So, this is a heavy nick-centered, angst story. Most of it takes place in texas, but there are parts with the other CSI's in Vegas too. This is supposed to happen before Mea Culpa. Oh, and I don't own any of these people. As if that weren't obvious.

I.

They're all worried about me. I can tell.

Catherine makes sympathetic, motherly gestures. She offers to talk and her voice loses that sharpness, that brittleness, that is so characteristic of her. She sounds like she's cooing, trying to make everything okay by just talking softer. I tell her I'm doing fine and she pretends to accept that, but I know she doesn't because her voice still doesn't sound sharp when she asks me to get her some gloves.

Greg and Sara also ask if I want to talk, though Sara almost looks afraid as though I might say yes, so I don't. Greg actually sounds genuine when he asks, but I can't imagine talking to him for more than five minutes without one of us making a joke. Serious discussions aren't our long suit, and I'd rather not change anything now. There have been enough changes, of late.

Warrick, naturally, is the most subtle of any of them. He treated me to a burger yesterday and I caught a couple penetrating glances, as if he could see inside me as easily as the evidence. I don't fool him into thinking I'm okay but he doesn't push because that's just not Warrick. I appreciate that and find myself hanging out more with him than the others, but I don't open up either. I don't want to talk about this. I just want it to be over.

It's Grissom, of course, who is the most obvious. His number of obscure riddles have shot up, as if he can test to see what stage of grieving I'm in. He gives me penetrating looks to, only instead of glancing he stares, as if I'm a bug under the microscope. I avoid running into him in the lab and thank whatever lucky stars I have left that I don't end up working the same cases with him.

I'm tired a little more than normal but I'm doing okay. I knew this day was coming and I've made at least a little bit of peace with it. Mostly, I just don't want to go back. I'd do anything to not have to go back home.

But I have to because he's dead, and I'm the good son, or I used to be. I haven't really been the good soon in about three years. But I still have that obligation to my family, that duty to go back.

I have to go home to Texas.

II.

Warrick and I are casually chatting about Monday night football when Grissom spots me. Before I can tell Warrick that I need to run, Grissom walks over and asks, "Nick? Can I see you a minute in my office?"

I look at Warrick and he shrugs. I say goodbye to him and follow Grissom into his office. He sits down at his desk and stares at me, that bug under the microscope stare yet again. He seems content with staying silent and I want to say something to break the quiet, and more importantly, his stare, but I can't for the life of me think of anything.

Finally, Grissom shifts position and asks, "When does your plane leave?"

I don't know why he's asking me this. I've told him already.

"Three o'clock tomorrow." When Grissom doesn't respond, I think maybe he's having trouble with scheduling or something. "I'll only be a couple of days. I'm back Wednesday, ready to roll." I try to wear a comforting smile on my face but it seems to fall flat. Which is unusual. I've always been good at smiling when I wasn't feeling happy.

"Nick, you can take more time off if you need it."

What's left of my false smile disappears completely. "I don't."

Grissom nods slowly. "What did you say your father died of, Nick? Heart attack, wasn't it?"

"Stroke," I correct. "His second." Grissom continues his probing stare and I want to snap at him to stop it, I'm FINE, but I don't say anything. You don't snap at the boss. He says jump, you say how high. The way the world works.

Still, I can't help thinking Grissom's doing some kind of obscure riddle again, because I can not shake the idea that Grissom would ever mix up a cause of death in any circumstance, victim or not. As he watches me, I realize he's trying to outwait me, trying to silence me into speaking. Gil Grissom, the king of solitude, the hermit of all hermits, is trying to get me to open up.

I can't keep myself from smirking bitterly. When you think about it, it's pretty fucking amusing.

I ignore Grissom's silence and say nothing. When he finally realizes that I'm not going to budge, Grissom leans forward at his desk and says, "Nick, I'm trying to help you."

And it's a weird thing to notice at the time but I start to wonder when exactly it was that Grissom stopped calling me 'Nicky'. Grissom's voice is soft right then, not cooing like Catherine's, but gentle and I almost say something right then because Grissom being emotional or sensitive with anyone but Sara seems wrong somehow, but then Grissom continues and he sounds like he's quoting from a textbook.

"Losing a parent is a difficult time in one's life. . ."

And this I can repel. This is the Grissom I'm used to, the mechanical, easy to understand Grissom. I can refuse to open up when Gris doesn't sound like he really cares.

"Really, Gris, I'm fine," I say, and the false smile I couldn't make before reaches my face this time. "I mean, life goes on, right?"

Grissom sighs, as if he knows he's lost a battle. "Yes," he says, "it does."

When he doesn't speak again, I know I'm tired of waiting and I take my cute. "I've got some work to finish before I leave tonight," I say and Grissom nods, still looking just slightly defeated.

"Okay, Nick."

As I start to walk away, Grissom calls out to me. I close my eyes, open them, and turn around. Grissom's sitting there, looking for all the world like he wished he was a people person just this once so he would know the right words to say. I could have told him there were no right words but didn't bother. I didn't want a caring Grissom to emerge.

"Have a safe flight," Grissom says. We both know that's not what he wanted to say.

"Right," I tell him and leave his office. I have work to finish.

Because tomorrow I get to have a safe flight back to Texas for one, sad funeral.

The good son's coming home again.