Welcome to the New Days
Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss et al belong to
Fontana, NBC, etc. Bill Boisy belongs to Turner, MacDonald,
etc. Wish they were mine, as so many others do, but they're
not.
Classification: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), Crossover
(HLoTS/HCL)
Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Part 4
of Moving On, after In the Shape of a Mouse.
Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth, who keep me on the straight
and narrow (yeah, right!).
Summary: "She called me 'Dad.'"
Rating: NC17
Welcome to the New Days
by shell
copyright 2001
There are definitely times when he drives me fucking nuts.
If I'm in the mood for it, watching him watch Mighty Mouse
and eat pizza (veggie pizza, of course) can be a beautiful
thing, but it's fucking frustrating to have the tv always
on Cartoon Network or ESPN when I want to watch something
on IFC or Sundance. He's perfectly capable of an intelligent
conversation about any manner of book, but when it comes to
visual entertainment, the man is fucking clueless. Can't play
the movie game with him because he hasn't seen enough movies
that don't suck.
Of course, the kids love watching Mighty Mouse with him,
even Sarah. Yeah, they're here. There's a cat, too—she
came with the kids, fortunately minus her four kittens. Welcome
to my new life.
I used to have this house, which is getting smaller every
day, all to myself, except when Billie was visiting. Then
Tim joined the mix, definitely a pleasant addition, love him
more every day, your basic domestic fucking bliss. I miss
him like crazy when we've got a concert; sleep like shit,
too. Can't wait to get home to him, wake up with him.
Except for those times, fortunately not too frequent, when
he wakes up at the crack of dawn, meditates, eats breakfast,
comes back to bed, and doesn't understand why I don't want
to talk about Buddhism, or the quality of mercy, or why I
shouldn't ever smoke again.
Never mind that the only time I do smoke anymore is at rehearsal,
and that's been cut short now that Kat's been successfully
inseminated—she and Chelle are almost as annoying in
the whole former smoker game as Tim is.
And then, often as not, he proceeds to fall asleep on the
couch at 9:30 that night (after watching the Lakers or a cartoon),
just when my conversational juices really start flowing.
Then there's the fact that there's still a gun in my house.
I've argued with him about it, asking him what the fuck use
it is to protect us if it's locked up, which we both agree
it has to be. I fucking hate it. Even with trigger locks,
ammunition in a separate, locked container, all that, I still
fucking hate it. Tim understands why, but he's been carrying
a gun for his entire adult life, and it's part of who he is.
He's gotten me out to the shooting range with him once or
twice, and even though I absolutely refuse to take any shooting
lessons, I can see that he's got the kind of gift for sharp-shooting
that I have for the guitar. He gets into the zone and just
hits everything perfectly, and I can see the pure joy and
concentration on his face, and I know I can't ever ask him
to give it up.
We both have serious concerns about safety—ours, the
kids', shit, even Chelle, Kat and Deeja when we're on tour.
The fact that they found a shitload of fucking bombs in Montgomery
isn't lost on anyone, and neither is the fact that we continue
to get death threats regularly. But there haven't been any
more bomb threats, and the fucker they arrested finally gave
up a few of his buddies, including one who'd been responsible
for several of the death threats. So it's easy to push it
to the back of my mind—we've been safe so far, we're
doing all we can to stay that way, and we've got to just fucking
live our lives.
Living with Tim, despite guns, crazed fundies, and other
bumps in the road, is pretty much amazing. I'd live in a bandhouse
with him. Fuck, I'd sleep every night in that crappy goat
van with a hole in the floor if I had Tim in there with me.
Yeah, he hogs the bed, sleeps weird hours, is addicted to
bizarre shit like grilled cheese sandwiches and cartoons,
and "won't eat anything with a face." He gets moody,
especially when I'm gone, although that's gotten better since
the kids joined us permanently. He also sees beneath my bad-ass
self to the putz beneath, but since that putz is totally head
over feet, I don't give a shit. We may bicker over who gets
the remote, but in general the close quarters are a definite
plus, or at least they were when it was just the two of us.
But a couple months ago, while we were still waiting for
a court date in Utah, Tim got another tearful call from Sarah.
This time the foster parents went too fucking far. She lied
to Tim—told him she'd told them about the tattoo, and
that they were okay with it. Well, she'd been hiding it, but
it was getting warmer, and one day she forgot to keep her
socks on, and they saw it and practically had a fucking nervous
breakdown.
Tim was pissed that she'd lied to him, but even more pissed
about how they reacted.
Because, may their God love 'em (I sure as hell don't), they
tried to do what they thought was right. They grounded Sarah,
made an appointment with a plastic surgeon to have the tat
removed, and enrolled her and Ruth in a local "Christian
Academy." That was the last fucking straw. They were
only there for two nights before she managed to sneak downstairs
and call us collect, tattoo still intact.
Fortunately, between Tim finally passing muster with the
state of California DCW, Karen's briefs on the in loco parentis
stuff, Sarah and Ruth's testimony at a quickly-scheduled hearing,
Tim's intention to adopt the girls, and some major string-pulling,
we managed to get the girls on a flight to LA in a couple
days. Three girls, actually—Ruth, Sarah, and Georgia
the cat.
Ruth was so silent for the first few days—didn't say
a word to me, barely spoke to Sarah and Tim, but refused to
let them out of her sight. Sarah seemed better on the surface,
but she had nightmares practically every night, and she and
Ruth insisted on sleeping together for the whole first month,
until Sarah realized there were some advantages to having
her own room. Ruth still goes in there and joins her a couple
nights a week, or comes into our room in the middle of the
night. She won't talk about what happened in Church Canyon
or in St. George, but both she and Sarah are going to see
a therapist every week, and it seems to be helping.
Tim's officially their foster parent, but we're working on
adoption. Alicia's already drawn up some other stuff for me.
He and Billie, and now the girls, are the beneficiaries in
my will. Tim's also the legal executor of both my will and
the Adena Watson Fund, which has already amassed quite an
endowment, thanks to a successful album, recorded in just
one week after we got back from Baltimore, and a lot of donations
from fans. His name's on some other stuff, too, both for the
tax break and because he's family.
One thing that Tim doesn't know about yet has to do with
the fact that we live in what's referred to locally as a bungalow,
a smallish house (especially when there are three girls there)
in one of the most expensive fucking neighborhoods in the
world. I'm not sure whatever possessed me to buy a house in
Beverly Hills, although I guess the excitement of having more
fucking money than I knew what to do with had a lot to do
with it. Billy Fucking Hollywood. I'm a bit more sensible
about money now than I was right after Joe died—losing
him and becoming a father made me grow up some.
I've been worrying about Billie a little, too. So far she's
been pretty cool with my new family situation, and at least
she has a stable home in Regina, but I don't imagine she's
as thrilled by the additions to my life as Ruth is to claim
her as an extra sister, especially given all the attention
these two abused kids have required. She'll be coming out
to visit again next month, and I want to make sure she knows
I still love her just as much as I ever did. That she's got
a few more people to love her now. I hope she can accept that—I
know she likes Tim, and she gets along with Ruth and Sarah.
At any rate, I keep thinking these days about shit like schools
and other kids, some open space for them to run around on,
and above all some more privacy. Between the yin-yang of zen
boy's and my sleep schedules, getting kids off to school,
rehearsals, recording, touring, publicity jaunts (both for
me and Tim, who is quite photogenic in his public service
announcements—well, fuck, what would you expect—he's
beautiful), not to mention the fact that we both tend to make
a lot of fucking noise, pun intended, there's been a bit of
a damper lately on a heretofore spectacular sex life.
And truth be told, I'm sick of living in cities. Want to
breathe some fresh air, see some mountains—real ones,
not the fake ones they have here in sunny southern California.
Fresh air, which I can finally appreciate now that I'm barely
smoking. Mountains with snow on them, like the ones back home.
It's Tim's fault—getting me out in the desert, looking
at the full moon and all. Fucking Nature Boy, that's me.
So I've been making some inquiries and doing some research.
This weekend, we're finally taking that trip to Las Vegas,
just the two of us, and I'm planning on talking to him about
moving. Maybe even look at some houses in Flagstaff. But not
until after we've made up for a lot of lost time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bill and I have been planning this trip for months. We were
going to go in March, sort of a late anniversary thing, but
then Sarah called, three days before we were supposed to leave,
and the trip got pushed back, then pushed back again. We're
both feeling the strain of sudden parenthood, including the
lack of privacy, and I think if we hadn't made the time for
this trip, this weekend, both of us would explode.
I'm on edge for another reason. I'd made some plans of my
own for our anniversary, but I decided they'd wait until we
could get away. Now, as I pack the box next to my yoga mat,
I'm wondering if it was prudence or cowardice that made me
put it off. I've disrupted Bill's life in so many ways over
the last year, including subjecting him to more concentrated
domesticity than he's ever encountered before, and I know
it's been rough for him to lose the privacy and solitude he
was used to. I don't know how he's going to react to what
I have for him.
I know I can be annoying—Frank told me that often enough,
and he wasn't the only one. And Bill sometimes reminds me
of Brodie; he always wants to watch something deep and intellectual
on tv. When I want something intellectual, I read a book.
Television is for escape—it's the vast wasteland, and
that's the way I like it. I have an unfair advantage before
Ruth goes to bed, but Miss Mighty Mouse is starting to get
into some of the independent (boring) films Bill prefers,
so the two of them sometimes gang up on me. I'll go read Harry
Potter to Ruth—we're deep into The Goblet of Fire now—and
when I come back into the living room they'll be watching
something with subtitles, and I'll end up falling asleep on
the sofa again.
Sarah still likes watching Mighty Mouse with me, of course,
and Bill and I do a pretty good job of taking turns, so I
think the two of them are content to put up with me. I still
can't believe Bill took her to get that tattoo, although I
have to admit it's kind of cute. We're all calling her Mouse
these days.
I certainly enjoy Bill's mouse, the one only I get to see.
The two of them keep trying to get me to get a matching one,
which is not going to happen, even if Sarah continues to play
the "father-daughter matching tattoos" angle. I
may be adopting her, but she's fifteen years old and fiercely
independent, and our relationship seems far from the traditional
parent-child mold, at least most of the time.
Ruth, she's a different story. She stopped calling me Tim
and started calling me Dad the minute we picked her up at
the airport, and that feels amazingly good. She never talks
about anything from her past, not even to Sarah, but seems
to be a pretty normal, happy kid, now that she's settled in
here. She's growing like a weed—she's almost as tall
as Sarah already. She and Billie are getting very close, at
least from Ruth's perspective—I'm not sure how Billie
feels, although she seems to like her.
Gordon and Danny got here tonight, and tomorrow morning we
leave for one glorious week. My mom's coming out to LA a couple
days before we get back. I hope the room Bill's got us in
Vegas has good soundproofing, because I'm looking forward
to letting go, with no worries we'll wake the girls. I'm also
looking forward to seeing Mom again, for the first time since
we were in Baltimore.
I think there will always be a small part of me that can't
forgive her, but I can understand her a little more now. I
still occasionally have nightmares. Most of them are about
Joseph Eisen raping Sarah while I watch, unable to stop him.
And Ryland, every once in awhile. But I keep meeting with
Stuart every week, and that helps.
Bill, who could sleep through anything, always wakes up when
I have one of those dreams. He wakes me up, talks to me about
how the girls are safe in their bedrooms, and holds me until
I fall back asleep again. When it's a really bad one, the
one with all the bodies, or one with Ryland, he gets up with
me, walks me over to Sarah's room, and we watch her sleep
for awhile, then peek in on Ruth. Thankfully, Sarah isn't
having many nightmares anymore. Both girls are seeing a therapist
too, the one Gwen recommended (something their foster parents
in St. George discouraged, which really pissed me off), and
Sarah seems to be healing pretty well, although every now
and then when we're watching tv I'll catch her staring at
the scars on my leg.
She's doing it again tonight. Today was my weekly yoga session
with Paula, and Gordon and Dan arrived as she was leaving,
so I'm hanging around with them in my shorts instead of getting
right in the shower. I'm showing them how much better I can
bend my knee, and I don't realize she's come into the room
until I feel her hug me.
"Hey there, Mouse, what's up?" I ask, squeezing
back.
"Just wanted to give you a hug."
"I'm going to miss you guys this week, you know. Are
you going to read Harry Potter to Ruth for me?"
"Sure. You're gonna call every night, right?"
"Definitely. And you'll have our cell phone numbers—any
problem, anything at all, you call us."
"Who's taking Ruth and me to school and stuff? And to
see Hannah?" She knows the answer to these questions,
but I hear her need for reassurance. Hannah is their therapist.
"Gordon or Danny can take you, and by the time you see
Hannah again, my mom will be here, so she can take you, if
you want."
"She won't mind?"
"No, she's looking forward to having grandkids to cart
around again."
"Does she know?" she asks seriously, and it kills
me that she has to ask questions like that at her age.
"No, she doesn't, sweetie. I figured that was your business,
and if you wanted to tell her, you could. She knows the general
gist of what went on in the Canyon, but she doesn't know specifically
what happened to you."
"Okay. Um, Dad?" She's got a shy smile on her face.
It's the first time she's called me that, and I pull her into
another hug. Then she says, "Have a good time with Bill.
You guys deserve it. I'll take good care of Ruthie. No tattoos,"
she adds with a sly grin.
"We will, Miss Mighty Mouse. And then we'll come home
and go to your soccer game, okay?"
"Yeah. That'll be good."
"And listen—I know the past year has been really
hard, but I hope you know how much you and Ruthie mean to
me. Being a dad, that was something I always wanted, but I
wasn't sure it would ever happen. I couldn't have asked for
better kids than you two, for a better family than we have.
I love you."
"I love you too, Tim. Dad. And Ruthie and me, we love
Bill, too."
"Yeah? That's good, because so do I." She laughs
at that, gives me another hug, and goes off to find Georgia
the cat. Bill comes up, sits beside me.
"What was that all about? You look really happy and
freaked out."
"She called me 'Dad.'"
"Fuck, Tim, that's great," he says, grinning, then
kisses me. And I kiss him back, hard, so fucking happy, so
amazed that I have this man and these kids in my life, that
we are a completely nontraditional, loving, surprisingly well-adjusted,
committed family. My family—Bill, Sarah, Ruth, and Billie.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We fly first class, something I've grown complacent about,
I guess, but Tim's still thrilled by the attention we get,
the fact that we're seated and offered drinks and snacks before
the rest of the plane has boarded. He's such a little kid
sometimes—maybe because he didn't have an opportunity
for a real childhood. Like me. Whatever the horrors in his
past, I still get a kick out of how excited he gets about
new things, so I reach over, give his hand a squeeze, and
he turns that boyish grin on me, the one that still takes
my fucking breath away.
Then he whispers something in my ear, and I stop thinking
about him as a little kid. Fuck, I can't wait until we get
to that hotel room.
The flight seems to last forever, and then we have to deal
with getting our luggage and a cab. Tim's insisting on walking,
which is good, but also bad, because even though he's a lot
stronger, he's never going to be able to walk normally, and
between that, the crowds, and the fact that he's also insisting
he can carry his own bag, it takes him awhile, and he gets
really fucking frustrated with his lack of progress. I finally
persuade him to sit and wait for me while I flag down a cab.
When I come back to get him, he's chatting with a couple teenagers.
They stand up, blushing, as I approach, and I do the Billy
Tallent thing, sign some autographs. They want Tim's autograph,
too, and we pose for a picture with them.
It's another delay, but I can see how tickled Tim is that
he's part of the whole thing. I guess those public service
announcements, the video, and the interview with Tim Russert
have made him more recognizable than either of us realized.
I explain we've got a cab waiting, and they apologize for
keeping us. Then the older one (they're sister and brother)
thanks us. She's got a serious look on her face now, and I
know she's thanking us for something more than the autographs
and picture—this is another kid who's been abused; the
ones that come up to Tim usually are. Later, he'll tell me
what she told him before I got there, a story like so many
others. He gives her his card, tells her to get in touch with
the Fund for some help, and gives both of them a hug.
Fuck, I love this man.
Finally, the cab pulls up at the MGM Grand, and finally we're
back in room 1245, the same room I stayed in last year. I
didn't tell Tim where we'd be staying, and I hear his breath
catch when he realizes. I give him my best wicked grin as
the doorman opens the room and takes our bags in. Then I get
rid of the doorman as quickly as I can, and when I've got
him out, gotten the do not disturb sign up, I turn around
and Tim is there, hands framing my face. He's already taken
his shirt off, and as he starts to kiss me, his hands move
to mine.
"C'mon, let's get to bed," I say, gesturing for
him to lean on me—he doesn't need his cane when he's
got his arm around me. It's an awkward trip, because we can't
keep our hands or lips off each other, and we keep stopping
to shed pieces of clothing, but eventually we make it. We
take the rest of our clothes off quickly, pull the covers
back, and lay together.
We've both been waiting for this, wanting this, but for the
moment we're content in each other's arms. Neither one of
us speaks, not aloud, because we don't need to—the love
is there in our eyes, in every gentle touch of his fingers
on my face, my lips on his. He taught me this—this gentle,
tender, sweet way of being with someone, of being with him—in
this very room, on this very bed, over a year ago.
He's thinking the same thing, because he says, smiling tenderly,
"So, you're not uncomfortable, are you? It's okay, you
don't mind, you're not freaked out?"
"I'm not freaked out, Tim. I want you. I love you."
"I love you. I want you." His voice is husky now,
and when he leans in to kiss me again, his lips press harder,
his tongue pushing its way into my mouth. I kiss him back,
hard and fucking hot, and reach my hand down to his dick,
leaking already, just like mine. I know what we both want,
so I gesture for him to turn on his side.
"Wait," he says, "Not like that. I want to
see you."
I kiss him again. "What about your leg?" It's tough
for him even when I'm behind him, but at least then he can
keep his right leg relatively straight. It's still painful
for him to bend it.
"Yoga is all about flexibility," he says with a
grin, "and I've been working very hard lately. I can
do it." And with a deep breath he bends his legs back,
wraps them around my waist.
"Jesus, Tim, give me a minute, here," I say, laughing,
reaching for the lube. And after a few careful minutes of
preparation, I'm pressing in to that tight, welcoming heat.
We're moving together slowly at first, then faster, and I
know neither one of us is going to last long. But that's what
we need now, so we both go for it. I stroke his dick, he reaches
back and enters me with his fingers, and our tongues tangle
deep, both of us groaning, moaning, grunting, as I pound into
him and come hard, him following me a couple seconds later.
When he can talk again, he grins at me and says, "Damn,
I needed that."
"Happy to oblige, any time," I answer him.
We get cleaned up, put on some sweats, order some room service,
and just relax for awhile, enjoying the quiet. I get up, start
unpacking our stuff, and Tim gets this nervous look on his
face. I ask him what's wrong.
"Nothing, really. It's just, uh, I have an anniversary
present for you, in my bag, so could you hold off on the unpacking
for a minute?"
"Sure." I'm curious, so I sit down on the bed again
while he digs through his bag, pulls out his mat, and then
unearths a small, wooden box. He brings it back over to the
bed and sits down next to me, looking serious.
He takes my hand.
"I love you, Bill, and I love our life together. Our
family. I wanted you to know how much you mean to me, and
this seemed like the way to do it. So, um, happy anniversary."
He gives me the box, our hands touching over the lid as I
open it. I can feel his trembling. Inside are two plain, silver
bands, nestled together, one slightly larger than the other.
My hands are shaking now, too, as I take out the rings. They're
engraved with our initials.
"Are—are you asking me to marry you, Tim?"
A couple years ago I would have openly scoffed at the idea
of ever marrying anyone, much less another man, but I'm not
that person anymore.
He nods slowly. "Yeah. Till we're 104, Bill. I mean,
we don't have to have any big ceremony or anything, if you
don't want to. Just putting that ring on your finger is all
I need."
"But if I wanted a ceremony?" I can see the joy
in his face when I ask him. He fucking wants that. He wants
to fucking marry me.
"Well, I've always thought you'd look incredible in
a tuxedo," he says, his eyes bright. "And the girls,
they could be, well, I don't know what the word would be—groomsmaids?—but
you know they'd love it. There are some monks at the Zen Center
in LA who could perform the ceremony, or we could just write
our own vows. I know the whole publicity thing would be hard
to manage, but fuck, Bill, I think it would be great, don't
you?"
"The only problem I have with it is that I want to put
this fucking ring on your finger right now," I say, my
voice breaking. "Yes, Tim, it would be great. Yes, Tim,
I will marry you, and I will wear a fucking tuxedo and walk
down the fucking aisle and let the whole fucking world know
just how much of a fucking freak I really am. Bill Fucking
Boisy, former punk, marrying the love of his fucking life."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I smile at his harsh words, brush a tear from the corner of
his eye. When Bill's overcome by emotion, he swears even more
than usual. I take the smaller ring from his palm and place
it on his finger, then bring his hand up to my lips. He does
the same for me.
Then we make love again, slowly, tenderly, savoring each
touch, each kiss. When he sees that I'm close, he takes my
hand again, kisses the ring, tells me he loves me, and I come
inside him, rocked to the core by my love for him and his
for me.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm released three days after my eighteenth birthday. I'm
not sure what to do first—go to California? To Arizona?
Back to Utah? I've got names of contacts in Big Water, Page,
Flagstaff, and some small towns in California. But I've never
been to California, never been on my own before. God will
be with me, but where does he want me to go?
Of course, the social worker and the parole board make me
pick one place. I might be recognized in Page or Big Water,
and they might be suspicious if I want to go back there. There's
still a small chance I could be recognized in Flag, but I
decide it's worth the risk. My holy Father has friends there,
friends the government doesn't know about.
So I tell them I'll go to Flagstaff. The social worker gives
me a hug when I leave, and I play the dutiful innocent and
promise to keep in touch. I get a bus ticket to Flag, some
clothes, a checking account with a small amount of money in
it, courtesy of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund, believe it
or not—if Timothy knew who got some of his money, I
don't think he'd be very happy—and names of the social
worker and parole officer I'll be working with.
It's good to smell the high desert again after all those
months at the Federal Detention Center in Seattle. I don't
see how anyone can stand the humidity there, the thickness
of the air. I'll wait a week or two, get established in my
new job at the coffee shop, before I make contact. It's good
to be close to home again. I can tell God is with me. There
will be time.
END
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