Halflight

By Emily Brunson

©2004

"The essential is invisible to the eye." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

Chapter One

It seemed to him, some days, that this was like a second adolescence, only without most of the bad parts. No acne, or voice warbling up out of control, or painfully ridiculous junior-high posturings. But the same hot infusions of hormones, making his entire body tingle with restless sexual energy, potent tantrism. On those days he was electrified, almost giddy with the possibilities.

A lamentable and probably embarrassing state for a man skidding down the steep slope to fifty, but then again, it hadn’t resulted in the purchases of any sleek small sports cars (preferably red), or very many overtly public and unmentionable emotional displays.

Yet.

Still, Gil Grissom thought, rinsing his razor under the warm water from the tap, there were worse ways to go. He might be a middle-aged fool, but he was a damned happy one.

He eased the blade over his chin and caught a glimpse of bare flesh flirting in the mirror. Turning his eyes back to his own reflection, not without a little regret, he said, "Are you going to shower today, or are you contemplating starting a rain forest in here?"

"I forgot that hair stuff."

Gil smiled, and almost sliced his upper lip open. "Which one?"

"Not sure. The one that goes on before. You know."

"I really don’t know." Surveying his face, Gil shrugged and rinsed the razor a final time. "He cut all your hair off, anyway. What difference does it make what you use?"

"Not all of it." A slightly offended tone. "You said you liked it."

"I do like it. It’s very becoming."

Holding two fat bottles of hair…somethings, Nick reappeared in the mirror. "Damn straight it is," he smirked, and preened a little. Then reached up to pat impatiently at one stubborn tuft poking up Alfalfa-like in the back.

"Right now it’s more like bed-head," Gil remarked serenely, turning and grinning at him.

"But not for long." Nick smirked again and brandished one of the bottles. "Not after this." He hesitated, and glared at the other bottle. "Or maybe this. Which one was it?"

Gil laughed. "I honestly have no idea, honey. You could wash your hair with a bar of Ivory soap and I doubt you’d break any mirrors." He crossed his arms. "Why the sudden tonsorial interest, anyway? You used to go to the same barber I do."

Nick wrinkled his nose, leaning against the counter and staring at his own reflection. "Do I look older to you?"

"Older than what?"

He said it lightly, but Nick’s gloomy look persisted. "Old," he repeated heavily.

"You’re not old. I’m the one who should be obsessing about that issue, not you."

"Older. Definitely older."

"Nick, get in the shower. We’re going to be late."

Nick looked at him in the mirror, eyebrow lifted. "We could –"

"No."

"Aw." Nick slumped a little, and then paraded over to the shower, swinging his ass a little. "Your loss, man," he called over his shoulder before stepping inside.

Gil regarded the shower curtain with a moment of regret, and then shook his head before going to the bedroom in search of something to wear to work.

And Nick’s hair turned out just fine, although Gil honestly couldn’t tell if he’d used any of the products yesterday’s stylist had foisted off on him. Smelled good. Walking out to the Tahoe, Nick shaded his eyes and groaned. "God, it’s so bright out here. You know, I used to be able to handle sunlight. This is all your fault."

Snorting, Gil climbed behind the wheel. "It’s my fault that you work at night?"

"Yes," Nick agreed, taking the passenger seat. "Why couldn’t you have had the day shift?"

"If I hadn’t, you’d be working with Conrad Ecklie right now."

Nick’s lip curled. "Euw. Okay. But still." He buckled his seat belt, and reached up to wipe his eyes. "Think we’re turning into vampires. Sunlight sucks."

"Are your incisors unusually pointed today?"

"Not yet."

"I think we’re okay." Gil smiled at him. "You’ll adjust."

Nick turned watery eyes his way. "Yeah. Eventually. Hey, how do you feel?"

"Me? Fine. Why?"

"You said yesterday your ear was ringing."

"Oh." Gil nodded. "Don’t worry. It’s mostly gone."

"You’re not dizzy or anything?"

Gil smiled. "If I were, you’d be driving."

"Did you get them wet?"

"Nick, my ears are fine." Gil laughed a little and reached out to touch Nick’s hand. "I appreciate your worrying, but it’s not necessary. I’m not going deaf anytime soon. I promise."

Nick’s fingers intertwined with his own. "Well, it’s a good thing," he quipped, a little weakly. "Because I suck at foreign languages."

"My offer still stands. I’d be happy to teach you sign language."

"Hey, I had enough trouble with Spanish in high school."

"Never know when it might come in handy."

Nick grinned. "That’s what I keep you around for."

"Oh, really?"

"That and, you know. Sex."

"Nothing else, huh?"

Nick considered, and then gave a lofty shrug. "Nope. That’s about it."

Gil grinned at him.

Downshifting for the interstate on-ramp meant he had to let go of Nick’s hand, but the sense of warmth persisted the rest of the drive. Had it really been only a year since Nick Stokes had literally overnight gone from platonic colleague and friend to lover? It was increasingly hard to imagine what Gil’s life had been like, pre-Nick. A solitary, controlled, easy-to-understand life. In Catherine’s opinion, a hermetically sealed life. But Nick had changed all of that. Nick was outgoing and social, where Gil was sometimes painfully reserved in non-work-related company. In the nine months Nick had lived in what used to be Gil’s bachelor townhouse, he’d met more neighbors than Gil had in nearly ten years. Nick was the reason Gil entertained now, when he never had before. Granted, the number of occasions had been rather small so far, but the fact that the Christmas party last year had been held at the townhouse instead of Catherine’s home spoke volumes.

It hadn’t been without a few uncomfortable adjustments. A few fights, when Gil’s isolationist tendencies clashed sharply with Nick’s more laid-back openness. But to his own sense of weird wonder, Gil hadn’t minded making a couple of changes. More than a couple. It was entirely worth it.

Next to him, Nick had pulled a file out of Gil’s briefcase, and sat frowning down at the printout pages. His profile was familiar and beautifully pure, straight patrician nose and strong jaw highlighted against the waning early-evening sunlight. He nibbled his lower lip, studying the file, and Gil felt a spasm of almost painful happiness. Never saw it coming, never dreamed it might happen, but happen it had, and damned lucky for him.

Nick squinted, and then sighed, closing the file.

"What?" Gil asked, signaling for the exit ramp.

"Nothing." Nick reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Must be tired."

"Headache?"

"Nah. Maybe I need new contacts or something."

"Eyes still bothering you?"

"I kid you not, think I’m turning into a blood-sucking creature of the night. I really hate sunlight."

Gil glanced over at him. "Maybe you should get your prescription checked."

"Like I said, man. I’m getting old."

"Happens to the best of us, honey."

"Yeah," Nick grumped.

~~~~~~~~~~

He really did feel better after sundown. Crazy, but true: Daylight was a big pain in the ass lately. Been working nights way too long, Nicky boy.

There weren’t many new cases awaiting their attention, so Nick went off to the fibers lab to finish up last night’s work. Not long into his belated analysis, he sat back from the microscope, rubbing his eyes carefully. Goddamn contacts. Gas-permeable, my ass. Felt like he had boulders in there.

"Hey, Nick. You done with that?"

Nick blinked up at Warrick, belatedly adjusting to the dimness of the rest of the room. "Not yet."

"What’s takin’ so long?" Warrick grimaced, slinging himself into a nearby chair. "I got Jergen breathing down my neck for these hair sample results."

"So let him stew." Nick turned back to his microscope. "I’ll be done when I’m done."

"Sorry," Warrick mumbled. "Court this week put me way behind. Been playing catch-up ever since."

The bright light under the slide hit his eyes hard, and Nick squinted, waiting to adjust. "Well, don’t blame me for that. Damn it."

"What?"

"Thing’s a piece of junk. Can’t get it to focus."

"We just got it last year. Did you break it?"

Nick gave him a withering look. "No, I didn’t break it."

"Here. Lemme try."

"Whatever."

He watched Warrick sit down and fiddle a bit. Finally Warrick shrugged. "Looks okay to me."

"Don’t you see it? Stupid thing doesn’t focus worth crap."

Warrick regarded him. "Focused just fine for me. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked."

"My eyes are fine," Nick said thinly. "Look, I gotta finish this, okay?"

"Okay," Warrick replied, shrugging. He got up and walked over to the doorway. "But it ain’t the machine, bro. Trust me."

"Go away."

By the time he did finish his supposedly rapid analysis, his head was aching. And he still thought the ‘scope was a piece of junk, no matter what Warrick said. Conscious of the thumping in his head, Nick collected his printouts of the test results and trudged down the hall. Gil wasn’t in his office, and it took a moment of thought to remember he was out working with Sara on that carjacking thing from two nights ago. Oh well. This crap would keep. Nick put the pages in Gil’s inbox and went to the break room to find some Advil.

Which was where Catherine found him a few minutes later, sitting on the couch and drinking a coke he didn’t really want.

"You free?"

Nick glanced at her and nodded. "Sure."

She lifted her chin. "Grissom called, said he needs us to go have a look at something."

"Cool."

Because Nick was sans vehicle at the moment, they took Catherine’s car. But it wasn’t until they were outside the city, maneuvering on a narrow county road, that Nick realized just how dark it was.

"Man, I hate country jobs."

"Why?"

"One of these days we’re gonna step on a rattler or something, running around in the dark out here. Can’t see the hand in front of your face."

Catherine snorted. "So what else is new?"

"Makes me wish we were going to the Strip instead."

"Relax. This one’s cut and dried. Operative word being ‘dried.’ Some guy found a foot in his garden. Pretty much petrified."

"Just a foot?"

"Yep."

"Nice."

It occurred to him, sometime after they got there and started prowling around Jack Peterson’s rather large garden, that his eyes ought to have adjusted by now. Granted, it was dark. But lately it seemed as if it were darker every night, and tonight he was really struggling.

"Watch it," Catherine called when Nick tripped over a trailing squash vine.

"Yeah," Nick muttered. "Somebody turn on the lights."

Behind him, Catherine made a startled noise, and Nick turned. "What?"

"Um, I think we got a leg. Or maybe an arm."

"Where?" Nick retraced his steps, avoiding the squash.

Hunkered down, Catherine looked at him. "You had to have seen this. You walked right over it."

"I was busy trying to break my neck." Nick squatted. "Huh. Looks like a leg, all right."

"So how’d Farmer Peterson over there manage to plant a couple of acres of veggies and miss the body parts lying around? I mean, fertilizer’s one thing, but this is going a little overboard."

"Can’t be new. This is desiccated." Nick popped a glove on his right hand and reached out to touch the severed limb. "Wonder why the wildlife around here didn’t carry it off for lunch a long time ago?"

Catherine nodded, a paler blob in the midst of the darkness. "Maybe they didn’t like the flavor," she said softly.

"Maybe not."

After another hour of looking, they’d located another leg and what remained of a pelvic bone. The ground was disturbed, as if animals had dug up the remains, didn’t like what they found, and abandoned them.

"How long did you say this guy’s lived here?" he asked Catherine.

"According to Brass, about a year."

"Then we might be looking for the previous owner."

"Hell, we may be looking AT the previous owner."

"Yeah. Could be."

Finally Catherine came over, stepping carefully. "We gotta wait for some more light," she told him a little breathlessly. "Easy to miss things out here."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, they say the eyes are the first to go." Catherine sighed, wiping her gloved hands on her jeans.

"Yeah," Nick agreed quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"So how’d it go?"

Nick shrugged. "Heard about our little body farm discovery, huh?"

Gil nodded. "Interesting."

"Yeah, if you call me and Catherine stumbling around in the dark interesting. Don’t think it was the current owner’s work, though. That body had been out there a long time." Nick shrugged again and yawned, leaning against the door jamb. "Can we get out of here? I’m beat."

"What’d you do to your pants?"

Nick glanced down. "Oh. Close encounter with a squash, I think." He reached down and brushed ineffectually at the dirt. "Tell you what, I gotta get new contacts, for sure. I couldn’t see for shit out there."

"Okay, give me a few minutes, I’ll be ready." Gil eyed him over his own glasses. "Meet you outside?"

"Okay."

He turned and the other side of the doorway seemed to loom up out of nowhere. With an oof Nick bounced off the metal frame. "Shit. I MUST be tired." He rubbed his shoulder and grimaced.

Gil snickered a little behind him. "Now I see how you got your pants dirty."

"Laugh it up, Grissom, that’s right." Nick glared at him. "Told you I was getting old."

"You’re just tired. And clumsy."

"Gee, thanks."

"Leave me alone for a minute. I need to finish this before we can go."

"Yeah, yeah."

He parked it in the break room to wait for Gil. And it felt like no time at all when Gil shook his shoulder and said, "I get the message."

Nick blinked at him, sitting up and shaking his head. "Wow. I zonked out."

Gil had a sheepish look on his face. "I admit it was longer than a few minutes," he said, mouth quirking in a smile. "You really must be tired."

"Guess so." Nick rubbed his tearing eyes. "This mean we get to go home now?"

"Absolutely."

The glare of morning sun made him squint and wish fervently to be already home, snug in their dark, cool bedroom. Christ, everything was bugging his eyes lately. First it was too light, then it was too dark, and now it was too freaking light again. He thought again about new contacts, and felt even more tired. A glance at his watch told him Gil hadn’t been lying; it was a LOT longer than a few minutes. Already nearly 9:30. He’d napped for nearly two hours.

"Where do you get your glasses?" Nick asked as Gil turned into the street.

"The place near the house. Vision – mart, something."

"They do exams?"

"Sure."

"Let’s stop by there. Okay?"

Gil looked at him. "Those contacts are really bothering you, aren’t they?"

Nick nodded. "And I broke my glasses, remember? When I was moving?"

"Yes. You said you’d get another pair."

"Never got around to it. I like contacts better."

"Well, let’s get you some."

This early on a weekday there was practically no one there. Before he went back for his requisite exam Nick gave Gil a few orders. "Find me some decent frames," he said, grinning. "I look really stupid in glasses."

"Oh, I doubt that very much."

"Truth."

The exam didn’t take long. The optometrist was a youngish guy, pretty gruff, and Nick felt another twinge of regret, seeing how long it took to find lenses that made any damn difference. Yeah, DEFINITELY getting old, Stokes. Face it.

"Well." The optometrist scooted back in his stool and wrote something down. "I can set you up with some lenses, but I don’t recommend contacts at this time." He kept on writing. "You should see an ophthalmologist."

Nick blinked his watery eyes at him. "How come?"

"Any history of eye problems?"

"Nearsighted. I mean, obviously."

"Worsening?"

"Yeah. S’why I’m here."

The man nodded. "An ophthalmologist can more accurately diagnose. How long have you had visual field problems?"

"I didn’t know I had any."

"Trouble with peripheral vision?"

After a moment Nick nodded, and shrugged. "Seems like lately I don’t see to the sides very well. But it’s not a big problem."

"Photosensitivity?"

He thought about the past twelve hours. "You could say that."

"I think it would be wise to see a specialist as soon as possible. Have someone take a look at your retinas."

Bewildered, Nick took the prescription slip. "I don’t know anyone."

"Our staff can set you up. Would you like that?"

"I -- Sure."

The optometrist didn’t smile. "Could you go today?" he asked bluntly.

"Today? I -- No, today’s not good. Just got off work a couple of hours ago, and I -- No, some other time."

"Okay. I have my receptionist set it up. Try to get you in sometime this week, all right?"

"Sure." Nick nodded again, slower this time. "But why? I mean, what’s going on?"

"Not sure. Could be a number of different things."

Walking over to the back reception desk, Nick thought darkly, Thanks for easing my mind there, buddy. The receptionist made a call and set him up with an appointment for 11:00 the next day, some guy way out in Egypt, and gave him a cordial, professional smile. "You should go early, so you can fill out paperwork." She handed him several pages of printouts. "Do you need a referral from your PCP?"

"Yeah."

"Your doctor’s name?"

Nick gave it, and the woman shot him another smile. "I’ll give her office a call. If there are any problems with the referral they’ll call you."

Nick nodded dumbly.

In the lobby Gil was standing by a rack of fairly spiffy-looking frames. His face was rapt with concentration, and Nick felt a trickle of familiar warmth make the odd tension melt a little. He padded over behind Gil and said, "Boo."

"You know, three months ago that would have worked." Gil lifted an eyebrow at him. "But now? I heard you a mile away. Try these on." He held up a pair of frames.

"A mile? You know, I got a merit badge for woodsmanship." Nick put the glasses on and looked for a mirror. "I can sneak with the best of ‘em." He wrinkled his nose, staring at his reflection. "Hello, I’m running for president of the chess club." Whipping them off, he handed them back to Gil. "Next?"

"They looked fine."

Nick glowered at him, and felt a sharp tang of anxiety when Gil’s features wavered a little in his vision. Swallowing, he managed, "Fine doesn’t cut it. Besides, that doc said I couldn’t have any more contacts for a while. So whatever I get, I better like."

Gil frowned. "Why no contacts? Did you irritate your corneas?" He selected another pair of frames and handed them over.

"Didn’t say." Nick put the new frames on and pursed his lips. "Better. I’m still the uber-geek from hell, but could be worse."

Gil didn’t say anything, and Nick glanced at him. "What?"

There was a smoky gleam to Gil’s eyes that was very, very familiar. "Oh, those work really well," Gil said in a thick voice.

"Yeah?" Nick blinked, and then grinned at him. "You think?"

"You look like you belong at Oxford with a book in your hands and a black robe."

"Huh. Harry Potter?"

Gil’s smile made Nick’s pulse speed up. "Not quite. Somerset Maugham."

"Oh. Cool. That’s good, right?"

"Very," Gil purred.

He paid for the frames and told the clerk he’d pick the glasses up before closing. Outside the store the sunshine was newly painful, and Nick gritted his teeth while he climbed in the Tahoe. Not that bad. Just bright. Everyone squinted in bright sunshine, right? No problemo.

The appointment slip in his breast pocket seemed to throb with uneasy promise, and Nick put his sunglasses on with silent relief.

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

Chapter Two

"No, Amos, I’m fine." Gil tapped the blotter with his pen. Nodding at the phone, he added, "Better than fine. Trust me."

Amos Feinman cleared his throat. "Well, I do trust you, Gil, you know that." Over the phone he sounded as if he had a cold. "I just want to make sure your recovery isn’t compromised in the field. You know how it is. We all gotta jump through the hoops. I’m concerned at your being so active so soon after your surgery, that’s all."

"You gave me a clean bill of health three weeks ago. For God’s sake, the actual surgery was months ago. If I were going to have any problems, I already would."

After a moment Feinman said, "Well, all right." Grudgingly. "I’m just checking up, really. Not trying to renege or anything."

Gil made a face. Yeah, tell me that again after I find out who you’ve been talking to, he thought grimly. Aloud he replied, "I hope I’ve put your concerns to rest."

"Um. Yeah, of course. You’ll call me if anything happens?"

"Of course."

Even after he hung up the grim teeth-gritting feeling persisted. God damn Mobley, would stop at nothing to get Gil’s ass out of the department. And Gil having to have surgery to correct progressive hearing loss was a goddamn wet dream. Never mind that his stapedectomy had been absolutely successful, and Gil’s hearing was now better than it had been in what he realized was a very long time. Even his surgeon had been impressed. But employee health? Feinman was a much tougher sell, and Gil would bet his 401K that Mobley had made a couple of phones calls prior to Feinman’s little chat.

He was still stewing impotently over it when Catherine came by. "I don’t know about you, but I’m going home," she said bluntly. "WAY past quittin’ time."

Gil nodded. "Yeah. Long night."

"Say that again." She walked inside, briefcase and jacket tucked under her arm. "What?"

"What?"

"You look pissed. Did something happen?"

Gil leaned back in his chair and released an explosive sigh. "Nothing I can’t handle," he replied.

"Wanna share?" Catherine took a seat across from him.

"Oh, I imagine you can guess."

"Then I’m betting on something to do with your hearing."

"Got it in one."

Catherine frowned. "What’s the deal? You got the all-clear, right?"

"Yes. Feinman checked in with me a little while ago. He said he’s worried my hearing will be compromised if I’m out of the office, working in the field."

"Didn’t you already go through all that? Don’t answer, I know you did. I was there for part of it." Catherine crossed her legs, shaking her head. "Think Mobley’s got anything to do with it?"

"I wouldn’t put it past him." Gil laced his fingers together over one knee. "It’ll all work out. But I’ll admit it’s annoying."

"Want me to say something?"

Gil smiled. "You’ve already gone to bat for me once, Cath. But I appreciate it."

"Any time, baby," she said with a grin.

"Hungry?"

"Starved. Where’s Nick?"

"He said he had errands to run," Gil said, shrugging. "He forgot to pick up his new glasses, for one thing."

"Nick has glasses?"

"Well, he wore his contacts so long he’s gotten some problems, so the optometrist said it was glasses for a while." Gil snorted, shaking his head. "I think he forgot on purpose."

Catherine kept right on grinning. "I bet he’s cute in glasses."

"I’m not going to disabuse you of that suspicion," Gil agreed, feeling his cheeks heating up.

"Majorly cute."

"I’m a little biased."

"Well, MY eyes work just fine, and I say: definitely cute."

"Can we go eat now? Or are you going to embarrass me a while longer?"

"I’m kind of enjoying myself."

"I see that."

Fortunately by the time they got to Paco’s Catherine had let go of the teasing. Mobley and his machinations, however, were a recurring subject.

"You know he’ll lose on this hearing thing." She was picking bits of green pepper out of her omelet. "We all see you’re doing great."

Gil sipped coffee and nodded. "For the moment. That assumes the future doesn’t hold some other complications. Which I have no reason to believe it does," he added at her sharp look.

"Can this – recur?"

"No. The bones are gone; the operation replaced them. I don’t expect to have any other kind of hearing loss, except the kind that comes with age."

"Let’s not talk about age, shall we?" Catherine quipped.

He hadn’t had the chance to spend much time with Catherine on any but a professional level since before his surgery. Now it was very nice to just sit around, shooting a little office shit but mostly playing catch-up, hearing about Lindsey’s latest adventures, relishing this friendship that had endured far too many stresses to count, and yet had become one of the most important of the few relationships he had outside work.

"So I take it you and Nick are doing well," she asked at one point.

"Very well." Gil pushed his plate away and reached for his ice water. "It scared him, I think. The surgery. Might have just been the prospect of learning sign language," he added with a smile.

Catherine sat back, her expression intent. "I never told you what he did while you were still in recovery, did I?"

Gil shook his head. "Not that I can recall, no."

She smiled gently. "He was a mess, Gil. Seeing you like that -- He said it was wrong, seeing you vulnerable."

"We all are," Gil said softly. "I don’t like to think how I’d feel if the positions were reversed."

"Things any better with his folks?" She paused. "I mean, not that it’s any of my business," she added hastily. "Just – Nick told me some things while you were in the hospital. He said his parents weren’t very happy."

Gil took a moment to finish the last of his coffee before replying. "They weren’t," he said baldly. The topic made his stomach clench, a familiar sensation since the previous spring. "To put it mildly."

"I’m sorry."

"So am I. They’re handling it, I suppose. Nick talks to his mother about once a week. His father’s a little less forgiving."

"Of what? That he’s gay? Or that he’s living with you?"

"Either, both. I don’t know. A general sort of disapproval."

"Well, at least it’s legal now." Catherine’s mouth quirked in a smile.

Gil snorted and smiled.

Driving home, he lost the smile. Nick’s family was the cloud in an otherwise pretty damn sunny sky. The customary Memorial Day family gathering this year had, according to Nick, been shot to shit by Nick’s quiet announcement. Shock, anger, grief, disgust – although not every member of his enormous family had been equally negative, but no question that it certainly hadn’t been viewed by any as positive.

Gil hadn’t been along for the trip, which was probably fortunate for him. Nick’s father’s reaction had been the worst. Gil had yet to meet the man, but Nick’s whipped expression getting off the plane that Tuesday had spoken volumes. As Nick slowly explained it that evening, Hank Stokes had a cold side, and that arctic disapproval hadn’t thawed in the months since. Staunch Catholics, Nick’s parents found his lifestyle not only dangerous and disgusting but truly sinful: a crime against God. Although Elizabeth had taken a few cautious steps toward reconciliation with her younger son, Hank had not. Nor was Gil at all sure he ever would. The Memorial Day outing had resulted in a gaping schism in the family – two of Nick’s sisters had uneasily sided with him, but the rest stood firmly in the parental camp, and for Nick, accustomed to what had been a close-knit group, the shock still hadn’t completely worn off.

Nick’s truck wasn’t in its usual parking spot. Gil felt wearier than usual, walking inside. Life, he had thought more than once, was often just a series of battles. The battle for his own professional autonomy; the struggle to conquer his hearing loss; Nick’s homophobic father. To his own credit Nick had never given even the slightest sense that he blamed Gil for his family troubles. For that Gil was grateful, and even more deeply angry that Hank Stokes couldn’t see beyond his own biases to register his son’s happiness. So Nick and Gil were highly unlikely to either of them sire any children in this lifetime. Didn’t Hank have enough grandchildren already? Nick’s brother had four kids and a fifth due by Christmas. Of Hank’s six heterosexual children, all had kids of their own, more than one. What difference did it make if Nick never joined their ranks?

Of course grandchildren were the least of Hank’s pious reservations. Gil drank a fast Scotch before heading for the shower. Hank would come around, or he wouldn’t. Hell, at least Nick had found a fellow Catholic to fall in love with, albeit a lapsed – and decidedly non-heterosexual – one. Call it a silver lining.

He crawled into bed after his shower. No telling when Nick would be home. But Gil would wake when he did. And he could put today’s little employee-health salvo behind him, and focus on what really mattered, instead of bias and political intrigue and all the many unanswered and unanswerable questions that kept popping up in their lives.

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

It occurred to him, sitting in Marc Neibart’s cool waiting room, that there were worse things than squinting in the sunlight.

Take the guy sitting in the last chair to Nick’s left. What had happened that the guy had to keep his head down like that? Even when his name was called and he got up to go to the back? What kind of condition would mean you had to stare at your own toes all the time?

Nick shifted uneasily in his chair. Christ, he didn’t belong here. A little trouble with vision didn’t mean he needed to be here with people who had real problems. He felt like an imposter. And the pamphlets on the end table. Age-related macular degeneration. Diabetic retinopathy. Behcet’s disease. What in the everlasting fuck were those? He didn’t pick up any of the brochures. Jesus, the pictures on the covers were bad enough.

When the blond nurse called his name, Nick flinched, and then got up reluctantly. His new glasses felt strange on his face. Helped, and that just reinforced the sense of dislocation.

"Hi, I’m Phyllis." The nurse or whoever she was gave him a kind smile. "We’re in room four, down here."

He submitted to all the various initial questions and measurements without saying anything beyond the necessities. Yes, he had a history of myopia. No, no diabetes or high blood pressure. Yes, a couple of folks in his family were visually impaired, but he didn’t know any specifics. An elderly great-uncle and his father’s dad, dead long before Nick was born. No one in his immediate family.

"Okay, I’m going to put some drops in your eyes." Phyllis smiled brightly again. "You didn’t drive yourself, did you?"

Nick nodded uneasily. "Why?"

"These will dilate your eyes." Her smile turned into a frown. "You shouldn’t drive yourself home. Is there anyone you can call?"

Dilate? Didn’t he already know this before he came? Nick swallowed. "I didn’t realize you’d have to do this. I’ve never seen anybody but optometrists before."

Phyllis nodded. "Dr. Neibart will be examining your retinas," she said smoothly. "That requires dilating your eyes first. And it means you’ll need dark glasses for a few hours, stay out of the sun as much as possible. I can call you a cab if you prefer."

"Yeah. I guess that’s what I’ll have to do."

The drops burned going in his eyes. "That’ll take a few minutes to work," Phyllis told him. "Then Dr. Neibart will be in to get started." She smiled again, and turned out the light, leaving Nick in the mostly darkened exam room.

Great: how was he going to explain this to Gil? Without telling him the optometrist guy had sent him over after that first exam? And just why was he being secretive about it? Couldn’t have anything to do with Gil’s surgery, right? Or the fact that Gil’s hearing before the event had been going to hell in a goddamn fast handbasket?

The cab he could explain as car trouble. That’d probably work; his truck had a few quirks, and hell, he could always say he ran out of gas. Tank was low anyway. And Gil would be sleeping by now. Be a shame to wake him up.

And the fact that his pupils would be blown as wide as the Grand Canyon? Gil liked it dark during the day. Probably wouldn’t even notice if Nick didn’t turn on any lights or open the shades.

The doctor was a genial man about Gil’s age, and Nick wasn’t sure if it was that fact or just the guy’s general personality, but Nick liked him instinctively. Neibart had a strong handshake and a cheery smile. "So what brings you to see me, Nick?" he asked in a melodious baritone. He scanned Nick’s chart quickly, and looked back at him.

"I’m not really sure." Nick squinted at him. Damn, evidently getting your eyes dilated was a pain in the ass. He’d have to make a note to remember to hate this next time. "I went to get my eyes checked, and the guy sent me here."

"You have some family with eye problems?"

"I’m not sure what. My dad’s uncle is blind."

Neibart nodded. "Well, let’s do a few tests and go from there, all right?"

"Sure."

It took a lot longer than he’d thought. Not at all the same as the optometrist’s exam, although there was an eye chart at one point, recognizable enough. But there was also a careful time spent slowly directing his watering gaze various directions while Neibart shone a painfully bright light in his eyes. Several waits: one to be taken into another room for an electroretinogram, which was a little unsettling. Not that it hurt, exactly, because Phyllis put more drops in his eyes to numb them a little, but let’s face it, having anything stuck to your eyes but contacts was disturbing. But it was nothing next to the last test. By that point it was early afternoon, and Nick was tired and frustrated and more than a little worried about the sheer extent of all this.

"This is a fluorescein angiogram," the tech told him. Her name was Kelly, and she had the harried look of someone with too much work to be done in too little time. Nick figured he’d worn that particular expression a few times himself. "I’ll be taking some photographs of your retinas. First without contrast dye, then with it."

The first batch of photos was okay, but the IV she put in his arm made him feel more than a little sick. When he mentioned it Kelly nodded. "Some people are a little sensitive to the dye. If you feel like you’re really going to be sick, just tell me."

It didn’t go that far, but by the time he returned to his increasingly familiar exam room, he was achingly ready to go. Screw all this; eating up his entire day, which was actually his night, and at this point he’d get about three hours of sleep if he was really, really lucky. And for what? Satisfy some optometrist’s curiosity? And hell, the guy hadn’t even given him new contacts.

Neibart appeared shortly after the last test. He had Nick’s chart in his hand, a little thicker than it had started out. "Okay, so let’s talk," he said briskly, sitting on the stool and rolling over to slap the chart on the counter, where there was some light. "I’ll be right up front about it, Nick. Your optometrist was right to send you to see me. You’ve definitely got some issues going on."

Nick frowned at him. Between the nausea and the sleeplessness, his head was starting to ache, too. "What kind of issues?"

Neibart didn’t smile at him. "Your vision’s been degrading for some time, hasn’t it? How long have you been having trouble?"

"Well, I mean, depends on what you call trouble. A while, I guess. But I always figured I just needed a new prescription. I’ve had glasses forever."

"Your exam yesterday showed some initial problems with visual fields – meaning your peripheral vision isn’t what it should be, by a long shot. The tests we do here are more precise. Let me show you what I’m talking about." He opened the chart to a page showing a circle containing grid marks. "See the diagram here?" Neibart indicated the wavery pen lines making a rough circle within the grid. "That’s your actual field of vision. As you can see, it’s significantly smaller than it should be."

Nick stared at it. "That’s it?" he asked a little stupidly.

"Based on that I had my staff do other tests. Your ERG results were almost negligible."

Nick shook his head. "Is that bad or good?"

"Not very good. We weren’t able to register any significant results. The ERG measures the electrical response in your retinas to the flashes of light. In your case, there was almost no reaction at all." He paged forward. "Now, the retinas themselves. Let me show you a picture of a normal retina."

The photograph was pretty interesting, actually. In a distant sort of way. But Nick felt his stomach clenching into a helpless tense knot when Neibart put his own photographs up for comparison. It wasn’t that he could tell WHY it was different, but no question that it WAS different. Very different.

"These are hyperplastic pigmentation areas, what we call ‘bone spicules.’" Neibart finally closed the chart, leaning against the counter on one elbow. "What these tests are saying to me," he resumed carefully, "is that you’ve had this problem for quite some time. Possibly ten years, maybe longer. But your condition has progressed to the point that your visual acuity and fields are significantly compromised."

Nick swallowed dryly. "What’s wrong with me?"

"I’m sending some blood work to a lab to rule out a couple of possibilities. But based on what I’m seeing today, I’ll say you have a disease called retinitis pigmentosa. RP. Ever heard of it?" When Nick shook his head Neibart went on, "Most of the time we believe RP is a genetically transmitted problem, often running in families. You know you have at least one blood relative with visual compromise, and it’s possible that if you do some checking you might find others. RP affects your retinas’ ability to see light – the photoreceptor cells, the rods and cones of the eyes. Rod cells help you see in dim light, also affect peripheral vision. Cone cells are responsible for color vision and adjusting to bright light.

"I’m seeing problems in all those areas, which means your disease is fairly advanced. You’ve probably been compensating for a lot of things, probably without being really aware you’re doing it. But at this point you’re likely to begin having problems that are too big to compensate. I’m most concerned about the shrinking of your visual fields, and response to bright light. I can recommend a specific type of dark lens that will help you with sunlight, but the visual field problem is not correctable."

Listening, Nick felt completely disembodied. Tired, bewildered, and like none of this was actually about him. "What does all of this mean?" he asked weakly. "I mean, are you saying this is going to keep going?"

Neibart nodded. "It’s a progressive disease. And there’s no treatment for it as such. Some research going on, but nothing that I feel I can pin any real hopes on. The good news is, RP is typically slow, and rarely results in complete blindness even after many years. The bad news is that as I said, your condition is fairly advanced. That suggests a couple of possibilities. First, you’ve had it much longer than we realize. Or second, your variant of RP moves more quickly. It’s impossible to say yet which is actually the case."

"So I’m going BLIND?" Nick rasped, gaping at him. "Is that what you’re telling me?"

Neibart had such a goddamn impassive face. "Eventually, your vision loss will be at least the equivalent of legal blindness, yes. It’s unusual to see central vision problems like yours until the later stages of the disease. And it will get worse."

"But can’t you DO something? I mean, Christ. You’re saying this is happening and there’s nothing you can do? At all?"

"Some research trials are going on with things like high doses of vitamin A. None of them have yet conclusively shown any benefits. If you’re interested in participating in any clinical trials, I’ll be more than happy to recommend you for them."

"But – I mean, none of this seemed like – that big a deal," Nick protested, shaking his head wildly. "I mean, I know the light thing, I can tell that there’s something going on, but it’s – the minute I go inside, you know, it gets better. You’re telling me it won’t get better now?"

"The length of time it takes your eyes to adjust from high to low light, and vice versa, will be increasing, yes. Your nyctalopia – poor night vision – will continue to worsen."

"How soon?"

"Impossible to say. You’ll need regular low-vision exams, and always call if you detect any changes, anything that feels or looks different."

Nick looked down, forcing himself to take a few slow deep breaths. His hands were so cold. "I work nights," he said slowly, still staring at his trembling hands. "I gotta be able to see at night."

"Vitamin A might be a worthwhile addition. But I don’t advise taking more than 15,000 iu per day. This is one of the vitamins that can produce side effects if overdosed."

"But you don’t know if it’ll help."

"No. It may."

Nick nodded slowly. "So you’re saying I’m screwed, aren’t you?" he said, looking up at Neibart.

The doctor looked uncomfortable. "I’m saying this is a serious problem, yes. But barring other complicating factors, you can expect some years of usable vision. I can’t tell you what to expect day by day. That’s different in every individual. But in some ways you have the time to prepare yourself. And we can help with some of your problems. Better lenses to help you adapt to high-light situations. That sort of thing."

"Can’t you – give me new glasses, something like that?"

"Corrective lenses aren’t going to make any appreciable difference. Problems like the narrowing of your visual fields won’t respond to better glasses."

Absurdly, he felt very sleepy all of a sudden. Tired to the bone. "Okay," Nick said dully. "I need -- I think I need some time to think about all this."

Neibart nodded. "I completely understand that. And I do have a few more diseases to rule out, from your blood work. My office will be in touch as soon as we get those results. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Neibart extended his hand, and Nick shook it mechanically. "I’m very sorry to have had to tell you all this," the doctor said with more warmth than he’d shown for a while. "If you have any questions, call my office at any time."

"Okay."

The light in the lobby hurt his eyes. Probably the lingering dilation, but as he squinted behind his sunglasses he thought, Maybe it’s not just the dilation. Maybe it’s this thing. Maybe it’s always gonna feel this way from now on.

Maybe it’s gonna feel worse.

He paid his copay and nodded when the receptionist asked him about a taxi. His eyes stung when he sat down to wait for the cab to show up. Might have been all the goop they’d put in there during his long visit. But as he blinked over and over again, finally reaching up to surreptitiously wipe his cheeks, he thought probably they were just plain tears.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

He woke up when Nick crawled in bed. It felt late, but his time sense was always fuzzy when he first woke up. Daylight played tricks on you.

"What time is it?" Gil mumbled, feeling Nick burrowing against him.

"Don’t ask. Go back to sleep."

"What took you so long?"

Nick’s face was blurry in the dim bedroom. "Think my alternator went out. I’ll screw with it tomorrow."

Gil frowned and fought down a yawn. "Car wouldn’t start?" He turned to face him, and Nick nodded. "You take a cab? Why didn’t you call me?"

"No point in both of us being shot to shit tonight," Nick said softly. His amorphous hand reached out to touch Gil’s cheek. "Come on, go back to sleep."

He could practically feel the tension radiating off Nick’s body. It was as efficient as a cup of coffee at banishing some of the drowsiness. Propping himself up on one elbow, Gil glanced over at the alarm clock. "God, Nick, it’s nearly 3:00. How long were you stuck?"

"A while." Nick turned on his back and reached up to rub his eyes. "Long fucking time."

"Where’d you leave the car?"

"Over on Westbrook."

"We can go over tonight before work. I’ll give you a jump. At least it’ll be enough to get it to a mechanic."

Nick shook his head. "Nah, it’s okay. It’ll keep. I’ll mess with it tomorrow. Not goin’ anyplace."

"So what were you doing over on Westbrook?"

Nick paused a second before replying. "Nothing, really. Friend of mine told me about this place. Stereo."

"Didn’t you already decide on the Kenwood we looked at last week?"

"I was just looking, okay?" Nick slung an arm over his face. "Jeez, what’s with the questions? What difference does it make?"

Gil sighed. "Sorry." He sagged back down on the pillow, reaching out to slide his hand over Nick’s flat belly. "Didn’t mean to give you the third degree."

"It’s okay." Nick turned and burrowed again, face buried between Gil’s jaw and the pillow. "Just tired."

Gil nodded, letting his hand slowly stroke Nick’s back. "Go to sleep," he murmured. "We’ll take care of the car later."

"Kay."

But he couldn’t find sleep again himself. Even after Nick’s breathing lengthened, body boneless against Gil, he lay gazing at the ceiling, absently studying the progression of the shadows. Nick was an almost painfully honest person by nature. Had always been so, sometimes to his rueful regret.

So why did it seem as if at least part of that story was a lie?

The alarm went off at 5:30, as usual. Nick didn’t even flinch. With care Gil disengaged himself, pulling the sheet over Nick’s bare shoulder before getting up. They didn’t actually have to be at the lab until 7:30. Wouldn’t hurt to let Nick sleep another hour.

There was time for a shower and two fast cups of coffee before he went back into the bedroom. Nick lay just as he’d left him, silent and deeply asleep. Feeling guilty, Gil sat down on the edge of the bed and shook Nick’s shoulder gently. "Nick, wake up. Time to get up, honey."

It took ten minutes and several more shakes before Nick finally sat up. His hair was endearingly messy. "Time’s it?"

"About 6:30. We need to get a move on pretty soon."

"Okay." Nick blinked several times, and then sighed and slung his legs over the side of the bed. "Did you make any coffee?"

"I’ll get you some. Come on. Shower will work wonders."

Privately he thought Nick needed sleep a lot more than a shower, but nothing for it, unless he wanted to pull rank and give Nick permission to come in late. And with their relationship being what it was, he was always careful not to invite accusations of favoritism. Fraternization wasn’t against the rules, but no use courting dissent.

He’d left Nick shambling in the direction of the bathroom and made it out into the hall when he heard a thump, and Nick’s subsequent heartfelt "Fuck." Retracing his steps, Gil found Nick leaning against the bathroom door, holding one foot.

"You okay?"

"It’s fucking dark in here," Nick said waspishly. "Nearly broke my goddamn toe."

It occurred to Gil to point out that it wasn’t really dark. But Nick rarely cursed like that, which meant it was neither the time nor the place for such things. Gil stooped to survey the damage. And hell, Nick had indeed caught himself a good one. "What did you do?" Gil asked.

"Kicked the damn door."

"I think it won."

"Yeah."

In the bathroom’s fluorescents, it was easy to see that Nick’s left little toe was definitely pointing the wrong direction. Gil glanced up at him and took in Nick’s watering eyes. "I think you did break it," Gil said heavily.

"Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know." Nick hissed, bringing his foot down and cautiously testing it. "Aw, fuck, man, how in the hell am I gonna walk on that?"

"Put some clothes on, okay? I’ll take you over to the clinic. They’re open until 9:00."

With Gil’s help Nick put on jeans and a tee shirt, and hopped awkwardly out to the truck. By the time they got to the clinic Nick’s toe had swollen, and a dark bruise had begun to surface in the surrounding tissue. The x-ray showed a clean fracture, but as Gil had suspected, it wasn’t possible to splint or cast it, really. The physician taped it up, told Nick to get an orthopedic shoe to use for a few weeks, and that was that.

When he turned the truck in the direction of home, Nick glanced at him. "We’re already late." His voice was hoarse. "Where are you going?"

"You’re going to take the night off," Gil told him, signaling for a left turn. "Didn’t you hear the doctor? Prop it up tonight, don’t walk any more than you have to."

"It’s just a toe. No big deal."

Gil glanced at Nick’s pale, exhausted face, and shook his head. "You have plenty of sick leave stored up," he said as tactfully as he could. "I think a broken bone warrants using a day of it. Don’t you?"

"I guess."

"Besides, you had a rotten day. Get some sleep."

"Fucking toe is killing me," Nick groused, but his mouth quirked in a reluctant smile.

"I bet. You have any Tylenol 3 left?"

"Think so."

"Good."

By the time he got Nick back home and hightailed it to work, it was nearly 9:00. Catherine and Jim got him up to speed, after he told them about Nick’s accident.

"I broke my toe once, dancing." Catherine wrinkled her nose prettily. "Kept me out for weeks."

"Nick’ll be back tomorrow, I’m sure." Gil shrugged. "But probably not in the field for a week or two."

"Which leaves us a little short-handed," she replied. "I smell a long night ahead."

Gil nodded. "Very likely."

Jim cleared his throat. "So which of you wants the DB, and which wants the missing housewife?" He waggled two printouts in the air. "Up for grabs."

Catherine sighed. "You know, I love my job," she observed, grabbing one of the sheets of paper. "I really do." She glanced at the paper. "Looks like I’ll be hunting the housewife."

Jim laid the other printout on Gil’s desk. "Have fun."

"Suicide?" Gil asked, reading quickly.

"Maybe. The way this night is going? You won’t be that lucky."

He thought about calling Nick before he left, just to check in. But if all was going the way it should, Nick was asleep. Gil keep his hand on the receiver for a moment longer, thinking. Then with a shrug he gathered up his kit and headed for the door. Whatever Nick’s odd mood today, slightly off behavior, there was bound to be an explanation for it. Something besides being tired and now injured as well.

He caught up with Brass in the parking lot, and said, "So give me what you know."

By the time they were out of the parking lot, Nick’s oddness had been pushed to the back of his mind.

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

The only good thing he could see about breaking his toe was that it gave him some time to think. Of course the fact that he’d broken it at all spoke volumes about the very subject he needed to think about. Could picture it now, Gil asking, "So Nicky, how in the hell did you manage to do this?" "Well, Gil, see, my eyes are worse than you think. A lot worse. Matter of fact, I never saw the door I ran into. Couldn’t see jack, if you want the truth. Have I mentioned I’m going blind? Oh, well, yeah. That, too."

He’d picked up the phone before he really thought about it. Sure, it’d be tough explaining why he wasn’t home in case Gil dropped by. But that would be lots easier than explaining why Nick’s car was parked in front of the friendly neighborhood retinal specialist’s office. Coincidence? Yeah, right. Like hell.

He made sure the answering machine was on before the cab got there. As long as Gil only used the phone, he could always say he was asleep. But knowing Gil – and by this point Nick figured he knew the man about as well as anyone did – he’d be wrapped up in work and apologize all day tomorrow for not calling or coming by. Nick wasn’t going to mention how thankful he was at times for Gil’s fascination with his work. Not when it came in as handy as it did right now.

The cab got there pretty fast, and it was still light when Nick hobbled over to his car and got in. Thank god this was his left foot and not the right. He didn’t like to think what pressing the gas pedal would have felt like to his throbbing toe. Bad enough as it was.

By the time he got home again his foot was killing him, and he was so tired and strung-out he felt as if someone had flayed all his skin off and put it back on inside-out. Fucking miserable day, start to finish, and that was a fact. He popped another Tylenol 3 and limped into the bedroom. But sleep kept its distance, probably because every nerve in his body was on high alert. He lay staring at the far wall, missing Gil’s warm sturdy presence next to him. Barely been together a year, and already he couldn’t rest when Gil was gone. Just felt wrong.

He dozed off at some point, but the dull throb of his injured toe woke him way too fast. Finally he gave up and went into the living room, lying on the couch and channel-surfing until he couldn’t resist picking up the phone and seeing what was going on.

Gil sounded distracted when he picked up. "Is this a bad time?" Nick asked.

"Actually -- No, of course not. How are you feeling? Why aren’t you asleep?"

Nick smiled to himself. "Feels funny. Sleeping at night, you know?"

"Foot hurting?"

"Well, you know. I’ll live. How’s work?"

"Busy. Not too bad," Gil amended fast. "I’ll be home as early as I can be."

"Don’t worry. Do what you gotta do. I was just checking in."

"I want to be there."

Nick smiled again. "No, you don’t."

"I’ll prove it to you when I get home."

"Oh, really," Nick drawled, the smile becoming a grin. "In that case, I wish you’d hurry."

Gil laughed. "It’ll be a couple of hours yet. But I’ll see you soon, okay? Need anything on my way home?"

"Nope. But I hope you don’t plan to actually sleep once you’re here."

"I had other things in mind."

"Good," Nick whispered. "Later, baby."

"See you soon."

He didn’t believe for a New York second that Gil was really going to hurry home. Not gonna happen. But he woke up on the couch two hours later and there was the man himself, looking amazingly fresh for someone who’d just gotten off work. Gil sat down at the end of the couch and reached out to touch Nick’s bandaged foot carefully. "Feel okay?"

"Yeah." Nick sat up, switching directions and laying his head on Gil’s thigh. "Must not have been a busy night," he said foggily, petting Gil’s knee. "We never get home by 4:00."

"I had incentive," Gil said in a soft voice. His hand felt good stroking Nick’s hair. "Missed you."

Nick turned onto his back, smiling up at him. "You goin’ romantic on me, Grissom?"

Gil smiled. "Always."

It was weirdly good, lying there and letting Gil fill him in on what had happened that night. Normally Nick felt odd missing a shift, like he was playing catch-up. But right now it felt fine just to listen to Gil’s warm voice, soak in the simple fact of his presence. Made things like broken toes and failing eyeballs sort of fade into the background. Still there, but not so important right now.

"You feeling okay?" Nick asked when Gil finished his rundown of the night’s events.

"Never better. I promise."

"Hungry? I think we got some of that chicken left over."

"Sounds good." When Nick started to sit up Gil’s hand pressed on his shoulder. "I’ll get it. You’re injured, remember?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Not THAT bad."

"Humor me."

But after listening to Gil rattle around in the kitchen for a few minutes Nick couldn’t resist, so he limped over, climbing up on one of the stools and watching him putter.

Reheated, there was more than enough for both of them. Nick ate a little while Gil tucked in, eating with a focus that told Nick there hadn’t been time for a lunch break. When Gil’s plate was clean, Nick pushed his over.

"You don’t want it?"

Nick shook his head. "Not that hungry. Go ahead."

Gil polished off his portion, too, and finally gave him a groggy look.

"You skipped lunch again," Nick observed gravely.

"Guilty." Gil sipped his glass of wine. "No time. You know how it is."

"Um, yeah."

Gil picked up the plates and carried them to the sink. Over his shoulder he asked, "So when did you decide to go get your car?"

Nick’s smile faltered. "Oh. Nah, I just thought, you know. Get it taken care of. So we wouldn’t have to do it later."

Gil turned, revealing an impassive expression. "You’ll have to do better than that, Nick," he said calmly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you’re barely mobile, and yet you waited until I left to go get a car that could, as you told me earlier, have waited until tomorrow." Gil walked slowly back over. "You’re an adult and you don’t have to tell me everything you do, you know," he continued. "But it just seems very odd."

Nick shifted a little on the stool. It felt very hot in the kitchen suddenly. Yeah, Cabe, you’re right: I can’t lie for shit. But I gotta give it a shot right now. It’s too soon. I can’t say it. I don’t even know what I’d say. "I know," Nick agreed. "But there’s no agenda, Gil. I just didn’t like leaving it there."

"And the alternator?"

Meeting Gil’s level gaze Nick felt about three inches tall. "Worked this time," Nick said softly. "Hell of a thing."

Gil nodded shortly. "Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it." He tossed the towel in the direction of the sink and shrugged. "But I know you’re lying. Okay? I don’t know why, and maybe it has nothing to do with me. But I can tell. I just want you to know that." He waited for Nick’s moment of silence before stalking out of the kitchen.

Nick closed his eyes briefly, and then hoisted himself off the stool. "Gil. Wait." Goddamn it. "Wait a minute."

Gil stood by the couch, back still turned, while Nick limped over to stand next to him. "Yeah, okay. I lied." Nick sidled around to look Gil in the face. "Can we – maybe talk about it?"

"Sure."

Gil sat a couple of feet away from him, but a year and counting had taught Nick the difference between real anger and annoyance. So far this was annoyance. He cleared his throat. "I didn’t want you to see where I went," Nick said softly.

Gil nodded. "Okay. Why?"

Gazing at him, Nick shook his head slowly. "I don’t -- I know you’re gonna think I’m lying again, but I’m not sure." He gnawed his upper lip for a second, hoping Gil would say something. When he didn’t, Nick finally sighed. "Okay. I went to the eye doctor."

It was so clearly not what Gil was expecting, Nick had a brief glimpse of a surpassingly rare look of complete surprise on Gil’s face. "Eye doctor?" Gil repeated. "You -- You saw the optometrist already."

"Yeah." Nick nodded. "This was an ophthalmologist. The optometrist guy referred me."

Surprise morphed into sudden concern. Gil leaned forward, a frown drawing his brows together. "For what?" he asked intently.

Save what you can. Don’t freak him out any more than this. Just salvage what you can and end this. Now. "Not sure yet," Nick told him with a listless shrug. "He did some tests. He told me he’d have some results the next week or two."

"Tests? What kind of tests?"

"He dilated my eyes. It’s why I couldn’t drive the car home."

"Nick, why didn’t you say something?" Gil shook his head, another rare, bewildered look crossing his face. "I would have driven you, you know that. For God’s sake."

"I know." Nick nodded fast. "I know, I just – didn’t want to say anything."

"Why on earth not?"

Shifting on the cushion, Nick looked down. "You got a lot on your plate right now. I mean, you don’t talk about it, but don’t think I don’t know it’s been an uphill climb at work this week. I see it in your face, you know? You’ve only been back three weeks, and –"

"Nick." Gil shook his head. "Okay, yes, it’s been a challenge at times, but you know as well as I do that I’m not having any problems. The surgery was a complete success. Not even Mobley can screw things up for me."

"Mobley?" Nick narrowed his eyes. "What’s he done this time?"

"Later. What I want you to realize is that I can handle you seeing an eye specialist. Okay? What I can’t handle is you treating me like I’m made of bone china. I’m not. Is that the only reason you didn’t want to tell me?"

Meeting his intent blue gaze, Nick felt a sudden urge to blurt it all out. The diagnosis, the prognosis, the whole enchilada. And that odd clamping feeling, making his tongue reluctant to say the words. Not yet. Jesus, not yet, please. Let us have a little time. Just a little more, that’s all I ask. "Pretty much," Nick said softly.

"Do you really think I’m that fragile?"

No, Nick thought bleakly. I think I am. "No," he blurted. "No, but look, it’s just another thing, just more crap to have to deal with, and I figured it was nothing anyway. Okay? But then I had to deal with the damn car, and it just – got out of control." He drew a fast breath. "I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to have to think about it, you know?"

Gil reached out and took Nick’s limp hand, massaging it warmly. "I want to think about it," he said with a slow half-smile. "Don’t you get it? You stood by me the whole time I was dealing with work and surgery and all that entailed. You think I wouldn’t do the same for you? In a heartbeat, honey. Absolutely."

"Okay," Nick said thickly.

"So tell me about your eyes. What’s going on?"

Nick shook his head, dropping his gaze to study their linked hands. "I’m just not seeing as well as I was. You know. That guy at the clinic wanted me to get my retinas checked."

"And?"

"He checked ‘em." Nick forced a smile, but dropped it immediately.

"God, Nick." Gil stood and moved over, sitting down again next to him. It felt terribly good to have Gil pulling him close, arms tightening around him. "You’re worried," Gil murmured. "I can see that. What’s got you so scared? Was it something the doctor said?"

Too fucking hard. He couldn’t. Closing his eyes, Nick leaned his forehead in the crook of Gil’s neck. "Yeah," he whispered.

"What? What did he say?"

"He thinks I have – this disease. Degenerative thing."

Gil nodded. "Which disease, Nick?"

"I’d never heard of it before. Retinitis – pigmentitis, pigment-something." Nick sighed. "He gave me some papers."

Gil had gone very still. After a moment he asked, "Retinitis pigmentosa?"

Nick drew back a little, unsurprised to find his damn faulty eyes wet with tears. "Yeah," he agreed, frowning. "You know it?"

It hit him right then. The reality of it. Because Gil’s expression wasn’t the one he needed so desperately to see. Recognition, yes, plenty of that. But Gil looked stunned, and something that was far, far worse than surprise.

Gil looked afraid.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Four

He always had a comment ready. In fact prided himself on the fact. No one ever left Gil Grissom speechless. Or at least surpassingly rarely.

But at that moment, sitting on his familiar couch with Nick’s needy eyes trained upon him, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

"Oh, great," Nick said in a strained voice. "You do, don't you? Jesus."

"It's related to something called Usher syndrome," Gil remarked in a tone even he knew was too damn calm. "Usher causes deafness, along with retinitis pigmentosa."

"So is that supposed to make me feel lucky or something?"

Looking at Nick's frantic, wounded gaze, Gil swallowed and shook his head. "No," he replied softly. "I didn't mean that."

"So this means I'm gonna go blind, doesn't it?" Nick's too-bright eyes filled with tears. "Shit. I don't fucking BELIEVE this." He reached up to wipe his eyes impatiently.

"Tell me what the doctor said. Please?" Gil added when Nick snorted.

Nick was so unfamiliar with some of the tests, it took Gil a moment to figure out what he was saying. But ultimately it was all too clear. The type of degeneration Nick was experiencing with his vision sounded a hell of a lot like what Gil had heard of retinitis pigmentosa. His was a nodding acquaintance at best, he thought, but enough to know that Nick had a very serious problem.

When Nick wound down, Gil took his hand. Nick's fingers were icy, and Gil chafed them without thinking. "The doctor told you this disease moves slowly, right?"

"Y-yeah."

"So that means you probably don't have to worry about losing your sight tomorrow."

Nick nodded stiffly. His cheeks were still streaked with drying tears. "It's just -- so out of left field," he said in a hushed voice. "I thought -- it was just age, you know? My eyes have always sucked, but I just thought I needed new contacts. Then this guy's telling me all this stuff."

"How could you know this would happen?" Gil countered. "Retinitis pigmentosa is a rare disease, Nick -- it's not as if you run into references to it every day. You had no reason to suspect anything like this. At least with my hearing problems I had a lot of advance notice. Believe me, if I hadn’t I seriously doubt I’d have accepted it as readily as I did."

"He said there was nothing he could do," Nick whispered. "It’s like I just gotta lie back and let it happen. No surgery, no goddamn medicine. Just – wait for the lights to go out? I don’t see how I can do that, Gil."

"Then don’t. There have to be alternative remedies. Therapies. Ongoing research, clinical trials. You aren’t the only person with this disease."

"The guy mentioned he’d put me in for stuff if I wanted to do clinical trials. I don’t know what that really means, per se, except there aren’t any guarantees."

Gil shook his head. "There aren’t. But there never are, Nick."

Nick sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "You know what I was thinking last night? When I couldn’t get to sleep?" He swallowed. "I thought, you know, there are all these things I’ve never done. Things I’ve never seen. Like remember last spring? We talked about going to Europe. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve never seen jack. And you want to know what the worst part is? There –" He broke off and drew a fast, savage breath. "There’s going to be some day when I can’t SEE you anymore," he blurted wildly. "And that’s – I can’t stand that. I can’t!"

The list of possible replies to that was appallingly short. Fact: If Nick had RP, then yes, that day would almost certainly come. When Nick couldn’t see him, or much of anything else. He might not ever go completely blind, but what vision he had would be next to useless. Gil’s throat ached terribly, and when Nick leaned into him he wrapped his arms around him, squeezing as hard as he could.

"We’re still going to Europe," Gil said in Nick’s ear. "We can go anywhere we want. Okay? I promise you that."

"Okay," Nick mumbled.

"But the first thing we need to do is understand what we’re facing. I know what this is, in general, but I don’t know much about specifics. And neither do you." Gil slowly disengaged himself, enough to look in Nick’s damp eyes. "You’re not going to wake up tomorrow and not see anything, okay?" he continued, smiling a little and rubbing Nick’s cheek with his thumb. "So let’s get used to the idea first. All right? Do some research, talk to some people. Find out what you can really expect."

Nick nodded shakily after a moment, and made a muffled sound when Gil kissed him softly.

And later, in the darkened bedroom that had been his and was now so thoroughly theirs, he did other things, hoping that even if it didn’t keep the problems away forever, it would at least keep them at bay for now. Beneath him Nick’s eyes were open, watching him with fierce, hot focus, and they kept watching the entire time they made love, until finally Nick’s face contorted with his good orgasm, his voice hoarse and wonderfully loud in Gil’s ears.

Nick wasn’t usually the fuck-and-sleep type, Gil had found to his pleasure; there were often nights when they could lie there a long time and talk, about nothing, really. Ideas, random thoughts. The kind of pillow talk Gil hadn’t thought he would ever enjoy with anyone. But Nick fell asleep fast this time, and Gil lay there and didn’t wake him up to tell him it wasn’t a particularly comfortable position, all elbows and chin nudging a little hard into Gil’s breastbone. Just let him sleep. God knew he needed it.

In spite of it all Gil finally slept too, and awoke to the faint hiss of the air conditioner and Nick’s soft breathing. At some point Nick had maybe gotten uncomfortable himself, and now lay curled against Gil’s side, hands twined together in that funny praying position Gil had noticed not long after they’d started seeing each other. Nick hadn’t believed he did it until Gil triumphantly pointed it out one night. "Huh," Nick had observed. "Oh well." And kept his hands like that while he closed his eyes, although he’d been smiling a while after he pretended to sleep.

Gil levered himself cautiously up on one elbow, staring at Nick’s lax features. Funny how Nick’s body seemed as familiar as his own now. The tiny scar on his shoulder, where he’d fallen off his bike when he was nine and hit the neighbor’s rose bush. The faint white line of another scar on his forehead, that one far more recent and hardly even noticeable unless you looked closely, a lingering reminder of that terrifying evening with Nigel Crane. Little things, bigger things, they were all bits of Nick, pieces of the whole, and right now Gil couldn’t imagine him changing. Growing older, yes, that was a given. But truly changing? No.

Why did it have to be now? Why, when they’d just gotten the hang of this together thing? In spite of a very forgiving memory, the truth was it hadn’t been that easy. Two bachelors, trying to fit in the same space. At first things like the fact that Nick liked the toilet paper over instead of under nearly drove Gil insane. And he put forks in the spoon slot. Why? Wasn’t it clear from the presence of so many SPOONS that forks didn’t belong there?

Gil’s own habits had been even harder to fathom for Nick, if truth were known. Not that he’d admit it at first, but there had been a night just after Thanksgiving when Nick’s fabled good humor had frayed too thin. "Newsflash, Gil," he’d snarled, standing there naked as the day he was born, eyes snapping with anger. "You CAN sleep on the same sheets two nights in a row, and guess what? You won’t die of it!" They’d gotten a laugh out of it later, and Nick still gave him crap about taking clean sheets with him on trips. That, Nick told him, was understandable given what went on on hotel sheets. But home? Come on. Lighten up, Grissom. Once a week is really plenty. Okay, so we compromise: twice a week. More than that is just too.

So many little things, so many ridiculously small matters that had seemed so huge at the time. They still argued over some things. Of course; it was what you did. But so far at least, none of those arguments had held anything more than transient heat. It had taken a while, but they fit now.

Where would Nick put the forks when he couldn’t see anymore? Anywhere you want, Gil thought, reaching out to feather his fingers over the thin scar on Nick’s forehead. I don’t care about the goddamn forks, or the laundry, or the grill you didn’t clean after the last time we cooked out on the patio. I don’t give a good goddamn about any of it. Just don’t let failing eyes take anything from you it doesn’t have to. I can live with you blind. I can learn to do it all differently, every single thing, as long as it doesn’t make you into someone else.

Nick stirred, made a tiny snorting sound, and unlaced his praying fingers to slide his hands under his cheek. Smiling, Gil let his head sag back down on the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"So what do you want to do tonight?" Gil asked over Saturday’s very late lunch.

Nick looked up. "Don’t forget we gotta go to Sandra’s party tonight," he said around a mouthful of sandwich.

"Sandra?"

"Glen’s wife." Gil still looked perplexed, and Nick put down his sandwich. "We met them at the Labor Day thing. At the park. Glen was the one with the kites. Remember now?"

"We know them?" Gil asked, sounding honestly surprised.

"Well, I do. You do, sorta. They came over the night we had Catherine and Lindsey and the Jacksons over. Except you got paged, and didn’t return my calls, and we had dinner without you."

"Oh." Gil nodded. "Sorry."

Grinning, Nick shook his head. "I told you about this party like, a month ago. Sandra’s birthday. Not a surprise party," he added when Gil drew a breath. "Just the regular kind."

Gil made a face. "And I agreed to go?"

"Come on, Gil. They’re nice folks. And I already told them we’d be there."

A trace of thunder crept over Gil’s countenance. "You did?"

"We don’t even have to stay that long. Promise. But I have to give her her present anyway."

"You got her a present?"

Nick laughed.

The party was fine. Not the most fun Nick had ever had, but the kind of thing he found himself liking these days: cooking outside, a gaggle of kids running around raising hell, neighborhood people. No bullshit about the two queer guys in the middle of Middle American domesticity. He, and Gil by association more than actual knowledge, were just some more folks living in the ‘hood.

As much as he feared Gil might really and truly hate it, he seemed to have a pretty good time. They stayed longer than an hour, but the barbecue was terrific, the margaritas strong and tart, and Sandra liked the Hummel knickknack Nick had gotten her.

"You BOUGHT that?" Gil hissed in his ear.

"She likes them," Nick said patiently. "I said they were nice; I never said they had good taste."

Might have been the margaritas, but Gil laughed hard at that, and got an approving look from Monique Jackson.

By the time it was nearly dark, the kids were nodding, the food was demolished, and Nick was more than a little tanked. Gil maneuvered him to the door, where he got a sloppy kiss on the cheek from Sandra before they went staggering down the street.

"How’s your foot?" Gil asked, hand on Nick’s elbow.

"Feels fine."

"Yeah, I bet it does," Gil retorted with a grin.

But it cut into his buzz a little, the way Gil’s face was just a pale blur in the twilight. And yeah, now that he knew what to call it, his peripheral vision wasn’t what it should be.

"What is it?" Gil asked, pausing.

"I have tunnel vision," Nick said. Yeah, kiss that buzz goodbye. "There’s – things, out to the side. In the way."

He couldn’t tell if Gil was smiling or not, but his voice was warm. "Probably the margaritas."

"No." Nick shook his head. "When I turn my head, see?" He looked about a foot to Gil’s left. "You’re gone. It’s like you’re not even there. You just disappeared."

The Gil-blob hove back into the tunnel. "Then don’t turn your head," Gil said gently.

"Wow." Nick uttered a weak laugh. "It’s like a carnival trick. Now you’re here, now you’re not. And there you are again. Oh man, that’s trippy."

"Nick –"

"No, see?" Nick laughed again, and this time it made him feel dizzy and a little sick. "Do you know what I see right now? Not much of anything. How’s that? You’re – like Casper the Friendly Ghost, you know? I can’t even really see your face. And it’s not even totally dark yet."

"Let’s go home, okay?" Now Gil sounded strained, and Nick flinched when Gil’s hand closed warm over his wrist. "Come on, Nick."

"What? Don’t want me to make a scene?"

"I think later on you’ll thank me for not letting you embarrass yourself in front of your friends."

"I’m not embarrassed!"

"Come on, honey. Let’s just go home."

He took a few more potshots on the way there, but they weren’t very pointed. "I think I ate too much," Nick mumbled in the living room.

"I don’t think that’s all you had too much of." Gil was back in focus now, mostly, looking tired and a little grim.

"I’m fine," Nick told him.

"Nick –"

"Oh crap."

Gil came in the bathroom after Nick had thrown up. Wet a washcloth, handed it over. In the mirror Nick’s own face seemed indistinct, kind of pale and greenish. After brushing his teeth he went back into the living room, remorse bubbling like new nausea in his gut.

"Sorry," he murmured.

Gil regarded him impassively while he sat on the couch. "Feel better?"

"Well, my foot hurts again." Nick forced a smile. "Guess that means I’m sobering up."

After a moment Gil returned from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. Handing Nick’s over, he sat down next to him. "Still angry at me?"

"No. I wasn’t before either, I don’t think." Nick stared at the dark faintly oily surface of his coffee. "Kind of generically pissed, I guess."

"Understandable."

Nick nodded and propped his foot on the coffee table. Normally that got him a reproving look, but Gil let it go this time. "I’m scared," Nick whispered.

"I know."

Looking at him, Nick swallowed. "How did you feel?" he asked slowly. "When you knew your hearing was crapping out on you?"

Gil leaned back, turned to face him. He sipped his coffee before replying. "Pretty damn helpless," he admitted. "As much as I knew that otosclerosis ran in my family, I don’t think I ever thought it would really happen to me. That evening, the first time everything just faded out – I felt as if I were stuck in the middle of a movie about someone else. It wasn’t supposed to happen to ME."

"Yeah," Nick breathed. "It does feel like that, doesn’t it?"

"And in some ways I was very fortunate. I already knew the deaf community, and I speak ASL. I had tools in place. Even then it was an incredible blow." Gil reached out to set his coffee cup on the table, and leaned back again. "I don’t think anything can prepare you for losing something of this magnitude. Hearing, sight. I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don’t."

Nick nodded slowly. "I’m scared about work. What if I can’t see well enough to do my job? What happens then?"

"You aren’t anywhere near that point yet, honey."

"How will I know when I am? I mean, how much do I have to miss before I start becoming this – liability?"

"How much do you miss now?"

"I don’t know. Light is worse than dark, really. Takes me forever to adjust. On the job, man, you don’t have forever to get with the program. Sometimes you just gotta do it right there."

Gil nodded, but his look was troubled. "What else is going on? Tell me?"

"See how it is now?" Nick gestured at the two lamps, the only lights in the room. "This is good. This is like, just enough. The lab’s too bright most of the time."

"Outside?"

"At night it’s like I went outside and forgot to take off my sunglasses. Darker than it should be."

"What about what you mentioned earlier? Peripheral vision?"

Nick looked down. "I just gotta turn my head further, I guess," he said softly. "Like I have blinders on. It’s like looking down a paper-towel tube. I mean, a big one," he added with an awkward smile. "I just didn’t think about it before. You know? Now that I know about it, it’s like it’s this big – thing. I realize I don’t see to the sides."

"What would help you? Can you think of anything?"

"I have no idea," Nick said. "Other than be careful, I guess. S’how I got this stupid toe. Wasn’t watching where I was going. Damn door snuck up on me out of nowhere."

"Are you seeing the doctor again?"

"Follow-up week after next."

"Maybe he’ll have some suggestions."

"Maybe."

Gil reached out to touch the back of Nick’s neck. "I’m sorry," he murmured.

"I know."

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning he had a dull headache – his own fault, of course, one tequila two tequila three tequila floor – but otherwise he felt a little better. No more secrets. If this was the best it was gonna be? Then he was damn sure going to make hay.

Gil gave him a startled look when Nick plopped the guidebooks down in front of him. "What’s this?"

"We have plans to make." Nick sat down and slid over one of the books. "Not next year, not someday. Right now. Today."

"Okay," Gil said after a guarded moment. "Where do you want to go?"

"Don’t really care. Someplace. Let’s go on a trip."

Gil smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Sounds good."

It wasn’t just a matter of deciding, he knew. There were time off requests that had to be filed, and checking plane reservations, that kind of thing.

Gil made a face. "It’s already November. Be pretty cold in Europe."

"Huh. How about Florida?"

"How about Hawaii?"

Nick grinned at him. "Yeah?"

"Sure. I’ve never been."

"Neither have I. Cool."

Nick had a lot less vacation time stored up than Gil, but even so there was more than enough. A week in December, near Christmas, since Gil never did much for the holiday and this year Nick figured he might not make it onto his family’s Christmas-card list. Two weeks in April next year, to do Italy and maybe Switzerland. And there were plenty of weekends in between. Take a Friday off here and there, fly to Seattle or Chicago or New York. Pack in a few sights.

"We don’t have to do this all in six months, Nick," Gil said after a while. "There’s time."

Looking at him, Nick couldn’t make himself nod. "I know. Rationally I know that. But I – can’t shake the feeling that -- what if there’s not time? What if this is all I got?"

The troubled expression was back on Gil’s face. "All we can do is this," he said slowly. "Your eyes may stay like this for ten years more."

"And they may not."

"True," Gil said after a moment.

"No, I know what you’re saying. I agree, it’s just –" Nick sat back and sighed. "I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking, If only I’d done this then. You know?"

"Yeah. I understand. So let’s make some calls."

This time Nick grinned. "Good."

And it felt great to have reservations. Okay, so realistically this was just one trip, and there WOULD be time for others. But this was a done deal now, and that made it different.

Gil went all-out that night in the kitchen, and produced something esoteric and so good Nick thought he’d died and gone to heaven. When the food was gone, they tidied up, and Nick leaned against Gil’s back and slipped his arms around Gil’s waist. "Thanks," he whispered.

"For what?" But he could hear the smile in Gil’s voice.

"You know. All of that."

Gil put down his dishcloth and turned inside Nick’s arms. "My pleasure," he said softly. His mouth tasted like chocolate and coffee. After another kiss he added, "Everything will work out, Nicky." His eyes this close were unearthly blue, and beautiful. "I promise you that. Just like you promised me a few months ago. Remember?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I was right."

"You were. And so am I."

"Why don’t you use the dishwasher?" Nick tilted his head to the side and kissed underneath Gil’s jaw.

"It’s your china. You’re the one who told me it had to be hand-washed."

"Then let’s wash ‘em tomorrow."

This time Gil’s eyes were darker, and hotter, as he grinned. "Oh? But it’s early yet."

"Mm-hmm. Just the right time." Nick plastered himself up against Gil and saw him feel his erection. "It’ll be worth it," he added with a leer.

"That a promise?"

"I’m right about this one, too."

"I look forward to seeing for myself."

Nick grinned and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom.

Chapter Five

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