CSI;David Hodges/Nick Stokes; #76 - Who?
Title: White Light Lie (Part 1/5)
Fandom: CSI
Characters: David Hodges/Nick Stokes
Prompt: #76 - Who?
Word Count: 6,997
Rating: PG
Summary: Nick Stokes' new apartment has a few strings attatched.
Summary: Nick's not the only one in that apartment.
Spoilers: Serious spoilers for Just Like Heaven.
A/T: This fic is Just Like Heaven, only with CSIs. There’s the therapist, the bookstore owner, even the slutty neighbor. The only thing I changed was the setting (for a visual of Nick’s apartment, click here and here) and the occupations of the main characters. Enjoy! ^_^
White Light Lie
It wasn’t that Catherine Willows was a bad realtor.
She was, in fact, excellent at her job; she had all the connections, was friendly but professional, and possessed outstanding taste that pleased all her clients. Catherine wasn’t the problem: it was Nick Stokes who was the monkey wrench. He couldn’t be faulted for this, of course -he wanted something very specific, and when it comes to housing, why settle for less?- but that didn’t mean Catherine had to be happy about it. How long had she been showing that man around? How many apartments and houses had she toured? Fifteen houses and twenty-nine different pads that Nick could’ve been quite happy in, and yet he still insisted that “this is too small” or “this is too big” or “this reminds me of a yoga studio.” Even an expert of Catherine’s caliber had their limits, and Nick was stretching hers to the breaking point.
She took a deep breath. A very deep, calming, meditative breath as Nick followed her up the stairs for their thirtieth different suite. Over the two weeks they’d been working together, Catherine had begun to try and zoom in on Nick’s preferences in living facilities. He was, however, one of the most difficult customers she’d ever tackled. He didn’t like modern, but he didn’t like vintage. He didn’t like clutter, but he didn’t like sparse. He didn’t like Asian inspired, French inspired, or freaking Alaskan inspired. He was a bachelor, for goodness sakes. Catherine had been under the impression that all a bachelor needed was an easy chair, a toilet, a TV, and a beer. But no, not Nick Stokes. Nick needed… well, she wasn’t sure what he needed, but he needed it quick, because he couldn’t keep living in a hotel.
With another breath, she reached and turned the handle to her newest find. It was a French, vintage inspired apartment complex (just the thing Nick didn’t like, but she was beginning to grow less concerned about what Nick liked and more concerned about where Nick was going to live) on the outskirts of the desert. Unkempt vines were growing on the front door of the two-story complex, covering nearly one half of the building façade, while the window frames were white washed and cracking from the sun. Catherine grimaced. The outside was a dump. And who didn’t love the secluded, creepy, I-think-I-hear-a-chainsaw-murderer-outside location? Of course, it wasn’t located in the middle of nowhere; it simply lay in the suburbs. There were numerous neighbors and it was a mere two-minute drive until you hit the main road, but it wasn’t exactly situated in the middle of a crowded city.
The door creaked open and the pair hesitantly peered in. The window filtered in harsh sunlight while the interior beckoned them inside. It was oddly… cozy. Perhaps that was what Nick was looking for? Catherine began to mull it over as they tentatively stepped through the door. Nick was a simple, laid-back sort of guy, who sported a basic, multi-layer black look. On cold nights, he wore a blue jean jacket and, no matter what, donned comfortable shoes. He drove a truck, didn’t appear to have much of a social life, and seemed romantically unattached. Not that Catherine was on the market, but Nick was a pretty decent-looking man. Decent-looking, maybe, but he was no Warrick Brown. She merely smiled and closed the door behind her.
“Where’d you find this place?” Nick asked as he wandered into the kitchen, pausing as the wood floors groaned beneath his feet.
“Good question. This kind of… residence isn’t usually what my company goes for,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at the horrible coffee table that sat in the living room. Similarly, she was flabbergasted by the stuffed bookshelves and mismatched couch pillows that had been tossed around, but she had to admire the black leather sofa. The prior owner was terrible at decorating, but the sofa earned them a few brownie points.
“I apologize in advance,” she continued, mentally gagging at the horrible rug that lay in the living room. “I just received word of its availability this morning. I figured we could check it out together, but- good God, what’s with the books?” she asked, narrowly avoiding another stack of -what were those, forensic journals?- on the floor.
Nick emerged from the disastrous kitchen and grinned. “I love books,” he commented. “Who lived here before?”
“Well, I don’t really have all the details yet. I’m pretty sure the previous occupant was in some sort of accident or something. Whatever the case, the rent stopped coming,” she explained, catching a glimpse into the kitchen and not liking what she saw. “Look, even I can understand why you’d be turned off by this place. There’s a great listing about fourteen miles South from here-”
“What? Why? This is perfect,” Nick interrupted, seemingly shocked that she didn’t appear to agree. And, quite frankly, Catherine didn’t. She could agree is had a subtle… charm about it, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a wreck. Besides the kingdom of books and bad rugs, the light fixtures were outdated, the paint job was an eyesore, and there was no sense of decorative balance at all. Even if she did ignore the superficial qualities, she couldn’t overlook that the floors squeaked, the bedroom door tilted, two windows were cracked, and rumor was the plumbing was bad.
And she hadn’t even made it to the bedroom or patio yet.
She blinked, holding onto her ever-present clipboard and staring at Nick as though another head had grown from his shoulder. He was kidding. He had to be kidding. She had shown him beautiful apartments with breathtaking views and pools and gardens… and he chose the pigsty. She gave her mind a moment to catch up before meeting his content gaze.
“Nick, this- are you sure? I haven’t even checked to see if the building's up to code. And what about all this stuff? I wouldn’t let my boss live here, and he’s Satan.”
Nick merely shook his head and smiled, turning from her and heading towards a small door in the back. He yanked it open (the hinges squeaked high enough to call dogs) before climbing the newly revealed steps towards the top. Catherine haphazardly followed behind, cursing her heels and unreliable hairspray. She followed the enthusiastic man upwards, clutching onto her clipboard even harder and muttering to herself as they finally reached their destination. Maybe he was a fixer-up kind of guy and wanted to buy it for the challenge. Or maybe he just wanted to get away. Or maybe he was having a mid-life crisis. Or maybe-
Catherine’s mind stopped its usual racing as she stood next to Nick, all thoughts of sanity now gone. The apartment roof revealed one of the most beautiful views of the city she’d ever seen. The lights glittered in the early morning light, the peeking sun silhouetted casinos, and construction cranes moved like giants in the distance. A soft wind whipped her strawberry-blonde hair around her face as they both took in what they were seeing in silence.
He turned and looked at her with a hopeful expression. “D’you think if the price went down a little, I could have it?”
Catherine paused and took a fleeting glance towards the city view again. They could undoubtedly jack up the price of the apartment without blinking an eye; people would pay an arm and a leg for the view and semi-secluded locale. She bit a glossed lip before turning back to the man next to her.
“And you’re sure you want this one?” she asked, no longer caring about how much she’d get paid for this particular deal. She had grown to really like Nick and she knew how long it had taken him to find his perfect home. Besides, she wasn’t blind; she saw how lonely he was. This was undoubtedly one of the only things he might ever call his own, and she had no desire to take that away. “The floors, the doors, the kitchen-’’
“I like the couch,” Nick cut it, grinning, and Catherine knew she had no choice but to sign him the lease.
…
Gardening and Design Services, Inc. was a tiny, tiny, tiny building with five thrift store desks, five Wal-Mart chairs, and five of the best Macs Nick could get his hands on. It was situated between a scrapbook supply store and an old café; the café, of course, received many more customers than the scrapbook store ever did, but it was still a quaint little setup. When Nick’s business was just getting off the ground, he had offered to landscape the café’s miniature side garden and transform it from the monstrosity it was into something upbeat and colorful. In return, the café would give Nick, Archie, Bobby, Sara, and Gil free lunch on Fridays.
Nick was grateful for that small blessing, because his company was far from rich. He’d only moved to Las Vegas from Texas two years ago, and he still hadn’t adjusted yet. His parents were lawyers, and Nick couldn’t stand the thought of their blood money; he loved them, but not their jobs, and so he decided to stay out of law enforcement and go into something completely different. Considering he enjoyed nature, landscaping seemed like a viable option. One thing led to another; before he knew it, he was starting up his own business in Las Vegas, and there were plenty of high rollers whose yards and gardens needed renovation.
Nick just had to find them.
Regardless, Gardening and Design Services, Inc. was doing pretty well for itself. Nick didn’t want too much too soon; he only had one office, and everything inside of it -the furniture, the decorating, the paint- had either been given to him, found somewhere, or bought second hand. It didn’t look tacky, of course (Nick would never let it look tacky), but his five employees and their weird filing system was enough for Nick to keep up with. Besides, he made sure they were adequately paid (even though his own income slipped and slid each month) and had insurance.
“So I hear you bought a new pad,” Sara began as she glanced over her desk and towards Nick. He was putting away his sketchbooks for the day, but stopped to give her a knowing smile; gossip and news flew around their tiny workplace with a relentless fervor, and his renting of a new home was the hottest thing to happen since Gil’s ear surgery. Nick shook his head. They really needed lives, himself included.
“Yeah,” he replied, zipping up his backpack and straightening from his previously stooped position. “It’s really…”
“Nice?” she prompted, arching her left eyebrow in a pointed fashion. “Please tell me you didn’t decide to live in a cave or anything, right? I know you like nature and all, but that’s going a little off the deep end.”
“It isn’t a cave. It just needs a little work here and there, but it’s gonna be a fine place to live when I’m done with it.”
“I bet it’s gonna have a stellar garden, right?” Archie asked, grinning over his computer monitor. Sometimes Nick had to laugh at their set-up; crap desks, crap chairs, crap tables (one was being held together by duct tape and prayers) but they had the top of the line graphic programs and computers. The items were a necessity for a designing company, gardening or otherwise, and Nick had been adamant about buying them.
“I don’t know, Arch,” Bobby piped up. “If you blueprint stuff like this for a livin’, you don’t wanna go back home and do it all over again. Five bucks says his garden’ll be a weed haven.”
“I’ll see your five dollars and raise you five more,” the Asian countered. “Don’t let me down, Nick. Ten bucks is my whole retirement plan.”
“I’ll try not to,” Nick replied, smiling as he turned to the usually quiet Gil. Nick felt elated to have him on his team: Gil was the best of the best, only no one seemed to know it. Gil knew bugs like the back of his own hand, so if Nick was thinking of using a particular flower, Gil knew what kind of insect it attracted and whether the plant choice would be wise. He also had an eye for beauty (and Sara); his knowledge mixed with Archie’s technology expertise, Bobby’s charming people skills, Sara’s creative design, and Nick’s fearless leadership made them a great team, ready and willing to take on the most horrifying of yards.
Well, they’d be ready tomorrow. As of right then, they were wiped. It was time to close shop.
“Alright, I’m headin’ home,” Nick announced, shouldering his backpack. “Will you lock up, Gil?”
“Of course. Doors, windows, I know the drill,” the older man replied, giving Nick a quirky smile from his chair. “Have a nice night. You should invite us over to see your new place sometime.”
“Oo, a housewarming party,” Sara suggested. “Of course, we’ll go for any kind of party at this point.”
“Sadly, I agree,” Archie called as Nick shook his head and began out the door, leaving his four friends to plot how they were going to see Nick’s new digs. They knew they were welcome at any time, but a designated party offered a chance for free food, and none of them were going to pass up an opportunity like that.
The Las Vegas weather was humid as Nick headed towards the bus stop that night. Although he’d initially feared Vegas’ public transportation system, he eventually grew to understand the silent rules of the bus, and learned how to spot someone who was up to no good. He even had acquaintances on his route, as many people like himself took the bus every single day. That meant, of course, they took the same one and even sat in the same seat. Faces were bound to become familiar.
The ride home was uneventful, which was always good news in Nick’s book. Even better was when he stuck his hand into his pocket and found an actual key, not a key card. He’d been sick of his hotel and was counting down the days until Catherine could find him somewhere respectable to live. Frankly, he’d rather live in an almost-disastrous apartment with a few eccentric neighbors than an overpriced hotel with snooty floor mates, and although she hadn’t intended to, Catherine certainly delivered. Nick loved that it was rustic but still had plumbing, questionable as it was.
He stuck the silver key into the lock, admiring how the setting sun shone of its metallic surface, before twisting it and opening the door. It creaked open again -he really needed to oil the hinges- and revealed the same messy interior, squeaking floors, and bad pillows. However, the couch called to him, as did the fridge. He didn’t have much by way of groceries, but he did have the bare necessities: beer and frozen food. He closed and locked the door behind him before letting his book bag fall wherever it happened to land. First he needed sustenance. Then a shower. Then some more beer. Then sleep.
He wandered towards the fridge on autopilot: open, grab beer, close. He then made his way to the couch and unceremoniously flopped onto it without bothering to remove his shoes, counting himself lucky that the television remote was within reaching distance. He knew how his life had gotten to this point, but he didn’t know how to escape the cycle. The ‘how’ question even had a name: Ryan Wolfe. Nick watched the TV with unseeing eyes, his body reclined and splayed out over the leather sofa. He and Ryan… they were supposed to be something. They were supposed to spend the rest of the lives together, and then Ryan was shot with the nail gun and the medics were too late. The memory of Eric’s voice when he had told Nick what happened kept playing; so sad and alone, because he’d lost yet another friend. Nick closed his eyes and emitted a soft groan. When was he going to forget all that? When could he move on?
Nick’s eyes flitted towards the VCR. The black end of a tape stuck out; all he had to do was push it in and he could see Ryan again. He didn’t remember getting up to start the video, but he was suddenly sitting down once more, back in the same position, forgetting whatever was on cable in favor of the tape he’d watched an innumerable amount of times before. He wasn’t sure whether he was expecting it to change, but it never did. It was always the same; same dialogue, faces, smile, and half the time Nick wanted to burn it while the other half -the more powerful half, evidently- was terrified to forget Ryan’s expressions and tones. The video was taken at Calleigh’s wedding. Nick remembered how beautiful she looked, and he doubted her beauty was ever going to fade. Perhaps it was a Miami thing, because Ryan’s beauty seemed unbreakable as well. And now he was buried somewhere, gone from the world, leaving Nick to try and keeping going.
By then, he beer can was nearly weightless in his hand. He glanced at the metallic container, wondering when he’d drunk it all; either way, he knew he needed some more if he ever hoped to get through the night. He thought he’d been getting better -his therapist had said so- but it almost felt like a depressive relapse. Nick quickly reached for the remote and pressed the power button, cutting off the tape and surrounding Nick in silence. Being able to turn it off was progress too, right? As well as waking up in the morning? But none of those things felt like progress. It felt like the mundane, every day motions of life. It felt like he was stuck.
He stretched before turning and heading towards the kitchen, empty can in hand. The sun was just setting; maybe he could visit the rooftop again and see whether designing anything for it would be worth the trouble. Designing always helped him relax, and watching the same video wasn’t getting him anywhere. He could call Gil up and ask what sort of bugs fed on-
His thoughts slammed on the brakes as he opened his mouth and gave a decidedly un-masculine shout. The beer container, once firm in his grasp, fell onto the floor with a light clatter as Nick took a few uncoordinated steps back, alarmed and scared and… did robbers just wander into people’s apartments?
“There’s nothing to steal!”
Nick blinked, frozen in shock as the man -tall, a bit on the thin side, blue eyes- stood in the middle of the foyer and told Nick that there wasn’t anything worth taking. Was he a thief informing the owner of a serious lack of valuables?
“There’s no jewelry, no cash, no silver, no drugs,” the man continued, looking Nick up and down, as if trying to deduce whether he was armed. Unless he considered a discarded beer can dangerous, Nick wondered why he even bothered.
Despite his surprise, Nick was spurred into action anyway. He wasn’t sure whether to try and defend himself, because the stranger didn’t seem to have a gun or knife. Heck, he wasn’t even bothering with a mask.
“I’m not stealing anything!” he protested, standing as tall as he could in hopes of appearing intimidating. Was this guy crazy? He had to be. He had to be a great B&Eer as well, because Nick hadn’t even heard anyone pick the lock.
“Then there’s a homeless shelter nearby and I can call you a cab. I’ll even pay for the fare and a good meal, just- is that beer? You’ve been blowing money on beer?”
“I haven’t been blowing my money at all!” Nick insisted, beginning to view the stranger less as a threat and more of a confusing annoyance. “I live here.”
“You can’t live here,” the man promptly informed him, “Because I live here.”
“No, I live here. I rented it, it’s mine, and it took a damn long time to find it, okay?”
“No it’s not okay! Good God, my name’s on the papers! And Jesus, have you ever heard of a coaster? That’s my grandmother’s coffee table. I know it’s hideous, but it’s real wood.”
Nick merely watched, dazed and certainly confused, as the man shot him a spiteful glare and then pointed to tiny piles of trash that littered various surfaces of the apartment. “Here’s a revolutionary concept: try a garbage can. They’re nifty containers that hold trash.” He sent Nick another dark look before thrusting his right index finger towards the phone. “I’m calling the police if you don’t get the hell out of here, understand? I offered you help but you didn’t take it, so you’d better hit the road before I get half the department down here to drag you away.”
“What? Hey, listen, my name’s on the papers too,” Nick fought as the stranger stomped into the kitchen. Who the hell did this guy think he was? If it was a rent scam or something similar, then they’d work things out, but Nick hadn’t been rude or threatening towards him and there was no reason to be so defensive.
Nick waited for a moment, expecting a reply, but received none. With a sharp breath, he slowly began creeping towards the kitchen. Why had he allowed Mystery Man into the one room with all the sharp knives? He mentally kicked himself for his stupidity as he slunk forth. He strained to hear movement or a rustle of clothes, but only silence remained. That was odd. Perhaps the stranger was crouching behind the door, waiting to stab him to death? Great. What a perfect end to the day.
Nick bit his lip and shoved the door open as quickly as he could before leaping back, waiting for some sort of attack. But the attack never came and the silence continued to reign.
“Hello?” Nick asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no need to be scared or anything. I think we mighta been victim to some sort of scam. I bet five other people have keys to this place too, so why don’t we…”
His voice trailed off as he finally entered the kitchen. It was empty. Nothing had been moved. Nothing could be heard.
It was if the man had never been there at all.
…
Nick had been indecisive about calling his psychiatrist.
Jim Brass was a good man with the innate ability to intimidate someone into confessing their deepest, darkest secrets. That in itself made him an excellent therapist, but Nick was pretty sure he was one of Jim’s more boring patients. In all honesty, he didn’t have any juicy secrets; he was a vanilla sort of guy who didn’t get too wild and crazy about anything in particular, especially sex. Not that he’d been getting any, of course, but he hadn’t been in the mood for quite a while anyway, so it was a moot point. Besides, Nick wasn’t worried about sex: it was the non-existent visitors that concerned him.
The night before, Nick had nearly decided to ignore what had happened. Considering Mystery Man had disappeared without a trace, Nick convinced himself he was just really, really tired and was beginning to see things. Maybe he had even dreamt it. There wasn’t a shred of proof that anyone besides Nick had been in that apartment, and why stir up something out of nothing? With that in mind, Nick had fallen into a restless sleep and woke up about every five minutes, terrified that someone was in his bedroom or kitchen. He was up half the night, checking and double-checking that his locks were secure, and then leaning a chair against the door in case the locks were picked.
But the following morning, as he finished his shower, Nick leaned in wiped the steam from his mirror.
And nearly died.
In the mirror’s reflection, Nick saw the same man from yesterday standing right behind him, angrily shouting, “I told you to get out!”
In the two milliseconds it took for Nick to spin around, he discovered two things: 1) Mystery Man was gone, and 2) Calling Jim was no longer up for debate.
And so, after work, he found himself sitting at an outside table of Frank’s Eatery, peeling the label off his Bud Light and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He was almost afraid to go home, considering someone seemed to either have an extra key or knew how to pick a lock with both hands tied behind their back. Sure, his visitor hadn’t seemed dangerous, but neither had Ted Bundy. Look what happened there.
“You look troubled, Nick,” said a familiar voice. Jim Brass slid into the other chair, drink already in hand, and wasn’t even able to take a sip before Nick began speaking.
“This is going to sound crazy,” he began. Jim’s drink, halfway up to his lips, was set back down onto the table, dark eyebrows rising to meet a receding hairline. “That’s not a good way to start a conversation,” he noted. Nick gave him a grateful smile; while Jim was indeed a great analyst, he was never one to bullshit. He called him like he saw them, and that was refreshing.
“I know, it’s just…” Nick trailed off for a moment, abandoning his shredded label and starting on a white paper napkin. “I’ve been seeing this guy.”
“What, romantically? Good for you!” Jim replied, genuinely pleased to hear that Nick was deciding to break away from his celibate lifestyle. He took a celebratory swallow of his beer.
“No,” Nick interjected, halfway finished with the napkin in his hands. “He’s not- he’s not really there.”
“You mean he’s emotionally unavailable? Nick, I’m saying this right now,” Jim replied, instantly setting down his beer again. “That isn’t healthy for you. You’re just getting over what happened in Miami, and someone who’s emotionally detached can’t give you the support you need. Understand?”
Nick inwardly winced. This was a lot harder than he thought it would be.
“I understand that,” he replied, grappling for the right words. “But this guy, he’s- I mean, he really… isn’t there.”
Jim’s drink was officially forgotten. The older man looked as though he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. In his defense, Nick wasn’t sure if he were in Jim shoes either; it was quiet for a moment, or as quiet as Frank’s could be. Frank’s Eatery was really just a bar that served burgers, but no one ever complained. They didn’t water down their beverages and their single menu item was delicious.
“This is bad, Nicky,” Jim finally said, shaking his head and suppressing a sigh. “I’d prefer the emotionally unavailable boyfriend to hallucinations.”
“But I’m not crazy! And I don’t do drugs or anything like that.”
“Were you drunk?”
“I’d only had one beer,” Nick argued, running his right hand through black hair. “Only one, swear to God. And I saw him this morning, too. In the bathroom mirror. I hadn’t been drinking at all then.”
Jim shook his head again, leaning back into his chair. He wore a worried frown as he laced his fingers together.
“Listen, Nick, healthy people don’t see people who aren’t there. Has he said anything?”
Nick nodded, taking a hefty swallow of alcohol. He definitely needed it. “He keeps telling me to get out of his apartment.”
“So he doesn’t sit in the corner and tell you jump off buildings or set fires or anything?”
“No, none of that. He’s so… normal.”
“Cute?”
“Jim!”
The other man held up his hands in a surrendering fashion. “Just asking. God knows you need someone, Nick.”
“Someone who actually exists would be nice,” Nick groused back. “You’re the head doctor. Gimme something to work with.”
“Well, that’s a toughie,” Jim replied, allowing his sigh to escape. “He’s not a violent hallucination. You don’t seem delirious, you get enough sleep, and you weren’t inebriated at the time. I’d wait.”
“Wait?” Nick echoed, incredulous. “I’ve seen this guy two days in a row and you want me to wait? Please tell me you’re pullin’ my leg.”
“No leg pulling here,” Jim responded. “Call me when you see him again. And next time, just… ignore him.”
“It’s hard to ignore someone when they’re constantly bitching at you,” Nick muttered, taking another large gulp of his drink. He caught Jim’s disapproving gaze, swallowed, and set down the bottle.
“What?” he asked, slightly defensive, and Jim rolled his eyes.
“Nicky, you gotta slow down with the alcohol. I’m surprised your new friend hasn’t said something about it.”
Nick inwardly winced again. Mystery Man had already noted the beer cans and made his displeasure quite clear.
…
Armed with the fact that his new roommate was probably incapable of mad killing, Nick was able to sleep a bit easier. It wasn’t much, but he only woke up three times after his conversation with Jim, which was a vast improvement when compared with the night before. When he was asleep, it was incredibly deep and peaceful. He wasn’t sure how to explain that, but he honestly felt rested as he slowly woke the next morning.
One thing he loved about his new apartment was the sun. It streamed in and lit the entire place without Nick having to turn on a single light. It was natural and brought a nameless serenity to the entire place, which helped Nick feel less hassled about electric bills and more focused on his career. He glanced towards his alarm clock; it was only four more minutes until it was supposed to ring, but he didn’t feel as though he needed any extra rest. With a yawn, he reached over to switch off the buzzer and began making a mental list of things he needed to do. It was Friday, so lunch was taken care of, but he needed to stop by the bank and maybe pick up a few-
“Holy shit!”
Any thoughts about the upcoming day were drowned out by his surprised exclamation. There, on the left side of his bed, stood Mystery Man; his arms were crossed, his expression pissed, and his stance intimidating as he furiously peered down at Nick. This was all made worse by the fact that Nick was only wearing the blanket he slept beneath.
“You and I seem to have difficulty communicating, but I’m not sure if I can make this any simpler for your pea brain to understand,” he growled. “Get out.”
Nick closed his eyes and desperately tried to recall what Jim had suggested. Ignore him. Right. Who could ignore this guy?
He quickly lay back down and placed a pillow over his head. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.
“You aren’t real,” Nick muttered. “You’re a figment of my imagination, brought on by stress and… alcohol, probably. I swear to stop drinking if you go away.”
For a blissful moment, there was only silence, and Nick’s heart rose and flew at the thought that perhaps he somehow beat whatever trick his mind was playing with him.
The moment was short lived.
“Excuse me? I’m not a figment of anyone’s imagination, least of all yours,” came the livid reply. “You know what? This is a hell of a lot worse then I thought it was going to be. I’ve tried being patient, but I think it’s high time to question your sanity.”
Nick quickly removed the pillow and shot his newfound acquaintance a dark look. “I have a perfect bill of mental health, thanks. Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the man replied, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and you’re going to happily answer them. Have you been drinking more?”
Nick blinked. Well, maybe. “Maybe,” he muttered. “What’s it to you?”
“Ah. And have you been seeing things that aren’t real?”
“Um, hell yes.”
“Smart ass,” the man cursed beneath his breath. “Have you been visiting a shrink?”
“What, you follow me around now?” Nick angrily shot back, and he would’ve been more than happy to theatrically shove his comforter aside and stand his full height if only he’d been wearing clothes.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” came the prompt response, and Nick noticed the man was looking rather pleased with himself. “I think you need to admit you’re a lunatic and get help. Now get out of my bed. Those are good sheets.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Nick childishly returned. “I’m not crazy. You’re just… dead, I think.”
Blue eyes widened and the bedside guest took a step back. “Are you threatening me?” he questioned, slightly shaken for only a moment. He then spun around and strode towards the bedroom telephone. “I’m calling the police.”
“You can’t!”
“Watch me,” he snapped back. Their eyes met for a brief moment as Mystery Man made a grab for the phone, not seeming to understand what Nick’s exclamation meant. It wasn’t that the spirit couldn’t call on moral grounds, but because he couldn’t call on physical ones.
His hand went right through it.
His head whipped towards the object, now fully concentrating on the phone receiver. Long fingers drifted right through, as though it were only air, and then went through the base, the underlying tabletop, and finally rested by his thigh. He tried again, over and over, a desperate, confused motion before he turned towards Nick again, irate. “What did you do to my phone?”
Nick could see the growing confusion on the man’s face; he seemed quick and intelligent enough to know you couldn’t “do” anything to a solid object that would cause a human hand to ghost past it.
“Stay there,” he ordered, turning and nearly bolting out the door. “I’m going to use the one in the kitchen.”
By the time Nick was up and quasi-dressed, the apartment only housed one person, and that person was Nick.
…
“Can I help you?”
Nick’s fingertips ceased their motion over the book spines once he registered the question. He couldn’t even believe he was in a supernatural bookstore in the first place, but then again, he was starting to suspend belief about a lot of things. He had hoped this would be his last resort, thinking maybe his personal ghost would just… disappear on his own, but Mystery Man seemed to have every intention of staying put. Although Nick hadn’t seen him since that morning, he knew it wouldn’t be the last appearance Mr. Blue Eyes was going to make. Besides, if Nick ever hoped to get rid of him, he had to be informed. He just hoped the information was worth something.
He turned to see a man about twenty-five with blonde tipped hair, a questionable wardrobe, and a sweet smile grinning at him from his place beside Nick. “Greg Sanders, owner,” he introduced, sticking out his hand. Nick politely shook it; he’d been raised to always courteous, and this guy didn’t seem too weird. “So what kind of encounter have you had? Ectoplasm? Soniferous ether? If you wanna make contact with the dead, I can hook you up.”
Nick was given time to register Greg’s excited inquiry when a customer stopped and asked where the UFO section was. The blonde happily pointed it out before returning to his discussion with Nick.
“Contact? No, I’ve had enough contact to last a lifetime, thanks,” Nick replied, turning back towards his previous task. The other man gave a thoughtful “hm” before saying, “I’ve got exactly what you need.”
He not-so-subtly shoved Nick aside and, with much more expertise, found his desired book. He handed it to Nick with a quirky smile. “I’ll be happy to ring it up with a discount as long as you promise to come back and tell me how it went.”
“Uh, sure,” Nick replied, nodding his head as they made their way towards the checkout counter. “I mean, I don’t really believe in this stuff-’’
“No one does initially,” Greg easily replied, pale fingers flying over the cash register’s number pad. A receipt began to noisily print and he looked up with a knowing expression. “Then again, we really don’t have any say-so about it. If an ectoplasic being feels like becoming part of our life, what are we going to do about it?”
That was a question Nick’s thought he’d never have to answer, so he took the book and receipt, gave the animated man a small smile, and headed towards his apartment. He was glad that no one was going to witness what he was about to do. Not even he wanted to see just how disastrous his attempt was going to turn out, but he had to try. He couldn’t keep living with a man who, when described scientifically, didn’t actually exist.
Half an hour later, he’d arrived to his living room. He felt utterly ridiculous as he poked his head in, apprehensive that his visitor would be waiting with some sharp words. Actually, it probably would’ve been best if he were waiting, because he and Nick really needed to talk. It was why Nick had bought Greg’s suggested reading in the first place: whenever Nick wasn’t prepared, Mystery Man would show up, and when Nick was ready for a conversation, he’d disappear. It was a frustrating cycle, but one Nick hopefully intended to break if he could ever learn to… call? Summon? …the ghost again.
Despite this, the rooms seemed to be empty.
“Hello?” he called, checking each available space. There were no blue eyes glaring at him from any corner, not even a closet.
With a sigh, Nick flopped onto the couch, opening the book to the appropriate page. He even purchased a few candles to… well, do something. If anything, it added to the whole spiritual vibe.
For some reason, it felt wrong to recite an incantation that had been printed in millions of copies of the same book. If this guide was so successful, why weren’t more people reporting ghostly contact? Nick felt even stupider, but he’d already paid for it and the candles were burning. No time like the present, right? Sure. Nick rolled his eyes at himself. The ghost was probably giggling at him from wherever he stood, mocking his every move. Nick couldn’t believe he was self-conscious in his own apartment.
He set the book on his lap and held up a Glade candle. “Spirit awake,” he began, reciting the printed words. “Spirit partake, spirit without fear, spirit appear.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before hesitantly opening them, hoping he wouldn’t be the only one in the room. Alas, the incantation hadn’t seemed to do anything, but the pine fresh candle smelt fantastic.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
There was no response, and Nick growled. This was absurd.
He blew out the candle and closed the book, tossing it next to him. No catchy rhyme was going to call a man who lived -er, died- well, whatever to both startle and annoy Nick. He bit his lower lip. What had he done so far to get the spirit’s attention before? Could he duplicate it?
He glanced at the cup of coffee he’d brewed before he ever started his failed séance. What he was about to do was so, so evil, considering it’d probably give his dead roommate a heart attack, if dead people could have heart attacks in the first place.
The book and candles now forgotten, Nick reached for the mug. “I have a cup of coffee,” he announced, brushing off his feeling of stupidity as he continued to speak to thin air. “And why, would you look at that? There isn’t a coaster on this table. I’m putting this sweating mug onto this beautiful mahogon-’’
“You seemed like such a smart man at first. I have to say I’m disappointed,” came the almost-expected-but-not-quite voice of a certain “ectoplasic being.” Nick jumped slightly before quickly setting the mug onto the tabletop -using a coaster, of course- and quickly standing. He couldn’t let this man -thing- uh, being- whatever escape again.
“We need to talk,” he hurriedly replied, ignoring the sarcastic tone his visitor used.
“I agree. If you insist on staying here, you’re going to pay rent.”
“I already am- okay, you know what? I think we should start over. Hi. My name’s Nick Stokes. And you are?”
The man faltered for a moment, catching Nick’s gaze with uncertain eyes before concentrating on something behind him.
“David,” he finally replied, crossing his arms again, a strangely protective gesture. “David Hodges.”
“You didn’t really know that.”
“You’re a physic too. Tell me, what am I thinking?”
“You had to read it,” Nick accused, turning to see where David had discovered his name. It was a framed diploma stating that he’d graduated with honors from some sort of science program.
“I know my own name, you prick,” came the irritated reply. Nick turned back again; it was easy to see that David wasn’t irritated with Nick as much as he was with himself. He really hadn’t been sure what his own name was, and that had to be scary.
“There’s a white light. Go into the white light.”
“There’s no light!”
“You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead. Now get out!”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not leaving.”
And so they stood, staring at each other with a tinge of defiance, both refusing to budge.
“Well,” Nick finally said, turning and walking into his bedroom, hoping David would be gone by the time he returned. “I’m glad we could work things out.”
TBC! Next part soon. ^_^
Fandom: CSI
Characters: David Hodges/Nick Stokes
Prompt: #76 - Who?
Word Count: 6,997
Rating: PG
Summary: Nick Stokes' new apartment has a few strings attatched.
Summary: Nick's not the only one in that apartment.
Spoilers: Serious spoilers for Just Like Heaven.
A/T: This fic is Just Like Heaven, only with CSIs. There’s the therapist, the bookstore owner, even the slutty neighbor. The only thing I changed was the setting (for a visual of Nick’s apartment, click here and here) and the occupations of the main characters. Enjoy! ^_^
White Light Lie
It wasn’t that Catherine Willows was a bad realtor.
She was, in fact, excellent at her job; she had all the connections, was friendly but professional, and possessed outstanding taste that pleased all her clients. Catherine wasn’t the problem: it was Nick Stokes who was the monkey wrench. He couldn’t be faulted for this, of course -he wanted something very specific, and when it comes to housing, why settle for less?- but that didn’t mean Catherine had to be happy about it. How long had she been showing that man around? How many apartments and houses had she toured? Fifteen houses and twenty-nine different pads that Nick could’ve been quite happy in, and yet he still insisted that “this is too small” or “this is too big” or “this reminds me of a yoga studio.” Even an expert of Catherine’s caliber had their limits, and Nick was stretching hers to the breaking point.
She took a deep breath. A very deep, calming, meditative breath as Nick followed her up the stairs for their thirtieth different suite. Over the two weeks they’d been working together, Catherine had begun to try and zoom in on Nick’s preferences in living facilities. He was, however, one of the most difficult customers she’d ever tackled. He didn’t like modern, but he didn’t like vintage. He didn’t like clutter, but he didn’t like sparse. He didn’t like Asian inspired, French inspired, or freaking Alaskan inspired. He was a bachelor, for goodness sakes. Catherine had been under the impression that all a bachelor needed was an easy chair, a toilet, a TV, and a beer. But no, not Nick Stokes. Nick needed… well, she wasn’t sure what he needed, but he needed it quick, because he couldn’t keep living in a hotel.
With another breath, she reached and turned the handle to her newest find. It was a French, vintage inspired apartment complex (just the thing Nick didn’t like, but she was beginning to grow less concerned about what Nick liked and more concerned about where Nick was going to live) on the outskirts of the desert. Unkempt vines were growing on the front door of the two-story complex, covering nearly one half of the building façade, while the window frames were white washed and cracking from the sun. Catherine grimaced. The outside was a dump. And who didn’t love the secluded, creepy, I-think-I-hear-a-chainsaw-murderer-outside location? Of course, it wasn’t located in the middle of nowhere; it simply lay in the suburbs. There were numerous neighbors and it was a mere two-minute drive until you hit the main road, but it wasn’t exactly situated in the middle of a crowded city.
The door creaked open and the pair hesitantly peered in. The window filtered in harsh sunlight while the interior beckoned them inside. It was oddly… cozy. Perhaps that was what Nick was looking for? Catherine began to mull it over as they tentatively stepped through the door. Nick was a simple, laid-back sort of guy, who sported a basic, multi-layer black look. On cold nights, he wore a blue jean jacket and, no matter what, donned comfortable shoes. He drove a truck, didn’t appear to have much of a social life, and seemed romantically unattached. Not that Catherine was on the market, but Nick was a pretty decent-looking man. Decent-looking, maybe, but he was no Warrick Brown. She merely smiled and closed the door behind her.
“Where’d you find this place?” Nick asked as he wandered into the kitchen, pausing as the wood floors groaned beneath his feet.
“Good question. This kind of… residence isn’t usually what my company goes for,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at the horrible coffee table that sat in the living room. Similarly, she was flabbergasted by the stuffed bookshelves and mismatched couch pillows that had been tossed around, but she had to admire the black leather sofa. The prior owner was terrible at decorating, but the sofa earned them a few brownie points.
“I apologize in advance,” she continued, mentally gagging at the horrible rug that lay in the living room. “I just received word of its availability this morning. I figured we could check it out together, but- good God, what’s with the books?” she asked, narrowly avoiding another stack of -what were those, forensic journals?- on the floor.
Nick emerged from the disastrous kitchen and grinned. “I love books,” he commented. “Who lived here before?”
“Well, I don’t really have all the details yet. I’m pretty sure the previous occupant was in some sort of accident or something. Whatever the case, the rent stopped coming,” she explained, catching a glimpse into the kitchen and not liking what she saw. “Look, even I can understand why you’d be turned off by this place. There’s a great listing about fourteen miles South from here-”
“What? Why? This is perfect,” Nick interrupted, seemingly shocked that she didn’t appear to agree. And, quite frankly, Catherine didn’t. She could agree is had a subtle… charm about it, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a wreck. Besides the kingdom of books and bad rugs, the light fixtures were outdated, the paint job was an eyesore, and there was no sense of decorative balance at all. Even if she did ignore the superficial qualities, she couldn’t overlook that the floors squeaked, the bedroom door tilted, two windows were cracked, and rumor was the plumbing was bad.
And she hadn’t even made it to the bedroom or patio yet.
She blinked, holding onto her ever-present clipboard and staring at Nick as though another head had grown from his shoulder. He was kidding. He had to be kidding. She had shown him beautiful apartments with breathtaking views and pools and gardens… and he chose the pigsty. She gave her mind a moment to catch up before meeting his content gaze.
“Nick, this- are you sure? I haven’t even checked to see if the building's up to code. And what about all this stuff? I wouldn’t let my boss live here, and he’s Satan.”
Nick merely shook his head and smiled, turning from her and heading towards a small door in the back. He yanked it open (the hinges squeaked high enough to call dogs) before climbing the newly revealed steps towards the top. Catherine haphazardly followed behind, cursing her heels and unreliable hairspray. She followed the enthusiastic man upwards, clutching onto her clipboard even harder and muttering to herself as they finally reached their destination. Maybe he was a fixer-up kind of guy and wanted to buy it for the challenge. Or maybe he just wanted to get away. Or maybe he was having a mid-life crisis. Or maybe-
Catherine’s mind stopped its usual racing as she stood next to Nick, all thoughts of sanity now gone. The apartment roof revealed one of the most beautiful views of the city she’d ever seen. The lights glittered in the early morning light, the peeking sun silhouetted casinos, and construction cranes moved like giants in the distance. A soft wind whipped her strawberry-blonde hair around her face as they both took in what they were seeing in silence.
He turned and looked at her with a hopeful expression. “D’you think if the price went down a little, I could have it?”
Catherine paused and took a fleeting glance towards the city view again. They could undoubtedly jack up the price of the apartment without blinking an eye; people would pay an arm and a leg for the view and semi-secluded locale. She bit a glossed lip before turning back to the man next to her.
“And you’re sure you want this one?” she asked, no longer caring about how much she’d get paid for this particular deal. She had grown to really like Nick and she knew how long it had taken him to find his perfect home. Besides, she wasn’t blind; she saw how lonely he was. This was undoubtedly one of the only things he might ever call his own, and she had no desire to take that away. “The floors, the doors, the kitchen-’’
“I like the couch,” Nick cut it, grinning, and Catherine knew she had no choice but to sign him the lease.
…
Gardening and Design Services, Inc. was a tiny, tiny, tiny building with five thrift store desks, five Wal-Mart chairs, and five of the best Macs Nick could get his hands on. It was situated between a scrapbook supply store and an old café; the café, of course, received many more customers than the scrapbook store ever did, but it was still a quaint little setup. When Nick’s business was just getting off the ground, he had offered to landscape the café’s miniature side garden and transform it from the monstrosity it was into something upbeat and colorful. In return, the café would give Nick, Archie, Bobby, Sara, and Gil free lunch on Fridays.
Nick was grateful for that small blessing, because his company was far from rich. He’d only moved to Las Vegas from Texas two years ago, and he still hadn’t adjusted yet. His parents were lawyers, and Nick couldn’t stand the thought of their blood money; he loved them, but not their jobs, and so he decided to stay out of law enforcement and go into something completely different. Considering he enjoyed nature, landscaping seemed like a viable option. One thing led to another; before he knew it, he was starting up his own business in Las Vegas, and there were plenty of high rollers whose yards and gardens needed renovation.
Nick just had to find them.
Regardless, Gardening and Design Services, Inc. was doing pretty well for itself. Nick didn’t want too much too soon; he only had one office, and everything inside of it -the furniture, the decorating, the paint- had either been given to him, found somewhere, or bought second hand. It didn’t look tacky, of course (Nick would never let it look tacky), but his five employees and their weird filing system was enough for Nick to keep up with. Besides, he made sure they were adequately paid (even though his own income slipped and slid each month) and had insurance.
“So I hear you bought a new pad,” Sara began as she glanced over her desk and towards Nick. He was putting away his sketchbooks for the day, but stopped to give her a knowing smile; gossip and news flew around their tiny workplace with a relentless fervor, and his renting of a new home was the hottest thing to happen since Gil’s ear surgery. Nick shook his head. They really needed lives, himself included.
“Yeah,” he replied, zipping up his backpack and straightening from his previously stooped position. “It’s really…”
“Nice?” she prompted, arching her left eyebrow in a pointed fashion. “Please tell me you didn’t decide to live in a cave or anything, right? I know you like nature and all, but that’s going a little off the deep end.”
“It isn’t a cave. It just needs a little work here and there, but it’s gonna be a fine place to live when I’m done with it.”
“I bet it’s gonna have a stellar garden, right?” Archie asked, grinning over his computer monitor. Sometimes Nick had to laugh at their set-up; crap desks, crap chairs, crap tables (one was being held together by duct tape and prayers) but they had the top of the line graphic programs and computers. The items were a necessity for a designing company, gardening or otherwise, and Nick had been adamant about buying them.
“I don’t know, Arch,” Bobby piped up. “If you blueprint stuff like this for a livin’, you don’t wanna go back home and do it all over again. Five bucks says his garden’ll be a weed haven.”
“I’ll see your five dollars and raise you five more,” the Asian countered. “Don’t let me down, Nick. Ten bucks is my whole retirement plan.”
“I’ll try not to,” Nick replied, smiling as he turned to the usually quiet Gil. Nick felt elated to have him on his team: Gil was the best of the best, only no one seemed to know it. Gil knew bugs like the back of his own hand, so if Nick was thinking of using a particular flower, Gil knew what kind of insect it attracted and whether the plant choice would be wise. He also had an eye for beauty (and Sara); his knowledge mixed with Archie’s technology expertise, Bobby’s charming people skills, Sara’s creative design, and Nick’s fearless leadership made them a great team, ready and willing to take on the most horrifying of yards.
Well, they’d be ready tomorrow. As of right then, they were wiped. It was time to close shop.
“Alright, I’m headin’ home,” Nick announced, shouldering his backpack. “Will you lock up, Gil?”
“Of course. Doors, windows, I know the drill,” the older man replied, giving Nick a quirky smile from his chair. “Have a nice night. You should invite us over to see your new place sometime.”
“Oo, a housewarming party,” Sara suggested. “Of course, we’ll go for any kind of party at this point.”
“Sadly, I agree,” Archie called as Nick shook his head and began out the door, leaving his four friends to plot how they were going to see Nick’s new digs. They knew they were welcome at any time, but a designated party offered a chance for free food, and none of them were going to pass up an opportunity like that.
The Las Vegas weather was humid as Nick headed towards the bus stop that night. Although he’d initially feared Vegas’ public transportation system, he eventually grew to understand the silent rules of the bus, and learned how to spot someone who was up to no good. He even had acquaintances on his route, as many people like himself took the bus every single day. That meant, of course, they took the same one and even sat in the same seat. Faces were bound to become familiar.
The ride home was uneventful, which was always good news in Nick’s book. Even better was when he stuck his hand into his pocket and found an actual key, not a key card. He’d been sick of his hotel and was counting down the days until Catherine could find him somewhere respectable to live. Frankly, he’d rather live in an almost-disastrous apartment with a few eccentric neighbors than an overpriced hotel with snooty floor mates, and although she hadn’t intended to, Catherine certainly delivered. Nick loved that it was rustic but still had plumbing, questionable as it was.
He stuck the silver key into the lock, admiring how the setting sun shone of its metallic surface, before twisting it and opening the door. It creaked open again -he really needed to oil the hinges- and revealed the same messy interior, squeaking floors, and bad pillows. However, the couch called to him, as did the fridge. He didn’t have much by way of groceries, but he did have the bare necessities: beer and frozen food. He closed and locked the door behind him before letting his book bag fall wherever it happened to land. First he needed sustenance. Then a shower. Then some more beer. Then sleep.
He wandered towards the fridge on autopilot: open, grab beer, close. He then made his way to the couch and unceremoniously flopped onto it without bothering to remove his shoes, counting himself lucky that the television remote was within reaching distance. He knew how his life had gotten to this point, but he didn’t know how to escape the cycle. The ‘how’ question even had a name: Ryan Wolfe. Nick watched the TV with unseeing eyes, his body reclined and splayed out over the leather sofa. He and Ryan… they were supposed to be something. They were supposed to spend the rest of the lives together, and then Ryan was shot with the nail gun and the medics were too late. The memory of Eric’s voice when he had told Nick what happened kept playing; so sad and alone, because he’d lost yet another friend. Nick closed his eyes and emitted a soft groan. When was he going to forget all that? When could he move on?
Nick’s eyes flitted towards the VCR. The black end of a tape stuck out; all he had to do was push it in and he could see Ryan again. He didn’t remember getting up to start the video, but he was suddenly sitting down once more, back in the same position, forgetting whatever was on cable in favor of the tape he’d watched an innumerable amount of times before. He wasn’t sure whether he was expecting it to change, but it never did. It was always the same; same dialogue, faces, smile, and half the time Nick wanted to burn it while the other half -the more powerful half, evidently- was terrified to forget Ryan’s expressions and tones. The video was taken at Calleigh’s wedding. Nick remembered how beautiful she looked, and he doubted her beauty was ever going to fade. Perhaps it was a Miami thing, because Ryan’s beauty seemed unbreakable as well. And now he was buried somewhere, gone from the world, leaving Nick to try and keeping going.
By then, he beer can was nearly weightless in his hand. He glanced at the metallic container, wondering when he’d drunk it all; either way, he knew he needed some more if he ever hoped to get through the night. He thought he’d been getting better -his therapist had said so- but it almost felt like a depressive relapse. Nick quickly reached for the remote and pressed the power button, cutting off the tape and surrounding Nick in silence. Being able to turn it off was progress too, right? As well as waking up in the morning? But none of those things felt like progress. It felt like the mundane, every day motions of life. It felt like he was stuck.
He stretched before turning and heading towards the kitchen, empty can in hand. The sun was just setting; maybe he could visit the rooftop again and see whether designing anything for it would be worth the trouble. Designing always helped him relax, and watching the same video wasn’t getting him anywhere. He could call Gil up and ask what sort of bugs fed on-
His thoughts slammed on the brakes as he opened his mouth and gave a decidedly un-masculine shout. The beer container, once firm in his grasp, fell onto the floor with a light clatter as Nick took a few uncoordinated steps back, alarmed and scared and… did robbers just wander into people’s apartments?
“There’s nothing to steal!”
Nick blinked, frozen in shock as the man -tall, a bit on the thin side, blue eyes- stood in the middle of the foyer and told Nick that there wasn’t anything worth taking. Was he a thief informing the owner of a serious lack of valuables?
“There’s no jewelry, no cash, no silver, no drugs,” the man continued, looking Nick up and down, as if trying to deduce whether he was armed. Unless he considered a discarded beer can dangerous, Nick wondered why he even bothered.
Despite his surprise, Nick was spurred into action anyway. He wasn’t sure whether to try and defend himself, because the stranger didn’t seem to have a gun or knife. Heck, he wasn’t even bothering with a mask.
“I’m not stealing anything!” he protested, standing as tall as he could in hopes of appearing intimidating. Was this guy crazy? He had to be. He had to be a great B&Eer as well, because Nick hadn’t even heard anyone pick the lock.
“Then there’s a homeless shelter nearby and I can call you a cab. I’ll even pay for the fare and a good meal, just- is that beer? You’ve been blowing money on beer?”
“I haven’t been blowing my money at all!” Nick insisted, beginning to view the stranger less as a threat and more of a confusing annoyance. “I live here.”
“You can’t live here,” the man promptly informed him, “Because I live here.”
“No, I live here. I rented it, it’s mine, and it took a damn long time to find it, okay?”
“No it’s not okay! Good God, my name’s on the papers! And Jesus, have you ever heard of a coaster? That’s my grandmother’s coffee table. I know it’s hideous, but it’s real wood.”
Nick merely watched, dazed and certainly confused, as the man shot him a spiteful glare and then pointed to tiny piles of trash that littered various surfaces of the apartment. “Here’s a revolutionary concept: try a garbage can. They’re nifty containers that hold trash.” He sent Nick another dark look before thrusting his right index finger towards the phone. “I’m calling the police if you don’t get the hell out of here, understand? I offered you help but you didn’t take it, so you’d better hit the road before I get half the department down here to drag you away.”
“What? Hey, listen, my name’s on the papers too,” Nick fought as the stranger stomped into the kitchen. Who the hell did this guy think he was? If it was a rent scam or something similar, then they’d work things out, but Nick hadn’t been rude or threatening towards him and there was no reason to be so defensive.
Nick waited for a moment, expecting a reply, but received none. With a sharp breath, he slowly began creeping towards the kitchen. Why had he allowed Mystery Man into the one room with all the sharp knives? He mentally kicked himself for his stupidity as he slunk forth. He strained to hear movement or a rustle of clothes, but only silence remained. That was odd. Perhaps the stranger was crouching behind the door, waiting to stab him to death? Great. What a perfect end to the day.
Nick bit his lip and shoved the door open as quickly as he could before leaping back, waiting for some sort of attack. But the attack never came and the silence continued to reign.
“Hello?” Nick asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no need to be scared or anything. I think we mighta been victim to some sort of scam. I bet five other people have keys to this place too, so why don’t we…”
His voice trailed off as he finally entered the kitchen. It was empty. Nothing had been moved. Nothing could be heard.
It was if the man had never been there at all.
…
Nick had been indecisive about calling his psychiatrist.
Jim Brass was a good man with the innate ability to intimidate someone into confessing their deepest, darkest secrets. That in itself made him an excellent therapist, but Nick was pretty sure he was one of Jim’s more boring patients. In all honesty, he didn’t have any juicy secrets; he was a vanilla sort of guy who didn’t get too wild and crazy about anything in particular, especially sex. Not that he’d been getting any, of course, but he hadn’t been in the mood for quite a while anyway, so it was a moot point. Besides, Nick wasn’t worried about sex: it was the non-existent visitors that concerned him.
The night before, Nick had nearly decided to ignore what had happened. Considering Mystery Man had disappeared without a trace, Nick convinced himself he was just really, really tired and was beginning to see things. Maybe he had even dreamt it. There wasn’t a shred of proof that anyone besides Nick had been in that apartment, and why stir up something out of nothing? With that in mind, Nick had fallen into a restless sleep and woke up about every five minutes, terrified that someone was in his bedroom or kitchen. He was up half the night, checking and double-checking that his locks were secure, and then leaning a chair against the door in case the locks were picked.
But the following morning, as he finished his shower, Nick leaned in wiped the steam from his mirror.
And nearly died.
In the mirror’s reflection, Nick saw the same man from yesterday standing right behind him, angrily shouting, “I told you to get out!”
In the two milliseconds it took for Nick to spin around, he discovered two things: 1) Mystery Man was gone, and 2) Calling Jim was no longer up for debate.
And so, after work, he found himself sitting at an outside table of Frank’s Eatery, peeling the label off his Bud Light and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He was almost afraid to go home, considering someone seemed to either have an extra key or knew how to pick a lock with both hands tied behind their back. Sure, his visitor hadn’t seemed dangerous, but neither had Ted Bundy. Look what happened there.
“You look troubled, Nick,” said a familiar voice. Jim Brass slid into the other chair, drink already in hand, and wasn’t even able to take a sip before Nick began speaking.
“This is going to sound crazy,” he began. Jim’s drink, halfway up to his lips, was set back down onto the table, dark eyebrows rising to meet a receding hairline. “That’s not a good way to start a conversation,” he noted. Nick gave him a grateful smile; while Jim was indeed a great analyst, he was never one to bullshit. He called him like he saw them, and that was refreshing.
“I know, it’s just…” Nick trailed off for a moment, abandoning his shredded label and starting on a white paper napkin. “I’ve been seeing this guy.”
“What, romantically? Good for you!” Jim replied, genuinely pleased to hear that Nick was deciding to break away from his celibate lifestyle. He took a celebratory swallow of his beer.
“No,” Nick interjected, halfway finished with the napkin in his hands. “He’s not- he’s not really there.”
“You mean he’s emotionally unavailable? Nick, I’m saying this right now,” Jim replied, instantly setting down his beer again. “That isn’t healthy for you. You’re just getting over what happened in Miami, and someone who’s emotionally detached can’t give you the support you need. Understand?”
Nick inwardly winced. This was a lot harder than he thought it would be.
“I understand that,” he replied, grappling for the right words. “But this guy, he’s- I mean, he really… isn’t there.”
Jim’s drink was officially forgotten. The older man looked as though he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. In his defense, Nick wasn’t sure if he were in Jim shoes either; it was quiet for a moment, or as quiet as Frank’s could be. Frank’s Eatery was really just a bar that served burgers, but no one ever complained. They didn’t water down their beverages and their single menu item was delicious.
“This is bad, Nicky,” Jim finally said, shaking his head and suppressing a sigh. “I’d prefer the emotionally unavailable boyfriend to hallucinations.”
“But I’m not crazy! And I don’t do drugs or anything like that.”
“Were you drunk?”
“I’d only had one beer,” Nick argued, running his right hand through black hair. “Only one, swear to God. And I saw him this morning, too. In the bathroom mirror. I hadn’t been drinking at all then.”
Jim shook his head again, leaning back into his chair. He wore a worried frown as he laced his fingers together.
“Listen, Nick, healthy people don’t see people who aren’t there. Has he said anything?”
Nick nodded, taking a hefty swallow of alcohol. He definitely needed it. “He keeps telling me to get out of his apartment.”
“So he doesn’t sit in the corner and tell you jump off buildings or set fires or anything?”
“No, none of that. He’s so… normal.”
“Cute?”
“Jim!”
The other man held up his hands in a surrendering fashion. “Just asking. God knows you need someone, Nick.”
“Someone who actually exists would be nice,” Nick groused back. “You’re the head doctor. Gimme something to work with.”
“Well, that’s a toughie,” Jim replied, allowing his sigh to escape. “He’s not a violent hallucination. You don’t seem delirious, you get enough sleep, and you weren’t inebriated at the time. I’d wait.”
“Wait?” Nick echoed, incredulous. “I’ve seen this guy two days in a row and you want me to wait? Please tell me you’re pullin’ my leg.”
“No leg pulling here,” Jim responded. “Call me when you see him again. And next time, just… ignore him.”
“It’s hard to ignore someone when they’re constantly bitching at you,” Nick muttered, taking another large gulp of his drink. He caught Jim’s disapproving gaze, swallowed, and set down the bottle.
“What?” he asked, slightly defensive, and Jim rolled his eyes.
“Nicky, you gotta slow down with the alcohol. I’m surprised your new friend hasn’t said something about it.”
Nick inwardly winced again. Mystery Man had already noted the beer cans and made his displeasure quite clear.
…
Armed with the fact that his new roommate was probably incapable of mad killing, Nick was able to sleep a bit easier. It wasn’t much, but he only woke up three times after his conversation with Jim, which was a vast improvement when compared with the night before. When he was asleep, it was incredibly deep and peaceful. He wasn’t sure how to explain that, but he honestly felt rested as he slowly woke the next morning.
One thing he loved about his new apartment was the sun. It streamed in and lit the entire place without Nick having to turn on a single light. It was natural and brought a nameless serenity to the entire place, which helped Nick feel less hassled about electric bills and more focused on his career. He glanced towards his alarm clock; it was only four more minutes until it was supposed to ring, but he didn’t feel as though he needed any extra rest. With a yawn, he reached over to switch off the buzzer and began making a mental list of things he needed to do. It was Friday, so lunch was taken care of, but he needed to stop by the bank and maybe pick up a few-
“Holy shit!”
Any thoughts about the upcoming day were drowned out by his surprised exclamation. There, on the left side of his bed, stood Mystery Man; his arms were crossed, his expression pissed, and his stance intimidating as he furiously peered down at Nick. This was all made worse by the fact that Nick was only wearing the blanket he slept beneath.
“You and I seem to have difficulty communicating, but I’m not sure if I can make this any simpler for your pea brain to understand,” he growled. “Get out.”
Nick closed his eyes and desperately tried to recall what Jim had suggested. Ignore him. Right. Who could ignore this guy?
He quickly lay back down and placed a pillow over his head. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.
“You aren’t real,” Nick muttered. “You’re a figment of my imagination, brought on by stress and… alcohol, probably. I swear to stop drinking if you go away.”
For a blissful moment, there was only silence, and Nick’s heart rose and flew at the thought that perhaps he somehow beat whatever trick his mind was playing with him.
The moment was short lived.
“Excuse me? I’m not a figment of anyone’s imagination, least of all yours,” came the livid reply. “You know what? This is a hell of a lot worse then I thought it was going to be. I’ve tried being patient, but I think it’s high time to question your sanity.”
Nick quickly removed the pillow and shot his newfound acquaintance a dark look. “I have a perfect bill of mental health, thanks. Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the man replied, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and you’re going to happily answer them. Have you been drinking more?”
Nick blinked. Well, maybe. “Maybe,” he muttered. “What’s it to you?”
“Ah. And have you been seeing things that aren’t real?”
“Um, hell yes.”
“Smart ass,” the man cursed beneath his breath. “Have you been visiting a shrink?”
“What, you follow me around now?” Nick angrily shot back, and he would’ve been more than happy to theatrically shove his comforter aside and stand his full height if only he’d been wearing clothes.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” came the prompt response, and Nick noticed the man was looking rather pleased with himself. “I think you need to admit you’re a lunatic and get help. Now get out of my bed. Those are good sheets.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Nick childishly returned. “I’m not crazy. You’re just… dead, I think.”
Blue eyes widened and the bedside guest took a step back. “Are you threatening me?” he questioned, slightly shaken for only a moment. He then spun around and strode towards the bedroom telephone. “I’m calling the police.”
“You can’t!”
“Watch me,” he snapped back. Their eyes met for a brief moment as Mystery Man made a grab for the phone, not seeming to understand what Nick’s exclamation meant. It wasn’t that the spirit couldn’t call on moral grounds, but because he couldn’t call on physical ones.
His hand went right through it.
His head whipped towards the object, now fully concentrating on the phone receiver. Long fingers drifted right through, as though it were only air, and then went through the base, the underlying tabletop, and finally rested by his thigh. He tried again, over and over, a desperate, confused motion before he turned towards Nick again, irate. “What did you do to my phone?”
Nick could see the growing confusion on the man’s face; he seemed quick and intelligent enough to know you couldn’t “do” anything to a solid object that would cause a human hand to ghost past it.
“Stay there,” he ordered, turning and nearly bolting out the door. “I’m going to use the one in the kitchen.”
By the time Nick was up and quasi-dressed, the apartment only housed one person, and that person was Nick.
…
“Can I help you?”
Nick’s fingertips ceased their motion over the book spines once he registered the question. He couldn’t even believe he was in a supernatural bookstore in the first place, but then again, he was starting to suspend belief about a lot of things. He had hoped this would be his last resort, thinking maybe his personal ghost would just… disappear on his own, but Mystery Man seemed to have every intention of staying put. Although Nick hadn’t seen him since that morning, he knew it wouldn’t be the last appearance Mr. Blue Eyes was going to make. Besides, if Nick ever hoped to get rid of him, he had to be informed. He just hoped the information was worth something.
He turned to see a man about twenty-five with blonde tipped hair, a questionable wardrobe, and a sweet smile grinning at him from his place beside Nick. “Greg Sanders, owner,” he introduced, sticking out his hand. Nick politely shook it; he’d been raised to always courteous, and this guy didn’t seem too weird. “So what kind of encounter have you had? Ectoplasm? Soniferous ether? If you wanna make contact with the dead, I can hook you up.”
Nick was given time to register Greg’s excited inquiry when a customer stopped and asked where the UFO section was. The blonde happily pointed it out before returning to his discussion with Nick.
“Contact? No, I’ve had enough contact to last a lifetime, thanks,” Nick replied, turning back towards his previous task. The other man gave a thoughtful “hm” before saying, “I’ve got exactly what you need.”
He not-so-subtly shoved Nick aside and, with much more expertise, found his desired book. He handed it to Nick with a quirky smile. “I’ll be happy to ring it up with a discount as long as you promise to come back and tell me how it went.”
“Uh, sure,” Nick replied, nodding his head as they made their way towards the checkout counter. “I mean, I don’t really believe in this stuff-’’
“No one does initially,” Greg easily replied, pale fingers flying over the cash register’s number pad. A receipt began to noisily print and he looked up with a knowing expression. “Then again, we really don’t have any say-so about it. If an ectoplasic being feels like becoming part of our life, what are we going to do about it?”
That was a question Nick’s thought he’d never have to answer, so he took the book and receipt, gave the animated man a small smile, and headed towards his apartment. He was glad that no one was going to witness what he was about to do. Not even he wanted to see just how disastrous his attempt was going to turn out, but he had to try. He couldn’t keep living with a man who, when described scientifically, didn’t actually exist.
Half an hour later, he’d arrived to his living room. He felt utterly ridiculous as he poked his head in, apprehensive that his visitor would be waiting with some sharp words. Actually, it probably would’ve been best if he were waiting, because he and Nick really needed to talk. It was why Nick had bought Greg’s suggested reading in the first place: whenever Nick wasn’t prepared, Mystery Man would show up, and when Nick was ready for a conversation, he’d disappear. It was a frustrating cycle, but one Nick hopefully intended to break if he could ever learn to… call? Summon? …the ghost again.
Despite this, the rooms seemed to be empty.
“Hello?” he called, checking each available space. There were no blue eyes glaring at him from any corner, not even a closet.
With a sigh, Nick flopped onto the couch, opening the book to the appropriate page. He even purchased a few candles to… well, do something. If anything, it added to the whole spiritual vibe.
For some reason, it felt wrong to recite an incantation that had been printed in millions of copies of the same book. If this guide was so successful, why weren’t more people reporting ghostly contact? Nick felt even stupider, but he’d already paid for it and the candles were burning. No time like the present, right? Sure. Nick rolled his eyes at himself. The ghost was probably giggling at him from wherever he stood, mocking his every move. Nick couldn’t believe he was self-conscious in his own apartment.
He set the book on his lap and held up a Glade candle. “Spirit awake,” he began, reciting the printed words. “Spirit partake, spirit without fear, spirit appear.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before hesitantly opening them, hoping he wouldn’t be the only one in the room. Alas, the incantation hadn’t seemed to do anything, but the pine fresh candle smelt fantastic.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
There was no response, and Nick growled. This was absurd.
He blew out the candle and closed the book, tossing it next to him. No catchy rhyme was going to call a man who lived -er, died- well, whatever to both startle and annoy Nick. He bit his lower lip. What had he done so far to get the spirit’s attention before? Could he duplicate it?
He glanced at the cup of coffee he’d brewed before he ever started his failed séance. What he was about to do was so, so evil, considering it’d probably give his dead roommate a heart attack, if dead people could have heart attacks in the first place.
The book and candles now forgotten, Nick reached for the mug. “I have a cup of coffee,” he announced, brushing off his feeling of stupidity as he continued to speak to thin air. “And why, would you look at that? There isn’t a coaster on this table. I’m putting this sweating mug onto this beautiful mahogon-’’
“You seemed like such a smart man at first. I have to say I’m disappointed,” came the almost-expected-but-not-quite voice of a certain “ectoplasic being.” Nick jumped slightly before quickly setting the mug onto the tabletop -using a coaster, of course- and quickly standing. He couldn’t let this man -thing- uh, being- whatever escape again.
“We need to talk,” he hurriedly replied, ignoring the sarcastic tone his visitor used.
“I agree. If you insist on staying here, you’re going to pay rent.”
“I already am- okay, you know what? I think we should start over. Hi. My name’s Nick Stokes. And you are?”
The man faltered for a moment, catching Nick’s gaze with uncertain eyes before concentrating on something behind him.
“David,” he finally replied, crossing his arms again, a strangely protective gesture. “David Hodges.”
“You didn’t really know that.”
“You’re a physic too. Tell me, what am I thinking?”
“You had to read it,” Nick accused, turning to see where David had discovered his name. It was a framed diploma stating that he’d graduated with honors from some sort of science program.
“I know my own name, you prick,” came the irritated reply. Nick turned back again; it was easy to see that David wasn’t irritated with Nick as much as he was with himself. He really hadn’t been sure what his own name was, and that had to be scary.
“There’s a white light. Go into the white light.”
“There’s no light!”
“You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead. Now get out!”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not leaving.”
And so they stood, staring at each other with a tinge of defiance, both refusing to budge.
“Well,” Nick finally said, turning and walking into his bedroom, hoping David would be gone by the time he returned. “I’m glad we could work things out.”
TBC! Next part soon. ^_^