Title: PERFECT

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: R 

Word Count: 5922

References/Spoilers: Minor reference to Donald's past

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: The guys cope with the aftermath of the events on their Fourth of July trip, and make another attempt at a weekend getaway, with better results. Sequel to "Fireworks" in the One Night Series.

*************************************************

PERFECT

by

Candy Apple

The third night in a row after we got back from the cabin, Donald woke up screaming in the middle of the night. He was shaking, covered in a cold sweat, and it took me some long minutes to bring him down from the nightmare, to get him refocused on reality, to finally get him wrapped up in my arms and to feel the thundering in his chest slowing down to something close to normal again.

I was still having headaches, and my left eardrum had a small perforation from the noise and the blow. So everything on my left side sounded like it was in a well, and I still hadn't made it back to work.

I tried hard to still see the good in a world where Donald and I were going through this because we loved each other. It was the end of my innocence, so to speak, the end of my sheltered, pretty world where even though I'd been called a few names or looked at funny because I was gay, and open about it, I'd never had my person attacked over it. I'd never paid the kind of price that thousands of other gay and lesbian men and women have paid. Up to then, I'd prided myself that I really got what "the struggle" was about. I didn't know shit. As I lay there with my head pounding and my ear hurting and Donald still shaking a little in my arms, I got it. Now, I understood.

"I'm okay," he whispered against my good ear. "I'm sorry, honey."

"Don't be sorry, baby," I replied, hoping I was getting as much love into my voice as I wanted to wrap around him. I knew what the nightmare was about. I'd finally coaxed it out of him the night before, the second time he woke screaming. He dreamed I was dead. He dreamed about me lying on the beach, with part of my head gone, the blood soaking into the sand. It was the same dream every night. He turned me over and I was dead, horribly, gruesomely, bloody dead. Not nice, tidy, cleaned up dead. My brains on the beach dead.

I knew then Donald had seen something horrible, that his mind could supply those images in such vivid detail that he was nearly inconsolable and hysterical when he first woke. I didn't ask him what it was. I knew someday he'd tell me, in his own time, on his own terms, when he was ready.

"Same nightmare?" I asked, still holding him, just letting him feel me breathe against him. He nodded silently. "I know it's awful, but it's just a dream, and we're okay."

"I know." He eased back a little, and I knew what he was doing. He was looking at me, reassuring himself he was awake, that my head was all still there, that this wasn't some twisted part of the dream.

"We're awake, Donald, and I'm okay." I kissed his forehead, looked into those beautiful eyes of his that I could see in the dim light spilling in from the hall. We left that light on so it kept our room from total darkness, so when he needed to see clearly that I was all in one piece, that we were awake, that this was reality, he had enough light to do it.

"Your head's hurting, though, isn't it?"

"It'll settle down."

"If I'd quit screaming at you at three in the morning, it probably would."

"You can't help that any more than I can help not hearing anything you say if I'm sleeping with my good ear in the pillow. We just have to heal up."

"I'm sorry, Timothy," he said quietly, looking away from my eyes, like he couldn't meet them.

"You can't help having nightmares. It's just how you're coping with what happened."

"I don't mean that." He was quiet a few moments. "When we got married, I promised to protect you."

"Donald - "

"No, I mean it. I promised to protect you, and your ear's all messed up and you've got a concussion..."

"You think that's your fault somehow? I picked that half-assed resort, so you could blame me because you're having nightmares."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either. And you did protect me. You picked up lit fireworks with you bare hand and threw it away from me, to keep me safe. If you hadn't done that, I could be permanently deaf, disfigured, or dead. It could have blown your hand apart. What else do you think you should have done?"

"Gotten us out of there when I had the hunch we should leave."

"Gee, Timothy, we just spent two hours negotiating with the car to jam our stuff in, we packed coolers, you took a day off and made potato salad, then we drove up here, paid for our reservation, unpacked everything - but we should just reverse all that and drive home because I have a funny feeling. Yes, Donald, I would have cooperated with that right away."

By then, he was chuckling softly, shaking his head a little. "I guess that would have sounded nuts."

"Just a little."

"Would you have come home if I'd said something like that?"

I thought about how to answer him for a long time, because the truth was, I would have. Donald is intuitive and street smart on a level that is kind of unsettling at times, and I trust him completely.

"Yes, but it would be crazy for you to think that I would."

He stared at me a moment, then blinked, like he sometimes does when he can't quite wrap his mind around my logic. "That's the most ass-backwards answer I've ever heard."

"I'm being honest. I trust you that much. But would it make sense for you to think I would? No, because it doesn't make sense to me that I would. Not that I shouldn't trust you, but that I'd put that much stock in a funny feeling you had."

"But you would?"

"Yes, I would. And I knew you were tense, and I didn't pay attention to it beyond just wanting you to relax and have fund. Whatever sixth sense kind of signals we each had about this, we managed to ignore them all."

"I suppose it makes sense. We were trying to have a vacation."

"I got food poisoning on our honeymoon, and now this. You think maybe next time we have time off, we should just stay in Albany?" I suggested. He laughed out loud at that, and so did I, even though it hurt my ear and I winced. He kissed my ear. That shouldn't have made it feel better, but it did.

"We could decorate the living room with fake palm trees and get those plastic leis from the dollar store."

"A lot of accidents happen in the home, though," I added.

"Oh, great." He settled against my chest with a yawn, still grinning.

"What happened, happened. It wasn't your fault for not trying to drag me home on a hunch, and it wasn't my fault for dismissing your hunch. It was the fault of the three assholes who threw fireworks at us."

"I know you're right."

"Of course, I am. I usually am," I said smugly, and he snorted. "Be very careful what you say next."

"Nothing. I'm not saying a word."

"You've got a handle on this marriage thing already," I teased him.

********

Within a few weeks of the injury, Timothy's headaches eased off, and his hearing was almost back to normal. The doctor warned us it might take as long as a couple of months for it to fully recover, but he felt more like himself, and his hearing impairment was no longer significant enough to cause him problems at work. He was off work a couple weeks, and while I did some work here and there, I spent a lot of time at home with him, especially the first few days. There were times his head hurt and the only thing that seemed to make him feel better was lying down on the couch with his head on a pillow in my lap. I put warm compresses on the side of his head to make his ear feel better when it hurt, and sometimes just my hand on his head or my fingers lightly in his hair made him relax and his headache better. That meant more to me than any case I was working on.

The guys who did it wanted to plea bargain, because none of them wanted to face the sentencing enhancements that accompanied hate crimes. That meant that if the prosecution played ball with them, they'd do some jail time, but get away without the hate crime charges.

That bothered me, more than a little, and Timothy was initially outraged at even the suggestion that they wouldn't be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and publicly labeled as the bigots they were. The reality was, there were a few holes in the case that might have put the conviction of all three on sufficiently stiff charges, at risk. There was always the danger of jury members with biases of their own, or the imbecile that I shot getting the sympathy vote because two of his fingers were missing and he had very little use of that hand. And, while the prosecutor wasn't charging me with anything, a good lawyer might have been able to twist it around that he was defending himself against me by trying to throw the rocket at me because I had a gun pointed at him.

I suppose I shouldn't have enjoyed the thought that I mangled his hand, but every time I held Timmy's head or saw him inconvenienced by the trouble with his hearing, it brought on a sort of sick amusement. Timmy would heal up. That motherfucker would have a permanent reminder of what he'd done. It was good motivation to keep up with going to the shooting range regularly.

So the one with the mangled flipper would do a year in jail, and his two buddies, six months each. Considering they couldn't prove conclusively who threw what - except for the one who was seriously going to throw one at me when I pulled my gun - it was actually something of a win.

Telling Timothy's mother the truth about what happened up there was not a pleasant phone call, but a few news sources had picked up on it, and being Timothy's career was in politics, and he was involved with gay rights groups, there was a good risk that she'd hear about it from another source than us. So Timmy called her when his head felt okay and he felt up to the stress of the conversation, and I sat by him on the couch for moral support.

Anne went through all the emotions we did - it seemed like she cycled through them all in one phone conversation. She was worried about us, then angry, then screaming for vengeance and saying they should have gotten life for trying to kill us - which we couldn't prove they were trying to do that. My guess was they were trying to harass and maim us, but I doubt they really planned on murder. A jury probably wouldn't buy that, either.

Finally, she was just simply hurt that someone had done such a thing to her baby, and she couldn't say enough good things to me about saving Timmy's life, protecting him...I still felt like I should have done a better job at that, but it was nice to hear the words from someone other than Timothy. I think he'd forgive me for being a serial killer, but I knew his mother would hold me to a stiffer standard.

I'm not sure where his father was when we were on the phone with Anne. You'd think that kind of conversation would merit him getting on an extension, but it didn't. Timmy didn't say much about that, but I knew he was hurt by it. Later, we'd mend some bridges with the old man, but he was a prize-winning prick for a while there. Timothy defended him by saying his stubborn streak was inherited. I hoped that didn't mean that Anne was the easy, flexible one of the two, because I have a feeling it's her way or the highway, even if she's really likable and diplomatic about it. In other words, she's an older female Timothy.

I accepted early on that I would probably never get my way about anything for the rest of my life, but since I'd happily die or blow off whatever body part was necessary to protect him and make him happy, I didn't worry about it much.

Once Timothy did go back to work, I drove him every day. I know he was still having some headaches, though they weren't as severe, and his ear still bothered him, and his hearing was still kind of dull on one side. I wanted to take care of him and make sure he was safe, and that if he didn't feel good, he wasn't standing out in the August heat waiting for a bus. It wreaked a little havoc on my schedule, but that was minor.

Near the end of August, we went up to visit Manuel and Miguel in Warrensburg. We got there Friday evening about seven, and they made a us a Mexican dinner in their work-in-progress Victorian house that would make any restaurant pale in comparison. Manuel likes to eat, and Miguel likes to cook. They get along great.

I knew visiting their historic home would only worsen Timothy's nesting fever to get us in a house, but we'd get to all of it in time. Meanwhile, we gorged on great food and Timothy got to ask all the questions he could think of about the renovations. They were both thrilled to tell all sorts of stories that would make Bob Vila's head spin. It was a bit sticky in some parts of the house, since there was no central air, but Miguel had placed enough fans everywhere until it felt like a wind tunnel with polished woodwork. There was an air conditioner in their bedroom, and one in the guest room. Manuel laughed about that and said it had been at Wal-Mart about three hours before that, but now it was in the guest room window.

The dining room where we ate was finished. They had a nice table that seated six, and they'd gotten the same wood that coordinated with the restored woodwork. I know they told us what it was, but I can't remember. It was shiny and it looked elegant. The walls were papered with some subtle floral print, there was a chandelier over the table, and a nice looking china cabinet in one corner.

"I wanted to paint the woodwork white in here, but it was the only time Manuel threatened me with domestic violence, so we stayed natural," Miguel said, as we all sat around in the elegant room, overeating and belching and swizzling beer. I wondered if the original owners were turning over in their graves.

"Yeah, you don't paint woodwork in a house like this. That's where half the character is," Manuel replied, looking around. "Man, I'll tell you though, it's a shitload of work restoring it."

"How many rooms do you have to do yet?" Tim asked.

"Two bedrooms upstairs, a bedroom down here - we're gonna use it for a home office for the business. The basement looks like something out of a horror movie. Miguel won't go down there alone."

"I never said I wouldn't go down there. I said I didn't like to. There's a difference."

"Yeah, either way, it means I get to do most of the laundry."

"You put the washer and dryer in the mummy's cave. What do you expect?"

"Are you going to finish it, or just try to clean it up?" I asked. I was curious. I always liked weird, spooky places as a kid. Truthfully, I haven't outgrown that.

"It would be a great place for my weights. They're out in the garage, which is fine unless it blows over with the next good wind."

"Only if we get an exterminator down there, and some kind of pest control. The spiders down there have thicker legs than you do," Miguel added.

I hoped they stayed in the basement. Timothy and crawly things don't go well together. I am slayer of spiders, trapper of rodents, scooper of dog turds, and caretaker of any other foul form of nature or its waste products.

"This town is beautiful," Timmy said, smiling. "It's so picturesque. I envy you being able to live up here." He was right about that. The place was like something off a greeting card. The narrow streets, the historic houses...I could see it as a nice place to retire.

"With the landscaping business, we can kind of set up shop anyplace with yards and trees and make a go of it. We like it here," Manuel said.

"There's a lot of history here, too," Miguel added. "While you're here, we've got some things to show you. Are you into art, Tim?" Apparently, it's a given that I'm a clod. I mean, I like a pretty picture as much as the next guy. I just don't know, and don't give a shit, who painted it, or why the naked woman has a breast sticking out of her armpit or why her face is sideways. And I'm not big on the ones that look like the tarp I take off the garage floor after I've been working on my car.

"Yes, I love a good art exhibit."

Well, shit, even I didn't know that. I could have figured it out, but maybe I just didn't want to, because that would mean I'd have to be a good sport and start going to them. I already was doing the political fund-raiser thing every couple of weeks. I mean, Timmy's everything to me, but even I have my threshold for pain.

"Have you heard of the Hyde Collection Art Museum?" Miguel asked. Manuel and I exchanged looks, and he flicked his eyes toward the ceiling. Miguel took a sip of his Margarita. "I saw that," he added, not even looking at his partner.

"Don and I could go do a little fishing, or I could show him the business."

"Oh, yes, showing him a bunch of tractors and a couple pick-up trucks is going to be much more interesting that an outstanding art collection."

"Now that you mention it, yeah, it would be. And they're not tractors, they're lawn mowers."

"Big, manly, testosterone-laden lawnmowers," Manuel said in a booming voice, making Timothy laugh and shoot his Margarita out through his nose. That couldn't have felt good, and I hoped it didn't go via his ear in some weird way, but he was still laughing, so I figured he was okay.

"You won't burst into flames when you walk into a museum," Miguel said. Manuel gave him a look, but no more was said. It was obvious Miguel was his Timothy. God help us both.

********

After dinner, we all boarded an evening cruise on an old steamboat on the lake. It was still light when we started out, and while none of us could stuff another bite down our throats, we enjoyed cocktails on the deck, seeing the sights of Lake George, visiting and laughing and enjoying having two locals as our own personal tour guides. I loved Don for doing this, for getting us out on another weekend getaway when we were almost gun shy to try it again. And being with Manuel and Miguel was restorative. They knew what we'd been through, and they were going out of their way to show us a good time.

My head was bothering me a little, but it wasn't too bad. The headaches had eased off a lot, and an ibuprofen or two usually took care of them now. Of course, if Don wanted to fuss over me and stroke my hair and worry about me, I would take that as a chaser to the Advil any day. Besides, he always knows by looking at me when I feel right and when I don't, so there's no use trying to kid him.

They had a good band playing on the boat, but about one song into the set and I had to excuse myself to go back out on the deck. The loudness of the speakers hurt my ear terribly, even though it was mostly healed. The doctor had warned me about loud noises, but I thought it was healed enough that music wouldn't be an issue. I told Don to relax and enjoy the music, that I'd be fine on the deck for a while, enjoying the night air and sipping one more martini. There were a few other people out there, some couples gazing out over the water as it languidly rippled under a night sky that looked like blue velvet studded with diamonds.

"You come here often?"

I turned and smiled as Don came up to where I was standing at the railing, sliding his arm around my waist, looking out over the water.

"Not nearly often enough," I replied. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Stunning," he said, and I looked at him to see one of those big grins of his, and that adoring look on his face as he gazed into my eyes.

"I meant the moon and the stars over the water."

"Oh, yeah, that's okay, too." He kissed me, but he kissed my ear instead of my cheek. "How's your ear, honey?"

"Good now," I said, smiling at him.

"Having a good time?"

"So far, it's great." I leaned on the railing, and so did he. We didn't say anything for a while. I looked at him for a long moment, smiling, before he caught me.

"What?"

"I was just thinking."

"Gonna share, or keep me in suspense?"

"You're the best friend I've ever had."

He reached over and took my hand, lacing our fingers. He kissed the back of my hand a few minutes later. "You want to dance?" he asked. The music was just audible out there, and the singer was doing her version of Anita Baker's "Sweet Love". So we slow danced out there on the deck, lost in each other, but at the same time, feeling like our little dance was somehow taking back our power again. Neither one of us voiced it, but we'd felt a little skittish since we were attacked, and it was good for us to dance out there together in the moonlight, with other passengers milling around. The sky didn't fall, no one said anything, and no one gave us any trouble. It wasn't that we couldn't take care of ourselves, or stand up for ourselves, but it can be a little scary standing up for yourselves again after you just got knocked down.

"Mind if I cut in?" Manuel said, looming up behind Don. Manuel is one of the gentlest giants I've ever met, but he can't help but "loom up" behind you, when he's so large. Miguel told me he was 6'6".

"I don't know," Don said, as we separated a bit. "I'm pretty attached to this guy," he added, and while he was joking with his friend, he kind of wasn't.

"Come on. I didn't even get to dance with him at the wedding. This is your one chance to dance with Miguel."

"Yeah, well, this is as far as we go with partner swaps," Don joked, and Manuel laughed his booming laugh as we traded partners and danced through one more song.

"Right after we moved into our house, somebody spray-painted the word 'faggots' on the front," Manuel said. I thought it was odd dance floor chit chat. And, while I always trusted Don completely, part of me didn't really like watching him dance with Miguel. He was dark-haired, tall, handsome...and they were joking about something. And I was dancing with a giant who was telling me about their house being vandalized. The evening felt like it was going downhill.

"It seems like such a nice area...have you had any other trouble?"

"No, it was a one-time shot, probably kids. It's a good neighborhood, and we seem to fit in there pretty well. The old folks like us because we plow out their driveways for free and give them discounts on getting their grass cut."

"Ah, yes, with one of those giant lawnmowers," I replied, and Manuel laughed.

"Yeah, one of those. The reason I'm telling you this is that when it happened, we both shrugged it off like it was just the kind of harassment we had to be prepared to deal with at some point in our lives together. Even though we didn't get hurt, and nobody broke into our house or anything, it still fucked with our heads."

"I think it reminded me of all the hate and prejudice that I can put out of my mind most of the time. And Don thinks he should have been able to protect me...he did. He did everything he could, including risking blowing his hand off to throw one of the firecrackers clear of my head."

"Gay bashing is that bad thing that happens to somebody else."

"I guess so," I admitted, sighing. "Kind of a harsh dose of reality. I feel kind of guilty for stewing about it because so many other people have suffered so much worse."

"All we had was a little paint on the front of the house, and we felt violated. Miguel wanted to stop unpacking and move back out, until we talked about the financial suicide that would involve. Now, I'm glad we didn't. The house is great, and we love it there."

"So you're telling me to cheer up, it gets better?"

"I'm telling you the reality of the good part of your life is going to outweigh this thing that happened."

"I know. I wouldn't trade my life with Don for anything."

"Odds are, you'll never have another experience like that."

"Probably not." I smiled at him, and I caught Don watching us out of the corner of my eye. He looked troubled, because we weren't having a cheery looking chat. So I kept smiling, not letting on that I'd caught him watching. "Don thinks you're stepping on my feet."

"He didn't want to let me dance with you," Manuel said, chuckling. "He's got it bad."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too."

"You don't like him dancing with Miguel, either." Manuel laughed, and I knew the look on my face must have given me away. I was a little flustered. I didn't want to offend Don's friend, but he was right.

"I fell in love with Don on a dance floor. I guess that makes dancing kind of special with us."

"You're good for him."

"He's good for me," I replied. "This weekend is good for both of us. Thanks for having us here."

"Hey, we've been wanting to get you here for a visit since the wedding." The music ended, and Don was at my side in a flash.

The four of us found a place to sit out there on the deck and visited until the boat docked a little after eleven. We went back to the house, changed into our shorts and undershirts and sat around in their living room with popcorn and snacks and watched some old horror movies, laughing and mocking the cheesy parts. I'd never had a pajama party with a bunch of grown men before, but it was fun. And it was just part of the proof that Manuel was right. What happened to us at the cabin was unsettling and scary, and a reminder of how much hate there was in the world for couples like us, but it was an aberration in what was going to be an otherwise wonderful life together. As I sat there on the couch, my head on Don's shoulder, eating popcorn and making fun of old movies, spending the weekend with friends, all that ugliness seemed very far away.

********

I'd hoped a weekend away doing something fun where I knew we'd be safe from any kind of harassment would be good for Timmy, but I had no idea how good it would be for him. It seemed like it was lifting that veil of depression and apprehension that had been there since he was hurt. For that, I even endured the art museum Miguel and Timothy were interested in. After all, I could spend my time focused on Timmy, my favorite work of art. I could linger by him and breathe in how good he smelled, listen to that silky voice of his, hold one of his beautiful hands, or watch the interest in his face as he examined some famous painting. Watch those blue eyes of his take it all in. He was having fun, and I knew he was having more fun because I was there, and because he thought I was enjoying it. I was. I was with him. That was enough. Manuel looked like he was going through prolonged dental surgery, but he followed Miguel around dutifully until the art appreciation lesson was over. We've teased each other more than once over the years about how thoroughly whipped we both are by our beautiful, cultured partners.

Fuck, maybe that means we're domesticated now? I think that's probably even worse. It sounds...older and more...neutered somehow.

We grilled out Saturday night, fixing big steaks and eating outside on the deck. Sunday, we went over to Saratoga and took in a horse race and checked out some of the historic sites there. It was a great day, and we were sorry to have to pack up and head home Sunday night. Timmy had work in the morning, and Manuel and Miguel were due to be up bright and early with their landscaping business. I had a couple cases that I had to get back at unless I wanted to lose them, so we drove toward Albany in the early evening.

"I had a great time this weekend," Timmy said, smiling at me as we were turning the corner onto our street.

"Me, too," I agreed, sparing a hand from the wheel to take his hand and kiss the back of it. It was a better trip home than from our last trip, when I'd put a pillow under his head, and he'd ridden home in pain, barely able to open his eyes to the sun all the way home. He had that beautiful twinkle in his eyes, and he looked happy. He looked like the old Timothy.

We brought in our bags and before I resigned myself to unpacking like a good partner, Timmy tackled me on the bed and we started rolling around together, kissing and cuddling, just having some fun. Our sex life had been a little slow since Timmy got hurt, because when his head was already pounding, getting it throbbing in time with his heart pounding from great sex was a good way to make him hurt even more.

That night, he didn't have a headache, and his ear didn't bother him very much, and a fun weekend with friends had cheered us both up. We humped a little, but I couldn't wait long to get down to real business, so I worked at getting Timmy's shorts out of the way so I could take him in my mouth. I was kind of hoping he'd want to do more than that, and he did. After a little of my best work with my mouth, he turned over and I got the stuff and got him ready.

We were still half dressed, we hadn't unpacked, and we were doing it on the bedspread. When we first met, Timmy would have never done it on the bedspread. I was a bad influence on him from the start. Every now and then, he tells me that one of the great joys of his life is being corrupted by my bad habits.

I loved being on him and in him, rocking gently, making him moan and wiggle under me. I kissed his neck and nuzzled the back of his hair. I told him I loved him and I could see his face crinkle up in a big smile, even from the angle where I was behind him. He said he loved me, too, and before long, we came together.

Then we curled up there on the soiled bedspread, shifting around until no one's butt cheek was in a wet spot. We tugged our shirts off and threw them in the pile with our shorts, and snuggled up together for a nap. We were a good tired, and I felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. Timmy was absolutely boneless in my arms. I kissed his shoulder and his arm, ran my hand over his belly and his chest. He took my hand and held it up close to his face. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my hand.

I kissed his ear. I was very protective of that ear, and even though he wasn't quite ready to submerge it in water for swimming and it couldn't handle loud noises yet, I could tease it with my tongue and blow in it just a little, and he'd smile and respond like he always did. I'd put a lot of warm compresses on that ear, and worried about his hearing until now it was almost okay again. Timmy could be deaf, dumb, and blind, and it wouldn't make me love him less. But for his sake, I wanted it perfect again.

Perfect...unlike the world outside our home, with its hate and its bigotry and its dangers. Perfect...like Timothy, like our love, like the thought of facing it all with him, getting old with him, holding him when he was hurting and being held by him when I was all banged up from some dumb ass case I got mixed up in. Making love half dressed on top of the bedspread and then taking a nap when you should be unpacking perfect.

Timmy was asleep, and I felt like I should hurry and catch up to him, go find him out there in the realm of dreams somewhere. Because I never want to be without him any longer than I have to be. So I dozed off, and soon found myself slow dancing with dream Timothy, on the surreal deck of some imaginary ship, under an array of stars.

Perfect.

********