Title: FIREWORKS

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 

Word Count: 10,800 (Total)
References/Spoilers: References to Donald's past
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.

Summary: Donald and Timothy go on the Fourth of July weekend trip Timothy got Donald for his birthday, and deal with fireworks, both good and bad. Sequel to "Birthday Boy" in the One Night Series.

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FIREWORKS

by

Candy Apple

Donald and I came close to having our first fight as a married couple while we tried to pack his car to go on the vacation I'd gotten him for his birthday. It was already hot and humid outside, and we were trying to fit coolers of food, swimming and beach supplies, and two duffle bags of clothes into the back of that bedraggled little hatchback. Temperatures were predicted to soar into the 90's.

"Part of your present was renting an SUV for the weekend," I said, still bristling that he'd dismissed that as unnecessary. It was a given his air conditioning wasn't going to hold out all the way there, and if we took both duffle bags, either our rear visibility was gone, or I had to have one between my knees all the way there, in the front seat. While my legs were getting sweaty anyway from the failing air conditioning.

"Timothy, you've reminded me of that at least four times so far this morning. If you want the damn SUV, I'll go get it," he snapped, pulling everything out and rearranging it again.

"And you've moved that stuff around at least five times now, and it's not making the car any bigger, is it?" I shot back, just as hot and pissed off as he was.

"Maybe we should just forget the whole fucking thing and stay home!" he replied, jamming his duffle bag mercilessly into a spot too small for it to fit. Somehow, it did. And mine was in there, too, somewhere, along with both coolers.

We both stood there and stared at it a moment.

"You realize that we're going to go through this whole thing again to come home?" I asked.

"Yeah, I s'pose." He sighed. "Kinda be a shame to waste it now that everything's in the car," he added, venturing a sideways look at me, gauging how pissed off I was. I had been, but I was cooling off quickly - well, figuratively. I was melting into the cement as the sun baked us into grease spots. And it was early yet.

"The guy at the resort claimed the view of the fireworks over the water is really something," I added, sliding my hand into his and squeezing a little.

"I guess you were right about the SUV," he conceded.

"It's only an hour drive there, and we won't really be driving anywhere once we get settled in. We can put what we save on that toward something else we need. Or maybe start a fund for another weekend getaway."

"I like that idea."

"Me, too." I caught his eye again and we both laughed. "I'll go get the camera bag and lock up and we're ready to go."

"Can I take footage of you romping naked in the water?"

"When did I agree to romp naked in the water?"

"You said our little stretch of beach was private."

"Private in the sense of trees and natural barriers, not private in the sense that no other human might wander by."

"Oh."

"You can take footage of me romping in the water. The trunks stay on."

"Until we get back in the cabin."

"Or figure out just how private things are."

********

Our drive to the resort was uneventful. The air conditioning performed to our expectations - and since we weren't expecting much, it worked out nicely. Timothy was fussing with the video camera, and decided he should take footage of me driving to the resort. He looked so cute sitting there in his blue tank shirt and white shorts. Yes, I had gotten Mr.-Crisp-and-Perfect-Designer-Summer-Clothes into a tank shirt and some cheap shorts and flip flops. It's not that he never wore anything like that before, but the last time I'd seen him dressed that way was in Hawaii, on our honeymoon, around our private cabin. I love beautiful, flawless, pristine Timothy and how utterly beautiful he can look on days that the rest of us look like drowned rats. But part of me loves to loosen him up, mess him up, and see that cute, impish side of him that most people never see.

And, let's face it, he's got a body on him - one that was made for minimal clothing on a hot day. I had a hard time keeping my eyes on the road instead of on those strong arms, the way the tank shirt clung to the contours of his chest, that soft chest hair I just wanted to feel under my hands, under my cheek, against my body... Let's not get started on his legs. Long, sturdy, dusted with more of that dark hair, tapering into perfect feet. I mean, perfect feet. The right size, perfectly shaped, no weird, crooked toes...I never saw the lure of feet until I met Timothy. When I've got him all laid out and relaxed, and we've got time, I like to play with those beautiful, perfect feet because it turns him on, and sometimes it makes him giggle. Yeah, he giggles if you know where to tickle him.

"Eyes on the road, Donald," he scolded, laughing, still recording me driving down the road.

"So how much footage of me driving do you need to document this part of our adventure?"

"Oh, a little more," he said, and I noticed the camera was moving down from my face.

"Why, Timothy, I believe you've strayed from documenting my driving skills."

"You just accelerated, so I thought I should get a good shot of your legs."

"That's the kind of movie this is gonna be, huh?"

"I sure hope so," Timmy replied, chuckling.

"Does Senator Glassman know how you're using the camera she and her staff got you?"

"I'm sure she might suspect it's recording more than the scenery."

The air conditioning chose that moment to stop working. The air ceased to be cool that was feebly blowing out of the vents.

"Guess you were right about the SUV," I admitted for the second time, sighing. Timmy rolled down his window as I did the same. The wind was playing with his hair, messing it up. He smiled at me.

"Who cares? We have three days together with nothing to do but swim, lie around, make love, and watch fireworks. Why bicker about an SUV?" He reached over and ruffled my hair.

"I love you, beautiful," I said, smiling back at him, unable to believe for about the billionth time that he was mine, that he was riding in my cramped little car, the air had just gone out, he was right about the SUV, and he was smiling at me, looking at me with all the love in the world.

We talked and joked and made the best of our overheated ride the rest of the way to the resort. We stopped at a rustic cabin to get our keys and register. I swear to God, there was a deer head mounted on the wall. I'm not sure why I thought this was a gay resort when Timmy gave me the reservations for my birthday, but most gay resorts aren't known for their mounted animal parts.

The guy behind the counter was a jovial soul in a white undershirt with longish brown hair and a beard. I was willing to bet he was the one who put that unfortunate deer where he was.

"Morning, boys," he said, grinning widely as we walked in. "You must be the Strakey reservation," he said, pulling a key off one of six hooks on the wall behind him. It was then that I spotted the stuffed owl with its wingspread, that was impressive even in its petrified, dead form.

Son of a bitch, Timmy had gotten us a cabin at the rustic equivalent to the Bates Motel.

"Strachey," I corrected, smiling.

"Sorry," he said, plunking the keys on the counter. "Just sign here," he said, pushing an honest-to-God guest register book toward us.

"You do have electricity here, right?" I asked, and Timmy looked a bit ruffled at that. He'd told me the cabins had all the conveniences, but I hadn't seen a guest book in a hotel since...well...I think it was on one of those car trips when I was a little kid, and it was out in the middle of nowhere. The guy behind the counter laughed.

"Yeah, all the comforts of home," he replied. "I'm just not a computer guy. So are you guys cops or something?"

"No, why?" Tim asked, smiling, taking the key from me as I signed the register.

"You said you were making the reservation for you and your partner."

It was one of those moments where you feel kind of paranoid for having a bad feeling about the situation, but you have the feeling anyway. Every one of my instincts perked up, and I didn't even want Timmy handing that guy his credit card. I didn't want him within twenty feet of my partner.

"We're not that kind of partners," Tim said, nonchalant, then smiling at me in that way of his that left little doubt what kind of partners we were.

"Oh," he said, his smile fading.

"You want this now, or when we check out?" Tim asked, holding up his credit card.

"Now's good," he said, taking it, using one of those old slider machines to make an impression of it on a credit card slip, writing up the charges for the weekend. "You can sign when you check out," he said, handing Tim his card and putting the slip in the cash drawer. So much for credit card security. "In case you don't stay the full time."

"I thought the reservations were non-refundable 72 hours before the start date," I said.

"We're pretty booked this weekend, so I could probably rent another unit last minute," he replied, meeting my eyes. "If you two changed your minds or something."

"I don't think that'll be an issue," Tim said, tucking his credit card back in his wallet. "How do we get to the cabin?" he asked. When he looked at the guy behind the counter, cheerful, happy-go-lucky Timmy was nowhere to be seen. That look was pure Timothy J. Don't-Fuck-With-Me-Chief-of-Staff-Callahan. Even that reject from Deliverance seemed to get the message.

"Just follow the dirt road to the left. It's the third cabin, down at the end of the road."

"Thank you," he said curtly, heading for the door, and I simply followed. I wondered if I could be more turned on by him, if I could talk him into going down on me in the car again, but I figured I could wait until we got to the cabin.

"Guess you told him," I said, driving down the dirt road toward our cabin.

"I didn't say anything out of the ordinary," he said, but he gave me a knowing little grin. "Honey, I love that you want to slay my dragons, but I've been dealing with knuckle-dragging bigots for a long time. I apparently didn't research this place as well as I should have. I should have smelled a rat when I could afford it for three days without a strain."

"We don't have to spend the weekend with Jethro, so let's forget him. Besides, my husband dealt with him."

"I guess you're right."

Timothy may have dealt with him effectively, but I could tell the encounter had drained a lot of the cheeriness out of him. For that, I felt like going back and mounting Jethro's nuts on the wall next to his dead deer head.

The cabin was a small, rough-hewn wood A-frame structure among the trees, with a yard that sloped down to the beach. We could see the water peeking out between the trees behind the house. We were far enough away from the neighboring cabin to have plenty of privacy. We unloaded the car and stocked our refrigerator from the coolers we'd brought.

The inside of the cabin was as rustic as it could be with air conditioning, cable TV, electricity, and a nice little full bathroom. The first floor was a single room with the bathroom, a nicely equipped kitchen, snack bar, fireplace, sofa, chairs and patio doors leading onto a deck that ran the full length of the back of the house, overlooking the trees and water. The second level of the house was an open loft with a queen size bed and dresser.

"The cabin is great, sweetheart," I said, wanting to get him back in the happy, carefree vacation mood he'd been in on the way there.

"It is nice, isn't it?" he agreed, setting his duffle bag on the bed and starting to pick through it, putting a few things on the dresser. I grinned when I saw the set of chocolate body paints. He gave me one of those big, sexy smiles of his. "I thought we might make use of those to create a few fireworks of our own."

"They'll make a great dessert," I said, sliding my arms around his waist, nuzzling his neck, kissing him. "You wanna go out and play?"

"We could grill out," he said, kissing me back. "I can feel your stomach growling."

"You should be feeling something else, a bit lower, hopefully not growling."

"I feel that, too, but I'm choosing to ignore it."

"Oh, you are?" I challenged, raising my eyebrows.

"If we were going to spend all day inside fooling around, we could have slept in at home."

"Oh, all right. Let's go out and explore," I caved in, taking his hand, going with him out to the back deck, down the wood steps into the sloping yard.

There was a large hammock strung between two trees. It was in a completely shaded area and swayed slightly with the breeze coming off the water that was noticeably cooler than the hot wind of hell that was blowing in the city. We made our way down to the beach, and found we could see a few other people around on their areas of beach. Music wafted from someone's radio across the lake, and there was a pontoon floating on the water carrying two elderly couples.

"Well, I guess that kind of blows the romping naked in the water idea," Tim said, sighing.

"Doesn't blow the idea of lying around on the beach or going for a swim. Honey, come on, this place is fine. The cabin's great, and I have plans for that hammock later."

"You really like it?"

"Yes, I really like it. You wanna grill some hot dogs and eat lunch on the beach?"

"Okay," he agreed, grinning. "I brought potato salad, too."

"Yours or from the deli?"

"Mine. What'd you think I did with my Friday off?" he asked.

"I hope one of those coolers is just all potato salad. You know how I feel about your potato salad."

"I believe you once said it was almost better than sex."

"Then we can come close to having sex on the beach with lunch," I teased, and he laughed.

"You're the only person I know who can relate almost anything to sex."

"Look at the body on my partner. Can you blame me?"

"I suppose I can forgive you. That does make it partially my fault, doesn't it?"

"Absolutely."

I worked on grilling the hot dogs while Timmy packed up the rest of our provisions to hang out on the beach for a while. It was Saturday, and we'd be there through Monday, which was the Fourth. I was hoping we could settle in and relax now, putting thoughts of homophobic rednecks and the usual stress of jobs and life behind us for the rest of the long weekend. I also hoped I could get that deeply ingrained instinct of mine to quit urging me to pack up our shit and drive back to Albany. It wasn't that I was afraid of one out-of-shape yahoo with a bad attitude, but I just felt uneasy in a way I feel uneasy in a dark alley right before something really does pop out of the shadows.

"You really like them well done, don't you?" Timmy said as he joined me on the deck with one of the coolers re-packed with lunch and plenty of liquid refreshments for a day on the beach.

"Shit," I muttered, starting to toss the crispy wieners on the plate. They weren't beyond the point of no return, but they were plenty cooked. I guess I had been too busy fretting over some phantom threat to watch the hot dogs as they wizened on the grill.

"They'll be fine," he said, apparently back in his unruffled vacation state of mind. And now I was on edge. What a pair we are.

We had a great day on the beach. We ate lunch, lay out in the sun a while, and yes, we did romp in the water. The swimming was great, and while the lake wasn't huge, it was big enough for everyone to have room to do their thing without running into each other. The highlight of my day was our late afternoon "break" in the cabin. We took our time in the shower, washing each other, flushing off the sand, sun screen, and sweat of the day. I wanted to make love there, but Timmy whispered something shockingly filthy in my ear about the set of chocolate body paints waiting for us in the bedroom.

"Is there a washer around here somewhere if we destroy the sheets?" I asked, and Timmy laughed as he tossed the comforter aside and stretched out naked on the bed.

"I can't believe you asked me that. Yes, there's a small washer and dryer in the kitchen, remember?"

"I guess you're rubbing off on me," I said, crawling onto the bed with the set of paints in hand.

"Not yet, but that's the general idea."

"Safe for external and internal use," I read from the package. Then I looked at Timmy, and he was looking back at me with so much love, mixed with a little amusement. I looked at his beautiful body, and then I looked at the set of body paints. I set them on the night stand. "Would you be really disappointed if we saved those for another time?" I asked, settling in his arms, loving the way they came up around me in almost a reflex. I snuggled against Timmy, wanting to be held, and he just did it without thinking. Sometimes I still can't get used to what I need being that easy to have.

"Sure, whatever," he said, his tone relaxed and holding that gentleness it always does when he talks to me. "Not in the mood right now?"

"I didn't say that. I was just thinking about what I wanted to taste, and cheap chocolate stuff isn't it."

I rubbed my cheek against his chest and inhaled. I heard a little gasp catch in his throat. I straddled him then and kissed him, running my hands up his arms and lacing our fingers, gently holding his arms up above his head so I could nip and tease the tender skin under his arms that was still a little dewy from the shower. I kissed his arms and I kept going until I got to his hands. His beautiful hands that touched me like no one else ever had...that patched up wounds, physical and emotional, that sometimes just slipped into mine like second nature when we were walking somewhere together. I held one of his hands in both of mine and kissed it, sucking one of his fingers into my mouth, not surprised when the other hand was caressing my hair.

I took my time with his hands and his arms, his neck, his shoulders...I put my mouth and my hands and my nose and my cheek against all those parts of him that might not seem that erotic...but making love to him like that, it wasn't about sex, even though we were both getting turned on. There were no deadlines, no rush, and I could love all of him at my own pace. Every part of him made me think of something, of some way he made my life amazing. I wished I was a poet or a songwriter so I could tell him that and make it sound pretty and romantic, instead of clumsy and disorganized.

It was rare for me to catch him like this, all freshly washed and naked and laid back. I love how all his nice colognes and aftershaves smell and how stunning he is all dressed up. But this was just him in a way the rest of the world never saw him or smelled him or tasted him. He was all mine, and this Timothy belonged to no one else.

By the time I made it to his nipples, he was getting hard, and he was moaning, his fingers flexing in my hair, his other hand caressing my back. While I was kissing the contours of his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he got more excited, that lump was back in my throat, the one that rises up now and then when I have time to really think about how much I love him, how my next breath is so dependent on his, how my life and my world would cease to matter if I didn't have him...how afraid I was of losing him, and yet how utterly and totally I trusted that he wouldn't leave me, that he wouldn't hurt me. I kissed my way down to his navel and teased his ticklish spots there, smiling into those kisses.

He was getting restless, and when I moved, he turned over on his stomach, settling in and getting comfortable. I knew that meant he wanted my mouth and my hands paying attention to certain parts, and that he was in the mood to have me inside him for a nice, long, lazy time.

I lay against him, my cheek against his, relishing the intimacy of just being close to him, as if I had to feel his skin on mine, synchronize our breathing. I kissed his ear and his neck, and then I was blurting out all kinds of professions of love and need until he shifted positions and took me in his arms. He didn't say a word, didn't even try to answer me. He just held me and sheltered me with his body as if he were protecting me from the elements or some incoming threat. I think I said something about needing him like air, I know I said something about him being my reason for...well, everything. Being, laughing, loving, caring about getting up in the morning. I didn't say all that, but like he usually does, he sifted it out of the jumble of what I did say. My beautiful Timothy who deserves poetry and lyrics takes my halting, garbled up professions of love and need as something wonderful. As my best attempt at poetic declarations.

We started kissing again, hot, intense, passionate kisses, our tongues straining to taste as much of each other's mouths as we could, me laughing as much as I could with that much of my mouth busy when Timmy nipped at my lower lip, tugging gently on it with his teeth.

I started moving down his body again, urging him to turn over. I knew what would make him crazy, and it would get me pretty hot, too. I kissed and licked my way down his spine, took my time kissing the soft skin of his perfect cheeks, loving the way he shivered and moaned when he knew what was coming. He spread his thighs more for me, shifting on the bed, gasping when I ran my tongue up the inside of one thigh, then the other.

"God, Donald," he whispered, "I'm gonna come."

"You're gonna wait for me, beautiful," I said, homing in on that warm, tender place behind his balls, licking him there

"I'm trying," he responded, his voice strained, breathy. I knew he was loving this, and I knew how far I could push him toward the edge before he'd come whether I wanted him to or not. I had a little way to go yet.

So I started making that sound. Humming a little, like a long "Mmmmm" sound, like I was tasting something amazing. And I was. I had my tongue between his cheeks, teasing his center, loving the way he was squirming under me, moaning, trying to hold still for me but giving in to humping the bed just a little. I didn't spend as long as I wanted wiggling my tongue around in there, making him feel good, because he was feeling too good, and I really did want to slip inside him and make love to him, to make him come while we were together like that.

I kissed his shoulder and his neck, I whispered a few naughty things I his ear about what I'd just been doing, a few things I know turn him on, while I used my finger to put some lube inside him. I eased into him slowly, loving how he took me in, his body fitting around me like a glove. I wasn't sure what I loved more - how good it felt, or how good I was making him feel. Or maybe it was just that I couldn't get any closer to him, and this was the closest we could come to expressing our love for each other. Something that was too big for words, our bodies could communicate like this.

When we came, we did it with the timing of professional dancers - in total harmony with each other, our moves and counter moves already like those of a couple who'd been together forever. Out there in that cabin, with all the time in the world, no distractions, our focus just on each other, our minds and bodies were as joined as they ever could be, and we were as in touch emotionally, physically, and mentally as any two humans could be.

I wondered if it was my imagination, or if our hearts really were beating in unison as we lay there, unwilling to give up our connection. I caressed Timmy's arm and shoulder, kissed the skin I could reach without moving.

"I love you, sweetheart," I whispered, and he smiled.

"I love you, too, baby," he replied, pulling my hand close, kissing it. They were such simple words, but they were so sweet. And they were in Timmy's sweet voice. And I was his baby. I closed my eyes and smiled, letting myself drift there with him.

********

Our vacation took a turn for the better once we got settled into our cabin. We had a great day at the beach, and an even better late afternoon in the cabin making love. If I'd known what Donald had in mind for me, I never would have had the willpower to put it off until later. We grilled some steaks for a late dinner, when we finally got up, and then spent the evening in the hammock, just talking, counting stars, listening to the music of crickets. The serenity was only occasionally entirely shattered by the sound of amateurs shooting off fireworks. Ah, Independence Day weekend, when one night of bombastic noise and flashing lights just simply isn't enough.

I hadn't given much more thought to the less-than-overwhelming welcome we'd gotten, but I had the feeling it was still eating Donald. At least, something was. It wasn't that we weren't having fun, but he seemed tense. Even as we lay there all cuddled up in the hammock, his muscles seemed tense. Not that you can't bounce a dime off most any part of Donald at any given time, but there's a difference between his perfect condition and stress.

"When are you going to tell me what's bothering you?" I asked him, my fingers idly playing with his hair. It was cool enough outside now that his body pressed against me was a good warmth, and we'd been passing the last hour playing footsy and speculating how old the trees were on either end of our hammock. They extended far toward the sky as we looked up at them.

"Why do you think something's bothering me?"

"I don't think. I know." I kissed his forehead.

"Nothing special. That guy just pissed me off when we checked in."

"Oh." I was quiet a few seconds. "He pissed me off, too, but not this much."

"He just set me on edge, that's all."

Ah, there it was. Donald was nervous about things, wondering if Jethro had friends, if there'd be trouble. He wasn't nervous in the sense of being afraid, that he couldn't handle it, but his instincts were on alert. That explained the tautness. And, it made me a little nervous. Donald has the instincts of a big cat in the wild. He senses something, and he starts crouching in the tall grasses, prowling low to the ground, all senses on alert. I trust his instincts, so now I was getting edgy.

"Do you think he'll try something?"

"Doesn't make sense that he would. Harassing or attacking your own customers isn't good for business, and you tend to get caught pretty fast."

"Do you want to go into the cabin?"

"My gun's in my bag, upstairs," he said quietly.

"Your - you brought that on vacation?"

"Timothy, I rarely go anywhere without it somewhere in reach. I wasn't about to wander around in the sticks without my gun."

"You think you need to keep it in reach while we're here? That's not much of a vacation for you, honey," I said, hugging him closer.

"What about you?"

"I don't have the same sense of unease." I kissed his cheek this time. "And I have you looking out for me." It hit me once again just how much I already counted on him, how much I trusted him, how safe I felt with him. I still do. It's not that he's Superman, but he's smart, he's strong, and he'd lay down his life to protect me without even thinking about it. Most of the time, I only worry for him, because I know he'd make sure I was okay, at whatever cost to himself.

"Let's call it a night out here." He waved his hand in the air, not for the first time. "The mosquitoes seem to like sucking on you as much as I do."

I had to laugh at that. I had some mosquito repellant on, but I am something of a bug buffet after dark. God love Donald - he even bats away winged intruders for me.

We spent the rest of our evening on the couch, watching a couple old movies. We stayed up late, partially because it was our vacation, but also because I still sensed that tautness in Donald, and I preferred to sit up with him until he started yawning and drooping on my shoulder. Once we were in bed, and he was asleep, I started obsessing over every little creak and rustle of the trees. Finally, I must have dozed off, because when I came to, it was morning, and things seemed a lot less ominous.

We were out on the beach early, after breakfast, with a well-stocked cooler. I had Donald coated to my satisfaction with sun screen, monitoring his fair skin for its reaction to the sunshine. He teased me that I was using SPF 2000, and that he was now not only protected from the sun, but also bulletproof and safe from nuclear radiation. I guess I was guilty of fussing over him too much. He's a grown man, and I'm sure he's been out in the sun before without me to protect him. He didn't seem to mind too much - he still doesn't. I started fretting over my beautiful blond and his fair skin on our honeymoon, and I haven't gotten any better about it yet.

"Hey, are you guys doing anything?" A young man's voice startled us both, since we'd just about dozed off in our beach chairs, our hands loosely entwined.

"Not really," I said, returning his friendly smile. He looked like a college kid, with shaggy blond hair, wearing some gaudy tropical print swimming trunks.

"My dad and my brothers and I are putting together a volleyball game. You wanna join us?"

"Sounds like fun," Don said, smiling at me. "What do you think?" he asked. I like playing volleyball on the beach, though I hadn't done it in a while, since the last big clambake of Callahans on Martha's Vineyard a few summers before that. And after the crappy welcome we'd gotten, it was nice to be included with such a friendly invitation.

"Sure, let's do it," I agreed. "We'll be glad to merge our beverage supply," I offered, gesturing at our cooler.

"Great. Bring it along. My mom's got a ton of food, so we're grilling burgers for lunch. I'm Nathan Randolph," he said.

"Don Strachey and Tim Callahan," I replied, gesturing at each of us.

The rest of Nathan's family were as friendly as he was. His father, Sam, a high school football coach, was a big, jovial man with a booming voice and a larger than life presence. His mother, Nancy, was an outgoing, born hostess who kept everyone stocked with snacks and beverages. Nathan's four older brothers were there, three of whom had wives. His eldest brother was there with his male partner. There were about a half dozen little kids running around, one of whom belonged to the male couple. She was an adorable little Asian girl they'd adopted from an overseas orphanage. Nathan also had a younger sister, still in high school. Apparently destined for a career in community relations, Nathan had rounded up the couple from the cabin on the other side of them, some nice middle-aged people named Carol and Peter.

The volleyball game was kind of a sloppy free-for-all with men, women, and children of all ages and aptitudes getting in on the act, but it was fun. We all ran and jumped and played and laughed, and I couldn't remember seeing Donald that relaxed in a long time. His heightened sense of danger seemed to be on holiday, and maybe running into some truly friendly, fun people like Nathan's clan was all he needed to get out of his funk.

Max and Curt were a nice couple, just a few years younger than we were, and we enjoyed sitting around on the beach with them while we all ate burgers, hearing about how they'd met when Max rear-ended Curt in heavy traffic. Of course, among the four of us, came the inevitable joke that they'd been "rear-ending" each other ever since. It was kind of obvious that Nathan had been looking for "playmates" for his brother and his partner, but that was fine with us. It was thoughtful of him to round up another male couple to make them feel at ease, and we were having fun.  

Max was a graphic designer. His dark hair was a bit on the long side, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. Curt was an accountant, with short brown hair and glasses. Sometimes people look at Donald and me as an example of opposites attracting, and in ways, it's true, but in all the ways that count, we're not really opposites at all. That seemed true of Max and Curt, too. They had good senses of humor, seemed reasonably aligned in their politics, and were both on board with raising their daughter, maybe adopting more children.

"What kind of welcome did you get from our friendly innkeeper?" Don finally asked as we were finishing up lunch, relaxing before doing anything else strenuous. Leigha, their daughter, was mastering the fine art of packing sand in a bucket and dumping the molded form onto the beach, squealing with delight at the whole process.

"My dad checked us in. The only thing the front desk guy was worried about is whether or not we could sleep everyone at the cabin, but we came up in the RV, so whoever doesn't fit in the house, sleeps there," Curt said. "I don't think he really knew who was with whom."

"Did he give you guys a hard time or something?" Max asked, getting Leigha started on another bucket mold.

"He wasn't very welcoming," Tim said. "Nothing overt, but it was obvious he wasn't pleased that we were a couple. When I said I was making the reservation for myself and my partner, he apparently thought we were cops."

"If he knew about us, too, he'd probably be afraid we were going to launch a hostile takeover, all these gays in one place," Max joked. "At the very least, we'd destroy the moral fiber of the resort and plunge everyone into orgies."

"Yeah, I guess we should get on that, shouldn't we?" Curt replied, laughing. "I haven't been to a good orgy in years."

"At the very least, we'll probably be hanging ruffled curtains in the cabin," I added. The more we all joked about it, the less serious it seemed.

"Your dad seems really great," Don said, taking a drink of his beer. "If I'd come out in high school, the last person I'd have talked to was the football coach."

"Yeah, me neither," Curt agreed, laughing. "I was in the closet until college, but when I had this big moment of 'coming out' to my dad, he wasn't even surprised. He was great about it. I was dating Max at the time, and he'd come home with me once over Christmas break, and it was kind of funny because I had really coached him on not outing me with my parents until I was ready. I guess Mom and Dad watched us together for about five minutes and figured it out, but they let me make my announcement, for what it was worth by then," he concluded chuckling.

The big fireworks display was that night, being held at a park a few miles away. We hung out with our new friends on their section of the beach to watch, contributing some of our potato salad, chips and hot dogs to the evening cookout, which Don had gone back to our cabin to retrieve. It was getting cooler, and he came back wearing a light windbreaker, and brought mine for me. The dropping temperatures made it nice to cuddle up together and watch the fireworks. Donald dozed off for part of the fireworks, and I teased him because Curt's and Max's daughter, Leigha, was also wiped out and sleeping soundly in one of her father's laps. They're the only two people I know who can sleep through fireworks.

We were all out there snacking, visiting, and watching the display until late into the night, when we finally headed back to our cabin, worn out and in good spirits from a great day. They invited us to stop by again the next day, if we felt like hanging out again or trying out their jet skis. I didn't know how to ride one of those, but if I could hang onto Donald and pray a lot, I was willing to try it with him. What is life without new experiences?

********

We were just walking hand in hand along the shore, taking our time meandering back to the cabin, talking and laughing, probably more laid back than we'd been since we got back from our honeymoon in Hawaii. I'd almost forgotten the paranoia that had sent me upstairs to the loft to get my gun when something erupted near us and the flashing and noise stunned me for a split second before there was another similar outburst, and I felt something hot hit my arm and then my side. It wasn't until Timmy bumped me hard and we fell on the ground that I realized some kind of fireworks had gone off right by us.

"Timothy?" He was lying against my side, and he wasn't moving. "Timmy!" I touched his hair, and my hand came away bloody. I started shaking, my heart was pounding. Then I saw the smoking firecracker land right next to him on the ground, not far from his head. It wasn't until a few hours later that I realized how close I came to losing my hand, because that never crossed my mind when it landed. I grabbed it and hurled it in the general direction of the trees. As it went off, both in mid-air and as it landed, three guys came running out of the cover of the trees, shouting and cursing. It was a bright, moonlit night, and I could see them very clearly. Clear enough to get off a good shot.

I stood up and drew my gun, aiming it at them.

"Don't move, or I'll drop you where you stand."

"We were just playin', man, take it easy," one of them said, holding up his hands. The one next to him lit a small rocket he had in his hand. I couldn't believe he was that stupid, or thought he could throw faster than I could shoot. I shot the rocket out of his hand. He dropped to his knees, screaming, cradling his wounded hand, then ended up standing and dancing as the exploding rocket shot at his feet.

"What the hell's going on over here?" I recognized Sam Randolph's booming voice, but I could only spare a quick backward glance to see him, Curt, Max, and Nathan all running toward us.

"We need an ambulance," I said, "and cops."

"My cell's got a signal," Nathan said. "I'll do it."

"These morons threw fireworks at us, and one of them hit Timothy in the head."

"If you want to trust me, Don, I'm ex-military. I know how to handle a gun," Sam said. I was fine with that. I just wanted to go to Timothy. I handed him the gun and joined Max, who had pulled off his T-shirt and used it to put pressure on the bloody spot on the back of Timmy's head.

"I don't think it's very deep, but head wounds bleed a lot," Max said.

"Timmy? Baby, it's me, say something," I pleaded with him, crouching there on the ground until I was almost lying next to him. "Timothy, please," I begged, holding his hand, checking his pulse. It was strong, and I tried to focus on that to keep from falling apart, to be useful.

Sam was still holding the gun on the three idiots who had emerged from behind the trees, and had ordered them onto their knees, hands on their heads. Curt was standing guard with his father. Max was sitting with me and Timothy, just giving us some quiet moral support. Nathan came running back with his mother in tow, carrying a first aid kit.

"Don, you're bleeding," Nancy said, but she might as well have saved her breath. I had Timmy's upper body across my lap, cradled in my arms, holding the balled up t-shirt against the back of his head. I couldn't see or hear anything but him. His eyes fluttered a little, and it felt like the weight of the world had just lifted off my shoulders.

"Timothy, can you hear me, honey?" Then I realized the noise from the fireworks going off might have temporarily affected his hearing. My ears were only ringing a bit, but I hadn't been hit in the head, either. I kissed his forehead and squeezed his hand. He blinked at me a time or two and squinted.

"Hurts," he managed, trying to reach for his head.

"You've got a bad bump on your head, sweetheart," I said, kissing the hand I was holding.

"What...?" He looked around at Max, Nancy, Nathan, and then back and me. The three goons, Sam, and Curt, were out of his line of vision. He tried to move up a bit, reaching forward.

"Stay still, honey. You were out for a few minutes." I realized then he was reaching for my arm, frowning, because he could see the scorching and a bit of blood on my sleeve from where I'd been hit. I could feel a couple tears escape at that. He'd been knocked out, his head was killing him, his glasses were God knows where, and he spotted a mark on me and was worried about it. "I'm fine, sweetheart," I said, touching his cheek. "It's just a scratch."

"That's what you always say," he mumbled, giving me a faint smile.

********

The police were more efficient and more sympathetic to our situation than I expected. The three morons were also from out of town, which probably helped. I wasn't at all sure how they'd react to locking up three locals for harassing a couple of gay guys from the big city. The three stooges actually had the nerve to say that I threw fireworks at them, since one of them had a nice big burn on his ass from where the one hit him I did throw to get it away from Timmy's head. The one with the mangled hand was whining about the fact I shot him. The younger of the two cops who questioned all of us complimented me on making a damn fine shot in poor light, at long range. Then he asked me what branch of the military I'd been in, since he was a former Special Forces man himself. He also pointed out to me that I was about two seconds from blowing my hand off throwing that firecracker since the thing was lit and smoking when I picked it up. I looked at my slightly raw, irritated hand and shrugged. Better my hand than Timmy's head.

Sam and Curt drove to the hospital behind the ambulance and offered to stick around until we found out if they'd be keeping Timmy there for a while, or if we'd need a ride back to the cabin. They were good people, and I was very grateful for their help and their moral support. Still, the only thing that mattered to me was Timmy, and even though he was conscious and seemed to have all his marbles, I wouldn't really rest until I knew his beautiful head was okay, and I could take him home and get out of this homophobic hell hole once and for all. It was inevitable we'd be dragged back there either to testify or if some kind of charges were drummed up against me for shooting that inbred asshole. The cops didn't think the latter was likely.

I didn't want Timmy to worry about what happened, or to know it was a hate crime until he was a little stronger and his head wasn't pounding like a bass drum. After they did some x-rays, and cleaned up the wound on his head, I finally started breathing normally again. He only needed a couple stitches, and he was alert and coherent and raring to go home. I hoped he felt up to the drive back to Albany right away. I was ready to go.

********

My memory of what happened on the beach that night was spotty. I know my head was killing me by the time all the jostling around in and out of the ambulance and under the excruciatingly bright hospital lights was over. I heard terms like 'mild concussion' being tossed around. I just knew my head hurt, and the only thing making it better was when the medical personnel got out of the way and Donald was there, and I felt his hand on my hair, or him kissing my forehead, or when I had a chance to look into his beautiful blue eyes, even though they were mostly blue blurs without my glasses. God bless him, he'd turned the overhead light off in the exam room now that we were alone and waiting for results from my x-rays.

A little patch of my hair was singed, and they'd put a couple of stitches there to close the wound. Donald kept me shielded from most of the stress of the situation when I was first dealing with my injury. All I knew was that someone was playing around with fireworks on the beach and one exploded too close to where we were walking.

I was worried about Don's arm, and the raw spots on his hand that he still hadn't explained. If I left it up to him, he'd ignore his own injuries until they got infected or got worse, and wished I could just get off the bed and go get some supplies and clean it up for him myself. He wouldn't leave my side, and we were still in an ER exam room in a small rural hospital, and there were a few other souls in nearby rooms moaning and carrying on with bloody appendages they'd gotten too close to fireworks. The place was sadly understaffed, even for as small as it was, and I had a feeling Don wouldn't be a top priority since he was not only up and around, but brushing off anyone who tried to help him.

"Wheel that tray over here," I said, adjusting the head of my bed up farther. He looked at me funny, but Donald usually does what I ask him to do. He brought the tray over. There were antiseptic wipes, bandages, tape, everything I needed.

"What are you doing? You need to rest," he objected.

"I will when you're okay," I said, using a tone that left no room for him to argue.

He sat on the side of my bed like a good little boy and let me clean his arm and bandage it. It was then I noticed his tank shirt was singed, so I made him pull up the shirt so I could see the raw looking skin beneath it. The clothing had protected him somewhat, but I told him to look for some ointment among the supplies on the counter. He found some, and I put it on his side and covered it with gauze. I held his banged up hand in both of mine and kissed the sore spots. He finally told me he'd picked up a firecracker and thrown it away from me. My husband, my love, my hero.

And then I held him when he put his head on my shoulder. I didn't say anything. I just held him and stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. He wasn't really crying, but there were a couple little hitches in his breathing. I thought something else was eating him, but early in our relationship, I accepted Donald's demons and made up my mind to give him what he needed, and satisfy my own curiosity later. I've always known how afraid Donald is of losing me, not because I'd leave him, but to some freak accident or twist of fate like this. I'm that afraid of losing him, too, but maybe it's because he's in danger more than I am that I have to cope with it, learn to live with it. Donald seems to take solace in the fact that I'm protected most of the time, safe, either because he's there to watch out for me, or because I'm not in a dangerous business. None of that really mattered. All I cared about was giving him solace and comfort, being sure he knew that was always there for him, no strings, no questions.

"Everything's okay, honey. We'll be fine," I said, relaxing back on my pillows. His wounds were bandaged, we were together, my head hurt but I was going to be okay, and we'd been up almost 24 hours. All I wanted was to curl up somewhere with him and sleep.

"If I lost you - "

"You didn't," I interrupted, guiding him toward me so we could kiss. His skin felt cold, and I wondered where his jacket was. "What happened to your jacket?"

"I loaned it to Max because he used his t-shirt to put pressure on your head, before we knew how bad it was - or wasn't, thank God."

"Put my jacket on, honey. You have goosebumps." The air conditioning was a little chilly in there, and I think Don was more shaken up than he was anything else, but the warmth might help. I was in a hospital gown, covered up, so my clothes were available. He pulled on my jacket.

"I'll go see what's up with your x-rays," he volunteered, kissing my cheek. "You ready to get out of this place?"

"I'm so ready to go home - all the way home - I can't even tell you."

I had almost dozed off when Curt stuck his head in the exam room, and then walked in a few steps.

"Sorry. Looks like I woke you," he said, smiling.

"I wasn't really sleeping. Just resting. Don's trying to find the doctor."

"I think they're working on the guy Don shot," he said. I wondered if my eyes got as wide as they felt.

"Don did what?"

"Oh, shit," Curt said, looking embarrassed. "He didn't tell you what happened?"

"He said someone was messing around with fireworks and they landed too close to us. What happened?" I asked, straightening in the bed.

"Don's going to kill me, you know that?"

"Donald's a pussycat. Leave him to me. What happened?"

"He's a pussycat? Why does that sound like the lion trainer's famous last words?"

"Donald shot someone?"

"You guys were walking home from our place, and somebody threw fireworks right close to where you were walking. When it went off, it nicked Don a couple times, but some of it hit you in the head."

"That's pretty much what he told me."

"They threw another one, after you were both on the ground, and he picked it up while it was burning and threw it. It landed by the guys who threw it, and they were hiding in the trees. They all came running out. He pulled his gun on them, but one of the jerks tried to throw another one at Don. He shot it out of his hand."

"So they intentionally attacked us with the fireworks?"

"Yeah, looks that way. They denied it, but the cops believed Don's account of things, and when my dad and I showed up, we saw him shoot the rocket right out of that guy's hand. He did what he had to do to protect the two of you, and shooting his hand was a lot iffier, harder shot than shooting him in the body someplace, so he went out of his way not to try to kill him."

"Were they friends of the guy at the front desk?" I asked. I just wanted to grab Donald and hold him and tell him it was all okay, that he should have told me right away, that I'm strong enough to be there for him when he's shaken up, too, even if I do have a bump on the head.

"They're not local. They were staying at the resort, too. One of them shot off his big mouth with some hateful remark about gays, and that pretty much cinched it. They were a bunch of beer-swizzling rednecks who saw a gay couple and went after them."

"Some great vacation spot I found," I said, sighing. "I gave Don this trip for his birthday."

"Good thing he had his gun with him."

"He was nervous the whole time we were here. It was like he had a sixth sense about it, that something was going to happen. I thought maybe it was just because of the guy who checked us in, but I guess it was more than that."

"He must have scary good instincts," Curt said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his shorts. "I'm really sorry I shot off my mouth."

"It's okay. I'm sure he would have told me the whole story later. Tell Max thank you for plugging up the hole in my head," I joked, and Curt laughed.

"Max was planning on being a nurse. He actually got to the point of doing his clinicals, but then the graphic design bug bit him - he's always been really creative - and he never looked back."

"Were you guys together then?"

"Yeah, we were dating. He's always done beautiful art and drawings, and he seemed so stressed out in the nursing curriculum. I suggested he take some art classes or design classes and see if it took. I just want him to be happy, and he loves what he does now. He spends a lot of time drawing and painting with Leigha. So hopefully she'll pick up his flair."

"She's a beautiful child, and bright, too. You have a nice family - your folks and Max and Leigha."

"Thanks. I know I'm lucky all the way around in the family department."

"Me, too," I said, smiling. "I have a great family, and lucky doesn't cover it when it comes to having Don."

********

We finally made it back to Albany by late that afternoon. By the time the doctor read Timmy's x-rays, decided his head was still in one piece, and then released him, it was already lunchtime. We went back to the cabin and showered and changed into fresh clothes. Nathan Randolph brought over sandwiches his mother made, and got our e-mail addresses, since Curt and Max wanted to stay in touch. We still get together with them once in a while, and Leigha is not only a good student in school, but her paintings are starting to win art contests on the local and state level. We have one of her paintings hanging in our guest room, and it's scary good for a middle school kid.

Timmy didn't eat much; his head was hurting and he'd forgotten to bring his spare glasses, so he was squinting at a lot of things, which made his head hurt more. I wished, again, we'd rented the SUV so he had something more comfortable to ride home in. He didn't bring it up again, never complained about folding into my stuffy little car. I did get the seat to recline a little and put a pillow under his head so he could rest. I know he wasn't comfortable, but he acted like I'd really fixed things up nicely for him.

I knew he didn't feel good when he asked me if I'd call his mother back for him and just tell her he'd call her later, that he had a headache from all the heat and the sun. She'd buy that, and not worry. Too much. He also told me to tell her we had a great vacation. He didn't want her to know someone had nearly maimed or killed us both because we had the audacity to walk along a beach at night hand in hand.

Sometimes I hate the world so goddamned much for its stupidity that if I didn't have Timmy and that sweet nature of his, and his faith in the goodness of people lifting me up even when I don't especially want to be lifted - I'd probably lose my fucking mind and kill some stupid, narrow-minded asshole who pissed me off.

We were both worn out, tired, depressed, and generally exhausted, so I got him tucked into bed and unpacked our stuff, took our dirty clothes to the laundry room and washed them, dried them, and brought them back upstairs and put them away. In other words, the jobs Timmy usually gets stuck with because we're tired when we get home from a couple days away, and then my schedule gets crazy, and he cares more about things being cleaned up than I do, so he does it. Not this time. He deserved a break.

I kind of expected he'd be asleep when I was done, so I slipped into the shadowy room with its drawn drapes as stealthily as I could. I think Timmy has a sixth sense, or some freakish kind of radar where I'm concerned, because I could slip past the enemy when I was in the Army, I can still sneak up on people or slither around behind things and under things and avoid detection, but I can't take two steps in the wrong direction in Timothy's presence without him catching me. I don't think I've stolen junk food out of a bag he didn't know about since we moved in together. It was no surprise when he moved around a bit as soon as I crossed the threshold of the room.

"Donald?" he asked, his voice a little ragged.

"It's just me, sweetheart."

"Where were you?"

"Just putting our stuff away, did the laundry."

"I'm glad I'm already lying down," he quipped.

"Smart ass," I retorted, shedding everything but my boxers and crawling into bed with him. He was nice and warm to spoon around. The air conditioning kept the apartment cool, and the basement laundry room had just about turned me a nice shade of blue, since the air conditioning in the summer made it like the frozen north down there. I did my best not to jostle him too much. I knew his head hurt.

"I'm sorry your birthday present was such a disaster," he said.

"A good portion of it was pretty enjoyable," I said, kissing his shoulder. "Don't apologize for planning something nice for me, honey."

"Yes, it was lovely up to the part where we were bombed with fireworks."

"Making love in the cabin, lying around in that hammock with you, with nothing to do but count stars... The Randolphs were nice. I can't remember the last time I played volleyball on the beach or hung out with a big family group and just cooked out and had fun. It was a great trip, sweetheart. Would have been even better if I'd listened to you about the SUV."

He snorted a little at that.

"No arguments there. But we survived."

There would be time to deal with what happened, to really cope with the fact we were both hurt, thankfully not seriously, just because we love each other. It wasn't the first time that homophobia and hate had hurt me. The last time, it had ripped my life to shreds and left me bleeding and crippled emotionally. It had turned me into the shattered mess that Timothy fell in love with, nurtured, healed, and restored the way he painstakingly worked at restoring our first house to its former glory. So much of who I am today, I owe to him. He made me see the good in the world and stop being so bitter about and obsessed with what the world had done to me. And he didn't even know he was doing it, or what was gnawing at my insides, for years.

"As long as I have you, the rest of it is okay," I said honestly. And it was. So much that was awful in my world was okay when my body was curled up around his. It's still the one single thing that fixes me when I'm broken. I hugged him from behind, smiling. He turned over and hugged me. I wondered how I deserved to be this happy and feel this good. Then I quit worrying about it, and just enjoyed it, nestling into his arms, leaving the rest of the twisted world and its hangups outside the perfection of his embrace.

"I feel the same way. I have my muscular, blue-eyed blond hero," he said, stroking my hair, looking at me like I was something amazing. "What more can I ask for?"

"Anything you want, beautiful," I replied, smiling at him, touching his cheek. "Anything."

"I can't think of a thing," he said, taking my hand, kissing it, touching it so carefully because it had some raw spots from grabbing that stupid firecracker. "I already have everything."

Me, too, sweetheart. Me, too.

********