Talking to his mother had been hard. At least, he'd thought it had been hard. Looking at her, listening to her tell him the truth – the awful truth – about his birth, about his father. He'd wanted to be mad at her, wanted to be furious, but he couldn't. It wouldn't be appropriate at work, and he knew his mother. She'd wanted what was best for him, and what was best was the lie. Rationally, logically, he could see the reasons why. But it wasn't until right now, sitting across from Calleigh as she shoveled in mouthfuls of rice and sauce and tofu while listening intently, that he realized the conversation with his mother wasn't going to be the hardest one.

No, this one was harder, and it was harder for one reason only: he didn't have a reason to hold back for Calleigh. She wasn't at fault, so he could be as mad as he wanted. It wouldn't hurt her. He could be as hurt as he wanted; it wouldn't break her heart. So now he found himself sitting there, on the sofa of a hotel room, stabbing a piece of sesame chicken hard enough to punch a whole in the side of the carton, his chest tight with a swirl of emotion he couldn't even describe. It wasn't rage, wasn't betrayal, wasn't hurt, wasn't loneliness or desperation or… it was everything. All of it. All at once, weighing down, squeezing tight until he felt like he could barely breathe.

"She… All my life, Cal. All my life. And nobody told me. Nobody said anything." He thunked the now-slowly-oozing carton onto the coffee table, no longer hungry. There was too much bitterness burning in his gut for him to be hungry. It didn't surprise him that Calleigh reached over calmly and settled the carton on top of the plastic bag she'd brought the food in. Wouldn't want to make a fucking mess, after all. He was enough of a mess for the hotel room to deal with. "Mari died knowing this, and she never said a word. And I'm angry with her for it. How sad is that? Angry at a dead woman for not spilling the family secrets on her deathbed." Calleigh opened her mouth to say something, and Eric had a sudden flash of temper. "And don't tell me her death was sudden, because it wasn't. She was dying for months; she could have told me any time before that day."

"That's not what I was going to tell you," Calleigh replied evenly, reaching over and taking his hands in hers, squeezing them gently. A part of him was pissed that she was so damned calm about all this; the rest of him was grateful to have the anchor.

"What, then?"

"I was going to tell you that it's okay to be mad." Her grip on his fingers tightened, and he squeezed back so hard he was surprised she didn't wince. "You were kept in the dark about something vital. You can be angry at whoever you want right now. I would be. I'd be mad at everyone who knew, everyone who might have known, everyone who should have known."

"I feel bad for being angry at Mari," he confessed, releasing the grip on her hands until his hung limp in Calleigh's and lowering his gaze to watch her run her thumbs in a slow back-and-forth meant to soothe. "The others, I don't feel bad about. But Mari… I'm angry, and I'm angry that I'm angry."

"Well, nobody likes to think ill of the dead," Calleigh reasoned, still stroking. It struck Eric suddenly how soft her hands were, and he wondered why in the hell that was what he was thinking of right now. Didn't matter. "Especially when they're our dead."

"Yeah," he scoffed, shaking his head and pulling his hands from hers. She let him go; he wished she hadn't. Eric turned his head, looked out the window at the darkening sky over the ocean. The moon was bright tonight. Not full, but bright, and he wondered how many people were crossing the water the way his parents and sisters had. The way he had. "I was three weeks old when they came over. You know how I know that, Cal?"

"Your birth certificate." Her voice was quiet, understanding. It made him want to hurt her too, at the same time it made him feel less violent. The dichotomy was maddening. Eric didn't know what to do with all of this, how to process it.

"Birth certificates," he emphasized the plural. "My American – my fake birth certificate… says my birthday is the day they arrived here. Had to be, for me to be a citizen." He met her eyes again, churning brown against placid green. "I was born exactly twenty-two days earlier. My whole life, I've celebrated by birthday twenty-two days late. I've lied on every form I've ever filled out. Lied about my date of birth, lied about my citizenship – I'm not even American, Calleigh." He reached blindly for her hand again; she met him halfway and this time hers was the crushing grip. "I'm a Cuban citizen. I'm here illegally; they could deport me."

"They won't," she assured, tugging him until he shifted sideways on the couch to face her. They mirrored each other almost perfectly, both with one foot on the floor, one knee on the couch, hands and knees touching. Eric wondered if moving his foot to touch hers would close some kind of circuit, make the room spark up and flame.

"You don't know that."

"Wet foot, dry foot, Eric. You're legal. You're just not..."

"A citizen."

Calleigh extracted one hand from his and lifted it to cup his cheek, then slid it around the back of his neck and began to knead the tight muscles there. For all their deceptive softness, her hands were plenty strong, and Eric couldn't resist letting his eyes drop shut. "Don't worry about it tonight."

"How am I supposed to face my family – my fath—" He chuckled dryly, shook his head. "No. Not my father. Because Pavel Delko is not my father. My father is some factory manager in Cuba, and all my mother will tell me is that he's a bad man."

Eric couldn't sit anymore, couldn't bear to be lulled by her proximity, by her touch. He was still too edgy. One hand looped around her wrist, drew her hand away before he pushed to his feet and began to pace. "You know what she said, Cal? She said it was a mistake. And I don't know what that means. I was afraid to ask what that means. Did she cheat on my father? Was she raped? Is that what I come from?"

"It wouldn't change you," she told him, and for a second he saw red. What in the hell was that supposed to mean? How could she possibly think it wouldn't change him to be a product of something ugly and brutal instead of the love and devotion he'd always thought he came from. "It wouldn't change who you are. None of this does."

"Yes. It does."

"No, Eric," she insisted, shifting closer to the end of the couch, but staying firmly rooted while she watched him prowl the room. "It really doesn't. You are still Eric Delko, and nothing can-"

"Sharova. Eric Sharova."

"No. You're Eric Delko. It doesn't matter where your DNA comes from, your dad is Pavel Delko."

"I'm not a Delko," Eric insisted, hating the way his voice strained at the admission.

"You're not a Delektorsky," she corrected, and Eric paused in his pacing to look at her. "The family name was changed to Delko when they came here, and that included you. Whatever your legal name might have been when you were ninety miles south of here, when your parents brought your family here for a better life, they became the Delkos. And you are absolutely, completely, a Delko." She'd apparently tired of being passive, because she stood now, too, walking to him and drawing him into a tight hug. Eric held on desperately, gripped her like a drowning man. "Whatever happened in Cuba, your parents brought you here. They brought you here because they loved you, all of you, because you were theirs. Whatever happened there, it doesn't change what happened when you got here. It doesn't make you less of the man you were yesterday, or a month ago, or a year ago. You are still Eric Delko. You are still the best underwater recovery officer in the MDPD, you are still a brother and a son and a friend, you are still my best friend. You still burn the roof of your mouth on your pizza every time, and leave half-finished crosswords in my locker for me to finish, and eat rocky road until you're ready to puke because that's what friends do. You were still Tim Speedle's best friend, still Alexx Woods' 'little cup o' Cubano.'" He felt her smirk against his shoulder, and was shocked to find his lips twitching up in response. She caught the shadow of a smile when she pulled back to look at him. "There is nothing about who you are that is fundamentally changed by knowing that your DNA doesn't come from Pavel Delektorsky."

She was right. And wrong. He was fundamentally changed by this; nothing would ever be the same for him. But he was still… himself. The realization was a small relief, easing a bit of the tightness in his chest, making the burn of anger simmer down to a low flame. "Thank you."

Her arms, still looped around him, tightened in a quick squeeze. "You don't have to thank me." He expected her to pull back, but she didn't. Instead she dropped her head to his shoulder and rested there, the heat of her body warming the skin where they pressed together, even through layers of cotton.

"I'm still angry at them." One of his arms slid down to circle her waist and hold, the other sliding up to tangle fingers in her hair.

"That's okay. That's expected. It's allowed."

They stayed that way for either seconds or years, Eric wasn't sure, and then finally Calleigh pulled back. She stepped away, offered him a smile, and then turned to close up their take-out containers. He watched her, frowning. He'd gone cold where she'd made him warm, and wanted that rectified. "We gonna talk about the other thing now?"

"The other thing?" She closed the last container and was balling up their napkins to toss into an empty carton.

"Us."

Calleigh paused, turned, hesitated. "Eric, you've had a long day. I think maybe one intense discussion is enough for tonight. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow night, we'll talk it out. I promise."

Knowing that she was probably right, that if he tried to have another long, drawn-out emotional talk his brain would probably turn to oatmeal and begin to leak out his ears, he just nodded his agreement. "Okay."

She abandoned the food to take his hands in hers again. "Let's just relax tonight. There's another TV in the bedroom. We can put on our pajamas, order a movie, and just…be. Just relax."

"Okay. Yeah, that's good. That'll be good." She smiled at him, squeezed his hands tight before trying to let go. Eric kept her fingers gripped in his, used them to tug her a little closer. "But I feel I should warn you… If we spend the night tucked in bed watching movies, I might try to kiss you."

Calleigh's smile was slow and shy and sly, and she fidgeted just a little as she pulsed her fingers around his. "If you play your cards right, I might let you." His chuckle spread to her, and this time when she pulled her hands away, he let her go. "Now go change. I'll finish up in here and be along in a minute."

Eric nodded, and did as he was told, retreating into the bedroom and thanking God that she had decided to get this hotel room. Another night at the Deluca had nothing on catharsis and Calleigh.