The Moment of Awakening

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Bill Boisy don't belong to me; I make no money from this.

Classification: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo), part of the Going Under series of stories.

Notes: Thanks to Beth Ann for encouraging me to finish this and post it, and to the LiveJournal friends who also wanted to see it. Mucho beta thanks to Cat, whose tactful suggestions made this better. There are spoilers in here for all of Homicide, including the movie, for all of Hard Core Logo, and for pretty much all of the Going Under series, just so you know.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: "I look up and see the catwalk swaying dangerously, the noise getting louder and higher pitched. It looks like it's about to come down—and Bill's standing directly under it, oblivious to everything but the food in front of him."

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

The Moment of Awakening

by shell

copyright 2002

To reach truth is not to accumulate knowledge, but to awaken to the heart of reality.

—Thich Nhat Hanh

Jenifur's playing in Phoenix tonight, practically our back yard. It feels kind of like coming home, because half the staff of the hospital's got to be here. Bill comped Marilyn, Dr. Taggart, and a good portion of the other staff who were directly involved in my care years ago, but a lot of other people bought tickets as well. We have a pre-concert party just for Good Sam employees, and everyone has a great time. Sarah's pissed about missing it when I talk to her on the phone, but she and Ruth have a bunch of exams and assignments coming up, so they're back home.

It's been years since we've seen some of these people, especially the ones who didn't make it to the wedding. Lisa's doing well in her masters program and will soon be a Clinical Nurse Specialist in orthopedics, and Marilyn's heading up the Care Partner program. It's great catching up with all of them; they, in turn, ask all about Ruthie, Sarah, and Billie, and the two of us show off pictures and do some bragging, as do Kat and Chelle. I think Deeja feels a little left out, but she handles it all with good grace.

The concert itself is incredible—the four of them are playing like they can read each other's minds, feeding off the energy from the audience, just totally there, in what I sometimes think of as the Zen of Jenifur, although I've never mentioned it to any of them, even Bill. They play for over three hours, doing four encores, as reluctant to stop as the audience is to let them. They finally come stumbling off the stage, soaked in sweat, laughing and punch-drunk, well after one in the morning.

Bill gives me a quick, messy kiss, then heads over to the food table, quickly downing a bottled water, pouring a second one over his head, then grabbing a towel and another bottle. I yell at him to eat something, but he doesn't hear me—he's always half deaf after a concert. I worry sometimes about the damage he's doing to his ears, but he insists he's fine.

Speaking of damage, this arena is in serious need of repair. They've got a state of the art, computer-run lighting system, but the lights themselves are up on ancient-looking bars jury-rigged to old catwalks, still connected to the old lights, with cables everywhere. It's never easy maneuvering backstage with my cane and brace, but this place is worse than any of the other venues I've been in.

I'm slowly making my way over to the food, where Bill's standing, wolfing down a sandwich, when I hear a low, metallic groan. I look up and see the catwalk swaying dangerously, the noise getting louder and higher pitched. It looks like it's about to come down—and Bill's standing directly under it, oblivious to everything but the food in front of him.

"Bill, move!" I shout, but he doesn't hear me, and I move as quickly as I can, trying to hop over the cables on my good leg, using the cane for balance more than anything else. I don't have much breath left for yelling, but I keep trying. Finally, just as I'm about to reach him, Bill turns and looks at me, puzzled by the panic in my eyes. Unfortunately, the catwalk picks that moment to lose whatever structural integrity was holding it together. It starts to fall, and Bill's still looking at me, unaware of the danger.

I put on one last burst of what passes for speed for me and manage to shove him out of the way, but I trip on a cable as I do it, and the last thing I'm conscious of is the look in Bill's eyes as he finally realizes what's happening, then pain and blackness.

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I wake up, kind of slowly, and everything feels weird. My head is fucking killing me, and my right leg feels very strange. And speaking of strange, there's this guy sitting by my bed—a hospital bed, I'm pretty sure—holding my hand and looking at me with a very worried expression. He's got blue eyes and spiky blond hair. I've never seen him before.

"Tim, fuck, how are you feeling?" he asks me, brushing my hair away from my forehead.

"Head hurts," I manage to croak, my throat dry. "And what's going on with my leg? It aches."

"Don't think you did anything to it, from what the docs said, but let me take a look," he says, and before I can stop him he's pulled back the sheet, and I gasp, because I can tell that's not my leg. It can't be.

"What the fuck?" I say in a panicked voice. "Listen, I don't know who you are, or what's going on, but what happened to my leg?"

He sits back in his chair, shocked, trying to hide it. A second later and he's regarding me seriously, studying my face. "Tim, what's the last thing you remember?" he asks softly, reaching for the call button by my pillow.

"Frank and I were at the door, getting ready to bring Thompkins in for questioning, and I don't know, he must have gotten the jump on us or something, hit me in the head, I guess."

A tinny voice comes through the speaker in the bedrail. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, Marilyn, he's awake. Get a neurologist up here right away, okay?"

"What's wrong, Bill?" All right, the guy's name is Bill. I still don't have a clue who he is.

"He doesn't remember me—last thing he remembers is something from when he and Frank were partnered."

"I'll page Dr. Blanchard."

"You mind telling me what the hell's going on?" I say.

"What year was—fuck—Tim, what year do you think it is?" He's still talking in that soft voice, but it breaks a little. He sounds more than worried now—frightened is more like it.

"What kind of a question is that?" I start, but his blue eyes hold mine, and I have to answer. "It's 1994, all right? Now will you please tell me who the hell you are?"

His eyes close briefly as I mention the year, and he grimaces a little, then meets my gaze steadily. "This is going to be a little hard for you to believe—" Just then a nurse walks in, a hispanic woman. He turns to look at her, and his face is anguished for just a second, then back under control. "He thinks it's fucking 1994, Marilyn," he says with a touch of desperation. "It's like some fucking soap opera—he's got fucking amnesia or something. That fucking beam hit him so hard it made him forget the last twelve years."

What the fuck?

"Relax, Bill. This does happen sometimes, you know—not as often as television would have you believe, but once in awhile, and the patient's memory almost always comes back, usually within a few days, as the swelling goes down."

"Wait a minute here," I interrupt. "You're telling me it's—what—2006? Someone want to clue me in here? Where the fuck's Frank, anyway? Is Gee here at least?"

Bill shakes his head slowly, eyes on the ground, then looks up at the nurse. "What do I tell him, Marilyn?"

"The truth," she answers. "Tim, my name is Marilyn Ortiz, and you're in the hospital, at Good Samaritan Hospital, in Phoenix, Arizona." She puts her hand on Bill's shoulder. "This is Bill Boisy, and you've been," she hesitates, looking at Bill for a second, "you've known each other for a few years now. I realize this is all very confusing, and very hard to believe, but it is 2006. Your friend Frank is back in Baltimore. You and Bill were backstage after a concert, and there was an accident. You shoved Bill out of the way, but you weren't able to move quickly enough to avoid getting hit when the catwalk collapsed. You took a pretty bad blow to the head—no broken bones this time, but you had some swelling in your brain, and you've been unconscious for a couple days."

The door to the room opens again, and my mother walks in. "Tim, thank god you're awake," she says, coming over to the bed, giving Bill a hug before leaning down to kiss my cheek. And what they've been telling me starts to sink in, because she looks different. Her hair's not dyed, and there are wrinkles that weren't there, and she's lost weight, gotten a tan—she looks like she's in better shape than she has been in years, but she's definitely older—years older, I guess—and I start to shake a little. It was just last year—what I remember as last year—when Stan and Kay and Beau got shot, and Stan lost his memory. But it was just for a day or two, right? Where's Munch when you need him?

"He's lost some of his memory, Virginia," Bill says in that quiet voice. "Thinks it's 1994."

"Oh no," she exclaims. "He doesn't remember—"

"Doesn't remember me," he finishes. And suddenly I have a flash, not really a memory, not exactly, just a flash of standing somewhere, being cold, feeling someone warm at my back, and excruciating pain in my knee.

"What happened to my leg, Mom?" I ask as calmly as I can manage. "Something happened to my leg."

Bill starts to reach for my hand, or maybe to brush my hair back again, but stops short. "It's a long story, Secret Agent Man," and I can hear a great fondness in his voice, more than I ever heard in Frank's—is he my partner? Did Frank retire? "But you were being a hero, and they tried to kill you. You were undercover up in Utah," Utah? "That's where you met Ruthie and Sarah—shit, you probably don't remember them either—sorry, Virginia—jesus, they're coming down tonight; what are we going to tell them?"

"We'll tell them their dad's awake, and he's going to be fine," Marilyn says calmly, and I'm gaping even more than I was a minute ago at what she just said.

"Their dad?" I say weakly, and Bill smiles at me, and it's a beautiful smile, really, and I don't know why I would think that. Then the neurologist, Dr. Blanchard, comes in, and she ushers everyone out of the room so she can do some tests, which turn out to be lights in my eyes, checking reflexes, asking me to remember a series of words, and a bunch of other annoying shit that makes my headache worse.

After that, I must fall asleep again, because the next thing I know I'm hearing voices outside my door.

"Come on, Bill, let us go in already!"

"Mouse, he's asleep; I told you that. He needs his rest. Why don't you let Virginia take you back to the hotel? You can see him tomorrow. You and Ruth must be tired—it's late, and you had a long drive."

"I don't care, Bill—I want to see him! Can't we just take a peek? We'll be quiet, I promise." The second voice sounds a little younger; all three voices are tinged with worry and affection. I reach for the lightcord and pull it, wincing at the brightness of the fluorescent bulb over the bed, my head aching again, but wanting to let them know I'm awake, even though I'm dreading seeing more faces I won't remember. I'm dreading it, but I'm also curious and a little excited—how the hell did I end up a father?

"Mouse, look, his light's on—he must be awake."

Like other hospital rooms I've been in, this one does a poor job of insulating against noise. I can hear Bill sigh before he tells the girls, "Okay, okay, but wait a minute first. Remember what I told you. Your dad—he's not going to remember you. That doesn't mean he doesn't love you—I know he does; you know he does—but he doesn't remember. So be gentle with him, no jumping up on the bed and smothering him, Ruthie, and no fucking sarcastic remarks, Mouse, you hear me?"

"So he doesn't remember he loves you, either," Ruth says sadly. What the fuck?

"No, lovebug, he doesn't." Bill's voice is muffled, but then he speaks again in a more normal tone. "He doesn't remember any of us right now, but that's okay, because he will, and because we love him, and we know he loves us, right?"

"Right," the two girls answer in unison.

"Okay then. Here's the deal. We're going in there, and we're going to say hi, see how he's doing, see if he needs anything, but absolutely no pressure. It wouldn't be buddies to put pressure on him to remember; the doctors say that's the worst fucking thing we could do. We've got to just let him be who he is right now, Tim from twelve years ago, the, uh, the Baltimore homicide detective, and accept that. That's buddies."

"That's buddies."

"That's buddies."

"Done." Then there's a soft knock on the door, and Bill sticks his head in. "Hey, detective, it's me—are you awake?"

"Yeah, I'm awake. Uh, hi."

He gives me another of those amazing smiles. "Hi. You up for a couple visitors?"

"Sure, I guess." I find myself smiling back a little, although I'm still trying to figure out what the kid meant (Ruth, her name is Ruth) when she was talking about how I love Bill. I don't like what I'm thinking.

He opens the door wider, and Ruth, who looks to be twelve or so, and Sarah, who's maybe 16 or 17—walk in and over to the bed.

"I know you don't remember me, Dad, but I'm Ruth, I'm your daughter, you adopted me and Sarah, and even though you don't remember me, can I give you a kiss and a hug?"

"Ruth, what did I just tell you?" Bill says warningly, but I shake my head at him.

"Sure. I'm sorry I don't remember you. When did I adopt you?"

"Well, you only formally adopted me a couple years ago, but you were my foster parent before that, just while we were waiting for the adoption to be approved. You've kinda been my dad for four years now, since Church Canyon, but I guess you don't remember that, either."

Something makes me jump when I hear the name of the town—I'm not even sure how I know it's a town—and Bill's immediately at my side. "Tim, what's wrong? Did you remember something?"

"No, not really. It's just, Church Canyon—that place, it was a horrible place, wasn't it. Jesus, that's where it happened, isn't it? The thing with my leg? And you—were you there?"

"He's starting to remember!" Sarah bursts out, giving me a hug, but I'm shaking my head, and Bill puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, and she backs away. I think there might be tears in her eyes, but I can't see well enough to be certain, and I look towards the bedside table for my glasses. Bill opens the drawer, takes my glasses out, and hands them to me, warm fingertips brushing mine.

"Yeah, Tim, I was there," he finally answers, and I look up and see the tears Sarah's blinking back, see the emotion in all three faces. "And yes, it was a horrible fucking place, the worst, and it's thanks to you that Eisen and his thugs aren't lording over it anymore."

"And let me guess—it's thanks to Eisen and his thugs that my right leg is useless?" I ask bitterly.

"It's not useless, Dad," Ruth says fiercely. "You get around just fine, doesn't he, Bill?"

"Yeah, Ruthie, he does. Now, you've seen your dad, and it's very late, and I want you to go out to the waiting room and have Virginia take you to the hotel. I know she's really tired, and the only way I'll get her to get some sleep is if I use you two to force the issue, so think of it as a favor to me and your dad and don't complain about it. All three of you can come back tomorrow—we'll be here."

"Have you talked to Billie?" Sarah asks seriously, and I wonder who the fuck Billie is. None of the names any of these people are talking about are familiar, and I don't understand how so much could have changed, even if it has been twelve years.

"Yeah, Mouse, this afternoon. She's fine up in Regina with Mary, and I told her to stay there. She says hi—to you, too, Tim."

"She should be with you, Bill," Ruth says. "I'm sure she's worried about you and Dad."

"She is worried, Ruthie, but better for her to be worried up there with her mom than down here, missing school and all the rest. Thanksgiving's in a few weeks, and she'll be down with us in Flag then."

"Have you talked to Agent Bartlett?" Ruth asks.

"Yeah, but this time it really was just an accident—no connection with any stalkers, terrorists, or anyone else, and no one else was hurt, just hero boy here. Now give us good night hugs and get out of here, all right?"

I get hugged and kissed within an inch of my life by both Ruth and Sarah, which feels strange, but very, very nice. Bill holds them tightly in his arms for a long moment, murmurs that he loves them, that they should sleep well, and that he'll see them in the morning, then ushers them out the door before returning to sit next to me.

He takes my left hand in his almost unconsciously, playing with the silver band I didn't even realize was on my finger. My ring finger. I stiffen; he realizes what he was doing, drops my hand, and sits back in the chair, covering his face with his hands, with his long, elegant fingers, one of which, on his left hand, bears a silver ring that's a twin to mine.

He looks up, catches me staring.

"Fuck, Timothy, I'm sorry, didn't mean to freak you out; that wasn't buddies."

"What—" I lick dry lips, force myself to speak. "Who—how do I know you, Bill Boisy? Who are you to me?" Why are you here? Why do you hug two kids I've adopted like they're your own?

He laughs shakily. "1994, huh? Talked to Frank tonight. I'm not sure you're ready to hear this, so why don't we wait until you remember a little bit more, like until, I don't know, 1998 or so, or, better yet, 2002?"

"You know Frank Pembleton?" At last, someone's mentioned a familiar name.

"Met him in this very hospital, right after—right after those fuckers in Church Canyon stoned your leg into a million pieces; jesus, Tim, this is really fucking hard."

Bill's hands are shaking, one of them still covering his face, and I'm hit by another flash. I see Bill's face, sleeping, on a pillow next to mine, and I can feel the warmth of his body—his naked body—pressed up against me. His arm's slung casually over my chest, and I'm laying on my back, can't move, because of the traction, my leg's in traction, and then I blink and I'm back in this other hospital room.

I have utterly no clue how I got from standing at a door in Baltimore waiting to arrest a suspect to what seems to be a relationship with another man. We wear the same rings, on the finger meant for wedding rings, and I supposedly don't remember that I love him. I've just pictured being in bed with him, naked.

I'm straight, or at least I always told myself I was, and I want to push this stranger away at the same time that I want to recapture that fleeting memory, because in my memory I was in pain, fucking horrible physical pain, but I was happy. Happier than I can ever remember being, and this man, Bill, I think he was the reason why.

"Bill," I say softly, then say it again, because I'm not sure he heard me the first time, and because there's something that feels really right about saying it. He looks up, looks at me with something like wonder in his eyes, and reaches out to stroke my cheek, and the feel of the calluses on his fingertips is amazing, but then I jump again and he pulls away.

"You remember me?" he asks.

"No," I answer, shaking my head, "not really. I don't remember anything, really; I've just been getting these flashes, you know? Just little moments, and I can't put them together with anything, because I don't know where they come from. I guess I've changed a lot in the past few years—I don't remember it, but I must have. I think—I guess I know, but I don't know how I know—that you, that we're—together? That's just fucking weird, I have to tell you, so could you please explain it to me?"

"God, I love you, Tim," he says, so relieved and sincere and full of deep emotion that I can hardly bear to hear it, and I move away from him with a jerk. Then he realizes what he said and grimaces. "Fuck. Guess you didn't need to hear that right now. What do you want to know?"

Everything. I want to know everything, and I want to fucking understand it. "Well—how long have I known you? How did we meet? How did I end up in Utah on some undercover operation?"

"That's a lot to answer, Zen boy. No, you don't remember that, either, do you?"

"What?"

"You, uh, you became a Buddhist. Back in '98, I think it was."

"You're shitting me." Not only am I apparently—gay, I guess—but I'm also a Buddhist? I don't even know what Buddhists believe. What the fuck has happened to me?

And then he just starts telling me about my life for the last twelve years. He doesn't go into a lot of detail, especially for the stuff that happened before we met, which he tells me was four years ago. I can tell he's leaving things out, but he gives me a good outline of how I got here. He manages to tell me the facts of our relationship without going into the kind of details that would really spook me—for some reason hearing confirmation we went through some sort of wedding ceremony doesn't spook me nearly as much as it should—and I can see the love in his eyes now. He's not trying to hide it, and I must have been pretty blind not to see it right away anyway.

I ask him about what happened, how I ended up with this concussion in the first place, and he tells me we were backstage after his band played a concert, at a venue that had seen better days and was in serious need of repair. I noticed something—he isn't sure what, because there wasn't time for me to do anything but push him away before the catwalk started to fall. I apparently got hit on the back of the head as I was moving away, then hit the front of my head when I went down. It was lucky no one else was hurt.

He sees me yawning after a bit and stops talking with a smile. "It's late; time for you to get some sleep," he says, gently removing my glasses and putting them back on the table. I realize he's probably done that for me before, who knows how many times, and I reach for his hand without thinking. We sit for a moment, holding hands, and I wish I could remember, wonder what will help me remember. I don't know why I'm not more upset about this, about the fact that I'm apparently in a serious relationship with a man (married to a man, sleeping with a man—fucking a man?), but I can't ignore the fact that he loves me, maybe more than anyone has ever loved me before.

Then he brushes my hair back from my forehead, fluffs my pillows, strokes my cheek, and heads over to the sofa. "I'll be right here if you need me."

"Thanks. Thank you, Bill, for staying."

"Told you before," he answers sleepily, "not going anywhere."

(Till we're 104), something whispers in my brain, and then I turn out the light, take a few deep breaths, and fall asleep.

He's there the next morning when I wake up, asleep on the sofa, and there's something familiar about that, too. There's a fragment of a dream lingering, some case, Frank and I in the Box, interrogating someone, and Frank clutching his forehead in pain, but it's gone, whatever it was, and I'm frowning, because it feels important, like another memory flash, not a dream at all.

Then the aide brings in my breakfast tray—looks like pancakes, toast, hashbrowns; no bacon or sausage—and I start to eat. The food's better than I'd expect hospital food to be, and my headache's a little better this morning, and I find myself just eating, just enjoying my food, without worrying much about my memory.

Bill keeps sleeping; he probably hasn't gotten much sleep the past few days, because he's been worried about me, and that's another one of those weird thoughts, so I go back to eating my breakfast, putting up with the day shift nurse coming in and doing her assessment, both of us careful to speak in whispers. Before she leaves, she thanks me—says she knows I don't remember it, but the money Bill and I gave to the hospital, to the nursing staff, really made a difference in morale and recruitment, and she's really honored to be one of the people caring for me while I'm back here at Good Sam.

Bill wasn't very specific about the band he's in, but this and other things lead me to believe it's very successful, enough that he's both rich and famous. Rich enough to make some big donation to the hospital, anyway. The nurse gives my hand a squeeze before she leaves the room, only to return a minute later with the morning newspaper.

There's the date, staring at me in black and white: September 17, 2006. The news is pretty depressing, too. There are references to some great tragedy that happened five years ago in New York. I have to reread the reports a couple times before I figure it all out, and I shake my head in disbelief, mutter something incoherent. Bill wakes up then, comes over to the bed, sees what I'm reading.

"Yeah, it happened," he tells me softly. "Was fucking awful. Worse than Oklahoma City." And then I have to ask him what happened in Oklahoma City, and he tells me, tells me the feds were watching Church Canyon because they were afraid Eisen would do something like that, only to be caught off guard when the planes hit in New York and Washington. He sits with me a minute longer, I guess wanting to make sure I'm okay—seems like he's waiting for something, but I don't know how to give him what he needs. Then he sighs a little and tells me he's going to take a shower.

I finish reading the paper, more confused than ever. Bill gets out of the shower, wearing faded grey sweats and pulling a Jenifur t-shirt that's seen better days over his head, a black and red tattoo visible on his right shoulder and a puckered scar on his left one. It looks like a scar from a bullet, and I wonder if it happened before or after we met.

He pulls out a guitar case from behind the sofa and starts to play bits and pieces, stopping and starting; working on a song, I guess. The phone rings—it's my mom, letting me know she's bringing the girls over later, and they've brought some photo albums from home, hoping they might help jog my memory. After she finishes talking to me, she asks to speak to Bill—I guess she doesn't have any problem with her only son being in a relationship with another man, which is another shocker—and I have to say his name a couple times before he looks up from his guitar and takes the phone. Their conversation is brief and affectionate, from what I can tell.

After he hangs up, he tells me he's hungry, he's going to head down to the cafeteria, and drops a kiss on my forehead, and I jerk away and he freezes.

"Fuck, Tim, I'm sorry," he mutters, turning away. "I just forgot for a minute. I'll get out of here now, leave you in peace."

"Wait," I choke out. "I just don't get this. How did I go from being straight to being gay, to being with a gay guy, because, no offense, I'm not a homophobe or anything, but there's something that's just wrong about it, and I don't understand how I—how you and I—"

He cuts me off angrily. "It's not perverted when two men love each other, Tim. Only when it's done without consent, like what your uncle did to you, what Joe did to me. And for the record, neither one of us is gay; we're both bisexual, not that that makes any fucking difference."

"What—what the fuck do you know about my uncle?" I whisper, horrified. I've never told anyone about that, not except for the one time I tried to tell my father.

"Shit, I'm really fucking this up," he mutters, then takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye, and once again I can't seem to look away, as much as I want to. "Fuck. The truth, Marilyn said to just tell you the truth. I know all about your uncle, Tim. You told me about him one night in Las Vegas, in my hotel room, just after we met, just before you went off to take down Eisen single-handedly, be the fucking hero, never mind if you fucking got yourself killed in the process. You told me that night, and you cried in my arms, and I held you, and then we made love for the first time, and it was amazing, fucking beautiful, fucking tender, like nothing I'd ever experienced before, and don't you fucking dare call it perverted, you hear me?"

I just stare at him, gaping at the fierce hurt and passion in his eyes and voice. He makes another of those abortive gestures toward me, then turns away again. "I know you can't remember, Tim, and I know it's not your fucking fault, but this is just too fucking hard right now, and I need to get out of here, get some air. I'll be back later. The nurses have my cell number if you need me." With that he opens the door and walks out, shaking his head briefly at the three women entering the room—more people I don't remember.

"Shit, Tim, is Billy okay?" one asks me.

"How the fuck should I know?" I bark. "And who are you, anyway?"

"Right, you don't remember us. Don't remember Billy, jesus, that sucks. Anyway, I'm Chelle, this is Kat, we're in the band with Billy, Jenifur; you know them? Because we were around in '94, but Billy wasn't playing with us yet, it was still that asshole Earle. Oh, and this is Deeja, she's the bass player, most recent addition to the band—"

"That was three years ago, Chelle, not yesterday," the black woman cuts in. "While you were in the hospital, Tim—this hospital, right, Kat?"

"Yeah, stuck in that fucking medieval torture device for months and months."

"He was only in traction for eight weeks, Kat. I know Danny's been sick, and you haven't been sleeping much, but I think you know the difference between eight weeks and a few months."

"That's not buddies."

"Will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" I interrupt, and all three women turn to me and start apologizing. The two older women sit on the sofa, and Deeja grabs the chair next to the bed. The three of them tell me a little bit about Jenifur, and I realize that I have heard of the band, but they must be a lot bigger now than they were when we put a couple singles on the jukebox at the bar. There's brief mention of several Grammy awards, for example, including song of the year for "Adena's Song," which I apparently had some hand in inspiring. I guess if I told Bill about my uncle, it's no surprise I told him about Adena Watson.

Much like Bill's story of my life last night, I can tell they're leaving things out—including something pretty painful, especially where Deeja's concerned—but I'm content to get at least a little bit of a handle on who these women are and what they mean to Bill. And to me, I guess, if only I could remember. They hang out in the room for about an hour, telling stories and singing me songs, until they decide I'm tired (which I am), and leave with dire predictions of what Bill will do to them if they don't let me sleep.

I do sleep—it seems like I'm doing a lot of that—and then I eat lunch. Bill hasn't returned, but Marilyn comes by, tells me he checked in to make sure I'm okay. Mom brings Ruth and Sarah while I'm eating, and Ruth insists on climbing onto the bed next to me while they show me pictures of people and places and events I don't remember. Bill on stage, backing up Chelle. Bill on stage, younger, cigarette hanging from his lips, backing up a tough looking man with a wide mohawk—the Joe he mentioned. The Joe he implied sexually assaulted him, if I heard correctly.

Me with Frank and Mary and a baby. Me in a hospital bed with another girl, Ruth's age, who has Bill's eyes and smile. I'm pale, thin, and in traction, but I look very happy, and I remember the flash I had last night.

Me in a wheelchair, leaving the hospital, pushed by Bill, my leg still surrounded by metal and plaster. Me in a bed, surrounded by Ruth, Sarah, and the other girl, Bill's daughter, and Christmas presents in various stages of unwrapping. Me standing, supported by a cane on one side (and that cane looks familiar, it actually looks familiar, but then I realize it's leaning against the wall next to the sofa, along with a leg brace) and Bill on the other, on a beach somewhere. A close-up of Bill, smiling. Picture after picture of Ruth, Sarah, and Billie, their faces changing subtly with the passing years. Bill, me, Sarah, Ruth, and Billie, standing in front of a house in the mountains.

That's the end of the album, and I shut it, hand it to Ruth, and my mom puts her hand on my arm and I realize she's holding another album, a fancier one, and I reach for it, but she pulls it to her chest and shakes her head.

"I don't know if you're ready to look at this one, Tim," she says kindly. "I brought it along, but I talked to Bill a little while ago, and maybe we should just save it for another time."

"Why? What's in it?" I ask, but I think I know the answer.

"It's your wedding album, son." Yeah, that's what I thought. Jesus.

"Can you leave it here for me? I think I would like to see it, but maybe not now. Maybe when I'm alone."

"Sure. Just—Tim, I know this is difficult for you, that there's a lot that's happened that makes it hard for you to understand, but I want you to know, hard as it may be for you to believe it, meeting Bill was the best thing that ever happened to you. You've been so happy, so full of love and joy and peace, for the first time in your life. I admit, it was difficult for me to accept the idea that you were in love with another man, but the two of you are good for each other, have made a lovely home together with your daughters. So even if your memory doesn't come back—the doctors tell me it will—but if it doesn't, give Bill a chance, okay?"

"Uh, I'll try, Mom." Who is this woman? She certainly looks like my mother, but I don't think I know her.

"All right. Ruthie, Sarah-mouse, this would be a good time for you to give your father what you brought for him."

That turns out to be a get-well card and a bunch of wildflowers from Ruth, and a container full of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from Sarah. I eye the container a bit speculatively at first, but the aroma is wonderful, even through the plastic, and when I bite into one of the cookies I'm in heaven. "Hey, Sarah, these are amazing," I mumble through a mouthful, and Ruth laughs as she grabs one, ignoring Sarah's hissed complaint that they're just for me.

"They're the cookies of love, Dad—Sarah's recipe. We brought them all the way from home," Ruth says.

"I wanted to bring you some macaroni and cheese, but it wouldn't have been okay in the car, so you'll have to wait until you come home," Sarah adds.

"That sounds good, Sarah. I've noticed everyone calls you 'Mouse'—why is that?"

She laughs, then puts a foot up on the bed and shows me a Mighty Mouse tattoo on her ankle. "I got it three years ago—Bill and I both got them, and you were so pissed, because I was only fifteen. We got Mighty Mouse because he's your favorite. You started calling me 'Little Miss Mighty Mouse,' and it stuck. Don't tell Bill, but I'm thinking of getting a Champion logo on my other ankle."

I decide to let that go by without a comment, because who knows what kind of a parent I am, or how I'm supposed to react to a statement like that. "So you're 'Mouse,' and Ruth is 'Nature Girl,' right? And Bill calls me 'Secret Agent Man,' or 'Zen Boy.' What do I call him?"

"You call him 'Rock Star' a lot," Ruth volunteers. "Sometimes you call him 'Billy Hollywood,' or 'Money Bags.' But usually you just call him Bill, because that's his real name, Bill Boisy, and he didn't really start going by that until he met you; he went by Billy Tallent."

"And sometimes you call him 'Nature Boy,' because you've turned him into one," Sarah adds. "It was his idea to move to Flagstaff. Oh, and he calls you 'Detective Angst' sometimes, but he got that from Chris."

"Who's Chris?" I ask helplessly. I'll never keep all these names straight.

"Chris Rawls is a chef in Baltimore, son," my mom answers. "You dated him for awhile several years ago."

"How many years?" So Bill wasn't the first man I ever dated. I think.

"Hmm, let's see. I think that was in '97, before you were shot. You were never very serious about Chris. At the time, I thought it was just a phase you were going through, and after the shooting you went back to dating girls. Those were the only dates you told me about, at any rate."

"I think I just hit information overload." Before I got shot. Bill mentioned something about that last night, but it didn't really sink in.

"I'm sorry, Tim. Look, you must be tired. Girls, give your dad a hug. I'll take you out shopping, and we'll come back after dinner."

"I'm sorry, too, Mom. I wish I remembered all this stuff—it sounds like a lot has happened—but to just hear about it like this, it's just confusing. Overwhelming."

After lots of affectionate goodbyes, they leave, they leave me in this hospital room alone with photo albums, cookies, and wildflowers Ruth picked at our home in the mountains.

I haven't really gotten out of bed yet—just a brief trip to a chair when my bed was changed this morning, when I was given warm washcloths and instructed to use them to give myself a sponge bath, not the most pleasant experience—and I decide it's time that I took a shower. Definitely time—I stink of hospital antiseptic, and my hair is a greasy mess.

I manage to sit up at the edge of the bed, only to be confronted with unshakeable evidence of what's happened that I can't remember—my leg. The cane's over against the wall, out of reach, so I push the call light and wait for the nurse to bring it to me. She helps me put the brace on, too, but even then it's an awkward and painful journey to the bathroom, and I'm grateful for the fold-down bench in the shower.

I look over my body carefully, at all the scars I don't remember, the muscle definition in my upper body—I'm in better shape, from the waist up, anyway, than I have been since my academy days. I feel the pucker of the bullet wound in my back, look at the total mess that's all that's left of my right knee.

I'm staring at that knee when I get another flash—Bill kneeling in front of me, kissing my knee, telling me it's not ugly to him, because it's part of me, and I'm suddenly getting hard, which is yet another fucking weird thing that I don't get. I mean, yeah, Bill's a striking man, I can see that, with a great smile and elegant fingers and expressive eyes (beautiful eyes, that voice in the back of my head whispers), but that doesn't mean anything. Except apparently it does, because I'm getting harder by the minute.

I give myself a mental shake and get on with the business of getting clean, resolutely ignoring my erection. Washing my hair feels strange, too, but I push that thought away with all the rest. By the time I make it back to the bed I'm sweating again, exhausted, not sure I'm using the cane the right way. I stare at the photo album sitting on the bedside table for a couple minutes, then grimace and pick it up.

I leaf slowly through the initial pictures—Frank, who looks completely unchanged, straightening my tie; me and my mom and my sister; Bill and some long-haired guy getting ready; Sarah, Ruth, and Billie in beautiful dresses, smiling shyly at the camera. Chelle with Kat—who's pregnant—Deeja off to the side, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. There's a shot of me going down the aisle, outdoors; the two of us standing, facing each other, the mountains in the background. The expression on my face—jesus. I may not be able to remember it, but it's pretty obvious I do love Bill Boisy.

The next several pages are from the reception, I guess; Munch, Lewis, and Howard are among the guests. I don't see Gee anywhere—maybe he couldn't make it; he has to be a Captain by now. When I get to another set of pictures of me and Bill, I'm puzzled, because he's wearing a sling on his arm, a jacket that's too large, and his shirt looks messed up, smudged with dirt, or maybe grass stains. We're both a little pale, and there's some worry in my face, but the love and happiness is there as well. Is that where his scar came from? It's the same arm.

There are a few more pictures with the whole wedding party—me, Bill, Frank, the long-haired guy (must be Bill's best man?), the girls, my mom. Then a picture of Frank with Mary and a couple kids, a boy and a girl; a picture of the long-haired guy with a beautiful woman; another picture of Kat and Chelle. The last picture in the album is a large portrait of me, Bill, Ruth, Sarah, and Billie.

I close the album, put it and my glasses back on the table, and lean back, completely exhausted. I'm asleep in minutes, but I have a really horrible nightmare, about a man in some sort of tribal mask, tying a woman up and stabbing her. I wake with a start and see Bill's concerned face, feel his hand stroking my cheek, hear him murmuring my name, telling me it's okay, it was just a dream. He asks me what it was about, and I tell him, and he shakes his head.

"Fuck, Tim, if you were going to forget anything permanently, Luke Ryland would be on the top of my list." When I look at him uncomprehendingly, he shakes his head again. "A case you worked on, a really tough one. Fucker got off on a technicality, and it really shook you up. You haven't had that one in awhile, but I guess your subconscious remembered that better than some of the other stuff that's happened."

"Bill, what happened to your arm? Someone shot you—was it at the wedding?"

"What? You remember?"

"No, sorry—the girls brought by the wedding album, and I was looking at the pictures."

"My arm's fine. Don't worry about it."

"I need to know what happened—stop glossing over everything bad."

"All right, Timothy, jesus!" he answers, annoyed. "One of your former fake wives from when you were undercover tried to kill us at the wedding, since her fucking brothers fucked up and killed the wrong fucking people at the rehearsal dinner. The bitch got off a few shots, including one that went through my upper arm. We were fucking lucky that time—no one died, you fucking shot her out of a fucking tree, everyone survived, end of story. My arm's fine, no lasting damage, just a little arthritis sometimes when I've been playing too long. All right? Does that satisfy your morbid fucking curiosity, Angst Boy?"

It takes a second for all of that to register, but it's still not enough. "What else aren't you telling me, Bill? I had a dream last night about Frank—something happened with Frank, didn't it?"

"What fucking didn't happen with the almighty Pembleton?" he mutters. "What happened in the dream? You taking a fucking bullet for him again? Him walking out on you?"

"What? No, we were interrogating someone, and he put his hand to his head, his head was really hurting him, and something bad was going to happen, but then I woke up."

"Oh." He pauses, calmer now. "You haven't told me too much about it, but I'm guessing that was when Frank had his stroke. I didn't realize it happened in the Box, but that makes sense."

"A stroke? When?"

"Uh, I think you said it was just after Olivia was born, but I'm not sure. Your mom will know."

"What else is there, Bill? What else haven't you told me, huh?"

He sighs wearily. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Tell me."

"Giardello's dead. He was killed, fall of 2000. That's when you quit Homicide for good, after Frank came out of retirement and the two of you caught the killer."

"Gee's dead? How?"

"He was running for mayor, and some idiot shot him, something about legalizing drugs—I don't know the whole story; you don't really like to talk about it. That was a really bad time for you, 1999, 2000, getting shot, Ryland, that Buddhist monk who got killed, the homeless guy, Giardello, all that shit. I haven't told you about it because I'd be happy if you never remembered any of it, and I don't fucking see how hearing about it now is going to help matters. Can't we talk about something else?"

"Fine," I say, suddenly certain I don't want to hear any more about that time in my life. "Last night you told me the basics of what's happened, but you didn't really talk about yourself. Tell me your story. You mentioned some guy, Joe, this morning, and I saw a couple pictures of him. Tell me about Joe, and about how you grew up, how you got into music."

"I'm not sure that hearing about my dissolute youth is going to be any easier, but okay," he replies, pulling the chair closer and reaching for my hand, then pulling back apologetically. "Sorry, don't mean to crowd you," he says.

"It's all right," I surprise myself by saying, "just don't try to kiss me again." He looks at me, nods, rubs the back of his head in what I'm already recognizing as a recurrent gesture, and starts to talk. Soon I'm lost in his quiet voice, speaking so calmly about horrific events—how his alcoholic parents beat him, how he met Joe and escaped with him to form Hard Core Logo, and what his relationship with Joe was like—the fights, the pain, the mindfucks, and the rape. Jesus, the rape. I guess he does understand about my uncle.

He tells me a little about the reunion tour, what was going on in his mind, and what Joe did to get him to come back. And he tells me how Joe killed himself, on camera no less, because he thought Bill was leaving the band. I think about Crossetti, how hard that was, and I'm amazed by this man's strength.

Then he switches gears and tells me about our honeymoon in Canada, when we both grieved, me for my leg, him for Joe, the two of us visiting the grave in Vancouver, how much it meant to have me there with him, that it was the first time he'd been to his birthplace since Joe's funeral.

"So you really loved him, then," I say finally.

"I loved him. Not the way I love you, though."

"What do you mean?"

"I love you more, and better. And you love me more, and better. I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but it's the truth."

"It does, a little. But, you know, I was looking at the pictures, from, uh, the wedding, and I, I believe you. I mean, I can tell, looking at the pictures, that the man in them, the me I can't remember, loves you."

He nods. "Yeah, he does. I fucking wish you could remember, Tim, because I have to tell you, I slept like shit last night on that fucking couch. I really miss sleeping with you—not the sex, exactly, although that's always been fucking spectacular, but feeling you next to me, taking over the whole bed, falling asleep early so that when I'm ready for bed it's warm already, the way you wake up a little when I come to bed and just fucking pull me into your arms—" he looks down, looks away. "Fuck, there I go again. I'm sorry—I know this isn't easy for you, either, and the last thing I want to do is make you feel worse than you already do."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I don't remember. It sounds like I'm a lot happier than I've been before."

"We both are, Tim. We both are. Listen, I'm going to go wash up, get ready for bed—I'm pretty fucking tired, and you look exhausted. Do you need anything? Want me to get you another dinner tray? This one's been sitting here awhile."

"No, I'm fine," I say, then grab his arm as he gets up. "Wait. Wait a minute, all right?"

"What is it?"

"I want to try something—it may just freak me out, but maybe it'll help me remember something. Sit down on the bed next to me."

"You sure about this?" I'm not, not at all, but I lie.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

He nods doubtfully—I think he can tell I'm lying—but sits down. I urge him closer, and he obliges, stretching his legs out next to mine, fitting himself easily into the crook of my shoulder. I gingerly put my arm around him and pull him closer, so that he's resting against me. He sighs and turns a little, putting his arm around me and his head against my chest.

"This okay?" he asks.

"I think so." It feels nice. It feels wonderful, actually, but I'm not ready to think about that. I appear to be ready to let myself feel it, though.

He stays there, next to me, arm slung over my chest, and I can feel his chest rising and falling, smell the gel he uses in his hair. I'm asleep before I can make myself ask him to move.

I fall asleep with Bill in my arms, and I sleep soundly, no nightmares. I wake up when he does, but for some reason I keep my eyes closed, my breathing light, even when he brushes a soft kiss across my lips before heading over to the sofa.

My dreams the rest of the night are disjointed but pleasant. I dream about Bill, Sarah, and Ruth, about our house in Flagstaff. The dreams are a mishmash of images from pictures, from imagination, possibly from memory; it's impossible to tell, especially since most of them are gone the minute the aide wakes me with breakfast.

It smells great, but I still take a minute to watch Bill sleeping on the sofa before I start eating. I put on my glasses to study his face, relaxed in sleep, his striking blue eyes closed, his forehead smooth.

This man loves me. And I can't pretend I don't find him attractive, not anymore. I blush, thinking about some of the images from my dreams; the ones that seem to have stayed with me all involve Bill. In most of them he's naked—sprawled lazily on a bed, smiling at me; or kneeling in front of me, my dick in his mouth; or, jesus, underneath me, my hand on his cock, his body around mine, his face contorting with orgasm, and that image is a little much, so I give myself another mental shake and go back to my breakfast.

I've started on the scrambled eggs and toast, but I haven't touched the bacon. It smells really good, but somehow a little off. I shrug and pick up a nice, crispy piece, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Bill's awake, pushing back the sheet, exposing his lean stomach and a little of his chest where his t-shirt has ridden up. I'm about to take a bite when Bill jumps up and grabs it out of my hands.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I ask, frowning. "I was going to eat that—at least, I think I was."

"You're a vegetarian, Zen boy," he tells me. "You don't eat anything with a face."

"Oh," I answer, relieved. "I was wondering why that smelled kind of disgusting."

"How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well. Had some weird dreams. I'm getting sick and tired of always having a headache, but it seems a little better this morning."

"Tell me your dreams, o sensitive one." I look at him, confused. "You have some fucking awesome dreams, Tim. Except for the nightmares, of course, but I know you didn't have one of those, so spill."

"How do you know?"

"That you have awesome dreams?"

"Well, that too, but how do you know I didn't have a nightmare?"

"Because I always wake up when you have a nightmare, freak. Come on, what was it this time? Munch on an elephant in the desert? Kat giving birth to six monkeys? Chris opening a restaurant on the moon?"

"Hey, if anyone could make it work, it would be Chris," I answer absently. "Guy's an amazing cook, almost as good as Sarah." I stop, and we stare at each other. "Whoa. Wait a minute," I say, flapping my arms like an idiot. "I remember Chris. And I remember Sarah's cooking." Bill's staring at me, hopeful, but trying to hide it.

"Bill," I say, and it feels great, because I know who he is. He's the man who brought me back from self-destruction, the man I've made a life with, the man I love more than I would have thought possible. "Jesus, Bill." I can't believe it, can't believe the jumble of feelings and images flooding into and through me. "Would you—fuck. Get over here, okay? I want you to kiss me." I need to kiss you.

He sits cautiously next to me. "How much do you remember?" he asks, his voice shaking.

"The thing is, it's all jumbled together," I say hesitatingly, because I can't quite get it all straight. "I can't make sense of it all, not yet." I pause, take his hand, staring at the ring I put there, in October, almost three years ago. "Please, Bill. I need you to kiss me."

"You sure?"

"I remember that time by Wahweap Creek, when you snuck onto the back roads, how scared I was they'd find us, how good it felt to have you in my arms again. Fuck, Bill—" He brings my hand to his lips, and then I lean in.

His mouth is warm, soft, welcoming; I meet it passionately, and he moans softly. His arms go around me, mine go around him, and we're both trembling as his lips open and his tongue enters my mouth.

I break off the kiss after a minute, brushing my lips against his cheeks, his forehead, murmuring, I'm so sorry, Bill, I can't believe I didn't remember, love you so much; it's okay; I'm back; I love you; I remember you; I remember marrying you, and the fireplace in Banff, and oh god that first night in Vegas, love you so much; I'm sorry I hurt you. And he's murmuring back, love you, Tim, god I missed you, missed this, so glad you're back, you're here with me; don't you ever fucking scare me like that again; love you so fucking much; everything's okay now, can't wait to have you home again; love you, Tim. Then we just hang out there for awhile, not saying much, not really doing anything beyond an occasional kiss, a ruffling of hair, a clasping of hands. He quizzes me a little, makes sure I remember everything, but eventually I'm able to reassure him, and me, that there are no more gaps in my memory.

I must fall back asleep, I guess, because the next thing I know there's a knock on the door, and I open my eyes and see him looking back at me. I smile at him, ignoring the nurse's request to move my arm so she can take my blood pressure until he smiles back at me.

"Hi, Tammy," I remark, looking up at the nurse. "How's your son doing?"

"He's fine, Tim—going to graduate this year."

"That's right—he's planning on becoming a nurse, like his mom, right?"

"Wait a second," she says, smiling. "You remember my name, and that my son's going to be a nurse, and Bill's all cuddled up with you—you got your memory back, didn't you?"

"Yeah, it all came back this morning," I answer, kissing Bill's temple, tightening my hold on him. "Tell me, Tammy—now that I'm me again, when do I get to go home, huh? Because, no offense, you know I love you guys, but I've spent too much time in this damned hospital already."

"I'll let Dr. Blanchard know right away. She might want to run a few more tests, but I bet you'll be out by the end of the day. It's great to see you guys acting like lovebirds again, but this room isn't as suited to the extracurriculars you guys are prone to as the one up on Seven North was, so we'll try to get you home where you belong."

"Thanks, Tammy," Bill tells her. "Get me the phone before you go, would you?"

He dials the hotel and hands me the phone. My mom picks up after the first ring.

"Hi, it's me. No, everything's fine—my memory's back, Mom. Yeah, I remember everything. Can I talk to my girls?"

We're both grinning as Sarah picks up the phone. I hold the phone between us so we can both hear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Miss Mighty Mouse, it's your dad."

"Dad? You remember?"

"Yeah, sweetie, I do. And I remember that you have a term paper due next week, so don't think you're using this as an excuse not to get it done, you hear me?"

"Shit, Dad, you really do remember everything!"

"Sarah, don't swear in front of your grandmother," Bill interjects, laughing.

"She's in the bathroom, Rock Star, so shut the fuck up," she retorts happily.

"She could come out any minute, so watch it," I say. "Where's your sister? I want to talk to her."

"She went to play a couple games in the arcade they have downstairs—she should be back in a little while. Is it okay if I tell her? I don't know if you wanted to surprise her—"

"No, of course you can tell her, sweetie. But you and Grandma and Ruth might want to start packing—they may let me go home this afternoon."

"That's fucking awesome, Dad! When will you know for sure?"

"Not until after the doc comes and checks me out, but hopefully that'll happen soon. You get your grandma and your sister and head over here right away, all right? I miss you guys. I miss you a lot."

"We missed you too, Dad. Jesus, I'm so glad you're okay."

"Me too, Mouse. I'll see you soon, all right?"

"As soon as I can round up the troops and get over there, I promise."

After I hang up, I put the phone down on the table. Bill reaches for me, running his fingers over my face.

"I missed you," he tells me. "Jesus, Tim, I missed you so fucking much."

"I know, Bill, I know. I'm sorry—fuck, I was such an asshole—"

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me," he tells me, suiting actions to words. A minute later he's whispering in my ear everything he wants to do to me as soon as he gets me home, and it's probably a good thing Dr. Blanchard walks in about then, because otherwise things were going to get a little embarrassing. I can't believe I wasted two days trying to ignore how much I wanted him.

Fortunately, she only checks a few things out, making me count backwards by sevens, checking my reflexes again, asking some other questions, and shining that damned light in my eyes again, before announcing that I can go home. By the time Virginia and the girls get to the hospital, we're ready to leave.

Bill arranges for a record company jet back to Flag, and we offer my mom a seat, but she decides to ride back with Sarah and Ruth. It's probably just as well, because it means we'll have a few hours alone before they finish their drive. I can tell Bill's thinking the same thing I am, and it's a good thing it's such a short flight, because we're both having a difficult time keeping our hands off each other. My dick's half hard the entire flight, and I'm pretty sure his is as well.

We finally land and head for the car. Anyone who doesn't know me might put my bowlegged gait down to the limp and the cane, but Bill knows better. I see him glance at the men's room, then decide against it, and I have to stifle a groan. The drive home from the airport is torture, but it'll be better at home, in our bed, much as we're both tempted to just go for it in a bathroom stall.

Neither one of us says a word until we make it through the gate, park the jeep, and enter the house. As soon as the door's shut behind me, he pushes me up against the wall and kisses me hard. Then I grab his hand with my free one and pull him down the hall to the bedroom, not that he needs any persuasion.

We make fast work of each other's clothes—I think I lose a couple buttons, and his t-shirt barely avoids getting ripped. Thankfully my brace is fastened with Velcro, easily removed and difficult to damage. Then, finally, there's nothing between us but a thin layer of sweat, and my body's covering his, so fucking good.

Then he gasps and flips us over, and I get it right away, my hand joining his around our cocks, my other on his ass, just like that night in Vegas, years ago now. And just like that night in Vegas, it doesn't take long before I'm coming and he's coming and it's everything it always is, fucking glorious, tender, and full of love.

Just like the first time, he rests his head on my chest, our hearts pounding, my hand stroking gently through his hair. And just like most times, as soon as I catch my breath I tell him I love him, and he kisses me softly and tells me the same.

Bill rolls off and tries to get up a few minutes later, but I grab him and hold him down.

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

"Just gonna get something to clean us up." I tighten my grip on his waist, unwilling to let him go.

"No, stay. We can take a shower later. You could wash my hair." He chuckles. "You know, I don't think I've ever told you how much I love it when you wash my hair."

He kisses my temple. "No, I don't think you have. 's okay—I figured it out years ago."

"Yeah, I guess you did."

"How's your head? Still got that headache?"

"No, you know, it's gone. It's amazing what sex with you can do for me."

"Freak." He settles himself more comfortably into my arms, pulling a blanket over us. "Didn't get a chance to thank you, before."

"For what?"

"Pushing me out of the way of that stupid fucking catwalk. But would it have killed you to just yell, 'hey, Bill, get out of the way'?"

"Hey, I did yell at you, Bill. You really should have your hearing checked."

He lifts his head. "Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Fuck. First arthritis; now I'm going deaf. This getting old shit sucks."

"It comes with the territory, Rock Star. You're in good company—look at Pete Townshend. And it's better than the alternative."

He smiles. "You got that right. Besides, we have a deal."

"Don't think I'll ever let you forget it."

"Oh, I'm counting on it, detective."

I turn a little, and we kiss, soft and slow and tender. A few minutes of that and I can feel both of our erections growing. He breaks off the kiss and smiles, stroking my face with one hand and my cock with the other.

"I guess it's a good thing there's one part of me that's not too old and decrepit," he tells me. "Jesus, it's been four years, and you still make me feel like a horny teenager."

"Likewise, believe me," I murmur, playing with his balls. "Except it was never this good when I was seventeen."

"Yeah, because you never had my ass when you were seventeen," he says hoarsely. "Fuck me, Tim."

I groan, and his mouth's on my neck, my chest, my shoulders, and his hands are everywhere else, subtly but surely caressing every single one of the spots he knows will drive me wild, leaving only my cock, now achingly erect, untouched. And then I'm in that endless moment that's so difficult to achieve when I'm sitting zazen and so easy when I'm with Bill, loving him, inside him, seeing his face when he comes, the way I did in my dreams this morning, but so much better than any dream could ever be.

Later, we take a shower, and he washes my hair. Then we fall asleep on the deck, watching the sunset washing the mountains with color, not waking until the rest of our family gets home.

END

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