Disclaimers: Tim and Bill are not mine.

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

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Post Going Under. Part 2 of Comfort Food, after Swedish Pancakes.

Warnings: M/M sex, angst, nightmares.

Rating: Probably just an R this time

Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth.

Summary: "I'm on my second Natty Bo when I look over at Bill's face and realize what a fucking idiot I am."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Natty Bo

by shell

copyright 2001

We're faced with reporters and fans at the airport—NBC's been advertising the interview, which is going to air on Primetime Live rather than Russert's usual cable show, and I guess people have been watching for when we were going to leave. Bill just ignores them all, walks with his Billy Tallent Punk Attitude, even while he's pushing my wheelchair, and the crowds part like the Red Sea. This time we get the NBC limo and Lear Jet. Once we finally land in Baltimore, where it's already dark, my mom's waiting for us.

She's not the only one—there's a whole crowd of well-wishers and Jenifur fans.

There are hugs and kisses all around, and before I know it both Olivia and Frankie have climbed into my wheelchair with me, and Bill's pushing all of us out, flashbulbs popping. I almost don't even notice them, because I'm so happy to see everyone, to smell the crisp sea air of home.

Turns out they've planned a bit of a party, so the whole group of us head over to the Waterfront. I'm on my second Natty Bo when I look over at Bill's face and realize what a fucking idiot I am.

Okay, so he only mentioned it once. But I remember now, and I remember reading about it when I did that web search so many months ago. I should have remembered it a hell of a lot sooner.

Bill's an alcoholic.

I put my beer down on the table, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall.

I struggle up onto my crutches, and he comes over right away to help me, and I feel like six kinds of shit. He doesn't really know any of these people, and contrary to his punk image, he's actually fairly shy, and even though he's been sober for years, he's got to be wanting a drink right now.

His face is a little pale, a little strained—someone who didn't know him well might not notice, but I certainly do. And he's smoking.

"Need anything, Tim?" he asks, smiling, but it's not his usual smile.

"Just to get you the fuck out of here," I answer, surprised at the venom in my voice. He's surprised too, not sure what I'm upset about, and I squeeze his hand, try to let him know I'm not mad at him.

"C'mon, let me show you the kitchen," I shout over some raucous laughter, gesturing for him to follow me to the back. Once we've made it past a gauntlet of people toasting my health, some of whom I barely know, we make it into the relative quiet of the kitchen.

"What's wrong?"

"Jesus, Bill, I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot. I never even thought about how you'd feel here," I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I'm fine, Tim. Not a problem, okay?" There's an edge to his voice, but I can't let this go.

"You don't look fine."

"Okay, so it's a little fucking weird—I don't usually spend time in bars anymore—but seriously, I'm fine, all right? It's not a problem. Come on, let's get you back to your party."

"We've been here long enough, I think—let's get going, all right? My mom's probably tired, anyway, and we have to drop her off before we go to the apartment."

"There's nothing wrong with you having a couple beers with your friends, you know," he says angrily. "I haven't had a drink in six years, and I'm not about to start now, just because we're in a fucking bar. I don't need a fucking babysitter."

"Shit, Bill, I know you don't, it's just—fuck," I mutter as Meldrick comes in, carrying my beer, a concerned look on his face.

"You okay, Bayliss? You're looking a little peaked, there—thought I'd come check up on you, bring you some more of Baltimore's finest brew. It's good to have you off that Buddhist kick, back drinking again."

"I'm fine, Meldrick, and I don't need any more beer," I say as civilly as I can, which isn't very. And I certainly don't feel up to a detailed discussion of my spiritual life and choices right now.

"Jesus, Tim, don't get your boxers in a bunch! People were just wondering if you were all right, is all."

"He's fine, Lewis. He was just a little worried about me," Bill says, too calmly. "But I'm fine, too."

"What's he gotta be worried about you for, Boisy? You sick or something?"

"Or something," Bill mutters, then looks at me. "Oh, go ahead, Tim, spread the news."

"Bill, wait—shit." I say as he disappears out the back door.

"What the fuck was that all about, Bayliss? I thought you two lovebirds were all happily ever after. Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise." His voice is just a little too gleeful—I know he wants me to be happy, but he's still uncomfortable with my bisexuality, probably always will be.

I glare at Meldrick until he shuts up. "He's an alcoholic. Something which I conveniently forgot about."

His face falls. "Oops. Sorry, Tim—I guess we weren't thinking about that when we set up this here shindig. You want me to go get him?"

"No, I'll go. Just—could you get the door for me?" I hate these damn crutches. Yeah, it's better than being stuck in bed, but it's still fucking annoying.

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

Baltimore in January smells and feels strangely familiar. There's a bite to the air, a salt tang, that reminds me of Vancouver. It's nice to feel a chill in the air, even though it's still pretty warm compared to where I grew up.

That's about all that's familiar, though. I'm glad I've met some of Tim's friends and family before, because they're all waiting at the airport, and more at the Waterfront. A whole big fucking crowd of cops, in a bar across the street from the fucking police headquarters. Joe would be spinning in his grave, if he were in his fucking grave.

It's a nice place—kind of cozy, has some atmosphere. Cop bar atmosphere. I've never been in a cop bar before, at least not that I know of. Of course, it's been a long time since I've been in any fucking kind of bar, so it all feels fucked. I'm practically the only one in the place not drinking, and some of them are drinking a lot. Especially a guy named Mike Kellerman, who seems to have a rather touchy relationship with Frank and some of the others.

I sit at one of the tables, near the back, watching Tim with his friends. He's working on a beer, and I can tell he's really enjoying himself. He's enjoying the beer, too, and it strikes me that this is the first time I've seen him like this. He's home, and he's laughing, making expansive gestures, trading stories, totally in his element, and even though Lewis is behind the bar, I get a sudden flash of Tim standing there, as he must have so many times. He may not have any official stake in the place anymore, but it's still his place. The picture of the three of them is still prominently displayed. Jesus, he looks so fucking sexy, so relaxed, so happy.

I watch his throat work as he swallows the rest of his beer, Lewis already pouring him another, and suddenly I can taste it, taste the beer on his lips, and I have to hold myself back from rushing over there and telling Lewis to get me a Natty Bo, which is a fucking stupid name for a beer. Yeah, like Molson Fucking Ice is any better, you fucking cunt.

I distract myself by spending some time chatting with Mary, who is every bit as gracious as Tim described, but soon she and Frank are leaving to take their kids home. So I sit back again, watching the party, watching Tim, starting to wish I were anywhere but here, because all I want to do is drink a beer with him. I tell myself that's all I want, just one beer, but I know it wouldn't stop there. So I light another cigarette, hoping that will satisfy me, knowing it probably won't. But shit, this is Tim's party, and I'll be damned if I'm going to do anything to fuck it up. Just sit tight, Billy—you can handle one fucking night in a bar.

I realize Tim's getting up, so I go over to help him. He's pissed off about something, pulls me into the kitchen.

Shit. Where the fuck does he get off, telling me I don't look fine? I mean it when I tell him I don't need a fucking babysitter.

Then Lewis comes in, and that's just the last fucking straw. I'm about to go ballistic, so I do the smart thing and head out the back door.

It's nice out there—right on the water—but I'm feeling like a total fuck-up. It's Tim's first time home in a couple years, folks are happy to see him, and I have a fucking hissy fit and walk out the door. Idiot.

I hear the door open and look up. Tim's making his way over to the piling. I scoot over to give him room to sit down, but neither one of us says anything for a moment—he just takes my hand. Eventually I give it a squeeze, tell him I'm sorry.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Bill—I'm the one who fucked up here," he starts, and I get pissed off all over again.

"Wait just a fucking minute, Tim. You did not fuck up. You didn't know this party was going to happen, did you?"

"Well, no, not exactly—"

"No, you didn't. You went along with a party that some people who obviously care about you planned. A party which happened in an old hang-out, one you've spent a lot of time in over the years, right? You were relaxing, having a good time with your friends. You forgot, for a little while, that there's a reason we didn't have any champagne on New Year's Eve. Not a problem. That's not a fuck-up, Tim. And I was fine, really. It wasn't a problem."

"You looked—Bill, seriously, I looked over at you, and you didn't look fine. Not totally. And I know that look. I was a bartender here for seven years, and a cop for a lot longer than that. I've seen that look before, on some faces I knew pretty well, and I know what it means. Don't lie to me, Bill."

Jesus christ. I am so fucking angry that I'm clenching my fists, almost ready to hit him. But then I think about what he's saying, realize I know that look as well—saw it on Joe's face often enough.

"Yeah. Okay, Tim, you're right. It wasn't totally fine. Not totally. But I swear to you, I wasn't going to drink."

"I didn't think you were going to drink, Bill—and I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. But I could tell you were thinking about it, and I didn't think it was fair that you had to be there, especially with me sitting there drinking a beer right in front of you."

"Why do you always have to be so fucking perceptive, Detective Man," I mutter under my breath. Fuck it.

"All right, I admit it. When I saw you drinking that stupid fucking beer, it looked really good to me. I didn't really care what everyone else was drinking, but knowing I'd be able to kiss you and taste that beer, that sounded fucking great. You looked great drinking it—relaxed, happy, sexy as hell, and it made me remember how that first buzz feels, before you get really drunk, and I wanted to feel that with you. So yeah. I wanted a fucking beer. But I didn't get one, okay?"

He just nods at me, like all he wanted was me to admit it. Well, I fucking admitted it.

"So what now?" I ask.

"Well, for one thing, I'm not going to drink any more beer," he says calmly. "Or anything else alcoholic."

"Fuck that, Tim, that's not buddies. Just because I'm a drunk doesn't mean you can't enjoy some beer—that's not fair!" Even as I'm saying I realize how stupid I sound. But it doesn't stop me from saying it, and it hits some sort of nerve in Tim, because he just goes off on me.

"Fuck fair, Bill! It's not fair to you if I drink, and I don't care if you don't like it, I'm not going to drink any more. I gave it up when I became a Buddhist, and I gave it up again when I was undercover, and it's not any big fucking deal to me if I give it up again. It is a big fucking deal to you, and you are a big fucking deal to me, so just lay off the bullshit! Because you're not going to win this one, all right? I don't fucking care if you think it's fair or not, so shut up about it already!"

He's grabbed my shoulders, and he's shaking me, hard. We're nose to nose, and he's yelling, louder than I've ever heard him yell. Jesus. I knew he had a temper—I just never really saw it before. I'm kind of staring at him, and suddenly he lets go, sits back, looks scared.

"Don't you get it, Bill? You're more important than anything else. Beer—well, I like it, I won't lie to you about that. You, I love."

"Yeah, I get it, Tim. Fuck, I'd better fucking get it. No wonder you and Frank got so many confessions!"

I only mean it as a little joke, something to lessen the tension, but that backfires big time, because now he's looking at me with this terrified expression, like he thinks he committed some fucking cardinal sin by yelling at me. Which is really about as far from the truth as you can get, since the only reason he was yelling is because he cares so fucking much.

Joe knew I'd quit drinking, but he sure as shit didn't do anything to make it easier for me to stay quit. I still managed, up until the Jenifur deal fell through and I practically dove off the wagon, but it was fucking torture hanging out with him while he went through bottles and bottles, not to mention the coke he was sneaking behind my back, while I tried to stick to coffee and ginger ale.

Joe yelled at me a lot, but there was a totally different kind of anger behind it. It was familiar, and it meant he cared, in his own fucked up way, but it was still bitter, bent on causing pain. Tim's anger, while no less real, is cleaner.

"I'm sorry," he starts to say, but I shake my head.

"No need, Tim. Communication, remember? No holding back? That's all you were doing. And you were right to do it. You needed to shake some sense into me, so you did."

He doesn't seem to know how to answer that—just looks at me, still full of that special brand of self-hatred he seems to have down so well. I look into his eyes, stroke his cheek, try to let him know that it's okay.

"Hey, guys, what's going on?" Kay Howard says—didn't even realize she'd come out.

"Just needed to get a little air," I answer, since Tim doesn't seem to be up for talking. "It's nice out here, reminds me of home."

"Nice? Bill, I hate to tell you this, but it's freezing out here, hmm? And neither one of you has a coat. Why don't you boys come back inside, huh? Folks are getting ready to go, and they want to say their goodbyes."

"Sure, Kay—I'll bring him right in," I say, standing up and grabbing the crutches. I help him up and start to hand the crutches over, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.

"I, uh, I know I smell like beer," he mumbles sheepishly, "but would a hug be okay?"

As if that's ever going to be a problem. I put the crutches down, pull him into my arms, kiss the side of his neck. He does smell like beer, but he mainly smells like Tim, and I don't give a fuck about the beer anymore.

"I hate getting angry at you," he tells me. "I really, really hate it."

I take his face between my hands, get eye to eye again.

"Yeah, well, you'll have to get over that, Tim. Remember, I'm not going anywhere, even though you piss me off sometimes. I plan on pissing you off, too, for years to come. Those years with Frank? Those were just practice. He's got nothing on Billy Fucking Tallent when it comes to pissing people off."

That surprises a chuckle out of him, and he squeezes tight for a minute. I squeeze back, enjoying his scent and the warmth of his body, and then I help him back inside.

Lewis must have said something to someone, because some people are getting ready to leave, and even Kellerman's stopped drinking, although by the looks of him he'll be starting up again as soon as he gets home. People are easy about it, though—no one's acting like they have to treat me with kid gloves or anything. There's a lot of teasing, actually, joking about Tim's former flames, asking if we're going to go to eat at the Zodiac and see my competition, shit like that.

The banter reminds me of nights in the van, the kind of in-jokes you only develop after years of close contact with people, the kind of talk Joe, Pipe, John and I shared, even when we'd been apart for years. The kind of short-hand people have who've worked together for years in the same high-stress job. I'm a little jealous—Tim and I have our own shorthand, but he's got a bond with his fellow murder police that I'll never share.

There's some talk of heading across the street to the squadroom, but I jump in and nix that idea. I know Tim has no intention of ever setting foot there again, and that's fine by me, so I make excuses for both of us. I see relief in Virginia's eyes, too—probably for different reasons, but she doesn't want him over there any more than I do.

Virginia tries to persuade us to stay with her, but by this point we're both really wanting some peace and quiet, so after we get her home, I hop behind the wheel and Tim directs me back to Fells Point. He struggles going up the stairs, but he makes it—he's gotten a lot stronger just in the past few days. The apartment is immaculate—Virginia's been in, obviously, cleaning things up. It's an older building, lots of exposed brick and character. The apartment's small, just a one-bedroom, but comfortable.

Tim seems a little weirded out, which makes sense. A lot has happened since he was living here, after all.

"You okay?" I ask him.

"Are you ever going to stop asking me that?" His tone is annoyed, but he's smiling at me.

"Not planning on it, no. You ask me often enough. You going to answer me?"

"It's just a little strange, being here," he says. "In some ways I feel like I never left, but in other ways—in other ways I don't even know the guy who lived here anymore." He sits down on the couch, a bewildered expression on his face. "I was off fly-fishing when Gee got shot, and after the whole thing was over, I got out of here again as fast as I could. Being here, now, I can remember how desperate I felt, how completely alone, how I couldn't stand being in my own skin anymore. But at the same time, I can't imagine how I felt, because my life is so different now, so much better, that it feels like it's totally new, that I never was that person at all. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, Tim, it does, kind of." He hears the hesitation in my voice.

"You're worried about me again."

"A little."

"Don't be. I told you, it's different now. I'm happy now, Bill—you know that. I'm not alone anymore."

"No, you're not alone. But you're not a totally different person, either, and sometimes things catch up to you when you least expect it."

"Jeez, sometimes you're as bad as Frank."

"Tim, there's a lot of shit that happened, and some of that's got to be haunting you, at least a little. Don't pretend it's not there, okay?"

"As if you'd ever let me. Yeah, yeah, talking, no holding back, I know. But haven't we done enough serious shit for one night? Because I'd really like to sleep soon. In my own bed. With my own Hollywood Rock Star."

His voice starts out high, kind of whiny, in petulant Tim mode, but it drops at least an octave or two by the end. It gets rougher, too, and I realize it's been a hell of a long time since we made love this morning. Too long. Hours and hours.

"Where'd you pack the toothbrush?"

He looks confused for a minute, but then he chuckles.

"If I know my mom, there are two new ones waiting in the bathroom."

Sure enough, there are. Brushing teeth leads to a pleasant but short interlude in the shower, which is quite a bit smaller than mine, not that either one of us really minds. Then there's a rather longer interlude on the bed, which is freshly made up, also courtesy of Virginia. I wonder if Tim realizes his mom's got us figured out.

Tim falls asleep right away, as usual. Not me. Shit, it's not even midnight in California. I give Chelle and Kat a quick call, talk about some upcoming dates, and then I wander around Tim's apartment, looking through his books, cds, and videos, some of which surprise me. Not that I ever thought he was dumb, but I never expected he'd be into Delaney, E. M. Forster, and LeGuin. Then there's the fact that The Joy of Gay Sex is cheek by jowl with Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. No pun intended.

The videos are a bit more what I expected—lots of action, science fiction, and an entire set of Looney Tunes. That's my Tim. Maybe I should get him some Wallace and Gromit.

I sit down on the couch with Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, figuring with a title like that, it can't be too obscure. It's tough going, but it's interesting, and I kind of get into it after awhile.

I'm not sure what time it is when I hear something and look up—it's still dark out, but it's getting just a little lighter to the east. Then I recognize what I'm hearing—Tim's having a nightmare again—so I go back into the bedroom.

"Tim, hey, wake up, it's okay."

He starts, looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes, his breathing harsh. Then he grabs onto me, pulls me down onto the bed. He's shaking all over, maybe crying, too, so I wrap my arms around him and hold on. His hands are clenched so tightly, digging into my shoulders; I can feel his fingernails cutting into my skin. Jesus. I've been through Tim's nightmares before, but this is worse. This is even worse than the one he had about Ryland in the hospital.

"It's okay, Tim, I'm here," I murmur to him, willing it to be true, to be okay. Because it doesn't feel like he's okay at all. Finally he's able to loosen his grip a little, slow his breathing down, and start talking. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, just a lot of nos and pleases that send chills down my spine. Then he goes kind of limp and quiet in my arms.

"Tim, Tim, talk to me," I say. "Tell me."

"Stay with me," he manages.

"Always, not going anywhere."

"Don't leave me."

"Not going anywhere, Tim. I'm right here."

"Fuck. FUCK."

"Talk to me, Tim. What was it?"

"Bodies." Jesus.

"Whose bodies?" I ask softly.

"First, it was the alley, it was Adena's body, and next to it was Janelle Parson's, and those twin boys, and then there were more, every murdered child I've ever seen. And then I looked down the alley, and there were more bodies, Bill."

"Whose bodies?" I ask again, even though I really don't want to know.

"Susanna, and Elizabeth, and Cassie. And Gordon, and Danny, and Eli. O-Olivia and Frankie. F-Frank, and Mary. And then—there were more, and I didn't want to look, but the ME was waiting, and I had to secure the crime scene, this was gonna be a huge redball, and so I kept going down the alley, and—" His voice chokes off.

"I'm here, Tim. Tell me."

"Sarah. And Ruthie. And you—you were next to them, with Billie. And it was raining, the rain drops falling into your open eyes, just like Adena's, oh fuck, Bill!"

All I can do is just keep holding onto him, reassuring him that I'm here, that the girls are safe, he'll see them in a couple days, we can call them later, it's okay, Tim. I'm here. Eventually we both fall into an exhausted sleep, Tim still clutching me for dear life, me holding him just as tightly.

He has the same nightmare the next night.

END

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