Journey Man
By Skylar

"He crashed twice on the way over. Brought him back but his vitals are weak. We were gonna call it, but his partner was standing right there. Didn't have the heart to do it in front of him."

"What's his name?"

"Eric Delko."

"Mr. Delko? Are you with us?"

"He's completely non-responsive."

"Not sure we're gonna be able to change that."

"I just deliver them, Marty. This one's a goner."

"Alright, charge to 200..."

He can smell his mother's perfume and feels his hand in her hand, without looking at it, because he'll forever know the soft texture of her skin. There's a metal bar in front of his eyes and he looks up, and suddenly realizes his mother is double his size. He frowns at her youthful beauty, her hair half-braided to her side, loose black hair cascading down her shoulders and back. He looks at her hand and her wrinkles are gone, her veins unpopped, and the ring his father gave her sparkles in front of him like thousands of stars during a cold, moonless night.

"Eric." She kneels in front of him, a sad smile on her face and he wants to know why she's crying, and he wants to know what he's doing there, and he wants to know where her wrinkles went, where the gray of her hair disappeared to.

"Bebé, it's time to say goodbye to grandpa."

He frowns at her, confused, and he tries to shake his head but there's a light pain there that makes it impossible. "Ma, what are you talking about? Grandpa died 25 years ago."

She doesn't seem to hear him, merely chokes back a sob as she picks him up into her arms, gently, and from above he can see better, and he quickly realizes he's back in his old home, in his grandfather's dusty old room and the smell of medicine and sickness is nearly toxic.

His grandfather lies in bed, a nasal cannula helping him breathe but it's not quite enough and the old man is quickly dying. His mother lowers the railing of the bed and Eric sits there, his too short legs dangling in the air and it's weird, because he's 31 years old, an adult, and yet his feet are small, his hands childish, and his grandfather is struggling to breathe.

It doesn't make sense, he realizes quickly. Is he dreaming?

"Abuelo," he says and his grandfather opens his eyes, and Eric is shocked by how black they are. Not just black but suddenly alert, youthful. His grandfather removes the nasal cannula from his nose and he's breathing normally, sits up in bed and stares at his grandson with a look of both pity and shock.

"Eric, mijo," his grandfather says tenderly, all signs of ailment gone. "You shouldn't be here."

Eric looks at him, confused, and then glances around, and the room shifts and changes and the stars fade, and the black of the night takes over everything else.

"CT's back. Bullet's in the temporal lobe, burst into pieces."

"He's not having a very good day, is he? Another unit of o-neg administered at 15:32."

"This is a goddamn mess."

"I can't see a thing, I need more suction."

"Can't intubate now, he's going V-fib again."

"Goddamn it. Get the crash cart."

He feels a bolt of energy taking him and the sun is bright and he feels like a king sitting in the tall wooden chair, with a pair of binoculars next to him (though he really doesn't need them) and a red and white floater with the word Lifeguard printed on it in black.

He doesn't know how he got here; he doesn't seem to know a lot of things recently, but he feels drowsy and disoriented and at the same time he knows this scene in front of him by painful memory.

The pool barely goes 8ft deep, but it's the first time he's getting paid to "get wet," as his father put it. His father, he remembers, and he also remembers the argument they had that morning. One of the smartest kids in his class, good at math, good at science, perpetually mesmerized by chemistry and the bonding and unbonding of molecules - atoms, genes, chromosomes all coming together to create a perfect world. He loves it - but he doesn't love it enough.

"Wasted. All that talent wasted."

The memory makes the headache intensify and he shifts there slightly, and the sun is beating hard on his skin but this was his choice, this is his passion, his very first love. Not a girl or a woman but the water, shining bright as a group of kids splash themselves around. A menial job, will barely pay him enough money to allow him to buy a cheap car, but he knows he'd rather do this, be this, than follow in his father's footsteps and become someone he doesn't want to be.

"This job, this job is for common people. Panimayish, Eric? You might as well pick garbage off the streets!"

The sun beats down, his body sways from side to side and he's nauseous, and he longs for his father. He longs to go back, longs for long Sunday mornings in the backyard, drawing the periodic table by memory on the cemented floor with his sister's chalk and the approving smile of his father making him feel loved and wanted. He longs for his father, longs to tell him all those things he always wanted to tell him, longs to fall into his embrace like he did when he was a small child and his father laughed in his recliner, a long Cubano puffing smoke into the air. The yearning is so intense his heart compresses in his chest and he feels the pain, and he feels lightheaded and weak.

"Hey! Are you with me?"

He looks down and there's a man there, chest bare and a look of alarm on his face. It's only then when Eric hears the chaos, sees the panic and a group of kids are standing around the pool as one of them splatters in the deep end, drowning. Pure adrenaline kicks in and he grabs his floater, quickly dives into the water but the chlorine makes it murky and he can't see a thing other than white. He dives in again, feeling around with his hands, hoping to find the crying child, but he feels nothing. He tries to open his eyes, but the chemicals sting them, and soon his lungs start hurting for oxygen.

Oxygen. He desperately needs it like a drug. His legs kick under him and he swims up, but up becomes down and he's lost in the water, his lungs stinging, threatening to burst.

Swim. He can't swim. He forgot how.

He panics, and as he kicks his legs around his right thigh overwhelms him with pain. He grabs it, trying to soothe the pain, unable to breathe, and in a miraculous turn he manages to find the surface, opens his mouth wide and inhales the air around him. But it's not enough, and he continues to struggle for air.

And then he sees the congregation of people by the edge of the pool, somberly looking down, and he realizes quickly the child is there, lying limply on the bricked border of the pool. Dead. Failed him. Wasted talent. Wasted intelligence. Was it worth it? he hears the voice of his father.

The body beckons him like a lighthouse to a lost sailor at sea.

He approaches it, and sees himself.

"He's hypoxic."

"Get another unit of o-neg..."

"Jules."

"He's losing it faster than we can give it."

"Bullet scraped the femoral artery, we need to get him to surgery."

"We can't do that if we don't stabilize him first."

"It's been too long, what makes you think he'll come around?"

"This guy's not gonna ruin my day."

"It's not about you. If he goes asystole... you have to call it."

"He won't. Clear!"

His eyes open again and he's in a field of green, a large tree in the distance before a row of willows and a mantle of forest. It's quiet, almost too quiet, and the breeze beats him gently and for a moment he feels no pain, feels no confusion. His eyes open again and he looks around once more before he bites his lower lip.

He gets it then. It flows back into him like water and he closes his eyes as he lives it again, the memory or the dream, he doesn't know but he knows - it's the first time he met him, here in the fields, with a body covered by a white sheet and a whole two acres of evidence to process.

He feels his presence and turns around and sure enough, there he is with that look of nonchalance on his face, a dress shirt untucked over his wrinkled pants and the gruffy beard that never did seem to go away despite the daily shavings.

He quickly feels a knot in his throat. He can't fucking believe it. Eric Delko, raised by the epitome of Russian machismo, the only man among sisters, taught to be strong, taught to be resilient, taught that boys don't cry. Boys don't cry. But as he stands there facing his best friend, it's the only thing he wants to do.

"Dude," Speed tells him, appreciating him from head to toes with a frown, "you look like hell."

His eyes widen and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He's scared, but he doesn't know if he's scared of Speed or this whole thing. "What are you doing here?"

Speed looks around, as if the answer is obvious. "I—"

"You're not dead?" Eric says, half in shock, his tone accusatory. "You're not dead."

Speed narrows his eyes at him. "You alright?"

He shakes his head and there's the pain again, compressed in his skull and the left side of his head is killing him. Half a second, and he gets it. "I'm... How did I get here?"

But the second is gone, and his mind goes with it. Speed doesn't say anything, and so he looks up, feeling the desperation for the first time. "I don't know what's going on."

Speed shrugs his shoulders and nods. "Yeah, you were always kinda stupid."

Normally he would chuckle, making Speed smile just slightly because one never called victory over Speed's cantankerousness. Instead he closes his eyes, and his head feels like it's floating miles away from his body. His legs give in and he moans at the intense pain on his right thigh as he sits in the grass. It fades to white and green again and he starts to panic. He tries to control it, but he can't.

"I think," he says hesitantly and looks up, and the sunlight casting its yellow glow upon his old friend gives him and angelic look. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of the image, but the movement causes him to drift off momentarily into darkness before he's back. "I think I'm losing my mind."

Speed's demeanor changes quickly and he softens up uncharacteristically. "Just breathe," he says tenderly.

"Weird things are happening... I can't make it stop. I can't..."

He runs his hands through his face, feels the passing of time quickly like an old, broken clock run amuck. He tries to stop it, but he can't. He tries to make sense of it all, but his head hurts and he's tired. He's so damn tired.

Speed is sitting next to him and Eric fights back tears, his body rocking back and forth lightly. He doesn't want Speed to see him like this, but he can't control it.

"I'm scared, man," his voice quivers.

"Don't be." Speed's voice is strong and confident, and Eric latches onto it as best he can, but he can feel his body slipping again...

"This isn't... this isn't real," he wonders aloud. "I think I'm going insane."

Speed smiles, and without an ounce of hesitation he places his arm around his old friend. Eric leans into his embrace, and he's never felt so much peace in his entire life.

"You're not going anywhere."

"He's been deprived of oxygen for too long. Even if you do bring him back, he's got a bullet in his brain. How the hell are we gonna—"

"He's a goddamn cop, Marty."

"He's gone, Jules. Let him go."

"Charge to 300."

He can hear it before he can see it, the lullaby of the waves hitting the rocks on the shore, the smell of salt and seaweed and the tickling feeling of the sand on the plant of his feet.

He smiles before he opens his eyes, and the sight of the ocean takes his breath away. It always does. It always makes his worst days much bearable, his darkest days lighter. It's his sanctuary, his home, and today the waves shine bright under the summer sun.

"Eric, come on!"

He looks on and she's there, there again like she was too long ago when they were kids. Her black hair is woven into two braids, and they bounce in the air as she runs towards the waves, stands there giggling, and then runs back towards him when they're about to hit her, squealing happily.

She's small. She's tiny, all bones and translucent skin and dark hair. She was always white as a ghost, casting a shadow of doubt amongst strangers every time their mother declared proudly they were brother and sister. Yes, same father. No, neither of them are adopted.

"Come on, Eric!"

She's laughing her seven year old laugh. Seven years old. She is that to him, standing there in her Cabbage Patch Kids bathing suit, the one she begged their mother to get her, the one she refused to take off even to go to sleep.

She's seven years old, and this is his most precious memory of her.

"Mari—" He smiles at her and the tears in his eyes are burning.

"Come on, dummy, don't be scared!"

She runs away from him again and he follows her quickly because he doesn't wanna lose her, doesn't want to see her slip away from him again. She lands on the sand knees first, laughing and energetically begins to dig a hole in the sand.

He kneels in front of her, on the other side of her small hole, and his long legs quickly dampen in the humidity of the sand. He can't stop looking at her, can't stop admiring her, can't believe she's back, here again with him, alive. This time he doesn't try to stop the tears from falling.

And then he looks down, and he realizes she's seven years old... and he's thirty one.

"Let's build a sandcastle!"

He looks at the hole, and it's deep enough to uncover a layer of salt water but not deep enough to get a good foundation. It's not right.

This is not right.

"I can't."

"Why not?" she asks in wonderment, her voice high pitched and childish.

"I don't know how," he says, looking at his hands and they're big and suddenly he feels helpless. He balls them into fists, but his muscles are weakened and he uncurls his fingers again.

"Well... let's just try," she says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world to her.

He shakes his head, and the pain is back. "I can't."

"Try!" she says again and her tone is different now, frustration and a little bit of anger as her dark eyebrows furrow at him. "You never try, Eric, you never even try."

He looks at her, and she looks mad, and he wants nothing more than to reach out and embrace her, hold her in his arms and protect her, make it right this time - save her - she's so little.

But his body crumbles and his shoulders hunch over. "I'm tired, Mari."

"Don't," she cries at him, grabbing his forearms and shaking him quickly. "Eric, don't!"

He looks at the white sand. "Mari—"

"Why do you always get like this?"

He looks at her and with tears in her eyes she stands up and runs away from him.

"Where are you going?"

He tries to get up, but his body is so heavy he can't support his own weight. He calls after her to wait, but she keeps running and he's losing her. At the realization, he summons all his strength and his legs finally come back to life and he's on his feet, running after her but he tires quickly.

She suddenly stops, turns around then, and still looks mad. Mad, and sad, but mostly disappointed. Disappointed in him, and the realization hurts him more than anything else.

"Don't follow me," she warns him.

He shakes his head quickly. "Mari—"

"Go back!" She cries as she grabs two fistfuls of sand and throws them at him, forcing him to take one step back. "Go back!"

"Call it, Jules."

"Just one more time."

"It's been 30 minutes... he's a vegetable."

"Just one more."

"Jules."

"Just once."

"One more, and that's it."

"400... clear!"

Soft Spring breeze streams through the silk curtains and he shifts lazily in bed. He's tired, goddamn tired beyond belief and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but every time he tries his body jerks into alertness. He opens his eyes and looks around.

He knows this. He recognizes it. He's been here before and he's here now, again, six years younger but somehow the same age. He doesn't know if it's deja-vu, doesn't know what the hell it is. Time traveling? A dream?

Reaching out blindly, his hand is enveloped by a mass of blond hair and her skin is silky bright in the quiet afternoon. Her body is warm and his is not, and he presses himself to her and she hums happily, comfortably settling into his arms.

He remembers this. He remembers pure happiness.

After a moment she turns around and faces him, a smile on her soft, pink lips, and she tenderly kisses him. "You're awake."

He looks at her and he's confused, and he wonders if that's the only thing he's ever allowed to be. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" she chuckles, nudging his ribs with her index finger. "You alright?"

He doesn't want her to think he's crazy, so he doesn't say anything else, but rather thinks it's been a long time since he's heard her laugh. Too damn long. And so cherishing the moment he holds her tighter, knowing how it ends, knowing that just like before, he won't be able to stop it, won't be able to stay or go. So he lays there with her for as long as he can, and his heart begins to beat faster as it always does when she's around.

It's Saturday morning on a cool April. He's 25 and she's barely 27, and though she likes to pretend in front of others that the age difference gives her a vast superiority in maturity, behind closed doors she's every bit of a child as he is. He still has the cockiness that comes from being the best member of the county's underwater recovery team; she has the eagerness and energy of a wide-eyed CSI level one.

He remembers this. It never really left him. And he knows, somehow, on the back of his tired mind, that this time he has to make it right. This time he has to change the ending.

"I got a call yesterday," he tells her and she looks at him curiously, and he doesn't know if he's saying the words or if he's remembering them, "from Horatio Caine."

Her smile fades slowly and she looks for an answer in the features of his face before she asks. Too soon, he tells himself, too soon for her to be able to read him so easily, but she does, and it both thrills him and terrifies him at the same time.

He takes her hand and her fingers are short and stubby. He smiles at them before he brings them to his lips and she sighs impatiently. He looks at her, and her eyes are light green today, speckles of yellow along the irises and he's mesmerized.

But he tells himself he can't get distracted and he takes a deep breath. Just try. "He offered me a job."

He can't detect the emotion that flashes across her face and it's gone too soon. She looks down, and he knows her walls are going up. He can't let them. Not this time.

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," he says experimentally, looking for her reaction, "nothing yet."

She turns around, her bare back to him, and quickly he knows he's losing her.

"Calleigh—"

"I think you should do it," she says, her tone business-like and it frustrates him that he can't see her face. "It's a good job, you're smart, you'd be good."

"What about—"

"Eric," she says sharply, but doesn't turn around and something tells him it's not what she wants. Not what she wants.

What she wants is this. What she wants is laughing naked under the covers, waking up late on Saturday mornings, eating waffles in bed. With him. He doesn't know it, but he knows it. It's in the way her muscles tense, in the way her Southern twang disappears slightly, in the way the light in her eyes dim. He didn't know these things before, couldn't read the signs, but after 6 years he can read her now, and he finally understands.

"It's a good job," she repeats.

"I have a good job."

This is his chance and he knows it. Here, in her apartment, six years ago but somehow today, it's his chance to make it right, to try. Just try.

He scoots over, and the inexplicable pain in his thigh is back but he ignores it. He places a kiss on her naked shoulder and whispers in her ear, "I love you."

But the breeze turns into wind, cold gusts slam the windows open and shut and she starts disappearing. He panics and calls out her name, reaches out but she's gone too quickly and suddenly he doesn't have the energy anymore and he's slipping. He lays back, struggling to breathe and staring at her ceiling, feeling lost and cold and tired and he just wants to go.

The scent of her pillow starts disappearing and his heart is beating fast, faster and faster and faster and FASTER until he feels it's about to explode into a billion pieces. He gasps out loud, sees a blinding flash of white in front of him before his body hits the gurney back down with a loud thump. The colors around him are blurry and shapeless and he breathes with his eyes open a while before he closes them again, and sees nothing.

"We got him."

He's on another journey, but this one feels different.

There's an incessant beep in his ear and he feels drowsy, and unlike before, it takes him a while to open his eyes. Blurry shapes in front of him slowly come into focus and he sees a wall, a table, and an assortment of bouquets and balloons. He's confused, wondering why they're there and who they're for, but trying to figure it out hurts him too much and he doesn't want to slip away again.

The beeping continues and he looks next to him, trying to figure out where it's coming from, and the most unexpected sight catches his attention and he's able to open his eyes just a tad more.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words don't come out. He tries again, pictures her name in his mind but he can't seem to verbalize it correctly. He makes an incoherent sound, tries to move his left hand but they both prove much harder to do than he remembered. And so he sighs, as loud as he can, and that seems to be enough.

"Hey," she says, smiling brightly but he can see the tears in her eyes, beautiful, and he prays to God to let him remember this moment forever.

He tries again, opens his mouth but there's no sound. Tries again, because it's important, he needs to get this, he needs to get it right, and that knowledge helps.

"Cal," he whispers and she laughs, and he can't remember the last time he heard her laugh. Her eyes redden a little more and she's crying and somewhere on the back of his mind he asks himself, Calleigh's crying... why is she crying? but he can't answer his own question. He tries to reach out, but somewhere between his brain and his hand there seems to be a disconnect and he can't move.

He starts to panic again, but she places her hand on his arm, and her touch and warmth make him feel safe, make him feel like he's home.

"Just rest."

But he's too overwhelmed by the experience, and too scared of never waking up again, and so he closes his eyes but remains awake, listening to the beeping. After a moment he feels her hand on his, feels the back of his hand against her cheek and she's using it to wipe away a tear. She whispers something, but he can't hear it, and he tries to open his eyes again and reassure her, but he's tired. His body sabotages his inmediate intentions, but he's overwhelmed by an inexplicable new purpose.

He falls into a long sleep again, this time dreamless.

The End
8/18/07