When Calleigh awoke the next morning it was with a telltale dull aching behind her eyes and a sickeningly dry mouth. She sat up slowly, ungluing her eyelids one by one, taking the trashed living room with a wince.
Abandoned aluminum chocolate kiss wrappers littered the floor and coffee table, open and empty pizza boxes stacked on top of one another, a half-eaten pan of brownies she couldn't even recall baking, let alone eating, and the heavy smell of hot wings still hung in the air. Calleigh ran a hand over her face as her eyes found the four empty bottles of wine lined proudly against the entertainment center.
Four bottles of wine and a junk-food overload. No wonder she felt like utter crap. With another heavy sigh and a quick prayer that she didn't throw up, Calleigh heaved herself to her feet and made her way slowly into the kitchen. To her surprise, Natalia was already awake, sitting very still at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her.
"Morning," Calleigh mumbled, sliding into the chair beside her.
Natalia immediately leapt to her feet. "Yeah, it is," she said hurriedly, racing to the cabinets. "You want some coffee? You look terrible—I'll get you some coffee." She stopped for a moment and caught Calleigh's expression. "I didn't mean that you look terrible," she rambled, reaching for another mug. "I just meant that—"
"No, no," Calleigh raised a hand to stop her. "I'm sure I do." She fumbled for her watch. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven."
"How long have you been up?"
Natalia swallowed hard, remembering the tangle of limbs and sheets in which she'd found herself that morning. "Awhile," she managed, turning to brew some more coffee.
Calleigh's hands ran over her face again. "My head is killing me," she said softly before looking up. "How are you feeling?"
"Me?" Natalia repeated, nearly dropping the ceramic mug in her hands. "I'm fine—why wouldn't I be fine?"
"You mean you don't even feel a little bit sick after last night?" This time the mug did drop, shattering into a dozen pieces. Calleigh jumped up and reached into the corner for the broom and dustpan. "Jesus, Natalia—are you okay?"
Natalia bent and began gathering the bigger shards in her hands. "Yeah," she gave a pathetic attempt at a laugh. "Of course. And why should I be sick? I'm not sick. I mean..." she took the pieces to the trash. "I mean nothing happened last night that I should feel sick about. And even if it did, I wouldn't feel sick about it because it was nothing and therefore I have nothing to be sick about."
Calleigh blinked. It was too early for this. "What?"
"Nothing," Natalia returned to the task at hand with a cough. "Nothing."
"Good morning!" Valera entered the room with a chipper grin and greeting. "Whoa," she surveyed the remnants of the broken mug, "what happened?"
"It just slipped out of my hands," Natalia muttered, not looking up.
"Here," Valera bent beside her, "let me help."
"I got it," Natalia insisted, scooping up another handful. A sliver of ceramic embedded itself into her skin. "Damnit," she hissed as blood bubbled to the surface.
"Ooo," Valera reached for her hand. "Let me see."
"No!" Natalia said shrilly, wrenching away. "I'm fine! No laying on of hands necessary."
"Little late for that," Valera said quietly with a shrug.
Calleigh, who had been watching this little exchange with mild interest, narrowed her eyes at that. She watched as Natalia opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. The brunette tried again. Still no words. Her jaw opened and closed a few times before a pager went off in the next room. Grateful for an interruption, Calleigh leapt up to see whose it was, almost happy that it was for her.
"Hate to break up the party, ladies," she called out into the kitchen, "but our suspect is back in custody."
/~/
Eric caught sight of Calleigh just as she was stepping off the elevator (no surprise, considering he'd been glancing up every few minutes hoping for her arrival), and the first thing he noticed was how exhausted she looked. She'd tried to hide it, sure, with a careful mask of makeup, but he could tell even from a dozen feet away that her eyes were a little red, her skin a little pale. And she wasn't smiling. Not even a hint of a curve to those lips that drove him to distraction whenever they talked.
He hated to see her looking ragged and unhappy, so he set down the evidence he was barely paying attention to in the first place, stripped off his gloves, and followed her into the break room.
"Hey," he greeted, watching as she filled her mug – the lavender one that held more than some of his soup bowls and had a "C. Duquesne" label affixed to the bottom – with what was left of his Café Cubano.
It sloshed a little when she glanced up to smile her hello, a few hot droplets landing on her hand and making her wince and curse softly. "Damnit!" She settled the pot back into place with a clatter and lifted her hand to suck the coffee off her burns.
Eric crossed to her immediately, easing her hand from her mouth and studying the faint red splotches. "Here, run it under some cold water," he urged, tugging her the few inches to the sink and turning the water on as cold as it would go. She murmured a quiet thank-you, and they stood there for a minute, hands under the icy stream until the only spot of warmth was where the pads of his fingertips pressed to hers, blocking the water from her skin.
They stayed there long enough for him to realize this was another one of those freeze-frame moments, where the world seemed to shrink down to nothing but her eyes and the feel of her hand against his. He thought back to that moment, ages ago it seemed, when he'd pulled a shard of glass from her finger in a house of burned-out rubble, and he wondered why these moments always happened when she was injured. And then she cleared her throat and drew her hand away, and his fingertips almost burned at the sudden cold of the water sluicing over them before he slapped the tap off. What kind of horror would have to happen for one of them to finally close that distance, he asked himself.
She'd busied herself by reaching for her coffee, blowing gently across the surface and blooming a current of ripples that made him think inexplicably of ocean tides and seismic waves. And then she brought her mouth to the rim and sipped slowly and he couldn't think at all, except to think that he shouldn't be thinking about her this way.
"Long night?" he asked, anything to break the silence, not realizing how offensive that might be until he caught the way she arched one eyebrow slowly. "I heard Natalia say something about a girl's night," he explained hastily, then gestured for her cup. "And you're about to drink a Lake Okeechobee of coffee, so…"
She smirked a little, shook her head and leaned against the counter. The tension in the room bellied down onto the floor and slithered out through the vents, and things felt normal again. "I can't remember the last time I had so much wine," she admitted a little sheepishly. "There are snatches of time I have absolutely no recollection of."
"Anything involving lingerie and pillow fights?" he asked teasingly, grinning at her and watching as her lips finally, finally curved into a bright smile, her eyes rolling as she shook her head.
"No," she insisted firmly. "But-" She seemed to catch herself, lifting the coffee for another sip and averting her gaze slightly, and Eric's interest was suddenly piqued.
"But?" he demanded conspiratorially, leaning toward her slightly and remaining acutely aware of how close their bodies still were.
"But nothing," she recovered with a smile that somehow managed to be dismissive. His hopes for juicy pillow-fight stories were dashed completely to the curb when she continued, "I hear Oxley is back?"
"Yeah," Eric confirmed slowly, eyeing her careful as he added, "And he refuses to be questioned by anyone but you."
Eric watched her register the information, pause, then watched the uneasy shift in her expression as it sunk in. "Are you serious?"
"Unfortunately. We traced some pollen from the vic's nasal cavity to plants indigenous to his area of the Glades, and patrol picked him up straight from his morning route for more questioning. But he's refused to say a peep to anyone. Says doesn't like getting passed around from officer to officer." Eric made his disgust perfectly visible when he quoted, "He's 'a relationship kind of guy.'"
"Yeah, I bet," Calleigh muttered, then pressed a hand to her stomach and sipped again, gulping down a little bit more of the dark, strong brew. "Where's Ryan?"
"He got the early call-out," Eric informed. "You're stuck with me for the morning."
Calleigh smirked, opened her mouth as if to say something, but then thought better of it. She took one more sip, then set her not-even-half-empty mug on the counter top, ripped a page off the notepad stuck near the sink and scrawled "DON'T TOUCH! I'LL SHOOT!" onto it before trapping the edge under her mug.
"Okay, then," she announced, nodding. "Get me the report, and let's get this out of the way. I still have casings from that drive-by to process, and I'd rather not have Mr. Creepy lurking around the lab all morning."
And with that, they were off.
/~/
"You gotta be kidding me," Oxley drawled, shaking his head at the folder laid in front of him and looking Calleigh directly in the eye. Her already unsettled stomach was twisting into uncomfortable knots, and she wanted this interrogation over as soon as possible. Note to self: no more girly bacchanals on work nights. The hangover haze isn't conducive to interrogating or analyzing. Or serial killers.
"I assure you, we're not kidding, Mr. Oxley-"
"David."
She clenched her jaw, let it go. Again. "This particular pollen is specific to areas off that roadway in the Everglades. And the only way Claire Vincent could have breathed it in is if she was in that part of the Everglades on the night she was murdered." She folded her hands, winced slightly at the friction on her fading burns. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of Eric's hand as he started to reach for her, then stopped himself, veering instead for the pen and pad next to her and pulling them toward him as if to take notes. Oxley seemed to notice as well, if the subtle twitch of his brows and slow, knowing smile were any indication. Calleigh felt her skin crawl again. "And I don't think I need to remind you that you live in that part of the Everglades," she added, trying to stick to the topic at hand.
"Yeah, and I'm not the only one. Besides, she could have been there anytime that day," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "She closes, remember? Free all morning. That overgrown frat boy she was dating gives airboat tours. She went on and on about it one day, how he was going to take her, and they were going to see the gators and take pictures. She was into photography, I guess."
"You sure know a lot about her," Eric observed. "I mean, for someone who just bought a cup of coffee from her every day. You know what she likes, what her boyfriend does for a living, what her plans were…"
"Well, what can I say?" Oxley's gaze slid to Calleigh again, held there. "I'm a relationship kind of guy." Something in the way he said it made her blood turn as icy as the tap that had poured over her hand not long ago.
"A lot of killers are," Eric supplied, grabbing Oxley's attention enough for him to slap his gaze back to Delko.
"She was personable," he bit, his tone contrasting his statement when he continued, "And so am I. Sometimes we got to chatting, not uncommon when you're a regular someplace. I work alone; sometimes Claire was my only conversation all day."
Calleigh shook her head slightly. "Well, you just keep painting a clearer and clearer picture, Mr. Oxley. Lonely delivery guy, girl who gives him attention, maybe one day she stops giving him attention-"
"You know what I think?" he interrupted. "I think you watch too many bad Lifetime movies. Or maybe, Calleigh, you just wanted to see me again."
His hand reached across the table, just like the last time, but this morning she was quick enough to snatch her own out of reach. Beside her, Eric straightened, one of his hands reaching over to settle on top of hers. "Back off, Oxley."
Calleigh wiggled her hand out from under Eric's as Oxley snickered. "Well, look at that. Does the lovesick puppy have a problem with someone sniffing around his bitch?"
Calleigh flushed with both anger and embarrassment, and Eric clenched the muscle in his jaw the way he did whenever he was angry. Rushing to diffuse, Calleigh reached for the evidence folder. "Okay, this interrogation is over," she ordered sharply, barely flicking her gaze to the patrol officer by the door. "I want him out of my sight."
She was only slightly mollified by the way the officer manhandled Oxley as he tugged him up and out of his chair, and when he was gone, Eric muttered to her, "He's gonna walk again."
"We'll get him back," she assured curtly, with more surety than she actually felt. "And don't ever touch me like that during an interrogation again."
Not waiting for his reply, Calleigh pushed her chair back and stalked out of the room. She needed more coffee. A lot more coffee.