Author's Note: I'm caught up to my writing now... I'll try and be prompt with updates. Enjoy the long chapter.

A cloud of plaster dust obscured Greg's vision and he heard coughing. He waved his hand in front of his eyes as the dust settled and saw a jeep, which had decided to drive itself through Camellia's bay window. It had damaged the support of the walls on either side of the window and caused some plaster to fall to the ground. The windshield was smashed to pieces and the airbags were deployed, so Greg couldn't see what had happened to the driver, though he knew immediately who the driver had to be.

He had seen this jeep before.

There was a grunt of pain and Greg looked down to see that Camellia was on her side on the floor, slowly getting to her feet. They had both been standing a few feet away from the window, and as the car was right in front of him, he knew it had to have hit her. Immediately, he was kneeling before her and noticed that her hair on the left side of her head was red and matted with blood as she coughed.

"Jesus!" he screamed. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Be careful, the blood—"

"Fuck that," Greg muttered. He looked over at the couch, where all the others were staring at the scene in fascinated horror.

"OK, that's it, I'm outta here!" said Roger with a sniff. He grabbed a bag of cocaine and made a dash for the door.

"Best get going before the cops arrive," Toxic advised, and the girls nodded.

"Hey!" Greg shouted as Toxic, Misty and Athena made their way to the door. The trio paused. "Your friend is hurt! Don't you think you should do something about it?"

"She's not my friend," Athena said snidely.

Misty and Toxic exchanged glances. The former gave a nod. "You OK, girl?"

"I'm fine," Camellia said, followed by a cough.

"Good enough for me. Let's go, Toxic."

"What?!" Greg screamed in disbelief.

"I'll get the phone," said Frank, heading to the kitchen.

"Thank you," Greg sighed.

"I'm too high to drive. I need a cab."

Greg gawked at him as he disappeared. "Can you believe—"

"Yes, I can," Camellia interrupted harshly. "Now get out of here. You don't want to be here when I call the cops." She tried to get to her feet and swayed.

"No, lay down," Greg insisted, taking her over to the couch. "I'll call 911."

She tried to push him away. "This is my problem. Why do you care so much?"

"Because that's what human beings are supposed to do," Greg insisted as they reached the couch. "Now lay the fuck down."

She obliged and groaned, holding her hand to her head. "I think some plaster might have..."

"Don't talk. Just rest," Greg insisted.

With her taken care of, he went over to the driver's side of the car. Once again, there was a face scrunched up against the windshield, but there was blood this time, and dented glass, one eye open and almost popping out of the socket, the other too bruised to tell. The blood was all over the wheel and the airbag that had deployed and was holding him up against his seat. Greg reached for the door with tentative fingers and bated breath, when the horn exploded into a high pitched whine and he recoiled and covered his ears.

"Jesus..." he muttered, and pulled out his phone as he walked around the car to check on Camellia. He called her name, but she was already passed out on the couch. Greg knew that wasn't a good sign. He held the phone to his ear and, for the first time, saw a phrase spray painted on the damaged hood of the blue jeep in red ink. It wasn't a long message, but it was bold, and it made everything clear. This was no accident. Not at all.

Take that, you cunt.

Greg swallowed, when someone picked up on the other one. "911, what is your emergency?"

"Hey, I need an ambulance at 6328 Maple Drive. I have a woman unconscious with a head wound, and possibly other injuries, I don't know."

"OK, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you know what caused the injuries?"

"Yes," said Greg. "A car drove into her house. Through a window. A—a bay window, and it damaged the supporting walls and some plaster fell from the ceiling. She was hit by the car, but I think a chunk of plaster may have hit her head."

"Were you driving the car?"

Greg was shaking. He was drenched in sweat. He was seeing spots again. "No. No, I was here, with her, someone else was driving the car, and I think it was suicide. Listen, I—I have to go, I can't... I need to do something."

"Sir, could you please stay on the scene until an ambulance—"

"No, no, sorry, I can't, I can't, I have to go... She'll be fine. He's dead. The driver of the jeep, I mean, he's dead. But I have to go."

"Can I have your name?"

"Yes, it's Greg Sanders," he answered hastily. "Thanks. Bye."

He hung up swiftly and looked back at Camellia on the couch, who wasn't moving. He called her name a few times and tried to shake her lightly, but she didn't respond. He wasn't a medic. He didn't know what to do. He was trained in CPR, and so made sure that her airways were clear and turned her onto her side, but other than that, he couldn't think of anything else to do.

And he needed to get home. He needed to drown himself with pills. He needed to shake the withdrawal symptoms, to forget that Lyle was dead, and that he might have AIDS, and that the woman who gave it to him could slip away into a coma. He needed to forget everything.

He just wanted his old life back.

And so, he fled the scene of the crime, leaving Camellia and her mess for the medics and the police to sort out. After all, she was right. It wasn't his problem.

He opened his door and let it fall backwards, but never heard it click. He leaned against the wall and taking deep breaths. His hands were shaking, drenched in a frigid sweat, and his whole body was enveloped by chills. His stomach churned as lights danced in front of his spotty vision and all he wanted was darkness.

He didn't notice that his cat was not there to greet him.

Way beyond panic, Greg ran to his kitchen and seized the bottle of pills off of the table. He poured a couple into his hand and snatched his pipe before marching off down the hall to his room, where he found his marijuana. He packed the last of it into the pipe, took his lighter, and ignited the weed. He inhaled deeply before slapping a shaking hand to his mouth and swallowing the pills dry. He coughed slightly, but they were already moist from his sweaty palm, which he was wiping on his pants. He made his way to the bathroom, still deeply agitated, as he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one gulp.

He gripped the sink and stared at his wan complexion in the mirror. Red veins crawled across the gray of his eyes like roots of a deadly plant. He was as gaunt as a ghost, and he thought dimly that he might as well be one. He never saw his friends anymore, at least not his real ones. His health was deteriorating. He was dependent on a tiny pill. He was infected. With what, he could not be specific, but he knew he was infected, and the virus was slowly eating away at his organs like acid, or tiny termites attacking wood, and he felt its teeth biting into him at every moment.

He raked a hand through his sweat drenched hair and took another hit off of his pipe. That's when the marijuana really began to kick in and his world grew hazy, the colors softer, and the lights dimmer. His head swam, but he was still on edge, still scared out of his mind, and he was too petrified to move. He clutched the sink as if letting go meant drowning in a sea of bile and sweat, and he wasn't ready for that, not now, not yet.

The pot was making his head spin and he was dizzy. He needed to lie down on his bed. He needed something to eat. He needed to curl up and die...

He moved slowly, his hands on the cold tile of the bathroom wall as he inched his way toward the door. He was afraid that if he let go of the wall he would lose himself. And so, gripping both sides of the doorway, he slithered against the wall, his body flat against it as he sidled over to his room and slipped in the door before falling onto his knees and crawling across the hardwood floor, dragging his tired body desperately across it. There was a tingling sensation flooding his muscles, and his headache wouldn't relent, even with the drugs. He tediously dragged himself up onto his bed and, shivering, slipped under the covers as quickly as he could. He curled up beneath them, holding his knees against his chest, and the room began to spin. Nothing was getting better. Everything was worse.

Where is Liver? he thought, a sense of dread falling over him.

He closed his eyes tight, for some reason desperate to feel the rough, patchy fur that always seemed so soft in this state. But Liver was gone, and even if he could feel the cat, he would know it for what it was. An old, shedding feline on its last leg, blind in one eye, ugly in most respects, and yet he was still Greg's cat now, because the old thing had adopted him. Maybe he wasn't Greg's cat anymore.

He felt abandoned all over again.

His head swirled as his muscles felt heavy. He had way too many thoughts. He tried not to care, even as the Valium loomed sleepily on the horizon like an oncoming storm. Why is it taking so long to work?! Greg demanded. The drug usually took effect within five minutes. He closed his eyes tight and waited.

"What are you waiting for?" came an eerily familiar and ethereal voice. "Open your eyes and look around."

And he did, inhaling a sharp breath as he stared up at the brightest blue sky he'd ever seen, and tiny icicles slashed painfully at his lungs. He exhaled. The air tasted like copper and smelled like shortbread cookies and the silence was impenetrable. And, when he looked up into the sky, a nice round hole of darkness and stars presented itself, as if the blue was only a facade, a blanket covering up the darkness beyond it.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Ozone," said his tour guide, stepping beside him.

Greg was dressed in a parka, and did not feel cold or hot. His body tingled slightly and he smiled. "Nah, that's not how the ozone layer works."

"It is down here."

"Where are we?"

"Antarctica," said Mr. Lies with a broad grin.

Greg laughed. "Jesus, I can't even come up with original hallucinations anymore. I'm channeling Mary Louis Parker."

"Did I take you to the wrong place?" Mr. Lies asked with a curious cock of the eyebrow. "Because if you think that I did, I have to tell you that it is the official policy of the International Order of Travel Agents not to give refunds."

Greg smiled dimly, his eyes glazed over. "No... Maybe I belong here. Frozen, like everything else."

"People tend to like the quiet," Mr. Lies observed.

"No voices..." Greg whispered. "No chills, no sweats, no... no goddamn headaches... Maybe the cold is good for me."

"Very good," Mr. Lies agreed. "Clears the head. Soothes the senses, some might say."

"I could just build myself an igloo and stay here forever," Greg said with a faint smile.

"Mm, not forever," said Mr. Lies. "We are a vacation agency only. No one-way tickets sold."

"So when is my next flight?"

"Probably soon."

Greg bit his lip. "Are you sure you don't have any one-way tickets?"

Mr. Lies smiled that wide, toothy smile again. Greg's own personal Cheshire Cat. "Well, we do have... one very specific package that includes a one-way ticket. The destination is non-negotiable, though."

Greg nodded with a sigh. "That's what I thought."

"Are you interested?" Mr. Lies inquired.

Greg was growing cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared up at the black hole in the blue sky. Though it was scattered with stars, it seemed deep, shifting, and infinite. It was darker than any night sky Greg had ever witnessed before. "I think I want to go home."

"You know," Mr. Lies began, "you're a fairly regular client by now. Rack up enough frequent flier points and you may earn a free one-way ticket one of these days."

"Free?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "What's the price of this vacation?"

"Your soul." The Cheshire Cat grin glimmered in the bright white light.

Greg gave out a curt chuckle. "Yup. You should check that deposit for counterfeiting. I think I've sold that thing a couple of times now."

"No, you haven't," said Mr. Lies. "Just pieces of it. Little bits at a time. It's been crumbling, and every fragment sold for a fraction of what its worth."

"And what is it worth?" Greg asked.

"Well..." Mr. Lies began, pensively. "Let's just say that I know someone who's willing to give you more than it's worth."

"Mm..." Greg intoned dully. "I wish I could see him right now. I would tell him everything. Explain everything. And he would smile and kiss me and tell me that he doesn't care. He would say that he doesn't care about any of it. Not the stupid mistakes I made, not the drugs, or the addiction, or the disease, or all the reasons why—"

"What are the reasons why?" Mr. Lies inquired, tilting his head in curiosity as he sat on a nearby ice chunk.

Greg looked at him, his expression blank. "I was tired of who I was... of who I'd become. I was tired of all of my attempts at good deeds just... erupting back in my face. Demetrius James. The woman in the white dress. That yuppy punk at Valhalla... Sara..."

"What about Sara?"

Greg tried to dismiss it. "Nothing, never mind... I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, you said Sara. How exactly is she a brick that paves the road to Hell?"

Greg was shivering now. "It's too cold here... I don't like it."

"Tell me about Sara," Mr. Lies urged.

Greg was uncomfortable. "I... couldn't stop her."

"From... leaving?"

"I tried," said Greg. "But over the years, we... drifted. And I don't know what it was. Maybe it was Grissom. Maybe she just... got tired of me. Or maybe it was because I'd changed. But I tried anyway. After the desert, I could tell she was different. And the funny thing is, I'm not sure or not if Grissom could see it. He seemed surprised when she left, but I wasn't. As far as I was concerned, it was a long time coming. And I tried to get her to talk to me, but she didn't."

"People change," said Mr. Lies. "It's a fact of life. She left because she had no other choice."

"She did, she had choices, we all have choices," Greg spat, almost bitterly. "I had choices. I made the wrong ones, but I don't try and claim that I didn't have any choices to make. I chose to hit the gas on the Denali, and I chose to pull the trigger of that gun, and I chose to help that kid. She had a choice. She could have talked about it. But nobody talks about anything in the lab. Nobody wants to admit that they're weak. That they're... human. Except for..."

"Except him," Mr. Lies finished for him.

Greg was shivering madly now, rubbing his arms. "Oh God, I wish I could see him so badly."

"Time to go," said Mr. Lies, and before Greg could even reply, the Antarctic dissolved around him like paint off of walls and he was staring at his wall, his knees to his chest, his covers over him and unbearably warm.

The door to his bedroom creaked open. He wasn't facing that way, but he thought his cat had come home to comfort him.

"Liver..." he choked.

The door clicked quietly closed. It occurred to Greg that cats couldn't close doors. He wriggled around underneath the sweat drenched sheets and his heart stopped to see Nick standing in his room again, staring at him with a somber expression.

"You wander around my apartment often?" he inquired, panting for breath.

"Your door was open," Nick replied evenly. He frowned in a peculiar expression and kneeled next to the bed.

"Oh God, I'm so glad you're here..." Greg choked.

He paused and his frown deepened. "You are?"

Greg sniffed and nodded vigorously with his eyes closed. He was nodding so hard he heard his brain rattling inside his skull. "Come here... please? Just come closer, I need you here so badly. Please."

He seemed to hesitate, his hands hovering over the bed, before he nodded and without another word, he climbed up onto the bed and was lying on top of the comforter and parallel to Greg, who was shivering beneath the covers. Greg closed his eyes.

"Why won't you touch me?" he breathed.

There was another heavy pause, and then, Greg felt soft, calloused fingertips on his forehead, pushing his sweat-drenched hair away from his face. Greg let out a shuddering sigh. Nick shifted, and his fingers moved back into Greg's hair, twirling Greg's curls around his fingers. Slowly, he pressed his palm against Greg's cheek and it moved back, stroking the scalp, fingers gently combing through moist hair.

"I wish you were really here..." Greg breathed.

The hand in his hair stopped moving. "I am really here."

"No, you're not," said Greg. "You never are."

The hand moved again, tucking a stray strand of hair neatly behind Greg's ear. "Then what am I?"

Greg took a deep breath and his shoulders came up to his ears. "The... drugs."

"What drugs?"

"I don't know which one."

The hand retreated and Greg opened his eyes to see Nick's shocked expression.

"What? What's wrong?" Greg asked, desperate to feel his touch again.

Nick looked pale. "How many drugs are you on?"

"Currently?" Greg almost laughed. He shook his head. "I think just two."

Nick pursed his lips. "Which ones?"

Greg shook his head. "I don't remember..."

A hand was on his cheek again, soft and encouraging. "Try."

He thought very hard. "The... pot and, um... V-valium."

Nick inhaled sharply through his nose and pursed his lips. Greg knew that meant he was angry.

"But..." Greg began. "You're not supposed to care! You're... you're supposed to tell me that it's OK, that you don't care, and that everything will be alright. You're supposed to say that you're just glad I'm OK, and that you'll..." He swallowed. "You'll help me. Oh God, please help me."

He closed his eyes and the tears streaked down his face. The next thing he knew, strong, steady arms were embracing him and his face was buried in a black shirt. Greg realized just how badly he was shaking, even though he was burning up beneath the sheets of his bed. But Nick's grip was solid. He did not loosen it or tighten it. He just held Greg still as the broken man pulled his arms to his chest and let the Texan hold him.

"I need you so damn much, I don't know what to do..." Greg said, his voice a heavy vibrato. "I can't stop. I've tried, and it just won't stop. And I don't want to be like them, without anyone to care what happens to me... I don't want to be like them."

"Sh..." Nick soothed. "You have plenty of people who care what happens to you, Greg."

"But you don't care..." Greg breathed. "I mean, you care... but not the way I want you to."

"I think you'd be surprised," said Nick, almost inaudibly.

"I wish you were real..." Greg muttered. "But it couldn't be like this if you were. So I don't know what I want."

"Why's that?" Nick asked, and Greg could feel the vibrations of Nick's voice in his chest.

Greg pulled away and looked up at Nick with dark eyes ready to acknowledge reality. "You aren't him. You're giving me what I want. Telling me what I want to hear."

"I will always give you what you want, Greg," Nick whispered.

"I want you." Greg said through clenched teeth. There was a sharp pang in his chest and he tensed.

"What is it?" Nick asked, suddenly on guard.

"I don't know... maybe I'm having a heart attack," said Greg.

"Greg..."

"Or maybe I just imagined it," Greg murmured.

Nick's hand was on Greg's forehead. He was moving unusually fast. "Jesus, Greg, you're burning up." He moved off the covers and threw them off of Greg.

Greg was suddenly chilled. "No, what are you doing, I need those—"

"No, you don't," said Nick, moving to the door. "You need a doctor."

Greg snorted. "So what, you going to call one?"

Nick spun around and glared at Greg. "You've taken Valium and marijuana. How much Valium, G?"

Greg was confused. "Why are you acting like this? Why are you being this way? You're acting like..."

"Myself?" Nick suggested. "Stay here, I'm going to... I'll be right back."

"No!" Greg yelled. "If you leave, you won't come back. I know how this works."

"No, Greg, you really don't. Just stay here." And with that, he slammed the door, and Greg was alone with his shattered mind again. He closed his eyes and inhaled, the breath rattling in his lungs. He quivered. He turned onto his side and clutched the sheets in his hands, waiting for what felt like an eternity. He needed more pills. He needed Nick.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door burst open and Nick marched in, holding a towel and kicking the door closed. He walked briskly over to the bed and kneeled beside him on the mattress. "Lie still," he insisted.

Greg turned onto his back and opened his eyes, staring up into Nick's somber expression as he laid the cold towel across his forehead. He shivered from the cold, but he had to admit that it did feel good.

"I need... to make it stop," Greg breathed, closing his eyes again and trying hard to stay still like Nick ordered. "I need... The pills are in the kitchen, I think, if you could just—"

"No," Nick insisted. "No more pills."

Greg's eyes snapped open and he examined the man stooped over him. For the first time he realized what was wrong with this situation. First of all, he was in pain, and it was difficult to concentrate. Generally, he had no pain until after the main effects of the drugs had worn off. And on top of that, Nick was as white as the bed sheets, and his eyes were as dark as the hole in the ozone layer.

"Oh my God..." he whispered, his voice dry. "It's you..."

The towel slid back into Greg's hair and Nick pushed it back on the younger man's forehead, his hands flying to the pulse point on his neck. "I'm not sure who you want, but I'm what you've got."

"Oh Jesus, and I said all those stupid things," Greg groaned, his hands immediately covering his face as his cheeks burned.

"I told you not to move," Nick ordered. "Where do you keep your thermometer?"

"My... what?"

"Thermometer, Greg!" Nick snapped. "Where is it?"

Greg tried to think. "Bathroom... Cabinet..."

"I checked there already," said Nick. "Jesus... I should get you to the hospital."

"No!" Greg insisted. "No, no doctors, no, Nick, I just want you. Please, no doctors."

"Greg, you have a fever—"

"It'll pass!" Greg hissed.

Nick chewed on his lip. "OK, I'll try and bring the fever down, but if I can't—"

"No doctors, no hospitals, nothing like that," said Greg.

Nick cupped his hands over his mouth. "Greg, I don't know what to do..."

"Yes, you do," Greg panted. "You just have to... bring down the fever... There's nothing a doctor can't do that you can't do, OK, just... Oh God, it's hot..."

Nick pursed his lips and held his breath before he nodded. "OK... OK, just come on. Come with me."

Greg's head was spinning, but he could have sworn he felt Nick's arms slide beneath him, resting in the crook of his knees and on his upper back. He arched his back and groaned.

"Stay still!" Nick hissed, and the next thing Greg knew, he was levitating. Only, it wasn't genuine levitation because something was holding him, cradling him and he found his head lolling backwards on his shoulders, and one arm reached up and hooked around Nick's neck.

Nick kicked open the door and Greg found himself being carried down the hall into his bathroom. Nick kicked the door closed behind them and gently laid Greg down so the younger man was leaning against the door. Greg closed his eyes as his skin burned. There was the sound of running water and he imagined a waterfall. He badly wanted Mr. Lies to take him there. He needed his pills.

He hadn't even been aware that he had made any noise, until Nick hushed him again.

"Stop groaning," Nick snapped irritably. "It's distracting."

Greg opened his eyes to see Nick striding towards him before the Texan kneeled in front of him on the tile. "What are you doing?"

"Do you trust me, Greg?" Nick asked.

"You're the only one I trust," Greg replied, his voice raspy.

Nick reached out a tentative hand to Greg's forehead and pushed back his hair, and Greg realized he wasn't the only one who was shaking. "I hate seeing you like this," Nick said.

"I did it to myself. I deserve this."

"You may have done it to yourself, but you don't deserve this." Nick was shaking his head. "No one as... No one like you deserves this."

Greg swallowed to open his throat, but said nothing. He closed his eyes again, his head pounding. And then, his skin was being peeled off. No... not his skin. His shirt was drenched with so much sweat, it only felt like his skin. He opened his eyes to see Nick pulling the shirt up. Greg dutifully raised his arms, though his muscles were aching from the loss of the Valium. Nick struggled to strip off the blue t-shirt that was clinging to Greg's skin, but eventually succeeded and threw it at the wall, Greg's arms falling like dead weight to the floor.

They stared at each other a moment, Greg's chest heaving. For the first time, it felt strange to be shirtless in front of Nick, with the Texan watching him so intently. It was almost oddly... intimate.

"Now what?" Greg asked.

Nick looked uncomfortable. "I need... your jeans."

Greg's lips twitched. "This was never how I imagined this."

"You imagined this?"

Greg's heart lurched. "No. Never mind."

Nick still seemed confused, but he said nothing. He reached for Greg's waist and hesitated, his hands hovering in the air. He looked up at Greg, as if for his approval, but the younger man just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door.

"Greg."

"What?" Greg moaned.

"Your jeans."

"Take them."

"I... Maybe you'd prefer to... do it yourself."

His eyes still closed, Greg reached out, his hands hovering in the air, palms up. "Give me your hands."

Slowly, Nick obliged. Greg opened his eyes, his wan face blank as he looked at Nick, holding his hands. If he hadn't been experiencing withdrawal symptoms, if he didn't think he might be dying of AIDS, if he didn't have the excuse of blaming his behavior on delirium, then he would have never had the confidence to do what he was doing. He slowly guided Nick's hands to his hips, before allowing his own hands to glide up Nick's arms, his fingertips making note of every groove of every muscle. And then, finally, his hands reached Nick's shoulders and his thumbs pushed into the muscle there. His eyes remained on the floor, afraid to see Nick's expression, although the fact that the Texan's hands were still on his hips was probably a good sign. Slowly, painstakingly, his head pounding, his vision spotty, and his breath shallow, he raised his gaze to meet Nick's.

"It's OK," Greg whispered. "Isn't it?"

"Greg, now isn't exactly the time..." A tinge of red was creeping into the Texan's pale cheeks as he looked abruptly away from Greg.

Greg flinched again as the sharp and sudden pain in his chest returned. His hand immediately flew there as he tried to focus on his breathing. "It's not OK."

"No," said Nick. "No, that's not what's wrong, Greg. You're not OK. Here..." And, holding his breath, the Texan reached for Greg's jeans and unbuttoned them with Greg watching him intently. He pulled at them and Greg assisted him in pulling them off.

"You going to strip me completely?" Greg asked, with an attempt at a smile.

Nick emitted a short chuckle as he scooped Greg up again, seemingly breathless and led him to the bathtub, lowering him down in about an inch or so of lukewarm water.

"I guess that's a no..." said Greg as he felt the water soak his boxers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wanting badly to fall asleep and take the pain away. He took a rattling breath as he felt the water on his forehead.

"The water is too hot..."

"No, it isn't," said Nick, as he sponged Greg's skin slowly, tenderly. "It's a little above room temperature. I don't want you to start shivering."

"I already am shivering," Greg groaned. "Why don't you just give me some Ibuprofen or something?"

"More drugs? To you? No way," Nick said, shaking his heads. "And anyway, I don't think your fever is very high," Nick muttered, almost more to himself than to Greg. "You wouldn't be coherent otherwise."

"I'm very incoherent," said Greg. "You just happen to speak Crazy."

Nick said nothing, and when Greg opened his eyes again, he saw the ghost of a smile fade from Nick's features. Neither of them spoke for a long time as Nick tried to cool Greg down.

"That's the first time I've heard you say anything that resembled a joke," said Nick, finally breaking the silence.

"It's the fever talking..." Greg murmured with his eyes closed. He wanted so badly just to fall asleep right there. But for some reason he couldn't manage to slip away.

"I think you're cooling down," said Nick after another moment.

"Then why do I still feel like shit?" Greg asked.

"No one said this would be easy," Nick uttered.

"The water's cold now," Greg mumbled.

Nick sighed and unplugged the drain. Greg heard the water gurgle and opened his eyes to see Nick watching the water swirl. The Texan's gaze flickered over to Greg.

"Now what?" Greg asked.

Nick sighed. He tossed Greg a nearby towel and the younger man caught it. His head was still screaming at him and his stomach was churning, but he had stopped shivering. He wrapped the towel tightly around himself.

"Take care of yourself," said Nick, and he rose to his feet.

"Wait!" Greg called. "Would you please stay?"

Nick held his breath a moment. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"I can't do this without you," Greg admitted, desperation in his voice. "Please..." He was clinging to the side of the tub now. "Don't leave me."

Nick stared at him for a long time.