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 This author's email address has changed to:  slash_evidence@ameritech.net

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From: Vampyres Incorporeal <vii@netdirect.net>
Date: Sat, 12 Sep 1998 17:28:38 -0500
Subject: Slash-Evidence Segue: The Ties That Bind (1/4) 


Title: Slash-Evidence Segue: The Ties That Bind (1/4)
Author: Hope
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Feedback: Greatly appreciated, in all forms
Rating: R (language, adult themes)           
Category: C/SRA
Summary: Mulder and Bayliss deal with a few loose ends.
Keywords: Mulder, Bayliss, slash, family, slash-evidence
Spoilers: Slash-Evidence Series
(http://netdirect.net/~vii/fanfic/slash.html), current seasons
Homicide: Life on the Street and The X Files.
Disclaimer: They still aren't mine, more's the pity.
Notes: This is a segue piece leading from the original SE
Series into the forthcoming sequel series, as yet unnamed. 

Night

     "This is your mother, Fox. I'm tired of playing these
games with you. If you haven't returned this call by midnight
tonight, I -will- see you shortly." 
     Closing the lid of the answering machine,  Tim
looked up at Mulder coolly, crossing his arms over his
chest. "It's been months, Mulder."
     "I know it has," he replied, taking off his coat and
tossing it on the arm of the couch. Making his way into the
tiny kitchen, he opened the fridge, rummaging around but
looking for nothing. 
     "You can't keep putting it off."
     Mulder pushed the door shut, leaning his forehead
against the cool metal. "I know that."
     "Then do something about it, Mulder. I'm not going
away, -we're- not going away, and neither is your mother."
Tim slipped out of his coat, and flopped onto the couch. He
pulled his glasses off and set them aside, rubbing the bridge
of his nose. "It's gonna happen sooner or later. It may as
well be sooner."
     Turning, Mulder flattened himself against the
refrigerator, staring at his lover with a mix of anger and
regret. "Why not later? Why not never, Tim? I don't want to
talk to her about it. I don't want to talk to her about
anything having to do with me, or my life. . ."
     "What, are you ashamed," Bayliss asked, raising an
eyebrow. 
     Mulder pulled himself over the breakfast bar, and
marched deliberately to the window. He slammed it open,
and leaned his head out. "I am in love with Tim Bayliss and
I don't care who knows it!" Throwing the sash down so
hard the glass rattled, he turned around angrily. "That has
nothing to do with it. My mother doesn't have the right to
know me anymore, Tim."
     "She's reaching out to you. . ."
     Pointing his finger at Tim, Mulder stalked the length
of the living room. "No, she is not. She wants to hold me
accountable- she chose me, and she wants me to know I've
failed to meet her expectations."
     Tim bounced his feet edgily, leaning forward to prop
his elbows on his knees. "You don't know what she wants.
You haven't talked to her . . . how long has it been,
exactly?"
     "I don't know," Mulder smirked bitterly. "When was
the trial?"
     "You're not going to use me against her. No.
Absolutely not. I refuse," Bayliss said, his voice cold and
even. "I had to do this, so do you. I sat alone in my
apartment and listened to my answering machine, this is
your mother, Tim. This is your sister, Tim. This is your
cousin, Teej. My girlfriend from -high school- called, did
you know that? Huh? You have to talk to your mother, or
things are never going to be right between us."
     "Will you listen to me," Mulder shouted, knotting
his hands in his own hair. "Just listen to me, Tim, jesus! I
don't want my mother touching us, ever! Between her lies
and all the other lies, I don't have a past of my own. I -want-
my future. I want -our- future."
     Tim stood up, shoving his hands into the pockets of
his sweatshirt. "Then be man enough to tell her that,
Mulder." Looking away, he sighed, then grabbed his coat
and headed for the door. "I'm going for a walk."
     With a broken sigh, Mulder didn't try to follow. He
watched Bayliss open the door, measuring his lover's anger
in the stiffness of his shoulders. "Are you coming back?"
     Glowering over his shoulder, Tim stepped into the
hall. "Don't ask me stupid questions."


     When the phone rang, Mulder picked it up
reluctantly. He took a hard breath, and managed to say
hello.
     "Fox?"
     He let the breath out. "Mrs. Bayliss."
     "I'm sorry to call so late, but I tried Tim's apartment
and the bar, and. . . I'm sorry. Is Tim there?"
     Leaning back into the couch, Mulder pressed a
finger into his temple as he glanced out the dirty window.
"He's out for a walk, is something wrong?"
     There was a long, reedy sigh, before she spoke
again. "Could you just have him call me when he gets in?"
     "Absolutely," Mulder murmured. "Are you sure
you're all right?"
     "I just. . . I just need to hear his voice," she said
apologetically. "Thank you, hon."
     A bitter smile crossed his face as he rolled the phone
back onto the hook. Knotting his fingers into his hair, he
closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He knew he was
right, he knew that his mother was not going to hold out
open arms, and listening to Sarah Bayliss' warm voice only
emphasized that. 
     He couldn't remember the last time his own mother
had addressed him with an endearment, but Mrs. Bayliss did
it so easily, so freely, that the contrast struck him cold.
Pulling himself to his feet, he walked over to the window,
pressing his forehead to the glass. He still felt like he
couldn't breathe, an empty, hard weight pressing on his
chest. They would talk, he decided, to satisfy Tim, and he
only hoped that he'd have something left after it all fell
down.

     "Your mother called," Mulder rasped.
     Bayliss nodded, peeling off his coat. "It's late. I'll call
her in the morning."
     Pulling himself off the floor, Mulder picked up the
phone. "She wanted to talk to you tonight."
     "Did you talk to your mother," he asked pointedly,
taking the phone and holding it to his side. 
     "Yes."
     "And?"
     Producing a thin, tight smile, Mulder ran his fingers
through his hair. "Command performance. She's in town, I'll
see her tomorrow." They were only standing a few feet
away, but the distance seemed endless. Rather than reach
out, Mulder shrugged and brushed past his lover, padding
down the hallway and into the bathroom. 
     Tim watched as he shut the door, and finally turned
away when the water started running. He hung the phone
up, and laid down on the couch. Staring at the stained
ceiling, he kicked off his shoes and sighed. He didn't want
Mulder to be upset, but he had to say something. This
discussion with his mother had been put off for far too long,
and the whole subject had started to get under Tim's skin. 
     Listening to the beat of the shower, Bayliss closed
his eyes. Outed or not, Mulder was still very much in the
closet, and lately Tim had begun to wonder if he wasn't in
denial. Insulated in their apartments, they had the perfect
relationship. They talked, they laughed, they touched.
Outside those walls, however, they could be mistaken for
estranged brothers. It wasn't as though he wanted to trip
down Charles Street holding hands, flowers in their hair, but
he at least wanted Mulder to look him in the eye. Their few
trips to Mount Vernon nightspots had been total disasters;
Mulder might say that he was unashamed, but the way he
circled around him in public told a completely different
story. With another sigh, Tim peeled off his glasses and laid
his arm over his eyes, wondering if things would ever be
easy for them.

Morning

     Glancing down at his watch, Mulder frowned, then
shaped his tie again. He could feel Tim watching him from
the hallway, the man's long form braced against the wall in
quiet evaluation. Mulder looked over at him, then back into
the mirror. What are you going to tell her, Mulder, he asked
himself, turning on the water long enough to dampen his
hands. What are you going to tell him when it's over?
     He smoothed his fingers over his hair again, then
grabbed a towel. Looking over at Bayliss, he struggled to
find something to say. "You call your mother?"
     "Not yet." Tim shook his head, flattening his back
against the wall to let Mulder pass. 
     Mulder grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch
and slipped into it. "She sounded a little off, you need to call
her."
     "I will."
     "Okay."
     They fell into a strained silence, neither one able to
find anything else to say. After a few moments, Mulder
nodded affirmatively, and stepped toward the door. He took
a last look at Tim as he slid his hand around the knob. "You
going to be here when I get back?"
     "Probably." Bayliss hadn't mean for his response to
sound so neutral, but he couldn't fix that now. When the
door shut behind Mulder, Tim leaned his head against the
wall, and hoped for the best.

     "Hey mom, Mulder said you called," Tim said,
blowing a haze of steam off a cup of coffee. Switching the
phone from his left hand to his right, he turned his back to
the window. The sun was incredibly bright, too bright for
his tastes this morning. A tickle of dread filtered into his
thoughts when his mother hesitated. "Mom? You there?"
     "I'm here Tim," she murmured, and he heard a break
in her voice. 
     Setting down the coffee, Tim propped his elbows on
his knees. "Mom, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
     A genuine sense of alarm ran through him when he
heard her start to cry. "Tim, Tim honey, Tim please come
home. I . . . we need to talk."
     "Mom what happened?" A thousand possibilities
occurred to him at once. She was sick. Something awful had
happened to Emma or Kelly. A chill ran down his spine as
he tried to ignore the direst scenarios. Standing up, he
rooted his feet into his sandals, trying to pry the details out
of her. "Talk to me, mom, what's wrong?"
     "I don't want to talk about it on the phone, Tim,"
she said sternly. Suddenly, she had broken away from her
tears and fallen back into a parental mode. "I'll put on
coffee, we'll talk."
     Maybe that was supposed to comfort him, but
somehow it just made him feel sick. His stomach roiled as
he murmured in agreement, staring at the phone for a
moment before he hung up. Glancing around Mulder's
messy apartment, he homed in on his wallet and keys,
snatched them off the bar, and was out the door without a
second thought.

(End Part One)


Slash-Evidence Segue: The Ties That Bind (2/4)

     Walking slowly, Mulder caught sight of his mother
standing in front of Vietnam Wall, tilting her head to read
over unfamiliar names. She seemed so small next to the
stark expanse of black marble, but her expression was nearly
as hard. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he approached
her quietly.
     She looked up at him, examining him from hair to
shoes with an appraising eye. Adjusting her purse, she
nodded and started walking, expecting him to follow.
"When you were little, and I hadn't seen you overnight, I
could tell immediately that you'd grown," she said, peering
over her shoulder to make sure he was on her heels.
     "I'm an adult now," he responded evenly, keeping
his eyes on the few feet of pavement in front of him, never
looking over. He could smell her light, floral perfume, and it
brought back flashes of memory. The kiss she had laid on
his cheek when he graduated from college, the surprise in
her face when he told her he was joining the FBI. To him,
momentous decisions would always smell like lilies. 
     Mrs. Mulder set her mouth, slowing down a bit.
"And I always. . . I always let you make your own mistakes.
You were too stubborn to learn any other way."
     "I'm not making a mistake."
     With an empty laugh, she waved her hand. "That's
what you said when you married Diane. I realize I don't
understand much of your life, and I am more than willing to
accept some of the blame for the tragedies that have made
you so hard, Fox, but this. . . this relationship of yours, I
can't accept any of the blame for that."
     Stopping, he stared at the back of her head, wishing
for just one moment that Tim could be there to see this. He
wasn't especially fond of saying 'I told you so,' and there
would be no way to explain the cool, sharp edge of her
words later on. "There's no blame to be laid."
     "I don't believe for a minute that you're. . . you're
gay," she said, turning to face him. "I raised you better than
that."
     Summoning a wry smile, he nodded. "I love him.
That's not an ugly thing, mother."
     "It's wrong and you know it." She never raised her
voice, but there was enough hiss to the words to make her
point clear. 
     "You think it's wrong," he answered. "I know it's
not."
     "If you believed that, it wouldn't have taken you
eight months to say so." She reached out to touch his arm,
but he shied away, not wanting to feel her hands on him, not
wanting her to move any closer. "This is not who you are,
Fox."
     Mulder took a step back, gazing into the bright
autumn sky so long his eyes hurt. "If you can't love him, you
can't love me."
     "I see." She smiled at him, a brittle expression of
disappointment. "I love you. A mother's love is
unconditional, but I still have to let you make your own
mistakes. When you're ready to admit them, I'll be waiting."
     With a shrug, he nodded, accepting the inevitable.
"Don't sit up nights waiting, mother. You'll lose a lot of
sleep." Mulder turned on his heel and walked away, refusing
to look back.

     He wasn't surprised to find Tim gone when he
returned, nor was he upset. Tim didn't walk out on people,
or shut them out, or ignore their existence when they failed
to meet his expectations. Mulder was positive that wherever
Tim had gone, he would be back, probably bearing a bottle
of wine and a couple of videos. He envied his lover's ability
to forgive, he almost wished he could cultivate it, but not so
much as to actually try. 
     Crossing the room, he tossed himself on the couch.
He stared blankly at the television's dark screen, trying hard
to feel something, but there was nothing to feel. There
wasn't even the satisfaction of being right, only bland
confirmation of the truth. His mother was a woman who
could sacrifice her children, and only feel the pain of her
loss, no one else's. His psychologist mind wanted to draw
parallels between his mother and every relationship he'd
ever had with a woman, but his logical mind wouldn't allow
it. That was blame he could lay at his own feet; he had more
than enough to hold against his mother without adding that
into the equation.
     Rather than continue his introspection, he slid onto
the floor and pulled out his Playstation. Dropping the
Mortal Kombat cartridge into place, he switched on the
television and immersed himself in animated dismemberment
until his mother's visit had nearly faded from memory.

Afternoon

     Hurrying into his mother's house, Tim glanced into
the living room, then the kitchen. He hesitated, then called
out for her. It was strangely quiet, and the lack of
immediate response sent a chill through him. Shrugging out
of his jacket, he headed into the kitchen, calling out for her
again.
     The back door swung open, and his Sarah Bayliss
stepped in from the back porch, her face drawn and looking
years older than it should have. When she caught sight of
her son, she tried to smile, but her mouth wavered into a flat
line. "I made coffee."
     "Mom?" 
     Even though he towered over her, she could still
make him feel small and vulnerable. With a soft hand on his
back, she led him to one of the kitchen chairs. Smoothing
her hand over his hair as he sat, she slowly exhaled a long
breath. She started to sit down, then turned in mid-sit,
busying herself with coffee mugs. "Your Uncle George died,
Tim."
     Tim stiffened, and caught himself speaking before he
thought. "I don't care."
     "I know," she replied softly. "I've made. . . I've made
a lot of mistakes. . ."
     As her voice trailed off, Tim turned around
suddenly. "You've made a lot of mistakes?"
     Pressing a warm mug into his hands, she looked past
him. "I took care of the arrangements, your uncle Toby's
just too sick to deal with it. I've been thinking, Tim, thinking
about you, and your father, and all the things I should have
said before, but never did."
     His heart began to flutter, a growing pull of anxiety
draining the color from his already pale face. Senses from
his childhood gnawed at the edges of his thoughts; the
sound of the bathroom door closing, the scent of his uncle's
skin, the cold pierce of his father's eyes. He opened his
mouth, but said nothing. What the hell was there to say?
     "I thought," she stumbled, wrapping her fingers
around the back of his chair, squeezing so hard her knuckles
turned white. "I thought it could wait until you were older,
that we could talk about it when. . . when I knew what to
say, or knew how to make it better, but you grew up so
fast, Tim, so fast." 
     Tim stood up, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he
turned slowly to face her. "You knew? You knew what he
was doing to me and you let it happen anyway?"
     "No." She snapped her head up, staring into his eyes
defiantly. "I suspected. I talked to your father about it, but
times were different, then, Tim. I trusted him to take care of
the situation, it wasn't my place. . ."
     "I'm your son," Tim argued, his voice strangled, his
eyes filling with angry tears. "You should have. . . you
should have. . .done something!"
     She nodded, closing her eyes. "And I was wrong. I
know that now, I know I was wrong, Tim, and when I
found out that your father had done nothing, done nothing!"
Her voice broke with anger, then she pulled herself back in.
"When I found out he'd done nothing, I . . . I didn't make
you go to Thanksgiving anymore, remember, Tim? And
when. . . and when he came over, I made you wash dishes,
and clean up in the kitchen with me, and take out the trash. .
. anything to keep you in my line of sight. My heart broke
for you, for every time I hadn't been able to protect you. . ."
     Subtly, Tim's memory of his childhood began to
reconfigure itself. After he'd told his father, things were so
stark, he'd been so angry with betrayal that he hadn't noticed
any change in his mother's behavior. Now that she'd said
something, it came filtering back. The way she nagged at
Christmas for him to clean up the wrapping paper, the way
she always set him to work on other holidays, the way she
demanded he put things away- at the time, it had just
seemed like irritation. He felt his legs weakening, and he fell
back into his chair, staring up at his mother helplessly.
"Why. . . why are you telling me this now?"
     As if he were still a child, she put her arms around
his neck, and pressed his face into her shoulder. "You. . .
you have grown up to be such a beautiful man, Tim, but I
can't help wondering what might have been different, if you
would have married and had a family of your own. . ."
     Leaning back, he looked up at her. "I could still have
a family."
     "But you won't." She curled a palm against his
cheek, shaking her head slightly. "Now. . . now that he's
gone, I am relieved. I've never been happy to see someone
die before, but this time, I was. I was so happy, Tim. I knew
you were taking care of him, and I didn't. . . I still don't
know why, but now he's dead, and he's gone, and he can't
hurt you anymore, not ever again. I just thought. . ." She
broke off again, tears in earnest rolling down her lined
cheeks. "I just thought that for whatever pain you felt,
whatever prompted you to take care of that man. . . that
you wouldn't be able to let it go unless you knew the whole
truth."
     Tim reached up, gripping his mother's forearms,
trying to swallow back bitter anger. "I . . .I cannot, cannot
forgive him, and I can't forgive dad either." He shook his
head, rising to his feet. 
     "Can you forgive me?"
     Rolling his lips into a tight line, he stared at her
blankly and backed away. "You know, mom, I don't know. I
don't know. Right now, part of me is saying, hell, Tim, she
did what she could, she tried, which is a hell of a lot more
than dad ever did, but.  . .  but I'm angry! What did I do,
what did I do that nobody could protect me? That nobody
could save me, huh?" He threw up his hands and turned
away, then spun back to face her again. "I need. . .I need a
minute, I need a minute, I'm going to go wash my hands."
     His mother crossed her arms over her chest, taking a
tentative step toward him. "Tim. . ."
     "No," he shouted, not looking back as he made his
way through the foyer and into the bathroom. "I have to
think about this!" 

(End Part Two)


Slash-Evidence Segue: The Ties That Bind (3/4)

     He washed his hands four times before he could
really feel anything. He stopped to comb his hair, wipe off
his face, then washed his hands again. Everything he'd
thought to be true was, but now there was another
dimension. His mother's suffocating orchestration suddenly
made sense, sickening sense, and he wondered what else he
didn't know. For the first time since that door closed for the
last time, he wanted to think about it. He wanted to ask
questions about it. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he
leaned into the bathroom door, closing his eyes against
everything and nothing. He was seven years old all over
again, and he felt weak, and vulnerable, and dirty.
     He pulled the door open suddenly, striding
purposefully through the foyer and into the kitchen.
Grabbing his coat, he didn't look up at his mother, and when
she approached him, he backed away as quickly as he could.
His throat tight, he looked around wildly, as if searching for
escape. "I. . . I have to go."
     "Tim, wait," Sarah protested, holding out her arms
to him, stung when he backed toward the front door.
     Shaking his head, he pulled open the front door. "I. .
. I still love you, mom, but I have to go."
     "I never wanted this to happen," she said, following
him, her voice frantic. "I never wanted this to happen, Tim."
     He stopped on the porch to stare at her
incredulously. A well of tears hung unshed in his eyes as he
fought to respond. His expression broke, his face melting
into a mask of anguish. "I just want this to go away," he
shouted, taking the steps two at a time as he headed for his
Jeep. "I want it to be over! Is that everything? Do I know
everything now?"
     Sarah nodded numbly, covering her mouth to stifle a
sob.
     For a moment, he felt almost guilty to see the tears
running down his mother's face, but then another wave of
angry hopelessness washed over him. "Are you sure? He
didn't do this to Emma? To Jim? To Kurt? Are you sure this
is the last damned confession I have to hear about him?"
     Glancing from side to side, she shook her head. "As
far as I know. . . it was just you, Tim."
     To his surprise, he started to laugh, a cold, tainted
sound as he made his way down the walk. He turned
around, holding up his hands in defeat. "I feel so. . . -
special-!"
     In silence, Sarah Bayliss watched her son climb into
his car, start the ignition, then pull onto the street. As soon
as he was clear of the other cars, he hit the accelerator, and
disappeared in a plume of exhaust. Collapsing against the
door jamb, she continued to cry for him until her throat was
raw.

Evening

     Despite his belief that Tim would return shortly, as
the sky grew darker, Mulder grew darker with it. After the
sixth hour passed with no sign of his lover's return, he went
rummaging through the kitchen until he produced half a
bottle of whiskey and a bottle of rum with two inches left in
the bottom. His plan was not to get drunk, just a little
numb, just a little escape from the splinters and fragments he
was calling a life these days. Plans, however, were not
always something at which Mulder excelled, and two inches
of rum and a half of a half-bottle of whiskey later, he was
beyond comfortably numb and well on his way to oblivion.
     With the lights out, he took another pull on the
whiskey, and attempted another round of Mortal Kombat.
Less than two minutes later, he found himself staring at the
high score screen, filled from first place to twentieth with
the initials TMB. Mulder sighed, feeling the first strains of
drunken depression gearing up, then tossed the controller
aside. Leaning back against the couch, he listened to the
tinny music of the video game, and the faint tick of the
sprinklers three stories below. 

Night

     "This is. . . this is your uncle's house," Frank said
slowly as the car rolled to a stop outside a green clapboard
Cape Cod. He looked over at his partner, frowning. "What
are we doing here, Tim?"
     Bayliss shrugged, opening the driver's side door. "I
don't know yet."
     As Pembleton slid out of the passenger's side, he
stared at the house appraisingly. Everything, from the color
to the missing shingles announced sickness and weakness.
Rubbing a hand over the top of his head, he followed Tim
up the walk. "I thought you said you needed my help."
     Tim turned around, his hand on the screen door. "I
do."
     With a disgusted sigh, Frank shook his head. "If you
don't know why we're here, how can you know you need
my help?"
     Jerking the door open, Tim stared through the other
man, his expression fragile but still angry. "For once, Frank,
for once, can you just. . . can you just humor me a little?"
     "Humor you," Frank asked quietly. "This I can do."
He thought he had been humoring Tim, by leaving his wife
and children at the dinner table, by climbing into Tim's car
unquestioningly, and driving forty minutes away from home
to a destination of which he had not been apprized. 
     As they stepped inside, Frank was immediately
struck by the scent of stale urine and Lysol, an unlikely
combination. He glanced around his surroundings, taking in
the broken down furniture and nicotine-stained walls, and
the half-eaten plate of pork and beans on the coffee table.
Standing out from the disorganized jumble of newspapers
and magazines on the table were two neat rows of
prescription bottles, lined up according to size. Looking up,
he examined the expression on Tim's face, trying to
calculate just what thoughts his shadowed eyes and drawn
mouth were hiding.
     Turning in a small circle, Tim closed his eyes, and
shook his head. Swallowing hard, he finally came to a stop,
his hands shaking. "I . . . I thought, when I first came here,
when I first confronted him, you know what I said?" He
didn't wait for Frank to answer. "Where do I put my hate.
That's what I asked him, and I am -still- asking that
question, and I -still- don't know."
     Frank nodded, walking over and closing the door.
"There is no place to put it. You have to let it go."
     Pressing his fist to his forehead, with the door shut,
in his partner's presence, Tim felt safe enough to finally
scream. "I have tried, Frank! I have tried everything I know
how to let it go, but every time. . . every time I think it's
getting better, it gets worse! Thirty years, Frank, thirty
damned years I've tried to let this go, and where am I? I am
back in the same damned place I started!"
     Crossing his arms over his chest, Pembleton stood
strong against Tim's rage. It was the only thing he could do,
unless he asked him to speak. He watched him stalk the
length of the tiny living room, looking for all the world like
a six foot four eight year old. Anger, hurt, and fear danced
across Tim's delicate features and when he finally settled on
more anger, he stopped in his tracks.
     "Shrinks, and self-help books, and long nights
staring at the ceiling, and you know what? I'm no better
than I was before. No better, not a damned bit closer to
being who I should be! I still feel . . . vulnerable, I still feel
weak, and I still feel ashamed." Knotting his hands into his
hair, he glared at the empty couch. "I came back here
because I was angry, I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to tell
him. . . but I saw him, and I took care of him, because I felt
-bad- for him! How does that work, how the hell does that
work? He didn't have any, any compassion for me, no sir, uh
uh, no, not when he closed that door on me, all he thought
about was himself, Frank!" Jabbing a finger into his own
chest, Tim crossed the space between them, coming close
enough to feel Pembleton's breath on his face. 
     "You want to know what's funny here? I mean, this
is hysterical, Frank, you're going to laugh yourself sick. The
funny thing here is, I think I finally figured myself out. I
think I finally got it. . . I'm a cop because I wanted to
protect and serve, protect! But where did I put myself?
Homicide! My father didn't protect me, my mother didn't
protect me, and now I spend every damned day -not-
protecting anyone! Nature versus nurture, right?"
     Ticking his tongue behind his teeth, Frank nodded
slowly as he looked away, over his surroundings again.
"You never let yourself say it, did you, Tim?"
     Bayliss' eyes widened, and he took a step back. The
calm, reasonable question had disturbed his train of thought.
"Say what? What is there to say?"
     Glancing back, Pembleton fixed his partner in a
palpable stare. Putting his hands on Tim's shoulders, he took
in a deep breath, and enunciated. "I hate you. That's what
you're trying to say, isn't it? That's what you wanted to say
all along."
     Struck dumb, Tim quavered under Frank's touch.
Mulling this over, he began to nod. His breath quickened,
and he pulled away. Searching the room frantically with his
eyes, he suddenly swung around, kicking over the coffee
table. Congealed pork and beans hit the greying wall, sliding
down onto the filthy couch. "I hate you!"
     "Say it again," Frank rallied, raising his voice. 
     "I hate you," Bayliss raged, sweeping the papers and
pill bottles from the kitchen table. "I hate you," he
continued, tearing through the house, kicking at walls,
slamming his fists into furniture and appliances, his voice
rising with each cry. Each time he said it, he fell closer to
tears, everything that had eaten at him for so long rising to
the surface. Glass shattered, drywall buckled, and with a
final, vicious swoop the only lamp inside the tiny house hit
the floor, hissed and flickered into acquiescent darkness.
Falling against the wall, Tim slid to his knees, sobbing. 
     Pembleton walked over, putting his hand on Tim's
shoulder and helping him to his feet. Letting his arm rest
across his partner's back, Frank turned him around to survey
the damage. "Say it one more time, Tim," he murmured,
kicking at a shard of glass. 
     "I hate you, George," Tim whispered obediently,
raising a hand to wipe the tears from his face. 
     Nodding, Frank pulled him gently toward the door
and half-pushed him outside. He turned around, kicking the
screen closed, then nodded, satisfied. "Now let it go," he
said, putting a hand on the small of Tim's back and prodding
him toward the car. "I'll drive you home."

(End Part Three)


Slash-Evidence Segue: The Ties That Bind (4/4)

Early Morning

     "Thank you, Frank," Tim murmured sleepily,
digging through his keys until he found the right one. "Tell
Mary I'm sorry I kept you out all night."
     Frank nodded slowly, glancing down the hallway. "I
will. You okay?"
     Tim considered the question as he slid the key into
the lock. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm as okay as I'm gonna get, I
think."
     Patting Tim on the back, Frank turned on his heel
and headed for the stairs. He turned around, and raised a
hand. "See you tonight." Without waiting for a response, he
turned again and disappeared down the stairs, the steady
rhythm of his feet against the floor echoing behind him. Tim
waited until he heard the door hiss shut to enter the
apartment. He was greeted by the faint techno thrum of
Mortal Kombat. 
     On hearing the door open, Mulder struggled to a
sitting position, disentangling himself from the knot of
controllers cords. Sliding to face Tim, he leaned against the
couch, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. "You
came back."
     "I almost didn't." Sliding out of his coat, Tim walked
to the couch slowly, easing himself down. 
     Stricken, Mulder sat up a little straighter. "I talked
to my mother."
     "Yeah?"
     With a nod, Mulder closed his eyes, running his
hands through his hair. When he looked up again, he forced
a smile. "Yeah. I wouldn't expect a Christmas card from her
this year."
     Tim leaned forward, propping his elbows on his
knees and cupping his chin in his hands. "We don't have a
mantle to put them on anyway."
     Reaching out for his hand, Mulder's smile faded
when Tim didn't move to take it. "I'm glad you did come
back."
     "Thank Frank," Tim murmured, closing his eyes.
"He didn't want me to be alone."
     Slowly, Mulder pulled himself onto the couch. The
distance he'd created between them felt even greater, and
guilt urged him to close it. "You went home?"
     With a nod, Tim glanced over at him. "You smell
like a gin mill."
     "Rum, actually. And some whiskey."
     "Still drunk?"
     Mulder shook his head, trying to move closer. "Not
really."
     Pushing himself to the end of the couch, Tim kicked
off his shoes and pulled his knees to his chest. He wrapped
his arms around his shins, and stared at Mulder with
curiously bright eyes. "Well, go ahead and say 'I told you
so.'"
     "I don't want to," Mulder murmured, reaching out
again. His heart fell when Tim brushed his hand away,
shaking his head. 
     Taking a deep breath, Tim perched his chin on his
knees. "I'm going to ask you a question, Mulder, and I
expect you to answer me. Truthfully."
     The tone of Tim's voice told him that everything
between them rested on this question, and he swallowed
hard. "Okay."
     "Do you love me?"
     Mulder choked, his mouth falling open. "You know
I do."
     "No," Tim said softly. "I don't think I do. See, if I
knew that, really knew that, I could have told you
everything by now. I wouldn't be afraid- jealous, I guess, of
Scully and the time you spend away from me. If I really
knew that, I wouldn't wonder why you can't look me in the
face outside this apartment."
     Offsetting his jaw, Mulder sat back, stunned. He felt
Tim slipping away so fast, and he had no idea how to bring
him back. "I'm not good at this, Tim. I'm not good at . . . I
do love you. I am in love with you. I'm sorry I don't know
how to say it the way you want."
     "You do say it. I want you to mean it."
     Mulder stood up quickly. "If you don't believe that I
love you, then why are you here? Why did you make me
talk to my mother? Why the hell don't you just go back to
Baltimore where everything makes sense to you?"
     Stretching his legs out, Tim regarded Mulder coolly.
"Because I don't just walk out."
     "Everything is so fucking easy for you, Tim,"
Mulder shouted, backing away. "You know what you are.
You know where you're coming from. Me? I have lies, and
more lies, and a couple more lies just for a little variety.
This. . .we, us, I never saw this coming, never once saw it."
     Clenching his teeth, Tim stood up and crossed his
arms over his chest. "You think my life has been easy? You
think this has been easy? What the hell do you mean, I know
what I am?"
     "The way I see it, Tim, in my world, there are
women . . . and there is you! I don't look at other men, I
don't think about other men, but you, I can't get you out of
my blood! So, I'm sorry if I'm not as comfortable as you are
with all of this, but you knew what I was when you sought
me out!"
     "So that's what this is," Tim asked coldly. "-I-
perverted you, I changed -you-? Is that what you're telling
me?"
     Mulder shook his head. "No, what I'm telling you is
that I changed -for- you, because I love you, because I need
you, and I'm mad as hell that you think that's not enough!"
     Moving quickly, Tim walked up on Mulder,
grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him against his chest.
Any other time it would have been romantic, but the cold
fire in Tim's expression made it patently clear that this was
anything but romance. "Things are rough all over, Mulder,
and if you think this has been easy for me, you're out of
your already questionable mind."
     "Let go of me."
     Raising an eyebrow, Tim tilted his head. "Push me
away."
     "No." Mulder let his hands fall to his side, then
closed his eyes.
     Tim loosened his grip, and stepped back. "I'm tired.
I'm tired of fighting, with you, with Frank, with the past. . .
I can't do it anymore."
     "I told my mother," Mulder said softly, looking
away. "I told her. . . if she couldn't love you, then she
couldn't love me."
     Pulling his hand down his face, Tim sighed. "I found
out today that my uncle died. Should have died a long time
ago, shouldn't have mattered to me, but it does, because I
never got to tell him, to his face, that what he did to me, it
taints everything I touch."
     There was a silence, and Mulder felt a cold seed of
fear growing in the pit of his stomach. This was the first
he'd heard of any uncle.  "Go on."
     Smiling bitterly, Tim looked over at his lover. "He
molested me. Hey, what a break through, I've never actually
said that out loud." Turning away, he watched Mulder over
his shoulder as he spoke. "See, I thought this was over, I
thought I had dealt with it, but now I know. . . I know it's
never over. Maybe some days, I won't think about it so
much, or I might even go a whole case without
remembering, but it's never going to be better."
     "God, Tim," Mulder said. "Oh God."
     "I don't want you to feel sorry for me." Tim paused,
turning and reaching out to touch Mulder's face. "I want
you to understand. I've hidden that from you for so long,
Mulder, because that way, it was easier to think everything
was okay with us, but everything is not okay."
     Leaning in, Mulder covered Tim's hand with his
own. "No. It's not, but I'm not willing to concede defeat."
     "Me either."
     The distance had been broken. Pulling him into his
arms, Mulder buried his face in the other man's neck. Every
inch of him hurt for Tim, each breath he took required
studious effort. Suddenly, he found himself staring into the
void of the future tense, and he admitted to himself he didn't
want to go there alone. After a long moment, he pulled
back."We can make it."
     Tim closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against
Mulder's hard shoulder. "God, I hope so."

(End Part Four)
(The End)
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