Empty Nest

Disclaimer: Bill & Tim aren't mine. Ruth and Mickey and Sarah are. I make no money from this.

Classification: Slash, crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo), series (part of Going Under universe)

Notes: This piece is set three years before Protective Isolation. It started out as back-story for Surprise Visit. Yes, I went to Oberlin.

Beta thanks to Kit and Ardent.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Ruth's leaving for college.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Empty Nest

by shell

Copyright 2003

It'll be weird having the house to ourselves. It was hard enough when Sarah went off to school, but that was six years ago, and Ruth's been at home all that time. When Billie went to university, things didn't really change much—yeah, she wasn't spending the entire summer here any more, but she hadn't been doing that since she hit high school. And it was easier getting up to see her in Toronto than it was in Regina.

But this, this is different. I remember how strange it was when first Tim, then Ruth and Sarah, moved in, but it's been ten years, ten years since Tim, anyway; nine since Ruth and Sarah. Jesus fuck it's gone by quickly. "I have fucking empty nest syndrome," I tell him, "and she's not even gone yet," and he laughs, but then he pulls me close.

Neither one of us is actually there to take Ruth to school, which sucks, but she insists that she's perfectly capable of flying cross-country, as long as we get there as soon as we can. So I finish producing an album for this new band out of Vancouver, as a favor for Festus (I can't believe I'm doing a favor for that fucker, but the band's good), and Tim's off to a benefit in New York and then a parole hearing for another one of Eisen's thugs, something that's happening more and more often these days. We'll be meeting up in Chicago so we can fly to Cleveland together, because we're both putzes, and because it's been nearly two weeks since we've seen each other.

I was home last week, at least—helped Ruth get ready for school, decide what to pack, that sort of thing. Virginia came and stayed with her the few days between when I left for Vancouver and she left for Oberlin. It's not like she couldn't have stayed there alone, but it's a big house, and it's pretty isolated, and the fact is, she hates being there alone.

It's not just there where she likes people around; she's hellbent on having a roommate when she could have had a single. That was Tim's plan, anyway—put her in a single, because he's convinced that some nutcase is going to come after the family again, any time now, and somehow Ruth was going to be safer without a roommate.

Which never made much sense to me, but I'm not the one in charge of security—that's his gig, always has been. Tim was so fucking focused on keeping her physically safe, though, that he was missing the toll it was going to take on her mentally and emotionally, being alone for the first time in her life. I'm glad she finally talked to him, because otherwise I would have had to.

We both know she still has nightmares, but maybe he doesn't realize how bad they get. He only sees her when she wakes up early and joins him meditating, not when she comes out into the living room at 2 am and has to sit with me for an hour or more before she can go back to sleep. And the dreams are worse when he's not around—but then again, his are worse when I'm not around, so that's par for the fucking course.

Shit, he's been distracted lately—his leg's been worse, and the docs are divided on what to do about it (Rob Wilson thinks it's time for a knee replacement, but Scott Taggert wants to wait). Then there's the fact that several of your more hard-core Eisenites are coming up for parole—which is why he's obsessed with keeping the kids safe. So Ruth and I, we're cutting him some slack.

And, you know, I've been a bit distracted lately too—a few months ago Deeja fell off the wagon yet again; she's back in rehab now, supposed to be out in a few days, hopefully in time for the concert scheduled for Ruthie's orientation week. Every time it happens—this is the fourth stint she's spent in rehab—I get the shakes, and then I get grateful. Because while I still have to do the one day at a time shit, I've been sober for fifteen years, if you don't count that stupid fucking coffee Deeja gave me a few years back.

I've been sober for fifteen years, and I've been with Tim for ten—every once in awhile it hits me, how completely fucking amazing that is. Usually I remember at times like this, when we're separated, when I don't see his face every morning and every night—it's easier to forget, in our day to day life, just how fucking lucky I am. When he's gone, or I am, it gives me time to realize what my life might be like if I'd never met him. It's not that it would have been bad—I'd still have Billie, who's out of university now, and the band—but I'd probably still be living alone in that stupid Beverly Hills house, maybe fucking the occasional groupie on the road, or letting some guy in a bar suck my dick, but more likely just sticking to eating corn chips and masturbating, not even realizing what I was missing.

So, you know, maybe it's good, being away from him sometimes, even if I sleep like shit, even if he sleeps like shit, even if our youngest kid has nightmares. Because it makes it even better when I see him again.

My flight gets into Chicago a couple hours ahead of Tim's, so I'm stuck hanging out in the stupid Admiral's Club, full of business types who are (mostly) too polite to come up and ask for an autograph. I read a couple magazines and listen to a few demos Festus foisted on me, none of which have any redeeming qualities whatsoever, and wait impatiently. Maybe it's good to be apart sometimes, but two weeks is just too fucking long.

By the time I see him struggling down the hallway, I'm wound tighter than a fucking drum, but then he's there, the smile not masking the weariness in his eyes, and we move off to the side, get out of the way of the crowd, and I've got my face in his neck, wishing he'd had time to change out of the coat and tie he had to wear for the hearing, because if he were wearing a t-shirt I'd have better access. I feel his lips on my temple, his arms around me just as tight as mine around him, and we both sigh, then share a brief, dry, suitable for public consumption kiss, when all we both want to do is find a comfortable horizontal surface and get reconnected as quickly and deeply as possible.

I pull back a little, reluctantly, and he lays his hand along my cheek and murmurs, "Fuck, I've missed you, Bill."

"Yeah," I answer hoarsely. "Me too." I kiss him again, short but sweet. "I wish we had time for a hotel, but our flight leaves in forty-five minutes; they'll be boarding soon, and it's at the other end of the terminal."

"Hey, too bad it's not a private jet, huh?" His smile is more open now. "I can't believe, after all this time, we still haven't joined the mile-high club."

I laugh and move to his right side, arm around his waist, his around my shoulder; he moves his cane to his left side, and we walk slowly towards our departure gate. "How's your leg?"

He shrugs. "No worse than usual."

"Don't fucking lie to me, Timothy."

"I'm not fucking lying, William. My leg hurts. It doesn't hurt any more than it usually does when I've been sitting in courtrooms and on planes and away from the pool and away from you. All right?"

"All right."

"Good. Come on, we've got a plane to catch."

Once we're airborne for the short flight, Tim calls Ruth to let her know we're on our way. He talks to her for a minute, then says something about Ruth playing the Hard Cores for someone named Mickey, who I gather is her roommate, and hands the phone off to me.

"Hey, Nature Girl, what's this I hear about you playing Hard Core Logo for your new roommate?"

"Hey, Bill! Yeah, I was playing some when she got here, and she didn't immediately turn around and leave, so I think she's gonna be pretty cool."

"Please tell me it was the compilation album."

"No, Son of a Bitch."

"Ruthie, what the fuck were you playing that shit for?"

"That's not buddies. As I've told you countless times, I like that EP, so shut the fuck up."

"And as I've told you countless times, we were stoned out of our minds when we recorded that—couldn't you have picked an album where I don't sound like shit?"

"Get the fuck over it, Rock Star. I promise to play her some Jenifur later, all right?"

"It's too late—she's already gonna have an image of me from 1978—I was only seventeen when I made that record, so you make sure you tell her that."

"Yeah yeah yeah. When's your flight land?"

"Uh, about twenty minutes, if we're on time. Then we gotta rent a car and drive out there, so I guess expect us in an hour or two, depending on if your father actually got directions."

"That's not buddies," Tim says. "Of course I got directions."

"Drive carefully," Ruth says cheerfully. "And give him a big kiss for me."

"Now? We're in a public place, Ruthie. The flight attendants are watching us like fucking hawks—you know how suspicious your father looks. He's wearing a suit and tie, for fuck's sake."

"Like that ever stopped you before—you know you want to," she teases.

"When you're right, you're right," I concede, looking at his hand on the armrest.

"See you soon. Love you both."

"Love you too, kiddo. Bye." I hang up the skyphone and turn to Tim. "I have instructions from Ruth to kiss you now, despite what anyone around us might think."

"Well, then, you'd better do as she says—I don't want you to get into trouble."

He leans toward me, cups the back of my head lightly, and proceeds to give me one of those kisses that starts with just gentle contact, soft and tender, but then the tip of his tongue is stealing out to caress my lips, and my hand's in his hair, and then my tongue's deep in his mouth, and he breaks off the kiss with a reluctant groan, because we are not going to go squeeze into the first class john. That's just the way to fuck his knee up even more, and trust me, it's not worth it, or we would have done it a long time ago, on one of a thousand flights.

"Think we should check in at the hotel first, before we go to the dorm?" I say when I'm reasonably sure I have my voice under control.

"I'm not exactly dressed in Oberlin style," he acknowledges. "You know, I thought retiring from police work meant I wouldn't have to wear ties anymore."

"At least you've got some decent suits now—no more of that cheap off the rack shit you were wearing when I met you. And I like the idea of getting you out of those clothes."

"Yeah, I thought you might. The thing is, we have to make it quick, so we can get over to her dorm room and help out."

"I hate to break this to you, Tim, but she doesn't need our help."

"No, huh?"

I shake my head. "Which doesn't mean she won't send out a search party if we take too long to get over there. But, you know, no problem. I can do quick." I give him a look, and he gives me a look, and then we both laugh.

"Hey, have you heard from Sarah lately?" he asks, playing with my ring.

"Not since last weekend."

"I haven't either. I hope she's doing okay."

"So we'll call her tonight from the hotel, late. She's probably so busy she forgot to call."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Soon enough we're landing in Cleveland; fortunately there are no problems with getting our luggage or our rental car, Tim's directions are clear and legible, and the traffic's not bad, even with the construction around the airport. Seems like every time I've flown into Cleveland, there's been construction around the airport, so that's no surprise.

It's a quick trip once we get past the construction, though, through flat suburbia and very flat farmland, everything green and lush. The town is smaller than I thought, but pretty enough, the streets crowded with students and parents, most of them looking a lot like the bohemian types who frequent Beaver Street back home, except with more of a New York vibe. We get a few curious stares, but no one seems to take much notice as we check in. I carry our bags in, open the door, and then we're finally alone.

We both spend a couple minutes unpacking a few things, deliberately not looking at each other, not touching, and then I unbutton my shirt, my back to him still, and I can hear the brush of fabric as he takes off his tie, the muted hiss as he unzips, and I'm frozen, my shirt open, the button on my fly popped, my dick hard already, before he's even touched me. Then his hands are on me, gently easing my shirt off my shoulders, caressing my chest, moving lower to free my erection, the warmth of his chest against my back, his lips on my neck, his tongue tasting behind my ear, fingers opening my fly and pushing down my briefs, his thumb running over the head, spreading the slickness, making me groan. I turn slowly and bring his hand to my mouth, placing a kiss in the palm as I back toward the bed.

I promised him quick, but he gives it to me slow, sweet and tender and oh so slow, kissing his way down my back and shoulders, then turning me over and doing the same to my chest, my belly, my hips, paying careful attention to my tattoo, outlining every centimeter, getting reacquainted. And he's got us on our sides, now, fingers lightly caressing, then probing, and then he's easing his way inside me, so gently, so slowly; fuck, he's got me gasping, begging wordlessly, and then he finally reaches around the front of me and starts stroking, starts thrusting hard, and he's letting loose those little grunts that never fail to take me higher; sometimes I think I could come just listening to him, but that's kind of moot at this point, because I'm already coming, all over his hand, and a minute later he joins me, shooting into me with another, longer, deeper grunt.

He collapses on top of me for a minute, until he remembers I need to breathe, at which point he rolls off, pulls me into his arms, and tells me he loves me, which I fucking never get tired of hearing, so it's all good. We're both ready for a nap at this point, but we settle for just lying there for a few minutes.

We grab a quick shower, throw on some clothes, and head down College Street (I can't believe I'm in a small town in Ohio heading for a dorm room on fucking College Street, but there you go). Tim's moving a little better after his favorite form of physical therapy (and my shoulder feels pretty good as well), but I still give him an incredulous look when he says he's going to take the stairs to Ruth's third floor room. I try to persuade him the elevator would work fine, but he just shakes his head and starts climbing, or what passes for climbing for him—it's really more of a very slow hobble. It kind of reminds me of video I've seen of climbers struggling to make it up the last piece before summitting Everest. Dealing with Tim and his leg is always about negotiation, though, and I figure this time it's better to let him be an idiot, so I cut past him on the stairs and keep going.

I hear laughter as I approach room 314, so I guess things are still going well with the roommate. I get a surprise when I go through the door, though, because there are three people in the room, and two of them call my house home, which is one more than expected.

"Sarah, what the fuck are you doing here?" I ask before giving her a hug and a kiss. She holds on for a minute; I guess she's been missing us as much as we've been missing her. Since she got that new job we've barely seen her—she's working seven days a week, living in Boston, busting her ass to prove herself as a chef.

"Surprising you; what do you think?" she tells me, smiling.

"Consider me happily surprised, then," I answer, hugging Ruth. "So you knew about this?" She nods, gives me a big kiss, and gestures at the third girl in the room, who looks a little shell-shocked.

"Hey, you must be Mickey," I say, shaking her hand. She's just a little taller than Sarah, fine-boned, with auburn hair and big brown eyes. She nods shyly. "I'm Bill, and I understand Ruth here has already subjected you to the worst record I ever made, so I guess if you're still here, you're practically a member of the family already." She smiles at that.

"Speaking of which, where's Dad?" Ruth asks, looking a little concerned.

"You know your father, kiddo. Doesn't matter it's the third floor and he's hurting from the plane ride—he insisted on taking the stairs, like the stubborn fuck he is. He should be here by next week, I figure."

"Fuck that, Rock Star. That's not buddies," Tim announces from out in the hallway. Ruth runs out and tackles him, barely giving him time to brace himself with his cane.

"It's about time you got here, Detective. I think I've got the answer to a mystery here. Ruthie's been keeping secrets from us."

"It's a good secret, Dad; don't worry." She gets under his right shoulder and supports his journey into the room, and as soon as he sees Mouse, his grin gets even bigger—Tim can smile like no one else. Sarah hugs him fiercely, and he holds onto her for a minute, murmuring something in her ear that earns him a kiss on the cheek.

When she lets him go, he comes over and gives me a quick, happy peck on the lips. I catch Mickey in a curious stare, and she gives me an embarrassed, apologetic shrug, then smiles at me, so I guess she's not too upset. Maybe Ruthie hasn't yet explained about being what she likes to call "the poster child for alternative families."

The poster child introduces Tim to Mickey; he shakes her hand and solemnly thanks her for agreeing to room with Ruth, which gets them all laughing.

Tim gives me shit about it, but I insist on getting him settled on Ruth's bed, resting his leg, a pillow under his knee. The girls back me up, so he has no choice. Sarah and I squeeze in next to him, and Ruth grabs a second chair from Mickey's half of the room so they can both sit facing us.

"Hey, where's your zafu?" Tim asks her, like he expects her to sit on it now. Freak.

"Oh, I left that at home," she answers. He looks dismayed. "Jesus, you're easy, Dad—it's under the bed, all right? I've already checked, and there's a Zen group, Soto and Rinzai, mixed, that meets over at Asia House. They have a sit tomorrow morning, actually, if you want to come with me."

"Yeah, that sounds great."

"Uh, at the risk of sounding like an ignoramus, what are you talking about?" Mickey asks, and that leads to a detailed and enthusiastic discussion of spiritual beliefs, one I mostly stay out of. Tim and Ruth talk Mickey into joining them the next morning; Sarah and I are noncommittal. She and I do sit on occasion; the occasion's grown more frequent for me over the years, but I've never joined Tim's sangha, although I've attended with him a few times.

A little while into that and I remember what I left in the car and excuse myself, tell 'em I'll be back in a few minutes. Sarah comes along with me.

"So, you ready for tonight?" she asks as we walk down the stairs. The Bayliss Sisters are performing at the Cat and the Cream Coffeehouse tonight, with special guest TBA.

"Hey, tonight's you and Ruthie. I'm just the rhythm section, there for moral support."

"Yeah, sure," she says, grinning at me. "Whatever you say. Is Deeja going to be okay for tomorrow? She's out of rehab, right?"

"Yeah, she's out, and she's flying in tomorrow morning. Kat and Chelle got a later flight, but Deej wanted some time to show Ruth her favorite haunts."

"You talk to her at all?"

"Yesterday. She sounded good. Serious, committed, and sober."

"I sure hope she stays that way."

"Me too, kiddo."

"So what are we getting from the car?"

"The Strat—figured I'd make it official and give it to Ruth, seeing as she's the only one who plays it."

"I always wondered why you had it, since you never played it yourself. Was it something to do with Joe?"

I look at her.

"What?" she says, annoyed.

"You're your father's daughter, aren't you? Miss Perceptive Chef Woman."

She smirks knowingly. "So tell me already."

"Last tour, Bucky Haight gave me a '59 Strat. I played it that night, and Joe smashed it to fucking pieces. And then he shot himself. I bought Ruthie's Strat the next spring, but it never felt right—I'd fiddle with it, tune it and retune it, fiddle with it some more, but it never sounded good to me until Ruth started playing it."

"I don't think she ever realized. She'll be thrilled, Bill." She punches me in the arm with a grin.

"Yeah, well, like I said, I'm just making it official. So what are you and she going to play?"

We spend the rest of the walk talking over the set list; Sarah carries my acoustic for me, while I handle the Strat. Miss Mighty Mouse has an idea for an encore that might just kill me. It'll kill Tim, too, so I tell her I'll think about it.

The talk has turned to majors when we get back, and I'm interested in hearing what Ruth's saying today—her interests change every week—so Sarah and I stick the guitars behind the door and sit down again.

Ruthie's thinking a double major, sociology and anthropology, so she can "do research on why people are so fucked up," to which Tim replies, "Sure you don't want to do something simpler, like maybe theoretical physics?" She teases him that at least she's not going into law enforcement, and he defends his brothers and sisters in blue, and then we get into what exactly neuroscience is, because that's what Mickey's thinking about, but it turns out not even she's quite sure what she'd be studying.

I wait for a lull in the conversation, then grab the guitar case and hand it to Ruth.

"Happy university, Ruthie."

"What the fuck—Bill, I already have a great guitar—oh my god." I think her hands might actually be shaking as she takes it out of the case, and I flash back to the morning on Bucky's farm. "Bill, I can't take this. It's yours, and I know how much it means to you."

"It's yours now, kiddo. It's not like I don't have plenty of others."

"But this is different; this is your Strat," she protests.

"And you're the only one who's played it for years. I've been thinking of it as yours since you started playing it, what, eight or nine years ago?" She puts the guitar back in the case and hugs me.

"Thanks, Bill. It's great," she murmurs, then kisses my cheek.

"You're welcome. Just don't play it tonight, okay? I think the acoustic's a little better suited to the coffeehouse crowd."

"No problem," she replies, giving me another kiss, grinning big, just like her father.

"Speaking of tonight, we need to get something to eat before the show, and I bet places are going to be crowded. We were going to check out that pizza place Deej recommended, right? Should we get going?" Sarah asks.

"Sounds good to me," Tim says. "Mickey, I hope you'll join us—unless you had other plans?"

"No, I didn't have plans," she answers, smiling, and I wonder for a minute where her parents are. The five of us head to Lorenzo's, where we wait 40 minutes for a table. The pizza's every bit as good as Deeja promised, though, so it's worth the wait.

The gig at the Cat and the Cream goes fine, for the most part. I do my parental job and remain in the background through the first two sets, but Ruth and Sarah both insist they want me to take center stage for the last one. By this time word has gotten out about who the Special Guest TBA is. The room is packed, with Tim and Mickey sitting at a table in front, right where they belong. I do a couple Jenifur pieces, including "Adena's Song," and then Sarah sings "Blue Tattoo" and "China White." There's some fucker in the audience who keeps requesting "Something's Gonna Die," but eventually I get him to shut the fuck up.

Then Ruthie and Sarah gang up on me and beg, and I agree to their idea of an encore. I dedicate the song to Tim, and he figures out something's up from our expressions, but once we start into our speed metal acoustic punk version of Neil Diamond's classic love song, "Play Me," he just starts howling with laughter. We only make it through the song once, despite our plan to do it twice, before we're laughing too hard to keep going.

I stumble off the stage and into Tim's arms, kissing him thoroughly in front of all and sundry. It's Oberlin—no one's going to give a fuck we're both men, although all these college kids are probably a little shocked to see people their parents' ages making out like horny teenagers. Sarah and Ruth are used to it, though, so they don't spare us a second glance. I catch Mickey staring, and apologize for embarrassing her, but she just smiles and says we make a great family.

We take our own sweet time making our way back to the hotel, and not just because Tim's hurting from taking the stairs at the dorm. It's a beautiful night, and a beautiful campus, even if it's flat as a pancake. At least that's easier on Tim than the trails at home, what with his leg and his arthritis and his back. And after he climbed those stupid fucking stairs, he needs easy.

He's still fucking beautiful, even now we're in our fifties. That just hits me, the way it does sometimes. The lines on his forehead and between those crystal clear eyes have deepened, his hair's thinner and gone half grey, and he's got a little pot belly going on, but his smile is the same as always, and the mere thought of his hands on my body still gets me hard. He glances down at me with a sly grin that Sarah tactfully ignores. Shit, another minute of kissing him in that coffeehouse and they would have had to hose us down, never mind our interlude this afternoon.

"Would you two quit making moon-eyes at each other and tell me what you think of Nature Girl's roommate the Neuron? Jesus, you're worse than a couple high school kids, you know that?" Okay, so she wasn't ignoring it.

"You love it," I tell her. Tim smiles at her.

"Oh, get a room already," she says affectionately. "I'm going to go check out the nightlife in this pissant little town. I hear there are a couple bistros that aren't totally awful. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Mouse," I say, Tim echoing me. She's already ten yards ahead of us when she yells goodnight back.

"You've been entirely too much of an influence on my daughter, Mr. Hollywood Rock Star," Tim proclaims.

"You know it," I laugh. "Tattoos, cursing, general disrespect for authority, nonconformity—no, you had absolutely nothing to do with any of that. Except for the general disrespect for authority, and oh, yeah, the cursing, and let's not forget the nonconformity, Mr. Zen Detective—"

"I am a retired FBI agent and former police officer. I respect authority when it deserves respect. Oh, look, we're at the hotel. Let's go to bed and fuck like—well, what do you want to fuck like tonight? Bunnies? Monkeys? Rabbits? Elephants?"

"Fucking elephants? I don't think so, Timothy. Nah, I'll settle for fucking like two horny teenagers who haven't seen each other in weeks—how's that sound?"

"Perfect."

Once we're inside, the blinds drawn, he pulls me to him for a long, deep kiss, hands working under my t-shirt while mine work on his fly. After ten years, we've got this dance down, knowing just when to separate to get the next item of clothing off, moving slowly but surely towards the bed.

Yeah, we know the routine, have done this so many times, in so many ways, in countless hotel rooms, even more in our own bed, but it never fails. There's more of a wait if we want a second go around, sure, but neither one of us gives a fuck about that. Kissing Tim, that never pales. Tasting the sweat on his neck, running my hands up and down his back and chest, knowing every inch of his skin better than I know my own body, hearing him gasp and moan and grunt, feeling the heat of him close around me as I slide into him, into home, and feeling his muscles clench around me as he comes, fuck, that just keeps getting sweeter. Hearing him whisper he loves me before drifting off to sleep in my arms, that still blows me away as much as it did the first time he told me.

If you'd asked me nine years ago, when we got married, if it was possible to love anyone more than I loved him, I would have laughed in your face. But it is possible, because I love him more now, love him more every day, even when I'm fucking pissed at his stubborn ass, even when he's whining about me going on tour, or when we argue about some issue like whether I should finally just bite the bullet and apply for citizenship, leave the fucking green card behind forever.

And he feels the same way about me, which is still fucking amazing, too. So, like every night we're together, I watch him sleeping for awhile, make sure he's not having any nightmares. I know when I wake up in the morning he'll be watching me, and we'll make love again.

THE END

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