Title: Unknown

Chapter 13

Author's Notes: Some of you have asked me if H or anyone else suspects that Mark is abusing Speed. Originally, I intended for this story to switch POVs between Speed and Eric. Ultimately, I decided to focus solely on Speed, so that I could better explore his situation. However, what I lost by doing this was the opportunity to see inside another character's head—to see the situation through Eric's eyes. In my experience, people tend to miss what is right in front of their eyes. Perhaps they don't want to see the truth because it is just too much to take—especially when you're close to someone. But don't worry; I have a love for happy endings.

Warnings: Slash and domestic abuse. Same old, same old.

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Frank and I arrive at Dylan Carmichael's house about 45 minutes after my blow-up with Eric and Calleigh. A witness puts Carmichael, a Philosophy major from U of Miami, at Brendan Carver's house the night Carver was killed. This is the first break we've had in a while, so I'm pretty anxious to question this guy.

I wound up catching a ride with Frank because my arm hurts too much to drive. Frank didn't even bat an eyelash when I gave him my rehearsed "I reopened my stitches moving a box" speech. That's one of the things I like about Frank—he doesn't ask a lot of questions.

"So, how's the tree-hugger?" Frank asks as we step out of the car.

I raise an eyebrow. This is a conversation I didn't think Frank and I would be having anytime soon. Or ever. "You mean Mark?" I say.

Frank glances at me. "You datin' two tree-huggers?"

"No, just the one. So Frank," I say, trying to avoid direct eye contact, "I didn't know you knew . . . y'know . . . about me and Mark."

"Department's like a small town, Speedle," Frank says, "You keep a secret for five minutes, you're doing good."

Tell me about it.

Licking my lips, I ask, "So you okay with this?"

Frank shrugs as he rings Dylan Carmichael's doorbell. "Why not? I got a sister who's into that. 'Course, I would've pegged Delko as playing for the other team, not you."

I gaze at Frank. Some people might've taken that as an insult, but coming from Frank, it's tantamount to an embrace and a tearful declaration of acceptance. You've got to know Frank.

After a few minutes, the door of Dylan Carmichael's house swings open, revealing a shirtless twenty-something guy with a scowl on his face. From the way his hair's all mussed up and the fact the button on his jeans is undone, I can only guess that we've interrupted a moment of romance.

Leaning against the doorframe, the scowling man asks, "What can I do for you?"

"You Dylan Carmichael?" Frank asks.

Our new friend lets out a breath. "Yeah. What is it you need?"

Not missing a beat, Frank flips out his badge. "Lt. Frank Tripp, Homicide." He gestures to me. "That's Detective Tim Speedle, Miami-Dade Crime Lab. We need to ask you a few questions."

Carmichael looks more than a little nonplussed. "Wh—what's this about? Wait a minute—is this about that Carver kid?" Stepping out onto his front step, Carmichael pulls the door closed. "I heard he got shot."

Rolling my eyes, I ask, "You know Brendan Carver?"

"I knew him to see him," Carmichael says, shrugging, "Admired his car once."

Frank grimaces. "Were you at his house admiring his car the night he was killed?"

Carmichael shakes his head. "No, man, I was home painting my kitchen."

I straighten my body. "Yeah? Well, someone puts you at his house that night."

Running his fingers through his hair, Carmichael says, "Well, I was over there for a minute. He had his music too loud, y'know? I went over to tell him to turn it down."

"You fight about it?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"No," Carmichael says, "I told them to turn it down, they said they would, and I left. Look, you can ask my dad. He was helping me paint."

"We'll do that," Frank says.

"I'll get you his number," Carmichael says, turning to wrench open his door.

"Hey, wait a minute," I say, "You just said 'they.' Brendan wasn't alone?"

"No," Carmichael says, "He was with some girl."

-----

Some girl. Well, whoever it was, Carmichael's description didn't match Maggie Donahue. And as it turns out, Carmichael was on the up and up about painting his kitchen. That means we've lost one suspect and gained another—the mystery girl. Unfortunately, we have no idea who she is or where she is.

When I get back to headquarters, I catch H up on the particulars of the interview. He's as frustrated as I am about the dead ends we keep running into, so the meeting is pretty tense.

After I finish with H, I decide it's time to suck up my pride and apologize to my friends. Since Calleigh's nowhere to be found, I decide to start with Eric. When I find him sitting alone in the break room, I'm not sure what it is, but he looks…reflective. Maybe even depressed.

"Hey," I say, as I amble into the break room.

Eric glances up from his tuna salad sandwich. "Hey."

"Listen," I say, "you got a minute?"

At first, Eric doesn't answer. I can only guess that he's "punishing" me for my earlier outburst. After a few seconds of picking at his tuna salad, he finally relents and says, "What's going on?"

I take a deep breath and then release it. "I want to apologize for my earlier behavior."

Eric leans back in his chair. "I'm listening."

I lick my lips. "My attitude was uncalled for, Eric. I know you and Calleigh are concerned, but it's just that I've never been comfortable with people knowing a lot about my personal life. Mark and I are having problems right now, and guess I'm a little embarrassed about it."

Nodding, Eric says, "Well, we shouldn't have pushed. I mean, we could have handled it differently, you know, instead of ganging up on you." Eric gestures for me to sit down at the table. "So," he continues, "Are you and Mark calling it quits?"

"No," I say, biting my bottom lip, "I just left to rattle his cage. Pretty stupid thing to do. Listen," I say, snatching a pickle from Eric's plate, "There's something you should know. Mark's feeling little insecure, and he's convinced himself that there's something going on between you and me."

The muscles in Eric's face jerk. "What do you mean?"

I wave my hand between us. "You know."

"Well, you told him nothing's going on, right?" Eric says, his voice raising an octave.

"Calm down," I say, "He's not coming after you or anything. I didn't tell you so you could worry."

I stand up and walk over to the refrigerator, grabbing the sandwich and salad I picked up on my way to work. I toss the sandwich into the microwave and lean against the counter, watching Eric pick at his tuna salad. Maybe I shouldn't have told Eric what Mark and I were fighting about. Actually, I'm not sure why I did.

After almost a minute, Eric turns to me and asks, "So, when are you going back to him?"

"Tonight," I say. I pause for a few seconds, and then add, "I love him, Eric."

Eric regards me for a minute. "I know you do," he says quietly.

-----

I didn't find Calleigh until hours later. When I finally did run into her, I barely had the chance to open my mouth before she threw her arms around me, kissed me on the cheek, and told me (all in one breath) how sorry she was about barging into my life and how worried she'd been and how much she liked Mark and how silly it was that she and I had been fighting. Then she wiped the lipstick off my cheek and ran off to tell H something.

I honestly don't know how women do that. They seem to have this gift for just letting things go. One minute they're emotional messes, the next they're the pictures of professionalism.

After I recover from Calleigh's apology, I drag myself out the door and into the parking lot. I'm tired and aching, and right now, I just want to call Mark and try to work things out. Leaving last night was an idiotic move. If I want this relationship to work, I can't run every time something happens.

After I round the corner to where my bike is parked, I see Mark, leaning against his truck, his arms folded loosely across his chest.

He grins when he sees me. "Hey, stranger," he says.

I amble up to him, feeling strangely relieved to see him. "Hey right back at you."

We stand there silently for a moment, letting the awkwardness of the situation well up around us, and then fade away.

Finally, Mark points at my empty hands. "No helmet?"

I roll my eyes. "Alexx already gave me an earful."

"And rightfully so," he scolds, "Do you want to hurt yourself?"

I have to bite my lip to keep pointing out the absurdity of Mark telling me how worried he is about my getting hurt in light of last night.

"Oh," Mark perks up, "I have something for you."

A peace offering? A bribe? A present?

Mark hands me a silver-hued gift bag. "I thought of you when I saw it."

I reach into the bag and pull out a small box. Raising an eyebrow, I flip open the box, and inside, I discover a small crystal clock shaped like a motorcycle. "Whoa," I say, grinning, "This is great." I hold it up to the fading light of the sun and tilt it back and forth. It's idiotic, even girly, but I love that Mark buys me gifts. No one's ever done that for me before. I mean, sure, my parents send me gifts for my birthday and for Christmas, and we have a gift exchange in the lab every year. But for Mark to just surprise me with little things—I don't know. I guess I like the attention. Weird.

After a few seconds, I notice that Mark's looking over my shoulder, so I follow his gaze until I see Eric, who's across the parking lot, standing by his car. Eric's discarded the long-sleeved shirt he had on today. Now he's just wearing a tank top. He's got the hood of his car popped, and it looks like he's checking his oil.

I lick my lips.

"I'm sorry I got jealous," Mark says quietly.

Tearing my gaze away from Eric, I look at Mark. "You don't have anything to worry about," I say.

Mark nods. "I know. Tim," he says seriously, "what happened last night won't happen again."

I shake my head and let out a breath. "You don't have to say that, Mark," I say, "I'm not leaving you."

Mark regards me for a moment. "No, Tim. It'll never happen again."

Nodding, I say, "Okay."

Smacking me on the shoulder, Mark smiles. "So, dinner?"

"Sounds like I plan," I say. "What about my bike?"

"No problem," Mark grins, "I'll just load it into the back here, and we'll head out."

I half-watch as Mark struggles to haul my bike into the bed of his truck. Without really thinking, I let my gaze move from Mark to Eric. I'm more than a little surprised, though, to find Eric staring back at me. He nods slightly, and then returns to his engine.

I don't know why, but suddenly, I have an urgent desire to get out of this parking lot.

"We about ready?" I ask Mark.

"Yep," he announces, jumping down from the bed of his truck. "So, BBQ?"

"Yeah," I say, smiling as broadly as I can.

"Well, it sounds like we have a plan, then, Timmy!" Mark leans forward and kisses me on the cheek before walking around to the driver's side. Once inside, he unlocks the passenger door and motions me inside. "Let's roll."

Sneaking one last look at Eric, I climb into Mark's truck, lay my head back against the headrest, and close my eyes.