Author's Note: For those of you awaiting the next chapter of A Tour of the Heart, it is on it's way! Don't worry! It's just taking a little longer to write than the others. So in the meantime, I offer you this. It wasn't meant to be a response to the "Five Times" challenge, but it kind of worked out that way.

Ryan thought they had secrets; Calleigh thought he had no idea quite how right he was. Yes, they were sleeping together. Had been, regularly, since about two weeks after she left the hospital – as soon as her lungs were cleared for mild cardio, she'd taken Eric to bed and let him coddle and kiss and stroke and thrust until they were both panting and trembling. And then they'd fallen asleep together, a tangle of limbs, breath mingling, quiet words passing between them until they finally dozed off. But it hadn't been the first time. Not even the second. Nor the third. Not even the fourth.

The first time was after Speedle died. They'd ended up at Eric's after the funeral, just the two of them. They were going to toast his memory with tequila, and then keep toasting until they'd drowned it. Calleigh figured that in retrospect they must have both known that the two of them, alone together, grieving, drunk, would lead to something more. But she also supposed that they'd both needed it, and they'd needed the excuse. So after three rounds of shots, when the room was just beginning to spin, and her stomach was hot with booze and anticipation, she'd kissed him – or maybe he'd kissed her, she honestly couldn't remember.

They'd fucked (there really wasn't another word for it) on the floor, her shirt still half on, his dress slacks tangled around his knees, the linoleum leaving an angry red friction burn on her hip as he pounded his grief into her. She hadn't minded the pain; it seemed an appropriate manifestation of the way her own heart ached and twisted. Besides, she'd given as well as she got – biting his lip, his jaw, his shoulder, scoring her nails in bright red tracks down his back. She'd whacked her head on the floor when she'd tossed it back on a sharp slap of pleasure, and he'd been kind enough to shift so he could cradle the back of her head in his hand, protecting her. They'd slowed for just a second then, and she'd had a moment of clarity where she'd realized they were protecting each other, from the loneliness, from the pain, from the anger. They'd found a little safe space, but it had been a bit too heavy for her, so she'd arched her hips up hard against his, and dug her nails into his hip, and everything had sped up again.

When it was over, they laid there for a few long minutes, the only sound in the kitchen their labored breathing. He hadn't asked her to stay. She hadn't asked if she could. Instead, she'd just murmured something about having to pee, and he'd let her up. He'd been in bed already when she emerged, sprawled on his belly, eyes closed but not asleep. She'd crawled into bed with him, naked as a jaybird, and kissed the welts she'd left on his back. Then she'd curled herself against him, and fallen asleep. She woke before him in the morning, left while he was still sleeping fitfully, and neither spoke of it again.

The second time was after John died, and it had felt like a betrayal at the time, despite the time that had passed since she and John had dated. His body was barely cold, and she was pulling Eric against her in the foyer, covering him in sloppy, tear-streaked kisses. He'd gotten them as far as the living room, onto her couch, affording them a soft surface this time, at least. The weight of him on top of her was stifling, suffocating, so she'd pushed him up and ordered him to sit to she could straddle him. They'd managed to get all their clothes off this time, barely, and she'd been able to really appreciate the way his torso was built before the guilt washed over her again and she'd had to shut her eyes.

But all she'd seen once they were closed was blood spatter and brain matter, so she'd blinked them open again and focused her eyes on where they were coming together over and over and over again. She'd bit her own lip that time, hard enough to draw blood, and when he'd stolen a kiss from her and tasted the metallic tang of it against his tongue, he'd slowed things down, eased her back slightly, and asked with far too much sympathy if she was okay. Which had been a ridiculous question, because of course she wasn't, or that wouldn't have been happening.

She'd opened her mouth to tell him she was fine (because she was always fine, even when she was transferring from ballistics to tox because she wasn't sure she could cope and she refused to miss work), but what had come out was something else entirely, tears welling in her eyes as her voice shook. "All I can see is his face when he pulled the trigger."

More tears had bubbled up, spilled over, and she'd begun to shake, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. Eric had wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly and started to rock her as silent sobs shook her torso, each one sending shivering waves of pleasure from where he'd still been buried inside her. When he'd moved his hands to her hips and gently begun to lift her off him, she'd shaken her head fiercely and plowed her hips down with a grunt.

His voice had been too gentle, still too sympathetic, when he'd said her name softly, and pulled her close again. He'd told her he couldn't do this if she was crying, that he couldn't just pretend she wasn't, but she should let it out, just let it out. Because she hadn't been able to stop the flow of tears – embarrassing enough on it's own – she'd had to relent and separate their bodies. She still remembered the feel of him, damp and hot against her inner thigh as she'd pressed her face into his neck and purged herself of the grief and anxiety and guilt.

Afterward, when she'd worked herself down to hitching breaths and sniffles, she'd reached between them again, stroked him back to hardness, and eased him inside her. She'd grimaced at the friction, and even with her face still hidden in his neck, he'd been able to tell she wasn't ready. His hand had made its way between them, rubbing her clit in slow circles as she rose and fell in short, almost hesitant thrusts. She'd slowly grown wetter, her thrusts getting longer, deeper, more fluid, and before long they'd settled into an easy rhythm that had lulled almost as much as it pleased.

That time, when they'd finished, she'd asked him quietly, hesitantly, if he'd stay the night. While she'd tossed water on her splotchy, tear-tracked face, used the bathroom and brushed her teeth, he'd tucked himself into her bed. This time, his body had wrapped around hers, holding her close and protecting her. She woke the next morning to find him gone, a note on her nightstand telling her that he hadn't wanted to wake her on her day off, and to call if she needed him. She'd never called. They'd never mentioned her tears or the sex ever again.

The third time had been after Marisol, and Calleigh remembered wondering if they were always going to fall into each other when they were grieving. She also wondered if she was going to develop some kind of Pavlovian reaction to grief, wherein the pang of it would eventually make her thighs clench and make her feel empty in a way that only he could fill. And then he'd needed her, and she'd let the thought go. His place, again, because that time the pain was his. He'd been more broken than angry, so she'd been sweet instead of rough, pleasing him in every way she knew how. She'd used her mouth on him, sucking and licking, and making sure she moaned while she did and murmured how good he tasted and how big he was and how much she couldn't wait to have him inside her. Shallow things, meaningless things, but they'd pleased him, so she'd said them.

She'd taken the reins again, straddling him in his bed – the first time they'd managed the bed, she'd noted – and taking her time, rising and falling in a lazy, hypnotic rhythm. She'd caressed his chest, his belly, sighed and moaned and arched her back. Everything she could to please him, she'd done, because she didn't know any other way to make the pain ease off and slink away. This time, when they came, it was with their fingers woven together tightly, pressed against her outer thigh, his other hand between her thighs, rubbing at her until she twitched and cried out.

That she would stay had been understood, silently, and neither had protested when she stretched her body out along his afterward, tugging him over to pillow his head against her breast. They'd burrowed under covers and held on tightly. In the morning, they woke in the exact same position, arms a little sore, skin sweaty where it had been pressed together all night. She'd kissed him once, gently, and then they'd taken separate showers. She was gone by the time he emerged from his, and the memory lived on in its silence.

The fourth time was the only one she'd ever regretted, because it was the first time she'd had no excuse. No real excuse, anyway. Not for sleeping with him and knowing he loved her, not for sleeping with him and not knowing where Jake was, not for sleeping with him and not technically being single yet. Not for weakness without the wall of grief to hide behind. The fourth time had been after her kidnapping, when he'd taken her home, and kept her company, and tucked her safely into bed before setting up sentry on the couch. A nightmare had woken her, and she'd gone to him, woken him and asked him quietly to sleep in her bed.

He'd obliged, of course, and politely kept his distance (because things were different now, and the boundaries had changed) but the light pressure of his hand against her back hadn't been enough to keep the night terrors away. She'd woken with a start, in a cold sweat, disoriented, and when he'd wrapped his hand gently around her wrist she'd yelped and yanked it away. At the sound of his voice assuring her that it was him, and she'd just been dreaming, she'd made a reckless decision and crushed her mouth to his.

He'd been startled, but after a second he'd pulled her close, let her kiss out the fear, and then he'd begun to slow things down, bit by bit, kiss by kiss, until she'd felt like she was moving in slow-motion, in some kind of cinematic dream full of wet tongues and warm hands and feather-light touches.

He'd made love to her, plain and simple. The slow coast of his palms over her belly skirted the tender bruise on her side as he made his way to cup her breasts. He'd spent more time on foreplay than ever before, teasing her nipples with tongue and lips and teeth as though he'd never get to do it again, so he'd better take the time to memorize it all. In retrospect, that was probably exactly what he was thinking as he nipped his way down her belly, swirled his tongue between her thighs until she shook and cried out and came for him. It was the only time he brought her over before being inside of her.

When he slid into her this time, he took care to angle his torso off her injured side, and treated her to toe-curlingly slow thrusts, drawing out almost completely, pressing in to the hilt, slowly, gently, and she remembered thinking that nobody had ever taken such care with her. It was like floating, like dreaming, and she'd thought she should mind when he'd tangled their hands together and pressed them to the pillow on either side of her head, but she hadn't. She'd felt safe, completely safe, and when she arched her hips against his and ground her head back into the pillow, orgasm ebbing through her in shivering waves, she'd had the stunning realization that she could love this man.

When they were finished, he'd gathered her against him, spooning her, keeping her safe, and she'd slept like a rock for the rest of the night. In the morning, she'd been at a loss, holding the covers over her breasts and managing "About last night…" before words had failed her and she'd simply met his eye and shaken her head, hoping he understood her meaning. His suddenly crestfallen look, and quiet "oh" had let her know that he had. She'd felt the need to apologize, and he'd told her no, not to worry about it.

"We do this sometimes," he'd said quietly.

"Yeah…" she'd whispered, and her heart had ached as he'd pressed a kiss to her brow and slipped out of bed, escaping to the shower. She'd heard the front door shut from the kitchen while she'd prepped the coffee pot.

So this time, this last time, the time that consummated this new relationship, she'd made sure to wake him in the morning with slow kisses across his abdomen. She'd coaxed him awake into a world of gauzy morning light and gently thrumming pleasure, pulling him into her as soon as he was awake and treating him to the kind of early morning sex that dewed the skin with sweat and made you want to curl up and sleep away the rest of the morning. She'd pulled him into the shower with her, washed his back and let him wash hers, and then she'd made him breakfast. They'd made love against the fridge door one more time for good measure, and by the time they left for work, he knew without a doubt that this hadn't been a fluke, or a coping mechanism, or a mistake.

So yes, they had a secret, but the secret wasn't that they were together. The secret was that they'd never really been apart.