A/N: I seem to have a problem writing anything from a third person's point of view. I tried, but it turned second person anyway. Also, I think the general timeline of this story might be off by a couple of weeks, but I doubt anybody would've noticed if I hadn't just mentioned it now. ;) Enjoy the ramblings of my muse!
The pain from the death of a loved one has an odd way of burrowing itself deep into the crevice of your heart. You understand this feeling as you kneel in front of your sister's grave. A full year after the sniper's bullet tore through Marisol's flesh, the pain still persists as freshly as it had that day. If anything, it has intensified; the initial numbness has worn off, and the ache in your heart feels like an open wound.
Staying busy had helped to cover the hurt, but the pain never rang back gentler when your mind wandered again to her. It is days like today, when you allowed yourself to be immersed with the memory of her, that brought you to your knees.
The day is beautiful, the sky clear, the clouds wispy, a gentle breeze keeping the air fresh. You resent this weather for not mourning your loss with you.
Your parents and your other sisters have already come and gone, as well as a few friends you remember from the hospital and the funeral a year ago. You had seen Horatio too. When he had arrived, you had given him some alone time with her. He had appeared distressed, which was rare for him, but he hadn't even taken the day off work like you had. You wonder how much your sister's death has affected him and if it even comes close to how much it has affected you.
You doubt very much that anybody else feels the way you do, because you had been the first one to arrive in the morning and now the last one remaining.
Everyone else in your life, you guard with your mind and your body. Marisol, however, you had always guarded with your heart. As a child, she had always been the first to come to your defense when you got into trouble and the last to pin the blame on you when a baseball found its way through a neighbor's window.
"Mari," you murmur, fighting your tears.
You don't get out much more than that, because your voice trails off helplessly. A few deep breaths later, you recollect yourself enough to speak again.
"Mama was here, and Papi. So were Isabel and Valencia. They all think I'm crazy for sitting here and talking to you, but I think they're just scared of feeling your presence." You take another breath to calm your nerves. "You were torn so violently away from us, you know? It's too soon. The wounds are still too fresh." You swallow, the spoken words making this too real to handle. "I'm here though," you offer. "I'm trying my best to stay strong for them."
You look down at the ground, then up at the sky. You take a few moments to listen to the rustling of the trees, almost expecting Marisol's voice in reply.
"Isabel's expecting another baby," you say in an attempt at normalcy. "I didn't think she'd be ready so soon after the twins, but you know Izza." You smile sadly, wishing your unborn nephew or niece would get a chance to meet their late aunt. "Valencia got engaged. The wedding's this fall. She's going to be a beautiful bride." Your heart aches at the memory of Marisol and Horatio's wedding. You inhale shakily. "You would've been her maid of honor, just like at Izza's." You shiver at the thought. "They both think the world of you," you say softly. You close your eyes, unable to look at where you are any longer. "I think of you every day," you whisper, a solitary tear rolling down your face. You wipe it away with the back of your hand. "Te quiero, Mari."
You tense when you hear footsteps behind you. You turn your head to the noise. Your swollen heart catches in your throat when you see Calleigh standing there, wearing all black, half of her blonde hair tied back, a small bouquet resting in her hands.
You stand quickly and clumsily, an embarrassed flush creeping up your cheeks. You wonder how long she has been standing there and how much she's heard. You feel exposed and vulnerable at what she might have witnessed. For a moment though, you are glad it is her, instead of someone else you know, because after – or maybe despite – everything the two of you have gone through, you can allow her this intimacy. You brush the caked dirt off your knees. You open your mouth but quickly close it again, finding yourself without vocal capabilities. You take a few steps toward her, but you stop long before you reach her, stalling because you haven't figured out what to say or how to say it.
Calleigh walks past you quietly and places the bouquet next to the other flowers. She touches the tombstone briefly, lightly fingering the engraved letters. She returns to where you had been kneeling and to your surprise, kneels down, facing the grave, and starts to speak, the same way you had moments before.
"Hey, Marisol," she starts softly, her voice ringing through the deserted graveyard. "I just came to say hi." She takes a deep breath. "You were taken way too soon and we all miss you very much." She pauses and glances up at you. "Especially Eric," she adds quietly.
Calleigh pats the ground beside her and motions for you to kneel next to her. You comply, but you misjudge the distance, and your hip touches hers. You consider moving away, but she doesn't notice or chooses not to react, so you stay still. In this position, the height difference is not as noticeable, and her shoulder rests only slightly below yours. She doesn't rush you. Instead, she waits for you to recover your voice and initiate conversation.
"I miss her so much," you hear yourself saying, your voice shaky. You laugh bitterly at your words, because nothing comes close to describing how much.
"I know, but Eric—"
"Don't tell me it'll get easier with time," you snap, "because that's a blatant lie."
She stays silent for a few moments, and you think that maybe those hadn't been the words she had wanted to speak. After all, she must understand loss far better than you do. You are about to apologize for your irrational outburst when she speaks again.
"The first time I met her, I thought she was your girlfriend," she admits quietly.
"I know," you reply with a small chuckle.
She frowns and turns to look at you. "How did you know?"
"Oh, come on," you say, hinting at obviousness. "I could tell you were jealous."
"I—" She turns away, a small smile hanging on her lips. "I was not," she denies half-heartedly.
You steal a quick glance at her. "I would've been," you say with a shrug, thinking of the kiss you had witnessed a week prior.
She swallows, undoubtedly catching your underlying meaning. "Eric—"
"It's okay," you say dismissively. "I get it. Work is work."
She is quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed forward. You try to read her intentions, but she's well-guarded, well-hidden and purposely evasive. You want to ask about Jake, but it's neither the time, nor the place, so you settle for a safer question.
"How long were you standing there?" you ask, pointing to the place where you had found her earlier.
"I don't know." She looks at you briefly, then turns away again. "A couple of minutes."
"You should've said something," you say, feeling embarrassed again.
"I didn't want to interrupt." She shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, her body stirring against yours. You curse the friction for making you nervous and forcing you to look away. "Sorry," she adds as an afterthought. You're not sure if she's apologizing for watching you uninvited or because she's sensed your nervousness at her movements.
The two of you stay there for what feels like two eternities. You are too acutely aware of her proximity. Internally, you debate whether her presence is a welcome one. A tiny voice adamantly tries to convince you that you want to mourn alone and that Calleigh is distracting you from a day that should be dedicated to Marisol only. Still, for the most part, you appreciate that she has remembered. You wonder if she's sensed your tension in the past few days.
Slowly, she stands up off the ground. You follow suit. On your way up, her elbow bumps into your head. She apologizes hastily and takes a few steps back. You mumble an incoherent, dismissive reply. For a moment, you sense that she is nervous, but almost as quickly as it had appeared, the nervousness is gone.
She clears her throat. "It's a nice day," she comments, looking up at the clear sky.
You watch her wait for your generic reply, unable to figure out how and when the relationship between the two of you had deteriorated to flat remarks about the weather. When you don't respond, she tries again.
"Ryan wanted to come too, but he was caught up in this case." She gives you a knowing smile. "We're a little low on manpower today," she says teasingly.
You frown. "If you're so backlogged, what are you doing here?" you ask, a little more accusatory than you had meant to.
"No guns to analyze," she replies immediately, too quickly, her smile disappearing.
"Okay," you say slowly, "but ballistics isn't the only thing you do around the lab."
She sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I'm tired, Eric," she says impatiently. "I'm allowed a short shift once in a while."
You take a deep breath to quell your approaching agitation. You know that Calleigh does not deserve your anger. "You're right. I'm sorry," you concede. You avoid her gaze, but you can still feel her eyes on you. "You should go home and rest, then," you suggest offhandedly. "You don't have to—"
"This is important to you," she interrupts, an edge of defensiveness still left in her voice. She stares at you pointedly. Her voice softens. "We're friends, remember?"
You consider the fine line between friendship and the purgatory in which the two of you stand. You nod solemnly. "Yeah, but you don't have to be here."
"I want to be here," she replies simply, and you think that this is probably the best argument you've heard all day. At that, she smiles, a mournful yet encouraging smile. "Tell me—" She takes another look at the tombstone. "Tell me your favorite memory of your sister."
You frown, considering her request. "I don't know." Images of Marisol at various stages of her life flash past you. "There are so many."
"Pick one," she urges softly.
"Okay." You take a breath, considering how to make sure she understood why this event in your childhood is so important to you. "I was eight. Marisol must've been almost fourteen. She took me swimming. She was the one who taught me how." You smile nostalgically. "She was sick the whole time you knew her, but she was a dolphin in her last life, I swear." You frown, trying to hide the ache in your chest. "She was so graceful in the water, Cal," you murmur, your voice pained.
She takes hold of your hands and squeezes them comfortingly. The gesture, mixed with the oncoming emotions, overwhelms you and you feel a stubborn tear rolling down your face. She lets go of one of your hands and brings her palm up to your cheek, wiping the stray tear away with the pad of her thumb. The intimacy physically hurts you, because you know that she cannot be yours. Not tonight, not ever. You know she has not come to tell you that she's changed her mind about professionalism at work or even that working in the homicide department of MDPD is the same as working with her every day in the lab – that cocky bastard. You feel guilty for even allowing your mind to wander to Calleigh's words and Calleigh's actions on the anniversary of your sister's death, but here she is, standing in front of you, her right hand cupping your cheek, her left hand intertwined with your right, still able to make your heart skip, still consuming your thoughts.
Sensing your discomfort, she drops both her hands limply to the side of her body.
You take a shaky breath. "We always had our little spot on the beach. It wasn't the smartest idea, looking back, because there were no lifeguards on that strip, but it was the freedom that counted then," you say with a tight, sad smile. "When we got there, we set down our towels and ran for the water. While she wasn't looking, I swam farther out than I was supposed to. She had warned me, but I had always figured that it was one of those big-sisterly things she was obliged to do."
"My brothers, too," Calleigh interrupts with a slight smile, rolling her eyes.
You shake your head. "None of my other sisters protected me like Marisol did." You steal a glance at her to make sure you haven't upset her with your impulsiveness. You haven't, so you continue your story. "About five minutes later, I felt this searing pain up my leg. My whole lower body went numb and I felt myself sinking so I started flailing around and screaming." You can still feel the panic from that day as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. You shrug it off. "Marisol swam over to me as quickly as she could and grabbed me around the chest. She had some difficulty, because I kept thrashing about in the water, but eventually, she managed to pull me to shore. I was coughing up water and everything." You swallow, feeling your throat unusually dry. "Marisol, she started crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. She held me and she cried. I kept apologizing to her, but she shook her head and held me tighter." You turn your head upward and close your eyes. You feel Calleigh's comforting hand on your arm. Keeping your eyes closed, you continue, "By then, the adrenaline was wearing off and my leg started hurting again. It turned out to be a jellyfish sting. She tried to carry me home on her back, but it was then that she realized that she had several stings up her leg as well and could barely walk. I don't even know how she managed to drag me to shore."
"I do," Calleigh supplies softly.
You open your eyes to look at her. Her green eyes are piercing. "I know the buoyancy of human bodies makes it so that they appear lighter in the water and adrenaline adds about thirty percent physical force to a person."
She seems amused at your response. "Spoken like a true CSI." She laughs. "Actually, I was going to say that she managed to carry you to safety because she loved you very much," she says with a squeeze of your arm.
You nod. Your 'thank you' catches in your throat. You swallow, still trying desperately not to cry. "Anyway, when our legs finally healed enough for us to walk, we left that strip of the beach for the last time. On our way home, just to make sure I knew she wasn't going to tolerate that again, she slugged me across the face."
Calleigh makes a sympathetic noise.
"It was no big deal. She was a good swimmer, but she still hit like a girl," you say with a small smile.
She returns your smile with one of her own and runs her hand up and down your arm. The image of a younger Marisol crying because she was afraid she'd lost you becomes too difficult to take, and a dry sob forces its way out from within your throat. You try to cover it up with a cough, but you know she's caught your despair.
"Eric, if there's anything I can do…" She trails off, knowing that the one thing that would alleviate your pain is the one thing that she cannot offer you.
"Nothing makes this easier," you whisper, afraid of what your voice would sound like if you spoke any louder.
She takes a moment to respond. "I'm here."
You nod in acknowledgement and try your best to reassure her with a smile. The two of you fall into silence again, you from lack of coherence and her out of politeness and patience. She allows you to be the first to break the silence this time.
"It's been a whole year, you know? It wasn't even like this with Speed." Another ache in your heart, but it rings weak compared to what the loss of Marisol can bring.
She studies you for a long time, listening to your deep, shaky breaths, watching your fidgety stance.
"You can cry," she whispers finally, taking a step toward you. You think that this is a strange thing to say, and even her permission does not open the floodgates to your tears. You hold them in, still.
She snakes her arm around your torso and grips you with a careful determination. You return the embrace tentatively, leaning down to bury your face into the crook of her neck. If the intimacy bothers her, she doesn't show it. The aroma that normally wafts from her with subtlety is even more intoxicating at this distance. For a brief moment, she is holding you up, not physically, but emotionally. The release is refreshing, but the tears do not come.
You pull away slightly from her, moving a strand of her silky hair to cover the place on her neck where your face had been moments before. Her grip loosens, but does not let go, keeping your hips inches from hers. You shake your head, trying desperately to shake the cloudy feeling that has recently been associated with Calleigh only. "I just feel like I have to be strong for my whole family, you know? My parents and my sisters lean on me for support. When they cry on my shoulder, I have to keep my own emotions in check. I have to be composed and offer the rational, soothing words when all I want to do is cry with them." You sigh, frustration mingling in the air between the two of you. "It's like I'm this fountain of rationality or something. I would do anything for my family, but sometimes I need a number to call or an apartment to go to at three in the morning." You pause, frowning slightly. "I need a constant in my life," you finish quietly, looking past her.
"I want to be your constant," she whispers, her voice betraying her desperation.
"You were," you say with a short, bitter laugh. You look into her eyes again, even though doing so hurts you. "You know you can't be that anymore." The sense of loss deep in your heart rivals even the feeling from precisely one year ago. It stings to hear the truth spoken from your own lips. The pain burns your throat.
"Nothing has to change," she says stubbornly, looking away.
"Everything's changing, Calleigh." You sigh in frustration. "Everything's changed."
"Where do we stand?" she asks, her eyes searching yours for unspoken answers.
The vulnerability of this exposure forces you to look away. "You tell me."
"I don't know." She looks at you again and half-shrugs. "You can call me at three in the morning," she offers. "Even drop by. I still live at the same place."
"And if you're not alone?" you ask dryly.
She frowns. "Hypothetically, if your girlfriend is staying over and I show up at your door in the middle of the night, would you let me in?"
"Yeah, I guess." You pause, considering this angle. "But if my girlfriend hates you, that might be a problem."
"Jake doesn't hate you," she replies matter-of-factly.
The mention of Jake churns your insides. "Hypothetically," you say spitefully, mimicking her tone, "if Jake showed up at my girlfriend's door at three in the morning and wanted to cry into her arms, I'd slam the door in his face."
She pulls herself further away from your embrace. You notice her jaw clenching. For a moment, you think she is about to berate you, but she doesn't.
"I'm sorry."
Her apology surprises you. "What for?" you ask cautiously.
She shrugs. "You need me, and I'm not there."
"I don't need you." You are not aware of what you've said until the words have left your mouth. You feel her tense in your arms. You avoid her eyes and backtrack desperately. "I mean, I can find another constant." Mentally kicking yourself for your impulsive but defensive and dishonest responses, you laugh humorlessly. "What I mean to say is—"
"I know," she interrupts clumsily.
Awkwardly, you release her from your grip, not realizing until you've loosened your muscles how tightly they had been clenched. You take a few steps back and move your hand to the back of your head in an attempt to ease your discomfort.
"It's getting late," she says suddenly.
You nod slowly, reluctantly. "Yeah, you should probably go," you say, motioning toward the entrance of the cemetery.
She stays rooted to where she stands. She hesitates before speaking again. "Do you need a ride?"
"No, I'm staying until midnight." You had decided that when you had arrived this morning.
She takes another hesitant pause. Her uncertainty scares you. "Do you want me to stay with you?"
"I got over my fear of the dark when I was seven, Cal," you say sarcastically, even though you want to scream an affirmative response.
"Do you want me to stay with you?" she repeats, a little more confidently this time.
You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. "You have plans for the evening," you observe.
"I can call them off," she says hurriedly. "I didn't know you were going to be here until so late." She looks at you questioningly and frowns. "How do you know I have plans?"
"You always have plans these days," you reply, your words dripping with jealousy.
"I can stay, Eric," she offers quietly. You sense that this is the last time this proposition will leave her lips without a hidden meaning.
"I'll be okay, Calleigh," you reassure.
She nods, turns and walks slowly toward the exit.
"Thank you for coming," you call out after her.
She pivots to look at you. "I did it for Marisol," she replies softly.
You smile and look away. "I was thanking you on behalf of Marisol," you reply defensively, feigning ignorance.
She laughs. Her laughter eases your aching heart. Without realizing it, you hear a low laugh escape from your own lips. Your laughter sounds foreign to your ears, but the liberation is satisfying. When the laughter dies down, the two of you stare uncomfortably at each other until the awkwardness becomes unbearable. She turns around to leave again.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Eric."
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the two of you will return to work without a mention of tomorrow's yesterday: today. Nobody will ever know and nobody will ever guess. Calleigh has always been good with guarding her emotions, and you will just have to learn how. Today has made tomorrow infinitely more difficult. The knowledge of what could have been, what would have been if professionalism and fear didn't get in the way, is too much to handle, especially on a day saved for mourning the death of your beloved sister.
You watch as she leaves the graveyard. She doesn't look back, not even once, and you consider how much that could reflect what will become of your relationship.
Hidden between the lonely tombstones and the decaying bouquets, today is a secret shared only with passed strangers.