Title: Purgatory
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: R
Warnings: dark fic
Summary: Gil and Nick pay the price in an investigation gone very wrong.

There is an element of complete unreality to it all. Even as it’s well started, even as it becomes clear, the things that are being done, the changes put into motion, it feels artificial. He will wake up in a few moments. Shaken, sweaty, twisted up in a damp sheet and wondering why his brain coughed all of it out. Breathe a sigh of relief and roll over and go back to sleep, because this can’t be real. It can’t be.

Gil's hands have begun to swell. It’s fascinating, in a gruesome sort of way. Even if the broken bones would let him bend his fingers, they wouldn’t; the edema is far too pronounced. Like fat dark sausages, not at all like his own hands. The pain is distant, no longer a hot misery. How many bones? He considers it, and then Nick screams again, and it’s like ice water sloshed in his face. He jerks, hears his teeth snap together as he looks up again.

Nick’s face is greenish-gray, so remarkably untouched still. It’s his fingernails, Gil sees, that was the last on his right hand. They haven’t broken Nick’s fingers. They’ve done this instead, perhaps just as painful, perhaps not. He can’t say, but Nick’s eyes seem to float in the sockets, his color so ghastly that it suggests oh yes, every bit as painful. Painful enough to make him faint again, Gil hopes. Faint, and don’t wake up for a while. Please, God, please. Please let him lose consciousness.

"Still haven’t changed your mind?" The dark-haired man brandishes his pliers. His expression is so calm. He might as well be choosing items for the recycle bin. "No?"

Gil returns his basilisk gaze, and shakes his head. Nick, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The blonde man grins, and watches while Nick’s left hand is held out, index finger extended. "I got lots left to do," the dark-haired man remarks, opening the pliers. "And all the time in the world. It’s up to you."

"Don’t," Gil says, and Nick’s head snaps back against the chair, the cords in his neck standing out in perfect relief as he screams, short and high.

It was so much better when it was just himself. Pain, oh yes, but he could take that, not enjoy it but bear it because he had to, because that was his responsibility. And if it were only the blond man, then it might have been all right. But the dark-haired one is smart. He saw it, saw that relief in the look Gil gave Nick when it was his turn, not Nick’s, Nick had no part in this. Saw that relief and correctly interpreted it, and when two fractured hands did not produce results, made an executive decision. Change victims, change tactics. Textbook, really. Hurt the one who doesn’t know, to force the hand of the one who does.

But he can’t tell what he knows. And Nick knows that. Doesn’t he? Does he remember, still? Does he remember what he said, early on? Gil does. "For God’s sake, Gil." Nick, his face pale but so beautifully resolute. "Don’t you put that on me. Let them do what they want, okay, but don’t let me talk you into it. Jesus Christ, I couldn’t live with that. It’s not worth it. Don’t you tell them, don’t you say a fucking word."

And he hasn’t. But oh, he can feel his control slipping. Piece by piece, as Nick’s nails are ripped out one by one and his handsome face becomes unrecognizable, ugly with agony. Only a few nails. And already Gil is shaking, his own broken fingers forgotten until he tries to clench his hands into fists.

"You got some huevos, I’ll admit that." The dark-haired man folds the pliers, gives Gil a considering look. "He really doesn’t know, does he? Just you."

Gil tries to force some spit into his ash-dry mouth. "He doesn’t know anything," he says hoarsely. "There’s no reason to hurt him any more."

"Well, he’s just a means to an end." The man shrugs, while the blond takes the pliers and stows them in that bottomless black box. "As you well know. You’re the reason he’s suffering. And he’s going to suffer more, Mr. Grissom. Much more. Until you tell us what we want to know. Tell me, and your friend here goes away with a few missing fingernails. Don’t tell me, and he’ll be missing a lot more before too long. Your decision."

Nick, he sees, has passed out, or at least grayed out for a time. Gil shakes his head. "You have my answer."

"You never told me whether or not he was your lover." The dark-haired man walks closer, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. "Of course he is. I can see that. But I can’t imagine how you’d let a lover go through this. You love him – and yet you’re the reason he’s hurting. Must be a funny sort of love. Don’t you think?"

Gil faces forward. The dagger in his chest twists.

"Funny," the man muses. "Must be pretty important, this kid you’re protecting. I mean, he’s just a snotty-nosed kid. What’s one among so many? Compared to your guy here. Just a name, an address. That’s all. Tell me, Mr. Grissom. And I’ll wrap it all up and kiss it better."

Gil faces forward, and sees Nick stirring. Nick’s eyes flicker, and he meets Gil’s gaze for a second before he closes his eyes, presses his lips together.

He could say it. He could. No one would blame him. Torture is effective. He has no training for this, no experience. No preparation whatsoever. He’s a scientist, not a peace officer, and Nick isn’t even working the case, doesn’t have the foggiest clue what it’s about. What’s at stake, yes, that much Nick knows. But not why, not how.

But it is for Nick’s sake, as well as the boy’s, that he can’t allow himself the luxury of breaking. Because then it would be Nick’s burden as much as his own.

One nine-year-old boy. And Nick, breathing in stuttering sips while the dark-haired man steps on his cigarette butt and walks over to the box.

"You’re afraid I’ll rape him," he continues in that conversational tone, bending over and picking out something. "But the truth is, I’m not sexually attracted to men, Mr. Grissom. Nor am I particularly turned on by doing other things, much as it may appear otherwise." He’s holding a curious instrument, one that Gil’s befuddled brain won’t register, not until the blond reaches up to pull Nick’s lower jaw down.

"It’s all a means to an end. That’s all. Just part of the job. It doesn’t mean anything to me, Mr. Grissom. Nothing at all."

He’s known that, knew it from the beginning. But the even, unruffled tone makes him want to howl with rage, exactly because it’s true. This man can reduce Nick to his component elements if it will achieve his objective, and if it doesn’t, he’ll turn to alternative means. All that matters is the goal; how he gets there is relative.

He realizes what the instrument is when the dark-haired man pulls out the first of Nick’s teeth.

He remembers a case he worked. Years ago, before Nick’s time in Vegas. A man’s house, a routine search as part of an investigation of a betting scheme at the Tropicana. In a jar in the bathroom he’d found sixty-eight human teeth. Instead of a man who’d figured out the perfect way to rig the roulette wheel, they’d found a very quiet serial murderer. And Gil had wondered, standing transfixed in that immaculate bathroom, holding that horrible little jar filled with tooth-fairy leavings, whether or not the victims had been dead before their molars were yanked out.

Nick’s high shriek is like a fork on a chalkboard. It will drive him insane, hearing much more of it. He cannot stand it. That much pain, no, it is not to be borne. He can’t let them keep doing this. He can’t.

"Please," Gil blurts, shaking his head wildly. "Please, for God’s sake, stop it, please."

The man turns and regards him. "I will, as soon as you tell me what I need to know," he says blandly.

There is a tiny thread of blood trailing from Nick’s lower lip. His entire body is shaking, his wounded hands trembling.

"I can’t," Gil whispers.

"Then I hope your friend has a good dentist."

It takes both the men, plus the ropes around his body, to keep Nick still enough to pull the second tooth. And there is nothing human in Nick’s wild eyes when they’ve done it.

He faints with the third. Maybe the pain, maybe the fact that he’s hyperventilating so badly. Gil doesn’t care which.

"Huh." The dark-haired man folds his horrible tooth-pulling instrument and shrugs. "Tell you what. I’ll give you a minute with your boyfriend here, how’s that?" He pats Nick’s limp thigh. "Maybe he can talk some sense into you."

He takes out a cell phone and walks to the other end of the room, speaking fast and so quietly Gil can’t make it out. The blond grins at him.

They haven’t bound him. Gil stands and has to sit again, knees buckling. His hands throb in time with his fast heartbeat, useless swollen appendages at the ends of his arms. Even if the men were to leave, just abandon them here, Gil couldn’t untie Nick’s bonds. He won’t be tying his own shoelaces for a month or two.

Up close, Nick’s breathing is still far too fast, his color appalling. His mouth hangs open, drooling spit and blood.

"Nicky," Gil whispers. "Oh Jesus."

Nick’s eyes flutter open. And then they fill with tears, rolling strangely, seeing Gil but not seeing him.

"I’m going to tell him," Gil says tremulously. "It’s not worth it, honey. It’s not. The police are protecting him. They’ll keep him safe."

Nick’s lips tremble. "No," he says. His voice is rough, and thick with blood he spits weakly to the side. Gil can’t see the gap in his teeth. Molars, then, that’s what was pulled. Not his front teeth. "No, don’t."

"Nick," and he’s begging, pleading. Don’t make me sit there and watch more of this. Don’t. I can’t take it, not even for a nine-year-old boy’s sake.

"Doesn’t – hurt that much now," Nick says.

"They’ll hurt you more."

"Yeah. Doesn’t matter."

And if Nick can stand it, can’t he? If Nick can hold his ground, keep urging him to do the right thing, how can Gil not do it?

He leans against the back of Nick’s chair, closing his eyes. "I’m sorry," he whispers.

"Be okay," Nick rasps. "Somebody’ll come."

Will they? Brass will be hunting for them. Will he come in time? Will he arrive before Gil has broken? Because it won’t be Nick who breaks. It will be himself.

"Any decisions?" The dark-haired man takes a drag off another cigarette. His tone is cheery. "Can we stop this, all go home?"

Gil stares at him, and feels real hatred welling up, true hatred. "Fuck you," he says harshly.

The man’s eyes narrow, and then he gives a faint smile. "I guess that’s a no, then."

~~~~~~~~

Gil has completely lost track of time. They have been here forever, days, weeks, maybe months. And he can’t remember why it all started. Why they came here in the first place. None of it makes sense.

He gazes dumbly ahead, and sees that Nick has started crying again. Weaker now, tired soft sobs like an exhausted child’s. "Don’t," he blubbers. "Please stop, please stop."

Gil himself hasn’t spoken in hours. He isn’t sure he can any longer. He can’t remember the boy’s name. It’s gone, along with so much else. His mind is blank, baffled, foggy with confusion. He wishes Nick would stop making all that noise.

Stop crying. Let me rest. I’m so tired.

The dark-haired man has untied Nick’s left hand. Nick doesn’t struggle. Just keeps on weeping, until Gil wants to scream at him to shut up, stop it, leave me alone, let me be.

"I thought you cared about him, Mr. Grissom," the man says. Gil has never believed in heaven or hell, never put much stock in the idea of an all-powerful being. But if there is a Devil, it is this man. "He thought you did, too. But I guess you don’t."

Gil looks up slowly, gives a minute shake of his head. "Shut the fuck up," he whispers. Too soft to carry.

Nick’s hand is limp in that grasp, like a dead bird. The man grasps Nick’s ring finger and shrugs, reaching out to take the shears the blond holds out. "Suit yourself."

There is a sound, a meaty sort of snap, and Nick’s finger falls on the floor. For a second Nick is silent, his mouth yawning wide, eyes stark and blank. And then he gives a mewling cry, back arching away from the chair, toes curling. Blood is everywhere, spattering on his shirt, his bare arms. But none reaches the dark-haired man, who holds Nick’s hand fastidiously away.

Gil watches the blood pattering down. He remembers the street fairs when he was a child. Paint spattered on paper, and a machine that spun that paper around, made intricate impossible-to-reproduce patterns. Nick’s blood is like paint, rich red, unreal. None of it is real.

"Stop," he says, but nothing comes out.

Nick sags when the shears sever his middle finger, and doesn’t move.

The man puts away the heavy shears, and picks up the fingers. Shows them to Gil, who regards them with dull disinterest. "I can take them all," the man says. He sounds tired. "You know I can. I can cut out his tongue. Pop out his eyeballs. Is that what it’s going to take, Mr. Grissom? Before you tell me what I need to know? Because you will tell me. It’s just a matter of time."

Nick’s fingers. Those are Nick’s fingers, his long, blunt-tipped, educated, talented fingers.

Gil turns his head to the side and vomits.

When he looks back, the man is hunkered down next to him. Calm expression, unswayed by the stench. "I can take other parts of him, too," he says, in a kind voice. "You know I can. So why keep going? Is that stupid kid worth all this?"

Gil closes his eyes.

After a moment he hears the click of the man’s heels, walking away.

Brass must find them soon. He must. Brass, or someone. Anyone. It can’t be long. Because if it is, Gil isn’t sure he’ll survive it. Isn’t sure that Nick will, now.

It takes smelling salts to wake Nick this time. The dark-haired man leans over him, mouth near Nick’s ear. "You want it to stop, don’t you?"

Nick’s blood-flecked mouth works. "Yes," he moans. "Please stop, please stop hurting me."

"Tell your boyfriend. Tell him to tell me what I want to know. He loves you, doesn’t he? Won’t he listen? Tell him."

Nick’s wandering eyes slowly focus on Gil. "Gil," he says in that tremulous little-boy voice. "Make them stop, I, it hurts so bad, Gil. Please."

"That’s it." The man is stroking Nick’s sweat-damp hair. Gentle, tender. "He’ll listen to you. Won’t he? Because he cares about you. He doesn’t really want you to hurt this bad. Tell him how bad it hurts. Go on."

Tears trickle down Nick’s drawn cheeks. He hitches a sob, and whispers, "Please, Gil. Make them stop."

"Yes, just like that. It’s just one name, isn’t it? Just one silly little name. And it will all be over." The man takes a tissue from his pocket and wipes Nick’s mouth.

"No," Gil says rustily. "Don’t say a word, Nicky. Don’t."

"He loves that little boy more than you," the man whispers. "You see that now, don’t you? He doesn’t really care about you at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t let me do this. Would he?"

Nick weeps steadily, even after the man goes silent. "Gil," Nick moans. "T- Tell him. P-please."

Gil’s eyes are dry as stones. Bile fills the back of his throat again.

"All right," Gil says dully. "You can stop."

The dark-haired man lifts an eyebrow. "Tell me."

"His fingers are bleeding. See to him, and I’ll tell you what you want to know."

"Bargaining? You’re hardly in a position –"

"Fuck you," Gil says harshly. "I said I’d tell you, and I will. But he’s in shock. Bandage his hand. Give him something to drink. And I’ll tell you."

The man considers, and then smiles. "All right."

Gil sees Joshua Keller’s face in his mind’s eye, but as soon as it’s there it’s gone again, supplanted by Nick. Nick, whose head lolls against the chair back, Nick, who he loves. Nick, into whose eyes Gil is not sure he can ever gaze again without seeing his own choice.

The man reaches for something in the box, and a shot slices through the still, fusty air. A tiny dot of red appears on his forehead, blossoming wider. His eyes are blank with surprise as he falls slowly over the box.

The second shot spins the blond in his tracks, blood spraying from his left shoulder. He reels backward, clawing at Nick’s chair, and flops down. A terrible metronomic twitching, and then he doesn’t move again.

Brass’s tense features soften in pure shock, and Gil meets his eyes and then lets his chin drop to his chest.

~~~~~~~

He stays six days in the hospital. It takes that long because his multiple fractures require two separate surgeries to repair. When it’s done, his hands are encased in casts, and as he’s predicted he’s nearly helpless. With some fiddling he can balance a spoon between his thumb and the rest of his hand, but more times than not he ends up wearing the food, not eating it.

Other than that, he’s physically fine.

Nick is not.

They aren’t telling him very much about Nick right now. That in itself is revealing. He’s gotten a little out of Brass, a little from Warrick. Nothing from Catherine, whose expression is fragile as glass. Sara is wrapped up in his own state, glosses over Nick’s condition in a way that says she thinks information will hinder Gil’s recovery.

But he finds out a few things. Things like an infection, which explains why Gil is in a regular med/surg room and Nick is in MICU. Maybe his amputated fingers, maybe the barbaric dentistry. Maybe just everything taken at once, but Nick has sepsis, and although no one will say it to him, he knows implicitly what that means.

On the fourth day, Brass tells him in a relieved tone that Nick has been moved to a regular room. Where, he doesn’t say.

"I need to see him," Gil says woodenly.

Brass doesn’t nod. "Probably not the best idea right now, Gil."

"Why?"

"You just had surgery."

"I’m fine. Where is he?"

"Couple floors up. Give it a couple of days."

Gil stares at him. "What are you not telling me, Jim?"

Brass looks away. "He’s gonna be fine. But he isn’t yet."

"Of course he’s not. Tell me which room. Tell me!"

After a silent moment Brass nods. "786."

He can’t dress himself. It takes a nurse to help him, and a refrain of how he’s fine, needs to stretch his legs, just a few minutes. It still earns him a wheelchair instead of walking, but he really doesn’t care. His hands ache, he’s ghastly tired, and he’s going to go see Nick.

Catherine’s standing in the hallway when Gil rolls up. She looks more tired than he feels, and for the first time he sees how she won’t quite meet his eyes.

"How is he?" Gil asks.

She shrugs. "Not so good."

He would ask more, but she walks away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Nick looks okay. His wounded hands in bandages, both arms impaled with IVs, but aside from being thinner, he looks like himself.

Gil sits, watching, and waits for Nick to see him.

An hour later the nurse returns. A doctor is with her. Gil glances briefly at him, and then back to Nick.

"How long has he been like this?" Gil asks quietly.

The doctor flips through Nick’s chart. "Since he got here. It’s not organic. His infection is well under control now, hardly any fever."

Gil stares at Nick’s waxy-pale face. "He’s catatonic."

"Close to it. Unresponsive, certainly. It’s not true catatonia. More a response to intense shock, and illness. You’re Mr. Grissom, aren’t you? His partner?"

Gil nods. "Will he come out of it?"

"He could at any time. He just has to decide to."

"His fingers -- Were you able to –"

"Re-attach them?" The doctor glances at him. "No, I’m afraid not. Too much time, and I believe his infection began at the amputation sites."

Gil leans his chin on the bed rail. "Nick," he says softly. "Nicky. Look at me, honey. You’re safe, we’re both safe. It’s all right now."

Nick regards the ceiling with his stony gaze, and doesn’t move.

~~~~~~~~

Joshua Keller is safe. He’s lost both parents, and everything that’s familiar to him, but he is safe. Gil keeps that in the forefront of his mind, reminding himself the morning he’s discharged from the hospital, only to ask the aide charged with wheeling him out to hit the seventh-floor button instead of the ground floor. Nick’s room is busy: His family has arrived, and his mother and father sit on either side of his bed, talking to him, going silent as Gil abandons the wheelchair and walks in.

"Oh, Gil." Liz Stokes, standing slowly, her face finally looking her age.

He’s counted Nick’s parents as friends, since that Thanksgiving two years ago when he was in Dallas, when he and Nick had sat next to each other on a couch and made the truth clear. Nick had worried, but his folks had listened, digested it, and gone forward, treating Gil like an ad-hoc son-in-law. It was never as big an issue as Gil had feared it might be.

Now he wonders. Wonders if Liz would hug him once she knew he hadn’t stopped it. That he could have prevented Nick’s suffering, and didn’t. Would she understand? He doesn’t; how could she?

But he accepts her hug, feeling traitorous, bitter as gall. Hank Stokes barely looks away from the bed long enough to see who he is.

And Nick. Nick who looks asleep right now, if it really is sleep. Gil isn’t sure. Nick may sleep for eternity, no one knows. Nick may know, wherever he has retreated, but there is no way to find out.

Nick’s parents leave after half an hour or so, saying something about needing to check into a hotel and they’ll be back in under an hour. Gil nods, and goes back to staring at Nick.

On the ninth day after their arrival in the hospital, late in the evening, Gil glances up and sees Nick looking directly at him. Seeing him.

It’s like being dipped in a vat of scalding joy. "Nicky," Gil says wonderingly. "Oh, Nicky."

"Your hands," Nick whispers. It’s more sibilants than anything else; Nick’s voice is wispy, frail.

"They fixed them." Gil leans forward, his eyes filling with tears. "Nicky."

Nick’s truncated left hand lifts from the blanket, grazing Gil’s cheek. "Popsicle."

Gil gazes at him. "What?"

"Want a Popsicle."

Gil snorts a high laugh, shakes his head. "Okay, honey. I’ll get you one."

~~~~~~~~~

Nick says nothing about what happened. Nothing about his nine-day mental retreat. It’s not as if it didn’t happen. But he won’t discuss things. His voice is different: lower, with a gritty rasp that may not go away. He screamed his voice nearly gone a week and a half ago, and he may be awake and functioning now, but his voice is a stranger’s.

He greets his family with smiles, and doesn’t say much to them. Nor does he say much to Gil, although it’s immediately clear that he refuses to let Gil out of his sight. His reaction that first night to Gil’s abortive attempts to leave is so frightening that even the nurses don’t object when Gil pretty much takes up residence in Nick’s hospital room.

Nevertheless, two and a half weeks after he got there Nick is deemed well enough for discharge. His injuries are healing. He fumbles with his reduced left hand, but seems otherwise to be coping.

At home, Gil waits to feel normal again. He is on medical leave until his hands come out of their casts, and he has arranged for Nick to be off work the same amount of time. Certainly Nick isn’t yet recovered completely; his left hand will require physical therapy, and eventually perhaps prosthetics, although Gil isn’t quite sure whether or not they make artificial middle and ring fingers.

Their first afternoon at home, Nick regards his left hand and says, "Shoulda gone to U.T."

Gil gazes at him. "What?"

Nick raises his hand. "Hook ‘em horns. Well, almost."

"I still don’t follow."

Nick sighs. "It’s the sign. The sign you make with your hands, at football games and shit. Texas Longhorns. University of Texas, Austin." He holds up his hand again, waggles it. "Only you’re supposed to use your thumb, not your index finger."

"Ah." Gil nods sagely.

"Never mind." Nick rolls his eyes.

There is a home health nurse, since neither of them is particularly mobile or dexterous. His name is Henry, and he’s a godsend for Gil, but Nick won’t let him come near him. The first morning Henry works, Nick refuses to come out of the bedroom. He says he’s tired, wants to sleep, and Gil can believe that; Nick isn’t sleeping at all right now, lying awake and tense at Gil’s side in the darkness. But this isn’t tiredness, this is terror, and after a few tentative attempts at befriending him, Henry keeps a polite distance.

After the first week Nick will stay in a room with Henry, but his silent, anxious gaze rarely leaves him, and Henry confesses, when asked, that Nick makes him feel as if he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s a nice guy, Henry, but Gil doesn’t think he’ll last much longer in their house. It’s too tense.

It’s only when Gil sees that Nick is having trouble chewing that he thinks to ask about his teeth. And it takes Nick some time before he admits that his mouth is very painful. In any case, he will probably need bridgework, and so Gil uses a pencil to dial Nick’s dentist’s number, makes an appointment for an emergency consultation.

He’s glad the appointment is so early in the morning. There are only two other patients there, and so there are few witnesses to what happens. Nick can’t even let the dentist near him. At the first touch he bolts from the chair, sending instruments flying, and thuds against the wall to stand crouched over, hands pressed over his mouth. The sound he makes is all too familiar, that ghastly terrified moan, and Gil briskly ushers the dentist into the hallway, explaining briefly and without detail what has happened.

There are x-rays from Nick’s initial hospital visit. Eventually they reveal a fragment of a molar left from Nick’s impromptu extractions, and the dentist calls Gil a week later to explain that he suspects an abscess, and Nick will have to have the fragment removed or risk another dangerous infection.

Ativan and Valium sedate Nick enough to allow the procedure. But he spends the next few days in bed, forcibly reminded of his ordeal by the pain in his mouth, and at times he seems almost as far away as he was those first days in the hospital.

~~~~~~~~~

"When do those come off?" Catherine asks.

Gil shrugs. "A week or two, I think."

"So you’re coming back?"

He blinks at her. "Of course."

She nods. She’s been pretty much in charge during his leave; he supposes she’s gotten used to filling his shoes. "What about Nick?"

"He says he wants to come back. I’d hoped he’d be able to return around the same time I do."

Voice pitched low, she asks, "How is he doing? Really?"

Gil manufactures a smile for her. "He’s all right. He was – traumatized, of course. It’s taking a while to get back on his feet, but he’ll make it."

She nods. He wishes he didn’t know her as well as he does, wishes he couldn’t see the doubt in her eyes.

There are other visitors. Sara, who has never been entirely comfortable with the fact of Gil’s relationship with Nick, but tries anyway. Warrick, who can coax a smile from Nick when even Gil at his best cannot do it.

Jim Brass, of them all, visits the most. Several times each week, showing up with various things, takeout food, ice cream, rented DVDs, as well as the expected few files he needs Gil’s input on. Most of what he brings is not work. And he clearly isn’t only there to see Gil. It’s Nick he spends more time with, gruffly coaxing him to take walks, go out for pizza.

Watching them, one night, Gil thinks that maybe it’s because, of all their colleagues, Jim is the only one to have seen Nick as he was that night. It had been Jim who cut Nick’s bonds, who held him when he collapsed. Whose shirt was splotched with Nick’s blood after the ambulance crew had loaded him up and spirited him away.

"You can’t honestly tell me you never played chicken-foot." Jim sits back, shaking his head. "You’re from Texas. You gotta know how to play dominoes."

"But not THIS game," Nick says. Six weeks after his injuries, his hands are unbandaged, his healing wounds pink and tender. He keeps his left little finger tucked against his palm. "This one’s new."

"So lemme teach it to you."

"Did you bring beer, too?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"Cool."

Nick plays dominoes with Brass until nearly midnight, and he sleeps that night, sleeps nearly six full hours. The next day Gil sends Jim a bottle of Wild Turkey, and when Jim calls to ask why, Gil can’t reply. His throat is too thick with tears.

~~~~~~~~

He returns to work two months after their shared ordeal. His hands aren’t back to normal; his doctor has informed him that they may never regain 100% of their former strength and dexterity. But he can write, and his fine motor skills are mostly back, even if he has an annoying tremor when he’s tired. It will suffice.

Nick’s return is delayed by illness. He seems to have no immune system following his septic episode in the hospital, and has caught numerous bugs and viruses since then. But it gives Gil time to acclimate, to remember what it’s like to be here, part of the team, back on the job.

He dives in with utter relief, and after two days back on the job, he feels that he’s finally himself again.

His team is jubilant to have him back, and that restores him, too. They’ve missed him, and he them, and the work, and it’s all good.

Nick’s return pops all their bubbles.

Gil has told himself that Nick’s recovery will take time, that he’s undergone a monstrous ordeal, and that getting back in the saddle will benefit him just as it has Gil.

But this is not the Nick he worked with two months ago. This is a different Nick, a deeply wounded man who is not whole yet, and may not be for some time. His first night demonstrates how very changed he is.

"Gil?"

He looks up. "Yes?"

Catherine’s face is set in grim lines. "Can you check on Nick?"

He’s already standing up, pushing his chair back. "What happened?"

"He was working, and I came in and he freaked."

Gil brushes past her.

At first he thinks he’s moved out of the fibers lab; he can’t see Nick anywhere. But he’s there. Sitting on the floor, back resting against the drawers. Gil can see him shaking even from several feet away.

"Nicky?" He pitches his voice low, keeps it soft. Approaches slowly, out of instinct. "You okay?"

"I’m okay," Nick whispers. His eyes have a funny staring look to them, and he doesn’t meet Gil’s eyes. "I’m okay."

Gil hunkers down a couple of feet away. "Catherine didn’t mean to startle you."

Nick nods rapidly. "I know. I know she didn’t."

"You feel like taking a walk? Getting some air?"

He can hear Nick’s fast, agitated breathing now. Hyperventilating. This is not over. This is not nearly over. "No," Nick says jerkily. "I don’t want to see them."

"See who? Catherine?"

"Any of them."

"Nick –"

"Leave me alone. I’m okay." With obvious effort Nick unfolds himself from his tight tucked posture. His hands are shaking so badly Gil can’t see how he will be able to do his work, but he struggles to his feet, shaking his head. "Just – let me do this. I’m okay."

Gil nods slowly. "I’m right down the hall. If you need me."

"Okay." Nick fumbles his safety glasses back on. "Okay."

Catherine’s in the hallway. "Is he okay? Jesus, Gil, I didn’t mean to scare him like that."

"I know." He nods. "It wasn’t you. He – startles easily."

"Is there – anything I can do?"

He smiles briefly. "Try to give him lots of advance notice that you’re around. People popping out of nowhere -- It’s difficult."

She nods. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine. Really."

"Okay." She gives him a dubious look, and walks away.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next night, something at a crime scene sends Nick into such a frenzy of panic that Gil takes him home. Wonders if he should perhaps go to the hospital instead.

"I wanna go home," Nick says, shoved up as flat as he can get against the passenger-side door. "Take me home, I want to go home."

Gil nods grimly. "I am, Nicky. What is it? What happened?"

"God." Nick curls his arms over his head, plants his face against his knees. "Can’t. No."

"It’s okay. It’s all right, Nick. I swear. Nothing bad is going to happen. Listen to me, okay? We’re going home."

Nick clutches his head harder and doesn’t say anything.

At home, Nick prowls the house, looking for what, he won’t say. A quiet phone conversation with Brass is unexpectedly revealing. An assault, the victim bound with ropes to the bed. It makes sense.

But Nick isn’t slowing down, unceasing in his vigilance, his checking and rechecking the locks on the doors, the window latches. His panic isn’t easing. After an hour of watching, Gil faces him in the hallway. He holds out a pill. "Take it."

Nick’s haunted eyes dart from Gil’s face to the pill to the doorway, and he swallows the pill dry, no questions asked, no complaint. It hurts to see that, to know that Nick just doesn’t give a shit.

The Ativan kicks in about forty-five minutes later. It doesn’t completely kill the anxiety, but Nick slows down, finally sits. He drinks the tea Gil makes, and slumps in his chair.

"Want to talk about it?" Gil asks, weary to his very core.

Nick regards his left hand, flexing his remaining fingers. "I can feel them," he says dully. "And they aren’t even there anymore."

"Phantom sensation. It’s common. Nick, what happened tonight? Jim said –"

"I don’t want to talk about that." Nick’s jaw juts stubbornly. "I want to sleep."

Gil sits back. "Okay. Maybe that’s a good idea."

But it takes another Ativan to make Nick relax enough to lie down, and even then Gil isn’t sure he’ll actually sleep. He calls Catherine and doesn’t try to make many excuses; just tells her Nick isn’t feeling well and both of them will be back tomorrow.

He doesn’t much care whether or not she believes it.

~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Kane’s handshake is almost too firm; Gil’s fingers have been aching with the chilly weather, and he fights down a wince. He’s forgotten how imposing Kane is, the contrast between his bulky physical form and the gentle, cultivated tone of his voice.

"Good to see you again, Gil," the psychiatrist says with a smile. "I hope this isn’t an official visit."

"Personal," Gil says, settling back into the comfortable chair. "But not unrelated to some professional concerns as well, I admit."

"Intriguing. Go on?"

The genial look fades as Gil gives a brief summary of events. Kane is very sober indeed as Gil wraps it up.

"Jesus, Gil," he says thickly. "I’m terribly sorry. No one should have to go through all that."

Gil nods. "I feel as if I can handle a great deal of it on my own," he continues. "It’s Nick I’m worried about. Physically, he seems fine. But otherwise?" He shrugs helplessly. "He just seems to be getting worse. It has to be post-traumatic stress, I realize, but after what happened while he was hospitalized, the catatonia -- I’m not sure what to do. Not at all sure."

"Frankly I’d be far more surprised if he were fine," Kane says after a moment. "Bad enough to be physically tortured to that extent, but to be made a bargaining chip for another person’s life -- He’s lucky to be as functional as he is."

"That’s just it. He’s really not very functional, Phillip. And becoming less so. I can give him pills to take, keep him medicated. But what kind of life is that?"

Kane shifts in his chair, nodding slowly. "I’ll be happy to talk to him. Do an evaluation. Would that help?"

"I can’t see how it could hurt."

"Bring him by tomorrow morning?"

"All right."

The real surprise is in Nick’s reaction to being told about an upcoming psychiatric appointment. He pokes at the food he hasn’t been eating and nods. "Okay. Maybe that’d be good."

Gil stares at him. "I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it."

"I know you’re trying to help." Nick gives up on the food and pushes his plate away. "I know I’m letting you down."

It’s like a smart slap in the face; he recoils with pure shock. "Nick, you’re not letting me down. For God’s sake, there’s no –"

"It’s okay," Nick interrupts. "I mean, I’ll go, right? Maybe he can do something."

Gil gives a cautious nod. "Yeah."

He isn’t there for the evaluation – Kane tactfully suggests returning in an hour – so he misses the bulk of what transpires. But a glance at Nick’s half-lidded eyes puts every nerve on high alert.

"What happened?" Gil snaps.

Kane sighs. "He became highly agitated. Combative. I gave him a shot to calm him down."

"A shot?"

"Haloperidol. You want my candid opinion?"

Gil gazes down at Nick’s dozing face and nods. "Please."

"He’s disabled. Perhaps profoundly so. He would benefit from intensive counseling and a regular medication schedule. Preferably inpatient."

It is his worst-case scenario. Hearing it is like a stiff blow to the solar plexus; he can barely stand up under it. He swallows. "Inpatient."

"I can make the arrangements for you. Gil, he can’t return to work, to what constitutes a regular life. Acute stress disorder’s the first of a laundry list of problems. Understandable problems. Your work is -- I can’t think of a worse place for him to be, quite frankly. Nick needs a controlled environment, routine, order. Or he will only get worse."

There is no prevarication on Kane’s face, nothing secretive. Gil slowly sits down. "All right," he says dully. "Does he know? That you want to hospitalize him?"

Kane sighs and shrugs. "I mentioned it. But he was so agitated, I doubt it made much of an impression."

"It has to be voluntary, Phillip. I won’t make this a matter for the courts. It would cost him too much."

"Understood."

"I’ll talk to him tonight. If he agrees – then."

Kane nods. "Call me. You have my cell number?"

"Right."

~~~~~~~~~

That afternoon, still drowsy from the Haldol, Nick doesn’t seem upset at the idea. Doesn’t seem to care very much one way or the other. Kane makes the arrangements, and by five they are sitting in a bland office at a facility Gil has visited only in a professional capacity before now. Nick is withdrawn, distant as the stars, and Gil wonders if the next time he sees him, Nick will have retreated all the way again.

"I love you," Gil says when the sweet-faced counselor absents herself for a moment. "Very much."

Nick nods. "Love you too," he mumbles.

"If you want to leave, you can. This isn’t prison, Nicky."

Nick says nothing to that.

Kane is waiting in the hallway, and it all seems so civilized, so calm and orderly, that Gil is unprepared for Nick’s reaction to his departure. Panic contorts Nick’s face. "Come with me," he says, clinging to Gil’s hand. "Don’t leave me here."

"Nick, you’ll be fine." Gil forces a smile, squeezes Nick’s fingers. "They’re going to help you get better. Remember?"

"I don’t want to stay," Nick blurts, shaking his head. "Don’t make me stay here, I need to be with YOU."

"Nick?" Kane reaches out to gingerly touch Nick’s shoulder. "Let’s –"

"No!" Nick flinches away, thuds against the wall. "Don’t touch me! Get your fucking hands OFF me!"

"Everyone here is your friend, Nick," Kane says evenly. "No one is going to hurt you. I promise you that. This is safe, this is where you agreed to come. All right?"

Panting, Nick glares at him. "I want to go home," he says shakily. "Let me go home."

"You will. Just not right now. Okay?"

"Gil?" Nick turns his beseeching look at him. "Do I have to stay?"

Gil nods, hating himself. "For a while, honey. Until you feel better."

"I don’t feel this bad," Nick whispers. His eyes are filling with tears. "I don’t."

Kane gives Gil a meaningful look, and then turns back to Nick. "Come on, Nick, let’s go get you settled in."

It’s worse than the violence, than the frenzied physical reactions, to see Nick’s body sagging, defeat writ large in his posture. He doesn’t look at Gil again.

Outside, Gil draws a deep breath of the crackling-cold air, and releases it in a hoarse sob.

~~~~~~~~

He isn’t sure he can face the lab without Nick there, but he’s even less sure the house won’t be worse. So he goes to work, and after the assignments have been handed out he says, "Nick is taking a leave of absence, so we’ll be working without him for a while."

No one says anything about how they’ve picked up the slack even when Nick was here, or about the fact that Nick has only been back from his first leave for a little over a month. They just nod, and he can’t stand seeing the understanding in their eyes, so he goes to his office. Which is where Brass finds him an hour later.

"You okay?"

Gil nods without looking up. "Fine. What’s up?"

Brass steps inside, and Gil sees him shoving his hands in his pockets. "Nick okay?"

He takes his time replying. "Not really, no."

"Something happen?"

He can’t lie to Jim. He can put a good face on it with his team, gloss over things, but this man knows too much, deserves the truth. Gil gently lays his pen on his desk. "Nick’s in the hospital," he says after a moment.

Brass’s shoulders sag. "Aw, shit."

"He needs help," Gil continues, choosing his words carefully. "And therapy. I can’t give him what he needs. I hope they can."

Brass sits down, and when Gil doesn’t go on, he says, "It’s not your fault, Gil."

"Isn’t it?" For the first time Gil faces him squarely. "I let those things happen. I could have stopped them, and I didn’t. And now Nick is –" He can’t say that part.

"Okay," Brass says, nodding. "So let’s say you stopped them. Gave them the kid’s name. Is that a better solution? A child’s life for Nick’s? Hmm?"

"You would have protected Joshua. He would have been all right."

"You hope."

"So you’re saying –"

"I’m saying," Brass interrupted stolidly, "that there was no good decision to be made. And I think you know that. Would Nick have wanted you to give it all up for him? Just to save him from the pain?"

Gil regards him and swallows. "No," he says curtly. "No, I did what he wanted."

"Nick will get better. He’s gone through hell, and he may not be out of it yet, but he’s gonna get better, Gil. And Joshua Keller is alive. If you’d given up his name, they would have killed you both, and probably Keller, too. You did the only thing you could do. Nick agreed. If you asked him right now you know he’d still agree. Even with all the shit."

"I know," Gil whispers. "I know he would."

"Where’s he at?"

"Copper Springs."

"They say how long?"

Gil shakes his head slowly. "As long as it takes, I suppose."

Brass leans forward and clasps Gil’s wrist, hard, before letting go. "It’s the right thing to do," he says gruffly. "May not feel like it right now. But it is. Nick’s not gonna get better without help. You said it yourself. So now he’ll get it."

"Yeah."

"Anything I can do, Gil. You know that."

Gil nods. "Thanks, Jim."

~~~~~~~~

It’s two weeks before Kane gives him the okay for a visit. Before now, he’s been gently but firmly dissuasive. "Give it time, Gil," he’s said. "We’re still adjusting meds."

On the appointed day, Kane meets him in the lobby. They sit in fat, drab chairs while Kane lays it out for him. "He’s a lot more stable now. Responding well to medication, interacting better."

Gil nods. "When can he come home?"

Kane’s expression doesn’t change. "Not quite yet."

"Does he know I’m here? Does he want to see me?"

"See for yourself."

He finds Nick in the rec room, watching ESPN with two other patients. Nick’s expression is neutral; he looks bored, until he sees Gil. Then a huge grin spreads like sunshine over his face, and he scrambles to his feet. His hug is warm and real and so natural, Gil feels his knees loosening beneath him.

"Took you long enough," Nick says, still beaming at him. "Thought you forgot about me."

"Never," Gil says. "God, it’s good to see you."

"Come on." Nick grabs his wrist and guides him down the hallway.

Nick’s room is small and messy, and Gil thinks about how neat Nick used to be, how methodical about making his bed and tidying things away. "Want a coke?" Nick hovers near the doorway. "I can go get you one."

"That’s all right."

Nick walks up and slides his arms around Gil’s waist. "You look tired," he observes. "You okay?"

Gil nods. "Just work. How are you?"

Nick leans forward and kisses him soundly on the mouth. And it feels wrong, feels awkward and uncomfortable, and when Gil goes stiff against him Nick draws back.

"What’s wrong?" Nick asks.

It’s my fault you’re here, Gil thinks. It’s my fault you are for all intents and purposes institutionalized. It’s all my fault. And I thought I understood the way things were, but I can’t handle that. I can’t. I can’t stand it.

Nick’s expression crumples. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Gil manages. He takes a step backward. "Of course not. Absolutely not."

"Well, Jesus, you don’t visit for two weeks and now –"

"I wasn’t allowed to visit you," Gil snaps.

Clearly Nick has not known this. A quick flurry of expressions: surprise, suspicion, understanding. Shame. "Oh."

He watches Nick retreat to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. "Phillip thought it would be best if you had some time to settle in first. I came as soon as I could."

Nick nods slowly. "Okay."

Gil eases down to sit in the sole chair. "So how are you feeling? Better?"

"I guess."

"Nick –"

"I’m in a mental hospital," Nick says coldly. "How do you think I feel?"

Gil draws back.

"How’s Josh Keller?" Nick asks. His eyes are bright and filled with hate. "Is he in a hospital, too?"

He has never felt so cold. So frozen with shock and horror and acid guilt. Gil swallows. "Not to my knowledge. He’s fine, Nick. He’ll be able to testify."

"Well, good for him. Guess they don’t want me to, huh?"

"Don’t –"

"So why’d you come, Gil? To make sure you did okay by me? Make sure I’m not out there freaking out at something and embarrassing you?" Nick snorts and stands, pacing over to the window. "Don’t worry. I got three hots and a cot, man, and all the pills I can swallow. Shots, too, you know? So just put your mind at ease, and leave me alone. I’m just fine."

Standing too, Gil shakes his head. "Jesus, Nicky, I lo –"

"You love me?" Nick gapes at him. "You let him cut my goddamn FINGERS OFF!" He waves his reduced left hand, visibly trembling. "What kind of love is THAT?"

"Everything all right?" Kane asks from the doorway. He’s calm, and alert, and Gil is horribly glad to see him.

"Get out!" Nick shrieks, back plastered against the barred window. "Leave me the fuck alone! Take your duty and your – PITY – and fuck off!"

He’s frozen solid. He can only stand there, motionless, barely able to breathe, while Kane walks inside, imposes his bulk between them. "You should go, Gil," he says calmly. "I’ll talk to you later."

Nick claps his hands over his ears. "Stop! Shut up! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t."

"Can’t what, Nick?" Kane asks. Over his shoulder he says, "Go. Please."

"I can’t think when you say that," Nick says. Pleading, shaking his head. "Leave me alone."

Gil backs out of the room, feet dragging on the carpet until he’s in the hallway. A woman in bright scrubs brushes past him, and then Nick’s door closes.

~~~~~~~~~~

He waits in the lobby, still enclosed in that cold cocoon of silence, until Kane walks over. He sits with a sigh, and says, "I’m sorry about that."

Gil thinks he should hear ice cracking as he nods. "He’s worse."

"I think he may have been somewhat delusional even before he was hospitalized," Kane says gently. "Brief psychosis brought on by acute stress."

"Is he schizophrenic?" Gil asks hoarsely.

"No. But functionally, at the moment there isn’t a lot of difference." Kane sighs and crosses his legs. "As lopsided as it sounds, as much as Nick appears worse to you, he’s on the right track. He’s communicating in therapy, talking about issues, exploring them. He’s starting to respond to medication. Give him time, Gil. You don’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again overnight. It takes time, and work."

"He hates me. He blames me."

"I think you’re wrong. But tell me: Was it your fault? What happened to Nick?"

He gazes at him. His mouth is dry as chalk. "I don’t know anymore," Gil whispers. "I thought I did. But seeing him –" His throat closes up, and he shakes his head.

Kane leans forward. "Come back in a week. And Gil -- There is no shame in admitting you need some help, too. Nick’s in good hands. I think you should see someone. Talk about this. You carry your guilt around as if it’s a penance, something you owe Nick, for what he endured. But you suffered, too. It’s all right to admit that. In fact I don’t see how you can go forward without admitting it."

He nods and gets to his feet. "I’ll see you next week," he says, almost an aside.

"We’ll be here," Kane says softly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Pride, perhaps misplaced pride, keeps him from admitting to anyone else how he’s feeling. But it drags at him, the knowledge of Nick’s illness, his complicity in that. He isn’t sure whether to call it his own case of PTSD, or simple depression. He isn’t familiar with depression, has never to his knowledge suffered from it longer than it takes to reform his thought processes, jerk himself up by his bootstraps. But none of his usual methods do any good this time. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t comprehend why this feeling does not respond to logic or reason. He knows it wasn’t his fault. He knows there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent any of it from happening. So why can’t he go forward?

His second visit to see Nick is marginally better than the first, but doesn’t particularly reassure him. Kane says Nick’s current meds seem to help immensely with his stress-borne delusions, but Nick is distant, amorphous as fog, and Gil leaves wracked with uncertainty. Was Nick glad to see him? Did he simply hide his anger better? It isn’t clear.

He remembers meeting a psychologist in the course of an investigation a couple of years ago. A woman, Dr. Carol Tilson. She had struck him at the time as remarkably level-headed, and he makes an appointment for the following Tuesday.

Tilson’s office is comfortable, slightly cluttered and not at all stuffy or formal. Gil finds that oddly refreshing.

"So what brings you to see me, Gil?" Tilson asks quietly. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweater, her bare feet in Birkenstocks.

Gil studies his hands closely. "I made a choice, some time ago," he says evenly. "And my partner suffered for it. Suffered immeasurably."

"Did you make the right choice?"

He faces her, his hands lying limp on his lap. "That’s just it," he whispers. "I don’t know if I will ever know the answer to that."

She gives a slow nod. "Tell me what happened?"

"Nick – my partner and I were abducted. Kidnapped."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Go on?"

His eyes burn with sudden tears. "I don’t know if I can."

"Take all the time you need, Gil," she says gently. "That’s all you can do."

He nods jerkily. "All right."

~~~~~~~~~~

It takes all of his first hour to make himself tell the full story. By the end he’s soaked with sweat, exhausted, and feeling as if he’s had every inch of his skin scraped raw. He should feel better, shouldn’t he? Not worse.

Tilson suggests meeting twice a week to begin with, an arrangement Gil agrees to numbly, unsure if he can make himself come back at all. But on Thursday he’s there, and again the following Tuesday.

It’s almost a routine, really. He visits Nick twice a week, the maximum number he’s allowed, and arrives each time with things he hopes will make Nick’s stay easier, less like exile. Things from home that Nick might want, his binoculars for bird-watching, his iPod, books, magazines. He keeps Nick filled in on what’s going on at work, editing out the more gruesome cases.

The house is terribly empty. He avoids it as much as he can, going home only to sleep and shower and find something to wear back to the office.

It takes four weeks of therapy before he can admit that Jim Brass was right, that what Gil perceives as a choice on his part was in fact no choice at all. In Tilson’s cluttered office, he fights the urge to finally let go, fights and loses. He uses up a considerable portion of her big box of tissues, and lets himself feel the grief for the first time.

Not the last, as it happens. For a time it’s as if all he can feel is grief, overwhelming sadness at what has happened, what has become of Nick and of himself since that terrible night nearly four months ago. The season has changed in that time, winter creeping eagerly toward spring, things have changed.

His progress is faster than Nick’s. But without his own work in therapy, he isn’t sure he could stand the conversation he has with Phillip Kane, one balmy March morning.

"I’m sorry." Kane looks tired today, the bags under his eyes plump and shaded even darker than his normal skin tone. "I thought I could let him go home before now, Gil. I honestly did. But I can’t put it on a timeline. I wish I could."

"He seems so much better," Gil says thickly. "I thought -- I don’t know what I thought."

"He can improve, and he will. He’ll go home one day soon."

"But not yet."

Kane shakes his head. "No. Not today."

"When he does leave," Gil says carefully, "will he be well?"

"Aw, Gil. What’s wellness? Are you asking me if he’ll never be troubled again? I can’t answer that. Here, he’s protected. It’s safe, it’s secure, there are no threats. If the rest of the world were like this place, I’d send a nurse to get him to sign his discharge papers today." He heaves a deep sigh. "But I don’t have to tell you that the real world is nothing like this place. And Nick is simply not ready to face that. He doesn’t have the skills, the coping mechanisms in place."

"He has such – a kind soul," Gil whispers. "My biggest fear has always been that something would crush him. He’s so open. And now you’re telling me that –" He breaks off, swallowing.

"Look. I’m telling you that no one can say for sure where Nick will be six months from now, or a year. Best-case scenario? Not long from now, he walks out of here and life goes on. Maybe not exactly the way it was before, but close enough."

"And worst case?"

"I don’t know. Worst case, he has lingering problems."

Gil nods slowly. "I’d like to see him now."

"All right."

He finds Nick in the solarium, the field guide to Western birds Gil brought him a few weeks ago open on his lap. His binoculars sit on the floor next to his chair. He’s dozing.

"Hey," Gil says softly, pulling up a nearby chair. "Nicky?"

Nick blinks at him, squinting in the sunshine. "Hi," he murmurs. "Is it Friday already?"

Gil smiles and nods. "Time flies, doesn’t it?"

Nick’s eyes are still dilated, and he yawns. "How are you? How’s the lab?"

"Same as usual. Busy. I think the criminals like the weather, too."

"Let’s sit over there."

Nick leaves his book and binoculars where they are, taking Gil’s hand and leading him to a couch a few feet away. There, Nick leans against him, his heavy eyelids sagging.

"Did you bring me anything?"

Gil smiles, putting his arm around Nick’s shoulders, stroking his hair. "A few things. You want to see?"

"Nah. I’ll look at them later."

Cheek against Nick’s hair, Gil gazes out the broad expanse of window. It’s a beautiful day, the kind of day, a year ago, Nick would have filled with physical activity, gliding or bouldering or just hiking. Anything, as long as it was outdoors. Dragging Gil out for a bike ride, or heading out to the lake.

But Nick’s medications make him somnolent, and he sleeps much of every day. Gil is hoping that once he’s released the dosages can be reduced, but for the moment, Nick is pretty out of it a lot of the time.

What will it be like, when Nick comes home? Will he work again? The assumption has always been that he would, but Gil isn’t so sure any longer. Their profession is an unforgiving one. Even the strongest can have trouble dealing with the mayhem they see every day. And Nick is not strong. Will he be able to shoulder that burden again? Who can say?

"Cath sent you that candy," he says softly. "The kind you liked last time."

Nick stirs against him. "That I want to open now."

Gil looks at him and sees his grin, and has to grin, too.

~~~~~~~~~

"You can call me any time you feel like it," Tilson tells him. Her smile is warm, brightening her plain features. "I mean that."

"Thank you," Gil says. "I just may do that."

Her hand is cool and dry, fingers pressing his strongly. "Good luck, Gil. Enjoy the homecoming."

"We will."

His step is light, going out to his vehicle. The drive to Copper Springs seems to go by faster, or maybe he’s speeding a little more than he usually does. But today is a good day. Today is a day he’s been waiting for a very long time.

He parks near the main entrance, and smiles at a familiar nurse on the way inside. Bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs at a jog. He’s gotten back to a physical-fitness routine he’d left behind years ago, when work became so completely time-annihilating, and the stretch of his muscles feels good.

Nick’s door is open. Gil walks up and leans against the door jamb. "Hey," he says.

Nick looks up from his suitcase. "Hi. Man, I thought you’d never get here."

"What? I’m early." Gil gives a wounded glance at his watch. "Half an hour."

Nick smiles and goes back to zipping his case. "I already signed everything. Vamanos."

"Music to my ears."

There are numerous goodbyes, of course. Nick cannot spend fifteen minutes in a place without making a friend of some kind, and there are hugs, and smiles, and there is a lot of well-wishing. Phillip Kane isn’t there; they’ve covered that ground already. And finally they’re walking out the front door, and Nick’s slinging his bag into the back of the Tahoe and talking about going to Paco’s, maybe even that night, because he is by God going to have a decent burrito before the sun goes down or there will be hell to pay.

Gil just grins, wordlessly, and nods, and when they’re inside he leans over and kisses Nick’s mouth before turning the key in the ignition.

~~~~~~~~

 

END