In the Shape of a Mouse

Disclaimers: Bill & Tim aren't mine, unfortunately.

Classification: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (HLoTS/HCL)

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. After Therapy and Touring's a Bomb—part 3 of Moving On. After Going Under and Comfort Food.

Beta thanks to the awesome Beth & amazing Gemini.

Rating: NC17

Summary: "We're walking along the beach, watching the freakshow all around us, when she asks me about my tattoo."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

In the Shape of a Mouse

by shell

copyright 2001

Things are busy but still tense for the next few days. The video shoot goes off well, and even though I feel like a total fool when I'm doing it, they say my intro is great. MTV's there, recording the whole thing for posterity, if you can call "Making the Video" posterity. Bill, Chelle, and Kat bitch and moan about the cameras, but I can tell they're enjoying the attention. Deeja's not even trying to hide her excitement, since it's her first video with the band. Once the shoot is finished, she goes off with one of the MTV crew, telling everyone she's planning on drinking him under the table. I catch a worried look pass between Bill and Kat, but no one says anything.

Later, when we're home, Bill tells me she's been drinking a lot lately, that all three of them have noticed it. So far it's not affecting her performances at all—she only drinks after concerts, not before or during. He doesn't think she's using anything else, and he's trying to give her the benefit of the doubt—they all are—because she's young and on tour with a rock band for the first time.

"What does that have to do with it?" I ask him.

"Well, you know, Tim, it's the lifestyle. Sex and drugs and rock n' roll. She hangs out with the roadies, for fuck's sake, and they're always drinking. You want to tell me it's not expected that 25 year old police officers are going to hang out at cop bars and drink a lot?"

I drop the subject, but I must have made some sort of impression on him, because he calls Kat and Chelle that night and tells them he's concerned, thinks they need to keep a closer eye on Deeja, and they agree.

Bartlett's calling daily with updates. They've got a suspect in custody down in Alabama, but he asked for a lawyer right away, and they haven't got much to go on. They've got enough evidence to indict him, but he won't give up anyone else in the organization. He does admit to being a member of Eisen's church.

They think the bomb threat and the death threat were coordinated by the same people, and that both Joseph Eisen and his father were part of it. Joseph's trial is coming up next month. We've still got 24 hour FBI surveillance, and I'm still carrying my gun. I almost called off the visit from Ruth and Sarah, but Bill persuaded me not to. I need to know they're safe, but I also need them to know how much they mean to me. I know it's selfish of me to have them near me, but we really fought hard to get their foster parents to agree to the visit, and if we cancel it, who knows when or if we'll be able to reschedule.

When the girls get off the plane, I know we made the right decision. Ruth is silent—just walks up to me and gives me a hug like she's never going to let go. Sarah's trying to act the cool teenager, but there's anger and hurt in her eyes. When she sees I'm off the crutches, just using a cane, she flashes me a huge smile and I get a quick hug.

The trip to Channel Islands goes pretty well, although Ruth gets a little whiny at the end. I'd rather have her whiny than silent. Whiny's pretty normal behavior for an eight year old, after all. I have to work to not whine myself after hiking around—using a cane on a beach is a lesson in frustration.

Ruth does give me a smile when I tell her I have something special planned for the next day—that she and I are going to go to a movie, just the two of us, while Bill and Sarah go to Venice Beach for some shopping. We pick out which movie she wants to see, which fortunately is not the latest Pokemon saga, and make plans for lunch and a trip to the toy store as well. It's a special treat for her birthday, which is next week, after she's back in Utah.

The next morning I make Swedish pancakes for everyone. They're a hit, especially with Ruth. She pronounces them "the best breakfast ever" and eats almost as many as I do. After breakfast we gather in the living room and I tell the kids I've got some news.

"Sarah, Ruth, I know you're not very happy living with your foster parents in St. George. I want you to know that I'm trying to do something about that. I can't make any promises—you probably will have to stay with them for awhile longer, maybe a lot longer—but there's a small possibility that you could come and live with us, with me and Bill, instead. How would you feel about that?"

Ruth gives me a hug and starts to cry. "Tim, I want you to be my dad so much! Please, please, let me come and live with you. I'll be so good, I won't do anything bad, just please let me come and live with you."

I hug her back and blink back my own tears. "Sweetie, if it were up to just me, you'd already be living here, but it's not. The state of Utah has custody of you and Sarah, and they're the ones who placed you with the Zumhagens. I'm going to try as hard as I can to become your foster parent, and then to adopt you, but they might not let me."

Sarah's quiet, hasn't said a word.

"Sarah? What are you thinking?"

"What happens if it doesn't work? What happens if you lose?"

"I don't know. Karen, the lawyer we're working with, says there are some other things we can try, depending on what happens. I'm not going to give up easily. No matter what, even if you have to stay with the Zumhagens until you're 18, I'll still be here for you in whatever way I can be."

"We both will be," Bill adds. "You need to know that. If this happens, Tim will be your official foster parent, but we're a package deal. Are you girls okay with that? Because if that's too weird, we need to know. This is going to be a tough fight, and if it's not something you really, really want, then it's not going to be worth the sh—, uh, stuff we'll all be putting up with."

"How do you feel about that, Ruth?" I ask nervously. I know Sarah's comfortable with Bill's and my relationship, but I'm not sure how much Ruth understands, or how comfortable she is.

"Bill's nice. You're happy with him. I like him. But you'd be my dad, right?"

"I'd be your dad, if this works out, but Bill would sort of be like a parent, too."

"So he'd be like the mom or something?"

Bill, Sarah, and I look at each other and try not to laugh.

"No, he wouldn't be the mom—he'd be Bill. But he'd be part of your life, of our lives."

"Okay," she says, seemingly unconcerned. "As long as you'd be my dad."

I tell them that Karen's going to want to talk to them, that she'll be coming over in a little while. And then I talk to them about the fact that being with me could put their lives in danger.

"I know this all sounds wonderful, and that you want to come live with me, and believe me, I want that too, but there's something else you girls have to know before we go ahead with this. I know you don't like living in St. George, but you're safe there, as safe as you can be. If you come live with me—well, there are some people out there that aren't happy that Eisen's in jail, and they blame me. They've threatened to hurt me and Bill. And if you come to live with me, they might try to hurt you, too."

"Is that why you're carrying a gun again?" Sarah asks.

"Uh, yeah, Sarah, that's why."

"Okay. That's what I figured."

"It's not really okay, but unfortunately, it's necessary right now. I'm sorry that it has to be this way, and I'd certainly understand if it made you uncomfortable. You're a lot safer in Utah, and if we hadn't had this trip planned, you'd be back in Utah right now. I love you, and I want you to live with me, if possible, but most of all, I need to know that you're safe."

"You won't let anything happen to us," Sarah says confidently. Even after the rape, she still trusts me to protect her. Ruth nods in agreement.

"We'll do everything we can to keep you girls safe," Bill interjects, "but you'll have to put up with whatever Tim thinks we need to do. There might be times, like now, when we've got FBI agents around the house, 24 hours a day. You could have police protection following you around when you go to school, or when you're out with your friends. We'll need to know where you are, who you're with—this is serious, and you need to understand that. These people are out there, and they're real, and they're not going to go away any time soon."

I shoot him a thankful look. Maybe hearing it from both of us will make it sink in a little better. The girls do have more serious expressions on their faces, and they nod solemnly when I ask them if they understand. We're saved from any more discussion when the doorbell rings and Bill gets up to let Karen in. As he gets up from the sofa, Sarah joins Ruth next to me. By the time Karen enters the room, I've got Ruth on my lap and Sarah curled up under my arm. She smiles when she sees the three of us, and so does Bill.

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I've been shopping with Billie before, and I took both the girls shopping on Boxing Day, but it's a different experience today. Sarah's a teenager—shit, Billie will be one soon, too, which is a fucking scary thought. Sarah's older than I was when I met Joe.

We fall into an easy camaraderie, and I realize how different she is with me than she is with Tim. It's not that she doesn't respect me, exactly, but she doesn't have me up on a pedestal the way she still has Tim, the man who taught her, encouraged her, and protected her as best he could. He's still her savior, even more so now that she knows he's trying to adopt her.

I'm a little more of a real person to her. She doesn't love me the way she loves him, but she likes me, feels comfortable being herself with me. She sees me as a friend, and I'm pretty happy to go along with that. When I'm with Billie, there's always a little part of me that's on guard, trying not to do anything that could be seen as a bad example. I don't feel that as much with Sarah, whether because she's older, or because she's not my kid. Yeah, I'm still responsible—I don't smoke around her, try my damnedest not to swear much—but I'm a little looser, and she's a little looser with me, and we have a hell of a good time.

We're walking along the beach, watching the freakshow all around us, when she asks me about my tattoo.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah—not too bad, but it wasn't fun."

"How old were you when you got it?"

"Seventeen—right after I ran away from home."

"You ran away? Because your parents were beating you up?"

"That was part of it. My mom was an alcoholic, my dad hit me, hit Joe, stuff like that. And I didn't think there was anything else I could do, so when Joe wanted to run, I went with him."

"So you and Joe ran away together, and started the band."

"That's right. We started Hard Core Logo. That was all we cared about."

"Why did you get a tattoo that says 'Champion'?"

"Because we were both drunk, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Joe was supposed to get one, too, but he passed out."

"I'm never going to drink."

"That's a good goal. It's easy to drink, to take drugs, to let addiction take over your life. I've managed to kick most of my addictions, but there's not a day that goes by that I don't wish I never took that first drink. It's gotten easier since I met Tim, but it's still a battle every day." I'm thinking about Deeja. I wasn't too concerned at first, while we were on tour, but lately she's seemed a little off in rehearsals—not drunk, but hung-over, getting to the studio late, shit like that. Kat and Chelle and I haven't said anything to her—not yet—but I'm beginning to think we're going to have to say something soon.

Sarah brings me back to the moment. "I guess Tim changed both our lives, huh?" she says with a smile.

I nod, smile back at her.

"Were you ever sorry you got the tattoo?"

"No, not really. Maybe wished I'd gotten a different one, one that meant something. There was a song we used to do called 'Blue Tattoo.' Talked about a blue tattoo in the shape of a heart, in the shape of the world. I thought about getting a tattoo like that, especially after Joe died."

"Why don't you? It would be so cool. There's a couple kids at school that have tattoos."

"Even in Utah? Your generation sure has a thing for body modification. No, I don't want that tattoo anymore. I'll always remember Joe, but that's not what my life's about now. It would make more sense to get a Mighty Mouse tattoo, don'tcha think?" I grin at her.

"That's a *great* idea, Bill! Look, there are tons of tattoo parlors around here—I'm sure at least one of them could do it. We could both get them—it would be great!"

"Wait a second, kiddo. *You* want a tattoo? Since when?"

"Since forever! Well, for six months, anyway. Yeah. A Mighty Mouse tattoo. On my ankle. Come on!"

Against my better judgement, after a few minutes of arguing, I let her drag me into the nearest tattoo parlor. It's run by a woman named Cecile, it's very clean, they don't reuse anything, and the artwork is beautifully done. She assumes I'm Sarah's father, and neither one of us corrects her. And lo and behold, Cecile is a Mighty Mouse fan. Maybe it's a contact high from all the ganga being smoked out on the beach, or being distracted by worrying about Deeja when I should be paying attention to Sarah, but it doesn't seem like that big a deal for her to get a small tattoo of Mighty Mouse on her ankle. Seems like fate. I'm a little irritated by the way my jeans brush up against mine, but I figure Tim will appreciate it. It's not like I plan on anyone else ever seeing it—it's low on my groin, in between my hipbone and my pubic hair. I'm actually feeling pretty good, imagining his reaction.

I am such a fucking idiot.

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Ruth and I have lunch at Wendy's, her choice, then go to see the sequel to "Spy Kids." She wants to sit in the exact middle of the theatre, which is hell on my leg. Then we spend quite awhile wandering around the toy store, which is, after all, still a relatively new experience for her. We have a great time, but I'm hobbling more than usual by the time we get home, trying to carry bags full of toys and still use my cane, already sore from the day at Channel Islands, and I'm feeling a little snarky when I realize Bill and Sarah aren't back yet. Then Ruth wants to do yoga with me, which is an interesting experience, mostly fun, until she grabs onto me for balance and I wrench the hell out of my back.

I manage to get Ruth settled with a video, call and order some pizza, take a muscle relaxant and a pain pill, and find a semi-comfortable position on the sofa by the time Bill and Sarah come home. They've both got strangely sheepish looks on their faces, but I don't have a chance to ask them anything before the pizza arrives. The pain pill's helping a little, but I don't feel any more relaxed, and I wonder if I'm getting immune to the damned muscle relaxers. Probably time to give them up.

Ruth tells them all about the movie and the toy store during dinner. Then we move back to the sofa. Sarah puts her feet up, and I notice the bandage on her ankle.

"Sarah, did something happen?"

"Uh, no, not exactly."

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" She's got that sheepish look on her face again.

"Bill and I got tattoos," she mumbles.

"What?" I couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"We, uh, we got tattoos, Tim," Bill says.

"What, the temporary kind? Please tell me you got the temporary kind."

"No, see, it's really cool, and I got it because of you, sort of," Sarah says, pulling the bandage loose to show me. "See, it's Mighty Mouse. Because he's your favorite."

"You took her to a tattoo parlor? What the hell were you thinking, Bill? How do you think the Zumhagens are going to react to this? I can't believe you could be so irresponsible. And Sarah, you should have known better. God, this is terrible." I've got my head in my hands, panic in my voice.

"Tim, really, it's not that big a deal, is it? Even in Utah, kids are getting tattoos these days. It's not like she got her tongue pierced or something—it's just a cute little Mighty Mouse on her ankle. It's not the end of the world."

"I never would have thought you could be so naive, Bill. Ruth, it's time for you to go to bed. And Sarah, I want you to go to your room, too." All three of them are staring at me in shock. Fuck. I probably scared the shit out of them.

"But Tim—"

"No buts, Sarah. Now. Ruthie, let's go read Harry Potter. Bill, Sarah, I'll talk to both of you after I get Ruthie tucked in." I hear the harshness in my voice, but I can't seem to do anything about it. I sit on the sofa for a minute, trying to calm down.

Ruthie's crying when I get into her room, and it takes me several minutes to get her to actually talk to me. She's convinced I don't want Sarah to live with me anymore, afraid that if she does something wrong I won't want her either. It breaks my heart to see her like that, especially knowing it's my own fucking fault for blowing up like that in front of her. I should know better.

"Ruth, believe me, there is *nothing* that you or Sarah could do that would make me stop loving you, or stop wanting to adopt you. You girls mean more to me than I can tell you, and I love you with all my heart."

"Then why were you so mad at Sarah and Bill?"

"I was mad because I'm worried, Ruthie, worried and scared. It's going to be hard to convince the judge to let me move you from the Zumhagens to another state, and something like Sarah's tattoo might make it even harder. I'm sorry I yelled, sweetie, really, really sorry."

"Is Bill still going to live with you?"

"Definitely. I love him, too, even when I'm mad at him. I know things were pretty scary in Church Canyon—when people got mad, some really bad things happened—but nothing like that is ever going to happen here, I promise you. I will get mad sometimes, at you, or Sarah, or Bill, and you'll get mad at me, too, but we'll talk about it, and we'll figure things out."

"I'm never going to be mad at you!"

I give her a hug and kiss her cheek. "Ruth, it's okay to get mad at people you love. I know it can be scary, but as long as you talk about it, it's okay. I want you to promise me that you'll tell me about what's going on with you, even if you think I'll be mad at you, or if you're mad at me. Can you do that?"

"You won't hit me?"

She looks up at me with big brown eyes, swimming with tears, and I wipe my own eyes as I answer her.

"I will never, ever, hit you or hit Sarah. And I will do whatever I can, for the rest of my life, to make sure that no one else ever hits you again. I promise you that, with all my heart."

She hugs me then, and tells me not to be sad. Jesus. Tells me not to be sad. I don't deserve her. I tell her again how much I love her, then ask her if she's ready for a couple chapters of The Sorcerer's Stone. She cuddles up to me while I'm reading, all the trust and affection out there in the open, and I have to fight down my overwhelming fear of losing her and concentrate on Hagrid, Hermione, and Harry. Then I tuck her in and go talk to Sarah.

She's waiting in her room, looking a little apologetic and a lot determined.

"I'm sorry, Tim. Please don't be mad at Bill—it was my idea, and I thought you'd like it, because I only wanted Mighty Mouse, because he's your favorite. I thought I could look at it when I was in Utah, and I'd know you were in California, and it would make me feel better."

"I'm glad you want something to remind you of me when you're in Utah, sweetie, but this really wasn't a good idea. Did you think about how your foster parents are going to react?"

"I thought I could cover it up. I mean, I know they won't like it, but is it really that big a deal?"

"Yeah, kiddo, it is. It's going to be hard to get custody of you and Ruth, and this will make it harder. Whether or not I think it's okay for a fifteen year old girl to have a tattoo—which I don't—Sarah, this is about more than that, can you understand that now?"

I can see that she does, because her face falls and she starts to cry. I pull her into a hug, try to reassure her, but I can't lie to her. I can't tell her everything will be all right, because I don't know it will be, and she's had so many disappointments in her life already. I do tell her I love her, and that I'm not going to give up the fight, that no matter what, I'll always be here for her. I tell her I'm sorry I yelled at her, sorry I scared her.

After she's blown her nose and washed her face, I get her to show me the tattoo again. It is small, easily covered by her sock, but I convince her that trying to hide it from her foster parents will only make things worse in the long run. She agrees to tell them the truth and to apologize for doing it without asking them, or even me, for permission. Then I give her another hug, tell her to get some sleep, and make my way back to the bedroom.

Jesus. Please don't let me fuck up with these kids any more than I already have.

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Tim looks fucking exhausted when he comes out of Sarah's room, and he's limping much worse than usual. He waves me aside when I go to help him, though. Okay, he's still pissed. I guess he has a right to be—talk about not thinking like a fucking adult. I am one, though, so I follow him into the bedroom and apologize.

"I don't think I'm up for any more apologies tonight, so can we just drop it?"

He sounds even worse than he looks. He grimaces as he gets into bed.

"You were a little hard on her, Tim, and you scared Ruth. Is there something else going on?"

"Besides being worried sick that I've lost any chance at adopting the girls? Besides the fact that Ruth didn't think she could get mad at me, because I might hit her? Just that my back is fucking killing me." He sighs, doing his Detective Angst impression again. Sometimes he just takes everything so fucking seriously. I flash on Joe in that bar in Vancouver saying, "Oh, my life is just so complex." Okay, so Tim's not the only one, but this time I think I've got more perspective than he does.

"I know you're going to insist on being worried, but will you at least let me do something about your back?"

He sighs. "I'd have to be more of an idiot than I am tonight to pass up one of your backrubs."

"Okay then—shirt off, roll over."

"Bill—" he starts apologetically, but I interrupt him.

"It's okay, Tim. You were right—it was a fucking stupid thing to do. I was having a good time, and I wasn't thinking like a parent. But chill out a little already, okay?"

"You're not their parent. I'm not even their parent. I'm not sure I deserve to be. God, the way I blew up at them—I scared Ruthie half to death."

"Fuck that, Angst Man. You're not perfect. Get the fuck over it. You're going to be their parent, and that means I am, too, sort of. I won't forget that again, and you won't freak out in front of Ruthie again. Now would you please take your fucking shirt off and roll over?"

"Uh, actually, could you help me with that? My back's really fucked."

"There will never come a day when I will be unwilling to help you take off an item of clothing."

That gets a chuckle, then another grimace as I ease his shirt off. He chuckles again when I go for his jeans. "Hey, I need full access to your lower back," I tell him. He lifts his hips obligingly, smiling as I pull down jeans and boxers together.

"I think you're wearing too many clothes to give an effective back rub," he says, gesturing weakly at my shirt. He must catch a glimpse of the tape or something when I pull it off, because he points at my waistband with raised eyebrows.

"Wait a minute. You said tattoos, plural. I didn't even pay attention, but you got one too?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see it."

I unbutton my jeans and push them lower on my hips, then gingerly take off the bandage.

"Yours is a lot easier to hide," he remarks.

"I didn't intend for anyone but you to ever see it."

"Well, it could do some more damage to your hardass image, that's for sure."

"It was Sarah's idea."

"Little Miss Mighty Mouse, who's hit adolescence with a bang. Does it hurt?"

"It's a little tender. Not bad."

"I'm guessing that's Mighty Mouse too?"

"You need to put your glasses on."

He does, then leans over to study it closely. I can feel his breath against my skin, and my cock starts a little happy dance. I lean down and plant a quick kiss on the back of his head, where his hair's starting to thin, just a little. He looks up and smiles. Fuck, that smile of his still practically knocks me over.

"You got a Mighty Mouse tattoo, just for me."

"Yeah."

"You really are a putz."

"Fuck yes."

"Better not wear any of those low-riding jeans. Or let them take one of those sexy half-naked pictures for Rolling Stone."

"You're the only one who gets to see me half-naked."

He runs a finger down my hipbone, then around the outside of the tattoo. He's careful not to touch the inflamed skin, just skirts around it. He glances up through a curtain of hair—I love that it's grown out again, although he's keeping it short in the back and sides—and grins at the expression on my face.

"Tim, I have to tell you, if you want that backrub, you have to stop what you're doing."

He reaches over and places a soft kiss on my belly, just above Mighty's ear, then rolls over carefully, putting his glasses back on the nightstand. I look at him stretched out in front of me and have to take a second to regain control before I can touch him. I try to concentrate on the task at hand—backrub, just give him a backrub—and then give up. I reach out and gently stroke his shoulders, his warm skin, then kiss the nape of his neck. He sighs contentedly, brings up his arms to pillow his head, and winces, muttering "shit" under his breath.

He's obviously pretty damned sore, so I manage to put my happy dick feelings aside for awhile and get to work. And it is work—his back's a fucking mess tonight, and so are his arms, shoulders, and of course his legs. When I ask him what the fuck he did, he admits Ruth got a little overenthusiastic during yoga and jumped on him. So I work on him a long time, gentle but thorough, up and down that long bod of his, until his breathing deepens into sleep. Well, the happy dick can wait a little longer. I pull the covers over him, stroke his hair one more time, turn out the light, pull my pants back up, and go back out to the living room to read for awhile and get my libido back under control.

I've gotten through a chapter of Buddhism without Beliefs when Sarah comes out.

"Hey, kiddo, what are you doing up? You need to get some sleep—is your tattoo bothering you? You need some aspirin?"

"No, I just couldn't sleep."

She gets onto the couch next to me, looking sadder than I've ever seen her. I give her hand a squeeze. "Worried?"

"I really fucked up, huh?"

"I was the one who fucked up, Sarah. You were just being a normal kid. It was my job to be the adult. And don't swear." She smiles at that, then gets serious again.

"Do you think they'll let Tim adopt us?"

"I don't know, kiddo. It's gonna be a tough fight. Karen thinks we have a shot, but it's going to depend a lot on who the judge is, and how hard the Zumhagens' lawyer goes after me. I'm a definite liability in this, unfortunately, and I made it worse today. No matter what, though, Tim's not going to give up. He loves you girls, and he knows how unhappy you are. I think, even if he can't get the judge to let you move here, he'll find some way to get you into another home, a better one."

"I guess that would be a little better, and at least I only have three more years before I'm eighteen, but Ruthie's still so little. She was born in Church Canyon, you know—I think the only time she's ever been happy was when we were living with Tim. Her father never spent any time with her, and her mom was killed."

"No matter what happens, she'll still have you. Don't sell yourself short—she loves you."

"Yeah, I know. I never really loved any of my real sisters the way I love her."

"But Sarah, when you're with Ruth, sometimes you have to be the adult."

"No tattoos, huh?" she says with a sly smile.

"No tattoos. Now, why don't you get yourself a glass of milk and go back to bed, okay?"

"Okay, Bill. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now go on—get some sleep."

After she's gone, I get ready for bed myself. Tim's still sleeping, but he wakes when I join him and turns to face me.

"How's your back?"

"Better, thanks to you."

"You're welcome, Detective."

"I can't believe you got that tattoo."

"Kind of surprised myself."

"I love you, Rock Star."

"Yeah, well, backrubs, Mighty Mouse, fucking Neil Diamond songs—I guess it's pretty obvious I feel the same way."

"Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"Care to make it up to me?"

"I'd like to."

"Then shut the fuck up and kiss me."

He does, and we wrap our limbs together as lips and tongues meet. We're both aware of the girls sleeping down the hall, so we make love slowly, quietly, tenderly. He rolls onto his back and pulls me on top, and everything lines up, just like it did that first time, almost a year ago now, but it still makes me gasp. Feeling his long arms wrapped around my back, one hand on my ass, urging me on, his lips sucking gently on my ear, my hand around both our cocks, my face buried in the crook of his neck, tasting the sweet saltiness of his skin, feeling his breath turn to gasps as he stiffens and comes, feeling the hot, wet, spurts coating both our erections now, so good, always so good, and then he kisses my neck, puts his hand with mine, runs his thumb over the top, and it's my turn to stiffen and come, not a freight train this time, but so sweet, so tender, so good. So fucking full of love.

I clean us up afterwards, just like I did in Vegas, and it strikes me how amazing it is that a year ago, I didn't know him, had never met him, never kissed him, never watched him sleep, never knew the contours of his skin, his scars, the softness of his hair, the fullness of his lips. And he's apparently thinking the same thing, because he strokes my face and softly says, "A year ago, jesus, Bill, how could it have been less than a year ago?"

"We should go back, end of February, beginning of March, if we can."

"An anniversary trip?"

"It's worth celebrating."

"It certainly is. I love you, Bill Boisy."

"I love you, Tim Bayliss."

Then we sleep, and the next morning I wake again to find him watching me, stroking my hair, waiting for me to open my eyes and see him there, with me, where he belongs. Of course, a few minutes after that Ruth knocks on the door and runs in, hops onto the bed, and generally harangues us until we get up and make her breakfast. We both smile—she's so resilient, it's fucking amazing, but it's great to see her happy this morning. We have to make her go out in the hall while we get dressed, and I wonder for a moment if we'll have to go back to wearing something to bed, like we did in the hospital, when they come to live with us.

Because even after the tattoo, and cautious words from Karen, and all of Tim's doubts, I have this fucking strange optimism these days, and I actually believe he'll win in court. This from the man who used to play songs like "Something's Gonna Die Tonight" and "Who the Hell Do You Think You Are?" Ain't life a bitch? Fuck you, Joe. Bill Boisy is fucking happy. Billy Fucking Tallent and Joe Dick can go fuck themselves.

END

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