Shelter

By Emily Brunson

©2004

By the time you get home you’re angry. You’re glad to be home, out of Nick’s claustrophobic condo, in your own space. Glad because you couldn’t breathe there, the weight of all Nick’s shit was like suddenly materializing under five thousand feet of water, lungs compressed to the size of apricots and eyes crushed in their sockets. You feel like you’re strangling right now. Just can’t breathe.

You pour a Scotch and slam it, hardly appropriate with a fine 12-year bottle but at least it’s smooth going down. Another, and you sit down, sigh, take your shoes off. You smell like Nick’s cologne, or maybe it’s perfume. It’s hard to say with Nick these days. And it doesn’t really matter, does it?

The remote’s on the coffee table. You turn on the stereo, whatever CD you had in there last will be fine. Except it’s Rosamund, and its bright sweetness jars you. You remember what you were thinking when you put this CD in a couple of days ago. Nick, of course, Nick who’s been nearly all you’ve thought about for several weeks, Nick who when he isn’t sulking or caught up in his own one-man melodrama is very like this music.

No, it’s a night for Mahler, because it doesn’t remind you of anyone at all.

With the music swirling around you like Rhine-scented mist, you finish your drink.

Work is no better. Everything’s just slightly off-kilter. The cases are the same, the lab’s the same, everything’s the same…except it’s not. The moment Nick walks in you feel like a bird dog on point. So acutely aware of him everything else is perforce secondary.

Not that there’s anything to notice, particularly. Just everything. Nick looks worse than tired. He looks distracted, grim, distant. Dressed in the sober muted clothing you now realize isn’t his preference at all, and it doesn’t flatter him, olive drab and tan. As if he’s trying to blend into the background, camouflage, disappear.

That, you realize with a stab of real discomfort, is in fact exactly what Nick’s doing. What he’s always done. Fade into the woodwork, vanish.

You hand out assignments and consider giving Nick something easy, something dull. Are you trying to protect him? He doesn’t need your protection. He’s coped just fine for however many years; you may be his lover, sort of, but you aren’t his guardian angel. And his calm, distant look tells you the lover part may be done as well. He’s pleasant, and easygoing, and everything that he wasn’t last night.

In other words, he’s acting. It hurts to know that. It’s dishonest, it’s painful, and it’s tiring. Why does he do it? Why doesn’t he just – be himself? Is there some reason for it, above and beyond the obvious? Is he afraid of what might happen, or wary because of things that have already happened?

You have far more questions than answers. And Nick’s not saying. He’s cordial, and as hard-working as ever, and you’d never know that you and he had been dating, that you’d ever been anything but perfectly platonic colleagues.

You go with it for a week. And you stew over the weekend, go into the office several times just to think about something else but him. By your Monday, you’ve had it. You have to talk. Even if you have to tie him down and shoot him up with sodium pentothal to make him spill.

But he trumps that by calling in. Voice mail, he doesn’t sound sick, but he says he is, and you don’t have much choice but to accept it. And again the next night, and the next. And so early Thursday morning you park near his condo and steel yourself, and walk up to the door.

You might as well not have bothered. No one answers. He may be there, but there’s no way to tell. Sleeping in, possibly, or just refusing to come to the door. Either is equally likely. You wait a lot longer than you normally would, graduate from ringing the bell to knocking, loudly, all with the same no-results.

So you go home and stew some more. And that weekend, after five days of not knowing where the hell Nick is, what’s wrong, if he’s really sick or not, you go to the bar where Nick took you before. His friends, his stomping ground.

You can’t remember all the names, but you remember faces. The blond one there, he was the flirty one. And the guy with the long, aristocratic nose, him too. But it’s the man in the pristine Armani suit you recall the clearest. Mark, Matt, you think. Something like that.

He smiles questioningly when you walk up to him, and then you see his eyes widen a little as he recognizes you. "Gil, right?" he says, with a much bigger smile. "Did I screw the name up?"

You force a smile and shake your head. "Got it in one. You’re Matt?"

"In the flesh." Matt’s very blue eyes narrow a little. "You didn’t bring Nicky?"

"No. In fact." Your smile falters and goes away. "In fact I was hoping to see him here."

"Nicky? He hasn’t been around in ages, honey. Not since you were here with him." Matt lifts his chin in the direction of the clot of friends, over to their right. "We’ve been a little worried about him, if you want the truth."

"Oh?" You swallow, and your hands grow cold.

"He missed Millie’s party the other night. That’s totally not like him. No phone call, no nothing." Matt gives a perfect, elegant shrug. "We thought he was probably with you and forgot."

"He wasn’t with me," you tell him absently. Your mind is whirling. Too bad you didn’t have caller ID on your work extension. He could have called in sick from another country, for all you know.

"Did you have a fight?"

You focus on him again. "In a manner of speaking, yes," you admit, with a shrug of your own. "We parted – awkwardly."

Matt’s almost too-handsome face twists a little, a mixture of regret and affection and worry. "He’s worth the effort," he tells you quietly. "He’s been through a lot. But he’s crazy about you. You know?"

You blink, have to swallow again. "I wasn’t sure how he felt."

"Trust me."

"Where would he go? I’m – worried."

Matt looks at you for a long moment, now expressionless, a tiny bit calculating. "There’s one place," he says finally, and his lambent eyes duck away from yours. "An old friend."

"Friend" is a euphemism, you think, and you’re startled at the immediate flare of jealousy in your belly. "Friend" is a boyfriend, past or present. "Who?" you ask, more harshly than you intended.

"His name’s Teddy. Teddy Ames. I don’t have his number, sorry."

You nod tightly. "I see."

Matt looks even more uncomfortable. "They’re not together. Not anymore. But sometimes, when things are bad, Nicky goes and stays with him."

You nod again, waiting. And after another awkward moment Matt blurts, "He lives in Reno."

Ah. "Thanks," you say in a thin voice, and turn.

"Don’t be mad," Matt says behind you, in a ridiculous little-boy voice.

"I’m not," you lie.

There’s a Theodore Ames in Reno. 118 Rose Park Lane. You say nothing to anyone at the lab. No explanation for why you’re here when you aren’t scheduled. You duck in, grab the information, and duck back out again. If anyone wonders, they aren’t saying, either.

It’s a long drive to Reno. An hour outside Vegas you call Catherine on your cell phone. "I’m out of town for the next day or two," you tell her. "I’m not on the schedule tonight, but just wanted you to be aware."

She sounds tired. "Okay. Everything all right?"

"A personal matter."

You can almost hear her reconciling the word "personal" with Gil Grissom, but she doesn’t make any remarks. Too sleepy, maybe. "All right. Holler if you need anything."

"Thanks."

It’s late when you hit Reno. Nearly midnight. Finding the address isn’t hard, but you sit outside the house for some time before you muster up the courage to climb out of the truck. The lights are on. If he is sleeping, Ames is an energy wastrel. But you doubt that he is.

The man who opens the front door doesn’t fit the image you’ve had of him. Not that you know what he looks like, but you’ve expected something along the lines of Matt. This guy couldn’t be further from it: he’s very tall, lean in an almost ascetic way, and his lined face suggests he’s at least your age, if not older. The ancient acne scars make it difficult to tell. His salt-and-pepper hair is barely tamed, and a heavy forelock hangs over his eyes, disguising his expression.

"Can I help you?" He has an operatically deep voice.

You fight down another surge of awkwardness. "I’m looking for Nick," you say as steadily as you can. "Is he here?"

You wish you could see his eyes better. His voice, though, rumbles with caution. "Who’s asking?"

"Gil Grissom. Nick and I – work together. And."

You trail off, but he’s nodding. "Come on in."

The house is spacious, very tastefully decorated, vaguely Southwest with a touch of something more exotic, like a Texan living in New Delhi. Ames doesn’t offer to shake your hand. He gestures at a wide, comfortable-looking couch. "I’ll tell him you’re here. Want something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

Ames nods and disappears into a tiled hallway.

You don’t want to sit, so you wander around the room, scanning the pictures on the walls – originals, not prints – and glance at the books lining the two ceiling-high bookshelves. A piano sits on a dais to one side of the room, and the litter of sheet music suggests it’s not simply for show. There’s a music stand, and stacks of operatic scores. That phenomenal basso speaking voice is also a singing voice. A part of you would be elated, if you didn’t have so much on your mind.

The back of your neck prickles, and you turn away from the piano to find Nick standing in the hallway. Your first thought is that he’s lost weight, or otherwise changed his appearance in some fundamental way. He appears diminished; the bright blue shirt hangs on him, probably intentionally, but it succeeds in making him look as if he’s wearing someone else’s clothing. Perhaps he is. His hair is mussed, and his face is puffy, as if he’s just awoken.

"Gil?" he asks in a foggy voice. "What are you doing here?" Ames is nowhere to be seen.

"I was worried," you say stiffly. "I was told you might be here."

Nick rubs his eyes, a childlike gesture that you wish you could resist, and realize wearily that you can’t. He scuffs across the tiles, feet clad in battered sandals. "Oh. Okay."

No curiosity about how you’ve found him. Probably doesn’t care. You sigh. "Are you all right?"

Nick nods, flops down on the couch. "Sorry," he says, and his dark eyes are sorry, examining you with caution. "Probably should have called you."

You give a stiff nod. "Yes. I would have appreciated that."

You’re expecting a diva routine, especially in this opera-soaked house. But he just shrugs. "I wasn’t sure."

"Wasn’t sure of what?"

He gives a breathy little laugh. "Anything."

The stress of driving eight hours makes you finally give in, sit down in a leather armchair. You’re tired, very tired. Nick’s okay – or what passes for it on his planet – and with that knowledge the tightness trickles out of your muscles, making you sigh.

"Why are you here?" Nick asks.

Feeling more than a pinch of annoyance, you stare at him. "Isn’t it obvious? I was worried."

"Shouldn’t have been." There’s something sly in his eyes, calculating, and the pinch becomes more like a dash. A big dash. "Needed a break, that’s all."

"You do realize I’m still your supervisor. You can’t just use sick leave when you feel like a vacation."

The calculation vanishes; you see his eyes long enough to catch the hurt in them, the shame, and then he’s turning his head, looking somewhere over his shoulder. Looking for Ames?

"Nick, tell me what’s wrong?" It takes everything you have to sound cajoling rather than irritated. "Please."

"Did you ever want something so bad, you couldn’t imagine ever wanting anything else again?" His eyes are bright with tears, but he’s crossed his arms, symbolic gesture. "Something you’d give anything to have?"

You watch him. "Yes. Of course."

"And then you got it, and it didn’t fix anything? You thought life would be perfect if you could just have that, and it wasn’t."

"I didn’t think those things would make my life perfect. How could they?"

"Right," he breathes. "So."

"What are you telling me? So? What?"

"God, you’re so – dense sometimes." Nick wipes his eyes and recrosses his arms, legs too this time.

"You thought I’d fix your life?"

He sighs. "Maybe. Not sure."

"And I’m the reason you lied to me about being sick, and took off for Reno without telling anyone where you were going?" You nod crisply. "Your friends were worried about you, Nick. I was worried. Is that why you did it? For attention?"

"Fuck you," he snaps in a high voice.

Now you’re really tired. But you stand up, go over, sit next to him on the couch. He hisses at you like a cat when you touch his shoulder, but you try again, and he stares sullenly at his lap and doesn’t move as you slide your hand down his back. His skin is hot under his shirt, muscles tight.

"I don’t know what to do here, Nick," you say quietly. "Would you tell me? What is it you want from me? Am I not doing something, or doing something wrong?"

"No," he whispers. His cuticles are ragged. He picks at them, eyebrows drawn into a straight line.

"Am I doing anything right?"

He rolls his eyes and stops picking. "Yes."

"Well, hell. At least there’s that."

"I told you. I needed some time."

"Who’s Teddy?"

He shrugs and starts nibbling his cuticle instead. "My friend."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Yes." He waits a beat, doesn’t meet your eyes. "But I’m not fucking him, if that’s what you’re asking."

Some tendril of tension leaves your spine. Not sure why it really matters. Only that it does. "I see."

"Teddy’s very grounded," Nick says, a ghost of the vagrant light flirtiness from weeks ago back in his voice. "Didn’t you notice?"

"He’s a singer?"

"Yeah."

You lean forward, resting your cheek against Nick’s shoulder. "I’m glad you’re okay," you whisper. "You scared me."

He goes very still. "I’m sorry," and his tone suggests he really is. "Sometimes – things get to be too much, you know? I flip out. Matt says it’s a character flaw."

"I saw Matt earlier."

"You did?"

You nod, meeting his startled eyes. "He said they were worried. You didn’t go to a party."

His mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise. "Shit. Millie. I forgot."

"He told me where to find you."

"Oh."

You can’t think of anything else to say. Nothing that isn’t dangerous, that might not set off another – something, tantrum, whatever you might call it. You study Nick’s face. Up close he looks so tired. Not sad, not angry. Only exhausted.

"Why don’t you go sleep," you say softly. "We can talk later. If that’s okay."

His eyelids droop. "You gonna fire me tomorrow?"

You blink. "Fire you? No. No, not this time." You inject the words with dry humor, and it feels good to see him smile a little, duck his head.

He walks away with no spring in his step. You don’t go with him. You don’t want to see a bed he shares with someone else, even if it is platonic. Or so he says.

You’ve just decided that you’d better leave, find a motel someplace, when Ames appears again. "Gil, right?" His voice is like audible brown velvet. He smiles, revealing strong white teeth. "We weren’t properly introduced. Teddy Ames."

You shake his huge cool hand and force a smile. "I’m sorry to arrive so late and unannounced on your doorstep. Things – were complicated."

His dark eyes flash with humor. "With Nick? I can believe that. Listen, I’m going to have a brandy. You want one?"

You nod, and watch him walk over to a rosewood drinks cabinet. "I think Nicky went back to bed," he adds, taking out fat snifters and a bottle. "He went to the gym today, first time since he came to stay. Think he overdid it."

Ah.

He brings your drink, and sips his own. No toast. Settling into the wide armchair to your left, he sighs. "So. What would you like to ask me?"

You taste your brandy, killing time, hoping to hide your surprise at his blunt question. "I’m – not sure."

"We aren’t lovers. Haven’t been, for nearly three years now." Ames takes another sip, smacks his lips appreciatively. "We make better friends, frankly."

Pitching your voice low, afraid Nick might be lurking in the hallway listening, you say, "It doesn’t bother you? His just – showing up like this?"

The smile on Ames’ face is small, and a little sad. "Never," he replies evenly. "Nick is a darling boy. Fucked up, but darling for all that. No, it doesn’t bother me."

"I don’t know what I did. To set him off."

"Probably nothing."

You stare at him, and after a moment he shrugs, stretching out long legs and resting his feet on a leather ottoman. "Whatever happened, Gil -- I can call you Gil, right?" You nod, and he continues, "Whatever happened, most of it was years ago. But I imagine you figured that much out."

"Yes," you say hesitantly. "I suppose so."

"I knew Nick almost two years before he told me any of it. And I don’t think he would have then if he hadn’t been drunk." Ames smiles distantly. "I’m not sure it explains everything. But maybe some of it."

"Tell me?" You dislike the pleading tone of your voice, but you can’t help it; you need an answer to at least one of Nick’s silent questions. Just one or two, to give you your bearings.

"I don’t think he was always like this. This – bifurcated person, you know what I mean? Boy Scout by day, flaming queerboy by night. Have you seen it?"

You nod slowly. "It’s – disturbing," you admit. "Like a split personality."

"Not so much split, but definitely kept very separate. I’m no psychologist," he adds with a short basso laugh. "Too afraid I’d have my hands full with myself."

"He’s afraid of what people will think. If they knew the truth."

"No," Ames says softly. "No, at one time I think that was the case. Now? Now I think he just does it because he hates himself. Both sides."

It’s not what you’ve expected to hear, and you can’t think of anything to say. Appalled, and immediately seeing the truth of it.

"Some very bad things happened back in Dallas," Ames continues in that same level, non-judgmental voice. "I don’t know many details. But he was a police officer, and his colleagues discovered he wasn’t as straight as he represented himself. And so one night when he was working, he called for backup, and none arrived."

Your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth. It’s so predictable, that’s what occurs to you. So stereotypical. The gay officer, left high and dry when his homophobic colleagues decide he deserves whatever he gets. "What happened?" you ask in a dry, raspy voice.

"Oh, he got the crap beaten out of him." Ames sounds businesslike, as if the only way he knows to tell the sordid story is to be blunt. "But the upshot, of course, was that it made the local news, and that was essentially how he was outed to his family." He waves his hand, and you see that his fingers are shaking slightly. "Started a chain reaction, I guess. His father reacted very badly. His lover broke things off. His colleagues stopped speaking to him. Basically it all went to hell."

You swallow. "I always -- I always believed Nick adored his father."

"Oh, he does. Idolizes the guy. So you can imagine how he felt, with his father’s disapproval."

"And that’s it?" You hear the harshness in your own voice, and hate it. "That’s when he decided to be two different people?"

"Can you blame him?"

"But around us? His colleagues? I mean, we’re not homophobic. Nick should be who he is. Let other people worry about their reactions."

"Maybe." Ames’ eyes are musing, unreadable. "Are you staying the night? The guest bedroom is made up."

You fidget, remembering discomfort. "I don’t want to impose. Any more than I already have."

"You aren’t imposing. Actually I hope you’ll stick around, at least in the morning. I’m going out of town, see. A gig."

"Singing?" You feel a surge of avid interest, jarring after so much contemplation.

He gives a careless nod. "7:00am flight. I’ll be in Vienna the next month or so. Rheingold."

"Wotan," you say a little unsteadily. "Wow."

"You like opera?"

"Sort of stereotypical of me, I guess. I’m – impressed."

Ames shrugs, finishes his brandy. "If you wouldn’t mind reminding Nicky to lock up when he leaves. I’ve got someone coming over to house-sit, but he won’t get here until Sunday."

"Of course," you say faintly.

"Come on, I’ll show you your room."

The guest bedroom is down the hall through which Nick appeared and disappeared. A small, neat room, simply decorated. It occurs to you that you’ve brought nothing with you. No changes of clothes, no pajamas. You can sleep in your shorts, but tomorrow you’ll feel rumpled and antsy in travel clothes.

You think about Nick, down the hall in a different bed, and you fight down a flicker of tired anger.

"The bathroom’s through that door." Ames gestures to their left, and lets his hand drop. "I’ll probably be gone by the time you get up," he adds, sounding awkward for the first time. "Sorry."

"Bon voyage," you say with false warmth. His hand is warm and dry, squeezing yours briefly before letting go.

You push the bedroom door almost closed, and stand motionless for a moment, listening. If they’re talking, you can’t hear them. You feel alien, unwelcome in spite of Ames’ words. You really shouldn’t be here.

Your clothes folded neatly on the chair near the bed, you pull back the covers. The bed is old, and creaks musically when you sit down.

Movement awakens you. You’ve been soundly asleep, much deeper than you expected, and now you blink groggily, stare at the unfamiliar ceiling.

Nick’s body is warm, smooth sliding in next to your own. "Go back to sleep," he whispers, breath smelling like coffee. "It’s way early."

You lie very still while Nick pulls the covers back up, nestles in next to you, burrowing like some flexible animal. Cautiously you raise one arm and he turns on his side, mutely urging you to drape your arm around him, touch him.

"Did Te – Teddy leave?"

He nods and slides his hand over your bare belly, resting his head in the crook of your arm. "I thought you’d be gone," he murmurs, and sighs. "I’m glad you’re here."

You nod slowly, gazing up at nothing. "So am I," you whisper.

END