Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss, et. al., belong to the likes of NBC, Tom Fontana, maybe Barry Levinson & David Simon—anyway, they're not mine. Neither are William Boisy or anyone else from Hard Core Logo, who belong to folks like Bruce MacDonald and Michael Turner.

Classification: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (H:LoTS/HCL), PWP.

This is just a little PWP, set a couple months after Going Home. More of Tim's physical therapy.

Summary: "I know this is part of his evil plan to make me work, but it's also fucking glorious, so I go along with it."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

State Secrets

by shell

copyright 2001

I wake up one morning and Bill's already gotten out of bed. He's standing up by the window, naked, trying to wrestle the window closed. I have a wonderful view.

"You know, Bill, you have a great ass," I venture, sitting up and reaching for my glasses.

He laughs. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. It's weird that I got up before you for once. Would you like a closer view?"

"Please. I used to have a great ass," I say with a woeful sigh, "but it's going to take a whole hell of a lot of physical therapy before it approaches its former glory."

"Even out of shape, you're still fucking gorgeous, Tim. And at least you finally have a semi-regular leg again. I was fucking sick and tired of getting poked by your various frankenstein contraptions."

"Well, why don't you get that fine ass of yours over here and show me just how grateful you are that I'm reasonably whole again?"

"Why don't you get your battered bod over here and show me how much you like my ass?"

"Slavedriver."

"Wimp."

"All right, already." I reach for my cane and hobble over to the window, then wrap my arms around him, rubbing my erection against that fine piece of real estate. "You see what you've done to me?"

"I like what I've done to you."

"What else do you like about me? Because there's a lot I like about you, you know. Not just your ass."

He turns to face me. "I like your lips," he says, then kisses me. "You have wonderful lips. Not to mention your smile, your teeth, your whole fucking mouth. The first time I met you, when I saw you bite into that veggie pizza, I thought about how it would feel to have that mouth on mine."

"Happy to oblige," I murmur, suiting actions to words.

When I let him up for air, he says, "So, what else do you like about me, Secret Agent Man?"

"I don't know if I can tell you, Rock Star—it happens to be a state secret."

"Ah, but I have security clearance."

"Oh, well in that case, well, I guess I can't say your mouth, even though I love it, because you'll think I'm just stealing your line. I will admit that your fingers drive me wild."

I dip my head down and nibble on a callus, then suck the whole length of his finger in. He moans in response.

"Fuck, Tim, your mouth and my fingers are almost as good as your mouth and my dick."

"And that's almost as good as my dick and your fine ass," I say around his finger.

He shudders, says, "oh yeah," and turns to face the window again, rubbing up against me. I reach around the front of him for that other fine piece of real estate, hard and leaking already, just like mine, and bite the back of his neck gently.

"Where's the fucking lube, Tim?" he asks harshly. "Because I want you in me right now."

"I was kind of hoping you'd say that," I gasp, "because, see, I grabbed it off the nightstand on my way over here."

"Smart thinking, Murder Police."

"Hey, I'm, well, I was a detective. I deduced. And I'll let you in on another state secret, slavedriver."

"What's that, wimp?"

"When I bit into that pizza, I was thinking about something with a strong resemblance to the present situation."

And with that I work a couple fingers into him, not minding the ache from the way I'm standing. I know this is part of his evil plan to make me work, but it's also fucking glorious, so I go along with it. He rocks back against my fingers, almost knocks me over, but sure enough he knows exactly what he's doing, because a second later he's grabbing me and pulling me onto him so that he's supporting half my weight. He won't let me fall, never would let me fall, not even that horrible morning in Church Canyon. I kiss his neck tenderly to let him know how I feel, and he brings my hand up and kisses my knuckles, one by one. Those are shorthand for us, shorthand for the love we feel, even when we're too hot and bothered to say it out loud.

Then he brings my hand back down to his cock and presses back against me again, in shorthand of another kind. He's open and ready, so I withdraw my fingers and slowly press my way in, moaning as always at the tight heat of him. He wriggles and I rock until I'm all the way in, both of us groaning as I begin to slowly thrust. He thrusts into my hand as I'm moving back, and we get into that sweet harmony that's so easy with him, easier than it ever was with anyone else.

It doesn't take long before our rhythm speeds up, then stutters with the force of first my, then his, orgasm, and it's a good thing he got that window closed, because I think otherwise the nearest six houses would probably hear us, even surrounded by thick walls and vegetation. As it is, probably only the closest one can, but they've got to be used to us by now.

I'm relaxing a little, resting on Bill, waiting for our breathing to slow down, when my stupid leg decides it's had enough and just buckles on me. Normally I'd be able to rely on my left leg for some help, but everything's quivering after what we just did, so I just sort of completely fall on top of Bill. His legs must be quivering too, because this time it's too much (I do outweigh him by about forty pounds, after all), and before I know it we're both on the floor, laughing at each other.

"There's only so much weight I can support, Tim, especially after what you just did to me," he says when he can manage to talk again.

"Well, when you give me that kind of a workout, you've got to face the consequences," I shoot back at him, still laughing. We keep laughing all the way to the bathroom and into the shower.

END

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