I had never simultaneously regretted and been so thankful for my ability to read lips as I was at this moment. It was unusually hard for me to watch the turmoil on her face, getting only 50 of the conversation but being able to fill in another 25 by her responses. My heart was torn into pieces every time I saw her cringe; my soul ached as she wiped away every escaping tear with the back of her hand, and my hopes soared to new heights as she gathered herself up and looked at him as if she was about to take charge and walk away. Then his hands grasped the door again with anger, and she shrunk back into her seat.

I was reminded that my Sig Sauer was abandoned with my other weapons in the duffle bag in the trunk of the Porsche, as I found my hand going to my holster. The realization that Marina had probably saved me from murder flashed through my mind and I shook my head slightly in bafflement at her ability to always shield me from myself.

But I still had my bare hands. And what I wanted to do to Morelli, without even knowing half of what he said to her, well, it would wipe off that self-satisfied smile —no, smirk-- he always seemed to wear.

I pondered for the slightest moment if I should feel ashamed for 'listening in' but the more I found out about her feelings for me; the less I cared for propriety. '….Joe, we are too different. We want such different things.  You're like my favorite faded jeans…..' What? Faded jeans? Maybe it was hopes and dreams that she said. No, he couldn't be part of her hopes and dreams. Not Morelli.

I shook my head in disgust and turned away from the scene across the garage. Shit, this needs to stop. Don't get involved. Don't take it personally, Manoso. Treat this as just another job; you just need to get Intel. Don't try to analyze. Right now, you are gathering evidence.

And what are you planning on doing with it; with this precious evidence; once it's yours? Frustration welled my gut. A rush of blood pounded in my ears; blocking out all the sounds of the parking garage. You are your own worst enemy. I had been told that since I was a young boy. Mami always said it, and Papi took her side. After they died, Marina took up the call. Every teacher; hell, even my drill sergeant stated it. It was as if a sign hung around my neck.

But was there a point of being able to do, if others didn't understand why you did? If you couldn't explain to someone why you beat up the bully down the street, if you couldn't verbalize the emotions that caused you to want to pummel the shit out of someone, or to use your strength and size and determination to protect someone….

I had allowed myself to be beaten up to protect little Sylvia Rodriquez when I was still a scared skinny little boy, giving her a chance to run away from streetwise punks. I'd beaten up my fair share of streetwise punks myself, on behalf of skinny little boys like me once I'd gotten bigger. And found myself in detention, or punished in my room for months on end because of it. I'd stuck my neck out for Wingnut so he could get 5 days leave to go see his new baby. I sat in the Brig that long weekend. Oh, Sylvia, Wingnut, all the others I'd done the same for, they knew me.

They saw something in my eyes as I flung my weight around; verbally, stupidly when I was smaller, and as I grew older, and found I could work out and build my muscles, with sheer physical strength. My intimidating scowl and the size of my biceps tended to be a proficient form of non-verbal communication. I found that people responded the way I wanted, although sometimes not for the right reasons. I was a scary bastard, I had learned. Letting someone see the softer side of me was a way to get my ass whipped when I was little. I was finding out that it was a way to get my heart broken now.

What the hell brought back all of those memories? I shuddered slightly at my loss of concentration; at the memories I had evoked. My eyes tried to connect with Stephanie from the anonymous darkness of the corner I had secreted myself in. Please, babe. Stand up. Stand up from his car, stand up for yourself. I wouldn't dare to hope she'd stand up for me. But she needed to stand up to Morelli.

Xxxxxxx

"Done, Joe. I'm done." I straightened my back, trying to show a sense of strength I didn't feel. My heart and head hurt. I had known him for --well, forever I guess. And while 'I' didn't necessarily think we should end up together, you know, sometimes you hear something so often you start to believe it at some level.

I closed my ears to his begging. I had heard it all before. From him, my mother, his mother, Valerie. Heck even Marylou couldn't understand fully what I didn't see in Joe. Of course, none of them knew Carlos. Or that he existed in my world. Well, Marylou did. But her husband wiped fantasy out of her life years ago. None truly understood that I loved him.

If they knew I was in love with someone else, would they care? Would they think it was a foolish love? Would they think he was as bad a person as Joe seemed to think?   I believed Carlos when he told me not to ask. I didn't think he was lying to me, or feeding me a line. I believed that he was involved in some serious shit; there was no denying it. After all, I had helped to bail him out of jail!!

Joe was right. We could be good together, I supposed. If I had never met Carlos, if I didn't know what love really felt like, if I had never felt Carlos's arms around my shoulders; if I had never breathed his scent into me and felt peace. Suddenly I had a sense I wasn't alone. I jerked my head to the right of Morelli's hip, and gazed into the dark recesses of the garage, unseeing. And with nothing to guide me except the expectation of finding him there, I spotted the hard outlines of a man watching us.

I knew without further investigation it was Carlos. He was nearby; he hadn't let me walk away from him. Peace settled into my heart. I found my breath settling, calming. My heart stopped racing, and my head stopped throbbing. I gathered my wits about me finally and stood. Joe had to take a quick step back because of how fast in encroached on his space, and as he did I came out from behind the car door.

I didn't speak another word, but stood at the trunk and waited. He looked at me, and opened his mouth to speak then shut again before any more stupid excuses escaped. No, that's not fair. It wasn't just him. Not his fault, not entirely. Possibly it was barely his fault. Could I fault him for me not loving him enough?

It was me. I had betrayed his trust. In my mind we weren't together; I guess the 'not together' part wasn't truly clear enough to get away with having slept with Carlos. And Joe's dancing, and obvious flirting with the red head upstairs; he called it all a ploy to get me to notice him. And I felt some wavering sympathy for him. When he started in again on Carlos though I was done.  Carlos was a good man.

I knew it. He knew it and didn't want to admit it. And we had both fucked up so much, so often that we didn't really have the right either of us to make a scene. "My bag, Joe," I finally stated as he was going to just stand around all day it seemed. As he handed me the overnight bag, and closed the trunk, I turned toward the shadows.  Carlos stepped from the corner and was a few car lengths away.

I looked at Joe, whose eyes had grown vividly angry, and back toward Carlos. He reached me and put out his hand for my bag. Giving it to him, he put his arm around my shoulder and tugged me close to him. We turned our backs to Joe and headed toward the elevator. He bent toward my ear and breathed, "Proud of you babe."