"Love and truth must be maintained in perfect balance. Truth is never to be abandoned in the name of love. But love is not to be deposed in the name of truth."

-John MacArthur.

When they left the restaurant questions raced through Sara's mind, but she made herself breathe slowly and take a moment's pause. Grissom took a left toward Rue de Vaugirard and she fell into step with him. He seemed to know where he was headed, and judging by the direction he had taken it wasn't home.

Her hand ached to take his, ached to slip in the crook of his arm, but she kept it back lest she disrupted their precarious understanding. They didn't talk, but there was plenty of time for that. His eyes were narrowed behind his sunglasses, his expression distant and preoccupied, torn and conflicted, and she knew he was racking his brain for the right words. There weren't any.

As they came to the busy intersection to cross Rue de Medicis his hand found its way in the small of her back while they waited for traffic to clear and Sara felt glad at the contact, albeit automatic it might have been. Grissom kept throwing surreptitious glances at her as they walked on and Sara couldn't help the smile that formed on her lips.

He was taking her to the Jardin du Luxembourg, garden of the French Senate, itself housed in the Palais du Luxembourg within. In the early days Sara had spent many an afternoon waiting for him to join her there after afternoon classes were over. They would take time to discover the garden and its hidden treasures: over one hundred statues of famous historical people, French queens and saints, many historical monuments and fountains and even an orangerie turned into an art museum.

The garden was famed for its calm atmosphere, and the irony wasn't lost on Sara. Trees lined the criss-crossing alleys in this side of the garden, people strolled along or relaxed on chairs scattered about the place, on wooden benches. A group of students in shorts and bare chests tossed a Frisbee around on the closely clipped lawns to their left. A few fat pigeons cooed as they pecked at the dirt ground.

She stopped fighting the tug of her hand toward his, and when it finally slipped inside his of its own accord he gave it a gentle squeeze before lifting it and tucking it in the crook of his arm. Sara felt her spirits lift a little; maybe it wasn't as bad as she feared. They were nearing the Fontaine de Medicis when Grissom slowed their pace right down and finally broke the silence.

"How did you know?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Her smile wavered. "About the cancer?" she asked after a moment, needlessly seeking confirmation from him. He nodded, and she shrugged her answer to his original question. Her vision blurred behind her sunglasses, and she looked away to hide her distress.

He covered her hand in the crook of his arm with his and patted it comfortingly. "I'm sorry I led you to believe there was another woman." He stopped walking suddenly, and she did too, turning toward him. His shoulder lifted, and he gave her a sheepish half-smile. "I didn't mean to, not at first anyway. I was truly meeting Francine and…you just appeared out of nowhere…I didn't know what else to do." He paused and lifted his right hand to her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "Francine is just a friend. We met―" His words drifted and he swallowed.

"At the hospital?" she asked when he faltered. His brow creased in puzzlement, and she explained, "I met her, Gil. Francine. Last night, outside Saint-Nicolas. She didn't tell me," she was quick to reassure, "she didn't need to. I was halfway there already."

He gave her a soft nod of understanding and sighed. "We share the same doctor, if not the same cancer."

Hearing him say the word out loud made everything so much more real, so much more final than it already was that her eyes filled again, and she was glad she was wearing her sunglasses. He was being so strong, so stoic about it all. He took her hand, tucked it into his arm and they resumed walking. He didn't talk again for some long minutes and when he did his words were detached and devoid of emotion, masking the turmoil she knew raged inside.

"I have stage two pancreatic cancer," he said, slipping his sunglasses off, and looked at her straight in the eye.

Sara's eyes shut, triggering more tears. Even though she had prepared herself the words still pierced right through her, the enormity of what he had just confessed hitting her full force. Her mind went blank, then filled with every titbit of information she had picked up over the years, devastating statistics that made her head pound.

She took a deep breath, and then another, but it was just too much. The sun sparkled in front of her eyes. She felt lightheaded, weak at the knees, and she swayed on her feet. His arm draped across her shoulders, gently pulling her toward him, supporting her weight, and she followed blindly while he steered her away from the main thoroughfare toward a nearby bench in the shade of an elm tree.

He didn't speak soothing words in her ear. He didn't say the words that might have made the blow easier to stomach, words of comfort and reassurance she was desperate to hear; that they had caught the cancer in time, that it was operable, and that he would live. He just sat her down, pulled her glasses off and held her to him while she cried. It was a long time before she felt composed enough to pull back from him and speak.

"How…" the word came out as a croak and she cleared her throat. "How early did you catch it?"

He shrugged. His gaze flicked away anxiously. "Not early enough."

Sara blew a slow breath, attempting to curb another sob. She cleared the tears from her eyes and nodded her head determinedly. She had to be strong. He had lived with this disease for months now, alone. She had to be strong for him. She had no choice; she'd hold it together for him. And together they would overcome it.

"It's going to be fine," she said, determinedly, "We're going to fight this thing together. And we're going to beat it."

He stared at her with disbelief and tears in his eyes. His head was shaking.

Sara gave him a smile, then draped her arms around his neck and gently pulled him to her. The sudden rush of love and wellbeing she felt at that moment transported her – them – in a different place, a happy place. She kissed his face, his eyes, his mouth, while he just sat there, tense and unresponsive. "I'm here," she said into his hair, "I'm here," and hugged him tightly until she felt a long breath leave him and his body relax.

His arms came up, wrapping around her shoulders, hands gripping tightly, crushing her. She felt his tears as they fell down his cheeks, tasted their saltiness on her lips, her tongue. They sat there on the bench, holding one another, unaware of their surroundings, of the passing people throwing glances at them, for a long time, until his arms didn't clutch quite as desperately and pulling away from him she gave him a soft smile.

"It's going to be okay," she said again, and slowly he shook his head at her.

"No, Sara, it's not," he said softly, and stared at her. The look in his eyes was as sad as the half-smile he gave her. "Can't you see?" he said, bringing his hands up to cup her face. "This thing, this cancer is eating away at me. It's got me, Sara."

"No," she said, her head shaking, twisting out of his hands.

"Sara, I'm―"

"Don't," she gasped desolately, lifting a hand between them as though warding off a threat, and screwed up her face against the fresh wave of pain. She didn't need him to tell her that pancreatic cancer was one of the most aggressive forms of the disease and that by the time it was diagnosed it was generally already too late. She didn't need to be told that it had the worst survival rate of all cancers, that only three per cent of sufferers survived their cancer for five years or more. She wiped at the tears coursing down her cheeks again; the thought of him gone, dead, was just beyond words. "Don't say it, please."

He swallowed, and nodded his head at her. "Docteur Fournier and his team are doing all they can," he said, dipping his head to make eye contact, "And so I am. I've changed my lifestyle, my diet…I'm popping pills like…" his words drifted, the 'there's no tomorrow' hanging unspoken between them. He raised his hand to her face and stroked her cheek. "Honey, we got to be realistic. The odds aren't good. I'm sorry." With a sigh he paused. His mouth opened, then shut and he shrugged. When he spoke again it was with a rough, ragged tone, and it was clear he was forcing the words out. "The cancer is located in the body and tail of the pancreas, and it's compromised the spleen."

Head shaking, she lifted her hand to his chest. Her mind reeled with all he was telling her. "Has it metastasised?"

"Not as far as they can tell from looking at the scans, but they can't know for sure."

"Can't they operate? Cut it out?"

Grissom's shoulders lifted and he let out a long sigh. "They're not sure. They've labelled the cancer borderline resectable. It's a vicious circle really. They won't be able to tell for sure until they operate and take a look, but they don't want to cut me open and cause more damage. So, they're trying something different on me." He smiled, and she could definitely hear a glimmer of hope in his voice, see one in his eyes. "It's called chemoradiation. I'm…receiving a combination of chemo and radiation therapy to try to shrink the cancer before they attempt to…operate and maybe cut it out. That's where I was going on Thursday. If the chemoradiation can shrink the cancer there's a greater chance of being able to remove it with surgery."

"Is it working?"

His shoulder lifted again. "It's hard to tell, but it doesn't look like the cancer's spreading."

Sara took a moment to process what he had told her. "So they've got it contained?" she said, hope undisguised in her tone.

"I guess so, but it's still there, Sara, making me sick."

She gave him a nod and forced a shaky smile. "I know. I know." She took in and blew out a deep breath. "And how…" her eyes filled again and she wiped at them, "And how have you been? I mean the chemo and radiotherapy that must be…" the rest of her sentence died on her lips and she swallowed.

He shrugged again, and she wished he'd stop doing that. It made him look so powerless, like everything was out of his control, which it was she mused sadly. "There are good days and bad days," he said when she faltered. "Yesterday was a bad day." A warm smile spread over his face, lighting up his eyes, "Today is a good one. Mostly I get very tired…and sore."

And all the rest, she thought. "And the university?"

"They know. They've been very good about it, very accommodating. We've rescheduled my hours to fit the treatment in. The academic year is almost over now anyway."

She frowned. "How long have you known?" she asked, unable to help the accusation in her tone.

His gaze averted quickly. "Since that day on the phone," he confessed contritely. "When I called you and told you I wouldn't be able to come home for your birthday like we'd planned."

Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed her uneasiness. It was the day she'd given him the ultimatum and forced his hand. "Why, Gil?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why couldn't you just tell me? Why keep me in the dark? I know I said some things but I didn't mean them. I was…angry and frustrated because I―I missed you." She wiped at her eyes. "What if it had been the other way round and I'd been the one sick? What if that conversation on the phone was the last thing I had left of you? So many weeks, months when I suspected nothing, when I thought you didn't love me anymore, when I could have been here by your side, helping you, loving you."

"Because you would have got on the first plane," he said, his voice rising, "and I didn't want you to do that."

"But why not?" she challenged desolately. "That's what husbands and wives do, Gil. That's—"

"I didn't want you coming back out of obligation," he cut in heatedly.

"Out of obligation?" she exclaimed, immediately affronted.

"Yes," he said, "Out of obligation, because you felt duty-bound to as my wife. Sara," he added, impatience showing in his tone, "three years ago you chose to return to Vegas and make a life for yourself there while I stayed here, and I respect that choice. You wanted more, needed more than what I could give you. You need more than what I can give you. This illness doesn't change that."

Sara's head was shaking. This wasn't it; he was holding back on her. "This is not obligation, Gil. This is love. You would do it for me in a heartbeat. So why not allow me to do it for you?"

He didn't answer straightaway. He shifted on the bench uneasily and settled his gaze dead ahead of him. "I was trying to protect you," he said at last. "Spare you more suffering."

And she understood then that not telling her wasn't a selfish act as she had first thought, but a selfless one, an act borne out of love and self-sacrifice. He could cope with the disease and dealing with its ferocious treatment and even its bleak outcome, but he couldn't bear for her to see him in pain, watch him deteriorate and die.

Her lips pinched anxiously at the realisation. "What if you had died? What if you had died with me thinking you didn't love me anymore?"

He turned toward her. His blue eyes shimmered with tears. "It was a risk I was prepared to take, Sara. What I did to you – to us – broke my heart, but I believed it to be the lesser of two evils."

"And now?" she uttered in a breathless whisper.

"Now, I don't know." A wistful smile formed on his lips. His eyes trailed down her face to her neck and the dress she was wearing. His hand slid over to her lap and he took her hand resting there, brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. "When I saw you…when I first saw you in the apartment on Thursday…my heart swelled so much…I—I could hardly breathe. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around you, hold you and keep you there. But I couldn't. I…just wasn't ready. So much had happened that you didn't know.

"And this morning, waking up next to you with my arm draped over your stomach like I once would have done, I felt like I was finally waking up from a nightmare. For a minute, it was like time was standing still and I wasn't sick any more. I watched you, studied all the lines on your face that weren't there before, traced them with my fingers." He sighed. "And then it all came flooding back, but I knew I needed to tell you before you found out for yourself. But evidently you already had."

A smile of pleasure was playing around the edges of her mouth. "Well, as you've often pointed, I am the best."

He burst into a quiet chuckle and nodded his head at her. Then out of the blue, his expression darkened and he shifted uncomfortably on the bench. His hand moved to his side, rubbing, and he got up. "My butt's gone to sleep," he said when she threw him a concerned look, and held out his hand in invitation. "Shall we?"

She knew he was lying, that he most probably was in pain, but she let it pass. Taking the proffered hand Sara pushed to her feet, and hand in hand they slowly retraced their steps past the fountain toward the palace and the exit. The sun still shone brightly overhead. Grissom pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead before slipping off his jacket entirely. Words weren't spoken between them.

And as they neared the apartment she realised that they hadn't talked about whether she would move out of the hotel and back home with him. He hadn't brought it up, and she daren't. Even though he had opened up to her there was still a lot he was holding back, both as regards the cancer and its physical constraints but also as regards his feelings toward her. There, was a man who had always taken small, shuffling steps toward her, and now was no exception.

But he'd finally let her in, and that would have to be enough for now.