Author's Note: This should be standard by now, but I just wanted to thank LaughableBlackStorm for the beta, as usual, you're fabulous, and here's chapter one. :o)

Chapter One: About The Dog

One Month Earlier…

"Vilmer's Disease," said Dr. Norton frankly as he stared directly at Greg.

The younger man frowned. "Tell me that's a fancy word for the common cold."

"No, that would be rhinovirus," the doctor said.

"But you said that it was just a cold," Greg pressed. "Every other time we've come in here, you've tested him and sent him home, saying it was just a cold. You said it was just a cold. Now you're telling me that all this time, it hasn't been just a cold? It's been something else?"

Dr. Norton sighed. "I am very sorry, Mr. Sanders, but Vilmer's is a rare disorder and can present itself with cold or flu-like symptoms, due to how it attacks the lungs and respiratory track. If we had caught it sooner, there may have been something—"

"So you're telling me this is your fault," Greg hissed, anger flaring in his chest. "Because I have brought him here, when he stopped breathing at night, and you said 'sleep apnea is normal when dealing with a cold.' I brought him here when the cold medication didn't work and you said to give it time. And I brought him here when he couldn't stop coughing and you still brushed him off. He's been here, Doc, so it has to be your fault that you didn't catch it."

"Vilmer's is not a virus, Mr. Sanders, nor is it a bacterial infection, and nor is it a cancer. It does not show up in any of our routine tests, but believe me when I tell you that we did look, every time you brought him in here. We looked, and we found nothing."

"You didn't look hard enough," Greg snapped. "Because it was there. Inside him all this time."

"Mr. Sanders…" Dr. Norton began quietly, his voice soothing, but serious. "I haven't even told you what this diagnosis means yet."

"I can only guess from your expression that it's nothing good," Greg muttered.

Dr. Norton nodded. "We don't know what causes it, exactly. But it has to do with certain pyrogenic granulomas that form in the blood stream, irritating the vascular walls and constricting flow to vital organs, which can become inflamed. It can be treated—"

"Then treat him," Greg interrupted. "Now. Treat him now."

"—but only in the early stages. In the case of your friend, the disease has cut off blood flow to the lungs and heart, causing the organs to atrophy."

Greg's expression grew grave. "I don't think I understand…" he said, wavering slightly.

"Yes, you do," said the doctor, his dark eyes piercing. "The disease has done too much damage to his heart—"

"No," Greg interrupted, firmly. "No, you're wrong. He has a very strong heart."

Dr. Norton paused, holding his breath before he went on. "That may be true. But that strong heart is fading."

"OK…" Greg muttered, avoiding the doctor's eyes. "I… give you permission to do… surgery."

"Even if you were authorized to give that permission," Dr. Norton began, "the transplant list is long, and Neil is nowhere near the top of it."

Greg looked up, stunned. "You mean… he would need a new heart?"

Dr. Norton nodded.

Greg looked away again, his hand creeping up against his own chest, where he clenched it into a fist, feeling the steady rhythm of his own heart pumping dependably inside of him. I'd give it to him…

"Would you like me to tell him?" Dr. Norton asked, jarring Greg from his thoughts.

Slowly, Greg shook his head and looked into the room where Neil sat up in his bed, animatedly playing his Nintendo DS. "No. I'll do it."

Greg walked into the room slowly and looked up as Neil leaned to the side and almost fell off his bed, madly punching one of the buttons.

"Neil."

"Just a sec—" said Neil as he chewed on his lip.

Greg opened his mouth to protest but instantly closed it, allowing Neil to have his moment. In the meantime, he took in his lover's appearance. A few months ago, Neil had possessed admirable muscle tone but held an overall slender stature. Now, his muscles were fading, and he just looked… small. Blessed with naturally blond hair, Neil had always kept it trimmed short, but now it was scraggly, because he hadn't had the opportunity to trim it. But his eyes were the same. A little sunken, the pupils a little wider, but all in all, his eyes were the same.

"Neil," he said again, this time in a whisper as he sat down next to his lover's bed.

"Hang on…" said Neil, his jaw hanging open now as he stared at the small screen of his video game. "Almost…"

"Neil, you're dying."

There was a strange musical cord that rang out through the room and Neil lowered the DS and looked straight ahead of him. "Game over," he said.

Greg reached up and wrapped his fingers around Neil's pale arm. Neil looked up at him, his eyes suddenly changed in a way that Greg hadn't expected.

"Will you still be here when I'm ugly and frail?"

Greg smiled, despite the nausea that rose in his stomach. "Are you sure you can get uglier than this?"

Neil frowned, then hit Greg with his pillow.

And they laughed.

They laughed a lot.

Present.

"Greg?"

He was startled and jumped in his seat. "Huh?"

Nick cocked an eyebrow at him and tossed his head at the car door. "We're here. You getting out?"

"Oh, yeah…" Greg muttered, exiting the vehicle and looking up at the house before him. He just stared at it, silhouetted against the night sky, this structure that housed a corpse.

"You seem a little distracted," said Nick from right beside him, making Greg jump. "You OK?"

"Yeah," Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck to get his hairs to stop standing on end. "Great."

Nick gave him a skeptical look before dismissing it and walking up the front steps to the house, where Greg followed.

Nick stopped to talk to David, but Greg continued on, following the blood drops in the hallway to the living room, where a man had been stabbed several times in the back and now lay silent on the couch, his final resting place.

Greg tiled his head to the side, then raised his camera and took a picture. He slowly lowered the camera and wondered if it were better to know that death was on your doorstep, or if the Grim Reaper just walked in without knocking or invitation.

Greg took another picture.

He took a few steps toward the body, avoiding the small blood trail and looked down at it for a moment. He didn't do anything, he just looked.

"How's it going in here?" Nick asked from the doorway, making Greg turn around.

"Not good, looks like someone's been murdered in here," Greg returned in mock surprise.

Nick chuckled. "You know what I mean."

"Fine," Greg replied, turning away from the Texan and taking a few more steps to the body. He kneeled down beside the couch, and for some reason decided to muse out loud. "Nick… what's the point?

"Beg pardon?" Nick said, coming around the back of the couch.

"He's dead," Greg replied. "Woulda died at some point or another. What's the difference if he dies now or if he dies when he's eighty-five from too much bacon?"

"Greg, no one has the right to take someone else's life," Nick said.

Greg had no response to that. "OK, so what did David say COD was?"

Nick didn't answer right away. But then, "Well, I'm pretty sure it's the seven stab wounds in the back. TOD was maybe twelve hours ago. Brass says the neighbor found him when she came over looking for her cat."

Something in Greg's pocket buzzed and he absentmindedly reached in and pulled out his phone. He saw a text message from Neil and stood up.

"What's up?" Nick asked.

Greg read the message. "I, uh… I have to go." He looked up at Nick. "Can you handle this here? Or… Catherine could—"

"No," Nick interrupted, visibly concerned. He shook his head, as if to clear it. "I mean… Yeah, I'm fine here. What do you have to do?"

"There's just somewhere I have to be," Greg replied, putting his phone away. He gave Nick an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to bail on you, but this is important."

"Yeah, of course," said Nick slowly.

Greg turned his back on the dead man and Nick and walked out of the house.

Greg pushed the key in the lock and turned it, successfully opening the door and coming inside to find his apartment completely trashed, pillows, blankets and sweaters all over the place, and there was Neil by the window, wearing ten sweaters, continuously opening and closing the curtains.

When he heard the door slam, he turned to Greg and blinked. "I can't get warm," he said. "And… and the light…" He gestured frantically at the window. "It doesn't work."

Greg sighed, taking in his frail form, his mussed hair, and the film of sweat that glinted in the light. "Neil," he said, stepping forward. "You're having one of your fits again."

Neil shook his head and sniffed. "No," he said, his voice a strange, fragile tremolo. "No, no, no, it's all wrong." He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. "I'm glad you're here," he said, turning back to the curtains and pulling them shut violently. He stepped back and looked at it approvingly. "Glad you're here."

"Neil…" Greg said softly, stepping towards him.

The blond man gripped his chest and fell to his knees. "Greg, Greg, it hurts…"

Greg ran to him then, gathering Neil up in his arms like a scared child. "It's just another fever. It'll pass."

Neil squirmed in his grip. "Hot—so hot—must… ah!" He pushed Greg away and pulled off several layers of sweaters to reveal a wifebeater drenched in sweat. Neil took deep, scratchy breaths.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital?" Greg asked.

"I like it here…" Neil replied, his eyes glassy and far away. "Right here, I like it right here. With you."

Greg said nothing, he simply watched as Neil tried to calm his own raspy breathing. "We still have the anti-inflammatory pills. They tend to help a little, don't they?"

Neil contemplated this, then shook his head. "Stupid blood. Stupid, poisoned blood…" He sniffed one last time before his face contorted in a twisted agony that was more than physical. "Oh god…"

Greg hushed him, embracing him again and allowing Neil to bury his face in the side of Greg's neck, trembling and hot, grasping Greg's shirt in tight fists. Greg had held him like this before, in more intimate settings, in better times, and afterwards, after the heat and the shaking and the sweat had all evaporated into the air, they had lied together, and lied together about the lives they were going to lead… together.

Always the telepath, Neil whispered, "Tell me… about the dog."

"He's a mutt, just like us," Greg whispered into his hair. "A raggedy bold beautiful mix of all the best dogs in the world, and he was made just for us. Chosen out of golden retrievers and Labradors at the puppy orphanage… and you pick him up and you name him—"

"Stoker."

"I thought his name was Kipling," Greg said.

"My dog," Neil insisted, his voice scratchier than ever. "I can name him and rename him what I want. Besides, my dog has jaws like a vampire. Didn't grow up in the wild jungles of India… grew up on a farm in Indiana. Which has 'India' in its name, but probably the furthest thing from—" He cut himself off, every muscle in his body tensing as he inhaled sharply and Greg held him.

"What is it?"

"My chest…" Neil breathed. "It's on fire."

"How can our dog grow up on a farm in Indiana if we adopt him as a puppy in Las Vegas?"

"We move to Indiana," Neil replied. "And Stoker is no puppy, he's a bonafide sheepdog. Farmer says he can't run anymore. He's useless. Old, worn out thing, can't breathe right anymore, something about his blood vessels getting inflamed, his body turning on him…" He paused, but Greg just listened to his broken breathing. "… So we take him. We take an old sheepdog who can't run no more 'cause we love him, and he's still a good dog, still tries hard, still sweeter than… You." He kissed the side of Greg's neck. "Oh you, oh you, oh you…" He kissed up Greg's neck, and Greg closed his eyes as he felt the hot, chapped, wet lips of his fragile lover move desperately up his neck, his jaw line, until he found Greg's lips. The kiss was quiet and delicate, and if it had been a melody, it would have been a low velvety legato. Not something anyone could dance to, but definitely something you could fall asleep to, a song you could listen to over and over again until it guided you by the hand into your dreams.

And then Neil pulled away, gasping for air, and leaned his forehead against Greg's. "You don't deserve to go through this… I don't deserve to go through this…"

The tears, almost scalding, fell onto Greg's chest, but his eyes were remarkably dry.

Months ago, Greg would have laughed if Neil had asked Greg to carry him. Neil was at least Greg's size, if not taller, but now, he was so small, half of what he used to be, and Greg reached out and his arm found the crook of Neil's knees as he carried the man to the bedroom. He laid him out on the covers and took his rightful place beside the fading man.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," Neil whispered. "If it were me, I…"

Greg put a finger to his lips. "I think your fever's breaking."

Neil closed his eyes. "Thank you… for coming home… I know you were working, but the light, it wouldn't work, and I couldn't get warm… But you're like a sun." He smiled and opened his eyes again, reaching out and placing a clammy hand on Greg's cheek. "My heat source. The light works better when you're here."

Greg nodded. "Rest now."

"Tell me about the dog."

"I just did."

"Tell me again."

"About Kipling or Stoker?"

Neil took a deep, quaking breath, than coughed, causing Greg to wince. When he recovered, he looked up at Greg and offered him a half-shrug in response. "Just tell me about the dog, Greg."

Greg reached out and stroked Neil's hair gently, reverently, as if he were touching the corpse of an angel. "He's a mutt. Just like you. A mix of all the best dogs in the world."

"And only the best…" Neil muttered, closing his eyes.

"And he's ours," Greg continued. "And he will always be ours, no matter what he does, or how old he gets. Because he's family."

"Family…" Neil whispered.

"Right," said Greg. "And… and he lives a very, very long time. As long as a dog can live. And we give him everything he needs, toys, food, water, and lots of yard space to run around in."

"In India…"

"And he's the happiest dog in the world," Greg said quietly.

Neil said nothing, his chest moving up and down. Greg leaned forward and kissed his wet forehead, smoothing his hair down. With a sigh, he got to his feet slowly, looking over his shoulder one last time at Neil's frail form.

Just as he reached the doorframe, Neil's sleepy voice anchored him to the room.

"He live longer than me?"

Greg looked back. Neil hadn't opened his eyes, or changed positions. For a moment, Greg wondered if he'd spoken at all.

"Both of you," he said anyway, "live long, perfect lives."

Neil said nothing. He didn't even move. So Greg turned around and left him there, looking at his watch. He still had time to get back to his shift. He needed it.

Someone had to pay for Neil's treatment.

Greg walked into Wendy's lab just as Nick was dropping off some blood samples. The younger man eagerly looked at his partner on the case.

"So, catch me up," he said with a smile. "What'd you find at the scene?"

But Nick was frowning as they exited the lab. "Where'd you run off to so quickly anyway?"

Greg shrugged, casually. "Neighbor locked himself out. I hold a spare key for him."

"He couldn't have waited?" Nick asked, clearly suspicious. "The second your phone buzzed, you hightailed it out of there like your life depended on it."

"He had an appointment to get to," Greg said quickly. "So what about our stabbing victim? Tell me about him—"

They were interrupted by Greg's ringing phone, and the younger man sighed and glanced at the caller ID. He held a finger up to Nick to signal him to wait a moment as he answered the phone and turned away from the Texan.

"Hey, I thought you were sleeping…" he said, so quietly that Nick barely heard. "No… No, it won't. No…" Greg glanced over his shoulder at Nick, before turning around again and striding off down the hall. "Honey, I already told you about the dog…"

Nick watched Greg leave, pondering the peculiarity of the phone call as Riley rounded the corner and passed Greg on his way out. She met Nick in the hall.

"That his girlfriend?" Riley asked him, looking over her shoulder at Greg.

Nick frowned. "Greg has a girlfriend?"

Riley shrugged, her cheeks a light shade of pink. "Says it's pretty serious."

"I haven't heard anything about her…" Nick muttered, slightly offended that Greg had neglected to mention that he was in a serious relationship.

"Join the club," said Riley. "He says he doesn't like to talk about it."

"That's not true, he's the worst secret-keeper in the world," said Nick. "He always kisses and tells." He smiled. "I remember one time, he took his date's skin cells—"

"I don't think I want to hear it," Riley interrupted. She paused a moment. "Nick, how long do you think he's been seeing her?"

"What makes you think I'd know that?" Nick returned.

"I guess you're right," she replied. "I just… a serious relationship takes time, right? So what, has it been months? Years?"

Nick pursed his lips and shook his head, helplessly. "Can't help you."

"I guess it's none of my business anyway," said Riley, with an awkward shrug. "Anyway, I have an appointment with Mandy, so I'll see ya…"

Nick watched her head towards the fingerprint lab, then looked in the direction that Greg had been headed, wondering about this mysterious new girlfriend of his.