Angst and Fucking in Western Canada

Disclaimers: They're not mine, okay?

Category: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo)

Notes: I started this while horribly separated from my laptop for eighteen tortuous days, days when I incidentally should have been spending time getting ready to move halfway across the country for the third time in six years, but that's beside the point, really.

Beta thanks to Catmoran.

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Watch Homicide on Court TV, weeknights at 1 am eastern. Buy the movie Hard Core Logo and watch it.

This continues the saga started in Going Under; it takes place after the last part of Married with Children, The Owl Protects Our House.

Summary: "We've got two weeks until we go home, Tim, two fucking weeks, and you're going to take some time to face your fear, your anger, whatever the fuck else is going on between you and your leg."

Rating: NC17. It's their honeymoon, after all.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Angst and Fucking in Western Canada

by shell

copyright 2002

I've never been to Alberta before, or British Columbia. Shit, I've never been to Canada. The only time I've been out of the country was a trip to Mexico with my Spanish club in high school.

I've traveled more in the last couple of years than the previous forty combined. It's no big deal to Bill—he's been to every major city in North America, most of them multiple times; Jenifur's toured Europe, Japan, and Australia; his Canadian passport is jammed with stamps. Mine, which I got when I joined the Bureau, is getting its first stamp today.

We land in Calgary two days after the wedding, a day later than originally planned, so instead of spending the night there, we rent a Land Rover and drive around the city a little before heading off to Banff. Bill points out some local landmarks, getting quieter by the moment, clamming up completely as we pass a rather disreputable-looking nightclub. He makes a u-turn, parks next to it, and just sits there.

I give him a couple minutes, then ask him if this is where they played on their last tour. He nods, leaning back against the seat, facing the window. "That was a great show, I bet. I mean, from what I could tell, the part in the film, you guys really kicked ass."

"Yeah. That night, and the night in Edmonton, we were really on."

"So Calgary was the last time it was really good."

"Yeah."

I give him another minute, then ask if he wants to go in, or walk around a little. He turns to look at me, and I'm not sure what I expected to see on his face—anger, pain, maybe guilt—but instead I see simple acceptance.

"No, I don't need to go in," he says softly, reaching for my hand. "I'm glad you're here with me, Tim."

"Always will be."

He smiles. "Yeah, I know." He looks out the window again for a second, then turns back to me. "Come on, there's a ski lodge waiting, and I got us the honeymoon suite."

"Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?" He squeezes my hand, then lets go and puts the Rover back in drive.

We're making our way through the outskirts of the city, following signs to Route 1, a few minutes later. "I'm going to want to make a stop at the cemetery when we're in Vancouver."

"Yeah, I figured you would."

"I know it's our honeymoon, and his fucking body's not even there, but I still need to go."

"It's not a problem, Bill. I understand. It's the first time you've been back, isn't it?"

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, except for a couple trips to Regina for custody hearings. How'd you deduce that, Secret Agent Man?"

"Lucky guess. Jenifur never played up here?"

"I never said anything, but Kat and Chelle figured I wasn't up for it. We've played Toronto a bunch of times, Montreal, Quebec, Ottawa, even St. Johns and Halifax, but nothing west of the Manitoba provincial border, and nothing north of Seattle."

"But you still wanted to come up here now."

"It was time. Figured I'd come up and see the mountains again, this time with you."

"I love you, Nature Boy."

"Yeah, I know."

I lean back in my seat and watch the mountains approach. It's a beautiful day—sunny, bright, and cold. We drive on until we get to the lodge at Lake Louise, and the sun is starting to descend behind the mountains. By unspoken agreement we skip the turn-off for the lodge and keep going until we find a small parking lot next to an overlook, where Bill parks the car and we get out.

Even with a scarf, hat, and gloves, it's damned cold. Neither one of us has said a word for the last hour or so—it wasn't necessary. We walk a little ways along the trail—fortunately, it's flat, graded, and clear of ice, so I don't have much trouble negotiating it—until we get to a place where we can't see the few cars parked by ours. We stand there, holding hands, watching as the sky shifts through every color imaginable, until it's almost too dark to make it back. Fortunately, the nearly full moon rising in the east lights our way.

"Come on, let's get some room service," Bill says as we approach the parking lot.

"Last time we did that, we didn't eat for a couple hours. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty hungry."

He smiles at me. "Okay, wuss, we'll eat in the dining room, get the bellhop to take our stuff up to the room. Does that meet with your approval?"

I reach out and caress his face with my gloved hand before answering him. "We've got time, Bill."

"Yeah, I know. The rest of our lives—that was the deal, right?"

"That was the deal."

He nods. "Love you, Tim."

"Yeah, I know," I answer with a grin, opening the door and struggling back into the Rover, wishing, as I do every day, that I still had two normal, functional legs. I've been using a cane for nine months now (I'm not going to think about what I was doing a year ago), and it's not that I'm not grateful. I know how close I came to being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, but it's still difficult to get my brain around the idea that I'll never run again. Sometimes I forget for a minute, only to remember just before I fall flat on my face.

Bill's gotten in next to me, and he must see something in my expression. "Leg bothering you?"

"No, it's fine."

"Tim, is your leg bothering you?"

"It doesn't hurt, Bill." I'm lying. It always hurts. "Just annoying sometimes, you know? Using the cane. How's your arm feeling, by the way?"

"Just a twinge now and then. And fucking itches like crazy." I know he's lying, too, that it's bothering him a lot after the drive, but I let it go.

"'A sign of healing,' the nurses always say, but that doesn't help much when you want to scratch yourself raw."

"I'll be all right. Food, then sex, then sleep—probably a king-sized bed, and a hot tub." He turns the key and pulls out of the lot, heading back to the lodge.

"You didn't check what the room was like when you made the reservations?"

"No, freak, I let Gloria take care of all of that—wanted us to be surprised."

"Shit, you really are a putz."

"Only with you. And don't you fucking breathe a word of it to anyone."

"Oh, I won't tell, Bill, but don't you think you kind of gave it away at the wedding?"

He laughs. "I fucking did, didn't I?" He drives silently back to the lodge, pulls up in front, puts the Rover in park, and the valet opens my door.

"Welcome to Lake Louise, Mr. Bayliss, Mr. Boisy, and congratulations. There's a table waiting for you in the dining room if you'd care to eat now, or we can take you right to your suite."

"Ah, no, I think we'd like to eat first." I knew Gloria was good, but I didn't know she was this good.

"We need to give that woman a fucking raise," Bill mutters, smiling, as the bellhop unloads our bags, a valet hops into the driver's seat, and we're guided into the dining room.

After a great meal, we head upstairs to the honeymoon suite. I use the keycard, and Bill opens the door and walks through.

"Wow." He turns to look at me when he hears my voice. He's smiling, standing in front of a table with a large bouquet of flowers and an even larger basket of food; there's a bottle of something chilling as well. The table backs up against a sofa, which faces a fireplace, complete with roaring fire. With high ceilings and exposed beams, the suite looks more like an upscale log cabin than a hotel room; I half expect to see a bearskin on the floor. Instead there's a soft, colorful rug and some pillows. Bill takes my hand and tugs, and I realize I'm still standing just inside the door, staring at the fireplace.

"Come on, Timothy—you can seduce me by firelight later. Let's check out the rest of it, okay?"

"Hey, hey, hey, that's a good idea, Bill. Yeah, your skin, firelight, definitely a good idea." But I let him lead me past the living room and into the bedroom, which includes an oversized bed with chocolates on the pillows. There's another fire burning away, and our clothes are neatly hung in the closet.

The bathroom's off to the side, and Bill tugs on my arm again until I follow him in his quest for a hot tub. The room's filled with thick towels, toiletries, bathrobes, candles, and a huge jacuzzi. Bill turns on the taps, tests the water, pulls off his sweater a little gingerly. I pull mine off and start unbuttoning the flannel shirt I have on underneath, gazing at the way his is riding up and exposing his back, and I have to touch that skin, so I bend down, wrap my arms around the front of him, and kiss the back of his neck.

"Mmm, fuck, that's more like it," he murmurs, straightening and leaning back against my chest with a sigh, holding me up.

"Shit."

"What?"

"We're going to have to hold that thought for a few more minutes."

"Oh, right, we promised we'd call the kids. The fuck time's it, anyway?"

"After eight. Ruthie's going to be worried."

He tips his head back against my shoulder. "Go. I'll join you in a few. I'll call Billie after we finish with Mouse and Ruthie."

It takes awhile, between Ruth insisting that Bill sing her to sleep—the nightmares that were finally subsiding after the rehearsal started up again after Jessica pulled her little stunt at the wedding—and Sarah having a rough time in her new high school. The conversation with Billie's short but sweet; we're both grateful that she, at least, is doing well.

We're sitting on the sofa, facing the fire, in our usual pose—legs stretched out, me leaning against the arm, Bill leaning back against my chest. It's comfortable, familiar, wonderful, and it's perfectly natural to pull him closer and nibble on his ear. He sighs contentedly, then squirms and shifts provocatively until he's facing me, lying between my legs, chest to chest, one hand on my shoulder, the other running idly through my hair. He looks at me for a long moment, and I can feel myself getting hard just from the pressure of those blue-grey eyes on my face. He notices, squirms again, rocks gently against me, his gaze warm.

Without even realizing it, I've started running my hands up and down the smooth skin of his back, under his shirt, encouraging him to keep up his gentle movements. His pupils dilate, his breathing deepens, and I can feel delicious pressure as his erection starts to press against mine. I groan, and his smile deepens, his eyes reflect the fire, and he continues rocking, a subtle counterpoint to my hands stroking his back. He hasn't made any other move, hasn't touched me, other than his fingers in my hair and where we're pressed together, hasn't made a sound, and I might come any second, just from the gentle rocking and the look in his eyes.

He's close, too, now; breathing quickly, harshly, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. He closes his eyes for a second, trembling, then reopens them and quickly leans down until our lips touch, both of us shuddering at the contact. A millisecond later my tongue's buried in his mouth and we're thrusting desperately, and I'm coming, Bill following me a few seconds later, his whole body shaking with release. Fuck, I'm still shaking with aftershocks, sweeter from the sensation of his body thrusting on mine, the long groan that's the only sound he's made since he told Billie goodbye. The faint tastes of coffee and chocolate linger as he pulls his mouth from mine after one last, tender, kiss, resting his forehead against my shoulder, breathing hard.

Then his gasps turn to laughter. "Jesus, Tim," he says helplessly, "that was—"

"Messy?" I'm laughing along with him.

"I was going to say 'fucking amazing,' but messy works. We fucking came in our pants on the fucking couch, fully clothed. And it was fucking amazing, Tim, watching your face, fuck, that and your hands—jesus."

I nod, squeeze him to me. "Your eyes should be registered as lethal weapons. Fucking sexy rock star, don't you ever smile at anyone else like that, you hear me? Jesus fucking christ, Bill, I haven't done anything like that since I was a horny teenager making out with Alice Parker at the drive-in."

He picks up his head. "You came in your pants at the fucking drive-in? Timmy, you bad boy!"

"Think she noticed? I spilled coke over my jeans to cover up the wet spot."

"If she didn't, she was fucking blind, deaf, and stupid—what a fucking waste. You must have been fucking mortified!" He's laughing louder now, and I go to punch him, but he just laughs harder.

"Maybe that's why she said no when I asked her to the prom, huh?" I ask, chuckling.

"You think?" That sets both of us off into fits again. "Jesus, Tim. God, I love you."

"Love you too, so much."

He rests his head back on my shoulder for a minute. "I think we should get in the fucking jacuzzi before we're stuck to our fucking clothes." Despite what he just said, he doesn't get up right away, but leans in for a long, slow, kiss. "Stay here a minute—I'll go start the water, light the candles, so you don't have to maneuver around much with your leg." He gives me a quick caress along the side of my face as he gets up, but I'm stuck on what he just said.

"I'll get us something to drink, if you think I can handle that all right, what with my bum leg." He stops walking toward the bathroom at the harshness in my voice, shoulders tensing—where the hell did that come from?—and returns to sit down next to me, picking up my cane and running his fingers absently over the silver handle.

"I think you can handle anything, Tim," he says quietly. "You seemed a little frustrated today, and not for the first time, and after all the fucking shit we've been through lately, I figured I'd lay off the slavedriver schtick and take care of you a little."

"Listen, I don't need any special treatment. I know I'm a fucking gimp, but I'm perfectly capable—"

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me," he interrupts angrily. "I'm not blind, and I'm not fucking stupid. At least once a day you forget for a minute, start doing something, then realize you can't just get out of the chair or go play with the girls or whatever it is, and you look at that leg of yours, and you hate it. You're pissed that you can't hike where you want to; you're fucking pissed when you can't walk or stand for long periods of time. You fucking lie to me all the time when I ask you if you're hurting, and don't think I don't fucking know it. You hate to wear shorts; you have a hard time wearing swim trunks, even if no one's around to see. You fucking never look at your right leg, even in the shower, unless it's one of those times when you look at it with this cold hatred that fucking kills me. You still flinch every time I touch your scars, even though I know they don't hurt anymore.

"I've kept my fucking mouth shut about this for months, figuring you needed to work through it on your own, thinking you needed me more for PT than as a fucking social worker, but I think I was wrong. You sure as shit haven't shown any signs of dealing with this so far, and I'm fucking sick and tired of ignoring it.

"We've got two weeks until we go home, Tim, two fucking weeks, and you're going to take some time to face your fear, your anger, whatever the fuck else is going on between you and your leg. We don't have to talk about it anymore tonight, but we're going to talk about it soon. So stop being a fucking baby and let me help you already."

"I hate it when you pull shit like this," I mutter, and he smiles.

"Tough fucking shit. You've signed on for the duration—no backing out allowed." He leans closer, brushes my cheek with fingertips, then lips. "It's our honeymoon, Tim. Maybe I want to take care of you a little. Be a fucking putz."

I capture his hand in mine and bring it to my lips, kissing the ring I put there. "Go on, get the water started, light the damned candles. I'll be there in a minute." He nods and gets up, grimacing a little as his drying clothes chafe.

"I can't believe you made me come in my fucking pants. Fuck." He strips them off and walks toward the bathroom clad only in a half-buttoned shirt and damp boxer briefs, turning and grinning slyly at me in the doorway. I hear the water start a few seconds later.

I take off my shirt and unfasten my belt, slide my jeans off and onto the floor; look at my legs, stretched out in front of me. The left one looks basically normal—long, kind of pale, lightly covered with hair. There are a few scars here and there, but they're not that noticeable. My left leg is actually in better shape than it's been in years, given that it's been doing most of the work of holding me up.

The only part of the right leg that looks remotely normal is my foot. The surgical scars are at least straight and clean—one on the outside of my leg, from just below to just above the knee, and one on the inside running from my ankle to mid-thigh. The other scars are everywhere, from the stoning, and from the pins, with scant inches free of them—but the knee, what's left of it, is the worst. The skin is more heavily scarred there, and there are no clean lines of bone or muscle—it's misshapen, gnarled, sunken—ugly. The muscles in the rest of the leg look strange—far from the normal curves and planes visible on my other leg. The orthopedists talked to me about ligaments, bones, attachments, the delicate mechanics by which our bodies function, but none of their detailed explanations ever made more sense than what Marilyn told us a couple days after my first surgery.

"Dr. Taggert and his team, they're excellent surgeons, and it's thanks to them that you still have two legs, but don't kid yourself that it's ever going to be the same. You could lose the leg anyway, from any number of complications, and there's no guarantee that you'll ever walk again. The best you can hope for is using crutches or maybe a cane, and that's months away. But you're alive, Tim, and in stable condition, and that's pretty incredible considering the shape you were in when you arrived. In the weeks, months, and years to come, I want you both to remember that, okay?"

We nodded solemnly, overwhelmed by everything that had and was still happening, to us and between us. I swore I'd never forget how lucky I was, and who cared if I ever walked again, if I had Bill with me. But I hadn't remembered that promise in months, avoided all thought of that time in the hospital, much less what put me there in the first place.

I look up from my contemplation when I hear Bill say my name. He kneels in front of me, puts both hands on my leg, and kisses the scarred, sunken flesh.

"It's not ugly to me," he says, nuzzling the outside of my knee. "Don't let it be ugly to you. It's part of you—don't pretend it's not." He places his lips on my knee again, tenderly, gently, lovingly, the way he kissed the scar along my back and side the first time we made love. The scarred tissue's basically numb, but physical sensation doesn't seem to matter—I feel every touch of his lips as a jolt to my groin. Watching his fingers gently stroke the raised flesh, tracing the surgical scar from my ankle to my inner thigh, makes me groan out loud, and he looks up with a smile, resting his chin on my thigh. I can feel his warm breath.

"The tub's ready," he says huskily. "Care to join me?" He stands up and offers me his hand. I let him help me up, then reach out and touch the stitches on his arm, the old scar above his eye. His smile widens.

"They're not ugly—they're part of you," I murmur, placing a kiss above his eye. I put my arm around his shoulder and let him help me into the bathroom, out of my boxers, and into the tub. He's careful to guide me around the burning candles, the only light in the room.

"Relax, get comfortable—I'll be back in a minute." I can see the outline of his half-hard cock as he bends to kiss me, and I caress it through the fabric with one wet finger, making him tremble.

"Hurry back." He nods, kisses my forehead, and heads out of the room. I close my eyes, enjoying the luxury of a tub long enough to stretch out all the way; the one at home will be installed while we're gone. The jets soothe muscles that have ached for so much of the past year that I'm surprised relief is even possible. The only thing that's ever helped this much has been Bill's touch. I lean back and submerge in the warm, moving water, the jets loud in my ears until I surface, opening my eyes just in time to see Bill enter the room, clad in a robe and carrying his guitar and the bottle, which turns out to be sparkling cider.

I smile, raising my eyebrows; he pops the cork, pours, hands me a glass, takes a sip of his own, and sits down on the edge of the tub with his guitar. Then he sings—serenades me, really. Plays me songs he wrote for me, songs Jenifur hasn't recorded, because Kat and Chelle have never heard them. Sings me one I haven't heard before—tells me he planned to play it at the reception, but tonight's the first night his arm's felt up to playing anything.

He makes it through four songs, then can't help grimacing, so I tell him to get his ass in the tub. He puts the acoustic back, takes off the robe, and climbs in, at which point I grab him around the waist and pull him down on top of me, laughing, splashing so much he puts out half the candles.

"Thank you, Bill." I kiss him thoroughly, deeply, trying yet again to show him how much he means to me. His tongue meets mine with enthusiasm, arms locking around me, legs tangling. We realize after a few minutes of wrestling around that maybe a jacuzzi isn't the best place for what we have in mind and get out, throwing robes over our dripping bodies, blowing out the rest of the candles, letting the tub drain.

He helps me back to the bedroom, back onto the bed. I loosen the tie of his robe and ease it off his damp shoulders, running my fingers through the sparse hair on his chest, bending to tongue his nipples one at a time. He gasps in delight, but still manages to work those talented hands under my robe. I wriggle out of it impatiently, and his follows mine to the floor a second later.

I'm lying between his legs, my cock in the hollow of his hip, the head resting against the tattoo he put there for me. The firelight flickering over his face, his body, accentuates planes and shadows, makes his skin glow, and I can see myself reflected in his eyes. I brush a few damp hairs from his brow, and he closes his eyes in pleasure.

One of his hands finds my erection and strokes it lightly; the other pulls me down for a blistering kiss. He brings his legs up and around my waist, moving my cock toward his ass and pushing back against the head. "Want you in me," he breathes into my ear, and I moan in response.

"Fuck, Bill, where's the lube?"

"Guitar case, suitcase, shaving kit—take your pick." I look at him. "What? I wanted to be prepared." He shoves his ass back at me again as a reminder, and I try to figure out what's closest—not easy when my brain's not getting much in the way of blood flow. I think the guitar case is in the living room, and I know the shaving kit's in the bathroom, so that leaves the suitcase, which is where? Yeah, there it is, next to the dresser.

"You get it," I growl. "I don't want to use my leg." I roll us over and he laughs, kisses me, and jumps off the bed. He rummages through the suitcase, throws me the tube, and is back on the bed in seconds, lifting and spreading his legs in a blatant invitation.

My hands, pruney from the water, are shaking as I begin to prep him. We haven't done this for awhile—neither one of us is capable of quiet when it comes to fucking, so it hasn't been on the menu lately, what with Ruth's nightmares since the rehearsal dinner.

We both moan in delight as I slowly ease my way into him. It's the second time tonight for both of us, neither one of us will ever see forty again, but it still doesn't take much longer than it did on the sofa. No, it doesn't take long, but it is truly fucking intense, and we're both drenched with sweat and grunting before orgasm even hits. Bill comes first this time, but the feel of him shuddering and clenching around me throws me quickly into what feels like a fucking grand mal seizure, only a lot more pleasant.

It takes a few minutes of us making animal noises before I can push up with shaking arms and gently pull out of Bill's ass, still spasming with aftershocks. I roll us over onto our sides and wait another couple minutes to finish catching my breath.

"I love you," I tell him after he grabs a towel and wipes us both down again.

"Love you, too. More every fucking day, and who would've believed that?" he responds, flopping back on the bed in a boneless sprawl.

"It's why I married you."

"Mmm," he mumbles agreeably. "Tired. You wore me out. Let's sleep."

"We should probably get under the covers first," I remind him, trying to keep my eyes open. He nods, his own eyes closed, and between the two of us we manage to slide beneath the sheets and pull the comforter up. Bill pulls me into his arms, and the last thing I'm conscious of is the touch of his lips on my neck as we both fall into sleep.

I have a nightmare that night, but for once Bill sleeps through it. I tell myself it doesn't matter, it's just a stupid dream, spoon back around him, and fall back asleep.

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We're enjoying a hearty lunch in the dining room our second day in Banff, and I'm thinking about how fucking hot Tim's looking in his black turtleneck and how I can't wait to get it off him. I'm also thinking it'll have to wait until after our hike, which Tim's insisting we go on right after lunch. A short, athletic-looking man with red hair walks up to our table, glances at me with a brief smile, then reaches out to shake Tim's hand.

"Excuse me—sorry to interrupt your meal, but you are Tim Bayliss, aren't you?"

"Yes, and this is my husband, Bill Boisy." He's polite, but he's not inviting any intimacy from this stranger; Tim's been living with celebrity for months now, and he's learned the drill. I like being introduced as his husband—that's the first time he's done that—and I smile at him to let him know.

"Of course, Mr. Boisy," the man says genially, shaking my hand enthusiastically. "Look, I know you two are on vacation, and normally I wouldn't dream of bothering you, but I think I can help you, Mr. Bayliss—may I call you Tim?"

"Help him how?" I ask, ignoring the fact that he wasn't talking to me. I'm getting annoyed—it's bad enough waiting to get Tim back in bed for a fucking hike, but this guy's the last fucking straw.

"With his leg," he answers me, then turns back to Tim, leaving me staring at both of them in surprise. Tim looks just as floored.

He hands us business cards. "My name is Rob Wilson, and I'm a sports medicine physician—I work mainly with the Canadian Olympic Ski Team, although I've helped a lot of athletes in other sports over the years. I've also done some work with trauma cases—skiing accidents, jockeys after bad falls, that sort of thing. I've been in this business for over fifteen years, and I've been a fan of yours, Mr. Boisy, for even longer—it's a good thing some of Hard Core Logo's albums have been released on CD, because I pretty much wore out my vinyl copies. Anyway, I've read a little of your story in the papers, and I couldn't help but notice that you never wear a brace."

"We tried a few, after the fixators came off, but they seemed to make things worse rather than better." I tell him, reluctantly intrigued. The guy's really fucking smarmy, but if he knows his shit, who the fuck cares? I was never that impressed with the orthopods in LA, and Tim didn't see anyone but them after the fixators came off.

"The leg needed extensive reconstruction," Tim adds cautiously. "None of the braces we tried worked—there'd be a lot of swelling, sometimes pretty severe; most of them made the pain worse, and none of them seemed to help. They finally decided the combination of all the scar tissue and the loss of some of the blood vessels caused too much damage." Tim always refers to his leg in that disconnected way, as "it," or "the leg," and I hear the pain he's hiding every fucking time.

Dr. Wilson nods enthusiastically, like he really thinks he can help. "That's what I thought must have happened. Listen, I can't promise anything, but I've done some pretty creative work with individual athletes, if I do say so myself, and I'd like to take a look at your leg and see if I can help. I have offices in Banff, Vancouver, and Toronto, but I'm here now, and my office is just a kilometer away. If you're interested, I've got some free time the day after tomorrow."

"How about after lunch, around one?" Tim asks, and I can hear the hope he's trying to hide as clearly as I hear the pain.

"That would be fine. You'll want to bring something to read—I'll probably need to keep you for a few hours. Of course, I completely understand if you'd rather not—you're on your honeymoon, as I understand."

"No, we'd appreciate any help you can give us," I say, giving Tim's hand an encouraging squeeze. Tim gives me a grateful smile.

"Great! I'll see you two the day after tomorrow, then. Enjoy the rest of your meal. It's really wonderful to meet you."

We finish eating quickly, since Nature Boy wants to go for his hike. Tim stays to sign the check while I run upstairs to grab outerwear and my cellphone. I'm about to head back down when the door opens and Tim comes in. The cane and the limp are so familiar by now that I usually don't notice them, but now I watch, fascinated by the concentration and brute strength he exhibits every time he takes a step. He slowly makes his way over to me, picks the coats out of my hands, puts them on the table, and runs his fingers through my hair.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asks. "You aren't worrying about me again, are you? I know this is a long shot."

"You have a way of making good on long shots."

"I do, don't I? I have you in my life, after all." He pulls me into his arms. "You were right, you know."

"Yeah, I know." I nuzzle his neck and his ear, breathing in his scent. "The shrink I saw, after Joe, she was big on the whole grieving process. That's probably something you know a bit about, being a murder police and all."

"Yeah, so?"

"How much grieving have you done for your leg, Tim?"

He leans his forehead onto my shoulder and tightens his hold on me, taking a deep, shuddering breath, then letting it out in a long sigh. I run my hands slowly up and down his back and kiss his ear. We stand there for awhile.

"Hey, Bill," he says into my shoulder after a few minutes of silence, "if it weren't for the whole dissolute youth thing, you would have made a fucking great detective."

"No I wouldn't. Don't give a fuck about how anyone else's mind works. Just you and the kids."

"Well, do you think you could lay off the penetrating psychological insights for a few days, give me a chance to catch up?" he asks plaintively.

"Sure." He lifts his head, meets my eyes. I smile at him, and he smiles back, putting his grief aside for the moment. "It's going to be your turn in Vancouver," I remind him, and he nods, strokes my cheek.

"I guess we've both got some work to do—sorry it has to happen now."

"Don't be. We can fuck like bunnies in between emotional outbursts." He laughs. "Fuck being sorry, Tim. We're alive, we found each other, and we were smart enough to hold on when we did. We're the lucky ones."

"Yeah. I can't believe how lucky—I never thought—jesus, Bill, I hope you never get tired of hearing how much I love you, because I don't think I'll ever be able to stop."

"Good. Because you're stuck with me for the duration."

"Thank god," he murmurs before our lips meet. We make out for a few minutes, and I'm working my way under his sweater when he grabs my hand apologetically and breaks away. "Unfortunately, we don't have time for this right now," he reminds me, kissing the inside of my wrist before reaching for his coat.

"Fuck," I groan.

"Yes, definitely, but later, all right?" he replies huskily, and I laugh, grabbing my own coat and scarf.

"It's your turn tonight," I breathe into his ear, giving it a little lick before turning away, and I score a groan.

"Jesus, Bill, you keep this up and we'll never make it out the door."

"Okay, okay, we're going."

The hike turns out to be even shorter than planned. Tim gets a motherfucker of a muscle cramp, and for once he actually admits it instead of insisting on soldiering fucking on. Maybe last night's conversation did some good. My arm's not taking too well to the cold, either, so I'm glad to head back.

"Room service tonight?" I ask, and Tim nods gratefully as we walk into our suite. "You sit. I'm going to get the water running in the tub—you look like you could use a fucking long soak."

"Sounds good, but only if you'll join me."

"After I make a couple phone calls, I promise."

I'm in the bathroom when I hear him call out. "If you get me a glass of water and one of those Vioxx, I'll love you forever. On second thought, I'll love you forever anyway, so bring two Vioxx—you should take one, too."

"How fucking sweet—you're letting me take care of you."

"Fuck you, Rock Star. You love it."

"No, I love you. Now take your fucking medicine and get your ass in the tub." I get him settled, even get a folded towel to use as a headrest.

When I get off the phone and go to join him, his eyes are closed, and he's floating bonelessly, completely relaxed. It's good to see. He opens his eyes and smiles at me as I step into the tub, then maneuvers both of us around until my head's resting on his chest and the rest of me is submerged. He digs his fingers into my neck and shoulders, then down my arms, working gently but thoroughly to ease any tightness. His hands linger on my left arm, soothing away tension and pain. Then I feel him pulling me up and over and working the towel into place between my neck and the edge of the tub. He places a soft kiss on my forehead and starts to get out, and I open my eyes.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"I've been in this thing so long I'm feeling overheated. You stay—I'm going to take a look at the room service menu. You want me to bring it in and read it to you?"

"That would be great."

He works his way up and out slowly, sleek from the water, and manages to grab a towel and his cane. I let my eyes linger on the long lines of his back and shoulders, marred only by the faded, puckered scar of his gunshot wound. Then I move my gaze down to his slim waist and lean, muscled ass, still damp and so fucking hot.

He professes to love mine, which is fucking strange, because I know it's nothing special. Tim's is fucking perfect. It's not round and cheeky like his partner's, or like Joe's was, but it's beautiful the way his whole body is—long, lean, and perfectly proportioned. I loved Joe, but Tim's ass, now, that's a fucking work of art.

"You done staring at my ass yet? I'd like to get my robe on before I get cold."

"Sorry, Tim, but, fuck, present me with a view like that and I'm going to fucking enjoy it. Go on, don't want you to get a cold—I've got plans for that ass of yours later."

"Good," he says, bending over slowly to grab a robe off the towel rack—a robe he could reach perfectly well; he's just letting me get a better look, and I let out a helpless moan at the sight. He turns and grins flirtatiously, giving me the briefest glimpse of his hardening cock before he pulls the robe closed.

"That's it. Dinner can fucking wait." I'm up and out of the tub in seconds. Tim backs out of the bathroom, laughing, telling me he doesn't want to get all wet again, so I'd better dry off before I come to bed. I try to take my time—fuck, my hands are shaking, and that alone slows me down some—but I know what's waiting for me, and I want it so fucking much I think I'm going to explode. So I dry off best as I can, given the circumstances, then drop the towel on the floor and head for the bedroom.

When I see what Tim's doing there on the bed, my knees literally go weak. He's on his side, good leg bent up, working his own lubed fingers in and out of that perfect fucking ass. He turns to look when he hears my voice, and I catch another glimpse of his cock, fully erect now and leaking, and I have to close my eyes and think of snow. When I open them, he's staring hungrily at my twitching cock, his breath coming in short gasps.

Somehow I make it over to the bed. He pushes me back, straddles my hips and slowly lowers himself onto my aching cock, eyes locked on mine until he has to close them with a hiss of pleasure. I start stroking his cock, and he starts moving his hips in little circles, and then I start thrusting, feeling the nub of his prostate against my cockhead as he shifts to get the perfect angle, and he grabs the headboard behind me. I can see his shoulders quivering with strain, and then his balls tighten and he comes with a shout, shaking the whole bed. I thrust desperately, grabbing his hips, smearing his come over both of us. He lets go of the headboard with one hand and pulls me close, mouth on my neck, ear, shoulder, gasping, "love you, Bill, love you, want to feel you come in me, god, Bill, please, let me feel you," and then I'm doing it, I'm coming into him so hard, so sweet, so good, and I know it's fucking stupid, but it's like we're really married now, and I love him so fucking much that there are tears in my eyes, and he's stroking them away with lips and fingertips, still murmuring, "love you, Bill, love you so much."

I lock my arms around his waist and pull him close, hold onto him as tightly as my aching muscles will let me, and bury my face in his chest. "Don't you ever fucking leave me, Timothy Bayliss; don't you ever leave; we're married, and that's for fucking ever, you hear me?" and I don't even know where that's coming from, only maybe I do, because six weeks ago some fucking psychos tried to take him away from me, and a few days ago they tried again, and a year ago, fuck, it was a year ago now, and when Joe took himself away it almost fucking killed me. And I didn't love Joe half as much as I love Tim.

"Shhh, Bill, hey, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Love you, always will. You've got me, till we're 104, always, forever." I'm still shaking in his arms, but he keeps murmuring reassurance for another minute, then quiets.

"Bill, look at me," he says at last, shifting uncomfortably—fuck, this position must really be fucking with his knee—and I let go, let him ease himself up and off, and he immediately pulls us down, pulls me into his arms, stroking my face tenderly.

"Bill, come on, look at me," he says again, and I do.

"Listen to me, all right? I love you so much, and I'd never leave you, but you know—jesus, you know there's always a chance that the next time," he takes a shaky breath, "and there probably will be a next time, and one or both of us could be killed." I shake my head stubbornly. "One of us could be in a plane crash, or your tour bus could get hit by a semi. One of the blood vessels in my leg could blow, throw a clot or something. I need to know that, if something happens to me, that you'll be okay. That you'll know there's a part of me that will always, always be with you. I need to know you'll take care of our kids. I know—Bill, I've talked to Kat and Chelle, and I know how close you came to checking out when Joe died." He grabs my chin, makes me look at him again. "I made a promise to you in Phoenix that I would stick around, and I meant it. If something happened to you—" he shuts his eyes, takes another shaky breath "—if something happened to you, jesus fuck, I don't know how I'd get through it, but I would, I would have to, because that's part of what I promised you, and because I know you'd want me to be there for Billie, Ruth, and Sarah.

"Now maybe I'm completely off-base here, overreacting or something, and if that's the case, feel free to tell me to fuck off, but promise me first that if something happens—that if that fucking bomb had worked right, or Jessica had been a better shot—that you'd hang on."

I shake my head helplessly. I think this is the first time we've really let ourselves admit how close we came to losing each other, how much danger there still is that one of us, more likely Tim, could be killed. Maybe he's been a little more aware of it, done some meditating on it, but it's not something we've ever really talked about.

"God, Tim," I say finally, "I know, fuck, I know. Fuck, I don't know how, but I'd find a way, I promise, I'd find a way. And you fucking better be right about that reincarnation shit, because I am fucking never letting you go, and that goes double if you leave before me."

He sighs, in relief, I think. "I don't know if I believe in reincarnation or not, but I know that if there is a part of us that goes on, that part of me will be with that part of you forever."

A bizarre thought strikes me, and I bark out a short laugh. "Do you—do you suppose Joe's been haunting us? He was always a fucking jealous son of a bitch, and I doubt the afterlife would mellow him."

"Maybe, maybe not. He did love you, Bill. Maybe he'd want you to be happy. Maybe he'd be looking out for you."

"Joseph Mulgrew, guardian angel." I laugh again. "I didn't do too great a job protecting him, that's for sure."

"It wasn't your fault, Bill. And it's not your fault you love me more than you loved him." Fucking perceptive detective.

"I want to believe that."

"I know. Come on, rest your head on me for awhile. Keep me warm." He turns onto his back. I grab the comforter from the foot of the bed, position myself so I'm halfway on top of him, my ear against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. He pulls the comforter over us and encircles me in his arms, occasionally brushing my hair and the back of my neck with his fingers.

I close my eyes and start to count my breaths, trying to find some sort of zen state, wanting to experience this moment, experience Tim, as fully as I can. We're breathing in sync, and I relish the way my head moves as our chests rise and fall together. Besides our breathing and his heart, I can hear the crackling of the fire and the occasional protests of our empty bellies. I can smell the fire, too, through the stronger scents of sweat and sex rising from our bodies, and I can taste the remains of my own tears in the back of my throat. My belly itches a little where Tim's semen has dried, and my dick's pleasantly sore from all the action it's seen lately. So's my ass.

It's nice and warm where our bodies are pressed together, and the rest of me's warming up in the cocoon of the comforter and Tim's arms. I smile at a vision of Tim and me under flannel sheets while the snow flies outside our house in the mountains. Tim feels my lips curling against his chest and resumes his slow stroking through my hair, and I'm filled with an overwhelming peace and contentment.

Later that night, after we've eaten and talked to the kids and made love again, I fall asleep in his arms, and I dream about Joe.

I used to dream about him a lot, fucking nightmares of that night in Edmonton, but this is different. I'm playing a concert—not sure if the rest of Jenifur is there, or maybe Pipe and John are backing me up—and I see him in the front row, looking like he did fifteen years ago, smirking at me. I finish the song and walk offstage, knowing he'll be waiting for me in my dressing room, and there he is. He throws an arm around my shoulder, cigarette dangling between his fingers, just like old times, and then he kisses my cheek.

"I shouldn't have fucking left you like that, William," he says. "That was fucked. I was fucked—thought I was losing you. But I didn't fucking lose you until you met this cop motherfucker, did I?"

"Joe—fuck. I'm not sure you ever had me. I couldn't be what you needed, no matter how fucking hard I tried. I'm sorry, Joe. I'm sorry I couldn't love you enough, couldn't make you happy."

"Shut the fuck up with that fucking bullshit, you fucker. Don't you fucking take that on. That shit's on me, Billy. You loved me, all right, and I fucking hated it. I fucking hated that you were so fucking important to me, and I did everything I could to fuck you. When fucking Festus fucked you over, I was fucking relieved, because that meant you were mine again—mine to fucking drink my liver into a colostomy with, mine to mind-fuck, mine to hurt in every fucking conceivable way. I fucking fucked you, fucking raped you, and you still loved me—don't you fucking apologize for that."

"Why'd you do it? You had to know—jesus, Joe—"

"It's like I told you. I was fucked. I was fucking waiting, that's all. You were just an excuse to go on a little longer. It's that fucking teen angst rock n roll cliche—I loved you, but I fucking hated myself. Wasn't anything you could have done, Bill. I was hellbent on destruction, fucking feeding the legend."

"You wouldn't happen to know who took your body out of that cemetery, would you?"

"Fuck if I know. Doesn't fucking matter. Wasn't me, not anymore. But you can still stop by the grave—that'd be a nice gesture." He smiles then, the full-bore, Joe Dick so-fucking-charming-you-gotta-love-me smile, and I laugh and promise I will.

"I fucking love you, man. That motherfucker hurts you and he's going to find out what a fucking Joe Dick haunting can mean, understand?"

"You want me to be happy?" He looks vaguely hurt at the skepticism in my voice.

"Yeah, I do, to be quite honest. Fucking more than I wanted when I was alive, but no one ever said this being dead shit had to make any fucking sense."

"I want you to be happy, Joe. Always did."

"I know that, Bill. Always have, always will. And for whatever the fuck it's worth, I'm happier now than I ever was when I was alive. Now get the fuck out of here and go back to your lame fucking cop husband, you stupid fucking cunt." He leans over and kisses me again, full on the lips, roughly—this is Joe, after all—but with a tenderness he rarely showed when he was alive.

I open my eyes. There's some light from the dying fire, and some more filtering through the curtains, enough to see Tim's sleeping face on the pillow next to me, complete with a little drool running out of the corner of his half-open mouth, and I smile. Carefully, so I won't wake him, I sit up and grab a pen and stationery from the bedside table and start to write.

A few minutes later, I feel him stirring. He sits up, watching me. I feel a soft kiss on my shoulder as he pulls the covers up around me and gets out of bed. By the time he returns, burrowing under the covers, I've finished writing.

"A new song?"

"No, a dream. About Joe, if you can fucking believe it."

"You okay?" I hear the concern in his voice, so I smile at him.

"It wasn't a nightmare, Tim. It was good."

"Really? What happened?"

"I wrote it all down. Here, you read it while I take care of business."

"You might want to hurry—it's damned cold in there this morning."

"Thanks for the warning—give me your robe, okay?" It's warm from his body; smells like him, too, and I wrap it gratefully around me and head into the bathroom, stopping to throw some more wood on the fire.

I stare at my face in the mirror a few minutes later, bemused. Tim's the spiritual one, the zen detective, the sensitive guy, the one with the incredibly vivid dreams. The nightmares are fucking awful, but I love hearing about his other dreams—they never make much sense, but they're pretty damned entertaining.

I'm the one who sleeps like the proverbial fucking rock. I'm attuned to Tim—wake up if he so much as whispers my name—but other than that, I can sleep through anything. And I almost never remember my dreams. I fucking remember this one, though.

When I get back, I see he's turned on the light, grabbed a sweatshirt, and settled his glasses onto his nose, reading intently. "No one should look that good in glasses and a sweatshirt." He looks up and smiles.

"Get your ass back in bed, Rock Star." He puts an arm around me and pulls me close, into the cocoon of warmth surrounding his body. He finishes what I've written, then goes back to the beginning and reads it again. Then he takes his glasses off deliberately, places them and the pad of paper back on the table, and switches off the light.

"That's quite some dream you had."

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

"You know, I don't think I do. Is that fucked?"

"No, it makes sense. The dream is what it is." He's silent for a moment. "I'm glad you dreamed it."

"Yeah, me too."

"We'll definitely stop at the cemetery next week."

"We'd better, if we don't want to get haunted." He smiles. "Love you, Tim."

"Love you, William." He turns his head, addresses the ceiling. "Sorry, Joe, but it's true."

"Joe might want to go, I don't know, see how Pipe's doing or something."

"And why is that?"

I run the tip of one finger slowly over his lips. "Because I'm about to get lucky with my lame fucking cop husband."

"Mmmhmm," he murmurs agreeably, just before our lips meet, a slow, lazy reconnection. We do nothing but kiss for a long, long time. I guess we're finally sated enough from the last couple of days to take it slowly. His tongue traces the outside of my lips with exquisite tenderness, then gently parts them and repeats its slow journey again and again, each circuit moving slightly deeper into my mouth. My hands, seemingly of their own volition, run languidly over his face and through his hair, my fingers sensitive to every subtle change in texture and warmth, from the roughness of his stubble—he hasn't shaved since the wedding—to the warm, soft skin at his temples, the silky feel of his hair.

He moves at last from his exploration of my mouth to placing soft kisses on my forehead, cheeks, chin, and I murmur, "You're growing a beard again, aren't you?"

I feel him smile against the angle of my jaw. "I seem to remember that you liked my beard, so I thought, what with winter just around the corner, maybe you wouldn't mind."

I nuzzle his neck. "I definitely don't mind. I've kind of missed that beard." Later, I wonder about the timing, about whether it was another unconscious attempt to push away memories of last autumn, but for now I just enjoy the rough feel of his stubble.

He works his hands down my chest to loosen the tie of my robe, and I take it the rest of the way off, gesturing for him to get rid of the sweatshirt. The room's warmed up some, and so have we, so I don't object when he pulls the covers back and stretches out beside me, starting the same slow, exquisite exploration of my body that he just finished of my face and mouth. I return the favor as much as I can, given that he's kind of got me pinned down—not that I mind—by running my hands and mouth gently over anything I can reach. At some point he urges me onto my stomach, and I can feel his dick leaking against my thigh as he runs his tongue down the back of my neck. I'll be able to return the favor sometime, so I stay relatively still as he lovingly maps my body, inch by inch, with fingers and lips and tongue. By the time he spreads my legs and runs that tongue slowly up my inner thighs, my hands are clenched tightly in the sheets and I'm gasping with each breath.

He guides me back onto my back and starts tracing my tattoo, and it's fucking sweet torture. I can feel his cheek brushing against my dick, and I can't fucking stand it anymore, watching his lips outline Mighty's ears and nose, so close to my twitching cock. I wrap my fingers around the back of his neck and pull him up and over me, grab his ass, line us up, bury my face in his neck with a groan at the sensation of silky, damp heat where our cocks meet against our stomachs, as he slowly rocks against me, moaning softly, running his fingers through my hair.

I probe his ass with one finger—it slides in easily, thanks to last night—and he moans louder and reaches down to wrap his hand around our cocks, stroking slowly. My arousal stutters upward, plateaus, stutters upward, plateaus, every sensation magnified, and it's sort of like yesterday, because I'm fucking there, in the endless fucking moment, smelling and tasting and hearing and feeling and seeing, beyond thought, working a second finger into Tim, and his balls tighten, his body stiffens, and he's coming in long, slow, hot spurts, his fingers slippery on us now, his head thrown back as he thrusts, mouth open, groaning, eyes squeezed shut, beautiful man. As he finishes, he opens his eyes, and I reach up to brush a bead of sweat away before it can make its way past his temple to the corner of his eye. He reaches for my hand and brings my finger into his mouth as he resumes his slow, steady strokes on me, and I stutter upward once more and keep going as he moves his hand a little faster, suckling my finger, and then I have to close my own eyes as my orgasm finally hits, and it feels like my whole fucking body is coming, not just my dick, and I don't even sound like I usually do, letting out a long, guttural moan that, like my orgasm, seems to go on for fucking ever.

Tim's hand gentles on my softening cock, and eventually I manage to open my eyes again and look up into his loving gaze. He smiles at my no doubt dazed expression and brushes my sweat-soaked hair from my brow. "Hey there."

I laugh weakly. "Hey yourself."

"If we can ever manage to move, we should probably get in the shower."

"I'm going to need some more time, I think."

"'s okay. I'm not sure I can feel my feet, so I should probably stay put for awhile. Can you breathe okay?"

"I can breathe just fine. Just can't fucking move is all. Jesus fucking christ."

"That about covers it." He rests his forehead on the pillow. Then, with a monumental effort, he rolls onto his back, and I turn to face him.

A few minutes later we finally get it together enough to sit up and wrap bathrobes around our rapidly cooling bodies. I stand up, offer him my hand, pull him up and into my arms. He squeezes me tightly, brushes a kiss on the top of my head, and tells me he loves me, and follows me into the shower.

We sleep again, for a few hours, until Tim wakes me up. He doesn't say anything, just grabs me and starts kissing my neck. It feels good, but I figure I know why he woke, so I ask him.

"Yeah, I had a nightmare," he says, then starts on my chest.

"Wait a sec, Tim. Don't you want to talk about it?" Because he always wants to talk about it.

"No," he says firmly, reaching for my cock. "Want you to fuck me. I'm on my honeymoon, I love you, and I want you to fuck me, all right?"

I grab the back of his head and pull him up to look at me. He's a little wild-eyed, but he doesn't look like he's about to lose it, so I loosen my grip on his hair, give him an apologetic caress, and go with the flow, start playing a little tonsil hockey. He wants it hard and fast, so that's what I give him, pounding into that sweet ass of his with all I've got. After, his eyes aren't wild anymore.

That night's the full moon. We go for a walk and watch it rise; neither one of us mentions the date. Maybe he really has forgotten, despite the nightmares; I'm not about to remind him.

Unfortunately, he has another one that night, waking me up again, not saying a word, just grabbing me, not letting go until he fucks me, then finally going back to sleep. Maybe I should make him talk about it, but I don't want to remember any more than he does, so I let it go, telling myself it doesn't necessarily mean anything. Trying to forget a couple dreams I've had myself, these past few nights, dreams I haven't wanted to talk about any more than he has.

The next afternoon we head over to the Banff Sports Medicine Clinic. We spend about four hours with various people; they do x rays, range of motion tests, hook him up to a CGI contraption straight out of fucking Lucasfilm, even get a fucking CT scan. Tim ropes them into looking at my arm while he's getting molds made of his legs, so I end up promising to lay off the guitar for another week.

After hours of tests, Tim's sitting there in a hospital gown, something I hate to see, looking fucking exhausted, and Wilson's looking over the results. I'm sitting in the corner, reading a magazine, not really paying attention until Wilson says something really fucking stupid.

"I don't know if it's possible to get the operative reports faxed up today—it's getting late, and I doubt you have the phone numbers memorized." Shows how fucking much you know, I think, pissed at his arrogance. "It would help a lot if you could tell me a little about the accident itself," he adds, and I look up as Tim starts breathing funny, hands tightening on the side of the exam table.

"Accident?" he says, but Wilson doesn't even hear him—he's still staring at the fucking x rays.

"I'm guessing from the radiology reports that it was some sort of blunt force trauma, but whatever you could tell me, how fast the car was going, or—"

"Jesus fucking christ," I break in. "I thought you said you knew about what happened—"

"Bill, it's all right—" Tim interjects weakly.

"What do you mean? I assumed—"

"You assumed wrong, you fucker. There wasn't any fucking car, you fucking dink, it was a stoning, they were going to hit him with fucking rocks until he was dead—"

"What?!"

"Bill—" There's a hand on my arm, and I'm standing, fists clenched, in front of Dr. Rob Fucking Wilson, but Tim's voice pulls me back from whatever I was about to do, because what good will it do to push this fatuous little fucker down and beat the shit out of him, beyond making me feel a little better for the couple seconds it would take?

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize—" Wilson stutters.

Deflated, I shake my head.

"The Bureau kept a lot of the details quiet," Tim says, and he's right, of course; how could I have forgotten?

Wilson's looking a little pale, playing nervously with his fucking reflex hammer.

"Look, I'm sorry," I say. "I over-reacted there, obviously, but you have to understand, what those fuckers did to him, what it was like—" and I break off again, catching a glimpse of the wall calendar out of the corner of my eye, feeling sick. Tim notices it, too; no, he doesn't miss a fucking thing, fucking detective.

"Jesus," he breathes, meeting my eyes, a panicked expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asks, but I shake my head and hold up a hand to ward him off, crossing the room in a second, grabbing Tim's shoulder, hooking an arm around his neck as he buries his face in my chest.

"I know," I murmur. "I know, Tim; it's okay; it's over, and we're okay."

"Bill—" he says desperately, and I just keep telling him it's okay, it's over, we're okay, until the color starts coming back in his face, his eyes lose that empty panic, and he starts breathing normally again.

"Look, Mr. Bayliss, Mr. Boisy, please, tell me what's wrong so I can try to help." Wilson's using his best don't frighten the wild creatures voice. I almost feel sorry for him, and I crack a smile in spite of myself.

"They took him at night. They came to his bedroom and fucking took him, and it was the middle of the night, October 24th," I say, my back still to Wilson, because Tim's still meeting my gaze with a certain amount of desperation. He winces when I say the date.

"October—" Wilson says questioningly, then, "oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.'" I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice this time, but maybe that's okay, because the corner of Tim's mouth lifts just a touch. Then he schools his face into cop mode and looks past me to Wilson.

"What do you need to know?"

"Listen, I understand this is bad timing. I didn't know what happened, but I should have realized—if I'd thought about it; I remember when it happened, and I just wasn't thinking—"

"That it was a year ago. Or will be, in a couple more days. I understand. What do you need to know?" Tim repeats in a steely voice.

Wilson hems and haws some more until I step in. I don't know how long Tim's going to keep it together, and I have a sinking feeling that the longer he does, the harder he's gonna crash later. Fuck, I don't know how much longer I'm going to keep it together, because right now all I want is Tim and me, alone, naked and fucking until we can't even remember our names. Maybe then we won't remember the morning of October 25th.

"Dr. Wilson, you said you were uniquely qualified to help with Tim's leg. We're not planning on staying here at Banff much longer, and I doubt you'll be visiting us in Flagstaff any time soon. If you need some details about Tim's surgeries, complications, traction, or about his fucking pin care, I can tell you; I was there for all of it."

"And if knowing more about the sequence of the injuries will help, I can describe them," Tim adds, his voice quiet but firm.

"Uh, yes, that would be helpful," Wilson stutters.

Tim takes a deep breath and starts matter-of-factly describing the fucking sequence of his fucking torture at the hands of Psycho Cult Leader and his cronies.

I learn details I never heard before, precise descriptions of how far away Joseph Eisen was standing when he threw "an oblong-shaped rock, approximately nine inches in diameter, weighing approximately ten pounds" at Tim's right knee, hitting "at an oblique angle along the upper edge of the patella, shattering the bone." He goes on and on like that, Wilson taking careful notes, even though the hand holding the pen is shaking more with each recitation, as Tim gives fucking courtroom perfect testimony about the murder of his right leg. That D. A.'s office in Baltimore must have loved having him as a witness, because he is perfectly fucking clear and precise and detailed, despite the fact that he could only see out of one eye, and it's fucking breaking my heart.

I was there that night, there for the weeks and months afterwards, but I never realized how little I actually knew, how much he kept from me. I wasn't privy to the testimony he gave at the trials, since I had my own testimony to give. I knew he'd gotten the worst of it that night, knew I'd been the lucky one, with three broken ribs and a mild concussion and stitches in thirteen different places, but there was still a part of me that naively believed that was because I'd had two good eyes, a full complement of clothing, and fucking hiking boots instead of being stripped to nothing but boxers.

I was lucky all right, but it was because those fuckers didn't give a flying fuck about Billy Fucking Tallent—they were out for Tim's blood, even more than I realized.

Listening to Tim describe the dozens of individual blows to his right leg he remembers specifically, down to the size and shape of the fucking rocks, and hearing him dispassionately mention "approximately 60-80" other impacts between his right hip and ankle, and then toss off a quick "approximately 70-85 impacts scattered over the rest of the skin surface;" jesus, he's talking about his own body with greater remove than he's ever used describing victims, even the ones who were criminals themselves.

The only hints of the turmoil I know is buried under the surface of that clear, determined, precise voice are the painful grip he's got on my hand and the fine tremors I can feel where my arm's pressed up against his side. Meanwhile, I'm sitting next to him, tears running down my cheeks, and he's not looking at me, because if he did, we'd both fucking lose it.

When he's finally done—thank fucking god, because I don't think any of us could take another minute—I do my part as best I can. I try to stay one quarter as calm and focused as he did as I give Wilson every detail I can remember about Tim's many surgeries, complications, treatments, and therapies. Wilson asks a question here or there, mostly clarifying what I'm telling him; like all of Tim's physicians and therapists and nurses since Phoenix, he seems a little intimidated by how involved and informed I am.

A tech knocks on the door, here to take Tim for one more fucking test. I help him up off the exam table, taking a minute to kiss him, tell him I love him, fucking hold him tight, not giving a fuck when the tech stares at us.

"I'm all right," he tells me, giving me another kiss.

After he leaves, Wilson's shooting the shit with me, ends up asking, "So, how did a famous guitarist from Canada end up working for the FBI?"

"Wasn't working for them," I answer absently, wondering what this last test is. "Just trying to help Tim."

"But you were with the FBI when they went in to Church Canyon to get him out, right?"

I snort. "Fuck no. I was the one that called them."

"What?"

Of course, the Feds kept that part quiet, too, and it's a good thing they did, or we'd be stalked by more paparazzi than we are already.

"I was helping Tim get kids out of that fuckhole he was in. I was there that night, the night he sent Sarah and Ruth out—those are our foster kids; we're working on adoption—Sarah told me what they were planning, so I called Tim's boss, told him to get his ass in gear and get up there. Of course, they were hundreds of kilometers away in fucking Flagstaff, and it was going to take them hours, probably, and I was right there." I shake my head, remembering.

"So you just went into the town to get him out? That's amazing!"

"Stupid fucking idiotic thing to do, playing the fucking hero," Tim says as he struggles back through the doorway. "Saved my life."

"So you saw what they did to him?"

"Saw it? Not fucking likely, since we were trussed up like a couple chickens, back to back." Tim leans over and kisses me, quick but tender.

"Mary fucking mother of God," Wilson swears reverently. "I'm sorry—I had no idea."

"Very few people know that story, Dr. Wilson," Tim says, taking a seat next to me on the couch. "It needs to stay that way."

"I can assure you that we take confidentiality very seriously here," Wilson answers, back in professional mode. "We treat some very well-known athletes here—some of them even more famous than the two of you, at least in this country—and none of the staff would ever divulge anything to anyone without the client's express consent."

"Thank you," I tell him. "And, uh, I have the phone numbers you wanted, for the operative reports—you got some paper? I'll write 'em down. You just want the docs, or what? Uh, there's Taggert, in Phoenix, and I have the number for Good Sam, of course, and the hospital in LA, and, uh, Tim's physical therapists, the one in Phoenix, the one in LA, and the one in Flag—"

"Any or all of them would be great, Mr. Boisy," Wilson says softly.

"Fuck, call me Bill already," I answer, stifling a laugh into Tim's shoulder.

"Then call me Rob, okay?"

"Okay, Rob. What do you think—can you help Tim?"

"Maybe so, Bill. Maybe so."

He promises to have a couple braces for Tim to try by the next day—"you'll still need the cane, Tim, but I think you'll be able to move more easily, be able to do a little more." It'll take a few more days to finish up, but he's pretty hopeful. And that's fucking great news.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We're heading back to the hotel when it hits me. Fuck. I grab the phone and start dialing, and Bill looks at me with the same worried expression he's had for the last hour. I mouth "Sarah" at him as I wait for someone to pick up, and his eyes widen in comprehension as he mutters "fuck" under his breath.

My mom finally picks up after three or four rings.

"Mom, it's me."

"What's wrong, son?"

"I have to talk to you about something. The kids still at school?" I don't have a clue what time it is; we were at Wilson's office for at least a few hours.

"Ruth's been and gone already—she's at Chessie's, playing. Sarah's here—you want me to get her?"

"In a minute. Have they been back to see their counselor this week?"

"You mean Laura? Sarah seems to like her, but Ruth says she misses Hannah."

"Have they seen her this week?" I repeat through gritted teeth.

"Ruth saw her yesterday; Sarah's not going until tomorrow. What's going on, Tim?"

"Sarah's—she might—listen, Mom, how much have they talked to you about what happened last year?"

"Last year? You mean in St. George? I know about the Zumhagens—"

"No, mom, I'm talking about before that. Has Sarah told you anything about Church Canyon?"

Dead silence. Then, "Oh. Oh, dear, Tim, I wasn't even thinking—are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I mean, it's hard, but Bill's here, and anyway, that's not why I called. I'm worried about the girls, about Sarah in particular."

"She doesn't talk about it at all, son. I've never even heard her mention it. Ruth, sometimes she'll say something, but not Sarah." She pauses for a minute, thinking. "I know they were living with you, but they weren't there when it happened, right? That's what you told me."

"No, I got them out—Bill picked them up, took them to Big Water, earlier that night."

"Then I don't understand—did something else happen?"

"I promised her I'd let her make the decision whether to tell you anything, Mom, and I'm not going to break that promise."

Silence again.

"I understand," she says finally, quietly. "And this happened about a year ago, before—before they hurt you?"

"Yeah," I answer with a sigh, vaguely aware that we've pulled into the hotel parking lot, that Bill's turned off the engine and taken my hand.

"I'll keep an eye on them. Don't worry, I won't push. Do you want me to get her for you?"

"Yeah. Thanks, mom."

"I love you, son."

"Love you too. I'll call again tomorrow, all right?"

"I'll talk to you then. Give my love to Bill."

A minute later Sarah picks up the phone.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Mouse, how's it going?"

"Okay. You and Bill having a good time?"

"Yeah, we are, but we miss you."

"We miss you, too."

"How was school today?"

"It was fine." The short, uninformative answers are so unlike her that I know she's upset.

"How have you been sleeping, sweetie? Any nightmares?"

"A few," she answers reluctantly.

"I've had a couple lately, too."

"About what?"

"About what happened, Sarah. About the stoning, and about what happened to you."

"I didn't want to remind you, in case you'd forgotten," she admits quietly. "I didn't want to ruin your honeymoon."

"Jesus, Mouse—don't ever worry about something like that. We're a family—you're my daughter, and you can always talk to me, always."

I'm holding onto Bill's hand tight enough to bruise, but he just scoots closer and leans into my shoulder.

"Grandma doesn't know, right?"

"I haven't told her. I did let her know just now that you might be having a tough time, so she knows something's up. She's a good person to talk to, if you feel like you could. She loves you."

"Laura said it might help if I could talk about it. And Billie was asking about Jessica, after the wedding."

"I know I've told you this before, and so has Bill, but I'm your father, and I love you, so I?Jm going to tell you again. It wasn't your fault, Mouse. I'd do anything to make it so it never happened, but I can't, and I'm so sorry about that, but it wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't yours, either. If you hadn't been there, it just would have happened earlier, and more than once."

"I just wish I'd gotten you and your sister out sooner."

"Yeah, well, I wish you'd come with us, so I guess we're even." There's another pause. "I love you, Dad. You saved my life, and Ruthie's too, and you and Bill—you guys are the best parents I could ever have. I love you both very much, and I want you to have a good time on your honeymoon, so please don't spend it worrying about us. I promise, I'll talk to Laura, and I'll probably talk to Grandma, and I'll talk to Ruthie a little, see how she's doing, and if I need to, I'll call you. But I think I'm going to be all right."

"Don't try to protect me, Sarah," I choke out. "That's not buddies."

"I know, Dad. I won't, I promise. I'm glad you called. I guess we all have some shit to deal with, the whole grieving process thing, right?"

"You sound like Bill. Don't let your grandmother or your sister hear you swearing like that, understand?"

"Absofuckinglutely," she answers, and I can hear her smile. "Can I talk to Bill now?"

"Sure. I love you."

"Love you too. I'll call you tomorrow when I get home from my session with Laura, okay?"

"I'd appreciate that. Here's Bill."

I can't tell much about their conversation—just a lot of "yeahs" and "uh-huhs" and "don't worrys." I know she's grilling him on my state of mind, and he's trying to reassure her. At the end, though, he gives her the same spiel about talking to Laura as I did, repeating that it wasn't her fault. She says something else—about me, I'm guessing, from the way he looks at me. He tells her he'll take care of me, but she's got to take care of herself and her sister. Then he says he loves her and hangs up.

After we get up to the room, Bill makes me soak in the tub again. He doesn't push me to talk; he knows it's out there, knows I'll be talking soon, that I need a little more time. He orders room service again, and after we eat he kneels in front of me and tenderly takes my dick in his mouth.

I fall asleep quickly that night, physically and emotionally exhausted. I'm startled awake, not by a nightmare, but by the phone. I have years of experience of answering the phone in the middle of the night, so I reach it before Bill's even opened his eyes.

"Hello?"

"Daddy?" Oh jesus.

"Ruthie, honey, what's wrong?"

"I had a bad dream, and there's a storm, and I'm really scared. It's like screaming, and I'm really scared."

"Hold on a second, sweetie. Slow down, all right?" Bill's managed to turn on the light and hand me my glasses; now he's looking for a pen and paper in the bedside table. "You said there's a storm—is the power out?"

"No, it's working, but it's really windy outside, and it sounds like screaming, Daddy, it really does."

"Yeah, that wind can sound really scary sometimes, I know, but I promise you there's no one screaming, all right? You're safe as a bug in a rug, Ruthie, I promise—no one's going to hurt you. Bill and I are both here, and we're sending you big hugs through the phone. Can you tell me about the dream you had?"

"I was back in Church Canyon, and I was walking home, but there wasn't anyone around, and it felt really weird. Then Brother Joseph was there, and he was following me, but I knew if I made it home, I'd be okay. But then I got there, and the house and the trailer were gone—there wasn't anything there. I looked for you and Sarah, but I couldn?Jt find you. I started running, but Joseph was in front of me, and so was the Holy Father, and there wasn't anyone else around, and then the Holy Father said he already had you and Sarah and Bill, and now it was my turn, and then I woke up."

Bill shoves the pad under my nose. He's written, "go home?" on it, and I shake my head.

"Oh, Ruthie, I'm so sorry you had such a horrible dream. It was just a dream, though—you're safe at home, and Bill and I are both here, and we're fine, and Sarah's just down the hall, and so's your grandma. Hey, is Georgia with you?"

"I think she's under the bed. She doesn't like the storm either."

"How would you feel about going down the hall to Sarah's room? I'll stay on the phone with you, don't worry. I just think you might feel better if there's someone who can give you an in-person hug, and I don't think she'd mind if you woke her up."

"You won't hang up until I'm there?"

"Honey, I won't hang up until you're ready for me to hang up, I promise. I'll stay on the phone with you all night if you need me to."

"Okay. Just keep talking to me."

"No problem. You know, I saw a doctor today who might be able to help me with my leg—wouldn't that be cool?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, Dad—you wouldn't need the cane anymore?"

"No, I'll always need the cane, but this doctor thinks he might be able to make me a special leg brace, so it doesn't hurt as much, and so it'll be a little easier to get around. Bill and I are going back to see him again tomorrow, before we leave for Vancouver."

"You're going to be in Vancouver for a week, right?"

"That's right. After that, we'll stop in Regina to see Billie and her mom, and then we'll come home."

I hear some muffled noise in the background, then Sarah's voice asking what's wrong. Ruth explains a little of what's going on.

"I'm in Sarah's room now, Dad. You're right, she didn't mind me waking her up. I feel a little better now."

"I'm glad, Ruthie."

"Can I talk to Bill for a second?"

"Sure, honey. You going to be all right now, you think?"

"Yeah—I feel a lot better now. It's quieter in Sarah's room."

"I love you, Nature Girl."

"I love you too, Dad."

I hand the phone to Bill with a sigh. After he sings to her, and we both talk to Sarah, who insists again that we are not, under any circumstances, to come home early, we finally hang up. And then I find myself surrounded by arms and legs, lips sweet on my neck, and I hold on as tightly as I can until I fall asleep again.

I'm not at all surprised to find myself in another nightmare, this one a jumble of violent, senseless images, but it's one of the lucky times when I know it's a dream, and I manage to wake myself up. But when I do, I'm not where I expect to be—I'm in an empty bed, with moonlight shining, so bright, through cheap venetian blinds, and someone's pounding on the door.

They've come for me.

They're here, and I'm never getting out.

They come through the door into the bedroom, and they jam their rifles into me and pull me out of bed, shoving me up against the headboard in their hurry. I stumble, getting up, and that earns me a couple kicks in the ribs. They cuff my hands behind me, punching me a few times for good measure, and march me through the moonlit streets to the church.

The scene in the basement is what I expect, at first—the circle of elders, the rocks, the rifle butt slamming into my eye when I talk out of turn. But then everything changes.

The elders move back, and I see behind them, and they have Bill tied to a post, and he's dead, oh, fuck, he's dead. Tied to two other posts are Ruth and Sarah, still alive; crying; bleeding. There's one more post, and that's the one they tie me to, and then they start throwing, at all three of us, and I feel the impact in my knee, and I wake up, for real this time, with a stifled scream, Bill holding me, urgently saying my name as I struggle with the sheets.

I make no effort to push this one away, ignore it, the way I have the last few times, because I know now why I'm having these particular nightmares at this particular time. So I tell Bill my dream, my voice muffled against his chest, and when I'm done, I look up at him, and he's crying, and he starts telling me how sorry he is that he didn't get there sooner, that he didn't get to Bartlett faster, and I just lose it and start sobbing in his arms, crying harder than I think I've ever cried in my life, so hard that I'm afraid I'll never be able to stop.

Finally, eventually, I do. Bill gets up without a word and goes into the bathroom, comes back with a couple warm washcloths and some kleenex. And then I tell him some of what's been going on in my head, the words tumbling uncontrollably out of my mouth. Bill doesn't tell me to slow down—he just listens, arms around me.

"When I saw you that night, I was sure they were going to kill you, and I didn't know what to do; I've never been so fucking terrified in my life. You came after me, you came for me, you stood with me—I never would have made it without you. I was ready to give up, to let go, because I knew you'd take care of Sarah and Ruth, but then you had to go and play the fucking hero. I couldn't let you die, but I didn't know how I was going to stop it.

"When they first grabbed me, when they started, jesus fuck, it hurt, but there was a part of me that accepted it. See, I was ready, I was ready to die; I guess part of me thought I deserved it; you were right about that, but I didn't realize it then; I just wanted it to be over. I wanted it to end, to stop, so I wouldn't have to deal with any of the horrible fucking shit I saw every day there, but then you were there, and I remembered why living might not be such a bad thing, because, see, I already loved you, Bill. I already loved you. I knew I loved you that day you waved at me at Wahweap Creek, you stupid idiot, showing up like that, showing up again that night, and I knew if they killed me, they'd kill you too, so I had to fight. If you hadn't come, even if Bartlett and the rest got there earlier, it wouldn't have mattered, because I'd be dead—all of me, not just my fucking leg, and I know it's not really dead, but it is, see, part of me died that night, and you were right, I have to mourn it; I haven't mourned it, haven't let myself, because how could I grieve almost losing my leg when I have you? Fuck, I love you so fucking much, you stupid fucking hero, don't you know you could have died, and if you died saving me, what would I have done then?"

"I know, Tim; fuck, I know. When they—when they went for your knee, when that first big rock hit, and the bone cracked like a fucking gunshot, and you screamed, you screamed, Tim, and I couldn't even see you, but I could hear you, feel you struggling to stand, struggling to fucking breathe, and all I could do was try and hold you up, and I didn't know how much longer I was going to be able to do it, and I couldn't bear the thought that I was going to have to listen to you die, because those elders, they may have thought I was bad news, but they fucking hated you, not all of them, but enough of them, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it."

I pull him even closer, our legs tangled together, and he continues, no more able to stop the flow of words than I was.

"When I heard the helicopters, I was so relieved, but then I realized you weren't answering me anymore, you weren't fucking moving, Tim; jesus, I thought that was it, you were dead, and I was fucking screaming my fucking head off, trying to get their attention. I will never forget the way the sun was rising, and the Feds were running around with fucking machine guns and flack jackets, and you were on top of me, bleeding, unconscious, maybe dead, and I barely knew you, but I knew you, knew you and loved you. I loved you, and I couldn't fucking bear it if you died, if I lost someone else I loved."

"You didn't lose me, Bill."

He sighs, runs his fingers through my hair. "I am sorry, though," he says. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, spend those months in that fucking hellhole. I'm fucking sorry you had to pretend to be a monster so you could put those monsters away. I'm sorry the troops didn't arrive sooner, that I wasn't able to get through to Bartlett sooner, that I couldn't stop them from destroying your leg. I'm sorry that felcher raped our Miss Mighty Mouse; I am so fucking sorry for that. And I wish I could forget everything that happened that night, could forget the way that psycho Eisen looked when he was aiming for your knee. But it happened, Tim, it all happened, a year ago. We can't pretend it didn't."

I pull him around so we're facing each other, so I can stroke his cheek. "You're right. We can't pretend it didn't happen. I can't pretend it didn't happen." He nods. "The thing is," I tell him, looking in his eyes, "If that's the price—if going through that is what I had to do to get where I am right now—here, with you—I'd pay it again in a secon