A/N: This story was not supposed to take forever and a day to update, but unfortunately it's turning out that way. I'm trying my best! ;)
Chapter 3: Kindness
Minus the six hours Eric and Calleigh have to wait at Toronto's Pearson International for their flight to Thunder Bay, everything goes smoothly the rest of the way. Though the whole reason they're there in the first place isn't far from either of their minds, it manages to stay out of their conversations; however, neither can ignore that it's there, hovering, just waiting to strike.
At baggage claim, while waiting for their respective suitcases to roll down the conveyor belt, Calleigh suddenly tenses and becomes slightly restless. It's barely noticeable, but he picks up on it and shoots her a questioning look.
"I don't know if I should tell them about John," she explains, and he almost doesn't catch the significance of what she's spoken because she delivers the words so calmly. "I don't want to talk about it," she adds preemptively, eyes trained on the conveyor belt in front of her.
He reaches out and gives her shoulder a quick squeeze. "I just want you to be around people you feel comfortable with," he says quietly. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here; if you just want to forget about it and spend some time with family, I'll leave you alone."
"No," she replies immediately, "I wouldn't have asked you to come if I didn't want you around." She releases a resigned sigh. "I don't want them to worry." She looks up at him. "I don't want you to worry."
Before he has a chance to reassure her that it's not something she herself needs to worry about, she spots his suitcase rolling down the conveyor belt and points it out to him. He heaves it to the ground. Hers follows closely behind, and she drags it off the belt effortlessly.
Suitcases in tow, the pair makes for the exit. After having navigated the ridiculously busy airports in Miami and Toronto, the modest Thunder Bay International is a nice change of pace, and it doesn't take them long to make their way out of the final security gate.
Calleigh spots Parker near one of the automated glass sliding doors with his daughter, Ella, sitting atop his shoulders. Calleigh nudges Eric to catch his attention, and the two begin to make their way over. The little girl is chatting animatedly with her father, but she's attentive of her surroundings and her vantage point provides her with the sufficient view to notice Calleigh approaching well before Parker does.
"Calleigh!" she squeals, kicking her feet against her father's chest in excitement. Parker swings Ella off his shoulders and plops her down on the ground, and she makes a beeline for her aunt.
Calleigh crouches down as the five-year-old races into her arms. "What are you doing here so late, sweetie?"
"Daddy said I could come," Ella replies. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bright red lollipop. "This is for you."
Calleigh takes it from her and smiles. "Well, aren't you a thoughtful girl."
"Daddy said your friend was coming," Ella continues in a low voice as she takes short glimpses at Eric. She leans in to Calleigh's ear and whispers, "Does he like lollipops?"
Calleigh laughs. "He loves lollipops."
Ella reaches into her pocket again and extracts a second lollipop, identical to the first. "Can you give it to him?" she asks with a hint of timidity.
"I'll do that, Ella," Calleigh promises, tucking both lollipops into her purse. She brushes aside Ella's blond bangs and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. "Thank you."
By the time Calleigh stands back up, Parker has joined them.
"Parker, this is my friend Eric," she introduces, pointing her thumb toward the Cuban. "Eric, my brother Parker."
Eric takes a step forward and extends his hand. "Nice to meet you, Parker."
"Pleasure's all mine," Parker replies amiably, and the two men shake hands.
Introductions, Calleigh thinks to herself, seem to have gone well, though never once had she doubted that they wouldn't. She grips Ella's tiny hand and smiles down at the little girl, who grins back sweetly. She imagines that maybe things are beginning to look up.
It's pouring outside, but the rain does nothing to dampen Calleigh's sudden good mood. The roof extension protects them from getting drenched, but the wind whips at Calleigh's hair. This seems to amuse Ella, whose own blond locks are splayed wildly across her face.
The ride is rather short, though it lends itself nicely to a bit of familiarization between the two men. Calleigh catches small segments of conversation, but for the most part, she listens to Ella tell stories until the little girl's excitement wanes and she succumbs to her exhaustion mere minutes away from their destination.
Parker drops them off at a nearby hotel, and Ella wakes long enough to make Calleigh promise to visit the next day. She leaves her niece with a light goodnight kiss and slips out the car, where she finds Parker and Eric unloading the luggage, chatting animatedly about something.
"I'm telling you," she hears Eric say. "The Marlins are going all the way."
Parker chuckles. "And I suppose you expect the Braves are gonna keel over and let 'em?"
Calleigh smiles as she approaches the two men. "Oh, please don't get Parker started on baseball," she teases, tossing a look Eric's way.
Everyone shares a laugh, and Parker takes a quick peek inside the car to check on Ella, a paternal instinct that Calleigh had always found endearing. At the back of her mind, she envies it, because she's never had an instinct for those types of things.
"You guys have plans for tomorrow?" Parker asks, pulling down on his trunk door to close it.
"Actually, I just promised Ella I was going to see her tomorrow," she replies, stealing a quick glance at Eric. "I wasn't sure if that would interfere with anything, but Ella wouldn't let me go until I promised."
"No, no, that's my girl," Parker says with a chuckle. "Why don't you two join us for dinner tomorrow?"
She shoots Eric another glance, and he doesn't seem to be against the idea, so she nods and gratefully accepts her brother's offer. "That would be great."
"I'll give you a call," Parker promises. "I booked you guys a suite upstairs," he adds, pointing up at the hotel building.
"A suite?" Calleigh echoes, biting her lip and trying desperately not to look at Eric again.
Parker misinterprets his sister's hesitation. "Yeah, I called in a favor," he explains. "It's completely paid for."
She succumbs to the temptation and peers over at Eric, but she can't read his expression. The price is the furthest thing from her mind. "That's not, uh—"
Parker nods knowingly. "I remember what you said over the phone," he reassures, "which is why I made sure to mention that if you guys request a pair of regular rooms at the front desk, they make sure to accommodate you. But you know, I've seen the suite. It's a thing of beauty."
Calleigh smiles tightly. "Thanks, Parker."
Parker pulls Calleigh into a quick hug and motions toward his car. "I'd better get Ella home to bed." He looks toward Eric, then back at Calleigh. "I'll see you two tomorrow?"
"We'll be waiting for your call," Calleigh replies, easing up slightly. "Good night."
"Thanks again," Eric pipes in.
Parker makes a final check-up on Ella, still asleep in the backseat, before buckling up and pulling away into the rain, leaving Calleigh, Eric and their suitcases just outside the hotel. A sudden uncertainty hangs in the air; it's uncomfortable.
"Parker didn't tell me about the suite," she articulates.
"I know," he chuckles, sensing her heavy discomfort. He reaches for the handle of his suitcase. "We'll just ask for separate rooms," he reassures her.
"Is that what you want?" she asks, eyes flitting to his.
He does a double take. "Is that what you want?"
She smiles softly, only a shadow of doubt still lurking behind her eyes. "I asked first," she teases, leaning down to get a handle on her suitcase. She picks it up with ease and heads toward the front door, which the doorman opens for her.
His own suitcase in hand, Eric follows through the door closely behind, unsure what to make of this new development. He had known the moment she'd asked him to join her that he would have to take it day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, but he'd set his mind on not being pushy and… had she just displayed assertiveness in asking? Had it been an invitation? He finds he can't quite figure it out, but this door is ajar, and all he has to do is push it a foot wider and step through.
She stops a few steps away from the front desk and looks at him for something resembling confirmation.
He chuckles. "If the suite is as great as your brother says," he suggests, a sheepish grin upon his lips, "it could be worth checking out."
She doesn't say another word to him, but the understanding passes, and she steps up to the counter to check in. The entire process takes mere minutes; an elevator ride and a tipped bellhop later, the two find themselves standing alone in the entryway of the suite. The light hanging above them casts a rather weak spray of light into the rest of the suite, but there's plenty to be seen.
Leaving her luggage at the door, Calleigh flicks on another light and steps further into the suite, and immediately, a gentle floral aroma fills her nostrils, calming her nerves. Parker had been right; the suite, or at least what she can see of it, is beautiful. The décor is inviting, and the living area is very roomy. The kitchen sits to the left, while a pair of French doors leads to the bedroom, and a single door marks the entrance to the bathroom.
Eric steps up beside her. "I can get a room downstairs, if you want," he suggests, secretly hoping she doesn't take him up on his offer. He wants to be here, even if he may not have the means to help. He knows that she doesn't need the protection, would probably kick him out if she sees him staying that way, but if there's any chance that she wants his presence, he doesn't need to be asked twice. "I mean, I want to stay, but if you—"
"Then stay," she interrupts softly, catching his eye for a moment. She walks over to the couch and takes a seat. "As long as you don't mind the couch bed…"
He smiles and nods and doesn't push it, because he likes the idea that she wants him there. She'd asked him to accompany her, after all, and while he'd played with the possibility of politeness on her part, he prefers the alternative.
He wanders over to the window and peers down at the street, then up at the sky. The clouds have noticeably dispersed, though a light sheet of rain continues to beat against the glass.
"Looks like the rain's going to let up," he comments.
She stands and joins him by the window. A moment passes, then two. "Thank you," she breathes, meaning it for a million different things but allowing it to be for only one: his presence.
He smiles. "It's been a long day; we should probably get some rest."
She helps him pull out the couch bed and set up the sheets. It's surprisingly comfortable, and she jokes that she'd been ripped off by settling for the bed in the bedroom.
She showers first, and by the time he slips out of the bathroom, she is already closed in her room. The lights are off, so he leaves her alone and climbs under his covers; it's not yet incredibly late by his standards, but the exhaustion gets to him and he can't fight the sleep that overtakes him.
-/-/-
At a quarter past one, he feels his bed dip slightly, and the metal frame lets out a tiny squeak. He shifts underneath the covers and sleepily turns to see Calleigh sitting at the far edge, robe wrapped tightly around her body.
He pushes himself up into a sitting position and squints at her, his fingers unconsciously reaching toward the lamp. He flicks the switch at the base of the lamp and the room is bathed in a mellow glow. He catches her eye before she turns away from the luminosity like it burns her, but it's long enough for him to notice that her eyes are red. She's been crying; it hits him hard.
"Turn off the light," she requests, the quiver there betraying her state of mind.
He does as he's told, his arms suddenly aching to hold her, even though he knows that's not what she wants or needs. He gathers up the comforter and brings it with him to where she's sitting. He capes it over her back and lets the rest flow around to her lap.
She takes a deep breath. "I could've saved him, you know."
"Calleigh, that's—"
"He killed himself," she interrupts sharply, "because he couldn't handle the rejection." She draws his comforter tighter around herself. "If I'd just given it another shot, maybe—"
He shakes his head, feeling a renewed hatred for Hagen. "You can't live your life for someone else," he says gently.
"It wasn't perfect," she acquiesces, "but we could've done it."
He wonders if she knows how much the conversation is tearing at him. He feels a share of her guilt, but it's compounded with the unwelcome sting of jealousy. He knows it's not the time for that, but he can't push it away, no matter how hard he tries.
"His issues went beyond what he had with you, Calleigh," he reminds her. "You can't blame yourself for what happened."
She shifts uneasily on the bed. "When John came back to work, he said that he had a bad back. Apparently, that's a euphemism for failed psych evaluations. I should've said something."
He stops himself from resting his hand on her thigh, deeming the act too intimate, even through the thick comforter. He opts for keeping his hands to himself, choosing instead gentle words more appropriate for the occasion. "You couldn't have known he'd do something like this."
"There are always signs," she replies firmly, her words stronger than her delivery. "We work with those signs every day, in every case. We're supposed to be good at reading people, at uncovering secrets, but all that time I spent with him and I couldn't even—" She holds back a sudden sob, the rest of her thought lost in a jumble of emotion.
"Calleigh," he whispers, almost as if in fear of scaring her off. "His death wasn't your fault."
In the darkness, he has trouble making out her features, but the silent sobs that wrack her body make him believe that she's anything but convinced. It's not the fearless Calleigh he's used to seeing, but it reminds him that she's human, that she's reaching out for something to hold on to. She's reaching out to him, and that gives him the strength to share her burden. When she'd told him mere weeks ago that she trusted him, he'd harbored a shadow of doubt, because she'd been distant since Speed's death, and he hadn't thought she'd ever really trust him again after he'd admitted to seeking out strange women to mask the pain. He doesn't doubt any of that now, because she's here, spilling out the contents of her guarded heart, and what remains when she's lost her layers of defenses is nothing short of breathtaking.
"Why did he do this?" she asks, voice shaky, and the naivety of the question is uncharacteristic of her. She can't hide that under the mask of darkness.
"I don't know," he replies gently. He figures that honesty is the least he can offer her, and he doubts that any miracle answer would satisfy her thirst for reason anyway. "I don't know," he reiterates, "but he made a selfish decision and you shouldn't have to pay for that."
His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and she's beyond the point of trying to hide her tears from him. They're silent, but they're there, and he knows better than anyone how much she hates crying. He reaches out a hand and lightly brushes the pad of his thumb over her cheek. It's damp, and she shivers at the contact.
"I miss you," she murmurs without an ounce of forethought. Her words seem to surprise her more than they do him, and she pulls away from his fingers. "Oh, God, Valera called it."
He has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but he knows it's not the time to ask. "I'm right here," he whispers, heart aching because he can't stand seeing her so torn. He searches out her hand and weaves his fingers through hers; she lets him.
She takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm her nerves, and whatever defenses she'd prepared begin to fade away, seemingly melting to the floor. She senses him squeezing her hand and it hits her hard: where she is, with whom, but mostly just why. Why she's there, why he's here with her, and it all becomes too much to take.
She doesn't remember the last time she cried, really full-out cried with horrible sobs and streams of tears, because she's always reminded herself that she's stronger than that. But it's no longer about strength; it's never been about strength. It's been about bottling it up, pushing and pushing until it disappears from view but lurks just under the surface. Compartmentalizing has always been her forte, and she'd done exactly that with this. She'd harbored this longer than the past week and a half.
She doesn't even know if this is solely about Hagen anymore.
With that thought, she's hit with an unbearable guilt. It constricts her chest, makes it almost painful to even breathe. She sees Hagen lying on the ground with a bullet wound to the temple, blood pool widening around his head, seeping into his clothes. She hears the click as he cocks the gun; she can still feel the muzzle pushed lightly against the back of her head.
And yet, she recognizes that it's not only about that. She'd been threatened before, betrayed, and she'd always bounced back. She'd had her share of ex-boyfriends who'd hurt her, but she doesn't remember it ever being quite like this. There's something additional there, and when Eric pulls her flush against his chest, thumb rubbing soothing circles on her hand, she gets it. Some of it, anyway, because she has the feeling that she's never going to understand it in its entirety.
She's crying so hard now that articulating anything would be an impossible task, but he holds her tighter and keeps her grounded until she runs out of sobs and grows quiet. She stays there, cradled against his chest, silent and unmoving. He knows that she hasn't fallen asleep, and he waits. For what, he doesn't know; why, he's still trying to figure out, but he doesn't think he's going to get another opportunity to comfort her with his embrace, for whatever it's worth.
He doesn't know how many seconds, minutes or even hours pass, and he doesn't dare turn toward the clock and risk shifting their bodies out of balance. Eventually, she begins to stir.
Very slowly, as though awakening from a deep sleep, she rouses and pulls away, leaving only their fingers touching. She shivers again when the cool air hits her and senses him pulling the comforter tighter around her torso.
"I'm sorry I woke you," she says, back straightening, not a single hint of agony or uncertainty. Her tears have dried, her expression steeled, and he almost wonders if he'd hallucinated the past however long it'd been.
He shakes his head. "No, I was—"
"You should get some sleep," she urges in a too-serious voice, shrugging out of the comforter. She stands, her fingers sliding away from his hand, and without another word, she steps away and slips into the bathroom, door closing quietly behind her. A thin line of light appears through the bottom seam of the door, and he hears the sink going on, then off again. He imagines her leaning against the counter top, eyes closed, taking deep breaths to quell her rising emotions, and his heart aches for her.
He rises and runs his hand through his hair, taking short strides toward the bathroom. There, he waits, and it's not long before the door opens and she steps out. Even as she notices him standing there, she is the picture of composure.
Something has changed; the tension dissipates, and when he reaches for her hands and gently squeezes them, she doesn't even flinch.
"You hungry?" he asks in a whisper.
She shakes her head and allows a tiny smile. "You should get to bed," she says again, gentler this time, tone softer, more still.
He releases one of her hands and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I'm always gonna be here," he murmurs, fingertips lightly grazing her cheek.
Slow motion, that's what it feels like to him. Frame by frame of something indescribable. He doesn't know where he finds the courage, or how she finds it in her to let him break her rules, but he knows the moment is not forever and tries to hold on to it for as long as he can.
She closes her eyes and leans into his fingers, ever so slightly, but before he has a chance to react, the moment ends and she distances herself again.
Still, she smiles at him. "I'm going to go to bed."
He nods. "Okay."
She takes her hand out of his and steps toward the bedroom door. "Get some rest."
Another nod. "Okay," he repeats.
"Good night, Eric." One last smile, and she disappears behind the double doors.
When he climbs into bed for the second time that night, it begins to drizzle again, and he allows the rhythm of the raindrops lull him toward the gates of slumber.
But she isn't done surprising him, and just before he succumbs to sleep, he feels his bed dip again. This time, however, she's not sitting at the edge when he turns around to face her. She'd slipped underneath the covers, his covers, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do. His pulse quickens, his blood rushes south, and his question catches in his throat.
What are you doing?
He watches as she sucks in a deep breath and inches closer to him. Just slightly, but his body reacts to hers and he reaches out blindly under the covers. Her robe is gone, and his fingertips trail along the length of her arm. With shaky fingers, he attempts to memorize the texture of her skin. He isn't entirely sure what he's doing or how she'll react, but he's going with his gut, and the compassion he exudes is something that she doesn't immediately know how to accept.
His touch is gentle, almost tentative, and she can't stop herself from shifting closer. She still hasn't figured out what the hell she's doing, but she'd felt drawn to him, had searched for his presence the moment she'd left. She needs it, she realizes: his tender actions, his comforting murmurs, and she'd sought it out without much consideration. It scares her, the way her skin tingles under his touch, but she keeps her eyes trained on the collar of his shirt and attempts to even out her breathing.
She doesn't even realize she'd been moving until she finds her hand pressed against his chest. His sudden proximity surprises her, though it shouldn't, and she quickly realizes that her surprise stems not from how close he's lying but how comfortable the intimacy feels.
After a moment of stillness, he slips his arm under her neck, careful not to disturb her hair, and tosses his other arm over her waist. Carefully, he scoops her body into his, discovering for the first time how perfectly she fits into him. He senses her muscles stiffening slightly as she buries her face into the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. His grip tightens around her, and it takes her a minute or two, but she eventually lets her guard down, if only slightly. Her hand finds his hip, and it stays there.
Words, unnecessary; explanations, inadequate. What they have is this. Two souls suspended in the moment. One coping with a suffocating guilt; the other hoping for any opening, any invitation, and he'd have to be blind not to be able to read this one.
Outside, the rain pounds against the window pane, filling the otherwise-silent room with a soft yet erratic rhythm. Gently, she presses her open palm against his chest, needing the reassurance of life, of existence.
She falls asleep in his arms that night, her exhausted body collapsing into a dreamless slumber.