Author's Note: I am both surprised and pleased that Neil is being so well-received. I want to apologize for that, since it seems to be so conflicting for some people, but I won't. Here's a little bit of Nick action, too. And yes, he does become a much more prominent figure later.
Chapter Four: Between Rocks and Hard Places
Greg closed his eyes and tried to pretend, if only for a moment, that he was holding Neil because he wanted to, because he needed the contact, that closeness, because they both did. He tried to pretend that he was holding Neil just for the sake of holding him. Tried to pretend that no one needed to be comforted, or soothed, or kept from falling off the bed in a fever dream.
He tried to pretend that Neil wasn't sick.
It almost worked.
But it was impossible for this delusion to last more than a few seconds, with the soaked sheets and the trembling form of the man who had supported Greg through so much was trying like a dying leaf to cling to a frigid branch. The heart that had been so strong and open and warm was now killing him, slowly, with every beat that took a millisecond longer. He was always just one beat away from the darkness, from leaving Greg alone to face the world by himself again. And Greg couldn't do that.
All of the things he had gotten through in the past two years, he had done with Neil by his side. Who would stand by his side now?
Greg closed his eyes even tighter and his grip on the trembling Neil constricted.
"Can't… don't want this… anymore…" Neil breathed.
"Just keep taking the pills, babe..." Greg whispered, remembering when Neil used to call him that. "Maybe, if we're lucky, we'll get a transplant…"
"Wait for someone to die so I can live," Neil panted, bitterly. "Selfish, isn't it?"
"People die every day," Greg whispered.
"I'm an organ donor," Neil said, his voice shaky. "A lot of good my tired old organs will do folks, huh?" He was biting back tears. Greg could hear it in his voice.
"Do you remember when I read your palm?" Greg asked, slowly.
He felt Neil laugh, or perhaps he was coughing, Greg couldn't tell the difference anymore. "That bullshit about strong hearts and long lives?"
Greg closed his eyes and entangled his hand in Neil's hair. "No," he said, stubbornly. "I saw what I saw. Nana Olaf taught me how to read, and she was always right. And I've always been right, too."
"Then you lied to me," said Neil simply. "You didn't see what you said you saw."
Greg pulled away from him to look at him. "Let me see your palm," he said.
And Neil gave it to him, looking down at the hand Greg held with sad eyes. Greg ran his fingertips over the familiar surface, trying to focus, trying to remember all of the things his grandmother had taught him about palmistry and the stories a person's hand could tell.
He ran the fingertip of his index finger across the lifeline, which was solid and swooping, but then he came to a break in it, so small that he hadn't seen it before. He used his thumbs to pull at the skin and saw that it was a definite break, surrounded by four smaller lines that made a square. And after the break, the line didn't continue all the way to Neil's wrist.
Greg traced the break in the line, his mouth partially open. Despite everything that doctors and tests had told him, he had still somehow been able to cling to the hope that maybe Neil could recover, through treatment and rest, and maybe, if he was very lucky, a transplant. But now that he saw it written in lines across skin, a cold wind rushed over him.
"I should have looked more closely…" Greg said quietly.
"Why?" Neil asked. "Would you have stayed, if you'd known?"
Greg looked up, horrified at the accusation, but he didn't deny it.
Neil yanked his hand away and cradled it against his chest. "It's stupid superstition, Greg. The lines in your palm are formed based on your own movement, how you use it. You make your own lines, Greg. You're telling me you actually believe this bullshit?"
"My nana was always right…" Greg whispered. "When you know someone who constantly gets it right, who constantly knows things that she shouldn't logically know, then what else can you do but believe?"
Neil sniffed and shook his head. "Believe in what you can see and hear and touch, Greg. Because that's all there is. You're a scientist. You should know that."
"There's something else, too," Greg returned, defensively. "There has to be. Humans only have five senses, but who says there are only five different things in the world to sense? We can't hear things that dogs can. Can't see things that insects can. There's so much beyond the world we know, Neil—"
"Stop it!" Neil finally yelled, slamming his palms against his ears. "Stop talking like that, it's not helping! I'm dying, Greg, and I'm scared, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's false hope. You keep telling me that I'll get better, but I know I won't. You say that there's something more in this world that we don't understand, but there isn't. This is all we have. This is all there is. My palm doesn't tell you anything about me or my life. Don't you see? You made it all up! You saw what you wanted to see. Everything you told me about myself, you already knew. That I was stubborn, that I had a big heart, all of that was you, Greg, not me. So just stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it…" He trailed off into sobs, his eyes closed as he brought his knees up to his chest.
And again, Greg suffered that disconnect. He saw his lover wailing, in pain, lost and afraid and all alone, and he knew that he should reach out to him, to comfort him, to be there for him, but he couldn't. He didn't feel anything at all. He knew then that Neil had been wrong when he'd called Greg a better person than he was. Because through everything that Greg had been through, Neil had been there. He had always been there, and now, when Neil needed him most, Greg could not be there for him.
And then, Neil moved. He crawled over to Greg and buried his face in Greg's chest. Greg knew that he shouldn't have needed to do that. Greg should have come to him. Greg wrapped his arms around Neil again and stroked his hair.
"I'm sorry…" Neil breathed.
"You don't have to apologize for anything," Greg replied.
"You're so patient with me," said Neil. "And I repay you by yelling at you… and throwing things at your head. Some boyfriend I am…"
Greg sighed as he continued to hold Neil, kissing the crown of his head.
"Greg?" Neil said after a moment.
"Mm?"
"I l-love…"
A phone started ringing and Greg inhaled sharply. He released his grip on Neil and rolled onto his back, reaching for the phone and answering it, his voice sounding strangely far away. "Sanders."
"Hey, Greg," came the dulcet tones of Catherine Willows. "I know you've been asking for overtime, so how about you come in a little early tonight? It's flu season, and everyone else is sick in bed, so I convinced Ecklie to let me call you in. What do you say?"
Greg glanced back at Neil, who was shivering in the bed, looking so small tangled in those sheets. Hospital bills, red letter warnings, and bank loans flashed before his vision. He pursed his lips, momentarily conflicted, but it didn't take long for him to make a decision.
"Thanks Catherine, you have no idea how helpful that will be. I'll be right in." He hung up.
"You have to go?" Neil's voice was painfully timid.
Greg rolled back onto his side to face him. "You know we need the money."
"I thought you got a loan…"
"I did, but I still have to make rent," Greg explained. "And, you know, eventually pay off that loan."
"It's my fault… Greg, why do you do this for me?"
Greg was disturbed by the fact that he didn't have an answer. He knew that Neil was dying, regardless of whatever he tried to do to stop that. His efforts, and the efforts of modern medicine, were useless. He couldn't help Neil short of stealing someone else's heart and sewing it up inside his lover's chest. For a moment, he even considered it. Dr. Robbins had several cadavers he never checked post-autopsy.
Greg shook his head to clear it. No corpse's heart could replace the one he held so tightly in his hands.
"You deserve it," Greg said after a moment, trying not to tremble as he ran his hand through Neil's hair.
"I should have done more…" Neil panted. "With my life."
Greg leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against Neil's. "You've done plenty. You've been all over the world, you're a successful journalist—"
"You," Neil interrupted, "are the best thing that I've ever done."
Greg forced a smile. "Well, I am pretty good in bed," he admitted, tears welling in his eyes.
Neil laughed, but it was raspy and turned into a cough. "I miss laughing," Neil said, "and my chest hurts all the time… and I know that there's nothing left for me here, and yet I can't help but think of all the things…" He started coughing again, and Greg waited for him to finish. "You should go to Sri Lanka, Greg. Don't put it off. You'd enjoy it. Go with… go with someone you love."
"I want to go with you," Greg said, unable to keep the tremble in his voice. "You promised you wouldn't leave me…"
"Not without saying goodbye," Neil said with a sad smile.
"I'm going to take you to the hospital when I come home, OK?" Greg whispered. "There will always be someone with you there. They'll know how to make you more comfortable."
"I'm comfortable here. I like your place, the smells, the bed, and you… Will you hold me at the hospital?"
"Anytime, babe," Greg promised. "But right now, I have to go. You rest. Play… play your Nintendo. Relax."
"Wait to die…" Neil breathed.
Greg said nothing because a lump formed in his throat, successfully stopping him from saying anything. He kissed Neil's clammy forehead. "Sweet dreams, babe," he said, before he left for work.
Greg focused on the road, grinding his teeth and gripping the wheel tightly as Nick sulked in the front seat and stared out the window.
"Couldn't have sent Riley?"
"She's knee deep in another case right now," Nick mumbled. His nose was blocked, and it definitely showed in his voice.
"But Catherine has to be—"
"Doin' paperwork," Nick interrupted. "And sneezing all over it."
"Langston?" Greg suggested.
"Conference," Nick replied. "So they sent me."
"You could have said no…" Greg mumbled.
"Catherine said I was her last hope," Nick mumbled, right before he sneezed into his hands. "I wasn't even going to come in today."
"Trust me, I wouldn't be here either, if I had the choice," Greg said. "We all have places we'd rather be, Nick."
"Yeah, but you need the money," said Nick, and if Greg wasn't already annoyed, he would have been shocked at the Texan's blatant insensitivity. "I was just trying to be nice."
"Well, you're not being very nice now, are you?" Greg snapped as he pulled up to the scene, which was a body dump behind a night club. They both got out of the car and Nick folded his arms and popped the collar of his jacket to keep the wind out.
"I'm always nice," he muttered bitterly as Greg walked past him. "I wouldn't be here at all if Catherine hadn't guilted me into it."
"Well then that's guilt, isn't it?" Greg returned. "Not niceness."
Detective Vega approached them and let them know what was going on. "The call was made by the nightclub owner. One of her employees found the body in the back."
"Her?" Nick asked.
"What, you never heard of a woman owning a night club before?" Greg snapped, bitterly.
Nick frowned. "What's wrong with you today?"
"Nothing," Greg mumbled, then turned to Vega. "What else do you know?"
"Victim is a Jane Doe," Vega went on, slowly, glancing from Greg to Nick. "Her purse was gone, and so was any means of identification. By the looks of her clothes, I'd say she was at the club at some point in the evening…"
Vega kept talking but Greg's focus wavered. A flash of Neil, alone and in pain back at the apartment appeared before his eyes, and he couldn't listen to what Vega was saying. Still, he nodded, and kept up appearances, hoping that Nick was catching whatever he missed.
By the time Greg's focus returned, they were walking over towards a dumpster, and Nick was mumbling things Greg decided he'd rather not hear. And then, they arrived at the dumpster, and both of them stopped.
"Well, there she is," said Nick, nodding at the dumpster.
"There she is," Greg agreed.
"You gonna go get her?"
He blinked. "What, me?"
"I have seniority."
"Oh, no," said Greg, shaking his head. "No, I have done my fair share of dumpster dives in the past. I have already gone through the CSI hazing rituals, OK, I think it's your turn to smell like old pizza and sour milk for a change."
"I'm sick," Nick said, emphasizing this with a sniff as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"So, what, the world stops turning?" Greg returned, fury bubbling in his stomach. But he threw his hands into the air and pulled on his gloves. "Fine," he said, gritting his teeth. "I'll jump into the pile of garbage."
He seized the edge of the dumpster and hoisted himself up and over, landing with a crash on top of something soggy. He ignored it as he got a good look at the body and took a few pictures. A fly landed on her upper lip and crawled into one of her nostrils.
Greg diligently collected the evidence, finding trace of a clear liquid on her fingers. Looking closely at her lips, he noticed two distinct colors and made note of it, taking samples of each. Most of it was just routine, however. Another body, more evidence to collect, and they would bring her killer to justice.
But what about those who had their life stolen from them, but there was no one to blame? Who could Greg bring to justice and gain peace of mind when Neil died? What would it be like to lose him? Neil was the longest relationship Greg had ever maintained, and now something was taking him away from Greg. It would be a lot quieter, after he was gone. Greg wouldn't have to worry about anymore hospital bills, or paying for treatments. He wouldn't have to talk to Dr. Norton about alternative methods or transplants. He wouldn't be in and out of hospitals. He would be able to pay the rent.
"Greg!" Nick's voice screamed, jarring the younger man from his thoughts. "Are you done in there? You're taking forever!"
Greg exhaled sharply through his nose, drawing comfort from the fact that it was something that Nick couldn't do at the moment.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Greg snapped back, climbing over the rim of the dumpster. "What did David say about… all that stuff?"
"Can't determine COD here, but he said that it might be asphyxia," Nick explained. He went on to discuss other things he'd learned from the assistant coroner, as well as what he had found looking around the dumpster and at the perimeter, which wasn't very much. "So can we get back to the lab now, because I really need to lie down."
"Oh, suck it up," Greg grumbled, putting the evidence he'd collected into his kit.
"Hey, I know we're both in bad moods here, but I'm sick, OK, so why don't you just give me a break?" Nick said.
"You're not sick, you're just lazy," Greg returned, snapping his kit shut.
"I seem to recall you moaning and groaning when Grissom called you in and you were sick as a dog!"
"That was a long time ago."
"And that makes it different?" Nick sighed, clearly frustrated. "Don't be a hypocrite."
Greg rose quickly to his feet. "I am not being a hypocrite!"
"My nose is clogged, I can barely make sure my 'M's' don't sound like 'B's'!" Nick cried. "I'm dizzy, my head hurts—I mean, what if this comes up in court? They could throw out the case on the grounds of I was too sick to see straight!"
"Well that obviously won't happen since I'm the one that collected all the evidence!" Greg yelled. "You don't know what being sick is, OK, so just suck it up."
He tried to walk past Nick, towards the car, where hopefully they could both calm down a little, but Nick caught his arm and he spun Greg around.
"What's the matter with you?" Nick asked, not angry anymore, his voice a quiet but serious sort of perplexed.
Greg yanked his arm furiously out of Nick's grip. "You can't be that sick and feeble with a grip like that!" he snapped, before whipping around and marching off to the car.
"Greg!" Nick called at him, and when he didn't respond, Nick screamed louder. "Greg!"
"Bite me!" Greg returned before he slammed the car and turned the key in the ignition. For a moment, he actually considered driving off an abandoning Nick at the scene, but he still had enough good judgment left in him to know that was a bad idea.
He heard the trunk door open and slam and then Nick entered into the passenger's seat.
"You forgot your kit," Nick said, snidely.
Greg shook his head, not caring an ounce about what he'd forgotten (or tried to forget) at the crime scene. "There are times, Nick, when you just really drive me crazy," he said quietly.
"I get that," said Nick. "And ditto, by the way. You think you're always easy to work with?"
Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared out of the windshield, stress clouding his mind, and he lost reality for a moment, in that way his mind liked to do, where everything outside of his head was hazy and foggy, but his mind was clear, and he was alone, and it was quiet.
Until Nick shattered the quiet with one word. "Greg?"
"What?!" Greg snapped, making Nick recoil.
Nick gestured out the windshield. "Are you going to drive, or what?"
There was no reason for it to happen at all. No trigger, or catalyst, or anything beyond Nick's simple question, but at that very moment, Greg's grip on the wheel tightened and his throat constricted and he couldn't breathe, and the next thing he knew, his forehead was leaning against the wheel, and he was shaking and gasping for air, and the leather of the steering wheel was moist.
It took him a very long time to realize that he was crying. But when he did realize this, he couldn't stop it. He tried to control it, like he tried to control everything else in the world around him but failed, miserably, and so instead allowed the cool tears to blaze trails down his hot cheeks and fall onto his knees. He was holding the steering wheel now as if for dear life, so tightly his knuckles were turning white, but he couldn't let go.
And then, Greg became aware of a strong, comforting hand on the back of his neck, gently squeezing, reassuringly. He tried to listen for any sound outside of his own sobbing, but heard nothing.
And then, his throat miraculously opened up again and he gasped for air. He was dehydrated, without a drop left in him to spare, and his head was pounding. As he rested there, his head still against the wheel, gulping down breaths of air, he felt as if an immense pressure had been lifted.
The hand on his neck slid to his shoulder, and he heard Nick lean across the gear shift until Greg could feel his breath against his arm.
"What was that?"
Still breathing heavily, Greg turned his head and lifted his eyes to meet Nick's. They were warm and chocolaty, a stark contrast from Neil's arctic blue ones. Rather than make him feel guilty, like Neil's gaze, Nick's eyes succeeded in soothing Greg, making him feel at ease, like he'd felt in the days before Vilmer's Disease slowly began to steal the man he loved.
But even just looking into Nick's eyes at such a vulnerable moment felt like the cruelest of infidelities, so he turned abruptly away and stared at his knees.
"I'm having… some difficulties…" he panted. It was the most honest answer he was willing to give.
"It's more than that," said Nick, sniffing.
Greg pushed the Texan away. "Get away from me. I can't afford to catch your cold."
To Greg's surprise, Nick mutely obeyed, pulling away from him and leaning back in his seat. And then, after a moment, "Maybe I should drive."
Greg leaned back in his chair and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "No, I'm fine now. Besides, you're… sick. You shouldn't drive. You might sneeze and get us in an accident." He tried to smile. He tried as hard as he could.
Again, Nick didn't protest. He simply turned to look out the window as Greg put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, trying to gather what was left of his dignity.
"It would… probably be best if you don't mention this," Greg said, trying to keep his grip on the wheel steady.
Nick said nothing in reply, and Greg momentarily wondered if the Texan was purposefully ignoring him. He sighed. He could deal with Nick's silence better than he could deal with his questions, but Greg did not like the quiet. He contemplated turning on the radio. His hand even twitched, ready to go in that direction. But for reasons unbeknownst to Greg, at least consciously, he did not turn it on.
"It's someone else, isn't it?" Nick said, breaking their long silence.
Greg's grip on the wheel tightened. "There's only you and me right now, Nick."
"I mean…" He shifted in his seat. "The money that you need, the insurance that won't cover you… it's for someone else."
Greg said nothing. He just tried to concentrate on his driving, and keeping his breathing normal. Nick turned away again and looked out the window, apparently giving up.
"His name is Neil," Greg said at last, surprising himself and making Nick turn to face him. "And yes. He's… very sick."
Nick seemed to contemplate his next question very carefully. "How do you… I mean, who is he? To you?"
Greg knew that the question would come eventually. He tried to think about the best way to put it. "A friend." But the word seemed to cheapen their relationship. "A… very best friend."
"You pay all your friends' hospital bills?"
"I would have paid yours," Greg said, without thinking. He realized what he'd said and hesitated before saying, "I mean, never mind."
"You would pay my hospital bills?" Nick asked, quietly.
Greg sighed. "If you couldn't. If it were you, and you couldn't… pay…"
"How bad is it?" Nick asked. "Your friend."
Greg turned into the lot. "We're here," he said, ignoring the question.
"Hey, Greg…" Nick began, awkwardly. "I'm sorry if I seemed… self-centered earlier. I didn't… I didn't know."
"I know you didn't," said Greg with a smile. "Just drop it."
Nick nodded. "OK," he said.
Everything they had spoken about they left behind in that car. Neither of them said another word about it for the rest of the night.
Greg came home to find Neil in the kitchen, leaning on the counter for support as he made himself a sandwich. Greg immediately rushed to his side, wrapping his arms around Neil from behind and the journalist fell backwards into him.
"What are you doing?" Greg asked. "You shouldn't be out of bed."
"I was hungry," Neil said, on the verge of being defensive. He leaned forward and away from Greg. "And you weren't here."
"I have to work…" Greg said, feeling guilty nonetheless. "You know that, babe."
Neil said nothing, but he did nod. He raised the knife and stuck it in the jar of mayonnaise. His hand was shaking so much the knife rattled against the glass like a bell, until Greg reached out and seized Neil's wrist in his own.
The journalist dropped the knife and hung his head, gripping the edge of the counter as he leaned on it.
"Let me do that for you," Greg said, trying to keep his voice low and patient, his hands sliding back to hold Neil's bony hips. He leaned forward and planted a soft, dry kiss on Neil's neck. "You go to bed and I'll bring it to you."
"I'm tired of lying in bed," Neil murmured, one of his hands covering one of Greg's on his hip.
"You're burning up, babe," said Greg. "Where are your pills?"
"Dunno," said Neil, and then after a beat, "Bathroom."
Greg's hands climbed up Neil's sides and made the journalist turn around. Greg's hands came up to cup his face, his thumbs running over the newly prominent cheek bones, his eyes taking in the strange new nose. He made a mental map of this new face, the one that did not belong to the man he knew, and he tried to love it. He tried very hard.
"Why don't you go to bed? I'll bring you a sandwich and your pills."
"I've been thinking," said Neil. "You should take me to the hospital today."
Greg was mildly surprise at his decision. "If that's what you want…"
"It is," said Neil. "Because it'll help you."
Greg felt the familiar guilt twist his stomach again. "It'll help you," he insisted.
"Maybe so, maybe not," Neil compromised. "But for sure, it will help you. You won't have to worry about leaving me alone anymore." He smiled, and for the moment, he looked like the old Neil, the one who'd had the bold tenacity to hit on Greg and pursue him during a murder investigation. The one who would stay up all night, with one arm looped around Greg's shoulders as he held a game controller and Greg watched, his head on Neil's lap, as the journalist shot at zombies or sliced up aliens or caught fairies in bottles.
Greg sighed and let his hands fall away from Neil's sunken face. "Well, at least take your pills first," he said, walking towards the bathroom. When he got there, he opened up the medicine cabinet and took out the pill bottle, noting that the "refill by" date was coming up soon. So he was very disturbed to find the bottle more than halfway full.
"Neil?" he called into the empty apartment. When he exited the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.
Neil was leaning against the cabinet doors, his head onto his side, and he was sweating much more than he had been before Greg left. Greg sprinted to him and kneeled down beside him, calling his name, forcing his head up again and Neil's eyes fluttered.
"I think… it's happening…" he breathed, with a strange smile on his face. "My chest… it hurts… different than… the normal hurting…"
Greg was horrified. "You haven't been taking the pills, have you?"
"Only made me… afraid of you…" Neil panted, closing his eyes again. "Made me throw up. Made me dream that you weren't real… Had to… stop… it…"
Greg exhaled, absolutely helpless. He gathered Neil up in his arms, holding him tightly, and swung his arms beneath his knees. "We need to get you to the hospital. Fast."