Spoilers: Calleigh's profile and anything before and after Speed's death. Especially for "Body Count" and "Under the Influence" "Lost Son" "Killer Date"

Disclaimer: I own nothing. CSI: Miami and all things related to it is property of its creators at CBS.

Today, you decide, is going to be one of those days. You slept through your alarm, waking up twenty minutes late and find you don't feel rested at all. You go to have a shower and remember your apartment complex is having work done on the pipes. The water was turned off thirty minutes after the usual time you wake up. And you sigh, as you stand in front of your bathroom mirror, feeling what little energy you have drain away. You really wanted that shower today.

You know today is going to be one of your bad days as you stand in front of your mirror, looking for flaws, when you should be getting ready for work. You pull faces, exaggerating your expression, first frowning deeply, and then smiling widely. You note every wrinkle and every laugh and stress lines you know weren't there a year ago. You wonder if make up will cover the ever-present dark circles underneath your eyes. You pull your hair up off your face and let it fall down, trying to make it fall a little less flat. You consider using your curling iron again.

You don't have your bad days often. They sneak up on you without warning; never caused by just one event but by hundreds of things you let build up over months and years. Cases that got under your skin more than you'd like to admit, comments that irritated, annoying people you had to smile for and something as small misplacing your keys. You repress them and every once and a while they come screaming to the surface louder than before.

These are the days you seriously consider calling in sick because all you want to do is go to sleep and wake up to tomorrow. But you never do because that would imply incompetence at dealing with your job and you built your life on always being competent.

You close your eyes and imagine (someone you really shouldn't) wrapping his arms around you (warm, tanned arms, so different from yours), pull you close and whisper into your ear how silly you are for doing this. And if you open yours eyes again and connect with brown ones, the mirror won't hold your flaws but all the contrasts of you and him. Contrasts that are you, him and each other.

But when you look into the mirror all you see is dull hair and tired eyes. These are the days you admit to yourself that you are tired of waking up alone.

You immediately box the thought away, angry with yourself for indulging in self-pity. You don't need anyone to help you feel better. But on days like this you can't help but want another person to wake up with. To have an actual human connection.

(You don't acknowledge whom you think of. You never do.)

You start to get ready for work because you will go to work and you will be the best at your job. Feeling sorry for yourself didn't get anyone, anywhere. You won't end up like your parents. Though on days like this, you feel you could stray down that path too easily.

So you rush, rush, rush through your morning routine. You can't remember the last time you rushed through your morning and you hate it. You hate that you have let yourself fall into chaos. You hate days like this that make you feel you're losing control.

You don't eat breakfast and just have a glass of orange juice. You aren't hungry. You never are on your bad days. And when you come home exhausted and hungry beyond hunger, you fall into bed and fall away into tomorrow.

As you rush by the hallway mirror on your way to the car, you catch a glimpse of yourself. You stop, for just a moment because for a second, you weren't seeing yourself but something you try to forget. Something you keep out of sight, out of mind. You see the eyes of your mother, tired dark eyes that aren't quite there. The way she looks in the mornings after having too much wine at dinner.

And you remember, how as a little girl, you would tug on your mothers' dress to make her look at you. To make her watch you dance, to make her see you, but she never did. She always had the same vague, barely there eyes. Even when she held you on her lap, even when she watched you dance. Even as you grew up and your interests changed from dance to guns and solving crime, you still felt like a little girl tugging on your mother's dress. She was always out of your reach.

So you looked to Daddy and you were always his "Lambchop", his beautiful star. You loved being the centre of his world because at least he watched you. You try not to think that you're the caregiver in the relationship, rescuing him from himself. Sometimes you catch yourself believing that last night will be The Last Night. But it never is, so you accept it and go on as you always have.

You see that vacant, barely there expression on yourself and you think that maybe you have already begun walking the path of your parents. Again you consider calling in sick, but you don't, and hurry to your car.

And you drive, nearly over the speed limit, trying to distance yourself from thoughts that threaten to overwhelm you. But as you flee to the sanctuary of getting lost in your job, you feel yourself begin to unravel. You begin to slip into the spaces of your mind that hold the sound of Daddy's belt in the air, and the cold nights away from home, with no one but your brothers. The image of Janet's blood pooling around her head and the thought that they would never get to have that dinner. The simple frustration that you never had that shower you want. The feelings of mixed anger, guilt and wantingto protect,when you covered for Eric.The sensation of free falling when Dad tells you he might have killed someone and the heavy weight of guilt as you lied, for both Speed and your father.The ice-cold knowledge that Speed is dead and gone.

You park your car in the lot at work, your hands shaking on the wheel and you don't get out. Instead you grasp for the threads of your control that are rapidly coming undone. You will go into work and you will be fine. You will be calm and you will show everyone that yes, you really are fine and no, you aren't having a bad day. Because you're always fine, even when you're not.

Through the parking lot, the front doors, up the elevator to your floor, you are the perfect picture of cool and collected. When you exit the elevator you aren't surprised to see him standing there, hands on hips and signature sunglasses around his neck. You expected this, you're twenty minutes late and you're rarely ever late. You ignore the small flutter of your stomach as you approach him. You aren't looking forward to the conversation.

He turns to face you when you stop in front of him, hands still on his hips and concern evident on his face. "Everything all right Calleigh?"

You push down the stab of irritation at the question. You are fine. You are always fine. You're only late for work, nothing to worry about. "Everything's fine. I woke up a little later than usual and was caught in traffic," you say, balking a little at the lie. You know you could have called to tell him you would be late.

He searches your face looking for a lie, his expression blank. You're not certain he finds it because he continues on. "Not a problem. Not a problem. Eric was caught in traffic as well and called from his car. He just arrived a few minutes ago. When you're both ready get to work on your case." A pause, and then he asks again, softening his tone, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," you reply, terse. He knows he caught you in a lie and for a moment the frustration of the day wells up and you hate him for always knowing. Irritated as you watch him walk (stride) away, you wonder how he developed the annoying habit of repeating things he's already said.

You push away your frustration and head to the locker room to pick up your lab coat and recent case notes. You forgot to take them home to review last night. Another little thing will make your day worse before it gets better.

You hate days like this when you feel control slip through your fingers.

You walk inside the door of the locker room and find Eric ready for work, closing his locker door. He leans his head against the locker, closing his eyes and you notice he's tense. His body is rigid and taught with controlled energy and you can see his jaw clench. Eric always had an air of repressed energy when he was in a high emotional state, angry, tense or nervous that gave the feeling he would start climbing walls. Though he kept his body in almost complete control, using his body to help curb his emotions, one part of him always seemed to be in motion. Tapping a folder on his palm, or rubbing his neck, sometimes bouncing on his feet. All classic signs of a tense Eric.

He hasn't noticed you and you stay in the doorway, unprepared to face him. You wonder if he's late for a reason other than traffic. You quickly push down the flash of jealousy, disturbed by it. He's your friend and friends shouldn't be jealous.

(Friends shouldn't imagine waking up in the other's arms, skin to skin.)

Are you even friends anymore? He's one of the best friends you have and you didn't notice his increasing nights out. You didn't notice how low he had fallen into depression. You tell yourself that he hid it well and maybe he did, but you didn't want to see. You didn't want to see so you saw what you needed: Eric going on with life. If he was a little more serious and a little less quick to smile, he was a CSI and CSI's didn't retire as innocent as when they started. You retreated from him in effort to control what you were feeling and he retreated from you.

You hate days like this, when it's all too much.

And you hate Eric for using sex to find escape and reason,throwing away his life; you hate yourself for needing control over the uncontrollable, you hate that your friendship is slipping through your grasp, you hate yourself for not seeing, you hate that you still care for him, even when he has done something incredibly reckless and stupid, you hate that you understand why, and you hate Speed for abandoning both of you.

(You hate that you care a lot more than you're supposed to. You hate that you let him too close.)

You don't know how long you've been standing in the doorway but Eric still hasn't moved, so it couldn't have been long. You realise you're shaking as you walk into the locker room and you start to panic because you can't stop trembling.Eric finally notices he's not alone and turns to talk to you and stops. You see worry and concern cloud his face along with the existing tension.

"Calleigh-"

You try to interrupt him but your breath hitches and your eyes lock with his, trying to communicate what you wanted to say. That you're fine because you're always fine. You have to be fine.

(You miss him. You hate him.You'refineYou'refineYou'refineYou'refine. Oh God, it hurts.You hate him.You miss him.)

You miss Eric.

And he knows because he's there with you. The single, piercing thought that he knows you and you're free-falling. You don't know who moved first but he's suddenly there and his arms are around you, holding tight, as if he's afraid to let go.

(You almost lost each other in grief.)

Your face is pressed against his chest and your hands grasp his hips, losing yourself in the solidity of him. You ignore the thought that you're a strong person and you shouldn't need this. You're crying and shaking, and you don't want to be alone. It hurts so damn much and he's right there with you, whispering comforting nonsense to you in a mixture of Spanish, Russian and English. You press yourself closer to him, trying to give him the comfort he's giving you. You hold each other and the let world fall away.

Gradually you feel the shaking stop, and your tears dry up. He tenses when he realises you've calmed down, afraid that you'll pull away but you don't. So for a moment you rest, holding him close in silence, for Speed, for each other and for you.

You listen to the gentle thud of his heart and you know you aren't alone.

(You love him.)

And it's a beginning.