Title- Gain Control Again

Authors- Dame Flame and pepsicolagurl

Rating- PG13 for the moment.

Disclaimer- See Chapter One. It's a doozy.

Author's Notes- And now, by popular demand (well, no one asked for it, but we wanted it), we bring you something from the mind of Timothy R. Speedle (no, we don't know what the R stands for either). This story seriously spiraled out of control here. We were never intending to write an overly angsty Speedle fiction. It was supposed to deal with everyone's reactions, especially Ryan Wolfe's. But, of course, pepsicolagurl writes by the seat of her pants, and asked me to do the same thing. This is what ended up happening. And a little extra note, especially for anyone who thinks this might turn into a 'shipper story, this isn't the basis for anything like this. This is just another confusing chapter in an already confusing story. Enjoy and let us know what you think!

Kuroi Neko-kun- The story isn't really turning into a 'shipper story, as far as we can tell. We've gone back and rewritten about half the story (it was finished about a week and a half ago, before DF started to post it. Now, we've gone back and we're in the process of rewriting some of it, because our idea completely changed). I think we've come to the understanding that if we want to write a 'shipper story in this "universe", we'll write a sequel or companion piece, because I'm enjoying just playing around with all the characters, and I think DF is, too. Remember, Tim Speedle in this story isn't the Tim Speedle that we all know, love, and want to sleep with...I didn't really mean to add that last part in there. Uh huh, we all believe that one.

Spoilers- From Lost Son on. Do we really need to say it anymore? We'll keep it up, anyway.

Gain Control Again
Chapter Eight

And like a lighthouse you must stand alone
Landmark a safe journey's end
No matter what sea I've been sailing on
I'll always come back home again

Out on the road that lies before me
There are some turns where I will spin
I only hope that you can hold me now
'Til I gain control again

He sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh and a frown.

It had been just over two weeks since he had been informed that he had a real name, a real life. It had seemed implausible to him that there really was a past and a name to go along with his face. Now, he was beginning to believe it. It had really hit home, so to speak, when he had flown out to see his parents. There had been no recognition whatsoever of their faces, their voices...hell, even their names, and the same applied to his brother. But he would never forget their reaction.

Their oldest son had literally been raised from the dead. Of course, they had cried, and yes, it had embarrassed him, but there were some things that had gnawed at him since the moment he had pulled up to the rather large house. From the explanation of his "friends" in Miami, he had owned a small apartment that was barely worth mentioning, but his parents lived in a rather ornate house. A house that he had grown up in. He hadn't recognized his old room at all, which was kept almost as a shrine to Timothy Speedle before he went to college. The posters on the walls had seen better days, and there were even some old school papers that were tucked away in the desk. The only major change, he was told, was in the closet and in the bureau, where all new clothes were waiting for him.

He hadn't recognized any of the places that he had been taken, but he had feigned excitement over the phone whenever anyone asked. Why, he wasn't sure. There was something in his mind that kept screaming at him to tell whoever was on the other line all about these things, to pretend like he cared. Because he didn't. He liked who he was at the moment. And yet, there were all these people that were demanding that he remember who he was. It was almost...almost like...someone was trying to light a fire under him.

(stop trying to light a fire under my ass. can't make the machines run the tests any quicker)

And where did that come from? A piece of his old life. It was that internal voice again, the one that would let him in on a few select things, but on the whole, refused to let him know the whole story. What was so bad about Tim Speedle's life that he didn't want to remember? His parents hadn't had any answers, and neither did his brother, for all it mattered. He didn't think that, in his past life, he was all that close with his brother. They didn't even look like they were related.

When he had stepped out of the airport in Miami, it had a feeling of coming home. He wasn't comfortable with his parents, and he wasn't comfortable among some of the people that claimed to know him in Miami, but he could tell that the city was home to him. Every now and then, there would be flashes of scenes playing out in his head, as his taxi took him back to Mary's house. A Chinese restaurant that apparently had the best almond chicken, if that internal voice could be believed. A used bookstore in which he had found a first edition copy of Stephen King's Misery, a book that he had taken wicked pleasure in reading. A video rental that he frequented. But none of that really mattered. What was he going to do, walk in and accost the people that work there, demanding that they tell him what he always bought? Answers that wouldn't mean anything to him.

His father had opened him an account in a Miami bank, and deposited the exact amount of money that he had before he had "died". Plus a little extra. He was surprised that he hadn't been told not to spend it all in one place. He knew that he was lavishing in the new money, buying himself expensive, tasteful clothes to replace the tee shirt and jeans he had habitually worn over the past few months. And it had been worth it, when he had asked Calleigh out to dinner.

Calleigh Duquense. It was a name that was burnt into his mind by now. He had noticed her the moment he had laid eyes on her when she was standing on the doorstep, eyes wide at seeing him. The woman was a mass of contradictions. Petite, but curvy. Sweet, but blunt. Beautiful, but...well, there really was nothing to compare to that. Just as there had been a wicked pleasure in reading the King novel, there had been a wicked pleasure in watching her in the dim candlelit restaurant. To see her smile, to hear her laugh, to feel her touch. If she was to be believed, they had never really been friends. But it was easy to be attracted to her.

He leaned back on the bed, stretched out his legs, and directed his eyes to the plain ceiling. But he never saw it. He was too busy thinking of that blonde hair.

It was becoming somewhat of a ritual for them.

She would show up, sometime after the dinner hour, but never too late, dressed casually, waiting for him to open the door.He would step aside so that she could walk in, go over to the couch, and sit down. He would join her, and drink a scotch and soda while she was there. They only had two subjects that they ever talked about: the Jackson Memorial case, and Tim Speedle.

Calleigh had confessed to him about the night that Tim had taken her out, and he had been surprised at the sour taste in the back of his throat over the news. Just a twinge of jealousy, nothing more than that. It never did come back, and he never did figure out whether his jealousy was over the fact that Speedle had turned to Calleigh more than anyone, or if it was over the fact that Calleigh had gone out to dinner with Speedle, but never once with Horatio, unless they were part of a group. He hadn't thought about it since the few days before, when she had first mentioned their dinner. But it came back with her latest news.

"He asked me out again," she said softly, pulling at the long sleeves of her shirt. "He called me about two hours ago, said he wouldn't take no for an answer. He wants to learn more about himself, but I told him, I'm not the person he wants to talk to."

"You think he's using that as an excuse."

She nodded, shifting on the couch. "I think so. I've told him, time and time again, to talk to Eric, that he knew him better, but he just won't. I don't know why, but the two of them haven't spoken since he took him to see his motorcycle." She smiled slightly. "I know this is beginning to sound like a broken record, but I don't know what to do. Alexx doesn't have any advice for me, the psychiatrist doesn't have anything but vague suggestions that you could take either way. I'd like your opinion."

He glanced at her as he reached for his glass. "My opinion is that he's attracted to you. He's acting on it."

"Well, he's awfully smooth about it. I've never actually seen him like this before. Oh, I know there was that case he worked alone, the one where he acted interested in the female suspect, but that was just an act. I can't tell anymore whether he's acting or not. It's like knowing someone your entire life, and them meeting them for the first time. Doesn't make sense, does it?"

He chanced another look at her. "Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't. It does in this case." He sighed. "I can't bring myself to call him Speed anymore. He's Tim. We never knew Tim before. We knew Speed."

"His parents call him Timothy. So, there are three different versions of the same man, and only know one. It just happens to be the one that he's not." Her eyes slid closed as she leaned into the couch, the side of her head resting against the back cushion. "It would be so much easier if he would just remember everything. I've entertained the most wild thoughts of pulling my gun on him and wondering if that would do anything. Don't look at me like that, Horatio, you know that I never would. It was just a thought."

His head moved in a nod, red hair catching the dim light. "I know. Trust me, I know. I've thought about something similar. Taking him to the lab, and then out to the building where the jewelry store was. Maybe if he saw the area where he was shot, it would make something spark in his mind. But I don't want to make him regress further than he already is. I won't take that chance."

"Have you...have you thought about what happens if he doesn't remember anything? Because he hasn't shown the slightest interest in what he used to do. It's like he couldn't care less about his job. He's rather talk about his hospital stay than bring that subject up."

"I don't want to think of that," he answered her smoothly. "Calleigh, there is that possibility, I know. But I just can't think of Tim like that. I'll always see him the way he was in the lab, when he was examining a piece of evidence."

"The look in his eyes, that frown of concentration on his face. I remember it well," she finished for him, smiling despite her closed eyes. "I'm starting to lose hope. I believed that this loss of memory thing was just a bump in the road. This is more like a mountain. Mohammed certainly isn't going anywhere near it, and if we bring the mountain to him, it could make things worse. We're at a standstill. There's nothing that we can do."

His voice lowered to a whisper when he heard her frantic words. "I know you cry over him, Calleigh." That caused her eyes to open. "You never did when we buried him, and I don't know about what happened when you left and went home, but I know that you cry for him now. I think we all do."

"Even you?" she murmured, looking at him. Now he was the one that closed his eyes.

"Even me." They both left it at that, choosing instead to sit in companionable silence.

They had finally exhausted their subject of Tim Speedle.