Five Times Eric Delko Lost His Mind
by Skylar
He spots her at the end of the bar and suddenly the world around him dissolves into thin air.
She's wearing a low cut shirt and a tube skirt, and her long blond hair sways from side to side as in slow motion. Her fingers slowly twirl a tiny straw round and round her drink, and though there are a few people around her (maybe friends, co-workers, he doesn't know), he can't focus on anything or anyone but her. He's mesmerized, and he's surprised by the sudden halt of time. He's never liked blondes – ever – but there's something about her he can't quite put his finger on, something that lures him intensely, inexplicably (he thinks of carnivorous plants and intrepid yet stupid bugs).
He walks over and offers to buy her a drink (an oldie but a goodie), and with a dangerous smile she leans against the bar and accepts it. He notices quite quickly that she's wearing a holster and in it a gun, and he finds it's an incredible turn on (and quite possibly why other men are looking but not approaching her). In the process he also gets a view of her legs and he's completely done - he's always been a leg man and on a scale of one to fucking incredibly sexy hers are incomparable.
They talk about meaningless things, the bartender's tattoos, the couple on the other side having an argument, the pathetic man in his 50s (possibly his 60s) scanning the room for young girls. But they're not paying attention to their own words, merely focus on each other's eyes and her lips, his dimples, her teeth sinking into an olive. He says something he doesn't even hear and she laughs, and when she does it's melodious and its vibrations shake him from his suddenly mushed brain all the way down to his groin.
"Excuse me, I have to use the ladies room," she says in her Southern drawl, incredibly suggestive and if he were mentally disabled, deaf, mute and blind, he would still be able to pick up on her hidden suggestion. She walks away, and he waits a discreet moment before he heads in that direction, and quickly makes sure no one is looking before he darts into the ladies room, locking the door behind him.
She's waiting for him in front of the sinks, washing her hands gracefully, and when he approaches her from behind she smiles at him through the mirror. He kisses her neck, but she knows time is a luxury they don't have, so she turns around and when their lips meet he knows it's the start of a dangerous addiction he may possibly never overcome, and as she scratches his neck slightly, her teeth biting on his lower lip slowly, he can feel it obliterating his mind, body, and everything else.
He grabs her buttocks and lifts her up to deposit her on the counter, his hands sliding her skirt up and up as her fingers work on his button and fly. She slides the back of his pants down to the curve of where his thighs begin, his briefs with it, wrapping her legs around his waist and he grinds into her slowly, rubbing against her through clothing and they moan in unison. Her hands familiarize themselves with his round butt cheeks and then they move forward, sliding his pants down further to break down the barrier, and he knows then there's no turning back, ever.
With a smile she plays with his hard cock until he groans against her neck out of sheer pleasure and frustration, his hips pushing into her hand instinctively. She kisses him and he slides her forward with a bit of unintentional force, and when he enters her she gasps loudly and her body twitches slightly. Everything is a blur after that - grinding hips and pelvises, wandering hands, insatiable tongues, scratching, biting, panting, moaning, crying out - and when he finally comes deep inside of her he leans into her for support and he doesn't know he's still alive until he opens his eyes and meets her green irises, their intensity speaking to him of danger and sin and a lifetime of mental and emotional madness...
But this doesn't happen, and instead he walks over and extends his hand towards her in a courteous gesture, and when she shakes it with a smile and a friendly, "Calleigh Duquesne, welcome to the lab," he knows then he's glad he accepted to work for Horatio Caine.
ii
His neighbors wait for him at home with displeased expressions on their faces. They talk about the government and the police, political hypocrisy and their anger quickly tells him home isn't going to be safe tonight.
The rational side of him tells him to ask Speed, and if he declines ask Horatio, and if he declines look for a cheap motel. But before he can stop himself he's in front of Calleigh, timidly asking her if he can spend the night. She says nothing, skirting around the issue and he's too biased to think of a feasible explanation for her reluctance. When she finally gives in he smiles, way more than he should, and he's glad she's got her back to him because he feels all of 14 again and probably looks the part, too.
A few minutes later, he's bragging to Speed about it.
A few hours later, he's on her couch, staring at the ceiling.
The apartment is quiet and smells of peaches and humidity and he knows it won't be long before it starts raining. A few minutes later the first lightning strikes, and then the second one, followed by roaring thunder, and quickly the rain comes in a maddening downpour.
But he doesn't care, because the only thing he can think of is Calleigh Duquesne in bed, merely a few dozen feet away from him. It's a dangerous knowledge, and as soon as it materializes in his mind it begins to fire at him various flashes of her in different stages of undress. He turns on his side and tries to clear his mind, knowing that if he gets aroused there won't be much he can do about it but take a shower and he knows a second shower will likely make Calleigh suspicious.
White light fills the room again, and in an unprecedented turn of events, he can hear a door opening. He wonders quickly if Calleigh is scared of lightning, but when she appears before him her expression says nothing of fear. She asks him if the couch is too uncomfortable and all he can do is shake his head, because she's wearing a white tank top and a pair of briefs and nothing else. She tries to make conversation, and the pink hue that appears on her cheeks when he sits up tells him way more than it should about her state of mind.
He starts with a hand on her knee, and it slides upward, slowly, up and down again. He watches her expression the whole time, her eyes closed and breathing heavily, and when a second hand encircles her left butt cheek she opens her eyes and they're so dark for a moment they appear brown. He knows that look will change everything forever, but he's not convinced that's a bad thing at all.
Without saying a word she straddles his lap, and as she looks him in the eyes, their noses touching and breathing heavily, lighting strikes outside. She kisses him slowly and every one of his extremities turns ice cold, and when their tongues meet he's filled with an intense urge to drink all of her until the last drop, until he's beyond intoxicated and inebriated on Calleigh. She takes a deep breath, but it doesn't stop, not until he can feel his lungs screaming for air (diving has its advantages) and she turns her cheek aside, gasping a breath. He moves to her neck then, finds a sweet spot near her ear that makes her purr, and as his hands slide under her briefs and cup her ass, pulling her downwards and rubbing her against his erection, his mouth moves downwards.
Her head arches back as he kisses a pert nipple through her tank top, pressing his face against her breast before he bites down slightly, making her moan. At this marvelous new sound his cock twitches slightly, and suddenly he's surrounded with an unbearable heat. But he doesn't stop, not until she grows a little impatient and slides her shirt up, letting it fall on the floor. He smiles when he gets acquainted with possibly the nicest tits in all of Miami, and with a hand on one and his tongue circling the other, he knows he could quite possibly die happy, right there, with Calleigh Duquesne's right tit in between his teeth and her pelvis rubbing itself against his in a slow, maddening rhythm.
"Eric," she pleads desperately and he smiles and pulls her forward, her stomach to his face as he pulls her briefs down, through one leg and then the other. It joins her shirt on the floor and he kisses the valley between her breasts as his fingers slide in circles around her clit, making her gasp, and she's so wet and smells so amazing for a moment he feels lightheaded. He teases her, rubbing her slowly, her nails digging into his neck. His fingers find their way inside of her and she tightens around them, and Eric closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensations, their conjoined smells, the noises she's making. He knows he might not be able to last long, but he wants the look on her face to stay imprinted in his mind forever, so he doesn't stop.
Not until she begins to twitch slightly, and then he withdraws his hand, his fingers wet. He takes one into his mouth, savoring her and she watches him, biting her lower lip before she leans in and they share her taste, his finger in his mouth, then in her mouth, the rest leaving a wet trail down her cheek. They kiss agonizingly slow and she makes a sound he's never heard before, some sort of whimper, and he's overwhelmed by the thought of making her act like this.
But then her hand makes its way inside his boxers, and all that control is gone. He groans, pushing into her, feeling the moment quicken and he finds a way to lose the boxers with her still on his lap, which amuses her. Skin to skin now, forehead to forehead, their tongues meet before their lips do, and as she slides herself into him, slowly, he closes his eyes, wondering if he'll be able to survive the night. It doesn't look good for him, but if he can die having sex with Calleigh Duquesne, then score one for him (in more ways than one).
She stops when he's filled her completely, and with a sigh she moves up and down again, and soon after he starts to meet her halfway. The speed increases, her breasts bob up and down, and he catches one in his hand and squeezes tight, making her moan. Soon after that the room spins out of control, her moaning increases, his groans turn into grunts, everything disappears.
When her insides begin to twitch he knows she's close, and so hooking his hands to her shoulders he pulls her down hard, pushing himself off the couch simultaneously, filling her that extra inch and she stills as a deep, intense orgasms ripples through her body. The knowledge that he can make Calleigh Duquesne scream is too much for his simpleton brain to handle, and so seconds later he's coming, too, seeing stars on the back of his eyelids as she moans the aftershocks of her orgasm and he presses his face against her shoulder, biting her skin, their bodies sweaty and the rain falling outside. They stay like that for a long moment, breathing heavily, her hands in his hair and him still inside of her, trying to prolong the moment for as long as possible...
But that's not how it goes. Instead, he lays on her couch, staring at the ceiling and unable to get his mind off of speculative images of her naked body writhing on top of his, and when she asks him the next day why he looks so tired, he'll blame it on her uncomfortable couch and make a joke about her too big pajamas.
iii
The service ends with a drizzle of rain, and without saying a word to anyone, he gets in his car and drives away.
He doesn't know where he's going, he doesn't think of it until he doesn't recognize anything around him. The pain of losing Speed is too much to handle, too much to bear, and for a moment he thinks if he drives fast enough he'll be able to outrun it, but the farther he goes, the more it hurts, until he's sure he'll never be able to get over it, the pain of losing his friend, his best friend, for God's sake. Barely out of his 20s and shot to death in a jewelry store, without a warning, without giving him the opportunity to say good bye to his friends, to his family. Shot to death like a dog, taking nothing with him to the afterlife except regrets and a life unfulfilled.
He finds the unfairness of it hurt just as good.
The changing scenery rushes past him and he doesn't know where he is, but suddenly, he does.
It's 2 am and he's at her door, still wearing his suit, his shoulders hunched over and looking defeated. This scares her and she pulls him inside, takes his jacket off and makes him sit on the couch. She brings him a glass of water and he nearly laughs, wondering just how in the hell water is supposed to help take this pain away, but she offers no explanation. She sits next to him, watching him, and the silence feels like a knife to his heart, slowly digging in, deeper, until he can feel it coming out his back.
"His parents are taking the body home tomorrow," she says, and he wonders if she's trying to figure out a way to hurt him more by choosing those words. He doesn't say anything, but looks at the glass of water in his hands and puts it on the coffee table, and it's going to ruin its beautiful finish because he opted not to use a coaster, but if it bothers her she doesn't say a word.
He leans back on the couch, their shoulders touching and staring ahead. He thinks he should leave, because he's keeping her awake and it's not like they're doing much, anyway, but for the first time in his life he's scared of the world out there, not the crime, but leaving the cocoon of her apartment and having to face the consequences of the last few days, having to go to work without Speed there, having to move on. He doesn't think he can do it and so he sits there, and after a while she shakes her head slightly, and he can feel her shoulders twitch slightly.
"Eric," she sobs once, just once, and he looks over. A tear slides down her cheek and he catches it with his lips before it reaches her jaw. She turns to him and the kiss is desperate, grabbing each other's faces, tears mingling together until they stop falling and everything else takes over.
He feels this inexplicable need to feel something, something he thinks she can give him, something he thinks he can find deep inside of her. Her robe comes off, and her gown quickly after it, until she's naked next to him, pulling at his clothes with the same desperation. He finds himself naked in Calleigh Duquesne's living room seconds later, kissing her with a ravishing hunger he's never felt before, biting, scratching, hurting each other in order to feel something other than this pain. She's got her legs wrapped around his waist as he blindly makes his way to her bedroom, and he climbs on top of her in bed. He kisses her again, biting her lips, his hips grinding into her, and he can feel her nails leaving red trails on the skin of his back. It's desperate and it's needy and he's sure neither of them are enjoying it, but the little voice on the back of his mind that is usually in charge of preventing situations like these from happening is off grieving, leaving him to fend off for himself, and this is the best he can do.
He's not sure she's ready when he enters her. He's not sure of anything anymore. But with each thrust the pain lessens just slightly (just slightly, but he's desperate enough to take it), until he's sucked into a mad frenzy of grinding, pulling hair, scratching skin, biting, moaning, panting. He wants to hurt her, wants her to feel half of what he feels so she knows, understands it and maybe figures out a way to make it stop. But instead she thrusts back with the same desperation, the same need, the same goal, and they lose themselves in this fruitless attempt until they don't know who they are anymore.
He comes before she gets the chance to, burying his face in her neck and like a child he starts to sob, and she holds him to her, crying for her own pain as well. It's a disastrous accident of emotions and bad decisions, but before he falls asleep, her small body holding his, he thinks he can see the light of redemption, blinking somewhere in the distance...
But this is just a long scene playing in his mind. Instead, he finds a bar off the side of the road and kills the night away with glass after glass of scotch on the rocks, attempting to erase all memory of Speed, and when his cell phone rings the next morning and he opens his eyes, unable to recognize his surroundings, he's too ashamed and hurt to answer. When he goes to work the day after and she asks him, concerned, if he's okay, he'll tell her about his sister and the new baby that won't let anybody sleep, knowing Speed's coffin's slow descend into the Earth and this shattering silence between them joined together will most likely kill off a fraction of their friendship.
iv
Getting shot in the head and the leg, it's what he calls a double whammy.
Because you need your brain functioning well in order to move, and you need your extremities functioning properly in order for the brain to do its job. And so it's not easy (frustrating, maddening, infuriating) when his brain can't tell the difference between right and left, and the very few times it does his thigh refuses to move without shooting through his body and immense amount of pain.
But Calleigh is here today, and so he makes an extra effort. It's not impossible, his physical therapist says. It'll be difficult, but not impossible, and having Calleigh there with him always reminds him of that.
Today he stands between two beams, his arms supporting most of his weight because his right leg won't move and even if it could, his brain doesn't know how to make it move. He's biting down on his lip hard, willing his brain to fire at him the right command for once. She stands ten feet in front of him, slowly watching him, encouraging him, but if she knew how hard it actually was maybe she would give him a little bit of leeway. That's not Calleigh, though, she believes in giving it your all, and so taking a deep breath he tries again.
He takes a step with his left leg, glad that this time, his brain could tell the difference. But it's merely a hiccup of luck, because it's time to take a step with his right leg, which is trembling slightly, and he can feel the pain on the back of his neck. He looks at it for a moment, concentrates hard, but the thing doesn't move. His physical therapist always talked of fear, that perhaps his right leg wouldn't move not because his brain couldn't make it, but because he was too scared of the pain. He doesn't know if that was true, sounds like utter bullshit to him, but this is the gigantic hurdle he can't seem to get over.
But Calleigh is here, he remembers, and when Calleigh is here he feels an extra burst of energy and determination.
His toes twitch, and he can feel something happening. His right leg moves and he half smiles, until it touches the floor again, his body weight landing on top of it, and he can feel an indescribable amount of pain shooting through his entire body before he falls on the blue mat, groaning in pain. He holds it tight and it burns, and it's agonizing, and there's nothing he can do to stop it but merely lay there and wait for it to pass. Some days it does reasonably quickly, other days the pain leaves him bed ridden.
He takes a few deep breaths, and when he opens his eyes he sees her, and the look on her face scares him. He's never seen her look so worried, and in an attempt to soothe her fears he places his hand on the side of her face, his thumb drawing small circles on her cheek. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, intensified by this small bubble in the center of his stomach named Calleigh that each day grows bigger and bigger, making him lightheaded and many other little things when she's around. He's grown dependent of her, like he's grown dependent on his pain killers, and withdrawal is never merciful, not physically, not emotionally.
This isn't good, he tells himself. It's not good to rely on her like this, to desperately crave her when she isn't around, to want her to stay indefinitely when she is. It's not fair to her and not fair to him, but it's growing out of his control and he fears he doesn't know how to stop it.
The look on her face doesn't help. He's never seen Calleigh look so worried as she has been lately, and often he needs to remind her he's not dead. He doesn't know what it means, but suddenly she leans into him, and the answers flood his mind. She kisses him slow and tender, full of love and appreciation and Eric can feel his heart beating into a mad frenzy, and soon the pain on his leg is forgotten. He tangles his hand through her blond hair, pulling her down to deepen the kiss. His tongue glides across her lower lip and she opens her mouth for him, granting him a taste of herself before she pulls back and kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his eyes.
He pulls her down for a long embrace, and when she pulls back she helps him on his feet. He hops on his left leg for a few seconds before his hands grab the beams again and he finds his balance, and without saying a word she returns to her original position. Eric doesn't know what is happening, what just happened, but with a tiny smile on her face, she narrows her eyes just slightly.
"Take a step with your right leg," she orders him, and her tone is darker than it usually is.
Eric takes a deep breath. "Calleigh--"
"Do it."
He's overwhelmed by her weird demeanor, but like a slave he finds himself looking down at his right leg again. He concentrates, and it twitches slightly. It takes all he has, but finally his foot moves, and he watches amazed as he takes one step forward, the pain barely registering.
She smiles at him, and suddenly her hands move up and she removes her shirt, and throws it on the mat below.
"Another one," she orders him.
Eric watches her intensely, licking his lips. He still doesn't know what is happening (he thinks he might, but he doesn't wanna jinx it), but he likes it. A lot. She's wearing a black bra, her cleavage is amazing, and her stomach is strong and taut. He feels a burst of desire running through his veins and settling in his crotch and he breathes deeply, savoring her with his eyes.
Finally he looks down, and his left leg joins his right leg. He concentrates again, and there are beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His determination is fierce, but his brain still isn't working properly. It takes a while, but he takes another step, and like a pathetic puppy waiting for a treat he looks up. She smiles and takes her shoes off, and he chuckles and shakes his head.
"That's it?"
"Some men really enjoy feet," she says coyly, her toes wiggling.
His eyes are dark as he looks at her, his breathing strained by pain and desire. "I don't care about your feet, Cal."
She shrugs her shoulders innocently. "Too bad."
"Pants," he demands, half a groan, wanting to just leap off the mat and land next to her and end it already.
"No," she says cruelly.
"Cal--"
"Keep going," she says, "and we'll see."
He knows she's teasing him, and most likely will chicken out before anything happens, but there's a slight possibility (1 percent) that she's being honest, and that slight possibility encourages him to continue. He doesn't know how much more he'll be able to handle, and his head is beginning to hurt, but he takes another step towards her and her belt comes off. He sighs in disappointment, but the smile on her face is encouraging, and so is the sight of her standing there barefooted, wearing pants and a black bra.
Another step and he looks up, the pain intensifying along with his desire, and she smiles at him, unbuttoning her pants and pulling the zipper down. Eric takes a deep breath as he watches her, and he's pretty sure he can spot a bit of black lace. This encourages him to take another step and he's nearly there, but he's not there and it's frustrating.
Especially when the pants come off, eyes on eyes, and she stands there finally, wearing black and black and God, her body is damn right miraculous. Two things might happen now, he knows: either he'll fall again and die from the pain, or come into his sweatpants and die from embarrassment. Both options are unacceptable to him, and so he takes another step, the pain increasing, his limbs shaky and his skin sweaty, and he watches with intense desire as she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra.
He licks his lips again as the garment falls on the floor, and his mother always told him not to stare but how could he not, when he's looking at the most beautiful pair of breasts he's seen in his life (and he's seen plenty)? The coldness is making her nipples hard and he groans as he looks at her, and she still has that smile on her face, the one that tells him yes, this is happening, it might actually happen. His cock grows harder even, and that's yet another limb he has to keep track of, but luckily his brain has little to do with that one.
"It's cold, Eric," she says impatiently and he looks up at her, biting on his lower lip.
He's two steps away, only two steps, and he'll have her in his arms, naked and glorious. Two measly steps, and yet it's the farthest away he's been from anything in his entire fucking pathetic life. He looks down again, taking a deep breath, and he cheats by making his good leg take a huge leap forward, but she doesn't complain, so long as his right leg moves.
And then his right. leg. moves.
And he puts all of his weight on his good leg as he reaches for her desperately, not knowing how or where to start, so he kisses her hard, making her moan, her naked chest pressed against him, his hands touching every bit of skin they can find. He finds it a bit hard to maintain his balance and she realizes this quickly, so she helps him lay back on the mat and looms above him, her hair raining on his face.
"Good job, detective," she says in that dangerous tone, and he grabs her face and kisses her again, tongues tasting, exploring, hands on her chest (God, it's been so long since he felt a pair of real breasts in Miami). He doesn't think he's been this hard his entire life, not as a teenager, and not as an adult, and Calleigh's body moving on top of him isn't making things easier.
But years of experience have taught him a great deal about self control, and so when Calleigh begins to pull at his shirt he sits up, ignoring the pain, and allows her to take it off. She straddles his lap and kisses him again, moves to his cheek, his neck, his chest. He's assaulted by all kinds of sensations (he doesn't remember foreplay being this fucking good) and when Calleigh pushes him back down, he obliges. She's kissing the area around his pelvis and his cock twitches, and he bites his lower lip and closes his eyes tight. When he opens them again her face is hovering over his cock, and he whispers an, "oh, shit," when she kisses it over the fabric of his pants.
His hips instinctively push up as she continues to touch him, and he thinks if she doesn't take him into her mouth rightthisfuckinginstance he might possibly go insane. But Calleigh likes to tease, and he tells himself to concentrate on the sensations.
"Cal, please," he begs her, and when she looks at him, all pleased, he realizes she enjoys having this power over him. She moves above him and kisses him, and he grabs her ass and pulls her down hard, rubbing himself against her. She moans into his mouth, but quickly moves away again and he damns his fucking leg, because if it weren't for it he'd be on top of her now, touching her all over, tasting her, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
But he's at her mercy now, and Calleigh likes control.
In an act of mercy, she finally removes his sweat pants, and his cock is so hard he thinks (knows) this is going to be over quickly but he doesn't care when he's got Calleigh's head between his legs. She blows first, and the cold air makes him twitch slightly. This is going to be unbearable, but he tries to relax.
It works, for a few seconds, until he can feel the rim of her lips against his head, for just a moment before she stops. He groans her name and she smiles, and he closes his eyes as he feels her tongue running along his length, slowly. He takes a deep breath, again pushing up, and she finally grabs and takes half of him into her mouth, her tongue circling around the head, sucking on a bubble of pre-cum that sits at the top and making the most unbelievable sound with her mouth and her throat. And then she does it again, and again, each time taking in more of him, moaning ever so slightly and the vibrations are too fucking intense and he thinks he's spiraling into oblivion with Calleigh at the wheel.
He thinks of control, thinks of making it last, tries to, but quickly the control leaves him and he grinds himself into her mouth. She takes him in, time and again, and when her other hand grabs his balls and kneed gently he takes a deep breath and loudly moans (he moans; he can't even remember the last time he moaned during sex), the control starts to leave him, but suddenly she's looming on top of him again, her mouth next to his ear.
"Not yet," she tells him.
"Shit, Cal."
"Not. Yet."
He takes a deep breath and holds it, and after a long moment he can feel some of the control returning. He opens his eyes and looks at her and she's smiling, and he promises he'll make her pay for it when he heals completely (she'll make sure he does).
She's taking her panties off, and the sight of her and the fragmented bullet in his brain delay his reaction, but he reaches for her and she kisses him deeply, allowing him to taste himself. He runs his hands over her breasts, when what he really wants to do is roll her over and run his tongue over them (and keep going South) but his leg hurts too much, so does his head, and it doesn't seem to be a part of Calleigh's plans anyway. She looks at him, eyes dark and intense, and takes him into her hands again before she slowly starts to sink herself in, all the way in, and he closes his eyes again and prays he'll be able to last.
She starts to move, moaning at her own actions, pleasing herself with her movements and he feels quite useless, because strenuous movement might undo weeks of physical therapy. But Calleigh doesn't seem to mind doing all the work, not from the noises coming out of her anyway, and so he relaxes, does what he can, and the pleasure takes care of the rest.
The bubble in the pit of his stomach turns boiling hot, and he knows this time he won't be able to stop it. He reaches for her thighs, and thankfully his arms are long enough. Experimental fingers find her clit and he rubs her, slowly at first, making her moan, and then he increases the speed, making her cry out his name, his eyes opening and watching her intensely. Her hand joins his hand, her fingers and his fingers coming together to pleasure her, and she rides him harder.
Everything happens too fast after that. Calleigh comes loudly and he lets go quickly, feeling one of the most intense orgasms of his life, pain mingling with pleasure in an amazing combination that he's sure leaves him blind for a moment, because when he opens his eyes again all he sees is black.
Slowly his vision returns, and Calleigh's head is nestled against the crook of his neck, still straddling him, and he's still inside of her. He plays with her hair and kisses her forehead as their bodies slowly recover, and he thinks it would be nice at that moment to tell her he loves her, but he doesn't trust himself to speak, instead closes his eyes and feels the pain dissolve away...
But it never happens like this. Instead, he lands on the floor, groans in pain, waits for it to pass with her worried frame above him and reaches for another Percocet, swallowing it dry. He gets back on his feet with her help. Her smile is encouraging even when his body is not responding, and with a shaky breath, his legs and arms trembling from the stress and the pain, his skin sweating cold, he takes another step towards her.
v
She never really tells him, but he never thought she would, anyway.
It starts with an off-hand remark about their weekends, and that's when he finally learns Jake is out of the picture. How it happened, he doesn't know. When? He's too weary to ask, he's on shaky ground, and he doesn't wanna push it. So he plays the best friend card and apologizes, but with a smile she shakes her head and dismisses it. He thinks she doesn't look devastated, but Calleigh has never given much away, anyway. Maybe things just cooled off. Maybe it's worse than that and she's just being Calleigh. He's being Eric, so he gives her her space. If Jake did her wrong he thinks he might like to beat him to a bloody pulp, but if Jake did her wrong he knows Calleigh already took care of that, so he walks away.
And that's that. The weeks pass, the months come and go, and though his feelings for her never change he can feel the company of hopelessness getting near him. It feels familiar, but he doesn't want to give up, not just yet.
Six months later, Claire Bonet is shot outside the precinct, and Calleigh watches her die in her arms.
People rush around them, some running after the shooter, others running for help, but Eric knows there isn't much they can do. Claire's eyes close slowly and she drifts into the long sleep talking about how short life is, talking about wasted opportunities, her eyes drowning in her last tears, "there's so many things I would've done differently, so many things..."
Calleigh shows up at his door that night, speaking of apologies and her hands are shaking and he's sure she's been crying, but he doesn't know how to comfort her. She's gone before he can ask her to come in, and he knows her well enough to know she won't pick up the phone if he calls her, and if he chases after her she'll just get mad.
So he lets her go, and the day after when they see each other at work, neither of them talk about the night before.
He's walking on limbo, never knowing where he stands with her after that. One moment he can see the old sparkle in her eyes, the one that always used to appear whenever he was around; other times she seems cold and distant. He doesn't wanna push her, he knows that might make things worse, but he finds living like this is unfair, for the both of them.
"Eric, I need you to let me catch my breath first, okay?"
So he lets her, walks away and gives her what she needs. He's tired of waiting, but something tells him this is worth it, Calleigh's worth it, so he waits.
And then one afternoon she talks about a new restaurant by the Grove she'd like to try, doesn't say anything else, and he knows this is it.
He makes the reservations, tries to figure out what to wear, feels like a 15 year old on his first date, his hands sweaty, his heart beating fast. And then he picks her up, she's wearing a white dress that looks innocent from afar but is nothing but from up-close, and he thinks this might not go as well as planned. He always imagined their first date as something magical, something spectacular, with romance and wine and possibly a violin player, looking into each other's eyes as the world stops around them.
But it's awkward. He's nervous, he don't know how to act around her, and in many attempts to be gentlemanly (open car doors, put his hand on the small of her back) he ends up accidentally hitting her, and when he tires to make jokes he ends up ruining them. She seems more relaxed than him, but maybe she's just a better actress. In any case, he finds it hard to control his anxiety.
Because he's got history against him, and years of expectations looking down on him, so much pressure to make it good, make it perfect, and he's nervous in a date for the first time in his life, but she senses this quickly and grabs his hand, and without taking her eyes off of his she kisses his knuckles.
And that's when it all changes. That's when he sees Calleigh, his date, Calleigh the woman he's wanted for years. Their friendship is still there, but something else is happening now, and it doesn't take him long to accept that idea and embrace it. He sees this as their attempt at starting something they've both wanted for a long time and so he relaxes, and tries to give her a damn good night (not a perfect night, because he quickly finds out there's no such thing).
And that includes proper gentlemanly behavior, but Calleigh his date is just like Calleigh his best friend, and when he stands at her door, ready to say goodnight, she smiles a little dangerously and kisses him slowly, opens her door and pulls him inside. In the darkness he lets his hands familiarize themselves with every curvature of her body, her soft breasts, her perfect behind, and when she moans slightly into his mouth, he knows he's lost to her forever.
She takes him to her room that night, shaky hands and beating hearts, their hands sweating.
It's different than he expected - quick yet slow, intense yet a little klutzy. It takes them a while to find a rhythm together, and she's not nearly as forceful as he thought she would be. But it's good. It's amazing. He kisses every patch of skin he can find, whispering in her ear how much he wants her, how much he loves her, and she responds with equal fervor, crumbling the thick walls she always kept around herself.
Their fingers intertwine and she moves faster over him, and when she comes she closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath, and it's quiet and so fascinating and raw he doesn't hold out much longer, and as he comes she swallows her own name from his mouth with a long, slow kiss.
And it continues to be amazing afterwards, with her naked body cocooned against his, her breathing even, her hair long and soft across his chest. Every once in a while she kisses his chest and he runs his hand through her back, making her quiver. They talk about meaningless things, important things, and he's mesmerized by how much things have changed, and yet how much of it has stayed the same.
The second time it's slower still, with a set rhythm, each enjoying the sensations, wandering hands, sweet kisses. When she comes again she whispers his name, and he knows it'll be like this forever. It has to be. Shortly after she falls asleep in his arms and he stays awake, lulled by her deep breathing, the road ahead looking promising and ample...
This is how it happens.
The End
9/20/07