Title: Beautiful
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R (sexual references)
Word Count: about 3,000
References/Spoilers: Can't think of any.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin.
Summary: Donald tells the story of the night he met Timothy.
Author's Note: Just a little story that occurred to me as how our guys might have gotten together.
Not intentionally based on the books, and I don't think it contradicts anything in the movies. I
used the bar name from the opening credits for "Third Man Out."
BEAUTIFUL
by
Candy Apple
As first weeks on the job went, this one was a bitch with a capital "B." It's not that I expected getting my PI license and going into business for myself to be a one-way ticket to a life of nonstop glamour and excitement, but I'd hoped for something better than this. I knew it would be a step down from the type of cases military intelligence handles. Still, I'd hoped for a juicy murder, some high level white collar crime, a couple missing persons...God, just something that would use even one or two of my higher level thinking and deduction skills.
Oh, well, if this investigation career didn't pan out, I had a head start on a photography career.
My only case so far was following around this frumpy, middle-aged housewife to find out if she was cheating. Frankly, I was shocked she'd managed to land the first guy - - she wasn't exactly the kind of woman who inspired the cave men to paint on walls. In any event, her husband was convinced she was two-timing him with a friend of his who worked nights.
Cheating on your spouse at night isn't really any better, but it's somehow a little less disgusting than afternoon hookups in sleazy motels or, for a really nice touch, in the marriage bed itself, leaving barely enough time for the sheets to cool down before the poor schmuck who's getting two-timed gets home from work. To this one's credit, she did change the bed when they were done. I didn't really care about this particular detail, but since I had a telephoto lens aimed at the bedroom and had to stay out of sight until the big hulk of a boyfriend left before I could leave, I didn't have much else to do besides watch.
After looking through the photos, my client decided they didn't show his friend's face clearly enough, and he wanted to destroy the other guy's marriage at the same time, so he sent me back to get more pictures - - this time, telling me to make sure I got a clear shot of the guy's face.
So I sat behind an evergreen shrub for God knows how long, waiting for the right moment to capture the necessary shot. Just because it was February, we were in the middle of a snowstorm, and my ass was frozen to the ground was no reason to give up making an extra couple hundred bucks. Everything went exceedingly well - - she gave him a blow job, he came, I caught the magic moment on camera...right before the subject of my photo, a giant who looked like he just escaped from the primate exhibit at the zoo, spotted me. Still, I pride myself on being pretty fast on my feet, and I made it to my car just before he did.
And then the car wouldn't start. I locked the door, but the door on that side doesn't really work anyway, so the lock is only half as reliable as the door itself, which doesn't close on the first try three fourths of the time. You do the math.
After he dragged me out of the car and got in a couple decent swings playing on his distinct size advantage, I actually did get to put a few of my military skills to use in defending myself and knocking him on his ass in the street, driving away before he could get back up. It is true that the bigger they are, the harder they fall - - and he was big, but kind of...squishy and not that much of a fighter.
My client got his photos, paid me in full, plus a bonus. Fortunately, no teeth were loose, but I looked like an old alley cat who's been in one too many fights. My eye was swelling up, my jaw hurt like hell, my clothes looked like I had been crawling through the shrubs and falling on my ass in the street - - both of which I'd done. My knuckles were bruised, which brought me a little happiness, even though they hurt - - at least his face felt as bad as my knuckles. I knew I should just go home. Still, going to that empty, dingy apartment and drinking with the sense of defeat I was feeling at the time didn't hold much lure. Neither did going to my usual bar, since I wasn't in the mood for "What's the other guy look like?" jokes from the guys there.
Yeah, that was my "closet" bar. It's where I went when I just want to get a little buzzed, not pick anyone up. If they'd thought I was gay, they'd have probably hung me on the wall and used me for the dartboard.
Going to a club where I could easily and comfortably pick someone up meant I'd have to engage in the pretense of actually caring who he was, what he did for a living, and how he felt about life in general. Plus, I might go through all that and still end up not getting any. The older I got, the less I felt like one-night stands. They were risky at best, even with precautions, and they had a tendency to lead to relationships with people whose company I could barely stand when their mouths were free of obstructions.
I'd been to the Three Olives a few times, and it was a nice place. The music was good, the martinis were strong, and the clientele weren't as likely to get into brawls with each other as they were at the bar near my office. In other words, it was relaxing.
I was on my second martini when I noticed him. I knew the long list of reasons why I was there alone, but I couldn't fathom what this guy was doing there by himself. Drinking a martini. Well, at least he had good taste in drinks.
He wasn't just "nice looking." He was beautiful. Tall, dark-haired, just like I like 'em. Still, he wasn't exactly my type. He was dressed in a really nice dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He looked like he'd either come from a funeral or a job at a bank. I usually prefer my guys a little less refined than this one looked, with his fashionable glasses and expensive shoes. There was an equally expensive-looking dark topcoat on the barstool next to him, a briefcase on the floor at his feet.
What the hell was the point? He was probably straight as an arrow and just had an argument with his wife. Or was out of town on business.
But, God, he was beautiful. The profile was strong, masculine, but elegant, like everything else about him. And he had great hands. Hands I'd have liked to have on me, doing things to me.
I was still staring at him while I sucked on my olive, though I promise you, that's not what I was thinking about sucking on.
Then Beautiful turned his perfect head slightly and looked right at me while I'm sitting there, sucking that olive, staring at him. Shit, shit, shit. Busted. I looked away. It wasn't my smoothest move, but it was the only one I could think of. I wasn't in the mood to have an awkward encounter - - or fight - - with a straight guy I'd been caught checking out.
I waited a few minutes and ventured a glance back his way. There was another guy on the barstool next to him - - the one that wasn't already taken by his topcoat. This guy was taller, younger, and blonder than me. He also had the guts to make a play for Beautiful, trying to buy him a drink. They talked a few moments, smiled, actually shook hands, then Mr. Tall-Young-and-Blond left.
Nice try, pretty boy. I chuckled a little to myself. I could have told that idiot Beautiful was straight. The odds of running into someone that gorgeous who just happened to be gay and single when I wasn't in a gay club were kind of slim. My luck just didn't work that way, either.
"Can I buy you another one of those?"
I looked up to see that Beautiful, his topcoat, and his briefcase had somehow all moved down to occupy the two barstools next to me. And the voice was almost better than the rest of the package. I could listen to him read the phone book and get turned on.
"At least let me buy you a new olive," he added, smiling. He was hot when he wasn't doing anything at all, but when he smiled? I wanted to jump his bones right there.
"Yeah, sorry about that. It's been a long day."
He gestured to the bartender for two more martinis. "Looks like it," he said, and then I realized what I must look like. Banged up face, scuffed up clothes, sucking on olives and ogling men at the bar. "What happened?"
"Job related injury," I quipped, almost as glad to see the fresh martini as I was to see Beautiful sitting next to me. I found myself getting hypnotized looking at those long, dark lashes when he blinked behind his glasses.
"I'm afraid to ask what you do," he said, still smiling a little impishly, taking a drink of his martini.
"I'm a private investigator. Just got my license a couple weeks ago, started my own PI business."
"Congratulations...I think," he added.
"What do you do?" Besides sit there and look edible.
"Not much at the moment. I was an aide to Congressman Patterson, but obviously, that leaves me out of a job right now."
So it was a funeral, not a bank job. I'd read about the old congressman finally keeling over after about fifty terms in office.
"The funeral was today, wasn't it? I got stuck in the traffic earlier." Whoa, that was smooth. Hopefully he wasn't too fond of the old geezer.
"Yes, it was this morning, and the traffic was crazy for miles around. There were people everywhere. He was very well-liked."
"How about you?"
"How about me what?"
"Did you like him?"
"Yes, I did. He was a fine man, a good legislator. A good boss. I learned a lot from him."
"Then I'm sorry."
"Thanks," he said, smiling slightly. "I was his chief aide for five years. He picked me out as an intern, and mentored me. I owe him a lot." He paused. "I'm Tim Callahan, by the way," he said, holding out his hand.
It was a handshake, but still, I was glad to have the chance to touch the object of my erect...er, affections. I shook the hand, and he had a nice grip. It was strong but gentle, as if he really wanted to make a meaningful contact with you, but not destroy all the small bones in your hand to prove he was a tough guy.
"Don Strachey," I replied, reluctant to let go of that hand. I could have held it forever. I did let go, and took another drink of my martini.
"You should really put some ice on that eye," he said. "It's swelling."
"I figured it would," I said.
"If you want to see out of it tomorrow, you need to ice it." He gestured to the bartender, who made his way back down to where we sat. "Could I please have some ice in a plastic bag, if you have one? Like a sandwich bag?"
"How about one of these?" The bartender held up one of the plastic bags he used to line ice buckets.
"Great," Tim said, and when it was full, he took it from the bartender with a "thanks." He twisted the bag a bit mercilessly until he could knot it to keep the ice from falling out. I'm not sure if he thought a nasty shiner incapacitated me so I needed him to put the ice on my eye, or if he was just that compassionate, or if he was trying to get in my pants. The ice did feel like a slice of heaven on my throbbing eye and cheek. "Hold that there. It'll help the swelling."
I reached up to hold it in place, and my hand briefly covered his, before he pulled away, smiling a little.
And blushing. Not that ugly, splotchy red blushing, either. Just the faintest hint of pink in the cheeks of that perfect face.
"Have you had dinner yet?" I asked.
"No, not yet," he said.
"There's a restaurant just up the street. An Italian place. They have great lasagna," I said. This was the moment of truth. Either he was straight and just really, really nice to bedraggled strangers, or, against all odds, he was gay, interested, and fate had finally decided to deal me a decent hand for a change.
"How's the fettucini alfredo?" he asked, sounding interested.
"I hear that's really good, too." I had no clue how it was. I'd eaten lasagna there once a year ago, and it was okay.
"Well, then, let's go."
It was six dates before we made love the first time. The first couple dates, I was still feeling a little intimidated by him, even though there was no reason to. He was always sweet to me, kind, friendly, and tolerant of my weird schedule. I think it was the way I felt about him that scared me. I hadn't felt those feelings in years. Looking back, I'd never felt them quite that strongly. By the next couple dates, he was too important to me to make him feel like I was just working my way into his pants. I wanted to know him, and I wanted him to know that I thought taking him to bed was something special. Another part of me wasn't sure my crummy apartment was the right place to make love to such an elegant creature as Tim Callahan. But then, he'd survived riding in my car more than once, so how much more could the apartment horrify him?
When we did make love, I knew I'd never be with anyone else, ever again. At the risk of sounding like a bad romance novel, there was this connection in our hearts that just seemed to play itself out using our bodies. And Tim was passionate and sexy and willing and giving in bed. He loved me like no one else had, and he let me love him any way I could think of.
Part of me was always just a little relieved that no matter how clingy any boyfriend might get in my lifetime, I was never going to be expected to marry him, and wouldn't be tied down legally, the way straight men were, to someone I was decreasingly attracted to and less and less in love with as time passed.
Six months into our relationship, Tim wanted to be exclusive. I guess he meant officially exclusive, because I'd been his since he offered to buy me a new olive. Though he didn't say it in so many words, I knew he wasn't seeing anyone else, either, and that he wasn't sleeping with other people besides me. A few months later, I asked him to marry me. Yeah, in those words. Get a joint bank account, go into debt for a house, commingle our paperwork - - all the things gay people do to "get married" when they can't do it the way straight couples do. I wanted my ring on his finger, and his on mine, so there was no mistake we belonged to each other. Suddenly I was outraged that I couldn't marry him the way straight men married their spouses. I wanted to be bound to him for the rest of my life because I never, ever, wanted to live without him.
On our first anniversary, Timmy and I lay in bed after we'd made love late into the night, and argued about whether that night at the Three Olives was our first date or not. He said no, since that was the night he picked me up - - or I picked him up - - that was something else we debated, too. I said it was, since I asked him out and he said yes.
Before we finally dozed off to sleep, I asked him a question that had plagued me off and on since that fateful night. It was the only thing I just couldn't figure out, but felt kind of weird asking.
"Timmy?"
"What?" He was almost asleep, his head on my chest, curled around me.
"The night we met, there was another guy who tried to pick you up before you came over to talk to me. Why did you pick me?"
"I saw you when you came in, and there was just...something... And then when I caught you looking at me, there was something in your eyes...I needed to meet you."
"One of my eyes was almost swollen shut," I reminded him, laughing.
"That didn't change the fact you had the most beautiful...soulful, sweet eyes I'd ever seen. I could have stared into them forever. Even if one was swollen half shut," he added, kissing my chest.
That's my Timothy, my sweetheart, my lover, my best friend, my husband - - no matter how battered and bruised I might be, he thinks I'm beautiful, just the way I am.