A/N: There is an NC-17 version of this chapter. Again, link is in my profile. The following is the PG-13 version.
Chapter 15: Eric
"I can't believe you own all seven Harry Potter movies," Calleigh murmurs tiredly, stifling a yawn, as the closing credits to The Chamber of Secrets begins to roll.
You chuckle. "I can't believe you wanted to watch them," you shoot back, and you think she probably knows that you've been staring at her the whole time. Difficult not to though, when she's lying on top of you on the couch, blond hair flowing across your chest, at ease for the first time today. Witches and wizards; a nice distraction.
She turns her head and rests her chin against your sternum. "We should probably go see Valera," she suggests.
You nod, carefully pushing yourself up. "Yeah, okay."
As Calleigh moves to the bathroom to freshen up, you pull out your phone and dial Valera's number.
"It's Eric," you say when she picks up. "We were just plan—"
"I want details!" Valera interrupts loudly, apparently unable to contain herself.
You chuckle, taking a quick look toward the bathroom door and imagining all the different ways Calleigh would kill you if you shared. Besides, last night had been a little messy and complicated, emotionally, at least, and no, Valera definitely did not need to know.
"What makes you think there are details?" you ask, feigning ignorance.
"Oh, come on, Eric," she whines. "There's makeup sex, and then there's hello-I-haven't-seen-you-in-four-years sex." She pauses, then eagerly asks, "So, how was it?"
"Valera, you're so annoying," you reply, imitating irritation. "I'm not telling you anything."
"But—"
"No." Looking up, you see Calleigh standing there, giving you an amused look, so you clear your throat. "Anyway, we'll be over in twenty minutes." Without waiting for a reply, you add, "Bye, Valera," and hang up.
You stand up and motion awkwardly at your phone. "Valera wanted to know, uh—"
"Yeah," Calleigh replies, smiling thoughtfully. "Not surprised that she still does that." She pauses and motions toward the door. "Do you still have my shoes?" she asks. "The ones I left here."
You slip your phone back into your pocket. "Yeah, there's a pair in the closet at the entrance," you reply, remembering how you couldn't bring yourself to throw them out and how it had taken you months before you could even remove them from the shoe rack.
She seems to sense a change in your demeanor, so wordlessly, she walks over and digs around until she comes up with her shoes. She slips them on and picks up the pair that she had worn to your date last night.
"These are actually Valera's," she explains as you approach her. She smiles. "Ready to go?"
You nod, and minutes later, you're pulling out onto the street. The drive to Valera's is quiet. Calleigh's fiddling with the radio, though she doesn't seem to be paying much attention to what stations she's passing, only that it's something for her hands to be occupied with. You are just about to ask her what's on her mind when she speaks.
"When my brothers argued about what to listen to in the car, my dad used to let me decide," she says, giving you a look that you catch with your peripheral vision. "He said that gentlemen should always respect a lady's wishes."
"Your father's a good man, Calleigh." You're not sure how that helps – should do the opposite, in fact – but she nods, and you're driving so you don't get a chance to study her reaction.
"I was thinking," she continues, "that it would be easier if I had been here the whole time and had more time to process and prepare for this, but somehow I don't think it would."
You steal a quick look. "I don't think so either," you reply gently.
She nods. "It's just… you never really know, you know?" She tugs at her seat belt. "Sickness, I mean. Or-or death," she finishes quietly.
"Calleigh—"
"No, I don't want to talk about it," she interjects. "I just wanted to get that out there because… I don't know."
As the car pulls up to a red light, your right hand leaves the steering wheel for a moment to pat her leg. "That's why we do whatever we want now, while we're alive and healthy, okay?"
She rests her hand over yours and studies it sadly. "I'm reluctant to make promises," she replies softly. "I broke every single one I made to you."
"I don't want a promise," you reassure. You give her hand a squeeze and return your attention to the road. "I just want today."
She touches your arm and smiles. "You can have today."
The rest of the ride is spent in quiet contemplation, and soon, you're pulling up to Valera's apartment. Calleigh steps out first, and the two of you make your way to Valera's door in silence. Calleigh knocks.
Valera's door opens. "You!" she exclaims, eyes wide. She looks back and forth between you and Calleigh. "And you!" she adds, placing her hands on Calleigh's arms. She lowers her voice suggestively. "I told you he wouldn't be able to keep his—"
"Valera," Calleigh interrupts, clearing her throat, a flush creeping up her cheeks.
Valera grins. "So you guys had a good night?"
"We're, uh, we're here to pick up Calleigh's stuff," you say, trying to change the subject.
"Here are your shoes," Calleigh adds, dropping them just inside the doorway.
Valera's eyes light up. "Damn, it was that good?"
Calleigh smiles. "Valera, my stuff?"
"Oh God, you guys are such prudes. If I had really hot sex, I'd tell you about it." She glances hopefully at you, then Calleigh, who is throwing her a disapproving look. Valera sighs. "Right, your stuff. The bag's in the living room. Come on in."
Valera steps aside to allow you and Calleigh to enter before closing the door behind her.
"So you guys sure that you don't want to divulge any details?" Valera asks as a last-ditch effort. When neither of you offer anything, she exaggerates a sigh and walks past you toward her couch. Calleigh's duffel bag is sitting next to it. Valera picks up the bag and brings it over. "Hey, why don't you guys stay for dinner? I'll order pizza, and I think I have some mojito mix." She smiles and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Unless you've got other plans."
You look over at Calleigh, who nods. "Yeah, I'll stick around," she says.
You turn to Valera. "Me too, but mojitos are girl drinks," you declare, "especially those made from flavored mixes. Got any beer?"
Valera rolls her eyes. "Yes, I've got beer," she replies, placing Calleigh's bag near the door and leading the two of you toward her kitchen.
And so, after the mojitos are mixed and the pizza delivered, the three of you settle down in Valera's living room and she pops in a DVD. Some chick flick, but nobody's really watching it. Valera starts asking Calleigh a lot of questions and thankfully, they aren't sex-related. Most of her responses you already know (how long she's staying, if she's going to work at the lab again, what happened in Raleigh), but it's nice to see Calleigh having something to keep her mind off her father.
And Valera… is a bad drunk. You know that and Calleigh knows that and you're pretty sure Valera herself knows that, but it doesn't stop her from drinking. And that's why, by the time she's finished her sixth glass, not only have her questions turned absurd, she can barely pronounce the words well enough to ask them. As she reaches over for a seventh refill, Calleigh stops her.
"Okay, I think that's enough for today, Maxine."
Valera giggles. "You look kinda funny," she slurs, trying to prod Calleigh's face with her fingers and missing by a good half-foot.
Calleigh looks over at you. "Eric, help me get her to bed."
"Calleigh, I'm fine," Valera says, dragging out the last word. "I'm not weepy. I mean, sweepy." She frowns and tries again. "Sweepy. Sweepy. Sleepy."
Calleigh smiles, and you move over to help her pull Valera to her feet.
Valera attempts to push you and Calleigh's hands off. "I can walk," she says confidently, and she can, just not very gracefully, but she looks ready to bite the next person who tries to guide her, so the two of you watch as she stumbles toward her bedroom.
Calleigh follows her, presumably to make sure Valera doesn't collapse before making it to bed, and you turn off the abandoned movie and begin cleaning up, gathering up glasses and bottles and the pizza box and bringing them to the kitchen. Leaving the stuff there, you return just in time to see Calleigh walking out.
She approaches you. "I should've stopped her after four," she says with a knowing smile. "Those things were surprisingly strong."
You chuckle. "Knowing Valera, that was probably ninety percent rum."
She laughs and moves to the door to pick up her duffel bag. "We should head back," she suggests. "How much did you have to drink?"
"Just one beer," you reply, slipping on your shoes and following her out. "I'm good to drive."
She nods and after she closes and locks Valera's door, the two of you make your way back to the car.
The drive back is quiet as well, but this silence stems from exhaustion rather than uneasy reflections. Her head is resting against the window the whole time, and when the car comes to a full stop in front of your building and the two of you exit, she doesn't even fuss about who should carry her bag.
"I'm gonna give my dad a call," she says as soon as she steps into your apartment.
"Okay," you reply, handing her your phone.
She wanders off for some privacy, and you bring her duffel to your bedroom and place it at the foot of your bed. You find your way back to your living room and flip on the TV, catching some sports footage.
Just as the baseball highlights draws to a close, Calleigh appears beside you, looking drained. You turn off the television as she plops down on the couch beside you and buries her face into your chest, her arm draped loosely over your abdomen. She's breathing hard into your shirt, and you know she doesn't want you to speak yet, so you tilt your head to press a quick, reassuring kiss into her hair.
"Calleigh."
She adjusts herself so that her face is visible, but she keeps her cheek against your chest. "I'm fine," she dismisses.
"I know," you say with a nod. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know that, okay?"
She sighs heavily and looks up at you. "How did you handle it with Marisol?" she asks. Immediately, she shakes her head and looks back down. "I'm sorry, that's a really selfish question."
There's still a twinge of pain at the mention of your sister's name, but it's easy to suppress when you know that Calleigh needs your answer more. "I had you," you reply, smiling thoughtfully. "Those calls at all hours of the day and night. We'd talk about anything, everything, sometimes even nothing, but it kept me sane. Remember that?"
She nods. "Yeah."
"Yeah," you echo. "I talked to other people, too, but mostly, they wanted to know how I was handling it, and when I said I was fine, it was a weight off their shoulders, but you… I think you already knew how I was handling it." She looks up at you and smiles softly, and your hand finds hers. "You knew that I just wanted confirmation that the world kept turning after her death, that things were still the way things were, that we were still who we were." Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, you continue, "Those ordinary conversations reminded me that there was something else, someone else in this world who understood."
"Eric…"
You smile, allowing your lips to graze her forehead. "I'll be here to give you the same reminder."
She pushes herself up and leans in to kiss you softly, her hands finding a way to frame your face. "Have I ever told you that you're perfect?" she whispers.
"Not recently," you tease, smiling.
She kisses you again. "I love you," she murmurs.
Your smile widens, and your heart still makes that little jump. "I love you more."
She leans in for another kiss but ends up yawning inches from your face. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she says with an embarrassed smile, hand going to cover her mouth.
You sit up and pull her hand away, reaching to kiss her thoroughly, all lips and tongue, tasting rum with the tiniest hint of lime. Breaking away, you run the pad of your thumb across her cheek. "Been a long day," you say. "Wanna go to bed?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Is that an invitation for something else, Delko?" she teases. She leans in. "Not very discreet," she whispers into your ear.
Swallowing, you grasp for any semblance of self-control. "No, Duquesne," you shoot back, your husky tone betraying your arousal. "I'm genuinely concerned about your sleeping patterns."
Smiling, she stands and pulls you up with her. She leads you to…
Your bathroom. Okay.
She's trying to hide that little smirk, but you do your best to pretend like you haven't been caught off guard, so when she prepares to brush her teeth, you do the same. After finishing with her bedtime routine, which hasn't changed in four years, she walks into your bedroom and rummages around in her duffel bag, finding a white tank top and a pair of light green briefs and changing into them right in front of you.
But of course, just as you should've expected, when she climbs into bed and you eagerly follow, she doesn't try anything, and more importantly, she doesn't give you permission to try anything. It's a little frustrating until you notice how tired she looks, and then her sleep really does become your primary concern.
You lie on your side and draw her close, and the way her body fits so perfectly into yours never fails to amaze you. She tangles a leg between yours, adjusts her stomach so that it lies flat against yours, and she breathes in deeply, face buried in your neck.
"'Night, Cal," you murmur.
Her response is barely intelligible, but it sounds too much like 'I love you' to be anything else.
You smile, pressing your lips to the top of her head and letting them linger there for a moment, breathing in a mixture of aromas that lull you to a deep sleep.
-/-/-
She's already awake when you open your eyes, though judging from the darkness, it's not quite morning yet. Her head is comfortably cocooned between your shoulder and your cheek, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the end of your sleeve.
She senses your consciousness immediately, shifts to look at you and offers a lazy smile. "It's three in the morning, Eric. Go back to sleep."
You want to ask her how long she's been awake, but instead, you press a quick kiss to her hair. "What are you thinking about?"
"You," she replies immediately. She smiles and closes her eyes, adjusting herself to lie closer still. "Us," she adds. "I'm really glad you found me."
"Me too," you reply, really meaning it.
She pushes the covers down and slips her hands underneath your shirt. They're warm, and her fingers are comfortingly familiar as they slide up along your abs, to your chest, and down again. They rest there for a moment, and you can feel her fingertip gently trailing the scar on your abdomen.
"You never told me how you got that," she whispers, and she sounds like she's almost afraid of the answer.
Your hand reaches down to pat hers through the fabric of your shirt. "Three, maybe four months ago, there was a triple homicide at the bodega. I was on call, so I showed up at the scene and started collecting evidence. The perimeter wasn't secured properly, I guess, and the perp came back waving around a nine-mil." You swallow, and a flash of that day returns. You shake it away and continue, "He, uh, he got a shot in before he was gunned down. Pretty good shot, too, considering he was damn far away, but I was lucky. It missed everything important and came out the other side."
She tenses against you and shivers. "How can it miss everything if it hit you in the abdomen?" she asks quietly, and there's unwarranted worry in her voice.
"Well," you reply thoughtfully, "it nicked my intestine, I think." You give her hand a quick squeeze. "I don't know, everything was kind of a blur."
"Eric," she murmurs, her hand withdrawing from your skin like it could burn her. "God, did it hurt?"
You shake your head. "Nah, the adrenaline kept me going until the hospital and then they pumped me full of drugs. Didn't even have to have surgery," you recall, and that seems to relax her a little. "They just cleaned it and stitched me up, gave me some antibiotics to prevent infection. I was barely in the hospital for four days, and that's only because H made me."
She's feeling guilty again, you can tell, but there's not much you can do when she gets this way, so you kiss her softly on the forehead and give her some time to recollect her thoughts and push the regret out of her system. She thoughtfully watches you for a little while, fingers finding your scar again and stroking gently.
Then, something in her eyes changes, and she leans in to kiss you, long and attentive, her lips urgent. She lifts your shirt toward your head, and without leaving her lips, you raise your upper torso for a moment to help her remove it. She tosses it aside, her fingers moving faster now along exposed skin, her tongue peeking out to taste you, mingling. Slowly, she pushes herself up and climbs over you, straddles you, and you can't help but let out a grunt when she rolls her hips against yours.
She bends down and hovers her face inches from yours. "Where are your handcuffs?" she whispers, a sly smile forming on her lips.
Your eyes widen. "What?"
"Your handcuffs," she repeats, and her tone is so natural that for a moment, you think she does not mean anything suggestive, but then she takes your hands and pins them together over your head, and yeah, there's no ambiguity there.
"They're—" It's suddenly difficult to conjure coherent thought or speech, as the anticipation gets the best of you. "I don't know, fuck, the dresser," you murmur. "Top drawer, I think there's a pair, but—"
She silences you with a soft kiss, then gets up and walks over to your dresser. She pokes around for a little bit and extracts a pair, then returns with a scheming look in her eyes. She straddles you again, this time your chest, and she has that primal smell that informs you she's hiding her desire a lot better than you ever could. When you reach a hand out to stroke her, however, she pushes it back and pins it above your head roughly.
"Calleigh, Jesus," you hiss, suddenly feeling a little light-headed.
"Stay still," she admonishes, carefully weaving your arms under your pillow and locking the handcuffs in place. She leans down to kiss you, and your hands instinctively jerk. She smiles against your lips and trails her fingers along your arms. "Is this okay?" she asks innocently, her leg pressing hard against your groin.
"You're killing me," you groan, shifting underneath her weight for some friction. You attempt to tug your arms loose a few times, and to your surprise, you realize that it's not very difficult to break away. "You know that I can pull my hands out, right?"
"You won't," she replies simply, a glint of mischievousness flashing across her eyes, and her confidence has always been one of the sexiest things about her.
She presses her lips to your cheek, trailing kisses down your jaw, neck, nipping lightly across skin until she reaches your navel. Her fingertips follow the trail of dark hair...