Title: OF HENS AND MEN

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

Word Count: 6884
References/Spoilers: I don't think there's anything specific.
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: As the guys get closer to their first Christmas together, Donald needs some TLC, and Timmy's Cornish hens suffer a sad fate. A sequel to "O Tannenbaum" in the One Night Series.

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OF HENS AND MEN

by

Candy Apple

I looked at the clock for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes. At first I was angry at Don for not being home for dinner, because he'd promised. We were going to have dinner and then decorate our tree. Now the Cornish hens I'd prepared were nothing better than little rubber chickens, the salad was a soggy mess, and I'd polished off the martinis myself two hours earlier.

The worst part of it was, now I was getting worried. I couldn't reach him on his cell or at his office. Cora usually left about five o'clock, so tracking Don after hours was dicey if he had his phone off for some reason. I could understand it, since if you were lurking somewhere doing surveillance on someone, the last thing you'd want would be your cell phone going off where they could hear it. Still, it unsettled me. I'd finally gotten him to carry a card in his wallet with my cell number on it. He refused to put anything else on the card - not my name, or even "in case of emergency" - in case it fell into the wrong hands. He'd told me never to give out my personal information to anyone who might call "on his behalf", and if they directed me anywhere but a hospital, to call the police and not go alone. Needless to say, none of that reassured me about his safety on the job.

By midnight, I was fit to be tied, and not in a good way. When I heard the key in the lock, I was flooded with relief, and a new wave of anger at the same time, because if he was okay, letting himself in, and had just let me stew for six hours, I was going to injure him myself. Well, all right, I wouldn't harm a hair on his sweet, precious, sometimes exasperating head no matter what he did, but I was still angry.

The door opened, and I instantly forgot about martinis, fancy hens, or any of my own frustrations. Don staggered in, his face a mass of blood and bruises, dressed in his pants, his shoes, his coat, and nothing else. He barely managed to shut the door behind him with a shaky hand. I didn't know what to do for him first, but I rushed to his side, and he leaned on me heavily, directing us into the bedroom, where he collapsed on the bed, his breathing seeming labored. He was shivering, which was understandable since his coat was hanging open and he was shirtless underneath it.

"Donald, what...honey, what happened? Who did this to you?" I blurted, stroking his hair, touching his cheek gently to encourage him to look at me.

"I didn't know my client's wife's boyfriend was a drug dealer. He didn't mention that when he paid me the shitty retainer," he muttered. "The dealer and his pals thought I was an undercover cop."

"I'll call an ambulance," I said, starting to get up from where I was perched on the bed next to him. He grabbed my wrist, and it made me wince, it was such a forceful grip. I knew he probably didn't even think of that, that he didn't mean to do it. He was in no condition to reason through that.

"Don't need that. Nothing's broken." He looked at me pleadingly. "Just...I need some ice, and to get washed up."

"You could be seriously hurt," I reasoned, glad when he seemed to remember he had my wrist in a grip that felt like a steel band, and released it.

"I got away before they really got down to business. Lucky for me, they like to sample their own products, so it was a little like being held captive by Curly, Larry, and Moe if they ever went into the drug business. They left me in the basement of their crappy crack house while they went upstairs to transact some business. I was tied to a chair, but kind of like a five-year-old playing cops and robbers would do it. I got loose and got out through a basement window." He looked exhausted from the explanation, and his head sort of drooped to the side and he closed his eyes. For a moment, I was afraid he'd lost consciousness.

"Don?" I prompted, kissing his cheek. He opened his eyes, and despite the pain he had to be in, he actually smiled at me.

"Some more of that and some ice and I'll be good as new," he said, taking my hand, gently this time, looking at me with so much love that I felt tears burning my eyes. "It's okay, honey, I'm okay," he said, and I realized the tears were falling and I was crying. I was so horrified at seeing him like that, so shaken by the realization that he was at risk that way, and so unsure of myself if I could be a good husband to him for a lifetime, if I could handle the waiting, the fear, the worry, and...the blood, the bruises, the swelling, the pain - all inflicted on this sweet soul I loved more than my own life. I felt guilty for making him wait for his first aid while I cried on his shoulder, and he comforted me, but I couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, making myself move away, trying to focus on the need to gather supplies to clean him up, to get him comfortable. He touched my cheek with his fingertips, and he was still looking at me with that adoring expression that always melts my heart and reminds me, as if I need reminding, how blessed I am to have him.

"Nobody's ever cried over me getting roughed up before," he said, a little note of awe in his voice as his fingers found a couple tears and brushed them away from my cheek.

"I can't stand seeing you hurt," I said, catching his hand and kissing it, holding it in both of mine. It was so cold. My Donald hates the cold, and he was shivering. I helped him shift positions so his head was on the pillow, and covered him up with the quilt we kept handy on a quilt rack for the coldest nights. Mainly I needed it on nights when I didn't have his warm, wonderful body to snuggle up with. I took off his shoes and put a pair of thick, warm socks on his cold feet before covering them up again.

"I think they took your gloves...they're not in my pockets," he said, digging feebly in the pockets, sounding worried, as if I cared about the gloves when he was in pain. As though they mattered at all in comparison with his life, his safety.

"Forget them. They're just gloves. All I care about is having my baby home safe and sound," I said, wanting to get mushy with him, because sometimes that seems to make him feel better than a thousand ice packs. I sat on the side of the bed again and spent a few seconds kissing his bruises, stroking his hair, telling him how much I loved him. He wasn't shivering anymore, and he seemed almost drowsy, as if the little bit of loving had smoothed all the worry lines from his bruised face. "Rest here, and I'll get some ice, and get you cleaned up."

"Timothy..." he said, smiling at me, his hand resting on my heart a moment. "My Christmas angel."

I filled a couple of ice bags, really thinking for the first time about the fact that when he moved in with me, he didn't bring a lot of household goods with him, but my supply of ice bags suddenly tripled. I hoped that didn't mean this kind of thing happened often. I didn't think my nerves could take it. I filled a big pot with warm soapy water and took my supplies to the bedroom. Don looked relaxed lying there, watching me fuss with wash cloths and a couple fresh towels.

I carefully washed the blood away from under his nose and around the swollen side of his mouth. He smiled when I brought him some mouthwash and an extra little cup to spit in.

"Most people don't think about how gross your own blood tastes after it's been in there a while," he said, looking like he'd just tasted vintage wine instead of a little Scope in the bottom of a paper cup. I just smiled at him and finished cleaning off his face and a couple spots on his chest where blood had fallen, probably when his nose was bleeding. I helped him put an ice pack on the side of his face that looked the worst. "I think I cut my leg when I crawled out the window," he said.

"We'll check it out," I said, forcing calmness into my voice. This was what Donald did, this was the ugly part of his world that he didn't talk about much, and that I tried not to think about. But here it was, and I had to learn to cope with it. I helped him get out of his pants, and found he had a very nasty cut on his leg that had bled substantially on his pants.

"I have butterfly bandages in my gym bag," he said, and I didn't want to think about why he carried those around.

"This might need stitches," I said, cleaning the area, careful not to hurt him more than I had to.

"It'll be fine. The bandages will hold the edges together so it heals."

"I'll get them." I went into the spare room and found his gym bag there by the weight bench. I found the box of bandages, and paused, smiling, when I found a little picture of me in there with an assortment of stuff. It wasn't tucked in a compartment, it was just in there with all the stuff he used right along, as if it were as essential as his other supplies. It was a little dog-eared and looked like it had suffered a wrinkle or two, but it warmed my heart. It was just a snapshot he'd taken of me on Thanksgiving - even though we didn't do anything fancy, we took a few pictures for posterity, since it was our first Thanksgiving together.

I returned to the bedroom and bandaged his leg, using the little butterfly bandages and then covering it with a gauze bandage. I got him out of his coat and though he usually didn't wear anything but his underwear to bed, he seemed eager to get into his pajamas when I brought them out. I propped him up in bed and I was proud of myself for not making an overtly big deal over the darkening bruises on his stomach and sides. They made me feel sick inside, and I was surprised that, for the first time in my life, I really wanted to do violence to another person for the sake of seeing them in pain. Whoever did this to Donald...I would have rejoiced in watching them suffer, too, and ordinarily, I could control that part of myself, remind myself that that's not what a good Christian man is supposed to be feeling or thinking about his fellow humans.

These weren't humans. They were animals in human bodies and I couldn't think of a bad enough penalty for people who would tie someone to a chair and beat them. Especially when that someone was the love of my life.

"You okay, honey?" Don asked, sounding worried. I was tidying up my supplies, and he was watching me while he held the ice bag on his face.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'll see if I can salvage some good meat off the hens," I said, not really thinking about how that sounded. I wasn't upset about dinner, it wasn't his fault and it was meaningless compared to him being hurt. "You must be hungry."

"Hens? We were going to have hens for dinner? Those fancy little ones with the stuffing?"

"Cornish game hens, yes," I said, before carrying the pot of water into the bathroom and dumping it, pitching the used cloths and towels into the hamper. When I went back into the bedroom, he was looking at me, distressed.

"Timmy, I'm sorry about dinner. I didn't know you had something that fancy planned."

"And otherwise you would have told the drug dealers I had hens in the oven and they'd have released you?" I asked, and he actually laughed, holding onto his middle.

"Shit, that hurts," he said, still chortling. "I gotta remember that excuse next time someone has me tied up."

"I'm hoping that's not a frequent situation," I said.

"No, usually they just beat me up without the tying up part first."

"That's not funny."

"Sorry, honey," he replied, and then I felt like an ass. He was in pain, I managed to make him feel better, and when he tried to joke around with me, I snapped at him.

"No, I'm sorry." I sat on the side of the bed next to him, and I very carefully kissed the swelling around his mouth. "It just hurts me...every one of these bruises. I wish I could take them for you." It was true. I would prefer to be beaten myself than to see Donald hurt, and trust me, I'm not fond of violence, so that's saying a lot. "You need someone who can deal with this, who can be strong for you when you're hurt. Not someone who falls apart every time you get hurt, because it sounds like it happens way too often."

"Please...don't leave me," he said, taking my hand. "I know this sucks and it's ugly and it's not what you're used to...but you're everything I need. Anybody can clean up blood or stick a bandage on a wound...not everybody will, and nobody's ever cared like you do," he added, his voice barely a whisper and the words coming out so fast I could barely catch them.

"Sometimes I'm afraid I'm not strong enough."

"You're the strongest man I know," he said, kissing my hand. "You put up with me, don't you?" he asked, with that sweet little smile of his, even if it was somewhat distorted by swelling at the moment.

"I love you so much, honey. I'll never leave you. I'm going to marry you in a couple months. And if you think I'm giving up a fancy party at the Carrington estate, you're crazy," I joked, and he laughed, his eyes filling a little.

"I never had Cornish hens before," he said.

"I can come up with some reheated hen meat and some reheated parsley potatoes."

"Sounds like heaven." He laid his hand on the side of my face. "All I need is to come home to you, Timothy. I'm sorry about the schedule...I know it sucks."

"Just promise me you'll be as careful as you can."

"I promise." He was quiet a minute, and he looked like there was something else on his mind.

"What is it?" I asked quietly. I had leaned forward so we were close, and I gave him a little kiss.

"Tonight was the first time, in a long time..." He blinked a couple times and then finally looked me in the eyes. "When somebody threatened to kill me, I was actually worried they might, because I had something good to come home to."

"Does that mean you'll be careful?" I persisted.

"Yeah, it does. Now will you feed me?"

"Just rest. I'll bring you something," I said, kissing his forehead before I went to the kitchen to fix him a plate from the best of the leftovers. It was almost two in the morning now, and I was relieved it was Friday night. I would have never gone to work and left him alone so soon, but I was glad we had two days together for him to recover from his ordeal and for me to soak up being with him and recover from the fright of the realization of the danger he was in.

I got ready for bed and got in with him, and we shared the food. I love cuddling with Donald, I did then and I do now, so it's not like it was any sacrifice for me to hold him and snuggle with him. There was something still going on in his head, some reason he seemed shaken by what happened to him. Most people would be shaken by that, but the way he cuddled up to me and seemed to need to be with me as much as I needed to be with him...it made me wonder what he wasn't telling me - and I also knew he wouldn't say a word about it until he was ready. There was a lot I didn't know about Donald, but I've always known what I needed to know - how sweet and good he is, how much he's always loved me, almost from the moment we met, that I can always count on him, and that I love him fiercely, beyond what words could express. Everything else is just details, and they work themselves out with time.

When we'd finished our snack, we were both getting tired. I gave him a couple Advil for pain, and turned out the lights. As soon as I was back in bed, he scooted into my arms again, and I wrapped my arms around him, running my fingers into his hair. I encountered a lump.

"You've got a bump on your head, honey," I said.

"I figured it was back there somewhere," he said through a yawn.

"Were you unconscious?"

"Not for long."

"We should see a doctor."

"I'm fine, Timmy. Don't worry about it." He tightened his hold on me, and it was silent in the room a few seconds before he added, "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I'm here, too." I kissed his cheek. "Noplace else I'd want to be."

"I was scared," he whispered against my neck.

"Tell me the rest of it," I whispered back, stroking his hair. "I promise I won't flip out." I could hear and feel his little chuckle, and I was glad I made him smile.

"Anytime you get a junkie with a gun, it's scary. This one...he kept trying to get me to admit I was a cop, and when smacking me around didn't get me to say that...he started in playing Russian Roulette, spinning the barrel on his revolver, and aiming it at me and pulling the trigger. I don't know if the gun was loaded or not. I'm not dead, so I guess it wasn't fully loaded."

"You're safe now, honey," I said softly, holding him close, forcing myself not to react, not to beg him to quit and find a safe job, not to flip out because I promised I wouldn't, and because I was glad he'd told me, that he was letting me comfort him. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"All I could think about was you."

"Thank God you're okay, and you're with me. I told you I wouldn't flip out, and I won't, but I don't ever want you to leave the apartment again." I took the hand that was resting on my chest and held onto it, kissing it. He laughed softly, and I felt him sigh, and it felt like his whole body relaxed against mine.

"As long as you're taking it so well," he replied, and he sounded peaceful, happy, content.

"I will never take well someone hurting you, so we might as well get that straight right now. But I love you and I want you to tell me things. If I freak out, I'll get over it. I promise, honey. There's nothing you can show me or tell me that's going to make me leave you. Okay?"

He was quiet a long time, and I thought at first he'd dozed off. Then I felt more than heard a hitch in his breathing.

"Please, baby, don't worry about me leaving you because your schedule stinks or I get upset because you get hurt. It won't happen. I promise you that with all my heart, okay?" I asked, and I felt him nod. "Go to sleep, honey. Everything's okay now."

I stayed awake quite a while after he did, and I'm not sure why. I guess I felt like I needed to watch over him, to make sure he was really all right, that his breathing was normal and he was comfortable. And then I thanked God for bringing him back to me alive, and begged Him to always do that. I would do anything, give anything, for that. Anything for my Donald.

********

There's nothing like waking up the morning after someone beats the shit out of you. I've done it quite a few times, and it never gets easier. Everything hurts, there's no adrenaline rush to carry you through, and you have to go to the john but you know it's going to take forever to get there and a world of hurt doing it.

Timothy wasn't in bed with me, which was the other thing I didn't like too much. As far as I knew it was Saturday, unless I'd lapsed into a coma and missed a few days. I sniffed the air. Something hot and cinnamony and bready was baking. Coffee was brewing. The only thing that smelled better was Timmy's pillow, so I curled up with it for a few extra minutes and enjoyed indulging my sense of smell to the breaking point.

Then I remembered our big Christmas tree, which I'd promised we'd decorate the night before. Timothy had let me off the hook completely for fucking up his fancy dinner with the Cornish hens and the little potatoes. It tasted great reheated, so I knew I'd missed out on something special when it was fresh.

I got up, stifling a groan, and wiggled my toes in the nice warm socks Timmy put on me to warm up my feet. The cut on my leg protested my weight a bit, but as along as I didn't run any marathons, I figured it would take care of itself. I pulled my robe on and toddled toward the bathroom and took care of the call of nature. I eyed the shower, but my leg hurt and I knew I'd get it wet, and then it would burn like hell... I sniffed my own armpit, and my eyes bugged.

"You're up," Timmy said, smiling, joining me in the bathroom. He was already dressed, but in his old clothes. But then, Timmy's "old clothes" look better than a lot of people's "casual chic." He had on jeans...son of a bitch, he looks good in those soft, slightly faded jeans. He still does. I'd follow that ass anywhere. The rest of the outfit was a gray turtleneck under a darker gray sweatshirt with some fancy little logo on the left side of the chest.

"Yeah, I was thinking I should take a shower."

"Would you like me to wrap up that leg so you don't get it wet?" he asked. It should be illegal to be as sexy as he is and be smart, too.

"I was just thinking about that," I admitted.

"Just sit on the lid there and I'll get my supplies." A moment later he was back, and quickly my leg was wrapped in some cocoon of plastic wrap that would defy any errant drop of water to touch the skin beneath it. "I'll change your bandage after you shower," he said. "Oh, good morning," he added, kissing me quickly. "Do you want help?"

"Nah, I'm okay. What smells so good in here, besides you?" I asked, and he smiled, a little blush coloring his cheeks. God, I love it when he blushes. Goes straight to my dick every time.

"I'm making cinnamon rolls. It's my grandmother's recipe. My mother always makes them at the holidays when family's around." I caught a hint of sadness in his voice. I knew being away from his family was hard on him, especially over Christmas, and it was one more reason I would have enjoyed knocking his old man on his ass.

"I bet yours are better."

"Why would you say that?" he asked, chuckling.

"Because everything you make is good."

"Yes, well, everything my mother makes is good, too. She's a very good cook."

"Good for her. I still think yours are better. I bet you put more cinnamon in them and more icing on them."

He stared at me a moment, as if he didn't know how to reply to that.

"Well, yes, I suppose I do. After all, those are the best parts."

"Told ya." I took off the last of my nightclothes and got in the shower, adjusting the water until it suited me.

"Later, maybe you'll put some icing on my cinnamon roll," he said from the other side of the curtain.

"I'm sure I can rise to that occasion," I replied, smiling at his little laugh as he left me to my shower.

We had eggs, bacon and hot cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and I gorged myself on all of it. I'd eaten the food he'd prepared the night before, but my appetite wasn't too good. I still felt like crap, but now I was hungry. Timothy re-bandaged my leg for me, and it looked like it was doing all right. My rattled nerves were settled down, like they always are when I'm around him, and we were talking about getting started on decorating our tree when we finished eating. Which, in my case, was taking a while. Those cinnamon rolls were close to being better than sex, and given who my partner is, you can figure how good they were from that.

"I can't stand it anymore," Timothy said, taking my wrist and pulling my hand toward him, engulfing my finger in his mouth and sucking on it. Apparently, my incessant finger-licking was getting to him, but I couldn't help it. There was fresh, sugary, sticky icing all over my fingers, and I wasn't about to waste it on a napkin. I watched him with a sort of fascination mixed with smouldering lust as he examined my hand, then spotted icing on the edge of my pinky, and sucked that off, too.

I knew kissing was going to hurt a bit, but I didn't care. We shared some cinnamon and icing-flavored kisses, and started pulling off the clothes we hadn't had on all that long. I felt like I was unwrapping one of those gag gifts that's all boxes as I made my way through his layers, from sweatshirt to turtleneck to t-shirt and finally to his gorgeous bare chest. I licked his nipples and sucked on them, undoing his jeans while he backed us toward the bedroom. I was a little too bruised to just tackle him on the floor and do it there, so we ended up on the bed, finally naked, and I indulged in making him squirm and gasp, licking and sucking his balls, playing with him there, loving the feeling of his warm, bare thighs on either side of my head. So I nipped and kissed and sucked on those, too, leaving little passion marks on them.

He was lying there on his back, knees bent, feet on the mattress, moaning and sighing at the things I was doing to his intimate places. I never can make up my mind what's better - me doing something to him or him doing something to me. I licked and teased the intimate place between his cheeks, wondering if he was blushing because he was getting more excited, or because he felt just a bit naughty when I did that to him. So I did more of it, longer, wanting to drive him crazy, knowing that even though I wasn't sure he'd ever say it in so many words, he loved it when I tongued him into oblivion.

When I entered him, we were still facing each other. I love watching his beautiful face when I'm making him feel good. Not that I'm not feeling just as good when I'm inside him, but I love to make love to him, to give him the slow, steady pace he likes, to drag it out maybe just a bit longer than he wants until he's desperate for it to finish, and yet doesn't want it to end. Face to face like that, I can kiss him, go back to sucking those tasty little nipples that lurk under that soft chest hair, sometimes I just hold him close while I'm rocking inside him, because I love him so much and I'm at a loss for any other way to show it. I wish I could be in him and around him forever.

His whole body arched when he came, and his broken shouts of my name were music to my ears. After I came, which felt like it went on forever in wave after wave of ecstasy, we lay there together, petting each other and kissing, just as happy to do all those little mushy things when they were just ends in themselves. I'd never been with anyone who wanted to love me after the sex was over, and honestly? Timothy was the first man I ever did that with because I wanted to. I'd been with a couple guys who thought you were supposed to cuddle when you were done, and all I really wanted was to peel their sweaty limbs off me so I could go to sleep before the post-sex haze had worn off.

Now, all I wanted were Timmy's sweaty limbs all over me while we kissed and nuzzled and told each other love words, even though we didn't need them. Love is cleaning up your partner's blood, calming his shattered nerves, and reheating your hens at two in the morning. I know there are things I do for Timmy that lets him know how much I love him. I just hope I do enough. I don't think I possibly could. He's my love, he's more to me than my oxygen. I could breathe without him, but I wouldn't want to.

I know he was caressing and visually inventorying my bruises, but that was okay. It felt good to have someone love me so much that they cared where I was hurt, how badly, and wanted to protect me.

I'm not sure how long we spent in bed, but it was long enough for us to work our way up to a shared hand job before taking a nap. We finally got up, washed up, and worked on decorating our tree, bringing the big monster to sparkling life with the lights, the tinsel, the ornaments... God, I could have hung tin cans on that tree and it would have been the most beautiful thing in the world because Timmy was there with me, with his beautiful smile, and his hugs, and his kisses, and his warmth. He was fussing over the spacing of ornaments and making sure we didn't cluster too many of the same thing too close together, and I loved being ordered around by him where to put what.

I hadn't trimmed a tree since before I left home for the Army. Even at the office, Cora got more interested in fussing with the ornaments and the tinsel than I did. I dutifully put lights on it, since she'd informed me that was man's work, but after that, I got a couple phone calls and she ended up finishing the project on her own.

When Timmy and I were finished, we cuddled on the couch with egg nog - he doesn't miss anything when it comes to having all the traditional goodies you're supposed to have for every occasion - and enjoyed the onset of dusk in the glow of our Christmas tree lights. It was hard for me not to get emotional when I thought about spending the next fifty years or so like this, and sometimes the old ghost of fear would sweep over me about how I'd survive if I lost him. It's probably selfish to hope I go first, but I do. I've never said that to Timothy in so many words, but I have a feeling he knows.

"If you ever get my mother on the phone and I'm not here, we sent them one of those big Harry and David gift sets with the pears in it, so pretend you knew about it and just say 'you're welcome'."

"Harry and who? Is that like a gay Hickory Farms or something?"

I didn't understand why Timmy laughed so hard he shot egg nog through his nose until he patiently explained to me that it was just another fancy food gift set company, and Harry and David were not two gay guys who made up gift baskets for the holidays.

"So they put pears in the gift boxes?"

"Yes, they're very prime, lovely pears. My mother loves them."

"You sent it from both of us?"

"Of course I did. Which reminds me - is there anyone you want me to add to the Christmas card list? I need to get those done tomorrow."

"Yeah, I have a really long, long Christmas card list for you," I teased, gesturing expansively with my hands. "Just help me pick something out for Cora, and we're good."

"She collects snowman figurines."

"She does?"

"We were talking the other day while I was holding, waiting for you to finish up a call. I thought we could find something like that for her."

"It means another trip to the mall, doesn't it?"

"I suppose I could pick something up, seeing as how you have a wounded leg."

"You're wonderful," I said, letting my head droop on his shoulder. He just laughed.

"You're not so bad yourself. After this morning, the least I can do is pick up an ornate porcelain snowman for your secretary."

"Liked that, did you?" I teased, and he smiled but didn't quite look at me. He's adorable when he's shy.

"It was quite a treat," he replied.

"For me, too, honey," I said, urging him toward me for a kiss. "Mistletoe."

"What?" He looked at me frowning.

"We need mistletoe in here."

"If we had mistletoe in here, we'd never leave the apartment. We're already in danger of chafing and bedsores."

"Is that a complaint?"

"No, it's bragging rights," he said, and we both laughed. We were quiet a while, and I could feel myself relaxing, even though I was thinking about finding the Advil bottle and swallowing half of it. I was in pain, but I was so happy tucked there under Timmy's arm that I probably would have endured torture not to move away from him. "How are you feeling, honey?" he asked, his fingers lightly playing with my hair. It freaked me out. I wondered if he stroked my hair and touched my head like he does so he could read my mind that way.

"I was just thinking of using the egg nog to wash down a half dozen Advil."

"I'll get you a couple. And more egg nog," he added, kissing my temple as he got up to go get me the pills. He's so sweet to me. If I don't feel good, he waits on me. He doesn't count who got up last to get a drink refill or more snacks when we're on the couch. What's his is mine and what's mine is his, whether it's money, food, possessions or germs. I'd never been with someone who wanted to be that much a part of me, that we didn't really keep track of where one of us ended and the other began. Someone who didn't tell me not to breathe on them when I was sick, didn't chew me out for ruining a good dinner by being late, or didn't tell me to clean up my own mess because it was my own fucking fault I got hurt...again.

When he came back, he handed me the pills to take, and then a glass of water to chase them. He refilled our egg nog glasses, and even sprinkled more nutmeg on the top. We sipped our drink and talked a little more. He got going on some stuff about work, and he seemed to need to bounce it all off someone. I stretched out and put my head in his lap, and he rubbed my back. My head hurt and my bruised body ached, and his warm hand felt good.

"Donald?" he asked, after we'd been quiet again for a while. I just looked up at him and raised my eyebrows a bit by way of answer. "Would you mind if we went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve? I know we don't go to church every Sunday, and we haven't really talked much about it, but I've always gone to Midnight Mass since I was a little kid, and I'm kind of homesick this year and I really want to go, but it's our first Christmas and - "

"Timothy, sweetheart, please slow down. My head hurts and I'm half asleep."

"I'm sorry - "

"No, don't be sorry," I said, finding the hand that wasn't busy rubbing my back and holding onto it. "You don't have to fire out a briefing on it. Of course I'll go to church with you on Christmas."

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, or feel like you had to."

For some reason, I started thinking about the scene in The Omen when Gregory Peck and Lee Remick try to take the Antichrist to a church. Now that's uncomfortable.

"I don't mind, really," I said. "Church at Christmas was always nice when I was growing up. You got to sing songs you actually knew and kind of liked, and when you went home, you could play with your stuff."

"You can play with my stuff even if you don't go to church first," he said, and I laughed.

"Playing with your stuff is one of the great joys of my life," I said, kissing his hand and holding it close to my face. It smelled like a faint trace of his cologne and nutmeg. I smiled when I thought of the plans I had for Christmas Eve. I hadn't told him yet about the carriage ride in the park, or the special present I had for him that I was going to give him when we were all bundled up in the carriage. I hoped he liked it, that he understood what it meant. But then, there's very little that's lost on my Timothy. He's one smart man.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said, that wonderful hand still rubbing my tired back, occasionally lingering up near my neck and shoulders to loosen up the knots there. God, I was in paradise.

"I was thinking that I'm probably the luckiest SOB on the planet."

"No, you're not." He leaned down and kissed my cheek, making the bruise there feel a whole lot better. "I am."

I looked up at his beautiful face, and his soft little smile, and I'd never felt more loved in my life.

"I could argue that point," I said, trying to hide the roughness in my voice, and hoping it didn't shake. The way he loves me is enormous, infinite, and unconditional. I never had that before, and I never expected it. Now I can't live without it, or him.

"You could argue, but you'd lose. I was captain of the debate team in high school," he said.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"We were undefeated during my tenure," he added. "So just say, 'yes, dear' and move on."

"Yes, dear," I repeated, smiling up at him. He kissed my nose.

"And that's how marriages last," he said.

"I thought it was the great sex well into one's eighties."

"You expect that, huh?" he asked, rolling his eyes, smiling.

"No. I expect it on my 100^th birthday. If I can't still eat birthday cake and get laid by you, there's no point in making it that far."

"How about if all we can do is hold arthritic old hands in our matching rockers?"

"Close enough, as long as you're by my side," I said, kissing his hand, "and I can still eat cake."

********