."

Narrowing her eyes, Catherine takes a step forward. "What the hell are you doing here, Grissom?"

Grissom stares at her, as if it should be obvious why he's here several hours before his shift starts. "I'm working," he says.

Catherine grimaces. "You're working? Why? What's going on?"

Grissom shrugs. "Bugs."

"What?"

"Bugs, Catherine."

"So, what…are you staying?"

Grissom lets out a breath. "Catherine, the dayshift had a db covered in insects, and they called me to consult. I'm going home after I have some coffee."

"Look, it just seems like you're here a lot."

Grissom cocks his head. "I have nothing better to do," he says.

Catherine opens her mouth to reply, but the beeping of her pager cuts her off. Setting her coffee cup on the table, Cath snatches the pager off the waistband of her jeans. Narrowing her eyes at the message on the screen, she lets out a breath and says, "Well, boys. We have a homicide. Coffee break's over."

***

It's going to be a long day. Brass can feel it.

"All right," he says, waving Nick, Catherine, and Warrick up the brick walk and through the front door of the Harwicke house. "John Harwicke. Forty-seven year old banker. Shot in the head. Pretty standard stuff."

Nick glances up, his eyes barely visible beneath the bill of his cap. "You know life has taken a turn for the worse when a man getting shot in the head is 'pretty standard stuff.'"

"Well, Nicky," Brass says, resisting the urge to push Nick's cap back so he can see the guy's eyes. "That's why people need us."

Catherine glances somberly at Brass, and then kneels down next to the victim's body. "David," she says to the bespectacled young coroner crouched on the opposite side of the body. "Tell me what you've got."

David glances up. "From his liver temp, I'd put the time of death around 10 am. He has bruising on his knuckles. But other than that, nothing out of the ordinary."

"Vic put up a fight," Warrick says, leaning forward for a better look at the victim's body.

"Well, he lost," Catherine deadpans.

Brass lets out an exhausted sigh. He loves these guys. He really does. But he goes stir-crazy when he has to just stand around and watch them talk science and make clever comments. "I have officers canvassing the area for witnesses," he says. "I'll let you know if any civic-minded neighbor comes forward."

"Who called it in?" Catherine asks, looking up at Brass.

Brass points over his shoulder at a forty-something woman who is gesturing wildly to a uniformed officer. "Housekeeper. Maria Vasquez. She came in this afternoon and found her boss like this. "

Nick, who has been wandering around the room, turns to Brass. "There's no sign of a struggle in here, Jim. You check out the other rooms?"

Brass grins. "No, Nicky," he says. "We decided not to clear the scene this time."

Nick tilts his head back so Brass can finally see his eyes. Laughing dryly, he says, "What I meant, Jim, was did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"The dead guy," Brass says. The comment earns him a grin from Catherine and a glare from Nick. Yanking Nicky's chain is so wrong and so easy. Licking his lips, Brass holds up a hand. "Wait a minute, Nicky. There were some books on the floor in the library."

Nick nods. "I'm gonna check it out, Cath," he says.

Brass feels a strange sense of relief flood over his body. He might finally get to do something other than just stand around and feel useless. Pointing after Nick, Brass says, "I'm gonna go with him. Keep him out of trouble."

As it turns out, after he and Nicky give the room a once-over, Brass finds himself standing around and feeling useless again.

Standing next to an old-world globe, Brass watches as Nick creeps around the library. "Doesn't look like much of a struggle," Brass says conversationally.

Nick glances up. "No, not really. But a couple of these books look pretty old. They should be a temperature-controlled environment."

"So you're a book connoisseur now?" Brass asks. First birds, now books. This guy needs a girlfriend.

Nick stands up. "I like books," he shrugs. "We should get a list of all the volumes in Harwicke's collection. See if any books are missing. Could go to motive."

Brass folds his arms across his chest. "I'll talk to the housekeeper. You know, Nicky, if you're thinking robbery, the killer left a lot of valuables around."

Letting out a long-suffering breath, Nick says, "We don't know if anything was stolen, Jim. That's why I want a list. It's a place to start, you know?"

Brass narrows his eyes. "Now, don't get snippy, Nicky. I'm just saying, is all." Brass walks over to the window and gazes out at the passing cars. Turning to Nick, he muses, "At least we only have one body this time."

Nick looks contemplative for a moment, and then he clears his throat and closes his kit. "Yep," he says.

Several hours later, Nick trudges down the hall toward the locker room. It's been a long, tiresome day. A master list of Harwicke's collection showed that two rare books were indeed missing. As of yet, though, they haven't found a viable suspect. Of course, they haven't ruled out an ex-wife and a twenty-year-old son. Part of Nick wants to stick it out at the lab and work on tracking those books. The rest of him, though…the rest of him wants to crawl home and collapse into bed.

Kneading the muscles in the back of his neck, Nick rounds the corner into the locker room, grinding to a sudden halt when he realizes the room is occupied.

Greg and Sara are standing a few feet away, talking quietly...no, whispering to each other. Great. Now Nick has to watch the latest round of office mating rituals.

"No," Greg says, leaning forward. "You know you love me."

Sara shakes her head. "Right now, I'm not so sure."

Leaning against the wall, Nick watches as Greg takes a step toward Sara. "This place is rumored to have the best vegetarian lasagna in the city…" Greg says.

Sara takes a step back and crosses her arms. "And here I thought you were all grown up, and you weren't going to hit on me anymore."

Greg flashes a lopsided grin. "Well, I'm young at heart."

Nick rolls his eyes and starts to back out of the locker room.

Just then, Greg looks up. "Yo, Nick! You out of here?"

Exhaling, Nick walks a few steps toward Greg and Sara. "Finally. I'm exhausted."

"I heard that," Greg says. "You're way over your shift, aren't you?"

Nick lets out a laugh. "Like that's never happened before."

Sara smiles broadly. "So, Nick. The buzz is that you're Ecklie's favorite CSI now."

Greg grins. "Hell of a job on the Maxwell case."

Nick winces. "Warrick?"

Greg shakes his head. "Catherine."

"Just what I need," Nick says, rolling his eyes. "Well, I'd better get home and get some sleep." Brushing past his friends, Nick tugs open his locker.

"What'd you draw this time?" Sara asks, as Nick scoops his belongings from the cubby hole in front of him.

"Pretty standard dead guy," Nick says over his shoulder. "Might be a robbery."

Sara jerks her head toward Greg. "We're on a carjacking."

"Fun stuff," Greg says, glancing down at the floor.

Turning to Greg, Sara says, "I'm going to check with Bobby, see if he's finished our rounds. Nick, you get some rest."

"I'll be there in a few," Greg says. After Sara leaves, Greg leans against a row of lockers and watches as Nick unzips his duffle bag. "So, you didn't return my e-mail," he says to Nick.

Nick glances up. "I've been busy."

"You busy this weekend?" Greg asks.

"I don't know Greg," Nick says, trying to avoid making eye-contact with Greg. "You know this job. I'm off, but I could be working."

Greg shrugs. "Well, I just figured that since we're both scheduled to be off, we could hit the sports bar on…"

Nick jerks his head up. "What for?"

Narrowing his eyes, Greg says, "I don't know. For something to do?"

Licking his lips, Nick snaps his locker shut. "Greggo, I've had a bad couple of days. I don't want to play this game with you."

"What game?" Greg asks, a baffled look pasted onto his face.

Nick shakes his head. "See ya later, G," he says, striding toward the exit.

As Nick passes him, Greg reaches forward and grabs Nick hard by the crook of his arm. "No, wait a minute," he says. "What game?"

Nick wrenches his arm away from Greg. "Don't grab me like that, man, all right?" Glancing over his shoulder, Nick says, "'You have your life. I have mine.' Sound familiar?"

Greg lets out a breath. "We're friends. Friends go out."

Rubbing his eyes, Nick says, "Well, you'd better figure out what your definition of 'friends' is, okay?" Nick gazes intently into Greg's eyes for a moment, trying to decide whether or not Greg got the message. Greg doesn't say anything, though. Instead, he just kind of glances around the room and plays with his a callous on his thumb. After a few seconds, Nick realizes that trying to talk to Greg is a lost cause, so he licks his lips and walks briskly away. As he disappears into the hallway, he mutters, "Later, Greggo."

***

Greg leans against the wall and watches Nick stalk down the hall toward the exit. That stubborn guy makes no sense. All Greg asked is if Nicky wanted to go to a sports bar. You'd think he asked Nick to jump into a tank of piranhas. Shaking his head, Greg trudges toward the ballistics lab.

When Greg reaches ballistics, he stops just outside the door, takes a deep breath, and then walks in to meet Sara and Bobby. "Hey guys," Greg says.

Both Bobby and Sara glance up. Bobby smiles broadly and drawls, "Hey, Greg. Looks like you've got two shooters. Or two guns, anyway."

Greg leans against the counter and glances from Sara to Bobby. "So, two guns. We didn't find anything else that indicated the presence of two shooters."

"Well, that may be," Bobby says patiently. "But there were two guns."

"We believe you," Sara grins. Turning to Greg, she asks, "Hey, did Nick go home?"

Shrugging, Greg says, "That's where he said he was headed."

Bobby frowns. "He pull a double again?"

"Nah," Greg says. "He just worked a few hours over." Turning to Sara, Greg asks, "So, where to now, Sara?"

Sara cocks her head. "Well, I guess we should go back to the garage and take another look at that car. You up for that?"

Greg grins. "Me, you, alone in a car? I'm up for it!"

Sara shakes her head, smiling slightly. "Well, I'll go change and meet you down there."

"Cool," Greg says. After Sara ambles out the door, Greg leans against the counter and stares at Bobby. "Hey, man," he says, rubbing at a smudge on the countertop. "You see Nick today?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Nope. Warrick handled their bullet."

Greg licks his lips. "Well, can I ask your advice about something?"

"Shoot!" Bobby says. Then he breaks into a grin.

Greg smiles slightly. "Cute," he says. "All right. Here's what happened," Greg says. "I asked Nick if he wanted to hang out this weekend, and he went all theatric on me."

"Define theatric."

"Well," Greg says, "He acted like he was mad that I'd want to spend time with him."

Bobby looks reflective for a moment. Finally, he crosses his arms and says, "Why do think he'd act like that?"

"I'm asking you."

Bobby releases a long breath and gazes at him in a way that kind of reminds Greg of his mother.

Before Bobby can respond, though, Grissom pokes his head into the room and snaps, "Greg. I've been paging you for a half an hour."

Greg winces. "Sorry, Grissom," he says. "Sara and I kind of got caught up here."

Grissom raises his eyebrows. "Well, I saw Sara headed down to the garage."

"And I'm about to join her," Greg says, biting his bottom lip and rocking back and forth on his heels.

"No, Greg, you're joining me," Grissom says, gesturing for Greg to follow. "C'mon."

Greg glances plaintively at Bobby, but Bobby just shrugs. Slumping his shoulders, Greg trudges out the door after Grissom.

Nick finds himself walking through the woods, flashlight in hand. As he moves among the trees, he wonders why the bark looks so strange. So he moves closer and shines his flashlight on one of the trees. Red? The bark is red. It shouldn't be red. He should take a piece back to the lab. Dutifully, he pulls out a knife and slices into the tree. Then, like always, he hears a scream…

With a silent shriek, Nick jerks up in bed, clutching his chest. He can feel his heart racing beneath his fingers, and he can feel his lungs struggling for breath. Closing his eyes, Nick tries to stabilize his breathing. Breath, Stokes, he thinks. It's okay.

After a few minutes, Nick's lungs resume something close to their normal routine, and his heart, though still thumping hard, no longer feels like it's going to detonate. Shaking his head, Nick pulls himself out of bed and trudges to the bathroom. He flips on the bathroom light and grabs a washcloth out of the linen closet. Slumping over the sink, he cranks on the water, drenches the cloth, and then proceeds to mop the sweat off his face.

This is getting ridiculous, Nick thinks, as he yanks off his t-shirt.

He tosses the sweat-soaked shirt into an already-full laundry basket—time to do laundry, Nick muses—and pulls a clean t-shirt out of his dresser.

About then, he hears a knock at his front door. Nick glances over at the clock. 9 AM. Okay.

Nick tugs the t-shirt over his head as he stumbles out into the living room. With a jerk, Nick opens the door and narrows his eyes at his guest.

"What are you doing here, Greg?" Nick asks.

Greg shrugs. "Came here to see my buddy."

Frowning, Nick steps back to let Greg into the house. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," Greg says. "Sara and I had kind of a rough night. We got nowhere with our carjacking case, and then Grissom kind of yelled at me because I didn't answer one of his pages." He glances around Nick's living room as if he's never been here before. Then, he toes off his shoes and pulls off his jacket

"Make yourself comfortable," Nick says.

"How about you? You get any sleep?" Greg asks.

Nick runs his fingers though his hair. "Not really. Three hours, maybe."

Greg reaches over and squeezes Nick's shoulder. "Did I wake you?"

Shrugging Greg's hand off his shoulder, Nick cocks his head at Greg. For a brief moment, he considers telling Greg that yes, he did wake him up. And he should be ashamed of himself. But instead, Nick says, "Nah, man. I was awake."

Greg walks over and snatches up a photo of Nick and his oldest sister. He gazes at the picture for a second, and then sets it gently on the shelf. "Bobby wanted to know if you're doing all right."

"So, you came over here for Bobby?" Nick asks.

"No," Greg says dramatically. "I came over here because I wanted to know if you were okay. You were acting a little weird today in the locker room."

Rolling his eyes, Nick licks his lips and laughs. "Because that could be the only reason I'd fail to fall to your charms."

"What charms?" Greg asks, throwing his hands out. "I asked you if you wanted to hang out."

"Whatever."

Greg takes a step closer to Nick. "Look, Nicky. I'm sorry."

Nick gazes at Greg. "For what?"

"For whatever you think I did," Greg says, caressing Nick's bottom lip with his knuckle.

Nick lets out a breath and walks back to the couch. "You're just here because you want to get laid," he says.

Greg watches Nick for a moment, and then strolls across the room and plunks himself down on the couch. "Don't be that way," he says quietly.

"I'm stating a fact, Greg," Nick says, twisting his body until he's facing away from Greg.

After a few moments, Greg places his hands on Nick's shoulders and starts to softly knead the muscles through Nick's t-shirt. Nick tries to fight the urge to lean into the massage, but fails miserably.

This is one of Greggo's favorite come-on techniques. Greg will work Nick's back and shoulders for a while, but Nick knows that soon, Greg's lips will find their way to his neck. Then, Greg's hands will find their way under Nick's shirt, and Nick's shirt will find itself tossed into a corner.

And Nick knows that his brain will disengage the second he feels Greg's breath on his throat.

And he knows he'll rationalize that letting Greg stay this one time won't be so bad. After all, Nick hasn't slept much in the last couple of weeks. And he sleeps better if somebody's with him.

So Greg will stay. Nick knows that. And Nick will regret this in the morning. He knows that, too.

Right now, though? Right now, all he can feel is Greg's breath on his throat.

***

"Hey, player!" Warrick's voice booms.

Nick glances up from his casefile. "Huh?"

Warrick points at Nick's neck. "Nice little love mark you got there."

Nick closes his eyes, a blush settling in his cheeks. Oh, terrific. He was in such a hurry this morning, he forgot about the hicky Greg left. For a brief, fleeting moment, Nick considers telling Warrick that Greg is a biter, just to see the look on Warrick's face.

"So," Warrick says, punching Nick on the arm. "Nicky got someone special?"

"I thought so," Nick mutters.

Warrick gazes at him for a moment, and Nick realizes he's about two seconds away from an awkward, "Wanna talk about it, man?"

Hoping to cut the tension, mush, and discomfort off at the pass, Nick laughs, "No, man. No one special. Please. Who has time?"

Satisfied, and maybe a bit relieved, Warrick sits down across from Nick and says, "I hear you. At least you got little something. Me, I haven't had any action in…well, let's say a while. You know?"

"I heard that," Nick says. He leans back in his chair. Yeah, it's best to keep things neutral. He and Warrick have a pretty strong bond, but getting touchy feely with him isn't something Nick's hankering to do anytime soon.

In a few seconds, he and Warrick fall into a comfortable silence, and Nick resumes his vacant stare at the Harwicke casefile. He hasn't read a word of it since he sat down, though. He's been using the file as a convenient cover so he can brood without looking like a slacker.

Things with Greg last night went pretty much like Nick suspected they would. He and Greg managed to stumble from the living room to the bedroom, but their clothes didn't quite make the trip. Afterward, Greg fell asleep almost immediately, and thankfully, Nick soon followed. He has to admit. He slept pretty well.

Nick's been at work for about an hour now. He imagines that Greg's probably awake, or will be soon. Greg's a heavy sleeper, but only seems to need five or six hours to be bright and refreshed. He'd probably be up and would be roaming around, looking for something to eat. Before he left, Nick was seized with a sudden burst of thoughtfulness and decided to leave a couple of sandwiches for Greg. Already, Nick could feel himself being drawn back into the familiar pattern. He should know better by now.

But the pattern, however destructive, was almost comforting. Because as much as their erratic relationship hurt, Greg Sanders was the least of Nick's worries.

Greg stretches and rolls over to get a look at the clock. When the clock isn't in the spot it should be, he blinks hard. Where is he? Slowly, the events of last night pierce his memory, and he remembers he's at Nicky's. Yawning, he stretches himself across the bed and snatches Nick's wind-up alarm clock off the nightstand by Nick's side of the bed. Five o'clock. Cool. So now he just had to find something to occupy his time for the next few hours. Greg supposes he could go home…but home to what?

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Greg pulls himself into a standing position. He could shower, but he hates to shower so soon after getting up. Nah. He'll grab a shower right before his shift.

Stretching, he wanders into the bathroom to do his business. When he ambles over to the sink to wash his hands, he sees a note taped to the mirror:

G—

I left some food in the fridge. Your keys are on the coffee table. See you when I see you.

Nicky

Greg leans against the counter and gazes at the note. He kind of likes it when Nick gets all domestic and tries to take care of him. But at the same time, it scares the crap out of him. It's the little gestures like this that make this thing he has with Nick seems way too real.

Letting out a breath, Greg walks back into the bedroom. He stops and scoops up the tiny stuffed horse that's sitting on Nick's dresser—Greg named him Turk one drunken night. Smiling, Greg remembers when he got the horse for Nick. Nick was scheduled to go home to Texas for a long overdue vacation, but the lab was hit by a flu outbreak, and Grissom cajoled Nick into postponing the trip. Nick was pretty bummed out, so to make him feel better, Greg decided to take him to the cheesiest Western-themed restaurant he could find—waitresses wearing western shirts and cowboy hats; spurs and old photographs of surly looking outlaws decorating the wall; saddles sitting in the corner. Nicky loved the place. So, while Nick was checking out the jukebox, Greg snuck off and hit the gift shop. Nick protested of course, telling Greg that guys don't do stuffed animals. But Greg could tell how touched Nick was by the gift. It's a good memory.

Gently setting Turk back onto the dresser, Greg wanders around the bedroom, re-familiarizing himself with Nick's things. In the corner, Greg notices an overflowing basket of laundry.

"Great, Nick," Greg mutters to himself. "Nice housekeeping skills."

Leaning down, Greg drags the laundry basket over to bed, sits down, and starts to sort Nick's laundry. He figures he might as well make himself useful. Besides, if he isn't going to go home, he's going to need to wash his own clothes anyway.

"I don't know why Nick thinks I'm such a bad guy. I mean, look at me. I'm doing his laundry." Greg looks at Turk. "Do you think I'm a bad guy?" Greg gazes for a few moments at the silent, smiling toy. "See, you don't think I'm so terrible. I mean, maybe I was a little harsh when I broke it off. But I wasn't wrong. Nick and I don't make sense as a long-term thing." Greg reaches into the pockets of Nick's jeans and pulls out some change and a crumpled-up piece of notebook paper. "It wouldn't be good for our careers. You know?"

Greg starts to toss the paper into the trash, but stops himself. He'd better see if it's worth keeping before he chucks it. Nick would have a cow if Greg ditched something important.

Licking his lips, Greg scans the smudged words on the notebook paper. This is the end, Nick, Greg reads. I just can't do it anymore. This never should've happened in the first place. It's not fair to you, or to me.

Greg narrows his eyes at the black ink on the creased and torn paper. Great. Just great. Nick's copping an attitude with him about commitment, and he's having out having an affair or something. Not that Greg minds. Nick has a right to have a life. Still, though. Nick didn't seem to have anyone else on his mind last night.

Greg wondered who this person was. There was that guy at that club that one night. But Greg thought that was just a thing.

Letting out a breath, Greg crumples the note up, and tosses it on the nightstand. Maybe that's why Nick's had an attitude lately. Maybe he's transferring his anger with the guy who wrote him this "Dear Nick" letter onto Greg. That makes sense. If Nick's nursing a broken heart, it makes sense that he'd be snippy. Nicky always was easily hurt.

Maybe Greg should bring it up when he sees him tonight. Couldn't hurt to open a dialogue with the guy. On the other hand, Greg doesn't want to open a major can of worms with Nick, either. He wants things to get back to some semblance of normal between him and Nicky. Maybe veering off into the personal would be a bad idea.

Greg glances up at Turk. "What do think, big guy? What should I do?"

The stuffed horse doesn't seem to have any of the answers, though, so Greg exhales, and collapses back onto the bed, the mattress jiggling under his weight.

***

>When Catherine was on the graveyard shift, she spent a lot of time in Grissom's office. It was kind of like going to the principal's office. She knew she was going to get a lecture or at least an exasperated look. She hoped she wouldn't get suspended. So she learned to have a well-rehearsed excuse ready just in case she needed it. Or at least a good argument for why she were perfectly justified in her behavior. Once, she argued her way out of a detention even though she was caught red-handed sneaking into the boys' locker room when she was supposed to be in Biology. She figured that her principal, Mr. Munroe, was so impressed by her audacity that he cut her loose out of some begrudging admiration. And Gil, he usually cut her some slack because he's a pushover.

Licking her lips, Catherine gazes at the squirming CSI sitting across from her. She tugs her lip and thinks how it's really weird to be on the other side of the desk.

It's so weird, in fact, that she stands up, walks around her desk, and plunks down in an empty chair beside Nick. "What happened out there today, Nicky?" Catherine asks. She winces at her own voice as soon as she realizes that she sounds every bit as exasperated as Gil or Mr. Munroe. And she certainly doesn't mean to. In fact, she internally scolds herself, because whenever she pictured herself as a boss, she always thought she could be really good at it, but still be kind of cool. Exasperated isn't cool.

Nick fidgets in his seat and mumbles something unintelligible. Catherine's guessing he got sent to the principal's office one time during his entire academic career, and it was probably for something like being five minutes tardy to class. And knowing Nicky, he probably burst out into tears and apologized profusely. Which is what Catherine thinks he's about to do right now.

"Catherine," he says in a cracked voice. "I'm sorry. I acted completely unprofessional." Folding his arms across his chest, Nick takes a staggered breath. "I'm sorry."

How can she be expected to lecture him? He looks so cute.

Leaning forward, she says, "Tell me what happened."

Nick doesn't say anything at first. Instead, he glances up at Catherine, with an expression that suggests he's alarmed to have been asked to talk. After a few seconds, Nick raises his head. "I'm not sure," he says quietly, his breath hitching slightly. "He lied to my face, and I guess I just snapped."

Snapped is about right. According to Warrick, it took both him and Brass to pull Nick out of the room after he lunged across the table at the suspect, Tyler Kimball. Catherine wouldn't have been so surprised if it had been Warrick who lost his temper. Irritated, but not surprised. Truthfully, she could even picture herself going off on Kimball. But Nicky? It's like finding out your golden boy son is on drugs.

"Well," she says, trying to keep her tone nurturing and supportive. "That's not the first time a suspect has done that, Nick."

Nick bites his bottom lip. "I know," he chokes. Letting out a frustrated breath, he stares at his legs and plays with the seam on his jeans. After a few seconds, he looks up. "But Catherine," he says. "This guy is such an ass. You know what he said to me? He made some comment about my accent and my IQ."

Catherine licks her lips. "Look, Nicky," she says. "I can understand why you'd want to rip him a new one. I've been there." She leans forward and pats his forearm. "But you can't go popping off at a suspect like that."

Letting out a breath, Nick sits up a little straighter and says, "Look, I said I was sorry, Cath. And I am. I was out of line." He clenches his jaw. "But why did you ask me what happened if you weren't going to listen?"

He has a point. Catherine gazes at him for a moment. "You're right. And I'm sorry. Look," she says. "Bottom line, you played into his hand. He was trying to piss you off."

Nick nods. "Am I off the case?"

"Do you need me to take you off the case?"

Grimacing, Nick says, "No. I want to get this guy."

Catherine smiles. "Then as far as I'm concerned, you're still on."

"Cool," Nick says. He glances at the door. "So can I go?"

"Not just yet," Catherine says, gazing at Nick. She's been meaning to have a talk with him. Now is as good a time as any, she guesses. Cocking her head, she asks, "Y'okay? In general, I mean?"

Nick shifts in his chair. "I'm fine."

"You've seemed kind of edgy and angry lately. And maybe a little sad."

"Come on. I'm not angry, Cath," Nick says brusquely. "Or sad."

"You're not yourself."

"Really," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Who am I?"

"Nick," Catherine says patiently. "I'm not trying to get on your case."

"Why am I still here then?" Nick snaps.

Catherine grimaces. "Nick," she says gently. "As your supervisor, I have to make sure you're okay. And what happened today, and this attitude I'm hearing right now, it out-of-character for you. And we're going to talk about it."

Nick crosses his arms. "So," he says. "If I made a habit of this kind of behavior, we'd be done already?"

For a moment, Catherine sits in stunned silence. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Nick spent a little more time rebelling as a kid than she thought. If he didn't, he's a fast learner. For a fleeting moment, Catherine wonders if Lindsay has been giving him pointers.

Cute or not, he's getting a lecture now, dammit.

About then, Catherine hears a knock at the door. Shooting Nick a look, she walks over to the door and cracks it open. "Warrick? Whatcha need?"

"I'm sorry to bother you," he says, peering over her shoulder at Nick. "I need you for a second."

Catherine glances back at Nick, who's looking very much like he's planning to slip out while Warrick has her distracted. "You just get comfortable," she says, willing him back into the chair with a stare she's cultivated during years of being a mother. "What's up, Rick?" Catherine asks, as she steps out into the hall.

Warrick gazes down the hall toward the interview room. "Kimball's getting antsy. Brass wants to kick him loose."

Catherine throws up her hands. "Well, we don't have anything to hold him on."

Smacking his leg with his fist, Warrick says, "The guy's obviously guilty."

"Now, don't you start," Catherine scolds. The last thing she needs is to haul both her guys into for office time. Placing a hand on Warrick's shoulder, she says, "If he's guilty, we'll get him."

Warrick lets out a breath. Jerking his head toward Catherine's office, he asks, "He all right?"

"He's fine," she says, even though she not sure that's accurate. Nick's work has been top notch, as usual. But it's become clear to Catherine, and to Warrick and Brass and even Bobby D down in ballistics that Nick's been a little off lately. He's been getting harder and more remote for a while now. As sensitive as Nick is, and with all violence they see in their jobs as CSIs, Catherine isn't surprised, and she certainly doesn't blame him. But since he wrapped his last case, Nick's gotten colder, quieter. He and Brass were called in to investigate the murder of the Maxwell family—four kids, parents, dog… One of the kids held on for a while. Nick and Brass found him in a closet and rushed him to the hospital. But it was no use.

After Warrick walks away, Catherine toys with heading to the break room for a cup of coffee. It would serve Nick right to sweat for a while. But instead, she opens the door and walks back in. Nick glances over his shoulder at her, and Catherine notices how young and vulnerable he looks. She figures he's had some time to think and reign in his attitude.

"So where were we?" Catherine asks, lowering herself into the chair.

Nick taps his fingers against the arm of the chair. "They cutting Kimball loose?"

"Mm hm."

"Because I got in his face?"

Catherine smiles and shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "We don't have enough on him. And I know that's frustrating."

"It is," Nick says. "I'm tired of…I'm just tired."

Cuffing him on the shoulder, Catherine says, "Nicky, I don't want to lecture you or yell at you. Just don't make this a trend, okay?"

He shakes his head. "I won't, Cath."

"And if you want to talk about anything, my door is open."

"Okay."

"All right," she says, waving him away. "You're outta here. Go get a soda. We'll regroup and figure out what to do next."

Nick mumbles a quick, "Thanks Cath," and then practically leaps out of his chair and hurries out the door.

Catherine watches after him for a moment, and then lets out a breath. She worries about him, probably more than any of the others. After the Maxwell case, Nick went to his post-traumatic, and the shrink said he was fine. And maybe he is. Maybe Catherine just has to accept that fact that Nick is starting to put up the same kind of defenses she and Gil and Warrick and even Sara erected long ago. As much as she'd like him to retain some of his boyish sweetness, his sensitivity, maybe Catherine has to learn to let that part of him go.

"You sure you don't want me to bring you anything?" Sara asks Greg. "Or maybe you want to come with"

Greg points over his shoulder. "Nah," he says. "I brought a sandwich and some fruit."

"Your loss," she says, heading toward the door. "I'll be back."

"I'll be waiting," he says with a smirk. Stretching, Greg trudges toward the break room. He's tempted to go with Sara. He really is. Honestly, he doesn't know what he'd do without her. The last few months, she's been his guide through all of this death and decay. He can only imagine what it would've been like to have worked alone with Grissom all this time. It's funny, though. When Greg pictured going into the field, he pictured working with Sara and Catherine and Warrick…and Nick. He figured it would be like the old days, when he was in the lab, and everyone was feverishly working on one case together. This team split, this divorce, it blindsided him in a way he never expected.

As Greg rounds the corner to the break room, he spots Nick standing by the refrigerator, massaging the back of his neck. The same Nick who has been avoiding him for four days. Taking a breath, Greg bounds into the room. "Gotcha," he says, swooping over to Nick. "Where you been?"

Opening a can of soda, Nick gives Greg a look. "Here? I'm scheduled through tomorrow."

Greg leans against the refrigerator. "It's just that it's been, like, four days since we spent the night together. I figured you'd call or something."

Narrowing his eyes, Nick looks Greg up and down in a way that makes Greg feel more than a little exposed. "Phone works both ways, Greggo," he says.

Greg shrugs. "I just figured you would've called and thanked me for doing your laundry. I know you don't like to do it." Inwardly, Greg cringes at his own words. Way to piss him off, Greg thinks to himself.

"Thank you," Nick smirks. "From the bottom of my heart."

Shrugging Greg says, "Not exactly sincere, but I'll take it." He reaches into the refrigerator, pulls out his lunch, and then saunters with Nick to a table. "I was thinking," he says. "You want to maybe go get breakfast tomorrow? I could stop at the diner and order us something, bring it by your place."

"My place," Nick says.

Greg nods. "Your place."

Nick leans back in his chair. "What did you have in mind?"

Greg smiles mischievously. "Well," he says, leaning forward. "We could have breakfast, make sure we're both strong and well-fed. Then, we could think of something."

Nick laughs and shakes his head. "Something purely platonic, I'm sure. Because we're just friends, right?"

Letting out a breath, Greg rolls his eyes. "Do were have to go here every time we talk?"

"Look, G," Nick says, taking a sip of soda. "I got some personal stuff going on right now. I don't have time to do this with you."

"Personal stuff?" Greg sits up. "Like that note I found."

Shaking his head, Nick stares at Greg, open-mouthed. "You went through my stuff?"

"Well, yeah," Greg says. "It was in you pants pocket. I took it out when I was doing the laundry."

"You didn't have to read it."

Greg holds up his hands. "No, you're behavior makes sense now."

"It does?" Nick says, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah," Greg nods. "I get the whole projection thing. See, you're really mad at the guy that wrote the note. He hurt you, and you're projecting your feelings—"

"I'm not projecting anything," Nick says, crushing the now-empty soda can between the balls of his hands. "I'm mad at you because you're acting like an ass right now." Greg opens his mouth to protest, but Nick shushes him and continues, "You say you want to be my friend, but whenever you want sex, who do you come to? Me." Nick pauses for a moment and glances over Greg's shoulder. "Hi," he says.

Greg twists his body around to see Jacquie, who's standing just inside the doorway, playing with the hem of her shirt. "Hi, guys," she says. Trying and failing to be casual, she inches her way into the room, snatches a salad out of the refrigerator, and disappears back into the hallway.

After a few seconds, Greg laughs. "Well, that was awkward."

"Yeah," Nick says. He's a deep shade of red right now, and it's all Greg can do to keep from reaching over and touching his cheek.

They sit there quietly for a few moments, until Nick says, "I just can't do this right now."

Greg nods. Part of him wants to keep talking, but what is there to say? He has questions, sure. Questions about who wrote Nick that note. And questions about what the hell it is that Nick wants from him. But Greg knows better than to push Nick right now. With a shrug, he says, "Fair enough."

Nick regards Greg for a moment, and then he slowly stands up. He knocks on the table in front of Greg. "Later, man," he says.

Greg watches Nick walk down the hallway and vanish around the corner. Then, taking a bit of his turkey sandwich, he runs his fingers through his shaggy locks and daydreams about pushing the rewind button on his relationship with Nick. He dreams about going back to the days when he and Nick were just friends, no romance involved to muck things up. Just video games and pizza. And he dreams of about going back to the days when he and Nick first gave in to their desires. The romance was there, for sure. But it was new and exciting, and it didn't scare the crap out of Greg the way it would as their relationship progressed. Those were some of the best times of his life.

And now they were daydreams.

***