Punks, a Mouse, and Hedwig

Disclaimers: Bill Boisy and Tim Bayliss aren't mine. Ruth and Sarah are. I make no money from this.

Notes: Last October, around Halloween, I was reading Speranza's due South story, With Six You Get Eggroll. It inspired me, somehow, to write this. Beta thanks to CatMoran.

Classification: This is a slash crossover between the movie Hard Core Logo and the television series Homicide: Life on the Street, pairing Billy Tallent and Tim Bayliss. It's also part of a rather lengthy series of stories that began with Going Under. This particular story takes place about a year after Rehearsal.

Rating: NC-17, I guess.

Summary: "It's a good gig. The best I've had."

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Copyright 2002

It's been a pretty good day. We're not going back on tour until spring, and we're not recording the new album until after Christmas, so I've been somewhat at loose ends, not that I've minded. I'm perfectly content to play fucking househusband for awhile, hanging out at home, providing chauffer service to two and sometimes three growing girls, keeping the kitchen stocked to suit the tastes of two vegetarians (Ruth has joined Tim on that front), one chef in training, and one guitarist who doesn't give a fuck what he eats. It's a good gig. The best I've had.

Tim says he's home a lot more than he ever was as a cop, but he still spends a lot of time working. We moved the main offices for the Adena Watson Fund here last winter, so he doesn't spend nearly as much time in California as he did the first few months we lived here, which helps, but he's been busier than usual lately with grant decisions and orienting new board members. Then there's the odd trip out of town for a benefit or a board meeting for one of the other non-profits he's been asked to join.

He's been working on stuff closer to home as well. He and Gwen, who moved here after her father died, have been working with people at NAU and Flagstaff Medical, so there's now a nurse practitioner specializing in sexual assault in northern Arizona, more funding for local agencies, that sort of thing. It's been good PR for the Fund, and even better for our status in the community as more than wealthy outsiders.

We've been here over a year now, and with the exception of a few bumps along the road, it's been good—better than good; fuck, it's been wonderful. The adoption was finalized just after we got back from Christmas in Baltimore, making for a great New Year's celebration, despite some jealousy from Billie. Ruth and Sarah are settled in at school, Tim's found a sangha, and we get more friendly greetings than suspicious stares from our (admittedly distant) neighbors now. Plus, bonus, no one's tried to kill us since that bitch Jessica at the wedding. I actually believe Bartlett these days when he tells me all the fucking psychos are locked up or, in the case of the Holy Fucking Father and his favorite son Joseph, dead, and good fucking riddance.

So all and all, I'm feeling pretty fucking great. We'll be leaving at the end of the week for an anniversary trip to Hawaii, which has me feeling even better. Ruthie's off hiking somewhere, and Sarah's doing homework, when Billie calls with a dilemma. She doesn't know what to be for Halloween; she's not even sure she's going at all.

"I thought you were going with your friend Alissa."

"Well, I was, but now I don't know."

"Why not?"

"She doesn't like any of my ideas for costumes—she says they're babyish."

"What's wrong with your idea to go as a hobbit?"

"She says that going as Frodo is stupid, because she's going as Jennifer Lopez, and J-Lo wouldn't be caught dead with a hobbit."

"Jennifer Lopez? What does she expect you to go as, Britney Spears?"

"How'd you guess?" I was joking, but she's not.

"Jesus, Billie, that's ridiculous!" I explode. Then, a little calmer, "I'm sorry, lovebug, but come on, Britney Spears? Never mind the fact I'm not thrilled at your friend's lack of musical taste, but isn't it a little cold for that kind of outfit?"

She giggles. "Yeah, I guess it wouldn't work too great in the snow, huh?"

"No, I guess it wouldn't," I answer, relieved she has more sense than either her mother or I did at twice her age. Must be Evan's influence; he's a fucking decent guy, a better parent than her mother, to be quite honest. "So what else have you got?"

"Well, I was thinking of another costume idea, but there's no way Alissa would go trick or treating with me with this one."

"Then maybe she's not such a good friend after all. What's this other idea?"

"Um, I was thinking maybe going as Mighty Mouse. I know it's a cartoon character, but I really like the tapes you guys sent me."

"Now that sounds like a great idea. Tim would be thrilled, and so would the rest of us down here. I think Ruth and Sarah would be pretty happy to help any way they could."

"But then who would I go with?"

"What about LaHonda? You haven't mentioned her lately—aren't you guys friends anymore?"

"We haven't been spending much time together lately. Alissa doesn't like her."

And I don't fucking like Alissa. I never realized twelve year old girls could be so fucking cruel, but I've been learning.

"What about you—do you still like her?" I ask cautiously, not wanting to push.

"Yeah, I do. I've kinda missed her. Maybe you're right. I'll call her."

"You do that. Let me know how it all works out, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy. I love you."

"Love you too, sweetie. Talk to you soon."

That crisis averted, at least for now, I grab my guitar and head over to the studio to work on a song. After awhile, I look out the window and realize it's getting dark, and Tim's car's not here yet, so I head back to the house. Mouse is ostensibly working on her homework, but she's got the television on; Ruth's nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Bill, I wanted to ask you about something."

"What is it?"

"There's gonna be this big Halloween party at school, with prizes for the best costume and all, you know? And I was thinking about going as a punk. What do you think?"

"That depends, kiddo. What were you thinking you'd wear?"

"Uh, I thought maybe I could borrow something from Kat or Chelle, like some leather pants or something, and maybe Dad's biker jacket, and dye my hair, you know, pink or something, do it up in a mohawk, except I wouldn't really shave the sides—maybe I could wear a wig, I don't know. I wanted to ask you."

"Well, first of all, you'd better eighty-six the idea of wearing your dad's jacket. No offense, Mouse, but he's got a hundred pounds and over a foot on you, and I don't think you swimming in his clothes is the look you're going for, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. What do you think I should do?"

"You want to be the Hollywood version of punk, or the real thing?"

"There's a difference, huh?"

I laugh, and we spend a few minutes talking over some ideas. I veto the safety pins, but agree to the hair, as long as it's a temporary dye job. I even promise to run interference with Tim. Then I look out the window again. Fuck—it's completely dark.

"Where's your sister?"

"I don't know. I guess she's still outside somewhere."

"Shit. What was she wearing, you remember?"

"Uh, a sweatshirt and jeans, I think."

"Idiot child. I'm going out to look for her—think you could get something started for dinner?"

"Sure."

"You hear from your dad? Thought he'd be home by now."

"He called a little while ago, said he was running late. He sounded really worn out."

"Okay. If he gets home before I find Miss Nature Girl, tell him not to worry."

"You want the flashlight?"

"Yeah, thanks, Mouse." I grab the light and Ruth's jacket with a sigh and head for the door.

From the day we moved in, Ruth's been apt to go off hiking somewhere, with just her journal for company. She has a watch, which she wears, but she rarely looks at it—she just wanders around, or finds a rock or a tree to sit on, starts watching the wildlife or writing poetry, never noticing the weather or how late it's getting. She usually heads back when the sun is setting, but every once in awhile, like tonight, she'll stay out even later than that, watching the stars or the moon. She pays no attention to the fact that we're at over 9,000 feet, where it gets fucking cold fucking fast, especially this time of year.

Tim, being Tim, worries. There's not much chance another Jessica is out there, but you never know. It's a slim enough chance that he can't justify keeping her close to home, not when she loves the trees and the mountains the way she does, but he still worries. Then there's the fact that she swears she's seen a mountain lion, cougar, whatever—one no one else has seen, one that might not exist, one that would most likely be as frightened of her as she should be of it, but again, you never know.

So I'm a little pissed as I set off, flashlight and spare jacket in hand, because even though I'm not Tim, I worry as well. And if he gets home before I round her up, he'll likely work himself up into full blown angst mode, especially if he's had a fucker of a day at the Fund.

I guess I should be glad Ruth no longer acts like the fucking Stepford Child she was the first few months she lived with us, be glad she's willing to test the limits of parental control a little. She still makes her bed and clears the table, but her room's a mess most of the time, and she's been known to actually yell at us or at Sarah. Who'd have thought that would be such a relief, to have a ten year old yelling at you? But I'd rather have her yelling at me than out after dark in temperatures likely to go below freezing within the next hour.

By the time I've been out there half an hour, with no signs of Ruth, I'm more than just a little pissed, and I'm tired of calling for her. I figure maybe I missed her, maybe she headed off in a different direction from usual, so I start back towards the house, only to trip over a fucking branch and fall halfway down to the fucking creek, losing the flashlight, wrenching my shoulder, and spraining the fuck out of my ankle in the process.

The half moon's bright enough that I can see, but it still takes me ten minutes to work my way back up the ravine to the trail, muttering how I feel about the situation the whole time. Ten minutes after that, I see a couple lights bobbing along—Ruth and Sarah, who laughingly tease me about my language until they get closer and realize I'm limping, at which point they become so solicitous and apologetic I start swearing all over again.

"Jesus, Bill, you'd better shut up before we get any closer—if Dad hears you talking like that around Ruthie he won't be happy."

"Fucking right he won't be, and shut the fuck up about it already," I answer. "It's not as if you've never heard it before. Ruth, you will say nothing about this, you hear me? And that includes talking to Billie."

"Okay, okay, already," she replies.

"Where the fuck were you, anyway? And how many times do we have to tell you to take your jacket and get home before dark?"

"Sorry. I lost track of time."

"You have been losing track of time entirely too often lately, and if you don't watch out, you're going to be stuck at home after school, no matter how light it is."

"I really am sorry, Bill. I started writing in my journal—I've got an idea for a song. Can you help me with the chords?" Yeah, she knows my weak spots.

"Yes, I'll help you with the chords, but only if you promise me—promise me, Ruth—that you're not going to put me through this again. And if you really want to write songs, kiddo, you're going to have to practice, not just play around."

"I know. I will, Billy, I really will. I want to play as good as you when I grow up."

"As well as, not as good as. I know they didn't give a shit about proper grammar where you two came from, but I do."

I turn to Sarah, who's snuck under my shoulder to give me some support. She's too short for it to help much, but the gesture's nice.

"Tim home yet?"

"A few minutes ago. He's not doing too well—skipped his swim, just asked for some ice for his knee."

"Fuck."

"You're still going to talk to him about the costume, though, right?"

"Probably not tonight," I answer, just as Ruth asks, "what costume?"

"Bill's going to help me be a punk for Halloween."

"A punk? That is so fucking cool!"

"Watch your language, Ruth!" Jesus, a couple years ago and she'd have gotten a serious beating for talking like that. Which makes it difficult to give her a hard time about it, but Tim prefers to think our ten year old doesn't swear, so the rest of us try to keep up the pretense, for his sake.

"Sorry. Can I be a punk, too? That would be so great—none of my friends could ever come up with something that cool."

"Ruth, I'm the punk—you can't be a punk too!"

"Why not? We can both be punks, right, Bill?"

"I don't know about that, Nature Girl," I say, stalling for time, trying to figure out a way to avoid what's coming. Being a part-time father for one kid does not prepare you for doing it full-time with siblings. "Don't you think that would be raining on your sister's parade, or something? Besides, I thought you were going as Harry Potter."

"I went as Harry last year, Billy—just like everyone else, except the people who went as Anakin or Padme or one of the hobbits. I've got to do something different this year. No, I want to be a punk, just like Sarah. Maybe we can go trick or treating together," she adds wistfully.

"I am not going trick or treating with a bunch of babies!" Sarah hisses. "I'm in high school, not elementary school. And you can't go as a punk, because I thought of it first."

By the time we finally walk in the house, they're screaming at each other, and Ruthie's close to tears.

I limp my way over to the living room, ignoring the sturm und drang going on behind me. Tim looks up at me, wordlessly asking about my limp, the girls, everything. I shrug, one-shouldered, and join him on the couch; he maneuvers his legs to make room for me between them, and I work my boots off, wincing. My ankle's already starting to swell, and my shoulder's aching—between some arthritis (and who would have thought you could get arthritis from the way you play guitar, but apparently you can, because I've got it), the gunshot last year, and wrenching it tonight, I'm glad no one's going to expect me to play any concerts any time soon.

Tim's brace is off, and he does have ice on his knee, but the minute I'm settled against him in my stocking feet, he transfers the icepack to my ankle, puts his arms around me, massages my shoulder gently, and says quietly into my ear, "Hey, what the fuck is going on? When they left, they were fine, and now they're obviously not, and neither are you."

"Neither are you, apparently."

"Don't change the subject."

"Went out looking for the prodigal poet, tripped, fell down a fucking ravine, and sprained my ankle."

"And the girls?"

"Both want to be the same thing for Halloween."

"I thought Ruth wanted to be Harry Potter."

"That was last year."

"And this year?"

"They both want to be punks."

He laughs, and I lean back so I can see him better.

"But Billie wants to be Mighty Mouse, so all is not lost."

"That's great, Rock Star," he says, kissing my neck.

"Of course, she hasn't heard about Sarah's plans yet, so she could change her mind," I add with a sigh, realizing the yelling's quieted down, although Ruth is indeed crying, and Sarah looks like she's close from sheer frustration.

"Girls, I'm very disappointed in you," Tim tells them. "Ruth, Bill and I are getting tired of your trips off into the woods. Sarah, I talked to you just yesterday about helping out, reminding Ruth or looking for her yourself. I also don't appreciate your yelling at your sister that way, no matter how provoked you feel, huh?"

"But, Dad," Sarah snipes, "she always wants to copy what I'm doing. Except when it comes to helping with the cooking, of course."

"That's just because you never let me do anything!" Ruth whines. "I try to help, but all you'll let me do is set the table. Dad, it would be so cool if we could both be punks, but Sarah never wants to do anything with me anymore! I wish she'd come hiking with me, but she never wants to, and she gets mad if I'm around her friends, even though they all like me, and—"

"That's enough," I bark. "I don't give a—I don't care what you two are for Halloween. In fact, if you keep this up, neither one of you is going to be anything, except maybe, if you're lucky, whatever costume's on sale at fu—at Walmart, you hear me?" I feel Tim stifle a laugh into my shoulder, but I'm on a roll now. "Both of you, right now—into the meditation room. I want your butts on those zafus for at least ten minutes, and I want you to meditate on how lucky you are to have each other, understand? After that, you want to sit a little longer, or do some kinhin, fine, but then the two of you sit down and work this out between yourselves, being mindful, remembering the seven steps of reconciliation."

The two of them look at me, dumbfounded. "How can he tell us to sit?" Ruth mutters, soft enough that we can pretend not to hear it. "He doesn't sit!" I ignore it, and so does Tim.

"Sarah, before you go, did you get anything ready for dinner?" I ask.

"Uh, no, all I got done was a salad," she replies, a little sullen.

"Hand me the phone," Tim says. "I'll call for some pizza. Go on, you two—you heard Bill." We may be relative newcomers when it comes to parenting, but we both know the importance of getting your partner's back.

I can see Sarah think about protesting more, then decide not to. Instead, she grabs the phone roughly and throws it at us. Tim catches it without a comment, but apparently the look in his eyes is enough, because they turn without another word and head into the meditation room.

Once he's finished ordering the food, Tim says, "You know, meditation's not supposed to be punishment. I want them to meditate because they want to, because they get something out of it, not because we tell them they have to."

"Fuck, Tim, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—it just seemed like the perfect solution."

"Oh, it was. It's just not something we can ever do again."

I lean back for a kiss. "Done. Now you gonna tell me what the fuck happened to you today?"

He sighs. "Remember that new board member I was telling you about, Scott?"

"The one who was abused by his parish priest?"

"That's the one. He's got this bug up his butt about the Catholic Church—understandably—but he doesn't want the Fund working with any Catholic charities or hospitals, and that's just not realistic. I mean, with the whole Faith Based Initiative, sometimes the Catholics are the only ones available, you know?"

"So you were dealing with that. What else—what'd you do to your leg?"

"We were walking back from lunch on Beaver Street, and this kid comes up to us—fifteen, beat up, just a mess. She's scared shitless, but she's trying to tell us how she ran away, and then she starts to pass out. I'm closest to her, so I try to grab her, and we both go down. Then she wakes up and starts freaking out, because there's this strange man holding onto her—it was pretty bad."

"You get her over to Alison?" That's the nurse practitioner over at Flagstaff Medical.

"Yeah. She's pretty sick—dehydration, malnutrition, a couple broken ribs, and some nasty infections—they think herpes, warts, plus maybe pneumonia, hopefully not from HIV. They admitted her."

"Jesus. And your knee?"

"Right now, it's fucked, but while we were at the hospital I had that new orthopod, Luke Begay, take a look at it. He said it didn't look like I'd done any serious damage, just told me to ice it tonight and stay off my feet tomorrow."

"That mean you're staying home?"

"Yeah. Gwen's coming over so we can work on some stuff."

"Long as you stay on the couch, you can work all you want."

"Yes, Mom. Sounds like you'll need to stay on the sofa yourself—let me see." He gestures, and I take the ice off. He whistles. "Yeah, you're going to have to keep me company. That's ugly, Bill—you didn't break anything, did you? You need me to call someone, see about getting you in for an x ray?"

"No, I can put weight on it and all—just hurts like a motherfucker."

"Here," he says, handing me his prescription bottle, then reaching for the glass of water on the coffee table. "Take a pill already."

"What is it?" He knows I won't take anything like the darvocets or vicodins he still has laying around from his last surgery, but I figure it's better to ask anyway.

"It's Vioxx or Celebrex or something—one of the ones Rob Wilson prescribed. Just an anti-inflammatory, no codeine or anything."

"Okay." I swallow the pill, then settle back in his arms, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel his lips on my temple, and I close my eyes, just for a second.

I wake up a little while later. He's still asleep, my hair a little damp where his mouth is pressed up against it, his hands warm and slack on my chest. I can hear faint sounds of voices and dishes in the kitchen, but the kids are keeping it down.

Ruth enters the room, carrying plates and napkins. She puts them down on the coffee table, very carefully, smiling apologetically when she sees I'm awake. Sarah follows a few seconds later with the salad. I point towards my jacket, lying on the chair next to the television, and she gets my wallet and hands it to me so I can get out the money for the pizza driver and hand it back to her.

I catch Ruth's eye when she comes back in with the silverware and point to Tim's leg, resting halfway on top of mine. She nods and returns from the kitchen with two icepacks, replacing the one on my ankle, then gently placing the other on Tim's knee, so gently he doesn't even stir. "Thanks," I mouth, and she smiles. Obviously, they've worked something out between the two of them, because they're working as a team to get things ready for dinner. They've apparently decided the gimp rule is in effect for tonight, meaning we can eat in the living room. I have no problem with that—before Tim moved in, I ate most meals on the couch, when I was home to eat at all.

Tim doesn't wake until Sarah buzzes the driver through the gate. When he does, he nuzzles my neck, and I turn a little to face him.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," I say, giving him a kiss.

"Hey," he answers sleepily, his arms tightening around me. "No more fighting?"

"Not a word of it. Don't know what they decided, though—didn't want to wake you."

"That's buddies."

We maneuver a little, get better situated for eating, so that we're sitting next to each other rather than me against his chest, both of us with our feet up on the coffee table, ice packs in place. Tim takes a look at the salad and dinnerware set out. "I guess they decided the gimp rule was in effect tonight, huh?"

"Works for me," I answer, rubbing at a sleep wrinkle on the side of his face. Sarah brings the pizzas in—large veggie, half green pepper, for Tim and Ruth; large pepperoni and mushrooms for me and Sarah. We dig in.

I catch a glimpse of Tim holding a piece, just about to bite, and I flash back nearly two years, to the night I met him.

"What?" he says.

I laugh and shake my head. "Nothing."

He gets it—his eyes warm, he licks his lips, and then he takes an enormous bite, grinning slyly.

"Oh, I fell in love with Tim Bayliss when I first saw him eating a piece of veggie pizza," Sarah declaims in a dramatic voice, hand on her heart, while Ruth swoons in the background. Tim practically chokes, trying not to laugh until he can swallow.

I throw a wadded up napkin at her. "Shut up."

"I knew he was the only man for me the minute he started chewing," Ruth adds emotionally, then giggles.

"I would never look at pizza again without thinking of his eyes, like limpid pools; his hands, so strong; his lips—" Sarah goes on, and I throw one more napkin at her before I lose it.

"You've been reading too many romance novels, Miss Sarah," Tim finally manages to choke out, trying to sound stern, but failing miserably.

"Besides, you've got it all wrong," I interject. "It wasn't until the second piece of pizza, at the earliest—" and then I lose it again, Tim swatting the back of my head.

"You never should have told them that story," he says, smiling at me.

"Excuse me? You're the one who told them that story, Detective. You love telling people that story. 'Oh, yes, Bill fell for me when I was eating pizza backstage, the night we met.'"

"You're right," he answers, kissing me. "I do love telling that story." And then he kisses me again, his mouth tasting of sauce and cheese and vegetables and Tim. We kiss until Ruth and Sarah take their turn pelting us with napkins.

I ignore them for one more second, just long enough to run my fingers over his cheek and give him one last kiss. Then I pick up a piece of pizza—veggie pizza—and hand it to him with a grin.

"So, what did you girls decide?" Tim asks before digging in again.

"I'm going to be a punk, but Ruth's going to help me get ready," Sarah answers.

"And I'm going to be Hedwig," Ruth announces happily, her mouth full.

What? "Sweetie, that's an interesting idea, but I'm not sure a transsexual German musician is the best idea—" I start, only to see Ruth and Tim staring at me, totally confused, while Sarah is laughing, pointing at me.

"Not that Hedwig, Bill—" she sputters.

"What are you talking about?" Tim asks at the same time.

"Hedwig's an owl, Bill," is Ruth's contribution, "from Harry Potter, not from Germany."

"It's a movie, okay, Mr. IFC's Boring?" I retort, embarrassed. "Hedwig and the Angry Inch. It was an honest mistake." I'm really going to have to read those Harry Potter books, or at least pay attention the next time Ruth has the DVD on. Jesus. They're never going to let me live this one down.

After the girls clean up from dinner, Tim watches basketball while the rest of us hang out—Sarah and Ruth work on some homework. Ruth finishes hers quickly, then settles on the couch next to Tim to watch the game. I do some reading, then help Sarah with her math, or try to. I actually remember some of the shit I learned in high school, back before I ran off with Joe, when I was still paying attention, thinking about university.

Eventually it's time for Ruth, at least, to head up to bed. I have a request first, though—I ask her to go get me Tim's spare cane, because I think I might need a little extra help making it down the hall tonight. She gets up, then turns to give Sarah a look. They nod at each other, then head off to the garage, ignoring the hall closet, which is where the spare cane is.

"What do you suppose they have planned now?" Tim asks me.

"I suspect they've gone to get the wheelchair."

"Ah, no, they wouldn't, would they?" he says, dismayed.

"What's the fucking big deal? I think it's sweet."

"You would. I can make it to my own bedroom under my own power."

"Sure you can. I can, too. But it'd be a lot easier to take a ride. They're just doing it because they care about us, and it's not going to cost you anything to let them." I give him a don't fuck with me look, and he nods reluctantly. He's gotten a lot better at actually dealing with his leg over the last year, but he still has his moments of sheer fucking stupidity.

Sure enough, the girls return a minute later with the chair. Tim gestures magnanimously, and I take the first trip down the hall to our bedroom; Tim arrives while I'm in the bathroom. Goodnights are said all the way around, the door is shut, and we finish our nightly routines, both wincing occasionally, then limp back to our bed.

"You really thought Ruth wanted to be Hedwig from that movie, huh?" Tim asks me as he enfolds me in his arms.

"For a minute, yeah." I shrug.

"For the record, I have seen it."

"Oh yeah? When?"

"Last time you were on tour. Sarah was singing the songs one day and insisted we watch it after Ruthie went to bed."

I turn to look at him. "Did you like it?"

"Thought it was great. Good music." I laugh, and he smiles and pulls me closer. "How's your shoulder?"

"It's okay."

"Need a rub?"

"Wouldn't turn one down."

"Take your damn shirt off already." I do as he asks, wincing a little, and then I feel his hands on me, warm and gentle, and a moment later I feel his lips on my neck.

"Mmm, that's nice," I murmur, leaning back.

He chuckles. "Make up your mind what you want here, because if you want me to rub your shoulder, you need to lean a little further forward."

"If you want to rub my shoulder, you have to keep your mouth off my neck." I move a little, give him room to work, and he starts massaging again. His fingers are sure, his touch soothing, and between that and the pill I took before dinner, I'm feeling better than I have in hours. Well, all that and the fact that it's been too long since this morning, since the last time I was in this bed with Tim.

I lean back again, forgetting my shoulder, turning slightly to kiss him. Kissing him—fuck, kissing him is so fucking fantastic, every time. And then his hands are on me again, but they're moving past my shoulder straight down to my dick, cupping it through the flannel, stroking lightly, and I let out a soft moan.

And then there's a knock at the door.

"Fuck," I murmur quietly.

"Hold that thought," Tim breathes into my ear, moving his hand away, and I pull at the covers and bring my knees up to hide my erection. Tim's is hidden by the simple fact that I'm sitting between his legs, so as soon as I'm situated, he calls for whichever one of them it is to come in.

It's Ruth, and she's got her guitar in one hand and her journal in the other.

"I know, I know, I'm supposed to be in bed, but I can't sleep, and you said you'd help me with the chords—" she says in one breath.

"Ruth, jesus, don't you think it can wait?" Tim asks, exasperated. "You need to get to sleep."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about my bedtime anyway," she answers. "I mean, I'm ten years old now, and I think I can stay up a little later." I can't help but laugh at the serious, logical tone in her voice.

"All right, all right, get over here," I say. Tim doesn't argue with me, just scoots over to make room for Ruth and her guitar.

"Half an hour, Ruth," he tells her. "That's it. After that, if you want to read up in your room, that's fine, but remember how early you have to get up."

"Thanks, guys!" she says with a grin.

"And the next time we have to go searching for you, your old bedtime is back in effect," I add.

"I'm really sorry, Bill," she replies. "I promise, I won't do it again." Then she brings out her notebook and shows me what she's written, and fuck if it isn't pretty good, especially for a ten year old. Help with the chords turns out to mean that she hasn't actually written any music to go with her words, though, so I ask her to get me my acoustic and start playing around with some sounds.

Forty-five minutes later, we're still jamming on the bed. Sarah's joined in—she doesn't play, but she's got a great voice. Tim just sits back and watches, smiling, moving a little with the music. My shoulder's starting to ache again, though, so I call a halt to the proceedings. Ruth goes off to bed with a happy grin, no doubt so wired she won't be asleep for awhile yet. Sarah sticks around for a minute.

"I wanted to ask you guys something," she says. "I know it's a ways away, but I found out there's going to be a ski trip over winter break, and I wanted to know if I could maybe go."

"At the Snow Bowl?" Tim asks.

"No, in Colorado. It's school sponsored—through the ski club, you know? There're gonna be chaperones and everything. I really, really want to go."

"Skiing in Colorado? Those are some pretty big mountains, Mouse, and you only skied for the first time last winter. You sure about this?" I can tell she does, though, by the eager look in her eyes.

"Yeah, Bill, I'm sure. I really like some of the kids in the ski club—Veronica Tsinnijinnie, she's in it, remember her? And Claire Brinley, she's in it too, and—"

"And Neil whatshisname, too, right?" I ask with a grin. Thankfully, Sarah's finally over her unrequited crush on Eli.

"Yeah, Neil's in the ski club, too, but that's not why I want to go on the Colorado trip. It isn't, Dad, I swear!"

"When exactly is this trip, Sarah?" he asks her. "Because you know we were planning on going to Baltimore for New Year's."

"They haven't set the dates for sure yet, but they're thinking between Christmas and New Year's. I could fly out east to meet you guys from Colorado. It could be my Christmas present. I really want to go."

"Yeah, we get that," I answer with a smile. "What do you say, Tim?"

He meets my eyes and nods infinitesimally. "I say we'll have to think about it—find out all the information, figure out the timing—but it sounds doable, Mouse."

She jumps onto the bed and throws her arms around first Tim, then me, thanking us profusely. We spend a little more time talking about skiing, and Tim gets up to the bathroom. A minute or two later, she says, "Bill, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, kiddo—you can ask me anything, you know that." She's got this serious expression on her face.

"I know—I mean—um, does it bother you that I call you Bill? Because, you know, I do know I have two parents. Ruth and me, just because we call Tim, 'Dad,' and you, 'Bill,' that doesn't mean we don't know we have two parents. Two fathers."

I'm speechless for a second, then pull her into my arms. I look up and see Tim standing in the doorway, his gaze full of love and pride.

"That's—fuck, Sarah, thank you. It doesn't bother me, jesus—you can call me whatever you want. I feel the same way, you know what I mean? I have three kids, three beautiful daughters, and I love all of you more than I'd have thought possible."

Tim makes his way back to the bed and drops a kiss on the top of Sarah's head before wrapping his arms around me. "Thanks, Sarah," he murmurs.

"You're welcome, Angst Man," she answers with a smile. "If I'd known the two of you were going to go all schmoopy on me, I would've said something months ago."

"She just called us schmoopy, Bill."

"Yes, she did, Tim."

"I call 'em as I see 'em. Hey, it's not a problem. I've got two parents who love each other—that's more than a lot of my friends have."

"Now who's being schmoopy?"

"Smarmy, maybe, but not schmoopy," she replies happily. "I'm going to go upstairs now and finish the chapters I have to read for English tomorrow. I'll see you two in the morning. You can go back to whatever you were doing before Ruth interrupted you." She winks and heads out the door, closing it carefully behind her.

"That girl is onto us," I inform Tim, and he nods, smiling.

"What I want to know is, what's the difference between schmoopy and smarmy, huh?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Where were we, anyway?" he asks, caressing my chest.

"Your hands were lower than that; I remember that much."

"You weren't talking; I remember that much." And then we're kissing, and his hand has moved to my dick again, long fingers mapping me gently through the flannel. My cock hardens quickly, and I can't help a little thrust into his palm.

"Mmm, that's nice," he murmurs, breaking the kiss to take off his t-shirt. I take the opportunity to get rid of my stupid plaid pajama pants, struggling a little to get them off my sore ankle. Even after a year, I'm still not used to wearing them to bed, although I have to admit they're comfortable. I catch Tim looking when I stretch out on the bed, and the hunger in his eyes makes my cock twitch.

I reach for the drawstring at his waist and help him ease out of his own stylish evening wear. His dick's as happy as mine is, and I take a second to appreciate it, on a purely aesthetic level, of course. Jesus, he's beautiful.

"You done looking at me yet?" he asks playfully. "Because I'm getting a little tired of waiting, here." He grabs for me; I feint left with a grin. He twists around and gets me around the waist, wrestling me onto my side. We end up spread horizontally on the bed, faces to dicks, perfectly set up for the old 69. The fact that we end up like that is not, as they say, an accident, and I lift my head a little, just enough to see him grinning back at me before he considerately tosses me a pillow.

It's been awhile since we tried it this way, but it's something that works well when either one of us is feeling particularly old and decrepit, which goes for both of us tonight. Not that I'm complaining, especially not once Tim moves a little closer and starts nuzzling my balls. I'm definitely not complaining; fuck, it takes me a minute to remember to return the favor.

There's some pretense, at least at first, at taking our time, at gentle, slow explorations with lips and tongues and fingers, but once he takes my cockhead into his mouth, once I slip a finger inside him, gentle and slow goes out the fucking window. He moans around me, I open up and take him into my throat, and then I'm moaning along with him as my thighs start to shake and his balls tighten. He comes into me with a sharp cry, only a little muffled by my dick in his mouth. A few seconds later he does that thing with his tongue, that thing that never fails to drive me fucking wild, and I'm gone, letting go of his softening cock with a groan as I come.

A few minutes after that and we're back in our pajamas, and Tim's spooned around me, his breath warm on my neck, which is still a little sweat-damp. My last thought before I fall asleep is, yeah, it's a good gig. The best.

END

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