Title: LOVE IS BLIND

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: NC-17 

Word Count: 26,877

References/Spoilers: Don't think so.

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: Timothy deals with a stressful situation at work, before a more personal crisis strikes. Sequel to "Perfect" in the One Night Series.

LOVE IS BLIND

by 

Candy Apple

If Timothy was a flower, he'd be a gladiola. I know I've compared him to a rose before...I guess the bottom line is that he's my standard for beauty, elegance, grace, everything that's pleasing to look at and be near. And those gladiolas are just like him...tall, tasteful, and yet outrageously gorgeous. For the first time in my life that sunny fall day, I stopped at a roadside produce stand. I bought some cantaloups and some big tomatoes I knew Timmy would like slicing up in one of his delicious salads, or maybe if he felt generous and wanted to make me one of those big sandwiches with all the trimmings he sometimes makes for me when I'm working a lot of weird hours.

I love corn on the cob so I got some ears of corn, too, and some apples. I had to interview someone for a case I was working on, and they lived out in the sticks. I know Timmy loves fresh produce versus the stuff in the grocery store, but his schedule can get as crazy in its way as mine does, and he often doesn't have time to hunt down some quaint little farm market to get the goodies.

While the young woman watching the stand tallied up my total, I gathered up two bunches of the gladiolas. After all, they were why I stopped in the first place. One bunch was yellow and one was bright red.

"Some lucky girl's going to get a nice surprise," she said, smiling, getting my change from a metal cash box on her picnic table.

"They're for my partner," I said, not sure why it mattered that I correct her. It was unlikely I'd ever see her again. "He's been working a lot of long hours lately, so I thought he could use a surprise."

"That's nice," she said, her smile still genuinely bright. Sometimes, after mentioning that I'm buying flowers for a man, I can see the transformation from "oh, isn't that sweet" to "oh isn't that disgusting", even if the smile stays glued in place. "My mom's got an amazing garden, so stop by once in a while. We almost always have the glads, sometimes a few roses."

"I'm usually not out this far. I had to see someone out this way, and I saw the flowers," I added, shrugging. "Everything looks great. I'll have to tell Timothy about it. He's usually the one who picks out the fresh produce."

"Thanks. We're usually selling stuff until after Halloween. Our pumpkins are awesome, so at least come out and get some of your decorations here."

"We can do that. Thanks again," I said, taking the flowers from her. She selected a box from a small pile of them she had handy and packed up my fruits and veggies.

After loading them in the car, I headed back toward town, anxious to show Timmy the stash, and give him the flowers. They were a nice step up from some of the grocery store bouquets I'd come up with lately. Money was kind of tight again, since I'd been off work a while after he was hurt, and I'd turned down a couple jobs that would have made it impossible for me to take him to work and pick him up at night. He was back to his regular routine of taking the bus now, but while he was having headaches yet and it was so hot, I didn't want him taking the bus. If I was honest with myself, I also worried about him. I worried about him until he finally caved in and bought a car, finally giving up on public transportation. Not only did people get mugged going to and from bus stops, but the thought of someone hurting him again...the risk of him being victimized for his orientation seemed a lot more real since what happened at the cabin. I had to get over that, and I kind of did, enough to get by, but I never really relaxed until I knew he was undercover, safe at home.

I laid the flowers on top of the box of produce and hurried up to our apartment, fumbling with my keys when I got there. Before I could get it in the lock, Timmy was there, opening the door, giving me one of his sweet smiles like I was his reason for being. I never get tired of coming home to him, no matter what time of the day or night it is, no matter how long we've been together. Seeing his face light up when he sees me would be enough reason for me to get up in the morning, even if nothing else good ever happened to me. I don't need anything else. The rest is all extras.

"What is all this?" he asked, chuckling a little and taking the box from me to set it on the kitchen counter.

"The flowers are for you because I haven't seen you for more than a half hour in the last three days. The rest of it looked good when I stopped to get the flowers, so I got us some fresh stuff."

"I love them," he said, taking the flowers off the top of the other items, going to the cabinet where he kept the vases. He had quite a little collection going, because I got him good flowers for the important occasions - the ones that actually come in a vase, that someone delivers, versus the ones you pull out of a bucket in the all night grocery store. He found a tall one, and began fixing the flowers so they looked like something out of a florist's display. "Thank you," he said, taking time out to kiss me, since I was hovering by him like a hound dog, waiting for my reward.

"You're welcome," I said, then I really looked at him. I hadn't see him in the light in three days, and while I was sure we'd spent more than a half hour together in that time, I'd mostly crawled into bed with him when he was either asleep or it was dark and we just had to scratch the itch but we didn't bother with the lights or even getting naked. We just took out the equipment we needed to get the job done and fell asleep again.

He looked a little pale, and kind of tired. He seemed a bit...wilted, for the lack of a better word. I know I'd kept him up a little while the night before, but not that long.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" I asked, sliding my arms around his waist from behind, hugging him, knowing I was interfering with his flower arranging. He finished it anyway, and we walked in that awkward embrace to the box of produce and he carried it closer to the refrigerator with me still wrapped around him from behind. We finally parted, laughing. He turned around and hugged me, hard, kissing my ear, since it was more reachable with me all wrapped up against him.

"I love you," he said, stepping back a little, caressing my hair.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Just a rough day at the office," he said, reaching into the box. I caught his wrist.

"The stuff's okay there for a minute. Tell me."

He sighed and looked at me for a long moment. I thought I caught a glimpse of what Timmy would look like in ten years, because he suddenly seemed older and more weary than he should.

"I had to fire someone today."

"That's never fun," I said, knowing that things often took a more emotional toll on him because he genuinely cares about people. I mean, I care about people, but not the same way he does. "What happened?" I took his hand and pulled him toward the couch so we could sit down and talk.

He was already out of his suit coat and his tie was missing, so I tossed my jacket on the chair before sitting next to him. He loosened my tie and I ducked my head while he took it off me. I unbuttoned my collar and settled against him when he put his arm around me. Give me that and one of those fresh apples, and I could have died happy. I was getting hungry.

"Do you remember Abigail Phillips?"

"Uh...was she the older lady who wanted the job you got?"

"Yes, that's her," he said, and I could hear a faint smile in his voice. I was glad I got it right. I know I don't always listen to him as carefully as I should about details like that. He fascinates me, but sometimes the detail he puts into his people stories doesn't. I resolved then to do better with listening. It makes him happy when I really listen and remember what he's told me, and I would die if he wasn't there telling me his stories while his fingers kind of toyed with my hair. "There were a couple people on the staff who were trying for the chief of staff job, so I had a couple challenges right out of the box. Abigail seemed like she was okay with it, like she got past it. I guess she did..."

"Did she give you a bad time about something?"

"No, she's been very cooperative and helpful. I know it sticks in her throat to train me on some things, since my getting this job made her my second in command, and some of the time, she knows more than I do about how something should be done and she has to show me. I know how that feels, and I was lucky enough to get another opportunity so I didn't have to do that day in, day out, for a long time. She hasn't been so lucky...or maybe she isn't trying."

"She's getting a little long in the tooth to strike out with a new job, isn't she?" I asked.

"Long in the tooth? I'm sure she'd be flattered by that assessment," he said, laughing. I was glad he was laughing. He needed to relax. Having my head on his shoulder felt like having it on a rock at the moment. "She's been siphoning money out of the budget via her expense account. I'm not sure how long it's been going on, since my predecessor apparently only gave the expense reports a cursory glance before signing them. If my name goes on anything approving expenditures, it has to be documented completely without exception. That's how you end up publicly disgraced and potentially incarcerated in this business."

"How much are we talking about?"

"This time, only a few hundred dollars. The way she argued with me about how Ken, the last chief of staff, didn't require receipts for everything and was willing to take a memo she signed as documentation, I'd estimate about $16,000 - based on the expenses in the records that are covered by those types of memos. Sean and I are meeting with Ken tomorrow morning. I don't look forward to that."

"If this guy didn't keep good records, or let people get away with something, that's not your fault."

"No, but sending aging people to the big house isn't exactly my favorite thing."

"How old is he?"

"Pushing seventy. He kept staying on because he liked Sean and believed in the work he was doing. There are a lot of things he didn't do the way they need to be done. A lot I've had to get updated and onto the computer. Mostly it's just that - updating for technology, and I can do that. No big deal. But something like this? I don't know if he was lazy or just easy going, or complicit."

"Maybe he trusted her," I said, shrugging.

"They worked together for ten years. It's possible. In any event, it won't be a nice meeting, and chances are good charges will be brought against Abigail. On that level, she could actually be doing time."

"She stole thousands of dollars, honey. You can't help it if she did that, and if she has to pay the consequences for it."

"Her husband died of cancer not long before I got the job," he said quietly. "He left her with some stiff gambling debts. She lost the house. And I guess they were really close."

"That explains why she did it, but even that doesn't excuse it, Timothy. You have nothing to feel bad about. You're doing what you're supposed to do."

"I know that, and I agree - I don't condone theft and corruption just because your personal life is difficult or you need money. All her life, she's been law abiding, been good at her job, and then she does something like this. She had to be under an enormous pressure, and the grief...it made me think about how shattered and utterly...awful my life would be if I lost you." He kissed my forehead and rested his head against mine.

"Honey, you could lose everything, including me, and be fighting for bed space in a homeless shelter, and you wouldn't steal anything from anyone."

"I'd like to think so."

"I know so. Look, I don't know this woman, and I'm not judging her, but the law's the law, and if you make the choice to break it, you have to be prepared to face the music. I know that every time I pick a lock, sneak in somewhere I wouldn't be welcome, rifle through files - "

"Enough," he said, covering my mouth. "I know you do it, I just don't need to hear about it." He moved his hand and kissed me.

"That's a much better way to shut me up," I said, and pulled him down for another. We shifted on the couch until we were stretched out, and proceeded to make out like horny teenagers for a long time. No sex yet, just lots of kissing, pawing, wiggling around. God it was great. I love doing that with Timmy - making out on the couch. It's almost as good as sex. Almost.

He must have had the same thought, because he got up, grabbed me by the hand, and almost dragged me into the bedroom. We yanked off our clothes, threw them all over the place, and he barely pulled the covers back in time for us to land on the bed. I guess he didn't want to wrestle the bedspread in and out of the washer again, even for this.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Timmy was planning on being on top. He was pressing me into the mattress, giving me friction that almost made me come, kissing and handling me so intensely that I could barely get a peck or a stroke in edgewise.

I don't have to wonder what Heaven would be like. That's it. Getting utterly destroyed by Timothy when he's stressed out and horny. Getting your tits sucked a little harder than usual, getting kissed until you think your lips are gonna bruise, getting his mouth all over you so you look like you have some kind of weird red splotch disorder the next morning, being sucked so good that you think your cock is going to grow another six inches you're so fucking hard, and then getting it so good you're convinced your prostate is going to explode.

And all the while getting kissed and nibbled and touched and sheltered with that warm body of his, being held and told how much you're loved. Knowing you're loved so much by that gorgeous man that it frees the beast, and you get the full force of all the passion and wild Irish fire that's really under that cool exterior.

I figured it was wrong to hope that another employee embezzled something soon, but if that's what I had to look forward to when he had a rough day at the office, it was going to be hard not to wish for him to have lots of job related stress. Working it off like this might mean I died young, or my equipment wore out, but what a way to go.

We lay there a few minutes panting, just coming down off the high. He was on his back, I was on my stomach. I'd come like crazy and I was lying in it, but even that didn't move me. I thought of trying to crawl into his arms, but spotty sleep over the last few nights and sexual exhaustion made even that seem insurmountable. So I yawned, reached over and took his hand, and proceeded to fall asleep. When I woke up three hours later, all covered up, but alone in the bed, I felt guilty I'd conked out on him. I was already getting hot again, wondering if he was ready for round two. The only thing better would be food and then round two, and now I was smelling something tasty.

I got up and went into the bathroom to heed the call of nature, washed a little of the dried evidence of round one off myself, washed my hands and then wandered out to the kitchen naked as the day I was born. I wanted to freak Timmy out a little, and since I was already semi-erect, I had a feeling this would do it.

"Oh, good, you're up," he said, not turning around yet. He was stirring something on the stove, dressed in his robe. I was willing to bet that was all he had on.

"Oh, yeah, I'm up," I said. He stopped stirring a minute and looked at me.

"Oh, my God, Donald!" he exclaimed, momentarily outraged that I was there in the kitchen, naked, my dick bobbing in the breeze, making its way to erect.

"Sorry I fell asleep on you. But Mr. Winkie and I are awake now."

"For the love of God, Donald, please tell me you didn't just call your penis 'Mr. Winkie'." 

"You like 'Little Donald' better?"

"No, because he's not little anything," he said, turning off the heat on the stove. That was a good sign. I wasn't sure if I wanted him to fuck me senseless again, or if I wanted to have that beautiful ass of his. When I took him in my arms and slid my hands under his robe and had two handfuls of paradise, that answered that question. I wanted to see him taking me in, I wanted to pump in and out of those perfect cheeks of his. I wanted him to scream in pleasure, go crazy, say dirty words he almost never said any other time because I was so good for him.

I guess he got the message from the way I was squeezing his ass and looking into his eyes like a hungry wolf. He took off his robe, and while I was kissing and nuzzling his chest - a treat I never like to miss - he was backing us toward the bedroom. This time, I pounced on him, still unable to tear myself away from his arms, his shoulders, his chest. I could feel his hard-on nudging me, and I knew he was getting restless, so I took him in my mouth and while I worked on that enjoyable task, I found the lube and managed to get some on my finger. I slid my finger inside him and worked it in tandem with my mouth on him. He was fully hard now, moaning, arching into my mouth and then bearing down on my hand. I finally sacrificed having him in my mouth to work on getting him ready, and then I eased into him, face to face, because when it was time he was looking into my eyes with so much love and so much desire that I couldn't bear to not keep looking back, to not see all that directed at me.

His legs wrapped around me, pulling me in deep, and I kissed him, and as I was moaning and gasping and thrusting and wondering if anything on earth could feel this good, I told him over and over again that I loved him. He was smiling, running his hands up and down my back, telling me he loved me, too.

When we came, it was as close as two separate people can get to coming at the same time. I didn't want to break that connection, but when I finally gave in and did, I held him close and buried my nose in his soft, good-smelling hair and savored the heat of him against me.  

"I should reheat the soup," he said, and I snorted.

"Screw the soup."

"Might as well. We've already screwed everything else," he replied, and we both laughed. "Do you have to go back out again tonight?" he asked.

"Nope. I'm all yours. But then I was from the first time you smiled at me," I said, bumping noses with him. It's not that he didn't know I'd fallen for him, and hard, pretty much at first sight, but it's the kind of thing someone you love that much ought to hear once in a while.

"You had me pretty much from the start, too. Just ask my mother."

"Your mother?"

"I came up here the night we met and called her to tell her I'd met the one."

"Seriously? Huh. It usually takes me a while to grow on people."

"Not me."

We were quiet a while. I could have dozed off again, but he obviously had something tasty on the stove, and I was starving. I hated to bring up his job stress, but I wondered how he was feeling about it.

"You okay with what's going on at work?"

"No, but I know I did what I had to do, and in a politician's office? You can't have any hint of impropriety with funds that isn't dealt with swiftly and to the fullest extent of the law." He sighed. "I hate being involved in it, but it goes with the territory."

"You're a good guy, Timmy. You wouldn't hurt people unnecessarily. Your boss is lucky to have you." I smiled. "Not half as lucky as I am, but he's still lucky."

********

Don and I finally got out of bed and made ourselves a nice little dinner of soup and salad. I cut up one of the big fresh tomatoes he'd brought home and added it to our salads, along with some other vegetables and some cold leftover chicken. After dinner, we showered and then settled on the couch and watched TV. I had some work I'd brought home, but I was exhausted and I really needed the time with Don. He'd been out on case work for the last few nights, and he alternated between watching TV with me and snoozing on my shoulder.

The thought of all Abigail had been through with her husband's death, then his gambling debts coming to light, losing her house and ending up in a small apartment alone...and then I waltzed in and got the job she was probably hanging a lot of hopes on to better her situation. Don was right; she had no excuse to steal thousands of dollars from her employer, but sometimes life changes people in bizarre ways. Now, in her late fifties, she was probably heading for jail time. I wondered how old Ken would fare - if he'd be found culpable too because he'd signed off on her expenses. I hoped not. I figured his role in it was just trusting a colleague too much and not being as on top of details as he should have been. Doesn't seem like that merits jail time.

I felt almost guilty to be so happy, to have Donald dozing on my shoulder, to have him there to listen to me, to bring me flowers and a box of vegetables, to make love with me until we were both worn out and feeling even closer to each other than we did before, if that was even possible. To listen to me and care about me and be my best friend and my life partner. And my job was great, despite what was going on. My boss was a good, ethical guy who trusted my judgment and gave me all kinds of room to grow and learn and hone my skills. I was making decent money, and we were squirreling a lot of it away for a down payment on a house. I wanted a house with Don like I couldn't even explain. I don't know why it mattered so much. Really, I'd live in a one room apartment on the wrong side of the tracks forever if he was there, versus anywhere without him. Still, I wanted to have a home, a garden, a mortgage together. I wanted to shovel snow in the winter and plant things in the summer. I wanted to play in the leaves with him, and hand out candy at Halloween. I wanted to decorate our home for Christmas, and entertain there as a couple.

Maybe this was the time I needed to savor, though, because all that was in the future. I thought about Abigail, and how sad it was that all that was in her past. I had so much to look forward to with the sweet, wonderful man who was starting to snore just a little on my shoulder. I knew I should get us off the couch and into bed, but I thought another half hour or so was better spent just sitting there, holding him, feeling his chest rise and fall against me, and feeling the warmth of his hand in mine, looking at my ring on his finger, and looking again at the beautiful, bright flowers he'd brought me.

When I got up the next morning, he was still sleeping soundly. I hated extricating myself from his warm arms, giving up a morning I could spend just lying there, resting, being with him. I had a lot on my plate, though, and missing work wasn't an option. Not that day. I got ready for work, getting dressed in the bathroom so I didn't wake Don. He planned on going into work about ten, and he had another late night ahead of him.

By the time I was ready to leave, he'd shifted around in the bed, taken over the majority of the mattress, and wrapped himself around one of my pillows. It was hard not to kiss him goodbye, not to touch him one more time before I left, but if I did, he'd wake up, and I had to leave, so there was no point in disturbing him.

I went out to the kitchen and made him a big sandwich with some sliced turkey, a little ham, some lettuce and a big slice of fresh tomato. I bagged him some chips and cookies and set out one of the fresh apples so he'd remember to take it with him. He's a big boy and he can make his own lunch or find his own food from restaurants or drive ups. I still like to take care of him, spoil him a little when I have time. I left him a love note and set the apple on it. I told him I couldn't wait to see him, that he should wake me up whatever time he gets in. With a little smile, I headed out the door. It was hard to believe I'd felt so worn out and upset the night before, and he'd uplifted me, encouraged me, and given me the shot of energy I needed to take it all on again.

********

"You put us in a hell of a position here, Ken," Sean said, leaning back in the conference room chair. It was just Sean, Ken, and myself. Being a lawyer by trade, Sean didn't feel the need to bring in another one, at least, not yet.

"I'd say it's Abby who put you in that position," he countered, looking offended and more than a little nervous. God, it was awkward. I felt like the tattletale who went to the principal and told on someone. Ken was a tall, slender man with white hair and silver-framed glasses. He was a nice man who patiently walked me through every phase of his job when he trained me. And I rewarded him by finding probably the only substantial flaw in his handling of things. But Donald was right - I had no choice. I couldn't go on doing things that way myself, and if I didn't report it, I was as guilty as Abigail for siphoning off the funds.

"She's the one who stole the money, but you enabled her, and I'm frankly not sure if you realized that or if you were just not on top of things," Sean said. I was kind of surprised. Sean was a good-hearted guy, and I'd never actually seen his pissed off boss mode. It wasn't pretty. "In any event, now we've got an embezzlement situation upwards of sixteen grand, and a pile of these asinine memos instead of receipts," he said, slapping the folder of them on the polished wood surface of the table. The folder slid a little, that table was so polished. I felt the banana I'd eaten for breakfast threaten to make a reappearance.

"I had no reason to think she was doing anything shady. The memos were very detailed and logical. The expenses weren't out of the realm of reason for her position."

"Other than the fact she never fucking went to New York City for a three-day seminar on speech writing!" he bellowed, and Ken visibly jerked a bit in his chair. I wondered if I did, too. For a moment he reminded me of my father - he simmers quite a while, and then his Irish temper explodes. I've been told I occasionally do the same thing. That I even get the same stance as my father when I'm pissed off.

"She was out of the office the same dates."

"Oh, and that proves what? Good God, man, I trusted you to hold the purse strings, and you thought this was enough to get her two grand?" he said, throwing the specific memo in question on the table.

"Obviously, I made a serious mistake in trusting her."

"Obviously."

"You're awfully quiet over there, Junior," Ken said, pinning me with an angry stare. "Feel good to show me up, be the big man?"

"That never crossed my mind," I said. "I didn't have any choice in bringing this to Sean's attention. I have all those records now in my office, and it's up to me to put my signature on the expenses that flow out of our accounts."

"Don't blame him. This is on you and your pal, Abby."

"So now she's my pal? You think I was in on it, don't you?"

"I think you overlooked a hell of a lot and you never let anything else slide that way before."

"I just figured with Ralph's death, she'd been through a lot, and she was kind of scattered and disorganized. At least that's what she said. That she just didn't feel able to keep track of things the way she always had. I felt sorry for her."

"I'm going to try to avoid bringing criminal charges against you, Ken. I appreciate all the good service you gave me, and I don't truly believe you were pocketing any of this money. But you do have to realize what a situation this has created, and be prepared to answer some uncomfortable questions from the police."

"Criminal charges? You can't be serious."

"I said I would try to avoid that, but I can't guarantee anything. You'd be smart to get a lawyer, and be prepared in case the worst happens," Sean said.

"You could have come to me with this," Ken said to me. "We could have resolved this thing without it turning into any kind of issue for anyone."

"You're retired, Ken. I can't come to you with office issues when you don't work here anymore," I protested.

"And just how would you have resolved it?" Sean demanded. "Abigail is up to her ass in debt, she's lost her house, and now she's into us for sixteen grand. What would you do? Pay it off for her? Tell Tim to keep his mouth shut and make him an accessory after the fact?"

"If the money is the issue, Irene and I could have come up with it. We've spent a lifetime saving for retirement, but neither one of us would want to see Abby in jail after all she's been through."

"We're in the public eye, Ken. We can't just cover things up. After a lifelong career in this business, you know that as well as I do. This meeting is over," Sean said, standing. "If you'd come to me with this the first time it happened, we could have pulled Abigail in and worked something out. This is past the point of no return now. Abigail's going to be arrested - she may already have been by now - and I'm not entirely sure how to protect you from being in the same boat."

I was never so glad to see a meeting come to an end as I was when Ken stormed out of that conference room.

"I never wanted to see this kind of a mess happen."

"You did the right thing, Tim. That's why I trust you to sign off on pretty much everything around here. I used to trust Ken that way, which is what pisses me off the most. He used that trust to cover this up, and I can't figure out why. I know he felt sorry for Abigail - hell, we all did. She went through hell with Ralph's illness and his death, and then to find out he'd gambled away their savings, mortgaged the house three times over...it's a sad situation. If she'd come to me personally, I'd have tried to help her. But it's way beyond that point now."

"Is there anything we can do for her? To mitigate things, so she doesn't end up in jail?"

"We're reporting the crime. She has to go through the system. Some of the money she got her hands on was public money. My career is over if I cover for her or try to negotiate for leniency. She stole from me, from the people of New York."

"I can understand that. I look at Ken and Abby and they're near the age of my parents, and I guess it seems hard to think of them 'doing time.' People like that...jail is such an awful environment."

"No arguments there. Look, Tim, this sucks, but it is what it is, you did the right thing, and now we just have to let it run its course. I need you focused on damage control, and being ready to make me look brilliant and articulate when I have to answer to the media."

"I can do that," I said, smiling. Sean chuckled, and it rumbled his whole portly frame.

"You're doing a great job for me, kiddo." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't let this BS freak you out. Politics is a dirty, dog-eat-dog business. Just ask your dad sometime, and he'll back me up on that."

"He'll tell me it's what I get for hanging out with Democrats." That made him laugh out loud as he headed back to his office.

********

The first time I really smiled all day was when my cell phone rang and I saw it was Don calling. It was almost three, and I'd already been bombarded with media calls since a warrant was out for Abigail's arrest, but she hadn't been located. I'd written a statement for Sean for a press conference he was holding at four, so I had very little time to enjoy the moment with Don.

"I heard the news about that Abigail woman," Don said by way of greeting. "You're probably busy, so I won't hold you up long."

"It's really good to hear your voice," I said. "What are you up to?"

"Well, I just delivered some nasty photos to one of my clients, and she hugged me and kissed me and wrote me a check for five grand. By the time I pay off my backed up bills, I'll have enough left to take you out to dinner," he said, with a laugh in his voice. "Can you get away to eat, maybe around six?"

"I don't know. It all depends on how things go with the press conference at four. Congratulations, though. Are all your clients that enthusiastic?"

"No, thank God. I still smell like old lady perfume," he replied.

"Maybe I don't want to meet you for dinner."

"I'll even pick you up. Or I could bring take out. If you're working really late, I'm gonna come by and take you home anyway. I don't want you hanging around bus stops that late."

"I'm a big boy, Donald."

"Yes, you are that. And you're my big boy, so don't argue with me."

"Why do I bother?"

"Because you love me," he retorted, and I laughed. It's one of our favorite exchanges. "So if I bring dinner to you, can you pause to eat it?"

"Yes. I didn't have lunch and I'm getting a killer headache, so I'm going to have to eat it."

"Go eat your sandwich or whatever you took with you. I won't be there for three hours, and your head's going to be really bad if you don't eat before that."

And he says I fuss over him.

"I'll get something light, and I'll see you at six."

"It's a deal. Is Sean still there? I can bring more food."

"Actually, there are about six of us here who probably won't be going anywhere. I've got some money with me, so I'll put something toward it. Would you mind getting a big order of Chinese or something? We can eat it in the conference room."

"Sure. Tell everybody dinner's on at six."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart. See you later." He hung up, and I missed him instantly. He's so good to me, and so good for me. I had a big grin on my face as I answered the next call. I imagine that reporter was stunned by how upbeat I sounded responding to an embezzlement scandal.

The rest of the afternoon went a lot better for me knowing Don was on his way up for a visit. The press conference was grueling and uncomfortable, because the media had heard rumors that the former chief of staff was involved in the embezzlement situation, so even when I stood up to announce Sean and give them a few ground rules about what he would and wouldn't be discussing, they pounced on me with a million questions about my role in all of it. I simply stated more than once that this was Congressman Donovan's press conference, and all questions should be directed to him. I felt like I'd weasled out of it and hidden behind him, but Sean told me later that was the right thing to do until he'd approved any statements made to the media.

I was kind of surprised when it reached seven and Don hadn't shown up with dinner yet. It wasn't that I was mad about it, because I know his schedule is unpredictable and sometimes he loses track of time if he's involved in a case. Still, it worried me a bit. At fifteen after, I reached for the phone to call him when it rang. I saw his number and smiled. Finally.

"Hey, there, handsome, where are you?" I asked.

"Is this Timothy Callahan?" a woman's voice asked. I froze. I felt sick. A cold, awfulness swept over me.

"Yes," I replied.

"My name is Amanda Billings, I'm a nurse at Albany Memorial. Your name is the emergency contact for Donald...Strackey?"

"Strachey, yes, he's my partner. What's wrong?" I was already shoving my laptop in my briefcase and heading for the door. At that moment, I didn't care if they indicted me for embezzling the money. I had to get to Donald. If he couldn't call for himself, it was bad news.

"Mr. Strachey was involved in a hit and run accident and he's in our emergency room right now."

"How bad is it?" I asked, flying through the office, knowing the few staffers there were staring at me, concerned, and not letting that slow me down.

"Tim, wait up," Sean called to me, hurrying out of his office. "Emergency?" he asked.

"Don's in the hospital. I don't know how bad it is."

"I'll drive you," he said, falling into step with me.

"Thank you," I said, before going back to the nurse on the phone. Albany Memorial was a long walk, and I figured running in dress shoes would be an inefficient and exhausting way to get there. "How bad is it?" I asked the nurse again.

"He's unconscious, they had him on a backboard and collar when the ambulance brought him in, but his vital signs are strong. The doctor can give you more details. They're taking him into X-ray right now."

"I'm on my way. I have his medical power of attorney."

"Yes, that's on the computer file for him, so as soon as you get here, we'll have some forms for you to sign."

"Thank you," I concluded, breaking the connection and dropping the phone, watching it skid across the floor of the lobby of the building, scrambling after it. My hands were shaking almost too much to get it in my pocket, but I managed. "He was on a board with a neck brace," I said, breathless, as we hurried through the parking garage to Sean's car. "He's unconscious. They said it was a hit and run."

"He's alive, so take a breath so you don't drop dead yourself," Sean said, hitting the remote to unlock his black Mercedes. He started the car once we were both inside, and took off in a squeal of tires. "Fasten your seatbelt, hold on, and no remarks about the driving," he said, taking a corner so fast I closed my eyes, expecting to slam into one of the cement walls. He was always a wild driver, had a healthy collection of speeding tickets that were the lone scandal in his otherwise squeaky clean life, and I always marveled when he showed up somewhere alive with his car intact. I just prayed I wouldn't wind up on a gurney next to Don instead of being there for him, upright.

We arrived at the emergency entrance with me gripping the armrest, wide-eyed, but silent. I was grateful for the ride, and grateful for the speed with which he'd delivered me right to the door. I thought he'd leave and go back to the office, but he didn't.

"I'll park the car and be back in a few minutes," he said.

"Thanks, Sean." I got out of the car and ran for the entrance, then to the nurses' station in the emergency area. "I'm here for Donald Strachey. Amanda called me."

"I'm Amanda," a young blonde woman in pink scrubs spoke up, walking over to where I stood. "He's still down in X-ray."

"What do they think is wrong? What are they testing?" I pleaded.

"The doctor didn't give me all that information, but I'm sure they'll do a CT scan because he's unconscious, probably a back and chest X-ray. If they're concerned about any possible fractures, they'll check for that."

"Where is X-ray? I need to see him."

"I just need a couple of signatures from you, and a little more information. He'll be there for a while, and you can't be in there while they're actually taking the X-rays," she said.

I sat in the chair by the computer where she directed me, and I mechanically answered her questions. I had so many of my own. I felt sick inside, scared, and halved. Donald is my rock when things go wrong, and even that early in our marriage, I was very used to relying on him when I needed him. I needed him desperately then, and that's what made his incapacity so real. Donald would never scare me or hurt me, or make me worry on purpose. And if I needed him, he'd be by my side unless he was unable to do it.

As she wrapped up her questions, some guy I didn't recognize in a gray suit and tie approached me. He was a middle aged man with receding brown hair, and he carried a notepad with him. He flashed me a badge.

"Tim Callahan?" he asked. For an insane moment, I thought he was going to arrest me because of the embezzlement situation in our office.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Archer. I'm investigating the hit and run accident involving your boyfriend."

"Partner," I corrected. "We were married in February," I added. Why I felt compelled to correct him, I don't know, but Donald was my life partner, my husband, the other half of me. He wasn't my boyfriend. I'd had other boyfriends but I'd never had another Donald. If I lost him, I'd never have anyone like him ever again. I could never love anyone the way I loved him then, or the way I love him now.

"Okay, partner. Do you know anyone who might want to do something like this to your, uh, partner?"

"What did they do? I know it was hit and run, but was he in his car, on foot, what?"

"He was crossing State Street - "

"He was coming to my office. I work in Congressman Donnelly's office. I heard sirens earlier," I said, feeling the awful realization dawn that he was hit trying to come to my office. It was my fault, and I was sitting in my office, frustrated that he hadn't shown up with dinner, while he was lying in the street, being slid onto a board and having his neck stabilized and being rushed to the hospital. I wasn't there for him. At least, that's what my trauma-addled brain decided.

"Witnesses say a white sedan pulled out of a parking spot about a block or so up, and headed right for him, almost like the driver had been waiting for him to cross the street. The car hit him, he landed on the windshield and rolled off onto the street."

"Oh, my God," I sat back down, because my knees almost gave out. Sean made his appearance then, hurrying down the hall toward where the detective stood. He looked momentarily worried, like seeing me sitting there looking stricken and a detective standing over me meant I'd gotten even worse news than I had.

"Congressman," Detective Archer greeted as Sean joined us. "Are you a friend of the victim?" he asked. The victim. Oh, dear God, that was my Donald. The victim.

"Tim's my chief of staff," he said, resting a hand on my shoulder. "What happened?"

"I was just telling Mr. Callahan. The witnesses say a white sedan pulled out of a parking spot..." He told the same story again, and I tried to stay present, but I couldn't listen to it. I couldn't focus on the thought of a car slamming into Donald's body, bouncing him off the windshield and the brutally hard, unforgiving cement of the road coming up beneath him to further batter his body.

"Tim?"

I looked up at Sean. I hadn't even realized I'd had my face down, covered by my hand, while the detective told the story again.

"I want to go to X-ray. I need to see Don," I said.

"Do you know of anyone who'd want to do something like this to your partner?" he asked again.

"Don's a private investigator," I said past the boulder in my chest. I just wanted to see him, touch him, see his beautiful eyes open and look at me the way only he looks at me. "Sometimes people get angry when he gets the goods on them in a divorce case. He said something earlier about a woman who was really happy with the photos he got for her."

"What was her name? What kind of photos?"

"Don often doesn't talk about his clients by name. He said something about them...I think he called them 'nasty'. "

"He ever mention anyone threatening him?"

"Not lately. I really need to get down to X-ray."

"I know where it is," Sean said. "I'll walk you down there. Detective, if there's anything you need to assist with the investigation, don't hesitate to contact me." He handed Archer a business card. "That's my personal cell number. I'd appreciate being kept posted."

"Sure thing, Congressman. Mr. Callahan, this is my card. I'd appreciate hearing from you if you think of anything. Especially if you know anyone who drives a white sedan."

"What kind of car was it?" I asked.

"Something mid-sized. The witnesses couldn't agree on the make and model."

"I'll call if I think of anything," I said. I'd have said anything at that point if I thought it would get me away from there, if it would get me free to go wherever Don was.

When we got down to X-ray, they were still working on Don, so I had to wait again.

"I understand if you need to get back to the office," I said to Sean.

"There are some things that are more important than PR and spin doctoring." He sighed. "I know how I'd feel if that was Marie in there," he said, referring to his wife.

"I just want to see him," I said quietly, not trusting my voice to come out steady if I spoke out loud.

"If he was in any immediate danger, they wouldn't be taking their sweet time running tests and X-rays. They'd have rushed him into surgery, or they'd be working on some critical injury. The fact we're playing the waiting game is a good sign."

It was another twenty minutes before they wheeled Don out to where we were waiting. I'm not sure why I thought he'd be all cleaned up and in a hospital gown, but he wasn't. There was a blanket over him, but he was still on the board and still immobilized in the collar. One side of his face was badly bruised and scraped and he was unconscious. I didn't care about that, and I didn't care that I was getting in the nurses' way. I touched his hair and kissed his still lips.

"Donald, baby, it's me. It's Timmy. I'm right here, honey." I took his hand and squeezed it gently. "I love you," I said close to his ear. "Everything's gonna be all right, I promise," I said, but I wondered if that was for his sake or mine. "Does he have a spinal injury?" I asked the nurse.

"The doctor will read the X-rays and test results and talk to you about them," she said. "We're going to take him back to the exam room in the ER. You can wait with him there. They're working on finding him a room on the neuro floor."

Once we were back in the ER exam room, at least I could stay by him and hold his hand. There was bruising around his eyes that was darkening that almost made him look like he had a raccoon mask on.

"I know it's been a long day," I said to Sean. "We'll be okay if you need to get home."

"How about if I wait with you until the doctor gives you the verdict on things?"

"Thanks. That'd be great."

It seemed like hours, but I guess it was about 45 minutes before the emergency room doctor showed up to explain the test results. She was an older woman in blue scrubs and a white lab coat and, if she had a bedside manner, she wasn't wasting it on us. She was obviously busy, and it felt like we were an imposition on her time.

"He doesn't have a spinal or neck injury, so we can get him off the board and out of the collar. He has three fractured ribs on his right side, and his right shoulder is dislocated. He has a lot of contusions, but obviously our major concern is the head injury. The impact caused his brain to bounce off the front and back of his skull. The CT scan shows bruising to the frontal and occipital lobes."

"Is that why he's still unconscious?"

"As the swelling goes down, he should regain consciousness. Whether or not there's any damage is difficult to determine until he does."

"Damage? What kind of damage would that cause?" I asked, wondering if she had time to discuss how life-alteringly brain damaged Donald might be without messing up her schedule too much.

"It could be anything with injury to those areas of the brain. The frontal lobe controls everything from short-term memory to personality to motor skills. The occipital lobe controls our visual perception. We'll know more when he wakes up."

"Shouldn't he be conscious by now?" I asked, since she was halfway out the door already.

"The sooner he wakes up, the better, but the fact he's still unconscious doesn't tell us anything conclusive at this point. A neurologist will evaluate him in the morning. We're going to have to put that shoulder back in place. You'll have to step out for that."

"How bad are the fractures to his ribs?"

"They're cracked but not displaced so we don't have to operate," she replied crisply. With that, she was gone. It's a good thing he didn't need surgery. That would have really held her up.

So he could be brain damaged, blind, disabled, or he could wake up fine. For an insane moment, I envisioned her coming back with a sledgehammer and whacking his shoulder back into the socket. My stomach flipped. I must have gone pale.

"Well, she won't be winning doctor of the year anytime soon," Sean said, shaking his head, eyeing me with concern.

"I suppose she's got a lot of urgent cases to look in on," I replied, not really feeling that benevolent, but too focused on every rise and fall of Donald's chest, every twitch of his eyelids, to think about the coldness of the ER doctor. Honestly, even if she'd held my hand and said it in the prettiest words possible, I'd have felt just as gutted and terrified.

"You sure you'll be all right here tonight? Is there anything you need?"

"No, thank you, we'll be okay. I can't thank you enough for bringing me here, and waiting with me. I have my laptop with me in my briefcase," I said, gesturing to the thing I'd been hauling around the hospital with me. "I'll do my best to keep up with things from here."

"We have it under control, Tim. Stay with Don, worry about him for now. You got me through the press conference and all the initial statements to the media. All that's left is the actual arrest, which I'm sure will be soon since I doubt Abby escaped to Tijuana since yesterday."

"If you need me, e-mail me. I'll try to check that while Don's resting. I can't have the cell phone on in here."

"Will do. I'll stop by in the morning. I'll be going in early anyway. Anyone you want me to call for you?"

"Actually, would you mind calling Cora, Don's secretary? She should know what's going on."

"Sure. You have her number?"

I always kept a few of Don's business cards with me in case I could drum up any clients for him, so I pulled on out and wrote Cora's cell phone number on the back of it.

"She's usually in the office by eight, and her cell number's on the back."

"Okay. It's not that late. I'll give her a call when I get home."

After Sean left, they shooed me out of the exam room and set about the task of fixing Don's shoulder. Then he was moved into a room on the neurology floor. A whole floor of people with brain issues. I spotted several warning signs on the doors of rooms that said, "Fall Risk". I could hear loud, agitated talking from another room that was slurred and inarticulate. It seemed surreal, like a hellish dream. I hoped I was going to jolt awake in a minute, and Don was going to be next to me, fine, there to hug me and tell me it was a just a nightmare.

The nurses had him all settled in his bed by the time I was allowed back in. It was a semi-private room, but I was relieved to see the other bed closest to the door was empty. Donald was in a hospital gown now, covered to mid-chest with a white sheet and blanket, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. His right arm was in a sling, and I cringed when I thought about them popping his shoulder back into place. Between that and the fractured ribs, I knew he'd be hurting when he woke up.

His arms were marred with vivid scrapes and bruises. Once the nurses left, I eased the blanket up to look at his legs. They were similarly marked up, but apparently there were no fractures.

I took his hand in mine and kissed it, and then I kissed his soft lips again. It couldn't hurt, and maybe if he felt me there, sensed me, he'd respond. I kept thinking there would be this Sleeping Beauty moment where he'd open his beautiful eyes and smile at me. I felt so afraid and so alone, mostly afraid for him, for what we might have lost. I'd love him until the day I died, and well beyond, no matter what things were like when he woke up. But Donald is so full of life, so active, so physical with his job and the way he works out and just takes for granted that his body will do the things he demands of it...I couldn't picture him finding any happiness without that ability. He's so bright and so perceptive and so clever that it's nearly impossible to even surprise him or keep something from him. That brain is as nimble and fit as that beautifully toned body.

I put my head down on the side of his bed and cried. I was exhausted, I was scared, and I felt so fucking alone. He was so much my other half, even then, when we hadn't even been together a whole year. Our souls are so interwoven now that I stopped trying to figure out where one ends and the other begins, if they even are divided anymore. Sometimes it feels like we're one heart, one unit, one...creature. But even then, I was so spoiled from the way he responds to my pain, whatever kind of pain it is. He comforts me and protects me and avenges me if I let him. Whatever he does, he always makes it okay somehow.

I don't know if I even felt the first touch, because the one I felt was so feather-light that I almost missed it. My head wasn't far from his hand, and his fingertips were flicking at my hair, and then they were stroking my head weakly, as if he were trying to comfort me.

"Don?" I straightened up, sniffling, watching the fingers move toward where my head had been. I took his hand and held onto it, kissing those fingers. "Donald, honey, it's me. I'm right here, baby."

"Don't...cry, sweetheart." His voice was weak and raspy, but it was articulate and he knew me. Everything else from here was doable. He squinted at me. "You look like a ghost," he said. Then his hand moved in mine as if it wanted to be free, so I let go. He skimmed his fingertips over my features not unlike a blind person does when mapping someone's face. "Why can't I see your face?" He still sounded weak, but he sounded panicked. I pressed the call button for the nurse.

"Relax, honey. You were in an accident, and hit your head. Things are probably just still fuzzy."

"You're just gray, like a shadow," he said, seeming more awake now. I pressed the call button again, though I imagined they'd heard it the first time. A nurse came in then.

"Look who's awake," she said, smiling. She was one of the nurses who'd settled him in the room, the one who would be assigned to him for the night shift. She was young and pretty, and she seemed quite taken with him, even if he was gay and married. Donald can have that sweet, boyish charm about him that women love. Even unconscious, he manages to draw a few admirers.

"Please get a doctor. He's having trouble seeing," I said.

She nodded and left the room.

"What's wrong with my eyes, Timothy?" he asked. I was encouraged by the firmness of his tone, and the clarity of his question, at the same time I was terrified by the issue he was having with his eyes.

"You've been out for a little while, baby. You had a bad knock on your head. Try to relax, honey." I stroked his hair lightly, not sure if pressure on his head would hurt.

"I can't see your face," he said, his voice strained, tears filling his eyes.

"It'll be okay, baby, I promise," I said, not sure what else to say. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and just kept my face there against his. "I'm right here with you, my love. Don't be afraid. We're together, and we'll be okay." I moved back and stroked his cheek. "What can you see, honey?"

"It's all light and shadows... I know there's stuff there, but it's like gray blobs moving around." He blinked, and he looked like his head hurt by the way he winced. "Everything...hurts. What the hell happened to me?"

"You're bruised up, honey. Just try to relax. The doctor's on the way."

I was expecting the same ice queen doctor we'd had in the ER to show up. Instead, a tall, slender African American doctor with a touch of gray mixed in his short hair walked in, carrying Don's chart.

"Welcome back, Mr. Strachey," he said in a rich voice with a noticeable Jamaican accent. He was smiling warmly. "I am Dr. Dixon."

"I can't see," Don said, ignoring the greeting and looking no less distressed by the doctor's presence.

"First, we need to stay calm. Your brain is bruised and you have some swelling that's pressing on your optic nerve. It is like any other bruise on the body - it takes time to heal."

"This could be temporary, then?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, very possibly," he said, shining a small light in Don's eyes, first one, then the other. "What are you seeing right now?" he asked as he flashed the little light back and forth.

"Light. Flashing light," Don said.

"Very good," the doctor replied. "Do you know what day it is today?" he asked.

"Timothy said I've been out...it was Wednesday last I knew."

"Right again. This is late Wednesday night. What do you do for a living, Mr. Strachey?"

"I'm a private investigator." The doctor looked at me, and I nodded.

"Is that as exciting as it sounds?" he asked, and Don smiled faintly.

"Sometimes," he said. "Pay could be better."

"What month is it?"

"September."

"Well, you get an 'A'."

"Other than the fact I can't see."

"You see light and shadow, and shapes. Even if you could not see at all, there would be a chance your vision would improve or return completely, but the fact you can see, even though it isn't clear, is a very good sign."

"Are you the neurologist the other doctor mentioned would be evaluating Don?" I asked.

"I am a neurologist, yes. I was here to see one of my patients who was having some issues tonight, so I was available when the nurse needed a doctor to come in and check on you."

"Will you be Don's neurologist?" I asked. I suppose I should have waited for Don to say something, or for him to agree, but this man was kind and compassionate and offered us hope, and there was a warmth in his manner that made it clear he cared about his patients. That was the kind of doctor I wanted looking after the most precious person in my life.

"I think that can be arranged," he said, smiling. "You two get some rest, and I will be seeing you again tomorrow."

"They won't make me leave, will they?" I asked. I've gotten bolder and more ornery as I've aged, and no stern nurse or hospital employee can pry me away from Don's side if he needs me. Back then, I still needed a little bolstering to break or resist the rules.

"I think you will be the best sedative for our patient," he replied. "How is your pain?" he asked Don.

"Not so hot," Don said, squeezing my hand. I knew how much he was hurting if he'd even admit that much.

"I'll order something for pain. That will help you sleep. We'll do some more testing with your vision tomorrow, and there are a couple additional tests I'd like to run," he said, skimming over the chart again. "What is the last thing you remember before you woke up here?"

"I picked up a big order of Chinese food to take up to Timmy's office. It all gets foggy after that. I don't remember any accident. What happened?"

"You were hit by a car when you were crossing the street," I said.

"Was the guy drunk or something? I've been crossing the street by myself successfully since I was about five."

"It was a hit and run."

"Oh, swell," he said, sighing.

"I have had patients who have been through similar traumas," Dr. Dixon said, "and they are usually much more critically injured. I know that isn't much consolation until your vision improves, but it is something to be thankful for."

After the doctor left, Don looked at me, and I could tell he was straining to see more than his eyes would show him.

"Why don't you close your eyes, honey? I'm not going anywhere."

"You could go home if you wanted. I'm not going to die or anything."

"I should hope not," I said, as if I was offended that he would bring up such a thing. "You owe me a Chinese dinner." That made him chuckle, albeit weakly.

"What am I gonna do if I can't see your face?" he asked me, looking at me. I knew he couldn't see my features or my expression. I leaned over and kissed him.

"Close your eyes, baby. Can you see it now?" I stroked his hair.

"Yeah, I see it a lot when I'm dreaming," he replied, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Then sleep, honey, because I'm right here with you, and you'll see everything clearly in your dreams. You need your rest to get better."

He sighed, and I felt the soft little puff of air against my cheek as I leaned close to him. He shifted over a little bit with a grunt of pain and patted the bed.

"I'm lonely."

The little words touched me, but I worried that jostling the bed would hurt him too much.

"It could hurt you if I try to get in bed with you, honey."

"It hurts more with you way over there," he said, giving me puppy dog eyes. The fact those beautiful eyes couldn't see me clearly, and I knew he was scared...I couldn't refuse him, so I worked at getting into bed with him. It was awkward and difficult, and I wound up on my side, with the bed rail not too comfortably pressing into my back, because after a couple of painful attempts, he really couldn't move onto his side. Still, I could share his pillow now, and some of the angst seemed to leave his features.

"It's gonna be okay, honey," I whispered, kissing his forehead.

"I think it was a truck."

"What?"

"I got hit by a truck," he said. "And then it backed up and ran over me."

I had to chuckle at that, and I was so relieved that I felt myself relax, too. His sense of humor was there, even though I knew he was scared and hurting.

"The nurse should be back soon with something for your pain," I said, kissing his bruised cheek. He latched onto my hand and laced our fingers together.

"Already got it," he said, kissing my hand and keeping a good hold on it.

"Oh, my goodness," the nurse gasped as she pulled the curtain back, and then she exhaled, laughing. "You scared me," she added, her hand going to her chest momentarily. "When I didn't see you in the chair, I didn't think you were still here," she said to me, shaking her head. "I have some pain medication Dr. Dixon ordered."

"Sorry I scared you," I said.

"I can probably find you a recliner if you want. I think there's one in the waiting room down the hall I could steal, at least for tonight."

"You'd probably be more comfortable," Don said, though he hadn't let go of my hand.

"I'm good right here."

"How about an ice pack for your ribs?" she asked Don. "Might help a little until the meds kick in."

"Okay, thanks," he agreed, not opening his eyes. After she left, he said softly, "If I keep my eyes closed, it's like things are normal."

"They will be again soon, honey."

I helped him with the ice pack on his side, and I talked to him about the whole mess at my office, mainly just to relax him and distract him. I asked him if he knew anyone who drove a white sedan, and he drew a blank at that. I thought maybe the husband of the overjoyed woman he'd gotten photos for might be the culprit, but apparently they both drove Cadillacs, and according to Don, one was silver and one was black.

The pain medication finally helped him sleep fitfully for a while, and I nodded off here and there between vital sign checks, hospital noises, and the utter agony my back was beginning to feel as I became intimate with the bed rail. But I had Donald's warm body close to me, and I was making him feel better. I couldn't ask for more than that.

********

I'm sure blind people who see only darkness would tell you that being "visually impaired" was a better deal. I'm not so sure. It gives you the illusion you can see until you actually try to look at things and make sense of them. It makes you think since you can see shadows and shapes that you should be able to get up and go take a piss without A, slamming your already battered body into furniture or door frames, or B, pissing on the floor next to the toilet. It's not like I need to hold my dick with both hands to hit the target, but there's something about having your arm in a sling and doing everything with one hand that throws you off balance anyway, so I was at a double disadvantage. At least, that was what I told myself when I cataloged just how miserable my situation was and justified why it was understandable that I peed on everything but the john.

I'm a god-awful patient, and it's only because Timothy loves me more than his own life that he didn't hold a pillow over my face some night while the pain pills had me knocked out. I never stayed where he put me, I got up and meandered around the apartment and ran into things and knocked things over, and that's when I wasn't missing the target in the bathroom. He tried to give me pointers on how many steps I should take in which direction, but I usually snapped his head off when he did. If I started pacing around and counting my steps, it meant I was blind and I was trying to adapt to it. I refused to be blind and disabled. I just had to be patient and let Timmy lead me around through my world of gray blobs and fuzzy lights, because, after all, this was fucking temporary. And that was the end of that.

I was released from the hospital after two horrendous nights there. The first night, we barely slept at all, and it was a draw which one of us had more trouble walking in the morning. The second night, Timmy refused to leave me, but ended up sleeping in a chair, since there was a patient moved into the other side of the room, an old man with Alzheimer's who thought we were his sons and kept telling us to settle down and go to bed, and not to make him "come up there."

I finally felt sorry for the old guy and asked him if he'd tell us a story. I couldn't see Timmy's expression, but I know he was looking at me as if I'd gone as far off the deep end as my roommate. Surprisingly, the old man launched into a story about when he was a boy and he ran away from home and hopped trains halfway across the country. It worked for all of us. He was having a good time telling it, and the damn story was interesting, so we shut up and listened, which also made him happy.

They drugged him into sleep about three in the morning, so we took a nap of sorts until the sun rose and the breakfast tray came. I didn't realize what a giant asshole I was until I got home and had time to think back on it, but Timmy had to be starving, and he spent all his time trying to help me figure out how to eat when I couldn't see the food, and I spent all my time bitching and telling him to either just fucking feed me or eat it himself and leave me alone.

So he sat there dutifully and fed me and didn't tell me to go fuck myself and then go across the street to McDonald's, like he should have. He's a saint. It's just as well he didn't bother being ordained. He skipped right to sainthood.

I suspect he knew what I was going through, that learning how to do anything blind was accepting that I would be in that state for more than a few days. I refused to do occupational therapy, even when some high-voiced girl who sounded like she was about twelve stopped in with a little box of supplies to teach me how to put on my shoes or wipe my own ass, or some such thing, when I couldn't see any of it. By the time I was finished with Occupational Therapy Barbie, she fled from the room - Timothy claimed she rushed past him verging on tears as he returned to his own personal hell as my seeing eye dog.

It seemed like, by the time I was allowed to go home, my eyesight was a little better, but at the same time, I figured that just meant I was adapting to grayscale blobvision. I still couldn't see Timothy, except for the big gray blob that was him, and that's what bothered me the most. My favorite thing in the world is looking at Timothy, and not just because he's beautiful. Though I have to admit, we were entering L.L. Bean season, and I didn't want to miss that. The season of sweaters in dark, striking colors, cozy fleece sweatshirts I loved to be cuddled up against, and Timmy's version of "Fall Casual." Jeans that nicely fit that sexy ass of his, especially when they were paired with the short leather jacket I got him when I got a nice big retainer. When he wore that, I spent a lot of time walking behind him. He always goes meticulously through that catalog when it comes in the early fall, chooses a couple of nice items that he looks beautiful in and, that year, he'd ordered me a fleece lined flannel shirt. I wore that damn thing until he reasonably suggested that the holes in the armpits were letting in enough air to negate the thermal qualities, and I accepted a new one. Once we were married, his L.L. Bean box always had at least one or two goodies in it for me, even if I never paid much attention to his questions about what I needed or wanted.

Now he was a big gray blob. Albeit, a gray blob I loved, but still - looking at him makes my world turn.

I hadn't given much thought to Timothy's stress level during all this because, after all, the world revolved around me. I know when I napped I often subconsciously heard his fingers flying over his laptop keyboard, the little clicking making me dream of being trapped in some kind of surreal, hellish steno pool of shapeless gray typists banging away on typewriters. I found out later that he'd written several press releases, fielded calls from the media on his cell phone when I occasionally was, blessedly for him I'm sure, asleep for a while, and used his rare breaks from being constantly at my side during my brief hospital incarceration to go into the office, meet with Sean, then drive like a maniac to our apartment to clean out our mailbox and make sure we weren't ignoring bills that would get something shut off or repossessed.

Our first night home was boring because I couldn't really see anything, and Timothy was snoring on the couch next to me by about nine o'clock. And he doesn't even snore. He was so fucking exhausted that he was lying at some weird angle, his mouth hanging open, hand still on the remote, passed out. I was kind of loopy from pain meds, so I finally just gave up on making sense of my surroundings and went to sleep, too.

But I knew I was getting better, at least in some respects, because I was starting to have some major questions about the person who damn near killed me. My second night home, I was listening to the news, and I'd given Timmy a break for a couple hours, pretending I was interested in that, or that I was sleeping, so he could get whatever he was frantically trying to do on his laptop, done.

The keys had been quiet a few minutes, and I knew he was proof-reading. That was a waste of time. All he ever has to do is tinker with commas. Everything he writes is great.

"Did the witnesses say it was intentional?" I'm not sure if it was the subject matter or my pain pills wearing off that made my ribs hurt like a son of a bitch. I must have been grimacing because Timmy put his work aside - at least, it sort of looked and felt like that's what he was doing - and put his arm around me so I could put my head on his shoulder. Maybe it upset him to talk about someone almost killing me. He kissed my forehead.

"It's time for your pain pill," he said gently.

"Yeah, I know, but you didn't answer my question."

"The witnesses said the car pulled out of a parking place up the street and headed full speed toward you. It didn't sound like an accident."

"Shit. Then I need to start trying to figure out who wants me dead. Because I'm not dead, and somebody out there might want to remedy that."

"Do you think they'd make another attempt?" Timmy squeezed me a little, and it hurt. God, I hated that him touching me or holding me hurt, but it shot waves of white hot pain through my shoulder. "I'm sorry, honey," he said, loosening his hold on me like he'd been scalded.

"Me, too. I can't see you, I can't make love with you because of my stupid ribs, and you can't touch me without it hurting." He'd tried giving me a blow job the night before to relax me, but as soon as I started getting into it, the upswing in my breathing just about killed me, and the tendency of my body to arch with the excitement made me feel like there were a half dozen knives my side.

"This is all just temporary, baby," Timmy whispered in my ear, kissing my temple. He calls me baby when he knows I feel bad. He does it because he thinks it makes me feel better, and he's right. There's something about that little word in his sweet, soft voice, that soothes the sore spots like nothing else does.

"My eyes aren't better, Timothy," I said. I wondered if he'd even hear me, because I barely whispered it. I was so scared. I know a lot of people live full lives, get their independence back, go out and navigate through the world blind. I think they're awesome and brave and incredible. I'm none of those things. Timmy thinks I am, but I'm not. I can take on things I know how to handle, and thugs and bullies, and even half-wits with guns don't paralyze me with fear. There are ways around all that, and I've had training in how to handle those things. I couldn't even find the john by myself, and the thought of venturing out of the apartment terrified me.

So Timmy figured out a way to wrap himself around me and hold me without hurting me. I hid my face against his shoulder and cried like a baby. I was so scared.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled into his sweater.

"None of this is your fault," he replied, stroking my hair, kissing my cheek this time.

"Being a pain in the ass is my fault."

"You're not a pain in the ass, honey. You're my husband, and I'm so grateful you're still with me. If I'd lost you, I...I don't know what I'd do without you," he said softly, kissing my cheek again.

"I don't mean to make this so hard for you," I said. I'd been such a jerk to him, making him stay with me, refusing to learn how to do anything for myself. Because if I learned to do something for myself, then maybe he'd go to work and not stay with me. The only thing that made it bearable was Timmy's presence. His scent, his touch, the sound of his voice, the sound of him tinkering around with his laptop, puttering in the kitchen making me something to eat...those things made living in the world of gray blobs and shadows less terrifying. It made me feel like, even if I was sentenced to this forever, there was still something to hold onto: Timothy.

I'd give my eyes, my life, anything for him. To keep him safe, just to have him by my side.

"I'm scared, too, Donald," he whispered, resting his head against mine. "Not because it changes anything no matter what happens with your vision. I just don't know what the future is going to be, or how to plan for it. I'm a planner. I can't plan for this."

"I've noticed the planning thing," I said, and I could feel his face move into a smile, because his cheek was near my forehead. It was kind of scary how much more I was tuning into my other senses, even that soon into my eyesight troubles.

"I don't know if I can be tough enough to withdraw my help and make you learn how to be independent, if this lasts. I just want to make everything easy for you. Take care of you. Protect you so you don't bump into something or hurt yourself or get frustrated. In the long term, that's not a favor."

"In the short term, it's saving my life," I admitted, keeping my eyes closed, just soaking him up, like I could absorb him into my pores. "If it lasts, I promise I won't be such a dick."

"For now, it's okay for you to be a dick," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "You're in a lot of pain, and until you heal, it wouldn't do you much good to trip on something or slip in the shower."

"You could show me how to find my way to the bathroom on my own."

"How about if I show you how to find your way around in the bathroom once you're there? Until your arm is out of the sling and your ribs heal a little, you shouldn't run into things or risk falling."

"Okay. At least, that way, Cora can babysit tomorrow and you can go into the office for a while."

"We'll master the essentials," he said, and we just sat there a while. Things didn't feel as bleak, and the truth is, I feel like I can face anything with Timmy there to go through it with me.

I also wanted to spend some time with Cora so she could help me run some checks on white sedans by going through my case files. I figured she could talk Fred into helping her load a bunch of files in the trunk of his Buick and bringing them over so we could go through them looking for whoever ran me down.

********

While I knew I had to go into the office, and I admired Don for pulling himself together and urging me to do it, I hated leaving him. And something he'd said the night before stuck in my mind - if someone wanted him dead, and they didn't succeed the first time, they might just make another stab at it.

So while Don, Fred, and Cora were getting settled at the table with a box of files, a pot of coffee, and a box of donuts Fred picked up along the way, I called Kevin, our neighbor. Since he worked at home as a freelance writer for sports and fitness magazines, I was hoping he might be willing to bring his laptop and camp out at our place. Don wasn't physically able to take on any threats, even if not for his visual limitations. Kevin's musculature and the fact boxing and wrestling were two sports he excelled at in addition to weight lifting, made him a natural choice for a bodyguard. Both he and his partner, Frank, moonlighted as security for some of the major events in the area.

If Donald was ruffled by my enlisting a bodyguard, he hid it well. He'd been a handful the first few days of his convalescence, and his mood was contingent on my waiting on him hand and foot, never leaving his side, and not demanding he figure out how to do anything by himself. It didn't take me long to figure out that he was scared, that I was his stability and his solace, and that if he learned to function blind, it meant he was blind, and not just temporarily out of sorts.

I wondered how I'd handle life with him if he was permanently visually impaired. Not because I'd love him less, or because there was a question in my mind that I'd stay with him. I'd have stayed by his side if he was horribly brain damaged and completely disabled. This posed no threat to my love for him or our marriage. I wondered how I would handle the changes in him, in seeing what was left of the happy, playful side of Donald that had survived so much, slip away. I may have been shortchanging him by thinking he would change that much, permanently, if he didn't get his vision back. At the same time, everything he did was so intimately tied to his independence and his physical ability. His career, his physical fitness, tinkering with that metal sculpture on wheels he called a car, watching movies on a rainy Sunday while we picked our way through the paper and intermittently made out on the couch.

I was a bag of nerves by the time I made it into work. I was worried that Donald's eyes weren't getting any better, that someone might want to kill him, that someone might want to kill me to get at him, that I'd lose my job because I'd missed so much work, that I'd get blamed somehow for some of the improprieties that had gone on in our office...

For the first few minutes, I just sat in my office and tried to re-orient myself, to make myself focus on being there, to not call home and check on Don. He had not one, not two, but three fully capable adults with him. Cora was there to go through files and notes with him, Fred decided to tag along since he thought the detective work sounded exciting, and Kevin was there in case we needed security against any other attempts on Don's life. He didn't need me calling and fussing and distracting him.

Sean called me into his office a few minutes after I got there, so I went in to meet with him, armed with copies of all the communications I'd produced from home, notes on any phone calls I'd handled, and my ever-present portfolio so I could scrawl notes on the next round of our strategy in damage control and trying to keep up with the usual PR things and commitments that weren't tied directly in to making sure Sean didn't come out looking like a crook because one staff member had sticky fingers and another one let her get away with it.

When I sat down across from him, in front of his desk, I thought Sean looked bad. His color was pasty, and he looked haggard. He usually looked like the rosy-cheeked plump Irish life of the party. I knew he was under a lot of stress, but this worried me.

"Tim, there's no good way to lead into this. You don't need your notepad."

Dear God, he's going to fire me, and then Don and I won't have any income, and we won't have health insurance to take care of Don until he's better...and I won't get a good job if I'm fired from this one...

"Tim?"

"I'm sorry," I said, closing my portfolio and piling it and my folder of copies on the other visitor chair. My stomach tied in a knot. I swallowed the sour traces of breakfast that were in my throat.

"I'm resigning," he said.

"Why?" I blurted, my eyes bugging. We were doing okay with damage control. "I know I haven't been on site the last few days, but I think I've defused a lot of the media scandal - "

"You've done a remarkable job, Tim. This isn't your fault. It's mine." He sighed. "Abigail wasn't the only one with her hand in the till," he said.

"Someone else on the staff has been embezzling funds?"

"You could say that." He loosened his collar and cleared his throat. "This is all going to hit the media, and you can't fix it. I diverted about $50,000 in campaign funds into paying off some personal debts... I don't know what I was thinking...I wasn't, I guess. Or I thought I could get the money back in before it was uncovered. I was holier than thou with Ken, but the truth is, if he'd been a more astute money man, I wouldn't have gotten away with what I was doing, either."

"Did you think I'd find out about the $50,000?"

"In time, yes. But I'm sure the auditors will find it sooner than later." He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and coughed.

"Are you okay?"

"Must be stress," he said, putting his hand over his chest. "Son of a bitch, I can't breathe," he gasped, and I was out of my chair in a flash, trying to loosen his collar further, yelling for help, for someone to call 9-1-1.

He grabbed my wrist as his body stiffened out and his other hand was clutching the front of his shirt, crumpling his tie, the one with the green stripes his wife got him that he didn't like but wore to please her, and time stood still as he stared at me, wide-eyed, and I knew he was passing into the next life. So I covered his hand where it gripped my wrist, and started saying the "Our Father" as quickly as I could. I wasn't a priest and I couldn't take a confession, and he couldn't have given one anyway. I hoped it helped.

And then he went limp, his fingers still curled around my wrist, his eyes staring, lifeless.

Another staffer and I laid him out flat on the floor of his office and did CPR as the office filled with as many of our team as could fit, but I knew he was gone. It wasn't that I was a doctor, or some kind of expert in heart attacks, but I felt the life leave him, and I saw the soul leave his eyes. I wasn't even surprised when our efforts were fruitless, when the EMTs rushed in and started their own resuscitation efforts, or even when they got the green light from the doctor they had on the phone to declare him dead on the scene.

Sean Donnelly, a good man with a heart of gold who treated me like family, put faith in me to lead his staff when no one else thought I was old enough or experienced enough, lay there dead on the floor way before his time. All the media would focus on was the scandal in his office, and soon, the bigger scandal of his own misappropriation of campaign funds. It all seemed so trivial in the face of death. When the medical examiner's office was on their way to collect the body.

And someone had to make it to his home to notify his wife before the media got rolling.

"I'm going to talk to Marie," I said to Leslie, Sean's secretary, as she and the staff stood a grim watch over the removal of the body.

"Take my car," she said, hurrying to her desk and taking her car keys out of her purse to hand them to me. "You'll never beat the news if you're trying to take buses or call cabs."

"Thanks."

"It's a silver Camry," she said. "I'm parked about three spaces away from Sean."

"I should take his car. One less detail for Marie to worry about." I looked back toward his office. Steeling myself against what seemed like a cold, bizarre request, I stuck my head into the room. "I'm going to notify his wife. I'd like to take his car home for her," I said. One of the two attendants who had just loaded him on the gurney dug in his pocket and handed me the car keys. I gave Leslie back her keys.

"I can follow you to drive you back to the office," she said.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be, and someone close to Sean should be here to field any incoming calls. If you need me, call my cell. I'll get a cab back to the office."

"All right. Please, tell Marie...what do you tell someone at a time like this?" she asked, pressing a tissue against her mouth as she tried to hold back tears.

"I hope I think of the right thing by the time I get there," I replied honestly.

********

It was good for me to get my mind off feeling so much like an invalid and actually do some thinking. I was able to handle calling a contact I have at the DMV and giving her a few names of people who'd threatened to kill me - unsettling as it was to analyze, that wasn't a rare occurrence - and have her check on the kinds of cars they drove. There were a few white sedans in my client history, but none among those most likely to want me dead.

Cora and Fred seemed to enjoy playing detective, even though they were mainly sifting through my hen-scratched notes and old case files. Cora was busily informing me how abysmal my organization skills were as she went through case files that I'd set up myself when I had no secretary. My organizational skills are actually pretty good. I just elect not to use them for things like papers and file folders. Timothy told me that once, not long after we got married. One of the ten million reasons I love him. He doesn't assume I'm incapable of something just because I don't do it. He takes me as I am, and gives me credit for having brains, recognizing that I just could give a shit less where I put something until I need it again. At home, he fixes those things for me so I don't stand around in the middle of the bedroom naked wondering where the hell my clean shorts are. At the office, Cora used to fix those things for me all the time, even if she did scold me in good humor for it.

With his third donut and a cup of coffee in hand, Fred finally tired of the paper chase and sat in the living room watching TV. The Price Is Right was on, and Kevin and he began their own contest of trying to outbid the contestants. Fred was pleased with himself for bidding so well on so many things, and Kevin would make some remark about how he wouldn't pay that for whatever the item was, and wondered where the hell they shopped. That show is a phenomenon I don't get, because it sucks me in that way, too. I end up calling out bids on things, feeling glad when I'm right, stupid when I'm not, and actually stressed out about what kind of bid I guess on the big showcase things they do at the end with the cars and the vacations and shit. Do none of us realize that we aren't going to win a fucking thing in our living rooms even if we nail every price on everything? Apparently not.

He wasn't pleased when a reporter broke in on the show with a special report. Congressman Sean Donnelly was dead, the victim of an apparent heart attack in his office.

"Turn it up," I demanded. I guess because I couldn't see it, I thought I needed to blast the volume. The reporter explained that Donnelly had been meeting with staff when he clutched his chest and lost consciousness, and was pronounced dead at the scene. "I need to go to Tim's office," I said.

"We'll drive you there," Cora said.

"No, you guys stay put. I'll take him," Kevin said. "That way, if there's any risk involved related to Don's situation, I can be on the lookout for that."

While we were figuring out the logistics of getting me where I wanted to go, we fell silent when the reporter announced an impromptu press conference outside Donnelly's office with Timothy Callahan, his Chief of Staff. I heard Timmy's voice, and though he is the consummate professional, and no one else would know it, I could tell how hard it all was on him. I didn't even need to see his beautiful face. I could hear it in his voice.

"At approximately nine this morning, I was meeting with Congressman Donnelly in his office, and he suffered a fatal heart attack. Attempts were made by the staff and paramedics to resuscitate him, but tragically, we were not successful. Our office will be releasing details on funeral and memorial service arrangements as they become available. Sean Donnelly was very devoted to the people of his district, and he would want there to be an opportunity for the public to participate in a remembrance for him. Speaking for his staff, and those who work closely with him, we feel a profound sense of loss and are still trying to come to terms with the reality of his passing. He was a good man who championed a number of vital social programs and had a soft spot in his heart for the poor, the elderly, and the disadvantaged. We are all poorer for his passing," he concluded.

There were a flurry of questions, a few of which Timmy fielded with his usual tact, diplomacy, and fluidity.

"Your partner's quite a speaker," Kevin said.

"He's pretty amazing, isn't he?" I agreed. All these years later, Timmy still amazes me.

********

I sat in my office staring into space like a zombie. I'd managed to deliver Sean's car back to his home, notify Marie, sit with her a while, do a press conference I hoped sounded marginally coherent since I'd rattled my statement off the top of my head about ten minutes after getting back from talking with Marie, and now the phones were beginning to ring off the hook.

Abigail was still at large, Ken's fate was uncertain, the media was feeding on the whole situation like crows on a carcass, speculating about the stress of the improprieties in his office being the reason for his heart attack...it didn't take them long to bring up his weight, his fondness for indulging in drinks at political functions, and his occasionally bombastic manner of red-faced, angry debates with his opponents. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I'd told Leslie to hold the calls for a few minutes, that I needed to collect my thoughts.

I couldn't even think about what this meant for my own life. All the fears that assailed me in the moments I thought I was being fired were still there. Dead men don't need chiefs of staff. They don't even need staff. All our days were numbered. And our salaries and our benefits. My partner was blind and injured and couldn't work, and the one thing I felt secure about, smug even, was that I could take care of us if his disability was permanent, if he needed time to regroup, even go back to college for a different career path. My salary would pay our bills and my insurance would pay his medical costs.

If Sean's replacement wanted his old staff, we were all set, but if he or she came in with a new team?

What a difference a day makes. Hell, what a difference a minute makes.

There was a knock at my door, and I was a little irked that I couldn't even get ten minutes to myself before going back at it. Still, that was my job while I still had one, and this day would only get worse.

"Come in," I said, hoping the person on the other side of the door was thick-skinned enough not to let the fatigue I knew was in my voice offend them.

"Hi, honey," Don said as he cautiously took a few steps forward and ran his hand along the back of one of the chairs in my office. I knew he was navigating by shadows and memory. Kevin was behind him, but he closed the door and stayed outside the office.

"Donald!" I was so glad to see him it was all I could do not to grab him up in a crushing hug and never let go. I checked my enthusiasm so I didn't hurt him, but I did rush to him and take him carefully in my arms. "I'm so glad you're here," I said, and then I lost it and started crying.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he said gently, holding onto me, a little tighter with his good arm, his presence enough to make everything okay again, even though all the same problems were still facing us. Even though I was grieving the loss of a friend, a mentor, a man I admired in spite of the fall from grace he'd admitted to me hours earlier. I hoped no one ever found out about it. I wondered if that was possible.

"Thank you for coming here," I said. "I know it's not easy - "

"Kevin drove me and led me up here. It wasn't as bad as I thought. I can do this," he said, and that broke my heart. He knew I was hurting and scared and I needed him to be strong, and so he'd accepted having someone bring him to me, lead him through the office, and then groped his way around my office until I reached him. And he was being upbeat about being blind and dependent on others, two things I knew were feeding on his soul. He was as scared as I was, but he's my hero, and he always has been, and he'd do whatever it took to be there for me.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" I asked, kissing him. He was my whole life, he still is, and if he's with me, I can do anything, take on anything. I was beginning to draw that strength from him in just the moments he'd been in the office. He's told me before that I'm strong. I think I am. But that extra strength that lets me spread my wings and soar when I need to? That comes from having him in my arms, by my side, seeing the love in his sweet, beautiful blue eyes.

"Whatever it was, getting me will probably help you atone for it," he quipped, and I laughed. Then I held him close and whispered in his ear.

"Having you is the sweetest part of my life. The only one that matters."

"Me, too," he said, not moving to break our embrace. "Everything really will be okay, honey. I promise."

"It's okay now," I said, still holding onto him.

Kevin went back home to work, and Don stayed with me in my office. He sat on the couch in there and listened to the news that was on the small flat screen TV I had mounted on the wall. I had a lot of calls to make and to field, and they all seemed doable with him there. Kevin had offered to pick us both up whenever I called. We've been blessed with some good friends over the years. Don finally talked me into taking time out to eat something about three o'clock, since I had a headache and was getting irritable. I didn't feel much like eating, but getting a little food down made me feel better, more steady.

Don fell asleep late afternoon, and despite the activity going on in the office, and my being on and off the phone and going in and out, he slept soundly with the help of his pain medication. I was working intently on my computer, e-mailing some of Sean's closest contacts regarding issues that were in progress at the time of his death. I didn't even notice anyone behind me until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I started a bit and turned back to see Don standing there.

"Timothy...I can see you. When I woke up, I...I could see better. It's still blurry, but there's color and definition to things, and I can see you!"

I stood up and hugged him, trying to remember not to hurt him. I kissed his mouth and his nose and his eyelids, and held him some more and thanked God, and told Him I didn't care about my job or money or bills or anything. This was all I needed, the greatest gift I could have been given. Everything paled in comparison to this.

"Look at me. How much can you see?" I asked.

"I see you. Your features are still blurry, but I don't need to be led around to see where I'm going, and I can see you, not just a blob where you're supposed to be."

"We should get you to Dr. Dixon, let him take a look at you."

"I have an appointment tomorrow morning. He said my eyesight could just start getting better any time. When you're done here, let's just go home and get some rest."

"Are you sure? Do you feel okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm gonna be fine, honey. There's nothing wrong with me that won't heal up, and we'll be okay."

********

I knew Timmy was exhausted by the time he joined me in bed about two in the morning. I'd conked out with pain meds about midnight, but I still heard and felt him getting into bed.

"Got everything under control?" I asked.

"God, no," he replied with an exhausted sigh.

"You're going to do fine managing things, honey. You kept Sean organized, wrote his speeches, managed his staff, did all his spin doctoring. This is what you do, and you're good at it."

"You make me feel like I can do anything," he said. He took my hand and kissed it. I cursed my battered body for not being more mobile. I wanted to take him in my arms and make love to him until I obliterated everything else from his mind. Realistically, I knew my ribs wouldn't take it, and my head would start pounding, and then I'd probably twist my shoulder the wrong way...

My mouth was okay, so I decided to proposition him. I hoped it was even a little tempting. I didn't look like much all banged up and having sex with me was probably right up there with getting it on with a blow up doll since I couldn't move for shit.

"If you want to bring that beautiful big dick up here to me, I bet I can suck the stress right out of you."

"What about your ribs?"

"My mouth's a long way from my ribs."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. There's nothing wrong with my mouth. Just don't kneel on my shoulder by mistake," I added.

I guess married people having sex while trying to avoid multiple injury sites isn't all that sexy to talk about, but having Timmy straddling my face was pretty damn hot. He held onto the headboard and I took my time licking and sucking his balls, making him crazy. With a little spit on my finger, I eased it into him and teased him with it while I took him in my mouth, concentrating on giving him a blow job that would flatten him for at least a few hours' sleep. It's not like it was an unpleasant task. I couldn't writhe around a lot, but I was getting so hard that he could probably blow on me and I'd come.

When he came, he really let himself go, and that's what I'd hoped for. He shouted and gasped and called out my name, and lying there surrounded by all his tender, private parts and those warm, sturdy thighs of his, I lost it and came like crazy. He moved away and settled next to me, his head on my good shoulder. I held him and told him how much I loved him.

"Sean took money out of his campaign fund," he said quietly. "I haven't told anyone."

"I don't get it. How long have you known?"

"He told me right before he died. I mean, right before. It was the last thing out of his mouth before saying he couldn't breathe. He was planning to resign, because he figured with the other scandal going on, it was only a matter of time before the investigation uncovered it. Or I did."

"How much?"

"Fifty grand."

"Wow." I was quiet a few seconds, just stroking his hair. I was sorry he had so much to deal with, and yet selfishly relieved that was his job and not mine. He thinks I have the harder job of the two of us. Mine's physically riskier, but his can be emotionally and mentally brutal. It was especially so in the early days when he was trying so hard to prove himself, when so many of his colleagues and the people reporting to him were older and more experienced. He's so good and so honest, it wasn't fucking fair for Donnelly to dump his crooked shit on him and then croak and leave him to figure it out.

"I don't know what to do."

"You have to tell someone, Timothy. You can't risk your career to protect a dead man."

"He made my career. He gave me this job, this opportunity - "

"And you lived up to it, and did a great job for him. He gave you an opportunity, and you ran with it. You're making your career, honey. You don't owe him your integrity and your reputation."

"I know. It's going to be devastating for his family, and the only thing anyone will remember him for is that he dropped dead in his office after confessing to stealing $50,000."

"He was a good guy who made a bad decision. It happens. But it's not your responsibility to cover for him."

"When you were hurt, he drove me to the hospital, waited with me... His son DJ'ed at our wedding. He was a friend. Not just my boss."

"I know. I'm gonna miss him, too, sweetheart. I liked him, and I know he was good to you."

"I guess I don't have much choice about reporting what he told me."

"You can keep it to yourself, but I don't think it'll matter in the end. Is there any danger someone could have overheard your conversation?"

"There's always a danger of that in an office suite. He didn't have his door closed, but I don't think anyone was close by enough to hear us. I suppose I was hoping there was some way Marie could put it back out of life insurance and no one would have to know. I just don't know how to..."

"Cook the books?"

"That's what I'd be doing. I know that's not right."

"You know if Sean were here, he'd tell you to do what was best for your career, and your conscience, and not go down with the ship."

"I know."

"I wish you didn't have to handle all this, honey," I said, rubbing his back, kissing his soft hair. I nuzzled it with my nose. His hair always smells good from some kind of nice shampoo or something.

"Your eyes are better. That's all that matters. You're going to be okay."

"They might not go back all the way to what they were before," I said. That fear nagged at me. They were better, and at least I wouldn't run into things - as much - or miss the john anymore. But there was no way I could fire a gun with any kind of accuracy this way. I wasn't even sure they could come up lenses that would correct my vision enough to drive. I guess I could give Timmy the car and I could take the bus.

Take the bus to what? Bad eyes meant another job. Another job meant going back to school because anything that wasn't security or investigation related, I wasn't trained for. You can't work security or be a cop if you can't see what you're doing. A visually impaired private eye probably wouldn't do too great, either.

"You've had a big improvement. More will come." He kissed my chest. I sighed and relaxed. I had Timmy. One way or another, the rest of it would work out.

********

It was sobering how impaired Don's eyes still were. We were so thrilled with some progress, and Dr. Dixon was encouraging about his chances to improve even more. Still, as he went through the vision test to get him corrective lenses, it brought one thing into sharp focus - if he didn't improve more, his life would never be the same. I know how worried he was about it, how frustrated he was with the results of the vision test, and how far short of clear his vision still fell, even with the glasses.

He knew things were stressful for me, that I was having a hard time managing all the issues surrounding Sean's death and the investigation into the mishandling of money. So he stayed upbeat and hopeful about his progress, he cooperated with me about having Cora spend some time with him each day at the apartment, or Kevin check on him when he was there alone.

The doctor wanted him to take it easy and not overexert himself for a couple weeks. His ribs were making it hard to work on strengthening his shoulder, but he did what he could, and that was one thing Kevin actively helped with, since he was probably the only person we knew who had a better collection of weights than Don did, and was equally expert at their use. Fortunately, his muscle tone was already excellent, so his chances of healing completely were strong. He did everything he could to make things easy on me - to make me feel like he was okay, and I could focus on my job.

I hated myself when I was sitting there at Sean's desk, shoveling the piles of paper he never saw fit to sort or organize, and I came across Detective Archer's card. I sat there, holding it, staring at it, wondering how I could let anything be so important that I'd let several days go by without calling the detective investigating the hit and run that could have killed the love of my life. My sweet Donald, who suddenly didn't say two words about his own fears about his vision, who stopped complaining about his pain, who just quietly supported me and loved me and made what I was going through the most important thing, even when it wasn't.

I picked up the phone and called Detective Archer.

"Has there been any progress on the case?" I asked him.

"We've been checking around at car washes and body shops, looking for white mid-size sedans with front end damage. So far, no hits."

"That's it?"

"Look, your boss was on our ass about it, and we don't take attempted murder lightly, so it's not like we're sitting here eating donuts and taking it easy."

"What about the DMV?"

"Do you have any idea how many white mid-size sedans there are in Albany alone? Hell, in one neighborhood alone? That's assuming our witnesses were right, and it's not beige or some other light color. We don't have a make or model, and we don't have a specific year. It's too broad."

"What else can you do, then?"

"Your partner came up with a bunch of names for us to run checks on, and we did that. Nothing. If he comes up with anything else, we'll follow up on it."

"If he comes up...so you expect Donald, who is still recuperating and is still seriously visually impaired, to solve his own attempted murder?"

"No, I mean that in addition to our own investigation, we'll follow up on any leads he generates."

"I'm sorry. I realize I'm taking my frustrations out on you. I'm not a private investigator or a detective... It just seems like there's something that could be done."

"This is what we do for a living, and I don't take kindly the notion of people trying to mow each other down in the streets of my city. Maybe a reward would help. Get the community's eyes and ears open. You'd be surprised how many people would turn in their best friend for a nice check."

"The only flaw in that suggestion is that we don't have enough money for a good reward, and I could be unemployed in a few months."

"So ask Mom and Dad," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sure Congressman Callahan has a few bucks in the bank. You didn't think I'd investigate an attempt on your partner's life without a full background check on you, did you?"

"You can't think I'd have anything to do with it?"

"No, I don't, but anytime someone's killed or almost killed, their significant other is on top of the suspect list. And given the life insurance policy your partner has, with you as sole beneficiary, it did merit exploration."

"What policy?"

"You don't know about his life insurance." It was more of a skeptical statement than a question.

"No, Detective Archer, I don't know. Well, I know he has a small policy...I think it was ten thousand or so...hardly enough to motivate someone to murder him."

"Apparently he upped the ante, sometime around February. This policy is a half million dollars."

"I had no idea." I took a deep breath. Part of me was surprised Donald had done such a thing and not told me, another part of me loved him ten times more for it, if that was even possible, to love him more than I already did. "But it doesn't matter. There's no amount of money that would replace him. If I could have put myself between him and that car, I would have."

"Think about the reward idea. We need someone to report a friend or neighbor who has a white car with front end damage, probably windshield damage, too. Realistically, that's how cases like this usually get solved."

"I'll give it some thought. Thank you," I concluded.

After I'd hung up, I sat there and looked around Sean's office. I'd been so busy with everything, with keeping the office running, fielding all the calls and issues that Sean himself would have handled, and then I'd had to talk to the investigators working on the misappropriations issues, tell them what Sean had told me... I didn't have time to think about the friend I'd lost. The man who sat with me at the hospital when Don was hurt, the one I now found out had been following up on the police investigation, lending his clout to keeping the cops on their toes to find out who did it. The man who gave my career a kick-start that is largely responsible for where I am today.

It wasn't about phone calls and paperwork. It was about the death of a friend, and nearly losing the man I love. Just as I decided to go home and spend the late afternoon and a long evening with my husband, something caught my eye on Sean's desk. It was an old expense report turned in by Abigail. He must have had it out to review when things were just breaking with her case.

Included in her probably inflated expenses was mileage. On our mileage forms, we had to note the make and model of the car we were using, whether it was our own, a rental, or a state vehicle. Abigail's car was a Nissan Altima. She must have misread the form, because instead of a license number, she'd written another abbreviation: WHT.

A mid-size white sedan, driven by a woman who blamed me for destroying her career. I felt sick, clammy, stunned. All this time, we'd just assumed it was someone who had it in for Donald. But he was just an innocent victim, and it was all because of me, because I'd come across the evidence that cost Abigail her job and now turned her into a fugitive.

I called Detective Archer's number again. He seemed a bit annoyed when he answered, probably not thrilled to see my number on his caller ID again.

"I have another name for your suspect list. Abigail Phillips."

"The woman in your office who did the embezzling?"

"She's still not accounted for, and she drives a white Nissan Altima."

"Why would she want to kill your partner?"

"Because first, I got the job she wanted, and then I was the one who found out about the embezzling, and I fired her. She has every reason to hate me, to blame me for her situation."

"Well, suspicion of murder definitely kicks up the heat on the search for her. I'll look into it. Meanwhile, watch your back. If she made a run at your partner, there's no telling she won't decide to go after you. Seeing as she didn't succeed the first time around."

********

I kept staring into the mirror, trying to force my eyes to focus. It was so close, like those old TV's that you had to keep tilting the rabbit ears just the right way to clear up the picture. My grandmother had an old set like that for ages until my parents finally just bought her a new one and hauled the old one away. It wasn't until I met Timmy that I really understood why she was angry when she got home and found a beautiful new TV set sitting there, and her old one gone. My grandfather bought the old one, they watched it together for years, and instead of buying a new one, they were perfectly content to tilt the rabbit ears one way and another until it had a watchable picture. When I'd be there watching with them, they'd laugh about it, my grandfather getting up and adjusting the rabbit ears until he was practically just tapping them with his finger to get the effect he wanted.

My grandmother never cared much about TV, but she adored him, and that wretched old TV and its outdated antenna system was a piece of their life together. Something precious was hauled out of the house with that old set, and one night when Timmy and I were all cuddled up together on the couch, the wind and snow swirling around outside, a DVD in the player, I understood why she was so upset. DVD players weren't as cheap then as they are now. They weren't life savings kind of investments or anything, but for us, saving for our first house, paying for our honeymoon, and going through some of the setbacks we did in the first several months of our marriage, they weren't the incidental purchases they are now. Some crummy little DVD player at Wal-Mart for $25 does what one ten to fifteen times that much used to do.

I don't know if Timmy's DVD player would mean as much to me as Grandpa's TV meant to Grandma, but if that particular appliance reminded me of those wonderful nights on the couch with Timmy in our first apartment, I'd hold onto it to the last day of my life.

I guess I digressed. Maybe that's because it's easier to talk about Grandma's TV than it is to remember how scary it was trying to force focus and performance into my eyes when they just weren't online yet. The suspense of wondering if they ever would be was driving me nuts. Add to that, Timmy was so overextended and stressed out in the aftermath of the scandal in his office, Sean's death, then more investigation and scandal as the authorities probed Sean's finances to substantiate his dying confession of impropriety, that I couldn't dump anymore on him. I know he was worried about me more than any of the rest of it, so I made up my mind to quit whining, do the best I could to adapt to my faulty vision, and throw down an extra pain pill now and then so I didn't always look like I was fucking dying from the pain in my side. My shoulder was doing all right, but healing it up was slow when I couldn't move my side any better than I could.

Timothy picked out my glasses. I couldn't see the frames clearly enough, so I told him to pick out what he liked on me. He said the wire-framed glasses made me look cute. I'm not so sure about that, but they did help my eyesight a little. I could do most things I had to for myself, even if everything was blurry. About all I couldn't do was drive or fire a gun - the two things I needed to be able to do to go back to work. Besides, tailing cheating spouses when everyone's features were blurry and I had no clue if pictures were in focus or not, wouldn't do me much good.

Cora was in the kitchen, slicing me a nice piece of her apple spice pie. Since the business was at a standstill, and she couldn't stand to just sit around and do nothing, she decided that cooking for me and babysitting me was a good idea. Fred often got in on the act - he loved Cora's cooking, and obviously, loved Cora herself since he was planning to propose on the cruise that was coming up in a few weeks. Keeping my mouth shut about that was kind of driving me nuts, but there's no way I would have blown that surprise. I was in agreement with Timmy that there was still some potential danger since someone wanted to run me down in the street, so we didn't go out unless Frank or Kevin were around to provide some security.

I was about to lose my mind facing another day of being babysat, confined, and unable to do anything productive.

There was a knock at the front door, so I finished washing my hands and quit staring at myself in the mirror. Cora knew enough to be careful about opening it, but she did, and I could hear her voice, and another woman's voice. They sounded like they were being social with each other, so I figured it was a neighbor or someone selling something. As soon as I walked into the living room, something didn't feel right. I couldn't see the woman's face clearly, anymore than I could see much of anything in sharp detail, but there was something familiar about her, in addition to that sixth sense Timothy always says I have that makes me a great PI. The hair was standing up on the back of my neck, and I wasn't even surprised when she reached into her purse and pulled out a blurry black thing that could only be a gun, and aimed it toward me. Cora was still oblivious, her back to us, probably slicing pie for the guest. I wasn't sure what cover story she'd given Cora, but it was apparent she didn't walk in and announce that she was there to finish me off.

"Tim should be getting home soon," she said, aiming the gun at me. "I think we'll wait."

"Oh, my God," Cora said, and I heard a plate shatter on the floor. "Don, she said she was Tim's aunt," she said.

"It's okay, Cora. Abigail, take it easy. Nobody's died here yet, but if you pull that trigger, you're going down for murder."

"So what? I'm going to prison anyway, and I'm not a young woman. So what's the difference if I go there for embezzlement or murder?"

"Maximum versus minimum security," I said. "Rooming with killers and hardcore criminals versus being with minor offenders. Getting out in your lifetime."

"I tried to run you over with my car. I think I'm out of luck for minimum security. Now have a seat and keep your hands where I can see them." She waited while I sat on the couch, with my hands on my lap. "You, on the opposite end of the couch," she said to Cora.

"You could let her walk out of here. She doesn't have anything to do with this."

"I suppose she's going to just go home and not call the police. Whoever you are, I'm sorry you're in the middle of this. I don't have anything against you, so when this is over, I won't hurt you if you just cooperate."

"Cooperate with what?" Cora asked, sounding more angry than scared. "With watching you kill him in cold blood?"

"Cora, just do what she says," I told her. "I don't think Abigail wants to hurt anyone."

"Not just yet, anyway, and not her," Abigail replied, gesturing at Cora with the gun. Cora gave her the fish eye, but she sat on the opposite end of the couch from me, and refrained from saying anything more. "I can't believe you survived being hit at that speed," she said, looking at me.

"Sorry to disappoint you," I retorted. I knew I should keep trying to psych her out, but something about the comment pissed me off too much.

"You must have been injured."

"Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and my eyes are all...screwed up," I concluded, gesturing at my face. "I was almost completely blind at first, now they're just too impaired for me to drive, carry a gun, use a camera - you know, anything a private investigator has to do to make a living."

She stared at me a moment, like she wasn't sure how she felt about that. It was surreal, being held at gunpoint by a woman who looked like some of the church lady friends my grandmother used to hang out with. She wasn't very tall, her hair looked dyed brown instead of natural, and she wore glasses. Her clothes were a bit frumpy, and she still had her handbag over her arm. She looked like she should be showing up for her bridge club, not packing heat. Certainly not lead-footing it down the road to mow someone down.

"Do you know how many times I had to listen to Tim going on about you two and saving for your house, and how happy he is with you, and how wonderful you were? I just lost my husband, I lost everything we'd worked and saved for. I worked for Sean Donnelly for twenty years. That job was mine, and I'm tired of listening to what a great life you two are having on what should have been my salary."

"Running over me was going to fix that? And I must have missed the part where we wallowed in the lap of luxury."

"You were something I could take away from him after he took everything away from me!"

"Why didn't you run over Congressman Donnelly?" Cora asked. Abigail and I both looked at her, eyes wide. "Seriously? Don didn't give away your job you wanted to someone else, and Tim had no way of knowing anything about you and your situation. If you wanted to make someone pay, why not the man who chose someone else over you?"

"Next time I decide to run over someone, I'll consult you first," Abigail snapped back. "Do you know what it was like, every day, while my life was falling apart, to show up at work and train your partner how to do my job?"

"Kind of, because it's the position Timothy was in with his other job in Senator Glassman's office, and it sucked. At least he didn't run over the guy who got the job he wanted."

"Neither did I," she said. "I didn't plan this. No one believes that, I'm sure, but I never intended to hit you."

"Then why did you aim your car at me and floor it?"

"I was going to go in there that day, and try to talk with Sean, get him to consider not pressing charges. Work out a way to repay it. I have some family who have money, and I'd been in touch with them. They were willing to pay it back for me if that would get me off the hook with the criminal charges. I was parked there, thinking. I went into the coffee shop and got something to drink, and I was trying to come to terms with chancing talking to Sean, because I knew if he didn't agree, I'd be arrested. Then I saw you coming out of that Chinese place with the bag of take out, looking like you didn't have a care in the world, and something just snapped. I don't really remember things clearly until I was driving fast down the road with a cracked windshield. I just know that I wanted Tim to get a taste of what I was coping with, and losing you seemed like the way to do that."

"A lot of charges get reduced for emotional duress, Abigail," I said. "What you're doing now...that's the thing that's going to nail you. Everything else you've done so far, a jury would probably be at least a little sympathetic to." I mean, it's understandable you'd try to kill the spouse of the person who got the job you wanted, and stealing sixteen grand isn't all that bad... It didn't matter if I bought what I said. It only mattered that she did.

Just when I thought she seemed to be wavering a bit, the key turned in the lock on the front door, and before I could open my mouth to warn him, Timmy walked in, briefcase in hand, freezing when he spotted Abigail.

"Abby, what are you doing?" he asked cautiously.

"Planning the next legislative luncheon," she retorted sarcastically. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're really after me. Leave Donald and Cora out of this."

"Well, they're kind of in it now, Tim."

"What do you want from me?"

"For right now, I'd like you to shut the door and sit down."

"What are you going to do? Kill us all?"

"I haven't decided yet." She gestured at the door with her gun, and he closed it. He started to sit by me, between Cora and me, but she pointed at the chair. "If I shoot one of you, I'll let you say goodbye first. For now, sit there."

"Abby, this is cold-blooded murder, what you're talking about. I don't believe you can stand there and shoot one of us."

"Timothy, sit down," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle, but I wanted him to sit down and not provoke her. An emotional person who doesn't normally handle a gun is just as dangerous as one who has every intention of using it. Either way, it can end up being fired, and someone can end up dead. She was gesturing around with it like it was a laser pointer at a board meeting, not a deadly weapon.

After he sat down, he reached over and covered my hand with his, lacing our fingers together. It was a small gesture, but it was a rebellion. Quite the rebel, my Timothy, when he's provoked. And it doesn't matter if I have a gun, if I'm a good fighter, or if I'm unarmed and half blind. He's fiercely protective of me, and he doesn't care what gun-toting headcase knows it.

"You nearly killed him. You may have damaged his vision for the rest of his life," he said bitterly. "Sean's dead. What more do you need to feel vindicated?"

"Ralph and I were married for thirty years," she said. "He was the love of my life."

"And I can only imagine the grief you've gone through over losing him," Tim said. "Making me feel that way isn't going to bring him back."

"Don't you think I know that?" she demanded, verging on tears, her face a mask of anger. "Why do people always say such stupid, painfully obvious things?" she shouted, swiping at her eyes with the hand that wasn't holding the gun.

"Maybe because you're standing in our living room brandishing a gun at us as if that's going to solve any of your problems!" Timothy shot back, and I stared at him, to the extent I could effectively stare at anything, stunned. I couldn't even think of anything to say to that, and telling him to be quiet or reminding him she had a gun was pointless. He knew that. He was looking at it.

She was getting increasingly agitated, and even though my vision was blurry, I could see where she was in the room, I could see the gun, and I could kind of see her expression, even though I couldn't have sworn exactly which way her gaze was directed at any given moment. If he got her pissed off enough, maybe she'd be distracted enough I could go for the gun.

Of course, with fractured ribs and bad eyes, my chances weren't too good, but Timothy was more likely to engage her in a war of words, and I couldn't expect Cora to unleash some kind of ninja moves on her. Someone had to do something, or one of us was going to end up dead, either by accident or design.

So I stood up and stepped in front of Timothy.

"Go ahead, Abigail, kill me in cold blood."

"Are you insane?" she asked.

"I was going to ask that myself," Tim said, pulling on my shirt from behind. "Donald, sit down."

"No, fuck this. You're not going to execute me in my own home while I'm cowering on the sofa. If you want me dead, go for it. Commit a cold-blooded murder. Only for God's sake, get it right this time. Don't damage something else so I end up as a vegetable. Aim your gun at me and do it. That's what you came here for, isn't it? To get some kind of sick revenge on Timothy because he got your precious job you wanted? You mowed me down in the street because of a job? You stole sixteen grand from your employer and that's his fault? Or no, wait, it's my fault because he's my partner and I'm still alive, and your husband isn't?"

"You shut up!" she blurted, sobbing. "Damn you, just shut up!" She aimed the gun more directly at me, her hand shaking.

"You're not going to kill him and you're not going to hurt Cora, who doesn't have a damn thing to do with this vendetta you've got going. Whoever you aim at, I'm gonna step in your line of fire. So just kill me now and save us both a lot of trouble."

"You think I won't, is that it? You don't think I could shoot you?"

"No, frankly, I don't. Using your car to run me over was kind of a passive-aggressive way to try to kill me. It was spur of the moment, you said so yourself. You've gone your whole life playing by the rules until you got desperate, until your emotions took over. You're not a criminal, and you're not a killer by nature. You're caught up in something you need to get out of, and this is the last chance to do it." I held out my hand. "Give me the gun, and this ends before anyone dies, while people can still feel some sympathy for you, while you might still have some good in your life instead of rotting in prison for the rest of it. Trust me, I've been in a women's prison before, and it ain't no country club." I did interview a witness who was in maximum security one time, and she was bigger had more tattoos than I did, and I was damn glad she was on the other side of bullet-proof glass.

Abigail looked at me for a long moment, then turned away from all of us, and raised the gun to her head. It was fucking painful to tackle her, and I didn't really owe the crazy bitch anything after she tried to kill all of us, but I didn't want Timothy to watch her blow her brains out in front of him, so I went for her gun, tackling her from behind. The only thing that was killed when the gun went off was a vase Timmy's great aunt gave us for our wedding. Trust me, that was a mercy killing.

I've never really doubted that Cora was a pretty tough old bird, but when I was looking for someone to hand the gun to, I kind of thought I'd hand it off to Timothy. Instead, Cora took it and decisively strode to the counter that separated our kitchen from our living room, where the cordless phone was sitting, and called 9-1-1. Abigail was in a heap on the floor, sobbing, and I was trying to figure out how to get up without pulling on my ribs too much. Timothy was all over that job, helping me up, then pulling me into his arms. His heart was pounding harder than mine, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask him to please not displace the fractured ribs by squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste.

"You're crazy," he muttered against my ear. I said the only thing that came to mind.

"That's why you love me."

********

Over the next week or so, Don's eyesight continued to improve. Dr. Dixon cleared him to go back to work a couple weeks before Halloween, provided he stayed out of harm's way until his ribs were fully healed. By then, he'd discarded the glasses to the bottom of his underwear drawer or some equally undignified resting place. I still get chills when I think of how he disarmed Abigail, and how horribly wrong it all could have gone. But that's Donald for you - he's a man of action, and he can only stand an impasse for so long.

And he'll only tolerate a threat to me for a very limited time before he neutralizes it. He either solves the problem or throws himself in front of me.

Abigail worked out a plea bargain, and wound up in a minimum security facility, receiving counseling as part of her sentence. She was released a couple years ago, but I don't know what became of her. I never heard from her again, and I had no desire to keep track of her. I ran into Leslie at a fundraiser a while back, and she said she'd heard Abigail was living with family in Florida.

Sean Donnelly was laid to rest on a cloudy, misty October day. Despite the fact I'd had to be the one to reveal his mishandling of funds, Marie still wanted me to do the eulogy. I was happy to do that. I wanted to talk about his passion for helping people, the programs he initiated, the way he treated his staff, his constituents, and the kind of man he was. It was a sad speech to make, but in a way, it was an easy one.

Don still has the Sherlock Holmes hat Sean gave him as a joke at his surprise birthday party, and I'm still using skills he taught me, and letting some of the philosophies he shared with me, guide what I do. I was honored to recognize him in the acceptance speech I gave just a few weeks ago when I won a community service award. I always wanted to do good things for the community, but Sean Donnelly showed me how to get them done, how to move mountains, how to get certain people to do certain things you wanted them to do, and make them think it was their idea. It's strange, but my father always wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but rarely sat down with me and showed me how to do it. Sean was a born teacher and mentor, and I still miss him today.

Not that it's any surprise that Don was by my side through all of it, but he was. Even though his eyesight was still in the process of returning at that time, and I know he felt a little nervous navigating through crowds and strange surroundings until it got better, he was there for all of it. I didn't ask him about the life insurance policy. He'd chosen not to talk to me about it, and I didn't see that as a deception or him shutting me out. He wanted to take care of me, to protect me even if he wasn't there to do it in person. He knew I'd probably tell him to save his money on the premiums, to put that away for our house together. I can support myself, and no money that I'd get from his death would mean anything to me. Nothing would mean anything to me anymore. But he wanted to know I was taken care of if something happened to him, and knowing him as I do, I know that gave him peace of mind. So I left it alone, and when I could afford it, I got a better policy on myself, for him.

One of the dozens of things I adore about Donald is the childlike enthusiasm he still has for holiday traditions. For someone who was shut out of his family and floundered around without any real emotional ties for a while, I think they meant even more to him once we were together. I noticed that when he thought I forgot his birthday. I've surprised him with some things since then, but I've never played that trick on him again. It shouldn't have surprised me that he went a little nuts with pumpkins on our first Halloween together.

I'll never forget how he marked the anniversary of our first date. I didn't often send Don flowers, but I sent roses to his office that day. Since then, I've done it occasionally, because he was so thrilled with them. He was choked up a little when he called me at my office after he got them. When he showed up at my office to pick me up for lunch, he was wearing one in his lapel, and he brought one for me, too.

We ate lunch and held hands in our favorite both at Chen's, and of course, wearing our boutonnieres, Mei and her uncle and the other servers we knew in there all wanted to know what the occasion was. Chen even sprang for a free appetizer of pot stickers. Don loves those rubbery little things, and he's made me love them, too. I couldn't think of anything better than sharing kisses, and pot stickers, with my one true love.

But this started out to be about holidays, and Donald, and him marking the anniversary of our first date. Work was still hectic for me, and my future still uncertain, since Sean's replacement was to be elected that November. So after indulging in a long lunch, I wound up working past dinner time. Don picked me up and we went to the club where we met, danced, drank martinis that weren't as good as the ones we make at home, and then moved on to Sensations, the club we went to together after meeting at the first club. We held each other and slow danced, and I honestly don't know which was sweeter: the memory of the first time we'd danced, when I fell in love with him, when he was so good to me when I felt so awful, when for no apparent reason, he cared how I felt, and he was my knight in shining armor; or if it was looking into his beautiful blue eyes that were okay again, able to look back at me, and thinking of all we'd been through in that year, and what a wonderful, fateful night it was and how precious all the chance occurrences were that brought us together.

When we got home, it was well after two in the morning. I'd told the staff I wouldn't be in until noon. I wanted this night with Donald, and if I'd added up the hours I'd been working since the scandal broke, and then since Sean's death, I probably would have scared myself. I had earned one morning off.

It was adorable the way Donald kept me out of the bedroom when we first got home, insisting he had a surprise for me. And he certainly did. We've always loved candles - well, I love them. I think I got Don hooked on them, too. Or, at least, hooked on candlelight. I don't think he much cares what he has to light to get the effect. I, on the other hand, do have my standards when it comes to quality, scent, and so on...but this isn't really about the candles.

Soft jazz was playing in the background. He'd cleared everything off the dresser top and lined it with pumpkins. That's right, pumpkins. But these weren't just any pumpkins. Every one of them had hearts carved into them instead of faces. Some had one big heart, some had a bunch of little hearts. But they were all lit with candles inside, and even though some of the hearts lacked a bit of symmetry and smoothness, they cast the abstract shape of hearts on the wall in the darkened room. Sometimes I can't believe what he'll take time to do for me, or how creative he really is.

"Don...it's beautiful," I said, a little speechless. He smiled at me, and for a moment, I was back in that first moment he smiled at me, when I couldn't get over how beautiful he was, how his smile lit up the room. His smile lights up my life and my heart. It did then, it does now, and it always will. So I quit talking and kissed him. I put all of that into that kiss, into tasting his lips, slipping my tongue in his mouth, kissing him like I never had before and never would again.

I knew his side still hurt, but not like it had, and not so much that I couldn't hold him and make love with him. I felt like it had been forever since we really made love, even though we'd shared a few quick hand jobs or the occasional blow job to ease the stress or help one of us go to sleep or just to scratch the itch. But a real night of lovemaking with candles and romance and soft music? It had been way too long.

We took our time undressing each other, kissing and touching, caressing newly exposed skin. We didn't need words so we didn't waste time with them. It was all in the looks, the touches, the way we just took our time and moved in synch with each other. I couldn't get enough of running my hands over his body, and he seemed to feel the same, the way he was touching me everywhere he could reach, rubbing his cheek against my chest, licking my nipples. It all felt remarkable, but I wanted to explore him, touch all of him, so I guided us toward the bed and eased him back on it, mindful of not jerking him with any sudden moves, and not landing on him with my full weight.

I started kissing my way up his legs, one at a time, loving how the candlelight turned the soft hair there to gold that caught the glow. I kissed and nipped at the insides of his thighs, smiling at his little moans.

"You're killing me, Timothy," he complained affectionately, and his growing erection made it clear he wasn't lying. I wanted to make him crazy and then give myself to him, when he was on the edge and excited, when I'd gotten him impossibly hard and just a little frustrated.

I didn't answer him. I was enjoying too much licking and sucking his balls, nuzzling the warm, sensitive place that was just mine to explore. I reluctantly abandoned that place to move up to his neck, kissing him, sucking on the tender skin, leaving marks that would probably show, even with a tie on. I sucked his nipples, making them hard and wet, making him gasp and run his fingers into my hair, knowing he wasn't sure where he wanted my mouth the most - on those sensitive little nubs or lower.

Not that he was calling the shots right then. I moved down and took him in my mouth and he arched into the stimulation, muttering a few slurred words. I knew his responses, and I had a pretty good idea how far I could push him before he'd lose it and come. I released him when I felt I'd teased him as close to that point as I dared, and whispered in his ear.

"I want you to come inside me, baby."

For a moment, I thought he was going to lie there and come from the words alone, but then he pushed up on his elbows and started to move as I climbed up on the bed on my hands and knees. He was on the edge, but he took his time easing his fingers into me, kissing and squeezing my cheeks, gently squeezing my balls...he was giving me a little of my own back - teasing me, loving me, making me wait for the main event.

He entered me in one long, smooth stroke. He kissed my back and pumped my cock until it was even harder. His thighs were against mine, he was buried deep inside me, and he pushed a bit deeper, making me groan and gasp, dropping down on my elbows, holding onto the bedding in a sort of death grip. Then he pumped in and out of me, firm and steady, holding onto my hips, making me shout and push back against him. I rotated my hips, and he let out a cry that told me he wasn't expecting that, but he liked it.

He urged me to move back with him, so we were sitting on the bed, me delightfully impaled on his lap, him as deep in me as we could manage, the rhythm going on, my back against his chest, his arms winding around me, one hand playing with me, teasing my cock and my balls, but not really urging me toward release. The other hand rubbed and pinched my nipples, and his mouth was exploring the back of my neck, sucking on my skin, kissing me there. On a particularly firm, deep thrust, I started coming. I say I started, because it wasn't just a quick conclusion. It swept over me in waves, my prostate feeling like it was overwhelmed with sensation, me gasping and shouting professions of love, stuttered profanities, and finally just cries of pleasure as it reached its crescendo and then waned a bit. I still had to ride the waves of Don's climax, which came very close on the heels of my own. I was glad he was in me, filling me, making me scream and shout and lose all my inhibitions and just surrender to him, to our passion and our love and our union.

When it was over, we were still sitting there, still joined, breathing hard, sharing a single heartbeat, sharing sweat and body heat. He kept me in a close embrace, and I was in no hurry to move. He nuzzled the back of my neck. I reached back and touched his soft hair, wishing I could think of the right thing to say, but even the speech writer in me couldn't come up with anything that would express how I felt.

We stayed like that a long time, until we finally parted and shifted around, as if by some telepathic joint decision. We lay there in each other's arms, face to face now, kissing once in a while, surrounded by the dancing hearts on the walls from Donald's little gallery of pumpkins. Some words came to me, and I finally settled for them, even though they still couldn't express to him everything I felt.

"Donald darling, you're the candle in my pumpkin."

I was rewarded with the laugh that never fails to warm my soul.

********

Happy Halloween from Donald and Timothy!