A Tour of the Heart (12/?)
Title: A Tour of the Heart (12/?)
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters: Eric/Calleigh
Rating: PG13
Summary: They say if you really want to understand someone, you have to understand where they come from.
Eric woke in the morning to an empty bed not really a rare occurrence where Calleigh was concerned. She'd always been the early riser, slipping out in the early morning, going for a run, putting the coffee on. Eric usually woke to the sound of the shower running, and the smell of cafe Cubano wafting from the kitchen.
This morning, he woke to the smell of flowers blooming outside the window and fresh (but muggy) air, and an almost eerie silence. He showered, headed downstairs, and still, not a peep. He'd almost convinced himself that she'd taken off to Charlotte's or something when he spied her on the floor of a little office, toward the back of the first floor. He hadn't even noticed this room before, but the open door had caught his attention as he'd headed for the front porch, lukewarm, weak coffee in hand. But there she was, cross-legged on the floor and haloed by a ring of open photo albums.
“Morning,” he greeted, voice sandpapery with lack of use.
Calleigh jumped, pressed a hand to her heart and breathed out, “Eric. I didn't hear you.”
He shrugged a shoulder, leaned against the doorjamb. I could say the same for you. I was starting to think you'd left me here to fend for myself.”
“You make it sound like I'd be leaving you in the middle of the jungle,she teased, rolling her eyes. “There's food in the fridge sandwich fixings, and bacon and eggs. You'd survive just fine if I'd left.”
“I'm sure I'd manage. I do make a mean pb and j.They were smiling at each other now, for no good reason, but he liked it. They'd been short on smiles lately. Eric took a few steps closer, then peered down at one of the books splayed around her. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh.Calleigh waved a hand dismissively, but her fingers settled on the page of the nearest album, skimmed tenderly along the edge of a photo and he knew that these were anything but dismissible. “Just some old albums. I came in here to start going through stuff, box up some books, but I got distracted.”
“Is that you?” he asked, pointing to the towhead blonde in pigtail braids, grinning hugely next to what looked like a much younger Kenwall Duquesne on one side, and a sleek dappled horse on the other.
“This one?she asked, dropping a finger onto the photo. Eric nodded, then eagerly settled down beside him when she shifted a few albums to make room. “Yeah, that's me and my dad, and my horse, Ashes. I was ten.”
“You were adorable.”
“I was, wasn't I?”
Eric chuckled, then pointed to another picture a little boy with a too-big ball cap on his head, and an awkward grip on a light-weight bat. “Bryan?”
“Yeah. He would've been seven that year. He was very into t-ball. Tucker played ball, and he idolized him so much back then. I'm pretty sure that was the year Tucker hit the ball straight into Gran's back window. He didn't quite have enough power to break the pane, but there was a crack in it for years. I asked her once, when I was older, why she never fixed it, and she said it always reminded her of us. Of when we were kids. She used to say life speeds up the older you get, and sometimes it's good to have a reminder to slow down and field the baseballs.”
Eric watched as her chin quivered a little, and he slid one arm around her shoulders, tugged her close and squeezed. She let out a shaky breath, telling him, “I can't really believe she's gone. There's so much memory in this house, it's like she should be walking through the door any minute, gabbing about how there are biscuits to bake, and grandchildren to tend to, and what are we having for supper? She's the one that taught me how to cook real Southern food, you know. My mother burns half of what she puts on a stove, and Daddy's great with the barbeque. But the grits, and the biscuits, and the fried green tomatoes. That was all me and Gran.”
“Mm. I guess I owe her a thank-you, huh? Sundays wouldn't be the same without her.”
Calleigh shook her head, breathed, “No,” in an even more pained whisper than before. “They wouldn't.” Then she turned to him so suddenly she almost whacked her face into his. “You should've had the chance to meet her. I should've called you after my dad called, fight or no fight. I was selfish. And now you'll never know her, and...” She was crying for real now, tears welling in her eyes, and then spilling down her cheeks, breaking his heart on their way to her chin. She just looked so guilt-ridden and miserable, like she'd stolen something from him. She probably thought she had, but Eric's pretty sure the one she cheated was herself. He could live without ever knowing Clara Duquesne, but he's pretty sure Calleigh was having a rough time knowing Clara died never knowing him.
He brought his thumbs up to her face, wiping away the tears, and frowning as new ones fell in their place. “You were upset. It's alright.”
Calleigh shook her head, and let Eric pull her to him again, this time nestling her face against his shoulder. “It isn't alright,” she told him. “Nothing about this is alright.” She was right, he thought. Nothing about death, and grief, and loss was okay, and nothing either of them had to say could make it any better. So he decided not to say anything.
He rubbed her back, slow, soothing strokes, and murmured all sorts of kind things to her that were meaningless as soon as they were said. She cried herself out, let some of that pent-up emotion out, and then, when she was calm again, he reached for the photo nearest photo album, and said, “Tell me about this one.”
She wiped at the tears still clinging to her cheeks, and cleared her throat a little. “That's me and Billy Sanders. He had a crush on me for years. Finally got up the courage to ask me out in high school. He took me to...” She turned, searching for something, then dragged another album across her lap. “My junior prom. And I cannot believe I am voluntarily showing this to you.”
Eric couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. “Wow.” There she was in all her 80's fashion, a bright aquamarine strapless dress, and matching eyeshadow, and big, big hair. He can't believe she's voluntarily showing this to him either.
“Yeah. This was during my big Madonna phase. My mother insisted I go with something classy, so we have the sequined bodice here, which is very fancy. And, y'know, no eighties party dress is complete without the crinoline skirt. The eyeshadow, you may have noticed, matches the dress, and my lips are a color called Scarlet Hussy, which mama and I had a screaming match over because she thought girls who wore lipstick that color were bound to live up to the name.”
“Did you?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively.
“Absolutely not. I was a good girl. Mostly.”
“Mostly, huh?”
“Well, I might have let him get to second base before insisting he get me home at a decent hour, so as not to incur the wrath of my father. He was more than happy to oblige, considering my father had pulled him aside when he picked me up, and, I'm pretty sure, threatened to remove his manhood with a shotgun if he dared sully the purity of his only daughter.”
“Y'know, I'm not terribly surprised by that.”
“Yeah, daddy scared off a couple of guys with that whole routine when I was younger. I hated him for it at the time, but in retrospect it's kind of sweet.”
Eric just smiled, then pointed to the hair. “Can we talk about this?”
“Oh, Jesus. C'mon, Eric, it was the eighties. It's the South - the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus.”
He laughed out loud at that, shaking his head. They spent the rest of the morning there, on the floor, flipping page by page through Calleigh's childhood. He saw her gap-toothed grin, first baby tooth held proudly in her palm. Her new roller skates in third grade and the new cast that spent six weeks on her wrist after that. Her fifth grade talent contest (who knew she could juggle?), and seventh grade band concert. There were enough photos of her and Ashes over the years to fill an entire album on their own, he thought, and enough of her with her brothers for him to notice the way that even in her childhood, she seemed to be keeping an eye on them. On everyone, he thought to himself, catching sight of a photo of her and her dad next to a steak-covered grill. If this red cheeks and glassy eyes were any indication, Duke was a few sheets to the wind. Calleigh, not more than thirteen or fourteen, was standing next to him and smiling over his shoulder. Eric can't help but notice the smile doesn't reach her eyes, or that it's her hand on the tongs, not his, despite Duke's “Kiss the Cook” apron.
By noon, he'd seen her graduation photos both college and high school. He hadn't realized how little he really knew about her until her whole history was laid out in front of him, and now that he knew, he wanted to know everything. Past, present, future, everything.
“Before you met me I was a fairy princess
I caught frogs and called them prince
And made myself a queen
Before you knew me I traveled 'round the world
I slept in castles and fell in love
Because i was taught to dream.”
--“Fireflies”
Faith Hill
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters: Eric/Calleigh
Rating: PG13
Summary: They say if you really want to understand someone, you have to understand where they come from.
Eric woke in the morning to an empty bed not really a rare occurrence where Calleigh was concerned. She'd always been the early riser, slipping out in the early morning, going for a run, putting the coffee on. Eric usually woke to the sound of the shower running, and the smell of cafe Cubano wafting from the kitchen.
This morning, he woke to the smell of flowers blooming outside the window and fresh (but muggy) air, and an almost eerie silence. He showered, headed downstairs, and still, not a peep. He'd almost convinced himself that she'd taken off to Charlotte's or something when he spied her on the floor of a little office, toward the back of the first floor. He hadn't even noticed this room before, but the open door had caught his attention as he'd headed for the front porch, lukewarm, weak coffee in hand. But there she was, cross-legged on the floor and haloed by a ring of open photo albums.
“Morning,” he greeted, voice sandpapery with lack of use.
Calleigh jumped, pressed a hand to her heart and breathed out, “Eric. I didn't hear you.”
He shrugged a shoulder, leaned against the doorjamb. I could say the same for you. I was starting to think you'd left me here to fend for myself.”
“You make it sound like I'd be leaving you in the middle of the jungle,she teased, rolling her eyes. “There's food in the fridge sandwich fixings, and bacon and eggs. You'd survive just fine if I'd left.”
“I'm sure I'd manage. I do make a mean pb and j.They were smiling at each other now, for no good reason, but he liked it. They'd been short on smiles lately. Eric took a few steps closer, then peered down at one of the books splayed around her. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh.Calleigh waved a hand dismissively, but her fingers settled on the page of the nearest album, skimmed tenderly along the edge of a photo and he knew that these were anything but dismissible. “Just some old albums. I came in here to start going through stuff, box up some books, but I got distracted.”
“Is that you?” he asked, pointing to the towhead blonde in pigtail braids, grinning hugely next to what looked like a much younger Kenwall Duquesne on one side, and a sleek dappled horse on the other.
“This one?she asked, dropping a finger onto the photo. Eric nodded, then eagerly settled down beside him when she shifted a few albums to make room. “Yeah, that's me and my dad, and my horse, Ashes. I was ten.”
“You were adorable.”
“I was, wasn't I?”
Eric chuckled, then pointed to another picture a little boy with a too-big ball cap on his head, and an awkward grip on a light-weight bat. “Bryan?”
“Yeah. He would've been seven that year. He was very into t-ball. Tucker played ball, and he idolized him so much back then. I'm pretty sure that was the year Tucker hit the ball straight into Gran's back window. He didn't quite have enough power to break the pane, but there was a crack in it for years. I asked her once, when I was older, why she never fixed it, and she said it always reminded her of us. Of when we were kids. She used to say life speeds up the older you get, and sometimes it's good to have a reminder to slow down and field the baseballs.”
Eric watched as her chin quivered a little, and he slid one arm around her shoulders, tugged her close and squeezed. She let out a shaky breath, telling him, “I can't really believe she's gone. There's so much memory in this house, it's like she should be walking through the door any minute, gabbing about how there are biscuits to bake, and grandchildren to tend to, and what are we having for supper? She's the one that taught me how to cook real Southern food, you know. My mother burns half of what she puts on a stove, and Daddy's great with the barbeque. But the grits, and the biscuits, and the fried green tomatoes. That was all me and Gran.”
“Mm. I guess I owe her a thank-you, huh? Sundays wouldn't be the same without her.”
Calleigh shook her head, breathed, “No,” in an even more pained whisper than before. “They wouldn't.” Then she turned to him so suddenly she almost whacked her face into his. “You should've had the chance to meet her. I should've called you after my dad called, fight or no fight. I was selfish. And now you'll never know her, and...” She was crying for real now, tears welling in her eyes, and then spilling down her cheeks, breaking his heart on their way to her chin. She just looked so guilt-ridden and miserable, like she'd stolen something from him. She probably thought she had, but Eric's pretty sure the one she cheated was herself. He could live without ever knowing Clara Duquesne, but he's pretty sure Calleigh was having a rough time knowing Clara died never knowing him.
He brought his thumbs up to her face, wiping away the tears, and frowning as new ones fell in their place. “You were upset. It's alright.”
Calleigh shook her head, and let Eric pull her to him again, this time nestling her face against his shoulder. “It isn't alright,” she told him. “Nothing about this is alright.” She was right, he thought. Nothing about death, and grief, and loss was okay, and nothing either of them had to say could make it any better. So he decided not to say anything.
He rubbed her back, slow, soothing strokes, and murmured all sorts of kind things to her that were meaningless as soon as they were said. She cried herself out, let some of that pent-up emotion out, and then, when she was calm again, he reached for the photo nearest photo album, and said, “Tell me about this one.”
She wiped at the tears still clinging to her cheeks, and cleared her throat a little. “That's me and Billy Sanders. He had a crush on me for years. Finally got up the courage to ask me out in high school. He took me to...” She turned, searching for something, then dragged another album across her lap. “My junior prom. And I cannot believe I am voluntarily showing this to you.”
Eric couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. “Wow.” There she was in all her 80's fashion, a bright aquamarine strapless dress, and matching eyeshadow, and big, big hair. He can't believe she's voluntarily showing this to him either.
“Yeah. This was during my big Madonna phase. My mother insisted I go with something classy, so we have the sequined bodice here, which is very fancy. And, y'know, no eighties party dress is complete without the crinoline skirt. The eyeshadow, you may have noticed, matches the dress, and my lips are a color called Scarlet Hussy, which mama and I had a screaming match over because she thought girls who wore lipstick that color were bound to live up to the name.”
“Did you?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively.
“Absolutely not. I was a good girl. Mostly.”
“Mostly, huh?”
“Well, I might have let him get to second base before insisting he get me home at a decent hour, so as not to incur the wrath of my father. He was more than happy to oblige, considering my father had pulled him aside when he picked me up, and, I'm pretty sure, threatened to remove his manhood with a shotgun if he dared sully the purity of his only daughter.”
“Y'know, I'm not terribly surprised by that.”
“Yeah, daddy scared off a couple of guys with that whole routine when I was younger. I hated him for it at the time, but in retrospect it's kind of sweet.”
Eric just smiled, then pointed to the hair. “Can we talk about this?”
“Oh, Jesus. C'mon, Eric, it was the eighties. It's the South - the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus.”
He laughed out loud at that, shaking his head. They spent the rest of the morning there, on the floor, flipping page by page through Calleigh's childhood. He saw her gap-toothed grin, first baby tooth held proudly in her palm. Her new roller skates in third grade and the new cast that spent six weeks on her wrist after that. Her fifth grade talent contest (who knew she could juggle?), and seventh grade band concert. There were enough photos of her and Ashes over the years to fill an entire album on their own, he thought, and enough of her with her brothers for him to notice the way that even in her childhood, she seemed to be keeping an eye on them. On everyone, he thought to himself, catching sight of a photo of her and her dad next to a steak-covered grill. If this red cheeks and glassy eyes were any indication, Duke was a few sheets to the wind. Calleigh, not more than thirteen or fourteen, was standing next to him and smiling over his shoulder. Eric can't help but notice the smile doesn't reach her eyes, or that it's her hand on the tongs, not his, despite Duke's “Kiss the Cook” apron.
By noon, he'd seen her graduation photos both college and high school. He hadn't realized how little he really knew about her until her whole history was laid out in front of him, and now that he knew, he wanted to know everything. Past, present, future, everything.
“Before you met me I was a fairy princess
I caught frogs and called them prince
And made myself a queen
Before you knew me I traveled 'round the world
I slept in castles and fell in love
Because i was taught to dream.”
--“Fireflies”
Faith Hill