Title: For Granted
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R (sexual reference)
Word Count: about 3300
References/Spoilers: Reference to "Shock to the System"
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin.
Summary: Timothy reflects on his relationship with Donald and the meaning of true love.

FOR GRANTED

by

Candy Apple

If there's one thing most people consider the death of romance, it's taking each other for granted. I always dreamed of the kind of relationship where my partner took me for granted and where I felt the same about him. But then, taking someone for granted doesn't have to mean not loving him with every part of your heart, mind, soul, and spirit.

I take Donald for granted every day. I take it for granted he'll tell me he loves me at least two or three times a day. Sometimes it's just the way he ends a phone call or a voice mail, sometimes it's on the bottom of a note he leaves me when he discovers we're out of something and he doesn't want to go to the grocery store himself to get it, or it's a slightly slurred declaration as he's falling asleep after we make love.

I take it for granted that, no matter how many people he catches cheating on each other to earn his retainers, he'll always be faithful to me. Just a few months ago, one of his jobs sent him undercover in a health club with a predominantly gay clientele. It wasn't until the case was over that it occurred to me that he was surrounded by a veritable meat market of temptation on a daily basis (and then it was only because Kenny made some inane comment about it, for which Donald shot him a look that could have killed, right on the spot). The main thing I worried about was waiting up for him so I could give him a massage because even though he's in fantastic shape, he was "working out" about three times as much as usual so he had an excuse to hang around the place watching for a couple of specific clients. I never worried that he was tired from doing anything he shouldn't be. I just worried that he was too tired or too sore, and I wanted to take care of him.

I take it for granted that every time he sees me, he'll look at me like I'm something that was just dropped straight down from Heaven. His whole face lights up when he sees me, even if he doesn't smile. Even if he's busy and I'm interrupting him. He always looks at me like I'm his reason for being, the center of his world. He's never looked at me in an unkind way, even if we're arguing. Our arguments are usually just these verbal tugs-of-war to get us to a point of compromise. I don't remember Donald ever yelling at me, swearing at me, raging at me in any way... I take it for granted we can make each other angry and not fear anything from it beyond a long, spirited discussion and, if I'm lucky, some phenomenal make up sex. Most of the time we really weren't tense enough with each other to need to make up, but who am I to argue with such a tried-and-true custom?

I only remember one time when he said something that really hurt me deeply, and then it was partially my fault because I took it at such face value and didn't look into those tortured eyes to see that there was something else hurting him that was so unspeakable that he couldn't just come right out and tell me. For years, he couldn't tell me.

Instead, he waited at home, alone, with a photograph on the coffee table, a bullet grazing on his shoulder, and all the pain inside him. He waited for me, and took it for granted I'd be home soon, that I would handle whatever he wanted to tell me, and that I'd hold him as long as he needed me to while he purged an anguish that had eaten at his soul for years. He needed me so much that night that it broke my heart. I did come home, and not even all that late, and he knew that I would. He knew that even though I was ruffled by his words, I loved him and I wouldn't be able to stay away from him for long.

Somehow, I made it better for him. I could see some of the pain had subsided when he lay there in my arms, spent and empty and broken, exhausted from crying. I wondered if anyone had been there to hold him when Kyle died, or if he'd had to hold onto that grief all these years until someone was. He took it for granted that he could bring me something so awful, and hand me the shattered pieces of his heart, and I'd find a way to put it back together. That trust touched me so deeply my heart ached with it. I hope he always takes me for granted that way, and that I don't let him down. Donald is so sweet, and he loves so intensely and completely and trustingly, despite his protests that he's cynical or jaded. He isn't. My beautiful, kind, loving Donald is trusting when he once gives you his heart, even though it's been stepped on and handed back to him so many times.

He takes it for granted that he can crawl into bed with me and not wake me up. I let him enjoy that delusion. I always feel him there, and I hope I always do. I hope he never can sneak into bed with me. I feel so much joy in that moment. I know he's safe, and I know he'd rather be with me than on the couch in his office...or with anyone else. I sleep when he's not home. I have to, or I'd rarely be able to get up in time to go to work. But I don't relax until I feel him there, and then everything is right in my world.

Since he thinks I sleep through him coming home late, he also thinks that if he wants me to wake up, he has to make some kind of noise. Part of me waits to hear what it'll be, because he's inventive. He wants it to be natural, as if he didn't really mean to wake me. So I have to pay attention, or I might miss it. It's not like he runs in the room and jumps on top of me. Or coughs or clears his throat. Or even farts loudly. He does that on occasion, but since it's not the way to get in my good graces, he doesn't use it to wake me up. Although he usually blames me for it, telling me that if I don't want him to fart, I shouldn't serve him chili with big beans in it, or whatever other offending food or spice he considers the culprit. It's not the greasy burrito he had for lunch, or some other ungodly thing he ate out of a bag while he was sitting in his car, watching someone. No, it was some vile, gas-producing vegetable I fed him.

His wake-up call is as subtle as a sigh, or a little increased clumsiness in getting into bed, or a light tug on the covers that could be accidental, but isn't. He takes it for granted that if he does one of those things, I'll let him know I'm awake. I'll say something stupid like, "Is that you, honey?" As if there are any other men crawling into bed with me at three in the morning so I need to check. Then he says he's sorry he woke me, but he'll spoon up behind me, kissing and nuzzling me. I'll reach back and touch his cheek, turn my head so our lips can meet.

If things have gone that smoothly, he takes it for granted that he can ease down my boxers or pajamas and make love to me, and I'll be okay with it. I always am. He's always gentle, always considerate, and always touches me with love. I love a romantic evening with soft music and candles burning and lots of foreplay. I'm not shortchanged on that with Donald. Sure, we get caught up in our routines, but he still brings me flowers, dances with me by the fireplace, thinks up special ways to touch me or turn me on when we're in bed... But there's something about that occasional, needy little sex in the middle of the night, when we don't even bother to toss the covers aside or even get all the way undressed. I know he needs to be close to me for some reason, and I don't mind if he's just horny because he's been snapping pictures of someone else having sex. He's a healthy man with a normal sex drive who's liable to get turned on by immersing himself in something lurid and sordid, and it makes me feel good that it doesn't occur to him to sate it anywhere else.

Usually, though, I know it's more than that. Sometimes the ghosts of what might have been for Donald, career-wise, haunt him when he's doing something so far beneath his considerable intelligence and talent as snapping incriminating photos of philanderers. I know he works hard, but not always at a level that challenges his sharp wits and holds his interest. It's not fair that he couldn't be what he wanted to be, that he's not always respected for being as remarkable as he is, that people don't always look at him and really see him.

Maybe it's because I think he hung the moon, because he's always been, and always will be my hero, and he knows it, that he needs me on that level sometimes. There's something so very intimate about those times, like we can shut the whole word out. And then we cuddle a little while, kiss a little, agree how good it was... and there's that sweet, intense closeness we always feel after we make love. I think it restores him to connect with the one who thinks there is no more wonderful person on earth than Donald Strachey, regardless of what he does for a living or how much the world or his job may have demeaned him or left him feeling like less that what he is. I hope he never stops taking me for granted for that. That he never questions that I am in awe of him, his brains, his courage, everything about him.

I know he thought I dismissed his question that night when I wrapped up my answer to thinking about life if I hadn't been gay by simply saying that no other life could be better, because I wouldn't have him. The thing is, it is that simple for me. There's no other life I want if he's not in it. That scares me sometimes, to love one person that much. I know that his work can be dangerous, that there are people out there who would consider his life so disposable as to shoot him and leave him to die in a back alley somewhere. Or people who know that he's "that gay detective" who might some night decide to make him pay for that. Just because we have a nice home together and a stable life and friends who accept us doesn't mean that I don't know the hate and prejudice and danger that are out there.

I know it's one of the reasons Donald finally urged me to buy a car, and not rely on public transportation anymore. He always wanted me to call him, or he'd call me, when I was en route home from work at night. I know he worried, though he never said it in so many words. We're not exactly shoving our sexual orientation in people's faces, but we're completely open about it, and there's a danger you face in this country when you're openly gay.

If something unthinkable happened to me because I'm gay, it would still be worth it to have Donald in my life. My only regret if I were to die that way would be that I had to leave him, because I don't know how well he'd get by without me. But for myself, I could only treasure the joy of having loved him, and having been loved by him. I would die for Donald without even thinking, and if the price of loving him turned out to be a terrible one, I'd pay it, because he's worth anything...everything...and I just love him so much there aren't the right words for it.

Heavy thoughts so late at night. I knew I needed to get some sleep before the alarm went off. Donald was on a case. I knew I shouldn't stay awake waiting for him. He told me not to wait up, that he'd be late.

Then I heard someone coming in downstairs. A moment later, two little taps of his key on the banister. It doesn't wake me up if I'm asleep, but if I'm not, it's his signal that it's him, not to worry that I hear someone on the stairs. Thinking about that makes me smile. He loves me so much that he even thought of that.

I decided to save him the suspense of wondering if I'm asleep, and the awkwardness of trying to undress in the dark, so I sat up and turned on my bedside lamp. All this thinking really had me wanting to see him, to see his beautiful blue eyes in the light.

"Guess I'm losing my touch," he joked as he walked into the room. "I can't sneak up on you anymore."

"Donald!" I couldn't help the exclamation. His clothes were disheveled, and the side of his face was scraped and bruised.

"I fell off a trellis. And that woke the dog that was sleeping on the porch. I'm okay. I'll take a shower before I get in bed." He started stripping off the soiled clothing. His shoulder and arm on that side were pretty badly skinned from the fall, there was an obvious dog scratch on the back of his hand, and he looked like he hurt all over. Nothing was broken, but he was moving slowly.

"I'll start the water for you." I got up and went into the bathroom. "Do you want a hot bath instead, honey?"

"No, I'm really tired. Just the shower so I can go to bed." He looked dead on his feet as he shuffled into the bathroom naked and used the toilet while I got the water going in the shower. I took off my t-shirt and shorts and got in the shower with him. He didn't say anything funny or sexy about that, so I knew how lousy he felt.

I picked a few strange-looking little pieces of foliage out of his hair, and very gently shampooed it, shielding his eyes while I rinsed it. I held him in my arms while I washed his back. I didn't make any moves on him when I washed the rest of him, and he let me do it, always keeping a hand on my shoulder, or some part of his body in contact with mine.

I dried myself off quickly, and while Donald was finishing toweling off, I got him fresh underwear.

"You want to talk about the case?" I asked as he sat on the bed, and I took out the first aid kit. I cleaned the dog scratch, which had broken the skin in a few spots and put a gauze bandage over it. The shower had cleaned any of the dirt out of the scrapes, but they looked even more raw and painful now. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves because I wanted to put some ointment on the scrapes and avoid spreading any germs to them while I did it.

"I was trying to get a look inside this house. Nobody was there...except the dog," he said tiredly. "I didn't notice him until I fell. I'm looking for a missing girl, and the house is on property owned by her father's relatives. Her mother thinks it's a parental kidnaping. The father's missing, too." He cringed a little as I touched a particularly raw spot.

"Sorry, baby," I said, kissing the unmarred skin higher on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you were awake," he said softly.

"Me, too," I agreed, kissing his cheek. I bandaged the two worst scrapes on his shoulder and arm but he didn't want ointment or a bandage on his face. The wound wasn't as bad as the others. He was more bruised than bloodied there. "Do you feel like you're making any progress with the case?"

"I don't know. I feel like I'm doing more to find out where she isn't than where she is."

"That's a part of the process, too." I put the supplies away, and by the time I got back, he was already in bed. I turned out the light and got in next to him. It only took him a moment to reach for me, and I was glad to have the warmth of him in my arms. "You'll find her," I said, kissing the top of his head. And I believed it. I believe in him.

After all, didn't he somehow manage to find my sister after all those years of not knowing, of thinking she might be dead, or...or living a life that was worse than death, on the street? He'd slain one of my biggest dragons, my Donald, and reunited me with Kelly.

"I hope so. With missing kids, every minute counts," he said. Then I felt a hesitant questing hand slipping under my t-shirt. Not wanting him to have to wonder about reading my signals, I pulled my t-shirt over my head and threw it on the floor, followed by my shorts, which I took off and sent flying to follow it. Blinking a couple times, looking a bit surprised at such decisive action, Donald disposed of his underwear just as quickly, and we were soon wrapped around each other, kissing, touching, making love.

As we lay there together, the delicious exhaustion of beautiful lovemaking and the need for sleep enveloping us, I reached over and turned off my alarm, and then picked up my cell phone from the night stand and called in a voice mail to my office that I was not feeling well, and wouldn't be in.

"You never play hooky," Donald said, amused, smiling brightly at me as I wrapped him up in my arms and kissed him thoroughly. That smile was worth a thousand sick days.

"I just love you too much to leave you that soon," I said, and that earned me a still broader smile, and a sparkle in those beautiful eyes of his that had been missing when he first got home.

He took it for granted I'd patch him up, even that we'd make love if he wanted to. He never guessed I'd do something irresponsible and impulsive like take a day off just to sleep in with him.

I love taking Donald for granted, and knowing he takes me for granted, too. But sometimes it's a good idea not to take life so much for granted that you don't stop and savor that which you treasure most.