Overwhelmed

Disclaimer:  I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein.  I receive no compensation or any other tangible benefit from this story.  I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then.  🙂

Summary:  For Nicholas, the mission isn't over.  But Max and Grant have a plan.  A stand-alone story, set immediately following The Assassin (S2E13).  Some familiarity with the episode is assumed.

*******

The plane ride home was miserable.

The mission in Boston had been the most intense that Nicholas -- and the rest of the team, for that matter -- had experienced since they'd worked together.  He knew that they were all worried about him.  He knew that they were trying to make sure he was doing okay and keep him from getting lost in his own head, thinking about…Westerly.

But, damn it, if he had to answer the question one more time...

"Nicholas," came the low rumble of Max's baritone beside him, "how are you doing?"

And there it was.

"I'm fine," he snapped.  "How many more bloody times do I have to say it until you leave me alone?"

Nicholas purposefully rattled the pages of the magazine he was holding and glared down at the words, caring less about comprehending-- or even seeing -- what was written there than about averting his gaze from the hurt look he knew he'd left on Max's face.  The sudden pang of guilt cut him like a switchblade, adding to everything else that was already built up inside him.  He wanted to apologize, but he just couldn't make the words come out.

Max looked sadly across the aisle at Grant and Shannon, whose eyes mirrored his own.  Silently they were all wondering the same thing:  would their friend and teammate ever be the same as before?

*******

Jim drove his four teammates from the airport to his condo, where they'd left their personal vehicles.  He pulled into his parking space, put the Land Rover in park, glanced at his watch and sighed heavily as he turned slightly in his seat.

"I know everyone's tired," he said apologetically, "but I think a debriefing is in order."

"Can it wait until tomorrow, Jim?" Nicholas pleaded, exhaustion heavy in his voice.  "I just want to go home and rest."

Jim frowned slightly and his brow furrowed.  "You know how important it is for us to talk after a mission, Nicholas," he answered, his voice even. "And this one is especially important.  You can rest afterward."

"But I don't feel like talking," Nicholas countered softly.

"Come on, buddy," Max urged, laying a cautious hand on his friend's shoulder.

Nicholas shrugged off his teammate's touch.  "I don't want to talk," he repeated, his teeth clenched, his words slow and deliberate.  "You all can do what you want.  I'm going home."

Nicholas opened the door and slid out, then cursed aloud as his keys smacked the pavement where he'd dropped them.   Quickly, he picked them up and was in his BMW before Max could drag his tall frame out of the Land Rover.  Jim laid a restraining hand on the blond's shoulder,  pulling him back slightly as the luxury car sped by him and out of the parking lot.

"Let him go, Max," the senior agent said softly.  "Give him some time.  We'll try again tomorrow."

Jim squeezed Max's shoulder reassuringly as he said goodbye to Grant and Shannon and disappeared into his condo.  Shannon hugged Max and Grant and then she, too, took her leave. 

Max climbed into his red Challenger and rolled down his window as Grant appeared beside him and peered in at his friend.

"You headed home, pal?" he asked.

"Yeah," Max responded, running a hand through his hair, "once I make sure Nicholas got home okay."

"Want some company?" the Black agent questioned in a half-whisper.

Max looked up at him in surprise.  Clearly, Grant was just as worried about their dark-haired friend as he was.  "Sure."

"I'll drop my car off at your place," Grant suggested, thumping Max's car door for emphasis.  "Then we'll ride together."

*******

Nicholas pressed down firmly against the gas pedal. He couldn't get out of that parking lot fast enough. As he pulled out onto the road, he found himself driving a little faster than he normally did.

If only I could outrun all the stuff in my head.

It hadn't been his intention to shut his team out. Hell, he knew better than anyone how important it was to debrief after a mission. And he certainly hadn't meant to hurt Max. But from the moment he had come out from under Westerly's control — seeing Max beside him, a warm hand on his shoulder, as his other three teammates looked on worriedly — something had felt off.

Suddenly, the calm, level-headed agent was a bundle of nerves that never seemed to stop twitching. Suddenly, every sound, every touch, every interaction was just….too much. Emotions that he hadn't wrestled with in years — guilt and fear and insecurity — were now oppressively overwhelming. And all he wanted to do was go home, turn off the world, and sleep, and hope that tomorrow it would all be back to the way it used to be.

He didn't want to think about what life would be like if it wasn't.

Despite his exhaustion, Nicholas knew that the thoughts racing around in his head wouldn't allow him to fall asleep. Not like a normal person, anyway, and certainly not considering it was only six o'clock in the evening. He briefly contemplated taking some sleep aids, but thought better of it. They didn't always work the way they were supposed to, and he couldn't stand the idea of lying awake for hours fighting all the things that his brain would throw at him.

He drove past the turnoff to Max's apartment, and the guilt over their earlier interaction punched him in the stomach once again. But then a familiar landmark came into view. McGregor's. The local pub where each of them had spent a fair amount of time over the past couple of years.

Impulsively, Nicholas jerked the wheel at the last moment and turned into the parking lot. Not normally much of a drinker, the dark-haired agent knew that a couple of shots of whisky would numb his thoughts quite nicely — leaving him sober enough to drive home but just buzzed enough to fall into bed and go right to sleep.

*******

Grant parked his Lexus in front of Max's apartment, then he climbed into the Challenger and the two friends rode in silence toward their teammate's place just a few miles down the highway. The Black agent was gazing absently out the passenger side window when he suddenly spotted something familiar.

"Max, look!" he said suddenly, mildly startling his friend, laying one hand on Max's shoulder and using the other to point out the window. "Isn't that Nicholas' car?"

The blond agent nodded. "It sure looks like it." Parked at McGregor's, he thought. This isn't good at all.

Max quickly pulled into the lot and into the empty space beside the black BMW. One look at the license plate confirmed it belonged to their friend.

"I didn't know Nicholas was a drinker," Grant mused.

"He usually isn't," Max affirmed, "at least not when we're out. He'll have a drink every now and then, but that's it. He's always the sober one."

Grant's voice dropped half an octave in pitch, and his concern was palpable. "How many do you think he's having tonight?"

"Judging by how he was earlier," Max responded, equally concerned, "I'm almost afraid to know." He looked at his friend. "Do you think we should go inside and check on him?"

"Probably not," Grant reasoned, after some thought, "at least not yet. He didn't want anything to do with us earlier. But we probably should wait for him out here, in case he can't drive himself home."

"I wish there was something we could do to help him," Max sighed.

"Maybe there is," Grant smiled, and Max could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as a plan began to take shape. "I have an idea."

*******

Two shots of whisky. That's all that Nicholas had planned. But the first one went down smoother than he'd expected, and the second one left him wanting more. So he ordered a third, and as he downed it he had a fleeting thought that he might be getting close to being legally intoxicated and probably should stop.

As he reached for his wallet, the dark-haired agent took stock of his situation. The racing thoughts had faded to the point where they were barely noticeable. That was good. But he didn't feel impaired yet. That was also good. And since he wasn't normally a big drinker, his slightly fuzzy brain told him that he could get by with just one more and still be okay. After all, home was less than seven miles away.

A few moments later, with shot number four down the hatch, Nicholas plunked down some bills and shuffled out the door. As he approached his BMW, he caught sight of a familiar red car — and two familiar figures — beside it. His face, already flushed from the alcohol, turned even brighter red with anger.

"What in bloody hell are you two doing here?" he demanded, stumbling slightly as he drew closer. "Besides sticking your noses where they don't belong."

"Just making sure you're good, man," Grant replied. "Which, clearly, you are not."

"I told you, damn it, I'm fine!" Nicholas insisted, standing so close that Grant reeled slightly from the smell of the alcohol on his friend's breath.

"Give me the keys, Nicholas," Grant said authoritatively. "I'll drive you home." He reached for them, but Nicholas jerked them away.

"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home," he said, the smallest hint of a slur contradicting his words, glaring so intensely at the Black agent that he didn't notice Max sneaking up behind him. Suddenly, the blond grabbed his arm and wrenched the BMW keys out of his hand, then smoothly lobbed them to Grant as he seized Nicholas' other arm.

"Afraid not, buddy," he disagreed.

Max did his best to guide Nicholas to his car, despite the dark-haired agent's efforts to shuffle, wriggle, and scream his way to freedom. Grant opened the rear passenger door and Max all but threw his friend inside and immediately slammed it closed.

Nicholas promptly reached for the door handle and began to jiggle it frantically. It wouldn't budge.

"Let me out of here!" he bellowed.

Max grinned at Grant. "Who knew those child locks would come in handy?" he chuckled, slapping his friend's shoulder fondly. Then he climbed into the driver's seat and looked at his rear view mirror. Nicholas was glaring at him coldly.

"Relax, Nicholas, I'm taking you home," Max promised.

Nicholas knew it was useless to try to escape the backseat, and the thought of reaching across the front seat for Max briefly crossed his mind. But even though he was angry and impaired, he was thinking clearly enough to realize that he didn't want to hurt his friend — or take a chance on causing a wreck and possibly hurting them both. So he sighed heavily, resigned to his fate, and rested his head against the locked door.

The drive to Nicholas' apartment took less than ten minutes, but by the time they got there, the dark-haired agent was asleep.

Max opened the back door carefully and Grant helped him gently lift their sleeping friend out of the car. Then he slung Nicholas across his shoulder in a fireman's carry as Grant unlocked the door to the apartment. Within moments, the two men had tucked him into bed, removed his shoes, and pulled the blanket over him. Then they hastened to put Grant's plan into action.

*******

The first thing Nicholas noticed as he opened his eyes was the almost pitch blackness of the room. The second thing he noticed was the dim light of the bedside lamp sitting on the end table, and a familiar-looking blond-haired man sitting in the armchair beside it, reading a magazine.

But before he could open his mouth to ask any questions, the pain shot through his head like a lightning bolt.

Nicholas put his hand to his head, groaning slightly. In the next moment, Max was sitting on the edge of the bed with two painkillers and a cup of water.

"Easy, Nicholas," he crooned softly, as he pushed the items into his friend's hands. "Take these. They'll help your headache."

Nicholas numbly accepted the medications with an almost childlike trust. Once he swallowed the water, he opened his mouth to question Max's presence in his bedroom, but the blond interrupted him once again.

"Nicholas, it's three in the morning. Go back to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow. I promise."

Exhausted, head pounding, and lacking the strength to protest, the dark-haired agent conceded the argument. "I need the bathroom," he muttered, with a hint of embarrassment.

Max nodded and pulled back the blankets, so his friend could do what he needed to do. When he was finished, he allowed his blond friend to pull the blankets back over him again. Within just a few moments, he was back to sleep.

*******

The warmth of the morning sun and the smell of freshly perked coffee woke Nicholas from a sound slumber. As he stirred and opened his eyes, he was mildly surprised not only to see Max standing sentry over his bed, but Grant seated in the nearby armchair.

"Good morning, sunshine," Grant quipped with a grin. "How's your head?"

Nicholas paused to take stock of things before answering. "There's a dull ache, but it's not bad," he replied honestly, his voice quiet, at the same time realizing that things in his room were a little different from how he remembered. A small shelf filled with some of his favorite books, which once sat in the extra bedroom he used for a study, was now propped against the wall near his bed. A teapot and empty teacup rested on the bedside dresser, and a portable compact disc player sat on the end table.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"We know these past few days have been hard for you," Max began, his voice gentle, "so we want to make sure you get some rest and relaxation."

"We don't want you to lift a finger or worry about anything for the next few days," Grant continued, as Max disappeared down the hallway. "Just rest, sleep, read a book or listen to your favorite classical music if you'd like. There won't be anything or anybody else around to bother you. And we'll take care of all of your meals and snacks."

As if on cue, Max reappeared at the door carrying a tray heaped with Nicholas' favorite breakfast foods, a steaming cup of coffee, and the morning newspaper. "We don't want to smother you," the blond assured him as he set the tray down gently onto his friend's bed, "but we'll both be close by." Max reached into his pocket, pulled out a communicator, and laid it on the dresser. "Just let us know when you need something."

Still struggling to take the information in, Nicholas suddenly remembered. "I have some appointments this week."

"All rescheduled," Grant informed him. At Nicholas' puzzled look, he grinned again. "We found your calendar."

"You really are a creature of habit, pal," Max teased, with an affectionate pat on his friend's shoulder.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to argue," Nicholas reasoned, trying to sound cross but failing miserably.

"Not this time, partner," Grant confirmed, as he rose from his chair. "Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I worked hard on it. We'll be back later to check on you."

Then Grant slapped Max's back fondly and the two of them exited the room, closing the door behind them and leaving Nicholas alone.

For a moment, the dark-haired agent just stared at the closed door, unable to process what he'd just witnessed. He almost pushed the button on the communicator next to him and summoned them both back to his room to talk things out. But as quickly as the thought occurred to him, he felt the anxiety that had gripped him the day before lurking in the shadows, threatening to rear its ugly head once again.

He wasn't angry anymore — not even after what had happened yesterday — but he also wasn't ready for the conversation that Grant and Max…and eventually Jim…were bound to expect from him.

So for the next several hours, he took advantage of the opportunity his friends had provided for him, sometimes reading, sometimes letting the gentle piano music soothe him to sleep. Each time he got hungry he used his communicator to call, and either Max or Grant would quickly show up with something — somehow, they always seemed to know exactly what he was in the mood for at the time.

As late afternoon stretched into evening, Nicholas once again paused to consider his state of mind. He felt much calmer than he'd been since back in Boston — an entire day of not having to worry about anything really had helped, he realized. And while the troubling emotions were still hanging over him like an ugly black cloud on the verge of a storm, damn it, he missed his friends.

His friends, who had worried about him, taken care of him, and given him exactly what he'd needed to take the edge off. Who had made it clear they'd be ready to listen the moment he was ready to talk. He didn't want to — no, he couldn’t — shut them out anymore.

A long, hot shower will wash the rest of this away, Nicholas reasoned. Then I'll head downstairs to be with my friends.

*******

"How long do you think it'll be before he's ready to talk to us?" Max asked, panning the television channels for at least the third time, as the sound of running water reached their ears. Nicholas was awake then, and taking a shower.

"I really don't know," answered Grant quietly, "but I told Jim it could take a few days." The Black agent stared at his friend, who was rubbing his eyes and doing his best to stifle a yawn. "You didn't get much sleep last night," he scolded gently, his voice laced with worry. "Are you sure you can keep this up?"

"I'm here for as long as it takes," the blond muttered, and Grant's stomach lurched in empathy knowing that Max was recalling his tangle with Nicholas at the pool, when their friend was still under Westerly's influence. Knowing the blond had been terrified at what had happened to their friend, and was determined to do everything he could to help. "At least he doesn’t seem grouchy anymore. That's something, I guess."

Soon, the two agents heard the water turn off upstairs and listened for Nicholas to return to his bedroom and close the door. Instead, they were surprised to hear footsteps descending the staircase. A moment later. Nicholas entered the room, and both men stood up.

"Nicholas!" Grant exclaimed. "Why didn't you call us? We'd have brought you whatever you need."

"The only thing I need is to talk with you guys," the dark-haired agent replied, his voice not much louder than a whisper. "To apologize, and explain some things."

"We don't have to do this right now, buddy," Max assured him, his voice low, laying a hand on his friend's back as he drew closer.

"Max," Nicholas pleaded, "I'm okay now, I promise. I'm ready to talk."

Max stared at his friend a few seconds longer, as if measuring the truth of his words. Finally, he nodded slightly, and the three agents sat down on Nicholas' oversized couch, with the dark-haired agent in the middle. Grant and Max both turned slightly to face Nicholas, as he took a deep breath and began to speak.

"I'm sorry I was so hateful yesterday," he offered, his soft brown eyes moist as they locked with Max's blue ones. "You were only trying to help. I didn't mean to push you away." Nicholas sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "I was just….overwhelmed."

"Well, of course you were overwhelmed, Nicholas," Max responded in his empathetic baritone. "You were drugged. Programmed. You went through hell and back." Max shuddered at the thought of what Westerly had done to his friend. "It's understandable."

"Maybe," Nicholas conceded, "but even though I knew that I was being unreasonable with all of you, I felt powerless to do otherwise."

"Don't worry about it, Nicholas," Grant said reassuringly. "All is forgiven."

Suddenly, the dark-haired agent's voice dropped an octave in pitch, and he lowered his eyes accordingly. "That's good to know," he acknowledged, "but I'm still scared."

The overt, unexpected admission took both Grant and Max by surprise. Max laid a comforting hand on Nicholas' shoulder as Grant spoke.

"What are you scared of, pal?" he said in a half whisper.

Nicholas sighed again, and it was a few seconds before he replied. "I'm scared that whatever Westerly did to me will always be here," Nicholas admitted, pointing to his temple with one finger for emphasis, "that it's changed me, that I'll never be the same."

"We can talk to a doctor," Grant suggested. "Have him run some tests, just to make sure that there are no lingering effects from the drugs Westerly gave you."

"And if there are?"

"Then we'll deal with it, when and if it comes," Max promised. "Look, Nicholas, you're still you. You're still our friend. We're not going anywhere. We're gonna be right here to help you through everything."

"Although Jim will probably insist that you talk to a psychiatrist or therapist or something, you know," Grant advised soberly.

"I know," answered Nicholas with a nod. "I'm not sure I like the idea, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to prove to him that I'm still capable of doing missions." A pause, and then he continued, his voice barely audible this time. "And to prove it to myself, somehow."

"You are more than capable, Nicholas," Max assured his friend, as if all the world depended on him knowing this, "and nobody believes otherwise."

"Shannon might," Nicholas whispered suddenly. "I know I hurt her badly, and I don't know if she will ever trust me again." I sure as hell wouldn't, he thought to himself.

"That wasn't your fault, pal." It was Grant's turn to provide reassurance, and he looped an arm around Nicholas' shoulders. "Shannon knows that, and when you talk to her she'll tell you that her trust in you hasn't changed a bit." Grant waited until Nicholas's soft brown eyes met his own. "Nobody's has."

"Mine has," Nicholas disagreed.

There was a slight pause as Max and Grant, taken aback by the comment, exchanged glances. "What do you mean, buddy?" Max questioned.

"I let him in," the dark-haired agent said simply, looking down at the floor, "and if I could mess up once, I could do it again."

Max's stomach lurched. "You didn't mess up, Nicholas. This wasn't your fault." When his friend didn't respond or look up, the blond agent crooked his index finger and placed it under Nicholas' chin, lifting it gently until their eyes met. "Are you hearing me?" His voice was gentle but firm. "This was not your fault."

"You were all alone in there, man," Grant added, his voice equally soft. "Before Max and Shannon could even get in there to help you, he isolated you, then he blindsided you. It could have happened to any of us."

Nicholas broke eye contact with Max and turned to look at Grant. "But it happened to me."

"None of us are blaming you," the Black agent assured him. "You've got to stop blaming yourself."

"You're a damn good agent, Nicholas," Max chimed in, "and there's nobody I'd rather have on my team."

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" Grant teased, bringing a hint of levity to the serious conversation.

"You're a nitwit, is what you are," Max ribbed, using his free hand to deliver a playful smack to the side of Grant's head.

Nicholas chuckled in spite of himself, then he smiled faintly. "Thanks, guys," he said sincerely, but there was a lingering question in his eyes, and Max noticed.

"There's something else on your mind, isn't there?" It wasn't really a question.

Nicholas sighed heavily for a third time and nodded. "All of the other assassins died before they could be questioned," he said quietly, feeling his pulse quicken anew as he looked up at Grant, "What if that could still happen to me?"

"Nothing's going to happen to you, Nicholas," answered the Black agent. "We're fairly sure that your body has already absorbed the thought-triggering device, but that's definitely something we can find out through testing."

"Westerly's dead, buddy, and you're safe and sound here with us twenty five hundred miles away," Max added. "He can't hurt you anymore."

There was a long pause while Nicholas stared down at his hands, allowing the gentle reassurance of his teammates to sink in. With Max's hand still perched atop his shoulder, and Grant's arm still resting across his back, he could almost feel the tension finally slipping away. He looked up at them and smiled.

"Shew, all this talking has stirred up my appetite," he declared breezily. "I don't suppose you've started dinner yet?"

Grant and Max looked at one another. Grant raised an eyebrow, and Max responded with an almost imperceptible nod. "Say, Nicholas, how would you feel about going out to dinner?"

The dark-haired agent, still smiling, looked askance at Grant. "Where'd you have in mind?"

"Le Riviera," the Black agent replied. "We know it's your favorite."

Nicholas' face lit up with surprise at the mention of the black-tie establishment. "My favorite, yes," he agreed, "but I'm sure you guys would be more comfortable somewhere a little less…..formal."

In response, Max walked over to the small closet at the base of the stairs, opened the door, and took out two matching black suits with black bowties and crisply ironed white dress shirts. He handed one to Grant as Nicholas' smile grew bigger.

"Are you guys serious right now?"

"Hey, we wouldn't put on a monkey suit for just anyone, partner." Grant grinned back at him fondly.

"Then I guess I'd better go put my own monkey suit on," Nicholas retorted.

He had taken two steps toward the stairs when he heard Max's voice.

"Nicholas."

The dark-haired agent turned around. "What is it, Max?"

Max's eyes brimmed with concern. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

Nicholas squeezed the blond's arm affectionately. "I'll be all right now, Max. Thank you both. For everything." Then, impulsively, he reached out to wrap his arms around Max's broad shoulders. Max returned the hug and thumped his teammate's back heartily, and then Grant leaned in to follow suit.

"You're the best friends a guy could ask for," Nicholas said earnestly as Grant released him.

"Good thing you think so, pal, because you're stuck with us," Grant winked. Then the three of them rushed to get dressed.

*******

A half hour later, they emerged from the apartment and stared at Max's red Challenger and Nicholas' BMW sitting side by side in the parking lot.

"Whose car are we taking?" Grant inquired.

"Well, mine is better suited to the occasion," Nicholas observed, chuckling softly at the mental image of three men in fancy suits rolling up in a red Challenger.

"But I'm sure you don't feel much like driving, right, buddy?" Max said teasingly. All three of them knew how little the dark-haired agent enjoyed the activity, while Max saw himself as the unofficial team driver most of the time.

The blond held out his hand. "Give me the keys," he said with a sideways grin. "You know you want to."

"You just want to drive my car," Nicholas countered with feigned irritation as Max continued to silently hold out his hand. Finally, Nicholas smiled broadly and handed over the keys. "Oh, all right," he relented. "I suppose you've earned that much. Just be careful."

"Always," Max said triumphantly as his grin spread even wider.

"Liar," Grant ribbed, joining in the friendly banter, then the three men climbed into the BMW and headed to the fancy French restaurant, with Max at the wheel.

********

Grant and Max spent another night at Nicholas' apartment, and the next morning the three of them drove to Jim's condo to meet Jim and Shannon for a ten o'clock debriefing. As Max pulled into the parking lot, he turned to look at his dark-haired teammate sitting in the passenger seat. His eyes shone with empathy, knowing that Nicholas would soon be baring his fears and feelings to their team leader.

Talking to Grant and me is one thing, he thought. Talking to Jim — and Shannon — will be something else entirely.

"This isn't going to be easy," the blond cautioned aloud.

"I know," Nicholas conceded, "but I'm ready."

"You've got this," Grant encouraged. "And you've got us."

The dark-haired agent smiled as his two companions each threw an arm across his shoulders and together the three of them walked towards the condo.

The End

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