Disclaimers: Tim & Bill aren't mine

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

Rating: R

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Part Three of Comfort Food, after Natty Bo

Summary: "I have never cursed in front of my mother, and she flinches with each profanity, tears running down her cheeks."

Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Milk and Cookies

by shell

copyright 2001

My mom comes over to help sort through my stuff, decide what I'm going to keep, and she notices how tired I am, but she believes me when I tell her it's just jet lag. Bill's just as tired, maybe more, but that she doesn't notice.

There's not that much, really, that I want to take with me. My books, my fishing gear, some clothes. None of the furniture.

We go to see an orthopedist at GW to appease my mother's desire for a second opinion. They take x-rays, tell me I'm healing well, should be ready to have the external fixators off in another couple weeks, ask me what I've got lined up for physical therapy in California. They seem surprised by Bill's knowledge and active participation, tell him they're impressed with how good my pin sites look.

Then we go to meet with the NBC folks. The interview's the day after tomorrow, but they want to go over questions, talk about what to expect. I don't actually meet Russert, though—guess that will happen later.

I'm so exhausted by the time we get back to the apartment I can barely eat. Bill follows me right into the bedroom, gets into bed with me, even though I know he's never going to fall asleep this early. He stays with me until I fall asleep, and he's still there with me when I wake up again with the same fucking dream. Once he gets me calmed down, he tells me we're not staying here anymore—starting tomorrow, we'll either be at my mom's, or at a hotel. Somehow, hearing that helps me to get back to sleep. Neither one of us wakes up again until noon the next day, which barely gives us enough time to get to the airport to pick up the girls.

God it's good to see them. I know it's only been a week since they left, but it feels like a year. The four of us have dinner with Frank and Mary that night, then head back to Mom's. She's got the guest room set up for me and Bill—doesn't say a word about it, just gives us both hugs and tells him where to put our bags. Sarah's in my old room, and Ruth is in my sister's.

I have the old nightmare that night, the one with Uncle George. Much preferable to the new one—I guess familiarity really does breed contempt—but it still wakes me up. I tell Bill to go back to sleep and go out to the kitchen for a snack, only to find my mom sitting at the kitchen table, unable to sleep. I almost turn around and go back to the bedroom before she can see me, but something in the weary set of her shoulders makes me stay.

"Tim—what are you doing up?"

"Bad dream," I say, deciding not to hide it from her.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure, Mom, fine and dandy," I say sarcastically. "Just another in a long series of nightmares, that's all. Nothing new—after all, I've been having them my whole life."

"What was it about, Tim?"

"Old demons, Mom. It's not important."

"When you were little, and you'd have nightmares, you always told me you didn't remember what they were about. I thought maybe—"

"What?"

"Was it about—about what happened to you?"

"That depends—which thing that happened are you talking about?" I regret the words as soon as I've spoken them, because her face falls and she starts to cry.

"Mom, hey, it's okay—I'm sorry," I say, but she shakes her head.

"No, I'm the one who should be apologizing, I think. We—I know we've never talked about it, but—Tim, what did he do to you?"

I stare at her for a minute. "Who?"

"George," she whispers.

My leg won't hold me up anymore, and I sit down with a thump.

"You knew?!"

"Not—not for sure, Timothy. I suspected. I tried to talk to your dad about it, but he wouldn't hear it, and times were different then, I didn't know what I could do, didn't know how to deal with it—"

"You could have protected me, Mom! You could have told him never to set foot in this house again! You could have understood, could have let me off the goddamned hook instead of making me show up at every fucking family get-together! You could have put a lock on the fucking bathroom door!"

Were it not for the fact that Sarah and Ruth are asleep down the hall, I would be yelling at the top of my lungs. As it is, I speak in a harsh, angry whisper, my hands clenched and shaking on the table. I have never cursed in front of my mother, and she flinches with each profanity, tears running down her cheeks.

"I was five years old, Mom. That's when it happened the first time. It didn't stop until I was eleven. For six years, your brother in law sexually abused your only son! I told myself there was no way you could have known. If you'd known, you would have stopped it. Why didn't you stop it?!"

"I didn't know how, oh, Tim, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, I failed you, I don't know how you can ever forgive me; I can't forgive myself; you're right, I should have stopped it. I'm so sorry, Tim."

Then she puts her head down on the table, sobbing, and I find myself reaching over to squeeze her shoulder, because it's too late for her to protect me now.

"It's okay, Mom," I say half-heartedly, wishing I believed it.

"No, it's not, Tim," she answers, "it's not okay. I let you down. I wasn't there for you, didn't protect you, didn't take care of you, so don't tell me it's okay when it's not." She sits up, wipes her eyes. "It's not okay," she repeats. "It wasn't okay. But maybe now, maybe we can make it a little better? Tim, you're my son, I love you more than I can ever tell you, and I couldn't stand to lose you. Please don't hate me."

The naked despair in her eyes is so familiar to me that I start to cry myself. It's the same despair I felt when I came home and found Sarah had been raped. Even if I'd gone straight to my mother at the age of five, even if she'd believed every word and Uncle George never touched me again, I doubt she could have protected me from that first time. And I couldn't protect Sarah.

"You're not going to lose me, Mom," I tell her. "I think maybe it'll be better, now that we've talked about it, don't you?"

She nods, whispers, "I'm so sorry, Tim." I squeeze her hand. She looks up as I hear soft footsteps behind me and feel a warm hand on my own shoulder.

"Everybody okay out here?" Bill's voice is soft, tender as his fingers on my neck.

"Yeah, we're fine," I say with a sigh, leaning back against him. "Just having a little mother-son talk."

"I was just about to get Tim some milk," Mom says, trying to smile at us. "Would you like some, Bill? I think I have some cookies, too—I made them for the girls, but I think they'd be willing to spare a few."

"Cookies and milk, huh? That sounds great, Virginia." Bill kneels beside me, strokes my hair, looks at me questioningly as Mom busies herself in the kitchen.

"You okay, Tim? Looks like some pretty heavy shit went down here."

"Yeah, and yeah. Love you."

"Love you." He kisses me then, right as my mother brings a plate of cookies and a couple of glasses to the table. He breaks off with a smile and a quick caress, sitting down in the chair next to me, squeezing my hand under the table.

My mom's trying not to stare at us, her cheeks pink.

"Uh, sorry, Mom—didn't mean to embarrass you," I stutter. She meets my eyes and gives me a tentative smile.

"No need to apologize, son. It's a little hard to get used to, but I'm glad. I'm happy for you, happy that you've finally found someone who cares for you as deeply as Bill obviously does. And Bill, I want you to know that you'll always be welcome here—consider yourself part of the family."

He leans over and kisses her cheek. "Thanks, Virginia. You've already made me feel welcome. And I think you know already, but I just wanted to tell you that your son is pretty damned amazing." He pauses for a moment. "I love him, you know. More than I can say."

"I can tell. And I can tell he loves you—I've never seen him as happy as he is with you."

"That's because I've never been this happy before," I tell her, totally embarrassed. "So, we're all happy, we all love each other—let's get to the cookies already, before we wake the kids up."

After we finish our snack, Bill helps me back to bed and we make love, as quietly as we can, then fall into a contented, blissfully dreamless, sleep.

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

Tim's made reservations for an early dinner the next night. Reservations at Chris Rawls' restaurant, it turns out, which has me a little squirrelly.

"Bill, I promised him we'd come—don't make a big deal about it, okay? Besides, Chris is with his sous chef now, and I'm with you, remember?"

"I know, Tim."

"You weren't this jumpy when you met Julianna."

"That was different."

He looks at me, gives me a quick kiss, and thankfully refrains from telling me I'm a freak. Which I am, but I feel a little justified when we get to the Zodiac and this fucking matinee idol comes up to us and reaches over to give Tim a hug and a kiss. On the cheek, yeah, but even so.

"Tim, it's so good to see you! Come on in, your table's waiting. You must be Bill," he says, finally turning those baby blues on me. Surprises the hell out of me when he gives me a big hug, too, although I don't get the kiss on the cheek, which is probably just as well.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Bill. Welcome to Baltimore, and welcome to the Zodiac."

"Thanks, Chris," I manage.

"Come on, I'll show you to your table."

Chris stops by the table off and on throughout what I have to admit is an incredible meal. I finally realize what Tim meant when he once described the man as a southern gentleman. He's refined without being effete, warm without being overbearing, extremely polite, obviously very well-read, and totally comfortable in his own skin.

It's a little frightening, how confident he is—true confidence, not like Joe's arrogance. By the end of the evening I think I can understand why his relationship with Tim didn't work out—Chris is almost too perfect. Tim needs somebody who can understand him, which means someone who's been through some really rough shit, like he has. I'm sure that Chris had to go through some shit to get to the level of confidence he has now, but I can also tell he grew up with loving, supportive parents. Tim wouldn't have been able to tell Chris about his childhood.

Tim notices me smiling. "Penny for your thoughts, Rock Star."

"If I believed in some sort of cosmic karma shit, I'd say we were fucking meant for each other."

"It sure looks to me like you are."

I hadn't heard Chris coming up behind me, but there he is. He sits down, puts a companionable arm around my shoulder, and gives Tim a bright smile. "It's good to see Detective Angst looking so happy for a change."

"Detective Angst? Good one, Chris." He and I share a knowing smile.

"It's good to see you looking happy, too, Chris," Tim says with a blush.

"Well, wedded bliss will do that to a man."

"You got married? Chris, that's great—congratulations! When did that happen?"

"About six months ago. I'm going to go round him up out of the kitchen—he's a little nervous about meeting you—calls you The One That Got Away, has you built up in his mind as this huge threat. But he'll be fine once he sees you two together."

They're both looking at me now as I let out a strangled laugh. "He was kind of nervous, too," Tim says by way of explanation. "But he's fine now." I manage to nod, and Chris smiles at me, pats me on the shoulder, and heads to the kitchen to find his partner.

"Sorry," I finally manage to wheeze.

"It's kind of cute, actually."

"Punk rockers aren't supposed to be cute, especially not when they're over forty. You wouldn't catch anyone calling Iggy Pop cute. Or the late great Joey Ramone."

"That's because Iggy Pop is kind of ugly, and so was Joey Ramone. You're not."

"You want to see ugly, you should see Bucky Haight."

"I think I'll pass, thanks. I like what I'm looking at now."

"Sexy's okay, if you're looking for an adjective."

"Bucky Haight is sexy?"

"That's an image I did not want in my brain, Tim. Jesus!"

"You're cute even when you're disgusted."

"Actually, I think Bucky and Joe fucked, which is even more disgusting."

"Were you jealous?"

"Fuck yes."

"I've seen pictures of Joe. He was cute. Sexy, too."

"He'd wear the same ratty sweater for weeks at a time. He was a bitch. But he was sexy. And he could be kind of cute, when he was putting on the charm."

"Which was how often?"

I laugh. "Not nearly enough. Now Chris, he's got the charm thing down pat, doesn't he?"

"That he does. Complimented my tie the first time I met him, and that's all it took for me to be thoroughly charmed. Frank couldn't believe it. Shit, neither could I."

"I'm glad you didn't stay charmed."

"You charmed me pretty quickly, too, as I remember. You offered me pizza. But you were more than just charming. You were intriguing, fascinating, challenging, insightful, and frustrating. Not to mention incredibly sexy."

"Why thank you, Detective Angst."

"You're welcome, Jealous Man."

I look up at the arrival of Chris and partner, a stocky-looking Asian by the name of Hiroshi. Chris is holding a bottle of what looks like champagne, but when he sets it down I see it's sparkling grape juice. I guess Tim must have told him. Hiroshi has the glasses, four of them, and what I'm pretty sure is a creme brulee.

We have a pleasant, relaxed conversation. Well, to tell the truth, I don't say much, just kind of sit back and watch—not the first time I've ever done that, won't be the last, but it feels better than it sometimes does. I don't feel as outside as I sometimes do, which is interesting given that the talk centers on Baltimore people and doings, and this is the only time I've ever done more here than play a concert and sleep.

I can remember so many nights, listening to Joe at bars, diners, backstage, listening to John ramble, afternoons and evenings forced to listen to Bucky Haight hold forth. Pipe used to get pissed at me, before he got used to it, before he realized I was the perfect foil for his rants against whatever was bothering him that particular minute. Never had the heart to tell him I usually wasn't paying any fucking attention. Back then, I'd make a show of being the quiet, intent listener, but half the time I was off somewhere else.

Tim's with the program, though. I catch him checking in with me, making sure, but I know he knows this side of me, can see that tonight's quiet is different from how I was at the Waterfront. And he knows I'm listening, just don't have much to contribute. In between talking with his hands, one will rest on mine, on top of the table, occasionally stroking my knuckles or returning a squeeze. And I just lean back in my chair and watch him, until I see the little hesitations, the line between his eyes deepening, and realize he's tired, or hurting, or both.

It's time for me to speak up.

"Hey guys, this has been great—Chris, your restaurant is every bit as good as Tim described—but I think I need to get him home. He doesn't like to admit it, but by this time at night, his leg's usually bothering him pretty badly."

Chris is immediately solicitous, signaling for the valet to get our car, for one of the waiters to wrap up a fuckload of food for us. He refuses my money very graciously and ushers us into the car, this time hugging and kissing both of us, promising to watch the interview tomorrow night. I invite him and Hiroshi to stay with us the next time they're in California, and Tim gives me a grateful smile.

He falls asleep in the car, and I have to wake him up when we get back to the house. Fortunately, I manage to find my way back from the restaurant with only a couple wrong turns.

That night, for the first time since we got to Baltimore, Tim sleeps the night through without nightmares. I watch him sleep for awhile, never get tired of that, love how he looks even younger when he's finally free of all the day's worries. Then I curl up next to him, close my eyes, and fall asleep as well.

END

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