Hindsight

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Bill Boisy don't belong to me.

Notes: This is a sequel to Marigold. It's a slash crossover between the television series Homicide: Life on the Street and the movie Hard Core Logo. The inspiration for my description of Bill's Rolling Stone cover shot is a cover Callum Keith Rennie did for a Canadian television magazine.

Beta thanks to CatMoran.

Spoilers: Everything from the series and both movies. So watch 'em, if you haven't already.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: "I've been living with Bill for a couple months, and it's wonderful, and I'm happy, but there's a part of me that's waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Soundtrack: Headstones, Smile and Wave. What, you're surprised?

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Hindsight

by shell

copyright 2002

Homicides and suicides and accidental shootings
Reporters on the tv, well they're frightening but they're soothing

Pictures on the tv, pictures in my brain

Pictures of the nice things that have quenched the thirst for rage

—Headstones, Picture Frame of Rage

I haven't figured out yet what I'm going to do now, besides the obvious, which is live with Bill. I'm back at EPS, but I've cut my hours, and I'm picky about my assignments. I've been living with Bill for a couple months, and it's wonderful, and I'm happy, but there's a part of me that's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When I'm not working, I go with him to rehearsals—the band's working on a new album, and I gather Bill's contributing more than he has in the past. I like what I hear, at home and at the studio, but some of his bandmates aren't as positive—they expect him to continue as he has for these past several years, playing whatever they tell him to and shutting the fuck up. The bass player, Trevor, is pretty into what Bill's trying to do, but Jen and May are fighting it. Bill's said some stuff to me about going solo, or finding another band, but so far it's just talk.

So when he comes home one night, pissed off about something, I naturally assume it's about the band. I'm wrong.

"Got a call today," he says, and he's not quite meeting my eye. "From Art." That's his agent, a man I've never met and rarely heard mentioned.

"What about?"

"Some fucker got a picture of us. Sold it to the Enquirer. They called asking for a comment, to confirm or deny Billy Tallent's doing it with his former bodyguard."

"Shit."

He comes over to the sofa, sits down next to me.

"What'd you tell him?" I ask.

"That I wouldn't lie about it, but I needed to talk to you."

I lean against the back of the sofa and close my eyes.

"You knew this was going to happen, sooner or later," he reminds me.

"I was hoping for later."

"Fuck, Tim, if it's that fucking important to you, I'll fucking lie," he says reluctantly.

"What's the picture?"

"Art hasn't seen it, but supposedly it's the two of us backstage, embracing."

"'Embracing'—what the fuck does that mean?"

"It means they couldn't get a clear shot of us kissing, I guess."

"You're awfully fucking calm about this."

"We knew it was going to happen, sooner or later," he repeats. "You that worried about people knowing where you are? You've been gone now, what, a year?"

"About a year, yeah."

"No one's beaten down any doors to find you yet. Someone really wanted to find you, it wouldn't take a picture in the tabloids."

I can see him trying not to push, deciding again not to ask what it is I ran away from. He loves me, and he knows me better than anyone ever has, with one exception. I've never told him the whole truth. I'm not going to tell him now.

"Tim—" he stops, then starts again. "So you're never going back? Forget your mom and your cousin and your sister and your niece, forget all the cops you worked with, the bar you used to own, just pretend none of it exists?"

"I can't—I can't talk about it," is all I manage to say.

"They're going to print this picture they have, and they're going to put your name to your face, and if I deny it they'll just sell more copies. You're going to have to deal with it sometime, unless—unless you'd rather just leave."

I turn toward him, startled, and see the emotions fighting on his face. I hook an arm around him, pull him close, "Leave? Jesus, Bill, no, I'm not leaving. Fuck—I'm sorry you thought I would—I love you, you idiot."

"Fuck, Tim, what do you expect me to think? You tell me you're happy, but the only reason you're here at all is that you had to get as far away from Baltimore as you could. You fucking ran away from something major, you won't tell me what it was, and you're fucking terrified someone or something's going to follow you out here. You say you love me—and I believe you—but there are people you love in Baltimore, too."

I look him in the eye. "Not the way I love you." I kiss him. "I promise, Bill, I don't want to leave. I'm not going to leave."

He pulls back and meets my eyes, laying two fingers along my cheek. He looks at me for a long moment, then leans in, lips meeting mine, tongue licking, then probing, the kiss quickly deepening, turning intense, desperate. He breaks it off just as quickly, standing up and grabbing my hand, pulling me with him into the bedroom. Before we've made it through the door he's got his fists in my shirt, his tongue wild in my mouth, and I can feel the hard length of him against my thigh.

It's not difficult to go with the flow, strip down, let him push me onto the bed. In a minute we're skin to skin, both of us breathing hard, and he's thrusting against me, impatient, leaking, letting out a groan. Then he breathes "love you; jesus, Tim, want you to fuck me," into my ear, and I loosen the grip I have on the back of his head, pull my mouth away from his neck, and stare at him, because the closest we ever came to that was the day he told me about Joe, the day I told him about George.

"Yes, I'm sure," he says, before I get a chance to ask, "I want this; fuck, I've wanted this for months. You won't hurt me—you wouldn't hurt me. I trust you. I love you."

I nod, finally, acknowledging the heat, the trust in his eyes. The fear is there, too, but I know where that comes from—he's still afraid I'm going to leave him.

"You have to tell me if—" He reaches up, covers my mouth with one long finger.

"You won't hurt me."

My eyes burn. "Jesus, Bill. I love you, so much, you have no idea—"

"Shut the fuck up," he says gruffly, running the tip of his finger along my lips. I lean down, kiss him softly, gently, the contact now shifted from wild to tender, from desperate to slow, but even more intense.

I know without asking we'll stay like this, face to face, avoiding any hint of what was done to him years ago. I reach into the nightstand for the lube.

I take my time, despite the impatient glances he gives me, despite my insistent erection, despite the fact that we have been working our way up to this for weeks. I don't doubt for a minute that he trusts me—that's never been the question.

When I'm satisfied that my fingers have done all they can, all they should, when he's writhing on them, moaning, I withdraw them, and he opens his eyes, frowning until I grab a pillow and place it under his hips. He bends his knees, and we position ourselves, and I hesitate, poised with my cockhead pressed lightly against him. He understands—his fierce gaze softens, and he reaches up to run his finger along my lips again.

"I love you," he tells me. "I want this. I want you inside me. Now, Tim."

I nod, once, roughly, then ease my way into him, eyes locked on his for any sign of pain, but all I see is pleasure, and then I'm in, and his eyes close as I start to move. I work one hand down to his cock, stroking as I thrust, and then I have to close my own eyes, allow myself to feel him surrounding me, so tight, so hot, so fucking good, and he's panting, and so am I, and then with a long, low groan, he's coming on my hand and his belly, and I can feel him clenching and releasing around me, and with a few more thrusts I go over the edge, burying myself inside him with a shout, shuddering, overwhelmed by sensation, collapsing on top of him as the pulses end, feeling him shift, wrapping arms and legs around me, hand stroking my hair.

I feel myself slip out as I move to kiss his neck. He squirms, pushing me onto my side, turning to his side, fingers still running gently through my hair.

"Hey," he says eventually, quietly.

"You all right?" I ask, needing to hear him say it.

He kisses me. "I'm fine, Timothy. Better than fine. Fucking great. I can't believe how great—jesus, I had no idea it would feel that good." He kisses me again, soft and tender and full of love. "How about you?"

I laugh weakly. "Oh, I'm great. Couldn't move if my life depended on it, though."

"I guess we'll just have to stay here awhile, then," he says. "It's a good thing neither one of us has anywhere else to go."

"I love you, Bill," I say, my hand on his hip, squeezing gently. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I know the publicity thing's a fucker." The worry's back in his voice, and suddenly I realize just how much my priorities have changed.

"You know what? Fuck it. I don't care."

"What do you mean?"

"The tabloids, the journalists, MTV, Rolling Stone, fucking Entertainment Tonight. Tell them. Tell them the truth; tell them whatever you want to. You're right—it wouldn't be that difficult to find me, and you're not, you'd never be something I'm ashamed of. Being with you, that's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I don't care if the whole world knows it." The sense of freedom I feel, just saying those words, is incredible.

"You sure? You're not worried about that restaurant guy tracking you down?"

"What, Chris? It was never about Chris." He nods, relieved.

"You know, Tim, whatever happens, whatever you need—"

"I know." I lean in to kiss him again, soft and sweet and tender. "Thank you, Bill. For so much—for everything. You've given me so much—"

He stops me with a thumb on my lips. "No more than you've given me. Now shut up and let me sleep the sleep of the well fucked." I smile, he smiles back, and I pull him to me and close my eyes.

Don't know whether to rebuild or to burn it

You don't know how just to say goodbye

—Headstones, Unsound

You said you would, and then you wouldn't

Maybe you tried, but you just couldn't

There's nothing left of us here but teeth and tissue

—Headstones, Teeth & Tissue

We don't really talk about it much in the weeks to come. Bill issues a "no comment" to the Enquirer, but then agrees to a long-standing offer for a Rolling Stone interview. He manages to keep the focus mainly on the music, but he answers a few questions about Joe, a few about his sexuality, and a few about me.

The issue comes out with "The Tao of Billy Tallent" as the tagline next to his picture on the cover. It's a good picture, nothing fancy, just a headshot, taken outside, Bill squinting a little, face weathered, gaze direct. Fortunately, there are no pictures of me with the interview.

We're at home on a sunny afternoon, a couple weeks after it hits the newsstands, when the gate buzzer goes off. Bill looks up from working on a song, but I'm closer, so I check the camera. When I see who's waiting, I don't say anything, just push the button. Bill looks at me again when the knock at the door comes, but I just go open it.

"Hello, Frank." I greet him calmly, but I'm angry. In fact, I'm completely furious.

"Bayliss." Back to my last name, huh?

I'm not surprised that Frank's here. I haven't thought much about it, but I figured it was only a matter of time.

I gesture for him to come inside, and he saunters in, looking around and whistling. I can feel Bill's eyes on us, feel him watching, but Frank doesn't notice, and Bill remains silent.

"Quite some digs you've got yourself here," he pronounces, complete with grand gesture.

"They're mine," Bill says quietly, without moving from his chair, still watching intently.

"Frank Pembleton, this is Billy Tallent. Bill, this is my former partner." Frank barely glances at Bill before turning away, dismissing him, and my anger goes up another notch.

"Bayliss, we need to talk. Do we need to go somewhere else, or will your friend leave us alone?"

Bill looks down, hand on the back of his head, muttering something inaudible, probably "asshole." I hide a smile. Immovable force, meet irresistible object. This should be interesting.

He looks up again a second later. "Don't let me stop you two from your conversation," he says in his best sincere voice, letting me catch the glint in his eye. He'll have noticed I used his stage name and Frank used my last name. "Forget I'm here."

"Come on, come on, let's go," Frank commands. I shake my head, but he doesn't see it—he's already turned his back to me and headed for the door. Typical.

"No, Frank, you know, I think we're fine right here." He turns and looks at me with disbelief. I can see Bill smiling out of the corner of my eye.

"You don't want to have this conversation in front of anyone, Tim," Frank says, and there's a hint of pleading in his voice. I decide to take pity on him.

"Bill, it's all right. Frank and I, we'll head out to the pool and talk there. I don't think it'll take very long—we should have plenty of time to get to the gig." He gives me a measuring look, then nods. He stands up, comes over to me, lays his hand along my cheek, then turns and carries his acoustic into the bedroom. I gesture for Frank to follow me. Once the glass door is shut behind us, he lays into me.

"What the hell is going on here? What is this place? You living here with that hump?"

"It's Bill's home, and it's none of your fucking business."

"If you're not living here, what are you doing?"

"I worked for him for awhile, as a bodyguard. We're friends."

"Friends. Like you and Rawls were friends?" Fuck you, Frank.

"What did you come here to talk about, huh, Frank? Because I doubt it was my social life."

It's so easy to push his buttons, now that I don't care as much. I know what he thinks of me, and what he says next confirms it.

"Bayliss, what you did, maybe it was understandable, but it was still murder."

I bark out a laugh. "Boy, you don't miss anything, do you? That keen Jesuit-trained mind of yours, it's still sharp as a tack."

"You find this amusing? Because I don't."

"No, I'm sure you don't." We head over to the table and chairs, out by the minibar, which is apparently standard poolside equipment for southern California. "You want something to drink? We've got water, soda, juice, that sort of thing." At his look, I add, "Bill's an alcoholic. Sober about four years now."

"Bully for him." He shakes his head at my offer, so I pour myself some juice and sit down. He doesn't.

"Frank, take that damned hat off and sit down." He does, without a word, and I know how much this has got to be bothering him. He probably expected to find me broke, wracked by guilt, desperate for him to come to the rescue and make me pay for my sin—not sarcastic, relaxed, with a southern California tan—content, even. That's not the box he has me in, and he's not sure how to proceed.

"You're not gonna make this easy for me, are you?"

"Wasn't planning on it, no. Why should I? You had your chance, and you chose to let it go."

"I chose wrong. So did you."

"You think I should have eaten my gun?"

"You know damned well that's not what I meant."

And that's it, that's fucking it. I'm on my feet so fast I knock over my chair. "How the fuck am I supposed to know that? How the fuck am I supposed to know anything that you think anymore, as if I ever did? I'm fucking confessing to you, talking about suicide, and all you can talk about is what you're going to do for dinner!"

"Tim, no—" He stands up, takes a step towards me, and I can hear anguish in his voice, but it doesn't really affect me; I just roll right over it.

"Then there's the fact that you didn't talk to me for nearly two years. Quit Homicide while I was fucking unconscious, then never even managed to visit me in the hospital, where I died, Frank. You talked to me exactly twice in the next year, and that was when I called you. Still, I was enough of an idiot to think you still cared, and your opinion was still important to me. You were the only one I could talk to, the only one I wanted to talk to, even though, when my entire life was going down the fucking toilet, you were nowhere to be found. Well, all that's over now, and you've lost any right to say or do anything about how I live my life, do you hear me?" He's staring at me like he doesn't recognize me, which is rich, because it just proves how little he ever knew me to begin with.

"I hear you, Tim, really, but that doesn't change the fact that you did a killing, don't you understand that?"

"What you have to understand, Frank, is that it's none of your damned business anymore, not that it ever should have been. What I did; how I feel about it; what, if anything, I choose to do about it—none of that has anything to do with you."

"Oh, no, you son of a bitch, you made this my business when you told me. You put this on me; I didn't ask for it."

"All right, fine. What do you intend to do about it?" He wasn't expecting that, actually steps back, takes a second to respond.

"What do you mean, what do I intend to do about it? Tim, you've gotta turn yourself in; it's the only way!"

"I'm not turning myself in." I wait for it.

"I'll hate doing it, but I'll take you in myself if I have to."

"You will." He doesn't get it yet, but he will in a minute.

"Yes, Tim, I will take you in. You confessed a murder to me, and I will take you in."

"So, what, you'll go to Lewis, or maybe Gharty, and tell them about our little conversation on the roof the night Gee died? The night you and I brought in his killer? You'll tell them I threatened to kill myself if you didn't take me in, but you refused. What do you think that will accomplish, huh, Frank?"

He stares at me.

"You think they'll care? The confession's inadmissible, the case is just as dead as Ryland, and the asshole deserved to die. He would have gotten the death penalty if things hadn't gotten so fucked up. The person you're going to accuse is a cop, a former co-worker. A cop who always suspected another detective of killing Gordon Pratt, but never proved it. A cop who used to own a bar with the primary on the case." I wait a second, give that a chance to sink in.

"Of course, you could always go right to Danvers. Use any contacts you still have left with the bosses, except you have none, and go to Danvers, whose fault it was in the first place that Ryland went free. Go to any state's attorney—all of them would let you know in no uncertain terms that, since you were no longer a cop, anything I said to you is hearsay, not evidence, never mind the fact I wasn't Mirandized. They'd just have to convince their boss that the case is winnable, which it isn't, and that it's worth extraditing a decorated former police officer from his new home in California, where he lives with a famous musician, a multimillionaire who can get the best lawyers money can buy."

He's shaking his head back and forth slowly now, running his hand over his scalp. "Son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!" It's interesting how both he and Bill have that same habit.

"You can call me that all you want, but it's not going to make a bit of difference. Face it, Frank—you lost this one." You lost me, you arrogant bastard. "You had a better chance of closing the Brierre murder than you'll ever have with this one."

"I don't understand, Tim—this isn't you. You're a good man—that's what I always believed—why are you doing this?"

"I'll tell you this one more time: it's none of your business. So why don't you cut your losses and just get out, go home to Mary and your precious children?"

"Tim—" his voice breaks, just a little. Maybe there is a part of him that does care. Maybe I still care about him, too, enough to try, one last time, to explain.

"Listen, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I never should have told you that night. I didn't know what else to do—I think I was looking for any way out I could find, and I thought you might give it to me, one way or another. I know you and I never saw the world the same way, and to you, what I did was murder, plain and simple. It's not that simple to me anymore, if it ever really was.

"I was wrong to tell you. I shouldn't have put that on you, put that kind of burden on you, but come on, Frank—I don't think you'd really want to hear about how I died my first week in Jessup, do you? Would that make it right for you? Would that satisfy your precious Jesuit principles?"

"That's not gonna happen, Tim, come on." Now it's my turn to stare in disbelief.

"What, you think I'll get into some special facility for former partners of the almighty Frank Pembleton? If you'd turned me in that night, Frank, taken me in like I asked, and I'd gone into the system, I'd be just as dead as if I'd gone ahead and shot myself. Is that what you want?"

Something must finally get through that stubborn bald skull of his, because he shakes his head slowly. "No. No, that's not what I want."

"Then you're just going to have to live with this. That's what I do. I live with it. Because I've decided I don't want to die anymore."

"You don't." His voice is flat, but there's still a question there.

"No, Frank, I don't."

He looks at me for another moment, then stares out across the pool, running his hands along the back of his skull.

"This Tallent—he's pretty protective of you."

Maybe he does understand, after all.

"Yeah, he is. Goes both ways."

"You love him, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. Very much."

He nods, still staring out into the distance. "Good. That's good." Then he gets up, puts on his hat, shakes my hand, and leaves, without looking back.

I want to give you something
Something that you never had

I want to give you something

Something that I never had

—Headstones, Cut Me Up

I stay outside, probably for an hour or more. Eventually Bill comes out to join me, looking at me curiously. He places a finger on my nose.

"Getting a sunburn there, Timothy," he says mildly. "Why don't you come inside?" I nod, stand up slowly, and follow him in.

The living room's dark and cool after the brightness outside. It takes a couple seconds for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I see that he's staring at me intently, waiting quietly. When I meet his eyes he gestures for us to sit down. We do, and he faces me, hands on his knees.

"So," he remarks. "You going to tell me what the fuck that was all about?"

I sigh. His mouth quirks. "And don't tell me it's complicated. Everything's fucking complicated with you. If I'm not used to that by now, I never will be."

I can't help but smile at that, and he smiles in return, moving closer, clasping my hand. "I love you, Tim. Every complicated, fucked-up, twisted part of you. Every generous, compassionate, gentle part of you. Whatever you did, whatever your old partner has on you, it's not going to make a damn bit of difference."

"I'm not so sure about that," I mutter, and that sets him off.

"Goddammit, don't you fucking talk like that. Don't you trust me?"

"It's not you I don't trust."

"I don't give a fuck if you trust that arrogant prick or not, as long as you trust me."

"You don't get it—it's me I don't trust, Bill. And I've got good reason."

He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "What reason, Tim? Quit the fucking melodrama and just tell me. Whatever this huge fucking secret is, this thing that made you stop being a cop, I won't tell anyone, and I won't stop loving you—I couldn't do that if I tried."

I give up, because I know he won't. And because it's time—I'm tired of holding this.

"You remember me telling you about Luke Ryland, the asshole who killed those women on the internet?"

"Yeah, sure. You said the fucking felcher got off scott free, and then someone killed him."

"Not someone. Me. I killed him. I put a gun to his head and I executed him."

Bill, unlike Frank, doesn't argue with me, or try to find some way out of believing what I've said. He looks startled for a minute, moves back a little, but then he just meets my eyes and nods. "Okay then," he says calmly. "You killed the murdering son of a bitch so he couldn't kill anyone else."

"Yeah."

"And you told Frank, or did he just figure it out on his own?"

"I told him. Confessed to him, the night Gee died. Told him I'd eat my gun if he didn't take me in."

"But he didn't. And you—you didn't." He's lost a little of the calm now, but he's still keeping it together.

"No. We were walking back inside when Naomi told us Gee was dead. Frank took me into the box, yelled at me, told me he wouldn't allow anyone else to die, not that night, like he had any fucking control over it." I can't help but notice that the bitterness is back in my voice.

"Why didn't you—jesus, thank fuck you didn't—" He reaches for my hand, and I squeeze his tightly, trying to reassure him.

"I guess I just didn't have the strength left. Once I knew Gee was dead, and once Frank knew the truth and didn't do fuck all about it, I didn't have anything left."

"That's the real reason you left Baltimore, that you quit Homicide."

"Yeah."

"So why'd he come out here? No, wait, let me guess—the motherfucker wanted to take you in, didn't he? Jesus, he's an arrogant fuck."

"You're not upset?"

"That you killed this Ryland fucker? No, I'm not. Should I be?"

"I committed murder, Bill." I can't look at him as I say it, admit what I couldn't admit to Frank, at least not now.

"They were going for the death penalty before they fucked up at the trial, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts. He deserved to die. You wouldn't have done it unless it needed to be done."

I shake my head, still looking anywhere but at his face, astonished by the confidence in his voice. "No one deserves to die."

He moves quickly, grabs my chin, forces me to meet his eyes. Despite the harshness of his words, his eyes are kind, loving. "Don't give me that fucking Buddhist bullshit again, Tim. Would he or would he not have killed again? Did you or did you not keep him from murdering some other women?"

"He told me he was heading for New Orleans, where the women are easy. He said I'd see him on the internet."

"Okay then. You did what you felt you had to do. It's done. So, Frank gonna turn you in? Is that why he came out here?"

"He threatened to," I admit.

"What'd you tell him?"

"I told him my confession to him was inadmissible, which it is; that there was no evidence, that I wasn't turning myself in, and that he'd lost any right to be involved in my life."

"And when that didn't satisfy him?" For someone who never met Frank until today, Bill knows him pretty well.

"I told him it wouldn't pay to try to take me in, because they wouldn't want to try to extradite me, a decorated detective, especially since I lived with someone who could get me the best lawyers money could buy."

He snorts a laugh. "You got that right. I'd buy you Johnny Cochran, you know, if that's what it took." Then he gets serious again and looks at me hard, asks me a question—not the one I was expecting. "You finally over that self-important prick?"

I think about denying I ever needed to get over him, then decide the truth is better. "Yeah. Have been for months now. Since before I met you, I think."

"So it's not just a case of love the one you're with?"

I laugh. "Fuck no. As a matter of fact, he asked me if I loved you, and when I told him I did, he said, 'good.' That's when he finally left."

Then I notice his face. He's more concerned about my feelings for Frank than he is about Ryland, and while the cop in me finds that a little frustrating, the rest of me just wants to reassure him.

"Bill, I've never loved anyone the way I love you. Seeing Frank again, that just makes it more obvious. Whatever it was I felt for him, it wasn't real—it was a fantasy. With you, what was it you said? I love every complicated, fucked-up, twisted part of you, and I love the gentle, tender, intelligent man you don't let just anyone see."

I reach out and lay my fingers along his cheek, just letting them rest there while I look into the blue eyes that have become so important, so precious. "I love you, Bill," I repeat softly.

He leans in, kisses me for a long moment. Then he backs off just enough to look in my eyes, hand warm on the back of my neck.

"You were really thinking about killing yourself?"

"Thinking? I'm not sure I was doing much of that. But yeah, it was on my mind, in my mind. For a long time, not just that night. Years, probably."

"And now?"

"It's not there anymore. I can't guarantee it'll never come back, I guess, but it's not there now."

"Promise me something else, then."

"I'll tell you. I promise, I'll tell you."

"And you'll get some fucking help? Because, I swear to God, you do something stupid like eat your gun and I'll fucking kill you." He's smiling a little, but I can tell he's worried.

"I don't ever want to feel like that again. Yeah, if it happens again, I'll get some help. I promise. I don't want to die anymore, Bill. For probably the first time in my life, I have no desire to stop living."

"Good." He kisses me again, soft and sweet, but quickly deepening into passion. "Fuck, Tim. I love you so fucking much. Trust me to always fall for the self-destructive type."

"I'm not Joe," I remind him. "And I'm not the man I was when I shot Ryland."

"Shut up, you stupid fuck," he says tenderly. "Being in love and happy doesn't cancel out 40 years of hell and depression, and pretending it does is just fucking setting you up for more of the same."

"You channeling your shrink again?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

"Shut the fuck up. You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea to see someone now."

"What, you want me telling a therapist about killing Ryland? I'm not sure patient-doctor confidentiality goes that far."

"I was talking about your history of depression, freak, not to mention what your uncle did to you."

"Fine. Tell you what—I'll see someone if you will. I'm not convinced you're done dealing with Joe."

"Done."

"What?" It wasn't supposed to be that easy.

"Done. I'll go if you'll go. Maybe you could find someone through the Zen Center."

"Fuck."

He laughs. "Your idea."

"You'd really see your therapist again? I thought you hated him."

"Didn't say I'd see the same one." He stops to consider. "Actually, I would see the same one. Yeah, I fucking hated going, but that doesn't mean it didn't help."

"You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am," he says seriously. "It's important. You're important. I'll do whatever the fuck I have to, because I am not fucking losing you." He leans over and kisses me again, hard and deep.

When he finally breaks the kiss, I run my fingers through his hair. "You're not losing me, Bill. How many times do I have to tell you that? I'm not Joe. I'm not going to haul off and shoot myself. I love you, you idiot." I brush my lips against his temple, against his cheek. "I'll do whatever you want me to do. I'll see a therapist twice a week—fuck, I'll see one twice a day, if that's what it takes to convince you I'm all right.

"I'm not Joe," I repeat. "I won't leave you. I'm not going to kill myself. I love you, and I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. I didn't think I knew what being happy felt like, it'd been so long, but I do now, and I fucking like it, all right?"

He nods. "All right."

Then he leads me back into the bedroom—to what I'm finally allowing myself to think of as our bed—where he takes off my clothes, and I take off his, and we make love, and I try to show him how much joy he brings into my life, try to give a little back. Judging by the look in his eyes, the sharp sounds he makes as he comes inside me, and especially the way he smiles at me after, he understands.

END

Back to shell's stories

Back to shell's homepage