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The concert's finally over. We played for nearly three hours, and I'm soaked with sweat, in need of bandaids, exhausted and exhilarated. I grab a towel from one of the roadies and head back to the dressing room to call Tim, opening the door without even looking.
"You were pretty amazing tonight, Rock Star." I look up as long arms wrap around me. This is a nice surprise. Really nice.
"Jesus, Tim, I'm a mess--"
"Don't care," he murmurs, pulling me closer, kissing my temple. "Missed you."
"Fuck, missed you too," I answer, leaning into him. "What're you doing here?"
"Making sure you don't have any groupie sex?" He reaches behind me and closes the door.
"Told you before, detective--you've spoiled me for that."
"Good." He brings his hands up to frame my face, running a long finger along my lower lip. "Fucking sexy rock star," he murmurs before kissing me, softly at first, then with more pressure, and I can feel how hard he is. I realize he was watching me when I was onstage, the first time he's seen me there since the night we met, and it excited him, just as it excites me, now.
I moan into his mouth, leading him further into the room, towards the couch that's along the wall. It's a little small for us, especially for Tim, but we make it work, fumbling with buttons and zippers, untangling and retangling arms and legs, bumping noses and lips and finally cocks. It's over quickly--we've been apart for a couple weeks, and neither of us can wait--but it's still sweet, and fucking hot; I hope no one's walking anywhere nearby, because we manage to make our usual amount of noise, which is a lot. Not that I mind--his grunts when he comes sound like home to me.
After our breathing comes back to normal, I clean us up with the towel and get us at least a little presentable, since I know Deeja has a tendency to stop by and want to hang out after a concert, and I don't think she needs to see her middle-aged bandmate half-naked and debauched when she opens the door without knocking, as usual.
Tim smiles indulgently at me as I look up at the door again. "No one's going to interrupt us, Bill. The women know I'm here. We kinda figured it would be a good birthday present."
"Tim, my birthday's not for months."
"For the last one. I didn't even know it was your birthday--you never said anything."
"Jesus, Tim, that was the last thing on my mind. I didn't even remember it myself until the day before, and--" I'm fucking blushing, believe it or not "--the day I remembered, well, let's just say I got a pretty fucking amazing present that night, and I'm not talking about the food Marilyn brought."
"Mmm," he murmurs, pulling me down onto the couch again, nuzzling my ear. "That was a pretty amazing night. Come to think of it, there was more room in that hospital bed than there is on this shitty sofa."
"Yeah, but there's no more fucking traction to work around."
We lay there for a few minutes, and it's so fucking wonderful to have him here with me, but between the sweat I had on me when I came in, and the sweat we made together, my clothes are soaked and I'm getting cold, even a little shaky. Tim notices, motions me up, grabs me a bottle of gatorade and another towel, then pulls me close again. "You got a hotel room anywhere around here, rock star?" he asks. "Maybe a limo? Because I hate to tell you, but you're really a mess; you could use a shower."
"Yes, and yes," I say, laughing. Then I sober, looking at his beautiful face, remembering another dressing room, the way he'd calmly and gently exposed his secret to save Eli, the way he'd risked his life, and how I'd wanted him even then.
"It's been a while," he says, and I know he's thinking of that night, too. "This, this time, this dressing room, I think it's better--a better memory, you know? No guns or runaways or psychos this time. The thing is," he adds, echoing my thoughts, "I remember that night, trying to keep Eli safe, and trying not to be distracted by the fact that you were the sexiest man I'd ever met, with the most amazing smile, and why the fuck I had to meet you right before I was going undercover."
"I'm glad you did," I say, resting my fingers against his cheek. "More than I can tell you. Love you, Tim. It's really good to see you."
"Yeah, well, I was tired of waiting for an invitation to be your own personal groupie, you know?"
There's just a hint of insecurity in his voice, just a hint of Detective Angst, so I grab his chin, look into those clear brown eyes, and let him have it. "Listen, angst boy, you are so far beyond that--jesus, Tim, so you haven't had a chance to join me on tour before--so fucking what? You saw me on that stage tonight, right? Saw me singing about you, singing to you, playing fucking for you, even though I didn't know you were there, because that's what I do these days. I've had 'my own personal groupie' before, and it didn't mean shit. What I had with Joe didn't mean shit compared to what I have with you, and just because you've been in physical therapy every day, and getting the Watson Fund up and running, not to mention worrying about Ruth, Sarah, Eli, and everything else, and you couldn't come on tour with me--"
"Hey hey hey, okay already, I get the point," he interrupts, smiling. "You're here, you're not going anywhere; you, me, talking; till we're 104, right?"
"Fuck yes, and don't you fucking forget it."
"Jesus, Bill. I really love you. I just really love you, you know?"
"Yeah, I know. Come on, there's a queen sized bed waiting for you to hog back at the hotel. Maybe with you in it I'll actually get a good night's sleep."
"Oh, you will, eventually," he says with a leer, and I help him up.
It takes a couple more hours, but eventually I do get that good night's sleep.