Title: Like Water, Like Breath, Like Rain
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 (See Warnings below if you want specifics)

Word Count: About 116,000
References/Spoilers: Some references/spoilers for all movies; reference to specific event in Ice Blues.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin.
Summary: When Donald pays a terrible price for investigating his latest case, both he and Timothy rely on the strength of their love to sustain them. Meanwhile, they must face the dangerous aftermath as it threatens their happiness and their lives.
Author's Note: The song lyrics are not mine, but they capture the spirit of the story beautifully. Please read the Warnings section below if you are concerned about the content of the story, or want to know the specific nature of the violence (the warnings contain some spoilers for the story). It contains violence, language, and story themes consistent with the rating, and content regarding an original character that may be unsettling to some readers.

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 Read WARNINGS

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LIKE WATER, LIKE BREATH, LIKE RAIN

by

Candy Apple

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

You're the hope that moves me
To courage again
You're the love that rescues me
When the cold winds rage
And it's so amazing
'Cause that's just how you are
And I can't turn back now
'Cause you've brought me too far

I need you like water, like breath, like rain...

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

Justin Sommers was tall, soft-spoken, refined, and formerly affluent. He was dark haired and reasonably good looking, and reminded Don quite a bit of Timothy. Don didn't think he was as handsome as his partner, but then again, Don didn't think any other man measured up to that standard, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous he might be. His newest client appeared to be in his early thirties and very uneasy about engaging a private investigator.

"I need you to follow someone," he began, looking over his shoulder nervously at the outer office.

"You can close the door if you'd be more comfortable," Don said, though Kenny knew all the pertinent details of his cases anyway.

"Thank you." Sommers closed the door and then returned to his chair. "I think my partner might be having an affair."

"What makes you think that?" And what makes you think it's such big news that we need to close the door?

"He owns a gym with a couple friends of his. He works a lot of nights. I mean, a lot. More than he did when we first got together. Whenever I ask him about it, he gets furious with me, and he just tells me that if we want to eat, he has to keep the gym afloat." He sighed. "When we first met, I had a trust fund. We didn't really want for anything. Then my grandfather, who controls it, got wind of the fact that I was gay and living with a man, and he cut me off. Not a penny."

"Ouch," Don said, no stranger to family disapproval himself, though no one would really lose sleep over being disinherited from the vast Strachey empire.

"I've gone back to school. I'm working on a degree in computer information systems. I need to at least be able to support myself, and contribute something to the household." Sommers leaned back in the chair, fidgeting. "He was a phys ed teacher. He came out, and there was a lot of flak from the parents, and while they didn't fire him, he felt like it was just a matter of time until one of them accused him of something or pinned something on him... So when this friend of his from college asked him about going in on the gym, he jumped at it. That was five years ago, a couple years before we met."

"You want me to follow him at night, see where he goes?"

"Yes, exactly. I read that article about you a few years ago, and I just felt more comfortable coming to someone else in the community. I don't have a lot of money left, so I can't pay you for long, but maybe you could follow him a few nights, just to make sure he's not seeing someone else."

Donald alternately cursed and blessed that magazine article he'd agreed to when he first started his PI business and he just wasn't getting enough clients. Getting some cases from the gay community helped pay the bills, but being branded "the gay detective" had long since lost its charm, if it ever had any to begin with. He was open about his sexuality, and his marriage to Tim, but the emphasis on his orientation versus his credentials and ability had grown wearisome over time.

"What's your partner's name?"

"Simon Fox. Here's a recent photo of him," he said, handing Don a snapshot of a tall, muscular guy in shorts and a tank shirt, with buzzed dark hair. He didn't look particularly friendly. "This is his business card from the gym," he said, handing it across the desk. "He has two business partners now. Gary Benson, who started the business with him, and Evan Maxwell, who just joined them in the last year or so. Things have gotten...stranger since Evan came on board. More late nights, and Simon has just...changed toward me."

"In what way?"

"He gets angrier than he used to, and for the first time, I'm really nervous when he gets mad. I think he's going to hit me. He doesn't, but I never used to worry about that. And our sex life has just kind of gone downhill."

"You think he and Evan might be having an affair?"

"I've seen them together, and there don't seem to be any sparks there, but who knows? He's not going to do anything in front of me."

"My assistant gave you the information on my rates?" Don asked, making a few more notes for the file he was starting on this case.

"Yes. I have a check for your retainer. Can you e-mail me a bill weekly? I have to keep a close eye on the funds, because I don't want to run out of money and not be able to pay you."

"That's not a problem," Don said, putting a sticky note to that effect on the case file for Kenny.

"What do you do next?" he asked.

"Run a background check on your partner, his business partners, the company. Credit checks, criminal background checks, the usual - - "

"What for? I just need to know if he's cheating on me."

"Well, money might not be the root of all evil, but it's got a hand in a lot of it. The background checks are included in my fee, so you might as well know what your boyfriend's really up to. Then I'll follow him. I need to know his schedule."

"I have all that here." He handed Don a sheet of paper with a typical weekly schedule written out on it in painstaking detail. "That was last week. His hours vary a little, but most weeks shape up like that. If you need to find out anything specific from me, just e-mail me. Don't phone or send anything in the mail, okay?"

"No, I won't."

"Sometimes he uses my cell, or picks it up if it's ringing and I'm not around."

"Mr. Sommers, you need to relax. I've been doing this a long time, and I've never tipped off one of my clients' spouses yet. I won't compromise your safety or break your confidence."

"Okay, fine, that sounds good."

"A word of advice. Leave this to me. That's why you hired me. Don't think about it, and don't...fret like this about it. You're more likely to tip him off that something's going on than I am at this point. Just stay calm. A lot of times there's nothing going on, or there's an innocent explanation for it."

"I hope so."

"I'm going to cross a line a bit here... If you're fearing for your physical safety with this guy, get out of there. Don't wait for me to investigate him."

"He never used to be like that," Sommers said, wringing his hands together. "He hasn't hit me yet. I just am afraid he will, and I know how strong he is. I wouldn't stand a chance."

"It's your business, and your life, but if you're afraid of him, get the hell out of there before he beats you up. I've seen my share of domestic violence cases, too, and they're not pretty."

"Thanks for your help, and for the advice." He stood and so did Don. They shook hands, and then Justin Sommers was on his way.

Don took the file out to Kenny's desk. "Get him set up, okay?" Kenny would do whatever magic he did with the spreadsheets and billing information, and pop out some nice, tidy little invoices right when they were needed.

"You don't sound happy." Kenny looked at the check. "Nice retainer."

"I have a feeling this guy should just get the hell out of that relationship, not worry about following this jock around. I'm gonna see if I can take Timothy out for lunch, since I have to stand him up tonight."

"That'll go over well."

"I know. That's why I'm going to take him somewhere with menus, where you don't drive through," Don quipped as he headed out the door.

********

"This was a nice surprise," Tim said, setting his menu aside. "Why can't you make it to the party tonight?"

"I had hoped you'd at least have the French onion soup in front of you before you figured that out."

"I figured it out when you called me and suggested lunch here. But I was hungry and I wanted to see you, so I didn't say anything."

"That shirt really brings out your eyes, sweetheart," Don said, his tone exaggerated. Tim just cocked his head and gave him a look. "I got a new case, and I need to get started on it. My client thinks his boyfriend's cheating on him, and I have a feeling it's an escalating situation that could end in violence if it doesn't get resolved pretty soon."

"How dangerous is it for you?" Tim asked. Don smiled, reaching across the table, palm up. A minute later, Tim's hand was in his.

"I'm sorry about the party."

"Oh, it's all right. To be honest, I can do without it. I'll make an excuse, tell them I'm not feeling well." He paused, running his thumb back and forth on Don's hand. "You didn't answer my question."

"I'm more concerned about my client than I am for myself. It's garden-variety surveillance work for me. He seems to feel nervous about his boyfriend hitting him, but he didn't seem inclined to take my unsolicited advice to get out of the situation."

"I don't think I could live like that, walking on eggshells with someone."

"Nobody should have to." Don squeezed Tim's hand.

"This case seems to be under your skin for some reason. This can't be the first situation with a potential for domestic violence you've investigated."

"No, it isn't." Don paused. "Maybe it's because he reminds me of you. Except not quite as handsome," he added, smiling, though he was sincere. Tim smiled back, knowing this compliment was real.

"Let's just enjoy lunch. Who knows, maybe even a slightly extended lunch hour," he added, raising one eyebrow.

"You expect me to sit here through soup and salad now?"

Tim looked at his watch. "We could have lunch at home and eat later at our desks."

"This oughtta cover the drinks and a tip," he said, tossing a few bills on the table.

********

Tim couldn't remember the last time they'd met for "lunch" and ended up in bed. Their schedules were hectic enough as it was, and usually driving home in the middle of the day was a luxury they didn't have. Still, they hadn't spent many evenings together in the last couple weeks, and with a new case on the horizon, it didn't look hopeful they'd be spending many of this week's evenings together, either.

Their clothes were all over the bedroom floor, and the tiny part of Tim's mind that wasn't focused on something better was envisioning the rush to get ready to go back to their respective commitments. The last time they'd done this, Donald had put the wrong pants on and they'd banged their heads together when they both went for their discarded shirts at the same time. Even going back to work with headaches, though, they'd both agreed it was worth it.

And so was this. Don was doing things with his mouth that had Tim writhing with pleasure, clutching at the sheets, spreading his legs and arching into the most amazing blow job he could remember. Since Donald was extremely good at them, that was saying a lot. The only thing better would be coming while Don was inside him, and since this had to be an abbreviated version of what could easily have taken a couple of beautiful hours, he chose the option of his lover in his arms, inside his body, in him and around him in every possible way.

He reached down and ran his hands over Don's shoulders, his fingers curling gently under his arms, tugging upward. When their eyes met, Tim smiled at Don. "I'm lonely up here," he said, and Don crawled happily up to wrap Tim in his arms, focusing his oral attentions on kissing him with the kind of urgency and passion that came from too many nights of being alone on a stakeout and settling for chaste little kisses hello or goodnight.

Tim's hunger matched Don's easily. He loved being the object of Donald's intense lust and love, losing himself in those sensations, holding nothing back and relishing the utter trust he had that everything Donald did was going to feel good. Even in this slightly rushed encounter, Don prepared him and entered him with all the gentleness and care he always did. He didn't know where one of them ended and the other began in the heated tangle of their bodies, but they were rocking together in a cadence that was instinctive. Somehow, Donald knew just how to move inside him, just what he wanted, needed, liked best. It wasn't like he'd ever told him in so many words...he just knew Tim's body and his responses that well, and cared that much.

He caught Don's face in both his hands and kissed him, their tongues striving for the same union their bodies had achieved. He ran his hands up and down that smooth expanse of Don's back, feeling the muscles moving under his touch, marveling again at how his lover managed to channel such strength into such gentleness, how he could make it so good and so sweet and so intense at the same time.

"I love you," he said, his lips against Donald's as he spoke, wondering if he could even hear him.

"I love you, too, sweetheart," Donald gasped, before kissing him again.

Their pace got quicker, more urgent, as they neared the inevitable climax. Part of Tim hated his traitorous body for giving in and coming so soon. He knew Donald would focus on loving him and touching him until he came, and even though they didn't have hours to spend on each other, he didn't want it to end this soon. Then Don came with a couple ragged gasps of his name, and in there somewhere was another profession of love, even though it was hard to sort out.

When it was over, Tim indulged in showering Don with a lot of little kisses that were just ends in themselves. They were both satisfied, both too sated to come again in such a short span of time. Still, his lips traveled across Donald's chest, and he even urged his arms up so he could caress, nuzzle, and kiss the tender skin under his arms. He knew Donald loved that, even if he'd object that he needed a shower or joke that he hoped his deodorant was working. He didn't, and it was. Or, more to the point, Tim thought Donald was the only man in the world whose sweat smelled like rain on the leaves on a summer evening.

Donald was caressing his back now, pulling him down on top of him. He'd told Tim once that he loved the way it felt to be pressed into the mattress under him, to be held that way, to be in that place where nothing could physically reach him but Timmy.

"I'm really sorry about tonight," Don said quietly, and this time, there was more feeling behind it than before. For some reason, it bothered Tim that Don should feel bad about anything after what they'd just shared, even if, deep down, he had been a little ruffled at the change of plans when Don first sprang it on him.

"It's just a dinner party, honey. There will be others."

"Don't threaten me," Don quipped, and Tim had to laugh, then kiss him again. "I thought you'd want my head on a plate for canceling."

"I'd rather have all of you in my arms." Tim rested his forehead against Don's. "If you wrap up that surveillance at a reasonable hour, you might even get seconds."

"Thank you," Don said, touching Tim's face gently. "I know this is the second or third time I let you down in the last couple weeks, and I feel like a jerk."

"It's the second or third time you canceled something with me. You never let me down, and you're not a jerk. You couldn't be if you tried." Tim sighed. "We should probably clean up and get dressed," he said, hating the words as he said them.

"I miss you when I'm working late."

"I'm glad," Tim said, smiling. "I miss you, too. Be careful?"

"Aren't I always?" Don replied, grinning.

"I sure hope so," Tim said, smiling back, kissing him again.

They took a quick shower together, ostensibly to save time, but largely for the excuse of prolonging the intimacy of their stolen interlude. Fortunately, they ended up in all the right clothing, looking as refreshed, tidy, and innocent as they had when they left the house that morning. They held hands in the car on the way back to the Senate building, and Tim felt a lingering reluctance to get out of the car and leave Donald. He gave in to the impulse to kiss him one more time, pausing to look into the big blue eyes that positively sparkled with the smile that followed the kiss.

"Thanks for lunch," Tim said, squeezing his hand.

"Shit, I forgot to go through the drive-up."

"I wasn't talking about food. I'll eat something out of the vending machine."

"Now I know it's love," Don said, laughing.

"Oh, yes, it's definitely that." Tim got out of the car, then stuck his head back in the door. "You get something decent to eat. You'll be out a lot longer than I will be, so make sure you don't just eat junk all day."

"You want me to bring you something back?"

"I'll be okay. I've only got a few hours to go, since I took that long lunch hour," Tim added, knowing he was grinning like an idiot...like the cat that caught the canary, as his grandmother would have said.

As he watched Donald drive away, he felt a pang of sadness that unsettled him. Worst case scenario, he could wait up and see him when he got home. Realizing he was just standing on the sidewalk like a lost puppy, he turned and went into the building.

********

FBM Gym and Weight Room was located in a mediocre part of town, in a nondescript building that also housed an exercise equipment and weights retail store. In terms of shared tenancy, it seemed like a match made in heaven. As near as Don could tell, all three owners were there. He'd followed Simon Fox from his home address to the gym about dinner time, and his black Hummer had never left the lot. The blue Camaro with the license plate number registered to Gary Benson and the red Ford pickup registered to Evan Maxwell had been in the lot when Don first drove by early that afternoon.

The gym closed at 10:00, and as it approached 11:30, the three vehicles in question were still in the lot. With a sigh of resignation, he realized Timmy was probably asleep by now, since he had to get up early the next morning. He hoped his partner wasn't too disappointed that he didn't make it home earlier. He had to smile when he thought of their stolen moments together that afternoon. Even more than that, he felt warmed by the fact that Timmy had opted not to be angry with him that he was canceling another commitment, but instead to focus on finding some time for them to reconnect. He'd been so passionate and eager and giving in bed, so utterly in love with Don, as if he were celebrating their anniversary rather than forgiving another broken date.

Don yawned widely and looked at his watch again. Just when he was considering moving in closer and trying to find a way to see what the three of them were up to in there, another car pulled into the parking lot. It was a late-model black Cadillac sedan, and it parked next to the owners' cars, which had their own reserved spaces. A tall man in a long topcoat got out, his collar turned up against the cold, or to further obscure his face in case of any security cameras, Don wasn't sure. He used his zoom lens to snap a few photos of the man and his license plate.

Several minutes later, another car pulled in next to the Cadillac. This one was a silver Lexus. Don snapped a few photos of the stocky man who got out of the driver's side, and of the car and its plate. What is this, anyway? Drugs? Gambling? There was obviously under-the-table action going on after hours that was attracting some pretty well-heeled members of society to slink into a gym near midnight. Not an upscale health club, but a gym, complete with the lingering aroma of sweat in the air, and most likely not a smoothie counter in sight. He hadn't been inside this place, but he'd been in enough places like them before Tim and he had set up their own workout room in one of their spare bedrooms. They weren't exactly places that rich guys usually gathered to socialize. These folks had country clubs for that.

Two more cars arrived within minutes of each other: another Cadillac and a Mercedes. A solitary man got out of each car, but they acknowledged each other and seemed to be talking as they made their way into the gym.

Don checked his watch again, made a few more notes to go with his growing collection of photos, and then watched the gym a while longer. No more nocturnal visitors seemed to be on the way, so he tucked the camera in his coat pocket, checked his gun, and got out of the car, making his way briskly across the street to the gym. He knew from his earlier trips around the block to check out the place that there wasn't much in the way of windows, but there were a couple in the back of the building. Besides, these guys had to be getting in somewhere, though their point of entry wasn't visible from where he'd been parked. Maybe he'd catch a break and that entrance would be left open.

Be careful. He could still hear Timmy's voice in his head.

Aren't I always? he'd said jokingly.

I sure hope so. Those words, accompanied by Timmy's beautiful smile, and a look of love that had gone straight to his heart.

Keeping that image in mind, he was careful, easing along the side of the building, looking for an entrance. The back door was solid metal with a knob and a keypad next to it. He took out a flashlight, trying to get a look at any wear patterns on the keys. Sometimes people went to great lengths to secure entrances with keypad codes and then didn't bother to clean off the residue from their grubby fingers hitting the same three keys over and over again. Either these guys were too uptown to have grubby fingers, or someone had the presence of mind to wipe off the keypad once in a while. There was no discernible pattern or staining on the keys to help him figure out the code. Frustrated, he made his way a little farther along the wall, finally reaching one of the windows.

"Get your hands up," a voice said from behind. "On your knees, right now," the man added.

Not in a gambling mood, Don figured he must have a gun or something to back up his command, so he followed it. All too soon, he felt the cold metal barrel of a gun against the back of his head.

"Throw out your gun, nice and slow."

He complied, trying to formulate some kind of story that might be even marginally plausible as to why he was creeping around the back end of a closed gym at midnight.

"I saw all the cars, so I thought you were still open. I was gonna come in and sign up for a membership. I work a lot of nights, so this would be perfect."

"You expect me to believe that you were looking at the security keypad with a flashlight so you could come in and sign up for a membership?" There was a pause while the other man called someone on the direct-connect feature on his cell phone. "Evan, get out here. I got a live one."

"I saw some other guys come in this way, so I was just looking for a way in."

"That I believe, but I don't think you were trying to sign up for our one-year advertised membership special." The man walked around in front of Don, and he recognized Simon Fox immediately. Dressed in jeans and a tight black t-shirt, from his spot on his knees on the ground, the man looked like a giant.

"What's going on?" Another tall, muscular man joined them. This one was blond and a little shorter. "Who's this?"

"Let's see some ID," Fox said, apparently feeling it was safe to let Don move a bit now that he had back-up.

"I told your pal here I was just trying to get into the gym. It looked like you were still open - - "

"Save the lame-ass story. It didn't work on me and it won't work on him, either. Just hand over your wallet."

Don reluctantly pulled out his wallet and handed it to Evan Maxwell, who opened it and looked through the IDs there.

"Donald Strachey, Private Investigator."

"Strachey, huh?" Fox said, as if he recognized the name. "I'll be a son-of-a-bitch."

"Do I know you?" Don asked, but Maxwell cut in.

"Who hired you?" he asked, still holding onto the wallet.

"Nobody hired me. I already told you why I was here. Now let me have my wallet and my gun back and we'll just forget this happened."

"That's mighty big of you, Strachey," Fox said, chuckling. "Considering you were snooping around my place. Now I'm gonna ask you one more time, nicely. Who hired you?"

"I told you. Nobody hired me. I thought the gym was open and I was just gonna check on your membership prices. I work a lot of nights, so someplace that was open after midnight would be perfect."

"Where's your gym bag? Or do you work out dressed like this?" Maxwell tugged on Don's tie.

"I never said I was here to work out. I was going to sign up, that's all."

"In the Old West, they used to call this a standoff. Let's take our guest inside. He's so anxious to be part of the group, I say, let him." Fox smiled in a way that definitely didn't bode well for Don. To say it was predatory would be an understatement.

"You think that's a good idea?" Maxwell challenged, looking concerned.

"I think it's a great idea. Stand up," Fox said, waving his gun at Don, who stood.

"Whatever you've got in mind, I can tell you that it's a bad idea," Don said. "So far, I haven't seen anything worthwhile, and all you've done is detain someone you found trespassing - - the cops wouldn't even come here and look around based on what I've seen."

"We've been looking for a new diversion, and this just might be it," Fox said, the two men flanking Don, moving toward the door, where they keyed in the entry code. Between the gun and the combined strength of his captors, making a break for it would have been pointless, possibly suicidal. Hopefully, he could figure a way out of this, or they'd let their guard down, although his hopes for that were dimming with each passing moment.

Once inside, they headed down a flight of stairs to the basement. The smell of liquor and sweat tweaked at Don's nose before he got a whiff of something else unmistakable. It was almost as rank as the visual image that came next. There were three king-sized mattresses on the floor, all covered in red silk sheets, and the nocturnal guests were all stretched out on them, in various stages of undress.

"Midnight orgies?" Don asked. "You've gotta be kidding me. This is what you didn't want me to find out? Unless there's somebody under eighteen here, what the hell do I need to know about this for?"

"Somebody hired a PI," Fox announced. "This guy was snooping around outside, real anxious to get in."

"Are you fucking crazy? You stupid son-of-a-bitch!" One of the chubbier, elder members of the group was up in a flash, hairy belly hanging over blue boxer shorts, gesturing angrily at Fox. "Why didn't you just give him a guest list and mug shots?"

"He's probably got those already," Maxwell said, pulling the digital camera out of Don's sport coat pocket.

"Unless we kill the bastard, you just gave him proof to go with his pictures." Another well-built man with a thick head of brown hair joined them. He was clad only in a skimpy pair of briefs. Don figured it was probably Benson.

"The way I see it, he's not going to want to tell anybody where he's been when we're finished with him. Not even the cute little partner. I could definitely hit that," Maxwell said, looking at the picture of Don and Tim in their tuxes, the wedding picture Don always had with him in his wallet.

Don instinctively moved to swing at him, but Fox had an iron grip on his arm.

"Don't tell me you keep this one all to yourself? This must be Tim." He held up the photo where Fox could see it. Don carried a small card that only had Tim's first name and his cell phone number, as emergency contact information. He figured Maxwell must have seen it.

"Let's see that," Fox said, and Maxwell held the photo closer, in better light. "So tell me, you ever get any from tight-ass Timmy? Does he come for you when you're riding him?"

"Shut up, you fucking asshole," Don hissed, making a violent pull for his freedom, and almost making it.

"They're married," Fox said, his tone turning syrupy. "Isn't that sweet?" His whole tone and expression became menacing then. "And we have his cell number now. I bet he'd run right down here if he thought you were in danger."

"Leave him out of it," Don shot back, angry.

"Unless you want us to call him down here to join us, you're going to cooperate and keep your mouth shut."

"Unless we have something to stick in it," Maxwell added, grinning wickedly and drawing a dirty laugh out of Fox.

"You stick anything in my mouth, you better be fucking sure you don't want it back," Don said through gritted teeth.

"We got ourselves a fighter," Fox said. "Maybe he needs a little attitude adjustment before we let him...socialize with our guests."

********

Resolved to the notion he wasn't going to get any sleep that night, Tim turned on the bedside lamp and picked up a book. It was a boring book; even his interest in politics didn't make this one a good read. Still, it was making the luncheon discussion circuits in the circles he traveled in, so he was plowing through it, trying to force his brain to retain a few key concepts. He hoped the monotony of the book would relax him. It was nearing 1:00 in the morning, and Donald still wasn't home. That wasn't terribly unusual, but for some reason tonight, he couldn't make himself relax. Maybe it was because their afternoon lovemaking had left him feeling a little more acutely attached to Donald than usual. Whenever they made love, it always left Tim with this lingering feeling of a heightened...connection with his partner that was best enjoyed when they could spend some time together. It made routine parting for work almost painful.

He looked at the telephone and thought about picking it up and calling Donald. If he was sitting in his car somewhere, killing time, watching someone, maybe they could talk a while.

Or the ringing of his phone could get him in trouble if he forgot to turn off the ringer.

Sighing, Tim opened the book and slipped his glasses into place, forcing himself to concentrate on the page in front of him.

********

Stenski blinked a couple times, then gulped more of the bitter coffee in his thermal mug. He'd just finished a stakeout, and all he wanted to do now was go home and get some sleep. That was, if he could manage to get in without waking his girlfriend and listening to her tirade about him crawling in at 3:00 in the morning. Just as he was mulling that over in his mind, he caught sight of a man walking...well, walking wasn't exactly the word for it. More like staggering down the sidewalk.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Where's a goddamned black-and-white when you need one? Probably swizzling coffee from some all-night drive-thru window, sitting out the rest of the graveyard shift until morning.

Stenski had almost reconciled himself with ignoring what he assumed was another drunken suburbanite who was either too shit-faced to drive or couldn't find his car, when he recognized this one. Donald Strachey, our favorite gay dick.

Shit, this is too good to pass up, even if it does cost me another hour or so to haul his ass back to the station and throw him in the drunk tank.

He pulled up and flashed the blue and red lights on the visor of his unmarked sedan. Strachey's labored gait drew to a halt, and he stared a little blankly at the car. His face was marred with bruises, and blood was caked under his nose and at the corners of his mouth. He was only wearing a shirt and pants, the shirt hanging loose out of his belt, and it was buttoned wrong. Stenski got out of the car, a part of him thinking this was too fucking easy, like shooting ducks in a barrel.

"Get in the car, Strachey," he said, yanking him by the arm toward the back of the sedan.

"I need a ride home," he said, though there was none of the usual arrogance or assertion in his tone. His skin looked pasty under the bruises, and his eyes seemed almost unfocused. Someone had definitely given the little faggot a good going over. It was about time. Wipe the smart-ass smirk off his face.

"Yeah, you need to sleep it off," Stenski said, shoving him roughly in the back of the car, slamming the door. He got into the driver's seat and turned around, heading for the station.

Strachey moaned a couple of times, and he'd tipped over on the seat. The cop in Stenski was telling him to take him to the ER instead of the station. His kind were litigious assholes, and if he didn't give him cold compresses, aspirin, and a blankey, he'd probably sue the city.

"I'm not drunk," Strachey managed, pushing himself up a little on one elbow. "Please, I need a ride home," he said again.

If he was that coherent, he was probably fine, Stenski decided. Maybe he could make some new friends in the drunk tank downtown before he started whining about knowing Bailey to someone who'd actually listen, or give a shit.

"Call Bailey. Let me talk to him."

There it was. Not even in the drunk tank yet and already dropping Bailey's name.

"Shut the fuck up. You can call whoever you want in the morning."

"Just let me out, then. I'll get home myself," he said, easing himself across the seat and pulling at the door handle, as if he thought he could just step out of the moving car. The door was locked, so he wasn't going anywhere. There was no smell of liquor on him, which threw Stenski just a bit. So maybe he's high, then. His eyes were pretty wild, weird looking. Could be pot or coke.

"Look, I know you hate my guts, but you're a cop, for God's sake. Help me," Strachey said finally, just as Stenski was pulling into the parking lot, up to the entrance handiest to the holding cells.

"Maybe you shouldn't be looking for all that publicity if you don't want to pay the price for it," Stenski replied, getting out of the car and opening the back door, dragging Strachey upright by the back of his shirt. He pulled his arms back, locking cuffs in place. "Come on, get out," he said, yanking on Strachey's arm. "You can get up on your feet and walk in there, or I can fucking drag you. Either way, you're coming with me, so make up your mind."

"I need help," Strachey insisted, not moving.

"Fine. I'll help you." He grabbed his prisoner under both arms and hauled him out of the car, depositing him on his knees on the ground. "Heh, I bet that's your favorite position anyway, isn't it?" He hoisted Strachey up, and was relieved that his feet were finally flat on the ground. Stocking feet at that. "What kind of a party were you at, anyway?" he taunted, irritated that he had to practically drag the man toward the entrance.

"Please...I need help," he said again.

"You'll have a nice cot to sleep it off on."

"Do you smell booze on me, you stupid son-of-a-bitch?" Strachey hissed, although it looked like it was taking his last ounce of strength to issue the challenge.

"You're probably high."

"Fuck you," Strachey hissed back at him through clenched teeth.

"In your dreams, asshole."

"Let me go," he demanded, apparently getting his second wind, struggling a little with Stenski's hold on him. Stenski was increasingly comfortable with his decision to haul Strachey's ass to the drunk tank. He was getting feisty, so he couldn't be hurt that badly.

"I'm just sticking him in the tank, let him sleep it off," he told the young uniformed officer at the desk.

"You have his ID?"

"Get me some help," Strachey said, making eye contact with the young cop. "Please."

He found Strachey's wallet in his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "He knows Bailey, so we're going to cut him a break, not book him for disorderly conduct. Just let him sleep it off and let him out in the morning."

"Will do, Detective," the officer replied, opening the cell door so Stenski could uncuff and then shove his prisoner inside. Strachey swayed visibly, then staggered to an empty bench and curled there on his side. There were only a couple of old winos in the drunk tank with him, and they didn't appear too interested in checking him out, since they'd staked out spots on benches for themselves.

"'Night, Rodriguez," Stenski said to the officer, tucking his cuffs away with a little grin. This hadn't turned out to be such a bad night after all.

********

Bailey rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. It had been a bitch of a day and an even longer night. If the good people of Albany could just quit killing each other at night, his life would get a lot easier. He'd put in a long day trying to get caught up on his existing case load, and then, right before he headed home, a body was found in an alley, most likely a hooker who met a bad end, either at the hands of a violent john or a pissed-off pimp. In any event, it wasn't the way he'd hoped to spend the rest of the night.

Standing wearily, he grabbed his coat and started for the door. As he opened it, a young Hispanic officer stood on the other side of it, a worried look on his face.

"Detective Bailey, there's a guy in the drunk tank that keeps saying he knows you. Detective Stenski brought him in." He handed Bailey Don's wallet. "He said we weren't supposed to book him on disorderly conduct, that he should just sleep it off, but I think there's something really wrong with him. He's just lying on one of the benches, and he moans a lot and asks for somebody named Timothy or Timmy all the time. When I went in to check on him, he said I should get you."

"I know him. I'll check it out," he said, accompanying the young officer down to the drunk tank, wondering what Strachey had gotten himself into now.

Rodriguez unlocked the drunk tank, and Bailey walked over to the bench where Strachey was lying, curled in on himself, his color ashen under an array of bruises.

"Strachey?" He said it loudly, sharply, hoping to rouse the other man from what was looking dangerously like a loss of consciousness. "It's Bailey," he added.

"Make sure they don't hurt Timmy," Strachey gasped, finally opening his eyes to slits, his hand reaching aimlessly in Bailey's direction, finally tugging feebly at the edge of his sport coat.

"Get an ambulance," Bailey told Rodriguez, who hurried out to the desk to call for one. "Donald, I need you to look at me," he said, kneeling so he was in Strachey's line of vision. "What happened?"

"Doesn't matter about me. I'm dying. I know it."

"You're not dying, damn it. Even if you feel like you are. Are you just roughed up? Any other wounds?" Bailey started looking him over then and stopped short when he saw the dark wetness on the back of his pants. At first it looked as if he'd wet himself, but it was in the wrong place. Then he could see a bit of bright red stain beginning to soak into one of Strachey's socks. "Don, you're bleeding. Tell me what happened," he said, and then hesitantly took the flailing hand that was reaching for something to hold onto. It was then that he noticed darkening finger-sized bruises all over Strachey's wrist and forearm. He was in bad shape, and if he thought he was dying, he might be right. Bailey would want something to hold onto if he was on his way out of this world.

"Go get Timmy. They said they'd hurt Timmy."

"I'll send someone to pick him up, meet us at the hospital. You're gonna be just fine."

"When I was in the Army, I got shot," Don said, and at first, Bailey thought he was delirious, talking about something wholly irrelevant, until he finished the thought. "I lost a lot of blood, and they thought I was going to die. I almost did." He paused. "It felt like now. I'm dying, Bub. Just take care of Timmy, protect him."

"Who am I protecting him from?" Bailey watched as Don's eyes fluttered shut. "Damn it, Strachey, stay with me here. Who am I protecting him from?"

"Fox...at the gym. Don't let them get Timmy."

"Rodriguez, I need you to send a car to this address and pick up a guy named Tim Callahan. Bring him to Memorial." The officer nodded, and then Bailey caught his arm. "Tell them lights and sirens all the way, both ways. We might not have long," he said under his breath. He'd sat with a fellow officer dying from a gunshot wound in the street back when he was a rookie, and that guy's color was no worse than Strachey's.

"Don't let them hurt Timmy," Donald muttered again, his eyes trying to open a little.

"We're sending a car to get Tim for you," Bailey said, gentling his tone a bit. He found the thought of Donald Strachey dying to be a little more unthinkable than he'd expected. The guy could be a shooting pain in the ass, but he was a good guy and a sharp detective. And a good verbal sparring partner. Ridiculously, Bailey found himself missing his snappy comebacks and biting wit. "Donald, you have to hang on, try to stay present, okay?"

"Okay," he said weakly.

"Think about your partner, Donald. Hang in there for him."

"Timmy."

"He's going to meet us at the hospital. You want to see him, right?"

"Yeah, I want to see him," Strachey parroted back, his voice barely a whisper, but holding a tone of irritation that bode well for his spirit.

"That's the spirit. Tell me what happened, Donald."

"My client, Justin Sommers. Tell him Fox got me. He's in danger. Kenny knows how to contact him."

"Your pants are blood stained," Bailey said quietly, waiting until Donald opened his eyes enough to look him in the eyes. "Who raped you?" He hated to traumatize him further in his weakened state, but if Strachey died before he could name his assailant and Bailey didn't do all he could to get the information, it would haunt him to the last day of his life.

Strachey looked at him for a long moment with a depth of agony in his eyes Bailey couldn't remember ever seeing in another living soul before.

"I lost count," he whispered, and then his eyes drifted shut and the tension left his body. It took Bailey a moment to realize he'd stopped breathing. He checked for a pulse, but couldn't feel one.

"Holy shit, Strachey, don't you die on me like this," he said, shifting him onto his back, starting CPR. "Get the defibrillator!" he shouted at Rodriguez, who ran for it just as the EMTs came in. "He's losing blood and he just stopped breathing," Bailey told them, reluctantly stepping aside, wondering how the hell he was going to tell Callahan when they got to the hospital that Strachey was dead, that he'd died like a dog in a back corner of a drunk tank, bleeding out from a brutal rape no one even bothered to notice had happened.

More than that, he wondered how the hell he was going to live with that as a cop, as a decent Christian man...and as an unlikely friend of the victim.

"We got him back," one of the EMTs announced as they got ready to transport Strachey.

Everything was a blur of rushing and shouting and activity as Bailey raced out to his car to follow the ambulance and order a police escort for it. They may have lost precious hours up to now, but if it took a goddamned presidential motorcade to get Strachey into the ER in time to undo that wrong, that's what he was going to have.

********

Tim knew he must have fallen asleep with the book open, since it slid to the floor when he jolted upright in the bed. The doorbell rang, and there was a loud, assertive knock following it. He could see red and blue flashing lights reflecting against the bedroom window. In that horrible moment, the bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he knew this was the scenario that haunted his worst nightmares. Only he was awake, and this was real, and Donald wasn't home, it was nearly dawn, and there were cops banging on his door.

Throwing on his robe, he rushed downstairs and opened the door. Two uniformed officers stood on the doorstep.

"Are you Timothy Callahan?"

"Yes," he responded, dreading the words that would come out of their mouths next. Donald was dead. There was no other reason for cops to show up like this.

"Detective Bailey sent us to bring you over to Memorial Hospital for Donald Strachey."

"Is he alive?"

"As far as we know," one of the officers said. "They were taking him by ambulance to Memorial, and Bailey told us to come and get you, lights and sirens."

"I'll be right back." Tim ran upstairs, yanked on a pair of khakis and a shirt, stuck his bare feet in shoes, put his wallet in his pocket, and pulled on a jacket as he was hurrying back down the steps.

"What happened to him?" he asked as the car was speeding toward the hospital. And it was truly speeding, cutting through the sparse dawn traffic, ripping through intersections as if they were on a high-speed pursuit.

"Not sure. He was in the drunk tank and all of a sudden there was this big commotion and EMTs were there and Bailey was sending us to get you."

"The drunk tank? But he never goes out and gets drunk like that. What was he doing there?"

"Look, you know as much as we do right now. I'm sure Bailey'll be at the hospital, and you can ask him yourself," the cop driving said, apparently losing his patience with Tim's questions.

Ambulance, EMTs...you don't need that for a dead man, and there's certainly no hurry about it, either. Tim closed his eyes and held onto that thought.

The black-and-white arrived at the ER entrance at the same time as the ambulance, with Bailey's sedan screeching to a stop nearby. There was another police car that had been escorting the ambulance. Tim ran toward the ambulance, arriving there just as the back doors opened and Donald's gurney was lowered to the ground for the run into the hospital.

"You're going to have to stay out of our way, sir," one of the EMTs barked at Tim.

"He's my husband," he said, determinedly reaching out, able to only fleetingly brush Donald's hand as the gurney moved rapidly into the entrance, hospital personnel rushing out to greet it. And just like that, the frighteningly pale, bruised, and still version of Donald, whose too-cold hand he'd only managed to brush, was out of sight.

"Tim." Bailey's voice came from behind him as the detective hurried up to join him inside the ER entrance.

"What happened to him? Did someone attack him at the jail? They said he was in the drunk tank." Tim knew his words were spilling out, a bit frantically.

"I need to go with them for evidence reasons," he said. "Just wait here, and as soon as I can, I'll be out to fill you in on as much as I know." Bailey headed back in the direction the gurney had gone, and Tim followed him, determined to at least find out why his partner was in such grave condition.

Standing outside the exam room, he watched as the medical personnel swiftly and efficient sliced Donald's rumpled, stained clothing in a few key spots and removed it, a doctor already there to assess his injuries. The blood soaked into his pants and underwear told a horrendous tale, and Bailey's presence to collect evidence was the final piece of the puzzle. In conjunction with a nurse, Bailey was bagging the clothing and making furious notes on the assessment of Donald's injuries. After briefly palpating his abdomen, the doctor announced he was bleeding internally, and the frenzy was on again, finding an available operating room, prepping him for surgery, ushering Bailey and his bag of evidence out of the room.

"Are you here for Mr. Strachey?" a nurse asked Tim, who nodded. "We're taking him into surgery. He's bleeding internally."

"How bad is it?" Tim asked.

"His blood pressure is very low, and he flat-lined once in the ambulance. He is very weak...you need to be prepared just in case," she said, squeezing his arm briefly. "We do need to make sure all his information is up to date. Sharon will work with you on that," she said, steering him over to a woman at a computer. How could she just sit there and type in insurance information for a man who could be dying?

"Can I just see him for a second before you take him into surgery? I'm his husband," Tim pleaded, and the nurse cast a quick glance at the hive of activity around Donald's gurney.

"Come with me." She led him into the war zone and said a word or two to a couple of the nurses, who made room for him near the gurney. "Just a second or two, because we have to keep moving," she said. "You should take his wedding ring because they'll remove it for surgery anyway," she said, handing him Donald's watch.

Tim didn't waste any time. He took Don's hand in his and stroked his hair gently. "Donald, darling, I'm here. I'm waiting for you. Don't you dare leave me," he managed, his tears falling on Don's pale, bruised face. He leaned down near Donald's ear. "You're the love of my life, and I need you more than I need air. I don't want to live without you, honey. Stay with me, fight for us." He began carefully easing the ring off Don's finger, and Tim and the medical personnel were stunned when Donald's fingers curled and tensed, as if to stop the ring from being removed. "Oh, baby, it's just me. It's Timmy. I'm going to keep the ring for you for a little while. I'll put it back on your finger as soon as you're feeling better." Tim kissed the tensed fingers, and they eased a bit, allowing him to take the ring. "I love you." The oxygen mask over Don's face prevented him from kissing his lips, but he kissed his forehead, and then his hand, reluctantly laying it gently back on the gurney as the nurse ushered him out of the way.

So he sat with the woman at the computer and mechanically recited all of Donald's personal information and confirmed his medical history and insurance information. When he was finished, she had a nice little hospital bracelet for Donald and some form for him, which he signed. Another nurse stuck a clipboard with a consent for surgery under his nose, apparently needing his okay, now that it was confirmed he had Donald's medical power of attorney. When they were done, Bailey was waiting for him.

"Let's sit down over here for a minute," Bailey replied, leading Tim to the sitting area. He sat down, but his whole body was vibrating.

"Tell me what happened. How bad is it?"

"Another cop picked him up on the street, thought he was drunk or high. He put him in the drunk tank to sleep it off."

"But Donald doesn't go out alone drinking like that. He doesn't do drugs."

"I know that. There's no easy way to say this. Near as I can tell, he was beaten and raped. I don't have all the details, but I have enough to get started."

"Oh, my God," Tim said, feeling the bile rising in his throat, swallowing hard to keep it down, covering his mouth briefly. It wasn't that he didn't know that from what he'd seen and heard in the exam room, but the words were just too horrible to process.

"He was losing a lot of blood; he stopped breathing once while I was with him, but I started CPR and the EMTs came in and took over and got him breathing again." Bailey paused. "When I asked him who did it...well, he indicated there were multiple assailants."

"What did he say exactly?" Tim persisted, even though he knew it was probably something he couldn't bear to hear.

"He said, 'I lost count'."

Tim just stared at Bailey a moment, then stood on shaky legs and walked away, staring out a window at the beautiful pink and blue sky of dawn, the orange sun adding a splash of bright color. The world had the audacity to keep turning while his world was falling apart, while his Donald was suffering so horribly. He knew he was crying, leaning there against the window frame, but he couldn't help it. He was surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"I have another detective following up on a couple things Don said, and I've already contacted IAB regarding the reason he was in the drunk tank to begin with."

"He had to have been in pain, asking for help...how could someone just ignore that? He couldn't have gone from being fine to being in this condition. Who picked him up?"

"His name is Stenski. He's got a real attitude problem with Don, but I honestly never would have suspected it would go to this extreme. It's always been verbal stuff, and you know Don - - he can hold his own with any big-mouthed jerk who wants to give him a hard time."

"Don't let him get away with this," Tim said, wiping at his eyes, surprised when Bailey handed him a couple of tissues and steered him back to a seat.

"You need to pull yourself together. When your partner wakes up, he's going to need to lean on you. Besides, he made me promise to look out for you, and dealing with one of you is enough, so give me a break here, okay?"

Tim appreciated Bailey's attempt at humor, but he felt too gutted to respond to it. The thought of what Donald must have gone through, and then to be mistreated when he needed help so badly...it was more than Tim could take.

"I need to go to the chapel while he's in surgery," Tim said.

"I know where that is. I'll show you." Bailey walked down the hall with him and told the nurse at the desk where they'd be, in case there was any word on Don while they were gone.

Tim made the Sign of the Cross and knelt on one of the kneeling benches and put his head down on his folded hands. He was surprised Bailey was still there, that he also knelt and folded his hands. He started reciting the Our Father, and Tim joined him, finding a great comfort in the familiar words, and in a second voice reciting them, too.

"I'm leaving an officer here to keep an eye on you. He'll be right outside the door," Bailey said, standing. "I have to follow up on a few leads Don gave me, but I'll be keeping in touch to find out how he's doing."

"Thank you," Tim said, wishing he had the presence of mind to pay more attention to Bailey's kindness. Then a question cut through his foggy mind. "Why do I need an officer here with me?"

"Don was worried about you, asked me to protect you. I think he was probably just traumatized from whatever he went through, but I'd rather be safe than sorry." With that, Bailey left.

Alone in the silent little hospital chapel, Tim put his head down on his folded arms and cried, secure in the knowledge that God didn't need to be told what he wanted, what he was pleading for, and too destroyed to think of the right words to ask for it.

********

Kenny entered the waiting room and saw Tim sitting in a remote corner, staring into space. A couple chairs away was a young police officer - - and not a bad looking one at that - - reading a magazine. For an instant, he felt guilty for noticing that, but then he had to almost smile, as Don would be the first one to be amused by his assistant's ever-overactive libido.

Tim looked devastated, and for a moment, Kenny was afraid to approach him. He looked as if Don was already dead, not just in surgery. He was wearing Don's wedding ring loosely on his little finger, next to the wedding band on his own ring finger.

"Any word yet?" he asked, sitting next to Tim.

"No." The word was strained, little more than a whisper. "He was so pale. The nurse told me to be prepared... How do you prepare for something like that?"

"You don't. Until someone tells you it's over, he's still alive, so you don't mourn for him before he's dead."

"He already stopped breathing twice."

"He was breathing when they wheeled him into surgery, so that's what we're going to hang onto."

"Bailey said he was following up on leads Don gave him. Did he contact you?"

"He wanted all the information on that new case Don just took on yesterday. Some guy who wanted Don to follow his boyfriend around."

"He told me about it," Tim said, that conversation seeming a lifetime away. When Donald was whole and healthy and their biggest worry was how to make time for a little romance.

"Bailey said he was raped," Kenny said carefully, not knowing how to broach such an awful subject, but his mind was going in some gruesome directions trying to figure out what they could have done to Don that nearly killed him.

"It sounds like a gang rape, based on what Donald told Bailey," Tim said, feeling tears burning his eyes again. "And then some homophobic cop who has it in for him put him in the drunk tank and left him there to bleed in a corner with no medical attention," he added bitterly, shaking his head as tears fell. "He was in pain and traumatized, and they just left him there to die."

"Bailey didn't mention that part," Kenny said, leaning back in his chair.

"It wasn't Bailey's fault. He did what he could for him when he found out."

"Who's the cop?"

"Some guy named Stenski." Tim fell silent. Kenny had never seen all the color literally drain from someone's face before, even though he'd read that phrase more than once in a cheesy novel. Now, he was seeing it for real. There was a doctor in scrubs heading toward them. Tim rose and so did Kenny. The doctor was a small, slightly built man who looked to be of Indian descent.

"I'm Dr. Sharma. You are here for Donald Strachey?" he asked.

"Yes."

"He is your partner?"

"Yes."

"Well, your partner is a very stubborn man," he said with a smile. "He came through the surgery very well, and his vital signs have stabilized."

"Thank God." Tim dropped into the chair, and for a moment, Kenny thought he was going to pass out. "I'm sorry. My legs got a little weak." He sat there a minute, then asked, "How serious were his injuries?"

"The internal bleeding is what posed the biggest threat to his life. There was a tear in the lower intestine, but we've repaired that. There was considerable tearing and swelling in the rectal area, which we've sutured. His bladder is bruised, but there was no serious damage. He may have some symptoms similar to a urinary tract infection for a while, but there's no reason to assume he won't fully recover." The doctor paused. "I still consider his condition guarded until we've gone at least twenty-four hours with his vital signs stable."

"What about injuries from the beating he took?" Tim asked.

"Mostly superficial. Nothing that poses a real threat to his recovery. There was no biological evidence collected by the police, and every indication his attackers used protection, but with the amount of bleeding and the rush to get him to surgery, there's always the possibility that something was missed. We've run all the initial tests for HIV and STDs, and he'll need to follow up with periodic tests with his own doctor. We'll be keeping him on a liquid diet for a couple of days, then gradually introducing some mild foods. The nurse can give you all those instructions."

"When can I see him?"

"He should be settled in his room soon. A nurse will come for you when you can see him," he said.

"Thank you, Doctor," Tim said, standing to shake hands with the doctor.

"I'll be back in to check on him later today. I'm starting him out in ICU because of the problems we had stabilizing his blood pressure. If all goes well in the next twenty-four hours, we'll look at moving him to a regular room," he concluded before heading back toward the elevator.

"Do you need anything? I can go back to your place and pick you up some stuff. Maybe bring you some food?"

"Thanks, Kenny. I couldn't hold anything down right now, anyway. Maybe later?"

"Sure. Give me a call when Don's awake if he wouldn't mind me coming up to see him, okay?"

"I will," Tim said, smiling.

********

Tim slowly approached the side of the hospital bed, almost afraid to touch the pale figure that lay there. In all the years he'd known Donald, and in all the situations he'd seen him, he never had the occasion to describe him as fragile. Donald was the antithesis of fragile, so full of life, so strong....

This Donald looked fragile. Pale, bruised, and utterly still. Even those thick, beautiful blond lashes of his that were such pale gold that you had to look from just the right angle to see them, or wait for the sunshine to catch them, showed easily against his skin as he slept. His wrists and arms were marred with bruises that were horrible ghosts of brutal restraint.

He carefully took Don's right hand in his and eased his wedding band back into place. When he leaned forward to kiss the hand, he felt the fingers curl around his.

"Donald?" he asked, seeing that his lover's eyes weren't open yet. "Honey, are you awake?" he asked, leaning forward to plant the faintest kiss on Don's lips. He felt a weak attempt at a pucker, and he lingered there a second, not wanting that little motion to go unrewarded. His throat felt like it would close with the emotion, the sweetness of that little kiss reassuring him that his Donald was still inside this pale, fragile shell. "Everything's going to be all right, baby. Just rest. I'm right here. We're safe. Bailey made sure I had protection, just like you asked." He knew that would bother Don, even if he wasn't coherent enough yet to ask about it.

He lowered the bed rail and sat on the bed, keeping Don's hand in his, laying his free hand gently against Don's cheek, his thumb lightly skimming back and forth on the pale, cool skin.

"I thought Sleeping Beauty was supposed to awaken with his beloved's kiss," he teased gently. Two tiny slits of blue and white became visible under the mostly closed lids.

"Throat's dry."

While those words weren't the poetic declaration worthy of a classic movie hospital wake-up scene, Tim knew he'd always cherish them, because they were Donald's precious first words back among the living.

"I'm going to raise the head of the bed a little so it's easier to swallow," he said, not wanting to startle Don with the movement of the bed. When it was elevated a bit, he poured a little water in the bottom of the cup on the nightstand and positioned the bendable straw near Don's mouth.

"Can you take the straw in your mouth, honey?" he nudged Don's lip gently, and in a moment, his lips closed around the straw and took a little pull on it. Tim could see his throat working to swallow it. "Good boy," he said, withdrawing the straw and using a tissue to absorb the drop of water that escaped.

"Don't say that," Donald replied, turning his head toward the window, away from Tim.

Tim stopped short a moment, trying to analyze what he'd said that could have upset Donald. Good boy? He wasn't going to risk repeating it, since he figured the last thing Donald needed was to be upset or tense about anything.

"I'm sorry, honey. I won't say it again."

"I'm sorry."

"What on earth for, baby? What have you got to be sorry about?"

"That all that's left for you are the damaged leftovers." A single tear leaked out the corner of Don's eye, and Tim felt like someone had stabbed him directly in the heart, then twisted the knife.

"Aw, honey, you're everything in the world to me. Nothing that happened was your fault, and nothing could change how much I love you."

"You don't know what it was like."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked softly, kissing the back of Donald's hand.

He shook his head slightly.

"Then you don't have to. Not until you're ready." Tim brushed the single tear away, kissing the path of it. After a few long moments, Don turned his head a bit to look at Tim.

"You wanted me back. You told me to fight for us," he said, his eyes bright with tears.

"You heard that, huh?" Tim asked, smiling, wondering if his words could have really been powerful enough to turn the tide and make Donald fight for his life.

"I wanted to die," Don admitted softly. "But you sounded so sad. Never could say no to you," he said, almost smiling.

Tim struggled not to admonish him for ever wanting to die. Given what he'd probably been through, what he still had to face in dealing with all of it, he didn't need to be scolded for how he felt. More than anything, Tim wanted him to open up and be able to say what he needed to say, no matter how it might sound, without fear of censure or judgment.

"Then I'm glad you can't say no to me," Tim managed, leaning forward to kiss him gently, glad he got the same weak little pucker and smack in return for his efforts. "When I thought I might lose you, I wished I could go with you."

"Did Bailey get 'em?"

"He was on it as soon as he left the hospital. He hasn't been back since." Tim was quiet a moment, then ventured, "It had to do with your new case?"

"Yeah. I've got notes in my car. It stalled and I had to walk."

"When did it stall, honey?"

"After...I didn't have my cell phone. They had all my stuff. Even my shoes, I guess." He didn't say anything more at first, and then added, "Bailey needs my notes. He can nail all of 'em with my notes."

"You want me to call him for you?"

"He'll want a statement."

"That's inevitable, I suppose, but it doesn't have to be right now."

"One of them probably had to go to the hospital."

"Why is that?" Tim asked, glad that Donald at least wreaked a little havoc on the bastards who hurt him so badly.

"I tried to bite his fucking dick off, but it was tougher than I thought. At least it was two less of them...him and one to take him to the hospital."

"How many were there?" Tim asked, thinking maybe Donald was trying to talk about it, but just couldn't tell it in a tidy narrative. He felt like an acrobat taking the first couple steps out on the tightrope. Such a delicate balance between drawing Donald out and making him feel as if his words were being pounced upon.

"I think about ten to start, and then those two left. I guess all eight of them took turns. I couldn't always tell where one ended and the next one started." His hand flexed on Tim's, squeezing it. "I fought it as much as I could," he said in a choked voice. "I'm sorry...I couldn't stop it."

Tim couldn't let that anguish go un-consoled, so he took the chance that Donald wanted to be touched, wanted him close, and turned so he was sitting next to him on the bed, very carefully easing Donald into his arms. It wasn't just that Donald didn't resist him, he moved into Tim's arms willingly, eagerly even, clinging to him as fiercely as his weakened state allowed. It was as if he wanted to hide in the embrace, his face buried against Tim's chest.

"Of course you couldn't stop that by yourself, honey. You couldn't help it. You don't have to say you're sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

"If you don't want me anymore, I'd understand."

"Donald, darling, I'll want you until there isn't a breath left in my tired old body. Do you really believe because someone hurt you that way, that it changes anything about my love for you? That the gift of yourself that you give me, freely, out of love, has anything to do with something that was forced on you against your will?" Tim kissed the top of his head, sheltering him with his hand, pressing Don's head against his chest. "We'll get through this, honey. I promise."

"Am I all screwed up? Did they fix it?" Don asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear from where he kept his face hidden against Tim.

"Most of the bleeding was from a tear deeper inside, in your large intestine, and they repaired that in the surgery. The doctor said he repaired the other tearing, too, and he thought you'd make a full recovery."

"Not much fun fucking a hole that's all messed up and inside out."

"You're not all messed up and inside out, baby. I know it probably feels that way, but you're going to heal up just fine." He squeezed Don a little tighter. "Are you in a lot of pain? I can call the nurse and get you something."

"Take this thing out of me," he said, and Tim realized with a start that Donald was pulling on the tube that led to his catheter.

"They put that in during surgery, honey. I can't just pull it out."

"Then I will. Get this thing out of my dick. It hurts and I want it out. I have to pee."

"You can go in the catheter. Just relax and - - "

"I don't want to piss in a bag! Get this thing out of me."

"Don't pull on it, Donald. It'll hurt worse. I'll call the nurse."

"I don't care if you call the fucking pope. I want it out."

"Okay, honey, I understand," Tim said, stroking Don's hair, hoping that would calm him and keep him from ripping the catheter out himself. He rang for the nurse, and a moment later, she appeared at the door. An attractive woman with a pretty smile, she looked at Donald immediately, since he looked pained and was starting to fidget with the tube again. "He wants the catheter out."

"We can take it out tomorrow if the doctor okays it - - "

"One way or another, this thing is coming out of my dick now," Don corrected.

"I can't remove it without the doctor's okay, and you could hurt yourself pulling it out, Donald," she said, approaching the bed. "If we remove it, and you can't eliminate on your own, we have to put it back in again, and that's going to be more uncomfortable than just putting up with it now."

"Please get it out of me. I don't want to pee in a bag."

"You can't get up just yet. If we take out the catheter, you'd still have to go in a plastic urinal - - "

"I can help him with that, and if this is hurting him, he won't really be able to rest comfortably," Tim said, finally capturing the hand Donald had been using to tug at the tube. "If he wants it out, he'll get it out with or without help, so we might as well cooperate," Tim told the nurse, who sighed. Tim figured if this little victory gave Donald a feeling of power over his own body, it was worth whatever it took to make it happen.

"I'll call the doctor, and if he okays it, we'll get it out of there, Donald. But you have to leave it alone until I come back, okay? Deal?" she asked, smiling, trying to build a little rapport with him, though he was having none of it.

"Yeah, whatever. Just get it out of me."

After the nurse left, Don looked a little sheepishly at Tim.

"I'm sorry. I just want it out," he said, his tone less confrontational this time.

"Controlling when you want to pee is pretty basic, isn't it, honey? It's okay. We'll get it out so you can go on your own."

Donald pressed his face into the pillow, like he wanted to hide from everything, and that was the only shelter available.

"I'll ask the nurse if she can give you something more for pain," he said, rubbing Donald's shoulder, wishing he could do more to make everything better.

"I just want you," he admitted softly, grabbing Tim's hand and holding onto it like a lifeline.

"I just want you, too, Donald. Forever, no matter what. Don't worry about anything. Just rest."

Don didn't say anything else for a long time. Tears gave way to silence, and soon Tim realized Don was asleep again, clinging to his hand like a life preserver.

The doctor okayed removing the catheter, with the admonition the nurse predicted, that it would be reinserted if he didn't function on his own. Tim dedicated himself to keeping his partner hydrated above and beyond what the IV pumped into him, and it proved to be enough to keep the threat of re-catheterization at bay. Donald did sleep easier without it, and Tim suspected it was more the victory of controlling his own body than it was a real issue with the catheter itself.

********

Bailey approached the door of Strachey's hospital room. It was slightly ajar, and he eased it open a bit, tapping on it. There was no response, and he understood why when he entered, finding Don sound asleep in his bed, Callahan sound asleep in the chair beside the bed, holding Strachey's hand, their fingers entwined. It was already dark again, and it was obvious Callahan hadn't moved from his partner's side in those hours. It was the first time he'd seen the normally fastidious man with mussed hair and a day's beard growth, sprawled inelegantly in the chair like an exhausted drunk.

"If he's sleeping, you should come back later," a nurse said softly from behind him. "He's had a rough time so far." She was an attractive, middle-aged woman with frosted blonde hair and a pretty smile. He returned it.

"I need to get his statement." He showed her his ID. "When would be a good time?" he asked in a hushed voice, easing out of the room into the hall.

"We'll be disturbing him in about an hour for lab work. The doctor said if he becomes agitated during your interview, you'll need to try again when he's stronger."

"How's he doing, anyway?"

"Our big concern was his blood pressure stabilizing, and that's gone very well. He'll probably be moved out of ICU tomorrow sometime. He doesn't want anyone near him to help with his personal needs except his partner - - he wouldn't even let us take a blood sample until his partner talked him into holding out his arm. He was pretty agitated with me earlier, so I'm not sure how talkative he'll be with you."

"Can't say I'm surprised. Frankly, I'm surprised he's alive."

"So was Dr. Sharma," she said. "He's very uncomfortable, which isn't too surprising, so if he can sleep a little while, please let him. I don't blame him for being cranky given how he must feel about now," she added.

"I should talk to his doctor, too. We'll need to put all this together for the case file."

"He already did his rounds earlier, but I can page him. I can't guarantee he'll be available."

"Thanks, that'd be helpful. Has he said anything more about what happened?"

"When I was in to check his vitals, he was talking to his partner, but it seemed like it was a pretty intimate conversation, so I left them alone and went back a little later. He was sleeping again by then. It's not unusual that he's exhausted. His body went through a horrible ordeal, and he nearly died. And that's not even taking into consideration the emotional issues rape victims face. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't know in that area."

"No, unfortunately, this isn't my first rape case. It is my first male rape case."

"I only remember one other one. I've been here almost twenty years now. I've handled several rape cases, but not with men. I have to admit, I'm a little nervous dealing with him. I don't want to freak him out," she admitted, smiling.

"He's a good guy. I'm sure he'll cooperate with you as much as he can handle."

"You know him?"

"Yeah. He's a private investigator. I've worked with him a few times on cases."

"He's lucky to have you handling his case, then. So many rapes and sexual assaults go unsolved. I don't think you're going to be satisfied with that outcome," she added, and Bailey laughed at the very perceptive comment.

"No, you're right. I won’t."

"Detective Bailey?" Tim's voice startled him. The other man was standing in the door of Don's room, looking a bit groggy. "Don's still asleep. I was just stretching my legs a little. Did you find his car?"

"I'll let you two talk. Do you need anything?" she asked Tim.

"I don't think right now. He's comfortable at the moment."

"I'll see if I can get you a sandwich on his tray," she said, checking her watch. "Have you eaten at all today?"

"I don't remember...I guess I didn't. I wasn't thinking about it. If you can just get something extra of what he's having. I don't want to eat in front of him when he's on liquids."

"Now that's devotion. My husband would be eating McDonald's," she joked. "I'll see if we can get you some soup in a mug - - that way, it won't look to him like you're eating anything exciting, but our broccoli cheese is pretty good, for hospital food, and you need to keep up your strength to take care of him," she added, returning to the nurses' station.

"That must be why the room was tilting there for a minute," Tim said, shrugging. "About the car - - "

"We found it parked not too far from the gym where it happened. From what I can piece together, he must have been staking out the gym, tried to get closer, and got caught. He had license numbers and car descriptions we've matched up with several suspects. Simon Fox is cooling his heels in a holding cell. He owns the gym. I think he's the ringleader. Based on what Don said last night, and his notes, and the information I got from Kenny, we have enough to hold him for twenty-four hours. I'm going to need Don's statement to start rounding them all up, making arrests. I'll also need him to look at photo lineups so we can positively ID these assholes."

"What was going on there, anyway? None of this makes sense. Don said there were about ten people there to start, but two had to leave." Tim took a deep breath. "They must have been trying to force him to...to perform oral sex on one of them, because he said he tried to bite the man's penis off, and he needed medical attention, so one of the other men took him."

"Good for him," Bailey said, smiling and shaking his head. "I've always said if you stick it somewhere it isn't welcome, don't come crying to the cops if you lose it. That's a good lead. I doubt there were a flood of bitten penises on the ER rosters last night." Bailey finished adding that fact to his notes. "You think he'll be up to talking to me?"

"He hasn't even told me the whole story. I don't really know any more than roughly how many there were. What about the cop that picked him up?"

"Stenski. We had a meeting with IAB right after lunch, and he's on paid leave, pending the outcome of the investigation."

"Wait a minute. He left Donald to die in a holding cell and didn't bother seeking any medical attention for him when he was visibly injured, and he's just having a paid vacation, pending an investigation of...of...what exactly? What more does anyone need to know about that?"

"It's called due process. You political guys ought to understand that. We can't just throw the book at him until he's had the chance to offer a defense, and the department has a chance to determine whether this is an internal disciplinary matter, or a criminal matter."

"There's a question?!" Tim demanded. "He was bruised, wandering down the street in his stocking feet...if that half-wit had even glanced at his clothing, he would have seen the blood on his pants. How can there be a question that treating someone that way is criminal?"

"Look, Callahan, you're preaching to the choir here. If I had my way, I'd take his badge, arrest him for some tasty selection of charges, and lock his ass up. Unfortunately, even a piece of shit like Stenski has a right to an impartial internal investigation and a fair trial, if it comes to that."

"Do you have any idea the kind of lawsuit the city could face over this?"

"Don't threaten me with lawsuits. I'm not the enemy here. Call the commissioner."

"Oh, I think I can do better than that. You know it's one thing for criminal...slime to have done what they did to Donald. But for a cop to finish off the whole thing by further traumatizing a crime victim and nearly killing him? That's not a crime, it's a travesty and an insult to the justice system. Beyond that, it's a hate crime. If Donald wasn't openly gay, do you think for one minute this Stenski character would have treated him that way?"

"Do you feel better now that you've gotten that off your chest?" Bailey asked. "Look, I know you're upset, and you know what? I am, too. I haven't put in twenty years on the force and taken pride in my job and my department to have a creep like Stenski pull a stunt like this and make us all look like a bunch of homophobic jackasses. Aside from that, as much as your partner is probably better at pissing me off faster than anyone else I know, he does tend to grow on a person and I don't like seeing him get screwed over. But for the same reason the men who raped him are going to be tried and have lawyers, we have to extend those rights to Stenski."

"If there aren't criminal charges brought against that...that...sick excuse for a human being, you can tell your superiors they can brace themselves for a firestorm the likes of which they haven't even imagined."

"I'll be happy to convey that message, but let's give IAB more than half a day to render a decision before calling for anyone's head, all right?"

Tim stared at him a moment, then ran a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm shooting the messenger. I'm just... I'm so angry for Donald, for what they did to him. And then when he's hurt and alone and...help comes in the form of some monster who just tortures him more."

"We don't even have Donald's full formal statement about what happened with Stenski. For what it's worth, I understand how you feel. And I'm not the only cop who won't condone that kind of behavior. I want justice for him, too. This is my case, and I promise you that he's going to get every consideration and every resource the department has to offer."

"I should go back in, in case he wakes up. I don't want him to be alone."

"Mind if I ask him if he's ready to talk to me? If not, I'll leave him be. The doctor's already said not to upset him. I'm just not sure how long I can hold Fox on what we have."

"Donald said he did it, didn't he?"

"We know he was involved, but he's saying they were having a swingers' party and Don chose to stay and participate."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"Of course, I don't. I know your partner better than that, and it's unlikely anyone would choose to be injured this way, or to be left bleeding, wandering down the street with no shoes at three in the morning. However, without a statement from the victim, and the reasonable assurance that he'll testify to back it up, we could run into problems with the DA, and even problems holding Fox without charging him."

"I want these animals to pay, but I don't want to hurt Donald any more than he's already been hurt. He has to come first."

"I understand that. Let's just see how he feels about at least giving me a bare-bones version, even if he can't deal with all the step-by-step details just yet."

"Okay." Tim nodded, then pushed the door to Don's room open a bit farther, looking inside.

"Timmy?" Don's voice still sounded weak and didn't hold its usual assertiveness.

"It's me, honey," he replied, moving toward the bed quickly, taking the hand that reached for him. "Detective Bailey's here with me. Do you think you could answer a few questions for him?"

"I know I need to."

"You're looking quite a bit better than the last time I saw you," Bailey said, hoping the lighter tone would perk Strachey up a little. "How do you feel?"

"I've had better days," he said, forcing an expression that was an attempt at a smile. "Thanks for getting Timothy a guard," he said. It looked and sounded like every word was tiring him out. Still, Bailey needed something to go on, something to counter Fox's repulsive claim that Strachey had somehow brought this all on himself.

"You're welcome. I knew I'd never hear the end of it if I didn't follow your instructions to the letter," he added, and this time, he thought the smile came a little easier to Strachey's bruised face. "I've got Fox in a holding cell, and we've matched up names to the license numbers you had in your notes."

Tim pulled a straight chair close to the bed, gesturing at the other visitor's chair before sitting and holding onto his partner's hand. Bailey sat down, not quite sure where to start. This was probably why cops didn't investigate cases involving their friends and family. There was something so much more difficult about pressing someone you knew for painful details of what was probably a horribly humiliating and traumatic assault. Still, the PD didn't consider his relationship with Strachey to be anything approaching friendship, so his superiors hadn't raised any objections to him taking the case. Maybe talking to someone he knew would be easier on Strachey than facing a completely impartial stranger.

"Can you start by telling me why you were at the FBM Gym last night?"

"Was it just last night?" Don asked, looking confused. "I thought I was probably out of it longer than that."

"It was last night," Tim confirmed, holding a cup of water for Don while he took a few pulls on the straw.

"Thanks," he said, and this time, the expression he gave Callahan was an undeniable smile, even if it was faint. "I had a new client, Justin Sommers, Fox's boyfriend. He wanted me to follow him to find out if he was cheating. Is he okay?"

"Fox is in lockup right now, so he's fine for the time being."

"Good," Don said, nodding. "There was nothing out of the ordinary that I saw earlier in the evening, before the place closed. Then, right before midnight, these cars started showing up. All pricey ones. The drivers got out, went into the building. I couldn't see the entrance from where I was parked, but I knew they went up to the building and didn't come back out. I took pictures of all of them. Did you find my camera?"

"Not yet," Bailey said, not mentioning that Fox had made some comment about having proof that Strachey was a willing participant. It would make sense that photos might be that proof, and it was doubtful Fox would leave any incriminating ones on the camera.

"Fox and his goons probably have it." Don sighed. "I went up to the building. I thought I was being careful. I don't know how he spotted me, unless he was monitoring a security camera or just went outside to check. I was looking at the keypad on the entry system on the door I figured they must be using, and Fox caught me."

"So if you could have figured it out, you would have entered the code and gone inside?"

"I'm a PI, Bailey."

"I just need to know these things. Technically, they call that breaking and entering."

"Donald's not the criminal here," Tim asserted, his tone defensive.

"These are the things Fox and his lawyer are going to stack up against us. I just have to be prepared."

"He held a gun on me and called his buddy, Maxwell, to come outside and join us. They demanded my ID and tried to find out who hired me. I wouldn't tell them. Sommers was already afraid of the jerk, and I figured if I told them who my client was, he'd probably go home and beat the shit out of him. So Fox got this bright idea to take me inside to join the group."

"He had a gun on you all this time?"

"Yes. I was pretty well outmatched two against one, both of them really pumped up. Throw in a gun, and there was no point in trying to get away from them right then. I just tried to wait for an opening, when their guard was down. I told them I wanted to join the gym and I thought it was still open. It was a lame story. I wouldn't have bought it, but it was all I could think of."

Callahan offered him another drink of water, and he took it gratefully, giving his partner another one of those looks, like he was the best thing in the world.

"They took me inside, and they were saying something about needing a new diversion. Maxwell wasn't happy about the idea. They found the camera I had on me. They took me down to the basement." Don paused, squeezing Tim's hand. "It was disgusting. There were these big...mattresses on the floor, with red satin sheets on them, and these naked or half-naked guys...most of them were older, kind of fat or bald...not guys you want to see naked. It smelled like booze and sweat and come in there. I wanted to puke. Some of them were upset that I was there, saying things like unless they killed me, I could ID them all."

"Did you recognize any of them?" Bailey asked.

"The third muscle-bound jerk that was running around the basement in his underpants was probably Benson. He had brown hair and was just under six feet tall. The other guys...no, I don't know any of them."

"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

"Some of 'em, probably. It was shadowy in there. I didn't get a good look at all of their faces."

"What happened next?" Bailey prodded.

"They had my wallet, and they were making remarks about Timothy, threatening to call him and get him to come there, tell him I was in trouble. They had our address, that's why I wanted him to have protection. They made some remark about keeping my mouth shut unless they had something to put in it. That's when I told them they better not put something in there if they wanted it back. That pissed 'em off, and they entertained themselves slapping me around for a while. I was kind of dazed, and that's when they started stripping me."

"Take your time, honey," Tim said, squeezing his hand, resting his free hand on Don's shoulder.

"It's not that I thought I had a chance of getting out of there, but I couldn't make myself just lie there and take it. When that first asshole tried to shove his dick in my mouth, I let him, because I planned on biting it off. One of the others took him out of there. He was screaming and carrying on. They were all furious."

"I'm going to check ER admissions for last night, see if we can find the guy."

"There's not a lot more to tell...they just all took turns. Nobody wanted to risk my mouth again, so they just lined up and fucked me, one after the other, while Fox and Maxwell held me down." A single tear leaked out of one eye, but he wiped it away quickly. "I don't know how long it went on. Unless they had three dicks each, some of them had to have done it more than once. I knew I should be giving in to it, but it's like all I had was to fight it, to not give in. Make them take what they wanted, because I wasn't gonna give it to them."

"That's probably why you were hurt so much worse," Tim said, stroking his hair a little, handing him a tissue.

"It was just one big blur after a while. When they all had their fill, Benson took over for Maxwell and Fox. He made some remark about it taking the fight out of me because it only took one of them to hold me down now." Don wiped at another tear, swallowing. "I guess he was right. I was in pain, I could feel I was bleeding, I was kind of figuring they were gonna kill me." His expression quivered, but he fought it, looking determined not to break down in front of Bailey. "I was afraid for Timmy." He looked at Callahan then, and again, for a moment, it was as if Bailey and the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Is that when they let you get dressed?" Bailey prodded.

"They weren't done yet." There was a long silence, and for a while, Bailey thought Strachey had gone as far as he was going to go with his story. "Fox and Maxwell hadn't had their turns yet, but they said they didn't want loose leftovers," he managed, his voice tight. "I couldn't see what they were doing...I just wanted them to get it over with and kill me." He curled on his side toward Tim, his body shaking. Callahan gave Bailey a look that signaled him the interview was over for now.

"I'll be outside," he said to Callahan, stepping out into the hall. He was surprised that his hand shook just a bit as he tucked his notebook in his pocket. He felt like he'd gone in there and raped Strachey all over again. He had interviewed rape victims before, and he'd heard some hairy stories. This wasn't even the hairiest. He'd worked sex-driven homicides that made his lunch come up on him unexpectedly. Maybe it was seeing that pain in the eyes of a live victim you didn't even realize was your friend until he nearly died holding onto your hand.

********

Tim leaned over Donald, pressing their heads together, putting his arm around him, his body literally shielding his lover from the rest of the world.

"It's okay, honey. You don't have to talk about it anymore now," he soothed, kissing Don's temple, stroking his hair.

"Timmy," Don said, reaching out and pulling on Tim's shirt, making it clear he wanted to be held. Tim did his best to ease himself into the narrow space on the mattress, determined to get as close to Don as he wanted him to be. Somehow, he fit into the bed, careful of Don's IV, and gathered him into a close embrace, sure he was drawing as much comfort from feeling that warm body against him, clinging to him, as Don was.

"I'm here, baby. Everything's going to be all right."

"They were laughing at me," he said against Tim's chest. "I was shaking and...and bleeding and they thought it was funny."

Tim found himself crying with Donald, horrified to think of his husband, his lover, the most precious person in the world to him, being used that way, and being so unimportant to those monsters who preyed on him that they just tore him up for entertainment and laughed about it when they were finished.

"Fox put this leather glove on, where I could see him, and then he put all this lube all over his fist."

Tim felt his stomach flip and he was grateful it was empty. He knew what was coming next, before Donald pushed the awful words to the surface and gave them life. Suddenly it all made sense, the tearing so deep and severe it caused internal damage and bleeding.

"He shoved it up inside me, and I felt like my insides were exploding," he sobbed, his body contracting a little, as if he were reliving the pain all over again.

"Oh, no, baby; I'm so sorry." He tried to hold Donald tighter, to get his arms around more of him somehow, to make him feel safe.

"I thought it would kill me, that he was pulling my insides out, that that's how they were gonna finish me off. I think I puked...I don't remember...some guy was playing with himself while he was watching, like it was turning him on. I remember thinking that them killing me was turning him on, because I thought I was dying. And then they expected me to get up and walk after that. Maxwell kicked me in the side because I wouldn't get up."

Tim was quiet, just holding Donald, patting him once in a while, kissing his cheek. There was nothing he could say to such a horrible tale, and no frothy platitudes that would make any difference. All he could do was hold onto Donald and try to make him feel safe, and loved, and treasured even a tenth as much as he was.

"They threw me and my clothes out the back door. They were still laughing, telling me I better get out of there before they called you to come and pick me up. I remember my car keys hitting me in the back of the head, but they didn't give me back my cell phone or my camera or my gun. They didn't even give me my shoes."

"How did you get to the car?"

"I was lying on the cement naked, and it was raining, and I was so fucking cold. I was shaking like crazy, so I guess I figured a way to put my clothes on. I was so surprised they didn't kill me...it took me a while to move again, to realize I had to get up and go."

"The car didn't start?" Tim asked, rubbing Don's back in long strokes. He was calming down, breathing easier, but still clinging just as fiercely.

"It almost killed me getting in the seat. It hurt so bad. The damn engine wouldn't catch. I think I just rolled out on the sidewalk. I finally got on my feet and started walking in the direction I thought was home. I don't even know if I was going the right way. I didn't have my cell phone, and everything was getting foggy. I wasn't thinking clearly. And then this unmarked cop car pulled up, and I was so glad. I thought they were gonna help me."

"Stenski?" Tim asked, kissing Don's forehead.

"He just started pushing me around, shoving me in the car like some drunk. I was so weak, I felt like my arms and legs were made out of lead. I tried to get out of the car, but it was locked. I kept asking him to just let me out, or to get me help. Or just take me home if he didn't want to help me. I knew you'd take care of me."

"I would have, honey. I will."

"He dragged me out of the car and dropped me on my knees, put cuffs on me... The pain was so bad by then I could barely think. He said something about sleeping it off, but I wasn't drunk. There was no booze on my breath, nothing."

"I know you weren't. So does Bailey. They're investigating Stenski. He'll have to pay for what he did."

"Things get foggy after that. I remember Bailey showing up, and I tried to tell him about Fox, and Sommers, and protecting you. I don't know how much I said. I don't remember a whole lot more. Just hearing your voice telling me you needed me, that I had to fight for us."

"And you did. You're something of a miracle around here, the way you fought back, hung in there."

"You wanted me back. I'd do anything for you."

"I know, baby. I know you would." He angled his head back for a kiss, surprised that he got more than the sweet little fish lips he'd kissed the first few times. This was a real kiss, the kind of kiss you give your lover. Donald was tired and weak, but he used what strength he had to kiss Tim deeply and properly. "Do you want to tell Bailey the rest of the story?"

"He probably needs it to charge Fox, and I don't want that son-of-a-bitch getting out."

"And Stenski."

"Let's get it over with. Go get him and I'll tell him the rest of it. I just...needed to be close to you for a while."

"I'm always here for that, honey, whenever you need me."

********

Bailey took the rest of Don's statement, visibly uneasy with the final revelation of Fox's sadism. Don knew it was horrible, disgusting to hear. It was ten times worse to have to talk about someone sticking their fucking arm up your ass. He could only begin to picture a trial, having to sit in front of a room full of people and give them a step-by-step account of each dick shoved inside him, every degrading gesture and remark, Maxwell pawing him, squeezing his cock, calling him a "good boy" when he forced him to come while he was being violated.

He'd been afraid to even tell that part of the story. How could he lie there and admit that he'd come for someone besides Timmy? That he'd done it while some fat slob was raping him? How much of this could his partner - - his good, decent, never-had-sex-with-someone-he-didn't-care-for partner - - really listen to before it all became too awful, too gross, too sordid, and too...dirty for Tim to ever want to touch any part of him again?

Still, unless he wanted Maxwell to walk away with lesser charges against him, he had no choice. And if there's one thing he had to do, it was make sure these assholes did time. They had threatened Timmy, and if they were out and around, he'd never sleep another peaceful night in his life, on guard for his partner's safety.

Tim's reactions were getting hard to gauge. It was getting late, and he was visibly exhausted. It didn't look like he'd combed his hair, he hadn't shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, and his movements were a little slower than they had been earlier. He held Don's hand throughout Bailey's time there, and he cried soundlessly when Don talked about what Maxwell had done, and when he told the story again of how Fox finished off the attack, how they threw him outside on the ground, naked, like a piece of trash, with his clothes thrown out on top of him.

Bailey looked unsettled by all of it, and Don didn't know if that was because the story was so gross, because it was a male rape, because it was him, because a cop was under investigation, or some combination of all those things. When Bailey had taken his final notes, he tucked his notepad away and stood, approaching the bed, holding out his hand. Don could vaguely remember Bailey relenting and letting him hold onto his hand in that smelly drunk tank, when the pain was so intense and he thought he was dying.

He reached out and shook the extended hand, surprised when Bailey covered their joined hands briefly with his other hand. It was a "guy" thing, just a warmer handshake, but it was still something Don didn't expect from Bailey. Maybe he didn't expect it from any other man who heard what he'd been through, what had been done to him, who knew the whole disgusting truth. It was the handshake you'd give a good friend.

"We're going to be able to file some stiff charges against Fox and Maxwell, Benson, too, for his part in holding you there against your will, not to mention accessory charges. I'm going to need you to look at some photo lineups tomorrow, see if you can ID any of the others that were there. Can you do that for me after you get some sleep tonight?"

"Yeah, I will," Don said.

"Don't worry about any sick shit Fox or his lawyers might throw at us. I believe you, and anyone'll tell you, nobody fucks with my crime victims when I'm working a case. We'll nail these assholes one way or another. Stenski included."

"Thank you," Don replied, genuinely consoled a bit by the commitment Bailey seemed to have for finding justice for him and his faith in Don's credibility as a victim. Withdrawing his hand, Bailey shook hands with Tim, also.

"You need somebody to go by your place, get you some stuff?" he asked, obviously noticing that Don's ordinarily tidy and fashionable to the point of elegant partner looked like something the cat dragged in, and chewed on.

"I called Kenny a little while ago. He's going to bring us some things in the morning. He wanted to see Don. But thank you for offering," he added, and it was the first time Don had seen even a hint of a real smile on Tim's face.

"You want to go home for a while, honey? Take a shower and get some fresh clothes?" Don offered, though he'd have preferred to cut off his arm than to see Timmy leave for even a few minutes. Sometimes it came over him in waves, and he felt like he was hanging on by a thread - - and that thread's name was Timothy.

"I'm not leaving, Donald," came the immediate reply. "I can wash up here, and Kenny will have some things for us tomorrow."

"Well, I'm off to make some arrests. We'll keep a guard on you two until we've got most of them rounded up."

"Thanks," Don said, reaching out and slipping his hand into Tim's where it was hanging at his side as he stood by the bed.

"Get some rest, both of you." Bailey turned and left the room, and Don heaved a sigh of relief.

"Now if they'd just let me out of this place so someone isn't stabbing me in the arm with a needle every time I doze off. And this mattress is a fucking rack of torture."

"Be patient, honey," Tim said, kissing the back of his hand. "You're doing so well, I'm sure you'll be able to come home soon, and then I can take care of you properly, spoil you rotten while you recover," Tim said, smiling, pulling up the chair so he could sit close to the bed.

"You'll have to go back to work pretty soon," Don said, feeling guilty that he was saying it to get that reassurance from Timmy that he'd take the time off, that he'd be the one with him, caring for him.

"I have a lot of unused vacation time. I'm afraid you're stuck with me as your nurse."

"I'd ask you to wear one of those white nurse's uniforms, but your legs are a little too hairy to pull that off." Don grinned, not really feeling in a humorous mood, but knowing how badly Timmy needed him to smile, needed to know that everything would be all right. That Don wasn't going to turn into some sullen, suicidal victim who was only a sad reminder of the man he'd married. Timmy might have to live with this awful thing invading the intimacy only they had shared for years, but he didn't deserve to suffer unrelenting sadness and an utter lack of the humor that had always served them so well, even during their hardest times.

They might have torn up his body, treated him like something less than an animal, but they weren't going to destroy this. Not the love and the happiness he had with Timmy. That was sacred. He'd defied death to hold onto it, and he would be damned if Fox and his goons were going to hurt Tim in any way, no matter how indirectly, even if it was by destroying him so Tim was left with a nightmare marriage to an emotionally disabled basket case. The best revenge on those fuckers was this, sharing a little moment of love and humor with the love of his life. He knew he was right when he saw Timmy's big smile, when he collected the happy little kiss, when Timmy stroked his hair as only he could.

"I thought you liked my hairy legs," Tim quipped, still holding his hand, still smiling.

"I like all the parts of you that are hairy. I wouldn't change an inch of you," he said, looking into Tim's tired eyes, freeing his hand to touch that precious face.

"We're going to be okay," Timmy said, a single tear leaking out the corner of his eye. Don caught it, brushing it away.

"We're going to be better than that. We're going to be us."

********

Between the noises of the hospital, even in the more silent ICU, and the ungodly chair he was using as a bed, Tim found it next to impossible to sleep. You can tell yourself it's the noise, or the chair, or even that growing kink in your neck, but how do you close your eyes and let the nightmare images play themselves out in vivid technicolor brilliance? How do you cope with Donald's strained, halting words echoing in your head, telling a story too awful to imagine?

Tim rubbed his eyes, wishing there was a fatigue powerful enough to put him under. Donald was sleeping, but it was a shallow, brittle sleep, frequently disturbed by the nurse coming in to check his vital signs, or something that came from within, making him frown or grimace in his sleep.

Even so, he wasn't expecting the gut-wrenching scream to come from Donald when it did, startling him and, he imagined, most of the patients and staff within shouting distance. He was out of his chair in a flash, at Donald's side, taking his hand and putting his arm around shaking shoulders. The nurse rushed in, looking a bit relieved when she saw Tim consoling Donald and easing him back down on the mattress.

"How is your pain, Donald?" she asked, in that kind but slightly louder voice some medical personnel tend to use to get through to agitated patients.

Despite his distress, Donald gave her a look so typical of him that it encouraged Tim about his chances for a full emotional recovery.

"Painful, how's yours?" he replied, deadpan.

"We can give you another dose of pain medication," she countered, ignoring the comeback. "That should help you sleep." Tim found himself missing their first nurse, who seemed to pick up more easily on Donald's boundaries and emotional state than this woman did.

"No. If I'm on that much pain medication, my IDs won't stick when Bailey brings those photos in," he said, looking at Tim. "No more pain meds. Not yet."

"Your recovery comes first, Donald," the nurse insisted. "You need to stay relaxed and get plenty of rest after your surgery."

"I think I can help him relax. We'll try it his way."

"Let me get up and take a shower," Don said, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"The doctor ordered that you stay in bed until he sees you tomorrow. You're doing very well, so if you're moved out of ICU, he'll probably okay you getting up to shower or use the bathroom, maybe start walking a little."

"I really need to clean up," he insisted. "Tim can help me."

"I can give you a sponge bath," she offered, and he shook his head.

"I'll just wait," he said, pulling the covers up over his shoulder as he turned on his side, facing away from her.

"Why don't you bring us the supplies and I'll help him?" Tim offered, rubbing Donald's shoulder gently.

"The doctor will most likely okay him getting up and walking a little tomorrow. We usually have patients up and around pretty soon after surgery."

"A sponge bath might relax him if he's not getting pain meds."

"I'll get you some bath supplies," she agreed.

"Do you really know how to give a sponge bath or are you just trying to get lucky?" Don quipped, and Tim felt a surge of emotion at the little joke, knowing that his partner didn't feel in a joking mood, but he was trying so hard to make Tim smile, to be his old self.

"I'm already lucky," he said, leaning down and giving Donald a little kiss. "And I really know how to give a sponge bath. You'll feel better and it'll probably help you rest easier."

"You need to rest. You look tired, sweetheart," Don said, squeezing Tim's hand.

"We'll get you cleaned up, and then we'll take a nap together."

Once he had the supplies handy, he filled the plastic basin with warm, soapy water and set it on the bed table. He used a washcloth to gently wash Don's face.

"So how do you know how to give a sponge bath?" Don asked.

"I spent the summer after my junior year in high school taking care of my grandfather after he had a stroke."

"Sounds like a lot of responsibility for a high school kid," Don said.

"I was always pretty close to him, and he was a lot less cranky with me than he was with visiting nurses, or my mother. He didn't like women doing things like helping him with the bathroom or bathing, the personal stuff. I'd stay with him during the daytime and get some of that done."

"Can you get this untied? Whatever nurse tied this thing must be an expert in restraints," he complained, pulling at the tie on the hospital gown.

"I'll get it, honey," Tim said, undoing the ties as Don leaned forward. "Lie back and relax. We'll keep you covered up so you don't get chilly." With the covers over Don, Tim took the gown and tossed it aside.

"What happened to Grandpa when you went back to school?" Don asked, and Tim was glad he was distracted enough by the story to focus on it, even though his expression looked tense with pain.

"I still helped out after school, but he had a second stroke and had to go into a nursing home shortly after that. He spent a lot of time with me when I was little, so I didn't mind going over there and cheering him up. Which was no small task, since he got to be pretty crabby when he was sick." Tim kept working gently but efficiently at the sponge bath while he talked. The warm, moist cloth moving over Don's skin seemed to have a soothing effect on him, as did Tim's voice.

"Good thing I don't do that," Don said, and it was so smoothly stated at first that Tim almost missed the little spark of mischief in Don's eyes. Tim smiled, but he felt his eyes fill at the same time.

"You're cute enough to get away with it," Tim replied, kissing the end of Don's nose. "Can you turn on your side for me, honey? I'm going to do your back."

"Yeah, that'll be good," he said, shifting slowly, a moan escaping as he did.

"Are you still okay, or is that position worse?" Tim asked, worried.

"My stomach hurts. Like cramps."

"Just lie still a second. I'll be right back." Tim hurried into the bathroom with a hand towel and soaked it with hot water from the tap. When it was almost too warm to the touch, he wrung out the excess water and went back to Donald, who was still curled on his side, looking miserable. "I'm going to put this on your belly, honey. It might help." He eased the warm towel into place and covered it with a larger, dry towel.

"What if something's wrong in there? It really hurts, Timmy," Don admitted. Tim rang for the nurse, figuring if it was bad enough for Donald to be scared, it bore checking out. The nurse was there almost instantly, the patient calls in ICU being answered more promptly than in other units.

"He's in pain. He said his stomach hurts and he has cramps."

"Cramping isn't unusual after intestinal surgery," she said.

"Wait until it's your intestine, lady, and you'll see how fucking unusual it is," Donald shot back, and Tim almost had the inclination to smile, but he resisted the urge.

"He's way overdue for pain medication, which is why he's not resting as easily or feeling as well as he would be. We can give you some pain medication, Donald. That will help your discomfort," she said, in the same condescending tone that seemed to bring out the absolute worst in her patient.

"Not until after Bailey brings those photos," Don asserted.

"Let me just check and see if you're bleeding at all," she said, and Tim stepped in front of her.

"Tell me what I need to look for and I'll check."

"Any significant amount of blood near the rectal area. You can check with a washcloth. A little bit is okay, he had a lot of tearing repaired.

"Is it okay if I check you for bleeding, honey? I'll be careful," Tim said, and Don nodded slightly. Tim was careful to keep the covers arranged to protect Donald from feeling exposed, and very carefully touched the area with the washcloth. There were a couple small spots of blood, but nothing free flowing or substantial.

"That's nothing to worry about. If you change your mind about something for pain, just call," she added, leaving the room.

"She sounded disappointed. If you weren't here, I think she'd put a pillow over my face," Donald said, and Tim had to laugh.

"You haven't exactly turned your considerable charm on her, Donald," Tim replied, emptying the now tepid water in the bathroom and refilling the basin with fresh, warmer soapy water to finish Don's bath.

"My stomach feels better."

"Good," Tim said, smiling, leaning over to kiss Don on the cheek. "Let's get your bath finished so you can get a little more sleep." Tim finished the sponge bath and helped Don put on the fresh hospital gown. He straightened the bedding and fluffed the pillows.

"Can you lie down with me until I go to sleep? I know it's hard to fit us both on the bed, but...."

"There are plenty of times when we sleep together at home that a lot of mattress space goes unused," Tim joked, and he was glad when Don smiled at the humor. "I'll manage," he added, easing into the bed, trying not to jostle Don at all as he spooned up behind him, making sure his IV wasn't tangled, wrapping his arms around him, sheltering him. "How's your stomach, honey?"

"Still hurts, but the warm towel helped."

"A lot of muscles were pretty badly stretched when you were tensed up. They're probably just trying to adjust." Tim rubbed Don's belly gently, firmly enough not to tickle, but lightly enough not to agitate his already bruised and touchy bladder.

"In my dream, it was like I could feel all those hands on me again, just handling me like I wasn't a person. Just yanking and pulling on me so I was in the position they wanted me. I couldn't stand not...washing that off." His words came out rapidly, whispered, so Tim had to strain to catch them all.

"I know it feels that way," Tim said gently. "So we'll just have to replace all those bad touches you didn't want with good ones that you like."

Don stilled Tim's busy hand on his stomach by taking it in his own and squeezing. "Any I get from you are good ones. I'm glad you still want to touch me."

"You're mine, Donald. Those...animals might have hurt you and violated you, but that doesn't erase my prior claim. You're my husband, and I love you, and I'm the only one you give yourself to, and that's what matters." Tim could feel some of the tension leaving Don's body, and found a little of it leaving his own, as well.

********

When Kenny arrived with a large duffle bag just after he'd finished his tasty liquid breakfast, Don was glad to see the bag but not sure how he felt about seeing Kenny. It wasn't anything personal. Kenny was a good assistant and a good friend, but he knew what happened, at least that Don had been raped, and to say that looking people in the eye knowing they knew was awkward, was a gross understatement. If he'd been a child, Don would have pulled the covers over his head and ignored everyone except Timmy.

But he was no child, and the world didn't really afford adults that same out. Truth be told, it was as awkward for Kenny as it was for him. Besides, Tim had managed to find shaving supplies, a toothbrush, and a comb, and had Don looking almost human for any visitors that might drop by. It occurred to him then that his scruffy and bedraggled partner hadn't even taken time to do the same for himself.

"How are you feeling?" Kenny asked, keeping his distance from the bed. Don wasn't sure if Kenny was trying not to crowd him, was really nervous about talking to him, or if he was disgusted by him and didn't want to be anywhere near him. Logically, he knew the third option was ridiculous, but he couldn't help that it came into his mind, uninvited.

"I've been better, and I want to go home, but other than that, I'm okay," he said, trying to force a little smile. He knew he probably looked like he was passing gas instead, but given the pain he was in and a liquid diet, he didn't even have that luxury at the moment. "You holding down the fort for me?"

"Absolutely. I was at the office most of the day yesterday, and I'll go in for a while today, to answer the phone messages, sort out the mail, and stuff."

"Have you heard anything from Justin Sommers? I know they locked Fox up."

"He called the office yesterday, really freaked out about what happened. He was apologizing like crazy for getting you into this."

"It's not his fault. My luck just ran out, I guess." He looked over at Timmy, who was picking through the contents of the bag. "Honey, why don't you take a little break? That yogurt you had isn't exactly the breakfast of champions. Kenny, you're not doing anything for a little while, are you?"

"No, I was just going over to the office, but since my boss is here, I guess I don't need to worry about being late," he joked.

"Get the cop to take you through one of the drive-ups so you can get some hot food, and go home so you can take a shower and change. I'll be okay for a while. I won't even try to escape," he added, smiling.

"They're probably going to move you out of ICU, and I want to be sure they put you in a private room. Besides, if they put you in a regular room today, I can shower in that bathroom. Kenny's brought me some clothes. What if the doctor comes in? And Bailey's supposed to bring those photos over, and I want you to have something for pain once that's finished - - "

"At least go eat in the cafeteria while they're still serving the good stuff. If the doctor comes, I promise I'll tell you everything he said, word-for-word, and if Bailey gets here, I'll have Kenny go get you. I'd like you to be here for that."

"Okay, I am getting hungry," he admitted. "You're sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine." Don made an exaggerated pucker with his lips, and Tim just chuckled, coming over to the bed to give him a kiss.

"I'll call Bailey while I'm in the cafeteria and can use my cell phone, see if I can find out when he's coming over. I won't be long."

"Take your time, and pig out. Bring me back one of those slushy drinks. A blue one."

"Okay," Tim agreed, still smiling.

"Take the cop with you," he reminded, and Tim just nodded, leaving the room for a much-needed break.

"I don't think I've ever seen him with whiskers before," Kenny said, smiling. "He's kind of hot with that scruffy look."

"Oh, so now you're into older guys, too, huh?" Don teased, and Kenny seemed relieved by the banter.

"He told you about that, huh?"

"Oh, yes, he told me," Don said, smiling.

"How long are they going to keep you here, anyway?" Kenny sat down, looking more at ease now, moving up closer to the bed, as if he'd found the courage to break through the force field surrounding it.

"I don't know. The doctor's supposed to come in and see me this morning. That oughtta be fun." Don wasn't looking forward to being poked and prodded and examined. He sort of regretted sending Tim away because he didn't really want to be examined alone, but he definitely didn't want anyone but Tim there. Still, his partner was exhausted and hungry. The food would give him a little strength back, and a shower and a nap later would be even better. He hoped for a transfer out of ICU more for Timothy's sake than his own.

"The doctor said everything went well when he talked to Tim yesterday. That's really good news."

"You were with Tim when the doctor talked to him?"

"Yeah, I was here a while during the surgery, hanging out in the waiting room, and the doctor came out and said you were going to be okay. Tim was really relieved. I thought he was going to faint for a minute there." Kenny paused. "What are they gonna do about that cop? The one who picked you up?"

"They're doing an IAB investigation. I didn't have anything to drink, and I asked him for help more than once, and he ignored me. The gears grind pretty slowly with red tape, but I think they'll get him. I hope they at least take the fucker's badge."

"He ought to go to prison."

"We'll be lucky to even get the guys who did it in prison, let alone a cop who behaved badly."

"What makes you say that?"

"If it goes to trial, it could go either way. It'll all depend on the jury and how good the defense is at presenting the whole 'promiscuous gay culture' picture to them, making it plausible that I might really want to have sex with eight fat, sweaty old men in somebody's basement." Don hated that emotion seemed to rise with the words, and he swallowed hard, not really wanting to break down in front of Kenny.

Kenny got up and retrieved the cup of ice water, handing it to Don. He was grateful for it, since it helped push down the lump in his throat and pull back his emotions.

"Nobody asks to get hurt so badly they almost die and then need surgery."

"I'm sorry to disillusion you, Kenny, but there's still a lot of hate and prejudice out there, and male rape victims don't get the same consideration from a lot of people that females do. Especially gay men - - because, after all, we're all just running around indiscriminately fucking each other anyway."

"You're married, that should count for something."

"You'd think. As if I have any reason to cheat when I've got Timothy waiting for me at home. But our marriage isn't legal, and monogamy and fidelity aren't concepts a lot of the straight world associates with us."

"I think society is changing. I mean, gay marriage is legal in some states, and I don't think everybody looks at gay men the way they used to."

"No, I don't think everybody does, Kenny, but you only get twelve people on a jury, and more people have prejudices about homosexuality than don't, even if they don't go so far as feeling hate or hostility. You still have to fight the stereotypes people who don't know any homosexual couples are operating under."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Kenny said, looking uneasy.

"It's okay. I didn't mean to start preaching to the choir."

"You've got a right to be pissed off. I read an article once about rape survivors - - "

"Don't. I really, really don't want to talk about this right now." Don shifted onto his side. He was getting uncomfortable again, feeling crampy and lousy, and it seemed like the bed was conspiring against the achiness in his back and the red hot poker he felt was stuck up his ass.

"Are you okay?"

"Just cramps. I don't feel too good right now."

"Should I get a nurse?"

"No, I felt like this earlier. Go find Timmy, okay?"

"Are you sure I shouldn't get the nurse?"

"The damage was to my ass, not my brain. I know what I need."

"Sorry. I'll go find him."

"Kenny?" he called out before Kenny could leave the room. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm used to your sunny disposition by now," he quipped, and Don would have laughed if he didn't feel so rotten. As it was, at least he managed a decent smile for Kenny, who was a good friend and deserved better than to receive the brunt of Don's misery.

Don curled a little tighter on his side, but that seemed to make the pain worse. He felt like he had to pee again, but had no idea if that was just the miserable feeling in his bruised bladder or all the liquid crap he'd been fed for breakfast.

"Donald?"

Thank God for Timothy. For that voice that calms the fear. For those hands on my body, rubbing my back, rubbing my belly, kissing my cheek, knowing what I need so I don't have to say it. For that body that finds a way to fit in this miserable excuse for a bed with me and protects my back and my tattered insides.

"Shhh. It's okay, honey. I'm right here," Tim said, his hand still rubbing very lightly on Don's belly, the way he had at 4:00 in the morning when he thought he was having some complication from the surgery, and the nurse kindly but matter-of-factly told them that some cramping wasn't unusual after intestinal surgery.

Wait until it's your intestine, lady, and you'll see how fucking unusual it is. Don wasn't sure if he'd shared that observation with her out loud, but judging by the slight edge to her voice throughout the rest of their encounter, he suspected he had.

He didn't realize there were tears on his face until Timmy was solicitously dabbing at them with a tissue, mumbling little love words in his ear to quiet him down. He wondered if his poor, worn-out partner had even gotten any food before he sent for him.

"I screwed up your breakfast," he said.

"It was screwed up somewhere early in the cooking process, honey. You just rescued me from it." Timmy cuddled him close, and Don actually smiled at the comeback, stunned that anything could make him smile the way he felt right then. He longed for their big, soft bed at home, where Timmy could be cozy and comfortable, too, and sleep curled up with him instead of twisted at a physically impossible angle in a chair that was designed by medieval torturers. Or find some equally surprising way to fit his larger, longer body on this vile slab they called a bed.

"I wanna go home," he said, feeling tears coming again, not sure why, hating the pathetic, child-like sound of his voice. "It hurts. I just wanna go home."

"I know, baby, I know you do. I want to take you home, too. It won't be long. I'll be right here with you until we go home, okay? We'll tough it out here together, and we'll go home together."

"My bladder hurts," he said, knowing he was whining and not caring. Everything was hurting like hell, and if whining got him more kisses and more cuddling, he couldn't help doing it. It was as if his body was turning on him, and he was falling apart emotionally at the same time.

"Let's see if you have to go," Tim said gently, reasonably. Reasonable responses to such horrible, unreasonable pain and injury. Gentle words when he was tired, his own back had to be killing him, and he'd barely had two bites to eat in over twenty-four hours.

"Saint Timothy," Don said, as his partner eased the little plastic urinal in place, holding Don's hand with his free hand. He'd said the words jokingly before, though always with affection. Right now, his partner seemed no lower than the angels.

"I'm no saint, honey. I just love you, and I'm so lucky to still have you...that makes it all easy."

"I'm all fucked up," he said, not bothering to fight the tears that rolled down his cheeks, over his nose, onto his pillow.

Tim wordlessly took care of whatever Don had managed to leave in the bottom of the little container, washed his hands, and was back at his side in record time, sitting on the bed in front of him this time, rubbing his back, wiping his eyes and his nose.

"You're not all fucked up, honey. You were hurt badly, and your body needs to heal. You need to heal in here," he said, laying his hand gently on Don's heart. "You're going to be all right. It's hardest right now, but we'll get through it."

"Everything hurts so much."

"I talked to Bailey. He'll be here in a little while, by eight," Tim said. "It's about seven-thirty now. I told him to get here soon, that we needed to get you back on some pain meds."

"If I'm all doped up, they won't let me go home."

"I think we'll be here a couple days until you're a little stronger. Let me worry about all that stuff. You just relax. I'll take care of everything."

"Don't ever leave me," Don said, knowing it sounded ridiculous and needy and pathetic, but most of the words were out of his mouth before he even realized he was saying them out loud. Timmy kissed his cheek, smiling softly at him with all the love in the world.

"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for the rest of my life and whatever lies beyond. You are my love, my joy, my happiness, my one greatest passion, and my life. I pledge to you all that I am, all I have, my fidelity and my friendship, now and forever, with a desire that won't fade with time."

Tim repeating his wedding vows soothed the emotional wounds like nothing else could, and calmed the irrational fear that Tim would get sick of him with his pain and his issues and the ugliness of it all. And though it seemed impossible, the words seemed to calm some of the physical pain, and he could feel his body relaxing into the mattress, even if the bed did suck. As battered and awful as he looked and felt, he was still the love of Timothy Callahan's life.

For that, he could get through anything.

********

Bailey walked into the hospital room, followed by a cranky assistant DA, who'd been dragged out of bed at Bailey's insistence. He'd located Frederick Hanover, the man Strachey had left with the painful bite injury. He was the CEO of a brokerage firm in Albany, a prominent citizen unlikely to want the scandal of a sordid trial. A good-sized man in his late fifties, Hanover looked rough, but not nearly as rough as Strachey had when he was in the process of bleeding to death. Another man, a bit younger than Hanover, dressed in an expensive suit, was sitting by the man's bedside, engrossed in conversation, when they entered.

"I'm Detective Bailey, Albany PD. This is Assistant District Attorney Carl Moore," he said, gesturing at the young prosecutor with him.

"I'm Owen Weathers, Mr. Hanover's attorney," the man in the suit spoke up immediately, standing.

"What is this about?" Hanover demanded, his hand hovering near the nurse's call button.

"It's about your little misadventure at the FBM Gym last night," Bailey said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give it a rest, Hanover. We have your car description and license number as being there last night, and a witness who can positively identify you," he said, not really knowing if Strachey could ID the guy or not, but there was no reason Hanover had to know that. "We already know how you came by your injury."

"That's ridiculous. It's embarrassing as hell, but it was a mishap with the family dog."

"We can order the wound to be examined to determine if the bite marks were from human or canine teeth. From there, we can probably match them up with the man you were trying to force into giving you oral sex."

"Mr. Hanover, we are prepared to charge you with sexual assault and accessory to kidnapping," Moore spoke up. "The purpose of this visit is to either place you under arrest, or give you the opportunity to mitigate those charges by cooperating with our investigation."

He motioned to his lawyer, who leaned in close as they exchanged a few words.

"Assuming my client has the information you're looking for, the conditions of his testimony are immunity from prosecution, and anonymity."

"We can't promise anonymity," Bailey said.

"You protect the identity of sexual assault victims," the attorney countered.

"Yeah, we do, but not their assailants."

"I'd say having one's penis nearly bitten off qualifies as a sexual assault. What type of charges is the man who did this facing?" the attorney asked.

"This is your idea of a joke, right?" Bailey responded. "You shoved your dick down his throat while a couple other goons held him down, and you're complaining because he defended himself?"

"We don't have any immediate plans to charge the man who bit Mr. Hanover, as he has a very credible claim that he was the victim of a sexual assault and that he had made it clear he didn't want to participate in oral sex with Mr. Hanover or anyone else present at the time," Moore said, shooting Bailey a look that seemed disapproving of his impassioned defense of Strachey's actions. "Your client is more likely to face charges. Rape is a serious crime, and the victim is allowed to defend himself in a reasonable manner. As he was restrained and his verbal objections were ignored, the victim had no other means of defense available to him at the time."

"I can give you the names of everyone there," Hanover said. There was a long pause. "What happened to him?"

"Your pals gang-raped him, and your buddy Fox shoved a fist inside him and tore a hole in his insides that nearly killed him. After they were done, they threw him out on the pavement naked, threw his clothes on top of him, and kept his cell phone so he had no way to call for help," Bailey replied, glad to have the opportunity to give this asshole a wake-up call as to just how close he came to being an accessory to murder. "You're lucky he didn't die, or there'd be no deals on the table for discussion. Frankly, all of you make me sick, and I'd love to see you do some hard time in prison so you can make some new friends who'll give you a taste of your own medicine."

"There's no need to be hostile, Detective," Weathers said.

"I'll testify, if you give me immunity. I can name everyone who was there, at least up until the time I left."

"And you won't waste the court's time, or put the victim through any additional suffering, by filing some frivolous assault charge, correct?" Moore asked, and Hanover nodded, gesturing at his attorney to be quiet.

"I've never been involved in anything like this before. I don't know what got into me. I never meant to...attack anyone. I guess it was the heat of the moment, everyone egging me on...shit, I don't really know what it was. I guess I got swept up in Fox's enthusiasm." He was quiet a moment. "He's recovering?"

"He's expected to," Bailey said. "Physically, anyway," he added.

"My client will need extensive microsurgery to attempt to repair the damage, and may never recover full function," Weathers stated.

"Is Fox in jail? This whole debacle was his idea," Hanover said, visibly bitter.

"He's in jail, along with Maxwell and Benson," Bailey reported.

"Good. That dumb shit belongs there," Hanover stated. "None of this would have happened if he'd just sent that guy on his way instead of dragging him inside, showing him what was going on. He's so goddamned arrogant, I guess he thought he could get away with it. That we all could."

********

Bailey arrived at the hospital with a folder full of photos. Hanover's testimony was all he promised it would be, and between Strachey's notes and his identification of the participants, it effectively placed them all at the scene.

Still, the deal with Hanover weighed somewhat on Bailey's conscience, to let him walk for shoving his dick in someone's mouth and trying to violate him with it, but he took comfort in the fact that he wouldn't be walking easily, and Strachey had doled out his own street justice for that portion of the attack.

His visit to the hospital would have to be brief, and he hoped Strachey's IDs were solid and quick. He had several of Albany's leading citizens in holding cells downtown and about twice that many lawyers descending on the station house. The mayor, the commissioner, and the DA were all putting maximum pressure on him to make this case airtight, to be sure of what he was doing, to be sure his victim was going to be a solid witness who would testify.

Maxwell and Benson were also rounded up. Bailey hoped they, along with their buddy, Fox, all found lots of nice friends in prison that would make their stay as pleasant as they'd made Don's experience in their basement.

When he entered Strachey's room, the patient himself seemed to be sleeping, curled on his side, with Callahan sitting on the bed, rubbing his back.

"You guys ready for me, or should we do this later?"

"No, he needs some pain medication pretty soon, and he won't take any until he looks at the photos," Callahan said.

"Timmy?" Strachey's voice sounded rough, weak, and small. Bailey felt guilty for being the one to interfere with the pain meds most people rely on post-op to get through the discomfort. Still, at least now he'd have solid IDs the defense couldn't pick at.

"Bailey's here with the photos, honey," Callahan told him, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to wake up for me."

"I'm awake," Strachey insisted, though he still looked terribly groggy as he eased over on his back, and Callahan raised the head of the bed a little so he could more easily look at the photos.

"Sorry to wake you, but your partner said it was better to do this sooner than later. Honestly, it's better for me, too. I just went out and arrested eleven people last night, so I kind of need to get the show on the road, anyhow."

"Eleven people? You got 'em all?" Don's eyes widened a bit, and even Callahan, who was looking more wilted by the hour, perked up at the news.

"The guy with the bitten dick decided to make a deal with us. He gave us names and told us what kind of little enterprise Fox, Maxwell, and Benson have going on at the gym. This is quite a hornet's nest we've cracked open here." Bailey sat in a chair while Tim also moved to a chair, putting himself a bit more on the sidelines. "He's having surgery this afternoon," Bailey added. "They're not sure whether or not he'll recover full sensation or function." Bailey looked over the top of his reading glasses at Don. "You really did a number on him," he said, a little note of admiration in his voice.

"What does he get in return? Reduced charges?" Don asked. Bailey braced himself.

"Immunity from prosecution," he said. Strachey looked stricken, and Callahan opened his mouth then closed it again, silently, just reaching out and taking Don's hand, lacing their fingers together and holding on. "I know that sounds bad, but in return, he corroborated everything up to the time he left for the hospital. We've got your notes and all the license numbers, but it was still your word against all of theirs, and we've got some heavy hitters on this list. John Rutka would have had a field day with this. Two CEO's, an attorney, a computer software developer who's worth eight figures, a couple bankers, two business owners, and a stock broker. That's not counting the guy who rolled on all of them, who's also a CEO, or maybe it was a Chief Financial Officer, I've got to look at my notes on that. Anyhow, these are some of the top businessmen in the area, Strachey. To fight their credibility and their deep pockets for legal defenses, we needed one of them to turn, and that guy did."

"So it's all right that he forced himself on Donald," Tim said, rubbing his eyes. "This is insanity."

"Bailey's right, honey," Don said, sounding tired and unhappy, but seeming to grasp the reality in Bailey's situation. "Even if I can ID all these guys, which I probably can't, it would have put everything riding on my word against all of theirs. It may not be right, but it's the best way to nail the most people. Besides, I handled him myself," Don said, smiling a little, squeezing Tim's hand.

"You did, didn't you?" Tim said, smiling back at Don, sounding very proud.

"Yes, I did. I bet that's the last time he'll stick that thing somewhere that it isn't invited."

"Okay, Don, you know how these work. I'll show you a series of photos, and you tell me if you recognize any of them."

"Okay," Don said, sighing. Bailey handed him the first small stack of head-and-shoulders photos of various men, most of them middle aged to older. "One of them is in here, isn't he?" Don asked, sounding upset. "I don't recognize any of these."

"Take your time, honey." Tim rose from his seat and stood closer to the bed, rubbing Don's shoulder reassuringly. "Why don't you just go through them one more time, slowly."

"What if I can't ID them?"

"Just relax and look through the pictures and ID anyone you recognize. If you don't recognize any of them, we'll just move on to the next grouping." Bailey didn't feel that calm, but then he'd realized that the combination of the dimly lit basement, so many perps, and the trauma might conspire to limit the IDs Strachey could come up with.

"If I can't ID these guys, we're screwed," Strachey said, and it almost sounded like he was verging on tears, but he kept control of himself. Bailey wasn't used to dealing with this damaged version of the man he'd never seen the least bit insecure or even remotely fragile.

"Why don't we set these aside and try the next ones?" Callahan suggested, and Strachey nodded, handing the stack back to Bailey. He gave him the next group.

"This one," Strachey said, on the second photo. "I remember this son-of-a-bitch. He made me look at him while he was... He was a sick, sadistic asshole."

"This is one of the men who raped you?"

"Isn't that what I just said? He grabbed me by the hair and twisted my head until I thought my neck would snap, so he could make me look over my shoulder at him while he rammed in and out of me. Is that plain enough?"

"Just put your initials on the back of the picture," Bailey said, handing him a pen, irritated by Strachey's hostile tone, until the meaning of what he'd said actually sank in. Bailey couldn't dismiss the unsettling thought of how he'd feel in Strachey's place, laid up in a hospital from being used like that, and then having to identify the perps and explain what they did. "I know this is difficult, but we have the makings of a very solid case."

"Sorry," Strachey said quietly, initialing the photo and handing the stack back to Bailey.

"Look through all of them each time I give you a stack," he said.

"Are there two in there?" Tim asked, and Bailey shot him a look.

"I can't tell you if there's anyone in there you should recognize, but I do need you to look through all the photos each time I give you a group of them."

"Okay." Don went through the rest, then shook his head. "Nobody else." He handed Bailey the stack.

"Okay, here's the next batch," he handed him more photos, trying to mask his disappointment that he hadn't chosen the other perpetrator out of that stack. There was no perpetrator in the first pile, a little trick that Bailey always found helpful in making his IDs stick. If his witnesses didn't ID anyone when there was no one to ID, it seemed to reinforce in a jury's mind that they really knew what they were doing, and the cops weren't coaching the witness in any way.

"This one...I think," he stopped midway through the pile. He had the right photo, but Bailey did his best not to give him any indication of that.

"You think, or you're sure?"

"Take your time, Donald," Tim said, handing him a cup of ice water, letting him take a couple pulls on the straw before taking it back.

"The lighting wasn't good... it was near the end." Strachey looked perplexed, staring at the photo. "It's him," he said, and in that moment, it almost looked as if he were recoiling from the picture.

"Initial it for me," Bailey prodded, but Strachey was staring at the photo, his hand shaking just a little. Callahan, who was standing by his bed, stroked his hair and leaned in toward him, sliding an arm around him. Don initialed the back of the picture and looked through the rest of them before handing them back.

"I can't talk about him right now," Strachey said, the words shot out at lightning speed.

"Okay, we'll come back to him later." Bailey handed him the next stack.

"Nobody," he said, looking frustrated. "You only brought in ten stacks, so I know I'm missing perps," Strachey said, pinning him with an intent gaze.

"Don, you know I can't comment on that or it would compromise your IDs. Just do the best you can. We knew there was a risk you wouldn't recognize everyone. You're doing fine so far."

"Okay. Let me have the next bunch." He took the photos and went through them, pausing on the last one. "I remember this asshole. He kept calling me Ryan."

"Ryan? For any special reason?"

"I guess he wanted me to be somebody named Ryan. God, he was sickening. He was all over me, like he was...like he was trying to make love to me while two guys are holding me down. He was the second one. His breath smelled like cigarettes and whisky. He wanted me to tell him I loved him. I told him to go fuck himself." He initialed the back of it and handed them back to Bailey.

He looked through the next batch and didn't recognize anyone. He didn't even pause. Looking discouraged, he handed the stack back to Bailey. "Sorry," he said.

"You're doing fine, Don. Go through these next," he said, handing him the next pile.

"This is a joke, right? This top one? That's Benson."

"Did you ever hear his name?" Bailey prodded.

"No, I assumed - - "

"This is the man you assumed was Benson?"

"Yes. Isn't it?"

"What did this man do?"

"He was walking around in the basement in his underwear when Fox and Maxwell dragged me down there. He held me down at the end when Fox was...when Fox took his turn."

"It's Benson, Don. But your assumption wouldn't hold up in court, so I needed to confirm it."

Strachey just sighed, sorting through the pile. "This guy. He was the one who got really pissed when they first brought me downstairs. I don't know when he...took his turn or what he did. They had me facedown most of the time so I couldn't always get a look at who was behind me. I guess it was nothing unusual."

"But you know for sure he was there?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." He wrote his initials on the back of the picture and handed over the pile. Bailey gave him the next stack.

Two photos into it, he stopped, blinking a couple of times. "This guy should have a big bruise on his gut because I kicked him backwards. He was the first one, and Fox and Maxwell hadn't perfected their hold on me yet, so I was able to kick him, hard. I was trying for his nuts but I missed."

"Did he come back after you kicked him?" Bailey asked.

"He still took his turn, but it was later. I don't exactly remember the order of things."

"That's fine. We're doing well."

Strachey didn't pick anyone else out of the photos, even when Bailey reshuffled them into one big stack and let him go through them again.

"I only got six," he said, sounding discouraged.

"Don't give up yet. We still have the possibility of a voice lineup when you're able to come down to the station. You may also remember them when you see them in person. We'll do live lineups on all of these to confirm your IDs and then to see if you can pick out any of the others when they're present for a lineup versus the photos."

"I can't wait." Don shifted again, looking like he was in pain.

"If I call the nurse, will you take the pain meds now?" Tim asked.

"Tell her to hit me with her best shot," Don retorted, and Tim smiled.

"Before you do that, we need to talk about this guy," Bailey pulled the photo that seemed to upset Strachey so much earlier.

"He was the last one, before Fox, and he was complaining about that... I guess the fact I was bleeding turned him off." Don was quiet a long moment. "I was hoping he'd just let it go, if he didn't want to be last. Fox and Maxwell started saying stupid shit like 'you're offending our guest' and things like that. I don't remember all the sick crap he said, but he used some object. It wasn't his dick. The pain was...bad. Is that enough? I can't do this anymore right now."

"That's fine. I want to make sure none of these guys gets off the hook for less than they deserve."

Callahan pressed the call button for the nurse and gave Strachey another drink of ice water.

"I know you're doing all you can," Don said, although he didn't quite meet Bailey's eyes, and Bailey didn't blame him. There's only so much violation and humiliation you can discuss with someone and then feel comfortable looking them in the eye afterward.

"We're gonna nail these bastards, I promise you that."

"What did Fox, Maxwell, and Benson really have going there? Sex parties? Drugs?"

"A little of both. We found some trace amounts of pot and coke in the basement, and our witness said drug use wasn't unusual at their little get-togethers. Apparently, Fox, Maxwell, Benson, and a few other assorted body builder types are functioning as gigolos, charging big bucks for their services and providing some recreational drugs for an extra fee. Their clients are all closeted, so this is the alternative to cruising the streets or trying to discreetly hang out in gay bars, I guess. Once in a while they do a gangbang, but this was their first truly non-consensual activity, according to Hanover, our witness. I guess they've role-played it that way before with a willing male prostitute."

"Did I miss IDing Hanover in the photos?"

"We'll do lineups and voice lineups when you're released, Don. You did extremely well this morning. Get some sleep and take some happy pills and concentrate on getting better." Bailey tucked his notepad in his pocket and gathered his photos into their folder. "It's getting boring downtown without you showing up to piss me off and triple my paperwork," he added, and Strachey actually smiled, about the broadest smile he'd seen from him since before he was attacked.

"Sorry, Bub. I'll do my best to get back at that soon," he joked.

********

After a healthy dose of pain medication, Donald fell into what seemed to be a fairly deep and peaceful sleep. Although he was disturbed when the doctor came to examine him and assess his condition, Tim was grateful he was groggy enough from the pain meds that he handled what had to be an uncomfortable exam fairly calmly. The doctor okayed him for transfer to a regular post-surgical floor and supported Tim's request for a private room, considering the trauma Donald had been through.

By early afternoon, they were settled in another room, and Tim gratefully slipped into the bathroom to shower, shave, and change into the fresh clothes Kenny had brought by earlier. He was worn-out and missing a real bed, but he had managed to nap enough with Donald that he would be okay a bit longer without having to leave the hospital. A nurse who would forever have his undying gratitude located a recliner and brought it into the room so he could sleep next to Donald's bed without suffering curvature from the visitor chairs. It would also be easier for Tim to fill that chair with pillows and create a comfortable place for Donald to sit once he was up and around.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Don was awake, flipping channels on the little TV near the bed. He looked at Tim and gave him a big smile.

"You look beautiful," he said, and Tim just smiled back, sitting on the side of the bed opposite the TV. "Smell good, too," Don said, reaching up to touch Tim's cheek. Tim caught the hand and kissed it, holding it in both of his.

"Find anything good on TV?" Tim asked, thinking maybe Don needed the diversion of something meaningless and ordinary instead of constantly focusing on what he'd been through.

"Not really. The nurse threatened me with walking when she came in here to refill the ice water."

"The first time will probably be pretty difficult, but it'll get easier, and moving around will help speed up the healing process. Do you want to try it with me? I can hold onto you so you won't fall, even if your legs are a little shaky at first."

"I want to, but I don't," he admitted. "Sitting's going to be bad, I think."

"I have an idea."

"You usually do," Don said, grinning a little crookedly at him. "I don't have a robe or anything."

"Kenny brought one, but it'll be tricky with the IV. We'll put another hospital gown on you backwards, use it like a robe. And I have boxers for you, and your slippers from home."

"I never wear those things. I always end up going around in my socks or nothing."

"There's an image to put a smile on my face," Tim quipped, and Don actually laughed at that.

"I mean bare feet, pervert," he retorted.

"Then you should have said that," Tim corrected, gathering the extra hospital gown and the slippers that Donald very correctly stated he rarely wore. Still, they had rubber soles and would give him better traction than socks.

He pulled back the covers and put the boxers in place so they could pull them up easily once Don stood. After putting the slippers on his feet, Tim grabbed a spare pillow.

"Just shift onto your side, and I'll put this on the mattress so it'll cushion things when you sit up."

Don cooperated with all the instructions, and finally sat up on the side of the bed.

"Maybe this getting up thing isn't such a hot idea," he said, grimacing.

"The doctor said we should try to get you out of bed a couple times today, even just to walk a few feet around the room."

"Okay. Give me a hand," Don said, reaching out toward Tim.

"Let me get my arm around you so I can help you up and steady you." With Don's arm around his neck and his arms around Don's middle, they moved together to get him on his feet.

"You know that pain medication?"

"Yeah?"

"It's worn off."

"Just get your land legs, honey. I'll get these for you." He pulled the shorts up into place, and then worked on putting the second hospital gown around Don, unsnapping the arm opening so he could put it on without disturbing the IV.

"Now if we had martinis and some soft jazz on the stereo, we'd be all set," Don said, putting his arm around Tim and resting his head on Tim's shoulder, the way he did so often when they slow danced. He slipped his hand into Tim's. "This is better than walking," he said.

Tim carefully tightened his hold a bit, tears filling his eyes. That despite everything he'd been through, Donald could even think about a romantic gesture, touched him more deeply than he could ever express. Beyond that, just feeling Donald alive and in his arms this way, taking a few hesitant little steps to slow dance with him there in the hospital, was like having his dearest wish come true. While Tim didn't harbor any illusions that he would be the next American Idol, he couldn't let this moment pass without music, and all he had to offer was singing softly in Don's ear. So he chose the first song they'd danced to after exchanging their vows.

Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean

Higher than any bird ever flew

Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens

I've been in love with you

Donald held on a little tighter, letting Tim sway them gently, as if there was a full orchestra accompanying the quiet, a capella love song. When he finished the song, Donald pulled back enough to look in his eyes.

"That's good incentive to get out of bed," he said, grinning. "But now I'm going to bug you to sing to me more often."

"I don't think I'll quit my day job just yet," Tim quipped, smiling.

"Your voice always makes me believe everything is going to be okay."

Tim looked at him a moment, into those beautiful eyes that always lit up with such love at the very sight of him, and as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn't stop the tears that came, couldn't stop himself from putting his head on Don's shoulder and sobbing. "I'm sorry," he said brokenly.

"It's okay, Timmy." Don was quiet a long moment, just holding him. "They hurt both of us, and you're exhausted."

"I should be strong for you."

"You are, honey," Don said, a smile in his voice. "You gave me a reason to want to live when I would have rather just let go and faded away. You've been what I've held onto since I came out of surgery. Now hold onto me. I've got you."

The strength in Donald's embrace was surprising and encouraging. Tim didn't know if it was just that his lover would overcome any challenge to be there when he needed him, or if he was really getting that much stronger and that indomitable spirit was translating into a surge of physical strength. He allowed himself a moment to soak up that feeling of Donald consoling him, even though he felt he had no right to be drawing strength from Donald when he was the one who'd been hurt so badly, who nearly died. Nearly died. That thought haunted and horrified him whenever he allowed it to surface.

"I'll be okay," Tim said, pulling back, not wanting to upset Don or tire him out too much. "I don't know what got into me," he said, taking off his glasses and wiping at his eyes.

"Not enough food or sleep isn't doing you any good. Go downstairs at dinner time and eat, and I promise I won't call you back up as soon as you start eating. Then you can go home tonight and go to bed."

"No. I'm not going home without you."

"I don't think they're gonna let me out just yet."

"That's why the recliner is here. I can sleep just fine there."

"Timmy - - "

"Donald," Tim parroted the same exasperated tone, then kissed Donald gently. "I'll get some sleep in the recliner. I won't get any sleep at home thinking about you here, and wondering if you need me."

"Okay, I give up," Don said, though Tim suspected he wasn't sorry to not be alone all night. "Where are you taking me now?"

"Let's go as far as you feel able, maybe out in the hall a few feet."

"Reminds me of visiting my grandmother in the hospital. Only she walked faster," he added.

********

Bailey pinched the bridge of his nose, blinking a few times, trying to convince himself he hadn't missed two nights' sleep in the last seventy-two hours. He was overdue when Rodriguez had come to him about Strachey in the drunk tank, and it had all gone on a roller coaster ride from there.

How much things change in forty-eight hours. From Strachey being shoved, injured, into the drunk tank, to all their holding cell space being taken up by the men who attacked him.

Well, at least it's justice, even if it's a hell of a lot of paperwork, Bailey decided, shaking his head. Even laid up in the hospital, Strachey managed to generate more ripples in the pond than anyone he knew. Not that anyone would choose to endure what he went through to do it.

"How'd Strachey do on the IDs?" Bailey's captain leaned on the doorframe of his office. He was a portly man in his fifties with a rapidly receding hairline and a usually affable disposition.

"Considering these fuckers almost killed him, he did well. He missed a few I was hoping he'd pick up on, but he'll cooperate with voice lineups or live lineups when he's able. He had to hold off on pain medication for quite a few hours to dry out to make these IDs, so I don't want to put any more pressure on him right now."

"If he can't positively ID them as participants in the attack, we may have some trouble with the DA."

"Hanover is prepared to testify they were all there, all cheering it on before he and Randolph left," Bailey said, referring to the man Don had bitten and the other who drove him to the hospital.

"We can come up with something to charge them with, since they didn't seek any help for him, either, or report the crime, but the sexual assault charges are going to be hard to make stick with no circumstantial evidence."

"Maybe the lab'll come up with something from their clothes."

"Didn't sound like they were wearing them at the time," the captain said, snorting an ugly laugh.

"Strachey was bleeding pretty heavily when he got here, so he may have left some evidence on them even if they didn't return the favor."

"I just got a panicked call from Schultz in IAB. Apparently, he got a phone call from the commissioner, after he got a phone call from Senator Platt regarding our investigation of Stenski. Not her office - - the senator herself. She's requested daily progress updates on the IAB investigation and the criminal case."

"Strachey's partner is her chief aide," Bailey said, sighing. "I guess it doesn't surprise me. Stenski isn't exactly a credit to the badge, and he nearly killed an innocent crime victim by denying him medical attention. If I were Callahan and I had a big gun to pull out, I'd do it, too."

"Sounds like you've already made up your mind about Stenski. Even IAB's trying to give him a fair shake."

"I know Strachey, Captain. He's a pain in the ass at times, but he's not a drug user, and there's no way he'd be involved in something like this voluntarily. He's also not particularly shy, so if he was hurt or needed help, I believe him when he says he made Stenski aware of that. There were no drugs or alcohol present in his blood when he was admitted to the hospital. Stenski's put us in a hell of a lousy position here, personalities aside. If Strachey decides to sue the department, he'll probably win, and he can run his PI business from a villa on the French Riviera when he's through. I'm sure IAB's already been talking to the department's counsel on this one."

"Yeah, they said pretty much what you did. He's probably got us by the balls. Just a shame to see a career cut short like that. Stenski's got a decent arrest record, a couple citations - - "

"He almost killed a man," Bailey said, a bit surprised that his captain, whom he'd always considered an ethical man, sounded as if he was on Stenski's side.

"He said he thought he smelled pot on Strachey, and he was acting weird, so he put him in the tank to sleep it off, since he knows you."

"With all due respect, that's a load of bullshit, Captain, and you know it. He's got a problem with gays, he always has, and he never misses a chance to say something if he's around when Strachey comes in here."

"Making a few remarks doesn't make him guilty of trying to kill the guy."

"No, it doesn't, but I don't believe Stenski's an idiot, and only an idiot wouldn't have noticed there was something very wrong with Strachey's condition when he was picked up. He was dying by the time Rodriguez called me down there. You don't go from just 'acting weird' to stopping breathing that quickly. So if Stenski's not an idiot, he's a dangerous homophobic jerk."

"I just don't like seeing cases decided in the press, or because of political pressure from higher up."

"Neither do I. I'll talk to Callahan, find out what he told the senator. Maybe he can call her off."

"And he'd do that...why exactly?"

"Because I don't think Strachey's aware that he pulled that string, and I don't think he's gonna like it when he finds out."

"So you're going to tell his boyfriend on him?" The captain looked amused by the thought.

"No, but I'm going to point out to Callahan that Strachey might not want to be in the middle of a media frenzy, or have senators using his case to boost their ratings. I think he probably got upset and shot off his mouth before he thought it through."

********

When Bailey arrived at the hospital, he paused when he saw Strachey, his IV stand, and his partner slowly making their way along the hallway. They hadn't progressed far from the room, but they were talking as they went, and, despite the ugliness of their circumstances and everything he'd been through, Strachey was actually laughing at something his partner whispered in his ear. Callahan had his arm around Strachey's waist, and held onto the hand Strachey wasn't using to push his IV stand along ahead of him. Before they spotted Bailey a ways down the hall, as they turned to walk slowly back the way they'd come, Callahan touched Strachey's face, then leaned forward until they kissed.

Bailey wondered if he could go through what Strachey did and find joy in anything or anyone. Clearly, there was no horror great enough that it could overpower what these two shared. He almost hesitated to shatter the moment, to call Callahan on the carpet for anything he did to seek justice for the man he clearly loved so intensely.

"Hey, Bub, pretty impressive, huh?" Strachey joked, once he'd spotted Bailey standing there.

"Looking good there, Donald," he replied, smiling.

"What brings you back our way?" Callahan asked.

"I need to talk to you for a moment," he said, nodding toward Callahan, who looked puzzled.

"To me?" he asked. "Let's go back to the room. They're going to serve dinner soon, and Donald's been up as long as he probably should be for right now."

After returning to the room and helping Strachey back into bed, Callahan seemed prepared to step outside with Bailey.

"What's going on, Bailey?" Strachey challenged.

"I just need to have a word with your partner."

"If it's about the case, I deserve to know about it."

"Donald and I don't have any secrets," Callahan added, squeezing the hand Don had slipped into his.

"It's about your boss," Bailey began.

"Senator Platt? What about her?" Callahan asked, looking genuinely confused.

"She called the commissioner and requested daily updates on the investigation - - both into the assault and the IAB investigation of Stenski."

"You think I asked her to do that?" he asked.

"Why else would she do it?" Bailey challenged.

"Maybe because she's a dedicated public servant who is outraged by seeing one of her constituents victimized by a police officer. Maybe because this isn't just a hate crime because Donald is gay, but a travesty of justice and a danger to any citizen when a police detective can grab someone off the street, injured, deny them their basic civil and human rights, and throw them in a drunk tank to die like an animal with no medical attention."

"Just take it easy," Bailey said, holding up a hand. Strachey wasn't saying anything, apparently deciding to let his partner purge himself of his anger - - or maybe he was in agreement; Bailey couldn't quite discern that yet.

"Take it easy? This is the kind of thing that happens under governments where citizens have no guarantee of basic human rights. What kind of legislator would Senator Platt be if she didn't use every resource at her disposal to find out why this happened and to make sure it's dealt with justly, and more importantly, that it doesn't happen ever again?"

"You didn't ask her to put the heat on the department?" Bailey clarified. Callahan's eyes widened a moment, as if the question had incensed him further, when he'd just finished an impassioned speech and a vehement denial. Then he glanced at Don and apparently decided not to escalate the already heightened tension in the room.

"I'm not saying I didn't want to, that I'm not glad to hear she did it, but I would never ask her to do something like that behind Donald's back, without his okay, and I didn't want to stress him out just yet with talking about that. The point is, Senator Platt would have done exactly what she's done whether it was someone she knew or not. She'd be just as passionate about justice for any citizen of her district - - any citizen, anywhere, for that matter. She's very committed to gay rights and to human rights. The respect of civil rights."

"I don't want this to turn into some kind of political cause," Don said.

"I thought you might feel that way," Callahan said. "Which is why I never asked her to help us with the case. I had to tell her why I'd be off work for a while. It was one of the first calls I made, and I was upset." He covered their joined hands with his other hand. "Donald had just gotten out of surgery and wasn't even conscious yet, and I was very...emotional when I told her about Stenski and what he'd done. But I didn't ask her to do anything about it."

"Then can you call her and ask her to lay off the commissioner? We're doing all we can on this case, but having it turn into a political issue in the press is just going to complicate things."

"I can't control what Senator Platt does, and I wouldn't presume to tell her not to do her duty as a representative of the people of her district. I can tell her that we have every confidence in your integrity and dedication to this investigation. But what she does about it is her decision."

"I don't want this to end up in the media. I don't want my name dragged into this," Don said emphatically. "I have to live and work in this community, and if this is all over the headlines, it's going to make my life a lot more difficult, trying to do my job, being taken seriously by my clients. Not to mention ever working with the cops again."

"I'm sure she would never do anything to compromise your privacy, honey," Callahan said, squeezing his hand. "I'll call her."

"Be sure you thank her for me, for caring about the investigation...and us. I just don't want media attention any more than the cops do. Though I doubt the commissioner is worried about my privacy."

"Public attention on the case could sway things our way with Stenski's situation," Callahan said. "The authorities are still obligated to protect Donald's identity, aren't they?"

"We aren't going to release his name, but that's not to say if this turns into a media issue, they won't work at finding out, and if Stenski loses his badge, I doubt he'll keep quiet," Bailey said. "Look, I want Stenski to pay for what he did, and we're doing all we can on the case. I just think turning it into a political hot potato is going to backfire on all of us, one way or the other."

"All I can do is stress to her how important it is to keep Donald's name out of it, to make sure it's not played up with the media. I know she'll do all she can to respect your privacy, honey. She's always liked you, and I'm sure the last thing she wants to do by becoming involved is to make this harder on you."

"I know," Don said, smiling faintly at his partner. "I guess unless I just shut up and take what Stenski did to me without demanding any kind of justice, my relationship with the Albany PD is shot anyway."

"Stenski got himself in trouble. There'll be a few cops who stick with him, who are friends of his, but the talk around the department isn't in his favor. Whether people think what he did was just stupid, or whether they have some more meaningful moral objection to it, his colleagues aren't all on his side. He made us all look bad, and God knows cops in general don't need any more adverse publicity surrounding brutality issues."

"I know you did everything you could for me once you found out. Timmy was just telling me that my trip to the hospital looked like a celebrity motorcade pulling up to the ER entrance, with a police escort in front, and you with lights and sirens following them. I want to be sure Senator Platt understands that - - that it was Stenski, not the Albany PD. They're not putting any heat on that kid that was in charge of the drunk tank, are they?"

"Rodriguez? No, he was operating under orders from a superior, and he sought help when he was convinced something was wrong. If he hadn't come to get me, I never would have stopped down there for any other reason. I was on my way out."

"I don't want him to get in any hot water. He listened to me, and he went for help. If he'd ignored me, I would have died there." 

"Can we do anything for him? Something to get him commended for what he did?" Tim asked.

"I've already put him in for a commendation. He's real green yet, but he'll be a good cop."

"I'd like to thank him myself," Don said. "Ask him to stop by sometime, okay?"

"I'll do that," Bailey said, smiling. "He's been checking in with me once in a while to find out how you're doing. He felt bad about waiting as long as he did to get help."

"He did fine. I wouldn't be here if he didn't. Be sure you tell him that, even if he doesn't get a chance to stop by."

"I will, but I'm sure he'll be up to see you." Bailey looked around at the growing collection of flowers, plants, and mylar balloons in the room. There was even a two-foot-high plush gorilla holding a red heart that professed "I Love You" on it. Bailey could have figured out in less than three guesses who that one was from. "Looks like you've got quite a following, Strachey," Bailey commented.

"The gorilla, the red roses, and the balloons are from Timmy," he said, looking at his partner with one of those lovestruck glances, and more than a little pride that he was the recipient of such a shower of gifts in celebration of his survival and progressing recovery. "The senator and her staff sent that big plant with the flowers in it. Apparently they don't know my history with plants."

"I made the mistake of giving him an orchid for his office. I should have known better, but love makes you do incredibly stupid things sometimes," Tim concluded, smiling. "When he got his larger office, I bought him a big fake plant instead. I don't think he's killed it yet."

"Kenny's the official guardian of anything green and possibly alive in that office," Don quipped.

"That includes Donald's old food containers, and even Donald, when I can't keep an eye on him," Tim added.

"Bitch," Don muttered under his breath, laughing.

"I love you, too, darling," Callahan replied, looking happier than he'd looked since before Strachey's brush with death.

********

There was a light tap on the door, and a moment later, a young, dark-haired police officer came into view. Donald was asleep, but Tim, who was lightly dozing in the recliner, came to immediately.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he said, looking uneasy.

"I was just dozing," Tim said. "Are you Officer Rodriguez?" Tim stood, walking away from Donald's bed so he could talk to the other man quietly and let his partner sleep.

"Yeah, that's me. I just wanted to know how he was doing."

"I can't thank you enough for what you did for him," Tim said, shaking Rodriguez's hand. "You saved his life by going for help."

"It just didn't look right. I'm glad I could help."

"They performed surgery to repair a tear in his large intestine and...the injuries from the rape. He's been in a lot of pain, and his system was run down from the blood loss, but he's been up walking around today for the first time, and he's starting back on solid food, so he's doing better."

"He looked right at me and asked me to get him help, when Detective Stenski brought him in. I'm really sorry I didn't go get Detective Bailey for him right away."

"You were given orders by a superior. I can understand why you didn't disobey them right away. I'm so grateful you did, though. I'm Donald's partner. We've been together about six years. I can't picture being without him."

"Most of the time he was there, he kept saying your name over and over again, so he was thinking about you," Rodriguez said, smiling. "My boyfriend and I have been together about two years. I don't know if I could handle something like this happening to him without killing the fuckers who did it."

"It must be hard, being gay in the police department."

"I'm not out," Rodriguez added. "He's my 'roommate' as far as the other guys at the department know, and they don't think it's odd. We're both young, he's still in college, working on his master's. So we can 'share expenses' for a few more years before it looks like anything to anybody."

"It's hard, being in the closet. I don't know if I could live that way, keep up the pretense."

"Either way is hard. When we come out, his family and my job are going to be nightmares."

"If you love each other, it'll work out, and when you decide to come out, all the nightmares will be worth it the first time you take him out dancing and don't care if someone else is watching."

"That'd be nice. It's kind of tiring going out to sports bars and action movies together," he added. "I mean, I like that stuff, too, but I'd like to take him out for a romantic evening sometime."

"If you ever need someone to talk to," Tim said, pulling out his wallet and taking out a business card, "please don't hesitate to call us."

"That's nice of you; thanks," he said, taking the card. "It sounds weird, but we don't have any gay friends."

"You do now."

"Hey, I remember you," Donald said, blinking sleepily, focusing on Rodriguez.

"Didn't mean to wake you up, Mr. Strachey. Detective Bailey said it was okay if I stopped in to see how you were doing."

"I think saving my life might make it okay for you to call me Don," he said, pressing the button to raise the head of the bed a bit more, holding out his hand to shake hands with Rodriguez.

"I'm Tony," Rodriguez said, shaking hands.

"Timothy filled you in on everything?" he asked, smiling in Tim's direction.

"He said you were doing better, up and walking and everything. That's great."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly blazing trails, but I did make it out in the hall once," he said, snorting a little laugh. "Seriously, thanks for what you did for me. You could have just followed orders and left me there."

"You didn't look drunk or high to me, and with bruises and all, it seemed like somebody should look you over."

"Tony and his partner have been together a couple of years," Tim said. "I told him to call us if they ever needed anything. With his job, they're not out."

"That's rough. When I'm feeling better, we'll have you guys join us for dinner some evening. You can come over to our place and be gay with us," he added, grinning.

"What he means is we'll have candles on the table and dancing after dinner," Tim said, laughing. "We're way overdue for a nice get-together at our place with some of our friends," he added. "Celebrating a certain homecoming sounds like a good reason to have one." He sat in the chair next to Don's bed and took his hand.

"My schedule sucks for social plans, just ask Timmy."

"Sounds nice." Rodriguez dug in his pocket and produced his own card, giving it to Tim. "I should probably get going. My shift starts in half an hour."

"Thanks again for what you did. Take care of yourself on the job," Don said, and Rodriguez nodded.

"I will. Hope you're feeling better soon."

"I'm working on it," Don replied. After Rodriguez left, he squeezed Tim's hand. "Let's not make too big a deal out of me coming home from the hospital, honey."

"I haven't told anyone what happened. Just my mother, Kenny, and Senator Platt. None of them will say anything without our okay."

"I know. I'm just not up for being the guest of honor yet."

"Will you settle for being my guest of honor, then?"

"Yeah, for a party of two," he replied, smiling, kissing the back of Tim's hand.

********

Tim stifled a yawn as he walked down the hall toward Donald's room. He'd made a quick run down to the visitors' lounge on their floor to get a cup of cocoa out of the vending machine. It was a little chilly where his recliner was, under the window, and the thought of something warm to drink appealed to him as he hoped for a short pre-dawn nap while Don slept.

"Timothy!"

The agonized shout froze him momentarily, then he threw the cup in a nearby trash can and ran toward Don's room.

"Timmy!" This was a scream for help, and Tim felt like the hall just kept getting longer, as if he kept running and Donald's room never got closer. "Timothy!"

Tim finally burst into Donald's room, finding his partner struggling with a male nurse, another nurse standing near the bed holding restraints, preparing to get a strap around Don's wrist as the nurse used his advantage of weight and being over Donald to force his arm down to the bed. There was blood all over the sheets where Donald had apparently pulled out his IV.

"What are you doing to him?" Tim demanded, pushing past the nurse with the restraints and pulling on the male nurse's arm. "Let go of him right now!"

"He already kicked me twice and took a swing at me," the male nursed protested. "You should let us handle this." 

"We'll only keep the restraints on him until the sedative kicks in," the other nurse explained.

"Donald, I'm right here. You need to stop struggling, honey. I won't let anything happen to you," he told his panicked partner, getting close enough to touch his face. "Let go of his arms," Tim ordered, his voice much louder this time, pinning the nurse with a look that left little room for debate. "Do you even know why he's here? What he's been through?"

The nurse reluctantly let go of Don and moved away from the bed, apparently not willing to chance another round with an unrestrained Donald. Tim noticed the blood under the male nurse's nose and realized, even in his weakened condition, his partner must have slugged him hard enough to bloody his nose. Don had formidable strength in his upper body; Tim could remember watching in awe as he overpowered Sommerville through some unbelievable combination of his powerful arms and his sheer stubbornness, stabbing the larger criminal and sending him flying like a worn-out rag doll into Frank Zailian's swimming pool.

Tim dodged the flailing arms and got his arms around Don, managing to hold him close, even though he was still writhing in the bed like he hadn't quite escaped the grip of the dream or the lingering panic attack that had cost the male nurse a couple swift kicks.

"I'm here, honey. You're safe. Don't fight me, Donald. It's me, it's Timmy. I've got you, baby, just try to relax." He could feel Don's heart pounding, his breath coming out in choked gasps and sobs. "It's okay. Nobody's going to hurt you." He was relieved to feel Don's arms come around him, holding on almost desperately.

"Timmy?" The voice was deceptively small and shaky, considering the damage he'd been doing in the few minutes Tim had been out of the room.

"It's okay, honey. I've got you now. Everything's going to be all right."

"I'll get his IV taken care of," the nurse with the restraints said. "Kevin, why don't you go answer that call while I take care of getting him cleaned up?" she suggested, referring to another patient call they could hear ringing. Kevin seemed only too happy for an escape, and left the room quickly, still cleaning under his nose with a tissue he'd grabbed.

Tim sat on the side of the bed, holding Don, rocking him, rubbing his back gently.

"I couldn't move my arms," he said brokenly against Tim's shoulder. "I couldn't stop it."

"I know you couldn't, honey. Nobody could have stopped that alone. It's not your fault."

"Donald, can I clean up your arm, hon?" the nurse asked, pulling on latex gloves and gathering the supplies to clean the blood off the IV site. An older woman with small glasses, she had a kind, motherly quality about her. Tim noticed from her ID badge that her name was Grace. She didn't get an answer, but Don allowed his arm to be moved and positioned for her to do her work. He didn't relinquish his hold on Tim with his other arm. "We were going to take his IV out in a few hours. The doctor said he could go on oral antibiotics starting later today, so I don't think we need to poke him again. We'll need to get him in a clean gown and change the bed."

"I'll help him with the gown if you can change the sheets." Tim paused. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I went down the hall to get something to drink."

"It's not your fault, Timmy," Don mumbled against Tim's shoulder.

"It isn't yours, either, baby. It's okay."

"Donald, are you feeling better?" Grace asked, finishing her clean-up job with a clean gauze bandage where he'd torn out the IV.

"I'm sorry about the mess," he managed, loosening his hold on Tim a little.

"That's what we're here for, hon," she said, smiling. "I raised four boys on my own, so believe me, this isn't the worst mess I've ever seen. You'll have to try harder to top them," she quipped, patting his shoulder. Tim was grateful to see that actually made Don smile a little.

"They held my arms down... When I couldn't move my arms...I lost it," he said to Grace, and Tim was surprised to hear Don actually volunteer something about his ordeal to someone besides him, or when he wasn't pressured to do so for the sake of the case. Tim suspected that Don sometimes missed his own mother, because he was only too ready to adopt Tim's mother as his own, and Grace's gentle, maternal approach seemed to be calming him down and drawing him out now.

"Kevin used to work in the Psych ward, so you aren't the first patient who ever slugged him, though I think you might be the first one to kick him in the family jewels," Grace added, and Don actually laughed faintly at that. "Don't worry about him. He'll survive. We just didn't want you to hurt yourself. I'm sorry if we made it worse for you, hon."

"Thanks for cleaning up after me," he said to Grace as Tim helped him put on slippers and make the slow trek to the bathroom.

"One who says 'thank you.' Your mother did a good job on you," she added as she pulled the blood-stained sheets off the bed. That earned her a sort of sad, crooked smile from Don as they shuffled toward the bathroom.

As soon as the bathroom door was closed and Tim started untying the stained gown, Don mumbled so softly he could barely hear him.

"My shorts are wet."

"We've got fresh ones. That's no big deal, honey."

"I haven't pissed my pants since I was a toddler," Don said, tears filling his eyes.

"Your bladder's bruised, so you probably don't always know when you have to go and when it just hurts," Tim said gently, taking the wet underwear and tossing it aside. While he didn't want his partner feeling exposed any longer that he had to, he took a moment to use a warm, soapy cloth to wash him and then dried the area carefully so he'd feel clean and fresh with the change of underwear.

"I bet you didn't expect to have to change my pants and wipe my ass for another thirty or forty years," Don said, and Tim wasn't sure if he was trying to joke, or if he was serious.

"You'll get the job back as soon as you're stronger, honey. And if you need me to do it again forty years from now, I'll have practice at it," he added in a tone he hoped sounded cheerful, helping him pull the boxers into place, kissing Don's cheek when they were done. "Would you like pajamas instead of this sexy nightie? Since they're not putting your IV back in, you could wear them."

"I'd like that."

"I'll grab them out of the duffle bag."

Before long, Don was in dry pajamas, in a freshly changed bed, sipping ice water. Tim turned on the little television, finding a channel running some peaceful nature program. When he'd had his fill of the water, Don's eyes drifted shut, the drone of the TV and Tim's hand holding his calming the earlier panic and driving the demons into dark corners, until he slipped off to sleep.

********

Back on a regular schedule of pain medication, and with Tim just a couple feet away in the recliner, Don began to find it easier to sleep, something his exhausted body seemed to need badly. The doctor approved him progressing to something enticingly called a "low-residue diet," which a nurse painstakingly explained to him. He didn't remember most of it and was content to leave those details to Timmy. He'd fix whatever Don needed to eat when they got home, and he'd make the menu choices for his trays while he was still trapped there in the hospital.

Tim had told most of their friends that he'd been injured during an undercover job that went wrong, and the fading bruises on his face supported their assumption that his internal injuries were from a beating. He wasn't up to facing everyone he knew with the full truth out there on the table. He hoped that somehow, it would never have to be. A shrink would probably have a field day with those "shame issues," but who would want to visit with their friends and colleagues and discuss his ass injuries or what depraved things he'd been subjected to while being held down naked on a basement floor? It wasn't exactly pleasant material for light-hearted chit-chats. Or so all those people could look at him for the rest of time, picturing what he'd been through instead of seeing him.

The only person who knew all the sordid details and remained completely unruffled and utterly herself was Tim's mother, who breezed into the room with a big shopping bag full of books and magazines, and hugged him the way she always did, planting a big, sloppy, motherly kiss on his cheek.

"Timmy tells me you're up and around now," she said, sitting in a visitor chair near the bed.

"Yeah, I'm walking a little," he said, trying to keep his tone light.

"The first few times you have to get up and around after surgery are pure hell. It will get better, sweetie. You're young and healthy, and you'll heal fast."

"I couldn't do any of it without Timothy. He makes me want to get better, get out of here."

"It's a good thing, too, because I never could have dealt with Timothy if you didn't pull through this. In case you haven't noticed, he's pretty hung up on you," she added, smiling. For a moment, there was so much of Timmy in her features and her big smile, that it was almost startling.

"I'm kind of fond of him, too," Don added, smiling back at her.

"Have you heard anything new on the case? As far as I'm concerned, those bastards should hang for what they did."

"Preferably by their privates over a pit of rabid dogs," Don replied, and she nodded in agreement, smiling at his colorful augmentation of the thought. "When's the last time Timmy updated you?"

"Last night."

"Not much has happened since then," he replied, chuckling a little.

"I know this is very hard for you, and I'm not going to tiptoe around the obvious. It's not my style. Do you have a good therapist to help you, or do you want one? I don't want you to not have something because you're worried about the cost or insurance doesn't cover it, or some other nonsense." She patted his arm. "You're part of our family, sweetie, and whatever you need, all you have to do is ask."

"Thanks, that means a lot to me," he said, taking her hand. "I'm not ready for a therapist. I don't know if I’ll ever want one."

"Some people find comfort in it, others don't. I saw a therapist for a while after Kelly disappeared. Sometimes it makes you feel crazy...inadequate to need one. But you aren't, so don't you hesitate to ask if you'd like me to find you someone good, or if Timothy finds someone good who's also expensive, and you need some help financially. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Are you sleeping at all?" she asked. "You look drowsy. Of course, maybe I woke you up from a nap when I got here," she added.

"I sleep some. Timmy's always right here with me, sleeping in that chair. I sort of dread it. The nightmares are still kind of bad."

"I wish I could make this better for you. That's always the hard part of seeing one of my children hurt...when it's something I can't make better." She moved from her chair to sit on the side of the bed. "I know you're hurting inside, and I know what you went through was awful. I can see that in your eyes. You don't have to be brave with me. Comforting our kids makes us mothers feel useful," she said, laying a gentle hand on his cheek, then opening her arms when she saw his expression falter a bit.

"I'm really glad you came, Mom," he said, hugging her, feeling a little guilty for crying on her shoulder like a little kid, and yet grateful for her genuine affection and her acceptance of him as part of her family, when his own mother was disinclined to accept him at all for who and what he was.

"It's going to be all right, Donald. Your family's here for you, honey. You know that, don't you? That we'll be here for you, no matter what?"

"I know," he said, nodding a little. "You've always been so nice to me."

"I always wanted Timothy to find someone who would love him and be good to him and make him happy. Treat him with gentleness and caring. I'm so happy he's with you, Donald. I couldn't have chosen anyone better for him, and I can't think of anyone I'd be happier to add to our family. We love you, sweetie. I know Timmy's taking good care of you, but you lean on us, too. We Callahans are a tight-knit clan, and we don't let bad things happen to each other without being there to help."

"Thanks, Mom," he said, giving her a little squeeze before pulling back. "Thanks for adopting me," he added, smiling.

"I always wanted more kids. Better late than never," she said, shrugging, ruffling his hair like she would have on a child, as they shared a laugh.

********

Timmy was a master at keeping Don distracted during the remainder of his incarceration in the hospital, whether it was with the portable DVD player and a stack of movies they watched together on the little screen, bringing in the newspaper and reading to him, or just sitting there talking about the endless array of subjects Timmy seemed to know something about.

All the distractions in the world, and even a considerable regimen of pain meds, couldn't mask the reality of what he'd been through. Although he was getting faster and steadier on his feet, the lower half of his body still felt as ravaged as it was, and he was in no danger of forgetting why he was in the hospital. The images that haunted his nightmares and any quiet times he found himself alone and not sleeping, rare though they were, stayed as vivid and almost physically painful as the actual experiences were.

He imagined the other patients on this wing wouldn't feel bad to see him go. He still had a tendency to wake up screaming at least once each night, and sometimes when he napped during the day, he'd come to, and if Timmy wasn't there, he'd end up screaming his name in a panic. Usually the poor guy was just using the bathroom or getting the ice water refilled, but if he wasn't there, Don didn't seem able to control the panic and fear that would come over him. He was just waiting for Timothy to gently suggest a therapist, and trying to come up with the reasons why he didn't want one.

Like having fears and humiliations dragged out of his soul - - like an emotional rape, taking things that he didn't want to share, being forced to share them with someone he didn't want to talk to. Having someone take copious notes about his feelings and his fears and his pain so they could analyze him and "treat" him.

He just needed time to pass, his body to heal, and most of all, he needed Timothy in a way he never had before, no matter how much he loved him. It was a dependence he knew he had to overcome eventually, get his wings back, so to speak, so he could fly on his own. Right now, Timmy was his life support system and was as vital to his next breath as the ventilator was to the guy that had been in the room next-door to his in ICU. There were times he felt he was in so many pieces...fragments...that he wondered if even Timmy could put them all back together into a reasonable replica of what he had once been.

Strong. Healthy. Independent. Fearless...well, not fearless, but brave, sometimes to the point of being less than prudent in the risks he took.

His body was doing its part and healing, but he still felt so fucking fragile, and afraid of the world, and needy.

And that was just when he managed not to think about the inevitable lineups, voice lineups, and possibly live testimony in a courtroom for one or more trials. Or the way the cops would look at him now when he had to go down to the station for something. Or how long it would take for his business to go down the tubes when he couldn't work.

The television was droning, and he was managing to stay awake, since Tim had made a quick trip downstairs for lunch and to make a few phone calls, and he didn't want a repeat of the episode with the male nurse he'd had a couple nights ago.

There was a tap at the door, and he was surprised to see Senator Platt come in, a bit hesitantly until she could see if he was awake.

"Senator Platt," he said, smiling. "This is a nice surprise."

"You're looking very well, Don. I understand you might be released in the next couple of days," she said, coming closer, holding out her left hand to clasp his briefly in a more informal greeting than a handshake.

"I'm gunning for tomorrow. Hopefully the doctor's tired enough of my griping at him to let me out of here."

"Something tells me your chances are good there."

"Exactly what does Timothy tell you about me when I'm not around?" he joked.

"Enough," she retorted, always up to a little round of verbal banter with Don.

"Have a seat," he said, and she pulled up one of the visitor chairs and sat.

"I thought we should have a talk about the case. Tim called me and explained the concerns both of you have regarding my involvement in it."

"I appreciate that you're taking an interest in the case, I hope you know that."

"Tim was very clear about that, but I do understand the delicate nature of the situation, and I can understand how this could impact you, being in a high public contact profession. I just want you to know this isn't going to be a public crusade on my part, unless the situation changes in such a way that my public support would be helpful. I do want the police department to be clear that Detective Stenski's conduct is unacceptable and that there is no other alternative than severe disciplinary action. A man like that is a danger to the whole community, because he puts himself in the position of being judge and jury. In this case, he treated someone who had committed no crime in an abhorrent manner. What is he likely to do to suspects?"

"I understand all that. It just feels really personal. I keep trying to see it as a social justice issue, but I can't. Do you think that's selfish? It probably is."

"The community wasn't in that basement with you, or in the holding cell at the police department. That was a very personal, very solitary trauma, and I don't think it's selfish of you to view it that way. It's my duty to look at things like this from a community perspective, to see it as a sign of potential danger to a lot of innocent people. Your only duty is to yourself, to take care of yourself, focus on your recovery, and do whatever feels right to you about the case. That's all you can be expected to handle. Leave the social justice to the politicians. It's what we do best when we're not making speeches," she added, smiling.

"I thought you'd be encouraging me to speak out...to testify, do whatever I have to for the sake of justice." He blinked quickly, wanting to keep his eyes dry.

"If you can do that, it will be very commendable, and it will probably do a lot of good for a lot of people, whether it's getting a rogue cop like Stenski off the streets, bringing public attention to the danger of homophobia and the ugliness of hate crimes, or making sure all these men serve time for what they did." She paused. "A very good friend of mine was raped. This was years ago, when I was still in college. We were all very supportive of her, our little group of sorority sisters, but the one thing we all had in common was pressuring her to testify against the man who did it. We were young, passionate about women's rights, about empowering women, not letting ourselves be victims." She shook her head, looking much sadder and a bit older than she had when she arrived. "Jennifer finally agreed to testify, to press charges, even to go public with her case because the man who did it was a professor and very well known. We all talked her into the idea that she could help other girls come forward by doing that. A few more did come forward, and the professor ultimately lost his job and faced criminal charges. But Jennifer committed suicide before the case went to trial."

"I'm sorry." Don tried not to let his thoughts wander down the dark road of Kyle's death. He had enough on his plate as it was.

"It was a long time ago, and I'm not suggesting in any way that I think you'd choose that path, but the one thing I learned from all that is that rape is very personal and it's not a cause. You aren't a cause, Don. When all is said and done, the most important outcome of all of this is your recovery and what's best for you. Don't let anyone pressure you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable. Make the choices you make because you feel they're right for you, and let the chips fall where they may."

"They threatened Timothy," he said, his voice shaking. "If I don't testify against them, and they get off, they could come back after him, and I'd never forgive myself if he got hurt that way because I didn't have the guts to take care of this."

"It's a lot of pressure on you, isn't it?" she asked sympathetically.

"Yeah," he admitted, fighting hard to keep control of his emotions. "But I won't let them off the hook."

"Sounds like you know what you need to do, and why you want to do it. Maybe that determination is going to carry you through this."

"Maybe," he said, realizing there was some truth in what she was saying. Rising to the occasion of nailing the men who'd attacked him, not for himself, but to protect Timmy...he could do anything it took to accomplish that.

"I should let you rest," she said, standing.

"Thank you for the plant. It was the first one I got when I was moved down here from ICU."

"Really?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, the first one after the roses, balloons, and stuffed gorilla from Tim," he added, grinning. "Thanks for being so good to Timmy about him taking time off to be with me. He's so worn-out, and he has to do so much for me...I know you had to have said something to him to put his mind at ease because he worries about his work, making sure things are done right."

"Tim is a wonderful help to me, and I never question his dedication. Things like these have to take precedence over work. He's needed here, and he needs to be here. We'll handle things at the office until he can come back." She reached out and took Don's hand, squeezing it quickly. "Get plenty of rest and take care of yourself. If there's anything I can do, just call me."

"Thank you. And thanks for telling me about your friend."

"You're welcome. I have every confidence you'll get through this just fine, even if it doesn't feel that way now." She smiled warmly one more time before leaving.

********

Frustrated, Tim tucked his cell phone back in his pocket and finished the chicken breast he'd chosen for lunch, along with a salad and two small containers of Ben & Jerry's Cinnamon Bun Swirl, which he was going to take upstairs to share with Donald. His present diet limited dairy, but the little individual container wouldn't exceed any allowances, and it would cheer him up. Tim was already figuring out the kinds of foods that his partner liked and could safely eat until he was cleared to return to a normal diet. Once he was home, Tim would have a better chance to take care of him and feed him things he actually enjoyed, rather than tolerated.

He was starting to understand how the president's family felt, with Secret Service agents constantly watching them. Donald had hired a private security firm to provide a bodyguard for Tim, at least during the time when he was coming and going from the hospital and home alone. Bailey had a uniformed officer outside Don's room, but couldn't provide security for both of them. The big man who was sitting a couple of tables away had finished his substantial plate of food while reading the newspaper. Still, he didn't miss anything in his peripheral vision and had caught every sign of movement Tim made until they left the cafeteria.

He escorted Tim to Donald's room and then went to the waiting room nearby. Tim wanted some alone time with his partner, and Donald hadn't seemed to take much of a liking to Pollack. Tim wondered if his size and obvious musculature were a little too reminiscent of the look of Fox and his cohorts. Or maybe the big man's utter lack of personality was to blame. Tim couldn't shake the feeling Pollack wasn't too fond of gay couples, but since he'd been nothing but professional in his conduct around them, he had nothing to back up that impression.

Donald was in bed, flipping the channels of the little television with a blank look on his face.

"I have ice cream," Tim announced, and that brought a faint smile that looked like it was more for his benefit than anything else. "Are you okay, honey?" Tim frowned, concerned. Don was on his side, with a pillow stuffed behind him for support. He didn't look comfortable or happy.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Where's Ballsack, anyway?"

"His name is Pollack, Donald," Tim said, a half-hearted scold in his tone. Donald's attackers had been arrested, but they were almost all out on bond pending the trial. Only Fox remained behind bars while a few family members were scrambling to come up with his bail money, so Donald deemed Pollack or some facsimile of him to be a necessity. "Pollack is in the waiting room right down the hall. He escorted me to the door of the room, safe and sound."

"Good. What'd you bring?" he asked, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

"Ben and Jerry's," Tim said, sitting on the side of the bed, setting the ice cream containers on the bed table. "Are you comfortable?"

"No, but I can't figure out a way to manage that. If I sit up, my ass kills me, and if I stay lying down, my back's tired. So I got the bed somewhere in the middle and just rolled on my side."

"How about if I rub your back? Would that feel good?"

"Yeah, that'd be good," he said, smiling a little.

Tim moved the pillow out of the way and rubbed his hands together to be sure they were warm, so he didn't startle Donald with cold hands. Though he thought Donald looked very nice in his nearly new blue pajamas, he also figured the hospital would be the last place he'd see him wearing them. His partner seemed to prefer his underwear for sleeping at home, though he liked the greater coverage of the pajamas while he was in the hospital.

Tim slid his hand under the pajama shirt and started gently rubbing Don's back. He wasn't really trying to give him a massage, but just relax him, maybe comfort him a little.

"Your muscles are strung tight. What's the matter?"

"Kenny's had to turn down three new clients since I've been in here. I need to get back to work."

"Donald, you're not even out of the hospital yet."

"I know, but it took me a long time to build up a reputation, to get a steady flow of work. It won't take very long to screw it up."

"That's what your disability insurance is for, honey. To cover situations like these until you can go back to work."

"You sound like a commercial. All we need is that duck waddling through here."

"Sorry," Tim said, chuckling. "Speaking of that, I wasn't going to mention it, but I was trying to get through their automated customer service, and they keep telling me your policy number isn't valid. I waited on hold on my cell for about ten minutes, but then I wanted to get back up here to you, so I hung up. Did you change something with the coverage?" he asked, still keeping up a gentle rubbing motion on Don's back, which seemed to tense up more, rather than relax.

"You could say that. I canceled it last year when I moved into the new office."

Tim's hand stopped moving, almost of its own volition. He felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach.

"You did what?" he asked, waiting for Donald to add that he'd renewed it, or reactivated it once he'd settled into the new place and the expenses had leveled off again.

"The first few months I was in the new office, money was really tight with the rent being higher, and I couldn't swing the premiums, so I let it go." He was quiet a moment. "I didn't renew it."

"Donald, we agreed on that insurance for just this kind of a situation," Tim protested.

"What? Just in case I happened to get gang raped on the job? Sorry, but I didn't foresee that happening," he shot back, his tone terse.

Tim sat there a moment, his hand still in the middle of Donald's back. The part of him that was angry at Donald for making that decision on his own and then letting it stay lapsed quickly gave way to the part that weighed the enormity of that versus the enormity of Donald dying, which he nearly had done just days earlier. He thought of all Donald had been through and of the worry, guilt, and fear that had to be on his shoulders now about his business, their finances, everything, when he was already dealing with so much.

He rubbed Don's back in slow circles. "It'll be okay, honey."

"I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about it. I just didn't think it was that big a deal. Goes to show what I know."

"Nobody could have predicted something like this."

"You did. Well, not this exactly, but the disability insurance was your idea."

"It's okay." Tim kept up the soothing back rub. "I want you to stop worrying about it. Let me take care of it."

"If you didn't think I was so washed up, you'd have my head for this. And how are you going to take care of it? Half our income just...stopping is a disaster. I'm using what I had saved up to keep the lights on at the office to pay Ballsack - - "

"Pollack," Tim corrected gently, still rubbing. "You're going to slip and call him that to his face if you don't stop it." He smiled, feeling oddly unafraid of the looming financial ruin. He had Donald, and he was alive and likely to stay that way. "You're always telling me how smart you think I am, so let me figure something out, and you stop worrying about it."

"I really messed up," Don said, his voice shaking.

"Come here," Tim said, waiting until Don turned over before gathering him into his arms, holding him close. "Everything's going to be all right."

"How?" Donald asked, clinging to him tightly.

"Shhh." He stroked Don's hair, kissed his cheek. "Trust me. I'll take care of everything, honey. I promise you, it'll be okay."

"We could lose the house," he said.

Tim rested his head against Don's and rocked them a little. "They can foreclose on our house, evict you from your office, and put us in the street with nothing, and we'll still have each other. We'll just get a nice little apartment and start over. It'll be kind of romantic, like being newlyweds again."

"You're crazy," Don said, but there was a little humor in his tone.

"Crazy about you, darling," Tim said in an exaggerated tone, which made Don laugh just a little. "I know it's hard for you to let go of things and let me take care of you for a while, but that's what love is all about. Knowing someone is there to catch you when you fall, and hold you until you heal."

"I might have ruined everything we worked so hard for."

"The only way you could have done that was if you didn't survive the surgery and stay with me. I love our house, and I'm so proud of you the way you've built your business and how hard you work at making it successful. But when the nurse told me that you were very weak, and that I should be prepared for the worst...Donald, I would have given everything we have, traded anything I could, sold my soul to the highest bidder...burned that damned house to the ground... anything...if it would save your life and keep you with me."

"It's not fair to you."

"It wasn't fair that you had to suffer through what you did. Life isn't fair. It's cruel and senseless sometimes, and good people suffer awful things they don't deserve. But, honey, there's never been a house built that I'd rather have than you."

"I'm not what I used to be. I might never be okay again," Don said brokenly against his shoulder.  

"If you're worrying about sex, don't even think about it."

"How can I not think about it? I can't stand the idea of somebody touching me that way. God help me, not even you." It was as if the admission was a dam bursting, and Tim had to put all his strength into stilling the wrenching sobs that were pouring out of Donald.

"I love you so much," Tim said against Don's ear, rocking him, rubbing his back. "Sex is just one way of making love. Remember us slow dancing the first time you got out of bed after your surgery? Or going to the grocery store together, or movie nights cuddled up on the couch when you finish your ice cream and then start eating out of my bowl. Or that feeling when you crawl into bed with me at three in the morning and we just find a way to get comfortable, spooned together, or back to back, so I can go back to sleep feeling you breathing against me - - it's all love, honey."

"What if I'm never okay again?" Don asked, barely able to get the words out between sharp intakes of breath.

"As long as we're alive and together, we'll find ways to love each other and be happy together, and you'll always be the love of my life, and the only man I want next to me in bed, no matter what we do there. Do you want to know what will always be one of the sweetest memories of my life?"

"What?" Don managed, and Tim smiled, wanting him to calm down enough to ask the question.

"When you were first coming out of the anesthesia and I kissed you, and I felt those wonderful, soft lips of yours pucker up and kiss me back. I'd have done anything in the world for that moment."

"You deserve mo - -"

"Don't even finish that thought." He swallowed tears of his own. "Would you love me less if things were reversed?"

"Never."

"Donald, if I could take this away from you, if I could take your place - - "

"Oh, God, no, I'd never want that."

"You're my life partner, my husband, my best friend in the world. Just be with me, and share our life with me. You don't have to worry about anything else, honey. The rest of it will figure itself out and we'll be okay."

"I believe you," Don said, his voice barely a whisper.

"The ice cream is cinnamon bun swirl," he said, and Donald laughed, watery though it was.

"It's probably a milkshake by now," he said, sniffling and snorting a little inelegantly, causing Tim to reach for a couple of tissues. Donald used them to blow his nose and wipe at his eyes.

"How about if I line the recliner with pillows and we get you out of this rat's nest for a while?"

"I'd like that."

"Good," Tim responded, smiling at his bleary eyed partner. He worked quickly and efficiently to get Donald settled in the big chair, with enough pillows to keep pressure off the painful spots. He bathed Donald's face with a cool cloth and then pulled up a chair close to the recliner, and they had their ice cream together, with the tiny television turned toward them so they could watch an old sitcom rerun. Tim had to smile when Don finished his ice cream, and swooped in with his spoon to steal some of Tim's. They shared a cold, ice cream flavored kiss, and snuggled together as best they could in their less than ideal accommodations, watching a tiny TV with a mediocre picture. There was nowhere else in the world Tim could think of that he'd want to be.

********

End of Part One

Go to Part Two