Title: For Better or for Worse
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 9505
References/Spoilers: Can't think of any. This story takes place before the time line of the movies.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: As their love continues to deepen and grow, Donald wrestles with some inner demons that threaten his happiness with Timothy. Sequel to the story "In Sickness and in Health"

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FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE

by

Candy Apple

I can't understand why they ever let Timothy get away from the priesthood, because he works miracles. Somehow, he made half a banana, a little blob of strawberry flavored yogurt, and two pieces of dry toast look like something you'd pay ten bucks for in a restaurant and consider yourself lucky. He'd sliced up the banana, arranged it around the blob of pink yogurt on a little plate, so it almost looked like a flower with a pink middle and banana petals. He cut the toast into eight little toast points. I don't know if his intentions were entirely artistic, or if he was trying to force me into eating slowly and carefully. Since I had just regained my appetite, my inclination was to scarf down the food. With everything cut and arranged, it reminded me to slow down, that my stomach wasn't ready to handle things too fast just yet. He'd even replaced orange juice with chilled orange Gatorade. At least I wasn't drinking it room temperature anymore.

As I ate my breakfast, propped up in bed like royalty, I was planning to gently but firmly reassert control over my life and announce to Tim that I was getting dressed and going to work. I wasn't puking, I hadn't make a gazelle-like sprint to the john since sometime the previous evening, so there was no reason for me to screw up the deal with my new clients. When I got up, my spurt of energy was short-lived. I went to the bathroom, shaved, took a shower. Halfway through it, I felt dizzy, and I realized how raw and unhappy my insides felt. They were struggling to make sense of breakfast, and even though eating made me feel stronger, it made my stomach churn a bit. When I stepped out of the shower, I was never as glad to see anyone as I was to see Tim there holding up the towel. My instinct was to take it from him and dry myself off, but my arms felt like lead, and I let him dry me off like I was a helpless child.

"I guess I'm not a hundred percent yet," I said, looking into that sweet face of his, letting the concern and the love I saw in his eyes wash over me more soothingly than the shower had. I would have hugged him, but he was dressed, and I was naked and damp, and since I felt too lethargic to do anything, I didn't.

He helped me get dressed in an old suit of sweats and some clean socks, and then I hugged him. I held onto him and tried not to let myself get emotional. He'd already mopped up my puke and changed my pants in the last two days. I wasn't about to snivel all over him, but I did need to hold him, and to feel his arms around me. I wasn't used to having someone take care of me like that. And worry about me.

"Are you okay, honey?" he asked, and I couldn't blame him for wondering.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I said, moving back a little. "Thanks to you."

"Why don't I get you comfortable on the couch, so you can have a little break from being in bed? Then you can tell me who you need me to call for you, to cancel appointments so you're not a no-show."

"You don't have to - "

"I know I don't have to," he said, interrupting me. "You're doing a lot better but you're still weak, and getting riled up and worrying about business is going to wear you out. Just tell me what you need taken care of, and I'll do it. I do that kind of thing for a living, remember?"

"For a senator," I said, smiling.

"I suppose you think doing it for her means more to me than doing it for you? Let me make some calls for you, and then tell me if there's anything urgent you need taken care of financially right away."

"Tim, I don't want to take a bunch of money from you. I know you're not rolling in it, either."

"We've been through this, and I want to help out. Besides, it's only temporary." He framed my face with his hands. "Now just relax and put everything in my hands for a couple of days until you're back on your feet. If things were reversed, wouldn't you be arguing with me to just let you help out, and wouldn't you really want me to let you?"

"Okay, okay," I relented, chuckling. I wondered if I'd ever win an argument with Timothy. I found myself not really caring if I did. As long as I won Timothy, I would consider myself victorious.

And so for the first time in my adult life, I relaxed on the couch, and let go of everything. My boyfriend was taking care of it, and me. He wrote down the names of my new clients, and what I needed to tell them, and called my secretary with the information. He also asked her for any new phone messages and told her I was recovering from the flu and probably wouldn't be back for another day or two. It was on the tip of my tongue to object to that, but I gave in and trusted him. He was probably right. I slept through half the calls he made, and getting up off the couch seemed insurmountable.

He called a few places and used one of his credit cards to pay the bills that were either almost due or past due. I knew he was right - the setback was temporary, and some things just came together badly, and losing that thousand bucks didn't help. But that was my choice, and I would have done it again. Part of me felt wonderful to be the object of such caring and concern. The other part felt afraid. I didn't like counting on people, because they had a tendency to jerk the rug out from under you once you let your guard down.

I often got the uncanny feeling Tim read my mind. Just when I was thinking of all the ways this could hurt like hell if it fell apart, he finished up his calls and nudged me to raise up a bit so he could sit on the end of the couch. With my pillow in his lap, I put my head there, and he stroked my hair and slipped a warm hand under my sweatshirt to rub my back.

"That feels good," I sighed, yawning, so glad he was with me that I couldn't even think of something to say that would let him know. And really, gushing like that would probably just make me sound more pathetic than I already had in the last couple days.

"Just rest and take a nap," he said, kissing my cheek. As I dozed off, I looked forward to feeling better, so I could feel those magic hands on me for another reason.

********

I tried to force myself to concentrate on the computer screen, to keep my thoughts away from Don, and how he was doing, and whether or not he was feeling okay. I know I had gone into overprotective overdrive with him while he was sick, but I couldn't help it. For one thing, he was so sick and then so frail for a day or two while he got his strength back, that I couldn't help worrying what his recovering body would do with his bizarre schedule. And then I got thinking about the fact that I'd only met him two weeks ago and we had yet to go on our official second "date".

So far, I'd done everything they advise you not to do in a new relationship. I'd let him know exactly how I felt about him, made noises about a future together, and loaned him money. Oddly, none of that bothered me. I found myself more concerned with who had treated him so badly in the past that he seemed shocked by someone worrying about him, loving the beautiful person that he was just the way he was, or caring enough about him to do something so simple as help him with his laundry when he was sick, or insist on making his meals for a few days until his system had time to fully recover.

Yes, I was packing him food to take to work, and cooking his meals for at least a few days, because he needed to be on a mild, low fat diet for a while after being so sick. It's not like he could just hop out of bed and go to work and scarf down some greasy takeout in his car while he sat up all night. Given the shape he was in and the fact there were fresh vegetables, fruit, and yogurt in his kitchen, it was obvious he must eat at least somewhat healthfully but I think he often threw his stomach a curve ball when his schedule got crazy. At the moment, I figured his stomach would probably throw it right back at him.

It had been a whole six hours since I'd seen him, so I gave in to all my overprotective instincts and called him.

"Hey," he said, with a smile in his voice. The absence of any endearment made me think I'd probably caught him at a less than convenient moment.

"Are you busy?" I asked.

"I'm meeting with a client," he said, his voice pleasant but stilted.

"I'm sorry. You could have let me go to voicemail."

"No, I wouldn't do that, because then you'd worry that the patient flat-lined. I'm fine."

"Sure?" I asked, laughing. He could be a smart ass, but that's one of the things I loved about him.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said, chuckling softly.

"Okay. See you tonight maybe?"

"Probably late, but yeah."

"My place?"

"Yup."

"Okay. I love you," I said, keeping my voice down in case he didn't want it to carry to his client.

"You, too. Everything okay on your end?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I miss you, though. Stupid, huh?"

"No. Never. I know the feeling," he added, and I knew talking mushy was hard without privacy.

"See you tonight."

"You sure will," he replied, sounding happy, and most importantly to me, sounding strong and healthy and okay.

It was almost midnight when I heard Don's key in the lock, and heard him then try to stealthily move through the apartment toward the bedroom where I was already in bed. I didn't know how late he'd be, so I'd turned in about an hour or so before that.

"I'm awake," I called to him, and I could hear the tentative steps change to more normal footsteps as he entered the bedroom and I turned on the bedside lamp.

"I shouldn't have come this late," he said, and I saw that he had a duffle bag with him. I tried not to look too happy, but I doubt I was fooling him by playing it cool. "I stopped at my place and picked up a few things for that drawer you promised me," he said, setting the bag by the dresser and leaning over to kiss me hello.

"I'm glad you're here. Did you eat?"

"I had dinner. My boyfriend packed it for me," he said, kissing me again before he sat on the side of the bed to take off his shoes. I got up on my knees behind him and reached around to undo his tie and take it off. Then I hugged him, pulling him back against my chest, kissing his cheek. "He's really good to me," he said, leaning into me, his voice a little hushed.

"You're easy to be good to," I responded. I didn't care if I lost a little sleep or it was late. We were in love with each other, so of course we both longed for affection and touching and closeness with each other, but there was something in Don that seemed starved for it. As if he was soaking it up from me like a sponge. So I ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek, and held onto him, effectively preventing him from doing much of anything, until he finally laughed.

"I need to get undressed, Timmy," he said, managing somehow to angle his head back to kiss my cheek. He hadn't called me "Timmy" before, and I hadn't asked him to. Some of my family and a few of my good friends occasionally called me that, and I liked that he'd just decided to do it on his own.

"Yes, you definitely need to get undressed," I said, kissing his neck. "I can help," I offered, unbuttoning his shirt.

"It's late," he objected weakly.

"With enough caffeine and the right incentive, I can survive on a couple hours' sleep," I replied, nipping his earlobe. He has such cute ears. Who am I kidding? I think everything about him is cute.

When his shirt had been tossed aside I grabbed the bottom of his tank shirt and pulled that over his head. For a moment, I just indulged myself in running my hands over his chest, letting my fingers tease his nipples, noticing they were already hard as little pebbles. I kissed the back of his neck and his shoulders, all the while caressing his chest, feeling the contours of his perfectly toned abs, his taut, beautiful belly that led down to that even more beautiful cock nestled against those ample balls I'd felt in my hand before. I was dying to touch them again, feel the combination of soft skin and silky gold hair. I wanted him inside me, and I didn't want to wait any longer.

I undid his belt and opened his fly, slipping my hand inside his shorts to touch him. He gasped and the back of his head rested against my shoulder. I kissed and licked at that perfect expanse of throat, one hand more aggressively rubbing his nipples, skimming his chest. I could feel him getting hard, and I didn't want him to come with my hand down his pants. I wanted him to come while he was inside me.

I moved away a little, and he turned around to watch me take off my t-shirt and lie back on the bed to slide off my boxers.

"Make love to me, Donald," I said, reaching over and touching his face.

He didn't answer me in words, but the way he moved so swiftly to take off his pants and shorts and even his socks, let me know he liked the idea. More than that, he was almost fully erect just from our little foreplay.

He climbed on the bed and got between my legs, pushing back on them. For a weird moment, I almost thought he was just going to push inside me with no preparation, but I should have known better. With my legs up, he lingered over kissing and sucking at the insides of my thighs, one hand wrapping around my growing erection and stroking it. He moved lower and urged my legs higher, so he could lick and suck at the tender skin behind my balls. I was gripping the sheets, moaning at the sensation of his tongue playing with me there, teasing me, licking me, then sucking my balls, then kissing them, rubbing a slightly stubbled cheek against my skin. I wanted to say something but it came out as an inarticulate gasp as he kissed and licked around my center, then poked his tongue inside. It wasn't one of those fast, in and out things that left you wondering if it really happened or you were just having an erotic hallucination. He took his time, moving his tongue in and out, playing with me there, making me want it to go on forever and stop immediately at the same time. I wanted to feel him inside me, but when that happened, this would be over. He was making humming sounds, the vibrations dancing on the nerves of that sensitive area, sounding like what he was doing was the most wonderful thing he'd ever experienced. I felt so wanted, so desired, so sensual...

I gave up on thinking and just felt. I let myself make all the noises and say all the nonsensical, sometimes dirty, things that my short-circuited brain came up with. I writhed wantonly on the bed and didn't care what I looked like or how I sounded. There was nothing I didn't trust Donald with, and nothing I wanted to hide from him.

He must have sensed that I was in danger of coming before the main event, because he finally stopped what he was doing and grabbed the goodies out of the night stand. Soon, I felt a slippery finger teasing me, slipping into me, moving about in ways that made me bear down on it and groan in frustration at the same time. Another finger joined it, but it was gentle. He was easing me into relaxing and stretching, finally finding my prostate and targeting it with those wonderful fingers. I felt open and ready, loved and wanted, and I longed for him to be in me.

He moved up, bracing himself on either side of me and kissing me so gently, so softly, like we had all the time in the world and weren't both on the brink.

"I love you, Timothy," he whispered, his lips moving against mine as he spoke.

"I love you, too, Donald," I whispered back, and he smiled at me, kissing my chin with a devilish glint in his eye before he carefully eased inside me, waiting for me to adjust, tuning into my body as if it were speaking to him, telling him when to move. Once we were joined, he took his time kissing my chest, licking my nipples and sucking on them, even nuzzling my armpits and nipping at the sensitive skin on the insides of my arms.

All the while, he was moving slowly inside me, building a slow burn that was all the more intense for the build up. He held me in his arms and I wrapped my arms and legs around him, my heart swelling from the closeness, the tenderness of it all, while my body eagerly received every gentle thrust. It was like he was moving just for me, just to make me feel good. I know he had to be feeling good, too, but I buried my face in his neck and felt the hot tears in my eyes when I realized no one had ever made love to me this way before. It was how I'd always wanted it to be, with someone I loved, who loved me, making love and expressing love and not just being humored with what they finally figured was enough foreplay before getting down to business.

Donald made love to me like every move, every moment, every touch that brought me pleasure was the goal of the whole experience. He made me want him in me, made me want to meet his thrusts with movements of my own, made me feel joy in his pleasure, made me want to give him everything. When I came, I know I yelled loud enough to wake the dead, but hopefully not all the neighbors. I didn't care. When he came, he didn't hold back, either.

For a long time we lay there, spent, wrapped around each other, him still inside me. I kissed his forehead.

"I think you've recuperated," I teased, and he laughed, which made for an interesting vibration inside me.

"They say sex is the best medicine," he replied, kissing my chest.

"I thought it was laughter," I said.

"You think laughter is better than this?"

"You win," I conceded.

"Yeah, finally, I think I did. I met you," he said, stroking my face, kissing me deeply, making it last while our tongues made love to each other.

We moved around and got comfortable, and I turned out the light. I hadn't thought much about it, but I usually didn't leave the light on for sex. Not for any special conscious reason, but tonight, I'd wanted light, because I didn't want to deprive a single one of my senses of being filled with the man I love.

********

When I woke up, I was alone in bed. My alarm hadn't gone off, and it was still dark. It was insane, I know, but for a moment I wondered if Don had left. I didn't think he'd do that, after what we shared the night before, but he's more of a night owl than a morning person, so I was a little puzzled where he'd be. I looked at the clock. It was 5:30.

"Don?" I called, sitting up. "Donald, are you here?" There was no reply. I got up and put on my robe, sticking my feet in slippers. It was a chilly fall morning.  

I heard the door unlock and open, and as I walked out to the living room, a shaggy, unshaven Donald tried to slip in quietly, a little bouquet of mixed flowers in one hand, and a bag from the an all night diner in the other. I tip-toed back to the bedroom, threw the robe aside and got back in bed, hoping he hadn't heard me. He was trying to surprise me, and I wanted to let him.

A few minutes passed of me playing dead and him puttering around in the kitchen. I didn't really want to speculate on what he got for us at the all night diner at that hour of the morning, so I didn't. I just relaxed and thought about the night before, and tried to tell my body it wasn't getting excited over it. That was getting less feasible as I lay on my back and the sheet was tenting.

Then Donald came in with his bouquet of flowers, probably intent on awakening me with a kiss. There was a long pause, and I felt the bed dip, and the covers move, and as I opened my eyes, I felt the most incredible warm, wet sensation around my cock.

"Good morning," I gasped, feeling a devilish hand playing with my balls, and then another one slipping under me, teasing my hole. He just made that humming sound with his mouth, like he was devouring his favorite ice cream, rather than sucking my soul out through my cock.

I finally recovered enough sanity to lift the sheet and look down so I could watch him, the sight of him giving me that enthusiastic blow job almost as arousing as the physical sensations. Almost. I didn't know if I should bear down on his finger or arch into his mouth, so I probably ended up doing some clumsy combination of both, moaning and babbling how good it was, cheering him on in my own incoherent, sex-fogged way.

No one ever made me scream and lose it the way Donald does. I don't know if he has a magic mouth, magic hands, and a magic cock, or if it's because I know how much he loves me and I can feel how much he wants to make me feel good every time he touches me. Logic tells me it's the latter, but love makes me think it's some miraculous erotic combination of both.

There was something extraordinarily erotic about his clothed body pressing my naked one into the bed while we kissed. I felt like he'd stirred something deep inside me that had never really been alive before. I was insatiable for him, and as we made out on the rumpled sheets, and I felt the roughness of fabric rubbing on my bare skin, all I could think of was how it would feel to have him in me like that. In the throes of arousal and passion, I know I uttered "Fuck me," against his ear, and I was kind of shocked at myself. Most of the time I was turned off by the fact that's all my bed partner wanted to do, versus making love, or having any real feelings for me.

Maybe it was the first time in my life that I was so sure I was loved that I didn't have to think about it anymore. I didn't have to long for it. I had it, Donald gave it to me without reservation, treated me like I was something rare and precious. And nobody was teasing me for getting raunchy or making me feel self-conscious for wanting what I wanted. I didn't censor myself, I just wanted him that way and let him know it, and rolled over on my stomach so we could get on with it.

Perceptive lover that he is, he knew what was turning me on and he made a point of rubbing against my bare back and my bare ass, humping me from behind, letting me feel the friction of his clothes against me. He was also giving me time to catch up, letting me have time to build a second head of steam before we did it.

I could hear him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, and I was grateful I'd already come once or it would have been over for me right then. I admit I don't like it rough. I like it spirited, sometimes, but I don't want to feel pounded, used, and uncomfortable. It never occurred to me to fear that from Don. He was gentle and tender and considerate when he got me ready and slid inside me, even though we were moving a whole lot faster than the night before. This was hot and heavy and lusty but it had this thread of affection and passion and caring that can only come when two people who are very deeply in love decide to have some fun. The love is there, and you know it, and you can get on with having a good time and you can call it fucking, but you know deep down that it's all making love, and that you're treasured just as much when you're making the headboard bang against the wall as you are with candles burning and romantic music playing.

I knew we loved each other, but I knew then how deeply those feelings ran, because I'd never felt that way with anyone before. I always wanted all the trappings of romance because the genuine love just wasn't there. And when you don't have that, and you remove the pretense of it, you're left with feeling like a convenient hole that happens to have a person attached to it.

We were both grunting, gasping, moaning, and sputtering various obscenities until he came, and that guttural, primal-sounding shout made me come, too. It was a few seconds before either of us spoke or moved. He was lying on my back, his heart pounding, and I was just lying there on my belly completely debauched and thoroughly happy. I couldn't remember ever wanting it that bad before, or feeling any more intense physical heat.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbled. That was even more eloquent than anything I could come up with.

"I would if I could," I replied, and he laughed, stroking my arm, kissing my shoulder.

"That was the best sex I ever had," he said, kissing my shoulder again. We were both too wiped out to roll over and kiss each other properly. I could still feel the roughness of his jeans rubbing against my ass, which felt like every nerve ending in it was hypersensitized. I rubbed myself against him, and he groaned. "You're gonna kill me, Timothy."

"Maybe, but think of the big smile on your face when they find the body," I replied. He laughed again and this time we did finally move around so we were facing each other. I didn't even feel embarrassed or shy with him about the fact I was naked, he'd just given me a good ride, and he still had all his clothes on.

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me, one hand sliding down to rub over the curve of my ass and massage my cheeks. I moaned into the kiss and arched against him, even though I didn't really have it in me for round three. I just liked his hands on me.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, kissing me, smiling. The alarm went off. "Shit."

"Turn it off," I said.

"You'll be late for work," he said, but he turned it off anyway.

"Nah, I'll get there. If you drive me," I added, unbuttoning his shirt, kissing his chest.

We spent a long time there just petting each other and kissing, me undressing him a little at a time until I had him thoroughly messed up. I gave him a hand job he seemed to enjoy a lot while we spent quite a while kissing and nibbling at each other. Then we took a shower which made a mess in the bathroom because we decided we weren't done playing just yet. He'd brought waffles from the diner, so we dowsed them with syrup and ate them cold with a little coffee and some yogurt I made him eat to coat his stomach and help restore the balance of things in his system. He finally remembered to present me with the flowers, which by then were looking a bit listless in their plastic wrapper.

"I guess I distracted you and cost these guys a bit of their liveliness," I joked, putting them in water.

"Feel free to distract me anytime," he said, laughing. "I'm glad I brought extra clothes over last night," he added. "Not that I wouldn't find it really arousing to have our mingled come on my jeans, but you know, my secretary might be a little freaked out." He looked me up and down as we were getting ready to leave the apartment.

"What?"

"You'd just never figure this guy for the guy I was in bed with this morning," he said, adjusting my tie. "God, Timothy, you might just be the sexiest man I've ever met."

"Might be?" I teased. "Might be? What's with this fucking 'might be' business?" I wrapped my arms around him and pushed him against the wall next to the front door. If we'd had time, I'd have had him right there. "Might be?" I asked again, kissing him so long and so hard that I thought we'd suffocate or bruise each other. "What do I need to do to win the title?"

"Okay, okay, you ARE the sexiest man I ever met."

"Sure about that now?" I kept it up, kissing him again and reaching down to give him a little squeeze.

"Shit, you're certainly hands down the most evil one," he replied, slipping his hand under my suit coat to squeeze my ass. Well, turnabout was fair play, and I started it.

"You know how much I love you," I said, touching his face, kissing him softly, without much tongue but with all the love I could express.

"Yeah, I do. I probably don't deserve you," he said, kissing me back. "I love you, Timothy."

"You deserve any good thing that happens to you, honey," I told him, kissing his forehead.

"We need to go," he said, though he was still looking in my eyes, and I knew he was still processing what I'd just said to him.

We walked out to the car hand in hand. He opened my door for me and once I was seated, he leaned in and kissed me one more time. One of the things I love the most about Donald is that he may not wave a flag or march in a parade, and prolonged political discussions make his toenails curl, but he loves me with all the pride and openness in the world. He never touches me in public to make a point, but he expresses his love for me when the spirit moves him, and if anyone within view doesn't like it, that's their problem.

********

I think Tim and I called each other about six or seven times that day. They weren't long calls, but we were hot for each other and in love and the little interludes on the phone helped make the day go by faster. I asked him out on our official second date for that Friday night. My newest client paid me a healthy retainer, so I was able to replenish the business account, pay Tim back, and have enough left over to take us out.

Making love to him the night before was incredible. The burst of energy he had that morning was off the charts. I was turned on by him almost from the moment I saw him, but I never would have pictured him as a sheet-ripping, expletive shouting, wild animal in bed. Still waters do indeed run deep. There was nothing wrong with that man sexually that being loved didn't take care of. He deserved nothing less.

I liked having my stuff at his place, coming home to him at night. Even if he was asleep when I got there and I just crawled into bed with him. The feel of him and the smell of him and when he'd wake up enough to wrap his arms around me...it was the first time I realized home wasn't a place, it was a person. It was him. It was giving me a lot to think about, and it was making me face the reality that I was on the brink of something huge. Of all the fights, tight spots, and dangers I'd faced in my life, this was the scariest. This was life-altering, this was the turning point of the rest of my life.

Since we weren't exactly limiting ourselves on phone calls, I didn't think it was any big deal when he called me mid-afternoon. I was sitting in my car in a parking lot, making sure I had everything I needed to meet with one of my regular clients. I did background checks for new hires in a fairly large corporation, and since it was my bread and butter at the time, I always took the results there personally and met with their HR person.

"Hey, honey," I said, a little absent-mindedly, looking for a piece of paper that should have been in the folder I was checking.

"Are you busy a week from Saturday night?"

"I don't know yet," I answered, chuckling a little at his enthusiasm. I never knew that far ahead what I'd be doing at night. It all depended on what my caseload was, and what they needed me to do. I wasn't in the position yet of making solid plans and affording to blow off clients.

"There's a fund raising dinner for Senator Glassman's campaign fund. Donald, Fred just announced his retirement," he said, his voice a little hushed. Apparently he was in his office. More so than that, I was focusing on the horrifying words "fund raising dinner." Very little else was getting through.

"He's the old guy who's holding up your promotion, right?"

"You don't have to put it quite that way, but yes, that's him. Senator Glassman's going to announce his retirement and his replacement at the dinner. I really want you to be there with me."

"Won't you know before the dinner if you've got the job or not?"

"No. I know I'm on a very short list, but there are a couple other people she's talking to about it. One of them is from another senator's staff, and one is here. She's got a little more seniority than I do, and a degree from Yale. And her father is a Democratic congressman. This isn't any shoe-in. I could just as easily get edged out of it."

"You won't."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but you haven't answered me yet about the dinner."

"You know how my schedule is," I said.

"This is a special occasion, Donald. I know your schedule is tricky, but this means a lot to me. I wouldn't ask you to commit to it otherwise."

I sighed, feeling like a total prick. I was letting my aversion for small talk, monkey suits, and political mumbo-jumbo make me treat him like shit over something that was obviously a big deal for him.

"Do I need a tux for this?" I asked.

"Yes, it's black tie," he replied, and I could hear the excitement in his voice, as if he were vibrating in his chair with one of those huge smiles on his face. I could wear a tux for that. I guess.

"Okay. I'll rent one."

"I know this probably isn't your idea of a fun evening, but I really want you to be there. We can either go out and celebrate later, or you can buy me a lot of drinks and listen to me tell you all the reasons the person who got it, shouldn't have."

"You're going to get that job, honey."

"I'm glad you're so sure about it."

"Who wouldn't want you?" I asked, not really focusing on it all that much. I was running late for my appointment, but I didn't want to cut him off about something as big as the promotion that was so dear to his heart. It took me a second to realize he hadn't answered me right away.

"Thanks," he said, sounding moved and pleased at the same time.

"You're welcome, now quit worrying about it. Didn't the senator even give you a hint?"

"She said I've been doing a great job, taking a lot of initiative, giving Fred a lot of good support. I do work hard... It's just a great job and there are other people who are qualified."

"You're smart, you're experienced, you know how she operates. How does little miss Yale stack up?"

"She's bright, well-connected. Her family might be able to open more doors for fund raising."

"Blah, blah, blah. She bores me just hearing about her."

"Don," he scolded, laughing.

"I gotta go, sweetheart."

"See you tonight?"

"Eh, maybe. It'll be late, so it's up to you."

"Just come in and get in bed with me."

"Now there's an offer I cant refuse. See you later."

"I love you," he said.

"Love you, too," I replied, breaking the connection and sitting there a second. I wondered how I ever got so lucky as to have him in my life. And then I wondered how long he'd stay there. He moved in a wealthy, powerful professional circle, and he was just getting started. There was no telling how far Timothy would go with his career, if it would eventually take him to D.C., and if it did, if he'd want a klutz like me tagging along. I'm not rich, I've never been rich, and while I know the right fork to use and I don't belch at the dinner table or anything, I just don't have anything to talk to those people about. I can't stand politics, and while I love him with all my heart, a lot of the stuff he deals with on a daily basis bores me unconscious. It's not that I don't respect the brains it takes to do it, I just don't particularly want to hear about it. I can feign interest for his sake, but talk politics with a bunch of blue bloods? Uh-uh. Wouldn't even know where to start on that one.

And when would Timothy meet the man who could do all that as gracefully as he did, who had all kinds of money, and who recognized what a catch he was and would treat him accordingly? Timothy is a gem among gravel on the dating scene. He's high-rent, upscale, the kind of guy that rich, influential guys can attract. It's not that he's snooty or that he sees himself that way, but he's a find, a catch. The kind of guy who's just...out of my league. Sooner or later, he was going to figure that out. This party could very well be the start of my demise as his significant other, if I couldn't pull it off, be a worthy escort for him.

I picked him up about seven on Friday, and we had a nice dinner at a seafood restaurant that serves huge portions of king crab legs. We had a blast cracking the damn things and pulling out the big hunks of meat. Ordinarily, I get frustrated with the effort of eating crab legs, but for some reason, doing it with Timothy was fun. Maybe doing most anything with Timothy is fun for me, just because I love to experience things with him. See things through his eyes. He has a light and a joy inside him and a lust for life that I don't have. Or, at least, that I didn't have before I met him. It's contagious.

Still, the more we ate and talked and held hands, the more I drank. I already knew I loved him, that he loved me...and I also knew I was never going to feel about anyone the way I felt about him. The thing is, I thought that about Kyle, too. And now I was going through this kind of bizarre comparison process in my head, trying to compare how I felt about Timothy to how I'd felt about Kyle, what was the same and what was different, what wasn't as good and what was better...and it wasn't that Timothy didn't come through even that warped line of thinking with flying colors.

Maybe it was because I knew that if he left me, I couldn't think of a good reason I'd want to get up the next morning. If he got tired of my schedule and my ineptness as a mix and mingler with the upper echelon, and if he met someone else...it would kill me. To say it would break my heart would be to imply that I'd survive it at all. I'd tried so hard to avoid this, and now here I was, so in love with him...and so wrong for him. So much less than what he should have, than what he'd need the more successful and powerful he got.

Kyle's death almost killed me. I couldn't count how many times in the years since he'd been gone that I'd gotten drunk and played around with my gun, thought about sticking it in my mouth and ending it. But there was even no real consolation in that thought, because Kyle didn't love me enough that he could survive losing his career to be with me. Like a dumb ass, I thought as long as we had each other, everything would be okay.

So the real reason I didn't pull the trigger is because I had no romantic notions that Kyle was waiting for me on the other side. He probably wouldn't speak to me there, either.

********

Our second date started off on a good note. Don and I had fun with our crab legs, but as the evening progressed, it was obvious something was...off. After dinner, we went to a club. I drove, and I was getting more than a little irritated with his drinking. He'd started in the restaurant and was already feeling no pain before we got to the club. What I didn't know about Don then was that when he gets drunk, he likes to dance. And I don't mean romantic, cheek-to-cheek, slow dancing. I mean dirty dancing, bumping and grinding, jerking around like he has some kind of seizure disorder. I love him with all my heart, but it's just not a pretty sight. I love to see him shake his hips, but not on the dance floor.

We decided to go back to the club where we met. We left our suit jackets and ties in the car, and went inside to order - yes - drinks, and do some dancing. I only had one martini at the restaurant. I don't remember how many Don had, but I know his bar tab was more expensive than the crab legs. He ordered martinis for both of us before I could say anything.

"What's wrong?" He finally asked. I guess I wasn't masking my disapproval much by that point.

"Don't you think you've had enough to drink?" I asked.

"No, Mom, I don't think I've had enough to drink or I wouldn't have ordered another one."

That hurt. He had never snapped at me before, and I'd never had the feeling he was really ticked off at me. I felt that now, and I suppose I brought it on myself by disapproving of his behavior and calling him on it. He was a grown man, but he was also my date, the man I thought of as my boyfriend, significant other...I felt sort of entitled to speak up. When he suggested we dance, I had no idea how much farther downhill things could go.

We got out on the dance floor, and God help us, I'm Too Sexy started booming out of the speakers, and people on the dance floor were mostly dancing badly even though they probably thought they were putting on their best dance moves. Fortunately, the floor was crowded enough that no one else seemed to be paying attention to the bizarre gyrations that comprised our "dance," so I rode it out, praying the song would end soon or Don would pass out. I didn't much care at that point which one came first.

He outlasted the song, but I managed to guide him back to the table by suggesting we order another drink. Even drunk, that confused him, but he rolled with it, and I made good on my promise and ordered him a martini. I was on diet sodas by now, since one of us had to be capable of finding the car, let alone driving it home without killing ourselves or someone else.

"Don Strachey!" a voice boomed from behind us. When we turned to look, it was attached to a tall, broad, tattooed biker-type with long hair hanging out under a red bandana tied around his head.

"T.J.! Put 'er there, man," he responded, shaking hands with the guy, motioning to him to pull up a chair. This night just kept getting better.

"Got some pretty smooth dance moves out there," he said, moving a chair over to our table for two and straddling it, leaning on the back of it. "Just like always," he added.

"Get a few drinks in me, and I'm a slave to the rhythm," Don joked, holding up his martini before draining it.

"Hey, we need another round here!" T.J. shouted, and the waiter came our way. "This one's on me. What're you drinking?" he asked me. I guess introducing me hadn't occurred to Don, who didn't seem to remember I was there until that moment.

"This is my boyfriend, Timotry," he said, then he frowned. "Timoly," he tried again, laughing.

"Tim," I added, helpfully, wanting to swat him upside the head. T.J. extended a hand across the table, which I shook. He had one of those death grips that I prayed wouldn't break my hand. I do a lot of work at the computer to be one hand short.

"So you're hanging around with this loser, huh?" he joked, elbowing Don. For a moment, I thought he'd fall out of his chair from the blow, but instead, he laughed.

"He hasn't wised up yet," he said to T.J. There was some tiny thread of sincerity in his words that troubled me, but then I had to keep in mind just how drunk he was by then.

"I'm good on the drink," I said. "I'm driving," I added.

"Aw, come on, have something. That's what cabs are for. It's not like anybody's gonna steal that piece'a shit he drives," T.J. concluded. I was beginning to wonder what Don saw in him, but then I figured they knew each other well enough to trade insults.

"Really, I'm fine, thanks," I said, smiling. So T.J. ordered a beer and, of course, Don ordered another martini.

"You still have the shovelhead?" Don asked, and T.J. smiled like a loving, proud parent.

"They'll have to pull that out from under my cold, dead ass," he retorted, and they both laughed. What a charming mental image. "It's a restored '72 Harley Davidson Shovelhead," he informed me, and I tried to make the appropriate reaction of appreciation and excitement. I had no clue what a Shovelhead looked like, or why I should care.

"That's a sweet ride," Don said.

"Oh, you're talkin' about the bike," T.J. said, giving Don a lecherous look. It was bad enough when I thought they were acquaintances. I was getting the impression they'd been more, at least once.

"The bike, too," he added, and they both laughed again, toasting their drinks as soon as the waiter served them.

"How's the PI business?"

"It's fair. It's got some ups and downs. How's Joey?"

"We broke up a couple weeks ago. He was too young for me," he added, and Don nodded.

"Sorry to hear that. I thought you two were pretty solid."

"We were 'til I found out he had sex with half the gang." Oh, so now he's part of a motorcycle gang. I don't even want to know more about that.

"Probably had sex with the other half, too, and you just didn't know it," Don said, and I was surprised that T.J. laughed at that, hard enough to spew a little of his beer.

"Wouldn't be surprised, fucking little whore that he was."

I took another drink of my cola, and looked at my watch. Don and T.J. went on for a while, trading some off-color jokes and innuendos. I wondered where the loving, attentive, charming, caring guy I was in love with had gone, and how he could forget I was there just because he ran into someone he knew. Maybe he just didn't think I was cool enough or street smart enough to talk to his friends. I started to feel more than a little out of place, and I wanted to leave. I would have if I wasn't in love with the jerk and afraid he'd drive himself up a tree or end up in bed with T.J. because he didn't know what he was doing.

So I sat it out for a good ten or fifteen minutes until a guy approached T.J. and leaned close to him and said something low enough only he could hear it. He was a younger, more slender biker type, and T.J. slid an arm around his middle while they had their hushed conversation.

"I gotta go," he said, standing, the other guy hanging back, waiting for him. "I got a better offer, Dick Tracy," he said, shaking hands with Don. "Keep an eye on him," he said to me. I laughed politely.

"I'll do my best. Nice meeting you," I added. I try not to outright lie often, but occasionally, good manners dictate it. Plus, after all, it was Don who was acting like a dick, not T.J.

Don slept through the ride home. He was coming close to passing out in the club, and at a point became pretty pliable and cooperative with the idea of going home. He asked me, rather inelegantly, if he went home with me like a good boy, if we could fuck. Not exactly the hearts and flowers approach. I gave him a "we'll see" to get him moving, and once he was in the car, he was zonked anyway.

When we got to my place, I put him to bed on the couch. When he woke up, I wanted him to get the message. Still, I also wanted to be sure he was okay, and I preferred that he was staggering around somewhere safe or hanging over my toilet in the morning rather than lying somewhere passed out, choking on his own vomit. I was pissed off, but I still loved him and I knew he'd probably be one sick puppy in the morning. I knew I shouldn't care, but my anger didn't quite reach that far. Part of me worried, thinking there had to be something more behind this bizarre display than some hidden alcohol addiction. I knew Donald had some demons eating at his soul, I just didn't know what they all were yet. I had a feeling he was damaged inside, and that thought cooled the worst of my temper.

I fell asleep about 2:30 in the morning, and by about eight, I heard him throwing up in the bathroom. I tried to ignore it, told myself he deserved it, that he brought it on himself. That lasted about five minutes before I got up and went to the bathroom to check on him. He was standing at the sink, leaning on it, washing out his mouth. He looked awful, almost as bad as he had when he was sick less than a week earlier.

"Come on, get in bed with me," I said.

"I didn't think you'd be speaking to me this morning."

"I thought about it, but your body will take care of punishing you for last night. I don't have to add to it."

"I feel like shit. My head's killing me."

"Think you can hold down some water? You should drink some, and I'll get you some Advil. When your stomach calms down a little, I know a remedy that might make you feel better."

"Let's try the Advil first."

"Okay, come on," I said, guiding him toward the bedroom. I know I'd dumped him on the couch the night before to prove a point, but he was so miserable that I didn't have the heart to do anything but let him curl up in the bed where he'd be comfortable. He was dressed yet except for his shoes, so I helped him get undressed and tucked him in. Then I got him some Advil and a glass of water. He took the pills and eased most of the water down, a little at a time.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because you need me," I replied, sitting on the side of the bed, taking one of his hands in both of mine. "You want to tell me who I was with last night, and where he was keeping you?" I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "It's okay, honey. We don't have to talk now," I said, rubbing his back. "Take a nap, and I'll make you a hangover smoothie when you wake up."

He closed his eyes, and a tear leaked out from under those beautiful long lashes of his. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"I know you are, honey. It's okay. Just rest. We can talk more when you feel better."

I got in bed with him and spooned around him. I know I hadn't lasted well with punishing him for the way he'd acted, but I had to follow my gut feeling and my heart. My Donald was still right there, and whatever had gotten into him the night before didn't mean he was any less the man I loved.

A couple hours later, I made him the smoothie I promised. It was a mixture of milk, honey and banana that I'd learned about in college. Actually, Andrew had mixed one up for me the first time he got me drunk. It did save me from wishing for death. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so we had the chance to just relax and hang out together. Don seemed more like his affectionate, caring self, but there was still something a little off. Something that had started over dinner the night before and hadn't worked itself out of his system as well as the alcohol had.

Oh, well, no one ever said the road to true love was smooth. I still loved him more than I'd ever loved another living soul, and I was convinced he was worth enduring a few potholes along that road.

********