Title: Union
By: violet_eyes
Summary: Nick wants something he thinks he'll never have.
Characters: Nick, Greg
Genres: angst, romance
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic rape

Do you know how often I watch you? I mean really watch you, when you don't even realize I'm doing it? You sit there in the lab working on something, and you've got those headphones on while you listen to Black Flag or whatever the hell that band's called - you're so focused that a bomb could go off next to you and you probably wouldn't notice...your head's lowered, and all I can do is stand in the doorway looking at the back of your neck, that spot just under your hair, and wonder what it would be like to kiss you there.

And I can't say anything, that's the part that really hurts. I watch you and I wonder and I'm too afraid to say anything to you, because you'd laugh your ass off - me, Nick Stokes, straightest of the straight arrows, coming on to you? I've hidden this for so long, you have to when you were raised the way I was raised, and then there's the other guys I've seen you with. Yeah, I've watched you then too, coming out of the clubs I'm always too afraid to go into, with some guy on your arm who's younger than me and knows how to give you what you need.

I wish I could too, Greg. You have no idea how much.

It's nearly midnight, the club isn't going to close for hours yet, but I don't need to stay any longer because I've found what I needed. Dan showed up an hour ago grinning from ear to ear 'cause his roommate's out of town for the weekend, and since I've got the next 36 hours off work I know what that means. Video games at three in the morning, junk food in bed - not Dan's bed, the queen size one in the other room, and I always wonder how his roommate hasn't managed to realize what we get up to when he goes away, because when we get down to what we really meet up for things can get - well, kinda out of control. Last time, the bed moved so much it knocked a big chip of paint out of the wall, and I can still remember how much we laughed while we were changing the sheets afterwards - Dan just shoved the bed right back against the wall again, and so far as I know Ed hasn't noticed anything yet -

"What are you smiling about?" he asks me, and when I tell him, "The last night I was over at your place," he gives me that grin that always manages to get me hard. "That was nothing," he says in my ear. "I've missed you, babe, you won't be able to walk when I get done with you tonight." He kisses me then, the kind of kiss that starts out slow and ends up taking all the breath out of me, and the fact that it's in public doesn't worry me the way it used to, 'cause I kinda like the idea that other people can see us - but then we pull apart so we can breathe, and I look over his shoulder -

Nick's about three yards away from us, sitting at the wheel of his truck waiting for the light to change, and the look on his face sends something straight up my spine. It can't be shock, 'cause he knows I'm into guys, everyone does; it's something else, it almost looks like he's hurt, but that can't be -

"Babe?" Dan says, and when I look at him he kisses me again. I lean into it, sliding one hand beneath his shirt and raking my nails up his back, and the sound of the truck speeding off as the light changes seems to be a lot further away than it really is.

That's another shift over. I'm so tired I can feel it in my bones, and even though I showered for what felt like hours I'm still sure I smell of that DB Warrick and I were working tonight - damn, where the hell were that guy's neighbors that they didn't realize they were sharing their apartment building with a dead man for five weeks?

And here's Greg coming after me now, that's all I need, jogging across the parking lot and calling my name - if there's one more thing I don't want to deal with tonight, it's this. I managed to avoid him while we were both in the lab, and that probably wasn't a good idea, because he'll know something's up - we're normally in each others' pockets, kidding around, but I couldn't do that this evening. All I could think about was what I saw on Friday night - the way he tilted his head to let that boy whisper in his ear, the way they kissed, and -

"Nick-" He's just a shade out of breath, and for the first time ever it hurts to have him standing this close. "What happened tonight, man, were you avoiding me?" he says, and I can't make myself look directly at him. "Listen, I know you saw me with Dan the other night, and-"

"Look, Greg, it's nothing to do with whatever floats your boat," I tell him, and it's all I can do to keep my voice even and smile while I'm speaking. "Tonight's been a bitch, okay? I'm tired and I stink and I just want to go home."

"We could go get breakfast," I hear him say. "If you want to talk-" and for a second or two I get the feeling he must see through the lie I just fed him; but then I tell myself that he can't be that smart, because I've been lying to my parents about who I really am for years and they've swallowed it. I've got a chance to tell him how I feel, to let out what I've been bottling up for longer than I want to think about, but I'm not going to take it - because if I accepted his invitation he'd be expecting me to bitch about work, he wouldn't be expecting this...

"I can hardly keep my eyes open to drive, man," I manage to say. "I'll take a rain check, okay?"

"Are we cool, then?"

"Yeah, we're cool," I reply, the smile on my face taking the last of my strength, and as I turn away and open the door of the truck I wonder whether he noticed that I didn't slap his shoulder the way I normally do. And I'm turning the key in the ignition, there's some Toby Keith song on the radio as I leave the parking lot, and the drive home's never seemed this long before.

AN: This segment contains an extract from 'Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince', which needless to say I don't own, along with any of the CSI people.

"Come on in," Catherine says, smiling as she sees the case of beer I'm holding. "Slaved over a hot stove for hours, didn't you?"

"Hey, it's a guy thing," I tell her, looking past her and seeing Grissom at one end of the couch with a drink in his hand. "Tell me he didn't bring chocolate covered grasshoppers again."

"I think they're ants this year," she replies with a chuckle, closing the door after me. "There's a cooler full of ice in the kitchen, put the beer in there-"

********************

She's got Christmas carols playing on the stereo, and they don't bother me the way they did at the mall this afternoon when I was finishing up my shopping. Yeah, I know, there's a week to go, I'll have to ship everything FedEx to make sure it gets there in time again - so much for the resolution I made at the beginning of the year to become more organized. I did get everything wrapped before I left the apartment, though, and that's why I'm late - well, everything except Dan's present, but since he picked it out himself the last time we were 'toy' shopping, I didn't see much point in wrapping it. I'm not sure when I'll get to give it to him, though, because he's gone to Maine for Christmas and he didn't say when he'd be back - he's gone with a guy he works with whose folks are big in publishing, I think it's one of about three vacation homes they've got.

"Are you gonna eat all the Life Savers?" I look round and see Lindsey standing next to my chair, and it's only then that I realize I've left a small heap of wrappers next to the bowl on the end table. "I helped mommy pick those for everybody."

"Lindsey, don't be rude," I hear Catherine say. "You're supposed to be in bed, baby, you want me to come read you some of your new book?"

"I want him to read to me."

"Nick, do you mind?" and I can see Catherine's trying to stop herself laughing. "I won't hold it against you if you say no, I just need to keep an eye on the ham."

"C'mon, Linds," Nick says, and I watch Catherine's daughter drag him from the room; someone taps me on the shoulder, and when I turn my head I see Grissom holding out a small dish.

"You'll set an example and try one of these, won't you, Greg?"

***********************

"Help yourselves, guys," Catherine says as she sets a huge ham in the center of a table that's already loaded down with food; the smell's making my mouth water, and it sure as hell beats the leftover takeout I'd have been eating if I was at home tonight. "Greg, will you go and rescue Nick so he can come and eat? He's been up there for half an hour."

I can hear Nick's voice as I walk along the landing, and I can recognize what he's reading, too, because I've got the book at home - not that anyone at work knows, though, I do have an image to maintain after all.

" "Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you," said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you, Potter?" "

I've never seen so much pink in a single room before, and Nick's sitting cross-legged next to the bed with the book open on his lap. Lindsey's nearly asleep, her eyes are half-shut, and the hand that's outside the Barbie comforter is twisting a lock of hair.

" "Yeah, I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out." And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back towards the house." Nick closes the book then, and I watch him set it down on the nightstand. "Okay, Linds, that's the end of the chapter."

"One more, Uncle Nick, please."

"You've had three already," Nick tells her with a smile, and he uncrosses his legs. As I watch from the doorway, he stands up and leans down over the bed; he pulls the comforter up to Lindsey's neck, and then his lips brush her forehead. "Sleep well, pumpkin," he says quietly; although I can barely hear his voice there's an edge to it that's never been there before, and for some reason it brings a lump to my throat. "Shall I close the door?"

"Yes please."

It's only when he's almost all the way across the room that Nick sees me there, and the look on his face changes - it's sheepish now, like I caught him doing something he shouldn't have been doing. "How long were you standing there?" he whispers as he steps out onto the landing and pulls the door shut behind him.

"Not long," I tell him. "Catherine sent me to rescue you, we're going to eat."

"She just wanted more and more of that damn book," he says with a smile. "I couldn't say no-" but by the time the two of us reach the bottom of the stairs he turns back into the Nick we all know at work. "I need a beer, my mouth's as dry as a bone-"

*************************

It's almost two in the morning, and although I know I should be asleep I can't close my eyes. It isn't the fact that Dan's in Maine with someone else - I've always known he's got other people, and I've hardly been exclusive to anyone myself if I'm honest, so I've got no reason to feel hurt.

I shouldn't feel lonely, not when I just spent four hours with a dozen people...not when there are guys I could call, even when it's this late...but although sex has always taken my mind off things before, I know it won't this time - don't ask me how, I just do.

And why can't I keep my mind off watching Nick with that little girl?

The door at the end of the hall's closed, which is never a good sign; I can hear raised voices through it even though I'm several yards away, and that's an even worse sign, especially since it's only Monday. By the end of a week, when we're all tired and need our down time, that's when tempers normally get frayed - anything that happens when people have just returned from a weekend off usually has repercussions, especially when one of the voices belongs to the boss. Griss normally never has to shout to get a point across, and just as I'm wondering who's on the receiving end the door to his office opens with such force that it bangs back against the wall; Greg storms out, slamming the door behind him, and he walks past me without even looking at me before I can ask him what happened. I watch him disappear into the lab, and then I walk towards the end of the hall and rap softly on the door before I open it.

"Anything I need to know?"

"He mixed up the samples on that rape case," Griss says, sounding tired already even though the shift's only an hour old. "I don't know where his head's at, Nick, he's a long way from going out in the field if he makes mistakes like that-" and he sighs wearily. "Whatever's the matter with him, I wish he'd deal with it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He's already got the headphones on when I walk into the lab, and when I tap him on the shoulder he jerks away before turning to look at me. "What?"

"Anything you want to talk to me about, man?"

"No," he says flatly, and his face belies the word. It's angry and frustrated and sad all at the same time, and I know instinctively it's not only because of the lecture he just got; I reach out to put a hand on his arm, and when he shakes his head something tears at my heart. "I'll deal with it myself."

"At least talk to me," I tell him. "We're supposed to be friends, aren't we? Maybe I can help."

"I doubt it, Nick," he almost spits out, taking a step back. "Dan told me he's moving down to Maine permanently, can you help with that?"

"I'm sorry," are the only words I can think of as my mind goes back three months to the night when I watched him kiss that boy on a street corner. "I didn't know the two of you were serious."

"We weren't," he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him. "It was just - oh, never mind, Nick, it's just something that floats my boat-" and there's a mocking tone to his voice now. "I bet you think this is funny, don't you?"

You have no idea what I think, I say to myself as I stand there at a loss for words and everything I've managed to bury comes to the surface again; the two of us may only be a foot apart, but I don't think I've ever felt so distant from anyone in my life. I'd like to put my arms round him and tell him it's going to be okay, that I'll makeit okay, because it hurts me to see him like this - but what I want to do and what I'm afraid to do are one and the same, and so when he says, "Get out of here, man, there's nothing you can do," I leave the lab before he can see the hurt in my eyes that matches his own.

Dan's back in town, but it's only so he can pack up the stuff in his apartment and leave for Maine tomorrow. He called and asked me to come over, and I hung up on him without even answering - and since I don't want to go into work tomorrow with a hangover, I went out to Chances instead.

It's been an age since I went there, because there's only one reason a guy goes to Chances - and that's if he's not in a relationship, or if he's in one and doesn't want to be. You don't go there looking for anything longer than a one night stand, and I've never really been a one night stand guy before; I might not be the happily ever after type either, but I've always managed to keep things among friends, if you know what I mean.

Not any longer, though. I'm not going to worry about staying friends with guys any more, because that only gets you hurt in the long run.

I don't know his name because I didn't ask him what it was, and I didn't tell him mine either. He had dark hair and he wore a red shirt, that's about all I can remember - because it's all I want to remember. I had an itch and I needed to scratch it, and that's all that mattered. Oh, I made him use a condom, and he wasn't happy about it but that's too bad - because I may be uncaring, I may have turned my head away when he tried to kiss me, but I'm not reckless.

And don't tell me to talk to someone about all this, either, 'cause I can't. My gay friends would accuse me of being a drama queen, and I'm not sure the straight ones wouldn't do that too. Nick asked me yesterday if I wanted to talk, but he's the least likely of anyone to understand - some day he'll find a woman he wants to date more than once, and he'll settle down with a wife and kids and all the other happy-ever-after shit I'm never going to have myself. I couldn't call him tonight even if I wanted to, because he's out with some reporter he met last time he had to give evidence on a case - he made sure to tell me all about her, too, and I'm still not sure why he did that.

I thought this would make me feel better somehow, take my mind off this thing with Dan and the ass-chewing I got from Grissom yesterday, but it hasn't worked - I still feel shitty, I'm still going home alone, and even though I showered for ever back at the motel I still don't feel clean.

I told Greg about where I was going tonight, and I suppose I did it because I was hoping he'd want to talk about what happened with Grissom yesterday and make me have to call Alison and reschedule; but he didn't say anything, he's still shutting himself off, and so here I am going through the motions again.

She's been writing for that newspaper for the last eight years, she's got a seven year old son, and she's working towards a black belt in karate; for the last ten minutes I've been telling her about my parents' ranch, and she's got this wistful look in her eyes because she used to ride horses while she was growing up in Montana. Dinner's finished, and we're sitting in leather armchairs near the bar having drinks - well, she's having brandy and I'm having coffee, because like the gentleman I am I'm driving her home, and I've got a pretty good idea how tonight's going to end.

I just wish it meant something to me, that's all.

Alison took out a picture of her boy a little while ago, and it made me think of something Catherine said to me after her Christmas party. "You're so good with kids, Nick, you ought to have some of your own." And she was right, I should - I've just been wondering if it's fair to hide what I really am in the process.

But I've decided it is, because I've never really acted on it, have I? I'm going to be thirty five soon, my dad was married with kids long before he was my age, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone. So I've made up my mind that if it isn't Alison it'll be someone else, I'll be a good husband and a good father - and if I'm only going through the motions the way I've always done with women, so what? Plenty of people go through life not getting what they really want, why should I be any different? Sure, it hurts now, but I can bet that changes after a while...

"Do you have to be up early tomorrow?"

"No," I tell her. "Day off, why?"

"Alex is at his dad's this week," she says, running a finger round the rim of her glass. "I don't usually do this, Nick, but I-" and I can tell she means it, because she isn't looking at me any longer, and even in the dim lighting of the room I can tell she's blushing. I've got an 'out' even now, I could tell her I respect her and I need more time, but I'm too tired of all this; it must be hard for her too, on her own with a kid, and if we each get something out of it...

"Finish your drink," I tell her, and I reach for her free hand to press my lips against it. "I'll take you home, and we'll see what happens."

*******************

We said goodnight I don't know how long ago, but I can't sleep - I can never settle in a strange bed, but it's not just that. She went to sleep with an arm round my waist, but I managed to lift it away without disturbing her; and now I'm lying with my back to her, staring into the darkness and wishing I felt better about all this. Oh, it wasn't the sex, there's never been any problem there - there's just no emotion in it, not the way I know there would be if...

I should tell Greg how I feel and put an end to this, but I've got too much to lose - and that's why I'm settling for something that isn't going to make me happy, because I don't want to be on my own any longer.

And besides, when she came she called me by someone else's name, so for now I guess we're even.

"Give me your keys, Greg," the bartender says over the Rammstein track that's playing out on the dancefloor. "I'm not letting you drive, man, you've had enough."

"You offering to take me home?" I shout back at him, and we both laugh, because he and I have flirted with each other on and off for months now but nothing's come of it yet. I've been here for most of the night, and I've lost count of how many tequila shots I've done; but I have a pretty good buzz going and I know he's probably right, getting behind the wheel of my car wouldn't be a good thing now.

The club's packed solid, and for now, at least, I'm not stressing about work; I've been kissing ass in a big way ever since I mixed up the samples on that rape case three months ago, I've worked so hard I've hardly seen daylight, and there's a point where you just have to cut loose. So I'm drunk and yeah, let's be honest about it, I haven't been with anybody in weeks now - if I could get laid tonight it would take the edge off, I could go back to work tomorrow and not have to think about the fact that outside the lab I'm spending more and more time on my own.

Nick and I hardly hang any more since he started getting serious with Alison, and I don't know why I miss that as much as I do - I've got other friends after all - I suppose it's because he knows what I go through every day at work and my other friends don't. It can't be because I'm jealous of what he's got going for him - I've pretty well got it figured out that all that happy families crap isn't for me anyway, because what's a gay lab rat got to offer anybody? So I'm just going to keep doing my job as well as I possibly can, and every so often there'll be nights like tonight when work isn't enough to keep me going and I'll come to a place like Underworld.

I wait until he emerges from behind the bar to collect glasses, and then I reach into my pocket for my keys; I dangle them in front of his face as he walks past me and he laughs and tries to grab them, but I pull them back just in time. "I'll hand these over on one condition, Rich," I tell him, and even though I try not to slur my words I know I'm not succeeding. "You drive me home, you stay the night."

"Now I know you've had enough," he says, but he's grinning as he takes hold of the neckline of my T shirt and pulls me towards him. He's kissing me seconds later, and when he sucks my lower lip into his mouth I can feel the stud in his tongue; all of a sudden I'm wondering what it would be like to feel that thing on me somewhere else, but before I can do anything he's pulled back again. "I'll go and speak to the boss, I think I feel a headache coming on," he tells me, plucking the keys from my hand, and he's still smiling. "Go to that place on the corner and get us both some coffee, I want you to sober up a bit so you don't just lie there - I'll meet you in the parking lot, you know which car's mine." He slaps my ass as I walk away, and there's a smile on my face too as the thought crosses my mind that just lying there might not be a bad thing after the week I've had; I skirt the dance floor, and a little while later I'm outside with a steel door between me and the godawful techno track the DJ just put on.

**************************

I know I'd fail a sobriety test because I've bumped into at least four cars while I've been walking across the parking lot, and it's a good thing these cups have lids on them, otherwise I'm sure I'd have spilled most of the coffee by now. Oh, finally, there's his car, the red Honda with the KMFDM sticker on the back bumper. He's parked it right near the back of the lot, and as I lean against the car and set the cups on the roof I'm grinning - I've drunk enough to be reckless and blow him in the front seat, nobody would see us all the way back here...

I take my cup off the roof of the car, and I'm drinking from it when someone grabs me from behind. The coffee goes everywhere and I laugh because I think it's Rich, and then when I turn round I see it isn't - I don't know who this guy is, I pull away from him and that's when the punch comes out of nowhere into my right eye and makes me see stars. I'm sobering up real quick now, at least my mind is, but my body won't co-operate, because when I try to run my legs kind of slip sideways; before I can do anything he's gotten hold of me again and shoved me against the side of the car, and when he leans forward against my back and squeezes the breath out of me I can smell cheap aftershave and Southern Comfort.

"I've got twenty bucks in my wallet, man, just take it and go."

"Shut up, pretty boy," he says, and I know right there this isn't about money. I know what he's after because when he shoves his hips against my ass I can feel he's already hard - all of a sudden I'm thinking of all the cases we've worked on where women have been raped, beaten, killed and left in a motel room or buried out in the desert somewhere, and that's not gonna happen to me, so I bring my elbow back to try and get him off me and his arm's round my neck in a second. He's got to be about my height but he's so much stronger, his grip's tightening on my neck and I can hardly breathe, but I manage to get out a handful of words because this can't be happening to me, it can't -

"Someone's gonna be out here - " Rich, where the hell are you...

"Keep quiet, pretty boy, or I'll break your neck," he says, and I think about how far from the club this side of the lot really is. He's dragging me round the other side of the car now, through the broken part of the fence to the dirt lot that used to be a gas station till it blew up last year, Warrick and Nick worked that case - and if only I hadn't drunk so much tonight I could fight him off, but every time I struggle his arm gets tighter round my throat, and I'm damn near passed out by the time he throws me face down on the ground. He's on top of me before I can do anything, pinning me down with a hand in the middle of my back while he yanks my jeans down, then I feel my boxers ripped and there's cold air on my ass -I've never been so scared in my life, I'll beg if that's what he wants, but I can't do more than get my head up and say, "Please," before he grabs my hair and smashes my face down onto the ground again and I feel something crunch before my mouth fills with blood.

Rich, where are you, help me, please -

- I'm trying to scream, but he's got my head pressed down and my mouth's full of dirt and blood - it's all I can do to breathe, he's saying something but I don't know what it is because his voice is getting further and further away...I'm trying to stay conscious but I'm in so much pain, he's forcing himself so deep inside me it feels like I'm being torn apart, and the last thing I think of before everything in my head goes dark is that I don't want my family to see me like this.

**********************************

"Sir? Sir, can you tell us your name?"

"I've found an ID, his name's Greg Sanders."

There's light are shining in my face and it's too bright, I want to tell someone to turn it off, but I can't make my lips move; it's hard to breathe, too, it's like my nose is blocked, and when I try to open my mouth my tongue touches something jagged inside my bottom lip.

Somebody's putting their hands underneath me, they're lifting me up, and I don't want them touching me but I can't say anything to make them stop. I can feel something on my face as they put me on the stretcher, I don't know whether it's blood or tears and I don't care any longer; the stretcher bumps against something when they lift it into the ambulance and I hear this noise, it's like a scream, but it can't be coming from me because I don't feel pain - I remember mom telling me how I fell out of a tree when I was six and broke my arm in two places, and all I wanted in the ambulance was ice cream and potato chips.

I can hear a siren, but it sounds a long way off, and the ambulance is beginning to move. There's a guy sitting next to me telling me I can have something for the pain, someone's asking me if I can tell him who did this - I don't want to answer him, I just want this to go away, because it all hurts so much and I'm so tired, and the last thing I remember as I close my eyes is somebody saying, "E.T.A ten minutes."

"Nick? Are you awake again?" she asks, and she sounds as though she's speaking through a blanket. "It's four thirty-"

"It's okay, go back to sleep."

"Are you worried about tomorrow? You don't need to be," she tells me, and she puts an arm round me from behind - and we've been seeing each other for long enough that I'm able to let it stay there, even though it doesn't feel any more comfortable now than the first time it happened. "I know you guys are going to like each other."

It's been three months now, and I'm at her place most of my nights off; I've been to dinner with some of the people she works with, and when Alex is staying with his father she'll meet me at the end of my shift and buy me breakfast, even though she's so tired she can hardly keep her eyes open.

Tomorrow I finally get to meet her son, and I know that's when I won't be able to make all of this stop. She's held off on it for a long time, and I can understand why - she wants to be sure I'm not going to disappear on her before she makes Alex part of the equation, because he's only seven and he doesn't need his world turned upside down by one new daddy after another - but that's what's keeping me awake now.

Is it fair? I don't mean fair to them, because neither of them would ever have to know. I do all the right things now, and I'm going to keep doing them - if she decided she wanted the two of them to be part of my life, I'd look after them and protect them the way my dad's always done with all of us. The only difference is I wouldn't feel the way I know dad feels inside, I'd always be wondering what would have happened if, and I don't know whether it's fair to do that to myself.

And I've got less than a day left to make up my mind.

***************************

She's pressed against my side when I wake up, her deep blue eyes studying my face, and as I blink to clear the fog in my head I see her smiling. "You're so cute when you've just woken up, Nick," she says, and she leans up to let her lips touch mine. I'm tired, I've barely slept all night, and this is the last thing I want right now, but I need to keep doing the right thing - so I put a hand each side of her face, I bring her closer, and that's when the phone rings.

She groans against my mouth, but she pulls away because she doesn't dare not answer - it could be work, but it's more likely to be her ex husband with one of his excuses about why he'll be late bringing Alex back. There've been so many times during the past three months when she's cried after a call from him on a Sunday morning, and I've had to hold her for as long as I could before I had to leave so that Alex wouldn't see me when he finally made it home.

"H'lo? Andy?" I hear her say into the phone as she sits up in bed. "This had better not - oh, I'm sorry. Yes, he is, hold on one second, please. You gave your boss my number?" she whispers, shaking her head as she tries not to smile, and she passes me the phone.

"Griss?" I say, and I lie back against the pillows. "You know I'm not due in till tonight, man, it's Sunday morning and I'm-"

"Nick, stop," he tells me, and the tone of his voice sends a chill down my spine. "There's a problem."

****************************

Oh, Greg.

His nose is broken, and one of his eyes is so swollen that even when he wakes up from whatever drugs they've given him I doubt he'll be able to open it; they've had to stitch the middle of his lower lip, and there's a gauze pad taped across his forehead - I don't know what's underneath it but I can see dried blood in his hairline, and I want to get something to clean it off but I'm too scared to touch him - even though I've never wanted to do it so much in my life.

There's more, too, even though he hasn't said a word to anybody since he was found. It's not just because of what the doctor told me, I know it because I'm looking at the way he's lying in that bed - curled up on his side, like he's trying to hide from something - and I'm seeing myself when I was so much younger.

I'm not thinking about what it would be like to kiss that spot at the back of his neck, I'm not thinking about all the times I've watched him with those other men and wished it was me - this is different, it's wanting to take this pain away from him and kill whoever did this to him. I don't know if I could make this all right, even if he'd let me try, and it hurts so much more than wanting him ever has. Warrick said that when he was sitting here earlier Greg woke up, but as soon as he saw Warrick he closed his eyes again; he hasn't moved in the hour and a half that I've been watching him now, and I wish he would wake up so that I can try to let him know he isn't alone.

I put my head down in my hands because it's too painful to look at him any longer, and then I hear my cell; I must have forgotten to switch it off, it shouldn't be on in here, and so I jam my hand into my pocket and manage to shut it off half way through the second ring. I keep my face covered, knowing that at any moment a nurse or doctor will come in and rescue me by saying I need to leave and let Greg rest...

The bed creaks, and when I lift my head he's looking at me - just like I thought, he can only open his left eye, and he's so pale. I don't remember ever wanting to cry more than I do right now, but I know I have to hold it in for his sake, so I swallow around the lump in my throat and I lean forward while I try to smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hurts," he says, and even one word seems to tire him out, because he closes his eye again and his head falls back against the pillows.

"Can I get you anything, man?"

"Thirsty," he replies, and I look towards the doorway. There's a nurse walking past, and when I call out to her she comes into the room with one of those fixed smiles they must teach them in college.

"Ma'am, can he have something to drink?"

"I'll get some ice water, sir." She leaves the room, and while I'm waiting for her to come back I sit and watch Greg. He's lying with his face turned up to the ceiling and his eyes are closed, but I know he isn't asleep; he's shivering, and whenever he breathes in it sounds like he's trying to do it as quietly as he can - as though this will all go away if we think he's asleep, because he won't have to talk about it then.

And I know how that feels - I've known for just about as long as Greg's drawn breath.

"Here we are, sir," the nurse says, and she's still got that almost-too-bright smile on her face as she sets a pitcher and a glass with a straw in it on the table next to the bed. "Can I get you anything else, Mr. Sanders?"

"My mouth hurts."

"I'll speak to the doctor about getting you something," she says, not reacting to the fact that Greg didn't open his eyes when he spoke. "I'll be right back," and she takes the chart from the end of the bed before she leaves the room.

"She's gone now," I say quietly, and I hear the bed creak again as I turn to reach for the pitcher; I half-fill the glass, hoping Greg won't see that my hands are shaking, and then I put the straw in it. "Here-" I angle myself towards him, reaching out with my free hand, but he flinches before I've even touched him. "Greg, it's okay, it's me."

"Don't touch me," he mumbles, and now his mouth opens enough for me to see that two of his bottom teeth have been broken off at the gumline; I think of his smile, the one that I haven't been able to get out of my head for years, and seeing him like this pulls at something inside me. I tilt the glass across the bed, and I watch as he shifts just enough to get the straw between his lips and drink - and I can tell it hurts him to do it, too, because after a few swallows he lets his head rest against the pillows again and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. I set the glass back on the table and then turn to face the bed again, and I know what I'm going to try to do now will be difficult - but if we're going to catch whoever did this I've got to at least try. They're working on the samples they collected in the rape kit, but we all know that this guy might not have a record, and that means the only way we'd be able to find him is if Greg talks to someone.

"Listen, man," I say, and I'm praying I can keep my voice under control, "there's a cop outside, he'd like to talk to you..."

"No," Greg tells me, and I have to lean close in order to hear him. "No cops, no questions, no nothing." He coughs, and the groan that follows it tells me that even this is causing him pain. "I wanna go home."

"No, man, you can't, not yet," I reply. "You were unconscious when they found you, they need to keep you here in case you have concussion-" and this is too hard, I have to stop for a few moments before I can go on. "Look, we need to find whoever did this to you."

"No," he says. "I can't."

"Greg..."

"I can't," he repeats, and he won't look at me now; he brings his right arm out from under the covers and puts his hand over his face, and when he does this I can see a huge bruise on his inner forearm. When he speaks again his voice is almost breaking, and I have to close my eyes briefly to hold it together. "If you find him it won't matter what I say, 'cause he'll tell the cops I consented and someone else came along and kicked the crap out of me afterwards - you don't understand how it is, Nick, none of you do, or you wouldn't make me talk about it-" and he doesn't say anything else. He keeps his hand over his face, but I can hear him whimpering softly beneath his fingers - I don't know whether it's pain or emotion, but it's tearing me up, and I know there's only one thing I can do now.

"You don't think anyone's going to believe you," I tell him, and I look at a spot on the wall while I'm speaking. "You think they're all going to say you asked for it, because you must have done something wrong even though you know you didn't want it to happen - and you tell yourself that if you keep quiet about it it's all going to go away." I keep going although he doesn't say anything, because he needs to hear it and realise he isn't to blame for any of this - and he needs to let it all out the way I was never able to, because I don't want him carrying this the rest of his life the way I've done.

"It happened when I was nine, Greg, it was a babysitter we'd never used before, and she came into my room when the others were asleep-" and I tell the story for only the second time in my life - how I didn't understand what was happening, how I sat in the dark waiting for my folks to get home and replaying over and over in my mind the whispered command to say nothing because nobody would ever believe me. I tell him how it's eaten me up for almost thirty years, left me unable to work cases where a child's been harmed by someone they should have been able to trust; and I tell him that if I could go back in time and do things differently I would have told somebody about it then, because there were enough people who cared about me and would have helped me, and nobody should carry something like this the whole of his adult life.

"Please, man, let me help you," I say eventually, and then it's done. I lower my head and clasp my hands between my knees, feeling hollow and drained and powerless to know what else I can do; for a long while I'm too afraid to look at him, and when I do I feel like my heart's going to stop. He's staring straight at me, the black eye and the stitches such a contrast against that terribly pale skin; the one eye he can open is swimming with tears, and as I look at him they begin to spill down his face.

I don't know how to hold him without hurting him, so I lean forward across the bed and wait for him to do what he needs to do; it's only seconds before an arm's wrapped tightly enough around my neck to nearly choke me, and a face presses against the hollow of my throat. There's a cry, muffled against my neck, that chills me to the bone, and then tears begin to wet my shirt collar; he clings to me and sobs steadily, and when I place an arm round him he doesn't fight me off. "Let it go," I say into his hair, "I've got you" - and whatever happens now, I'm not leaving him.

Sara must have been here while I was asleep, because there's a plant on the table next to the bed; I managed to stay awake while everyone else was here, even though the pain meds they've got me on kinda make me drift in and out - and I can't remember much of what they said, but I can remember how they all looked.

I know they care, but they don't understand. It's not like they didn't know I was gay before this happened, but they don't have any idea what to say to me now because they haven't been where I've been; they don't know what it's like to think you're going to die and then wish you had because someone violated you and you don't know how you're ever going to shake the memory. My mouth and my nose hurt as bad as they did last night, and I know I could ask for some more Darvocet but I don't want to - because then I'll go to sleep, and I'll be back in that lot with that man choking the life out of me again.

Only one person understands, and he's not here.

I thought about what he said, how he held in what happened to him and it's eaten him up for years, and so I talked to the detective an hour ago and tried to tell him as much as I could remember about what happened. He looked as though he wanted to be somewhere else the whole time, he tried to make Nick leave the room, and he sat there with his notebook and pen acting like I deserved it -

How much did you have to drink at Underworld, Mr. Sanders?

Were you meeting a boyfriend there?

Had you taken any drugs?

Is there a chance someone you know could have done this?

He kept on at me like that, he wouldn't believe I couldn't remember very much, and Nick started pacing the room faster and faster - he was all tensed up, too, I don't know how he managed not to say anything -then something jumped into my head, it was like I was back there and I could feel the guy inside me again, so I started screaming and that's when Nick snapped. He came back over to the bed and told the detective he'd better get out, or he'd be giving his badge number to Jim Brass - and I guess it all got to be too much for me then because I threw up, and that brought a nurse in who told Nick he was going to have to leave.

"No, ma'am, I'm staying here."

He told her to get me something else to put on and he'd clean me up himself, and that's what he did, even though I'd messed him up too because he'd been sitting right next to me on the bed and he couldn't move away in time. I felt so ashamed, but he didn't seem to care; he put a clean gown on me and washed my face, and he kept talking to me the whole time - and I can't remember what he said, but I know it made me feel better.

Where is he? He said he was going to change clothes and he'd be back as soon as he could, and I don't know how long he's been gone because I'm not really sure of anything; I know he can't stay here for ever, he's got his shift, and sooner or later Alison's going to wonder where he is, but I wish he was here now.

I turn on my side and look out of the window - it's pitch black outside now, it must be late and I don't know if they'll even let him back in - and then I hear the door open behind me. I don't turn round, I just lie still listening to the footsteps; they move around the end of the bed towards me and it's Nick, he's carrying a bag with his clothes in and he's wearing green scrubs, and when I try to smile my mouth hurts too much so I stop.

"I didn't mean to be so long," he tells me, bringing his free hand up to show a cup bearing the logo of the fast food place across the road from the hospital. "I got this milkshake, I thought you might - hey, no," he says when I cover my face because I can feel tears in my eyes. "Come on-" and when he pulls at my wrist I don't have the strength to resist. "What is it?" he asks, crouched down at the side of the bed so our faces are level. "Your mouth hurting again? Talk to me."

"I don't want to take anything," I say, wishing my voice wasn't shaking, because I hate him seeing me like this. "It makes me tired, and every time I close my eyes I see it again, Nick-"

"Greg..."

"What if I caught something, Nick?" and even though I try to hold them back the tears slip out past my closed eyelids. "What if this ends up killing me, how do I get past it-?"

"Hey," he says gently. "Greg, look at me," and when I open my eyes he's looking right at me. "We'll get past it, okay? Now you buzz the nurse and get her to give you something, because I'm not leaving."

***************************

"Enough?" he asks, and when I nod he pulls the straw out of my mouth and sets the cup back on the table. "Want me to turn the light off?"

"Yeah," I tell him, and my voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. The Darvocet they gave me has started to kick in, especially since that milkshake's the only thing I've had in the twenty-four hours since I left my apartment last night, and my entire body feels like it's going numb. "Nick?"

"What, man?"

"Thank you."

"What for?" he replies, and by the time he leans over the bed to pull up the covers I'm halfway towards sleep - and I'm not thinking about why he isn't on his shift or why he's not with his woman, I'm just glad he's here.

*****************************

It's still dark when I wake screaming from a dream where I'm face down on the ground with my mouth full of blood, and his arms are round me as I struggle to return to the present. "Greg, it's me, you're okay," he says, and one of his hands runs over my head repeatedly; he tries to lower me back into bed but I hang onto him, I don't want him to let me go back there again, so he leans across the bed and keeps holding me, and as I drift back into sleep I feel a kiss on the back of my head...

...or maybe I dreamed that too.

There's a rap on the half-open door, and I look up expecting a doctor or one of the nurses - but it's Griss, with Warrick standing just behind him, and I can't quite read their faces. I straighten up slowly, removing Greg's arm from round my neck, and he moans thickly in his sleep - and I don't care who's watching us as I pass my hand over his head repeatedly until he settles, and then I pull the covers up around him before I get out of the chair.

I glance at the clock on the wall as I cross the room - it's nearly eight in the morning - and I rub my eyes to try and wake myself up; I get to the door half-expecting Warrick to make some smartass remark about my scrubs, and the fact that he doesn't tells me something's up.

"You been here all night, Nick?" Griss asks, and when I nod he continues,"How is he?"

"He's having nightmares," I tell him, reflecting that this handful of words doesn't cover the fractured sleep I've had over the past six hours, and I dart a glance back towards the bed where Greg hasn't moved. "What's going on?"

"No news from the sample you brought in last night," Griss says, and my mind goes back to the previous evening when I scraped vomit from my shirt and brought it to the lab - hating to be away from Greg for that long, but knowing it was necessary at the same time. "No trace of any drugs in that, legal or illegal - as for his blood alcohol level, well - he was right to say he shouldn't have been driving, he was almost twice the legal limit." He stops talking then, and when I look at his face my spine crawls with apprehension. "Nick, we got a hit from CODIS on the rectal swab in the rape kit."

"What if I caught something, Nick? What if this ends up killing me?"

"LVPD picked the guy up two hours ago," Warrick chimes in, and his face is tight; I've seen this look before, when his friend's daughter was shot, and I know whatever he's going to say now won't be good. "His DNA was on file from a burglary where he cut himself on a broken window, he's got a sheet a mile long but nothing sex related before this."

"That's not all, is it?" I say. "I can tell by your faces - he's not claiming consent, is he, because-"

"Not exactly," Griss tells me, and we all joke about him never sleeping, but now he looks as though he really hasn't in days. "Somebody told him Greg was out there."

*************************

He's got shoulder length hair that isn't tied back, so I can't see his face; his arms are folded, he's leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed, and the way he's carrying himself says that he knows he's going to get away with this. There's some guy sitting next to him in a suit that's expensive enough to tell me there's money involved somewhere here - from the hair and the tattoos and the clothes I don't think it's his, but I'd lay odds this guy's parents have washed their hands of him a long time ago and money gets thrown at the problem to keep mommy and daddy from being embarrassed at the country club.

"No, man, I'm telling you, I didn't rape him," he says on the other side of the two way window. "He wanted it, Rich told me he was so wasted he wouldn't mind which one of us got there first."

"I'm advising my client not to say anything further," the suit says, and although the room's not that well lit it's bright enough for me to see the detective's face turning a slightly darker shade of red. "If this is all the evidence you've got, I'm expecting you to release him."

"What about Mr. Sanders' injuries? He's in Desert Palms with a broken nose and stitches in his face, are you telling me he asked for that?"

"Hey, maybe the little fairy liked it rough," is the answer, and I don't hear anything else he says, because something's roaring in my head and making me run for the door so I can make this guy hurt even half as much as Greg's hurting -

"Nick! NICK!" and Griss has me by the shoulders, pushing me against the door as I struggle to get away from him. "Deep breath, Nick, now."

************************

"How long's it been going on, Nick?"

"What?"

"You and Greg," Griss tells me, and the fact that he's even saying it at all freezes my breath in my throat. "How long?"

"It hasn't," I manage to say, and I look down at the floor, hoping he won't see what's on my face and in my eyes - but I know how well he reads people, he does it for a living, so I know whatever I do won't work. "How did you even-?"

"The way you reacted just now," he says. "Even though you didn't say anything, I could see it. Nobody gets that angry unless-"

"There is no me and Greg," I reply eventually, and there's some part of me thinking that this is the last place I'd ever have thought I'd be letting this out. "I don't think there ever can be now, do you? He's been hurt so badly he's never going to trust anyone again, not that way, but I-" I break off, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, and I take a deep breath to try and steady my voice before I go on. "I'll do whatever he lets me do to help him, and that's going to be enough."

"Is it?" Damn his analytical mind, he gets right to the point, doesn't he?

"No," I say, "but it's going to have to be, Griss."

"You never answered my question, Nick - how long?"

"The first day he walked into the lab," I tell him, and I ought to be relieved I'm finally talking to someone about this, so why am I close to tears again? "I've never had a problem dating women, I - it just didn't feel right, but you don't act on something like that when you grew up where I did and with the family I was raised in. You just do what everyone expects you to do and you hold in what you're really feeling and you keep hoping it'll get easier, but it never does - and then all this happened and I couldn't just leave him alone with it, could I? Even if he never knows what I really feel, I can't let him get through this alone." I look up at him then, expecting that calculating stare of his that he uses when he talks to suspects, but it's not there. "I'm sorry, Griss, you probably think this is all pretty stupid coming from me."

"No, I don't, Nick," he says quietly, and just for a second there's something on his face that says he's felt this pain at some point too; then before I can even wonder about it it's gone again, and he looks me straight in the eyes as he continues. "Can you talk about it?"

"I ought to get back to him," I say. "I told him I wasn't going to leave him."

"Warrick's with him," he reminds me quietly. "You need to try and eat something and calm down, Nick, or you won't be able to help him." God bless him for this, he isn't judging me or acting shocked at what he's just found out, there's this calm kind of acceptance on his face, and it makes me take a deep breath and unclench my hands before I speak again.

"Did they take a blood sample from that guy, Griss?"

"He wouldn't volunteer one, Brass is getting a warrant," he says, knowing why I'm asking the question, and I can just picture how Jim Brass must be feeling about all this right now. "LVPD are out looking for the bartender now, he wasn't at the address the club manager gave them."

"They'll have to talk to Greg again, won't they?"

"It won't be the same detective," Griss tells me, and there's a grim smile on his lips. "He asked to be taken off the investigation before they could do it for him, they're getting hold of Sonia Barros - you know her, don't you?" and I nod, remembering a tiny Hispanic woman I've run across more than once when we've been working investigations. "Nick, I want you to go and eat something," he continues, "and then I'll take you back there."

************************

The bagel I only managed to eat half of is sitting in my stomach and trying to come up again as I sit in the chair on one side of Greg's bed and Sonia sits opposite me. Greg's sitting up now, he looks a bit more alert at least, but he hasn't touched the Jello that was all the nurse could come up with for someone with broken teeth; we've told him what we found out while he was asleep, and while it made him turn even paler - something I wouldn't have thought was even possible - he didn't cry, and I think he's at a point right now where he feels he can't.

"Think you can talk about it now, Greg?" Sonia asks, and he nods. "Okay, you tell me what happened at Underworld, and if I need to ask you anything I will." She flicks a glance at me then, one that says I should leave now if I don't think I can deal with what I'm likely to hear - and that's when I feel a hand on my wrist. I turn my hand palm upwards, feeling Greg's fingers curl tightly round mine just out of the detective's field of vision, and he begins to speak.

"I - uh - I got there about nine thirty, it was my night off, and there were quite a few people there by then-"

"Were you meeting anybody there?"

"No," he tells her softly. "I - it was a rough week at work, you know? I just wanted to get away from it all." There's a brief silence, and then he sucks in a shallow breath. "I guess I drank a lot, tequila shots mostly, and then when I went to the bar for another drink Rich said give me - uh - he said give me your keys, man, you've had enough." I can feel him trembling, he must be seeing it all more clearly now the pain meds and the initial shock have worn off; and I know I've got to sit here and listen and say nothing while he lets this out, and I never imagined it would hurt me this much. "So I said are you offering to take me home, 'cause we'd kind of flirted with each other before, you know? And he came out from behind the bar and I said if you drive me home you have to stay the night - so he, um, he kissed me and he said - he told me to go get us some coffee and he'd meet me out by his car, and that's when-" His voice has been getting higher-pitched, and now he stops abruptly; there's another rush of breath and then he continues, but he's speaking so quietly I can hardly hear him, as though if he doesn't say it loudly it won't have really happened. "He grabbed me from behind, I thought it was Rich at first, and then when I turned round and saw it wasn't I tried to make him let go of me - that's when he hit me the first time, and I tried to run away, only I couldn't, and he grabbed hold of me again-"

"Can you remember whether he said anything to you, Greg?"

"I - uh - I said he should take my money and go, and he s-said…he told me to shut up, he called me-" He stops again, and now he's holding my hand so tightly I can feel the bones in my fingers grinding together - and I focus on that, but even though I try to block out what comes next I still hear it. "He was choking me and saying shut up, pretty boy, or I'll break your neck, and he got me through the fence into the lot next to the club and threw me on the ground - I tried to get my head up and tell him not to do it, but he grabbed my hair and smashed my face down on the ground and I thought he was going to kill me-" He sucks in another breath that sounds almost like a sob, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment or two. "I could feel him inside me, it hurt me 'cause I didn't want him to do it, and I - um - I don't remember anything after that till the paramedics got there, I guess I blacked out." His other hand comes up to his face, and he rubs his eyes with his knuckles just like a little kid. "What's gonna happen? I ought to know, I work around all this stuff, I just don't remember now…"

"Well, there's going to be a preliminary hearing as soon as you're able to leave the hospital - have they given you any idea when that's going to be?" she asks, but he shakes his head. "Well, I'll speak to the doctor about that," she tells him. "We'll be charging the man who attacked you, and there may be charges filed against Mr. Clarke as well once we've caught up with him."

"Am I gonna have to take a polygraph?" he asks then, and he sounds exhausted. "I'm not lying about any of this, I swear-" and my throat tightens as I wonder which one of us he feels he's got to convince about this; then Sonia reaches out and lays a hand on his arm, and she manages to smile even though there's the same look in her eyes there was in Griss's a little while ago.

"You need to concentrate on getting well again, Greg," she says quietly. "You know you're telling the truth, and people who care about you will know as well - they might not know what to say to you right now, but that's only because they don't understand what's happened. I'm going to leave you my cell number, okay?" she goes on, and she pulls a slip of card from her pocket. "If you think of anything else, you call me, and I'll let you know when there's any more news about your case."

"Thank you," Greg manages to whisper, and he lets his head fall back against the pillows; the detective rises to her feet, slipping her notebook away, and I catch a glimpse of Griss and Catherine waiting outside the room. Greg must have seen them too, because he tugs at my hand and murmurs, "I don't want to see them now, Nick, please."

"You don't have to, man."

"I'm a case now, did you hear her?" he says, and there's a long sigh. "Why did he do it, Nick?"

"I don't know," I say helplessly. "You know there's no reason for people to do some of the sick things we see them do-"

"I feel so fucking dirty, man," he says, and he begins to cry again. "I'm sorry, Nick, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't say that, not to me," I tell him, and as he closes his eyes I reach for a Kleenex and dab at his face. "I know you didn't want this, I'd kill him if I thought I'd get away with it," and I think of what happened during the night - when he woke from a dream and I held him until he calmed down again, how I kissed the back of his head as he slept and how it just felt so right.

He might not be ready to know how I really feel now, but there'll be a time when I tell him, because I can't put these feelings away again.

The dentist's name's Sharon, and when she asked me what happened I told her I'd been mugged leaving work - I've decided that's the line everyone's going to be given - and while she was putting her gloves on she said something about people not being safe anywhere now. I saw her coming at my mouth with a hypodermic, and she must have seen how I was clenching my fists even at that stage, because she stepped back and said I should take a deep breath or two and tell her when I was ready. "Is that an iPod you've got in your jacket?" she asked. "It helps some people if they listen to music, and this is going to take a while-"

I'm lying here listening to the stuff I usually listen to when I'm in the lab - damn, it seems like I've been away from there for years instead of only three days - and my whole face is numb, but I can feel her tugging at what's left of those two teeth. I could almost fall asleep, ‘cause God knows I've barely managed to lately; but there's too much going through my mind, so I stare up at the ceiling and try to figure everything out.

I had to give Nick the keys to my apartment so he could get me some clothes to wear when I left the hospital - the ones I was wearing went into evidence in a big brown envelope, and even if they hadn't I don't think I could ever have put them on again. He came back with a pair of Levis and a button down shirt I haven't worn in ages, and when I asked him where the hell he'd managed to dig it out from he said he figured I wouldn't want to have to pull anything over my head. Then I suddenly remembered my car, and I panicked because I thought they must have towed it, but he told me not to worry; he said Warrick found the spare set of keys I always leave at the lab in case I lose my own, and the car's in the lot at work now. That made me cry, everything seems to now, and that's what I hate most about what this has done to me - but all Nick did was put his hand on my shoulder and say, "Just breathe, man, it's okay," and after a few minutes I could hold it together again.

They told him I was going to be here for four hours, and I said he'd better not wait for me that whole time. I want him to go home, eat something, catch up with everything he must have missed; he's put his life on hold to stay with me, and I feel bad about that even though it's the only thing that's kept me sane. He hasn't been in exactly the same place I have, but he's been close enough to it to know how I'm feeling - and I know he won't be able to stay with me like this for ever, but I'm trying not to think about that right now.

I'm trying not to think about the fact that the guy who attacked me was released on bail this morning, either - I know what his name is now, but if I even think about it I feel like I'm gonna throw up. He's been told not to come near me, but that doesn't really buy me much time - the preliminary hearing's tomorrow, and I know I'm going to have to look at him then. When the cops finally caught up with Rich he went for one of them, and I guess they figured that was enough to hold him in custody - and I ought to be glad about that, but I'm not, because I still want to know why he did it.

There really aren't that many people I feel I can trust any more, if I'm honest about it.

************************

Nick's sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine when I come out of the surgery, but I can tell he left while I was in there because he's wearing a different shirt and he's shaved; he gets up as soon as he sees me, and something on his face makes me want to cry again, but I swallow it and look past his shoulder.

"Well, he's all done for now," I hear Sharon say behind me. "I've written a prescription for antibiotics in case of any infection, and Tylenol 3 ought to take care of the pain - now you call me if you have any problems, Greg, okay? There's going to be some swelling, but I want to hear from you if it's still a problem after two or three days."

"Thank you," I try to say, but my mouth's still numb and it won't co-operate; she smiles anyway and tells me I'm welcome, and then Nick's got his hand under my elbow and we're heading outside.

*****************************

"There's a Walgreen's on the next block," he says as I'm fastening my seatbelt. "We'll get that scrip filled and pick up some Tylenol as well, ‘cause I know I'm all out."

"I need to go home," I manage to tell him. "I need a shower, I need - you shouldn't have to do all this for me, Nick, okay?"

"Suppose I want to?" he says, and as he turns the key in the ignition there's this hurt sort of look on his face that brings a lump to my throat. I don't know why I keep pushing him away like this, he isn't the one who hurt me, but I can't apologise because I don't trust my voice enough right now - so I lean back in the passenger seat and close my eyes, because the sun's hurting them, and by the time we reach the drugstore I'm half asleep.

"You coming in?" he asks me once he's turned the engine off. "It won't take long," and I shake my head. I haven't had a proper look at my face since all this happened, but I've got a pretty good idea of how bad it must be - and the idea of people I don't know looking at me and wondering what I did isn't something I can deal with right now. I reach into my pocket for the scrip, trying to stop my hand from shaking at the same time, but he pulls the piece of paper from my fingers and takes hold of my hand to lower it back to my side. "I'll be five minutes, tops," he tells me, and he gets out of the truck; he closes the driver's side door, and then I'm on my own.

I lock both the doors, which makes me feel a little better about being alone for the first time in three days, and then I take a deep breath before I lean across to look at myself in the rear view mirror.

Oh, Christ, what did he do to me?

I can see out of my right eye now, but it's still bruised; there's a dressing taped to my forehead, and I can see a splotch of red in the middle of it. But it's the rest of my face that really makes me look like I went five rounds with Holyfield, and as I look at the stitches in my lip and the way my nose is still swollen even though they managed to push the bone back in the right direction I can't help thinking of what he called me.

Pretty boy.

I'm hardly that now, am I? I don't think I ever will be again. Oh, the bruises and the scrapes and everything else will heal eventually, but I'll still feel it where nobody can see - and I can't see anyone ever wanting to touch me now, because I'm sure they'll be able to know what happened to me even if I don't tell them...

"Greg! Hey, open the door." I don't know how long I must have been sitting here, but Nick's knocking on the driver's side window to get my attention; I lean over to unlock the door and he climbs in, slinging two bags down at my feet. He turns the key in the ignition and then turns to look at me, and although he must have seen me looking at my reflection he doesn't say anything about it. "You look tired, man, shall we get you out of here?" he asks me, and when I nod he guides the truck out of the parking lot.

********************************

I've been to his apartment before, I couldn't tell you how many times - poker games with him and Warrick where I always managed to lose, nights where it would be just me and Nick drinking beer and playing video games until one of us would remember that we had a shift to get to in six hours and we hadn't slept since the last one - but I stand in his living room now and I'm staring around like I've never seen it before.

"Here, man, sit down," he tells me as I sway on my feet - I'm so exhausted now I'm not even sure what day it is any longer - and I let him walk me the few steps to the couch. I sink into it, and since it feels easier to curl up on my side I do that; the local anaesthetic's really starting to wear off now, and I must have made some kind of noise because Nick disappears into the kitchen again and I hear him rummaging in one of the bags he just carried inside. He comes back with a glass of water in one hand, and he kneels on the floor next to the couch; he tells me to open my mouth, and when I do he feeds me three tablets one after the other, holding the glass to my lips after each one to let me drink. He slips a cushion beneath my head as I'm lying back down, and when he goes to stand up again I grab hold of his arm; there's so much I need to say to him, but my mouth hurts too much and I'm too tired for the words to come out. "It's okay," he says quietly. "Shut your eyes, I'm gonna go fetch a blanket." I let go of him, and I listen to footsteps getting further and further away; I close my eyes because I'm too drained not too, and after a while I feel something being draped over me. It's pulled up around my shoulders, and then I feel Nick's lips brush the side of my neck - and that's when I let myself give in and sleep, when I let myself forget about what's coming tomorrow and the days after that, because right now this is the one place where I know I'm safe.

No matter what he says, he isn't leaving tonight - I won't let him.

I can't.

He's been asleep for more than three hours, and I haven't been able to take my eyes off him; I'm sitting on the floor in front of the couch, and whenever he's cried out I've put my hand on his shoulder until he's settled again. I know sleep's one of the things that's going to help him, but it hurts me to think of him seeing what happened every time he closes his eyes.

The worst thing about this is that however much it hurts me, it's a normal reaction - the nightmares, the way he doesn't want me helping him until he's too tired to fight it, the way even the slightest thing makes him cry - and I've just got to let him work his way through it all. I've been reading about this, Sonia gave me some stuff yesterday at the hospital, and she said it would help him too when he was ready to look at it - I know he isn't yet, but when he is I'll be there.

"Nick?"

"Hey," I say quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts," he mumbles. "I'm dizzy-"

"When did you last eat anything?" I ask him gently. "Let me make you something."

"I'm not hungry," he whispers, and I see his eyes fill with tears again. "I'll be sick if I eat," and I know he's thinking about what happened at the hospital when the first detective came to interview him. I wish I could tell him that doesn't matter, that it never did, but I know he isn't ready to believe it yet - then I think of something he said in the truck, and I get to my feet.

"Tell you what," I say. "I don't think you ought to get your face wet, but I think you'll feel better if you have a bath."

*************************

"How is he, Nick?"

"He's tired," I say as I stand in front of the stove with the phone cradled between my ear and my shoulder. "He's in the bath at the moment, and when he's finished I'm going to try and get him to eat something."

"How are you doing?" Catherine asks me. "Shall I come over?"

"I wouldn't," I tell her. "Not today, anyway, he's..." I try to come up with words to describe the nightmares and the weeping and the self-doubt, but I can't do it and keep my voice even at the same time, so I say, "It wouldn't be a good idea - are you coming to the hearing tomorrow?"

"I've been subpoena'd by the prosecution," she says quietly but firmly. "Nick, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," I reply once I've taken a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm tired too, Cath, I just need to sleep." I need Greg to be all right again, I need him to know that to me at least he's the same person, I need for none of this to have happened..."I'm sorry," I tell her. "I don't mean to be like this."

"I know you don't," she says. "Will you call tonight if you need anything? Please?" I tell her I will, and after I've hung up I go back to stirring the contents of the saucepan in front of me; after a few minutes I turn off the heat, and as I'm taking two bowls out of the cupboard I hear the bathroom door open.

I lent him some old sweatpants and a T shirt, but he's taken my robe off the back of the bathroom door and put that on too. It swamps him and makes him seem even more vulnerable as he stands in the kitchen doorway, and when I look at him it's like something's squeezing my chest. "Go sit down in there," I tell him, nodding towards the room behind him, and once he's obeyed I pour what's in the saucepan into the two bowls; I put a spoon in each one and carry them into the living room, where he's already curled up at one end of the couch.

"What's that?"

"Grits," I say, passing him one of the bowls. "Mom used to make them whenever I had a sore throat, I figured they'd be easy for you to manage - you may want to let them cool for a bit, they're still hot." I sit down with my own bowl and begin to eat, watching Greg out of the corner of my eye; eventually he begins to suck food from the end of the spoon, the way an old man does, and although it takes him forever he finally manages to empty the bowl.

"Better?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "Thank you." I lean to take the bowl from him and he looks away from me, turning towards the window where the sky outside is already turning orange. "I'm scared, man," he says, and his voice is wavering again, so I set the bowls on the coffee table and turn towards him.

"Tomorrow?"

"Not just that," he replies. "Why did I do it? Why did I go and get so rat-ass drunk that I let that happen to me? What-" He still isn't looking at me, but his shoulders are heaving as he breaks off for a moment or two, and he draws a deep breath before he continues. "What's everyone gonna think of me now, Nick? I got so drunk I couldn't fight him off, how does that look?"

"Greg..."

"I'm gonna have to stand in that witness box tomorrow and get ripped to pieces, it's gonna look like I was so wasted I asked for it-"

"Did you?" I ask him, and I hate doing it because I know the answer, but I'm trying so hard to get him to realise that he isn't the one to blame in all this.

"No!" he shouts as he turns his head towards me, and tears are running down his cheeks again. "No, I didn't, but that's what they'll all think, Nick-"

"Greg," I say, reaching for his hands, and when he tries to pull away from me I hang on. "Do you remember what Sonia told you yesterday?"

"I hate this, man, I hate feeling like this..."

"She said that people who know you are gonna believe you - remember? Griss and Warrick and everyone else, they might not know what to say to you right now, but they know you didn't want this - I know you didn't-" and he's clinging to my wrists now, the way he did in the hospital. "Whatever happens tomorrow, we'll get through it, okay?" The lump in my throat won't let me say anything else then, so I pull him towards me; he leans in and hangs onto my neck so tightly I can hardly breathe, and I wrap both arms round him and just hold him. I hear myself saying things into his hair - I don't know what they are, I just want him to stop hurting - and I look out of the window and watch the sun set while my hand moves up and down his back and the sobs against my neck tail off into little gasps of breath.

**************************

I don't know exactly when he fell asleep in my arms, but it's dark when he wakes up. "Nick?" he mumbles, sounding as if he's still half asleep. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah, man, it's okay," I tell him, and I let my hands fall away as he straightens up slowly. "How are you feeling? Your mouth hurting again?" and when he nods silently I get up from the couch. "I'll go and get you something for it - I bought ice cream while we were out today, do you want some?"

"Please," he whispers. "Nick, I'm - "

"Don't you dare say sorry," I reply, and I'm not sure how I manage to smile when I say it, but I do.

**************************

He stands off to one side, pulling the robe tightly round him, as I unfold the couch into a bed - something I think I've only ever done once before, when one of my brothers was in town on business - and once it's done he lies down and lets me cover him with the blanket again. "Wake me up if you need anything," I tell him. "Anything at all, okay?" I cross the room to turn off the light, and as the room's plunged into darkness I think about how good it's going to be to sleep in a bed after two nights in a chair at the hospital.

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you stay out here? Just until I'm asleep?" he asks, and he's speaking so quietly I can hardly hear him. I kick my shoes off and climb onto the couch, and as I prop myself up against the back he leans towards me. I put an arm round his shoulders, and he slides down until he's lying across my lap; something tells me I won't be going to bed tonight, and I reach to adjust the blanket so that it covers both of us.

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yeah, man, it's locked," I reply, and neither one of us says anything else after that. I place a hand on his back over the blanket, and I rub slowly for a long time until his breathing deepens; it's not until I'm sure he's asleep that I lean down and kiss him on the back of his neck, right under his hair, and he stirs but he doesn't wake up.

He's still got a long way to go - tomorrow's only the start of it - but it's going to be okay.

I'm going to make it okay.

It's a beautiful day today - the newsreader on KLAS said it's shaping up to be the highest temp ever for this time of year, and the sky's the most perfect shade of blue I think I've ever seen.

I wish I was outside looking at it now.

The air conditioning's made the building almost too cold, but I'm still sweating buckets; I feel like I'm gonna puke any second, too, even though I didn't have breakfast. Nick tried his best to get me to eat, though - we drove past so many fast food places on the way to my apartment so I could get clothes to wear for this hearing and he must have offered to stop at every one of them, but whenever I thought about eating I felt my throat close up, so I said no.

The bench outside the courtroom's too hard for me to get comfortable, and every so often I've been getting up and pacing the hall while I try to pull my hair down over my forehead so the bandage won't show so much when I have to go in there. Sara said I should take it off, let everyone in there see what the guy really did to me, but I'm not doing that - I just want to go in and tell the judge my story and get the hell out of there.

You know what the worst part is? I'm sitting here waiting to go in and talk to complete strangers about the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me and people are walking past me with no idea. They're talking about what they're doing after work...where they're going to meet for lunch...I just heard some woman making a date...it's like it's a different world, and I have to sit and watch it go by and wonder whether I'll ever really be part of it again.

"You ought to be next up," Grissom says. "Are you going to be able to do this, Greg?" I want to say no, I'm not, just let me leave and forget this ever happened - but I know I can't, 'cause the guy shouldn't get away with what he did to me, and so I nod and say yes. "You know this won't change anything, don't you?" he says then, and I look up at him. "None of this was your fault, Greg, we know that, and we'll-" but before he can finish what he's saying the courtroom door opens.

"Greg Sanders."

****************************

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Nick's in here, sitting right near the back like he said he would be; I look at him while they're swearing me in and he manages to smile, even though I can't imagine how difficult it must be for him to do it. It's only gonna get worse when the defence starts in on me, because I remember how Nick was with the detective in the hospital, and I just hope he can hold it together now - because if he doesn't, I know I won't be able to.

"State your name for the court."

I'm going to go home tonight - I don't want to, but I know I've got to at some point, and the longer I leave it the harder it's going to be. He sat on that couch with me all night, and I wouldn't know how to tell him what I felt when I woke up this morning and he was still holding me; I've never had a relationship with a guy where I felt this protected, and even though I need that so badly right now I know I can't have it, not with Nick - he's got Alison and her boy, after all, he's only helping me the way a friend would, and I need to go home before I make this into something it's not.

I wish thinking about it didn't hurt so much, though.

"Mr. Sanders, can you take us through what happened the night you went to Underworld earlier this week?"

Please let there be only one more time after today that I need to tell this.

I'm just trying to pretend that it's someone else speaking instead of me, someone else who got drunk enough to let another guy black his eye and smash his face into the ground and rape him - no, I know I didn't let him, but I'd drunk too much and I was too scared to be able to fight back, and everyone in here's going to think that means the same thing, aren't they?

Everyone except Nick, and I can't look at him now - I feel sick to my stomach, and if I look at him and see what I know I'm going to see, I won't be able to finish this.

"Is the man who assaulted you in this court?"

Sam Lowe, that's his name. He's sitting there like butter wouldn't melt, his hair's tied back in a ponytail and he's wearing a cheap grey suit; I've heard the team joking before about the bad guys putting suits on and hoping it'll get them off, but I'm not laughing now, because the judge is gonna look at him and not see him the way I did that night - wearing jeans and a black T shirt, with dirty blond hair swinging round his shoulders as he hauled off and punched me, and that look in his eyes - I may only have seen his face for a few seconds, but I see that look whenever I go to sleep now, and I don't know if there's ever going to be a time when that doesn't happen.

"Does the defence wish to cross examine this witness?"

They warned me about what might happen now, and as the guy in the expensive suit gets up I reach out with both hands and cling to the railing. I take a deep breath, hold it in for a long time and then let it out; I know it's too late to stop this now, and all I can do is pray harder than I ever have in my life that it's over soon.

"Exactly how much had you had to drink on the night in question, Mr. Sanders?"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn - Mr. Sanders, are you in a relationship at the moment?"

They warned me not to let him get to me, to keep my answers as brief as possible and not react to anything he said; so I say no, and my stomach's heaving, and I'm wondering how this smartass would like someone to force themselves on him after they'd choked him and broken his nose and knocked out two of his teeth.

"Wouldn't it be fair to say, Mr. Sanders, that your relationships might best be described as casual?"

"No, I-"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn - do you see any marks on my client, Mr. Sanders? Any scratches, bruises, anything to bear out your statement to the court that you resisted?"

"He had my head down and he was on top of me, I-"

"Answer the question, please - do you see any marks?"

I say no, because there aren't any, I didn't get the chance to make them, and the room starts to spin around me as he asks me something else that gets objected to before I can answer. Damn it, stop it, let me tell you it wasn't my fault, let me answer these questions so you can see I didn't want this! I'm asked something else and when I answer it sounds like someone else's voice again and not mine, something's buzzing inside my head and my mouth's hurting again all of a sudden - or have I just been blotting the pain out the way I've tried to do with everything else the past four days? I want this to be done, I want to get out of here and lock myself away where nobody can touch me; I might want Nick to keep holding me, but I know he can't, and the sooner I try to get past this on my own the better.

"Redirect, your Honour."

The prosecutor's up on his feet again, and as he walks towards me I take another deep breath. Part of me knows this is nearly done but the rest of me is saying no more, please, I can't do this any longer - I know all I have to do is look up and I'll see Nick, but if I do that I'll come apart, and so I stare down at the railing between my hands and I wait.

"Mr. Sanders, were you told how the police were able to identify the accused?"

There's an objection, but it's overruled; I think of the moment in the hospital when Warrick told me what they'd found, the moment when I realised what had really happened to me - and when I lift my head I don't look towards the back of the courtroom, I look at the animal in the cheap suit and I find my voice from somewhere.

"They got a match off a sample that was taken from me at the hospital."

I can remember how bright the lights were in the ER when they brought me in, even though I could only see out of one eye that night. The doctor leaned over me and said I was going to be all right, and I remember thinking he looks about sixteen years old right before I turned my head towards him to try and speak and blood ran out of my mouth.

"It was a semen sample, wasn't it? From an internal swab?"

"Y - yes."

I remember trying to fight the doctor off when I realised what he was going to do; I was struggling and crying because the last thing I wanted was another man touching me there, and that's when the woman stepped forward - how come I didn't remember her before now? She had a white coat on and she looked old enough to be the doctor's mother, and she told him to give her the kit and get out of the room before she leaned down and said, "I know you don't want us to do this, Greg, but we need to catch whoever did this to you-"

"Have you ever had unprotected sex with any of your partners before?"

Another objection, but it's overruled and I can answer; I've never wanted to cry so badly in my life as I do right now, it feels as though a layer of my soul's being cut away, but at least they'll all know.

"No."

"Under any circumstances?"

"No."

"That's all, your Honour."

"Thank you, Mr. Sanders, you can step down now."

I uncurl my fingers from the railing and step out of the witness box, and as I walk towards the door it seems further and further away. Someone hisses something at me, but I keep going, even when I hear the judge say, "Mr. Green, will you please control your client?", and then someone opens the door and I walk through it; and I must have tripped on something, because everything starts to slip sideways, and the last thing I hear is Sara shouting, "Catch him, Warrick, he's fainting!"

**************************

"Greg?" I open my eyes and Warrick's crouching at my side, one hand resting on my shoulder. "Let me help you up, man - hey, haven't you got anything better to do?" he snaps at a group of Latino boys who've stopped to look, and they scurry away down the hall; I let him get a hand beneath my elbow and I scramble to my feet, blinking to clear the fog in my head. "Sara, go get him a drink of water."

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Where's Nick? Did he come out of there?"

"He's outside with Griss, he didn't handle it too well," Warrick tells me. "Sit down before you fall down," and he guides me to sit on the bench. "Here, drink this," he says when Sara returns with a paper cup of water from the nearby cooler and hands it to him; he passes it to me and I drink from it slowly, fighting to keep each mouthful down. "One more witness after Catherine, and then it's done," he says, and he sighs quietly before he looks at me. "Listen, man, if I haven't said much it's because I don't know what to say, okay? This kind of stuff happens to someone you know, it's different from the cases we work, you don't know how to act around them."

"Don't act any different," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat, and I get to my feet. "I need some fresh air, I can't stay in here."

"Shall I come with you?"

"I'll be fine."

************************

The sky's still as blue as before when I step outside, and the sun's so bright it hurts my eyes; For a moment or two my head spins and I feel like I'm going to pass out again, but then I suck in a deep breath and everything settles back into place.

"Greg." I look up and Grissom's standing a foot or so away from me, his hands in his pockets, looking almost as tired as I feel. "How are you?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes," he says. "Now you've been on the stand, are you feeling any better?"

"Do you think I should?" I ask him. "Because I don't," and I stop talking then, because there's a huge lump in my throat; I can feel tears behind my eyes, so I look away, and then I find my voice again. "What if it was all for nothing? What if the judge doesn't believe me and I have to live with that?"

"Remember what I said to you in there?" he replies. "We believe you, Greg, and you'll feel better when you're ready to rather than when someone tells you you should," and he waits for me to look at him again before he fixes me with that solemn smile of his. "Have you set up an appointment to talk to someone about this?"

"Day after tomorrow," I tell him. "Where's Nick?"

***************************

He's sitting on a low stone wall with his head in his hands, and when I get closer I can see that the knuckles on his right hand are grazed. "Nick?" I say, and for what seems a long time he doesn't look up. When he does, the first thing I notice is that his cheeks are wet with tears - the second is the look in his eyes, and when I see it it's like my heart just drops.

If he was doing everything he's done because he's a friend, he wouldn't look at me like this.

"I'm sorry," he says, dashing the back of his hand across his face. "I just heard the way that lawyer was tearing into you and I wanted to kill him," and he tilts his head back to stare up at the sky. "Oh, God, this is a mess, you weren't supposed to ever know."

"How long, Nick?" I ask him, and I don't know how I'm still standing, because it's like all the strength has gone out of my legs. I think of how he hasn't left my side since this happened, how he's protected me and held me and kept me sane - and then my mind goes back even further, to the look on his face when he saw me kissing Dan on that street corner months ago, and how did I not see that for what it must have been? "Please."

"Doesn't matter," he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the nearby traffic. "Doesn't matter, Greg, I said I was going to let this be enough..." Before he can say anything else Sara's calling to us, and when I turn and see her face I know.

It's going to trial.

We haven't said anything since we left the others behind at the diner a block from the courthouse; I didn't eat breakfast either, and I'm ravenous, but I needed to get away from there, and I think Greg did too. He was swaying on his feet when I helped him into the truck, and he was asleep by the time we were two blocks away. Every time I've stopped at a light I've turned to look at him, and every time I do it the tears threaten to escape again - in spite of the stitches and the black eye and the bandage on his forehead, he's still beautiful, and I wonder whether this might be one of the last times I look at him like this.

Because he knows, even though I didn't mean him to, and I don't know where things are going to go from here.

**********************

Oh no, please, not now.

There's a red Honda parked in front of my building in one of the guest spots, and my heart sinks. I pull the truck into my own space, and as I unfasten my seatbelt I look over at Greg again - he's still asleep with his head kind of tilted to one side, and he's snoring just a little because the way his nose is still swollen makes it hard for him to breathe. I climb down out of the truck, remembering to push the door shut gently rather than slam it so that I don't wake him, and by the time I've done that she's a foot away from me.

"Nick, where have you been? I don't know how many messages I've left you, you haven't called me in four days..." and I think about last night when I sat on the couch holding Greg after he'd gone to sleep, and how I stared at the blinking red light on the answering machine knowing I couldn't ignore it for ever. "Oh my God, what happened to your hand?" she asks me then, and when she moves to reach for it I pull away, because I don't want her touching me.

"I had an accident this morning," I tell her, because I can't talk about what really happened - not to her, at least. I heard Sara shouting outside the courtroom, and by the time I got out there Greg was already on the floor, lying across Warrick's knees, and there was no colour in his face at all except for the bruises; I thought of how that lawyer ripped into him, made it looked like he brought everything on himself, and all of a sudden it was like there was nothing inside me at all except this urge to go back in there and grab hold of the guy and kill him - so I slammed my fist into the wall and then I ran, because it was all too much and I couldn't bear it any longer...

"Nick, you ought to have somebody look at that," she says. "You look so tired, sweetie, when did you last sleep?" and she tries to put a hand on my face, but I take a step back. "I have to go collect Alex from school in an hour, do you want to come and have supper with us later and meet him? We won't be going out, it's only pizza - I've missed you, that's all, four days is a long time."

"Alison..." God, I wasn't planning to do it like this, out here in a parking lot with cars and people coming past us, but there isn't ever really going to be a good time or place for it, is there? "I - we can't do this, we can't see each other any more," I say, and then there's a silence that lasts far too long; she opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again, and I can see this look of absolute shock on her face. All I can think of now is something I said the last night I spent with her - was that really only four days ago? It seems like so much longer than that - when we were lying in bed with clothes littered all over the floor and I was trying so hard to feel that it was right for me to be there.

"Next time I have more than two days off at once, you'll have to come to Dallas with me and meet my folks."

"Nick? Did I do something?"

"No," I tell her - and damn it, I know this is the worst cliché in the world, the "it's not you, it's me" line, but there's no other way to explain it. "I've been lying to myself about why I want to be with you, and I can't do it any more."

"Will it help if we talk about it, Nick? You're tired, maybe if you sleep, you'll-" but I lift a hand to stop her. I've got a chance even now, I could let myself be talked round and I could end up with something I'd settle for rather than something I want - but then my mind goes back to what happened outside the courthouse today. He knows now, even if nothing comes of it - but I've admitted it to myself too, and no matter what happens I'm not going to take that back.

I can't.

So I shake my head, and then I can't take my eyes off her face. The shock disappears, and she blinks rapidly a few times; I see one of her hands lift up for a second or two, like she's going to slap me, and God knows if she did I'd deserve it for this. "This ends today, then, Nick," she says, and even though the tears aren't in her eyes I can hear them in her voice. "You don't get another chance, I'm not doing this to my boy."

"I know," I reply, and she turns away from me without another word. She walks the few yards to her car and climbs in, and the engine purrs into life; I keep my eyes on the little red car with its back seat littered with McDonald's Happy Meal toys and the Homer Simpson figure on the dashboard, and I watch it until it's too far away for me to see it any longer.

I turn back to the truck, and I can see that Greg's still asleep. I open the door and climb up into the driver's seat again; he's twitching and whimpering in his sleep, and so I don't touch him to wake him, because I'm afraid of what that might do. I turn towards him and say his name quietly, and I only have to do it twice before he gasps and his eyes snap open. "Nick?"

"Yeah, man, it's okay," I tell him. "You going to come in?" He nods and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, and I get out of the truck and move round to the passenger side; I wait for him to unfasten his seatbelt, and then I catch hold of his arm as he climbs down. "You did good in there today, you know."

"I need a bath," he says, almost under his breath, and even though he spent an hour in the bath this morning before we left to collect his clothes I don't argue with him; I tell him sure, we'll take care of it once we're inside, and he hangs onto my arm as we walk towards the building as though even a few dozen footsteps are taking the last of his strength.

************************

"Shall I make you something to eat?" I ask him, and he nods before he closes the bathroom door; I hear the lock snap shut, and the thought that he doesn't quite feel safe even here wounds me more than I want to admit.

I walk into the kitchen and go through the mechanics of making food; I take two bowls and two spoons off the drainer, I set a saucepan on the stove - and I've just taken the package of instant grits out of the cupboard when everything that's happened over the last four days hits me at once. I collapse onto one of the chairs, I fold my arms on the table and let my head sink down into them - and then I let the tears come in a way I couldn't even do outside the courthouse. I cry until my throat's raw and my chest hurts, because I'm stretched to the limit - I'm trying to be strong for him as well as hold it together myself, and I don't think I can do it much longer. Finally facing up to something I've kept a secret for longer than I want to think about ought to be a relief, but right now it hurts more than hiding it ever did.

"Nick?"

He's standing next to my chair, and even though it's only the middle of the afternoon he's wrapped in my robe over the borrowed clothing that's passing for pyjamas; his eyes are bloodshot, and it makes me wonder whether he's been shedding tears too while there was a locked door between us. I try to figure out how long I must have been sitting here like this, how long he's been standing here watching me, and I hear myself saying something about food - and as I'm starting to get up, he puts a hand on my wrist.

"No," he says quietly. "Never mind that now."

********************

"You never answered me when I asked you earlier," he says once he's pulled the other chair round next to mine and sat down. "How long?" and it's a while before I can say anything; I think of the moment when Griss asked me the same question, how the answer came out of me in a rush after I'd held it in all that time - and I don't know why, but I can't do that now.

"I figured it out just before I turned eighteen," I tell him eventually. "I was seeing this girl then-" and as I speak I knot my hands together on the table and stare down at them. "I dated girls the way all my friends did, and I kept waiting to feel something like they all said they did, but I'd kiss a girl and it would just be - I don't know, I did it but it didn't mean anything, you know?" He's close enough for me to reach out and touch him, but I can't even turn my head and look at him; I've thought about it so many times, being able to tell him all this, but now I'm actually doing it the words are sticking in my throat. "I turned up at her folks' place one night to take her to the movies, and..."

Nicky, this is Andy."

"...it was her brother, he'd been overseas in the Army and he was home on leave that week-" As I go on I can see that face behind my eyes in a way I haven't done for a long time, and even though it hurts I find myself somehow managing to smile. "He was four years older than me, he had this deep tan that made his teeth look so white when he smiled and shook my hand, and I just - I don't know-"

"Like someone punched you in the stomach, isn't it?" Greg says quietly, and I look round at him. He's watching me steadily, pulling the robe even more tightly closed around himself - the look in his eyes tells me he understands, and the relief I feel at that moment is enough to make me close my eyes to steady myself until I'm sure I can speak normally again.

"Even though he was straight, that's when I knew," I say, looking down at my hands again. "Why it never made sense when I was with a girl, why I never felt the way my friends felt - and I knew I couldn't do anything about it."

"Why?"

"You'd have to know my dad," I tell him, and now I don't look round at him when I'm speaking. "I love him, man, I love him with all my heart, but when you grow up in Texas in a judge's family you know there's some things they won't tolerate - I guess I figured it'd be easier to do what everyone expected rather than disappoint them, you know, and I thought that if I kept doing it long enough it wouldn't be so difficult after a while."

"Did it work?"

"I guess things just changed after a while," I tell him, and I can feel that lump creeping back into my throat again. "I figured I was too old to do anything about it after all this time, and what you've never had, you don't miss, right? Plenty of people go through life not getting what they want, why should I be any different?" I stop then, because I'm too close to tears and he's not gonna see me cry again, he doesn't need it with everything he's been through - but this is the hardest part of the story to tell, and I don't think I have the strength for it. "I'll fix you something to eat, and then you can sleep," I say, still not looking at him. "We'll talk some more later on if you want."

"Nick?" he says as I start to rise from my seat, and I can hear his voice is cracking even on a single word. "Nick, look at me, please." I sink back down onto the chair, and I stare down at the table for a long time before I look back at him - when I do, I see that his eyes are full of tears, and my heart breaks. "How long, man?"

"From the day you arrived at the lab."

"But...that's years," he says in a near-whisper. "You've had this inside you for years and you've never said anything?" I can't look away from him now, and as he stares back at me I see tears escaping down his cheeks. "Why didn't you say something?"

"It was easier not to," I manage to say. "I was just too afraid."

"Of me?"

"No, man, me," I tell him. "I was afraid you'd laugh your ass off, and I wouldn't have been able to deal with that, it was already hurting me enough to keep this to myself," and I dig my nails into my palms so that the pain blots out the urge to cry. "I tried to get something going with Alison because I thought it was better for me to have that than nothing, I thought that if I wasn't alone I wouldn't be thinking about what I really wanted." I break off again, feeling as though I'm almost suffocating, and I have to take a string of deep breaths before I can say anything else. "Pretty stupid, huh?" I say, and he'll never know how hard it is for me to get this out. "I've never done this, I don't know how it all works, I just know it's what I need..."

"Why me, though?" he says after a long, long silence, and his head drops forward so that I can't see his face any longer. "I'm nothing special, I never have been -" and he covers his mouth with his hands to muffle a sob. "I'm just trying to get over this without putting a gun in my mouth, Nick," he says, and it's like someone stuck a knife in my gut and twisted it. I think of the Greg everyone knew before this happened - the Greg who put on a turban and predicted DNA results, the Greg who takes care of things in the lab in spite of being a smartass - and no matter what it takes, I'll get him back again, because I know he's still there somewhere. "Why the hell would you want me now? I can't give you anything-"

"Who says you have to?" I ask him. "I want to look after you, I want to get you over this - I can," I say fiercely when he shakes his head. "I can if you want me to, there doesn't have to be anything else unless you want it and you're ready."

"What if that never happens?"

"Then it doesn't happen," I tell him quietly. "I care about you, I want to be with you, can you let that be enough for now?"

**************************

It's dark outside now, and I've got no idea what time it is because he's fallen asleep with my right hand beneath his head, but I'm not going to wake him just so I can look at my watch.

We sat at that kitchen table for another hour, he ate his way through more helpings of grits than I've ever seen anyone eat at once, and I talked until I thought my voice was going to give out. I told him about what happened out in the parking lot while he was asleep in the truck, and then I found myself talking about what went through my mind as I sat next to his bed in the hospital and watched him - that's when I felt his hand on my wrist, and when I looked at him he tried to smile.

He didn't quite get there, but it was close enough.

He asked me what the hell I'd ever seen in a skinny little runt with ears that stuck out too far, and I didn't have to think before I answered that. "It's the way you smile," I told him, and I remembered that first evening when Grissom pointed around the lab door to a litter of broken test tubes on the floor. "Nick, meet the new tech who's supposed to be cleaning this mess up," he said, and Greg popped up from behind the table; he introduced himself, stuck out his hand and smiled - and it was like I'd been taken back to the night just before I turned eighteen and I met that boy with the tan and the ramrod-straight back.

"Nick?"

"Right here, buddy." I folded the couch out again once he'd finished eating, and we settled down to watch the Sci Fi channel; he was asleep just after an 'X Files' episode started, and I think I might have drifted off too somewhere along the line, because there's an old black and white movie playing now where you can see the strings holding up the styrofoam planets. "You need anything?"

"My mouth's hurting," he says quietly. "Can you get me something?"

"Sit up," I tell him, and when he's done it I climb off the couch and walk into the kitchen; I fill a glass with water, and as I'm taking pills out of the two containers on the counter I glance back over my shoulder into the living room. He's sitting curled at one end of the couch, looking at me steadily as though he thinks I'll disappear if he turns his back on me, and the image makes me swallow hard; I turn off the light in the kitchen and walk back towards him, handing him the water and the pills, and he half-whispers a thank you when he takes them from me. "Better?"

"Can you turn the light off in here too?" he asks me as I'm about to sit down. "Please?" and I do as he asks before I get back onto the couch. I take the glass from him and set it down on the floor, and then I prop myself up against the cushions; I settle back and focus my eyes on the movie, where the heroes are fighting something that looks like a giant octopus, and when Greg speaks again his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.

"Why am I so tired, Nick?"

"Today's been rough on you," I tell him. "You sleep as much as you want to, it'll help you - shall I turn the TV off?"

"Yeah," he says softly, and I reach for the remote. The television blinks off, taking away the only source of light, and it isn't long before I feel him leaning against me - tentatively, like he isn't sure what he needs except not to be alone while it's dark. "Nick?"

"Here," I say, and I put my hand lightly on his arm and I wait. He leans down until he's lying in my lap again, and then he reaches for my hand to bring my arm down over his shoulder. I don't bother saying anything about just staying there until he's asleep, and neither does he; I listen to his breathing slowing and deepening, and just when I think he's dozed off I hear that teary whisper again.

"Is this really gonna be okay, Nick?"

"Yes, it is," I tell him, and I lower my head; I press my lips against the side of his face, feeling the stubble that's started growing there - and he doesn't say anything, but I hear a deep, wavering sigh. "It is, I promise," I say in his ear, and I don't care whether he's asleep and didn't hear it, because I'm going to make sure it is okay, no matter how long it takes me.

I've never been able to keep any plant alive for longer than a week or two before, and that's why I'm so surprised the gardenia Sara bought for me while I was in the hospital is still around. Put it on the windowledge behind the sink, Nick told me, it'll get some sun most of the afternoon that way - and yeah, it's probably Nick who's actually remembered to water it more than I have, if I'm honest about it.

There's one just like it on the windowsill in Jack's office, with those lovely shiny leaves and big white flowers; the first time I was in there I asked him every question about it that I could think of - what it was, how he looked after it because someone had given me one just the same - and I kept looking at it the whole time I was asking, too, because I wanted to focus on anything except why I was really there.

It's been two months now, though, and I don't have a problem looking at him any longer.

I'd heard all kinds of stories about shrinks, but none of the people who told them had ever met Jack. There's a framed vinyl copy of the Beatles' White Album on the wall next to his diplomas, and even though he wears a suit he always puts on a cartoon character tie with it - today it's the 'Family Guy' kid saying "Make yourself useful and wipe my butt!". There's a couch in the office, though, and I remember the first time I was here; I asked him if I was supposed to lie on it, like you always see people do in movies, and he said, "Well, you can if you're tired, Mr. Sanders, but most people prefer to use one of the chairs."

He uses my first name now - it's been "Greg" and "Jack" instead of "Mr. Sanders" and "Doctor Naumann" for weeks - and I'm sitting in one of the armchairs the way I have done since that first visit. Each of us is holding a mug of coffee, and mine's got a drug company logo on it: I think back to one of my first visits, when he saw me look at the logo and then at him, and I remember how he laughed and said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to stuff you with pills - those people don't like me much, I take their freebies but I hardly ever prescribe their product."

"You're quiet today," he says after I've spent the best part of an hour answering his questions with one or two worded answers - are you sleeping better? Yes. How are they acting around you at work? Pretty good. "What's really on your mind?"

"You're just like Grissom," I tell him, staring down into my half-empty mug and trying to buy myself time. "He never takes anyone's answers at face value either," and I force a smile as I look up again, but he's not buying it - he's got his right eyebrow raised, and that half serious, half amused look's back on his face.

"Greg?"

"I'm not sure what's happening with Nick," I say once I've drained my mug and put it down on the end table next to the chair. "I know that isn't what I'm supposed to be here for, but..."

"Greg, the department sent you here, they don't ask me every single detail of what we talk about," he says, leaning forward in his chair. "If it's worrying you this much, we need to get it out in the open."

"There's stuff going on that I don't understand," I tell him, and I sigh because I know that doesn't sound the way I meant it to. "This is difficult to explain-"

"Tell me what's brought this on," he says. "It might be easier if you start there."

"The day I was at court for the hearing, okay?" I say eventually, and when I look at Jack he nods to encourage me to go on. "Nick told me he had feelings for me, he's had them for years - he said it didn't matter if nothing ever happened between us, he just wanted to look after me and make sure I got over this."

"Go on."

"I know you've been telling me it's important to get into a routine, and I'm back at work and all, but I can't go home, Jack. I keep trying to, I know I can't stay at his apartment for ever, but I just keep thinking..." Damn it, I've got tears in my eyes thinking about this, and I stare up at the ceiling while I take a deep breath. "I'm used to it now, having him looking after me, and I don't know if it's fair on him for me to keep letting him look after me and use him as a crutch because I'm too scared to go home and manage by myself," and I look up at him knowing that didn't exactly come out right either. "This is stupid, I'm sorry."

"Is that what you're really afraid of?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, you've had other relationships, haven't you?"

"Yeah, you know I have, but that was just..." I feel my face burning, and I put a hand up to shield it while I look at the floor. "That was just sex, and anyway, whatever I have with Nick isn't a relationship."

"Not in the way you're thinking, perhaps."

"No, Jack, it's not a relationship," I tell him. "He may have feelings for me, but he's never been with a guy before, and he needs support I can't possibly give him if..."

"You're presuming a lot of things here, Greg," he says quietly. "Have you stopped to think about what it is that Nick might want from you?"

"Whatever it is, I don't think I have it," I reply. "If it's sex, I don't know when I'll ever want that again - if it's anything emotional, I'm only just starting to be able to hold myself together-"

"You don't think it might be the fact that you've never really been emotionally involved with anyone before and the idea scares you, do you?" he asks me. "A relationship based purely on sex is an entirely different thing to..."

"I'm not scared of anything, all right?" I say, and I can feel something knotting up in the pit of my stomach. "I'm sorry I brought this up," and before he can answer me the phone rings on his desk; he gets up to answer it, and I rise to my feet at the same time.

"Dr. Naumann, Mr. Watts is here for his appointment."

"I'll be right out," he says into the phone, and then he hangs up. "Next Thursday?" he asks me, and I mumble something that hopefully sounds like a 'yes'. "Greg?" he calls after me as I'm opening the office door. "Let me give you something to think about before our next appointment."

"Okay, what is it?"

"I'm not really the best person to talk to about this."

*************************

Once I'm in my car, I turn the air conditioning on full blast and sit in the driver's seat with my eyes closed until my stomach unknots itself again; once I can take a deep breath without wanting to throw up, I straighten up in my seat and look in the rear view mirror the way I did in Nick's truck the day I came out of the hospital.

On the outside, I'm practically back to the old Greg again. Oh, I can still see the faintest line in the middle of my bottom lip where the stitches were, but that's going to go away eventually; they think I'm going to have a permanent scar on my forehead, though, but I said I didn't want to talk to a plastic surgeon about what he might be able to do about that - because if it means being back in a hospital again, I don't want to know.

I'm trying not to think about when I'll have to go back in another four months for another blood test, because that's the thing that keeps me awake more than anything else; the blood sample the court ordered from Lowe didn't test positive for anything, but the doctor didn't have to tell me that things like hepatitis can take six months to show up. I knew a guy who was with the LVPD and got stuck with a needle while he was arresting somebody; he went through hell until he got the all clear, and I remember him telling me he'd never thought six months could last so long - and I didn't really understand what he meant until now.

I wasn't lying to Jack - I am sleeping better - and the dreams don't come every night like they used to, so I suppose that's a good thing. I just wish I was the old Greg on the inside too, because then I wouldn't check the apartment door even after I've seen Nick lock it; I wouldn't have lashed out at Warrick when he came into the lab behind me and slapped me on the back yesterday, and I wouldn't wear two layers of clothing when I went to sleep at night.

This is only the second time Nick hasn't come with me to one of these appointments and sat in the waiting room while I talked to Jack; I figured it was time for me to try and do this by myself, so I told him to stay home and sleep because we've both got a shift tonight and it made sense for one of us at least to look as though we'd slept since the last one - but damn, I wish I hadn't done that now, because all of a sudden I've broken out in a sweat, even though it's ice cold in the car, and my hands are shaking so much I don't know how I'm gonna be able to drive.

*********************

I'm not sure when I was given this set of keys - it's one of a lot of things that have happened during the past two months that I don't really remember - but I fish them out of my pocket and let myself in, making sure I don't push the door all the way open, because the hinges need oiling and I don't want the noise to wake Nick up.

The blinds are all drawn, but one light's been left on in the living room, and it's enough for me to see that there's nobody in there. I kick my shoes off and walk along the hallway to the bedroom, where the door's about a third of the way open; I can't see a thing, but I know he's in there because I can hear him breathing, and I stand in the doorway thinking about what he said to me one night that seems so long ago now.

"What the hell did you ever see in me? I'm a skinny little runt who wears a lab coat and has ears that stick out."

"It's the way you smile."

Even though I'm not doing that now - oh, I smile, but it isn't really there yet, not on the inside - he's still here, he's stuck with me even though I've been about as weak as anybody could possibly be, because he's the only one who really understands. He still sees whatever he's seen for years, even though I don't, and whatever he feels hasn't changed even though he sat with me in the hospital and he sat in court and he knows exactly what I went through that night; and as I stand in the doorway listening to him breathing, my eyes fill with tears and my heart's hammering so hard I think it's going to burst.

"Greg?"

"Didn't mean to wake you," I manage to say. "Go back to sleep."

"Come in here," he says, his voice slow and scratchy the way it always is when he's tired. "I can't sleep on that couch, something always digs into my back." This inconsequential sentence brings it all home to me then - the fact that for weeks he's lain on the couch and held me while I slept, even though he couldn't get comfortable himself, just so I wouldn't be alone - and it makes the tears spill down my cheeks, so I put a hand across my mouth as I step into the room.

It feels weird, because I've never been in here before; I've always thought that unless you're with someone, their bedroom's the one place where they have their own space. You throw coats in there if they have a party, sure, but the rest of the time they can close the door and shut everything out...

"Don't put the light on," I tell him as I climb onto the bed and lie down on my side on top of the covers - and even though I try not to let it, something must have come through in my voice, because after a while he speaks in a whisper.

"Session didn't go well today, did it?"

"No."

"Man, why didn't you let me come with you?" he asks, and there's a quiet sigh. I lie there in the dark, unable to close my eyes and sleep even though I know I should, and then I hear the bed creak as he shifts towards me; his fingertips dab at my face, wiping away tears he somehow knows are there even though he can't see them, and this is how well he knows me by now. His hand moves to the side of my face, and we're close enough to each other for me to feel warmth against my lips when he breathes out - and that's when it all drops into place, when I see past everything that's happened and I realise that I have got what he needs after all. I lean forward a fraction more, and I kiss the corner of his mouth; I feel his hand curve round the back of my head, and then his mouth hovers over mine. He's so tentative, so hesitant, he knows this isn't one of the dozens of kisses he's placed on the back of my head over the past two months to comfort me after a nightmare or when I've cried because I think I'll never get past all this; he knows this is different now, so do I, and when I lick slowly along his lower lip his hand tightens in my hair. He opens his mouth, drawing my tongue in and meeting it with his own, and when we finally have to break the kiss in order to breathe he keeps his fingers wound in my hair as he brings my head forward to rest against his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, and I don't either, because this is enough for now; I put an arm across his chest over the covers, and I feel him stroking my hair as I close my eyes.

We might only be taking little steps here, but this was the biggest one, and I know we'll get there now.

I shut the alarm off before it had a chance to buzz more than once, and I can't bear to wake him yet - even though I know I'll have to soon, otherwise we won't make it to work in time for the start of the shift. I'm putting it off as long as I can, though, because all I want to do is lie here watching him sleep; and while I do that I'm thinking about what it felt like to finally kiss him, how I couldn't do anything except breathe him in and wish it would never stop.

I wish he was under the comforter with me so I could hold him properly, but he isn't ready for that yet - I only have to think of the way he still locks the door when he's in the bathroom, and how he bundles himself up in too many layers of clothing, and I realise that - but it doesn't change anything.

We've realised we need each other now, and this is where it really starts.

I wish this could be our world, this apartment and this room and this bed with the two of us in it; it seems I've spent my whole life waiting to feel this way, and I don't want to step outside it in case I lose it again.

Even though he won't believe it yet, because he's still hurting too much inside, he's beautiful - to me he always has been - and I can't help but reach out as he sleeps to run my thumb over the tiny scar on his lower lip; he sucks in a shallow breath and blinks sleepily at me, and then he smiles - and I know he means it, because his whole face moves with it and not just his mouth.

" - time is it?"

"We need to get up, that's what time it is," I tell him, and he groans and closes his eyes briefly before he swings his legs down over the side of the bed and sits up. I push myself up to sit behind him, and I reach for his hand; he takes it, squeezing my fingers briefly between his own - and I know each of us has a hell of a lot we want to say, but we both know we have all the time in the world.

I don't know if anybody ever really gets used to working nights - I know I'm not going to any time soon. You eat at weird times, you're asleep when people with normal lives are awake and working, and you end up hanging with people you work with because it's just easier that way; and when you get two days off in a row like Nick and I have coming up you're happy because you get to see actual daylight rather than for any other reason.

I'm on my way out of the bathroom after taking a shower when I realise the door isn't locked. When did I stop doing that? I couldn't tell you. There've been a lot of things like that lately - I'll notice them and it's like they've always happened that way.

I end up riding to work with Nick more often than not now - he likes to say it's because my car's a P.O.S, and I'll admit that Grissom's looked at it more than once and asked me when it's being towed. I don't use the comforter as a barrier between us the way I used to either; I'll lie in his arms underneath it and listen to him breathe slowly against my neck, because he's always the first one to fall asleep, and I'll think about everything that's changed over the past five months.

Jack was right about what he said during one of our sessions - relationships that aren't based on sex are completely different. I'm probably going to sound like Grissom here, but when you only spend one night at a time with someone whatever you have with them is biology; it's all about knowing what buttons to push to get them off, and anyone I was ever with before this would tell you I never had any problem doing that. But someone you only spend one night at a time with doesn't really know you, do they? They don't know what makes you the person you are, they don't know what scares you, they don't know how to be there for you when the worst possible thing in the world happens to you...

I don't know Nick inside out, not yet, but I do know how difficult it was for him to work with me for years and not say anything about how he really felt - I can't even begin to think what it must have been like for him to want something so badly and be afraid to act on it because he was brought up to believe it was wrong to feel the way he did. That's why nobody at the lab knows about what's happening between us yet; I know Nick's still coming to terms with it himself, and I am too if I'm honest about it. This isn't something I'm used to either, especially not when I remember the Greg who didn't care if the world saw him kissing someone in public and I compare him with the Greg who just wants to shut everything out and be held - but just being held is starting to feel more right than anything else ever did.

Nick's sitting on the couch when I walk into the living room, and I can tell right away there's something on his mind;he's got his head in the crook of his right arm, and he looks up at me and smiles before he looks at the TV again without really watching it. I sit down next to him and reach for his left hand, grasping it between both of my own, and I look at him without saying anything for quite a while; I'm opening my mouth to speak when he gets there before me, and his voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it over whatever's on the TV.

"Hey, you know," he says, looking away from me like he's talking to someone else, "I was thinking about your apartment," and straight away I know where this is coming from. We stopped by my place on the way here to pick up my mail and my phone messages, the way we do every couple of days after a shift, and he hasn't wanted to come in there the last few times we've done it; he's sat outside in the truck, and he's been silent practically all the way back here. "You still pay rent on it, you haven't been back there since - uh - what happened to you," and I know from the way he speaks that it still hurts him to think about that night. "Every time I take you back to your place I keep thinking about you being on your own there."

"I'm not there now, though, man."

"You could be," he says, almost under his breath. "You could leave and go back there, you could do it any time," and he sighs quietly before he looks round at me. "If I asked you to give it up, would you do it?"

Whoa, I think, and we look at each other while a dozen different things crowd my mind at once. I think of how he must have agonised over this, how he must have thought about what it would mean - and I want to look away, because what's in his eyes is making that band tighten round my chest. I remember what I used to believe Nick wanted, the whole 'happy ever after' that I didn't think a guy like me could even think about having - and then my mind goes back to that session again, to something I said that I've never really forgotten.

"I'm used to it now, having him looking after me, and I don't know if it's fair on him for me to keep letting him look after me and use him as a crutch because I'm too scared to go home and manage by myself."

Is that what this really is for me? Because I can't have changed that much, can I? From someone who was never with the same guy more than a handful of times to someone who stays with the same one his whole life - because I know that's what it'll mean if I say yes.

"Greg? Say something, please," he says in that near-whisper, and it makes me realise how long I must have been sitting there without speaking. "Oh, God, I've freaked you out, man, I'm sorry."

"Do you want me to answer now?" I ask him, wishing that lump wasn't back in my throat again. "'Cause I can't."

"Can you think about it?" he asks me; when I nod, he smiles at me, and when he does that I have to swallow hard. He holds out his arms and I move into them, sliding down into his lap the way I've been doing for longer than I can remember - and as I feel him stroking my hair I'm glad he can't see my face, because for the first time in weeks I'm crying.

However much this scares him, it scares me too.

What do I do now? How do I get past this? How do I go to work every night and go into the lab asking him for results without thinking about what we had? When will it stop feeling like I'm choking every time I remember what it felt like to kiss him? This is worse than before; it hurts so much more now, because I know what it feels like to be what I know I need to be, and now it's been taken away - and I'm not doing it again, because there won't be anyone else. Not after him.

"You got the results on the blood from the Andrews house?"

"It'll be another fifteen minutes; I'm working on something else." He doesn't look at me, and I'm mumbling something about coming back later as I walk out and head for the locker room, praying there won't be anyone in there to see me crying -

I wake up then, sucking in a huge gulp of breath, and he's gone - I'm alone in bed, and I sit up with tears from my dream drying on my cheeks. I reach out and place my hand on the space where he went to sleep, and the sheet's cold; it's a long time before I can move, but eventually I get out of bed and walk into the living room.

He isn't there either, but one of his T shirts is draped over the back of the couch. I pick it up and press it to my face, closing my eyes, and it's like I'm back in bed with him, holding him and breathing in the scent of shampoo and soap; I sink down onto the couch, still holding the shirt, and I know I must look like some kid with a blanket who's afraid of the dark, but right now I don't care.

It hurts not having him here.

Oh, it's different at work. I know the others are looking out for him when I'm not there, and the Greg we all knew before he was attacked is coming back - two nights ago I saw him going through the routine of pulling some lab results out of his sleeve for Warrick, and I never thought I'd be so glad to see him doing stuff like that. Even at work, though, there'll be times when I'll come back from a crime scene and I'll be sweaty and dirty and stressed out - then he'll stick his head out of his lab and smile, and all of a sudden it's like someone wrapped me in a blanket. But it's here, where it's just the two of us, where I've held him when he's cried and been there when he's woken screaming in the middle of the night...

Why did I ask him what I asked after our shift ended this morning? Why? Why couldn't I have just let things go on the way they have done for five months?

Because I don't like lying awake at night - oh, he thinks I'm asleep, but he's not right about that as often as he thinks - thinking about him leaving, and the way I'm feeling right now brings that home to me in spades.

Greg, where are you?

******************

I don't know when I fell asleep on the couch, but it's still light outside - Christ, I hate working nights, it screws up my body clock like you wouldn't believe - when the sound of the front door opening wakes me up. I push myself up slowly and he's standing in the doorway looking at me; he's got a bag in one hand with a Denny's logo on the side, and even though the light isn't on in here there's enough sun coming through the open door for me to see that his eyes are almost puffed shut from crying. How could he drive like that? I ask myself, and out of all the things I could be thinking right now this is about the most stupid, but it's the only one that doesn't wrack me with guilt, because if it wasn't for what I asked him he wouldn't be feeling like this.

"Where have you been?"

"Don't know," he says; he sounds like he has a heavy cold when he speaks, and I know it must be hurting him to get each word out. "I kept driving until I nearly ran out of gas, I don't even know where I went, and then I thought, Nick's gonna want something to eat when he wakes up, so I - I..." He drops the bag on the floor then, because his hands are shaking too much to do anything except cover his face; I'm on my feet and across the room in seconds, catching hold of him and wrapping my arms round him as he tells me he's sorry over and over, and each word cuts me to the quick.

*********************

"I was talking to Jack," he says after a long silence; we're on the couch with his head resting in my lap, and I've sat holding him and stroking his hair until he was calm enough to speak again. "I said - um - I didn't know if I was here because it was easier for me to let you look after me than go home on my own, and he asked me if I wasn't really just scared because I was becoming emotionally involved with you," and I hear a long, drawn-out sigh before he goes on in a tiny, whispery voice. "I told him we didn't have a relationship, not then, but - that was the day I came home and I kissed you, you remember that?"

"Yeah, I do."

"It never really felt like that with anyone else I've been with," he says softly. "And I guess I knew then, I just didn't say anything - I've been lying awake thinking about what would happen if I stayed here, and then when you - when you asked me to give up my place, it really made me think about what it meant."

"What do you think it means?"

"Happy ever after," he tells me. "The dog and the kids and the picket fence, right?"

"I want to be with you," I answer quietly, brushing the back of my hand along the side of his face, and he looks up at me. "I wanted that before any of this happened, what that man did to you doesn't change anything - but I don't want a dog," and he manages a weak smile despite the tears. "I want kids, but I don't want them right away," I continue, and I run my fingers gently through his hair. "This is all freaking you out, isn't it? Not just because of what happened to you, but because you've never been with anyone this way before..."

"Never more than a night or two," I hear him say quietly, and he reaches up to curl his fingers round my wrist. "You don't get hurt that way."

"Do you think that's what I'm going to do?" I ask him, and he shakes his head; he leans his head towards my free hand, and I curve my palm round his face. "I'm not going to rush anything," I continue after a long silence. "If you don't want to give your place up, you don't have to," and I look down at his tear-streaked face. "Just tell me you want this, and we'll work it out."

*************************

This week's tired me out more than I thought, because I open my eyes again to find it's starting to get dark outside; he isn't lying in my lap any longer, but I can hear his voice coming from the direction of the bedroom. I stand up and walk along the hallway, and I stand a foot or so from the half-open bedroom door; I can see him sitting on the edge of the bed, his cell against his ear, and since he's got his back to me he doesn't know I'm there.

"No, I know I haven't," he's saying to whoever's on the other end of the line. "Yeah, well, I - uh - I've kinda met someone. Yeah, I guess it is getting serious - so how long would I-? Yeah? No, I think I probably could. Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow, Dave. 'Bye." He hangs up and turns towards the door, and his face has changed somehow; his eyes are still swollen and bloodshot, but the tension that was in them isn't there any longer. "How much of that did you hear?" he says, and he doesn't have to struggle to smile. "He had someone call him to see if he had any units to rent, and he says if I can be out by Friday..." and he looks up at me. "Can I?"

"We've got two days off," I tell him, sitting down next to him. "You could be out of there tomorrow - how much stuff do you have to move?"

"Not a lot," he says as he puts the phone down on the nightstand and leans against my side. "Just about everything I want is here already," and as I lower my head to kiss him the dream I had slips away like smoke.

"Somebody else wanted to rent this?" Nick asks me as he looks at the line of ants walking across the kitchen floor. "I don't know how you lasted this long."

"I can't seem to kill those things, no matter what I use," I tell him, feeling my face burning when I think of how different his apartment is to this one; he puts a hand on my shoulder then, smiling at me as if to tell me I don't have to worry about the ants any longer, and I return the smile for a moment or two before I open one of the cupboards; I start rummaging inside it, taking out one thing after another and setting it on the counter, and after a while I hear him chuckle behind me. "You lose something?"

"I never did this before," I say as I stare down at the counter. "Moved in with anyone, I mean - I don't know what I'm supposed to bring, I've got all this stuff in here..."

"Hey," he says quietly, stepping behind me and wrapping his arms round me. "I never did it before either, man," and he kisses the back of my neck. "You still got any beer in that fridge? Get us one each and we'll have a drink before we start."

"It's nine in the morning."

"We've been working nights, we're entitled," he says as he lets go of me and I walk the few feet to the fridge. Sure enough, there is some beer left in there - two cans - and as I pass one of them to Nick I catch myself smiling. "That's better," he says, knocking his can against mine before he opens it, and when I do the same I feel better then I have in a long time.

************************

Nick's got the landlord helping him carry the TV down to the truck, and I'm in the bedroom putting things into an empty box. There isn't really that much left here now - most of my clothes are over at his place already, and I figure anything I haven't worn in five months doesn't need to come with me; I've filled two garbage bags with things I'm not keeping, and the built-in closet's empty before I turn to the nightstand - Nick said I should bring that, because he's only got one in his bedroom - and open the top drawer.

I take the case out and hold it on my lap without opening it - I don't have to, because I know the things in it like the back of my hand. The horsehair flogger Dan gave me on my last birthday, the plug, the beads...I sit there running my fingers over the lid of the case and thinking about all the motel rooms and apartments it's been taken to, how the things in it have been used on people whose names I've forgotten or never learned in the first place - then there's a noise in the doorway and I look up to see Nick standing there clutching his right hand with his left.

"Got any bandaids?" he asks me. "I scraped my hand on the wall taking the TV down - what have you got there?"

"Nothing," I tell him, because he isn't ready for any of these things, we're starting right from the beginning here - and all at once I know that if he's never ready, if it's just me and him and no props, that'll be fine. I get up and cram the case into one of the garbage bags before tying it shut, and then I walk towards him. "Come on, let's go and get that hand cleaned up."

************************

I leave the keys on the kitchen table and take a final look around the apartment; I don't feel anything now I'm leaving for good, but that doesn't surprise me. It's been like an airport or a bus station, a place I've spent time in before I go to places that mean something - it's never been a home, not like the place I'm going to now will be.

I step outside, slamming the door shut behind me, and the '0' of the number 10 falls off onto the doormat; I laugh under my breath and take the stairs two at a time down to the parking lot where Nick's waiting in the truck. I climb into the passenger seat and fasten my seatbelt before I turn and look at him, and when he grins at me everything slips into place.

"Ready to go home?"

"Yeah," I say, and he turns the key in the ignition. The radio comes on at the same time, that damn Country and Western station he always has it tuned to, and even though I've teased him about it a thousand times I don't today - I'm used to it now, it's one of the things that always seems to make me think of him when I come across it somewhere else, and as we leave this parking lot for the last time I lean back in my seat and smile.

**************************

There wasn't much in the fridge, but neither of us wanted to leave the apartment again, so Nick went through the takeout menus in one of the kitchen drawers and we ordered in. The kitchen table's covered with cardboard containers, and I wouldn't have believed I could eat so much at once; every so often I look over at the boxes stacked in the living room, and whenever Nick catches me doing it he says something about unpacking them tomorrow.

"I'm done," I tell him, putting my chopsticks down. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to eat anything else for days, man."

"No, we have to do these first," he says as he reaches into the paper bag the food was delivered in; he brings out the fortune cookies, passing one of them over to me, and I can't stop myself smiling. "What?"

"Nothing," I say, and when he raises his left eyebrow I feel my face heating up. "It was something - uh - something I used to do with this guy I saw from time to time, that's all," and I push my chair back. "I'll go make us some coffee, okay?"

"Hey," he says quietly, catching hold of my hand before I can get up. "It isn't going to freak me out hearing you talk about it, Greg - we've both been with other people, we can't exactly pretend we haven't, can we?" and he rubs his thumb over my palm as he smiles at me. "Tell me about the fortune cookies."

"Andy used to say you had to read them and then put 'in bed' after whatever it said," I tell him. "Told you it was nothing."

"One of my brothers told me that one," he says with a grin, letting go of my hand and tearing open the wrapper before snapping the cookie in half and removing the strip of paper. "A transaction with a family member will prove to your advantage," he reads out, and he chuckles as he looks at me. "Let's have a look at yours now, it can't be worse than that." I open mine and pull out the paper, and once I've unfolded it and read what's on it I pass it to him in silence, because I know I'm blushing now.

Someone close to you will appreciate your skills.

*************************

This is the last fence, and it's the hardest one to break down.

He was always so hesitant when he kissed me at first, but he hasn't been for a while now; his hands used to shake, too, and I'd have to hold them still, but that doesn't happen any longer. He'll be leaning over me looking at me when I wake up, and as I open my eyes he'll kiss me and run his fingertips along my inner forearm - and he's hardly touching me when he does it, but I still feel it all the way down to my toes. He might be new to this, but he already knows how I need to be touched; it would be so easy to lead him further, and I want to more and more - but every time I think about doing it, I remember what Lowe said as I was leaving the preliminary hearing and the fence gets higher.

"See you soon, pretty boy."

And that's what's held me back, that handful of words he whispered that I haven't told anybody about; that's what keeps me wearing sweatpants and a T shirt to bed, that's what keeps me from letting Nick see me naked. I'm so afraid that if I let myself go further, that if we're together the way I know he wants us to be, it won't be his face I see or his hands I feel - I'm afraid I'll be back in that dirt lot again, back where this all started, and that's the thing that stops me from following my heart and letting go.

I'm standing in the bedroom, wearing Nick's tattered grey sweatpants and holding a T shirt in one hand, listening to water running on the other side of the wall; all of a sudden I wonder if he's doing the same thing I've been doing lately - standing in the shower and jacking off, the way I did back when I was fifteen and I didn't have any other outlet - and the image makes my mouth go dry. Before I know what I'm doing I've dropped the T shirt on the floor and stepped out into the hallway, my bare feet making no sound as they sink into the carpet; it takes me forever to walk the half dozen steps to the part way open bathroom door, it's like I'm going in slow motion - and with every step I take I'm torn between praying for the shower to stop running and wanting it to keep running so badly it hurts me. I'm scared of this, but in this moment I want it more than I fear it; then I step from carpet onto tile, I shut the bathroom door behind me and it's out of my hands.

The black and white check shower curtain's pulled around the bathtub, and clouds of steam are billowing over the top. My hands are shaking so much I have to take a deep breath and steady myself before I can pull the sweatpants down and step out of them, and then I take three more of those moving-against-the-tide steps to reach the tub.

He's got one hand on his head rubbing shampoo into his hair when I pull the curtain back and put one leg over the side of the tub; the rattling of the curtain rings against the shower rail makes him turn his head towards me, and God, the look in his eyes. Nobody's ever looked at me with this much longing before, and suddenly I'm frozen; he reaches out with his free hand, pulling me the rest of the way in, and then he closes the curtain again.

I open my mouth to speak, but he's kissing me before I get a single word out. He latches one hand in my hair and places the other in the small of my back, finally bringing me skin-to-skin with him; I don't know how he can stand to have the water this hot, it's making me break out in a sweat, or is that because of how close I finally am to him? My head's spinning, I can't feel anything now except his mouth on mine and his hand in my hair and how hard he is against my belly; we break apart then, and I can't do more than suck in a breath before he kisses me again. Touch me, Nick, please, I'm begging in my head as he pulls my lower lip into his mouth and bites it, and before I can reach for the hand resting in the small of my back he's moved it himself. His fingers curve round me, and he's unsure for only a second or two, because he knows, he always has, he was just waiting for me to be ready... I reach between our bodies and take hold of his cock, unconsciously rubbing my thumb over the tip before my fingers slide down to the base; he tears his mouth away from mine, and I hear a guttural whisper of, "Ah, fuck, Greg," as he arches his hips forward against my hand. We lean sideways against the wall, water streaming down on us, and we find a rhythm as his strokes move in counterpoint to mine; and I don't see Lowe as my legs begin to buckle and white light flashes behind my eyes, it's Nick and it always has been.

****************************

His touch changes again while we're standing under the shower letting the water clean us off; it's the gentle stroking of fingertips along my inner forearms as I stand there with my eyes closed, not sure I can move just yet, and when he kisses me it's the soft flickering of his lips and tongue against my mouth before his hands move to cup my face. "You all right?" he whispers, and when I nod he draws my head forward against his shoulder with one hand while he turns the water off with the other. "Bed?"

"Yeah."

*****************************

He reaches to turn the light off and then rolls back towards me, drawing me against him. I slide one leg forward between his, pressing my head against the hollow of his throat as his arms go round me in the dark. He runs his fingers lazily through my hair, and I let the fingernails of my right hand scratch gently at the back of his neck; it's something I know he likes, and when my ears pick up a sleepy murmur of pleasure I can't help smiling.

All we did was touch each other tonight, but it worked, just like I know everything else will eventually; the last fence is gone, and things are going to be okay.

The smoke alarm wakes me, and almost before I realise I'm alone in bed I've swung my feet down onto the floor and I'm heading down the hall; the smell of something burning gets stronger with every step I take towards the kitchen, and when I look round the door I have to bite my lip to stop myself smiling.

"I was trying to make breakfast," he says sheepishly as I poke a broom handle at the button on the smoke alarm in order to reset it, and he jabs a spoon at whatever's burned to a crisp in the skillet. "I wanted to do something for you for once." He's put my sweatpants on but he isn't wearing a shirt, and when I look at the smooth lines of his bare chest I can't help thinking about what happened in the shower last night; I smile at him and close the distance between us, wrapping my arms round him from behind and kissing the back of his neck as he lets the spoon fall from his hand.

"Just accept the fact you can't cook worth a damn," I say in his ear, and he laughs softly as he leans back against my chest. "What's in that skillet, anyway?"

"They were eggs when they went in there," he tells me, letting his hands rest on top of mine. "I'm not sure what went wrong after that."

"What else is in the fridge?"

"Three Cokes, a carton of milk and last night's leftovers," he says. "That's pretty much it."

"We could go out and eat something and then get groceries," I reply, realising how long I must have put off doing it. "We don't have to get ready for our shift for hours yet, we've got time," but while I'm speaking I'm thinking about leaving this place - these few square yards of space where it's just us - and realising I don't want to do it before I have to. "All depends on how hungry you are, man."

***********************

He decided he wasn't hungry enough to go out, so we each took a Coke out of the fridge and went back to bed; the TV we brought from his apartment yesterday is sitting on top of the dresser until we can buy a stand for it, and while it's tuned to the local news we're not really watching it. He's taken the sweatpants off again, and he's curled against my side with his arm across my chest; every so often he'll lean up and kiss me, his fingertips running lazily up and down my arm, and every time he does it the things that happened five months ago are pushed a little bit further away.

"We've really done it, haven't we?" he says in a soft, half-asleep tone, and I tighten my arm round his shoulders and tell him we have; I can hardly believe it myself, after all the years I spent hiding how I felt and the months after Greg was attacked when I thought he'd never trust anyone enough to let them get this close again. I let my mind go back to how it was with Alison, how I pulled out all the stops and did what everyone expected because I thought it would be easier that way - but I realise that now, lying in bed drinking Coke in an untidy room full of boxes that haven't been unpacked, I'm happier than I've been in a long time.

You can never really get comfortable on a hospital chair, can you? I've been sitting here for what seems like hours, though I doubt it's really any more than about twenty minutes, and no matter how many times I get up and then sit down again I always get a cramp in the small of my back; I think of how Nick stayed in the chair next to my bed all that time, and I can't imagine how he got any sleep at all.

Damn, I wish he didn't have to be in court giving evidence on that murder case this morning. I know I told him I'd be okay doing this by myself, that I understood he couldn't come with me - and I do understand, but it doesn't stop me wishing he was here, because I'm scared.

He says no matter what happens this morning it won't change anything, and I want to believe him with all my heart, but I -

"Mr. Sanders," the doctor says, stopping in front of my chair with a manila folder under one arm. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, would you like to come in?"

*********************

I get out of the taxi at the apartment building - no, my car isn't in the shop again, but somehow I didn't trust myself to drive today - and I hand the driver the first bill I find in my wallet without looking at it; it must be enough to at least cover the fare, though, because he thanks me and heads out of the parking lot.

I reach into my pocket for my keys and I walk into the lobby, wondering why the lights are suddenly so bright and why my hands are shaking. I'm stepping into the elevator when there's a shout of, "Greg! Wait!" and when I turn round Nick's running towards me; he's wearing the suit he put on to go to court while I was still in bed, but the tie's missing and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. I put my arm out to stop the elevator door closing, and he joins me in the tiny mirror-walled space; he waits until the door's closed and we've started moving, and then he puts a hand on my shoulder - and the look on his face brings a lump to my throat, because it reminds me that he must have sat in court this morning feeling exactly the same way I did while I sat in that plastic chair at the hospital.

"Well?"

"I'm fine," I tell him, and I know my voice is cracking. "No hep, no AIDS, nothing." He puts his other hand over his mouth, tears spill down over his fingers, and that's when I come unglued myself. "Nick, don't, man, please," I manage to say, and I lean into him while I drape an arm round his neck; we hang onto each other and he hugs me until I can hardly breathe, and when the elevator opens onto our floor we stumble out to collapse against a wall. "I'm sorry," I tell him, leaning away to rub my eyes with the back of one hand. "I got good news, what am I crying for?" but he shakes his head to stop me saying anything else; I hear him saying something about getting me home as he puts an arm round my shoulders to guide me along the hallway, and I've never been so glad that we've pulled the same night off.

*********************

I'm stretched out on the couch watching a 'MASH' rerun while Nick's taking a shower, and all of a sudden everything dies; the TV winks out, the lights go off, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself smiling when there's a shout of, "What the hell?" from the bathroom.

"Not me, I swear," I tell Nick when he walks into the living room with a towel round his waist. "I was just sitting here."

"It'll come back on," he tells me, and he sits down on the arm of the couch. I lean up and brush my lips across the still-damp skin over his ribcage; when he runs his fingers through my hair, tugging at it gently, I close my eyes as I think of what the news I got today really means.

He said no matter what the result was it wouldn't change anything, and I know he meant that - but it does change things for me, because I don't have to worry about stopping any longer. It's been harder and harder for me to pull back the last few weeks; what happened in the shower the night I moved in wasn't only the start of things for him, it was a start for me too - because it isn't just about biology now. Whenever I touch him he gets this far-off look in his eyes, he'll say my name like he's out of breath, and it pulls at something inside me - and it's never been that way with anyone else I've ever been with, even if I was doing things with them that Nick might never be ready for.

"This is ridiculous," he says, and I open my eyes from the half-sleep I must have drifted into. "I'm gonna call downstairs and see what's going on." He gets up from the arm of the couch, and he walks across the room to where the phone sits in its cradle on the wall; I follow him and stand close enough to touch him, scratching gently at the nape of his neck as he dials a number and begins to speak.

"Rob? Hey, it's Nick Stokes up on seven, what's with the power? Oh, man, you're kidding me, right?" and he sighs. "Yeah, we may just do that - okay, thanks."

"What happened?"

"One of the idiots working on the underground parking extension drilled through some cables," he says. "Might be late tonight or tomorrow morning before they can fix it, he said we might want to think about spending the night in a motel," and he sighs again. "Damn it, it's our night off, we're gonna have to walk down seven flights of stairs..."

"Can we stay here?" I ask him before I can stop myself, and I lean my head forward against his shoulder. "Please?"

"There won't be any AC if the power doesn't come back on," he tells me. "You know how hot it is outside, we'll roast."

"Yeah, I know." Please, I'm thinking, please read me like you always seem to, please understand why I need to be here tonight. Thinking about being in a motel makes me remember anonymity, the emptiness I always felt afterwards, and if there was ever a time I didn't want to feel that it's now.

"If we get heat stroke, you know I'll blame you," he says, and he chuckles softly, but the way he clasps my hand when I reach round to place it on his chest tells me he knows, and I smile against his skin. "You hungry?"

**********************

I brought my old radio cassette player with me in one of the boxes when I moved in for good; I've had it since I was about eighteen and it's been dropped so many times it's held together with duct tape, but it's got batteries in it, so I tune it to the station Nick always listens to in the truck before I put it on the kitchen counter.

He makes roast beef sandwiches, which is about all he can manage from the contents of the fridge without any power to cook, and we sit at the kitchen table to eat them; we chase them down with a can of beer each, we listen to Travis Tritt singing something about a stranger dealing five card stud, and almost without realising it we stop talking. Every so often he'll look across the table at me, and when I let my eyes lock with his there's that lurch inside me - it's the way it was when I was seventeen or eighteen, and I was really getting a clue as to what this was all about. "Like someone punched you in the stomach", that's what I remember telling Nick, and once you've felt that you never forget it - you know you want something, you want it so badly you ache, but you're scared you won't know how it all fits and that makes you ache even more...I push my chair back then, and I say something about dessert before I walk the few steps to the fridge; I open the freezer compartment and lean towards it, hoping the cold will hide the fact that my face is burning, and as I'm reaching in for the tub of ice cream a hand touches my shoulder.

I didn't hear his chair scrape on the floor, but he's standing right behind me now. "Leave that," he tells me quietly, and he draws me back against his chest as the freezer door swings shut again. I lean my head back against his shoulder, and I'm glad he's holding onto me right now, because I think my legs would give way if he wasn't; he's still wearing that towel round his waist, but he's so hard it feels like my clothes are the only thing between us. I start to say something, but I only get as far as, "What if I-" before he puts the fingertips of one hand across my mouth to silence me; he steps back, sliding his right hand down my left arm to bracelet my wrist, and as we walk out of the kitchen time seems to slow so much it almost stops.

*******************************

The blind's pulled down, and the only other light in the bedroom is what's filtering along the hallway through the living room window, which means we can hardly see each other. He's a shadow propped against the pillows as I stand at the foot of the bed and undress, and even though the air conditioning isn't on, I'm still shivering; I peel off the last of my clothes and climb onto the bed, crawling towards him until I'm close enough to be able to make out his face, and his eyes are so dark they look almost black. "Here," he says in a hoarse whisper, and it's the last thing he says for some time; seconds later I fall against him, his hands slide into my hair and latch on tightly, and his tongue traces my lips before slipping between them. Before the kiss has a chance to break I swing over him so I'm kneeling astride him, and the darkness in the room has heightened my senses like I wouldn't have believed; I swear I can hear the blood rushing beneath his skin as his inner wrists rest over my ears, and I feel like I'm burning at every point where my body touches his.

I arch forward, pressing my body lightly against his; he groans and lets his head fall back, breathing hard, and when I push at one of his shoulders he slides further down the bed as though he's practically weightless. I kiss him again, hard, the kind of kiss that leaves your lips nearly bruised, and I rake my nails slowly down his left side; he arches off the mattress, straining up towards me, and he lifts one leg to hook it over my hip. I keep his mouth covered with my own for as long as I can, until I start to feel light-headed, and then I begin the trail at his jaw line - lapping at his skin and then blowing on it, grazing it with my teeth as my mouth moves down his throat and past his collarbone. He draws in a sharp hitch of breath as my lips wrap themselves around one of his nipples - it's so taut and so sensitive, and when I suck it into my mouth and flick my tongue across the tip there's a moan I can barely hear. I can't see his face now, but we've had enough nights like this one for me to picture it in my mind - his eyes half-shut, the heel of one hand pressed against his lips to try and muffle whatever sound he's making because he's still too new at this to be able to hide anything. He wants more, even though he won't say it, because he's trying to pull my hand away from his left hip now, and I know what he wants but I won't give it to him, not yet - because tonight's different, I know I don't have to pull back or stop, and this is going to go on until neither of us can stand it any longer.

"Greg - please..." That breathless gasping again when I slide further down the bed, licking a circle around his navel, and his cock's so hard now that it's pressed almost flat against his belly. I tilt my head and run the tip of my tongue along his length, from base to tip; he's already begun to leak drops of precum, and when I lap at them I hear a strangled inrush of breath as he clutches a handful of my hair tightly enough to make my scalp burn. "Please," he whispers hoarsely, and the need in his voice makes me wonder how I came so close to saying what if I can't do this when we were in the kitchen - this feels right, the two of us and this room and this bed, and when I lower my head to take him in my mouth the last six months suddenly seem so far away I can't remember them. His hand curves round the back of my head, guiding me the way he's gradually learned to, and as I wrap my lips round his cock his breathing deepens; it slows and becomes harsher as I let my teeth scrape over heated flesh, and his fingers tighten in my hair with every flick of my tongue. I cradle his balls in my palm, stroking the soft skin just behind them with a single fingertip, and he arches his hips up as I engulf him completely; I can hear a soft mewling sound but I don't know which one of us is making it, because every time he moans I feel it, and I'm so hard now I feel like I'm gonna come if I rub against the sheets one more time. I raise up, my mouth lifting nearly all the way off him, I can just make out the way his head's thrown back - and as I'm wishing with all my heart that I could see his face, the power comes back on.

He lifts his head to look at me, and I catch my breath at what I see; his face is flushed, and there's something in the way he looks at me that I know I'll never forget. "No," he says as I snake my tongue out towards the head of his cock again. "Please," and his eyes might be half-shut, but I don't have any trouble reading what's in them. He draws me up between his parted legs and kisses me, stealing nearly all my breath before he lets me go, and as I give in to the spiralling dizziness I suddenly know there isn't ever going to be anyone else.

And that's fine, because he's all I want.

I open the drawer of the nightstand to get a condom, and all at once my hands are shaking so much I can't get the packet undone; I close my eyes, trying to figure out why I can't do this when I want it so much, and then I feel the packet plucked from my fingers. He sucks me into a kiss without saying another word and I moan into his mouth when his fingers move over me, barely touching me as he rolls the condom onto me - but my senses are all on overload by now, and even a caress I can hardly feel is bringing me so close to the edge I can hardly stand it. I reach past him underneath the pillow to the place where I put the lube, and as I manage to open the cap he twists round so he's lying beneath me.

One slick finger goes inside him, then two, and we've done this so often now that I can read him like a book; I know exactly how to touch him now, how to carry him beyond speech, to make him muffle a cry in the crook of his arm - and just as he's beginning to lose it, I take my fingers away and begin to press myself gently into him. "Ssh, man, easy," I whisper against his neck as I pick up a soft whimper through the roaring in my head. "I got you," and I draw back ever so slightly, waiting for him to breathe out and relax - and then it all fits, I'm all the way inside him, and I close my eyes against the light and lean my head forward onto his shoulder. I just hold him for a long time, and when we do begin to move it isn't the old Greg who moved a bed against a wall hard enough to chip paint; it's a slow, gentle, steady rocking, but it's still enough to bring tears to my eyes because he's so hot and so tight and so fucking perfect and I've wanted this for so long now. I slip a hand in front of his belly, and when my fingers grasp his cock he groans and bucks into my hand; he arches back, meeting me as I slide forward, and the whole world's reduced to ragged breathing and whispered words that make no sense as it all becomes too much for either of us to hold on.

*****************************

We should turn the light off, we should put a clean sheet on the bed, we should take a shower - but doing any of those things means letting go of each other, even if it's only for a few moments, and neither of us can bear to do that yet. I moved just enough to pull out, and I'm still lying half on top of him; every so often I'll lift my head from his shoulder to kiss the side of his neck, and whenever I do that I think of three words he whispered right before he came that did make sense - and I might not be able to say them back yet, but I feel them, and somehow I think he knows that.

"Greg?" He murmurs my name so softly I hardly hear him, but I can still pick up the wavering emotion in the single word; I lean forward and whisper in his ear, words he doesn't understand, but they calm him somehow, and he turns his head to the side and smiles.

"Jeg vil aldri gå fra deg - jeg ville aldri klare det."

I won't leave you - I couldn't.

We saw the candy dish at Walgreen's when we stopped by there on the way home from our last shift, and I thought it was the most hideous thing I'd ever seen. It's made out of the kind of ceramic that looks as if it would break when someone breathed on it, it's shaped like a pumpkin with the top cut off and there's a little witch with a broom stuck to the side of it - and now it's sitting on our kitchen table brimming with candy, or at least it's brimming for the moment.

"Will you stop eating those?" I say, and Greg looks up with a guilty smirk; his lips are smeared with chocolate, and as he gets up he crams a crumpled wrapper into the pocket of his jeans. "I don't want to go back there for candy tonight, you saw how long the lines were at the checkout this morning."

"There's tons here, man come on." He licks the chocolate off his lips, locking his eyes with mine while he does it, and even though the glance only lasts a few seconds it's enough to make heat rush into my chest. "How many kids did you get at the door last year, anyway?"

"I never did this before," I tell him with a smile. "Most years I've been working, and the rest of the time - well, I was on my own, I never saw the point, you know?" and I see him smiling. "Oh, I bet you did it, though," I say, thinking about the turkey he made from a latex glove during a shift last Thanksgiving and the musical toy leprechaun he left in Grissom's office on St. Patrick's day. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"Every year," he says, stepping towards me and resting a hand on my hip. "Even in that fleapit building I was living in, I still put a paper skeleton on the door and had a jack o' lantern on the kitchen table - 'course, I ended up eating most of the candy myself, there weren't that many kids living there," and he smiles sheepishly. "Hey, it's a geek thing, what can I tell you?"

"No, it isn't," I tell him, and I draw him into a hug. He leans his head against my shoulder, and I smile into his hair; whatever else we might be doing now these are still the moments I love most, when I can just hold him, because there was a time that seems so long ago now when I thought I'd never get to do it.

****************************

The doorbell rings, and before I can get off the couch to answer it Greg sprints along the hallway from the bedroom - he's wearing a black and white striped prison uniform, the little cap crammed onto his head and a plastic ball and chain dragging from his right ankle, and I have to cover my mouth to hold back laughter. He grabs the dish of candy out of the kitchen, and then he moves to open the front door while I watch from the couch; I see him crouch down, speaking quietly before his hand dips into the dish, and there's a high-pitched "Thank you!" before the door closes again and he turns back towards me.

"What?"

"Nothing," I tell him with a smile, and I motion to the empty space on the couch; he sits down next to me with the dish still in his hands, and when I put my arm round him he leans against my side. We don't speak for a long while, but there are times like this when we don't have to; then the doorbell rings again, he nudges me, and when I look round at him he gives me that lop-sided grin that always makes me melt.

"Go on," he says. "Your turn," and I get up off the couch before I take the dish from him; I cross the room, and when I open the front door my smile widens.

"Trick or treat!" Lindsey shouts, hopping up and down with excitement. "Hi, Uncle Nick!"

********************

"I'm sorry," Catherine says as I close the front door. "I told her you probably wouldn't even have any candy, but she made me bring her anyway."

"I'm Galadriel," Lindsey tells me, twirling round in front of me; she's wearing what looks suspiciously like a white nightgown cut to size, and there's a plastic crown on her head. "Does Greg live here, Uncle Nick?" she asks me, oblivious to the look on her mother's face. "He's always here every time we come and see you."

"Lindsey!"

"Yes, he does," I say as the doorbell rings again and Greg springs up from the couch. "You want to go help him hand some candy out? I'll see if I can find you and mommy something to drink."

***************************

Catherine's got to start a shift in two hours, so I leave the beer where it is and I make a pot of coffee; while it's brewing, I reach into the cupboard for mugs and a glass for Lindsey's juice, and then I turn back towards Catherine. She's sitting at the kitchen table with her hands clasped in front of her, and she smiles at me as I walk past her to the fridge. "So," she says, "exactly what's going on with the two of you?" I take milk and juice from the fridge slowly, buying myself time, and then I sit down opposite her at the table. I glance towards the living room, where Greg and Lindsey are standing at the front door; her head's tilted up towards him, and she's giggling at something he's saying - and all at once I remember something he told me weeks ago, when we were lying in bed at four in the morning unable to sleep.

"It was that night at Catherine's party just before Christmas - I looked round the door when you were reading to Lindsey, and I felt - I don't know, man, I can't explain it to you even now, but I couldn't get it out of my mind for days..."

"We're together," I say finally, after I've thought of all kinds of ways to explain it and then figured there's really only one that's going to work. "He quit his apartment two months ago, Cath, we're lovers." All at once, it sinks in that this is the first person I've told, and I push my chair back from the table. "I - uh - let me go get you that coffee, you've got to get Linds home before your shift."

"Nick, stop," she says, raising an eyebrow, and her lips curve into a smile. "What do you think I'm going to do? Grab my daughter up and never darken your door again?" She motions towards the chair, and I sink back onto it while she gets up and fetches the coffee pot and mugs from the counter; she fills two of the three mugs and slides one across to me before taking a sip from her own, and then she looks up at me over the rim. "Does he make you happy?"

"Yeah, he does," I tell her, and I don't hesitate at all before I say it. I think of what I didn't believe I'd ever have - the stuff everyone else probably doesn't even think about, silly things like shopping for groceries and going out for breakfast after a shift and even handing out candy on Halloween - things that don't really mean anything by themselves but mean a hell of a lot more to me now because he's here.

"That's all I wanted to know," she says, and she reaches across the table to lay her hand on my wrist. "You need someone to make you happy, Nick, because I don't think you have been."

"No?"

"I bet you don't even remember this," she says after she's taken another sip of her coffee. "Lindsey and I were coming out of Circus Circus one evening and I saw you with the woman you were dating - we came over and said hi to you, and you know what? You were smiling, you were holding her hand, but you had this look in your eyes that said you wanted to be somewhere else."

"She never saw it," I say quietly. "I kept hoping she was going to, because it just never felt right, even though I thought it would if I tried hard enough," and I look down at the table. "I just wanted what everyone else has, I didn't want to be alone."

"Hey, Nick," she says, "you don't need what everyone else has, you need what makes you happy," and when I look up at her she squeezes my wrist. "I know how things are with your folks, this can't have been easy for you to deal with."

"They don't know yet," I tell her. "You're the only person I've told, Cath," and I draw a deep breath while I look down at the table again. "You've got no idea how much it scared me, but I couldn't let him go home," I say eventually, and I break off as a shadow falls across the kitchen doorway.

"I'm thirsty, mommy," Lindsey says. "Can I have a Coke?"

"Uncle Nick only has juice," Catherine says matter-of-factly, ignoring the whining that follows, and she gets up again. "Greg, do you want some coffee?"

"Please," he says, moving to stand behind my chair; he begins to rub my shoulders the way he does whenever I'm tense, and he leans down to whisper, "You okay?" I nod and smile up at him, and just as Catherine sets a third mug of coffee on the table the doorbell rings again.

"I'll go!" Lindsey shouts, her voice high-pitched with excitement, and she runs into the living room; seconds later there's the sound of something breaking, followed immediately by a cry of, "Mommy! Mo-o-o-mmy!" I jump up and move swiftly in the direction of the noise, Catherine and Greg directly behind me, and we find Lindsey staring down at a mixture of candy and shards of orange china. "Mommy, I didn't do it, it fell by itself!"

"Told you that thing would break if someone breathed on it," I tell Greg triumphantly, and when he laughs the tension's broken. "I'll go find something to clean this up-" and as I pass Catherine on my way to the hall closet she smiles.

***********************

"You'll have to come for breakfast one morning next week," Catherine says as she and Lindsey stand in the half-open doorway, and she leans forward to hug each of us in turn. "Both of you," she adds as she steps away from Greg. "Come on, baby, we need to get you home," she tells Lindsey. "I have to get ready for work."

"I want to stay here, mommy," Lindsey says, her voice slightly scratchy with tiredness. "Greg has this really cool video game, he said-"

"We'll come back and visit again," Catherine says. "But you're not going to let her play "Silent Hill", Greg," she adds over her shoulder, and the door closes on her familiar laughter. We stand looking at each other in silence for a long time - and we're both smiling, because someone else knows about us and they're happy for us - and then Greg steps forward to lock the door and fasten the deadbolt.

"Bed?" he says, and I nod, even though it's only eight thirty.

**************************

It's one thing I don't thing I'm ever going to get tired of, and it's something that makes me smile when I think of it at the end of a gruelling shift when I'm stressed and tired and sweaty - the jigsaw-puzzle way we seem to fit together after we've finished making love, the way he lies facing me with one leg between my thighs and one of his hands cradling the back of my head. He's doing it now, with that slightly dazed look in his eyes and his hair tangled in clumps; the fingertips of his other hand are gently stroking my face, barely making contact, because he knows I'm so sensitive right after I come that I can hardly stand to be touched at all. I reach up to run my fingers through his hair, and he's opening his mouth to speak when the phone rings next to the bed; he closes his eyes and groans, letting his hand fall away from my face, and I hear him murmur, "Don't, Nick, please."

"I got to, man, you know it might be work," I tell him, and I keep one arm round him as I reach for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, Pancho, you're a difficult man to get hold of these days."

"I'm sorry, Cisco," I say, and when Greg hears the pet name he slips out of my grasp. I reach for his hand to pull him back, but he's already standing next to the bed with his back to me; he bends to retrieve his boxer shorts from the floor, and I watch him step into them before he walks from the room.

"Pancho? Did I lose you?"

"No, I dropped the phone," I tell him. "I was in bed."

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asks. "Are you still working nights?"

"Yeah, I am."

"I won't keep you on long, then," he says, and I can't help smiling; whether he's in court or at home, my father's always businesslike. "Your mother and I were wondering if we'd be seeing you for Thanksgiving this year."

"Thanksgiving? I don't think so," I tell him. "I got three days off last year, and I think I've pretty well used up all my vacation days this year already."

"I hope you'll try and make some time to come at Christmas, then," he says. "We don't see enough of you, Pancho, if you were still working in Dallas..."

"You know why I don't do that," I tell him gently. "I don't want people to value what I do because I'm Judge Stokes' son, I want them to value it because I do a good job."

"I know," he says. "You'll understand when you're a father - however old your children get it doesn't stop you wanting them to do well, even if they don't appreciate it," and I hear him chuckle softly. "Will you try and get here for Christmas? Even if it's only for a day or two?"

"I've got two days off the second week of November," I tell him, and as I speak I can feel my stomach knotting up. "Are you and mom going to be at the ranch then?"

************************

He's sitting on the couch with one of the control pads in his hands, staring at the screen as a ghost floats into the frame; he doesn't turn round as I sit on the arm of the couch, and the taut set of his shoulders tugs at my heart. "I heard you on the phone," he says quietly. "I was trying not to listen, man, I couldn't help it," and I see his shoulders sag. "Would you have gone there for Thanksgiving if you were still with Alison?"

"Hey," I say, trying to speak calmly around the lump in my throat. "Would you look at me? Please?" and he doesn't for a long time, but when his eyes lock with mine I can see he's trying not to cry. "You want to know what I said?" He looks at me in silence, and my heart's pounding, because I know that once I say what I'm about to say to him I won't be able to take it back - and I know I don't want to. "I'm going to go there when I have those two days off on the 11th," I tell him. "I want to talk to them without anyone else around, because I want to tell them that if I go back there for Christmas I'm taking you with me."

**************************

He finally went to sleep, his fingers latched in my hair as though I was going to leave if he let go of me - but I'm lying here in the dark, holding him and breathing in his scent and wondering whether he knows what really happened tonight.

He's told me all about his folks, and I know they're cool with him being gay; he takes it for granted now, and he's got no idea how much I envy him that - knowing that he hasn't got any standards to live up to, that they accept him for who he is, that if he took me to meet them they'd welcome me into their home because I was part of his life. He doesn't know what it's like for me, that I'm lying awake wondering whether the next time I go to Dallas is going to be the last...

"Nick?"

"Thought you were asleep."

"Not when you can't keep still," he says in a groggy, half-awake voice; he hooks a leg over my waist and leans into me, wrapping an arm round my neck, and I close my eyes - and the last thing that passes through my head before I finally allow myself to sleep is something he told me a few nights ago. We were driving home after a shift, and I asked him what he said to me in Norwegian that first night we made love; he looked out of the passenger side window, but I remember seeing his reflection in the glass when he answered me, and he was smiling. "I said I won't leave you - I couldn't," he told me - and I don't think he can have any clue how much that means to me right now, because I'm so scared that after I go and talk to my parents he may be all I have.

I'm trying so hard to sleep, because I'm exhausted and I know I need to - but I can't, not without Nick here. I hadn't realised how much I'd gotten used to having him next to me in bed - even back when I still wore two layers of clothes because I was afraid to let him touch me - until I came home from my shift this morning and there was an empty space where he's been for so long it seems like for ever.

The alarm didn't go off yesterday and he nearly missed his flight; I remember driving the truck as fast as I could, praying we'd get to the airport before a cop pulled us over, and Nick didn't say a word the whole time. He just sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, and every time we stopped for a light he'd reach for my hand - and I wanted to turn and look at him, to tell him it was going to be all right, but I couldn't, because I was afraid I'd cry if I spoke.

We pulled up outside Departures, and he grabbed his bag and jumped out of the truck; before I could even open my mouth to speak he was gone, and that's the image sticking in my mind now - watching his back as he dashed through the automatic doors, his bag slung over one shoulder, disappearing from sight as the idiot in the Mercedes honked his horn behind me and I could hardly see to drive because my eyes had filled with tears.

I wish he'd at least have turned round so I could see his face.

**************************

After Catherine came over on Halloween night, we just started letting everyone else on the team know about us - well, when I say 'we', I mean Nick, because everyone already knew about me being gay, so I decided it was going to be up to him when to say anything. They were all cool with it, but then again I knew they were going to be; Sara even said she'd been wondering when we were going to say something, because she'd been suspecting it for ages. It was Nick who was worried it was going to change the way everyone looked at him, and when he realised that wasn't going to happen he was like a different person. Oh, it doesn't mean we started walking into work holding hands or kissed each other in front of everyone - there was a time when I used to do that with guys, but what Nick and I do is private, and I want to keep it that way - but Nick hasn't got that look about him any more, the one that says he's looking over his shoulder all the time. It's like he's finally gotten past what he believed while he was growing up and hiding what he really felt, while he was in the lab watching me and not daring to say anything all that time - and even though I liked the Nick I knew before we told everybody, I like this Nick even more.

*************************

He hasn't called me since I dropped him off at the airport, and I know why he can't, but it doesn't stop me wondering if he's all right.

What are you doing now, Nick?

Are you still asleep?

Are you up early riding one of the horses?

Did you tell them yet?

I don't know how long I've been trying to get to sleep, because the blind's pulled down and I closed the bedroom door, so I can't see my watch; I know I'm so hard I'd come if I touched myself even once, and I can't figure out why, because I'm lying here with my eyes closed and I can feel tears running out of the sides of my eyes into my hair.

Is loving somebody supposed to hurt you this much?

That's another reason I wanted Nick to turn and face me when he got out of the truck, so I could finally tell him. I've had so many chances to say it, especially in the last few days before he flew to Dallas when he could hardly eat and he'd toss and turn instead of sleeping; I'd wrap my arms round him and say the words in my head, the way I've done more times than I can count now, but I couldn't make myself say them aloud. Maybe that's why I'm crying now, because I'm thinking that if I'd told him he'd have felt better about going to see his folks - but maybe it's just the fact that I feel guilty because he could say it and I couldn't, even though I wanted to.

I roll onto my stomach and clasp the pillow with both hands, burying my face in it and trying to ignore the ache in my groin at the same time; I listen to the noise in the apartment overhead, it sounds like someone's riding a bike up there for Christ's sake, and if I dream when I finally manage to sleep I don't remember it.

*********************

The noise of the bedroom door opening wakes me up, and when I lift my head from the pillow I can see a shadow in the doorway. "Nick?" I say, screwing the heel of one hand into my eyes; I push myself upright, wondering if I'm dreaming this - because he shouldn't be back yet, I'm not supposed to go get him from the airport till tomorrow - and when he speaks, I realise I'm not.

"Don't put the light on," he says, and his voice is flat and dead; there's no feeling behind the words at all, and my spine turns to ice as I think oh God, it went wrong. I lie there and hear the sound of his shoes hitting the floor one after the other, and then the bed creaks; he climbs under the covers, still wearing the rest of his clothes, and when I put a hand on his shoulder he turns to cling to me like he's drowning. He buries his face in my neck and begins to cry - harsh, guttural sobs, each one sounding like something's being ripped away from him - and all I can do is hold him; I don't tell him it's going to be okay, because something tells me he won't believe that right now, I just hang onto him as he cries, and the fact that he's going through all this for me breaks my heart.

********************

I open the cupboard next to the stove and find the half-empty bottle of Jagermeister I brought with me in one of the boxes from my apartment, and I grab a juice glass out of the dishwasher. I walk back into the bedroom and climb into bed before I fill the glass about a third of the way and pass it to Nick; his hands shake so badly that half of what's in the glass spills down his shirt, but he swallows the rest at a single gulp, and even though he screws his eyes shut at the taste he holds the glass out again. I pour him some more and watch him knock it back before I set the bottle on the nightstand, and I take the empty glass from his hand; I place it next to the bottle, and then I take his hands between mine. "Talk to me," I say, and he stares at me with bloodshot eyes. "Whatever happened, I want to hear it."

"Oh God," he says softly, his voice dry and cracked as though he's got a sore throat. "We sat down to dinner last night, mom made pot roast, because that was always my favourite, even when I was a kid - we sat there and I said to myself, I can't hang onto this for another day, I have to tell them, right? So I waited till the three of us had started eating, and I told them I wanted to bring someone to the ranch with me for Christmas - and Cisco said that's great, who did I make an honest woman out of, was it the newspaper reporter I told him about back in the spring? And I - uh - I said no, it wasn't, it was someone I worked with, and then - I just told them, I said it was one of the lab techs," and he gulps in air before he continues. "I said - I said his name's Greg, he lives with me and we - we care about each other, and mom dropped her fork - and Cisco just got this look on his face, like he used to get if one of us brought home a bad report card, and he asked me if I was saying what he thought I was saying. So I said yeah, I'm gay, and his eyes - they were just cold, man, like I'd told him I killed somebody, and he said he wanted me to think very carefully about what I was saying," he tells me, and he starts to cry again. "He said he didn't raise any child of his to act like one of the degenerates he saw in court, and then he said do you see what you've done to your mother now, Nicholas, he didn't call me Pancho then, and I looked at mom and she was crying and saying no, Bill, can we listen to him - and he went on like she wasn't even there, he said I was never going to bring another man under his roof as long as he had breath in his body..." His voice tails off then, and he doesn't speak for a long time; when he does, he's almost whispering, and I have to strain to hear him. "I finished my dinner and then I went up to my room, I waited till they were asleep and then I got my things together - I called a cab and I went and sat in a coffee shop near the airport the rest of the night until I could catch a plane home," he says, and the image of him sitting in some all night diner by himself with this cuts me to the quick. "I'm the same person, Greg," he says in a tiny voice. "I'm still me, they can't stop loving me because of this," and I don't know what I can say to make him stop hurting, so I just pull him into my arms and hold him while he cries; after what seems far too long he's quiet again, and I stroke his hair until he lifts his head from my shoulder. "What happens now, man?" he asks helplessly. "What do we do?"

"I love you," I tell him, and I know I'm crying myself now, but I don't care. "We're just going to keep on the way we are," and I put a hand each side of his face and kiss him. His folks may come around, but they may not; in the meantime, we've got my family and the team and each other, and I'm going to get us through this.

"I love you, Nicky."

We drove to the airport straight after our shift, and we were both asleep before the plane even left the ground; I think we must have been sleepwalking when we changed flights in Atlanta, because I don't even remember doing that, and when we landed in Jacksonville Greg had to pinch me to wake me up. There was a rental car waiting for us at the airport, and I remember Greg digging me in the ribs when I asked him who'd helped him set all this up - he's usually so disorganised when he's not at work, though, he can barely make a grocery list without leaving the basics off it, and that's how I knew he must have worked hard on this.

He wouldn't tell me where we were going, not even then; he just cranked the air conditioning in the car and tuned the radio to a rock station before he started driving, and I was still so tired I didn't joke about his music the way I usually do. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, and the next thing I knew he was stroking my hair to wake me up - then I was looking at pillars and balconies that were so white they hurt my eyes, and when I got out of the car I could hear the waves rippling in the bay.

***********************

We dropped our luggage on the sitting room floor, and he shook his head when I opened my mouth to speak. He kicked off his shoes, and once I'd done the same he walked ahead of me to the next room; then he took my hands and turned me so my back was against the foot of the huge bed, carved oak reaching up to my waist, and between each piece of my clothing he removed he kissed me until I could hardly breathe. Please, I kept trying to say, I want to touch you, but every time I began to say it he'd kiss me harder, and when I sucked in air he'd whisper, "Shut up, let me do this," against my lips. So I held on to the carved posts at either end of the bed and let him, and everything went into slow motion after that; there was nothing in the world except his hands and his lips and his tongue, I lost count of how many times he pulled back when I was about to come because I couldn't stand it any longer - then he took his mouth off me again, I looked down at him just as he looked up at me, and I don't think I'll ever forget how he was then. He was kneeling at my feet, it was like his eyes were looking straight through me, there was this thin strand of liquid somehow threading from his lips to the head of my cock that broke when he whispered, "I love you, Nicky" - then his mouth was on me again, all warmth and wetness and the scrape of his teeth, and I couldn't have held back then no matter what either of us did.

I don't know how we actually got onto the bed after that, but I'm sprawled in the middle of it and he's lying across me with his head on my stomach; he's still dressed, and I haven't even touched him yet, but I know there'll be time for that later.

"Greg?" I say as I look up at the whirring ceiling fan, and there's a sleepy "Mm?" against my belly. "You want to go for a walk?"

"Later," he murmurs, like a tired child, and I smile, because I didn't really want to go anywhere yet either; I lie back against the enormous pillows stroking his hair, my ears picking up the sound of a horse drawn carriage going past in the street - and I know he couldn't have found a better place for us to be right now.

**********************

We're both working over Christmas itself, and in a way I'm glad about that, because the last few weeks have been difficult for both of us, and if we're working over Christmas we won't have to think about what happened.

There was one call from Dallas, just as I was getting ready to leave home for my shift the day after I flew back from the ranch; Cisco said I'd been headstrong in leaving before we could even discuss things, and I said there wasn't anything to discuss if he wouldn't accept Greg at the ranch for Christmas. He said he wasn't going to have my nieces and nephews exposed to such deviant behaviour, and that's when I really got angry - those kids mean the world to me, and for him to even suggest I'd do anything to hurt them showed me that he really had no idea what this was all about. "What do you think I'm going to do?" I shouted into the phone. "Fuck him under the Christmas tree with all of you watching? This isn't about sex, Cisco, I love him," and when he spoke again it was the same tone of voice he used back in November - he said that if I was going to use profanity it would be better if I took some time to calm down and think about what I was doing to my family before we continued this discussion.

That was the best part of six weeks ago, and I haven't spoken to him since - and I wouldn't have believed it was possible for something to hurt this much. I still love my folks, and what's happened doesn't change that; but they see me differently now, they think what I'm doing is wrong, and not being able to make them understand that loving Greg doesn't make me a bad person is breaking my heart.

But I know he loves me now, and that's keeping me going.

He could have gone home for a few days over Christmas, he had the chance to, but he said he knew I wouldn't want to be around someone else's family this year - especially his, because according to him he's the quietest one in the bunch - and he wasn't going to go without me. Besides, he said, there's always next year, and he smiled and hugged me when I got tears in my eyes at the thought that a year was going to go by and we'd still be together. I think he knew I wouldn't have wanted to go on a trip, too, because he didn't tell me we were going away until last night when we were getting ready for our shift and he told me to pack a bag.

Funny how he always seems to know exactly what I need even before I do.

***********************

I climb into the Jacuzzi and close my eyes, and now I'm smiling. The jets of hot water feel so damn good, especially after a four and a half hour plane trip combined with the two hours I spent during last night's shift jammed in the crawlspace of a house where someone dumped a dead body; I stretch my arms out around the corners of the tub, and I don't open my eyes a minute or so later when I feel Greg's feet rest over mine.

"You're thinking about work," he says quietly over the noise of bubbling water. "Stop it."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I just do," he says, and something ice cold touches my right cheek; I open my eyes then, and he's holding out a champagne flute.

"Where did this come from?"

"Found it," he says with a smile that tries to look innocent and doesn't succeed. "Okay, I had them put it on ice before we got here, and don't ask me how much it all cost," and he leans forward to straddle my lap as I take the glass from his hand. "I wanted to do this, you needed it," he tells me, touching his glass against mine. "And we're not going to talk about work or anything else while we're here, okay?" I ask him when he got so bossy, but there's a lump in my throat even though I'm smiling; and he can tell what I'm feeling, the way he always does, because he shakes his head to silence me before he kisses me, and neither of us says anything else for a long time.

*************************

I've been so stressed the last few weeks that I haven't eaten much, and it's not until I look down at the empty plate in front of me that I realise how hungry I must have been; the waiter asks us about dessert, and I exchange glances with Greg before we shake our heads. There's still half a bottle of Merlot on the table, and I refill our glasses before we sit back and look out at the bay; the sun's almost set now, and there are strings of lights on nearly all the boats. Some of them are red and green, and I can make out a Santa Claus attached to the mast of one boat - it is four days till Christmas, after all - and as I look at them I feel a hand resting over my right wrist. I turn my hand palm up, and I lace my fingers with his - and as we watch the boats we don't look at each other or say anything, but this is one of the times when we don't need to.

**************************

We leave the restaurant and walk the cobbled streets under a darkening sky, threading our way through the crowds of tourists, and at some point he tucks his right arm through my left; I don't even look at him, but I take hold of his hand and we keep walking - and like all the other little things that have happened without either one of us really noticing when, this just seems to fit.

I spot the tiny Mexican restaurant as we're standing looking at the huge wooden water wheel, and we manage to get one of the outside tables; I order margaritas, and when Greg sees the size of the glasses he grins slowly. "What are you doing, Nick?" he asks, almost under his breath, and he lets his eyes lock with mine as he licks at the salt on the rim of the glass. "Trying to get me drunk?"

"Do I need to?" I murmur in response, and I brush the toe of my shoe along his ankle; I hardly touch him, but it still makes him blush, and I smile when his hand shakes ever so slightly as he raises his glass to touch mine. "Merry Christmas," I say quietly. "Thank you for this," and I see his entire face light up. We drink in silence, watching people walking past us who've got no idea of what we've had to go through to get where we are, and I know I'm smiling too; in two days we'll have to go home, back to whatever weirdness the people of Vegas pull out of the hat this holiday season, but everything here is so perfect I'm not thinking that far ahead.

**********************

We're back in that huge carved oak bed, our legs still tangled together, and I reach over to brush his hair away from a forehead that's damp with perspiration; his eyes might be closed, but I know he isn't asleep, because he smiles when I touch him and I hear a soft noise behind closed lips. As I prop myself on one elbow and look at him, I think of how it used to be while I was hiding so much of myself - the girls I dated when I was a teenager, the nights when I was trying so hard to make things work with Alison, the feeling I always had that something was missing - and I know that what I've got now is that missing piece, the one you only really have when it goes past mechanics and you give your heart up as well.

He has to be able to see my face when I make love to him, and I know why; he may never get past that, either, and I know that too, but I don't care. All I have to do is think of how he looks up at me when I'm inside him, how his eyes seem to swallow me up, how he whispers, "Nicky, Nicky, Nicky," like he's saying a rosary - he's so vulnerable and defenceless then, but he trusts me enough to let himself lose control, and whenever it happens I know why I've let my life change.

I slip an arm round his shoulders then, and I bring him forward against my chest; he whispers something I don't catch as his head nestles against my shoulder, his fingertips brushing lazily up and down my side, and I reach out to turn off the light. We lie in the dark, lulled by the noise of the fan overhead and the waves outside the open window - and I know it can't be like this for ever, but it is for now, and that's enough.

Nick's just finished giving evidence in court on a kidnapping case; he called and said he'd be home in about fifteen minutes, and then neither of us has to be at work until tomorrow night. I'm standing in front of the stove wearing the black boxers with the radiation symbols on that he gave me for Valentine's Day, and I'm actually managing to make pancakes without setting the smoke alarm off; I open the fridge to get the syrup, and as I'm putting it on the table the doorbell rings. "What?" I shout as I take the skillet off the heat - Nick says if I set that alarm off once more he'll probably lose his security deposit - and I walk to the door. "Did you lose your key on the way home?" and I'm laughing as I draw back the bolt and open the door, but it's not who I thought it was going to be, and I suddenly feel like I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing.

"Are you Greg?" She's wearing a dark pants suit, and she hasn't got a hair out of place; she's carrying a bulging JC Penney carrier bag in one hand, and there's an expensive looking leather purse slung over her right shoulder. She must be in her sixties, I can tell that much by her greying hair and the tiny wrinkles round her eyes; other than that, I can't read her face, but I look at her eyes and I see the eyes of the man I love.

"You're Nick's mom, aren't you?" I manage to say, and my mouth's dried up. "He - uh - he's not here, he had to go to court," and all of a sudden I've got this horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Ever since the trip to St. Augustine, those three days that cemented what Nick and I had become, we've gone on and we've tried to forget everything that came before; our lives are work and the mundane things that happen when we're not at work, but we're happy because we have each other. But every so often I'll catch him crying when he thinks I've gone to sleep, and I'll just hold him and stroke his hair and wait for it to pass - and whenever I do it, I always wonder if he has any idea how much it hurts me to see him in so much pain.

And now - this.

"Could I come in?" she asks me, and I step to one side to let her in; I motion her towards the kitchen and pull out one of the chairs, and I watch her sit down before I mumble something about getting some clothes on and head for the bedroom. I pull on a pair of jeans and a T shirt, and I draw a deep breath before I walk back to the kitchen again; she's sitting with her hands resting on the table, she's twisting an envelope between her fingers, and all at once I'm scared to death.

"Can I - would you like some breakfast?" I ask her, and my tongue feels like it's sticking to the roof of my mouth. "I was making pancakes, do you want some?"

"I'd like that," she tells me. "Thank you," and I walk to the stove, where I fork up a stack of pancakes from the platter and set them on a plate; I put it down on the table in front of her, and then I sit down in the chair opposite her.

"Aren't you going to have any?"

"I'm not hungry," I say, because I know I couldn't swallow anything now if I tried. "Mrs. Stokes, are you here to tell me to leave Nick? Because I..."

"No, I'm not," she says quietly. "I'm here because he wrote me a letter."

**********************

Dear mom -
I know Cisco won't even bother reading this before he rips it up, which is why I addressed it to you.

I know you were shocked by what I told you in November, and I can understand that, but I want to try and explain it so it makes sense.

I've always known I was attracted to men, even when I was a teenager, but I was too scared to say anything, because I knew how you and Cisco would react. I thought I might stop having those feelings if I tried hard enough, so I kept going out with girls, but it didn't get any easier - but I kept doing it anyway, because the last thing I'd ever want to do is have you guys think badly of me, even if it meant I wasn't going to be happy.

I knew I felt something for Greg the first day I met him at the lab, but I didn't say anything to him, because I was too scared to. He's younger than me, and he was never afraid to let people know he was gay - and I figured he'd never want someone like me who couldn't even be open about what they were. Then something really terrible happened to him, and I just wanted to help him get through it - I didn't care if he never knew how I felt, I only wanted to let him know he wasn't alone, and once he was at my apartment I couldn't let him leave.

I wish you could meet him, because then you'd understand why I wanted to bring him to the ranch. He's smart, he's funny, and he's so strong - I know he wouldn't agree with that if I said it to him, but he IS, and whenever I look at him I still can't believe he wanted to be with me. I know what we have is something you and Cisco don't agree with, but it hurts me that you think I'm a different person because of it - I'm still your son, and I'd like you to be happy that I've found someone I love. If you don't accept him, I'll understand, but you need to realise that it won't change how I feel about him.

Nick.

It's dated three weeks ago, and it's been folded and unfolded countless times; I pass it back, my eyes swimming with tears, trying to imagine how often she's read it, and for a long time I can't speak and trust myself not to cry. "Mrs. Stokes," I say eventually, "I didn't ask him to do this, I want you to know that."

"Will you call me Jillian?" she asks me, and her voice is wavering just enough for me to pick up the emotion in the words. "Please."

***************************

"I was raped last March," I tell her once I've fetched us each a glass of orange juice from the fridge. "That's the thing he's talking about in that letter - I was coming out of a club, I'd had way too much to drink, and I was attacked in the parking lot," and I look down at my hands. "I don't know what you're gonna think about that, but..."

"I know you didn't deserve what happened," she says quietly. "I saw a lot of rape cases when I was a public defender, and I know nobody ever asks for that. Has it gone to trial?"

"Two weeks from now," I tell her, reflecting that I haven't been able to get the date out of my mind even though it's not written on the calendar pinned to the kitchen wall. "He's put up every roadblock he can think of, but it's going ahead."

"Are you getting help?" she asks me. "I know it's difficult for a man who's been raped to find someone he's comfortable talking to."

"Yeah, I - I have a good therapist," I say. "I used to go every week, but now it's-" and we both look round as we hear a key turning in the front door.

"Hey, man," Nick shouts, "sorry I took so long, I stopped and got breakfast," and then he steps around the half-open door; the paper bag in his right hand falls to the floor, all the colour drains out of his face and for a few seconds he looks as though he's going to pass out. "Mom?" he croaks, and he's standing next to her by the time she's risen from her chair; she reaches out and draws him into her arms, there's a single choked sob before he's silent again, and I look down and pinch the bridge of my nose to avoid tears of my own.

"Should I go?" I say, when the two of them have broken apart and I'm pretty sure I can trust my voice again. "I think you guys need some time to talk."

"No, man," he says, turning to look at me. "You're part of this, you stay."

**********************

"I sent that letter three weeks ago," Nick says. "I figured either Cisco recognised my handwriting and threw it away before you saw it, or - I don't know," and he sighs quietly. The pancakes went cold a long time ago, and we've moved to the living room; we've been sitting in there for I don't know how long, taking it in turns to fill in parts of a story that's lasted for more than a year now, and we've finally come to the end of it. The JC Penney bag had a bunch of Christmas presents in it, ones that his brother and sisters sent to the ranch thinking he'd be there for the holidays, and there was so much pain in Nick's eyes while he opened them that I could hardly bear to look at him.

"I can't tell you how many times I read it, Nick," his mom says, and she looks at us with those eyes that are so like her son's. "I haven't kept anything from your father in over forty years, and I never thought I would."

"Doesn't he know you're here?"

"No," is the answer. "You know how he is, Nick, he was raised a certain way, and he can't deal with what you told us."

"You were raised that way too," Nick says, staring down at his hands. "Why are you here and not him?"

"You're my son," she tells him. "I love you, and this hasn't changed that," and she reaches to take his hand. "I'm just sorry it took me so long to make the decision." She doesn't say anything else for a long time, and then she fixes her eyes on me. "Are you going to look after my boy, Greg?"

"We look after each other, ma'am," I say around the lump in my throat that's almost choking me, and I turn to Nick and smile; his eyes are red-rimmed, the way I know mine are, but he manages to smile back.

**********************

"Whatever you're going to say, don't," he tell me as he emerges from the bathroom, pointing a warning finger at me, but it's too late; the image of Nick wearing flannel pyjamas has already burned itself into my mind, and I can't stop laughing.

"Smartass," he says with a grin, drawing me into his arms. "Some day our grandchildren will give you presents like this, and you'll have to wear them once just so you can say you did."

"Grandchildren," I say. "Jumping ahead, aren't you, man? We haven't got kids yet."

"We'll get there," he says, and when I look at him I know he means it. We smile at each other, and then his mouth fastens onto mine; when the kiss eventually breaks and his eyes have darkened the way they always do when he wants me, I pluck at the first button of his pyjama top and say something about seeing how long it's going to take me to undo the rest of them - and by the time we're at the bedroom door, the hideous red and green fabric's lying in a heap two yards behind us.

AN: Huge thanks once again to Nina for linguistic help...what would I do without her? *g*

This is the worst part for me - the waiting, the sitting here with Griss at one side and Sara at the other while five women and seven men decide what happens now.

Mom called two days ago and offered to fly out here, but I looked across at Greg before I answered and he shook his head; he said he didn't want her hearing exactly what went on that night, and when I said it wouldn't change what she thought of him he just shook his head again and left the room. I told mom it wouldn't be a good idea, and she understood; she made me promise to call her as soon as there was a verdict though, and then she said something I still haven't told Greg about.

"You've got a good man there, Nick, you make sure you look after him."

God, I wish Cisco could see what she sees - that now I've got Greg I'm a different person, that I've got a reason for what I do, that I'm not lost any longer - but he's still behind the wall I struggled so hard to get over, and it breaks my heart to think he might never change.

Greg was so brave on the witness stand this morning, even though he'd finished a shift six hours before the trial and he hadn't slept - oh, he tried to, but he couldn't, and I held him in my arms to try and calm him down and didn't sleep more than ten minutes at a time myself. He knows what happened wasn't his fault now, and he didn't hang onto the railing in the witness box the way he did at the preliminary hearing; he had no colour in his face at all, but he was so strong, just like I told mom in the letter I sent her. He kept his cool with the defence attorney, even though the bastard did everything he could think of to try and shake him, and it was all I could do to sit there and say nothing; eventually he stared the guy down after he got asked the same question again with one or two words changed, and he said, "Even if I'd known your client for years, sir, I'd never have agreed to sex without him using protection," and when the lawyer started speaking again the judge shut him off before the prosecutor could even finish saying, "Objection."

Why is it taking the jury so long? Can't they see what I see?

I close my eyes then, and I think back to the trip we took to St. Augustine. There's a picture of us that the owner of the inn took, and I've put a copy in a frame on the living room wall; we're lying in the hammock on our balcony, curled up like spoons as we look into the camera, and Greg's smiling like the old Greg again. I think about what happened after the picture was taken, how we lay there rocking slowly back and forth in the hammock and drifted towards sleep - how he took one of my hands between both of his and kissed my fingertips one at a time, and how there was so much emotion in his voice when he whispered that he loved me...

"Nick - Nick, wake up."

"Huh?"

"They're back in," Griss whispers as I straighten up in my seat; I watch the jury file back into the two rows of seats on the other side of the courtroom, and when I look down at my watch I realise that however long I thought they were taking it's been less than an hour.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

I feel Sara's hand on my wrist, and we glance sideways at each other; her face is just about as pale as Greg's was in the witness box, and she's biting her lower lip as the judge asks Lowe to stand up. I curl my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms so hard the pain makes me close my eyes, and I'm saying "please" inside my head over and over as blood pounds in my ears.

There's a pause then that only lasts a few seconds, but it seems to go on for ever; then the middle aged man who handed the slip of paper to the judge says five words, and even though they're the words I wanted to hear my heart almost stops. There's a roar of rage from Lowe as he leaps towards the judge, and while the court officials grab hold of him I stand up on legs that feel like they're going to give way at any second; Griss puts a hand under my arm to hold me up, and we walk out of the courtroom as the struggle continues behind us.

Greg's sitting on the bench in the hallway, sandwiched between Warrick and Catherine, and he stares up at me as I move towards him; he's got shadows under his eyes that are so dark they look like bruises, but he isn't crying, because he's so tense I don't think he can. "Nick?"

"They convicted him," I say, and he springs up from the bench to launch himself at me; I grab hold of him and hug him then, I don't care who sees us, and my ears pick up a vehemently-hissed "Yess" from Warrick as I feel Greg's tears leaking silently into my shirt. After a long time he pulls his head back, and I wipe the back of my hand across his cheeks; then we look at the rest of the team, the ones who've supported him through all this, and they all look as relieved as I feel.

"Anyone hungry?" Griss says. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I couldn't eat a thing before I came here."

************************

I start the truck, and we've hardly moved out of our spot before Greg's opened his cell and dialled a number. "Pappa?" he says, his voice cracking. "Han ble funnet skyldig, pappa - Han ender i fengsel for hva han gjorde."* He keeps talking in Norwegian, but although he's crying it doesn't hurt me the way it has done for so long - because I know this is relief that's making him cry now - and I squeeze his shoulder briefly to let him know I understand;he ends the call just as we're pulling into the parking lot of the diner a block from the courthouse, and after he's wiped his eyes with the heel of one hand he turns to me and smiles. "They want me to bring you to California to meet them," he says as he unfastens his seatbelt. "You up for that?"

"Let's have breakfast before we jump on a plane," I tell him with a smile, and he laughs softly; a horn sounds next to us, and when I look round I see Catherine pulling into the neighbouring space. "You go on ahead," I say. "I just want to call mom." I run a hand briefly through his hair, and then he climbs out of the truck; I watch him accept a hug from Catherine, smiling around a lump in my throat as I think of the Greg who could hardly stand to be touched a year ago, and then I take my cell from my jacket pocket.

I dial the number at the ranch and listen to it ring half a dozen times; then, just as I'm about to hang up and avoid the answering machine, it's picked up at the other end. "Hello?"

Cisco.

"It - uh - it's me. I was looking for mom."

"She had to go into town," he tells me. "I can give her a message."

"Would you just have her call me?" I ask. "Please?" and the pain squeezing my heart makes me shut my eyes. Please, Cisco, try and understand, I want to tell him, this doesn't make me a bad person, but once he's said he'll pass the message on I thank him and hang up; then I sit with my eyes closed, taking deep breaths, until I'm sure I can go into that diner with a smile on my face.

*******************************

"Talk to me," he says when we're back at the apartment and getting ready to sleep as much as we can before the next shift; he draws the covers over us both and turns to face me, slipping one of his legs between mine and taking my hands in his. "What is it?"

"Cisco answered the phone when I tried to call mom earlier," I tell him, sighing softly in the darkened room, and he squeezes my hands gently. He knows me too well, I tell myself, everyone else saw the smile, but he read behind it. "There was so much I wanted to say to him, and I couldn't."

"You miss him," he says quietly, and he lets go of my hands so he can wrap his arms round me; I rest my head against his chest, tuning in to the steady thump of his heart, and I don't have to say a word for him to know he's right. Cisco held me as soon as they cut the cord after I was born, and we've been close ever since; even though I'm the youngest of seven I always felt as though I was the only one, especially when he and I would do things like get up early and go riding before everyone else was awake. Yeah, he was tough, he always expected things to be done a certain way, but that's how he was because that's how his father was. I still knew he loved me, though, and I didn't think anything could ever happen to change that - even when I told him about Greg, I thought he'd see I was still the son he'd loved for more than thirty-five years and get past the shock of what I'd been hiding.

I love Greg, and I know I'm always going to - but I love my dad too, and the fact that I could lose him over this...

"Nick," he says, his breath warm against the top of my head. "This is going to be okay, man."

"How?" I ask him, and even though I try to hold the tears back, I can feel them escaping down my cheeks. "You don't know him, you don't know how he is, I want him to be happy for me and he's ashamed..."

"It'll be okay," he says calmly, stroking my hair the way I've done with him so many times. "Go to sleep," and I close my eyes; but it takes a long time for me to get to sleep, because I can't help thinking that even though we got over one obstacle today there's still another one ahead of us - and for me at least, this one seems even bigger.

* "They found him guilty, dad - he's going to jail for what he did."

Nick's cell rings while he's gone to get some drinks from the machine outside, and I reach over and pick it up from the nightstand; when you've been with someone for a little over two years, answering their phone is almost second nature, and in any case I recognise the number on the display. "Hello?"

"Hi, Greg," says the voice on the other end of the line. "Did you guys make it in okay?"

"Yeah, we're at the hotel," I say. "We got in an hour ago, Nick's just gone to get some Cokes from the machine - how are you guys?"

"Well, the boys have a new NFL game they're dying for you to try out," is the answer, followed by a laugh. "Nick's stressed, isn't he?"

"Big time," I say, looking out of the window as a plane flies overhead, and I can't help thinking back to St. Augustine two years ago - the hammock where we lay listening to the waves and the horse drawn carriages, the three days where time just seemed to stop and we were closed off from the outside world. We were ourselves there, and now we're in Dallas it seems like we've got to take all that back again. "He isn't the only one, Maggie."

"It'll be fine, Greg," she says. "Look, why don't the two of you come over tonight? It'll only be pizza, but the boys would love to see you, and I don't like the idea of you and Nick sitting in a hotel room worrying."

"I think that'd be a great idea," I tell her, and that's when the door opens. "Hold on, he's here, let me pass the phone over to him - it's your sister," I tell him before I trade him the cell for one of the Cokes he's holding; I stretch out on the bed and open it while I listen to him talk to her, and I see a smile spread across his face.

She was the first one of Nick's sisters I actually met - the one who was only four and a half when Nick was born, the one who's married to a corporate lawyer now and living in the biggest house I've ever been in unless you count some of the ones I've worked crime scenes in since I've been out in the field. They've got two boys, Alex and Nathan, who always tell Nick he's their favourite uncle; he's got pictures of them all over the apartment, he worships them, and I can still remember the huge grin on his face after he told her about us and she invited us out to visit, because I think that not seeing Alex and Nathan any more would have just about killed him.

We've been there half a dozen times now, including last Christmas when I got to meet two of Nick's other sisters and their husbands; over the last two years I've met all his sisters, and the only reason I haven't met his brother yet is that he's been working overseas most of the time and our schedules just haven't coincided. We've talked on the phone, though , and I'll finally get to meet him tomorrow, because that's when Nathan has his Bar Mitzvah - which means the whole family's going to be there, including Nick's father, because Maggie told him that she was inviting Nick and I whether he chose to be there or not.

And I hope to God he does, because we've tried everything else to get him to come around, and none of it's worked.

********************

This is the seventh time I've been here now, and I still have to make an effort not to stare at the house when we park the rental car in front of it. The driveway's covered in these little square tiles that are close enough to yellow to make me think of the road to Oz, and I remember Nick laughing when I pointed that out and said I couldn't believe he'd never noticed it; and the place is just so damn huge when I compare it to our apartment, and as I'm unbuckling my seatbelt I hear shouts of, "Uncle Nick! Uncle Nick!"

"Hey, buddy!" Nick's already out of the car, and he catches Alex as the kid practically jumps into his arms. "Look at you, did you get a haircut?" and he reaches out to slap hands with Nathan, who's thirteen and doesn't think it's cool to hug people any longer; the three of them head for the house, all talking at the same time, and I'm smiling as I follow in their wake.

********************

"Yes!" Nathan shouts triumphantly. "You lose!"

"Hey, I never played this before," I tell him, and he snorts laughter as he resets the game. Alex has been in bed for half an hour - he put up a fight, but he was so tired his dad had to carry him up the winding staircase to his room - and Nick's gone with Maggie to pick up some supplies for tomorrow from the grocery store. Stephen's been left behind with a pump and a box of balloons, and every so often I hear him muttering in the kitchen when one of them bursts.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, Nate?"

"Why don't you guys see Grandma and Grandpa Stokes? Uncle Nick always used to go for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and when I asked mom why he stopped she said one of you guys would have to tell me." He's looking at me and fiddling with the control pad the way someone always holds something when they don't know what to do with their hands, and I look back at him and try to figure out what to say. I knew this was coming, though, because Stephen took Nick and I aside when we were all having a beer before the pizza arrived. "Nate's been asking questions," he said, and we both had to bite our tongues not to smile at the look on his face - it was total embarrassment, not because Nick and I are gay, but because he couldn't talk to his thirteen year old son about sex. Sure, we said, one of us will say something, and it looks like I've drawn the short straw; and I may not have spent as much time around kids as Nick, but I've been a teenager more recently than he has, and one thing I do know is that you never underestimate what teenagers already know.

"You got any idea why?" I say, and when his face turns red I know he's figured it out already, but I wait for him to say it.

"Are you Uncle Nick's boyfriend?" he asks me, and even though he's blushing he's still looking me straight in the face. "I know all about that stuff, we did it in Health 101 ages ago," he says. "Mom and dad just keep saying you and Uncle Nick are friends, but that wouldn't make Grandpa Stokes mad at you guys."

"How do you know he is?"

"We went to the ranch for Grandma's birthday, and I heard Grandpa arguing with mom in the kitchen," he says, and he lowers his voice. "They thought I'd gone to bed, yeah? But I got thirsty, so I went downstairs for a glass of milk - and I heard him saying that Uncle Nick wasn't gonna bring you into the ranch while he had anything to say about it, and then he said he didn't know why she let you guys be around me and Alex."

Damn it, Bill, I'm thinking, shutting your son out's one thing, but don't bring your grandchildren into it. "What do you think about it?"

"I think it's stupid," he tells me. "It's not like you guys are gonna do anything to us, why's he have to be like that?" and his brow furrows. "I don't think my dad would ever blank me like that, he loves me..."

"I don't think your grandpa's stopped loving your Uncle Nick," I say after a few moments' silence. "But back when he was growing up, a lot of people thought being gay was wrong, and I guess being with another man isn't what your grandpa wanted for Uncle Nick, so he's upset about it - and when you're upset about something someone's done, it can seem like you don't love them."

"Well, he's happy with you, isn't he? Uncle Nick, I mean," Nathan says, and I can only nod in response, because the way a kid's managed to get right to the heart of what this is all about is making tears prick at the backs of my eyes. "If Grandpa met you he'd like you - mom and dad do, I heard them talking about you."

"You don't miss much, do you, Nate?"

"Not really," he tells me with a grin, and then the theme music of the game kicks in. "C'mon, see if you can score this time at least."

************************

"Thanks for talking to him," Stephen says when Nathan's finally been persuaded to go to bed and the four of us are having coffee in the living room; the fridge and the chest freezer in the garage are stuffed with what Nick and his sister brought back, and I can only feel sorry for the hired help that's got to set everything up tomorrow while we're at the service. "We just figured it'd be better coming from one of you."

"No, hon, you were just too embarrassed," his wife tells him with a chuckle. "You were the same when I was pregnant with Alex and Nate asked you how he'd gotten inside me, remember?"

"You're welcome," I say, and I smile. "I just hope I don't ever have to do it again, that's all."

"Are the two of you thinking about kids?" Maggie asks, and Nick and I glance at each other and smile, because I've lost count of the times we've talked about this while we've been lying in bed trying to sleep after a shift. "Both of you are so good with them, it'd be a shame if you weren't."

"Yeah, we are," Nick tells her. "Not right now, because Greg hasn't been out in the field that long, and we'd both cut back our hours if there were kids in the picture - we'd want to be with 'em as much as we could while they were little, you know?"

"Yes, I do," Stephen says, and I see a wistful smile on his face. "She's always telling me how much I miss out on," and he nods towards his wife before he continues speaking. "The two of you ought to get in touch with me when you're ready," he says. "I have a very good friend who handles private adoption, and I know he's done more than a few out of state ones - and before you say anything about the cost," he tells me as I open my mouth to speak, "he owes me more than a few favours, so it wouldn't be anywhere near as much as you might be thinking."

***************************

We're lying in bed with the lights off at the Best Western two miles from the airport, and although Nick hasn't said anything for a long time, I know he's still awake - his body relaxes when he's asleep, and right now he's still tense in a way he hasn't been for a long time now. When we got back to the hotel room he wanted to make love, but he couldn't manage to stay hard, and that only ever happened once before when he was really stressed about a case he was working; and I wasn't going to tell him it didn't matter, even though it didn't to me, because I knew it did to him.

"We can't turn round and go home, can we?"

"No, man, we can't," I tell him, leaning forward so that my head rests against his shoulder as I speak. "And you don't really want to."

"I'm scared," he says, so quietly I can hardly make the words out. "I'm scared of my father, what does that make me?"

"You're scared of what he's gonna say, man, you're not scared of him," I say as I drape an arm over his chest and feel him clutch at my hand. "If it doesn't work out tomorrow, we'll just keep going with what we have now, okay?" and I hear a wavering sigh that tightens my throat. "You want something to drink? Might help you sleep." He says that might be a good idea, so I turn one of the lights back on and get out of bed; I switch on the kettle on the other side of the room and set about making us a cup of hot chocolate each, but by the time I turn back towards the bed he's rolled onto his back and fallen asleep. I drink the contents of my cup, never taking my eyes off him, and then I climb back into bed and turn off the light; I draw the covers over us both and curl against his side, and as I lie in the dark listening to him breathing I know he's not the only one who's worried about tomorrow.

I am too.

"Nicky!" The cry attracts our attention as soon as we get out of our rental car in the parking lot of the synagogue. "That you, baby brother?" and I see Nick smile, really smile, in a way he hasn't done since we were packing to fly out here two days ago.

I can see so much of Nick in the guy standing next to a black car with plates bearing the name of the same company we rented from, even though he must be over fifty and his hair's starting to turn grey; he's got the same chiseled face, the same dark eyes and the same smile, except that right now it's an ear-to-ear grin as he races over to us and grabs Nick up in a bearhug.

"Damn, you look good," Nick says when the two of them separate again, and his voice is slightly unsteady. "How you doing, Russ, it's been so long..."

"Still fighting the good fight," is the answer, and then dark eyes set in a tanned face fix themselves on me. "You must be Greg, right?" and before I can do more than nod my hand's grabbed and shaken vigorously. "Good to meet you, buddy - you guys coming in now?"

"Guess so," Nick says, and the three of us walk towards the front steps of the synagogue; once we get inside, we're each handed a service sheet and we manage to find seats four rows from the front.

*********************

The place is huge, but it looks almost full, and we get waves and mouthed hellos when Nick's sister Patricia and her husband look round and spot us. Jennifer, the sister who's seven years older than Nick and runs a restaurant in downtown Dallas, is two rows behind us with her arm in a cast because of a skiing accident in Vermont three weeks ago; Teresa's here with her husband, and the only one who couldn't be here is Michelle - she's a surgeon, and she's patching someone up after a truck wreck that happened last night. Maggie and Stephen and the boys are right up at the front, and I can't help smiling when I crane my neck to look at Nathan; last night he was wearing a Quicksilver T shirt and jeans that hung around the middle of his butt, and now he's in a charcoal grey suit with his hair slicked back beneath his skullcap.

"Greg?" Nick whispers faintly, and the tone of the single word makes me look round just as his parents walk past on the far side of the synagogue and make their way to two empty seats; he's devouring his dad with his eyes, and the look on his face makes me swallow hard.

What must it feel like to have someone you've loved your whole life reject you?

I took him to California to meet my folks four months after the trial and they loved him, but then I knew they were going to. I warned them not to get too full-on with him, 'cause I know they can smother people, and they did manage to hold back; but then once everyone had gone to bed and he and I were in the guest room with the bed that always sags in the middle, I turned to look at him and I saw he was crying. Why can't I have what you've got? he asked me, and I couldn't say a thing, because he was in so much pain it made me want to cry myself; so I wrapped my arms round him and held him, and eventually he went to sleep, but I stayed awake most of the night watching him. Can't you see what you're doing? I want to shout as I look at the greying head of hair next to Jillian, turned towards the front of the synagogue as Nathan walks towards the Rabbi who's standing behind the open copy of the Torah. You're breaking his heart, he didn't ask to feel this way, he's still the same Nick you raised...and as Nathan begins the reading I place my hand on Nick's wrist; he looks at me for a second or two, his eyes huge and dark and full of hurt, and then we listen to the gentle cadence of words that sounds like a song without music.

****************************

"You want a beer or something, Greg?" Russ asks me as we walk into Stephen and Maggie's back yard, where a white marquee has been set up. "Don't know about you, but after sitting there all that time I need one."

"I'm driving, I'll just have a Coke or something," I tell him and as he heads for the bar I remove my tie and cram it in my jacket pocket; I look round at Nick, and I smile when I see him doing the same thing. We've only taken a few more steps when I see Teresa approaching us; she hugs Nick and I in turn before ruffling Nick's hair and laughing, because she knows he's always hated her doing that ever since they were kids.

"How's my favourite lab rat?" she asks me. "You guys haven't called us in ages, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, he's not in the lab any more," Nick says. "He's a Level One, they actually let him out in public now," and he deftly sidesteps the mock punch I aim at his arm - but he's smiling, for the moment at least, and that loosens the tightness in my throat. "And I know we haven't called, but you know how work is."

"Well, you're going to have to come out to the new house once it's finished," she says. "Should be another month if everything goes according to plan."

"That's only because you wanted imported marble for the countertops in the kitchen," her husband Don says, slipping an arm round her waist, and she flashes perfect teeth as she laughs up at him. "But you guys will have to come and visit when you can get a few days off together - have you ever been to Vermont, Greg?"

"Not yet," I tell him. "I'm a California boy, born and bred," and as he chuckles at my answer Alex tugs on my hand; I look down at him, smiling when I see that his tie's missing too, and I spot the disposable camera in his hand. "You taking pictures, buddy?"

"Daddy gave me and Nathan a camera each," he tells me. "Can I take one of you guys?"

"All of us?" I ask him, gesturing towards the others, and when he nods eagerly the four of us form a line; he tells us to stand closer to each other, using that bossy tone of voice that only an eight year old can get away with, and as we're obeying Nick slings an arm round my shoulders - and the fact that he can do a little thing like this without even thinking about it makes me smile even before we're all told to. The flash goes off, making us blink, and Alex darts away to look for another target; Teresa says she'd be willing to bet our heads will all be missing when the picture gets developed, and everyone laughs - everyone except me, I can only manage a forced smile, because I'm the only one who spotted Nick's father looking at us when Nick put his arm round me.

****************************

The tables of food have been picked over, and the party's spread from the marquee to the house; I can't see Nick anywhere, so I wander through the sliding glass door into the house with a paper plate of food in one hand and I set about looking for him. I walk through the living room, finding it empty except for Stephen's elderly uncle who's snoring gently at one end of the couch; a smile's on my face as I walk past him, but when I step down into the den I stop in my tracks.

Nick's father is sitting in the deep leather armchair next to the TV, a drink in one hand, and we stare at each other for a long time as everything I always imagined myself saying to him vanishes from my head; eventually I mumble something, feeling as though my mouth's full of cotton wool, and when I take a step back towards the living room he finally speaks.

"Sit down - I want to talk to you."

I force my legs to move the short distance to the couch, where Nathan and I sat and played video games last night and I wasn't thinking about today, and I sink down into it with the last of my strength; I can hear laughter and conversation in the kitchen, and while it's only a few yards away it might as well be in the next state right now. "I don't know what to say to you, sir," I tell him, staring down at my plate. "I know you're-"

"You don't know anything about me," he says. "You don't know what this has done to our family, Mr. Sanders," and he looks into his glass for a long time before he continues speaking. "I'm losing control of my family, and I'm losing my son because of whatever influence you've got over him..."

"Do you know how long he's been attracted to men?" I say then, and I see his upper lip curl, but I keep going. "Since he was a teenager, Judge Stokes, a long time before he ever met me - have you got any idea how hard it was for him to keep that a secret from you?"

"That's nonsense," he says. "I did not raise my children to conceal things from me that way, and my sons would know better than to indulge in...behaviour of that sort."

"Do you think I chose to have those feelings?" We both turn towards the doorway and see Nick standing there, his face drained of colour; he can't take his eyes off his father, and the fact that he's continued loving him despite being shut out for two years brings a lump to my throat. "They scared me to death when I was younger, and I knew what you'd say if I tried to talk to you about them, so I just tried to pretend they weren't there!" and he dashes a hand furiously across his cheeks to wipe away tears. "Have you got any clue what it's like to stay with someone who doesn't make you happy because you don't want your parents to be disappointed in you? Do you know how close I came to getting married because I didn't want to let you down, Cisco? You brought us up not to lie, and if I had kids with someone I didn't love I'd be lying..." He puts a hand over his face, and there's an audible sob before he continues. "I haven't stopped loving you," he says eventually when he takes his hand away. "You don't know how much this is hurting me, I know you think what I'm doing is wrong, but I'm still your son - doesn't that count for anything?" There's a long, long silence then, and when he speaks again his voice is faint, but the tears are so close. "If you lose me, it won't be because I wanted it to happen," he tells his father. "You raised us all to stand up for what we thought was right, and I'm not giving Greg up," and when there's no answer from his father he reaches down to pull me to my feet; we walk from the den into the living room, where Stephen's uncle is still snoring on the couch, and he turns to look at me. "Looks like I got my answer,doesn't it?" he says, and the sorrow in his voice makes the tears spill down my cheeks. "We're doing this without him."

"We'll manage," I say, and I reach forward to hug him tightly. "Do you want to leave?"

"Let's go and say goodbye to a few people first," he says, patting my back gently, and we draw back from each other; I reach into my pocket for a Kleenex, using it to wipe my eyes and then his before we head back outside.

Jillian's sitting in a lawn chair chatting animatedly to Russ, but as soon as she catches sight of us she's on her feet and heading in our direction; she studies Nick's face for a few seconds before holding out her arms, and while she's hugging him Russ levers himself out of his chair. "Didn't go well, did it?" he asks softly, the sadness in the words a contrast with his seemingly gruff exterior. "I'm sorry, Greg, but I can't say I'm surprised."

"We weren't expecting him to welcome me with open arms," I tell him, and I sigh gently. "We just - he's still Nick, y'know? He hasn't changed, it was just this..."

"I know, man," he says. "You guys leaving?"

"I think he needs to," I say. "Listen, if you're ever in Vegas, stop by, okay?"

"I'll do that," he says with a smile, and he reaches out to shake my hand. "You know something, Greg? When he told me he'd tried to take you to the ranch for Christmas, I knew things were serious, because he never took anyone out there before," and he squeezes my shoulder with his other hand. "Look after him for me, okay?"

*********************

"Why are you guys going?" Nathan says as we're standing on the front porch. "I wanted you to stay and have supper tonight." His voice wavers then, and he turns his head away. "Stupid grandpa, it's all his fault."

"Hey," Nick says. "Hey," and there are tears in his nephew's eyes when he looks at us again. "It's not anybody's fault, okay?" he says, cupping Nathan's face in his hands. "Sometimes things don't work out the way we hope they will, dude, that's all," and he draws Nathan against his chest in a gripping hug. "We'll come back and see you again, as long as I'm still your favourite uncle."

"Yeah, you are," Nathan says, his words muffled in Nick's jacket, and then he rises on his toes to kiss Nick's cheek before he turns to me. "Stay cool, man," he tells me, and in the next instant he's flung his arms round me; it's the first time he's ever hugged me, and I'm frozen for a second or two before I hug him back. Eventually I let go of him, and Nick and I move down the steps to where we parked our car; and as we're moving down the driveway, I glance in the rear view mirror and see a tall grey-haired figure watching us from the porch.

***************************

I don't know what time it is, because all the lights have been off for a long time, so I can't see my watch; I'm lying in bed with Nick's head on my chest, my fingers running through his hair, and even though he managed to fall asleep I haven't been able to - because no matter how bad I thought today was going to be, what actually happened was worse.

He didn't say a word while we were driving back to the hotel, and even though it was only a twenty minute drive it seemed to take a lot longer; and as soon as we were in the room with the door locked, he fell forward into my arms and sobbed. All I could do was draw him onto the bed and hold him and let him get it out, let him know I was there the way I'm always going to be - and we haven't moved since, except to reach out and turn the light off.

All you can do is hold an olive branch out, that's what my dad always says. You hold it out, and sometimes it'll be taken - other times it'll be thrown back at you, and then you just have to figure out what you do next.

We start by going back home tomorrow - home, the one he and I have come so far to have - and after that - well, we have each other, so whatever happens we'll deal with it and we'll go on.

We get out of the rental car, and I've got the strangest feeling I'm going back in time, because the town looks exactly the same as it did five years ago - but I think that's why people keep coming back to places like this, isn't it? Because they never change, because you can always go there and find them just the way they were when you left them the last time.

"Hello, you two!" comes the cry as we're retrieving our bags from the trunk, and the owner of the inn makes her way down the steps towards us. "How was the journey?"

"You remember us?" Greg asks, slightly startled. "But it's been..."

"I never forget people who smile as much as the pair of you did," is the reply. "Here, let me help you with those," and before either of us has a chance to object, the bags are plucked from our hands; we follow her upstairs in silence, each of us alone with our thoughts, and almost before we realise it we're stepping through a door we first walked through when things were just beginning for us.

**********************

We're lying in the hammock again, rocking back and forth while we look out at the boats on the water; Greg's back is pressed against my chest, his fingers are laced with mine, and I'm starting to close my eyes as the rhythm of the hammock and his breathing lulls me towards sleep when he speaks.

"You're not saying much."

"Thinking, that's all," I say, and I raise our joined hands slightly. We each have a thick silver band on our right index finger - no engraving, nothing to signify what it means, because the people who need to know what it means already do. We exchanged them last year on my birthday, and there wasn't anything fancy about the way we did it; we were lying in bed after our shift, Chinese takeout cartons littering the floor - eating in bed's one of the many bad habits I've picked up from him - and I just took the jeweler's box from the nightstand drawer and opened it. I remember how his hands shook when he was trying to get the ring on my finger, and when I looked at him there were tears in his eyes; I held his hands to steady them, and he managed to smile when the ring went where it was supposed to go - and I haven't seen him cry since that night.

I have, mind you, but the times when I've done it are getting further apart - because after Nathan's bar mitzvah I realised dad wasn't going to change, and I knew I was just going to have to live with it. After that day at Maggie and Stephen's house there were a couple of weeks when things were really bad, when it got so dark inside my head that I couldn't even talk to Greg about it; but he still knew what I was thinking, even though I was too afraid to face up to it myself. "We could finish this," he said one night when I'd shied away from letting him touch me even though it was the one thing I knew I needed. "We could end it and you could have him back," I knew he meant it, too - that he loved me enough to let me walk away if I decided my father was more important - and when I realised there weren't any conditions attached to the way he felt, I knew I wasn't going to go anywhere if he wasn't with me.

I won't deny that not having my father in my life hurts, it's always going to, but when you accept that something's always going to be a certain way it's easier to deal with. Oh, there are times when it's still difficult - his birthday, my birthday, Christmas - but Greg always seems to know what to do to bring me out of it; we both had time off over Christmas last year, and when I woke up on Christmas Day he was standing at the end of the bed fully dressed and wearing a Santa Claus hat. "C'mon, get up," he said, practically bouncing with excitement the way he does so often; he drove us out into the desert, and we sat on the ground eating turkey sandwiches and drinking coffee before we opened our presents - and the fact that it was just us with nobody else around for miles was just what I needed.

He's Uncle Greg to all my nieces and nephews now - just another one of those things that have happened over time so that we're hardly aware of them. Maggie and Stephen had another son two years ago, and Greg came to the bris with me; he practically passed out, but he laughed and said that if I ever thought of telling anyone about that he'd have to tell them some of the things he's heard me say in my sleep.

It's things like that which make me realise exactly what I've got here - the way we can laugh at each other, the way he knows me almost better than I know myself, the way it seems like he's always been here and none of the stuff that happened before that matters any longer...

"What are you thinking?" he asks me softly, and he leans up to kiss my fingertips the way he did when we were here so long ago.

"Nothing important," I tell him before letting my lips brush the tiny scar on his forehead, and he settles back against my chest; we continue to sway in the hammock, listening to the sound of the waves and the horse-drawn carriages going past in the street, and when he falls asleep in my arms I smile into his hair.

****************************

The sun's dipping below the horizon and the sky's shot with stripes of pink and red when he wakes up; he stirs against me, murmuring sleepily, and he yawns as I hug him gently. "How long was I asleep? You should have woken me up."

"You needed to sleep," I tell him with a smile - and I don't add that I could hold him all day and not get tired of doing it, because he'd tell me he already knew. "You want to go out and have dinner?" He mm's a response and climbs out of the hammock, and I follow him back into the suite; he half-turns towards me to say something about changing clothes while he pulls his T shirt over his head, and when I look at him I feel my mouth drying up.

"What?" he says, lifting an eyebrow and grinning at me as he lets the shirt drop to the floor in the bedroom doorway, but he knows, because the grin disappears when I've stepped close enough to touch him, and he drapes one arm round my neck. His mouth fastens onto mine, he draws my tongue between his lips and we kiss until the room begins to spin around us; we pull back, breathing hard, and when he begins to say something I shake my head - because I know from the look in his eyes that he's thinking the same thing I'm thinking, that this could be one of the last times it's going to be exactly like this.

*************************

We're tangled together in the huge carved oak bed, and as I kiss him again I rake the nails of one hand down his back; he arches up against me, biting on my lower lip, and when the kiss breaks his eyes are glazed and unfocused - he moves his lips, trying to speak, but he can't get the words out any longer, and I smile down into a face that's flushed and dotted with perspiration.

I can't remember how long ago it was now, but we were lying in bed one night at the apartment having what he calls a 'truth or dare' session - because we're still managing to find out things we don't know about each other, even after more than five years - and when I asked him what had been in the little case he was so quick to throw away the day he moved out of his apartment he told me, even though he put a hand over his face to try and hide the fact that he was blushing. Take me shopping, I said, because I was curious about the way he'd been before we became what we are now, so he did; and I think the things we bought were used once or twice before they ended up crammed in a bag at the back of the bedroom closet - because when you've got what he and I have got, you know each other well enough not to need any props.

"What?" I ask him softly, dragging my nails along his outer thigh, and a hiss of breath escapes his lips as he hooks his leg up over my hip; I let my hand slide to the small of his back, pressing our bodies tightly together, and when he whimpers I silence him by covering his mouth with mine. I lower him back down against the rumpled sheets and stretch out over him, taking the bottle of lube from the nightstand on my side of the bed; I uncap it, my eyes locked with his, and then moments later I'm tracing a slick fingertip between his buttocks and watching his eyelids flicker half-shut. "What?" I whisper again, teasing him even though I know what he wants, and I lean down so that my lips are almost touching his. "Say something."

"Please," he breathes, almost mouthing the words, and as I slide my finger into him his eyes close all the way; his hands open and close on the sheets and he's gasping softly, but I know I haven't got him, not quite yet...

Now I have, though, because he's digging his heels into the mattress and lifting himself up towards me; I work another finger inside him, twisting slowly and then brushing my fingertips over his prostate, and his entire body goes taut as the familiar soft mewling starts to escalate. "Oh Christ, Nicky - fuck," he gasps, and I know I could get him to come now if I pressed just a fraction harder, but I want to be in him too badly to let that happen. I move my fingers away and there's another kiss, almost desperate in its intensity, all lips and teeth and tongue, while I reach for one of the handful of condoms I left on top of the nightstand and tear the wrapper open. I roll it on and then break the kiss, placing my hands beneath him as I lean forward and lift him towards me; I'm inside him in a single, fluid movement and then I reach up to catch hold of his hands, pinning them either side of his head as I lower my head just far enough to lick slowly along his lips. He meets my tongue with with his own, and as I arch my hips against his he sucks in a sharp breath; then it really begins as he lifts himself up to meet my thrusts, that neverending repetition of my name filling my ears again as I'm surrounded by heat and tightness and his hands clutch at mine with enough strength to hurt - and I can't do any more than think the words love you inside my head before sensation takes over and I feel his semen jet against my belly as bright light explodes behind my eyes to drown everything else out.

*******************

"Dinner," he says in a soft whisper a long time afterwards, rubbing his thumb against the side of my neck as we lie draped over each other; it's dark outside now, but I can still hear voices and the sound of hooves and carriage wheels in the street below.

"Don't think I can move," I tell him. "I'm over forty now, man, you wear me out when we do this."

"You complaining?" he asks me, accompanying the words with a slow, lazy smile, and I shake my head. He brushes his lips gently across mine and untangles himself from me before he climbs out of bed, and I watch him walk slightly unsteadily towards the shower; he turns it on and then returns to the bed, laughing softly as he grabs both my hands and pulls me upright, and after five minutes under near-scalding water I've mustered enough energy to go outside.

***********************

"I could sleep out here, you know," he says, tiredness and the two margaritas he had with dinner making him slur his words slightly; we walked back from the restaurant and climbed into the hammock again, and he's lying in front of me again with his head resting back against my neck. "Just watch the boats and listen to the water..."

"Who says we can't?" I tell him, because I don't feel like moving any more than he does; I feel him lean up to plant a kiss on my neck, just below my ear, and I let my eyes close. I drift into sleep with a memory in my head of the two of us playing basketball with Alex and Nathan in their backyard, and I glance towards the deck where Maggie's sitting with Joshua sleeping in her arms to say Can you get the phone, it's ringing...

"Nick? Nick?" I come awake, rubbing my eyes, and Greg's standing in front of the hammock holding my cell out to me. How did you get out without waking me up, I think, but before I can say it aloud he speaks again, and by the light from inside the suite I can see how pale his face is. "You need to take it, Nick, it's Dallas."

***********************

It was six in the morning before we could get a flight out of Jacksonville, and five hours has never lasted so long before. We got in a cab at the airport, and it seemed to stop at every red light on the way to the hospital; now I'm racing along a corridor painted the most horrible shade of yellow I've ever seen, Greg's holding my hand and trying to tell me to slow down before I fall down - then a woman in a pastel pink uniform steps in front of me, she's got to be almost a head taller than I am, and when I manage to tell her my name between gasps of breath she pushes a button next to the door a few feet away.

Everything seems to go into slow motion then, and I can feel tears in my eyes even before we get to the room with its blinds open to let the early morning sun; I stand in the doorway with Greg right behind me, afraid to go any further, and I can't take my eyes off the figure in the bed. "I should have been here," I say eventually, my voice high and tight. "We were in Florida, I'm sorry, I thought there was time."

"It was so quick, we didn't have time to call you until it was over," she says. "It only took an hour from start to finish," and she levers herself to the side of the bed to lift the blanket-wrapped bundle out of the perspex cradle. "Come in, you two, say hello to your son."

He was a week and a half early, and his mom's water broke while she was watching a Dallas Cowboys game; she told us it all happened so quickly that she was barely in the delivery room before she had him, and I remember the smile on her face when she added that if her dad hadn't been so quick at getting his car through the downtown traffic Tom's birth certificate might have said the hospital parking lot.

We brought him home to the townhouse we moved into the year before we set the wheels in motion to start our family; when we went to look at the place we saw a white picket fence around the front yard, and we looked at each other and laughed because we both remembered a conversation we had at the apartment so long ago now.

"What do you think it means?"

"Happy ever after - the dog and the kids and the picket fence, right?"

Well, we've got two out of the three now; Nick said he was never going to have a dog or any other pet in the house, but I think Tom might have something to say about that when he's older, and he's got us both wrapped round his little finger already.

We work different shifts now so that one of us can be at home with him all the time, which means we don't see each other as much as we used to; but every so often we'll have the same day off, like we have once Nick gets home tonight, and I wouldn't have believed I could treasure any time as much. I can't remember the last time we had sex, either, because when Tom was little he'd wake us up a dozen times a night; then six months ago we went to visit Maggie and Stephen and their boys, and when they had him spend the night with them so Nick and I could have some time to ourselves, all we did was go back to our hotel room and sleep until it was time to come and get him. I still remember that morning, too - how we walked into the house and saw him sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with his cousins and laughing, before he looked round at us with grape jelly smeared across his face and his eyes lit up. "Hi!" he shouted. "Hi, hi, hi!" and I saw Nick's eyes fill with tears, but mine did too, because we'd never left him for that long before and that was how strong a bond he had with the two of us; but if I'm honest, it was there from the minute we saw him in that hospital room and we were almost too afraid to hold him because we were scared we'd drop him.

So much has changed, but we don't regret any of it.

There's a photo on the fridge that was taken last Halloween; he's dressed in a tiger costume, his face covered in orange makeup with black whiskers drawn on his cheeks, and he's sitting on the couch in my lap with Nick's arm round both of us - and whenever we look at it, it makes us smile.

We sent Molly a copy too; we can write to each other whenever we want, and we usually do it every couple of months - and whenever Nick writes the letter I always tease him about it ending up like 'War and Peace', because it never runs to less than six pages. She says she likes that, though, because she can picture what he's doing and how his life's turning out; we told her she's welcome to come and visit whenever she wants to, and she isn't ready to do that yet, but we hope she will be one day.

He knows all about her, he has done from the beginning - because the first thing we said to each other when we decided to do this was that there weren't going to be any secrets. There's a little scrapbook Molly made for him while she was pregnant which he keeps under his pillow, and every so often he'll ask one of us to read it with him; it's full of photos of her and her family, and there's a letter stuck carefully to the last page - and he doesn't understand all of it yet, but we read it to him anyway, because we want him to know exactly how he came to be here.

Dear Tom,
I'm writing this letter to tell you who brought you into the world and what made you the special little boy you are.

I'm almost nineteen, and I'm going to college - I want to go to university and study law. I like reading books, I like to swim and I love animals - I like to sing, too, and I'm in the choir at the church my mom and I go to.

When I found out that I was going to have a baby, I was scared, because I wasn't ready to be a mom - I want to do a lot of things with my life, and I want to be able to make a good home for a baby before I have one. That's why you're going to be in Nick and Greg's family - I've talked to them lots of times, I've met them too, and I know they'll love you and be proud of you whatever you do.

They're going to write to me and send me pictures of you, and I'll write to you too - and when you're older, I'd love to meet you, if you'd like that. Please don't ever think that I let you go because I didn't want you - I love you with all my heart, but I knew I couldn't give you a proper family, because I'm just not ready to do it. But I'll think about you every day, and I know you're with the best people I could find to look after you.

With all the love in the world -

Molly

Xx

"Greg?"

"Hey, you," I say as I turn my head towards the tiny pyjama-clad figure in the doorway. "Sleep good?" and he nods silently. "Want some breakfast?" He nods again, and I smile, because he just isn't a morning person - he's scratchy and grumpy until he's had breakfast and watched his cartoons - but I know plenty of adults who are like that, and he's only two and a half, and I know if this is all the attitude we ever get from him we'll be lucky. "Come on, then," I say, getting up from the couch, and he pads silently behind me into the kitchen; I lift him up in my arms, and even after all this time, the warm weight of him still makes tears prickle at the backs of my eyes. "Here we go," and I sit him on the booster seat that's strapped to one of the chairs. "What do you want to eat?"

"Pizza."

"That's lunch or supper," I tell him. "Pancakes?"

"Pizza."

"Cereal? Toast?"

"Pizza."

"Thomas Michael Sanders Stokes," I say, and I'm trying to look strict, but I'm not succeeding, because he starts giggling. "You are not having pizza for breakfast," and five minutes later the box containing the leftovers from last night's supper is open on the table between us.

****************************

"Hey, where are my guys?"

"Nicky! Nicky, Nicky, Nicky!" and before I can catch hold of his slippery little body Tom's scrambled out of the tub and raced out of the bathroom; I follow him along the landing, and there's a smile on my face as I watch him meet Nick halfway down the stairs. Nick scoops him up and hugs him, smiling up at me over the little head of dirty blond hair, and then he carries him back upstairs; he kisses me as we draw level with each other, and then the three of us walk to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

"What are we doing for supper?" Nick asks me as he grabs a towel from the back of the door and dries Tom so vigorously it produces a gale of laughter. "Heat up that pizza?"

"We ate it," Tom says, his words muffled by the pyjama top I'm pulling over his head, and Nick raises a brow at me.

"Did you give it to him for breakfast again?"

"No."

"Yes, he did!" Tom says gleefully, and I make a mock swat at his butt before I pull his pyjama bottoms on; he's still giggling as he climbs beneath the Spiderman comforter, and I put the guard rail up so he won't fall out of bed.

"Who's gonna read to you tonight?" I ask as I stand up. "Me or Nick?"

"Nick," he says, and so I lean over to kiss the top of his head. I tell him to sleep well, and then I leave the room; I glance back to see Nick settling crosslegged on the floor next to the bed, and as I walk downstairs I hear him beginning the book that was one of the first ones we bought.

"In the great green room there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon..."

The End

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