Title: Choleric
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG13
Warning: dark subjects
Series: Sanguine, Melancholic
Summary: When it comes down to it, we get through the day the best we know how.

Notes: I didn't quite expect the turn this installment took, but in a cracked way it sort of makes sense. If you're Nick, and not Gil. And to look at Nick in season four, well, this may really be happening, who can say. Comments welcome.

"On the charge of first-degree murder, we find the defendant guilty."

The courtroom was suddenly alive with yells, cheers, a few cries of surprise. Nick flinched when Detective Laskey leaped out of his seat, jostling Nick in his hurry to congratulate the family. Judge Toyama, as always, looked neither pleased nor disturbed, stacking a few papers and gave the hubbub a few seconds to wear on before calling for order.

Kellerman snarled when they put handcuffs on him. On his way out he cast a venomous look in the family's direction, and then at Laskey. And Nick felt his stomach clench when the look of hatred came his own way. Kellerman's blue eyes snapped with fury, and when they met Nick's he grinned. In his life Nick couldn't remember ever seeing a more frightening expression.

"Hey, pretty boy," Kellerman called, neck muscles cording as he resisted the guards' efforts to drag him out the door. "Next time I won't miss!"

Even after he was gone, yanked away with force and gone from view, Nick felt the eyes on him. Laskey, and Felter, the Winthrop's attorney; even Evelyn Winthrop was gazing at him with something like pity. It made Nick's stomach hurt. He stood up fast and had to let his head catch up with the rest of him for a second.

"He's a fuckwad," came Mike McAda's deep voice behind him. "Forget about him."

Nick turned and glanced at him.

"He's gonna get the death penalty, Nicky," McAda added, mouth curved in a smile almost as scary as Kellerman's. He shrugged. "Bet my Mustang on it."

"Probably."

"No fear."

Jim Winthrop came over, tanned face drawn and tired. He gave Nick a weary smile as they shook hands. "Thanks for everything, Mr. Stokes," he said. "You have no idea how much we appreciate it."

"It was an honor, sir," Nick said fervently.

"Zack got justice. I think he can rest in peace now."

"I think you're right, sir."

Evelyn didn't waste any time on shaking hands; she came right up and hugged his neck so fiercely he had to drag a gulp of air when she let go. Her blue eyes shone with tears, but with the remembered grief was a kind of angry joy. "Penny said to tell you thank you. She wanted so much to be here." She put a cool hand on Nick's wrist, fingers clasping tight. "Will you come to the house tonight? Everyone will be there."

Nick smiled. "I have to work, ma'am. But I appreciate the invitation."

"It's the least we can do. If you ever need anything – anything, Nick – you only have to ask." She gazed at him so steadily he felt pinned. "You helped catch my grandson's killer. I won't forget that. None of us will."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about how he was doing his job, and all that, but instead he nodded. "Thank you," he said softly.

She gave his wrist another squeeze and smiled before heading back to her family.

Outside the courthouse he drew a deep breath of baked air and let it out in a whoosh. It felt almost odd to see the end – almost the end – of a case that had consumed so much of his time a year ago. A case that had nearly cost him his life early on, and polluted his dreams for months after. Now he felt restless, edgy. He sighed again and went to find his truck.

At the lab he caught the day-shifters wrapping things up. Good; wasn't often he beat Grissom to work. He changed clothes in the locker room, and after shivering a little in the air conditioning, added a sweater over his shirt.

He'd made serious inroads into his lingering analysis on the Beatty case by the time the rest of his colleagues started showing up. Grissom poked his head inside the door and blinked at him.

"Heard about the verdict. Congratulations."

Nick smiled at him. "Yeah. Justice can be a sweet thing."

Grissom leaned against the door jamb. "How's the family?"

"Happy. The mother couldn't make it to the trial. Still in the hospital." He felt his smile slipping. Penny Winthrop had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer two months after her son's murder. The double blow of his son's murder and his wife's illness had aged Jim Winthrop prematurely, and Nick had often wondered why some people, families, seemed singled out for an inordinate amount of suffering in this life.

He sighed, and shrugged. "Kellerman's a monster," he added slowly. "I think he'll get the death penalty."

"That's the rumor."

"Deserves it."

Grissom regarded him solemnly. "You look beat," he observed. "I know this was an important case for you. Doing all right?"

"I'm fine." Nick unclipped a slide and set it in the box at his elbow. "Kinda weird that it's over. I walked out of that courtroom and it was like I didn't know what to do with myself. Antsy."

"Not uncommon to feel that way. You worked hard, and for a long time. Now it's over. Just need to adjust."

"Yeah."

"Come on. We're going to have a busy night."

Grissom paired him with Warrick on a missing-persons case, and it was past midnight before they concluded their search of the woman's home and vehicle. Nick levered himself up from his crouch inside the car, and winced as his back popped loudly. Jesus, he was tired.

"Hungry?"

He looked over at Warrick, and shook his head. "Nah. Gimme a hand, man, this car's too damn small."

Warrick reached out a big hand, and Nick popped out of the tiny Triumph like the proverbial cork from a bottle. "Thanks," he said dryly.

Warrick snorted. "Good thing Griss sent you out here. Takes the skinny guys to do the two-seaters."

"Skinny?" Nick made a face. "First time for everything, I guess," he added, bending to gather up his gear.

"Seriously. You been losing some weight? Felt like I was picking up Sara there for a second."

"You've been working out then, because I'm the same I ever was." Nick straightened again and sighed. "We done here?"

"Think so. Lemme grab my stuff."

On the way back to the lab Warrick veered into a drive-through burger place. "Sorry, but I gotta eat."

"No problem."

His stomach growled when Warrick's food appeared, and that got him a slanted look. "Sounds hungry to me. Go on, grab something, we got time."

Nick curled his lip. "No thanks, man, I'm good."

"Well, don't bitch at me later when you get a knock."

"Don't worry."

Back at the lab he dove into analyzing his results from the car, so immersed in what he was doing that he didn't feel the time going by. Grissom's voice startled him.

"Much more of this and they'll be asking me for the keys to your shackles."

Nick glanced up, startled, and then at the clock. "Oh man. I had no idea."

"I could tell." Grissom stepped inside. "Trying to outstrip Sara in the overtime department?"

"Guess I got into it."

Grissom gave him a rare smile. "I'd say so," he said gravely. "Come on. You and Sara will bankrupt this department."

In the parking lot fifteen minutes later, Nick blinked in the bright morning sunshine. "Why's daylight always shock me so much? It's like this every morning. Think I'd get used to it."

Grissom touched his shoulder. "Stand you for breakfast." His fingers felt good, holding on. "Paco's?"

Nick grinned. "Sure."

They took Grissom's truck, and not too long after that they were seated, menus in hand, while the waitress poured Paco's oily coffee into two chipped ivory mugs.

"What'll you gentlemen have?" she asked, taking out a pad of paper from her pocket.

Grissom ordered eggs, hash browns and toast while Nick consulted the menu. He looked up, and caught a look from Grissom. "Your usual?" Grissom asked.

Nick shook his head and handed over the menu. "Nah. You got some fruit?" he asked the waitress, who cocked her eyebrows.

"Oranges. Think there's some apples, too. We've got fruit cocktail, want that?"

"No thanks. Just the fresh stuff."

"That all you want?"

"Wheat toast. No butter."

"Coming right up."

She walked away, and Grissom sat back. "Fruit? That doesn't sound like you."

"Trying to eat better. You know, part of the overall plan." Nick smiled and drank some coffee. It burned going down.

"The plan." Grissom lifted his chin. "What plan is this?"

"Well, no big deal. Just not eating so much crap, get in more running time. That kind of thing."

"Sounds positive," Grissom said with a slow nod. "Does this have anything to do with your dad?"

Nick smiled again, briefly. "Maybe so. You know, he's been a meat-and-potatoes guy all his life, and skinny as a rail. But his doctor said it was cholesterol that gave him an MI. I don't want to end up like that, you know? Thinking about vegetarianism. And this friend of mine, he's been into TM for a while. Transcendental meditation? Anyway, he said it's cut way down on his stress. So he gave me this tape, thought I'd give it a try." He took in Grissom's faintly flummoxed expression and grinned. "Okay, so maybe I'm finally growing up, right?"

Grissom smiled, too. "It all sounds great, Nick. You should talk to Warrick; I think he's the hamburger king around here."

"No lie, man, he had one last night. Red meat, will be the death of him."

The orange tasted old, and he left most of it on his plate. The apple wasn't bad, but after some calculation he peeled the skin off. Trust a place like this to wash the fruit adequately? No, thanks. He ate a piece of apple and watched Grissom plow into his eggs. The sight made Nick feel a little queasy.

Back at the lab Grissom dropped him by his truck. "Get some rest, okay?" he said through the open window. "You put in some hard work."

"Will do. Thanks for breakfast."

Grissom snorted. "Think it was a buck-fifty, but you're welcome. See you tonight, Nick."

"Later."

By the time he got home he felt pretty sick. No way he was going to turn down breakfast with Grissom, not these days, but damn, why'd everyone on the crew like Paco's so much? Greasiest of greasy spoons, Christ, tasted pretty good but the guy used LARD, couldn't get away from it, the goddamn coffee was greasy.

It felt better after he threw up. Always did. No point in putting off getting sick; you just prolonged that godawful interim period, waiting for the inevitable. He got out his sweat pants after he brushed his teeth. There was time for a run before the heat got too bad. And the gym, then, sort of a reward for all that pounding the pavement. Sounded good.

"Suicide, from the angle of the wounds. Definitely self-inflicted. She died of massive volume depletion – hypovolemic shock."

Gil gazed down at Ingrid Ferman's waxy-pale features and nodded. "Anything else? Drug use? Abuse?"

"Her tox screen was clean," Nick said to his left.

"No sign that she was using anything." Robbins shrugged. "Pretty straightforward, barring anything I turn up later on."

Gil frowned. "Why a hotel room? Why didn't she take her own car to the hotel?"

"The whys are your department. I'm strictly the whats."

Gil nodded again, absently. Ingrid had been a beautiful woman, from her pictures. Startlingly so. Now, skin colorless from blood loss and puckered from the chill embrace of the water in the tub where they'd found her, she was ghastly.

And hadn't he seen someone else looking pretty much like this, and not so very long ago?

He swallowed, and tore his gaze away from Ingrid's white features. "Nick? Anything else?"

He looked to his left, and saw Nick wrapping his arms around himself. "Nah." Nick shook his head, and then made a face. "Man, it's cold in here." Gil drew a breath and Nick held up his hand. "No, I know, it's supposed to be cold. Just – I'm freakin' freezing over here."

"Everything all right?" Robbins asked. His eyebrows drew together. "You look like hell, Nick."

Nick shrugged. "Got wet getting Our Lady of the Bathtubs out, and now I'm standing in a meat locker. Cut me some slack, man."

"Why don't you go change?" Gil asked. "I'll finish up and find you when I'm done."

"Deal." Nick cast them both identical brief smiles. "No offense, Doc, but your work environment sucks."

"You get used to it," Robbins said mildly.

Gil stared at the door after Nick had gone, feeling the chill creeping into his own bones. Then he flinched when Robbins said, "Penny for your thoughts."

Gil looked at him, and then shook his head. "Mind if we cover her up first?"

Robbins nodded slowly. "Not at all."

Between them they covered Ingrid Ferman's body with a sheet, and then Robbins came around the table, gesturing with his chin at the office next door. Inside, he poured coffee into two battered cups, and added a little splash from a flask in the left drawer.

"I don't think that's departmental issue," Gil said dryly, accepting a cup.

"Doctor's orders." Robbins sat down heavily and set his crutches aside. "You look like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders," he observed, sipping his own drink.

Gil nodded. "Not sure if I can say why without betraying a confidence."

"Something to do with Nick, I take it."

"How'd you know?"

"I don't just observe dead people, you know. Sometimes I look around at the live ones, too. Nick didn't look too good, and now you look worried."

"Nice deduction."

"Easy one." Robbins' tiny smile disappeared. "You don't get squeamish at the worst of times, Gil, but you had me cover that body. I'm assuming it's not the person, since you would have removed yourself from the case if you had a personal connection to it. So I'm thinking the manner in which she died is the question. Which brings me back to Nick."

Gil tasted his coffee. Good beans, and good brandy. "Nick's a cutter," he said softly, not looking away from his cup.

After a moment Robbins said, "I see."

Bracing himself, Gil looked up. "I didn't know until late last year. I found him. He'd nearly bled to death."

"Christ." Robbins shook his head, features grim. "So this one tonight hit close to home."

"You could say that."

"Is he still cutting?"

Gil sighed, and raised his hands helplessly. "He says he isn't. I want to believe him. But aside from submitting him to an inspection every evening, I'm don't know for sure."

"Is he in therapy? What's he doing to stop?"

"I asked him to see someone. He did, but stopped. And he's been doing so well, Al. I mean it: he was talking not long ago about exercising, watching his diet, even meditation. It all sounds good."

"But," Robbins prodded gently.

"But I have a feeling."

"Want me to talk with him? I can order him to have a physical, see what's going on, if anything."

"No. Not – Not yet. I'll talk to him. High time I did, anyway."

"Nick's a good man," Robbins said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear that he's involved in something like this. He doesn't seem the type."

"On the surface he doesn't. I agree. But that day, Al –" Gil drew a deep breath. "He was close to ending up in your territory. He told me later that almost never happened. But it did. I can't forget that."

"Nor should you."

Gil drank off the coffee in one throat-searing gulp. "I should go. Thanks for the coffee."

"Keep me informed, would you? On the QT, if nothing else?"

"I will."

He found Nick in the locker room, bundled into different clothing but still bundled. Gil leaned against the door jamb. "Better?"

Nick flashed him a fast look and went back to tying his shoes. "Lots, yeah. So is it official? Robbins calling it suicide?"

"Pretty cut and dried."

"Yep. Kinda sad."

"Tragic."

Nick finished tying his shoe and looked over at him. "You okay?" he asked, brows furrowing.

Gil drew a long breath. "Not really," he said after a moment. "I'm worried about you."

"Me? Aw, don't say that." Nick made a face, squinting his eyes closed briefly. He sighed. "She reminded you, didn't she? Damn it."

"Yes, she did. And we haven't talked about this, not in quite some time. I feel as if you're doing all right, but I keep wondering."

Nick stood, stuffing his damp clothing in a duffel bag. "Why do you wonder?" he asked tightly. "I'm not lying to you. I'm doing all right. You want perfect, go find somebody else. But I'm still here, aren't I? Not going anyplace."

Gil shifted. "I'm not looking for perfection, Nick. God, no. But –"

"Look, you want proof? Fine." Dropping the bag, Nick walked up to him, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater with short, jerky motions. "Here," he said flatly, holding out his bare forearms. "Now will you be satisfied? Nothing there."

In spite of himself Gil looked. Unable to even pretend he wasn't checking, feverishly. And Nick was right: there wasn't anything. A couple of bruises, faint and fading, but those were the kind anyone could have, innocently enough. Other than that, Nick's unmarked skin, only a tiny hint of a scar over the prominent radial arteries.

Without planning it Gil reached out to rub his thumb over the artery, loosely clasping Nick's wrist. "You're right," he said slowly. "I apologize."

"Am I interrupting something?"

They both flinched, turning to see Catherine standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Her expression was quizzical, and amused. "You guys gonna slice your palms and be blood brothers or something?"

Gil swallowed, and could think of nothing at all to say. Catherine snorted. "Okay, as much as I hate to break up some weird male bonding ritual, I got a situation, and I could really use your input, Grissom."

"Of course," he said faintly. "My office?"

"I'm right behind you."

He didn't look at Nick as he left.

"Rancher found a foot."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "Just one?"

"And no body to go with it." Gil glanced at his watch. "Soon as Catherine's ready we'll head out there. No particular rush."

"Cool. You all right?"

"Me? Yes. Just busy." Gil lifted his chin at his overflowing inbox. "And I'm out of town next week, again, so it's not getting better anytime soon."

"Consulting again?"

"Entomologists' conference."

Nick grinned. "Buncha bug men, comparing notes. You'll love it."

"Whether or not I do, this work will be here piling up." He leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. "You? How's it going? I feel like I haven't even seen you in a week."

"That's because you haven't," Nick quipped, still grinning. "I've been here, man; you haven't."

Gil nodded, studying him. His imagination, or was that strong jaw somehow more chiseled these days? "So no problems."

"Nope. I'm good." The sardonic eyebrow lifted again. "You can do a spot check if you want. Nothing to see."

"I'll take your word for it," Gil replied dryly.

"Ready?"

They looked over at Catherine. "We're ready," Gil said. "You don't look ready."

"Want the truth? I'm not." She walked in and slung herself into a chair with a sigh. "Jesus, this has been a long day."

"It just started," Nick said, looking at his own watch.

"Yours, maybe," she retorted. "Mine started at 10:00 and hasn't stopped since."

Gil nodded. "How's Lindsey?"

"She's good. All right," Catherine amended. "She misses her dad." She shook her head. "Let's not talk about that. How are you guys? We missed you last week," she added, looking at Gil.

"I'd rather have been here, trust me."

"And you." She reached out with one foot and nudged Nick's calf. "Good weekend?"

"All right, I guess. Didn't do much."

Her eyes narrowed. "You cut your hair?"

He snorted and glanced at Gil, and back to Catherine. "What hair?"

"You look different. Lost some weight?"

Gil looked at Nick in time to see him shake his head. "Not that I know of. Been working out more."

Her smile had faded; she looked focused, eyes slightly narrowed. "Could be it. But buddy, you're looking a little gaunt."

"Gaunt? Come on."

"Skinny. What's your secret?"

Nick laughed out loud, shaking his head more. "No secret. I swear."

"It's not fair. Men lose weight and they don't even know it, and women gain half a pound and suddenly people are asking ‘em if they're pregnant."

"I'm definitely not pregnant."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, let's get this show on the road."

In the hallway Warrick caught Gil's arm. "Listen, when you get done, there's some stuff I need to run past you. All right?"

Gil nodded, frowning. "Case stuff, or other?"

"Little of both."

"Well, we're headed out now, should be back fairly soon. Couple of hours?"

"Right. Catch you then."

"Okay, Warrick."

He walked to catch up with Nick and Catherine. Come to think of it, Nick did look slimmer than his usual. Hell, who didn't these days? Work was running them all ragged.

"Hey, skinny," Sara said, walking fast past their trio.

Catherine looked at Nick. "See?"

"Hey, you don't know she was talking to me."

"I was talking to you, Nick," came Sara's voice from halfway down the hall.

Nick blinked. "Jesus, she's got good ears."

"And eyes." Gil watched Catherine poke Nick in the ribs. "You are skinny, mister. What's going on?"

"Nothing, I told you." Nick rolled his eyes and gave Gil a helpless look. "Would you tell her to stop already?"

"I'm not your father, Nick, tell her yourself." Gil walked past, shaking his head. "Come on. We're running late."

Two months after the Ingrid Ferman case was closed and done, he could still feel Grissom watching.

It was maddening. What would it take to get the guy off his back? A signed goddamn affidavit? "I solemnly swear that I, Nick Stokes, have not been cutting for the past six months." Fuck that. Wouldn't do the trick, anyway. No, it appeared that for better or worse, Grissom was gonna be watching. For the foreseeable future.

Not that there was anything to see. Nick could bet on that. And he'd pull his own eyeteeth before he'd admit how hard it was to not do the things Griss didn't want him to do.

He fought it off, and it came back. That urge, that compulsion. Just a little, let it out. And everything would be okay. But no, he wasn't doing that anymore, and so it built again. Faster, bigger. And the things he could control, well, those were getting harder, too.

He slowed and stopped by the big park sign. God, he was more than winded, and only done six miles today. Two less than yesterday, and that had left him feeling like overcooked linguine. He bent, leaning his hands on his knees. The sound of the blood whooshing in his ears was deafening. His chest ached, his goddamn body ached. Didn't make any sense, because he hadn't been running that fast. Good jog, nothing like a real flat-out run.

He straightened, and a wave of dizziness came out of nowhere, like a baseball bat right to the temple. The park wavered, the sunshine went away, and when he opened his eyes he was lying on his belly, face down in the dirt.

Well, that was completely unplanned. He sat up slowly, feeling like he'd fallen into a bathtub full of molasses.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

Nick looked around woozily, registering a guy in shorts and tee shirt standing a few feet away. "I'm okay," Nick said thickly, reaching up to wipe the dirt off his face.

"Shit, you went down hard." The guy came closer, looking worried, the kind of worry you felt about someone you didn't know from Adam. "Wham!"

Nick nodded, already feeling a hot rush of embarrassment. "Got a head rush," he replied faintly. "I'm all right." He tried to stand, and his legs wobbled so much he couldn't do it.

"Here, man." The jogger held out a hand, and with another stab of humiliation Nick took it. The man levered him easily to his feet, shaking his head. "Jeez, no offense, but you look like shit on a stick. You gotta know your limits, dude. Pace yourself. Gotta start slow, work your way up."

Staring at him, Nick spat, "I've been running for years, don't tell me about pacing myself. I know what I'm doing."

The guy held up his hands, looking a little ticked, too. "Jeez, sorry I stopped, all right? Run yourself into the ground, go to town. Excuse me for living."

He already felt like an asshole before the guy jogged on down the path, but the anger was there, too. Pace yourself. Bullshit. Just tired, that was all. Yeah, buddy, you try working all freaking night and then keeping to a good physical-fitness regimen and see how good YOU feel, all right?

He walked home. No more jogging, not today. And due at the gym pretty soon, but his arms felt like he'd probably drop a can of frozen orange juice right now, much less be able to press his usual 250. Which lately had not been quite 250, but fuck, he was a busy guy, people to see places to be. Whatever, he could still give Warrick a run for his money, even if the guy was a little more ripped.

At home he drank a bottle of water down, no pauses, and felt it gurgle noisily in his stomach. A survey of the fridge was disheartening. Nothing was right. Nothing fit. He closed the door and went to take a shower.

Even that didn't really revive him. A look in the mirror showed he'd given his face a few scrapes during his dive into the dirt. Ugh, fucking stupid. And tired, Christ, he was ready to crash, and he hadn't done the schedule, no damn discipline, that was what he got for slacking yesterday. No, today he couldn't afford to do that. Today he had to finish, because that was what it was for, discipline, which meant that even when you didn't feel like it, you went through with it anyway.

He got dizzy again at the gym, once when he was lifting, once when he wasn't really doing anything at all, waiting for the muscle-bound freak on the machine to finally get done. And the jerk left the seat slimy with sweat. It took a few minutes to find the spray bottle of disinfectant, and even then it was like the damn Princess and the Pea, could feel that guy's sweat like a disgusting spunk all over the thing. He did a few reps and got up, heading for the shower.

His second shower didn't do that much, either. He still felt dirty, unpleasantly so. He soaped up three times, rinsing in the too-soft water, and finally it wasn't ever going to be enough, so he got out. Caught some fruity guy giving him the eye, and stared at him. "What?" Nick barked.

"Nothing," the guy said uneasily, going back to buttoning his shirt.

"You got a problem?"

The guy just shook his head and hurried.

"No, I mean it." Nick felt the ready anger coming up like bile, his heart taking off, rapid skipping in his chest. He advanced a few steps, standing there naked as a baby. "This isn't some freaking peep show, all right? Don't stare, man, it isn't cool."

"More like a freak show," the guy shot back, lip curling. "Why don't you try eating sometime?"

Wind suddenly out of his sails, Nick blinked at him.

"Whatever." The guy picked up his bag. "Your funeral."

It was so cold, standing here. Jesus, what was with Vegas and air conditioning? Might be the desert, but that didn't mean every place had to be kept the same temperature as the damn morgue. He dressed quickly, cinching his belt tight. Good at least this part of the regimen was working; clothes hadn't been this baggy since high school.

His heart sped up again in the noonday heat, and he made a face as he climbed into his oven-hot truck. Wait a second for that tripping beat to calm down, just need some rest, that's all. Sleep. Sounded incredibly good.

He nodded a couple of times on the way home, and didn't even remember going inside. Just sleep. Wonderful, restorative sleep.

At work that night he registered Catherine holding the assignment log for a second before remembering. "Hey, Griss is out of town, isn't he?"

She nodded. "For a week. Brace yourselves, folks; he left me in charge."

There were a few groans, but Nick didn't mind. Be nice to breathe easy for a change.

Catherine doled him out a DB, and it was midnight before he got the chance to come up for air. Down in the morgue, Robbins was hunched over the body, eyes narrowed with concentration.

"Hey, Doc." Nick walked over, shoving his hands in his pockets. "What you got?"

"Nothing you couldn't have predicted." Robbins straightened, stretching his fingers a little. "Bullet wound to the head, in and out, very close range. Death was instantaneous." He pointed at the faint powder burns on the man's forehead. "Whoever did this definitely wanted him dead."

"I'll say. Tox screen?"

"Positive for cocaine. Nothing else."

Nick nodded. "Brass is picking up our guy right now. Holler at me when you get the full report?"

"Will do."

Turning, he felt another full-body slam of dizziness. This time he caught himself on the edge of the table before he took another nose dive, but it was a near thing.

Robbins' hand was strong on his elbow. "Easy there. Take a few breaths. That's it."

"Wow." Nick raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing. "Second time that's happened today."

Robbins' face was oddly expressionless. "That how you got the road rash on your face?"

Nick nodded, willing his heart to stop this stupid pounding. "Out running, next thing I know, face down." He swallowed. "Just gimme a minute. I'm okay."

"I'm not so sure of that. Sit down over here. Come on."

With Robbins guiding him he wavered over to a chair, and sat down hard. "Man," Nick breathed, shaking his head. "Guess I overdid it."

"You look like you've dropped weight. How much do you weigh?"

Frowning at him, Nick shrugged. "Same as I always have, I guess. One-fifty, thereabouts. Why?"

Robbins kept on gazing at him. "Are you sure?"

"Might have dropped a couple of pounds. I've been eating better. You know, vegetarian. Lots of fruit."

"If you weigh one-fifty, I'm Jonas Salk."

Startled, Nick snorted a laugh. "Well, as far as I know. What difference does it make? I'm healthy as a horse, man. Never been in better shape in my life."

"You just had a syncopal episode, Nick. Those don't happen without a reason. And you had another earlier today. Did you lose consciousness?"

"Maybe for a second. Just a head rush, that's all."

"Feel like you can stand?"

"Yeah. No problem."

"Good. Come with me."

Standing was okay, and he rubbed his cold hands together as he walked after Robbins. "Doc, I got a report to put together. This gonna take long?"

Robbins disappeared into the adjoining office. "Not long," he said evenly. "Come in here."

Nick walked in. "What?"

"Come over here." Robbins stopped by the scale. "Step on."

Nick blinked. "You want to weigh me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Humor me." When Nick hesitated, Robbins' expression tightened. "I can make it a requirement, if you prefer. Medical necessity."

"No, you can't. You're not my doctor."

"If you're one-fifty, you have nothing to worry about."

"Jeez. Make a federal case out of it." He stepped over to the scale, rolling his eyes. "You need to get out more, Doc."

Robbins ignored that, tapping the balance weights. Nick shook his head and slumped, eyes on the poster on the far wall. X Files. He wouldn't have pegged Robbins for a conspiracy aficionado. Interesting.

"You can step off now."

Nick did so. "Satisfied?"

Robbins' expression took him aback. "Vindicated, yes," he said curtly. "Satisfied, hardly."

"Well, what is it?"

"You think you weigh one-fifty."

"Something like that. Why? More?"

Robbins was silent for a moment. "Nick," he said slowly. "You weigh one hundred and eighteen pounds."

Nick stared at him. "Huh?"

"And that's fully dressed. Unclothed, I'd estimate it at around one-fifteen, give or take a pound. Come here."

He let Robbins pull him over to the exam table, a place Nick associated with dead bodies, not live ones. "You're kidding, right?" Nick managed, sitting down on the cold steel.

"I wish I were. Take off your sweater."

"No way, man, it's freezing in here."

"It's cold, but not unduly so." Robbins eyed him grimly. "Your body fat is insufficient to keep your core temperature up. Go ahead." He rummaged for a stethoscope on the bench nearby.

Without the sweater, the room's chill seemed to bite through his tee shirt like icy sharp teeth. He shivered, sitting still while Robbins listened to his chest. Finally the ME withdrew, slinging the ‘scope around his neck.

"You can put the sweater back on," Robbins said quietly. He leaned against the end of the table.

"So? Can I go now?"

"Not just yet. We need to talk."

"Okay," Nick said cautiously. "What about?"

"Normal body weight for your height and build is minimally one hundred and fifty pounds. That's the low end of the spectrum." Robbins' eyes were flat and grim. "You're seriously underweight, and you didn't even realize it. What's going on? Why aren't you eating?"

"I do eat. Of course I eat."

"You say you're vegetarian. But what do you eat, Nick? Tell me."

"Fruit. You know."

"Anything besides fruit?"

"This is the cleansing part. I'm just getting rid of toxins. Cleaning."

"How much fruit do you eat? How many pieces per day?"

Stung, Nick shook his head. "I don't know. I don't keep count. Why?"

"What did you eat today?" Robbins continued, inexorably.

"I don't remember."

"I don't believe that."

"Oh man, come ON. What difference does it make?"

Robbins swallowed audibly. "Your heart is beating too fast. You're tachycardic. You had two syncopal episodes. You are very unsteady on your feet, and your temperature's down. Your blood pressure, I'm certain, is very low. You're hypoglycemic, due to not eating. I don't believe you've eaten anything today. Am I wrong?"

Nick regarded him, fighting down a weird jitter in his stomach. "I haven't gotten around to it," he said after a moment. "Didn't have time."

Robbins nodded. "And yesterday? Did you have time then?"

"Hell, I don't know. I'm sure I did. I do eat."

"Frankly, Nick, I find that hard to believe."

"Whoa, man, just – hold the phone there." Nick shook his head vehemently. "You're acting like I got some kind of problem here, and I don't. I'm just knocking because I didn't have time to eat today, that's all."

"You're right about one thing," Robbins said tersely. "I do believe you have a problem. A serious one."

"You've got to be kidding me. This is unreal. I have to go, man, I do not have time for this."

"Do one thing for me, and I'll let you go."

Nick sighed. "WHAT?"

"There's a sandwich in the fridge. Eat it, and I won't say another word."

Nick gazed at him, dumbfounded. "Huh?"

Robbins nodded. "You heard me. Eat, and I'll let you go back to work. Don't eat, and I'll have you pulled for medical reasons pending a full examination."

"Oh, no WAY, man, you can't be serious!"

"Perfectly serious. Do it, Nick. Show me you'll eat."

Nick stared at him, and then felt his jaw clench. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack."

"You are nuts, man. Completely and totally nuts." Shaking his head, Nick climbed off the table, yanking his sweater back on. "This is insane." He went over to the refrigerator, and took out a paper sack on the top shelf. "This it?"

Robbins nodded. "Ham and Swiss on rye. Bon appetit."

Nick took out the sandwich, swallowing. "I'm a vegetarian," he said, glaring at Robbins. "I don't eat meat anymore."

"Take out the ham if you like. But eat the bread and cheese."

He picked out the ham, laying it on the sack. No cheese, that wasn't allowed. Can't EAT this, this is wrong. This is not the right thing to eat. He stared at it.

"Eat it, Nick," Robbins said quietly. "Just take a bite. You need it."

It smelled foul. Old, smelly cheese, and the bread was sour. He could smell mustard like ammonia in his nostrils. His stomach lurched, and he fought down bile.

"You can't, can you?"

"I don't eat things like this." His voice echoed strangely in his ears. His fingers were so cold he could barely feel the sandwich in his hand. "Not supposed to eat things like this."

"Why not? What's bad about it? What is it that you're not supposed to eat?"

Nick swallowed again. "It isn't fresh."

"My wife made it this afternoon. It's not stale. Perfectly sound. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Yes, there is," Nick said in a tight whisper, laying the sandwich next to the discarded ham. "I can't eat things like this. They aren't healthy."

"And starving yourself is healthy?"

"I'm not starving. I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're anything but fine." Robbins stood up straight, adjusting his crutches. "We'll have it your way. I'll let Catherine know you're off duty until you see your regular physician for a physical."

"No. No, you can't, I'm in the middle of a case, for God's sake." Nick stepped closer, cold with shock. "Doc, I'm okay. I swear to GOD I'm okay. Look, I'll eat it, all right? I'll take it with me, I'll have it when I get done with my report. How's that? Is that good enough for you?"

Robbins regarded him with pity and resolve mixed in his eyes. "No, Nick," he said softly. "It's not good enough. I want you in the doctor's office first thing in the morning. You're abusing yourself. I can't turn my back on that. I'm a physician, first and foremost. And you are a serious health risk to yourself."

Absurdly, his eyes stung with tears. "I'm not. I swear I'm not. Don't do this. Please. Please, don't do this."

"I'll send the report to Catherine when it's finished. And I'm calling you a cab. You're not in any condition to drive. You could have another syncopal episode."

"I don't believe this," Nick breathed, shaking his head. "I don't fucking believe this."

Robbins was already making his way to the phone on the desk. "Believe it," he said over his shoulder. "You're not working until you start eating again."

He knew it the moment he walked in the door. Something off, something not quite right.

Gil glanced around on the way to his office. Nothing renovated, everything as he'd left it. But the feeling persisted. Something in the air. He shook his head, tucking his briefcase under his arm while he picked up his mail.

Down the hall Warrick gave him a nod. "Welcome back."

"Thanks. What's going on?"

Warrick's face was curiously expressionless. "What do you mean?"

"The atmosphere. It's funny."

To his surprise Warrick looked away. His handsome features were set in oddly formal lines. "Yeah, some stuff went down." He shook his head and then shrugged. "Listen, it's not my deal, but I think Robbins is hanging out in your office. Think he'll tell you all about it."

Gil stared at him. "About what?"

"Look, it's just –" Warrick's eyes met his, and for a moment Gil saw real pain there. "Some stuff with Nick, you know?" he said finally, looking away again. "He ain't workin' right now."

"Not working? Why?"

"Just go talk to him, all right? Everybody's kinda freaky. Guess I'm not much different." He swallowed and walked away.

His office door was open. Normally that would have faintly annoyed him, even when he realized Catherine needed access to his files while he was out. Now it just alarmed him. He walked inside, dropping his briefcase on the table. "What's going on?"

"The prodigal scientist returns," Robbins observed laconically, from a chair opposite Gil's desk.

"Warrick said something cryptic about Nick not working, and then said you'd explain it." Gil leaned against his desk, gazing at him. "Will you?"

"The not-working was my idea." Robbins used a crutch to lever himself to a different position. His face was as grim as Gil had ever seen. "Medical reasons."

It felt as if someone had beamed the floor out from under him. Gaping, Gil felt his stomach turn over once, and then settle into a tight heavy knot. "Medical."

Robbins nodded slowly. "Maybe you should sit down."

Gil sat, gazing at him. His mouth opened, but he couldn't find any words to fill it.

"Nick had some problems one night last week in the morgue. I was concerned. As it turns out I was right to feel that way."

"He was cutting."

Robbins shook his head. "No. But something perhaps more insidious. Let me ask you this: Have you noticed he's been losing weight?"

"Weight?" Gil echoed. "I don't -- He's always been on the slim side. I can't say that I've noticed anything extraordinary."

"Well, brace yourself for the unexpected, because he has in fact lost weight. A lot of it. And I believe it's very intentional."

"He's been on a new eating plan, but –"

"Correction. He's been on a no-eating plan, Gil. That's the plan. Stop eating."

Gil stared at him, dumbfounded. He felt suddenly as blank as a new cassette tape. Nothing but hiss. "Stop?"

"From all appearances. He seems to think food pollutes him. It's somehow become poison, I'm not sure exactly."

"Poison?" Gil echoed. "Al, that's – preposterous, surely he doesn't –"

"Let me tell you what's been happening," Robbins interrupted. "You'll have a better picture."

Listening, Gil felt as if his vision had narrowed, tunneling until there was nothing in the world but Robbins, bluntly elucidating the events of the night in the morgue, culminating with Nick's frantic refusal to eat.

"I –" Gil broke off, fumbling. "Did he see his doctor?"

Robbins nodded. "Yesterday. She confirmed my initial feelings, and shared my concerns. Nick is seriously underweight, and clearly has some important food issues. Why this is only surfacing now, I couldn't say. But bearing in mind our discussion some time ago about Nick's cutting addiction, I'll go out on a limb and say I believe they're related. Has he ever said anything to you about an eating disorder?"

Gil shook his head numbly. "Nothing. It never occurred to me."

"I can't say I've ever seen a man purposefully lose this much weight myself," Robbins said in a gentler voice. "Doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Quite the contrary. Question is, what can we do about it?"

"Where is he right now?"

"Home, I assume. I'm not privy to the specifics of his doctor's choices here; that's confidential, and I'm certainly not family or any kind of regular caregiver. My fear is that unsupervised he could be continuing these behaviors. Almost certainly is."

Swallowing, Gil nodded, and then stood up. "I'll find out," he said tightly.

Looking a bit alarmed, Robbins levered himself up as well. "Gil, you can't fix this. All you can do is urge him to see his problem for what it is, seek out treatment. Confronting him aggressively won't solve anything."

"We'll see about that."

He didn't make it far. Catherine waylaid him in the hall by the DNA lab, not even bothering with a greeting. "I take it you heard."

He took in the drawn expression on her face. "I'm going to see him. Cover me a little longer?"

"Why didn't I see it for what it was, Gil?" she asked, shaking her head. "Why didn't you see it, for that matter? I mean –"

"Frankly, Catherine, I don't have time for this. We can talk later, all right? First I need to see Nick."

"Fine," she said thinly, taking a step back. "But we will talk. Count on it."

He didn't bother replying.

The weird blankness continued, driving to Nick's building. He didn't feel anything, really. It felt so abstract. Yes, Nick was thin, but thin enough to warrant this level of concern? It didn't make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

He was thankful later for that numbness. If he'd known the truth before Nick opened the door, he was sure he'd have wrecked his car.

"Hey," Nick said, making a wry smile. "What's up?"

Gil opened his mouth, but could think of absolutely nothing to say.

In his line of work he'd seen just about every permutation of self-abuse around, including anorexia. It had shocked him then, in a kind of distant way. Why did people do this? Why hurt themselves so badly?

But it was worlds different right now, seeing just how thin Nick had become. He wore a sweater, and some part of Gil's mind took bitter note, tallying all the times Nick had complained about the cold in the past. But his face – dear God, Catherine was right: how had they not seen this? No missing Nick's good bone structure now; his skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, square jaw excruciatingly outlined now that there was no fat to soften the lines. Above his pale forehead his hair was dull, and thinner.

Nick looked like a survivor of the Bataan death march, and this was only his face. What did the rest of him look like?

With a sigh Nick took a step back. "Well, you can come in if you want. I mean, you're here."

Wordlessly Gil walked inside. Nick's apartment was pin-neat, not a speck of dust in sight. Benefits of an enforced vacation, maybe. Gil let Nick gesture him to the couch, and sat silently.

"Robbins overreacted." Nick sat down, and somehow it was just as bad to see that, how his body seemed to fall in on itself, knees bony under sweat pants. He sighed. "If you'd been here this wouldn't have happened."

His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Tense with shock, Gil forced some spit into his desert-dry mouth. "Don't be too sure of that," he said.

Nick gaped at him. "You've gotta be kidding me. Don't tell me you're in on this, too."

"In on what?" Gil shot back, sitting up straight. "I talked to Al, I know what you've been doing. Why? Why are you starving yourself?"

"Oh God, here we go again." Nick drew a long breath. "I'm not starving myself. You know what I eat. This is all bullshit. Robbins, getting involved in something he doesn't understand."

"I understand one thing, and that's how skinny you are. Look at yourself, Nick! You're skin and bones!"

"I'm fit, man, that's all! Why is this such a big deal? Sara's skinny as a rail, and you're not talking about benching her! Why me?"

"Sara's thin, but that's her body type. This – this isn't thin, this is emaciated." Gil swallowed and shook his head. "Have you looked at yourself, Nick? Really looked?"

"I don't have to. I already know, everything is under control. Totally under control."

"That's it, isn't it?" Gil breathed after a long moment. New shock made his spine tingle. "That's what this is all about. Control."

Nick blinked at him. "Well, any self-improvement is about control," he said. "I watch what I eat, I exercise – it's all good, man. Before, I was eating crap, and now I'm not. Just –"

"Now you're not eating nearly enough," Gil interrupted, a flicker of anger making his mouth dry again. He sat back. The urge to walk away, to just say, do what you want, Nick, I'm not your father or your priest or your anything else, it's your life, was almost overwhelming. "Jesus."

Nick regarded him with honest shock in his wide eyes. "I thought you'd understand," he said slowly. "You of all people. All this stuff, it's good stuff. I've done so much, and it's like none of it matters at all. When's it gonna be enough?"

"Nick –"

"No, I mean it. I mean, you didn't want me to cut, so I stopped cutting. And you didn't believe me, but I was never lying to you. You gotta believe that." He shook his head, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. "I finally got my shit together, and now that's bad, too. It's never gonna end. You, and Robbins, and Jamie and my mom and dad, and no matter what I do it's always wrong."

"No," Gil said with sudden fury. "No, Nick, that's not it! You've gone from one self-abusive behavior to another, that's all! Can't cut anymore, so now you're starving yourself. You didn't stop anything! You just shifted methods!"

"I do eat," Nick said icily.

"Oh yeah? Prove it."

Nick's face twisted with anger, and a little fear. "Whatever you want." His throat worked. "But you gotta promise me something else."

Gil sat very still, nostrils flared. "What?"

"If I eat something you let me come back to work and get on with my life. Stop watching me so goddamn close."

After a moment Gil nodded curtly. "You eat something, fine, you can come back. But I make no promises about not watching. You need watching. You've proved that." He ignored Nick's flinch. Standing up, he said, "Stay there."

He'd stayed here before, and he remembered the contents of Nick's refrigerator. Not too different from his own, the usual bachelor sort of thing. Beer and soda, carton of eggs, milk, bacon. Lots of takeout containers. Cheese, a few tomatoes, apples. Familiar.

This time it was not so familiar. Nick's refrigerator was nearly empty, and what it held was almost all holdovers from an earlier time: condiments, jam, the sort of thing that could live indefinitely in cold storage. But aside from those things, he saw only two apples, and a bag of elderly grapes. Sick with a kind of angry terror he almost refused to acknowledge, Gil bent and retrieved the fruit.

"You gotta wash it," Nick said behind him.

Gil turned, and felt another spasm of shock, seeing Nick in the harsher light of the kitchen fluorescents. His face was stark with shadows, hollow cheeks like a mute accusation.

"Fine," Gil said in a strangled voice. His hands shook while he washed the apples, rinsed the grapes under the tap. Was this all? How would a few pieces of fruit possibly come anywhere close to erasing the terrible gauntness from Nick's face?

He cut the apples in quarters, and then into fidgety slices. The grapes made an absurdly small pile on the plate.

When he looked at Nick again he saw furtive fear. "P- Peel it," Nick said hoarsely.

"Why? They're clean."

"You might – have missed something."

"Missed what?"

Nick's haunted eyes met his and then danced away again. "They put things on them. Pesticides. It's not good for you."

With a surge of helpless pity Gil nodded, and carefully peeled the slices. When he pushed the plate across the counter, Nick stood very still.

"Go ahead," Gil said softly, throat aching. Oh God, this was insane, but that expression on Nick's face – so terrified. So afraid of something as non-threatening as a pile of fruit. How could that be? "Please, Nick. Do this for me. Just eat."

Nick's limp hands twitched on the counter, fingers flexing and relaxing. He made no move to take the plate. "You made really sure," he said dully. It was a question, and Gil nodded.

"You saw me. There's nothing wrong with it. I swear there isn't." When Nick still didn't move, Gil added, "You trust me, right?"

After a pause Nick nodded.

"Then you have to believe me, okay? Trust me."

It took such a long time, and yet it was almost as if time didn't quite exist. Just the two of them standing facing each other across a plain white counter, while Nick picked up a slim slice of apple. He ate slowly, taking laughably minuscule bites, but Gil didn't smile, or move. Just stayed, and when Nick finished one slice, offered another.

He didn't finish it all, but the pile was a lot smaller after a while. The remaining apple slices were going a little brown, and an expression of utter revulsion twisted Nick's face. He shook his head. "Can't," he said unevenly.

Gil nodded. "But you ate. How do you feel?"

"Okay."

"Really?"

Nick didn't say anything for a second. Finally he shrugged. "Feels all right," he said.

"Still hungry?"

"No." His smile was tiny and forced, but Gil latched onto it like a beacon of salvation. "Does this mean I can come back to work now?"

With a lump in his throat Gil managed, "Of course. Just – Nicky, you have to eat. I know you're trying hard, but you're hurting yourself all over again. Just eat something, every few hours. I'm not trying to make you do more than that. Okay?"

"Okay."

Straightening, Gil glanced at his watch and winced. "I have to go."

"I'll come with you."

It hurt a little to hear that eager tone in Nick's voice. "Why don't you come in tomorrow night?" Gil asked gently. "We need to buy you groceries in the morning."

Nick looked disappointed, but the flicker of new energy in his eyes was encouraging. "Okay. You mean you're gonna go with me?"

"You're not alone, Nick. We can beat it. I promise you."

Nick smiled. "Okay."

His decision met with something less than unilateral support.

"An apple is not a cure," Robbins said severely.

"I didn't say it was." Gil regarded him without blinking. "But it's a step. Al, I can't keep someone from living their life simply because they weigh less than is optimal. Rest assured, I see the problem." He flashed on Nick's face in the kitchen, and fought down a shiver. "Believe me."

"So what can we do?" Catherine asked from where she sat, hands tightly clasped in her lap. "I mean, I've known women who had problems like this. They never stopped having those problems."

"He needs therapy." Robbins heaved a sigh. "And lots of it. Find out what's making him do these things."

"These?" Catherine stared at him. "You mean besides being a raving anorectic? What things?"

Gil shifted in his seat. "Nick has something of a history of self-injurious behavior," he said reluctantly. "Cutting, for one."

Now that withering gaze turned his way. "Oh really. And you were planning to share this with me when?"

"I thought he had it under control. It appears he simply changed directions." Gil lifted a hand, belaying whatever Catherine was about to say. "I missed it. It won't happen again."

"Does his family know about this? His friends? I mean, we can't be the only people who've seen what's going on with him."

"That I don't know."

Robbins reached out for his crutches. "I have to get back to work. But I want to see Nick at the beginning of his shift tomorrow." He stood, bearded face grim. "Nick may want to work, but I'm not convinced his body can take the stress. Unless he eats a lot more than one apple, Gil, he may not be capable of doing much."

Gil nodded. "Understood," he murmured. His belly clenched with renewed anxiety.

After Robbins left, Catherine leaned forward. "I think we should call his parents," she said in a low voice. "They should be aware of this."

"He's a grown man, Catherine, and it's not our decision to make. Besides, his father had a quadruple bypass not too long ago." Gil lifted his eyebrows. "Do you want to add to his stress?"

"Then what do we do? I can't just sit here and do nothing."

"Watch, and be careful. I don't know what else to suggest. I'm making this up as I go along."

She nodded glumly. "Yeah. Aren't we all."

There was a terrific pile of work awaiting his attention, but it only took a few cursory passes to know he couldn't focus yet, couldn't make it seem important. Instead he found himself on the internet, browsing sites geared to eating disorders. He wasn't without knowledge, but lacking a personal interest in the subject he hadn't ever really dug in. Now he felt feverish with the need to understand, somehow, what made people stop eating. People like Nick.

An hour later he was hungry, he needed to hit the john, and he was more afraid than he could remember feeling since that terrible afternoon a year ago in Nick's bathroom.

"You're a growth industry, Nicky," Gil whispered, staring bleary-eyed at the screen.

Anorexia, it seemed, was certainly not limited to the female gender. Men could and did suffer from it, as much as some of his older sensibilities wanted to demur. Wrestlers, runners, athletes, men whose body image was somehow off-kilter or lacking.

And like women, many men once started down that exacting road found it difficult to get off again. The physical costs were immense: arrhythmias, hypothermia, increased susceptibility to illness – the list was too long to even bear much thinking about. And yet what else could he do?

By the end of his shift the mountain of paperwork was significantly reduced, but his discontent was anything but assuaged. He drove back to Nick's with a solid ball of anger curdled in his belly. And one look at Nick's sleepy, too-thin face and that anger turned hot and acidic.

"This is what you can look forward to if you keep doing what you're doing," Gil said curtly, shoving a stack of printouts in Nick's direction.

Some of the sleepiness immediately evaporated; Nick looked worried, and a little pissed himself. He backed into the apartment, frowning at the papers while Gil stalked inside. He waited, hands shoved deep in his pockets, while Nick sorted through them.

"This isn't me," Nick said finally. His voice was high and thin. "You're talking about anorexia, and I don't have that."

"What do you prefer to call it? An eating plan? A cleansing regimen?" Gil wheeled about, staring at him. "Names are meaningless; the result is all that matters. And you and anorectics sure as hell have one thing in common: You're starving yourselves to death."

With a snarl Nick wadded up the papers and threw them at him. They missed by a mile, but it didn't much matter. "That's a bunch of pure crap," Nick said hoarsely. "You walk in here and accuse me of having some kind of – mental illness? No way, man, no fucking way!"

"Robbins doesn't believe you can physically withstand the rigors of returning to work. Your body is out of fuel, Nick, and it's consuming itself to try to keep you going. You understand basic biology, don't you? You ran out of fat weeks ago, and now you're losing muscle mass. You're 35 pounds underweight, for God's sake! Where does it end? How much do you have to lose before it's enough? Ten more pounds? Twenty?"

"I'm not trying to lose weight!" Nick cried, shaking his head. "I'm not!"

"Then EAT SOMETHING, God damn it!" Gil roared.

Nick's mouth snapped shut. His wide dark eyes were stunned.

"I asked you yesterday if you'd looked at yourself," Gil said tightly. He walked toward Nick, fighting for composure. "And I know you haven't. You can look but you don't SEE. It's time for you to see what your regimen has done to you, Nick. Come here."

Nick's wrist was impossibly bony under his fingers. Feeling both furious and horrified, Gil pulled Nick after him, down the hallway and into the bathroom. The bright lights were almost bluish.

Nick wore a cardigan under his robe. Under that was a tee shirt, one Gil remembered. Two years ago, souvenir from a blood drive. It used to fit snugly. Now it was baggy.

"Take off the tee shirt," Gil said heavily.

Shivering, Nick glared at him. His once-impressive triceps were sadly reduced, muscles stringy under his dry skin. "You're such an asshole," he whispered.

"Fine. Take the goddamn shirt off."

But anger wasn't enough to shield him from the shock when Nick did. Aghast, Gil sagged back against the edge of the bathroom counter. This wasn't 118 pounds. It had to be less. Nick's ribs sang out from under tight-stretched skin, sternum prominent. The hollows of his collarbones were so deep they looked bottomless. Beneath his protruding ribcage, Nick's belly was achingly flat, almost concave. His sweat pants hung over the sharp angles of his hipbones.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Gil said waveringly. He swallowed painfully. "Do you see? Do you SEE it?"

Nick's eyes were averted, cast in a frown somewhere below the rim of the sink. With a surge of helpless grief Gil reached out and took Nick's chin between thumb and forefinger, angling it up.

"Look at yourself," Gil whispered. "Look what you're doing to yourself."

Nick's eyes widened, and then he turned away, leaning against the back wall. He was shaking with cold and maybe something else, and Gil noted with tired sadness the visible line of his vertebrae before picking up the cardigan and draping it over Nick's shoulders, reaching around to pull it close over Nick's chest. Under his chin the point of Nick's shoulder felt completely fleshless.

"Can you see it?" Gil whispered, eyes stinging. "You're starving. You can't survive this way."

Nick made an inarticulate sound and turned in his arms, face averted as he burrowed against Gil's chest. "Oh, Nicky," Gil breathed. "You need help, honey. It can't keep going. Not like this."

"I'm doing the best I can," Nick said against his neck. His shoulders hitched with a tremendous sigh. "I am."

"I realize that. But it isn't enough. You're hurting yourself. Please let me help you. Do you admit that you need help? Do you see now what this is doing to you?"

"Skinny," Nick whispered almost soundlessly.

"Emaciated. You look like you just got out of Bergen-Belsen. I don't want you to die of this. Do you want to die?"

"N-no!"

Gil nodded against him, heart aching as he felt Nick's wracking thinness under his arms. "You have to eat."

"I can't."

"Why? Why can't you?"

Nick said nothing at all.

"Come on." Gil held the sweater so Nick could stick his arms back in, and then held out the robe as well. When Nick was swaddled again Gil led him back into the living room. Depositing Nick on the couch, Gil perched on the edge of the coffee table.

"I want to ask you something else," Gil said quietly. He touched Nick's bony knee. "And I want you to answer me honestly. Promise me. Don't lie."

Nick nodded slowly, eyes on Gil's hand.

"Are you doing this because you can't cut yourself anymore?"

With a sigh, Nick shrugged. "I don't know."

"What does cutting do for you, Nicky? What does it feel like?"

Nick pondered it, teeth nibbling his lower lip. Finally he drew a long breath. "It lets things out," he said slowly.

"What sorts of things?"

"I don't know. It makes me feel cleaner."

Gil frowned. "In what way?"

"It's like – cleaning a wound, you know? You have to open it to let the bad stuff out. And then you close it back up, and it's better." Nick's eyes implored him to understand. "You see?"

"Like lancing a boil," Gil replied, nodding slowly.

"Right. Like that."

"And when you can't lance it? What happens?"

Nick looked away. "Dunno. I just try – to be clean. Not need to let it out."

"And that means no food."

"Not nothing. I mean, just natural things."

With a lurch of acid understanding Gil nodded again. "Don't put any bad things in, you don't have to let them out later."

"Right."

"Are the bad things really food, Nick?"

Nick's expression shifted, a spasm of uncertainty crossing his thin features. "I don't know," he whispered. "I thought – it would help."

"Has it?"

Nick shook his head minutely.

With a sigh Gil got up and sat down next to him on the couch. Under his arm Nick's shoulders were so bony. Gil felt slightly dizzy as he drew a breath. "If you could cut again," he said softly, "could you eat again, too?"

"Maybe."

"Look at me, Nick." Gil waited until Nick's too-big eyes turned in his direction. "Are you hungry? Right now?"

Nick flinched. And then he nodded shortly.

"Will you let me be there when you cut yourself? Take care of you?"

"You don't need to –"

"I do need to," Gil interrupted savagely. A voice somewhere in the back of his mind screamed at him about even suggesting anything like this, and he smacked it down. "I will not let you lose control again, Nick," he continued hoarsely. "So if you do it, you'll do it with me there. Understood?"

"I'll be okay," Nick said, but his eyes were brighter, staring intently at Gil. "I will."

"Yeah," Gil agreed. "Because you won't be alone."

"Okay."

Gil swallowed. "You have to gain weight first. Twenty pounds."

Nick nodded after a moment.

"And you won't want this, but you have to agree. Or so help me God, Nick, I'm putting you in the hospital today. I mean it."

Nick's face contorted, a tragic mask. "What?"

"You'll see a counselor. Regularly. You will work on why you need to do any of this. All right? No bargains. No compromise. See a therapist."

"But –"

"I mean it, Nick, I won't back down from that. It's part of the deal." Infernal bargain, his mind informed him shortly, and he couldn't disagree. Perverse and dangerous, and all he could think to do right now.

"All right," Nick said peevishly. "I'll see somebody, okay?"

His tone communicated volumes about his doubt regarding the last, but Gil didn't care. He sagged back against the couch, suddenly aware that his hands were trembling. "Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head. "Okay, then."

Nick's cold hand stole out to cover his own, fingers squeezing a little.

"Did you eat anything today?" Robbins tapped the balance on the scales, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah. I did."

"What?"

"An apple."

Robbins scowled. "Nick, that –"

"And a sandwich. With cheese."

After a moment Robbins gave him a guarded nod. "Better. Your weight's still down a pound." He gestured for Nick to step down off the scales. "Feel okay?"

"Yeah." Nick smiled. "I feel okay."

"Dizziness? Heart speeding up?"

"Not so far."

Robbins headed over to his desk. "I still have reservations about your returning to work. Physically I don't want you to overdo it. No field work for the moment, okay? And don't think I won't check up on you."

"It's cool," Nick said, nodding. "I understand."

Robbins' eyes narrowed again, studying him. "You don't cure an eating disorder simply by deciding to stop the behavior," he said severely. "You need to find out what caused you to stop in the first place."

"I have an appointment to see somebody next week."

"Therapist?"

Nick nodded again. "I realize," he said haltingly, "I need to do that. I mean, I don't know if it will help. But yeah. I think I do need some help."

A rare smile crossed Robbins' bearded features. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Nick. It's certainly a big step in the right direction." He leaned against his desk. "Mind if I ask what changed your mind?"

Nick smiled. "I guess I opened my eyes," he said softly. "Took a look around."

"Excellent."

Upstairs he caught a glimpse of Warrick, and nodded at him. "What's up?"

"You back?" Warrick's look was cautious. "For real?"

"In the flesh, man." Nick grinned. "What there is of it."

"What's up with that? Man, you gotta start eating. You don't –"

"I am eating," Nick interrupted evenly. "Don't worry."

"Take you out for a burger later, what do you say?"

"I'm still a vegetarian. No burgers for me. You know, you should think about cutting down on the red meat, Warrick. It'll do a number on your arteries."

Warrick snorted and shook his head. "Okay, I'll spot you for a salad. How's that?"

"Have one with me."

"Too much rabbit food."

Nick smiled. "Just give it a try."

"Salad and a burger, huh?"

"You gotta start somewhere."

He was still smiling a little when he reached Gil's office. Gil was on the phone, but gestured for him to come inside. Nick waited until he hung up, and gave him a thumb's-up. "Robbins gave me the all-clear. Got anything?"

"Many things." Gil took off his glasses. "Any restrictions?"

Nick made a face. "No field work for a while. Which is pretty much crap. But dealable," he added when Gil shifted in his chair. "Not a problem."

"Good. You can start by giving Sara a hand. I think her car-jacker case just got bigger than she planned. A lot of sample analysis."

"I can do that." He nodded and turned.

"Nick?"

Nick turned back. "Yeah?"

"We're going to lunch at eleven."

With a slow smile, Nick shrugged. "Okay. But you're buyin'."

"Deal."

He turned again.

"Welcome back, Nick."

Nick glanced over his shoulder. "Thanks," he said softly.

END