Title: Unknown

Chapter 18

Author's Notes: This was a difficult chapter to write. I wanted to explain some of what's going on in Tim's mind and why he puts up with the abuse. Also, I wanted to hint at why Tim might shy away from a relationship with Eric.

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I can usually tell it's going to be one of those nights as soon as Mark walks through the door. It's bizarre. There's a tangible difference in air when Mark's in one of his volatile moods. It's the like the oxygen in the atmosphere starts to dissipate, leaving something thick and barely breathable in its place. And the tension in the room becomes kinetic…it crackles like a live wire and propels Mark's rage forward.

Tonight was one of those nights. If I'm being honest, it's been coming for a while. Mark and I have had more than a month of peace, tethered by his promises and weakened by my betrayal. Something was bound snap eventually.

"I'm sorry," Mark says for the tenth time.

"I know," I say, pressing the ice bag against Mark's hand. "I don't think it's broken."

But I'm not sure I can say the same for my ribs.

With his uninjured hand, Mark runs his fingers through his hair. "I can't believe I fell like that."

Fell? Yeah, sure, if losing your balance after taking a swing at someone is falling, then, yeah, I guess he fell. Though I wouldn't say it out loud, some vindictive part of me is elated that Mark ran his fist into the wall. At least it was the wall and not my face.

Blowing out a breath, I lean forward to grab a wet washcloth from the coffee table. When I move, my ribs start screaming at me to stay still. I bite my lip and try to ignore the pain, but a sharp stab causes me to groan.

"You're hurt," Mark says, cocking his head at me.

You think? Ass.

"I'm sore," I say. "I'm all right." Clenching my jaw, I lean my body gingerly back on the couch. Mark pummeled my ribs pretty hard this time. They're bruised, at least, could be broken.

Mark holds out the ice bag. "You want this for a while?"

"No," I say.

Mark ignores me and pushes me gently back on until I'm half-lying he couch. He holds the ice bag against the right side of my rib cage. Chewing on his bottom lip, Mark says, "You want to go to the ER?"

Sit here in pain, or drag myself to the hospital and stare down some well-meaning nurse who asks too many questions for my comfort. That's a regular buffet of choices. "If you need to," I say.

I close my eyes. I knew tonight would happen sooner or later. I knew it before Mark got on that plane for Washington DC, and I damn sure knew it after I let Eric kiss me. The funny thing about tonight, though, is that it didn't happen because Mark found out about Eric and me. That's a treachery Mark has yet to discover. This happened because I forgot to call and tell Mark I was going to be home late tonight.

I'm so tired of this. I really am. I love Mark, and I'm not walking away. And I don't want to walk away. When I think back to my parents, I remember how distant they were to each other, and to me. My dad was always at the restaurant, and my mom was always organizing a bake sale or a food drive or something, something to keep her busy enough that she wouldn't realize how lonely that big, obnoxious house of ours really was most of the time.

I hardly ever remember seeing my parents kiss or lie on the couch together or hold hands or hug. Even when I was little, I sometimes had the impression I was living in an emotional vacuum, even though I didn't know how to verbalize the feelings. One night, when I was twelve, I remember wandering downstairs to get a late night can of soda, and I found my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She was wearing a bathrobe, and she was drinking vodka and pineapple juice. I could tell she'd been crying, so I asked her why. And in a rare moment of intimacy, she told me how lonely life could be if you were with someone who only had part of your attention. She told me that when I fall in love, I should make sure it's with someone who'll love me passionately and will want me and only me.

Whatever Mark does to me, I know he loves me. And I know he's faithful to me. When we're not fighting, our love is so beautiful and passionate. I've waited a long time to find this. I thought I'd found it with Brett, before he died on me. But I have it now, and I'm not giving it up.

Mark nuzzles my cheek. "I think I'll take you to the ER, Tim."

I let out a breath. "Okay."

About then, I hear a banging at the door. What the hell? I usually don't get company, let alone at one in the morning.

"Ignore it," Mark says, closing his eyes.

I'm about to nod in agreement when I hear, "Police. Open up."

Suddenly, the throbbing in my ribs spreads to my head and neck. This can't be happening. "We gotta get it, Mark."

Mark pales. "All right," he says. "Just lie still."

Wincing, I twist my neck so that I can see the door. I should probably ditch the ice bag and join him, but I'm too freaking worn out.

To be honest, I'm surprised no one's called the cops on us before. We can get kind of loud when we fight. Not to mention that my neighbors have been whispering back and forth about Mark and me ever since he moved in.

Running his fingers through his hair, Mark trudges toward the door. He glances back at me, takes a breath, and opens the door. "Hi, officers," he says. "Can I help you?"

Two uniformed officers are standing in the hallway. From what I can see, one is a tall, thin, fiftysomething guy. The other is has pudgy cheeks, albino-blonde hair, and a seemingly-permanent smirk.

"Sir," the tall officer says, "We got a couple of calls about a possible domestic disturbance."

"Um, everything's fine here," Mark says. "We were roughhousing. I guess we got a little noisy."

The pudgy officer pipes up. "Are you alone right now, sir?"

Mark glances back at me. "No, my boyfriend is here."

The short pudgy officer cranes his neck around Mark's body and looks directly at me. When he sees me, he sneers.

Meanwhile, the taller officer says, "Sir, we're going to need to come in, ask you a few questions."

Mark nods and backs into the living room. "Absolutely. I can understand." I say.

As the officers advance into the living room, I shove the ice bag under the couch and pull myself into a standing position. "What's going on?" I ask.

Mark bounds over to me. "Timmy, I guess we got too noisy for the neighbors. They want to talk to us."

The tall officer nods. "I'm Officer Marshall. This," he gestures to his partner, "is Officer MacDonald."

With his uninjured hand, Mark pats me on the back. "I'm Mark Keller. This is my boyfriend, Tim Speedle."

Officer MacDonald narrows his eyes at me. With a smirk, he asks, "You and your…boyfriend roughhouse often?"

Mark pipes up, "We're guys being guys."

MacDonald lets out a derisive laugh.

Glaring at his partner, Marshall says, "We received multiple complaints from your neighbors. They expressed some concern that someone might be injured. They said this kind of disturbance has happened before."

Mark laughs. "We're both fine. Our one neighbor, he gripes about it every time Timmy gets on his bike to go to work. Says he's disturbing the peace." He holds up his hand. "I smacked my hand into the wall, that's all."

Internally, I groan. Leave it to Mark to let the officers know he's injured.

Marshall gazes at Mark's black-and-blue hand. Then, he turns to me. "And you, sir? Are you okay?"

"I'm good," I lie. Standing up is becoming intolerable. My ribs are bawling me out with every breath. Swallowing, I fold my arms across my chest and shift my body so that my weight is resting on my left leg. But, the slight movement allows a sharp hiss to escape from my mouth.

At the noise, Officer Marshall glances up. "Sir, are you sure you're all right?"

Mark answers for me. "He's fine."

Officer Marshall shoots Mark a look and then turns toward me. "Sir?"

"I'm okay," I say. What else can I say?

I take a few steps back so that I can lean my aching body against the wall by the entertainment center. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my badge sitting beside the television. Damn. When Marshall and MacDonald figure out I'm a cop, they're…what are they supposed to do? Notify a supervisor, I think. That would be H. Damn. I can't go through this tonight.

Marshall glances between us. I'm guessing he's trying to decide who, if anyone, is the victim. "You want to sit down and talk about something?" Marshall asks. He stares at me with what I'm sure he means to be compassion, but it comes out as pity.

I glance at MacDonald. He's glaring at me, his nearly-white eyebrows gathered bush-like above his eyes. After a moment, he turns to his partner. "Rick, can I talk to you?"

"Excuse me a moment," Marshall says, and he and MacDonald walk a few feet away.

I can't hear the whole conversation, but I hear MacDonald say something about "those kind of people." Marshall shushes him once or twice, and then he finally walks back to me. From the look on Marshall's face, MacDonald pissed him off just enough that he might push this thing just to spite his partner. I am ten kinds of screwed if he pushes this.

Officer Marshall stops directly in front of me. "Sir, I need a little help understanding what happened here, tonight."

"Officer," Mark says, smiling broadly. "We were messing around."

"Sir," Marshall says. "With all due respect, I'd like to talk to your friend, here. Why don't you talk to my partner?"

Clenching his jaw, Mark does as he's told, leaving me alone with Marshall. After Mark is out of earshot, Marshall says, "Sir, was this a fight—"

"We were messing around," I say. "We were wrestling."

Marshall let out a breath, but I'm not sure if it's out of defeat, or maybe relief. "Well, if that's true—"About then, his eyes drift toward my badge.

I'm so screwed.

Cranking up my nerve, I scoop up my badge. "I probably should've mentioned this earlier," I choke. "I'm with the Miami Dade Crime Lab. Detective Tim Speedle."

Marshall relaxes. "You work for the redhead?"

I nod. "Yeah. Horatio Caine."

"Huh," Marshall says. "I worked on a case with him. Good guy."

"You gonna have to call him?" I'm shaking like a leaf, and I know it. If H shows up here tonight, everyone will know what's been going on. I'm already the cop who didn't clean his gun; now I'll be the cop who can't defend himself against his tree-hugger boyfriend. I can't do this. I just can't do this. "Nothing happened here tonight," I say to Marshall.

Glancing over his shoulder, Marshall says, "Something happened here tonight. I'm just not sure what."

"No crime was committed here," I say. "Just two guys acting stupid. It's a misunderstanding." I lean closer to Marshall. "We were roughhousing."

Rubbing his chin, Marshall lets out a breath. He stares at me for an excruciating moment, and then he yells over his shoulder. "Lee, I think this is a misunderstanding. Just a false alarm."

MacDonald smirks, as though he's just won a prize. "Sounds good, Ricky."

Marshall turns to me. "I'm not going to file a report on this. Consider it a courtesy, okay?"

"Yeah," I say, out of breath.

"We'll just say it was a false alarm. Neighbors getting antsy," he says. Patting me on the shoulder, he whispers, "This isn't the kind of thing you want to get around the department."

"No, sir," I say, shaking my head.

Marshall jerks his head toward the door. "Let's go, Lee. We've taken up too much of these boys' time."

As we watch the officers disappear out the door, Mark walk up behind me and places a hand my upper arm. He kisses me on the top of the head. "That was close," he says. "Can't believe someone called the cops."

"Yeah," I say. My whole body is trembling, and it's getting worse as the reality of what just happened, and what could've happened, hits me. And it's all I can do to keep from collapsing onto the ground.