A/N: This story follows Someday and Friday, and is the final part of the mini-series.
Neither had counted on it, but somehow, both had known it would happen.
In the mornings, they'd wake up with smiles on their faces, the product of a peaceful night of sleep. Legs tangled, fingers intertwined, skin against skin. Some days, it took him a little while to remember where he was, who he was with, and in those tense moments, there was always a cold fear that persisted in her chest until he smiled and said her name. He remembered.
She had known that when she'd agreed to stay with him the first night, it wouldn't be 'just tonight,' but she was surprised by her own willingness to share a bed with a man she'd tried to avoid physical contact with for years. She knew he was quickly making new memories of her to replace the ones he'd lost, and she couldn't explain why that terrified her, but it did. Everything seemed to these days, but maybe it could all be umbrella'd under the label 'uncertainty.' She didn't know what the next day would bring, whether there'd be progress or deterioration, change or stagnation, and that she couldn't handle. She cared enough about him to try.
It was at nights when she allowed herself to explore what she felt, how deeply she felt it. Not physically, no, never physically, even though she was pretty sure lying in his arms every night counted as physical. Not sexually, either, but she couldn't even affirm that without doubt. He'd never tried anything; she hadn't either, but she always wondered how receptive either would be to the other's advances. She figured he was probably too respectful to try, and she knew that she'd never be able to muster the courage to push the delicate boundaries, so every night, she'd lie in his arms and quietly confess her fears, her regrets, and he managed to catch glimpses of fragility in a steel-clad woman.
The mornings after, she wouldn't mention anything she'd exposed to him the night before, and he never broached it. He'd learned – relearned – from observation that she guarded her personal space viciously, and he always figured that she'd speak up when she was ready. During the daytime, however, she rarely was offered a chance to, because he struggled with his condition, with keeping his frustration in check, and she needed to help him sort that out more than she needed or wanted to talk about what she was going through.
And that was how it was. He helped her through the night, and she helped him through the day. Mutual. Fair. Maybe the only fair thing that had happened to either of them in a while.
Calleigh had returned to work at Eric's insistence. She figured he needed some space anyway. The team had welcomed her back with open arms and often sent her notes or presents to pass along to Eric, but rarely did any of them visit. The few times they did, it had been awkward, even with Calleigh playing host, and Eric didn't seem to want them around much anyway. He did write them back, and Calleigh hoped that the messages passed between them would be enough to reconnect.
Sometimes, his mother or one of his sisters would visit to bring him some food and check up on him, usually in the evening after they'd finished working. In the beginning, they'd called beforehand, politely asking permission, but Calleigh quickly informed them that they could drop by without warning any time they wished. That was why, early one morning, Calleigh wasn't surprised when Isabel showed up at her door.
"I have the day off," Isabel explained, "so I thought I'd take my brother around, maybe grab lunch."
"That's great," Calleigh replied pleasantly. "He's in the kitchen."
Isabel nodded and headed in that direction, Calleigh following close behind. Eric looked up when he heard the two women enter.
He grinned. "Morning, Isabel."
Isabel approached Eric and gave him a quick kiss to the cheek. "Good morning," she greeted brightly as she took a seat next to him.
Calleigh smiled, knowing that Eric was going to be in good hands. "I have to get to work," she announced. "Have fun, you two."
Eric abandoned his scrambled eggs for a moment to stand up and pull Calleigh into his arms. "Gonna miss you today," he murmured into her hair.
It was the same thing he told her every morning before she left for work. She'd gotten used to hearing it but could never quite get used to the undertones.
Calleigh nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of Isabel's presence. "Me too," she replied quietly. "Make sure to finish your breakfast," she instructed, pulling away.
"I will," he promised, leaning in to kiss her forehead. He felt her tense up and tossed her a confused look, but her eyes were avoidant. He decided to let it go, figuring it was probably just her stubbornness rearing through.
Calleigh waved goodbye to the Delkos and headed out the door. Eric sat back down at the table, intent on finishing his eggs, but as soon as the front door clicked shut, Isabel shot her brother a look that meant business.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
Eric looked up, her accusing tone confusing him. "What?"
"To Calleigh," she replied like it was obvious.
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
She sighed. "You don't wanna do this," she pressed quietly.
He looked away. "Isabel…"
"Eric, listen to me," she urged, shaking her head. "Don't do this to her."
He threw his arms into the air angrily and shot out of his seat. "I'm not doing anything!" he yelled, his reaction telling.
Isabel tilted her head up to look at him. "How can you say that?" she asked softly. "This woman is ready to spend the rest of her life taking care of you."
Coming from his sister, that surprised him, but the frustration would not subside. "I'm not a baby," he mumbled roughly.
She smiled sadly and touched his hand. "No, but there's so much to relearn, and you don't know if this could happen again." Her voice was tinged with something resembling conflict, like she didn't want to be the one giving him this talk. She shook her head, and her voice softened. "Don't pull her closer only to let her down again."
He sighed in frustration. "You act like I have control over what happens to the bullet in my brain," he grumbled, his free hand reaching to the back of his head to touch his scar. This wasn't fair. His own sister turning against him.
"And you act like she has control over her feelings for you," Isabel shot back. "You lost your memory of her, Eric. She didn't lose hers of you. Whatever she felt then, she still feels now. Don't toy with her."
"I'm not," he replied, softening up considerably. He sighed and sat back down, feeling defeated. "What if I told you that I still feel it?" he asked hesitantly. He looked at Isabel expectantly and shifted uncomfortably in his seat when she didn't reply. He picked up his fork and poked at his plate. "That maybe—maybe I didn't lose everything."
Isabel looked dubious. "You didn't even remember your own nieces, Eric," she sighed.
"I haven't spent the last month living with Valencia and the girls," he offered as an explanation, even though he knew it ran deeper than that. He briefly wondered what his sister would say if she knew they fell asleep holding each other every night. "Isabel, I don't want to believe that everything I did in the past eight years has gone to waste." He sighed deeply, hoping she'd understand where he was coming from, how he needed the optimism to keep him going. "I'd like to think I still have it somewhere; it's just temporarily inaccessible, but one day, maybe I'll remember some things about her, about Valencia's girls, too." He paused, considering his next words. "And about Mari's last days," he added quietly.
"I hope you do, Eric," Isabel said sincerely. "There's just this line, you know? And I think you guys are wandering too dangerously close without realizing it." She tilted her head to look at him, and her voice softened. "I don't think she understands that this could happen again."
"She's not stupid," he replied flatly. "This is ridiculous, Isabel," he snapped, feeling the frustration bubbling up inside him again. "Did you come here just to tell me I should live my life never connecting with anyone in fear of hurting them if this thing," he spat, motioning at his head, "shifts again?"
"No," she replied sympathetically, patting him gently on the hand, "I'm saying—"
"Even if I'm just filling a void," he interrupted, "what makes you think that everything I'd felt before, I'm not learning to feel again?"
Isabel sighed again and buried her face in her hands, and he sensed frustration there. "Eric, you know your happiness means the world to me. Just be careful. For your sake and Calleigh's."
"I know what I'm doing," he replied indignantly, feeling remnants of his anger sparking inside him.
Isabel smiled slightly. "I hope so." She studied her brother for a moment, then stood up. "I really did want to spend the day with you, though, if you're still up for it."
He brought his plate to the sink and nodded. "Of course. Let's go."
As the pair left Calleigh's apartment, Eric couldn't help but think that this was going to change everything.
o o o
"How was your day out with your sister?" Calleigh asked the moment she stepped inside. She'd taken a double shift today, and it was already pitch black outside, so she was glad to be home, glad to see Eric again, but he didn't seem to share her good mood.
He shrugged. "Good," he replied noncommittally, turning away and wandering off.
She frowned, took off her shoes and followed him to their room. The guest room, technically, but they'd shared it for so long that it only seemed fitting. She watched as he walked to the bed in the dark and slid under the covers, all without a single word.
She figured he was just cranky and gave it another shot. "Looks like you made your bedtime tonight," she teased, but that received no response from him.
She tried not to let any of this get to her; everyone had their days, after all, and he'd been slightly more volatile since his hospitalization and subsequent release. Nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't fix. She headed for the shower, confident that she'd be able to get him to open up about it in the morning.
Once dry and clothed for sleep, she decided that she'd stay up a little longer, finish some paperwork, but quickly found her concentration waning. She kept at it though, ground through a few reports, but at around two in the morning, she was finally ready to turn in for the night.
She took a quick detour to the bathroom, then headed for the guest room. She hesitated at the door, unsure whether or not she should enter. The door rested slightly ajar, and tentatively, she pushed it open. She slipped inside and approached the sleeping figure, leaving the door open behind her. She paused again in front of the bed, appraising the sight in front of her.
Quietly, she climbed into bed, curling up under the covers. He was so still, and she figured he'd fallen asleep. Trying not to wake him, she rolled over and slung an arm over his body, needing his presence, his heat. She felt his back muscles flex in response, and she suddenly realized that he hadn't been asleep at all. He shifted to his back and stared up at the ceiling, Calleigh's arm still draped across his body, her cheek now against his shoulder. She moved her hand up to his chin and ran her thumb along his jaw.
He took her hand and brushed his lips briefly across her knuckles. He released it immediately, too roughly to not hide meaning, and she heard him sigh. He began to speak, low but distinct, his words piercing.
"Maybe we shouldn't do this anymore," he whispered, almost sounding like he wasn't speaking to anyone in particular.
Her heart stopped. "Do what?" she managed, throat dry. Her hand impulsively slipped underneath the hem of his shirt and began tracing tiny circles across his abdomen.
He gripped her hand to stop her, then played with her fingers for a moment. "I think—" He turned his head to the side to look at her, but seeing her there tugged at his heartstrings and he had to focus his attention back on the ceiling. "I think I should start living in my apartment again. The doctors have okayed no supervision, and I think I've overstayed my welcome."
"You haven't," she replied slowly, trying to process his words, analyze his tone, but she couldn't figure out what he was getting at, was denying the possibilities she did come up with. She pushed herself up and propped her head against her arm. "Eric, what's going on?"
"I just think I should start trying to be a little more independent," he explained, sounding like he was reasoning with himself rather than her. "I can't rely on you forever."
She swallowed her 'why not,' instead settling for, "Where is this coming from?" She tried to sound calm but couldn't tell if she was successful.
He shook his head and closed his eyes, his fingers involuntarily tightening around hers. "Nowhere," he murmured, and he heard the concealed pain in her voice, wished he hadn't put it there. But this… this wasn't something he could let himself do anymore.
Suddenly, he sat up, startling her. He pushed her hand gently aside and got out of bed. He stood there hesitantly for a moment, then began rummaging around in the dark.
She rose slowly and walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around herself when a sudden chill ran through her body. "What are you doing?" she asked emotionlessly.
He picked up a pair of pants that had been haphazardly tossed on the ground and spun around to face her, surprised by her sudden proximity. "Packing," he replied with equal detachment, carefully folding his pants. He quickly turned away to suppress the urge to apologize. He knew he wouldn't be able to do this if he kept catching her eye, kept seeing the emotions hidden behind her facial features.
She watched him for a few more moments as he opened the dresser drawers and began stuffing his suitcase with the clothes that he found there. She frowned. This was definitely not just crankiness. "It's 2 a.m.," she pointed out.
"Okay," he replied with a shrug.
"Eric," she said firmly, "I'm not driving you there until you tell me what's going on."
"Then I'll take a cab!" he snapped angrily. He felt it, too, the resentment. At himself for having grown so attached to this woman – again, as it seemed; at her for making this difficult without meaning to make it difficult; at the fucking bullet in his brain for messing everything up. He looked away. Cold; he'd just have to be cold. "My life doesn't depend on you," he added evenly.
Her face fell for a brief moment before she clenched her jaw to maintain composure. "That's what this is about?"
He swallowed hard, feeling guilt spreading slowly from his chest, coating his limbs, and he suddenly didn't have the energy to do anything. Still, he continued tossing clothes into his suitcase. "I have to go," he mumbled without looking at her.
She sighed. "Can't this wait until morning?" It sounded almost like she was pleading, but she couldn't find the energy to care how she sounded when she felt like she was losing him fast in a vortex of quicksand, and she couldn't save him. Couldn't even save herself, as it turned out.
He shook his head, fearing he'd reveal too much if he spoke, though he got the feeling that exposure was inevitable wherever the two of them were concerned. He couldn't wait until morning. Morning would change his mind, effectively eradicating all the courage he'd built up for this moment. Morning would come and go, and tomorrow night, he'd fall back into routine. Tonight felt different.
"Eric," she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper, "you're being ridiculous."
"Sorry," he mumbled unapologetically, maintaining his detachment.
She bit her lip and watched him fumble around with his suitcase. It was dark, but he didn't seem to care. She needed the veil of darkness to keep her emotions in check, so that worked out well for her, too. She cleared her throat inconspicuously, feeling numb. "You want some help with the—"
"I'm fine," he grunted, zipping up his suitcase. He straightened up, caught her staring back at him and was suddenly taken aback by the look in her eyes. Even in the dark, he could see the struggle there, and he swore if he looked at the right angle, they shined with unshed tears.
Immediately, she looked down at his suitcase, nodded and took a step back to distance herself. He glanced at the door, wondering if he should say something or just leave. Neither rested well with him.
"Why didn't you just go?" she asked suddenly, surprising herself. She gave him a moment, but he said nothing. "Before I got home," she clarified, but still no response. She pointed at the bulging suitcase, gaining ammunition as she went along. "Why did you start packing in the middle of the night?" She sounded accusing this time, like she was in on his secret. "You had all day to pack and leave, but you did neither until now. Why?"
He swallowed hard. "Calleigh…"
"Something happened," she assessed. "This isn't you, Eric. You're not purposely hurtful like this." She realized what she'd just admitted and felt the wrenching feeling in the pit of her stomach grow tenfold. "I'm not buying your act," she finished quietly.
He hung his head, and in that moment, he really did feel her pain alongside his own. "I just—" He sighed heavily and leaned against her dresser, knowing this was a lost battle. He finally understood what it felt like to hold his cards so tightly they almost seemed to meld into his fingers. "I don't want to hurt you again," he finally admitted, "if this bullet shifts…"
"Eric," she warned, taking in a sharp breath, "don't say that."
He shrugged. "Could happen, Calleigh. You have to face that." He didn't think she was taking him seriously enough, and he had to make sure she understood every distinct possibility. "I could wake up tomorrow morning and not remember you all over again," he added, knowing that'd get a reaction out of her.
It did; her expression froze for a moment, and he could see the fear, sense it, smell it, emanating from deep within her core. He knew she was rehashing the event, weighing the odds in her head, calculating, always calculating.
But numbers rarely meant anything if the mind disagreed with them. Arithmetic was performed in the brain, physical, chemical, logical, and she knew that she'd struggle with making those calculations hold meaning when her heart was screaming for something else entirely.
"I can handle that," she finally stated. It came out dry and unconvincing, but if anyone would accuse her of denial, she'd deny that as well.
He sighed. "I don't want you to have to," he replied quietly, feeling guilty all over again. "It shouldn't be your burden to carry."
She remained stationary, afraid of disturbing the stillness. "I want to help you." An almost-sob, choked out and held back. She turned away.
He fought the urge to touch her, just to make sure she knew he was still there; they were still there. "Maybe that's the problem," he noted carefully. "Maybe—"
"Eric, stop it," she hissed, cutting him off. She couldn't bear to hear it anymore, didn't want to live in the same fear that suddenly seemed to plague him. "What would you do?" she asked, turning the tables on him.
His eyes shot up. "You mean, if you—"
She nodded. "What would you do," she repeated, "if I didn't remember you tomorrow?"
"I'd do exactly what you've done," he replied, the realization settling on him. He'd understood the silent mutual agreement before, implicitly, but it wasn't until that very moment that he truly was able to appreciate what their relationship meant to her, and for the second time, him.
She smiled faintly. "I can understand wanting independence but if that's not what this is about, will you stay?" she asked hopefully. "At least tonight."
He pushed himself off the dresser and approached her. She was avoiding his eyes again, and he placed his hand on her chin to change that. He leaned down and carefully brushed his lips against hers, feeling the sudden electricity coursing from the point of contact down his spine, and from the way she shivered, probably hers, too. He left it at that though, knew it was still early and both had a lot to learn before this could even begin to happen. He could live with that; she'd already expressed that she could as well, and that was… that was hope. Hope and something else.
"This doesn't make things easier," he murmured, feeling her shiver again. He ran his hands up and down her arms to warm her.
She chuckled in spite of herself, still reeling from the contact. She pushed herself onto her tiptoes and touched her lips to his. Lightly still, full of promise for the future. She felt her heart racing again. "I don't want easy," she whispered back. Just you, her eyes added. Just you.
"I'm sorry about tonight," he apologized, feeling his chest constricting just thinking about how he'd hurt her even more with his dismissive actions. "I only wanted—"
She nodded. "I know," she breathed, and she did. His intentions were pure; she knew that, but he didn't seem to understand that she needed him in her life more than she needed to avoid whatever came with the bullet shifting again. She'd rather have him with that possibility than not have him at all. She was pretty sure he knew that now.
"I'm sick of fearing tomorrow," she added, breathing a sigh of relief when she felt his arms pulling her close. "I just want the chance for today."
He smiled and pressed a light kiss into her hair. "We've got today," he reassured her, knowing that she'd be there unconditionally, knowing that they'd find each other as many times as was needed. They could do this. They could make this work, over and over again. They would.
His sister had been wrong. She'd doubted his feelings, misunderstood hers, underestimated their relationship. He knew none of that mattered now.
All that mattered was today.
"The past is never dead. It is not even past."
—William Faulkner