Afterlife
By EB
©2004
Notes: Several warnings apply for this story. Please note the following. 1) This is a death story, at least in the beginning, and therefore if such things aren't to your taste, be warned. 2) It is also slash, although non-explicit. Use your own discretion. 3) This presupposes a slash relationship between Gil and Nick, although one that takes place primarily only in flashback. The primary basis for the story is case-related. As always, comments welcomed, and my belated thanks to those who had such kind things to say about "Enmity" and "Boucenna's Walk." Hope you enjoy this one as well. EB
Life means all that it ever meant,
it is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity,
why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you
somewhere very near
just around the corner.
All is well
(Henry Scott Holland)
Chapter One
The sun still rose in the mornings. Set in the evenings.
Gil stared out the window at the bright, warm spring sunshine and felt his throat tighten. Familiar feeling, status quo, it seemed. Underscoring his certainty: It shouldn't be this way. Things should not simply go forward, as if nothing at all had happened.
It was…improper. That was the right word. Bad form.
And yet things persisted. The traffic was bustling, although it was still two hours shy of actual rush hour. So many people going on with their lives, unaware.
Indecorous. Show some respect. It was the least anyone could do, wasn't it?
"Traffic's a bitch today." Catherine sounded forcefully casual, tapping the brake and glancing in the rear-view mirror. "Must be the construction."
Aren't you going to ask me about it? he thought of saying, but instead he nodded, still watching out the window. There wasn't that much to say, anyway. Nice as those things went, but he had never been so glad to step off a plane at McCarran, walk outside and feel dry, dust-scented air on his skin.
"Is there anything I can do?" Catherine asked quietly.
It made him draw his eyes away from the mindless highway, glance at her. Her mouth was turned down, creases at the corners of her lips aging her, a touch of the fragility he seemed to see everywhere these days. How mutable the world was now. How transient. He shook his head. "Thank you. I'd just like to get home."
"I'd like to schedule a memorial service. For people who couldn't go to the funeral. Is that all right?"
"Of course." He shrugged. "When do you have in mind?"
"A couple of weeks, maybe. I'll need –" She cleared her throat. "If you could help me come up with a list of people. I'll put a notice in the paper, but just in case."
"All right."
They drove in silence the rest of the way. More than once he felt a stirring inside, something wanting to say a few words, make her feel more at ease. She hadn't gone to Dallas; couldn't, for both professional and personal reasons. But that was all right, too. There had been plenty of people there. More than he'd anticipated, quite a few more. Old friends from high school and college, family acquaintances, most he couldn't place and hadn't tried. The cathedral had been packed, hot and muggy and stinking from all the flowers. No, she hadn't been missed.
Instead he watched, and finally grasped the door handle when the car was stopped in his driveway. "Thanks for picking me up. I appreciate it."
She shrugged and put the car in park before reaching over to pop the trunk. "It was the least I could do, Gil," she told him softly.
Outside the car she watched him grab his one suitcase. Bigger than he preferred, but he'd had to bring a suit, after all.
"I'm so sorry, Gil," Catherine said in a thick, tragic voice. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I know that doesn't help. But I'm sorry."
It didn't help, but he made himself smile. "I know," he told her gently.
The house smelled stale, shut up for eight days. He set his suitcase near the door and walked slowly through the living area, turning on a couple of lamps, opening the blinds. Everything just as he'd left it. They had left it. The book still open on the kitchen table, where he'd placed it before going in to make the coffee he'd never started. The phone had rung, not his cell but the house phone, and there were still beans in the coffee grinder. Waiting patiently to be ground, used up.
There was so much to be done. He stood in the middle of the room, arms limp at his sides. Things to be gone through. Clothes, papers, memorabilia. Gil couldn't wear the clothing; too small, too tight. Even if he'd wanted to. He would need boxes. Call the DAV, arrange to have the clothing picked up. Could some of it be thrown out? How could he tell? What was most important? What should he keep?
He sat down hard on the floor, not even noticing the cold tile underneath his ass. He couldn't do all this. It was too much. How could he be expected to decide? What made him the expert on what should go and what should stay? Everything? Nothing?
And why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? The air had been sucked out of the room, leaving only this dusty stale vacuum. He inhaled, so deeply it made his head spin, and let all the nonexistent air out in a hoarse cry, No, no, it couldn't be done, should not be done, none of this should be happening. Not right, not FAIR, none of it, and something this monstrously wrong wasn't allowed to actually come to pass.
The first sob hurt him, deep inside his chest, like something bronchial and infected. So long since he'd wept over anything at all, too long since he'd allowed it, not even at that horrible funeral, with semi-hysterical parents and so many siblings, so many Stokes to go around, why did it have to be HIS? What kind of grinning winking god had spun that wheel, loaded the game, put in the fix that made it Nick whose body lay in that expensive casket, in whose memory were sent so many lilies and carnations and roses that to his own dying day Gil knew he would loathe all flowers forevermore, forever and ever amen.
He sat on the bare cold floor and hung his head and rediscovered how to cry.
The doorbell awoke him. He blinked blearily, startled to find himself on the couch, unable for a moment to remember when he'd sat here. Sometime after that painful blurred hour of crying, he supposed. His eyes stung, and when he reached up to rub them his fingers didn't recognize his features. Puffy eyes, puffy cheeks. A stranger's grieving face, then. Not his own.
The bell rang again, and he lumbered to his feet. Beyond the open door Warrick stood, handsome face drawn with uncertainty, deepening into alarm as he took in Gil's appearance. "Hey," Warrick said gruffly. "Heard you got back this morning."
Gil nodded, feeling the stiffness in his neck. Sleeping on couches would do that to you. "Come inside?"
Warrick nodded, and gave his puffy eyes another wary look before walking in.
He ground the coffee, without thinking much about when it had been measured. It gave him something to do. Behind him, Warrick didn't settle, prowling around the kitchen, circling the table.
"You coming in tonight?"
Gil shook his head, tapping out the last of the coffee grounds. "Not tonight, no."
"Yeah, I'm off myself. Wanted to see, you know. How you were doing."
"I'm fine." He poured water into the machine. With that done, there wasn't much else to do but turn and face him. "It was – difficult," he added slowly. "Coming back, seeing the house."
Warrick nodded, looking almost grateful at Gil's halting words. "I bet. Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't go to Dallas. I wanted to. You know that."
"It's all right. Really. It was – about what you'd expect."
"Nice?"
"I suppose. Yes."
He turned back to the coffee maker, stricken with flailing discomfort, and Warrick said, "I wanted to tell you, you know. If you want someone to give you a hand with Nick's – stuff. I've done that before. I know how hard it is."
Gil nodded without looking around. "That might be good," he said as calmly as he could. "Yes."
"You want to talk about it? I'm here, Gil. Anything you need."
"Thank you." There was a bump in his voice, and his traitorous eyes stung. He reached up to take two mugs from the shelf. "I'm not sure what there is to say."
"After you left. Brass took it awful hard. We all know there wasn't a thing he could have done, but anyway. You seen him yet?"
His back stiffened. "No," he said more curtly than he meant to. "Not yet."
"Gil, man. Jim couldn't have changed things. You know that, right?"
"Of course. It was – very quick."
"Just –"
"I don't blame him." He turned his head, gave Warrick what he hoped was a level look. "I don't. But he is a – reminder. That's all."
Warrick nodded. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Guess so."
"You're doing all right? Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Usual crap. Nothing that spectacular." Gil could hear what he wasn't saying. Nothing could top what happened nearly ten days ago.
Ten days. Had it only been that long? Two weeks ago, everything was fine. Not perfect; no, even rosy memory couldn't be that kind. But good, oh yes, good. What had Nick said, the weekend they spent at the vineyard? Was it June? Only two months ago. When they'd had all the time in the world. "Gil, I love my life. I just want you to know that."
He clamped his lips shut over a cry of absolute loss. Jesus, it was never going to end. He could see Nick's body, he could feel for himself that there was no pulse and no respiration, he could evidently bury him, but he could not stop this relentless perfection of memory. Nick's face, flushed with wind and wine, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. His hand on Gil's knee, squeezing with his words. What had he said to that? Something light and meaningless, instead of dropping to his knees and telling Nick that whatever he felt, Gil felt doubly, triply.
If only he'd said it. If only, if only. Did Nick know it, then? Did he?
"Griss?"
He blinked hot tears away and shook his head. "Sorry. I just." Shook his head again.
Warrick nodded, looking miserably awkward.
After another awful moment he got the coffee poured into mugs, and there was something briefly to do with cream and sugar, and Warrick limpingly got the subject changed to a case he was working. Gil fell into it with utter relief. Anything, please God, anything to make me stop thinking. At this rate I'll need a lobotomy soon.
"Anyway, I'm sitting there, right, and this guy just keeps on lying. Keeps on, right in my face. Like I haven't JUST told him exactly how it went down, showed him I knew the truth. He just keeps right on spinning the same story." Warrick shook his head, running a fingertip over the rim of his mug. "People just knock me out sometimes, you know? Hell, he'll probably run for President in a few years, or something." An eloquent snort. "Probably win."
Gil smiled, nodded, tasted his bitter coffee. "I meant to tell you. I ran into someone I believe you know. Dennis Quigley?"
Warrick's eyes widened. "Dennis? What the fuck?"
"He's working in Dallas, special investigator for the DA's office."
"Holy shit." Warrick whistled. "Yeah, I knew he did the law school thing a few years back. SMU, I think. Man. How's he doing?"
"He told me to tell you he hasn't forgotten 1994. I assume you know what that means."
A broad grin split Warrick's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Damn. I need to look him up. Me and him go WAY back."
Gil nodded. "I got that impression."
"Man. Glad you told me. Made my day."
"Glad to pass it along."
Warrick's grin faded. "So you gonna be okay?"
Gil glanced down, staring into his own coffee cup. "Officially? Absolutely."
"Unofficially. This is me, man."
"Unofficially. I will be. Yes."
"You know if you need anything. Anything at all. Not just for you. For Nick."
Gil looked up, seeing the deep pain in Warrick's narrowed eyes. "He'd appreciate that," he said slowly. "As much as I do."
"Any time."
Gil drew a deep breath. "I'll need to sort through his things," he said quietly. "Sometime soon, I suppose. You mentioned, before -- Maybe you could – help with that."
"Absolutely."
"Thanks."
The house seemed forlornly empty after Warrick left. He busied himself in the kitchen, washing up and putting away, and then grabbed his suitcase from the foyer and took it into the bedroom. It wasn't until he'd set it near the closet that it occurred to him he'd have to sleep here. Slowly he turned, looked at the neatly made bed. This room, as much as any other, reflected Nick's touch. The feather duvet, Nick's choice and fiendishly expensive, and Gil had to admit, worth every penny. The photograph over the bed. Nick had surprised him with it, a blown-up version of Gil's own work, taken during their only vacation together. Alaska, 2003.
"You been hiding your light under a bushel," Nick proclaimed, after Gil had flushed and dithered about his own work framed and displayed. "You're one hell of a photographer, Gil. Admit it."
It was a good picture. It had been a good trip. Ruthlessly he pushed away the companion thought
there won't be another
and picked up the suitcase, unzipping it with fast motions.
All too soon he had his things put away. Suddenly exhausted, he sank down on the bed. Ridiculous, but he could still smell Nick in here. The cologne he liked, that herbal-smelling soap. Nick always smelled so good. Even sick in bed with the flu, smelled so good Gil sometimes wondered if he could bottle that smell, spray it around, so that he could enjoy it even when Nick wasn't around.
He hadn't changed the sheets since all this began. Too busy, and out of town much of the time.
His heart took a frantic leap in his chest, and he tugged down the duvet, snatched up the left pillow. Nick's pillow. He crushed it against his face. Yes, there was that smell. That aroma like soap and cut grass and the afterthought of rain, Nick's smell.
Hugging the pillow to him, he lay back and closed his eyes.