Chapter Text
I wake up slowly, enjoying the sensation of Tim stroking my hair. My head is pillowed on his shoulder, and when I open my eyes and look up into his face, I'm struck once again by the incredible depth and beauty I see. I must have been fucking good this year, because Santa gave me this.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep and love.
"Morning yourself," he answers me. "Merry Christmas. And thank you Santa for being so good to me this year."
I smile as he echoes my thoughts. "Yeah, I guess he figured we'd both gotten enough lumps of coal in our stockings, metaphorically speaking."
"Mmmhmm," he nods, then kisses me softly. "So, what's the tradition for Christmas morning around here?"
"I don't know. I think we'll have to come up with something."
"I know of something we could both come up with. But maybe we should have something to eat first--we burned a lot of calories the last couple days, and you know I need protein to build muscle."
"I can think of a way to get you some protein."
He laughs. "Later, Bill. Seriously, I'm hungry--aren't you?"
I stop to consider. "Yeah, I am. Frosted Flakes again?"
"Not for Christmas morning. I think we should have Swedish pancakes."
"Swedish pancakes?"
"Uh-huh. You'll have to do most of the cooking--I don't think I can flip them from a wheelchair, or on my crutches--but I have my grandmother's recipe memorized. I think you'll like them."
"You have the recipe for Swedish fucking pancakes memorized. Your grandmother's recipe. You never cease to amaze me, Detective. Have you thought to ask if we have the ingredients? What's in Swedish pancakes, anyway?"
"Milk, butter, eggs, flour, sugar, a touch of vanilla if you've got it, and then whatever we want for toppings. Some folks like fruit, but I've always been partial to syrup. Or cinnamon sugar, that's good too."
"Toppings. I can think of something else that would taste good covered in syrup." And with that I latch on to his collarbone.
"Stop distracting me! I told you, I'm hungry. And I'll be more, uh, energetic, after a sugar high."
"Yeah, until you fall asleep on me again."
Swedish pancakes turn out to be really, really good. Really good. Not to mention, really fucking good. Actually, they're so good that both of us are incapable of moving for an hour after we finish eating them.
"Sugar high, Tim?" I ask him, holding my protruding stomach.
"Hey, I had a jones for pancakes. I was gonna do whatever it took to satisfy my craving, and start a new tradition at the same time. You've got to admit, for a new tradition, it's a pretty good one." He looks so proud of himself that I start laughing. He tries on his puppy dog look for a minute, then gives up and laughs right along with me, and I am so fucking happy.
I heave myself up and start cleaning up the kitchen, and Tim calls his mom. He talks to her for awhile, making arrangements for our visit to Baltimore, joking about where he's going to take me, who he's going to introduce me to. I join him on the couch, enjoying the sound of his voice and the feel of his arm around me. I pull his hand to me, start kissing his knuckles, knowing he loves it when I do that, and soon he's wrapping up the phone call. And then he's wrapping himself around me, pushing me back, kissing his way down my chest.
"Hey," I say, running my fingers through his hair, "I've got an idea."
"For another tradition?" he asks, looking up.
"Could be. Come on, let's get back to bed. There's more room there."
"Room is good," he says agreeably, holding me down for a sloppy kiss, still tasting faintly of syrup. Then he sits up again, and I help him back to the bedroom.
He looks a little puzzled when I tell him to lie on his belly, but then murmurs satisfaction as I kneel next to him and begin to rub his back and shoulders. I work slowly, thoroughly, massaging every muscle and kink until he's boneless beneath me. I know just how he likes this--pressure deep and hard in his upper back, especially his shoulders, sore from using the crutches; soft and soothing in his lower back.
I pull his sweats off, then mine, then nudge him over onto his side. I get behind him, start kissing the back of his neck, stroking his arms and chest and belly. He's got such smooth, soft skin, not much hair at all until you get down below his belly button. Yeah, there are some nasty scars, but he's so long and lean, and warm, and soft, and I can feel his heart beating in his chest beneath my hand.
I slowly work my way down his back, kissing, nuzzling, stroking every inch of that glorious skin. He's making those inarticulate murmurs of pleasure that I love to hear. I have to watch myself to avoid jarring his right leg, but he's got his left one bent up, granting my mouth easy access to the smooth curves of his ass. He gasps as he feels my lips, then says, laughing breathlessly, "If I told you to bite my white ass, would you do it?"
I growl at him and nip first one, then the other cheek. He grabs one of my hands and puts it on his dick, but I take it away after a quick caress and reach for the lube. I move up so my lips are against his neck again, my dick pressing up against his ass as I work first one, then a second slippery finger inside him. He's moaning louder now, writhing a little, pushing back against me, legs spreading wider as I work a third finger in. I want to make sure, though, so I whisper into his ear, "You want this, Tim?"
"God, yes, Bill," he says urgently.
So I put some more lube on my fingers, on my dick, remembering how good it felt, concentrating on making it that good for him as I press slowly in. I don't want to hurt him, please don't let me hurt him, but he's breathing those slow, deep, meditation type breaths, and I can feel him relaxing, allowing me in. Guess there's something else meditation is good for.
I take a few deep breaths myself, trying to maintain control. He pushes against me some more, I push back, and then I'm in all the way, feeling his tight heat around me, and I remember how he waited to move, to make sure I was okay, and I wonder how the hell he did it, because without making any conscious decision, I'm thrusting even deeper. I put my hand on his dick then, no need to wait any longer, and he thrusts into it, then pushes back against me, jesus that's good Tim, both of us moaning, grunting with each thrust. My other hand is stroking up his chest, and he grabs it, pulls it up and sucks three fingers into his mouth, another counterpoint to our thrusts. We speed up, getting to the edge, getting frantic, and I feel his balls tighten up, feel him tighten up around me oh fuck that's amazing, and then he's coming, and I can feel him coming, clenching and releasing around me, his teeth biting down on my fingers for just a second, and then I'm coming too, coming hard, like a fucking freight train, knowing once again how good it can be with Tim. Only with Tim.
I stay inside him for a couple minutes, sweating, breathing hard, my hand still around his dick, squeezing gently, feeling his breath rasp out around my fingers as I pull them out of his mouth and stroke his cheek. Then he turns, and I come out, and he's facing me again, hands cupping my face for a sweet, gentle kiss.
We just look at each other for a long moment.
"You okay?" he asks me at last, stroking my cheek.
"Way better than okay," I answer him. "How about you?"
He smiles sweetly at me. "Oh, I don't think I'm okay at all. Blown away, maybe. After all, I did just have my brains fucked out."
"Is that what that was?"
He nods solemnly.
"Well, I hope you have some spares, because I plan on doing that again. Often."
"Good."
"As long as you'll return the favor, of course."
"I give you my word." He's still smiling, but I think I can see a little shadow in his eyes.
"Your leg okay?"
He murmurs noncommittally.
"Is your leg okay?"
"It's fine," he says. "Yeah, it hurts, but that's nothing new."
"Let me see," I say, pushing him over on his back. He winces as he rolls this time, and I'm a fucking idiot for doing that to him, no matter how good it felt to both of us at the time, because his leg is one big tight cramp, hard as a rock, and his face is getting paler by the minute.
"Fuck, Tim, why didn't you tell me?" I yell as I fish for his meds and grab a glass of water.
"It just happened, Bill. There was nothing to tell until 60 seconds ago, so just chill out. It's just a muscle cramp." I glare at him as he swallows the pills, and he adds apologetically, "All right, it's one motherfucker of a muscle cramp. But it's not that big a deal." His face gives me the lie, though, paler still and grimacing as I try to work my fingers into flesh that feels like iron.
After a minute that must feel like an hour to him--he's swearing under his breath now, sweating buckets--I go with plan B and manhandle him up and into the shower, covering the casted parts of his leg with a garbage bag and directing a hot spray over the whole thing. Eventually, the muscle starts to loosen, some color comes back into his face, and we both start to breathe a little easier.
We wash up quickly and I get him back into bed. I haven't seen him this exhausted in weeks. I fuss over getting his leg elevated just right, and I think he falls asleep before I even finish pulling the covers up.
Way to go, Billiam. Way to fucking go.
****
I sleep the whole afternoon, even sleep through Billie's arrival. It's dark when I finally wake up and smell something fantastic. It smells like Sarah's homemade macaroni and cheese, and I realize I haven't called her and Ruth yet to wish them a Merry Christmas. I can hear soft voices and a tv on low--sounds like one of my Mighty Mouse tapes--out in the living room, and I wonder if Chelle and Kat have come over again, because it sounds like more than just Bill and Billie out there, although whoever it is is obviously trying to keep quiet.
I struggle into the bathroom, freshen up a little bit, put on some sweats, and when I head back into the bedroom I hear a tentative knock.
"Yeah, I'm up, come on in," I say, heaving myself back up on the bed. I really needed that nap--I feel a whole lot better now--but I'm not sure I feel up to making the trip out to the living room without some help. Bill pokes his head in and I smile at him, so he comes in, closes the door behind him, and sits down next to me, giving me that concerned look he's perfected over the last couple months.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asks softly.
"Better. A lot better. Not going to run any marathons, but really, Bill, I feel pretty good."
"How's your leg?"
"Sore, but nothing like it was."
He nods, apparently satisfied that I'm telling him the truth.
"Good. I'm sorry, Tim--I think I took that slave driver assignment a little too seriously, pushed you too hard. It won't happen again."
"I don't know about the slave driver part--maybe I spent too much time standing in the kitchen--but you damn well better do the other thing again, because I happened to like it. A lot."
He smiles at me. "We will, Tim. Just not for awhile, okay? Or at least not without giving you a muscle relaxant first," he amends when he sees he's about to get an argument. "Now, if we could get off the subject of our sex life, there are some people waiting out there who really want to come in and see you. You up for that?"
"Sure--what people? Why don't you help me into the chair and we'll go out there?"
"No need, Tim. There's been a group decision that we're all taking care of you tonight. You're getting dinner in bed." He turns, says in a loud voice towards the door, "Okay, kids, come on in!"
The door opens with giggles and suddenly three girls step into the room. Well, actually, Ruth doesn't step--she runs, jumps onto the bed and into my arms. Sarah's just a few steps behind her, and she climbs onto the bed, too, giving me a big hug and kiss. Then Billie joins us, climbing onto her father's lap and reaching over to give me a kiss as well. I hug Sarah and Ruthie hard, speechless, and turn to look at Bill, gaping.
"Merry Christmas, Tim," he says, echoed enthusiastically by the three girls.
"What--how--jeez, Sarah, Ruthie, it's so good to see you!" I finally manage to blurt out. "I thought you were in St. George--how did you get here?"
"Bill sent us plane tickets, Timothy," says Ruth excitedly. "We got to fly in a big plane, and the flight attendant gave us cookies and milk, didn't she, Sarah?"
"Yeah, and they were good," Sarah answers.
"Not as good as yours, Sarah," Billie interjects. "Those are sweet. Dad, can you get Sarah's recipe?"
"Wait a minute," I say, overwhelmed. "How long have you girls been here? And what time is it, anyway?"
"It's late, Tim, and we've been waiting for you to wake up forever, so we can eat. Sarah made your favorites, and we made chocolate chip cookies, too." Ruth has curled up on my lap. I'd forgotten how small she was. God, it's good to see them, and for a minute I have to blink back the tears that threaten. The girls don't notice, but Bill does, and he ruffles my hair with a smile.
"Sarah and Ruth got here around 2, and Billie got in about 3," he says. "Plenty of time for them to make some cookies. It's about 7:30 now. Are you hungry?"
"Starving. Bill, you don't know heaven until you've tasted Sarah's cooking."
"Oh, I don't know about that," he says softly. "I've got a pretty good idea of heaven already."
Sarah's cooking is every bit as wonderful as I remember, even better without the specter of Church Canyon hanging over us. We have none of the traditional holiday foods, and I know that's Bill's influence, trying to protect me from unpleasant memories. Instead, we have macaroni and cheese, broccoli, salad, fresh bread with peanut butter, fresh fruit, and more. I didn't think it was possible for me to feel more stuffed than I had this morning, but by the time I get to dessert I can only manage one cookie.
After dinner, they bring in the presents that Bill told me he'd mailed to St. George, along with ones from them to me, from Bill to Billie, and so on, and we have a wonderful time tearing them all open at once, all of us sprawled over the bed. Then Bill puts Ruth to bed. Once she's asleep, he gets out his acoustic. He and Sarah and Billie sing, and I listen. Billie's yawning after awhile, so he gets her off to bed, and Sarah and I have a moment to talk.
"How are you doing, Sarah? How do you like St. George, and your foster family?"
"It's okay," she says. "I really like school, and getting to go to the mall and stuff. And MTV! There are a lot of Jenifur videos, you know." And she sounds so much like a normal teenager that I can't help but grin.
"Yeah, I know there are, but to tell you the truth, I haven't seen any of them."
"You haven't? I know you guys have cable!"
"I don't think Bill likes to watch himself on tv," I tell her conspiratorially. "So he won't let me watch any of them."
"Well, maybe you should sneak a look sometime," she answers in the same tone. Then her mood shifts a little.
"Can I ask you something, Tim?"
"Anything, Sarah."
"Um, when we, um, before, Jessica said you had sex with other men. I told her it wasn't true, that you were just protecting us, but she said that wasn't true. But, uh, do you? With Bill?"
Oh shit--how to handle this one?
I take a deep breath. "Sarah, you know that I love you and Ruthie, but that I love you sort of like I'm your uncle, right?"
She nods.
"Well, you can probably tell that I love Bill, too, and he loves me?"
She nods again.
"Well, Sarah, the truth is, I do love Bill the way a lot of men and women love each other. It's not because of sex, not exactly, but I love Bill a lot, more than I've ever loved a woman. Does that bother you?"
"No, not really. It's like Gordon and Danny, right? They love each other, too, and I saw them kissing one day. It was weird, but it was okay, because it was Gordon and Danny."
"Yes, it's just like Gordon and Danny. The thing is, a lot of people think that two men loving each other that way, or two women for that matter, is wrong, is a sin. Now, I don't believe that, and neither does Bill, but a lot of people do, especially in places like St. George. So it's probably not a good idea to spend a lot of time talking about it with your friends or your foster parents."
"Well, if they think that, they're just stupid!" she says with all the righteous indignation of a fourteen year old bent on changing the world, and I smile with pride.
"Who's stupid?" asks Bill, joining us on the bed, putting his arm around both of us.
"People who think it's wrong for you and Tim to love each other," she tells him fiercely.
"I have to say I agree with you there, Sarah," he says with a smile. "But we still have to be careful, because there are a lot of people who disagree, and some of them can be pretty nasty."
"People like the ones in the Canyon," she says quietly. "Are there really people like that in St. George, Tim?"
"Not like that, god, no, Sarah. I would never let you near anyone like that again, you hear me? Never." I make sure she hears me. "You're safe now, Sarah. I promise. And if you or Ruth ever need anything, you just call me and I'll be there."
"We'll both be there, Sarah. Just think of us as honorary uncles, or something," Bill adds.
"Okay," she says. "I just wish--"
"What, Sarah?"
"Nothing. I just wish I lived closer, so I could see you more often."
"Any time you want to come out here, there will be a plane ticket waiting for both of you," Bill says. "And once Tim's up and about more, we'll come out to visit you. You're stuck with us, kiddo."
"Good. Because, you know, this was the best Christmas I've ever had."
"It was for me, too, sweetie," I say, kissing the top of her head. "By far."
"For me too," Bill agrees softly, stroking my hair. Then he looks at the clock and sits up straighter. "But it's almost Boxing Day, so it's time for you to get to bed, kiddo." I get another goodnight kiss and hug, and then they're out of the room, and I can hear him explaining Boxing Day as they head to one of the guest rooms. I think he promises to take all three girls shopping--I hope he knows what he's in for.
The next few days are wonderful. Bill takes the girls shopping, as promised, on Boxing Day, leaving me with strict instructions to take it easy. It's a little odd, being alone in the house--no one there but me, no facade to keep up, no work to do--although I do spend some time going over ideas for the Adena Watson Fund.
By the next day, Bill's apparently decided I'm no longer fragile, and we all head to the zoo. Everyone takes turns pushing my wheelchair, Sarah takes tons of pictures with her new camera, and Bill spends too much money on t-shirts and beanie babies in the gift shop. A great time is had by all. Chelle and Kat come over that night, and Gordon and Dan the next.
Too soon, it's time for Sarah and Ruth, and Billie the next day, to go back to their respective homes. I can't believe how hard it is to say goodbye. I'm not thrilled by what I've heard about their living situation, but it's stable, it's a two parent family, and it's safe. It still kills me to put them on the plane. Bill understands, gives me a hug in the airport as we watch the plane take off, right in front of several photographers.
The three of us spend Billie's last night at home, watching cartoons and eating pizza. The next morning, it's my turn to hug Bill as we watch the plane take off.
****
Seeing Tim's face when Sarah and Ruth came into our room was fucking amazing. When they'd come see him in the hospital, he was still in pretty bad shape--in a fuckload of pain and really weak. He'd been really happy to see them then, no question, but I don't think I realized how much those girls meant to him until I saw his face that night.
I recognized what was behind that face, what was behind the matching expressions the girls wore. I recognized it, but I sure as shit didn't know what the fuck to do about it. Those kids love Tim, and he loves them, and meanwhile they're living hundreds of miles away in fucking Mormon country. And I don't even know if he realizes that, for all intents and purposes, those girls think of him as their father.
I buy a couple more plane tickets right after they leave. I don't know what to expect from our upcoming trip to Baltimore, but something tells me having them visit us out there might be good for everyone concerned. Current plans have us staying out there about ten days, more than enough time to pack up Tim's apartment and get through the Russert interview. I know it'll be Tim's first time in his home town in over two years, and I wonder how it'll be for him. Shit, I still haven't been back to Edmonton, and it's been over six years since Joe died.
So yeah, I think having the girls come out to visit us in Baltimore is a good idea. This time I tell him about it--talk up how they can help pack up the apartment, how they'll get a chance to meet his mom, see the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, go to DC. He's a little hesitant at first, but he warms up to the idea pretty quickly, because he's really missing them. I get a little guff from the foster parents, but I talk up the educational aspects of a trip to the Nation's Capital, and they finally give in.
I wonder what's involved in becoming a foster parent. Maybe I should ask Alicia. I need to talk to her anyway, change some stuff in my will. But there are only a couple days left at home before the trip, days we spend mostly in bed. Yeah, the house is quieter with just the two of us--except when we're making noise.
I still can't believe it every morning when I wake up and find him there next to me, usually already awake and watching me, just like I watch him sleeping each night. I love to look at him--sleeping, eating, watching cartoons, smiling, and oh yes when he's naked and sweating and moaning. He gets that wrinkle on his forehead, screws his eyes shut, and throws his head back when he's coming--it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the noises he makes, the noises I get him to make, are better than any song I could ever write.
Yeah, I have it bad. And I'm about to go on national television and tell the whole fucking world. Not that people aren't already aware we're a couple, but it'll be different being interviewed together. Tim wants me there with him, so that's where I'll be. The press release about the Watson Fund will go out on New Years Day, but we've already given Russert the heads up about it--hopefully that's what the interview will focus on, but who knows.
Tim trusts Russert to keep to what we've agreed upon, because of Megan, but I'm not so sure. That's another reason I agreed to be there with him. Don't plan on saying much, but if Russert steps out of line, I'll be there.
And I'll be there when he packs up his old apartment, his old life, says goodbye to his home town. Maybe it won't be that bad for him, maybe it'll go smoothly, but I'm not so sure. I have a feeling he's going to need something like a visit from the girls, because I think this trip is going to be a lot harder for him than he's letting himself realize. He's so good at pushing away any unpleasant memories--too good, sometimes, because then they reach out and grab him when he's not expecting it. So the more he talks about how great Baltimore is going to be, the more I wonder how he's really going to feel when he's back there.