Chapter 14: Calleigh

It's kind of funny how some things work out. How you can spend your whole life running away from your past and yet, one slip, one little breathing pattern that you never picked up on, and it feels like your whole world is crashing. You've never been one for dramatics or exaggerated flair, but you only remember being this terrified once before in your life, and that was when you and Ryan had arrived at the hospital and the nurse had said, "Oh, your friend won't be needing that anymore," and you really did think that Eric had left you, just like everyone else before him.

He'd made it through though, and even though for a while, it seemed like he'd have some trouble adjusting, he'd done fine, just like you always knew he would.

But the shooting and his subsequent recovery had convinced you of one thing: there was more there, and maybe there always was, but it had become impossible to ignore. Still, you continued your little charade, and he had given you the time, even watched as you stayed with the wrong man, and in some sick, twisted way, it made you realize just how much he was willing to give up to get a chance with you, and somewhere, you would've given up the same for him.

And yet, despite this revelation, it wasn't until after another shooting, after the two stray bullets, that you finally let go of the past and began to understand that old habits die hard. Even today, you still feel the guilt of having waited until Jake was violently taken out of the picture before allowing yourself to succumb to the little flutters inside your stomach that spoke of an unbreakable trust, of a leap of faith that had sounded a lot riskier than it had actually been.

People say that the brain masks over traumatic events, covers them to defend the mind from the possibility of lingering pain, but this defense mechanism rarely seemed to work for you, because you remember that day; every tiny sound wave that floated to your ears in the form of syllables, every photon absorbed and reflected into your pupils, against your retinas, through optic nerves and processed in the visual cortex to etch a memory into the banks. You remember, but it's difficult to make sense of the jumble, and maybe that's what the mechanism's all about.

Blood. There's so much goddamn blood and it's not yours. Fuck. Breathe.

"Help's coming, Jake, stay with me," you plead, trying to keep pressure on his neck without damaging it further, but he's convulsing and it's difficult to keep him still. "Jake, damn it, don't—" And the rest of that is swallowed up by a sob, and you know that he can't hear you – that right there is tearing you apart inside-out – but you still don't want to cry in front of him, still want to stay strong.

When the ambulance finally arrives, he's stopped seizing but he's still got a pulse and the paramedics are careful with him – a good sign, right? – as they lift him onto a gurney and strap him in.

You muscle your way past the two people who are trying to figure out if the blood on your shirt is yours and climb onto the ambulance despite protests from the EMTs. You want to tell them to stuff it, but you don't because you just want to cry and you're pretty sure they're going to force you to speak with someone if you start crying.

Tears keep blurring your vision but thankfully, everyone's too focused on Jake to really notice, and you can barely breathe and you're shaking but maybe not and it smells so damn metallic in the back of the ambulance. The siren's on, and it's sensory overload.

The next thing you know, you're standing in the waiting room outside the OR, pacing, but after a few steps, your legs are too weak to continue and you slump into a chair, but you're restless and after the third nurse has come to ask you if you need help and gone with her tail between her legs, someone else appears.

Eric looks worried, and as he spots you, his eyes widen and he jogs over.

"Calleigh, oh my God, what happened?" he asks softly, almost like he's afraid to break you. He looks you up and down, and you know that he's wondering where the nurses are, but he knows you, knows your stubbornness, so he keeps quiet.

"Eric." You stand, taking a shaky breath, stumbling. "They won't let me into the OR." You swallow hard, feeling your head burning. "I need to get in there. I need—" You trail off, because you know the next words are going to hurt him. "I need to see him," you finish quietly, looking away.

He tenses perceptibly, but quickly regains his composure. "Listen to me. Are you hurt?" he asks, reaching out to touch your arm.

"No," you reply, shaking your head. You look down at the blood on your shirt. "This isn't mine."

He swallows. "You should get someone to—"

"If I wanted to be looked over," you interrupt, getting irrationally irritated, "I would've let that nurse do it. Eric, I'm fine, but he's—" You bring your hand to your forehead to cover your eyes. "I don't think he's gonna—" You trail off again, but this time, you look up, and when you speak again, your voice is full of the desperation that you despise. "He lost so much blood, Eric, so much…"

Without hesitation, he pulls you against him, caked blood and all, and you're struggling against him but he knows you better than that, so he doesn't relent and eventually, your body gives in to his embrace. Your pained sobs flood his chest, Jake's blood is staining both of your shirts now, but he doesn't care and that speaks volumes. He holds you until your palms find his abdomen and you're pushing him away, and that's when he knows you need space again, so he loosens his grip and allows you to shake his arms off.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed and very self-conscious, you take a step back and raise a weary hand toward the small patches of blood on his shirt.

"I'm sorry I got his blood on your—"

"Don't worry," he offers quickly. He smiles a little. "Shirts can be bought. Your safety can't."

"Calleigh."

Eric's soft, experimental voice snaps you out of your daydream, and you turn toward him. He looks the same shade of worried as that day in the hospital, and in a way, you're thankful for that, thankful for his presence. He knows when to push, knows when to pull and knows when to just wait. He's the one person in your life who's ever known how to handle you when you're scared or worried or nervous, and even though you still shut down around him sometimes, he has a way of opening you up slowly. He's patient, and maybe he's learned that from you, but you love him for always being around when you need him, always waiting. And although four years is an unfair amount of time to ask of him, he's here, standing in front of you with an anxious look on his face, and just seeing him is enough to quell a few demons.

He pulls you into his arms; there's no hesitation anymore, you note, and the inexplicable comfort in that is overwhelming. He doesn't know what's going on and yet he's holding you, whispering unintelligible words into your hair, and maybe he's been here all along, even when the two of you were physically apart.

"Eric," you murmur into his chest. "I don't want to talk."

His lips find your temple and he kisses it softly. "Whenever you're ready, baby," he soothes, "whenever you're ready."

The tenderness in his voice is almost enough to release the barrage of tears that sting the backs of your eyes, but you will yourself not to cry. He must sense your efforts, because he moves his thumb up to stroke your cheek, as if giving you silent permission to release into his arms. You don't, almost can't, and that only adds to the fear, but his small gesture gives you the courage to speak.

"How did you get here?" you ask, pulling your head off his chest to look at him. "I have your car."

He smiles, a little sheepish. "I took one of the Hummers," he replies.

You distance yourself a little from him and stare in disbelief. "With the siren on?" you ask incredulously. When he doesn't reply, you frown. "Eric!"

"Never mind that," he laughs, drawing you close again. He clears his throat. "How are you feeling?" he murmurs, his arms tightening around your midriff.

You take a deep breath, tilt your head back, and your hands find the back of his neck and pull. He closes the distance willingly, his lips finding yours, and you sign inaudibly into his mouth. And damn it, you can even taste the worry on his lips. You wonder what he tastes on yours. Evasion, maybe, and does he know that while you enjoy kissing him, you're mostly doing this to distract yourself and him?

He must, because he stops you gently with a careful push. "Calleigh," he breathes, "I'm not going anywhere."

And you aren't sure why he says that but the sincerity there calms you and for a moment, the fear's gone and you're enveloped in an amazing sense of invincibility.

But only for a moment, because the devastating news rushes back again, and you almost don't want to burden him with this, but then you remember that it's Eric, and that the amount of trust here transcends all feelings of inadequacy, of guilt, of fear.

"You were right," you say slowly.

He runs his fingertip lazily along your jaw line. "About what?"

You catch his eye and bite your lip. "My dad was only trying to protect me."

"What happened?" he asks gently, carefully.

"He—" You swallow, feeling those stubborn tears building up again. "He's really sick. His liver…"

"Oh, Calleigh," he murmurs, pulling you tight against him.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck and rest your lips along the consistent pulse there, and that makes you feel a little less numb. He kisses the top of your head gently and holds you for a long while. Just like before, there are no complications, no need for intricate or tentative words, and you never really realized just how much you had missed this, when your life wasn't dictated by the careful calculations that had gradually sneaked their way in and become too uncomfortably commonplace. With him, there was none of that. Logic rarely seemed a necessity, and there had been no customs to follow, no protocol on how to act, what to say.

With him, every embrace had come naturally, and you regret having lost that over the years, over the countless ticks of jagged hands on analog faces; the more circular the needles spin, the more linear life becomes, and if anybody needs more proof that fate has a sick, twisted sense of humor, they've obviously never met you.

Full circle. This is what it's all about. The pier, it's fitting.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and you had almost forgotten why you are here, why he had broken protocol to be here with you. Almost.

You pull back and run haphazard forms onto his shoulder with the tip of your finger. "He knew that if I found out, I'd want to get my blood tested for compatibility," you say , not realizing just how dry your throat had become until you had spoken. You swallow, still holding back those tears. "To see if I can be a live donor," you clarify, and immediately, his breath hitches against your forehead.

"You can't give up half your liver," he says in disbelief.

You frown, pulling yourself back a little further. "For my dad? Yeah, I can," you reply with a nod. "It grows back," you add dismissively.

"It's dangerous," he says tightly, and at his own words, he laughs humorlessly.

"Are you saying you wouldn't trade half your liver for your mom? Your dad?" you ask, and you can't stop the next name from slipping past your lips. "Marisol?"

The syllables have their intended effect and he tenses. He looks away and shakes his head. "Marisol wasn't the cause of her cancer," he replies defensively.

"That's unfair, Eric, and really insensitive," you say with a frown, and you almost expect him to scoff at the word 'insensitive,' because it's a pretty good description of what you've just said, but he doesn't. "I don't love him any less because of it," you add quietly.

"You've still got another fifty years to live, Calleigh," he replies flatly.

"And who's to say his twenty years is less valuable than my fifty?" you ask crossly.

He looks ready to retort, but instead swallows and shakes his head. "What about your brothers?"

You sigh. "None of them live near, anymore," you reply with a small shrug.

"So they don't know?" he asks in disbelief, and you know that he doesn't mean to sound so disbelieving, that he'd never purposely grind out his words so roughly, but he looks concerned and angry and just really frustrated all at once.

You move your head from side to side slowly."I don't think so."

"He was just going to keep hiding this from you guys until he—"

"Yeah."

He sighs. "Calleigh." He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his head. "This is too risky."

"He's my dad, Eric," you say softly, and your heart is stinging again. "He's too low on the transplant list," you add, looking him in the eye. "He's only got a month or two, maybe weeks if I don't do this. Liver dialysis isn't very effective."

"But—"

"You're jumping ahead," you say, cutting him off. "I don't even know if I'm a match." You lean in again, taking in the scent of mild soap, a hint of aftershave and an aroma so strictly Eric that it's soothing. "I just wish you supported me on this," you sigh.

He exhales, loud and long, but holds you against his chest gingerly. "How can I condone putting your life in danger?" he asks, but his tone is softer, and you've got him. You've always got him.

"It's my decision to make," you reply pointedly, trying to grasp the flood of emotions tumbling around inside. "Don't you trust me enough to let me do that?"

"Of course," he affirms quietly, "but Calleigh—"

"Eric, I just need you to be here for me while I go through this." And it's rare for you to speak of need, but you've come to the understanding that it's exactly what you ultimately feel. "If you oppose it, oppose it silently," you add, "because you're not going to change my mind."

"I'm here." He swallows and runs his fingertips along the curve of your neck. "I'm always here."

"I've scheduled an appointment with a team of transplant surgeons. They're supposed to do a full blood work, organ function tests and a couple of scans," you inform him, recalling the phone conversation that had taken place immediately after you had hung up with your father.

"When are you meeting them?" he asks, struggling to keep his tone neutral, but he's always been one to act on emotions and gut, so it's difficult, but he's trying.

"Monday."

He nods slowly. "I'm going to be right there with you, okay?"

"You have work," you reply pointedly.

He shrugs. "I have a lot of vacation time saved up and—"

"You can't," you interject, shaking your head. "Horatio's going to kill you."

"I already did." He laughs. "In fact, he's the one who suggested it."

"Really?" you ask, smiling softly. "But aren't you in trouble with IAB?"

"He sorted that out, too," he replies with a chuckle. "Oh, and the FBI cleared you this morning," he adds. "Even I don't know how H pulled this one off."

"That's good." You pull out of his embrace to look at him. "How much time off do you have?"

"Two and a half weeks," he replies, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

The simple yet intimate gesture makes you smile. "So you'll be there?"

He nods. "I'll be there," he affirms.

You take a step toward the railing and lean back against it, resting your weight. "I want to go see him but I'm scared," you confide quietly, and admitting fear is a huge thing for you.

He steps up and mimics you, leans against the railing as well."Where is he?"

"At Mercy," you reply with a dry chuckle. "I can't believe I never realized. He always called from a cell phone, I just figured…" You frown, shaking your head. "You should get back to work. I'm leaving for the hospital now."

"Calleigh," he says softly, "I'm coming with you, okay?"

"I couldn't ask you to do that," you reply with a slight frown.

He takes hold of your arm and tugs gently. "C'mon, let's go."

You pull back and shake your head again. "Your vacation only starts tomorrow."

But he's equally persistent and tugs again, a little harder. "I'm going to return the Hummer and then we'll go," he says, almost matter-of-factly, and this time, you let him pull you off the railing. He smiles victoriously. "Do you mind driving my car to the lab?"

You shake your head and reach up to kiss him softly. "Thank you."

His smile widens. "Where'd you park my car?"

"Far," you reply with a soft laugh. "I tried to take a drive to clear my head, but I could barely see straight, so I parked it a few blocks from here and ended up here." You give him a gentle push. "Go return the Hummer. I'll meet you at the lab."

"You'll be okay driving?" he asks, and the tinge of worry is back.

"I'm not an invalid, Eric," you reply with a short eye-roll.

"I know that," he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

"Yeah, I'll be okay," you say, nodding. Pulling back an inch, you plant a soft kiss on his lips but he's a little more insistent and nibbles gently on your upper lip, which elicits a low moan from your throat. He pulls back just as abruptly, though, because he knows that it's not the time.

"I'll see you later," he murmurs, leaning in for a quick, chaste kiss before pulling away and heading off.

Taking a few deep breaths to clear your head, you begin making your way back to where you had parked his car. It's pretty far, and it takes you a while, but you've got plenty to keep your mind occupied, so before you know it, you're pulling into the lab's parking lot, a little worried because you're not sure how many traffic lights you actually stopped at, but you're in one piece, so it couldn't have possibly been that bad.

Eric's already waiting for you and jogs over, climbs in, and it feels a little strange to be sitting in the driver's seat of his car with him as a passenger, but you get over it quickly and without a word, begin the drive to the hospital.

You're pretty sure your driving has seen better hours, but if he's fearing for his life, he's not showing it, and you remember Miami well enough to navigate your way to Mercy. It's too soon, too fast, and it almost feels like no time has elapsed between the lab and the hospital, because you're walking through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hall, and you stop in front of the door with K. Duquesne scribbled messily on the little card and stare at the loopy letters that spell your father's name, your name. You're frozen there, paralyzed with anxiety.

"Do you want me to wait outside?" Eric asks gently, his hand never leaving the small of your back.

"No," you reply, shaking your head a little more violently than you had intended, "come in with me."

"Okay," he nods, "I'm here."

You reach for his hand and he pulls you to him and holds you for a brief moment, just long enough to let you know that he means what he says.

"Do you think—" You trail off and swallow. "A few times, when I called him, he wouldn't pick up. Do you think he was on dialysis?"

"Calleigh," he sighs, "I don't know, but you can't worry about that right now, okay?"

"Once, I heard a female voice and bugged him about his 'new girlfriend,' but in hindsight, it was probably a nurse." Shaking your head, you push down a wave of guilt. "I can't believe how insensitive I was."

"You didn't know," he says gently. "There was no way for you to know, Cal, and you're going to drive yourself insane with what you could or couldn't have done. He needs you now, okay?" He kisses your temple, then plants a soft one on your nose. "Ready?"

You nod and, with the help of his silent support, you manage to build up the courage to push the door open and enter.

Kenwall Duquesne is lying in a hospital bed, his eyes closed, and from far away, a captured photograph would have shown a man peacefully resting, but the more you approach his bedside, the more reality sets in, and you realize that his sleep is fitful, his breathing labored, and how did you manage to miss that during phone conversations? You've never seen him so frail, and despite the constant reminder that your father is not a perfect man, this is the first time you've really ever seen him this helpless and vulnerable.

Eric pulls you a chair and helps you sit down, because there's a disconnect and your brain isn't processing anything. He pulls one up for himself and sits beside you.

Your father opens his eyes and smiles. "Lamb Chop," he greets softly, and it's the same voice you remember from the rare bedtime stories, the fishing trips, the late-night phone conversations, but the knowledge of his condition has changed the timber somewhat, and you hear the sadness, the fear, maybe the regret.

"Dad…" you murmur, approaching to press a kiss against his forehead. Your father's warm, clammy skin is too much, and the first tear rolls down your cheek and plunks onto his pillow. You wipe away at it with the back of your hand, but another one follows, and another, and another, and you're sobbing quietly even though you want nothing more than to be strong for him.

He reaches up to stroke your cheek. "I didn't want you to have to see me like this," he says, straining to sit up.

"Don't move," you request, moving to touch his arm, the tears flowing consistently now because you're too tired, too drained to even try to hold back.

"Calleigh, don't cry," he croaks, and you know that he's moments away from tearing up as well. "I'm sorry I upset you."

You shake your head and wipe at your tears again. "How are you feeling?" you ask, swallowing hard.

He smiles a little at that. "Great, now that I got to see your pretty face."

You let out a short, tearful laugh. "You should've told me you were…" You swallow again. "You should've told me," you finish quietly.

He closes his eyes and turns to face the ceiling. "I didn't want you worryin' for no reason."

"Daddy…" And suddenly, you're twelve again, at your grandfather's bedside and you're confused, unable to grasp the concept of sickness, of death, of the inexplicable ache in your heart. It never gets easier. Experience doesn't do anything to soothe the bitter taste of the inevitable end that everyone faces, and it's unfair, really, but labeling it as such does nothing to unclench your chest.

Eric's hand is resting on your thigh and you reach over to grip it tightly.

"I talked to some doctors about a liver donation and they're going to run some tests—"

At that, his eyes snap open and he stares straight at you. "I'm not accepting a donation from you, Lamb Chop," he says sharply, shaking his head. "You've got too much ahead of you to risk your life for this here old man."

"The operation's safe, Dad," you cajole softly.

The hard look on his face doesn't change, and he shakes his head again. "Cuttin' into your body's dangerous, no matter what those surgeons say." He looks past you at Eric. "Young man, talk some sense into this lady."

Eric smiles tightly. "I tried, sir."

"Well, try harder." Your father frowns and turns back to you. "Calleigh, I'm not letting you do this, and don't try none of your CSI tricks on me."

"Dad." Deciding you'll deal with this topic later, you opt for a safer line. "Have you talked to Mama?"

He nods. "She was here two days ago."

"She kept it from me, too?" you ask incredulously, your voice rising. Though you spoke to your mother a lot less, it surprises you that she hadn't mentioned it.

"Don't be angry with her, Lamb Chop," he requests. "I told her not to say anything and she agreed that it's best you don't have that responsibility."

"And what did the two of you think would happen when I did find out?" you snap back, unable to contain your rising anger. "I'd just ignore the fact that you're—" You trail off there, because it's impossible to finish that sentence. "You should've told me," you finish quietly. "I could've been here."

"Don't be silly. You were here the whole time," he says softly, pulling your hand to rest on his chest.

Holding back tears again, you envelope your father's hand in yours and cradle it gently. "Dad, if I'm a match, I'm going to give you a bit of my liver. You'll be okay in—"

"Calleigh, I told you, I'm not letting you do this," he says sternly. "Don't waste your time and energy getting consulting sessions and blood tests done, because nobody's going to cut my Lamb Chop open."

"Daddy, please…" you whisper, feeling tears stain your cheeks again."Why are you doing this?"

He reaches up to swipe a few tears away and smiles sadly. "Maybe you'll understand when you have children."

And the comment is innocent, but the guilt rolls against your insides again. Eric senses this and squeezes your hand tightly.

"Calleigh, you should go," your father says suddenly, almost like he's grown uncomfortable speaking to you, but then his voice softens. "I'm sorry about all this. Don't be angry."

"I'm not," you reply, shaking your head. "Dad, I'm not angry with you. Don't ever think that."

He smiles a little at that. "Sweetheart, I'm not scared. I've lived a good life, a full life. I must've done something right to deserve you, right?" He musters the energy to wink playfully at you.

"Don't say that," you plead, your tears coming full-force now. "Don't—" Bringing your hand to cover your mouth and stifle a sob, you close your eyes for a moment, trying desperately not to weep openly. "You're not—"

"I love you so much, Lamb Chop," he offers genuinely. It's raw, it's open, it's everything your father isn't, and maybe that's why it means so much more, but your chest tightens, because it's so damn unfair that this new side of your father only appears after he's become bedridden.

But that's the Duquesne way, isn't it? It takes dramatic events to alter the stoic form, crumble a few precariously-built walls, and when push comes to shove, it's nearly almost too late.

"I love you, too, Daddy," you murmur, running a quick palm over your moist cheeks. "I'm gonna stay here tonight, okay?"

He shakes his head immediately. "As much as I enjoy your company, I know you've got plenty to do." He forces a small smile. "Calleigh, the whole reason why I kept this from you was because I know you. You and that big heart of yours. I don't want you to put your life on hold for me." He sighs deeply, a little regretfully. "I'm sorry I was so angry when you first told me you were in Miami. I panicked."

Before you can respond to that, a nurse rushes through the door, flipping through a packet of papers. "Duke, it's time to—" He looks up to see the three of you there, and his face flushes. "I–I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company," he stammers, taking a few clumsy steps back.

"It's okay, Cayden," your father pipes up, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He turns to you and smiles sadly. "I'm scheduled for dialysis," he whispers, as if the impact is inversely proportional to the volume of his voice.

It's not, and God, it hurts, physical hurts like hell to see your father this way, and when he leans over and kisses your forehead softly, the ache intensifies, because as selfish as it sounds, it's so much easier to watch a stranger dying. You handle death every day in your work, but there's a divide between professional and personal that prevents you from treating this like a case, which is a good thing, proving that you have human emotion, that you can feel the impact of an unavoidable loss, but it's no easier to swallow, and it twists you up inside so much that you'd trade human traits for the ability to compartmentalize this as well.

The nurse Cayden helps your father out of bed and into a wheelchair. Before he's pushed out of the room, your father turns to you once more. "If you're still here by the time I get back, you're going to be in major trouble, young lady," he says jokingly, and there's the little glimmer in his eyes that you remember. "I'll need rest after the dialysis, so it's best if you come back another day." He pauses, as if contemplating his next words. "Calleigh," he adds quietly, "tempus fugit."

Biting your lip hard, you nod and manage a croaky 'I know' before he disappears out the door and a new flood of tears assaults your cheeks, and you've neither the energy nor the will to hold them back.

Wordlessly, Eric shifts his chair a little closer and draws you into his arms. You close your eyes, and your head finds the niche of his neck. You rest it there for the comfort it provides you, and he's whispering something that you can't make out, but it's gentle and soothing and everything that you need from him in that moment.

After a few minutes, your tears begin to subside and you rediscover your voice. "I need to get out of here," you murmur, "but I don't want to leave him."

"We can come back tomorrow," he suggests, shifting to kiss your forehead. "Can I make you lunch?"

You lift yourself off him and nod quickly. He stands and helps you up, kisses you softly on the cheek, but when he takes your hand and starts toward the door, you stop him.

"Eric, wait." You laugh lightly. "I look like hell," you say, running the back of your free palm over your still-moist cheeks.

He gives you a pointed look. "Calleigh." He smiles and moves his hands up to cup your face, runs his thumbs carefully across your tear-streaked cheeks a few times. "For the record, you look really hot," he murmurs playfully, and you have to smile at that.

You allow him to lead you out of the room and toward the elevator. The whole time, he's making conversation about what's changed at MDPD, what hasn't, who's new, and who isn't. There's very little that you manage to take in, but by the time he's on the new guy at trace who likes wearing his lab coat inside-out on Wednesdays, just to screw with people's heads, he has you bucked into the passenger's seat of his car.

As he pulls out of the hospital parking lot, he begins talking about the patrol cop who lost his sight in a freak accident, and it's a funny story, but your mind's either running too fast or too slow, but either way, it has difficulty keeping up.

"He's going to die," you hear yourself saying, and it's rude to interrupt, but you're not thinking very clearly and he doesn't seem to mind.

"There are always anonymous donations," he replies. "He can—"

You stare straight at him. "No, he can't," you say, and your voice is panicky, as if you've only just come to the realization. "He doesn't have time to wait for hundreds of people with healthy livers who signed their donor cards to pass away. The numbers just aren't there."

Eric shakes his head. "Calleigh, this isn't your fault."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?" you ask rhetorically. "If I just figured it out earlier—"

"He wouldn't have let you do this either way," Eric replies pointedly, sighing loudly. "He has the final say," he adds, and there's it is in its simplest form.

Still, your head is spinning wildly. "He would accept an organ, life, from an anonymous person, but not from his own daughter," you state flatly.

"He's trying to protect you," Eric replies softly, and for a split second, you wonder if he's actually glad that your father's being difficult, but no, there's no rationality in that thought, so you dismiss it quickly.

"I just want him to be alive and healthy," you mumble, looking down at your hands resting idly on your lap.

"He wants the same of you," Eric replies gently, and the car comes to a stop at a red light.

"But I'm not going to die from this surgery," you protest, looking up at him.

"There's always a chance something could go wrong," he replies, trying his best to stay unemotional. "And no matter what, there'll be long-lasting effects, mild or otherwise. You don't walk away from a live donation scot-free, Calleigh, and your dad knows this."

You rest your head in your hands, palms pressed against your temples. The seatbelt presses against your neck. "If he could only see it from my point of view…"

"But can you see it from his?" he cuts in, a little too loudly. Your head snaps up, and he sighs. "Calleigh, imagine if—" He pauses, studies you curiously. Finally, he swallows, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low. "Barring personal choices, imagine if you had a little girl. A beautiful little girl with blond curls and green eyes." He takes a moment to watch your reaction, and he's careful, because he knows it's a touchy topic. "Can you picture that?"

"I hope she has your brown eyes," you interject thoughtfully, without really realizing what you've said until the words have left your lips.

His mouth opens in surprise. "She—" He smiles knowingly. "She can have brown eyes, sure."

"Hypothetically," you say quickly, a little nervously, and he probably picks up on it, but you're not trying too hard to hide it anyway. A small flush creeps up your cheeks and you have to look away.

"Hypothetically," he repeats, nodding slowly, but as the light turns green again and he steps on the gas pedal, an amused grin spreads across his face. "Blond hair, brown eyes." His smile widens at the thought. "Would you let a doctor cut her open, risk her life and cause her pain and discomfort, probably shortening her life span by a few years, just so you can live an extra ten?"

"No, never," you reply immediately, and the revelation is the strangest mixture of understanding and guilt. It nearly knocks the wind out of you.

"So you understand your father's hesitation."

"I'm not ready to lose him," you whisper, your voice strained.

"I know," he replies, and time spent with Eric always seems to pass too fast, because he's pulling into his parking space already.

Silently, the two of you step out of the car simultaneously and walk into the building, up the stairs and as he digs into his pocket for his key, you stop him. Smiling, you take out the keychain that he had handed you that morning and pick out the one he had said was to the front door. When you push the key into the lock and twist it, and the door swings open, it just feels so right.

After removing his shoes, he makes his way to the kitchen and you can hear him busying himself with the lunch he had promised you.

The first thing you do is take a quick trip to the bathroom to wash up. You hate crying, but even you have to admit that today had warranted it, and release is healthy, because bottling it up inside has never helped before.

Leaving the bathroom, you decide to take this time to re-familiarize yourself with his apartment. Admittedly, you hadn't seen much of it last night, and at the thought, your cheeks heat up. You take the time to stop at picture frames, using the photos inside them to try to assemble a timeline of changes in his life in the past four years. A digital frame resting on his coffee table is especially telling, and as you watch the pictures of his sisters, his parents, people you recognize from the lab and people you've never seen before, you realize how much you've missed. After watching the entire slideshow twice, you find yourself gravitating toward the kitchen.

When you enter, he's setting the table, and a delicious smell is wafting from his sandwich grill.

He looks up and smiles. "I wanted to make you some empanadas, too, but I only had cold cuts and I figured it would've taken too long."

"You know your Cuban sandwiches are my favorite though," you reply with a smile of your own.

His sandwich grill dings softly and he moves over to remove the fresh sandwiches, which he places on plates that he deposits onto the table.

"Lunch is served," he says proudly.

You take a seat at the table and begin digging in; he does the same, and both of you are starving so you eat in relative silence. Your mind wanders to your father again, but you force yourself to push that aside, at least for the rest of the day, because you can't let this dictate your life. As you're finishing up, you clear your throat.

"I didn't have time to go apartment shopping," you say, studying his reaction carefully.

He looks up from his sandwich and watches you for a moment. "You know my door's always open," he replies. "If–If you're ready," he adds, stuttering a little.

"My stuff's at Valera's," you say, half as a protest, and half as something to fill the space while you chew on the suggestion that you had known would come.

"I can drop by," he offers hopefully. "Pick them up."

You nod slowly. "Yeah, okay."

"So you're okay staying here?" he asks tentatively, and you can understand his hesitation. He exhales silently. "I don't want to—"

"Do you know how long it took me to get a good night's sleep after I moved to Boston?" you interrupt, looking down at your plate. Your fingers push the crumbs around for a few moments before you look up at him again. "Months, Eric."

"Cal—"

"After last night, I'm pretty sure I can't fall asleep without—" You trail off and let the silence fill in the missing words.

He smiles. "I don't think she gets off until five today," he remarks, checking his watch. "Hey, we never did make use of my watch last night," he adds, raising his eyebrow suggestively.

"I don't think we had to," you reply coolly. "Could've accomplished the same measurement with a decibel meter."

"I wasn't that loud," he replies in mock indignation.

Playfully ignoring him, you pop the last bit of your sandwich into your mouth and begin chewing. He scowls.

"You know, we're supposed to have dinner with Alexx this weekend," you comment.

"Yeah, you up for it?" he asks, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and collecting the plates.

"Of course," you reply. "I'll call her later."

He nods, stands and carries the dishes over to the sink. He leaves them in there and leans against the counter. "So, where to?"

"It's almost three. We might as well hang around here until Valera finishes shift," you point out. "I'm not really in the mood to go anywhere right now," you add with a little too much melancholy for your tastes.

He nods again. Heading out the kitchen, he can't help but tease you one more time.

"We can watch those movies we missed last night," he suggests with a cheeky smile.