As always, thanks to Jodie who seems to have a lot on her plate. I'd dedicate this to you, lady, but you deserve better :D Maybe the next one.

-------Eric-------

Your senses had been so acutely aware of every little thing when you were in Calleigh's apartment. Every movement, every touch, smell, sound, all of it, is permanently ingrained in your mind. Now, as you walk to your car, you're numb. You see only through a tunnel, your decisions limited to whether or not you will move another step. For all the attention you're paying, it could snow right now and you wouldn't notice.

When you finally reach your car, you fumble for your keys, quickly realizing you're still clutching the sonogram. Your heart constricts in your chest as you look at it once more, taking in every part of it. The bottom is labeled C. Duquesne, and that is probably the most telling because you know then that it couldn't belong to anyone else.

C. Duquesne.

The date on the upper right corner tells you it was done shortly before Calleigh took her vacation. Perhaps if think hard enough, long enough, you'll remember how the day played out…when Calleigh had her appointment. Most likely you came to work that morning and were immediately whisked away to a crime scene. But the crime scenes and procedures bleed together, but it's that time—probably after the initial crime scenes in the midst of analyzing evidence, dealing with suspects, returning to the crime scene as needed—that Calleigh would have slipped away to her appointment. By then, she knew she was pregnant, eleven weeks according to the photo.

So you have clues, but like with so many crimes, they only seem to be understood in hindsight.

You could have gone running…or diving. You could have gone to the crime lab to channel your energy, but instead you find yourself on another doorstep. A quick glance at your watch tells you he's probably in bed or getting ready for it, and in truth, you should be too.. But you knock again and wait patiently.

Finally, you hear noises behind the door. It opens, and your father's head peeks out, eyes squinting and hair ruffled. "Eric?" he says, opening the door wider to reveal a terrycloth robe, pajama pants, and thick moccasin-like slippers. "Is everything okay?

What are you doing here? Something's going on and you run to your parents...are you twelve? Not to mention your parents are more Catholic than the Pope. You're going to tell them you're having a baby? You squint, trying to find the right words. Eventually you settle on "Can I come in?"

Your father backs away from the door, holding it open and you step through.

"Eric honey! Are you okay?" your mom asks. She walks quickly towards you, taking your face in her hands. Her eyes scan your face carefully. "You seem sad." It was a simple sentence, but one she had said times before. And it was always the same. First, her dark eyes would probe your face, a hand coming to rest lightly on your cheek like you were still seven, then the look in her eyes would turn to concern, and she'd say 'you seem sad,' or 'what's wrong, baby?' But you're not a little kid anymore, and she can't fix things with a band-aid.

You shake your head slightly. "Mom, I…" is all you can muster as all of the other letters to make words swirl around in your head, confusing you further. For the life of you, you're trying to understand why you chose to come to your parents. Perhaps you didn't know where else to go. Perhaps you subconsciously expect them to make everything right. "Calleigh's pregnant," you blurt suddenly, unable to contain your anger.

Your eyes shift between your parents, and you don't know how to read the looks on their faces. But both faces are undecipherable. They've met Calleigh before, know that your sisters harass you about your relationship with her, but do they know much beyond that?

"Eric?" your mother prods gently.

"She waited so long…"

"Would you like some tea?" your mother asks, taking control of the conversation. "I made a cake today."

Thrown off by the abrupt change, you shake your head. "No, mom…thanks." But it doesn't matter because she's pulled you into the living room and forced you into a chair. After she gets you settled, she goes to the kitchen to prepare something you probably won't be able to eat. Your father, however, sits down across from you. Rather than speak, he watches you. If you had to be truthful with yourself, you'd have to admit that you and your dad don't get along as well as you could. After all, he had one plan for your life and you had another. Now, however, sitting across from him in the living room, you feel that of all the people you could talk to, he would understand best.

But where do you begin?

You remember so many times sitting face to face with your father. Some of those times you were in trouble, sometimes you merely had a "man-to-man" with him. Regardless, he always waited patiently for you to speak. This is how he was now, posed on the couch, leaning forward, and watching you with the fiercely gentle eyes that always required truth.

"She didn't tell me for four months," you burst suddenly. "Four damn months!" You shoot up from the chair so quickly your head spins, and before you know it, you're moving around the room, looking for anything to occupy your attention. But nothing does because your whole mind is focused on tonight and on Calleigh's revelation. "Dad, did she just think…what did she think?"

Your father shakes his head slowly, eyes still focused on you.

"Calleigh's pregnant. She didn't tell me," you repeat as though begging your father to take some sort of action. Suddenly, you feel childish, like you're seven again, telling on the neighbor girl who chased and pinned you down just to kiss you. You look him straight in the eyes, searching for any wisdom, anger, comprehension…anything for you to understand what he's thinking.

"Calleigh your friend from work?" he says finally.

You nod, frustrated, and run your hands through your hair You bow your head and rub your eyes. This was not on your list of things to discuss with your parents. A short while later, your mom joins you in the living room, handing you a small cup of tea. What do you expect? What should you expect? When your friend Joshua first told you where babies came from, you refused to believe him for two solid months because Pavel and Clorinda Delko would never do something so sinful—especially not four times.

Now you sit before them, awaiting their advice but expecting harsh judgment.

"Look, it was an accident, and it shouldn't have happened," you explain lamely. "We've barely spoken since it happened."

You can barely manage your own life, and suddenly you have the responsibility of a little life—but even that's complicated. Calleigh's strong and independent, and you're scared that she will push you away. She doesn't need your help to raise a child and for all you know, she doesn't want you to help. But that's not who you are. You don't want to be the guy who got Calleigh pregnant. More than anything, that's what disturbs you: that you'll be reduced to nothing more than the sperm donor.

"So you regret it?" your father asks, pulling you abruptly from your thoughts. "Feel like you've made a mistake?"

You're taken aback, unsure of how to respond. The guilty part of your brain tells you that yes, you should be repentant. But a larger part of your brain says otherwise. "No," you say simply, offering no more and no less than that one simple word.

"And you shouldn't be," your mom says fiercely.

Your father removes his glasses, placing them on the end table and leans toward you. "But?" he asks knowingly. Your father was never one to assume. Instead, he takes time to ask questions, to analyze. Perhaps that's where you got it all from.

But what? There are so many buts, and you wouldn't know where to begin. "I don't know."

You and your father have had similar conversations in the past, and he knows which buttons to push to get you to talk, even when you don't want to. So you attempt to explain the jumble that is your mind, the past few months. Starting over and over, you finally manage to give him some semblance of an answer, but even you're not quite sure you understand exactly.

"When did life get so complicated, huh?" he says rhetorically, offering a small, humorless laugh. "Eric, I wish I had a good anecdote or words of wisdom for you, but all I can tell you is this: life isn't easy, and things aren't always going to go as planned. I'm sure you've messed up in the past, and you'll probably mess up again, but when there's something worth fixing, something worth pursuing, you do it with your entire being."

"I can't just go apologize and have everything be okay. It doesn't work that way with Calleigh."

"And it shouldn't." His words are crisp, matter-of-fact.

"I'm angry with her," you admit suddenly, the swell of anger rising in your body. When did you become Peter Brady? You just go and talk to your parents and suddenly all the wrongs are righted? No, that's not now it works. But it doesn't matter because you continue. "Does she think this changes everything and—"

"But it does change everything," your mom cuts you off with softly spoken words that could almost be comforting. "You're having a baby."

"She's having a baby. She's made it abundantly clear that she doesn't need me." You can almost feel all rational thought sliding from your brain as you vent. You're up and pacing the living room, making large loops around the furniture as your parents follow with their eyes.

"You need to calm down."

Rather than respond verbally, you shoot both of your parents hard looks. You don't remember ever being this emotionally volatile, but it doesn't matter. Someone needs to understand your frustration.

"Eric, I think the only way you're going to figure things out is if you sit down and talk it all out."

"Yeah?" you laugh, "Like we have the past couple months? Because we can fix this?" It's an odd feeling that you can't explain as your emotions flop back and forth between hope and defeat. One moment you can't see how any of this can be salvaged, the next moment all you know is that this is Calleigh and you have to work it out. Sitting down with a harsh plop, you place your head in your hands to try and quell the emerging headache. "Where's the lecture?"

"What lecture?" your father asks, carefully studying you.

And you want to gape at them both. What lecture?! You're certain they know full well what lecture you're referring to, and it will most likely be similar to the one they gave when your mom found a condom in your pants pocket one weekend you were home from college.

Your mom smiles slightly. "I only have advice: talk to Calleigh and work this out with all the integrity we raised you to have." You give a slight snort. Maybe you did step into an alternate Brady Bunch universe where everything is fixed by talking and your parents give you sappy advice.

Then again, maybe it isn't so far-fetched.

A/N: Okay…so a little corny, but Eric had to talk to someone! I think there is going to be one more chapter after this, and then it is all done, baby!!! Ten points to anyone who can figure out what part of this story is inspired by real life stuff!