A/T: You're two-fourths to the end… if you think you can make it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to CSI: Miami or T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. But please don't take them away; they're my muses!

Undeserved in Four Movements
Movement 2: Concerto and Concord

"So, Ryan. How are things going?" (in my beginning is my end)

"Hm?" Ryan asked, looking up from his microscope slides at Calleigh. She grinned and lifted a brow before strutting towards him, hands behind her back and a mischievous grin gracing her lips. It was moments like those that made Ryan feel as if he were the one on the slide; she could just put him under a microscope and dissect him into pieces, understand every thought (old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth) that ran through his head.

It wasn't a good feeling, but Ryan had long since learned to just shake it off.

"Uh-oh. I have a feeling your woman's intuition is starting to kick in," he stated lightly, flashing Calleigh a smile before turning back to his work.

"You are correct, Mr. Wolfe. Now are you going to tell me how things are going between you and Eric or will I have to beat it out of you?"

"As terrifying as that threat is, Cal, no beating is necessary."

"So he's forgiven you?"

"Strangely, yes."

"Uh-huh," Calleigh replied, leaning casually against the counter. "Hate to point out the obvious, but you're blushing like a madman."

Ryan felt his face flush deeper and, although the chances were slim, tried to play it off.

"He said it wasn't a big deal."

"Details or you die."

When the woman wanted gossip, she got it, inflicting bodily harm if the situation warranted it. It was, inevitably, a futile battle.

"Okay, fine," he muttered, not meeting her teasing gaze. "I asked him out to dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow night."

A very large, very beautiful (dawn points) smile began to grow and she gave him a playful shove.

"Look at you finally asking him out! I thought you'd never make your move."

He gave a small cough before grinning despite himself. "Thanks for the confidence boost, but these walls are glass and people here can read lips."

"Paranoid?"

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you."

"Well, I thing it's actually kind of sweet and romantic. If you exclude the part where you stole his eviden-''

"Can we not talk about that?" Ryan interrupted, shooting her a look. "Even if he doesn't… I mean, if he's not…" He took a breath, trying to form his words properly before they began twisting and turning too badly. "Even if he doesn't like me, I still want him to know I'm sorry and I'll refrain from being so incredibly stupid next time."

"That's a big promise, Ryan."

"So I've been told."

"Sure you can keep it?"

The future was the future and was always uncertain; her question regarding his morals was one he didn't want to answer. No one had ever had to question him before and it made him feel sick. It made him feel low. So he gave her a smile, attempting to charm her as much as he could, before he said the one thing he knew to be true.

"Of course I can keep it, Cal."

Because he could. (and another day- prepares for heat and silence)

…

The restaurant was actually connected to a car wash and it was, in every sense of the word, a hole in the wall. Those who ate there were devoted customers and Ryan had been known to frequent it at least once every two weeks. It was his comfort food; rare was the problem that couldn't be solved by some chicken panang curry and fried wontons. (you say I am repeating something I have said before)

He was nervous. He was beyond nervous- he was frenzied with the million possibilities that were piling up in his head. Rejection. Anger. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Hatred. He felt ready to tackle them all, because he'd been known to have a good game face on the patrol and rejection (I shall say it again) was something he'd dealt with many times before.

But Eric was different. And he'd somehow known this was going to be slightly more difficult.

He had arrived ten minutes early and found them a booth in the back where the lighting wasn't quite as bright and the conversations were softer. A waiter came and asked if he'd like to order; Ryan shook his head and ordered two ice teas instead.

And he waited. (so here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years)

Five minutes later, he knew there was nothing to worry about. After all, he had been the one to arrive early. The waiter passed by once more and asked if he was ready for a meal; Ryan shook his head. (trying to use words and every attempt)

When the clock struck seven, he understood that Miami traffic was the worst; it rivaled any other major city in the world. (is a wholly new start)

The waiter passed but didn't ask if he wanted anything to eat. Ryan began taking his straw wrapper and shredding it into tiny pieces. (and a different kind of failure)

At seven 'o five, Ryan knew he was just worrying too much. Eric was a good guy and would at least give him a call if he couldn't make it. (as we grow older)

At seven ten, he began tearing up the napkins as well and absentmindedly adding extra sugar in his tea even though he didn't particularly like sugary things; the waiter came by and gave him an odd look. (the world becomes stranger)

At seven fifteen, he vowed he would only wait five more minutes. (the pattern more complicated)

At eight o'clock, he left.

There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

East Coker (Quartet #2), T.S. Eliot