A Tour of the Heart (4/?)
Title: A Tour of the Heart (4/?)
Author: SomewhereApart
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.
Author's Note: As always, credit for our favorite furry friend goes to Bella7.
Catching up? Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
Eric had decided to give her the weekend to cool down. She hadn’t meant most of what she’d said, he knew that, but there was nothing wrong with giving Calleigh space. Sometimes space was all she desperately needed to get her head out of her ass. So he’d given her the weekend. He’d resisted the temptation to call, and stopped himself from dropping by unannounced. He hadn’t even texted to apologize (which he’d wanted to, despite the fact that he’d been right, damnit). He wanted to talk about it in person. Besides, he figured if he waited until they were at the lab, they were much less likely to get in another screaming match.
So now it was Monday, and he was headed to his first call-out of the day - a stabbing in Coconut Grove. He wasn’t sure if she’d be there; he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to be there. He wanted to work things out, absolutely, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it over a dead body.
Thankfully, he’d been rescued by fate: Natalia was stepping out of her Hummer just as he pulled in. It wasn’t too much of a surprise. It was already 10:45; Calleigh had a reputation for being an early riser and usually got the first call-out. There’d been a drive-by this morning; she was probably knee-deep in casings by now.
“Hey,” he greeted, as Natalia rounded the front of her Hummer and stopped to stare at him, brows knit with confusion.
“Hi… I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why?” he chuckled. “It’s a crime scene; I’m a criminalist.”
“No, I just didn’t figure you guys would be back so soon,” she clarified - or at least, that seemed to be her intent, but it had the exact opposite effect on Eric. “That’s a pretty quick turn-around for a funeral.”
Funeral? Why would he be at a funeral? “Natalia… What are you talking about?”
Suddenly she looked just as confused as he did. “Did you not go with Calleigh? When she called and asked me to feed the cat I just assumed…”
“Go with Calleigh where?” he demanded, tightening his grip on his kit. She was gone? She’d left town? And she’d called Natalia to feed Cubano??
“Louisiana.” The confusion on her face turned to realization, and Eric watched as Natalia pulled away slightly. It was the look of anyone who realized they’d just spilled a Duquesne secret - never a good thing. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
He pressed his lips together, shook his head, not sure if he should be pissed or incredibly concerned. “When?”
“She called Friday night.” Friday night. The fight. The whole time he’d been giving her space, she’d been… well… giving him a lot of space, apparently. “I just figured you were going with her, if she was asking me to feed Cubano. And…”
“And?”
“Her grandma is dying. I just… assumed you’d go with her.”
“Her grandma - Clara??” Jesus, Clara? Clara was dying? He knew she’d been sick, and Calleigh had been worried, but dying? Calleigh must be a mess. And she hadn’t said a thing.
“You really had no idea?” Natalia asked cautiously, and Eric shook his head, feeling horrible.
“We got in a fight on Friday. Haven’t spoken since.” He needed to call her. He needed to talk to her. He needed to go to her, damnit, fight or not. “I’m sorry - I know we need to process this scene, but I need to call her. Now.”
“Yeah, of course,” Natalia insisted, gesturing toward the house. “I’ll go get started. You take your time. And tell her I say hello.”
“Yeah, I will,” he muttered distractedly, setting down his kit and fishing out his cell phone. He punched her speed dial number (she was 2, mom was 1), and listened to the hollow ring once, twice…
-/-
Calleigh stood outside the church where she’d spent a good many Sundays as a child, wearing a black dress that just made the summer heat and humidity worse. The funeral was scheduled to start at ten, and at 9:45 the day was already muggy and uncomfortable. She supposed it was fitting, because “discomfort” pretty much summed up the myriad emotions roiling through her. Grief, pain, a certain sliver of acceptance and maybe even a drop of gratitude (it could have been worse, after all. It could have been long and painful, or violent and bloody). All of those rolled together to make her feel acutely uncomfortable.
She knew she should go inside and find her seat next to her parents, but she couldn’t bear it yet. She hated funerals. Hated especially the way she felt before them. After… Well, they served their purpose for Calleigh. They were part of the process, part of accepting and moving on. She always felt a little steadier once she’d tossed a rose or a handful of dirt and watched a casket sink slowly into the earth. Not better, necessarily, but steadier. But the pocket of time in between death and burial, that was the hardest for her. The freshest, the most raw.
It probably didn’t help that she had spent those days surrounded by her Gran’s things, in her Gran’s house. Her house now. Most of the things would end up hers, too, she figured. A few had been willed out, but many would stay. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a comfort or not. She’d been too busy helping with the funeral arrangements (and distracting her father as much as possible) to give it much thought.
So here she stood. Waiting for the last possible moment to head inside, watching family she hadn’t seen in years file in and hug and steel themselves against tears. Bryan and Rob stood a few yards away, talking quietly. She’d become acutely aware over the last forty-eight hours that she was the only of Kenwall Duquesne’s children who wasn’t paired off. Hell, even her parents were a unit these days, though she couldn’t tell if it was romantic or not. And then there was Calleigh. Alone.
She had a moment of bitter anger (followed by acute guilt) that Clara had picked this damned weekend to die. She couldn’t have sped it up a little? Kicked the bucket when Calleigh was still paired off and pleasant, instead of now when she and Eric were in this nebulous gray area of whatever they were. Not speaking, that much she knew. He hadn’t tried to talk to her, and she hadn’t wanted to talk to him. So that was fine. That was okay. Lonely, but okay.
Bryan stiffened suddenly, reaching for Rob’s hand and leading him inside; Calleigh didn’t even have to look up to know whose car had just pulled up. Uncle Dean, dad’s brother. They were alike in a lot of ways - both kind men at heart, both a little too fond of fermented drinks - but one had learned to adjust his viewpoint when faced with a gay son, the other hadn’t been willing to make the same concession for a nephew. It made family gatherings… interesting.
“Batten down the hatches,” came a familiar drawl on Calleigh’s right, and she looked over to see Charlotte sidling up to her. In their almost-matching black dresses, with their blonde locks - Charlotte’s a touch darker and shoulder-length, Calleigh’s longer and lighter - pulled back into mirroring half-ponytails, Calleigh and Charlotte could easily pass for blood today. It was fitting, she supposed. They were family. And speaking of family, Charlotte’s was in tow. Or most of it, anyway - Tucker and little Tyler (who wasn’t so little anymore, at age 7) in somber suits. Only two year old Gracie was missing, passed off to a sitter.
“Here comes Hurricane Dean,” Calleigh finished quietly, taking hugs from first Charlotte, then Tuck, and finally Ty, who she squeezed extra tight and murmured a quiet hello to. He scratched his nose, and gave her a wave, and Calleigh figured he must have been schooled in proper funeral behavior. Tyler wasn’t exactly known for quiet and manners.
“Honey, take Tyler on inside and get our seats settled,” Charlotte requested “I’m going to talk Calleigh for a few.”
Tucker nodded, then pulled Calleigh into another hug, tighter, but short. “Give him hell, CJ,” he urged into her ear, before pulling back and guiding his son into the church.
Calleigh just shook her head slightly, then turned her attention to her uncle as he made his way toward them.
He didn’t waste any time, skipping the customary hug to greet the women with, “I see your brother brought his-“
“Dean,” Charlotte warned, in her best on-the-edge-Mom voice.
“It’s not the way things are meant, Charlotte,” he insisted stiffly.
“It’s the way things are,” she reminded. “And today isn’t about them. And it ain’t about you. It’s about Clara. And so help me, if you start somethin’ at your mama’s funeral, I don’t care if you are my uncle-in-law, I will take you out back and beat you senseless.”
Calleigh pressed her lips together to fight the smirk. Leave it to Charlotte to threaten physical violence against a man whose mother had just died.
“Wouldn’t that be startin’ somethin’?” Dean questioned, with a raise of his brows, and for a second Calleigh watched them square off, light eyes locked on dark. And then the humor slowly began to filter in, and after a minute both were smiling just a little. “I still think it’s rude to bring him here.”
“Not about you,” Charlotte reminded. “Now go on in. If you’re late to your own mama’s funeral, she’ll be spinning in the casket.”
Calleigh watched the hurt flicker in her uncle’s eyes, just under the amusement, and reached out to squeeze his hand. He gave a crushing grip in return, and used it to pull her into a hug, finally. “It’s good to see you, Dean.”
“You too,” he muttered against her hair, before easing her away.
“But if you mess with my baby brother today, I will remind you just why I am the leading ballistics expert in the state of Florida.”
He smirked, a little sad, a lot resigned. “Because your uncle Dean took you hunting with the boys, that’s why. That first rifle you shot was mine, girly girl, and don’t you forget it. But fine. No comments, no nothing - today. For Mama. But after today, I intend to speak my mind as I see fit.”
“And nobody would be able to stop you if they tried,” Calleigh insisted, giving him a little shove. “Now go.”
“You skippin’ the service?” he questioned as he took a step back. “I didn’t think you’d fly all this way to stand out front of the church.”
“We’ll be along in a minute,” Charlotte insisted, just as Calleigh felt her purse begin to vibrate. She thought she’d set the phone on silent, but apparently not. Damnit.
She pulled it out and froze, staring at the words on the screen: “ERIC CALLING.” Her mouth pulled into a scowl, and she debated for just a second whether she should answer. He’d probably figured out by now that she wasn’t at work. If he was good, he’d figured out where she was. Still… she wasn’t up for it right now. And she didn’t have time. With a sigh, she pushed END and sent him to voicemail.
“Eric?” Charlotte asked cautiously. She’d tried to broach the subject a time or two since Saturday, with no success.
“Yeah.”
“You should talk to him, Calleigh. At least tell him where you are, what you’re doin’ here. You owe him that.”
“I don’t owe him anything today,” Calleigh muttered, tucking the phone away again and heading into the church without another word. She’d deal with him later. She’d deal with everything later. But today was for her, and her family, and their grief.
“I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and I don’t have time
To go round and round and round.”
--“Not Ready to Make Nice”
The Dixie Chicks
Author: SomewhereApart
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.
Author's Note: As always, credit for our favorite furry friend goes to Bella7.
Catching up? Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
Eric had decided to give her the weekend to cool down. She hadn’t meant most of what she’d said, he knew that, but there was nothing wrong with giving Calleigh space. Sometimes space was all she desperately needed to get her head out of her ass. So he’d given her the weekend. He’d resisted the temptation to call, and stopped himself from dropping by unannounced. He hadn’t even texted to apologize (which he’d wanted to, despite the fact that he’d been right, damnit). He wanted to talk about it in person. Besides, he figured if he waited until they were at the lab, they were much less likely to get in another screaming match.
So now it was Monday, and he was headed to his first call-out of the day - a stabbing in Coconut Grove. He wasn’t sure if she’d be there; he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to be there. He wanted to work things out, absolutely, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it over a dead body.
Thankfully, he’d been rescued by fate: Natalia was stepping out of her Hummer just as he pulled in. It wasn’t too much of a surprise. It was already 10:45; Calleigh had a reputation for being an early riser and usually got the first call-out. There’d been a drive-by this morning; she was probably knee-deep in casings by now.
“Hey,” he greeted, as Natalia rounded the front of her Hummer and stopped to stare at him, brows knit with confusion.
“Hi… I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why?” he chuckled. “It’s a crime scene; I’m a criminalist.”
“No, I just didn’t figure you guys would be back so soon,” she clarified - or at least, that seemed to be her intent, but it had the exact opposite effect on Eric. “That’s a pretty quick turn-around for a funeral.”
Funeral? Why would he be at a funeral? “Natalia… What are you talking about?”
Suddenly she looked just as confused as he did. “Did you not go with Calleigh? When she called and asked me to feed the cat I just assumed…”
“Go with Calleigh where?” he demanded, tightening his grip on his kit. She was gone? She’d left town? And she’d called Natalia to feed Cubano??
“Louisiana.” The confusion on her face turned to realization, and Eric watched as Natalia pulled away slightly. It was the look of anyone who realized they’d just spilled a Duquesne secret - never a good thing. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
He pressed his lips together, shook his head, not sure if he should be pissed or incredibly concerned. “When?”
“She called Friday night.” Friday night. The fight. The whole time he’d been giving her space, she’d been… well… giving him a lot of space, apparently. “I just figured you were going with her, if she was asking me to feed Cubano. And…”
“And?”
“Her grandma is dying. I just… assumed you’d go with her.”
“Her grandma - Clara??” Jesus, Clara? Clara was dying? He knew she’d been sick, and Calleigh had been worried, but dying? Calleigh must be a mess. And she hadn’t said a thing.
“You really had no idea?” Natalia asked cautiously, and Eric shook his head, feeling horrible.
“We got in a fight on Friday. Haven’t spoken since.” He needed to call her. He needed to talk to her. He needed to go to her, damnit, fight or not. “I’m sorry - I know we need to process this scene, but I need to call her. Now.”
“Yeah, of course,” Natalia insisted, gesturing toward the house. “I’ll go get started. You take your time. And tell her I say hello.”
“Yeah, I will,” he muttered distractedly, setting down his kit and fishing out his cell phone. He punched her speed dial number (she was 2, mom was 1), and listened to the hollow ring once, twice…
-/-
Calleigh stood outside the church where she’d spent a good many Sundays as a child, wearing a black dress that just made the summer heat and humidity worse. The funeral was scheduled to start at ten, and at 9:45 the day was already muggy and uncomfortable. She supposed it was fitting, because “discomfort” pretty much summed up the myriad emotions roiling through her. Grief, pain, a certain sliver of acceptance and maybe even a drop of gratitude (it could have been worse, after all. It could have been long and painful, or violent and bloody). All of those rolled together to make her feel acutely uncomfortable.
She knew she should go inside and find her seat next to her parents, but she couldn’t bear it yet. She hated funerals. Hated especially the way she felt before them. After… Well, they served their purpose for Calleigh. They were part of the process, part of accepting and moving on. She always felt a little steadier once she’d tossed a rose or a handful of dirt and watched a casket sink slowly into the earth. Not better, necessarily, but steadier. But the pocket of time in between death and burial, that was the hardest for her. The freshest, the most raw.
It probably didn’t help that she had spent those days surrounded by her Gran’s things, in her Gran’s house. Her house now. Most of the things would end up hers, too, she figured. A few had been willed out, but many would stay. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a comfort or not. She’d been too busy helping with the funeral arrangements (and distracting her father as much as possible) to give it much thought.
So here she stood. Waiting for the last possible moment to head inside, watching family she hadn’t seen in years file in and hug and steel themselves against tears. Bryan and Rob stood a few yards away, talking quietly. She’d become acutely aware over the last forty-eight hours that she was the only of Kenwall Duquesne’s children who wasn’t paired off. Hell, even her parents were a unit these days, though she couldn’t tell if it was romantic or not. And then there was Calleigh. Alone.
She had a moment of bitter anger (followed by acute guilt) that Clara had picked this damned weekend to die. She couldn’t have sped it up a little? Kicked the bucket when Calleigh was still paired off and pleasant, instead of now when she and Eric were in this nebulous gray area of whatever they were. Not speaking, that much she knew. He hadn’t tried to talk to her, and she hadn’t wanted to talk to him. So that was fine. That was okay. Lonely, but okay.
Bryan stiffened suddenly, reaching for Rob’s hand and leading him inside; Calleigh didn’t even have to look up to know whose car had just pulled up. Uncle Dean, dad’s brother. They were alike in a lot of ways - both kind men at heart, both a little too fond of fermented drinks - but one had learned to adjust his viewpoint when faced with a gay son, the other hadn’t been willing to make the same concession for a nephew. It made family gatherings… interesting.
“Batten down the hatches,” came a familiar drawl on Calleigh’s right, and she looked over to see Charlotte sidling up to her. In their almost-matching black dresses, with their blonde locks - Charlotte’s a touch darker and shoulder-length, Calleigh’s longer and lighter - pulled back into mirroring half-ponytails, Calleigh and Charlotte could easily pass for blood today. It was fitting, she supposed. They were family. And speaking of family, Charlotte’s was in tow. Or most of it, anyway - Tucker and little Tyler (who wasn’t so little anymore, at age 7) in somber suits. Only two year old Gracie was missing, passed off to a sitter.
“Here comes Hurricane Dean,” Calleigh finished quietly, taking hugs from first Charlotte, then Tuck, and finally Ty, who she squeezed extra tight and murmured a quiet hello to. He scratched his nose, and gave her a wave, and Calleigh figured he must have been schooled in proper funeral behavior. Tyler wasn’t exactly known for quiet and manners.
“Honey, take Tyler on inside and get our seats settled,” Charlotte requested “I’m going to talk Calleigh for a few.”
Tucker nodded, then pulled Calleigh into another hug, tighter, but short. “Give him hell, CJ,” he urged into her ear, before pulling back and guiding his son into the church.
Calleigh just shook her head slightly, then turned her attention to her uncle as he made his way toward them.
He didn’t waste any time, skipping the customary hug to greet the women with, “I see your brother brought his-“
“Dean,” Charlotte warned, in her best on-the-edge-Mom voice.
“It’s not the way things are meant, Charlotte,” he insisted stiffly.
“It’s the way things are,” she reminded. “And today isn’t about them. And it ain’t about you. It’s about Clara. And so help me, if you start somethin’ at your mama’s funeral, I don’t care if you are my uncle-in-law, I will take you out back and beat you senseless.”
Calleigh pressed her lips together to fight the smirk. Leave it to Charlotte to threaten physical violence against a man whose mother had just died.
“Wouldn’t that be startin’ somethin’?” Dean questioned, with a raise of his brows, and for a second Calleigh watched them square off, light eyes locked on dark. And then the humor slowly began to filter in, and after a minute both were smiling just a little. “I still think it’s rude to bring him here.”
“Not about you,” Charlotte reminded. “Now go on in. If you’re late to your own mama’s funeral, she’ll be spinning in the casket.”
Calleigh watched the hurt flicker in her uncle’s eyes, just under the amusement, and reached out to squeeze his hand. He gave a crushing grip in return, and used it to pull her into a hug, finally. “It’s good to see you, Dean.”
“You too,” he muttered against her hair, before easing her away.
“But if you mess with my baby brother today, I will remind you just why I am the leading ballistics expert in the state of Florida.”
He smirked, a little sad, a lot resigned. “Because your uncle Dean took you hunting with the boys, that’s why. That first rifle you shot was mine, girly girl, and don’t you forget it. But fine. No comments, no nothing - today. For Mama. But after today, I intend to speak my mind as I see fit.”
“And nobody would be able to stop you if they tried,” Calleigh insisted, giving him a little shove. “Now go.”
“You skippin’ the service?” he questioned as he took a step back. “I didn’t think you’d fly all this way to stand out front of the church.”
“We’ll be along in a minute,” Charlotte insisted, just as Calleigh felt her purse begin to vibrate. She thought she’d set the phone on silent, but apparently not. Damnit.
She pulled it out and froze, staring at the words on the screen: “ERIC CALLING.” Her mouth pulled into a scowl, and she debated for just a second whether she should answer. He’d probably figured out by now that she wasn’t at work. If he was good, he’d figured out where she was. Still… she wasn’t up for it right now. And she didn’t have time. With a sigh, she pushed END and sent him to voicemail.
“Eric?” Charlotte asked cautiously. She’d tried to broach the subject a time or two since Saturday, with no success.
“Yeah.”
“You should talk to him, Calleigh. At least tell him where you are, what you’re doin’ here. You owe him that.”
“I don’t owe him anything today,” Calleigh muttered, tucking the phone away again and heading into the church without another word. She’d deal with him later. She’d deal with everything later. But today was for her, and her family, and their grief.
“I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and I don’t have time
To go round and round and round.”
--“Not Ready to Make Nice”
The Dixie Chicks