Title: Unknown
Author: Lament
Pairing: Speed/OMC slash, Speed/Eric slash, Speed/Horatio friendship
Fandom: CSI: Maimi
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Spoilers: None yet. Take place after "Innocent," but no references to the episode.
Warnings: WiP, domestic abuse. Nothing graphic, but it's in there.
Author's Notes: This will eventually be Speed/Eric slash. However, I will also concentrate a fair amount on the friendship between Speed and Horatio. Basically, this is primarily Speed's story. The slash is integral to the story, but the prime focus is on Speed and his conflicts.
Author's Notes2: In my universe, he's still alive. Period.
Summary: Speed's personal life begins to crumble while working on a case.

***

Chapter 1

-----

Leaning against the cold metal of my locker, I shut my eyes tightly, trying and failing to ward off the throbbing in my head.

We just wrapped up a case today. An old woman was found murdered in her sewing room, shot. I felt bad for her husband, a sweet little old man. When I first arrived on scene a few days ago, he stood there, tears running down his face, telling me he'd lost his love, and that life wasn't worth living anymore.

And I believed him. Me, the team cynic.

Turns out, the grieving husband had shot his wife of forty years because he's in love with the woman who gives violin lessons to his grandson. What the hell? Whatever happened to leaving someone if you don't love them?

Shaking my head, I slam the ball of my hand into my locker. Damn. Not the smartest thing I've ever done. Now I have a nasty pain in my hand to go with the one in my head.

Suddenly, Eric appears beside me. "Hey," he says cheerfully, "what'd that locker do to you?"

I just glare at him, as I massage my aching hand.

Eric gets the message and shrugging, turns to his own locker. Singing to himself, he pulls out some belongings, and then swings the locker door closed.

Then, as if suddenly inspired, he reaches out and pats me on the shoulder. "Hey. Cal and I are grabbing a bite to eat. We're thinking seafood. Wanna come with?"

Honestly, I don't know how they do it. I don't know how they can just pack away the events of the day and scurry off to eat seafood at some trendy hotspot.

I just want to crawl home and lie in bed until my head stops pounding.

"No thanks," I say, shaking my head.

"Oh, come on," Eric coaxes. "What are you going to do? Sit alone and brood?"

"Maybe I have plans," I say, sounding a little more hurt than I intended.

Eric smiles as if he just found out it's Christmas. "You have plans? With who?"

I'm pretty sure Eric thinks I'm making the whole thing up, but I really do have plans. And considering how late I've been working the past week, I'd better not show up late tonight.

"None of your business," I say.

"No," he grins. "You've got to give me something. Who is this mystery lady?"

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. This conversation is taking me somewhere I don't want to go. Especially not with Eric. I've managed to keep Mark a secret for months. I don't think I can handle this thing I have with him becoming public knowledge right now.

I stand there for a long moment, not saying anything. Pretty soon, I hear footsteps padding toward us. I'm guessing it's H, but I don't turn around to find out. Even though I know better, I'm hoping he'll ignore me.

"Hi guys," H says amiably. He turns and gazes at me, as if he's sizing me up. "Did I hear something about a mystery lady?"

Before I can answer, Eric says, "Speedle here has a new love in his life."

"I said I had plans," I snap, "I never said I had a girlfriend."

I must have sounded a little harsher than I meant to, because both H and Eric and staring at me.

Finally, Eric smiles warmly. "Sorry, man. If you change your mind, I've got my cell phone."

I feel terrible letting Eric walk away. As lousy as I feel, it'd be nice to go out for a while. Eric and I don't hang out as much as we used to, and as cheesy as it sounds, I miss him.

H and I watch Eric disappear out the door. Then, H turns to me and says, "So, Speed. How are you doing?"

I bite my bottom lip. I'm on thin ice with H right now. My nerves have been frayed lately, and so I've been what Calleigh calls, "surlier than usual." During this last case, I very nearly got into a shouting match with our victim's son when he found out we were going to charge his father with murder. I wound up in Horatio's office for that one. Not to mention I've called off work more these last two months than I've called off my whole career.

I shrug. "I'm fine."

Undeterred, he says, "This was a rough case, huh?"

"They're all rough, y'know?"

"Yes. Yes they are." H puts his hands on his hips. "Listen," he says. "I was wondering if you want to grab some dinner. We can talk."

A heart-to-heart with Horatio Caine. This I don't need.

"Actually, H," I say, "I do have plans. I wasn't making that up."

He smiles. "All right then. But listen," he says quietly, "if you decide you want to talk, let me know."

As I watch him leave, I'm tempted to stop him, tell him I've changed my mind. But instead, I let out a long breath and get ready to head off to meet Mark.

***

Chapter 2

-----

"You should've seen this guy, Speed. Calleigh practically had him in tears."

Delko came in to work completely jazzed about his great evening last night. Apparently, he and Calleigh went club-hopping after dinner. I can't picture Calleigh in the middle of a techno dance club, but Eric swears it happened. So he's been reliving it for me all morning.

"Y'know?"

I stare blankly at Delko. "What?"

He grimaces. "I said you need to come out with us this weekend. Calleigh's interested in the whole club thing now. She says it's great people-watching."

Staring purposefully at a stray piece of wilted lettuce from my sandwich, I say, "I don't know. Maybe."

Frowning, Eric asks, "What's been wrong with you lately? You're living like a hermit."

"I said maybe," I snap.

Eric ignores me and presses on. "I mean, yeah, I get the whole loner routine. I know you like to go home and read or whatever, but you used to grace us with your presence once in a while."

Biting my bottom lip, I say, "I might have plans. Get off my back."

Actually, I should probably be happy Delko's being such a pain in the ass about my not coming around. It's good to know someone gives a damn.

"Okay," Eric says with a frustrated sigh, "well, can you pencil me in next month? There's this Cuban band playing at a little dive I know."

I take a bite of my sandwich, and then I return my attention to the now balled-up piece of lettuce. "I don't know, Delko. I want to. It's just…I can't make any promises." I shrug and lean back against my seat, wincing as the back of my shoulder connects with the chair

Narrowing his eyes, Eric asks, "You okay?"

"Slept wrong," I say quickly, scooting forward so my sore shoulder isn't pressing against the chair. "I'm a little stiff."

Just then, H and Calleigh breeze into the break room. H is in full CSI mode, so I'm guessing we have a body somewhere.

"Okay, people," H says. "I'm sorry to interrupt your lunches, but we have a two dbs." He looks intently at me, and then he glances at Delko and Calleigh. I can see where this is going. "All right. All right, let's do this: Eric, you and Calleigh work together. Calleigh will fill you in. Speed, you're with me."

I nod. Figures. H wants me with him, where he can keep an eye on me.

As Eric and I dump our leftovers and plates into the trash, Calleigh walks up to me. "Tim, you missed a fun night."

"Delko said you made a guy cry," I say.

She smiles, a trace of pride ghosting across her face. "Well, he wouldn't take no for an answer."

As Calleigh and I chat, H walks up. "Let's get going, Speed. Alexx is meeting us on the scene."

Eric grins. "Oh, I see. You guys get Alexx. Who are we stuck with?"

Smiling, H says, "Good luck, guys. Keep me posted."

-----

Half an hour later, H and I arrive at the scene, an upscale suburban house with a manicured lawn.

As we step out of the Hummer, H turns to me. "So, how was last night?"

"Fine," I say.

"What did you wind up doing?" H asks casually.

Licking my bottom lip, I say, "Actually, I went home and crashed."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

H and I bypass a small crowd of curious neighbors and enter the house. The vic is in the kitchen, sprawled next the stove. Alexx is crouching next to the body, observing the wound. When she notices H and me, she smiles. "Hi, guys. Just in time. I'm about done." She turns to the body and shakes her head. "Poor thing. You probably just got your license."

"Cause of death?" H asks, bending over to get a closer look.

Standing up awkwardly, Alexx says, "Massive blood loss. He was stabbed twice in the back, once in the abdomen. His parents went to Tallahassee for a few days, so they didn't get home until this morning. By then, their baby had bled out."

I walk over and scan the counter. One knife is missing from the knife block. It could be in the dishwasher, but it could also be our murder weapon. "Hey, H," I say. "Missing knife."

"All right," he says, "Check out the kitchen. See if it turns up. And check out the others for blood."

"I'm on it."

As I gingerly pull each of the remaining knives out of the block to test them for blood, Frank Tripp walks up. He nods to both H and me, and then, exhaling, he says, "Our db is Brendan Carver. He was a Junior in high school. Sang in the choir."

"Any witnesses?" H asks.

"No one saw anything," Tripp says.

"Figures," I mumble to myself.

H glances at me, and then turns back to Tripp. "Did Brendan have any enemies?"

"Not according to the parents. Mom and Dad said he had a lot of friends. Said he had a girlfriend." Tripp flips open his memo pad. "Her name is Maggie Donahue. Lives about four blocks from here."

"Okay," H says, placing his hands on his hips, "We'll have to talk to her. Speed, how are the knives coming?"

"No blood on the remaining knives," I say. "No sign of the missing one. It's not in the dishwasher or the sink."

"All right, Speed. Keep looking." He turns to Tripp. "Any sign of forced entry?"

Tripp shakes his head. "No. And no open windows. When the parents got home, the back door was unlocked. They said that was unusual."

"So, it's possible that Brendan knew his killer. Maybe he had a friend over, and maybe he argued with his friend."

Shrugging, Tripp says, "And maybe he came home, forgot to lock the door. I have to get on my kids about the door all the time. 'Course…it doesn't look like anything's missing. That rules out robbery."

Closing the last drawer, I trudge over to H and Tripp. "No knife. I tested a letter opener, a couple of pie servers, and a broken bottle I found in the trash. No sign of blood, but I want to take the bottle back to the lab."

"Bag it," H says.

-----

Two hours later, H and I arrived back at the lab. We found no sign of the missing knife, but we did find drops of blood heading out the back door. They're gravitational drops, so the bleeder was probably standing. By the time Brendan Carver was stabbed, he was in no shape to walk around, so we're guessing the bleeder is also the killer. Probably cut himself while he or she was killing Carver.

We also found several footprints in the back yard. Most of them are pretty degraded, but we got two good ones. One footprint belonged to our vic. The other, however, is from a size 12 athletic shoe. I matched it to one of the trendier basketball shoes—definitely something a kid would wear. Not just any kid—a jock.

"Hey!"

I jump a little bit, startled. "Would you not do that, Delko."

Eric grins. "It's not my fault you get so wrapped up in your work." Tapping his watch, he says, "Shift's over. H says to wrap up whatever you're doing, get out of here, and relax."

"H says that?" I say suspiciously.

Eric nods. "Come on. Let's grab dinner." He holds up his hand when I start to argue. "You know you need to relax when a workaholic like H tells you to go home."

Delko's not going to drop this. If I go out for a quick bite to eat, maybe that'll pacify him.

"Come on," he says. "We threw out most of our lunch."

Exhaling, I lean forward on the counter. "I'm not going clubbing afterward."

Grinning victoriously, Eric says, "Just food. I'll get you home, tucked in bed before you know it."

"Smart ass," I say with mock-irritation. "Wait for me in the lobby. I have to lock up this evidence."

***

Chapter 3

Author's Notes: A word about Speed's POV in this chapter: Please remember that he is not in a good state of mind. Much of his logic regarding his situation is flawed!

-----

"So, tell me you'll think about the Cuban band."

Eric looks hopefully at me while he twists the last of his fettuccine onto his fork. He takes the forkful of pasta, dips it into what's left of his salad dressing, and then shovels the whole concoction into his mouth.

"Why do you do that?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Why do I do what?" Eric asks.

"Why do you dip your fettuccine into your salad dressing?" I point at the empty salad plate. "I've been trying to figure that out all night."

Grinning, Eric leans back in his chair. "It's good. I don't know. I've done that since I was a kid."

I shake my head. "The fettuccine has sauce on it already."

Eric laughs. "I'm glad we did this, Speed," he says. "It's good to have you around to ask the important questions."

"Funny," I say.

I'm glad we did this, too, though. I've missed spending time with Eric. I've missed everybody actually. I mean, I've never exactly been a social butterfly, but it's nice to just hang out and relax with friends once in a while.

Taking a sip of my lemonade, I glance at my watch. Cool. I've still got a little while before Mark gets home.

"Why do you do that?" Eric asks.

I let out a breath. "I'm meeting somebody later. Don't worry. I have plenty of time."

"So," Eric says slowly. "Who are you meeting? I mean, you've been hinting around that there's someone special. When are we going to meet this person?"

Licking my bottom lip, I say, "All right. You win. I'm seeing someone." I pop a piece of pepper into my mouth and say, "I'm just not ready to go public."

"That's cool," Eric says. "I've just been trying to figure out what's been going on with you."

"Nothing's been going on with me. I'm fine."

Eric opens his mouth as if he's going to disagree, but instead, he nods. "Okay," he says. "So, the Cuban band?"

I raise my eyebrows. "If I say I'll go with you, will you stop bugging me?"

Eric grins. "If you don't, I'll bug you mercilessly all month." He reaches across the table, and smacks my arm. "I need you with me, so I look even hotter to all the ladies, you know?"

"So, I'm a date-getter?" I say, fighting the temptation to smile.

"The term is 'wing-man'," he says proudly.

It's times like these I start to question my relationship with Mark. Don't get me wrong. I love him, and I know he loves me. But when I'm with Eric, I feel almost free, like I can do no wrong. With Mark, I sometimes feel like I'm walking on eggshells. Most of the time, he's great, but sometimes…

Granted, most of that's my doing, though. Like last night…I knew he'd had a hard day, and I should've given him more attention. But I was tired and sore, and I wasn't there for him. It wasn't his fault he lost his temper with me. Still, he called me this morning to apologize even though he didn't have to.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I were with Eric instead of Mark. Okay, that's dangerous thinking. I'm pretty sure Eric is totally straight. But even if he wasn't, there are so many reasons why it would never work. For one thing, I don't think I could stand to let my guard down around Eric. I try really hard keep my defenses up around everyone, but especially Eric. I couldn't stand to look weak to him.

I feel my cell phone vibrate, so I pull it out of my pocket.

Mark.

"Hang on a sec," I say to Eric, and then into the phone, I say, "Hey."

"Hey!" Mark says cheerfully, "You still at work?"

I shift in my seat. "I'm on my way home. I missed lunch, so I stopped to get something."

"Oh," he says. "Okay. Well, I just got to your place. Want me to meet you?"

"No, I'm about done." The last thing I need is for Mark to find me with Eric.

"Well, we could go out or something. How about a movie?"

"I'm really tired," I say. "I'll just come home."

Mark is dead silent for a long couple of seconds. Finally, he asks, "Are you with someone?"

I take in a deep breath, and then exhale. "Yeah, a co-worker."

"So, you're not that tired," Mark says evenly.

"I'm on my way home," I say. "If you want to go to a movie…"

I glance up at Eric, who's watching me intently.

Mark lets out a frustrated sigh. "I just don't understand why you were trying to hide it from me. I mean, I'd love to meet your friends."

"I know," I try to soothe, "I just…I've had a hard day. New case."

Mark understands what I do for a living. I'd just been through an emotionally-draining case when we met, so he saw me when I was really vulnerable. Because of that, I can sometimes get a little slack if I tell him I'm having problems at work.

After a long pause, Mark says, "We'll talk about this when you get home, all right?"

"All right."

Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I keep my eyes down, trying to avoid Eric's gaze.

Swallowing, I bite my bottom lip. Mark's tone of voice is unreadable. I can't tell if he's still upset with me, or if he's concerned about my hard day at work. I guess I'll find out when I get home.

"Hey, Delko," I say, still averting my eyes, "I have to get home."

"You all right?" Eric asks, concern lacing his voice.

"Yeah." I point at the phone. "Got off early. We're going to do something."

"Okay, man," he says.

As I walk toward the counter to pay my bill, Eric calls after me. "Hey, Tim."

"Yeah?"

"You need anything, you call me, all right? Day or night."

We lock eyes for a second, and I almost think he knows the truth. Breaking Eric's gaze, I say, "Thanks, Delko. But I'm a big boy."

***

Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Again, Speed is in a fragile state of mind. Much of his logic regarding his situation is flawed.

-----

"Tim, let me in." Mark knocks softly on the bathroom door. "I know you're bleeding."

Whose fault is that?

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with my back pressed up against the locked door. Glancing down at the already-darkening bruise on my right wrist, I gingerly twist it around to make sure it's not broken. Slowly, my gaze drifts to my other arm. A small but bleeding gash on my forearm is throbbing pretty good now. I should probably put something on it, but I don't have the energy to move.

After a few moments, Mark knocks on the door again. "Tim, say something so I know you're okay."

I'm not okay. How can I say I'm okay?

"I'm okay, Mark," I mumble.

I hear Mark let out a sigh of…relief? "Let me in so I can see your arm," he says quietly.

"Just need a minute," I say, "Gotta…figure some things out."

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, Tim," Mark says, his voice shaking. "I never meant to hurt you."

I want to tell him to get the hell out of my apartment, but instead, I hear myself say, "I know. It's not your fault."

Almost against my will, I drag my body into a standing position and open the door.

Mark immediately reaches out, scoops me into his muscled arms, and squeezes me tight. "I'm so sorry," he says, burying his face in my neck. "I didn't mean to do this."

I let myself go slack against Mark's body. I'm so tired. It's like I don't have an ounce of energy left. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. I don't care about my arm, or Mark, or my career. I just want to sleep.

Releasing me from his embrace, Mark nudges me into the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up," he says.

"Okay," I mumble.

I stand completely in a daze while Mark cleans my wound. He washes the cut, puts some kind of cream on it, and then rummages around my closet for some gauze. As he wraps my arm, he yammers on about how we're both overworked and he only gets jealous because he loves me.

Whatever.

I don't know. Maybe Mark's right. I just came off a rough case, and he works long hours. We're bound to be on edge. Besides, I know I'd get jealous if I found out Mark was having dinner with a good-looking co-worker.

"You know, Tim," Mark says, "I think we're going to have to go to the ER. This cut's bleeding pretty bad. You're gonna need some stitches."

I nod, "Okay."

Mark pulls a tissue from the box sitting on the hamper and dabs at his eyes. "Tim, I'm so sorry. I know I have a temper—"

I cut him off, "It's all right. You were hurt."

Taking a step forward, Mark places a hand on each of my shoulders. "It's not going to happen again, Tim," he says, his voice cracking. "This is the last time."

And I believe him.

---

Mark and I were at the ER most of the night. They were packed, so we had to wait for what seemed like days. Finally, Mark went over to the receptionist and got in her face. He told her that his boyfriend was bleeding, and someone needed to get it in gear and do something before he bled to death.

That must've rattled their cages, because they ushered me into back and sewed up my arm.

I got the usual array of questions. How did I hurt my arm? Where did all the bruises come from? Did I want Mark to leave the room?

Mark told them I'd been working on my bike when it tipped over on me. Or something. I don't remember. The whole thing seems surreal.

We finally got home about an hour ago. Mark made me a bite to eat while I vegged out on the couch.

Now, we're just sitting here, neither of us saying anything. I hate it when it's like this.

"Mark," I say, shattering the uncomfortable silence, "I have to get ready for work."

"You're exhausted," he says, "We were at that damn hospital all night."

"Yeah. Yeah, but we started a new case. I gotta go in, y'know?"

"Listen," Mark says, kissing me on the cheek, "Why don't we play hooky from work today? We can get some sleep, and then hit a few bookstores, eat at that BBQ place I was telling you about."

H will kill me if I call off work again. "I don't know. We just started a case."

Mark nudges me. "C'mon," he coaxes, "We need to spend some time together. I'm sorry about last night. I just…" He trails off.

I stare a Mark's puppy-dog eyes and finally let out a breath. "Okay. Hand me my cell."

After Mark hands me my phone, I dial the number for headquarters. The new girl at the front desk—Meg?—answers.

"Yeah," I say, "This is Tim Speedle. I want to leave a message for Horatio Caine."

"Would you like me to transfer you?"

I shift uncomfortably. "Ah, I don't think so. Just tell him I'm not feeling well today, and I won't be coming in."

"Umm…" she says cautiously, "I'm going to have to transfer you."

Damn. I can usually get away with just talking to whoever's at the desk.

After a moment's silence, H picks up. "Caine," he says.

"Hey, it's me," I say, wincing at the sound of H's voice.

"Hey, Speed," he says pleasantly. "What's up?"

I glance at Mark, who's staring hopefully at me. "I won't be in today."

"What's up?" H asks. His tone of voice is gentle, but I detect a note of disappointment.

"I'm not feeling well," I say. Which isn't untrue. I feel like crap.

"Well, I really need you here, Speed."

"I know," I say. "But…I'm nauseous and I have a fever."

I hate lying to H.

"How high?"

"103."

H clears his throat. "Have you been to a doctor?"

"Yeah," I say. That's true. I just didn't see him for a fever. "Actually, I went to the ER."

"What did the doctor say?"

Licking my bottom lip, I say, "That I need to rest. And I should drink lots of fluids."

"Okay," he says, sounding unconvinced. "Do you want someone to stop by? Go to the pharmacy for you or anything?"

"No," I say, "I'm good. I went there after I went to the ER."

"Good," H sighs, "Well, I'll call later. See how you're doing."

-----

After we got some sleep, Mark and I rummaged around several Miami-area bookstores, finally winding up at one of my favorite used book shops. Mark bought me a biography and an old archeology textbook. "What? Changing careers?" He laughed.

Mark can be a lot of fun. And he can be the gentlest person in the world. Most of the time.

Now, Mark and I are at a BBQ place near the beach. He's been telling me about this place for a while. It's cool. It's got those beamed ceilings and the chairs are comfortable. No verdict on the food yet. We're still waiting.

"Are you glad we did this?" Mark asks.

I smile. "Yeah. It's been fun."

Just then, I feel my phone vibrate. I figure it's H, checking up on me.

"Hey, Speed," the voice on the other end says, "How are you feeling?"

I was right. It's Horatio.

"I'm feeling kind of sick," I say. "Headache."

"Maybe I should come by," he says, "Bring you something."

"Uh…no," I say quickly, "I'm just gonna see if I can sleep. I'm feeling better than I was."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to be at work tomorrow?" H asks.

"Oh, yeah," I say.

Why wouldn't I? By then, I'll be magically cured of my nausea and fever.

"Okay," H says, "Well, I'll see you then. Try and get better."

-----

The next day, I race into headquarters, nearly colliding with Valera.

"Sorry," I yell, as I barrel toward the locker room. I overslept; consequently, I'm twenty minutes late. If I keep this up, H is going to fire me.

When I finally make it to the lab, H is sorting through stack of papers. He glances up when I burst in.

"Sorry I'm late, H," I say.

"It's okay," he says, gazing at me. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Fever gone?"

"Yeah." I sit down beside him. "So what's going on?"

H cocks his head. "What kind of antibiotics did the doctor put you on?"

Damn.

"Uh, none. I just stayed in bed. It was a bug."

H lets out a breath. "Really? I thought you went to the pharmacy after you went to the ER."

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Right," I say, searching my mind for a believable lie, "I bought a few sports drinks. Fluids."

"Oh," he says. "Good thinking. So, you just stayed in bed all day yesterday?" H's tone is conversational, but I've seen him corner a lot of criminals with that tone. I can't shake the feeling that he's trying to trap me.

Licking my lips, I decide to play it safe. "Pretty much," I say, staring at the counter. Trying to sound casual, I add, "I went out once. A friend of mine dragged me back to the pharmacy. Said I needed something to bring the fever down."

"That must've been when I called," H says.

I'm avoiding H's eyes, but I can still feel the intensity of his gaze. It's that look he usually saves for perps who he knows are lying to him.

I shrug, clenching my fist in a hopeless attempt to stop my hand from shaking. "Maybe. I was pretty out of it." As an afterthought, I say, "Get this. While we were there, this dude cut right in front of us in this big, yellow car. It looked like a big banana pulling out in front of us."

Wow. Now I'm even embellishing my lies.

H's expression softens a bit, and I think I hear him release a breath. Smiling, he says, "That kind of thing always seems to happen when you're sick doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Actually, I dropped by your apartment yesterday. You must've been out then."

I feel my chest tighten. "Yeah, must have." I take in a breath. "Did you think I was playing hooky?" I ask.

H shrugs, looking a little guilty. "I've just been concerned. It's not like you to call off so much."

"I know," I say, "I haven't been sleeping much. I think I let myself get rundown."

H nods. "It's very easy to do, Speed." Glancing at his watch, he stands up. "I'm going to run to DNA. They're testing a hair Alexx found on the boy's body. Why don't you check out the autopsy report? It's there on the table. I'll fill you in on the case when I get back."

Swallowing, I nod. "All right."

Before he leaves the lab, H turns to me and says, "You need to start taking care of yourself."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well, the last thing you need is to start getting sick."

After H leaves the room, I sit in stunned silence, my cheeks beginning to burn. He fell for it. H thought he'd caught me being dishonest and I not only lied my way out of it, I made him feel guilty. And what's worse, the lies seemed to flow from my mouth like water. I added color and texture to them, not only making them more believable but more appealing, as well. Part of me feels dirty, and part of me feels empowered.

I'm a terrible person.

***

Chapter 5

-----

Not much happened while I was gone yesterday. DNA ran the blood drops we found, and while they haven't matched it to anybody yet, they did confirm that the blood belonged to a male donor other than Brendan Carver. During the autopsy, Alexx took some scrapings from under Carver's fingernails. As of H's last trip to the DNA lab, those scrapings still hadn't been tested, but we're guessing they'll match our blood sample.

Alexx noticed considerable bruising on the vic's hands, as well as defensive wounds on the inner part of his forearm. This suggests that Carver put up quite a fight.

We also found a trace amount of some sort of grease or oil on Carver's shirt. So that means I finally have something useful to do.

Right now, I'm trying to determine the precise type of oil. So far, I've learned that the sample is standard motor oil, the kind anybody would use in their car. That doesn't tell us much. There's a possibility that the oil came off the killer, but it's also plausible that Carver got it on himself. From what Tripp says, the kid did work on his own car.

As I peer into the microscope at a slide dabbed with oil, Eric bounds into the room. Grinning, he slaps me on the shoulder. "Hey, faker!"

I feel my face begin to flush. Staring intently into my microscope, I say, "You know, Delko, some of us are actually sick when we call off."

I'm such a liar.

"I was just kidding," Delko says, his tone soft. He walks around to my work station and plunks himself down into the chair next to me. "So, what've you got?"

I glance up at him. "Dead teenaged golden boy. Stabbed. You?"

Smirking, Delko says, "Gunshot victim." He pauses. "And get this. The guy was found wearing a huge pickle suit."

"You're joking, right?"

Leaning proudly back in his chair, Delko shakes his head. "Nope."

I stare at him. "Your guy died dressed like a giant pickle?"

"What a way to go, huh?" Massaging his neck, Delko asks, "What's the story with your guy?"

"Killed while his parents were out of town. They walked in and found him the next day."

Delko lets out a breath. "That's hard."

"We'll probably find out the parents are the doers," I say bitterly.

"Says the cynic."

Narrowing my eyes, I stand up and stalk across the room. "I fell for that old man's sob story. Let's just say I won't be surprised if Mom and Dad stabbed their son."

Delko's gaze follows me. "Tell me something, Speedle. Do you actually like being angry all the time?"

I turn to him and glare.

"You know what I think?" Delko says, "I think you do."

"Whatever."

"I think you just wait for something to go wrong on a case so you can say, 'See. I told you life sucks.'"

"That's right, Delko," I say impassively, "It's my mission."

He shrugs. "I'm saying is all."

Just then, Calleigh walks into the room. Beaming, she says, "Hi, Speedle. You feelin' better?

"Yeah, Cal," I say, scowling at Delko, "Thanks for asking."

"Hey, listen," Delko says, suddenly standing up, "I'm going to catch up with autopsy. See what they've found on our vic." Eric gazes at me for a moment, and then he disappears into the hallway.

Calleigh watches as Delko hurries toward the elevator. After a few seconds, she turns to me. "Did Eric tell you about our victim? He really got himself into a pickle this time."

I lick my bottom lip, fighting a smile. "You've been waiting all day to say that haven't you?"

"Yes, I have," she says sweetly.

Finally, I give into the temptation to grin. "Funny, Cal. Funny."

She leans against the counter. "So, what's on your plate today?"

"Well," I say, letting out a breath, "H and I are going to interview our vic's girlfriend. Or try to anyway. She was a mess when H and Tripp talked to her yesterday."

Walking over to a cabinet in the back of the room, I reach up to grab some extra slides. When I can't get to them, I grab a shelf with one hand and reach up with my other arm until my shoulder hurts.

Calleigh walks toward me. "That would be so hard to go through that, wouldn't it, Tim? I wouldn't—Oh my gosh." She hurries over to me and grabs my hand. "What did you do to your wrist?"

Damn. My wrist and the back of my arm are black and blue from where Mark grabbed me and slammed me against the wall. Usually, I wear shirts a little long in the sleeve, so I figured nobody would be able to see my wrist. Calleigh must've noticed the bruise when I stretched my arm.

Unbuttoning my sleeve, Calleigh gingerly presses the bruised area. "This does not look good, Tim," she informs me.

"I fell off my bike," I lie.

"You fell off your bike?"

"Yeah," I say, yanking my hand away, "Must've been the fever. I parked, got dizzy, and tripped. I caught myself, though."

Calleigh narrows her eyes. "Well, that's odd," she says distractedly, "Why isn't the ball of your hand bruised?"

What?

"What?" I say.

Calleigh grabs my hand again. "Well," she says, "If you caught yourself with your hand, the worst of the bruising would be on the ball of your hand."

Inhaling deeply, I shove my free hand into my pocket in an attempt to keep Calleigh from noticing the bandage I have on that arm. The last thing I need is to explain multiple injuries.

"Cal," I say, my voice unsteady.

She presses on. "The bulk of the bruising is on the back and side of your wrist, as well as the back of your arm. That indicates—"

"Cal," I say harshly, "I'm not one of your victims."

"I know that," she drawls, "But your story is inconsistent with—"

Scowling, I snap, "I got into a bar fight, all right? This guy and I . . . It was no big thing."

Calleigh caresses my hand. Lifting my hand up to eye-level, she says, "You don't have any bruising on your knuckles. Did you get a punch in?"

I wrench my hand away, but this time, I take a couple of steps away so that I'm out of Calleigh's reach. "It was a shoving match, Calleigh," I shout, my words coming in a flurry, "I went to hit the guy, and he grabbed my arm and pushed me up against the wall. Okay? I wound up at the ER. That's why I missed work. And no. I don't want to talk about it. Okay?"

"You don't have to be so surly," she scolds, "And you don't have to be so secretive."

Yes I do. I just do.

"Look, Calleigh," I snarl, "My personal life is nobody's business. I didn't want to have to call H and tell him I was missing work because I got into a fight." I turn my back to her. "Get off my case."

About that time, I glance up and notice Horatio standing in the doorway. I have no idea how long he's been there, but I think everything I said to Calleigh proves me to be a liar. No matter how long he's been there, I'm screwed.

Shaking, I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them, H and Calleigh will disappear, and everything will be all right.

But when I do open my eyes, Calleigh is still behind me, her eyes boring into my back. And H is still standing in the doorway of the lab, gazing at me with disappointment all over his face.

***

Chapter 6

Author's Notes: Once again, Speed's logic is flawed. He doesn't see Mark for who he is or his situation for what it is.

-----

I can't see any way for this to turn out all right.

Calleigh, H, and I stand in the trace lab as if we're all frozen. I should say something to H. Apologize. Try to explain myself. But what good will it do? He's caught me in an ornate, complex lie. If I'm lucky, I'll get days off for this. At the very least, I'll be written up for an unauthorized absence.

Then again, he could fire me.

After a few moments, Calleigh takes a step forward and puts a hand protectively on my back. "Horatio," she says, "I—"

"The Donahue's are expecting us," H says quietly, "So let's . . . let's go."

"H," I manage to croak out.

He gazes at me. "It's all right."

I can tell by the tone of H's voice that it's not all right. He sounds disappointed, exhausted, and hurt.

Part of me wants to tell H everything, to tell him about Mark and the fights and how depressed I've been lately. I mean, I hate for H to think I'm some slacker that gets into knock-down-drag-outs at a bar and then lies about it. But what would I say? That my boyfriend and I fight a lot? So what? Lots of people fight.

As I move to follow H, Calleigh reaches out and grabs my hand. She squeezes it encouragingly, and then lets it go.

Exhaling, I trudge behind Horatio, my legs like lead.

Glancing at me, he says quietly, "DNA says that the black hair we found on Brendan is female."

"What about the scrapings from Brendan's nails?" I ask, my voice sounding hollow.

"Nothing yet. DNA is swamped."

Horatio strides forward, tugging at his bottom lip.

I hate this. Horatio deserves better than my lies.

As H and I climb into the Hummer, I clear my throat. "H," my voice breaks, "I wasn't truthful with you about why I called off."

"I know," Horatio says evenly.

"I'm sorry, H," I muster.

H lets out a haggard breath. "So am I," he says wearily. As he starts the Hummer, H turns to me. "Look, Speed," he says, "For whatever reason, you felt like you had to lie to me." He fixes his eyes on the road in front of him. "And I think that's a shame."

Ouch.

"Well, the thing is," I say weakly, "I did go to the ER, just not for the reasons I said."

"All right," H says steadily, "I want to make sure I'm up to speed. You called off because you have a bruise on your arm."

I lick my bottom lip. "Well, I was at the ER all night. In the morning, I was dead on my feet."

He nods. "You were in the ER all night for a bruise on your arm."

Swallowing, I say, "Actually, I cut my other arm. I had to get stitches," Unbuttoning my sleeve, I hold my bandaged limb up.

H glances at my arm, and then returns his eyes to the road. "All right. Now we're getting somewhere. This happened during a bar fight?"

"I was in a bar," I lie, my voice trembling, "It was just an argument, really. Things boiled over."

Wow. My life is spiraling out of control. I've gone from one lie to another at break-neck speed. Now, H thinks I'm hitting the bars at night, getting into fistfights. But what can I do? Mark is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I can't risk losing him.

"Speed," H says hesitantly, "Were you picked up?"

"Picked up?"

H bites his bottom lip. "Did a police officer pick you up? Maybe they granted you a professional courtesy, didn't book you? You didn't want me to find out about it?"

"It wasn't like that," I say.

Nodding, H carefully asks, "Have you been drinking?"

"No," I say sharply.

"Look, Speed, I want to help you."

"I haven't been drinking," I reiterate.

We drive in silence for about five minutes. Finally, H takes in a deep breath. "Speed, are you using drugs?"

Suddenly, my chest begins to tighten, and my cheeks begin to burn. What the hell? Why does he assume that I've done something wrong? Clenching my jaw, I snap, "No, H. I'm not on drugs."

"Look, Speed," he says softly, "I can't help you if you don't trust me."

"I don't need your help," I spit venomously, "I was tired, all right? I'm exhausted. I want to go to sleep. Is that so wrong?" I punch the dashboard with my already-black-and-blue arm. "Why can't I sleep?" Blinking hard, I feel a tear escape my eye.

H places a hand on my shoulder. "It's all right," he says, squeezing my shoulder tight, "Listen. We are going to talk about this some more. All right?"

"I don't need your help," I mutter vainly.

-----

Maggie Donahue is a petite blonde. She's pretty in a fragile way.

Right now, she's sitting on the couch beside her mother, her arms crossed tightly. She's wearing a long-sleeved pink silk shirt, and her eyes are puffy from crying.

"I know this is hard," H says softly, "But anything you can tell us would help."

"We were all at my sister's house that night," Maggie's father, who's sitting on the ottoman of a leather easy chair, says dreamily, "What if Maggie had been with him?"

"Well, thank God she wasn't," H says, "Maggie, do you know anyone who would hurt Brendan?"

"No," she sputters. Then she says quietly, "Brendan was so sweet. He had flowers sent to the lunch room. Isn't that nice?"

"Yes, it is," H says, "Has he seemed preoccupied or worried about anything?'

"He was the best thing that ever happened to me," Maggie says distractedly.

Leaning forward, Maggie's mother says, "Brendan was acting like he always did. I don't know," she shrugs.

Maggie's father stands up and crosses his arms just like Maggie. "He wasn't the kind of kid who did drugs or ran with undesirables." He cocks his head. "He drank once in a while, but never too much."

"Did anyone pick on him in school?" H asks.

"Oh, no," Mr. Donahue says, "He wasn't one to shrink away from a fight. If anyone had tried to pick on him, Brendan would have taken care of it."

"How so?" I ask.

Mr. Donahue looks at me strangely, probably because this is the first thing I've said since H and I got here. "Well," he explains, "He was nice guy, but he didn't let anybody push him around."

"So, he smacked people around?" I say cynically.

"I didn't say that," Mr. Donahue says, "He just wasn't a wimp."

I shake my head. "So, if a guy doesn't beat on someone, he's a wimp?"

"I didn't say that either," Mr. Donahue says defensively. He glances at H.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see H giving me a look. I guess I can add this little exchange to the list of things H and I are going to talk about.

"Well," H says, standing up, "Thank you all for your time. You have my card if any of you remember anything."

"Yes," Mr. Donahue says formally, "Of course."

-----

Once outside, H turns to me. "All right, that was uncalled for."

"I was just trying to solve a murder," I say caustically.

H puts his hand on his hips. "Well, attacking a witness isn't the way to do it."

Glowering at H, I half-laugh. "At least I didn't ask him if the kid was on drugs."

I'm digging myself in deeper, but I don't care. I've lied to H a lot lately, and I deserve to be reprimanded for it. I admit that. But it really stung that H thought I was on drugs.

Okay, granted, I have been secretive lately. But my personal life is none of anyone's business. I don't go asking what H and his sister-in-law do behind closed doors. Or why Calleigh puts up with her drunk of a father.

Besides, what if they found how Mark and I fight? Or that I, a man, a trained police officer, can't protect myself?

I couldn't live with the shame.

"Look," H says, leaning against the Hummer, "I'm sorry I accused you. But I've trying to figure out what's going on with you."

"Well," I say casually, "You can relax. I'm good."

"I've been watching you slip away for weeks."

I glare at him. "I'm not your brother, H," I say coldly.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I take a step back. I know H would never hit me, even for saying something so out of line. But still.

Angrily tossing the keys to the Hummer onto the ground, H says, "Speed, I know you're not Raymond. But you are my friend, and I care about you." Pacing, he looks up into the sky. "I should've tried harder to save my brother. But I didn't, and I lost him."

"H, I'm sorry," I say, regret seeping into my chest, "That was out of line. I don't know what's the matter with me."

He waves me off. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, but then he takes a step forward. "I'll promise you this, Speed," he says, "I'll promise you this. I'm not going to let you go without a fight."

***

Chapter 7

-----

After the Donahue interview, I figured H would take me back to his office and ream me out. Instead, he decided it was time for lunch. So, he called Eric and Calleigh and asked them to join us at a pizza place close to headquarters.

I think this is all part of some master plan to get me to "open up." I mean, the four of us don't usually take our lunches at the same time. And everyone is being insanely supportive.

I figure Calleigh must've filled Eric in about my "injuries," because Eric immediately sat down next me and started examining my arms. He joked that I should've called him if I wanted to hit a bar last night. He said he would've "had my back." I don't doubt it.

Right now, Eric's cradling my bruised arm, pressing on it with his fingers. I can't shake the warm feeling I get from the contact. It's like Eric is holding my hand, and I get a tingling sensation that courses all over my body.

I must sleep-deprived.

"Ow!" I yank my hand away when Eric hits a sore spot.

Eric frowns. "Are you sure it's not broken?"

"I told you," I say, "I went to the ER."

Eric narrows his eyes. "You told me lots of things." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Eric glances guiltily at H.

I glance at H, too. He hasn't said a lot since we got here. Instead, he's just eating and watching the three of us. Suddenly, I understand what it must feel like to be a suspect in an interview room with one cop grilling you and another watching you from behind the mirror.

Rolling up my sleeve, I say to Eric, "You want proof? I still have glue on my arm from the tape they put on me after they drew blood."

"We believe you," Calleigh drawls sympathetically, "It's just that lately you've been less than forthcoming about things."

I like how Calleigh can defend me and scold me at the same time. She'll make a great mother.

"I know that," I say. Exhaling, I lean forward. "I'm having some personal problems right now, and I let it affect my professional life. I'm sorry."

"Well, do you want to talk about it?" Eric asks.

"No. Not really."

"We're you're friends, Eric prods.

"I know that, and I appreciate that." I stick my finger into my glass of ice water and absentmindedly stir the ice. "I just don't want to talk about it." I turn to H. "Horatio, I'm sorry I lied to you. It won't happen again."

I hope.

Horatio nods, but doesn't say anything. Finally, he takes a sip of diet cola and says, "Eat guys. Miami needs well-fed CSIs."

-----

Eventually, the lunchtime conversation veered away from me and centered on new equipment in the field, a pretty nighttime technician Eric has the hots for, and the car Hagen's been bragging about buying. It was nice to sit and talk to everyone without feeling pressured or nervous.

I'm still not sure if I'm going to have office time with H tonight or not. He hasn't said anything. On the up side, I think I may have escaped suspension. But a good reaming out or a written reprimand are still looming in the background.

If I'm being honest with myself, I deserve to be busted for my recent behavior. I really do. In the past few weeks, I've become something I don't like—a liar. I know that I have to protect Mark and our relationship, but lying to my friends gives me a pain in the center of my stomach.

I really believe things will calm down at home, though. Mark's a good man, and if he says something like last night will never happen again, it won't.

Now, our lunches eaten, Calleigh, Eric, H, and I are trudging into headquarters.

As we pass through the doorway, Valera collides with me. Placing her hands on my shoulders to steady herself, she says, "Apparently neither of us can walk!"

"Apparently not," I quip.

"Well," she smiles, "I'm weak from hunger. On my way to lunch."

"You're just going now?" H asks with concern.

"Carrie and I were trying to catch DNA up, Lieutenant. We're seriously swamped."

H nods. "Did you finish the scrapings from the Carver case?"

"Yes, sir. Carrie has the results." Valera waves and starts to take off. Then she turns back to me and says, "Oh, Speed. Your boyfriend's at the reception desk." She smiles approvingly. "He's hot."

All at once, the pain in my stomach starts pounding with new, bloodthirsty vengeance. Swallowing, I can feel three pairs of eyes on me as I round the corner toward the front desk.

Sure enough, Mark is standing there waiting for me. When he sees me, he smiles guiltily. "Hey, Timmy."

"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual.

Mark glances around me at H, Calleigh, and Eric. "You have an entourage?"

"We just got back from lunch," I say. Letting out a labored breath, I turn to my companions. I'd better get this over with. "Everybody, this is my friend, Mark. Mark, this is my boss, Horatio Caine and my friends, Eric Delko and Calleigh Duquesne."

Mark flashes a broad smile. "I've heard a lot about all of you," he says. I notice that his eyes rest on Eric for a few seconds.

Eric mutters a "hey," and then shuffles his feet awkwardly

Calleigh thrusts out her hand. "I'm so glad to meet you," she says cheerfully, "We knew there was someone in Tim's life, but he wasn't giving details. Mark, was it?"

"Yeah," he grins. "Okay, you're the one who likes guns."

She beams, "That's right!"

"Pleased to meet you," H says.

Mark smiles. "Lieutenant Caine," he says, "I'm sorry Tim was late this morning. It was my fault."

"Your fault?" H raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Mark nods, "I turned the alarm clock off when I got up. Forgot to wake him."

Well, any hope of passing Mark off as "just a friend" is out the window.

Mark turns to me. "I'm really sorry."

"Well, it happens," H says evenly, "I figured he was probably still run down from his trip to the ER the other night."

H is checking my story. Damn.

When I see panic ghost over Mark's face, I say, "I told them about the idiot in the bar." I can feel my legs shaking almost uncontrollably.

Licking his lips, Mark nods, "Okay. Good." He gently squeezes my shoulder, and then faces H. "Is he in trouble?"

H's lips form a thin, but pleasant smile. "No, he's getting amnesty this time."

This time.

H gestures to Calleigh and Eric. "C'mon, guys. Let's give them a minute." Patting me on the shoulder, H says, "See you in a few minutes, Speed."

"Okay, H," I say.

Mark takes his thumb and runs it along my bottom lip. "I'm sorry to just show up like this, but I was worried about you being late." He grins. "And I got sick of asking to meet these people."

I half-smile. "So you figured you'd take matters into your own hands?"

"Yeah," he says, "Desperate times and everything."

Part of me is glad Eric, Calleigh, and H have finally met Mark. That's one less secret I have to keep. But the other part of me . . . Well, I love Mark, and I want to share my life with him. But I sort of liked that my work and my friends from work were mine and only mine. I guess I liked having a small section of the world that Mark couldn't touch.

Now that's done.

"So," Mark says, "Now that we've all met, maybe we can have them over?"

I shift uncomfortably. "To my apartment? I've never had any of them over before."

That's true, and this is the first time it's occurred to me. In all these years, I've never had any of them over. I mean, Megan used to come over all the time. And Tyler came over to do some stuff to my computer. But I've never had H, Eric, or Calleigh over to my apartment.

Weird.

"They're your friends," Mark says.

I shrug. "I could ask them. I don't know."

"Ask them," he urges gently, "I want them to be our friends. Not your friends."

I gaze quietly at Mark for a while. This could be a good thing. I mean, I've felt really isolated from everybody lately. This way, I could spend time with my friends without ignoring Mark.

"I'll ask them," I say.

Mark grins. "Great. How about tomorrow night? I'll cook."

Smiling, I say, "I'll let you know tonight."

He cuffs me on the jaw. "Don't worry. They'll love me, Timmy."

***

Chapter 8

-----

As I round the corner into the break room, Calleigh and Alexx are standing face to face, deep in conversation.

"Well," Calleigh says seriously, her arms folded tightly across her chest, "This certainly explains his secretiveness."

I lean casually against the door frame, but I don't say anything.

"I'd say it does," Alexx says, "The poor thing."

Calleigh nods. "At least know we know what's going—"

Fighting a grin, I clear my throat.

Startled, Calleigh looks up. "Oh, hi, Tim," she says a little too brightly, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Hi, baby," Alexx says quickly. She walks over and puts a hand on my upper arm. "So when do I meet this Mark character?"

"Wow," I say, scowling at Calleigh, "News travel fast."

"Well," Calleigh says defensively, "I'm prone to gossip. You know that."

Alexx reaches up and straightens my collar. "Timmy, what kind of man is Mark?"

About that time, Tyler walks in holding a bottle of lemonade. "Who's Mark?"

I raise my eyebrows at Calleigh. "You mean you didn't have time to get the news to the AV lab? Maybe you should've tried a memo."

"Are you really mad?" Calleigh asks sheepishly.

I shake my head. "No, I'm not mad." Turning to Tyler, I say, "Mark is my significant other."

Tyler takes a sip of lemonade. "Cool," he says, "So, am I the last to know?"

"No," Calleigh says, twirling her hair innocently around her fingers, "I didn't get a chance to tell Carrie yet."

Tyler grins at me, "Can I tell her?"

Shaking my head, I smile, "Knock yourself out."

"Cool," he says happily. As he starts for the door, he turns to me and points. "Oh, I forgot. H wants to see you in his office."

I feel my stomach start to churn. Damn. I thought I was off the hook.

"Did he seem mad?" I ask, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice.

Tyler pauses to consider. Finally, he answers, "He seemed pensive."

H seems pensive a lot, so that could be bad or good. Sighing, I turn to Alexx and Calleigh. "Well, it looks like I've been called to the principal's office."

Steeling myself for the inevitable dressing down, I dutifully trudge into the hall.

"Hey," Calleigh says, hurrying to catch up to me, "I'll walk with you."

As we plod toward H's office, I turn to Calleigh. "So, you're all right with this?"

She frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"

I shrug. "I didn't know what to expect." Letting out a breath, I add, "Listen, Mark wants to have you, Eric, and H over tomorrow night. At my place."

"Your place," Calleigh gasps for effect, "That would be a first."

I roll my eyes. "It's not that impressive, Cal. It's mostly wall to wall books."

"That would impress a girl like me," she says sweetly.

-----

I swallow fiercely when we finally reach H's office. "Well," I say, "This is where I get off."

Calleigh squeezes my arm for support. "Well, call me," she says. "Let me know what time."

I nod, and then poke my head hesitantly into Horatio's inner sanctum. "Hey H," I say, "You wanted to see me?"

H looks up. "Yeah, Speed," he says amiably, "Come in."

I inch my way into the office. The last time I was here, I was getting yelled at for my . . . attitude toward a suspect's son. It was the first time I'd ever been bawled out by H. Or any boss. Megan used to lecture me, but she never really yelled.

"Sit down," H says, leaning nonchalantly against his desk. He tugs at his bottom lip, gazing at me for a moment while I lower myself into a chair. Finally, he says, "So, how long have you been seeing Mark?"

I lean back uncomfortably. "A few months."

He nods. "Okay. How are things going?"

"Good," I say.

H regards me for a few seconds. "So, the fight in the bar," he says conversationally.

"Yeah?"

"Did that have anything to do with you and Mark being together?"

It takes me a minute to process what H is asking. "No," I say, a little stunned, "No. We usually don't get hassled. I mean, once in a while, some idiot will mouth off. But Mark's a big guy, y'know?"

"Okay," H nods, "Okay. Listen, Speed. If you are hassled at all, verbally or physically, I want to know about it at once. All right?"

"Yeah," I say, straightening my body, "Everybody's been pretty cool so far."

"Okay." H stands up and walks around his desk, snatching up a manila file. "I checked with DNA. It turns out that the scrapings under Brendan's nails are female, but not a match to our black hair." He puts his hands on his hips. "What does that tell us?"

I lean forward, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to fade. "It tells us that three people were in contact with our vic. One male. Two females."

"That's right," H says, "Three possible suspects."

I nod, licking my bottom lip. "Three possible witnesses."

-----

In the quiet of the locker room, I lean my body against cold metal. Slowly, my breathing starts to return to normal.

I'm not suspended. I haven't been written up or yelled at. H and Calleigh are coming over for dinner. Mark and I are getting along. Finally, finally, life is okay again.

I'm so lost in thought that I don't hear Eric walk up. "Hey," he mumbles.

I jump, startled. "Hey."

He points. "You're leaning on my locker."

"Sorry," I say, moving quickly to one side. "So, Delko," I say, "Are you okay with this?"

"Okay with what?"

I frown. I hate it when Eric plays dumb. He's too smart for that.

"Are you okay with me dating a man?" I ask.

Eric shrugs. "I'm cool."

"No," I say, "You're freaking."

"I am not," he says, slamming his locker a little too loudly.

"You're freaking," I repeat.

Glaring, Eric starts to pace. "Maybe a little," he says after several seconds, "Give me a break."

"I'm the same guy, Eric," I say.

Eric shakes his head. "No, man. No you're not. This morning, you were my straight, single friend. My wingman. Now you're . . . what? Are you gay?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Okay, so you're gay. And you're in a relationship." Eric spits the last part out with a fair dose of venom.

"I can still be your wingman."

"Can you?" Eric says emphatically, moving close enough that he's nearly in my face. "I had to prod you to get you to go out to dinner. And you had to run home in the middle of that." He throws his hands up. "Everything's changed, Speed."

"No it hasn't," I say ardently, "Things will be better now. You'll see. Mark wants to spend time with you. He wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow. H and Calleigh are coming."

Eric narrows his eyes. "This guy living with you?"

I let out a breath. "He has his own place. But yeah, he usually stays over."

"So this is serious?"

"Yeah, Eric. It's serious." We stare at each other for a minute. I knew there was a chance someone would act this way. I just hoped it wouldn't be Eric. Finally, I ask, "Delko, you gonna be okay with this?"

Eric rocks back on his heels. "You gotta give me time to process this, man. I mean, we're okay. I just need to get used to all this."

"Okay, fair enough. I can live with that." Leaning one shoulder against my locker, I ask, "So, will you come to dinner tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he says without hesitation, "I'll be there."

***

Chapter 9

-----

When I arrive home tonight, Mark corners me in the kitchen and wraps his arms around my waist. "Long day?"

"Yeah," I say with a sigh.

We're still at a dead end with the Carver case. We've been unable to match any of the DNA samples we found to a real, live person. To complicate matters, H and I were supposed to go to the school today to speak to Brendan's teachers and fellow students. But the principal called and said they were having an assembly to deal with Brendan's death, and having cops show up would only exacerbate the situation. H told him in no uncertain terms that we would be at the school tomorrow, as soon as the bell rings.

I did get a partial print off the broken bottle I found, but to my surprise, the print belonged to the vic. It's possible that he threw the bottle at his killer, but missed the target. That's unlikely, since I found it in the trash. It's also possible that he just dropped the bottle because he was clumsy or something. In any case, it's a dead end.

Glancing around the kitchen, I can see that Mark has been pretty busy. There are pots and pans on the stove; a casserole dish filled with something that smells really good is sitting on the counter; and there is a cake on the table. Since I'm pretty sure I don't own this many kitchen items, I'm guessing Mark either went shopping or brought them from his place.

"Looks good," I say, "Everyone should be here soon. Is there anything I can do?"

Mark shakes his head. "I don't want you to tear your stitches. Besides," he says, "I dragged you in here to give you something."

I frown. "What?"

Opening a drawer, Mark pulls out a small box. "Open it," he says.

"Okay," I say warily, "What've we got?" I pull the lid off the box and peer inside. To my surprise, I discover a gold watch studded with what looks like diamonds. "Wow," I say, "This is really nice."

Mark snatches the box from me, removes the watch, and takes my hand. "Let me put it on," he says. Kissing my knuckles after he slides the watch onto my wrist, Mark says, "I wanted to get you something to make up for what a prick I've been."

"It's really not necessary," I say.

"No," Mark whispers, "I'm sorry for what happened."

Then don't do it again.

"It's okay, Mark. You said it won't happen again."

Mark pulls me close and kisses me on the cheek. "Tim, I just know where my temper comes from."

I squeeze Mark tightly, and kiss him on the neck. I hate to see him hurting this way.

"You know," I say, taking a step backward, "This watch is way too nice to wear to work."

He grins. "Then save it for special occasions. Like tonight."

-----

After H, Eric, and Calleigh arrived, Mark ushered everyone to the table and bolted into the kitchen to take care of the food. He refused to let me help, instead telling me to "be a good host, entertain." Mark should know by now that social functions aren't my strong suit.

Still, I muddled through, letting everyone else do most of the talking. They browsed through my book collection, admired my new watch, and asked why they'd never been here before. I communicated through shrugs, monosyllables, and the occasional laugh. I don't know why I'm so uncomfortable tonight. They're my friends.

During the course of the evening Calleigh must've told me five times how much she loves Mark. Of course, Mark did a little homework before Calleigh got here, so he was able to make small talk with her about guns and ammunition. H seems impressed with him, too. He did ask Mark some probing questions initially, but that's H. He's a criminalist whether he's on duty or off. Even Eric has behaved himself so far. I mean, he's not going out of his way to converse with Mark, but he's not being rude, either.

Right now, Mark is bringing in our dessert. Almost as soon as he sits down, he says, "Oh, I forgot the ice cream. My bad."

I stand up. "I'll get it," I say, "You've done enough."

"Tim . . ."

"Mark, I'm not an invalid. I won't tear my stitches carrying ice cream."

Calleigh places a hand on his arm. "Besides, we want you to ourselves for a little bit. Right, Horatio?"

H grins. "That's right. We want to interrogate you."

Mark smiles self-consciously. "I just had to fall for a cop," he says.

As I head toward the kitchen, I notice Eric jump out of his seat to follow me.

"Hey," he says as we reach the kitchen.

"Hey," I say.

Leaning against the counter, he takes a breath and releases it. "I want to you to know that I don't mind Mark. I mean, he seems all right."

I nod. "Good. Because he's part of my life now."

"I know," he says, "I'm still weirded out by this, Speed. I can't lie to you."

"Eric, that's cool. You're trying." I open a drawer and pull out an ice cream scoop. "I just don't see why it's an issue. I mean, if you found out Calleigh and Valera were doing it, you'd be turned on."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I turn to face him, ice cream scoop in hand. "It means that it's not the whole gay thing itself. You're weirded out because Mark and I are gay men. We're threatening."

"Threatening?" Eric laughs. "How are you threatening?"

"I don't know. We're a threat to your masculinity?"

Eric scowls. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"My masculinity's just fine," Eric says.

"Then Mark and I shouldn't be a problem," I say.

"You're not."

"Then we're good."

Eric and I gaze at each other for a long moment.

If I'm being honest, Eric is trying. At least he's not being passive-aggressive about it. He's telling him how he feels, and he's going out of his way to spend time with me, even though it makes him uncomfortable. Finally, I scoop up the carton of ice cream. Patting him on the shoulder, I say, "Come on."

-----

As Eric and I reach the living room, I can hear H, Mark, and Calleigh talking in hushed tones.

"—been worried about him, too, Lieutenant," Mark is saying, "I just think it's been the stress of our relationship."

I frown. So I guess they really did want to interrogate him. Great.

"Well," H says, "Now that it's out in the open, I hope we can—"

"Hi, guys," I say, ending the clandestine conversation.

Calleigh looks innocently up at me. "Well, hi, there, Speedle."

Mark stands up and takes the ice cream from my arms. "Thanks, hon," he says quickly.

I glance between Mark and Calleigh, and then I let my gaze fall hard on H. From Calleigh, this kind of thing doesn't surprise me. But I never expected H to go behind my back and question my boyfriend about my behavior. Granted, I've lied to him a lot lately, but still.

I stand there for a few seconds, unmoving, and then finally take my seat. After I sit down, Mark reaches over and encouragingly squeezes my shoulder.

As we all watch Mark work on the ice cream and cake, Calleigh grabs my hand under the table and leans close to me. "We love him, Tim," she whispers.

***

Chapter 10

Author's Notes: In my universe, he's alive. Moreover, please be aware that Speed's logic is flawed. (Everyone is going to be seriously frustrated with him by the end of this chapter.)

Warnings: Slash and domestic abuse.

-----

After everyone left for the evening, Mark and I curled up on the couch to talk. We didn't really talk about anything important. We just talked.

And it was nice.

Initially, I was leery about having everyone over, but now that the evening is done, life is starting to look a lot better. I mean, Mark and I have finally made it through whatever rocky patch we were stuck in, and I think things are going to be okay now.

I have to admit, though. I'm still pretty ticked about the huddle I found H, Calleigh, and Mark in. Mark said H and Calleigh were just worried, and that they wondered if Mark had noticed anything. I'm glad they care about me. But still, it sort of creeps me out that my friends would pump my boyfriend for information.

Right now, H and I are at Brendan Carver's high school, pumping Brendan's Spanish teacher for information.

"Now, Mr. Clarke," H says evenly, "What kind of student was Brendan?"

Patrick Clarke shrugs. "As a student, not bad. He was bright, engaged. But he was one of those kids who always had to be right. You know what I mean?"

H nods.

Mr. Clarke rubs some lint off the leg of his pants. "And he got overly frustrated when someone disagreed with him."

Leaning forward slightly, H asks, "All right. How did that translate into his social interactions with other students?"

"Oh, he was popular," Mr. Clarke says, cocking his head, "But he could be aggressive."

"What are you saying?" I ask, "He picked fights?"

Mr. Clarke smiles patronizingly. "Brendan was a bully, Detective. He didn't pick fights. He picked targets."

I frown. "Anyone in particular have a bullseye on their back?"

Licking his lips, Mr. Clarke says, "His girlfriend, for one."

H crosses his arms. "Are you saying that Brendan abused his girlfriend?"

"Oh, yeah," Mr. Clarke says, nodding.

Taking a step backward, I lean against the blackboard. It figures. I feel sorry for the kid, and it turns out he's a batterer.

"Who knew about this?" H asks.

"Well," Mr. Clarke says, "I picked up on it. So did the school nurse."

Kneading the muscles in my neck, I ask, "Did Maggie's parents know about it?"

Mr. Clarke stares impassively into my eyes. "Not until very recently. I don't want to say they were naïve. But they did miss some pretty obvious signals."

"What kind of signals did they miss?" H asks.

Standing up, Mr. Clarke walks across the classroom and picks up a stray pencil. Placing it gingerly on his desk, he says, "She stopped hanging out with her friends. She wasn't as perky as she usually was. Her grades started to tank—she'd always gotten at least Bs before. And then I noticed some bruises."

"What action did you take when you noticed the bruises?"

Mr. Clarke lets out a breath. "I asked her if everything was all right. Of course, she said it was." He shrugs. "I couldn't do much else, so I sent her to the school nurse."

"You just let it go?" I say, a little more harshly than I intend.

It kills me. A kid like Brendan beats up on his girlfriend and no one does a thing.

Mr. Clarke stares quizzically at me. "It wasn't quite like that, Detective. The girl was embarrassed, you know? Maggie's always been pretty popular, but she's introverted. She just didn't want her personal life open to the public."

"When did her parents find out what was going on?" H asks.

Rolling up his sleeves, Mr. Clarke says, "From what I understand, the principal called them a couple weeks ago."

I glance at H. If Maggie's family knew about the abuse two weeks ago, why was Mr. Donahue defending Brendan during our earlier interview? It could be that he hasn't been able to acknowledge the truth about Brendan. Or maybe he's concerned that the truth would implicate his family in Brendan's death.

Then again, it pretty much does, doesn't it?

H and I thank Mr. Clarke for his cooperation, and then turn to leave. But just as we're about to exit the room, I stop short.

"By the way," I say, "Maggie has a brother, right?"

"Yeah," Mr. Clarke says, "Collin."

"Is he an athlete?"

Narrowing his eyes, Mr. Clarke nods. "Basketball."

-----

Once in the hall, H turns to me. "You're thinking about that footprint you found," he says knowingly.

"It might figure." I say, pressing a hand against my stomach. Damn. I'm seriously starting to think I've got an ulcer. "Brendan was beating up on his sister. Maybe Collin did something about it."

"All right," H says, nodding, "But let's not jump to conclusions. What we need to do first is confirm what Mr. Clarke told us."

Slumping against a locker, I ask, "You want I should call the Donahues?"

Tugging at his bottom lip, H says, "I'll handle that. Hey, you all right?"

"What?"

H cocks his head. "Your stomach bothering you?"

Letting out a breath, I admit, "Yeah. A little."

"You need something to eat?"

"No, I'm good."

I straighten my body, trying to shake off the gnawing pain in my stomach.

H gazes at me, as if he's trying to decide whether I'm really "good" or not. Finally, he nods toward the door. "Let's swing by the principal's office. Then we'll grab a bite."

-----

The principal, Mr. Haverson, confirmed Mr. Clarke's story. Brendan definitely abused Maggie. In fact, the kid copped to it when Haverson and the school shrink confronted him. According to Mr. Haverson, Brendan "showed real regret for his actions," but the school, "informed the parents of both Brendan and Maggie in order to prevent further incidents."

Whatever.

I'm not surprised that Brendan's parents kept that little nugget a secret.

True to his word, H dragged me to the nearest deli for lunch as soon as we finished with Mr. Haverson. We ordered some sandwiches and took them to a table outside. We picked a busy time of day to come, though. Hordes of people keep spilling past us, making it difficult to have a conversation.

"Feeling better?" H asks, leaning forward to so I can hear him above the clamor.

Pulling a shred of turkey out of my sandwich, I say, "Yeah. A little." The ache is my stomach is still there, but it's less profound. "I guess I did need to eat."

"Good," H says. He takes a sip of lemonade, and then says, "So, I'm going to have Frank meet me at the Donahues."

I bite my lip so I don't smirk. "So, what? I'm barred from interviewing the Donahues?"

"I don't want them to shut down, Speed."

"Fair enough."

Taking a bite of my sandwich, I gaze down at my bandaged wrist. It's gone from throbbing pain to infuriating itch. I can barely fight the urge to rip off my bandages and scratch my wound.

Exhaling, I slump down in my chair. It's a shame Maggie had to be confronted before she got help. She had to see what he was doing to her.

"Speed."

I glance up. "Sorry, H. You say something?"

"Yeah," H frowns, "I'm going to head over to the Donahues now. Why don't go back to the lab and start going over our interviews."

"Okay," I say, "I'll catch a bus." Popping the last of the sandwich into my mouth, I stand up. "See back at headquarters, H," I say.

H pats me on the shoulder. "See you there."

I guess I can understand where she's coming from, though. I mean, my situation with Mark is totally different, but I can relate to Maggie wanting to keep her personal problems a secret. She was probably afraid everyone would pity her, or blame her for Brendan's actions.

Tugging at the bandange on my wrist, I start down the street toward the bus stop.

But still, she's lucky things didn't escalate too far before Brendan died. If things had gone differently, we might be investigating her murder instead of his.

***

Next part of Unknown.