Coming Out of the Closet

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday, dear Ardent

Happy birthday to you!

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Bill Boisy don't belong to me, and I make no money from writing about them.

Classification: Crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo), slash (Bayliss/Boisy), series (Going Under). Takes place after Protective Isolation. Not quite a PWP.

Notes: This is my first ever birthday fic, in commemoration of Ardent's natal day, February 13. As such, it's pretty darned fluffy. Since it follows Protective Isolation, that puts it at 13 years after Going Under, 12 after Angst and Fucking in Western Canada, for those of you keeping track.

For a look at a cheap version of Tim's tux, check this out.

Beta thanks to Kit.

by shell

copyright 2003

A couple days after I get back, when we've settled into a bit of a routine again, busy planning Thanksgiving dinner, the concert in New York, New Year's in Phoenix, and a trip to France to see Sarah, Tim tells me about something else we've got coming up.

"There's a big benefit for the hospital right before Christmas," he says. "Next year's our 80th anniversary, and they want to kick off the celebration in a big way. Big dinner, big money, black tie, the whole nine yards."

"Where's it going to be? Downtown somewhere?"

"No, the Little America."

"Black tie, eh? Whose idea was that?"

He laughs. "Not mine, much as I look forward to seeing you in a tux again."

"Think it still fits?"

"We could get new ones. You never know when you're going to need a tuxedo."

I give him a little slap. "Retired, remember? No more fucking awards shows, and good fucking riddance."

"Hey, hey, it was an honor to be nominated, Bill. You couldn't seriously expect to beat out Elton John and Bruce Springsteen. You know the Disney movies always win best song, anyway." He smiles at me. "Besides, even if you're retiring—which you're not, you're just not touring anymore—I'm still heading up the Watson Fund, and I'm still on the hospital board. I'm always going to benefits, and maybe now you'll be able to join me at more of them."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He nods. Then he grins. "Know what else I'd like?"

"Does it involve tuxedos?"

"No, the thing is, it doesn't involve any clothing at all."

"Then I have a pretty good idea." Turns out I'm right, too—imagine that.

Just because I'm in a celebratory mood, I decide to go ahead and get fitted for a new tux. Tim does, too. I end up in Armani this time. It's a little different from the Oscar set-up, which was black on black and Hugo Boss—this time there's a classic double-breasted shawl collar and a vest, a dark blue vest. Because Tim likes me in blue, and I'm a putz. It does look good, though.

The night of the party, Tim has to head off early, deal with some emergency or other, since he's been roped into helping plan the thing, as if the sizeable checks we each wrote weren't enough. He grabs his gear and heads off around 4, saying he'll change at the hotel.

I spend the next couple hours fucking around with various online shopping options, trying to get gifts for people. You'd think having a fuckload of money would make it easier, and I guess it does, a little, but it ups the pressure, too, so you're not that much better off. After deciding Gloria would prefer a new laptop to a new bike, I give up and get dressed.

Once I get to the Little America—Flagstaff's Premier Hotel, as they proudly label themselves, which at least doesn't sound as stupid as "Little America"—I head towards the Grand Ballroom, where the shindig has already begun. Just call me fashionably late. I drop off my overcoat at the door, where they have some high school kid handing out coat checks and sticking the coats in a completely haphazard fashion into a large and strangely shaped coat room. I make a bet with myself that he's off calling his girlfriend before we're finished with appetizers and cocktails, then go on in.

I schmooze with a few people at first. I can see Tim off in the corner—he's the tallest person in the room, so he's kind of hard to miss. He's looking fucking amazing in his own tux, with a high, round, what do they call it, a Mandarin collar, basic black with a white shirt and a silver vest, and he's not only the tallest person in the room, he's the best looking. The tux would go quite nicely with his cane, except for the fact that he doesn't have it, doesn't need it, which still blows my mind.

I'm about to head in his direction when Jason Barrios comes up to me.

"Bill, nice to see you," he says, shaking my hand warmly. "Thank you so much for your generosity with the campaign."

I shrug. "No big deal. Hey, how are you doing, Paula?" Jason's wife is noticeably pregnant, but she looks great. I give her a quick hug and get a kiss on my cheek in response.

"No, seriously, Bill, after what happened—"

"He's gone, and he'll never practice medicine again, and I'd just as soon not talk about it, if you don't mind," I say, then turn back to Paula. "Remind me when this baby is due? Because you look like you're getting close."

"February 13," Paula says with a smile, "the day before Valentine's Day. Say, is that Donald Hughes that has Tim cornered? Maybe you'd better go rescue him."

Donald Hughes is only about the most boring man in the universe. "Yeah, maybe you're right. Merry Christmas, you two. Or three, I guess."

"Merry Christmas, Bill," they answer in chorus.

I walk up behind Tim, who is indeed trapped in the endless torture that is conversation with Donald. "Hey, Tim," I say, putting my hand on the small of his back. "Hello, Donald, how are you doing?" Before he can say more than a couple words, though, I say, "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to Tim for a minute."

"Oh, of course, please, go, talk," Donald answers. "I'll catch up with you later—let you know the punch line, huh?" He may be incredibly dull, but he has a good heart—he's given millions to the hospital, put in years on the board, and he was the one who suggested Tim when a vacancy opened up a few years ago. He's good people, so I feel a tiny bit guilty, but one look at the relief on Tim's face (as soon as he's turned so Donald can't see him) takes care of that pretty damned quickly.

"Thank you," he murmurs, leaning down, lips to my ear, which makes me feel good in various ways. "If I had to hear one more version of the same non-funny joke, I don't know what I would have done. Did you really have something you needed to tell me?"

"Just that you look incredible in that tux."

"Likewise, believe me."

"Come on, I think they're getting ready to serve. How's the knee?"

He smiles. "It feels fine, Bill."

"You got the cane in case you need it?"

"It's in the coat room. But I'm not going to need it."

"Okay, fine, you're not going to need it. Come on, I'm hungry."

Dinner's pretty good, as banquet food goes, although pickings are a little slim for those of us not into filet mignon. Without ever deciding on it, I've apparently joined Tim and Ruth in vegetarianism, although I still eat chicken on occasion, and we all go for fresh trout or blue crab a few times a year. I figured it was just a case of eating what was around the house, but these past few years I've had no desire for red meat. Go figure.

In any case, dinner goes by fairly quickly—we're at the same table with Luke Begay, his wife Anna, the director of nursing and her husband, and the hospital CFO and her date. Everyone's dressed to the nines and having a blast, and I'm happy enough that I'm not even slightly tempted by all the booze surrounding me.

The band starts playing while they're bringing out dessert. I know them—they gave a demo to Sarah, back when she was still in high school, and she gave it to me. They're not exactly my speed—more country/folk than anything I've ever played—but they're good at what they do, and they did end up with a record deal when I forwarded their demo to the label. It's kind of a coup for the hospital, getting them for the benefit, but what's the use of being rich and famous if you can't use your connections to help people out? God, Joe would fucking shoot me if he saw me now, but fuck him.

At any rate, they start up to playing, and pretty soon people are heading off to dance. I catch Tim looking, but instead of saying anything about it, he gets up and tells me he's got people he needs to talk to.

"Sure, sure, go do the board member thing. Anyone would think you were bucking for chairman, Detective."

"Who says I'm not, Rock Star?" he asks with a smile, squeezing my shoulder before moving away.

I shoot the shit with Luke and the rest for awhile longer, my eyes following Tim around the room. He's in his element, there's no question—all that bone-deep knowledge of body language, when and how someone's lying, what sort of approach he needs to get them to spill, he uses it still, only not for wringing out confessions. Now he uses it to get bigger contributions of money and time, and he's very fucking good at it. And he doesn't have to deal with grieving family members or dismembered corpses or idiotic killers or murdered children, not anymore. He still deals with some painful shit at the Fund, but that's okay, it's not everything, it's not every minute of every day.

What we went through this fall, it brought back a lot of memories of when I first knew him. He was—fuck, the truth is, when I first met Tim Bayliss, he was one fucked-up individual. Since I was just as fucked-up, not to mention falling for him harder and faster than I would have believed possible, I didn't realize it much at the time. Hell, I only knew him for 48 hours before he left to go undercover, and then everything else happened so fast. . . . The point is, though, remembering—he was depressed then, when I met him. He was, if not actively suicidal, nearly as bent on self-destruction as Joe. He pulled out of it, thank god, and by the time he was stuck in traction, he was doing pretty well, emotionally speaking, but it's not like he's never been depressed before. With his childhood, with what he went through as a cop and after, it's pretty surprising we waited thirteen years before he had to deal with it again.

Which only makes it sweeter, now that he's back, now that he's healthy again. I've only been home for a month or so, and I've been enjoying every day, every single minute with him, especially the ones that don't involve clothing. I smile to myself and catch his eye. He's talking to someone I don't know, and he looks uncomfortable, so I head around the dance floor to where they're standing.

"Hey," I say, my hand on his arm, and he turns and smiles at me, but he still looks uncomfortable.

"Hey, Bill, I'd like you to meet Michael Brandeman, who just moved here from Salt Lake. Michael, this is Bill Boisy."

Okay. Now the look makes sense. This Brandeman is new in town, but he's already made a mark with a $2 million contribution to the hospital, earmarked for maternity and pediatrics, with the proviso that none of it be used for anything related to family planning. Brandeman is old-school LDS, he's gunning for a slot on the board, and he's none too happy that an openly bisexual man is being touted as the logical candidate to head that board once the current chair retires.

He shakes my hand civilly enough, obviously aware of the need not to offend either one of us. I catch a glance at my left hand and wonder if he knows we're legally married in Canada—from what I've heard, he seems the type to have done his research, so he probably does.

I thank him for his contributions, and he thanks me for mine, neither of us says anything resembling how we really feel, and Tim stays silent. We're about to diplomatically ease our way out of the conversation when Brandeman's wife appears. She makes no effort to hide her disgust, refusing to even acknowledge our presence until he gives her a sharp look. And that's it, I've had enough.

"Come on, Tim," I say, gesturing towards the dance floor. "Let's try out that new knee of yours, what do you say? I don't think we've danced since our wedding night."

His lips twitch as he tries not to laugh. "I think you're right about that. Michael, Melissa, if you'll excuse us—"

Neither one of them seems to have any idea what to say, so they just sort of stare as Tim takes my arm and follows me onto the floor.

"We shouldn't have done that," he tells me. The band starts up on "Crazy."

"Hey, they're playing Patsy Cline," I answer. "You have to dance with the one you love when they're playing this song. It's a fucking rule or something."

"Okay, okay, fine, but I get to lead," he says with a smile. He pulls me into his arms, and we dance, through "Crazy" and the next song, one of the band's own tunes.

"Mmmm, this is nice," he murmurs.

"Really nice. We should do this more often."

"You know, you really look great."

"So do you, Tim, so do you." I move a little closer.

He sighs, and I feel him run his fingers through my hair, briefly, before he steps back. "Brandeman's not the only one here who might not appreciate the sight of two men groping each other on the dance floor."

"You think that was groping? I'll show you groping," I say, reaching for his ass. He grins, then moves away again.

"Later," he says. As we step off the floor, the lead singer of the band, who is, in fact, named Jennifer, announces they're taking a short break. She grabs me as soon as she leaves the stage, and I wave Tim off to go schmooze some more money for the hospital.

Jennifer and her bandmates harangue me until I agree to do a couple songs with them, their next set. We hang out for awhile at the bar, and then they pull me up on stage with them.

"Hey, everyone, we've got a special guest onstage with us tonight. Put your hands together for the one and only Billy Tallent, better known these days and around these parts as Bill Boisy."

It gives me a start, hearing that name—the last time I really went by it, even professionally, was around the time I met Tim. I play while Jen sings Blue Tattoo and Adena's Song. Then we do a pepped-up version of one of their hits before Jen hands the microphone to me.

Without thinking much about it, I've decided to do a song I've rarely performed in public. So I figure it's only fair to warn the audience what to expect. "I don't usually do this song in concert—for one thing, my voice is more suited to back-up than lead, and for another, it's sappy enough to erode whatever vestiges of punk reputation I still have. But I'm among friends tonight, and I'm retiring in a couple weeks, so I figured what the hell."

Tim's been watching me closely since I got onstage, and once I start this little speech he gets a little smile going. I keep talking, and his smile deepens, his expression warm and loving.

"The song's called 104, and I wrote it about 12 years ago. Tim, here's to the next fifty years."

I keep my eyes on his as I play and sing, which is easy enough in the small crowd, especially given how close he is to the stage. His eyes are locked on mine, and I forget about everyone else, remembering the first time I played it for him, the hotel in Banff, our honeymoon. I can tell he's back there, too, from the way he's looking at me. As soon as I finish the song and walk off stage, he comes up to me, pulls me close, and slowly strokes my face.

"Love you, Bill," he says, mouth close to my ear so I can hear him over the applause.

"Yeah," I say, my voice a little thick. "Listen, come with me for a minute, okay?"

"Anywhere, anytime," he murmurs. "Till we're 104." I pull him out of the room, down the hall, past the empty desk—I knew that kid was going to take a powder—and into the coat room. He comes with me, past a few half-empty rows of hangers and coats, into the back corner, away from the desk, away from the doorway.

"If I don't kiss you right now, I'm going to explode," I say.

"Well, we can't have that," he says, leaning in. His lips are warm and soft, just a little chapped from all the cold we've had lately, so I moisten them a little. He returns the favor.

I wonder briefly if anyone can see us, but then I lose myself in the kiss, in the feel of his mouth on mine, my hand in his hair. After a few minutes, he pulls back, but all he does is take off his jacket; I do the same, draping it over the nearest hanger rod before diving back into his mouth. I lean back against the wall, pulling him with me.

I'm unbuttoning his shirt, and he's got his hand down my pants, when he goes still, listening. He puts his hand over my mouth and moves us a little further out of the way, and that's when my less than stellar hearing kicks in.

"Well, where did he go, Michael? I want to leave, gosh darn it, and I need my coat! Where is that coat-check boy? This is disgusting, completely unacceptable. First those two men, and now this. We should talk to the manager of the hotel."

It's a good thing that Tim's hand is over my mouth, because otherwise I would lose it, lose it on the scale of the Viagra comment when I first got home, and now is clearly not the time for me to start laughing like a fucking lunatic. Not with Melissa and Michael Brandeman just outside the door, my pants undone, Tim's shirt rucked up, and both of us with raging hard-ons.

So I keep quiet, as quiet as I can. Tim's other hand is still down my pants, and it starts moving again, just mapping things out, getting reacquainted with old and familiar territory, and that feels good enough that I forget about laughing. He lets go of my mouth, slowly, eyes on mine, making sure I've got it under control. I finish on his shirt, pulling it out of his pants, pushing the tails and the vest off to the side before starting on his fly. We're both moving very slowly, very quietly, Tim's head cocked to the side as he listens to Melissa haranguing her husband and him trying to soothe her.

I'm just making the pleasant discovery that Tim's wearing silk boxers when the situation gets even a little more exciting. Apparently the high school kid has returned, and he comes right into the room, carrying coat checks and looking for the coats that go with them. We both go completely still, totally deer in headlights. The idiot doesn't even notice us, though—just grabs the coats and leaves again.

Once he does, things start up again in earnest. Tim's tongue is practically down my throat, and he's gotten past my own silk boxers (what else are you going to wear under a $4000 tux?) to what's underneath. I lean my head back against the wall with an audible thunk as he starts stroking me, fast and sure and fucking perfect.

I remember just in time to pull my own shirt and vest up and out of the way—I don't exactly want the new tux covered with come stains, especially not when we're going to be expected back at the party eventually—and then I let it take me over. I try to keep up my own rhythm on his cock, but I have to admit I lose my focus a bit. He doesn't seem to mind, though—once I'm back on track, it doesn't take more than a few strokes before he's the one narrowly avoiding making a mess.

Fortunately, he's got a handkerchief, which he pulls out of his pocket and cleans us both up, then wads it up and throws it in the trash. Then he leans down to stifle a laugh in my shoulder, his breathing still a little harsh, his pants still down around his knees, one side higher than the other, caught by the brace. Mine, thanks to suspenders, are in slightly better shape, but I'd hate to see what the rest of me looks like right now.

Tim pulls his pants up, tucks himself in, tucks his shirt in, and starts buttoning his vest again. "How do I look?" he whispers.

I smile. "Like you just got jerked off in the coat closet." I lean in and kiss him again. "Sweaty, disheveled, and totally fucking hot, in other words." I move away from the wall to start trying to put myself back together, and he smirks.

"What?"

"Uh, the wall, where you were leaning—-" and he starts shaking with repressed laughter.

"What?" I say again, turning to look. I see that I was leaning up against someone's coat—a long, bright red, woman's coat, complete with a feathered collar. There are tiny red feathers all over the back of my vest, the red quite visible against the dark blue. "Fuck!" I mutter, trying to brush them off.

"Here, let me," Tim offers, but he's not much more successful than I was. "Shit," he murmurs finally. "I might have had a handkerchief, but I'm fresh out of lint brushes. I guess you'd better keep your jacket on for the rest of the evening."

"You think?" I ask, smiling. "Come on—you're still looking hot and bothered, and I'm sure I am as well. Let's go take a walk outside."

"Yeah, you know, that sounds like a good idea," he says, smiling back at me. "Hot and bothered's a good look for you, but I'm not sure I want anyone else seeing you like this." He pauses for a second, listening. "I think the kid's gone again, but what's our story, in case someone sees us?"

I shrug. "You were getting your cane?"

He nods, grinning, and grabs it—turns out it's leaning against the wall just a few feet from us. "Right, right, that'll work. Come on."

We find our coats and saunter out of the closet. The kid is back at the desk—he stares at us, then shrugs and shakes his head and goes back to whoever he's talking to on his cell phone. Tim winks at him and drops a twenty in his tip jar, and we head through the lobby and out the door, Tim carrying his cane.

THE END

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