Author's Note: Nearly done writing this. Almost there. Keep reviewing, love the stuff, you all are fabulous.

Chapter 14: Beyond Our Wildest Dreams

The days dribbled into weeks and Greg trudged through them, managing to continue on. And as he put distance between himself and Neil's funeral, he began to look upon his lover's column as a source of comfort rather than a source of grief. He read them frequently as the weeks passed, drinking in the words like ambrosia and treasuring the scrapbook like a bible. For a long time, Nick slept by his side, and once or twice Greg had considered trying to move on, give Nick what he wanted and reward his friend for his patience, but he still found that he couldn't. He still felt that it would be unfair.

"I think you should go home tomorrow," Greg whispered one day, staring at the ceiling as he lay in bed.

He heard Nick put down his book beside him. "You're sure?"

Greg turned his head to look at him and noticed that Nick's reading glasses had slid down his nose. The Texan was looking at him over the top of them. "Yeah, I am," said Greg.

Nick watched him a moment before he nodded. "If that's what you think is best, Greg."

"It is," Greg assured him. "I do."

The temptation gets stronger everyday, he thought to himself. But I'm not ready. I can't be ready. Not yet.

Nick said nothing. He just picked up his book, pushed up his glasses and shrugged. "OK, then. I'm gone tomorrow."

Greg stared at him. He had expected more resistance than this. Nick had lived with him for over a month now and he wasn't willing to protest, or say that it was in Greg's best interest that he stayed?

"I mean, you could stay if you like…" Greg said feebly, in an attempt to elicit something from his friend.

"I'll do whatever you want, Greg," Nick said, not taking his eyes away from his book.

Greg rolled over onto his shoulder, facing Nick. "Well, do you want to stay?"

Nick's eyes continued to follow the text in his book. "I want what you want," he mumbled.

"Want something for yourself for a change," Greg spat, angry for no real reason, and he turned around onto his other side, hugged the covers and stared at the wall.

"Is something wrong, Greg?"

"Yeah," Greg grumbled. "Yeah, you're suffocating me."

There was silence and Greg tensed, wishing he could see Nick's face. He heard the book snap closed and Nick sighed.

"I see."

"No, stop saying that," Greg grumbled. "Stop saying that you see, that you understand…" He hugged the covers even tighter. "You don't understand anything."

He heard movement on the other side of the bed, and then the light switched off. "I'll be gone tomorrow," said Nick quietly. "You won't even notice me leaving."

And then, they were left in a cold silence and Greg's stomach lurched.

At least now he'll be leaving, he thought bitterly to himself. You're one smooth talker, Greg Sanders.

"You're going about it all wrong," Neil said, laughing as he came up behind Greg and gripped his wrist, smoothly stirring the gravy. "You have to keep in constant motion, or else there's clumps." He pecked Greg on the cheek. "You don't want clumps, do you?"

Greg's face flushed red. "Give me a break, I've never done this before."

"Cooking's all chemistry, Greg," Neil said, still guiding Greg's wrist in smooth, circular motions. "I would have thought someone like you would take to it like a duck to water."

"Ducks don't take kindly to water when they first hatch, actually," said Greg.

Neil laughed, and Greg felt it against his back. "Well, that's why I said duck, not duckling, didn't I? Which reminds me—have you checked on the bird?"

"How long do they normally cook for?" Greg asked.

"Mm, depends on the bird," said Neil, pulling away slowly. He hit Greg lightly in the hip with a spatula. "Move, you're in my way."

"You're in my way," Greg returned, but stepped to the side at any rate, letting go of the whisk.

"What are you doing?" Neil cried as Greg watched him open the oven. "What did I say about constant motion, Greg!"

"What, I can leave it alone for two seconds while you look at the turkey?" Greg returned.

Neil's lips twitched as he closed the oven door. "Can't even allow yourself two seconds, Greg. You could ruin the whole meal."

Greg's heart lurched. "But what if I need a break."

"You can't afford a break, Greg, you're the head chef now," Neil said, taking up the whisk and stirring. "Unless you want your friend Nick to come in and rescue you. Save the day. Is that it? Would you rather Nick was here, stirring this gravy, instead of me?"

"Shut up…" Greg muttered, rubbing his arms.

"You let go of the whisk, Greg," Neil said, his smile disappearing. "You were doing great. Making the perfect last meal, and then you just let it go. Do you know what happens when you let go of the whisk?"

To demonstrate a point, Neil theatrically took his hand away and let the gravy settle.

"Don't—" Greg began nervously.

The pot began bubbling and soon it boiled over, but what came out wasn't gravy at all, but thick simmering blood which poured over the sides of the pot like a volcano and Neil just stood back and watched.

"I just wanted to give you the perfect meal…" Greg whispered as the blood drizzled onto the floor. He made a dash for the pot and turned off the heat, seizing the whisk so fast he knocked the pot over and the bubbling hot crimson concoction splashed all over his shirt, his jeans, his shoes, and he smelled his flesh burning but couldn't feel anything.

He stared at the blood on his hands, then looked up at Neil, who managed a sad smile.

"Aw, silly," he said. "Now look what you've gone and done?"

Greg's gaze returned to his hands and then refocused to see something bulky and bloody at his feet. The pot of blood had landed on it, drenching it in scorching red and Greg stared right into the glassy eyes set in a porcelain white face.

He nearly choked on his own vomit. "Nick—!"

Greg awoke with a start, breathing rapidly and staring up at his ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart. It took a few moments for the goose bumps to disappear, but when they did, Greg turned to the opposite side of his bed.

True to his word, Nick was gone.

Greg heaved a tired sigh, then slowly slipped out from beneath the covers and rubbed the crusty sleep from his eyes. A quick sweep of the bedroom told him that Nick had taken all of his things with him when he had left that evening. Entering the living room, he saw nothing there either. He did find a pot of coffee brewed in the kitchen, but other than that, there was no sign that Nick had been there at all.

Greg poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned around and looked at his empty apartment, suddenly feeling very alone.

But he had asked for this. So he took a sip of his coffee, and tried to be grateful.

Nick kept his distance from Greg for a while after that, and the younger man knew that it was because he'd used the word 'suffocating' the last time they had spoken. His stomach twisted with the tiniest amount of guilt about that, but he'd been dealing with that emotion for so long that he had become rather adept at dismissing it.

Greg took a deep breath and went in to see Hodges at his microscope, who looked up upon his entrance. He had a smudge of black under his left eye as he scrutinized Greg.

"Do you want something?" he asked bluntly.

Greg wiped his own cheekbone. "You have something…"

Hodges frowned at him, then rubbed beneath his right eye.

"No, other side," said Greg.

Hodges switched sides and rubbed at it. "Baseball earlier today," he said. "Guess I missed some of it."

Greg almost laughed. "You play baseball? Seriously?"

"I'm the best right fielder in our league," said Hodges, holding his head up proudly.

"Sure you are. Is anyone in your league good enough to hit a ball all the way out into right field, or do you just sleep on your feet the whole time?"

"What would you know, Sanders," Hodges spat.

But it made Greg think of something. "Emily Cruise," he said suddenly.

"No, I'm David Hodges," the tech said slowly.

Greg gave him an annoyed look. "I know who you are. No… no, Emily Cruise, from the Connelly case. When we talked to her, she rubbed her eye and smudged chalk on her cheek…" He grinned. "Thanks, Hodges!" he said.

"Well, I don't know what I did, but clearly whatever it was—"

But Greg ran off before he could finish, in search of Nick.

"You're welcome!" he heard Hodges' irritated voice cry after him.

He wheeled around the corner and nearly ran right into Nick, who was talking to Catherine. Both of them looked up at him as he caught his breath.

"Oh good, you're here!" he cried.

"What's up, Greg?" Nick asked, closing a file he had been showing to Catherine.

"Chalk!" Greg exclaimed triumphantly.

Nick and Catherine exchanged looks.

"That sounds like a code word to me," said Catherine. "I'll leave you two to chat."

Nick opened his mouth to protest, but she was already walking away. He turned instead to Greg.

"What about chalk?" he asked.

"Emily Cruise had chalk on her hands when Brass interviewed her," Greg explained.

"Yeah, and?" Nick prompted. "She was teaching a rock climbing class at the time. She was a colleague of—"

"Connelly's ex-wife's new husband! Richard Davies!" Greg finished for him. "She was never a suspect because she never knew Connelly, right? And she was the one who told Brass that Mr. and the new Mrs. Davies were in Hawaii, am I right?"

"You are," said Nick. "But I still don't see how chalk makes her a suspect. Just because there was some at the scene—"

"When she said Davies' name," Greg went on. "She didn't call him Richard, like everyone else. She called him Ricky. Ricky."

"So?"

"The only other person who ever called him Ricky was his wife," Greg told him. "Emily was in love with him."

"Ah…" Nick said, beginning to understand. "You think she was having an affair with Davies?"

"Maybe so, maybe not, the point is, he didn't marry her, did he?" Greg said. "He married Maggie Connelly. That's gotta burn a girl, don't you think?"

"Yeah, maybe," Nick agreed.

"So you said yourself that the newlyweds were in Hawaii, right?" Greg breathed. "And yet, evidence blaming them came up everywhere, didn't it? What better way to punish the both of them? Take away her ex-husband, and frame them both for murder?!"

"So she had nothing against Connelly at all…" Nick muttered. "He was just—"

"A necessary casualty," Greg finished for him, way too excited than was probably healthy. He seized Nick's arms. "We've got it, Nicky!"

A small smile took over Nick's features and his eyes almost sparkled. His arms rose beneath Greg's. "Yeah, we've got it."

Greg's smile faded, and he suddenly pulled away from Nick, his eyes darting around in the hallways. "I'm sorry. I just got a little overexcited."

Nick gave a small chortle, but then there was a strange awkward silence that nestled between them. Nick took a deep breath. "Greg, I know you said that I was—"

"No," Greg interrupted. "Please, I just… don't want to talk about that here."

"I just wanted to say—"

"Don't say anything," Greg interrupted.

"Is it so wrong of me to say that—"

"Nick," Greg said sharply.

The Texan paused. "I miss you," he finished.

Greg chewed on his lip and looked down. He fiddled with his hands. "I just… think that I should try being alone for a while, you know? I can't… I haven't been. Alone, I mean. Not for a long time, and when Neil…" He looked up sharply. "When Neil died, it was… impossible. For me to stay alone. I needed you. I can't keep depending on you, Nick."

The Texan smiled. "Does that mean you miss me too?"

Warmth flooded Greg's body and he shrugged. "Maybe a little. But I think this is good for me. To remember how to live by myself for a while, without someone holding my hand."

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I think you're right."

Greg crouched down on his favorite outcropping, watching the sun set over the curve of the earth way out there in the desert. He had fond memories of this place. Things were peaceful here, and it allowed him to think. The last time he'd come here, Neil had been alive, and he had found solace in the vastness. It soothed him greatly and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Someone knelt down beside him and cast a stone over the edge of the cliff.

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

Greg nodded absently. "You're back."

"I never left."

Greg fiddled with his hands. "No, you didn't, did you?" He looked out across the barren orange desert and saw dark clouds bloom out of the horizon like foreboding flowers from snow. "I read your column."

Beside him, Neil sighed. "I wrote it for you."

"No, you didn't," said Greg. "You said things there that you never told me about. You said that… you said you knew I loved you."

"I always knew, Greg," said Neil. "So did Nick. The only person who didn't know it was you."

Greg nodded. "This is a dream, isn't it?"

"Well, I hardly think you believe in ghosts," Neil replied. "I suppose that a dream is probably the best explanation."

Greg watched as the clouds cloaked the sky, consuming the sun. "Most of my dreams aren't this quiet. Not the ones with you in them, at any rate."

"Well, then, I suppose that's an argument for the 'not a dream' option," said Neil.

"It's a dream," Greg whispered. "I may be having nightmares lately, but there's no way that real life could ever feel this perfect."

"Oh, there's a way," Neil assured him, also watching the spreading clouds. "You just won't let yourself see it."

Greg frowned, then turned away from the horizon to stare at Neil. "What are you talking about?"

"It's the same old dance, isn't it?" Neil returned with a wry smile, his eyes still on the expanding clouds. "You're behaving exactly the same way you did with me. Playing hard to get. Refusing to admit anything. Keeping cautious. Making calculated choices. Honestly, Greg, did my death teach you nothing?"

Greg slowly shook his head. "Sense is starting to fade… Yup, this is definitely a dream."

Neil let out a loud guffaw. "You won't ever learn. I think it's fairly apparent that you're so damn set in your ways, you'll never see the chances that are presented to you, and you'll never seize them. I guess if you're happy with the way things are, then so am I. I'm happy if you are." Neil rose to his feet and nodded at the horizon. "Storm's a-brewing. You might want to grab your umbrella."

He smiled, and just as he did, the clouds broke and Greg was doused with a heavy deluge of icy water which successfully soaked him thoroughly. He tried to navigate his way in the sudden rain and lost his balance, falling over the edge of the cliff and into a deep ocean where he struggled to swim his way to the surface. It was dark above, with the occasional crack of lightning, but he swam anyway, as fast as he could, trying to break the surface.

When he finally did, it was with a gasp of air and he blinked and squinted until he saw trees in the distance, and a shoreline where there was a dock, and someone was waving at him with flares in their hands. Greg headed towards it, swimming freestyle, one hand over the other, his legs kicking like a boat engine. It took what felt like forever, but he kept swimming, faster and faster. He still couldn't make out who the shadow waving at him was, but something caught his foot and pulled him beneath the surface so fast, he didn't have time to swallow any air, and he spluttered as his lungs contracted and burned, his chest feeling heavy, his eyes closed…

When Greg's eyes opened, he was drenched in icy sweat which saturated his sheets. His mouth opened and closed as he stared at the ceiling, gulping down mouthfuls of sweet, fresh air. He felt as if he actually had fallen into some murky body of water, and he certainly had the goose bumps to prove it.

The dream was still vivid in his mind's eye, which was rare. Generally, Greg only remembered bits and pieces of his dreams, but this… he recalled every word, every detail, every drop of rain…

He sat up and then bent over, burying his face in his hands. These dreams were bad. They generally warned him of tragedies to come, but they were never specific. The last time he'd had a dream like this had been a few days before Warrick was shot. He had ignored it then, because the only time his dreams had been that vivid before was before his grandmother's death years ago, and he dismissed it as a fluke. But twice in a row, something had tried to tell him of impending doom, and here was a third dream, unmistakable in its point, and Greg couldn't ignore it this time.

He wouldn't.