Oi to the World

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Billy Tallent don't belong to me, and I'm making no money here.

Classification: Slash (Billy Tallent/Tim Bayliss), crossover (Hard Core Logo/Homicide: Life on the Street), series (Marigold)

Notes: This little piece is part of the Marigold series. It occurs between Marigold and Hindsight, and it's in response to the Holiday Challenge on 11 cents. It's pretty much just schmoopy fluff. Beta thanks to Ardent.

Rating: NC-17

Soundtrack: A Very Special Christmas 3

Oi to the World

by shell

copyright 2002

I wish a one horse open sleigh

Would come and carry me away

But I've been waiting here all day

And one hasn't come my way

—Blues Traveler, Christmas

I'm enjoying the evening, sitting next to Tim on the couch, eating pizza and watching the Canucks get fucking slaughtered by the Redwings. Yeah, things would be marginally better if the Canucks were the ones doing the slaughtering, but life is pretty damned good nonetheless—Tim's been here a few weeks, but waking up every morning and finding him there is still amazing.

The phone rings. I think about letting the machine pick up, but Tim gets it, then hands it to me. It's Jen. I stand up.

"Hey, Billy, how's it going?" she says. She sounds drunk. Great.

"Fine, Jen. What's up?"

"We've got a new gig. Well, a few new gigs."

"When?" I ask, pacing.

"End of December. The 20th through the 27th, all dates in the sunny south, followed by New York on New Year's Eve."

"We're booked over Christmas?" Tim looks up at the anger in my voice.

"Yes, we're booked over Christmas. That's a great time of year to play; you know that. Great crowds. What the fuck's your problem? Your kid's with her mother this year, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Oh, it's your new boytoy, isn't it?"

"Fuck you."

"I don't fuck gayboys, Billy. That's your area of expertise." She speaks carefully, enunciating slowly, trying not to slur her words. "That, and playing the guitar. Which you will be doing, as part of your contractual obligation, in South Carolina, Florida, and Georgia, on the aforementioned dates." She hangs up.

"Fuck," I say, slamming the phone down, restraining my impulse to throw it against the wall.

"What's going on?" Tim asks, coming up behind me.

"Fucking cunt booked us through Christmas. In fucking Florida."

"You're going to be gone over the holidays?" Tim asks, dismayed.

"Apparently so," I reply.

"Shit." And I look at him, remembering last week, American Thanksgiving, the nightmares, the way he woke up shaking after dreaming of his uncle. He tried to shrug it off—said it happened every year, was nothing to worry about—but I didn't like the idea of leaving him alone at Christmas.

"You going to be all right?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," he says, not very convincingly.

"You could go back to Baltimore," I offer. "Your mom'd be glad to see you, I bet."

"No, I'm not going back to Baltimore," he says firmly, and I wonder once again what it is he's not telling me. "I'll be fine, Bill."

"Why not invite her here? You could invite your sister, your niece, your cousin—have everyone leave the cold and come have Christmas here. There's plenty of room for everyone, although I suppose if they wanted they could stay at a hotel—I can get them reservations, get some first class seats—"

He holds up his hand. "Don't."

"You don't want them to come?"

"Family Christmases don't hold a lot of pleasant memories. I've found it works out better if I'm away from that kind of thing."

I pull him into a hug. "I'm sorry. Fuck, Tim, I don't want to leave you alone. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he says, lips brushing my temple. "I'll be fine. It's not as if I won't be able to talk to you or anything."

"We can experiment with phone sex."

"Right, right, phone sex, that's an idea. Say, what are you wearing?"

"Absolutely nothing," I answer. "Or, at least, that's what I'll be wearing in a few minutes."

"You don't say?" he murmurs, running his hand down to my ass.

"I do say." I grab his hand and pull him after me into the bedroom.

I wrack my brain in the coming weeks, trying to come up with the perfect Christmas gift. Well, gifts. I wanted to get him season tickets to the Lakers, but I was too late. I did score floor seats for a couple games, but I need to get him more than that.

I'm rich—a fact which continues to amaze me. I have more money than I know what to do with, invested in various places, and it just keeps rolling in. The first couple years, I bought everything I ever thought I wanted—cars, motorcycles, guitars, this huge fucking house, presents galore for Billie—but then it got kind of old, strange as that sounds. I still spoil my daughter as much as I can, making up for how little time I get to spend with her, but most of that money just sits in bank accounts and stocks, waiting for the day when I have the balls to do what I've been thinking about for a couple years now—quitting Jenifur. To do what, exactly, I'm not sure, although I'll probably let myself get talked into the obligatory solo project. If Oxenberger and Pipefitter were still around, I'd invite them down here for that, but they're not—and I shiver a little at that thought, because I know how close I came to joining them, and thank god for Tim and thank god for the fact that that crazy felcher is behind bars to stay.

Which just leads me back to the question about what to get Tim for Christmas. I love him, more than I've loved anyone except my daughter. More than I loved Joe. And I don't have a fucking clue what to get him, how to show him. I do tell him—he does know—but still. And the fact that I have to leave, that I'll be away from him for the first time, and during a major holiday, when he's going to be hurting, remembering what was done to him—fuck.

Then I think of the perfect gift, and I wonder why I didn't think of it earlier. I make all the arrangements, then tell him I need to talk to him, because I am not waiting, not for this. He tells me he'll be home from work in an hour, and I spend that time fiddling around on the guitar, flipping through channels on the remote, and pacing. As soon as he gets home, I pull him into the living room and kiss him.

"I've got your Christmas present," I tell him, running my thumb along his cheek.

"Isn't it a little early?" he asks, smiling.

"Not for this. Here." I hand him the envelope, and he takes it, puzzled.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

He does, and stares at the ticket for a minute without saying anything.

"If you'd rather stay at home—" I say awkwardly, but he shakes his head and puts one long finger against my lips.

"Christmas in Miami, huh?" he says softly. "Christmas with you."

"With me, yeah."

He hugs me tightly. "Thank you," he murmurs. "I didn't want—jesus, Bill, I didn't want you to leave. I didn't want to be alone."

"Neither did I, Tim," I tell him. "Neither did I."

Then he stiffens. "Shit."

"What?"

"I just told them I could work over Christmas. I figured it'd be better if I kept busy. They don't have anything set up for Christmas day, but I'm booked for the 23rd and 24th." he says apologetically.

"Shit, Tim—" I start.

"Everyone else has families, Bill. With kids."

"Okay," I say, trying to regroup. "I'll just switch the flights. How late will you be working on the 24th?"

"Just the morning, I think."

"So we'll get you an afternoon flight. Fuck, I'll charter a fucking jet if I have to."

He laughs. "You really are loaded, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am," I tell him seriously. "Might as well use it for something important."

"I could help you find some good charities, if you're interested. Help some kids."

"Sure. But not until after I make sure you'll make it to Florida for Christmas."

"That sounds good to me. I've never spent Christmas on the beach before."

"Who says I'm letting you out of the hotel room?"

"Hey, that sounds even better," he answers, running his hand up my back, under my shirt. We've been together a month, and I haven't gotten past that incredible thrill every single time he touches me. And my dick still gets hard quicker than it has since I was a teenager. So I start kissing him, which is another thing I don't think I'll ever get tired of, and before long we're on the couch, because who needs a bed, really, when it's that far away? The couch, that works just fine, thank you. Later on, the shower works pretty damned well, too. And in the morning, it turns out the bed's a good place after all, when you're there already.

A week later, though, the bed's not such a good place. Not when it's in a hotel room, and Tim's not in it. After years of sleeping alone, it turns out I do better when I'm sharing space. I'm sleeping like shit and not playing much better—not that anyone but Trevor has noticed. If I do quit Jenifur and start a solo career, I think I'll take Trevor with me, if he's into it. He's no Oxenberger, but then again he doesn't need Lithium to make it through the day, either.

The only song I'm doing a decent job on is "I'll be Home for Christmas," which Jen is insisting on performing each night, just the two of us, me on the acoustic, her on vocals. We sound great together—she's got a great voice—but I can't help feeling her choice of song is deliberately cruel. I'm not the only one who's wishing we were anywhere but here for these dates. Shit, her own personal assistant, Robbie, was supposed to be at her sister's house, seeing her niece for the first time.

I grab my acoustic and try to work on a song, but it's hard to concentrate. I have to head for the concert hall in an hour, and I haven't heard from Tim—he's supposed to arrive while we're playing, but I thought he might call from the air. A few minutes before I have to leave, the phone finally rings.

"Hey, it's me," he says.

"What's going on?"

"We're fogged in."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I were. They're hoping it'll clear up in the next few hours, but I might be stuck here until morning."

"Fuck. Where's here?"

"St. Louis. I'm sorry."

"Me too. They've got the whole airport shut down?"

"Yep."

"So there's no chance of chartering a flight."

"I don't think so, no."

"I really wish I'd been able to book you non-stop."

"Believe me, so do I."

"You sleeping okay? Because I have to tell you, I'm not."

"No, I'm not sleeping that great. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. Wish we had time for some phone sex."

"Not exactly the best place for that," he says, laughing.

"Hey, there's no one around here," I answer. There's a knock at the door. "Shit. They're here to take me to the arena, so I guess you're saved by the proverbial bell. Call me as soon as you know anything?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I love you, Bill."

"Love you too. Talk to you later."

The concert goes—well, it goes. The crowd, full of cheer and beer, loves us. We play three encores, because Jen is all about the crowd. The last one is "I'll be Home for Christmas," and the crowd goes wild afterwards, and I walk off the stage feeling completely drained.

There's a message on my cell from Tim. He's still in St. Louis, and there are no more flights until morning, although he hasn't given up—he's looking into charters. The airport's still closed, though, so even a charter won't do any good if the fog doesn't lift soon.

I get back to the hotel just before midnight. The phone rings at the stroke of 12.

"It sucks that you're not here yet," I say when I pick up.

"I will be," he answers. "I'm on my way—found a private pilot with his own little jet, on his way to the Keys and willing to drop me off in Miami. We're about to take off. I'm not sure when I'll actually get in, and then I'll have to get to the hotel, but I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Good," I tell him. "That's good."

"Merry Christmas, Bill."

"It will be," I answer. "Just get here already."

"Gotta go—we just got clearance to taxi."

"They have your name at the desk, so you can pick up a key and let yourself in. I'll keep the bed warm."

"Jesus, Bill. Love you. See you soon." He hangs up, and I sit there staring at the phone with a dumb smile on my face.

I fuck around on my guitar for awhile longer, then get into bed. I figure sleep's not going to happen, but I guess I figure wrong.

I'm sleeping, and next thing I know, Tim's slipped into the bed, wrapped his arms around me, and started kissing the back of my neck. I twist around for better access, and his mouth moves from my neck to my lips, and his legs are tangled up in mine. I reach out and touch his face, barely visible in the dim light, and he takes my hand in his and kisses the palm, and neither one of us says anything, we don't need to say anything, but it's so good, so right that he's here, kissing me. His skin is cooler than mine, but it's warming up, until we throw the covers back after awhile because we're both starting to sweat, and his hand's wrapped around both of us, stroking slowly, and it's so damned good, kissing him lazy and slow and deep, and then I roll us over, get on top of him, rock against him, a little faster. We're both breathing hard now, and I hear little moans now and then, some of them from me, some from him, and we're both trying to take it slow, make it last, but it's hard—I'm hard, he's hard—and then his hand is on my ass, kneading, fingers headed behind my balls, pressing, his other hand still moving on our dicks, and that's it, I can't go slow anymore, I start thrusting hard and fast and then I'm coming, and then he's coming, and it's so good; I've missed it so much, missed him so much.

I tell him so, when I've got my breath back. He smiles at me and runs his finger along my cheek. Then he wishes me a Merry Christmas.

END

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