Title: Home Is Where The Heart Is: A Sequel to "Like Water, Like Breath, Like Rain"
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 

References/Spoilers/Notes: References to Donald's past, canon from most of the movies. You can probably follow this story without reading "Like Water...", but it will be a lot more meaningful if you read them in order.

Special Note: This story was "won" in the Moonridge Animal Park charity auction in Sentinel fandom by a generous fan named Karen (Lagentium). Many thanks to Karen for bidding for a Donald and Timothy story, and to Alyjude for organizing the auction every year!
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: Several months after the assault Donald suffered, he and Timothy have their lives back together when a family tragedy sends them back to Donald's hometown to confront his family.

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HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

by

Candy Apple

Tim frowned, then blocked the paragraph and deleted it, feeling a certain satisfaction when the weak words were eradicated from the screen. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the oncoming eyestrain headache. Nothing about this speech was coming together. Generally he could stir some passion within himself to write a lively and memorable speech for the senator, but something about this particular budget issue wasn't igniting his usual creative spark. The phone rang, and he smiled when he saw Donald's number on the caller ID.

"A phone call from you is just what I needed this afternoon," he greeted, the smile clear in his voice.

"Are you real busy right now?" Don asked, and Tim didn't like the sound of his voice. Something was...off.

"I'm just working on a speech, but it's not coming together. Why?"

"I'm at the house. I thought maybe you could get off work early."

"Is something wrong, Donald?" he asked, frowning.

"Grandma died," Don answered, his voice barely making it above a whisper.

"Oh, no, honey. We just talked to her last week and she sounded fine."

"I guess it was pretty sudden. She wasn't feeling good and thought she had the flu. A friend of hers found her this morning," he added, his voice shaking.

"I'm on my way home. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"There's no big rush. Don't drive like a maniac. I'm not going anywhere."

Tim tried to take Don's advice and drive sensibly. Mainly he did it because if he'd managed to get himself in an accident, he wouldn't be any good to Don when he needed Tim the most. His grandmother was the only member of his family who kept in touch with him, who managed to overcome her prejudices to accept them as a couple, and he could only imagine how devastated Don must feel. As Tim turned onto their street, he said a silent prayer of thanks that he had gone ahead and brought her out to be with them at Christmas. In a way he knew it probably caused Don a bit more pain, having reconnected with her just to have her taken away, and yet in another sense, at least he could hold onto the idea that they'd renewed their relationship while there was still time.

When Tim walked into the house, Don was sitting at the counter in the kitchen, drinking a beer. As soon as Tim came near him, he stood and moved into his partner's embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around him. His body started to shake, and each sob felt like a needle in Tim's heart. He wondered how Don had found out, who had called him, if they were going to brave the hostile Strachey clan for the funeral... But all that could wait until Don had drawn all the comfort he needed from that fierce hold they had on each other. Tim held him tight, pressing Don's head against his shoulder.

"I should've called her last weekend. I thought about it and then I got that case and I didn't get around to it," he mumbled brokenly against Tim's shoulder.

"She knew how much you loved her, baby. And she knew that you're at the busiest time of your life right now. You know she'd tell you not to feel bad about that."

"I know," he managed. "She was the only family I had left who didn't hate me."

"I don't believe that your mother hates you, honey."

"She doesn't even want to see me. I don't know if they'll let us into the funeral."

"If you want to be at that funeral, we'll be there. I don't care what it takes," Tim said determinedly, patting Don's back and swaying them just a little. It was as if once the floodgates had opened, he couldn't stop. And yet, he'd been so quiet and calm sitting there with his beer when Tim first walked in the house. It seemed an awesome responsibility, and one Tim cherished, to be Don's safe harbor like that. To know that the only place he really let go is in the shelter of Tim's arms. Tim found himself hoping he was always there for him, that he lived a long, healthy life so that Donald would never be alone and inconsolable with all that pain locked inside him.

"Almost makes me feel sorry for the rest of the family," he joked through his tears, and Tim had to smile, kissing Don's temple.

"I'll be by your side no matter what, honey. I don't care what we have to go through to be there, or how hostile your family wants to get with us. Don't even worry about it. We'll be there for your grandmother and we'll put up with whatever nonsense we have to."

"I should check on airfare," he said, pulling back, looking grateful when Tim grabbed a napkin from the holder on the counter and handed it to him to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

"I'll take care of all that, honey." Tim kissed his forehead and kept his arm around Don's shoulders. "Who called you?"

"A friend of Grandma's, Jane Patterson. They were always close, best friends since school - I called her Aunt Jane when I was little, because they were always hanging out together. My mother's a little pissed off, I guess, because Grandma made her the executor of the estate."

"Jane?"

"Yeah, that's what she said. She said I should be prepared that the family didn't have any intention of calling me, but Grandma made it clear that if anything happened to her, she wanted us notified."

"Maybe your grandmother felt she would handle things fairly, assuming you're named in her will somehow."

"That'll be popular. The only thing worse than having to see a relative you despise at a funeral is having to whack up the inheritance with them." Don sniffled and wiped his nose again. "Maybe going there is insane."

"You want to be there to pay your respects for your grandmother. To say goodbye. You have that right, honey."

"I know. I know she'd want me to be there. She made it clear with Aunt Jane to call me. It's just...I haven't been back there since right after Kyle died."

"Not exactly good memories to go back to," Tim said sympathetically, squeezing Don's shoulders.

"My father would rather I was dead. The last time I talked to my brother, or tried, he called me a 'fucking faggot' and hung up on me. My mother won't even see us, won't even meet you."

"We'll stay at a hotel, and we can have as little or as much contact with your family as you want."

"They'll probably put us out of the funeral home...even the church, if they can get away with it." He paused, wiping at a couple fresh tears that slipped down his cheeks. Tim hugged him again, holding him close a few minutes, sensing he needed a little more TLC.

"I have a feeling your grandmother made provisions for you to be there, if she made such a point with her friend to contact you - she didn't have her own daughter handle her estate, so I doubt she'd go to all that trouble and not mention her wishes to have you able to pay your final respects."

"I should just go myself, and not make you go through all this shit."

"Try and get out of here without me," Tim replied, tightening his hold. "We're in this together, honey. Like everything else."

"What'd I do to deserve you?" Don asked, his voice a little broken and watery.

"You're you. That's all it takes for me, my love. Don't you worry about your family. We'll face all of it together, and it'll be okay. I promise."

"You've got that 'don't screw with me' tone in your voice," Don said, not letting go. Tim rubbed his back in long strokes, wanting him to just stay that way a while, to lean on him, in every possible way.

"No, that's the 'don't screw with my husband' voice. Trust me, it's a hell of a lot worse to mess with that," Tim replied, smiling.

********

The flight from Albany to Baltimore was blessedly uneventful. Even though it was an early morning flight, Don didn't nap, as much as he wanted to. The whole notion of going home, of driving from Baltimore to the small town of Cedar Grove, where he grew up, made his stomach turn inside out in a way it hadn't since shortly after his surgery. He found himself wishing he could curl up in Timothy's arms and have one of those belly rubs that always used to settle his cramping, upset stomach. He shifted around in the seat, restless.

"We should be landing soon," Tim said, taking his hand, lacing their fingers. Don looked at their joined hands, unable to say anything to Tim right then without blubbering like a baby. He just put his head on Timmy's shoulder and took comfort in the warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne and the feeling of Timmy's cheek against his hair. "I know, honey," he said quietly, squeezing Don's hand.

As kind and gentle as Tim was, Don had seen him in full protective mode when he was provoked. While he didn't relish pitting Tim against his dysfunctional relatives, he let himself feel just a little less dread at the prospect of seeing them all again. If Timmy loved him, and stood by him, what could his family possibly do that could truly hurt him?

They collected their suitcase from baggage claim and then claimed their rental car, neither one voicing the thought of how cold and strange it seemed to arrive in town for a family funeral and have no one meet you at the airport. Don decided to drive, figuring he knew the route and it would give him something practical to concentrate on when he felt like going home was akin to flying into the sun. Certain destruction and guaranteed to be explosive.

Cedar Grove was a good-sized "small town." It had a population of a little over 20,000, and boasted many of the franchise restaurants and big chain stores most people considered essential to a well-appointed town. The downtown business district was still thriving, and since they were arriving in the spring, picturesque with abundantly blooming cherry blossoms. Don took a scenic route through town to let Tim get the lay of the land before heading for their hotel.

"Reminds me of a twenty-first century Mayberry," he said, and Don laughed.

"A little, yeah," he agreed. "Not exactly the site of a thriving gay community."

"Is there anything that passes for a gay community here?"

"Well, there were a couple of gay men who lived here while I was growing up. At least, that we knew of. One of them moved to Baltimore and I'm not sure what happened to the other one."

"They weren't a couple?"

"No. And there was one single woman who went to our church who wore her hair short and liked flannel. There's no doubt she was a lesbian," he added, chuckling.

"It's bigger than I pictured," Tim said. They'd driven through the new business district on the way to the heart of town, and were now passing the newly renovated hospital. The old hospital had been very small and capable of little more than setting bones and handing out pills, not running folks through MRI machines and doing complex laser surgeries.

"Most of the growth happened in the last twenty years or so. Once the Spectrum Software Company built its headquarters between here and Baltimore, the whole place exploded. New subdivisions, shopping centers, the whole nine yards. It was just really getting under way when I left for the last time. It's bigger than I remember."

"I don't suppose the locals were too thrilled with that development," Tim said. "There's the hotel," he noted, pointing to his right.

"We can dump our stuff, and then I'll take you on the 'townie' tour."

"Oh, Lord," Tim replied, rolling his eyes.

"Don't laugh. They actually used that term once the new people started flooding in. There were the 'townies' - this little nucleus of old families who'd been there for generations - and everybody else who wasn't born here." He turned into the parking lot of the hotel, the Sunrise Suites, a recently constructed facility that was part of a national chain. "We could have stayed at the Farraday Hotel downtown, but if old Mrs. Farraday still runs it, she'd have probably refused the reservation. She's been president of the altar society at St. Mary's since...hell, all my life anyway."

"Gay couples aren't at the top of her A-list for guests, huh?"

"Not that I've ever tested the theory, but I'd be willing to bet my next retainer on it."

Their accommodations were comfortable, if not a bit generic. A king size bed, a couple chairs, a TV, a dresser, a desk, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette made up the "suite." Tim went about unpacking, assessing their dark suits for wrinkles and neatly placing their other things in the drawers. Don called Jane to let her know they were in town, and got all the detailed information on his grandmother's time at the funeral home, and the funeral Mass itself. After he hung up, he watched Timothy a few moments, just smiling. They'd been there all of about fifteen minutes, and Timmy was already nesting for them, making the sterile little suite feel like home.

"We should stop by that grocery store we passed and pick up a few things for the kitchen," he said, then paused, smiling when he saw Don smiling at him. "What?"

Don stood and walked over to him, wrapping him up in a big hug.

"I love you," he said, and Tim relaxed a bit then and hugged him back.

"I love you, too." He was quiet a moment. "Any special reason you love me more than usual right now?" he joked, and Don laughed, pulling back.

"Anywhere I am with you feels like home," he said, touching Timothy's sweet face, looking into those eyes that always seemed to hold the answers he needed. And if they didn't, they still held so much love for him that he felt strong enough to figure out the answers himself.

"When are the first hours at the funeral home?" Tim asked, his tone gentle.

"Not until tomorrow afternoon. My aunt and uncle - my mom's brother and sister-in-law - are flying in from Florida, so they're waiting for them. They retired down there a few years ago."

"Do you want to try going to see your folks before tomorrow? It might be better to have a go at it before we have to make a scene at the funeral home."

"Aunt Jane said they knew we were coming. I guess she braved it and told them. She also told them that Grandma was very explicit on the point that we were to be notified if anything happened to her, and allowed to attend the services. Now what they'll do about that, I don't know. I have a feeling we're still in for a blow up of some sort."

"I think it meant a lot to your grandmother to try to mend that fence, so maybe we have to take this opportunity to try to establish some kind of civil communication."

"I wish we could slip in the back way, pay our respects, and just stay the hell away from all of them."

"We've got nothing to lose with this, honey. There's nothing but old hostility and distance there now. What else can they say to you, to us, that they haven't already said?" he asked, touching Don's face gently. "Whatever hate they want to spew at us, it isn't going to touch us. We have each other, and that won't change, no matter how unkind or bigoted or unreasonable they want to be. We'll still leave this place together, and go back to our life."

Don looked at Tim a moment, letting the truth in his words sink in, and bolster him a bit. He moved back into Tim's arms, needing another moment of that safety and security, but mostly, the love. If he was treasured this way by this amazing, beautiful man, what could his family possibly say that he should fear?

"What do you say to showing me a 'This is your life, Donald Strachey' tour of this place? I want to see where you were born, where you went to school, where you had your first kiss," he added, grinning.

"Boy or girl?"

"Whatever," Tim replied, smiling. "Did you kiss a boy in this town?"

"Are you nuts? I figured they'd burn me at the stake or something. I kissed a girl because I thought I was supposed to at some point. Lisa Stinson. Kissed her a few times, took her to a couple dances. She was a nice girl, and we were good friends. I never stayed in touch with her after high school. There was no point."

"And then you met Kyle in the Army," Tim said.

"A few years into it, yeah."

"Come on, show me around. When we feel up to it, we'll make a stab at visiting your folks."

"Okay, I guess we'll have to at some point," he agreed reluctantly.

It was a beautiful early May day, cool but sunny, birds chirping, flowers blooming. They started their tour exploring the newer part of town that even Don hadn't seen much of, including several upscale new subdivisions. Amongst them were a few of the surviving farms that hadn't been sold to developers. One of those was his grandmother's house. Though his grandfather was a teacher by trade, and he'd rented the land to others to farm, they had enjoyed living in the country on the family farm. His mother and uncle had grown up there, his mother moving into the town when she married his father. They ended up living in a house passed down to him by his parents, just a couple blocks from St. Mary's Catholic Church.

"The grounds are beautiful," Tim commented as Don drove in off the road toward the white frame house with its cheerful red shutters and window boxes already stuffed with flowers. There were flowering trees everywhere on the rolling green hills that surrounded the house.

"I used to practically live out here in the summer. I loved it. I loved being with Grandma. I was always her favorite, and I knew it, even though she kept it a good secret from my brother and my cousins."

"What about your brother? Did he like it out here?"

"He's five years older than me. When he was little, he did, but as he got older, he liked it better in town, where he could run around with his friends. Before I went to school, Grandma took care of me while my mother taught. She was more like a second mother." Don was quiet a moment, feeling a lot of those old emotions rising to the surface now that his grandmother was dead. "I can't believe I let my mother talk me into staying away from Grandma all those years...as if what I was, was so awful the very thought of it would kill her," he said, taking in a shaky breath.

"You were doing what you thought was best for her because you loved her. That's nothing to regret," Tim said, taking his hand. "She knew how much you loved her, and she absolutely adored you. She was so excited to see you when I picked her up a the airport. That wasn't a woman who harbored any ill feelings because you were out of touch for a while. She knew why that happened."

"I know. I just - " he paused, momentarily stunned to see a small, white-haired woman on the porch. It took him a second to realize that it wasn't his grandmother.

"Is that Jane?" Tim asked.

"Yeah, must be," he said.

They got out of the car and walked up toward the house.

"Donald!" she exclaimed with almost as much enthusiasm as his grandmother used to show when he arrived. As soon as he reached the top step and set foot on the porch, she greeted him with a hug. "Oh, my goodness, you're so big!"

"Yeah, well, I guess I finally got taller," he said, laughing. "This is - "

"Oh, I know who this is!" She hugged Tim as well, startling them both a little. "Elizabeth showed me photos from her trip at Christmas. She kept going on about how handsome and charming your young man was."

"No arguments there," Don said, smiling at Tim.

"What a lovely welcome," Tim said. "We honestly weren't expecting it," he added.

"Well, don't get used to it. She had some very vocal arguments with Evelyn and Rob on that subject," she said, referring to Don's parents, "and I don't think she ever made any progress. But you'll have enough of that to deal with later. Why don't you come in and have a look around? I was just putting together some of Elizabeth's papers, finalizing a few things for tomorrow, and for the funeral."

"I'd like to see the house again," Don said, and she led them inside the cozy farmhouse. An open wood staircase was opposite the front door, the walls decorated with a floral print wallpaper. Family pictures hung on almost every available foot of wall space. In a prominent spot was an 8-by-10 enlargement of a photo Tim's mother had taken of Elizabeth, Don, and Tim near the Callahan family Christmas tree. Sprinkled throughout the photo collection were pictures of Donald in various stages of life, from birth to graduation, his formal military portrait, and more photos of the Christmas get together.

"Would you like something to drink? Or maybe lunch? Have you eaten at all?"

"We don't need to put you to any trouble," Tim said. "We were planning on stopping by one of the take out places while we were out driving around."

"Oh, phooey," she replied, leading them into the kitchen. "Elizabeth would have my head if I sent you to one of those burger places instead of fixing you something good," she said.

When Don walked into the kitchen, it was like walking into his past. Nothing had really changed. The old appliances were all the same, the yellow checkered wallpaper hadn't changed. The white painted cabinets and the big round table were all the same as they'd been when he was little enough that his feet didn't touch the floor when he sat at the table. He could see his grandmother at the counter, making him a sandwich, or better yet, taking a hot tray of cookies out of the oven to let him gorge on in a volume his mother never permitted.

"Don?" Tim touched his shoulder, and he realized he must have missed something, since he was staring fixedly at the kitchen table, and Tim and Aunt Jane were both staring at him.

"Sorry. Just a lot of memories here," he said.

"I just asked if you'd like ham and cheese sandwiches, or some left over meatloaf. I made it myself, and I have to say, your grandmother and I were forever arguing which one of us did it better. God rest her soul, it was me," she whispered, as if she thought Elizabeth would overhear her. "Maybe you can settle the debate, once you taste it," she said to Don.

"I know better than to get in the middle of that one, even now. If your cooking was in competition with Grandma's, I'm sure it's great."

"I'll fix you some of the meatloaf."

"Have you been staying out here since Grandma died?" Don asked as they sat at the table. Jane began buzzing around the kitchen like she owned the place.

"Since a bit before. She wasn't feeling too well the last few days before she died, and I came out here to stay with her. She was always on top of everything, but she seemed to feel like she needed a bit of help."

"What was wrong?"

"Like I said on the phone, she thought she had a touch of the flu. She wasn't eating, felt sick to her stomach. Well, that's been just a few days, and..." She shrugged. "She was blessed not to suffer through a long illness, or losing her mind, like some people do. A friend of ours, Betty Townsend? You probably remember the Townsends, Donald."

"Grandma and Betty were in some club together, weren't they? Quilts or something?"

"My goodness, what a memory you have!" she exclaimed. "They were in the quilting circle together for years."

"I remember some lady named Betty who had thick legs and always wore house dresses sitting around sewing on the porch with Grandma."

"That would be Betty," Jane replied, laughing. "Well, frankly, she's nuttier than your grandmother's best fruitcake, poor thing. Compared to that, Elizabeth was blessed."

"I suppose," Don said, glancing at Tim, who flicked his eyes upward a bit, smiling. That smile was contagious.

"There are a few things you should know about the will," she said, serving the plates of re-heated meatloaf and mashed potatoes. "What would you like to drink?" she asked. "I have milk, diet soda, and juice boxes," she added, smiling, holding one up.

"Grandma liked those things, huh?" Don asked, amused.

"No, Chelsea does - Mike's little girl. She's adorable, Donald. I hope you have a chance to see her while you're here."

"Yeah, me, too. Seems funny to have a niece and not even have met her."

"Mike and Lori, his girlfriend, and Chelsea, were staying here with Elizabeth this winter while they looked for another place to live. Lori lost her job around Christmastime, and they had to move out of their house. Mike helped Elizabeth keep things shoveled out here during those big snowfalls, and she adored Chelsea."

"Diet sodas would be great," Tim spoke up. "I feel a little guilty that we've put you out like this," he said as she poured two glasses of cola.

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's a nice break from paperwork and funeral planning." She served the drinks and then sat down.

"So where's Mike now?" Don asked.

"They moved in with Lori's parents. I think they're living in their basement right now."

"I don't get it. Mike's always done all right for himself. He was selling real estate the last time I heard."

"You know how the housing market has been. And I'll tell you something else. He has a bit of a gambling problem - in addition to the alimony he's paying his first wife, whom he dumped for his current tart."

"I hadn't heard about that. I knew he got divorced, but I didn't know all the details. I didn't know he was a gambling man."

"Of course not," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Your mother isn't going to admit that her perfect son has a few imperfections of his own." 

"Well, at least he's not gay," Don said, sarcastically. "Still, it's gotta suck living in your girlfriend's parents' basement when you're over forty."

"That's why he's going to be especially bitter about the will - initially, Elizabeth was going to leave him the house." She paused. "Elizabeth re-wrote the whole thing a couple months ago. Everything is going to be sold, and the cash proceeds divided among the beneficiaries. It's one of the reasons she asked me to manage her estate, because she didn't trust the rest of the family to handle it ethically. The largest shares go to her grandchildren, since she figured her children were old enough to take care of themselves by this point in their lives. She divided that portion up evenly between Mike and Lori, your cousins, Diane, and Dana and her husband, and you and Timothy."

"She left something to both of us?" Tim asked, raising his eyebrows.

"She did it purposely. Named the couples, and included the two of you as a married couple for all intents and purposes. It's not much of an inheritance, it won't make you rich, but it makes a point."

"Too bad it falls on deaf ears," Don said, trying not to think too much about the conversation, or about his grandmother. Or about the way his family would probably treat them both. It all hurt too much and sometimes he wondered what he was doing there.

"You two should stay here while you're in town," Jane said. "Elizabeth would have loved that idea, and there's plenty of room. The guest room Mike and Lori were using is quite nice. I'm going back to my place tonight, so the house will just stand empty."

"I suppose we could, if you'd enjoy that, Donald," Tim said, touching his arm. Don had to admit the idea of being in his grandmother's house one more time before it went on the chopping block for sale did hold some appeal.

"I'd like that. You're sure we're not putting you out?"

"Not at all. There are fresh linens on the bed, and plenty of fresh towels in the hall closet upstairs. I don't have to lift a finger. Elizabeth was an impeccable housekeeper. And I really do have to get back to my place. Besides, I'm used to my little apartment in town. I get a bit lonely rattling around in this place."

"Then it's settled," Tim said, smiling at Don. "We'll get our things and stay here."

"That'll be a big hit with Mike, I'm sure," Don said, sighing. "Of course, he already hates my guts, so what's one more thing?"

"Things got very tense between them, and she wouldn't tell me exactly what was going on. She did ask them to leave. She got along fine with Lori, and she was enjoying having Chelsea here... Anyway, I wouldn't worry about that. He'll be more upset about the will than he is about who's staying here temporarily. Are you two planning to see the family before tomorrow?"

"We thought we'd give it a shot, let them get it all out before we have to have a scene at the funeral home," Don said, barely able to swallow the food, tasty as it was. Between the lingering grief and the thought of facing his family, his appetite wasn't exactly thriving.

"Jane, I have to give you credit, this meatloaf is the closest thing to heaven I've ever had on a plate," Tim said. "Of course, I never tasted Elizabeth's, so I'm going to abstain from an actual vote."

"Elizabeth said you were making your career in politics. Apparently, diplomacy is something you excel at," she joked.

******

After finishing lunch and their visit with Jane, they resumed their more in-depth tour of the town. Don drove by his old grade school and high school, amused that Timmy was looking it all over as if he was on some kind of bus tour to the stars in Hollywood. It felt good to have someone that interested in the boring details of his childhood.

Most of the old houses owned by the original families clustered around the town's most established churches. These people were what any townie would tell you were the heart and soul of Cedar Grove - those who were there when those new subdivisions were nothing but a few more acres of old Mr. Finnegan's corn field. When that McDonald's was a mom and pop drive-in diner with pretty girls on skates serving trays to cars with fins on the back.

Right in the heart of all of it was the red brick church with an array of beautiful stained glass windows that was St. Mary's, with its picturesque little churchyard that held the family plots of both the Strachey and Vicari branches of the family. Just a few blocks away was a large square blue house with white trim, neatly manicured shrubs surrounding it, and a couple flowering trees giving it color. Cars were in the driveway, and a couple more in the street, and there were people on the porch.

"That's the house," Don said, not even feeling inclined to call it "his" house, or home. That was back in Albany, with Timothy. This was just a painful part of a past long buried. He slowed the rental car to a stop near the curb, in front of the house next door.

"I know this is rough, honey. If you don't want to do this now, we can wait." Timmy took his hand and held onto it, looking at him with such love and concern that it made all the nonsense with his family seem that much less important.

"No, I think we'll get this over with, check out the enemy camp." He turned off the car and they got out, walking up the sidewalk toward the front walk that led to the front porch he'd run up onto so many times in his youth, or sat on in the summertime, or occasionally helped repaint when drafted by his father to help carry out one of his mother's redecorating ideas.

His mother was standing there talking with an elderly couple he recognized as their longtime next door neighbors, Earl and Nancy Flannery. Evelyn turned as they stepped on the first of the porch steps, staring at them with a startled look on her face. It was a toss up who looked more uncomfortable - his mother or the neighbors.

"Hi, Mom," he said, undeterred. Part of him couldn't believe that if he was suddenly there, in front of her, that she could turn her back on him. Before she had time to reply, the front door opened, and a man built exactly like Donald, only older and considerably less toned, stepped out on the porch. "Dad," he said, taking a deep breath and resolving that he wasn't going to let his father's hostile expression intimidate him.

"You know better than to come here," he said, standing his ground in the center of the porch, as if he were guarding his home against a threat.

"We should be going," Mrs. Flannery said, easing past Don and Tim, her husband following her, trying to avoid looking at them and managing to step around them at the same time. "Call me later, Evelyn," Mrs. Flannery added. Call me later and tell me how things went with throwing your faggot son out of the family for the second time.

"Look, I wasn't expecting a parade and a welcoming committee," Don retorted, sounding more tired than confrontational. "Grandma wanted me here, and I plan to be here, for her. I just don't want to have a scene at the funeral home or the church, so I thought we should see each other here, first."

"Robert, let me handle this," his mother said. "Why don't you go back inside and keep an eye on Chelsea?" She looked back at Don and Tim. "Mike and Lori left her with us for the day, and she's at that age where she's into everything - "

"You know how I feel about him being here," he shot back, giving her a look for forgetting herself and actually saying something more to Don than one or two terse words.

"Hey, I'm standing right here," Don interjected, moving up the final step so he was on the porch, eye to eye with his father.

"As far as I'm concerned, I only have one son. There's nothing I can do about it if Elizabeth wanted you at her funeral. But you're not welcome here."

"I didn't believe Donald," Tim said, and the elder Strachey paused, his hand on the front doorknob. "When he told me what you said to him that last day he was here, and each time I've urged him to try to make contact with his family, I couldn't believe that there could be so much hate here. Now I know I owe him an apology for ever urging him to try to mend any fences, for pushing him to open himself up to more of this."

Robert Strachey stared at Tim a long moment, as if trying to decide if he wanted to get into an argument with him or not. Don watched as Tim didn't back down from that stare - if anything, he returned the intensity of it and then some. Then his father opened the door and went inside, closing it behind him, not saying a word. Whether it was a dismissal, or the recognition that tangling with Timothy would be a larger and more prolonged battle than he was in the mood for, Don wasn't sure.

"You heard what your father said, Donald," Evelyn said. "We won't make any trouble for you attending the visitations or the funeral. If that's what your grandmother wanted, then I won't do anything but honor that. I don't have to agree with it."

"If it weren't for Dad, would you want to see me?" Don asked. "He's inside, he can't hear us. I won't ever tell him what you said. I just need to know if you ever want to see me again. If you don't...I won't bother you anymore."

"Goodbye, Donald. I wish you both the best, but please... don't come back here again."

"What are you made of?" Tim asked, and the question startled both Don and his mother. "You're his mother. You just lost your own mother. What makes you people tick? I've never met people like this, people with no hearts."

"Timothy, let it go. I asked her to tell me what she wanted, and she did." Don looked at Timmy, at the sincerity in his eyes, and the pain there, almost more pain than he felt himself. He smiled at Timmy then, touching his face lightly. "Honey, you're not wired to think that way, and you're never going to understand it. Your definition of 'mother' is a universe away from this." He looked back at his own mother. "Okay. Goodbye, Mom. If you ever need me, or you change your mind, you know where we are. But you won't hear from me again. I promise," he said, his voice a bit strained on the final two words.

They descended the porch steps and walked toward the car.

"Are you okay, honey?" Tim asked, touching his shoulder.

"Let's say I'm not really surprised, and it's nothing I haven't been through before."

"You want me to drive?"

"Yeah, why don't you?" He handed Tim the car keys, and they got in the car.

"I suppose the fact they're not planning to make an issue of things at the funeral is worth something. At least we know that."

"I love you," Don said, smiling a little sadly, tugging on the sleeve of the light jacket Tim wore. "You always look for the best in things."

"I'm sorry to say, your family makes that a real challenge."

"Yeah, they do," Don admitted, chuckling.

"But for all their dysfunction and...and coldness, somehow they produced you." He spared a hand from the wheel to lightly caress Don's head. "I don't know how something so wonderful came out of so much...awfulness."

"There was really nothing wrong with my childhood. My parents were good to Mike and me both, we had a comfortable home, normal school experience. I was really close to them. I guess that's why it's so hard now..." He left the thought unfinished, not really wanting to let his parents' rejection hurt this much when it was so expected. He was surprised when Tim pulled the car over on the shoulder of the road leading out of the city toward their hotel. Tim unfastened their seat belts and reached for him, and he was only too relieved to be enfolded in one of those hugs that seemed to set his universe back in order again.

"I'm so sorry, honey," Timmy said softly, holding him close. "I wish I could fix this for you."

"You do fix it," Don mumbled against Tim's shoulder, closing his eyes and soaking up the closeness. "You and your whole family."

"I'm glad my mother isn't here. I think she might have forgotten she was a lady and bitch-slapped your mother off the porch."

Something about that comment made Don laugh at a time when he really didn't think he could.

"I know that doesn't change how much your parents have hurt you, but I don't want you to ever forget that you're part of the Callahan family." Timmy was kissing his temple, making him feel sheltered and loved. "And you're everything in the world to me, baby."

"None of the rest of this shit matters, if I've got you," he whispered, tightening his hold on Timothy. Let them all take their best shot. He let himself relax in Timmy's arms, just soaking up the little kisses and movement of that warm hand across his back, the physically soothing sensation finding a way to soothe the hurts inside. He felt tears come, and he let them. Between the grief he felt at his grandmother's death, and the encounter with his parents, he needed to let it out, even if he didn't want to.

After a few minutes had passed, they made the rest of the drive to their hotel and got their things, then went back out to the farm and spent some time settling into the guest room there. Jane had already gone home, leaving a note on the refrigerator urging them to call her if they needed anything while they were in town.

"Jane's a nice lady," Tim commented, sitting next to Don on the couch, running his arm behind him. It was a sunny, comfortable room with overstuffed, floral-printed furniture, lots of family photos and nick-knacks, and a fireplace that Tim imagined must take the chill off many a drafty winter night.

"Yeah, she is. She used to bring me candy when I was little, and she'd come over to see Grandma. I always liked to see her show up, because I knew she had treats with her," he added, chuckling. "She used to smell like lilacs..." He frowned, shaking his head. "I haven't thought about that in years. I must have been really little, because I have this vague memory of sitting on her lap, eating candy."

"I think you remember the candy more than her," Tim teased, squeezing Don's shoulders, kissing his cheek. "My scavenger," he teased gently.

"You're probably right."

"What're you looking at?" he asked, noticing that Don had a photo album on his lap. It didn't look like the ones Elizabeth had brought with her on the Christmas trip.

"Grandma used to show me these when I was little," he said, opening the book. "She never let me touch it, but I could look while she turned the pages. Feels kind of weird holding it, now."

"What are they pictures of?"

"My grandparents when they were young. It starts out with their wedding picture," he said, opening the book.

"My God, Donald, she looks just like a female version of you," Tim said, stunned by the striking resemblance between the beautiful blonde in the photograph with the luminous eyes and the bright smile. "She was beautiful."

"I think she liked me the best because I looked so much like her, and like my mother."

"Yes, you look like your mother, but this is just...uncanny."

"I can see why she thought you looked a little like Grandpa, looking at this photo of him when he was young. He had gray hair when I knew him, and he was getting older. You would have liked him. He was smart, like you. I never came up with a question that stumped him, and if it did, he had this huge set of leather-bound encyclopedias in his den that he could find the answers to everything in. Like the internet on a bookshelf, I guess," he added, smiling.

"How old were you when he died?"

"I'd just turned ten. He was young, in his sixties. He was fine one day, and then the next day, he was gone. Heart attack. Grandma was never exactly the same again. My mother kept worrying she was going to get sick or die, like a lot of older people do, when their spouse dies. I worried about it, too, but when a couple months went by and she was still alive, like a typical kid, my attention span didn't stay with it any longer. I figured she was okay. That was probably when she started acting okay again. It wasn't until I met you that I realized she never really was okay again, that she was just going through the motions."

"How do you mean?"

"If I lost you, living without you would be an act, because my soul would die with you. And that's how Grandma felt about Grandpa. And she saw that in us. In me, for you."

"I'm very healthy, and the Callahan men have a history of longevity, so let's think some happier thoughts and look at the rest of the pictures," Tim said, cuddling Don close to him, glad to see that drew a little smile as he turned the pages and they relived the history of the couple who'd occupied the house, raised two children there, and were finally reunited. "It's good to think they're together right now. Your grandmother finally gets to be with the man she loves again."

"She missed him every day, mentioned him almost every day, even years after he died." He set the album aside, and snuggled against Tim, resting his head on Tim's shoulder. "I wish we could just go home."

"We can, baby," Tim said, tightening his hold on Don, touching his hair gently. "We could go to the funeral home tomorrow and pay our respects before the visitation starts, and then take an earlier flight home. Just say the word, and I'll make it happen."

"No, Grandma wanted me here for the funeral, and I'm going to be here. She wrote us into her will. She did all she could to make us part of the family. She was trying with my parents. I owe it to her to not back down from them."

"I'm proud of you," Tim said, smiling. "It would be so easy to cut and run."

"I couldn't do this without you."

"I have a feeling you could, but you don't have to." Don's stomach growled, and Tim smiled. "Getting hungry?"

"Yeah, I didn't each much for lunch. I suppose Jane was offended."

"You're here for a funeral, honey. I'm sure she understands. I noticed your grandmother had a recipe box in the kitchen. Should we pick something out and see if we can make it together?"

"Let's skip the recipe box and just go right to the 'make it together' part of that question."

"The bed looked pretty comfortable in the guest room."

"I'd try the couch, but I'd feel a little weird with half my relatives watching us," Don said, gesturing at the myriad of pictures that hung on the walls and sat in frames on the tables and mantle.

They went upstairs to the guest room, and Tim paused a moment to turn back the bed. When he turned around, Don was right there, catching him in his arms, kissing him urgently, passionately, barely pausing to carefully remove Tim's glasses and set them on the night stand. They playfully wrestled their way out of sweaters, shirts, and pants, finally tipping back on the bed naked, except for their socks. Neither could really think of a compelling reason to stop what they were doing to take them off, so there they stayed, rumpled and half pulled off.

When Don finally gave up contact with Tim's mouth, he kissed his way down his chin, to his throat, nuzzled his neck and kissed and sucked at that warm spot. Tim really didn't mind just lying there and being the object of Don's passion, so he let his partner take the lead, content to caress the smooth expanse of Don's back, letting his hands slide down to hold the perfect curves of Don's ass.

Don's hands were on Tim's chest, touching as much of it as he could while he sucked intensely on Tim's nipple before licking his way to its mate. Tim arched into the suction, groaning, his hands flexing on Don's ass. Then he ran them up Don's back, pulling him close for more kisses. When they parted, Don gave him a big smile before going back to kissing Tim's chest. He ran his hand up Tim's arm and joined their hands, stretching Tim's arm to the side, nuzzling the soft skin on the inside of his upper arm. He started kissing his way toward the inside of the elbow, alternating the kisses with little licks and nips.

Tim sighed, smiling, watching Don, soaking up the loving attention. Don was making love to his wrist like it was the most erotic part of him. He held Tim's hand in both of his and kissed the palm, then the back of it, then held it against his cheek a moment before gently releasing it and doing the same thing to Tim's other arm and hand.

"You don't mind if I take my time, do you?" he asked, kissing and holding Tim's hand in both of his.

"My time is your time, honey," Tim replied, smiling. He loved it when Donald lingered over him this way, loving him and savoring him as if every inch of him was a rare delicacy to be treasured and enjoyed, as though his arm and his hand were as interesting as more erogenous parts of his body.

Donald moved down the bed and began lavishing Timmy's foot with the same loving attention, massaging it, kissing the top of it. He rubbed his cheek against Timmy's calf, his hand stroking higher up to the thigh. His lips traveled up the leg and over the knee, before he abandoned that leg and began again with Timmy's other foot.

Tim swallowed, feeling tears in his eyes, deeply moved by the love and passion Don was putting into each touch, every little kiss. He wasn't only doing it for Tim's sake, he was doing it because he wanted to, because he had so much love for his partner that he wanted to touch, taste, and adore every inch of him. Tim's libido had always been best reached through his heart, and that was something his Donald profoundly understood.

The feeling of warm, moist lips traveling up the inside of his thigh was making him moan and tense a bit, his arousal growing. Don held Tim's thigh as he kissed it as if he were cradling something precious and fragile. He flicked his tongue out several times to taste the soft skin, tasting Tim more and more as he moved closer to his erection. He urged Tim's legs up a bit so he could lick and kiss the underside of his thighs and the tender skin behind his balls.

"Oh, baby," Tim gasped, knowing he was getting close to coming just from what Don had done so far. "I want you, soon," he said, touching Don's hair.

"Hang on just a little longer, honey. I want to taste all of you," he whispered hotly against Tim's perineum, making him shiver a little. And then Donald's tongue was at the edge of his center, and then inside him. Then moving up to lick and suck his balls, while Donald inhaled deeply, nosing the dark curls there.

"Oh, my God," Tim muttered, only refraining from coming through the sheer force of his will to do as Don asked him. Don found the lube somewhere, Tim wasn't sure where, and didn't really care at the moment. Only that he had it, and was about to use it.

Donald's fingers felt good inside him, like they always did. Not poking, not stretching, just easing inside and relaxing him, while Donald's eyes caught his, just before he moved up to kiss Tim and tell him how much he loved him. As good as the prelude was, it felt wonderful when Donald finally slid inside him, filling him, moving at just the right pace, knowing Tim's body as well as his own.

He held Tim in his arms while he was inside him, thrusting just the way he knew Tim liked it, passionate and urgent enough to satisfy, but never rough, and always with that tenderness that made Tim feel utterly adored. Tim wrapped his legs around Don's hips, encouraging him to move faster, to take his pleasure now, because Tim felt his climax sweeping over him. Don's thrusts became a little more rapid and intense, and then they were both coming, not exactly at the same time, but so in tune with each other that one's orgasm seemed to ebb and flow into the other's, into a blur of passion and pleasure that left them breathless in each other's arms, still joined.

It wasn't long before Donald was solicitously tending to Tim, like he always did when they made love this way. He caressed Tim's back, his ass, ran his hand down a damp thigh in loving touches. Though he eased out of Tim's body, he stayed pressed close against him, kissing him, mumbling little love words in hot whispers against Tim's ear.

Tim wrapped his arms around Don and wished he never had to let go. There was so much he wanted to say, to express all the love he felt, but words never were enough, so he didn't bother with them. He just kept caressing Donald, kissing him, keeping them so close the breath was warm between them.

Don had fallen silent himself, all wrapped around Tim, his breathing evening out from the excitement of lovemaking into the tranquility of the afterglow.

"I wish I could make time stand still," he finally whispered, knowing Donald wasn't asleep because he could see those long, pale lashes of his still moving as he blinked once in a while. "I'd stay like this with you forever."

Don didn't answer him, but he moved impossibly closer, resting his head on Tim's chest, kissing the skin his lips could reach. Tim could sense he was a little choked up by the occasional hitch in his breathing. He rubbed Don's back in slow circles, wishing they were already back home, that this whole nightmare was over, that Don wouldn't have to be subjected to the emotional and verbal abuse from his family ever again. That there was some way he could make the shelter of this embrace extend out into the world that had dealt Don so many cruel blows.

********

Tim blinked a couple times, finding the bedroom bathed in the shadows of dusk. Donald lay next to him, the sheet loosely over part of his body, his head turning back and forth restlessly, distressed sounds coming from him. Thankfully, his nightmares were less frequent now, but they still happened, and were more likely to happen when he was under a lot of stress.

"No, please, stop it," he muttered, his voice sounding more broken than confrontational. "Please, stop..."

"Don," Tim said carefully, not wanting to startle him. "Donald, honey, it's okay. It's a nightmare," he said, venturing to touch Donald's shoulder. "Donald, wake up. You're having a nightmare," he said, a bit more forcefully now since Donald was still in the agonized throes of whatever was haunting his dreams.

"Timmy?"

"I'm right here, honey. Wake up and look at me. You're safe," he reassured, capturing one of Don's hands as it flopped around a bit aimlessly.

"Make them stop," he said, still not fully awake. "It hurts. Make them stop it."

"Oh, baby, it's all over. Wake up and look at me, Donald, you're safe."

Don stilled a moment, then opened his eyes, looking at Tim, obviously confused with his surroundings.

"We're at your grandmother's house in Cedar Grove, remember? You were having a bad dream." He kissed Donald's hand, squeezing it a little.

"I remember it now," he said, trying to smile and not quite making it. "Damn nightmare," he grumbled, wiping at his tear-streaked cheeks with his free hand.

"You want to talk?"

"No. I'm gonna be sick." He got out of bed and rushed across the hall to the bathroom. Tim closed his eyes and braced himself for the sounds of retching. Then he got up and grabbed their robes from the spot where he'd neatly hung them in the closet with the rest of their clothes, and went across the hall himself, pulling his on as he went.

He didn't ask Don how he was feeling. That was obvious. He just offered him a hand to pull him up from where he was still kneeling in front of the toilet, and helped him into his robe.

"You want to lie down again?"

"No," he said, leaning on the old fashioned pedestal sink while Tim found some mouthwash in the bathroom cabinet and poured a little in a paper cup, handing it to him. He rinsed out his mouth and then just stood there a moment.

"I can wait in the other room if you need a minute," he offered, but Don shook his head.

"I'll be okay." He looked at Tim with haunted eyes. "I don't want you to go."

"I won't, honey." As hard as it was, Tim kept his hands to himself. Sometimes Donald needed to get his bearings, to have his personal space to cope with whatever he'd dreamed about.

"How can it hurt in a dream? It's not real, how can it hurt like that?" he asked, not looking at Tim, still staring into the sink, as if there was some answer lurking in the drainpipe.

"Dreams can be very vivid, honey. Unfortunately, you know that first hand. You remember what the pain was like, so your mind fills that in, even though you're not really being physically hurt."

"I just wanna know when they're gonna stop raping me," he said quietly, a couple of tears escaping. He turned into the embrace Tim had waiting for him. "I want to forget it."

"I know, honey." There wasn't much else he could say. Don was doing well, getting by most days without any undue distress over his ordeal. Once in a while, the nightmares still came, sometimes after they had sex, sometimes when he was under a lot of stress, or sometimes for no discernible reason. "It's gonna be okay," he said, not really being able to make it okay, but knowing hearing those words from him would calm Donald down, soothe the after-effects a little.

"Sorry I woke you up," he said, pulling back, looking pale and shaken.

"Don't worry about that. Besides, it's only dusk. It's just as well we get up for a while. We'd have never slept through the night."

"I s'pose not," he agreed.

"How's your stomach feeling?"

"Like if there was anything else in there, it would be in there by now," he said, jerking a thumb back toward the toilet.

"We could get dressed, take a little walk outside in the fresh air. I bet the grounds are beautiful on a clear night like this."

"That'd be nice," Don agreed, smiling faintly.

"You want to grab a quick shower?"

"Is that your gentle way of letting me know I need one?" Donald joked, but there was love in his eyes as he looked at Tim.

"We both do. You need a little time to catch your breath?" Tim asked gently, taking Donald's hand, kissing the back of it.

"Yeah, I think so. You mind?"

"No, of course not, honey. I'll freshen up the bed a little and I can shower when you're done."

"I love you." 

"I know you do. I love you, too." He kissed Don's forehead and forced himself to walk out of the bathroom, letting him have a little time to himself to cope with the aftermath of the nightmare. Consoling Don through his occasional bouts of anxiety or nightmares wasn't the difficult part for Tim. It was having the strength to back off and not hold him or stay by him when he had the sense that Don needed that space. Or maybe it was the realization that no matter how many times he woke him from a nightmare or held him afterward, he was still in a reactive place. He couldn't stop what happened to Don then, and he couldn't keep the demons out of his nightmares now.

He re-made the bed with some fresh sheets, having found a telltale wet spot neither one of them would want to sleep in later. He heard the shower stop, and a few moments later, Don walked into the room with a towel around his waist.

"I put our underwear in the top dresser drawer," Tim said, heading for the bathroom.

"Okay, thanks," Don said, going to the drawer.

Tim took his shower and when he came out, Don was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a pullover sweater. He was tying his shoes. Tim smiled when he realized it was one of the sweaters his mother made. He'd noticed that Don had stuffed it in the suitcase, almost as an afterthought. Maybe it was a comforting reminder that he did have a mother who loved him, even if she was "borrowed" from Timothy.

"It's getting kind of cold out there, so dress warm," he said.

"I will," Tim replied, choosing the jeans he'd brought, along with a shirt and sweater.

It was a beautiful, clear, starry night, with a light breeze. They went out the back door onto the small porch, and down the back steps. Wordlessly, Don slipped his hand into Tim's, and they started walking across the yard toward the barn, the moonlight bright enough to light their way.

"It's so peaceful out here," Tim said. "It's quiet around our house, but not this quiet."

"Look at the stars. You never see the stars like this in the city." Donald smiled. "Why am I telling you? It's like this at your parents' country place."

"Yes, well, there's always so much activity going on there when we visit that I guess I don't notice the whole 'peace and quiet' part of being in the country."

"Come on, I'll show you the pond. It's beautiful at night. I used to sneak out there when I was staying with Grandma. When I was supposed to be in bed."

"Gee, you sneaking around in the shadows at night... Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Very funny," Don replied, smiling. "My grandfather caught me once," he said.

"What did he do?"

"It was summertime. He brought ice cream bars."

"Really came down on you, huh?" Tim joked.

"Yeah. We sat on the bank and ate ice cream and talked about how he used to sneak out when he was a teenager to see this girl he liked whose parents didn't approve of him. I was about seven or eight at the time. I couldn't believe my old grandfather could be that cool." He laughed. "He swore me to secrecy - about the ice cream and the girl. Looking back, I'm sure Grandma knew about both."

"But thinking she didn't made it that much more fun, right?"

"Something like that. He 'snuck' me back into the house and into bed, and we never spoke of it again - top secret stuff," he added, still smiling. "I missed him a lot after he died. Maybe that's part of why I stayed so close to Grandma. I always kind of felt like I should take care of her for him. Even though she's always been way more than capable of taking care of herself," he said, chuckling.

The pond was beautiful, the moonlight reflecting on the water, the breeze stirring the trees around it. A swing for two sat a short distance from the water, and Don tugged on Tim's hand to lead him to it, where they sat together. Neither of them spoke for quite a while, and Donald shifted until his head was on Tim's shoulder. Tim put his arm around Donald's shoulders, kissing the top of his head. He took Don's hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep," he said, his voice so soft that it was almost carried away on the breeze.

"The nightmares are getting less frequent," Tim said, squeezing Don's shoulders. "Don't you think it's getting better?"

"Yeah," he agreed, but it was half-hearted.

"I wish I could find a way to reach into your head and...and take those memories away forever." Tim kissed the top of Don's head again, rubbing his shoulder. "Unfortunately, when we dream, our brain digs around in our bag of memories and helps itself to whatever images it feels like playing with."

"Fox is dead and his cronies are in jail, but they're in my head. It's like they won anyway."

"They didn't win, baby." Tim pushed his foot against the ground a bit, making the swing sway gently. "I think it'll keep getting better, and the nightmares will get less frequent, until we're counting them in times a year, maybe even less. It's been weeks since you had one, and it used to be almost every night."

"I know you're right." Don sighed. "You usually are," he added, smiling.

"Of course, I am," Tim joked, smiling, relieved to hear Donald sounding a little less down. The nightmares were hard on him, even if they were fewer and farther between.

"You mind if we just sit here for a while?"

"I'd like that," Tim replied, kissing Don's hand again.

"I wonder if this is what getting old's like?"

"Probably. I hope so," he added, looking at their joined hands, picturing them years from now, a bit more fragile and maybe a little gnarled with age, still fitting together so perfectly. "You're my happily ever after, you know that, right?"

"I know," Don replied, snuggling closer against him. "I don't want the time to go by, but when it does, I'm gonna like being old with you."

"Me, too."

The sounds of the crickets, the rustle of the leaves, and the gentle motion of the water kept them company as they sat there together, not really keeping track of time.

********

Don stared at himself in the mirror of the old fashioned dresser in his grandmother's guest room. He hadn't worn the dark suit since the trial, when the D.A. had urged him to dress his best to impress the jury. Suddenly, he regretted bringing this suit, and felt like ripping it off his body and crumpling it up in a ball and stuffing it in the trash. It was ridiculous. It was the best suit he owned, and his grandmother deserved nothing less. It was the right one to bring, the right one to wear.

"Hey," Timmy came up behind him, hands on his shoulders, looking as beautiful as he always did when he was all dressed up in his best suits.

"Ready to go?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"I am, but are you?" Timmy asked, running a hand gently back and forth across his back.

"As I'll ever be."

"Penny for you thoughts," he urged.

"I hate this fucking suit." He watched Tim's eyes in the mirror, and saw the recognition dawn there.

"We should have brought your dark green one. It looks really nice on you...no bad memories."

"Maybe it's just as well. It's not like wearing it now would associate good memories with it. Maybe we can just burn the damn thing when we get home."

"We'll pick up the marshmallows on the way home from the airport, make a party out of it," he replied, and something about that made Donald laugh. Timothy was smiling that big smile of his.

"I love you," he said, returning that smile.

"Good, because I'm never letting you go," Timmy said, still grinning, wrapping him up in a big hug from behind, hooking his chin on Don's shoulder. "I'll be with you every step of the way, honey."

"I know. You always are," he said, leaning back into the comfort he always found in Timmy's arms.

********

The funeral home was a large white Victorian house in the middle of the town's most desirable residential area. The first viewing hours began at two, and it was almost that now. Cars were already lining up along the curb in all directions.

"A lot of people must have loved her," Tim commented as they walked up the sidewalk toward the entrance.

"They did, and she was involved in a lot of church and community groups." Don slowed his pace. "That's Mike," he said, indicating another blond man in a dark suit standing near the entrance. A younger woman with reddish hair was standing next to him, holding a little blonde girl by the hand. "That must be Lori and Chelsea."

Mike glanced toward the sidewalk and caught sight of his brother, then said something to his girlfriend, who looked their way momentarily before Mike said something else to her. There was a brief exchange before she took the child and went inside the funeral home.

"This oughtta be fun," Don said to Tim as they headed toward the front steps leading up to the funeral home's entrance.

"I thought you'd have the good sense to stay out of here," Mike Strachey said, crossing his arms, doing his best to look intimidating. While Don favored his mother's side of the family, Mike's features were more like his father's, though his build was a bit taller and larger.

"Let's not get into this, Mike. Grandma wanted us here, so we're here."

"You dragged her out to some big fancy estate and wined and dined her so you could find a way to get back into the family - and into her will," he spat out angrily.

"Aside from the offensive bullshit accusation that is, if you think for one minute that inviting Grandma to Christmas at the fucking Taj Mahal would have swayed her to do something she didn't want to do on her own, you really didn't know her at all."

"She was old. Old people get senile and they get things confused."

"She was clearer in the head than you are. But then that never would have taken a hell of a lot," Don added. Now he was mad, and if his brother wanted to have it out right here on the steps, he was ready for the exercise.

"This isn't what she would have wanted, Don," Tim said quietly, touching his shoulder.

"Yeah, listen to your little candy ass boyfriend and back off," Mike retorted. He barely got the words out before he found himself sitting on the porch, wiping at the blood on the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand as arriving mourners looked on, stunned.

"You say what you want to me, but don't you ever speak to my partner that way again. Now you can get your miserable ass out of our way, or I can help you with that."

"Donald, no more. Don't let him drag you down to this," Timmy said, taking hold of Don's arm. "Remember why we're here, and he's not the reason."

"We're not finished," Mike said, standing, brushing off his suit, looking indignant.

"We are as far as I'm concerned," Don shot back, escorting Tim inside, aware of the buzz of conversation among the mourners in the reception area. His mother and father hurried past him toward the porch, as Lori brought up the rear, carrying Chelsea.

"So much for slipping in without a scene," Tim said, adjusting his tie, looking a little uneasy.

"What was I supposed to do? I wouldn't put up with someone talking to you like that in a club or on the street, so why in the hell should I take it from my asshole brother?"

"Because we're about thirty feet away from where your grandmother is lying in state and we owe her some respect," Tim shot back in a heated whisper, and Don was a little stunned by the anger in Timmy's voice.

"He calls you a 'candy ass' and you're pissed off at me because I did something about it?"

"This isn't about me, and it's not about you, either. It's about your grandmother. Donald, I was raised in a big Irish Catholic family. There may have just been Kelly and me in our house, but we had more cousins and uncles than we knew what to do with, and some of them liked to get tanked and rowdy at the time of a death - and trust me, funerals were big family events. My parents used to manage those situations like pros, and we never had mayhem and, and...fisticuffs in the presence of the dead," he added.

"I don't believe this. I slug my brother for insulting you, and you're scolding me."

"I'm not scolding you. But you can't go around punching every narrow-minded idiot who says something you don't like while we're here, or we won't even have time to pay our respects in between fights." Tim sighed. "Do you really think that," he said, jerking his thumb back toward the entrance, "is why your grandmother included us in the will and revised her entire...end of life planning to bring you back here?"

"You know, Timothy, there are times I really don't like you," he said, meeting Timmy's eyes even though he'd been avoiding them a bit while he was being taken to task. Timmy raised one eyebrow at his words. "Like when you're right."

"At least you admit it," Tim replied, a little of the irritation out of his tone. "And I do love you for defending my honor, honey. Just not at the expense of making a scene here. Your grandmother deserves to be the center of attention here, not us."

"Okay, you made your point," Don replied, still a little ruffled. Part of him was getting angry with Timmy, and the other part knew that was because Timmy was right. Slugging Mike had been just what his brother wanted - proof positive that Don was a disruptive, bad influence on the family, that he was somehow "unfit" to be there. They'd made a big issue of not wanting a scene, and yet Don had managed to make one before they were even inside the door.

"Are you ready to go in now?" Timmy asked, and Don looked at him for a moment. There was no reproach in his voice now, and only concern in his eyes, even though seconds earlier they had been alight with the spark of the feisty Irish temper that lurked just beneath Timothy's placid exterior.

He hated himself for feeling choked up, for letting Timothy being annoyed with him jar him so deeply emotionally. Truth be told, he really could never stand the thought Timothy disapproved of him, however fleetingly, and he felt a bit like a child who gets scolded and then proceeds to scream and cry at the top of his lungs, even though not a hand has been lain on him.

"Donald?" Timmy's voice was softer now, filled with all the love and concern that was always there when he needed to hear it most.

"Yeah, we should go in," he agreed, nodding.

The parlor where his grandmother lay in state was a pleasant, beautifully appointed room with white painted woodwork, plush carpeted floors, and a carefully blended combination of natural and artificial light. The coffin itself was a pale blue finish, lined with an even lighter blue velvet. His grandmother was dressed in a tasteful navy blue dress and her best pearl jewelry, her white hair perfectly coiffed as if she were going to church or a party instead of her own funeral.

Donald could feel the eyes on them, and sense the return of the rest of his family to the room following the scene on the porch. Mostly, he felt sick inside that he'd humiliated Timothy when all he wanted to do was the opposite - to defend his honor, stand up for him, choose him over his moron brother. As they stood by the side of the casket, he desperately wanted to wake his grandmother and ask her how to make this all work, why she wanted him here, how to fix the mess he'd already made of things, and to forgive him for losing his temper and disrupting her tribute.

"Do you want to say a prayer by her, honey?" Timmy whispered in his ear, touching his back gently.

He nodded, though he had no clue what to say. When he was little, and he had to kneel next to a corpse, he pretended to pray, but he left it up to his mother to figure out what to say. Truthfully, he just found it creepy being next to the dead person, so he generally thought very little about praying, except that they could move away soon. It had been different at his grandfather's funeral. He'd actually wanted to stay near the casket, maybe because his grandmother rarely left it.

So here he was kneeling by her casket now, feeling unwelcome with everyone in the room but Timothy, and even he'd been angry at him moments earlier.

"Can you say something?" he whispered to Timmy, who took Don's hand in both of his. He prayed in a whisper only Donald could hear.

"Dear Lord, Elizabeth was such a lovely, good lady, and we loved her very much. We pray that she's with her husband again, and that you'll keep them both close to you in the peace and happiness of Heaven. Help us be strong about saying goodbye, because it's only for ourselves we're sad. She's in a much better place, with her soul mate, safe in your care."

Don wiped at his eyes with the hand Timmy wasn't holding, trying hard not to really lose it. He'd made enough of a scene already.

"I'm sorry about before," he managed. "Are you still mad at me?" he asked, knowing his voice was coming out small and childlike, but he couldn't help it.

"Oh, baby, I'm not mad at you," Timmy said, putting his arms around him. Donald cried on his shoulder. "It's okay, honey. That's what funerals and wakes are for. Saying goodbye, and that hurts a lot."

"I miss her."

"I know you do. She loved you a lot, honey. Just remember that."

"It's not fair she's dead. I didn't hardly have a chance to spend any time with her again."

"I know it seems unfair. Just remember she's with your grandfather, and she missed him so much. They loved each other like we do, and she wanted to be with him."

"I know," he managed, wishing he wasn't falling apart here, with so many unfriendly eyes on them.

"Do you want to say a prayer together for her?" Timmy asked, still holding him.

"Okay," he agreed. Timmy started quietly reciting the Our Father, and he fumbled his way along, emotions and the time since he'd recited prayers making him miss some of the words. A moment later, Timmy had a crisp, clean handkerchief in his hand, urging him to wipe his nose and his eyes, rubbing his back gently.

"We could go outside and get a little fresh air if you want."

"I don't want to be in here anymore," Don agreed, not sure if it was the stark reality of his grandmother's death or the feeling that all eyes were on him and most of them hostile.

They stood, and when he saw Timmy making the Sign of the Cross, he followed along, figuring his partner was doing what was expected, whatever was the right protocol for honoring the dead. Timmy paused a moment, then called his attention to a large flower arrangement. The card read, "With our deepest sympathies, Lauren Platt and Staff."

"That was really nice of her," Don said, smiling a little.

"Good to feel a little moral support from home right now," Timmy agreed, squeezing Don's hand that he still hand tightly clasped in his.

"Donny?" A woman's voice startled him from behind. "Oh, my God, it is you!"

He turned around to see his Aunt Jenny and Uncle Paul, his mother's brother and sister-in-law. Not expecting to receive any affectionate greetings that day, he was surprised to be gathered into an enthusiastic hug. He returned it, happy to see her, and grateful beyond words that she wanted to see him.

"Let me look at you," she said, and he shrugged a bit nervously as she stepped back.

"I've looked better," he said, wiping at his nose with Timmy's handkerchief.

"We're all a bit the worse for wear today, hon," she replied. A slightly plump woman with medium brown bobbed hair, she had a big smile and a genuine warmth about her.

"Don, it's good to see you, kiddo," his uncle said, hugging him. He was a tall, big man with receding gray hair who just about enveloped Donald with the hug. "They don't have phones in Albany?" he joked, stepping back.

"I didn't think..."

"Between you and me, my sister badly needs to get that stick out of her ass."

"Yeah, his name is Robert," Jenny chimed in.

"Aunt Jenny, Uncle Paul, this is my partner, Timothy Callahan," he introduced, thrilled to have some family to introduce Timmy to who actually wanted to meet him. Paul shook Timmy's hand, and Jenny gave him the full Aunt-ly hug treatment.

"I'm guessing that's the only 'welcome-to-the-family' hug you've gotten so far," she said to Timmy, who laughed.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you're still holding that distinction by the time we leave," he replied.

"Before you go back home, I want your phone number and your e-mail address," she said to Don. "Then I can put you in my address book and bore you with all those bad jokes and family update e-mails."

"I wouldn't mind being bored with some family e-mails," he said, smiling. "It's so good to see you guys. I didn't think you'd want to hear from us."

"Nonsense. Diane and Dana are going to be thrilled you're here. Diane's back at the hotel with Ashley, our beautiful granddaughter - she's three. Well, usually she's beautiful, but she got into something that didn't agree with her and she's been throwing up all morning. Dana's here somewhere, with Greg, her husband. She wanted to invite you to the wedding, but she was afraid your mother would lay an egg."

"She probably would have, and we all know how well Mike and I get along."

"What happened? Evelyn said you hit him," Paul said. "God, I'd have given a week's pay to see that. If we all go back outside, would you do it again so I could get it on camera?"

"Paul!" Jenny scolded, shaking her head. "Don't try him. He might do it."

"He insulted Timothy for no good reason. But I shouldn't have hit him here."

"No, you should have waited for him in the alley behind the house and really let him have it," Paul said.

"Don't give him any ideas," Timmy chimed in.

"Say, are you two doing anything for dinner tonight?" Jenny asked. "We should all get together between the visitations, take a break, just have a good visit."

"Surprisingly, we're not booked," Timmy quipped.

"We're staying out at Grandma's," Don said. "Maybe we could get together there."

"Let's just grab a couple buckets of chicken or something and sit around Ma's table and have a visit. She'd love that idea," Paul said. "Honey, you think the girls would want to join us, or are they going to dinner with the others?"

"Diane didn't know - it depends on how Ashley's doing. Dana and Greg would probably want to come. She and Donny used to be pretty good pals."

They visited with Don's aunt and uncle a while, and it felt good to be part of things, visiting with family. Don wasn't oblivious to the occasional dark glare coming from his brother or his father, or the unreadable looks from his mother, who didn't exactly look at him with contempt, but did look his way more than once.

He thought he was hallucinating when he saw a couple of familiar faces greeting his mother at the door. She seemed stunned and a bit disconcerted as they exchanged polite words and they offered their condolences. He nudged Timmy, speechless.

"What's wrong, dear?" his Aunt Jenny asked, noticing his surprised expression.

"Nothing's wrong. I just...those are Timmy's parents," he said, moving toward them even a moment before Timmy himself did. He was surprised himself at how glad he was to see them.

Anne swooped in on him with one of her big "mom" hugs, and he held on gratefully.

"I'm glad you're here, Mom," he said quietly, not really wanting his mother to overhear him, and yet not really caring if she did.

"How are you holding up, sweetie?" she asked sympathetically.

"I can't believe you're here."

"We just had a feeling you might need a little moral support," she said, pulling back, touching his face. "Come on, come up front with me," she said, guiding him toward the casket while Tim greeted and visited with his father. "She looks beautiful," Anne said, still keeping an arm linked through Don's. "Don't you think so, sweetie?"

"Yeah, she does," he said, finding it hard to talk, not really wanting to be near the casket again, and yet part of him feeling drawn to it.

"She was a very special lady," Anne said, "and she thought the world of you."

"I still can't believe you're here," he said.

"We debated it. We didn't want to make things worse, but the more I thought about it, the less I could stand just sitting at home and not being here with my boys," she said. "Timmy said it was sudden, that she didn't suffer."

"She thought she had the flu, but I guess that was just a few days and then...her friend found her. She died in her sleep."

"There's no more peaceful way to slip from one life into the next. And she missed your grandfather so much. She wanted to be with him."

"I just wish we'd had more time," he said, forcing a little smile.

"Of course, you do, sweetie. When you love someone, it's never a good time to say goodbye. But you have to think of how lucky it was you had such a good visit over Christmas, and you were back in touch. You have to know how happy that made her."

"I know you're right. I waited way too long to get back in touch with her, but I thought she'd be so upset about me, that she'd feel like the rest of the family does. I should have trusted her more."

"You did what you thought was best at the time. That's all any of us can do about anything. She was so happy to see you, and she loved you so much - just be happy about that. She didn't have anything but good feelings about you, and if she could tell you herself, she'd tell you not to feel guilty or bad about anything."

"Yeah, she would," he agreed, smiling.

Anne reached out and laid her hand on Elizabeth's folded hands. "You rest easy, Elizabeth. Our family's going to take good care of your grandson for you. I'm going to say a little prayer for her, sweetie," she said to Don. "Why don't you say hello to Steven, and I'll be right there?"

"Okay. Thanks again for coming here, Mom." He hugged her quickly.

"I'm glad we did," she said, giving him a little squeeze.

Timmy was still talking with his father and Don's aunt and uncle when Don rejoined them.

"Thanks for coming, Steven," he said, holding his hand out to Timmy's father. He was surprised when the older man gave him a hug, albeit a quick, loud-back-slapping man-hug.

"You've been married to my son for - how long is it now?" he asked Timmy.

"Eight years, and three months," Timmy replied, touching Don's back, smiling, the fact it was the first time his father had used the word "married" to describe their union not lost on him.

"I think you could probably start calling me 'Dad', if you're comfortable doing that."

"Yeah, I'd be comfortable with that, Dad," he replied, venturing to give his father-in-law another quick hug.

"Thanks, Dad," Timmy said, hugging his father, holding on a bit longer than Don had.

"Elizabeth had some influence on me, I guess," he said, stepping back. "Your grandmother was a little lady, but she was a force to be reckoned with."

"I've heard that more than once," Don said, laughing, surprised to actually feel like laughing and smiling a little, and feeling like he was surrounded by family.

********

Don imagined his grandmother would have wholeheartedly approved of the dinner gathering taking place around her kitchen table. Two ravaged buckets of chicken and mostly empty containers of potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, and biscuits littered the table while the group gathered there finished off their meals, swapped wings for thighs, and enjoyed lively conversation. Anne and Steven, his Aunt Jenny and Uncle Paul, his cousin, Dana and her husband, Greg, and Timothy and himself were all taking a break from the somber atmosphere of the funeral home to have something to eat and share some family time - something Donald never expected to experience on this trip. He wasn't completely sure if his cousin, Diane, was still waylaid with a sick child, or if she wasn't comfortable eating with the enemy. She had always been close to his mother, while Dana, a confirmed tomboy only a year older than Donald, had been one of his best friends and partners in crime during their childhood.

"I think a lot of people are going to be glad to see you, Donny," Dana said, wiping her hands on her napkin. It looked like she'd outgrown her tomboy image, her long blonde hair in curls, brushing the shoulders of the dark suit she wore with a pair of black heels.

"Don's fine, Dana," Don said, flashing her a smile, having had enough of "Donny."

"What's wrong? Are you afraid Tim's going to start calling you 'Donny' when he wants to piss you off?" she challenged.

"I think it's cute," Tim chimed in.

"You would," Don retorted, though there was affection in his eyes when he looked at his partner.

"I think this whole 'estrangement' from the family is mostly on your father's part," Jenny said, shaking her head. "That man is a homophobic jerk."

"Evelyn hasn't really done any better," Paul said. "And they managed to raise Mike to be just as narrow-minded as they are. You know the cops pulled him in for questioning on some gay bashing incident a few months ago," he added.

"They had a gay bashing here?" Don asked, frowning.

"It was a big story at the time - of course, nothing much happens here crime-wise, so arresting a shoplifter at the Target is a big deal," Dana said. "I guess Mike and some of his friends had been at a bar near where it happened, and they were questioned."

"Were they really suspects, or just questioned because they were near the scene?" Don asked.

"I don't know. Aunt Evelyn was pretty freaked out about it at the time."

"And you know what your father said?" Jenny interjected.

"Jen, we don't need to get into that," Paul said.

"What did he say?" Don asked.

"He said, 'Too bad they didn't finish the job. The only good faggot is a dead faggot.' I was so outraged, I hung up on them. I was talking with Evelyn, and he was on an extension."

"It's sickening how some people can be so hateful," Anne said. "Even objecting on religious grounds - Jesus never taught us to hate anyone, or to persecute people we don't agree with. He certainly didn't go around preaching with a baseball bat in his hand to whack the 'sinners'."

"How seriously was the victim hurt?" Timmy asked, resting his hand on Don's back. Don knew he should probably say something about that kind of remark, or react somehow, but then he wondered what the point would be. It wasn't like his father's attitude was any surprise.

"Thankfully, his injuries weren't life-threatening," Greg said. "He moved away, though. He was a software developer for Spectrum. I guess he moved back to Baltimore. We've been thinking about it ourselves," he added.

"Don said you're both teachers," Tim said, and Donald loved him for trying to change the sickening subject.

"Yes, I teach math and computer science St. Mary's High, and Dana teaches third grade there. We really love it, but sometimes the whole small town mentality is just more than we can handle. Plus, teaching in a Catholic school, you have to wave the 'homosexuality is a sin' flag, and I found that really hard to do when the talk was going on about that incident. We've been looking at some schools in other cities."

"You should think about Albany," Tim suggested. "You could stay with us while you learned your way around town."

"That would be fun - even to come for a visit, and we could look over the schools, see if any of them have openings. Summer is a great time for that."

"Anytime, we'd love to have you," Tim said. "It would be great to be able to have some of Donald's family visit us. We have plenty of room whenever any of you would like to visit."

"Timothy's right. We'd really like to have family visit. My schedule is a little crazy - "

"A little?" Tim interjected.

"Okay, a lot crazy," Don replied, chuckling. "But I think I could get some time off with a little notice." He paused. "Was Mike a serious suspect?" he asked, returning to the less pleasant topic. Still, he needed to know.

"You'd have to ask him, or the police. I just know he and his friends were questioned. They all play on some softball team the real estate company put together, and they were having a few beers after the game around the time it happened," Dana said. "And I guess Mike made some remarks similar to the kind of witty repartee your father is famous for."

"I'd hate to think that poor bastard was a proxy for me," he said, taking a long draw on the bottle of beer he'd been drinking with dinner.

"I don't think your father or your brother would want to see you harmed, no matter how much they even think they might want to, or how much hate they spout off," Tim said.

"I love you for how you see people, and family, sweetheart, but trust me, my brother wouldn't shed any tears if I ended up on the wrong end of a baseball bat."

"I wish I could raise some meaningful objection to that, but Don has a point," Paul said.

"Yeah, but if he combs his hair right, you hardly notice it," Dana quipped, lightly kicking Don under the table. "You know what really gets me about this whole thing? What kind of propaganda did Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Rob feed you to make you think we were all a bunch of homophobes who wouldn't want to see you again?"

"It was a pretty ugly scene when I came home from the Army. I wasn't in much of a mood to fight another battle with the family. Too much had happened..." He shrugged. "Let's just say my dad's attitude hasn't changed any."

"We saw you on that news program," Greg said. "That took balls, man. Dana wanted to call you, or write you, but we didn't know if it would make you uneasy, getting letters or calls about that."

"It wasn't like I had any privacy left," Don said, leaning back in his chair. "That forced statement I made took it national, and on a local level, they pinpointed me so specifically that everyone who knew who I was, knew it was me."

"I'm really glad you're okay," Dana said, leaning over to hug him. "And that you're back in touch with us again."

"Thanks. Me, too," he added, smiling.

"We came way too close to losing him," Tim said, taking his hand. "I thank God every day I still have him in my life," he said, his voice sounding a little tight. Don kissed the hand that was holding his, moved by Timmy's words and the emotion in his voice.

"We didn't realize your injuries were that critical," Jenny said, looking concerned. "Are you okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm fine now. I bled internally, and they told me I stopped breathing a couple times before surgery, and they lost me once on the table."

"Oh, my God," Paul said, shaking his head. "I had no idea."

"I didn't want to get into talking about the specifics in that interview, and I didn't want to get too graphic with Grandma and freak her out."

"Well," Paul said, "thank goodness you're all right, and thank goodness Ma had more sense than the rest of us and figured out a way to get you back here."

********

Donald pulled off his tie and threw it over the easy chair in the corner of the guest room. Tim was undressing with considerably less urgency, though he was amused with Donald's stripper-like tossing of the formal garments until he was down to his boxers.

"Feel better?" he teased, sitting on the foot of the bed to toe off his shoes.

"I hate that fucking suit," he said, stretching. Tim indulged in watching the play of those perfectly sculpted muscles. He turned and looked at Tim, then grinned, catching him mid-ogle. "See something you like?" he teased.

"Everything," he replied.

"How come you're still dressed?" Don asked, pushing Tim back on the bed and landing on top of him, playfully knocking a little of the wind out of him.

"Feel free to help remedy that situation," he said, wrapping his arms around Don, kissing him. He was so glad to see a little bit of Don's usual humor and liveliness back in him. Still, something had plagued him all day, and he felt the need to get it off his chest. When Don leaned back a bit, Tim framed his face with both hands. "I think I owe you an apology."

"For what?" Don asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

"For the way I reacted when you hit your brother. I came awfully close to having my own self-righteous stick up my ass, and I'm sorry."

"You should be. If there's going to be anything up your ass, it's gonna be attached to me." Don stifled him with kisses. When he was able to catch his breath, he persisted.

"Donald, I just feel bad about the way I came down on you. I don't know what got into me."

"My grandmother, probably. If she were here, she would have said the same thing, and you were right, as much as I hated to give you credit for it. Mike wanted to push me into something like that, and I gave him what he wanted."

"I didn't realize how it must have sounded and felt to you until you asked me if I was mad at you. I wasn't, honey. I know you were defending me, and honestly, I can't say how I'd have felt if you didn't. Maybe that's why I feel like such an ass. I'm a hypocrite. I chew you out for slugging your brother, and another part of me would have been disappointed if you hadn't."

Don smiled and shook his head. "Saint Timothy," he said, with all the love in the world, and kissed Tim's forehead. "Only you could spend this many hours tearing yourself up because you're human. Because something you thought was 'wrong' made you feel good inside."

"We're here trying to pay our respects to your grandmother, and I'm the reason you come to blows with your brother, and God help me, I probably would have been hurt if you didn't. And then I scolded you for doing it."

"Sweetheart, will you quit worrying about it?" Don asked, laughing softly. "I will defend your honor with my last breath, because your honor is worth defending. Because you have so much of it that you're beating yourself up because it felt good to have your boyfriend slug somebody to stick up for you. That feels damn good, Timmy. I speak from experience."

"I was hoping you weren't going to remind me of that again," Tim replied, rolling his eyes at the mention of the Stenski restroom incident.

"I'm probably going to be bringing that up when you're too fucking old to remember doing it."

"That was a different kind of threat."

"Oh, bullshit. Who cares what kind of threat it is? A rescue is a rescue. It feels good, period. So forget about it. Besides, chances are I would have ended up kicking his ass for some reason during this trip. If that's how he greeted us at the door of the funeral home, he just would have kept raising the stakes until I exploded."

"I'm sorry if I made you feel worse than you already did."

"What're you gonna do to make it up to me?" he asked, teasing, flexing his eyebrows a bit.

"Why don't you roll over on your back and close your eyes and trust me?"

"Mm, sounds interesting," he replied, grinning, rolling off Tim and relaxing on the bed, closing his eyes.

Tim ran his hands over Don's chest, his thumbs brushing over hardening nipples. He kissed his way along the smooth skin of Don's stomach and teased Don's navel with the tip of his tongue. He tugged Don's boxers down, and Don happily kicked them out of the way, tucking one arm behind his head so he could watch Tim, big smile on his face.

As excited as Donald was, there was no need for long preliminaries, and that was fine with Tim. He took Donald's growing erection in his mouth and sucked him with urgency and intensity, glad he made him cry out in surprise and now just lie there and moan and mumble and gasp at the pleasure of it. Donald knew how much he was loved, and Tim knew it was returned just as deeply and truly. But right now, he wanted to give Donald the kind of blow job that would obliterate everything else from his mind but what was going on with his cock. If ever someone needed to shove everything else aside and just wallow in physical pleasure, it was Donald, and it was here, now, in this hotbed of stress, grief, and discord.

"Oh, fuck," Don gasped, arching, even though he was trying not to be too rough on Tim's mouth or thrust too hard. Tim was making him crazy, but Donald was ever the caring lover, no matter how hot or horny he might be. So Tim held his hips, not to still them, but to urge them to move. He moved his mouth up and down the hard shaft, and Don didn't need more invitation than that. He matched Timmy's rhythm, taking his mouth with the kind of motion and passion Timmy wanted to give him. When he knew Don was on the edge, he relaxed his throat and let him in just that little bit deeper that made him come with a scream unlike anything he usually heard from Donald. Watching him come, feeling that soft skin heating up under his hands, tasting his lover in his mouth, gave Tim a somewhat unexpected climax of his own.

Still mostly dressed, Tim stretched out on the bed next to his naked, debauched partner and gathered him in his arms.

"I'm going to wrinkle your clothes," Donald said, his voice almost slurred with impending sleep.

"I'm sure Elizabeth has an iron around here somewhere." He smiled. "Besides, there's probably a wet spot on the front of them now anyway," he added.

"You came?"

"I keep telling you how sexy you are when you come," he told Don, kissing him.

"Wow... If I go to Heaven when I die, that's what it's gonna feel like."

"If I go to Heaven, that's what it's going to taste like," Timmy replied, kissing Donald's forehead. "Go to sleep, baby. You sound exhausted."

"Love you," Don mumbled, hooking a sweaty leg over Timmy's, sealing the fate of the dress pants to need washing and pressing in the morning.

"I love you, too."

"My ass is cold," Don complained, raising his head a little. Tim couldn't help but smile at that, reaching for the edge of the blanket so he could cover his naked partner.

"Better?" he asked, rubbing his hand over the cool skin, not at all minding the task of helping Donald warm up that particular spot.

"Mmm. Nice," Don sighed, and Tim could feel most of the tension leaving him.

Very nice, indeed.

********

Anne and Steven slipped away the next day to visit friends in Maryland, since Don had family to catch up with, and they preferred not to spend too much time rankling his parents or causing any tension. They planned to be there for the funeral. Don's cousin, Diane, came to the visitations with her little girl, and they exchanged pleasant greetings, though it was considerably more tenuous than the reunion with Dana and meeting her husband, Greg. Diane was clearly close to her aunt and uncle, and spent most of her time either helping greet visitors or with Don's mother. She was a bit confounded by the fact that Ashley took an instant liking to Don, and toddled around after him whenever she was put down and let loose. Since most of the other adults were all deep in conversation with each other, she naturally gravitated to one of the few adults who had engaged her in conversation on such lofty subjects as the joys of chocolate and puppies (one of which she had at home), and had sat on the couch with her for an inordinate amount of time playing patty cake until even Timmy was stunned at his endurance. He'd always thought Don would be wonderful with children, but he'd never imagined his patience would hold out so long. Maybe it was because Ashley was somewhat excess baggage to her mother as she visited with relatives and old friends, and Donald felt a bit that way himself.

"I think you have a friend for life," Tim commented as he sat next to Don on the couch. Ashley had been rounded up by her mother to go along with a group of family and friends for dinner during the break between visitations.

"She's a great kid, and she's not old enough yet to be a bigoted asshole."

"Diane didn't seem as happy to see you as Dana did."

"She's real close with my mother, and my mother always wanted a girl, so..." He shrugged, sighing. "Diane's always been the daughter she never had."

"She didn't want to keep trying after two boys, huh?"

"She wanted to keep working, and she figured two kids was more than enough. I think the only reason I'm here is because she was shooting for a girl after Mike was born. Of course, my father made some kind of remark when he found out about me - he told her she got her girl after all."

"Was there ever anything remotely likable about your father?" Tim asked, and Don laughed.

"You know, he was actually a pretty good father to us growing up. It was just when I turned out to be something other than what he wanted that he turned into...what he is now. Bitter, angry, hateful. He never had nice things to say about gays, don't get me wrong, but he wasn't on the warpath about it, either. There wasn't much reason for it to come up in our household until I came back from the Army."

"It's been good getting to know Jenny and Paul, and Dana and Greg. They seem like really good people."

"They are. I was always close to them growing up. We all lived in town at the time, so they were over at our house, and we were over to theirs, all the time. We'd have big cookouts at the farm in the summer. It was fun."

"Maybe we can get them to visit us once in a while."

"I'm sure they will. Uncle Paul likes to ski, so visiting upstate New York in the winter would be right up his alley."

"And they settled in Florida?"

"Aunt Jenny's idea," he said. "Her mother and her sister are down there, so she likes being close to them."

"I like being close to you," Tim whispered in Donald's ear, and loved the big grin that spread over his partner's face at that. "You want to get out of here for a while? We can come back this evening for the rosary and the final visitation."

"You want to get some dinner?"

"If you want. Maybe get some fresh air," he said, touching Don's shoulder.

"Okay. I'll let Jenny know we're taking a break so they can have dinner with my folks if they want. I don't want them to feel like they have to babysit us the whole time they're here."

"I don't think they feel that way."

"Maybe not, but they probably don't get up here too often anymore, and I don't want to take over their whole visit."

********

Don and Tim stopped at a fast food restaurant to pick up some burgers and took them out to the farm, changing into old clothes and having their meal on a blanket on the bank of the pond. The fresh air and sunshine was a much needed change of pace from the somber, artificial setting of the funeral home. Don found himself remembering a lot of happy times in his childhood having picnics like these, spending time on the farm. Part of him dreaded seeing it go up for sale, though he knew he wouldn't want to live here, even if relocating himself and Timothy was a plausible option.

"Everything okay?" Tim asked, taking a draw on the straw in his large soft drink.

"Yeah, I was just thinking about this place, all the good memories here. So much negative stuff has happened with my family that I pretty much forgot all the good times. Being here," he said, looking around, "I'm glad we're spending some time here before the house is sold."

"You don't seriously think your brother was involved in that gay bashing, do you?"

"I don't want to think that, but it kind of makes sense. He's so full of hate where I'm concerned, but even if we get into a fight, he can't really do that kind of damage to me. At least, he hasn't had the opportunity. I can see him taking it out on some poor schmuck that was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Dealing with hate, prejudice...it's nothing new. It's not like I don't know it's out there, that I don't expect to encounter it sometimes. It still horrifies me that people are beaten and killed for no other reason than being what they are. What I am. What you are."

"We're lucky. We have a great life to go back to, with a lot of good friends who accept us for who we are. Not everybody has that. Especially in a town like this one."

"Your aunt and uncle are so easy to be around, it's hard to believe Paul and your mother are brother and sister. Do you think your mother would be so stiff about everything if not for your father?"

"She's had chances to be in touch with me that he didn't have to know about."

"Duplicity isn't the best way to handle a marriage. I couldn't do something like that behind your back. Say one thing to your face and then do something else."

"Even if we had a child and I was trying to keep you away from that child?"

"You wouldn't do that."

"Exactly, and if I did do something like that, I wouldn't be the person you fell in love with or married. So then it makes duplicity look like a reasonable option, unless you escalate it to divorce. The thing is, I'm having trouble reading my mother. One minute, it seems like she wants to have contact with me but she's not doing it because of my father, and the next minute it seems like she's as disgusted by me as he is."

"I don't think she's disgusted by you. I think she still has issues with homosexuality, and hiding behind your father is easier than confronting that, and him at the same time. The bright side is, you still have family who love you and want to be in touch with you. That's something you didn't know was there until you came back here."

"I have you to thank for that."

"How do you figure that? Your grandmother engineered this opportunity for you to come back here. Even if she couldn't make it happen while she was alive, she made up her mind she was going to get you back in touch with family, and she did."

"Yeah, that's all true, but if you hadn't taken the leap of faith and contacted her about Christmas last year, I would have never been back in touch with her, and probably wouldn't have come back here for the funeral."

"Your grandmother was a very special person. I knew you had to get your kindness and your good, decent soul from someone in this family, and I had a feeling it was probably her. So I'm glad we connected with her, and that you had a chance to spend some time with her again."

"She got your dad to let me call him 'dad,'" Don said, shaking his head. "I wonder what she did to him when we weren't looking," he added, chuckling.

"My dad's always liked you, right from the start. It's hard for him to shed all of his conservative principles and totally accept us. I think holding you a bit at arm's length, not being quite as accepting as my mother...that was his way of being true to his beliefs." Tim shrugged. "Maybe he figured if Elizabeth, at her age, could see the love we had, and accept it as a marriage...maybe it inspired him to let go of some of that." Tim paused. "Or my mother and your grandmother tag-teamed him until he gave in."

"That I believe," Don replied, smiling, but he was still troubled. The thought his brother could be involved in a gay hate crime seemed extreme, even for Mike, and yet his bigotry seemed so passionate... But there was something else that bothered him more. "Don't you think it's kind of odd the way Grandma died?" he asked Tim. He knew his partner had weathered more deaths and funerals than he had, that a lot of elderly Callahans and O'Connors had been laid to rest in that prolific family.

"She was 85, going on 86. Sometimes elderly people just...die, and the end is peaceful. I suppose she may have had some underlying illness or condition we didn't know about, maybe that she didn't know about. But by that age, surgery or other interventions would have limited benefits, and there's no telling she'd have survived treatment for anything major or life-threatening."

"I'd like to talk to her doctor before we go back."

"Why?" Tim asked, frowning.

"I want to understand how she died, and right now, I don't. She was healthy as a horse at Christmas, and she sounded great when we talked on the phone."

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't know that I'm thinking anything. I just want to know what happened."

"Don't you think your mother would have been on top of making sure she got the medical care she needed?"

"I really don't feel like I know my mother anymore. She was at loggerheads with Grandma over us, over accepting me back in the family. That had to be a lot of stress on Grandma."

"Even if it was, that's not your fault, Donald. She was a very headstrong, assertive woman with a very clear mind of her own. She took on that fight, you didn't ask her to. I can't help but think how thrilled she would have been to see us and your aunt and uncle, Dana and Greg, and my parents all around the table together, like a family. Even if she worked herself up a bit about all this, and even if it wasn't the best thing for her health, I think she would have done the same thing, no matter what."

"Maybe, I but I'd hate to think it sped things along."

"Honey, if I lost you, the only reasons I wouldn't commit suicide to go join you would be because of my beliefs, my faith, and the fact I couldn't hurt my family that way. But I would live out the rest of my days looking forward to being reunited with you. And if that came at 50 instead of 80, or 85 instead of 90, it wouldn't sadden me. It would be the sweetest reward for coping with the loneliness and the pain of waiting. Your grandmother wanted to be with the man she loved. Now she is. I'm trying hard to grieve for her, but truthfully, I only feel sad that you didn't have more time with her now. For her? I feel...oddly happy, almost joyful, because I can only imagine what it would be like for her to see her husband again, to be with him. She was an attractive, lively lady who probably could have remarried very easily, but she never did. Now that loneliness and waiting is over."

"I couldn't live that long without you," Don said, not meeting Tim's eyes.

"Believe me, I won't go any sooner than I have to. I don't want to miss a second with you," Tim said, smiling, pulling Don close and kissing him. It wasn't the first time since his attack that Donald had brought up his fear of Timothy dying before he did. He'd come so far since that awful experience, but Tim knew that much of that recovery hinged on their relationship, on the strength Donald drew from being with him, from feeling the warmth of that unconditional love. As he sat there on the shore of the little pond on the Strachey property, holding Donald, cradling his head and stroking his hair gently, he knew he couldn't promise him he'd never die, never leave him. Still, he closed his eyes and prayed that he could outlive his partner, even if only by a short time, so he never had to leave him alone. So he could hold Donald close like this and ease him into the next life, and then follow him as soon as God was willing, and be with him again.

********

Don remembered learning how to say a rosary when he was a child, but over the years, he'd forgotten the rules, and the words of the prayers escaped him at times. He knew his grandmother believed in it, so he imagined it would please her that they were all sitting there in the funeral home, praying the rosary together. As usual, Timmy had thought of everything, even bringing along a spare rosary for him to sit there and finger as if he knew what he was doing. His arm was linked through Timmy's, and the warmth of him felt good, solid, reassuring.

Dana and Greg had chosen to sit in the row of chairs where they sat, while the rest of the family sat together, closer to the front. He could begin to feel himself building up a bit of an immunity again where his family's shunning was concerned. He had Timothy and the elder Callahans, his aunt and uncle, and his cousin and her husband. His other cousin, Diane, wasn't as warm and friendly, but he'd enjoyed spending time with his littlest cousin, Ashley.

That made it seem a bit stranger, even, that he'd never actually met or spent any time with his niece. Chelsea was wiggling and restless in her mother's lap. He wondered if his brother or his girlfriend realized the little girl had been looking over her mother's shoulder at Donald, watching him with some interest. It was as if she recognized one of their own, or maybe she recognized something in him that she'd seen in her great grandmother. After all, there was a very distinct family resemblance between Donald and his grandmother, even in her old age.

After the rosary, there were very few people who weren't family still there. One older man approached Don, extending his hand.

"I'm Richard Wilson, Elizabeth's doctor. I recognize you from all the photos she had of you."

"It's nice to meet you. I was actually planning to get a hold of you before we leave town," Don said, and Tim looked distinctly uneasy. Don knew his track record wasn't the best when it came to not creating scenes with his family, and Mike, at least, was already watching the exchange with some interest from his spot across the room with his parents.

"Really? Why?"

"My grandmother's death was so sudden and unexpected, and being we don't live locally, it really blind-sided me. I was hoping you could fill in a few blanks."

"There isn't a lot to tell. She was fine at her last checkup a few months back. I went out to the house to see her a couple of days before she passed because she was very ill with the flu, and her friend, Jane, called me. She refused to go to the hospital, and said she would be fine at home with some bedrest."

"But you thought she should be admitted to the hospital?"

"Anytime one of my elderly patients is that ill - bedridden - with anything, I prefer to admit them to the hospital. Elizabeth has always been very healthy, and very conscientious about her health, but she's never been one to handle being under the weather very well. She also detested hospitals."

"Sound like anyone else we know?" Tim said, smiling, and Don had to return it. The similarities between himself and his grandmother just seemed to keep cropping up.

"You diagnosed it as flu?"

"She was nauseous and vomiting, weak... Yes, she had all the symptoms of a bad flu. That's why I wanted to admit her, because elderly people become dehydrated very easily, and it's not at all unusual for a flu bug that would just make a young person ill for a few days, to become fatal for someone in her eighties." Dr. Wilson frowned. "You have other concerns about her death, Donald?"

"I suppose it's just the suddenness of it, and it's not really flu season."

"True, but that doesn't preclude people from getting it at other times of the year."

"No, I'm sure it doesn't," Don replied, deep in thought.

"Were you Elizabeth's doctor for many years?" Tim asked, and the older man smiled.

"Yes, about twenty or so. She was quite a lady. Did a lot of good things in her church and in the community. We're going to miss her."

"Me, too," Don said, smiling.

"She was very happy to have gotten back in touch with you. She brought her Christmas vacation pictures with her to show me, and my office girls."

"Doc, I'm just going to come right out and ask you, point blank - are you comfortable with flu as the cause of her death?"

"Elizabeth said you were a private investigator. Suspicious mind, huh?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. Don sighed, a little exasperated at having his concerns so neatly packaged and dismissed.

"Possibly, but an otherwise healthy woman falling that ill when there's not that much going around for flu just seems odd."

"She was 85, son. It happens, painful as it is, to have to let go of our loved ones. Sometimes the elderly just go because it's their time." His answer was similar enough to Timothy's to be eerie, and to make Don feel like perhaps he was just letting his cynical nature kick into overdrive.

"It was really nice meeting you, Doctor," he said, shaking hands with the other man again. Tim did the same. "If my grandmother trusted you for all those years, I'm sure you took great care of her."

"Thank you. I am sorry for your loss."

"Thanks. Me, too," he added, smiling a little sadly.

"Donald, where are you really going with this?"

"Nowhere, probably," he replied.

"You ready to get out of here?" Timmy asked, touching his shoulder.

"Yeah, let's go back out to the farm. Tomorrow'll be another long day."

********

Tim shot up in bed, his heart pounding, the scream echoing in his ears. Don was sitting up next to him, looking similarly panicked, which made him wonder if they had both heard someone else screaming.

"I saw Grandma," Don stammered, still staring at the open bedroom door. Tim's mind raced, trying to think of a logical explanation, if Jane might have come to the house for something. He couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he'd shut that door when they went to bed, but he wasn't sure of that, either. He turned on the bedside lamp and put on his glasses, wanting to see into the shadowy hall with the best possible vision.

"Honey, you must have been dreaming," he said gently, touching Don's shoulder, surprised when he actually jumped, as if even the touch startled him.

"She was standing right there," he insisted.

"There's no one here but us," Tim said, deciding he was not going to be frightened by someone else's nightmare to the point that he wouldn't get up and look. So he got out of bed and walked toward the door, not surprised when Don moved so quickly to get out of bed and stop him that he must have flown.

"I'll go," he said, though Tim could actually see his partner's body shaking.

"We'll both go," he said, taking Don's hand firmly in his own. "It's okay, baby. Nobody's here but us," he said, as they eased out the door into the dark, silent house.

"Then why are you whispering?" Don asked, arching his eyebrows. Tim had to laugh at that. He hadn't even realized he was whispering.

"I guess so the ghosts don't hear me," he replied. "You don't really think you saw her, do you?"

"I know I saw her. I guess the question is whether or not she was actually here, or I imagined the whole thing." Don stepped back inside the bedroom and took his gun out of the holster. "Not much point in checking the house and leaving this upstairs."

"You're planning to shoot a ghost?"

"What if I saw someone in the doorway and thought it was her, because I was half asleep and this is her house?" He led the way, and they explored the old house from top to bottom, every closet, nook, and cranny that was large enough to conceal an intruder. When they finished, returning to the bedroom, Don re-holstered his gun and sat on the foot of the bed. Tim sat next to him.

"Dreams can be very real sometimes, honey," Tim said, gently touching the back of Don's head. "Unfortunately, you know that only too well."

"I know. I was still lying down, and I just felt restless, like someone was there. I mean, I know you were next to me, because I could feel you there. But like someone else was in the room, looking at me. I opened my eyes, and there she was."

"You told me once that you weren't too crazy about funeral homes. Well, not that anyone is, but that they made you uneasy."

"The whole thing just seems weird to me. Creepy."

"We've been so focused on death and the funeral home, and everything's so stressful with your family. It probably just built up on you."

"I suppose."

"We should get some rest, honey," Tim suggested gently, putting his arm around Don and kissing his temple.

"I know."

"Don't feel much like sleeping after that, huh?"

"Not much, but I'll be okay as long as I can curl up with you," he said, smiling at Tim.

"Why don't we go downstairs, turn on the TV, and sleep on the couch? It'll be a little less creepy."

"Nah, I'm okay," he said, leaning into Timmy, resting his head on his partner's shoulder.

"This is all going to be over soon, honey. We'll be back home, and things'll get back to normal. I know grief doesn't go away that easily, but at least we'll be home."

They got back into bed, and Don snuggled into Tim's arms, tucking his face against Tim's neck, holding onto him tightly. Tim hugged him close, resting a hand on the back of his head, keeping him sheltered in the embrace.

"Timmy?"

"Hm?" He stroked Don's hair a little, kissed the top of his head.

"I love you."

Tim smiled, and squeezed Don tighter. "I love you, too, baby. Try to get some sleep. We'll be home soon and this'll all be over."

********

Don felt a strange mixture of relief and dread as they filed into the vestibule of the church to view his grandmother for the last time before the casket was closed and the funeral Mass began. He was relieved to be finished with the long, drawn out days at the funeral home, staying on his side of the invisible line drawn down the middle of the room - his family on one side, him on the other, with a few stalwart relatives risking it to spend time behind enemy lines to see him. The other part of him dreaded that final moment of separation when he had to walk away from his grandmother, or what was left of her here on Earth, for the final time and know he'd never lay eyes on her again.

He probably would never really be able to express to Tim's parents what their presence meant to him. They were on his side, they had embraced him as part of their family, and even Tim's at times gruff father had taken this occasion to cross the barrier and make it clear that Don was his son-in-law, and part of his clan. It felt good to look back just beyond Timmy and see two people he could call "Mom" and "Dad."

He fingered the dog tags in his pocket. They had no real significance to her, but they had meaning to him. They were something remaining of something lost, something precious to him, and he knew she'd understand that. If she could see all this from wherever she was, it would mean something to her that he was parting with them as a final tribute.

He approached the side of the casket, Timmy close by him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He took the tags out of his pocket and tucked them carefully under her folded hands. So much of who he was and what he achieved he could attribute to her influence on him, to her utter acceptance of him for who he was, even when he was an overactive, somewhat annoying child who spent most of his time when he was with her, getting under her feet. When he was literally tripping her following her around the house, he could remember her swooping him up like he was weightless, though she wasn't that robust herself, and carrying him around the kitchen with her, letting him sample what she was making, talking to him a mile-a-minute, never too busy with whatever she was doing to pay attention to him.

Don didn't realize he was crying until he felt Timmy almost holding him upright, a strong arm around his waist, another on his elbow. He wiped at his eyes and gratefully accepted the tissues Timmy stuck in his hand.

"Are you ready, honey?" Tim whispered in his ear, and he nodded, knowing he had to move, let the rest of the mourners have their moments, accept that this was the final goodbye. That brought a new wave of bitter pain, and he let Tim lead him away, to a quiet corner of the vestibule with a little bench, where they sat and he worked hard to control his emotions.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be, honey." Timmy held him and just sat there with him, letting him pull himself together. "It just means you loved her an awful lot, and that's a beautiful tribute to anyone who's died, for someone they love to grieve for them, to cry for them."

"I was so stupid. I should have just called her or visited her and not let my mother talk me into the idea that I was such a monster that knowing who and what I really was would kill her."

"You did what you thought was best for her. That's no reason to beat up on yourself now. You never stopped loving her, and she never stopped loving you, and death doesn't change that. She'll always be with you, and she knows how much you love her. She also knew her own daughter a whole lot better than you did, and she was one shrewd little lady. She understood all that went down there, and I can promise you, she would never blame you for a bit of it. So don't blame yourself."

"I'm glad you're so smart," he managed, and Tim laughed softly.

"It comes in handy once in a while," he replied, giving Don a little squeeze.

"Thank you for being here," Don said, unable to express how much it meant to him to have Timmy there, putting up with the strange looks and the shunning by most of Don's family. To retreat into the solace of the warmth, feel, and scent of the man he loved, to let it heal him in the middle of so much unhappiness and pain.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, my love," he whispered back. "Ready?"

"I guess," Don agreed, standing with Timmy.

"Should we go in now?" Anne asked, approaching them with Steven, now that Don was composed again and they were standing.

"Come on, all of you. You're sitting up front with us," Jenny said, touching Don's shoulder as she and Paul joined them. "Dana and Greg are sitting with us, too."

"Donald," Jane said, hurrying over to where they were standing. "I'm glad I caught you. We'd like to have the grandchildren take up the gifts. You, Mike, Dana, and Diane," she said.

"You want me to be that close to Mike in God's house?" Don asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I've had a talk with Mike. He knows you're going to be involved, and that he doesn't get a vote on that. Your mother even told him to mind his manners and not cause any problems."

"Okay, then, of course, I'll be glad to," he said. "Somebody better cue me when to do it, because I'm a little rusty on the whole church thing," he said.

"I'll poke you," Tim said, smiling, touching his back.

Don wasn't surprised that the funeral was hard to sit through. He hadn't been to many funerals in his life, but the few he had attended were depressing even if he didn't know the deceased very well. Even John Rutka's fake funeral had been sad and tugged at his heartstrings a bit until he found out the S.O.B. was alive and well an waiting at the airport for his boyfriend.

Occasionally, he glanced over at his mother, who was dabbing at her eyes, careful not to let her gaze stray to the other side of the aisle. Perhaps she thought she would burst into flames if she had eye contact with her gay son inside the church. He felt Timmy's hand flex on his, and he squeezed back. His astute partner missed very little. He stole a glance at Anne, a bit amused that she was surreptitiously looking over at the Stracheys on the other side of the aisle, too. At one point, there was a brief moment of eye contact between Anne and Evelyn, but neither woman would let it be known she was looking at the other as they quickly adjusted their gazes. Tim was right that his mother would be appalled by Don's mother's behavior and rejection of him. He knew Anne well enough to know there was more than mild disapproval in the slight arch to her eyebrow as she sent another sideways glance toward his mother.

His family's attempt to isolate him as some sort of pariah alone in the back of the church had been thoroughly foiled, and for that, he would always be grateful to Tim's parents, Jenny and Paul, and Dana and Greg. Their pew was as full as the one in which his parents sat, and to any outside observer, it simply looked like the family was split because of the number, sitting on either side of the main aisle.

Don knew he'd been letting all those distractions lighten the grief of the funeral itself. He held onto Timmy's hand like a life line, and he knew that part of what tore so violently at his soul about all this was that his grandmother was the one person he loved most in the world after Timothy. He hoped he wasn't squeezing too tightly on that hand that meant everything in the world to him. If that hand were cold, stiff, and could no longer squeeze back, he felt sure he wouldn't survive it. Feeling its warmth, strength, and oneness with his own as their fingers laced together made all of this bearable. When it was over, they'd leave this place and go back to a life that was happier and filled with more love than he probably deserved, but was unspeakably grateful to have.

When it came time for the grandchildren to carry up the gifts, Mike kept his eyes and his comments to himself as they each picked up an item for the priest to bless in his preparation of the Eucharist. Still, he was glad when it was over and he was back in friendly territory, shoulder to shoulder with Timmy, their hands joined again.

After Communion, Jane went to the lectern. She had with her Elizabeth's journals, from which she read a few passages about key events in the family. It was nothing that violated Elizabeth's privacy or exposed anything intimate, but the passages were carefully chosen to show the joy and pride of a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother in the marriages of her children, the births of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and a few reflections on life that resonated with people who knew her well.

Don found himself wiping at tears and laughing at the same time when Jane read his grandmother's reflections on his birth.

When I held him for the first time, I could see what Evelyn meant - he looks just like me. I hope that won't confound his father too much, to have a son that looks like his mother-in-law! He's going to be a little handful, I think, because he never stopped wiggling the entire time I held him. Evelyn thinks he's fussy, and probably won't be a good sleeper. She's right about the sleeping part. He won't be. But he's full of energy and promise and tenacity. He holds onto my finger with the determination of a tiny little wrestler.

Her thoughts on other family births and marriages were filled with similar affectionate observations, and it was obvious she'd taken great pride in the newest generation, represented by the births of Chelsea and Ashley.

One of the final passages Jane read was one Elizabeth wrote after her visit to Virginia at Christmas.

I am so happy to know that Donald is happy, that he's found someone to share his life with. He's like me in a lot of ways, and I know that means he wasn't meant to make the journey of life alone. I look forward to the day when I can be with Anthony again; I think of him every morning when I wake, and every night when I go to sleep...and so many times in between. I see that kind of love in Donald with his partner, Timothy, who reminds me just a bit of Anthony with his good looks and his charm. I hope they have even a little of the joy we had, and that the world isn't too cruel to them for finding each other and making a life together.

Don patted Timmy's knee when he needed his hand free to move his glasses and wipe his eyes. Jane read one last passage, something simple and touching Elizabeth wrote about springtime on the farm and the coming of summer, and the joy she took in spending time with Chelsea.

It was a sunny, beautiful day, with chirping birds and a light breeze as they made the final part of Elizabeth's journey to the cemetery and had the grave side service. The family all placed roses on the casket in a variety of colors, leaving it drenched with a beautiful array of flowers surrounding the one large spray of red roses and white baby's breath in the center.

The funeral dinner at the church was crowded, the parish hall packed wall-to-wall with Elizabeth's friends and neighbors. Somehow, the press of bodies made the strange dividing lines between the segments of the family a bit less obvious, so Don found himself meeting and talking to as many of his grandmother's friends as his parents and brother were. If they were shocked and scandalized to find out he was gay, they didn't show it. Most of them didn't even seem surprised, which surprised Don. He knew his grandmother had a lot of friends, and was involved in the church and community groups, but he never quite pictured her proudly talking about her gay grandson and his partner to all these aging small town folks.

It amazed him just how much one little lady with a lot of conviction could do in a short period of time with a whole lot of people. With the exception of his parents, his brother, and a few of their friends, the majority of people there expressed their condolences and visited with them at the parish hall without any sign of shunning or rejection. Perhaps his grandmother's love and loyalty to him and to Timothy were powerful enough to outlive her, to influence most everyone there.

********

The extensive buffet dinner of homemade food reminded Anne of the family funerals she'd attended as a girl, before marrying into the wealthy Callahan clan where everything was a gourmet catered affair. That wasn't even addressing the pomposity and glitz of most political events, where the food, like the guests, was overpriced, overdressed, and under-flavored.

As she selected a drumstick from the chicken tray, she was surprised to see Evelyn Strachey selecting something from the tray next to it, apparently unaware that she'd wandered so close to someone from the enemy camp.

"It was a lovely Mass," she said, wondering if Donald's mother would really be rude enough or hostile enough not to answer.

"Thank you, but Jane deserves most of the credit. Mother left all the arrangements up to her," she added, a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

"They must have been good friends."

"They were, almost like sisters," Evelyn replied, looking relieved to have food on her plate, so she could escape the tense encounter.

"Don thought the world of Elizabeth," she said. "They were so much alike," she added, knowing she was needling the other woman, and enjoying it. Evelyn simply gave her a stiff smile at that, and slowly began to move away. "Are you going to speak to your son even once before he leaves town again?" she asked, knowing she was interfering, an unable to stop herself.

"It's complicated," she replied.

"He's your child. You gave birth to him. You can tell you're his mother from across a crowded room, and his resemblance to your mother is simply striking. And despite the fact he isn't even welcome in your presence, he still loves you. How many people in your life will ever love you that way?"

"I don't want to say anything rude, because our son is...with your son, and they're both... Our family doesn't believe in homosexuality."

"You don't believe in it? It isn't Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, some mythical thing you can choose not to believe in and banish it from your life."

"You know what I meant. We don't condone it, then. It's a sin in the eyes of God."

"And God has told you this personally?"

"The Bible and the Church tells us."

"Can you honestly look at Donald and think that he's evil? That God rejects him? That God didn't make him who and what he is, just like He made your other son, or you?"

"I realize that you've somehow reconciled yourself with what your son has become, and I respect that. I would appreciate it if you would extend me the same courtesy, especially at my mother's funeral."

"Your mother was a gracious, kind, wonderful lady who overcame a lifetime of religious teachings and other assorted bigotries to love her grandson and his partner, and to want to be part of their lives. I suppose you think shunning him and treating him this way is some kind of honor to her memory? That hurting him makes you more of a Christian?"

"If you'll excuse me, I have other guests I have to greet."

"I don't know why I'm bothering. Your bigotry and unkindness to him works in my favor. It means I have two wonderful sons in my life. I can't think of anyone I'd be happier or prouder to add to our family."

"Anne, there you are," Steven said, coming up behind her, touching her arm. "This is certainly a large turnout. Your mother was obviously a very well-loved person in her community," he said to Evelyn, who simply stared at him a moment, as if she couldn't quite figure out how to handle the encounter. She looked back at Anne briefly before answering.

"Yes, she was."

"I'm just sorry we didn't get to enjoy another family gathering with her and our boys," he added, and Anne worked hard to suppress a smile. If he hadn't been listening, he certainly was on the same page. And with the diplomacy of a lifetime in politics, he'd managed to get the terms 'family' and 'our boys' woven into a compliment that left her speechless.

"Excuse me," she said, walking away this time.

"Now I remember why I married you," Anne said, smiling at her husband.

"I thought it was for my money and power."

"Well, yes, that, too," she agreed, laughing.

********

It was a cool, clear evening, the sound of crickets loud in the relative silence of the farm. Don sat on the back porch of the farmhouse with a beer, trying to shake the depression that seems to settle in the aftermath of a funeral. There's a certain relief when it's over, and yet, it means it's the end of your time with that loved one. They're gone, closed up in a sealed vault, buried underground, reduced to a mound of earth, some dying flower arrangements, and a headstone of some sort bearing their name and some kind of trite tribute phrase.

He could hear voices and laughter from inside the house. That made him smile, and he knew his grandmother, wherever she was, would be pleased to hear family laughing and talking in her house, around her table. Still, there was something about all the laughing and good times with family that seemed so incongruous with grief and death. Maybe that was the other thing that Donald found weird about funerals. They were morose family reunions where you ended up taking that chance to try to "enjoy" getting together with family you didn't see often.

"Figured you'd be running low by now." Another bottle of beer appeared in his line of vision as Steven joined him on the back steps. Once Don took it, Steven opened his own beer. "I've been a politician all my life," he said, "and that means you talk a lot."

"I'm married to Timothy. You don't really need to tell me that," he said affectionately, thinking of what a social creature his partner was.

"Even so, I can't figure where women come up with so much to talk about. And talk, and talk... I feel guilty for abandoning Tim in there, but he's too polite to leave, so it's too late for him," he added, laughing.

"I was just thinking of how funerals have this tendency to turn into family reunions, and it's sort of weird."

"We Irish are big on laughing, dancing, and getting drunk at the time of a death. Supposedly it's because we're celebrating the loved one going on to such a better place, and celebrating their life. I think we're just running from the enormity of our own mortality and the pain of death and loss."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

"Death is death, and it isn't pretty."

"They say you can't polish a turd," Don added, taking another drink of his beer.

"Eh, I've had a few media relations guys in my career who were good enough to manage that. I always kind of hoped Tim would be doing that for me someday. He's a natural. He can tell you to go to Hell and make you look forward to the trip."

"Tell me about it," he agreed, chuckling. "He has his mother's knack for getting his way."

"We won't go there," Steven said, sharing the laugh.

"It's hard for me to believe that you and Timothy were at odds for so long."

"It's hard to accept when your children don't really embrace any of the things you've tried so hard to teach them."

"Timothy's ethics, honesty, kindness, compassion - those had to be things you and Anne encouraged in him."

"I'd like to think we had a little hand in all that."

"He's the most amazing man I ever met," Don said honestly. "He has such a good, decent soul and a big heart."

"When we had our falling out with Kelly, we hung a lot of our hopes on Timothy, even more so than before," he admitted, taking another draw off his beer.

"It hurt him a lot, not being in touch with you - feeling like you didn't approve of him."

"I never disapproved of Tim. He's a good man, even if he is a Democrat," he added, smiling. "I felt like he turned his back on everything that mattered to us." He sighed. "Mattered to me, anyway. I think Anne would stick up for him if he was a Communist," he added, laughing.

"But you never hated him for being gay. That's something, even if you disagreed on a whole bunch of other things. At least you guys found your way back to having a relationship. You don't think he's some kind of...trash you want to throw out because he didn't turn out the way you wanted."

"Despite what some of my colleagues might think, I don't think you choose to be gay or straight. It never made sense it was a choice. Tim was always close to Anne, but it's not like she dressed him up in her evening gowns and heels when he was a boy, or sent him to beauty school. He was never a jock by any stretch of the imagination, but he was on the swim team, and he plays a mean game of tennis. We didn't do anything to him I can think of to sway his sexual orientation. To my knowledge, none of the priests he had contact with did, either, or they wouldn't still be alive."

"I never would have guessed you'd have such an enlightened take on sexual orientation."

"Thanks," he replied, laughing.

"No, I mean, the whole conservative Republican thing doesn't usually mesh with anything but condemnation for gays."

"Before I found out Tim was gay, I didn't have much contact with gay people. I pictured the men as all limp-wristed, slightly built, and swishing around like movie starlets." He looked at Don. "I wouldn't have picked you out of a crowd as being gay."

"You just haven't seen me in my little black dress and heels," he joked.

"Thanks for that image," Steven replied, shaking his head. "I never thought being gay was a choice for Tim, but his politics were, and it seemed like we couldn't sit down at the same table without getting into it. And then he took that job in Monica Platt's office..."

"Kind of a slap in the face when you hoped he'd end up in your office someday, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Yeah, well, maybe if I hadn't been discharged from the military, my dad could have coped. He was really proud of my Army career, probably more than I was. Bragged about it to everyone who'd listen, and then there I was, a lowly civilian again, kicked out for being a fag."

"I didn't know that."

Steven's statement froze him for a moment, and he could feel a sickness in the pit of his stomach, waiting for that to cause the only father figure in his life to turn on him, too.

"It was an honorable discharge, but it was because they found out about me," he said. He wasn't about to get into the whole situation with Kyle. He didn't know if he'd ever get into that with anyone else but Timothy, ever. It didn't surprise him that Tim's parents were clueless about his military history. He knew he could confide anything to his partner and it would be held sacred.

"The whole 'don't ask, don't tell' thing doesn't work. I think we know that."

"Do you think gays should serve in the military?"

"I think it's a difficult issue. Both in dealing with the prejudices and concerns of some of the straight men and women and the safety and potential advancement opportunities for the gays involved. One thing you don't need in your armed forces is anything divisive and distracting. So how do you balance civil rights concerns and national security?"

"You think gays in the military are a threat to national security?"

"I didn't say that. But divisiveness and in-fighting is. Having gay soldiers turn up dead or the victims of any type of hate crime...it's the kind of turmoil that you don't need in the Army. I have a gay son, Don - I want him to have a good life, a safe life, and all the opportunities he deserves ...but to say that there isn't gay hate out there, or that managing it in an institution the size of the US Military isn't challenging, or that it's simple, just open the doors and be done with it - well, that's sticking your head in the sand as badly as trying to operate with a lame, useless policy like the one we have now. It doesn't serve anyone."

Don was quiet a while. The destruction of his military career was such a sore spot with him, even now, that he wasn't sure he could discuss it rationally with someone who potentially might feel that he didn't belong there in the first place because his desire to serve his country would be difficult or inconvenient for bigots in uniform or their superiors. That the price he and Kyle paid for being what they were was somehow expected or not the travesty that it was.

"For what it's worth, Don, I'm sure discharging you for that reason was the military's loss. Our country needs good men protecting it. Just because I don't see the issue as clear-cut, black and white, and simple, doesn't mean I think you had any less right to your career than anyone else who paid his dues and served his country."

"Thanks," he said, feeling himself smile faintly, and feeling his muscles relax again. His relationship with Tim's father still didn't have the depth and comfort level of his relationship with Tim's mother, and for a moment, he thought he'd killed it before it had a chance to grow. But here was a man in his father's generation, who now knew he'd been kicked out of the Army for being gay, and he was still sitting next to him on the porch steps, drinking a beer.

"One of these days, your folks may come around, Don. It may just take them a while."

"Fifteen years? My father's said, outright, he'd rather I was dead. My mother won't let me all the way onto the porch of the house I grew up in."

"Thank God for Elizabeth, huh?" he said, and Don nodded.

"I'll second that." He paused. "And for you and Mom," he said quietly.

The elder Callahan didn't reply to that, but he smiled, and took another drink of his beer.

"So, are there any fish in that pond?" he asked.

"Little ones, I think. The good fishing is in the river. The catfish you can catch there are awesome."

"Really?" He took another drink of his beer. "You a fishing man, Don?"

"My dad used to take Mike and me out there quite a lot in the summer. I haven't been fishing in years. Since I left home for the Army."

"What do you say we rent a boat and head out there tomorrow and catch us a fish fry for tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, sure, sounds great. I didn't know you fished."

"I used to when I was younger. I haven't been in years, either. Tim was never too thrilled with it, and I think if you put us in a boat together for a few hours with nothing to do but talk politics - "

"One of you would end up lost at sea," Don added, and Steven laughed.

********

"You and my dad, fishing?" Tim rolled his eyes a bit as he got into bed. "Oh, to be a barnacle on that boat."

"You could come along, you know." Don turned out the light on the night stand and scooted into Tim's arms for what he hoped would be a nice, long cuddle.

"Get up at five in the morning so I can go sit in a boat with my father and try to avoid any subjects we might find mutually offensive? I don't think so. I'll sleep in and take my mother out for breakfast."

"I was talking to him about gays in the military last night," Don said, and he felt the movement first of Tim swiveling his head and staring down at him in amazement. Then he looked up and smiled. "Yeah, we were having a conversation. No stone-throwing or political fighting."

"About gays in the military? With my conservative Republican father?"

"He didn't see it as black and white, but he was rational about it. There was nothing hateful in what he said."

"I wouldn't even touch that subject with him. What did you tell him about your military background?"

"Just that I had been discharged because they found out I was gay."

"Huh. And he didn't piss you off?"

"No, not really. He seemed to have done some solid thinking about the subject, and his concerns with it were mostly rooted in managing the attitudes and behaviors of the troops as well as protecting the safety and advancement opportunities for the gay soldiers. It would be a little weird for him to hate gays and love you and accept me at the same time."

"He doesn't hate gays, I know that. I'm just picturing you and my dad talking politics, and it scares me."

"Yeah, well, that was one discussion with beer involved. Talk to me after we've been on a boat together for a few hours."

"You are a braver man than even I thought you were," Tim replied, laughing. "I think it's nice that you're doing something together." He kissed the top of Don's head as they snuggled a little closer.

"I never would have pictured your dad being there for me during a time like this, but he's really come forward...treated me like family."

"My father will never gush or give you any big displays of affection, but once you're part of his clan, he'll be loyal and supportive in his own way, no matter what."

"Did he ever tell you that he hoped you'd work for him one day?"

"I know he wanted me to inherit his House seat, and I'm sure working for him, learning from him, would have been the precursor to that."

"You ever thought about running for office? God knows, you know the business better than most of the congressmen and senators do."

"I've thought of it now and then."

"Do you like the idea?"

"Being a public figure, an elected official...Don, there's no privacy left to that. Every aspect of your private life is pulled out and scrutinized, your family is put under a microscope, the media amuses itself by finding painful, private issues in your past and dragging them into the spotlight. I don't want that for us."

"What could anyone possibly come up with on you or your family that would matter?" Don asked, and then a sick, sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't Timothy, and it certainly wasn't his parents who had anything sordid or ugly in their past - at least, not that the media hadn't already played with because of his father's political career.

It was him.

"Fuck," he muttered, getting out of bed, grabbing his robe.

"Don, what's wrong?" Tim asked, sitting up, reaching for the lamp. Don didn't answer him. Instead, he just kept moving, heading downstairs, then through the house and outside, not feeling any better when the cool night air hit him, or he felt the cold, dewy grass under his bare feet as he kept trekking across the property, not really sure where he was going.

I destroyed Kyle's career, and now I'm the reason Timothy can't do all the amazing things he could do. He's stuck with me and my god-awful past. With a doomed military love affair and a sordid gang rape in my past, how in the hell could he ever amount to anything trying to run for office or being in the public eye?

He sat on the swing by the pond, because his feet were cold and wet and he knew he was just fleeing aimlessly from the house and the reality that he was a pariah. That he was some kind of career curse visited on his loved ones.

"Donald!" Tim's voice held a note of frustration and worry, and he wasn't surprised his partner was hurrying across the lawn wearing a coat over his pajamas and a pair of loafers. He was carrying Don's jacket and shoes with him. Poor, beautiful, overly prepared Timothy who never misses anything. Who thinks of every detail. Who spends his life taking care of me while I hold him back so all he can do professionally is take care of someone else as they rise up the political ladder.

"Your feet must be frozen," he said, sitting next to Don on the swing, handing him the shoes, putting the jacket around his shoulders. "Honey, what's the matter?" he sounded stressed out, upset, worried. No fucking wonder, since I flew out of the house like a madman.

"Why don't you go back to bed? I'll be in in a few minutes."

"I'm not going back to bed and leave you sitting out here by yourself."

"I'm safe here."

"I wasn't talking about your safety. Talk to me, baby," he said softly, touching Don's hair. Don was afraid if he spoke, he wouldn't be able to keep his voice steady. "Whatever it is, whatever I said, tell me. It's okay."

"It's been years, and even now, I can't really think too much about what happened to Kyle. Being with me destroyed his career, and that meant everything to him. I destroyed him."

"A stupid, narrow-minded, unevenly enforced policy and his own demons destroyed him. You just loved him." He stroked Don's hair and then settled his arm around Don's shoulders. "I'm not Kyle, baby. There's no way that you loving me is going to do anything for me but light up my life."

"You could be anything you want to be...hell, you could end up being the first gay President of the United States. It's going to happen one of these days, and if anybody could fix this fucked up system of ours, it'd be you."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence, honey, but I haven't even run for a single public office yet, so I wouldn't rent a tux for the inaugural ball just yet."

"Yeah, and you'll never get there with me in the picture. I'm the only one in your family who has a sordid past that hasn't already been dealt with."

"Oh, my God, Donald, you don't really think I meant that, do you? You can't think that I feel that way."

"No, I think you'd see me as something good and positive no matter what mess I got into. But I can see it. Who else are you protecting by avoiding the public spotlight?"

"There's nothing wonderful and magical about the public spotlight, Donald. Trust me, I lived in it the whole time I grew up. It's the reason that what should have been a bad case of teenage rebellion turned into a major rift in our family. My parents saw Kelly's behavior as some kind of betrayal, my father especially. As if she wanted to humiliate him publicly - chopping off her hair, getting a tattoo, protesting... Everything was always played out with a few thousand uninvited pairs of eyes watching. Not that my father's life was scrutinized the way the President's is, but the media had fun with the uptight conservative Republican congressman's daughter being arrested at a protest, skipping school to carry signs and hang around with modern day hippies. Even me jumping ship and going over to the other side..." Tim sighed, and he was quiet a moment. Don looked at his profile in the moonlight, watched him blinking.

"When I mentioned running for office, it sounded as if that's something you'd like to do."

"You asked me if I'd ever thought about it. Honey, how could I grow up in the family I have, and do the work I do, and never consider running for office myself? Of course, I've thought of it, but that doesn't mean I want to do it." He was quiet again for a few moments. "If I ever did, I can't think of anyone I would be prouder to have by my side, as my husband, than you. There's nothing in your past, or your now, that I'm anything but proud of, and if I never run for office, it will not have anything to do with wanting to sweep anything about you under the carpet. It'll be because I know what that kind of scrutiny can do to a family, and I don't want us to have that monkey on our backs."

"I'm sorry," Don said, staring out at the water, not really able to look Timmy in the eyes. His emotions were too close to the surface, and he was ashamed of himself for ever doubting Timmy or his love.

"I was counting on some cuddling tonight, and here we are, sitting out in the cold, talking politics," Timmy said, then he looked at Don out of the corner of his eye, smiling.

"I didn't mean to doubt you."

"You didn't doubt me, honey. You doubted yourself," he said, closing the embrace, holding Don close against him. Don squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face against Timmy, determined not to break down. He'd been grieving enough, and he felt like he should be able to get a hold of himself. Timothy didn't think of him as a liability, holding him back. He really didn't seem to be pining for some career in the public eye that he couldn't have because of Donald's troubled past.

Timothy loved him the way he loved Timothy. Wholly, completely, joyfully, and above all else he had, or could have.

"Everything'll seem better when we get home. I think being here has been rough. You're on an emotional roller coaster, honey."

"I'm sorry I took off on you," he said.

"It's okay. Let's go back inside. I'll think up a way to warm up those cold feet of yours."

"Just my feet?" Don asked, pulling back a little, grinning.

"Are you propositioning me?"

"Absolutely."

"Oh, good, I was hoping that's where this was headed," Timmy said, laughing softly, giving him a little squeeze.

They walked back up to the house hand in hand, and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

"You mind if we don't start with the feet?" Don said, winding his arms around Tim's waist.

"Where did you have in mind?" he asked, smiling before Don kissed him. Then kissed him again and again, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, fingers busy unbuttoning his pajamas. Not to be outdone, Tim divested Don of his jacket and his robe, and dodged Don's own active hands to get a grip on his undershirt and pull it over his head.

"Wanna do it standing up?" Don suggested, kissing his way across Tim's chest.

"Ooh, scandalous," Tim said, flexing his eyebrows and grinning.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he said, grabbing the lube out of the travel bag where it was stashed. "Congressman Callahan, is it true that you like doing it standing up?" he teased.

"Standing up, lying down, sitting, and occasionally on the stairs when we can't wait," he replied, turning and bracing himself against the wall while Don moved up behind him. "Naked, clothed, in the shower, outdoors, indoors..."

"Okay, okay," Don replied, laughing as he crouched behind Timmy, gently parting his cheeks, diving in with his tongue, loving the startled gasp of pleasure that drew out of his partner. He took his time, knowing the feeling of his tongue in such intimate places drove Timmy crazy, that he'd be hard and eager and excited in record time. He kneaded those beautiful cheeks, and finally slipped a lubricated finger inside, preparing him. After coating himself with the gel, he stood and pressed his body against Timmy's. "Fee, fi, fo, fum, look out, baby, 'cause here I come," he whispered in Timmy's ear, earning himself a somewhat inelegant snort and giggle from his partner.

He couldn't remember the last time they'd done it this way, outside the shower. There was something so naughty and different about it, ignoring the bed where you were supposed to have sex and getting down and dirty against the wall, Timothy bracing himself there with his legs slightly back and apart to put that gorgeous ass of his on a sort of wanton display for his partner's enjoyment and debauchery.

Don kissed and licked his way up Timmy's spine, ran his hands over Timmy's chest, tweaking his nipples, feeling their hardness under his fingers. They were moaning and gasping and moving together, and he knew his hand gripping Timmy's cock, pumping it along with his thrusts, would take his partner over the edge. Selfishly, he felt like he could ride that beautiful body forever, but before pleasure turned to frustration, he started stroking Timmy, touching him just the way he liked it, the way he knew would make him come. In a moment, he was shouting, his internal muscles squeezing Don in the most wonderful way until he was coming, too, taking the final ride with Timmy until they stood there panting, pressed together, stumbling a little as they remembered the one drawback of doing it standing up: that you were, in fact, standing up when you were ready to enjoy that lazy post-sex making out.

Without words, they made it back to the bed together and climbed in, winding around each other, relaxing into a long session of kissing and touching, falling asleep in the middle of it, not waking up until the alarm signaled Don it was time to leave his lover's arms to go fishing.

Life can be cruel at times...

********

Tim blinked and then opened his eyes, smiling when they met Donald's, who weren't too far away.

"Sorry if the alarm woke you. I was just lying here enjoying the view," he said, kissing Tim's cheek. The little gesture was so sweet and affectionate that it made him seek out Don's lips to kiss him properly.

"What time is it?"

"About five. I have to get up and meet your dad at the dock."

"I'll make you some food to take along. I can promise you he won't bring anything, and they're at a hotel so Mom's got no place to cook something - "

"Honey, I'm gonna run by McDonald's and get some breakfast stuff. Just go back to sleep and take it easy today. Do something fun with your mom if you want, but you're not getting up at five to pack a fishing breakfast." He kissed Tim again, stroking his shoulder, letting his fingers trail lightly over skin until they were stroking Tim's hip. "Last night was great."

"That stiffness in my back is gone...I think you realigned my spine, doing it in that position."

"Beats the hell out of a trip to the chiropractor, doesn't it?"

"Fuck your way to a healthier you, that's what I always say," Tim joked, and they both laughed. "You're sure you don't want me to fix you something?"

"I'm sure." He started kissing his way down Timmy's chest to his belly, urging him onto his back, nipping at his navel.

"You're going to be late."

"The fish aren't going anywhere, and neither is your dad without a boat." He settled between Timmy's legs and took him in his mouth. Don was doing that thing he did with his mouth, when he hummed and it vibrated in the most amazing way.

Tim felt himself relaxing into it even as he felt more and more aroused. Don was taking his time, building the intensity and then easing off a bit.

"I love you, baby," he sighed, letting his fingers ruffle Don's hair. A moment later, he was coming, Don's hands almost cradling his hips as he did, drinking down all he had to give. "Let me do something for you," Tim offered.

"You did plenty last night. Go back to sleep," Don whispered, kissing his temple. And the thought of falling back to sleep, sated as he was, lured him to let his eyes drift shut. "Thanks for breakfast."

"What?" he asked through a yawn, forcing his heavy lids open again to look at Donald.

"Just what I needed to get me going - a protein drink."

"Get out of here and go fish," Tim said, laughing, kissing him on the mouth and swatting him playfully on the butt.

********

"Hope you like Egg McMuffins," Don said as they loaded their supplies into the rented boat. It was just a small boat with an outboard motor, but it was adequate for a morning of sitting on the river, waiting for fat catfish to take the bait. "I let Timothy sleep in, and I'm not much of a cook, so you're safer with these than what I'd come up with."

"I brought a cooler," he said, holding it up proudly. "Nothing goes better with Egg McMuffins than a nice, stiff Bloody Mary," he said, opening the cooler and taking out his supplies.

"Should we shove off from the dock, or did you want to mix those first?" Don joked.

"Go ahead and take care of that, but be careful about it," he said, already working at mixing his potion in the first of two insulated travel cups he'd brought.

Don just chuckled and shook his head, getting them in motion. Once they'd found a good spot, Steven handed him his cup. After taking a sip, his eyes bugged.

"What's the matter, Don? A little early for you?" he teased, taking a drink of his own beverage.

"That's...powerful," he said. "Vodka with a splash of tomato juice."

"I was going to bring a six pack, but beer doesn't do it for me in the morning."

"Not when you could'a had a V-8," Don quipped, and Steven laughed. He hadn't seen Tim's father laugh all that much. Come to think of it, he didn't see Timothy laugh all that much, so he made a point of making him do it. Timmy was beautiful when he laughed, and the sound of it always filled Don's heart with a sense of well-being.

They unwrapped their breakfast sandwiches and ate them, accompanied by the ridiculously strong Bloody Mary's. They talked about the town a bit, Don's time on the high school football team while he was tightly closeted and became a master at pretending to care about chasing cheerleaders, and some of Steven's own favorite stories from his high school and college days. They finally got around to casting their lines into the water when they were getting just a bit tipsy on the drinks. Fortunately, Don also had a thermos of coffee with him.

"You realize if you tell Anne what I had in the cooler, she'll divorce me?"

"Your secret's safe with me, although you better have some damn fine breath mints on hand."

"I don't often get to eat fried food and drink Vodka before eight in the morning. This is a good day," he said, right before he got a nibble on his line. "And it's getting better," he said, reeling in a hefty catfish they finally freed from the hook, making it the inaugural fish in their bucket.

"Timothy won't gut that thing, I hope you know that."

"The one who catches the fewest fish does the gutting," Steven announced.

"Oh, that's fair to establish that rule when you're one up on me."

"You better get the lead out, kiddo, or the old man here's gonna take you to school on the art of fishing."

"Hey, I just said my dad took Mike and me out fishing. I never said I caught anything."

"You sure you're a private eye and not a lawyer?"

"Pretty sure, yeah," Don replied, laughing. "What kind of cases did you handle before you were elected?"

"Mainly business law, corporate cases. Nothing sexy like murderers, rapists, and drug lords."

"They make for good television but aren't so hot when you have to work with them."

"You see a lot of that kind in your work, I suppose."

"Not daily, no. I know Timothy worries about me a lot, but the really dangerous cases are the exceptions, not the rule. Generally my biggest risk is getting decked by a pissed off philanderer I just caught on candid camera."

"I sounds like you like the dangerous cases better."

"I do," he said, nodding, "but you don't have to share that with your son."

"Trust me, I'm sure he's got that figured out by now. He's just like his mother - you can never be sure how they know what they know, but somehow, they know it."

"That could be the best description of him I've heard yet." They were quiet a while, and eventually, Don got a nibble on his line, and reeled in his own fat catfish. "If we keep this up, we'll have enough for a pretty healthy dinner. My grandmother had an incredible recipe for grilled catfish. She used to marinate it and then wrap it in foil and put it on the grill outside. Man, that was good."

"And then the inside of the house didn't smell like a dead fish for three days."

"Yeah, I have a feeling that wouldn't make too many points with Timothy. We won't be here too much longer, but I'd rather not close up the house smelling like a fish market, either. If I can find that recipe card in her box, and we catch enough, how about shocking everybody and fixing it ourselves? We've already established that Anne and Tim aren't going to volunteer to gut these things."

"I'm game if you are."

"Let's see how much we get, and maybe we'll just host a little fish cookout at the farm."

********

By the time they returned to the farm, Don and Steven had a nice batch of fresh fish to show for their time in the boat. Tim and his mother were sitting in lawn chairs behind the house, visiting with Jenny and Paul who had stopped by to spend some time with them before they returned to Florida the next day. Steven discretely disposed of the contents of the beverage cooler while Don looked through his grandmother's recipe box for the marinated grilled catfish instructions.

"Damn," he muttered.

"No luck?" Steven asked. "I guess we could just holler uncle and see if Anne or Tim would handle the cooking part of it."

"Let me check in the basement. She had a lot of books and odds and ends on the shelves down there," he said.

As he started down the narrow wood stairs to the basement, tugging the light cord overhead, he stopped halfway down with a sharp indrawn breath, and then laughed at himself as a flood of childhood memories came back. He'd almost forgotten the fruits of his grandfather's brief foray into taxidermy - his grandmother had affectionately called it his "city boy attempt at being country."

A large owl, stuffed, spread its wings across the corner of the turn in the stairs. He'd been deathly afraid of it when he was little, and his grandmother had covered it with a beach towel during the summer when he spent so much time there. Mike had thought it was hilariously funny one day when he managed to trap Donald in there with the thing, sticking something under the doorknob so he couldn't get out. It must have all been part and parcel of Donald's lifelong aversion to decorated dead things, because he'd been terrified that all those stuffed animal corpses in the basement would come back to life and gobble him up. Especially the ones who were preserved with their fangs bared.

He'd screamed himself hoarse, pounded on the door until he was bruised, and by the time his grandmother got back from a twenty minute outing to a fruit stand up the street, he was crying for all he was worth, huddled by the door, waiting for the animals to get him. She didn't find doing that to a five-year-old amusing, so his brother had ended up spending the rest of his summer that year working every moment he was there on chores she said would keep his idle mind occupied and see to it he was too tired to make mischief.

"Once a fucking asshole, always a fucking asshole," he mumbled under his breath, patting the harmless stuffed owl on the wing as he went the rest of the way downstairs.

He looked through the assortment of books and magazines and odds and ends on the shelves near the bottom of the stairs, and found a recipe book which, much to his delight, had multiple grilling recipes written in his grandmother's handwriting tucked inside it. The whole book was on "picnic favorites," so her filing system still made sense. As he was about to go upstairs, something caught his eye. Frowning, he walked over to the cabinet where his grandfather's old taxidermy supplies were kept. Throughout his youth, the antique cabinet with the wood and glass doors had been locked, because the supplies included poisonous chemicals. Now, both doors were closed, but the lock was broken and one door didn't quite latch.

"Did you find it?" Steven's voice called down from above.

"Yeah, I got it. Be right up." He studied the broken lock, then carefully opened the doors by their corners and looked through the various bottles and containers there. There was a round, clean spot on the dusty shelf where it appeared a can or bottle had sat.

"Good lord, it looks like the inside of a hunting lodge blew up down here," Steven said, having made his way downstairs.

"It's a little much, isn't it? My grandfather played around with taxidermy for a while, but my grandmother found it repulsive to be surrounded by it upstairs, so he kept most of his 'masterpieces' down here."

"She kept her recipes in there?"

"No, these are all taxidermy supplies. This cabinet's always been locked, thought. I can't figure why it would be open like this...and what was taken out of it."

"Maybe Elizabeth used something and just forgot where she put the key."

"I doubt that," he said, feeling along the top of the cabinet and bringing his hand back dusty but with a key in it. "She kept it up there so we couldn't reach it when we were little. She wouldn't have forgotten it, so she'd have no reason to break the latch."

"Who'd want to break in to a cabinet full of old taxidermy supplies?"

"I don't know. I don't think she kept any secret stashes of money tucked in here."

"If you knew about them, they wouldn't be secret, now would they?"

"I guess you have a point there," he admitted, chuckling.

"This bothers you."

"Yeah, just because it doesn't make any sense. If anybody wanted any of this old junk, she'd have probably given them the key and let them take it. It's not like she was stuffing birds of prey in between quilting projects. She had no use for it. I think the only reason she didn't move it was because it was my grandfather's, and she kept a lot of his things as he left them."

"I guess you need to know what was missing first," Steven commented.

"What do you need to stuff dead animals anyway?"

"Don't look at me. The closest I ever get to large dead birds is carving the turkey at Thanksgiving. I used to go deer hunting once in a while with my dad when I was a boy, but that's the only hunting I ever did, and we didn't stuff anything we shot." He paused. "Did she tend to keep money in the house? Under a mattress, that sort of thing? I had a great aunt who was famous for that. When she died, we found about ten grand squirreled away in that house."

"Wow. No, she wasn't big on that. She had a bank account, and what she had, went in there. She had a cookie jar in the kitchen with some cash in it, but I think she mainly did that for the fun of it with the grandchildren, and probably with the great-grandchildren now. We used to think it was really cool when Grandma would get out the cookie jar and give us money for something. She'd sometimes use it to take us out for ice cream or pizza in the summer."

"Is that still here?"

"She kept it in one of the kitchen cupboards. I should check to see if it's there."

"If that's still there, chances are, whoever tampered with this wasn't after money."

"Say, if you ever retire from politics, you should consider the PI business," he joked.

"If I ever retire, I don't think Anne's going to let me start a second career. She's already irritated with me that I'm running for re-election again. She wants to travel, maybe spend a couple months abroad. That's a little tough to do and still show up for votes and serve your constituents."

"Since I was out of commission for a while last year, my business has declined a little - "

"Don't you think that's still in the process of ramping back up again?"

"Somewhat, but it's mostly recovered in that sense. Before I was attacked, it seemed so urgent to never tick off a client, to never refuse night work, to keep building up the business...there are times I think I was kind of a slave to it. More than once, my doctor mentioned that my recovery, the fact I lived through the surgery given the condition I was in when they did it...well, being a medical man, I guess he didn't want to use the word miracle, but I did hear 'extraordinary' and 'extremely fortunate' more than once. Since I got back on my feet, it seems just as important now to be sure I get some evenings to sit on the couch with Timothy and watch TV, or go with him and just follow him around the grocery store with the cart - 'cause God knows, I don't get to make the food and menu decisions," he added, laughing. "I make sure we go out someplace nice at least once on the weekend, partly for him, and partly because I never get tired of showing your son off," he added, smiling. "Those trips Anne wants to take, she's not going to want to go without you."

"I know, that's what she tells me. And I suppose I could work in a little travel time between sessions without my district crumbling to pieces," he said, smiling.

"I occasionally need to remind Timmy that Senator Platt won't have a nervous breakdown or be recalled if he goes on vacation."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that. After all, she is a Democrat."

"Ouch," Don replied, laughing as he led the way upstairs.

Elizabeth's cookie jar was safely in its usual place on a high shelf in the kitchen cupboard. He decided to leave the sleuthing until after they'd cleaned and marinated their fish, and then visited with Anne, Timmy, Jenny and Paul.

********

Don enjoyed the prospect of a family cookout before they all headed their separate ways again. With the marinated catfish in foil on the grill, some delicious salads Tim and Anne contributed to the feast, and a batch of homemade cookies Jenny baked according to one of Elizabeth's recipe cards, they had a tasty spread to devour as they sat at the picnic table or in lawn chairs in the mild breeze of the early evening. Dana and Greg joined them, and Jenny had even extended an invitation to the estranged branch of the Strachey family, which was, not surprisingly, declined.

As they were all sitting around eating and visiting, they were surprised to see Mike's girlfriend, Lori, carrying Chelsea, walking around the side of the house to the backyard where they were gathered.

"Lori, right?" Don said, getting up to greet her, smiling.

"I'm sorry to just show up like this, without Mike, but I wanted you to have a chance to meet Chelsea before you go home," she said. A pretty redhead in her thirties, she was dressed casually in a pink t-shirt and jeans. Chelsea was dressed in a little pair of denim overalls, embroidered with flowers, over a pink t-shirt of her own.

"Can you guys stay and have some food? We have lots of good stuff."

"I really can't. Mike thinks we're at the store, so I still have to go grab some groceries and head home. Chelsea, honey, this is your Uncle Donald," she said, and the three-year-old smiled and then hid her face against her mother. "She's shy," she said, smiling and rolling her eyes a little.

"Hi, Chelsea. Wow, I really like your sneakers," he said, having no clue which children's character was on the little pink shoes. Tim came up behind him.

"Dora the Explorer," he supplied helpfully. Don wondered if there was anything about anything that Timothy didn't know at least something about.

"This is my partner, Timothy Callahan," Don said, and Lori spared an arm from holding Chelsea long enough to shake hands.

"We're so glad you came by. Don's been wanting to meet Chelsea. She's beautiful."

"Thank you. We think so," she added, kissing the little girl's cheek. "Come on, honey, say hi to your uncles," she said, winking at Tim. Chelsea finally ventured to look at them, and not surprisingly to Don, Tim immediately engaged her discussing her sneakers in detail. He laughed when she reached toward him and was more than happy to have Tim hold her.

"He has that effect on me, too," Don said, and Lori laughed. "I know this was awkward for you. I really appreciate you bringing her out here," he said, smiling at his niece.

"How long will you two be here?" she asked.

"Our flight leaves tomorrow night," Tim said, and Don nodded.

"Mike's really upset about the house."

"I suppose he is, but that was Grandma's decision, not mine. Besides, we didn't inherit it, either."

"No, I know, but he was counting on us moving out here... He went nuts when he found out about the will. Just...be careful until you go home."

"He didn't hurt you or Chelsea, did he?" Tim asked, concerned.

"No, he's never laid a hand on me, and he's crazy about Chelsea. My big problem with him is that he spoils her and she has a better mastery of using the word 'no' than he does. I just mean...he's so angry..."

"What are you trying to tell me, Lori?" At Don's question, Tim carried Chelsea a bit out of earshot to where he could set her on her own feet on the grass and let her "mingle" with everyone there.

"Can we have a cookie, Mom?" he asked Lori, and she smiled.

"Sure, go ahead," she replied, and Tim got the little girl a cookie.

"Lori?" Don urged.

"I think Mike was involved in attacking that guy, the...the gay bashing," she whispered, biting her lip. "God help me, I think he did it."

"What makes you think he was involved?"

"Things he says, the guys he hangs around with from his softball league... They can be so hateful, so bigoted. He's a wonderful father to Chelsea, but I don't want him poisoning her mind that way. Now that she's old enough to start hearing and repeating things, I just don't want her to turn into a nasty little bigot. I don't know what to do."

"I can't tell you what to do, Lori. I can tell you that if you need help, or you're afraid of Mike, we'll help you. The flight between here and Albany isn't that big of a deal. We'll help you if your safety or Chelsea's is at stake."

"The night it happened, Mike came home with a huge stain on his uniform - he'd tried getting it out himself, but it was real mess. We were still staying with Elizabeth at the time, and she asked him what happened. He said someone knocked over a whole dish of salsa on his uniform at the bar after the game."

"You don't think it was salsa, do you?"

"Elizabeth didn't buy it, either, but she didn't say much about it. We didn't know until the news broke what had happened, and then it was a couple days before Mike was questioned. One of his friends backed up his story about the salsa, but no one else remembers any incident at the bar where anyone spilled anything. Throwing a whole bowl of salsa down the front of someone's softball uniform seems like it would catch some attention. The thing is, it wasn't until after the police talked to us - Elizabeth and me - that anyone started asking about the stain. I didn't say anything about it, so that means Elizabeth had to have told them. It was actually a couple months before Mike made that connection. Maybe he thought someone else saw him looking like that, and maybe someone else did, I don't know. He was so angry at her - he got pretty loud and abusive in the way he was talking to her, and she told him to pack up and get out."

"He must have crossed some pretty major lines for her to do that, especially for Chelsea's sake. She'd have wanted to know she had a good, stable home."

"She told me we could stay with her, and if I was smart, I'd do that. She was as angry at Mike as he was at her...maybe angrier."

"Why wouldn't she have told me any of this? I was in touch with her pretty regularly after we spent the holidays together - "

"She mentioned calling you, and then she said you'd be angry and you'd probably fly out here and have it out with Mike, and that would only make things worse. And, if Mike was involved, she was afraid for your safety, and Tim's. Frankly, I am, too. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just that it's been gnawing at my conscience all this time."

"Is there anything else that Mike said, or anything else you observed, that makes you think he did it?"

"It's how hate-filled he is. I don't want to go into the things he said about you and Tim in the last couple days, but it's really awful. I don't think I'll be with him much longer."

"You're staying with your parents, right?"

"Yes. Even if I break up with Mike, I think we'll be okay. But he can't know I've talked to you about this."

"I understand. Do you think the police were genuinely committed to investigating the case, or were they giving it lip service?"

"The detective on the case was a woman, and she seemed very sincere. I know the police aren't always sensitive to gay victims, but she seemed to be on the up and up. I don't really know what the police are doing about it now. Mike hasn't been questioned recently, and there haven't been any arrests."

"Just worry about taking care of yourself and Chelsea. I won't let on to Mike that we've talked, but I'm going to look into this. Whether it ends up clearing his name or implicating him, we need to know the truth."

"That's how I feel," she agreed.

After Lori left with Chelsea, Don found himself picking at the remains of his food, not really feeling he should share that whole discussion with everyone. He could bounce everything off Timmy later. Despite being so pleased to have reconnected with family, and enjoying the gathering with them, he found himself anxious to start digging for some answers to a few burning questions.

********

"Despite how hateful or bigoted parts of your family are, do you really think your brother would go out and beat up a gay man?" Tim asked, stretched out in a chair in the living room, having listened patiently to a recap of everything Lori had told Don.

"I just think it's exceedingly coincidental that the night he and a bunch of his bigot friends are hanging out together with at least one baseball bat between them, and he ends up at home with some big red stain on his jersey, a gay man just happens to suffer an assault within a block of their favorite bar, where they admit to being. Oh, and that assault involves a baseball bat."

"I know it sounds bad."

"It sounds like a slam dunk, but it's all circumstantial."

"But do you believe your brother is capable of that kind of brutality?"

"You see the way he looks at me. The way my father looks at me. It's not just hostility or disapproval, it's contempt. If he can hate me that way, and I'm his own brother, it's not much of a leap that he could attack some random gay man who's at the wrong place at the wrong time when he's had a couple too many beers and his friends are egging him on."

"Did Lori ever mention what happened to that uniform? If it was a blood stain, even if he laundered it or had it cleaned, there might be DNA evidence still in the fibers somehow. Or some speck of blood on a shoelace or something that even he overlooked."

"Somebody's been watching Forensic Files while he waits up for me," Don joked, and Tim shot him a look before he caved in and smiled.

"It's that or the talk shows," he said. "That doesn't invalidate my point."

"No one said it did," Don said, his voice a bit higher in mock defensiveness. "Maybe Lori can find the clothes and shoes he was wearing that night, even if the cops didn't think to ask for them."

"Maybe they couldn't get a warrant."

"That's possible, but realistically, if he's guilty, he probably tossed them by now."

"Do I even want to know why you're on a website researching taxidermy?"

"Here," he said, handing a list to Tim. "Check these off as I read them."

"You didn't answer my question."

Don sighed. "My grandfather played around with taxidermy for a couple years when my grandparents first moved out here. His critters are still in the basement. Anyway, he kept all his supplies in a cabinet down there. My grandmother always kept it locked because she didn't want one of us getting into it. Someone broke the lock and took something out of it. I made a list of everything that's in there now, including the jar of those creepy glass eyes."

"Stuffed dead animals in the basement. Your grandmother struck me as a bit feistier than your typical little old lady, but I wouldn't have guess that one."

"Before you start comparing her to Baby Jane or Lucretia Borgia, just remember it was my grandfather who stuffed them, not her. She didn't want them upstairs because she thought they were unsettling. I think she didn't get rid of them because he made them, and for some reason, he liked them well enough to hold onto them while he was still alive."

"If you stuff any dead animals, I will try to allow you to keep one or two of them upstairs," Tim said, humor in his voice.

"Yeah, there are a few things love just can't conquer, and for my grandmother, it was having dead things stuffed and placed in her living room. I was scared to death to go down there when I was little. I hated those things. Especially the owl he had mounted over the basement stairs. I think it was a bit of his dark sense of humor coming to the surface, and a little display of power since his critters were banished from the upstairs."

"I can see how that would frighten a child."

"Try being locked in the dark with them for half an hour. I was so scared I think I pissed my pants. My poor grandmother. We put her through some paces babysitting us."

"You were locked in the dark with them? What on earth for?"

"I was afraid of the owl, especially. My grandmother covered it with a beach towel most of the time so it didn't freak me out."

"Why not just get rid of it?"

"She said if she got rid of it, it would lend credence to my fear that there was something dangerous about it. She felt if she covered it, so I didn't have to look at it, that would make it easier for me, but that it would be better for me to learn that inanimate objects like a dead stuffed owl aren't dangerous."

"So she locked you in the dark with it? Was she punishing you or something?"

"No, of course not. Mike did it. She went up the street to the fruit stand one afternoon in the summer while we were with her, and he trapped me behind the basement door and stuck a chair or something under it to keep me in there. I was too little reach the light cord, so I had to stay in there in the dark until she got home."

"Oh, my God, Donald, I take back any doubts I expressed about what your brother is capable of."

"He was only ten himself. It probably seemed funny to him at the time. Kids are mean to each other, that's human nature. Of course, looking back, he got sick of me under his feet all the time since I was so much younger. There might have been more than normal hostility there."

"I hope your grandmother came up with suitable retribution for him."

"Let's just say he's probably never worked harder in his life than he did the rest of that summer. Which, of course, made him hate me that much more, because he always accused me of being Grandma's pet. Which I was," he added, grinning a little devilishly.

"That could explain why you don't like being around dead people."

"Do you like being around dead people?" he asked, arching his brows.

"No, I suppose like is the wrong word."

"I'm used to dead people. It's the whole weird looking makeup and 'let's-all-go-kiss-the-stiff' that freaks me out. Ugh," he added, shuddering. "Just give me your basic garden-variety corpse any day. Just don't dress it up like I'm expected to take it to the prom or something."

"Okay, now you're starting to give me the creeps."

"Sorry, honey. You asked."

"You're going to read off what should be in the cabinet so we can figure out what's missing?"

"Bingo. Here we go," Don said, and then proceeded to read off a number of items, and each time, Tim said "check," and make a mark beside it on Don's list. "Arsenic," Don read off, and Tim paused. "Arsenic," he repeated.

"Yes, I heard you, but it's not here."

"I guess I'd have remembered something like that. I didn't know they used that for taxidermy. I know it's in rat poison."

"I'm not sure, but I think it's some kind of preservative. Arsenic is pretty easy to come by, though. All you have to do is buy some rat poison or order it online."

"Do I want to know how you know about the availability of arsenic?"

"Probably not," Tim replied, flexing his eyebrows. "A constituent made a complaint to the senator's office that her dog got sick because the exterminator used some kind of compound with arsenic in it, and that it should be regulated, and couldn't we do something about it, etcetera. In the course of looking into her complaint, I ended up Googling arsenic and rat poison."

"Sure you did. You were just trying to figure out how to get your hands on the vast Strachey fortune prematurely."

"Yeah, that's it," he replied, snorting.

"Hey, my fortune isn't that ridiculous," Don objected, and Tim just chuckled.

"Who'd steal arsenic?"

"Someone who wanted to get some in a non-traceable way." Don set the laptop on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. "Someone who wanted to use it to kill more than rats."

"I guess we'd be looking for any suspicious or unexplained deaths in the area then."

"The symptoms of arsenic poisoning can be flu-like," Don said, staring into space, not having eye contact with Tim.

"That's what I understand, yes."

"Grandma was little and she looked frail, but she was healthy as a horse. I know she was old, but that's no reason to just write off her death as old age. There's arsenic missing from a locked cabinet in her basement that no one has touched in years, and she conveniently develops the flu and dies, which certain people believed would put them in line to inherit this place."

"Oh, my God, Donald, you think Mike poisoned his own grandmother to get her house?"

"We think he may have bludgeoned a gay man with a baseball bat for entertainment, so how much of stretch is slipping something into Grandma's tea to move along the inheritance process?"

"It's a stretch between a hate-based assault short of murder, to murdering a family member you profess to love, who's been nothing but good to you - "

"Who suddenly gets fed up with your shit and tells you to get out, who told the police about the big red stain on your softball jersey, who's living in a nice house you think you're due to inherit while you're stuck in your girlfriend's parents' basement... People have killed for less obvious or compelling reasons."

"What can we take to the police from this? We have no evidence who tampered with that cabinet, and we don't even know for sure that your grandfather's supplies were complete. He might not have even had arsenic in there, and your grandmother might have disposed of something, or used something and not replaced it."

"The latch was broken. The key was right on top of the cabinet, where she always kept it. She wanted it high enough that grandchildren couldn't get into it."

"For all they know, you took it out of the cabinet."

"What? When I was a kid and then hid it in my sock drawer until now, so I could sneak up to Maryland and poison my grandmother to inherit a few thousand dollars from her?"

"You could have taken it out now, while we're here, and be framing your brother."

"Yeah, that's likely."

"I'm playing devil's advocate, Donald. We have nothing."

"We'd have something if we get an exhumation order for Grandma and there's arsenic in her remains."

"How would you go about getting that? Do you think this is enough?"

"I haven't felt right about this since we got here. I don't know why, but every instinct in me has been on alert about this. I didn't feel comfortable just accepting her death, and it's not because I can't, or even because I get freaked out by dressed up dead people. It's a gut feeling."

"Your mother would never agree to that."

"She doesn't have to if the cops order it."

"You realize how monstrous this will sound to your family."

"Timothy, I don't care how it sounds. If Mike killed our grandmother to get his hands on this house, I don't care what I have to do to prove it. Lori said he was nearly out of his mind over not inheriting the house, which make a lot more sense if he killed for it."

"He might just be angry at your grandmother, and at us for inheriting something. Because the estate was split up. That doesn't mean he's upset because he killed her and she thwarted him from beyond the grave."

"No, but it's a viable theory."

"Are you sure you aren't just going after Mike because you think he's guilty of something else, and because of the way he's treating you?"

"Yes, Timothy, I'm sure about that," he shot back. "I wouldn't try to frame my brother for killing our grandmother just because he pissed me off."

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant - "

"It was pretty clear what you meant."

"No, it wasn't, or you wouldn't be so angry right now. All I meant was that all of those emotions could be coloring your judgment. Not that you were out to get him out of some conscious evil motive of your own."

"That's what everyone else will think. I just didn't think you'd feel that way."

"I don't," Tim protested, sitting on the edge of his seat. "Honey, I just mean that this whole situation is so painful and emotionally charged, and you have every reason not to feel very good about your brother, or to see him in a good light. It's a good bet he had a hand in a hate crime against a gay man, and that he's a flaming bigot. He also locked horns with your grandmother to the point she put him out of her house. There's a lot of reason to think badly of him from all that, to make this leap, but it's all emotional and circumstantial, that's all I'm saying."

"Circumstantial evidence has taken people to death row, so let's not discount it. And the only way to get hard evidence is to go after it. And if you want to look at it another way, let's get at the truth, whatever it is. If Mike's innocent, that's fine. I'd love for him to be innocent of all wrongdoing, even though I can't stand the fucker and I doubt we'll ever reconcile. I'd prefer that my brother wasn't a criminal and a killer."

"I know. I didn't mean to make it sound like I thought you were out to get him."

"I'm sorry I jumped down your throat."

"In the right context, I like when you do that," Tim said, arching an eyebrow.

"You're a dirty boy, Timmy," he replied, laughing.

"I'm always on your side, honey. No matter what."

"I know that," Don said, getting up as Timmy moved over in the big overstuffed chair so they could cuddle in it together. It was a tight fit, but that was even better.

"I know how hard all this is on you," Tim said softly, holding him close, tucking Don's head under his chin. Like always, Timmy knew just what he needed, and was there to give it to him.

"I don't want to think someone killed her," he confessed quietly, a little hitch in his voice.

"I know you don't, honey. But I also know you won't be able to put this behind you until you have answers." He kissed Don's hair. "You wouldn't be you if you could just walk away not knowing."

"I miss her."

"I do, too. I'll never forget when I met her at the airport. I kept staring at her. All I could think of was, 'oh, my God, it's a little old female Donald.' I could have picked her out of any crowd."

"She liked you right from the start, even when she was still wishing you were a 'nice young lady'," he recalled, smiling.

"Who could give her great-grandchildren," Tim added. "And you thought my folks had high expectations from you."

"Do you think I'm way off, thinking Mike could have killed her for this house?"

"I think Mike is probably not a very good man, and that makes him a valid target for suspicion, if there's a reason to have suspicion. The broken lock on the cabinet and the missing arsenic, his shock that he's not inheriting the house, the possibility he was angry with her for implicating him with the police...you said it yourself - don't discount circumstantial evidence. I think people have committed murder and covered it up better than this."

"Sometimes..." Don sucked in a long breath before making the admission, "Sometimes I...I don't feel as sure of...of what I think...as I used to. Before...last year."

"You went through something unthinkable and violent, honey. It hasn't even been a whole year. Don't be hard on yourself for still having some lingering doubts or fears or insecurities. You wouldn't be human if you didn't still have some of those to wrestle with."

"I never used to question my instincts...or, you know, my...that my head was okay."

"Your beautiful, precious head is just fine, my love," Timmy said softly, a warm hand resting on the side of Donald's head, pressing it closer to his chest. "It's okay to be afraid sometimes. That doesn't mean you aren't still the sharp, insightful, clever man who has racked up an impressive record of solved cases."

"I haven't racked up many since it happened."

"Probably because you were off work a long time, and you had to break in gradually. Let's not ignore the 600-pound gorilla in the corner. You were attacked while you were prowling around doing night work. Just because we don't often give voice to that doesn't mean that I think you don't make that connection every time you're by yourself in the dark in that car on a stakeout, or every time you get out of it to go slink around in the night, taking the risks you always took without sparing them much of a second thought."

Such explicit and profoundly true words made it hard for him to hold back his emotions. As Timmy held him closer and rubbed his back, he couldn't really recall why he was trying. Sometimes, he was so tired of the struggle to ignore his fear, to put out of his mind the awful things that were done to him, of forcing himself to keep doing the same kind of work he was doing when he was attacked. Or that cold, sickening fear in the pit of his stomach that some dark night, there'd be another bunch of guys who'd choose the same way to "punish" him for snooping on their operation.

"At the end of the day, Donald, you are still the bravest, strongest man I know, and I love you with all my heart. You're my best friend and my lover, my husband, my partner in life in every possible way. And no matter what, you will always be my hero. Not because of how many dangerous things you do, or how many cases you solve, or because you try to hold yourself to some impossible standard of not having any lingering fears after what you suffered through. You're my hero because of the way you love me, and how happy I am with you, and because I know you'd do anything in the world for me, and because I have never met a kinder, gentler, braver, more beautiful soul than you."

Timothy was so good with words, and they were all genuine. He meant what he said, and he knew just how to say it to ease the pain in Donald's soul. He let himself cry, let the hot tears escape from under his lids, and the inelegant gasps and sobs come with them. He let Timmy comfort him and wipe at his eyes and his nose with a tissue he seemed to produce from nowhere, the way he always came up with what Don needed, when he needed it. He wasn't proud of the meltdown, but he thought of Timmy's words, and clung to the knowledge that he was with the one person who only wanted him as he was, scars and flaws and fears included.

"Grieving is awful, taxing work for the soul," Timmy said softly, kissing his cheek. "Sometimes you have to just let it win for a while and cry it out."

"I'm not used to doing that," he admitted, thinking back of Kyle's death, how he had to stuff that down inside him and move on alone. What's the point of crying and grieving when you're always alone?

"I know, baby, I know."

"I think you should go home tomorrow night, like we planned."

"What?" Tim sounded shocked, and Don knew he'd hit him out of nowhere with that. But he also knew that he'd never recover if something happened to Timothy. He was too precious to put in the line of fire with gay-bashing bigots and potential murderers.

"If Mike and his pals are capable of what I think they did, I don't want you to be here as an easy target for them."

"They're not going to risk coming after us."

"Rage and resentment make people do stupid things."

"If you think for one minute that I'm getting on that flight and leaving you here alone to deal with this, then you're stark raving mad. You're crazy. You're not just crazy, you're...you're Norman Bates in a house dress crazy."

"Okay, okay," Don protested, nearly unable to believe he was laughing.

"Joan Crawford with wire hangers crazy," he added, and Don laughed harder.

"You win," he conceded, squeezing Timmy, angling up to kiss him. "But you listen to what I tell you about being careful, and no unauthorized amateur sleuthing, got it?"

"Fine, duly noted," Tim agreed, smiling at him. "Put your head back down and just rest a little." He stroked Don's hair and they both fell silent a while until they began dozing, and decided to turn in for the night.

********

"I have to be honest, Don, that sounds a little thin to get the local flatfoots to exhume a body," Steven said as he, Don, Tim, and Anne shared a final breakfast together at the farmhouse before Tim's parents flew back home.

"She became ill out of the blue, out of flu season, there was no hospital stay, no tests run - the doctor came out to the house and looked at her and decided she had the flu. He didn't do bloodwork or admit her to the hospital. She had a greedy grandson who wanted her house, and she was the one who told the cops about the stain on his uniform."

"That's your way in," Steven said.

"How do you mean?"

"I have a good friend at FBI Headquarters at Quantico. A hate crime investigation is a federal matter, and one of the key witnesses in an open investigation just died suddenly and somewhat strangely. In fact, she was the only witness on record who could have testified to a key element of that case."

"There's Lori," Don said.

"Assuming she'll tell her story to the authorities. She didn't the first time around, and she's not on record as having told them about it. Your grandmother is the only official witness to that pivotal piece of information."

"We don't even know the feds were called in on this," Don added.

"If they weren't, they should have been. It's possible the locals kept it to themselves, and maybe the victim wasn't aware of his rights to report it to federal authorities on his own. It'll be a federal matter now," he added, smiling.

"Just how high up is your friend?" Tim asked.

"High enough. And finding out if one of the most important witnesses was murdered seems like a priority to me."

"I thought you didn't work on criminal cases in your career," Don said, smiling.

"I didn't. But now if you want to talk about knowing whom to call when you want to get something done? That I have experience with."

********

Exactly two days after the elder Callahan invoked his connections with an FBI administrator at Quantico, Don, Tim, Jane, Mike, and Don's parents all stood a grim watch over the raising of Elizabeth's casket from her grave. Though Don and Tim stood alone like lepers quarantined from the rest of the group, they were close enough to hear snips of the conversation, including words like "monstrous", "unthinkable", "desecration" and "evil." And those were the less inflammatory terms. Don had hoped Jane would be of the opinion that Elizabeth deserved justice, and deserved to have the truth about her death known, but since she was long-time friends with Elizabeth's doctor, and couldn't bring herself to believe that one of Elizabeth's own grandchildren would mean her harm, she'd sided with the rest of the family.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," Don said quietly as they left the grave site, the casket loaded into a hearse and headed for Baltimore, since Cedar Grove didn't have its own medical examiner.

"My father's friend wouldn't have pushed through an exhumation order if it wasn't a sound request. Even a U.S. congressman couldn't get them to dig up a body for no good reason."

"They all just think I'm trying to be spiteful with this. My mother doesn't even care that her own mother might have been poisoned for her house."

"Maybe it's not so much that she doesn't care, as that she can't accept it's possible that Mike would do something so awful."

"Sometimes I have trouble with that myself. Then I think about the fact he probably gets his kicks whacking gay men with baseball bats, and anything seems possible."

"You're not going to get away with this."

Don and Tim both turned around at the sound of Don's father's voice.

"What is it you think I'm getting away with? I wasn't even in town when Grandma died. Go talk to your other son about what he's trying to get away with. While you're at it, ask him what happened to the softball league uniform he was wearing the night of the gay bashing incident."

"That's what this is all about, isn't it? The chip on your shoulder because we don't accept your deviant lifestyle."

"Mike is a suspect in a brutal hate crime, and there's some compelling evidence to justify digging up a grave to find out if he's a murderer, too, and you're talking about my deviant lifestyle? For a long time, I've wished I could have your approval again, that you'd think of me as your son. If Mike's the kind of son you approve of, you two deserve each other, and I'm glad to be out of it."

"You and your hot shot father just roll in here and pull some strings and you think you're in the driver's seat," he spat angrily at Tim. "This isn't your home and you're not welcome here."

"The last time I looked, you didn't own this town," Don said, holding up a forestalling hand toward Tim before he could respond. "We both loved Grandma, and if someone killed her, I'm gonna find out who did it. Any clout Tim's father used just expedited the process, but it didn't change the eventual outcome. If Mike had something to do with her death, I hope he rots in prison for it. If he didn't, he has nothing to worry about, and you should all feel the same way I do about making sure someone doesn't get away with killing her."

"Robert, let it go," Don's mother said, taking her husband by the arm as she joined the group. "This isn't solving anything."

"So it's okay with you that he blows into town with his fancy pants boyfriend and his big shot political family and starts pushing us all around?"

"Don, let's just go," Tim said. "Your mother's right, we aren't going to reach any agreement here, so all we're doing is trading insults."

"Donald, why are you really doing this?" his mother asked. "You can't honestly believe that Mike would ever harm your grandmother. They may have had some differences in recent months, but she loved you both as if you were her own, and he loved her, too."

"She was the only one who told the police about a key piece of evidence against him in a hate crime investigation, and he didn't know she'd changed her will. And he's living in his girlfriend's basement without a house of his own, thinking he's in line to inherit hers. She conveniently turns up dead in a manner that's pretty damn parallel to arsenic poisoning, and there just happens to be a container of arsenic missing from the basement. Where I come from, that's means, motive, and opportunity."

"He's your brother," she protested.

"And that should suddenly mean something to me? I love how you all invoke my relationship to this family when you want me to overlook a hate crime and a murder, and then you want to disown me when I try to be part of the family. You can't have it both ways. Either I'm your son or I'm not, but don't play the relative card when it suits you and then shoo me off the porch of the house I grew up in when you want to make a point of rejecting your gay son in front of your church-going bigot friends."

"Don't talk to your mother that way," his father snapped, wagging a finger in his direction.

"According to all of you, she's not my mother, you're not my father, and Mike's not my brother unless somebody's guilty of something you don't want me to investigate, in which case, we're all family again. I'm through with this mess. For years I figured it was me. I was gay and I let you down. I fell in love with a man in the Army and I was kicked out, and you were embarrassed, and I let you down. I was a disappointment, a failure, the worst thing that ever happened to this family. I only came back here for Grandma, because I felt like I owed it to her to pay my respects, to take the opportunity to try to mend the fences here that she worked so hard to give me. While I didn't come out of this trip with that, I did come out of it not giving a damn anymore about being part of this family. All I want to do now is make sure she gets justice, and then get the hell out of here for the last time."

He turned and walked away, with Tim beside him, not sure if his sometimes hot-headed father would charge after him or let it go. Since there was no angry reprisal and no thundering footsteps behind him or angry hand on his shoulder, he figured his mother finally prevailed and settled his father down, at least marginally.

"I hope I'm wrong about this," Don said. And it was true. Nothing would make him happier than to find out he was paranoid, his grandmother died from natural causes, and his prick brother wasn't guilty of anything other than being, well, a prick.

"It's not a nice feeling to think of your brother being a killer, or even guilty of a hate crime."

"Oh, I don't care about that asshole. I just don't want to think about Grandma dying of arsenic poisoning, of her life being ended God-knows how many years before it had to be, because that fucker wanted her house. As for the gay bashing? I'm sure he did it. There's just too much evidence for it."

"You can't tell me you don't care anything about your family."

"My grandmother was the only one worth salvaging out of the lot, and she's dead. Chances are, Mike killed her. What's left to care about? I've tried, Timothy. You know I have. There's just a point where something inside you dies. And when it does, it's a lot less painful. I guess it's true what they say - you can't go home again. When I left here for the Army, I left the life and the family I had as a child behind me. These people are...well, I don't know what they are, but they're barely recognizable."

"Or maybe when you were a child, the issues that divide you now just didn't matter, so you never saw their dark sides."

"Probably." Don got into the rental car and started it as Tim got in the passenger side. "I couldn't have done this without your dad's help."

"I think you'd have found a way, but it sped things up a lot. He said the Feds are going to investigate the hate crime. Someone from the field office in Baltimore will be here as soon as they have the autopsy results."

********

When they returned to the house, Don spent most of the day going through it from basement to roof. Once an official investigation began, it was likely any evidence would be spirited away by the authorities, and entirely possible he wouldn't be kept informed of those developments the way he was back home. He could usually get the information he needed from Bailey, but the local authorities weren't going to have any fond feelings for him once the Feds were on site, re-opening their case, and the Feds themselves were even less likely to discuss an ongoing case with him.

He didn't find much of interest, though it was obvious his grandmother had been a bit of a gravy train for Mike, Lori, and Chelsea prior to their falling out. Not only did she write a number of checks to Lori, but her bank account balances dipped substantially during the months they lived with her.

"You're frowning," Tim said, looking up from the book he was reading. They were sitting on the front porch, Tim passing his time reading some recent book on politics he'd picked up shortly before they left home, and Don going through his grandmother's bank statements and checkbook with a fine-tooth comb.

"Grandma spent a lot of money ostensibly on Chelsea in the last few months they lived here."

"You think Mike had his hand in the cookie jar?"

"Not Mike. All of these checks were written to Lori." He rubbed his forehead. "Her checkbook has the carbon copies of each check..." Don flipped back and forth. "It looks like someone else wrote and signed these."

"Maybe she had Lori doing the bookkeeping for her. Sometimes as people get older, keeping up a checkbook is a challenge."

"I think you're right, that she had Lori 'doing the books' so to speak. But if all this money was for Chelsea, she must have Prada shoes for her dolls."

"So maybe it wasn't about the house at all. Maybe she challenged Lori or Mike about the expenditures, and he was trying to keep her quiet?"

"Yeah, maybe." Don flipped through a few more pages of the check register.

"You have another theory?"

"It's not Mike writing the checks."

"Lori? But why would she stir things up with you? She's the one who got this ball rolling."

"Why, indeed."

"Are you going to share or just sit there and stew by yourself?"

"Jane has to have seen some of this, or if she hasn't yet, probably will as she settles the estate. It's only a matter of time before someone starts adding this up and analyzing just how much money Lori drained out of these bank accounts. Isn't it better to have the suspicion deflected onto Mike? Maybe Lori got tired of the installment plan. Grandma wasn't an idiot, even if she was elderly and was letting someone she trusted do her bills for her. Maybe she'd already raised questions about it. Who knows? But if Lori was siphoning money off these accounts, and it was money Grandma didn't willingly give her, she was on a collision course."

"So Lori poisons your grandmother and then gives you a very compelling reason that will resonate with you personally to see Mike as the potential killer - by implicating him in the gay bashing. It does hang together nicely."

"I'll put these back where they were, but hopefully the agent in charge of the case will be open to hearing what I have to say about it."

While Don was in the house, Jane's car pulled up out front and the elderly woman got out, walking determinedly up to the porch. Tim rose as she ascended the steps.

"Is Donald here?" she asked.

"He's inside. He'll be right back."

"Do you condone this monstrous thing he's doing?" she demanded.

"If there's any danger that Elizabeth didn't die of natural causes, I think anyone who cares for her should want to see justice done."

"Have you been through Grandma's bank statements and checkbook yet?" Don asked, coming back outside with the folder of statements and the checkbook in his hands.

"Of course not. She's just been buried. I came here to ask you both to leave. The pain you've caused your parents with this...this...wild goose chase you're on is unthinkable, and I never should have invited you to stay here in the first place."

"I didn't create the evidence here, Jane. There are large sums of money written out of Grandma's checking account by Lori, payable to her. Now unless Chelsea is running around in high-end designer toddler wear, something's going on here."

"Elizabeth probably agreed to help them with some of their bills. They were going through a lot of financial difficulties."

"And expecting to inherit a house, only Grandma wasn't cooperating and getting out of the way fast enough. Add to that, she told the police something that strengthened their case against Mike for the gay bashing."

"Elizabeth loved you very much, and she was accepting of your lifestyle and your choices, but I think you know she wouldn't appreciate the kind of turmoil and pain you're causing the family now. I would appreciate it if you moved out of the house by morning."

"This isn't about us staying here. Whether we stay here or go to a hotel, it doesn't change anything."

"Then you won't mind moving," she concluded, turning and heading down the front steps.

"We'll leave - you have the right to throw us out. Jane, I'm only asking you, don't turn this house over to Mike and Lori until after the autopsy results come back."

She paused a moment, and then nodded. "All right. Stay here until the results come back, but when they do, and you find out this whole thing has been a horrific mistake, I want you out of the house."

"Fair enough," Don said. "I hope things turn out the way you think they will. I don't want to be right about this."

"I would think not," she said, heading determinedly back toward her car. Don felt Tim come up behind him, the warmth of his body against him, arms wrapping around him from behind.

"I wouldn't have pictured Jane as part of circling the wagons."

"Me, either." He sighed and leaned into Timmy, closing his eyes. "Feels good," he murmured, feeling his whole body relaxing with the contact.

From a distance, uninvited eyes watched...

********

Don shifted and rolled over, disturbed when Tim got out of bed and walked across the hall to the bathroom. There was a loud thump and a grunt. For a moment, Don thought Tim must have tripped on a piece of furniture in the unfamiliar surroundings in the dark. Then there were more sounds, Tim's voice, sounding distressed.

Don was out of bed like a shot, his gun in hand. As he rushed out the door of the bedroom, something hard and unyielding impacted with his mid-section, right before something else hit the back of his head, and there was an explosion of pain and he saw stars as his gun went flying and he found himself on his knees on the floor. He knew whatever hit him couldn't make contact with his head again or he'd be out. He rolled on his side and raised his arm, though when the bat connected with it soundly, he felt something crack and realized a broken arm was little better than a broken head when you were trying to win a fight. If his head hadn't been pounding, he'd have thought that one through better.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his gun, and there were two pairs of feet on the hardwood floor - two assailants. And he couldn't see Timothy. Dizzy and with a broken arm, he didn't have much hope of out-gunning two bat-wielding attackers. A foot made painful contact with his side as he tried to push up on his knees using his good arm. A similar blow came from the other side, and he knew he felt bone crack at the contact.

"Come on, faggot, get up!" one of them shouted, poking him hard in the side with the bat. Thank God for the basic stupidity and arrogance of your garden variety bigot bully. Ignoring the various flares of pain from the blows he'd taken, he grabbed the end of the bat and gave it a fierce yank with all his strength, startling the man holding it enough that he lurched forward and gave Donald the rare opening to kick him as he was on his way down.

"NO!"

He heard Timothy's voice, and it held nothing short of mortal terror. And then there were four shots.

Everything was silent for an impossibly long moment before the man Don had just kicked scrambled up and ran awkwardly to the stairs, stumbling down and out the door into the night. Don was afraid to look, afraid to see where the shots had gone, afraid he'd see Timothy sprawled on the floor, bleeding.

Instead, he saw Timothy on the floor, but he was raised on one elbow, and the only blood on him was coming from somewhere in his hair, probably from a blow to the head. He was still holding Don's smoking gun in both shaking hands. One of the attackers lay on the floor, face down, spreading red wetness on his back. The bat lay loosely in his hand.

"Timmy," Don muttered, staggering over to him, awkwardly stumbling down to his knees so he could take the gun and then take his partner in his arms, crouched there on the floor. He felt Timmy's scalp with a shaking hand, finding the lump that was the source of the bleeding. "It's okay, baby. We're all right," he reassured him, kissing his temple.

"He was behind you, and...he raised the bat...he had it in both hands. If he'd brought it down..."

"He didn't, honey. I've got to see if he's still alive."

"Don't touch him!"

"I have to. We have to call 9-1-1."

Don kissed Timmy one more time, and crawled over to the fallen attacker. He grasped the man's wrist and found a weak pulse.

"Is he dead?"

"He's got a pulse. Stay where you are, honey. I'm gonna call for help. My cell's in the bedroom."

Don forced himself to stand, pulling himself up with his good arm on the door frame of the bedroom. He found his cell phone and called for help, reporting that he and his partner had just been attacked and they'd shot one of the intruders, and all three of them needed medical attention. He grabbed a fresh set of towels that were on the chair in the bedroom and returned to the bleeding man on the floor in the hall. Tim was standing now, swaying, an arm wrapped around his stomach and side.

"Where else are you hurt?" Don asked, wishing he could focus on his partner, but knowing having the intruder live would make all the fallout easier on Timothy, both emotionally and in terms of settling the matter as reasonable force and self defense. "Looks like you hit him twice, once in the arm and once in the back," Don said. "He's still hanging on," he said, wrapping the hand towel around the arm wound using the bath towel to keep pressure on the man's back, the source of most of the bleeding.

"The way he raised the bat, if he'd hit you...I was afraid he'd split your head open. And you didn't see him," Tim said.

"I think it's safe to assume they were gonna kill me, and if they didn't, it was only going to be by accident." He tugged the man's ski mask upward. "Oh, shit," he muttered.

"No," Tim said softly, kneeling next to Don, touching his back. The man on the floor with the bullet in his back, the one who had been about to split Don's head open with a baseball bat, was none other than Mike Strachey, his own brother.

The room spun and tilted a bit, and Don knew he was on borrowed time to even stay conscious. His head pounded, and he really couldn't use his left arm at all. The pain in his ribs was making breathing a challenge. Still, there was no way he would let go willingly until he knew Timothy was safe from any reprisal from his brother's accomplice.

"Oh, God, Don, I'm so sorry," Timmy said.

"He was going to split my head open, sweetheart. If you hadn't shot him when you did, and fired enough times to hit him at least once in a significant spot, I'd be dead or a vegetable. It was me or him."

He could feel Timmy's gentle fingers in his hair, checking his injury.

"Hold pressure on this," he directed Timmy, who took over holding the towel against the bleeding wound. "Where else are you hurt?"

"Somebody hit me across the back of my shoulders, and when I fell in the bathroom, I hit my head on edge of the door. I think it was your brother who kicked me a couple of times. I was kind of stunned by banging my head, so I'm not sure." Tim lightly touched Don's arm, which was beginning to swell. "Is it broken? We should get some kind of a splint - "

"The ambulance should be here soon." Don dialed another number on his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"I need some back-up, someone we can trust to help us." He waited while the phone rang, and a sleep-rough male voice came over the line. "Dad, it's Don. We need your help."

********

"Well, we obviously need to see what our crime scene techs come up with, but on the surface, this is a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense," the detective said, closing her notepad. An attractive woman in her thirties, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and a jacket, looking as if she'd rushed to the scene from home.

"I've never fired a gun. I don't even like handling them. It took me a while to get used to Don's gun being around the house when we first got together," Tim said. "It was the way he had the bat raised..."

"Neither one of us were in good enough shape to defend ourselves any other way," Don said, squeezing Timmy's hand. Tim was resting on a gurney in the emergency room, and Don was still hovering at his side, having steadfastly refused to submit to any kind of treatment until someone else was on the scene to protect Tim from any possible danger from any of Mike Strachey's pals, or any harassment from his family, who were gathered in a waiting room down the hall. Mike was still in surgery.

"Can you arrest him or something and make him go get treated?" Tim asked Detective Janson.

"Well, I can put a uniformed officer on the job of watching out for your partner, if that's why you're worried," she said to Don.

"I'm not going anywhere until Tim's parents get here. They're on their way."

"Honey, I'll be fine. The doctor said it's a mild concussion and my ribs and my back are just bruised. Please, go," he said.

"You know, Mr. Strachey, you really didn't have to sick the Feds on me. For what it's worth, I do care about the gay bashing investigation, and I would have listened to you about your suspicions about your brother. Not everyone here is a bigot, and trust me, we're not all townies, either," she added, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, well, you have to pull a hell of a rabbit out of a hat to get an exhumation order on short notice. That's the main reason I accepted help in pulling strings. I wasn't sure how much luck the cops would have with fighting my family and getting a judge to order that."

"That could have been an obstacle," she admitted. "You really should get that arm looked at, your partner's right."

"And your head, and your ribs," Tim added, ruffling Don's hair lightly. "Please, they're going to admit me overnight for observation. I'm not in any danger."

"I don't want my idiot family in here harassing you. I'll be okay for a few more minutes."

"Well, I have to get back to the station," Detective Janson said. "At the risk of sounding like the small town sheriff, I have to ask you both not to leave the state without notice."

"We'll be here a while anyway. We're not leaving until we get those autopsy results."

"My card," she said, handing one to each of them. "Call me if anything comes up, and we'll be back in touch to fill in any of the blanks we might need clarification on after we finish processing the scene."

"How long will you be holding my gun?"

"It could be a while. We'll process everything as quickly as possible, but I'd get another for work if I were you. How long we need it for evidence depends on the case."

"I kind of figured as much," Don said, sighing, then holding onto his side, regretting the deeper breath.

"I have an officer outside the exam room, and I'll tell him to follow your partner to whatever room they assign him."

"Thank you," Don said, shaking hands with her. After the detective left and Don sat back down next to the bed, Tim stroked Don's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Honey, please go get that arm x-rayed."

Tim no sooner said that than Anne rushed into the room, swooping on him to envelop him in a hug.

"I'm okay, Mom," he said, trying to reassure her. "Just make Donald get taken care of. He won't leave me and I think his arm's broken."

"Donald, sweetie, you have to let the doctor look at you," she said, stroking his hair lightly and looking at his arm the way she would if he were ten years old and just fell out of a tree. "Steven's parking the car, he'll be here in a minute."

"I'm sorry to drag you both back here like this, but I'm...my head's foggy and I needed somebody here who could...watch..." He blinked a couple times. "Who can be in front of...watch..." He stopped, knowing the words weren't coming out the way he intended. He held onto his head, the pain washing over him in fierce throbbing waves.

"Mom, get a doctor," Tim said, and Don was aware of Anne's quick movement out of the room, and Tim leaning off his bed to try to make Don look at him and focus. He stood, and the room spun. He heard Steven's voice, and he knew Tim was in good hands. When things started going black, someone caught him before his battered body hit the hard floor.

********

"You should get some rest, sweetie," Anne said, resting her hand on Tim's shoulder as he sat by Don's hospital bed, holding his hand.

"What if he doesn't wake up?" Tim asked quietly, and for a moment, he didn't sound much different than he had when he was a little boy, and thought she had all the answers. She ruffled the back of his hair the way she used to then, and hoped she could come up with something worthy of the faith he placed in her wisdom.

"If there's any way for him to come back to you, he will. I think after last year, you know that."

"I know. I don't like to think about how much hate there is in the world. I like to think most people are good and tolerant, that all we have to do to have normal lives like everyone else is to just take them. Just live them. But sometimes I'm really scared...and it's this that I'm scared of."

"Sometimes I'm really scared for both of you, too, Timothy. I see grieving mothers on the news whose gay sons have been brutalized or killed, and chills run down my spine, thinking about my boys, and how I'd feel if it were you or Donald. But he's very strong, and he loves you like I've never seen anyone love another person. He will wake up, because he has to in order to see you again."

"The doctor said he could just wake up anytime, when the swelling goes down. I want him to be okay, but you know I'd be there for him and love him even if...there's damage. But he'd be so miserable, Mom, if he couldn't be whole, couldn't do what he likes to do, be independent. It would kill his spirit."

She pulled up a chair and sat next to him, linking her arm through his.

"Why don't we say some prayers for him? It'll be good stimulation for him to hear our voices near him, if he's trying to come to, and it never hurts for God to hear us putting in a few more good words for him."

So they sat there and said some prayers, and Tim seemed somewhat comforted by her presence and the familiar words, by reaching out to God and leaning on his faith like he always had. But if Donald didn't spring back from this and wake up, she wondered if that faith, or even the support of his family, would be enough to pull Tim through without his other half.

********

********

It had to be drugs. The arm that had been white-hot agony only ached dully now, and it was blessedly supported, somehow. His fingers wiggled slightly, brushing at what felt like the surface of a pillow. His side hurt but he could breathe without fighting a wave of pain-induced nausea. He was aware of a headache, but as long as he didn't move his head too much, he could stand it.

"Timmy," he mumbled, almost unconsciously. For some reason, he wasn't worried about his partner. He just wanted to see him. He opened his eyes, and was utterly confused to see his mother standing there, looking down at him with an unreadable expression on her face. "Mom?" he managed, his voice coming out a little raspier than he expected. She continued to stare at him, and then turned and walked away from the bed and out of his line of vision. He could hear some talking outside the room, and his ears perked up when he heard Timmy's voice. He summoned all his strength. "Timothy!" he let out a shout of his partner's name, and in an instant, Timmy was there, as if he'd been conjured by Don's shout rather than simply walked into the room.

"I'm here, honey," he said, leaning close, those soft, familiar lips touching his for a gentle kiss. "Welcome back," he added, smiling. Something was wrong. Timmy was dressed, clean-shaven and wonderful-smelling like always... The last time he'd seen him, he was in a hospital gown on a gurney in the ER.

"Welcome...how long have I been out?"

"Close to two days," he said, a little catch in his voice, though he never stopped smiling, and he was very tenderly caressing Don's cheek as if he feared too much pressure might shatter him.

"Two days? What's wrong with me?"

"Your brain swelled from the head injury. We didn't have any idea you'd taken a blow to the back of the head that hard, because you were up walking around. You'll be just fine, honey. The doctor said as soon as you woke up, we'd know if...if there was any damage."

"I know you, sweetheart. That's all I need to remember," he said, and he meant it, even though he knew it was sappy and romantic. Poor Timmy had been on needles and pins waiting to see if his skull was full of brain soup or if he still had all his marbles. He deserved a little romancing for all the shit he'd been through since they arrived in Cedar Grove. "Was my mother here?"

"Yes. I went to get some coffee, and when I came back, she was standing by your bed. I waited in the hall a moment, but right before you hollered to me, she came out of the room and refused to stop and talk to me. I wanted to apologize about Mike - "

"What happened to him?"

"He's going to be fine," Tim said, and Don could see what a relief that was to him. He knew what shooting anyone had taken out of his partner, least of all shooting a member of Donald's family. He wasn't sure how Tim would have handled all of it if Mike had succumbed to the injuries. "The bullet in his back missed all the vital organs. He'll have some issues with his arm, need physical therapy. The cops have him handcuffed to his bed while he recuperates. He's facing some pretty serious charges that could include attempted murder. And that's just for what he did to you."

"I left my violin at home," Don mumbled glancing at his own broken arm, now secured in a vibrant blue cast. "They didn't have white?"

"It was blue or electric lime - at least it's waterproof," Tim said, smiling. "The doctor said it was a clean break, and he was able to reset it, so you won't need surgery."

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty is back among the living," Steven said as he and Anne walked into the room. Tim stepped out of the way since his mother was hurrying over to give Donald his "welcome back to Planet Earth" hug.

"How do you feel, sweetie? Those eyes look as bright and alert as ever," she added.

"I'm faking it well, since I feel kinda loopy."

"You're on some good drugs," Tim chimed in. "You have three cracked ribs, but thankfully they weren't displaced or complete breaks."

"Did the autopsy results come back yet?" he asked.

"Excuse me, folks, I need to have a look at the patient," the doctor's voice interrupted them from behind. A pleasant middle-aged woman with bobbed brown hair and glasses, she was reviewing his patient chart as she approached the bed. "I'm just on my rounds, and this is quite a surprise," she said, smiling at Don. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Conscious," he replied, smiling a little.

"How's your pain?"

"It's there, but I can stand it. I have a headache and I can feel pain in my arm and my side, but it's not anything like it was."

"When you were first injured?"

"Yeah, and before I passed out."

"We'll be running a few more tests on you today. I want to do another CT scan and another series of X-rays, but given your improvement, I'm sure we'll see good results. I'm Dr. Richland, your neurologist," she added. "Can you tell me your full name?"

"Donald Strachey."

"And do you remember what month it is?"

"May."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

"In the hospital, in Cedar Grove."

"Who are these folks, here?" she asked, smiling.

He reached for Timmy's hand and held onto it. "This is my partner, Timothy Callahan...the love of my life," he added with a grin. "These are Tim's parents, Anne and Steven... Mom and Dad," he added. Both of the Callahans smiled at that.

"Did he get all that right?" she asked the group.

"He did just fine," Steven spoke up.

"When can I get out of here?" Don asked, looking at the IV hooked to his mobile arm with some dismay.

"In the next couple days, if all your test results are good, and there are no setbacks."

"What kind of setbacks? I'm awake now. This isn't the first time I've been knocked out."

"It's the first time you haven't come to for two days," Tim said, squeezing his hand.

"Caution is always the best route when dealing with head injuries. We'll get you up and around here in the hospital, do a few more tests, and if all goes well, you'll be out of here day after tomorrow."

"I can lie around just as well at home as I can here."

"He's not the best patient." Tim smiled at him.

"There's a lot going on right now and I can't really stay on top of it laid up here."

"I'll let all of you field that," Dr. Richland said, smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, and we'll get as many tests as we can scheduled today, so your results are in and don't hold you up here longer than necessary."

After the doctor left, Don looked up at Tim. "Well? Did the autopsy results come in yet?"

"You should rest - "

"I won't rest until you answer me."

Apparently acknowledging the truth in that, Tim sighed, glancing at his parents before answering. "They found evidence of arsenic poisoning."

"Shit."

"We'll go get some coffee and give you two a few minutes," Anne said, and she and Steven left the room.

"I'm sorry, honey. I know that's not the outcome you wanted to hear." Timmy sat on the side of the bed, holding Don's hand in both of his.

"It's funny the crap you remember. When we thought John Rutka was dead, and his sister was at the morgue, signing for his body? She was really outraged that I would suspect she might kill her brother for half a bowling alley and a house."

"I wish it had been a different result," Timmy said quietly, and Don found the bed control with his good hand and raised the head of the bed, even though his body protested the movement and his head felt spongy. He reached for Timothy's warmth, and he didn't care if it hurt his ribs or disturbed his propped up arm. He buried his face against Timmy's neck and held onto him as best he could with one arm. Those strong arms enveloped him, gentle as always, and all the hurts seemed better. Inside and outside.

"She didn't deserve to die like that," he muttered.

"No, she certainly didn't. The FBI have been at the house, and according to my dad, they hauled out a lot of stuff for evidence. They've been to Lori's parents' place, too, where Lori and Mike have been staying. They're also talking to the victim in the gay bashing case, trying to encourage him to listen to a voice line-up."

"She was all the family I had left, and they killed her for her house."

"I know, baby. I'm so sorry," Timmy whispered against his ear, rubbing his back carefully. He let some of his guard down and let a little of the pain out in muffled sobs against Timmy's shoulder.

"When I thought she just died because she was old, it was hard...but she could have had more years...and to die that way? She was an old lady. What kind of animal poisons a sweet old lady who never hurt anybody?"

"The same kind who would bash his brother's head in with a baseball bat." Timmy's hand was ever so lightly on the injured back of his head, as if he could shield it from the blow.

"You had to shoot him, you know that, right?"

"I know." Tim was quiet a moment. "That night, when I didn't shoot Sommerville, I couldn't..."

"I understand that. I never wanted you to have to do something like that."

"You were still fighting. I guess I just believed in you that you could do it, that you'd save the day, and you'd save me, and firing seemed like something unthinkable, to kill another human being, and my hands were shaking and I was afraid of hitting you... I know the only way to save your life when that bat was raised was to shoot him so he couldn't bring it down because you didn't see him - and I knew you were hurt. I'm glad it didn't kill him, but if it had, I would do it again to save you."

"I don't want to be here," he mumbled against Timmy's neck, squeezing his eyes shut. This was too much like last year, right down to the catheter he was becoming more aware of now. "Timothy," he said, tugging on the tube.

"You were unconscious, honey. I'm sure they'll take it out now that you're up."

"You know how I feel about these damn things."

"I'm surprised your opinion on them didn't spread to hospitals nationwide," he replied, kissing Don's forehead and smiling at him.

"Very funny. You're not the one with the garden hose up your dick," he grumbled, but he couldn't avoid smiling just a little at Timmy's impish grin.

"My dad was pretty impressed with you," he said, still holding Don close, that warm hand of his slipping under the hospital gown, feeling so good against Don's skin as it rubbed slow circles on his back. He felt chilly and his back was stiff from lying flat so long, and with his usual sixth sense about how to soothe the savage beast, Timmy knew just how to make him feel better.

"Yeah, I collapsed as soon as he showed up."

"He was pretty impressed that you managed not to collapse until he showed up. So am I," Tim added, a little catch in his voice. "You stayed with me the whole time, and you wouldn't even let your body give in to your injuries until you knew I wasn't just safe, but that someone was here for me. Honey, I don't ever want you to do that to yourself again. You're my hero, and you always will be - but the worst thing that could happen to me is losing you."

"If you wanna lose me, you'll have to do better than this," he joked. "Even if I die, I'm gonna haunt you, so I'm not sure how you'll ever get rid of me." He paused. "Well, if I knew you didn't want me, I might let you off the hook."

"No danger of that," Timmy said, patting his back. He already knew that, but he was guilty of prompting Timmy to say it, because the words felt good on his battered soul right then.

"You said something about getting a nurse to remove the torture device?"

"Okay," Tim said, chuckling. "Lie back and relax. I'll get right on that," he added, stroking Don's hair and kissing him gently as he adjusted the covers over him.

"While I was out...did my family even ask if I was gonna be okay?"

"Dana and Greg were up to see you yesterday, and Jenny and Paul called and asked me to keep them posted. Maybe you can say a couple words to them on the phone later, just to let them hear that you're alive and your head's on straight."

"Let's not go that far," he quipped.

"Your mother did come in to see you this morning."

"Yeah, and she fled as soon as I opened my eyes." He sighed. "Forget I asked. It was stupid."

"I didn't talk to your parents myself, but that doesn't mean they didn't ask about your condition. Since they're blood relatives, it's possible one of the nurses would have updated them."

"My father's probably disappointed. He almost got his wish."

"Don," Tim started back toward the bed from where he'd been standing near the door.

"It's okay," Don said with a faint, crooked smile. "Go ahead and find the nurse. I'm okay."

"My parents got a nice two-bedroom suite at the hotel for all of us, so when you're released, we won't be alone."

"They're the best," he said, smiling at Timmy. "But then, they produced you, so anything else they do for me beyond that is gravy."

********

Don stood in the doorway and watched his brother lying in his hospital bed, one wrist handcuffed to the bed rail. Within a few moments, Mike opened his eyes and stared at him.

"My lawyer told me not to talk to you. And where's the cop?"

"At the coffee machine down the hall. You don't have to talk to me. You can just listen." Don shuffled a bit farther into the room, still a little unsteady on his feet. Tim was only a few feet outside the door, having walked him down there at his request. "I never wanted you to be guilty of anything. It doesn't matter that we're at odds, or that you hate my guts because I'm gay. You're my brother and I never wanted you to be a murderer. I sure as hell didn't want to think you hated me so much that you'd beat some other innocent person just to vent that hate."

"So you show up here and frame me for killing our grandmother? Fuck you. I'm just sorry my aim wasn't better on that first swing of the bat."

"If you didn't kill her, who did? You thought you were going to get the house when she died."

"Yeah, I did, and I was plenty pissed off at her for what she said to the cops when they were investigating that gay bashing. But I didn't kill her."

"You weren't just a little resentful of her living there in that big farmhouse and throwing you out while you and your family are living in your girlfriend's parents' basement?"

"You know what I'm resentful about? You blowing back in here and ruining everyone's lives. You show up here with your rich boyfriend and his big shot parents and start pushing us all around, getting back at us because we don't love fags."

"Nobody asked you to love fags, but you can't go around beating them with baseball bats, either."

"Do you know what it's like when everyone you know knows that your brother's gay? Then they start wondering about you, if you're queer, too."

"Then your friends are idiots," Don said, sitting in a chair a few feet from the bed. "And you throw your life away and hurt innocent people just to show you're not?"

"It's not enough that you had to fuck up and get kicked out of the Army and Mom and Dad had to live that down - "

"I never told anyone why I left the Army, just Mom and Dad. If they told other people here what happened, then you need to chew them out, not me."

"Then you manage to get paid off some fat settlement from the city for letting a bunch of guys fuck you." 

Those words hit hard, poking a sore, sensitive spot in his soul.

"Is there enough money that would make you want to get raped by a bunch of guys and then have a fist stuck up your guts until they ripped open?"

"I'm not a fag. It's not like they were doing anything to you that you don't get off on anyway."

"Oh, that's right," he responded, smiling sarcastically. "Because I'm gay, I should enjoy being brutalized. I suppose if Lori was gang raped, you'd figure that was okay as long as they were all guys, because after all, she would probably enjoy that since she likes guys, right?"

"Shut up."

"I don't know why I did this," Don struggled to stand, fighting the pain in his side, some mild dizziness, and the inability to use his left arm to help push himself up. "When did you turn into this? You're so full of hate you can't see beyond it. I didn't ruin your life, Mike - and you know what? I didn't ruin Mom's or Dad's either. You did that all by yourself," he added.

"I didn't kill Grandma," he said.

"I hope not," Don said, pausing briefly by the door of the room. "After all she did for this family, she didn't deserve to die like that." He walked out of the room, and couldn't express how glad he was to see Timmy there in the hall. "I guess you heard all that," he said, as Timmy slipped an arm carefully around his waist to guide him back toward his room.

"Most of it. Have I told you lately that I think you're an amazing man?"

"I don't feel very amazing."

"You still have it in you somewhere to care about your brother, even after everything he's done to you."

"He didn't even try to be careful about what he said to me about attacking me, and he never denied involvement in the other incident. But he denied doing anything to Grandma, and he seemed sincere."

"You were testing your theory about Lori?"

"Mike hates me enough to want to bash my head in with a bat. It's true I never wanted him to be guilty - I would have loved to be proven wrong. The truth is, he's a lost cause, and as much as I'd like to take credit for being that magnanimous, I wanted to see what he'd say. I do know him pretty well, and I don't think he did it." 

"I talked to my dad about what you found in your grandmother's checkbook and bank statements, and he talked to the FBI agent who's on the case. He said they were going to look into it."

"Your dad's been a big help."

"I didn't want to leave you until you woke up, and Mom didn't want to leave either one of us because she thought I should be resting."

"You probably should have."

"As if I could have until I knew you were going to be okay," he kissed Don's cheek.

"But tonight, you're going to go back to the hotel and go to bed and get some real sleep, right?"

"You'll probably be released tomorrow - "

"That's the wrong answer, Timmy. You got clobbered, too, even if it wasn't as hard."

"I slept in the waiting room a couple hours last night while Mom sat with you."

"Honey, I'll be just fine."

"You wouldn't leave me when you were worried about your family harassing me. Now you expect me to leave you when they're just as likely to bother you?"

"They aren't going to bother me. My brother's chained to his bed, my mother ran out of the room the moment I woke up, and my father doesn't want anything to do with me, so he's not going to drop by for a visit."

"They still haven't arrested his accomplice."

"I doubt that redneck idiot is going to risk coming back here to finish me off. We never saw his face, so we're not a threat to him. Mike's more likely to rat him out, so he needs the protection from that guy, not me."

"We'll see," Tim said, helping Don back into bed after his first long walk down the hall. Once he had fussed with the pillows and propped up Don's arm and covered him up, he leaned in for a kiss, and sat on the side of the bed and held Don's hand. "It's so good to see you awake again and hear your voice," he whispered, and Don could tell he was choking up a little. "I saw this movie once...it was about a hate crime...a gay bashing. This couple were planning to get married, and then one of them is attacked, with a baseball bat, and his head injuries are awful, and he never wakes up. There's a scene where the surviving partner puts their wedding rings on...he puts his on, and then he puts his partner's on while he's lying in his casket. There's this part of me, deep inside, that's always afraid of that," he confessed, looking down at where he had Don's hand in both of his. "I won't let them win, and hide, and not enjoy our lives openly, but sometimes it scares me so much, and I hate to admit it..."

"You're human, honey. Those things are awful but they happen. The important thing is that we do what we do - do our best to stay safe, acknowledge that danger is out there, but live our lives and not let it stop us from having all the wonderful experiences we can have. You're the strongest man I know, Timothy. You never hide and you never pretend you're something you're not, even if it would make things easier. If it makes you feel any less...shaken up about this, it was never about anything but my brother's issues with me. If he hadn't had such an enormous chip on his shoulder, we never would have been attacked."

"I know. That's what I keep telling myself, but it's still a hate crime."

"Yes, it is, and he and his redneck buddy are going to pay for it."

"So maybe you understand why I don't want to go back to the hotel without you? I don't want us to be separated right now. I don't know if I can handle it. It's not you I'm worried about. I know you'll manage. I just can't shake the fear of something happening to you and I don't want to leave you."

"Come'ere," he said, holding out his good arm, pulling Timmy into a hug, not caring if it caused him some pain. "I'm gonna be okay, and we're gonna go home and get back to our lives. It's almost over." He stroked Timmy's hair and kissed the top of his head. "Everything's gonna be all right, sweetheart. We'll be all right. That little bit of fear in you makes you alert, street smart, and cautious. It sucks that we need that little bit of fear, but we both know enough to be as careful as we can."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against Don's shoulder. "After last year, and now this...I don't want to lose you."

"You won't, honey. You'll feel better when we get home. We both will."

"When I pulled the trigger, I wasn't afraid of shooting him...I was afraid I'd miss."

"You couldn't have done better if you were a trained marksman. You saved my life, and my idiot asshole brother is still alive. And if you don't want to leave my side, we'll annoy the nurses until they get you a cot so you can sleep here." He felt a couple of muffled little sobs against his shoulder. Timothy wasn't much of a crier, and he'd underestimated how traumatic this all was for his partner, everything from the rape to this attack, now. Timmy was badly shaken up and unsettled, and he needed to feel safe again. "It's okay, honey. I might be a little banged up, but I'm okay."

"How many more times?"

"What?"

"How many more times will we be lucky?" Timmy raised up a little, swiping at his eyes. Don caressed a damp cheek.

"Do you know what I think? I think we'll be together when we're old and bent and gray, and our biggest safety precaution is a grab bar in the shower so we don't fall on our bony old asses and break something that will ruin our still steamy sex life." Don smiled when Tim laughed at that. "Sweetheart, if I were a schoolteacher, I could step off the curb and be hit by a bus. If we were both straight, we could be victims of some other kind of crime. There aren't any guarantees, and I know you know that, but I don't want you to be afraid, baby. We're gonna be careful, but we're gonna live our lives, and we'll be okay."

"So how steamy is it gonna be?" Tim asked, grinning, kissing him.

"We'll both be retired, nothing else to do all day. Maybe by then they'll have a Viagra pump."

"I was going to suggest we take up some kind of hobby together."

"That's as good as any, isn't it?" Don quipped, kissing Timmy again. "Lots of exercise and it's definitely something we'd be doing together."

"Maybe you won't be as excited by me when I'm all saggy and wrinkly."

"Nah. It'll be fun over the years figuring out which wrinkles you like to be licked under."

"Oh, my God, Donald, you're disgusting," Timmy sat up, a look of mixed horror and amusement on his face.

"And that's why you'll still love me, my sagging ass, and my age spots."

"Oh, yes, how I'll love all of that, and the soul of my dashing, muscular, action hero that will still be underneath it all."

"Yeah, well, just be sure you don't think I'm gonna let any other guys pick you up at the bingo hall."

********

Since his test results came back looking good, and he pleaded with the doctor incessantly, Don was released late the following afternoon, and taken back to the suite at the hotel they shared with Tim's parents. It was a comfortable accommodation with two bedrooms, two baths, and a shared sitting room with a couch and chairs and a small dining table. The beds were comfortable, and it felt good to be out of the hospital and surrounded by family. Though he'd cajoled Timmy out of his funk, he knew his partner was still feeling the effects of everything that happened, and he was glad to see him looking so relaxed and happy tucked in the suite with Don and his parents.

"You shouldn't be tiring yourself out like this," Tim said, even as his bones seemed to be melting into the mattress and Don used his good arm to give him a one-handed massage, working the knots out of his back and neck.

"Yeah, this is miserable, sitting here running my hand over your beautiful bare back," Don quipped, smiling. "This feels really...normal, and right."

"You have to be in pain."

"I will be if I'm sitting up or lying down, and at least we're both enjoying what I'm doing."

"It feels so good to be here with you."

"Likewise, beautiful." He kissed Timmy's shoulder.

"It feels safe here."

The words froze him a bit, but he tried not to miss a beat with the back rub. He knew Timmy was shaken up by what happened, but he also hoped once he'd had a little time to calm down and they were back together, he'd relax. He wondered if Timmy would feel safe when they got home, when it was just the two of them. He felt safe there in the suite with his parents, in a hotel with security, behind a locked door it would be tough for intruders to get past.

"It's hard to feel safe after somebody attacks you on your way to the john in the middle of the night, isn't it?"

"Yeah, kind of," he admitted softly.

"Let me get my arm out of this fucking sling, and I promise you, I won't get sucker punched like that again."

"You don't think I blame you for that, do you? My God, Donald, it was the middle of the night and you only got up to see if I was okay. It's not your fault someone hit you over the head." Tim turned over and sat up. "Honey, none of that was your fault."

"I don't think you blame me, but I blame myself. Some hot shot ex-military private eye I am. I hear some weird thud and I just kind of stagger out into the hall with my gun and apparently, no spider-sense whatsoever."

"You were probably still half asleep."

"Obviously," he retorted.

"You couldn't look every direction at once, and it was dark...honey, it just happened. It's not your fault." He touched Don's cheek softly. "You came looking for me right away when you thought I might need you. It's not that I don't feel safe or protected with you. I guess I just need some time to feel...to get over not being safe in the middle of the night somewhere I thought was...like home."

"I would do anything to protect you, Timothy. I'd die for you if it came to that. I want you to feel safe with me."

"Oh, baby, I do. It's not you. It's just what happened, and it's just me...freaking out over it. Besides, you did protect me. If you hadn't come out when you did, who knows what else they would have done to me? If you hadn't brought your gun, hadn't taken the brunt of the beating, I couldn't have gotten a hold of it and used it. You did protect me, honey. I know you always will."

"Okay."

Tim carefully wrapped his arms around Don and held him, and they just sat there on the bed like that a while, feeling a little shell-shocked by everything that happened, and letting themselves feel the warmth and security of being together, and being with family. Finally, they arranged all their bruised parts carefully and fell asleep in each other's arms.

********

Steven was reading the morning paper when a scream from the room Don and Tim were sharing made him jump in his chair, rattling the paper. Anne and Tim had gone down to the dining room for breakfast, since he was happy to relax with his paper and some coffee. Don was sleeping soundly, enough painkillers in his system to keep him down for the count even when Tim got up and moved around.

Setting the paper aside, he moved cautiously toward the closed door, and finally pushed it open just a crack. Don was sitting up in bed looking wild-eyed, and there didn't appear to be anyone else in the room. He pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside.

"Everything okay?" he asked, realizing how inane the question was, since Don had just screamed like he was being murdered, and now he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Yeah, yeah, I...I had a nightmare," he said, running his hand over his face. "Sorry if I startled you. It happens sometimes."

"Can I get you anything?" He knew that wasn't really a question that would wrap his son-in-law in fatherly warmth, but he'd never been all that good at soothing his children's nightmares, even when they were little. That was Anne's department. She was the giver of hugs and slayer of closet monsters, not him. Don was shaking visibly, and he definitely had a monster or two in his closet that needed slaying. Steven wondered how long Anne and Tim would be downstairs.

"My throat's really dry. Do we have any orange juice or water or anything?" he asked. Yes, Don was a good son-in-law, and a perceptive one. He came up with something useful and manly Steven could do without feeling awkward.

"There are some of those little bottles of juice in the refrigerator. I'll get you one."

When he returned with the bottle of juice, he handed it to Don, opened.

"Thanks," he said, taking a long drink from it. "It's no big deal. I have nightmares once in a while since I was attacked last year."

"Do you have them often?" Steven asked, sitting in a straight chair a few feet from the bed.

"Not so much anymore. We used to count the nights I didn't have them, and now we count the nights I do, so I guess that's progress."

"That was a lot to, uh, handle. Recover from." Steven didn't know how to address such a sensitive subject, and didn't really want to, and yet felt in some way he should. He'd never said much to Don about it, and it was a very large event in his life to have never really acknowledged in so many words.

"I couldn't have done it without Timothy. He was my reason to hang in there. He still is...you know, when I have a bad day." He took another drink of the juice.

"For what it's worth...it seems like you dealt with it very well."

"Thanks," he replied with a faint smile. He managed to reach the night stand to set the bottle of juice on it, then made an attempt at moving toward the edge of the bed that made him look somewhat like a beached fish between his immobilized arm and his cracked ribs. Unable to watch the struggle any longer, Steven stood.

"Can I give you a hand?"

"Kinda looks like I need one, huh?" Don joked. "Of all the things I've managed to do to myself over the years, I never had my arm in a sling. I'm not good at it," he added, laughing.

"Give me your right hand and I'll pull you." Steven held out his hand and Don took it, but one pull just made him groan in pain.

"That's not gonna work."

"Yeah, the ribs," Steven said, scratching his head.

"This was easier in the hospital."

"It was a single bed with railings."

"I suppose that helped," Don agreed, sighing. "I guess I can roll."

"That'll be good for your ribs," Steven said sarcastically. "How'd you get all the way in the middle anyhow?"

"Well, Timothy was on the other side, so I was motivated." He paused. "Don't freak out on me, Dad. His ribs are bruised and he still has a headache and my ribs are screwed up, my arm's broken, and my head's pounding. The best we could do is try to sleep in the same bed without re-injuring each other."

"Okay, I feel marginally better. Say, you're not...you've got something on, right?"

"Oh, yeah, I've got my shorts on," he replied, laughing.

"Okay, put your arm around my neck and I'll pull you toward the edge." Don tried that, and this time, he made it to the edge of the bed with only marginal pain.

"Thanks. Sorry about that."

"You should have your arm in the sling, shouldn't you?"

"Yeah, I'll figure it out."

"I can help you with that."

"Okay." Don slid his arm into and it was secured in place with Steven's help.

"Got it," Steven said. Don stood and made his way toward the bathroom.

"You're okay, then?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Where's Timmy anyway?"

"He and Anne went downstairs for breakfast. I'm more of a coffee person in the morning."

"And Timmy wouldn't go downstairs and leave me alone up here, right?"

"That, too," he admitted, chuckling. "You sure you're not going to fall or anything?"

"I'll wait until Timmy gets back to take a shower. He can keep an eye on me so I don't kill myself in the bathtub."

"Okay. I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything." As Steven turned to head back to the sitting room, Don's voice made him stop.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I mean...thanks for everything," he said.

"That's what family's for," he said, and that made Don smile.

********

They sat around the small dining table in the hotel suite with a pot of coffee. Don, Tim, Anne, Steven, and the FBI agent who was assigned to the case, Paul Blanchard. A take-charge type in his forties with dark hair and piercing eyes, he wasn't someone you wanted to be on the wrong side of the interrogation room table from.

"The victim in the first gay bashing incident was able to identify your brother's voice," he said, looking at Don. "That, coupled with your testimony and some forensic evidence we've uncovered, the hate crime case is essentially wrapped up and ready to proceed. We picked up the other assailant who attacked the two of you, Andy Walters, and he's been quite a source of information. I'm sorry to say these incidents aren't the first in which your brother and his friends have harassed or assaulted gay or lesbian victims. They're by far the most brutal."

"None of the other victims have come forward before?" Tim clarified.

"No. It's been mostly property crimes - vandalism of their cars or homes, threatening notes left in their mailboxes, things like that. Mostly they're people affiliated with Spectrum Software who come here from a bigger city, like Baltimore, and sometimes other cities where the company has branch offices, and they're not closeted. It's obvious Cedar Grove has few openly gay residents. Apparently your brother and his friends want to keep it that way."

"Did you ever find the uniform?" Don asked.

"No, but we did find the shoes he was wearing, and there were microscopic high impact blood spatters on his shoelaces that belong to our victim," he said, and Tim choked on his coffee. "Are you all right, Mr. Callahan?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said, coughing a little as Don touched his back, smiling.

"Timothy here keeps up with the latest episodes of Forensic Files. He thought there might be some blood drops on some of Mike's other belongings from that night, especially his shoes."

"Good call," Agent Blanchard said, with a rare smile. "There are a few other items, and some things we found in Walters' place, including a bat that lit up like a Christmas tree when we sprayed it with Luminol. I assume you've heard of Luminol, too, Mr. Callahan?" he asked Tim with a slight curve of his mouth. Tim just nodded, chuckling.

"What about my grandmother's death? Mike denies having anything to do with that, and I'm inclined to believe him."

"Any special reason you feel that way?"

"I suppose because I know him. I can tell when he's lying. And he didn't even try to be careful in what he said when he talked to me about attacking us at the farmhouse. He was so angry at me and so full of hate that he just openly spewed it about the whole situation. He told me he wished his aim had been better when he hit me over the head the first time. But yet he was outraged at the accusation about Grandma, and accused me of framing him for her murder."

"He's lawyered up with us, so that's helpful. We're taking a look at the girlfriend, Lori Driscoll. She doesn't have a very convincing explanation for all those checks she wrote on your grandmother's account, other than saying that Mrs. Vicari told her to go ahead and write them for some bills and expenses she and your brother were having trouble meeting."

"You don't believe her?" Anne asked.

"I don't think you believe that," Blanchard said, gesturing at Don.

"Not to that extent. I think my grandmother would have helped them with some routine things, like necessary items for Chelsea, even gifts for her. I think she would have let them 'live off her' for a while, buying groceries and paying the bills in return for Mike shoveling show or doing yard work and Lori helping her with housework, things like that. She was always fair with her family, and she wasn't stingy. But she wasn't rich, either, and she had to have money to take care of herself, and I think some of the expenditures Lori wrote out of those accounts would have been way above and beyond Grandma's comfort zone."

"We didn't find the arsenic container, so the tie between the arsenic you assume is missing from the taxidermy supplies and the arsenic we found in Mrs. Vicari's autopsy aren't linked by hard evidence. We seized a lot of dishes and drinking glasses from the farm house and also from the basement apartment where your brother and his girlfriend are living. We're still testing for traces of it."

"If you can't find anything?" Don prodded.

"We'd need a confession. Otherwise, we could pursue fraud and larceny charges against Ms. Driscoll for writing those checks, but we can't prove she or your brother killed anyone."

"The circumstantial evidence wouldn't fly in court?" Steven asked. "There was the issue of the potential inheritance. They didn't know she'd changed her will until after she died. They had access to her home, her food..."

"She'd evicted them a while before she was poisoned."

"Did they still have keys?" Anne asked.

"Yes, Ms. Driscoll still had a set of keys. We found them when we searched the apartment."

"But Mike didn't have any keys?" Don asked.

"No, none that we found. That doesn't mean he didn't have copies made he disposed of at some point, but Jane Patterson distinctly recalls him returning them to your grandmother when he she asked them to leave."

"Ask Mike to cooperate in nailing Lori," Don said.

"I'm not sure we want to go that route. We haven't ruled him out as a murder suspect yet."

"I'm telling you, I know my brother. It's not that I think he's such a great guy that he wouldn't do it, but after talking to him, I'm comfortable that he didn't do it. And it all makes sense when you put the pieces together with Lori. She's the one who blew the whistle on Mike with me about the uniform. She knew we were living at the farm house, that I had questions about Grandma's death. I'm telling you, if you give Mike a deal on the hate crime charges, he'll roll on Lori in a heartbeat."

"The mother of his child?"

"Oh, come on, most of you guys have profiling experience, right? Does he strike you as the chivalrous type? If pointing a finger at Lori will get him off the hook, he'll do it. He's not big on loyalty. I have the concussion and hairline skull fracture to prove it."

"I'll take that under advisement. Meanwhile, we don't have any reason to hold you folks here, if you want to go home. The investigation is under control."

"I want to be here until I see someone charged in my grandmother's murder," Don said.

"I can't give you a date when that will happen, Mr. Strachey."

"I understand that, but I also can't go home and forget about it. If this investigation is going to be a prolonged one, I want to be involved. I'm an experienced private investigator. Give me something to do, leads to follow up on, things that will expedite the case. Every case has legwork law enforcement doesn't have time for that keeps it dragging along."

"This is a federal investigation. Your grandmother was a potential key witness in a hate crime investigation. Her murder is a federal matter now. We don't employ non-agents to do our legwork. This case is a priority in our field office, and it will be pursued."

"Agent Blanchard has a point, Don," Steven said. "You and Tim have lives back in Albany, and there's certainly nothing pleasant about hanging around here. I'm sure he'll be happy to update you anytime you inquire about the progress of the case," he added, directing a pointed look at the agent.

"Of course," he said, looking a bit ruffled at the obvious pulling of rank, since Steven had invoked a connection at Quantico to bring about the investigation in the first place. "Well, I have to be going," he said, standing, and the others stood as well. "If you have any questions, you have my card."

********

"Penny for your thoughts," Timmy whispered in Don's ear. Spooned together in bed, Tim lying down with Don while he took a painkiller-induced afternoon nap, neither one had achieved sleep yet.

"If my side wasn't killing me and there wasn't a bass drum pounding in my head, and my dick wasn't limp from pain pills, I could really be enjoying this."

"Have patience, my love. You'll feel better soon, and we'll make up for lost time."

"I can't stop thinking about Grandma. Laid up in bed sick, thinking she had some kind of flu, suffering... And someone did that to her. I can't get that out of my head."

"You went through a lot of misery to get her justice - when you felt uneasy about it, you went after it." Timmy kissed his shoulder. "I know it hurts, honey. But we've done all we can here, and I think it's time we went home. Staying here is just subjecting yourself to more and more pain and stress and nonsense with your family."

"I don't want the Feds to wriggle out of the murder investigation just because it's a little trickier. The hate crime case is open and shut, but I can hear Blanchard waffling about the murder case."

"I seem to recall you praising me for my tenacity...I think 'pit bull' was the term?"

"I meant it in the most affectionate way possible," Don replied, smiling. Timothy's body felt so warm and good wrapped around his, and he always managed to make him smile, even in his darkest moments.

"My point is, where do you think I got that trait?"

"From your mother."

"Well, yes, probably," he agreed, laughing softly. "But I also got it from my father. And his connection in FBI headquarters got this whole thing rolling, and if you think my father won't be checking up on him, and that he won't, in turn, be checking up on Blanchard, you don't know the Callahan family characteristics as well as I thought you did."

"Point made," Don conceded, still smiling, feeling better as only Timmy could make him feel better.

"I know the hardest thing for you is to take an investigation and put it in someone else's hands, and trust them to follow up every lead and track down every tidbit of evidence. And I know that doing that with a case this personal and important to you is a whole different level of hell. Now that the FBI has it as part of the overall hate crime investigation, that's what we have to do. Go home and let them sort it out."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't have any control over my life at all," he confessed, barely getting his voice above a whisper.

"None of us do, honey. The control we have is an illusion. Any one of us are subject to chance, to the actions of others, to disease, disaster, accidents, and any other larger-than-life thing you can think of. We think we have control when things are going well - we say, 'we've got things under control', but we don't. It just means nothing's happened to challenge our illusion of control. You expect an awful lot of yourself, Donald, and you're very hard on yourself if you can't handle everything, fix everything, be tougher than everything and everyone else."

"I know I'm not that great. Believe me, after last year, I let go of those illusions."

"Yes, you are that great," Timmy whispered against his ear, kissing it. "You have more courage and more heart than anyone I've ever known. You love fiercely and you protect just as determinedly. You're strong and stubborn and you hold onto what's right, even when it's dangerous and hard and ugly. My God, Donald, no one could ask more than that from a mere mortal man. I am always so proud of you, honey. You don't have to risk your life or move mountains for that. I'm proud of who you are, not what you do."

"If I'm even half of that, it's because I have you."

"Behind every great man, there's someone who loves him. And I'm so in love with you, handsome." He kissed Don's shoulder again. "Now will you come home with me?"

"I'd follow you to hell, so Albany isn't that big of a deal," he replied, angling his head back so they could kiss.

********

"Oh, I don't like this part," Anne said, hugging Tim one more time as he stood by the driver's side of the rental car he and Don were taking back to the airport to board their flight. Steven had brought Anne's and his car up to the front of the hotel, too, as they were driving home.

"Me, either," he agreed, holding on a few moments. "We're going to miss you guys," he added.

"Don, you take it easy," Steven said, patting his shoulder.

"Thank you for everything," he said. "You know, it's real easy to tell somebody they can call you 'Dad', but it's something else to actually be one." It was awkward with his sling and trying to avoid any bumping or pressure on his side, but he managed to give Steven an awkward one-armed hug.

"There are some good fishing spots in Virginia," Steven said as they parted.

"Maybe Timothy and I should take a trip your way this summer, then."

"Yes, you should," Anne agreed, hugging him. "Now you listen to your doctor and don't go back to work too soon."

"Okay, Mom, I'll be a good patient, I promise."

"That'll be the day," Tim chimed in, touching Don's back. "He was all set to drive this morning."

"Well, I guess this is it," Steven said, giving Tim a quick hug complete with the usual macho back-slapping that made it a manly hug. "Anne, are you ready?"

"No, but I'm coming. Call us when you get home," she said, reluctantly heading for the car as Steven got in and started the engine.

"We will, Mom," Tim replied. "Tell Dad to relax and enjoy the drive home."

"In other words, don't tailgate and swear? I'll do what I can," she added, smiling as she got into the passenger seat. After they drove off, Tim looked at Don.

"I guess we're ready to head out," he said. "Come on, I'll help you with the seat belt."

"Yeah, just a minute," he said, pausing. His mother was standing several feet away on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

"Go ahead, honey. I'll wait here."

"You don't have to wait here."

"Just go talk to her. It might be less awkward for her." Don didn't think much of that idea, but he agreed, since Timothy definitely had the edge when it came to people and diplomacy skills.

"Dana said you were going home today," she said.

"Yeah, I called her last night to say goodbye. There's not much reason for us to stay any longer."

"I'm sorry for what happened to you while you were here."

"Mike and his buddy attacked Timothy, too, for no good reason. Their beef was with me, and that's where it should have stayed."

"Mike's being released from the hospital tomorrow, and he'll be going to jail from there. We'll try to get him out on bail...unless they charge him with murder."

"Look, Mom, I didn't want things to turn out this way, either. But what about Grandma? Didn't she count?"

"Of course, she counts!" his mother snapped back. "How could you think your brother would kill her?"

"Maybe because he tried to kill me, and God only knows what they would have done to Timothy if the whole attack hadn't been disrupted."

"He beat you up, and that was wrong - "

"Mom, do you know why Tim shot him? He had the baseball bat in both hands, and on the back swing he was planning to hit me with such force that he brought the bat back until it was parallel with his back. If that blow had landed, I'd probably be dead."

"I don't believe he meant to kill you."

"Is that what you came to tell me? If that makes this easier for you, then by all means, tell yourself that. But he had every intention of killing me, and I doubt they were through with Timothy. Mike and his friends have done this to other people. The Feds are finding more and more evidence that they've been at this a while."

"Donald, I...I've tried to accept your...orientation. I really have. I've tried to figure out where we went wrong, what we did to you that made you what you are. Maybe you spent too much time with your grandmother, and not enough time with your father and other boys...I don't know..."

"You think spending time with Grandma made me gay? I am what I am, Mom. You couldn't have turned me into something else no matter what you did."

"You played some sports, you did things with your father and Mike, you even dated girls. What happened to you, Donald?"

"I'm gay, Mom. I was born that way. That doesn't mean I can't go fishing or play sports or work on cars with Dad or do any one of a dozen other things any other boy might do growing up. I dated the girls so I didn't get beaten up in the locker room. And I thought maybe I could push myself in the direction everyone expected me to go. I didn't accept myself easily either. And then I fell in love with Kyle and for the first time, being with someone felt natural, and I felt some measure of peace because I reconciled myself with who and what I was, and it wasn't terrible and ugly and the sky didn't fall. At least, not right away."

"I don't want to hear details, Donald."

"Details? Come on, Mom, you remember the details. When the Army went after us, threw us out, and Kyle was so devastated by that he killed himself, I came back here, and instead of my family being a refuge, you threw me out in the street with my duffle bag so I had to stay in a crummy motel until I could figure out where to go. You stood there on the porch and watched Dad tell me he'd prefer I was dead, and throw me out, and you never said a word."

"I admit your father was harsh, and that wasn't my choice, but I can't accept this. I've tried. I can't watch you with him and not feel...sickened by it."

"His name is Timothy, and you've never even formally met him."

"You have to do what you have to do, but as hard as I've tried, I can't see it as anything but unnatural and wrong. I just can't watch my son go down that path, and behave that way with another man."

"But you're fretting over bailing Mike out of jail for beating innocent people with baseball bats, maybe for poisoning your own mother?"

"He didn't poison anyone, that much I believe."

"So the beatings are okay, as long as he didn't commit murder?"

"I never said he didn't make mistakes, or let his emotions and anger get the better of him."

"If he'd killed me, you'd have stood by him, wouldn't you?" Don asked, and she blinked a couple times, looking shocked by the question, but she didn't hasten to deny it.

"I love you, Donald, because you're my son. But I can't be a witness to your life, and I think it's safe to say that you won't be leaving Timothy anytime soon and turning your life around."

"Timothy already did turn my life around. He gave me a reason to want to live, to be happy, to not be so alone all the time. He's the warmest, kindest, most beautiful soul I've ever met, and he makes me want to be the best I can be. He loves me without conditions and reservations, just the way I am, and he taught me what love really means. I would die before I'd leave him, so no, you're right, I won't be doing that anytime soon. And I won't be coming back here again."

"If you have to be...the way you are, then I'm glad you're...I'm glad you've settled down with someone. I do wish you the best. I wanted to tell you that, and that I tried to accept this. I've tried to watch you with him and I can't. I look at you and I see my little boy," she said, tearing up a bit. "I see the little boy I thought would grow up and marry some nice girl and have a normal, healthy life. Seeing you like this, with him, it's too painful."

"Thank you for doing this," he said. "You just made it very easy for me to leave here and not look back. Goodbye, Mom. I hope you feel all that maternal pride and joy in Mike that you can't feel for me. Obviously, you don't think you 'went wrong' with him - he might be a hate monger, a criminal, and potentially a murderer, but at least he's straight." He turned away and walked toward where Tim was standing by the car. He didn't look back at his mother. He had no plans to look back at all toward Cedar Grove ever again.

"Are you okay, honey?" Tim asked, opening the passenger door so Don could get in. Tim looked back in the direction Don had just come, but Don didn't ask what he saw. If his mother was watching them, that was her problem.

"Let's get out of here."

So Timmy gently adjusted the seat belt around his sling and on an impulse, paused long enough to kiss him. He reached up and touched Timmy's face and held him there a minute, pressing their foreheads together, before he let go of him so he could get in the car.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"What's the point? Nothing's changed."

"I'm sorry, baby," he said, and Don could see tears in his eyes. The fastest way to truly wound Timothy was to make him watch Don suffer. That kind of love wrapped itself around Donald like a warm blanket, and the coldness and rejection from his parents couldn't touch him.

Tim drove them toward the outskirts of town, and slowed the car as they neared the farmhouse.

"Do you want to take one last look?"

"No," Don said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "What was here died with Grandma. The only home I wanna see now is our house back in Albany."

"Then Albany it is," Tim said, smiling, and Don had to smile back at that beautiful face he loved so much. The car sped up, and they drove toward the airport, toward Albany, toward home. 

********

There was no ache and strain from his ribs, no clumsy cast to worry about, only the delicious sensation of Timmy moving inside him, on top of him, his legs wrapped around that warm body while the tickle of chest hair brushed over his chest in time with the thrusts. His arm still felt a bit like a dead fish, newly freed from the cast, but he still managed to hold on, glad to have both arms to put around his beautiful partner again.

"Hang on," Timmy said, and as he often did with Timothy, Don just followed directions and waited to see where it would lead him. Timmy sat back on his heels and pulled Donald with him. The change in positions meant Timmy was even deeper inside him that before, as he straddled Timmy's lap. They were closer now, and kissing and lovemaking was even easier.

Timmy was kissing his neck, nipping at his ear, taking charge of their union, and that was fine with him. He found himself relaxing in his lover's arms, letting Timmy love him, kiss every part of him he could reach, caress him with those wonderful warm hands of his. A few particularly deep thrusts made him come, shouting something that resembled Timmy's name, loving that those strong arms stilled some of his shaking, holding him, sucking his nipples and thrusting inside him even as he rode the waves of his climax until he was a sweaty, boneless heap in Timmy's arms. Those arms tightened around him, keeping him close, tucking his head under Timmy's chin, soft lips planting little kisses on his cheek.

He stayed there a long time, silent, feeling Timmy's heartbeat, feeling his warmth, just loving him so much that moving out of his arms, letting him out of his body, seemed unthinkable.

"How is your arm?" Timmy asked softly, holding it carefully by the wrist, kissing his way up the arm, lingering near the site of the break as if the kisses had healing properties. For Donald, they did.

"Still feels weak and fragile and...weird."

"What time is your physical therapy appointment tomorrow?"

"Ten."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"I always like you tagging along," he said, kissing Timmy's chest as he nestled against him. "But you don't have to. I'll be okay."

"I'd like to see what they're doing, and if there's anything I can help you with at home, the therapist can show me how to do it."

"Okay." He didn't say anything else, but he felt incredibly loved, and not for the first time, he wondered how he could have ever let his idiot family and their rejection bother him. If he was worthy of this kind of love from this beautiful, amazing man, then he was too good for their bigotry and unkindness.

"I love you, you know."

"Oh, I know," Don said. "I love you, too, beautiful."

The ringing phone was an unwelcome intrusion. "Ignore it," Timmy said, kissing Don's neck again.

"It's a Baltimore number on the ID," Don said, reluctantly leaving Timmy's arms and picking up the phone on the nightstand. "Hello?"

"Mr. Strachey?" Don recognized Paul Blanchard's voice.

"Yes."

"I wanted to call you personally to let you know we've had a break in the investigation. Lori Driscoll is being indicted for the murder of your grandmother."

"What happened?" Don asked, feeling Timmy drape his robe around his shoulders and sit next to him on the side of the bed, taking his hand.

"Her father came forward and admitted to disposing of a container of arsenic he found in their basement, in the utility room. At the time he threw it out, he was concerned Chelsea might get into it somehow. It was a very old container without any safety seals, consistent with the size canister that was missing from your grandmother's basement. Plus, the brand name he remembered being on it hasn't been manufactured in years, so it makes any other explanation just a little too far fetched. He didn't know the significance of it at the time, and it took him a while for his conscience to kick in... But it puts the poison in the Driscoll house very shortly after your grandmother's death."

"Did Mike know she did it?"

"There's no evidence of that, and he swears he didn't know. He'll be going to trial on the hate crime and assault charges. He's being charged with attempted murder for the assault on you. Given your partner's account of how he had the bat raised...no one hits anyone over the head with that kind of force unless they want to bludgeon them to death."

"I guess knowing Mike didn't kill our grandmother is some consolation. Thank you for all you've done on this case. I'm sorry if I implied I didn't think you'd follow through on it."

"You didn't imply that. Your concern and desire to be involved was understandable. I'm glad we were able to bring this to a successful conclusion."

"Yeah, me, too," Don said. "Thanks again," he added, before hanging up the phone.

"What happened, honey?"

"Lori's dad disposed of the arsenic, and he finally admitted it...I guess he wasn't involved, didn't know why the arsenic was there. He just worried about it being in the house with Chelsea there."

"I heard you say that mike wasn't involved - did the FBI confirm that?"

"Yeah, they said he's being charged with the hate crimes, and attempted murder for attacking me with the bat."

"I guess there's no such thing as a happy ending to all of it, is there?" Timmy said, kissing the side of his head.

"No, not a happy ending...but at least it's justice."

********

Don knew his arm was almost back to normal when he picked up the big carton that was waiting on the front porch and carried it inside without a thought. He still hadn't gotten it back up to full speed in the gym with the weights, but it was functioning without much problem for everyday tasks. A lot of that he attributed to Timothy, who could be a bit of a drill sergeant in making sure he didn't miss any of his PT appointments, and in keeping him working on exercises at home to strengthen it.

The return address on the package was his grandmother's farm in Cedar Grove. He knew he'd probably have to go back there, or at least to Baltimore to the federal court, for Mike's trial on the hate crime charges, and for Lori's impending trial on murder charges in connection with his grandmother's death. Still, he was relieved to be mostly done with the place, and with that part of his past.

He set the box on the kitchen counter and slit the tape with a pocketknife to open the flaps. There was a folded sheet of paper on top of what looked like a lot of framed pictures and photo albums.

Dear Don,

I'm almost finished cleaning your grandmother's personal effects out of the house. We have a buyer, so I've had to move along quickly. Your mother wanted some of the family photos, but I kept the things in this box for you. They are mostly pictures you are in, and pictures of you or you and Timothy that Elizabeth kept. There's also a couple of albums. One of them had very special meaning to Elizabeth, and I know she'd want you to have it.

I hope your recovery went well. Write or call me sometime to let me know how you're doing. I miss Elizabeth very much, and you remind me so much of her!

Best wishes,

Aunt Jane

Intrigued, he laid the letter aside and started removing the pictures. There were several of just him - childhood pictures, a couple school pictures, his military portrait - and several more of him with his grandparents, even a few with his mother. There was the photo from Christmas of Don, Tim, and Elizabeth by the Christmas tree, and a couple other photos that were taken during that trip.

With the framed photos unpacked, he took out the albums. One was mostly photos of summer vacation activities, including family barbecues. The other was his grandmother's photo album that contained her wedding picture, and all the pictures of his grandparents when they were a young couple. It was the album that she treasured and guarded the most, that he was only allowed to look on with her as she carefully turned its pages.

"You're home!" Tim said as he came in the front door. It was a hot summer day, and he was already minus his suit coat and loosening his tie. "Does this mean I get you all to myself tonight?" he asked, setting his briefcase on a kitchen chair and wrapping Don up in a big hug, which he happily returned.

"I thought maybe we could go out for dinner, see a movie," Don suggested.

"I think I can pencil that in," Tim joked, smiling. "What's all this?" he asked, looking at the array of framed pictures sitting on the counter, and the two photo albums.

"Jane sent me some of Grandma's pictures. She sent me her album with the pictures of her and Grandpa when they were younger."

"The one your grandmother didn't let anyone touch?"

"That's the one."

"You know what I think would be interesting?"

"What?"

"To get a copy made of their wedding picture, and put it in a nice double frame with ours."

"I like that idea."

"I wish things had turned out better with your mother," he said, picking up a photo of Evelyn Strachey holding a toddler-aged Donald, little arms around her neck with a big smile on his face.

"Yeah, me, too." He stared at it a moment. "But it's good to be back in touch with Jenny and Paul, and Dana and Greg are coming out here for a visit before school starts up again. Chelsea's lucky they stepped forward to take custody of her."

"I know when Lori was indicted, the family was scrambling around to figure out who'd take her."

"Her parents didn't feel up to the job, I guess, and Dana and Greg came forward. I think my mother would have liked to have her, but the court ruled in their favor."

"They'll be good to her. Are they bringing her here?"

"Probably. I'd like to see her again. She's my niece and I barely know her. We already know she likes you."

"Can I help it if I have an intoxicating charm with women?"

"With women? Hell, you had me by the balls the first time I saw you."

"That's not the most romantic declaration of love at first sight, but I'll take it."

"You know what I mean," Don said, chuckling as he put the photos back in their box.

"We'll have to find places to put a few of those out." Tim picked up a picture of baby Donald, all eyes and no teeth, grinning widely. "My God, you were adorable."

"Were? What's with this were business?"

"Okay, okay," Tim relented, laughing. "You are adorable. Your smile is just as cute now as it was then." He kissed the end of Don's nose.

"Good answer," Don replied, kissing Timmy's mouth. "So, where to? I've gotta change into something cooler," he said, taking off his suit coat and tossing it over a chair.

"Seafood?"

"Sounds good to me."

"I should freshen up, too," Tim said, following him upstairs.

"Freshen up? That sounds like there's showering involved."

"There could be."

"Then we better make a late reservation." He tackled Timmy and pushed him down on the bed, undoing his tie while Timmy did his best to get Donald's tie off at the same time.

"A very late reservation," Timmy agreed, pouncing on him and starting a series of kisses that would delay dinner by quite a few hours.

********

THE END