Title: FLY ME TO THE MOON...OR MAYBE JUST VIRGINIA

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: NC-17 

Word Count: 17,908 (Total)

References/Spoilers: Mentions of Don's past that's discussed in STTS.

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. The song lyrics aren't mine, either.

Summary: Donald and Timothy visit the Callahan compound for Thanksgiving. Sequel to "Opportunities" in the One Night Series.

******************************************************************************

FLY ME TO THE MOON...OR MAYBE JUST VIRGINIA

by

Candy Apple

We weren't going to return to Virginia again for Christmas, so Timmy got all the Christmas shopping for his family done before our Thanksgiving trip. Apparently his mother had a big gathering planned, the tree was going to be up, and they were going to have a Christmas celebration along with the turkey dinner on Thanksgiving. According to Timmy, when his mother planned a party, she went all out. So he shipped a carton of gifts to Virginia so they'd arrive in time, and we wouldn't have to check them in luggage. I lost count and track of all the gift tags he laboriously wrote out and affixed to each one of the packages. Some of them were the cousins and little old great aunts who'd been at the wedding, and of course there were gifts for his grandmother and his parents.

Our flight was on time, and there was a festive dusting of snow on the ground, but nothing that threatened our travel, and not even a blizzard in the forecast that bode darkly for our return trip. Kevin and Frank drove us to the airport, so we didn't even have the hassle of parking and hiking into the airport.

Still, Timothy was almost vibrating with nervous energy by the time we boarded the plane. I know coach seats are annoying for his long legs, and we were in a plane that had to be just over the size limit to call it a jet. I barely got into my seat by the window without bashing my head in, and Timmy did knock his head on the overhead bin when he got into his seat. Ah, holiday travel.

"You okay, honey?" I asked, touching the side of his head.

"When my mother changed the flights to get us a departure at the ass crack of dawn on Friday, she changed airlines for this flight, too so we'd get out there tonight and have more time to visit. There weren't any first class reservations available."

I wanted to snicker at him using my "ass crack of dawn" phrase, but snickering at Timmy when he's in a snit isn't a smart thing to do.

"I didn't expect she'd fly us out there first class," I said.

"My mother doesn't do coach, and she doesn't fly family out there coach, either."

"The plane could be better," I admitted. "We'll be in Virginia before you know it." I thought that would make him feel better, but instead, he looked more...constipated than he had before. "I know you don't mind flying, so what's bugging you?"

"What's always bugging me about my family?" he snapped back.

"Ah, dear old dad. I thought he was on board with us coming out there for Thanksgiving."

"He's on board with it because my mother most likely made his life a living hell until he caved in, and she's probably threatened him with God knows what to be on his good behavior. You don't say no to my mother. About anything. Ever."

"It's a good thing you don't take after her," I said quietly, not looking up from where I was adjusting my seatbelt, and waited for the explosion. I knew he had one nerve left, and I was stepping on it, but I couldn't stop myself. In the ensuing silence, I finally glanced at him, and the look froze me. I wondered if I gulped audibly or it just sounded loud to me. "I was kidding, sweetheart." I hoped the endearment would help. I think it saved my life, because he looked away and leaned back a little in the seat, but he didn't smile.

"I just don't want him to make some kind of ugly scene at the dinner table."

"Timothy, since we've been together, I think it's fair to say we've been through a lot."

He glanced at me with a little frown, and then shrugged. "I suppose."

"Do you think he'll try to run over me with the family car?"

"I seriously doubt that," he replied with a snort.

"Will he throw live fireworks at us when we arrive?"

This time the corners went up a little. "Anything's possible, but probably not."

"Even if he hates my guts, is he likely to tie me to a chair and beat me until I agree to turn Republican?"

"No, he'll do that to me instead," he replied, chuckling.

"Seriously, Timothy, what can he do to us that someone else hasn't already done to us this year, and we've survived it? We've been beaten up, shot at, one of us has been hearing impaired and the other one nearly blinded, you've had two job crises, my business is in the toilet and I'm selling basketballs for a living, we've hit the skids financially, and now we're planning to relocate. Short of locusts, blood raining from the skies, or plague-bearing toads, I'm not sure what else he can throw at us that we haven't already dealt with."

Now he was laughing. He's beautiful when he laughs, and he felt better. I could see him relaxing. I love doing that for him.

"Don't forget food poisoning on our honeymoon."

"I was trying to forget that," I replied, laughing.

Timmy's parents did some kind of number on him that makes him so nervous, so afraid of things not being perfect, so driven... I have a feeling he was always expected to achieve, excel, be the image of perfection... In my opinion, he's as close to perfect as human beings get, but I think there's a lot of pressure on him to please the elders in the Callahan clan, because deep inside him, he has this fear that the sky is going to fall if he angers them. It doesn't stop him from doing what he feels is right, and he's not dominated or controlled by them, but he still seems to expect Armageddon to launch if their feathers are ruffled. Now me? I've always gotten a sick thrill out of ruffling feathers.

We were holding hands as the flight took off, and he was looking much more like my sweet, happy Timmy. I knew he didn't really care about the shitty seats or whether or not we were in first class. Honestly, I could have stood being on a better plane because this one took the sky kind of the way my car takes the road - not a smooth ride - and I've never been a fan of turbulence or night flying. I guess I just never flew that much. I did on occasion in the Army, but we didn't expect a smooth ride, and a couple times I had to jump out of the plane in question. But you're prepared for that, and you have a parachute on your back.

If I got thrown out of this plane, all that would be on my back was an airplane seat that I may or may not figure out in time how to use as a floatation device, or that would smash me like a bug with how many thousand pounds of pressure from the speed or the atmosphere or some such shit. I suppose renting the movie Final Destination the past weekend wasn't the smartest choice I could have made.

Timmy was telling me all the details about his parents' friends in The Hamptons, and how beautiful Suffolk County was. He'd been net-surfing already and found some apartment complex not far from the site of the new shopping center that was on the waterfront. We could have an ocean view from our living room and our balcony. I had a feeling our apartment hunting process would be quick and painless, because if we could afford it, I couldn't argue with an ocean view. Still, we were debating getting something really cheap and stockpiling our money for a house. Of course, a house there would be pretty steep.

Timothy was apparently past his funk about his father, and I had momentarily forgotten about impending death in a crash, so we had a nice time on the flight together, talking about the future, holding hands, just being together. Timmy's my best friend and my favorite person, and I love just being with him.

When we arrived at the airport, we made our way to baggage claim and located our one big suitcase. We weren't going to need crisply pressed suits for this visit, so we combined everything into one suitcase and one carry on. There was a uniformed driver holding up a sign bearing the name, "Strachey-Callahan" as we neared the exit. Timothy's mother, probably the most effective politician and diplomat of the lot, had obviously included both names with the limousine service that was to take us to the Callahan country house. Yes, they had a place in D.C., and a place in the country.

The Callahan compound was all I expected it would be. Plenty of property, lots of trees, both the leaf-bare types that characterize November, and the evergreens that stood prepared to take on the snow. The house was a big colonial painted a pale yellow with black shutters, with dormers sticking out of the roof that indicated there was a third floor, too. There was an impressive display of harvest-themed decorations around the front of it that were visible with the outside lights on, everything from bales of hay to gourds to an enormous wreath of colored leaves on the front door.

I had a vision of my future then, when we had our house, freezing my nuts off every fall and winter as I executed my marching orders for exterior holiday decorating. Timothy didn't disappoint me. Although, for all the bitching and griping I give him, I do enjoy collecting the payoff sex he considers my reward for a job well done, and I have to admit the house always looks fantastic.

The black sedan we were riding in the back of barely hit its brakes in the driveway before Anne was flying out the door of the house, tearing down the front steps at a speed that had to be fucking dangerous in the heels she was wearing, and heading for the car. Timothy just made it to his feet before she was on him, hugging him, looking him over like a mother lion inspects her cub for any damage. I was almost afraid to get out of the car, but since she's the only parental figure in my life who ever gets that worked up to see me, I kind of don't mind it that much.

"Don, you look wonderful!" she gushed, hugging me. "How are your eyes? Is everything back to normal?"

"I don't know about that, but my vision's okay," I quipped, and she laughed. Timmy's mother has a devilish side, and she loves a good joke. "You're looking stylish as ever," I said, and she beamed. It's true, though. Just like Timmy, she always looks great, put together, like the people in TV shows and movies who always look good when someone drops in on them? You know, the women who are in these fashionable outfits with all the jewelry and perfect make-up at ten o'clock at night, and the men who are wandering around in expensive sweaters? I mean, in that world, no one ever sits around in his (or her) underwear, scratching themselves and being unpresentable. She had on some expensive looking pantsuit that was the color of a piece of pumpkin pie and a silk scarf with all kinds of colors in it and some nice gold jewelry that probably set old Steven back a few bucks.

"You're a charmer," she accused, linking her arms one each through ours and leading us toward the house. Apparently, our luggage was the driver's problem. "I'm so glad you could make it. I just wish we were going to have a longer visit," she added.

"That's my fault. I couldn't get out of working Friday," I said.

"That's not your fault, dear. You're working a second job to bring in the extra money you two need...that's being on top of things. Although you know you don't have to do that. I have a bit of a money-laundering system going on. Tim's father doesn't have to know a thing about it. I can help you over the hump."

"I appreciate that, Mom, but we're okay. We'll be over the hump before long," I added. We'd just arrived in the foyer. There was an open staircase nearby, an expensive-looking oval mirror on the wall near the door, a coat closet, and an antique table with a cornucopia spilling out flowers in reds, oranges, and golds. If I ever wondered where Timothy got his impeccable taste and eye for nice things, one trip through a Callahan dwelling would answer that question. I took Timmy's coat and my own, and Anne watched that with some interest and a look of approval. I like to open doors for Timmy and take his coat and treat him like he's royalty. He doesn't ask it of me or expect it, but I love to do it. I like to take care of him.

"You're a good man, Don," she said, touching my arm. "But you don't have to do everything on your own. Family can help."

"I know you'd be there for us if we were stuck," I said, smiling at her. "That means a lot."

"But you're determined to get unstuck on your own," she added.

"We're close to unstuck. Things were just a little dicey for a while," Tim spoke up. "Where's Dad?" he asked. He was trying to sound casual, but there was tension in his voice. I was liking his father less and less by the moment.

"He should be here any minute," she said, her tone light, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that she'd picked up on Timmy's stress. "He's looking forward to seeing you, sweetie," she said. "Oh, thank you. Just set those right there," she said to the driver, who set the bags inside by the staircase. I was going to leave him a tip, but she touched my arm. "It's all taken care of. Tim, I have you in the blue room, second door on the left. Would you like to have a little time to relax and get unpacked?"

"Sure, that sounds good," he said, and he looked relieved.

"Take your time and come down when you're ready. We'll have dinner when your father gets home," she said. "He's picking up your grandmother and bringing her here tonight, so she can have a nice long visit with you both," she said.

"Dinner smells great," I said, since I was ravenous and the smell was getting to me.

"We're having roast beef tonight. I refuse to eat any kind of bird meat in the two days before Thanksgiving," she said. "Now you get settled, and I'll call to you as soon as your father gets home."

The room was nice, like something you'd expect from a high-end bed and breakfast. The walls were a medium blue, all the woodwork was painted white in that room, and the windows overlooked an expanse of rolling land that included woods behind the house. There was a queen size four-poster bed that looked antique, matching night stands, a dresser with an ornate mirror over it, and a big wardrobe.

"You mother likes antiques," I said, and Timmy smiled.

"These are some of her finds," he replied, opening our suitcase and placing things neatly in the drawers of the dresser. "She always wanted an old Victorian, but that didn't quite work out."

"This isn't too shabby," I said, looking around the room.

"The brownstone in Georgetown is more her style. Very historic."

"So that's the place in the city? I was picturing a small apartment or something." I sat on the bed. "Did they have this place when you were a kid?"

"No. I grew up in the house we had in Poughkeepsie, when my dad was still a state senator. We didn't 'go national' until I was in high school and he won the U.S. Congress seat. They sold that house eventually and relocated to D.C. full-time. They got this place about five or six years ago."

"I bet that brownstone is swanky."

"I suppose so," he said, chuckling.

"What?"

"I guess I never thought about it being swanky," he said, setting our empty suitcase aside. "I never really lived there." He sat next to me on the bed. I was glad his flurry of nervous energy with unpacking was over.

"We should go there sometime. To Poughkeepsie. I've never been there."

"It's not all that far from Albany."

"Did you like it there?"

"Yes, I had a good childhood there."

"How about your dad? Was he hard to deal with growing up?"

"His expectations were high, but then so were my mother's. Achievement, excellence...those things were very important to them with their children."

"Even if he doesn't agree with you, he's got to be proud of what you've accomplished. You're pretty much the youngest chief of staff in the state, maybe in the country."

"Not too bad, for a Democrat."

"Even so." I put my arm around him and hooked my chin on his shoulder. "I'm really proud of you."

"You're biased," he said, smiling, wrapping me up in a hug. I loved being all snuggled up to him. He had a nice, warm sweater on, and I could hear his heart beating where my ear was pressed to his chest.  

"Maybe, but if your father isn't proud of you, he's an asshole." I kind of blurted that out, and then I wondered if Timmy would be mad I'd called his old man an asshole.

"You're not the first person who's ever felt that way," he replied with a little snort.

"Was he nice to you when you were a kid?"

"Nice to me? Of course, he was nice to me," he said, pulling back, looking at me, confused.

"You seem so wired since we've been here, like you're afraid of him or something. If you are, I can take care of that real quick."

"Can I tell you the truth and you promise not to get mad?"

"If you tell me he used to hit you or something, I'm gonna fucking kill him, but short of that, I won't get mad."

"No, he didn't hit me. And honestly, I never had to question whether either of my parents loved me, because I know they always have. I'm just afraid my father is going to say something and you're going to defend my honor and we're going to have a free-for-all. There, I said it."

"So you want me to sit down and shut up and let him walk all over you if he starts doing that?"

"No, I'm just saying...let me set the tone for things, and if I let something pass, just let it go. I've been dealing with my father for years, and I know when there's a point in pushing his buttons, and when there isn't. Besides, my mother will take him apart piece by piece later anyway."

"I promise if your asshole father makes some annoying remark, your hothead partner won't start something unless you give him the signal," I said, and he laughed.

********

Don and I freshened up a little after we got unpacked and, by that time, my mother was calling to us that my father was there with Grandma. It was almost eight, but apparently the housekeeper had managed to keep the roast at the right point of "doneness" despite the uncertain schedule. We even had time for cocktails before dinner.

We headed downstairs, and the knot in my stomach that had eased being with Don was tightening again. I don't know why I used to let my father intimidate me like that. I wasn't a child anymore, I was a man, with a partner and a career. His approval would be something nice to have, but not something essential to my life, the way it was when I was a child. And I did worry how Don would react to him. He's never been able to tolerate anyone who hurts me in any way, no matter how minor it may be.

The first person we saw was Grandma, and that put us both at ease, since she was thrilled to see us, both of us, and gave us both enthusiastic hugs with her bony little arms. I still miss her so much. She always loved me, and then Don, no matter what we achieved or didn't achieve, no matter what our politics, or whether or not we were a difficult "issue" in front of conservative Republican cronies.

We were all standing in the living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace, soft Christmas music in the background. My mother had a cheese ball and crackers on the coffee table, and my father was standing at the antique table that held the liquor tray, pouring himself some scotch. He probably needed it to bolster himself for dealing with his Democrat son and his male partner.

"There you are," he said, turning toward us, his drink in his hand. We're about the same height, and people tell me that we have the same posture, similar build. Even though I look more like my mother, I suppose I'm built like my father's side of the family. To this day, he still has a good head of gray hair, so I hope that bodes well for my follicular future. He had what Don calls his "passing gas" smile on his face. I felt like he was tolerating us, and I wasn't prepared for how much that hurt. Then he shook hands with me. It was clear that was to be the extent of our greeting.

"Dad, this is Don," I said, linking my arm through his. I needed his warmth.

"Congressman," Don said, holding out his hand, which my father shook. I was waiting for him to correct Don, to say, "Call me 'Steven'," but he didn't. He was seriously going to let Don go on calling him "Congressman."

"Call him Steven," my mother said, smiling at Don but shooting my father a look that seemed to unsettle even him.

"Of course," he said, chuckling, as if it were so obvious Don should have just known. "What can I get you two?" he asked, turning back to the liquor tray.

"A martini works for me," Don said, taking my hand and squeezing it. I smiled at him.

"Make that two," I said, still looking into his eyes, his smile and all the love I saw there making my father's chilliness a lot easier to handle.

"Martinis it is," Dad said, in his best festive host's tone, as if he hadn't just held me at arm's length and been prepared to let his new son-in-law call him "Congressman" on our first holiday visit. My grandmother didn't say much, sipping a glass of wine, sitting in one of my mother's favorite antique chairs, but her beady little blue eyes were affixed to my father. After all those years, he still underestimated the combined wrath of his mother and his wife.

"Sit down, you two," Mom said, ushering us to the sofa, making sure we had a spot we could sit together. "Have some cheese and crackers."

"This cheese ball looks like one of yours, Mom," I said, carving some off on one of the small plates, then putting some crackers with it and handing it to Don, who smiled at me like I'd given him the keys to a Porsche instead of some munchies. Early on, we fell into an easy habit of serving each other or taking care of each other, just doing little things like that. When you each put each other first, both of you are first at least half of the time. "Mom makes the best cheese balls on Earth," I said and, in my not so humble opinion, that's true. They're creamy and spreadable and they have chives on the outside instead of nuts. I'm not sure why nuts on cheese balls annoy me, but they do.

"I think you're biased," she said, laughing. Just what I'd said to Don earlier, when he was trying to cheer me up. It's a good thing there are people in this world who love us, who are biased. They make us who we are, and make our lives worthwhile.

I'd pigged out on her cheese balls since I was a little boy. It was my one character flaw as a perfectly mannered, precocious little showpiece for my parents' friends at holiday parties. I had no honor when it came to those cheese balls. I would lie, cheat, steal, and scheme until I'd consumed at least half of one on my own. And that was when I was a child. I was even smarter and had a larger capacity now. As if she'd read my thoughts, she added, "I made extras."

"So, Don, you're a private investigator," Dad said, handing him his martini.

"Thank you. Guilty as charged," Don quipped, smiling. He was doing his best to pretend he didn't want to slug my father in the chops. Then he touched my hand where it rested on my lap, curling his fingers around it.

"I've dealt with a few of them in my career," he said. "Sort of an unsavory lot," he added, sitting down. "Present company excepted, of course," he said, smiling his best politician's smile. I wanted to say something awful to him. He'd insulted Don, but he'd wriggled out of it at the same time.

"Well, I've never been fond of political types, either, until I met your son," he said. I wanted to laugh out loud. No "present company excepted" - except for me. And yet, he'd said it with one of his sweet smiles, all in good humor. I squeezed his hand.

My father chuckled, but he looked at Don a bit differently, as if he realized he'd underestimated his opponent.

"What kind of cases do you investigate?"

I know it sounds like a harmless conversational question, but I knew he was leading Don through his usual minefield, the way he lured and trapped anyone he was ready to disapprove of. I wasn't worried about Don anymore, though. I knew he was a worthy adversary, and that he didn't have to make a scene or break his promise to me to do it.

"A lot of divorce cases, worker's comp claims the company didn't trust, corporate background checks. I've had a few missing persons cases that were more interesting."

"Those must be the dangerous ones. Anne tells me you've had some misadventures with a few."

"A few, but I'm trained to handle that kind of situation, so I've managed to stay in one piece."

"You're also in the sporting goods business, too. Good thing you've taken up a sideline now that Tim's lost his job," Dad said.

"I didn't lose my job. I declined Grant's offer. There's a difference, Dad," I replied. I couldn't help it. I didn't lose my job as if I'd somehow not done it satisfactorily, or was not wanted by Sean's successor. And I knew Don would probably forget his promise to me soon enough if my dad really went after me. "Don took on a second job to help us over the rough spot." I looked at him. This was the ideal time to announce his new job. He nodded. I took a sip of my martini. "Of course, now it looks like we won't have much of a rough spot to deal with after all."

"Really? What's going on you haven't told me about?" Mom asked, sliding a bit toward the edge of her seat.

"I was offered a job with Madison Enterprises," Don said. I could see my father's ears perk up a bit. John Madison supported Democrats, but he was a force to be reckoned with, and anyone in the political game knew who he was.

"Running background checks?"

That's it, Dad, set yourself up for this one.

"Actually, he's building a high-end shopping center in Suffolk County, and he needs a Head of Security and Loss Prevention for it. He offered me the job, and Timothy's willing to move so I can accept it. We'll be relocating early next year."

"Oh, Don, that's wonderful!" my mother gushed, and my grandmother just looked at him and winked, grinning. That was her way of saying, "Well played."

"Don foiled an armed robbery attempt at the sporting goods store, and got John's daughter, Tiffany, out of the store safely before it even started," I bragged. "He knew the guys were trouble when they walked in, before they'd even done anything. He sent her out with a customer to call the police."

My father looked blank for a moment, as if he knew he'd stepped in something and wasn't sure how to extract his figurative foot without losing face. Dear God, talk about mixing your metaphors...

"Tim, you never told me about the robbery," Mom said, frowning. "Were you in much danger?" she asked Don.

"Anytime you have a bunch of greedy nuts with guns, you're in danger, but the whole situation was resolved pretty fast. The police got there quickly, and we got out of it with just one guy getting a bump on the head."

"I didn't want you to worry, Mom," I said. "Don was okay, and I figured we could fill you in when we saw you."

"Well, I'll forgive you this once since you have such wonderful news. Tell us all about the new job!" she exclaimed. Don recapped what John had told him about the position, and I was even prouder of him than I'd been before. John Madison was a shrewd businessman, and he was entrusting Don with securing a multi-million dollar venture that would probably go downhill fast if the security wasn't airtight and the manager of all that on top of every detail.

"And what are you going to be doing while Don is...well, minding the stores?" Dad asked.

"Looking for a job in that area. I'm going to focus on getting us moved, since Don is going to be working soon after the New Year. We're taking a trip there between Christmas and New Year's to look at apartments."

"You've done a lot of networking in Albany. That's a lot to give up."

"I'm sure there are opportunities in Suffolk County. Don's salary will easily support us until I find something."

"I imagine finding work in Albany could be challenging, if people connect you to the scandals in Donnelly's office."

"Tim was the one who uncovered what was going on there," Don responded. "He has nothing to be ashamed of, and anyone who doesn't hire him if they have the chance is nuts."

"I wasn't implying he was involved. But in the political arena, you don't have to be involved for someone else's dirty laundry to damage your career."

"Steven, that's enough," Grandma said. My father looked at her, a bit surprised. "Leave them alone. This is a family gathering, not a congressional inquest. Don is a lovely young man who's willing to work two jobs to take care of Timothy, and Timothy is doing just fine with his career. As a matter of fact, he has a better job now than you had at his age."

"I'm simply making a point that the scandal -"

"You are not simply making a point. You're badgering them. If I taught my children one thing, it was to be a gracious host or hostess."

"Grandma, I love you very much for standing up for us, but if Dad really has to call on his upbringing as a gracious host to tolerate us being here, then it was my mistake to come here at all, and to drag Don into the middle of this, and I'm sorry."

I got up and bolted for the door. I know it was wrong and unfair and I was leaving Don in the middle of all of it but I had a lump in my throat and I daresay breaking down and crying would have made me even more of a failure in my father's eyes. I didn't want him to be polite. I wanted him to be glad to see me and to accept the man I loved the way my mother and my grandmother did.

I didn't realize how far and how fast I was moving until I reached the split rail fence that was only about ten feet back from the road. I leaned on the cold wood, and I cried. I was cold, my breath was coming out in visible puffs in the night air, and it was snowing lightly.

"You left without your coat," Don said, approaching me, putting the coat around my shoulders.

"You probably think I'm pathetic," I said, trying to wipe at my eyes. He pulled me into his arms.

"No, I think you're beautiful and smart and amazing, but I still stand by my opinion that your father is an asshole. He's been treating you like shit since we laid eyes on him tonight, and if I hadn't promised you to keep my mouth shut and be on my good behavior, I'd have told him so."

"It shouldn't hurt me like this, when he does this. It's not the first time he's acted this way. He wouldn't come to our wedding, didn't want us here, and he came up with some reason to avoid us last year at the holidays...I should know - "

"It's okay, honey. Last year, it was me blubbering all over you while we were watching the Thanksgiving Day parades. My parents dumped me years ago. I don't want it to, but it still hurts like hell. It's just not nearly as important now that I have you."

"I feel the same way about you, but - "

"You don't have to explain it, sweetheart. If you want, we'll get a taxi, go to a hotel, preferably one with a nice dining room that's serving on Thanksgiving, and we'll get the hell out of here right now."

"I can't do that." I pulled back, and he wiped at my tears with a couple of crumpled tissues he'd apparently stuffed in his pocket on the way out the door. He knows me pretty well, and he obviously knew I'd be out there bawling. "My mother's planned a big Thanksgiving gathering around this. I can't do that to her, and you heard Grandma..."

"Okay. So what are we gonna do? I'm done letting him hurt you."

"Timothy! Donald!" My mother was running toward us, wrapped up in one of her favorite fur-trimmed coats, having exchanged her pumps for some kind of oxford-style shoes I'd never seen her wear before unless she was gardening. Anything that forced my mother into sensible shoes with her designer coat was a true crisis. "I'm so sorry about your father," she said to me. "Oh, honey, you know how he is," she said, hugging me because she could see my puffy eyes and Don had been dabbing at my cheeks with tissues when she first spotted us.

"Yeah, well, I've seen how he is and I don't like it," Don said. "I don't let anyone else walk all over Timothy, and I'm all done sitting still for his father doing it."

"He won't. Grandma Grace is in there alone with him, so I think it's fair to assume she's still reading him the riot act. He may not like it, but he won't go against her wishes. And he'll be sorry if he goes against mine."

"That's the point, Mom. He doesn't want us here. He's just putting up with us, and that's the part that...that I can't be around."

"You know your father loves you. He's always given everyone either you or Kelly dated a hard time. She only brought a boy she liked home to meet him once, and she never did it again. Don can hold his own. He'll get past this, and we'll have a nice Thanksgiving together, you'll see."

"It's up to you, honey," Don said, taking my hand, holding it. His hand felt warm around mine, and I laced our fingers together. I just wanted to go home. To our home. With him. I'd looked so forward to "going home" for Thanksgiving, and now I felt like I was an outsider here, like our little apartment and some midget turkey we cooked together was being home for Thanksgiving.

"Timmy, negotiating things with your father has not always been easy - you know that as well as I do. But he's a good man, and he will come around. Maybe you have to start with polite tolerance and give him some time to warm up to you again, and accept you on your terms."

"My terms? What are my terms, Mom? He seemed to get over my being gay as long as I didn't do anything about it. Ever since I've had someone important in my life, he's avoided us like the plague. He didn't want the wedding out here where his friends and cronies are, he's doing his best to fire passive-aggressive insults at Don, and he's acting like he can't stand me. He barely looks me in the eyes."

"He wanted to help you get another job after Sean Donnelly died, and then you didn't want anything to do with that, and it hurt his pride."

"Because I want to stand on my own two feet? My God, Mom, most men like Dad, with money and influence, want their kids to stand on their own. He's mad because I'm not dependent on him?"

"He does want you to stand on your own two feet. This is all so removed from his idea of what your future was going to be. And maybe he is having a little trouble with the reality of you choosing a life partner and being a couple the way you'd be a couple with a wife or girlfriend. I don't know. I just know that he's stubborn and difficult but he does love you, and even if he doesn't deserve your patience, if you can be the bigger man, it will pay off in the end."

"It's getting cold out here. We'll go back inside," I said. I didn't want to, but I realized my mother was cold, my grandmother was in there fighting my battle for me, and Don was willing to do anything I wanted. My mother had a point. Someone had to be the bigger man, and maybe it was up to me to do that. "I'm sorry I took off like that," I said, touching her shoulder. My mother has always been our champion, from the moment I told her I'd met "the one" that fateful night I met Don in the bar. My meltdown was causing her a lot more stress than it was causing my father. Although, Grandma Grace was causing my father plenty of stress. I was always her favorite grandchild, and she never tolerated anyone messing with me, even if it was my father.

When we returned to the house, my father was stoking the fire, and my grandmother was sitting in her chair, stone-faced.

"Apparently, I've done something to offend you," my father said, putting the poker back in its rack. "That wasn't my intention."

"I'm glad," I said. "It's been a long day, and frankly, kind of a stressful few months. I'm sorry if I overreacted."

"I think we should have dinner before the roast is petrified," Grandma Grace announced, standing. "You can only delay it so long and have it remain edible," she said, starting toward the dining room. All five-foot-one of her took charge of the lot of us, and we all followed into the dining room, while my mother slipped into the kitchen to tell the housekeeper we were ready for dinner to be served.

As the meal was served, my mother got her second wind.

"I thought perhaps tomorrow, the men in the family could go out and get our Christmas tree," she said. My father looked like he had a shooting pain at the thought, but he stifled that reaction, and took a large drink from the glass of wine at his place.

"Does your family believe in hacking down a live pine, or are you the artificial tree type, Don?" he asked, and it seemed like he was genuinely trying to say something friendly, and yet I wondered if he was needling Don, bringing up his family, when he knew perfectly well Don was estranged from them. I had to stop finding an ulterior motive in his every remark if I was going to get through that visit. Still, very little my father says is accidental.

"We didn't exactly head out to the woods with an axe, but we did go to a tree lot and pick one out. Until my mother decided she'd had it cleaning up after them, and we switched to an artificial tree a couple years before I left home."

"Anne sends her menfolk out to the woods here to cut one down. If I'd known I was going to have to do that every year, I'd have refused to buy this place."

"Excuse me," my mother said. "I have to go get my tiny violin." That made us all laugh, including my father. It was a necessary mood-lifter.

"I don't think I can go out and get a tree," Don said. I stared at him. "I don't have my Christmas sweater with me."

"Oh, God," I said, covering my face. I'd sent my mother a picture of us in our horrendous Christmas sweaters.

"Christmas sweater? You have a sweater for picking out trees?" My father looked puzzled, as if that was some kind of strange gay practice.

"Yeah, it's a Christmas tradition," Don said, smiling, covering my hand with his. "That, and figuring out how to get another ten-foot monstrosity into the apartment this year."

"The tree wasn't ten feet tall," I corrected.

"Okay, nine and a half," he countered, winking at me.

"Don, when were you going to tell us the exciting details of that armed robbery?" Grandma asked, leaning forward a bit in her seat. My sweet little Irish grandmother had a taste for the wild side of life. So Don told her the story, leaving out any truly upsetting details, but leaving in just enough violence and excitement to sate her interest.

********

After dinner, we all adjourned to the family room, which was already decorated with an artificial tree and various other Christmas accents. Old man Callahan was on his good behavior the rest of the evening, which made things a lot less stressful for me, at least. I'm not in the habit of standing by and letting anyone hurt Timothy - physically or emotionally - without dealing with it. It's not that Timmy can't take care of himself, but my instinct to protect him is something I can't really do anything about. Even when he sometimes prefers that I back off, I end up sticking my nose into it, because he's the love of my life, and I'd kill or die to protect him.

Grandma Grace toddled off to bed about eleven, and we were happy to accept the escape when Anne suggested we were probably tired from our trip and would like to get some rest. I felt like the weight of the world was off my shoulders when I shut our bedroom door. There was a nice big garden tub in the bathroom adjoining our bedroom, and I had a feeling lounging in a warm bath would help Timmy unwind a little.

"How about if I start a bath?" I asked, sliding my arms around his waist.

"Sounds great," he said, smiling, and I could feel some of the tension easing in his muscles now that we were alone.

"Things'll be okay with your dad, honey. He's just marking his territory."

"Marking his territory?" he asked, chuckling.

"Your mother and your grandmother are pressuring him to act a certain way, and you're doing your own thing with your career, and you even had the nerve to go out and find someone to be gay with who's going to be showing up at all the family gatherings. He's probably feeling a little..."

"Emasculated?"

"Well, yeah, don't you think?"

"I suppose. He's never been one to concede. Just ask the people who get in a debate with him."

"We're here, aren't we?"

"Well, yes, but look how he acted?"

"And he backed down. Timothy, if he didn't want anything to do with you, truly, forever, wanted to cut you off, we wouldn't be here. We weren't here last year, or for the wedding."

"You think this is progress?"

"Don't you? Honey, he wouldn't have us in the same state last year, and now we're here for Thanksgiving. You and your male partner."

"I didn't think my being gay was still an issue for him."

"How many boyfriends have you brought home?"

"Just Steve, and it was just a weekend visit."

"He probably didn't have any guests while you were there, did he?"

"No, it was just family."

"So he really doesn't have to tell most people he knows that you're gay when it's just you."

"It's not like I announce it one way or the other in situations where it doesn't matter. I hadn't thought of that."

"If your father didn't love you, don't you think he'd have cut you off by now? Not to mention kept your male partner away from the family table?"

"I wouldn't be here without you."

"Well, then that would be an easy way for him to put his foot down and say he didn't condone what we were doing, and say you could come here without me if you wanted. The old, 'it ain't gonna happen under my roof' philosophy. But we're here, in a guest room together like you'd be with your wife if you'd married a woman, and he's just having a little pissing contest with me, that's all. I think we both hit a similar height on the wall, so we can move on."

"I didn't think you'd stick up for him."

"Timothy, I'm not sticking up for him hurting you. But trust me, I know what it's like to be tossed out in the street like so much garbage by a father who hates my fucking guts, and this isn't it. He's got a ways to go, but he's not hopeless."

"I wish we could make some progress with your parents."

"Yeah, well, let that one go. It's not happening. Don't worry about me. I can handle your dad, and I think we need to give him a chance to come around. If he doesn't, then we'll have to figure out what level of crap we're going to put up with for the long haul."

"How'd you get so smart?"

"I'm not that smart. But he threw in half the ingredients that make up you, so he can't be all bad."

"Good answer," he replied, kissing me in a way that took my breath away and went straight to my dick.

"I'll go get that bath started."

"In good time," he said, backing me toward the bed and then tackling me on it. "We might as well do something to get dirty before we take a bath," he said in a husky voice against my ear. His breath was almost as hot in my ear as his words were to my overheating body.

I swear, he can get his hand down my pants faster than anyone I've ever been with. I don't even know how he gets through belt, zipper, and fabric before I even know what's happening to me. He was getting me riled up pretty quickly and, for a moment, I thought he was going to just give me the hand job of the century and see how long I could go without screaming loud enough to wake Grandma Grace in her first floor guest room. Then he left me long enough to get the lube out of our travel bag, handed it to me, knelt on the bed, and shoved his pants down to his knees. The sight of him in his nice clothes with just his beautiful ass sticking out just about made me come before I even touched him. The idea he was so hot for me we were going to do it mostly dressed like a couple of horny teenagers turned me on in ways I can't even describe.

I rushed into the bathroom and returned with a towel, which I tossed in the right spot to protect the bedspread. He laughed out loud at that, and I had to shush him. We weren't even having sex yet, and he was getting noisy. In the spirit of hasty, spontaneous sex, I got to work with my finger inside him, slicking him up, getting him ready. I put some slippery stuff on myself and slid inside him. I ran my hands under his shirt and sweater and rubbed over his chest, tweaking his nipples while I moved in and out of him. Our clothes were kind of in the way, contrasting with the places where our bare skin rubbed together. I was biting my tongue, and he had his face stuck in a silk accent pillow while he made all kinds sexy noises low in his throat, trying to be quiet.

No, that won't do, baby. You're gonna scream for me, even if you need two of your mother's pillows to stifle it.

I thrust a little deeper, making the strokes last longer, slowing the pace but going deeper, making him grab the bedspread until his knuckles turned white, letting out what would have been a scream if he wasn't in his parents' house with his face in two pillows. He was coming, and then I was too, burying my face against the back of his sweater, growling like some kind of mad dog, instead of letting out a scream that would spook the horses in the stable.

We collapsed together, me on top of him, giggling like two idiots, like we'd somehow gotten away with something. We were married, sharing a guest room. It's not like anyone was deluding themselves we might not be getting intimate with each other. But we kind of have a kink for doing it quick and naughty with our clothes on. I just have a kink for Timmy's body, anytime, anywhere I can have it.

"Now you can draw that bath," he said, kissing me awkwardly over his shoulder, then turning over so we could kiss each other properly.

"You have the hottest ass I've ever seen," I told him, and he shivered a little at the sexy comment.

"I got the impression you liked it," he said, bumping noses with me. "Good catch on the towel," he joked, laughing softly.

"I didn't happen to pack a bottle of Febreze, and I don't want to freak out your mother."

"I suppose come on the bedspread would be a little discourteous."

"We're lying here with our pants around our knees talking about courtesy?" I asked, and we both devolved into the giggles again.

He sat up and started pulling his clothes off.

"I'll get the water going," I said, running for the bathroom.

Our time in the tub was nice. Really nice. Some long overdue sex and the warm water seemed to be unwinding Timmy, and his warm, wet body was languishing against mine as we enjoyed our shared soak. Between my hours at the store increasing, trying to wrap up my last few cases before I closed the doors on Strachey Investigations, and Timothy trying to do as much as he could for Sean Donnelly's constituents before Harrison Grant took over, we weren't getting a whole lot of time like that. And that kind of time was the sweetest, when we just lay there together, sometimes talking, sometimes just being with each other.

We were luxuriating in some kind of nice-smelling bubble bath, by the light of a few fat white candles on the vanity.

"Does your mother always stock the guest bathroom with bubble bath and candles?" I asked, yawning. Timmy's head came up a bit from my shoulder at that, and he looked at me.

"Oh, my God," he said, his head flopping back on my shoulder. "Oh, my God, no, tell me we're not doing exactly what my mother figured we'd be doing in here."

"So what?" I asked, laughing. "Oh, come on, honey. We're newlyweds yet. We don't have a big garden tub in our apartment. What would you expect we'd do the first night here?"

"I know, but my mother?" He covered his face with a wet hand, and looked at me between his fingers. And then we both cracked up laughing.

"What do you think your dad thinks we're doing in here?"

"Probably what we were doing right before this," he replied, and that made us laugh harder. We were tired and punchy and some stress was letting loose.

Before I met Timmy, it had literally been years since I'd had a genuine laughing jag. He makes me laugh, he gives me joy, and just being with him chases the shadows away. My shadows were bigger, darker, and closer to the surface when I first met him. Over the years we've been together, they've been chased into some remote corner of my psyche. Something can still bring them out, but it's like digging in the farthest back corner of the attic for the stuff that doesn't matter much anymore. There's so much more important stuff in my emotional attic now. Good, happy stuff that started the night I decided to stick my nose into defending his honor in that nightclub.

"This is going to be our second Thanksgiving together," I said, kissing him, then kissing him again. I lingered there, tasting his sweet mouth, feeling the softness of his lips on mine. "Old married people," I added, and he smiled and kissed me. Then we kissed some more.

"Every day of my life, I'm so thankful for you," he said, looking into my eyes, letting me see all the love he felt for me. I held him close. Being all naked and wet should have made me horny, but his body against me, the intimacy of it, the gold light of candles and the shadows of the room, the warmth of the water around us, his soft words...I felt so close to him emotionally, like there were no barriers, just us, as together as we could be. I just wanted to be in his arms, to feel him in mine.

"You're everything," I whispered in his ear. I couldn't think of anything else to say that even came close to telling him what he meant to me.

"I guess we're kind of lucky, huh?" he asked, pulling back enough to smile at me.

"Yeah, just a little," I agreed, grinning.

********

Timmy and I slept a little later than we planned. When we woke up, we were spooned together, his body around mine, tucked under the covers. It took all our self control to get up, get dressed, and go downstairs. It was chilly in the house, a light snow was falling outside, and hiding under the covers together, making love, or just hanging out together, seemed like paradise.

He seemed bolstered to go up against the old man again. I hoped I'd played a part in that. Maybe I was able to make him feel so loved that his father's bullshit wouldn't hurt him so much. I meant what I said to him, that I thought there was hope for his father to come around more than he had, but I was still pissed off at him for making Timothy feel as badly as he did. I wouldn't have stood still for anyone else hurting him that way, and I wasn't going to let the old man have free reign like that again.

When we arrived in the kitchen, Timmy's parents were at the table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Grandma Grace was still in her room relaxing. Smart little lady, she was. That's what I would have preferred to do. Anne, always the energetic hostess, was out of her chair in a flash, insisting on fixing us some breakfast. Steven mentioned some article in the paper about a Democratic budget proposal that was being vigorously debated in Washington, which gave Timmy and his father something to rag on each other about that wasn't so emotionally charged. They debated, argued, discussed, and generally dissected all angles of the thing, while Anne and I exchanged a few amused looks. It was like watching two dogs pulling on opposite ends of a chew toy. No real malice, but lots of tugging and snarling.

Grandma Grace made her appearance for toast and coffee about ten, and we told the story of hauling the Christmas tree up to the third floor last year, which actually seemed to amuse the old man. Apparently, he wasn't overly fond of the tree job, and he found our struggles with the tree pretty funny. It was a good way to set the mood for the tree-seeking mission, which we started out on about eleven. My mother promised us a big late lunch when we returned, assuming we were victorious.

It's no secret I'm not a big fan of the cold, so trudging through the woods looking for a pine tree when there was bound to be a lot full of them somewhere nearby didn't do it for me, but I wasn't about to throw a wet blanket on a Callahan family tradition - especially when I was being included in it without Anne threatening the old man with death. Then again, better to have two younger men with you to haul the tree back to the house.

"This one's nice," I said, choosing a tree that was about seven feet tall, with a nice shape.

"Too short," Steven retorted, sighing. He seemed regretful something that size wouldn't pass muster.

"Height isn't everything," Timothy said, surreptitiously squeezing one of my butt cheeks while his father was inspecting another potential tree selection. "It's how things are shaped and distributed that counts."

His father looked at us for a moment, like he wasn't quite sure if he'd just been horrified by some gay sexual innuendo, or if he was reading too much into it. By then, Timmy was standing there, the picture of innocence, and the flush in my face could easily be attributed to the brisk wind. Apparently deciding not read more into it, he started moving along the trail, then veered off into another cluster of trees. Timothy just looked at me and winked. He's a bad boy, my Timmy.

"You think your mother will go for this one?" he asked Tim.

"Nope. Look at that gap. You'd never fill that in with lights, and since she doesn't want to use the big garland, there's nothing to cover it with." He homed in on the poor tree's flaws like a personal trainer critiquing a fat client in a leotard.

"How about that one?" I suggested, pointing to a twelve-foot monster that looked like something that should have been in a Christmas movie, it was so fucking perfect.

"Holy shit," Steven said, scratching his head, looking at it. I didn't know the old man swore like that.

"Will it clear the ceiling?" I asked.

"Yeah, thirteen foot ceilings, so assuming we can adjust the tree topper so it doesn't go more than a foot higher than the tree, we can swing it."

"Donald, that's huge. What door would we take it through?" Tim asked, and his father stood there a minute, pondering.

"The patio doors in the dining room. We'll have to move the table and chairs out of the way and bring in it that way."

"What comes in, must come out," I said. "We won't be here when it's time to take it down."

"I'll have the grounds crew take it out," he said. "I'll humor Anne through hauling this bastard into the house, but I'll be damned if I haul it back out again."

"It would be breath-taking by the staircase," Tim said.

"I don't like you," Steven said to me, moving toward the tree to assess how to best start cutting it down.

"Yeah, whatever, Merry Christmas to you, too," I retorted, and I could have sworn Tim's father actually chuckled at that as he picked up his chainsaw.

"Tim, you want to make yourself useful and go get the pickup truck? I'm not dragging this thing to the house."

"We could pick a smaller one," I said. "I mean, I was good with that seven-footer."

"Eh, we'll manage. Anne'll love this."

Well, I'll be damned. Underneath all the crustiness, he was as nuts over Tim's mother as I was over Tim. The same reason I hauled that damn tree up three flights last year was making him commit to a twelve-footer that would be a challenge to work with, even in their sprawling house with its high ceilings.

"We'll need more lights," Tim said, starting his trek back toward the stable where the pickup truck was parked.

"That'll be a problem because we know how your mother hates to shop," Steven replied, shooting a look at me and rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, it's genetic," I said, right before a particularly symmetrical, nicely formed snowball hit me in the chest. Timmy raised his hands as if to plead innocence, and picked up his pace toward the stable.

********

I'm not sure I've ever heard my mother squeal like a schoolgirl before, but she did for that tree. When we decided to drag it through the dining room, I guess we'd forgotten that it wasn't coming off a tree lot, and it wouldn't be nicely bundled for us. It's oversized girth was all over the place, and my father, Don, myself, and three guys from the landscaping service that maintained the place who were called to the house for an "emergency", all looked like diligent ants trying to move a giant piece of food as we dragged it to its resting place.

I'm not sure what was worse - dragging it, or one or more of us getting wedged in a doorway or between the monstrosity and furniture trying to get it into the house. One of the landscaping guys suggested cutting it into sections to take it out, and none of us could argue with that logic. Even my mother agreed to that, provided they could guarantee the mess would be contained and cleaned.

Perhaps Grandma Grace snapping pictures of the debacle was the piece d'resistance. I have to give her credit. She did get an amazing butt shot of Don while he was pulling on it. I tell myself that was accidental. I mean, my little eightysomething grandma couldn't have been checking out my partner's ass, could she?

She would have told me that eighty-five didn't mean dead.

Everything was going well until we had the climactic moment of raising the beast to its full height, and found that twelve feet was not a good estimate. The pointy top branches were bending as they pressed against the ceiling.

"Goddammit!" my father shouted.

"We should have measured it outside," Don said, sighing. "We'll just have to cut some off the bottom."

"Then we need to roll up the rug," my mother said.

"It's not on the rug," Dad countered.

"The sawdust will be," she said, and I knew enough to just join her and start moving things so we could roll up the oriental rug in the foyer.

"Why don't we just throw a tarp down?" Don asked.

"Be a hell of a lot easier," Dad agreed.

"We're almost done moving things and we can just roll it up." When my mother decides how to do something, you might as well just go along for the ride. Resistance is futile.

"You're still going to need a tarp over the floor so we don't take a chunk out of your wood flooring," Don said.

"I hadn't thought of that," Mom said, pausing in her work to look at the rug, the floor, and the tree.

"We've got a tarp out in the truck," one of the landscapers offered, and my father gestured at him to go get it. My grandmother was already starting to vacuum the path we'd taken with the tree, so I fled to her side and took over, so she didn't kill herself the day before Thanksgiving pushing the vacuum back and forth.

Suffice it to say that shortening a thirteen-foot tree in the foyer is not typically a fun job. Still, I had this goofy smile on my face through most of it, because Don and my father were actually working at it together, and they were getting along. Don's a hard worker, and he's got no problem digging in and doing more than his share to spare guys my dad's age and older doing the heavy work.

My mother made a huge batch of hot chocolate and brought out Christmas cookies for our work crew, and Grandma turned on the stereo in the living room so we had Christmas music blasting almost as loud as the buzz of saws and muffled curses.

In the middle of all of it, Nicholas and Melinda showed up with covered dishes for the next day's Thanksgiving feast, which my mother and the housekeeper were already fretting over in between supervising the tree debacle. Unable to resist joining the menfolk in the closest thing we Callahan-O'Connors have ever done to a barn-raising, Nicholas took off his expensive sweater and joined the tree-shortening project while Melinda ushered my mother into the kitchen, convincing her that there was enough collective intelligence on the project that they could be spared to begin mapping out dinner.

That's when my father started putting shots of whiskey in the hot chocolate, and the party really got started. Even the landscaping guys were in good spirits by the time the tree was upright. Of course, that was right before we waltzed back and forth with it trying to get it into the tree stand, and realized the tree stand was too small. I'm not sure I've ever heard a more complete lexicon of curses than what Don and my father came up with. They weren't exactly cursing at each other, but both of them were on a roll cursing at the tree, the stand, the tarp, the chunk they'd taken out of the banister railing that my mother hadn't seen yet, and the whiskey in the cocoa didn't really help.

Nicholas volunteered to drive into town and get another stand, since he hadn't sampled the spiked cocoa. My father agreed to that, since he wasn't in the mood to end his career with the scandal of driving with liquor on his breath to buy a tree stand for "this goddamned miserable fucking tree Dick Tracy picked out."

Don had to point out that my dad was the one who said it would fit, so he didn't have a leg to stand on bitching about it now. About that time, my mother discovered the chunk out of the wood banister, and it took all the best efforts of my grandmother, Melinda, myself, and Don to convince her that it wouldn't show behind the tree, and it could be repaired.

So Nicholas went to get a tree stand, the landscapers hauled out the debris from shortening the tree, Don and my father were getting progressively inebriated on the spiked cocoa (at least they found something they both liked), the women were busily working on baking and mixing and chopping and blending for Thanksgiving dinner. I joined Don and my dad, though I stopped adding whiskey into my cocoa after about the second cup. Someone was going to have to be sober enough to help Nicholas get the tree in the new stand, and the landscaping guys had another job. I figured Don would rally. He holds his liquor pretty well, and he wasn't really goofy drunk. He was just arguing with my father about sports. Never saw that one coming. I guess I don't give him much outlet to talk sports, and my mother isn't exactly into football, so they were going on about draft choices and won and lost records, or whatever.

Well, who'd have thought marinating them both was the way to build a relationship?

I couldn't help but notice that my father was getting along with Don all right, but he still didn't really say much to me. Even out in the woods, he sent me for the truck and worked with Don on cutting down the tree. I admit I'm not really the get down and dirty outdoors type, but ever since he found out I was gay, he sort of wrote me off for doing "guy things." I was always closer to my mother, that much is true, but I guess he thought my being gay meant I was better suited to cooking or decorating than cutting down trees or fishing or football. And honestly? I didn't miss doing that stuff because I liked it. I missed it because it's like he didn't think I could do it, or didn't want me around when he did it - maybe he thought I'd be too dainty or not good at it in front of my uncles or his friends. I don't know.

I should have been thankful that he liked Don - and I could tell he did even though he didn't want to. Ironically, Don was more the kind of son he would have liked, I think. He could out-drink my father, talk about football, curse like a sailor on shore leave, he'd been in the military, and he was in a testosterone-laden profession. He sized up my dad in short order, and gave him his butch side, which seemed to be working nicely. I was just glad he saved his sweet, tender, emotional side for me.

And I wished I could shake the uncanny feeling that my father loved me, but just didn't like me anymore.

Eventually, the tree was in its stand, the debris was cleaned up, Thanksgiving baking was in progress, and we were all ravenously hungry since we'd been smelling nothing but food and had very little of it as one tree catastrophe after the other had delayed a formal meal. After four, as we all lay around in the living room, spent, staring at the giant undecorated tree, eating Christmas cookies so the alcohol didn't eat holes in our stomach linings, drinking coffee since my mother had caught on to the whiskey thing about mid-afternoon, Nicholas suggested we all pile in his Tahoe and head to this great Chinese place they liked.

We did that, and it was fun. Nicholas and Melinda are a great couple, and they're lots of fun to be with. He runs the local community foundation in Arlington, and we never tire of talking about his work there, or what projects they're funding and supporting. We also can argue each other to hoarseness on politics, since he's a conservative Republican, like my dad. Don says were mirror images of each other, that he gets a kick out of watching us go at it, kind of like watching a dog fight with itself in the mirror. Although he insists I'm better looking.

Melinda is a prosecuting attorney, and she's moved up to Assistant D.A. now. Then, she was still just one more lawyer in the D.A.'s office, but she moved up fast. She's a sharp lady, and Don bonded with her immediately, the two of them talking tirelessly about the seedier side of life they saw in their respective jobs. I had to wonder how he'd handle not being a PI when he took the job from John Madison. I hoped it was a good move for him, and not just the intrusion of reality and finances on what he really wanted to do.

We ate heartily, and then moved on to a nice nightclub Nicholas and Melinda liked for its music and relaxed, classy atmosphere. There was a band playing with a Frank Sinatra clone singing, and couples were dancing. Bless my cousins for picking a spot with music and dancing, where I could be in Don's arms and lose myself there for a while. Where I didn't have to wonder if I was loved or approved of. I was angry with myself for letting my father's attitude hurt me, for reading bad things into what seemed like his indifference about whether I was even in the room or not. I wanted him to accept Don, and that appeared to be happening, so I had no right to be hurt or unhappy, but I was, and that time on the dance floor in the nightclub was the break I needed.

My parents danced a few times, as did Nicholas and Melinda. Don and my dad both took Grandma out for a couple turns around the dance floor. I think she had a little crush on Don, for his muscles, his blue eyes, and his charm. Yes, you can see her genetics in me.

Throughout the evening, the singer was taking requests and acknowledging special occasions like anniversaries or people back together for the holidays, birthdays, impending weddings, and so on. I made an excuse about using the restroom and slid out to make my own request. I returned to the table, the picture of innocence, and waited through a few more songs and dedications until mine came up. The stocky, middle-aged singer did have a good voice and a Sinatra-esque presence about him, and he was good at the palaver of dedications.

"This next song is for Don, from Tim," he began, and I watched Don with a little smile. He glanced at me, then back up front toward the singer, looking stunned. I knew he was getting emotional at having a song dedicated to him. I could tell by the way he held my hand under the table but wouldn't look at me. It was like he couldn't. "I asked Tim if he wanted me to say anything special, but he said there weren't words for it, but that this song would come close."

"Dance with me," I whispered in Don's ear, and he nodded, with a crooked little grin, and we joined the other couples on the dance floor.

Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like

On Jupiter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand

In other words, darling, kiss me

His head was on my shoulder, and I could feel his breathing hitch a little here and there. I caressed his soft hair and savored the warmth of him in my arms. How anyone could have him and not be just...bursting with love songs and joy and romance is beyond me. He's so sweet to me, and he cares so deeply how I feel.

Fill my life with song

And let me sing forever more

You are all I long for

All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true

In other words, I love you

The world narrowed down to just the two of us, the way it always does when we dance together. I sang the last few words in his ear as we swayed together to the music. In other words, I love you.

When we parted, he hastily wiped at his eyes, and gave me one of those sweet smiles of his. We stayed on the dance floor through one more song, so I could hold him, so whatever emotions he was feeling, he could feel them in my arms and be back to his usual composed self when we returned to the table. My parents were out dancing again, and I caught a glimpse of our table, where Nicholas and Melinda were laughing and talking with Grandma. No one was going to miss us for one more dance.

"That was something special, Timmy," he whispered to me, and I kissed his cheek.

"Oh, no. That was just a song. You're something special, my love." I touched my forehead to his, and he was smiling. "Are you okay, honey?" I asked, because his cheek was a little damp when I kissed it.

"I just didn't expect anything like that," he said. "I'm not the kind of guy people dedicate songs to."

Those little words, hushed, said so quietly that with the music, I almost missed them, broke my heart. I held him close against me, and now I fought tears.

"Then you've been with the wrong people," I asserted gently. "You deserve love songs and sonnets, all the romance you can handle," I added, smiling. He chuckled a little at that, but his hand flexed where it held mine, squeezing tighter.

"I love you, sweetheart," he said in a husky voice.

"You fly me to the moon just being you, baby. I hope I manage to let God know how thankful I am for the gift He's given me."

"Stop," he said, still smiling faintly. "I'm never gonna pull it together to go back to the table. You'll blow my whiskey-drinking, football-loving, tree-sawing, butch thing I have going on that your father likes."

I laughed out loud at that and hugged him harder. That's my Donald.

********

It's the weird stuff you do with family that stands out in your memory. I'll never forget stopping at the Wal-Mart closest to the Callahan camp at midnight on the way home from the nightclub so we could get lights for the tree. They had a couple wheelchairs up front with the shopping carts, so I grabbed one for Grandma Grace, who seemed to be getting as big a kick out of our nocturnal wanderings as the rest of us.

We spent an inordinate time debating the light situation - multicolored, clear, or all one color of some sort. Tim and his mother homed in on gold lights, and it sounded like a good idea to me. I don't think Tim's father much cared by then. He was running out of gas and knew we had a long stint ahead of us the next day weaving said lights through the prickly branches of that beast we'd wrestled into the house.

Grandma Grace was amused to no end by a little four-foot pink tree. So I told her I was gonna get her one for Christmas, and she got the biggest kick out of it. While the others debated how many strings of lights they needed for the big tree, Grandma and I picked out a few little boxes of ornaments and a big silver bow for the top of her tree, which we would put up in her room, since she was going to be staying with Tim's parents until after Christmas. When Timmy figured out what we were up to, he stole a kiss, and told me he loved me. I couldn't really answer him because I was still choked up about him dedicating that song to me. If I'd said anything, I'd have lost it. It hurt so much all those years ago when Kyle basically took me apart for dedicating a song to him, and the grief was so much fresher and unresolved back then...and then, to have Timothy dedicate one to me, in front of his family, out in public?

We left the store with a huge supply of lights for the big tree, and Grandma and me joking about our little conspiracy in which I would put her tree up the next day and get out of stringing lights on the big one.

It was really late when we finally got to our room, and we tossed our clothes aside and took a shower. The warm water felt good, and the close quarters in the shower stall felt even better. We were both tired, but we spared time for a little kissing and nuzzling and a shared hand job that scratched the itch. I wasn't prepared for my emotions to hit me full force when I came, with Timmy's hand on me, his other arm around me, my face against his neck, feeling him shudder against me as he came.

He wrapped me up tight in his arms and let me get it out of my system. His soft lips caressed my cheek, and his hand came up to press my head against his warm, wet shoulder. He didn't say a word, and he didn't ask me for explanations. He just waited until I started to sag in his arms, and then steered us out of the shower, turned off the water, and got us going with toweling ourselves off. It wasn't until we were entangled together under the covers that he spoke.

"Is everything okay, honey?" he asked gently, rubbing my back.

"The song was really nice," I said, knowing it was a lame answer.

"I meant it, you know. Just being with you flies me to the moon," he said, smiling at me there in the dark, our faces so close that we shared breath. I hid my face against him and sighed, smiling. He was letting me get away with keeping my secrets. No one ever loved me that unconditionally in my life. That...unquestioningly.

"I had fun today," I said. And it was true. It had been so long since I'd hung out with family on the holidays. Things weren't perfect yet with Tim's dad. I knew that. I knew they weren't really interacting a lot yet, and I knew that bothered Timmy. That bothered me, because he didn't deserve to feel bad. He never did anything to merit anyone's disapproval. He's the light of my life and he's so good and so kind, so smart and so successful, how anyone could ask for more than he was baffled me. I guess it boiled down to the old man's stubbornness, and not much more.

"So did I. Grandma loves that silly pink tree you got for her." He kissed my temple. "She's crazy about you, you know."

"She's a sweet little lady. Reminds me of my grandma."

"We should go see your grandma sometime."

"She doesn't want to see me now, Timothy. When she didn't know what I was, we were really close. Now...everything's different."

"I won't push it, honey. But if you ever want to contact them, you know I'm with you, right?"

"I know." I smiled and relaxed, feeling sleep closing in. I guess he thought I was feeling blue about my family and that's what was eating me. I let him think that. I couldn't open that old wound right then. I didn't want to confront it at all, but I certainly didn't want to do it while we were visiting his family.

********

I thought dedicating a song to Donald would be a little way of letting him know how much I loved him and appreciated him supporting me through this visit home, which was hard on me, even though parts of it seemed to go well. I know my father from years of dealing with him, and I know when he's honoring a wish of my mother's, and when he's genuine about things. I wanted so badly to feel that he was glad to see me, that he approved of me.

There was Don, whose family had shut him out of their lives entirely, and I was whining because my father didn't have he right inflections in his voice or look on his face. And Don understood what was bothering me and was there for me every step of the way.

The last thing I wanted to do was upset Don, or dredge up something painful from his past. It didn't escape me that there was something big, thorny, and awful that hurt him that way, and there were times it bothered me that as close as we were, he was still something of a mystery to me. Then I'd tell myself I knew the things I needed to know, and the rest would unfold with time. It did, and I'm glad now I let him handle it his way. I just wish I could have done something for him sooner to ease his pain. Maybe just loving him the way he was, without question, was what he needed. Loving him has always been easy.

The house was filled with delicious smells, the sounds of the Thanksgiving Day parades on TV, and the melodic sounds of cursing and arguing about the tree lights blended with it all to make up our Thanksgiving. The tree was beautiful, and as the lights were added to it, we knew it was going to be spectacular, and that my mother would be delighted with it every time they entertained over the holidays. For all their joking about getting out of the tree project, Don was into the light task up to his elbows, and Grandma was on hand to lend her supervision to be sure we didn't miss any spots with the lights.

With the lights and the sparkling gold and crystal faceted tree topper in place, we put off ornaments until after dinner. My mother would not stand for being left out of that part of things, and she was too busy being the perfect hostess and supervising the final stages of dinner preparations to participate then.

Nicholas picked up my elderly great aunts and brought them to join us, while my aunt and uncle on my dad's side, Jim and Beverly Callahan, arrived with my Uncle Jim's usual sound and fury. He's a big man with a big laugh and a booming voice, and I often have trouble reconciling the fact he and my father are brothers. I think he was switched at birth. Still, there are elements of that personality in my dad when he gets a few drinks in him and he's having a good time.

My mother sets a phenomenal table, and this feast was no exception. Melinda and the housekeeper had helped with the cooking and baking, but my mother was in charge of it all, and nothing made it to her table that wasn't up to her standards. After we said grace, we began gorging ourselves in the finest Thanksgiving tradition when all dietary restrictions are magically lifted, all healthy eating decisions abandoned, and you find yourself ladling up seconds and thirds until you can barely waddle away from the table and fall in front of the TV. And we had to get our second wind and finish decorating the tree and exchange gifts before we got a few hours' sleep and then headed to the airport.

I was a little frustrated to have to rush this visit for Don's job at Good Sports, when we could have survived him quitting in light of his new opportunity, but I admired his ethics in sticking with his job there until they could replace him and Shane was back full-time. He felt they gave him a job when he needed it, and he didn't want to stick it to them because he had a better offer.

Like a lot of families, we go around the table as we're digesting and talk about what we're thankful for. My great aunts both talked about family and another year of good health. I hope I'm as feisty and healthy at their ages, so I can either keep up with or take care of Donald when we're old, whichever way it goes. And, while I hope I don't outlive him by long, in a way I hope I do by a short time, so he doesn't end up alone when he's old and needs me the most.

My father kept his speech short, uncharacteristic for a politician, but he simply said he was thankful for good health, family, Republican gains in Congress (which had my uncle rolling his eyes, too, since he's a Democrat through and through), and that we didn't have to take a wall out to get the tree inside. That did get us all laughing. Thanksgiving speeches can be emotional and heavy, so a little levity breaks things up.

When it was Don's turn, I wasn't surprised that he kept it short, sweet, and to the point.

"I'm thankful for Timothy every day...no, more like every minute," he took my hand and squeezed it, "and for marrying into a great family." That made my mother and grandmother beam approvingly, and earned him a toast from Uncle Jim...of course, Uncle Jim wasn't feeling much pain by then, and anything that allowed him to take another gulp of beer was fodder for a toast.

"I'm thankful for a wonderful life with an amazing man who makes me happier than I thought was possible," I said, squeezing his hand. "I'm thankful we survived some difficult situations this year and came out of it healthy and together, and for being here with our family for Thanksgiving."

"I'm thankful for having family to share the holiday with," my mother began, "and that Tim found such a good man to share his life with, who is such a fine addition to our family." She smiled at Don, who smiled back at her, visibly moved by her words.

The rest of the family shared similar thoughts, and when we had gone all around the table, we moved the party to the family room, where there was a fire crackling in the fireplace, and we crammed in large wedges of pumpkin pie, somehow finding the capacity to eat just a bit more. Don and I were sitting on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, and I couldn't remember a nicer family holiday. Well, I remember holidays where I didn't feel like my father was giving me the cold shoulder, but that would mean recalling holidays when Don wasn't sitting up close to me, stuffing his face with pie, stealing my whipped topping when he ran out. I'd meant what I told him the year before - if he wasn't there with me, it would break my heart, and it wouldn't be a holiday at all.

And he was surprised by that...that I could be happy on a holiday with just him. Honestly, there was a part of me that looked forward to spending Christmas with just him. I loved seeing my family, but my father's chilliness was wearing on me.

We made trimming the tree a whole family project, Callahans swarming on it like flies, hanging ornaments, reminiscing about Christmases past, some of our heirloom ornaments inspiring all sorts of stories. As night fell, we exchanged a few gifts since Don and I wouldn't be there again for Christmas. My mother had been busy knitting, and we both got sweaters. Of course, she also had been busy shopping, so we got some other gifts, too.

It was late by the time we went up to our room, and we hastily gathered our things and packed for our early flight the next morning.

"I'm sorry we have to cut things short, honey," Don said, yawning, turning out the light on the night stand. We could still hear some sound and movement in the house, as my father, Jim, and Nicholas were still up, laughing, talking and debating. I was just as glad to be alone with Don, tucked in bed with him, where I never had to question the love and acceptance that was there for me. Uncle Jim was less uptight than my dad, but he didn't seem especially warm and accepting of me as half of a male couple. It was always okay with my family that I was gay, as long as I was alone and didn't act gay. My mother and grandmother showed no such hypocrisy - nor did Nicholas and Melinda, even though their conservative politics and religious views ran counter to accepting homosexuality as being "okay."

"It's been a nice visit, but I'm ready to go home," I said, relaxing next to him, on my side, facing him. Even in the dark, I could see his frown.

"We haven't been here very long."

"I know."

He scooted closer and put his arm around me. It was his turn to just know what I needed, and not make me explain myself. Don's a good judge of people, and I didn't have to tell him that my father had managed to avoid any meaningful interactions with me. He treated Nicholas the way he used to treat me, and Uncle Jim took his cues from Dad. It hurt...it hurt a lot, and being there in the dark with Don's arms around me made it bearable. It reminded me where home was now, and my home was warm and wonderful and I was treasured there.

And that's what I was most thankful for.

********

I set our suitcase and carry on bag in the foyer. The limo service was due in a half hour. I knew it was early, but I'd kind of expected at least Timmy's parents would be up to see us off. Even though the visit had gone pretty smoothly, all things considered, his prick father had managed to avoid really interacting with him on any meaningful level while we were there. His Uncle Jim had been polite to us but had treated Timmy with the same detached coolness his father had. It hurt him, and even though I'd promised not to make a scene or pick fights with his father, I was just about at my boiling point with it.

Timmy came downstairs then, giving me one of his beautiful smiles. I could see it was a little forced.

"You think your mother would care if we made some coffee?" I asked.

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, but the smell might wake Grandma since her room is down here." Tim's grandma had said goodbye to us the night before, since six was a little early for her to get up.

"I suppose. We'll get some breakfast at the airport while we're waiting for the flight," I said.

"Oh, good, you're still here!" Anne was hurrying downstairs, looking very tidy and put together, even though she wasn't dressed for the day yet. In her long red velour robe and red and gold satin slippers, with her hair perfectly done and her makeup on, she sure didn't look as ragged as I typically did at that hour.

"The car's due in half an hour," Timmy said, brightening now that someone was up and around to see us off.

"I wish we had more time, but I'm so glad you two could be here for Thanksgiving," she said.

"Me, too, Mom," Timmy said as we walked into the living room and sat down. "Is Dad up?" he asked, sounding hopeful. She looked uneasy, and every detective's instinct I have told me her next words were a lie.

"He isn't getting up, since he was up so late with Uncle Jim and Nicholas last night," she said. He was up late, all right, but I knew Anne was uneasy giving us the excuse, and I'd have bet my life that he was awake.

"It is early," Timmy said, forcing a little smile.

"Give him time, sweetie. He'll come around."

"I know," he said tightly, and I knew by the strain his his voice how bad he felt. And I'd had enough. I got up and headed for the stairs. "Don, where are you going?" he called after me. I didn't answer him. I just hurried upstairs and headed for the master bedroom door. I couldn't take it anymore, and I couldn't go back to Albany without confronting that bastard. I knocked on the door, and I wasn't even surprised when Steven opened the door, wearing his robe and slippers, hair combed.

"Your son would like to see you before he leaves," I said, and I know my voice was coming out terse and barely restrained. Anyone else who made Timothy feel that way, who intentionally hurt him for no good reason? I'd have kicked his ass.

"Didn't Anne tell you I was still in bed?" he retorted, and I gave him a visible up and down look.

"You're up now."

"Don, what's going on?" Tim said, approaching me where I stood in the hall. He looked at his father, standing there in his robe, and even though I'm sure he knew as well as I did that ignoring our departure was an intentional slight, seeing it so clearly seemed to hit him pretty hard. "I'm sorry if we woke you," he said to his father.

"You know, I promised Timothy before we ever got here that I wouldn't pick a fight with you, that I'd let him handle things and keep my cool - "

"Don, please, let it go," Tim said.

"What's on your mind, Don? Apparently you've got a bone to pick with me, so let's hear it."

"You haven't seen your son in years, and I've watched you spend our entire visit doing your best to avoid having a worthwhile conversation with him. You greet him with a goddamned handshake and you barely look at him. I can't change how you treat Timothy, but I damn well am done sitting back and watching it. You're his father, this is your house, and because I love Timmy and I know it's not what he'd want, I've kept my mouth shut, but this is bullshit, and I'm calling it, and I don't care anymore whether you like it or not."

He looked at me for a long moment as Anne joined us in the hall, looking worried.

"Well, we're all up now, so you two have a safe trip back to Albany," he said, extending his hand toward Timmy, who looked at it, at him, and then just turned away and went downstairs.

"It's beyond me how someone like you fathered someone like Timothy. He obviously takes after his mother," I said to Steven. "You'll never have even a tenth of his kindness, compassion, and graciousness."

"You've had your say, Don. Feel free to be on your way now," he replied.

"Both of you stop it. This is ridiculous," Anne said.

"I'm not going to be scolded and insulted in my own home by some...by him."

Steven was glaring at me now. I was getting the full treatment, complete with the imposing posture and intimidating stare. I wondered if he'd done that to Timothy when he was little and did something untidy or imperfect. God, I hated him at that moment. I could have laid hands on him and beaten the shit out of him and not felt a moment of regret if not for Anne standing there and for knowing that it wasn't what Timothy would want, that it would horrify him and upset him, even if his father so richly deserved a good old fashioned beat-down.

"What are you punishing him for, anyway? Being gay? For bringing me here? Turning down Grant's job offer? What? What is wrong with that beautiful, amazing man that you're so fucking disapproving of him?" I knew I was getting emotional now, but there were no tears involved. It was pure rage, and I was having trouble holding it in check. "He was so nervous on the way here. And it meant so much to him to be here, with his family, to see you and his mother. I hope you feel good about yourself, like you achieved something, by spending Thanksgiving hurting him that way." I headed for the stairs, because I cared more about Timmy than I did about having it out with his asshole father.

"You've had your say, and now I'm going to have mine," Steven bellowed, following me. "You're a guest in this house, and the only reason you're here is because Timothy's mother insisted on it. I can't change the fact that my son is a homosexual, but I don't have to be pleased about it. I also don't have to be proud of him throwing away his career so he can follow in his sister's footsteps as a bleeding heart liberal."

"That's enough, Steven. Don't bring Kelly into this," Anne said.

"Our daughter is a rebellious delinquent and our son is...well, you know what he is."

I was ready to slug him, and I literally had to consciously make an effort to keep my arm still, from swinging at him.

"How could you?" Anne demanded. "Those are our children you're talking about!" She shouted at him angrily before she stormed into the master bedroom and slammed the door loudly enough to echo throughout the second floor.

I left him standing there, and started downstairs.

"I'm not finished with you yet!" he shouted at me.

"I'm finished with you!" I replied. "I'm not your son, so I don't have to put up with your shit and I could give a flying fuck less what you think about me, so give it your best shot." I kept going down the stairs.

"What's going on out here?" Nicholas emerged from his room then, tying his robe, hair sticking every which way - the way people look when they really are in bed, not just hiding from their son.

"This doesn't concern you," Steven shot back at him.

"Nicholas, it was good seeing you and Melinda again. I'm sorry if we woke you," I said.

"Yeah, it was good seeing both of you, too, but what's all this about? Uncle Steven, what's the problem?"

"It's under control."

"That's the heart of it, isn't it?" I replied. "Having everything under control. That's why you're really at odds with Timothy, because you don't have him under control. He's not your show dog anymore. He's his own man with a mind of his own. You don't care about him being gay or a Democrat or if he joins the Hare Krishnas and starts selling flowers in the airport! You only care that he's not 'under control.' "

"Don, that's enough," Tim said, joining me on the stairs. "The car's here. Let's just go," he said, pulling on my arm.

"You're not welcome back in this house if you bring him with you," Steven announced, jerking his head toward me. "I extended my hospitality and this is how it's repaid."

"Then I won't be coming back, either. Don's my partner, and where he isn't welcome, I'm not either."

"Suit yourself," Steven said, turning and heading back for the master bedroom. I did get a bit of a kick out of it when he tried to open the door and it was locked. "Anne, open the door," he said. She said something to him from inside the room that I couldn't hear, which made him even angrier, and he banged on the door. "I said, open the damn door," he snapped loudly. Tim was up the steps in two strides.

"Leave her alone, Dad. She'll come out when she's ready."

"You stay out of this."

"Not when you're yelling at her. Now let her be."

"We'll go downstairs and have some coffee and give Aunt Anne a chance to cool off," Nicholas suggested. "If the door's locked, you're in the doghouse, so you might as well accept it," he added, trying to lighten the situation, which was pretty far beyond lightening up at that point.

Steven turned his best stern stare on Tim. "Your car is here, isn't it?" Even though they were arguing, the icy words seem to sting when they landed, and I couldn't stand the hurt in Timmy's eyes.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go home," I said gently, slipping my hand into his. He looked at me then, and even though it was tinged with sadness, he smiled at me with all the love in the world.

"Yes, let's go home," he said firmly, squeezing my hand, looking like I'd just pulled him out of a pit of vipers.

We grabbed our luggage and headed outside in the cold morning air. The driver loaded our bags in the trunk, and we got in the backseat. As the car pulled out of the driveway, I could see Timmy brushing at his eyes, trying to stay composed.

"I'm sorry I went after your dad when I said I wouldn't," I said, taking his hand. "I just couldn't stand back and watch anymore."

"My knight in shining armor," he said, pulling my hand up and kissing the back of it. "It's okay. I can't get too mad at you for sticking up for me."

"I love you, Timothy. I'll stick up for you with my last breath." I put my arm behind him and he put his head on my shoulder, slumping down so he could rest against me while we rode to the airport. If the driver noticed us, he didn't say anything. He just stayed quiet and drove, which was precisely what we needed him to do.

"Will your mom be okay?"

"Oh, yes, she'll be fine. They've had some vocal arguments before, but she'll probably have him begging for mercy before she's done."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"I wish we'd just stayed home," he said quietly.

"I know. Me, too. But we had some nice time with your mom, and Grandma Grace, and your cousins. That's worth something."

"They can visit us next time," he replied. I kissed the top of his head.

All I could think was, Damn his fucking father to hell. If someone had told me back then things would ever get better, that we'd ever have a decent relationship with the old man, I'd have never believed it. I'd underestimated his stubbornness, and then I underestimated his potential for pulling his head out of his ass given enough time.

"They can visit us in our new place on Long Island. We'll get an apartment where we can fix up a nice guest room, maybe have a second bathroom for company."

"It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" he asked, smiling. I held him closer.

"Just being married to you is exciting, honey. The rest is all extras."

"For me, too," he replied, kissing me.

"Now that's exciting," I said, kissing him back, longer and deeper. He laughed at that, and we cuddled up for the rest of the ride to the airport. Just the realization that he's mine was, and still is, exciting enough for me, forever.

********

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