Title: Coming Home

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1691
References/Spoilers: Can't think of any.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: Donald comes home late and ponders his love for the man who's there waiting for him.

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COMING HOME

by

Candy Apple

When I finally got home, it was after ten. I had missed most of the evening Timmy had to spend on movie night, since he had to get up early. He was on the couch, and I could tell by the angle of his head, he'd dozed off. There was a concert playing on the TV, and I paused by the back of the couch to listen to a little of it. Carole King was singing "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?"

I looked at my Timothy, at his beautiful profile, watched his chest rise and fall softly under his robe. Suddenly, the retainer I'd been given that had kept me out on a stakeout, missing hours snuggled up with him on the couch, seemed like it couldn't have possibly been worth it, no matter how much it was. Sometimes, it feels like there's just not enough room in my heart for all the love I feel for him. I'll still love him tomorrow, next week, next year, until the last breath leaves my moldy old carcass someday...hopefully while being held in his bony old arms.

I smiled, thinking I should probably wake him. My baby loves music, and he'd probably regret sleeping through the concert. And I wanted to see those eyes flutter open, and turn to me with all the love I always see there. He looks at me the way no one has ever looked at me. I never thought anyone would look at me like that. Even when I come home late after leaving him alone all evening. He still looks at me like I just completed his world by coming home tired, cranky, and sometimes not much richer than when I saw him last. That it's a good thing I'm waking him up or finally straggling in when the evening's basically over. 

So I lightly ruffled his hair with my fingers, and before he opened his eyes, he smiled, leaning into my touch. I was supposed to be home two hours ago, but he wasn't clock watching. He took my hand and kissed it, squeezing it.

"Hey," he said, sounding sleepy, blinking a little.

"Sorry I'm late. Guess I missed movie night."

"C'mere," he said, tugging on my hand.

I sat down next to him, and he frowned when he saw me. My clothes were a little rumpled and I had a fat lip. Once in a while, someone I'm following catches me in the act, and they're rarely pleased. I did get away with the camera intact, and you should have seen the other guy...

"It's no big deal. Just a pissed off cheating husband."

"Does it hurt?" he asked, kissing the swollen spot so lightly I barely felt it.

"Not anymore," I said, grinning. It probably still hurt, but all I could feel was the ghost of that feather-light touch of his lips on mine.

"You look uncomfortable," he said, loosening my tie.

"No, I'm good," I said, glad to be free of the tie, taking off my jacket and throwing it in the general direction of the love seat. Carole King was tearing into "I Feel the Earth Move." I could see Timmy's foot tapping a little, almost unconsciously. "Good concert," I said, hugging him, settling us to watch.

"I'm glad you're home, honey," he said, reaching for his glass of ice water, fishing out an ice cube. Holding a tissue under it to catch the water as it melted, he carefully rubbed it on my swollen lip while we listened to the music. The combination of that sweet little gesture and the lyrics of "You've Got A Friend" wafting into the room made me work hard to not get emotional. If I could write poetry worth shit, I could write all sorts of romantic and passionate sonnets for Timothy, but aside from all the passion and attraction and heat and romance, he's my best friend and my soul mate, and he's always there no matter what I need. When you're down and troubled, and you need some love and care, and nothin', nothin' is goin' right...

If I had a dollar for every time Timothy bandages something, ices something, cleans something, or just holds me in his arms until something broken inside heals up, I could retire now and buy us a villa on the Riviera. The mere thought of Timothy in something light, linen and billowy, or better yet, wandering around in nothing but a speedo on the French Riviera, makes my head spin...and other parts of me mobilize with interest. Truth be told, I wouldn't let him out of the house in a speedo. When it comes to my husband, I'm old fashioned. There's some stuff I don't want anybody else ogling. It's my fantasy, so I guess I can also own a private stretch of beach while I'm at it for him to frolic on...

Ain't it good to know that you've got a friend when people can be so cold. They'll hurt you, and desert you, and take your soul if you let them...

They can't touch my soul, not on Timmy's watch. He guards my heart and soul and soothes the cracks and tears in them like he was soothing the swelling on my mouth.

We watched the rest of the concert, and suffered through all the public TV ploys for money. Timmy's wallet was on the coffee table with the cordless phone, so I knew he'd already called in our pledge. And I was sure it would be in both our names. Like so many other things, he carries me along with him when he donates to anything - always naming us as a couple. It's good to have my name show up on these various community organization lists as a donor - it's good for business because wealthier clients who can pay bigger retainers recognize the name as being among fellow donors to things. Timothy chooses good causes that are valuable to the community, but many of them also have a good track record of publicizing thanks to their donors in some very visible ways.

Just one of the dozens of things Timmy does for me that I admit I don't even think about that much. Because he doesn't demand credit for every little favor. I know I forget to thank him for things, take things for granted... I just hope he knows that even if I don't keep track of everything like I should, I know he takes care of me in so many quiet little ways and I love him with all my heart for all of it.

My lip felt better, and I was enjoying my own little piece of heaven with Timmy in my arms. After a while, he heated up a some Thai food for me and we watched the eleven o'clock news while I scarfed it down. I hadn't eaten anything but a candy bar since lunch. I wasn't really listening to the news. Instead, I was smiling, thinking about the next newsletter we'd get from the public TV station, about our names on the donor list. Timothy Callahan & Donald Strachey. It would be on the mailing label the same way.

Married couples who can be legally married probably never think about that - all the stuff they get addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Whoever. If our marriage was legal and we could change one of our names, I don't think we'd do that. We are who we are, and we've been who we are for a long time. But for some stupid reason, I still get a little rush out of seeing our names together on things, whether it's the mortgage payment coupon, our bank statements, or on a list that a bunch of other people look at - all those Mr. and Mrs. pairs who are on the list, and then there's us, and a few other same sex pairs. You can deny us that piece of paper with a marriage license printed on it for as long as you want, but we're still a couple, and if anyone out there doesn't like that, they can pucker up and kiss my ass.

Well, maybe not. Timmy probably wouldn't let anyone else do that to me but him. And that's okay with me.

Belly full of Thai food, snuggled against Timmy on the couch, I could feel myself dozing off. I knew I should get up, that we should head upstairs and go to bed. He had to get up early. He sensed what I needed, what I wanted, like he always does. He held me a bit tighter and kissed the top of my head, rubbing little circles on my back. I yawned and let my eyes drift shut. I was in heaven, or my version of it.

As I fell asleep, I hoped that Timmy knew that everything I need, everything I could ever want, everything that matters to me was right there in his arms. All the cases, all the stuff we worry about and work for and fill our days with, is just filler between moments like these. Without him, all of it would be nothing. Without him, I would be nothing. I'd want nothing, work for nothing, and love nothing. Everything I do, hope for, work for, and want is because of what it will be like to share it with him.

I think I mumbled some version of "I love you" as I dozed off. I probably drooled on his robe. Somehow from that, I think he figures the rest out. Smart man, my Timothy.

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