Title: Chilling Out

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 2748

References/Spoilers: Can't think of any.

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.

Author's Note: Thanks to Chlare for posting the challenge!

Summary: Don's hot. Timmy's hotter. Add water.

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CHILLING OUT

by

Candy Apple

It was close to a hundred degrees outside, for real. It wasn't just me bitching about the heat and saying, as I often do, "It's a hundred fucking degrees out there." It really was. Timmy tells me that I'm never happy with the weather, but that's not fair. I'm happy when it doesn't rain (unless I'm tucked in with Timmy and a couple decent movies - the movies are optional), doesn't snow (unless I'm tucked in with Timmy and enough provisions until the roads are clear - the provisions are optional), and the temperature falls somewhere between boiling my balls off or turning them blue from the cold. In other words, there may be a couple weeks out of the year when I'm happy with the weather.

But today I had a right to bitch. Everyone else was, too. My car's air conditioning not only didn't last two blocks down the road, but the engine overheated, and I ended up pushing the damn thing out of the road into a parking lot. The parking lot, of course, was in front of a closed up store, so I had to stand out there on the cement and fucking melt until Kenny showed up with a rental car. This time, he knew enough to bring a generic, cheap, small sedan. He doesn't fuck with me when I'm drenched in sweat and every other word I say is "fucking." As in, My fucking car died in the middle of the fucking street and it's two hundred fucking degrees out here and my fucking cell phone has a fucking low battery... Well, you get the picture.

I was soaked to the skin when I got home, so I just walked in, stripped naked in the laundry room and stuffed my clothes in the washer and got it going, and then enjoyed running through the house naked while I freeze-dried in the central air, grabbing myself a cold one before going upstairs to shower so the smell didn't kill Timothy when he got home.

Even though the house was a bit stuffy, I turned on one of Timothy's ten thousand fans, and dressed in nothing but a well-worn pair of cotton boxer shorts, I was happy as a clam. I did know enough to put the throw over the leather couch. I wanted to keep my skin, not fuse with the cushions.

This was Nirvana. Me, a cold beer, the TV remote, a fan blowing up my shorts, and the promise of a break in the heat wave the next day. At least Timothy would be cool as a cucumber in the Senate building, then in his air conditioned car. He'd just be warm enough to bring out his cologne and tendril of his own special scent by the time he got home. I was already planning on how fast I could get him naked and crawl all over him. I think my dick heard the door before I did, because it got up faster.

What staggered into view was nothing like what I was expecting. It was a form of Timothy, red-faced, sweat-soaked, bleary-eyed, his pale yellow shirt stuck to his body, which meant he was soaked enough that it had saturated his t-shirt. He was carrying his suit coat and his briefcase. For a moment, he swayed a bit, and I thought he was going to fall on his face.

I snapped out of my shock and rushed up to him, taking the jacket and the briefcase and setting them on a kitchen chair.

"Honey, you're burning up," I said, completely unnecessarily as I touched his face, since he had to know what condition he was in. "What the...what happened?"

"I don't feel so good," he said, right before darting to the kitchen sink and throwing up in it. I was there in a heartbeat, running some cool water on a paper towel and bathing his face while he just leaned on the counter and tried to get his bearings.

"How'd you get so hot?"

"The air broke down in the Senate building. I was doing a presentation," he shook his head. "I couldn't strip down to my t-shirt for it. Then the compressor in the car wasn't working. It was just blowing more hot air. Maybe I've got the flu. I've been nauseous all day."

"Come on, sweetheart. You need to get cooled off. We'll worry about the rest later."

I undid his tie and opened up his shirt, and used the cool cloth on his neck. I didn't want him to pass out, and he looked like it wouldn't have taken much for him to do just that.

"Feels like heaven," he said, dropping his head on my bare shoulder. It felt like having a hot meteor hit me there, so it renewed my resolve to get him moving toward the upstairs and the shower.

As boiling hot as he was, I couldn't just shove him under a spray of cold water, so I laboriously adjusted it until it was somewhere in the middle between cool and warm, that non-temperature, and then helped him peel his sweaty clothes off. I tossed my shorts aside and got in the shower with him so I could keep adjusting the water, and help him wash up. And, knowing Timmy as I do, he'd want a little hugging and a little nuzzling from me to make him feel better, even if he'd never come out and ask for it.

I kept nudging the water temperature cooler, a tiny turn of the faucets at a time, until the feeling of the water running over his skin had him sighing in relief and moaning with pleasure when I took spongefuls of it and squeezed it down his back or turned him the right way so that hot place between his legs and behind his nuts was getting a nice flow of cool water. Nothing like a little shot of something cool there to perk you up.

"I think I might live," he said. They were his first words since I got him in the shower, so I knew he was feeling better. I hoped he wasn't really sick, that he had just kept running around in his professional attire until his body almost shut down on him. Timothy seems to think personal agony is no reason to look bad, so even if he was close to falling over, it's unlikely he'd take off his jacket or loosen his tie.

"You better," I teased him, kissing his cheek, which felt a lot cooler now. I steered him under the spray to wash his hair, and the only time I usually hear him moan that way is when I deep throat him. The cool water, the shampoo, and the scalp massage were drawing the sexiest little sighs and gasps from him. I was getting harder by the minute listening to it. Believe it or not, I can control Little Donald when I have to, and I'd been so focused on making him feel better and worrying about him if he was sick that the full impact of a wet, soap-slick, naked Timothy was just now registering. So while he enjoyed the water, and seemed to be regaining consciousness, I got down on my knees and started sucking him, giving him the blow job of a lifetime.

He's so fucking gorgeous anyway, but at that moment he looked like something out of a gay porn fantasy, running his hands through his hair under the water that was running over the curves of his perfect wet body. He tasted as good as he looked, and the only thing competing with having him in my mouth was having two hands full of his perfect wet butt cheeks.

I came about the same time he did, and I'm glad I regained my senses pretty fast, because he was ready to get dried off, and the climax had wiped him out. That's what I wanted, for him to be a boneless blob of relaxed comfort when I put him to bed, so he'd rest.

His hot nakedness aside, I just love him so much that I can't stand to think about him being sick or uncomfortable. I have to fix it. Or die a thousand deaths until he feels better.

"Thank you," he sighed as I started drying him off.

"Yeah, this was such an awful job," I joked, and he gave me a big smile then and a nice big naked Timmy hug when we were all dried off.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, beautiful. Feel better?"

"A lot. Maybe it was just something I ate, and the heat. I don't feel nauseous anymore, just wiped out."

"I vote for watching a movie in bed," I said. Best way to trick him into a nap. It can be like corralling a little kid who's avoiding nap time, getting him to rest when he needs it.

"Sounds like paradise," he agreed. Mission accomplished.

Clad in only our shorts, with a pitcher of ice water handy, we lay on the bed watching a bunch of DVD's. Timmy slept for a couple hours, and I napped off and on. When he woke up, he felt fine, and he didn't have a fever. I kept checking on him while he slept. So the heat just did a number on him. Nothing made me happier than knowing he was okay.

"You can stop worrying about me now," he said, smiling at me, tousling my hair.

"You want to deprive me of one of my favorite pastimes?" I joked, nudging him with my foot. I noticed then that there were a few red, irritated spots on his feet. "What are those?" I asked, poking his foot with my toe.

"My feet, darling. You've seen them before."

"The red splotches."

"New shoes," he said, sighing. "I know, breaking in new shoes on a day like this was insane. I was just anxious to wear them and I didn't think I'd be spending the day in a sauna."

"Poor baby," I said, crawling down the bed so I was near his feet. I kissed the top of his left foot. "Do they hurt?"

"My feet are tired," he said. "Nothing critical."

"Fortunately, the masseuse is in," I replied, shifting around so I could have his feet in my lap.

"You spoil me," he said through a yawn, leaning back on the pillows and smiling at me.

"Nah, you deserve it." I kissed the foot I was rubbing. The massage was a good excuse to play with his feet and make him moan a little more. He's always doing things for me, for Senator Platt, for good causes...I couldn't massage his feet enough to spoil him. He deserves anything I can do for him, probably more.

Since he'd been sick to his stomach earlier, I made him rest while I threw on a t-shirt and shorts and ran to a deli to get us a roasted chicken and some potato salad for dinner. I didn't want him eating something spicy or greasy. We shared a nice dinner and then re-settled on the couch to cuddle and watch TV. And fool around a little.

By the end of the evening, I was cuddled up to him with my head on his shoulder and my arm around his middle, and he was playing with my hair kind of absentmindedly like he sometimes does, while he was listening to some news program. I ran my hand under his t-shirt and started rubbing his belly and his chest, then I hiked up the fabric and started kissing and licking him there.

For some reason, that made him chuckle.

"I notice you weren't doing this during Con Air," he said. I couldn't argue with that. There were certain action movies that kept me riveted even when I'd seen them a couple dozen times. But I do get hornier when I'm bored. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were more interested in Nicholas Cage sweating in his undershirt than you are in me," he added, a bit of mock indignation in his voice.

"He's pretty hot in that movie." I wasn't giving in that easy.

"Oh, he is? I thought it was all the explosions and shooting you liked."

"There were explosions? Gee, I must have been too focused on Nick and his glistening muscles."

"Fine. I bet he doesn't look that good in his undershirt now," he countered. He was probably right. It was an old movie.

"Yeah, probably not," I agreed. "Unlike some men I know, who just keep getting hotter with age," I added, sticking my tongue in his belly button with plenty of spit, making him laugh.

"Good save," he replied, still laughing. "That's a little gross. It feels like a slug in my navel. Got enough spit going down there?"

"I'm salivating from your hot sexiness." I licked his belly with a slurping noise. I know where he's ticklish. I was working on that area. He was laughing, putting up a very feeble struggle. I knew he liked it, even if he would object that it was silly or that my tongue felt like a slug. I knew of another hole he'd want my slug-like tongue stuck in before too much longer. I reached under him and obscenely and aggressively goosed him through his shorts.

Instead of scolding me, he moaned and his whole body arched in response to it. Fortunately, we keep a little lube stashed in the drawer of one of the end tables. The great thing about hanging out in your underwear is that you don't have much in the way when things get interesting. I knew he was as eager as I was when he got on his knees on the couch, elbows on the arm of it, giving me great access to make him crazy before the main event. I teased him with my tongue and my fingers, making him hot in a good way.

By the time I slid inside him, we were both overdue for it, and we moved together in a quick, urgent rhythm, shouting and moaning and blowing off steam, getting a good kind of sweaty that would probably call for another shower. But that could wait a while. After we came, I was happy to toss the throw on the cushions so we didn't stick to them, and just fall there in a tangle of damp flesh with Timmy. As we were cooling down together, he was actually quiet, listening to the news network again.

"Hey, fuck that," I said, reaching for the remote. He got it first, and we mock-wrestled for it. He won momentarily thanks to his longer arms, and turned up the volume just to piss me off. So I tickled him ruthlessly until I got control of it again and muted it. We went back and forth that way until we'd used up what little energy we had left.

I knew we should get up, but we were so comfortable there just sprawled all over each other, the drone of the TV finally vanquished for the night. Timmy was nuzzling me, kissing my cheek and my ear because they were handiest, rubbing my back, telling me he loved me.

So I sighed, kissed his chin because it was handy, and told him I loved him and that he was ten times sexier sweaty than Nicholas Cage on his best day. He laughed at that and hugged me tighter.

"Thank you for always knowing what I need," he whispered in my ear. I'm not sure if he meant taking care of him earlier, or what I'd just said. Maybe both. I gave him the first answer that popped into my head.

"Thank you for always being everything I need."

I think he was choked up a little, because he didn't answer me in words. Suffice it to say that even though the heat wave had broken, it was still one hot night in Albany.