Chapter 8: Calleigh

Twenty-four hours ago, if someone had told you that you would be on a bus headed to Miami, sitting next to Eric Delko, the very man you had left four years ago, you would've laughed. But this is no joke. The initial disbelief is starting to wear off, and as reality starts to set in, the mixture of emotions swirling around inside you becomes too difficult to keep compartmentalized.

After the hotel room keycards had been returned, you and Eric had stopped at a Subway's and had each grabbed a sub and a drink. The cab ride to the Greyhound station had been filled with light conversation – nothing too serious, but enough to fill the silence and avoid the awkwardness that persisted heavily before and during the fateful stroll through the state park.

Now, facing twenty hours on what you have decided is nothing more than a large box on wheels, you feel a slight panic, because you have nowhere to hide and most definitely nowhere to run.

Luckily, very few people travel by bus from Raleigh to Miami, especially around noon on a Thursday, so the two of you, sitting at the back of the vehicle, are rather secluded.

At the same time, the vacancy is intimidating, because it offers very little distraction from the man beside you. And you have decided that without distraction from him for a whole day could potentially be very dangerous. For now, a comforting silence has settled in, and you know that fatigue is plaguing both your bodies, so you look out the window and watch as the bus pulls onto the interstate, your mind drifting, but never far from one person.

He reaches over you to press the off button on the remote control to his DVD player. He stretches and yawns, lazily draping his arm over your stomach. He is lying behind you on the couch, something you have gotten used to. You're not sure if it's the practice or if it's always been this way, but the curve of his body fits so perfectly with yours.

"Aren't you scared of anything?" he asks in disbelief. Three straight psychological thrillers has him running a cold sweat, and you can hear his heart still pounding into your back, but you've shown no signs of anything resembling fear.

You shift your body on the couch until you can face him. "Ants," you reply, only to humor him.

But he knows of this fear, so he rolls his eyes. "Other than ants."

You smile, considering this for a moment. "Nope."

"That's impossible," he replies immediately.

"I'm not scared of anything else, Eric," you say with mock indignation. "I'm a tough girl."

"Everyone's scared of something, Calleigh." You open your mouth to object, but he interrupts you. "Other than ants," he repeats sternly. "It's the law of… fear," he supplies, as if that explains everything.

"Really?" you ask with an amused smile.

"Yeah," he replies with conviction, nodding to prove his point.

"Okay, Mr. Law-of-Fear, what are you scared of?"

"Nothing," he replies quickly, dismissively, and a quick flash of embarrassment appears in his eyes.

You chuckle and lean into him to place a soft kiss over his heart. "You can tell me," you urge softly.

He shakes his head forcefully. "No." His voice is suddenly serious, and he's holding onto you tighter than before.

You brush your lips gently against his, and they linger just long enough to make your heart skip a beat. When you pull away, his eyes are closed. You reach up to stroke his face. "Hey, do you trust me?" You know the answer, but you ask anyway, because you know that it will soften him up.

"With my life," he replies, his voice relaxed again. He opens his eyes to look at you, and the embarrassment has been replaced with a tender determination.

You kiss him again, because you're helplessly drawn to him, and you know, by the way his lips hungrily seek yours, that you've sealed the deal. So you ask again. "Eric, what are you afraid of?"

He stares at you, long and hard, and a whole minute passes before he finally answers.

"Losing you."

Looking back, it never was simpler than that. All along, his fear has always mirrored your own. While this connection should have made the bond you shared stronger, it didn't. You never let it, because you never admitted to him that you had the same fear. Easier to let go, easier to leave.

But so much harder to come back to.

"How am I going to face them?" you hear yourself asking.

In the seat beside you, Eric shifts. "Who?"

"Everyone." You turn to face him. "Everyone back at the lab."

"You've got nothing to worry about, Cal," he says. "They'll be too excited to see you to ask the tough questions."

"That's your job, right?" you ask dryly.

He sighs. "Cal…" A hint of defeat with an edge of anger rings from his tone.

"I didn't mean that," you say softly. You pause, and you offer a weak smile. "I'm glad you asked them."

He covers your hand with his and nods, but you don't think he believes you. He takes a moment to look at you. Finally, he settles with steering the conversation back a few lines of dialogue. "They'll understand," he reassures, and even though his voice is sincere, it's difficult to believe him.

"It's just that I left without much of a goodbye," you say, studying the way his large hand envelopes your tiny one.

His silence tells you that your words have cut deeper than you had cared to anticipate.

You turn to the window again. The trees that line the road bleed into each other, and you watch the blur fly by. "I can't apologize again." You hadn't meant to say exactly that, but those are the words that leave your lips. You turn back to glance at him.

He seems to understand, far better than you had expected him to, and he nods once, slowly. "I don't expect you to."

Fair enough, you think to yourself, and the consistent hum of the bus fills what would have been another silence. You turn your attention back to the window, and you wait for a few exits to pass by before you speak again.

"How is everyone?"

"They're good," he replies. "You already talked to Ryan."

"Yeah," you say, nodding. "And Alexx?" The older woman had always been a motherly figure to you, and aside from Eric, you imagined that she'd be the one most upset by your relocation.

"She took it pretty hard when you left so abruptly," he admits, "but she understands."

"I should've gone to see her," you say quietly, your words tinged with regret.

"Calleigh, she understands," he repeats, giving your hand a quick squeeze, but it doesn't ease your conscience.

You turn again, and your eyes meet his. "What about Valera? Natalia?" You had been especially appreciative of the fact that there were other women closer to your age at the lab, and while you rarely let people close, you had considered them good friends.

"They, uh, they were there for me," he replies, looking down at his lap. "After you left," he clarifies. "So they know why."

For a split second, you question what he had meant by that, and exactly how were they there for him? But you quickly dismiss that idea, because you still know him well enough to know that he wouldn't seek that form of comfort. At least not from his friends. "What do they think about that?" you ask carefully.

He shrugs, still avoiding your eyes. "They get it. They're too busy missing you to really care why."

And you know that they weren't the only ones who miss you, but you can't handle any more guilt, so you push that thought to the back of your mind. "I should've seen them too."

After you've inquired about another half a dozen people from the lab, he stops you with his free hand against your cheek. "Hey, don't worry, okay?"

You nod against his palm, and his fingertip lingers on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. The tenderness of his gesture is a little overwhelming, and you take a shaky breath to calm your nerves.

"How's the guy who replaced me?" you ask suddenly.

"Not nearly as easy on the eyes," he replies with a chuckle.

You smile in spite of yourself. "Eric," you warn. "What's his name?"

He looks at you for a moment, as if gauging whether you genuinely want to know all this about your replacement, or if you're only using this to fill the empty space. He settles for the former, or maybe he believes in the latter and answers to grant your wish. "Greg. Gregory Johnson. He's a heck of a lot better than the last guy who replaced you. Jim something?"

"Markham," you supply with a soft chuckle. "Yeah, he was… special." You shift slightly in your seat and stifle a yawn.

"You should get some rest," he insists, noticing your exhaustion.

"You too," you reply, stifling another yawn.

He nods and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, we both need rest."

"You first," you say with a slight smile.

He gives you a bewildered look. "What?"

You're not sure if it's the fatigue or if the situation really is funny, but you laugh. "Close your eyes."

"But—"

"Close your eyes, Eric."

He shakes his head in disbelief but humors you, closing his eyes and reclining his seat. You watch him for a few moments, your gaze falling on the small smile that remains on his lips. You fight the urge to lean closer. Slowly, one of his eyes flutters open, just enough to see you staring back at him. He closes it immediately, his smile growing wider.

"Eric!"

He opens both his eyes to look at you and smiles sheepishly. "Hey, you were supposed to close your eyes, too."

You make no attempt to hide your own smile. "There was never such an agreement," you reply coyly.

"So what, you were just going to sit there and watch me sleep?" he asks in disbelief.

You look down at his hand, still covering yours, then back up at his face. "You know how much I used to love doing that," you say, smiling faintly.

He smiles back, nostalgically, a little sadly, and closes his eyes again. You watch him for a few minutes, until the muscles in his face relax and his head falls slightly to the side. You reach out to run your fingers down his cheek, gently so you don't wake him, feeling skin and stubble and Eric. He mumbles something incoherent and you snap your hand back immediately, not wanting to be caught touching him with a certain degree of intimacy. You recline your own seat and lie back into it, keeping your eyes on the sleeping form beside you. Your attempts to stay awake are futile, however, and you succumb to your exhaustion.

When you awaken, it is dark outside, and the bus is illuminated by small lights on the ceiling. You squint, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Your head is resting on something warm and firm, and when you realize that it is Eric's shoulder, your head snaps up so quickly that you have to bring your palm to your forehead to stabilize the sudden throbbing.

Beside you, Eric is smiling cheekily, and the look on his face tells you that he's smiling about more than your unfortunate headache.

"What?" you ask, checking to make sure there was nothing on your clothes.

"Nothing," he replies, still smirking audaciously.

"No, really, what?" you ask again, with a little more urgency. You despise it when people know more than they're letting on.

He seems to remember this too, or at least the consequences of keeping something from you, so he sobers up for a moment. "I don't remember you ever talking in your sleep before," he notes, studying your reaction.

"I still don't," you say slowly, calmly, but inside, you're panicking, mentally running through anything you could've possibly said. Unconscious thoughts are usually private ones, and nothing makes you feel more vulnerable than exposing what really goes on in your head.

He raises his eyebrow, his lips curling upward again. "So I just imagined it?"

"Yes!" you agree quickly. You want to slap that stupid grin off his face, but your curiosity gets the best of you. "What did I say?"

"I thought I imagined it?" he asks, feigning innocence.

You frown, and you feel your hand forming into a fist. "Then what did you imagine I said?" Your voice borders on dangerous.

"You said, 'No, the potatoes need more butter.'" He laughs then, authentic and free, maybe the first real laugh you've heard from him since he showed up at your hotel room door.

You stare at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. "You're making this up," you say finally.

"No, I'm not!" he denies. He pauses and laughs again. "Did you have a dream about potatoes?"

"I don't remember." His laughter has put you in a better mood, and at the very least, you no longer want to physically hurt him. "Was that the only thing I said?" you ask, needing to make sure you revealed nothing more than potatoes.

"Yeah," he replies with a short nod.

"Are you sure?"

His cheeky smile returns, and he looks inhibited for a brief moment. "No, you also said, 'I wish Eric Delko would kiss me already.'"

"Eric!" You punch him in the arm to hide your own embarrassment, and even though you know you haven't said those words, your feel the tips of your ears turning a dark shade of pink.

But the look on his face has changed from humor to longing, and you know, even before it happens, that everything changes, right here, right now. Change, you can handle; it's his approaching form that you can't. Or maybe this is not change, after all. Maybe this is anti-change, meant to revert back to how the two of you were before you sliced his heart in half. Whatever it is, it's making your hand tremble, and for a person who is addicted to control, nothing is scarier than losing it. Losing it in his arms, against his lips, however, is probably the best way to go. Still, you fight, your palms resting feebly against his chest, your eyes diverting from his unwavering gaze.

And when his lips finally reach yours, you know that you've lost the battle. Your hands grasp the same shirt you had been resisting a moment before, pulling him impossibly closer, and your eyelids fall over your eyes, because your body knows that you want all senses focused on the feel of his lips only.

Old and familiar, but with a renewed exoticism that makes your heart race and your head pound. Impatient and demanding, his lips are moving too fast for yours to follow, but somehow, you keep up, your fingers reaching up to the back of his neck to pull him even closer. He doesn't even test you with his tongue, only pushes it between your lips urgently, running it along your teeth, reaching and waiting for yours. When your tongues meet, the feel makes you moan into his mouth.

It's not enough, though, it never is, and when his hand slips under your blouse, reality rears its ugly head.

You are on a bus.

A big, near-empty bus, but a bus nonetheless, with a driver and a handful of passengers.

As quickly as the kiss began, it ends, and you pull back breathlessly. Your hands are pushing his chest away again, and you can feel his persistent heartbeat under your right palm. His hand is still resting against your abdomen, and he moves it to your face, but you shrug it off, despite how amazing it feels to be touched by him.

Your weak resistance is almost laughable, because when he leans in again, your hands drop to his hips. He kisses you again, softer this time, delicately, less passion and more meaning. You hear his unspoken truths, his tender promises, and you respond the same way.

There is no panic, no struggle, when you break away the second time. A flame within you has been reignited. He smiles at you, a little apologetically, and you can't help but smile back.

You're not sure what to say, and he seems to face the same dilemma, so you turn to look out the window again. You can see the horizon in the distance. The sun is rising, and you can't help but think how poetic this new dawn really is.

At the same time, a part of you is still fighting against not only the kiss, but also the decision to leave Boston and then Raleigh in the first place. But for once in your life, you decide that you're not going to brood over this any longer than you absolutely have to. Nothing about this is rational, and no amount of time spent speculating will make it so.

Love overrules logic.

You turn back to look at him, because nothing outside the window is as gorgeous as he is. He smiles when your eyes meet.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask suddenly, a little taken aback by the peaceful tone of your voice.

He gives you an incredulous look. "Miami," he replies slowly, hinting obviousness.

"No." You smile, and you feel your cheeks flushing uncharacteristically. "For our date," you clarify softly.

"Oh." He seems momentarily stunned. "Well, that's a surprise," he replies finally.

You laugh. "You have no idea, do you?"

He raises his arms in defeat. "Hey, you girls are always whining about how there's not enough spontaneity left in this world."

"There isn't," you reply, still smiling.

"Well," he says, gesticulating wildly in the air, "I'm showing you some."

"Eric," you say, trying to look stern, "there's a difference between spontaneity and being unorganized."

He smiles and touches the tip of your nose with his index finger. "Picky."

Normally, you would break his finger, or maybe even his whole hand, but today, you're still riding the high of finally getting to taste his lips again, so you find his childish gesture endearing. You look out the window once more, and the sun has risen a little bit more, but even the sunrise pales in comparison to his smile, so you have to turn back.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask again.

"I told you, Calleigh," he replies, sounding slightly annoyed. "It's a surprise."

"No, it's not! Just admit that you have no idea." Your little game is starting to rile you up, for real rile you up, so you cross your arms over your chest. "Or better yet, just admit that I win."

"I am not admitting that, because that's not true." He almost pouts, which reminds you so much of how he used to be, and your anger dissipates again.

"I have my gun," you whisper, and even though it's in the luggage compartment of the bus, accessible only from the outside, your point is made.

"I thought you worked in law enforcement," he says with a mischievous smile.

You give him a confused look. "So?"

"So you should know that admittance of guilt at gunpoint is not admissible in court," he replies coolly. You glare at him, and finally he rolls his eyes and exaggerates a sigh. "You win," he mumbles.

"Thank you," you say politely, and you can't hold in your smile, because this is what you remember your relationship being, when the two of you were happiest.

You're not sure what has made you so talkative today, even though you would put your money on the kiss, but you're in a sharing mood, so you ramble.

"When I was younger and my father was actually sober, he would take my brothers and me on long road trips, mostly to fish or hunt, and we'd play this game, sort of like a scavenger hunt." You look at him, slightly self-conscious, but he waits for you to continue. "We would go through the alphabet in order, and at each letter, we'd look out the window and try to find something that started with that letter."

Eric chuckles. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were asking me to play this game."

You shake your head. "I'm not, but now that you mention it—"

"Calleigh," he interrupts. "how old are you?"

You smile, because you know where he's going with this, but you answer seriously anyway. "Two years and ten months older than you, why?"

"That makes both of us too old to play this game," he suggests, even though you know that he knows that this game will be played, regardless of age, regardless of what he does.

"So?"

"So nothing." He looks at you for a moment. "Automobile."

"What?"

"Automobile starts with A and I just saw one pass by outside," he replies matter-of-factly. "Do you have a point system, too?" he asks, and you can tell he is mocking you.

"You cheated," you accuse, ignoring his question. "Barn."

He scoffs. "You did not just see a barn."

"Yes, I did! There was one out the window on the other side," you reply, pointing toward the empty seats across the aisle.

"Fine, fine," he concedes. "What letter are we at now? C?"

You nod and look out the window, but for whatever reason, there are no cars in sight.

"Calleigh."

You turn to face him. "What?"

"No," he says with a chuckle. "Calleigh. I see a Calleigh."

You can't help but laugh. "It has to be outside."

He considers this for a moment. "Okay, Calleigh's reflection," he supplies, motioning toward the window beside you.

"How did you ever get your science degree?" you ask playfully.

He looks confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Physics, Eric," you explain. "A reflection is merely an image, so it can't actually be on the other side of the reflective surface."

"Hey, I majored in chemistry," he replies in defense.

"And I'm sure they ignored your F in Physics 101 because you were the star of the swim team," you say sarcastically.

He shrugs and plays along. "I've been told I was a pretty good right-fielder for the Hurricanes, too." He flinches when you slap him on the arm, but recovers enough to say, "Car," thus earning him another point.

Irritated now, you start the next two letters by naming 'Delko' and 'Eric' respectively. He teases you about your double standard rules, but you claim two glorious points to take the lead. The game continues in this way, and despite the minor tweaks you've made to the rules, the two of you are neck-and-neck by the time you reach the letter Q.

"You could not possibly have seen a quarter on the side of the road, no matter how good your eyesight is," he complains.

"I saw something shiny," you reply defensively.

"Could be anything," he points out.

"No, it was a coin," you say stubbornly.

He smiles disbelievingly at you. "And how would you tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Quarters are bigger," you reply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I meant while the bus is going at sixty miles an hour," he says pointedly.

"Oh." You pause for a moment, before a huge smile spreads across your face. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it."

He frowns. "I don't like this game anymore," he announces, sounding very much like a cranky five-year-old.

"You're just upset because you're losing," you reply with the same childish tone.

"I wouldn't be losing if you didn't cheat," he says pointedly.

You glare at him. "I'm not cheating!"

Each letter after that demands another mock argument about your questionable tactics, and before you reach T, both of you grow tired of the game, so you settle for the gentle silence that holds unspoken pledges and understood regrets. You keep your hand on his lap, he keeps his on your arm, and you lean into his shoulder again, assessing how right it feels and how guilty that knowledge makes you feel.

He calls Horatio as the bus leaves the interstate, but you're too preoccupied with your own thoughts to catch much of the conversation, and before long, the Greyhound is pulling into the Miami station. You are grateful for finally being able to stand and stretch, and after you've gotten off the bus and collected your belongings from the luggage compartment, you take a moment to absorb the Miami sun.

Standing beside you, Eric smiles. "Ready?"

But he knows the answer, so he doesn't wait for your response, only presses a quick, reassuring kiss to your forehead and leads you away from the station.

The airport is close to the bus station, but not close enough to walk, so another cab brings you to the parking structure of Miami International, where Eric's car stays parked. But somewhere between the station and the airport, the spell is broken, and the tension returns. You sense that he can feel your discomfort, so he keeps his distance, and you hope he knows that it's not his touch that makes you cringe, but the upcoming meeting with abandoned friends.

When you reach his car, he drops your duffel in the back seat and walks around to the driver's side, leaving you to open the door yourself this time. You slide into the passenger's seat and clip on your seatbelt, ignoring the strange feeling of sitting in Eric's car. He has the same car as he did four years ago, but aside from minor wear patterns and a higher number on the dashboard, nothing has changed. The smell is the same. It smells distinctly him, maybe even more so than he does himself, and that in itself is a harsh reminder of how long you haven't been here. Not here in his car, but here in Miami.

As he pulls out of the building, he clears his throat.

"Where do you plan on staying?"

And suddenly, you wish you hadn't severed all ties to Miami. If only you had kept Valera's number, or sent Natalia a few Christmas cards, you could have, and definitely would have immediately named one of them. Your father had moved back to Louisiana shortly after you had relocated to Boston, as well. He always said that the only reason he ever moved to Miami was to be closer to you. You consider staying at a hotel, but you're not sure how long you can foot the costs, especially now that you're unemployed. You wonder if he's testing you, and somewhere deep down, you want him to urge you to stay with him. Accepting an offer is easier than asking for one.

Eric doesn't speak, doesn't ask if you've heard him, because he knows you have. He doesn't hassle you to respond, or repeat his question. He knows the ball's in your park now. You know this as well, but the silence drags on. When you finally break it, you settle for the safest route: indecision.

"I don't know."

He nods, as he reaches a red light, and drums the steering wheel absentmindedly with the pads of his thumbs. When the light turns green again, neither of you have spoken.

You still remember the streets of Miami fairly well, and even though you haven't asked him if he lives at the same place, you're pretty certain he does. If your intuition hasn't failed you, you know that three blocks from now, he'll have to turn right if he's headed home, and left if he's headed to the lab.

Two intersections later, he is forced out of silence by the looming decision.

"I have today off too, but if you want to go to the lab, I can drive you there now," he offers.

"Will you stay?" You look at him expectantly, but he's focused on driving. "When we get to the lab," you clarify.

He studies you for a brief moment, before returning his attention to the road. "Yeah."

And even though you're strong and independent, there's a certain comfort in knowing that you won't be alone when you see everyone again, and not everything will feel so foreign.

At the third intersection, he hesitates. "Do you mind if I drop by my place to change? I've been wearing the same clothes for almost two days, and I really need to shave," he says with a chuckle, running his fingers over his stubble.

You want to make a flirty comment about his unshaven face, but you stop yourself. "No, of course not, go ahead."

He takes a right turn and arrives in front of his apartment building a few minutes later. He finds a parking space and pulls his key from the ignition.

You're not sure how you'll handle being inside his apartment, as your hand reaches reluctantly for the buckle of your seatbelt. He senses your hesitation and reaches to stop you, his hand gentle around your wrist.

"You can stay in the car if you want. I'll only be a minute." He appears to want to say more, but doesn't.

You nod, withdrawing your arm. He opens the car door and slips out. Before he closes the door behind him, however, he hesitates. He leans down to look at you.

"Do you want me to bring your bag up?" he asks quietly.

And there, hidden between his carefully-phrased question, the offer you had been awaiting. Yet, you're not ready for the implications, and you don't think he is either. Too soon, too many messy emotions involved.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" you ask, stalling.

"I don't know." He pauses for a moment, before finally producing his cell phone from his pocket. He holds it out to you, and you sense defeat. "Call Valera or Natalia. I'm sure one of them can give you a place to stay." He looks away to hide his disappointment.

You take the phone from his hands. "Hey," you say softly, "when we're ready, okay?"

He nods and offers a weak smile, before closing the car door and making his way toward his apartment building. You watch him disappear behind the entrance. You flip open his phone and search through his address book for Valera's number. You press 'talk' and bring the phone to your ear.

After a few rings, Valera's voice comes over the receiver.

"Eric," she says, speaking as quickly as only Valera could. "Ryan told me you were with Calleigh. Is that true? Because he said not to call you, so I figure he's just playing a trick on me, right? But then I'm thinking, why would—"

"Valera," you interrupt, smiling at the sound of the familiar voice.

She recognizes your voice immediately and responds loudly. "Calleigh?! Oh my God, Calleigh. Are you—" She lowers her voice, apparently aware that she's sitting in the middle of the lab. "Are you in Miami?"

"Yeah, I'm here," you reply, nodding.

"Well, where are you staying?" she asks, her voice still holding a hint of disbelief.

You bite your lip. "That's actually why I'm calling."

"Say no more," she says immediately, and her warmth surprises you. "You remember where I live, right?"

"Yes. Thank you, Valera." In that moment, you are grateful that despite how abruptly you left, she is still treating you like a good friend.

"But you know, if you bring Eric around and start doing it on my couch, I'm kicking you out," she says. You laugh, a little embarrassed, and she seems to sense this, so she changes the subject quickly. "My shift ends in four hours, so you can come by then, or if you drop by the lab, I can give you my key."

"We're heading to the lab now, actually," you reply, noticing Eric reappearing from the building, wearing a new outfit, his face shaven.

"Great," Valera says, "I'll see you then."

When Eric climbs back into the car, you hand him back his phone, and he slips it back into his pocket. "So, you got a place to stay?"

"Yeah, Valera's offered me her couch." Safer than yours, you want to add, but you don't.

"That's good," he replies, even though you sense that he had hoped you wouldn't find anywhere else to stay. He looks at you with a poorly-concealed longing. "Ready to go?"

You nod, and he pulls onto the street and heads for the lab.

Not smooth sailing yet, but less bumpy than before, and that's all you can hope for. Small steps lead to large ones, or at least they add up to them, and you're going to follow yours.

Wherever they lead.