Title: Bad Place
Author: Lament
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Fandom: CSI
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Spoilers: "Grave Danger"
Warnings: Depressing
Author's Notes: Tonight has been sucky. I feel lonely and left out and depressed, and I have no one to talk to. So as usual, I've written a story instead. This story assumes that Nick and Greg had a relationship that ended several months ago.
Summary: Nick finds himself in a bad place.

***

Nick leans his head back against the cushions of his black leather couch. He likes his couch. It's comforting in a weird way. He doesn't know why, and he guesses it doesn't matter. At least on his couch, he can sleep sometimes. His bed rarely grants him that simple pleasure anymore. Maybe it's too big or too empty.

He's been back to work for a month now. Catherine has him in the lab. He bitches about it for good measure, but he's been secretly glad he hasn't had to venture out into the unknown. The lab is safe and secure, and it guards him like a cocoon. Nick can't imagine why Greg ever willingly left it.

So Nick's doing fine.

Except that he's not. The past few months, he's tried to put his ordeal behind him. Shake it off. That's been his mantra, and he's been repeating it to himself almost daily. Shake it off, just like you shook off the thing was Nigel Crane. Shake it off like you shook off the gun in your face. Shake it off like you shake off everything else. That's been the plan, and on the surface, he's done an admirable job. Everyone has been really pleased and relieved and grateful.

They'd be so let down if the knew the truth.

With a long, tired breath, Nick pulls himself off the couch, walks into his kitchen, and plunks down at the table. He snatches up the full bottle of sleeping pills and gazes at the label. He hates pills, so he's been stubbornly refusing to take them. He prefers to fall asleep naturally, thank you.

Snapping off the cap with his index finger, Nick pours the pills onto the table and with the balls of his hands, gathers them into a little mound. Frowning, he lays his palm across the pile and presses down on them, spreading them out a little. Weird thing, pills. They're so small and innocuous. They don't look like they could kill a man.

After a few minutes, he reaches across the table and scoops up his legal pad. He winces as his eyes scan the illegible scrawl. He spent two hours writing it, and they'll probably never be able to read it. For a moment, he thinks about running into the living room so he can type it out. He owes his friends and family that much, he figures. He needs to explain how tangled he feels right now, how fucked up.

He tosses the pad onto the table. If he has time, he'll type it. Otherwise, maybe they can take it to QD, and Ronnie can decipher it.

Rubbing his eyes, Nick glances over his shoulder at the clock on the microwave. It's 7 in the morning at his parents' house. If he calls now, he can probably catch his mom before she runs off for the day. Taking a breath, he dials his parents' number. When his mother answers, he closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. He really doesn't need to cry right now. He just needs to hold it together.

"Hey, Mom!"

"Nick, hi." His mother's voice is quiet, cautious. "Are you all right sweetie?"

He nods, trying to temporarily convince himself. "Yeah, Mom. I just called to talk. I know you can't talk long."

"No," she says. "No, I have a deposition. But I have a few minutes."

He nods again. "Okay, well I just called to say I love you. And Cisco. He's not around, is he?"

"No, honey, he left a half hour ago."

"I figured." Nick swallows.

"So, how's work?"

"Oh," he says. "It's okay."

"It's got to be strange, honey," she says. "Do they let you go into the field?"

"Let me?" He chuckles a little. "No, Mom."

"Well, I didn't mean—"

"I know," he says. "Actually, I just got approved for field duty, though. My supervisor told me today." Nick clears his throat and raps his knuckles on the table. "So, they're ready to put me back out in it."

"How do you feel about that?"

Scared. Inadequate. Nauseous. Rushed. Alone. Desperate. Confused. Enraged. Helpless.

"Fine," Nick says.

"Well, Nick," she says. "I'm happy you're doing better. Your dad and I were worried."

Nick closes his eyes. "Don't worry, Mom. I feel good."

She's silent for a moment, and then she says, "Honey, I have to go to work, now."

"All right, Momma," he says. "I love you."

"Love you."

Nick paces around his living room, tapping on the folded piece of paper in his hand. A little over a year ago, well before he wound up in that damn box, Nick changed his will, so that Greg would get pretty much everything if anything ever happened to him. A few months later, they split. Afterward, Nick considered changing his will, but he and Greg had something once, something comforting and precious. Greg deserves the stuff.

Squaring his shoulders, Nick strides into the kitchen and pulls out the chair with his foot. Gently, he lowers his aching body into the seat and tosses his will down on top of the freshly-typed letter. He gazes down at the pills and shakes his head. It's absurd. He hates taking pills, and yet he's planning on swallowing a whole bottle.

What's even more absurd is that he hung on for hours until the team could find him and drag him out of the coffin that psychopath dumped him in. And now he's planning to throw away the life he clung onto so hard.

But he knows it's the right thing to do. It's not like he hasn't thought this all out. He's looked at his life from every angle. He's weighed the pros and the cons. And this is it. This is the right thing to do. It's the only way he can stop the gnawing pain in his gut.

Everyone thinks he's snapped out of it, and that's what they've all been wanting. How can he tell them he'll never snap out of it?

Besides, Nick's used to not talking about his life and his problems. Who wants to listen to him complain?

When the clock hits noon, Nick leans forward and picks up a handful of pills. "All right, Nicky," he mutters. "Let's do this." He nods his head and licks his lips. "Let's do this."

He leans forward and latches onto a now-lukewarm bottle of water. Placing the bottle between his legs, he twists off the cap with his right hand, and then sets the bottle back on the table.

Closing his fingers around the handful of pills, he shakes them slightly, listening to the rattling noise they make.

He should probably call Greg and say his goodbyes. He wrote a full two pages to him in the letter, but Greg probably deserves a phone call. Even if he did break Nick's heart a little.

Shaking his head, Nick pours the pills onto the kitchen table and snatches up the typewritten letter. Did he even say goodbye to Jacqui and Bobby and Archie? He meant to. He scans through the missive until he sees their names. Yup. Yup, he said goodbye to them. Good. That's good.

Nick glances at the clock. It was past noon now, and noon was the deadline he set for himself. He figured if he set a deadline, this would all be easier. But somehow, it's not.

When he made this decision, Nick felt pretty relieved. The pain would go away. Finally. Now, now he just feels…he doesn't know what he feels.

"Coward," he spits.

Shaking his head, Nick snatches up the phone and presses in a series of numbers. When the sleepy voice on the other end answers, he says, "Hey, it's me. I'm sorry if I woke you, but…but I'm in a bad place right now, and I need some help."

***