Title: Trust
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R

Word Count: 4317
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: The guys each think about ways in which they need to take the next steps in trusting each other. Sequel to the story "Three Little Words"

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TRUST

by

Candy Apple

When I first woke up, I didn't think about where I was. I stretched and before I even opened my eyes, released a giant fart that made me feel much better until I moved the covers.

Oh, fuck.

Belatedly, I remembered I was at Tim's place, and I couldn't remember having farted in his presence yet. And this was no demure little slip of gas. This baby was a certified cheek flapper that registered on the Richter scale. I opened one eye. Bright sunlight streamed in the window, and everything was silent. I adore Timothy with every fiber of my being, but this was one time I really hoped he wasn't there. If he was, he had either succumbed to the fumes, was rendered completely speechless by the horror of it, or he was just waiting for me to rally so he could throw me out. I opened the other eye. Then ventured to look over my shoulder. I was alone in the bed.

Sighing with relief, I threw the covers back and sat up. There was a note on the night stand.

Don,

You're beautiful when you're asleep. (You're not bad awake, either.) Call me when you can, and come over if you want tonight. I made you lunch if you want it - feel free to leave it if you want to get take out instead. I left a spare key for you.

Love,

Tim

There was a key next to the note, which reminded me to make a quick run to the store to buy an extra lock for his door. I didn't want Thor, God of Thunder to show up uninvited and give him a hard time. I suspected Tim could take care of himself, but he didn't strike me as being all that fond of physical confrontations, and Thor was a big guy, taller and broader than Tim.

Shit, I wonder what it was Tim saw in me? Oh, yeah, he liked my muscles, my eyes, and how I look when I'm sleeping. Thank God he wasn't around for the fart. I wondered if Thor farted in bed, or if he was one of those perfect guys with a great ass whose asshole was somehow not connected to his colon.

Yawning and scratching myself, I wandered into the bathroom and took a shower. For a hairy guy, Timothy is extremely neat and easy to share a bathroom with. I dated a hairy guy once before, and it was like following Chewbacca into the shower.

I found a pair of jeans it didn't look like Tim wore too often and tried them on. I cuffed the legs a bit, but otherwise, the fit was close enough. I used the sweatshirt I'd worn Sunday, and threw my leather coat over the whole mess and went to the nearest hardware store to buy the lock. I chose a simple but sturdy swing bar and pin contraption that's a bit stronger than a door chain. Most of those chains can be overcome with a good kick. The doors seemed pretty heavy and solid at Tim's building, so I figured the lock would hold up even under some pressure.

I installed the lock, and was satisfied with the extra security it added. It wasn't as good as me being there, but it was the next best thing until he got his key back from Thor. Now there was something that still brought a smile to my face...watching Tim laugh himself to tears watching Steve bumping and grinding to some kind of cheesy music in his winged helmet.

After tidying up my supplies from the lock project, I gathered my clothes and found a grocery bag to stuff them in. Then I remembered Tim's note, that he had made me lunch. It's not that I can't get food for myself, or that I needed someone to wait on me, but the whole idea that he cared enough about me to think of that, to take time when he was getting ready for work in the morning...I found myself getting misty-eyed over a sandwich.

But man, if Tim were a sandwich, that's what he'd look like. It was like something out of a deli meat commercial - perfectly folded slices of turkey and ham, swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, on some kind of whole grain bread, neatly wrapped in plastic. There were cookies and pretzels in sandwich bags on the counter. This was how I should be eating, and did when I had time to think about it, instead of trying to find something at a fast food place that wouldn't destroy my metabolism and undo everything I did in the gym.

I gathered up the parts of the lunch he'd gotten ready and put them in a bag, all the while grinning like an idiot because Timothy loved me enough to make me lunch, to want to take care of me, to care if I ate right, to want to do something nice for me that he didn't have to do.

I headed back to my apartment to change into a fresh suit, since I had to meet with a couple clients and question a few people connected to one of my cases. The dismal little place seemed cold and empty, and horribly lonely. In just a week, I'd gone from a lone wolf to half of a couple, to being one of those poor saps that wanders around all starry-eyed about his boyfriend and feels halved without him.

Things were kind of one-sided. I should invite Tim here, let him stay over at my place, let him into my dingy little world. Let him look in my medicine cabinet, shower in my tub, wake

up in my bed. I wanted him to feel like all that was ours. That thought made me smile. If I had time in the next couple days, I'd tidy up the worst of the clutter and make the place clean and fit for...well, not company, but for the man I loved.

The man I loved.

Who loved me. Who made me sandwiches and fussed over me when I was tired and wanted me with him even when I didn't take him anywhere or didn't show up until some ridiculous hour.

My beautiful Timothy.

I headed out for work with a huge smile on my face and a decided spring in my step.

********

I hadn't heard from Don all day, and I missed him. It wasn't that I was angry that he hadn't called. I figured he had a busy day and just didn't get a chance. I hoped I'd see him later, even if only for a few minutes before we had to call it a night and go to sleep. Just having him near me in bed, cuddling a little, made me look forward all day long to bedtime. Part of me wanted to take the next step the next moment I was with him, to just forget all the pomp and circumstance and just make love. At the same time, I finally had the kind of man I always wanted, who'd love me and want to make love to me because of that - not just screw me because he liked the way I looked, or because the goal of getting together was just to have a sex partner, not a life partner.

The apartment seemed too silent and empty without him there. When I closed my door, I saw the new latch, and ran my fingers over it. He wanted to protect me, and he actually went out and bought a latch and installed it himself, just to make sure I would be safe when he wasn't there. I felt all warm and happy inside as I latched it.

"If that was for my benefit, you should have saved your effort."

I turned around to see Steve standing in the living room. He tossed they key to my apartment on the coffee table. Dressed in jeans and an overpriced designer sweater, his hair in its usual carefully engineered "carefree" mussed look, it struck me just how superficial everything about him was. And how sweetly genuine and decent everything about Donald was.

"There's your precious key."

"Thank you," I said, picking up the key, setting my briefcase on the end of the couch. Steve wasn't moving from where he stood. "Was there something else?" I asked.

"I suppose you thought it was funny to send those roses back to my office. Everybody there knows I was with you. It's a big fucking joke around the office now."

"It's really amusing that you're scolding me for being insensitive," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I wondered why I ever cared about him, or why he'd ever had the power to hurt me the way he had.

"So who's the new boyfriend? You sure didn't lose any time replacing me."

"Look, I appreciate you dropping off the key, but I'd like you to leave now," I said, walking toward the door. I was surprised when he grabbed my arm and pulled me back, moving up close to me.

"You're such a fucking fraud," he spat angrily. "You practically want a wedding ring to put out for me, and then you can't wait to give it up for the first guy you hook up with."

"We're done, Steve, and I can't really figure out why you care what I'm doing. You act like I disgust you, so why are you pursuing me? Or do you just miss having someone to hurt?"

"Yeah, I really tortured you with roses and gifts and weekends in the country. You had it rough with me."

"There's more to love than the fancy trappings, and those are all you're good at." I jerked my arm out of his grasp. "Now go," I said, gesturing at the door.

"Those roses set me back a couple hundred bucks," he said, pressing me against the wall with his body, making a point of shoving his groin against mine. "The way I see it, you owe me at least one more for the road."

"I don't owe you anything," I responded, shoving him back as hard as I could. That startled him and sent him staggering a little. He wasn't half as startled by that as I was by the blow to my face when it came at me at lightning speed. I don't know if it was a knee-jerk reaction in anger because I pushed him, or if he really thought about what he was doing. My nose was bleeding, and I didn't know if it was broken. I was so startled and so angry that I swung at him with all my strength, feeling a certain satisfaction when he went down, sitting on the floor holding onto his jaw with this surprised look on his face. I opened the door.

He struggled to his feet, but instead of leaving, he pushed the door shut and lunged at me, taking us both down the floor. I don't remember everything that happened, I just know I felt like I was fighting for my life, and I wasn't going down easily, not when I had so much to live for. It felt like the struggle went on forever, each of us getting a blow in here or there, him occasionally getting the upper hand and deciding he ought to try to get my pants off. I hoped he was into necrophilia, because the only way he was getting that from me was if he killed me first.

The last thing I remember was the struggle still raging before there's a gap, and I remember waking up on the floor. I pushed myself into a sitting position, and I was relieved that I was still dressed and didn't feel any discomfort in intimate places that made me think he'd done that to me while I was unconscious. My nose was still dribbling blood, and my stomach and my side hurt. The door was closed, and I looked around cautiously, half expecting him to be standing there, waiting for me to come to. I was alone. I crawled on my hands and knees to the couch and made my way onto it, the softer surface less punishing to my battered body. He must have kicked me when I was down, literally, because I didn't remember any significant gut punches. Who'd have thought some returned flowers would be his breaking point?

The irony of the new latch on the door was almost enough to make me laugh - or maybe cry, I wasn't sure. I just wanted to see Don, but part of me really didn't want to provoke in him the reaction he was going to have to Steve beating me up. And I felt stupid, because Steve had not only gotten the upper hand, obviously, but I should have handled getting my key back better than I did. Or I should have let Don handle it in the first place. He was my boyfriend now, and he wanted to do things like that for me, even if I could do it myself. He wanted to be my defender and my protector. After all, that's how we met - with him rescuing me.

My cell phone was in my pocket, and it had survived the ordeal, probably better than I had. I dialed Don's number.

"Hey, beautiful," his voice came over the line, and I dreaded shooting down the happiness that seemed to radiate from that greeting.

"Don, I need to see you," I said, not sure how to put it into words.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately. I guess I sounded kind of weird...weak, maybe.

"Please, can you come over? I know you were busy tonight, but I need to see you."

"I'm already on my way. Tell me what's going on," he said.

"I'll explain when you get here. If the door's locked, use your key."

"If the door - Tim, why can't you let me in yourself?"

"Please, just come over," I said, and I broke the connection. I felt bad doing that to him, and ignoring the phone when it rang immediately afterward, but I my voice was shaky and I was hurting all over, and I didn't want him to go off the deep end and hunt Steve down. I needed to at least have a chance to talk to him about it all first.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Don rushed in, freezing midway between the door and the couch when he saw me.

"Tim...what..." Then he was at my side, kneeling by the couch, touching my hair, his fingers almost dancing over it lightly, as if he was afraid touching me would break me.

"Steve returned his key," I said. "He didn't appreciate getting his flowers back."

"Damn," he muttered, touching my face, looking at the damage.

"Is my nose broken?" I asked. He looked at me a moment, and his eyes were filling up with tears. That moved me deeply.

"I'm gonna kill that motherfucker," he muttered, looking at my nose. It was the first of many times in our relationship that I would see that dichotomy in Donald - the aggression of a warrior mingled with such amazing gentleness and compassion, that it made me realize just what a complex and remarkable creature I had fallen in love with. "This is going to smart a little," he said, touching my nose in a couple of spots. It did hurt, but not too much. "It's not broken, honey," he said. "Where else are you hurting?" he asked, rubbing my shoulder.

"I think he must've kicked me while I was out. My stomach and my side hurt."

"We should get you to the ER, get some X-rays."

"I don't think it's that bad," I said, and it wasn't. Once Don got there, and I calmed down, I felt bruised, but not broken. I'd cracked a couple ribs once on a skiing trip when I was in the seminary, and that pain was ten times what this was. Steve apparently wanted to punish me, not kill me. I sat up, and Don watched me as if he expected me to break in half when I did. He was breathing hard, and he looked terrified. I felt like I needed to calm him down, instead of the other way around. "I shouldn't have called you," I said. "I panicked."

"Are you nuts? Of course you should call me," he said, wiping at the blood under my nose with his handkerchief. "Sit tight, sweetheart. I'll get some ice," he said, kissing my forehead before he went to the kitchen. "Tell me what happened," he said, and I could tell he was struggling to stay calm. But he was doing it, and he was focusing on taking care of me.

"He must have used his key and let himself in. He was here when I got home. He was mad about the roses, that I'd embarrassed him by returning them. And then he, uh..." I didn't finish the sentence, because I thought it would be pouring gasoline on a fire to tell Don that he'd rubbed against me and wanted sex in return for the roses.

"He what?" Don asked, his voice so gentle that it soothed my hurts better than the ice he held against my eye. I didn't even realize it was swelling, I was so focused on my nose, and the split in my lip that opened whenever I moved my mouth the wrong way. He was sitting next to me now, cleaning the blood off my face with a wet cloth.

"I pushed him and I guess it made him mad - "

"What did he do?" he asked pointedly. "There was a gap between him being pissed off about the roses and you pushing him."

"I got angry, and I pushed him."

"Because...?"

"He broke into my apartment, and he was getting in my face and - "

"Timothy, listen to me." He set the cloth aside that he'd been using on my face and took both of my hands. "Whatever he did, I want to know about it. You can tell me if he...if he assaulted you," he managed, but I could tell he was horrified by the thought. Not because he'd be horrified by me, but because he loved me enough that the thought of someone hurting me like that seemed to be making his blood run cold. "Nothing you could tell me would change how I feel about you."

I felt a lump in my throat at those heartfelt words, and I pulled one of his hands up and kissed the back of it.

"He didn't rape me," I said, relieved that was true. There's no way I could have fought him off when I was unconscious. Apparently, having sex with my unconscious body was too sick even for Steve. "He made some offensive remark about the roses setting him back a couple hundred bucks, and that I owed him for that. As soon as he made a physical move, I pushed him back, hard. I guess that made him mad and he hit me."

"What physical move did he make?" He stroked my hair.

"He just got up real close," I said, and I was surprised that I was upset about it, that it felt good to tell him. "He rubbed up against me. I could feel he was getting hard. I pushed him away, hard, and I guess that made him mad, and he hit me. That made me mad, and I hit him back. I told him to get out, I gave him a chance to leave, but he jumped me and we fought. The last thing I remember before I came to was us fighting on the floor."

"You were out? How does your head feel now?"

"I have a headache, but I don't feel dizzy or anything."

"How's your vision, honey?" he asked, framing my face with both hands.

"Without my glasses, it's always lousy," I said, smiling, touching his face. "I'm okay, Don," I said gently. "I'm okay now that you're here," I admitted, and he pulled me into his arms.

I didn't know until then how much I needed that. I've never been treated roughly in my life - my parents didn't hit me or Kelly, and I'd never been in a physically abusive relationship. I know that, unfortunately, Don is no stranger to fighting or to being beaten up. I was, and once I was safe in Don's arms, and he was so gentle and so caring, I kind of lost it. I felt embarrassed to break down like that, but I cried on his shoulder, maybe because it was hitting me just how scared I was when it was happening, because I'm not an experienced fighter, and Steve was bigger...so much could have gone differently.

"It's okay, honey. I'm right here," Don said, patting my back. He pulled back a little and kissed me, very careful not to hurt my split lip.

"Don't go after him," I said, looking into his eyes. "You never suggested we call the police. I know you're planning to take care of this yourself."

"It shouldn't surprise me that you figured that out," he admitted, smiling. "Sweetheart, I want you to trust me. I'll handle this, and you won't have a problem with Steve again."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"If we call the cops, assuming they even care and don't dismiss the whole thing as two homos having a lovers' spat, Steve would be in and out of jail within 24 hours. Thank God you're not badly hurt, but that, coupled with your prior relationship with him, and the fact he had a key to your place, isn't going to go far in convincing them it's a serious crime they should devote a lot of manpower to. But even if he was arrested and convicted, he probably wouldn't do jail time and then you're into trying to get restraining orders and all that shit that ultimately doesn't work when you've got an asshole like him in your life."

"He's probably done with me."

"Yeah, well, good for him. I'm not done with him."

"Don -"

"Honey, look at me," he said, touching my face gently. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes, of course, but -"

"No, not 'yes but'. You either do or you don't. If you think I'm a vigilante...some kind of killer you can't trust to take care of you, then you don't trust me, and we don't have what I think we have." He stood up and walked a few feet away, pacing a little. My chest tied in a knot. I hadn't stopped to think of what I was really implying - that he would go mad, that he would lay hands on Steve and do him great bodily harm...in short, I'd assumed he'd handle it badly, that he didn't have the sense or the morals to handle it well.

"Don, I do trust you," I said, getting up a little awkwardly, favoring my sore spots. "I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't have assumed you'd do something...wrong, or...or ill-advised. But you did say 'I'm gonna kill that motherfucker'."

Don looked at me, and his mouth quirked up at one corner in a crooked smile.

"Figure of speech," he said, shrugging. "I'll handle him. Will you trust me to do that? I want to do that for you."

"Absolutely," I said, moving toward him. After we hugged again, I forced myself to say something I really didn't mean. "You should go ahead and go back to work. I'm just going to take a shower and spend the evening on the couch." I hated the thought of him leaving, and hated the thought of being alone. I couldn't think of anything that would make me feel better than having him stay with me and baby me a little. "Thank you for putting the latch on the door. That was really sweet of you to do that," I said, kissing him.

"You're welcome. Fat lot of good it did."

"That's not your fault."

"I should have gone and gotten that key back myself."

"You were letting me handle things my way. You can't blame yourself for that. I said I'd take care of it."

"I'm not going to work tonight."

"I'm glad," I admitted, and we both laughed a little.

"Take your shower, and I'll fix us something to eat. Are you getting hungry?" he asked, stroking my cheek again, looking like the sight of my bruises hurt him physically.

"Not really, but I probably will be once I relax."

"Have you got something like soup I can heat up?"

"Sure. It's in the kitchen cabinet closest to the stove."

"Okay. You need help?" he asked.

"I feel steady," I said. "Can you do me a favor and find my glasses? I don't need them in the shower, but they must have gotten knocked off in the scuffle." I frowned; I couldn't remember what happened to my glasses.

"I'll find 'em." He kissed my cheek, and I hugged him again. I was so glad he was there, and I let go and trusted him to deal with Steve. It was the first of many times when Donald would end up being my hero.

********