Touring's a Bomb

Disclaimers: They're not mine. Wish they were. I wanted Kyle Secor for my birthday, but I didn't get him.

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Part 2 of Moving On, after Therapy

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

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

Rating: NC17. There be sex here.

Summary: "Every once in awhile I catch myself thinking about Joe, about how he would have reacted to all this shit."

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Touring's a Bomb

by shell

copyright 2001

We go from Detroit to Cleveland, then Cincinnati, then Nashville. Each show gets better—we're comfortable with the new songs now, and the audience is really into them as well, which is great. I'm doing the fucking bandaids practically every night. There are protesters in Cincinnati, some media coverage of local homophobes picketing the arena, but there aren't any major problems. We stay in a small town near Dayton, at Deeja's suggestion—she went to school in Ohio. So we stay in Yellow Springs, a haven of progressives in southern Ohio. That's pretty much the last place on the tour where I feel reasonably comfortable. Fucking Bible belt starts as soon as you get south of Cleveland.

We're doing "Adena's Song" as our first encore, and the response is fucking phenomenal, even though it's not going to be officially released for another couple weeks. We're doing a video a couple days after we get back—Tim's going to introduce the song, and he'll be in the video as well, but it will mostly be pictures of kids, including the song's namesake. We've been collecting pictures, videotapes, and permission through the Fund for the past few weeks.

Bruce McDonald actually called a month ago, the prick. Offered to direct a video for the band. I told him to fuck off.

Every once in awhile I catch myself thinking about Joe, about how he would have reacted to all this shit. We never talked about it, but I knew he'd been fucked with by his dad. He didn't have the obvious bruises and cuts that I was always sporting, and he was big—by the time I met him, even though he was only 13, his dad acted a little scared of him—but I think when he was younger, some heavy shit went down in the Mulgrew house. And I think he acted all that out again with me, because I was smaller and quieter. And because that was all he fucking knew.

If he hadn't killed himself, would we have ever worked things out, gotten to a place where we could allow ourselves to love each other? The older I get, the less I think it would have been possible. His death was such a fucking huge blow that it finally forced me to live my own life. If he were still alive, I'd still be in his orbit, still reacting to him, still hearing his voice at every turn, whether we were together or not. The five years I spent in LA after leaving the first time were like that—yeah, I managed to quit drinking, to get decent jobs, to live alone, but everything I did was in reaction to Joe. Even a year ago, when I first met Tim, I still heard that voice every day—I was just a lot better at ignoring it. Now, I hear it only occasionally, like when I've done something stupid. For years I didn't go five minutes without thinking of the Dick, but now it's a rare day when he's in my thoughts.

And if he'd lived, if he were still in my life, I never would have found Tim. We might have met, and I'd have been attracted, no question, but Joe—Joe would probably have beat him within an inch of his life for even looking at me. He would have known Tim was serious competition, more serious than Mary or anyone else I'd ever met.

I made my choice, and Joe made his. And I try not to feel guilty about that, because I know the life I have now, this fucking amazing life, wouldn't be possible if Joe were alive. I'm glad I knew him, glad I loved him—I think I'd have killed myself, intentionally or by accident, if he hadn't gotten me out of my father's house—but I'm fucking glad he's dead.

I'm thinking all this deep philosophical shit, as Tim would call it, sitting in the cushy tour bus, a far cry from the goat van, on the road between Nashville and Atlanta, where we'll be playing tonight. We're in the mountains, the Great Smokies, and the scene out my window alternates between beauty and ugliness—trees and mountains and mist, and then billboards, billboards, and more fucking billboards.

Jesus, I've lived in this country for over ten years now, but I will never understand the American South. Atlanta's not too bad—it's fairly sophisticated—but after that we're heading to Charleston, which at least is beautiful, New Orleans, which is all right, but not the easiest place for a fucking alcoholic—but then we're ending this tour in Montgomery. Montgomery, Alabama—I don't know how there could be any Jenifur fans there, but they tell me the show's sold out.

Deeja comes over to talk. Turns out she wants to hear some Hard Core Logo, wants to know where I've come from as a musician, so I dig through my shit and come up with a couple tapes. Some folks in Canada are talking about releasing a compilation album, but I don't know if that's going to happen or not. Deeja and I talk for a while. She's a cool kid—only 25, but she's got a shitload of talent, energy, and ambition, not to mention being really fucking smart. She's got the education to back it up—has a four year degree from Oberlin College. She went out there when we were in Cleveland, brought some friends backstage that night, all really fucking bright and enthusiastic.

I find myself telling Deeja a bit about Joe, end up talking about those long nights in the fucking hellhole of a van, and before I know it we're playing the movie game. She's seen a lot of movies, good ones, so it's a good game. As we're pulling up to the hotel, she tells me she appreciates the conversation, that she's been feeling a little like the new kid, but I've made her feel more welcome. Then she gives me a hug and tells me it's too bad I'm spoken for. I laugh.

"Deej, you're just going to have to bear the burden of being the token heterosexual, whether you like it or not." She laughs too, and Chelle and Kat look a little curiously at us as we get off the bus.

A couple days later I notice what a change there's been. When I first joined the band, I was so fucked up over Joe and quitting drinking and everything else, I shut everyone out. Chelle and Kat were supportive, but they spent most of their time together. I liked being the outsider back then, and I never really formed an attachment to any of the other members that came and went over the next few years. Chelle and Kat became good friends, but when we were on the road or recording or rehearsing, our relationship was basically professional. It was only on those rare occasions when they'd invite me over for dinner, or come over to visit Billie, that our conversations were about anything other than the music, the album, the tour, the job. On the tour bus, especially the last tour, Kat and Chelle did their thing, together, Doug acted like the asshole he was, and I stayed off to the side.

Now, though, for the first fucking time, there's a real camaraderie going on. Deej and I spend long hours talking, singing, playing word games, and the other two get involved too. The four of us sit closer together in the bus, and we hang out with each other in the hotel instead of keeping to our rooms. We're developing a short hand, in-jokes, a feeling that, for once, the whole is greater than the sum of parts. It's why our shows have been going so well—that's where it gelled first, we just didn't realize it. Deeja and I will pick out a movie, and the four of us will watch it together as we roll down the highway. It's like she's gotten us out of a rut we didn't even know we were in—we'd busted out of it musically, starting last summer, but now we're getting out in other ways. Feels good.

So I'm in a good mood that night after the show when I call Tim.

"Hi, Rock Star," he says, and he sounds pretty happy, too.

"Hi yourself, Secret Agent Man."

"You must have had a good show—you sound great."

"We had a fucking great show. Tim, I have to tell you, things have been fucking fantastic with Deeja in the band. You sound like you're doing well, too—what's up?"

"I got some really good news today. The paperwork's through, and I'm officially approved as a foster parent in California. I still have to attend a couple more classes, but they're just a formality."

"Fuck, Tim, that's great news. What's the next step?"

"Karen's filing with the state of Utah next week. We'll be getting together amicus briefs and calling in all the favors we can, but it's still a long shot. I think we'll be able to tell the girls what's been going on when they get here. I just hope they won't be too disappointed if it doesn't work out."

"It'll mean a lot to them that you tried, no matter what. And maybe there are some other options, things we haven't thought of yet. Shit, maybe we won't need to do anything else—maybe this will just happen."

"I hope so. I'm worried about them—Sarah's really angry, and Ruth seems like she's just shutting down."

"We'll get a chance to talk to them over the weekend. It'll work out, Tim."

"I was thinking we could take them out to Channel Islands National Park—they could get stamps for their parks' passports, and spend some time out on the ocean. I won't be up for a whole lot of hiking, and it sounds like sea kayaking is pretty tough, but we could still make a day of it, do some bird watching, a little hiking—what do you think?"

"I think you're bound and determined to turn me into Nature Boy."

"What's wrong with turning you into Nature Boy? Fresh air, sunshine, wildlife—it's good for you to experience new things. Besides, you need to get in practice before we go to the Grand Canyon in September."

"It sounds great, Tim."

"Good, because I already made reservations for a boat tour and a Ranger-led hike."

"Fine. But remember, I promised Sarah I'd take her to Venice Beach to go shopping."

"No problem—you can do that when Ruth and I are at the movies."

"That'll work. You know we'll have to take Billie when she comes—she'll be jealous if we don't."

"Think you can handle that, Nature Boy?"

"You could probably find a way to persuade me."

"I've got a few ideas."

"You know, sublimating my libido into my guitar playing will only work for so long—I don't think it would take much to persuade me right now."

"Tell me about it. Physical therapy's no fun without you."

"I'll be home soon, wuss, so you'd better get in shape. You sleeping okay?"

"Yeah, pretty well. No nightmares."

"Have you been back to see Stuart?"

"No, that's tomorrow. How have you been sleeping?"

"Like shit. You'd think I'd appreciate the fact that there's actually room in the bed for me, but no such luck—I've gotten used to having you in there with me, taking up more room than I ever thought was possible for a normal human."

"Who wants to be normal? Maybe sometime I'll go with you on tour, keep an eye on you, make sure you're not getting any groupie sex."

"You've spoiled me for that, Tim. I want nothing but the best now. Men, women, boys, girls, they all want me, but I turn them all down. You'd better watch out when I get home."

"You're the one who's gonna have to watch out, Bill. I'm like the Six Million Dollar Man—they've rebuilt me, and I'm stronger, faster, have more stamina. I'm gonna wear you out."

"You can try. Love you."

"I love you too, putz. Sleep well."

"You too. See you in a few days."

I hang up the phone and just sit there for a minute, missing him. Then I hear someone clearing their throat behind me. I turn around and Deeja's standing there, looking a little embarrassed.

"Hey, Deej, what's up?"

"Uh, guess you were just on the phone with Tim, huh?"

"Guilty as charged," I say with a grin.

"You guys are the real thing, aren't you?" she asks, smiling back, a little sadly.

"Who'd have figured, huh?" And then we head back to the hotel. She invites me to join her in the bar, but I tell her no thanks. I guess it's not easy being the only single person in the band—she doesn't seem the type to go for groupies, which is probably for the best, but it must be hard sometimes. Tonight, I don't feel like hanging out—I just go back to my room and picture Tim naked. Among other things.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next session with Stuart goes well. I feel like I'm really making progress for the first time since—well, since I told Bill in the hospital. I'm still a little freaked by having told Stuart, even though he told me today that he "had a strong suspicion already" that I knew more about Ryland's death than I was letting on. He warns me that I still have a lot of work to do, that this will continue to affect me, and I know it's true, but for now it feels great to have gotten to some new place with all this shit. I do feel like I've been rebuilt—like I've rebuilt myself into a new person over the last year. I felt a little like this when I became a Buddhist, but this feels deeper, more real.

We spent some time today talking about parenthood, about the way my life will change if and when Ruth and Sarah come to live with us. We also talked about how I'm going to tell the girls about my petition, and how we'll all handle it if I lose. All very good, practical stuff to go over, which somehow isn't what I ever expected from a therapist.

Bill's on the road between somewhere and Alabama—I can't keep track of where he is when. I do know the last concert is tomorrow, in Montgomery. It's hard to picture Bill there, and I know he's not thrilled about it—the last time they played the deep south, there were protesters at every show, and that was before he was with me.

I've been on the phone with the Bureau a few times already this week—there's been another death threat, and they haven't been able to trace it yet. I haven't told Bill—it's so great to hear his voice every night, and I don't want to spoil our conversations with bad news. I'll tell him when he gets home. Maybe they'll catch the asswipe by then. Maybe it should bother me more than it does, but after everything that's already happened, I find it hard to spend a lot of time worrying about it, especially when Bill's gone. I know he's safe, and I know I've got my gun and regular patrols driving by, and that feels like enough.

Work at the Fund is going well this week. Even though the album's not going to be released for another month, there's already a buzz around it and "Adena's Song." Mark emails me copies of reviews in all the towns Jenifur plays, and they're all positive, filled with praise for the new songs. He says MTV called and wanted to do a "Making of the Video." The band hasn't decided yet if they're going to do it or not—they're getting a lot of pressure from the label, so they might go ahead with it.

Paula's been and gone, and I'm trying to get into child's pose again, something that used to be so easy and is now fucking impossible, when the phone rings.

"Hello?" I'm panting a little from the combination of yoga and trying to get to the phone.

"Tim, are you okay?" It's Bartlett.

"Yeah, I'm fine—was just doing some yoga, so I'm a little out of breath. What's up?"

"I wanted to give you a head's up about the situation in Montgomery," he says.

"There's a situation in Montgomery?"

"I'm sorry, I thought Bill told you—"

"I haven't talked to Bill since last night, Fred—what's the situation in Montgomery?"

"We don't have anything concrete at this point, but we've noticed some increased activity in some of the hate groups down there, and we think they might be planning something for tomorrow night."

"Something like a protest, or something else?"

"We really don't know yet. We've got several agents working on it, but we don't know anything solid. I just wanted to let you know that we've got a couple agents with the band, and one will be with Bill at all times."

"Wait—Fred, are you telling me you think this is specifically aimed against Bill? It's not 'get the dykes and the nigger and the faggot' this time, like the protesters in Cincinnati and Charleston, it's Bill in particular?"

There's an uncomfortable pause before he answers. "I want to stress again that we don't know anything for sure at this point, Tim. But we have reason to suspect that some of Eisen's group may be involved." Fuck.

"So they are targeting Bill."

"And probably you as well. I'm arranging for 24 hour surveillance of the house, just in case, and I've let the police know they need to be on alert. Is there anyone staying with you?"

"No, not at night. Folks come by during the day—my assistant picks me up, takes me to the office, stuff like that."

"We'll get someone to follow you, probably someone local. You have a concealed weapons permit?"

"Yeah, but I usually leave the gun at home."

"Humor me and take it with you."

"You're really concerned."

"Until we have that death threat traced and know exactly what's going on in Alabama, yes, Tim, I'm concerned. I don't think you need to be wearing a vest, but I think you need to be careful."

"Okay, okay. I don't think Gwen will be too happy about it, but I'll carry it. Jesus, Fred—make sure Bill is safe. Even after everything that happened, I don't think he realizes what these sick fucks could do."

"We'll keep him safe, Tim. I give you my word. And we'll keep you safe too."

"What about Sarah and Ruth? They're not in any danger, are they?"

"None of the threats have even mentioned them, and neither have any of the statements Eisen and his supporters have made. We've got the St. George police keeping an eye out, but I don't think you have anything to worry about there."

"Good. You'll keep me up to date?"

"Count on it. We'll get them, Tim. Eisen's organization's falling apart—this might be a last-ditch effort to keep it going, but it's not going to work."

I'm feeling a little shaky as I get off the phone, go into the bedroom, and get my gun out of the safe. Then I remember I'm still in my shorts, need to take a shower, but first I call Bill. He reassures me that everything's fine, but I know I'm not going to rest easy until he's home.

It feels melodramatic, but that night I sleep with the fucking gun in the nightstand. Gwen gives me a concerned look the next day when I take off my jacket and she sees it holstered at my hip, but she knows enough of what's been going on that she doesn't say a word.

Bill calls the office that morning. There's been a bomb threat targeting the arena where Jenifur's supposed to perform. They're going over the place with a fine tooth comb and are hoping to hold the concert as scheduled, but he might end up staying over another day so they can perform the next night instead. He says Deeja is making up new verses to "We Shall Overcome" about religious fundamentalists and psycho cults, trying to make them laugh, while Kat and Chelle are bemoaning the state of the country their child will grow up in. They think she might actually be pregnant this time, and apparently they're taking everyone along on their emotional rollercoaster. He says he thinks Deeja is more freaked out than she's letting on, but for the most part they're all still in pretty good spirits.

It's good to hear his voice. We're both pretending we're not too worried, neither of us fooling the other, but content with the fiction.

The rest of the day goes by quickly—Gwen and I work on the wording for the video introduction, then look through grant applications and financial records. I spend some time talking with her about Sarah and Ruth, and she gives me a name of a therapist she thinks would be a good match for Sarah. Then there's the drive home, physical therapy, shower, and dinner. Bill calls while I'm in the shower. He leaves a message—the concert's definitely been canceled, but they're still not sure whether they're going to reschedule for tomorrow night. He's not sure when they'll figure it out, and they want him to keep the phone lines open, so he'll call in the morning.

The agents watching the house introduce themselves, then go back to their posts. The Beverly Hills police drive by every hour or so. I try to watch some tv, try to read, but I'm too on edge. I call Sarah and Ruth, let them know about the plans for the weekend, but they can tell something's wrong—for once Sarah doesn't complain about her foster parents, and Ruth tells me some jokes she heard at school. It's enough to get me smiling, at least for a little while.

It takes me a predictably long time to fall asleep, and I do have a nightmare, although not one I can really remember when I wake up suddenly, convinced I've heard something. I grab my glasses and my gun and listen. At first I don't hear anything, but then there's a muffled noise out in the living room. I get up as quietly as I can and make my way around to the side of the doorway. There's definitely someone out there.

The hallway is dark. I manage to slowly work my way towards the living room, leaning on the wall for support—I don't want the noise of my cane to give me away. I'm almost there when someone steps out into the hallway. I can't really tell, but it looks like he might be holding a weapon of some kind—a baseball bat, a rifle, something. He hasn't seen me yet. I take the safety off, aim, and use my loudest cop voice: "Police! Drop your weapon! Hands in the air!"

I've obviously startled him—he jumps, then drops what he's holding. Then he speaks, and I practically have a heart attack.

"Jesus, Tim—I happen to know you're not a police officer anymore, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to shoot me, so why don't you put that fucking thing away?"

"Bill?!" I put the safety back on with shaking hands.

"Yeah, I caught a late flight, thought I'd surprise you. Didn't mean to surprise you this much."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bill, couldn't you have turned on a fucking light, or said something? Shit, I could have shot you! Jesus. I think I need to sit down. What the fuck were you holding?"

"It's your spare cane—I tripped over it. Here, let's get you back to bed." His voice is calm, but the arm he puts around my waist is shaking as much as I am.

"Tim, what the fuck is going on? There are FBI agents outside, and you're—well, obviously you're ready for anything, but the problem was in Alabama, last I heard, not here."

"There was another death threat, a couple days ago. They haven't traced it yet, and Bartlett was concerned. I thought—Bill, I could have killed you! Maybe you're right, maybe having the gun here is a bad idea—" By this point we've made it back to the bedroom, and we both sit down on the bed. I realize I'm still holding the gun, and I drop it onto the bedside table, my hands still shaking as I turn on the light.

He takes my hands in his and looks at me. "Let's get something straight here, Tim. I am more than a little pissed off to have a fucking gun pulled on me in my own house. I'm never going to be happy that it's here. But as long as there are death threats—which you should have fucking told me about, by the way—and psychos out to kill you, then I'm willing to put up with whatever it takes to make us safe. I don't want you pulling some kind of martyr shit and taking a bullet for me some day like you did for Frank. If that means I have to put up with a sharp-shooter in my bed, so be it. And if I ever surprise you again, I'll make damned sure I turn on the lights and announce my presence, okay? You should have told me about this, Tim."

"I just didn't want to tell you over the phone, Bill. Jesus, are you really here?" I pull him into a hug, burying my nose in his hair. "It's so damned good to see you."

He hugs me back, but I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He settles back into my arms with a sigh.

"Is this what our life's going to be like? FBI surveillance, death threats, fucking bomb threats? For the rest of our lives?"

"I don't know, Bill. I hope not. I know things are pretty fucked up right now. Fred keeps telling me that things will get better, that Eisen will get the death penalty, people will start to forget, or focus on something else, but I don't know how long that's going to take. I wish I could tell you that being with me was safe, but I can't." I lean my head on his shoulder for a minute before I can get it together enough to ask him what I need to ask.

"Are you going to be okay with that? Because I know you've got Billie, and you didn't ask for all this shit, didn't know that being with me was going to put you and potentially your daughter in danger."

He leans his head back and looks at me quizzically. "Are you offering me some sort of out here? Because, as I've told you too many fucking times already, I'm not going anywhere, Tim. When are you going to start believing it?"

"I believe it. Most of the time, anyway," I add when he frowns at me. "But it wouldn't be buddies," there's the smile, "not to acknowledge the price you're paying to stay with me."

"I guess that's buddies. So, yeah, okay. I hereby acknowledge the fact that being with you means psycho fuckheads may try to hurt me, either directly or indirectly. And sometimes that scares the shit out of me. But so does the idea of you being anywhere but here, with me, for the rest of my life, however long that turns out to be. Got it?"

"Got it," I answer, turning to face him. "I love you, Bill." I bring his hand to my face, kiss his fingers, still covered with bandaids, and then his palm.

"I love you too, beautiful man," he says hoarsely. "Jesus, what you do to me." He strokes my face, then pulls me in for a kiss. Just our lips meet at first, gentle and tender. I renew my acquaintance with his mouth, enjoying the feel of his soft, warm lips, just a little chapped. I moisten them lightly with my tongue, and his mouth opens, his tongue joining mine, and it's so damned good to taste that unique combination of toothpaste (he always brushes his teeth after he's been smoking, and he always smokes after he gets off an airplane) and Bill.

Our kisses are deeper now, but still slow and deliberate. My arms tighten around his back, and he moves closer, straddling my hips, and I can feel his erection pressing up against my belly. I move my hands down to the curves of his ass, and he groans, rocks against me, and reaches down to grasp my cock through my shorts. That makes me groan in turn, and I break off my exploration of his mouth.

"You need to get naked now, Bill," I tell him, pulling ineffectually at his t shirt.

"I need you to fuck me now," he answers, pulling just as ineffectually at my shorts.

"God, Bill," I moan, and he grins at me, then strips off his t shirt and my shorts quicker than I can believe. I go for the buttons on his jeans. He's not wearing anything underneath them—love it when he goes commando, and of course he knows that, he's grinning at me again as he lifts up for me to pull his jeans off. I reach for the lube and he reaches for my cock again, running his fingers gently over the head. Then he straddles my hips again and kisses me as I work him open with my fingers.

We're still relatively new at this, but it doesn't take long before he's twisting down hard on three fingers, gasping into my mouth. "Now, Tim," he groans, lifting up, then lowering himself slowly onto me. "Missed you—jesus—missed this."

I ease my way into his tight heat, both of us panting, eyes locked together as our bodies are, as our hearts are. We kiss again, slowly, sweetly, and then he begins to move, rocking just a little at first, then more. I reach for his cock, and he reaches behind me, both of us moving at the same time, in concert, his fingers probing me, mine stroking him, his hips rocking, mine thrusting, our tongues twining, until it feels like every part of us is connected, linked, a conduit for love and sex and energy and connection and life. I'm not sure which one of us comes first—it feels like we just keep going, moving, up and out and in, the intensity just building and building until it overflows and releases into and out of us.

He stays with me even as I soften and start to come out, holding on, both of us wrapped around each other.

"What was that, Tim?" he asks eventually. "Was that some sort of tantric Buddhist higher karmic thing? I coulda sworn there was fucking white light coming out of the top of my head or some sort of fucking chakra."

"Uh, I don't know too much about the whole tantric sex thing myself, but I can't imagine it could get any better than that, no matter how much yoga you do. It definitely felt like some sort of higher level of connection, didn't it?"

"You could say that," he says with a smile, finally moving next to me, then getting up. I reach for him, try to bring him back, but he kisses my hand and tells me he's just going to get some stuff to clean us up—he'll be right back. By the time we change the sheets and settle in together, there's not a whole lot of time left to sleep. Even so, I wake up with a smile on my face, because I wake up with Bill in my arms.

The smile doesn't last long. Bartlett calls that morning while we're showering. There were bombs in the arena—enough that the concert could have been as bad as Oklahoma City. And they haven't got any real suspects yet.

END

On to In the Shape of a Mouse

Back to shell's stories

Back to shell's homepage