Title: Undeserved in Four Movements
By: Caster
Pairing: Ryan/Eric
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Greetings from the basement, darling readers! I've finally completed my long-since-coming Ryan/Eric fic. (Props still go to Ryan/Greg, the greatest couple of all. ) Although past episodes of CSI: Miami have made it difficult to write these two in character without them hating each other, I'm still going to give it a try. Laugh if you must, but don't do it to my face.
On another note, this was originally written in response to Sex and Taxes. But then came and Recoil and 10-7, so we fanfic writers have our work cut out for us until the fall.
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Bits of the poem used in this work are from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets, a brilliant piece. Read it after you've read this.
Summary: T.S. Eliot. Mistakes. Love. EricxRyan.

***

Movement 1: Soli and Fugue

He didn't really want to see him, but his reasons weren't any fault of Eric's.

Quite the opposite; it was Ryan himself who had behaved like the complete and utter idiot, the snob, the know-it-all. It was hard enough to try and make it as a criminalist while being pegged as "the new guy"; it was even worse when his friends didn't like him either. (all time is unredeemable)

What the hell had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all? Looking back, he couldn't say "yes" with 100 percent certainty. It wasn't as if he'd technically stolen Eric's evidence or taken the blood out of the lab or leaked the tox report; he hadn't meant to do anything that was against (what might have been is an abstraction- remaining a perpetual possibility) the rules. And technically, he hadn't broken any law according to the state of Florida. But there were other laws to take into consideration, such as those of friendship.

He'd broken their trust.

And that was worse than anything a lawyer could accuse him of.

All the excuses he fed himself were paper thin and fragile and meaningless; Eric had done nothing to deserve Ryan's poorly chosen actions. Even in the aftermath of a colleagues (what might have been and what has been) death, Eric hadn't acted like some demi-God when Ryan first joined the team. He accepted him despite the circumstances and they had begun as friends.

The man just assumed Ryan wouldn't treat him like that. He trusted him.

And now Ryan was paying the price. (point to one end, which is always present)

Eric wasn't ignoring him or retaliating by any means. He was acting as if nothing had happened at all, which made Ryan feel even worse. Eric would smile. He'd laugh and joke. But it wasn't the same because he'd look at Ryan with a grin that used to be genuine (I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where) and now was forced. In short, it was fake. It was as if Eric was saying Let's just forget about it, okay? I won't hold some immature grudge against you if you'd just act your age once in a while. And Ryan could only blame himself.

So, no. Ryan didn't want to see him. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd done something so incredibly scummy (and I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time) and he wanted to at least try to dig himself out of his grave.

He made up his mind.

Even as he recited and considered what he might say, he was already heading towards the locker rooms. He knew that if he dwelled on it for too long, he'd talk himself out of it; he'd cowardly accept Eric's gracious forgiveness and hope that time would heal his stupid mistakes.

But Eric deserved much better than Ryan's insignificant fears and self-doubts. He deserved something real and genuine.

So Ryan took a deep breath even as his hand pushed the locker room door open. With a quick glance around, he knew it was empty all except for one, just as he had hoped it would be and he thanked his undeserved lucky stars for this fortunate circumstance.

"Eric?" he called, his voice (words move, music moves) echoing off the bare tile walls. A slight shuffle was heard and a movement felt before Eric's voice said, "Over here, Ryan."

Ryan swallowed before following the voice, the vibration of sound waves traveling through the air. That's all sound was, really; amazing and complex all at once. Eric's voice, however, was more than just science. It was beauty, music, art; it was terrifying and it was all Ryan wanted to hear. (words, after speech, reach into the silence)

Ryan followed the words until he found Eric at his locker, changing from his lab coat back to what he had originally worn to work. In his mind, Ryan recited his new mantra of Don't think. Just ask. It sounded like a simple task; however, facing his foreseeable and imminent doom was beginning to cast doubt on every motivational thought he had believed not sixty seconds ago.

In other words, he was chickening out. And fast.

With Eric only half-clothed, Ryan figured the "don't think" part wouldn't be much of a problem. After all, no shirt equaled some serious brain function issues on his part. The "just ask" could prove to be a little more difficult.

"Hey man. What's up?" Eric asked when, after a long moment, Ryan didn't speak. (the old made explicit, understood)

The younger man simply stared back. In his mind, he tried to recall the steps of basic verbal communication. It had something to do with forming words and then, crazily enough, actually talking.

"Dinner," he replied.

This wasn't turning out as he had previously envisioned. All hopes of being suave or at least respectable were quickly draining away and being replaced by pre-evolutionary caveman response. Food. Fire. Kill. One-syllable words grunted to one another in order to convey a basic idea.

"I'm sorry?" Eric asked, not quite (love is itself unmoving) catching on and shooting Ryan a quizzical look. And how could Ryan really blame him? After all, he wasn't understanding it himself either.

Ryan took another breath, praying he could form a grammatically correct sentence with as little humiliation as possible.

"I want… I want to buy you dinner," he clarified, trying to meet the other man's eyes and finding it to be a daunting task.

"You do, do you?" Eric asked, grinning and shaking his head.

"Yes. Absolutely. Anything you want." Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets nervously, absentmindedly clicking some change around. "My shout."

Eric eyed him and after a long, insanity-inducing pause, he sighed.

"You know," he said, turning to shove his things in the locker, "As fun as it is to watch you squirm, you don't have to buy yourself out of this." (caught in the form of limitation)

This was yet another glitch in his plan. Great. So anxious he'd been to be calm and collected that he hadn't counted on being glaringly obvious. Still, he wouldn't go down without a fight. Or at least a brawl. Okay, maybe a sissy slap fest, but that wasn't the point here.

"Buy myself out of what?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He was sure that being ignorant was the one thing he could actually excel in. (time past and time future- allow but a little consciousness)

Eric gave Ryan another look, this time more of the Are you kidding me? variation.

Ryan knew the look. Eric was questioning his sanity, his common sense. But that had all broken away months ago. All he had was this lab and these people and this job. There was nothing else to separate him from the disturbed.

Instead, he stared at his perfectly polished shoes and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. All of this was falling apart. He had no escape route, no Plan B. He hadn't thought (to be conscious is not to be in time) that far ahead, which was so unlike his usual self. He always had a Plan C when the situation called for it. He wished he had one now.

But Eric was ever gracious. He didn't force it out of him; instead, he closed his locker door shut.

"Friends forgive each other. Don't do anything as stupid like leaking tox reports again and we'll be cool."

Ryan stood, swallowing what little pride he had left. "But the evidence… what I did-"

"Was selfish. You won't hear me argue that on that point, man. But it's okay. We all do things we regret."

"Eric… I didn't- I only meant-"

"Don't beat yourself up over this, Wolfe."

Eric smiled, a little more real this time, before moving towards the doorway. Ryan let him pass, silent and too ashamed to stop him from going any further. He could get out of this if he wanted; no scars and a pretty stable relationship with his friend, if Eric chose to be one.

Friend.

Ryan's heart dropped at the thought. Despite all this mess, Ryan still (not that only, but the co-existence) selfishly wanted more than just a friendship. He at least wanted to try. But that option was pretty much out the window, unless Eric considered stealing evidence and betraying a friendship as some bizarre romantic gesture.

Eric certainly wouldn't have any affection for him –not after this disaster, at least- but Ryan could at least do something decent to try to prove he meant his apology sincerely.

He turned quickly, following Eric's exit. He could just see the back of Eric's retreating form.

"Eric!"

The man stopped before turning at the call.

Ryan hurriedly approached him and threw caution to the wind. His Plan A was pretty much squashed. He was never one for improvising, but he knew that his Plan B couldn't be well thought out and elaborate. His only choice was to grab at a couple of straws and hope (the end precedes the beginning) for the best, as time permitted him no other option.

"I… I know this great Thai place," he began, his words rushed. "Friday nights they have a live band. I want you to come."

"Ryan, I told you-''

"I know what you said. Come anyway." Pause. Breathe. Just don't think. "Please."

Silence.

Ryan wondered if Eric could hear his heart hammering in his chest.

The silence was steadily approaching the unbearable. Eric was observing him, taking the offer and turning it around in his mind, running it through a mental lab and wondering if it was authentic or worth anything. Ryan looked up and finally managed (and all is always now) to meet his eyes. He wasn't graceful and he wasn't tactful either; for once, though, he just wanted to be brave and he wanted Eric to see it.

Finally, as if the spell was broken, Eric smiled.

"Only because you bullied me into it," he replied, which meant, miraculously, yes. He would meet Ryan at a restaurant Friday night. He'd listen. He'd give him the time of day. He might even forgive him.

And, once more, Ryan was at a loss when it came to plans. Unprepared. So he could only nod dumbly and ask, "Seven?" (words strain, crack and sometimes break, under the burden)

"Give me directions tomorrow morning and I'll meet you there."

Ryan smiled shakily. "Sounds great," he said, his breathing slowly returning to normal. "Tomorrow." And he turned away, feeling as if he just won something highly undeserved.

He wished he could feel guilty.

Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

Burnt Norton (Quartet #1), T.S. Eliot

***

Movement 2: Concerto and Concord

"So, Ryan. How are things going?" (in my beginning is my end)

"Hm?" Ryan asked, looking up from his microscope slides at Calleigh. She grinned and lifted a brow before strutting towards him, hands behind her back and a mischievous grin gracing her lips. It was moments like those that made Ryan feel as if he were the one on the slide; she could just put him under a microscope and dissect him into pieces, understand every thought (old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth) that ran through his head.

It wasn't a good feeling, but Ryan had long since learned to just shake it off.

"Uh-oh. I have a feeling your woman's intuition is starting to kick in," he stated lightly, flashing Calleigh a smile before turning back to his work.

"You are correct, Mr. Wolfe. Now are you going to tell me how things are going between you and Eric or will I have to beat it out of you?"

"As terrifying as that threat is, Cal, no beating is necessary."

"So he's forgiven you?"

"Strangely, yes."

"Uh-huh," Calleigh replied, leaning casually against the counter. "Hate to point out the obvious, but you're blushing like a madman."

Ryan felt his face flush deeper and, although the chances were slim, tried to play it off.

"He said it wasn't a big deal."

"Details or you die."

When the woman wanted gossip, she got it, inflicting bodily harm if the situation warranted it. It was, inevitably, a futile battle.

"Okay, fine," he muttered, not meeting her teasing gaze. "I asked him out to dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow night."

A very large, very beautiful (dawn points) smile began to grow and she gave him a playful shove.

"Look at you finally asking him out! I thought you'd never make your move."

He gave a small cough before grinning despite himself. "Thanks for the confidence boost, but these walls are glass and people here can read lips."

"Paranoid?"

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you."

"Well, I thing it's actually kind of sweet and romantic. If you exclude the part where you stole his eviden-''

"Can we not talk about that?" Ryan interrupted, shooting her a look. "Even if he doesn't… I mean, if he's not…" He took a breath, trying to form his words properly before they began twisting and turning too badly. "Even if he doesn't like me, I still want him to know I'm sorry and I'll refrain from being so incredibly stupid next time."

"That's a big promise, Ryan."

"So I've been told."

"Sure you can keep it?"

The future was the future and was always uncertain; her question regarding his morals was one he didn't want to answer. No one had ever had to question him before and it made him feel sick. It made him feel low. So he gave her a smile, attempting to charm her as much as he could, before he said the one thing he knew to be true.

"Of course I can keep it, Cal."

Because he could. (and another day- prepares for heat and silence)

…

The restaurant was actually connected to a car wash and it was, in every sense of the word, a hole in the wall. Those who ate there were devoted customers and Ryan had been known to frequent it at least once every two weeks. It was his comfort food; rare was the problem that couldn't be solved by some chicken panang curry and fried wontons. (you say I am repeating something I have said before)

He was nervous. He was beyond nervous- he was frenzied with the million possibilities that were piling up in his head. Rejection. Anger. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Hatred. He felt ready to tackle them all, because he'd been known to have a good game face on the patrol and rejection (I shall say it again) was something he'd dealt with many times before.

But Eric was different. And he'd somehow known this was going to be slightly more difficult.

He had arrived ten minutes early and found them a booth in the back where the lighting wasn't quite as bright and the conversations were softer. A waiter came and asked if he'd like to order; Ryan shook his head and ordered two ice teas instead.

And he waited. (so here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years)

Five minutes later, he knew there was nothing to worry about. After all, he had been the one to arrive early. The waiter passed by once more and asked if he was ready for a meal; Ryan shook his head. (trying to use words and every attempt)

When the clock struck seven, he understood that Miami traffic was the worst; it rivaled any other major city in the world. (is a wholly new start)

The waiter passed but didn't ask if he wanted anything to eat. Ryan began taking his straw wrapper and shredding it into tiny pieces. (and a different kind of failure)

At seven 'o five, Ryan knew he was just worrying too much. Eric was a good guy and would at least give him a call if he couldn't make it. (as we grow older)

At seven ten, he began tearing up the napkins as well and absentmindedly adding extra sugar in his tea even though he didn't particularly like sugary things; the waiter came by and gave him an odd look. (the world becomes stranger)

At seven fifteen, he vowed he would only wait five more minutes. (the pattern more complicated)

At eight o'clock, he left.

There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

East Coker (Quartet #2), T.S. Eliot

***

Movement 3: Interlude and Trio

It was still light out.

Even if the sun hadn't been glaring against the ocean water, Miami was never dark anyway. There was always a party, a celebration, a reason for the beautiful citizens to gather together and celebrate their wealth while mothers in the Sudan fed their children tree leaves in order to keep them from starving to death.

(where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing)

Ryan walked. He had taken a cab but he didn't feel like riding; he wanted to stretch and absorb the sun. He craved air. But more than anything, he needed to correlate his thoughts. That's what he always did in situations like these; made sure his thoughts were all together so he could understand (there is no end, but addition) a situation and then respond to it. Eric stood him up. But that was fine, because there were a dozen different reasons as to why he couldn't make it.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard his cell phone ring. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? He mentally slapped himself; moping never got anyone anywhere. Despite the fact that it could have been Eric on the other end of the line with an excuse and a promise to meet him later, Ryan knew it wasn't.

He sighed and flipped it open.

"Wolfe," he answered.

"How's it going? Am I interrupting something?" It was the excited voice of one Calleigh Duquesne. "Are you talking it out? Are you at the restaurant?"

Ryan had to give her points for enthusiasm and he fought back a small smile. He could lie (the past has another pattern and ceases to be a mere sequence) but then she might bring it up again in front of Eric and that could only lead to more complications.

"I was."

"Was? Where are you guys now? Your place? Should I hang up?"

Ryan shook his head despite the fact that she wasn't there to see it. "No. No, I left."

"What? You left him at the Thai place?"

Ryan was going to reply and make it as blameless as possible. After all, he seriously doubted he would meet himself for dinner either.

The next words were dreaded but expected. She did, after all, have a keen women's intuition. It never took her long to solve the mystery when it came to non-existent love lives and those who lived them. "Oh. Oh, Ryan. I'm sorry." Her voice was soft and genuinely pained. He grimaced (a means of disowning the past) and swore under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for Calleigh to lead a campaign against Eric.

"It's nothing, Cal," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Traffic's terrible and work probably called. There's a lot of things that could have happened."

"Yeah," she replied, no longer bright, chipper; her normal, sparkling self had all but vanished. "He probably had his reasons."

"Definitely."

"You should head home and get some rest."

"Sounds like a great idea."

"See you Monday?"

"Of course. I'll be there."

"Okay." Her voice seemed (lying awake, calculating the future) uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether to leave the conversation as it was. "Have a great weekend."

"You too. And don't worry, Cal."

"Worried? Who said I was worried?"

"You always worry."

He could almost see her leaning against a wall in her apartment or curling up in a chair, wondering (we had the experience but missed the meaning) how she could solve this mess for them. "Guilty as charged. Hey, maybe tomorrow we can go to a club or something! I haven't been out in ages. Have you?"

"Call me up," he agreed even though he hated clubs. He knew this was her way of trying to cheer him up; a way to make him forget for a few hours. He could dance, drink, meet other people who might possibly spike his interest in a place where the music was too loud and the smoke was too heavy and where it was too dark to see anything. "I'll be there."

So she said goodbye.

And he headed home.

The sun finally set.

Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus.

The Dry Salvages (Quartet #3), T.S. Eliot

***

Movement 4: Duet and Finale

Ryan didn't know what it felt like to go crazy, but he had a feeling (reflecting in a watery mirror) that it wasn't going to be long before he found out. Insanity was a tricky devil; it silently begins to attack the victim and creep into everyday actions; it flowed around in the blood stream and veins. It spoke. It gestured. It acted.

Insanity was contagious and Eric had spread the disease. His not showing up (if you came this way) had caused it; there were a ton of reasons that could explain why Eric never arrived, most of which were logical and quite possible. But nevertheless, he didn't come and the delirium that had always been lying dormant within Ryan was making up for lost time.

The first symptom made itself known immediately after he left the restaurant: denial. Of course there was a reason Eric didn't show up. Work. Traffic. Emergency. Or, quite possibly, the fact he didn't want to come (taking the route you would be likely to take) at all. The point was that Ryan was trying to tell himself that he wasn't hurt; this little detour meant absolutely nothing. Nadda. Zip. Eric hadn't wanted to come and Ryan could deal with that.

Ryan had gone home and changed into his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and didn't even bother to put his clothes in the hamper. No, he just let them lay on the floor. Symptom number two was beginning to infect him: loss of will to move and the inability to acknowledge the biting fact that his OCD inclinations were killing him. The clothes needed to be in the hamper. But he wasn't going to put them there. This caused quite the mental war.

It was an hour later that the third and worst symptom had arrived: delusions. (from the place you would be likely to come from)

When Ryan heard the doorbell, he ignored the gnawing hope that it could be Eric. It was probably the annoying neighbor in 4E, the one who was constantly stopping by to try and sell life insurance. "You're a law enforcement officer," he'd argue. "I'm sure your wife would want you to have a decent policy. It's the right thing to do." Maybe it was the nice old lady in 4J who always wanted to stop and chat. Or maybe, since he was going clinically insane, it was his great aunt who had died or his uncle who no longer existed among the living.

But when he peered through the peephole and actually saw Eric standing there, all thoughts of insanity disappeared like ghosts. His mind quickly began sorting his concerns and notions, filing them back to their specific order. The fact that Eric was there (if you came by day not knowing what you came for) was enough to send him falling right back down to Earth, back to the blue pearl that hung in space by a string.

He couldn't seem to open the door fast enough.

And there they were. Facing each other, as if dueling, as if maybe they were counting to ten to see who could draw the quickest. Both were silent, hoping to read each other's minds. Only then would they not actually have to speak.

"Hi." (taking any route)

"Hi." (starting from anywhere)

Though not the most intelligent conversation, it was still a conversation for all intents and purposes. Ryan took a small breath before opening his door.

"The hallway gets uncomfortable after a while," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "Want to come in?"

All Eric could mange was a smile in reply before accepting the offer. Ryan closed the door behind him and knew Eric was taking in his surroundings, observing how and where the bane of his existence resided.

"Nice place," the older man commented. "It's way too clean for me though. I'd have to un-alphabetize the books and skew some pictures around."

Ryan laughed before turning to face him. "I had the feeling you were going to say that. Sorry. I'm a neat freak."

Eric shook his head, making a small "tut" sound with his tongue in disapproval. "Always apologizing, Wolfe. We're going to have to fix that. However," he said, holding up a plastic bag, "Before we fix anything, I come bearing food."

"It's from the Thai restaurant," Ryan stated before his mind could tell him not to.

Eric looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. I just got whatever everyone else seemed to be eating. I don't know what half of it is."

"Then let's see." Ryan took the bag from Eric's hands and led them over to his dining table. He began to pull out white Styrofoam boxes, peaking into each one and listing what was inside before setting them down. "Pad thai. Spring rolls. Green curry," he said, appreciatively. "It's all good. Hopefully you bought enough for both of us," he continued lightly before turning and entering his small kitchen, gathering two sets (would have to put off sense and notion) of forks and plates. "Want something to drink? Before you ask, I don't have any beer."

"No beer? That's a basic food group."

"It's nasty. Reminds of urine samples."

"You're completely ruining my appreciation of beer, dude. Got any soda?"

"Gingerale."

"Sounds good. We're just going to have to work on your shopping habits."

"I think your habits are the ones that need improvement."

They sat at the table across from one another, neither able to look each other square in the eye. Ryan wasn't quite sure what to (dust in the air suspended) say and Eric apparently wasn't sure either; instead, Ryan forked the food onto the plates and Eric took his with a quiet "thanks".

Ryan watched as Eric gave the green curry on his plate a wary look before taking a small bite, as if he were a child who didn't like vegetables. There was a pause before he took another bite. "This is good. What is it again?" he asked as Ryan laughed and shook his head.

"It's mainly chicken, rice, and coconut milk. You chose pretty well for a guy who probably couldn't pronounce what he was ordering."

"You give me way too little credit, man. I told the guy to give me whatever was on special and some spring rolls. The term "special of the day" is universal."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'd better. A CSI needs to know this stuff."

There was another lull in the conversation and they mainly ate in silence. The ticking of clock hands could be heard; Ryan winced at the sheer magnitude of the quiet that was between them. Ryan tapped his foot nervously underneath the table as he waited for the other man to say something.

And exactly two minutes and thirty seven seconds later, he did.

"So… how long did you wait?" Eric asked, not looking up to see the look on Ryan's face, the hurt in his eyes, the frown on his lips. Ryan swallowed and shrugged, hoping not to make a huge deal out of it.

"Just a couple of minutes."

"Ten?"

"Fifteen. It's not a big deal."

"You waited way longer than fifteen minutes, Ryan."

"Twenty then. I lost track of time, but it wasn't that bad."

"Cal called. You left that place at eight. You sat there an hour."

Ryan let out a laugh, truly amused and nervous, slightly hysterical and pained. "Did she call you? She really is a wonder. The woman can't let us sort out our own affairs."

"Mainly because we can't sort out our own affairs."

"True. But it's really not a big deal. I didn't mind."

"I stood you up."

"For good reason. I've done much worse to you."

"In case you didn't notice, Wolfe, this is my apology dinner. I'm bribing you with food."

"I know. And it's a very good bribe. Consider yourself successful."

Eric cast a careful look Ryan's direction when he heard those words. "So we're okay?" he asked, uncertain and unsure. "Whatever's been going on… we're on the same page, right?"

Ryan looked up from his food and gave him a small smile. In the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't say it: he could never admit the crazy thoughts that often crashed violently in his head or the emotions that often battled ruthlessly within his conscious. But that didn't matter; he and Eric were friends now and they would stay that way. He was selfish (marks the place where a story ended) to want anything more.

"You're okay with me. Am I okay with you?" A ridiculous question, but Eric understood what he meant.

Eric laughed at the question, rolling his eyes and slightly exasperated. "For the last time, yes. I promise."

"So I'll see you Monday?"

"Like clockwork."

They rose from their seats, Ryan following Eric to the door, the younger man's mind kicking and screaming, telling him to stop him before he could leave. Their meal was only half eaten but that hadn't been the point. The point was that he would forever be stuck in an exhausting cycle: wake, pretend, sleep. That was life most of the time.

Eric's hand touched the door handle and stayed there for a moment. Ryan looked up to see Eric's eyes; within them there was a war. Words, common sense, pieces of memories racing around, meaning nothing and meaning everything. (in the uncertain hour before the morning)

It was a silence that was heavy and Ryan wanted to break it by somehow saying something. Anything. He'd burst into song if he had to, if that's what it would take.

"Ryan," Eric said slowly, turning and leaning against the closed door, "We talked." Another internal struggle; Ryan knew what those felt like all too well. "But I don't think we discussed… everything."

Everything? To discus everything would mean to include the truth and Ryan knew for a fact that there was no way he could manage to say the words. He could barely remember his own name or birth date or day of the week; proximity with the other man was making him (in concord at this intersection)forget all things but one: his mistakes with Eric. There were too many and it was too late.

"I think we got everything," Ryan said, hoping his voice wouldn't crack or show his inner turmoil, his lost mind.

He didn't want this to be the place and time where their friendship would be irreversibly ruined.

"Ryan-''

"There's nothing to talk about. Honest."

"Ryan, listen to m-''

Ryan turned away and shook his head, backing away. "Don't," he warned. "Don't complicate it. The things I did were my fault and I'll take the blame. But I didn't mean to do anything that would intentionally hurt you." Words were spilling out, all the things he had been meaning to say. He had gotten started and only some sort of lethal weapon could stop him now. "So fine. I'm here to say that I'm sorry, okay? I messed up. I've messed up a lot. I can't take it back but I can try and fix it." His words were laced and colored with anger; anger that he couldn't voice (of all that you have done) what was really bothering him.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Ryan."

"Mistakes?" Ryan asked, looking up at the other man incredulously. "Mistakes? I make catastrophes! I make it so that Horatio has to hide from news crews and crushed blood samples. I make it so that Valera gets suspended. I steal evidence! Your evidence! How can you tell me it's a mistake when I've taken something of yours?" (the shame of motives late revealed)

He was on a roll.

And he was breaking into a million pieces.

"So that's what you've been so upset over?"

Ryan took a deep breath. "Some of it."

"And was this little moment of talkative insanity therapeutic?"

"A little."

"You got anything else to say?"

"No, that's about it."

"Good. Because now it's my turn."

The thing about Eric was that he was calm, always. There wasn't much that ruffled his feathers besides potential exploding bombs and guns being blasted in random, life-threatening directions.

"I think there's been something going on between us. Has what I think been happening… happening?" he asked slowly. Ryan paled and ignored the feeling of sickness that was clamoring around in his gut. (this is the use of memory)

"I'm sorry?" A moment to truly say what he felt was presenting itself. A situation wasn't being forced; it was already there. The only thing he had to do was speak.

Eric leaned casually against the door. "Between us," he clarified. "Our problems. They're not just because of tox reports."

Even as he was speaking, Eric's right hand reached out and (for liberation—not less of love but expanding) softly grabbed hold of the side of Ryan's shirt. He pulled him slowly forward and was met with little resistance.

"Tox reports?" Ryan echoed. "No. Yes. Those are our problems," he whispered even as their lips inched closer, Eric amused at Ryan's inability to speak properly. But all Ryan was certain of was that this wasn't some far off dream. It wasn't an idle thought. (of love beyond desire)

And finally, their lips brushed softly. Then again.

Eric's hands were on Ryan's arms; Ryan was leaning against him, not trusting himself to stand without collapsing. The kisses were hot, sensual, slow and Ryan heard himself whisper Eric's name quietly. It was all he wanted.

It was all he had ever wanted.

Words. Words were nothing. Movement, motion; that's all there was. It was the only thing that changed the courses of lives. And this turn was undeserved; at least, that's what Ryan thought.

"Our problems,'' Ryan began, pulling away for only a moment. "And work-'' The disapproving looks of his co-workers (minus the excited squeal of Calleigh) and the trouble they were bound to stir made him pause for only a moment.

"Are nothing," Eric finished before he switched off the lights.

History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

Little Gidding (Quartet #4), T.S. Eliot

Fin.