The Owl Protects Our House

Disclaimers: They're not mine.

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

Spoilers: Post-movie, post-movie. Rent or buy Hard Core Logo if you haven't seen it yet, okay? You won't be sorry, I promise. And Homicide's still on Court TV every weeknight, so watch it.

Beta thanks to Beth & Gemini, who read very early versions of this, and to CatMoran.

This is part 4 of Married With Children, after Rehearsal.

Summary: "Something's going to go wrong; all of a sudden I'm sure of it."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

The Owl Protects Our House

by shell

copyright 2002

The night before, I make my way through the mountains and into the trees. I stop about two miles from the house and spend the rest of the night in prayer.

My brothers failed, despite months of planning. They bribed an FBI agent, but they still failed. At least there are two fewer perverts in the world, even if the bomb got the wrong ones.

I decided to fulfill my destiny alone. I was chosen for this task, and only I could carry it out. I've known how to shoot since I was a child, thanks to my brother Joseph. I explored the area around Church Canyon many times, spying on Timothy when he went running in the mornings, before he betrayed us. I knew Timothy, knew his routine, the way he thought. In the past few months, I spent just as much time getting familiar with the land Timothy's lover bought, with the patrol routes the police took.

I used my connections to get a rifle, ammunition, and a place to practice. I managed to get a message to my Holy Father, but I didn't share the details of my plan with my brothers. They wouldn't believe I could do it; they tolerate me only because of my name and reputation. That will change.

God has been with me all along. I was upset, I'll admit, when my brothers in Flagstaff dismissed me as useless. I tried to force my way into their meetings, but they moved the time and the place. Idiots. Once they thought I'd told them everything I knew, they threw me out. "This is no place for a female," I was told.

My Holy Father knew my value. If I die completing my task, he will greet me with open arms in Heaven.

My social worker and parole officer remain convinced that I am a meek, hard-working child. It is so easy to fool them. Just like my brothers in the church, they see only what they want to see. The FBI, the Flagstaff Police, Timothy, his lover, my sister-wives, they've all relaxed. They believe they've caught everyone involved in the bombing, and they're right, thanks to the FBI turncoat. But my brothers, the men who dismissed me so easily, would never mention me, and Stefanski never even knew of my existence. It still won't be easy finding my way closer, close enough to do my holy work, but I will. God is with me.

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It's the day before the wedding, and Tim's driving me fucking nuts, and not in the good way. Don't get me wrong—tomorrow's going to be wonderful, fucking amazing, a great day. I love him so much it fucking hurts, and I'm planning to tell everyone all about it in about 22 hours, but I don't know if any of us are going to survive until then, because Detective Angst is in the house, with fucking bells on.

He's obsessing about everything, even more than usual. He's worried about the caterer making it past the security checkpoints, and then five seconds later he's worrying about whether we've got enough security. He won't let me into the closet, because his tux is hanging there, and he doesn't want me to see it, the fucking goof.

I try to talk to him about the plans for our trip up to Canada, something I'm more nervous about than I'm willing to admit, but he's too distracted by the weather report, worrying it's going to rain or even snow. I try to help him by reminding him that Gloria's got all the details worked out, but he says she's not getting married, we are, and I can't very well argue with that.

Finally I pull him into the bedroom, away from Gloria, his mom, the girls, fucking television, the guy from the Flagstaff police, and the phone. I shut the door and push him onto the bed.

"Bill, it's not that I don't appreciate this, but my mother's right outside," he laughs.

"What exactly do you think is going on here, Tim?" I ask, sitting down next to him, refraining from ripping his clothes off, because it really isn't the best time. Besides, we've got two weeks away from all interruptions coming up, so I should be able to control myself for one day.

"You mean you didn't bring me in here for nefarious purposes?"

"Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute, and I thought I'd have a better chance if I got you away from some of the distractions out there." He looks disappointed, so I relent long enough to give him a long, slow kiss, my fingers deep in his hair. That's almost enough to distract me, but I manage to cut it short before I finish unbuttoning his shirt.

"You've got my full attention," he says softly, caressing my face.

"I love you, Tim."

"Love you, too, Bill, so much."

"It's been fucking crazy around here, these last few months, getting ready for this thing, you know?"

"I know," he sighs, then pulls me close enough for another kiss. "I know I've been hard to live with lately, and I'm sorry. I just want everything to be perfect, especially now, after what happened. Jesus, between moving here, and the rehearsal, Gordon and Danny dying, Eli—we haven't exactly had a chance to settle in, start living a normal fucking life, you know? And I just want this thing to go right. It's important to me. You're important to me."

I put my arm around his shoulder, and he leans into me. "I talked to Eli yesterday. He missed San Francisco, said he's glad to be back. Still a little thrown by everything that happened, but he seems to be getting along pretty well with his foster family. He apologized for missing the wedding, but I told him we understood, that school's more important."

"I'm just relieved he's not in the studio anymore."

"You and me both, Secret Agent Man. Talk about a fucking recipe for disaster—I just hope Sarah lets up a little now that he's in another state." I take his hand. "You haven't been hard to live with."

"Liar."

"Not that hard. Hasn't been easy for any of us, but I wouldn't trade it for anything; you know that."

"Neither would I."

"I guess I'd better give this back to you for now," I tell him, taking the ring off my right ring finger and handing it to him. He looks puzzled for a second, then smiles when he understands, pulling his own ring off and handing it to me. It's warm, and big enough for my index finger, so that's where I put it, remembering the ring I used to wear there. After Joe died, I stopped wearing it, stopped wearing my other rings, my bracelet. Never wanted to wear anything like that again, until Tim gave me the ring he's stuck on his pinky, the one he'll put on my finger tomorrow, the one I'll never take off again.

"You sure about the trip?" he asks.

"Yeah, I am," I answer, meeting his eyes.

"Because we could go somewhere else."

"No, it'll be good. You've never seen anything like the mountains up there, Tim—they make these look like fucking speed bumps."

"And Vancouver?"

"It's a great city. Not nearly as many murders as in Bawlmer." That gets me another smile.

"You sure you're all right bunking in the studio tonight?"

"Beyond thinking it's fucking stupid?" I tease. "You're not a fucking bride, Timmy, and neither am I. I know you didn't want me to see what you're wearing—please tell me it's not a white dress."

"I promise it's not a dress. And I know it's stupid—all right, all right, it's really fucking stupid—humor me?"

"I'm not going to get any sleep, not without you there."

"Neither will I, but I don't think I'd sleep much in any case."

"No, me neither. Jesus, Tim, we're getting married tomorrow," I say incredulously.

"Any cold feet?"

"Fuck no. I mean, it's fucking strange—never thought I'd get married, you know? Or if I did, I figured it'd be some sort of weird Sid and Nancy shit on my way to self-destruction, not anything like this."

"Not to a man?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say, but yeah, I suppose." I look at him. "Does it bother you sometimes? I know things were different for you, growing up—you always figured you'd find some woman, settle down, have some kids, like your cousin, right?"

"It's what I always thought I wanted, but what I've got now, with you, it's better. I did find someone, settle down, have some kids. And I did it after I'd given up ever finding someone. Now, for tomorrow, I just want all the trappings that are supposed to go with it. I want my family to be your family. I want everyone to know, to acknowledge, what we have. I want to celebrate it. That's why I asked you—so we could celebrate it."

"And that's exactly what we're going to do. Think you can relax enough to let yourself enjoy it?"

"I know a way you could get me to relax." He takes my hand, lays it on the front of his pants. Then he puts his fingers on me, and it feels good—fuck, it feels great—and I lean in to kiss him again, but then Virginia knocks on the door, and we break apart, smiling ruefully.

Later that night, after we get the kids in bed, he walks me out to the studio. I stop at the door, and I can see he's thinking about following me inside, but I hold up a hand to forestall that thought.

"Let's wait," I say, surprising myself. He smiles, a quick flash of teeth in the moonlight, and then I feel his mouth on mine, just for a couple seconds, before he gives me a hug and sends me on my way. I watch him cross the meadow, moving slowly, careful of the ruts, waving to the cop on duty for the night, opening the door, and walking into the house we built together, our house.

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I can't believe how nervous I am. I'm dressed and ready—Frank has fussed over my tie about six times, but he's finally satisfied. The girls look beautiful—Sarah in green, Ruth in purple, Billie in blue. The three of them keep running back and forth between me and Bill, laughing and teasing.

I have no sign of cold feet; when I think about marrying Bill, I start smiling. But there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind, something I can't quite put my finger on. Everything's gone so smoothly for the past few weeks, despite grieving for Danny and Gordon. There's something that won't let me trust it.

Something's going to go wrong; all of a sudden I'm sure of it. I look out the window at the mountains and try to shake it off. The bomb that killed Danny and Gordon left my family alive and exposed the conspiracy behind it—I should feel safe.

It's a perfect day—sunny and bright. Of course, that's the way it is most days, but it's still a relief that we're not facing one of the storms that sometimes power their way through the mountains. It's still relatively warm, too; despite the late date, the snow hasn't hit yet. Frank's got Bill's ring, I've got my vows memorized, got my mom hovering over me and various friends and relatives stopping by to wish me luck. Kat is glowing, just like they say pregnant women should, wearing a form-fitting dress that highlights her growing belly. Chelle's glowing, too, every time she looks at Kat. She comes up to me, gives me a hug, and hands me something.

"Bill wanted me to give you this. He said since you're so into the ritual and tradition, he figured you'd want something old, blue, borrowed, all that shit. So this is something old, for you to borrow."

It's the key ring I gave him for Christmas. I open it and see that he's added something to the inscription: October 15, 2003, WB to TB, until we're 104. He's changed the pictures, too—there's one of the two of us in front of the creek, before we started building; one of Sarah and Ruth; and one of Bill, Sarah, Ruth, and Billie on the couch. I leaf through them slowly, treasuring each image.

"Tell him—tell him thanks, that I love him, would you, Chelle? And give him this." She takes the box from me and looks at me curiously.

"What is it?"

"It's a Zuni fetish bowl. Be careful, it's fragile."

"Okay," she says dubiously, then kisses my cheek with a smile and leaves the room. Frank comes back in, resplendent in his tux.

"C'mon, it's almost time. You ready?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready. Is everybody doing all right? Any problems?"

"Everyone's fine, Tim. No one's tried to get in except a couple reporters, and we got rid of them, no problem."

"Doesn't that seem a little weird to you, that there's not anyone protesting? We haven't had any death threats, or bomb threats, or anything. Doesn't that make you nervous?"

"No, it doesn't make me nervous. Just relax, bunk—all the humps are locked up. Besides, no one in their right mind would try anything today—every other guest at this thing is a cop."

"Have you got your gun?"

"My gun? I turned in my Glock with my badge, Tim. Never had one of my own."

I go to the safe, get out both guns, hand one to Frank. "Here." I holster the other on my belt, hoping the tux jacket will cover it, because Bill's not going to be too happy about it being there.

"Are you out of your damned mind?"

I look into those dark eyes of his and tell him seriously, "Look, I have a bad feeling, and I would feel better if someone else who was going to be standing up there in front, someone besides me, was carrying. Just in case."

"Tim, I haven't—you know I can't shoot worth a damn, and nothing's gonna happen—why are you doing this?"

"Because I want Bill to be safe. On the chance that someone tries something, they'll go for me first. I know it sounds crazy, but it's important to me, all right?"

"You really think something's going to happen?"

"I don't know, Frank. Like I said, I have a feeling. It's probably nothing, but right now I can't shake it. So will you do this for me?"

"Fine, fine, I'll carry the damned gun." I can tell he's just humoring me, but that's all right.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now come on, let's head outside, get this circus act on the road."

I'm ready and waiting in time to see Bill walk my mom down the aisle and get her seated. He catches my eye as Billie, Sarah, and Ruth make their way down to the front. He looks amazing—his tux fits him perfectly, and the blue and silver vest brings out the sparkle in his eyes. Frank and John stand to either side of him, the girls spread out next to them, and they all look wonderful, but he's the only thing I see as I slowly make my way down the aisle.

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Everything's going fucking great. Tim looks even better than he usually does; he's got a dignity about him, one that he wears well. His words to me are full of love, commitment, passion. He puts the ring on my finger, and I start to tell him, tell everyone, just a tiny fucking portion of everything he means to me. John hands me the ring, and I'm about to put it on his finger, when I hear Frank yell at Tim to get down.

He does, immediately, but I'm standing there like a dink until Tim pulls me down next to him. It's as he's pulling me down that I finally get with the fucking program and realize there's someone shooting at us, and fuck, my arm is burning, especially where I just banged it against the ground. Tim's on top of me, and I have a flashback of Church Canyon, but this time he's the one who's yelling, yelling at Frank to get down and to help me, and that's when I realize my arm is burning because it's got a fucking hole in it, just a little south of the shoulder. Not a big hole, I guess, but it still hurts like a motherfucker, especially when Frank yanks my jacket off and wraps it around my arm.

I just sort of lay back and let all the cop types do their thing. Tim's made sure Frank's taking care of me, so he takes care of the shooter, once he gets a clear shot. It's just like he is on the shooting range—he gets an incredible look of concentration on his face, squeezes off a couple rounds, and then someone falls out of a tree, one that's further away than I realized. Once that's done, he turns back to me, and I realize I'm still holding the ring. I choke back a strangled laugh. Fuck, even that hurts.

I think it's been about sixty seconds since Frank yelled at Tim.

"Bill, jesus, are you okay? Frank, he's not bleeding too much, is he? Has anyone called a fucking ambulance yet? We need an ambulance here, now! Where's Dr. Taggert, and Marilyn? We need some help over here, dammit!" There are tears in his eyes, and I reach up to stroke them away.

"Tim, it's not that bad. Just need someone to bandage it up, that's all, and then we can finish the ceremony."

He leans down, puts his forehead against mine, and enfolds me in those long arms of his. I grab on and hold him just as tight, even though my shoulder is killing me. Yeah, I'm the one who got shot, but he's the one she was aiming for.

We stay like that until Marilyn and one of the state troopers come up to look at my arm—Dr. Taggert and the other nurses are busy with people who need them a fuckload more than I do, not that I care to think about that right now. They put a bandage around it and tell me I need to get to the ER. Tim's ready to practically carry me over to the ambulance, fucking bum leg and all, but I tell him to hold on.

"Listen, Marilyn—can we just put off this trip for just a minute? Go ahead and have the ambulance take the others in; you can come back for me. We've got a wedding to finish here."

I expect Tim to protest, to insist that I get to the hospital right this second, but he doesn't. He looks at me for a few seconds, then nods. He tries to help me up, almost losing his balance, but by then I've made it up on my own. He grimaces a little, without even realizing it, I think, and leans heavily on his cane, turning to face the wedding guests, scattered all over the meadow.

"Can I have your attention, please?" he says loudly. "Everyone?" And fuck if people don't start gathering round again. The FBI agents and Arizona troopers are loading up the injured into ambulances—it looks like everyone's still alive, although Fred Bartlett's one of the ones who got shot. The guests look a little shell-shocked, especially the civilians, but they take their seats when Tim gestures to them, and the Unitarian minister stands in front of us again, and I put the ring on his finger. The minister says a few things, I don't even know or care what, and then Tim kisses me, I kiss him, long and deep and sweet, and our friends and relatives start applauding.

"I love you," I tell him.

"I love you," he answers. "Now, let's get you to town, get you fixed up, so we can come back here for the reception."

"Tim—who was that?"

His eyes darken. "Jessica Eisen."

"That fucking bitch who outed you to the elders?" It's a good thing they've already got her in the ambulance. That way I can't beat the shit out of her, which is what I really want to do. Or maybe throw some fucking stones at her, see how she likes that.

"Shit, Bill, I never even thought—I should have realized she'd come after me. I knew she hated me, and I knew she was a fanatic, but I never thought she'd do something like this. I let myself forget about her, and I never should have done that." He's beating himself up about this—big fucking surprise—so I put aside my need to hurt the bitch and get back to what's important.

"Doesn't matter, Tim. It's over, we're okay, and we just got married. Let the rest of it go." He nods a little doubtfully, probably realizing I'm trying to convince myself as much as him, kisses me again, and leads me over to a trooper's car for the trip into town.

"Frank, Gloria over there is in charge of the reception. Can you help out, make sure everyone knows we're okay, we'll be back soon, and this is still a celebration?"

"I'll do that," Frank answers. John comes over, takes his jacket off, and hands it to me.

"I think you're going to need this," he says, gesturing vaguely at the blood stained jacket wrapped around my arm.

"Thanks, Johnny." He smiles that sweet Oxenburger smile and gives my good shoulder a squeeze.

Tim opens the car door for me, then reaches over and embraces Frank before joining me in the back seat.

"Thank you, Frank. For everything. You saved our lives, you know."

Frank waves off the thanks with embarrassment. "Go on, bunk, get him to the hospital. We'll see you when you get back."

Fortunately Flagstaff Medical Center's ER isn't very crowded. They've already taken Bartlett, the trooper, and psycho bitch to surgery. Some of the staff recognize us, and we explain what happened. Along with stitches and pain killers, I get oohed and ahhed over more than I have since Kat and Chelle came to Phoenix the first time, and both of us get a fuckload of congratulations. It only takes a couple hours and a dozen promises to call and let them know how we're doing before we're on our way back to the reception. As we leave the hospital, I get the opportunity to thank Tim for his wedding gift.

"It's great, Tim—but what the fuck is it?"

"It's a Zuni fetish bowl."

"Okay. What the fuck is a Zuni fetish bowl?" He goes into Earnest Tim mode, and I smile. I win.

"Well, the animals around the outside are fetish animals—they each have a certain significance. The owl protects our house, the beaver is the builder of family and home, the snake represents rebirth, and the turtle brings longevity. The bowl is their home, and the cornmeal inside is to feed them."

"Home, family, rebirth, longevity. That's good. Thank you."

"You're welcome. How's the arm?"

"It's fine, doesn't even hurt anymore." I'm lying, and he knows it, but it's all right.

"So you'll be up for some dancing?"

"It's my fucking wedding day, isn't it?"

And then he leans over and kisses me hard, pulling me close, and I feel him shaking a little. I know why—shit, I remember how I felt when I saw him in that hospital bed, when I knew he was alive and was going to survive. And we both felt it just a few weeks ago, sitting in back of another fucking patrol car. So I kiss him back just as hard, hold him just as close, even though it makes my arm hurt like a motherfucker. Then I break off and look into those clear eyes, stroke his face, remind him again that I'm not going anywhere.

The reception's certainly going strong when we get back. They serve dinner pretty quickly after we get there, and then there are the toasts—from Frank, from Johnny, and a long, rambling, fucking hilarious one from Munch, and then more from Virginia, Nancy, Lewis, Kat, Chelle, and others. There's a short toast from Deeja, out of rehab just a couple weeks, and doing pretty well. Tim vetoed the idea of serving any alcohol, but people seem to be having a pretty good time anyway.

Hours later, things are starting to wind down a little, and I'm sitting with Ruth and Billie, who are pretending they're not about to fall asleep, when I feel a tap on the top of my head. It's Nancy.

"Care to dance with your sister-in-law?" she asks.

"Sure, Nance. Just let me say goodnight to Ruth and Billie first. Don't give me that look, lovebug—it's way past your bedtime. Ruthie, you've been yawning the past fifteen minutes; don't think I didn't see—go on, your grandma will tuck you in, and Tim and I will peek in on you before we go to bed."

"Am I supposed to call Virginia grandma, Dad?"

"Only if you want to, sweetie. I love you, and I love you; sleep well, sleep well, and the two of you say goodnight to Tim before you go with Virginia—he's right over there."

"Night, Dad. Love you lots and lots."

"Night, Bill. I'm glad you married my dad."

"Me too, Nature Girl. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, and go to bed already," I tell them with hugs and kisses. Miss Mighty Mouse sees what's up and heads over for some more hugging, being careful of my arm. "Sarah, make sure they get to bed—I'm going to dance with your Aunt Nancy now."

I watch fondly as Sarah ushers the younger girls over to Tim for another round of hugs and kisses.

"They're great kids, Bill," Nancy says. "Billie's got your eyes and your smile."

"Funny thing is, Ruthie's the image of Tim, even though there's no biology behind it. I think she's going to be tall, too."

"We Bayliss kids definitely got the tall gene," she replies, smiling down on me from three inch heels. "You and my brother make a pretty striking couple, you know," she adds.

"You Bayliss kids have a way of making anyone look good. If Steve were here with you, Tim and I would have some serious fucking competition. But we'd still win," I add with a smirk.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Boisy," she says with a mock curtsey. "Now, would you kindly accompany me to the dance floor, since my husband's halfway across the country and yours is too stubborn to admit his leg's bothering him?"

"My husband," I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief. "Jesus, I am so fucking lucky."

"From what I can see, so is my brother. There haven't been many times in his life when he's been happy, and none of them compare to now. Thank you, Bill, for everything you've done for him. Thank you for bringing Timmy back out of that damned black hole he fell into after he got shot."

Her voice is shaky by the end of this little speech, and I pull her close with my good arm and kiss her cheek. "He pulled me out, too, you know. Billie, she started it, but Tim brought me the rest of the way. Your brother's an incredible man."

"He loves you so much. I'd warn you not to ever hurt him, but I don't have to, do I? Because you love him just as much."

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Congratulations, and welcome to the family, Bill."

"Thanks, Nancy. It's—I've never—it's good to be part of the family."

She looks over my shoulder with a smile, and a second later I feel Tim behind me, leaning on my good shoulder. "I'm tired," he says playfully. "Exhausted, really. Aren't you tired, Bill? It's been a long day, and I didn't sleep well last night. I think we should get to bed, don't you?"

"Now that you mention it, I am pretty worn out," I answer, turning to face him. "You think anyone would mind if we headed inside, Nancy?" She laughs as I bury my face in his neck, his arms around me. I have to admit I don't even hear her response, because as soon as I've gotten my lips on his skin, I don't give a flying fuck about anything except getting him naked in our bed, now. I get my free hand on his ass and give him a nudge, and sure enough that's no gun in his pants, and he's very happy to see me.

Neither one of us is paying much attention by now, but I think they applaud us again as we head out of the tent and up to the house. Tim's whispering in my ear that we've got a two week honeymoon that starts right now, and he plans to spend it sleeping and fucking, not necessarily in that order, and it's too bad he can't move any quicker, because the sooner he gets me into the house, the sooner he can start taking my clothes off and checking every inch of me to make sure I don't have any other injuries.

"And just how were you planning on checking for injuries?" I ask huskily.

"Oh, I figured I'd look you over carefully, first, and then, well, I might have to touch you, you know, to make sure I didn't miss anything. And to be extra thorough, I think I might have to use something more sensitive than just my fingers, especially if you're feeling sore, or maybe just a little stiff."

"I'm definitely stiff, detective, and getting stiffer by the minute." The party's behind us, so I grab his hand and let him feel just how stiff I am. He groans as his hand and fingers map me gently through trousers and boxers, jesus, I want him so fucking badly. "Shit," I mutter. "Promised the girls we'd check on them before we went to bed."

"And I told them it was our wedding night and we'd see them in the morning," Tim answers, squeezing my dick before releasing it to open the front door. "Sarah promised me they'd stay up in their rooms, and my mom's sleeping in Ruth's with her. It's my wedding night, the only one I ever plan on having, and I'm not waiting any longer to get you into bed."

"Did you get much sleep last night?" I ask him. "Because I sure as fuck didn't, not without you there."

"Slept like shit," he confirms agreeably. "Come on, we're nearly there." We struggle the rest of the way down the hall—between my arm and his leg, neither one of us is moving very quickly. He pauses for a second at the doorway.

"Tim, if you make some sort of comment about wanting to carry me over the fucking threshold, I'll fucking kill you."

He laughs, gesturing for me to proceed him through the doorway. As soon as we're inside, he shuts the door and starts kissing me, making a pretty thorough exploration of my mouth with his tongue, and what was stiff a minute ago is so hard I'm about to come in my pants. I try to shrug off my jacket and unfasten the stupid fucking sling they forced on me at the hospital, only to be forcibly reminded of why they gave it to me. "Fuck," I mutter, grimacing in pain, and Tim's there, his fingers on my lips.

"Shhh, let me," he says, gently unfastening it, leading me to the bed and sitting down next to me. You'd think that a bullet in the fucking bicep (no broken bones, just a fucking flesh wound, nothing compared to what Tim's been through, and more than once) wouldn't affect your ability to use the rest of your arm, but you'd be wrong. Fucking gimp, that's me.

"Interesting look you've got going there." Tim interrupts my pity party, gesturing at the tattered remains of my left sleeve.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and have to laugh. "It was either let them cut the sleeve off, or go to my wedding reception in a scrub shirt," I explain. "Besides, I didn't want to mess with the tie—it took forever to get it on straight."

"On anyone else, it would look stupid, but on you it just looks hot."

"Whatever you say, Tim. But why'd you stop? I liked where we were going there."

He smiles, pulls my tie off, starts on the braces, then the buttons. He eases my vest and shirts off carefully, running his fingers lightly along the outside of the bandage, frowning at the bruising all around it. Then he leans his forehead against mine and takes a deep breath. I wrap my good arm around him and ignore the pain enough to stroke his face with my other hand, unsurprised at the dampness at the corner of his eye.

"I'm right here," I tell him. "Not going anywhere, remember? And I'm sure by now we've earned at least a few weeks without anyone trying to kill us."

"Shit, I sure hope so." He buries his face in my neck for a few seconds, then lifts his head and meets my eyes. "Just promise me something, all right? The next time someone shouts 'get down,' hit the fucking dirt already."

"I don't suppose you'd listen if I told you he said, 'get down, Tim,' not 'get down, Bill,' or even 'get down, everyone.'"

"You're right, I wouldn't listen. Jesus, Bill—" I make him look at me.

"I'm okay, Tim. No one died, not even that fucking bitch who shot at us. Bartlett and the others are going to be fine, and you and I managed to get married. We won; she lost. Now come on, get that fucking sexy tuxedo off—you promised me we'd be naked in this bed, and I'm sick and tired of waiting."

That works well enough to get him out of his little funk, and he gets his own vest and shirts off in short order before running his fingers gently over my chest and shoulders, urging me to sit forward so he can do the same to my back. Then he tenderly divests me of socks, trousers, and silk boxers, turning away for a minute to finish undressing himself. The two of us pull the covers back, and he returns to his careful scrutiny for a minute before giving up and leaning in to kiss me.

"I don't want to hurt your arm," he says. "How do you want me?"

"That's a stupid fucking question," I answer, reaching up to stroke his face again. "Any fucking way I can get you. Seriously, Detective Angst, I'll be fine like this." He grabs a pillow and makes me promise to keep my arm there and let him know if it's bothering me, and then he finally rests his whole body on mine and starts kissing me again, deeply, passionately, matching the thrusts of his tongue with the rest of his body, at last, jesus fuck that's so fucking good. Between building the house, planning the wedding, everything that's happened in the past few months, and dealing with frightened kids interrupting us with nightmares, we've had even less privacy lately than we did in California. When you add the fact that we didn't even sleep together last night, well, let's just say it doesn't take much time before the feel of his cock against mine pushes me over the edge with a moan. He lasts all of thirty seconds longer than I do, but that's just fine with both of us, thank you very fucking much. There'll be plenty of time for long and slow, not to mention hard and deep, in the next two weeks, two months—fuck, the rest of our lives.

No, tonight's all about re-establishing the connection. It may have been short, it might not have required any lube or flexibility, but it was fucking sweet and hot and full of love. Pretty fucking good for a wedding night, if you ask me.

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The day after the wedding, I screw up my courage and look up Tim's number in my wife's address book. Virginia called yesterday to let me know what happened, so I know they're still at home. I wait until noon to call, but the voice that answers is still gruff with sleep.

"Hello?"

"Tim, is that you? Sorry I woke you."

"Hold on a minute," the voice answers. The man who answered, Bill, I guess it must be (who else would it be, you idiot), mumbles something, and then I hear Tim's voice, much more awake, asking who it is.

"It's me," I answer.

"Jim, how are you? I've been wanting to call and thank you for the tickets."

"You're welcome. Listen, I'm sorry we couldn't make it for the wedding—what with the kids' schedules and all, it just didn't work out." The truth was, I still couldn't accept the fact that my cousin was gay—I'm getting there, but I'm not ready to attend some sort of commitment ceremony.

"It's all right. I understand what it's like having teenagers, and I know it was short notice." I don't know if he actually believes that, but it's nice for him to maintain the fiction that he does.

"I was wondering—I mean, I know you'll be coming home to visit in the spring, but I was wondering what your plans were for next month. Because Shannon and I would really like it if you could spend Thanksgiving with us. All of you."

Silence. Shit, he's still pissed at me for what I said a few years ago. Not that I blame him.

"Uh, it's not that I don't appreciate the invitation, but I think we already had some pretty concrete plans," he answers finally. "Let me check with Bill, though; he's been organizing it all."

"I'm sorry, Teej, I should have realized. Look, let's just forget Thanksgiving; what are you doing for Christmas?" Christ, I sound desperate. Tim sounds a little flat when he answers me, and I wonder if I'm missing something. What if they were having a fight, or even worse, about to have sex? That's not a thought I want to be having. Maybe it's just because I didn't come to the wedding. Maybe it's because some psycho shot at him yesterday, at his wedding.

"Uh, hold on, let me see if I can get the rock star to get his ass in gear and tell me what the plans are," Tim says, and then I hear "that's not buddies" mumbled in the background. No, what was I thinking—Bill was obviously asleep. It's three hours earlier there, and they got married last night (Tim married another man last night)—of course he was asleep. Probably worn out from fucking my cousin.

The conversation that follows is only slightly muffled; I can hear both sides without straining.

"What are the plans for Phoenix?" Tim asks, a little nervously. I can't put a finger on what it is in his tone of voice, but there's definitely something major going on.

"Uh, go down there, play the benefit, eat with the 3-11 shift. Why? Jim invited you for Thanksgiving?"

"Invited us, Bill. All of us."

"What do you think?" I can't be sure, but Bill's voice sounds studied in its calmness, like he's trying to keep Tim from flipping out. There's some rustling, a thump, and then Tim's back on the phone.

"Jim, can we call you back? I've got to—shit—" and he must drop the phone on the bed, because the next thing I hear is Bill calling, "wait, Tim, come on," then, distinctly and with feeling, "Fuck."

A second later Bill picks up the phone. "Sorry about that," he says quietly, and I can hear the worry in his voice. What the hell is going on?

"No, look, I'm the one who should apologize, calling you on your vacation." I can't manage to call it a honeymoon, not out loud. "Waking you up, springing this on you out of the blue—I should've realized you'd already have plans."

There's a slight pause before he answers me, this time in a careful, measured tone. "Let me ask you something, Jim. How often did you see your Uncle George when you were a kid?"

What? "What does that have to do with—" I start, then stop in growing horror. There's still a part of me that wants to forget what was done to Tim as a child, forget I ever saw him tell the world about it during the Russert interview, but that's not exactly fair. Because Tim's never going to be able to forget it.

"Holidays," I say heavily, feeling utterly stupid.

"The first time that sick fuck molested him was Thanksgiving, when he was five. Didn't they usually have Thanksgiving at your house, because it was the biggest?"

"Jesus, I'm such a fucking idiot." Five years old. In this house, which used to be my parents'. In my house. Oh, Tim, I'm sorry.

"You didn't know," Bill says softly. "Now you do."

"It's totally obvious! How could I not have known?" The way he always wanted to play in my room instead of watching the game with the rest of us. His attitude at holidays, so different from how he normally acted.

"You didn’t," he reiterates. "Now you do."

"I've fucked it up, haven't I? We're barely speaking again, and I've fucked it up." Something inside me has shifted, something about my attitude towards the musician from Canada I've never even met, the man who is Tim's lover, because he so clearly knows, understands, and loves my cousin, looks out for him, the way I used to look out for him when we were kids. Better than I did, because I clearly didn't look out for him enough.

"Now you are being a stupid fuck. He loves you, you idiot. He thinks of you as a brother, and he's missed you more than you know, these past few years. Yeah, the thought of Thanksgiving in Baltimore scares the shit out of him, but that's nothing new. He didn't always have to work holidays, you know—sometimes he just told you he did, because he couldn't face that house of yours."

"I guess this explains why he always started drinking the minute he walked in the door, those few times he did come. I always thought he was just letting loose, because of his job, the kinds of things he saw."

"That was part of it. Listen, Jim, give him a little time. We spent last November in the hospital, and we both wanted to go back there this year, play a benefit, hang out with the nurses and staff, because they were fucking incredible, helped us both through some really tough fucking shit, and because there aren't—the memories there are different. I don't know about Christmas, though—that's a possibility. Just give me a little time to feel him out on it, okay?"

"Sure. I'd appreciate that. And I appreciate—I mean, it's obvious you really care about him, so thanks, for taking care of him." For taking better care of him than I did.

"It's pretty easy to do—he's a good man."

"Yeah, he is. I'm sorry we couldn't make it for the wedding, really." For the first time, I actually mean it.

"You should have seen his face when we got your gift. He's really looking forward to the game, went on and on about how he's never made it to opening day."

"I had to figure out some way to get him back home for a visit, since I missed him the last time." I send my unspoken thanks for the change of subject.

"That did the trick. We'll be there, don't worry—although I might have some problems convincing Mary to let me take Billie out of school for a baseball game thousands of miles away."

"I look forward to meeting her, and meeting you." And I actually do, for the first time, look forward to meeting Bill Boisy. I'm still freaked out by the thought of Tim with a man, but I guess he's found a good one.

"Likewise. Listen, I'd better let you go—I think Tim's doing some meditating, but I want to check on him, make sure he's all right."

"Sure, of course. And Bill—thanks. For telling me." For loving him.

"You're welcome. We'll give you a call back, let you know about Christmas."

He hangs up just as Shannon comes up behind me. "What did he say?" she asks eagerly. She and the kids have missed Tim as much as I have, and they've been much more accepting of his new life.

She sees my face, I tell her about the conversation, and she puts her arms around me and starts to cry. And I wonder if I should sell the house, because suddenly I'm not too keen on living here anymore.

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I'm trying to meditate, but I can hear Bill's muffled voice in the other room. The third time I catch myself trying to figure out what he's saying, I give up and head into the bathroom, splash my face. I can't believe I flaked out like that from a simple invitation, an invitation that by all rights should thrill me.

By the time I head into the living room, Bill's off the phone, drinking some coffee. He looks up when I enter the room, then sits down next to me, bringing my hand to his lips.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"I told him I'd talk to you about Christmas."

"What else did you tell him?"

"Asked him how often he used to see his uncle, growing up. He figured the rest out on his own."

"Sorry I left you to deal with it."

"Not a problem. Just want to make sure you're okay."

"How did he react?"

"He was upset, Tim; what do you expect? Said he felt stupid for not realizing it earlier."

"He's not stupid."

"That's what I told him."

He wraps his right arm around me, and I notice he's not using his sling.

"How's the arm?"

"Is that your not so subtle way of changing the fucking subject?"

"That depends—did it work?"

He sighs, then kisses me. "For now."

"How's the arm?"

"Hurts, but it's better than it was last night. We will have to talk about this, you know."

"I know. The docs said you need to keep your arm in the sling for 48 hours at least."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't wearing it while I was sleeping, all right, mom?"

"Where is it? I'll go get it—is it still in the bedroom?"

He sighs, but lets me up with a nod. "When do we have to be at the station?" he calls after me.

"Uh, about an hour. Sorry we had to postpone the flight to Calgary."

"I don't fucking care about that. It's not as though I don't know how to talk with cops—we'll get it over with, then leave tomorrow instead. Kids'll probably appreciate having us around another day anyway."

I head back into the living room and help him refasten the sling. Then he says, "Speaking of the girls, where the fuck are they?"

"They went out to breakfast with my mom and some of the other guests, remember?"

"So we have about forty-five minutes before we have to leave?"

"That's about right. Now that you're awake—"

"Now that I'm awake, I think a shower is in order, don’t you? And I'm going to need some help, what with my arm and all."

And that's how Bill and I end up arriving at the police station fifteen minutes late, with wet hair. Because showering together never seems to save us any time at all.

END

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