Title: Unknown

Chapter 11

Author's Notes: It's kind of sad they never used Speed's biographical information on the show. It's so angsty. Since no name was ever given for Speed's best friend, I've just arbitrarily settled on a name.

Warnings: Slash, domestic abuse.

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During the last two days, H and I managed to confirm three things. First, Maggie Donahue was definitely a victim of her abusive boyfriend. Second, her family—including her older brother—knew about that. Third, the scrapings we found under Brendan's fingernails are a match to Maggie. H didn't go into details, but apparently, the long-sleeved shirt I saw Maggie wearing the day we first interviewed her was hiding a pretty nasty laceration.

We compared Maggie's DNA to the blood and the hair we found. I was expecting to match the blood to Maggie's brother, Collin. To my surprise, neither sample came from a blood relative. Additionally, Collin Donahue has a solid alibi. Apparently, he went to the Keys with his girlfriend and two others. Given the tracks we found, the fact Collin is a basketball player, and the fact that our db was beating his sister, I was pretty sure he was the doer. But I guess I was wrong.

On the home front, things with Mark have been pretty calm. I feel more relaxed than I have in a while. Mark and I are communicating better, and he's putting forth a real effort to get to know my friends. He's kind of bothered right now because of his job, though. Mark's an environmentalist, and he's running into a lot of crap from political types. He comes home stressed out almost every night.

Right now, I'm feeling stressed myself. I'm trying catch up on a mountain of trace evidence. There's been a major influx into our lab all day, and at the moment, Sam's taking his lunch. Now I understand how DNA felt the other day.

I'm just about to take a breather when Eric walks in, places both hands on the counter, and says, "So?"

"So what?" I ask.

"So," Eric says, "What was under my French fry's fingernails?"

I bite my lip hard to keep from laughing. Eric's vic in the pickle suit has been joined by a vic dressed like a giant French fry. Turns out both vics worked for a burger place by the beach. Walking advertisements or something. In any case, no one in the department is going to let Eric and Calleigh live this one down for a while. No one including me.

"Eric I'm swamped," I say, pointing my index finger at his chest, "You know, that's the problem with you."

"What's that?" Eric asks, crossing his arms.

I cock my head at him. "You live in a fast food world."

Shaking his head, Eric says, "Ha. Ha. Timmy Speedle finally develops a sense of humor."

I shrug. "Had to happen sooner or later."

"All right, Funny Guy," Eric says, "What was under my French fry's fingernails?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Eric dissolves into laughter. "Those are words I never thought I'd say."

Grinning, I snatch the results of the test off my table. "Ready for this?" I gaze soberly at him. "You ready?"

Eric nods emphatically. "I'm ready. Lay it on me."

"Your French fry had ketchup under his fingernails."

Eric grabs the results out of my hand. "Ketchup? Are you messing with me?" He gazes at the page, and then glances resignedly up at the ceiling. "I'm glad we pulled Yelina. Can you imagine working this with John Hagen?"

Shrugging, I say, "Yeah? I'll trade with you. I get the 'honor' of solving an the murder of an abusive boyfriend."

"Yeah, that's rough," Eric says.

About that time, Sam waltzes in. As he pulls on his lab coat, he smiles at Eric. "I thought of you while I ate my French fries, Eric."

"Two funny trace experts," Eric says, "How'd I get so lucky?"

Grinning at Eric, Sam pats me on the shoulder. "Go get some lunch, Speedle. I can mind the store."

I consider arguing, but Eric and Sam will win in the end anyway. So, letting out a breath, I tug my off my lab coat and rattle off a list of what has and hasn't been done. Then I follow Eric out the door.

-----

Eric and I wind up in the break room with some sandwiches we got down the street. Not exactly culinary masterpieces, but not so bad.

Leaning forward, Eric says, "So, how's Mr. Wonderful?"

"Mark's fine," I say, "He and Calleigh are out having lunch right now. She said she wants to 'make an effort to get to know Mark.'"

Eric knocks on the table with his knuckles. "Listen," he says, "You've . . . really looked happy the past couple of days. Looks good on you."

Glancing down at the floor, I try to fight the burn that's creeping into my cheeks. Why on Earth does Eric affect me this way?

Licking my lips, I say, "I kind of like being happy. It's a new concept, but it's growing on me."

"Good," Eric says, grinning. He gazes into his iced tea, as if he's looking for something. Finally, he turns his gaze to me and asks, "When did you know? You know . . . the gay thing?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Gay thing? You mean when did I figure out I was gay?"

Eric averts his eyes. "Yeah. I mean, that's a personal question, but, you know. You don't have to answer."

I lean back in my chair. "No," I say, "I'd rather you ask. I've known since I was in high school."

Shoveling some coleslaw into his mouth, he asks, "Was there someone special?"

Slouching forward, I take a long sip of lemonade. Then I dip my fork into my potato salad and gingerly pick at the mixture. "Yeah," I finally say, "There was a guy. His name was Brett, and we were best friends. Eventually, we became more."

Eric gazes at me, his expression unreadable "So what happened to Brett?"

I pick up my napkin and start tearing it into long, thin strips. I've never discussed Brett with anyone but Megan, and she only got the cursory overview. Lately, I've been toying with telling Mark about him. Mark asks me about my past on a daily basis. But I still have a hard time processing all of it. It's so surreal.

Letting out a breath, I say, "Brett passed away. There was an accident, and he lived for a while, but he died when I was in college."

Eric leans forward. "I'm sorry."

"We had a lot of plans," I say, "But they just . . . things just don't work out."

"Sometimes they do," Eric says.

"Yeah?" I say, tossing my fork onto the table, "I haven't seen it yet."

Picking up my fork, Eric turns it around in his fingers, his eyes glazing over the hard, white plastic. Exhaling, Eric hands the utensil back to me. "So," he says, "Is that where your cynicism started, or was it already there?"

Cocking my head, I say, "I don't know."

Eric and I eat in silence for a while, which is fine with me. Every now and then, I see Eric trying to sneak glances at me. Once, he reaches over and steals a potato chip, smirking as he pops it in his mouth.

Finally, I let out a breath. "I didn't mean to get heavy on you."

Reaching over, Eric places a hand on my forearm. His touch sends a shot of warmth all over my body. It's weird. Eric's never been that touchy-feely with me, but lately, he's been pretty demonstrative.

"Look, Speed," he says, "I'm the one who brought it up. I took you somewhere you didn't want to go."

"No," I say, "I think needed to go there. I've never really talked much about Brett."

Eric squeezes my arm. "Well, if you ever want to . . ."

Maybe I should talk more about Brett, about the past I ran all the way to Miami to escape. I mean, Eric's easy to talk to. And he seems genuinely interested in my life.

"Knock, knock," Calleigh says, making both Eric and me jump.

I glance up to see Calleigh standing in the doorway with Mark. Mark's leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, gazing between Eric and me. I can't read Mark's face, which usually isn't a good thing.

"Hey, Mark," I say, pulling my arm away from Eric.

Mark waves stiffly.

"Hey, Cal," Eric says, "How was lunch? Have you two bonded yet?"

"It was great," Calleigh says, taking Mark by the arm and leading him into the break room, "We went to a very nice BBQ place."

Eric gestures at his food. "While we're stuck eating this stuff."

"The injustice," Calleigh says.

I stare at Mark. He hasn't said a word to me since he and Calleigh arrived. From the get-go, Mark's been a little frosty toward Eric. Which is ridiculous. I mean, what? Is he jealous? Mark doesn't have anything to be jealous about. He must realize that.

Licking my lips, I stand up. "Mark," I say, "I was just finishing up my lunch. You want to go somewhere and talk?"

Mark shakes his head. Leaning over, he kisses me on the cheek. "We'll talk when you get home."