Disclaimers: Tim and Bill aren't mine.

Classification: Slash, crossover (HLoTS/HCL). Part 4 of Comfort Food, after Natty Bo.

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie.

Rating: R

Summary: "There are very few people who know what happened to Tim as a kid, all of them in this room, looking at Russert in shock and anger."

Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth!

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Phish Food

by shell

copyright 2001

Tim holds his own with Russert. He's in a suit and tie, first time I've seen him that way in a year, almost—the day we met. Clean-shaven, hair neat, glasses on—he's very impressive, even if he is wearing sweats instead of regular pants. You can't tell, anyway, because he's behind a desk, his leg stretched out and barely fitting underneath. Russert is friendly, personable, trying to put us at ease, but there's an intensity there as well. You can tell he's holding back a little in deference to his cousin.

I don't say much. As far as I'm concerned, Tim's the story here—the job he did in Church Canyon, the people he saved, the lives he's touched in his years as a cop, the plans he has for the Watson Fund. I sit next to him and watch him shine. Fuck, he's beautiful.

Later, when we watch a tape of the interview at the house, I realize they had a camera trained on me the whole time. So even though I barely say a word, I'm on camera a lot—looking like the total putz I am, watching Tim with naked love and devotion, there for all to see. Shit, it's not like I could have done anything different.

Russert sees it too, which explains one of the questions he asks me. Could I describe the nature of our relationship, my ass. I glance at Tim for confirmation, but we've already talked about it, so he just nods.

"Frankly, Mr. Russert, the nature of our relationship is nobody's business but ours," I say. "But we're not going to hide anything, either. So, for the record, yes, we're a couple. We love each other. And that's as much as I'm going to say about it."

In the tape, the camera zooms in on Tim's face, smiling that gorgeous smile. At me. Yeah, it wouldn't have mattered what either one of us said—any shithead could tell just by looking at us.

Russert starts asking about the Fund then, and Tim's off and running, smooth as silk, talking the talk, selling the concept—yet another reason he was such a good detective, I guess. I can tell he's making an impact—all the crew are focused on him, and I can see Sarah, Ruth, Virginia, Frank, and Mary, and Russert's cousin Megan, too, off to the side, just as enthralled as everyone else. Including me, of course. And Russert, too—you can tell he's impressed.

Then he throws a fucking curveball.

"The issue of childhood sexual abuse is clearly very important to you," he says. "Can you tell me a little bit about why that is?"

Maybe he has no idea what he's asking. Maybe he doesn't suspect anything. There are very few people who know what happened to Tim as a kid, all of them in this room, looking at Russert in shock and anger. I'm ready to cut the whole interview off, but Tim catches my eye, gives a little head shake, so I settle for staring at Russert like he eats kittens for breakfast. Fucking asshole. He looks surprised at the venom in my eyes, so I guess maybe he really doesn't know.

It feels like ten minutes go by, but when we watch the tape, I see it's only a few seconds before Tim answers, speaking slowly, choosing his words with care, feeling his way through what he's saying.

"I've seen a lot of abused children. The Adena Watson murder was my first case, and it still burns me up that we never got enough evidence to charge the man who raped, strangled, and stabbed her. There were many other abused children I encountered as a homicide detective, and even more in Church Canyon. They all had a deep and lasting impact on me. I'm haunted by every one of them, wish I could have done something to protect them.

"All of us are affected by stories like Adena's, but some of us understand her story on a deeper level. One out of five women will be sexually abused at some point in their life. The numbers are a bit harder to quantify for men, because we're much less likely to report abuse, but I suspect the percentage is pretty similar."

His beautiful face is filled with pain, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Childhood sexual abuse is no longer as deep and dark a secret as it was when I was growing up, but it's still a taboo subject for many people, especially male survivors. Part of what we're trying to accomplish with the Adena Watson Memorial Fund is education and advocacy, and a big part of that is getting past some of these taboos, so that we can get to the root of the problem."

He takes a breath, looks at me, squeezes my hand under the desk. There's utter silence in the studio as he takes his glasses off, wipes his eyes quickly, and speaks again.

"To answer your question, Mr. Russert, the reason the issue of childhood sexual abuse is so important to me is because it hits very close to home. When I was young, I was sexually abused by an uncle, off and on for six years. If I can help to protect one child from something like that, save him or her from that special form of hell, it will be mean more to me than I can say."

Russert takes a beat, looking sympathetically at Tim, while I try to surreptitiously wipe my own eyes.

"Thank you, Agent Bayliss," Russert says. "We'll be back in a moment, here on Dateline with Tim Bayliss and Billy Tallent."

As soon as they call clear, I reach over and grab Tim's hands.

"Hey there."

"Hey."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Pretty good, actually."

"Fucking amazing is more like it." And I reach up to wipe one more tear away with my thumb, put his glasses back on. "Good thing you've got your industrial strength make-up on."

"You too," he answers, returning the favor.

"Well, I'm a putz."

"My putz."

"Yours and no one else's."

"Good."

I remember where we are and hold off on kissing him. Russert catches my eye, and I realize he's waiting for a chance to say something.

"Agent Bayliss, I sincerely apologize—I had no idea you were a survivor. I should have checked with you before I asked you about that. I'm sorry for putting you on the spot."

"You should be," I mutter, but Tim interrupts.

"No, Bill—it's okay, Mr. Russert. I wasn't expecting it, and no one's more surprised than I am how I answered your question, but I think, I hope, that making it public will help more kids tell someone. So it's all right."

Then we're back on the air.

"Welcome back to Dateline. Agent Bayliss, thank you for your courage in sharing your history as a survivor of abuse. Folks, I want to go on record here to apologize to Agent Bayliss for inadvertently asking him such an invasive question, and to thank both him and Billy Tallent for handling it with grace and dignity. It's been an honor to have you both here."

Russert wraps things up, puts in a plug for the new album that we'll be recording, and puts up the info for donations to the Fund. Then he asks Tim to introduce Sarah and Ruth, which he does with great pride and affection, and then it's finally over and done with.

As soon as the cameras stop rolling, the whole cheering section comes over, half of them still wiping their own eyes. Megan starts to yell at Russert, but Tim stops her, tells her it's okay. One of the execs comes up, asks if we'd consider being on the Tonight Show or Conan, or maybe guest-starring on Will and Grace, which is just so fucking bizarre that I start laughing. They offer to help out with some public service announcements, too, which is a good idea, and I give them Mark's number to make some arrangements. Shit, should probably get Tim his own agent, to help out with all of this. Have to talk to Mark about that.

We head out to dinner, then back to the Bayliss home to watch the tape. Tim is embarrassed by how he comes off, but thinks I did great; I feel exactly the opposite. Hate the way I look on tv. Kat and Chelle call after it airs on the west coast. We get Ruthie off to bed, and then Sarah asks if she can talk to me for a minute.

We go into the kitchen, sit down with some ice cream, Phish Food. Tim's favorite. She's looking at me with a really serious expression on her face, and I'm wondering why she picked me instead of Tim to talk to about whatever's bothering her, especially since it's probably related to what he said in the interview.

"What's up, Sarah?"

She looks at me for a minute, uncertain.

"It's okay, kiddo—just talk to me."

"Did you know?"

"About when Tim was a kid?" She nods. "Yeah, I knew. Didn't know he was going to tell everyone, though. I don't think he did, until he was saying it, you know?"

She nods again. "If I ask you something, will you promise not to tell Tim?"

"I don't know if I can promise that without knowing the question, Sarah. Probably, but if you're going to ask me about something that could get you hurt in some way, I might have to tell him."

She nods again, accepting that. Jesus, she's such a solemn little thing some times. Guess it makes sense, after all she's been through.

"What did you want to ask me?" I say gently.

"What—when he was a kid, with his uncle—is that why he's gay?"

Whatever I was expecting, that's not it. I lean back in my chair, take a second to think how to answer.

"Is that what you think? That he's bisexual because of his uncle?"

"I thought, maybe—I don't know. He's bisexual? So he likes women and men both?"

"Yeah, Sarah. Tim and I—both of us are. We're both bisexual. But we love each other, and neither one of us is planning on being with anyone else, male or female, ever again."

She's turning pink, and I probably am, too, but she screws up her courage and asks another huge question.

"Did—were you—did someone hurt you, too, when you were a kid? Is that why you're bisexual too?"

I think I see where this is going now. I answer her carefully.

"I got hit a lot when I was a kid—didn't have too great a set of parents—but no one hurt me the way Tim's uncle hurt him. I'm bisexual because that's the way I'm wired, I guess. It's the same thing for Tim—it's not because of what happened to him, Sarah."

The relief on her face is unmistakable, but she's got another question for me. This one I'm ready for.

"Do you know about what happened to me?"

"Yes. Tim told me. You were raped. I can't tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that, kiddo, how sorry Tim is that he didn't find some way to keep you safe."

"It wasn't his fault—it would have happened a lot sooner if he hadn't been there."

"It wasn't your fault, either, Sarah. You do know that, don't you?"

"I should have gone home a different way."

"It wasn't your fault, Sarah. Just like it wasn't Tim's fault that his uncle abused him."

She looks up, startled, and she recognizes something in my eyes, I think.

"You're crying," she says, and it's only then I'm conscious of the tear working its way down my cheek. "Why are you crying, Bill? You were crying during the interview, too."

"Yeah, I am, and I was," I say with a sigh. I've cried more in the past year than I have since I was a kid. Funny thing is, I think it's been good for me to let go of that hardass attitude, even if it does make me a putz. "This is—this is tough stuff to talk about, isn't it?"

She nods again.

"Listen, kiddo. I'm going to tell you something, because I think maybe it might help you deal with some of this shit—um, stuff. Okay?"

"Something that happened to you?"

Jesus, she's smart. I nod at her.

"Yeah, something that happened to me, about ten years ago. I had a really good friend, someone I'd known since I was your age, someone I loved, named Joe. But Joe, he was pretty screwed up, and so was I, and we fought a lot, hurt each other pretty badly. And one night, Joe hurt me really badly. Raped me. And for a long time, I thought it was my fault. But it wasn't, Sarah. It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't your fault, what happened to you, and it wasn't Tim's fault, what happened to him. And that didn't make me bisexual, either. Okay?"

"So, I'm—it doesn't mean—what happened to me—"

"What happened to you, Sarah, was a horrible thing. But it wasn't your fault, and it's not going to suddenly make you attracted to people you weren't attracted to before. Is that what you're worried about?"

She nods sheepishly. "Stupid, huh?"

I give her a hug. "No, not stupid, kiddo. Not stupid at all. I'm glad you asked me about this. And if you don't want me to tell Tim about it, I won't, although I think he'd want to know. He worries about you, you know."

"I guess you can tell him. He's really happy with you."

"Someday, Sarah, you'll meet somebody who'll make you as happy as he makes me. I look forward to meeting that person, whoever they turn out to be."

"I kinda like Eli," she blurts out.

"He's a good kid," I answer. "And so are you."

"Thanks. Billie's a good kid, too—you're a good dad."

"Thank you, Sarah. I try to be."

"Tim would be a great dad," she says wistfully.

"Yeah, he would. Listen, you know he'll always be there for you, right? Even if you're not living with him? We both will be, no matter what."

"Yeah, I know that. I just miss him sometimes, you know? And my foster parents, they don't understand—they don't want me spending so much time with you guys. But it's my birthday in a couple days, and I told them this was what I wanted, and they finally said yes."

"It's your birthday? You're going to be fifteen, right? Well, we'll have to do something special. Come on—let's go find Tim and make some plans, okay?"

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I guess it's a good thing my mom and I had that talk the other night. I don't know how I would have responded to Russert if we hadn't, never mind how she might have reacted. Hell, I'm still shocked I actually did it—told a nationwide audience.

I'm not the only one who's shocked, of course. My mom's fielding phone calls from all sorts of family members. She's handling it better than I would have expected—calmly telling folks that yes, it's true, and that she's proud of me for talking about it, for trying to help kids. And yes, she knew that I was together with "that rock star guy." His name is Bill, and he's very sweet, and he's good for Tim, so you can just get off your high horse, Lois.

I sit back and listen to her, wondering who this woman is and what she did with my mother.

She hands me the phone at one point. It's my sister, Nancy.

"Hi, Nance."

"Timmy—why didn't you tell me?" I can tell she's been crying.

"Nancy—he didn't—" My mom looks up at the panic in my voice.

"No, Tim. He never touched me. Jesus, I used to be jealous of how he doted on you, his favorite nephew—I'm so sorry, Timmy."

"It's okay, Nance. Really. Just keep Emily safe, okay?"

"I will, Timmy. I will. She's out with some friends tonight, but she sends her love. When are you going to bring your boyfriend over to meet us? Emily's beside herself—did you know she's been a Jenifur fan for years?"

"That's right, I remember. Well, maybe she can come out for a visit this summer and meet Chelle and Kat. I was thinking we'd stop in Chicago on our way home—would that work for you? We'd be there in a week or so, stay a couple days."

"That would be great. I miss you, big brother."

"I miss you too, sis. Give Ems a big hug and kiss from Uncle Timmy, okay?"

"You bet. I'll see you soon. I love you, Tim."

"Love you too, Nance." I hand the phone back to my mom, who continues to fend off reporters and defend me to relatives.

Bill and Sarah spend quite awhile in the kitchen, talking, and I have to fight my urge to go in there and find out what's going on. But eventually they come out, Bill announcing that the day after tomorrow is Sarah's birthday, and we spend a happy hour planning which museums and monuments and attractions she wants to see in DC. I hope Ruth will agree with some of the selections—we might have to split up for awhile, but that'll be okay. The main problem is going to be getting me around, but at least DC is wheelchair accessible.

Finally we get Sarah off to bed. The three of us sit down on the sofa—thankfully, the phone has stopped ringing—and relax.

"I was awfully proud of you tonight, son," my mom says. "You showed a lot of courage."

"I'm sorry it all came out like that, without any warning—I really didn't know he was going to ask me that, and then I didn't realize what I was going to say until I'd already said it. I know I put you in an awkward position, Mom—thanks for being so great about it."

"You still feel okay about it?" Bill asks.

"Yeah, I do. It's kind of a relief, actually. Hey, what did you and Sarah talk about?"

"About you, among other things. She thinks you'd make a great dad."

"She said that?"

Bill nods. "And she's not very happy in St. George."

"What are you saying, Bill?" my mom asks.

"I guess what I'm saying—Tim, maybe you should look into what it takes to become a foster parent. Or into adoption. Because I know how much you love those girls, and they love you just as much."

I must sit there, speechless, for at least a couple minutes. Why didn't I think of this before?

Finally, my mom touches my arm, and I realize she's been trying to say something.

"What did you say, Mom?"

"I said I agree with Sarah. You'd be a great dad, Tim. I agree with Bill, too—you should look into this."

"We can meet with Alicia when we get back to LA," Bill tells me matter-of-factly. "She doesn't do custody cases, but she can get us started, let us know a little bit about what's required, give us some names." He looks at me. "If that's what you want, Tim. What do you think?"

"Yes," I say finally. "Yes, I want to look into it. It seems like a long-shot—we're in another state, I'm openly bisexual, there's no blood relationship—but it would be amazing, really amazing, and thank you for thinking of it, because it would be really amazing."

"Okay then. I'm going to give Alicia a call—she usually keeps pretty late hours. No sense wasting any time."

"Good. That's good. But let's not say anything to the girls, all right? Not until when, or if, we actually know something."

Bill heads off to call Alicia, and my mom and I sit and talk for awhile longer. He comes back in a few minutes, says he left a message on her voicemail, and Mom gets up.

"Well, it's about time for me to get ready for bed. Is there anything you boys need?"

"No, mom, we're fine. Good night." She comes over and kisses us both goodnight. I don't know if it was my leaving Baltimore, or getting hurt, or just the fact that we finally talked about Uncle George, but she's undergone some sort of sea change, and I like it.

I must have some sort of bemused expression on my face after she leaves, because Bill grins at me and says, "I take it you like the new and improved Virginia Bayliss."

"You could say that," I reply, smiling back at him. Then he tells me about the rest of his talk with Sarah, and I stop smiling.

"I'm glad she asked you about it," I say. "That would have been a tough conversation to have."

He looks at me for a minute, puzzled. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I, uh—I used to think the same thing," I mumble.

"What same thing?" He waits for a second. "What same thing, Tim? You mean—did you think that's why you're bisexual?"

"Not exactly. I mean, I didn't really realize I was bisexual until pretty late in my life—or at least, that's when I finally put a label on it and felt like it was okay. But I used to notice other boys, other men, when I was younger. And I thought it was because of my uncle."

"Well, fuck, Tim, if that's what you thought, no wonder you didn't accept it until you were older. It took some balls to come to terms with that—a lot of people wouldn't have been able to. Shit, it took me ten years with Joe before I acknowledged how hot he made me." He pauses a moment. "Of course, it took me about two fucking seconds to acknowledge how hot you made me, so I guess it's a good thing we met when we did, huh?"

"It took you two whole seconds? Man, it only took half a second for me!"

"Love at first sight?" he asks me, laughing.

"Fuck no—lust at first sight. The love part happened later."

"About twenty-four hours later, for me."

"Really? You knew that soon?"

"I don't know if I knew, exactly, but as you may recall, I was perfectly willing to wait for you, for who knew how long. Not exactly typical Billy Tallent behavior. And I was pretty fucking blown away that night. I never knew it could be like that—and once I knew it could, that was it. There wasn't anything else that would do. Didn't matter how many groupies threw themselves at me—and I assure you, there were plenty, of both sexes—all I wanted was six feet four inches of my own personal Secret Agent Man."

"I don't know if anyone has ever passed up groupie sex for me before."

"You'll be doing it soon enough."

"What—groupies? You've got to be kidding!"

"Just you wait and see. Tim, you do know you're gorgeous, right? And now you're famous to boot, not to mention attached to a multimillionaire. They're gonna be all over you."

"They can try. All I want is six feet of my own personal Hollywood Rock Star."

"That, you can have. Anytime you want."

"I want."

"Good. Let's go."

And we do.

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Once again, no one takes any notice of the fact that I'm in the common room watching the interview with everyone else. Jenifur is a popular band, and I've been pretending to actually like the godless, filthy, so-called music they perform. So I am able to watch closely, hanging on every word.

His obvious play for sympathy has an effect on some of the other prisoners, so I act out a similar shock and dismay. Inside, I am celebrating. He and his lover will be even more in the public eye now, and that will make their deaths even more meaningful. My Holy Father's message will make the headlines.

END

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