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

He threw himself into research as if he were studying for his qualifying exams all over again. Conscious all his life of issues affecting hearing, he knew far less about vision, and soon he was drowning in information. Retinitis pigmentosa was a complex, unpredictable disease, and no sooner had he decided he understood one facet than he found something that undermined everything all over again.

Take the progress of the disease, for example. Gil already knew it was unpredictable; Usher was the same, although hearing loss occurred much earlier and far more completely. Most sources stated RP, as both he and Nick were now calling it, generally worsened slowly, often over a number of years. But there were enough exceptions to this general rule that Gil felt newly helpless. It might go slow, probably would go slow. Unless it went more quickly. Which left him right where he started.

As days slipped into weeks, he tried explaining part of the processes to Nick. It wasn’t that Nick wasn’t interested. But, as Nick said one morning not long after they got home from work, "It’s one thing to say, ‘This disease can progress at varying paces in different individuals.’ But it’s another thing when you think, ‘So does that mean I’ll be able to see this time next year, or not?’" He shrugged and made a helpless gesture with both hands. "I don’t want to get my hopes up and then find out I’m the exception. You know?"

So Gil kept on with his reading and poking around, and by the time the Hawaii trip rolled around he felt ruefully as if he should take some kind of test, just to regurgitate some of the tons of information he now had elbowing for space inside his head. The trip helped. The islands were even more beautiful than he’d imagined, and Nick was frankly enraptured.

"When we retire, we gotta live here," he said, staring out from the lanai at the sun-kissed water.

Torn between admiring the scenery and admiring the view much closer, Gil walked up behind him and kissed the back of his neck. "That sounds like an excellent plan."

They came back to Vegas tanned, relaxed, and about as punch-drunk in love as Gil could imagine being. Personally he thought if travel did this much good for a relationship, he would have to plan his retirement early. He and Nick had lots of places to go.

The holiday season was its usual hectic scramble, and New Year’s came and went with only a group toast and a fast kiss a few minutes later in Gil’s office. Early January was gray and gloomy, a crisp kind of cold that went deep into Gil’s bones.

It might have been the weather that brought him down, working one freezing night in an open field, where a body had been dumped. Had to have been. Because things were okay. Things were more than okay, things were great. There was no reason to be so obscurely sad.

But later, poring over evidence with Catherine, he wasn’t able to answer at first when she asked him if he was okay.

"Tired, I suppose," he said finally, avoiding her all-too-insightful look.

"You know, you might be able to pull that off with other people. But you can’t with me."

He smiled down at his microscope. "You’re probably right."

"Totally right." Catherine leaned on her elbows, eyes narrowed. "You and Nick okay?"

"We’re fine. Great," he amended when her penetrating look didn’t falter. "I mean that. We’re doing very well."

"But."

"But what?"

She snorted. "But you’re leaving the bad part out."

After a moment he gave a curt nod. "There are a few things, yes. But it’s not." He stopped, considering. "It’s not what you might think."

"More family crap?"

"No. No, Nick –" Gil stopped again, and sighed. "We talked some time ago about you, actually. Telling you."

Her eyebrow lifted. "Telling me what?"

"It affects Nick’s work here. Or will, eventually." Gil regarded her with as much calm as he could muster. "Nick was diagnosed last year with a degenerative retinal disorder. Retinitis pigmentosa."

Catherine’s face went a little slack with surprise. "Retinal? His vision?"

Gil nodded, trying to ignore the sickly-sweet stab of sadness in his gut. "It’s progressive, and incurable. He’d been having problems for some time before he was actually diagnosed."

"Jesus." She sank down on a nearby chair. "Is this -- Will he go – blind?"

"Eventually, yes."

"Oh, Gil. I am so sorry." Her expression was aghast. "Poor Nick."

"With any luck it’ll be years before that happens." Gil forced a smile. "He’s all right for the moment. Sort of ironic, I suppose. My hearing, his sight. If you were mute the three of us could make quite a team."

She didn’t smile back. "Your hearing’s fine now. That’s what you’ve been telling me."

"Sorry. Yes." He shook his head, and the needling pain got worse. Gil looked down. "That wasn’t irony, that was sarcasm."

"It’s okay. Gil, what -- What’s going to happen? Is he going to be able to keep working?"

When he looked at her he felt an altogether new pang of sweet agony at the depth of caring on her face. "I think things are all right at the moment," he told her as steadily as he could. "He manages. His last exam was pretty good. He just." His voice went out, and he sat very still.

"Oh, Gil."

"I’m not sure what to do," Gil said after a long moment. His throat ached savagely. "Because there really isn’t anything I CAN do. I don’t know why it’s hitting me now. Not then, not when he was diagnosed."

She stood and reached across the table, covering one of his hands with her own. Her fingers were cool and strong. "Maybe it’s just now sinking in," Catherine said sadly.

"Yeah."

"Am I interrupting something?"

Gil flinched, glancing over at the doorway. Nick stood with a half-smile in place, growing wider. "I can go away," he added. "Except I have to remind you he’s spoken for."

Catherine coughed a surprised laugh and let go of Gil’s hand. "Damn, and here I thought we had it hidden so well."

Nick’s answering laugh was beautiful. "I dunno, I guess we could do a threesome. Up for some polyamory, Gil?" He walked over, and his smile faded, taking in Gil’s tight expression. "What’s going on?" Nick asked. "Did something happen?"

Gil opened his mouth but nothing would come out. He looked helplessly at Catherine.

"Well, if your ears were burning it was because we were talking about you." Catherine’s smile was sweet and sad. "Gil told me about what’s going on. Your vision."

"Oh."

For a second Gil wondered if Nick would be pissed at that. But he nodded, coming over to stand next to Gil. His hand was warm and welcome, touching Gil’s shoulder lightly. "Yeah. Sucks, doesn’t it?"

"Yeah, it does. I’m sorry, Nick. I’m not sure what else to say."

"It’s okay." Nick leaned forward on one elbow, braced against the table. "Not much you can say. Don’t guess Hallmark makes a ‘sorry you’re going blind’ card."

"Can I help?"

"Nah, not right now. But thanks. I mean, check with me next week." Nick grinned, shaking his head. "You never know."

Catherine gave each of them a fast look, and nodded. "Listen, I better get back to it. See you guys later."

"Later," Nick said, lifting his chin.

When she was gone, Nick’s hand slid down Gil’s back, mindlessly comforting. "You okay?" he asked gruffly.

Gil cleared his throat. "I thought I was," he said after a moment. "It seems I may have overestimated."

"Aw, Gil. Come on, man, I’m okay." Nick’s smile was luminous. "I can tell you that I see you just fine. Want me to prove it? You look like hell."

Gil snorted softly. "Thanks."

Nick reached out to touch his cheek. "You said it yourself," he added. "I’m not gonna go blind tomorrow. Maybe not for a long, long time. So don’t worry about it. Seize the day, right?"

Covering Nick’s hand with his own, Gil kissed Nick’s fingers. "I hate this," he whispered. "God, I hate it. It’s not fucking fair."

He saw Nick swallow. "No argument here. But I’m okay. I want you to be okay, too."

"I think you’re handling this better than I am at this point," Gil managed.

Nick’s wistful smile got shakier. "I don’t know about that." He sighed. "But what else can we do? I mean, I want to live now, not sit around and wait for the lights to go out. You gonna try and tell me you didn’t feel that way when your hearing started crapping out on you? I know better." His gaze softened. "You did your thing like always until it got so bad you couldn’t anymore. And you went from there. It’s all you could do. Right?"

"Yeah."

"Then that’s what we’ll do with this, too, okay? I mean, if you got other suggestions I’m all ears, but that’s the best I’ve come up with."

"No, I think you’re right. I know you are." Gil smiled. "Carpe diem, is that it?"

Nick gave him a sweet grin. "Right."

~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of weeks before their Italy trip, he worked a stalking case. Never liked those, not anymore, and Gil was pretty good about noticing those kinds of things, maybe diverting them to somebody else. But this week everyone was slammed, and Nick’s name was next in the hopper. So there you had it.

The victim, a stunningly pretty woman named Anna Cabrera, was pretty blunt. "It’s my goddamn ex," she told Nick, sitting on an ER exam bed waiting for the attending doc to make his way over. The bruise over her left eye was gonna be a doozy, no doubt about it. "He’s been doing this for months, and the restraining order didn’t do anything."

Nick thought about Jane Galloway and felt a creeping sense of weariness. "Do you know where your ex is?"

"Like I told the cops already, he lives over on Dupont. If he isn’t there I don’t know where the hell he is. Probably in front of my goddamn house again."

By the time he finished in the ER his head hurt, and his mood had gone right into the toilet. So Tony Cabrera was no Nigel Crane. At least there was that, but man, why’d guys have to be so psycho about their ex-wives? Ex-girlfriends, whatever. If he and Gil ever broke up, he didn’t even have a clue what he’d do, probably wouldn’t make it. But he was damn sure not gonna camp out and make Gil’s life hell for it. What good would it do? Sure as hell wouldn’t make things right again. Just even more wrong.

He spent about an hour at Anna Cabrera’s house, sifting through the various crap her ex had sent over the past couple of months. Open and shut, really, but you had to go through the motions anyway. So he gathered up what he could find, and finally stowed it all in his bag and headed out.

It wasn’t until he was sitting in his truck that he realized he couldn’t see enough to drive.

It didn’t hit him all at once. Slowly, like being dipped in ice-cold water. This feeling, creeping up from his toes, making his balls draw up in shock, heart flinching like a startled cat and then fluttering fast and light in his chest. Nothing. It was so dark out here he wondered if there had been a power outage. Not a goddamn thing.

Blind, you’re BLIND, you’ll never see anything again, this is it, it’s over, so much for Florence, you just missed it, and now it’s never gonna happen. You can go, but you better take some deep breaths, because smelling it is all you’ll be able to do.

He waited ten minutes, and it didn’t get better. Groping over the passenger seat turned up lots of things that felt surpassingly odd to his idiot fingers. Three things the right shape for a cell phone, but one of them had no antenna, so that was probably the GPS unit. He felt of the other two. It took ridiculously long to get his brain to work, to deduce that yes, this one was obviously the phone, feel the buttons? Antenna? Come on, Stokes, use your brain for something other than autonomic function, for Christ’s sake.

He’d figured out the keypad and had a dial tone when something hit his driver’s-side window, hard. Glass sprayed inside, and with a yelp Nick dove to the left, the phone squirting right out of his hand.

"Fucking COPS, can’t you find something real to do?" someone snarled, and Nick had a second to think, Oh, there’s the ex, and then Tony Cabrera or whoever it might be had the door open and a strong hand dragged him out of the truck.

Cabrera didn’t have time to do much. The real cops were at the house, dicking around in the back, and Nick wasn’t sure what got them moving. But they pulled Cabrera off him before he could do more than get in a few licks. It was enough; Nick lay in a gasping ball on the pavement, arms locked around his middle, where Cabrera’s boot had slammed into him. His face hurt, too, but god, that kick took the goddamn wind right out of him.

"We got a man down," one of the cops shouted, from very close. "Shit, Stokes, you okay?"

Voice was familiar. Anderton, probably. Yeah. Nick wheezed a breath and sat up, keeping one arm around his belly. "Yeah. M’okay."

By the time the ambulance got there his crappy vision had cleared up a little. Things weren’t all that bright, but he saw enough to know when Gil’s Tahoe pulled up. And he wished he couldn’t see at all when he took in Gil’s blurry but terrified face.

"Oh, Jesus," Gil said in a high, strange voice. He stopped a foot away from the back of the ambulance, hands hanging loose at his sides. "Nick?"

Nick drew a painful breath but the EMT beat him to it. "Looks like you’re okay, Nick, but you might oughta get checked out anyway. Just make sure."

Nick shook his head. "Nah. Thanks, Neal." He stood up, making a face at the lingering pain in his belly. "Just got some bruises."

"Yeah, and you’re not gonna be so pretty for a few days."

It was a joke, but Nick couldn’t smile. "Whatever."

Gil hadn’t said anything else. Nick walked a few steps, waiting for Gil to come with. "I’m okay," he said tightly. "Fucker got the jump on me, that’s all. They arrest his ass?"

"Yes." Gil’s voice still sounded funny. "What happened?"

Nick squinted and made out his truck over to the side. Broken window, yeah it sucked, but it would still drive. Question was, could he?

"Nick. Goddamn it, talk to me."

Gil’s face was murky. "It was too dark," Nick snapped, shaking his head and regretting it when his head spun a little. "I couldn’t see anything."

"He was right there, I mean –"

"I mean ANYTHING," Nick interrupted. "Nothing, you got it? Nada. It was all black. Okay? So that’s what happened. My goddamn eyes crapped out on me, and he jumped me. That’s it."

"But you can see now."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Can you see enough to drive?"

Staring at his blurry form, Nick swallowed, and then shook his head again. "No. Not – and be safe."

"Come with me."

It felt absurdly good to have Gil’s hand. Just what every newly blind guy needs: A guide-Gil. Away from the steady bulbs of the ambulance interior, the flashing lights were all white, harsh actinic bursts of brightness, and Nick held his free hand over his painfully watering eyes.

"There’s a curb," Gil’s disembodied voice told him. Cool and brisk. "Don’t trip."

Leaning over, straining to see it, Nick stepped artificially high, foot coming down hard lower than he thought. He bit his lip and ignored the lingering ache in his belly. Suck it up, Stokes, get out of here with whatever of your dignity you can, and you can fall apart later. But if you just fall, it’ll be harder to live down.

Gil’s Tahoe was an amorphous black blob. Nick’s flailing hand touched the side panel, and he huffed a little sigh of relief, letting Gil open the door for him. He knew the car, so getting in was less of a puzzle than it might have been. But inside, door closed, the darkness was a living, breathing thing, punctuated by lightning bolts of livid white, and he was panting with anxiety by the time Gil got in the driver’s side.

"Any better?" Gil asked, sounding very close.

"No," Nick gasped. "I want to leave. Please. Get me out of here. Those lights."

Gil said nothing, just started the truck. The ride was a pure nightmare. He’d never thought about it before, the lights, street lights and headlights, high beams, flashing strobes that were probably construction barriers but were just more painful, bewildering needles of brightness. Finally he shut his eyes. What good were they doing anyway? All he could see was confusion; it was probably better not to see anything at all.

It wasn’t until they got to the house, went inside, that he felt anything like himself. And then he started shaking, and at Gil’s careful touch he felt like salt dissolving in water.

"Can you see anything now?" Gil asked, pulling him close.

Nick nodded jerkily. It was hard to breathe, and not just because of that kick in the stomach. "The dome lights," he gasped. "Was like being stabbed in the eyes, man, hurt so fucking bad."

Gil’s hand smoothed down his back. "And before?"

"Nothing." He coughed a harsh sob. "Nothing, at all. I was blind. I was really blind."

"It’s the adjustment from light to dark. It just takes your eyes a long time to switch over."

"Sc-scared the shit out of me."

Gil’s voice shook a tiny bit as he replied, "Me, too."

"We gotta get back to the lab."

"You’re not going anywhere tonight. I can’t -- No. You were assaulted."

God, he hated how relieved he was to stay right here. He nodded fast. "Okay. Good."

And Gil didn’t go back for a while, either. Long enough that Nick’s eyes had been better for some time before Gil even stirred, much less called in. Finally Nick went into the bathroom to wash his face – yeah, Neal was right, lucky the mirror didn’t break from this mug – and heard Gil talking in low tones on the phone. When Nick came back out, blinking from the fluorescents, Gil hung up.

"Cabrera’s in custody. And Brass wants to talk to you when you’re feeling up to it."

Nick sat down slowly on the couch, breath catching when he jostled his bruised ribs. "I’ll go see him tomorrow."

"We need to talk, too."

"Yeah. Guess we do."

Gil’s hand was very cold, touching his own. "It could have been a lot worse," he said heavily. When Nick looked at him Gil’s face seemed haggard. "You were lucky."

"I know," Nick said faintly.

"Brass will want to know how he got the drop on you like that. You may need to tell him what’s going on. And that may mean a lot more people find out."

Nick nodded, absently running his thumb over the top of Gil’s hand. "Maybe they should," he said after a long moment. "Maybe I can’t do all of this anymore."

"You would have been okay if you hadn’t been solo."

"Maybe."

"So we make a few changes." Gil leaned forward, knee touching Nick’s thigh. "They’re not radical. Adjustments."

"Great. Stokes needs a seeing-eye partner."

"You’re not blind, Nick. You’re not."

Nick regarded him bleakly. "I might as well have been tonight. What good does it do me if it takes me half an hour to be able to see?"

Gil’s grim face got grimmer. "With some accommodations you –"

"I know I’m not blind. Not yet. But what if this happens again? What if I’m out with Cath, or Sara, and they’re in trouble and I can’t SEE well enough to be able to help? I mean, I’m a goddamn liability and you know it."

"You’re not a liability." Gil took his hand back and stood, walking tensely a few paces away and back. "A visual impairment doesn’t translate to a liability in every situation. It’s a matter of compromise, that’s all. We’ll tweak the system."

"We’re not talking about every situation, Gil! We’re talking about out in the field, when things can go from safe to dangerous in about .05! What good am I then? You want somebody to get hurt, or shot, because I was over to the side running into a goddamn wall?"

Gil didn’t say anything to that. Finally Nick stood up, hand pressed to his side. "I can’t live with that possibility," he said tersely. "Maybe you want to pretend I can do this, but I can’t pretend I’m able to do everything like I could a while back. Not when people depend on me. I won’t let somebody get hurt while I pretend I’m okay. No fucking way."

Gil gave a crisp nod. "All right, then." His voice was thin and strained. "You want me to take you off field duty? I can do that."

It hurt a hell of a lot more than he thought, hearing it. Throat tight, Nick whispered, "What if he’d been hurting you? And I could hear it, and I couldn’t SEE it? Jesus. Jesus Christ, I –"

"How do you think I feel?" Gil roared out of nowhere. "You know how I felt when I got that call? Like – Like –" He broke off with an inarticulate sound, reaching up to scrub his face with both hands. "You need to see Neibart," he said hoarsely. "This shouldn’t have happened."

"It’s going faster," Nick murmured. "Isn’t it? Faster than it’s supposed to?"

"I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I know he could have killed you tonight. That much I know."

The hot pain in Gil’s eyes felt like a knife, twisting in his bruised gut. Nick drew a shaky breath. "I’m not ready for this, Gil," he whispered. "I’m not."

Gil nodded slowly. When Nick touched his hand Gil’s was shaking. "I’m not either," Gil replied softly.

Chapter Six

He already knew before the appointment that things were going wrong. But one look at Neibart’s face after Nick’s exams were complete, and Gil felt a tug of acid foreboding in his belly. Nick’s cold fingers tightened on his own before letting go.

"Okay, Nick." Neibart sat down on the stool and didn’t even open Nick’s chart. His genial face was sober. "Not so good today."

Nick shook his head. Gil hated the new lines of wariness, strain, on Nick’s face. Too early for those. "What’s going on?"

"Your RP is progressing a lot faster than I’d hoped." Neibart made a face. "That’s not all, I’m afraid. Now we know why your central vision is degrading. You’ve got early-stage cataracts, both eyes. Left is a little further along than the right, but both will need attention, and pretty soon."

It hit Gil hard, but Nick actually shrank back, expression utterly shocked. "Cataracts?" he echoed hoarsely. "What the hell?"

"They’re common in late-stage retinitis pigmentosa. Up to 50% of sufferers have to deal with cataracts at some point. And considering two months ago they weren’t visible, they’re growing fast. I’m going to recommend surgery, probably within the next six months to a year. Maybe sooner, depending on the rate of development."

"Surgery." Nick’s voice was dull, but the bewilderment in his face had deepened. "RP wasn’t enough? What, did God say, Hey, this guy doesn’t have enough on his plate, let me give him some more?"

Neibart looked pained, but simply shrugged. "I’m very sorry. I know this is a big shock. Frankly I’m surprised as well; I would not have predicted this. On the flip side, cataract surgery is one of the most commonly performed surgeries in the country. Once the lens is replaced, that problem won’t come back. At least that part we can quickly and easily take care of. All right?" He produced a fast, professional smile. "I’ll refer you to a corneal man; I don’t do surgery on the front of the eye, only the back."

Gil stirred. "What about the retinitis pigmentosa itself?" he asked quietly. "You said it’s progressing."

Neibart nodded. "More of the same. Visual fields are showing about a 25% further decrease all told. Your compensation for light and dark is sharply down. Do the new lenses help at all? The ones I gave you last time?"

Gil glanced at Nick, who paused, and then shrugged listlessly. "A little. But night –" He shifted a little in the chair. "I had some problems the other night, at work." He touched his healing black eye. "Souvenir."

"What happened?"

Nick gave him a capsule – and to Gil’s mind understated – version of the events in front of Anna Cabrera’s house. Neibart looked appalled. "Your night vision is not dependable any longer," he said severely. "I realize you want to retain your independence and employment for as long as possible, Nick, but I can’t recommend you continue something that will actually put your life in jeopardy."

"What else can I do?" Nick shot back. "I’m not quitting my job."

"I’m not suggesting that. However, working at night –"

"He won’t be going solo in the field any longer," Gil interrupted evenly. "We’ve discussed this already." Nick gave him a dirty look, which Gil ignored.

Neibart sighed and leaned forward. "It may be time to face some harsh facts," he continued after a moment. "Your vision is worsening, rapidly. With cataract formation your central vision will continue to decline until such time as you can have phacoemulsification surgery. Not to mention the downward swing with your RP. I think you need to give some consideration to some low-vision training, orientation work. The best time to prepare for eventual loss of vision is while you still have some useable sight, Nick. Not after that’s gone. You understand?"

"I can still see," Nick told him in a thick voice. His face had gone red, but he didn’t look angry. More as if he were holding himself together with spit and baling wire. "I’m not blind."

"Exactly. You should act while that’s still the case. Because to be honest, it won’t be for that much longer. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the situation as I currently see it."

Nick swallowed audibly. "T-training?"

Neibart nodded. "I know a gentleman who does work for the local Lighthouse for the Blind. Ralph Hammond. He’ll be able to introduce you to some of the equipment you may need in the future, help you get your home in order, talk to you about transportation options. That sort of thing."

Nick didn’t say anything at all to that, glaring down at his tightly laced fingers. Gil nodded helplessly. "What are his qualifications?" he asked by way of giving Nick a little recovery time.

"He’s a trained therapist." Neibart produced a wan smile. "And quite knowledgeable."

Gil nodded and took the card Neibart held out. "Thank you."

"My receptionist can set up an appointment for the cataract exam. Nick, do you have any questions?" Nick shook his head, still staring at his hands, and Neibart gave a nod. "Okay. I’d like to see you back in a couple of weeks. We need to pay close attention to the decline in your visual fields. And do give Ralph a call. He’s a good man."

"We will," Gil said, when Nick didn’t reply.

In the reception area Gil took Nick’s follow-up appointment card and made his way to where Nick stood near the door. "Ready?" He touched Nick’s arm, and Nick flinched and nodded.

Outside the noonday sun was brutal. Nick’s fingers gripped his elbow. "Wait."

Gil gave him an alert look. "You okay?"

Nick’s eyes were invisible behind his latest set of heavy shades, but his mouth was a thin grim line. "I can’t see shit," he replied tersely. "Just point me at the car, okay?"

"It’s about twenty feet. Just walk forward. Hold my arm."

It took ten feet before Gil remembered Nick’s already sensitive eyes were dilated. Of course he couldn’t see; a normally sighted person would struggle, and for someone with RP it had to be agonizing. Nick walked stiffly, as if he were afraid he were going to run into something with every step in spite of Gil’s reassuring words. One hand shaded his eyes.

Gil stopped in front of the truck. "Step off the curb."

Nick’s foot tapped cautiously at the curb before he stepped down. "I hate this," he said in a strangled voice. "I fucking hate this."

With a pang of sadness Gil nodded, knowing Nick couldn’t see it. "Hang on, let me unlock the door."

By the time he got in the driver’s side, Nick had the shades off and both hands covering his eyes. "Nick?"

"Just drive, would you?" came Nick’s thin reply.

He drove in silence, painfully aware of Nick’s bowstring-tight presence at his side. Stoicism wasn’t Nick’s way; close to two years of a relationship had taught Gil that several times over. It might be Gil’s usual approach, but Nick was far more demonstrative by nature. That he was so quiet now was ominous.

He guided Nick into the house the same way he’d led the way out of Neibart’s office. In the dimmer light of the living area Nick’s eyes were watery and painful-looking. "I wanna lie down," he said stiffly when Gil asked if he’d like a drink.

"Here. Let me –"

"I can find the goddamn bedroom," Nick snapped.

It took ten minutes of indecision before Gil went after him. Yes, had it been his problem he’d have preferred solitude. But Nick wasn’t Gil, and Nick needed – something. Maybe it wasn’t Gil, but Gil was the only one available at the moment. He’d have to suffice.

He found Nick face-down on the bed, fully dressed. Gil sat carefully on the edge of the bed. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," came Nick’s foggy reply.

"Want me to rub your back?"

"No."

Gil smiled a little. "Yes, you do."

He couldn’t tell if Nick was smiling – he doubted he was – but after a moment Nick murmured, "Okay."

He went to get towels and oil, still smiling faintly. One night about two months after he and Nick had begun sleeping together, Gil’s own shift had gone abysmally badly. A scuffle with Mobley; increasing tension over the slow erosion in his hearing – those and other matters had conspired to make him almost unbearably tense, snappish, morose.

"Lemme rub your back," was Nick’s only comment the following morning.

"What good will that do?" Gil remembered sniping, but Nick had only shrugged.

"Maybe nothing. But you’re pretty tense. Won’t hurt."

It actually had hurt, at first; Nick had been right on the money about the tension. But a few minutes of Nick’s strong fingers sliding confidently through warm oil, massaging and stroking and seeming to take the stress into his own hands and releasing it, had begun to help, and by the time Nick finished Gil was a boneless heap on the bed, groggily marveling at just how immeasurably better he really did feel.

"Where did you learn that?" he’d asked, while Nick leaned on one elbow next to him.

Nick shook his head, tiny pleased smile curving his lips. "Just picked it up," he murmured. "Now get some sleep."

"But that –"

"Shut up."

And Gil had. But later he’d done his best to return the favor, and Nick couldn’t resist it, either. Nick was a hedonist in some ways; he loved luxury in its most basic physical forms, and a bare-skin massage with warm scented oil was guaranteed to have him pliable – and suggestible – in a very short time. Gil appreciated the sensual perks, but at the moment he was far more interested in the catharsis of massage. Nick didn’t have it in him to hold back, not without consequences. If it took massage to break the dam, so be it.

When he came back to the bed he thought maybe Nick had fallen asleep. He did that sometimes, when his eyes felt worst. But he stirred, forehead crinkled. "Smells good," he murmured when Gil uncapped the bottle.

"Your favorite." Gil set the bottle on the night stand. "Take off your shirt."

In the dim lighting Nick’s bare skin was smooth and supple, and Gil felt a familiar pang of appreciation as he poured a little oil in his palm and warmed it in his hands. Nick shivered when Gil’s hands smoothed over his shoulders. "Hurts."

"I know. You’re so tense your neck has practically disappeared. Close your eyes."

"What difference does that make?" Nick asked softly, but he did.

Gil worked in silence, long, slow strokes, not really deep-tissue massage but relaxing, lulling. Under his hands Nick’s tight muscles relaxed gradually, skin gleaming. Gil worked his way down to the small of Nick’s back, skirting the waistband of his trousers. Under other circumstances he might have kept going – almost certainly would – and had the distinct pleasure of seeing Nick open up for him, catlike stretch evolving into spread legs and an entirely different and delicious kind of tension.

But now he kept it clean, and as he ran his hands up Nick’s sides the dam finally gave. Not loudly: soft, quiet, as inexorable as the ocean’s tides.

He took his time while Nick cried. Wiping his hands on a waiting towel, recapping the bottle of oil. And then he lay next to Nick and leaned his head on his hand while Nick inched over and pressed against him.

It had sometimes occurred to him, up until the reality of it smacked him in the face, that deafness might equate with peace. Yes, he would miss music. Of everything audible in his life, he believed the loss of music would hurt him the most. But he could play a great number of pieces inside his own head, from long familiarity. And who would miss telephones ringing, or the quacking of this or that person, nattering about nothing he cared to hear?

Later he had to face the fact that deaf, he would miss far more than symphonies and concerti. He would miss so much more. Information, insight. The offhand commentary that sometimes meant the difference between puzzle and solution, at work. Laughter, bird song. Nick’s Texas-tinged voice, hearing a smile like listening to sunshine.

But he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to not see. His life had been touched by the long fingers of deafness for more than forty years; it was organic, and up until a year ago, also perhaps inevitable. But sight? That was someone else’s disability, and all Gil really knew was the shared reality of grappling with one-fifth less sensory capacity than a regular person.

Now, hand slowly stroking Nick’s oily, shaking back, breathing in the smell of Nick’s hair, he felt a lurch of dumb pity. It was cruel enough to do without, but crueler to Nick, to Gil and his mother, for giving them a taste and then ripping it away. His mother had been brisk, capable, utterly unswayed by her disability. But she must have grieved. Maybe after bedtime, when Gil was asleep and unaware. How she must have railed at it, sworn at it even when she could no longer hear her own voice shouting the words. Gil had. In his own way he had cursed this disease, otosclerosis, such a formal name for a cunning, devious thing that crept up on him and ambushed him at the arguable height of his career. Hated it, hated HER, for bequeathing it to him. And felt relief so incredible it still had the power to make him shake, months later, when he knew that belly-crawling creature had been beaten at its own game.

Nick didn’t have any weapons. Only encroaching darkness, with no preparation, no early-warning system already in place. Gil might have felt otosclerosis was a bolt from the blue, but truthfully it wasn’t. Retinitis pigmentosa was that.

He waited until Nick was quiet again. And then he kissed the top of Nick’s head. "I’m sorry," Gil whispered. "I’m so sorry, honey."

"What am I gonna do?" Nick’s voice was raw as flayed tissue. "Oh God, Gil, what am I gonna do now?"

"You’ll go forward. What else can you do? Quit? You’ve never struck me as the quitting type."

"I don’t know. I just don’t know."

Staring at the wall above Nick’s head, Gil couldn’t think of anything else to say.

~~~~~~~~~

When he looked back on it later - as it were - he saw the incident at Anna Cabrera’s house as a flashpoint. That was the moment when his two realities met in a head-on collision: work and professional life vs. the majority of his remaining vision starting a steep decline. Sure, he was okay, just a few bruises and a stomach sore enough to make laughing a little painful for a few days. But now everything was melded into one huge idea: He was going blind. Not someday, not maybe, but right now, day by day.

He let Gil call Hammond to set up an appointment. But yeah, he’d go. The small part of his brain that still thought pragmatically stated it was imperative he learn how to deal with all this. Sure, Gil could help. But Gil had work, too, Gil had his own life in many respects. Wasn’t as if he could always tell Nick where the steps were, all day, every day.

Having his eyes dilated meant no work that particular night. He slept heavily, only waking when Gil crawled silently into bed early the next morning.

"Go back to sleep," Gil said. He sounded beyond exhausted, himself. Nick dozed off again thinking how it was good Gil’s surgery had worked, because sign language wasn’t going to be very useful to a guy who couldn’t damn well see.

They told the rest of the team the next night.

Jim Brass looked even more somber than his normal dour demeanor. "Damn, Nicky. I’m really sorry to hear about this."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, me too. But I figured you guys better know about it. I don’t think it’s gonna get better."

He didn’t say anything about it getting worse, but surveying their cluster of colleagues in Gil’s office, Nick knew they heard it loud and clear.

"Is there anything we can do?" Warrick asked. He looked so shocked Nick felt weirdly guilty.

"As a matter of fact there may be." Gil sat up, lacing his fingers together. "Nick and I have been considering some options, ways we can tailor his duties with regard to his decreasing vision. And things the lab can provide in the way of accommodation. For one thing Nick will no longer be working solo out in the field."

"If I go out at all." Nick gave Gil a glance, and then looked back at the others. "I can’t always watch somebody’s back. If the light’s okay, like right now? I do all right. But very bright or very dark, it might take me some time to get used to it. I want you guys to know that. No secrets."

"Can you read?" Sara asked softly. "See things like that?"

"Well yeah. Right now I can. It’s mostly light and dark, and I have trouble with peripheral vision. I have blind spots, big ones. Not a problem here, but sometimes it could become one. You know what I’m saying?"

She nodded, too.

"I can pretty much do everything I always could around here, right now. Just outside, you know? There things are not always so easy."

"Which means I’ll be assigning Nick a higher percentage of analysis work, and the rest of you will pick up a corresponding amount of extra field analysis." Gil looked around, but no one said anything. They just looked – shocked. And sad, and anxious.

After, Catherine came up and gave him a tight, warm hug. "We need to talk," she told him, giving him a sober look. "Deal?"

He nodded. "Deal."

When everyone else had gone, Nick perched on the edge of Gil’s desk and sighed gustily. "Guess that went okay."

Gil nodded. "They’re good people, Nicky. They care about you. This will work."

"Yeah. I think so."

The meeting with Hammond was set for Friday, only a few days after the disaster of Nick’s most recent exam. That morning he shaved carefully, regarding his blurry reflection with a brittle sense of doom. He finished by leaning forward, eyes practically pressing against the mirror.

Cataracts. He knew what those were, of course, but he couldn’t make anything out. They had a characteristic look, but his eyes seemed clear enough.

"Do you see anything?" he asked Gil.

"See what?"

Nick straightened and turned to face him. "In my eyes. I don’t see any cataracts."

Gil shook his head. "I don’t, either. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there. New ones probably wouldn’t show at first."

"Huh. Okay."

"Use your glasses, Nick. That’s what they’re for."

Nick nodded slowly. "Not strong enough."

Gil didn’t say anything to that, but his face went grim. "Then we’ll get you some new ones."

Nick gazed at him for a long moment before nodding. Remember that look. That’s his worry look. So later on, when you can’t actually see it anymore, you’ll know what he looks like anyway. See the way his mouth gets tight? Eyes narrowed just a little bit? Memorize it. Not the best expression, but it’s his expression, it’s the way Gil looks when he feels helpless and pissed, but not at you. Just – things.

"Okay," Nick agreed. "Might be a good idea."

In the truck, sitting in the shotgun seat while Gil drove, it occurred to him that he might not be driving any more at all. Would he? He could right now, sure. With these dorky-looking specs, way darker than normal sunglasses, he could. But it was so much easier not to, easier not worrying about it. Because he would worry. Wonder if he could have a white-out again, right in the middle of traffic. Miss seeing something he should have. Another car. A bike. A pedestrian.

Mouth dry, Nick squinted behind his sunglasses and pushed that awful thought away.

Gil grabbed his hand when they arrived. "So I’ll come get you in what? A couple of hours?"

Nick nodded. "If we get done earlier I’ll call you. You gonna go sleep?"

"Not yet. I have a couple of errands to run. We need groceries."

"Don’t forget pasta. I was gonna make that thing tonight."

Gil smiled. "I won’t forget." He leaned over and kissed Nick’s lips. "See you later."

"Kay."

Hammond worked out of the local chapter of Lighthouse for the Blind. Nick wondered if maybe he’d be a regular here before long. The lobby was cool and dim, suiting him just fine. He smiled at the woman sitting behind the front desk, stowing his sunglasses in his breast pocket and taking out the regular glasses. "Hi, I have an appointment with Ralph Hammond?"

She smiled. "He’s right –"

"Nick?"

Nick turned in time to see a tall, slightly overweight man emerge from the back. He looked about fifty, reddish-brown hair receding rapidly from his forehead, and he had a grin so bright it was practically enough to light up the room all by itself. He walked up to Nick, hand extended. "Nice to meet you."

Smiling awkwardly, Nick shook his hand. "Likewise. You’re Ralph?"

"Yep. Come on back, let’s talk."

He followed Hammond back to a pin-neat office, and took a seat in the chair opposite the desk. "So fill me in," Hammond said, sitting down and crossing his legs. "Your friend who called said you have retinitis pigmentosa."

Nick nodded jerkily. "Yeah."

"And your doctor suggested you come see me?"

"Right. I, ah. It’s getting harder to, you know. See things."

"How hard?"

Taking a deep breath, Nick forced himself to outline as much as he could. Hammond’s expression was neutral, intent on his words. No flicker of surprise or pity. Just business.

When he wrapped up, Hammond nodded. "Well, first off, I’m sorry you’re having to go through this. It’s terrifying, and it’s very difficult to deal with at first."

He seemed to be waiting, so Nick made himself nod.

"Let me tell you a little about what I do. I try to help people make the transition from sighted to low vision, or none. It’s best when we start while you still have some vision, as you do now." Hammond raised his eyebrows. "And it works best when you go into it with as open a mind as you can, okay? I can teach you ways to deal with low vision. What I can’t teach you is how to feel about it. That’s up to you."

"What kinds of ways?"

Hammond smiled briefly. "Well, workplace accommodations, how to structure your home so that you don’t break your neck going to the bathroom. Using a cane."

Oh great. A cane. "I don’t need that yet."

"Understood. But it’s best to familiarize yourself with various tools now." Hammond’s eyes were kind, but his tone was firm. "Do you live alone?"

Nick shook his head slowly. "Partner. Life partner."

"Bring him along sometime if you want. It’d be good if he knows what sorts of changes you’re looking at, too. They’ll affect both of you."

"Okay."

Just being introduced to various things took a couple of hours. He nodded obediently when Hammond showed him a long white cane, agreed that yes, it made sense that longer was far more helpful than shorter, because short gave you almost no warning before steps and other obstacles. Endured a few war stories about people who had gone blind, done great, had this or that good job now and a family and all that, and basically gritted his teeth and counted the minutes until Hammond finally told him that was it for today.

"Nick, I know this isn’t easy. Far from it." Hammond had a ridiculously kind face, and for some reason that made Nick obscurely angry. "I do understand."

Some part of Nick’s brain warned him not to do it, but he was already replying. "How can you understand?" he said in a bitter voice. "You can see."

"Yes, I can," Hammond agreed calmly. "I can see your outline. It’s blurry, but you’re definitely there."

Nick swallowed, narrowing his eyes. "You –"

"I’m legally blind, Nick," Hammond told him with a shrug. "Different cause, same essential problem as you. Now tell me – did you notice?"

"No," Nick admitted helplessly. "You totally fooled me."

"You CAN cope with this. I know you’re pissed. I was too, and I still am, more often than I’d like to admit. But hell, none of that helps. If you’re going to be angry, be constructively angry. Decide right now that you want to keep on having a full and meaningful life, and go for it." Hammond sighed. "Or wallow in it. Either way you’re still going to lose your sight. The only question is, how will you deal with it? You don’t have to tell me it sucks. I know it does. But what sucks even more is for you to take it lying down. You don’t have to do that. It’s up to you."

He could feel his face heating up, and for a second he wondered if Hammond could see that. And even if he couldn’t, if he just knew. "Wow," Nick said after a long moment. "I’m -- I don’t know what to say."

Hammond smiled. "Say you’ll take this crap seriously when we meet again next week. You may not need it for a long time, Nick, and you might need it a month from now. Okay? But when you do need it, it will keep you mobile, keep you from having to give up all the things I know you’re afraid you’ll have to give up. All right? It’s not bullshit. It’s just tools. And you will need them, whether or not you want to believe that right now."

Nick nodded slowly. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

"Next week?"

"I’ll be here."

"Excellent."

Gil was waiting in the lobby, talking on his cell phone, which he stowed away at Nick’s approach. "Ready?"

"Yeah. You been waiting long?"

"Just got here. Eileen said you were nearly done." Gil smiled. "How’d it go?"

Nick made himself smile. "Pretty interesting. Come on, I’ll tell you about it in the car."

"Sounds good." Gil’s hand was warm against his own. "Let’s go home."

Chapter Seven

Italy was a bittersweet pleasure. On the one hand Gil had always loved the country, and moreso now with Nick at his side. With few preconceptions, Nick was an open book, soaking up the atmosphere of Florence and Capri, reveling in the cuisine, thoroughly at home with a level of boisterousness that occasionally pushed Gil to the limits.

On the other hand, it was increasingly obvious that Nick didn’t see well. Oh, enough to make things out most of the time, certainly, but the frequent squint and lines between his brows spoke of the effort it took to focus clearly. The bright Italian sunshine was clearly painful, and Gil did not mention the fact that Nick wore his very dark glasses not only outside, but often inside as well. A guard at the Uffizi clearly didn’t like how near Nick craned to see the paintings, and only Gil’s murmured "Vede male" kept the man from saying something that would have no doubt cast a real pall on their gallery visit. Nick didn’t understand the phrase and hadn’t seen the look on the guard’s face, but the memory of it stuck long after they’d left Italy entirely.

The morning of their departure, at breakfast, Gil saw for the first time the faint milky caul of cataracts over Nick’s eyes. His appetite vanished, he said nothing, but caught himself looking closely, trying for some misbegotten reason to see how quickly they were growing. Other than noting Nick’s left eye seemed cloudier than the right, though, he couldn’t tell much.

In their room, Nick finally sighed. "So tell me. You bummed about going home? Or something else?"

Gil finished zipping his suitcase and met Nick’s flat gaze. This entire vacation, it had been an unspoken agreement: no talking about blindness. That was for home, not here, not now. But after a moment he nodded. "I hate to leave Italy," he said slowly. "But no, that’s not it."

"Well, what?"

"You should see the surgeon as soon as we get home."

Nick blinked, and Gil heard him swallow. "Why? I’m not – worse."

"I can see your cataracts now. I’m sorry, honey," he added swiftly, at Nick’s expression. "I only noticed today. At breakfast."

Mouth clamped tightly shut, Nick gazed at him for a moment, and then spun, walking into the bathroom.

He found him craning before the mirror, a mere inch from the reflective pane. "Nick," Gil said helplessly.

"I don’t see them." Nick’s voice sounded tight, afraid. "I don’t. What do you see?" He turned. "Tell me!" he added when Gil hesitated.

"Just a little cloudy. That’s all. And in this light I can’t see them, either. I promise."

Nick’s expression crumpled. "I thought – I was just kinda tired," he said in a small voice. "Neibart, he made it sound like it’d still be months, maybe longer. But –"

Drawing a slow breath, Gil approached him. Under his hands Nick was tense as a bowstring. "We’ll get you in to see the surgeon first thing. Cataract surgery is –"

"How do YOU know what it is?" Nick snapped, yanking away and stalking out of the bathroom. "You don’t know any more than I do. Yeah, so it’s a common surgery, whatEVER." He tossed his carryon on the bed and started stuffing it with the contents of his dresser drawer. "It isn’t common for ME. Don’t act like you know what this is like. You don’t, okay? You don’t!"

Sitting on the fat armchair near the bed, Gil gave a slow nod. "You’re right. I don’t."

"I mean, I know I don’t see jack anymore. Like you have to remind me."

"Nick, you asked me what was wrong, and I told you. It surprised me. I didn’t expect it any more than you did, all right?"

Nick swallowed and added the pile of well-thumbed guidebooks to his already overstuffed bag. "I’m not saying it’s your fault," he said after a silent angry moment. "Okay? I just –" He sighed and fumbled with the zipper. "I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to think about – it. All this shit."

"How bad is it, Nick? Tell me?"

"It’s bad, okay?" Nick shoved the bag away and plopped down on the bed. "I don’t know," he continued more slowly. "I can tell they’re worse. Everything’s – blurry. I mean, blurrier. I get these fucking headaches, and I know it’s because I can’t see worth shit."

"Nick – this whole time? The entire trip?"

Nick shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes. "Not all of it. But some, yeah." He produced a listless snort. "Better get used to it, I guess."

"No, that’s not what you’ll do," Gil shot back. He surged to his feet. "That’s why you’ll have the surgery as soon as possible. This is eminently treatable!"

"Yeah, and it doesn’t change the rest of it, does it?" Nick didn’t pull away, but he didn’t reciprocate, either, when Gil sat next to him and touched his shoulder. "It’s going fast, Gil. So goddamn fast. Why? I mean, this time last year I was fine. Now? It’s like my sight is just – swirling down the fucking toilet. Every DAY, man!"

Pulling him closer, Gil kissed Nick’s damp temple and nodded tightly. "I know, honey," he murmured, and sighed. "I wish to God I had an answer for you. I just – I don’t know why. I don’t think anyone could. It’s just –"

Nick nodded slowly, pressing his hot face into the crook of Gil’s neck. "I know. I don’t -- I’m sorry, I’m being such an asshole. God, Gil, it just – none of it makes any damn sense. None of it. I don’t get it."

"I’d give anything to stop it, Nicky. I would, Jesus, if I could trade off my hearing for –"

"No!" Nick snapped, jerking back and glaring at him. "God damn it, don’t you say that!"

"Nick –"

"No, you just – just shut up, okay? Because you won, Gil, you got past that, and if you don’t think I admire that, that I don’t –" He swallowed convulsively. "That I don’t remind myself about that every day? Gil beat it. And maybe something’ll happen and I can beat this, too, you know? You’re my fucking inspiration! I want you to hear that loud and fucking clear, okay?"

Gil nodded stiffly. "Okay," he whispered. "I hear it, Nick. And – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – as flippantly as it sounded."

"Christ." Nick reached up and knuckled his teary eyes impatiently. "You damn well better keep on hearing. Because one of these days I’m not gonna see shit, and what? We’re gonna hire an interpreter so we can fucking COMMUNICATE? I don’t think so!"

Out of nowhere a chuckle bubbled up, and Gil cringed. "Sorry, just –"

Nick’s mouth quirked. "Can’t you just see it? ‘Wanted: Interpreter for two queer men, one blind, one deaf, candidate’s gotta be fluent in ASL and really patient, because these guys are two stubborn mothers.’"

This time Gil laughed out loud, and even Nick smiled gamely. "I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell wouldn’t wanna work for us."

Grinning, Gil shook his head. "No. Me, neither."

Nick’s thin smile faded. "We’re gonna be late," he muttered, looking around. "Are you packed?"

"Pretty much. Nick –"

"Let’s talk about it – later, okay?" Nick slumped. "I just – man, at least not until we’re on the plane."

"Okay," Gil said softly. "How about when we’re home?"

"Maybe then."

"Deal."

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

Nick slept heavily for much of the flight, and Gil even napped some himself, although not enough to keep him from being tired by the time they climbed into the cab at McCarran.

"When do you gotta go back to work?" Nick sounded hoarse, stretching his arms.

"I scheduled a couple of free days before that. For both of us. Remember?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Conscious of Nick’s sudden deflation, Gil nudged him. "We’re not home yet," he murmured. "Remember?"

"Almost." But Nick nodded and reached for Gil’s hand.

At home, there wasn’t any talk yet, either. Gil was exhausted, and fell asleep while Nick was rummaging through his carryon, searching for his wallet. It was dark before he awoke, alone and chilled in their dim bedroom.

He tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt, and scuffed out into the hallway. He paused outside the living area, hearing Nick’s low voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, it was great. I’m glad we went. I am." A pause. "I think Gil enjoyed it, yeah. You shoulda heard him speaking Italian. I learned one phrase: Do you speak English?" He laughed, and there was another pause before he said, "Hey, I don’t gotta prove nothin’. Gil’s the language guy, not me. No way. Yeah, we did. No, man, not until Monday. Gil’s still crashed, and it’s like four in the morning for me or something. Okay. Yeah, I’ll see you then. Say hi to Lindsey for me."

Waiting for Nick to hang up, Gil walked into the room. "Catherine?" he asked, surprised at how foggy his voice sounded.

Nick glanced around and nodded. "Yeah, figured I’d let her know we were back. And definitely UNavailable until Monday. How do you feel?"

"Tired." Gil slogged over to sit next to him on the couch.

"Man, you were out like a freakin’ light." Nick reached out to slide his arm over Gil’s shoulders, tugging him closer. "I was trying to be quiet, but I finally figured out I could have invited a couple hundred people over for a party the last few hours and you wouldn’t have budged."

"Probably not," Gil agreed sleepily.

"Want something to eat? NOT Italian."

"Something light."

"I can do that." Nick kissed his lips and stood up. "Sandwich do ya?"

"Sounds fine."

After a minute he wandered into the kitchen, blearily watching Nick grab things out of the fridge. "Wait a second. Where’d you get food?"

Nick grinned. "From the store. We had zip, so I went shopping. Except I have no idea what kind of milk I bought. It may be skim, it may be whole milk, it may be BREAST milk, I couldn’t read the damn label." He chuckled and slung the gallon jug on the counter. "Whatever it is, drink it and don’t complain."

Nodding, Gil leaned against the counter. "You sound perky," he said with a slanted smile.

"Feel kinda perky. Good to be home. I mean, Italy rocked, no doubt about that. But man, if I never wear those same shirts again it’ll be too soon."

They ate the sandwiches Nick made, and drank milk – 2%, after all – and when the food was gone even Nick was nodding a little. It took only a little nudge to send him in the direction of the bedroom.

"We oughta stay up," Nick objected while he was undressing. "We gotta be back on nights real soon."

"If you don’t lie down you’re going to fall down," Gil told him, shaking his head. "Tell me you really feel like staying up."

"Don’t say I FEEL like it, just." Nick broke off and yawned. "Sayin’ we ought to, that’s all."

Watching him flop down on the bed, Gil had to laugh. "Right. Say that again, Nick."

But Nick just punched his pillow and gave him a sleepy smile.

"This does feel good," Gil murmured a few minutes later, when the lamp was out and Nick had burrowed up against him. "Welcome home, honey."

"Y’too." Nick sighed and slid his arm over Gil’s belly. "We didn’t talk about it."

Gil nodded, invisible in the dark. "Tomorrow."

"Kay."

After a long moment Gil whispered, "Night, honey."

But Nick only answered with a faint snore.

Chapter Eight

"The cane doesn’t function as a replacement for sight, exactly." Ralph’s mouth tightened as he considered. "Sure, it’ll keep you from running into things if needed, ideally, but mostly at the moment you need the cane for a couple of reasons. Backup, at the times when your remaining sight isn’t trustworthy. You know what I mean?"

Nick nodded. The cane felt awkward and too long in his hand. "Like the light and dark thing, yeah."

"Exactly. But there’s another reason."

"What?"

"Well, it lets sighted people know that your vision is compromised."

Fighting down a flicker of anger, Nick snorted. "Watch out, don’t mess with the blind guy, is that it?"

"Something like that," was Ralph’s mild reply. "Face it, Nick, you want to be treated just like anyone else, and I do, too. But neither of us is like most people. Look, after your surgery you may not need this for years. At the same time, it could be next month. So don’t think of the cane as a stigma. Think of it as a really useful tool. Would you rather fall down some stairs and break your neck? It’s happened more than once to people."

"No, man, I get it." Nick swallowed and tried to loosen his wrist a little. "Now what?"

"We go for a walk."

"Great."

Outside the day was cheerfully sunny, more than a hint of spring in the air, and Nick squinted behind his dark glasses. Felt great, the warmth, but his eyes were watering even with the specs. He edged his way to the sidewalk and halted. "What do I do?"

"Just walk, Nick. Use the cane like I showed you."

It helped, knowing Ralph was there, but hell, Ralph had less vision than Nick did. Nick felt like quipping something about the blind leading the blind, and clamped down on it with a hot surge of humiliation. How offensive was that? Ralph knew what he was doing, right?

But every step felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a bottomless chasm. He minced along painfully slowly, eyes squinted so tight he really didn’t see anything anyway. The cane felt huge and useless in his hand. Sure, there was sidewalk there. But what if he missed something? Tapped right around the one obstacle in his path? He could already feel it, his foot catching on a soda can or a damn grocery bag, wrapping around and throwing him to the ground. Then what? People helping him up, thinking, Oh, he’s blind, poor asshole, thank God it isn’t me.

He drew a shaky breath, and felt Ralph’s hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, Nick. You can walk normally. You feel there’s nothing in the way, right? So just walk."

"Feel like an asshole," Nick said between clenched teeth.

"I know, but that’s not the case. You’re doing fine. Now we should be coming up to the end of the block soon. Remember what we talked about? Anticipate that."

All it did for him was shorten his stride even more, hunching along waiting to fall off a goddamn 4" curb. The traffic was abysmally loud, and he could swear the cars were whistling by about to clip his elbow. He wanted nothing more than to sit down and curl up into a tight defensive ball. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

The cane dipped, and Nick halted abruptly. Exploring, was that the curb? Or a big gaping hole he was about to fall into?

"What does it feel like?"

"Think – the curb. Yeah."

"Okay. So keep going. It’s just a curb. You know how tall a curb is. Feel with your feet when you need to step down."

"I can’t see, Ralph." Even Nick heard the edge of panic in his own voice. "Are there cars coming? How can I tell? Oh Jesus, I can’t do this."

"Yes, you can. Just stand here for a second. What do you hear?"

"No – nothing."

"We talked about this. Remember? The cane signifies you’re a non-sighted person. Oncoming drivers see that cane and recognize it. The law says they must stop to let you cross the street."

"Like they’re gonna do that."

"Exactly. Some will, some won’t. So listen, and if you hear cars coming, wait until they’ve passed. If they stop you’ll know. Make sure they can see your cane."

"This is so fucked up," Nick whispered. He realized he was shaking, covered with sweat after only a block. "I’m never gonna walk anywhere, man. This is too fucking hard."

"Sure you will. You just have to get used to it."

"Never happen."

But oddly, it did sort of happen. His ears could pick out an idling motor, and when he squinted hard enough his watering eyes saw a motorist sitting a few feet behind the crosswalk.

Ralph’s hand was welcome on his elbow. "Just walk, Nick," he said gently. "They’re waiting for us."

Crossing the street was something like crossing the goddamn Rubicon. At the other side Nick stopped, breathing so hard he felt as if he’d just run a 20K race. Leaning forward with his hands braced against his thighs, he gasped, "I want to go home. Fuck, Ralph."

Ralph laughed, but there was nothing mean in it. "Believe me, I understand. You got about twice as far as I did, the first time I tried this. I thought every step was my last."

"No shit." Nick straightened, wiping sweat off his upper lip.

"Come on. Let’s go back."

Back at the center, Nick welcomed the dimmer light, holding the cane with hands that still shook like he had Parkinson’s. "Wow," he said weakly, collapsing into the chair across from Ralph’s desk. "That was a fucking nightmare."

Ralph edged his way into his own chair. "It’ll get easier. I promise. That was your first day, Nick, you didn’t think it would be comfortable the very first time, did you?"

"No, man. But I just thought -- I don’t know what I thought."

"You thought, if all those blind people can do this, I can, too. And you can. It’s going to take practice, though." Ralph leaned back and sighed. "Practice this week, okay? Take the cane with you and use it. Try to keep the cane two steps in front of you, at least. That’s going to mean that you can walk normally, because two steps is plenty of time to stop, right?"

Nick nodded. "Right. Yeah."

"When you’re moving, the cane is moving, too. Clear the space and step into it. Tap around, feel with the cane. Clear the next space and step into it. Practice that, all the time, Nick. It won’t feel comfortable the next time you do it, either, but keep at it."

"Okay."

"Nick?"

He turned, seeing Gil’s blurry face. "Hey," Nick said with a tired smile. "Great timing."

Gil touched Nick’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before reaching over to shake Ralph’s hand. "Hi, Ralph. Am I early?"

"I think we’re about done for today. Nick?"

"Stick a fork in me, man." Nick sighed and shook his head. "Thanks, Ralph."

"No problem. See you next week?"

"Yep."

He didn’t use the cane on the way out, indulging the fact that he could see well enough to manage without it. But outside the sunlight hit him like a physical blow. Gil’s hand took his elbow, smooth as silk.

Inside the truck, Nick sighed again while he slid the cane between the seats. "Man, I’m tired."

Gil started the engine. "How’d it go? Everything all right?"

"Took a walk."

"And?" Gil’s voice sounded suddenly tight.

"And I didn’t get creamed by a car, so I guess it went all right. I tell you what, it ain’t as easy as it looks."

"Frankly I never thought it looked easy." Gil turned them into traffic, and reached out to squeeze Nick’s knee lightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I’m good." Nick covered Gil’s hand with his own. "Guess I just need to practice, that’s all."

"Of course."

~~~~~~~~~~~

After supper that night they went for a walk. Filled with a dark kind of furtive embarrassment, Nick made Gil check first to see if anyone they knew was around.

"Nick, relax. You’ve already told Sandra about this, and Monique –"

"I know. But if I fall on my ass I’d rather they didn’t see it. Please."

Gil gave them the all-clear, and for the next half-hour they walked – slowly – around the block.

"No, don’t help me," Nick said peevishly, when Gil’s hand touched his shoulder. "I mean, don’t let me walk into a car or something, I guess, but I gotta learn to do this."

"All right," Gil replied after a squelched moment.

It wasn’t any easier than it had been earlier in the day, and he was winded by the time they arrived back at their own sidewalk. But he’d managed it without too many missteps.

"Wow," Nick breathed, taking off his glasses and squinting at Gil in the waning sunlight. "I never thought of a walk around the block as a cardio exercise."

Gil didn’t smile. His expression was pinched, mouth tight.

"What’s wrong?" Nick asked.

"Nothing."

A flicker of tired heat flared in Nick’s belly. "Okay," he said tiredly. "Fine."

The house was too dim, but he was familiar enough with it to get to the living room and sit down. Just wait a few minutes, Nick; you’ll adjust. You know this.

"You want something to drink?" Gil’s voice sounded disembodied, somewhere off to his right.

"I want you to tell me what’s bugging you."

"Nothing’s – bugging me."

"Oh, come on," Nick snapped, gazing at Gil’s hazy outline. "What, is it the cane? You embarrassed or something?"

"Of course I’m not embarrassed!" Gil sat across from him. It was impossible to make out his real expression, but his voice told Nick all too much. "I just -- Christ. I hate to see you struggle like that."

"Well, I’m damn sure not gonna be a prisoner inside this house. Come on, Gil, if this is what it takes, I’ll do it. I know I suck right now, but what else do you want me to do? Give up?"

"You won’t even let me help you." More than a trace of petulance had crept into Gil’s tone now. "I could have, you know."

"Gil, would you listen to yourself? This is the opposite of what you were saying a couple months ago!"

"Until you’re more sure of yourself. That’s all."

"And how am I gonna GET more sure of myself if I got you leading the way all the time?"

Gil was silent, and Nick leaned forward, willing his blurry eyes to focus at least a little. Now he saw the lines of tension on Gil’s face, the way he wasn’t meeting Nick’s eyes. "That’s not it either, is it?" Nick asked intently.

"Pedestrians," Gil said after a long moment, "are hit by cars every day, Nick." His tone was slow and painful. "I don’t want that to be you. I can’t stand to even think about it."

"Believe me, I don’t want that to be me, either. God, would you come over here so I can SEE you?"

Gil moved to the couch, and Nick fumbled for his hand. "Look, I’m scared about that, too, okay?" he continued hoarsely. "I am. But right now I can still see, Gil. I mean, like hell most of the time, but my surgery’s next week, and after that it’ll get better again." At least for a while, he thought, but didn’t say it. "I’ll be okay. All right? I will."

After a moment Gil said, "I believe you."

"So relax, man. Besides," he added, forcing humor into his voice, "you’re still gonna get to do plenty of guiding. You ain’t off the hook."

Gil gave a small but genuine smile. "Okay."

"You know, there’s a lot of stuff from – I dunno, when you were losing your hearing, and going to the doctor, all that, getting ready for your surgery." Nick drew a breath and let it out very slowly. "Every time I thought about it, I thought of what could go wrong. The surgery wouldn’t work, and you’d be really deaf. Or you’d keep putting it off, and my phone was gonna ring one day, and some guy from the PD would be telling me how you hadn’t heard someone sneaking up behind you, or a fire alarm, or some fucker honking his horn. And could I come down to identify your body."

It didn’t take particularly good eyes to see the expression of shock on Gil’s face. "Nick, I was careful, you know that. You knew it then, why –"

"For the same reason you’re doing this flipping-out thing right now," Nick interrupted heavily. "Because I always saw the worst-case scenario. I saw you getting creamed because you didn’t hear a horn; you see me getting creamed because I can’t see oncoming traffic."

Gil gave a slow nod. "So you’re telling me I’m overreacting."

"No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you’re legitimately scared, but what else can we do, Gil? I had to let you do your thing, even when it scared the shit out of me sometimes. You gotta do the same thing."

It was rational, and heartfelt, and he could see Gil having trouble digesting it. Finally Nick sighed. "Guess it’s just gonna take some time, that’s all," he muttered vaguely. Suddenly he felt a hundred years old, and incredibly tired. "I dunno."

"I hear what you’re saying, Nick. I do. I want you to have your mobility. I’ll – work on the overprotective part. Really," Gil added, when Nick looked at him. Gil’s smile was weak, and rueful. "I can’t watch over you every second of the day. You don’t need it, anyway."

Nick himself wasn’t too sure of that, but he made himself nod. "Okay." He leaned against Gil, until a familiar arm slid around his shoulders. "So," he continued. "You ready to help me learn Braille?"

Gil paused, and then snorted when he caught sight of Nick’s grin. "Any time, honey, but not tonight. Please?"

"Nah. Just kidding."

"I love you, Nicky. You know that?"

Nick nodded slowly. "Back atcha, baby," he whispered, and leaned closer to kiss him.

Chapter Nine

Unlike Gil’s own surgery almost exactly a year ago, Nick’s cataracts didn’t require hospitalization. In fact the procedures were done using local anesthetic, a prospect Nick found less than alluring.

"You mean I’m gonna SEE you cut my damn eyes open?" was his comment, when the surgeon, Dr. Ananthakrishnan, explained the process.

The doctor shrugged. "We can give you a mild sedative beforehand, to make you feel calmer," he said in a beautifully accented voice. "But the entire process should take only perhaps fifteen minutes. You’ll be done in no time."

Nick’s baleful look didn’t faze the man at all.

"Gonna need more than a mild freaking sedative for me," Nick groused in the car on the way home. "Christ."

Gil gave him a sympathetic look and nodded.

But it seemed to go relatively painlessly. The plan was to remove the cataract in the left eye first – as Gil had suspected, the more advanced one – and wait about a month to do the right. Gil waited anxiously in the foyer of the doctor’s facility, and finally Nick emerged, his left eye covered and a bit wobbly on his feet but otherwise intact.

"How do you feel?" Gil asked, taking Nick’s arm and nodding at the nurse.

"Like I got a big mother of a boulder in my eye," Nick slurred, and gave a loopy smile. "Home, Jeeves."

"Call us if you have any questions, or problems, all right?" the nurse said, and Gil nodded again. "Make sure to remind him not to rub it. Here are his prescriptions. Nick, you doing all right?"

"Uh huh."

After a brief lecture on what to look for in terms of complications, the entire time listening intently while Nick swayed sleepily at his side, Gil drove them home, and Nick promptly went to bed.

Catherine called around nine.

"Today was the day, right?"

Gil nodded at his cell phone. "This morning."

"So? How’s he doing?"

"Sleeping. I think the sedative they gave him hit a little harder than he’d thought. But it went fine. We have a followup tomorrow."

She paused. "How are you doing?"

"Me? I’m fine."

"You sure?"

He swallowed. "Well, I won’t say today was fun, but as long as it restores some of his vision."

"Gil, is there anything I can do? Help out? Bring some food? Something?"

He smiled. "Gifts of food are always welcome. But we’re doing all right, Cath. Thank you. How’s the lab?"

"Still standing. When do you come back?"

"Should be there tomorrow night, everything else being equal."

"And Nick? Can -- I mean –"

"He’ll be off the rest of the week. But after that he can take the shield off, and should be able to come back. The surgeon says he’ll definitely see better, although obviously the primary problems haven’t been corrected."

"But – it’ll be clearer, do I understand that right?"

"Right. His central vision isn’t so affected by the RP. It was the cataracts that made his vision so blurry. The RP is responsible for other problems – tunnel vision, difficulty with light and dark."

"And those will still be there."

"I’m afraid so."

"Okay." She sighed. "Well, I’ll drop by tomorrow sometime, okay? See how you boys are doing."

"That would be very welcome. Thanks, Catherine."

"See you later."

"Will do."

He sat still for a moment after he hung up, and finally pushed himself off the couch to go check on Nick. He found him stirring, hair a spiky mess and face dented by the pillow.

"Hey," Gil said softly, perching on the side of the bed. "Doing okay?"

Nick sat up slowly. "Tired," he mumbled. "Hungry."

"Come on. I’ll make some dinner."

He put together something to eat while Nick sipped a cup of coffee. At the table, he waited until Nick had cleared most of his plate before mentioning it again.

"How’s it feel?"

Nick swigged his milk and shrugged. "Doesn’t hurt, really. Feels like there’s something in my eye. Stitches, I assume. But it’s not too bad."

"We’ll need to put those drops in there pretty soon. Antibiotics, I think."

"Yeah. I remember they said something about that. You know?" Nick pursed his lips. "I mean, before they covered it up, I was looking around, and it was definitely a little clearer. It’s good, right?"

"Absolutely." Gil smiled and reached out to touch Nick’s hand on the table. "Fantastic."

"He said not to expect miracles or anything, you know." Nick squeezed Gil’s fingers. "But I can deal with the tunnel stuff if I can at least see in the middle. That’s all I want."

"So we go back for the other eye in June?"

"Yep. Just, if it gets a lot worse before that, supposed to call ‘em."

Gil nodded. "Want some dessert?"

"Sure. Man, I was hungry."

"So I noticed."

"I’m glad that’s over," Nick said in a low voice. "I hope it works."

Gil leaned forward. "It will, Nick. Believe that."

Nick’s nod was steady, if a little slow.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The second surgery went as flawlessly as the first. By the beginning of July Nick was mostly healed, and with a new prescription his vision had been corrected to nearly what it was several years before.

It visibly cheered him up, although the night of July 3^rd, Nick confessed to Gil that his peripheral vision was definitely on the downhill slide.

"I dunno," he said calmly, shaking his head. "It’s like I’m in a room where the walls keep sliding a little closer every day. Ceiling, floor. It’s okay if I turn my head right now, but."

Gil nodded, and felt tired tension grip his stomach. It was too easy to hear what Nick hadn’t said. Someday – perhaps someday quite soon – Nick’s small window of vision would be too tiny to do him much good at all. And as Nick admitted when pressed, his ability to cope with changes from light to dark and vice versa was degrading as well. He hadn’t drive his vehicle since before the first cataract surgery, and one morning when they drove up after work, he sat still in Gil’s truck.

"You all right?" Gil asked, turning off the engine.

"Oughta sell it," Nick replied in a flat voice.

"Your vehicle?"

Nick nodded. When he spoke again his voice was thick. "I kept thinking, you know, after the surgeries, I’d be using it again. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen."

A spasm of sadness made it difficult to speak. "Maybe you can think about it for a while. No rush."

"Maybe."

But Nick told him later that day he was going to put an ad in the paper about it. Gil simply nodded, seeing the grief on Nick’s face and unable to think of a single thing to say that would be anywhere near adequate. It was the stone truth: Nick had no business driving anymore, not unless the situation were dire indeed. With his now nearly total lack of peripheral vision and frequent whiteouts, he’d be a menace on the road.

Driving wasn’t the only area showing the strain, either. The acute loss of Nick’s mobility was exacerbated by troubles at work, and elsewhere. He struggled with equipment not designed for low-vision use. Field work was nearly out of the question; although he occasionally came along, the long time it took him to make out anything useful was obvious.

One morning about two weeks after the holiday, Gil trudged back to his office and found Nick waiting for him. A glance told him whatever Nick had to say wasn’t good.

"Hi," Gil said cautiously, setting his kit on the table near his desk.

"We need to talk." Nick’s voice was expressionless, flat, but his face was tight with unhappiness.

Gil nodded and took a seat. "What’s going on?"

"This isn’t working."

"You mean, here? Nick, it’s not –"

"Face it, Gil, I can’t do this. Not well enough." Nick swallowed audibly and pushed up his glasses. "I’m not just driving other people crazy, I’m driving myself crazy." His voice shook. "I’m useless in the field. I can’t use the microscopes without giving myself the headache from hell. And I’m probably missing things. I’m sure I am."

"We’ll get magnifiers. I’m sure there are attachments –"

"No, Gil," Nick interrupted curtly. "No. Man, I know you’ve bent over backwards trying to keep me here, and everyone else has, too. But I can’t deal with sucking like this. It’d be one thing if I didn’t realize. If I didn’t know how much I was missing. But I do. Believe me." He drew a shaky long breath. "What we do – It’s too important to run a risk like that. I couldn’t live with knowing some asshole got off because I missed something I’d have seen a year ago. Can you?"

Staring at him, Gil hesitated, and then shook his head very slowly. "I see your point," he said softly. "What –" He cleared his throat. "What do you want to do?"

Nick’s eyes were starry with sudden tears. "What do you think?" he managed. "Christ. Here." He took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

"What is it?" But Gil already knew.

"My resignation."

"God, Nicky." Gil closed his eyes briefly. "Honey, we can work something out, it doesn’t have to be like this."

"I figure I’ll apply for disability." Nick wiped his eyes briskly, sitting up straighter in his chair. "At least that way I can cover the insurance part. Keep a little income. Not much, but something. And there’s stuff I can do, you know? I mean, I just can’t do – this. Not well enough. Not by a long shot."

He felt numb. Everything Nick said was true. Wanting it not to be didn’t change that fact. "You should apply for short-term disability in the department rather than resigning," he heard himself say, as if he were just fine. Normal, calm voice. When his chest hurt so badly he must be having a heart attack. "While you apply for SSDI."

Nick nodded. "Good point."

"Nick."

"I know." His face twisted with raw grief. "Fuck, I know, Gil. But."

"Let’s go home, honey. Okay?"

"Sounds good."

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

"So he ain’t coming back, huh?"

Gil met Warrick’s pained eyes and shook his head. "I don’t think so."

Catherine said nothing, staring unseeingly at her hands twisted together in her lap.

"Well, that fucking sucks." Warrick stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away. "Look, I know his vision, you know. Getting worse. But man, there’s gotta be something he can –"

"What? Something he can do, nearly blind?" Gil waited for Warrick to look at him, and shrugged. "I’m open to suggestions, believe me. But it was Nick himself who pointed out the problems. This was his idea, Warrick. I didn’t fire him."

Catherine turned to look at him. "What did he say?"

"He’s afraid he’ll miss things. That we’ll lose out on cases because his vision made him drop the ball."

"Is it that bad?" Sara asked. "Bad enough that that could happen?"

Gil considered a moment. "We thought," he replied carefully, "that the surgeries would give Nick’s eyes a new lease on life, as it were. And he is seeing better, in terms of central vision. But his visual fields are down to fifteen percent in one eye and twenty in the other. Twenty’s legally blind, if not literally."

Catherine shook her head. "God, poor Nick."

"He though it was best to bow out when he knew it was time, rather than – the alternative." Gil cleared his throat gruffly. "I couldn’t disagree with him."

No one said anything to that. Finally Warrick stirred and sighed. "Well, tell him don’t be a stranger, all right?" His voice sounded tight with pent-up feelings. "Ain’t gonna be the same without him around here."

"No," Gil agreed softly. "It won’t, will it?"

After a while they got back to work, and in some ways it was just another night. But Nick’s absence was glaring, as if someone had blown a huge hole in the middle of the lab and Gil kept stumbling into it. He could tell himself it was only as if Nick were off for the night. But that wasn’t the case, was it? Nick’s locker was empty. Nick’s name was still on the payroll, but only because of the disability application. To all real purposes Nick no longer worked here.

Gil pushed as much as he could, but still left early. The hunger to see Nick, to know he was all right and still Nick, was impossible to deny.

"Take care of him," Catherine told him, when they met in the hallway on his way out. "I bet he’s gonna need it right now."

"Yeah. I think you’re absolutely right."

He came home to a dim, morning-quiet house, and found Nick sound asleep in bed. Without undressing, Gil sat next to him and reached out to gently push the hair back from Nick’s forehead. Nick didn’t even stir, mouth slightly open as he slept.

So this was it. Gil took his hand back and leaned against the one remaining pillow. No more work, at least for the moment, no driving because Nick no longer had a vehicle. The paperwork for SSDI lay on the kitchen table, incomplete but not for long. His own worst nightmare, except it hadn’t happened to him after all. But Nick.

After a while he rose and changed clothes quietly, padding out into the kitchen to brew some coffee and think about eating. He was stirring eggs in a pan when Nick appeared in the doorway, squinting sleepily at him.

"Hi," Gil said softly, smiling.

"Hi." Nick trudged over to stand behind him, sliding his arms around Gil’s waist. "Shoulda woke me up."

"You were sleeping so soundly. Hated to do it."

"Getting used to sleeping at night again, I guess." There was no pain in Nick’s voice. Just a little wistfulness. "You talk to them?"

Gil nodded and lowered the heat on the burner. Nick liked his eggs pretty firm, but Gil was a soft-scrambled guy. "Everyone was pretty disappointed. They send their best."

Nick nodded against his back and sighed.

When they finished the food, Gil reached across the table and touched Nick’s wrist. "I think I’m going to take a few days off," he said. "Want to go to New York?"

Nick blinked at him. "New York? Sure. What’s up?"

"Nothing. Just feel like going."

"Yeah?"

"I haven’t been in a few years. And you’ve never had a New York bagel."

Nick gave a slow smile. "You’re not telling me we’re gonna fly that far for bagels."

"Bialys. Pizza. Cheesecake."

"You got some kinda new food fetish you haven’t told me about?"

Gil grinned. "The Met. Both of them. The Rose Center. That wasn’t there when I last visited. And I always meant to go to the Tenement Museum. Haven’t gotten around to it yet."

Nick nodded. "Okay. Sure. I mean, I’m footloose and fancy-free these days, god knows." He smiled. "It’ll give me a chance to practice that cane stuff."

And see things, Gil thought, fighting to keep his smile. The Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island. The Cloisters, and the South Street Seaport. Central Park, and everything else. You can still see it. But next year I don’t think you will.

"Yeah," Gil agreed, lacing his fingers with Nick’s. "It will."

Chapter Ten

"Now this," Nick said slowly, "is what I call a big fucking city."

He turned his head enough that he could see Gil’s smile. "Yeah," Gil agreed. "Sure is. Come on. Let’s walk."

They’d taken the escalator out of Penn Station, and now Gil took Nick’s elbow, easing him to the sidewalk. "Hungry?"

Nick was too busy gaping to check out Gil’s expression. "Told you. Food fetish. You been holding out on me."

Gil just laughed.

They had a week, but Nick didn’t see how they were gonna cram everything in in just seven days. At the moment he was just thankful for the clouds, making it easier to see. "Where are we going?" he asked, when they stopped at an intersection.

"I don’t know yet. Let’s wander."

"Okay."

They wandered until Nick’s feet were killing him, but there was too much to see to mind so much. The Empire State Building, which up close just appeared to be another in the gajillion other tall buildings, but which gave him a shiver of recognition anyway. And a long stroll uptown until they came to Central Park, and there were hot dogs from a vendor and a spell just watching people go by, hundreds and hundreds of people, so many that Nick felt utterly invisible, pleasantly so.

"We should go to Coney Island," Nick said at one point, wiping his mouth with his napkin and scanning for a trash receptacle. "Always heard about that place. Want to?"

"Sure." Gil was leaning back, sunglasses on, soaking up the newly appeared sunlight. "Whatever you like."

Squinting, Nick got up to throw away their trash, and blinked tears out of his eyes as he made his careful way back. Gil glanced at him, and then reached up to remove his shades. His expression was familiarly grim.

"Eyes hurt?"

Nick considered denying it, but having to wipe the tears off his cheeks sorta made it pointless. "It was okay till the sun came out," he said with a shrug. "Don’t worry about it."

With his own sunglasses in place the whiteout eased a tiny bit, but he was still seeing only washed-out images, and not complete ones at that. He picked up his cane. "Good thing I brought this, I guess, huh?"

"Guess so," Gil agreed.

It cast a pall over the day that the earlier clouds had not. After all, what good was a stroll when one party was pretty much blind? With his cane in his right hand and Gil’s touch on his left elbow, though, he felt solid. Enough that he looked steadily at Gil and said, "I can still get something out of it, you know. The smells are pretty goddamn amazing. Which is sort of good and sort of not." He grinned, and hoped Gil was smiling, too.

But after a while, when Gil suggested going back to their hotel and resting up for the evening, Nick didn’t object. Italy had been his trip, the one he’d wanted so much to take. New York, that was more Gil. And he was damned if he’d go out of his way to screw it up for the guy. But at this rate he’d get blinded by the sun and fall in front of a cab or something, and a nap was probably the smarter choice.

His head was aching by the time they wandered their way back to the hotel. Standard fare; headaches, according to Neibart, were more a result of strain than anything truly RP-related. But he was getting a little too familiar with them, and while Gil went to change clothes Nick quietly shook out a few Excedrin.

Gil busted him anyway, giving him a too-acute look as he walked back out of the bathroom. "You take something?"

Nick nodded. "How could you tell?"

"About the headache? The groove between your eyes." Gil sighed. "We overdid it today."

"No, we didn’t. I’m not SICK, Gil." Nick fought down a tired flare of irritation and sat down on one of the beds, toeing his shoes off. "The sun, I guess."

"You feel up to going out tonight? We could stay in. Order room service." Gil’s voice lowered a little. "See what happens…"

"Nice try." Nick smiled and shook his head. "We got tickets, remember? The show?"

Gil’s nod said he’d hoped Nick had forgotten about that. "But if you don’t feel up to going –-"

"I do. All right? Just lemme let the aspirin kick in. I’ll be 100 percent." He lowered himself back, closing his eyes.

"I have to run down to the lobby. You’re okay?"

Nick nodded without opening his eyes. "Yep. Go for it."

"Okay."

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

He must have slept, because he never heard Gil come back in. But he was there when Nick peeled his eyelids open. Sitting in one of the chairs, thumbing through something that looked suspiciously like a file from work. Lit by the warm glow of the torchiere, Gil looked completely comfortable, glasses inching down his nose, mouth pursed with concentration.

Nick blinked back tears while his eyes adjusted, and said, "What time is it?"

Gil glanced at him, unsurprised. "About six. Feel better?"

"Yeah." Nick sat up and stretched a little. "Man, musta crashed. Sorry about that."

"No need."

"You brought work. Man, I can’t believe that."

He’d said it with a smile, so Gil smiled back. "Just the one file, I promise. Court next week."

"What time’s the show?"

"8:15. Plenty of time."

"You wanna get some food first?"

"How about after. That way we don’t need to hurry."

"Cool."

The aspirin hadn’t entirely killed his headache, but he ignored it, took his shower. And the heat relaxed him, even if the lights were way too bright. He fumbled his way to the towel, and covered his face with it for a second. Worse than slicing onions. He spent most of his time with tears running down his face lately. Lovely.

The show was good, even if he knew he missed a lot of it. But he liked the music, and that was more than half the Broadway experience anyway. They ate a late supper at a bustling restaurant about two blocks from the theatre, and walked back to the hotel.

"I had no idea somebody like Burford could sing," Nick remarked, arm linked with Gil’s. "Seems like such a tough guy on tv."

"He was actually a singer before he was an actor, if I remember right. I saw him a long time ago in Cabaret. Incredible."

"How long did you live here?"

"Just a year. Postgrad work." Gil grinned. "Right about the time you were starting junior high, probably."

Nick laughed. "Probably."

"Did you enjoy it?"

Easy to hear what Gil hadn’t said. "Did you enjoy it even though you couldn’t see much of anything?" Nick just nodded. "Yeah, I did," he said. "Awesome. Now I know why it won those awards."

"Indeed."

"The night’s still young." Nick stumbled a little, but caught his balance, throwing Gil another grin. "Wanna go out?"

"Frankly? I’d rather go back." Gil’s hand squeezed Nick’s arm warmly. "Have a nightcap. You know."

"Yeah, I know what ‘you know’ means."

He loved hearing Gil laugh. "Is that a yes?"

"How many times have I said no?"

"Well, this afternoon –"

"Doesn’t count."

"Oh no?"

Nick shook his head blithely. "Nope. Headache removes this afternoon from contention. Medical exclusion."

"Oh really."

"Yep."

Gil’s teeth shone in reflected streetlight. "But your headache’s gone now."

"Yep."

"Which means."

"Yep."

"I like the sound of that."

"Thought you would. Horn dog."

Gil just laughed.

~~~~~~~~~

"Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?" Gil gave him a frowning look. "I won’t take long. It’s just lunch."

Nick shook his head and squinted at his reflection. "Just don’t forget to meet me at the park. 2:00, right?"

"Right."

But Gil didn’t move, and Nick glanced at him. "I’ll be okay," he added calmly. "Relax."

Gil’s nod was slow and still unconvinced. "Okay. You’ve got your cell phone?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

He watched Gil off in the cab, and then drew a deep breath. The day was gorgeous: warm, sunny, awesome. Great to enjoy an al fresco lunch with Gil, but he’d known before they even left that Gil would want to catch up with Mike. The coroner was an old friend, not to mention professional rival, and it would have looked weird if Gil hadn’t seen him. So Gil was off to lunch, and Nick was on his own.

He reached up to adjust his shades, tucked his cane under his arm, and turned east.

The plan was to hit the Natural History Museum, spend a couple of hours wandering around, and then meet Gil at the same bench in Central Park where they’d sat yesterday. And the museum was awesome, that much was true. But his headache was back, thanks to that beautiful bright sun, and privately he could admit that he was a menace in this place without the cane. So he opened it, feeling distinctly odd.

It helped. At least he wasn’t running into benches and other unexpected obstacles. Couldn’t exactly look at exhibits while you stared at your feet all the time.

Everything was cool until he went to the cafeteria. And at first he thought that was the best part, really, in terms of his crapola eyes. Dim and spacious, if a little crowded.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?"

He craned his head around and caught sight of a guy in a dark blue uniform. His eyes wouldn’t let him read the nametag. Security or something. Nick smiled. "Nah, I’m cool. Am I in the right line?"

"That’s the hot food line, sir. That’s where you want to be?"

"Yeah."

"Then you’re good. Sure you don’t need any assistance?"

He could feel his face flaming. "Nah, I got it covered," he said quickly.

People gave you a wide berth if you carried the cane, he noted, sliding his tray down the line. Conversations faded away. Weird. What was that supposed to mean, respect or something? Annoyed, he looked up at the food service girl. "You recommend anything?" he asked, smiling to cover his discovery that he really couldn’t see what was on offer.

"Beef stroganoff’s good."

"That works."

He took the plate and set it carefully on his tray. Drink, check, piece of cake for dessert. What the hell, he’d work it off.

He paid, and scanned the enormous room for his destination. Lights were working against him now; the contrast between the more brightly lit food-service area and the seating beyond made his vision completely undependable. He grasped the tray firmly and used the cane, edging past a couple picking up condiments.

He’d have made it, too, if it hadn’t been for the stairs. That stuck with him, the stairs. Ralph had mentioned that, back when he first started tutoring Nick on how to be blind. More than one blind person had broken his sorry neck on stairs.

But that, like so many other things, was something that happened to other people. Not him. He wasn’t BLIND, after all. Maybe very poorly sighted. But not BLIND.

But none of that occurred to him then. He was just walking, searching for a place to sit and take a load off. And someone, a kid he thought later, brushed his hip, not that hard, just enough to mess up his balance. And he flailed to keep the tray steady, and took a step that met only air.

Gonna drop the food, he thought in that split-second, and then his cane snapped, and when he hit the ground something else snapped, too, something that sent a jolt of agony up his arm like an electrical shock. He bounced down the steps, and by the time he came to rest he wasn’t thinking about the food any longer. Just the pain.

Chapter Eleven

"Gil, it’s been great seeing you." Michael’s bearded face split in a broad familiar grin. His handshake was firm and welcome. "Catch you in November, all right?"

Gil nodded, returning the grin. "I think you’ll be hard to miss."

"As will you, Mr. Keynote Speaker."

"I’m not the one with tv offers."

"Not yet. Take care, Gil."

"You too, Mike."

He watched Michael hurry to a cab, glancing at his watch, and his smile faded slowly. Glancing around, he sighed. Flat-out beautiful day, and it was early yet. He had a few minutes before he needed to meet Nick. He stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking.

God, it was nice to be back in New York. He hadn’t lived here long, barely long enough to really feel as if he knew his way around, frankly. But he remembered it well, the hustle of this gigantic city, the energy in the very air. He’d done some good work back then. Forensic entomology had been a baby science in those days, hardly anyone pursuing beyond the basics, and god knew there had been plenty of opportunities for study.

And other things, he thought with a private smile. Jerry, of course, who he now remembered with nothing but pleasure. Not a man for commitment, Jer, but that winter had been a lot warmer with Jerry in his bed. They’d parted well, je ne regrets pas, and still saw each other once in a while, seminars, conventions. Platonically, of course. Jerry Rice might have been still open to a fling or two, but Gil had settled in his ways since 1981, and then of course, there was Nick.

He stood waiting for the light to change, and found another smile on his face, this one even warmer. Maybe he could talk Nick into another afternoon in their comfortable hotel room. No sleeping this time. Although they hadn’t done much of that last night, either, come to think of it. No, sleep had been furthest from his mind last night, and gratifyingly, Nick hadn’t minded that a bit.

At a quarter to two he was near Penn Station. Could take the subway. Or cab it. Fifteen minutes? No, probably better time with a cab, although traffic was terrible. Nothing for it.

Inside the cab he hit Nick’s speed-dial number. There was no answer. Gil frowned and tried it again, but with the same result. Oh well. He’d see him in a few minutes anyway.

"Right here’s fine," he said to the cabbie, and stuck some bills through the partition. Outside he dodged a cyclist and glanced over at the park bench where he and Nick had sat yesterday. No sign of Nick. Gil sat next to a woman in a stylish black suit and leaned back. Perfect, perfect weather.

After fifteen minutes he sat up. Not that being late was terrible, but Nick tended not to run late. Even in New York City, he would have budgeted the time to be punctual. Still, it was a new place. Relax.

He tried Nick’s phone again five minutes later, and ten. And felt the first pricklings of worry.

He was pacing by two-thirty. No, not like Nick at all. And where had he said he’d be this morning? Natural History Museum, right? That wasn’t that far. No need to take a cab, or a subway. Just a few blocks.

At a quarter of three he was frantic. Visions of disaster danced in his head. Nick, hit by a cab, run down by one of the lumbering buses. Mugged, maybe, be uncommon in this area, but it could happen. So many things could happen. So goddamn many.

He forced himself to stay put until three, but that was it. He strode quickly across the street, nearly jogging. Museum was on 77^th, thereabouts. He trotted down the sidewalk, phone clenched in his sweaty hand. They didn’t have contingency plans for this. Why wasn’t Nick answering his phone? Where WAS he?

In the cool museum foyer he made a beeline for the information desk. The clerk’s expression was routinely calm. "Can I help you?"

Gil swallowed. "I’m looking for someone, a friend of mine. I think he was here this morning."

The clerk’s ready smile faded. "We get a lot of people going through here. Can you describe him? Maybe –"

Gil nodded. "About 5’10", fit, dark brown hair. He was wearing a blue shirt and jeans."

"I’m sorry, sir. Maybe Security can help you."

"Good. Where?"

She pointed him at a desk across the lobby. Heart in his throat, Gil loped over.

His description didn’t ring any bells for the guard, either.

"Look, man," the guard said easily. "I can radio, see if any of the guys see anyone fitting that description. But sounds like he’d already be gone. Supposed to meet you an hour ago, right?"

Gil nodded.

"Anything that might pull him out of a crowd?"

"He’s blind."

The guard stared at him a second. Then he flinched a little. "Christ, the blind guy."

Gil’s heart seemed to suddenly crowd the back of his throat. "What?" he snapped, leaning forward. "The blind guy what?"

The guard stood, looking suddenly very alert. "Okay, yeah, I bet I know who you’re talking about. Yeah, he fell."

Gil glared at him. "Fell?"

"In the cafeteria. Yeah, had an ambulance here and everything."

"Where did they take him? Was he all right?"

"West Side."

Gil turned and ran.

~~~~~~~~~~

A cab dropped him at the hospital. The place was crowded, horribly so, the way he distantly remembered from his single year of work with the coroner’s office.

Brushing past milling visitors, Gil elbowed his way to the information desk. "Nick Stokes," he said curtly to the man at the desk.

The guy tapped a few keys on his computer, and gave him a desultory look. "You’ll need a visitor’s badge."

"Then give me one."

"ER has them."

He stood in a line at the emergency department, and got his badge. He skidded to a stop in front of the curtained room and peered inside.

"Nick?" Gil said in a quavering voice he barely recognized.

Nick didn’t budge. Eyes closed, looking sound asleep. Gil edged inside. Yes, injured. Nick’s right arm was enclosed in a heavy cast, and there was a bruise on his cheekbone.

"Oh, my god," Gil whispered, and fought down a surge of dizziness.

"Can I help you?"

He flinched, casting a look over his shoulder. A nurse frowned at him. "Family?"

Gil nodded. "Partner. What happened to him?"

"He took a fall. Pretty bad one." The nurse relaxed a little, patted his arm. "He’ll be okay. Broke his right arm, hit his head. He’s out right now; we gave him some morphine for the pain."

"My God." Gil sagged back against the wall, shaking his head. "How long has he been here? He wasn’t answering his phone."

"You can find his things in that bag over there. You’re visiting, right? Out of town?"

Gil nodded shakily. "I was having lunch with a friend. We were supposed to meet at two."

"I’ll let the doctor know you’re here."

He was sitting numbly at Nick’s side when the doctor looked in. They shook hands, and the man introduced himself as Dr. Fitzgerald.

"Fractured radius and ulna. But they’re clean breaks, don’t think he’ll need any pins."

Gil met the doctor’s eyes squarely. "He has retinitis pigmentosa. He’s not completely blind. But."

Fitzgerald nodded. "I don’t think we’ll keep him overnight. The head injury’s minor, no sign of concussion. Still, if he has any lingering headaches, vomiting, anything like that, bring him back, okay?"

"Of course."

"Sorry this had to happen on your trip, Mr. Grissom." Fitzgerald paused. "Gil Grissom, you said? Your name sounds familiar."

Gil turned back to regard Nick’s sleeping form. "I’m in forensics," he said remotely.

"My wife works with the lab here in New York. Suzanne Fitzgerald. That must be why, she must have mentioned you. Las Vegas?"

"Right." He couldn’t recall any Suzanne Fitzgerald, but he forced a smile. "Must be it."

"Well, I’m just waiting on CT, and if that looks good we’ll send him home. Need anything?"

"Thank you, no."

He sat after the doctor left, studying Nick with more intensity than he could remember ever giving him. Just a broken arm, that’s all. A crack on the head. God knew Nick had had a few of those before. Not a problem.

Swallowing, Gil reached out and covered Nick’s limp hand with his own. Could have been so much worse, you know. And why’d it happen? Because Nick underestimated his coping skills? Because Gil had to have lunch with Michael, the almighty Michael? Just a stupid accident that would have happened with Gil around or without him?

Maybe. It didn’t help the curl of hot guilt in his belly. Or the deeper, brooding worry beneath it. Blindness wasn’t something that would happen someday. It was happening now. Had already happened, for all intents and purposes. Nick was handicapped. What, they’d acted as if the white cane were a prop, a nod to something that still lay in the future, dreaded but dismissable. Jobs came and went, right? Nick would find something else. It was all manageable.

Only now Gil wasn’t sure of that. Not in the slightest. His muscles still burned with the leftover adrenaline of his panicked trip to the hospital. He’d be sore tomorrow. Not nearly as much as Nick. So much for vacations.

He didn’t realize how hard he was squeezing Nick’s hand until he heard a little sigh.

"Hey," Gil breathed. "How you feeling?"

"Gil?" Nick’s dark eyes were cloudy with drugs and confusion.

Gil nodded and made a conscious effort to lighten his grip. "Took me a while to find you."

"Gave me somethin’." Nick shifted, blinked blearily.

"What happened? They said you fell. Must have been a hell of a fall."

The expression on Nick’s face made Gil’s tiny smile fade. "Tripped," Nick said hoarsely. He retrieved his hand, and tried to sit up, a look of discomfort twisting his features. "Dunno what happened exactly."

"You’re always so punctual." This time he couldn’t stop the tremor in the words. "I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t find you."

Nick’s eyes gazed somewhere near Gil’s right cheekbone. Maybe he thought he was looking Gil in the eye. Maybe he couldn’t tell anymore. "I want to go home," Nick enunciated clearly. No shake in his voice, no sir. Heavy and certain. "Can we go home?"

"Yes," Gil said softly. "Of course."

They had to wait for Nick’s discharge papers, and sometime before the nurse stepped in Nick’s drug-induced calm began to disintegrate. His knees buckled when he tried to put on his jeans, and Gil said nothing, just had him sit on the edge of the bed while Gil helped him out.

"Must be that IV they gave me," Nick said in a remote voice.

"Must be."

The nurse gave the usual song and dance about complications to watch out for, and handed over a prescription for Tylenol 3. Nick’s face was the color of grout. Gil didn’t think it was pain. Nick wasn’t saying.

"Where’s your cane?" Gil asked when they were about to leave.

"It broke."

Gil swallowed and nodded.

Nick leaned heavily on him, walking out. The fingers of his uninjured left hand clasped Gil’s forearm, hard as a death grip. There was no reading his expression clearly behind the inky-dark glasses, but his mouth was a tight white line.

Back in their safe hotel room, Nick sat in the chair by the window, huddled in on himself. "Can we get a flight tonight? You think?"

"Tonight? Nick, why don’t we wait until tomorrow? It’s late, there’s –"

"I don’t want to wait."

Gil sat for a moment, and nodded. "Okay. I’ll call and see."

There were no seats available that he could find, not even upgrading from coach to business. As he’d suspected; after all, Las Vegas was a pretty popular destination. He found them seats on a 9:30am flight, and hung up.

Nick was dozing in the chair, still tucked into his protective ball. Gil leaned forward and touched Nick’s bare ankle. "You awake?"

Flinching, Nick nodded and sat up. "Yeah. You get the airline?"

"No seats left tonight. I got us on a morning flight. That okay?"

"Guess so."

"Nick, you need to sleep. Come on. You have to be exhausted."

"I thought I could handle it." Nick’s eyes flickered over him, searching for detail Gil was sickly sure he could no longer make out. "I did. I was -– I was okay, you know? And it all happened so fast."

"I know, honey."

Nick’s face crumpled. "I just wanna be home," he whispered thickly. "I can’t -–  I don’t think I can deal with this, Gil."

His throat hurt sharply. "Yes, you can. You can, Nick, we both can."

"Can we go to bed now?"

"Of course," Gil said slowly.

Nick was asleep in bare minutes, but Gil lay in the breathless dark for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the faint light of the city trickling through the blinds, making odd patterns on the tile. Early yet, sure, but he doubted it would have been any easier had it been five in the morning.

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

"Sir?"

Gil looked up. The flight attendant had an odd expression on her face: overtly apologetic, underlaid with distaste.

"I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to move."

For a moment Gil thought it was the fact that he was holding Nick’s hand that had put the faint disapproving twist on her lips. "Beg pardon?"

She sighed, and the apology faded. Now she looked annoyed. "This row is an emergency exit," she stated flatly. "As we announced a few minutes ago, if the people on this row can’t handle the responsibilities as they need to, we have to ask you to move."

Mouth still gaping, Gil glanced at Nick, and back at the flight attendant. "Why couldn’t we handle it?" he asked, bewildered.

"Sir, I’m afraid I have to insist."

"Because I’m blind," came Nick’s dull voice. "That’s why."

"Your –- companion isn’t capable of taking on that responsibility, sir."

"My companion," Gil bit off with sudden venom, "is perfectly capable. I still don’t understand the problem."

There was another flight attendant, a steward this time, and his expressionless face made Gil’s heart sink, even as the anger grew hotter. What the hell was this all about?

"Sir, federal regulations require that the persons sitting in an exit row must be able to fulfill certain responsibilities," the steward said woodenly. "Your companion –"

"My companion is blind, not deaf!" Gil snapped. "He’s right here! Why are you talking to me, like he isn’t even here?"

To his shock it was Nick who reached down, rummaging one-handed for his carryon. "Don’t worry about it, Gil," Nick muttered. "Let’s just move."

There were people staring. More than a few looks, some concerned, some annoyed, all curious. "No," Gil said clearly. "I see no reason why we should have to move. What federal regulation are you referring to? I’m certainly not familiar with any law that states non-sighted passengers are subject to this form of discrimination."

The steward gave him a crisp nod. "If you don’t comply, sir, the airline has no choice but to request your immediate removal from this flight. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not. What I want," Gil spat, "is to go back to Las Vegas in peace!"

"Gil." Nick’s voice was taut with misery. "God damn it, let’s just MOVE. I don’t care."

"I do care," Gil said immediately. "And you should, too."

The steward glanced down the aisle, and Gil felt a jolt of surprise when he saw the airport cops making their way down. "What the hell?" he whispered, shaking his head disbelievingly. "You can’t possibly be serious."

"Need you two gentlemen to come with us," one of the cops intoned. "Right now."

Gripping both armrests, Gil asked, "And if we won’t? We’ve broken no law. On what authority –"

"You can file a complaint on the ground," the cop said heavily. "Knock yourselves out. But you’re coming with us."

Gil shot a look at Nick, but his expression was impossible to make out; he was glaring at his own feet, resolutely silent. "Nick, you don’t have to DO this," Gil hissed. "This is complete bullshit! You know it as well as I do!"

"Doesn’t matter." Nick finally looked at him, and Gil recoiled a little at the utter absence of reaction on Nick’s calm face. "Come on. Let’s go."

"So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to do? Just – let them get away with it?"

"Get them outta here and let’s go, for Christ’s sake," someone behind them bellowed.

Nick flinched. Red suffused his features, and his lips became a thin line. "We’ll talk about it later," he said thickly. "I’d rather leave than get fucking shot. Wouldn’t you?"

Gil nodded slowly. "Have it your way, Nick," he said after a long moment. "But we will talk later. Trust me on that."

The policemen retreated a little to let them out of their seats, and Gil belatedly saw the second man’s hand perilously near his sidearm. The idea that this was an unwinnable situation stuck like concrete in his throat.

Chapter Twelve

The interior of the house was as cool and dark as a cave. He liked that. His head throbbed from the searing sunshine, and all he wanted was to relax, be HOME.

He was so into it he didn’t hear Gil walk up behind him, and so he jumped when Gil said, "Want a beer?"

Nick nodded fast, and gave him a smile. "Sure."

He couldn’t make out Gil’s expression. But he went into the kitchen, and that gave Nick a chance to walk over, touch the couch – exactly where it was supposed to be, no looking needed. Good thing, too. Wasn’t it?

He was sitting there, sort of just soaking in the familiarity of it all, when Gil returned with two beers. He sat in the chair, and didn’t lean back and relax.

"Good to be home," Gil said slowly.

Nick nodded. "Sure is."

It felt awkward, and he was sure Gil felt it, too. Nick cleared his throat. "I’m sorry. About the plane thing."

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Believe me."

"No, I mean, when you said." His voice trailed off.

"I know what I said." Gil took a measured sip of his beer. His outline was growing clearer now, and Nick blinked gratefully. "I can file a complaint, but that’s not what really bothered me."

A thin tendril of anger crept up Nick’s spine. "What, that I didn’t react the way you wanted me to react? What way is that, Gil?"

"You’re telling me it didn’t infuriate you? You just took it, Nick! That’s not like you. That’s not like you at all."

"It’s not? What is? You have all the answers, you tell me."

Gil set his beer bottle on the table and leaned forward. "Nick." That placating tone, so familiar and so irritating right now. "I know it’s been a hard two days. I do. Hard for me, too. But you can’t let yourself be…cowed like that."

Nick snorted. "Cowed. Is that what you think that was?"

"Frankly, yes. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Stand up for your rights. The airline had no right to do what they did. You know that."

"It was an exit row. Maybe I couldn’t have handled it. I dunno."

"Handled what? Holding a seat down? That’s all that was needed, Nick!"

"But if there’d been something. If something happened."

"Even so."

"What about my arm?"

Gil leaned back then, with an explosive sigh. "I’ll grant you that. But that’s not the real reason they made us move."

"No, the real reason is exactly the one you don’t like to talk about, Gil."

Gil was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "So let’s talk."

"Maybe I can’t handle as much as you think I can. You ever think about that?"

"Frankly, no." Gil’s expression was impossible to make out, but his voice was granite. "I refuse to believe that. You’re a strong man. You can handle this and more."

"See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about." Nick sighed. "Look, I’m not you, okay? You had the deaf thing down. You knew you could handle that. But –"

"I’m not saying it isn’t a struggle. Of course not. But you don’t have to take this lying down. There are ways –"

"Ways to what? Pretend I’m not blind? Pretend I’m just like everyone else? I’m not! I can’t SEE!"

"This is getting us nowhere." Gil’s tone was leaden. "We’re not communicating. I know you can’t see, Nick, I’m fully aware of that. But I believe – I KNOW – that you can cope with it. I know that after this transition, you’ll be able to do everything you want to do. Including sit where you like on a goddamn airplane."

Nick shook his head slowly. "You’re right about one thing," he said softly. "We sure as hell aren’t communicating."

"What is it you want me to know? Tell me. What am I missing?"

He couldn’t think what to say to that. Nothing? Everything? Not even a clue where to start. "I don’t know. I don’t know what you expect me to do. How you expect me to react."

"I don’t expect one thing or another. Jesus, Nick. I just – want you to be able to go forward. Be the man I fell in love with. Tell that flight attendant to fuck off."

I’m not that man anymore, Nick thought about saying. I’m somebody else now. A blind somebody. "Okay, so next time I will," he said dully. "Right now I’m gonna go lie down."

He stood, and felt Gil at his side. "Nick." The gentle tone made him feel like snarling. "I want you to be independent. That’s all."

"Okay." Nick nodded, and eased his elbow out of Gil’s grasp. "But I’m really tired right now, okay? Just want to – lie down."

"All right. I’ll be out here."

Of course you will. Nick nodded, and kept his hand out to find the edge of the couch.

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

It hadn’t been precisely a fight. Which was why, he supposed, they never really made up. Instead he got up after a much longer sleep than he’d realized he needed, and they ate a meal Gil prepared, and then Gil said something about errands, and Nick had Braille studying to do, and that was it.

That night Gil went to the lab, and Nick just nodded when Gil asked if he’d call if he needed anything.

In the empty house, he listened to something on the Discovery Channel he really thought he’d have enjoyed, back when his eyes worked. And left it running while he sat slumped on the couch and fought down tired, useless tears. Nothing to do. Couldn’t read, couldn’t get the hang of Braille, and his eyes got too tired trying to make out print. At one time, he’d have hopped in his truck and driven around for a while. Maybe gone to a movie, or checked out the stereos at Best Buy. But he didn’t have a car anymore. And if he had, it wouldn’t have been a good idea.

He didn’t know quite why he did it. After all, it wasn’t as if his voice was the one people really wanted to hear these days. But he was dialing before he could stop himself, and when the familiar voice answered, the tears he’d been storing up started to fall.

"Hi, Mom," Nick said thickly.

"Nick?" She sounded so familiar. So ordinary, so Mom. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Just felt like calling, that’s all." He swallowed something thick at the back of his throat. "How are you?"

"I’m – I’m fine. We were watching tv. Your father’s back from Austin this week."

"Cool. Tell him I said hi?"

"Of course. Nick, are -- Has something happened?"

"I’m all right. Honest."

He could hear her moving, heels clicking on the tiles in the kitchen. "Nick, you can tell me. Honey, have you been crying?"

He tried to say no, and sobbed instead. "I’m sorry," he gasped. "I know maybe you – Maybe you don’t want to hear from me. I just -- I wanted to hear your voice, that’s all."

"Oh, honey. Please tell me. Please?" And the fact that he could hear tears in HER voice just about killed him. She was still his mom. Even after all the shit, even if his dad wouldn’t even talk to him these days, his mom was still his mom.

"Nick." She sounded stronger now. Tighter. "Do you have AIDS?"

It startled him so much, he could only blink at the phone for a second. "Huh? No. No, no no no, not that. God, no."

Her deep sigh sounded shaky. "Oh, thank the Lord. Thank you, Jesus, thank you. Oh honey, I was just -- For a second there, I was so sure."

At one point it would have pissed him off. His dad was so caught up in Nick’s sinning lifestyle, he couldn’t get past it, but Mom, she had a thing about illness. About the scourge of AIDS, so sure that Nick was gonna get it. Like he wasn’t careful, fucked anything that moved, never wore a condom. He wasn’t an idiot, for Christ’s sake.

But this time it kinda made him smile, from the sheer weird irony of it. So afraid of one disease, when it was another that had nailed him.

"I’m having some trouble with my eyes," he said a lot more calmly than he felt.

She didn’t reply for a second. Then, cautiously, "Your eyes?"

"Uncle Charles was blind, wasn’t he?"

"Your father’s uncle? Yes, I think he was."

"Anyone else?"

"Your grandfather. Hank’s father. He had some kind of degenerative problem, I don’t recall which. Nick, what are you telling me?"

"I think it runs in the family. This thing, this retinitis pigmentosa. I was -- I got diagnosed with it last year."

"What does that mean? Are your eyes -- You aren’t –"

"Blind?" Nick closed his eyes. "Pretty close."

"Oh, Nicky. Oh my God."

"I was thinking, maybe you should tell everybody. I mean, like, get their eyes checked or something." It was getting hard to talk again, and he cleared his throat ruthlessly. "There isn’t anything they can do, really, about it, but maybe it’d be – a good idea."

"Nicky, I don’t – I don’t know what to say. Oh honey, I’m sorry. Can -- Are you able to work? Get around? Who’s taking care of you?"

Gil, Mom, he wanted to say, and couldn’t risk hearing that cool come into her voice. Not now, not when it felt so good to bask in the warmth. "I’m, ah. I’m okay. I’m not working right now. I left a while back."

"Do you want me to come see you? Help you out for a while? I can do that. I’ll reschedule my court dates. Get a continuance."

"No, that’s okay. No, I mean, I’m doing okay. Just –" He cleared his throat again, and wiped his cheeks. "Just wanted to call. That’s all. Dad’s – doing okay?"

"He’s fine." She didn’t add anything to that, which was just as well, he thought wearily. "Cabe and Mary are expecting again. A girl."

"Cool. Say hi to them for me, would you?"

"I will. Nicky, do you need anything? Are you happy?"

Horribly, he wanted to laugh. Happy? Sure, Mom. I’m blind as a bat, unemployed, zero prospects, and my own damn father won’t speak to me because I fell from grace. My lover, whose name even you will hardly even say, might as well be on another continent from me. Might as well stop worrying about me going to Hell. I’m already there.

Happy? Clicking my heels, baby.

Aloud he said, "I’m okay. Really, I just, you know. Wanted to let you know. That’s all."

"I’m not sure I believe you."

"It’s okay. Look, I should – go. It was nice talking to you."

"Call me any time, Nicky. Please? For anything? We think of you so often."

"Dad, too?" He couldn’t keep the bitterness out.

"Your father loves you. I know it may not seem that way at times, but he does. So much."

Got a funny way of showing it. He nodded. "Okay. Love you, Mom."

"Promise you’ll call."

"I will. Gotta go, okay?"

"All right. Take care of yourself, honey."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye, sweetie."

He got the phone back into the cradle without missing by too much the first try, and then leaned sideways, pressing his cheek against the arm of the couch. His tears felt bitter, and they didn’t stop until the show on the tv had changed from falcons in urban settings to maternal instinct in mammals. He was just as glad he couldn’t make out the images. Salt in wounds.

He turned off the tv and stubbed his toe on a chair heading for the bedroom. The short, gasping pain seemed perfectly appropriate.

Chapter Thirteen

He felt guilty walking inside. An imposter, totally out of place, utterly unwelcome.

But the receptionist’s alert look didn’t accuse him. Just friendly, businesslike. "Hi, Mr. Grissom. How are you?"

He manufactured a smile for her. "Fine, thanks. I realize you’re not really a retail outlet as such, but I need to pick up a new cane. For Nick."

"Hmm. We don’t usually carry them here, you know, but let me check with Ralph, okay? Hang on a second?"

"Absolutely."

She disappeared into the back, and it didn’t really surprise Gil when Ralph himself came out a moment later. "Gil? How are you?" Shaking Gil’s hand, unerring in his low-sighted confidence. Why couldn’t Nick be this way? A matter of experience? Or something else?

"I’m fine, Ralph, thanks."

"Nick with you today?"

Evenly, Gil replied, "Not today, no. His cane broke while we were out of town a couple of weeks ago. I was hoping I could find a replacement here."

Ralph’s welcoming smile faded. "Broke? I hope he didn’t have an accident?"

"As a matter of fact he did. A fall."

"Was he hurt?"

"Broke his arm."

"Damn." Ralph sighed and shook his head. "I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, come back to my office. I have a file, wrote down the cane model I gave Nick when he started counseling. I have a few extras, but I’m not sure what size he had."

Ralph’s office was the same dark cave Gil remembered from earlier visits. He sat uneasily on a chair while Ralph checked his files.

"Okay. Huh, well, I don’t have this length here, I’m afraid." Ralph sat down behind the desk. "But I can order it for you. I’ll put a rush on it. Should be here in a couple of days. Will that work?"

"That’ll be fine. Thanks, Ralph."

Ralph nodded slowly. "How’s he doing?"

"He’s fine. The accident shook him up a little. Me, too," Gil added after a tiny pause.

"I imagine. As much as we try to prepare for the unexpected, it’s -- Well, unexpected."

"I’d hoped he might call you. Talk to you." Unable to keep a tinge of bitterness out of his voice, Gil said, "He hasn’t been talking much to me lately."

"I see."

"I should go. I appreciate your help with the cane. I hope he’ll be more mobile again with a new one."

"He isn’t now?"

Gil paused in the midst of getting up. "No. I think he’s – afraid. After the accident, and the flight."

"It’s understandable." Ralph regarded him steadily. "The flight?"

Gil sagged back down in the chair. "Something – unfortunate happened when we boarded the plane to come home. We were told to move, because it was an exit row. It pissed me off, frankly, but Nick –"

When he didn’t continue, Ralph said gently, "Nick what?"

"It’s as if he was ashamed. I don’t know, he hasn’t been himself lately." Gil shook his head and shrugged. "I’m sure he’ll be all right. The cane will help."

"Gil, you and I never talked after that first meeting, did we?"

"No," Gil admitted, frowning. "But it’s Nick who needed the training."

"Nick’s not the only one who has to adjust to some radically different concepts," Ralph countered, leaning back in his chair. "You’ve had to, as well."

A flare of annoyance shivered up Gil’s spine. "I’m aware of that. I’m not without my own experiences here. Not the same, but related."

"Oh?"

Gil nodded grudgingly. "About two years ago I was diagnosed with otoclerosis. A family tendency; my mother was deaf. I had surgery to correct it."

"Ever known a blind person, Gil?"

"Of course."

"Well?"

"A friend of mine in school had Usher’s syndrome. He was low-sighted, as well as being deaf."

"But his blindness was long-term, correct?"

"I see what you’re getting at, and no. No, I haven’t known someone who was gradually going blind as Nick is. But I’m aware of the difficulties."

Ralph nodded slowly. "Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds here, Gil. But blindness isn’t simply a matter of coping skills. Maybe it seems that way, with Nick’s training here. We can coach him on using a cane. Using the tools available to him, learning Braille. All the skills in the world won’t bring back what Nick has lost, though."

Gil swallowed, gazing at him. "I realize that."

"Do you?" Ralph’s eyes flashed with a kind of anger that read perfectly well in spite of his disability. "If your deafness hadn’t been surgically correctable, Gil, where would you be now? Working?"

Gil sighed. "No. Most likely not. But –"

"And deaf, you could still operate a motor vehicle, even if you’d have to be cautious. Nick lost his job and his mobility this past year. Not just his sight, but his means of making a living, and getting around. Will a cane and some training make up for that?"

"Look, I’m not the enemy here, I’m doing –"

"The best you can, I know." Ralph let out a gusty sigh. "And I’m sure Nick realizes that. Appreciates it. But expecting him to not grieve is unreasonable."

Grieve. Gil stared at him, feeling his throat tighten suddenly.

"I know you want him to be mobile," Ralph continued heavily. "I want that for him, too. It’s what I do. But this loss, Gil -- It’s incalculable. It’s not just vision the newly blind have lost. It’s a hell of a lot more than that."

Thickly, Gil said, "You do so well. I want him to be like you. Capable. Unfazed."

"And he will be one day. You think I started out this way?" Ralph uttered a short, harsh laugh. "Hardly. I started losing my vision in high school, and I was pissed at the world for a long time. It felt personal. I felt like the world had screwed me over, big-time. I was an asshole, and I stayed that way for years." He reached up to rub one eye, self-consciously. "Nobody got me through that, Gil. I got me through it. It took nearly five years, but I came to grips with it. Learned how to do things, how to cope."

Gil nodded cautiously.

"But there isn’t a day in my life when I don’t wish I could see. I don’t dwell on it, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. And when I hear about people like Nick, dealing with the crap we encounter on airlines, anywhere -- That pisses me off. But I understand why Nick might have walked away rather than fight it. Can you?"

"He was still shaken up. I know that."

"And he’ll stay shaken up until he can wrap his head around all these changes. It could take a while. And you didn’t sign on for that when you met him, did you? This wasn’t part of the deal."

Gil sat up straight. "I’m not going to leave him," he said, aghast. "What kind of an asshole do you think I am?"

"I don’t think you’re an asshole at all," Ralph said softly. "But I think having a blind partner is nearly as hard as being blind yourself."

"I’m fine."

"Nick’s not. Are you sure you are?"

"I don’t need a lecture," Gil said tightly. "I respect what you’re trying to do, but it’s absolutely unnecessary. I resent the assumption that Nick and I aren’t fine. We are. And I’ll thank you to bear that in mind."

"My apologies," came the soft reply. "I didn’t mean to offend you."

"I’ll pick up the cane day after tomorrow." Gil stood and gave Ralph a curt nod. "Thanks again for setting him up with one."

"No problem, Gil. Any time."

Outside, he stood in the blazing sunshine, letting the heat bake away his anger. By the time he went to his equally hot truck, he’d mostly dismissed Ralph’s advice-columnist assertions.

Mostly.

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

"So tell me." Catherine leaned her hip on the desk. "Was it something I did, or someone else?"

Gil took his glasses off and glanced up at her. "Did what?"

"I’m not sure, but if you’re pissed at me, I wish you’d tell me why. If it’s someone else, well, it’s their problem, but I’d just like to know."

"I’m not pissed at anyone. Why would you think that?"

She gave him a considering look, and then shrugged. "Forget I said anything. Listen, I’m out of here, all right? See you tonight."

"Night, Catherine."

He watched her leave, frowning, and then turned back to his open word processor.

By the time he wrapped things up it was full-on daylight outside. He nodded to Conrad, passed the time of day with a couple of other people on his way out. Darren asked after Nick, which was nice of him.

In the truck driving home, he fought off an immense wave of tiredness.

Nick. As he’d hoped, the new cane had helped. A little. At least Nick was actually stepping outside the house, although not nearly as often as Gil would have liked.

But the shadow that had fallen over him in New York hadn’t really lifted. Maybe it was depression. Could be, made sense. Depression he could understand.

Nick, though, acted more afraid than dejected. Ashamed. And that Gil couldn’t comprehend. None of this was Nick’s fault. There was no shame in a disability. So why did Nick act as if he couldn’t show his face in public? As if blindness had made him untouchable?

He turned onto their street and felt his jaw clenching, a familiar set determination. Today Nick would go with him on the errands he’d been putting off. They could go for a walk. Touch base with the neighbors Nick hadn’t spoken to in months. Do something. Not just sit in their dim house and not speak.

He couldn’t stand that anymore. No more. It had to change, or –

Or what? He’d force Nick to do something he didn’t want to do? Tell him if he didn’t, Gil would lose what was left of his mind?

It wasn’t an option. No, if Nick refused, he couldn’t force him. But another refusal and there would be more widening of the growing rift between them. All the love and understanding in the world didn’t seem able to cross that chasm. Nick was becoming an amiable, distant stranger. Locked away in a dark room, isolated, remote. Ostracized. And short of dragging him out by his increasingly unkempt hair, Gil had no idea what to do about it.

No trace of morning sunlight had been allowed inside the house. Gil flipped on a light, sighing as he dropped his keys and cell phone into the bowl in the foyer. Like living in a cave; Nick kept the place so dark Gil sometimes expected to see stalagmites forming.

In the bedroom, Nick was a formless lump under a huge pile of covers. Gil sat carefully on the edge of the bed and reached down to untie his shoes.

"What time is it?"

Gil glanced around, letting his shoe fall on the floor. "Early. About eight."

Nick’s features were sleep-blurred, his hair standing in ragged spikes. "You want something to eat?"

"Sure. Let me change first."

Nick came with him after he’d put on jeans and a sweatshirt. Hand poised almost absently to steer himself, since his feet knew the house so well. Just a little insurance, that’s all.

"Eggs? Or you want a sandwich or something?"

Gil paused by the table. "I’m not picky."

"Okay, sandwich."

The impulse to take over was so strong, for a second he had to struggle with himself. But he sat at the table, watching silently while Nick opened the fridge and squinted, fumbling around. He came up with the right things, though, and Gil’s brief thought of a ham sandwich with grape jelly or garlic pickle disappeared. Mustard, lettuce, all the normal things.

Had he just not so long ago bemoaned the idea that Nick’s skills were so lacking? At least in his own kitchen, Nick was methodical but pretty confident. The little vision he had left was enough, along with practice, to make him capable. Wasn’t that a skill? Better than nothing? What did Gil expect? A spokesperson for the Lighthouse? Nick was new to the blind thing. Give him time.

A wrench of mixed guilt and sadness made his throat ache savagely. When Nick brought over the sandwiches Gil took his, and waited for Nick to sit before reaching out and covering his hand with his own.

"What did you do last night?"

Nick shrugged, but his fingers intertwined comfortably with Gil’s. "Not much. Listen, I was chatting with Anne last night. You remember, that gal I met in the chatroom? The one in Brooklyn?"

"Right. You mentioned her a few times."

"Right. She told me because my Braille’s getting better, there’s this thing, this label-maker, that I ought to get. That way I can see what things are, like in the kitchen. You know? I mean, so I don’t put something gross on the sandwiches." He smiled and took a big bite.

"Sounds like an excellent plan. I should have thought of that."

"It’s okay. I went ahead and ordered one from this online place."

"Very good."

The sandwich tasted great, but his appetite had fled for the moment. Gil laid his sandwich on the plate and gave Nick’s hand a squeeze. "You want to do something today? I’ve got a few errands I need to run. Come with me?" He forced his voice to lightness. "You’ve got to be sick of this house."

Nick chewed and swallowed, but his expression was guarded. "I dunno. I mean, I got stuff to do, you know, I need to study."

"Just for a little while. I’d love the company."

Nick’s free hand went to touch his hair. "Gotta take a bath."

"That’s all right." Gil grinned. "Maybe I can give you a hand," he added, pitching his voice low and lewd.

"Horn dog." But Nick’s smile was pleased.

When the food was gone, Gil trailed Nick into the bathroom. How long had it been since they’d actually showered together? Nick had been in bath mode for a while, trying not to get his cast wet. That would be gone in a couple more weeks, but it had been a long time since they’d done anything untoward in the shower.

Now Nick rested his arm on Gil’s shoulder, out of the reach of the spray, and let Gil do a lot of the work. Shampoo, soap, a shave that took far longer than mere hygiene required. He licked the razor over the curve of Nick’s jaw and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on Nick’s lips.

"Watch it with that thing," Nick murmured. "Or no tips for you." His mouth curved in a little smile.

Gil grinned and used the washcloth to wipe the lather from Nick’s face. Clean-shaven, Nick looked a lot better. Much, much better. "Not a single drop of blood. Very professional, if I do say so myself."

Nick made a show of fingering his jaw. "Did I mention I didn’t bring any money with me?"

"Well, you could always…."

"Take it out in trade?"

Gil sucked in a breath. "Now that you mention it."

Nick’s eyes squinted at him, trying to focus. His smile faded. "This is nice," he said, barely audible over the shower.

"Yes, it is." Gil slid his hands around Nick’s waist, gently tugging him closer. "We haven’t done this in a long time."

Nick’s mouth opened against his own, a sweet probe of tongue, slow and easy. His cock stood hard, poking Gil’s belly. "Way too long," he mumbled against Gil’s lips.

"Yep."

An obligatory quip about how it was a good thing the townhouse’s previous owner had installed handrails in the shower, and then Nick’s back was to him, gleaming wetly, and Gil pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and slid inside him. He didn’t hear Nick’s moan, but he felt it, vibrating through his muscles, and again when Gil bit his shoulder lightly, thrusting without hurry, feet braced wide apart.

The water was cool by the time he came. And Nick had beaten him to it, arching and giving a strangled cry and squeezing Gil’s dick in the most agonizingly wonderful kind of way. Gil grunted and tensed, and then relaxed, leaning against Nick and plastering him to the wet tile wall.

When he turned the shower off and grabbed a towel, he saw wetness on Nick’s face that wasn’t quite explained by the spray.

"Nicky?" Gil frowned.

Nick waved his uncasted hand, shook his head. And so Gil dried them both, saying nothing, throat tight while Nick’s tears continued to fall, a slow quiet rain.

In the bedroom, he sat on the bed and pulled Nick to him, leaning back against the messy pillows. Even after the tension of crying had eased, Nick lay heavy over him, hair drying in spiky tufts. Silent.

The errands could wait. Gil combed his fingers through Nick’s exuberant hair and closed his eyes. There was plenty of time for that.

Chapter Fourteen

“How does it feel?”

Nick rotated his hand, made a fist. “Feels all right. God, I’m glad that damn cast is gone.”

He heard Gil’s soft snort. “I’ll bet you are.”

It had been a morning for doctors. A visit to his PCP to have the cast removed, talk about exercises to get his strength back in the arm. Checking in with Neibart, no surprises there. Now, headed home, he felt better than he had in a long time.

Slowing for the turn into their driveway, Gil said, “Huh. You know anyone who drives a maroon Chrysler?”

Nick shook his head. “Why?”

“Looks like we have visitors.”

His eyes were dilated, which meant he was blind as a bat for the day. “See anybody?” Nick asked.

“Man and a woman. I don’t recognize them.”

When Gil shut off the engine, Nick opened the door and climbed carefully out. Listening, because he couldn’t make anything out, but there was nothing other than the usual neighborhood sounds.

“Can I help you?” Gil called to his left.

“Nicky?”

Nick’s shoe actually skidded, he stopped so short. Yeah, he knew that voice. The impulse to whip off his completely opaque glasses and at least TRY to see for confirmation was nearly irresistible. “Grace?” he called doubtfully.

He heard heels clicking on concrete, and then a tiny waft of sweet perfume. “Oh, Nicky,” his oldest sister said in a thick voice. A cool dry hand touched his wrist.

Nick swallowed and forced a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Mama called us.” Grace’s arms enfolded him in a hug, careful as if he were Dresden china. “Nicky, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, Chief,” came another, well-known voice, and Nick sucked in a shocked breath.

“Cabe?”

“In the flesh.” His brother’s bulk loomed next to Grace. “You look kinda like Roy Orbison there.”

Then Cabe was hugging him, too, as if nothing had happened, as if all the previous couple of years had been a goddamn Lifetime movie, cheesy and completely false. “How you doin’, kiddo?” Cabe’s voice sounded suddenly a lot thicker.

“I’m okay,” Nick managed, inhaling the smell of Cabe’s aftershave with a shock of old recognition. “Man, this is – a surprise.” He pulled back a little, disengaging. “Y’all, this is Gil Grissom.” He made an aimless gesture and hoped Gil was nearby. “Gil, Grace and Cabe.”

Although he couldn’t see it, he assumed there was shaking of hands, and he heard Gil’s polite murmur of greeting. Then Grace took his hand again, her fingers squeezing tightly.

“Would you like to come inside?” Gil asked, still sounding very formal. Hardly surprising. He had to be as startled as Nick.

Getting into the house wasn’t as complicated as it had been a few months back. Maybe he was getting used to this blind gig after all. But he selfishly liked Grace’s hand in his own, Cabe’s bulky presence behind him. If they were shocked at his appearance, they were handling it well.

Inside, Gil said something about making coffee, and left the three siblings to find seats in the living room. Nick settled on the couch and sensed Grace sitting next to him.

“Mama told us you called.” Grace touched Nick’s hair, smoothing it, old habit that felt absurdly good. “We thought we’d come see you.”

“Man” Nick said hoarsely. “You should have told me you were coming.”

“We tried,” Grace replied. “Couldn’t get you on the phone. So we just came.”

“I was – at the doctor’s office this morning. Sorry, I got -- My eyes are dilated right now.”

“But you can see us, right? At least a little?”

“Usually, a little. I just have, you know. Kinda tunnel vision. That’s what it does, retinitis pigmentosa. And light – light hurts.”

“How long, man?” From the direction of his voice Cabe had commandeered the armchair. “I mean, last time we saw you, you were fine, weren’t you?”

“I thought I was. But I think it was already going by then. I went to the optometrist, you know. And.”

“Oh, Nicky.” Grace drew him to her, and Nick went readily, chin resting on her shoulder. “You should have told us sooner.”

“I couldn’t,” Nick said in a hollow voice. “You know that.”

“Look, we wanted to talk to you about that.” Cabe pronounced the last word with emphasis. “Dad’s an asshole, Nicky. He doesn’t speak for all of us. He thinks he does, but it isn’t true.”

“We came –“ Grace paused. “We want you to come home, Nicky. For a visit. Okay?”

Nick drew back. “Wait a second –“

“Listen to me, okay? Okay?” When Nick nodded reluctantly Grace pressed on, “Mama’s losing her mind worrying about you. Jamie couldn’t come, her show’s this weekend, but she wanted to. We want to see you, okay? Get together.”

Nick nodded tightly. “And Dad? Katie? Eleanor? What about them?” He snorted. “Believe me, they made it perfectly clear last year.”

“They’ll come around. Nick, we’re worried about you. Even Daddy. He said –“ She bit her lip.

“What? Probably thought it was AIDS, too.”

“I’m gonna tell him.” Cabe again. Sounding throttled.

“Cabe,” Grace said warningly.

“No, he needs to know.”

Nick sat up. “Know what?”

Grace drew a deep breath. “After you called Mama, she called all of us. Everyone. She told us about your – disease, your diagnosis.”

“That’s what I told her, that it probably runs in the family.”

“When we all talked about it….” Grace’s voice trailed off.

“Schuyler’s been having problems,” Cabe said gruffly. “With his eyes.”

“And Thomas. Cousin Marcia’s oldest. Remember him? He wasn’t there last year, but they came to Christmas the year before.”

Nick swallowed past a sudden painful lump in his throat. “I remember. Schuyler’s only fourteen,” he added slowly. “Do they think –“

“I told the doc about our family history. And that Schuyler’s uncle had been diagnosed with this disease, this retinitis thing. They did some tests.”

“And?” Nick whispered.

“They’re not sure yet. But they think maybe he has it, too. The kinds of problems he’s having.”

“Visual field problems? Light and dark?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Christ.” Nick reached up to rub his temple. The too-familiar headache was back, although this time he wasn’t sure if it was his eyes or simply too much information, too many shocks piled together. “What about y’all?”

“No one else. So far.”

“Guess it’s good I called.”

“Come back with us,” Grace urged. “Talk to us. Let us be a part of your life. It’s what we all want. I mean that, Nicky.”

Nick sat very still, and then said, “Only if Gil comes with me. We’re a package deal, all right? You want me, you get him, too. Clear?”

“Of course. We understand that.”

Question is, will Dad? Nick thought grimly.

“Coffee’s ready,” came Gil’s calm voice behind him. “Grace?”

“Thank you.”

It filled a couple of minutes, Gil handing out cups of hot coffee, and then Nick felt him sitting on his other side, not pressed against him but close enough for a definite degree of comfort. It occurred to him that it might not all be for Nick’s benefit. How would Gil feel, facing Nick’s siblings like this? Knowing this was part of the family that had pretty much flatly rejected him not so very long ago? Couldn’t feel all that good.

“So man, where’s your guide dog?” Cabe asked a little too loudly. Strained as the rest of them were. “Figured that’d be the first thing you got.”

Nick shrugged with honest surprise. “I hadn’t really – thought about it. You know?”

“You need another Shamus.”

Hearing the name brought a bittersweet surge of memory. “Man. Shamus.”

“Gil, Shamus was Nick’s dog when we were kids,” Grace said.

“Supposed to be the family’s dog,” Cabe added. “But he was really Nick’s. Man, you two were inseparable for years.”

“I hadn’t thought about him in a long time.” Nick smiled. “What a great dog.”

“So you think you’ll get one? Seeing-eye dog, maybe?”

Nick turned to Gil, wishing bleakly that he could see, just for a moment. Make out Gil’s expression. “I dunno.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Gil said, sounding as if he were smiling.

“You do?” Nick blurted.

“Absolutely.”

“Wow. Okay, I mean -- Maybe I’ll look into it.” He was shocked anew at the flare of interest he felt. A guide dog. Man, he’d wanted another dog for ages. Now he had a great excuse to get one.

“So when do you think you could come?” Grace asked. “Sometime soon?”

Nick shifted, once more aware of Gil seated at his side. “This fall sometime, I guess. Gil -- Gil’s the one working, you know? I’m just sorta – occupying space at the moment.”

“Whenever sounds best,” Gil said calmly. “I can fix my schedule.”

A surge of gratitude made Nick smile. “Okay. So let’s say, end of September?”

“I was hoping sooner.” Grace sounded disappointed.

“I gotta do a month of therapy.” Nick raised his arm. “Just got the cast off today.”

“Cast?”

“Broke it when we were in New York.”

“That’s okay,” Cabe said gamely. “That’ll give Dad time to make sure he’s in Dallas that week.”

Nick inclined his head. “Or not,” he murmured.

“Grandpa was blind. You don’t remember him very much, do you?”

“He died when I was like, eight or something.”

Cabe cleared his throat. “Dad told me the other day, he was always scared he’d go blind, too. The way Grandpa and Uncle Charlie did. He -- It freaked him out, finding out you had the same thing.”

Gil shifted at Nick’s side. “So retinitis pigmentosa has been in your family for some time?”

“Skipped Dad, but yeah.” Cabe still sounded halting. “My son Schuyler, he -- That’s what they think he has, too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“His grades started slipping last year. We got him glasses, but since we found out about Nicky, we took him to the eye doctor. That’s what it looks like.”

“It would do him a world of good to see you, Nicky,” Grace added. “He’s wanted to, ever since he found out.”

“Or scare him to death,” Nick muttered.

“I doubt that. You’re doing so well.”

“Am I?” Nick snorted. “No job, no prospects. I mean, come on.”

“Don’t say that,” Cabe snapped. “That’s bullshit. You’ll find something. Just takes some time, that’s all.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it.”

Cabe’s gruff can-do attitude made him feel tired. Sure, Cabe. I’ll just hit the bricks with my trusty guide dog I don’t have yet, and quick as a flash, I’ll find something perfect. Restore my self-esteem, go back to being a contributing member of society. No problem.

“We should let you rest,” Grace murmured. “Gil, you work nights, don’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t we come back by late this afternoon? Can we take the two of you to dinner?”

“That sounds great. Nick?”

“Sure,” Nick said after a moment. “Okay.”

“Good. Then we’ll – just be back later.”

“All right.”

At the door, Grace kissed his cheek, and Cabe gave him another awkward, tight hug. “Don’t worry, Chief,” he said quietly. “It’s gonna all work out. Trust me.”

Nick nodded.

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

“Here.”

He felt Gil uncurling Nick’s fingers, placing tablets in his palm. Nick smiled briefly. “Don’t tell me. It shows.”

“Bad one?”

In truth this headache was a real throbbing monster, but he made himself shrug. “I can deal. Wouldn’t happen to have a glass of water handy?”

“Right here.”

He swallowed the aspirin and made a face while they went down. “You should go to bed. It’s already late.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“What’s to talk about? I mean, it’s freaky.”

“They’ve extended the olive branch. That’s a big step in the right direction, don’t you think?”

Nick cautiously set the glass on the coffee table, and then shrugged. “I guess. Makes them feel better.”

“What about you?”

He reached up and took off the glasses. It made his head hurt worse, but even making out Gil’s outline was better than absolute dark. “You mean, does it make up for Memorial Day?” Nick asked harshly. “Check back with me when Dad actually talks to me again.”

Gil didn’t reply to that. And the silence felt vaguely accusatory, which pissed him off. Wasn’t his fault his dad was a raging bigot. “One visit isn’t gonna make up for that,” he added sullenly. “Cabe’s just scared because Schuyler has it, too.”

“Maybe some of your family is just as unhappy about this rift as you are. Sure sounded that way to me.”

“So you think I should go to Dallas?” Nick snorted. “You weren’t there, Gil. I was. I’m not ever going through that again. No fucking way.”

Gil’s hand was warm and unwelcome on his back. “You won’t be alone this time. I’ll be with you.”

“Great. He can take potshots at both of us.”

“Nick.”

“No! I mean, don’t you see? That was what I got for being honest. I told him the truth, and he pretty much disowned me for it. Now I got – this,” he pointed jerkily at his eyes, “and everyone wants to be nice all of a sudden? Poor, blind Nicky?” He fidgeted away from Gil’s touch. “Screw it. I’m not here to make THEM feel better.”

“What about you?”

“What ABOUT me? If me being queer was a sin when I could see, what makes it different if I can’t?”

A pause, and then he made out Gil’s slow nod. “That’s a point.”

“I don’t want their pity,” Nick said harshly. “They blew me off back then, and now it’s like, All’s forgiven, come home again? Like that?” He snapped. “I don’t think so.”

“It won’t happen overnight. I know that. But they’re here, aren’t they? Maybe it’s a chance for you to tell them some of this.”

“You heard Cabe. I mean, he’s all, ‘Go get a guide dog, go get a job.’ Win one for the goddamn Gipper. He doesn’t GET it.”

“Get what? None of that sounds unreasonable to me.”

“Great. Now you’re on THEIR side? Gee, thanks, Gil. Way to give some support.”

“I’m always on your side, Nick.” Gil sounded tight now, Nick noted with bleak satisfaction. “That’s one thing that will never change.”

“So you want me to get a dog? I mean, what will it change? What difference will it make? I’ll still be blind.”

“I’m not sure. But what have you got to lose by trying?”

The aspirin weren’t helping. His head was a misery, and his stomach was feeling pretty damn pissed at him, to boot. He shook his head and regretted it. “A dog’s not gonna make my father change his mind,” Nick said thickly.

“No. Only time can do that.”

“My head aches,” Nick whispered, closing his watering eyes.

“Let’s go lie down. It’s been a long day.”

He thought about saying his brother and sister would be back way too soon. But it was easier just to nod, and let Gil lead him through the murky house, lie down on their comfortable bed and let it all just – sit for the moment. It would keep. It would all keep.

Chapter Fifteen

"World peace," Cabe said, lifting his brandy snifter.

Gil darted a glance at Nick, found him smiling a little and lifting his own tiny glass of Jaegermeister, and followed suit.

Grace rolled her eyes – she was drinking coffee, their sole teetotaler – but toasted, too.

Dinner had gone better than Gil expected. Nick’s older brother and sister had lost a bit of that painfully self-conscious nicety, and relaxed into what appeared to be a more normal banter with Nick. Not that anyone’s awareness of their peculiar situation had necessarily eased, but Nick looked less stunned, and at least the medication had worn off. His eyes, while only back to their normal deeply flawed state, were working again.

"So how long are you staying?" Nick asked, after they’d sipped their respective beverages.

Cabe shrugged. "Our flight leaves tomorrow evening. I gotta be back in the office on Monday."

"No casinos?"

"Not this trip. Mary’d kill me."

"Hey, a couple of years ago you did pretty good, didn’t you?"

"Not too bad. But Mary says it’s a stupid way to try to make money." Cabe snorted. "And she’s right."

"So when’s the baby due?"

"Mom told you? Cool. He’ll be here in December."

"A boy?"

"Yep."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

The ensuing silence was a little awkward, and Gil shifted in his chair. Nick glanced at him, company smile gone, and then turned back to his brother. "How’s Schuyler doing?"

It made Cabe sober up, as well. "Aw, you know," he said evasively. "He’s a happy kid. He’s handling it pretty well. Hates the glasses."

"I’m sorry." There was a depth to the pain in Nick’s voice that made them all look at him. "He’s just a kid," Nick continued hoarsely. "He’s got enough to deal with as it is."

"He’s doing all right," Cabe said. "It’s not that bad yet, and his doctor said it might not get that much worse for years, maybe decades."

Nick drew a breath, and then let it go, saying nothing. Cabe lifted his chin. "What?"

After a moment Nick murmured, "That’s what my doctor said, too."

"Well, so? What does that mean?"

Licking his lower lip carefully, Nick replied, "It means that what I have went a lot faster than the doctor expected. And, you know. Schuyler’s family. If it’s the same variant, then this could happen sooner."

"You don’t know that," Cabe blurted, sounding strangled. "All he needs is glasses."

"Glasses don’t help," Nick said gently. "It’s not that kind of problem, Cabe."

"He’s not you. It won’t be the same."

Nick drew back sharply. "What’s that supposed to mean? He’s not me?"

With a thrill of mixed anger and surprise Gil saw Cabe’s face go red. "I didn’t mean it that way."

"What way? No, I wanna know," Nick added when Cabe said nothing. "You mean Schuyler’s not queer, don’t you?" In contrast to his brother, Nick’s face was dead white. He smiled icily. "So what? You’re telling me I got this disease because I’m GAY? What, some kind of PUNISHMENT?"

"That’s not what he’s saying, Nicky." Grace looked alarmed. "He’s saying every case is different. That’s all. Believe me."

Nick’s watering eyes hadn’t left his brother’s face, watching while Cabe gave a slow miserable nod. "Jesus, Nick, I don’t give a shit who you fuck," Cabe mumbled. He clutched his drink so tightly Gil thought he’d probably break the glass soon. "I mean, you threw it at us like a weapon, you know? In your face. What were we supposed to do, congratulate you?"

Nick’s jaw worked for a second. "You weren’t supposed to erase me," he whispered.

Sitting silent and tense in his chair, Gil wished for someone to erase him. Just for a while, to vanish him, while this long-delayed confrontation finally began to unfold. He’d been a fool to think this wasn’t on the way. Sooner or later, Nick’s festering anger at his family’s reaction was going to erupt. And it appeared that right now was the time.

"We’re trying," Grace said, shaking her head. "Nick, we came all the way from Dallas to –"

"To what?" Nick snapped. "See for yourself what happened to your poor queer brother? Too bad, so sad, but you know – bad things happen to sinners. Right?"

"I never said that." Her voice was suddenly deadly. "Don’t you dare put words in my mouth."

"So if bad things only happen to bad people, how do you explain Schuyler, huh?" Nick charged on as if he hadn’t noticed his sister’s reaction. "Is he bad, too? Did he do something to deserve this?"

"My son never did an evil thing in his life," Cabe said, aghast. "You know him, you –"

"And you fucking know ME," Nick spat. "If you can throw me aside when you hear something that doesn’t fit your perfect Cleaver-family image, what about Schuyler? You gonna do the same thing if he decides HE’S gay?"

"He’s not a homosexual. I know my son. I know."

"He’s fourteen fucking years old! HE probably doesn’t know!"

"What are you saying, Nick?" Cabe sounded even colder than Grace now. His dark eyes blazed with fury. "You suggesting something? Huh?"

"No!" Nick swallowed. "Yes. I’m suggesting that RP has no fucking thing to do with sexuality. Mine or HIS. I don’t give a good goddamn if he’s bent as a pretzel. Or NOT! He still doesn’t deserve it!"

Nick’s voice now was raw with something other than anger, and Gil was sickly sure he wasn’t the only one who heard it. That thread of terrible, aching grief, that had Cabe’s eyes narrowing, Grace sitting up sharply in her chair, her sculpted brows drawn together over her eyes.

"I didn’t do anything wrong," Nick said brokenly. He shoved himself back from the table so fast the chair legs caught on the carpet, jolting him. "It just happened. All of it. I don’t care what the church says, I don’t care what Dad says. I know. Just like I know Schuyler doesn’t deserve anything like this. He’s a great kid." His voice warbled up half an octave on the last word.

"Nick," Gil said urgently. "Let’s just go, all right? This isn’t the time for –"

"You have no idea." Nick didn’t look at him, didn’t look at any of them. Contemplating the tablecloth, so intently he might have been studying the Shroud of Turin. "You have no idea what it’s like. If you did, you’d never -- You would never, ever say anything like that."

"I’m sorry," Cabe said, looking horrified. "Jesus, Nicky, I didn’t MEAN it that way. I swear to God."

Nick stood, jostling Gil’s elbow and making his eyes open again. "I’m going home now," Nick said tonelessly, and didn’t push his chair back in before he walked away.

"Christ," Cabe whispered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, tossing it on the table before shoving himself back and bolting to his feet.

Watching her brothers go, Grace gave Gil a helpless look. He just nodded. "It’s okay," Gil said softly.

When she was gone, he counted the bills on the table, adding a few of his own to cover the difference. When he’d caught the waiter’s attention he gave a short nod and wearily stood.

Outside, Nick had made it as far as the truck before Cabe caught up to him. When Gil emerged from the restaurant he spied them immediately, standing toe to toe, Nick’s fists clenched as if he really were about to hit his own brother.

Grace had halted next to a late-model Escort, alert as a bird-dog on point. Gil slowed to stand next to her, and was not at all surprised to see tears on her cheeks.

"It’s not supposed to be like this," she said in a thin whisper.

"What’s it supposed to be like?" Gil asked, when she didn’t add anything else. "Nick’s doing the best he can. How did you expect him to react?"

Her glance was faintly hurt. "I thought you would understand. You’re –" She broke off.

"What? Older, wiser?" Gil looked at Nick, who was now gesturing wildly. "If I had lost my vision and my family in two separate yet equal situations in a single year? I think Nick’s doing a hell of a lot better than I would. What about you?"

"He never lost all of us. Never."

"I know that. Now. And Nick does too. Give him some time. This is very, very hard for him."

"And you think it’s easy for us?" He drew a breath and she shook her head violently. "No, forget I said that. That was – selfish. I know." She wiped her face briskly. "It’s just – seeing him this way, so – vulnerable. I want to help him, and he’s pushing us away."

"Maybe it’s time to ask if the sort of help Nick needs is the kind you’re prepared to give him."

She gazed at him, eyes still starry with tears. "What do you mean?"

Gil shrugged. "I mean, you came here to see your blind brother. But Nick’s been adjusting for months now to his loss of vision. It isn’t blindness Nick needs your help with."

"You mean the gay thing."

With a wry smile Gil nodded. "Yeah. The gay thing."

Grace’s hands rubbed her arms as she turned back to look at her brothers. To Gil’s relief the arguing appeared to be over; Nick was standing tense but still with Cabe’s arm over his shoulders.

"Mother misses him so much," Grace said. "She doesn’t say it, not out loud. But we all know. Even Daddy. Nicky was Mother’s baby, through and through. It’s killed her, this – estrangement."

"It doesn’t have to be this way."

"Maybe not for you and me. But Daddy."

Gil risked touching Grace’s shoulder lightly. "This trip was a step in the right direction. Even if Nick seems to think otherwise. Deep down -- He’s glad you’re here."

She nodded quickly. "I know. I mean, a part of me knows."

After another moment he took a step toward the truck, and was glad to see Grace follow. Up close, whatever conversation Nick had had with his brother had taken its toll; he looked exhausted, and still angry, in a forlorn sort of way. Cabe was no better, eyeing Gil with weary acuity.

"Think maybe we should call it a night," he pronounced without enthusiasm.

Nick said nothing, so Gil gave a slow nod. "Hop in."

The drive to the hotel took place in silence, broken only by a few mumbled goodbyes as they deposited Nick’s family members near the entrance. Grace gave Nick a fast kiss on the cheek, and Cabe cast both Nick and Gil a curiously meaningful look before ducking away.

Back on the highway, Gil glanced over at Nick. He sat hunched down, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of headlights.

"Want to talk?" Gil asked quietly.

"Not really."

"Fair enough."

After another mile, Nick spoke again. "Let’s go get a drink."

Surprised, Gil replied, "A drink? Are you sure you want that?"

"At the bar. You know, the place we went when we first started going out."

"The Blue Gecko. It’ll be crowded."

"Good."

The club was about a twenty-minute drive away. They had drinks in hand before Nick spoke again. In the smoky, bustling club it was more of a yell.

"This is better."

Gil sipped his drink and reached out to cover Nick’s free hand with his own. "Good."

And it did seem better, in a way. Maybe transient, maybe a sad commentary in a sense, but to be in a club full of gay men, around people very much like themselves, was deeply comforting. Unlike the few gay friends they mutually had, neither Gil nor Nick usually took much part in community activities, never had been much for going out clubbing, things of that nature. Gil, and to a great extent Nick as well, had been content to do their rather domestic thing.

Hardly surprising, though, that the appearance of Nick’s siblings had stirred the need to see that they weren’t the only gay men on the planet. That plenty of other men were wired quite the same, and seemingly doing just fine.

The driving music slowed a little, segueing into something faintly Latin-sounding. Nick’s fingers tightened on Gil’s. "Let’s dance."

Fighting down the immediate instinctive urge to say no, Gil made himself nod. Compromise, Gil my boy. One dance does not require you to be Nureyev, and maybe it’ll make Nick feel better. So he led Nick carefully between a few twining couples, and in the middle of the small dance floor he slid his arms around Nick’s waist, and sighed when Nick’s cheek pressed against his own.

"Better," Nick sighed.

Gil nodded slowly. "Yes, it is."

And somehow, standing in a crowded room with a great number of strangers surrounding them, he felt closer to Nick than he had in months. Content. The surge of helpless love almost hurt, and he buried his face in the crook of Nick’s neck, inhaling his scent and relishing it.

He could feel Nick smiling, arms tightening over Gil’s shoulders.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The reprieve was short-lived. Nick was silent and stoic the next morning, his uncertain mood compounded by an unfortunate stumble in the bathroom. Gil cleaned up the glass after steering Nick out, explaining in a calm voice that these things happened, it was no big deal, and go get dressed, your brother and sister are due over here any minute.

"It’s seven years of bad luck," Nick said over his shoulder, one hand gliding along the edge of the bed.

That’s all we need, Gil thought about snapping in reply, but held his tongue.

The siblings’ return was brief and uncomfortable. Couldn’t stay long, Grace explained in a too-bright voice, you know how traffic is, don’t want to miss our flight. She turned down Gil’s offer to drive them to the airport, and Gil tried not to see the relief in her dark eyes when he conceded.

"So you’ll come to Dallas in September, right?" Cabe, too, sounded artificially jovial, a hearty lord-of-the-manor voice belied by the strain on his face. "Promise?"

Nick gave a slow nod. "We’ll be there." Emphasis on the "we."

"Great. I know Schuyler really wants to see you. You can give him tips, you know?"

Nick’s smile was glassy. "Sure, Cabe. Of course."

There was more, but not that much. And then they were walking Cabe and Grace to the cab, shaking hands and hugging and Grace kissing Nick’s pale cheek. "I love you, Nicky," Gil heard her whisper fiercely, and for a second a real smile appeared on Nick’s face, bright and hauntingly familiar. Gil hadn’t seen that smile in a long time.

"Take care of yourself, Chief," Cabe told Nick, ruffling Nick’s hair with what appeared to be honest affection. "Holler at us, okay?"

"Tell Mary I said hi."

"Will do." He glanced at Grace. "So I guess we better vamanos, huh?"

"Thank you." Grace’s liquid eyes settled briefly but heavily on Gil. "You guys be careful."

"We will," Gil assured her. "You too."

Then doors were slamming and the cab was rolling down the street, and at Gil’s side Nick seemed to suddenly deflate. He leaned against Gil, heaving a sigh.

"Come on," Gil said softly. "The sun’s too bright. Let’s go back inside."

He brewed a fresh pot of coffee in silence, unsure if Nick’s mood was brooding or simply tired. Setting a cup in front of him, Gil slid into one of the kitchen chairs. "Penny for your thoughts."

Nick sipped his coffee and shrugged. "I’m glad they’re gone," he murmured. "That make me a bad person?"

Gil smiled briefly. "Not in my book. It was – difficult. I know."

"Grace really liked you." Nick’s dim eyes squinted, his head flicking from side to side in that way that told Gil he was fighting to keep all of Gil’s face in his field of vision, and failing. "You passed the first sister test."

"Sister test?"

"Yeah, see, when I was in high school and had a date, it wasn’t my folks who were hard on my dates. It was my sisters. I mean, think about it – five sisters, man." Nick snorted and shook his head. "If they didn’t like someone, I never had a chance. No second dates."

"How many did they like?"

Nick coughed a laugh. "Not many."

"Not good enough, I don’t suppose."

"Or too good. I dunno."

Smiling, Gil reached out to clasp Nick’s wrist loosely. "So we’re going in September? You want to?"

Nick pursed his lips, and shrugged. "Want to? Dunno about that. But I mean, yeah. I guess. I never really asked you if you wanted to go."

"Of course I do. I’ve never been to Dallas."

Nick blinked. "Never?"

Gil shook his head. "Austin and Houston only. And those were years ago."

"Wow. Well, okay. Yeah."

"Good."

Nick’s half-smile faded away, and he glanced down at their intertwined hands. "I’m still mad," he said. "You know? I still feel – pissed off."

Gil nodded. "Want to know something? So do I." He lifted his eyebrows at Nick’s startled look. "I just hid it better."

Nick said nothing, but drew Gil’s hand to him and kissed his knuckles warmly. "You’re gonna like Schuyler," he said after a long moment. "He’s a lot more like Mary than Cabe," he added with a quick smile.

"Looking forward to it."

"What Cabe said -- When I thought he was saying I got this because I’m queer." Nick cleared his throat. "It wasn’t until then that I knew that was kind of – what I feared all this time. I know it sounds crazy. I do. I just -- Hearing him say that, it was like for the first time I told myself the same thing. You know, that it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t a screw-up. Something."

With an ache deep in his chest, Gil covered Nick’s hand with both his own and squeezed tightly. "None of this is retribution, Nicky. Never think that. Never."

"I didn’t know I did. But now -- It’s like finally letting go of something I didn’t even know I was carrying around." The luminous smile Gil had glimpsed outside returned, bringing light to Nick’s watering eyes. "Telling him all that -- It’s like I finally started believing it myself."

Gil nodded gallantly, throat tight, and felt something inside him loosen, something that, like Nick, he hadn’t realized had been so strong. It made sense. Coming so close after his estrangement from his family, the loss of his vision and so many other things, job and vehicle and lifestyle – consciously or not, someone with Nick’s heavily religious and family-oriented background could easily fall into that self-deluding trap. But now, seeing that smile like sunshine after weeks of rain, Gil could almost hear Nick’s chains of guilt and doubt clinking, falling to the ground.

Free. Maybe Nick was finally free of it all.

"I’m glad," Gil whispered fervently. "Oh, I’m so glad."

Nick scooted his chair closer and nudged Gil’s shoulder with his chin. "You going to work tonight?"

Extricating his hand, Gil leaned back and slipped an arm around Nick’s shoulders, pulling him closer. "Probably. Why?"

"I was thinking you could play hooky. And we could, you know."

"Oh?"

Nick bit his lip and then grinned. "You know."

"Oh." Gil fought down the urge to grin himself. "The night shift supervisor, calling in for no good honest reason? That’s not a very positive example to set."

Nick wriggled out from under his arm and slung a leg over Gil’s thighs, settling his groin against Gil’s. "Honest, no." He ran his hands under the collar of Gil’s shirt and then applied himself to the top button. "Good?" he added smokily. "You’re damn straight."

"I am not."

Nick let out a single short "hah" and went for the second button.

With a long sigh Gil leaned back and let himself be unbuttoned. "Well, if you insist."

"Oh, I do. I definitely do."

"Your wish is my command."

"Rock on."

To be continued.  9/28/04

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