"Eric."
He stopped, his back tight and stiff. There was something in the way he held his shoulders and his head that told me he was in pain. Maybe not physical pain, but it didn't matter. He was a wounded animal. If I tried to help him, he would bite. But it was worth the risk. He was one of my own. He was a friend. I had to make him understand.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Dark eyes burned accusingly.
"I was telling the truth," I told him. My chest ached.
"I know," he said. His tone was indifferent. Pretending he didn't care.
"I'm sorry."
"No. No, you're not." Fierce now. He turned to me, his entire frame shaking in – what was that? Anger? Sorrow? No, I knew better than that. Jealousy. "You said something you meant. You can't be sorry for that. Don't give me your – your apologies. Don't say that. It's not going to make it better."
"I know," I whispered. "I know."
Earlier:
"What was that about?"
I winced, but I hadn't been expecting to be able to avoid the confrontation. I deserved whatever I was going to get, and I knew it.
"You heard what I said," I told him quietly.
"Fuck you!" he said angrily, and shoved me in the chest. I stumbled backwards, a little surprised by the assault. I braced myself against the counter behind me with both hands and let him push me again. "How could you do that? In front of everyone? What the hell were you thinking?"
"I wanted the truth to come out."
"The truth?" He laughed. Wild laughter. "You know nothing about the truth. I was there. I was the one. All those years –" He broke off, and dropped his big hands from where they had been curled into fists right in front of my face. "Fuck you, H. Fuck you and fuck him."
Earlier:
I stood in the silence, looking down at the people, all the grieving mourners in black. None of them could be feeling anything like what I was feeling. There was a dull pain, a horrible emptiness in my chest where my heart had once been. The lectern was bare. I didn't need notes to talk about the man I had loved.
"Timothy Speedle," I said softly into the microphone. "He was a good man."
Inadequate. But then, no words could hope to describe him.
"He was a great man. A great CSI. He solved many cases. He made many friends. Everyone who worked with him will miss him. I will miss him."
My voice caught in my throat. I couldn't take it anymore.
"I loved him. I loved him so much."
The tears were flowing now. I couldn't pick out any of the faces in the crowd; I only knew that I was crying, choking on the words. Speed. Speed was dead.
"I loved him," I whispered.
Hands taking my elbows, comforting voices. People removing me from the altar. I barely heard them. All I could do was cry.
Earlier:
"I can't believe it," Calleigh said numbly. "Why didn't he tell us?"
Why didn't you notice? I twisted my hands. My eyes burned with unshed tears. "I don't know."
"Cancer?" She looked up, confusion on her face. She didn't want to believe it. None of them did. "God, he must have had it for years. How did it get to this, Horatio?"
How did it get to this? How did Speed sit there and run analyses on trace evidence and strain his eyesight with microscopes and magnifying glasses? How did he spend hours sorting through rubbish to look for one piece of evidence that might not even prove useful? How did he watch hours of camera footage to catch a glimpse of a suspect? How did he do all of that and not think that he was wasting what might be his last days on earth?
"I don't know," I said, thinking of the way he'd looked the last time I had seen him. "I just don't know."
Earlier:
"H."
I opened my eyes. "Speed."
He was standing in front of the bench, hands in his pockets, looking down at me. Jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt to hide the track marks on his arms from where he'd been giving himself injections to mask the pain. Face lined and pale from when those injections hadn't worked. I knew why he was here.
"I'm going," he said.
I didn't want to acknowledge that, afraid that if I spoke it would mean that it were true. "Is it time?"
He smiled. Even dying he was amazing. "It's been time for a while."
"You don't have to go," I said desperately. "Stay. I'll take care of you."
"Try explaining that one to Eric." He shifted now, uncomfortable, then looked directly at me. "You can't change this, H. You can't make it better." He sighed. "You have to tell him. Tell them all."
Alarm leapt into my throat. "About us?"
"Yes. If it means as much to you as it does to me, tell them."
I pressed my lips together. Wanting to cry, but knowing I had to be brave for him. "I can't believe you're going away to die," I said miserably. "You come here and you...you make me love you...and then..."
"If there were any other way, H." He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry this was so complicated. Eric knew about the cancer, he helped me through it for so long...he deserved to know about this. And since I can't tell him...you have to."
I shook my head mutely.
"You have to speak for me," he said simply. "I can't do it for myself."
I laid my hand atop the one that was still on my shoulder. He was warm, he was real. Still alive, but not for long. "Okay," I whispered. "I will. I'll tell them."
He turned, looked back over his shoulder at a car waiting for him. "I have to go."
"Speed." I stood up and reached out for him blindly. Blind because I couldn't see through the tears. He was there. He put his arms around me and he held me, rocked me like a baby. Speed. My Speed.
I calmed myself eventually by matching my breaths with his. Eventually my heartbeat slowed to match his, and I drew back slightly to look him in the eye. My hands framed his face. I couldn't find the words, and he didn't have time to wait. He kissed me, just once, and turned to go.
"Speed."
He glanced back over his shoulder. The sun gilded his face, put lights in his eyes, gave his hair a warm glow. For a brief, fleeting moment, he didn't look sick at all. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"I love you."
He smiled. "And I you."
And two days later, he was dead.