Title: The Best of Me, Part Three
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 (violence, language, m/m)

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Tim tried to keep his time occupied by a mixture of movement and rest. He kept mapping the little room, wanting to be confident of where he was going and which way he was moving the next time his captor showed up. He was cold without his t-shirt, but he figured it would suit a better purpose this way.

So many things could go wrong with trying to escape, not the least of which would be his ultimate inability to try to kill another human being. He was not a fighter. He wasn't used to violence and he wasn't good at it. But he was healthy, he was strong, and he was big enough to hold his own if he just came out swinging. Even when he play-wrestled with Donald, who worked out more than he did and had combat training, he could hold his own. Of course, Don wasn't exactly worried about winning those wrestling matches anyway, so maybe he shouldn't draw confidence from that.

Whoever this is might have Donald here, too, and may have injured him. If he made good on his threat, he may have tortured and permanently maimed him in one of the most horrible ways imaginable. If he's done that, he doesn't deserve mercy as much as Donald deserves help and medical attention. If it's Donald's life or his, there's no contest.

He clutched the t-shirt in his hands, hoping he could get it over the other man's head, surprise him when he didn't expect his captive to put up any worthwhile struggle. He'd pulled the cord on the light fixture, so if the other man thought there would be light in the room, if he flipped the breaker back on thinking he was going to burst into a lit room, he'd be sadly mistaken.

A chill flooded his insides, making his gut feel as cold as his skin. This was it. There were footsteps approaching. He stood, pressing himself as close to the wall as he could behind the door. He rolled up the hem of the t-shirt in his hands, trying to position it in the best possible way to get it over the other man's head. His whole body shook, but he willed it to stop. His life depended on him being able to follow through. More importantly, Donald's life might depend on it, too.

The door swung open, and there was a momentary sliver of light from whatever lay beyond the darkened room. Tim saw his captor's head and shoulders outlined in the light. He forced himself to move, and before he realized he'd actually sprung his trap, the t-shirt was over the other man's head, and he was lying on his captor's back on the floor, just as he'd planned. He seemed to have a slight weight advantage, and the element of surprise. It was now or never. He put both hands on the back of the other man's head and smacked it on the cement floor, stunned when he went still beneath him.

Not pausing to evaluate his victory, he got up, stepped over the fallen man, and rushed into the dimly lit basement on the other side of the door. The light burned his eyes, but he ignored that, rushing through the basement until he found the stairs, squinting against the brighter light at the top.

"Donald!" he shouted, rushing into the kitchen of what appeared to be an old farmhouse. "Donald, are you here?" he called out, hurrying through the kitchen and into the living room of the house. He looked at the front door, and stood there a moment, torn between running for help and going up the stairs to the second floor, reassuring himself that Donald wasn't up there in a room somewhere, horribly injured.

He couldn't bring himself to go out the door if there was any danger of leaving Donald behind. Their captor wasn't dead, at least, Tim doubted that he was. If Tim left Don there and the kidnapper came to, he might take it out on him. He raced up the stairs and started going room to room, finding three bedrooms empty except for some plain, well-worn furnishings. In the third room, he saw a sweater lying on the bed, along with some other personal effects that looked like it must be the room the kidnapper was using. Tim took time to pull the bulky gray cardigan around himself, not wanting to escape from captivity just to die of exposure on a back country road.

Reconciled to the idea his captor had lied, that Donald wasn't in the house, he ran back downstairs and opened the front door, ignoring the blast of cold air, the roughness of the wood porch and steps under his feet, the slippery wetness of the grass and the darkness of night. He'd survived darkness deeper than this, and at least now he had a fighting chance.

Or maybe not. The property was surrounded by trees. There had to be a road on the other side of those trees somewhere, but he had no idea which way to go, and without his glasses, things were just too blurry in the rainy darkness. He had no shoes, no clothes except the sweater and his boxers, and there was no point in denying that he was afraid. He looked back at the house, chewing his lower lip a minute, deciding whether or not to risk another confrontation with his captor or to risk getting lost in the woods.

He moved slowly back toward the house. If he could use the telephone, open the line, hopefully they could trace it. In the absence of a phone, maybe he could at least find shoes, pants and a flashlight.

The inside of the house was silent. He went to the basement door, his heart pounding, expecting his captor to pop out at him, wielding his gun. No one moved, there was no confrontation, no sound. He shut the door, then looked around frantically for something heavy enough to push in front of the door. Spotting an old wood china cabinet nearby, he started pushing it, wincing at the noise as old cups and dishes slid off the open shelves, shattering on the floor. But when he was done, it was in front of the basement door, and should at least buy him enough time to look for a phone or some clothes and supplies for his escape.

"I'm impressed," a familiar voice said from behind. Tim didn't want to turn around and look. He knew that voice, and in that moment, he knew the reason it was so silent in the house, that no one popped out at him, was because his captor was just playing with him. "I thought you were the easy one to handle, but you turned out to be a pretty worthy adversary. Of course, that doesn't mean you don't have to pay for knocking me out."

********

Donald spotted the mailbox bearing the right house number. "I'm there," he said into the cell phone, talking to Bailey. "I doubt he's going to let me keep the cell or my gun. I've got the ankle holster on, but that probably won't fool him."

"All you do is play along with him and keep him distracted. The SWAT Team and FBI surveillance experts are waiting for my signal. They have a plan for getting in there."

"I know. Just make sure they're not going to stumble in and get Timmy killed. He said he'd let him go - - "

"You don't believe that, do you? Look, Strachey, you're not objective about this, which is why sending you in there is akin to a suicide mission."

"I'm hanging up now. All I'm asking is that if there's a way to get Timmy out of there alive, don't worry about me. This is all about me, about my past, and he doesn't deserve to suffer or die for that. If you can only get one of us out, do it for him." With that, Don broke the connection and tucked the phone in his pocket, driving through the trees along a rough, dirt drive to the house.

It was a plain, nondescript white farmhouse with a slightly sagging front porch. Lights burned in the downstairs windows. It was such a benign looking sight...definitely not the high-tech lair of a crazed kidnapper. He stopped the car and turned off the engine. As soon as he got out of the car, John Griffin opened the front door and stood there, watching Don approach the porch.

"Throw out your gun and your phone."

Don took the gun out of his shoulder holster and threw it down, then sent his cell phone to follow it.

"If I find any other weapon on you, I'll use it on your partner. And he's had a rough enough evening so far," he added, smiling, leaning against the door, aiming a gun toward Don. It was then that Don noticed a large, colorful lump in the middle of Griffin's forehead.

Good for you, Timmy - - you got in one good shot sometime since that video was filmed...

He stared at Griffin for a long moment, and then removed the gun from the ankle holster, tossing it on the ground with the other items. He couldn't be sure Griffin didn't have some kind of high-tech detection equipment inside the house, and it was too big a risk of Tim's life to gamble with it.

"I'm playing your game, Griffin. Now let me see Timothy."

"You're going to see him." He gestured to Don with his gun to come in the house.

Don entered the house and immediately spotted Tim, clad only in his shorts, tied to a straight chair in the middle of the house's living room. His head was hanging forward, but as soon as Don walked in the room, he looked up, an expression of hope crossing his bruised features, before it was wiped away by a look of defeat.

"You shouldn't have come for me," he said, his eyes filling. "I'm sorry. I screwed things up."

Don crossed the room and knelt next to Tim's chair, wrapping his arms around him.

"I love you, honey. As long as I'm alive, wherever you are, I'll always come to get you," he whispered in Timmy's ear. It twisted Don's gut just how cold his skin felt. "You didn't screw anything up, sweetheart. It's gonna be okay."

"That's enough," Griffin said. "Get over here," he added.

"I'm here," Don said, kissing Tim's swollen mouth carefully. "I won't let him hurt you anymore." When he stood, he glared at Griffin. "You didn't need to beat the hell out of him. It's hard to believe you even share DNA with Kyle. He was a hero - - not a sick piece of shit who'd abuse a helpless captive." He took off his jacket and put it around Tim's shoulders, kissing the top of his head.

"He's not exactly helpless," Griffin objected, gesturing at the lump on his head.

"You kidnapped him, tortured him, and you're pissed because he got in one good shot?" Don was still buying time to stay near Timmy and comfort him a little, his hand stroking lightly over his hair. "Can I give him something?"

"I don't think so," Griffin snapped back.

"It's not a weapon." Don pulled the rosary out of his collar, and then took it off.

"Fine, whatever," Griffin said.

Don put the rosary over Timmy's head, and looked into his eyes. A couple tears rolled down Tim's cheeks. "Thank you," he whispered.

"I thought maybe we might need a little extra help," Don said, kissing away one of the tears, drying the other with his thumb.

"Okay, now move, or I'll just shoot you now."

"And miss all the fun?" Don retorted, straightening up and moving toward Griffin.

"Your chair's right there." He gestured at another straight chair about ten feet from Tim's. Behind the chair was as computer with several monitors lined up around it. All of them showed some part of the property. Don sincerely hoped Bailey's people either knew what they were doing, or waited a while to make their move.

"You gonna tie me up so you can beat me, too? Obviously all you learned to do in the army is how to tie a fancy knot and play with a bunch of high tech toys." Don sat down in the chair. "Kyle was so proud of you. We didn't have much time to talk about our families, but when we did, he'd always tell me where you were stationed, what you were doing, how you were such a natural with anything electronic. What you're doing...what you've done...insults his memory and all the pride he took in you."

"You have a hell of a lot of nerve talking to me about Kyle's memory! And don't talk to me about my family. You destroyed my family!"

"I destroyed your family?"

"You ratted out my brother to save your own ass."

"How do you figure that? I know it's real convenient to make me a scapegoat, but Kyle and I were seen together. Even if I'd lied, what would you think I could have said that would have made a difference? Do you think the Army was going to propel Kyle higher and higher up the ranks of military intelligence when he'd been seen having sex with one of his subordinates?"

"Shut up."

"I loved your brother. I wanted a future with Kyle. I thought if I told the truth...I thought the shit would hit the fan with the Army, but I thought it would free us. With nothing left to lose, we'd have nothing holding us back anymore. The civilian world isn't perfect, God knows, but at least there'd be a fighting chance we could be together. I was young, and I was stupid, and I thought he loved me the same way."

"My brother wasn't gay!" Griffin paced, fidgeting with the gun. "He had a girlfriend. He was a hero!"

"And you think that means he wasn't gay? You think I put a spell on him or something?"

"I think he'd been away from women too long and you were there. And you couldn't handle that and you ruined his career."

"Sounds like you and Kyle compared notes on his story. Is that what he told you and your family? That he was just using me to scratch and itch until he could be with women again?"

"He said you were gay and you wanted him and he'd been away from home so long and there were no willing women. Even the women in your unit...most of them were enlisted soldiers, not officers, and he couldn't risk getting caught with them. He said that he thought it was safe to have sex with you because you had as much to lose as he did, that you wouldn't rat him out...that you wouldn't turn around and cry rape if you got caught and were in trouble with the brass."

"At least he was honest about that," Don replied.

"He was honest, all right. He said you wouldn't leave him alone, that you kept pursuing him, that you told the brass the two of you were in love."

"Because we were. At least, I thought we were."

"Yeah, well, he probably said what he said to get what he needed."

"And you think it's worse for him to be gay than for him to use someone and lie to them and then toss them aside like garbage? Kyle wasn't like that, and for you to say he was is a worse smear on his memory than him being something you didn't want to accept that he was."

"Your lies about my brother killed my mother. She never got over Kyle's suicide. He couldn't face life branded as some kind of queer, disgraced, thrown out of the Army. I talked to him a few hours before he died," Griffin said, distressed. "He said he'd lost everything. And that's how my mother felt. Alan was in jail, Kyle was dead... They discharged me not long after. It wasn't fair what you did to the Griffin family name. My father started drinking, and my mother ended up so hooked on prescription anti-depressants that we were never sure if she killed herself or just got mixed up on how many pills she'd taken."

"John, you have a wife, and children," Tim said. "You rose above all the...terrible things that happened to your family, and you have a career and a family and a life. Do you think your children deserve to suffer for all this?"

"Maybe not, but it's a little too late to worry about that now," he said.

"You haven't killed anyone yet," Tim replied.

"Yeah, well, it's still early," Griffin replied. "And I thought I told you to shut up and sit still!" he bellowed at Tim, making a sudden lurch toward him, causing him jerk back as much as he could in the chair.

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch," Don said. "Why don't you just let him go? You've got me here now. Timothy served his purpose."

"You know, you're right. I could just kill him and I'd still have you here."

"Or you could listen to what he said about your wife and your kids. You keep whining about how I destroyed your family when you're the one who's really destroying it. You think being gay would make Kyle less of a man, but what kind of man leaves his wife to raise two kids alone while he runs off to settle some imaginary score by kidnapping and torturing an innocent man?" Don demanded.

"You were a vindictive little bitch who destroyed my brother because you couldn't have him!" Griffin shouted at Don. "Kyle is six feet under, and you think you can just go on with your life, like nothing ever happened. Find yourself a rich boyfriend and live a nice, cushy life, while my whole fucking family falls apart. Kyle deserves justice."

"Family was important to your brother, wasn't it?" Tim ventured, and Don held his breath. He knew if Griffin hit Timmy again, he'd be unable to sit still for it, gun or no gun, and a fast, stupid move would get them both killed. "Family means everything to you, that's obvious. But you've got to start looking at 'family' being your wife, and your children. They're the future. Do you have boys or girls?"

Griffin seemed nonplused at the question. He stared at Tim a moment, as if he were deciding whether or not to answer. "I have son and a daughter."

"How old are they?"

"My boy is four and my daughter is eighteen months."

"I bet Kyle would have loved his niece and nephew, and your mother would have adored her grandchildren. They might not have had the strength to deal with the pain in their lives, but don't you think they'd want you to have a life, to be there for your children? Even if everything you said about Donald was true, what would killing one of us solve except taking you away from your kids?"

"I made that decision before I left home. Before I trashed your house," he added, then he smiled. "Before I made that video for the Internet. If you're so open about being gay, you shouldn't mind a little...exposure."

"None of that carries the kind of sentences that murder does. If you let us go, you still have a chance to be part of your children's lives. If you do whatever it is you're planning, and you're a murderer, you'll never be able to be with your family. And you do have one who needs you," Tim added.

"I'm not going to tell you again to shut your mouth," he said, aiming the gun at Tim. Don slid to the edge of his chair, but was afraid to pounce on Griffin, even though he was momentarily distracted. His aim was too direct, and if he missed, Tim would probably be shot and maybe killed.

"I think underneath all this anger and pain, you're a good man who loves his family. I'm just trying to get you to think about the family you still have, and how much pain you're going to cause them."

"I called you out here for a reason," he said, turning toward Don. "I'm going to give you a chance to make a choice." He moved around behind Tim's chair, pressing the barrel of the gun against Tim's temple. "Go outside and get your gun. Bring it back in here and sit down in your chair. If you try anything, I'll kill him."

"Just take it easy. Timmy, it's gonna be okay, just don't make any sudden moves." Don went outside and found his gun on the ground, returning to the room and sitting in the chair as instructed. The way Griffin was standing, Tim's body shielded most of him from any shot Don might have.

"Okay, Strachey, take the safety off," he said. Don followed the instruction. "Now put it in your mouth."

"Donald, don't do this. I won't let you do this," Tim pleaded.

"Kyle was a good man, John," Don said. "He was decent, caring, and...and good. It was Tim who made me see that he was just scared, that he didn't know how to handle everything that was coming at him. But he would have never killed innocent civilians."

"Put it in your mouth, now!"

"No!" Tim shouted, and in a move that shocked Don as much as it shocked Griffin, Tim tipped himself backward in the chair, knocking Griffin to the floor, his legs partially pinned under Tim and the chair. Recovering quickly, he raised up and aimed the gun at Don, who was ready for him. Holding his gun in both hands, he fired three times, all three shots hitting Griffin, dropping him before he could squeeze his own trigger.

He rushed over to the fallen man, kicked the gun out of his reach, and checked his pulse.

"Donald!" Tim was frantically pulling at his restraints now, and Don could see some of Griffin's blood had spattered on his partner.

"He's dead, Timmy. It's gonna be okay."

He stuck his gun back in his holster and dug out a pocketknife, carefully cutting the ropes that held Tim to the chair. In a moment or two, he was free. He grabbed onto Don, wrapping his arms around him as he knelt on the floor next to Tim.

"I've got you now, honey. It's okay." Don held him close, stroking his hair, unable to stop a few tears of his own from escaping. "You saved our lives," he said, his voice shakier than he expected it to be.

"You never made a move on him because you were afraid of him shooting me."

"You made a move on him because you decided to give your life for me," he said, his lips against Timmy's temple, where he kissed him, as if he wanted to erase the spot where Griffin's gun had been pressed.

Sirens were drawing closer, and Don could see the monitors coming alive with police personnel approaching the house.

"There's no life I want without you in it," Timmy replied, burying his face against Don's neck.

********

Tim steeled himself for a long, tiring visit to the hospital where they checked his vital signs, and took x-rays to see if he had any broken bones from the beating he'd taken from Griffin when his escape attempt failed. Donald never left his side, and Tim never felt quite so adored as he did every time Don looked at him, smiling at him with all the love in the world, touching him and reassuring him everything was okay, gently holding his bruised hands and kissing the knuckles as if he could make the pain go away. While he couldn't do that, he certainly made it feel less unbearable.

He hated that Don looked so...guilty. As if any of this were his fault. Donald, who'd die to protect him, and never laid a hand on him with anything but love...it figures he would place the blame on himself for failing to protect Tim, or because the whole nightmare was about his past.

While they waited in an ER exam room for the green light to go home, Tim couldn't stand it anymore.

"This isn't your fault," he said, finally. Donald was sitting next to the gurney on which Tim lay, covered by a warm blanket, holding his hand, kissing the bruises on his knuckles, looking like each mark hurt him physically.

"I don't know how you figure that," Don said, looking tired and...devastated. John Griffin might be lying on a slab in the morgue, but before he went, he had very accurately identified the best way to torture Donald. His partner could have withstood gunshots, beatings, or other more exotic forms of torture inflicted on himself, but inflicting pain on Tim hurt him on a level that was far deeper, down somewhere in the depths of his soul.

"Whatever was tormenting John Griffin about his brother, his family...that's not your fault. He decided to make it your fault because that apparently helped him cope with it. But you didn't kill Kyle, and you didn't get his mother hooked on prescription drugs. You didn't make his brother a criminal." He gently extricated his hand from Don's grip and stroked Don's cheek with the back of it. "All you did was fall in love and then try to stand up for that love in probably the most hostile possible environment. Because you're honest and you stand up for the people who are lucky enough to be loved by you."

"Yeah, you've been real lucky the last couple weeks. Being with me hasn't exactly been good to you lately."

"Don't you ever say a thing like that again," Tim said, his tone coming across a bit harsher than he anticipated, but anyone, even Donald, putting down their relationship was something he couldn't stand. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. I felt that way when we first started dating, I feel that way now, and I'll go to my grave feeling that way - - no matter how I get there. I wouldn't change, or trade, one minute of my life with you. Even the hard times. Those test a love, and it either crumbles under the pressure or it deepens and intensifies. I'll give you three guesses which way I think it's going for us," he added, relieved to see Donald finally smile a little, standing so he could kiss Tim's forehead, and very gingerly kiss his lips, careful not to press too hard.

"I wish I could take this for you, so you weren't in pain."

"I'll be okay in a little while. It hurts me more to see you look so sad. We're together, and it's going to be all right." Tim managed a smile, even though the bruising and swelling protested it. "As long as we're together, we can handle anything, right?"

"Right," Don confirmed, smiling widely, keeping his face close to Tim's, their foreheads just barely touching.

Bailey walked in then, carrying a duffle bag. He looked a little uneasy, as if he felt he'd intruded on something very intimate. Don moved away a bit, but not far. He still held Tim's hand and hovered very near him.

"Kenny packed some clothes for you," Bailey said.

"Thanks for bringing them. Where's Kenny?" Tim asked.

"I think I need to mend a fence or two with Kenny," Don admitted. "It's a long story," he said, resting his hand gently on Tim's head, kissing his forehead. "I'll be right back, honey." He looked at Bailey. "Are you going to be here a minute?"

"How long before you get sprung?" Bailey asked. "I'll drive you home."

"What about my car?" Don asked.

"It's still at the scene. I can have one of my guys bring it over to your house later."

"Thanks," Don said, handing Bailey his keys. Tim couldn't remember ever seeing Don look so tired. It was as if sticking his hand in his pocket and retrieving the keys was a major effort.

"I can wait here if you want to talk to Kenny. He's in the waiting room."

"I'll be back in a few minutes." Don left the room.

********

"Hey, Kenny," Don said, taking a seat next to Kenny's.

"I hope what I brought was okay. I don't know which things he wears a lot, so I had to guess."

"I'm sure the clothes are fine. Look, I'm sorry about earlier. I was upset."

"I didn't notice when that DVD was slipped under the door. If Tim had died because I missed that, I - - "

"He didn't, that's the important thing. I could just as easily blame myself because I took a break to go home and shower and change. There's no telling I would have noticed it, either, even if I'd been there." Don sighed. "If Timothy hadn't made it through this..." He ran a hand back through his hair, finding it surprisingly hard to even put that thought in words.

"He did," Kenny said, resting his hand on Don's shoulder.

"Yeah, he did," Don repeated, managing a little smile. "I better get back to him. We're waiting for the doctor to give us the all clear to get out of here. Do you need a ride?"

"No, I've got my bike. I think I'll head for home. Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks. Get some sleep. I'm taking a few days off to be with Timmy. Think of it as a little paid vacation."

"They're the best kind," Kenny replied as he headed for the exit. Don returned to where Bailey seemed to have distracted Tim with some story about a traffic stop he'd made when he was in uniform, and Tim was actually smiling, seeming cheered up by it. It was obvious Don had missed the punch line, but he didn't care. Timmy's little smile was more contagious than any humor would have been.

"Mr. Callahan, I'm getting tired of seeing you here," Dr. Winters said, smiling, as she entered the room. She was the same doctor who had treated Tim a few days earlier, when he'd suffered the anxiety attack.

"Nothing personal, but I'm just as tired of being here," he replied, smiling as much as the swelling around his mouth permitted.

"Then I have good news. You have a lot of bruises, and you have one hairline fracture of one of your left ribs, but we don't need to keep you here any longer. He's a little dehydrated, so try to get some liquids in him tonight," she said to Don. "If he has any dizziness, disorientation, blurred vision, be sure to bring him back into the ER. Some rest, pain medication, and a follow up visit with your own doctor in a few days should take care of it." She handed Don the prescription. "See if you can keep him out of trouble," she kidded Don, who smiled.

"I'll do my best," Don said, smiling.

Bailey drove them home, and Tim was grateful that Don was coming home with him, instead of hanging out with the cops and tying up the loose ends of the case. Tim was sure he'd snap back into action soon enough to put the missing pieces of the puzzle together, but for now, it felt good to know that Don wanted to be with him and take care of him instead.

"We'll need full formal statements from both of you, but we can handle that tomorrow. We've got the basics," Bailey added as he pulled into the driveway.

"Thanks for the lift," Tim said to Bailey, as Don opened the passenger door and helped him get out. Tim didn't complain much, but he was bruised up pretty well and the crack in his rib was making him wince a little with each movement.

"Get some rest. I won't be calling you before lunch time," he added.

As soon as they walked into the house, Tim paused, resting his hand on the banister. He put his hand up to his mouth and his whole body started shaking. He didn't expect the experience to hit him so hard, and he was grateful that Don was quick to gather him in his arms, just holding him quietly and letting him get some of the fear and the trauma out of his system.

"I didn't think I'd ever see home again," he admitted, his hands clutching at the fabric of Don's jacket. "It was awful," he whispered brokenly.

"It's all over now. You're home and you're safe. It's all over, baby." Don rubbed his back in long strokes. "I'm so proud of you, Timmy."

"Proud of me? Why?"

"You kept your head together, you made an attempt at getting away that damn near worked, and you saved our lives." He pulled back a little, gently touching Tim's bruised cheek. "My hero," he said, and while he was smiling, he wasn't kidding, and the sincerity was clear in his voice.

"I'm no hero," Tim objected, getting control of himself again.

"Oh, yes, you are," Don argued. "When I talked to Griffin about his family, I was doing it to distract him and freak him out, to get the best of him. But when you did it, you really cared. The son of a bitch terrorized you and beat you, and you actually cared what happened to his family."

"It just seems like he was the last hope for that family, and he destroyed himself. He just sentenced his children to growing up under the same kind of awful shadow of tragedy that plagued his family after Kyle's suicide."

"Come on, let's sit down," Don said gently, guiding him over to the couch by the fireplace. "I'll get a fire going.

"Just sit with me a while, okay? I'm warm enough," Tim added. He was wearing a pair of khakis, a shirt, and a jacket, but he still felt cold if he were being honest. Still, he far preferred warming up with Donald than with a fire in the fireplace.

"Okay," Don replied, smiling. He grabbed a throw and sat down, opening his arms so Tim would settle against him. When he had, he wrapped the throw around Tim's shoulders. "What's the last thing you remember?" Don prodded. Tim knew he wasn't trying push him for case details. He was trying to give him the opening to talk, to get the whole thing off his chest.

"We were running low on some food at the party, and I was coming back here to get the extra salad." Tim remembered the feeling of foreboding he'd had walking down the shadowy sidewalk. "As soon as I started toward the house, I felt like I was taking a chance, that I shouldn't be doing it. I should have turned back, but I didn't. I thought I was just having a case of the jitters about Fellows. The next thing I remember, I woke up in this...place. A cement room. Now I know it was the basement of that house. When I first came to, I was in my underwear, and it was cold in there... The worst part of it was the darkness." Tim swallowed hard, not sure he could put it all in words, and yet part of him needed to get it out, to talk about it. To feel Donald holding him and reassuring him it was over. "The lights went out," he said, finding it hard to get the words out. "It was total blackness. It was like being blind. I couldn't see anything...and then someone was just...there. I could hear them moving, but I couldn't see anything. All he did was tell me to open my mouth," Tim managed.

"It's okay, honey. You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready." Don rubbed his back.

"I didn't know what he was going to do to me. I thought maybe he was going to...rape my mouth." Feeling the terror sweep over him that he'd felt in that darkened room, he hid his face against Don's shoulder. "I knew he was going to get what he wanted eventually, but I couldn't make myself do it. He started hitting me, and I couldn't see him. I didn't know when the next blow was coming or where he was going to hit me. And when he shoved that gun in my mouth, I thought it was over. I thought I was gonna die and never see you again."

"You're home now, sweetheart." Don tilted Tim's head up gently so he could kiss him, keeping the contact soft to avoid hurting the bruising around Tim's mouth. He moved from Tim's mouth to his cheek, then to the bruising near his eye. "In a little while, I'll get you some ice."

"He had a knife. He didn't cut me, but he was touching me with the knife, threatening to...asking me if...if you'd still want me without... He asked me to choose if I wanted mine cut off or yours. I thought he had you there...he acted like he was going to do that to you."

"He didn't...touch you after that, did he?" Don's subtly phrased question took him a moment to process.

"No. His interest in me wasn't sexual, thank God." Tim paused. "I was so glad to see you when you got there...and so sorry you'd put yourself into that situation just to get me out of it."

"Just to get you out of it?" Don squeezed him tighter. "Timothy, getting you out of there was worth anything it took. I'm just sorry you had to go through what you did before we found you."

"He called you?" Tim asked.

"He sent us a DVD." The words were spoken softly, as if just mentioning what he saw on that DVD shook him to the core of his soul.

"Of what?"

"What he did to you in the dark. He had some kind of night vision camera."

"Then you already knew what happened." Tim wondered why Donald was sitting there easing the story out of him if he'd seen it for himself.

"Just because I already knew the facts doesn't mean that you didn't need to tell me." He stroked Tim's hair and kissed his temple. "What I want to know is how you managed to give him that nice egg in the middle of his forehead." Don had a smile in his voice, and a little thread of pride in it, too.

"I spent the rest of the time I was alone in that room learning the dimensions of it, trying to get a sense of orientation, to know how to move around in there without being able to see. I finally hid behind the door, took off my t-shirt, and figured when he came back, I'd put the t-shirt over his head and then try to overpower him. It worked...I just didn't follow up the way I should have. The way you would have."

"How do you mean?"

"I smacked his head on the cement floor. I was on his back, and I seemed to have a weight advantage on him, and the element of surprise. But I know I pulled my punch. I was afraid of killing him...cracking his skull open. I didn't want to do that. And then I just ran. I should have locked him down there, taken his gun, something."

"How far did you get before he caught up with you?" Don asked, sounding as if he almost didn't want to hear the answer, or what the consequences of the failed escape attempt had been.

"I went upstairs first, because I had to know if you were there, if you were hurt, if you needed me... I was so glad when you weren't. I thought he might be lying just to mess with my head, and I was so relieved when I didn't find you. I guess I wasn't thinking very clearly. I grabbed an old sweater off the bed upstairs and ran outside. I was standing there in the cold, wet grass with bare feet, wearing a sweater and boxer shorts. I had no flashlight, no provisions, and it was dark. I couldn't even see the drive, the way we left the property? I think the switching between dark and light and dark again was hard on my eyes, and without my glasses, they're not the sharpest anyway."

"You went back inside?"

"I had to. I would have never found my way out of there without light, and I needed shoes, something to wear. When I got back inside, I couldn't hear anything, so I assumed he was still out. I pushed a china cabinet in front of the basement door, but he wasn't down there. He was right behind me, and he had the gun..."

"That's when he really lit into you, huh?" Don prodded gently.

"He was so angry. I thought he was going to beat me to death, or just take out his anger on me and then shoot me." Tim closed his eyes, soaking up the gentleness in Don's touch, the hand that was caressing his back in soothing little swirls. "How do you handle getting worked over, and just getting back up and going on?"

"You took a pretty good beating, sweetheart. Nobody bounces back from that like nothing happened." Don slipped his hand under Tim's jacket, touching carefully the area around his cracked rib. "Training, experience...those things help you overcome some of that. But when you're not used to being hit, it's a whole new, awful experience to cope with, and the pain is...scary, for lack of a better word."

"Now I really hate the idea of you getting beaten up," Tim said, cringing at the number of black eyes, swollen jaws, bloody noses, and achy ribs he'd seen on Donald over the years - - and that didn't even include the bullet grazings. He'd always sympathized with him nearly to the point of feeling the pain physically, but now that he was nursing a healthy batch of his own bruises, it was all too real. And he didn't want to think of Donald ever feeling that way again.

"I know, honey," Don said, chuckling a little as he kissed Tim's cheek. "I'll do my best to avoid it from now on, okay?"

"Even if you don't really mean that, thanks for saying it, anyway," Tim replied, smiling. "What made you think to bring me the rosary?"

"I saw it there on your night stand, and it got me thinking...how sometimes when I don't come home until three in the morning, and you're sleeping, it's wrapped around your hand." Don pressed his palm against Tim's and they laced their fingers. "I know it's something you hold onto when you're worried or afraid. That you believe in it."

"It calmed me down a lot when you put it around my neck. I know it's not a magic charm. I know it can look that way, like Catholics who place a lot of faith in it, who hold onto blessed rosaries, are attaching too much importance to beads and words."

"I never thought that," Don said, kissing the back of the hand he was holding. "I wasn't sure I should touch it. I guess I thought I was going to rub off the blessing or something," he added, giving Tim a big grin. "How's that for superstitious?"

Tim sat up, moving away from Don a moment. He pulled the rosary out of his collar and over his head. Then, he put it over Don's head.

"I want you to have it."

"Timothy...this rosary means a lot to you...your grandmother gave it to you when you went into the seminary."

"I know. It's very, very precious to me. Just like you are." He touched Donald's face. "I'm not suggesting you start saying the rosary or wearing it all the time. Just keep it handy, and when you're doing something dangerous, take it with you. It'll make me feel like I can do something to protect you."

"What about you?"

"Honey, I was a seminarian. Do you have any idea how many rosaries I have tucked in the bottom drawer of the dresser? Every relative I had seemed to think it was the perfect gift for every significant occasion. A rosary, or a statue, a prayer book, a cross, a picture of something holy. If your PI business tanks, we can always open our own religious supply shop."

"This one is special," Don said, and he was still smiling that wonderful, broad smile that made all the pain and fear of the last day or so seem minor.

"It is. It made me feel closer to God, like He was nearby, watching out for us, when I decided to rock back into Griffin like that. Honestly, I'm beginning to think it was God's idea, because I sure wouldn't have thought of it on my own."

"I promise I'll take good care of it, and treasure it, Timmy. Thank you." Don leaned forward and initiated a very gentle kiss. Tim deepened it, even though it did hurt his mouth. He wanted to feel Don's tongue inside his mouth, to kiss him like a lover. "There are a few things you should know about what went on while you were missing."

"Like what?" Tim frowned, wondering what Don could possibly think was so important. He was getting tired now, relieved from talking things out, from all the loving touches and reassurances that were starting to make him feel secure again.

"When I went down to confront Fellows, Kenny went with me, which I wasn't too surprised about. But Mike and Stan went with us, too, and they really backed me up. When it became apparent you definitely were missing, we had a twelve-person search party on our front doorstep, awaiting instructions."

"What? Who?"

"Sheridans, Jensens, Millers, those people who live in the house with the pea soup-colored siding - -"

"Burzynskis," Tim supplied.

"Yeah, them, and a couple other people. I'm sure Margaret can tell you who everyone was. She organized it. They went out and combed the neighborhood, the city, even started on rural back roads before the cops officially directed them to some rural areas."

"I don't know what to say," Tim replied, tears filling his eyes, but for a good reason. He knew they had nice neighbors, and he'd worked hard at making himself and Donald a part of the neighborhood community. Still, he had no idea his neighbors would care on such a personal level if something happened to him.

"Bailey tried to tell them to wait until morning, but Margaret wouldn't accept waiting six more hours to search because Bailey and his men were afraid of the dark," Don recalled, laughing.

"I can hear her saying that," Tim responded, laughing, holding onto his side.

"I didn't know you tutored Ryan and let him job shadow you."

"You didn't? I thought I mentioned it. Maybe you were just wrapped up with a case or something."

"And you gave Margaret all that moral support when their son died. I didn't even know that you knew all those people who showed up to search."

"I wanted friends in this neighborhood. I wanted us to be accepted, be part of the community - - not just to have them...tolerate us."

"Well, you did that. All while I was skulking around dark alleys," Don added, touching Tim's face carefully, not putting pressure on his bruises.

"There were twelve people here at midnight to look for me?" he asked again.

"There were," Don confirmed. "I called Margaret from the hospital, while you were in X-ray. She was so relieved she was crying. I think she's adopted you."

"I'll have to thank everyone tomorrow." Tim paused. "Wait. Tomorrow is Saturday."

"Technically, it's Saturday morning now," Don replied, looking at the clock, which was now passing the four a.m. mark.

"The fund raiser is tonight," Tim said. "Would you still go with me?"

"Honey, you were kidnapped, held hostage, beaten up - - you heard the doctor tell you to get some rest."

"I'll get some sleep. Please, Donald. I've worked on this event for months. I could still get over to the convention center this afternoon and make sure everything's the way it should be, and meet with the staff, and make sure Senator Platt has what she needs - - " he paused. "How bad do I look? I haven't even seen myself in a mirror since... Maybe she won't want me there."

"You look like you've taken a pretty nasty beating. You're bruised up, but you're still beautiful," Don concluded, smiling.

"You're biased."

"You bet I am, but I know beautiful when I see it."

"You think with my glasses on, and my tux, I wouldn't look too horrible?"

"This is going to sound really morose, but a friend of mine who used to work at the morgue downtown works at the Ambrose Funeral Home, doing makeup on the bodies."

"You're not serious," Tim said, thinking this was one of Don's more bizarre ideas.

"Hear me out. She's really gotten a lot of recognition for the amazing job she does on some of the bodies that no one thinks could ever be open casket funerals. But she makes them look really good. She's an artist with bruises and messed up faces."

"Donald, you just got done telling me how beautiful I am and now you're comparing me to mangled corpses?"

"No, no, sweetheart, I don't mean that. But she can cover up a lot of the bruising and make it look natural."

"I'm not going to get ready for this event in an embalming room."

"Of course, you're not. I'll get her to come over here. It'll be just like having makeup done before going on a talk show or something."

"Corpse makeup."

"It's just makeup, Timothy. It's not corpse makeup until it's on the corpse. It's not like it's cursed."

"I guess I just came too close to having to have that done for real to want some...cryptkeeper over here touching up my bruises."

"Is that what's freaking you out about this?" Don asked, and Tim realized how stupid it really was to make such an issue of this. Donald had practically pulled a rabbit out of a hat to get him in shape to go to a party that Donald himself would prefer being beaten to attending. His partner was also focusing on something so inanely superficial as covering up Tim's bruises so he'd look nice for a party when Don had just been forced to shoot and kill the younger brother of the first man he'd fallen in love with.

"I'm just tired and cranky, and ungrateful. If you can get her to do that for me, I'll appreciate it."

"O-kay," Don said, looking at Tim as if he thought he was suffering a worse head injury than they at first suspected.

"I haven't even asked you how you're doing," he said, resting his hand on Don's shoulder, rubbing a little. "I'm sorry you had to shoot Kyle's brother. I know that had to be very difficult."

"He was aiming at me, and I have no question he would have pulled the trigger. If he hadn't then, he would have killed you, or injured you more if I didn't follow through with his sick game and blow my own head off. There was no good ending to that." Don sighed. "Kyle thought the world of John, that he was this whiz kid with electronics. He wanted to see him promoted to Army Intelligence, too, doing surveillance work, things like that. Whatever there was left of John's mind, it wasn't functioning rationally. He'd let this thing eat at him until all that was there was hate, and this irrational need for revenge - - like destroying my life, using you to get back at me, was somehow going to set anything right."

"Still, he looked like Kyle, at least, from what I saw of his picture."

"Kyle had a good, kind heart. He'd have never done to an innocent person what John did to you. That was sadistic, and that wasn't Kyle, even in dealing with th enemy. He was ethical, decent... I know he would have understood what I had to do."

"You seem more at peace with his memory," Tim said.

"Yeah, well, someone very wise and very patient helped me figure some things out," Don responded, smiling.

********

Though he'd have given anything to undo what Tim had to go through, Don enjoyed pampering him, seeing the relief in his face soaking in the hot bath, or as Don carefully washed the dried blood out of his hair. Pain medication made him even sleepier, and he lay in bed dozing while Don gently applied ice to the swelling around his eye and his mouth, and also prepared an ice pack for the area around his cracked rib, protecting the skin with a thin towel before applying the pack. He couldn't count how many times Tim pulled out a first aid kit, or sat up late into a night before he had an early call in the morning to fix one of Don's many work-related mishaps. He deserved a little special TLC in return.

"I wish you'd rethink this party thing tonight," he said quietly. Tim was in a lot more pain than he let on, and Don felt the best thing for him was to be at home, doted on and cared for, getting a nice long stretch of bed rest.

"We don't have to stay long. I just want to see it. It's a very important event for the senator." Tim closed his eyes. "Get into bed, Donald. You can stop fussing over me for a while."

"I'll drive you over to the convention center this afternoon, but if everything's on schedule and okay, we're coming right back home. Got it? By now, the senator's sure to have assigned someone else to do the dirty work."

"It's my event. How much we raise at it could determine what kind of re-election campaign we can launch."

"Okay. Shhh. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll make sure you're awake in time."

"I have to call Senator Platt around nine - - "

"I'll call her. You sleep."

"She has to feel free to tell me not to come to the party, if she doesn't want me there looking like I do."

"You'll look fine. Now go to sleep." Don removed the ice packs and covered him up.

"Don't turn out the lights," Tim said, his eyes opening a little. "I don't think I'm gonna be okay with the dark for a while."

"We'll just leave 'em on. It'll be getting light out soon, anyway." Don climbed into bed, shifting so he was facing Tim, close enough to share a pillow with him. "I'm right here, honey. Just relax and go to sleep." Don smiled when Tim slipped his hand into Don's, holding on tightly.

"It hurts," he said in barely a whisper. The two words twisted Don's heart, even though he knew perfectly well how much Tim had to be hurting. He was bruised almost everywhere, and he wasn't used to being mistreated in such a horrible way. Don scooted impossibly closer, without putting pressure on any bruised places, and put his arm lightly around Timmy.

"I know it does, baby. It'll get better. Don't fight the pain pill. I'm here to watch over you." He kissed the end of Tim's nose, glad to see that drew a faint smile as Tim let go and drifted off to sleep.

********

Very little about dealing with Donald Strachey surprised Detective Bailey. Strachey himself was a bizarre mixture of characteristics - - no, of opposites. He was tough, brave to the point of foolishness at times, and more than able to hold his own with any homophobic cop who might shoot an insult his way when he was around the station. He definitely wasn't the mental image that Bailey had always associated with "gay"- - limp wrists, an exaggerated sense of fashion, and a flair for decorating. No one would ever accuse Strachey of even one of those traits. Bailey liked to think he could tell if a man was gay or straight, but if Strachey didn't constantly function under the moniker of "the gay detective," pinned on him by some magazine article a few years back, Bailey would have never pegged it.

At the same time, there was an odd vulnerability in the guy that seemed to come from something he was carrying around inside, and now Bailey had another piece to the puzzle. The way Strachey had shot out the explanation of his connection to the Griffin family was indicative of someone who just wanted to get the words out fast because they either humiliated or saddened him to a point that he couldn't bear to linger over them.

Timothy Callahan was a lighter soul than his partner. He was friendly, polite, and cultured in a way that spoke of old money, but without the nose-in-the-air arrogance. Bailey could easily see him as a parish priest, or maybe ultimately some high-ranking Vatican officer of some sort. Smart, dedicated guys like Callahan could go far in the Church, especially as the number of new priests dwindled and the contingent of old priests were dying. Callahan did have the flair for decorating and the sense of style Bailey's admittedly archaic old notions demanded from a gay man, and he was definitely...softer somehow than his more abrasive spouse, but nobody could accuse the guy of being dainty. His gutsy escape attempt and participation in bringing down John Griffin laid any such thoughts to rest for Bailey. Mistaking Callahan's inclination toward non-violence for weakness was apparently a serious miscalculation.

Bailey still didn't know what he thought of gay marriage - - two guys exchanging rings and setting up housekeeping - - but he couldn't question the devotion between these two, and he couldn't think of too many couples he'd met - - of either gender - - who loved each other so openly and unreservedly as Strachey and Callahan.

Speaking of the devil himself, Don was outside when he arrived at the house to take their statements. Unshaven and his hair ragged, clad in his robe and a pair of well-worn socks, he was talking to one of the couples from the search party, smiling and chatting, but looking frayed around the edges, as if he just wanted to get back inside. He held the mail in one hand, apparently having been waylaid when he stepped outside to retrieve it. He actually looked relieved to see Bailey approaching.

"Afternoon, folks," Bailey greeted, unable to remember the older couple's name off the top of his head.

"Detective Bailey," the man greeted, shaking hands. "Mike Sheridan."

"Yes, of course, from the search party," Bailey said, smiling. "Mrs. Sheridan," he said.

"Detective, nice to see you again. We were just asking Don how Timmy was doing."

"I hate to interrupt your visit, but I have another meeting downtown on that homicide case, and I need to get statements from you and Tim," he said to Don.

"We're ready for you," he replied. "Mike, Margaret, I'll tell Tim you were here to see him as soon as he wakes up. I know he'll appreciate it."

"Give him a big hug for me," Margaret said. "I'm sure you won't mind," she added, grinning impishly.

"I'll force myself," Don quipped, smiling, looking relieved as they headed across the street.

"Did you get any sleep? You look like shit warmed over," Bailey observed.

"Thanks, Bub. You're looking particularly handsome yourself this morning. I'm putting coffee on if you want some." He led the way back into the house. "Timmy's hell-bent he's going to that fund raiser dinner tonight, so I had to be up at nine to call the senator and make sure she didn't mind him coming with all his bruises, and to make sure she didn't delegate his final trip to the convention center to torment the catering staff to someone else. I thought that would mean he'd get some extra sleep." Callahan's animated voice could be heard wafting down the stairs.

"Sounds like somebody's getting it," Bailey said, sitting at the kitchen counter.

"They were going to use gold linen napkins. Apparently that will somehow offend the gods, or at least clash with the centerpieces," Don said, yawning, slapping the coffee maker, as if that would make it produce faster.

"How's he doing?" Bailey asked.

"He's in a lot of pain, and he won't take any more pain pills until after the party because he doesn't want to be groggy or say the wrong thing. I wish he'd stay home and get some rest."

"Might be good for him to get out and do his thing, you know, do something he's comfortable doing. He went through a lot."

"I suppose you're right." Annoyed, he finally moved the pot out of the way and let the brewing coffee drip directly into the mugs, one after the other. He spilled coffee that sizzled on the burner. Bailey wondered if Callahan knew how abused his pristine kitchenware was when he wasn't watching.

"You want to get this over with?" Don asked, sitting at the counter. "The Jensens dropped off donuts, God bless them." Don bit into a chocolate frosted one, pushing the bakery box toward Bailey. He licked frosting off his thumb while Bailey selected a big donut with a hard, crusty glaze on it. "This is my third," he said, stifling an inelegant belch.

"Guess I need to catch up then, huh?"

"Go for it. Timmy'll eat that raspberry bismark and then bitch about the powdered sugar getting on his shirt, and that'll be it. He's not a big donut eater."

So Bailey sat there and ate two donuts, drank two cups of coffee, and took Strachey's statement.

"What else do you know about Griffin? How long's he been planning this thing?" Don asked.

"Well, among other things, he drives a black Dodge Charger. It was parked behind the farmhouse."

"Shit. I checked Alan Griffin for that. Never even thought about John."

"I would have put a pretty hefty bet on Alan Griffin, myself. No reason to suspect John. Anyhow, the preliminary information we're getting in on his credit card transactions, and his ATM activity indicate he arrived here a few days before your house was vandalized. He rented the house about a month ago. He probably spent the extra days wiring it, putting up his cameras. He had quite a few of them out, but not nearly the electronic dragnet he was claiming." Bailey took another drink of coffee. "We also found a denim jacket missing a button - - the one Kenny found here matches it."

A scream from upstairs startled them both, and Don rushed for the stairs, Bailey close behind him. The next shout was Don's name, panicked, a little broken. Tim was sitting up in bed, breathing heavily, holding onto his side, shaking.

"I'll be downstairs," Bailey said, since it was apparent Tim had dozed off and had a nightmare.

"I'm here, Timmy," Don said right away, climbing onto the bed, gathering Tim in his arms. "You must have dozed off, had a bad dream." He patted Tim's back, rocking him a little. "It's okay, honey. You're home. You're safe."

"My side hurts," he managed.

"Is it worse than before?" Don asked, concerned to be sure there were no internal injuries lurking under the surface. Tim still hadn't given him a blow-by-blow account of the beating, but judging by the bruising and the cracked rib, Don was convinced he'd been kicked at least once or twice. Tim didn't answer him, but he did start to cry. Don wasn't sure if that was the nightmare or the pain, or some miserable combination of the two. "Try to calm down, Timmy. The more even your breathing is, the less your side is gonna hurt you."

"I was back in that room. He had the gun in my mouth and he kept spinning the chamber and clicking it. I could feel it again, in the back of my throat, pushing at the roof of my mouth."

"Your mouth's pretty sore inside, huh?" Don asked, stroking Tim's cheek. Thankfully, his partner wasn't missing any teeth, but he'd taken a couple of nasty blows that had made the area swollen and tender, and caused his teeth to break the skin in a few places.

"I don't know if I can go to this party tonight," Timmy admitted, sounding more than a little discouraged.

"No one's going to think less of you if you don't. Senator Platt thought you were nuts when I told her you were insisting on coming. Nuts in a good way," he hastened to add. "She knows how devoted you are to your job. You don't have to prove anything."

"I just put so much work into this. But everything hurts so bad and if I take those pain pills, I won't even know who I'm talking to."

"What about ibuprofen? It'll take the edge off. You can't do this with nothing. If you're determined to try to go to this party, you're going to need some pain relief."

"Okay. We can try the ibuprofen. You'll be with me at the party? Donald, you have to stay with me, and pay attention to what's going on, in case I say something wrong because I'm tired or have too many pills in me."

"I won't leave your side, I promise, and I'll even pay attention to what's being said." He kissed the top of Timmy's head. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

"It's always good to hear," Tim said, seeming calmer now.

"Thank you for saying yes," Don whispered in his ear. "I love you." He loved seeing the big grin spread across Tim's face.

"Thank you for asking," he whispered back.

Don slipped his hand under Tim's t-shirt, pressing gently on his belly to be sure nothing felt hard or swollen. Though he was no doctor, he'd felt the distended abdomen of a man with internal injuries when he was in the Army, and he didn't detect anything like that in Timmy.

"Your hand feels good there," Tim admitted softly, and Don rubbed his belly a little, not sure if he was relaxing sore muscles, or had just found one of the few spots on Timmy's body that wasn't bruised.

"Just relax, honey. Everything's going to be okay."

"Did I see Bailey here?"

"He's downstairs. When you hollered, we both came up, in case something was wrong." Don was surprised when he felt something hard brushing his wrist as he was giving Tim the little belly rub he was enjoying. "If we do something about that, it's going to make you breathe harder."

"If it doesn't, you've lost your touch," Tim kidded. "Touch me," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Sliding down on the bed, Don pushed the covers back and pushed down Tim's shorts, freeing his erection. He kissed his way up the underside of it, then engulfed it in his mouth, sucking gently, one hand fondling Tim's balls. Tim moaned a little, but it was a good moan, and his hand lightly caressed Don's hair. Don was glad Tim was enjoying himself, that he could do something to make him feel some good sensations amidst all the aches and pains. Mostly, he savored touching and tasting his lover, something that, just twelve hours ago, he'd feared he'd never be able to do again. He found himself smiling around his project, putting as much effort and imagination into the movements of his lips and tongue as he could, wanting to make this one of the best blow jobs Tim ever got.

When Timmy came, he couldn't stifle the little cry of pleasure that escaped his parted lips. A moment later, Don was by his side again, softly kissing those irresistible lips.

"Let me take care of you," Tim offered, his hand straying inside Don's robe, cupping his balls.

"Bailey's downstairs," Don objected weakly.

"He can have another cup of coffee."

"And a donut. There are donuts down there."

"How many have you had so far?" Tim asked, his tongue flicking out to lick a little chocolate icing out of the corner of Don's mouth.

"Three downstairs. Then I came up here and sucked the cream out of your longjohn," he teased, sharing more gentle little kisses with Tim.

"You're awful," Tim replied, smiling broadly.

Don relaxed and let himself enjoy the work Tim's hand was doing on his cock, and the closeness he was sharing with his partner, swapping kisses and little love words. He didn't realize how much he needed to reconnect with Tim this way, this intimately, until they were stealing the moment. He nuzzled Timmy's neck, stifling the sounds of his orgasm in that warm, wonderful spot where all he could breathe in was the scent of his partner. He didn't move when it was over, even though he knew he had to, that Bailey was probably pacing around downstairs, irritated, checking his watch.

Tim's gentle hand was caressing the back of his head, his other arm coming around to pull their bodies close. Don didn't know why he felt tears burning behind his closed eyelids. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe it was relief...mostly it was the feeling of Timmy holding him, something he'd physically ached for when his partner was missing. He'd been facing the greatest potential loss of his life, and the only person he'd wanted to cling to for sustenance was the very person he was at risk of losing. Now those familiar arms were around him, and even though Tim was tired and in pain, nothing could diminish the love and the strength Don drew from the contact.

"Everything's okay, now, baby. I'm home, we're together," Timmy whispered, and Don allowed himself a few tears, the stress of the last couple days catching up with him. After a minute or two of just lying there quietly with Tim, he sat up and rubbed at his face tiredly. "I've been so focused on whether or not I could manage to get to this party tonight," Tim said, looking at him with real concern. "You look exhausted. If it's too much, we can skip it."

"I'll be fine," Don said, smiling at his lover, finding it agonizingly hard to resist just curling up with him in the bed and forgetting the world for the day. "I'm just tired. We'll spend tomorrow in bed," he added, flexing his eyebrows.

"I better give Bailey my statement before he comes up here after it," Tim said.

"You can stay right where you are. He can come up here." Don straightened up the bed sheets and his disheveled robe and underwear, and helped Timmy get re-situated in the bed, wearing his blue robe, with the covers neatly arranged so no one would never know their little tryst happened.

"It's not that I don't love your essence, Donald, but I'm never going to be able to shake hands with Bailey if you don't bring me a wet-wipe."

"Oops," Don acknowledged, laughing as he brought Tim the requested item and slipped into the bathroom to use a little mouthwash. He returned with a comb and touched up Tim's hair a bit, handing him his glasses and even squirting him with a spritz of his new cologne. Timmy wasn't fond of receiving guests when he looked like he'd just crawled out of bed - - or just finished making love. "You look really sweet and innocent now," he quipped heading for the door.

"Donald?"

"What, honey?"

"You'll sit with me while I give him the statement?"

"Try and get rid of me," Don replied, grinning.

"Never," Tim said, with a sincerity that warmed Don's heart.

********

Bailey was mostly through his third donut when Don came back downstairs, looking a bit more ragged than when he'd gone up there. His eyes were bloodshot enough to look painful. Part of him wondered if Callahan had died last night, what would have been left of Strachey. He suspected very little, given the exhaustion and emotional toll the whole situation had inflicted on the usually resilient, often irritating soul he'd gotten used to as a fixture of his life at the PD.

"Timmy's ready for you, if you want to come up. I want him to take it easy until we go over to the convention center."

So he followed Don upstairs and sat in a chair across from the bed where Callahan was propped up amidst a mountain of pillows, his hair neatly combed, already shaven, in his robe, glasses in place. There was a bed tray on the floor with the remains of breakfast, and Callahan's briefcase and a few assorted papers had been neatly set aside by the breakfast tray. Don sat next to him, sheltering Tim's hand in both of his. With the exception of the occasional old-time movie star playing royalty, Bailey couldn't remember anyone looking more pampered, spoiled, tended-to, and genuinely adored.

Callahan told most of his story with characteristic composure, but a few parts of his account, when he talked about being terrorized in the darkened room, or the violent beating he'd taken when his escape attempt failed, were obviously hard for him to describe. Strachey looked devastated and angry at the same time, sliding his arm behind his partner and pulling him closer, still keeping a hold on his hand.

When he'd told his story, Bailey stood to leave. "Strachey tells me you're going to your fund raiser tonight."

"It's a very important event for the senator. I don't want to miss it."

"Well, I hope you have a nice evening out of it. You two have earned a break."

"Thanks, Bub. If Timmy put it together, I'm sure it'll be something special," Don said, giving his partner a look of pure love.

********

"Oh, shit," Don said as he stood in the open front door. The woman on the other side looked unnaturally pale, her black lipstick and black nail polish perfectly coordinating with her black leather corset and long black skirt. A few silver chains accented the whole ensemble, coordinating nicely with her nose and lip rings.

"Nice to see you, too," Lindsey said, shaking her head as she walked past him into the house. "You moonlighting as a waiter at the country club now?" she asked, gesturing at his tux.

"Very funny."

 "What the hell happened to your railing?" she asked, and Don realized that he'd almost become used to living in their maimed house.

"It's a long story. Sorry about the greeting. But did you have to wear the whole goth look? Timothy's freaked out enough that we're patching him up like a rough-looking corpse."

"This may surprise you, but I do have a life outside spackling dead people back together and making your partner pretty for his party. I have a date tonight. Where's the body, anyhow?"

"Shhh. And don't tell him this is corpse makeup."

"Well it's not my cosmetic bag," she retorted, looking down at the large black case full of makeup she was carrying.

"Just tell him it's the same as stage makeup."

"Fine. Where is our delicate flower so I can get started on him?"

"He's upstairs. Seriously, Lin, he's been through a lot, so take it easy on him with the corpse humor."

"I got the picture. So what happened, you two have a lover's spat and you hit him somewhere it shows?" she joked.

"He was abducted and beaten. I'd never hurt Timothy, so don't even joke about that."

"You're strung really tightly, Donny. You need to relax. I'm just teasing you."

"Sorry. It's been a rough couple of weeks," he added.

Tim was sitting on the bed, fully dressed except for his jacket and tie.

"Tim, this is Lindsey. Lin, this is my partner, Tim Callahan," Don introduced. Tim recovered much more quickly than Don had from the woman's black-dominated outfit and gave her the best smile he could.

"Thanks for doing this on such short notice," he said.

"Well, your partner here is so charming and persuasive, how could a girl say no?" She took a hold of Tim's chin, carefully turning his face side to side. "Piece'a cake," she said, putting her case on the bed. "Donny, make yourself useful and get me a towel so I don't get any on his shirt."

"Donny?" Tim asked, and Lindsey just smiled, winking at him.

"He hates it," she whispered.

"I won't look...orange, will I?"

"Not unless you want to. I think half the reason I do this for a living was being traumatized by all those overly made up, phony-looking dead people when I was a kid." She waited while Don solicitously tucked a towel around Tim's neck. "A chair would be nice," she said, raising an eyebrow at Don.

"Right." He returned with a straight chair for her to sit in while she worked on Tim's face.

"How did you two meet?" Tim asked.

"On a murder case. There was this serial killer who was - - "

"I don't think Tim needs all that detail, Lin," Don said, smiling, but giving her a look.

"You were working a serial killer case? When?"

"Before I met you, sweetheart. One of the victim's families hired me because they didn't think the cops were doing enough. They ended up solving it before I did. Lindsey worked in the morgue downtown, and we got to talking..."

"Then I found out I'd been wasting my time and he was gay. That would have been a nice piece of information to share with me up front," she added. "So, is he good in the sack? Should I be really disappointed?"

"Crushed. You should be crushed," Tim said, casting an affectionate look at Don.

"Figures. Bet he's got a cute ass, too."

"The cutest."

"Will you two give it a rest? Geez."

"I'll try not to hurt you, but I might not have the lightest touch. Most of my clients could take an ice pick to the eye and not know the difference."

"Just fix me up so I don't look like someone ran over my face."

"Trust me, you don't look that bad. I actually had to patch one of those up. Ugh."

"Lin," Don admonished.

"He's fine," she retorted. "I think I even saw a smile a second ago."

"That was probably just the distortion of my mouth from the swelling."

"It's not all that noticeable. Now, if you want to talk about distorted mouths - - "

"We don't," Tim and Don replied in unison.

"Sorry."

Lindsey worked quickly and efficiently, making more benign conversation with Tim that kept him fairly relaxed while she finished the makeup job.

"Okay, check yourself out," she said, handing him a mirror.

"Wow. I look so...lifelike," he quipped, and Lindsey laughed at a corpse makeup joke coming from Tim himself. "Seriously, it really does look natural. I was kind of afraid I'd look like a drag queen with a full face of makeup."

"You look great, honey," Don said. "It doesn't look like you're wearing makeup, either."

"Another satisfied customer. Of course, if mine aren't satisfied, there's not much they can do about it."

"What can we do to thank you?" Tim asked.

"Oh, I'll think of something. It's always handy to have a few friends owing you favors," she replied. "Have fun at your party," she said, gathering up the last of her supplies. "Oh, and I'm leaving a jar of the cleansing cream you'll want to use to take this stuff off," she said, setting it on the night stand.

Don walked her downstairs, and when he came back, Tim was fastening his bow tie, glasses in place. He picked up Tim's jacket and held it for him, trying to minimize how much reaching and twisting he had to do.

"Lindsey did a great job on you," Don said, taking in the full effect.

"Thank you for calling her and setting this up for me." Tim smiled, looking at Don with all the love in the world. "This evening means a lot to me."

"I know it does, honey." Don returned the smile, happy beyond words to see Timmy so happy. And excited to spring his final surprise of the evening.

"The party's important, but...you've done so much to make this happen for me tonight," he said, taking both of Don's hands in his. "I know you hate these things, and I know you're tired and this is the last thing you want to be doing."

"You're here, alive, with me, and I'll be with you all evening, and I get to be the envy of most of the women and more than a few of the men when they see who I'm with. I don't hate that."

Tim cocked his head a bit and just looked at Don, his eyes filling.

"Come on, we should get going. You want to get there in time to make sure everything is up to par," he added, grinning.

They went downstairs, and Don opened the front door, letting Tim out and locking it behind them. He smiled as he watched Tim frozen to the spot on the front walk, looking at the black stretch limo parked in the driveway.

"I don't understand," he said, confused. "Is that for us?"

"I figured you should arrive there in the style you deserve, instead of folded up in the passenger seat of my car with your topcoat shut in the door."

"I'd rather be in that car with you than in one of these with anyone else."

"I know that, too. But tonight, you get both, so enjoy it."

He'd no sooner said that than the driver got out of the car, clad in a dark suit and tie, and came around to open the door for them. Once inside, Don handed Tim a glass, took one himself, and poured them both some champagne from the bottle chilling there.

"To us," Donald toasted.

"To us," Tim echoed, smiling as their glasses clinked together before they each took a sip.

"How's your side, honey?"

"It hurts. If we can make it through cocktails and dinner, I won't object to going home early."

"You sure you're up to this?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Tim said, leaning over for a kiss, making it clear that being on a date with Don was the part of the evening that meant the most to him.

********

A ride in a limo was on par with the elegance and opulence of the fund raiser. As he finished off a martini he hoped would make the stuffed shirts a little easier to bear, Don wondered if the banking, law, and commerce in New York State would survive the roof falling in on this crowd. And that wasn't even taking into account the politicians; of course, Don was of the opinion the world could survive nicely without most of them. Except for Timothy, of course. But then Don didn't think of him as a politician in the negative sense of the word.

Tim was in his element, working the room, greeting some of the most prestigious bigwigs in the state, seamlessly blending his roles as host, party guest, or head of the senator's staff, depending on whose hand he happened to be shaking at the moment. No matter who it was, he proudly introduced Don as his partner, the tasteful little touch to his arm or loving look in his eyes making it clear that didn't mean they were in business together.

The kidnapping and assault had made the local news, even though neither of them had talked to the press or given them any lurid details. Several people asked Tim how he was and expressed concern that he'd been through such an ordeal. Don was impressed all over again, but not entirely surprised, that some of the most powerful people in the state not only knew Tim by name and obviously respected him, but some actually knew him well enough to care that he'd had a bad experience in his personal life.

"This is a beautiful event, Timothy. You outdid yourself," Don said as they were eating dinner, in a rare moment when the conversation at their round table for eight didn't include Tim.

"Thanks," Tim said, smiling, obviously pleased by the compliment. "I had a lot of help."

"But you were in charge."

"Guilty," he replied, still smiling.

"Which means no detail went through to completion that you didn't review."

"Okay, okay," Tim said, holding up his hand slightly, laughing.

"Incidentally, the ivory napkins were definitely the way to go," Don said, his tone very serious, and Tim looked at him as if he'd sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead. "You were enlightening the caterer this morning on the phone about the evils of gold linen napkins," he added.

"He was the beneficiary of the pain pills wearing off," Tim admitted, taking a drink of water. "And gold would have been ridiculous."

"This is about the biggest shindig you've put together, isn't it?" Don whispered, leaning close to Tim.

"Yes, it is," Tim admitted. "I guess I just had to be here to make sure it all hung together the way I hoped."

"Are you happy?" Don asked, resting his hand on Tim's knee, under the table. He let it stray up his thigh just a little.

"Oh, yes, I'm happy, but that's got nothing to do with this event." He caught Don's wandering hand with his, lacing their fingers together.

********

After Senator Platt made her post-dinner keynote address, and a number of other politicians got up and supported the cause of raising money for her re-election, the guests were finally free to dance to the music of a small orchestra playing old standards. Though his aches and pains were starting to infringe on his good time, Tim wouldn't have missed dancing with Donald for the world.

The evening had been something out of one of his fantasies. The limousine picking them up, sipping champagne on the way to the event, sending the driver around the block a few extra times... Being so in love that it was tempting to just skip the event and spend the evening in the back of the limo with Don and the champagne. Realizing again just how much Donald was his knight in shining armor, with those beautiful blue eyes and that wonderfully quirky hair that couldn't decide if it was strawberry blond or sandy blond depending on the light. Losing himself in that smile that melted his heart, and seeing the whole package all dolled up in a tuxedo. More than all that, just seeing so much love directed his way made him feel almost unworthy of it. He wasn't sure anyone was worthy of being loved and desired that much.

For now, he didn't even care if he deserved it. He had it, and he treasured it, and he clung to Donald happily as they swayed to the music, his heart swelling when Don put his head on Tim's shoulder the way he usually did when they slow danced. There was something so endearing in that little habit from this man who was so strong, so self-assured, so tough, so brave, never one to back down from a fight and always ready to face anyone or anything and take on any challenge... and yet he surrendered so gently in Tim's embrace, so in love with him that he didn't even care about pretenses. That kind of love and trust was awe-inspiring, and with a little touch to the back of Don's head, Tim resolved to spend the rest of his life living up to it.

They stayed later than Tim planned, but he was enjoying it so much, he didn't want it to end, even if he was increasingly unable to keep the signs of pain out of his expressions and words. It was Don who finally took a gentle hold of his hand and whispered that it was time to go home.

The limousine took them back to the house, and Tim couldn't help empathizing with Cinderella's feelings when her coach turned back into a pumpkin. In the end, though, he still had his Prince Charming, whether he was in a tux or a t-shirt, so the coach was low on his list of priorities.

Don took care of him like he was made of delicate crystal, and he didn't resist any of the doting. He was tired and in pain, and it felt good to be babied a little. Don even painstakingly cleaned the makeup off that had covered up the bruising on his face with an impossibly light touch that barely caused him any discomfort at all. After giving him some pain medication, lighting the candles the way Tim liked them, and filling up a warm tub, Don relaxed in the bath with him, knowing he hurt too much to really do anything more than just let the warm water loosen up his muscles a little.

As they lay in bed, finally looking forward to a day of sleeping in and restoring their worn out bodies and spirits, Tim spooned around Donald. Lying against him, holding onto him, gave Tim's achy body support in a much warmer and more wonderful way than any pillows could have. Don reached back and stroked Tim's cheek lightly, grinning.

"What?"

"I know you were glad to have the bruises covered up for the party, and you looked great. I was just glad to touch your face and feel just you there."

Tim caught Don's hand and held it there, kissing the palm.

"Tonight was one of the most amazing nights of my life. Thank you."

"Congratulations, sweetheart. It was a beautiful event, and everybody had a good time. The food was incredible, and normally, I can't stand the dinners at those things. I'll bet the senator gets a shitload of money out of it." Donald yawned widely. Tim had to laugh at his rather crass summation, but he hoped it was accurate.

"That was the plan."

"Comfortable there?" Don asked, reaching back and affectionately patting Tim's hip.

"Oh, yes. It's perfect," Tim said, nuzzling the back of Don's neck. He let his eyes drift shut, reassured by Donald's body against him, and the dim lamp he'd left lit on the dresser. "Thanks for remembering to leave a light on," he said quietly.

"It's okay, honey." Don laid his arm on top of Tim's, where it encircled his waist from behind. "Get some good sleep. We're home and we're safe."

********

In Don's opinion, this was what Sunday was all about. Sleeping in until noon, still being in their robes at two before finally pulling on some old sweats. Spending an inordinate amount of time goofing around trying to make breakfast. Entertaining Timmy by doing a god-awful little dance, complete with hip action, while flipping pancakes, seeing his partner hold onto his sore side for a good reason, because he was laughing.

Cold November rain was pounding on the roof, but there was a fire in the fireplace, and they had the Sunday paper scattered all over the coffee table, picking their way through it, reading things to each other, or just sitting there, quietly reading items they found interesting. They even tackled the crossword together.

Tim spent some time on the phone with Margaret and Mike Sheridan, telling them as much of his ordeal as he felt up to reliving, though it was a considerably abridged version. Then he called the Jensens, the Millers, and the other neighbors who had participated in the search party, thanking them for their concern and for helping look for him while he was missing. While he did that, Don cleaned up the breakfast dishes, determined that Timmy was going to do nothing more than rest and be treated like a king until his bruises faded and he felt better.

Don finally popped a DVD in the player, Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte. Since both of them enjoyed a good dose of an old, psychotic Bette Davis character, it seemed like the perfect choice. Their late brunch sustained them for main meals for a while, so the batch of popcorn Don made for them was the perfect companion for the movie. If he had his way, it would be the first of a few movies, since snuggling on the couch with Timmy, popcorn, and assorted junk food was probably the closest thing to heaven anyone could aspire to on earth.

Alternating between putting popcorn in his mouth and kissing Timmy, he looked forward to taking a few days off with him, so they could do more of this. Just be together. It had been an awful couple of weeks, and he couldn't think of anything that would restore them both faster than a little down time together, with the rest of the world locked on the other side of the door. It would also give them a chance to make appointments with contractors and start firming up plans to completely repair the house. It was clean and habitable, but the banister needed repair, the hole in the upstairs wall needed patching, and most of the rooms needed paint. Thankfully, most of the carpeting was okay.

For some odd reason, their leather furniture in the family room was spared, so it was relatively easy to live in a state of denial that all the living room furniture still had to be replaced. Don also wanted to find someone to fix the dining room furniture for Timmy. He knew Tim would get on researching it and looking for someone who could restore it, but Don had to admit that he wanted to be Tim's hero, to fix it for him, to be the one who made one of the big wrongs right again.

"Do you want to go furniture shopping tomorrow?" Don asked while he switched DVD's.

"Are you feeling all right?" Tim asked, pausing midway between the bowl and his mouth with a couple kernels of popcorn.

"Yes, I'm fine," Don replied, chuckling. "We need new living room furniture. I thought we could look around a little, maybe grab a bite to eat somewhere. No more than what you feel up to. I want you to take it easy for a few days."

"I'd love to go look at new furniture," Tim said, looking pleased. "Since we have to paint the living room and replace the blinds, that gives us a wider range of color choices. We could do something totally different."

"Take the opportunity to do something fun that you like, honey. Whatever color scheme you want."

"Who are you and what have you done with Donald?"

Don sat down next to him, linking their arms. "You've had a really bad time of it over this whole mess, and I just want you to be happy, to have a little fun out of all the...crap we've been through."

"I didn't think it was possible, but all of this has brought us closer together. That makes me happy on a level I can't even put into words."

"I know. Me, too. But don't try to tell me that the new furniture and free reign with the color scheme won't make you kind of happy, too."

"I never said that," Tim amended, smiling.

********

The doorbell rang a second time, accompanied by a knock.

"All right, I'm coming!" Don hollered, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone, since Tim didn't like it when he snapped at visitors for repeat doorbell ringing. It was late morning, and Don was dressed and ready for their furniture shopping excursion. Tim was still finishing up his morning routine, since Don had encouraged him to give in to the urge to sleep in late.

He swung the door open and for just an instant, his heart felt as if it had stopped beating. It was a long moment before he realized who and what he was really seeing. Alan Griffin was standing on the doorstep, a manilla envelope in his hand. He was clean shaven, with his dark hair neatly trimmed in a style not unlike the way Kyle used to wear his. Pairing that with a stunning family resemblance, he felt as if he were seeing an older Kyle standing there.

"I probably should have called first," he said. "I was going to introduce myself, but it looks like you recognize me," he said, his voice even holding the same timbre and inflections as Kyle's.

"You look exactly like him," Don said, knowing it wasn't an eloquent response. "Uh, come in," he said, stepping aside so Alan could enter. Seeing this man dug hard at the old wound. He just looked and sounded too much like his brother.

"I wanted to apologize, on behalf of our family, for what John did to you and your partner." He looked at the banister and a few of the more obvious remaining signs of the vandalism, like the spray paint on the walls. "He did all this?"

"It's mostly cleaned up now, but the house was pretty well trashed. We need to replace furniture, window trimmings, paint, get the banister rebuilt... But the house is nothing to me compared to what he put my partner through."

"Detective Bailey at the police department walked me through the facts of the case, what happened to you both. Look, I know it probably doesn't mean much and it doesn't undo anything, but I know how upset Kyle would be that John did this because of him. Kyle didn't have a mean bone in his body - - I guess you'd say he was the best of the lot of us," Alan added.

"You want to sit down?" Don asked, gesturing toward the family room.

"Yeah, that'd be nice," he said, smiling slightly as he followed Don into the room and they sat on opposite ends of the couch.

"I appreciate the apology. I know you aren't responsible for what your brother did."

"John idolized Kyle, and he never would accept that he was gay. I knew it before he ever went into the Army, and when all the shit hit the fan, it didn't even surprise me. I should have been there for him more. I guess I was too busy riding motorcycles and being an overgrown rebel. The way we were raised...our father was very strict. John and Kyle thrived, clicked with him, wanted to please him. For me, it wasn't much different than living in the Army, and I couldn't think of a single reason I wanted to enlist and prolong being under someone's thumb. The minute I was eighteen, I was out of there, doing everything I could to freak out my dad."

"Including doing time in prison?"

"I killed that guy in self-defense. But by the time that happened, I had so much petty shit on my record that nobody was interested in my side of the story. It's probably for the best. At least I got my head back on straight in prison, got a degree in Social Work while I was at it. I do counseling with parolees and ex-cons now. But none of that helped Kyle. I keep thinking if I'd been less of a fuck up, I could have helped him - - the one person in my life it really mattered to counsel, I wasn't there for."

"How did you know about Kyle? He said he wasn't out to anyone, not even his family."

"Kyle and I were real close growing up. There were just signs. Girls loved him, but he never seemed too interested in them. He preferred to hang out with his buddies. There was this one friend of his...they'd been tight since they were little. All of a sudden one day when they were fifteen, they had this big blowout and Todd beat Kyle up and then never spoke to him again. Kyle didn't even fight back. He was a little bigger and our dad made sure we all knew how to fight...after all, he was hoping we'd all be Army men. He could have wiped Todd out in a couple punches. He just let him beat the shit out of him. I was already living in my own place then. He came over all banged up and cried like a jilted lover. He'd never admit it, but I figure the only thing that would have done it was him making a move on Todd. It was obvious from his reaction that it wasn't just an argument between buddies."

"Great way to be treated by the first person you come out to, someone you love and think you can trust."

"Kind of like the way Kyle treated you."

Don blinked a time or two, realizing Alan was right. Kyle had been so devastated as a teenager by the rejection he'd experienced with his friend, and yet he'd turned on Don and blamed everything on him. Don could still remember how afraid he was to admit that part of his nature, to let Kyle in, to fall in love with him. How shattered he was when Kyle rejected him. When their love wasn't enough to make it all right.

"It took me a long time to come to terms with that, but Timothy talked it through with me, helped me understand a little better why Kyle did what he did. I probably won't ever totally understand it, but I don't hold it against him. Not anymore."

"I'm glad. I know my family treated you like shit when Kyle died, telling you to stay away from the funeral. I was locked up...didn't even get to go to it myself, so I guess were kind of in the same boat in a strange sort of way there."

"I'm so sorry that things had to end with John the way they did. I had no other choice than to do what I did. He had the gun aimed right at me, and before that, he'd had it pointed at Tim's head."

"He never got over Kyle's suicide. He and my dad just stewed on it, blamed you for it, made you this devil of some sort that ruined Kyle's life. Then when our mother died, and Dad started drinking heavily, he saw all of that as your fault."

"I have to admit that I thought it was you, not John," Don admitted. "It seemed like John had it together - - a career, a family, clean record. Just goes to show how far off you can be when you take things at face value and don't dig deeper. I'm a private investigator, I should have known better than to assume anything."

"There's more to it than that." He paused. "John was schizophrenic. He's been on meds since he got out of the Army. That's why he left. It wasn't because of Kyle's situation, it was because he was starting to fall apart mentally. The Army let him go with just a discharge, out of respect for my dad. He got on a couple prescriptions, and he was doing really well, got married, had the kids. But meds or not, he still held onto that grudge, and if he stopped taking them, that would explain a lot, including the sick things he did to your partner."

"Thanks for telling me that. I wondered why he was so intent on torturing Timothy. He had nothing to do with any of it."

"Sure he did. If you want to hit the enemy in their weakest point, you hit the people they love, not them. Plus, I think John just wanted to hurt whoever it was you loved, that he figured was Kyle's replacement in your life."

"How are his wife and kids handling all of it?"

"Gina's been on a real roller coaster ride with him the last few months. She's suspected he wasn't taking his meds, she even called me about it a month or so ago, but he insisted he was, and everything was fine. She's got a good family, so they'll take care of her. I'll do what I can, so they at least grow up remembering their dad in a good way." He let out a long breath. "I brought you a few things." He opened the envelope. "I don't know how much you want to remember Kyle, but I thought you might like to have a couple pictures." He handed Don a snapshot and a five-by-seven. The snapshot was a smiling Kyle in uniform, and the larger photo was a picture of him in civilian clothes, jeans and a blue sweater, arms around a big German Shepherd, smiling brightly. "That picture with the dog was taken on his last leave. He loved that stupid dog," Alan said, the first sign of emotion in his voice. "Well, the other one you can figure out."

"Thanks. I only had the one photo, and John partially destroyed it when he was here."

"Kyle wrote me this letter, but I think you should have it. Prison mail isn't the speediest, so I didn't get it until the day after he...died. I think you deserve to know what it says."

"Are you sure you don't want to keep this?"

"I'm sure. If he had a second chance, I think Kyle would want to say that to you." He stood up. "I'm gonna go. My flight leaves in a couple hours."

Don stood also, reaching out to shake hands with him. "Thank you for coming, bringing these things. Again, please tell John's wife how sorry I am that things turned out this way."

"I will."

"Congratulations on getting your degree, making a new start. I know from experience, starting over is a bitch," Don said.

"Well, in prison, you can either spend your time getting into more trouble or figuring out some way to make a living with a record when you get out - - something that won't send you right back in, that is," he added, smiling. The uncanny resemblance to Kyle was even more noticeable then.

"Take care," he concluded, heading for the door.

"Yeah, you, too." With that, Kyle's brother was out the door and back in his rental car, heading for the airport.

"Donald? Who was it?" Tim called as he started downstairs.

"Alan Griffin," Don said, still a little surprised by the visit, still staring at the letter tucked inside its previously opened envelope.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs, still moving a little more slowly than his usual pace, favoring his side.

"I'm fine," Don said, smiling at his partner. "He brought me a couple photos of Kyle, and a letter Kyle wrote him after...after we were found out, but before..." He handed Tim the photos.

"It's nice for you to have these, especially with that happened to the other photo. He had a real...light in him when he smiled," Tim observed, looking at the photo of Kyle with his dog, and Don was amazed by the perceptiveness of Tim's comment, and his generosity in making it about his lover's ex. "I can go back upstairs if you want some time to read that."

"I'd really like you to be with me when I read it. I have no clue what it says. Just that Alan seemed to think Kyle would want me to read it." Don led the way to the couch by the fireplace and sat down, Tim sitting next to him. "It's weird to look at Kyle's writing, to read something he wrote. It's been so long."

"Take your time, honey," Timmy said, running his arm behind Don on the couch.

Don finally opened the letter, unfolding the two sheets, the impact of seeing Kyle's writing there poking at the old wound a little more acutely than he'd expected. He wanted to read it aloud because he needed Timmy to take this journey with him. Reading it to himself felt too much like traveling down a dark, shadowy road without a light.

Dear Al,

I don't know where to start. Last time I wrote you, I told you about Don and me. That was one of the hardest letters I ever wrote. Leave it to you to have known about me all along, to not be surprised when I thought you'd probably disown me. If I couldn't write to you about this stuff, I think I'd go apeshit crazy.

Somebody saw us and reported it. I thought we could probably tough it out, get around it. It was his word against ours. He was telling the truth, but as long as we denied everything, there was a chance. I didn't break. They questioned me for hours, tried to imply they knew something more than they did, tried to make it sound like they had more evidence than just one guy's story. I told them Don was the second highest-ranking officer in my unit, and that's why we spent a lot of time together. We were the closest to each other in rank. It was less complicated than striking up friendships with enlisted men in your command.

I don't know what happened to Don, what they asked him or how, why he snapped like he did. But he told them everything. Admitted the whole thing. I don't know if he was afraid for his own skin, or if he really thought they knew more than they did. He says he did it because he loved me and he couldn't make himself lie about it. Don's a bad liar anyway, so maybe it wouldn't have mattered. I knew it was over when Don admitted everything, but I still thought maybe if they thought it was just an absence of women, two guys working off a little excess energy, maybe they'd let it go. That didn't work either.

I was so fucking angry at him that I told him it was over. I guess I wanted to punish him for ruining everything for us, for admitting to the Army that we were a couple, destroying our careers. I know I succeeded because when I walked out on him, he was begging me not to go, and he had tears in his eyes. He didn't even cry when he got shot, but I almost made him cry when I left him.

Don paused, wiping at his eyes. Tim kissed his cheek, and gave his shoulders a little squeeze.

I don't know what to do. It doesn't matter what I say or do, my career is over. We've been discharged. I don't know if it's because he broke and talked, or if it's out of respect for Dad and his rank and record, but it's just an honorable discharge, no mention of the real reason why. All I ever wanted was to follow in Dad's footsteps, make him proud. I was a decorated hero, and there was no reason to think I wouldn't just keep moving up. Maybe even surpass Dad's rank someday. I just hope this doesn't fuck things up for John.

Now I'm nothing. I'm some ex-Army guy that's suddenly a civilian again where nobody really gives a shit what you did in the Army. Even if they say they do. When I show up with my boyfriend, it won't take long to figure out why I got kicked out of the Army. Hiding and screwing around when nobody knew was one thing, but I don't know if I can live like that, out in the open, letting the world know I'm gay. Letting Mom and Dad and John know.

I still love him and I don't know what to do about it. It was all I could do to walk out on him and not turn around and...

Don handed the letter to Tim, taking in a few sharp breaths. Timmy started reading where Don left off.

It was all I could do to walk out on him and not turn around and take him in my arms and promise him we'd figure something out, that everything would be okay, that I forgave him for telling the truth. That I love him, too. Because I do. If things were different, there wouldn't even be a question, we'd be together. But they aren't. Life sucks when you're gay, and I don't think I can live that way, even for Don. And I know he doesn't want to be in the closet anymore. So I guess it's better to let him go so he can find someone who can handle being out.

It's unrealistic to think Dad won't find out the truth, and when he does, I'll lose the family, too. There's nothing left to go home to, and I can't stay here. Maybe I'll just go somewhere new, start over, leave all of it behind.

Maybe I'll come up there and visit my big brother. I really miss you, bud.

Kyle.

Tim set the letter aside and closed the embrace, holding Don close against him.

"Does that help or make it worse?" he asked softly, his hand gently cradling the back of Don's head, his other hand lighting skimming over his back.

"I just wish he'd talked to me instead of shutting me out. Even if we couldn't stay together, maybe he wouldn't have felt like there was no other way out."

"I'm sorry, baby," Timmy whispered. "At least you know he wasn't really angry at you at the end, that he really loved you, like he said he did."

Don took in a deep breath and pulled away from Tim, wiping at his eyes.

"I loved Kyle, and I guess it's good to know he couldn't turn on me that easily and really not care anything about me. That the first man I loved, that I let...the first one that was ever inside me, that he didn't lie to me just to get what he wanted."

"Maybe someday, when all of this is a little less raw, you can look back on that brief time you shared, before circumstances tore you apart, and the memory of your first love can be a sweet one, like it should be. I'm just glad the first man you gave yourself to realized what a special gift that was, and even though he couldn't deal with everything that went with being out, he still loved you."

"I know it sounds stupid, but just knowing he told someone he loved and trusted in his family about us...that makes it easier." Don put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the coffee table. "You ready to go pick out some furniture?"

"We don't have to do that now, after all this with the letter and Alan - - "

"That's all the past," Don said, looking into Timmy's eyes, touching his cheek. "This is the present, and the future. I think it's time we fixed up our house, and took our lives back from the past. I loved Kyle back then, but I can't picture my future with anyone but you, and I can't imagine loving anyone but you for the rest of my life. You are my future, Timothy, and my past has already hurt you enough. It's time for me to put it back in its box and rejoin the living."

"I won't be angry if you look at his pictures, or want to read the letter sometimes. You never made me question your love for me. I know where I stand, and I'm not threatened by a ghost."

"Good. Because there's nothing and no one anywhere in this world or the next that could take your place, or change how much I love you."

"Then let's go get some new things for our house," Tim suggested, grinning.

********

Don soon learned that furniture shopping with Timmy didn't mean going to any places with giant sale signs in the windows or catchy slogans he recognized from late night TV. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest they take it easy on the furniture and use some of the extra insurance money to pay off a few other bills. He gave up on that idea as he watched his partner stalk through that showroom like a panther sizing up its prey. Despite the classy displays and the tasteful layouts, Don's head was swimming a few feet into the showroom. It seemed like miles of fabric, cushions, tables, and lamps that all swirled together like the hallucination brought on by a bad drug trip.

And yet Timothy was homing in on exactly what he wanted with an unerring precision that was a little unsettling. Don always knew Tim could power-shop like a champion, usually coming out of the mall in the heat of the Christmas rush barely having broken a sweat with all the gifts for everyone they knew neatly tucked in a few tidy shopping bags. His only requirements were that Don drop him off and pick him up so he didn't have to fight for a parking space, and buy him dinner when he was done.

Now his Timmy was caressing the back of a sofa in a manner Don felt should be reserved only for him.

"Tell it your married and move along," he joked, and Tim laughed, a big smile lingering on his face. "You like this one?"

"The color is great, and it actually looks comfortable." Tim sat on it, and the smile lingered. He patted the cushion next to him. Don sat down, and he had to admit that it was comfortable. But then, the old plaid couch in his office was comfortable, too, and even in its heyday, it was probably about five percent of the price of this one. The dream couch was a pale green color with nice, clean lines the way Timmy liked his furniture.

"So what do you call this color?" Don asked, knowing that "pale green" probably wasn't the right term.

"It's a pale sage," Tim said, and Don was happy to know he had it at least half right. "Do you like it?" he asked hopefully.

"I told you, sweetheart. Whatever you like is okay with me. You have great taste."

"God, what I wouldn't give to hear that," a woman's voice came from behind them, and they looked back to see a middle aged couple looking at another living room ensemble. The man looked irritated, and then he stared at Tim's bruised face a moment.

"Yeah, well, at least I don't beat the shit out of you and then buy you a couch to shut you up."

"Watch your mouth, asshole," Don shot back, standing and turning to face the other man. "I've never laid a hand on him, but you could be another story."

"Donald, let it go," Tim was on his feet in an instant, taking a hold of Don's arm.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, shooting her husband a look.

"Who are you calling an asshole?" the man challenged.

"We're just going to walk away," Tim said, still holding onto Don's arm. "This isn't worth it."

"We're gonna walk away as soon as big mouth over here apologizes for that remark."

"Donald, please, don't." Tim's voice held a note of pleading to it, and that cut through all the macho posturing for Don. If it was really upsetting Timmy that much for him to have it out with this asshole, then it wasn't worth it. He covered Tim's hand with his own.

"You're right, it's not worth it," he said, glowering at the other man.

"Greg, let's go," his wife said, pulling him by the arm. He finally relented, giving up his glaring contest with Don, following his wife out of the store.

"I didn't mean to upset you, honey," Don said, taking both of Timmy's hands in his for a moment. "It just gets to me when people assume that I'd ever do something like...that to you. I'd cut my hand off before I'd hit you."

"I know that, and that's what matters. I know you'd never do a thing like that. There's nothing we can do if some jerk wants to draw the wrong conclusions. I'm going to look like this for a little while until the bruises fade, so we might as well make peace with it."

"Okay. I'll do my best not to beat the crap out of anybody until your face heals up."

"There's one way you could make it up to me," Tim said, grinning and looking over at the couch.

"It's a great couch, Timmy. If that's what you want, go for it."

"Do you like it? I don't want it unless you really like it, too." Timmy was insistent, though Don wasn't sure why it mattered so much. He hadn't even been there when the last furniture was chosen.

"You have beautiful taste," he said honestly, smiling at Timmy and hoping even half the love he felt was coming through. "Of course, I like it. I also like that chair," he said, stunning Tim by making an active choice of his own instead of just wandering around looking clueless or disinterested. The chair was a subtle blend of greens, including the color of the couch Tim wanted, but it was huge, and it had an equally obese ottoman that matched. It wasn't really a love seat, but it was definitely larger than a normal chair.

"I always kind of wanted one of those big chairs," Tim admitted, moving over to take a closer look at it.

"I'm thinking cold winter night, martinis, that chair, you and me..."

"Sold," Timmy said, touching Don's cheek briefly with the backs of his fingers.

"Can I help you?" An impeccably dressed young woman in a dark business suit approached them. "That's a great chair, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.

"It will be," Tim said, positively beaming at Don.

********

After spending more time, and considerably more money, completing the living room ensemble, they made a trip to the mall to the same store where Tim had picked out their bedspread in hopes of finding the same one, or something similar. Don was enjoying the chance to really do something tangible to start undoing the damage to the house. He knew the insurance money would be coming through any day, and if he had to dig into his pocket to buy some paint and get the banister fixed because Timmy was finding some joy in redoing the furniture or the accents the way he wanted them and went a little over budget, that was okay with him.

Having found a replica of the bedspread, they were on their way to the food court for dinner, since Tim knew the one saving grace of the mall for Don was the Chinese food window there.

"The stripes on those dishes matches the couch," Don said, pausing by the window of a china and dinnerware store. He wasn't sure if having your dishes match your couch was a good thing, but he had promised Timmy they'd pick something out for the china cabinet together, and he was going to do his damnedest to keep that promise, even if he sucked at dish shopping.

"I love you," Timmy said, taking his hand.

"What about the dishes?" Don teased, squeezing his hand.

"They might not be china cabinet material," Tim said, wincing a little. "Kitchen, definitely, but not dining room."

"Tomorrow's another day," Don said, smiling. "You look like you're getting tired."

"I am, but I don't want today to end," Timmy said honestly, smiling back at Don.

"The offer doesn't expire at the end of the day. Whatever we don't do today, we can do tomorrow. The doctor told you to get some rest."

"You were really serious about taking a few days off."

"Yes, I was really serious. Now, buy me dinner at the Chinese place?"

"Deal," Tim replied.

"I want cream cheese rangoons, too. No deal without those."

"Next you'll be wanting egg rolls."

"Those are a given," Don replied, thinking maybe the mall wasn't so bad after all, as he walked down the hall toward the promise of a big tray of Chinese food, hand in hand with Timmy.

********

It took a while for the sounds to register with Don as he buried his face in his pillow and tried to ignore whatever was disturbing the peaceful sleep he'd been enjoying. Then Tim's voice cut through, and he was awake, rolling over to see his partner's head turning back and forth on his pillow restlessly, his face a mask of distress, broken little mumbles, pleas, and finally whimpers making up the sounds that had disturbed Don. Even the dim light on the dresser wasn't enough to keep the night terrors at bay.

Not wanting to startle Timmy but being unable to bear another minute of the heartbreaking sounds of distress, Don eased over carefully and lightly caressed Timmy's hair, pressing little kisses to his cheek and temple.

"I'm here, honey. You're home, safe. It's okay," he said quietly, close to Timmy's ear. Slowly, Tim quieted, and for a moment Don thought he was going to slip back into a peaceful sleep. Then he rolled over and wrapped his arms around Don, holding on as if his life depended on it.

"Donald." It was a single, whispered, word, more like a breath, broken by a sob.

"I know, sweetheart." He returned the intensity of the embrace, wanting Timmy to feel secure, sheltered, safe. "Everything's gonna be okay, honey. We're together now."

"I just want the nightmares to stop," Tim admitted in a small voice.

"They will, Timmy. It'll get better."

"What about when you're not here? You have to work at night, I know...but I....I don't want to be alone here," he said in a broken voice, keeping his face hidden against Don's shoulder. "I know there's nothing to be afraid of, but...I am."

So that's what Timmy was so afraid of. That Don was going to just go back to working late into the night and leave him there with his night terrors and his fears to handle them on his own. Tim had been so strong and so brave through what had been an awful ordeal, and he'd pushed himself to attend the fund raiser, and he'd barely let what he'd been through dampen his usual upbeat, energetic nature.

Despite all those valiant efforts, he was afraid of the darkness, and dreaded the sunset almost the way a vampire dreads the sunrise. His sleep was broken with nightmares, and his need to feel and see Don next to him in bed, to be held when he was afraid like this, was intense and urgent. Don couldn't picture leaving him alone like that, nor could he picture Tim feeling any solace from anyone else who might come over to "keep him company." Tim would host and entertain them, not lean on them and cling to them in the dark of night to feel safe.

"You thought I was going work nights and leave you here alone as soon as I go back to work?" Don asked gently, giving Timmy a gentle squeeze, always mindful to favor his sore side. "The fear and the nightmares are going to get better. Until they do, you can come with me on the safe surveillance stuff, and I'll delegate more to Kenny. I promise you, I won't leave you alone until you feel okay with it."

"That'll cost you cases. I know you need to be able to work nights."

"Timothy," Don pulled back a little so they were nose to nose, and he could look in Tim's eyes. "I almost lost you. Adjusting my schedule for a little while is no price at all to pay for having you with me. Don't be afraid, honey. I'm not leaving you alone here at night until you're ready."

"Thank you," Timmy whispered, hugging him close. Feeling those arms around him was worth anything. It certainly was worth a few schedule adjustments. "I'll try to do better."

"Shhh. It'll all work itself out in time. Don't worry about it. I don't want you to ever worry about anything alone."

"I've never really been alone since I fell in love with you."

"You never will be, either, so hold onto me and go back to sleep. I'm right here to protect you."

Don knew there was no imminent threat Tim needed protecting from, and he suspected Tim knew that, too. But nightmares and fears aren't always rational, and as he felt Tim's breathing even out and deepen against him, he smiled, knowing those were the magic words he'd needed to hear.

********

Don found the relative quiet in his office to be a relief from the buzz of saws and pounding of nails at the house. Thanksgiving would be upon them in less than ten days, and he had promised Timmy in a weak moment that everything would be done in time for the holiday. It was an even weaker moment when he'd agreed they should host a Thanksgiving dinner party. God, that wasn't a weak moment, that was temporary insanity, Don thought to himself, taking a drink of coffee that had long gone cold.

Of course, Timmy was wearing that cologne he liked, and was about three-fourths undressed and on top of him when he proposed the whole party idea, so maybe Don could excuse himself for not thinking rationally. Plus, he was kind of asking for it by going along with every single thing Tim picked out for the redecorating process - - you can't expect a social creature like Tim to redo the house and then not have anyone over to see it. And when he enlisted Margaret's help to find that guy who did the antique restoration to fix the dining room table and the china cabinet, he had to know a dinner party would be in his future.

What ultimately sealed the deal was when he made good on his word about picking out china of their own. He had to give Timothy credit - - somehow, he found dishes Don didn't feel stupid admitting he'd helped pick out. They were substantial pieces with a beige center, a circle of pale gold, and some sort of black, marble-like pattern around the edge.

They were sitting in an overpriced, overly snooty china store at the time, and Don still snickered when he thought of the look on the elderly saleswoman's face when he shared his primary observation about the plates with his partner. It had taken her a good half hour to recover from helping a male couple choose a china pattern - - the first round of designs she'd suggested were all designed by one or two notable gay male designers. Just when she thought it was safe to go back in the water, and that maybe Tim and Don were not any different than any other couple except for their gender, Tim found the pattern he liked, Don concurred, and couldn't resist sharing his reason for liking them.

"They're elegant, classy, timeless," he said, and Tim and the saleswoman were still smiling. "Sweetheart, if you were a plate, that's the one you'd be."

The saleswoman looked a bit baffled, and Tim looked stunned for a moment while he processed the bizarreness of the comment. Then, recognizing the compliment as the Strachey-style declaration of love it was, he gave Don this blinding smile, complete with a little moisture in the eyes, and kissed him on the mouth, right there, in front of the saleswoman, God, and everyone. It was a good day.

So Timmy had his plates in the china cabinet, his table restored, his new paint, window dressings, and furniture in the living room, and he was ready to party. Don wouldn't have dampened that enthusiasm for anything, even if the thought of a dinner party made his toenails curl.

Delighted at the thought of sitting around the table with both her children present and accounted for, Tim's mother had engaged in whatever rituals of cajoling, badgering, guilt-tripping, and otherwise tormenting her husband until he agreed to attend. Hopefully the potential fireworks of putting Tim's social activist sister, Kelly, Tim the Democrat and his male spouse, and their conservative Republican father all at one table wouldn't extend to throwing any of their new plates or re-damaging the china cabinet.

The last time they'd seen Tim's father, at Tim's grandmother's funeral, he'd countered Tim's attempt at an embrace with a handshake, and barely squeezed out Don's first name as a greeting before striding past them into the church. Don had hated the old bastard ever since, being convinced that Timmy breaking down as badly as he did during his grandmother's funeral had much more to do with the way his father treated him in the vestibule of the church than it did with his grief, which he'd had under fairly good control until then.

Margaret and Mike Sheridan would be there, as would Kenny, so the friendly troops would hopefully outnumber the unfriendly ones.

The front door of the detective office opened, and Bailey walked in. Kenny pressed the intercom button. Don's door was open, and he was looking right out at Bailey.

"I'm looking at him, Kenny. No need to announce him. Come on in," he motioned to Bailey, who entered Don's office, closed the door, and sat down on the couch.

"I thought I should deliver this news in person."

"That's never a good way to start a conversation," Don said, picking up his coffee cup and then wrinkling his nose, remembering how cold and disgusting it had been on the last swallow. "You want some coffee?"

"I don't think so, thanks," he said, having watched Don's reaction to his own.

"Kenny made a fresh pot. I just haven't bothered to get myself a refill."

"I really can't stay anyway. I wanted to let you know what was happening with Fellows and Biggins."

"I can tell by the look on your face you don't like it, and I won't either. How'd they plead out?"

"Fellows is pleading guilty to aggravated assault, in return for the minimum sentence of two years. He'll probably be out in a year or so. Biggins is being tried as an adult and is getting the same deal."

"So stomping someone's face isn't brutal enough to put you away a little longer? I hate to make this about gay and straight, but I just wonder if the perps weren't all-American football hero types, and the victim wasn't a gay man, how this would play out."

"You know, Donald, I honestly don't know. I'd like to think the DA is going for the best chance to get them at least doing some time while unclogging the court dockets, rather than assume he doesn't take hate crimes seriously."

"I don't believe that fucker is going to be back out on the streets in a year. I don't even want to tell Timothy about this."

"He's going to find out sooner or later."

"Yeah, I know. I wouldn't keep it from him anyway. He's just been through so much, and things are starting to get back to normal."

"How's he feeling? Ribs healing up all right?"

"Better. He's still a little sore there, but the bruises on his face are gone, and he's feeling pretty good. Some of the stuff Griffin did to mess with his head is taking a little longer to work through. Shooting was too good for that asshole, even if he was Kyle's brother." Don paused. "What are you doing Thanksgiving?"

"Probably just taking my mother out for dinner. She's in an assisted living place not too far from me. I'm the only family in town, so I go over there quite a bit, especially since my divorce."

"You want to bring her over to our place? Timmy's throwing a little soiree, or so he calls it, to christen the redecorating job."

"We don't want to intrude on your party," he said.

"I wouldn't have invited you if you'd be intruding. I'm not as nice as Timmy is about those things," he added, leaning back in his desk chair. "He's a fantastic cook, so think hard before you turn me down. The Sheridans are coming, and Tim's family, and Kenny."

"What about the Strachey clan?"

"Timmy and I are the Strachey clan. I haven't seen my family since I got out of the Army."

"The whole Griffin situation?" Bailey ventured.

"In a way. They didn't know I was gay before I enlisted, so once they found that out...and then with what happened...I was scratched off the family Christmas card list and I haven't heard from them since." Don was quiet a minute, not sure he even wanted to mention the next thing, but it seemed to roll out of its own volition. "I was stupid enough to go back there after Kyle died. I didn't even get my suitcase out of the trunk before my father met me in the driveway and told me not to bother unpacking."

"Janet and I didn't have kids, but I'd hope I wouldn't be that big a jerk if I did, and one of them did something I didn't like."

"Timmy's lucky to have a good relationship with his mother. The only downside is that she keeps knitting me these horrendous sweaters for every Christmas," he added, smiling and shaking his head. "I dread having to wear the damn things, but I'd sort of miss it if she didn't make them for me."

"Yeah, mothers tend to do things like that," Bailey said, chuckling. "We won't talk about the scarves and hats my mother used to knit for us when we were kids." He stood up. "Look, I'm sorry about Fellows and Biggins. It wasn't the outcome I'd hoped for either, but it's something."

"I s'pose," Don replied.

"We'd like to join you guys for dinner. Anything we can bring?"

"I think Tim's got it under control, and Margaret's volunteered to bring a whole bunch of stuff, so we're good."

"Thanks for the invite," Bailey added.

"No problem. Your mom'll have fun. Timmy's great with little old ladies. They swarm around him like flies."

"Nice mental image for Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks again, Strachey," he joked, heading out the door.

********

"How do you know these people?" Bailey's petite, eighty-year-old mother, Marie, was fidgeting with the fringe on the new red scarf with the green Christmas tree on it that her son had bought her to wear with her winter coat during the holidays. "They aren't criminals, are they? People you arrested?"

"No, Ma, they're not criminals. I wouldn't take you to dinner with criminals." He offered up a silent prayer for patience, and smiled. "Don's a private investigator, and his friend, Tim, works for Senator Platt."

"I didn't know they let gay people be detectives nowadays," she replied.

"He's a private investigator, Ma. He has his own business." He decided to forego discussing the policies and politics of the police department.

"Which one is the girl in the pair?" she asked. Bailey found himself blushing at that question, and then realized his mother was probably asking which one cooked, kept house, and "sashayed" around - - not asking him which one was bottoming. Reminding himself that people his mother's age had a whole different perspective on homosexuality, he decided to give her a noncommital answer that would satisfy her. Otherwise, she was just as likely to ask Don and Tim herself.

"I don't think there is one. Tim's doing the cooking, if that qualifies."

"Is he any good at it?"

"I'm told he's excellent."

"That answers that, then. Your father couldn't even boil water the right way."

"Some of the world's greatest chefs are men, Ma."

"That's the answer all the gay men who love to cook will give you." With that, she looked through her small purse for a tissue. Bailey sighed, praying Don and Tim had a sense of humor and thick skins. His mother didn't have a mean thought for anyone, and despite being a good Irish Catholic lady, she didn't hold any ill will for gay couples, but she didn't know very many, either, and her image of them was a little...stereotypical, to say the least.

The house had been decorated for Christmas, with pine and red bows on all the wrought iron accents, the yard light wrapped with pine and a big red bow, and a large wreath on the door. Bailey could only feel some twinge of sympathy for Strachey, whom he envisioned having been assigned most of the outdoor decorating work, and probably well-supervised and managed throughout the process, at that.

"Fancy house they've got, but then most of them are good decorators," Mother Bailey observed.

"I don't think anyone'll ever accuse Strachey of being a good decorator."

"I bet the one who cooks is," she asserted.

"I can't argue with you there, Ma." He rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Tim opened the door, wreathed in smiles, ushering them inside.

"You must be Mrs. Bailey," he said before Bub introduced her.

"This is my mother, Marie," Bailey added.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Marie. I'm Tim," he said, and she shook hands with him. "You look so festive," he said, commenting on her Christmas scarf. "Did you make this yourself?"

"No, Bradley bought it for me. You have a lovely home," she added.

"Thank you," Tim replied, looking pleased with the compliment. Bailey knew only too well how much effort had gone into restoring the house to its present form. "Let me take your coats," he offered, and a moment later, Don came down the stairs to greet them.

"Glad you could both make it," he said, and Tim introduced him to Marie.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said.

"Our pleasure, Marie." He offered her his arm, which she linked hers through with a grin. "My mother couldn't make it this year, so maybe you won't mind if I share you with good old Bradley here," he said.

"These two are such charmers, and handsome," she said. "It figures they're gay," she added, and Bailey froze for that awful moment before both Don and Tim laughed out loud at the comment.

It wasn't long before the Sheridans arrived, both carrying cartons of casserole dishes of various foods. The house was filled with wonderful smells, and Bailey found himself remembering holidays from years ago, when his mother's cooking and gathering relatives defined holidays like these. Never one to sit idle, his mother wasn't happy until she had an assignment in the kitchen, and Tim had put her to work arranging the vegetables around the dip on a small tray. Kenny arrived shortly thereafter, accompanied by a nice-looking, tall young man with blond hair and a picture-perfect smile.

Don took over the door duty, since Tim seemed to have his hands full managing his kitchen crew, Margaret and Marie, who were jabbering away together happily, and probably hindering the poor guy more than they were helping him. Strachey was right. Little old ladies did love Callahan, and Bailey found himself pitying him just a bit.

********

Wishing it wasn't too early for a stiff martini, Don went to the door to let Tim's parents in. Tim's mother always greeted him warmly, like he was another one of her own kids, but the old man was another story. Don still called him "Congressman" and he never corrected him, even though Tim's mother insisted on being called, "Mom." She knew Don was estranged from his own family, and that seemed to bring out her maternal instincts full force. Hence, the sweaters, and calling her "Mom."

"Happy Thanksgiving," he greeted both of them, before being enveloped in a motherly hug. "Good to see you, Mom," he said, hugging back, warmed as he always was by being able to call someone by that name at the holidays. He extended a hand to the tall, imposing figure with the silver hair and glasses that was Tim's father. "Congressman, welcome," he said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Steven. How long are you going to make him call you 'Congressman'? He's your son-in-law," Anne Callahan chided her husband. "Call him Steven. He'll get used to it," she said.

"Donald." Don imagined that word must have hurt coming out, since the old man looked like he was passing gas when he said it. It was amazing how a man who looked so friendly and affable in the pictures Tim had could look so austere and off-putting when you were the subject of his disapproval.

"Timmy, honey, how are you?" Anne gushed, hugging Tim as if she hadn't seen him in years. "Oh, no, did I squeeze to hard, sweetie?" she said, stepping back a little.

"I'm fine, Mom, really," he said, though Don had caught the moment of pain flashing across his face when his healing rib was subjected to such an enthusiastic greeting. "Happy Thanksgiving, Dad," Tim said, seeming to accept all he was going to get was a handshake, and extended his hand for it. His mother looked unhappy, but said nothing. Apparently she could only cajole the old guy so much at a time. At least she had him there.

Bailey and Mike Sheridan, who were visiting in the living room with a couple beers and the cheese tray between them, seemed to be watching the whole exchange with some interest, and Timmy looked self-conscious about it, turning the subject to taking their coats and showing them where the hors d'eouvres were.

"Timmy, the house looks wonderful," Anne said, a glass of wine in her hand as she toured the living room and went into the dining room, where the table was set very elegantly with the new china and a large cornucopia centerpiece spilling fresh fall colored flowers. Don didn't know the first thing about centerpieces, but he put himself at the florist's mercy and surprised Tim with it the night before. "These are the new dishes?" she asked.

"Donald helped me pick them out," he said, sounding thrilled and proud.

"Tim did most of the work. I just confirmed his good taste," Don said, joining them, running his hand lightly across Tim's back.

"Don said that if I were a plate, this is the one I'd be," he repeated, looking at Don as if he were telling the story of how his lover proposed, not some odd-sounding compliment comparing him to a plate. "And then he shows up last night with the centerpiece," he added.

"I knew he was a good catch," Anne said, and Tim's responding smile was radiant.

"The best," he confirmed, kissing Don on the cheek.

"I'm sorry about your father. We were arguing in the car all the way over here about Kelly and her boyfriend. Your father found out he doesn't have a college degree or a very good income."

"Maybe the fact Kelly's working on hers will inspire him," Tim said. "Of course, she'd be making faster progress if she didn't have to work and Dad would pay her tuition."

"You know that won't happen," Anne said, crossing her arms. "She gave most of her inheritance from your grandmother to one of those social action groups she belongs to. If it were biologically possible, your father would have lain an egg when he found out." She shook her head. "This boyfriend of hers works in a health food store. That seems to be his career choice," she added. "You know I just want you and your sister to be happy, but your father is livid," she said in a whisper.

When Kelly arrived, Don sized up the boyfriend, deciding he looked like he should be working the counter in a health food store. He was a pleasant enough sort, but his shaggy brown hair and his sweater that looked like he'd made it out of burlap made Don think of a modern-day hippie. The discomfort it was causing the old congressman was worth everything, though. Seeing how his coldness was a constant source of hurt to Tim made him dislike the man with a blinding passion, and seeing him squirm a bit made Don's turkey go down just a little easier.

All in all, their dinner conversation was light and lively, the food was excellent, and their first social event in their newly redecorated and repaired home seemed to be a success. Despite Steven Callahan's overall grumpiness, Tim's mother was in her glory with both of her children at the same table. With a grace and sensitivity that was clearly the source of Timmy's own caring nature, she showed no less warmth and enthusiasm in interacting with Don than she did with her own children, and she extended that kind of friendliness to Kelly's boyfriend, Dillon, even though she seemed a bit wary of him.

Bailey and Mike seemed to hit it off well, finding a lot of common ground talking about their golf game and sports in general, while Margaret and Marie, despite their age difference, chatted and joked together about everything from cooking to their favorite soaps like a couple of long lost buddies. Kenny's boyfriend, Josh, was outgoing and friendly with a good sense of humor, and Kenny seemed to like him quite a bit. Don wondered if Josh might have what it took to reel in his fickle associate investigator.

********

While their guests finished nibbling at their pumpkin pie and sipped coffee, with the football on the TV in the family room, Don helped Tim with the initial clean up, though he suspected they'd just stack everything up and do the big wash up job in the morning.

"God, the food was great," Don said, eating a piece of cold turkey off the serving platter.

"I couldn't have put this together if you hadn't done all the decorations."

"You told me what to do. I just followed my marching orders," he replied, deciding a forkload of Timmy's dressing would go well with that cold turkey he was eating, even if it was cold, too.

"Are you planning to put food in the containers for the refrigerator, or did you figure on just eating whatever was left so we didn't have to bother?" Tim teased, surreptitiously patting Don's butt as he eased past him to start putting the gravy in one of the containers.

"A little of both," Don said honestly through a mouthful. "I can't help it if you're a good cook. If you don't want me to eat so much, don't make it so good."

"Thank you for putting up with my father," Tim whispered, after casting a careful eye around to be sure he wouldn't be overheard. "I know he's not exactly great company today."

"If you can put up with him, I can." Don smiled. He knew Timmy wanted to say more, that his father's behavior bothered him more than his light comment let on, but this wasn't the time or place with their guests so nearby. "Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart," he said, pulling Tim into a hug, glad he had when he felt the return embrace.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Donald," Timmy said softly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Don replied, smiling at him as he stepped back. "You love me enough to let me have that leftover drumstick?"

"You can nibble on my drumstick anytime you want," Tim responded.

"I'll bring my turkey baster," he added.

"It's a date," Tim agreed, laughing.

********

"That's quite a son you've got," Mike Sheridan said as he found himself in the kitchen at the same time as the elder Callahan, both of them looking for a refill on their beer. Mike opened his bottle and handed the opener to Tim's father, who did the same. "You must be very proud," he added.

"Thank you," Steven replied, not elaborating more on the subject. "Do you and Margaret have children?"

"One son, David. He was killed in a motorcycle accident about a year ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Y'know, the last conversation I had with David, I told him it was time to grow up and sell that motorcycle. I was worried about him because he used to ride it like a bat out of hell, but it came across sounding like I didn't approve of him. I've lived to regret that," he added taking a drink of his beer. "Tim had a pretty rough experience a few weeks ago. Close call."

"So I hear. He seems to be fine, though," he concluded.

"He was a lot of company and support for Margaret after David died. I travel quite a bit with my job, and she's alone a lot. Don's even come over and looked for imaginary prowlers for her in the middle of the night when she thought she heard something. They're a nice couple. We're glad to have them for neighbors."

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," Steven said cordially with a little smile.

"I'm just going to say what I have to say, because you strike me as a man who appreciates directness. Whatever's between you and your boy, don't wait until it's too late to straighten it out. David and I were never really at odds, but we didn't spend much time together, and we didn't see eye to eye on some things that in retrospect aren't all that important. I'll tell you, none of it seems important when you look down at your son laid out in his casket," he gulped a little more beer. "I don't know why you're giving him the cold shoulder, but Tim's a good man, and you're damn lucky to have a son like him. Trust me, in an instant, one of your kids can be gone so fast you don't even know what hit you." With that, Mike left the kitchen with his drink and rejoined the other guests.

Steven Callahan took another drink of his beer and let the words sink in, the image of a father looking down at his dead son unsettling him more than he cared to admit.

********

"Thanks for a great time," Bailey said, shaking hands with Don. "You guys put on a good party," he added.

"We're glad you came - - both of you," he said, gladly accepting a hug from Marie.

"I like a man with muscles," she teased, squeezing Don's arm, and while Bailey seemed slightly mortified by the comment coming out of his sweet little mother, he also didn't appear very surprised. Don, for his part, laughed.

"Thank you. Timmy does, too," he added in a loud whisper, and she giggled.

"I'm beginning to think putting you two together was a mistake," Bailey said, shaking his head, smiling, as he guided his mother toward the car.

The Sheridans were on their way back across the street, Tim and Margaret having devised some method for divvying up the leftovers. Kenny and Josh had left earlier, and Don suspected they were impatient for a little alone time. Though no one expected them to refrain from acting like a couple, they took their cue from Don and Tim and kept their interactions very G-rated for the duration of the party.

Kelly and Dillon had said their goodnights shortly thereafter, and a little of the tension with Tim's parents had gone with them. Though Steven Callahan hadn't been exactly a fount of conversation throughout the party, he'd been even more reticent in the later hours of it. As they donned their coats and headed for the door, Don and Tim both hugged Tim's mother.

"Steven, glad you could make it," Don said, forcing a pleasantness into his voice and a smile on his face that he didn't feel. He shook hands with Tim's father. The older man paused, turning toward Tim, who extended his hand, not even attempting to move any closer to his father. It pierced Don's heart to see the defeat in Timmy's posture, to know how much his father's behavior hurt him.

It was a draw who was more stunned when Steven moved forward and embraced Tim. When the initial shock wore off, Tim returned the hug, clinging to his father for a moment like he'd never get another hug from him the rest of his life. When they parted, Steven just clapped Tim on the shoulder and then ushered his smiling wife out the door.

********

Tim sat on the side of the bed toeing off his slippers. He smiled when he felt the mattress not only dip once, like usual, but multiple times as Donald made his way over to sit back on his heels behind Tim, sliding his arms around him and hooking his chin on Tim's shoulder. Yet another reason not to buy a memory foam mattress. When he could no longer feel the vibrations of Don's movements in their bed, something very precious would be lost. God bless springs if they transferred that jostling to him.

"I just had my second Alka-Seltzer. You're the best cook on earth."

"Let me sort that out. I gave you indigestion that was bad enough for two doses of stomach medicine, and you think I'm a good cook?"

"I ate enough for a small third-world country. It was the volume, not the food."

"Are you going to be sick?"

"There was a while there where I figured it had to go one way or the other, but it hasn't come back up, so I guess it's going down. I'm fine."

"It was a nice party," Tim said, smiling at the memory of their gathering. He stroked Don's arms where they wrapped around him. "The house looks really good, and the decorations looked beautiful outside. You did a nice job on the lights."

"Someone told me that last year's looked like I threw the cords at the shrubs and just hoped they caught."

"Isn't that what you did?" Tim teased, and he felt the laugh rumble in Don's stomach, against his back. He hoped it was his laugh, and not his dinner changing directions.

"Throw might have been a little harsh of a word, but let's say I didn't agonize over their symmetry."

"This year you did."

"I was trying to impress my boyfriend. Did it work?"

"Yeah, it worked," Tim said, angling his head so they could kiss. He leaned back into Donald, just enjoying the closeness.

"You must be tired, honey. You want a back rub?"

"That'd be nice," Tim replied, sighing contentedly. He took off his glasses and pulled his pajama shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Don started with his neck and shoulders, massaging the muscles gently, his touch just firm enough to be relaxing and soft enough not to poke or hurt. Mostly, just feeling Don's hands on him relaxed him.

"Your dad thawed out a little."

"I don't know what changed his mind, but I'm glad if he's coming around. I wish he was nicer to you. We're a couple. He can't just pick one of us and ignore the other."

"You have to creep before you walk, Timothy," Don said calmly. "Your mom got him to come here, and something made him pull his head out of his ass and stop being such a dick where you're concerned. And at least I'm not calling him 'Congressman' anymore. That's progress."

It wasn't the most poetic assessment in the world, but typical of Donald, it was spot-on.

"Ah, the holidays," Tim joked, smiling. Don had finished his back rub and changed over to kisses now. After almost four weeks, Tim's side was still mildly sensitive, but generally any activity less dangerous than overzealous maternal hugs didn't cause him intense pain anymore. Don had progressed down to the top of the waistband of Tim's pajamas, and tugged at it with his teeth.

"I've gone as far as I can go here, Timothy. Give me something to work with."

Tim turned to look over his shoulder.

"Oh, my God, Donald!" Tim exclaimed, not having realized that Don was naked behind him, and obviously...enthused, judging by the ample erection that was aiming toward him.

"What? Did I grow a second one or something? It's nothing you haven't seen before," Don replied, laughing, though Tim knew he was anything but innocent in sneaking up on him.

"If you grow a second one, I probably won't live to see our golden wedding anniversary."

"If you're not in the mood, I can just go...you know...try to take care of it myself...all alone," Don said, giving him one of the most pathetic puppy dog faces he'd managed yet. He hadn't whined yet, but that was probably coming next.

"I've always believed in that old saying," Tim said, pouncing on Don and pushing him back on the mattress. "A hard man is good to find," he concluded.

"Is your side okay?" Don asked, looking momentarily concerned as Tim landed on top of him with a little grunt.

"My side of what?" Tim teased, kissing him.

"I guess that's a yes," Don said, laughing.

Tim smothered Donald in eager kisses, alternating between long, passionate joining of mouths to loving little pecks to his cheeks and chin, the end of his nose, finally into the warmth of his neck. Not wanting to delay things much longer for his aroused partner, he moved down a bit, licking and then sucking on a rapidly hardening nipple.

"Oh, fuck," Don muttered, his back arching a bit.

"I'm getting there, darling," Tim replied, moving to the other nipple as Don laughed at his comeback, stroking Tim's hair. Tim's hand slipped down to gently cup Don's balls, his other hand sliding up Don's side, stroking the sensitive area under the arm that was resting above his head on the pillows. He kept up the multiple sensations a while, the little broken moans and gasps coming from Donald, the feel of him under his hands, the taste of him in his mouth, stirring his own passion in a way nothing else could.

He raised his head and paused a moment to look into Donald's eyes, sharing a feeling that needed no words. He reached under the pillow and discovered that Don had planted the lube in their usual spot, meaning he'd been planning the sneak attack on his partner while Tim was in the shower. The thought made Tim smile, and it didn't take Don long to figure out why.

"Busted," he admitted, grinning.

Tim used the gel to prepare himself, and then lubricated Donald's erection. It moved him that Donald didn't seem to care which way things went tonight as long as someone was inside someone pretty soon. His partner had been that way from the start of their relationship - - he just loved Timmy with every part of him, and while they both were in the mood for different things at different times, he'd found Donald to be generous and loving and flexible.

He loved the feeling of Donald entering him, knowing their bodies were joining in a physical expression of the way their hearts and souls always were entwined. Face to face, he could watch the sensations playing out in Don's expressions. For someone who had been hurt so much in love, he didn't hold anything back with Tim, didn't hide from him. The love, the desire, the passion, the trust...they were all there in those big blue eyes, and that expressive face that Tim loved so much.

Tim's injuries had forced them to be careful for so long, and now all that remained was a little tenderness in his side. He felt good, and Donald felt good inside him, and they moved together in a faster rhythm, feeling some of the heaviness, sadness, and darkness of the last several weeks lifting. They shifted positions a bit so Don was sitting up, still inside Tim, who wrapped his arms around Don's body, his legs around his hips, their mouths coming together again.

Don clung to Timmy, caressing his back, leaving bright passion marks on his chest. It was as if they couldn't touch each other in enough places, like they needed more hands and more mouths. Every now and then when they sacrificed a moment from their kisses, they shared loving smiles with each other, as if they were together in a secret no one else knew.

Unable to delay the inevitable climax any longer, they came within moments of each other, still holding on as their bodies were sated. Donald lay back on the pillows and eased carefully out of Timmy, who lay next to him, head on Don's shoulder, arms still firmly around him. They were pleasantly tired, thoroughly and bonelessly relaxed.

"Timmy?"

"Yes?"

"Marry me."

"I already did that, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right." Don was smiling; Tim could hear it in his voice. He was quiet a minute. "I'm glad."

"Me, too." Tim smiled, taking Don's hand and kissing the back of it.

"I love you."

"I know. I love you, too." Tim reached up and turned out the lamp on his night stand, leaving the room in darkness.

"I'll get the light on the dresser," Don said, but Tim stopped him, tugging on the covers, which Don helped put over them both. They settled together again, and Don put his arm around Tim to pull him close.

"I don't think I need you to leave the light on. I'm okay like this."

"I'm glad, sweetheart," Don said, kissing the top of his head, rubbing his shoulder gently.

"I'll handle it when you need to start working more nights again."

"I know you will." Don closed his eyes, sighing. "I'm just not sure I'll handle it."

Tim chuckled and closed his eyes, letting himself drift. His victory over Don's nocturnal prowlings was probably temporary, but that was all right. It was just the price of being married to a private investigator. As Tim relished the feeling of Donald's warm body held close to him, his breath stirring a few mussed hairs on top of Tim's head, he decided that no price was too high for moments like these.

********

THE END

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