Title: Meridian
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Series: Spare Parts & Metadata
Rating: R
Summary: Years down the road, Gil pays an old friend a visit.

Two months into his medical leave, Gil stares out the window at the live oak towering over his patio, sips his coffee, and realizes he doesn’t intend to go back.

Physically he could. His leg is fine, well-healed, and any other remnants of that terrible car accident have faded, too. Scars, a few of them, now faded to pale red lines on his arms and chest. No more bruises. He gets a twinge or two on the few rainy days Las Vegas provides, but aspirin takes care of those.

But here in his quiet house, he’s come to realize that field work is a young man’s game. Younger than he is, at any rate. His fifty-third birthday came and went mostly unremarked, three weeks ago. Far different from the one two years earlier, with its party and ridiculous gifts and champagne. That had been Greg’s idea, and at the time Gil had thought it faintly absurd. Now, looking back, he sees that it was a gesture, of the sort that Greg had been given to make. All the more meaningful in retrospect.

He takes a long gulp of his coffee and turns away from the window. Plans are formulating in his mind already. It’s as if once he admitted it, his reluctance to go back to work, to that lab and that office, everything has suddenly begun falling into place.

He won’t sell the house, not immediately. For one thing he has no place he’s very much sure he’ll go. His mother’s death last year has left him with a property in Santa Monica, but he feels to particular urge to return to his California roots. The tenants pay their rent on time, mostly, and it covers the taxes; beyond that, he doesn’t much care. The property manager handles the specifics. He’s financially stable, well-off by some standards. He was eligible to draw a pension from the P.D. two years ago. It isn’t enough to support anyone fully, but he has his investments for that.

At his desk, he gazes at the single photograph in its teak frame, pulls it closer. Was it 1999 or 2000? God, has it really been nearly ten years? All of them, the only group photograph he can ever remember obtaining a copy of, Fourth of July. Everyone grinning, sunburned, a little tipsy. The light that particular shade of salmon-pink, just before sundown.

His eyes pass fondly over Greg’s features. There is no acrimony there, never has been. It has worked out the way it has worked out. Je ne regrets pas. So young here. No trace of the tiny furrow between his brows; that had appeared later, after his burden had taken on weight, after he had begun to learn his most difficult lessons. This is Greg as Gil prefers remembering him: the lab rat, the man whose antics so often drove him to exasperation, and painted a picture in his heart that time has not altered.

And next to him, arm slung companionably across Greg’s shoulders: Nick.

He’s been smiling, thinking of Greg, but his smile fades now. In spite of their numerous differences, he understood Greg, even at their worst. Greg was comprehensible. Nick never was. And it rankles, still.

He isn’t aware of making a decision. It’s just there, from one eyeblink to the next. Easy, resonant, perfect. Logical, in an illogical way.

He makes no calls, tells no one he’s leaving. He has led a quiet life the past year, and he prefers it; no demonstrations, no protests. He’ll no doubt be back, perhaps very soon. It’s a quixotic trip, a middle-aged man’s fancy. If it doesn’t work out, his pride demands, no one is going to know about it. It will be his secret.

Duluth is chilly and gray, and sets his healed left leg to aching almost immediately. In his rental truck he turns the heat on high, thinking about his preference for warm climates, and heads north.

It’s lovely country, along the north shore of Lake Superior. He’s never seen this one; he’s spent considerable time off and on in Chicago, and Lake Michigan is somewhat familiar, but Superior is of course larger, and darker, both alluring and forbidding.

Nick has been here for what? nearly five years now. Gil can’t picture him here; he can’t lose the image of Nick in Las Vegas, in short sleeves, sun-kissed, his clear brow damp with sweat. Nick and Minnesota have never connected in Gil’s mind. Foolish of him, beyond a doubt: Nick has been here fully as long as he ever was in Vegas. For all Gil knows, this may feel very much like home to him by now. Nick is a nester, puts down roots. It’s part of why his departure was so startling. One of many reasons.

He reaches Silver Bay by mid-afternoon. It’s a small town, of course, he already knew that, and it’s gloomy under the clouds. For all he knows this is perfectly average June weather, but it’s cold, and the town is not particularly welcoming. The "Taconite Capital of the World," or so his outdated book proclaims it. It feels oppressive to him, perched on the edge of an inland freshwater sea, and the idea doesn’t leave as he parks his vehicle near the marina and gets out.

His thigh aches, but he gets directions to the police station from a suspicious-looking fisherman, and decides to walk, maybe get some of the stiffness worked out of his limbs. It’s farther than he’s realized, but inside it’s warm, and the woman at the front desk gives him an even warmer smile.

"Can I help you?"

Gil nods. "I’m looking for Nick Stokes. He’s –"

"Oh, Nick." Her smile brightens even further. "I think you’re in luck; he should still be here. Hang on a sec."

She vanishes through a door, leaving him alone to survey the small, coffee-scented foyer. A state trooper comes in a few minutes later, gives him a crisp nod and a fast once-over before heading through the same door as Gil’s benefactor.

He actually hears Nick before he sees him. Texas drawl still intact, if anything sounding heavier than it once had, or maybe it’s only time and the vagaries of memory. The woman – receptionist, secretary, something – comes out first, beaming smile still in place, and behind her, Nick. Looking distracted, half-yelling into his cell phone, scanning the room for his visitor.

The dark eyes connect with Gil’s, and Nick’s face goes slack with utter surprise. He stops cold, mouth open, and then says into the phone, "Just keep me posted, all right? I gotta go."

Gil forces a smile and a nod. "Hi, Nick," he says softly.

Nick doesn’t say anything. His eyes won’t leave Gil’s face as he carelessly stows his phone in his hip pocket, walks slowly past the secretary and out from behind the reception counter. He looks the same, and so different, all at once. The same Marine-short hair, touched now with silver at the temples. Where Gil has widened with the years, grown heavier, Nick has thinned, and there is a hint now of what he will look like as an old man: skinny, muscles like ropy cords, stringy and still strong. He’s paler than Gil remembers, much paler, and there are new lines on his face, carved deep to either side of his mouth, crow’s feet crinkling the corners of his eyes. He must be forty now, approximately. Gil still thinks of him as young.

And he’s still beautiful. It hits Gil, strikes him so hard he feels his legs quiver beneath him not because of aggrieved old injuries but with sheer power: Nick will always have this effect on him. Old, young, and anywhere in between.

Nick says nothing, not until he’s flung his arms around Gil, taken him in a hug that nearly knocks the breath from Gil’s lungs. And then a hoarse, "Jesus, Gil. What the fuck?"

Gil hugs him back, awkwardly, feeling how much thinner Nick is, and yet still muscled, still fit and capable. And then Nick backs away a few steps, his face now creased with that familiar, heart-stopping grin. "Gil Grissom." He shakes his head, utters a soft laugh. "Jesus H. Christ."

"I was in the neighborhood," Gil says, keeping it light, and likes how Nick laughs again. "Thought I’d stop by."

"Took a wrong turn at Reno?"

"Something like that."

Nick’s grin fades, but his eyes are alight with pleasure, still startled. "Well, hell, come on in." He ushers Gil behind the counter, and glances at the secretary. "Janice, this is an old friend of mine, Gil Grissom. Came all the way from Las Vegas. Gil, this is Janice. She runs the place; I just show up for work."

Janice turns positively incandescent under Nick’s regard. Gil recognizes the feeling, while he shakes her hand. "Nice to meet you, Janice."

"You used to work with Nicky here?"

Nick snorts. "Taught me everything I know. Our stock just went up having him walk in the door."

Janice looks from Gil to Nick and back again. Her blue eyes are amused, and penetrating. "Wish you’d taught him how to make decent coffee while you were at it," she says lightly.

Gil smiles. "Mine’s worse, trust me."

Nick has his thumbs in his belt loops. He looks a little uncertain for a moment, and then lifts his eyebrows. "So you want a tour while you’re here?"

"That won’t take long," Janice murmurs, settling back into her chair.

"Sure," Gil says. "I’d love it."

Nick keeps on staring at him. "Damn. I can’t believe you’re here."

"And yet here I am," Gil replies softly.

Nick gives a slow nod. "Yep."

Janice turns out to be right: it only takes a few minutes to see the entire setup. This is mostly a trooper post; Nick’s baileywick is an additional facility at the back, consisting of an office/file room, a neat, surprisingly well-equipped laboratory, and a morgue beyond.

"I’ve gotten good at begging," is Nick’s dry reply when Gil points out the good quality of his equipment. "Getting money out of this town makes pulling teeth look like a kiss on the cheek, but they’ve been coughing up some. Enough that I can do pretty much everything but the DNA analysis here. That, we ship down to Duluth, or Chicago."

"They keep you busy here?"

Nick snorts. "Not by your standards. But we get a bit of business. Not a lot of murders around here. Mostly death by misadventure. Drownings, hunting accidents, that kind of thing."

Gil nods, and a blandly pretty young woman wearing a lab coat walks in, stopping when she sees them. Her eyes open comically wide. "Oh."

"Hey, Alicia," Nick says. "We got a visitor. Gil Grissom. You’ve heard me talk about him."

If possible, her china-blue eyes get even wider. "I remember," she says, nodding rapidly. "It’s -- It’s an honor!"

Gil shakes her chilly hand. "Alicia? Nice to meet you. You work for Nick?"

She nods some more. "Since last year. We didn’t have the budget before that. You’re really THE Gil Grissom? I read your article on blood meals this spring. Nick says –"

"Breathe, Allie," Nick interrupts, shaking his head and grinning. "Before you fall over."

She darts him a look, and Gil sees everything there: this is Nick’s protégé, regarding him with the same respect and yearning for approval that Gil saw years ago in Nick’s own eyes, directed at himself. Not love, thank God, but warmth, and admiration, maybe a dash of hero-worship.

Seeing that makes him feel older, and somehow deeply satisfied. Things come full circle; the student becomes the mentor.

"I finished the samples you wanted," she tells him. "Did you want to see my results?"

He shrugs. "Do I need to see them?"

"It’s pretty cut and dried, really. No."

"Then don’t worry about it. But call Bert, would you? He’s been asking."

"Will do." She flings another astonished look at Gil. "It was really nice to meet you, sir!"

He smiles again. "Likewise." When she vanishes into the lab, he glances at Nick. "She reminds me of you."

Nick makes a face, and then places a finger over his lips. "Shhh. I’ll never live it down. I got a reputation to think of, you know."

"Maybe your first week, and that thing with the dog –"

Nick’s jaw sags. "You wouldn’t," he says in an aghast voice.

"No," Gil agrees, grinning. "I wouldn’t."

"Thank God."

Eventually there are cups of coffee – contrary to Janice’s opinion, pretty good, if a bit strong, but Gil likes it that way – and he’s sitting in the chair in front of Nick’s cluttered desk, distracted once again by the differences. It’s not physical, what he notices this time. It’s something else, something in Nick’s eyes, in the way he holds himself. Nick is at home here, comfortable, confident. Underneath the surface wariness at Gil’s precipitate arrival, Nick fits here.

"Looks like Minnesota’s been good for you," Gil says honestly.

Nick shrugs, but he looks pleased. "It’s a wide spot in the road, but we do all right. It’s no Vegas, but –"

"I mean, besides the job. You look – happy."

Nick nods slowly. "Guess so. You still at the lab?"

"On medical leave at the moment." He shakes his head at Nick’s concerned look. "Car accident. I’m fine now, but had a broken femur."

"I’m sorry to hear that." And in Nick’s voice, he hears the truth of it. He really is.

There’s an awkward silence, and then Nick lifts his strong chin. "You wanna get out of here? I can show you around a little. See what there is to see."

"Sounds good."

Outside the wind has freshened, and Gil shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Took me a while to get used to the climate." Nick hasn’t put on a coat, although Gil notes that his heavy shirt looks warm, and there’s a tee shirt underneath that. "Bout froze my ass off that first winter."

"Texas and Nevada don’t exactly prepare you for a northern winter."

"Not even, man." Nick laughs. "Your car around here?"

"At the marina. I walked up here."

"Huh. Well, come on, I’ll drive us down there."

Nick’s vehicle is a sturdy F350, the cab redolent of coffee and faint cigarettes. When Gil asks, he says his old truck didn’t last long up here, and he does a shitload of driving, so it made sense to get a new one.

With Nick for company, the town doesn’t seem so bleak. And beyond it, always, the dark waters of Superior, silent and drawing the eye.

Nick puts the Ford in neutral next to Gil’s rental, and looks over at him. "Where are you staying?"

Gil considers it. "Nowhere, at the moment. Someplace you’d recommend?"

"Dumbass," Nick says fondly. "You can bunk with me. Come on; I’ll need to show you the way."

Gil nods, and climbs out. His car has gotten cold again, and he turns up the heat once more before turning to follow Nick’s vehicle.

Nick’s house is new-looking, comfortably sized, set up the hill overlooking the lake. He slams the truck door and says, "Still sort of a work in progress, sorry."

"Looks great."

"When I got here I lived down near the marina." Nick looks down in the direction from whence they came. "That storm two years ago pretty much killed the house, though. Took the roof off. So I thought I’d build something up here, little further away from the water."

Gil squints at the sharply angled roof. "Solar?"

Nick nods and grins. "Not that there’s a lot of sun to go around at times up here. But it bugged me, you know? Like the idea of a more environmentally friendly house. So I got this guy to come up from Duluth, work out some plans for the place." His boots crunch in the graveled driveway. "Come on inside, it’s cold out here."

The house hasn’t lost its new-wood smell. There’s a great room, with a massive stone fireplace, comfortable-looking, and beyond it Gil catches a glimpse of a galley-style kitchen. Long, high windows welcome in what light there still is.

"Make yourself at home." Nick glances at him. "Want a drink?"

"Sounds good."

"Beer, scotch?"

"Whatever’s handy."

"Got it."

He surveys the bookshelves while Nick vanishes into the kitchen. Sometimes he wonders if all forensics people have identical libraries; the contents of Nick’s is very much like his own, barring the numerous volumes on entomology. Nick’s collection is slanted more in favor of generalities, which makes sense, given his generalist job. A little heavy on medicine, and Gil remembers that one of Nick’s many duties is coroner. He has trouble imagining Nick conducting an autopsy without Al Robbins at his side.

On the wall over the long, low bookshelves is the same photograph Gil has in his own house. His throat tightens, and he swallows and gazes out the window, seeing the dark water a thousand feet below.

"Here you go."

He turns, mustering a calm look, and takes the bottle of beer Nick hands him. "Have a seat," Nick says. "Take a load off."

Nick builds a fire, and Gil resists the urge to reach out to the flickering warmth. His leg throbs in time with his heartbeat.

Slinging himself into a comfortable-looking leather chair, Nick gestures at the room. "So what do you think?"

"Very nice."

"There’s a den through there," Nick says, pointing at the last door to the left. "Couple of bedrooms. There’s a couple of acres; I do a little gardening, grow a few things. Got a cellar."

Gil nods and tastes his beer. "You seem really comfortable here. Happy."

Nick considers, and nods slowly. "Took a while," he says calmly. "For a while I was pretty sure I made the biggest mistake of my life. And that’s saying something."

There is an edge to his words, a sense that he’s thinking about more than the weather and a touch of homesickness. But he doesn’t meet Gil’s eyes, drinks some of his beer, and when he looks up the calm reserve is back. The old Nick would not have been so successful at hiding whatever he was thinking.

"You want something to eat? It’s about that time, I guess."

"You don’t have to –"

"Hey, we all gotta eat. Pasta sound all right?"

Gil nods slowly. "Sounds great."

Nick serves them tortellini and salad, with crusty wholegrain bread to go with it. There’s wine, and the house is deliciously warm, and Gil feels some of his lingering tension vanishing under the balm of good food and welcome company.

Nick asks about all the old crew, and it takes much of the meal to fill him in on five years of changes. He looks surprised and vaguely saddened at the news of Jim Brass’s retirement and subsequent relocation back to the tristate area. Many of his questions are about Catherine and Warrick, of course.

"She’s where?" He gives Gil a startled look.

"San Francisco." Gil wipes his mouth on his napkin and reaches for his wineglass. "She just went last year; an opening in the lab there."

Nick nods slowly. "Man, I didn’t think she’d ever leave Vegas."

"Things change. People change."

"Yeah. Guess so."

He fills Nick in on Warrick’s adventures, and sees another vaguely guilty look cross Nick’s features. "I was planning on going, you know," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I mean, a wedding, it’s a big deal. But it was before they let me hire Allie, and it was ungodly busy here, and then we had the trial down in Two Harbors." He shrugs. "Murder case."

"So you do have those here."

"Yeah. A few."

"Did you win?"

The corner of Nick’s mouth quirks. "Evidence can’t lie," he murmurs. "Remember?"

Gil nods slowly.

They finish the meal in silence, and then Nick says, "Coffee?"

"Definitely."

He helps Nick clear away the dinner things, admiring the neat efficiency of Nick’s kitchen. "Graywater system," Nick says, nodding at the sink. "Use it for outside. Works really well."

Gil glances at the dim skylight overhead. "What do you do when there’s no sunshine?"

"I didn’t say I was completely off the state tit," Nick tells him, smiling. "But later this year I’ll get more power from the panels."

They take their coffee back into the great room, and Nick puts a couple more logs on the fire. Finished, he stands, and Gil sees tension in the lean lines of his body.

"What is it?" Gil asks.

Staring into the snapping fire, Nick asks, "How’s Greg?"

Gil sips his coffee to buy some time. Then he says, "Greg moved to Austin last year."

Nick turns to look at him, his expression hard to read in the muted light. "He did?"

"He accepted a position with the university. Their mitochondrial DNA project; he’s assistant director."

"Wow." Nick lowers himself into his chair. "I – didn’t know that. So – you two –"

"It probably doesn’t surprise you that Greg was never as – happy – as he had thought he would be, doing investigative field work." Gil schools his voice to neutrality, but the memories of Greg’s struggle are suddenly crystal-clear and foremost in his thoughts. "It took a toll, shall we say. And one of the casualties was – well."

Nick’s clear brow has furrowed with concern. "So you’re not – together? Anymore?"

Gil forces a wry smile. "We weren’t truly together for a while before that," he says softly. "We’re very different, Greg and myself. For a while it was – very good. But slowly it became something neither one of us truly wanted any longer."

"Why?" Nick whispers. His thready voice shimmers with urgency.

Gil lifts his chin. "I’d imagine you know the answer to that," he replies gently.

It’s impossible to see details, but Nick’s jaw juts. "So it’s my fault, is that what you’re saying?"

Gil sets his coffee cup on the low table and shakes his head. "No, it’s not. Not at all what I’m saying. I am saying –" He pauses, draws a deep breath. "I’m saying it wouldn’t have worked, regardless. Not forever."

"But if I hadn’t –"

"If you hadn’t what, Nick? Been there? Or left? It doesn’t matter. This wasn’t about you, not entirely. But if you’re asking if things would have been different, had I never known you -- Who can say? It doesn’t matter. I did know you, I did want you. And I wanted Greg, too. I loved him."

Nick doesn’t move for a long moment. Then his quiet, Texas-flavored voice says, "And now?"

Gil sighs. "What about me? I’m taking a page from Jim’s book. Retiring."

"Jesus." Nick sounds throttled. "To do what?"

"I don’t know. Isn’t the point of retirement to not have to do anything?"

"You’d never be happy that way. You love your work."

"I’ll keep my hand in. Consulting, very likely. I’m writing a book. I suppose someone will publish it. Not a lot of competition in the entomology field."

"No," Nick agrees softly. "Not in forensic entomology. You kinda cornered the market there."

"Not really. But somewhat."

"Why did you come here?" Nick whispers. There’s pain in his voice, familiar pain, and Gil fights down the memory of the last time he saw Nick, that horrible afternoon in Nick’s empty Las Vegas condo. The taste of Nick’s forbidden mouth, and the anguish in his eyes.

"To see you," Gil replies. His voice is steadier than he feels; his heart is rocketing in his chest, the pain in his leg utterly forgotten. "Because I couldn’t ever forget. Because I never want to forget."

Nick’s nod is shaky, and his hands tremble when he deposits his empty cup next to Gil’s on the table. "And now?"

"You’re happy. You have a – place here. A career, fulfillment. I’m so glad to see that, Nick. You have no idea how glad."

Nick nods again. "And that’s all?"

Gil draws a breath, lets it out in a short sigh. "No. That isn’t all."

Smoothly Nick stands, walking over to stand by the fireplace, one hand on the stone mantel. "I didn’t – want it to end like that. For you. I mean, Greg. I wanted -- I always wished you the best."

"I know you did. He knows it, too."

"It’s been – hard, sometimes." Nick’s voice is younger, somehow, and the depth of pain in his words cuts deep, sends a spasm of pain through Gil’s belly. Nick’s loneliness matches his own, resonates with it, until the vibration feels as if it will shake him to pieces. "Not always. But sometimes."

Gil’s legs don’t shake as he rises, and takes a few cautious steps around the table. "For me, too," he agrees.

Nick’s face is tight in the firelight. He doesn’t look away from the flames. "I missed you. So much."

"Your leaving -- It was as if you took part of me with you. The good parts, the parts I wanted to keep."

"God," Nick says harshly, shaking his head. "Tell me what you’re saying, please?"

Gil closes the distance between them, feeling each step like dancing over a bottomless, unknowable chasm. "I’m saying I’ve changed," he says gruffly, throat aching. "And so have you. But not everything changes, Nick. I never stopped caring about you. Never. Never stopped wanting you. And so I came here to see if you’d stopped. Have you?"

"Greg –"

"—has his own life now. A life that no longer includes me. Maybe it never should have included me."

Up close, Nick’s features are drawn with misery, and a desperate sort of hope. "You loved him."

Gil nods urgently. "I did. And I loved you, too, Nicky. Love you. So now I’m here to ask you. Is that enough? Is it time for us now?"

Tears gleam in Nick’s eyes. "I don’t know," he says hoarsely. "But I want it to be."

Out of nowhere, Gil feels a smile on his own face. "So do I," he whispers. "Oh, so do I."

Nick’s hand comes out, his fingers lightly brushing Gil’s cheek. "You shaved your beard off."

"Too much gray."

"You look good in gray."

"Don’t make me leave this time."

The tears break, casting highlights over the creases beneath Nick’s eyes. "I won’t."

Nick’s mouth tastes like coffee and salt, and his right side is warm from the fire. Gil closes his eyes and presses Nick against himself, feels both of them trembling and kisses Nick with everything he has, and Nick’s arms encircle his neck the way they did five years ago, but this time Nick doesn’t let go.

There’s a skylight in Nick’s bedroom, too, brightening as Gil watches the next morning, turning from black to turgid gray, to silver.

"Morning," Nick whispers.

Gil lets his hand stroke Nick’s bare shoulder, smiling against his matted hair. "Morning."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Like a baby."

"Good." Nick sighs, rubs his cheek against Gil’s chest. "I’m glad you’re here."

"So am I."

They lie in companionable silence, long enough for Gil to realize he needs to visit Nick’s sleek composting toilet. And then Nick says, "So what will you do?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, retiring. You know. You gonna – stay here? What about Vegas?"

"I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Sell the house, I suppose."

"Can you stay here? With me?"

"You mean, live with you? Is that what you want?"

Nick raises up to look at him, and beneath his wry smile is a depth of yearning Gil has only ever seen before in his own heart. "About sums it up," Nick says with a slow nod. "Do you want to? Stay?"

"Very much so," Gil agrees.

"Thank God." Nick flops down again, chin denting Gil’s sternum. "Whew."

Gil grins, and reaches down to pat Nick’s bare rump. "And if you’ll give me about ninety seconds to take care of necessities," he says lightly, "I’ll come back here and show you just how much I want to stay."

Nick gives him a slow grin. "Gonna hold you to that."

Gil kisses his lips firmly. "Do."

The telephone rings while he’s in the john, and he emerges to see Nick sitting up on the edge of the bed, talking to someone. His voice is crisp, suddenly, authoritative, telling the person – probably a fellow state trooper, by the sound of it – that he’ll be there in under half an hour, and for god’s sake don’t let her get on the phone, remember what happened last year.

Gil edges over to sit near him on the bed, and Nick sighs as he hangs up the phone.

"Work beckons," Gil says.

"Missing person." Nick laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out, producing a cavernous yawn. "Except he probably isn’t missing, just tied one on and passed out someplace, and his wife’s flipping out."

"They need you for that?"

"Well, Bert Jaynes, you know, he’s the commander, but he’s itching to retire and he’s been looking at me funny, like he’s got ideas about me taking his place next year." Nick shrugs. "Plus I’ve talked Mrs. Karlsson down before. Pete Rivers hates domestic disputes."

"I understand."

Nick leans sideways, nuzzling Gil’s shoulder. "Won’t take that long. Be back for lunch. You okay with it?"

"Of course I am."

Nick is silent, regarding him intently, and then pulls Gil over for a deep, lingering kiss. Finally he breaks away, muttering to himself, "Okay, down boy."

Gil smiles, and glances meaningfully at Nick’s erection. "Rain check," he says.

"Deal."

Nick dresses quickly, handsome and neat in trooper gray, while Gil watches from the warmth of Nick’s bed. Before he leaves, Nick drops another fast kiss on Gil’s mouth. "Be back soon as I can."

Gil nods. "I’ll be here."

Nick’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. Then he’s grabbed his holster from where it hangs on the doorknob, and Gil hears him trotting downstairs, humming tunelessly.

The bed is soft and luxuriously warm. After the sound of the front door closing, Gil lies back and turns his head, inhaling Nick’s lingering scent on the pillow. He hopes Nick’s business really won’t take that long, and closes his eyes.

 

END