Living Backward

By Emily Brunson

©2005

A week after he started the job in Las Vegas, he knew he'd found the place he'd been looking for. Crazy, because it was the last place on earth he'd have predicted. Always figured he'd stay in Texas; everyone else in his family had. But no, here he was. Sin City, and him a good Catholic boy.

Well, mostly good.

Everything fell into place like a gift from God, too. They found a house on the first day, even if the rent was higher than was really comfortable. But it was a great house for a rental: nice yard, two big bedrooms, two-car garage. And only about half an hour from work, which was a huge bonus.

And work was definitely something else. In his life Nick had never felt so in over his head, and never loved it half as much. It wasn't that the Dallas lab was substandard, necessarily. Pretty good, in fact. But his first night in Gil Grissom's gleaming, hyper-new facility Nick had felt seriously humbled. Yes, he had the skills, yes, he knew the procedures. All that, however, was only a place to start. Grissom expected a lot more than adequacy, and Nick had every intention of living up to his standards. Even when it meant homework all over again.

"You've gotta be kidding," Sean told him after Nick's second night at work. "Tell me you're kidding."

Nick shrugged and drank the rest of his coffee. "No, I'm not," he replied, sighing. "I'm the low man on the totem pole, and I got a shitload of catching-up to do."

Sean groaned. "So catch up at work, all right? But not HERE. Man, I thought we could relax now."

"Relax." Nick patted his shoulder and went over to rinse the cup at the sink. "And I'll relax, too, maybe next month."

Or next year, he thought. It didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have. Christ, Gil Grissom. Nick hadn't thought he had a chance in hell at scoring the job in the first place. Granted, he had the qualifications. Sure. Three years as a cop, nearly two as a criminalist. He could talk the talk and walk the walk. But there had to have been about a thousand other guys -- and gals -- up for the job. How had he made the first cut, let alone gotten to the interview stage? Hell, gotten an OFFER?

He didn't know, and he wasn't going to ask anyone. Instead he was going to work his ass off, show Grissom he'd made the right choice, and consider himself just about the luckiest ex-Aggie alive.

Sean, now. That was a little different.

"Look, I won't be gone all day." Nick slung himself into one of the other chairs at the kitchen table. "Be back by one, at the latest. Okay? I'm sorry." He reached out and squeezed Sean's hand. "But I gotta hit the books. Until I get caught up."

Sean's thumb stroked the top of Nick's hand. "Man, you haven't stopped since we got here," he said, but his blue eyes were wry rather than really ticked. "When are you gonna slow down and relax a little? We're here. Look around and enjoy it."

"Maybe next week." Nick grinned and leaned forward to kiss Sean fast on the mouth. "You know," he added, "you could unpack a few boxes while I'm gone."

"Oh, that sounds like fun," Sean grumped. Then he grinned. "Whatever. But this weekend we are kicking back. No arguments, okay?"

"No arguments from me. I promise."

It really wasn’t much after one by the time he got home, either. Mostly all this DNA shit – hard coming from a place where you did one job and one job only, to a place that expected CSIs to be generalists, and techs to do the hardcore analyses. DNA was still a very strange foreign language for Nick, and when he got home that afternoon his head was still spinning with material he hadn’t realized he’d need to know until he actually started the job.

If Sean had unpacked anything, Nick couldn’t tell. With a sigh he skirted the piled-up boxes in the living room and went into the kitchen. "Anybody home?" he called, taking a beer out of the fridge. There was no reply.

Great. Well, the boxes had waited this long; they could wait a little longer. He was exhausted. He drank his beer standing at the kitchen sink, and stowed the bottle in the box under the sink before heading to bed.

Where Sean awoke him at some point by crawling under the sheets and kissing his neck. "Wake up," Sean crooned.

Nick blinked blearily at him. "You smell like booze," he said, turning his head.

"I had a margarita with Troy and Michael." Sean blithely kept going, hand sliding under Nick’s tee shirt to stroke his belly. "No big deal. You said one o’clock."

"Sorry. Sean, I need to sleep. I’m really tired."

Nibbling Nick’s earlobe, Sean whispered, "This’ll help you sleep better."

"I was sleeping fine." With a sigh Nick turned on his back, gazing up at him. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Dunno. About six, I think."

Nick gaped. "Six? Shit." He tried to sit up, and Sean bore him right back down again.

"Oh, come ON," Sean said, frowning. "You don’t have to go yet. I know you don’t."

"I need to grab a shower. Sean, I gotta go to work."

"Your shift doesn’t even start until eight." Sean’s hands pinned his own to the mattress. His blue eyes glinted, and Nick felt a tingle of reluctant interest in his groin. "Don’t even try to pull that one on me," Sean continued, lowering his head to brush his lips over Nick’s. "I know better."

He knew the minute he let Sean kiss him it was all over but the cleanup. Sean’s mouth tasted like tequila and lime, talented tongue darting between Nick’s lips. He felt Sean’s erection against his own, hard and heavy. It was plenty; Nick groaned and arched up a little, meeting Sean’s kiss eagerly.

Sean sat back on his haunches to pull his shirt over his head, and Nick watched and then yanked his own off, grinning when Sean stood up on the mattress to remove his jeans. Sean’s long, lean body made Nick’s heart bump in his chest. He slithered out of his boxers and sighed as Sean settled back between his legs.

"I love you," Sean murmured a few minutes later, sliding home inside Nick’s body. "Oh, God, that feels so good."

"Love you too," Nick whispered.

It was good and bad that it was always like this. No matter how annoyed he got, even pissed off sometimes, once they were naked he couldn’t even try to pretend that he didn’t want it. Just like ten years ago, when he was a freshman and Sean an out-of-place junior at A&M. It had taken a while for Sean to get him in bed, but Sean was nothing if not devoted to his personal causes, and chiefest among those back then had been getting Nick’s legs in the air. A task at which he had succeeded admirably, no doubt, although his parents probably wished he’d given a little more of that focus to his school work. Not that they knew at the time about their son’s preferences, any more than Nick’s had known of his own.

But from that first beer-soaked humid night in College Station, on a creaky bed in a rundown apartment filled with pizza boxes and discarded beer bottles, Nick had been giving into Sean just about any time Sean wanted him. Which was wildly, sometimes somewhat uncomfortably often back then, and maybe it wasn’t quite the two-or-more times a day anymore that it once was, but those patterns appeared to be inscribed in granite. No matter what Nick really wanted – no matter what his obligations were, increasingly – he had zero resistance to Sean’s amorous charms.

"Look at me," Sean grated, staring at his sweaty face. "Look at me when you come."

Nick felt his face contorting, the hot inexorable rise of his orgasm impossible to deny. "I am," he gasped.

Sean’s eyes were impossibly blue, compelling, teasing. "I see it. Yeah, that’s it, come on, Nicky, give it up, feels so good." He thrust long and sure in Nick’s ass, easy rotations of the hips, every stroke sending a new flare of helpless heat through Nick’s body.

He kept his eyes open until the pleasure of his orgasm was too much, and he bit his lip and threw his head back and cried out, legs gripping Sean’s hips with bruising power. From some distant place he heard Sean’s pleased, thick chuckle, and then he sped up and jerked his hips and came, too, that signature low grunt that Nick associated so indelibly with them, this long relationship that had endured so much, that had become one of the defining factors in his life.

He ached a little after Sean pulled out of him, but it was a familiar ache, a good feeling, and he turned drowsily on his side while Sean flopped down next to him. "You don’t play fair," Nick mumbled, raising up and straddling Sean’s lean hips.

"Nope," Sean agreed blithely, grinning as Nick leaned down to kiss him.

"Bitch," Nick said, and bit Sean’s lower lip lightly.

Sean laughed.

He got his shower, just a little later than planned, and when he emerged from the bathroom Sean was asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, naked body lax and beautiful. Nick paused on his way to the closet, watching mutely. Could have been a goddamn movie star, he was so handsome. Could have done anything he wanted, really, Sean just had that knack. That way of just walking into a room and having people like him, want to know him. It was a gift, and one that Nick had often envied in their long time together.

He stopped again by the bed on his way to work, but Sean didn’t even flinch when Nick bent to kiss his shoulder lightly. Smiling, Nick grabbed his jacket and headed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You need a hand with that?"

Nick looked up, eyebrows lifted. "This? Nah, thanks, man, I got it covered."

Dave had his arms crossed, leaning against the table. "Well," he continued, "you were saying the other night about how the Dallas lab didn’t have this version of the software. I figured since we had a pretty tight deadline, you know."

"It’s okay." Nick forced a smile he hoped was friendly. "Spent a little quality time with the program a couple of days ago. Think I got it down now. But thanks."

"Suit yourself. Grissom’s strict about deadlines, though." Dave shrugged.

"I’ll watch my back."

After Dave walked away, Nick allowed himself a tired sigh. David Montoya was one less than sparkling aspect of the new job. Seemed to honestly know his stuff, which Nick respected, but from the moment he’d met the guy there seemed to be something else in the air. Nick wasn’t sure it had anything specifically to do with him – new-guy jitters, more than likely – but at the moment he’d take a cut in base pay just to have Dave stop watching over his shoulder all the time. Hell, even Grissom didn’t hang over him that much, and he was the one Nick really wanted to learn from.

"You’ll get used to him," a dry voice said from the doorway.

Nick looked around, and grinned. "You think?"

Catherine Willows nodded and strolled inside. "Dave’s got a little bit of a complex," she told him, making a face. "Good guy deep down, but lately, I dunno. Rumor has it he’s looking around for something else."

With the feeling he was stepping into a puddle whose depth he didn’t yet know, Nick nodded cautiously. "Wow. With all this stuff, why’d anybody want to work anywhere else?" He regretted how rah-rah brown-nose it sounded once it came out, but managed to keep his cool.

Catherine laughed. "Hey, I don’t disagree. Lots of toys, and smart people to boot." Her smile softened. "So settling in okay? How’s the house?"

"Good. Still need to do some unpacking, but it’s all right. Got the essentials."

"And work?"

Nick drew a careful breath. "I’m learning," he said after a moment. "Things are a little different. Not in a bad way," he added hastily. "Just, you know."

"Uh-huh." She grinned again. "I hear what you’re saying. But you’re doing great, Nick. Really."

"Thanks." He felt his face coloring with ridiculous pleasure. "It’s pretty fun."

"Good. Listen, Grissom wanted you to stop by when you get done with that."

Nick sat up straighter. "Oh. Okay."

"No rush. Relax. I gotta hit the road. Later."

"Later," he echoed.

Regardless of her words, he pushed it a little on the shirt fiber analysis. Hell, at least he knew fibers. Wasn’t that tough, just a little time-consuming. And he was damned if he’d make the man wait too long. Not this early in the game.

Tapping his fingers waiting for the printer to spit out his results, he found himself smiling. Catherine Willows was the polar opposite of Montoya. Personable, friendly, and let’s face it, if he didn’t bat for the other team he’d have probably lost his heart the first night at work. Beautiful, sure, but smart, and that combination was dynamite. Married, of course, but what the hell, so was he, for all intents and purposes. And he might be queer, but he certainly wasn’t blind, or stupid. Willows was just as intelligent as Montoya, and a hell of a lot easier to get along with to boot. He knew who he’d pick to accompany him if he had to go to a desert island for a while. He just hoped Grissom’s summons wasn’t another assignment with Montoya.

Test results in hand, he gathered up his nerve and went to Grissom’s office. Grissom was predictably on the phone, but motioned Nick to a chair. "Yeah, I’m about to leave. You mean there’s more?" He nodded and took off his glasses. Without the lenses his eyes were as blue as Sean’s, maybe moreso. "Okay, tell me."

While Grissom listened, Nick surreptitiously watched. Two weeks of working together hadn’t done much to mitigate what he admitted was kind of a fan-boy fascination. Grissom was just so goddamn cool. Not just brilliant, but cool. Nick had to resist pulling out the pocket tape recorder he’d used in college, just to catch the man’s every word.

When he realized he was staring, he made himself look around. Nothing really personal, like pictures of family or anything. Grissom’s office was packed with entomology crap, backing up the information Nick already had about the man’s particular passion. Nick didn’t share it, kind of found bugs sort of interesting in an offhand way but otherwise was pretty neutral, except cockroaches, which he silently loathed. Not that he was going to volunteer that one, considering the live ones marching around a tank over to the left. Okay, give him a dog any day over roaches, but whatever peeled your grapes, right?

He was studying a silkworm moth when Grissom finally hung up. Nick glanced over, smile at the ready.

"Nice work on the Andrews analysis," Grissom commented, stacking papers on his desk. "You learn that technique here or back in Dallas?"

Technique? Oh. "Dallas," Nick said. "Randy – Matthews, you know? He showed me that one last year."

"I’d probably have let the machine do it for me. Interesting to do it the old-fashioned way."

And was that a compliment or a slam? Nick had absolutely no idea, and Grissom’s face was completely unrevealing. He decided to take it as a sort of compliment, and nodded.

"We have two dead bodies in a house south of the city, outside town. You’re done with that?"

"Yeah. Want to see?"

"No. Drop it in Martinez’s box on the way out." He gave Nick’s attire a disparaging look. "You’ll need something warmer. We’ll be mostly outside."

"Got it."

He grabbed his jacket in the locker room after stowing his analysis results in Abe Martinez’s box. Okay, so some things Grissom wanted to see, and some he didn’t, and so far Nick had made out no particular pattern distinguishing between the two. Just random, which kept him on his toes in an uncomfortable sort of way.

Outside the lab Grissom glanced at him. "My car?"

Nick shrugged. "I’m without wheels tonight. Sorry."

"Not a problem."

Both inside and outside of Grissom’s car were immaculate. The sleek, fairly new Mercedes was undeniably cool, but it didn’t fit him, for some reason; Nick thought it was a questionable choice of vehicle in terms of taking it anywhere that might require off-road driving. But nice, certainly. He sat back in the sweetly comfortable passenger seat. "So what’s the case?"

"Double homicide, most likely. Unclear yet, but Abrams thinks that’s it."

Nick nodded. He’d only worked one DB in his short two weeks on Grissom’s team, and a flicker of tension zinged through his muscles. Grissom liked things a certain way. Nick just hoped he’d remember to go to point A before zigging off to point F or P.

After a few blocks Grissom cleared his throat. "You doing all right?"

Nick looked over at him. "Yeah. Yeah, doing fine. Thank you."

Another long, fairly uncomfortable silence, and then Grissom spoke again. "What made you decide to leave the police department and pursue forensics?"

Okay, he’d asked that same question during Nick’s interview, and Nick hadn’t liked answering it then. He sure didn’t feel like it now. He shrugged. "It’s a fascinating field," he told him evenly. "I was curious, talked to a few people. Then the position opened up, and I went for it."

"No regrets?"

"Nah. I really like it."

Grissom nodded, eyes steady on the road ahead of them. "Anyone else in your family in law enforcement?"

Jesus, it felt like his goddamn interview all over again. What was up with that? "In a manner of speaking. My mother is an assistant DA for Dallas County."

"Interesting. What does your father do?"

Here we go. Nick drew a long breath. "He’s a judge," he said slowly. "Two years ago he was appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court."

That got him a look, as he’d known it would. Had during his first interview, as well. Now Grissom acted like he hadn’t even heard him the first time. "A family of lawyers," he stated, sounding neutral. "Anyone else?"

"Well, my brother – Cabe – he works for the SEC down in Houston, so yeah. He did the lawyer thing. And Kathy. She’s a partner in a firm in Arlington. Tax law, I think. But that’s it." Nick forced a smile. "The rest of us strayed from the one true path, I guess."

"Rest? How many siblings do you have?"

"Uh. Six. One brother, five sisters."

"Ah."

And like a light being turned off, Grissom’s attention waned. Nick glanced ahead and saw several vehicles clustered up ahead in front of an isolated house, about a quarter of a mile. "This us?" he asked, lifting his chin.

"Evidently."

The two DBs were male, both dead of obvious close-range gunshot wounds. After getting the skinny from one of the sheriff’s guys, Nick busied himself with the camera, aware of Grissom here and there, dusting for prints, talking quietly with various people.

"Gotta be drug-related," one of the deputies declared. "We’ve been out here twice the past year with warrants. These guys are new, though. The other ones are in jail right now."

"Someone was unhappy with the merchandise?" Grissom asked.

The deputy shrugged. "Who knows? Bunch of goddamn scumbags, anyway."

One of the dead men looked young enough to still be in high school. His upturned staring face had a shaving cut on the chin, and Nick swallowed a surge of sadness while he focused the camera. What a waste. This kid oughta be flirting with girls and working part-time at the DQ, not lying here in a drying pool of blood and urine, a hole the size of Kansas in his left upper chest.

They wrapped up a few hours later. About a dozen distinct fingerprints, and no shortage of other forms of evidence. Nick straightened from his crouch near where the other man’s body had lain, and glanced at Grissom. "What now?"

Grissom tucked the latest evidence bag into his pocket. "Think we’re about done here. I don’t expect this will take too long, do you? We got lucky with trace evidence."

"Looks like it," Nick agreed. He shook his head. "What a waste."

"A form of social Darwinism," Grissom countered.

"I guess."

They drove back to the lab in silence. Once there Nick ducked into the fingerprint lab to run the prints. No problem finding a match: their two dead kids, plus four other positives, three of whom had drug records. Piece of cake.

He was in the fibers lab preparing a few slides when his cell phone rang.

"What time are you done?" Sean asked. Music played in the background, loud and thumping.

Nick tucked the phone between jaw and collarbone. "Not for a while. Where are you?"

"Satyricon."

"What’s that? A club?"

"Yeah. Why don’t you come over here when you get finished?"

"They’ll be closed by then."

Even over the music he could hear Sean’s sigh. "Damn."

Nick slid the fibers under the microscope and sighed, too. "Believe me, I’d rather be there," he added. Not absolutely, completely true, but at least partly. He told himself. "Why don’t you come get me for lunch?" he asked, knowing Sean wouldn’t.

Another sigh, and Sean said, "I can’t right now. There’s, you know. Stuff."

"Yeah, I know what kind of stuff. Would you promise me to call a cab if you get toasted? Don’t you have an interview tomorrow?"

"I’ll be okay. I gotta go."

"Love you."

"Love you."

He set the phone on the table and leaned forward to focus the microscope. And well, he sounded more like Sean’s mom than Sean’s lover there, but damn it, he needed that job. Rent was coming up, and the way things were going, they’d be choosing that over food for the next two weeks.

Thoughts of money faded away as he started processing the fibers he’d brought back. Screw it. If Sean wasn’t gonna worry, he wasn’t either. Right now there were bigger fish to fry, right here in River City.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Chapter Two

As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t really remember Nick Stokes’s interview all that clearly. What Gil did remember was the headache he’d had that day. One of the bad ones, one of the only times when he wished fervently to just take a sick day and have done with it. The headaches didn’t come often; once a year was fairly typical. But when they did, the pain was well-nigh unbearable.

But Stokes had come all the way from Dallas for the interview, and Gil couldn’t exactly ask him to come back sometime when his head didn’t hurt. Pills helped, and pills were what had gotten him through that morning. A week later, reviewing the candidates for the position, he sat shaking his head. All were comparable: bright, eager, dedicated, etc., etc. What made his choice for him were two things. First, Stokes had police experience, and that was an unexpected bonus. It had singled him out from the reams of resumes Gil had sorted through the previous three weeks.

But mostly it was the realization that Gil hadn’t really liked any of the other three. That he didn’t dislike Stokes essentially got him the job.

He didn’t share that rather embarrassing fact with anyone, of course. Hiring should be rigorous, serious, all that. And normally it was….but this time, well, he was strapped, shorthanded, and Stokes had all the necessary experience, plus a bit extra. He called the man that afternoon, and felt not even the tiniest flicker of recognition, hearing him speak. Had he even interviewed him? But there it was, on his calendar the previous week. Feeling a little disjointed, Gil trotted out his offer, and Stokes accepted on the spot.

It wasn’t until he reported for his first day of duty that Gil actually remembered him. And sitting at his desk, listening to that thick sweet Texas accent and watching Nick’s chiseled features, he felt another shock, this one more personal and even less comfortable than the earlier ones. How had he forgotten THIS?

At the end of that night’s shift, home again with a decidedly triple brandy in front of him, he thought that if nothing else, this was definite proof he was nowhere near up to snuff when his annual headaches struck. Because Nick Stokes was one of the most attractive men Gil could remember meeting in a very, very long time. Not a very professional observation, but one he felt sure he’d remember making if he’d been at all in proper form during the interview.

Handsome didn’t really matter, of course; Nick could have had a face like the proverbial mud fence and Gil would probably have made the same decision. Almost certainly, since he didn’t remember him anyway. And it wasn’t a feeling he was particularly proud of, that immediate, intense awareness of Nick’s presence.

So after some initial discussion, a tour, this and that, he handed off most of Nick’s orientation to Catherine, and retreated to his office with a feeling of mingled relief and regret. Relief, because, well, Nick made him uncomfortable. Regret? That, too.

A month after Nick began working at the lab, Gil had come to a decision. Libidos were best checked at the office door. He’d never conducted an affair with a colleague, and he had no intention of changing that habit at this late date. Never mind that Nick pinged Gil’s rusty gaydar so wildly he felt as if he were in a bad submarine movie. It didn’t matter. Work was work, and relationships were relationships, and ne’er the twain would meet, at least where he was concerned.

A noble sentiment. And one to which he held fast, for all of roughly two days.

If only the guy weren’t so goddamn hot.

"I got a knife, and some blood."

Gil flinched and glanced over, wishing he’d brought his glasses. Nick gave him a fast, oblique look, no expression at all. "Under the bed," he continued evenly. He was already taking a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.

"Our missing kitchen knife?" Gil asked slowly.

"That’d be my guess."

Nick hunkered back down and reached under the bed, and Gil bit his lip savagely to cut off any mute remarks about the spectacularly nice fit of Nick’s khaki trousers. Instead he turned, facing the man blustering in between two uniformed cops. "Care to explain how this got there, sir?"

Nicholson made a face. "How in the fuck should I know? Like I said, I was gone until about two hours ago." His cheeks got redder.

Gil shrugged. "It does seem pretty careless. Killing your girlfriend and doing such a good job of hiding her body, and then stowing the murder weapon under your bed?"

"Look, I ain’t stupid," Nicholson spat, going a little purple now. He licked his lips. "You think I’m stupid? I told you, I was at the bar. What, you want me to prove it?"

"Wouldn’t hurt."

"Fine. Go over there, knock yourself out. Musta been fifty people there, and they all saw me. Ask Trish, she’s the waitress."

Gil nodded. "We will."

Even before he turned away he’d pretty much decided Nicholson, as repellant as he was personally, was probably telling the truth. Which meant they were short a suspect in Alice Chambers’ murder, and what had appeared to be an easy case might not be so much.

"Bound to be at least some partials," Nick remarked, studying the knife through the clear plastic of the evidence bag. "I mean, it’s a start."

Gil nodded. "I’ll start on the bathroom."

"Cool." Nick ducked back under the bed.

Two long hours later they were done, and the reality of his girlfriend’s death had evidently sunk in for Nicholson; he looked as if someone had given him a right jab straight to the kidneys. The alibi was legit. He’d been holding down a bar stool until nine, which gave him absolutely no time to have gotten home for the killing. Gil paused on his way out. "I apologize for the questions, Mr. Nicholson," he said formally. "It’s procedure."

"Yeah, well, fuck your procedure," Nicholson retorted in a choked voice. "Who the fuck killed my girl? That’s what I wanna know."

Gil nodded. "So do I."

With Nick at his heels he made his way through the small clot of lookie-loos and unlocked the car. Inside it was mercifully quiet, and he got them onto the highway before Nick spoke.

"Any theories?"

Gil shook his head. "Not yet. Have to see what her background check turns up, which might be tomorrow." He glanced over. "Thoughts?"

"Wasn’t premeditated. That knife under the bed? Somebody freaked, beat it out of there." Nick sounded just like a cop then, his tone bland and impersonal. "My money? Old boyfriend, ex-husband, something like that."

It was exactly what Gil was thinking as well, and he nodded before turning his attention back to the road.

A mile or so from the lab, Nick’s cell phone rang. His voice was still distant as he answered, but his next words were far warmer. "Hey. Yeah, I was wondering. I thought you’d call me before now. How’d it go?" He turned slightly away, face to the window. "Really? Excellent. Yeah, I hope so, too. Did they talk salary? Okay. When did they say they’d call? Huh. Yeah. No, I’m working, I gotta go. I’ll call you in a little while, okay? Love you."

Hanging up, Nick turned a quick glance Gil’s direction. "Sorry. You know."

Gil made himself nod. "No problem. Girlfriend?"

"No, that’s –"

He cut off when another phone rang, Gil’s this time. The ensuing conversation with Barnes, the detective working Alice Chambers’ murder, took them to the lab’s front door, and it didn’t occur to Gil until later to think that Nick had denied having a girlfriend, but hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, this is gonna be fun."

Gil listened to Catherine sigh, and nodded. "Looks like it."

"I’ve heard of partying until you drop, but this is taking it a little too far."

"Agreed."

The sidewalk outside the club was jammed with people waiting with little patience to be allowed inside. The cops looked flustered, and Gil caught one of them glancing at his watch. "Any day now, okay?" the man called, and Gil resisted the urge to flip him off.

"We got the call fifteen minutes ago. What do you want, for us to beam over here?" Catherine shot back anyway, and the cop had enough grace to look a little sheepish.

Just inside the door, Jim Brass looked pissed, and Gil mentally girded himself for whatever rotten mood the man was in tonight. But when he got there Brass just gave a tired shrug. "OD, probably. Kid’s right over there." He lifted his chin in the direction of the bar.

"His friends?"

"That’d be the other bar." This time Brass pointed left.

"Make sure they don’t go anyplace."

"Really? You think?"

Someone had probably turned the music down, since it didn’t actually feel as if Gil’s ears had started to bleed walking inside. But there were plenty of people on the lower level, a few gawking at the spectacle, most of them keeping right on with the drinking and dancing. Gil did a double-take when he noticed the same-sex pairings. "Is this a gay bar?" he asked Catherine, who nodded absently.

"Hasn’t been here very long. Before, it was the Odeon." She brushed past him, gazing at the crumpled body by the bar. "Damn, if this kid is 21 I’m RuPaul."

The boy did look perishingly young – emphasis on the "perish," Gil thought glumly – and very dead. His lips were covered with white foam. One tightly clenched hand held a purple sheet of paper.

Hunkering down, Gil raised his eyebrows at Brass, who’d tailed them over. "Did his friends tell you what he was taking?"

"Predictably enough, they disavow any knowledge of controlled substances." Brass shrugged. "Hell, he could have scored it here. Plenty of opportunities. What do you think? Ecstasy?"

"Maybe. But I think something else." Gil frowned at the boy’s hands. "Did he have a seizure?"

"Not sure. Have to talk to the friends. They saw the whole thing."

Gil nodded. When he stood, Catherine frowned at him. "You got that look."

"Which look?" he asked, scanning the low, wide room for the cluster of friends he’d glimpsed earlier.

"The one that says you think you know what this is."

"Well, I don’t. But I don’t think it was ecstasy."

"That helps."

The friends were exclusively male, and uniformly shocked-looking. One of them, a tall young man with at least the appearance of being over the legal drinking age, shook his head at Gil’s approach. "He didn’t take anything," he said in a shaky voice. His tense expression was adamant. "He didn’t do that shit. None of us do."

Gil nodded slowly. "Tell me what happened?"

"Nothing happened!" burst out a boy with a shock of artificially blond hair. His eyes were red and puffy, and he looked about a step from bursting into new tears. "Nothing! We were standing there at the bar, you know, he was getting a coke. And he just got all funny, and then he fell over and started shaking all over." The blond boy drew a hitching breath. "And then he just stopped."

"And he wasn’t taking anything? That you know of?"

The first boy shook his head. "Ryan hated drugs. He was like, the last person who’d do that. No way."

Catherine nodded. "What about other things? Did he have any history of seizures that you know of? Anything you can think of that might explain what happened?"

"He was fine." The boy put his arm around the blond, who was now sobbing again. "He said he had a headache earlier, but he was fine. I mean, majorly pumped, really. Excited."

"Stick around a little bit?" Gil asked. "We might have some more questions."

"Okay."

"And?" Catherine asked Gil, when they walked away. "What’s your theory?"

"Frankly? I have no idea."

"Previously healthy kid? Falls over with a seizure and dies? Gotta be a reason."

"There is. We just don’t have it yet."

They watched Ronnie and some new guy load up Ryan Martinez’s body, and Gil shook his head. "Not much we can do now. We’ll wait for the toxicology report."

"Still could be foul play."

"Maybe. But I doubt it." He looked at the door and scowled. "They’re already letting people in again?"

From several yards away Brass caught Gil’s glare and held up his hands.

Catherine touched Gil’s elbow. "Hey, isn’t that Nick?"

"Where?"

"Coming in, right there. Oh man. I know a couple of lab techs who are gonna be SO disappointed."

"Why?"

"Female ones."

Still not seeing the man in question, Gil nodded absently. The music was already cranking up louder. "Okay."

"And who’s that with him?"

This time he looked. And it was Nick, except Nick had never, ever worn anything like that in Gil’s experience. No, definitely not work attire.

The man in question glanced their way, eyes widening. Then Nick was walking over, beaming.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" he yelled over the music.

"Work," Catherine screamed back. She gave Nick a brief hug. "Okay, you HAVE to wear those to work," she added, giving the skin-tight leather pants an appreciative look. "I will PAY you to wear them to work. Please?"

Nick threw back his head and laughed, looking so relaxed and happy he was almost a stranger. And in those clothes he nearly was: the black pants, and a tee shirt so tight it appeared spray-painted on.

He looked good. No, revise that, Gil thought with a slightly dizzy feeling. He looked fantastic. He looked –

Gil swallowed and made himself smile when Nick grinned at him. "Y’all need any help?" Nick asked loudly.

"That’s okay," Gil yelled. "We’re just about done here."

A man walked up behind Nick. The person Catherine was referring to earlier, no doubt. Gil felt his eyebrows raising. The man was tall – 6’3", maybe taller – and just as good-looking as Nick. Not quite as suggestively dressed, in jeans and a blue shirt. A swoop of light brown hair over a clean-featured face, great bones, and clear blue eyes. The guy’s smile was a lot less open than Nick’s, but then he probably didn’t yet know who they were. Gil felt his own smile faltering.

The man touched Nick’s waist, and the smile went away entirely.

"Oh, hey." Nick grinned dopily at them. "This is Sean. Sean Barton, my partner. Sean, this is Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows. We work together."

Sean’s handshake was firm and dry, his gaze briefly assessing. "Nice to meet you," he bellowed, wincing.

"We gotta go!" Catherine told them, shaking her head. "We’ll see you later, okay?"

"Okay!" Nick agreed. Then Sean was pulling him away by the hand, threading them through the thickening crowd.

Outside Catherine waited for Gil to catch up. "Well, that confirms a few suspicions," she said, giving him a rueful smile.

"About Nick?" Gil led the way over to his car, fishing for his keys.

"I mean, damn. Not only is he gay, but he’s taken. Sad day for men and women both."

Gil forced a smile before he climbed into the car.

But later, waiting at a red light, he felt his teeth clenching. So the old gaydar wasn’t out of service after all. Not that it mattered. Nick might be a great coworker and stunningly handsome, but he was spoken for. By some guy much younger than Gil and pretty much Nick’s equal in the looks department.

So he could relax now, right? Looking was all he’d be doing, and that was that.

He did his best to listen to Catherine’s running commentary on Nick and his GQ boyfriend, and tried to ignore the flavor of frustrated regret in his mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

Catherine bought him a drink to celebrate roughly six months on the job. He thought privately that it might just have been her reluctance to go home yet that prompted her to do it, but he wasn’t complaining. He didn’t have that much to look forward to, either, not to put too fine a point on it.

"So how’s Sean?" Cath asked, taking a healthy swig of her Bloody Mary.

"Fine. He’s good."

Catherine’s expression was faintly sour. "I bet he is. Did he go to work yesterday?"

Shifting a little, Nick shrugged. "I assume he did. He’s writing, though, and Carol said he can flex his hours when things are going strong."

"Nick –"

"It’s okay, Catherine," he interrupted, forcing a smile. "Really."

"It’s not. Really. You’re working your ass off." Her eyes had a hard sheen to them. "How long has he been working on that thing? Two years? Three?"

Four, Nick thought about saying. Closer to four and a half, actually. Instead he kept his smile with effort and shrugged again. "It’ll be worth waiting for." He let the smile go with relief. "How’s Eddie?"

Well, if it wasn’t exactly his most cavalier moment, it at least shifted the harsh spotlight from the shortcomings of his personal life to hers. Her expression grew predictably opaque. "Good. He’s going to Palm Springs today. They got a gig."

"You going with him?"

"You’re kidding, right?"

"Well, I mean."

"No," she said crisply. "I’m not going with him." She bit off the end of her celery stick and chewed, gazing at him. "You know," she said suddenly. "If this is a contest, I’m not sure who’s winning. Me or you."

Nick smiled faintly. "Me either." He drank the rest of his beer and set the mug on the table. "I gotta go, Cath. Thanks for the beer."

"Is it that time already?" She glanced at her watch.

"I told Joe I’d go in early today. Relax. Have something to eat."

She nodded. "Maybe I’ll do that. Don’t work too hard, okay? Damn it, you gotta sleep sometime."

"I’ll be okay."

Getting into his car, he wondered about that last for a second before pushing it away. Circumstances had conspired to place him squarely in the middle of morning rush hour, which Nick personally thought was the mother of all misnomers, considering the crawling speed of the traffic. Sitting behind an enormous F250, he put the car in neutral and rubbed his eyes.

It wasn’t as if there were no other options. He could think of one. Only trouble was, it was called chapter 11, and he was double- and triple-damned if he’d fuck his credit rating for the foreseeable future, all because of a few whopping credit-card bills. Well, and a few other things. Expensive things. The car had died two months ago, and there was no way he could start payments on a new one. Easier to get this one fixed, although that right there had taken most of a paycheck. With Nick driving their one vehicle pretty much all the time, that left Sean to fend for himself for his sporadic trips to the store for work – and fending meant cabs, all too often.

"Just take the bus," Nick had said, with positively angelic patience, he thought. But Sean’s head was already shaking, his upper lip curled expressively.

"Bus system sucks."

"Ride a damn bike then."

Sean just sort of laughed at that, but right now Nick didn’t find it very funny. Sean’s free-for-all spending habits were a big part of what had landed them here in the first place.

Well, revise that, now that there was no one around to know anyway. Sean’s spending was entirely the reason Nick’s bank account was as dustily empty as his wallet these days. To Sean, the money would just somehow…appear. It always had, it always would.

Thing was, the money appeared because Nick earned it. Sean’s tiny paychecks from the bookstore were hardly worth considering. And it was for that reason that Nick had gone to work for Joe Youroukelis almost exactly a month ago today. Almost exactly the same time that Nick’s sleep had been reduced to about two hours a day, and his free time shrunk to pretty much zero.

Sean hated it, of course. Nick wasn’t home enough before he’d taken a second job; now? Ships that passed in the goddamn night. The last time they’d had sex was two weeks ago, and Nick was so tired then that it was strictly going through the motions. His libido was nonexistent, and not helped by the fact that he wasn’t all that happy with Sean.

He put the car in gear and inched forward, mouthing a curse when traffic stalled again less than a block further. Right, not all that happy. Try sincerely UNhappy, even if he tried his damndest not to show it in front of anyone. Until death do us part and all that, and he really did believe that, except that his own death certificate was going to say "expired due to morbid exhaustion," and that would probably be next month. He was so tired he barely knew which way was up, and maybe it hadn’t cost him at the lab yet, not too much. But it would eventually. Sure as night follows day.

Catherine hadn’t been very impressed when Nick explained to her one night last week. "So he’s a writer," was her flat reply. "So?"

"His first novel was really well received." Nick manufactured a smile for her, but it was the truth. Sean’s first novel, Enter Screaming, had won not one but three awards for best debut mystery the year it was published, including a Lambda, and even got a Book Club listing. None of that meant huge sales, but there’d been two reprints, and a contract for three more novels by 2002.

Only problem was, Sean hadn’t finished that second novel. Unlike the first, which Nick had read in all its various iterations before Sean nervously submitted it to the publishing firm that ended up buying it, this second novel was seemingly eternally in-progress. He talked about writing, spent time at his computer, but he’d been doing that for a very long time, and Nick had yet to see a single chapter.

"I’m not ready to show it to you," Sean said the only time Nick had mentioned it recently, about three months ago.

Nick had been honestly surprised. "Sean, I love your writing. Man, you’re awesome. And I’m dying to see it. Come on. Just show me the first chapter? I mean, I’m dying here."

He’d seen that Sean was pleased at that, but there was something else there, too, something furtive and uncomfortable. It had taken quite a bit more prodding and two more beers before Sean had finally said, "I feel like everyone’s waiting for this one to flop. Sophomore slump. They’re waiting for it to suck, Nicky."

"Who’s waiting? I mean, waiting, sure, but not because they hope it’s gonna suck. I know it won’t."

It got him another smile, but the uneasy light in Sean’s beautiful eyes hadn’t disappeared. Not that night, and not any time since. And now Nick was starting to have thoughts he truly hated. Thoughts about what Sean was really writing. Thoughts like wondering if there was any second novel at all.

He made it to the restaurant after almost twice as much drive time as he usually needed. Joe was working tables himself, which was never a good sign. Nick caught his harried eye and sighed while he went into the back to grab an apron. So, back to college. Waiting tables, even if Joe’s diner was on the upscale side. This close to the Strip, business was always good, and Joe’s food was worth the money. Tips were good to excellent. Some days Nick took home more than twice what he calculated he earned in a day at the lab. Talk about nuts: earning more slinging Greek-American grub on a table than he did working with thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment and considerable education as a CSI. But there you had it.

"If you were not a man I would kiss you," Joe muttered as he pelted by, heading for his customary haven in the kitchen.

"If I were a woman I’d still belt you," Nick shot after him, and gave a pleasant smile to the retired-looking couple at #4. "Hi there, I’m Nick. You want some time to look at the menus first? How about some coffee?"

"I think we’re ready to order." The man exchanged glances with his wife before holding up a tattered red menu. "Do you have a senior special?"

Nick took out his pad of paper. "You bet, right there on the back." He took out his pen and forced himself to keep on smiling. Work it, baby. Those tips don’t earn themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"All I’m saying is, it costs a lot of money. Okay?"

Sean’s lips were tight with annoyance. "And all I’m saying," he snapped, "is that if we don’t get another car I’m going to lose my mind."

Nick nodded crisply. "Okay. So drive me to work again, and we’re set."

"And pick you up at seven. And take you back at –"

"Hey, you don’t like it? Go full-time at the bookstore."

Sean heaved himself out of the chair, sighing. "You know what? All you ever talk about is money. All the time, money money money. I mean, I’m sick of hearing about how we don’t have any money and you’re working 24/7!"

"Well, welcome to my world, Sean," Nick said tightly. "But if I don’t work 24/7 we’ll be living in that car, not just taking turns driving it. You know?"

Sean shook his head and stomped to the refrigerator. Beer in hand, he wheeled around again. "You promised me you wouldn’t do this," he said, gesturing with the unopened bottle. "Remember? You told me you wouldn’t pull this shit."

"Pull WHAT shit? Sean, it’s this or starve to death!"

"You said." Sean swallowed audibly. His face had gone very pale. It had the effect of somehow making him look even more handsome. "In Dallas, you said, ‘Your writing is your gift, Sean. It’s special, it’s more than special. And that’s what you have to do. I will support you in any way I can. But you have to write.’ You remember? You said that. You did."

Gazing at him, Nick nodded slowly. "Yeah. I said that."

Sean’s mouth worked for a moment. "You said, ‘I’ll work two jobs if I have to. But you have to write.’" He sat down again, thumping the beer bottle on the table and ignoring it. "So was that true, or was that just bullshit?"

"Christ." Nick closed his eyes briefly, and then looked at him. "It wasn’t bullshit," he said slowly. "I meant it. You’re a fantastic writer. You always were."

"And the part about two jobs, well, I guess that was just heat of the moment, right?"

Damn Sean and his eidetic memory. Nick leaned forward and covered Sean’s hand with his own. "No, it wasn’t. I meant that, too."

"I’m gonna finish." Sean’s hand was still, not turning palm to palm as Nick had hoped. "I know you don’t believe that, but I will. And I’ll get the rest of the advance. I’m not a deadbeat."

Nick nodded. "I’m not saying you are, Sean –"

"I mean, working at that store, it’s sucking the LIFE out of me. Those people, I want this, do you have that, and half the time – more than half – they can’t tell Kerouac from Tolstoy, you know? Idiots. It’s like half my brain is gone every day. I can’t write like that. I can’t."

He hated Sean’s phenomenal memory, but he hated this creeping guilt-feeling even more. Because it was true: Sean was a fantastic writer. Enter Screaming had cost Nick more than one night’s sleep, he was so creeped out, and if Sean’s agent wasn’t just blowing smoke, that movie adaptation wasn’t too far in the future. When that happened? They’d be in solid green clover.

"So let’s compromise," Nick said gently, sliding his hand under Sean’s and lacing their fingers together. "Okay?"

Sean looked as if he were one step from crying. "How?"

"We gotta tighten our belts. If you need more time to write, I want you to have it, and I mean that." He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. "I do mean that. But we can’t get the other car. We gotta share this one."

Sean nodded slowly. "Okay."

"And honey, you gotta stop spending without writing it down. We can do it on what I earn, but we gotta know where the money’s going. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not the work, Sean, it’s not. I swear. But just because I’m earning more doesn’t mean we can spend more. It doesn’t work that way."

A ripple of annoyance crossed Sean’s features. "I know that. I’m not an idiot."

"I didn’t say you were. But you and money, Sean, it’s like a marriage made in hell."

"I don’t spend THAT much." Mulishly.

"It’s enough, okay? It adds up."

"So what are you gonna do? Give me an allowance?"

Meeting Sean’s snapping eyes, Nick shook his head. "Of course not. Damn it, you know that’s not what I mean."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." Sean made a frustrated grimace. "That was just bitchy. Sorry."

"Yes, it was, but hey. I understand it, okay? Jesus, I wish you didn’t have to work. I wish I could make this all happen for you. But I can’t, you know? You gotta do part of it, too."

Sean nodded slowly. "I will. I promise, I just -- Living here, and you’re always gone. It’s not what I thought it would be."

Another spasm of tired guilt tensed Nick’s stomach. "Then let’s make it better," he urged, squeezing Sean’s hand. "Let’s get out of this goddamn financial black hole, and I can quit the diner, and we can have a real life, okay? It won’t always be like this. I know it won’t. We just have to watch it for a while. That’s all."

"Why do you put up with me?" Sean whispered. His full mouth had gone tight, blue eyes searching.

"Because I love you, damn it. Don’t you GET that?" Nick coughed a strangled laugh, shaking his head. "That’s why."

"I love you, too."

"You better." Nick grinned, and waited for that beautiful smile to curve Sean’s mouth. "Because you’re stuck with me."

Chapter Four

"Is it just me, or are we short tonight?"

Gil glanced at Catherine and shrugged. "Dave called in. And don’t ask me where Nick is. I have no idea."

She walked inside, hands in her pockets. "He’ll be here. What’s up with Dave?"

"He says he’s ill. I suspect a raging case of the blue flu." Gil leaned back, tapping his fingers with a pencil. "You’ve heard about him hunting for a new job, I suppose?"

"He isn’t exactly chummy with me these days." Catherine canted one hip against a chair. "Think he’s found something else?"

"Not sure." He’d drawn a breath to add something caustic when Nick skidded up to the door.

"I’m here, I’m here." Face flushed, Nick ducked his head. "Sorry I’m late. Won’t happen again."

"Everything okay?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I was just running late. Man."

Frowning, Gil took in the bags under Nick’s eyes. "You’re not sick, are you?"

"No way." Nick gave him a fast grin. "Good to go."

"Well, we’re short Dave, so we could all be working solo tonight."

Catherine fidgeted. "Didn’t you say you were about to hire someone new? Or did I dream that?"

Gil glanced at her. "Hoping to, as soon as the paperwork clears. But he won’t be much help right off the bat. I need Dave." He shrugged. "Nick, you feel like some overtime?"

Something unreadable flickered across Nick’s tired features, but he nodded. "Any time."

"Until we get some more help around here we may all be racking up the hours."

Both Nick and Catherine nodded this time.

As it happened, the night was pretty godawful. He and Nick went out to have a look at a burglary-turned-robbery-turned unexpected triple homicide, and that ate up a giant chunk of the night. Enough work for all four CSIs at once, except Catherine was out on a missing-child case that would probably get much more publicity tomorrow than the robbery, and Dave -- Well.

Sometime around four, he took a breather and slumped down next to the car. Christ, he was tired. God damn Dave for crapping out on them tonight. It would be easier sometime in the near future, if Warrick really could come on board. The verdict was still out on that, the sheriff still digesting Brown’s fairly checkered past. But no question the new position wasn’t just needed, but vital; they had more than they could handle, nearly every night, and there was only so much overtime anyone could expect of a handful of people. Catherine had a family to think of. Dave, too. Nick, well, a partner, at least, which meant everyone had outside responsibilities except himself, and he was only one person.

They needed Warrick. Hell, they needed Dave, and Gil was braced every evening for the guy’s letter of resignation. If he’d just hold out until Gil had Warrick up and running, they might make it. Just. But if not….

He glanced to his left, and saw Nick trudging through the brush outside the house. Kid looked worn out, and Gil sucked a deep breath and stood up, resisting the impulse to give a big sigh. Not the world’s greatest example to set.

Nick caught sight of him and walked over. "More cigarette butts," he announced, dangling a baggie in one hand. "And more shoe prints."

"Good. Are we about wrapped up here?"

Nick nodded. "Far as I can tell. You?"

"Let me speak with Jim."

Brass muttered something peevish at him that didn’t seem to outright forbid them from leaving, so Gil gathered up his kit and collected evidence samples and stowed them in the trunk of the Mercedes. Out on the highway, he drew a breath to comment on the case and let the air out, wordlessly. Nick’s head lolled on the headrest, mouth slightly open. He was sound asleep.

Gil frowned. They were all tired, but this was a little extreme. He nibbled his lower lip for a couple of miles, and then sighed. Sleep tomorrow, Nicky, tonight we’re still on the clock. He reached out and shook Nick’s shoulder gently. "Nick. Nicky. Wake up."

Nick shot bolt upright in his seat, blinking rapidly. "Oh shit," he said in a thick voice. "M’sorry. Didn’t mean to do that."

Gil gave him a mild nod. "You should rest as much as you can, off the clock. I’m not sure what kind of hours we’ll be working at the moment, but we could be pretty late."

He heard Nick swallow. "I’m really sorry." He sounded almost tearful. "Man, that shouldn’t have happened. It won’t again, I swear to God. I was just –" He shut up, shaking his head.

"What?" Gil asked, when nothing else was forthcoming.

"Didn’t get enough sleep," Nick said vaguely. His gaze was fixed on the view outside the front window, but his cheeks were red even in the glancing light from the lamps along the street.

"Anything going on?"

"No. No, everything’s fine." Nick produced a fast smile.

Gil nodded. "Good."

Back at the lab it was the same bustle as always, and he was immersed in shoe-print analysis when Catherine poked her head in. "Breakfast? I got burritos."

Gil looked up, blinking. "Sure."

They ate in the break room, watching the majority of the night crew trickling out, the early birds on Conrad’s detail walking in. Nick was nowhere to be seen.

"Gil, we really do need some help." Catherine wiped her mouth daintily on a paper napkin, and sipped some coffee. "You want me to talk to Brass?"

Gil finished chewing a bite of potato and egg, and shook his head. "I already have. He’s aware of things." He set the burrito on his napkin. "Nick actually fell asleep in the car this morning. I wish he would temper his lifestyle a little. I need both of you firing on all cylinders."

Catherine stared at him. "Temper his lifestyle?" she echoed. "Gil, Nick –" She paused. "You don’t know, do you? He didn’t tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Nick had to take a second job. He’s working the lunch shift at the Sage Diner."

Gil blinked, sitting back a little. "He what?"

"He and Sean have some serious bills, evidently." Her expression turned sour. "No, wait. You want the truth? Nick’s partner is a goddamn freeloader. Nick would smack me for saying it, but that’s the truth. Sean works about ten hours a week in a pissant bookstore, and the rest of the time -- Hell, I dunno. He’s a writer." She uttered the words with withering contempt. "He published a book once, something."

Floundering, Gil shook his head. Sean was a writer? "You mean -- Nick is working another full-time job ON TOP of the lab?"

"Now you see why he fell asleep."

"Jesus, Catherine, that’s insane! What -- What kind of bills could they have that he’d have to do that?"

She shook her head and took another bite of her burrito. "Wondered that myself. School, maybe? Just living expenses, I don’t know. I mean, money goes through Eddie’s fingers like water, but we make out okay. Most of the time. I’m sure as hell not waiting tables." She gave him a direct look. "I think," she added slowly, "things may not be all that good right now. For Nick. So maybe – bear that in mind. Okay?"

Gil picked up his burrito but didn’t take a bite. "How long has he been doing this?" he asked finally, still shocked.

"Couple of months, I think. Me and Eddie went over there one day for lunch. Saw him. So I got some of the story."

"Does he need a raise? For God’s sake, I can at least see what I can do. But this –"

"Raise wouldn’t hurt any of us," Catherine quipped, but her smile faded fast. "Yeah, that would help, if you can swing it. I’m sure. Arranging for Sean to actually grow up would be even better, though." She wadded up the foil burrito wrapper and tossed it in the trash. "Sorry. I like Sean, you know? I mean, I think lots of people do, until you figure out he’s thirty-one going on twelve."

Gil nodded slowly. His own appetite had vanished. "You said he’s a writer?"

"Wrote some novel a while back. I mean, from what Nick says it was pretty good. But Sean’s supposed to do more, and I think Nick’s afraid he’s stalling."

Gazing at her, Gil nodded again.

~~~~~~~~

At home, he stood motionless for a long moment before frowning and walking over to the north bookcase. He wasn’t a big fiction reader most of the time; had been, at one point, but his interest in fiction had waned over the years, and these days he bought maybe two or three novels a year, at the most. And those he sometimes didn’t read until months had passed.

But something had crystallized in his head, the moment he realized Nick’s Sean was a writer. Familiar name, in that nagging way that said he’d seen it but not very recently. He squatted, knees popping loudly, and ran his finger along the spines of the books. Few mysteries; had enough of those at work. When he did read fiction it was usually political thrillers, the occasional work of nominally literary horror. Hard to predict what would catch his eye, although favorable comments from friends didn’t hurt.

He found it on the third shelf down. Sean Barton. Enter Screaming.

Mouth dry, Gil drew the book out. He remembered this, remembered the cover. Almost two years since he’d read it, and it had been worth rereading, if he’d been able to face the bone-chilling bleakness of the plot resolution again. No last-minute heroics here; Barton had been merciless, and Gil remembered feeling he shouldn’t get too attached to any one character. Not even the protagonist, since the present tense meant even that man wasn’t necessarily safe.

Enter Screaming had won the Lambda for mystery fiction, that year. Explained how Gil had first heard of it. He took the book over to the couch and sat down, flipping through the first few pages. He stopped short at the dedication.

"For Nick. My own David, without the sparrows."

Sparrows had featured prominently in the book. Harbingers of doom, according to folklore. And David, Gil remembered, was the protagonist’s lover.

He shut the book and sat back. So Nick’s partner wasn’t just a writer, but a published writer, an award-winning writer. And from the look of things, Nick was supporting Barton, less muse than patron of the literary arts.

A flicker of dull anger curled in his belly. So who supported Nick in all this? No question that Sean was talented. But from all appearances Nick was working himself into the ground, and there was no second novel yet. What was the holdup?

He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten. Nick was working the lunch shift.

What the hell. The Sage offered a mean omelet. Not particularly hungry, but he could fake it.

It was half past before he walked in. The diner was about a third full; late for the breakfast crowd, and lunch was at least half an hour away for most people. Gil nodded at a blonde girl taking an order at a booth, and slipped into a chair at a two-top.

He didn’t see Nick, and for a moment he thought maybe Catherine had the wrong diner. But then he appeared, carrying a tray with four heavily laden plates. The food went to the table across the room, giving Gil a chance to brace himself.

And take in Nick’s appearance. Dressed in a green tee shirt with the Sage logo over the heart, rumpled khaki pants. Standard waiter garb, no surprises. But Nick’s professionally amiable expression was exhausted. He might be a good waiter – probably was – but no one would miss the fact that he was very, very tired.

Gil watched Nick check in with the folks at the next table, and then turn to glance over in his direction. Nick’s smile faded into a look of utter surprise.

Gil forced a smile. "Hey, Nick."

Nick wiped his hands on a towel as he walked over. "Hey, Grissom. What brings you here?"

"The western omelet, for one."

Nick nodded slowly and took out an order pad. "That’s a good choice." He swallowed visibly. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure. Can we talk?"

The shocked look faded into caution. "Okay. Is – something wrong?"

Gil drew a long breath. "I wasn’t aware until this morning that you’d had to take a second job," he said carefully. "I was – surprised."

Nick shrugged. "We gotta do what we gotta do." He shifted a little, glancing over Gil’s head as the bell dangling from the front door sounded. "Listen, I get a break in a little while. Can we talk then?"

"Sure," Gil agreed softly.

"Cool."

It was more like an hour, and a truly excellent omelet and several cups of coffee, before Nick finally doffed his white apron and walked over. He slung himself into the other chair and produced a faint smile. "Sorry. Busy."

"Tips any good here?"

"Pretty good. So what’s up?"

Seeing the stubborn thrust of Nick’s jaw, Gil nodded. He laid a twenty on the table and pushed his chair away. "Outside?"

Nick nodded shortly. "Okay." He tucked the twenty and the ticket in the pocket of his apron and followed Gil’s lead.

Outside the temperature had risen steeply, and Gil went to the shade by the parking lot before facing Nick again. "I can get you a raise, Nick," he said, shaking his head. "You’re going to kill yourself working these hours. Why didn’t you say something?"

"What was I supposed to say? ‘I’m broke, Grissom, gimme more cash?’" Nick snorted. "It’s okay. Don’t worry about it."

"I do worry about it. I need you at 100%, Nick, not – sixty, or fifty, or thirty." Gil sighed. "You look exhausted."

Nick shifted, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I’m all right. It’s just temporary. You know, until Sean gets done."

"Another novel?"

Nick nodded, eyes widening slightly. "You know he’s a writer?"

"I read his first novel. It was very good."

Nick smiled and kept nodding. "Right. Wasn’t it? Spectacular. I mean, he’s so talented, Grissom. Just knocks me out."

Gil fought down a spasm of irrational anger. "Yes, he’s talented," he agreed soberly. "But how long can you keep going like this? Burning the candle at both ends? In our line of work you can’t afford to let your guard down, Nick, not for long. You know that."

"Is this because I fell asleep last night?" Nick flushed, looking away. "That’s not gonna happen again. I swear. Okay?"

"This isn’t about you falling asleep. Or not completely. It’s about you working two jobs and getting no rest." Unable to resist, Gil added, "I hope Sean is at least working, too."

Nick’s expression visibly closed off. "He works," he snapped. "It’s none of your business, man. I mean, come on."

Gil nodded slowly. "You’re right. But it is my business to make sure that my people are at their best. And you’re not, Nick. I don’t want to meddle in your personal life. But I also don’t want to find out you’ve missed something critical because you were too tired to see it."

"Jesus." Now Nick’s face morphed into a look all too easy to interpret. Pure dreadful anxiety. "Are you firing me?"

"Of course not," Gil said immediately. "Don’t be absurd."

Nick sagged a little, shaking his head. "I swear I’m not gonna screw things up," he said breathlessly. "I mean, I’m fine, I just –"

"What if I could give you regular overtime? Pick up a few extra shifts? Would that help?"

Nick blinked at him. "At the lab?"

"Yes, at the lab. We’re short-handed as it is. Brass can budget for it. It’d still be long hours, but at least you’d spend them at one place. Would that mean you didn’t have to wait tables?"

"I don’t –" Nick broke off, clearly flummoxed. "Maybe." But he was nodding. "Yeah, I mean, probably. You’d do that?"

"Well, aside from the raise I really wouldn’t be doing that much. The overtime’s pretty much a given these days, if you want the truth. And you’re due for a raise anyway."

"Still." Nick nodded slowly. "That’s really cool of you," he said slowly. "Thank you."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "This mean you’ll go home and sleep?"

"Well, I gotta give Joe some notice. But yeah." Nick produced an awkward, luminous smile. "Yeah, it should."

"Good enough. I hope to have a new hire for us soon, as well, so maybe in a few weeks we’ll have everything squared away."

"Cool."

"Then I’ll see you tonight, all right?"

"Absolutely."

He thought Nick looked a little less tired as he walked away. And that was good, wasn’t it?

Chapter Five

Joe took the news with better grace than Nick expected. It would leave him short-handed, but wait staff wasn’t that hard to find.

"So when do you leave?"

Nick thought about telling him there wasn’t really any leaving, so much as shifting venues, but he shrugged. "I can stay another week, how’s that? Is that enough time?"

"It’s okay." Joe surprised him by patting Nick’s shoulder. "You were overqualified anyway."

Nick snorted. "Maybe."

"No maybe."

Probably because he was leaving anyway, Joe sent him home early, about 1:30. No one was home, and Nick spared a moment to be grateful he didn’t have to interact, even with Sean, before crawling into bed, not even taking a shower first. Too goddamn tired to care.

When his alarm went off at six, Sean still wasn’t home. Frowning, Nick slammed a cup of coffee and contemplated calling around before dismissing it. Surely Sean was at the store. If he wasn’t, well, Nick wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

It burned when he took a piss. He gazed down into the toilet bowl and drew a long breath, lips tightening. Then he flushed and went to turn on the shower.

Sean finally called not long after Nick got to the lab that night. Sounding tired, not in a particularly good mood. Nick nodded, made the appropriate noises. Finally Sean paused.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Nick said evenly, glad he had the fibers lab to himself for once. "Why?"

"Don’t even try to lie to me," Sean said. "You’re pissed at me. Is it because I was gone today?"

"I assumed you were at work. Weren’t you?"

A tiny pause. "Yeah. Part of the time."

"See?"

"Aren’t you going to ask where I was the rest of the time?"

Nick sighed and leaned his chin on his free hand. "If it’s important, I figure you’ll tell me. Was it?"

"I hate when you get that tone in your voice. God."

"What tone?"

"That – snotty tone. You sound like my goddamn father."

Nick sat up straight, a hard cold knot forming in his stomach. "Sean, I’m at work," he said crisply. "If you want to fight, it’ll have to wait until I get home."

"Only you never ARE home, are you?"

"I was today. All afternoon. And where were you?"

"NOW you want to know." Sean uttered a harsh laugh. "Knew you couldn’t go without asking me that."

"It was rhetorical," Nick snapped. "Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ll see you in the morning."

"I’ll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, believe it, Sean. You can take it to the fucking bank."

If Sean said anything else, Nick didn’t hear it. He gazed at the dead receiver in his hand, distantly shocked in the midst of cold anger. Never hung up on Sean before. Never, not in ten years. Been hung up on a few times, sure. But never done it himself.

"Do I even want to know?"

He flinched, turning to glance at Catherine in the doorway. "No," he said curtly, and slumped a little. "Trust me."

She walked slowly inside the room. "I got our DNA results," she continued after a moment. Perched on a rolling stool, she looked tired and unhappy. "Think we’re back at square one."

He leaned back and sighed. "Figures."

"So we can –"

"Go back and see what we missed?" Nick shook his head. "We didn’t miss anything, Cath."

"Somebody did."

"So we let the cops do their jobs. When they find something new, we’ll analyze it."

Her look was startled. "Grissom likes us to be more proactive than that."

He nodded grimly. "So do I, when we’re not buried under ten tons of work already."

"You had a fight with Sean."

"Not yet," Nick shot back in a thin voice. "Next question?"

"I’m not the enemy, Nick. You don’t have to be an asshole."

He regarded her silently for a moment, and then shook his head. "I apologize. I got some things on my mind. Shouldn’t take them out on you."

She nodded. "Want to talk about it?"

"Frankly? No. It’s just – shit. Same shit."

"Nick –"

"No, it’s okay." He forced a smile, and saw her head draw back a little. "Maybe I better, you know. Just work."

Her eyes narrowed a little, but she gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Maybe so."

~~~~~~~~~~

Fortunately the rest of his shift went pretty well. Which, all things considered, he didn’t really expect.

On the way out he ran into Grissom.

"Starts next week, right? The OT?"

Grissom nodded. "Starts whenever you want it to."

"Okay, next week, then. I gave my notice."

"Good."

Nick turned, and paused. "Hey, you wanna grab some breakfast? Supper, whatever it’s time for?"

He hadn’t planned on asking. And he was sure, from Grissom’s expression, he hadn’t anticipated being asked. The little smile that came and went on Grissom’s face looked shocked, and charmed.

"Sure," Grissom said slowly. "Let me close up my office."

That only took a couple of minutes. In the parking lot, Nick tossed his keys from one hand to the other. "Where to? Anywhere but Joe’s, please."

Grissom smiled again. "How about Mexican?"

"Sounds great."

He drove according to Grissom’s directions, which took them to a beaten-down neighborhood and a tiny pink-painted building that had definitely seen better days. "Nice," Nick pronounced dubiously, putting the car in park.

"I come for the food, not the ambience."

And about three seconds after he tasted his menudo, Nick was in full agreement. "Damn. This is better than Rosita’s. And that’s saying something."

Grissom sipped his beer, and Nick spared a moment to wonder about alcohol laws in Vegas before deciding he didn’t much give a shit. "Usually I have to pay people to try that. Nice to see a fellow aficionado."

"What, menudo?" Nick grinned. "Only hangover cure that actually works."

"Rosita? Is that in Dallas?"

"Rosita’s a person. She was our housekeeper, when I was growing up."

"Ah." Grissom dipped his spoon back into the savory stew. "Good cook, I take it."

"The best. Hell, she practically raised me herself. My folks – busy." Nick shrugged and reached for his own beer. This menudo wasn’t just better than Rosita’s, it was hotter, too. Not that he was complaining. He slugged some beer and said, "I spoke great Spanglish when I was a kid. Wish I still could."

Grissom snorted. "Spanglish."

"Well, you know."

"You don’t have to work today?"

"What, at the diner? Not today." Nick dug into his food, talking after he swallowed. "I gotta work tomorrow through Saturday. Then one more shift Monday, and I’m done."

"That’s good to hear."

Nick watched while Grissom deftly wiped his bowl with a rolled-up tortilla. Short, economical motions. He had long fingers. A hot ripple of attraction expanded in Nick’s belly, and he frowned, glaring down at his own food. Where the fuck did that come from?

He thought about the pills in his jacket pocket, and the frown deepened. Yeah, maybe he knew.

And thinking about it seemed to leach all the savor from his meal. He pushed the little remaining menudo around, not eating it. His mouth tasted sour.

"Everything all right?"

The gentle question made him look up. "Yeah," he said awkwardly. "Sorry. Just thinking."

Grissom gave a slow nod. "Not such good thoughts, I take it."

Nick frowned at him, and Grissom added, "Your face. It was like – sun going behind clouds."

Nick couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Under his gaze Grissom’s cheeks darkened. "Sorry, that seemed like the best – description."

"It’s okay." A little embarrassed himself, Nick gazed back down at his bowl. "Before work tonight, I got –" He pressed his lips together, thinking about how he shouldn’t say anything, this was not only none of Grissom’s business, but none of his interest, either. But the words spurted out anyway. "I got some weird news. It put me kinda – off my stride all night, you know?"

"Weird?"

Nick met his blue eyes quickly, and looked away just as fast. "Weird, bad," he said softly. "Nothing that’ll affect work," he added in a stumbling rush. "Nothing like that. Just, you know. News."

Grissom leaned back in his chair, nodding absently to the waitress who picked up his empty bottle and lifted her eyebrows. "If you want to talk about it," Grissom said slowly.

Talk about it. With Gil Grissom. He’d rather pluck his eyelashes out, one by one, before going to work gouging out his eyes with his fork. "No," Nick said softly. "No, it’s just on my mind, that’s all."

"I may not seem like it, but I’m not a bad listener."

That odd curl of attraction was back, suddenly, and it was only the pills that made him decide it would be wrong in so many countless ways. But for a single, savage moment he wanted to talk. To do more than talk. To listen, to stay right here, in this run-down but sparkling-clean taquería, until the goddamn cows came home. Screw sleeping, screw Sean, screw everything but the light from the open front door casting soft shadows on Grissom’s features, making his blue eyes so clear and vivid Nick felt as if he were drowning in them.

"Thanks," Nick said softly. Regretfully. "But I guess I gotta work it out on my own."

Grissom blinked, and the sense of falling down a bottomless, brilliant chasm was gone. "Understood."

He paid over Grissom’s objections, reminding him the meal had been his own invitation. And by the time he turned into the lab parking lot, the light really did seem to have gone from the day. He felt tired, and anxious, and under it all, percolating with anger.

"Get some rest, Nicky." Grissom paused by the open passenger-side door, squinting in the sunlight. "See you tonight."

"Will do."

"Thanks again for breakfast."

Nick produced a tight smile. "My pleasure, man. See you later."

"Later, Nick."

~~~~~~~~~~

The front door was unlocked. He hoped it was because Sean was home, and not because Sean had forgotten to lock it before he left.

With his jacket draped over his arm, he tossed the keys on the table by the front door and walked slowly through the house. Quiet, and for once things were kind of picked up. Not exactly clinically neat, but it would do.

In the bedroom, Sean lay in his usual splayed fashion on the bed, just starting to blink sleepily when Nick walked in.

"Hey," Sean said in a groggy voice. "What time’s it?"

"Nearly nine." Nick lifted his chin. "We need to talk."

"Okay." Sean sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Do I need coffee for this?"

Nick swallowed. "Probably. Here." He held his jacket in one hand while he reached into a pocket with the other, drawing out one of the pill bottles. "You’ll need it to take these." He tossed the bottle on the bed.

Sean picked up the bottle. The drowsiness was rapidly leaving his features; he frowned, squinting at the fine print. "What the hell are these?"

Nick sagged down into the sprung wing chair near the closet. Now that it was finally out, he didn’t even feel angry anymore. Just tired. Tired to the bone. "They’re antibiotics," he said without inflection. "You need them. We both do."

Sean stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I went over to the clinic yesterday, because it hurt like hell to take a piss. And guess what I found out? I have gonorrhea, Sean," Nick told him, leaning back in the chair. "And if I do, you do, too."

Sean’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"What’s more," Nick continued heavily, "since I haven’t slept with anyone but you for a very, very long time, that means I got it from you. And I can only think of one way YOU got it. You know?"

"Shit," Sean whispered. Very, very awake.

"So who have you been fucking, Sean?" Nick asked harshly. "Because it can’t have just been me."

Chapter Six

"So you’ve had the tour." Gil leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands wide. "What do you think?"

"I think I’m in way over my head." Warrick slouched and uttered a short laugh. "Grissom, man, you sure about this?"

"About what? You? Absolutely. Next question?"

"That Brass guy. Real hardass, huh?"

Gil smiled. "Leave Brass to me. Your only concern is to get your feet wet, all right? I think you’ve met everyone. Catherine, Dave."

"Dave’s the one’s leaving?"

"Right. Next week is his last week."

Warrick rolled his eyes. "So that gives me a week. Nice."

"There’s also Nick. He isn’t here yet, but I’ll introduce you when he gets in."

"Cool."

"Now. Feel up to running some prints for me?"

Warrick’s eyes were big with misgiving, but he nodded. "Sure, think I can handle that."

"Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. In fact, ask even if you don’t. No one will bite. I promise."

That got him a wary look and a cautious smile.

When Warrick was settled at the AFIS terminal, Gil allowed himself to relax a little. Regardless of Warrick’s own misgivings, he was very sure the hiring was a sound decision. Sure, Warrick lacked experience. But there was only one way to get that, after all. And he’d been trained by the best. Or nearly, Gil amended to himself with a tiny smile.

Nick showed up not too much later, looking tense and tired. "Got anything?" he asked, leaning in Gil’s office door.

"Numerous things." Gil took off his glasses. "Warrick’s here."

Nick gave a short nod. "New guy?"

"I gave him prints to run. Mind checking in with him before you get started?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Finished with the diner?"

"Yeah." Nick didn’t look particularly happy at the admission, Gil thought. His handsome face was preoccupied, grooves cut heavy around his mouth. "Free and clear."

"Good. If you want to stay late today, I can give you a green light."

"Definitely."

Was it relief he heard in Nick’s raspy voice? It was, he thought, and felt an odd prickle of worry.

An hour or so later he dropped by to check Warrick’s progress. Didn’t take that long to run a single set of prints, but he’d given him a real stack. He found him grinning at something Nick had just said.

"I see you two have met," Gil observed from the doorway, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Yep." Nick’s expression looked a lot less tense now; he grinned and nodded fast. "Sure doesn’t need my help. You got anything?" he asked Gil.

"Brass just called. DB over on 52^nd Ave. Probable hit-and-run, happened about twenty minutes ago. You fellows care to join me?"

"Sure thing." Nick lifted his chin at Warrick. "Got a strong stomach?"

Warrick’s expression didn’t waver. "Guess we’re about to find out."

"Just don’t puke on the body, all right? First rule of CSIs."

With a soft snort, Warrick muttered, "Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind."

~~~~~~~~~~

As it happened, Warrick seemed not to have too much trouble with what turned out to be a very nasty scene indeed. In fact it was Nick looking slightly green, as he gazed down at what remained of a previously healthy seventeen-year-old boy.

"Man, it just about turned him inside out." Nick’s voice was artificially hushed, barely audible over the hubbub of engines and radios all around them.

Gil touched Nick’s shoulder lightly. "That truck had to have been doing at least seventy when it struck him."

Nick shook his head. "Bless his heart."

Warrick stood nearby, mouth a tight disapproving line. "What the hell was he doing out here in the boonies, s’what I wanna know."

"Me, too," Gil agreed. "Let’s see what we can figure out. You okay with this?"

Warrick nodded. "Yep."

"Good."

He kept Warrick at his side while they did their initial inspection. Aside from a briefly unsettled look when Nick started collecting body parts, the man seemed perfectly solid. Gil was reassured once more that Brown had been a good choice. Even if the sheriff had had to be sweet-talked into the deal.

Back at the lab, he sent Warrick off with paint chips, and caught up with Nick in the morgue. The dead boy’s body was just being unloaded.

Al Robbins gave Gil a flat look. "I assume there isn’t much mystery surrounding cause of death," he remarked dryly.

"More interested in the tox screen, frankly."

"I’ll need some time for that, as you know."

Gil nodded. "Nick?"

Nick’s eyes tore away from his inspection of the body, meeting Gil’s gaze. "Yeah. Sorry, wanted to make sure he got here okay."

"We’ll need to talk to the family. They’ve been contacted, should be on their way right now."

"Right. Yep."

In the hallway, he glanced at Nick. "Warrick seemed to do fine tonight."

Nick nodded. "Looks like he knows his stuff." He stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing up at the elevator floor indicator.

"Something’s bothering you."

"I’m all right."

A lie, and a careless one. Gil gave a slow nod of his own. "My door’s always open, Nick."

"Thanks."

Upstairs, Brass was waiting, looking even more sour than usual. The dead boy’s family was waiting in the conference room; hearing that, Gil figured he knew the reason for the extra dollop of unhappiness in Brass’s voice. Epidemic tonight, apparently.

Nick went with him to talk to the parents. But five minutes after they started, Gil wondered if he shouldn’t have left Nick outside.

"He’s seventeen years old." Nick sounded odd: strangled, voice higher than normal. "What was he doing out there?"

"You think we know?" The mother, a plump woman with artistically streaked blonde hair, stared at Nick. "We thought he was home in bed!"

"Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?"

"Nick." Gil fought to keep his voice level. "Why don’t you go check on Warrick? I’d like to know if he’s found anything."

Nick’s face was pale, but he gave a short nod. As the door shut behind him, Gil turned to the distraught-looking parents.

"Why did he have to say that?" the woman asked tearfully. "Why’d he have to be so – mean?"

Gil drew a long breath. "I apologize if my colleague offended you. So you have no idea what your son might have been doing out that late?"

The father finally spoke. "He’s a good boy. Was," he amended, his voice cracking. "Never broke his curfew. Got good grades. There’s no reason."

Gil nodded carefully.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He found Nick half an hour later, poring over the toxicology report. He barely looked at Gil, brow furrowed with concentration.

"Clean as a whistle," Nick said flatly. "Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t drugs."

"Good." Gil pulled up a chair on casters and sat down. "You want to tell me why you treated his parents as if they’d been the ones driving the car that ran him down?"

"Parents need to take more responsibility," came Nick’s distant, cool reply.

"Be that as it may, it’s not our job to provide social commentary or