Therapy

Disclaimers: Tim and Bill aren't mine.

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

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Part 1 of Moving On, which comes after Going Under and Comfort Food.

Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth, who keep me on the straight and narrow (yeah, right!).

Summary: "His body's getting stronger every day, but lately I can't help but think of him as fragile in some indefinable way."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Therapy

by shell

copyright 2001

The weeks after we get back from Baltimore and Chicago are pretty busy. Bill's in the studio every day, recording the new album. Sometimes I go with him, but he gets a little self-conscious when I'm there, especially when they're working on one of the songs he wrote, so usually I stay home. One is called "Adena's Song," which they're planning on releasing as the first single. It's a duet between Bill and Chelle, and the combination of his rough voice, her beautiful one, the bluesy music, and the words, sometimes mournful, sometimes angry—it's a fucking incredible song.

I'm still getting lots of phone calls from all sorts of people, although Mark's handling most of them. Some are pretty predictable—NBC keeps calling and asking if we'll be on Will and Grace—but some are a total shock. Like the ones from influential politicians—I've talked with Senators Lieberman, Feinstein, Kennedy, and more, and once even talked with a staffer at the White House. They all seem interested in some sort of photo op. I tell them if they work on passing legislation I support, like gun control, the environment, funding for children's programs, and the like, then I'll be happy to testify before whatever committee they want me to. Bush's office isn't overjoyed, but some of the Democrats promise to keep in touch. I'm not holding my breath.

I spend a lot of the time interviewing candidates for a job I haven't even put a title to yet—assistant doesn't seem quite right. I guess my official title is Director and Chairman of the Board, which so far consists of Bill, Chelle, Kat, and Mary Pembleton, who accepted when Frank turned me down. Alicia, while not on the Board, has been helping to set everything up. Bill's accountant's been a big help, too.

When they first told me about the Fund, when I first accepted the job, I really had no idea what I was getting myself into. I'm just beginning to realize. It sounds so nice and simple when you hear "this program is supported by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation" when you're listening to Weekend Edition or something. You don't think about 501(c)3 status, how to invest the endowment, how much will go to the endowment and how much to projects, which projects to fund—I haven't felt this ignorant since I started in homicide, and at least then I had a manual that I could pretend had some of the answers.

And the folks I'm interviewing—what a strange mix. Some of them are right out of college, full of ideals and enthusiasm, but without any more idea how to accomplish anything than I have. Some of them are the kind of Hollywood Wives I didn't think actually existed—filthy rich, bored, and extremely flirtatious. And some of them are just desperate for a job, willing to apply for anything. They're the ones I have the hardest time saying no to, but I know they're not what I need.

Finally, I see a resume that looks promising. Gwendolyn Fargut, a recent transplant from Rhode Island, where she was the Executive Director for the Rape Crisis Center. She has a masters in social work, she's worked in non-profits for fifteen years, and she's worked on orienting hotline volunteers. Frankly, she sounds too good to be true, but I call her up and invite her in for an interview.

Bill's actually home when she gets there—apparently they're doing vocal overdubs in the studio today and don't need him until later—so he answers the door. We've turned one of the guest rooms into my office, and I'm engrossed in a web site on non-profit management when he brings her in.

I find myself faced with a tall, imposing, rather fierce looking African American woman, who walks with a cane. I like her immediately. She reminds me of Frank. I talk to her for about five minutes before I decide to hire her.

It turns out she's moved out here to care for her father, who's dying of prostate cancer. I assure her that flexible hours are not a problem, and she starts the next day, whipping both me and the Fund into shape. She does have a lot in common with Frank—she's tough, honest, ethical, and challenging—but she's also got an incredible warmth and gentleness, and the kind of emotional availability that's absolutely essential for working with abused kids.

Once she's on board, I finally start to get a handle on things. She's a little impatient with me at times, and the office seems mighty small some days, but in general, things are going very well with the Adena Watson Fund. Which is a good thing, because other things go to hell the week after Gwen starts.

Bill's been trucking me out to see the orthopedist every week, and they're finally ready to take off the fixators. I'm scheduled for one more surgery, this time as an outpatient, with a spinal—everything is supposed to be simple and easy compared to what we've already been through. They'll just give me the spinal, and then they'll take out the pins. No big deal.

We both end up wishing we'd just flown back to Phoenix.

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We manage to finish recording the night before Tim's surgery, late. What with the Lakers game getting out, it takes me almost two hours to get home. We're both a little nervous, too, so by the time we get to sleep, it's after three—and we have to be at the hospital at 7.

Things go from bad to worse the next morning. Now I don't have a whole lot of experience with what I guess you'd call your ordinary, every day hospital. I have a lot of experience of how things should be, which is the way they were at Good Sam in Phoenix. I knew 7 North was a special place while I was there, but I don't think I realized how special until I was faced with the idiocy of a normal hospital.

First is the stupidity of checking in, which takes longer and requires more fucking forms than I had to fill out for my green card. Once they're finally satisfied that a) Tim is who we say he is, b) he is, in fact, scheduled for surgery, and of course, c) he has health insurance, they lead Tim away to "pre-op." I don't see him again for six fucking hours, and I think only then because they're afraid of what I'll do if they make me wait any longer.

He looks awful. He's pale, he's in pain, and he can barely keep his eyes open. And he's getting a fucking blood transfusion. There doesn't seem to be anyone around who either knows or gives a fuck about what's going on, and I'm about to go fucking ballistic.

Tim tells me what little he knows. They had a resident doing the spinal, and the guy botched it—it never took effect, and they ended up giving him a general. He thinks he remembers someone in recovery telling him something about nicking an artery during the surgery, which is why he's getting blood. They're giving him demerol instead of morphine, and it's making him puke, so he's not using his PCA. Patient controlled analgesia isn't worth a fuck if it makes you puke. He's got a foley in again, and he thinks they're going to keep him a couple days.

Not if I have anything to say about it. I round up a nurse, make sure he's reasonably comfortable, then step outside for a smoke and to use the cell phone. Marilyn picks up on the second ring—I promised her I would let her know how things went, and she's been waiting and worrying. I give her the run-down, and she's none too happy to hear it. She's at the hospital, so she tells me to hold on for a second while she pages Dr. Taggert. A minute later he's on the phone with me, agreeing to accept Tim as a patient if we can get him there safely, although he urges me to work with the staff in California if I can. I get his pager number for the orthopedist here and go back inside.

The nurse doesn't believe me at first when I tell her I need to talk to the chief of orthopedics about a transfer. Once I convince her I'm serious, things start happening. Tim's transferred from recovery to a private room in the VIP area. I'm given a free dinner, told I can spend the night if I want, like they could fucking stop me. His PCA gets switched to morphine, and they give him some Reglan for his nausea. And the chief apologizes to me, tries to explain what happened without sounding like they fucked up, even though we both know they did. I guess the hospital wouldn't like the kind of publicity they'd get if Billy Tallent transferred the FBI hero back to Phoenix because he was getting inferior care in California.

By this point I've run out of steam a little, and Tim's asleep, so I finally agree that we'll stay the night, but only if the docs here do some heavy phone consultations with Taggert, and only if I can take an active role in his care. They're ready to agree to just about anything by now. I even get Tim's new nurse, Sandy, on the phone with Marilyn. I'm getting a lot of dirty looks when they think I can't see, but I don't give a shit—not as long as Tim's getting what he needs.

It's only then that I remember to call Virginia—fortunately she hasn't been too worried, thought the surgery was scheduled a few hours later. She promises to call Frank, and I make a quick call to St. George to let the girls know he's okay. Then I call Billie, and then I fall asleep in the chair next to Tim's bed.

Things get better for awhile after that, but very slowly. Tim ends up staying for another couple nights and getting some antibiotics. He starts some pretty intense physical therapy—first they put him in this contraption that passively flexes his knee—doesn't sound like much, but it's definitely another orthopedic torture device. He does a little weight bearing the day I take him home, but he's still pretty much dependent on the crutches and wheelchair.

For the next month, PT comes to the house every day and works with Tim for at least two hours. At the end of each session, he's soaked in sweat and completely wiped out. But by the end of that first month, he's not using the crutches anymore—just the cane. And he's finally starting to fill out a little, get some muscle back on those long bones of his.

His chest and arms are already in pretty good shape from all the upper body work he's had to do just to get around. He complains about his legs and his ass all the time, but I'm just enjoying the solid feel of him these days, with nothing hooked into his body except me, as often as possible. Yeah, I make him do physical therapy, too, get him sweaty, wipe him out. Mine is much more fun, though.

Gwen's taken over a lot of the day to day management of the Fund, and we've finally gotten some office space for her, Tim, and an increasing number of volunteers. That part of our life, at least, is running smoothly.

There's more trouble on the horizon, though. Our weekly phone conversations with Ruth and Sarah have gotten pretty stressful. Ruth's gotten even quieter, and Sarah's gotten a lot louder. She tells us every week how much she hates it there. Last week she threatened to run away, but Tim managed to talk her out of it. He also managed to wrangle another visit, this time just for the weekend, over the foster parents' objections. That's not for another couple weeks, though.

Ruth and Sarah still don't know about Tim's application to become their foster parent. It's a pretty dicey situation—different laws in different states, the fact that he's bisexual, plus the fact that he was "married" to them both, although Karen, the lawyer Alicia hooked us up with, is trying to use that to our advantage—show that Tim was actually acting in loco parentis when the girls were living with him. Of course, he's got some positives on his side, too—the fact that he's a fucking national hero, that he's been decorated numerous times as a police officer, that he's heading up the Watson Fund, and that he's got some important people willing to speak up for him.

Karen says we've got a 50-50 shot at best. Tim doesn't want to say anything to the girls until it's a sure thing, and this whole mess is tearing him up pretty badly. When there's good news, he does pretty well. When he gets off the phone with the girls, or when he hears about some particularly horrific case at the Fund, he gets quiet and has nightmares. He's finally seeing a therapist, but sometimes he comes home from that pretty shook up.

There's also the fact that I'm gone a lot now—we're touring to support the new album. Kat and Chelle understand that I want to spend as much time at home as I can, but they're also really focused on doing as many dates as we can now, so that we'll be able to take time off later.

They do insist on being home once a month, when Kat goes in to the doctor's office for another insemination attempt, but the fact that she's not pregnant yet has both of them on edge as well. I made a joke about using David Crosby as a donor instead of the sperm bank, and they practically bit my head off. I guess I should be glad they haven't asked me or Tim to donate.

Tomorrow we leave for a week and a half—the longest I'll be away from Tim since he got out of the Canyon. Gwen's agreed to pick him up and take him to the office each day, since his leg's not strong enough to drive yet, and Gloria's available to take him to the store, to the therapist, run some errands, that sort of thing.

He says he'll be fine, but I'm still worried. His body's getting stronger every day, but lately I can't help but think of him as fragile in some indefinable way. The fact that he has a nightmare the night before I leave doesn't make me feel any better about going, but he insists again that he's fine, reminds me that I've missed being on stage, and that we've been separated a lot longer than that before. And I can't very well stay home on some sort of vague feeling, so in the morning I'll be off. Fuck.

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I can tell Bill doesn't want to leave, and it takes all my self-control to hide how much I want him to stay. I don't know what's wrong with me lately—physical therapy, while still torture, has had noticeable results. I don't need the crutches anymore, and I can walk further every week. The pain's a little less when I bend my knee, the last spots where the pins were are scarred over and no longer irritated, and, while I still get tired more easily than I can believe, I no longer fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I'm with Bill, I love him more every day, work with the Fund is going better than expected. Some days I feel happy, the same joy, contentment, fulfillment that I felt when we first came home. Other days...

Other days I have to watch myself. Stop myself from sniping at Gwen, at Bill, at everyone. Stop myself from screaming in frustration at how long it takes me to get anywhere, even to the kitchen for a fucking glass of milk. Stop myself from shaking when I read about one more group needing money to help kids abused in ways even I, a former murder police, never knew they could be. I try meditating, but it doesn't seem to help—when I'm in that state, being in the moment seems impossible.

Bill's gotten me seeing a therapist, a young man named Stuart, only out of school a couple years. Stuart's everything I suppose a therapist is supposed to be—kind, caring, non-judgmental, supportive, all that. And some of the things he's come up with have been truly helpful. I've told him nearly everything—all about my childhood, in endless detail, not just about George, but a lot about my father as well. I've told him about Adena Watson, Janelle Parsons, all the murdered children. I've told him about the shooting, about partnering with Frank, about killing Larry Moss. I've told him about robbing that damned convenience store, something I've never even thought of mentioning to Bill. I've told him about Church Canyon. About the website. About Gee's murder.

But I haven't told him about Ryland. Oh, he knows about the internet murders, how I was outed, even how Ryland got off and how I hit Danvers. He even knows Ryland was killed, and that I went on a leave of absence right after that. Hell, maybe he's figured it out. But I can't bring myself to tell him. And he definitely knows I'm holding something back—has asked me about it more than once. So far he's been willing to accept that I'm not going to tell him, but I know it's affecting our relationship, if that's what you call what goes on between a therapist and his—what? Client? Patient? Who the fuck knows.

And I can't say it's not affecting me. God knows I don't want it to—don't I have enough shit to deal with already? Except, of course, I brought this shit on myself. So sometimes, when Bill's gone, and I'm alone in our bed, I can't sleep. I don't have nightmares about Ryland. I just can't get to sleep, can't stay asleep, don't want to get out of bed. It only happens when Bill's gone, and I haven't really told him about it. He worries about me too much already. I'm finally beginning to see what Frank meant about me being too much of a mother hen after his stroke.

So maybe I should talk to Stuart about it. About what I did. Sometimes, though, I don't know how I ever managed to tell Frank, much less Bill. The idea of telling Stuart fucking terrifies me. I know about patient-doctor privilege, confidentiality, and all that, but I also know that there are limits to those sorts of things. Like when someone is dangerous. And I was dangerous, no doubt about that. I don't think I am anymore, but who am I to judge? If anyone had tried to tell me, even a few weeks before it happened, that I would be capable of what I did—of murder—I would have laughed in their face.

Of course, I never would have believed I was capable of pulling my gun on a convenience store owner over 11 fucking cents, either, until I did it.

I meant it when I told Bill I hated getting angry at him. My anger's not safe.

Shit, I guess I do need to talk to Stuart about this.

But that's easier said than done, and the next day, as I sit on the comfortable sofa in his comfortable office, with the little Zen garden next to me and the soothing prints on the wall, I find it difficult to say a single word. Finally I get out that I'm having trouble sleeping while Bill's out of town.

"More nightmares?" he asks.

"Uh, no. Just can't sleep."

"That's a different pattern for you. How long has this been going on?"

"A few weeks, off and on. It only happens when Bill's gone."

"I see. What do you do when you can't sleep?"

"Sometimes I read, or watch tv. Sometimes I just stare at the ceiling."

"What do you think about?"

"Luke Ryland." I don't even realize I've said his name out loud for a minute. Then I look up and see Stuart's professional, concerned face. He doesn't look upset, or scared, just curious. Of course, I haven't really said anything yet that would scare him.

"You think about Luke Ryland when you can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"Look, Stuart—fuck. I know I probably—I need to tell you about something, but I need to clarify something first."

"Okay."

"The whole therapist-client confidentiality thing."

"Whatever you tell me, no matter what it is, remains confidential."

"Like attorney-client privilege, right?"

"Yes, like that."

"So when I told you about robbing that convenience store—"

"If there's a court order, or someone subpoenas your records, I have to give them up, unless you apply for protection. But I don't keep very detailed records, and as you know, I don't tape our sessions. It doesn't matter what you tell me, Tim, unless I think you're a significant danger to yourself or someone else. And even if I see that danger, that doesn't give me the right to tell the police, for example, or your former boss at the FBI. It just means I could order you committed to an institution for further evaluation, or that I have to take action if I think you're going to hurt someone. Are you thinking about killing yourself, Tim?"

"No! No, I'm not." I promised Bill, and I meant it.

"Are you thinking about hurting someone else?"

"No. Not now."

"At some point in the past?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I—I went to his house, after the trial. I told him I was going to be watching him, to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else. And he told me about how he was moving to New Orleans, where the women were easy, that I'd see it on the internet. And then he turned around and walked away."

"What happened then?"

"I went home. And when it was dark—"

"When it was dark," Stuart prompted calmly.

"I went back. And I shot him."

Stuart pauses a moment, takes a breath, nods. Maybe he had figured it out already. "How did that feel?"

"It felt—it felt good, great, actually, for a second, and then it felt fucking awful, but it was done, it was over. He couldn't hurt anyone anymore."

"And how does it feel now?"

"Now?"

"When you're thinking about him, when you can't sleep, what do you feel, Tim?"

"Guilty."

"And?"

"Angry."

"Anything else?"

"Look, how can you just sit there so calmly and ask me about my feelings?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just told you I fucking killed someone, Stuart!"

"And I should feel?"

"Disgusted! Disappointed. Afraid."

"Are you feeling afraid or disgusted?"

"Of course I am!"

"What are you afraid of?"

I couldn't say anything. Stuart just waits. Finally, I manage to say, "I'm not sure." What a fucking brilliant answer.

Stuart waits some more. And then he says, "I think you know, Tim. What are you afraid of?"

"My anger."

He nods. "What about your anger?"

"Well, isn't that obvious? When I get angry—when I get angry, bad things happen. I—I do things. Bad things."

"Let me ask you something, Tim. You got angry at Bill that night in Baltimore, right? Did you do anything bad to him?"

"I—I yelled at him. Grabbed him. I think I shook him a little."

"Did you hurt him?"

"No."

"Okay, here's another one. When you confronted your uncle, what did you do?"

"I see where you're going with this, Stu, but—"

He interrupts me. "Tim, did you hurt your uncle?"

"No. No, I didn't hurt him."

"And when Sarah was raped, what did you do?"

"I kept track of the fucking evidence, and I tried to help her cope." This is pissing me off.

"And when Lieutenant Giardello was shot?"

"I worked the fucking case, but—"

"What about when you had to let the Araber go?"

"Look, goddammit, just because I don't always go off the fucking deep end doesn't mean I couldn't do it again!"

"You're right, Tim. So what was different? What was different when you hit Danvers and then killed Ryland? What was the difference between confronting him and confronting your uncle?"

"I have no fucking idea!"

"Well, maybe that's what you need to be thinking about. Why don't you spend some time this week thinking about it."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What did you expect me to say?"

"I don't know—something about being shocked, or upset, or something, I don't know! Jesus, Stuart!"

"Tim, have you told anyone else about killing Ryland?"

"I told Frank—right before I gave him my badge. He almost turned me in. And I told Bill, in the hospital, when Frank came to visit me there. And now you."

"When you told Frank, was he shocked and upset?"

"Of course he was! He didn't want to believe it, and then he didn't know what to do about it, and I told him I was gonna eat my gun unless he either absolved me or arrested me, but he managed to talk me out of it."

"And this was when you quit homicide?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought about killing yourself before?"

"I don't know—maybe. Bill says he thinks I have a death wish, that that's why I joined the FBI and went undercover."

"What do you think?"

"How did I know you were going to ask me that? Um, I guess I haven't really thought about it much. But I guess—well, I was willing to take a bullet for Frank, and I was willing to die in Church Canyon, as long as Sarah and Ruth were safe, and the bureau got the evidence it needed. And before I was in homicide, I was with the QRT team and the Mayor's security detail, which were pretty high-risk jobs. I never consciously thought about it, though. Even when I was talking to Frank that night, I didn't know I was going to say it until I did."

"What about when you were a child?"

"Yeah, sure, I thought about it. Especially after I finally told my father about Uncle George, and he didn't believe me. The next few years, until he finally stopped, I thought about it a lot."

I look up, and Stuart's got a serious expression on his face, more so than usual. When he catches my eye, he nods, like he wants me to get something.

"How soon after the Ryland case did you shoot that homeless man?" he asks me.

"Just a few weeks later."

"So, just after you were outed to the department, you killed someone and suffered a crisis in your faith. And that was right around the time that cop you were interested in, what was his name?"

"Roger Fisk."

"Roger Fisk. This was when?"

"About a week before I killed Larry Moss."

"So, you were outed to the department, called a faggot by someone you were interested in, a monk you knew and respected was murdered, and you killed his murderer in self-defense, all within, what? Six weeks or so? And then, what, another six weeks later, Ryland gets out?"

"Yes."

"People you trusted, like Giardello and Danvers, let you down. Your partner left you. You lost your faith. You'd been shot and seriously wounded less than a year before, after witnessing three officers being killed and three detectives wounded, due in part to your partner's inability to fire his weapon, which also caused your own injury."

"Yeah."

"A pretty traumatic year. A very traumatic couple of months. A lot of people, even people who hadn't been through childhood sexual abuse, not to mention the stress of homicide, would be depressed, anxious, suffering from post-traumatic stress, maybe even suicidal, after a year like that."

"But I didn't shoot myself—I shot Ryland."

He nods, and we just look at each other for a long moment.

"I think that's enough for today. Listen, I know we've been meeting once a week, and that's been working pretty well, but we've opened up some major stuff today, and it might be that we'll need to meet more frequently for awhile. What do you think?"

"Uh—maybe. I don't know."

"I'll tell you what. Maybe you need some time to think all this over. Why don't we keep next week's appointment for now. But Tim, you may find that in a couple days, you have a lot going on, maybe need to talk to me again. If that happens, please call me, and I'll squeeze you in, okay?"

"All right." I wonder if I look as shell-shocked as I feel.

"Tim, you do have the emergency number, don't you?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I've got it."

"This is very important, Tim. If you start to feel really badly, like you need to get away, or even start thinking about hurting yourself, you have to call me, okay?"

"Of course. I really don't think that's going to happen, though."

He nods again, still looking at me intently. "When is Bill coming home?"

"A week from tomorrow. But I talk to him every day."

"All right. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Really. I'll see you next week."

"All right. I'll call you tomorrow, see how you're doing."

"That's not necessary."

"Humor me." I meet his eyes again, see the same professional concern I always see, and a little more weight drops off my shoulders. I nod.

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Tim was a little quiet last night when I talked to him before the show. He insisted he was just tired from PT, but I could tell something was bothering him, probably a nightmare, which I know he has more of when I'm gone. I didn't press him on it, though, because I was pretty fucking tired myself—turns out I don't sleep that well without him either.

Okay, it might have had something to do with the crowd of right wingers that were protesting in front of the arena. We've had some problems with them before, ever since Kat and Chelle came out, but it's worse now, and it's harder for me, at least, to ignore than it used to be. The local cops and the feds both keep a pretty close eye on stuff like that these days, and security back stage is extremely tight, which only serves to remind me of why we've got all that extra security. Tim and I have gotten a couple death threats, serious ones, from members of Eisen's church. So far the feds have managed to arrest the suspects. So far.

Fuck.

Tonight we're in Detroit, on the eastern time zone. I usually wait until after the show to call him when there's this much of a time difference, but right now I'd really like to hear his voice, so I go ahead.

The phone rings a long time—the machine's about to pick up when he finally answers, out of breath.

"Hi, Bill." Yeah, we have caller ID, okay?

"Greetings from the Motor City."

"What's the weather like up north?"

"Cold. A little snow, not too bad. The sun's been out."

"We actually had a few clouds today. It was a nice change. How was the concert last night?"

"Good. Really fucking good, actually. Deeja is a vast improvement over Doug, that's for damn sure. How are you doing? Where were you, anyway?"

"In the shower. I went for a walk after PT."

"So, exactly what are you wearing right now, Secret Agent Man?"

He laughs. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I was already getting dressed when I heard the phone. I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, not a towel. But feel free to imagine me any way you want."

"I do, quite frequently. But I much prefer the original. You sound better today."

"Slept a little better last night. Had a good session with Stuart yesterday."

"What about?"

"Uh, Ryland, actually."

"You told him?" Jesus.

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"Um, well, he actually implied that I'd made a choice between killing myself and killing Ryland. Because I was depressed."

"Makes a lot of sense."

"I wasn't sure, at first, but yeah, maybe it does."

"Fuck maybe."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck, I miss you."

"Shit, Tim, I miss you, too. Every minute, even when I'm up there playing."

"One more week."

"One more week."

"Bill—" his voice catches.

"What is it, Tim?"

"I think—you were right, that day in Phoenix, in the hospital. If I hadn't met you when I did, Bill—shit. Thank you. For saving my life, more than once, in more than one way."

"You made another choice, Tim. You gonna keep making it?"

"Hell yes."

"You gonna keep making it?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"That's buddies."

"You and me, talking, no holding back. I love you."

"You and me. Love you, Tim."

"Go kick some ass for those Motown kids. Call me after the show?"

"Better believe it. Talk to you later."

And after I hang up, I feel better than I've felt in days.

END

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