Title: Nobody's Perfect
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R

Word Count: 2157
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.
Summary: Timothy reflects on Donald's "faults" and takes him to task accordingly.

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NOBODY'S PERFECT

by

Candy Apple

I took another bite of the birthday cake. I try to eat healthy. I'm no fanatic about it. But ordinarily, I try to avoid the stuff that's horribly bad for you. Still, there's nothing that makes me forget all those good intentions faster than a nice big slab of birthday cake with thick frosting - maybe even a horrendously sweet frosting rose.

It was another office birthday party, this time for my assistant, Jennifer. All of us were standing around in a conference room, feeding our faces on sheet cake. I even had a corner piece. Somehow, the topic of conversation had gotten around to spouses and their idiosyncracies. I guess it was Jennifer's comment about her boyfriend forgetting her birthday - generally forgetting most occasions - that got the ball rolling. Before long, everyone was sharing the little things about their significant others that irritated them.

My husband drinks milk out of the carton.

I suppose that's not sanitary. My mother never permitted us to put our fingers in or our mouths on any communal containers. The first time I saw Donald take out a jar of peanut butter and proceed to stick his finger in it, then lick it off his finger, I watched him with a sort of stunned fascination. Part of me was tempted to scold him for sticking his fingers into it, and then another very significant part of me enjoyed the little spectacle, unable to decide if I wanted to be his finger or the peanut butter.

"Quit being so selfish," I said, taking hold of his wrist and sucking the peanut butter off his finger. He laughed, his face wreathed in that smile that just lights up the room. And then I was laughing, too, glad to collect a peanut butter-flavored kiss. When I put my mouth on every part of my beautiful partner, and there's no part of him I don't love, why should I freak out because he has his finger in the peanut butter? What would a sterile jar of peanut butter mean to me without him? What would anything mean?

All that having been said, I do have another jar in the cupboard I use when I make sandwiches. Old habits die hard.

I'm lucky if I can get my boyfriend off his lazy butt long enough to mow the lawn.

I couldn't help but think about last summer. Bless her for making me think of summer, of Donald in nothing but a pair of faded cut-offs that left little to the imagination, napping in a chaise lounge chair on the patio, the grass so long it was swaying in the summer breeze. It had been hot, and I'm the first to admit, I don't like extreme heat and humidity in the summer. Some people toss on a pair of shorts and go out in the heat and love it. I don't. I feel overcome and stifled and...slimy. Donald had been sweating it out on all-night stakeouts, watching some woman cheating on her husband in air conditioned comfort while he roasted to death outdoors snapping pictures of her comings and goings.

It was Saturday, and the heat had broken just a bit. It was in the eighties, but the breeze was beautiful, and the humidity had finally taken a break from slowly draining the life force from all of us. When Donald went outdoors, it was ostensibly to mow the lawn. I was as guilty of letting it go as he was...maybe guiltier. After all, I was home at a sane hour every night, with plenty of daylight left to do it. Instead, I'd languished in the air conditioning and let the grass grow.

Now, I wandered out on the patio in my tank shirt and shorts, carrying two glasses of iced tea. I stood there a moment and watched him sleeping, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breath. I felt all my protective instincts kick into overdrive, thinking about how long he'd gone without sleep, how hot and miserable the conditions were he'd worked under, and I'd have probably slain anyone in their tracks who suggested he should get up and mow the lawn.

He rallied then, and smiled. "Guess I better get at the lawn," he said.

"Screw the lawn," I replied, setting our drinks on the table by his chair, easing myself into the lounge chair with him, cuddling up there in the shade in our blessedly wooded and private yard. "You don't have any sun screen on," I said, running my hand up and down the expanse of that soft, smooth, fair skin of his. He'd have been boiled like a lobster after a couple hours in the sun.

"Guess I forgot about it."

"Good thing we're in the shade."

"The grass is really long," he said.

"Unlike life, which is way too short to waste a day like this on cutting grass," I replied, nudging his chin up so we could kiss.

"I thought you'd be freaked out because the front lawn looks like something out of The Munsters," he said, chuckling. I guess I'd used that analogy once when I was complaining about the yard.

"If it bothers anyone that much, they're welcome to mow it. Right now, you're mine."

So we made out in the lounge chair, took a nap, sipped some iced tea, and made out some more. Then we threw on some light summer clothes and went out to dinner. Then we came home and slow danced on the patio under the moonlight and the stars, listening to a little portable radio and the crickets, who were no doubt loving our long grass.

The lawn waited for us another day, and the sun actually rose the next morning, even though we'd blown off the yard work. It's the one memory that makes me look the most forward to summer again.

My wife's always on call. Her beeper goes off at the damnedest times, so we can never make any plans.

Okay, so that one I can kind of identify with. Donald's not on call exactly, but if I had a dime for all the telltale, 'Sorry, honey' lead-ins to phone calls where he informs me our plans are not only changed or delayed, but more than likely shot to hell, I could retire now. The first couple of times it happened, I dealt with it, but I know he heard the edge in my voice. Occasionally I tried gently (or not so gently) nudging him toward thinking about another line of work. With age and years together come some wisdom, and this is what I've learned.

I can make him dread calling home, make him feel guilty for working around the clock on major cases. I could pressure him about changing jobs, and I could tell him to sleep on the sofa or in the guest room when he comes in at some ridiculous hour.

But then he probably wouldn't call me those extra times when he gets a chance during a stakeout, when we talk about anything and everything, the meaning of life, the bills, our days, what we'd rather be doing to each other in bed - little meetings of the minds, and sometimes the libidos, that I wouldn't trade for anything. I might not even get those little "love you's" at the end of our calls that I cherish.

And what is he really doing? Staying up all night working so he can make more money that goes in our joint bank account to pay for a better vacation, to pay off some bills...sometimes to buy me something I really want or need. He's good to me and faithful to me, and he shares everything he has with me without reservation. He'd do anything for me, give me everything he has... There is no "mine" and "yours" - just ours. That's how it's always been. I work hard, but I don't sit up all night in a cramped little car to make my money. I don't risk getting beaten up, shot, and otherwise mistreated to earn my pay. Donald does all that, and he rarely complains. And God love him, he puts up with it when I do. I only really complain because I miss him when he's out all night, and I worry about him. A lot.

I used to just try to relax and go back to sleep when he'd crawl in bed with me at some odd hour. Now I spend those few minutes I'm awake talking to him - or maybe listening to him talk about his night a while - kissing him, maybe giving him a little back rub to help him relax and go to sleep. I suppose that adds up to hours of lost sleep over a lifetime. But it also means I'm getting more hours with him, more little moments that are so much sweeter than just looking at the inside of my eyelids. And we both end up sleeping better.

"You're awfully quiet, Tim," Jennifer said, smiling. "Come on, Don can't be that perfect."

"No, he's not perfect, none of us are," I said, and then I smiled. "But he's perfect for me."

********

I lit a few candles around the bathtub, and turned on the portable CD player, smiling as the soft strains of a sultry saxophone filled the room. I wasn't exactly certain what time Donald would be home, but I've gotten pretty good at guessing. Sure enough, I heard the door downstairs, and then tired, plodding footsteps on the stairs. I tossed my robe aside and got into the tub, waiting to see Donald poke his head through the bathroom doorway. In a moment, he did, and I would have given anything to have a camera handy to capture the look on his face.

"Come on in," I said, smiling. "The water's great," I added. There was a plate of sliced meats and cheeses next to the tub, and martinis. He stared at the whole scene a moment as if he simply couldn't believe it. It was two-thirty in the morning, he'd cancelled out on going to a cocktail party with me to follow up on a new lead on one of his cases. I was supposed to be going to work in the morning. I'd taken the day off.

He blinked a time or two, then he smiled, and stripped off his clothes, tossing them in a pile on the floor. He slid into the water, and we met in the middle, kissing a long time before we paused long enough for him to say anything. When he did, there were actually tears in his eyes.

"I can't believe you did all this," he said, touching my face with a hand wet with scented bath water. "I was too tired to get anything to eat when I got home..."

"I just wanted to thank you."

"For what?" he asked, sounding stunned. "I stood you up for that cocktail thing and I didn't get home until...whatever time it is," he said, realizing his watch was abandoned with his pile of clothing.

"Two-thirty," I supplied helpfully, grinning.

"Yeah, two-thirty," he repeated. "You're thanking me?"

"Yes, I'm thanking you." I took his hand. "For working so hard to make our life better, but mostly just for being you, because you make me so happy and I love you so much."

He hugged me then, and I held onto him, closing my eyes and smiling, feeling the wet warmth of him against me, glad I had sprung this little surprise on him.

We stayed cuddled together while we fed each other some of the snacks, and toasted each other with our martinis. I gave Donald a slow, gentle massage, easing the tension in his shoulders and back. We dried off and went to bed, where we lay there together and took our time touching each other and kissing, sharing little love words. Donald fell asleep in my arms before we got around to making love. I stayed awake a while longer, nose to nose with my love, sharing breath with him, treasuring the closeness.

In the first sunlight of morning, we made love, and then napped together in a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs and rumpled sheets.

Sometimes, Donald hogs the blankets.

As I spooned around his sleeping body and buried my nose in his soft hair, I made a mental note to scold him for that one of these days.