Sarah's New Recipe

Disclaimers: Billy Tallent and Tim Bayliss don't belong to me, and I'm not making any money by writing about them. Sarah and Ruth, however, are all mine.

Classification: This is a slash crossover between Hard Core Logo and Homicide: Life on the Street, pairing Bill Boisy (Billy Tallent) and Tim Bayliss. It's part of a long series of stories that started with Going Under.

Notes: Takes place two years after Married with Children. Sarah's about to be a senior in high school, age 17, and Ruth is 11. Beta thanks, as always, to the speedy and supportive CatMoran.

Summary: There's a secret ingredient in Sarah's pasta.

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Sarah's New Recipe

by shell

copyright 2002

It's a beautiful summer evening, and everyone's home—the latest Jenifur album finally finished recording a couple weeks ago, and Bill's back from a meeting they had with the label this morning in LA. Sarah's been busy in the kitchen, but she's looking nervous for some reason—I don't know why, since she rarely misses when it comes to cooking, and even her misses are usually more than edible, if a bit strange.

"What's on the table tonight, huh, Mouse?" I ask, trying to jolly her. "Smells fantastic."

"It's, uh, it's just a new pasta recipe I wanted to try," she answers, flustered. "Something we did in class a few weeks ago." She's been taking a cooking class during NAU's summer session. "I hope you'll like it—it's got sauteed veggies, garlic, a little brie. Anyway, I'm just about ready to bring it out. Ruthie, would you grab the salad?"

The next few minutes are busy with the regular dinner routine. Bill's kind of quiet tonight—has been ever since he got in a couple hours ago. I give him a concerned glance, and he shrugs, nodding subtly at the bedroom, our code for, "we'll talk about it later." I nod and prepare to dig in.

Ruth's already plowing through her plate in typical Ruth fashion. "This kicks ass, Mouse," she says around a forkful of pasta. "It's got some secret ingredient in it, doesn't it?"

"That would be telling," Sarah mutters, just as Bill admonishes Ruth not to talk with her mouth full—a losing battle, but one we keep fighting. You'd never guess the former punk is the grammar police and Etiquette Man, but you'd never guess he brushes his teeth after every meal, either.

I finally take a bite, and the tastes explode in my mouth—garlic, creamy brie, mushrooms, spices, tomatoes and carrots from our garden, and something else, something I feel like I should be able to identify easily, but can't. I take another bite, puzzled, but pleased, because Sarah's definitely come up with another winner. "This is delicious, sweetie," I mumble happily after swallowing, then dig right back in. My eyes close in pleasure at the flavors, but when I open them, I see that Bill's frowning, chewing slowly.

"Don't you like it, Bill?" Ruth asks, and Sarah looks away guiltily. What the fuck? Bill twirls more pasta onto his fork, holds it up to his nose, and sniffs cautiously. Then he throws the fork down angrily and pushes away his chair.

"Where the fuck is it, Sarah?" he barks.

"Where's what?" She's playing at confusion, but she knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Hey, what—" I say incredulously, but now I can smell the wine clearly, and I find myself wondering nonsensically whether it was red or white. I push the thought away as Bill gets up and heads over to Sarah's chair, getting in her face.

"Where is it?" he asks again, his expression tightly controlled. "Is it in the kitchen? Fuck, of course it's in the kitchen—" and he jerks back, startled. She tries to stand up and back away, but he grabs her arm and pulls her closer, and I realize he's smelling her breath, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach gets much, much, worse.

"Do not lie to me, Sarah Bayliss. Don't lie to us. We'll know," he says, his voice deceptively calm.

"All right, already!" she snarls, snatching her arm back. "It's not in the kitchen; it's gone. I used most of it in the sauce, and then—it just seemed like such a fucking waste to just pour it out. I mean, it was very good wine, expensive wine, because you can't cook with something you wouldn't drink, not if you want to be any good. So I tried it, all right? Is that what you want to hear? I had like one little glass, one fucking glass, and I didn't even really like it, so shut the fuck up already!"

"No, you shut the fuck up!" Bill yells, turning back to the table and sweeping half the dishes onto the floor. "What the fuck were you thinking, you stupid fucking—" he stops short and runs his fingers through his hair. "Fuck!" He knocks one more dish off the table and then steps away, his back to all of us, his shoulders tense. We all stay there for a second, trapped in silence, and then he heads for the door.

"Bill, wait," Ruth wails, but I put a hand out and shake my head.

"Let him go, Ruthie. He needs some time. Why don't you go and water the garden while I talk to your sister?"

She nods, shaken, pale. Scared.

Fuck.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute. Come over here for a sec," I tell her, and when she does, I pull her into my arms for a long hug. "It's all right," I murmur. "It's just a family fight. Yeah, there was some yelling, but it's not the end of the world." She starts to cry, and I hold on tighter. I see Sarah out of the corner of my eye, picking up some of the broken dishes. "Bill's angry, and so am I, but we're still a family, and we still love each other, okay?" Ruth nods against my chest, and when she meets my eyes she looks like she's okay. I give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her I love her, then send her on her way.

Sarah's down on the floor, trying to clean up the mess with shaking hands.

"Leave it. It'll keep." She nods. "Why don't you wash your hands and meet me in the living room," I add mildly, because I figure Bill's already covered bad cop to fucking perfection. I might as well go the other way.

I heave myself up from the table, eyeing the pasta still on my plate regretfully. It really was delicious. Then I head over to the sofa. Sarah sits down next to me without a word.

"All right, I'm listening."

Frank said once (I think it was Frank, but it could have been any of them) that, oftentimes, people really want to confess; they're just waiting for an opportunity. I think I've used that even more as a parent than I did as a police. It doesn't always work, but it does this time.

I sit and listen as Sarah tells me about "this girl Rebecca" in her cooking class, who's twenty five and thinks Sarah's in college, not high school. Of course, Sarah didn't think to disabuse her of that notion, being far too flattered by the attention. The two started hanging out after class, going out for coffee, talking about cooking, among other things. Rebecca's a recent transplant from Oregon and had no more clue about Sarah's notorious parents than she did of Sarah's age.

Rebecca bought Sarah the wine. She kept it hidden in her room for weeks, until Ruth discovered it and threatened to tell me and Bill. Sarah lied and told her she'd given the wine back, then used it in tonight's dinner, which she claims was the plan all along. She never intended to drink it herself, but was overcome by curiosity.

I listen through all of it, through the defensiveness, the insecurity, and the anger. I try to remember what it was like to be a teenager—remember my own stupid experimentation with mushrooms. I remember the first drink I ever took, at a much younger age than seventeen, when I got into the wine one Thanksgiving, the first of many holidays I tried to get through by drinking. I remember getting Sarah herself drunk on two glasses of wine on our supposed wedding night in Church Canyon. If things were different, I suppose I wouldn't be that upset. But there's more at stake than a teenager sneaking a drink, and that's what I've got to get her to see.

"Now, I understand that you're seventeen. I know you're growing up, and I know you're going to want to try new things, including things Bill and I might not be happy about—alcohol, sex, even drugs. I know I can't stop you from experimenting, and in some ways I don't even want to, as long as you're being safe, and as long as you know you can talk to us. But there is one thing you need to understand, now and forever. You are never to bring alcohol or drugs into this house, do you understand me?"

I can see her think about protesting, but instead she just nods.

"Do you have any idea how important this is? Do you know what you did, how hard you made it for Bill?"

"No, Dad, I don't!" she exclaims. "I don't understand what the huge fucking deal is, to be quite honest. I wasn't going to give him a glass of the stuff or anything. Jesus, it wasn't like there was any real alcohol left in the sauce—it evaporates with the heat, you know, just leaves some flavor. So why was it such a horrible thing?"

"Because he's an alcoholic, Sarah! To smell it on your breath, in our home—if you had any sense at all you'd have seen he wasn't in the best mood to begin with—I don't know what happened in LA, but I have a feeling it wasn't good—and then he comes back, to his home, and has to deal with your inconsiderate, selfish, bullshit—" Okay, so I'm not doing such a great job at good cop.

"All right, Dad, jesus! I'm sorry; I didn't realize one little whiff of chardonnay would drive him off the fucking deep end—"

"That's enough, Sarah," I say coldly, although there's a part of me that's wondering the same thing. "You'd be smart to shut up now, before you say something to piss me off even more than I am right now. I'm going to say this one more time. You are never to bring any alcohol or drugs into this house. What you do in your own house, when you're old enough to live on your own, will be your own business, but while you're under this roof, you'll abide by our rules. We don't have that many, compared to what you grew up with, so I think you can manage to deal with them without too much trouble."

That's it—I've played my trump card, bringing up the Canyon, however peripherally. I've only had to do that twice in the two years Sarah's been living with us, and so far it's always done the job of reminding her what's really important. I'm sure there will come a day when she'll throw it back in my face, but tonight it works. She looks shocked for a moment, and then her face falls and she starts to cry, apologizing through her tears, and I feel like a shit, but I don't see that I had any choice. This is by no means the first time it's occurred to me that being a good parent sometimes means feeling like a total shit.

I get her calmed down again relatively quickly, and I'm grateful that Ruth's still outside, because the last thing I need to do is remind her of Church Canyon, which she still dreams about with unfortunate regularity. Sarah and I finish cleaning up the mess from dinner, and then it's time to talk consequences.

"All right. First, you're going to call Rebecca and tell her the truth. You're going to apologize to her for lying, and you're going to tell her exactly how old you are." She nods unhappily. "Second, you're going to apologize to Bill." She nods again.

"He's pretty pissed at me, huh?"

"Yeah, I think he is. More than that, I think he's disappointed in you. So am I."

"I really am sorry, Dad."

"I believe you. Listen, I'm going to leave it up to Bill as far as any other punishment goes, but I'm thinking you're going to have to give up on that pastry weekend you wanted to go on." I sigh inwardly as I say it, because I was looking forward to the results of that weekend. Both Bill and I have put on some weight in the years Sarah's been with us.

"But it's up to Bill?"

"It's up to Bill."

"Okay."

"Now, why don't you get the rest of this stuff cleaned up before you call Rebecca. After that, if you want to meditate, you can, but then up to your room."

"Okay." She gets back to work on the dishes, and I go out to check on Ruth. She seems to be pretty content, having moved from watering to weeding. I sit down on the deck and watch her for awhile, until she notices, brushes her hands on her shorts, and joins me.

"Dad, I'm a little confused by this whole thing."

"Just a little? Sweetie, I'm more than a little confused myself. You want to talk about it?"

"I guess. I mean, I guess I knew Bill's an alcoholic, but I never really thought about it, you know? And he was really, really upset. Scary upset."

"Yeah, he was. It must have been a huge shock for him. The thing is, I know he doesn't talk about it much, but sometimes it's hard for him. He's exposed to a lot of temptation when he's on the road, and he spent a lot of his life doing a lot of drinking, a lot of drugs. He gave most of that up years ago, but the temptation's always there. He's given up even more in the last few years—he hardly ever smokes anymore, and thanks to you and me, he rarely eats meat. That's a lot to give up, and he's done it without complaint. Can you imagine giving up chocolate, or maybe becoming a vegan, giving up dairy and eggs? Because if you did that, that might be close to what Bill's done."

"That would be really hard, but I'm not addicted to chocolate—at least I don't think I am. Am I? I guess I don't really understand this whole addiction thing. I mean, you used to drink, but you're not an alcoholic, right?"

"No, I'm not. I used to smoke, though, and quitting that was one of the toughest things I've ever done."

"You used to smoke? Wow. So you were addicted to nicotine, huh?"

"Addicted, yeah, I was. And even though it had been years, um, nine years, since I smoked, when I met Bill and saw him smoking, I wanted to start again. He manages to smoke a cigarette or two a day when he's on tour, but if I started doing that I'd be up to a couple packs a day again in no time."

"So how do you make sure you never get addicted to something? I mean, obviously I'm never going to smoke, and I don't want to drink, either, but how do I know I'll never get addicted to something?"

I hide a smile at her earnest conviction, hoping she keeps it, astounded she still has it, even at age eleven, given what she grew up with. "I guess you don't, sweetie, not for absolute sure. The thing is, though, you've been through a lot in your life, and it's made you strong, stronger than most people twice your age. And, you know, you've got more going for you now than a lot of people—you've got a family that loves you and can provide for you, you've got a good head on your shoulders, and you've got a better sense of yourself than I had until I was a lot older than you are now. So I think you're going to be just fine, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, when you put it that way." She smiles at me. "Thanks, Dad. So, Bill's going to be all right, isn't he?"

"Sure," I answer with a conviction I can't quite feel. "He's been through a lot worse things than some wine in his pasta. He's just upset."

"You going to go talk to him?"

"In a little while, if he hasn't come back inside yet, sure, of course I'll go talk to him. But I bet he'll be back before long."

"I hope so," she says seriously. "I guess I'll go inside now—the game's going to be coming on soon. You coming?"

"In a minute, sweetie. You go on ahead."

I sit out on the deck for a few minutes, looking at the mountains. I never get tired of the view, so tonight I appreciate Humphries Peak's ability to distract me. It won't be too much longer before the snow hits again, but for now the mountains are clear of it, the sun not yet setting off to the west.

I hear Ruth turn on the television through the open window and decide against heading out to the studio. Instead, I move back inside, waiting awhile longer to see if he's going to come back. I heave a sigh of relief about fifteen minutes later, when I hear the door.

Bill walks in slowly, looking exhausted, all his normal coiled energy missing. He gives me a quick, wordless look and heads to the sofa, but Ruth's up already, got up as soon as he walked in, and she meets him halfway, throwing herself into his arms, asking if he's okay.

"I'm fine, sweetie—just had a rough day, that's all. I'm really sorry if I scared you earlier—I know I was a little out of control."

"That's okay, Billy, as long as you're all right."

He gives her a hug and a kiss, then tells her he needs to talk to me. The two of us head into the meditation room and shut the door. We head for the padded bench along the wall, and once we're seated I pull him into a tight embrace. We sit there awhile.

Eventually he sighs and kisses my cheek.

"Thanks."

"Any time. You ready to tell me whatever it is you've been waiting to tell me?"

"Fuck no, but I will anyway." Despite his words, he doesn't say anything for another minute, just rests against me while I idly run my fingers through his hair. Then he sighs again.

"Deeja's using again. Booze for sure; probably coke, too. I don't think she's shooting anything, at least not yet."

"Fuck."

"That's not the worst of it. She invited me over to her place for lunch. I figured it'd be a good opportunity to talk to her, so I went. Was going to wait until after we ate—basically because I was a fucking chickenshit—"

"You've got reason to tread cautiously where Deeja's concerned," I interject.

He quirks a smile at me, but there's no warmth in it. "She brings out some coffee, and she's got this funny expression on her face. I figure, okay, she's got something different from coffee in her mug, so this is my chance to bring the drinking up, and I go to take a sip out of my coffee, and, well—" he looks at me.

"What?"

"I didn't realize until after I'd taken a big gulp, but there was a shot of whiskey in there. A big shot."

"What did you do?"

He's silent again; he shakes his head, looking troubled.

"Hey," I say, then lean in for a kiss. "Whatever it is, it's all right."

He pushes me away angrily. "It's not fucking 'all right,' you freak. I drank the fucking coffee, okay? I drank the whole fucking thing and I didn't say a fucking word, and then I got up and walked out the fucking door."

"Jesus, Bill. Are you okay?"

"What the fuck kind of question is that? I just told you I fucking drank, Tim!"

"Yeah. You drank one cup of Irish coffee you weren't expecting to be Irish. You didn't go out and hit the bars in LA after you left Deeja's, did you?"

"No, of course not!"

"It was the first drink you've had in years, Bill."

"Seven years," he says wearily. "Seven fucking years. Fuck, Tim, I knew the second I took that gulp that there was more than just coffee in that cup, and I could have spit it out. I don't know why I drank it, but I do know that when I smelled that wine on Sarah's breath, I wanted a drink so fucking badly—"

He shudders, and I pull him close again, kissing his temple. "When's the last time you went to a meeting?" I ask him. He looks at me, considering.

"I go with Deeja sometimes when we're on tour, and every once in awhile when you're out of town." He thinks for a minute. "I have a schedule, back in the studio, and some names, contacts."

"You have a sponsor?"

"Back in LA, once upon a time. Haven't felt much need for any of this shit, these past few years." He smiles at me and brushes his finger across my lips. I open my mouth to say something, I'm not sure what, but he shakes his head, then kisses me softly. "I'm going to head back to the studio, check out that schedule. I'll come back in and tell you before I leave."

"I love you."

"Yeah, I know." He kisses me and gets up.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute," I say. "Did you tell anyone?"

He sighs, deflated. "No. Fuck, I never even told Chelle and Kat what I suspected."

There's no phone in the meditation room, obviously, but my cell's in my pocket, and I hand it to him without a word, then sit with him as he calls his bandmates, then Mark. Then I give him a hug and he goes back to the studio.

He comes back in about fifteen minutes later and tells me he's heading to Sedona, where there's a good meeting, one he's been to before. He figures he can make it in time if he leaves now, but between the drive and the meeting, he'll be gone at least three hours. He kisses me again before grabbing the keys and heading down the hall towards the garage.

Before he can go out the door, Sarah comes downstairs. She starts to cry again as she apologizes to Bill, but he just pulls her into a hug, gives her a quick kiss, and tells her he'll talk to her tomorrow. She nods, then comes and puts an arm around me; Ruth appears on my other side, and the three of us watch Bill walk out, then go sit together on the sofa. We pretend to watch the baseball game, but none of our hearts are in it. Sarah heads off to meditate after awhile, and Ruth and I join her. Afterwards, the girls hug me hard and head up to bed.

A couple hours later, I'm trying to read through grant proposals and financial records, never the most engaging pursuit. I'm having a harder time than usual concentrating, fighting sleep and anxiety together, when I hear the beeping of the security system as Bill enters the house and sets the system for the night. It takes a few minutes before he comes into the room, and I see he's shed all but his briefs in the laundry room.

He smiles briefly in the doorway, then heads towards the bedroom. He's self-conscious about his smoking, about the smell in his clothes and in his hair, and I know he's headed for the shower.

I wait through the time it takes him to brush his teeth, until I hear the shower start, and then I put file folders back in my briefcase and get up. Once in the bedroom, I get out of my own clothes, then make my way into the bathroom.

He doesn't hear me at first, even when I open the shower door. He's standing under the spray, shampoo running down his back and shoulders, eyes closed. I turn the spigot for the second shower head and reach for the soap, leaning my right hip against the wall, bracing myself with one hand opposite Bill. He glances at me, heavy lidded, as I move the soap slowly over his chest. He doesn't say a word, just sighs, moves closer, and puts his arm firmly around my waist, burying his face in my chest.

"You all right?" I ask.

"I will be," he murmurs, then pushes into me, hard enough that he'd knock me over if he weren't holding me up, arm locked solid around me, just where I need it to keep my balance. His face is damp, his lips warm, and then his tongue's in my mouth, his free hand reaching down, my erection growing. My hand joins his around us both, the soap dropping unnoticed at our feet.

There are times, many times, when we make love slowly, drawing it out as long as we can stand. Each touch is considered and tender, our mouths and hands soft and deliberate, even our moans quiet and slow.

Tonight is not one of those times. Mere minutes after I opened the shower door, there are sharp, staccato cries in my ear as his pulses hit, the heat of his semen indistinguishable from the water sheeting over us. A minute after that and I'm the one crying out, his arm still locked around me, holding me up as I come.

We dry off in silence. The tension that was in his shoulders is gone for the first time since he left for LA. Once we're in bed, he pushes me over onto my back, slinging one arm and leg over me in a conscious or unconscious replication of the way we slept those long weeks I was in traction.

"Comfortable?" I ask wryly as he digs an elbow into my ribs. I lift my head so he can get his arm under my neck.

"Fuck off," he answers.

"You know, I was thinking—"

"I'm tired, Tim. It's been a fucker of a day."

"No, listen. You said something once—I think it was in the film—about addiction, how it was this game, this gamble, and how losing was where you felt most happy."

He lifts his head, looks at me, considers. "Yeah, I think I remember that. That fucker McDonald had me talking about a lot of shit—knew the right questions to ask, I guess." His head back on my shoulder, he asks, "What's your point, detective? You think Deej likes that losing feeling?"

"Probably, but I was thinking about you."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Just think about it. Everything's been going so well lately—fuck, it's been going great. The kids are doing terrific, the band's at its creative peak, and there haven't been any serious threats to our lives since the wedding. We're both healthy, and so are the kids. We live in a beautiful house. Our family has everything we could possibly need or want."

"So I'm looking for a way to fuck it up?"

"Maybe. Not consciously, but maybe."

He sighs again, then drops a kiss on my neck. "If I tell you that makes a little sense, will you shut the fuck up and let me sleep already?"

"If I shut the fuck up and let you get some sleep already, will you go for a couple sessions with Laura?"

"Fuck you," he says, meaning he'll think about it.

"Shut up and let me sleep, all right? I'm kind of tired."

He snorts a laugh into my chest, then moves up to kiss me softly. "Love you, Secret Agent Man."

"Love you too, Rock Star. Till we're 104."

END

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