Nick blinks at the woman before him.  "You wish to hire me to do
what?"  He's not a governess.  He's a medical student and an
amateur artist.  He'd thought, actually, that this position might
have something to do with using the former to improve the latter --
more realistic sculptures done by the famous and mysterious L.
Bass.

"Take care of my son, Mr. Carter."

"In what way, Mrs. Bass?"  Nick is confused.  He hadn't heard that
Mr. Bass was in need of medical attention.  And if he were, he
could easily hire the best doctors.

"You know what my son does, obviously.  From his work and his
reputation.  What you probably don't know is that he was recently
injured in a freak accident.  To put it shortly, he's blind.  The
doctors have no prognosis of his ever being able to regain his
sight.  My son is accustomed to a high degree of independence.  He
needs someone to help him with his daily life."

"I... see.  And what would I be responsible for doing, in this
position?"  Nick can barely afford to eat.  He knows that if he
does not take this job, or find another soon, he will soon be on
the street.  Still.  There are some things he will not do.

Mrs. Bass smiles tightly.  "Therein lies the problem and our reason
for wishing to interview you.  My son needs desperately to return
to his artistic pursuits, but he is hampered by his inability to
see as well as his inability to accept that.  His father and I
believe that, due to his desire to return to his work, he will
accept an assistant, as he has occasionally done in the past for a
particularly promising student or when he has taken on a project
that requires additional hands.  And if it happens that you can
help him with more than that," she spreads her hands and smiles.

Nick raises his chin slightly.  "I see."  Though he doesn't,
actually.  "I would be interested in such a position."

"Very good.  Your references are excellent and your background
quite unexceptionable.  We're prepared to offer a reasonable
salary, along with, of course, room and board."

"And this is a position that would run for as long as needed? 
Providing, of course, that I prove acceptable in the probationary
period."

Mrs. Bass nods.  "Providing all parties are satisfied with the
arrangement, yes."

Nick takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.  "I will take the
position, provided I am allowed to have three hours free on
Tuesdays and Thursdays to attend medical lectures.  I will forfeit
any other time off for this privilege."  Though there has to be
more to it.  Such as the fact that Mr. Bass is nowhere to be seen,
and possibly doesn't even know of these proceedings.  Nick will
probably be expected to empty bedpans and change linens and a dozen
other things.  However, with room and board, he will be able to
afford his schooling.

"That's quite acceptable," she says.  She stands up.  "Thank you
very much, Mr. Carter."

He rises as well.  "You are most welcome, Mrs. Bass."

She smiles at the nice young man as he leaves and hopes for the
best.  Young Nick Carter is full of life and enthusiasm and hope. 
Things Lance had once had in abundance as well.  She hopes Nick can
help him find them again.

~~~~

Lance is suspicious when his parents are suddenly accommodating of
his desire to move away from their house and back to his studio. 
Ever since The Accident, they -- mostly his mother, to be
completely fair -- have been politely, but firmly, keeping him away
from it.  It's only a short distance across town and he *knows* he
would be better off there.  He could adjust on his own.  Or at
least not have to be in the presence of their constant pity and the
funeral silence.  He could create, and thus give an outlet to his
feelings.

There are so many good reasons for him to return to his studio --
and yet his mother has been against it.  And without her
assistance, he has been unable to go.  He cannot walk across the
city.  He can't even cross a street.  His chances of being run over
by a hackney are considerably greater than his chances of engaging
one.  If he had any idea where his money is.  If he has any here.

And yet his mother has changed her mind.

He doesn't know why, but he isn't going to ask too many questions. 
Lance longs to escape too much.

So when his mother tells him that a Mr. Carter will be assisting
him in the move back to his studio, Lance doesn't argue at all,
despite the many questions he has, but simply goes.

"Hello, Mr. Bass, I'm Nick Carter.  May I shake your hand?" Nick
says.  He approaches Lance straight on, his shoes loud on the
uncarpeted floor.

"Yes," Lance says curtly, holding out his hand.  He feels like a
fool standing there waiting for something he can't see.

Nick shakes the other man's hand immediately.  "Thank you.  Did you
need to get anything, or shall we go?"  He has no idea how to treat
a blind person.  Especially not one who wears wounded pride like a
cloak.

"I've been told my bags have already been loaded onto the
carriage," Lance says.  "I believe we're only waiting for me to be
loaded on as well."

"Very well.  Shall we, then?"  Nick lifts Lance's hand to his upper
arm.  "I shan't run you into anything."

Lance stiffens and nods.  "Certainly."

Ah.  More pride.  Nick can do no better, though.  He leads Lance
out, prompting him to step up and guiding with a hand on the other
man's hip until he's seated.

Lance is containing himself with an effort.  This could have been
gotten over easily much earlier.  And there's no need to send a
stranger with him either.  They could have asked his brother-in-law
at least.  But he shouldn't be railing at the circumstances.  He's
going and that's the important thing.

"So.  What am I to call you?" Nick asks after a long silence.  "I
should prefer to know now, since we shall be much in each other's
company."

"We shall be *what*?" Lance asks carefully.

"Much in each other's company?  I-- Your mother did not tell you,"
Nick says in realization.

"My mother told me that you'd be assisting me in the move to my
studio."  He's fairly sure those are the words she'd used.

"I shall.  Also, I have been hired to act as your assistant for a
time.  As  you adjust to your changed circumstances."

Lance's jaw stiffens.  So these are his mother's terms.  "I see. 
You may call me Lance."

"Thank you, Lance.  Please call me Nick."

He nods.  A nursemaid.  The price for his freedom is a nursemaid.

The apartment Lance maintains is full of beautiful object d'arte. 
It is also incredibly messy.

"Have you a maid?" Nick asks.

"No."  He's never needed a maid.  He likes to leave things where
they are when he's done with them.  Occasionally that makes them
difficult to find, but usually, where he leaves them is the logical
place for them to be in the first place.

"Lead me to your room, and I will transport your baggage there." 
Nick will be very surprised if Lance doesn't trip at least once.

"It's the only room that's slept in," Lance says curtly.  He
doesn't want to admit that the house is unfamiliar to him now, that
it's an echoing space that feels right, but in every other way is
dark and strange.

"Upstairs or down?" Nick asks.  Lance's apartment is actually half
a house.

"Down."  He uses the upstairs rooms for storage mostly, and
occasionally for friends who stay over.  Very occasionally.  There
should be at least one that's habitable.

Nick nods and finds the room.  He carries Lance's bags into it,
then goes back for Lance.  "Will you let me lead you?" he asks,
voice unemotional.

Lance shakes his head.  "I don't want to go there.  Not right now. 
I want to get..." he shakes his head again.  He doesn't need to
explain himself to the other man.  "Just leave me here."

"Do you want me to do anything?" Nick asks.

"No.  Do whatever you please."

"Yes, sir."  Nick goes to the parlor, looking at all the scattered
objects.  No, best to start elsewhere.  He goes in search of the
kitchen.

Lance wanders around the studio.  The whole place is his studio,
technically.  He sketches at the table, does small models in the
bathroom sometimes, but it's the large open space here where he
truly does his work.  The smaller models are nothing more than
elaborate trinkets compared to the end results.

These he needs no eyes to see.  Their shapes are mass, bending the
air around them in a palpable way that announces their presence
before he comes to them.  He pauses against one.  Hands confirm
what his memory tells him.  This is the piece he was working on
before The Accident.  A nude of a beautiful young man.  His chest
is smooth under Lance's seeking fingers, but the rest down is rough
stone.  Likely never to be completed now.  He doesn't have the
desire to recreate perfect beauty that he can never see.  Beauty is
only in his memory now, and never in his eyes.

Nick is afraid to clean things, lest Lance not know where they are. 
Still, he must do something.  Making tea seems to be a good idea. 
He tidies the kitchen and readies a tray, then goes searching for
Lance.

Lance leans against the statue and sobs.  Not with tears; he's not
ready for tears yet, if ever.  Barks of air, anger and grief bound
together.

Nick watches from the doorway for a moment.  He sets the tray aside
and moves over.  Lance has to know he's coming.  Nick is not a
quiet or graceful person.  His hands settle lightly on Lance's
shoulders.

Lance is aware that the other man is walking up behind him, but
he's not prepared for such an invasion of his person.  It's
something he should be beginning to grow accustomed to, as everyone
does it now.  Touches him, sometimes asking permission first,
frequently without.  He loathes it.  It makes him all the more
aware of his vulnerability and his lack of personhood.  No grown
man should have to endure such indignity.

Lance composes his face and then turns to face the other man,
knocking his hands away at the same time.  "Yes?"

Nick draws back.  Well-bred as Lance may be, his contempt and rage
shows in his face.  Perhaps never seeing himself makes him forget
to hide.  "I apologize.  I thought to...  It was wrong of me. 
Would you like some tea?"

That's a change.  Lance nods courteously.  "Apology accepted.  If
you don't mind, I prefer to take tea in the back room.  It's too
small to use as a work room.  I have a comfortable couch and chairs
there."

"Certainly.  I'll bring the tray."

The studio is instinctive for Lance.  The rest of the house is not. 
He lived more in the studio than in any other part of the house. 
Out of the studio, it takes conscious thought to decide which way
to turn, and he has to reach out with his hands as he goes.  He
should have accepted the cane his mother had tried to get him to
take.  Grimly, Lance endures, remembering the small tables along
the hall only after running into them.  They'll have to go.  He
doesn't need them.

Nick doesn't comment.  He'll say something after Lance has had tea.

Sunlight on his face tells him where the window is.  The couch is
directly underneath it.  He heads for it and sits down.

Nick sets the tray on the table in front of Lance.  "Would you like
me to serve?"

"Please."

"How do you take your tea?"

Lance always takes his tea the same way.  He opens his mouth before
realizing that, although he has the things here for it, the other
man has probably not thought to bring them.  "I don't know what you
have."

"Anything I need to make it the way you like, I can easily fetch
from the kitchen," Nick points out.

"I don't wish to be impolite."

Nick smiles.  "I don't mind."

Lance nods.  "Milk and honey, please."

Nick has both items on the tray.  "I've that here."  He prepares a
cup the way he likes and offers it to Lance, pressing it into the
other man's hand.  "It's quite warm.  Let me know if you'd like
more of anything, please?"

"I will."  Lance takes the saucer and then sips from the tea. 
"Thank you.  It's quite good."

"Good," Nick says in satisfaction.  He prepares himself a cup. 
"Would you like me to leave you alone?"

"In the middle of tea?" Lance is a little shocked.

"It is your home.  You may be used to solitude," Nick says,
shrugging.  He takes a seat in an armchair next to the couch.

"For the most part, yes.  But..." Lance shakes his head, unable to
find the words for the rudeness it would take to try to throw
someone out during tea.

Nick sighs at the first sip of tea.  "This is a very nice blend."

"It is," Lance allows.  "It's actually made specially for me.  I
had the misfortune to be complaining about the impossibility of
finding the particular qualities I like in a tea -- I'm always
having to settle for a blend I almost but don't quite like -- and
was overheard.  Ever since then, a tin of that tea arrives as a
gift every week, wrapped up.  I have no idea who sends it; I've
wished to thank them many times, and apologize for my boorishness."

Nick smiles again.  "If you wish, I could attempt to find the
person for you."

"I... don't know.  If they don't wish to make themselves known, I'm
not sure I should go against their wishes in that fashion."  He
frowns.

"Hmm," Nick says noncommittally.

Lance shrugs and sips his tea.  It's soothing.

Nick continues pouring for both of them until the tea is gone. 
Then he sits quietly and lets Lance think.  He has thinking of his
own to do.  He must find a way to present several difficult
questions to Lance.  First, how is Nick to organize this dwelling? 
With things everywhere, Lance will never be able to learn to live
on his own.  And what should Nick be purchasing for Lance?  Nick
needs to know what Lance wishes to learn to do on his own, which
things Nick is to do, which things he is forbidden to do.

Lance sits his empty cup down.  "If you have any wish to discuss
anything, it should be now.  I... the next thing I *must* do is to
reacquaint myself with my studio and I... doubt I will tolerate
interruptions well."  There are other ways he could put it.  He
would not be surprised if things are thrown and words shouted.  But
work is something he absolutely has to do.  It's necessary.

Nick sets his cup aside.  "You are correct.  I should speak now. 
How shall I organize this home so that you can find things?  Do you
want to tell me your preference for organization, and have me do
such in each room, or would you rather I organize things, and then
tell *you* where they are?"

"I..."  His preference is that everything stay exactly the way it
was, but that's not possible as the tables in the hall have proven. 
"Some things need to be moved," he admits.  "The hall tables, for
example, can go.  They have little practical use and they're only
in the way now.  Everything in the studio should be left alone.  I
doubt I'll be able to find anything if you move it.  I don't know
about the rest of the house."

As an afterthought, he adds, "Your areas, of course, should be
ordered as you prefer."

Nick blinks.  "What would you consider my areas, then?"

Lance frowns.  "Well, your room, of course.  I presume the kitchen
and all other such areas, as you like."

"So, my room, the kitchen, the parlor... the guest rooms, or
whatever it is that is above stairs?"

Lance nods.  "Some of the upstairs rooms are being used as storage. 
So long as nothing is removed, it matters little to me what is
where."

"I see.  And what shall I purchase for you?" Nick asks.  He draws
a small folder of paper from his jacket pocket.  "In regards to not
only food items, but personal items and such."

"Nothing that I'm aware of.  All of those items are delivered on a
regular basis.  The only thing I special order are my sculpting
supplies, as I never know precisely what I'll need when."

"What grocer delivers to you, so I know whom to allow in."

Lance looks blank.  "I'm honestly not certain.  I'm fairly sure
that there are several who make up the whole order.  The man who
delivers it is named Joshua.  He has a key.  If I'm going to be
out, I leave a note with any changes."

"Joshua."  Nick writes it down.  "Is there one particular delivery
boy for the personal items?"

"No, Joshua delivers everything."

"Very good.  Now.  What is your goal?  Do you wish to be able to
live alone?  What should I be helping you relearn to do?"

"Goal?"

"What do you want to do, more than anything else?  In the future,"
Nick asks seriously.

"Sculpt."  There really isn't any other answer.  It's what he wants
to do now even.

"So your goal is to be independent enough to sculpt, and to find
some new way to sense your art."

Lance's nostrils flare.  New way?  What does this man think he
knows about Lance and what he does?  Very little, obviously, if he
calls it art.  It isn't 'art' to Lance.  It's necessity and truth
and what *is*.  It's life.  "No.  I *will* sculpt.  And I'll do it
here.  That's all I care about."

"Very well," Nick says.  "I'm sorry to have upset you.  I'll leave
you to your studio, now.  Feel free to yell if you need something. 
I'm not likely to be offended."  He rises and picks up the tea
tray.  "What time would you like supper?"

"Late.  I've never bothered about the time before."  He'll always
have the clocks to tell him the time, he realizes.  As long as he's
in London, the church bells will toll the hour.  He has that at
least.

"Let me know when you get hungry?" Nick suggests.  "And what do you
like to eat?"

Lance nods.  He's beginning to realize that he doesn't resent this
intruder as much as he'd thought he would, as much as he had
earlier today.  "Sometime after dark.  I rarely eat the evening
meal before sunset, even in summer.  Mint tea for breakfast, some
sandwiches at lunch, afternoon tea if things are going well, and
then a very late supper.  As to what I like... I'm not much for
elaborate meals.  I spend more time making tea than I do preparing
food.  When I entertain, I borrow servants from my mother."

Nick laughs softly at that.  "It seems a fair trade for privacy. 
Speaking of such, what am I responsible for.  I understand that
cleaning, fetching and delivering, and cooking are needed.  Am I to
wake you, or... or some such?"

"There's no need to wake me.  For the rest..." Lance sighs. 
"Delivering and fetching are not necessary.  I rarely leave the
house.  I dislike having to leave for any reason while I'm working. 
The arrangements are already in place for that.  As to cooking and
cleaning... I suppose I shall have to engage someone."  He'd just
as soon live in filth, but his mother would find out, and then he'd
have a staff of servants, will he, nil he.

"I believe that to be a part of my position, actually," Nick says
wryly.  "However, I would not be averse to having someone come in
to help with the heavy cleaning occasionally."

"My mother has a method for that."  Lance's mouth twists.  "She
invites me for a formal occasion once each season and sends half
her staff here.  When I come back, everything's clean, scrubbed and
moved.  They've even scrubbed my unfired clay models before.  Much
to the loss of the fine detail on them.  I'm only glad that she
doesn't make me witness that atrocity."

"That is easily fixed.  I shall simply stay here and guard the
studio next time she invites you over."

"I doubt she'll allow herself to be that easily thwarted.  I do not
mean to insult you, but I doubt a nurse would know any better than
a maid what should be left alone and what needs to be cleaned."

"A nurse?"

"An intern?  I don't know what your proper title is."

"I'm a medical student.  I cannot afford to engage in an internship
at this time.  I have no title."  Nick shrugs awkwardly.  "That
aside, I have some background in the visual arts.  I will simply
have the staff leave your studio alone completely.  Myself
included."

"Some background in the visual arts?  You... sketch, perhaps?  To
further your study of anatomy?"

Nick chuckles.  "The reverse was true, actually.  I studied anatomy
to further my sketching.  Though I know now I will never have a
place as an artist."

"Art is a delusion and artists are practitioners of it."

"Art is reality through someone else's eyes, and yet it can be
interpreted by the individual viewer."

Lance's mouth twists.  "Whether something is great is a matter that
can only be decided after the fact.  What lasts.  What still
survives when matters of reputation and public opinion are removed. 
To call anything of the present day 'art' or anyone currently
creating it an 'artist' is to delude yourself into believing what
you do matters now.  To accept your perceptions as all, when
perspective must always blind us to what we do is worth."

"You are far wiser than I, of course.  Still, I would say that your
creations have mattered in the present.  But let's get you into
your studio, hmm?"

Lance could argue this subject for hours, and has, but his studio
is what matters to him.  He stands.  "I need to change first," he
says, and then leaves the room.  He has to restrain himself from
taking the tables in the hall and smashing them on the spot.  His
temper, never good when he's been kept from working, is frayed.

Nick transports the dishes to the kitchen and then heads up the
stairs to start cleaning.

When the stairs creak under Nick's feet, Lance relaxes some.  He's
rarely at ease in company unless he's deliberately invited them,
and now.

Lance shuts the door of his bedroom behind him.  It's his, solely
his, like the studio, except that he rarely spends any time here. 
For that reason, there's little mess or orientation.  He only makes
the bed when the sheets work their way around to the top or the
sheets need changing.  The fire... yes, there's a problem.  He
supposes he should have converted to coal, but that would have
meant workmen in his house, and he hadn't.  He's not at all
confident in his ability to make a fire and not light the rest of
the house on fire as well.

His clothes, though, are right where they always are.  Work clothes
stuffed untidily into the dresser, and formal clothes neatly folded
in the wardrobe.  He takes his clothes off a little at a time,
putting each part away carefully.  This is easy; he knows where
everything goes.  He's done this part blind drunk after all.

He changes into his work clothes -- a loose shirt, sturdy trousers
and finds his wooden clogs, specially imported from Holland.  The
shoes can and have protected his feet from chunks of rock falling
on them.

Then he heads back to his studio and the unfinished artwork there,
mocking him.

Nick fashions a meal long after the sun has set and knocks lightly
on the door to Lance's studio.

Lance's head jerks up with surprise.  The sliding doors are never
pulled shut.  He always leaves them open.  He drops the chisel and
goes over to the doors, fumbling with the catch.  It must be Nick,
of course, but he doesn't remember how many bells there were the
last time he had heard them.  "Yes?"

"There is a meal, if you would care to eat."

He gets his fingers the right way and pulls the door open.  "I
suppose.  Is it late then?"

"It's just struck nine."

The corners of Lance's mouth turn up.  "So it's still early then."

"Indeed," Nick replies, smiling.

"I don't know where you were thinking of eating," Lance says. 
There is no dining room or drawing room -- all the space that would
have made up those rooms has been opened up for the studio.

"I was thinking of asking you where you'd like to eat."

"It doesn't matter," Lance says.  It truly doesn't.  He doesn't eat
in this mood.  He would still be in the studio.  He stamps hard on
those thoughts.  He will *not* be rude to Nick again.

Nick laughs.  "You would rather stay here.  Shall I bring you a
plate and leave it for your leisure?" Nick asks, voice full of good
cheer.

Unless Nick forces him to think of these things.  His jaw tightens. 
"The only thing I accomplished was to catalog my tools.  I am as
useless there as I am at everything now.  Put the plate wherever
you like."

Nick tilts his head.  "I... I would like to help you in any way I
can."

"It's nothing you can help with," Lance says curtly.

Nick sighs.  "I thought to eat in the kitchen.  I shall bring you
a plate here.  Shall I lay a fire in your room?"

"I can eat in the kitchen.  I've dined there often."  Lance takes
a deep breath and tries to remember where he left his manners. 
"Please.  A fire would be nice."

Nick nods and turns, leading the way to the kitchen and holding the
door for Lance.

Lance catches himself at the bottom of the stairs.  He needs to
remember how many of them there are.  But he remembers the door to
the kitchen is right after the stairs.  He reaches out to give it
a firm push open and stumbles as his hand hits only air.

Nick reaches out to brace Lance.  He removes his hands as soon as
Lance is steady.  "I am holding the door.  My apologies." 

"It's fine."  Lance takes two long strides away from Nick to hide
his anger, and walks into a counter.  It hits him just below his
waist and he nearly crumples.  He manages to hold onto the counter
somehow, and head down, just stands there and breathes.  If Nick
says one word, Lance is going to explode.

Nick bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.  But pride is a demon
riding Lance's shoulder.  He dishes two plates silently.

When the pain recedes to manageable proportions, Lance turns and,
stepping very carefully, makes his way to the table.  It hurts to
walk, but slowness helps him in finding the chair with no further
injury to himself.

Nick sets a plate in front of Lance and lays out silverware.  He
tells Lance what he's made and how it's arranged on the plate, then
sits to eat himself.

Lance eats in silence.  It's all he can do to keep his tongue
between his teeth.  Being gracious right now is beyond him.

Nick eats equally silently.  He thinks idly that people make a
variety of unappetizing noises when eating.  At least Lance doesn't
slurp.  Slurping drives Nick insane.

By the time he's finished eating, Lance has regained some measure
of control.  He also hurts a great deal less.  "Thank you for the
meal.  It was much more... complicated than what I would have made
for myself, but very delicious."

Nick smiles happily.  "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

That's not exactly what Lance said, but he's not going to argue. 
Nick deserves the praise.

When the meal is finished, Nick sets about cleaning the dishes. 
"I'll lay the fire in your room shortly."

"Thank you," Lance says.  He stands up and returns to the studio,
walking very carefully.  He counts the steps this time so that he
won't make the same mistake again.

He opens the doors to the studio.  Not only because he might walk
into them -- he never closes them and would probably walk into them
even if he could see them -- but also because the studio *should*
be open.  That might, however, be a moot point now that he can't
appreciate the open space, but Lance imagines that the very air
feels different.

He returns to what he was doing before.  Staring down the stone. 
It's something he's done before, when a piece was unexpectedly
stubborn.  But usually it's with an untouched block of stone, or a
piece that has gone wrong.  Only this time, it's not the work
that's gone wrong, it's him.

When a piece goes wrong, he has to decide where to cut.  Which
blocks to chop off, what to pare down.  You can take more from a
sculpture, but you can't add more to it.  It's a difficult process.

He has no idea how even to begin cutting to fix the flaw in
himself.

Nick lays a fire in Lance's room and gets it burning nicely.  He
does the same in his own room.  In the studio, Lance's face
reflects so much pain and determination, Nick almost doesn't want
to disturb him.  Still, "Shall I start a fire in here?" he asks
quietly.

Nick is not exactly a quiet man, but nonetheless, Lance is
startled.  Lost too deep in contemplation to pay attention to the
ordinary world.  "No," he says.  "I'm not getting anything useful
done here.  I'll go to bed."

"Yes, Lance," Nick says.  It's the same respectful tone he uses
with lecturers.  He's so unsure of his place here.  He has no idea
how to act.

"Good evening," Lance says, and moves in the direction of his
bedroom.

Nick sighs and closes up for the night.  He checks that all the
windows and doors are properly latched, and then moves up the
stairs.  Lance's door is closed.  Nick taps at it lightly.

Lance has been sitting on the floor in front of the fire.  He can't
see it, but he can feel it, and that's almost as good as seeing. 
He's a grown man, too old to be sitting on the floor, but some
things one does because they feel right.

Still, he picks himself up.  "Yes?" he says, moving toward the
door.

"Shall I bank the fire, Lance?" Nick asks.

Lance opens the door and stands away.  "If you wish.  I usually let
itself burn out, but as I'm no longer tending it, I should think
the decision is up to you."

"Letting it burn out is fine, Si-Lance.  I simply thought I should
ask."  Nick looks at Lance.  Lance is haloed by the fire.  He's
quite attractive.  For a man.

Lance, for his own part, resigned himself far more easily to the
prospect of enjoying the intimate company of men than his mother
had.  She is still not happy with the fact that he is never going
to take a wife.

"Thank you.  Your consideration is... appreciated."

Nick smiles.  "You are most welcome," he says.  His voice is
strangely husky.  He clears his throat.  "Good night, then.  I
shall speak with you in the morning."

Lance has a curious urge to apologize, but he isn't sure for what. 
"I look forward to it."

Nick leaves, closing the door to his own room quietly.

Lance doesn't sit back down by the fire.  He learned no more from
it than he's learned in the time since his injury.  He knows that
he is fatally flawed, that there is no way to repair his lack of
sight and he fears that he may have also lost his work.

In all of that, Nick is the only new thing, and Lance is looking
forward to tomorrow, if only to divert himself from the reality he
cannot see but is there anyway.

~~~~

The steady sound of chisel on rock is always echoing through the
house now.  Nick goes about his work as best he can.  He looks at
the things Lance makes and knows that they are not what is
intended.  It breaks his heart to see Lance strive so hard to be
the same as he was before.  He never will be.  Things are different
now.

But it isn't Nick's place to say this.  He's an employee, a nurse,
a maid.  And that's what he continues to be until Lance breaks. 
The sound of shattering rock brings Nick running.  Tools being
thrown against walls and shattering glass speed his pace.  Lance is
screaming wordlessly, sweeping everything from one long worktable. 
Nick stands frozen for a moment before rushing forward.

"Lance!  Lance, wait!"

Lance howls with fury as Nick grabs him.

Nick wraps his arms around Lance, firmly holding his wrists, and
drags him to the back parlor.  Old, tattered furniture abounds, and
Nick turns Lance loose on it.  He doesn't leave though.  It was an
invasion to lay hands on someone like Lance.  Nick thinks he may
deserve a few good punches.

Lance's rage finds words as he's manhandled out of his studio and
to somewhere else in the house.  "You bastard," he says viciously,
hands out, head turning, seeking hints to Nick's location.  "You
had no right.  It's mine!  Mine!  It's the only goddamned thing I
have, and what right do you have to stop me?"

"None," Nick replies.  He brushes his hand against Lance's, leading
the other man to his position.

Lance grabs at Nick's sleeve, then at the front of his shirt.  Nick
is a lot taller and broader than Lance had imagined him to be.  But
Lance is powerfully angry.  "What the *hell* do you think you're
doing?  It's my work to destroy if I want."

"It is.  But you can't remake it once you destroy it.  I hoped you
would want to destroy something that can be replaced."

"There's nothing there worth replacing," Lance says bitterly. 
"Nothing there of worth at all.  The person who started those is
gone.  And he won't be coming back."

Nick considers.  "Will you come with me?  Out of the house, I
mean?"

"Why?  What possible use would it be?  Every place looks exactly
the same as this."  Lance laughs humorlessly.  His fingers, though,
unclench from Nick's shirt.

"You have four other senses, you know."

"None that matter."

Nick snorts.  "Come along, then."

Lance glares, but goes into his room and changes.

Nick hails a cabbie and herds Lance in.  They arrive at the small
sculpture studio a few moments later.  Inside, Nick says, "Touch,
for instance, is an important sense."  He lifts Lance's hand,
dragging it over a sculpture.  He guides Lance through exploring
every curve and angle.  "Don't worry about what it is, just try to
figure out how it feels."

Lance knows what's under his hand as soon as he touches it.  He
doesn't work in bronze, but he knows its feel as well as he does
his own stone.  He jerks his hand back, both hands fisting at his
side.  "How dare you?" he asks in an undertone.  "Have I offended
you so much that you must torture me so?"

"Do it, Lance," Nick says.  His voice is hard for once.  "I shall
let you beat me soundly when we get home, if only you will do these
few things."

"I've never beaten anyone in my life," Lance says.  But if he were
ever going to start, it'd be now.  On the other hand, even if his
dignity would allow him to forcibly make a break from Nick, he is
helpless to find his way home.

"Fine," Lance says tightly, submitting with bad grace.  He is
flushed red with humiliation and anger.

When Lance has thoroughly explored the statue, Nick leads him over
to a different table and guides him to a seat.  "Here.  Recreate
it.  This is clay."  He presses Lance's fingertips to the table in
front of him.  Nick doesn't mention that this is a studio for
children.

He's too well-trained to cause a public scene, but it's a very near
thing.  Lance sits at the table for long moments before his hands
reach for the clay.  He knows clay and knows it well.  But he has
no desire to recreate anything and no desire to please Nick. 
Instead his hands shape a grotesque, hunched torso, not bothering
with the fine details of arms.  The head is merely a round blob; he
never bothers with detail on something this small.  For large
pieces, he models each piece he needs to visualize separately.  A
face or an eyebrow or a wrist.  Whatever is particularly important
to him to capture.

"It doesn't even look like something I could do.  Are you really so
dependent on your eyes?"

"It's my impression of you."

Nick shrugs.  "I've got arms."

"I'd noticed.  Can we go now?"

"No.  I want to know if you can actually do this or not."  Nick
picks up a piece of clay of his own and starts attempting the
project.

"It doesn't *matter*," Lance says.  He grabs another piece of clay
and begins working it into an approximation of the sculpture he'd
been touching.

Lance's recreation is very good.  Not perfect, but very pleasing
just the same.  "Now we can go," Nick says.

Lance lets Nick take him back to his house.  Once he's there, he
retreats into his room and locks the door behind him.

Nick brings his anatomical models to Lance's door.  It's been many,
many hours.  "Open up, I've your meal."

Lance doesn't respond.

Nick sighs.  "I can't leave it in the hall, Lance."

"Then leave!" Lance says.  "Your services are no longer required."

"You don't pay me, Lance.  Besides, my services will only be
unnecessary when you can traverse the city unaided.  And when your
sculpture is finished."

Lance retreats into a chair in the corner, not saying anything
further.

Nick enters, setting the tray on the bed.  "Food on the tray. 
Models on the pillows.  I'll take your tray in the morning.  Good
night."

Even locks aren't proof against the intruder.  Lance would murder
Nick in his sleep, except that he isn't that kind of man.  He's
close to becoming that, though.  The anger he felt earlier in the
day at being unable to complete his previous works in the manner in
which they'd been started is nothing compared to how he feels now. 
Violated and angry and ashamed.

He would destroy the models Nick said that he had left, but Lance
is not the kind of person to destroy anything wantonly.  He will
not, however, be touching them.  Whatever Nick wants, Lance will
not do it.  He is very close to simply walking out the door and
taking his chances at being able to find his way to his mother's
house.  Whatever fate he might meet would be kinder than this one.

But.  Joshua will be coming for certain on Friday.  It is Monday
now; the tolling of the Sunday bells yesterday was unmistakable. 
He can count on Joshua's assistance for nearly anything, and
certainly for conveying messages.

Yes, Lance thinks.  He'll try that first.  And if it happens that
there is no escape that way either, he *will* walk out into the
streets and take his chances with fortune.

~~~~

Nick takes Lance's tray, but otherwise stays out of his way for the
rest of the week.  He greets Joshua warmly on Friday.  They have
become something like friends in the weeks Nick has been here. 
"Joshua, I believe Lance would like to see you.  He's in his
studio.  Feel free to carry any messages he asks you to."  Nick
sighs.  "I'm sure he hates me at this moment, but at least he's not
secretive about it!"

Lance has barely noticed Nick of late.  He'd retreated into his
studio that night as soon as Nick's footsteps had gone upstairs,
and then closed himself off in his studio, shutting the doors
behind him.  He doesn't like the doors closed, but then, he no
longer has any freedom.  His work might as well be as trapped as he
is.

He has two blocks of stone left in the studio after his tantrum. 
The half-finished beautiful young man, and a blank block.  Both too
large to be affected by anything less than hours of labor.

It's the blank that he attacks.  Some part of him tells him to
leave the beautiful young man alone, that there's still something
left undone about it, but that he's not ready to deal with it yet. 
The blank, however, has no past and no preconceptions.

He rarely starts work without an image of what he wants to create. 
Either a model or a sketch or, at the very least, an image in his
head.  This time, however, he has nothing.  Partly because he sees
little need for tools designed to aid the eye, and partly because
he doesn't know what end he's trying to accomplish.

But he works.  And takes no notice of Nick whatsoever.

"Mr. Bass?" a male voice interrupts, and that catches Lance's
attention.  Nick is never respectful.

Lance climbs down.  "Yes?  Who is it?"

"Joshua, sir.  Mr. Carter said that you had a message for me."

Lance frowns.  "I don't know why.  I never told him any such
thing."  He thinks for a moment though and then recollects his
desire of Monday.  "Wait, there is something.  I need some way to
arrange transportation from here.  On my own."

"Oh," Joshua says, smiling.  "That's easy, sir.  Just leave a
message when you'll be wanting to go out, sir, and I'll get my
cousin to take you.  He owns a hackney.  If you think you'll know
where you're going in advance, I can pick up your schedule when I
stop by and give it to him and he'll show up when you want him to."

Unspoken is the implication that Lance will be paying for this
service.  It doesn't need to be spoken, as Lance's bills are always
promptly paid.  "And if I needed something on short notice?"

JC's brow furrows.  "You could always send Mr. Carter, sir."

Lance nods.  He won't air his troubles to Joshua, even though he's
quite sure that Nick would not be any kind of obliging.  "Thank
you, Joshua."

"My pleasure, sir.  Anytime."

Nick watches Joshua leave.  He approaches the studio.  "You can
leave the doors open, sir.  I won't come in.  Did... did you want
me let go, then?"

"Would you go?" Lance asks, not turning his head.

"Yes.  After all, I will do you no good like... this."

"You behaved abominably.  You forced me to do something I did not
want to do and which I had no way of refusing because you had me
helpless.  You have taken advantage of my person in such a way
that, if I were capable of it, I could call you out and be
justified."  Lance's voice is cold and factual.

"If you wish to call me out, I will accept no more than three paces
space with pistols.  You shan't miss."

"If I were capable of killing you, I would have strangled you in
your bed Monday night."

"I'm here now."  Nick doesn't enter the room.  "If you wish
something done... do it.  Hurt me, or hire someone to do it, or let
me go from the position.  But your sculptures are better now."

"This isn't a sculpture," Lance says with the first trace of
emotion he's shown since Nick started speaking, biting his words
off.  "It's my anger at you."  At the rest of the world, too, at
being blind -- but mostly at Nick.

"But it's something.  Not just... knocked off edges meaning
nothing."

Those words sting.  "It's worse.  It's art."  Lance puts deep scorn
into the word 'art'.  "It's my venting my emotion and pretending
that doing so has a meaning.  That it represents something other
than my own self-involvement."

"Fine.  Are you letting me go?"

"I can't, remember?  I don't pay you."  He's holding onto his
bitterness, Lance knows.  Cherishing it, even.  But then, Nick's
never offered even the hint of an apology.  Only offers for Lance
to repay Nick in kind, to drag Lance down to Nick's level.

"I shall tell your mother the position is not right for me, if you
wish."  Nick breathes deeply.  "I had thought it might help.  I am
sorry that it did not, that it made you feel so helpless.  I will
leave."

It's an apology.  Lance knows he should accept it.  Nick has said
the words; Lance should do the polite thing.  Then this would be
over.

But he has his back against four days of his anger, anger
solidified and made into something permanent.  "If you thought it
would help, you could have asked me to cooperate.  You could even
have suggested the idea without removing me from my home.  Without
trapping me into a place I could not retreat from.  I would have
told you it would do no good.  I could have told you why even."

"You are correct.  I was wrong," Nick says in defeat.  It does not
matter what he was thinking, why he wanted Lance to leave the
house, why he thought it would be good.  Nick is tired.  Studying
at night, caring for Lance, attending lectures and seeing patients
late at night have worn him thin.  He's simply tired of the
struggle.

Lance nods.  The clear admission of fault cleans out something
inside him, like wiping grime off a window to restore the view. 
"If... if you will promise not do something like that again -- and
if you still wish to stay -- you may."

"What do you wish?" Nick asks quietly.  "Or... do you not wish
anything anymore?"

"I wish for things I cannot have any more.  I am fighting myself. 
I can't handle fighting myself and you at the same time."

Nick sighs.  "What do you want, Mr. Bass?  You say you want to
sculpt, but you don't try to learn new ways to compensate.  You
want to be able to be alone, and yet you refuse to learn how to do
even the simplest tasks.  Is what you want really a live-in maid
with no opinions and no thought beyond pay?  I'm sure Joshua can
find one.  I can even recommend this to your mother."

Lance doesn't know what Nick wants.  "This wasn't my idea," he
points out.  "If you don't want to do the menial chores, then
someone can be engaged to do them."  He's grown reluctantly
accustomed to the idea that he's not ever going to have his privacy
again.  "I have no idea what you mean by my refusing to learn to
compensate, or learning how to do the simplest tasks.  If you
leave... most likely my mother will only find someone else.  You...
are not objectionable to me as long as you refrain from forcing me
to do what you wish."

"You don't have to need anyone, Mr. Bass.  It's your choice."

"I don't know what you mean.  I have always needed people.  I want
to do my work with the minimum of interruptions.  I can't do
everything -- I've never *wanted* to do everything for myself."

"You had live-in help before?"

Lance doesn't know what Nick wants.  "This wasn't my idea," he
points out.  "If you don't want to do the menial chores, then
someone can be engaged to do them."  He's grown reluctantly
accustomed to the idea that he's not ever going to have his privacy
again.  "I have no idea what you mean by my refusing to learn to
compensate, or learning how to do the simplest tasks.  If you
leave... most likely my mother will only find someone else.  You...
are not objectionable to me as long as you refrain from forcing me
to do what you wish."

"You don't have to need anyone, Mr. Bass.  It's your choice."

"I don't know what you mean.  I have always needed people.  I want
to do my work with the minimum of interruptions.  I can't do
everything-- I've never wanted to do everything for myself."

"You had live-in help before?"

"No more than I have at present."

"What happened to your help, then?" Nick asks, puzzled.  A moment
later his mind catches up with his mouth.  "I do apologize, it is
none of my concern."

Lance runs his hand through his hair, head dropping.  "I'm tired of
this.  Of struggling with you.  I don't know what amusement you got
from bullying me or why you're now trying to leave, but whatever it
is you intend, I wish that you'd just tell me.  I admit to being an
unreasonable man about my work, but this... contretemps benefits
neither of us."

Nick nearly laughs.  "I see.  I have no wish to leave this
position.  I do not enjoy bullying you, as you say.  It is not a
common occurrence, you must admit.  However, I can easily see how
you would be unhappy with me.  As this is so, I would not expect
you to wish me to remain.  It is uncommon for a man to willingly
keep with him something he dislikes so much."

"I had begun to like you before you betrayed my trust."

Nick passes a hand over his eyes wearily.  "I am most sorry.  I did
not mean to betray your trust."

"You said you would not do it again," Lance acknowledges.  "I...
perhaps I don't entirely believe that right now, but I'm willing to
allow you to prove your word is good."

"Yes, sir."

Lance sighs at hearing 'sir' from Nick again.  'Sir' and 'Mr. Bass'
are all that Nick's called him for days and while he's only been
partially aware of his surroundings, Lance is still sick of the
artificial politeness.  "I'm not your employer.  You don't owe me
any respect, and I've already told you that you may call me Lance."

Nick looks down in shame.  "I'm sorry, Lance.  It's difficult for
me to... you're so far above my station.  I will try harder."

Lance isn't sure if this cause is even worth the fight.  With his
sculpture hulking behind him, he has better things to anchor and
engage his mind.  But he's sick of the warfare between himself and
the other man.  "Do you think that I care?  That I treat Joshua any
worse for his profession?  It matters not at all to me."

"Maybe it matters to me," Nick says.  "It is of no import.  I will
be better."

A sense of hopelessness settles over Lance.  He must have imagined
the moments of friendliness Nick had displayed before, or perhaps
Nick despises him now.  "If it matters to you, then continue."  He
heads for his rasp.  He needs to lighten the upper wing or the bird
he's uncovering in the stone will never fly.

"You are so lovely," Nick whispers as he turns to go.

There is nothing wrong with Lance's hearing.  "Why then?"

Nick freezes, goes absolutely still.  He prays that Lance did not
hear him.  He prays that Lance does not turn him in.

Lance doesn't hear Nick's footsteps retreating.  Which means Nick
is still there, but not answering.  "Why, then," he repeats,
although he doubts Nick has merely misunderstood, "if you think I
am lovely, do you wish to call me sir?  Why are you running so hard
away from me?"

Nick trembles.  "Please, please.  I didn't mean anything
lascivious, I swear it.  Please, don't turn me in."

Lance's brows furrow.  "Turn you in to who?  Why?"

Nick has been told all his life that there are nobles regulating
everything.  Every irregularity is marked down and punished, both
by man and God.  He knows that it is a great sin to be attracted to
other men.  But he does not want to be punished for it.  "Whomever
is the-- the head of such.  And, please, don't tell him... I said
you were lovely."

Lance snorts.  "If there's anyone interested in such idle gossip --
and you're probably right that someone somewhere is -- what makes
you think I'm any less at danger than you?  Did you not realize
that I work -- *worked* -- from life?  I've sought out beautiful
young men and had them pose for me.  Stared at them for hours, in
fact."

"You're an artist.  That's what you do."

"You'll be a doctor.  That's what you do."

Nick laughs.  "You are wise, Lance."

Lance smiles, pleased by the laugh and the easy use of his name. 
"Not so.  But even a fool can accidentally say something of worth."

"Hmm."

Lance finds the rasp and returns to his perch.  He uses neither
ladder nor scaffolding; he finds both too unsteady for his liking. 
What he does use is more like a bastard mating of a throne and a
staircase, but it works for him.

Nick watches for just a moment before fading out of the doorway.

Lance is quickly absorbed back into his work.  Despite what he'd
said to Nick before, the project at hand is not mere venting of
emotion.  Or if it had been, it no longer is.  He has a plan and
his work a purpose.

~~~~

The next morning, after Lance has left his room, Nick goes in and
starts cleaning.  His eyes water at the amount of soot to sweep up. 
He makes his way to the studio.  "Lance, do you have a regular
chimney sweep?"

Lance drags himself up out of his work with an effort.  He can't
see the feathers, but he can feel them.  When he's concentrating,
there's nothing else in the world.  "What?"

"A chimney sweep?" Nick repeats.

"Once a month.  House account.  Joshua would know who."

"Thank you."  Nick fades away, leaving Lance to his work.

Lance has been disturbed out of his work trance.  He hasn't been so
disturbed that he's thinking about the issue of the chimney sweep,
but he's thinking about his work in progress and the outside world. 
At the same time.  He gets up and leaves the studio.

At the doorway, he stops, one hand on the wall for balance as he
turns his head this way and that, seeking sign of Nick.

Nick hums as he washes up and starts making lunch.  He wonders if
Lance likes cucumber or liver sandwiches better.

The sound of music drifts back to him through the house, and Lance
makes his way toward it.  It's easy enough with most of the
obstacles gone.  Five steps down to the kitchen, feel for the door,
which is open, and then through.

"Oh!  D'you like cucumber or liverwurst better?" Nick asks.  "I've
also ham and roast beef."

"Roast beef, then cucumber, then ham, and liverwurst only if I have
to."

"Roast beef, then.  And cucumber, because I like them."  Nick
laughs at himself.

"I'd like cucumber more if it didn't remind me of endless
afternoons spent ornamenting one of my mother's social engagements
rather than working."

Nick smiles a little.  "I doubt you'd make a good ornament, should
you wish not to be one.  You are far too intelligent.  Though you
are, of course, quite fine looking in finery."

Lance smiles.  "Thank you.  I appreciate the compliment even if I
can't return it."

Nick shrugs.  "It's the truth."

"That's kind of what I came in here to ask you about."  He's
feeling unexpectedly shy.  He hasn't done this since he was very
young, when he hadn't known that his own eyes would tell him more
truth about his work than anyone else could.

"What is?" Nick asks in confusion.

"You can see and I can't.  I wanted to ask what you see when you
look at the... the piece I'm working on."

"Oh!  Certainly.  I'd be honored."

"I don't..."  Lance sighs.  It's so hard to explain.  "I don't need
you to tell me you like it.  Or don't like it.  I need to know what
you *see*.  Not just literally, as in, 'I see a rock', but what you
really see."

"I can try," Nick says.

Lance nods, smile returning.  That sounds more like the kind of
answer that means what he needs it to mean.  "Thank you."

"You're most welcome.  Before or after lunch?"

"Where are you in your lunch preparations?  I don't want to cause
any bother for you."

"I'm nearly finished with the sandwiches.  I'd thought to bake a
pudding, though."

Lance steps around the counter and takes a seat at the table. 
"Perhaps in between?  I'm afraid I'll be underfoot and pestering
you if I have to wait, but once you tell me, I'll probably be too
caught up in my own world to pay proper attention to what you've
already made."

"Here, eat some sandwiches while I mix the pudding.  We'll have it
for supper instead.  When you're done, I'll see your work, and then
come back here and eat as you're reabsorbed in it."  Nick puts a
plate of several sandwiches before Lance.

"You could eat with me," Lance suggests tentatively, not sure
whether that's what Nick would prefer.

"Very well," Nick says happily.  He sits with his own plate of
sandwiches.  "Did you want a cucumber one, too?"

Lance inhales.  "I think the roast beef smells very good.  And," he
carefully feels the sandwiches, "this is more than enough to hold
me until supper."

"I know."

Lance's brows knit.  Nick knows?  "Did you want to trade one of the
sandwiches?  Roast beef for cucumber?"

"I'm fine with mine if you're fine with yours.  I simply meant that
I have noticed how much you eat.  I'm used to cooking for seven."

He's still confused.  "I eat a lot?"

"No, you don't.  I just can't get out of the habit of cooking for
seven!"

Lance smiles as he understands.  "Well, if you do want to cook for
seven, you could always speak with Joshua.  He knows everyone.  I'm
sure he'd find an use for extra sets of meals."

"Oh, they don't go to waste," Nick says, appalled.  "I keep them in
the ice box or pantry and eat them in later days."

"I don't think Joshua would let them go to waste.  I'm sure he
knows of a multitude of good uses.  I have yet to meet with a
situation -- other than dealing with my mother -- that he's been
unequal to."  Lance can't read Nick's expression and has to get
what he can from the silences.  "If you want to save them, you can,
of course.  It's just that you don't have to."

"Yes, si-Lance.  I'll speak with Joshua about it on Friday."

Lance winces.  Nick is back to calling him 'sir'.  "It's not an
order.  I just...  I have enough money for my purposes.  More than
enough that any excess of food could be given away for charitable
purposes and for you to always have fresh food.  That's all.  I
meant no coercion or insult."

"I'm sorry, Lance.  I didn't mean to slip.  I was thinking of the
lecture I must attend this afternoon," Nick admits.

"To slip?"

"I nearly called you sir!"

"You make it sound like I'll punish you if you do.  It wasn't meant
to be a requirement.  I'd just hoped--"  Lance shakes his head. 
"Never mind."

"No, it's not that," Nick says thoughtfully as he chews.  "It's...
it's not right.  You're not like that.  You're... forgive me, but
you're more like a friend to me."

Relief lightens Lance's expression.  "I'd hoped so," he says, and
eats his sandwich.

Nick blushes and for once is glad Lance can't see.  "Oh."

Lance had thought he would need to consciously slow down his
consumption of lunch, but Nick is better company than Lance had
expected given their association to date.

"...but do you plan to continue sketching even after you gain your
medical degree?"

"*If* I gain my degree, if I have time, I will sketch."

"Why wouldn't you obtain your degree?"

"Oh, many reasons.  I could never find a true internship, or fail
the one I have.  I may not be able to afford my classes much
longer.  I may fail my tests."

"If you fail, then that's your own fault, of course, but are your
classes truly so expensive?  You're nearly always here; I can't see
how you could be taking very many of them."

"This is the problem," Nick says with a slight laugh.  "Stretching
them out costs more.  But it is the only way I could do it."

"What would be the best way?  If you could study as much or as
little as you liked, but do so at your own pace?"

"I'm not sure.  I would instinctively say to do everything as
quickly as possible, but I'd probably become even more exhausted
than I have been doing it this way."

"You're exhausted now?"

"Mmm.  Sometimes."

Lance hears 'yes' in Nick's voice, whatever he might say.  "Would
it help if I had more people hired?"

"Lance, I can do it!  It's no trouble.  I like caring for your
needs."

"I don't want you to suffer for it," Lance says quietly.

"Maybe I think it's worthwhile," Nick replies, equally quietly.

Lance nods, accepting that.  "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Nick answers, and finishes his lunch.

When Nick stands, Lance does, too.  "I'm going back to the studio. 
I... I'll wait for you.  Or--" a thought strikes him.  "Would that
be too much pressure?  I could go elsewhere."

"No, I'll come with you now."  Nick reaches out to take Lance's
hand before remembering.  Again, he is glad Lance's blindness
renders his reactions moot.

Lance smiles, then stills when he feels Nick comes close.  But Nick
seems to be waiting for him to lead the way, so Lance does.

Nick steps into the studio for the first time in nearly two weeks. 
Many things have changed, including the sculpture, which used to be
nothing but a chunk of rock.

Lance stands back by the door, not wanting to influence Nick's
impressions in any way.  He knows what he thinks of what he's done,
but the question is whether the sense of it survives when it's
seen.  He also frets over whether he's got the motion and the shape
of the bird right.  Normally, he'd make many sketches of birds to
get their shape and motion correct, but here he's relied only on
his own memory.

Nick doesn't understand what's off.  The bird is beautiful,
especially so for having been done by a blind man.  Still... there
is something not quite right.  He bends closer, looking hard at the
little creature.  "Hmm."  He straightens.  "It's beautiful.  Very,
very beautiful.  I can tell easily what it is and it looks near to
taking flight."

Lance stays silent so as not to influence Nick's opinion.  The bird
is much rougher than his usual style.  Lance -- before -- used to
create pieces with as much realism as possible.  This bird is rough
and crude in comparison, but it feels more real to him than his
prior 'perfect' creations.

But what he's waiting for is whether Nick sees the point of the
piece, of the bird seen in flight, tilted sideways, wing up.

Nick touches the bird softly.  "I wonder if a splint would help."

Lance closes his eyes tight, feeling tears.  Yes.  It's right. 
Nick has not only seen the bird, but felt it as well.  The piece is
a rather obvious metaphor.  The top of the sculpture is the bird's
wing, extended and slightly curved.  The base is the other wing,
harshly curved -- and broken.

Nick steps over, standing in front of Lance.  "May I hug you?"

Lance isn't sure why Nick wants to.  "Yes?"

Nick wraps his arms around Lance and holds him close.  "You did
it," he whispers.  "You're going to succeed."

Lance's arms come up and he hugs back.  "Thank you.  You do see
it."

"You show me."

"I do?"

"It's there in the stone."

Lance nods.  "I'd hoped it was.  I could feel it there, but I
didn't know if it was there to the eye as well.  Or, for that
matter, if I'd misremembered the shape of a bird so poorly that it
made no sense to the eye."

"I don't think you could ever do that."  Lance's hair smells nice.

"I could very easily.  I've done less preparatory work for this
piece than I have for any other.  And it's not my... it's not in
the style that I used before."  Lance feels disinclined to move
away from Nick.

Nick's hand is between Lance's shoulders.  It begins rubbing
circles there without his consent.  "And neither is better.  They
are merely different."

"One is always better."  Lance leans his forehead against Nick's
shoulder as Nick begins slowly caressing him.  "Although I admit my
own eyes are usually the harshest."  He smiles a little bitterly at
the irony of that.

"True."  Nick's lips brush the shell of Lance's ear as he talks. 
"I'll be your eyes," he offers.

Lance shivers a little.  "Yes, but do you know how to be harshly
honest without being cruel?  What I know is true is not necessarily
something I'm capable of hearing from someone else.  When you said
-- I do not recall the exact words, but you said something to the
effect of this piece being a self-indulgent waste of time.  I
was... quite absurdly hurt."

"I said what you were doing before was merely knocked off edges
meaning nothing, actually.  *You* said it was a waste, right after
you destroyed all of them."  Nick is nothing if not fair.  "I did
not think them self-indulgent or a waste of time.  Merely devoid of
meaning."

"Ah.  I thought you were referring to this."

"You hadn't yet started it, that I had seen.  I am sorry for being
unspecific."

Lance shakes his head.  "There's nothing to be sorry for."  He
sighs.  He's been standing there too long.  He needs to pull away
from Nick soon.

Nick squeezes Lance tightly once more before loosening his hold. 
"I think this calls for celebration.  What shall we do?"

"Celebration?"

"Yes.  You are a sculptor still.  Nothing can beat you, if this has
not!"

Lance steps away from Nick and nods.  "It's comforting knowing that
I can still make a point with my work.  I would work nonetheless,
but if it was meaningless to anyone but me, it would no longer be
of any use to me."

Nick drops his hands, resisting the desire to pull Lance close
again.  "It is moot.  You have done it.  Shall we celebrate?"

"It is not moot," Lance says carefully.  "It's the whole
reason for celebration."

"I meant the worry.  I seem to have misspoken again," Nick says
with a sigh.

"Oh."  Lance winces.  "My apologies.  I've become even more...
touchy of late and you continue to suffer for it.  I'm sorry."

Nick reaches out to touch the back of Lance's hand lightly.  "You
may have grown so, but I still misspoke."  Lance still looks less
than jubilant.  "But come, let us put this aside.  We shall
celebrate!"

Lance turns his hand to squeeze Nick's for a moment.  "Good.  I do
not wish to be at odds with you."

"Nor I with you.  What shall we do to celebrate, Lance?"

"Something you enjoy.  I'm tired of myself, and in any case, it's
time I showed you how much I appreciate your presence."

Nick laughs softly.  "Would you like to eat out?  I know a place
with very private tables."

"Would that please you?"

"Yes, it would.  I want you to have something like the life you had
before.  I saw you once, in Domino's.  You were so happy, laughing
with friends.  I want you to laugh again."

"It may be some time before I feel that free again," Lance says
honestly.

"As it should be.  But... maybe free enough to smile?"

Lance gives Nick a small smile.  "That I can do."

"Good!  Get your coat, then, and I'll get mine.  We'll have an
evening out."

"I'll need more than my coat," Lance warns him, but goes to his
room to get dressed.

Nick just dresses quickly and waits for Lance's return.

It takes a while for Lance to get dressed, as he is doing so very
carefully.  When he comes back out, he's elegantly garbed.  "Is
this appropriate?" he asks.

Nick is speechless for a moment.  He finally has to clear his
throat to say, "Eminently."  Nick's pants are suddenly tighter.

"I think this is the green one," Lance says uncertainly, feeling
his cuffs again.  "I seem to remember it had the extra embroidery
on the edges."

"Oh, it is indeed the green one.  It looks... simply beyond words. 
You look wonderful."

Lance smiles at Nick.  "I'm very fond of dark green."

"It's very flattering on you."

"Thank you.  Shall we?"

"Indeed."  Nick grins and offers Lance his arm, guiding the other
man's hand up.

Lance loops his hand over Nick's sleeve, caressing the fabric.

"It's not so lovely as yours, but I feel a proper escort for your
dashing appearance," Nick jokes, handing Lance into the cab.

"I'm certain you're the best of escorts."

"I'll do my best," Nick says, settling next to Lance.

"Should I ask where we're headed?"

"Mmm.  Simpson's."  Nick's been saving for quite a while, thinking
to have a night out with a... friend.  However, he hasn't a
friend and he'd rather be with Lance than anyone else he
knows.

"I've heard of them.  They're not quite the thing, but they're said
to make up for that with their food."

"They attract different classes of clientele.  Because of it,
they've rather private tables.  I thought you would not like being
harangued for autographs over the soup course."

"Autographs would not bother me.  Nor would genuine conversation
about the arts.  It's pity that I fear."

"Well, autographs on the way in and out then.  And no pity with the
food."

"I'm not afraid of it from you," Lance says.  It's somewhere
between an admission and a confession.  "It's only that I know
society loves to gossip and I don't want to be forced to put up
with it done to my face as though blindness makes me unable to
hear."  His bitterness is entirely real and based on his
experiences after the accident, particularly when receiving callers
in his mother's house.

Nick eases his arm around Lance's shoulders, one friend supporting
another.  "Pity them for being to narrow-minded to think of
alternatives to wallowing in the aftereffects of an accident."

"I wouldn't call it narrow-mindedness so much as a shallow
preoccupation with the surface of things.  I... perhaps I should
have been more... open to the genuine pity of my friends.  But I
couldn't stand any then."

"As your friends, they will understand that, Lance."

"Perhaps.  I don't know that it matters."

"Mmm."  Nick doesn't know what to say.  Luckily, he's saved from
thinking of something by their arrival.  A few moments of frantic
activity and they're ensconced at a private table with a menu and
wine lists.  Nick sends the server away for a period and starts
reading the menu to Lance.

Lance chafes at having the menu read to him, because handling it is
one of the pleasures of dining out.  But he acknowledges the
necessity and tries not to show how he feels too much.

Finished, Nick sets it aside.  "Now, having read that, I can tell
you I know only three of the items on there.  Help!"  His voice is
teasingly distressed, but his words are true.

Lance smiles.  "I think you know all of the items very well, or
would if their names had been written in proper English.  You most
likely would not enjoy the block of raw tuna, a delicacy though it
might be.  For myself, the duck sounds delicious, only I don't like
it with the blood sauce they are using.  Nor the melon with the
cured ham.  However, the roast beef with a sage and basil glaze
does sound good."

Nick blinks.  "You're ordering for me.  What kind of wine do you
want?"

"A red, certainly.  I think I should prefer a Merlot with this. 
What kind of food do you like?"

"I like it when it's not alive any more," Nick says seriously, "And
preferably not bleeding."

"The chicken, then.  Unless you dislike it presented as a whole
bird."

"Does it have claws?" Nick asks.

"Based on your description, I don't believe so."

"Wonderful."

Lance orders confidently for the both of them, not needing to refer
to the menu now that he's heard it.

When the waiter has delivered the wine and Lance has approved it,
they're left alone.  "I think I shall always have you order for
me."

"I would be happy to do so, although to be honest, I value your
ability to cook more.  I do well, but you do better."

Nick laughs happily.  "Flatterer."

"The man who can cook is always fed.  The man who cannot is
dependent on others."

"I suppose you are quite correct."

Lance smiles a little.  "And perhaps I'm finally learning to value
your assistance."

Nick smiles, an expression which stays through all the courses of
their meal and two bottles of wine.

Lance enjoys the meal and the conversation with Nick.  It's only
when it comes time to pay the bill that his scowl returns.  The
waiter presents the bill and Lance takes it automatically, and
realizes that he can't sign it.

"My treat," Nick insists, pulling the paper from Lance's hand.  He
glances at it, and retrieves the correct amount from his jacket. 
"For the celebration, remember?"

Lance acquiesces because he has no choice, but he isn't happy about
it.  "I don't like you having to pay for things.  I have more money
than I need, and you have far less than you need."

"I saved for this.  I wanted this.  It makes me feel very good."

Lance nods, but makes a mental note that he needs to get serious
about finding a way to recompense Nick for his care.

Nick hums happily on the way to their transport home.  "Did you
want to get anything while we're out?"

"If it wouldn't bother you, I'd like a tour of the place where you
study medicine."

"Certainly."  Nick gives directions.  As it's a weekday, lectures
are going on in some of the rooms.  Nick leads Lance around the
unused areas and quietly talks about the lectures as they stand
outside the door to one of the forums in use.  "Lectures in this
building, sometimes with practicals.  The hospital is just next
door.  More advanced students intern there."

"Do you intern there?"

Nick shakes his head and they're so close it brushes Lance's face. 
"No.  I'm not advanced enough."

"Due to lack of ability, because you haven't studied that far yet,
or something else?"

"I haven't studied that far yet.  The ability... is yet to be
seen."

Lance nods.  "I doubt it's due to lack of ability."

"That's kind of you to say."

"It's not kind.  It's simply a recognition that if you can handle
me, then you have enough determination to do whatever you need to
do."

Nick laughs.

"I'm quite serious."

"I know.  It's still amusing."

"If you say so."  Lance refuses to take offense.

Nick takes Lance's hand and leads him down the hall so they can
talk at a normal volume.  "It is not you that is amusing, Lance. 
It's that something I enjoy so much could be considered work."

Lance places his hand back on Nick's sleeve and smiles.  "I think
I'm the one being flattered now.  For myself, I'm accustomed to
think of what I do as my work because that's how important it is to
me."

"That is a good way to think of it."

"That means then that medicine is your work."  Lance is as
sure-footed walking beside Nick as he would be if he could see.  He
trusts the solid presence next to him, inclines his head to hear
Nick's voice.

"Caring for you is what I enjoy," Nick says quietly, leading them
out onto the street.

"Then I have no doubt that you will make an excellent physician. 
Doctors who care about their patients are the best kind, and too
rare by far."

Nick stares at Lance's face, wanting to kiss him.  Wanting to touch
him.  "Yes.  Yes, I suppose so," he says softly.

"You'll be good at it," Lance says, smiling.  "I'm sure of it."

"High praise," Nick whispers.  "Thank you."

"Slight praise.  If I had any background then perhaps my
compliments would mean something."

"You have background in judging people."

Lance stops walking.  "I have what?"

"Background in judging people.  In knowing what they are under the
surface.  One can see it in your work."

Lance nods and starts walking again, trusting in Nick to keep him
from walking into or falling over anything.  "I'm not sure I agree
with you.  Not everything is based on myself, but I don't know that
I have any particular insights into anyone else.  I'm beginning to
realize that I know very little about other people."

"Hmm."  Lance shivers and Nick pulls him in closer.  "The fog is
really coming up."

"I should have brought my cloak."

"I'll hail a cab."

Lance nods.  "Thank you for this evening.  I had imagined such
outings before, and all of my imaginings were considerably more
disastrous."

"You are most welcome."

Lance rides home with Nick, hand on his arm even in the cab,
although there's little need for guidance there.  It's a comfort.

Nick is tired.  He's not even aware when his head slides against
the back of the cab, coming to rest against Lance's.  His dreams
are warm and friendly.

Nick's quiet almost-snores are a sign to Lance that he needs to
give Nick more time to rest.  He depends too much on Nick, despite
what Nick might say about enjoying helping him.  There must be
something he can do to give Nick more time to do all he needs to
do, to study, to rest, and everything else.

When they arrive home, Lance nudges Nick gently.  "Time to wake
up."

Nick blinks.  "Oh, dear.  I'm dreadfully sorry!"

"Sorry about what?" Lance asks as they exit the cab.  "If anything
I should apologize for not allowing you to get enough sleep."

Nick smiles.  "You allow me plenty of time to sleep, Lance!"

"Obviously not enough," Lance says without malice, allowing Nick to
lead him inside.

Nick sighs and takes Lance to the room he's come to call the study. 
Lance's private parlor in the back of the house is just... homey. 
Nick likes it there.  He lays a fire and sits on the floor before
Lance's chair.  "I love being here."

Lance is warm and comfortable now, and Nick's voice is coming from
the level of Lance's knees.  He succumbs to impulse and reaches
out.  Yes.  His fingers touch hair.  Not sticky or stiff either
with the current style, but soft and untamed.

Nick hums softly and presses into Lance's hand.  "Feels nice."

Lance continues running his fingers over Nick's hair.  "I'd like to
see you receive a scholarship so that you can continue your medical
studies without the pressure of trying to decide if you can afford
it."

"I've applied.  I shan't know until after Christmas if I've been
awarded one."

"That wasn't quite what I meant."  Lance wonders if he should even
tell Nick his plans.  He's hinting at it currently, but if Nick
doesn't understand, maybe that's for the best.

Nick tips his face up, Lance's fingers trailing over his ear and
jaw.  "You want to give me a scholarship?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I have too much money?  Because I want you to have
something you need?  Because it pleases me?"  He almost moves his
hand from Nick's face, but Nick is in no way attempting to avoid
his fingers and Lance lets his touch linger.  "I know I want to. 
I know you will make good use of it."

"Perhaps you want a personal doctor," Nick teases.  His lips brush
Lance's fingers, almost a kiss.

"Mmm.  While occasionally I could perhaps use a bonesetter, I
certainly don't require the full time attention of a doctor.  But
it never hurts having the friendship of professionals you can
trust."  The argument is reasonable, but Lance is far more focused
on the brush of Nick's mouth against his fingertips.

Nick breathes hotly over Lance's hand.  "You break bones often?"

"More often than I become ill.  I do work in stone."  His hand is
tingling.

"Oh," Nick whispers.  Lance's fingertips flicker, rubbing nearly
inside Nick's mouth.  It takes all his control not to think of
other body parts he'd like for Lance to put in his mouth.

"Nick?" Lance questions, hand stilling.

"Yes, Lance?"

"Do you want..."  Lance clears his throat and begins again, more
carefully.  "I'd like very much if you'd come up here and we can
continue this, but I want to be very clear that you owe me nothing
and that neither your position nor anything I've promised you
depends on your doing so."

"Doing..."  Nick smiles, and knows Lance can feel it.  "I... I've
wanted... this for so long now.  I didn't think I'd ever be someone
you wanted."

"You are.  Come up here, please?"

Nick slides onto the sofa next to Lance.  "Anywhere you want me."

Lance half-turns to him and holds out his hand.  "Please?"

Nick puts his hand in Lance's.  "I'm here."

Lance shakes his head, but he looks amused as he pulls Nick closer
using his hand.  "Kiss me?"

"Yes."  Nick does, kissing Lance slightly at first, then deeper and
deeper.

Lance moans and lets go of Nick's hand so that he can touch Nick
instead.

Nick only comes back to himself when he realizes, really thinks
about the fact, that he's kissing Lance's chest, biting lightly at
a hard nipple.

By now, Lance is mostly undressed, clothes discarded.  They'll all
need to be pressed before he can wear them again.  But Nick leaning
over him makes it more than worth it.  "Don't stop," he says when
Nick hesitates.

So Nick doesn't, sliding down.  He tugs Lance's trousers off and
does what he'd been thinking of Lance doing to him.  He sucks at
Lance's cock, kneeling on the floor.  The fire is hot against his
side and Lance's hands are in his hair.  It's wonderful.

Nick's mouth... Oh, Lord.  "Nick.  Oh, Nick.  You don't have to. 
So good."

Nick keeps going, his hands stroking Lance's thighs to feel the way
he flexes and presses up.

Lance thrusts up into Nick's mouth, thinking nothing's ever felt
quite as good as this.  When he comes, it's with a little sigh of
pleasure, hardly even a groan.

Nick swallows hard.  He lays his head on Lance's stomach, panting,
and moves his hand around himself quickly.

Lance pushes Nick backward.  Nick resists a little at first. 
"Please," he says.  "I want to."

Nick kneels up.  "What?  Want me to do what?"

"Lie down," Lance says, and pushes at Nick, trying to get
him to do so.  But Nick is solid and bigger than he is.

Nick lays back on the rug before the fire.  The warmth is welcome,
but the lack of Lance's touch is not.  "Lance," he whimpers.

Lance feels Nick falling back and leans forward.  His hands reach
out, finding large, well-shaped legs.  "I wish I could see you," he
says.  "You feel massive.  Like something that'll last a long
time."  In another time, he would have asked to sculpt Nick.  Now
he maps Nick's body with his hands and then his mouth.

Nick blushes.  But Lance is being complimentary.  He reaches out,
his hand hovering over Lance's, feeling the other man feel him. 
"I'm not.  Not like your sculptures, not something forever."

"You are," Lance says.  Something blunt and wonderfully soft
brushes against his face and Lance turns his mouth to it, licking
and then sucking.

Nick groans, and even that is shaky.  "I'm not... I'll come soon,"
he says.  He can't think of a more delicate way to warn Lance.

Lance squeezes Nick's hips, and then backs off.  "Did you want to
come inside me instead?" he rasps.

Nick shakes his head, looking down at Lance.  "Not like this.  Not
tonight."  He give a strangled bark of laughter.  "I wouldn't make
it in."

"I hope we'll have the chance later," Lance says and bends his head
back to his prize.

"And the reverse," Nick gets out before Lance's mouth is back and
he's rendered speechless.

Lance would agree, but he's too busy swallowing.  When Nick pushes
his head away, Lance comes forward, lying down next to Nick, head
on Nick's stomach.  "You get as few opportunities to satisfy your
desires as I do, obviously."

Nick laughs weakly and tugs Lance up higher.  "I'd desired you,
only you, for a time now."

Lance lets himself be pulled.  The comfortable warmth of the parlor
is as good or better than his bed, which he spends little time in
while conscious.  His voice is slow and rumbly.  "I didn't know
that.  That you desired me, or that I desired you.  I apologize for
my lack of insight."

Nick kisses Lance's hair.  "No apologies, not now.  Nothing wrong
now.  Just us."

"I was teasing you," Lance says, but it's not a complaint.  He's
still relaxed and amused.

"Mmm."  Nick's hands slide across Lance's body, tracing the curves
of his back, his chest, his ass.

"You're making me think you plan to sculpt me," Lance observes,
stretching lazily under Nick's hands.

"Sketch you, maybe.  Then you won't be able to see how poor it is."

"Mmm.  For you, I think I could be convinced to ignore it if you
turned out to be a mediocre artist."

"Oh, thank you so very much."

Nick has obviously taken that as less than a compliment, although
Lance had not meant it as an insult.  "I can't tell either way
anymore.  Even with sculpture, where I can touch it and try to see
it that way, there's subtleties only the eye can grasp.  So I truly
wouldn't be able to tell.  But one of the things I used to detest
was the opinion of people on 'art', who knew nothing about anything
they were talking about.  I could almost cope with stupid opinions
from those who had the ability as, no matter their opinions, you
could say that at least those principles worked for them.  But the
whole species of failed-art-student-turned-art-critic, or gallery
owner, I simply can't abide."  Lance takes a deep breath.  "What I
meant by saying that I could be convinced to ignore it if you were
a mediocre artist was that I will listen to your opinions no matter
what, because they will not be stupid."

Nick kisses Lance.  "Sweetheart, I do not care what my art looks
like.  It makes me happy to do it.  And now, helping you, your art
makes me happy as well."

Lance kisses Nick back, then drops his head against Nick's
shoulder.  "Good then.  I find I like it very much when you're
happy."

"I find you make me very... happy."  Nick guides Lance's hand down
gently, more about the feeling of being owned than about wanting
more sex.

"Hmm?" Lance asks, then feels Nick's cock under his hand.  Nick
isn't hard, and Lance touches him carefully, folding his hand
around it, thumb brushing at the soft skin.  "Not that happy."

"I'm not as young as you," Nick says fondly.  "Give me a moment."

"You're younger than I am!" Lance says, letting go.

"Um.  My clothes are older than yours?" Nick tries.  "I don't know. 
You've broken my brain, Lance."

"As long as that's a good thing, I don't mind."  Lance lies there
for a long while, enjoying the quiet.  "So, will you accept the
scholarship?"

Nick breathes slowly.  "I'll think on it."

Lance nods.

Nick's breath catches.  Lance's hand is still idle, but Nick's body
is ready to respond now.  Judging by how firmly Lance presses
against his hip, they both are.

"Nick?"

"Yes, Lance?"

"Did you, ah, want something?"

"Mmm.  You.  This is good.  Or you over me, the only thing I can
feel.  That'd be good, also," Nick says, voice lazy

"Or you in me," Lance suggests, like it's just a thought, like it
isn't something he wants badly.

"In front of the fire?" Nick says.  Lance doesn't hide his desire
as well as he thinks he does.  It's cute.

"Mmm.  Yes?"

Nick rolls Lance onto his side, facing away.  Somewhere in the
middle of it, with flickering light playing across Lance's body,
Nick falls in love.  It feels good.

Lance lets Nick move him this way and that.  He has the warmth of
the fire in front of him and Nick's warmth behind him.  It's
comfortable and easy, even though he thinks maybe it shouldn't be,
maybe he should be uneasy and losing another measure of control. 
But he isn't and it is.

Nick makes sure to bring Lance first, if only for the wonderful
sound of it.  What he can hear before Lance's tightened body brings
his own release, that is.

Lance makes pleased noises in the back of his throat as Nick
finishes with a few short strokes.  "I think I know how to finish
the man at last," he says, referring to the half-finished statue in
his studio.

"How?"

Lance turns over and fits himself against Nick.  "Yes.  It's the
perfect man.  Or it was supposed to be.  I've been thinking of it
a lot.  Of destroying it maybe.  Or disfiguring it to reflect how
my life's changed.  But I see another possibility now."

"What's that?" Nick asks, tucking Lance against himself.

"I don't know if I can put it into words."  He snuggles into Nick's
warmth and sighs.  His previous lovers have mostly been either
stylish young things, models or men on fire with the passion of
their art.  No one has been quite like Nick.

"Don't, then.  I'll see it."  Nick holds Lance tightly, not ever
wanting to let him go.

Lance nods.  "I'd prefer that.  Not because I don't want you to
know.  But it's more of the same thing as the bird.  I want to make
sure you see what's there without me telling you."

"Ah.  Tell me one thing, though, if you would."

"Certainly."

"May I carry you up to bed?"

Lance stiffens for a second, then relaxes.  Nick isn't implying
he's helpless.  "*Up* to bed?"

"Yes?"

"All right.  I hope your bed is comfortable."

"More than that, it's warm.  However, I meant lifting you up.  So
if you want your room, we can go there."

"A warm bed sounds good.  Yours is probably more comfortable than
mine."

Nick stands and lifts Lance up.  "You're lighter than I had
thought.  Your personality is so... present."

"I'm not doing justice to your cooking most likely."  He isn't
entirely comfortable with being carried, but the strength of Nick's
arms is a compensation.

Nick pauses to kiss Lance.  "I want to thank you for letting me do
this.  Take care of you like this.  I know you could do it.  I
just... I feel strong when you let me help."

"You are strong.  Very strong.  I'm very impressed."

"Emotionally strong," Nick clarifies.  "But, um.  Thank you."  He
hopes Lance can hear him smile.

"Physically strong as well."

Nick lays Lance down on his bed.  "I've thought of you in this bed
many times," he whispers.

"I had no idea."  Lance waits for Nick to join him so that he can
touch him without reaching out to grasp nothing.  "If anything, I
thought that my admission to being a libertine with morals so loose
as to think nothing of staring at naked men for the purposes of
immortalizing them in stone would keep you from entertaining any
such idea."

"To be honest, all I could think was that I was glad you could not
see how far from that ideal I am."

"From what ideal?"

"The men you carved."

Lance wishes he could see Nick's expression.  To see Nick's face at
all.  "That... that actually has something to do with my concept
for the work.  It's... what I considered to be beautiful contrasted
with what is beautiful.  Only there's more to it than that.  It's
sight versus touch and real versus unreal."

Nick lays half on top of Lance.  "Will you tell me about it, after
your man is done?"

Lance reaches up to feel Nick's face, trying to interpret his
expression through touch.  "If you don't see it, maybe.  If I don't
just destroy it."                                                 
           

"You won't," Nick says, his voice calm and completely confident.

"If you say so.  I'll have to see."

Nick nuzzles Lance's throat.  "For tonight, time to dream?"

"Yes."

"Yes."  Nick kisses Lance softly.  "You are so beautiful."

"I wish I could say the same," Lance says wistfully.

"Sweet.  You couldn't have said the same, even had this not
happened," Nick says gently.  "I'm attractive, but nothing more."

"That you are," Lance agrees.  "You attract me."

Nick laughs and lays down, tugging the blankets up over them.  "How
do you like to sleep?"

"Soundly.  Although..." Lance turns into the shelter of Nick's
body, "I admit that, in the past, I've been more... dominating with
my lovers.  I don't feel the same way about you, though."

Nick makes a contented sound.  "You may dominate me at your
leisure."

Lance pulls Nick's arm over him.  "I'd rather not.  I'm finding I
like things better this way.  I've never liked being taken care of
before.  But it was harder than I'd ever realized doing everything
by myself.  Nerve-wracking even.  I know I'm taking shameless
advantage of you and your time, but I like things as they've
become."

"As do I."

Lance relaxes.  "I'm glad."

"As you usually rise before I do, I should like to say now that
being kissed awake is a wonderful thing and those that can't handle
morning breath don't deserve morning sex."

Lance grins.  Solemnly, he says, "I'll have to remember that."

"Yes, please do.  And if you don't, I'll remind you.  I'm bound to
wake up before you some day."

"To be quite honest, I don't understand why you don't. I stay up
quite late and the only reason I don't stay in bed later is that
sleep is something to be endured.  Especially tomorrow, when I have
so much work to do."

"I work as an attending from midnight to five, every other night,"
Nick says simply, yawning.  "Not tonight, thankfully."

"Sleep," Lance says firmly.  "You need more sleep.  Particularly as
I intend to see you successfully become a doctor."

"Sleep, pretty one."

Lance chuckles, but he's happy to do as he's told.

~~~~

Epilogue:

From the Guardian:  Today, the enigmatic Mr. Bass' controversial,
yet critically acclaimed statue of a beautiful man's torso
transmuting into a rough fish's tail -- titled simply 'Beauty' by
its creator -- was purchased from the British Museum for a sum of
ten thousand pounds by the well-respected physician, Dr. Nicholas
Carter.  Critics still disagree as to what the statue is intended
to represent, and whether Mr. Bass intended for the man's torso to
be the ideal of beauty or for the transformation to be a symbol for
some deeper concept.  No simple merman of old, this work, but a
piece with no beginning or end.  For years scholars have pondered
the question of which direction the change is meant to go.  A fish
into a man, or a man into a fish?  When asked if, in his long
association with Mr. Bass, he had learned the answer to this
question, Dr. Carter, merely smiled.  The British Museum says that
they do not intend to sell off their works and that the transaction
represents not their policy toward art in general but rather their
respect for Dr. Carter's reputation and achievements...