Title: Be My Valentine
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R 

Word Count: 7100
References/Spoilers: References to Donald's past, primarily STTS.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life. Song lyrics aren't mine, either. They're from Could It Be Magic? and Precious and Few, respectively.
Summary: Donald grapples with an old memory, Tim makes a big change, and there are some potholes on the road to making wedding plans. Sequel to the story, "Yours, Mine, and Ours".

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BE MY VALENTINE

by

Candy Apple

With the massage oil on my hands, I started at the base of Timmy's spine and slowly eased my hands along either side until I reached his shoulders, and then moved down his sides back to his tail bone, and then started the motion over again. He groaned low in his throat, and I could feel him relaxing under my hands. I had plans for that beautiful ass of his, but for now, I was focused on rubbing the tension out of his muscles. I knew work sucked for him, and while he rarely complained about it, I could see it in his eyes and feel it in the tautness of his muscles. I couldn't fix the screw job he'd gotten, but I could make his nights good enough that his sucky days didn't seem so bad.

So I made an extra effort to meet him for dinner on the nights I had to work, and on the nights I didn't, I spent my time making him feel special. I gave him massages, I brought him flowers, and I didn't hold back on telling him how much I loved him. We went shopping for a few new things for the apartment, like we'd talked about, and hung some new things on the walls. My clothes and my "linens" moved in with his. My dishes and a goodly amount of my other household goods went out to the curb by my own choice, since they were mostly cheap crap I'd bought on clearance shelves so I had something to eat on or cook with on the rare occasions I did either thing in my apartment.

Tonight, I had candles burning in the bedroom, soft music on the stereo, and strawberries and whipped cream on the night stand for when I finished his massage. I knew he was enjoying the pampering, but I loved the excuse to just have my hands on his beautiful body for any reason. I loved him so much, and he turned me on the way no man ever had before. I could spend forever just touching him, doting on him, bringing him pleasure. He moaned again and I kissed the back of his neck.

"Your hands are magic," he muttered through a yawn. Making him sleepy wasn't really my goal, but if that made him feel good, to slip off to sleep, I'd cuddle up close to his gorgeous bare body and doze off with him. It was a good bet we'd wake up later and make love. I could wait. I'd wait a lifetime if it meant I could kiss him, touch him, hold him, or just see him smile. I'd die for him, I'd do anything to make him happy... What was a couple hours' delay, some warm strawberries, and some runny Cool Whip?

"I found a how-to massage video on the 'net," I admitted, and he chuckled at that. I smiled. I loved to make him laugh or smile, especially now. "My computer at the office is so slow that it took me half an hour to watch a five minute video, while it kept doing this fucking 'buffering' or whatever the hell it is. So I learned all the moves really, really well," I said, moving down to work on his thighs. He laughed, but he shifted around in the sexiest way. I could tell he was relaxed, but he was aroused, too.

"I can sort of see now what happened with Fred," he said, and for some reason, it bothered me that he seemed to be drinking the Kool-Aid, buying into the idea that he'd been anything but screwed. It took me years to realize that Timothy's occasional serenity about things, acceptance of things that suck, or wait-and-see attitude had nothing to do with being Pollyanna or "too good" or not fighting for himself. I also still forget sometimes that he doesn't need me to point out what he should do, or that he doesn't need me to save him all the time. He can endure a lot waiting for things to work themselves out the way they should. I used to think maybe he was just being overly...priestly... accepting that it was somehow God's will and he'd just have to deal with it. But it's not that at all. It's a kind of wisdom that requires a level of patience I'll never have. Still, back then, I didn't see that, and the thought he was going to let these people walk all over him and then find a way to defend them set my teeth on edge. That having been said, I did my best not to let that bleed into the massage I was giving him, or into my tone of voice. If he needed to talk, I wanted to let him do it without pouncing on his opinions.

"What do you mean, honey?"

"You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

"Of course not. Why would you say that?"

"I can hear it in your voice. You're not a good liar, Donald."

"I just can't see anything good about the people who screwed you out of what you had coming."

"When Dave first started, my workload took a jump. I thought he was dumping on me at first, but the more I took a look at the projects he was sending to me, I could see they were more complex, the kinds of things Fred always kept to himself."

"And I'm willing to be you haven't had any trouble doing them."

"Not really, but some of them are new, or require working with some people on the senator's behalf that are higher up. They give me more autonomy, more decision making opportunities, and I'm supervising more people at a higher level."

"And you're doing them all just fine, because you're smart and talented and organized, and Senator Glassman should have had enough faith in you to let you do your thing without hiring that Bradley character."

He grabbed my hand and pulled it toward him to he could kiss it.

"I hate to admit that it feels so good to have you angrier at my boss on my behalf than I am."

"No one who screws you over or hurts you is ever going to make it very high on my A-list, no matter how forgiving you want to be about it."

"It's not exactly that, although I really couldn't function there if I focused on stewing over the promotion all the time. I guess what I'm saying is that if Fred had delegated the things to me that Dave is, I probably would have gotten the job."

"So, how's Dave's health and overall work performance?"

"Donald!"

"Well, he has to move on for you to get his job, doesn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose he does."

"And he's a hell of a lot younger than old Fred."

"That's true."

"I could still do a few background checks on him. You know, maybe dig into his tax returns. I know this guy who's a genius and forensic accounting. You wouldn't believe what he can dig up. He'd make Mother Teresa a candidate for an IRS audit."

"Don't even think about it."

"If he's clean, he has nothing to worry about."

"I thought you were trying to relax me."

"Sorry, I am. But you're tying my hands behind my back, Timmy."

"Not yet, but we could try that later if that kind of thing turns you on."

"Generally it doesn't, but my dick is disagreeing with me at the moment."

"I think I have some pasta I could boil and flog you with wet noodles or something."

"Would you like a little Alfredo sauce with your S&M?" I asked, and he laughed.

"I make a mean carbonara sauce," he replied. "I guess what I was trying to say about the job is that even though I'm doing these things successfully, it's been a stressful few weeks so far, and I can see how Senator Glassman wouldn't want to just throw me in the water and see if I could swim, since if I were to sink, she'd be going down with me."

"That's lovely, Timothy, but where the hell are you going with all this great experience? Huh? Dave's big fat ass is in what oughtta be your desk chair." I don't know if I could have put more loathing in my emphasis on "Dave's" name if I'd tried. I was dying to dig through his background, find any little thing that could tank his career and get him out of Timothy's way.

"You know, Don, Dave just applied for a good job and got it. There's no point in hating him for getting the job. Why shouldn't he take it? It's not like I would have declined the promotion because I knew someone else wanted it." Tim paused. "He doesn't have a big, fat ass, Donald."

"Figure of speech. You know what your problem is?" I asked, massaging his calves now, really enjoying the view of his gorgeous ass from my position at the foot of the bed.

"No, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"You're too good," I said, kissing his foot as I started rubbing that. "Most people would hate the asshole that got the job."

"It's not that I didn't suffer through a bit of that, but he's a decent guy. At least, he seems like he is."

"See, I could confirm or disprove that for you if you'd let me do what I do best."

"In my opinion, detective work isn't what you do best."

"Yeah, well, I'm not doing that to Dave. But I can investigate every corner of the bastard's life until I can give you a schedule of his fucking bathroom habits."

"As enticing as that sounds, let's stick with what you do best." He rolled over on his back and pulled me up so we could kiss, wrapping me up in his arms, kissing me over and over again until I was breathless. I don't know if it was passion or the easiest way to shut me up when he was tired of hearing me spew anti-Dave propaganda, but it didn't matter. We were enjoying it regardless.

Timothy drew out the fun in me. I guess I didn't have a whole lot to laugh about for quite a long time, but with him, I was playful again. I had fun rolling around in bed, joking, tickling each other, infusing foreplay with some actual play instead of just clocking the time I had to humor a bed partner with the preliminaries before I could screw him. Sometimes we're hot and heavy and just go for it, but there are times we spend a long time playing around, either joking or serious, enjoying each other - like sipping champagne instead of gulping beer. Sex with Timothy is something to be savored, not just consumed. And when we're in bed, he's funny and charming and passionate and generous, the warmest, sweetest man I've ever known.

I got over rhapsodizing about love very early in my life. I dedicated a song once to Kyle on some call-in show that was broadcast where we were stationed. I mean, I didn't say "Hey, this is Sergeant Donald Strachey, US Military Intelligence, sending a love song to my male lover I'm not supposed to have, Lieutenant Kyle Griffin!" I didn't give my name, I asked the DJ to be sure not to mention that it was a male who called, and I only referred to him as Kyle. There are plenty of Kyle's in the world.

We were having one of our rare interludes with the radio in the background, and my dedication to him came on - all it said was "this is for Kyle, hoping someday things will be different for us." The song was "Precious and Few". I couldn't think of anything a whole lot more...us than that.

Not only did he freak out because I dedicated something to him by name (I guess he thought he was the only Kyle in the world), but he thought the whole thing was corny. I don't really remember what he said - I probably worked hard at forgetting it - but it something along the lines of "What are you, a sixteen-year-old girl?" I guess I do remember what he said. Apparently, tough military men aren't supposed to dedicate songs to their lovers or be hung up on someone or pine for them when they can't be with them. He made me ashamed to be a romantic, like it made me weak and stupid and effeminate. Trust me, you weren't supposed to cry, either, when your boyfriend hurt your feelings. Let's just say I didn't feel much joy getting screwed that night, but it seemed to redeem me in his eyes, so I was young enough and infatuated enough to think that was a good thing.

Kyle didn't mean to hurt me, I know that. He was so conflicted over who and what he was, and I know he wished he wasn't gay. He wanted a "normal" life, and so he was trying to keep us so deeply in the closet that we were the stuff that doesn't see light even when the closet door is opened. God knows, I didn't mean to hurt him, either. I know he loved me to the extent he was capable of letting himself love a man. He even finally said the "L" word one night in the heat of passion. He saved my life, he risked everything to have an affair with me. He hated being gay, and sometimes that hate spilled over onto me, and I know he didn't mean to do that. He said he was sorry, eventually, and he brought me a couple of sickly flowering weeds to our next rendezvous, which made me laugh. Kyle had a beautiful smile, and underneath all his personal turmoil was a sense of humor.

When I made love with Timothy, every love song I ever knew ran through my head, and since I'm no poet, I kept wanting to either say to him something like the words in some of those songs, or play a song for him that made me think of him, but I knew I couldn't stand it if he laughed at me or thought it was stupid. He wouldn't really do that, I knew, because he was too kind to me to risk hurting me.

While I was having fun messing him all up, running my fingers through his hair, kissing him, rubbing my cheek against his chest, never tiring of the way his chest hair feels against my skin, or the way he feels against me, or the way he smells, or the way he sounds... I could love you, build my world around you, never leave you 'til my life is done... Baby, I love you... Come into my arms, let me know the wonder of all of you...

We made love face to face, holding each other, me inside him, just moving in him slowly, making him feel good, making us both feel good. When we're making love like that, sometimes he just looks into my eyes and gives me the most beautiful smile, like I'm making him the happiest man in the world. All I can do is smile back at him like the lovesick sap I am, and use my hands and my mouth and every other part of me to try to tell him what I can't find words to say.

The strawberries and Cool Whip had their moment when we were done (at least with round one). It wouldn't have occurred to me to do it that way - seems like you'd play with the goodies first. But this was even better. With the edge taken off, we talked, nibbled strawberries, got silly with the whipped cream, kissed, and just spent really amazing intimate time with each other.

And then that damn song came through the speakers. I had picked out a couple CD's out of his collection to put in the player, but I guess I didn't notice that one on the lineup, and now those cursed words were wafting in the air of our bedroom.

And if I can't find my way back home, it just wouldn't be fair, 'cause precious and few are the moments we two can share.

I pulled away and sat up on the edge of the bed with my back to him. It's not like I've never heard that song, or some part of it, since Kyle died, but usually I can escape it without having to explain it. I can turn it off, change the station if it's on the radio...but here I was, in bed with Timothy, a perfectly beautiful love song on the CD player while I was licking whipped cream off his nipple, and I felt like the song had me cornered.

"Don, what's wrong?" He was sitting up behind me, and then I felt him move around until he was sitting next to me, one of those warm arms of his around my shoulders. I felt clammy and exposed, and his body felt so good against mine. I wondered why he wanted a neurotic mess like me for a partner.

"I hate that song," I said. That left him momentarily speechless, and then he simply got up and hit the button to move to the next track which, blessedly, was some nice instrumental piano thing that didn't have any words to rip my guts out. He sat next to me again.

"Better?"

"Yeah, that's better," I muttered. There was a lump in my throat and I wanted it to just go away. "Is it okay if we just don't talk about it?"

"Of course it's okay, honey."

I looked at him, and not for the first time, wondered if he was real or a figment of my imagination. No one could accept me that completely that I could say something that off the wall, overreact like that to something as innocuous as a sweet love song, and not have them expect a full explanation.

He hugged me, and I held onto him like he was a life preserver. So many times, he's exactly that to me.

"It's getting late. Why don't we take a quick shower and get some sleep?" he suggested, and I nodded.

I knew I was more upset than I realized at hearing that damn song, because all we did is shower, and that was okay with me. Timothy handled me with the gentleness you'd use to bathe a baby. He knew something was wrong, something was hurting me, and whatever it was, he wanted to ease it. Make it better. And not out of some burning curiosity of his own. Just so I didn't feel bad anymore.

It was a chilly night, so Timmy put on his pajamas, and I put on boxers and a tank shirt and crawled into bed so I could soak up his warmth. If he gets exasperated with a cold-limbed octopus clinging to his body on cool nights, he never shows it. If my cold feet bring him up short, he just finds a way to tuck them between his own, or under a leg somehow so I'm cozy and drawing warmth like a heat-sucking vampire.

While we lay there in the dark, all tucked in together, a cold November rain pouring down on the nearly leafless trees outside, he started talking to me about some fundraiser he was planning. Even for a political function, it sounded boring, and I knew he was doing it on purpose. His voice calmed me, reassured me, kept my demons at bay and kept me grounded in the here and now, with him. I was bored at the same time, and that helped me doze off.

And he wonders why I think he's so smart that he can do anything.

********

I was working on the computer in my office while my secretary was moving about, harrumphing and tsking under her breath as she tried to clean up the room around us. I knew she wanted to curse me seven ways from Sunday, but I also know she needed the income, pathetic though it was. Part of me was tempted to feel guilty for not throwing away those take out bags, until I heard her call me something in Spanish that she didn't think I would know the meaning of as she loaded up the trash bag with them.

I had a buddy in the Army who reverted to Spanish whenever he was really pissed off, so I had a reasonably good grasp of Spanish curses and nasty names.

Rita was generally a sweet-natured older lady with dark hair and big, warm, brown eyes. She seemed friendly and pleasant in the interview, but it soon became apparent she didn't like her implied job responsibility of cleaning up my crap, her official responsibility of hauling office supplies up the stairs when the elevator wasn't working, and the joy of listening to the guys giving karate lessons next door most of the afternoon. I didn't blame her. She was supposedly a secretary, not a maid, and my office was shitty, at best. But then I never asked her to clean up after me. She just did it because working for a slob annoyed her. Needless to say, Rita and I were not a long-term match.

I guess I pick up after myself with Timmy because I love him. He never really gets on me about it, but when he has to clean up something unsavory that I should have, I feel like shit for doing that to him. The less he scolds me, the more I clean up after myself. It's the rebel in me. If he were always on me about it, I daresay we'd be fighting all the time. When he wordlessly tidies up some smelly gym socks or runs laundry that's 99% mine and just silently folds it and puts it in the drawers, I love him a hundred times more, and I try to do better. Or I just give up on doing better and take him out for dinner and a movie, and he forgives me. Sometimes just hugging him and saying thank you is enough. That blew my mind.

Imagine my surprise when the object of my affections burst through the door of my office, more excited than I'd ever seen him with the possible exception of when I proposed, nearly tripping over Rita and her trash bag. After apologizing profusely and introducing himself, he approached my desk, which I'd already abandoned so I was nice and reachable for the big Timothy hug I knew was in my future.

"I got the job!"

"What? Which one?" I asked, puzzled, since I knew he'd interviewed for a couple other jobs in the last couple weeks.

"The one in Congressman's Donovan's office - his Chief of Staff!"

"That's the one you wanted, right?" I asked, getting excited.

"Donald, I'll be his Chief of Staff. Yes, it's the one I wanted!" he gushed, grabbing me in a bone-crushing hug that lifted my feet off the floor.

"Honey, I'm so glad for you."

"And we don't have to move. It's local!"

"Well, look at that," I said, picking up my desk calendar and ripping the day's page out of it. "My evening just opened up," I said. It was already after four, and there was no way we weren't going to celebrate this. "Rita, cancel anything on here I haven't already done, okay?" I handed her the calendar page. She looked at me like I'd gone mad, and after releasing on me a string of curses in Spanish that even my Army buddy would have blushed at, she concluded with one all too familiar phrase.

"Roughly translated? I quit!" she exclaimed, crumpling the page and tossing it in the air before grabbing her coat and stalking out the door.

"Huh," I said, shrugging. "Who'd have thought canceling a few appointments would have been her breaking point? You wanna turn down that Chief of Staff gig for a life of glamour and excitement as my secretary?" I asked Timothy, who was still staring after Rita, stunned.

"What do you do to these women? She's the third one you've had since I met you."

"Some of the same things I do to you, except they don't think I'm as cute as you do."

"That explains it," he said, nodding.

"Thanks a lot, sweetheart," I replied, laughing.

"Yes, well, they've never had one of your full body massages."

"You like those, huh?"

"Oh, yes, especially the full body ones."

"I think you mentioned that."

"I like those."

"As luck would have it, after I take my beautiful boyfriend out to dinner and dancing, I have a slot in my schedule for a full body massage." I touched his face, then urged him toward me for a kiss. "Congratulations, honey. You deserve this."

"You were the one who encouraged me to look for something else. I feel really good about this. Donovan's a great guy and his stand on the issues are very aligned with my own, and he seems to have a very dedicated, sharp team. And I'll be the Chief of Staff," he added, and his excitement was so cute. In his dark business suit and topcoat and expensive shoes, he was as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning.

"Do I have to start calling you 'Chief of Staff Callahan' now?"

"Maybe just once, tonight, when you're making me come," he said, and I laughed.

"You have a deal."

********

When we got back home, there was a message on the answering machine that Tim went to check while I sorted the mail. Lots of bills, a couple of ads, most of them his, but a few of them mine. I smiled, liking the domesticity of it all. Our mingled mail, coming home together to the same place...it was as good as I thought it would be. I was vaguely aware of Tim's mother's voice on the answering machine, but I wasn't paying too much attention to it until he said something.

"Do you mind if I take time to give her a call before we get ready to go out? It sounds kind of urgent."

"Sure. Maybe I'll run over and pick up the junk mail that Mrs. Foster thinks I can't live without," I said, referring to the elderly woman who lived in the apartment next door to my old place.

"She misses you, honey. You were a good neighbor to her."

"She's a nice lady," I replied, a little absently, reading a snotty note on my overdue cell phone bill. She was taking in any of my mail that the change of address form with the post office didn't catch. It was mostly ads, although she told me my new issue of Muscle and Fitness was there. I'd been sipping coffee in my office when she called, and nearly blew it through my nose when she asked if I minded if she looked at the pictures. It's good to know there's still a spark even after eighty.

"I won't be all that long. You don't have to leave."

"We probably won't go to dinner until near seven anyway, and you know what happens when you and your mother get going, and you do have news for her."

"I'll try to have it wrapped up by seven," he said, chuckling as he sat down to call her.

I blew him a kiss and headed out the door. I picked up some take out from the chicken place I knew Mrs. Foster liked, and dropped it off to her when I picked up my mail. She wanted to update me on her kids, grandkids, and cats, so I sat with her a while and chatted with her while she ate. Once Tim and his mother got rolling, they'd be going for a while. His mother hadn't called in a while, and we'd been busy, and with the new job, I figured I'd stay out his hair so he could visit with her and not worry about me hovering around waiting to go to dinner.

On the way home, I stopped at the florist and got him a couple roses and some fern wrapped up in paper. I was so proud of him for landing that job, and so excited for him to get something he deserved. I addressed the card to "Chief of Staff Callahan," and I had a hard time not grinning on the way home.

When I walked in the door, I expected to either hear Tim's animated voice talking to his mother, or him moving around, getting ready for our date. I wasn't expecting to see Timothy sitting on the couch, staring into space, still wearing the same outfit he had on when I left him there. He wasn't talking on the phone. And he didn't say anything when I first came in.

"Hey, honey," I said, a little cautious.

"Hey," he said. Then he saw the flowers, and he smiled faintly. I sat next to him on the couch and kissed him, handing him the flowers. He laughed softly when he saw the card, but it didn't have its usual humor and spirit behind it. He opened the card. I'd written, I'm so proud of you and I love you. Don.

His expression faltered and he set the roses on the coffee table. "That's really beautiful, thank you," he managed. His eyes looked like they were filling, and I knew something was very wrong. It was a nice note, but it wasn't that stirring.

"Is your mom okay?" I asked, almost afraid he was going to tell me she was sick or something awful had happened to someone in his family.

"She's fine," he said, his voice strained. "We can't get married in Arlington, like I thought. We'll have to have the wedding in Albany."

"What happened?" I asked, turning sideways so I could face him, resting my hand on his arm.

"My father doesn't want us to have it there...so close to DC and all his political cronies." A single tear crept around his glasses and rolled down his cheek. "My mother was really upset. She's been working him over about it, but he's not budging."

"Timothy, he doesn't own Arlington, or even DC, as much as he may have himself convinced that he does. If we want to get married there, we don't need his permission."

"I don't want our wedding to be some...some...media relations issue...or worse. Some dirty scandal in his political career that his spin doctors have to fix." He swiped at the tear and sniffed. "He won't even come to the wedding, and he doesn't want it to happen in the same town. I guess it's okay if I'm gay as long as I never want to share my life with someone or express myself publicly," he concluded. "I guess I have this coming."

"How in the hell did you come up with that?" I asked, abandoning his arm and taking his hand instead, kissing it, holding onto it. I was ruffling the back of his hair a little, too. I know Timothy likes to have his say, get his words out when he's upset. Then there's me. When I feel awful I just want him to hug me, and I wish he was psychic, too, so I didn't have to tell him anything and he'd just know. God knows, most of the time he does anyway.

"I hate to admit it, but there were times I felt just a little smug and superior about my enlightened family who accepted me as I am. I felt sorry for you, that your bigoted family didn't have anything to do with you...I kept thinking that it was too bad they weren't like my family."

"That doesn't make you smug and superior, honey. Hell, I felt that way - that it was too bad my family wasn't like your family. Although, I did think your father was a world class dick anyway, because I know that we can tell ourselves Thanksgiving here, and the weekend at a bed and breakfast, is a great idea, but I also know you've got a hole in your chest the size of a basketball at the thought of not being at home with your family."

He turned to me then and I held him, easing his glasses off and setting them aside, because he has a tendency to forget they're there and then get poked in the head with them when I decide to hug him as tightly and enthusiastically as I usually do. I guess I never had a boyfriend who wore glasses before, or maybe I never was as excited to hug anyone as I am to get my hands on Timothy. Fortunately, I've learned how to tackle him and do most anything else to him without even bumping his glasses anymore. Practice, that's the key...

I hated his whole fucking family for making him feel so bad when a couple hours ago, he'd been on top of the world. Nobody's ever lifted me off my feet before out of sheer excitement, and I've gotta admit, it was kind of fun. And now his prick father had managed to stamp out that happiness with one cruel gesture.

"Don't worry about the wedding, sweetheart. The only person I need to have there is you. Why don't we forget the monkey suits and the caterers? Who needs them anyway?"

"Yes, that's a good idea," he said, pulling back, and I already knew I'd stepped in it by the tone of his voice. "We don't need to do anything special to mark our lifetime commitment to each other. We'll just slip down to city hall and have a quiet civil ceremony - oh, wait! That's right, it's not legal!" he snapped, getting up and striding toward the bedroom.

"Timothy, come on, you know I didn't mean it that way," I protested, getting most of the sentence out before the bedroom door slammed, decisively. And the lock clicked. I knocked. "Timmy, honey, I'm sorry. Come on, don't lock me out." I rattled the knob a little. He didn't answer. If he was crying, he was muffling it effectively, and if he wasn't, he was just fuming and he'd have to get over it when he got over it. He can call me bull-headed all he wants, but that man has a spine of solid steel. You might as well not try to bend him when he's in a state over something. "I love you," I called hopefully. Still nothing.

Thanks to my desperation to get him out of his funk, I learned the one technique that, if used sparingly, freaks him out so completely that he usually caves in. I whined. I don't mean that I just bothered him a little, I mean a full-fledged childish whine in my voice. I grabbed the flowers off the coffee table and went back to the door.

"Baby, please, open the door," I said, giving it my best whine job. There was a long pause, and a moment later, there was a click and the door opened. I was prepared, with the best set of sad hound eyes I've ever turned on anyone.

"I love you, too," he said, still sniffing a little, blinking.

"Marrying you is the most important thing in the world to me. It's just that there's no big party we could have that would make me want you more, or be more committed to you, and there's no big party we could cancel that would help you get rid of me. I'm yours, Timothy...you pretty much had me the first time we danced together." I handed him the flowers. "Chief of Staff Callahan," I added, and he laughed and hugged me, even though he still seemed to feel pretty low about everything else. I could have slept on the couch or found ways to entertain myself while he sulked, but more so than anything else, I couldn't have sat there all evening knowing he was sitting in the other room feeling as bad as he did, and not try to make it better. That was why I had to get that door open. I can make him smile when he feels bad, sometimes when he's ticked off and doesn't want to, and he always feels better when he does. I don't think it's possible to love someone more than I love him. If it is, it would probably kill me.

"Your mom is still going to come to whatever wedding we have, right?" I asked, pulling back, and he nodded.

"Probably my grandmother, too, and some cousins, a couple aunts and uncles..."

"So essentially, it's your sorehead father who doesn't want to come, and a change of venues."

"Well, yes, I guess so." He looked at me. "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound quite as bad."

"All I meant before was that our commitment to each other isn't riding on a ceremony. When you think about it, that's kind of liberating. We won't be more or less married without a piece of paper, and I won't be any more yours after a wedding than I am now. Just wait a minute," I said, when I saw a flash of something in his eyes that wasn't good. "I never said our commitment to each other wasn't worth one hell of a party to celebrate it. I just said all I needed was you."

"I know you're not big on fancy events and monkey suits."

"Timothy, if it will make you happy, I will literally dress up in a monkey costume and swing in on a chandelier to marry you." I grinned, and he laughed at that.

"Be careful what you promise. I'm back to square one with all the planning now."

"I have an idea."

"You do?" he asked, seeming shocked that I had an idea about an event.

"What's the most romantic day of the year?"

"Valentine's Day," he said, smiling, catching the gist of what I had in mind. I took his hand.

"You wanna be my Valentine for the next fifty or sixty years?" I asked, grinning, kissing his hand. "We don't need to pack up all our shit and trudge off to Virginia. Let's be cheesy and cliched and rent a nice banquet hall and do up the whole place with hearts and flowers and Cupids and crap and get a band to play a bunch of sappy love songs, so we can spend most of the reception hanging all over each other slow dancing. Whoever wants to come, can. If they don't, they can go fuck themselves."

Looking back, it wasn't the most elegantly phrased suggestion, but Timmy's smile just kept getting bigger and bigger while I talked. If he thought he was a romantic, he hadn't seen anything yet. I had a lifetime of it stuffed down inside me, and he was about to have it erupt all over him.

"I'd love to marry you on Valentine's Day," he said, his voice a bit shaky. "Surrounded by hearts and flowers and Cupids and crap," he added, laughing, hugging me. "You really want to help me plan this?" he asked, pulling back. "You hate events like this."

"I couldn't hate anything that makes you happy, honey. And anything that gives me a chance to tell you I love you, kiss you, and spend a whole lot of time with you in my arms on a dance floor is just fine with me."

"Then I'll call my mother back and tell her the wedding's in Albany on Valentine's Day," he said, looking as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. If I had one wish, it would be that I could always make his problems better that easily.

"You can call her back tomorrow. You have a date with me tonight, remember? Dinner, dancing, and a full body massage."

"Thank you," he said, looking into my eyes, touching my cheek.

"Nah, thank you for agreeing to marry me in the first place. The least I can do is help you plan the kind of party you deserve."

We went out for a nice dinner and held hands by candlelight, and then we went dancing at one of our favorite places. I did indeed give him a full body massage when we got home, and we made love until the sun came up. I corrupted him into calling in to work, so he didn't have to go in until noon. At which time he could give his notice that he was now Chief of Staff Callahan for some politician who recognized what an awesomely brilliant and talented guy my Timothy is, and gave him the job he ought to have.

Of course, he'd be courteous and charming in giving his notice, but he wasn't anybody's flunky anymore.

We spent the morning in bed, too, and giggled like a couple of horny teenagers as we rushed to get up and get ready to get him into his office by noon. I drove him to work, and kissed him until my tongue reached his tonsils before I let him out of the car. He was walking on air as he headed into the building, and I watched him go with this idiotic-looking smile on my face. I was already thinking about which song I'd pick out to dedicate to him at our reception.