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

The cemetery's baking hot, green grass barely kept alive by rigorous watering. The trees droop, looking sad, mournful, totally appropriate.

You're wearing long sleeves and jeans, in spite of the heat. It's become habit, because you're always cold. Ever since the hospital, you can't warm up. Right now your hands are freezing, your feet. In summer, in Las Vegas, you're wishing you had a jacket with you.

You thread through the plots, not really looking at the headstones. Few are fresh. Under a beaten-looking elm you find the one you're seeking. Your knees pop loudly when you squat. It's a pretty stone, small and neat, and someone's put flowers out recently. The roses are still fresh.

"Hey, Zack," you say softly. "How you doin', buddy?"

The grass is thick over Zack's grave. Should be; he's been planted here for three years now. Well, almost three; minus about a week. But today's the second date on the stone, the date Zack died, and today's the second time you've visited this small demure grave. First time was last year, and you'd chatted with some family that time. This time it's late in the day, and there's no one but you. The others have come and gone.

"Can't believe it's been this long," you say, and sit down. "Man, a lot's happened. You know, your mom is some lady. And your grandmother. She still calls me every once in a while, you know that?" You smile. "You got a cool family, kiddo. Awesome."

You stare out at the graves. Heat is shimmering on the horizon, and there's a distant sound of traffic, but it's otherwise so very still, you can hear your heart beating in your ears. Kind of fast, it was a hike from the car, but that's cool, too. You're walking, you're talking, it's all good.

You glance down at the flowers in your hand, and then lay them carefully next to the roses. "I wish you were here," you say thickly. Your eyes are burning, and it's not from the heat. "God, Zack, I wish it hadn't all happened. My therapist – you know, I'm seeing this guy now, over at the university, sorry, didn't tell you – he says when I forgive myself I'll be okay. But I can't see how to do that, you know? Because I'm still here, and you're – here." You touch the yellowing grass, pluck a few blades. "It's like everybody can move on, but I got my feet stuck in concrete. I let you down, man. I did. And I can't –" You have to clear your throat, and for a second you don't think you can talk at all.

"But I'm gonna try," you croak after a while. "I am, Zack. I – got myself into some trouble, you know? It's kind of this – gift that keeps on giving, I guess. Had to stay in the hospital a long time. Four months." You snort, and swallow again. "This shrink, she keeps saying I'm punishing myself. But it doesn't feel like that. Just feels – like I shouldn't do things. Because you can't."

You can see the car, back down by the road. Gil's standing outside. His arms are crossed, and if you could see his expression behind the sunglasses you know it wouldn't be pleased. Had to practically beg to come out here at all, and the clock is ticking. You gained fourteen pounds in the hospital, fourteen freaking pounds, but you still haven't hit that golden hundred. It was enough to get you sprung, but not nearly enough to satisfy Gil. Or Dr. Ammons, or Brent, the therapist you've been seeing lately. No one's happy enough. Happier, maybe, but not happy.

And what sucks is you're trying. You really are. But it's hard, it's so fucking hard. And Gil holds himself responsible. Always has. Doesn't matter how many times you tell him he's not. He blames himself.

"I think I'm going back to work pretty soon," you say to Zack. "Man, I'm not even sure I remember how to do it, is that crazy or what? But it's been so long." You sigh. "Gil, he's talking about retiring again. Can't even imagine that. Wouldn't be right without him. I dunno."

You draw a deep breath and let it out slowly. You're warming up, baking in the sun, but you're tired. You need a nap, need to stretch out and let your heart slow down, weird the way it just keeps going like this. Karen Carpenter city. You'll be thirty-five next month, and sometimes you wonder if you'll hit thirty-six. Maybe you'll be keeping company with Zack pretty soon. Don't mean to, don't want to, but if you don't eat, it's what will happen.

You really thought you had it beat. The whole thing, not just the cutting, not the food thing. Everything, you understood why you did it. But it's a slippery fucker. It's smarter than you are, a lot smarter, and for every step you took forward, you stepped back four.

Not even Gil could make it all right again. You kissed the first time two weeks after that horrible day in your condo, the one where Gil just about forced you to take a look at yourself. You didn't like what you saw then. You don't like it now, either. But not even Gil's halting, awkward love fixes everything that's broken inside you. There are too many broken bits. Humpty-Dumpty, too goddamn late.

But you can still try. You can eat dinner tonight, and see Gil's relieved smile, and maybe it costs you, maybe it takes every fucking bit of strength you have left to make yourself do it, but you can. You really don't want to die. You don't want to cost Gil that, too. You don't want to cost yourself.

You look over, and touch Zack Winthrop's gravestone one more time. "See you next year, kiddo," you say softly. "You take care now."

You're a little dizzy when you stand up, but it passes fast. And Gil's waiting, sunglasses off, with a tentative smile on his face. You walk slowly over to him, and tuck yourself under his reaching arm.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Yeah. I'm good."

"Hot out here."

"Yeah. Wanna go home?"

Gil nods. His hair shines silver in the harsh sun. "Let's go home."