Title: Like Water, Like Breath, Like Rain
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 (See Warnings below if you want specifics)

Word Count: About 116,000
References/Spoilers: Some references/spoilers for all movies; reference to specific event in Ice Blues.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin.
Summary: When Donald pays a terrible price for investigating his latest case, both he and Timothy rely on the strength of their love to sustain them. Meanwhile, they must face the dangerous aftermath as it threatens their happiness and their lives.
Author's Note: The song lyrics are not mine, but they capture the spirit of the story beautifully. Please read the Warnings section below if you are concerned about the content of the story, or want to know the specific nature of the violence (the warnings contain some spoilers for the story). It contains violence, language, and story themes consistent with the rating, and content regarding an original character that may be unsettling to some readers.


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 Read WARNINGS

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LIKE WATER, LIKE BREATH, LIKE RAIN


by


Candy Apple


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

You're the hope that moves me
To courage again
You're the love that rescues me
When the cold winds rage
And it's so amazing
'Cause that's just how you are
And I can't turn back now
'Cause you've brought me too far

I need you like water, like breath, like rain...


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


Justin Sommers was tall, soft-spoken, refined, and formerly affluent. He was dark haired and reasonably good looking, and reminded Don quite a bit of Timothy. Don didn't think he was as handsome as his partner, but then again, Don didn't think any other man measured up to that standard, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous he might be. His newest client appeared to be in his early thirties and very uneasy about engaging a private investigator.


"I need you to follow someone," he began, looking over his shoulder nervously at the outer office.


"You can close the door if you'd be more comfortable," Don said, though Kenny knew all the pertinent details of his cases anyway.

 

"Thank you." Sommers closed the door and then returned to his chair. "I think my partner might be having an affair."


"What makes you think that?" And what makes you think it's such big news that we need to close the door?


"He owns a gym with a couple friends of his. He works a lot of nights. I mean, a lot. More than he did when we first got together. Whenever I ask him about it, he gets furious with me, and he just tells me that if we want to eat, he has to keep the gym afloat." He sighed. "When we first met, I had a trust fund. We didn't really want for anything. Then my grandfather, who controls it, got wind of the fact that I was gay and living with a man, and he cut me off. Not a penny."


"Ouch," Don said, no stranger to family disapproval himself, though no one would really lose sleep over being disinherited from the vast Strachey empire.


"I've gone back to school. I'm working on a degree in computer information systems. I need to at least be able to support myself, and contribute something to the household." Sommers leaned back in the chair, fidgeting. "He was a phys ed teacher. He came out, and there was a lot of flak from the parents, and while they didn't fire him, he felt like it was just a matter of time until one of them accused him of something or pinned something on him... So when this friend of his from college asked him about going in on the gym, he jumped at it. That was five years ago, a couple years before we met."


"You want me to follow him at night, see where he goes?"


"Yes, exactly. I read that article about you a few years ago, and I just felt more comfortable coming to someone else in the community. I don't have a lot of money left, so I can't pay you for long, but maybe you could follow him a few nights, just to make sure he's not seeing someone else."


Donald alternately cursed and blessed that magazine article he'd agreed to when he first started his PI business and he just wasn't getting enough clients. Getting some cases from the gay community helped pay the bills, but being branded "the gay detective" had long since lost its charm, if it ever had any to begin with. He was open about his sexuality, and his marriage to Tim, but the emphasis on his orientation versus his credentials and ability had grown wearisome over time.


"What's your partner's name?"


"Simon Fox. Here's a recent photo of him," he said, handing Don a snapshot of a tall, muscular guy in shorts and a tank shirt, with buzzed dark hair. He didn't look particularly friendly. "This is his business card from the gym," he said, handing it across the desk. "He has two business partners now. Gary Benson, who started the business with him, and Evan Maxwell, who just joined them in the last year or so. Things have gotten...stranger since Evan came on board. More late nights, and Simon has just...changed toward me."


"In what way?"


"He gets angrier than he used to, and for the first time, I'm really nervous when he gets mad. I think he's going to hit me. He doesn't, but I never used to worry about that. And our sex life has just kind of gone downhill."


"You think he and Evan might be having an affair?"


"I've seen them together, and there don't seem to be any sparks there, but who knows? He's not going to do anything in front of me."


"My assistant gave you the information on my rates?" Don asked, making a few more notes for the file he was starting on this case.


"Yes. I have a check for your retainer. Can you e-mail me a bill weekly? I have to keep a close eye on the funds, because I don't want to run out of money and not be able to pay you."


"That's not a problem," Don said, putting a sticky note to that effect on the case file for Kenny.


"What do you do next?" he asked.


"Run a background check on your partner, his business partners, the company. Credit checks, criminal background checks, the usual - - "


"What for? I just need to know if he's cheating on me."


"Well, money might not be the root of all evil, but it's got a hand in a lot of it. The background checks are included in my fee, so you might as well know what your boyfriend's really up to. Then I'll follow him. I need to know his schedule."


"I have all that here." He handed Don a sheet of paper with a typical weekly schedule written out on it in painstaking detail. "That was last week. His hours vary a little, but most weeks shape up like that. If you need to find out anything specific from me, just e-mail me. Don't phone or send anything in the mail, okay?"


"No, I won't."


"Sometimes he uses my cell, or picks it up if it's ringing and I'm not around."


"Mr. Sommers, you need to relax. I've been doing this a long time, and I've never tipped off one of my clients' spouses yet. I won't compromise your safety or break your confidence."


"Okay, fine, that sounds good."


"A word of advice. Leave this to me. That's why you hired me. Don't think about it, and don't...fret like this about it. You're more likely to tip him off that something's going on than I am at this point. Just stay calm. A lot of times there's nothing going on, or there's an innocent explanation for it."


"I hope so."


"I'm going to cross a line a bit here... If you're fearing for your physical safety with this guy, get out of there. Don't wait for me to investigate him."


"He never used to be like that," Sommers said, wringing his hands together. "He hasn't hit me yet. I just am afraid he will, and I know how strong he is. I wouldn't stand a chance."


"It's your business, and your life, but if you're afraid of him, get the hell out of there before he beats you up. I've seen my share of domestic violence cases, too, and they're not pretty."


"Thanks for your help, and for the advice." He stood and so did Don. They shook hands, and then Justin Sommers was on his way.


Don took the file out to Kenny's desk. "Get him set up, okay?" Kenny would do whatever magic he did with the spreadsheets and billing information, and pop out some nice, tidy little invoices right when they were needed.


"You don't sound happy." Kenny looked at the check. "Nice retainer."


"I have a feeling this guy should just get the hell out of that relationship, not worry about following this jock around. I'm gonna see if I can take Timothy out for lunch, since I have to stand him up tonight."


"That'll go over well."


"I know. That's why I'm going to take him somewhere with menus, where you don't drive through," Don quipped as he headed out the door.


********


"This was a nice surprise," Tim said, setting his menu aside. "Why can't you make it to the party tonight?"


"I had hoped you'd at least have the French onion soup in front of you before you figured that out."


"I figured it out when you called me and suggested lunch here. But I was hungry and I wanted to see you, so I didn't say anything."


"That shirt really brings out your eyes, sweetheart," Don said, his tone exaggerated. Tim just cocked his head and gave him a look. "I got a new case, and I need to get started on it. My client thinks his boyfriend's cheating on him, and I have a feeling it's an escalating situation that could end in violence if it doesn't get resolved pretty soon."


"How dangerous is it for you?" Tim asked. Don smiled, reaching across the table, palm up. A minute later, Tim's hand was in his.


"I'm sorry about the party."


"Oh, it's all right. To be honest, I can do without it. I'll make an excuse, tell them I'm not feeling well." He paused, running his thumb back and forth on Don's hand. "You didn't answer my question."


"I'm more concerned about my client than I am for myself. It's garden-variety surveillance work for me. He seems to feel nervous about his boyfriend hitting him, but he didn't seem inclined to take my unsolicited advice to get out of the situation."


"I don't think I could live like that, walking on eggshells with someone."


"Nobody should have to." Don squeezed Tim's hand.


"This case seems to be under your skin for some reason. This can't be the first situation with a potential for domestic violence you've investigated."


"No, it isn't." Don paused. "Maybe it's because he reminds me of you. Except not quite as handsome," he added, smiling, though he was sincere. Tim smiled back, knowing this compliment was real.


"Let's just enjoy lunch. Who knows, maybe even a slightly extended lunch hour," he added, raising one eyebrow.


"You expect me to sit here through soup and salad now?"


Tim looked at his watch. "We could have lunch at home and eat later at our desks."


"This oughtta cover the drinks and a tip," he said, tossing a few bills on the table.


********


Tim couldn't remember the last time they'd met for "lunch" and ended up in bed. Their schedules were hectic enough as it was, and usually driving home in the middle of the day was a luxury they didn't have. Still, they hadn't spent many evenings together in the last couple weeks, and with a new case on the horizon, it didn't look hopeful they'd be spending many of this week's evenings together, either.


Their clothes were all over the bedroom floor, and the tiny part of Tim's mind that wasn't focused on something better was envisioning the rush to get ready to go back to their respective commitments. The last time they'd done this, Donald had put the wrong pants on and they'd banged their heads together when they both went for their discarded shirts at the same time. Even going back to work with headaches, though, they'd both agreed it was worth it.


And so was this. Don was doing things with his mouth that had Tim writhing with pleasure, clutching at the sheets, spreading his legs and arching into the most amazing blow job he could remember. Since Donald was extremely good at them, that was saying a lot. The only thing better would be coming while Don was inside him, and since this had to be an abbreviated version of what could easily have taken a couple of beautiful hours, he chose the option of his lover in his arms, inside his body, in him and around him in every possible way.


He reached down and ran his hands over Don's shoulders, his fingers curling gently under his arms, tugging upward. When their eyes met, Tim smiled at Don. "I'm lonely up here," he said, and Don crawled happily up to wrap Tim in his arms, focusing his oral attentions on kissing him with the kind of urgency and passion that came from too many nights of being alone on a stakeout and settling for chaste little kisses hello or goodnight.


Tim's hunger matched Don's easily. He loved being the object of Donald's intense lust and love, losing himself in those sensations, holding nothing back and relishing the utter trust he had that everything Donald did was going to feel good. Even in this slightly rushed encounter, Don prepared him and entered him with all the gentleness and care he always did. He didn't know where one of them ended and the other began in the heated tangle of their bodies, but they were rocking together in a cadence that was instinctive. Somehow, Donald knew just how to move inside him, just what he wanted, needed, liked best. It wasn't like he'd ever told him in so many words...he just knew Tim's body and his responses that well, and cared that much.


He caught Don's face in both his hands and kissed him, their tongues striving for the same union their bodies had achieved. He ran his hands up and down that smooth expanse of Don's back, feeling the muscles moving under his touch, marveling again at how his lover managed to channel such strength into such gentleness, how he could make it so good and so sweet and so intense at the same time.


"I love you," he said, his lips against Donald's as he spoke, wondering if he could even hear him.


"I love you, too, sweetheart," Donald gasped, before kissing him again.


Their pace got quicker, more urgent, as they neared the inevitable climax. Part of Tim hated his traitorous body for giving in and coming so soon. He knew Donald would focus on loving him and touching him until he came, and even though they didn't have hours to spend on each other, he didn't want it to end this soon. Then Don came with a couple ragged gasps of his name, and in there somewhere was another profession of love, even though it was hard to sort out.


When it was over, Tim indulged in showering Don with a lot of little kisses that were just ends in themselves. They were both satisfied, both too sated to come again in such a short span of time. Still, his lips traveled across Donald's chest, and he even urged his arms up so he could caress, nuzzle, and kiss the tender skin under his arms. He knew Donald loved that, even if he'd object that he needed a shower or joke that he hoped his deodorant was working. He didn't, and it was. Or, more to the point, Tim thought Donald was the only man in the world whose sweat smelled like rain on the leaves on a summer evening.


Donald was caressing his back now, pulling him down on top of him. He'd told Tim once that he loved the way it felt to be pressed into the mattress under him, to be held that way, to be in that place where nothing could physically reach him but Timmy.


"I'm really sorry about tonight," Don said quietly, and this time, there was more feeling behind it than before. For some reason, it bothered Tim that Don should feel bad about anything after what they'd just shared, even if, deep down, he had been a little ruffled at the change of plans when Don first sprang it on him.


"It's just a dinner party, honey. There will be others."


"Don't threaten me," Don quipped, and Tim had to laugh, then kiss him again. "I thought you'd want my head on a plate for canceling."


"I'd rather have all of you in my arms." Tim rested his forehead against Don's. "If you wrap up that surveillance at a reasonable hour, you might even get seconds."


"Thank you," Don said, touching Tim's face gently. "I know this is the second or third time I let you down in the last couple weeks, and I feel like a jerk."


"It's the second or third time you canceled something with me. You never let me down, and you're not a jerk. You couldn't be if you tried." Tim sighed. "We should probably clean up and get dressed," he said, hating the words as he said them.


"I miss you when I'm working late."


"I'm glad," Tim said, smiling. "I miss you, too. Be careful?"


"Aren't I always?" Don replied, grinning.


"I sure hope so," Tim said, smiling back, kissing him again.


They took a quick shower together, ostensibly to save time, but largely for the excuse of prolonging the intimacy of their stolen interlude. Fortunately, they ended up in all the right clothing, looking as refreshed, tidy, and innocent as they had when they left the house that morning. They held hands in the car on the way back to the Senate building, and Tim felt a lingering reluctance to get out of the car and leave Donald. He gave in to the impulse to kiss him one more time, pausing to look into the big blue eyes that positively sparkled with the smile that followed the kiss.


"Thanks for lunch," Tim said, squeezing his hand.


"Shit, I forgot to go through the drive-up."


"I wasn't talking about food. I'll eat something out of the vending machine."


"Now I know it's love," Don said, laughing.


"Oh, yes, it's definitely that." Tim got out of the car, then stuck his head back in the door. "You get something decent to eat. You'll be out a lot longer than I will be, so make sure you don't just eat junk all day."


"You want me to bring you something back?"


"I'll be okay. I've only got a few hours to go, since I took that long lunch hour," Tim added, knowing he was grinning like an idiot...like the cat that caught the canary, as his grandmother would have said.


As he watched Donald drive away, he felt a pang of sadness that unsettled him. Worst case scenario, he could wait up and see him when he got home. Realizing he was just standing on the sidewalk like a lost puppy, he turned and went into the building.


********


FBM Gym and Weight Room was located in a mediocre part of town, in a nondescript building that also housed an exercise equipment and weights retail store. In terms of shared tenancy, it seemed like a match made in heaven. As near as Don could tell, all three owners were there. He'd followed Simon Fox from his home address to the gym about dinner time, and his black Hummer had never left the lot. The blue Camaro with the license plate number registered to Gary Benson and the red Ford pickup registered to Evan Maxwell had been in the lot when Don first drove by early that afternoon.


The gym closed at 10:00, and as it approached 11:30, the three vehicles in question were still in the lot. With a sigh of resignation, he realized Timmy was probably asleep by now, since he had to get up early the next morning. He hoped his partner wasn't too disappointed that he didn't make it home earlier. He had to smile when he thought of their stolen moments together that afternoon. Even more than that, he felt warmed by the fact that Timmy had opted not to be angry with him that he was canceling another commitment, but instead to focus on finding some time for them to reconnect. He'd been so passionate and eager and giving in bed, so utterly in love with Don, as if he were celebrating their anniversary rather than forgiving another broken date.


Don yawned widely and looked at his watch again. Just when he was considering moving in closer and trying to find a way to see what the three of them were up to in there, another car pulled into the parking lot. It was a late-model black Cadillac sedan, and it parked next to the owners' cars, which had their own reserved spaces. A tall man in a long topcoat got out, his collar turned up against the cold, or to further obscure his face in case of any security cameras, Don wasn't sure. He used his zoom lens to snap a few photos of the man and his license plate.


Several minutes later, another car pulled in next to the Cadillac. This one was a silver Lexus. Don snapped a few photos of the stocky man who got out of the driver's side, and of the car and its plate. What is this, anyway? Drugs? Gambling? There was obviously under-the-table action going on after hours that was attracting some pretty well-heeled members of society to slink into a gym near midnight. Not an upscale health club, but a gym, complete with the lingering aroma of sweat in the air, and most likely not a smoothie counter in sight. He hadn't been inside this place, but he'd been in enough places like them before Tim and he had set up their own workout room in one of their spare bedrooms. They weren't exactly places that rich guys usually gathered to socialize. These folks had country clubs for that.


Two more cars arrived within minutes of each other: another Cadillac and a Mercedes. A solitary man got out of each car, but they acknowledged each other and seemed to be talking as they made their way into the gym.


Don checked his watch again, made a few more notes to go with his growing collection of photos, and then watched the gym a while longer. No more nocturnal visitors seemed to be on the way, so he tucked the camera in his coat pocket, checked his gun, and got out of the car, making his way briskly across the street to the gym. He knew from his earlier trips around the block to check out the place that there wasn't much in the way of windows, but there were a couple in the back of the building. Besides, these guys had to be getting in somewhere, though their point of entry wasn't visible from where he'd been parked. Maybe he'd catch a break and that entrance would be left open.


Be careful. He could still hear Timmy's voice in his head.


Aren't I always? he'd said jokingly.


I sure hope so. Those words, accompanied by Timmy's beautiful smile, and a look of love that had gone straight to his heart.


Keeping that image in mind, he was careful, easing along the side of the building, looking for an entrance. The back door was solid metal with a knob and a keypad next to it. He took out a flashlight, trying to get a look at any wear patterns on the keys. Sometimes people went to great lengths to secure entrances with keypad codes and then didn't bother to clean off the residue from their grubby fingers hitting the same three keys over and over again. Either these guys were too uptown to have grubby fingers, or someone had the presence of mind to wipe off the keypad once in a while. There was no discernible pattern or staining on the keys to help him figure out the code. Frustrated, he made his way a little farther along the wall, finally reaching one of the windows.


"Get your hands up," a voice said from behind. "On your knees, right now," the man added.


Not in a gambling mood, Don figured he must have a gun or something to back up his command, so he followed it. All too soon, he felt the cold metal barrel of a gun against the back of his head.


"Throw out your gun, nice and slow."


He complied, trying to formulate some kind of story that might be even marginally plausible as to why he was creeping around the back end of a closed gym at midnight.


"I saw all the cars, so I thought you were still open. I was gonna come in and sign up for a membership. I work a lot of nights, so this would be perfect."


"You expect me to believe that you were looking at the security keypad with a flashlight so you could come in and sign up for a membership?" There was a pause while the other man called someone on the direct-connect feature on his cell phone. "Evan, get out here. I got a live one."


"I saw some other guys come in this way, so I was just looking for a way in."


"That I believe, but I don't think you were trying to sign up for our one-year advertised membership special." The man walked around in front of Don, and he recognized Simon Fox immediately. Dressed in jeans and a tight black t-shirt, from his spot on his knees on the ground, the man looked like a giant.


"What's going on?" Another tall, muscular man joined them. This one was blond and a little shorter. "Who's this?"


"Let's see some ID," Fox said, apparently feeling it was safe to let Don move a bit now that he had back-up.


"I told your pal here I was just trying to get into the gym. It looked like you were still open - - "


"Save the lame-ass story. It didn't work on me and it won't work on him, either. Just hand over your wallet."


Don reluctantly pulled out his wallet and handed it to Evan Maxwell, who opened it and looked through the IDs there.


"Donald Strachey, Private Investigator."


"Strachey, huh?" Fox said, as if he recognized the name. "I'll be a son-of-a-bitch."


"Do I know you?" Don asked, but Maxwell cut in.


"Who hired you?" he asked, still holding onto the wallet.


"Nobody hired me. I already told you why I was here. Now let me have my wallet and my gun back and we'll just forget this happened."


"That's mighty big of you, Strachey," Fox said, chuckling. "Considering you were snooping around my place. Now I'm gonna ask you one more time, nicely. Who hired you?"


"I told you. Nobody hired me. I thought the gym was open and I was just gonna check on your membership prices. I work a lot of nights, so someplace that was open after midnight would be perfect."


"Where's your gym bag? Or do you work out dressed like this?" Maxwell tugged on Don's tie.


"I never said I was here to work out. I was going to sign up, that's all."


"In the Old West, they used to call this a standoff. Let's take our guest inside. He's so anxious to be part of the group, I say, let him." Fox smiled in a way that definitely didn't bode well for Don. To say it was predatory would be an understatement.


"You think that's a good idea?" Maxwell challenged, looking concerned.


"I think it's a great idea. Stand up," Fox said, waving his gun at Don, who stood.


"Whatever you've got in mind, I can tell you that it's a bad idea," Don said. "So far, I haven't seen anything worthwhile, and all you've done is detain someone you found trespassing - - the cops wouldn't even come here and look around based on what I've seen."


"We've been looking for a new diversion, and this just might be it," Fox said, the two men flanking Don, moving toward the door, where they keyed in the entry code. Between the gun and the combined strength of his captors, making a break for it would have been pointless, possibly suicidal. Hopefully, he could figure a way out of this, or they'd let their guard down, although his hopes for that were dimming with each passing moment.


Once inside, they headed down a flight of stairs to the basement. The smell of liquor and sweat tweaked at Don's nose before he got a whiff of something else unmistakable. It was almost as rank as the visual image that came next. There were three king-sized mattresses on the floor, all covered in red silk sheets, and the nocturnal guests were all stretched out on them, in various stages of undress.


"Midnight orgies?" Don asked. "You've gotta be kidding me. This is what you didn't want me to find out? Unless there's somebody under eighteen here, what the hell do I need to know about this for?"


"Somebody hired a PI," Fox announced. "This guy was snooping around outside, real anxious to get in."


"Are you fucking crazy? You stupid son-of-a-bitch!" One of the chubbier, elder members of the group was up in a flash, hairy belly hanging over blue boxer shorts, gesturing angrily at Fox. "Why didn't you just give him a guest list and mug shots?"


"He's probably got those already," Maxwell said, pulling the digital camera out of Don's sport coat pocket.


"Unless we kill the bastard, you just gave him proof to go with his pictures." Another well-built man with a thick head of brown hair joined them. He was clad only in a skimpy pair of briefs. Don figured it was probably Benson.


"The way I see it, he's not going to want to tell anybody where he's been when we're finished with him. Not even the cute little partner. I could definitely hit that," Maxwell said, looking at the picture of Don and Tim in their tuxes, the wedding picture Don always had with him in his wallet.


Don instinctively moved to swing at him, but Fox had an iron grip on his arm.


"Don't tell me you keep this one all to yourself? This must be Tim." He held up the photo where Fox could see it. Don carried a small card that only had Tim's first name and his cell phone number, as emergency contact information. He figured Maxwell must have seen it.


"Let's see that," Fox said, and Maxwell held the photo closer, in better light. "So tell me, you ever get any from tight-ass Timmy? Does he come for you when you're riding him?"


"Shut up, you fucking asshole," Don hissed, making a violent pull for his freedom, and almost making it.


"They're married," Fox said, his tone turning syrupy. "Isn't that sweet?" His whole tone and expression became menacing then. "And we have his cell number now. I bet he'd run right down here if he thought you were in danger."


"Leave him out of it," Don shot back, angry.


"Unless you want us to call him down here to join us, you're going to cooperate and keep your mouth shut."


"Unless we have something to stick in it," Maxwell added, grinning wickedly and drawing a dirty laugh out of Fox.


"You stick anything in my mouth, you better be fucking sure you don't want it back," Don said through gritted teeth.


"We got ourselves a fighter," Fox said. "Maybe he needs a little attitude adjustment before we let him...socialize with our guests."


********


Resolved to the notion he wasn't going to get any sleep that night, Tim turned on the bedside lamp and picked up a book. It was a boring book; even his interest in politics didn't make this one a good read. Still, it was making the luncheon discussion circuits in the circles he traveled in, so he was plowing through it, trying to force his brain to retain a few key concepts. He hoped the monotony of the book would relax him. It was nearing 1:00 in the morning, and Donald still wasn't home. That wasn't terribly unusual, but for some reason tonight, he couldn't make himself relax. Maybe it was because their afternoon lovemaking had left him feeling a little more acutely attached to Donald than usual. Whenever they made love, it always left Tim with this lingering feeling of a heightened...connection with his partner that was best enjoyed when they could spend some time together. It made routine parting for work almost painful.


He looked at the telephone and thought about picking it up and calling Donald. If he was sitting in his car somewhere, killing time, watching someone, maybe they could talk a while.


Or the ringing of his phone could get him in trouble if he forgot to turn off the ringer.


Sighing, Tim opened the book and slipped his glasses into place, forcing himself to concentrate on the page in front of him.


********


Stenski blinked a couple times, then gulped more of the bitter coffee in his thermal mug. He'd just finished a stakeout, and all he wanted to do now was go home and get some sleep. That was, if he could manage to get in without waking his girlfriend and listening to her tirade about him crawling in at 3:00 in the morning. Just as he was mulling that over in his mind, he caught sight of a man walking...well, walking wasn't exactly the word for it. More like staggering down the sidewalk.


Fan-fucking-tastic. Where's a goddamned black-and-white when you need one? Probably swizzling coffee from some all-night drive-thru window, sitting out the rest of the graveyard shift until morning.


Stenski had almost reconciled himself with ignoring what he assumed was another drunken suburbanite who was either too shit-faced to drive or couldn't find his car, when he recognized this one. Donald Strachey, our favorite gay dick.


Shit, this is too good to pass up, even if it does cost me another hour or so to haul his ass back to the station and throw him in the drunk tank.


He pulled up and flashed the blue and red lights on the visor of his unmarked sedan. Strachey's labored gait drew to a halt, and he stared a little blankly at the car. His face was marred with bruises, and blood was caked under his nose and at the corners of his mouth. He was only wearing a shirt and pants, the shirt hanging loose out of his belt, and it was buttoned wrong. Stenski got out of the car, a part of him thinking this was too fucking easy, like shooting ducks in a barrel.


"Get in the car, Strachey," he said, yanking him by the arm toward the back of the sedan.


"I need a ride home," he said, though there was none of the usual arrogance or assertion in his tone. His skin looked pasty under the bruises, and his eyes seemed almost unfocused. Someone had definitely given the little faggot a good going over. It was about time. Wipe the smart-ass smirk off his face.


"Yeah, you need to sleep it off," Stenski said, shoving him roughly in the back of the car, slamming the door. He got into the driver's seat and turned around, heading for the station.


Strachey moaned a couple of times, and he'd tipped over on the seat. The cop in Stenski was telling him to take him to the ER instead of the station. His kind were litigious assholes, and if he didn't give him cold compresses, aspirin, and a blankey, he'd probably sue the city.


"I'm not drunk," Strachey managed, pushing himself up a little on one elbow. "Please, I need a ride home," he said again.


If he was that coherent, he was probably fine, Stenski decided. Maybe he could make some new friends in the drunk tank downtown before he started whining about knowing Bailey to someone who'd actually listen, or give a shit.


"Call Bailey. Let me talk to him."


There it was. Not even in the drunk tank yet and already dropping Bailey's name.


"Shut the fuck up. You can call whoever you want in the morning."


"Just let me out, then. I'll get home myself," he said, easing himself across the seat and pulling at the door handle, as if he thought he could just step out of the moving car. The door was locked, so he wasn't going anywhere. There was no smell of liquor on him, which threw Stenski just a bit. So maybe he's high, then. His eyes were pretty wild, weird looking. Could be pot or coke.


"Look, I know you hate my guts, but you're a cop, for God's sake. Help me," Strachey said finally, just as Stenski was pulling into the parking lot, up to the entrance handiest to the holding cells.


"Maybe you shouldn't be looking for all that publicity if you don't want to pay the price for it," Stenski replied, getting out of the car and opening the back door, dragging Strachey upright by the back of his shirt. He pulled his arms back, locking cuffs in place. "Come on, get out," he said, yanking on Strachey's arm. "You can get up on your feet and walk in there, or I can fucking drag you. Either way, you're coming with me, so make up your mind."


"I need help," Strachey insisted, not moving.


"Fine. I'll help you." He grabbed his prisoner under both arms and hauled him out of the car, depositing him on his knees on the ground. "Heh, I bet that's your favorite position anyway, isn't it?" He hoisted Strachey up, and was relieved that his feet were finally flat on the ground. Stocking feet at that. "What kind of a party were you at, anyway?" he taunted, irritated that he had to practically drag the man toward the entrance.


"Please...I need help," he said again.


"You'll have a nice cot to sleep it off on."


"Do you smell booze on me, you stupid son-of-a-bitch?" Strachey hissed, although it looked like it was taking his last ounce of strength to issue the challenge.


"You're probably high."


"Fuck you," Strachey hissed back at him through clenched teeth.


"In your dreams, asshole."


"Let me go," he demanded, apparently getting his second wind, struggling a little with Stenski's hold on him. Stenski was increasingly comfortable with his decision to haul Strachey's ass to the drunk tank. He was getting feisty, so he couldn't be hurt that badly.


"I'm just sticking him in the tank, let him sleep it off," he told the young uniformed officer at the desk.


"You have his ID?"


"Get me some help," Strachey said, making eye contact with the young cop. "Please."


He found Strachey's wallet in his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "He knows Bailey, so we're going to cut him a break, not book him for disorderly conduct. Just let him sleep it off and let him out in the morning."


"Will do, Detective," the officer replied, opening the cell door so Stenski could uncuff and then shove his prisoner inside. Strachey swayed visibly, then staggered to an empty bench and curled there on his side. There were only a couple of old winos in the drunk tank with him, and they didn't appear too interested in checking him out, since they'd staked out spots on benches for themselves.


"'Night, Rodriguez," Stenski said to the officer, tucking his cuffs away with a little grin. This hadn't turned out to be such a bad night after all.


********


Bailey rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. It had been a bitch of a day and an even longer night. If the good people of Albany could just quit killing each other at night, his life would get a lot easier. He'd put in a long day trying to get caught up on his existing case load, and then, right before he headed home, a body was found in an alley, most likely a hooker who met a bad end, either at the hands of a violent john or a pissed-off pimp. In any event, it wasn't the way he'd hoped to spend the rest of the night.


Standing wearily, he grabbed his coat and started for the door. As he opened it, a young Hispanic officer stood on the other side of it, a worried look on his face.


"Detective Bailey, there's a guy in the drunk tank that keeps saying he knows you. Detective Stenski brought him in." He handed Bailey Don's wallet. "He said we weren't supposed to book him on disorderly conduct, that he should just sleep it off, but I think there's something really wrong with him. He's just lying on one of the benches, and he moans a lot and asks for somebody named Timothy or Timmy all the time. When I went in to check on him, he said I should get you."


"I know him. I'll check it out," he said, accompanying the young officer down to the drunk tank, wondering what Strachey had gotten himself into now.


Rodriguez unlocked the drunk tank, and Bailey walked over to the bench where Strachey was lying, curled in on himself, his color ashen under an array of bruises.


"Strachey?" He said it loudly, sharply, hoping to rouse the other man from what was looking dangerously like a loss of consciousness. "It's Bailey," he added.


"Make sure they don't hurt Timmy," Strachey gasped, finally opening his eyes to slits, his hand reaching aimlessly in Bailey's direction, finally tugging feebly at the edge of his sport coat.


"Get an ambulance," Bailey told Rodriguez, who hurried out to the desk to call for one. "Donald, I need you to look at me," he said, kneeling so he was in Strachey's line of vision. "What happened?"


"Doesn't matter about me. I'm dying. I know it."


"You're not dying, damn it. Even if you feel like you are. Are you just roughed up? Any other wounds?" Bailey started looking him over then and stopped short when he saw the dark wetness on the back of his pants. At first it looked as if he'd wet himself, but it was in the wrong place. Then he could see a bit of bright red stain beginning to soak into one of Strachey's socks. "Don, you're bleeding. Tell me what happened," he said, and then hesitantly took the flailing hand that was reaching for something to hold onto. It was then that he noticed darkening finger-sized bruises all over Strachey's wrist and forearm. He was in bad shape, and if he thought he was dying, he might be right. Bailey would want something to hold onto if he was on his way out of this world.


"Go get Timmy. They said they'd hurt Timmy."


"I'll send someone to pick him up, meet us at the hospital. You're gonna be just fine."


"When I was in the Army, I got shot," Don said, and at first, Bailey thought he was delirious, talking about something wholly irrelevant, until he finished the thought. "I lost a lot of blood, and they thought I was going to die. I almost did." He paused. "It felt like now. I'm dying, Bub. Just take care of Timmy, protect him."


"Who am I protecting him from?" Bailey watched as Don's eyes fluttered shut. "Damn it, Strachey, stay with me here. Who am I protecting him from?"


"Fox...at the gym. Don't let them get Timmy."


"Rodriguez, I need you to send a car to this address and pick up a guy named Tim Callahan. Bring him to Memorial." The officer nodded, and then Bailey caught his arm. "Tell them lights and sirens all the way, both ways. We might not have long," he said under his breath. He'd sat with a fellow officer dying from a gunshot wound in the street back when he was a rookie, and that guy's color was no worse than Strachey's.


"Don't let them hurt Timmy," Donald muttered again, his eyes trying to open a little.


"We're sending a car to get Tim for you," Bailey said, gentling his tone a bit. He found the thought of Donald Strachey dying to be a little more unthinkable than he'd expected. The guy could be a shooting pain in the ass, but he was a good guy and a sharp detective. And a good verbal sparring partner. Ridiculously, Bailey found himself missing his snappy comebacks and biting wit. "Donald, you have to hang on, try to stay present, okay?"


"Okay," he said weakly.


"Think about your partner, Donald. Hang in there for him."


"Timmy."


"He's going to meet us at the hospital. You want to see him, right?"


"Yeah, I want to see him," Strachey parroted back, his voice barely a whisper, but holding a tone of irritation that bode well for his spirit.


"That's the spirit. Tell me what happened, Donald."


"My client, Justin Sommers. Tell him Fox got me. He's in danger. Kenny knows how to contact him."


"Your pants are blood stained," Bailey said quietly, waiting until Donald opened his eyes enough to look him in the eyes. "Who raped you?" He hated to traumatize him further in his weakened state, but if Strachey died before he could name his assailant and Bailey didn't do all he could to get the information, it would haunt him to the last day of his life.


Strachey looked at him for a long moment with a depth of agony in his eyes Bailey couldn't remember ever seeing in another living soul before.


"I lost count," he whispered, and then his eyes drifted shut and the tension left his body. It took Bailey a moment to realize he'd stopped breathing. He checked for a pulse, but couldn't feel one.


"Holy shit, Strachey, don't you die on me like this," he said, shifting him onto his back, starting CPR. "Get the defibrillator!" he shouted at Rodriguez, who ran for it just as the EMTs came in. "He's losing blood and he just stopped breathing," Bailey told them, reluctantly stepping aside, wondering how the hell he was going to tell Callahan when they got to the hospital that Strachey was dead, that he'd died like a dog in a back corner of a drunk tank, bleeding out from a brutal rape no one even bothered to notice had happened.


More than that, he wondered how the hell he was going to live with that as a cop, as a decent Christian man...and as an unlikely friend of the victim.


"We got him back," one of the EMTs announced as they got ready to transport Strachey.


Everything was a blur of rushing and shouting and activity as Bailey raced out to his car to follow the ambulance and order a police escort for it. They may have lost precious hours up to now, but if it took a goddamned presidential motorcade to get Strachey into the ER in time to undo that wrong, that's what he was going to have.


********


Tim knew he must have fallen asleep with the book open, since it slid to the floor when he jolted upright in the bed. The doorbell rang, and there was a loud, assertive knock following it. He could see red and blue flashing lights reflecting against the bedroom window. In that horrible moment, the bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he knew this was the scenario that haunted his worst nightmares. Only he was awake, and this was real, and Donald wasn't home, it was nearly dawn, and there were cops banging on his door.


Throwing on his robe, he rushed downstairs and opened the door. Two uniformed officers stood on the doorstep.


"Are you Timothy Callahan?"


"Yes," he responded, dreading the words that would come out of their mouths next. Donald was dead. There was no other reason for cops to show up like this.


"Detective Bailey sent us to bring you over to Memorial Hospital for Donald Strachey."


"Is he alive?"


"As far as we know," one of the officers said. "They were taking him by ambulance to Memorial, and Bailey told us to come and get you, lights and sirens."


"I'll be right back." Tim ran upstairs, yanked on a pair of khakis and a shirt, stuck his bare feet in shoes, put his wallet in his pocket, and pulled on a jacket as he was hurrying back down the steps.


"What happened to him?" he asked as the car was speeding toward the hospital. And it was truly speeding, cutting through the sparse dawn traffic, ripping through intersections as if they were on a high-speed pursuit.


"Not sure. He was in the drunk tank and all of a sudden there was this big commotion and EMTs were there and Bailey was sending us to get you."


"The drunk tank? But he never goes out and gets drunk like that. What was he doing there?"


"Look, you know as much as we do right now. I'm sure Bailey'll be at the hospital, and you can ask him yourself," the cop driving said, apparently losing his patience with Tim's questions.


Ambulance, EMTs...you don't need that for a dead man, and there's certainly no hurry about it, either. Tim closed his eyes and held onto that thought.


The black-and-white arrived at the ER entrance at the same time as the ambulance, with Bailey's sedan screeching to a stop nearby. There was another police car that had been escorting the ambulance. Tim ran toward the ambulance, arriving there just as the back doors opened and Donald's gurney was lowered to the ground for the run into the hospital.


"You're going to have to stay out of our way, sir," one of the EMTs barked at Tim.


"He's my husband," he said, determinedly reaching out, able to only fleetingly brush Donald's hand as the gurney moved rapidly into the entrance, hospital personnel rushing out to greet it. And just like that, the frighteningly pale, bruised, and still version of Donald, whose too-cold hand he'd only managed to brush, was out of sight.


"Tim." Bailey's voice came from behind him as the detective hurried up to join him inside the ER entrance.


"What happened to him? Did someone attack him at the jail? They said he was in the drunk tank." Tim knew his words were spilling out, a bit frantically.


"I need to go with them for evidence reasons," he said. "Just wait here, and as soon as I can, I'll be out to fill you in on as much as I know." Bailey headed back in the direction the gurney had gone, and Tim followed him, determined to at least find out why his partner was in such grave condition.


Standing outside the exam room, he watched as the medical personnel swiftly and efficient sliced Donald's rumpled, stained clothing in a few key spots and removed it, a doctor already there to assess his injuries. The blood soaked into his pants and underwear told a horrendous tale, and Bailey's presence to collect evidence was the final piece of the puzzle. In conjunction with a nurse, Bailey was bagging the clothing and making furious notes on the assessment of Donald's injuries. After briefly palpating his abdomen, the doctor announced he was bleeding internally, and the frenzy was on again, finding an available operating room, prepping him for surgery, ushering Bailey and his bag of evidence out of the room.


"Are you here for Mr. Strachey?" a nurse asked Tim, who nodded. "We're taking him into surgery. He's bleeding internally."


"How bad is it?" Tim asked.


"His blood pressure is very low, and he flat-lined once in the ambulance. He is very weak...you need to be prepared just in case," she said, squeezing his arm briefly. "We do need to make sure all his information is up to date. Sharon will work with you on that," she said, steering him over to a woman at a computer. How could she just sit there and type in insurance information for a man who could be dying?


"Can I just see him for a second before you take him into surgery? I'm his husband," Tim pleaded, and the nurse cast a quick glance at the hive of activity around Donald's gurney.


"Come with me." She led him into the war zone and said a word or two to a couple of the nurses, who made room for him near the gurney. "Just a second or two, because we have to keep moving," she said. "You should take his wedding ring because they'll remove it for surgery anyway," she said, handing him Donald's watch.


Tim didn't waste any time. He took Don's hand in his and stroked his hair gently. "Donald, darling, I'm here. I'm waiting for you. Don't you dare leave me," he managed, his tears falling on Don's pale, bruised face. He leaned down near Donald's ear. "You're the love of my life, and I need you more than I need air. I don't want to live without you, honey. Stay with me, fight for us." He began carefully easing the ring off Don's finger, and Tim and the medical personnel were stunned when Donald's fingers curled and tensed, as if to stop the ring from being removed. "Oh, baby, it's just me. It's Timmy. I'm going to keep the ring for you for a little while. I'll put it back on your finger as soon as you're feeling better." Tim kissed the tensed fingers, and they eased a bit, allowing him to take the ring. "I love you." The oxygen mask over Don's face prevented him from kissing his lips, but he kissed his forehead, and then his hand, reluctantly laying it gently back on the gurney as the nurse ushered him out of the way.


So he sat with the woman at the computer and mechanically recited all of Donald's personal information and confirmed his medical history and insurance information. When he was finished, she had a nice little hospital bracelet for Donald and some form for him, which he signed. Another nurse stuck a clipboard with a consent for surgery under his nose, apparently needing his okay, now that it was confirmed he had Donald's medical power of attorney. When they were done, Bailey was waiting for him.


"Let's sit down over here for a minute," Bailey replied, leading Tim to the sitting area. He sat down, but his whole body was vibrating.


"Tell me what happened. How bad is it?"


"Another cop picked him up on the street, thought he was drunk or high. He put him in the drunk tank to sleep it off."


"But Donald doesn't go out alone drinking like that. He doesn't do drugs."


"I know that. There's no easy way to say this. Near as I can tell, he was beaten and raped. I don't have all the details, but I have enough to get started."


"Oh, my God," Tim said, feeling the bile rising in his throat, swallowing hard to keep it down, covering his mouth briefly. It wasn't that he didn't know that from what he'd seen and heard in the exam room, but the words were just too horrible to process.


"He was losing a lot of blood; he stopped breathing once while I was with him, but I started CPR and the EMTs came in and took over and got him breathing again." Bailey paused. "When I asked him who did it...well, he indicated there were multiple assailants."


"What did he say exactly?" Tim persisted, even though he knew it was probably something he couldn't bear to hear.


"He said, 'I lost count'."


Tim just stared at Bailey a moment, then stood on shaky legs and walked away, staring out a window at the beautiful pink and blue sky of dawn, the orange sun adding a splash of bright color. The world had the audacity to keep turning while his world was falling apart, while his Donald was suffering so horribly. He knew he was crying, leaning there against the window frame, but he couldn't help it. He was surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder.


"I have another detective following up on a couple things Don said, and I've already contacted IAB regarding the reason he was in the drunk tank to begin with."


"He had to have been in pain, asking for help...how could someone just ignore that? He couldn't have gone from being fine to being in this condition. Who picked him up?"


"His name is Stenski. He's got a real attitude problem with Don, but I honestly never would have suspected it would go to this extreme. It's always been verbal stuff, and you know Don - - he can hold his own with any big-mouthed jerk who wants to give him a hard time."


"Don't let him get away with this," Tim said, wiping at his eyes, surprised when Bailey handed him a couple of tissues and steered him back to a seat.


"You need to pull yourself together. When your partner wakes up, he's going to need to lean on you. Besides, he made me promise to look out for you, and dealing with one of you is enough, so give me a break here, okay?"


Tim appreciated Bailey's attempt at humor, but he felt too gutted to respond to it. The thought of what Donald must have gone through, and then to be mistreated when he needed help so badly...it was more than Tim could take.


"I need to go to the chapel while he's in surgery," Tim said.


"I know where that is. I'll show you." Bailey walked down the hall with him and told the nurse at the desk where they'd be, in case there was any word on Don while they were gone.


Tim made the Sign of the Cross and knelt on one of the kneeling benches and put his head down on his folded hands. He was surprised Bailey was still there, that he also knelt and folded his hands. He started reciting the Our Father, and Tim joined him, finding a great comfort in the familiar words, and in a second voice reciting them, too.


"I'm leaving an officer here to keep an eye on you. He'll be right outside the door," Bailey said, standing. "I have to follow up on a few leads Don gave me, but I'll be keeping in touch to find out how he's doing."


"Thank you," Tim said, wishing he had the presence of mind to pay more attention to Bailey's kindness. Then a question cut through his foggy mind. "Why do I need an officer here with me?"


"Don was worried about you, asked me to protect you. I think he was probably just traumatized from whatever he went through, but I'd rather be safe than sorry." With that, Bailey left.


Alone in the silent little hospital chapel, Tim put his head down on his folded arms and cried, secure in the knowledge that God didn't need to be told what he wanted, what he was pleading for, and too destroyed to think of the right words to ask for it.


********


Kenny entered the waiting room and saw Tim sitting in a remote corner, staring into space. A couple chairs away was a young police officer - - and not a bad looking one at that - - reading a magazine. For an instant, he felt guilty for noticing that, but then he had to almost smile, as Don would be the first one to be amused by his assistant's ever-overactive libido.


Tim looked devastated, and for a moment, Kenny was afraid to approach him. He looked as if Don was already dead, not just in surgery. He was wearing Don's wedding ring loosely on his little finger, next to the wedding band on his own ring finger.


"Any word yet?" he asked, sitting next to Tim.


"No." The word was strained, little more than a whisper. "He was so pale. The nurse told me to be prepared... How do you prepare for something like that?"


"You don't. Until someone tells you it's over, he's still alive, so you don't mourn for him before he's dead."


"He already stopped breathing twice."


"He was breathing when they wheeled him into surgery, so that's what we're going to hang onto."


"Bailey said he was following up on leads Don gave him. Did he contact you?"


"He wanted all the information on that new case Don just took on yesterday. Some guy who wanted Don to follow his boyfriend around."


"He told me about it," Tim said, that conversation seeming a lifetime away. When Donald was whole and healthy and their biggest worry was how to make time for a little romance.


"Bailey said he was raped," Kenny said carefully, not knowing how to broach such an awful subject, but his mind was going in some gruesome directions trying to figure out what they could have done to Don that nearly killed him.


"It sounds like a gang rape, based on what Donald told Bailey," Tim said, feeling tears burning his eyes again. "And then some homophobic cop who has it in for him put him in the drunk tank and left him there to bleed in a corner with no medical attention," he added bitterly, shaking his head as tears fell. "He was in pain and traumatized, and they just left him there to die."


"Bailey didn't mention that part," Kenny said, leaning back in his chair.


"It wasn't Bailey's fault. He did what he could for him when he found out."


"Who's the cop?"


"Some guy named Stenski." Tim fell silent. Kenny had never seen all the color literally drain from someone's face before, even though he'd read that phrase more than once in a cheesy novel. Now, he was seeing it for real. There was a doctor in scrubs heading toward them. Tim rose and so did Kenny. The doctor was a small, slightly built man who looked to be of Indian descent.


"I'm Dr. Sharma. You are here for Donald Strachey?" he asked.


"Yes."


"He is your partner?"


"Yes."


"Well, your partner is a very stubborn man," he said with a smile. "He came through the surgery very well, and his vital signs have stabilized."


"Thank God." Tim dropped into the chair, and for a moment, Kenny thought he was going to pass out. "I'm sorry. My legs got a little weak." He sat there a minute, then asked, "How serious were his injuries?"


"The internal bleeding is what posed the biggest threat to his life. There was a tear in the lower intestine, but we've repaired that. There was considerable tearing and swelling in the rectal area, which we've sutured. His bladder is bruised, but there was no serious damage. He may have some symptoms similar to a urinary tract infection for a while, but there's no reason to assume he won't fully recover." The doctor paused. "I still consider his condition guarded until we've gone at least twenty-four hours with his vital signs stable."


"What about injuries from the beating he took?" Tim asked.


"Mostly superficial. Nothing that poses a real threat to his recovery. There was no biological evidence collected by the police, and every indication his attackers used protection, but with the amount of bleeding and the rush to get him to surgery, there's always the possibility that something was missed. We've run all the initial tests for HIV and STDs, and he'll need to follow up with periodic tests with his own doctor. We'll be keeping him on a liquid diet for a couple of days, then gradually introducing some mild foods. The nurse can give you all those instructions."


"When can I see him?"


"He should be settled in his room soon. A nurse will come for you when you can see him," he said.


"Thank you, Doctor," Tim said, standing to shake hands with the doctor.


"I'll be back in to check on him later today. I'm starting him out in ICU because of the problems we had stabilizing his blood pressure. If all goes well in the next twenty-four hours, we'll look at moving him to a regular room," he concluded before heading back toward the elevator.


"Do you need anything? I can go back to your place and pick you up some stuff. Maybe bring you some food?"


"Thanks, Kenny. I couldn't hold anything down right now, anyway. Maybe later?"


"Sure. Give me a call when Don's awake if he wouldn't mind me coming up to see him, okay?"


"I will," Tim said, smiling.


********


Tim slowly approached the side of the hospital bed, almost afraid to touch the pale figure that lay there. In all the years he'd known Donald, and in all the situations he'd seen him, he never had the occasion to describe him as fragile. Donald was the antithesis of fragile, so full of life, so strong....


This Donald looked fragile. Pale, bruised, and utterly still. Even those thick, beautiful blond lashes of his that were such pale gold that you had to look from just the right angle to see them, or wait for the sunshine to catch them, showed easily against his skin as he slept. His wrists and arms were marred with bruises that were horrible ghosts of brutal restraint.


He carefully took Don's right hand in his and eased his wedding band back into place. When he leaned forward to kiss the hand, he felt the fingers curl around his.


"Donald?" he asked, seeing that his lover's eyes weren't open yet. "Honey, are you awake?" he asked, leaning forward to plant the faintest kiss on Don's lips. He felt a weak attempt at a pucker, and he lingered there a second, not wanting that little motion to go unrewarded. His throat felt like it would close with the emotion, the sweetness of that little kiss reassuring him that his Donald was still inside this pale, fragile shell. "Everything's going to be all right, baby. Just rest. I'm right here. We're safe. Bailey made sure I had protection, just like you asked." He knew that would bother Don, even if he wasn't coherent enough yet to ask about it.


He lowered the bed rail and sat on the bed, keeping Don's hand in his, laying his free hand gently against Don's cheek, his thumb lightly skimming back and forth on the pale, cool skin.


"I thought Sleeping Beauty was supposed to awaken with his beloved's kiss," he teased gently. Two tiny slits of blue and white became visible under the mostly closed lids.


"Throat's dry."


While those words weren't the poetic declaration worthy of a classic movie hospital wake-up scene, Tim knew he'd always cherish them, because they were Donald's precious first words back among the living.


"I'm going to raise the head of the bed a little so it's easier to swallow," he said, not wanting to startle Don with the movement of the bed. When it was elevated a bit, he poured a little water in the bottom of the cup on the nightstand and positioned the bendable straw near Don's mouth.


"Can you take the straw in your mouth, honey?" he nudged Don's lip gently, and in a moment, his lips closed around the straw and took a little pull on it. Tim could see his throat working to swallow it. "Good boy," he said, withdrawing the straw and using a tissue to absorb the drop of water that escaped.


"Don't say that," Donald replied, turning his head toward the window, away from Tim.


Tim stopped short a moment, trying to analyze what he'd said that could have upset Donald. Good boy? He wasn't going to risk repeating it, since he figured the last thing Donald needed was to be upset or tense about anything.


"I'm sorry, honey. I won't say it again."


"I'm sorry."


"What on earth for, baby? What have you got to be sorry about?"


"That all that's left for you are the damaged leftovers." A single tear leaked out the corner of Don's eye, and Tim felt like someone had stabbed him directly in the heart, then twisted the knife.


"Aw, honey, you're everything in the world to me. Nothing that happened was your fault, and nothing could change how much I love you."


"You don't know what it was like."


"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked softly, kissing the back of Donald's hand.


He shook his head slightly.


"Then you don't have to. Not until you're ready." Tim brushed the single tear away, kissing the path of it. After a few long moments, Don turned his head a bit to look at Tim.


"You wanted me back. You told me to fight for us," he said, his eyes bright with tears.


"You heard that, huh?" Tim asked, smiling, wondering if his words could have really been powerful enough to turn the tide and make Donald fight for his life.


"I wanted to die," Don admitted softly. "But you sounded so sad. Never could say no to you," he said, almost smiling.


Tim struggled not to admonish him for ever wanting to die. Given what he'd probably been through, what he still had to face in dealing with all of it, he didn't need to be scolded for how he felt. More than anything, Tim wanted him to open up and be able to say what he needed to say, no matter how it might sound, without fear of censure or judgment.


"Then I'm glad you can't say no to me," Tim managed, leaning forward to kiss him gently, glad he got the same weak little pucker and smack in return for his efforts. "When I thought I might lose you, I wished I could go with you."


"Did Bailey get 'em?"


"He was on it as soon as he left the hospital. He hasn't been back since." Tim was quiet a moment, then ventured, "It had to do with your new case?"


"Yeah. I've got notes in my car. It stalled and I had to walk."


"When did it stall, honey?"


"After...I didn't have my cell phone. They had all my stuff. Even my shoes, I guess." He didn't say anything more at first, and then added, "Bailey needs my notes. He can nail all of 'em with my notes."


"You want me to call him for you?"


"He'll want a statement."


"That's inevitable, I suppose, but it doesn't have to be right now."


"One of them probably had to go to the hospital."


"Why is that?" Tim asked, glad that Donald at least wreaked a little havoc on the bastards who hurt him so badly.


"I tried to bite his fucking dick off, but it was tougher than I thought. At least it was two less of them...him and one to take him to the hospital."


"How many were there?" Tim asked, thinking maybe Donald was trying to talk about it, but just couldn't tell it in a tidy narrative. He felt like an acrobat taking the first couple steps out on the tightrope. Such a delicate balance between drawing Donald out and making him feel as if his words were being pounced upon.


"I think about ten to start, and then those two left. I guess all eight of them took turns. I couldn't always tell where one ended and the next one started." His hand flexed on Tim's, squeezing it. "I fought it as much as I could," he said in a choked voice. "I'm sorry...I couldn't stop it."


Tim couldn't let that anguish go un-consoled, so he took the chance that Donald wanted to be touched, wanted him close, and turned so he was sitting next to him on the bed, very carefully easing Donald into his arms. It wasn't just that Donald didn't resist him, he moved into Tim's arms willingly, eagerly even, clinging to him as fiercely as his weakened state allowed. It was as if he wanted to hide in the embrace, his face buried against Tim's chest.


"Of course you couldn't stop that by yourself, honey. You couldn't help it. You don't have to say you're sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."


"If you don't want me anymore, I'd understand."


"Donald, darling, I'll want you until there isn't a breath left in my tired old body. Do you really believe because someone hurt you that way, that it changes anything about my love for you? That the gift of yourself that you give me, freely, out of love, has anything to do with something that was forced on you against your will?" Tim kissed the top of his head, sheltering him with his hand, pressing Don's head against his chest. "We'll get through this, honey. I promise."


"Am I all screwed up? Did they fix it?" Don asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear from where he kept his face hidden against Tim.


"Most of the bleeding was from a tear deeper inside, in your large intestine, and they repaired that in the surgery. The doctor said he repaired the other tearing, too, and he thought you'd make a full recovery."


"Not much fun fucking a hole that's all messed up and inside out."


"You're not all messed up and inside out, baby. I know it probably feels that way, but you're going to heal up just fine." He squeezed Don a little tighter. "Are you in a lot of pain? I can call the nurse and get you something."


"Take this thing out of me," he said, and Tim realized with a start that Donald was pulling on the tube that led to his catheter.


"They put that in during surgery, honey. I can't just pull it out."


"Then I will. Get this thing out of my dick. It hurts and I want it out. I have to pee."


"You can go in the catheter. Just relax and - - "


"I don't want to piss in a bag! Get this thing out of me."


"Don't pull on it, Donald. It'll hurt worse. I'll call the nurse."


"I don't care if you call the fucking pope. I want it out."


"Okay, honey, I understand," Tim said, stroking Don's hair, hoping that would calm him and keep him from ripping the catheter out himself. He rang for the nurse, and a moment later, she appeared at the door. An attractive woman with a pretty smile, she looked at Donald immediately, since he looked pained and was starting to fidget with the tube again. "He wants the catheter out."


"We can take it out tomorrow if the doctor okays it - - "


"One way or another, this thing is coming out of my dick now," Don corrected.


"I can't remove it without the doctor's okay, and you could hurt yourself pulling it out, Donald," she said, approaching the bed. "If we remove it, and you can't eliminate on your own, we have to put it back in again, and that's going to be more uncomfortable than just putting up with it now."


"Please get it out of me. I don't want to pee in a bag."


"You can't get up just yet. If we take out the catheter, you'd still have to go in a plastic urinal - - "


"I can help him with that, and if this is hurting him, he won't really be able to rest comfortably," Tim said, finally capturing the hand Donald had been using to tug at the tube. "If he wants it out, he'll get it out with or without help, so we might as well cooperate," Tim told the nurse, who sighed. Tim figured if this little victory gave Donald a feeling of power over his own body, it was worth whatever it took to make it happen.


"I'll call the doctor, and if he okays it, we'll get it out of there, Donald. But you have to leave it alone until I come back, okay? Deal?" she asked, smiling, trying to build a little rapport with him, though he was having none of it.


"Yeah, whatever. Just get it out of me."


After the nurse left, Don looked a little sheepishly at Tim.


"I'm sorry. I just want it out," he said, his tone less confrontational this time.


"Controlling when you want to pee is pretty basic, isn't it, honey? It's okay. We'll get it out so you can go on your own."


Donald pressed his face into the pillow, like he wanted to hide from everything, and that was the only shelter available.


"I'll ask the nurse if she can give you something more for pain," he said, rubbing Donald's shoulder, wishing he could do more to make everything better.


"I just want you," he admitted softly, grabbing Tim's hand and holding onto it like a lifeline.


"I just want you, too, Donald. Forever, no matter what. Don't worry about anything. Just rest."


Don didn't say anything else for a long time. Tears gave way to silence, and soon Tim realized Don was asleep again, clinging to his hand like a life preserver.


The doctor okayed removing the catheter, with the admonition the nurse predicted, that it would be reinserted if he didn't function on his own. Tim dedicated himself to keeping his partner hydrated above and beyond what the IV pumped into him, and it proved to be enough to keep the threat of re-catheterization at bay. Donald did sleep easier without it, and Tim suspected it was more the victory of controlling his own body than it was a real issue with the catheter itself.


********


Bailey approached the door of Strachey's hospital room. It was slightly ajar, and he eased it open a bit, tapping on it. There was no response, and he understood why when he entered, finding Don sound asleep in his bed, Callahan sound asleep in the chair beside the bed, holding Strachey's hand, their fingers entwined. It was already dark again, and it was obvious Callahan hadn't moved from his partner's side in those hours. It was the first time he'd seen the normally fastidious man with mussed hair and a day's beard growth, sprawled inelegantly in the chair like an exhausted drunk.


"If he's sleeping, you should come back later," a nurse said softly from behind him. "He's had a rough time so far." She was an attractive, middle-aged woman with frosted blonde hair and a pretty smile. He returned it.


"I need to get his statement." He showed her his ID. "When would be a good time?" he asked in a hushed voice, easing out of the room into the hall.


"We'll be disturbing him in about an hour for lab work. The doctor said if he becomes agitated during your interview, you'll need to try again when he's stronger."


"How's he doing, anyway?"


"Our big concern was his blood pressure stabilizing, and that's gone very well. He'll probably be moved out of ICU tomorrow sometime. He doesn't want anyone near him to help with his personal needs except his partner - - he wouldn't even let us take a blood sample until his partner talked him into holding out his arm. He was pretty agitated with me earlier, so I'm not sure how talkative he'll be with you."


"Can't say I'm surprised. Frankly, I'm surprised he's alive."


"So was Dr. Sharma," she said. "He's very uncomfortable, which isn't too surprising, so if he can sleep a little while, please let him. I don't blame him for being cranky given how he must feel about now," she added.


"I should talk to his doctor, too. We'll need to put all this together for the case file."


"He already did his rounds earlier, but I can page him. I can't guarantee he'll be available."


"Thanks, that'd be helpful. Has he said anything more about what happened?"


"When I was in to check his vitals, he was talking to his partner, but it seemed like it was a pretty intimate conversation, so I left them alone and went back a little later. He was sleeping again by then. It's not unusual that he's exhausted. His body went through a horrible ordeal, and he nearly died. And that's not even taking into consideration the emotional issues rape victims face. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't know in that area."


"No, unfortunately, this isn't my first rape case. It is my first male rape case."


"I only remember one other one. I've been here almost twenty years now. I've handled several rape cases, but not with men. I have to admit, I'm a little nervous dealing with him. I don't want to freak him out," she admitted, smiling.


"He's a good guy. I'm sure he'll cooperate with you as much as he can handle."


"You know him?"


"Yeah. He's a private investigator. I've worked with him a few times on cases."


"He's lucky to have you handling his case, then. So many rapes and sexual assaults go unsolved. I don't think you're going to be satisfied with that outcome," she added, and Bailey laughed at the very perceptive comment.


"No, you're right. I won’t."


"Detective Bailey?" Tim's voice startled him. The other man was standing in the door of Don's room, looking a bit groggy. "Don's still asleep. I was just stretching my legs a little. Did you find his car?"


"I'll let you two talk. Do you need anything?" she asked Tim.


"I don't think right now. He's comfortable at the moment."


"I'll see if I can get you a sandwich on his tray," she said, checking her watch. "Have you eaten at all today?"


"I don't remember...I guess I didn't. I wasn't thinking about it. If you can just get something extra of what he's having. I don't want to eat in front of him when he's on liquids."


"Now that's devotion. My husband would be eating McDonald's," she joked. "I'll see if we can get you some soup in a mug - - that way, it won't look to him like you're eating anything exciting, but our broccoli cheese is pretty good, for hospital food, and you need to keep up your strength to take care of him," she added, returning to the nurses' station.


"That must be why the room was tilting there for a minute," Tim said, shrugging. "About the car - - "


"We found it parked not too far from the gym where it happened. From what I can piece together, he must have been staking out the gym, tried to get closer, and got caught. He had license numbers and car descriptions we've matched up with several suspects. Simon Fox is cooling his heels in a holding cell. He owns the gym. I think he's the ringleader. Based on what Don said last night, and his notes, and the information I got from Kenny, we have enough to hold him for twenty-four hours. I'm going to need Don's statement to start rounding them all up, making arrests. I'll also need him to look at photo lineups so we can positively ID these assholes."


"What was going on there, anyway? None of this makes sense. Don said there were about ten people there to start, but two had to leave." Tim took a deep breath. "They must have been trying to force him to...to perform oral sex on one of them, because he said he tried to bite the man's penis off, and he needed medical attention, so one of the other men took him."


"Good for him," Bailey said, smiling and shaking his head. "I've always said if you stick it somewhere it isn't welcome, don't come crying to the cops if you lose it. That's a good lead. I doubt there were a flood of bitten penises on the ER rosters last night." Bailey finished adding that fact to his notes. "You think he'll be up to talking to me?"


"He hasn't even told me the whole story. I don't really know any more than roughly how many there were. What about the cop that picked him up?"


"Stenski. We had a meeting with IAB right after lunch, and he's on paid leave, pending the outcome of the investigation."


"Wait a minute. He left Donald to die in a holding cell and didn't bother seeking any medical attention for him when he was visibly injured, and he's just having a paid vacation, pending an investigation of...of...what exactly? What more does anyone need to know about that?"


"It's called due process. You political guys ought to understand that. We can't just throw the book at him until he's had the chance to offer a defense, and the department has a chance to determine whether this is an internal disciplinary matter, or a criminal matter."


"There's a question?!" Tim demanded. "He was bruised, wandering down the street in his stocking feet...if that half-wit had even glanced at his clothing, he would have seen the blood on his pants. How can there be a question that treating someone that way is criminal?"


"Look, Callahan, you're preaching to the choir here. If I had my way, I'd take his badge, arrest him for some tasty selection of charges, and lock his ass up. Unfortunately, even a piece of shit like Stenski has a right to an impartial internal investigation and a fair trial, if it comes to that."


"Do you have any idea the kind of lawsuit the city could face over this?"


"Don't threaten me with lawsuits. I'm not the enemy here. Call the commissioner."


"Oh, I think I can do better than that. You know it's one thing for criminal...slime to have done what they did to Donald. But for a cop to finish off the whole thing by further traumatizing a crime victim and nearly killing him? That's not a crime, it's a travesty and an insult to the justice system. Beyond that, it's a hate crime. If Donald wasn't openly gay, do you think for one minute this Stenski character would have treated him that way?"


"Do you feel better now that you've gotten that off your chest?" Bailey asked. "Look, I know you're upset, and you know what? I am, too. I haven't put in twenty years on the force and taken pride in my job and my department to have a creep like Stenski pull a stunt like this and make us all look like a bunch of homophobic jackasses. Aside from that, as much as your partner is probably better at pissing me off faster than anyone else I know, he does tend to grow on a person and I don't like seeing him get screwed over. But for the same reason the men who raped him are going to be tried and have lawyers, we have to extend those rights to Stenski."


"If there aren't criminal charges brought against that...that...sick excuse for a human being, you can tell your superiors they can brace themselves for a firestorm the likes of which they haven't even imagined."


"I'll be happy to convey that message, but let's give IAB more than half a day to render a decision before calling for anyone's head, all right?"


Tim stared at him a moment, then ran a hand over his face.


"I'm sorry. I know I'm shooting the messenger. I'm just... I'm so angry for Donald, for what they did to him. And then when he's hurt and alone and...help comes in the form of some monster who just tortures him more."


"We don't even have Donald's full formal statement about what happened with Stenski. For what it's worth, I understand how you feel. And I'm not the only cop who won't condone that kind of behavior. I want justice for him, too. This is my case, and I promise you that he's going to get every consideration and every resource the department has to offer."


"I should go back in, in case he wakes up. I don't want him to be alone."


"Mind if I ask him if he's ready to talk to me? If not, I'll leave him be. The doctor's already said not to upset him. I'm just not sure how long I can hold Fox on what we have."


"Donald said he did it, didn't he?"


"We know he was involved, but he's saying they were having a swingers' party and Don chose to stay and participate."


"You don't believe that, do you?"


"Of course, I don't. I know your partner better than that, and it's unlikely anyone would choose to be injured this way, or to be left bleeding, wandering down the street with no shoes at three in the morning. However, without a statement from the victim, and the reasonable assurance that he'll testify to back it up, we could run into problems with the DA, and even problems holding Fox without charging him."


"I want these animals to pay, but I don't want to hurt Donald any more than he's already been hurt. He has to come first."


"I understand that. Let's just see how he feels about at least giving me a bare-bones version, even if he can't deal with all the step-by-step details just yet."


"Okay." Tim nodded, then pushed the door to Don's room open a bit farther, looking inside.


"Timmy?" Don's voice still sounded weak and didn't hold its usual assertiveness.


"It's me, honey," he replied, moving toward the bed quickly, taking the hand that reached for him. "Detective Bailey's here with me. Do you think you could answer a few questions for him?"


"I know I need to."


"You're looking quite a bit better than the last time I saw you," Bailey said, hoping the lighter tone would perk Strachey up a little. "How do you feel?"


"I've had better days," he said, forcing an expression that was an attempt at a smile. "Thanks for getting Timothy a guard," he said. It looked and sounded like every word was tiring him out. Still, Bailey needed something to go on, something to counter Fox's repulsive claim that Strachey had somehow brought this all on himself.


"You're welcome. I knew I'd never hear the end of it if I didn't follow your instructions to the letter," he added, and this time, he thought the smile came a little easier to Strachey's bruised face. "I've got Fox in a holding cell, and we've matched up names to the license numbers you had in your notes."


Tim pulled a straight chair close to the bed, gesturing at the other visitor's chair before sitting and holding onto his partner's hand. Bailey sat down, not quite sure where to start. This was probably why cops didn't investigate cases involving their friends and family. There was something so much more difficult about pressing someone you knew for painful details of what was probably a horribly humiliating and traumatic assault. Still, the PD didn't consider his relationship with Strachey to be anything approaching friendship, so his superiors hadn't raised any objections to him taking the case. Maybe talking to someone he knew would be easier on Strachey than facing a completely impartial stranger.


"Can you start by telling me why you were at the FBM Gym last night?"


"Was it just last night?" Don asked, looking confused. "I thought I was probably out of it longer than that."


"It was last night," Tim confirmed, holding a cup of water for Don while he took a few pulls on the straw.


"Thanks," he said, and this time, the expression he gave Callahan was an undeniable smile, even if it was faint. "I had a new client, Justin Sommers, Fox's boyfriend. He wanted me to follow him to find out if he was cheating. Is he okay?"


"Fox is in lockup right now, so he's fine for the time being."


"Good," Don said, nodding. "There was nothing out of the ordinary that I saw earlier in the evening, before the place closed. Then, right before midnight, these cars started showing up. All pricey ones. The drivers got out, went into the building. I couldn't see the entrance from where I was parked, but I knew they went up to the building and didn't come back out. I took pictures of all of them. Did you find my camera?"


"Not yet," Bailey said, not mentioning that Fox had made some comment about having proof that Strachey was a willing participant. It would make sense that photos might be that proof, and it was doubtful Fox would leave any incriminating ones on the camera.


"Fox and his goons probably have it." Don sighed. "I went up to the building. I thought I was being careful. I don't know how he spotted me, unless he was monitoring a security camera or just went outside to check. I was looking at the keypad on the entry system on the door I figured they must be using, and Fox caught me."


"So if you could have figured it out, you would have entered the code and gone inside?"


"I'm a PI, Bailey."


"I just need to know these things. Technically, they call that breaking and entering."


"Donald's not the criminal here," Tim asserted, his tone defensive.


"These are the things Fox and his lawyer are going to stack up against us. I just have to be prepared."


"He held a gun on me and called his buddy, Maxwell, to come outside and join us. They demanded my ID and tried to find out who hired me. I wouldn't tell them. Sommers was already afraid of the jerk, and I figured if I told them who my client was, he'd probably go home and beat the shit out of him. So Fox got this bright idea to take me inside to join the group."


"He had a gun on you all this time?"


"Yes. I was pretty well outmatched two against one, both of them really pumped up. Throw in a gun, and there was no point in trying to get away from them right then. I just tried to wait for an opening, when their guard was down. I told them I wanted to join the gym and I thought it was still open. It was a lame story. I wouldn't have bought it, but it was all I could think of."


Callahan offered him another drink of water, and he took it gratefully, giving his partner another one of those looks, like he was the best thing in the world.


"They took me inside, and they were saying something about needing a new diversion. Maxwell wasn't happy about the idea. They found the camera I had on me. They took me down to the basement." Don paused, squeezing Tim's hand. "It was disgusting. There were these big...mattresses on the floor, with red satin sheets on them, and these naked or half-naked guys...most of them were older, kind of fat or bald...not guys you want to see naked. It smelled like booze and sweat and come in there. I wanted to puke. Some of them were upset that I was there, saying things like unless they killed me, I could ID them all."


"Did you recognize any of them?" Bailey asked.


"The third muscle-bound jerk that was running around the basement in his underpants was probably Benson. He had brown hair and was just under six feet tall. The other guys...no, I don't know any of them."


"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"


"Some of 'em, probably. It was shadowy in there. I didn't get a good look at all of their faces."


"What happened next?" Bailey prodded.


"They had my wallet, and they were making remarks about Timothy, threatening to call him and get him to come there, tell him I was in trouble. They had our address, that's why I wanted him to have protection. They made some remark about keeping my mouth shut unless they had something to put in it. That's when I told them they better not put something in there if they wanted it back. That pissed 'em off, and they entertained themselves slapping me around for a while. I was kind of dazed, and that's when they started stripping me."


"Take your time, honey," Tim said, squeezing his hand, resting his free hand on Don's shoulder.


"It's not that I thought I had a chance of getting out of there, but I couldn't make myself just lie there and take it. When that first asshole tried to shove his dick in my mouth, I let him, because I planned on biting it off. One of the others took him out of there. He was screaming and carrying on. They were all furious."


"I'm going to check ER admissions for last night, see if we can find the guy."


"There's not a lot more to tell...they just all took turns. Nobody wanted to risk my mouth again, so they just lined up and fucked me, one after the other, while Fox and Maxwell held me down." A single tear leaked out of one eye, but he wiped it away quickly. "I don't know how long it went on. Unless they had three dicks each, some of them had to have done it more than once. I knew I should be giving in to it, but it's like all I had was to fight it, to not give in. Make them take what they wanted, because I wasn't gonna give it to them."


"That's probably why you were hurt so much worse," Tim said, stroking his hair a little, handing him a tissue.


"It was just one big blur after a while. When they all had their fill, Benson took over for Maxwell and Fox. He made some remark about it taking the fight out of me because it only took one of them to hold me down now." Don wiped at another tear, swallowing. "I guess he was right. I was in pain, I could feel I was bleeding, I was kind of figuring they were gonna kill me." His expression quivered, but he fought it, looking determined not to break down in front of Bailey. "I was afraid for Timmy." He looked at Callahan then, and again, for a moment, it was as if Bailey and the rest of the world didn't exist.


"Is that when they let you get dressed?" Bailey prodded.


"They weren't done yet." There was a long silence, and for a while, Bailey thought Strachey had gone as far as he was going to go with his story. "Fox and Maxwell hadn't had their turns yet, but they said they didn't want loose leftovers," he managed, his voice tight. "I couldn't see what they were doing...I just wanted them to get it over with and kill me." He curled on his side toward Tim, his body shaking. Callahan gave Bailey a look that signaled him the interview was over for now.


"I'll be outside," he said to Callahan, stepping out into the hall. He was surprised that his hand shook just a bit as he tucked his notebook in his pocket. He felt like he'd gone in there and raped Strachey all over again. He had interviewed rape victims before, and he'd heard some hairy stories. This wasn't even the hairiest. He'd worked sex-driven homicides that made his lunch come up on him unexpectedly. Maybe it was seeing that pain in the eyes of a live victim you didn't even realize was your friend until he nearly died holding onto your hand.


********


Tim leaned over Donald, pressing their heads together, putting his arm around him, his body literally shielding his lover from the rest of the world.


"It's okay, honey. You don't have to talk about it anymore now," he soothed, kissing Don's temple, stroking his hair.


"Timmy," Don said, reaching out and pulling on Tim's shirt, making it clear he wanted to be held. Tim did his best to ease himself into the narrow space on the mattress, determined to get as close to Don as he wanted him to be. Somehow, he fit into the bed, careful of Don's IV, and gathered him into a close embrace, sure he was drawing as much comfort from feeling that warm body against him, clinging to him, as Don was.


"I'm here, baby. Everything's going to be all right."


"They were laughing at me," he said against Tim's chest. "I was shaking and...and bleeding and they thought it was funny."


Tim found himself crying with Donald, horrified to think of his husband, his lover, the most precious person in the world to him, being used that way, and being so unimportant to those monsters who preyed on him that they just tore him up for entertainment and laughed about it when they were finished.


"Fox put this leather glove on, where I could see him, and then he put all this lube all over his fist."


Tim felt his stomach flip and he was grateful it was empty. He knew what was coming next, before Donald pushed the awful words to the surface and gave them life. Suddenly it all made sense, the tearing so deep and severe it caused internal damage and bleeding.


"He shoved it up inside me, and I felt like my insides were exploding," he sobbed, his body contracting a little, as if he were reliving the pain all over again.


"Oh, no, baby; I'm so sorry." He tried to hold Donald tighter, to get his arms around more of him somehow, to make him feel safe.


"I thought it would kill me, that he was pulling my insides out, that that's how they were gonna finish me off. I think I puked...I don't remember...some guy was playing with himself while he was watching, like it was turning him on. I remember thinking that them killing me was turning him on, because I thought I was dying. And then they expected me to get up and walk after that. Maxwell kicked me in the side because I wouldn't get up."


Tim was quiet, just holding Donald, patting him once in a while, kissing his cheek. There was nothing he could say to such a horrible tale, and no frothy platitudes that would make any difference. All he could do was hold onto Donald and try to make him feel safe, and loved, and treasured even a tenth as much as he was.


"They threw me and my clothes out the back door. They were still laughing, telling me I better get out of there before they called you to come and pick me up. I remember my car keys hitting me in the back of the head, but they didn't give me back my cell phone or my camera or my gun. They didn't even give me my shoes."


"How did you get to the car?"


"I was lying on the cement naked, and it was raining, and I was so fucking cold. I was shaking like crazy, so I guess I figured a way to put my clothes on. I was so surprised they didn't kill me...it took me a while to move again, to realize I had to get up and go."


"The car didn't start?" Tim asked, rubbing Don's back in long strokes. He was calming down, breathing easier, but still clinging just as fiercely.


"It almost killed me getting in the seat. It hurt so bad. The damn engine wouldn't catch. I think I just rolled out on the sidewalk. I finally got on my feet and started walking in the direction I thought was home. I don't even know if I was going the right way. I didn't have my cell phone, and everything was getting foggy. I wasn't thinking clearly. And then this unmarked cop car pulled up, and I was so glad. I thought they were gonna help me."


"Stenski?" Tim asked, kissing Don's forehead.


"He just started pushing me around, shoving me in the car like some drunk. I was so weak, I felt like my arms and legs were made out of lead. I tried to get out of the car, but it was locked. I kept asking him to just let me out, or to get me help. Or just take me home if he didn't want to help me. I knew you'd take care of me."


"I would have, honey. I will."


"He dragged me out of the car and dropped me on my knees, put cuffs on me... The pain was so bad by then I could barely think. He said something about sleeping it off, but I wasn't drunk. There was no booze on my breath, nothing."


"I know you weren't. So does Bailey. They're investigating Stenski. He'll have to pay for what he did."


"Things get foggy after that. I remember Bailey showing up, and I tried to tell him about Fox, and Sommers, and protecting you. I don't know how much I said. I don't remember a whole lot more. Just hearing your voice telling me you needed me, that I had to fight for us."


"And you did. You're something of a miracle around here, the way you fought back, hung in there."


"You wanted me back. I'd do anything for you."


"I know, baby. I know you would." He angled his head back for a kiss, surprised that he got more than the sweet little fish lips he'd kissed the first few times. This was a real kiss, the kind of kiss you give your lover. Donald was tired and weak, but he used what strength he had to kiss Tim deeply and properly. "Do you want to tell Bailey the rest of the story?"


"He probably needs it to charge Fox, and I don't want that son-of-a-bitch getting out."


"And Stenski."


"Let's get it over with. Go get him and I'll tell him the rest of it. I just...needed to be close to you for a while."


"I'm always here for that, honey, whenever you need me."


********


Bailey took the rest of Don's statement, visibly uneasy with the final revelation of Fox's sadism. Don knew it was horrible, disgusting to hear. It was ten times worse to have to talk about someone sticking their fucking arm up your ass. He could only begin to picture a trial, having to sit in front of a room full of people and give them a step-by-step account of each dick shoved inside him, every degrading gesture and remark, Maxwell pawing him, squeezing his cock, calling him a "good boy" when he forced him to come while he was being violated.


He'd been afraid to even tell that part of the story. How could he lie there and admit that he'd come for someone besides Timmy? That he'd done it while some fat slob was raping him? How much of this could his partner - - his good, decent, never-had-sex-with-someone-he-didn't-care-for partner - - really listen to before it all became too awful, too gross, too sordid, and too...dirty for Tim to ever want to touch any part of him again?


Still, unless he wanted Maxwell to walk away with lesser charges against him, he had no choice. And if there's one thing he had to do, it was make sure these assholes did time. They had threatened Timmy, and if they were out and around, he'd never sleep another peaceful night in his life, on guard for his partner's safety.


Tim's reactions were getting hard to gauge. It was getting late, and he was visibly exhausted. It didn't look like he'd combed his hair, he hadn't shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, and his movements were a little slower than they had been earlier. He held Don's hand throughout Bailey's time there, and he cried soundlessly when Don talked about what Maxwell had done, and when he told the story again of how Fox finished off the attack, how they threw him outside on the ground, naked, like a piece of trash, with his clothes thrown out on top of him.


Bailey looked unsettled by all of it, and Don didn't know if that was because the story was so gross, because it was a male rape, because it was him, because a cop was under investigation, or some combination of all those things. When Bailey had taken his final notes, he tucked his notepad away and stood, approaching the bed, holding out his hand. Don could vaguely remember Bailey relenting and letting him hold onto his hand in that smelly drunk tank, when the pain was so intense and he thought he was dying.


He reached out and shook the extended hand, surprised when Bailey covered their joined hands briefly with his other hand. It was a "guy" thing, just a warmer handshake, but it was still something Don didn't expect from Bailey. Maybe he didn't expect it from any other man who heard what he'd been through, what had been done to him, who knew the whole disgusting truth. It was the handshake you'd give a good friend.


"We're going to be able to file some stiff charges against Fox and Maxwell, Benson, too, for his part in holding you there against your will, not to mention accessory charges. I'm going to need you to look at some photo lineups tomorrow, see if you can ID any of the others that were there. Can you do that for me after you get some sleep tonight?"


"Yeah, I will," Don said.


"Don't worry about any sick shit Fox or his lawyers might throw at us. I believe you, and anyone'll tell you, nobody fucks with my crime victims when I'm working a case. We'll nail these assholes one way or another. Stenski included."


"Thank you," Don replied, genuinely consoled a bit by the commitment Bailey seemed to have for finding justice for him and his faith in Don's credibility as a victim. Withdrawing his hand, Bailey shook hands with Tim, also.


"You need somebody to go by your place, get you some stuff?" he asked, obviously noticing that Don's ordinarily tidy and fashionable to the point of elegant partner looked like something the cat dragged in, and chewed on.



"I called Kenny a little while ago. He's going to bring us some things in the morning. He wanted to see Don. But thank you for offering," he added, and it was the first time Don had seen even a hint of a real smile on Tim's face.


"You want to go home for a while, honey? Take a shower and get some fresh clothes?" Don offered, though he'd have preferred to cut off his arm than to see Timmy leave for even a few minutes. Sometimes it came over him in waves, and he felt like he was hanging on by a thread - - and that thread's name was Timothy.


"I'm not leaving, Donald," came the immediate reply. "I can wash up here, and Kenny will have some things for us tomorrow."


"Well, I'm off to make some arrests. We'll keep a guard on you two until we've got most of them rounded up."


"Thanks," Don said, reaching out and slipping his hand into Tim's where it was hanging at his side as he stood by the bed.


"Get some rest, both of you." Bailey turned and left the room, and Don heaved a sigh of relief.


"Now if they'd just let me out of this place so someone isn't stabbing me in the arm with a needle every time I doze off. And this mattress is a fucking rack of torture."


"Be patient, honey," Tim said, kissing the back of his hand. "You're doing so well, I'm sure you'll be able to come home soon, and then I can take care of you properly, spoil you rotten while you recover," Tim said, smiling, pulling up the chair so he could sit close to the bed.


"You'll have to go back to work pretty soon," Don said, feeling guilty that he was saying it to get that reassurance from Timmy that he'd take the time off, that he'd be the one with him, caring for him.


"I have a lot of unused vacation time. I'm afraid you're stuck with me as your nurse."


"I'd ask you to wear one of those white nurse's uniforms, but your legs are a little too hairy to pull that off." Don grinned, not really feeling in a humorous mood, but knowing how badly Timmy needed him to smile, needed to know that everything would be all right. That Don wasn't going to turn into some sullen, suicidal victim who was only a sad reminder of the man he'd married. Timmy might have to live with this awful thing invading the intimacy only they had shared for years, but he didn't deserve to suffer unrelenting sadness and an utter lack of the humor that had always served them so well, even during their hardest times.


They might have torn up his body, treated him like something less than an animal, but they weren't going to destroy this. Not the love and the happiness he had with Timmy. That was sacred. He'd defied death to hold onto it, and he would be damned if Fox and his goons were going to hurt Tim in any way, no matter how indirectly, even if it was by destroying him so Tim was left with a nightmare marriage to an emotionally disabled basket case. The best revenge on those fuckers was this, sharing a little moment of love and humor with the love of his life. He knew he was right when he saw Timmy's big smile, when he collected the happy little kiss, when Timmy stroked his hair as only he could.


"I thought you liked my hairy legs," Tim quipped, still holding his hand, still smiling.


"I like all the parts of you that are hairy. I wouldn't change an inch of you," he said, looking into Tim's tired eyes, freeing his hand to touch that precious face.


"We're going to be okay," Timmy said, a single tear leaking out the corner of his eye. Don caught it, brushing it away.


"We're going to be better than that. We're going to be us."


********


Between the noises of the hospital, even in the more silent ICU, and the ungodly chair he was using as a bed, Tim found it next to impossible to sleep. You can tell yourself it's the noise, or the chair, or even that growing kink in your neck, but how do you close your eyes and let the nightmare images play themselves out in vivid technicolor brilliance? How do you cope with Donald's strained, halting words echoing in your head, telling a story too awful to imagine?


Tim rubbed his eyes, wishing there was a fatigue powerful enough to put him under. Donald was sleeping, but it was a shallow, brittle sleep, frequently disturbed by the nurse coming in to check his vital signs, or something that came from within, making him frown or grimace in his sleep.


Even so, he wasn't expecting the gut-wrenching scream to come from Donald when it did, startling him and, he imagined, most of the patients and staff within shouting distance. He was out of his chair in a flash, at Donald's side, taking his hand and putting his arm around shaking shoulders. The nurse rushed in, looking a bit relieved when she saw Tim consoling Donald and easing him back down on the mattress.


"How is your pain, Donald?" she asked, in that kind but slightly louder voice some medical personnel tend to use to get through to agitated patients.


Despite his distress, Donald gave her a look so typical of him that it encouraged Tim about his chances for a full emotional recovery.


"Painful, how's yours?" he replied, deadpan.


"We can give you another dose of pain medication," she countered, ignoring the comeback. "That should help you sleep." Tim found himself missing their first nurse, who seemed to pick up more easily on Donald's boundaries and emotional state than this woman did.


"No. If I'm on that much pain medication, my IDs won't stick when Bailey brings those photos in," he said, looking at Tim. "No more pain meds. Not yet."


"Your recovery comes first, Donald," the nurse insisted. "You need to stay relaxed and get plenty of rest after your surgery."


"I think I can help him relax. We'll try it his way."


"Let me get up and take a shower," Don said, pushing himself up on his elbows.


"The doctor ordered that you stay in bed until he sees you tomorrow. You're doing very well, so if you're moved out of ICU, he'll probably okay you getting up to shower or use the bathroom, maybe start walking a little."


"I really need to clean up," he insisted. "Tim can help me."


"I can give you a sponge bath," she offered, and he shook his head.


"I'll just wait," he said, pulling the covers up over his shoulder as he turned on his side, facing away from her.


"Why don't you bring us the supplies and I'll help him?" Tim offered, rubbing Donald's shoulder gently.


"The doctor will most likely okay him getting up and walking a little tomorrow. We usually have patients up and around pretty soon after surgery."


"A sponge bath might relax him if he's not getting pain meds."


"I'll get you some bath supplies," she agreed.


"Do you really know how to give a sponge bath or are you just trying to get lucky?" Don quipped, and Tim felt a surge of emotion at the little joke, knowing that his partner didn't feel in a joking mood, but he was trying so hard to make Tim smile, to be his old self.


"I'm already lucky," he said, leaning down and giving Donald a little kiss. "And I really know how to give a sponge bath. You'll feel better and it'll probably help you rest easier."


"You need to rest. You look tired, sweetheart," Don said, squeezing Tim's hand.


"We'll get you cleaned up, and then we'll take a nap together."


Once he had the supplies handy, he filled the plastic basin with warm, soapy water and set it on the bed table. He used a washcloth to gently wash Don's face.


"So how do you know how to give a sponge bath?" Don asked.


"I spent the summer after my junior year in high school taking care of my grandfather after he had a stroke."


"Sounds like a lot of responsibility for a high school kid," Don said.


"I was always pretty close to him, and he was a lot less cranky with me than he was with visiting nurses, or my mother. He didn't like women doing things like helping him with the bathroom or bathing, the personal stuff. I'd stay with him during the daytime and get some of that done."


"Can you get this untied? Whatever nurse tied this thing must be an expert in restraints," he complained, pulling at the tie on the hospital gown.


"I'll get it, honey," Tim said, undoing the ties as Don leaned forward. "Lie back and relax. We'll keep you covered up so you don't get chilly." With the covers over Don, Tim took the gown and tossed it aside.


"What happened to Grandpa when you went back to school?" Don asked, and Tim was glad he was distracted enough by the story to focus on it, even though his expression looked tense with pain.


"I still helped out after school, but he had a second stroke and had to go into a nursing home shortly after that. He spent a lot of time with me when I was little, so I didn't mind going over there and cheering him up. Which was no small task, since he got to be pretty crabby when he was sick." Tim kept working gently but efficiently at the sponge bath while he talked. The warm, moist cloth moving over Don's skin seemed to have a soothing effect on him, as did Tim's voice.


"Good thing I don't do that," Don said, and it was so smoothly stated at first that Tim almost missed the little spark of mischief in Don's eyes. Tim smiled, but he felt his eyes fill at the same time.


"You're cute enough to get away with it," Tim replied, kissing the end of Don's nose. "Can you turn on your side for me, honey? I'm going to do your back."


"Yeah, that'll be good," he said, shifting slowly, a moan escaping as he did.


"Are you still okay, or is that position worse?" Tim asked, worried.


"My stomach hurts. Like cramps."


"Just lie still a second. I'll be right back." Tim hurried into the bathroom with a hand towel and soaked it with hot water from the tap. When it was almost too warm to the touch, he wrung out the excess water and went back to Donald, who was still curled on his side, looking miserable. "I'm going to put this on your belly, honey. It might help." He eased the warm towel into place and covered it with a larger, dry towel.


"What if something's wrong in there? It really hurts, Timmy," Don admitted. Tim rang for the nurse, figuring if it was bad enough for Donald to be scared, it bore checking out. The nurse was there almost instantly, the patient calls in ICU being answered more promptly than in other units.


"He's in pain. He said his stomach hurts and he has cramps."


"Cramping isn't unusual after intestinal surgery," she said.


"Wait until it's your intestine, lady, and you'll see how fucking unusual it is," Donald shot back, and Tim almost had the inclination to smile, but he resisted the urge.


"He's way overdue for pain medication, which is why he's not resting as easily or feeling as well as he would be. We can give you some pain medication, Donald. That will help your discomfort," she said, in the same condescending tone that seemed to bring out the absolute worst in her patient.


"Not until after Bailey brings those photos," Don asserted.


"Let me just check and see if you're bleeding at all," she said, and Tim stepped in front of her.


"Tell me what I need to look for and I'll check."


"Any significant amount of blood near the rectal area. You can check with a washcloth. A little bit is okay, he had a lot of tearing repaired.


"Is it okay if I check you for bleeding, honey? I'll be careful," Tim said, and Don nodded slightly. Tim was careful to keep the covers arranged to protect Donald from feeling exposed, and very carefully touched the area with the washcloth. There were a couple small spots of blood, but nothing free flowing or substantial.


"That's nothing to worry about. If you change your mind about something for pain, just call," she added, leaving the room.


"She sounded disappointed. If you weren't here, I think she'd put a pillow over my face," Donald said, and Tim had to laugh.


"You haven't exactly turned your considerable charm on her, Donald," Tim replied, emptying the now tepid water in the bathroom and refilling the basin with fresh, warmer soapy water to finish Don's bath.


"My stomach feels better."


"Good," Tim said, smiling, leaning over to kiss Don on the cheek. "Let's get your bath finished so you can get a little more sleep." Tim finished the sponge bath and helped Don put on the fresh hospital gown. He straightened the bedding and fluffed the pillows.


"Can you lie down with me until I go to sleep? I know it's hard to fit us both on the bed, but...."


"There are plenty of times when we sleep together at home that a lot of mattress space goes unused," Tim joked, and he was glad when Don smiled at the humor. "I'll manage," he added, easing into the bed, trying not to jostle Don at all as he spooned up behind him, making sure his IV wasn't tangled, wrapping his arms around him, sheltering him. "How's your stomach, honey?"


"Still hurts, but the warm towel helped."


"A lot of muscles were pretty badly stretched when you were tensed up. They're probably just trying to adjust." Tim rubbed Don's belly gently, firmly enough not to tickle, but lightly enough not to agitate his already bruised and touchy bladder.


"In my dream, it was like I could feel all those hands on me again, just handling me like I wasn't a person. Just yanking and pulling on me so I was in the position they wanted me. I couldn't stand not...washing that off." His words came out rapidly, whispered, so Tim had to strain to catch them all.


"I know it feels that way," Tim said gently. "So we'll just have to replace all those bad touches you didn't want with good ones that you like."


Don stilled Tim's busy hand on his stomach by taking it in his own and squeezing. "Any I get from you are good ones. I'm glad you still want to touch me."


"You're mine, Donald. Those...animals might have hurt you and violated you, but that doesn't erase my prior claim. You're my husband, and I love you, and I'm the only one you give yourself to, and that's what matters." Tim could feel some of the tension leaving Don's body, and found a little of it leaving his own, as well.


********


When Kenny arrived with a large duffle bag just after he'd finished his tasty liquid breakfast, Don was glad to see the bag but not sure how he felt about seeing Kenny. It wasn't anything personal. Kenny was a good assistant and a good friend, but he knew what happened, at least that Don had been raped, and to say that looking people in the eye knowing they knew was awkward, was a gross understatement. If he'd been a child, Don would have pulled the covers over his head and ignored everyone except Timmy.


But he was no child, and the world didn't really afford adults that same out. Truth be told, it was as awkward for Kenny as it was for him. Besides, Tim had managed to find shaving supplies, a toothbrush, and a comb, and had Don looking almost human for any visitors that might drop by. It occurred to him then that his scruffy and bedraggled partner hadn't even taken time to do the same for himself.


"How are you feeling?" Kenny asked, keeping his distance from the bed. Don wasn't sure if Kenny was trying not to crowd him, was really nervous about talking to him, or if he was disgusted by him and didn't want to be anywhere near him. Logically, he knew the third option was ridiculous, but he couldn't help that it came into his mind, uninvited.


"I've been better, and I want to go home, but other than that, I'm okay," he said, trying to force a little smile. He knew he probably looked like he was passing gas instead, but given the pain he was in and a liquid diet, he didn't even have that luxury at the moment. "You holding down the fort for me?"


"Absolutely. I was at the office most of the day yesterday, and I'll go in for a while today, to answer the phone messages, sort out the mail, and stuff."


"Have you heard anything from Justin Sommers? I know they locked Fox up."


"He called the office yesterday, really freaked out about what happened. He was apologizing like crazy for getting you into this."


"It's not his fault. My luck just ran out, I guess." He looked over at Timmy, who was picking through the contents of the bag. "Honey, why don't you take a little break? That yogurt you had isn't exactly the breakfast of champions. Kenny, you're not doing anything for a little while, are you?"


"No, I was just going over to the office, but since my boss is here, I guess I don't need to worry about being late," he joked.


"Get the cop to take you through one of the drive-ups so you can get some hot food, and go home so you can take a shower and change. I'll be okay for a while. I won't even try to escape," he added, smiling.


"They're probably going to move you out of ICU, and I want to be sure they put you in a private room. Besides, if they put you in a regular room today, I can shower in that bathroom. Kenny's brought me some clothes. What if the doctor comes in? And Bailey's supposed to bring those photos over, and I want you to have something for pain once that's finished - - "


"At least go eat in the cafeteria while they're still serving the good stuff. If the doctor comes, I promise I'll tell you everything he said, word-for-word, and if Bailey gets here, I'll have Kenny go get you. I'd like you to be here for that."


"Okay, I am getting hungry," he admitted. "You're sure you'll be okay?"


"I'll be fine." Don made an exaggerated pucker with his lips, and Tim just chuckled, coming over to the bed to give him a kiss.


"I'll call Bailey while I'm in the cafeteria and can use my cell phone, see if I can find out when he's coming over. I won't be long."


"Take your time, and pig out. Bring me back one of those slushy drinks. A blue one."


"Okay," Tim agreed, still smiling.


"Take the cop with you," he reminded, and Tim just nodded, leaving the room for a much-needed break.


"I don't think I've ever seen him with whiskers before," Kenny said, smiling. "He's kind of hot with that scruffy look."


"Oh, so now you're into older guys, too, huh?" Don teased, and Kenny seemed relieved by the banter.


"He told you about that, huh?"


"Oh, yes, he told me," Don said, smiling.


"How long are they going to keep you here, anyway?" Kenny sat down, looking more at ease now, moving up closer to the bed, as if he'd found the courage to break through the force field surrounding it.


"I don't know. The doctor's supposed to come in and see me this morning. That oughtta be fun." Don wasn't looking forward to being poked and prodded and examined. He sort of regretted sending Tim away because he didn't really want to be examined alone, but he definitely didn't want anyone but Tim there. Still, his partner was exhausted and hungry. The food would give him a little strength back, and a shower and a nap later would be even better. He hoped for a transfer out of ICU more for Timothy's sake than his own.


"The doctor said everything went well when he talked to Tim yesterday. That's really good news."


"You were with Tim when the doctor talked to him?"


"Yeah, I was here a while during the surgery, hanging out in the waiting room, and the doctor came out and said you were going to be okay. Tim was really relieved. I thought he was going to faint for a minute there." Kenny paused. "What are they gonna do about that cop? The one who picked you up?"


"They're doing an IAB investigation. I didn't have anything to drink, and I asked him for help more than once, and he ignored me. The gears grind pretty slowly with red tape, but I think they'll get him. I hope they at least take the fucker's badge."


"He ought to go to prison."


"We'll be lucky to even get the guys who did it in prison, let alone a cop who behaved badly."


"What makes you say that?"


"If it goes to trial, it could go either way. It'll all depend on the jury and how good the defense is at presenting the whole 'promiscuous gay culture' picture to them, making it plausible that I might really want to have sex with eight fat, sweaty old men in somebody's basement." Don hated that emotion seemed to rise with the words, and he swallowed hard, not really wanting to break down in front of Kenny.


Kenny got up and retrieved the cup of ice water, handing it to Don. He was grateful for it, since it helped push down the lump in his throat and pull back his emotions.


"Nobody asks to get hurt so badly they almost die and then need surgery."


"I'm sorry to disillusion you, Kenny, but there's still a lot of hate and prejudice out there, and male rape victims don't get the same consideration from a lot of people that females do. Especially gay men - - because, after all, we're all just running around indiscriminately fucking each other anyway."


"You're married, that should count for something."


"You'd think. As if I have any reason to cheat when I've got Timothy waiting for me at home. But our marriage isn't legal, and monogamy and fidelity aren't concepts a lot of the straight world associates with us."


"I think society is changing. I mean, gay marriage is legal in some states, and I don't think everybody looks at gay men the way they used to."


"No, I don't think everybody does, Kenny, but you only get twelve people on a jury, and more people have prejudices about homosexuality than don't, even if they don't go so far as feeling hate or hostility. You still have to fight the stereotypes people who don't know any homosexual couples are operating under."


"I didn't mean to upset you," Kenny said, looking uneasy.


"It's okay. I didn't mean to start preaching to the choir."


"You've got a right to be pissed off. I read an article once about rape survivors - - "


"Don't. I really, really don't want to talk about this right now." Don shifted onto his side. He was getting uncomfortable again, feeling crampy and lousy, and it seemed like the bed was conspiring against the achiness in his back and the red hot poker he felt was stuck up his ass.


"Are you okay?"


"Just cramps. I don't feel too good right now."


"Should I get a nurse?"


"No, I felt like this earlier. Go find Timmy, okay?"


"Are you sure I shouldn't get the nurse?"


"The damage was to my ass, not my brain. I know what I need."


"Sorry. I'll go find him."


"Kenny?" he called out before Kenny could leave the room. "I'm sorry."


"It's okay. I'm used to your sunny disposition by now," he quipped, and Don would have laughed if he didn't feel so rotten. As it was, at least he managed a decent smile for Kenny, who was a good friend and deserved better than to receive the brunt of Don's misery.


Don curled a little tighter on his side, but that seemed to make the pain worse. He felt like he had to pee again, but had no idea if that was just the miserable feeling in his bruised bladder or all the liquid crap he'd been fed for breakfast.


"Donald?"


Thank God for Timothy. For that voice that calms the fear. For those hands on my body, rubbing my back, rubbing my belly, kissing my cheek, knowing what I need so I don't have to say it. For that body that finds a way to fit in this miserable excuse for a bed with me and protects my back and my tattered insides.


"Shhh. It's okay, honey. I'm right here," Tim said, his hand still rubbing very lightly on Don's belly, the way he had at 4:00 in the morning when he thought he was having some complication from the surgery, and the nurse kindly but matter-of-factly told them that some cramping wasn't unusual after intestinal surgery.


Wait until it's your intestine, lady, and you'll see how fucking unusual it is. Don wasn't sure if he'd shared that observation with her out loud, but judging by the slight edge to her voice throughout the rest of their encounter, he suspected he had.


He didn't realize there were tears on his face until Timmy was solicitously dabbing at them with a tissue, mumbling little love words in his ear to quiet him down. He wondered if his poor, worn-out partner had even gotten any food before he sent for him.


"I screwed up your breakfast," he said.


"It was screwed up somewhere early in the cooking process, honey. You just rescued me from it." Timmy cuddled him close, and Don actually smiled at the comeback, stunned that anything could make him smile the way he felt right then. He longed for their big, soft bed at home, where Timmy could be cozy and comfortable, too, and sleep curled up with him instead of twisted at a physically impossible angle in a chair that was designed by medieval torturers. Or find some equally surprising way to fit his larger, longer body on this vile slab they called a bed.


"I wanna go home," he said, feeling tears coming again, not sure why, hating the pathetic, child-like sound of his voice. "It hurts. I just wanna go home."


"I know, baby, I know you do. I want to take you home, too. It won't be long. I'll be right here with you until we go home, okay? We'll tough it out here together, and we'll go home together."


"My bladder hurts," he said, knowing he was whining and not caring. Everything was hurting like hell, and if whining got him more kisses and more cuddling, he couldn't help doing it. It was as if his body was turning on him, and he was falling apart emotionally at the same time.


"Let's see if you have to go," Tim said gently, reasonably. Reasonable responses to such horrible, unreasonable pain and injury. Gentle words when he was tired, his own back had to be killing him, and he'd barely had two bites to eat in over twenty-four hours.


"Saint Timothy," Don said, as his partner eased the little plastic urinal in place, holding Don's hand with his free hand. He'd said the words jokingly before, though always with affection. Right now, his partner seemed no lower than the angels.


"I'm no saint, honey. I just love you, and I'm so lucky to still have you...that makes it all easy."


"I'm all fucked up," he said, not bothering to fight the tears that rolled down his cheeks, over his nose, onto his pillow.


Tim wordlessly took care of whatever Don had managed to leave in the bottom of the little container, washed his hands, and was back at his side in record time, sitting on the bed in front of him this time, rubbing his back, wiping his eyes and his nose.


"You're not all fucked up, honey. You were hurt badly, and your body needs to heal. You need to heal in here," he said, laying his hand gently on Don's heart. "You're going to be all right. It's hardest right now, but we'll get through it."


"Everything hurts so much."


"I talked to Bailey. He'll be here in a little while, by eight," Tim said. "It's about seven-thirty now. I told him to get here soon, that we needed to get you back on some pain meds."


"If I'm all doped up, they won't let me go home."


"I think we'll be here a couple days until you're a little stronger. Let me worry about all that stuff. You just relax. I'll take care of everything."


"Don't ever leave me," Don said, knowing it sounded ridiculous and needy and pathetic, but most of the words were out of his mouth before he even realized he was saying them out loud. Timmy kissed his cheek, smiling softly at him with all the love in the world.


"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for the rest of my life and whatever lies beyond. You are my love, my joy, my happiness, my one greatest passion, and my life. I pledge to you all that I am, all I have, my fidelity and my friendship, now and forever, with a desire that won't fade with time."


Tim repeating his wedding vows soothed the emotional wounds like nothing else could, and calmed the irrational fear that Tim would get sick of him with his pain and his issues and the ugliness of it all. And though it seemed impossible, the words seemed to calm some of the physical pain, and he could feel his body relaxing into the mattress, even if the bed did suck. As battered and awful as he looked and felt, he was still the love of Timothy Callahan's life.


For that, he could get through anything.


********


Bailey walked into the hospital room, followed by a cranky assistant DA, who'd been dragged out of bed at Bailey's insistence. He'd located Frederick Hanover, the man Strachey had left with the painful bite injury. He was the CEO of a brokerage firm in Albany, a prominent citizen unlikely to want the scandal of a sordid trial. A good-sized man in his late fifties, Hanover looked rough, but not nearly as rough as Strachey had when he was in the process of bleeding to death. Another man, a bit younger than Hanover, dressed in an expensive suit, was sitting by the man's bedside, engrossed in conversation, when they entered.


"I'm Detective Bailey, Albany PD. This is Assistant District Attorney Carl Moore," he said, gesturing at the young prosecutor with him.


"I'm Owen Weathers, Mr. Hanover's attorney," the man in the suit spoke up immediately, standing.


"What is this about?" Hanover demanded, his hand hovering near the nurse's call button.


"It's about your little misadventure at the FBM Gym last night," Bailey said.


"I don't know what you're talking about."


"Give it a rest, Hanover. We have your car description and license number as being there last night, and a witness who can positively identify you," he said, not really knowing if Strachey could ID the guy or not, but there was no reason Hanover had to know that. "We already know how you came by your injury."


"That's ridiculous. It's embarrassing as hell, but it was a mishap with the family dog."


"We can order the wound to be examined to determine if the bite marks were from human or canine teeth. From there, we can probably match them up with the man you were trying to force into giving you oral sex."


"Mr. Hanover, we are prepared to charge you with sexual assault and accessory to kidnapping," Moore spoke up. "The purpose of this visit is to either place you under arrest, or give you the opportunity to mitigate those charges by cooperating with our investigation."


He motioned to his lawyer, who leaned in close as they exchanged a few words.


"Assuming my client has the information you're looking for, the conditions of his testimony are immunity from prosecution, and anonymity."


"We can't promise anonymity," Bailey said.


"You protect the identity of sexual assault victims," the attorney countered.


"Yeah, we do, but not their assailants."


"I'd say having one's penis nearly bitten off qualifies as a sexual assault. What type of charges is the man who did this facing?" the attorney asked.


"This is your idea of a joke, right?" Bailey responded. "You shoved your dick down his throat while a couple other goons held him down, and you're complaining because he defended himself?"


"We don't have any immediate plans to charge the man who bit Mr. Hanover, as he has a very credible claim that he was the victim of a sexual assault and that he had made it clear he didn't want to participate in oral sex with Mr. Hanover or anyone else present at the time," Moore said, shooting Bailey a look that seemed disapproving of his impassioned defense of Strachey's actions. "Your client is more likely to face charges. Rape is a serious crime, and the victim is allowed to defend himself in a reasonable manner. As he was restrained and his verbal objections were ignored, the victim had no other means of defense available to him at the time."


"I can give you the names of everyone there," Hanover said. There was a long pause. "What happened to him?"


"Your pals gang-raped him, and your buddy Fox shoved a fist inside him and tore a hole in his insides that nearly killed him. After they were done, they threw him out on the pavement naked, threw his clothes on top of him, and kept his cell phone so he had no way to call for help," Bailey replied, glad to have the opportunity to give this asshole a wake-up call as to just how close he came to being an accessory to murder. "You're lucky he didn't die, or there'd be no deals on the table for discussion. Frankly, all of you make me sick, and I'd love to see you do some hard time in prison so you can make some new friends who'll give you a taste of your own medicine."


"There's no need to be hostile, Detective," Weathers said.


"I'll testify, if you give me immunity. I can name everyone who was there, at least up until the time I left."


"And you won't waste the court's time, or put the victim through any additional suffering, by filing some frivolous assault charge, correct?" Moore asked, and Hanover nodded, gesturing at his attorney to be quiet.


"I've never been involved in anything like this before. I don't know what got into me. I never meant to...attack anyone. I guess it was the heat of the moment, everyone egging me on...shit, I don't really know what it was. I guess I got swept up in Fox's enthusiasm." He was quiet a moment. "He's recovering?"


"He's expected to," Bailey said. "Physically, anyway," he added.


"My client will need extensive microsurgery to attempt to repair the damage, and may never recover full function," Weathers stated.


"Is Fox in jail? This whole debacle was his idea," Hanover said, visibly bitter.


"He's in jail, along with Maxwell and Benson," Bailey reported.


"Good. That dumb shit belongs there," Hanover stated. "None of this would have happened if he'd just sent that guy on his way instead of dragging him inside, showing him what was going on. He's so goddamned arrogant, I guess he thought he could get away with it. That we all could."


********


Bailey arrived at the hospital with a folder full of photos. Hanover's testimony was all he promised it would be, and between Strachey's notes and his identification of the participants, it effectively placed them all at the scene.


Still, the deal with Hanover weighed somewhat on Bailey's conscience, to let him walk for shoving his dick in someone's mouth and trying to violate him with it, but he took comfort in the fact that he wouldn't be walking easily, and Strachey had doled out his own street justice for that portion of the attack.

 

His visit to the hospital would have to be brief, and he hoped Strachey's IDs were solid and quick. He had several of Albany's leading citizens in holding cells downtown and about twice that many lawyers descending on the station house. The mayor, the commissioner, and the DA were all putting maximum pressure on him to make this case airtight, to be sure of what he was doing, to be sure his victim was going to be a solid witness who would testify.


Maxwell and Benson were also rounded up. Bailey hoped they, along with their buddy, Fox, all found lots of nice friends in prison that would make their stay as pleasant as they'd made Don's experience in their basement.


When he entered Strachey's room, the patient himself seemed to be sleeping, curled on his side, with Callahan sitting on the bed, rubbing his back.


"You guys ready for me, or should we do this later?"


"No, he needs some pain medication pretty soon, and he won't take any until he looks at the photos," Callahan said.


"Timmy?" Strachey's voice sounded rough, weak, and small. Bailey felt guilty for being the one to interfere with the pain meds most people rely on post-op to get through the discomfort. Still, at least now he'd have solid IDs the defense couldn't pick at.


"Bailey's here with the photos, honey," Callahan told him, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to wake up for me."


"I'm awake," Strachey insisted, though he still looked terribly groggy as he eased over on his back, and Callahan raised the head of the bed a little so he could more easily look at the photos.


"Sorry to wake you, but your partner said it was better to do this sooner than later. Honestly, it's better for me, too. I just went out and arrested eleven people last night, so I kind of need to get the show on the road, anyhow."


"Eleven people? You got 'em all?" Don's eyes widened a bit, and even Callahan, who was looking more wilted by the hour, perked up at the news.


"The guy with the bitten dick decided to make a deal with us. He gave us names and told us what kind of little enterprise Fox, Maxwell, and Benson have going on at the gym. This is quite a hornet's nest we've cracked open here." Bailey sat in a chair while Tim also moved to a chair, putting himself a bit more on the sidelines. "He's having surgery this afternoon," Bailey added. "They're not sure whether or not he'll recover full sensation or function." Bailey looked over the top of his reading glasses at Don. "You really did a number on him," he said, a little note of admiration in his voice.


"What does he get in return? Reduced charges?" Don asked. Bailey braced himself.


"Immunity from prosecution," he said. Strachey looked stricken, and Callahan opened his mouth then closed it again, silently, just reaching out and taking Don's hand, lacing their fingers together and holding on. "I know that sounds bad, but in return, he corroborated everything up to the time he left for the hospital. We've got your notes and all the license numbers, but it was still your word against all of theirs, and we've got some heavy hitters on this list. John Rutka would have had a field day with this. Two CEO's, an attorney, a computer software developer who's worth eight figures, a couple bankers, two business owners, and a stock broker. That's not counting the guy who rolled on all of them, who's also a CEO, or maybe it was a Chief Financial Officer, I've got to look at my notes on that. Anyhow, these are some of the top businessmen in the area, Strachey. To fight their credibility and their deep pockets for legal defenses, we needed one of them to turn, and that guy did."


"So it's all right that he forced himself on Donald," Tim said, rubbing his eyes. "This is insanity."


"Bailey's right, honey," Don said, sounding tired and unhappy, but seeming to grasp the reality in Bailey's situation. "Even if I can ID all these guys, which I probably can't, it would have put everything riding on my word against all of theirs. It may not be right, but it's the best way to nail the most people. Besides, I handled him myself," Don said, smiling a little, squeezing Tim's hand.


"You did, didn't you?" Tim said, smiling back at Don, sounding very proud.


"Yes, I did. I bet that's the last time he'll stick that thing somewhere that it isn't invited."


"Okay, Don, you know how these work. I'll show you a series of photos, and you tell me if you recognize any of them."


"Okay," Don said, sighing. Bailey handed him the first small stack of head-and-shoulders photos of various men, most of them middle aged to older. "One of them is in here, isn't he?" Don asked, sounding upset. "I don't recognize any of these."


"Take your time, honey." Tim rose from his seat and stood closer to the bed, rubbing Don's shoulder reassuringly. "Why don't you just go through them one more time, slowly."


"What if I can't ID them?"


"Just relax and look through the pictures and ID anyone you recognize. If you don't recognize any of them, we'll just move on to the next grouping." Bailey didn't feel that calm, but then he'd realized that the combination of the dimly lit basement, so many perps, and the trauma might conspire to limit the IDs Strachey could come up with.


"If I can't ID these guys, we're screwed," Strachey said, and it almost sounded like he was verging on tears, but he kept control of himself. Bailey wasn't used to dealing with this damaged version of the man he'd never seen the least bit insecure or even remotely fragile.


"Why don't we set these aside and try the next ones?" Callahan suggested, and Strachey nodded, handing the stack back to Bailey. He gave him the next group.


"This one," Strachey said, on the second photo. "I remember this son-of-a-bitch. He made me look at him while he was... He was a sick, sadistic asshole."


"This is one of the men who raped you?"


"Isn't that what I just said? He grabbed me by the hair and twisted my head until I thought my neck would snap, so he could make me look over my shoulder at him while he rammed in and out of me. Is that plain enough?"


"Just put your initials on the back of the picture," Bailey said, handing him a pen, irritated by Strachey's hostile tone, until the meaning of what he'd said actually sank in. Bailey couldn't dismiss the unsettling thought of how he'd feel in Strachey's place, laid up in a hospital from being used like that, and then having to identify the perps and explain what they did. "I know this is difficult, but we have the makings of a very solid case."


"Sorry," Strachey said quietly, initialing the photo and handing the stack back to Bailey.


"Look through all of them each time I give you a stack," he said.


"Are there two in there?" Tim asked, and Bailey shot him a look.


"I can't tell you if there's anyone in there you should recognize, but I do need you to look through all the photos each time I give you a group of them."


"Okay." Don went through the rest, then shook his head. "Nobody else." He handed Bailey the stack.


"Okay, here's the next batch," he handed him more photos, trying to mask his disappointment that he hadn't chosen the other perpetrator out of that stack. There was no perpetrator in the first pile, a little trick that Bailey always found helpful in making his IDs stick. If his witnesses didn't ID anyone when there was no one to ID, it seemed to reinforce in a jury's mind that they really knew what they were doing, and the cops weren't coaching the witness in any way.


"This one...I think," he stopped midway through the pile. He had the right photo, but Bailey did his best not to give him any indication of that.


"You think, or you're sure?"


"Take your time, Donald," Tim said, handing him a cup of ice water, letting him take a couple pulls on the straw before taking it back.


"The lighting wasn't good... it was near the end." Strachey looked perplexed, staring at the photo. "It's him," he said, and in that moment, it almost looked as if he were recoiling from the picture.


"Initial it for me," Bailey prodded, but Strachey was staring at the photo, his hand shaking just a little. Callahan, who was standing by his bed, stroked his hair and leaned in toward him, sliding an arm around him. Don initialed the back of the picture and looked through the rest of them before handing them back.


"I can't talk about him right now," Strachey said, the words shot out at lightning speed.


"Okay, we'll come back to him later." Bailey handed him the next stack.


"Nobody," he said, looking frustrated. "You only brought in ten stacks, so I know I'm missing perps," Strachey said, pinning him with an intent gaze.


"Don, you know I can't comment on that or it would compromise your IDs. Just do the best you can. We knew there was a risk you wouldn't recognize everyone. You're doing fine so far."


"Okay. Let me have the next bunch." He took the photos and went through them, pausing on the last one. "I remember this asshole. He kept calling me Ryan."


"Ryan? For any special reason?"


"I guess he wanted me to be somebody named Ryan. God, he was sickening. He was all over me, like he was...like he was trying to make love to me while two guys are holding me down. He was the second one. His breath smelled like cigarettes and whisky. He wanted me to tell him I loved him. I told him to go fuck himself." He initialed the back of it and handed them back to Bailey.


He looked through the next batch and didn't recognize anyone. He didn't even pause. Looking discouraged, he handed the stack back to Bailey. "Sorry," he said.


"You're doing fine, Don. Go through these next," he said, handing him the next pile.


"This is a joke, right? This top one? That's Benson."


"Did you ever hear his name?" Bailey prodded.


"No, I assumed - - "


"This is the man you assumed was Benson?"


"Yes. Isn't it?"


"What did this man do?"


"He was walking around in the basement in his underwear when Fox and Maxwell dragged me down there. He held me down at the end when Fox was...when Fox took his turn."


"It's Benson, Don. But your assumption wouldn't hold up in court, so I needed to confirm it."


Strachey just sighed, sorting through the pile. "This guy. He was the one who got really pissed when they first brought me downstairs. I don't know when he...took his turn or what he did. They had me facedown most of the time so I couldn't always get a look at who was behind me. I guess it was nothing unusual."


"But you know for sure he was there?"


"Yeah, I'm sure." He wrote his initials on the back of the picture and handed over the pile. Bailey gave him the next stack.


Two photos into it, he stopped, blinking a couple of times. "This guy should have a big bruise on his gut because I kicked him backwards. He was the first one, and Fox and Maxwell hadn't perfected their hold on me yet, so I was able to kick him, hard. I was trying for his nuts but I missed."


"Did he come back after you kicked him?" Bailey asked.


"He still took his turn, but it was later. I don't exactly remember the order of things."


"That's fine. We're doing well."


Strachey didn't pick anyone else out of the photos, even when Bailey reshuffled them into one big stack and let him go through them again.


"I only got six," he said, sounding discouraged.


"Don't give up yet. We still have the possibility of a voice lineup when you're able to come down to the station. You may also remember them when you see them in person. We'll do live lineups on all of these to confirm your IDs and then to see if you can pick out any of the others when they're present for a lineup versus the photos."


"I can't wait." Don shifted again, looking like he was in pain.


"If I call the nurse, will you take the pain meds now?" Tim asked.


"Tell her to hit me with her best shot," Don retorted, and Tim smiled.


"Before you do that, we need to talk about this guy," Bailey pulled the photo that seemed to upset Strachey so much earlier.


"He was the last one, before Fox, and he was complaining about that... I guess the fact I was bleeding turned him off." Don was quiet a long moment. "I was hoping he'd just let it go, if he didn't want to be last. Fox and Maxwell started saying stupid shit like 'you're offending our guest' and things like that. I don't remember all the sick crap he said, but he used some object. It wasn't his dick. The pain was...bad. Is that enough? I can't do this anymore right now."


"That's fine. I want to make sure none of these guys gets off the hook for less than they deserve."


Callahan pressed the call button for the nurse and gave Strachey another drink of ice water.


"I know you're doing all you can," Don said, although he didn't quite meet Bailey's eyes, and Bailey didn't blame him. There's only so much violation and humiliation you can discuss with someone and then feel comfortable looking them in the eye afterward.


"We're gonna nail these bastards, I promise you that."


"What did Fox, Maxwell, and Benson really have going there? Sex parties? Drugs?"


"A little of both. We found some trace amounts of pot and coke in the basement, and our witness said drug use wasn't unusual at their little get-togethers. Apparently, Fox, Maxwell, Benson, and a few other assorted body builder types are functioning as gigolos, charging big bucks for their services and providing some recreational drugs for an extra fee. Their clients are all closeted, so this is the alternative to cruising the streets or trying to discreetly hang out in gay bars, I guess. Once in a while they do a gangbang, but this was their first truly non-consensual activity, according to Hanover, our witness. I guess they've role-played it that way before with a willing male prostitute."


"Did I miss IDing Hanover in the photos?"


"We'll do lineups and voice lineups when you're released, Don. You did extremely well this morning. Get some sleep and take some happy pills and concentrate on getting better." Bailey tucked his notepad in his pocket and gathered his photos into their folder. "It's getting boring downtown without you showing up to piss me off and triple my paperwork," he added, and Strachey actually smiled, about the broadest smile he'd seen from him since before he was attacked.


"Sorry, Bub. I'll do my best to get back at that soon," he joked.


********


After a healthy dose of pain medication, Donald fell into what seemed to be a fairly deep and peaceful sleep. Although he was disturbed when the doctor came to examine him and assess his condition, Tim was grateful he was groggy enough from the pain meds that he handled what had to be an uncomfortable exam fairly calmly. The doctor okayed him for transfer to a regular post-surgical floor and supported Tim's request for a private room, considering the trauma Donald had been through.


By early afternoon, they were settled in another room, and Tim gratefully slipped into the bathroom to shower, shave, and change into the fresh clothes Kenny had brought by earlier. He was worn-out and missing a real bed, but he had managed to nap enough with Donald that he would be okay a bit longer without having to leave the hospital. A nurse who would forever have his undying gratitude located a recliner and brought it into the room so he could sleep next to Donald's bed without suffering curvature from the visitor chairs. It would also be easier for Tim to fill that chair with pillows and create a comfortable place for Donald to sit once he was up and around.


When he emerged from the bathroom, Don was awake, flipping channels on the little TV near the bed. He looked at Tim and gave him a big smile.


"You look beautiful," he said, and Tim just smiled back, sitting on the side of the bed opposite the TV. "Smell good, too," Don said, reaching up to touch Tim's cheek. Tim caught the hand and kissed it, holding it in both of his.


"Find anything good on TV?" Tim asked, thinking maybe Don needed the diversion of something meaningless and ordinary instead of constantly focusing on what he'd been through.


"Not really. The nurse threatened me with walking when she came in here to refill the ice water."


"The first time will probably be pretty difficult, but it'll get easier, and moving around will help speed up the healing process. Do you want to try it with me? I can hold onto you so you won't fall, even if your legs are a little shaky at first."


"I want to, but I don't," he admitted. "Sitting's going to be bad, I think."


"I have an idea."


"You usually do," Don said, grinning a little crookedly at him. "I don't have a robe or anything."


"Kenny brought one, but it'll be tricky with the IV. We'll put another hospital gown on you backwards, use it like a robe. And I have boxers for you, and your slippers from home."


"I never wear those things. I always end up going around in my socks or nothing."


"There's an image to put a smile on my face," Tim quipped, and Don actually laughed at that.


"I mean bare feet, pervert," he retorted.


"Then you should have said that," Tim corrected, gathering the extra hospital gown and the slippers that Donald very correctly stated he rarely wore. Still, they had rubber soles and would give him better traction than socks.


He pulled back the covers and put the boxers in place so they could pull them up easily once Don stood. After putting the slippers on his feet, Tim grabbed a spare pillow.


"Just shift onto your side, and I'll put this on the mattress so it'll cushion things when you sit up."


Don cooperated with all the instructions, and finally sat up on the side of the bed.


"Maybe this getting up thing isn't such a hot idea," he said, grimacing.


"The doctor said we should try to get you out of bed a couple times today, even just to walk a few feet around the room."


"Okay. Give me a hand," Don said, reaching out toward Tim.


"Let me get my arm around you so I can help you up and steady you." With Don's arm around his neck and his arms around Don's middle, they moved together to get him on his feet.


"You know that pain medication?"


"Yeah?"


"It's worn off."


"Just get your land legs, honey. I'll get these for you." He pulled the shorts up into place, and then worked on putting the second hospital gown around Don, unsnapping the arm opening so he could put it on without disturbing the IV.


"Now if we had martinis and some soft jazz on the stereo, we'd be all set," Don said, putting his arm around Tim and resting his head on Tim's shoulder, the way he did so often when they slow danced. He slipped his hand into Tim's. "This is better than walking," he said.


Tim carefully tightened his hold a bit, tears filling his eyes. That despite everything he'd been through, Donald could even think about a romantic gesture, touched him more deeply than he could ever express. Beyond that, just feeling Donald alive and in his arms this way, taking a few hesitant little steps to slow dance with him there in the hospital, was like having his dearest wish come true. While Tim didn't harbor any illusions that he would be the next American Idol, he couldn't let this moment pass without music, and all he had to offer was singing softly in Don's ear. So he chose the first song they'd danced to after exchanging their vows.


Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean

Higher than any bird ever flew

Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens

I've been in love with you


Donald held on a little tighter, letting Tim sway them gently, as if there was a full orchestra accompanying the quiet, a capella love song. When he finished the song, Donald pulled back enough to look in his eyes.


"That's good incentive to get out of bed," he said, grinning. "But now I'm going to bug you to sing to me more often."


"I don't think I'll quit my day job just yet," Tim quipped, smiling.


"Your voice always makes me believe everything is going to be okay."


Tim looked at him a moment, into those beautiful eyes that always lit up with such love at the very sight of him, and as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn't stop the tears that came, couldn't stop himself from putting his head on Don's shoulder and sobbing. "I'm sorry," he said brokenly.


"It's okay, Timmy." Don was quiet a long moment, just holding him. "They hurt both of us, and you're exhausted."


"I should be strong for you."


"You are, honey," Don said, a smile in his voice. "You gave me a reason to want to live when I would have rather just let go and faded away. You've been what I've held onto since I came out of surgery. Now hold onto me. I've got you."


The strength in Donald's embrace was surprising and encouraging. Tim didn't know if it was just that his lover would overcome any challenge to be there when he needed him, or if he was really getting that much stronger and that indomitable spirit was translating into a surge of physical strength. He allowed himself a moment to soak up that feeling of Donald consoling him, even though he felt he had no right to be drawing strength from Donald when he was the one who'd been hurt so badly, who nearly died. Nearly died. That thought haunted and horrified him whenever he allowed it to surface.


"I'll be okay," Tim said, pulling back, not wanting to upset Don or tire him out too much. "I don't know what got into me," he said, taking off his glasses and wiping at his eyes.


"Not enough food or sleep isn't doing you any good. Go downstairs at dinner time and eat, and I promise I won't call you back up as soon as you start eating. Then you can go home tonight and go to bed."


"No. I'm not going home without you."


"I don't think they're gonna let me out just yet."


"That's why the recliner is here. I can sleep just fine there."


"Timmy - - "


"Donald," Tim parroted the same exasperated tone, then kissed Donald gently. "I'll get some sleep in the recliner. I won't get any sleep at home thinking about you here, and wondering if you need me."


"Okay, I give up," Don said, though Tim suspected he wasn't sorry to not be alone all night. "Where are you taking me now?"


"Let's go as far as you feel able, maybe out in the hall a few feet."


"Reminds me of visiting my grandmother in the hospital. Only she walked faster," he added.


********


Bailey pinched the bridge of his nose, blinking a few times, trying to convince himself he hadn't missed two nights' sleep in the last seventy-two hours. He was overdue when Rodriguez had come to him about Strachey in the drunk tank, and it had all gone on a roller coaster ride from there.


How much things change in forty-eight hours. From Strachey being shoved, injured, into the drunk tank, to all their holding cell space being taken up by the men who attacked him.


Well, at least it's justice, even if it's a hell of a lot of paperwork, Bailey decided, shaking his head. Even laid up in the hospital, Strachey managed to generate more ripples in the pond than anyone he knew. Not that anyone would choose to endure what he went through to do it.


"How'd Strachey do on the IDs?" Bailey's captain leaned on the doorframe of his office. He was a portly man in his fifties with a rapidly receding hairline and a usually affable disposition.


"Considering these fuckers almost killed him, he did well. He missed a few I was hoping he'd pick up on, but he'll cooperate with voice lineups or live lineups when he's able. He had to hold off on pain medication for quite a few hours to dry out to make these IDs, so I don't want to put any more pressure on him right now."


"If he can't positively ID them as participants in the attack, we may have some trouble with the DA."


"Hanover is prepared to testify they were all there, all cheering it on before he and Randolph left," Bailey said, referring to the man Don had bitten and the other who drove him to the hospital.


"We can come up with something to charge them with, since they didn't seek any help for him, either, or report the crime, but the sexual assault charges are going to be hard to make stick with no circumstantial evidence."


"Maybe the lab'll come up with something from their clothes."


"Didn't sound like they were wearing them at the time," the captain said, snorting an ugly laugh.


"Strachey was bleeding pretty heavily when he got here, so he may have left some evidence on them even if they didn't return the favor."


"I just got a panicked call from Schultz in IAB. Apparently, he got a phone call from the commissioner, after he got a phone call from Senator Platt regarding our investigation of Stenski. Not her office - - the senator herself. She's requested daily progress updates on the IAB investigation and the criminal case."


"Strachey's partner is her chief aide," Bailey said, sighing. "I guess it doesn't surprise me. Stenski isn't exactly a credit to the badge, and he nearly killed an innocent crime victim by denying him medical attention. If I were Callahan and I had a big gun to pull out, I'd do it, too."


"Sounds like you've already made up your mind about Stenski. Even IAB's trying to give him a fair shake."


"I know Strachey, Captain. He's a pain in the ass at times, but he's not a drug user, and there's no way he'd be involved in something like this voluntarily. He's also not particularly shy, so if he was hurt or needed help, I believe him when he says he made Stenski aware of that. There were no drugs or alcohol present in his blood when he was admitted to the hospital. Stenski's put us in a hell of a lousy position here, personalities aside. If Strachey decides to sue the department, he'll probably win, and he can run his PI business from a villa on the French Riviera when he's through. I'm sure IAB's already been talking to the department's counsel on this one."


"Yeah, they said pretty much what you did. He's probably got us by the balls. Just a shame to see a career cut short like that. Stenski's got a decent arrest record, a couple citations - - "


"He almost killed a man," Bailey said, a bit surprised that his captain, whom he'd always considered an ethical man, sounded as if he was on Stenski's side.


"He said he thought he smelled pot on Strachey, and he was acting weird, so he put him in the tank to sleep it off, since he knows you."


"With all due respect, that's a load of bullshit, Captain, and you know it. He's got a problem with gays, he always has, and he never misses a chance to say something if he's around when Strachey comes in here."


"Making a few remarks doesn't make him guilty of trying to kill the guy."


"No, it doesn't, but I don't believe Stenski's an idiot, and only an idiot wouldn't have noticed there was something very wrong with Strachey's condition when he was picked up. He was dying by the time Rodriguez called me down there. You don't go from just 'acting weird' to stopping breathing that quickly. So if Stenski's not an idiot, he's a dangerous homophobic jerk."


"I just don't like seeing cases decided in the press, or because of political pressure from higher up."


"Neither do I. I'll talk to Callahan, find out what he told the senator. Maybe he can call her off."


"And he'd do that...why exactly?"


"Because I don't think Strachey's aware that he pulled that string, and I don't think he's gonna like it when he finds out."


"So you're going to tell his boyfriend on him?" The captain looked amused by the thought.


"No, but I'm going to point out to Callahan that Strachey might not want to be in the middle of a media frenzy, or have senators using his case to boost their ratings. I think he probably got upset and shot off his mouth before he thought it through."


********


When Bailey arrived at the hospital, he paused when he saw Strachey, his IV stand, and his partner slowly making their way along the hallway. They hadn't progressed far from the room, but they were talking as they went, and, despite the ugliness of their circumstances and everything he'd been through, Strachey was actually laughing at something his partner whispered in his ear. Callahan had his arm around Strachey's waist, and held onto the hand Strachey wasn't using to push his IV stand along ahead of him. Before they spotted Bailey a ways down the hall, as they turned to walk slowly back the way they'd come, Callahan touched Strachey's face, then leaned forward until they kissed.


Bailey wondered if he could go through what Strachey did and find joy in anything or anyone. Clearly, there was no horror great enough that it could overpower what these two shared. He almost hesitated to shatter the moment, to call Callahan on the carpet for anything he did to seek justice for the man he clearly loved so intensely.


"Hey, Bub, pretty impressive, huh?" Strachey joked, once he'd spotted Bailey standing there.


"Looking good there, Donald," he replied, smiling.


"What brings you back our way?" Callahan asked.


"I need to talk to you for a moment," he said, nodding toward Callahan, who looked puzzled.


"To me?" he asked. "Let's go back to the room. They're going to serve dinner soon, and Donald's been up as long as he probably should be for right now."


After returning to the room and helping Strachey back into bed, Callahan seemed prepared to step outside with Bailey.


"What's going on, Bailey?" Strachey challenged.


"I just need to have a word with your partner."


"If it's about the case, I deserve to know about it."


"Donald and I don't have any secrets," Callahan added, squeezing the hand Don had slipped into his.


"It's about your boss," Bailey began.


"Senator Platt? What about her?" Callahan asked, looking genuinely confused.


"She called the commissioner and requested daily updates on the investigation - - both into the assault and the IAB investigation of Stenski."


"You think I asked her to do that?" he asked.


"Why else would she do it?" Bailey challenged.


"Maybe because she's a dedicated public servant who is outraged by seeing one of her constituents victimized by a police officer. Maybe because this isn't just a hate crime because Donald is gay, but a travesty of justice and a danger to any citizen when a police detective can grab someone off the street, injured, deny them their basic civil and human rights, and throw them in a drunk tank to die like an animal with no medical attention."


"Just take it easy," Bailey said, holding up a hand. Strachey wasn't saying anything, apparently deciding to let his partner purge himself of his anger - - or maybe he was in agreement; Bailey couldn't quite discern that yet.


"Take it easy? This is the kind of thing that happens under governments where citizens have no guarantee of basic human rights. What kind of legislator would Senator Platt be if she didn't use every resource at her disposal to find out why this happened and to make sure it's dealt with justly, and more importantly, that it doesn't happen ever again?"


"You didn't ask her to put the heat on the department?" Bailey clarified. Callahan's eyes widened a moment, as if the question had incensed him further, when he'd just finished an impassioned speech and a vehement denial. Then he glanced at Don and apparently decided not to escalate the already heightened tension in the room.


"I'm not saying I didn't want to, that I'm not glad to hear she did it, but I would never ask her to do something like that behind Donald's back, without his okay, and I didn't want to stress him out just yet with talking about that. The point is, Senator Platt would have done exactly what she's done whether it was someone she knew or not. She'd be just as passionate about justice for any citizen of her district - - any citizen, anywhere, for that matter. She's very committed to gay rights and to human rights. The respect of civil rights."


"I don't want this to turn into some kind of political cause," Don said.


"I thought you might feel that way," Callahan said. "Which is why I never asked her to help us with the case. I had to tell her why I'd be off work for a while. It was one of the first calls I made, and I was upset." He covered their joined hands with his other hand. "Donald had just gotten out of surgery and wasn't even conscious yet, and I was very...emotional when I told her about Stenski and what he'd done. But I didn't ask her to do anything about it."


"Then can you call her and ask her to lay off the commissioner? We're doing all we can on this case, but having it turn into a political issue in the press is just going to complicate things."


"I can't control what Senator Platt does, and I wouldn't presume to tell her not to do her duty as a representative of the people of her district. I can tell her that we have every confidence in your integrity and dedication to this investigation. But what she does about it is her decision."


"I don't want this to end up in the media. I don't want my name dragged into this," Don said emphatically. "I have to live and work in this community, and if this is all over the headlines, it's going to make my life a lot more difficult, trying to do my job, being taken seriously by my clients. Not to mention ever working with the cops again."


"I'm sure she would never do anything to compromise your privacy, honey," Callahan said, squeezing his hand. "I'll call her."


"Be sure you thank her for me, for caring about the investigation...and us. I just don't want media attention any more than the cops do. Though I doubt the commissioner is worried about my privacy."


"Public attention on the case could sway things our way with Stenski's situation," Callahan said. "The authorities are still obligated to protect Donald's identity, aren't they?"


"We aren't going to release his name, but that's not to say if this turns into a media issue, they won't work at finding out, and if Stenski loses his badge, I doubt he'll keep quiet," Bailey said. "Look, I want Stenski to pay for what he did, and we're doing all we can on the case. I just think turning it into a political hot potato is going to backfire on all of us, one way or the other."


"All I can do is stress to her how important it is to keep Donald's name out of it, to make sure it's not played up with the media. I know she'll do all she can to respect your privacy, honey. She's always liked you, and I'm sure the last thing she wants to do by becoming involved is to make this harder on you."


"I know," Don said, smiling faintly at his partner. "I guess unless I just shut up and take what Stenski did to me without demanding any kind of justice, my relationship with the Albany PD is shot anyway."


"Stenski got himself in trouble. There'll be a few cops who stick with him, who are friends of his, but the talk around the department isn't in his favor. Whether people think what he did was just stupid, or whether they have some more meaningful moral objection to it, his colleagues aren't all on his side. He made us all look bad, and God knows cops in general don't need any more adverse publicity surrounding brutality issues."


"I know you did everything you could for me once you found out. Timmy was just telling me that my trip to the hospital looked like a celebrity motorcade pulling up to the ER entrance, with a police escort in front, and you with lights and sirens following them. I want to be sure Senator Platt understands that - - that it was Stenski, not the Albany PD. They're not putting any heat on that kid that was in charge of the drunk tank, are they?"


"Rodriguez? No, he was operating under orders from a superior, and he sought help when he was convinced something was wrong. If he hadn't come to get me, I never would have stopped down there for any other reason. I was on my way out."


"I don't want him to get in any hot water. He listened to me, and he went for help. If he'd ignored me, I would have died there." 


"Can we do anything for him? Something to get him commended for what he did?" Tim asked.


"I've already put him in for a commendation. He's real green yet, but he'll be a good cop."


"I'd like to thank him myself," Don said. "Ask him to stop by sometime, okay?"


"I'll do that," Bailey said, smiling. "He's been checking in with me once in a while to find out how you're doing. He felt bad about waiting as long as he did to get help."


"He did fine. I wouldn't be here if he didn't. Be sure you tell him that, even if he doesn't get a chance to stop by."


"I will, but I'm sure he'll be up to see you." Bailey looked around at the growing collection of flowers, plants, and mylar balloons in the room. There was even a two-foot-high plush gorilla holding a red heart that professed "I Love You" on it. Bailey could have figured out in less than three guesses who that one was from. "Looks like you've got quite a following, Strachey," Bailey commented.


"The gorilla, the red roses, and the balloons are from Timmy," he said, looking at his partner with one of those lovestruck glances, and more than a little pride that he was the recipient of such a shower of gifts in celebration of his survival and progressing recovery. "The senator and her staff sent that big plant with the flowers in it. Apparently they don't know my history with plants."


"I made the mistake of giving him an orchid for his office. I should have known better, but love makes you do incredibly stupid things sometimes," Tim concluded, smiling. "When he got his larger office, I bought him a big fake plant instead. I don't think he's killed it yet."


"Kenny's the official guardian of anything green and possibly alive in that office," Don quipped.


"That includes Donald's old food containers, and even Donald, when I can't keep an eye on him," Tim added.


"Bitch," Don muttered under his breath, laughing.


"I love you, too, darling," Callahan replied, looking happier than he'd looked since before Strachey's brush with death.


********


There was a light tap on the door, and a moment later, a young, dark-haired police officer came into view. Donald was asleep, but Tim, who was lightly dozing in the recliner, came to immediately.


"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he said, looking uneasy.


"I was just dozing," Tim said. "Are you Officer Rodriguez?" Tim stood, walking away from Donald's bed so he could talk to the other man quietly and let his partner sleep.


"Yeah, that's me. I just wanted to know how he was doing."


"I can't thank you enough for what you did for him," Tim said, shaking Rodriguez's hand. "You saved his life by going for help."


"It just didn't look right. I'm glad I could help."


"They performed surgery to repair a tear in his large intestine and...the injuries from the rape. He's been in a lot of pain, and his system was run down from the blood loss, but he's been up walking around today for the first time, and he's starting back on solid food, so he's doing better."


"He looked right at me and asked me to get him help, when Detective Stenski brought him in. I'm really sorry I didn't go get Detective Bailey for him right away."


"You were given orders by a superior. I can understand why you didn't disobey them right away. I'm so grateful you did, though. I'm Donald's partner. We've been together about six years. I can't picture being without him."


"Most of the time he was there, he kept saying your name over and over again, so he was thinking about you," Rodriguez said, smiling. "My boyfriend and I have been together about two years. I don't know if I could handle something like this happening to him without killing the fuckers who did it."


"It must be hard, being gay in the police department."


"I'm not out," Rodriguez added. "He's my 'roommate' as far as the other guys at the department know, and they don't think it's odd. We're both young, he's still in college, working on his master's. So we can 'share expenses' for a few more years before it looks like anything to anybody."


"It's hard, being in the closet. I don't know if I could live that way, keep up the pretense."


"Either way is hard. When we come out, his family and my job are going to be nightmares."


"If you love each other, it'll work out, and when you decide to come out, all the nightmares will be worth it the first time you take him out dancing and don't care if someone else is watching."


"That'd be nice. It's kind of tiring going out to sports bars and action movies together," he added. "I mean, I like that stuff, too, but I'd like to take him out for a romantic evening sometime."


"If you ever need someone to talk to," Tim said, pulling out his wallet and taking out a business card, "please don't hesitate to call us."


"That's nice of you; thanks," he said, taking the card. "It sounds weird, but we don't have any gay friends."


"You do now."


"Hey, I remember you," Donald said, blinking sleepily, focusing on Rodriguez.


"Didn't mean to wake you up, Mr. Strachey. Detective Bailey said it was okay if I stopped in to see how you were doing."


"I think saving my life might make it okay for you to call me Don," he said, pressing the button to raise the head of the bed a bit more, holding out his hand to shake hands with Rodriguez.


"I'm Tony," Rodriguez said, shaking hands.


"Timothy filled you in on everything?" he asked, smiling in Tim's direction.


"He said you were doing better, up and walking and everything. That's great."


"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly blazing trails, but I did make it out in the hall once," he said, snorting a little laugh. "Seriously, thanks for what you did for me. You could have just followed orders and left me there."


"You didn't look drunk or high to me, and with bruises and all, it seemed like somebody should look you over."


"Tony and his partner have been together a couple of years," Tim said. "I told him to call us if they ever needed anything. With his job, they're not out."


"That's rough. When I'm feeling better, we'll have you guys join us for dinner some evening. You can come over to our place and be gay with us," he added, grinning.


"What he means is we'll have candles on the table and dancing after dinner," Tim said, laughing. "We're way overdue for a nice get-together at our place with some of our friends," he added. "Celebrating a certain homecoming sounds like a good reason to have one." He sat in the chair next to Don's bed and took his hand.


"My schedule sucks for social plans, just ask Timmy."


"Sounds nice." Rodriguez dug in his pocket and produced his own card, giving it to Tim. "I should probably get going. My shift starts in half an hour."


"Thanks again for what you did. Take care of yourself on the job," Don said, and Rodriguez nodded.


"I will. Hope you're feeling better soon."


"I'm working on it," Don replied. After Rodriguez left, he squeezed Tim's hand. "Let's not make too big a deal out of me coming home from the hospital, honey."


"I haven't told anyone what happened. Just my mother, Kenny, and Senator Platt. None of them will say anything without our okay."


"I know. I'm just not up for being the guest of honor yet."


"Will you settle for being my guest of honor, then?"


"Yeah, for a party of two," he replied, smiling, kissing the back of Tim's hand.


********


Tim stifled a yawn as he walked down the hall toward Donald's room. He'd made a quick run down to the visitors' lounge on their floor to get a cup of cocoa out of the vending machine. It was a little chilly where his recliner was, under the window, and the thought of something warm to drink appealed to him as he hoped for a short pre-dawn nap while Don slept.


"Timothy!"


The agonized shout froze him momentarily, then he threw the cup in a nearby trash can and ran toward Don's room.


"Timmy!" This was a scream for help, and Tim felt like the hall just kept getting longer, as if he kept running and Donald's room never got closer. "Timothy!"


Tim finally burst into Donald's room, finding his partner struggling with a male nurse, another nurse standing near the bed holding restraints, preparing to get a strap around Don's wrist as the nurse used his advantage of weight and being over Donald to force his arm down to the bed. There was blood all over the sheets where Donald had apparently pulled out his IV.


"What are you doing to him?" Tim demanded, pushing past the nurse with the restraints and pulling on the male nurse's arm. "Let go of him right now!"


"He already kicked me twice and took a swing at me," the male nursed protested. "You should let us handle this." 


"We'll only keep the restraints on him until the sedative kicks in," the other nurse explained.


"Donald, I'm right here. You need to stop struggling, honey. I won't let anything happen to you," he told his panicked partner, getting close enough to touch his face. "Let go of his arms," Tim ordered, his voice much louder this time, pinning the nurse with a look that left little room for debate. "Do you even know why he's here? What he's been through?"


The nurse reluctantly let go of Don and moved away from the bed, apparently not willing to chance another round with an unrestrained Donald. Tim noticed the blood under the male nurse's nose and realized, even in his weakened condition, his partner must have slugged him hard enough to bloody his nose. Don had formidable strength in his upper body; Tim could remember watching in awe as he overpowered Sommerville through some unbelievable combination of his powerful arms and his sheer stubbornness, stabbing the larger criminal and sending him flying like a worn-out rag doll into Frank Zailian's swimming pool.


Tim dodged the flailing arms and got his arms around Don, managing to hold him close, even though he was still writhing in the bed like he hadn't quite escaped the grip of the dream or the lingering panic attack that had cost the male nurse a couple swift kicks.


"I'm here, honey. You're safe. Don't fight me, Donald. It's me, it's Timmy. I've got you, baby, just try to relax." He could feel Don's heart pounding, his breath coming out in choked gasps and sobs. "It's okay. Nobody's going to hurt you." He was relieved to feel Don's arms come around him, holding on almost desperately.


"Timmy?" The voice was deceptively small and shaky, considering the damage he'd been doing in the few minutes Tim had been out of the room.


"It's okay, honey. I've got you now. Everything's going to be all right."


"I'll get his IV taken care of," the nurse with the restraints said. "Kevin, why don't you go answer that call while I take care of getting him cleaned up?" she suggested, referring to another patient call they could hear ringing. Kevin seemed only too happy for an escape, and left the room quickly, still cleaning under his nose with a tissue he'd grabbed.


Tim sat on the side of the bed, holding Don, rocking him, rubbing his back gently.


"I couldn't move my arms," he said brokenly against Tim's shoulder. "I couldn't stop it."


"I know you couldn't, honey. Nobody could have stopped that alone. It's not your fault."


"Donald, can I clean up your arm, hon?" the nurse asked, pulling on latex gloves and gathering the supplies to clean the blood off the IV site. An older woman with small glasses, she had a kind, motherly quality about her. Tim noticed from her ID badge that her name was Grace. She didn't get an answer, but Don allowed his arm to be moved and positioned for her to do her work. He didn't relinquish his hold on Tim with his other arm. "We were going to take his IV out in a few hours. The doctor said he could go on oral antibiotics starting later today, so I don't think we need to poke him again. We'll need to get him in a clean gown and change the bed."


"I'll help him with the gown if you can change the sheets." Tim paused. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I went down the hall to get something to drink."


"It's not your fault, Timmy," Don mumbled against Tim's shoulder.


"It isn't yours, either, baby. It's okay."


"Donald, are you feeling better?" Grace asked, finishing her clean-up job with a clean gauze bandage where he'd torn out the IV.


"I'm sorry about the mess," he managed, loosening his hold on Tim a little.


"That's what we're here for, hon," she said, smiling. "I raised four boys on my own, so believe me, this isn't the worst mess I've ever seen. You'll have to try harder to top them," she quipped, patting his shoulder. Tim was grateful to see that actually made Don smile a little.


"They held my arms down... When I couldn't move my arms...I lost it," he said to Grace, and Tim was surprised to hear Don actually volunteer something about his ordeal to someone besides him, or when he wasn't pressured to do so for the sake of the case. Tim suspected that Don sometimes missed his own mother, because he was only too ready to adopt Tim's mother as his own, and Grace's gentle, maternal approach seemed to be calming him down and drawing him out now.


"Kevin used to work in the Psych ward, so you aren't the first patient who ever slugged him, though I think you might be the first one to kick him in the family jewels," Grace added, and Don actually laughed faintly at that. "Don't worry about him. He'll survive. We just didn't want you to hurt yourself. I'm sorry if we made it worse for you, hon."


"Thanks for cleaning up after me," he said to Grace as Tim helped him put on slippers and make the slow trek to the bathroom.


"One who says 'thank you.' Your mother did a good job on you," she added as she pulled the blood-stained sheets off the bed. That earned her a sort of sad, crooked smile from Don as they shuffled toward the bathroom.


As soon as the bathroom door was closed and Tim started untying the stained gown, Don mumbled so softly he could barely hear him.


"My shorts are wet."


"We've got fresh ones. That's no big deal, honey."


"I haven't pissed my pants since I was a toddler," Don said, tears filling his eyes.


"Your bladder's bruised, so you probably don't always know when you have to go and when it just hurts," Tim said gently, taking the wet underwear and tossing it aside. While he didn't want his partner feeling exposed any longer that he had to, he took a moment to use a warm, soapy cloth to wash him and then dried the area carefully so he'd feel clean and fresh with the change of underwear.


"I bet you didn't expect to have to change my pants and wipe my ass for another thirty or forty years," Don said, and Tim wasn't sure if he was trying to joke, or if he was serious.


"You'll get the job back as soon as you're stronger, honey. And if you need me to do it again forty years from now, I'll have practice at it," he added in a tone he hoped sounded cheerful, helping him pull the boxers into place, kissing Don's cheek when they were done. "Would you like pajamas instead of this sexy nightie? Since they're not putting your IV back in, you could wear them."


"I'd like that."


"I'll grab them out of the duffle bag."


Before long, Don was in dry pajamas, in a freshly changed bed, sipping ice water. Tim turned on the little television, finding a channel running some peaceful nature program. When he'd had his fill of the water, Don's eyes drifted shut, the drone of the TV and Tim's hand holding his calming the earlier panic and driving the demons into dark corners, until he slipped off to sleep.


********


Back on a regular schedule of pain medication, and with Tim just a couple feet away in the recliner, Don began to find it easier to sleep, something his exhausted body seemed to need badly. The doctor approved him progressing to something enticingly called a "low-residue diet," which a nurse painstakingly explained to him. He didn't remember most of it and was content to leave those details to Timmy. He'd fix whatever Don needed to eat when they got home, and he'd make the menu choices for his trays while he was still trapped there in the hospital.


Tim had told most of their friends that he'd been injured during an undercover job that went wrong, and the fading bruises on his face supported their assumption that his internal injuries were from a beating. He wasn't up to facing everyone he knew with the full truth out there on the table. He hoped that somehow, it would never have to be. A shrink would probably have a field day with those "shame issues," but who would want to visit with their friends and colleagues and discuss his ass injuries or what depraved things he'd been subjected to while being held down naked on a basement floor? It wasn't exactly pleasant material for light-hearted chit-chats. Or so all those people could look at him for the rest of time, picturing what he'd been through instead of seeing him.


The only person who knew all the sordid details and remained completely unruffled and utterly herself was Tim's mother, who breezed into the room with a big shopping bag full of books and magazines, and hugged him the way she always did, planting a big, sloppy, motherly kiss on his cheek.


"Timmy tells me you're up and around now," she said, sitting in a visitor chair near the bed.


"Yeah, I'm walking a little," he said, trying to keep his tone light.


"The first few times you have to get up and around after surgery are pure hell. It will get better, sweetie. You're young and healthy, and you'll heal fast."


"I couldn't do any of it without Timothy. He makes me want to get better, get out of here."


"It's a good thing, too, because I never could have dealt with Timothy if you didn't pull through this. In case you haven't noticed, he's pretty hung up on you," she added, smiling. For a moment, there was so much of Timmy in her features and her big smile, that it was almost startling.


"I'm kind of fond of him, too," Don added, smiling back at her.


"Have you heard anything new on the case? As far as I'm concerned, those bastards should hang for what they did."


"Preferably by their privates over a pit of rabid dogs," Don replied, and she nodded in agreement, smiling at his colorful augmentation of the thought. "When's the last time Timmy updated you?"


"Last night."


"Not much has happened since then," he replied, chuckling a little.


"I know this is very hard for you, and I'm not going to tiptoe around the obvious. It's not my style. Do you have a good therapist to help you, or do you want one? I don't want you to not have something because you're worried about the cost or insurance doesn't cover it, or some other nonsense." She patted his arm. "You're part of our family, sweetie, and whatever you need, all you have to do is ask."


"Thanks, that means a lot to me," he said, taking her hand. "I'm not ready for a therapist. I don't know if I’ll ever want one."


"Some people find comfort in it, others don't. I saw a therapist for a while after Kelly disappeared. Sometimes it makes you feel crazy...inadequate to need one. But you aren't, so don't you hesitate to ask if you'd like me to find you someone good, or if Timothy finds someone good who's also expensive, and you need some help financially. Okay?"


"Okay."


"Are you sleeping at all?" she asked. "You look drowsy. Of course, maybe I woke you up from a nap when I got here," she added.


"I sleep some. Timmy's always right here with me, sleeping in that chair. I sort of dread it. The nightmares are still kind of bad."


"I wish I could make this better for you. That's always the hard part of seeing one of my children hurt...when it's something I can't make better." She moved from her chair to sit on the side of the bed. "I know you're hurting inside, and I know what you went through was awful. I can see that in your eyes. You don't have to be brave with me. Comforting our kids makes us mothers feel useful," she said, laying a gentle hand on his cheek, then opening her arms when she saw his expression falter a bit.


"I'm really glad you came, Mom," he said, hugging her, feeling a little guilty for crying on her shoulder like a little kid, and yet grateful for her genuine affection and her acceptance of him as part of her family, when his own mother was disinclined to accept him at all for who and what he was.


"It's going to be all right, Donald. Your family's here for you, honey. You know that, don't you? That we'll be here for you, no matter what?"


"I know," he said, nodding a little. "You've always been so nice to me."


"I always wanted Timothy to find someone who would love him and be good to him and make him happy. Treat him with gentleness and caring. I'm so happy he's with you, Donald. I couldn't have chosen anyone better for him, and I can't think of anyone I'd be happier to add to our family. We love you, sweetie. I know Timmy's taking good care of you, but you lean on us, too. We Callahans are a tight-knit clan, and we don't let bad things happen to each other without being there to help."


"Thanks, Mom," he said, giving her a little squeeze before pulling back. "Thanks for adopting me," he added, smiling.


"I always wanted more kids. Better late than never," she said, shrugging, ruffling his hair like she would have on a child, as they shared a laugh.


********


Timmy was a master at keeping Don distracted during the remainder of his incarceration in the hospital, whether it was with the portable DVD player and a stack of movies they watched together on the little screen, bringing in the newspaper and reading to him, or just sitting there talking about the endless array of subjects Timmy seemed to know something about.


All the distractions in the world, and even a considerable regimen of pain meds, couldn't mask the reality of what he'd been through. Although he was getting faster and steadier on his feet, the lower half of his body still felt as ravaged as it was, and he was in no danger of forgetting why he was in the hospital. The images that haunted his nightmares and any quiet times he found himself alone and not sleeping, rare though they were, stayed as vivid and almost physically painful as the actual experiences were.


He imagined the other patients on this wing wouldn't feel bad to see him go. He still had a tendency to wake up screaming at least once each night, and sometimes when he napped during the day, he'd come to, and if Timmy wasn't there, he'd end up screaming his name in a panic. Usually the poor guy was just using the bathroom or getting the ice water refilled, but if he wasn't there, Don didn't seem able to control the panic and fear that would come over him. He was just waiting for Timothy to gently suggest a therapist, and trying to come up with the reasons why he didn't want one.


Like having fears and humiliations dragged out of his soul - - like an emotional rape, taking things that he didn't want to share, being forced to share them with someone he didn't want to talk to. Having someone take copious notes about his feelings and his fears and his pain so they could analyze him and "treat" him.


He just needed time to pass, his body to heal, and most of all, he needed Timothy in a way he never had before, no matter how much he loved him. It was a dependence he knew he had to overcome eventually, get his wings back, so to speak, so he could fly on his own. Right now, Timmy was his life support system and was as vital to his next breath as the ventilator was to the guy that had been in the room next-door to his in ICU. There were times he felt he was in so many pieces...fragments...that he wondered if even Timmy could put them all back together into a reasonable replica of what he had once been.


Strong. Healthy. Independent. Fearless...well, not fearless, but brave, sometimes to the point of being less than prudent in the risks he took.


His body was doing its part and healing, but he still felt so fucking fragile, and afraid of the world, and needy.


And that was just when he managed not to think about the inevitable lineups, voice lineups, and possibly live testimony in a courtroom for one or more trials. Or the way the cops would look at him now when he had to go down to the station for something. Or how long it would take for his business to go down the tubes when he couldn't work.


The television was droning, and he was managing to stay awake, since Tim had made a quick trip downstairs for lunch and to make a few phone calls, and he didn't want a repeat of the episode with the male nurse he'd had a couple nights ago.


There was a tap at the door, and he was surprised to see Senator Platt come in, a bit hesitantly until she could see if he was awake.


"Senator Platt," he said, smiling. "This is a nice surprise."


"You're looking very well, Don. I understand you might be released in the next couple of days," she said, coming closer, holding out her left hand to clasp his briefly in a more informal greeting than a handshake.


"I'm gunning for tomorrow. Hopefully the doctor's tired enough of my griping at him to let me out of here."


"Something tells me your chances are good there."


"Exactly what does Timothy tell you about me when I'm not around?" he joked.


"Enough," she retorted, always up to a little round of verbal banter with Don.


"Have a seat," he said, and she pulled up one of the visitor chairs and sat.


"I thought we should have a talk about the case. Tim called me and explained the concerns both of you have regarding my involvement in it."


"I appreciate that you're taking an interest in the case, I hope you know that."


"Tim was very clear about that, but I do understand the delicate nature of the situation, and I can understand how this could impact you, being in a high public contact profession. I just want you to know this isn't going to be a public crusade on my part, unless the situation changes in such a way that my public support would be helpful. I do want the police department to be clear that Detective Stenski's conduct is unacceptable and that there is no other alternative than severe disciplinary action. A man like that is a danger to the whole community, because he puts himself in the position of being judge and jury. In this case, he treated someone who had committed no crime in an abhorrent manner. What is he likely to do to suspects?"


"I understand all that. It just feels really personal. I keep trying to see it as a social justice issue, but I can't. Do you think that's selfish? It probably is."


"The community wasn't in that basement with you, or in the holding cell at the police department. That was a very personal, very solitary trauma, and I don't think it's selfish of you to view it that way. It's my duty to look at things like this from a community perspective, to see it as a sign of potential danger to a lot of innocent people. Your only duty is to yourself, to take care of yourself, focus on your recovery, and do whatever feels right to you about the case. That's all you can be expected to handle. Leave the social justice to the politicians. It's what we do best when we're not making speeches," she added, smiling.


"I thought you'd be encouraging me to speak out...to testify, do whatever I have to for the sake of justice." He blinked quickly, wanting to keep his eyes dry.


"If you can do that, it will be very commendable, and it will probably do a lot of good for a lot of people, whether it's getting a rogue cop like Stenski off the streets, bringing public attention to the danger of homophobia and the ugliness of hate crimes, or making sure all these men serve time for what they did." She paused. "A very good friend of mine was raped. This was years ago, when I was still in college. We were all very supportive of her, our little group of sorority sisters, but the one thing we all had in common was pressuring her to testify against the man who did it. We were young, passionate about women's rights, about empowering women, not letting ourselves be victims." She shook her head, looking much sadder and a bit older than she had when she arrived. "Jennifer finally agreed to testify, to press charges, even to go public with her case because the man who did it was a professor and very well known. We all talked her into the idea that she could help other girls come forward by doing that. A few more did come forward, and the professor ultimately lost his job and faced criminal charges. But Jennifer committed suicide before the case went to trial."


"I'm sorry." Don tried not to let his thoughts wander down the dark road of Kyle's death. He had enough on his plate as it was.


"It was a long time ago, and I'm not suggesting in any way that I think you'd choose that path, but the one thing I learned from all that is that rape is very personal and it's not a cause. You aren't a cause, Don. When all is said and done, the most important outcome of all of this is your recovery and what's best for you. Don't let anyone pressure you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable. Make the choices you make because you feel they're right for you, and let the chips fall where they may."


"They threatened Timothy," he said, his voice shaking. "If I don't testify against them, and they get off, they could come back after him, and I'd never forgive myself if he got hurt that way because I didn't have the guts to take care of this."


"It's a lot of pressure on you, isn't it?" she asked sympathetically.


"Yeah," he admitted, fighting hard to keep control of his emotions. "But I won't let them off the hook."


"Sounds like you know what you need to do, and why you want to do it. Maybe that determination is going to carry you through this."


"Maybe," he said, realizing there was some truth in what she was saying. Rising to the occasion of nailing the men who'd attacked him, not for himself, but to protect Timmy...he could do anything it took to accomplish that.


"I should let you rest," she said, standing.


"Thank you for the plant. It was the first one I got when I was moved down here from ICU."


"Really?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.


"Well, the first one after the roses, balloons, and stuffed gorilla from Tim," he added, grinning. "Thanks for being so good to Timmy about him taking time off to be with me. He's so worn-out, and he has to do so much for me...I know you had to have said something to him to put his mind at ease because he worries about his work, making sure things are done right."


"Tim is a wonderful help to me, and I never question his dedication. Things like these have to take precedence over work. He's needed here, and he needs to be here. We'll handle things at the office until he can come back." She reached out and took Don's hand, squeezing it quickly. "Get plenty of rest and take care of yourself. If there's anything I can do, just call me."


"Thank you. And thanks for telling me about your friend."


"You're welcome. I have every confidence you'll get through this just fine, even if it doesn't feel that way now." She smiled warmly one more time before leaving.


********


Frustrated, Tim tucked his cell phone back in his pocket and finished the chicken breast he'd chosen for lunch, along with a salad and two small containers of Ben & Jerry's Cinnamon Bun Swirl, which he was going to take upstairs to share with Donald. His present diet limited dairy, but the little individual container wouldn't exceed any allowances, and it would cheer him up. Tim was already figuring out the kinds of foods that his partner liked and could safely eat until he was cleared to return to a normal diet. Once he was home, Tim would have a better chance to take care of him and feed him things he actually enjoyed, rather than tolerated.


He was starting to understand how the president's family felt, with Secret Service agents constantly watching them. Donald had hired a private security firm to provide a bodyguard for Tim, at least during the time when he was coming and going from the hospital and home alone. Bailey had a uniformed officer outside Don's room, but couldn't provide security for both of them. The big man who was sitting a couple of tables away had finished his substantial plate of food while reading the newspaper. Still, he didn't miss anything in his peripheral vision and had caught every sign of movement Tim made until they left the cafeteria.


He escorted Tim to Donald's room and then went to the waiting room nearby. Tim wanted some alone time with his partner, and Donald hadn't seemed to take much of a liking to Pollack. Tim wondered if his size and obvious musculature were a little too reminiscent of the look of Fox and his cohorts. Or maybe the big man's utter lack of personality was to blame. Tim couldn't shake the feeling Pollack wasn't too fond of gay couples, but since he'd been nothing but professional in his conduct around them, he had nothing to back up that impression.


Donald was in bed, flipping the channels of the little television with a blank look on his face.


"I have ice cream," Tim announced, and that brought a faint smile that looked like it was more for his benefit than anything else. "Are you okay, honey?" Tim frowned, concerned. Don was on his side, with a pillow stuffed behind him for support. He didn't look comfortable or happy.


"Yeah, I'm okay. Where's Ballsack, anyway?"


"His name is Pollack, Donald," Tim said, a half-hearted scold in his tone. Donald's attackers had been arrested, but they were almost all out on bond pending the trial. Only Fox remained behind bars while a few family members were scrambling to come up with his bail money, so Donald deemed Pollack or some facsimile of him to be a necessity. "Pollack is in the waiting room right down the hall. He escorted me to the door of the room, safe and sound."


"Good. What'd you bring?" he asked, trying to muster some enthusiasm.


"Ben and Jerry's," Tim said, sitting on the side of the bed, setting the ice cream containers on the bed table. "Are you comfortable?"


"No, but I can't figure out a way to manage that. If I sit up, my ass kills me, and if I stay lying down, my back's tired. So I got the bed somewhere in the middle and just rolled on my side."


"How about if I rub your back? Would that feel good?"


"Yeah, that'd be good," he said, smiling a little.


Tim moved the pillow out of the way and rubbed his hands together to be sure they were warm, so he didn't startle Donald with cold hands. Though he thought Donald looked very nice in his nearly new blue pajamas, he also figured the hospital would be the last place he'd see him wearing them. His partner seemed to prefer his underwear for sleeping at home, though he liked the greater coverage of the pajamas while he was in the hospital.


Tim slid his hand under the pajama shirt and started gently rubbing Don's back. He wasn't really trying to give him a massage, but just relax him, maybe comfort him a little.


"Your muscles are strung tight. What's the matter?"


"Kenny's had to turn down three new clients since I've been in here. I need to get back to work."


"Donald, you're not even out of the hospital yet."


"I know, but it took me a long time to build up a reputation, to get a steady flow of work. It won't take very long to screw it up."


"That's what your disability insurance is for, honey. To cover situations like these until you can go back to work."


"You sound like a commercial. All we need is that duck waddling through here."


"Sorry," Tim said, chuckling. "Speaking of that, I wasn't going to mention it, but I was trying to get through their automated customer service, and they keep telling me your policy number isn't valid. I waited on hold on my cell for about ten minutes, but then I wanted to get back up here to you, so I hung up. Did you change something with the coverage?" he asked, still keeping up a gentle rubbing motion on Don's back, which seemed to tense up more, rather than relax.


"You could say that. I canceled it last year when I moved into the new office."


Tim's hand stopped moving, almost of its own volition. He felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach.


"You did what?" he asked, waiting for Donald to add that he'd renewed it, or reactivated it once he'd settled into the new place and the expenses had leveled off again.


"The first few months I was in the new office, money was really tight with the rent being higher, and I couldn't swing the premiums, so I let it go." He was quiet a moment. "I didn't renew it."


"Donald, we agreed on that insurance for just this kind of a situation," Tim protested.


"What? Just in case I happened to get gang raped on the job? Sorry, but I didn't foresee that happening," he shot back, his tone terse.


Tim sat there a moment, his hand still in the middle of Donald's back. The part of him that was angry at Donald for making that decision on his own and then letting it stay lapsed quickly gave way to the part that weighed the enormity of that versus the enormity of Donald dying, which he nearly had done just days earlier. He thought of all Donald had been through and of the worry, guilt, and fear that had to be on his shoulders now about his business, their finances, everything, when he was already dealing with so much.


He rubbed Don's back in slow circles. "It'll be okay, honey."


"I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about it. I just didn't think it was that big a deal. Goes to show what I know."


"Nobody could have predicted something like this."


"You did. Well, not this exactly, but the disability insurance was your idea."


"It's okay." Tim kept up the soothing back rub. "I want you to stop worrying about it. Let me take care of it."


"If you didn't think I was so washed up, you'd have my head for this. And how are you going to take care of it? Half our income just...stopping is a disaster. I'm using what I had saved up to keep the lights on at the office to pay Ballsack - - "


"Pollack," Tim corrected gently, still rubbing. "You're going to slip and call him that to his face if you don't stop it." He smiled, feeling oddly unafraid of the looming financial ruin. He had Donald, and he was alive and likely to stay that way. "You're always telling me how smart you think I am, so let me figure something out, and you stop worrying about it."


"I really messed up," Don said, his voice shaking.


"Come here," Tim said, waiting until Don turned over before gathering him into his arms, holding him close. "Everything's going to be all right."


"How?" Donald asked, clinging to him tightly.


"Shhh." He stroked Don's hair, kissed his cheek. "Trust me. I'll take care of everything, honey. I promise you, it'll be okay."


"We could lose the house," he said.


Tim rested his head against Don's and rocked them a little. "They can foreclose on our house, evict you from your office, and put us in the street with nothing, and we'll still have each other. We'll just get a nice little apartment and start over. It'll be kind of romantic, like being newlyweds again."


"You're crazy," Don said, but there was a little humor in his tone.


"Crazy about you, darling," Tim said in an exaggerated tone, which made Don laugh just a little. "I know it's hard for you to let go of things and let me take care of you for a while, but that's what love is all about. Knowing someone is there to catch you when you fall, and hold you until you heal."


"I might have ruined everything we worked so hard for."


"The only way you could have done that was if you didn't survive the surgery and stay with me. I love our house, and I'm so proud of you the way you've built your business and how hard you work at making it successful. But when the nurse told me that you were very weak, and that I should be prepared for the worst...Donald, I would have given everything we have, traded anything I could, sold my soul to the highest bidder...burned that damned house to the ground... anything...if it would save your life and keep you with me."


"It's not fair to you."


"It wasn't fair that you had to suffer through what you did. Life isn't fair. It's cruel and senseless sometimes, and good people suffer awful things they don't deserve. But, honey, there's never been a house built that I'd rather have than you."


"I'm not what I used to be. I might never be okay again," Don said brokenly against his shoulder.  

"If you're worrying about sex, don't even think about it."


"How can I not think about it? I can't stand the idea of somebody touching me that way. God help me, not even you." It was as if the admission was a dam bursting, and Tim had to put all his strength into stilling the wrenching sobs that were pouring out of Donald.


"I love you so much," Tim said against Don's ear, rocking him, rubbing his back. "Sex is just one way of making love. Remember us slow dancing the first time you got out of bed after your surgery? Or going to the grocery store together, or movie nights cuddled up on the couch when you finish your ice cream and then start eating out of my bowl. Or that feeling when you crawl into bed with me at three in the morning and we just find a way to get comfortable, spooned together, or back to back, so I can go back to sleep feeling you breathing against me - - it's all love, honey."


"What if I'm never okay again?" Don asked, barely able to get the words out between sharp intakes of breath.


"As long as we're alive and together, we'll find ways to love each other and be happy together, and you'll always be the love of my life, and the only man I want next to me in bed, no matter what we do there. Do you want to know what will always be one of the sweetest memories of my life?"


"What?" Don managed, and Tim smiled, wanting him to calm down enough to ask the question.


"When you were first coming out of the anesthesia and I kissed you, and I felt those wonderful, soft lips of yours pucker up and kiss me back. I'd have done anything in the world for that moment."


"You deserve mo - -"


"Don't even finish that thought." He swallowed tears of his own. "Would you love me less if things were reversed?"


"Never."


"Donald, if I could take this away from you, if I could take your place - - "


"Oh, God, no, I'd never want that."


"You're my life partner, my husband, my best friend in the world. Just be with me, and share our life with me. You don't have to worry about anything else, honey. The rest of it will figure itself out and we'll be okay."


"I believe you," Don said, his voice barely a whisper.


"The ice cream is cinnamon bun swirl," he said, and Donald laughed, watery though it was.


"It's probably a milkshake by now," he said, sniffling and snorting a little inelegantly, causing Tim to reach for a couple of tissues. Donald used them to blow his nose and wipe at his eyes.


"How about if I line the recliner with pillows and we get you out of this rat's nest for a while?"


"I'd like that."


"Good," Tim responded, smiling at his bleary eyed partner. He worked quickly and efficiently to get Donald settled in the big chair, with enough pillows to keep pressure off the painful spots. He bathed Donald's face with a cool cloth and then pulled up a chair close to the recliner, and they had their ice cream together, with the tiny television turned toward them so they could watch an old sitcom rerun. Tim had to smile when Don finished his ice cream, and swooped in with his spoon to steal some of Tim's. They shared a cold, ice cream flavored kiss, and snuggled together as best they could in their less than ideal accommodations, watching a tiny TV with a mediocre picture. There was nowhere else in the world Tim could think of that he'd want to be.


********


With Donald having a green light to go home the following day, Tim felt less hesitant to discuss their financial situation and to encourage him to at least agree to legal representation so they could start receiving the treatment they deserved from the police. At the very least, Tim saw no reason for Donald to deplete his savings paying for private security when police protection could be provided by the department - - or an adequate settlement could be reached with the department that would cover the cost of security and replace Donald's missing income while he recovered. He'd used one of his brief breaks from the hospital to meet with Gabriel Temple, one of the area's leading attorneys, who agreed to take the case on a contingency basis, provided they were prepared to press for a settlement from the city of at least a million dollars.


"A million dollars? Timothy, if I ask for that, I won't be able to deal with the cops ever again, and by the time the lawyer gets his cut and we pay our bills, it's not going to be enough to replace my income indefinitely. I need to be able to revive my business." Don sighed, leaning back in the recliner, looking out the window of his hospital room. "I said I didn't want to turn this into a cause."


"It's not a cause. A cause would be a high-profile lawsuit with a huge multi-million dollar settlement and all kinds of national - - maybe even international - - media coverage. That's what we could do to them, Donald. But I don't want to make money off your suffering, and I don't want to pressure you and push you into a spotlight for what is an intensely private healing process. At the same time, I told you I'd take care of things, get us out of the financial jam we're in, and this is the only way to do it."


"Then let them foreclose on us, I'll close the PI business, and we'll start over."


"You deserve some compensation for how you were treated by the police. I realize you and Bailey have a good rapport, and it's not his fault - - I know he mobilized things and saved your life, and he's a good, decent cop. But Stenski isn't, and he's a city employee, and he abused his authority in a way that almost cost you your life. I understand you don't want a crusade, and I respect that. I would never suggest anything that would embarrass you or put pressure on you. This is a win-win solution for both sides. We get the money we need to stay afloat so you can recover without worrying every day that you can't pay your rent on the office, we don't have to worry about losing our home, and we can hire the security we need to feel safe until this is resolved."


"You think the cops are going to view this as a good thing?"


"We're not going to ask for a phenomenal sum. Temple said we could go as high as three million and still settle out of court, given what he could do to them in a civil trial. He said a jury verdict could give us much, much more than that. I'm sure he'll make that point clear to the department. I think we should ask for at least 1.5 million. Even with Temple's cut, we'd have close to a million dollars to pay off our debts, hire the security we need, keep your office open and operating, pay Kenny..." Tim paused. "The important thing is that you don't have to be dragged into a long, miserable legal process, and they get to pay us off at pennies on the dollar of what it could cost them and avoid a media circus that won't reflect well on the department."


"I was hoping we could handle this without lawyering up. It ceases to be a friendly agreement when you start bringing lawyers into it. The bottom line is, it's Stenski who did this, not the department as a whole."


"The department employed him; that makes them responsible. Furthermore, let's be realistic. Stenski isn't going to have the money to pay a settlement, even if we sue him. It might not be the department's fault you were injured in the first place, but they need to be held accountable for what happened to you in police custody. Truthfully, Donald, if we don't do something, even something low-profile like a settlement, we're telling them it's okay that they nearly killed you - - no hard feelings. Maybe you're that magnanimous with the cops, but frankly, I'm not. When I think about how close you came to dying, there are times I can't stop shaking. It's not okay with me that they almost took you away from me."


"Fox and his buddies did most of that damage, honey."


"Dr. Sharma said if you'd been brought to the ER right away, you still would have needed surgery, but the threat to your life would have been minimal, because the primary danger was the extensive blood loss and the fact they could barely stabilize your blood pressure. That wouldn't have happened if Stenski had taken you to the ER instead of the holding cell."


"What is it you want me to sign?" Don said, looking defeated. Tim sighed, rubbing his forehead. Winning the argument and wearing Don down wasn't his goal, nor was making Don feel more powerless that he already did.


"I'm sorry. I guess I'm pushing you, and I don't mean to do that."


"You said you'd take care of things, and that's what you're trying to do. I'm the one who canceled the insurance, so I guess I don't have the right to bitch about the way you came up with to fix that."


"If that's how you feel about this, honey, then forget about it." Tim pulled his chair closer and took both of Don's hands in his. "I love you. Not a house, not a settlement, not your business. I'll love you if we lose everything, just as much as I love you now."


"I canceled the insurance, and that's what's really putting us behind the eight ball. Then I got myself into this mess that's screwed me up so I can't work. It's my fault, Timothy, no matter how you spin it."


"None of this is your fault. You made a business decision that came back to bite you. You're not the only person who ever did that. I imagine a lot of people cut back on things like insurance when they're trying to come up with money to pay the bills. As for any other part of this being your fault, it isn't."


"I want to call Bailey first. I don't think he'll tip off the higher-ups, but I want him to know what's coming. I feel like I owe him that. He saved my life."


"Temple would probably advise against that, but I don't blame you. It feels kind of...wrong going behind his back."


"Temple really thinks we can get that much without going to court?"


"He thought I was nuts when I told him we didn't want to sue, and that you didn't want to have a bad relationship with the police department."


"I suppose when he looks at millions of dollars, he can't figure out why someone wouldn't want to collect that and then just live off it." Don squeezed Tim's hands a little. "I don't know how to explain it. It's so hard to...to put it into words."


"I'm with you no matter what you want to do about this, honey. You don't have to explain it."


"I want to. I know it's not fair to you to not go after the big prize. We could have millions of dollars if we won." Don swallowed, and a single tear made its way down his cheek. "It feels like getting paid for what they did to me. It feels like somehow I'm saying that millions of dollars makes it okay. It makes me feel like a well-paid whore," he said, the final word coming out so quietly that Tim had to strain to catch it.


"Oh, baby, there's no way you could ever be that, no matter what we do about this." Tim freed one of his hands to caress the side of Donald's face, brushing away the tear. "I'd give anything I have, or ever will have, to go back and undo this thing, make it not happen to you. I understand not wanting to profit from it. It feels like taking dirty money. And all the publicity and intrusion on your privacy going for the big payoff would involve? I'd never ask that of you, and never want to see you go through it. There isn't enough money out there that would make me want to watch you suffer any more than you have already."


"We could finally have the kind of lifestyle you deserve. I don't think we're going to get there on my income, even when things are back to normal."


"I love my life with you. Whatever 'lifestyle' we can have together is fine with me. Besides, whatever either one of us has is ours, and I haven't exactly skyrocketed us to millionaire status."


"Your grandmother's inheritance was the down payment on our house," Don said.


"So what? We've never had a 'yours' and 'mine' since we got married. Everything has always been 'ours.' If we hadn't used the money for that, it would have gone for something else we could both enjoy. That doesn't make me some kind of aristocrat, because my grandmother was comfortable and chose to share that with her grandchildren."


"Money's never been exactly free flowing, and now this happens... On top of that, you're stuck with somebody who might never be normal again."


"If I'd wanted normal, I wouldn't have married you in the first place," Tim quipped, and he was relieved to see Don laugh a little at that. "Don't agree with this because you feel guilty or think you should for my sake. Think about it, and agree with it if you feel it's the right thing to do and you feel comfortable with it."


"It's probably a good compromise. We get something to pay the bills, and it's expensive enough that the city takes it seriously and doesn't want another Stenski on the payroll. You did good, honey. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about it."


"I'm not. We're in this together, and the only way we're going to do anything is if we both agree with it and are at peace with it."


"You think this is the right thing to do?" Don asked, looking into Tim's eyes with such sincerity and such utter...trust in his opinion that it moved Tim deeply.


"I think we're in an awful situation no matter how we look at it. I don't think any part of it is your fault or mine, but I do think we need to find the best way out of at least part of the mess. I think this is the best way."


"Then I'm on board," Don said, smiling faintly.


********


Don was never so glad to see anything as he was to see the wheelchair with Tim standing behind it, waiting to take him home. Even though he was still slower on his feet than usual, and any time he moved too quickly or stretched too far, he could feel the pain flare again, he felt more able than he had when he'd taken his first shaky steps after surgery. Dressed in jeans, a shirt, and his coat, he felt more like himself than he had for days. No more pajamas and slippers like a little old man in a rest home, even though he figured Tim would keep him on a short leash until the doctor okayed more normal activity. At least he was dressed and going home.


Most of the flowers were donated to other patients, so Don's things were condensed to a duffle bag and his stuffed gorilla, which, to Tim's amusement, Don happily carried on his lap as he rode in the wheelchair. Since it played "Fever" every time you pressed its red heart, Don couldn't resist activating it when they were in an elevator full of people. It was worth it for the look on Tim's face that began with a roll of the eyes and ended with one of those wide grins of amusement that Don would have turned cartwheels in the lobby to achieve.


Tim's car was pulled up near the main entrance, and he took Don in the wheelchair out to it, solicitously loading him into the passenger seat as though he was made of crystal. Truthfully, Don did feel a little like a mole pulled into the daylight, glad to put on his sunglasses against the bright afternoon sun. It was a crisp fall day, a beautiful day to be sprung from the hospital. Still, there was something intimidating about being out in the world again, outside the cocoon of the hospital, obnoxious though it could be at times.


"Ready to go?" Tim asked, sliding behind the wheel, wreathed in smiles.


"You have to ask? I see our security is on the job," he said, looking in the passenger-side rearview mirror. A black sedan was parked behind them.


"Pollack is going to follow us home and check out the house before we go in. That's what he's been doing whenever I've gone home for anything. He could have driven us home, but I thought you'd like this better."


"How'd you know?" Don asked, partially joking, but partly serious. He'd never liked their bodyguard, though he couldn't give a logical reason for it. Certainly no reason that was good enough to terminate the man's service. Tim had been kept perfectly safe and didn't seem to mind Pollack, so there was no reason to rock the boat.


"Because you don't like him, even though you don't seem to find anything wrong with what he does."


"You think it's just because he reminds me of Fox or one of his goons, huh?"


"I think that's possible, or you just don't like him as a person, which happens sometimes. In any event, he can just as easily follow us as drive us there." Tim started the car and headed for the road. "Now the doctor said you'd have to limit the stairs for the first couple weeks, so you can decide if you want to sleep upstairs or if you want me to make up the guest room downstairs for us. I'll sleep wherever you sleep."


"I want to sleep in our room, in our bed, with you. If I have to slide down the banister to do that, I'll handle it," he added, grinning.


"Hopefully, that won't be necessary," Tim replied, smiling back at him. "I could carry you."


"Sure you could. Then I'd be recovered and you'd be in traction."


"I've carried you before, Donald," Tim reminded him, still smiling.


"Once, about two feet, and then you dropped me."


"I did not drop you. I laid you on the bed."


"Bullshit. You dropped me on the bed too close to the edge because I was heavier than I looked and I almost landed on the floor."


"But you didn't, did you?"


"No, I guess I didn't," Don said, laughing.


"I recall making it up to you."


"That you did," Don confirmed, still smiling. "Still, I think I'll go up the steps under my own power, even if I have to do it slowly." He turned to look at Tim, whose expression had suddenly changed to one of worry. Then he saw him pump the brakes a couple times.


"Donald, we don't have brakes."


"Calm down, honey. Just pump them a few times."


"That's what I'm doing! There are no brakes!" he shot back in that panicked way of his when Don wasn't sure how he managed to articulate so many words in so short a time. "Oh, my God," he said, looking at the busy intersection ahead.


"Start laying on your horn and put on your emergency lights," Don said. He took hold of the gearshift and pulled the car from "drive" into first gear, and the car slowed only marginally. "Push down on the emergency brake - - slowly, Timmy."


"We're almost to the intersection!"


"Push down slowly or we're liable to be on the sidewalk."


Tim tried it, just as he was instructed, but the car didn't stop. "Oh, my God!" He kept pressing on the horn, and as they passed through the intersection, he grabbed Don's hand and held on tight.


"We're still okay, honey," Don said, squeezing back, relieved that they'd made it through the intersection with a lot of blaring horns, a couple close calls, but no collisions. "Put both hands on the wheel and turn right up here. It's a low-traffic street and we can look for a placed to stop." He put his hand on Tim's shoulder, trying to keep him calm.


"I can't slow it down."


"We're going downhill, that's why. Just stay calm and turn right up here."


Tim managed the turn, and they found themselves speeding down a quiet side street.


"See that hedge with the mailbox in the middle of it? Aim for the first bush in the hedge."


"You want me to run into it?"


"The car's heavier, we'll be okay, but it'll slow us down. Now do it, but don't jerk the wheel."


"Easy for you to say," Tim shot back, swerving just as Don directed him, impacting with the first shrub in the series with an unerring precision. The car destroyed three shrubs, the mailbox, and two more shrubs before coming to a stop at an angle on the unfortunate homeowner's front lawn.


"Nice job, honey," Don said, and Tim just flashed him a look before leaning back in the seat, his head on the headrest.


"I think I'm gonna be sick."


"Not in the car with me, you're not."


"I can't throw up on their lawn after what we did to it. That's just...too much," Tim managed, swallowing hard, laying a hand on his stomach.


"Let me borrow your cell," he said, holding out his hand. Tim withdrew it from his coat, his hand still shaking. "You did great, Timmy. We're fine, the car's not totaled, everything's okay. Couldn't have done better myself."


"Really? Are you okay? We had a rough stop."


"I could have done without the last bounce or two, but I'm all right," Don confirmed as he dialed Bailey's number.


"Bailey." The voice sounded harried and frustrated.


"Hey, Bub, it's Don. Timothy and I are sitting in his car in the middle of someone's hedge, on top of their mailbox. I see a woman in the front window of the house on the phone, pulling at her hair...she's probably calling 9-1-1."


"You had an accident on the way home from the hospital? Now that's what I call bad luck."


"Not exactly. The brakes failed."


"Shit. I take it you don't think this is a simple mechanical problem?"


"Tim's car is only a year old, and he keeps it well maintained."


"Gee, just like your car, huh?"


"Very funny."


"I'm on my way out, anyway. Where are you?" He paused to write down the address Don gave him. "Just sit tight there. If other cops show up on the scene, tell them I'm on my way, and not to move the car, no matter how riled up the homeowner gets. I'll have a couple lab people check it out before we move it."


"Right. Thanks." Don hung up, then his scalp tightened and he could feel his own nostrils flaring as Pollack pulled up to the curb behind them. "Stay here."


"Donald, what are you doing? You need to take it easy!" Tim protested as Don was out of the car faster than his healing body should have allowed, anger making the pain secondary.


As Pollack got out of his car, Don stalked around the hood until he was face to face with the bodyguard.


"Where the fuck were you?! What are we paying you for, anyway?" he demanded.


"You ran the light at a major intersection and you were going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. It took me a while to catch up."


"That would be a big consolation if we crashed, or if someone got to one of us while you were screwing around in traffic! Did it ever fucking occur to you to follow us? To try to overtake us with your great big fucking V-8 muscle car and get in front of us so you could help us stop?"


"I'm assigned to protect the two of you, not die for you. If you're not happy with my services, take it up with the agency."


"Don't think I won't. All you've done for the last week is sit on your ass, eat cafeteria food, and follow Timothy around. We have one fucking crisis and you're too fucking scared to do your fucking job!" Don shouted, and by then Tim was at his side.


"Donald, calm down," he said, touching his shoulder, which only made Don angrier, and he jerked his shoulder to discourage the gesture.


"I'm not a goddamned invalid!" he shot back, and Tim blinked a time or two, unused to being on the receiving end of such a sharp retort from Don. "Get out of here," he said to Pollack. "You're fucking useless, and I won't pay you for another second of your piss-poor service!"


"Fine," Pollack said, putting on his sunglasses. "I've about had it with fairy-sitting anyway." As he walked away, Don started following him, but this time, Tim pounced on him, getting his arms around Don from behind and pulling back.


"Let me go!"


"Donald, just calm down. Let it go. You fired him, he was angry, let it go. You're just getting over surgery."


"Then get your hands off me!" he shouted, panicking at the restraint, a cold sweat popping out on his forehead. "Let go of me!" Without even thinking, he sent his elbow back sharply, and the moment he heard the grunt of pain and was released, he felt the bile rise in his throat. While Tim hadn't graced the lawn with the fruits of his nausea, Don did, vomiting in the mangled shrubs until all he had left were heaves, and he was on his knees in the grass, violent cramps making him hold onto his stomach.


"Try to breathe, honey. It's okay," Tim's soft voice was close to his ear, but he was only venturing a light touch to Don's hair, stroking a little. Fortunately, the only resident who seemed to be home in the immediate area was the woman who lived in that house, and she was on her porch, watching them, still talking on the phone, apparently not wanting to get involved in the whole mess until the police arrived. Don couldn't really spare her a thought. Between the clammy sweat making him feel sticky and shaky, and the horrible realization he'd lashed out at the one person he loved more than his own life, it was all he could do to keep the heaves from coming back up on him again.


"I'm sorry," he gasped, and he didn't even care if the baffled woman on the porch saw him sag against Tim's chest. "After they got done beating the crap out of me, that's how they got my pants off, holding me so I couldn't move my arms," he whispered, letting tears come as Tim took the chance to put gentle arms around him, so different from the brutal, crushing grip Fox and his asshole buddies had used to restrain him. "Timmy, I'm sorry."


"It's okay, honey. It's not your fault. I should have never grabbed you like that. I wasn't thinking. I just didn't want you to take on that idiot, Pollack, and hurt yourself."


"Did I hurt you?"


"You've got a mean flipper on you, but I think I'll live."


"I couldn't move, and they were pulling my clothes off and my arms were pinned so hard against me I couldn't do anything. I was so fucking scared."


"I know, baby. You're safe now."


"Why am I shaking so hard? I can't stop shaking."


"Shhh. I've got you. Just hang onto me and breathe. The shaking will get better if you can calm your breathing. Nice, deep breaths. That's it," Tim soothed, rubbing his back in long strokes. He could feel a little of the shaking getting better, his stomach settling a bit, as he focused on that warm, gentle hand on his back, on the reassurance of Tim's arms around him, and his heart beating close to Don's ear. There were sirens in the distance.


"I don't want to be on the ground when the cops get here," he said, embarrassed enough by the performance he'd put on for the woman on her porch.


"Okay. Just stand up with me, nice and easy. How's your pain, honey?" he asked as they stood.


"It hurts, but I don't want to go back to the hospital. I'll be okay."


"I'm sorry I grabbed you so hard. I never even thought about how that would feel to you."


"Are you sure you're all right? Sweetheart, I'd never hit you. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."


"Donald, darling, just calm down. I'm fine, just a little winded."


"Are you sure?"


"Yes, I'm sure. Bailey's here," he said, and Don was glad the detective was the first to arrive.


"You two look rough," Bailey said. "Are you sure you don't need an ambulance?" he said, taking in Don's appearance and the fact that he looked like he was leaning on Tim.


"I think we just need a ride home more than anything else," Tim said.


"I can do that. Why don't you get what you need out of your car and go get in my car? As soon as I check things out here, I'll take you home. The lab will probably need to go over the car, so you may be without it a couple days."


"We'll rent something," Don said, feeling exhausted, hoping Bailey wasn't planning to spend too long at the scene.


When he and Tim were finally in the back of the sedan, he let his head rest against the seat, trying not to think too much about the last time he was in the back of a car like this, injured, begging for help and being driven to the drunk tank instead. He felt ridiculous, like a frightened child, clinging to the stuffed gorilla like it was his long-lost teddy bear. It was all that was keeping him from crawling over on top of Timmy, trying to sit on his lap and hide in his arms. Tim must have picked up on his thoughts, because he reached over and covered Don's hand with his own.


"I'm so sorry I hit you," Don said again, the thought of it making his heart heavy and his stomach turn.


"You didn't mean to, honey. It's okay."


"No, it's not. Timmy, I couldn't live with it if I hurt you."


"I know that, and I know you didn't mean it. I grabbed you without thinking, and you panicked. Neither one of us handled it too brilliantly."


"I guess not," Don agreed, smiling, pulling Tim's hand up so he could kiss the back of it.


"I'm more worried about your stitches. How much pain are you in?"


"I don't think I did any serious damage. Besides, when I get home, my boyfriend's going to put me to bed and spoil me. I'll be fine."


********


Don didn't realize he'd fallen asleep in the back of the car until Tim's soft voice and a gentle hand was urging him to wake up because they were home. He pulled himself out of the car, knowing that would probably frustrate Timmy since he'd be rushing around to help him. Still, he needed to feel able to do at least that much on his own, even if he was way overdue for a pain pill, and the overexertion of trying to confront Pollack and struggle with Tim had made the discomfort flare up more than he would admit.


He was surprised to see his car in the driveway.


"I thought you'd be holding it for evidence or something," he said to Bailey, finding the sight of the rickety old car oddly comforting and reassuringly normal. It was like having a piece of his old life back. He touched the side of it, the metal cool under his fingertips. Then he frowned. The largest dent was missing. He leaned over a little and ran his hand along the door.


"My brother owns a garage. I took a little detour with it when the lab was finished with it. John didn't do anything miraculous, but he bumped out a few dents, replaced a few things under the hood that were on their last legs - - like your starter - - put the interior through what he calls his 'new car special' - cleans everything until it's as close to perfect as he can get it."


"Let me know what I owe him," Don said. "Thanks for doing that."


"It's on the house. I'm not big on sending guys flowers, even if they are in the hospital, so this was the next best thing," he added, and Don had to chuckle at that, though when he wanted to thank Bailey, he found his throat tight and his emotions closer to the surface than he wanted. Maybe it was okay if Bailey knew the gesture moved him that much.


"Thank you," he said, knowing his eyes were filling, and determined not to let his emotions get the better of him. He held out his hand to shake, which Bailey did, smiling, patting Don's shoulder with his free hand.


"I guess it's a good thing, since you're down to one car for a while," he added. "Where's your bodyguard?"


"I fired his ass," Don shot back, still bristling about the whole situation. "We could have been killed, and he was worried about his own safety and watching the speed limit. And where was he when someone tampered with Timmy's brakes?"


"We don't know yet that someone did, but I'll let you know as soon as the lab's done checking things out. Meanwhile, I'll send a car over here tonight to keep an eye on you two."


"Thanks," Tim said, smiling, looking relieved.


"Any word on Stenski?"


"IAB is expected to make their decision anytime now. The DA is looking at it, too. I think you'll see criminal charges brought against him as well, given the severity of the outcome...and the fact that we have a state senator watching the process."


"I hope that, and our negotiating a settlement with the department, isn't putting undue pressure on you," Tim said. "You've done all you could for us through this whole situation."


"It's not causing me any problems. It's actually making it easier for me to focus on putting this case together and using whatever departmental resources I need to get the job done. I've got to get rolling, and I think the patient has had about all the excitement he needs for his first day out of the hospital. I'll keep a car here until you can hire new security."


"Thank you," Tim said, and Don could see the fatigue in his face and hear it in his voice.


"Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow about what we need to deal with next."


"The lineups," Don said, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't remember being this tired.


"Everybody's been charged with something. Whoever you couldn't ID from the photos, Hanover placed at the scene. A few of them are trying to strike deals, but I've asked the DA to hold off on that, pending your final stab at identifying them. I don't want to let someone skate if they were guilty of doing some of the most serious damage."


"Just let me know what you need me to do."


"You want me to take a walk through the house before you get settled in?"


"We're okay," Don said, but Tim objected.


"Pollack usually did that before I went in alone," he spoke up, and Bailey nodded.


"It's a good idea since you don't have your gun on you," he said to Don. "Incidentally, we have your gun, your phone, and a couple clothing items in evidence. I'm working on getting the gun and the phone released to you," he said as they walked up to the front door and Tim unlocked it.


"What about my camera?"


"It's in evidence." Bailey paused. "There are photos on it that may be pertinent to the case."


"I know. I took photos of the cars, the men who arrived there, and... That's not what you're talking about, is it?"


They stepped into the foyer, and Tim shut the door behind them.


"It looks like one of Fox's guys took pictures. None of them show the faces of the men at that...party, if that's what they call it. They're pictures of the assault that he's claiming prove you were a willing participant."


"How could any picture prove that? I didn't willingly participate in anything."


"We know that, Don," Tim said softly, touching his back reassuringly, letting his hand linger there.


"Do you really want to get into this right now?" Bailey asked.


"I want to know how they could possibly prove that I wanted any part of what happened to me."


"They took photos of Maxwell...when he was forcing you to...respond," Bailey said, looking extremely uncomfortable with what he was saying. "I've worked with enough rape cases to know that's a crock of bullshit that doesn't prove anything, but it's probably better that you know what they're pulling."


"Oh, good, photos." Don sat on the bottom step. "I'm surprised they haven't set up their own porn site and started selling them. Fox is an enterprising son-of-a-bitch, after all."


"Apparently, he raked in a thousand bucks a piece from his guests on a typical night."


"At least I was an expensive whore. That's reassuring."


"Donald," Tim chided gently, sitting next to him on the step. "You're not any kind of a whore, and no one is going to believe you were there willingly."


"I'll take a look around," Bailey said, easing past them to go upstairs.


"I'm sorry, honey," Don said, hating what this was putting Tim through, that it just kept getting more sordid and more upsetting and more dangerous for him with each passing day.


"You're alive, here with me," Tim said, putting his arm around Don's shoulders, squeezing a little. "That's all I need. You don't have anything to apologize for. You didn't do anything wrong, and you didn't want any of the awful things they did to you. I know that, and I believe you, no matter what they do to twist the truth around to make their case."


"I don't know if I can do this. If they keep claiming I wanted it, that it was voluntary, and they push this to trial... Timothy, I can't picture all of this in open court."


"Then don't. Maybe it won't come to that. We'll face one thing at a time, and we'll face it together. And if there comes a time when you can't testify, or you can't go forward with this, I'll stand by you in that decision, just as I'll stand by you if we have to go through a trial and you do testify."


"Upstairs is clear," Bailey said, passing them to go through the first floor. A moment later, he was back in the foyer. "You're all set. Get some sleep and let the cops worry about the case for a while."


"Thanks for all your help," Don said, forcing a smile that ended up just tugging one corner of his mouth upward.


"Comes with the job," he said with a slight smile, heading out the door, closing it behind him.


"Are you more hungry or more tired?" Tim asked, and Don just smiled, letting his head droop on Tim's shoulder.


"I'm not really hungry, but I feel light-headed."


"Throwing up didn't help, and you should have something in your stomach to take the pain medication. Let's get you up to bed, and I'll bring us a tray. We can have something to eat together and then take a nap."


"You're so good to me."


"I like taking care of you. I wish you didn't need me to for this reason, but I like to do things for you." Tim kissed the top of his head. "Come on. Upstairs."


"I've been in bed so much. You think we could have lunch in the kitchen? I'd like to eat sitting up like a normal person for a change," he added.


"How about a compromise? You stretch out on the couch and rest a while, I'll make us lunch, and we'll eat it at the counter like we usually do?"


"Deal," Donald agreed, smiling. He knew he was tired, upset, and not thinking too clearly, but sometimes it felt like Timmy knew everything. At least, everything worthwhile about dealing with him, even at his crabbiest. The only good thing about being under the weather was being the focus of TLC from Timmy. Even his last bout with the flu hadn't seemed so bad, although now Timmy dragged him in for a flu shot every year, when he got his own. Apparently, he decided since the flu had the audacity to attack Donald in the first place, it was going to pay the price in all subsequent years by being vanquished pre-season.


He tossed his jacket on the back of the couch and curled up on the cushions, sticking a pillow under his head. Compared to the hospital bed, it felt like heaven. Though his eyes had drifted shut, he smiled when he felt the throw being carefully draped over him with gentle hands. He relaxed to the familiar, friendly sounds of Timmy puttering around in the kitchen, making them something good to eat. He was home, and he could see, smell, hear, and feel home all around him. He felt safe and loved, and like he could finally start healing the emotional wounds that just didn't seem to get any better in the sterile, noisy hospital where he had so little control over his schedule, himself, or who was coming and going. Home with Timmy was always his sanctuary, and this was no different.


The sound of breaking glass shook Don out of his light nap.


"Timmy?" Don was on his feet quickly, hurrying out to the kitchen where Tim was leaning on the counter, as if it were holding him up. A glass was shattered at his feet, where he'd apparently lost his grip on it. "Honey, what is it?" He put his arm around Tim's shoulders. Then he heard the news in the background and looked up at the screen in the kitchen.


"...charges include sexual assault and kidnapping. The identity of the victim is being withheld in keeping with this station's policy of protecting the names of rape victims. More information on this and other stories tonight at six," the news anchor concluded.


"I never saw Fox's picture before," Tim finally said, fine tremors still running through his body.


"It's okay, honey," Don said. "Seeing a picture can make things seem more real," he said, rubbing Tim's back gently. "Timmy, what's wrong?"


"You don't understand, Donald," Tim said miserably. "I...I know him."


"Who? Fox? How?"


"Please, Don, I can't... You'll never want anything to do with me again if I tell you."


"Oh, honey, there's nothing you could tell me that would make me feel that way," Don said, a smile in his voice, despite the seriousness of the conversation. How could Timmy think there was anything he could say or do that would ever make Don not love him?


"I dated him several years before I met you," he said. "It wasn't anything long-term. I broke it off with him after a month or so."


"That makes sense...why he was so interested in your picture in my wallet. Why he made so many remarks about you. I thought he was just needling me."


"I...I slept with him back then, Don," he said, his voice holding the same guilt as if he were confessing to a murder. Truth be told, the whole idea made Don's skin crawl, but it wasn't Timmy's fault, any more than the rape was his fault. If Tim dated Fox all those years ago, they were both adults; it made sense they would have had sex at some point.


"I don't understand...you didn't recognize his name?"


"He didn't go by 'Simon' then. He went by 'Jim'. I think his middle initial was 'S', so maybe he changed over to using his middle name for some reason. Fox isn't that unusual a last name, so I didn't think anything of it. I haven't thought about him in years."


"Come on, sit down with me."


"Don, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was him."


"You didn't do anything wrong, Timmy. Come on, sit down, tell me about it." Once they were sitting on the couch, Tim ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head.


"It was years ago, and he didn't mean anything to me. At the time, it was kind of a hassle, but I never even think about him."


"The thought of that asshole touching you makes me want to hunt him down and kill him even more than I already do." Don touched Timmy's cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers.


"You've been so worried that I wouldn't want to touch you. How can you ever stand to touch me again knowing that I went out with him...that I slept with him?" The last words came out laden with more self-loathing than even Don had felt himself over his ordeal, as if Tim could have somehow known what kind of monster he'd been with all those years ago.


"Why don't you just tell me what happened, how you met him...how you broke it off? It's okay, Timmy. There's nothing you could tell me that would change how I feel about you. I love you. You're the one beautiful, amazing thing in my life that makes all of this bearable."


"After I broke up with Andrew, I was at loose ends. I didn't date much, never really got serious with anyone. My friends kept telling me it was because I was too busy looking for Mr. Right instead of Mr. Right Now. Yes, someone actually said that to me," he added, shaking his head. "They were right. It's never been easy for me to be casual about relationships. Maybe it's because I was a virgin until I was in college. I wasn't attracted to girls in high school, and once I was in the seminary, my sexuality was...excess baggage if I wanted to be a priest. Anyway, I've never been good at having sex with somebody just for fun and not...getting attached. Andrew told me I needed to work on that."


"Andrew was an asshole," Don said, sliding his arm around Timmy, resting his chin on Tim's shoulder. "Is that why you really broke it off with him?"


"Maybe he broke up with me more than I did with him."


"You said you ended things."


"I did, technically. I was the one who said let's end it. But it was a matter of time. Andrew was a couple years ahead of me at college, and he was putting in resumes all over the country." Tim sighed. "I knew he wasn't going to be around forever, that he didn't really love me. At least, not in the way you build a lifetime on."


"How did you meet Fox?"


"About five years after I broke it off with Andrew, I was at the commitment ceremony for a couple friends of mine, and they had a big reception...expensive hall, great food, live music. It was a terrific party. Fox was Angela's cousin - - Angela being one of the two who got married. She kept after me to meet him, to dance with him... I wasn't overly excited, even then."


"You must have liked him a little."


"That's a good description. I liked him a little. He was good looking, and he was really hung up on me. To a degree, that was a little unsettling, really. He called me every day, sent me gifts, wanted to be with me every night, go somewhere practically every night of the week."


"I called you every day, too. Did I creep you out?" Don asked, smiling. He wanted Timmy to smile, just a little. He hadn't done anything wrong, and he needed Tim to know that, to feel that he wasn't upset with him.


"You were different. With you, I felt all the things my friends told me I wouldn't feel the first time I looked at somebody. I knew you were the one, and I was so glad you felt the way I did. Every time my cell phone rang, I wanted it to be you."


"How did you know I was the one?"


"Do you remember the first time we danced together? At that club where we met?"


"Like it was yesterday."


"All these couples were out there...grinding on each other, even to the slow songs. It's not that I don't like grinding as much as the next person, but there was something about it - - "


"Like a meat market with music," Don said, snorting a laugh.


"I normally didn't even go to that place, but I went out with some people from work, and we ended up there. But you approached me, and you didn't care that we were in a regular club, not a gay club, and you braved it when I was sitting there with a bunch of other people, and just walked right up and asked me to dance. Like you knew I'd say yes."


"I didn't know for sure. But most of your friends were getting out and dancing with people, and you weren't... Women were giving you the eye, approaching you, and you were either ignoring them or turning them down. I hoped that meant you were gay and not just picky. And you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, so I figured I'd only have myself to blame if I didn't give it a shot."


"You outed yourself to the people you were there with just to ask me to dance," Tim said, smiling.


"Yeah, well, they were just clients who wanted to thank me for solving their case, and going out to the club was their idea. They weren't people I was going to spend my life with. When I laid eyes on you, all bets were off. I'd have danced through a biker bar in a pink tutu if I thought that would get you to say yes."


"I could have done without that mental image, Donald," Tim replied, though he was laughing softly.


"Sorry," Don said, smiling broadly himself, completely unrepentant for saying something that eased a little of Timmy's distress.


"You asked me to dance, and then you danced with me like...a gentleman. In the middle of all the grinding and pickups and straight couples, you danced cheek to cheek with me, and you looked into my eyes like you wanted to be with me forever."


"I did. I still do. Always will."


Tim smiled, and they kissed, letting the ugly subject of Fox rest a few minutes while they lost themselves in each other, just kissing, reaffirming their love. Then Tim pulled back and went on with his story.


"About three weeks into our relationship, he talked me into letting him stay over. Sleeping together. I didn't feel ready. I didn't love him. I didn't even like him a lot. I don't know why I even slept with him. I suppose I was lonely, and I figured maybe I was just being too much of a prude, and too choosy...finding something wrong with every guy I met. It was obvious he was really...hung up on me. Let's just say the Earth didn't move."


"Did he hurt you?" Don asked, wondering if he could handle it if Tim said yes.


"Not exactly. It was consensual. He was just...rough and inconsiderate, I guess. He didn't know the meaning of the word foreplay, and the whole thing was just uncomfortable - - physically and in every other possible way. I felt used. I avoided his calls for a couple days, and then I broke up with him."


"Did he handle that well?"


"He kept sending me gifts, calling me all the time, showing up at my apartment. I finally told him if he didn't leave me alone, I was going to file stalking charges and get a restraining order against him. I never heard from him after that."


"When Fox and his buddy, Maxwell, found me outside the gym, he acted like he recognized my name, and he was kind of fixated on the wedding picture of us I have in my wallet."


"Oh, my God," Tim muttered, swallowing hard. "Oh, please, God, it can't be because of me," he said, covering his mouth.


"The guy he's dating now...I swear, Timmy, he could be your brother. It's part of the reason I wanted so much to help him, because he reminded me of you."


"What he did to you was so risky and...and...insane. And so brutal. There had to be something else driving him, and if it was because of me - - "


"If it was because of you, then it just means Fox is a deranged sadist who's also obsessed and unable to move on with his life. It doesn't make it your fault."


"Donald, if he hurt you this way because of me, because he was trying to hurt me by hurting you... I don't think I can live with that." He stood up and walked over to the fireplace. Don stood and moved up close behind him, wrapping his arms around Tim from behind, resting his head between Tim's shoulder blades.


"Honey, even if he had it in for me because I married you, it doesn't change how I feel about you. It's not your fault. The only reason it matters is because we know he's still obsessed enough with you to do something like that, to hook up with someone who looks like you, to commit a brutal crime against the person you're married to. It means this is as much about you now as it is about me."


"I don't want you to be repulsed when you think about the fact I...was with him."


"Repulsed? Timmy, you're the only person I want close to me right now. And you're the only one I ever want to make love to for the rest of my life. I don't know how I'm gonna handle all this, if I'll ever be okay again, but I know I love you, and there's nothing you could tell me that would ever make me feel repulsed."


"Donald, I'm so, so sorry," Tim said, his voice broken.


"Come here." Don urged him to turn around, wrapping him in a tight hug. "It's okay, honey."


"You almost died," he said miserably, his grip on Don tightening as he cried on Don's shoulder.


"I know, but I didn't, and none of this is your fault."


"I never told you about him. Maybe if I had, you would have put two and two together and known who he was - - "


"It was years before I told you about Kyle. I haven't told you about everyone I ever went out with, either. What's the point? It's not that it's a secret, it's just that it doesn't really mean anything. It's not your fault that you didn't think telling me about this idiot was important. You didn't love him, it was a bad experience, and it was in the past."


"I can't believe he's still obsessed with me. That he'd do something so...awful because of me."


"I can believe someone being obsessed with you, being unable to let you go," Don said, rubbing Tim's back, kissing his cheek. "If you hadn't wanted me, I don't know how long it would have taken you to get rid of me."


"How can you forgive me for this?"


"There's nothing to forgive, honey," Don said gently, more upset by how devastated Tim was than he was about the revelation itself.


"If you'd never met me - - "


"I'd have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me. Nothing can change that." Don pulled back and took Tim's troubled face in both hands. "Not even this," he said, brushing at the wetness on Tim's cheeks with his thumbs. "I wouldn't trade you...us...for anything in the world. Honey, so many things came together to make this happen. The odds were so slim that we'd ever run into Fox, or that he'd be in a position to do anything like this to me. Nobody could have predicted this, and you couldn't have known that not telling me about him would matter. Did he keep harassing you over the years?"


"No, I never heard from him."


"See? How would you know that he'd ever be an issue to either one of us? Why would you ever think about it?"


"I know you're probably right. I just...can't stand the thought of what he did to you," Tim added, a couple more tears running down his cheeks. "I just want to fix it for you somehow, and now...I'm the reason it happened."


"No, Fox being a sadistic, twisted, violent asshole is the reason it happened. Not you. Not ever you. Got that?"


"I got it," Tim said, forcing a little smile.


"Good." Don kissed him, a soft contact that deepened into a more intense meeting of the mouths, even though the kiss was an end in itself, at least for Don. "Rumor has it you fixed me some lunch," Don joked, and Tim smiled.


"It's probably cold by now," he said, apologetic. "I'll heat it up."


They went to the kitchen, and Don insisted Tim sit at the counter first. "I'll stick this in the microwave," Don offered.


"You need to rest."


"Let me do something useful for a change. You made the lunch. I can reheat it," Don said, setting the first plate in the microwave, warming up the chicken and rice dish Tim had put together.


They ate their lunch, though neither had a huge appetite, especially after the revelation they'd both just confronted. Don was glad he'd insisted on eating downstairs. It felt good to be up and around, even if he was feeling more exhausted by the minute and was beginning to look forward to bed again. Timmy looked worn-out, so lounging in bed would do him some good, too. Still, sharing their lunch the way they shared so many meals in their kitchen felt like being home.


After convincing Tim that he was strong enough, wasn't dizzy, would use the railing, and was a big boy, after all, Don made his slow trek up the stairs on his own, while Tim rinsed their dishes and tidied up after their meal. He adored Timmy for his doting, but it felt good to do something on his own, in his own home, even if it was something as simple as walking upstairs.


He was tired when he reached the top, and he could feel some pain inside, like it probably aggravated the surgical repair a bit, but eating again was aggravating it, too, so he wasn't sure which thing was the culprit. The doctor assured him that would get better over the next several weeks, but the inevitable cramping and discomfort that followed eating made the whole thing a battle between his appetite struggling to regain its footing and his disinclination to deal with the food making its slow, inexorable journey to a part of his insides that felt ill-equipped to cope with it.


When he walked into the bedroom, it was as pristine and nicely kept as ever. When he'd lived alone, he was lucky to find the bed, since housekeeping wasn't at the top of his priority list, and he had a tendency to toss things wherever they wanted to land when he came home tired after a long day. Tim had a hamper for this, a basket for that, and it was a couple of years into their marriage before Don realized that Tim had equipped their home for a "tosser" like him. He could still toss things; Tim just had hampers, drawers, bins, or baskets available to catch them. If Tim tidied up his mistaken tosses, he never mentioned it.


Don went to the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out the locked box that held his spare gun. He put the clip in and slipped the box back in its drawer. There might be a cop car outside, but he wasn't about to chance not having a gun handy in case whoever tampered with the brakes decided on more direct, aggressive action. He tucked the gun under the pillows on his side of the bed.


Don paused there, by the side of the bed, and couldn't help thinking about the last time he'd been in it. A stolen lunchtime interlude with Timmy…urgent, intense, tender, beautiful lovemaking. Sharing their bodies without reservation, without pain, fear, bad memories...their sex life was so amazingly beautiful that Don had always felt he was the luckiest man in the world. If everyone's married sex life was like his, no one would cheat. Hell, most married people probably wouldn't leave home if their sex lives were that good.


And now, what did he have to offer Timmy in that department? While thinking of his partner's naked body flooded his insides with a warm, good feeling of love, it did nothing to stir his dick, which he felt like he could donate to charity and not miss it. He had no idea how many unwelcome hands had pawed between his legs, on his ass, pulled at his thighs. The thought of anyone's hands there made his stomach turn. Despite the doctor's assurances he could resume a normal sex life, including anal sex, once he was recovered, the mere thought of it made him break out in a cold sweat.


Who was he kidding? He'd fought so hard against letting those assholes take anything away from his life with Timmy, from what he could only think of as his passionate lifetime love affair with him, and yet here was such a vital part of what made them a couple, made them more than best friends, and it was destroyed, shattered, and he had no idea how to rebuild it, or how to make himself want to be touched that way. Part of him longed to feel Timmy's body against his, skin on skin, but it was some strange, neutered version that just longed for that intimacy, that closeness...without doing anything more about it. That was hardly fair to Tim, who still had a healthy sex drive and needs of his own.


Sure, honey, let's cuddle naked, but I don't want to have sex with you and don't touch my cock, my balls, or my ass.


Yeah, that was fair to Tim.


"I should have turned that back for you. The spread's probably heavier than what you should be pulling around just yet," Tim said, obviously interpreting Don's blank, idiotic stare at the bed to be a hesitance to turn it back on his own.


"I was just thinking about the last time we were in here together," he said honestly. There was no point in ignoring the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the corner that was their missing sex life. Tim paused, holding onto the bedspread, which he'd pulled off the pillows. "I remember how beautiful it used to be making love with you."


"Honey, you've only been out of the hospital a few hours, and with everything you've been through, don't rush it. Those feelings will come back eventually."


"But you have them now. There's nothing wrong with you."


"There's nothing wrong with you, either. You need to recover. Your body has to heal, and you need time to cope with what you've been through. I know that, Donald. I'm not timing you, or waiting in a building sexual frenzy to get satisfied. I've gone a long time between...encounters in my life, and nothing shriveled up and fell off. In case you forgot, I was prepared to take a vow of celibacy to go into the priesthood."


"Yeah, but I bet you never guessed you'd have to take one because your partner was all fucked up and couldn't do it." Don held up his hand. "I know you've told me it doesn't matter how long it takes, but it matters to me. I miss you. I miss holding you like that, feeling you against me, tasting you, smelling you...I miss that..."


"Intimacy?" Tim asked gently, making his way around the foot of the bed to stand next to Don.


"It's like they took that away from me."


"You had to cope with so many people touching you in a way you didn't want to be touched." Tim caressed his head gently, and he let himself be guided into Tim's arms. "You've made an amazing recovery so far, honey. We're going to take this journey together, and we'll go as fast or as slow as we have to. We've got our whole lives, and we'll rebuild our sex life the way we renovated our first house together. We just lived amidst the boxes and plastic and nails and paint until it was finished. We got leaked on, the furnace gave us problems, we went over budget...but eventually, it was finished, and it was beautiful. Our sex life will be again someday, baby." He kissed Don's temple.


"I know it's insane and that you don't feel that way, but there's this part of me that just feels like I'm too...dirty to be with you like that anymore. That you'll think about what happened and that I'm not clean and safe anymore..."


"They didn't find any signs of semen on you or in you, honey. The doctor said they used protection, and we'll make sure we follow up on getting you tested when we need to, just to be safe. All your tests were clean in the hospital. But even if the worst happened and you contracted something from this whole nightmare, we'd figure out how to be as safe and healthy as we could, and then we'd still be able to be together."


"All those assholes pawed at me and handled me and now I'm with you and I don't want you to touch me there." Though he was angry at them for coming, he couldn't fight the tears that came with that thought. With that awful confession to the man he loved so much, the one he'd trusted to bathe him, collect his piss in a bottle when he was too weak to get out of bed, put ointment prescribed by the doctor in the one place he wouldn't let another living soul touch...how ridiculous was this? To be afraid of Timothy making love with him? To not let him touch places in desire that he'd already touched since the attack with so much love and tenderness that sometimes Don felt that alone could heal the pain. I love you, and you can bathe me and wipe my ass and take care of me, but don't you dare enjoy touching me...


"I understand, honey. It's okay."


"You had to touch me all the time in the hospital, and I trusted you...I do trust you..."


"That's different. You needed someone to take care of you, and it was less scary for me to do it because you didn't have to be afraid of being hurt, or of having strangers do it. That doesn't mean you enjoyed not having control over your own body and not having your independence when you needed to feel it so much. I know you need to get your personal space back."


"I don't want a personal space from you," he sobbed into Tim's shoulder, knowing he was sending out a bunch of screwed-up mixed signals. He just clung to Timmy and prayed he'd sort them out.


"You're tired, and it's a lot to think through. You don't have to solve everything right now."


"Somebody tried to kill us. I need to have my head on straight, to be able to take care of us, figure out who wants us dead."


"That's why we have police protection, and Bailey will work hard on this case for us. I trust him, don't you?"


"It's what I do, Timmy. I need to figure this out and my mind...just won't settle down and focus."


"The pain medication has something to do with that, too, honey. Even if you won't let yourself off the hook for a while to heal emotionally from what you've been through, pain pills make your mind foggy. You're out of the hospital, but you have some physical recovery to get through before you can push yourself."


"I just hate feeling so fucking weak and stupid," he said, wishing he could crawl into Timmy's skin with him and just stay this warm and safe, with those strong arms around him in such a good way, so protective and comforting.


"You're not weak or stupid, Donald. If you were, you wouldn't be alive right now, and you wouldn't be so anxious to get back to your life. It's because you're strong and independent and brave that you're railing against this so hard. Your spirit is trying to drag your body along behind it, and it's not ready yet."


"They were so wrong to kick you out of the seminary," Don said, finally feeling a little peace of mind returning, thanks to Timmy's undying patience with him and his seemingly inexhaustible supply of love and compassion.


"If they hadn't, I wouldn't be here, holding you in my arms right now, so I'm glad they did." Tim's reply reminded him of an old conversation, how easy it was for Tim to turn his back on thoughts of any other path his life could have taken just for the sheer joy of loving Donald.


"You always know what to say to make me feel better. With that big heart of yours...you would have done so much good for so many people, and you would have been the kind of priest that priests ought to be."


Tim was quiet a moment, then his voice came out in a strained whisper. "That's a beautiful thing to say. Thank you."


Don didn't know where he was going with it, but he gave in to the urge to kiss Timmy, to take him in his arms like a lover, like he had hundreds of times before, when he could take for granted that the encounter would end in bed, making love. All he knew is that he needed to feel that closeness, and he needed to feel desired, wanted...even if stirring those feelings in Timmy was wrong when he couldn't follow through.


Tim's response left little doubt of his desire. He opened his mouth to Don's tongue, slid his own tongue into Don's mouth. Don's heart fluttered and soared, even if his body didn't respond in kind. Timmy wanted him, wanted his tongue in Don's mouth, Don's tongue in his mouth, even though someone else had violated his mouth, even though someone else's sour, unwanted dick had been shoved in there. Timmy still wanted the taste of him, still kissed him with a hunger and a desire only lovers shared.


His hands shook as he unbuttoned Tim's shirt, tugged it out of his pants and pushed it off his shoulders. He pulled Tim's t-shirt over his head, smiling when he realized his lover didn't want to stop kissing him, that his mouth was back on Don's as soon as the t-shirt was discarded. Tim's hands were a little more hesitant, but after looking in Don's eyes for a split second to be sure it was all right, Tim divested Don of his shirt and his undershirt just as quickly and deftly as he always did. They playfully competed for getting their mouths on each other's chests, kissing, nibbling, caressing.


"Oh, no," Don whispered, pausing, his forehead on Tim's chest.


"What's wrong, honey?" Tim asked, his voice a little breathless.


"I did this," he said, running his fingertips lightly over the darkening bruise under Tim's ribs, where he'd elbowed him to get out of his grasp earlier.


"It's just a bruise, Donald," Tim said gently, caressing his head, kissing his hair. "It doesn't matter."


"I'm so sorry, Timmy." He kissed the bruised area, trailing his lips over the discolored skin, wishing his kisses could erase the damage. "I did this to you. I said I'd always love you, protect you, touch you with love, and they made me break my promise to you."


"Oh, baby, you didn't break any promises. I panicked because I thought you might get hurt taking on Pollack and you panicked because I grabbed you like an idiot without even thinking I might freak you out by restraining you like that. It was an accident, that's all."


"Can you ever forgive me?"


"On one condition."


"Anything," Don said, ready to promise anything, give anything, to make it up to Tim.


"Kiss me again and pick up where we left off," he said, smiling.


"I'm not getting hard," Don said, feeling it was only fair to Timmy to let him know that, for as much as he wanted to touch him, press his body against his, he couldn't follow through with anything.


"It doesn't matter. Let's just be as close as we can be. I'm so tired, I don't know if I could do anything, anyway," he admitted, finally letting down his guard, letting Don see how exhausted he was. It was in his eyes, an almost imperceptible droop of his shoulders, and in his voice that held a huskiness that verged on tears, the way people sound when they're so tired their emotions start running haywire.


Don wrapped his arms around Timmy and just held him a moment. Then he stepped back and undid his own belt and opened his pants, pushing them down, stepping out of them. Tim did the same. Don stood there a moment, a little afraid of what he was doing, but feeling like he needed to do it at the same time. He looked into Timmy's eyes and then pushed down his boxers, stepping out of those, too. Tim did the same. Don got into his side of the bed, and Tim went around to his own side, and got in, too.


The comfort of the mattress held his body gently, but there was something softer about it and the way it enveloped his tired, achy body.


"I got us a featherbed for the top of the mattress. I thought it might be easier on you to have more softness under your body while you're still healing."


"It feels like heaven. God, Timmy, it feels so good." He moved closer to Timmy, who met him halfway, settling Don against his side, Don's head on his chest.


Don hooked his leg over Tim's, making sure they had as much skin on skin as they could. Even if Tim wasn't sure what he wanted, even exhausted, his body knew what it wanted. Don could feel Tim's semi-hard cock against his thigh. He started kissing his way down the middle of Tim's chest, down to his stomach. He rubbed his cheek over his lover's skin, wanting to absorb the very essence of him, to dispel any thoughts Tim might have that his past with Fox would make any difference in how Don felt about him. He kissed the soft skin below Timmy's navel, moving lower to the dark nest of curls under the growing erection.


"You don't have to do this, honey," Tim said, touching his hair gently.


"I know. That's why I want to," Don said honestly, nuzzling him, relishing the familiar scent and feel of the man he loved, of touching and tasting him, of doing something to make Timmy feel good, of reaffirming his claim on his husband. Fox may have been there first, but he was here now, and no one else ever would be again as long as Don had a breath left in his body.


Being with Tim was so many worlds away from the awful experiences that lurked in the dark corners of his mind. When he took Timmy in his mouth, it felt like it had the last time he'd done it, before...everything, when things were easy and uncomplicated. He heard Tim's gasps, the little moans of pleasure that were so sweetly familiar. He took his time, doing all the things with his mouth that he knew drove Timmy crazy in a good way, loving it when he felt that subtle shift that meant Timmy was going to come. When he did come, it was with a sound that was a cross between a shout and a sob.


Don released Tim's lax cock from his mouth, kissing it, happily crawling back up next to Tim to kiss him, too. He was enveloped in waiting arms.


"I love you," Timmy said, kissing him again. "I want to do something for you, if you want me to," he offered hesitantly.


"There's nothing there yet, honey, not even a spark."


"Can I just touch you, kiss you a little? I'll stop if you don't like it."


"I always like you kissing me," Don replied, smiling softly.


Timmy kissed his neck, his shoulders, took him in his arms and held him while he kissed and licked at Don's nipples. There was a little unexpected jolt there, a tiny spark of excitement as he felt the little nubs harden under Timmy's tongue. It was by no means the usual flare of arousal, and he wasn't getting hard...exactly. But there was a stirring in the right places.


"Can I kiss all of you?" Timmy asked, his voice hushed and a little breathless, leaving Don moved that he was getting excited again, just touching him. That he wanted his mouth in places all those assholes had pawed and stuck their filthy dicks.


"Anywhere you want," Don said, feeling a little like he was jumping off a cliff when he said it, not sure how he felt about someone touching those places. What had been done to him had nothing to do with love or tenderness or healing, and his heart was reaching out for that, needing to feel that even the used parts of him were loved, desired.


Timmy's lips traveled everywhere they could reach; his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Tim took his still-flaccid cock gently in his hand and kissed it, then used his lips and tongue to make love to his balls and all the warm places between his legs. Tim never urged him to turn over, but he did, and a moment later, Tim was carefully hovering over him, not putting weight on his healing body, kissing and nibbling at the back of his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe, before moving down his back, unhurried, as if tasting Don was the most exquisite experience his mouth could ever imagine.


Gentle hands were stroking his hips, not holding onto them, not restraining him. Just caressing, leaving him every option to move, to turn over, to get away if that's what he needed. Tears were filling Don's eyes, but they weren't fear or pain. They were just love, the emotion of feeling so desired and so treasured, the way only Timmy could make him feel. The way he made him feel every day, in so many little ways...it was as if the power of all those little moments were woven into this one singular experience.


Soft lips brushed the skin of his buttocks, the occasional flick of a warm, moist tongue between the kisses. He was frustrated that his body wouldn't fully respond, that all the beautiful things Timmy was doing weren't enough to get him hard. Still, he felt that ghost of arousal, that stirring in his cock that wasn't an erection, but it was a promise for the future. It was hope for the revival of his sexuality, that he would again, someday, be the partner Timmy deserved in bed.


He thought it would terrify him to feel a touch between his cheeks, near his center, but instead it only made him feel a rush of love, and of...redemption. This part of him, too, was still Timmy's, and Timmy still wanted it, and him, as much as he had before. Even if it had been used by someone else, even if it was damaged, even if Don was afraid and uncertain about being touched there, it was all part of the package that Timmy loved and wanted, just as he was.


Tim kissed his tailbone, then moved back up next to him, encouraging Don back into his arms, holding him especially close, sheltering him with his arms and his body in a way that always made Don feel safe and secure, and sent the demons in the dark corners of his mind packing like the uninvited pests they were.


"You're mine, Donald. All mine. No one's ever going to hurt you like that again," he whispered in Don's ear. Don wasn't sure how his gentle, non-violent partner was going to protect him from all the ugliness out there in the world, but there was a quiet conviction in Tim's words that left no room for doubt, or fear. He was safe, and he was cherished, and Tim thought him no less worthy of such passionate love and affection now than he had been the last time they made love.


In moments, he was asleep, clinging to Tim and the hope that they would be okay, that he'd recover, that life would be as good as it once was.


And he had just a little of his power back. He might not be responding normally himself, and the demons would reappear in the shadowy corners of his psyche, but he could still make love to Timmy, make him feel good, make him come. Timmy still wanted him like that.


Maybe he'd be okay after all.


********


"Okay, Don, before we get started, I want you to remember that we have all these guys on something. Hanover's testimony puts them all at the scene, and none of them coming forward to report what was going on, or raise any objections. They're all guilty of accessory to kidnapping at least, and that's a felony," Bailey said as he, Don, and Tim stood on the other side of the two-way glass, before starting the lineup. Strachey looked nervous, pale, and he thought he could detect a slight sheen of sweat on his face. He was still physically recovering, which could account for his pallid appearance, but seeing assailants again in person was often traumatic for crime victims.


"Good lawyers will probably get around that," Strachey said, sounding more defeated than cynical. Bailey found himself wishing for the cynical tone.


"We're also working on getting a couple of the perps you IDd in the photo lineup to turn on the group. I think we've got a good shot with at least one of them. I'm trying to tell you to relax, do the best you can with the lineups, but it's not all riding on you. They're not walking, even if you can't ID them all."


"That's good to know," Tim said, his hand resting lightly on Don's back.


"Just show 'em to me. Let's get this over with," Don said, running his hand over his face, looking older than his years.


"Okay," Bailey said into the intercom, and the lights went on in the adjoining room, the suspects for the lineup filing in and standing against the wall. They were all men of average build, in their fifties, with sandy hair, some mixed with good amounts of gray.


Strachey stared at them a long time and then said quietly, "Ask them to say..." He swallowed, shaking his head. "I can't do this."


"Donald, look at me," Tim said, taking him by the shoulders. "You can do this, honey. Look at me and tell me what he said to you."


"I think it's number three, but if I hear his voice, I'll know."


"Can he say anything, or do you need him to say what he said that night?" Bailey asked.


"Ask him to say, 'This is what you like, isn't it, bitch?'," he shot out so quickly that Bailey barely caught the words. He was still turned toward his partner, but he didn't even look him in the eyes when he said it.


"You want us to start with number three, or you want them all to say it?"


"Just number three."


"Number three, step forward. Say, 'Good morning'," Bailey said. Don and Tim looked at each other, puzzled, then Don watched the suspect step forward and say "good morning." Don slipped his hand into Tim's, holding it tightly. "Okay, now say, 'This is what you like, isn't it, bitch?'" Bailey instructed. The man looked stunned for a split second, but then he repeated the phrase.


"That's him."


"What did he do?" Bailey clarified.


"What did they all do?" Strachey shot back. He walked away from the glass, sitting down in a chair, resting his elbows on his knees, dropping his head in his hands.


"Let me talk to him," Bailey said to Tim in a whisper. He sat in the chair next to Don. "I'm not trying to make this difficult for you, Don," he said. "At some point, we're going to need to hear everything that happened. The DA's leaning on me for a more detailed statement, since we're trying to prosecute multiple assailants. I know this is hard, and I wish there was an easier way, but I need you to tell me what these guys did, which one did what, from start to finish. And I need to know what you're identifying this guy for doing."


"I've told you the specifics I remember," Don said, his voice strained. "I was facedown, and they were all coming at me from behind. I tried to get a look at as many of them as I could, and I did get a look at this guy, and I remember him saying that to me."


"You know how this works, Don. You know the statement you gave me at the hospital wasn't specific enough, that the DA is going to want a step-by-step."


"Is there some reason you're badgering him?" Tim spoke up. "Can't you see he's upset? You think pushing him is going to make things better? Make him give you a better ID?" He was at Don's other side in a couple quick steps, his hand on Don's shoulder. "What do you need him to spell out? They raped him, one after the other. If he says that's one of them, what else do you need him to say?"


"Timmy, it's okay," Don spoke up. "That's one of the assholes who raped me. I don't remember which number he was, somewhere in the middle, I guess." He paused, taking a hold of Tim's hand where it rested on his shoulder. "He was really rough on me, and he kept saying that...like I was supposed to be enjoying what he was doing. I think he... I think it tore me... He did it like that's what he wanted to do. With the others, they were enjoying themselves, but with him, he wanted to hurt me. That's what he enjoyed."


"Good job, Don. I'm sorry to put you through that, but that's the kind of statement I need to charge these guys and help the DA go after them."


"I know that. It's just...hard."


"I know it is," Bailey said, squeezing Don's shoulder. "I've been involved in a lot of rape cases in the last twenty years, and no two of them have been exactly alike, other than the fact they were traumatic for the victim. I've worked on cases that involved a single assailant, a single...sexual encounter, and the victim wasn't seriously injured, and looked right at the bastard, face to face, and still couldn't identify him...or wouldn't...and was afraid to testify. And honestly, I didn't blame her. The cops couldn't protect her for the rest of her life, and she was scared. This case, your case, is probably the most brutal rape case I've handled. The most assailants, the most injury to the victim short of outright murder. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you're doing an incredible job of identifying these dirtbags, and being able to piece together what they did, and put it into words, into testimony we can use. Because you're able to do that, unfortunately, that means we end up putting more pressure on you because we have such a good chance of prosecuting this to the fullest extent of the law."


"I haven't identified all of them. I missed this guy in the photo lineup. I don't even remember seeing his picture."


"You remember him now. That's what counts."


"When do I have to give the statement?"


"I have your initial statement from the hospital, and I've been filling in the blanks with bits and pieces you've given me during the photo lineups and today. I'll have that all typed up, and we'll go over it together. You can fill in anything you remember that's not included. That way, we don't have to start you out at the beginning and make you go through the whole thing again."


"What's with the 'good morning' thing?" Don asked, blinking, brushing at his eyes, needing a distraction.


"When you give a guy in a lineup a charged statement like the one you remembered him making, some of them try to disguise their voices, change the inflections... Most of them are thrown by saying something as harmless as 'good morning', and we get their real, natural speaking style more often. Just a little trick of mine. Sometimes it even relaxes the witness a little. Hearing the voice that might bring back something traumatic, but saying something neutral, so it isn't such a shock all at once."


"Do you have another lineup for me to look at?" Don asked.


"One more."


"I thought you needed IDs on more of them than that," Tim asked.


"Two's enough for today," Bailey said. "We'll try a couple more tomorrow."


"Let's do it, then." Don straightened in the chair, then winced a little.


"Are you okay, Don?" Tim asked, concerned.


"Just my stomach. I'll be okay."


"We can take a break," Bailey said.


"I'm all right. Show me the lineup," he said, standing, still looking uncomfortable.


When he viewed the next lineup, Strachey looked crestfallen. He stared at the men standing there, all tall, slender men in their forties with brown hair.


"Take your time," Bailey said. "You need them to turn for a profile or say anything?"


"I don't recognize any of them," he said, shaking his head.


"Are you sure? There's no rush," Bailey added.


"I can stare at them as long as you want me to, but I don't recognize any of them. Shit."


"Don, it's okay. We knew there was a chance you couldn't recognize all of them."


"Did I see a photo of this guy before? I don't even recognize him from that."


"Did you recognize the other guy you identified from the photos I showed you?"


"No, I remembered him from that night." Don paused. "You think a defense lawyer will throw out my ID on him because he was part of that photo lineup? Because I couldn't ID him that way, or because he'll say I remembered him from the photos?"


"Even if you saw his photo, you didn't ID it, and I never suggested to you that he was one of the assailants. Besides, that's why I was pressuring you so hard to pinpoint what role he played, so your ID would hold up as being from that night, and not because you saw him in the photos."


"Nobody's going to believe my word over theirs," Don said, leaning back in the chair. "Let's face it, Bub, I can say whatever I want, be as sound a witness as possible, and their lawyers are going to rip me to shreds because I'm a gay man and they can all stick together and claim I was there because I wanted to be, and they can dig up every ugly thing from my past and use it to make me look like the kind of person who'd participate willingly. They're going to have top-notch defense lawyers and bottomless pockets to finance them."


"I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you were not in a sort of David and Goliath position with this case. At some point, you and I and the DA are going to have to have a long talk about your past, and anything they can dig up that would make you look bad to a jury. Even if it's not your fault, not illegal, or seems harmless on the surface. We're going to have to dig into your past and put it under a pretty relentless scrutiny so we're prepared. As far as your sexual history, they can't bring that up."


"Then you need to know the truth about Fox," Tim said. "I dated him about five years before I met Donald. It wasn't a very long...courtship. I broke it off with him, but he kept pursuing me, calling me, showing up at my apartment. I finally threatened him with a restraining order and stalking charges, and he backed off."


"You didn't know this until now? You didn't remember his name?" Bailey asked, irritated.


"He used to go by Jim, or James, when I knew him. Simon is probably his middle name."


"It is. A lot of his IDs have 'J. Simon Fox' on them, or 'James Simon Fox'. " Bailey ran a hand over his face. "So you think he did this to Don because of you?"


"His boyfriend looks just like Timothy. You saw that yourself when you talked to him."


"He bears more than a passing resemblance, I'll give you that. It actually does strengthen the case a little, because there's a logical motive for him doing something so brazen, brutal, and potentially self-destructive as to do what he did to you and just take a chance you'd keep quiet and not report it. If he's still obsessed enough with your partner to be dating guys who look like him, it makes sense that he might see red when he got hold of the person Tim married."


"I just feel so responsible for this," Tim said. "I never told Don about him. I wasn't with him very long and I didn't really care for him deeply at any point in our relationship, so it didn't seem important."


"Why'd you break it off with him?" Bailey asked. Tim paused, glancing at Don and swallowing.

"The first time we had sex, I knew it was a mistake, and he wasn't someone I wanted to be with. He was...rough and inconsiderate and I never wanted to be with him again."


"Personally, I know this is difficult, but from the perspective of our case, you could end up being one of our best witnesses." Bailey continued, "We got the results back on your car. There was a good-sized hole in the brake line. It's not something that would have happened naturally. You can get it out of impound and have it towed in for service. The lab's finished with it."


"I was hoping it was something less sinister," Tim said.


"You and me both," Bailey replied, sighing. "Tim, we'll need a statement from you about Fox."


"Whatever you need me to do, just say the word."


"You have any theories on which one of these upstanding citizens might be serious enough about shutting me up to want me dead? To want both Timothy and me dead? Fox is still in jail."


Just then, there was a tap at the door and another detective poked her head inside. "Excuse me, Detective Bailey? The captain wants to see you," she said.


"Right now?"


"He said ASAP," she replied, shrugging, before pulling the door shut.


"Can you two wait here a few minutes?"


"Sure," Don replied, though Tim looked a little concerned.


"You need anything? Coffee, water...?"


"Some water would be good," Tim replied. "He can't have caffeine yet."


"Ouch."


"No martinis yet, either, until I'm off the pain meds. They're trying to kill me, Bub," Don quipped, and Bailey had to laugh.


"I'll send somebody in with a couple bottled waters for you. I shouldn't be too long." Bailey left the room.


********


The captain was pacing in his office, talking on the phone, when Bailey tapped on the doorframe and entered.


"I know someone must have leaked it, goddammit. That doesn't mean it came outta my department," he added, the veins bulging just a bit in his forehead. "He doesn't have all that information, he's on paid leave. What about your ADAs? Are they all above suspicion?" He paused, his eyes bugging a bit. "We're about due to settle with these people, to keep this mess from blowing up into a national cause of some sort, and some fucking idiot blows it to the media? Do you have any idea how goddamned likely Strachey is to take a couple million when he's already exposed to the media, and he can get four or five times that in a lawsuit?" Bailey didn't think that vein in the captain's head could swell any more without a stroke, but somehow, it did, and his boss didn't keel over. "Fine. You can call the commissioner. You can call the president if you want to. My people didn't leak this." He slammed down the phone.


"I think I can gather why you called me in here," Bailey said, sitting down as his superior did.


"Motherfucking prick," the captain muttered, glaring at the phone as though it held the district attorney's spirit inside it like an evil genie in a lamp. "The story broke in the media. It's all over the noon news, the internet."


"That's not news. It was all over the news yesterday."


"All the defendants' names, Strachey's, his partner's, all of it. The whole fucking mess is out there. Even Stenski's name and the incident with Strachey before he was taken to the hospital. The whole goddamned thing is blown to hell. All the details of the sex party, you name it. All the shit we were trying to keep quiet."


"Shit," Bailey muttered. "Strachey's in the other room. He was in here to look at lineups. And we got the lab report back on the car. The brakes were tampered with, so someone did try to kill him and his partner."


"Probably just a matter of time before that hits the media, too. You think he's still going to be willing to settle this lawsuit even if the story's out?"


"I don't know. He's not vindictive at the department, that much I know. It's about Stenski, and about them surviving this financially since Strachey's self-employed and his business is about to go under while he's laid up. Let's face it, media attention like this isn't going to boost his clientele when he's recovered. I don't know what he'll do if he's in the media spotlight anyway, but my guess is that he'll honor whatever terms his lawyer proposed to begin with."


"This could blow some of the deals with our perps, too, since avoiding a public trial was figuring into them being willing to deal. Now they may just hit us with their overpriced lawyers and go for it. Public exoneration is all that's going to save their reputations now."


"Which means public crucifixion for Strachey, turning him into some kind of sicko who brought it on himself."


"It's what I'd do in their places. It's all that's left. You better tell your pal, Strachey, to get ready to have anything seedy in his past dug up and dragged out, because they're going to drag him through the mud pretty good trying to wriggle out of these charges. They probably won't stop with him, either. If his partner's got any skeletons, they'll be as far out of the closet as he is by the end of the week. Shit, probably by the end of the day."


"Yeah," Bailey said, snorting a humorless laugh. "Probably most of his competition in the private eye business are going to be making their money digging through his past. So I guess I need to go in there and tell him to get ready to get raped all over again, publicly this time."


"Only positive for him is that as high profile as this will be now, killing him is going to be a real attention-getter, so it may scare away our would-be assassin."


"I'm sure he'll take great comfort in that, Captain," Bailey said sarcastically.


********


"We could just go home and finish up whatever Bailey needs, later. You look pale, honey," Tim said, running his hand across the back of Don's shoulders as they sat together in the room adjoining the lineup area. Don took another small drink of the bottled water he was holding.


"I'd rather get it wrapped up now. I don't feel very good, and I want to take it easy when I get home."


"What's wrong?"


"Breakfast is introducing itself to last night's dinner, and they're not getting along."


"Solid foods are going to be a big adjustment for your body for a few days at least, until your system starts functioning more normally."


"Doesn't feel like that's ever gonna happen. I get hungry, but I feel like shit if I eat anything."


"Do you want to go to the emergency room? Do you feel like we should look into it?"


"The doctor said pretty much what you did. That cramping and discomfort and gas and a whole host of other charming side effects were possible with intestinal surgery and going back to solid foods. Between that and feeling like I have to piss twenty-four hours a day, I'm just tired of it."


"I know, honey. I don't blame you," Tim said, sliding his arm around Don, squeezing his shoulders, touching their heads together. "I'm tired of it for you."


"I don't mean to complain. You're doing everything you can for me. I just feel kind of lousy right now."


"You need to be at home, resting. We're pushing you too hard, Donald, and I'm worried about it. I know you don't like being off your feet and not on top of everything, but you almost died, and you had major surgery. You shouldn't even be here today. You should be at home, staying calm, sitting where you're comfortable and not on these god-awful metal chairs. I think we should go home."


"Maybe if I go use the john I'll feel better. I think there's one right around the corner," he said, standing.


"You're not going alone." Tim was on his feet in an instant.


"That'll be good. You and me together in a stall in the PD men's room. I can see how many years it'll take to live that down."


"I'll stand outside, with the stall closed, at a respectable distance. I just don't want you to pass out or feel sick and be in there by yourself. I know you have pain sometimes, and I just want to be around in case you need me. Besides, someone tried to kill us. Don't you think it might be good to stick together?"


"I don't think they'll kill me in the police department's john, or you in an interview room that's got video surveillance. Just wait here. I'll only be a couple minutes." Don headed for the door, his tone leaving little room for discussion.


********


Still feeling weak and a little crampy, Don turned on the water in the restroom sink and splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would energize him a little. Maybe it would at least get rid of that clammy sweat that seemed to be his constant companion. Timmy was right, he was overdoing it, and his body wasn't happy. He heard someone come in and was expecting to see Tim behind him when he stood.


Instead, Stenski's face joined his in the mirror.


"I hope you're happy, you son-of-a-bitch. I lost my badge because of you," he accused angrily.


"If you lost your badge, it's because you cared more about your hate than you did about doing your job," Don shot back, his anger flaring. "Now get away from me," he added, turning to try to move away from the sink. Considering the trouble Stenski was already in, Don never expected him to do something so self-destructive as to physically assault him, so he was taken off guard when Stenski gut-punched him and then finished the job with a solid right cross that knocked him to the floor.


Donald was trying to process the pain and impact on his still-recovering body and gather his equilibrium to defend himself, with Stenski looming over him. He was surprised when Stenski was pulled back abruptly and slugged hard in a gesture almost too quick to watch, sending him sprawling against the opposite wall.


"Don't you ever touch him again," Tim's voice bellowed, with a ferocity and volume Don had never heard come out of his gentle partner before. Beyond that, he was still stalking toward Stenski, looming over him as he started pushing his way back up on his feet. "You're no better than the killers and thugs you put away in this place," he accused. "Come on, tough guy, get up and take on somebody who isn't too injured to fight back. I'll wait while you try to find your balls, if you have any."

  

"What the hell's going on in here?" Bailey was standing in the doorway of the restroom, trying to figure out exactly who had hit whom, and why Don and Stenski were on the floor and Tim was the only one still standing, his nostrils flaring he was so incensed, looking like he was hoping Stenski would get up and make a move on him.


Bailey's entry seemed to snap Tim out of his rage, and he was at Don's side in an instant, helping him up, looking as if Don's wince of pain was his own.


"Where did he hit you, Donald?"


"Gut-punch," Don managed, leaning heavily on Tim.


"Stenski, what the hell is the matter with you?"


"IAB just took my badge," he snapped back, finally on his feet.


"Donald, ignore him and look at me," Tim said, as Don looked over toward Stenski. "How much pain are you in?"


"It's not too good right now," Don admitted, the jolt of landing hard on the tile floor, and the blow itself, conspiring to start every painful part of his body throbbing in unison.


"Stenski, turn around," Bailey said, pulling out his handcuffs.


"You're not fucking serious," Stenski shot back.


"I said turn around before I do it for you. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, which would be a hell of an idea right now," he said, slapping cuffs on him.


"He attacked me!" he protested, referring to Tim.


"He defended his injured partner, whom you attacked first. Don't hold your breath for anyone but you to be arrested here," Bailey said, escorting him out of the room, beginning to read him his rights.


"What the hell just happened?" Don asked, momentarily distracted from his pain by the shock of Tim swinging into action, literally, the way he just had.


"When I saw that bastard standing over you...I don't even know what happened. I just reacted."


"Just take me home, okay?"


"We should take you into the ER to get checked out."


"Timothy, they'll hold me up there for hours. I'm not spurting from a major artery or staggering around with a knife stuck out of me someplace, so I'll have to sit there all day."


"What if I can get you in to see Dr. Sharma? Will you do that if I can get us in quickly?"


"Okay, fine, if you think I need to go to the doctor, go ahead and set it up." Don smiled at him a little crookedly. "After all, I don't think I wanna talk back to you anytime soon."


"It's not funny," Tim protested, but he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his own mouth. "When you tried to teach me those self-defense moves, you thought it was just a lucky shot, huh?"


Tim referred to what had seemed at the time like a fruitless Sunday afternoon when their conversation had turned to the discussion of fisticuffs for some stupid reason, and Don had the bright idea that even if Tim was a lover, not a fighter, he might benefit from knowing a few basic self-defense moves. He was great with a shovel, but Don didn't have much confidence how he'd be with his fists if he had to defend himself hand-to-hand. He'd nagged Tim until he relented and let himself be shown some moves and countermoves. Don knew he had a good swing, because when they'd tried out one of the scenarios, he miscalculated the distance in faking it and gave Don an accidental fat lip. That had ended their one and only self-defense lesson and led to copious ice on the swelling lip, and then copious kissing, and before long, even more copious sex that lasted well into the night.


As they made their way slowly out of the restroom, Bailey was coming back down the hall.


"Don't tell me, let me guess. You need another statement from me about what Stenski did in there," Don said.


"Afraid so, unless you need to go to the ER," he said.


"Tim's going to call the doctor, see if he'll work me in so I don't have to put down roots in the ER waiting to be seen."


"There's something else we need to talk about," Bailey said. "I'm afraid I've got bad news."


"Worse than the fact that someone's trying to kill us, and Stenski just attacked Don again in the bathroom?" Tim asked, and Bailey shrugged.


"Let's go in here and have a seat," he said, steering them into an interview room, where the three of them sat around the table. Tim made a quick call to the doctor's office and secured Don an appointment for a couple hours later. Once he was finished, Bailey continued.


"Someone leaked the story to the media. They have it all - - including the names of all our perps, and your names, even the internal issues with Stenski. It's apparently hitting the noon news everywhere right now and starting to pop up on local websites. I don't imagine it'll be long before the AP or the national news networks pick up on it."


"Shit," Don said, rubbing his forehead. Tim thought he looked more tired and defeated than he ever remembered Donald looking in all the years he'd known him. "They know everything?"


"I haven't seen the reports myself," he said, checking his watch. "If you want to come to my office, we can go online and see what's already out there."


They reluctantly agreed to that, Don not anxious to make a public walk through the bullpen at the moment. Add that to the pain that was flaring up since the encounter with Stenski, and being dragged through a knothole backwards sounded more appealing to him.


If the other cops in the bullpen had something to say, they kept it to themselves. It wasn't that Don really feared confronting them - - he could take care of himself in a verbal sparring match, and he was flanked by Tim and Bailey, which calmed any of the jitters he felt about physical confrontations when he wasn't strong enough to handle them. Still, he could feel the eyes on him, and the knowledge that all those people knew his situation, what he'd been through, made him wish he could pull his jacket up over his head the way people do trying to avoid news cameras. He didn't have the usual speed and spring in his step, and he couldn't help feeling like an invalid as he pushed himself to walk faster than he felt able, to look stronger and healthier than he felt. Tim was right; he had a real problem with being under the weather.


Bailey insisted he sit in the more comfortable desk chair, while Tim looked over his shoulder, and Bailey worked the mouse on the computer, connecting them with one of the local news sites.


CHARGES BROUGHT AGAINST ELEVEN IN SEXUAL ASSAULT CASE


It was a bold headline splashed across the screen. As they skimmed the story, they noticed the article mentioned the station's policy of protecting the identity of sexual assault victims and didn't publish Don's name. Still, their description of him as a "local private investigator" and references to the fact that "sources indicated the victim is openly gay, and the accused have claimed he was a willing participant in a consensual group sex situation" didn't really leave much to the imagination in connecting the dots to his identity.


"The sleazier tabloids will probably publish my name, anyway," Don said, sighing. "These people might as well. What's the point of not publishing my name and then describing me so narrowly that anyone I know, and anyone who even knows who I am, can figure it out?"


"They're adhering to the letter of their policy, not the spirit and the purpose of it," Tim said, shaking his head. "I guess there is some consolation in the fact that the men who did it are essentially destroyed by this."


"Yeah, in order to defend themselves, they have to admit what they were up to. No wonder they were freaked out when Fox decided to bring me in there. I wonder if it had been up to a couple of them if they would have killed me to avoid getting caught."


"People have killed for lesser embarrassments than this," Bailey said. "This could work in your favor. With all their names out in the media, there's not much reason to kill you."


"I'm still the star witness if and when they go to trial. That's a good reason." Don was quiet a moment. "I still can't figure out how they thought they could get away with this. Did they really expect me to just go home and forget about it?"


"Rape cases are notoriously under-reported," Tim said. "Male rape cases are even less likely to be reported than cases involving female victims. The odds were in their favor that you wouldn't report it. It's hard to believe Fox would expect that he could do what he did and not injure you seriously enough to force you to report it."


"I think Fox is overimpressed with his own importance," Bailey said. "He's an arrogant asshole who thinks he can get away with anything. Plus, he's gotta be the top dog. He's got to take it to the next level, do something bolder and worse than anyone else did and assume there won't be any consequences."


"I know you've done all you can for us," Don said, his arm going around his mid section. "If you need a statement from me about Stenski, let's do it. I don't feel so hot." Don was grateful to feel Tim's hand rubbing across his shoulders. Just the little touch seemed to calm him, make things better.


"The captain's worried about the lawsuit, now that things are going public with the case," Bailey said, looking uneasy about bringing it up. "Stenski's behavior today didn't help matters. I hope you know he's not representative of all the cops around here."


"I'm not trying to get rich off the department. I'm not going to go back on the deal our lawyer's working out with the department's lawyers."


"I appreciate that, Don," Bailey said. "I'm sure the captain and the commissioner will, too."


********


"Fortunately, the blow was higher than the area we repaired, and unless you notice any unusual pain or bleeding, you should be fine," the doctor said, making a couple notes on his chart. "The tearing we sutured is healing nicely, and you haven't undone any of the internal repair we did," he added.


"He was in a lot of pain from the blow," Tim said, still worried, even though the doctor had just given Don a clean bill of health. He rested his hand on Don's shoulder as Don sat on the exam table in a gown. Part of him felt guilty for having dragged him into the doctor's office and subjected him to what had been a stressful and uncomfortable examination, and at the same time, even the doctor's good verdict didn't put his mind to rest.


"Honey, gut-punches hurt, and I'm still not feeling that great, so I just felt worse that I normally would have," Don said.


"Your blood pressure is elevated slightly. Are you getting enough rest?"


"We've had a lot of stress with the criminal case," Tim said.


"Well, I'd like to see you again in two weeks. If you notice any bleeding or you have any severe pain, go to the emergency room right away. In the meantime, take it easy and try to keep your stress at a minimum. Get plenty of sleep."


"I'll do my best." Don paused. "How long before I can get back to work?"


"Donald," Tim chided.


"We'll talk about it when you come in for your follow-up appointment."


"That's two weeks from now," Don protested.


"Exactly," the doctor replied, smiling. "If all's well on that check-up, you'll be ready to get back to work with some limitations on your physical exertion."


"What kind of limitations?"


"You're a detective, correct?" the doctor asked.


"Yes, that's right."


"Well, you do things at your desk, don't you? Background checks, other investigative work?"


"Actually, my assistant does most of that, and I do the field work."


"Think about reversing that for a couple weeks after you go back to work. Then slowly resume your usual activity level. Since you apparently are at risk for injury on the job, some potentially severe, we need to wait until your system is strong enough to endure some physical trauma. You have a ways to go to get there," the doctor concluded. "Now take some time off and relax, and we'll talk again in two weeks."


"I'll make sure he takes it easy," Tim spoke up, and Don just sighed, looking like most of the wind was knocked out of his sails.


After the doctor left the room, Tim wordlessly helped Don get dressed, doing the things that would require him to stoop or stretch, letting him do anything that didn't cause him exertion, himself. Finally, he decided to stop ignoring the elephant in the room that was the unpleasantness of the examination.


"Are you okay, honey?" Tim asked, not wanting to overdramatize things, since Donald seemed pretty reticent about the whole thing. But he knew that, since his partner had wanted him in the room and had kept a death grip on his hand throughout the exam, it had been difficult for him to get through.


"I just want to get out of here and go home," he said tightly.


"I'm sorry I pushed you into coming to the doctor. I was worried."


"I had a follow-up appointment in two days anyway, so at least now that's over with and I'm off the hook for two more weeks."


"I'm so proud of you," Tim said, and Don paused, shrugging into his coat.


"For what?"


"With everything you've been through, you're doing so well."


"You think I'm doing well?"


"I think you're amazing. I can't believe how far you've come in what, ten days? From almost dying to back on your feet and handling all this stress with the case? I don't know if I could do that."


"I think you can do most anything you put your mind to," Don said, smiling. "Just ask Stenski. If I live to be a hundred, I'll never forget the look on that fucker's face when you knocked him on his ass." Don chuckled a little evilly. "You're always there when I need you," he said, and the love and slight tinge of awe in his voice touched Tim deeply.


"I'd do anything for you," Tim said, and at that moment, he knew it was true. He wondered if he'd had a gun when Stenski attacked Donald, if he could have used it. It unsettled him to think that maybe he could have. Maybe his own anger and his protectiveness, which were on overdrive as he watched over something as precious as Don's recovery, would have propelled him with a weapon the way they carried him earlier, when he abandoned all form of thought and went with his basest, primal instinct to protect his mate from danger.


"I know," Don said, smiling, touching his face, then planting a little kiss on his lips.


"Honey, if you ever feel like you need to talk to somebody...I'll help you find someone, I'll go with you if you want, or keep completely out if it... I just don't want to make you go through this without as much support as you need."


"I need you...and I need time to pass. And I need this fucking case to be over with. As far as adding someone else into the mix that I have to dig all this up with all the time...no thanks. I know you're trying to help, but I don't want to see a shrink."


"Then I won't nag you about it," Tim said, taking Don's hand, squeezing it. "If you ever change your mind, just say the word and I'll do anything I can to help."


"You always do," Don replied, smiling.


********


Sitting in the study down the hall from the bedroom on the second floor, Tim tried to force himself to care about the e-mails piling up in his inbox. As he excavated the dozens of little issues Senator Platt sent his way on a daily basis, along with the many other contacts, appointment requests, and other messages, he kept one ear open to be sure Donald was resting peacefully in the master bedroom. He'd been asleep almost before his body hit the featherbed topper, and Tim felt maybe he'd sleep more soundly undisturbed by another body moving around in the bed. Besides, even if he was taking a couple weeks off, he felt the need to reconnect with his life and not let too many things slide while he was out of the office.


The phone on the desk rang, and he grabbed it before it completed its first ring tone.


"Hello?"


"Is Donald there?" A woman's voice came over the line.


"He can't come to the phone right now. May I take a message?" Tim located a notepad while he waited for a reply.


"Is this Timothy?" she asked.


"Yes it is," he said, frowning. Don never got business calls at their home number, and there were very few people one of them knew that the other didn't - - or at least that the other didn't know of.


"This is...Evelyn. Evelyn Strachey, Donald's mother," she said, her voice a bit hesitant. No one in Don's family had attended their wedding, and Tim had never met them. All he knew is that Don's father had disowned him when he found out he was gay, and apparently that was okay with the rest of the family, because the only Strachey Tim knew was Donald himself. It was a sore subject with Donald, so Tim didn't pressure him for every painful detail.


"He's been under the weather lately, and he's sleeping right now," Tim said, trying to be a bit friendlier with her now that he knew who she was, although the way she'd managed to accept ignoring Don all this time didn't really endear her to his heart. "Can I have him call you back when he wakes up?"


"So it was him," she said, her voice shaking a bit.


"I beg your pardon?"


"The news. There was a news story about a private investigator in Albany...who was... a homosexual. They said he was injured at some kind of...orgy."


"I don't know where you're getting your information, Mrs. Strachey, but Donald was brutally attacked by those men. He wasn't there voluntarily, he was held there against his will and...they raped him."


"Oh, my God," she muttered, and Tim regretted just a bit throwing the information at her that way. Her willingness to believe that Donald was injured while participating in some kind of orgy had turned his stomach.


"I didn't mean to blurt it out that way. He was attacked. None of it was consensual. He needed surgery to repair the damage, and he was just released from the hospital a couple days ago."


"Is he going to be all right?"


"As long as he takes care of himself, the doctor feels he'll make a full recovery."


"I'm glad."


"I can wake him so you can talk to him yourself. I know your call will mean a lot to him," Tim said.


"No, let him get some rest. I'm glad he's all right."


"Please, do call him back. I think it would mean a lot to him."


"My husband doesn't know I'm calling."


"I'll tell Don to wait to hear back from you, then. Is that easier?"


"Yes, that would be best. I'll call another time."


"Anytime. I can give you his cell number, and mine, if you like, so you can get a hold of us when you call back, in case we aren't home."


"All right," she said, and Tim gave her both numbers. "Thank you for being so helpful," she said. "I know we've never met."


"You're Donald's mother," he said, indicating that was reason enough for him to be helpful to her.


"We didn't come to the...ceremony," she said, as if she couldn't quite bring herself to call it a wedding. That stung a bit, but Tim overlooked it. "I'm...glad if things have worked out for the two of you."


"I love Donald with all my heart, and I'm so...blessed to have him in my life. We have a wonderful life together and a solid marriage. No matter what, you raised him, and you had to have done something to make him as wonderful as he is," he added. "I know this isn't what you would have chosen for Donald, but I just want to say to you what I would have said to you at our wedding... Thank you for him. He's the light of my life."

  

She was silent a moment, and Tim worried he'd said too much, that she really didn't want to hear anything about Donald's relationship with his same-sex partner.


"It's obvious you love him very much. Take good care of him...so he recovers."


"I will. Please, do call him back."


"Thank you for the numbers." With that, she hung up. It was kind of an odd and abrupt end to the conversation, but she seemed increasingly uneasy in the final moments of it, so it didn't surprise Tim she was looking for a quick escape. Hopefully, he'd handled it well enough that she'd try again. He'd thought of just disturbing Donald and urging her to talk to him, but he felt sure the call would upset him, and he'd been so tired and feeling so uncomfortable when they got home that Tim didn't want to rob him of his escape from all of it for a little while.


Going back to his work, he was frustrated when the doorbell rang. He hurried downstairs and carefully looked out the window before opening the door. Kenny stood on the other side.


"Hi, Kenny," Tim said, opening the door for him to come inside. "Donald's sleeping upstairs," he said, hoping to keep Kenny's voice down to avoid disturbing his partner.


"He asked me to run a check on your bodyguard, Pollack. Oh, and I brought this," he said, handing Tim a brown paper bag. "It's the chicken and mushrooms Don likes from the Chinese place near the office. It's really mild anyway, and I had them make it without any of the other vegetables, just the mushrooms. I wasn't sure what he can eat yet. There's rice and cream cheese rangoons in there, too."


"Thank you. He'll enjoy this a lot. I know he's going a little nuts on the bland diet, but he doesn't seem to be feeling good enough to throw in anything too exciting." Tim put the food on the counter. "What did you find out about Pollack?"


"The security company he's with is a good one - - Don recommends them to people all the time if they need protection. I didn't expect to find much. Then I was doing just a general web search on his name, and I found an article about a commendation he received for saving some kid's life when he stopped to help out at an accident scene." Kenny pulled a folded up piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Check out the photo and the caption."


It was a print out of an online news article dated almost a year earlier, and Pollack was standing with the mayor, his mother, and another man, beaming and holding up his medal for the camera. The man was none other than Detective Michael Stenski of the Albany PD, Pollack's cousin.


"They're cousins. Stenski hadn't been charged with anything yet when they would have assigned him to your case, and even if he had, it's doubtful it would have shown up on his employer's radar, especially if he didn't name Stenski as a reference."


"So you think Pollack tampered with the brakes for his cousin?"


"He had lots of opportunities and access to your car. He knew where you were all the time and your schedule. He even knew when you were picking Don up from the hospital, and followed you there. And it depends on how close he is with his cousin, if he'd care enough to do it. Seeing as he's the only family except his mother that's in that photo, I'd say they're probably close."


"My car was often parked at the hospital when I was with Don, so you could argue anyone could have done it."


"Sure, and that's what Pollack's lawyer would probably argue. Even so, Pollack knew when it was safe to do it, because he knew when you were settled in for a while."


"Donald didn't like him from the first day he showed up on the job. I was never terribly fond of him, either, but it was different. It was as if Don's instincts were just set on edge by him."


"He's got pretty good instincts."


"That he does," Tim agreed, smiling.


"What happened with Stenski at the station earlier? He's all over the news, griping that he was sacrificed by the city to avoid a lawsuit and that Don's partner assaulted him on police property and nothing was done about it. I mean, that's obviously so much BS, but what's he talking about?"


"My partner saved the day. Knocked Stenski right on his ass. It was beautiful," Don said, making his way downstairs a little more slowly than usual.


"You should be resting," Tim said, moving toward the staircase. He felt a little flood of affection for his partner. He loved the way Donald looked when he crawled out of bed, when both he and his hair look bewildered as to which direction they should be going, and those beautiful big blue eyes of his still hadn't fully adjusted to being open.


"I smell Chan's Garden food. You expect me to sleep through that?"


"You've got a nose like a bloodhound," Tim said, laughing. He hugged Don when he reached the foot of the stairs, and got a nice squeeze back for his efforts.


"You slugged a cop?" Kenny asked Tim, his eyes bugging.


"He attacked Donald, and I just...reacted. I couldn't help it."


"Stenski hit you?" Kenny asked Don, looking stunned. "Like he's not in enough trouble?"


"I'm not handling gutpunches the way I usually do right now, so he had me down," Don said, opening the takeout bag and inhaling as if he were smelling a rare, sensual perfume. Tim was relieved to see that much enthusiasm over food. He hoped his partner's healing body would start cooperating with him a little better in handling his return to normal eating. "Before I knew what was happening, my boyfriend showed up and took care of it," he said, smiling at Tim with pure love and more than a little pride. Not to be distracted for too long from his bag of goodies, he took out one of the little white containers, opened the top and stuck a fork into it, then ate a large bite, chewing several extra times under Tim's watchful gaze.


"I'm still trying to picture you beating up Stenski. I wish I'd been there," Kenny said.


"I didn't beat him up. I swung at him once," Tim clarified.


"Yeah, once that was good enough to knock him on his ass on the floor," Don said through another mouthful. "God, it was almost worth getting gut-punched just to see the look on Stenski's face. Then Bailey showed up and arrested him."


"I guess there is some justice in the world, after all," Kenny said, laughing.


"What's this?" Don asked, picking up the article where Tim had laid it on the counter.


"The reason you probably didn't like Pollack. Kenny found it online."


"What the fuck?" Don set his fork down with a clatter, focusing on the article. "I don't believe this!"


"Donald, calm down," Tim said, resting a hand on his shoulder, which Don shrugged off angrily. It was a new tendency he had since the rape, to physically resist Tim touching him when he didn't want to be touched. Tim doubted that Don even consciously realized he was doing it, and he did his best not to take it personally. Donald certainly wasn't resisting being close to him or sharing intimate touches with him, so the least he could do was back off when his lover needed to reassert his personal space.


"Calm down? I hired this agency to protect us. They assigned a guy who's related to one of the key people we needed protection from! I'm calling Dan Stevens right now and ask him what kind of half-assed operation he's running over there. He could have gotten us fucking killed!"


"The doctor told you to take it easy, honey. Why don't you wait to call this guy until tomorrow? It's getting late...he's probably not even in - - "


"I've known the bastard for ten years. I have his goddamned cell number." Don grabbed the phone in the kitchen and angrily stabbed at the buttons. Standing there with the phone in one hand and the other on his hip, a vein bulging in his forehead, Donald looked angrier than Tim could ever remember him looking, unless it was when he went after Pollack at the accident scene.


"Yeah, this is Strachey. I just found out that half-wit Pollack you sent over here for our security job is Stenski's cousin. Do you even run background checks on these idiots you hire?" Don waited; obviously the other man was offering some reply, and Tim sincerely hoped it was a good one. "Yes, I'm fucking sure!" he shot back, picking up and waving the piece of paper, even though the man on the other end of the phone couldn't see it. "It wasn't too hard to find out, either. My assistant found out with a 'net search in an hour or so! Kind of makes sense why he didn't even try to help us when the brakes failed. He's probably the one who sabotaged them in the first place!" Don was looking more incensed by the moment. "The lab just confirmed that they were tampered with. When I think about all the clients I've referred to your company over the years, and the one time I count on you to provide me with decent services, you nearly get me and my partner killed!"


"Don, why don't you wrap this up?" Tim suggested quietly.


"You want me to wrap this up?" Don retorted angrily, gesturing at Tim with the telephone. "Fine." He threw the phone the length of the room so it smashed against the wall, making Tim and Kenny both jump a little. "Why don't you stop telling me what to do all the time?" he shouted at Tim, who was too stunned by the outburst to get his mouth open with a reply. "I'm not a goddamned two-year-old! I know what the hell I'm doing and I don't need you or anyone else sticking their noses in how I run my business!"


"Donald, I didn't mean to do that. I just didn't want you to get so upset," Tim replied, trying to keep his voice level and calm.


"Well guess what? I'm fucking upset!" He grabbed a plate that was sitting on the counter and hurled it in the same direction the ill-fated telephone had gone. Then he went for a glass, sending that shattering in the sink. "I'm upset! I'm sorry if that bothers you so much!"


"Hey, Don, take it easy," Kenny said, and Donald swung around, glaring at him.


"You mind your own fucking business! This is my house and I'll do whatever the hell I please!" He picked up another glass and sent it flying after the first, creating a starburst of glass shards on the floor this time.


"Kenny, just go," Tim said, steering him toward the door with a gentle hand.


"I better stay. He's freaking out," he said, and while he'd tried to say it quietly, it was loud enough that Don overheard it.


"Yeah, I'm freaking out! You wanna trade places with me and we'll see how well you handle it?!" He cleared the remaining items off the counter, food included, with a powerful sweep of his arm.


"Kenny, go on, go. I'll handle this," Tim said firmly, ushering Kenny out the door, hoping he'd made the right decision. If Donald needed to get his anger out, Tim wanted to help him do that, even if it was risky and a little scary. He had faith in Donald not to hurt him, and the willingness to take that chance if he did.


"Donald, it's okay. I understand that you're angry."


"Don't patronize me! Of course, I'm fucking angry!" he shouted back, looking around for something to break, seeming almost frantic when he couldn't locate something.


Tim calmly took a mug out of the cupboard and handed it to him. Don stared at him a moment, then at the mug, and then took it, smashing it on the floor. Tim took one himself and sent it flying next to Don's, the shards intermingling as it smashed on the floor. He handed another one to Don, who didn't hesitate this time, but threw it with all his strength, sending the shards flying up from the floor from the sheer force of it. When he turned to face Tim, his face was so transformed with anger that it was like looking into the face of a stranger.


"Do you need to hit somebody? Donald, if you need to get this out, come on, hit me," he goaded, knowing he was risking injury but not caring. Donald looked as if he were about to explode, and there was no one else who was going to offer him a safe way to vent that overpowering anger.


Donald hadn't said no, hadn't denied that he wanted...needed to do something violent to purge the anger from his system. He was still just staring at Tim like a man possessed. Tim had the unsettling feeling that if Donald were to speak, his voice would somehow be guttural and unearthly, evil and malevolent.


"Come on, Donald," Tim said, gently pushing his shoulder, purposely provoking him. "What's the matter? All show and no go?" He shoved him again, a little harder this time. "Too scared?" he added, and before he knew what was happening, Donald let out a cry that wasn't far from the demonic vocalization he'd imagined, and began to swing his fist, then stopped, mid-air, staring at Tim fleetingly, before adjusting the arc of his swing to hit the wall next to Tim, leaving a dent in the drywall. He leaned on that wall with both hands a moment, then slid down it, ending up on his knees, his whole body shaking, but not from tears.


Then he tilted his head back and aimed his forehead at the wall. Thinking fast, Tim got his hand between Don's head and the wall an instant before the impact. While the impact hurt his hand and probably still jarred Don's head a bit, it was far better than letting his head hit the wall.


"I want it to stop!" he shouted, trying to hit his head on the wall again, once again running into Tim's hand instead. "I want to see them all dead! I want to jam a knife in their guts and watch them bleed out on the floor, knowing they're dying and that it's me who's in control now! That they're all my bitches now! I want them to suffer, to hurt, to be afraid." He punctuated each phrase with a thump of his fist on the floor.


"Just let it all come out, honey. The anger has to come out along with everything else. It's okay." Tim knelt next to him and ventured a hand on his back, rubbing carefully, not sure if that would calm him or further enrage him. He sensed the outburst was de-escalating, though Donald didn't seem to be completely finished.


"They just held me down and laughed at me and did things to me," he said, still pounding on the floor with every few words. "They thought it was funny that they were tearing me up, torturing me like some...thing. They make it sound like it's my fault. They tortured me and they try to say I wanted it. I didn't want it! I don't want it! I want my life back!" he shouted, his voice rough and hoarse now from shouting. "For the rest of my life everybody's going to look at me and the first thing they're going to think about is a bunch of guys fucking my ass in a basement!" There were some tears in his voice now, but he still wasn't calm. "What if they get away with this? What if Fox is out there, free, and doesn't pay for this?"


"Fox'll pay for it, honey. Trust me."


"How do you know that?"


"Because it doesn't matter what the courts do to him. Someday, he's going to die, and when he does, he's going to have to pay for what he did in his life. Whether that's forty years from now, or next week. And that's going to be worse than anything we could think up to do to him. You could torture him, beat him, kill him, and it would all be over fast. But what lies on the other side...whatever you get there, lasts forever."


"You believe that?" Don asked, a little breathless, though there was still a challenge in his tone.


"The hardest thing for me to handle is the idea that I have to leave this to God to sort out. You aren't the only one who's angry, Donald. When I hit Stenski, it was pure rage. So help me God, if he'd gotten up sooner and Bailey hadn't shown up, I'd have hit him again. If I'd had a weapon...I don't know what I would have done. If I'd had a club or a bat, I think I probably would have bludgeoned him with it. For that moment, I was out of control. You aren't the only one having violent fantasies, feeling things and thinking things that make you feel like some kind of...deranged psychopath."


"You could never do something like that. You're too good."


"So are you," Tim replied simply, stroking Don's hair.


"I don't feel like I am," he objected, his voice breaking. "I feel like if I had the chance, I'd kill them all and not feel a moment of regret."


"You might beat them up, you might want to see them terrified, like you were, but I know you, Donald." He took Don's face in his hands. "You are not a murderer."


"Did I hurt your hand?" he asked, taking Tim's hand in his, frowning at the forming bruises from where Tim's hand had cushioned his impact with the wall.


"No more than you hurt your own, silly," he replied, lightly touching Don's bruised knuckles that had impacted with the wall.


"I wanted to bash my brains in. You're always there to save me."


"I'm just glad I got my hand between your head and the wall in time."


"You've been sticking your hand between my head and a wall for years now," he said, a ghost of a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. He kissed Tim's knuckles.


"I always will, whenever you need me to," Tim replied, kissing Don's forehead.


"There's this place in my head that's so...dark, and so...awful. It's like having a demon inside me, like in The Exorcist. Something that's pure evil and wants to take over and do the things I think about doing."


"That demon is in all of us. It's what makes us do awful things when we have to in order to survive or protect the people we love. No one could survive what you did and not feel like that dark place was taking over sometimes. Honey, your anger is okay. It's part of healing, part of what you went through, just as much as the fear or the pain, or even the physical pain."


"You could still love me, knowing what I think about doing to them? What I want to do to them?"


"I would love you no matter what you said or did. I'll always be right here by your side. Because I know your heart and your soul, and despite everything you've been through or that you're going through now, they're beautiful and good, and there's a light in you that drew me to you the very first time I saw you. Even if you think there's a crazed murderer inside you somewhere, there isn't. There's just unthinkable pain and anger that needs to come out somehow."


"I almost hit you."


"But you didn't, did you?"


"You were going to let me."


"If that's what you needed. You could hit me without consequences, if your anger was going to explode like that, but if you took on someone else, you might get hurt, or arrested. Donald, that demon you talk about was looking right at me in that instant when you drew back your fist. Ultimately, you have control over that rage, or I'd probably have a fat lip or a broken nose right now."


"I never would have forgiven myself if I hurt you."


"You didn't, because you wouldn't. Just like you wouldn't commit any of the murders you might fantasize about."


"You don't think I'm sick after what I told you I want to do to them?"


"I think you're angry and you need to get your power back. It's all going to come together as your body finishes healing, and you get back to work, and your life starts feeling more normal again."


"I think about when we used to make love, and you'd be inside me, and I loved how that felt, and now I'm so scared of that..."


"Those bastards tore up your insides, honey. You're not even physically healed from what they did to you. Of course, you're afraid of it. Don't worry about that now. We made love, and it was beautiful. We still have our love and our intimacy with each other."


"I really did a number on the kitchen," he said, looking around at the destruction.


"I helped," Tim replied, smiling. Don finally smiled fully at that.


"Yeah, you did, didn't you?" He reached up and touched Tim's face. "I'm sorry."


"You didn't do anything wrong, baby," Tim said, pulling him into a hug.


"I trashed the kitchen," he said, his arms winding around Tim, holding on tightly.


"It's just things, honey. We can buy some new dishes."


"We'll need glasses, too," Don added, and Tim had to chuckle at that.


"I guess you're right," he agreed. "And mugs."


"You can find more of those big mugs, right? I liked those."


"Give me a computer and a credit card, and I'll have the kitchen restocked by bedtime tonight."


"That I don't doubt," Don replied, laughing a little. "I probably scared Kenny."


"He'll survive. Though I bet it'll be a while before he asks for another raise."


"Maybe something good came out of this after all," Don said with a little snort and a grin.


He'd taken up residence in Tim's arms, his head resting on Tim's shoulder. Despite the mess around them and the discomfort of kneeling on a wood floor, Tim treasured the moment, just relishing the warm weight of Donald's body against him, grateful all over again that he'd survived.


"I love you," he said, kissing Donald's temple.


"I know. I love you, too." Don reached up to guide Tim's face toward his, pressing his lips against Tim's, the soft contact becoming insistent until Tim opened his mouth and let Don's tongue inside. Don slid his hand into Tim's hair, holding him there. When he reluctantly released Tim, he smiled a soft, romantic smile Tim hadn't seen from him since before the attack.


"You should get some more rest, honey. You were only in bed an hour or so."


"How about you come upstairs and 'rest' with me?" Don kissed him again, then bumped his nose against Tim's, keeping their mouths close together. "I want to be close to you."


"I should clean up down here."


"I guarantee you it'll all be here in a few hours. I'll even help you, if you make it worth my while," Don joked, kissing him again.


It was raining, the soft patter of raindrops on the roof making it seem even cozier to be all wrapped around each other nestled in the softness of their bed. Tim buried his face in the warm spot between Don's neck and shoulder, kissing him there. Just being with Donald this way, touching each other, feeling his lover's heart beating against his own, was more than he'd hoped for so soon after what Donald had been through. He was stunned to feel Donald getting hard as they touched each other, and when he looked in Donald's eyes, they were bright with a mixture of tears and hope, and a little bit of fear.


"Let me touch you, baby," Tim whispered in his ear, and he felt a little nod in response. He moved down in the bed and touched Don's partial erection carefully, gently, as if he were holding something fragile. He guided it into his mouth, knowing that Donald's first arousal was fragile, and more than a little miraculous. The trust it symbolized brought tears to his eyes as he concentrated on bringing Don to full hardness. He felt Don's hand touching his hair lightly, shaking a little as it did.


He cupped Don's balls, rolling them gently in his hand, and he could feel the erection falter. A moment later, Don was trying to move away.


"Timmy, no, don't," he said, gently pushing at Tim's shoulder. Tim released him right away, moving back up to look into Don's eyes, concerned. "I can't."


"It's okay, honey. Did I do something?"


"When you used your hand, it just...reminded me. There were so many...hands on me. Touching me. Everywhere. Just...pawing at me, pulling on me...there. They just played with me like I was a...thing."


"I'm sorry, baby." Tim gathered him close, kissing his hair, patting his back.


"It's not your fault. I wanted to be able to do it, I want to be okay," Don said, his voice shaking.


"You will be okay. We already are okay, honey. I almost lost you. Holding you like this, being with you...it's like a miracle to me. You almost didn't survive, so every minute we have together is a gift." He pulled back a minute to look into those eyes he loved so much. "You are gift."


"You make me feel like I am, all the time. Even when I couldn't get out of bed on my own and I was peeing in a bottle. I always felt like you wanted me, that you were glad I was alive, even if I was a mess."


"Good. Because I'll always want you, any way I can have you."


"I'm sorry, Timmy," he said, shaking his head a little, a couple tears escaping.


"Oh, no, you don't have to be sorry." Tim closed his eyes, feeling tears burning behind his lids as he comforted Donald, stilling the shaking with his embrace. "Just relax and close your eyes. Get some rest, honey."


"Love you," Don muttered,


"And I love you," Tim replied, smiling as he dozed off to sleep.


********


Don could feel Timmy's warm body around him, spooned up behind him. It was light already, and he'd been asleep for hours. Hours without a nightmare, tucked safely in his husband's arms. He was a little too warm, and Timmy was, too, judging by the heat between their bodies, and the warmed up and intermingled scent of their colognes. He could feel Timmy's breath on the back of his neck, the rise and fall of his chest against his back. Unable to stifle a smile, he closed his eyes again, wanting nothing to interfere with this moment, with the utter peace and rightness of his world when Timmy held him like this.


The only thing better than sleeping with Timmy was being the object of his affections when he first woke up. Soft lips were kissing his ear, then his neck, and his shoulder. A loving hand was caressing his chest, a hair-dusted leg rubbing against his. These touches were all so good, like slices of heaven. It was bittersweet to feel them, because he wanted so badly to get excited, like he usually would, to start up a little early morning lovemaking.


"Good morning, beautiful," he said, reaching back to touch Timmy's face, to angle his head back for a kiss.


"Did you get a good rest?" Tim asked, still treating him to the little kisses and nibbles.


"Slept like a log," he said, taking Timmy's hand and kissing it, frowning at the bruising that had darkened overnight. "Does it hurt much?"


"Hm? My hand? No, not much. Better my hand than your head, honey," he said, a smile in his voice. "It's no big deal. How do you feel? How's your stomach?"


"I'm hungry," Don said, grinning.


"No cramps?"


"Not at the moment. I could have done without the gut-punch, but that just feels bruised."


"Things are going to keep getting better. When you're feeling good and the pain pills are out of the picture, it'll make a big difference."


"You think that's what's causing my limp dick, huh?"


"I think it's a whole lot of things. Even if you hadn't gone through what you did, recovering from surgery and being on pain meds has a nasty tendency to interfere with your sex life."


"I just want to be normal. It felt so good when I woke up this morning and you were wrapped around me, and then you were kissing me and touching me and I liked how it felt and I wanted to respond and I can't."


"You did respond. You kissed me, you touched my face, you smiled at me. I knew you liked it, and I like touching you."


"You always let me off the hook."


"Do you think an erection is the only reward I want for touching you?"


"No, I know you don't feel that way."


"But you need to feel that response come easily and naturally like it's supposed to, so you feel like they didn't take that away from you."


Don just nodded. The assessment was too accurate. He couldn't get any words out.


"They didn't take it away from you. It was there last night, and it'll be there again. You're very hard on yourself, Donald. You expect your body to bounce back fast from something that nearly killed you."


"Timmy..." Don paused, needing to tell Timmy what was really scaring him.


"What's the matter, honey?" Timmy prodded gently. "It's okay. You can tell me."


"I don't know if I can testify," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "What would you think of me if I didn't testify?"


"I'd think you were doing what you needed to do to survive this. You don't have to prove anything to me. I already know how strong and how brave you are." Timmy kissed Don's cheek again, squeezing him a little. "What bothers you the most about testifying?"


"There are things I can't even say out loud to you. Things...I haven't even told the cops. Things they said...did. Made me do. I just can't talk about this stuff in front of a courtroom full of strangers. And they're all going to make it seem like I was a willing participant. All their words against mine? Think about it, Timothy. Who's going to believe me?"


"I do. Bailey does. The DA does. Bailey never hesitated for an instant. He's believed you right from the start. And he was adamant enough about it that the DA got on board, too. You're a credible witness. The cops and the prosecutor wouldn't be on your side like they are if they thought you were some...party boy that just got roughed up more than he wanted. You're a respectable businessman and homeowner in the community, and you're in a long-term monogamous relationship. You have a state senator willing to support you as publicly or privately as you want. All of us can't be wrong about you. A jury is going to see that. Even Hanover, pig that he is, is testifying for our side."


"I know all that. I can think it through a thousand times, and what you're saying is true."


"None of that spares you the humiliation of talking about something so intensely painful and personal, though, does it?" Timmy asked gently, kissing Don's shoulder.


"I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. The media have splattered this story all over the country by now, and as soon as I get out of bed and face going online or watching the news, I'm probably going to see my name attached to it, too. There's going to be some scumbag journalist or reporter who's going to expose me. Locally, anyone who's ever had a passing contact with me knows. An openly gay private investigator?"


"It was wrong of them to pinpoint you that way. They might as well have released your name."


Don sat up in bed, feeling like he needed to see Timmy, to talk to him face-to-face, as much as he regretted losing that warm, comforting embrace.


"If I don't testify, most of those guys will walk."


"I'm more worried about what the stress of testifying is doing to you, Donald." Tim was sitting up now, too, and Don couldn't help just looking at him for a moment. Protecting him was worth anything, and that's what he had to hold onto. It didn't matter if it was painful or humiliating. If getting up there and convincing that jury was what it took to keep Timmy safe, he could do it.


"I won't let them walk away from this. They don't get to do that to me, and then just go back to their lives. More important, Fox doesn't get to threaten you and then be free to come after you. I know what I have to do..."


"It's just scary as hell when you think about doing it," Timmy said, moving close to him, sliding his arm around Don's shoulders.


"Something like that," Don agreed, settling in Tim's arms, liking the feel of his cheek against Tim's chest.


"There's something I've been meaning to tell you, but last night was kind of rough, and I didn't...."


"What is it?"


"Your mother called here yesterday, while you were sleeping. Maybe I should have gotten you up again, but you'd just settled down, and you weren't feeling very well, so I didn't wake you."


"What did she want?" He tried to keep his tone neutral. He wasn't sure if he was glad she called, or upset to dredge up the whole ugly mess with his family again.


"To talk to you. She heard the news, and she wondered if it was you."


"Not sure why she cares." His mother hadn't stood up for him at all, hadn't objected to his father's hurtful and complete severing of ties with him. Don took in a deep breath. He could still hear his father's words, right on top of dealing with Kyle's death and being outed amidst such tragedy. "As far as I'm concerned, my son is dead, too. The Griffins are better off." "For a while, I tried writing her letters, sending e-mails. I sent her a goddamned wedding invitation when we got married, and you can see how interested she ever was to even meet the person I'm spending my life with. She just went along with my father."


"I know you have issues with your mother - - "


Don sat up, moving away from the embrace.


"No, Timothy, Norman Bates had issues with his mother. I'm just finished with the whole drama."


"It's probably hard for her to challenge your father."


"Oh, bullshit. My mother isn't a helpless housewife, even if that's the role she played with you. She's a teacher, she works full-time, yet as far as I know, has a car to drive, a cell phone, money in her purse. She's as disgusted by me as my father is, but she likes to blame it on him."


"She sounded worried. She also sounded like she really was nervous about receiving a call from you at home."


"Timmy, I know you want to see something good here. You look at mothers through the lens of your own mother, but she's one of a kind, not typical. At least, she's nothing like my mother. Your mother would move mountains for you, and God help anyone who gets in her way. My mother probably only called here because she wanted to be able to figure out damage control when her friends got wind that her gay son was involved in some kinky group sex party."


"Honey, I know she's hurt you, but maybe if there's anything good that could come from this, it's breaking down that barrier with your mother. Maybe she realized how much she cared when she thought you were hurt."


"Yeah, maybe she did. Maybe Kenny'll take a vow of celibacy next Lent, too."


"Our parents don't live forever. Someday you might regret not at least trying."


"Not trying? Don't you remember us sending her the wedding invitation? I sent her a letter with a picture of us together, trying to encourage her to come, even if Dad wouldn't. She wouldn't even take a phone call from me or come here and meet you. I offered to pay for her fucking plane ticket, as if that had anything to do with anything. I offered for us to go there, stay in a hotel, and just meet her for dinner so she could meet you and we could see each other. She never answered my goddamned letter or responded to my voicemails."


"Maybe she'd need to just see you first. Not have to deal with me right away. With seeing you with a man."


"Oh, fuck that. You're my husband. The love of my life. If she doesn't want anything to do with you, to hell with her and the whole dysfunctional bunch."


"I think you still miss her sometimes. Maybe that's worth forgiving some unforgivable behavior and just trying one more time."


"Of course, I miss her, she's my mother. As much as I'd like to turn off my feelings for her, it doesn't work that way. I love that you want to fix this," Don said, taking one of Timmy's hands in both of his. "I just can't take the way she looks at me, and I really can't handle it right now." He paused. "I don't think I could stand having her look at me and see that disgust in her eyes."


"Don't you think there's any chance that if you talked to her, maybe she's ready to make amends? She seemed very concerned about you on the phone, and she was very polite to me, almost apologetic because they didn't come to the wedding."


"Just let it lie, Timothy."


"If I had disturbed you for the call, would you have talked to her?"


"I don't know," Don said, running his hand back through his hair, tiredly. "I'm glad you didn't wake me for it. She made her choice. I went on with my life. What's the point of digging up that old misery now?"


"Because you might like to have your mother back in your life, honey," Tim said gently, rubbing Don's shoulder, his hand lingering on the soft skin there. Moving his hand away, he kissed the spot. There was something very familiar in Timmy's eyes, and while there was some sympathy over the issues with his family, there was something else. Don smiled a little, then put his hand gently on the back of Timmy's head and guided him forward until their lips met. The responding kiss started gentle, then deepened until they were lying together again, kissing as if they'd never kissed before. "I'm sorry," Timmy said, their lips still touching when he spoke.


"For what?" Don asked, truly puzzled.


"That beautiful fair skin of yours is so soft and you smell so good," he said, kissing Don again. "I couldn't help it."


"Then don't help it. Don't stop trying with me."


"Never."


Don could feel himself responding, getting hard, the friction between their bodies exciting him. Timmy was right there with him, their semi-hard cocks brushing and rubbing against each other as they moved together. He let his hands slide down to caress and squeeze his partner's ass, feeling Timmy moan into their kisses.

 

Tim's hands didn't stray below Don's waist, but his lips traveled down to his chest, licking and sucking at his nipples, and in an explosive moment he barely realized was upon him, Don felt himself coming. Timmy's name came out in a gasp and a sob and a cry all mixed into one, tinged with the surprise and joy he felt at responding to his lover the way he wanted to. Not wanting to neglect Timmy's needs, Don paid special attention to his nipples, then trailed little flicks of his tongue down to his navel, where he darted his tongue inside just the way he knew Timmy liked it.


"Oh, God," Tim gasped, on the verge of coming. Don took him in his mouth, and it was only moments before Timmy was coming with a cry of Don's name.


They lay there quietly for a long time, just petting each other and sharing little kisses, their sated bodies pressed together in a warm embrace.


"Welcome back," Tim said, kissing him again.


"It's good to be back," he replied, smiling, squeezing Timmy a little tighter.


"It's been a while since we took a nice, relaxing bath together. What do you say?"


"I say you fill up the tub and I'll make the mimosas."


"Donald, you can't have alcohol while you're on pain medication."


"I didn't take it last night."


"How do you feel?"


"Right now? On top of the world."


"You must be in pain, honey."


"A little, but not enough to spoil my good time. We took it slow and easy."


"You're sure you don't want to take them this morning?"


"I feel a little clearer in the head, and the pain isn't that bad. I'll take some later if I need them. Now go fill up the tub while I get the drinks, okay?"


"Take it slow on the steps," Tim admonished, kissing him again.


"Yes, doctor," Don replied, kissing him back.


********


Kenny was on the phone when Don walked into the office, carrying a large bag of Chinese takeout from the same restaurant Kenny had visited to bring the ill-fated meal to the house the night Don had his meltdown. As soon as Kenny hung up, he sniffed the air.


"Smells like Szechuan," he said, smiling.


"The Szechuan chicken is your favorite, isn't it?" Don asked, setting the bag on Kenny's desk, pulling up a chair.


"Oh, yeah, absolutely," he said.


"Look, I'm sorry about the other night. Once in a while I just lose it, get mad for no reason. You didn't do anything - - it was all me. You just seem to have a knack of being there when I turn into an asshole."


"Hey, don't worry about it. Anger's part of the package, isn't it?"


"Yeah, it is," Don said, opening the bag and setting the containers on the desk. It was on the tip of his tongue to squelch Kenny's attempt to talk about the aftermath of rape, since he knew nothing about it, and Don wasn't in the mood to fill in the blanks for him, and yet he knew it was his way of trying to show concern. And that maybe, like a lot of guys faced with a subject they thought had no relevance to them, he was uneasy thinking of it as being a male issue.


"Can you eat pretty much what you want now?" he asked, finding chopsticks in the back and digging into his container of food.


"I'm still avoiding the spicy and greasy stuff. My stomach gets upset more easily than it did. Timothy thinks that's more nerves than from my surgery. The doctor said it can take several weeks to really feel like yourself again. I'm inclined to think he's right." Don started poking around in his container of mushroom chicken, a much milder alternative to Kenny's meal.


"We got a bunch of background check work from that real estate company," Kenny said, his tone upbeat. "You want to look over the reports before I send them back?"


"Nah, I trust you," he said, chewing. "Anything come up?"


"The one guy had a misdemeanor conviction."


"Let me see that one, just in case," he said, wiping his hands before Kenny handed him the folder. "You made sure this was the right guy, triple-checked the soc number and the spelling and all that?"


"Yeah, I cross-referenced it with a couple other databases."


"Okey-dokey. We can't help it if he had sticky fingers when he was in college," Don said, handing him back the file. "Nice work."


"Thanks. That guy probably won't agree. Kind of sucks that a mistake you make twenty years ago keeps following you around."


"That's not our problem to worry about. We just find the information. What they do with it is up to the employer. If this guy wasn't up front about his history, that's his issue."


"Do you ever feel sorry for the people you get the goods on?"


"I used to, but I found that if I let myself think about it that way, it drove me nuts. What we find out may cause people some trouble, it may even ruin someone's life, but ultimately, they did the thing, we didn't. We just found out about it. We didn't make it happen in the first place."


"I suppose that's true."


"There are times I wish I did something a little more uplifting for a living, but there's good money in this when we're busy, and it's interesting. At least, more interesting than being tied to a desk and a bunch of paperwork all day."


"Yeah, like my job," Kenny added.


"Gotta pay your dues, kid," Don said, chuckling and shaking his head a little. "You'll get your PI license one of these days, and then you can hang out your shingle and use all my wisdom against me as the competition," he joked.


"I was serious about wanting to be partners. I think that would be really cool. I only have a year left before I can say I have my three years' experience in, and then I'm going to take the test. Of course, getting the license is expensive. Unless my employer wants to cover that for me," he added hopefully.


"We'll see."


"You'd rather have me using my powers against you than for you?" Kenny asked, grinning.


"I've been the Lone Ranger for a long time, Kenny. The Lone Ranger may have had Tonto, but he didn't have another Ranger working with him. Give me some time to adjust to the idea."


"You'll help me study for the test, though, right?"


"Sure. You know more of it already than you think you do." Don paused. "We'll need a bigger office if you make partner. Can't have you sitting out here with the new secretary."


"Can we hire some really hot eye candy? You know, like you did when you hired me?"


Don laughed, choking on his food.


"Thanks a lot," Kenny said, throwing his fortune cookie at Don.


"I'm not sure Timothy would appreciate me hiring hot eye candy."


"He knows you're not going to cheat on him. But me, I'm unattached."


"Why don't you get the license first, before we worry about hiring your replacement?"


********


As Don looked at his reflection in the mirror, he felt closer to normal than he had since that awful night in the gym. Without the pain meds holding him back, he'd been able to come with Timmy that first night, and a couple more times since. While he was feeling more pain without any medication, he felt like he had his senses back and some measure of control over his body's responses.


Having gotten lost in thought in front of the bathroom mirror, he raised his arm and stuck a finger in his armpit since he couldn't remember if he'd put on deodorant. Finding it too dry, he quickly added the deodorant and wandered naked into the bedroom to look for underwear and Timmy, not necessarily in that order. His partner was just fastening the belt on his khakis, the scent of a freshly bathed and cologned Timothy being almost enough to get him going again; definitely enough to distract him from the mission of getting dressed.


"If you want to go out for breakfast, you need to put something on. I just made the bed, and it's not going to stay made long with you wandering around like that," Tim said, kissing his cheek as he went to the dresser to put on his watch.


"What's the matter? My hot body too much for you to resist?"


"No, I think it's your humility that's your most attractive feature."


"That's not what you thought in the shower a few minutes ago," Don replied, grinning as he spritzed on cologne and located clean underwear in the drawer. He stepped into it, but he was moving a bit slower than usual.


"How's your pain? Be honest."


"I notice it a lot more without the pills, but I feel more like myself. Like I can think."


"Thinking's not the only thing you can do without the pain pills," Timmy said, sliding his arms around Don from behind, kissing his cheek.


"Yeah, there's that," Don said, grinning. "I wish it didn't hurt to move around more."


"I don't even want you to try moving around more. We don't really have clearance from the doctor for you to have sex at all, let alone...thrusting and bumping."


"Yeah, I guess that's true." He leaned back against Timmy, closing his eyes. "I want to be a good lover to you again."


"You never stopped being a good lover to me, honey. A lover is just one who loves, and I never doubted how much you loved me from the moment you didn't want me to take your wedding ring off before surgery, to that wonderful little kiss you gave me when you first woke up. The last couple days have been...pure joy," he said, his voice a little strained, his cheek pressed against Don's. "It could never be...less than any other time we've made love."


Don could feel a smile coming on that lit up his face from ear to ear. The ringing of the doorbell cut the moment short.


"I'll go see what that's about," Tim offered, releasing Don and kissing the back of his neck. "Why don't you finish getting dressed?"


"Just hang on a second." Don went to the front window and peeked between the slats of the Venetian blinds. "Shit."


"What is it?"


"Stay out of sight," Don said, stopping Tim from parting the slats to look out. "We've got reporters camped on our front lawn. I have to call a new security service. The cops can give us some help making sure we don't end up dead, but they aren't going to run interference with reporters for us."


"We should probably go online and check the TV news to see what's being said."


"I can save you the trouble. Someplace obviously used my name, and the media just can't pass up a heaping dose of sex and violence in time for the noon news."


"Maybe if I went out there and made a statement on your behalf, they'd back off."


"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart. All they'd do is pounce on you with a thousand questions, and if they get a hold of a snapshot of Fox's boyfriend, some enterprising soul is going to notice the resemblance."


"It's that striking, huh?"


"Striking enough." The doorbell rang again as Don was pulling a t-shirt over his head. "Assholes." He pulled on a pair of jeans and peered out the window again, careful not to disturb the blinds too much. "One of the cops is out there now. He just moved the guy away from the front door."


"We'll have to do something nice for Bailey when this is over. He must have sent us some good guys to watch the house. And the police aren't exactly overstaffed."


"That's true," Don agreed, sighing. "Looks like we're eating in again. Sorry, honey."


"We've got everything we need to make Belgian waffles. Sound good?"


"Yeah, sounds great," Don replied, smiling at Timmy. He personified the old cliché of "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade."


"What? You must really be hungry," he added, chuckling, heading for the bedroom door.


"I love you, that's all," Don said, shrugging. Timmy's face lit up at that.


"I love you, too," he responded, holding Don's gaze a moment before leaving the room and heading downstairs to get their supplies lined up for the waffle-making project.


Don was still smiling as he put on a shirt. The last time they'd made Belgian waffles, it had been a rainy Sunday morning and they'd done it together, creating some unusual combinations of toppings, intermittently feeding each other little pieces of fruit, right before squirting each other with the canned whipped topping. They weren't wearing anything but robes then, and since Timothy was neatly dressed for the day now, Don didn't really think he'd get the same kick out of a whipped topping fight. Still, any activity they could do together that included feeding each other, possibly getting one or more of each other's fingers in their mouths, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter was just fine by Don.


Belatedly, he remembered the state they'd left the kitchen in and figured Tim was probably furiously scooping up debris and trying to clean the worst of it up before Don came downstairs and put any strain on his healing body to do it himself. As if on cue, there was a crash, the sound of a breaking plate and something else heavy clattering to the floor. Don stood there a moment. Something didn't seem right, and all his instincts were on overdrive. The hair was standing up on the back of his neck.


Timmy just dropped something or tripped over the crap on the floor, that's all, he told himself. You're jittery and paranoid.


Ignoring the calmer voice in his head, he went to the bed and pulled the gun out from under the pillows where he'd stashed it, and carefully started moving out of the bedroom and into the upstairs hall. The ensuing silence didn't bode well. Normally, there would have been the sound of Timmy's voice, expressing his frustration in slightly less colorful language than Don would in his place. Or there'd be the sound of Timmy cleaning up after the mess, more clattering and banging and movement.


The house was as silent as a grave. He was acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, no matter how stealthily he stepped on each one.


He froze when he heard a sort of choked grunt. He'd know that voice anywhere, whether it was singing in the shower, or stifling an inelegant belch. He picked up his pace and made it to the foot of the stairs, aiming his gun toward the kitchen, fully prepared to shoot any intruder who might pop around the corner. He couldn't have imagined a worse situation than the one he discovered there.


Timmy was watching him with panicked, desperate eyes, held in a powerful grip by Simon Fox, who was behind him with a gun pointed at his head.


"Let him go, you son-of-a-bitch." Don released the safety on his gun, leveling it right at Fox's head. He knew he wasn't prepared to risk hitting Timmy, but Fox didn't need to know that.


"Are you that good a shot, Strachey? Are you positive you can hit me without at least grazing our beautiful Timothy, here?" He inhaled deeply, his nose near Tim's neck and then his cheek. "I'd almost forgotten how good he smells. The only time he smells better is when you're on top of him, fucking that perfect ass of his."


"This is between you and me, Fox. Leave Timothy out of it."


"Hear that, baby? He's jealous," Fox sneered, kissing Tim on the cheek as he tried desperately to angle his head away from Fox. "I suppose he told you we raped him. Truth is, he's insatiable. Ten cocks up his ass weren't enough. He wasn't satisfied until I filled his ass up the way he needs it filled. He's just trying to cover up the fact he's been out whoring around on you."


"You sick bastard. Do you seriously think I'd believe anything you said? You almost killed him," Tim managed, even though Fox's arm had tightened around him, putting pressure on his throat.


"That's not too polite, Timothy. I remember you being sweeter than that. Yeah, I remember you being real sweet in every way." He caressed Tim's cheek with the barrel of the gun.


"What do you want from me?" Don challenged, hoping to deflect Fox's sick pawing away from Timmy. Even if he had to take it on himself. Anything was better than watching the fear and revulsion in Tim's eyes while Fox sniffed and pawed at him.


"You're going to go out that front door, and you're going to make a statement to the media."


"Oh, really?" Don asked, raising his eyebrows. "What am I saying, exactly?"


"You'll do it, and you'll say what I tell you to, and how I tell you to say it. If you don't, I'll kill him. One neat shot to the temple, and you're single again. They say breaking up is hard to do. It really isn't, you know? Ask Justin."


"What did you do to him?" Don asked, feeling a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Poor Justin.


"Yeah, so you do know him. I figured as much. He wouldn't admit it, even when I had my hands around his throat, pounding his head on the floor, he wouldn't admit he hired you. I guess he thought I was going to let him up if he kept denying it." He grinned wickedly. "Your boyfriend's shaking like a leaf. Timmy never did have much of a stomach for violence. Don't worry, baby," Fox said in a sickening, syrupy tone. "I've been waiting all this time to get back together with you. Sommers was just a cheap, disposable imitation. You're the original. I told you we were meant for each other. You be nice to me, and I'll be real nice to you." Although he didn't loosen his hold on Tim, Don could tell he was rubbing against his partner's back. Pervert that he was, terrifying Timmy was probably getting him off.


"The only way I'll do what you want is if you stop pawing my husband. Otherwise, I'll just take my best shot at blowing your brains out. If you don't think I've got the nerve, just touch him the wrong way one more time and find out," Don added. He'd assessed a pretty safe shoulder shot, and he was more than prepared to try it if he had to. Even if he followed Fox's instructions, the bastard was likely to keep on pawing at Timmy if he didn't have some incentive to stop it. Still, it carried a risk Don preferred not to take if he could avoid it.


"You might hit him by mistake."


"And I might not." Don said the words with such a cold determination, coupled with such a malevolent stare, that Fox seemed almost uneasy. If that demon Don worried about residing in his soul had surfaced for this moment, then its presence was a dark blessing. He willed his hands not to shake, his eyes not to stray to Timmy. He had to focus on Fox, channel the hate and the rage he felt, and concentrate on making good on his threat if Fox didn't keep his end of the bargain.


"Your statement is on the counter," he said, with a jerk of his head.


Don moved carefully toward it, not looking away from Fox or moving his gun as he spared a hand to snatch the sheet of paper off the counter. He skim-read it while keeping his eyes on the intruder who had such a tight grip on Timmy.


"This is fantasy. No one's going to buy this, especially the cops."


"It's up to you to sell it, Strachey. You've got a lawn full of reporters out there. You know what to do. You might want to put your piece away before you open the front door. Otherwise, you might get shot by your own police protection. That would be ironic," he added, smiling.


"Timothy should be with me when I make the statement. Let him go."


"Oh, come on, Strachey. You've got to be joking."


"Just do what he says, Donald," Tim managed. "I'll be okay."


"You better be," he said, not looking at Tim, but focusing on Fox instead. He tucked his gun in the front of his belt and covered it with his shirt.


"Oh, no, not so fast. Drop the gun and kick it over here. You're not going to keep that."


"Forgive me if I don't take your word, considering our history."


"Drop the gun now, or I'll kill him." He pressed the barrel of the gun against Timmy's temple. His partner's terrified expression as he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the fatal shot, broke Don's heart. He tossed the gun on the floor and prayed to any deity listening that he'd made the right decision. Truth be told, he hadn't been to the firing range in a while, and although he was a good shot, he didn't trust himself to shoot Fox when he was so close to Timothy. "Now, get out there and do what you're told."


Reluctantly, he turned his back on Fox and Tim and went to the front door. Opening it, he was greeted by a barrage of camera flashes and a surge of humanity bearing notepads, recorders, microphones, and TV cameras.


********


"What the hell does he think he's doing?" Bailey muttered, stunned as he saw the "Breaking News" alert on the TV he'd had droning in the background. He'd been at work until the wee hours of the morning and had just gotten out of bed from sleeping off that late-night shift. He was planning to go in at noon and figured he should have known better than to expect to enjoy his second cup of coffee without a calamity of some sort interrupting him. That the calamity's name was Donald Strachey didn't even surprise him, although seeing him about to make a statement from his front porch did.


"I would like to make a statement regarding the sexual assault case I am presently at the center of. I have accused a number of prominent citizens in Albany of forcing me to participate in a group sex encounter. I want to publicly recant that accusation and apologize to the people who have been harmed by my lies."


Bailey stared at the screen. He would have been less stunned to hear that aliens had landed in the courthouse parking lot.


"I was at the FBM Gym that night of my own free will and participated in consensual sexual activity with a group of gay men. I am in a committed relationship and felt making a rape accusation was the only way to explain to my partner what happened and why I needed medical attention, without ending our relationship."


Bailey picked up the phone. "Yeah, get some units to meet me over at the Strachey place, and patch me through to Fernandez and Collins who are already there. Something's going on."


"My injuries were not the fault of the other men involved in the encounter. It was just a game that went too far, and I was accidentally injured..."


Bailey didn't bother to pause to turn off his television before rushing out the door to meet the other units at Strachey's house.


********


Despite the maelstrom of questions, Don closed the door decisively and turned to look back where Fox had been standing, holding Timmy captive. His gun was gone from the floor, and there was no sign of Fox or his partner.


"Fox!" he bellowed, rushing through the first floor of the house, finding no one. "Timothy!" he shouted, running up the stairs, ignoring his body's protests to the exertion. "Timmy!" he yelled helplessly into the empty hall and silent rooms. As he was racing downstairs, he nearly ran head-on into Bailey, who burst in the front door. "He has Timothy. Fox took him," he blurted.


"Okay, just slow down and take a breath."


"You don't understand! Fox got in here somehow, and he had a gun on Timmy and - - "


"That's why you made that ridiculous statement, because Fox had your boyfriend."


"How did you know?" Don asked, even though he only marginally cared. All he cared about was finding Timmy.


"I knew something was wrong when you made that statement, because it was so absurd."


"Timmy was right," Don said, with an ironic and humorless laugh.


"About what?"


"He said you believed me, that you had faith in me, that I was telling the truth. We have to find him before he - -"


"We're gonna get him back, Don. Come with me," he said, leading the way back outside, uniformed cops clearing the property of reporters. Don followed him, sliding into the passenger seat of his sedan. Bailey radioed in Fox's car description and license number and reported that he had a hostage.


"He was already...touching him," Don said, not sure why he was telling Bailey, but the horror of what Fox could be doing to Timothy was too overwhelming to hold inside. And truth be told, being in the same room with Fox had been more traumatic than he realized when it was happening.


"He can't rape him and drive at the same time, and it's a good bet he's on the move right now," Bailey said. They were speeding down the road, and Don wondered how Bailey knew where he was going.


"Fox killed Justin Sommers."


"How do you know?"


"He described slamming his head on the floor, holding him by the throat."


"I'll send a unit and a bus over there right away. Did he say specifically he was dead?"


"He implied it. How did he get at Sommers, anyway?"


"We can't keep everyone under twenty-four hour guard. Sommers was warned when Fox was released. You know, a lot of these domestic violence situations are un-winnable, because the victims always think they're going to sweet-talk their way out, or they mistake the dysfunctional thing they have for a relationship. Sommers needed to get out of town, and if he didn't..."


"Then it's his tough luck he's dead, huh?"


"I didn't mean it that way. I just mean that people in dangerous relationships have to recognize the warning signs and get the hell out of town if their lunatic boyfriend just got out on bail after raping and nearly killing the private detective they hired. I'd say that was a good indicator that he wasn't going to bring Sommers candy and flowers when he got home."


The dispatcher announced a sighting of Fox's Hummer, heading for the expressway. Bailey activated his lights and sirens, letting the dispatcher know he was responding, along with several other units. It wasn't long before they had the vehicle in sight, careening down a rural road. Bailey's speedometer was straining toward ninety, and they hadn't caught up to Fox's SUV yet. A symphony of sirens made it impossible for Fox not to know that he was in the sights of at least six black-and-whites, plus Bailey's car.


"You need to back off. He's going too fast," Don said, watching as Fox barely kept his vehicle on the road on a particularly sharp curve.


"It'll be worse on the expressway. There isn't much traffic here. We need to catch up to him, overtake him," Bailey said. "Dispatch is calling in back-up from the state police. We'll nail him."


"He's got Timothy with him. Don't let some hot dog try a pit maneuver on him at these speeds."


"Dispatch, this is Bailey. Remind all units we've most likely got an innocent hostage on board, use caution with approaching or apprehending."


Bailey had no sooner issued that warning when state troopers appeared on the horizon, traveling toward the speeding Hummer. Fox swerved sharply at the sight of them, and the Hummer crashed through the guardrail, hurtling down a steep embankment. Bailey came to a screeching stop near the break in the rail, and Don was out of the car almost before it stopped.


"Timothy!" Don shouted, ignoring the pain that flared as he started running down the embankment toward the SUV that had come to a stop on its side at the bottom.


"Strachey, wait!" Bailey was standing on the road, stopping where the SUV had gone over the side. "Fire and rescue are on the way! It's on fire!" he shouted, but Don didn't pay attention to that. If there was a fire, there might not be time to wait to get Timmy out of there.


He was halfway down the hill when the explosion knocked him to the ground. He pushed up on one elbow, staring in horror at the inferno below. Bailey had made his way down to where Don was sitting in the damp, cold grass. He managed to catch Don around the waist before he could rush down toward the burning SUV.


"Timmy's down there!"


"You can't go near that fire. It could blow again, and nobody in there could survive that first blast and the fire. If he was in that car, he's gone, Donald."


"No! He's not gone! I have to get him out of there!"


"Settle down! You can't go down there. The whole thing's in flames."


"Timothy! Timmy!" Don shouted, still struggling violently against Bailey's attempt to restrain him. Finally, the horror of reality sank in, and he stopped fighting, watching the fire consume the SUV. "Timothy!" he shouted again, more a desperate cry of agony than a call to which he expected any response. His whole body lost its fight, and if Bailey hadn't been holding him up, he knew he'd have been lying prone on the hillside.


"He might not even be in there. We don't know for sure it was Fox behind the wheel. Just that it was his SUV and his license plate."


Don didn't care about anything Bailey was saying. All he could do was stare at the inferno and wish he was down there in it, with Timmy. And it was then he heard it. A faint, familiar sound carried on the wind. At first, he thought it was grief-induced insanity, an audio hallucination of gasps and groans that sounded like Timmy's voice. Then he saw movement near a cluster of bushes, and his fight was back again as he pulled free of Bailey's grasp and scrambled toward the motion. In a moment, a bewildered, scraped, slightly disheveled Timmy staggered from behind the brush.


"Donald!" he hollered, spotting Don on the hillside as he started running toward him. Don couldn't begin to describe how he felt at that moment, but he ran toward Timmy with a kind of desperation and urgency that exceeded even the frantic feeling he'd had racing toward the burning SUV. It didn't matter that he was in constant pain now, that he knew he shouldn't run and stumble down the hill and across the grass. He had to get Timmy in his arms, feel him, know he was real and not some hysterical invention of his imagination.


"Timmy!" he called back, not really able to think of anything more profound. As he crashed against his partner, he felt strong arms wrapping around him as he grabbed Timmy in a hug, burying his face against his partner's shoulder. He clung to Timmy fiercely, as if he were a ghost that would somehow slip through his arms if he dared loosen his grip. He sobbed helplessly, not able to pull back his emotions, even though Timmy was alive and safe and in his arms.


"It's over, Donald," Timmy said softly, that warm hand of his on the back of Don's head, arms still holding him close.


"I thought you were dead," Don said unnecessarily. Given the raging fire that was consuming the SUV, everyone thought Timothy was dead, along with Fox.


"Fox freaked out when we went off the road and kind of forgot about holding the gun on me, so I jumped out. I didn't want to be with him another second, and I didn't think landing down there would be any fun."


"Are you okay? Did he touch you?" Don asked, pulling back to frame Timmy's face in his hands. His glasses were missing, there was a nasty scrape on his forehead, his clean, tidy clothes were soiled and torn, and he looked pale and shaken. And beautiful. And alive.


"Just what he was doing at the house. My husband defended my honor, remember?" he asked, his eyes filling as he stroked Don's cheek. "He was holding the gun on me and getting us both to his car and then driving...he made some sick remarks, but he didn't do anything to me."


"Yeah, I did great. He kidnapped you and you almost died."


"But I didn't, and you did the best you could. You were careful not to risk my life, Donald. Shooting him or defying him more than you did...I could have been killed. You stood up to him for me. You were wonderful."


"Why don't you two come back up to the road so we can have the EMTs take a look at you?" Bailey suggested as he approached them.


"You shouldn't be running around the way you were," Tim said, already fussing over Don, not really noticing his own scrapes and bruises. "Are you in pain?"


"Not anymore," he replied honestly, taking time to hug Timmy again, not caring if he held up cops and emergency workers to do it. The feeling of Timmy's live body against his was a joy too sweet to delay, when only moments earlier he'd suffered the most bitter pain he could imagine, thinking he'd lost his lover to a fiery and horrific death.


********


Tim stood with his head directly under the spray of the shower. It didn't seem to matter how hot the water was or how long it poured down over him, he couldn't shake the feeling of Fox's hands on him or the awful thought that those same hands had pawed and violated Donald. That it was all his fault that Donald had to endure something so many times more awful than the unwanted touches he'd put up with from Fox. And he was here under hot water, unable to feel clean, wondering if he was trying to bathe or just punishing himself by nearly burning his skin with the uncomfortable temperature.


"Timothy, what are you doing?!"


He started and stepped back as Donald somehow appeared as if out of nowhere, quickly turning off the water.


"Timmy, look at me," he said, taking Tim's face in his hands. "Honey, your skin's turning red. That water was getting close to scalding," he added, wrapping Tim up in a big towel, urging him out of the shower. The bathroom felt like ice by contrast, and he shivered. The scrapes on his forehead, elbow, and legs felt like they were on fire now. He hadn't even noticed it before.


"I wanted to feel clean," he said honestly, ashamed that he was taking this so hard when what Donald had suffered was so much worse. He didn't resist Donald's efforts to put the thick terrycloth robe on him that would absorb the water.


"You are clean, honey," he said gently, leading Tim into the bedroom, encouraging him to sit on the foot of the bed. "I'm going to put something on your scrapes. They look sore."


"I guess pouring boiling water on them was kind of stupid," he said, trying for humor. "I can take care of that, Donald. You should be resting. I still think we should have taken you to the ER to be checked out. I know you were in pain."


"Timothy, relax. I'm fine. I'm not bleeding anywhere, and I'm a little sore from all the running around, but I'm okay. Let me take care of you."


He knelt on the floor by Tim's legs with his first-aid supplies and gently applied ointment to the raw areas that were the price Tim had paid to escape the doomed SUV with his life. His knees and shins had taken the worst of it, and he knew he was lucky not to have broken bones. The ointment Donald was using was easing the pain, and he was very carefully placing gauze bandages on each one. Tim couldn't help noticing the well-defined muscles beneath smooth, fair skin, the way the hair on his arms and legs seemed like spun gold. The way Donald was unintentionally beautiful, and more often than not, unaware of just how beautiful he was. Crouched there in his boxers and a tank shirt, he'd have probably thought Tim was crazy if he'd commented on him being beautiful, handsome, enchanting in his own very unique way.


"Fox was a sick bastard. It's normal that you feel crawly after he was pawing at you, making sick remarks. I'd have blown his fucking head off if I was sure enough of the shot not to miss and hit you." When Donald finished with Tim's legs, he kissed his knee. "It's okay if you're upset, Timothy. You're entitled." He sat next to Tim and put the same careful and loving attention on the scrapes on his arm and elbow.


"I hated him touching me," he said quietly, not sure if he felt worse about that, or worse about daring to complain about a little slap and tickle from Fox when Donald was still recovering from the horrific things that were done to him. All he'd had time to do was put his hand in a couple of unwanted places and press up against him fully clothed.


"C'mere," Donald said, setting his first-aid supplies aside. Tim was only too ready to wrap his arms around Donald and hold onto him, willing himself to let the feeling of his lover's arms and hands and body replace the ugly thoughts of Fox's touches, and the awful idea of what he would have done to Timothy at gunpoint had he actually gotten away in the SUV and reached whatever destination he was heading for. "I know you were scared, honey. It's okay."


"I'm sorry," he said, knowing he was shaking, knowing the brush with death and the brush with Fox was catching up with him, that weeks of fear and worry for Donald's safety and recovery was right behind it, all of it a little too much for him to handle at that moment.


"You've been so strong for me, for so long," Donald said, nailing his thoughts and emotions so precisely it unsettled him. "You don't have to hold it together all the time, sweetheart. I love you. I want to take care of you when you need me."


"What you went through was so much worse," Tim said, angry that his voice was broken, that he needed the embrace so badly, that he'd missed the strength he drew from this Donald, the tough, feisty one who would kill or die to defend him.


"So what? You're not allowed to be upset just because you didn't have comparable injuries?"


"I'm not allowed to be upset because it's all my fault any of this happened," Tim blurted, pulling away. The words stunned even him, but they were true. "If it weren't for me, you would have never been hurt the way you were." He stood up and walked away from the bed.


"You know what, you're partially right. Fox probably went as far off the deep end with me as he did because he was obsessed with you, and he finally got his hands on the person you loved. The one who was in the position he felt he should be in, with you, forever. He hated me for having what he wanted and couldn't get. So he subjected me to something awful enough to either screw me up for life, or kill me, whichever came first. That really, really sucks, Timmy, but it's no different than the times you've been hurt or in danger because of me."


"It's a little different, Donald. I've never been hurt as badly as you were. Never hurt that way."


"Yeah, well, there's no ironclad guarantee you never will be. A couple of times, it's only been dumb luck that you weren't. And I get upset, and you tell me it's the occupational hazard of being married to a PI, and you hug me and tell me it's okay, that it's not my fault, that you love me - - is that all just BS to make me feel better?"


"No, of course not!"


"Then let this go, Timmy. Yeah, maybe he did what he did because he was still hot for you after all this time, and maybe he would have done most of it anyway. I was prowling around his business and he caught me. I don't think he was going to throw me a tea party."


"I doubt he would have done something this brutal, this risky, because of that."


"Timothy, I don't blame you for any part of this, so just stop blaming yourself. I can handle the rest of this mess, but I can't handle you tearing yourself up inside over this. It's not your fault. Not one single moment of what I went through is your fault. Okay?"


"I want to feel that, I do." Tim turned and faced Donald again. "I've been on your back for years about how dangerous your work is, how much I worry about you, and then it's some old relationship of mine that causes you to be hurt like this."


"Yeah, I know, it's a sick irony, but that doesn't make it your fault, either. If I wasn't sneaking around Fox's gym, trying to figure out the security code on his door, I would have probably never met the SOB. If Justin Sommers hadn't hired me, I never would have had a reason to go there. So by your line of reasoning, it's could be Sommers' fault, or more likely, my own fault. I had a more active role in putting myself there than you did."


"None of it was your fault."


"And it wasn't yours, either. Just like it's not some innocent girl's fault if she's walking home at night and someone drags her into the bushes and rapes her. Was it her fault for walking down the street alone at night? Might not be the smartest thing to do, but it doesn't mean she deserves to be raped for it. Prowling around Fox's gym might not have been the smartest thing I ever did, but I didn't deserve to be raped for that, either, anymore than you deserve to be blamed for it because years ago, you made a bad choice in boyfriends. Blaming the victims is a game for the bad guys and their lawyers, not us."


"It's good to hear you saying that it wasn't your fault. To know that you realize that."


"Yeah, well, somebody I love made me see that. So let me return the favor, huh?"


"Okay," Tim said, nodding, and for the first time, he found some truth and comfort in being told it wasn't his fault. He would die before he'd hurt Donald, and Donald knew that. So maybe he really couldn't be blamed for something so far outside of his control as the actions of some nut he'd broken up with years ago.


"You didn't burn yourself anywhere with the hot water, did you?" Donald asked, looking concerned.


"Maybe you should check," he replied. He really wanted to feel Donald's hands on him, their bodies against each other, skin on skin, feeling all those good feelings, sending the ugly thoughts packing.


Donald smiled broadly, not losing any time in commencing a loving, and thorough, "examination" of his lover.


********


Both Don and Tim were relieved to learn that Justin Sommers hadn't died as a result of the beating he took from Fox. He suffered a concussion, along with a few other assorted fractures and bruises, but he was expected to make a full recovery. After a few meetings with the DA, it was decided to move forward with plea bargains with the defendants in Don's case, provided they would all do some time in prison. The thought of enduring not one, not two, but potentially several individual trials stretching over years was more than Don could face. Since the defendants didn't know that for sure and he was considered a credible witness against them, the plan proved successful in putting most of the men behind bars, albeit for abbreviated sentences. Fox was dead, having paid the ultimate price for his leading role in the assault.


When all was said and done, they were left with Evan Maxwell, who refused any sort of plea bargain. He was committed to holding onto a not-guilty plea and taking the case to trial, believing he could convince a jury that Donald was a willing participant, confident that his "photo evidence" would be enough to make Donald back down to avoid dealing with it, or would be compelling evidence that because he came, he was enjoying himself. The prosecutor did make a motion for the trial to be closed to the press and public, which was granted due to the sexually explicit nature of the anticipated testimony and the evidence, including the photographs.

The first day of the trial, Don stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, trying unsuccessfully to knot his tie. His hands were shaking, and for some reason, he just couldn't remember the right order of how to do it. Tim appeared in the mirror behind him, already dressed, and rested his hands on Don's shirt-clad shoulders.


"How about some help?" he offered, trying to keep his tone light.


"I guess if we want to get there today, you'll have to handle it," Don said, defeated, turning to let Timmy tie the tie, which he did, with speed and precision.


"You look very handsome," Tim said, smiling.


"I feel like an undertaker," he said, referring to the dark navy suit coat he shrugged into, adding it to the white shirt and conservative tie. "I don't even look like me."


"I'm not so sure the DA was right about you needing to look so...uptight. You always look nice when you're dressed for work."


"If me showing up looking like this makes a jury think I'm more credible, I can stand the makeover for a few days." He tried to put on his watch, but it dropped on the floor. Tim picked it up and put it on for him. "My hands won't stop shaking."


"I know, honey," he said, the sympathy obvious in his voice. "I hate that you have to go through this."


"I couldn't do it without you."


"You don't have to," Tim said, kissing Don's forehead. "I know how hard this is for you." He looked into Don's eyes. "If you can't do this, I won't think any less of you. We can call the DA and tell him it's too much and that you aren't going to testify."


"Yeah, well, I'd think less of me. That son-of-a-bitch raped me, and he'd have no problem doing the same thing to you, or to some other poor bastard he got a hold of. You know as well as I do that if I don't testify, he'll skate. There are enough holes in the case without me that I can't back out."


"I'm very proud of you, Donald. I want you to remember that, no matter what sick, ridiculous thing some defense lawyer throws at you, or how graphic the testimony has to get. I am very, very proud to call you my husband, and nothing is going to change that."


"Love you," Don said tightly, hugging Tim as hard as he could without cutting off his oxygen, trying to keep his emotions in check. He wasn't even at the courthouse yet, let alone on the stand, and he already wanted to bury his face against Timmy and hide there. He felt Timmy's warm hand on the back of his head, so gentle and calming.


"You're going to do just fine, honey. I know you're scared, but it's going to be okay."


"I came," he said, needing to confess this one thing to Timmy. He couldn't hear it in court.


"I know, when Maxwell made you."


"No, it was later. I don't even know why it happened. I was in pain and I didn't want it to happen."


"If you work over someone's prostate long enough, it'll happen, honey. That's not your fault; it's biology."


"I didn't want you to think I was lying."


"Never, never would I think that."


"They're going to try to make it look like I was unfaithful to you."


"You know I don't buy into any of that, so don't be afraid of it. I believe you, Donald, and I believe in you. I know what kind of man you are, and I know what kind of husband you are. In all the late nights you've worked, I have never, once, ever, worried that you were being unfaithful to me. Let them twist things however they want. You're telling the truth, and I believe you."


"I just want to go on with my life," he said, pulling back, wishing he could just lean on Timmy a little longer, but it was getting late.


"We're almost there." Tim framed Don's face with his hands. "You can do this, Donald, and then it'll be over, however it turns out, and we can move on."


When they arrived at the courthouse, the press were swarming around, trying to catch a glimpse of the key players in the trial, jockeying into position for quotes, since they were barred from the courtroom itself. Don was surprised by the way Timothy used his slightly taller stature to shield him, and the way he managed to cut a human swathe through the crowd, one arm around Don, not exactly ruthless in the way he moved, but not unwilling to be a bit of a bully if he had to in order to get his partner safely inside with a minimum of harassment.


"I should have skipped hiring bodyguards and just let you take care of me," Don said, smiling, as they emerged from passing through the metal detector.


"Once in a while I've been with Senator Platt when she's been barraged by reporters and her security didn't catch it. I've had to learn how to move through them."


Tim smiled at him and held out his hand. That smile was contagious, even though he didn't feel like smiling. He slipped his hand into Timmy's, warmed by the way he wanted to be sure everyone who saw them knew they were a couple, the he was Don's significant other, that he was proud to be with him. He needed to feel that so badly at that moment. He was so afraid of what was coming, as much as he tried to be strong about it. He felt like he was being dragged into that courtroom so he could be raped all over again, only with a larger audience this time. He realized he had Tim's hand in a death grip that had to be almost painful, and tried to ease up a bit.


"Squeeze my hand as much as you need to, honey. I can take it," Tim whispered to him, smiling, squeezing back.


Maybe being blessed with Timothy is something so wonderful that you have to expect to pay some dues for it. Maybe there has to be something horrible you have to deal with to deserve something that good in your life.


"I love you, you know," Don whispered back.


"I know. I love you, too." He adjusted their grip so their fingers were laced.


"Good, you're here," Bailey said, approaching them.


"Was there some question I would be?" Don replied.


"No," Bailey replied, chuckling. "It's almost nine," he added. "Right this way," Bailey said, escorting them into the courtroom.


Sitting near the front, behind the prosecution's table, Donald wondered if the knot in his chest could get any tighter, or if he could feel anymore nauseous without puking. Watching Maxwell, who had been out on bail, stroll in, chatting with Adam Garner, his defense attorney, didn't make him feel much better. The hand that wasn't holding his was balled into a fist in Tim's lap, the knuckles nearly white.


"You look worse than I do," Don whispered in his ear, and Tim smiled faintly, squeezing his hand a little.


"I thought I got some of the anger out of my system on Stenski. I didn't," he concluded.


"You have to stay calm, Timothy. No matter how nasty it gets. The defense wants us to lose it, to make us look bad."


"Did you see the smug smirk on his face? I'd like to wipe that off for him."


"Relax, bruiser," Don teased gently, amazed that he could manage a little smile. "I love that you want to defend my honor. Just...don't do it. It'll help their side, not ours."


"I know. The DA already gave me the speech about keeping my mouth shut and staying in my seat no matter what happens."


"You're here with me. That's everything. You don't have to do anything."


"I just hate that he can still hurt you, put you through this."


"I know. I couldn't do this without you. Just being able to look over and see you here, that'll get me through."


"I wish I could spare you this somehow," Tim said, covering their joined hands with his other hand.


"I know you would if you could, but I have to do this. I won't let that son-of-a-bitch walk after what he did to me."


The prosecutor, a tall, slender middle aged man with a receding hairline and glasses, didn't at first glance inspire much confidence that he was a fiery speaker. He did prove to be an energetic orator, and he made a powerful opening statement. By the conclusion, the jury seemed to be paying close attention.


Bailey testified for the prosecution first, laying out the details of the case, answering questions about the collection of evidence and the male prostitution and drug parties Fox, Maxwell, and Benson hosted for wealthy clients who could afford to pay big price tags to sate their lusts. The prosecutor also called on him for his personal experience with Don's credibility. The defense spent a lot of time trying to smear the credibility of the police, including citing Stenski's behavior, which he tried to cast as being more deadly to Donald than Maxwell's.


By the time a recess was called for lunch, Don had no appetite and had to use all his powers of restraint not to grab Timmy, get in the car, and drive as fast and as far away from Albany and the case and the courthouse as humanly possible. Instead, they were herded into a conference room protected from the press and the defense's witnesses. Don was marginally aware that Tim gave Bailey some kind of lunch order for them, since he offered to get them something when he went out himself.


"You didn't need to bother ordering lunch. I don't want anything," he said, knowing his tone was a bit harsher than what Timmy had coming, but hoping he'd understand, the way he always did.


"You don't want to feel faint if you end up testifying today," Tim said, sitting at the conference table, watching Don as he stared out the window at a city that used to feel like home.


"I don't want to throw up on myself, either."


"Point taken. Maybe feeling faint is better," Tim agreed, trying to inject a little humor into a dire situation.


"It's not fair," he said, shaking his head. "It's not fair that he can make me do this."


"Who?"


"Maxwell."


"If you don't testify, they still have all the men who made plea deals, the evidence...they might be able to convict him without your testimony."


"If I don't testify, it looks like I have something to hide."


"I don't care. Donald, I don't want you to suffer. If the price we pay for that is Maxwell getting away with it, being exonerated, then so be it. I don't care about him. I care about you."


"It's bad enough I have to look at him sitting there, finding opportunities to look over at me with that smirk on his face. If I don't testify, he wins."


Tim didn't say anything else, but a moment later, Don felt the warmth of him behind him, strong arms encircling him, Timmy's cheek against his hair.


"I wish I could take you away from all this. Just leave here, grab our stuff, go away somewhere and put all this behind us." He could feel Timmy's smile when he chuckled himself. "What?"


"I was just wondering how far we could get from Albany before nightfall," he replied, grinning.


"When this is over, let's go away together."


"You've already missed a lot of work taking care of me."


"Maybe just for a long weekend. Once I get caught up and you get back on your feet with the business, we can plan a longer trip."


"I'd like to go away with my lover for the weekend." Don found himself sad at that thought, and he couldn't help the words that came next. "If I was still any good in bed, that is."


"Why would you say something like that, baby? Have you heard any complaints from me?"


"No, but I wouldn't hear any from you. You'd put up with whatever deficient version of a sex life I can have."


"There's nothing deficient about our lovemaking, Donald," Tim said, his tone gently scolding.


"I can't stand you inside me, and I can't bring myself to make love to you that way. I'm scared if you put your hands on me the wrong way. Don't tell me you don't miss us, the way we used to be," he said, closing his eyes against the tears that burned beneath his eyelids.


"I don't miss us, because we haven't gone anywhere. Do I miss you inside me? Of course, I do. I love you, you're the other half of my soul, and when we're together that way, it feels like two puzzle pieces falling into place. But so does this," he said, emphasizing the words with a little squeeze. "I don't have to insert tab A into slot B to feel that connection to you. I feel it every minute of our lives. We're already joined inside, in our hearts. Nothing can take that away from us."


"I want to be able to be whole again. I never wanted this to hurt you."


"Donald, when they hurt you, they hurt me, regardless of how things turned out. Could someone do something like that to me and not hurt you?"


"No," Don admitted, leaning more heavily against Timmy, resisting the urge to turn in his arms, hide his face against Timmy's chest, and bawl like a baby. And stay there in that warm safety, hide there in arms that would never let anything bad touch him. Tim must have picked up on his feelings, because he urged him to turn, hugging him close, rubbing his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop shaking.


"It might take them the rest of the day to deal with the witnesses before you. Maybe you won't have to testify today."


"It doesn't matter when."


"I know. That's probably harder, to wait and wonder when." Timmy must have been able to feel him shaking, because he held on tighter. "If you can't testify, we'll tell Bailey, and I'll take you home, and it'll be over."


"I have to do this. I'm just...scared."


"I know, honey. I am, too. I don't want to sit there and see you hurt again. You didn't deserve this, and you don't deserve to be put through it all over again."


"I'm sorry," he said, pulling back, wiping at his eyes. "I'm not holding up very well."


"Save that for the courtroom. You don't have to hold up with me, remember?" Tim brushed at a tear with his thumb. "Save the brave act for when you need it," he added with a little grin, kissing Don's forehead before giving him a big bear hug. When he stepped back, Don couldn't believe he was actually smiling, unable to resist his partner's sweet smile, and feeling much better after a little TLC. "You're going to do fine, baby. Your testimony is going to wipe the sick smirk off that bastard's face and put him away where he belongs. Just keep that in mind."


"I'm trying," Don said, nodding, smiling a little.


"Sorry it took so long," Bailey said as he entered the room, carrying bags containing the lunch he'd gone out to pick up. "Traffic was murder." He looked at Don and Tim, a little concerned. "Everything okay?"


"I'm not backing out on you, if that's what you mean," Don said, his tone friendlier than his words. "Though I thought about it."


"Having the jitters is pretty natural. Most crime victims who have to testify have a hard time, even the ones who think they won't. I think you'll be a good witness, and the jury will believe you."


"Why?"


"Because you're telling the truth, for one thing," he said, sitting at the table and looking through the bags for his own food. "Am I the only one eating?"


"We should have something, Don," Tim said, moving toward the table. "It could be a long afternoon, and you might not even be on the stand." They both sat at the table, and Don was quiet while Tim located their sandwiches and drinks and set his in front of him. "Thanks for bringing us something," Tim said to Bailey.


"No problem. I was going there anyway. They make the best sandwiches in town," he said of the sub sandwich restaurant where he'd gotten the food.


It may have been true that he was going to get himself something, but he wasn't obligated to deliver theirs, or to eat with them, and Don appreciated the fact that Timmy wasn't the only one who had to be strong, that all the moral support didn't ride on his shoulders. Bailey's presence actually gave them both a little added peace of mind, serving as a constant reminder that they were the good guys in this whole mess and that the State of New York was on their side, not Maxwell's.


********


"Once you were downstairs, in the basement, did you have any opportunities to leave?" Carson, the prosecutor, asked Don.


"None that would have been successful. They had my gun, and I was always outnumbered three to one."


"You're a pretty fit, healthy guy. Ex-military. You must know some hand-to-hand combat moves."


"A few," Don said, not sure where the prosecutor was going with what seemed like questioning his credibility about his involuntary captivity.


"As part of that training, do they teach you how to assess your chances in a situation like the one you were in that night? Outnumbered, no weapon?"


"Yes, I learned how to anticipate negative outcomes of resisting or attempting to escape from captors."


"And you would have to weigh those against the chances for success?"


"Ordinarily, yes."


"And in this case?"


"At one point, they started talking about calling Timothy, that he'd probably come down there if they called him and said I was hurt or in trouble and needed him to pick me up."


"Is that when you stopped assessing escape options?"


"My escape options were slim to none anyway, but yes, after they made that threat, I was more inclined to just ride it out, whatever they were going to do to me."


"Otherwise, you were going to try to get away?"


"I would have fought harder. Realistically, being combat-trained doesn't make you Superman. There were three guys all larger than I was, at least a couple weapons in play...I wouldn't have made it out of there anyway, but I would have preferred that they just shoot me and get it over with rather than go through what I did."


"So without the threat to your partner, you would have made what you felt was a futile, and probably fatal, attempt to escape?"


"Probably. Fox was hung up on the idea of making sick remarks about Timmy, things he wanted to do to him... If they'd killed me, I wasn't even sure he wouldn't still go after him at some later time. They had Timothy's cell number, our home address, everything."


"Objection, your honor." Andrews, the defense attorney, was on his feet. "Mr. Fox isn't on trial here, and Mr. Strachey is speculating on what he may or may not have planned on doing, something we can't explore in fact, since Mr. Fox is deceased."


"It all goes to Mr. Strachey's state of mind and his reasons for not making even more aggressive attempts to escape. The defendant is claiming the victim was not held against his will, and it is incumbent on the people to prove the kidnapping charge."


"Overruled," the judge said calmly. She was an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair upswept and small glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.


"You argued with Maxwell, Fox, and Benson, resisted them?"


"I kept struggling. I guess it was instinct. Fox told me to keep my mouth shut, and that's when Maxwell said, 'unless we have something to put in it,' or words to that effect. I told him outright that they better not stick anything in my mouth they wanted back."


"You made it clear you didn't want to have oral sex with anyone present?"


"I think implying I was going to bite it off was a pretty clear signal I wasn't into it."


"What happened next?"


"Fox started beating me. At first, Maxwell and Benson were holding me, but after they got a few blows in and I was easier to control, Maxwell started hitting me, too. I was a little dazed, because they were hitting me in the face, around my head, as well as gut-punches. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees, and Hanover's groin was in my face."


"Did you resist again? Object to Hanover's advances?"


"I spit on him. I said 'no,' and I tried to keep my teeth clenched together. Maxwell grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back so hard I thought he was going to snap my neck. I guess it startled me, and my mouth opened and..." Don paused, reaching for the glass of water sitting there, his hand shaking badly enough to make it slosh a bit before he took a drink. He looked at Timmy, who had just finished wiping his eyes with a handkerchief and was replacing his glasses. He gave Don a look that conveyed as much love as he could without physically touching him.


"All of a sudden, I felt like I couldn't breathe, and this foul-tasting thing was jammed into my mouth, and Maxwell was still pulling on my hair, forcing my head back. Hanover said something like 'suck it, bitch'," Don said, covering his mouth, not sure if it was something he felt he needed to do, remembering how it felt being violated that way, or if it was to keep his lunch from coming back up uninvited. "I bit down as hard as I could," he said, his voice breaking. "I just wanted it out of my mouth, so I could breathe, to get that taste out of my mouth," he managed, crying now, but determined to finish. "I remember hearing Hanover screaming, shouting about me biting his dick off. I was struggling really hard, trying to get out of their grip. Fox came back and started beating me again. Then they started pulling my clothes off."


"What was Maxwell doing?"


"Still holding onto me, still keeping my neck bent back. I thought he was going to pull my hair out." Don took another drink of water, then grabbed a couple of tissues from the box Carson had set there when he started getting emotional. He sat there a moment until he felt calmer. "Some of the others were getting upset, talking about getting out of there, that it was a bad idea. Maxwell said it was no big deal. That they could just stick their dicks somewhere I didn't have teeth." Don swallowed, but fresh tears came anyway. "He was laughing, like it was a big joke. His hand was on me. He still had me by the hair, but I guess somebody else was helping him hold me still, because he was...pawing me. Making remarks about...my...."


"Take your time, Don," Carson said, and while part of Don knew he was doing it for dramatic effect for the jury's benefit, it bought him a few seconds to cope with what he had to say in front of a bunch of strangers. Things he hadn't even described to Timmy before. "Where was he touching you?"


"Everywhere," he said, hating that his voice almost sounded childlike, that his answer sounded even more childlike.


"I know this is difficult, Don, but I need you to be more specific."


"He was pulling at my genitals and trying to get me hard," he said, his voice strained until it was barely audible. "He was doing it hard, and it hurt. I don't know how I got hard because it was really uncomfortable. It's not like it felt good on any level." Don blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes, trying to calm himself down. "They yanked me around, dragged me where they wanted me, and the others were all arguing who was going to go first." He paused, feeling a wave of sickness, feeling the vomit rising in his throat. He felt desperate, cornered, the way he had in the basement.


"What was Maxwell doing?"


"He was always restraining me, holding me wherever it was they wanted me. He kept pawing me, pulling on my dick, trying to make me come, saying a bunch of sick sh - - sick things like telling me I really wanted it, that I was enjoying it."


"Were you?"


"Would you?" Don shot back, unable to contain himself, even if it was the prosecutor. "A bunch of guys grab you, beat the hell out of you, pull your clothes off, and spend the evening jamming their filthy dicks into you until your guts rip open. Would you enjoy that?"


"That's enough, Mr. Strachey," the judge said, tapping her gavel. "The court appreciates the difficult nature of your testimony, but you will confine yourself to answering the questions."


"I'm sorry, Your Honor. The last person who asked me if I enjoyed it was someone who was raping me. The question threw me coming from a rational person." Don looked at the prosecutor. "No, I wasn't enjoying it, and I didn't want it," he said, pinning Carson with an intent stare.


"Isn't it true you had an orgasm? Mr. Maxwell even thoughtfully provided us with photos."


"I know I came but I don't know why. All of it hurt and I just wanted them to get their goddamned hands off me." He rested his forehead on his hand, shielding his eyes. He could almost feel those hands on him, pawing and touching and violating him against his will. He knew he was crying and he couldn't help it. He grabbed another tissue and wiped his nose, hating most of all to give Maxwell the satisfaction of seeing what they had managed to do him.


"Was that the only time you climaxed?" he asked, and it was on the tip of Donald's tongue to ask him why he was doing this to him. He thought the prosecutor was supposed to be on his side.


"I think I came again. I don't remember which time or who was doing what. It felt like some kind of sick, out-of-body experience where you can't control anything. It turned into one big blur of pain and...I wanted to die but I couldn't."


"Was Mr. Maxwell present throughout your ordeal?"


"He was always holding me down, taunting me, touching me, doing something. He was always there. Through the whole thing."


"When it was over, who pushed you outdoors?"


"Maxwell. Fox was egging him on, but he dragged me upstairs. I couldn't have walked. I was kind of out of it from the pain, but I knew he was there. He never got enough of making fun of me, making sick jokes about the whole thing."


"Mr. Maxwell found your pain amusing?"


"Objection. Calls for speculation."


"Sustained. Please rephrase your question," the judge replied.


"When you expressed pain, how did Mr. Maxwell react?"


"He laughed. Or he masturbated, depending on the situation."


Don's testimony continued, while the prosecutor did his best to draw out of him every detail of Maxwell's abuse, restraint, and sexual assault. By the end of the day, the judge called a recess before the defense's cross examination could begin. Don felt drained, sickened, upset... Part of him wanted to run to Timmy, and another part didn't want anyone touching him, didn't want to face his partner, after he'd spent the afternoon recounting the depravity he'd been forced to endure at the hands of Fox, Maxwell, and their pals.


When he stood to leave the witness stand, the room spun a little, and he stayed there, trying to will it to slow down, to stay steady, so he could walk away from so much humiliation with at least a little dignity. Before he had time to think too much about it, Timmy was at his side, taking a gentle hold of his arm, steadying him as they walked out of the courtroom.


"I got dizzy," he said, raising a hand to his forehead.


"You're under a lot of stress, and you didn't eat anything since breakfast. Technically, you didn't actually eat that. Torturing it with your fork doesn't count," Tim said, trying to sound lighthearted. Don loved him for the attempt, but he didn't feel cheered up. He wondered if he'd ever feel cheered up again.


"You better hope the terrorists never recruit your partner here," Bailey said, joining them as they made their way down the hall toward the exit and the inevitable reporters hovering there.


"What are you talking about?" Don asked, frowning.


"Only one of the sneakiest, most persistent stunts I've ever seen to make a defendant in a felony case self destruct in front of a jury."


"All I did was look at him," Tim said, shaking his head.


"Yeah, looked at him long enough that he got pissed off and licked his lips and puckered at you in full view of the jury. At least half of them caught it." Bailey chuckled. "God, I'd give anything to have a snapshot of Garner's face," he added.


"What did you do?" Don asked Tim, stunned.


"You kept talking about how he was always laughing at you, making fun of your pain. I had to do something. It was either turn that smirk around on him, or wipe it off his face. I just kept staring at him, watching him. I could see it was making him nervous. Then he started getting irritated. Finally, he gave me this look, like he...well, it was creepy, like he wanted to do something to me. And he licked his lips and puckered at me."


"Have I mentioned lately just how much I love you?" Don asked, smiling.


"Get in line. I think Carson's going to propose to him on the courthouse steps," Bailey quipped, laughing. "The beauty of it is, the jury couldn't really see what Callahan was doing. But they saw Maxwell look right over at your partner, while you were testifying about his sick tendency to laugh at your pain, and blow a kiss to him. Of course, that was nothing without your partner's obvious distress over the gesture. This is going to be one of my favorite courtroom stories when I'm sitting with my buddies on that fishing boat I'm going buy when I retire."


"Ah, Timothy, just when I think I have you figured out," Don said, sliding his arm around his partner's waist and squeezing.


"I have to do something to hold your interest," he replied, his arm going around Don's shoulders, a big grin on his face.


********


Clad in his rattiest old robe, t-shirt, and socks, Don sat on the couch and sorted through the mail. Tim was on the phone with his mother, probably updating her on the trial. He was upstairs on his cell phone, and Don could only hear fragments of their conversation wafting down to the first floor.

He was surprised to find an envelope addressed to him in his mother's handwriting. He'd left her a voicemail a couple weeks earlier, all of Timothy's prodding and urging finally convincing him to at least make one more attempt to contact her. He opened the letter, not sure what to expect from it.


Dear Donald,


I hope this letter finds you feeling better. Several times I reached for the phone to call you, but I never knew what to say. I still don't. Then I got your voicemail message, and I knew I needed to get back in touch with you.


I saw your interview on the news after you made that false statement to save your partner. That must have been difficult to do. You handled it very well. It's obvious you've been through a lot in the last few of months.


Timothy seems very nice. He was more polite on the phone than I expected since we've never met, and I can tell he loves you very much. I'm glad you're happy together, that your relationship with him has been as lasting and good as you thought it would be.


I think about you often, and wonder how you're doing. I know you probably don't understand, but I'm not prepared to challenge your father, or tear our family apart. Welcoming you back into the family with your male partner would irreparably divide us, put us on either side of an issue for every family gathering, every holiday. I know I should be stronger, and accept that discord, but I don't want it to be the focus of every special moment in our family.


I wish you and Timothy every happiness, but I'm sorry I can't just welcome you two with open arms and deal with your father, your aunts and uncles on both sides of the family, and even your grandmother. She is very frail, and this would be very upsetting to her. She thinks you are a carefree bachelor in Albany and keeps asking when you're going to bring some nice girl home to meet the family. I know better than to ask you to play along with a charade that doesn't include Timothy. So here we are, back where we started.


I don't expect you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know that I do keep you in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope you are happy and doing well.


Love,

Mom



Don folded up the letter and stuffed it back in its envelope, honestly puzzled why she'd wasted a stamp. He'd gotten the message when she never returned his call; there was no need to hammer it into his head with something like this.


He could hear Timmy laughing now, and for a moment, he felt jealous of whatever inside joke he was sharing with his mother. They were always close, more like best friends than mother and son. Don found himself baffled by that kind of rapport with a parent. His parents had been good to him growing up, provided a loving home with all the normal experiences of childhood. And then soundly rejected him for being who and what he was. He couldn't picture Timmy's mother being able to turn her back on him for a whole week, let alone a lifetime. Nothing could break that bond, and no one better try. And yet he was so fucking disposable to his own mother that she had no problem writing him the mother-son equivalent of a "Dear John" letter right before the holidays.


Don was angry with himself for feeling bad, for the lump in his throat. He found himself feeling powerless all the time lately, whether it was his inability to protect himself from the assault he'd suffered, or being compelled to sit there and describe in detail things that he could barely face even thinking about and, finally, not being able to make himself not care about his mother or her ongoing desire to keep him out of her life. Discouraged, he stuck the envelope under the pillow on the couch and curled up there, exhausted from a draining day and too worn-out to cope with even one more unpleasant thought.


"Donald?" Timmy's voice startled him out of a half-doze. "My mother wants to talk to you, honey," he said, handing Don the cell phone. Not feeling very upbeat, Don forced himself to sound a little perkier than he felt.


"Hi, Mom," he said.


"How are you, sweetie? Timothy said you did very well with your testimony today."


"I guess I did all right. It's been a long day."


"I wanted to come for the trial, but then I thought maybe it would make you more uneasy to have more people there. I know it must be difficult to get through, talking about all of it in front of a bunch of strangers."


Don closed his eyes a moment, her words hitting home, and yet the fact that she mentioned the elephant in the corner put him oddly at ease.


"I think that's the worst part," he admitted. "It's a lot of ugly stuff you don't need to have to listen to. Thanks for even thinking about coming for it, though. That means a lot."


"I don't want any arguments on this. I want you and Timothy to come out to the country house for Christmas." Tim's parents kept a nice apartment in the city, but their "spread" was about ten very picturesque acres in Virginia, complete with a few horses and sleigh rides when the snow was deep enough. "I know you've both missed a lot of work, but you can miss the week between Christmas and New Year's. I already talked Timothy into it, so now it's up to you."


"Oh, wow, like I could stand up to both of you ganging up on me," Don joked, catching Timmy's eye from where he was working at the kitchen counter, making a salad for dinner. He just smiled at Don, probably knowing it wouldn't take much arm-twisting to get him to spend a week in the country, riding horses, eating his mother's cooking, and being swept up in the holiday cheer of the congenial Callahan clan.


"Good, then it's settled. Why don't you plan on getting here a few days before Christmas? Just take that whole week off."


"I'll have to talk to Timmy about his schedule. My business is already a disaster from all the time I couldn't work, so another week doesn't really matter for me at this point."


"You're very good at what you do. Everything will pick up again after the first of the year. People all get busy over the holidays. It's even more difficult to find time to cheat on each other or have each other followed when you're booked so solid," she added, and Don had to laugh. Timmy's mother was one of a kind.


"Can't argue with that logic."


"Donald, if you need anyone to talk to, you do know you can always call me? I know you have Timothy, but if you feel like you need a mom to lean on, I'm always here, sweetie."


He paused, the lump in his throat threatening to overtake his composure. He knew he couldn't answer her in a steady voice. Finally, he swallowed hard.


"Thanks, Mom," he said. She must have heard the strain in his voice.


"If you'd like me to come up for a visit, I can be there by tomorrow afternoon," she said. "I can't stand to think of either one of my boys needing me and not being there."


"It's just really good to hear your voice," he said. "The worst is almost over, and Timothy is my rock. He never lets me down," he said, catching Timmy's eyes, noticing they were a little on the moist side. "Christmas is only a few weeks away. I'm really looking forward to a visit for a happy reason."


"I understand, honey. You take care of yourself, and we'll have a good visit when you get here."


"It was good to talk to you," he said honestly, feeling like his own mother's behavior was a little less hurtful when he was so warmly accepted into Timmy's family, and so genuinely loved by his mother-in-law.


"You, too, sweetie. Remember, you call me if you need anything at all."


After he'd finished the phone call, he set the phone on the coffee table and looked over the back of the couch at Timmy, who was making something that smelled good.


"Your mom's one in a million."


"Yeah, she is," Timmy agreed, smiling. "Are you okay?"


"I'm all right. Just got a 'Dear John' letter from my mother. I guess she was afraid I'd show up there, or keep calling her if she didn't set me straight." He snorted a humorless laugh. "There's a sick play on words."


"Just today?" Tim asked, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, coming to the couch to join Don.


"I don't want you to ruin whatever it is you're fixing. It smells good."


"It's just some garlic chicken," he said.


"Your garlic chicken," Don corrected. Timmy had a knack with the sauce that Don couldn't quite figure out, but it always tasted better than the stuff he found at any Chinese restaurant. Or maybe it was just because it was Timmy's, but one thing Don generally wasn't sentimental about was food. His partner's garlic chicken was, in his somewhat expert opinion from his years of eating out of Chinese takeout containers, the best in New York State.


"I thought you could use some cheering up," he said, sitting down and taking Don's stocking-clad feet in his lap. "You want to tell me about the letter?" he asked, starting a massage on Don's right foot.


"I'd give it to you to read, but then you'd stop what you're doing, and I'd rather walk in front of a bus than have that happen," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. Timmy's soft chuckle soothed him almost as much as the rubbing motion on his foot. "She spent a couple paragraphs in a circular way of saying that she doesn't want to see me, doesn't want us to come there, and she doesn't want every holiday to be a fight in the family over an 'issue'... It was a subtle way of telling me to go to hell."


"I'm sure she didn't mean it that harshly, honey. When I talked to her on the phone that day - - "


"I know, she sounded concerned, and maybe she was. Maybe in her twisted way she loves me, but she's still disgusted by what and who I am." He sighed. "It just pisses me off that it still bothers me," he said, taking in a shaky breath. "If you were a serial killer, your mother would bake you cookies and visit you in prison every weekend. She'd never turn her back on you, she couldn't stand it. It's just so fucking easy for my mother to just...write me off. I just don't want her to be able to hurt me with it anymore."


"You love your mother, and she was a good mother to you growing up. You said yourself you were close when you were a kid. Those feelings don't just disappear."


"They do for her," he said, angry that his eyes were filling up again. "She just wants me to disappear. It would have been so much easier for her if I'd just died, and then she could have mourned with her church lady friends about how her gay son's evil lifestyle caught up with him and what a tragedy it was."


"Donald, no, don't say that," Tim said, looking horrified. "You know she wouldn't want you to die, or to be hurt, no matter how...incapable she is of dealing with the path your life has taken."


"Read that." He handed Timmy the letter, wondering if it was as awful as he thought it was. He waited while Timmy read it, and watched his face closely.


"She said you were in her thoughts - - "


"Yeah, as long as I don't call her, go home, or expect she might even care to meet the person I'm spending my life with. When I called her, I didn't ask her to have us there for Christmas. I just asked her if we could maybe get together, so I could see her, and she could meet you." He shook his head. "What a moron I am. I mean, she was right there when my father told me the Griffins were better off, and she never said a fucking word, never stood up for me, nothing."


"Oh, my God; he didn't really say that," Tim said, setting the letter aside. His hands rested on Don's feet again, but they weren't exactly massaging.


"Timothy, you see parents through the eyes of someone who's always been loved no matter what you did or didn't do. Even your father with all his political bullshit got over it. He got over you being gay, and while he may never get over you being a Democrat, the two of you take pieces out of each other every time you have a political discussion and somehow you move on. He even deals with me showing up every holiday, and actually makes me feel welcome in his home. Because you love me, and I come in the package with you. Your mother would walk through fire for you and not even blink. If your father rejected you, his marriage would have been over at the same time, and he knew it. You don't know what it's like to have your parents just...want to forget you exist. To have them feel like they'd be better off if you were dead because alive, you're too fucking awkward to explain and you're an 'issue' at the holidays. To show up on their doorstep so...broken and...and desperate and have them throw you out before you even take your luggage out of the car."


"I wish I could say something to make this easier," he said, rubbing Don's ankle a little.


"It's not like you haven't tried," he said, reaching out and taking Timmy's hand, squeezing. "You make me so happy every day, sweetheart. As long as I've got you, my life's just fine. And your mom makes me feel like part of your family, and I could never tell her how much that means to me."


"She's not faking it, you know. She really does love you and want you there. I've seen my mother be polite before. She gets this kind of glazed expression in her eyes that only someone who knows her like I do would spot beneath that perfect hostess veneer. She liked you from the first time she met you. She told me to stop looking, that I'd found the right one."


"You never told me that before. Were you still looking when you took me to meet the parents?" Don asked, grinning.


"I stopped looking after we met. I just didn't want to seem that easy to get," he added, still holding Don's hand, his smile radiant. "I don't know what I would have done if I couldn't have had you. If you weren't interested in me."


"Fat chance. What's not to be interested in?" He loved that the comment made Timmy duck his head just slightly and blush, that beautiful, faint pink he turned every now and then at just the right compliment. "If you hadn't wanted me, I would have never gotten over you," Don said, almost surprised at himself for saying it in so many words. He'd felt on top of the world the night he met Timmy, on cloud nine because he was in love after the first time he slid his arm around that warm body and looked into that beautiful, kind, wonderful face. It was fast, spontaneous, joyful, and would have been flamingly passionate if he hadn't respected Timmy way too much to try to screw him the same night they met. Truth be told, he'd toyed with making the proposition when his body was pressed against Timmy's and they were dancing, but he'd figured being a gentleman would turn Timmy on more than a quick pick-up, and his instincts had proven right.


"Something tells me you would have survived, met someone else."


"I know the difference between love and infatuation." He paused. "I didn't fall too easily after what happened with Kyle - - I didn't want to. With you, I couldn't help it. You just blew right past every barricade, right to my heart. I will never get over you, Timothy, and I never want to."

 

"I hope not," Timmy said, kissing the back of Don's hand. "I'd hate to be in one of the greatest loves of all time by myself," he added, grinning.


"Never. I wouldn't want to miss a minute with you."


"How about a rain check on the foot massage?" he asked, kissing Don's stocking foot. "I should really finish dinner before my sauce scorches."


"You do that, honey. As long as I get to scorch your sauce upstairs later."


********


Don looked at the clock, frustrated to see that it was already 2:00 in the morning, and he still wasn't asleep. Timmy was asleep, but he seemed restless, shifting and mumbling once in a while. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, his eyes feeling heavy, but the thought of another day in court weighing too heavily on his mind to let him rest. Even though he wasn't asleep, Timmy's scream and lurch to sitting bolt upright in bed made him jump, his heart pounding.


Timothy's eyes were wild, and he was breathing heavily. He finally looked at Don, and it was a draw which one of them looked more startled.


"It's okay, honey," Don said, regaining his equilibrium, wanting to calm Timmy's panic. "You must have had a bad dream," he said, reaching up to touch Timmy's face.


"It was awful," he said, still staring at Don, like he couldn't quite shake the nightmare's images.


"Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?" Don asked, scooting a little closer.


"I can't...tell you about it."


"Of course, you can tell me. You can tell me anything, you know that."


"Not this."


"It was a dream, Timothy. You didn't do anything."


"I don't want to upset you."


"I'm not that fragile. Timothy, come on, whatever it is, it obviously upset you. Let me help." He rested his chin on Timmy's bare shoulder, giving him his best puppy eyes. That seemed to make Timmy look sadder somehow, and he kissed Don's forehead.


"I was in a basement. The basement. Although I don't know if it's accurate because I wasn't really there, so it's just how I picture it - - "


"Okay, honey, I get that you were in the basement. What happened?"

 

"They were making me watch. I could see what was happening. I could see what they were doing to you, but someone kept holding me back, not letting me go to you. And you were screaming," he added, looking away, brushing at his eyes. "I kept trying to reach you, to help you... I couldn't really see the faces of the men who were...around you, but it was Fox and Maxwell that were holding me back, laughing, like it was all a big joke," he said, his voice breaking.


"Aw, Timmy, that's just all the ugly stuff you had to listen to in court today," Don said gently, putting his arms around Timmy, pulling him close. "And the fact you couldn't make them stop questioning me, you couldn't help me. I know how hard that was. How hard it would be for me to watch you questioned like that and not be able to stop it."


"But I could see...it was like I was watching what happened to you, and it was so real."


"Unfortunately, our minds are real good at coming up with images, even when we don't really know what it looked like for real."


"I don't want to know what it looked like. I don't want to think of you that way...I'm not...I didn't want you to think that I wanted to see it."


"I never thought that, honey, not for a minute. It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. You had a bad dream, that's all."


"I just can't get that image out of my mind of you in pain, and me not being able to do anything."


"That's how stupid dreams are. Timothy, you saved my life. You made me want to live, to hang on, and you took care of me around the clock until I was strong enough to start taking care of myself again. Every time I was hurting, you were there to take care of me, to make it bearable. I drew my...my life force from you. Like some kind of emotional life support system. You did everything, honey."


"I couldn't stop them from doing that to you."


"You didn't even know it was happening."


"I knew I couldn't sleep. I was restless. I wanted to call you. I should have called. Maybe it would have made a difference."


"Maybe, like getting you dragged into the middle of it. A phone call wouldn't have changed that."


"I was worried. I felt like something was wrong."


"You never told me that before."


"I guess it didn't seem important that I couldn't sleep that night, with everything else that happened."


"Don't ever feel like you were helpless, or like you didn't do anything. You saved my life in the hospital, you brought me back to life, you're my reason for wanting to be here and the reason I can get through this now. You defended me when Stenski came after me, you did your little head game on Maxwell in court. And the truth is, Timmy, you don't have to do anything. Just be with me and keep loving me, and that's everything."


"You know I'll always do that," Tim said, tightening his hold on Don.


Don knew what would really relax Timmy, ease his fears, make him feel loved and wanted and safe, send him into a deep sleep wrapped securely in images of love.


He pulled back and then guided Timmy's face toward his, kissing him passionately, pushing him back on the pillows, taking charge of their lovemaking in a way he hadn't since before the attack. He didn't need any words from Timmy. The way he threw himself into their kisses, the way his hands were skimming Don's back and sliding into his hair, the way his thighs parted and wrapped around him, bringing their growing erections into fevered contact with each other.


He lost himself in making love to that beautiful body beneath him, to lacing their fingers and tenderly pushing Timmy's arms over his head so he could kiss their soft skin, nuzzle those warm, hair-dusted armpits, lick and kiss that gorgeous chest that got him hard just looking at it. He sucked eagerly on the little pink nubs that were poorly concealed by Timmy's chest hair.


Finally relinquishing his hold on his lover's hands, he slid his hands down Tim's arms to his sides, then let them roam over the contours of his chest while he nipped and licked at the edges of Timmy's navel. He only paused long enough to discard his own underwear before pulling Timmy's down, freeing his erection, sending that jolt of desire through him he always felt when he finally got his beautiful partner naked.


Just as he was about to reach for the nightstand drawer, Timmy helpfully handed him the little tube he was after, laying his free hand on Don's heart, so much love in his eyes that it made Don's breath catch in his throat. How he could have ever seen sharing their bodies this way as anything but wonderful, seemed to escape him. All he could see was his Timothy, loving and willing and passionate as ever.


With the gel on his finger, he took Timmy's cock in his mouth, using his tongue the way he knew drove his partner crazy. He gently eased the slick finger inside the tight heat of Timmy's body, rotating it, stretching him, carefully moving up to two fingers, finding the little nub inside that made his partner cry out, shaking with the pleasure of it.


He knew Timmy well enough to know exactly when he was ready and he was through with preliminaries. With a little regret, he reached again for the nightstand. It wasn't that they never used condoms any other time, but there were times when they wanted the ultimate intimacy of no barriers, and years of fidelity had earned them that pleasure, until now.


"You don't have to do that," Timmy said, framing his face with both hands.


"Yeah, honey, I do. For a little while longer, anyway."


Refusing to let anything stem the flow of his desire, he rolled on the condom quickly and coated himself with the gel, always mindful of keeping Timmy comfortable. He eased inside, resisting the urge to thrust, giving Timmy that slow, easy stretch that let him adjust without pain. Timmy pulled him down for kisses, his thighs wrapping around Donald, encouraging him to sink deeper.


"Love you," Don managed, barely willing to take a break from Timmy's mouth long enough to speak. He was moving inside him now, gentle thrusts that would prolong their union, sinking as much into the sensations of kissing as the sensation of sex in a way he'd missed more than he realized.


Their shared moans and gasps occasionally interrupted their kisses, and while it felt liberating and wonderful to feel his climax building, to know that Timmy was close to coming, too, part of Don wanted it to last forever. Timothy felt tight and good around him the way he always did, sating all his physical desires the way he completely captivated and enchanted Donald in every other possible way. And then Timmy smiled at him, the way he sometimes did when it was this good and he was almost coming. Don felt his answering smile spread until he thought he couldn't smile any more.


He put a little more pressure on Timmy's prostate, loving the wanton cry that drew out of his lover, the spasms of that snug, warm passage his undoing, like it always was. The sights and sounds of Timmy's climax was all Don needed to fall into the abyss with him, to shout his name, to move inside him for the final moments until they were both spent and exhausted, lying there in a sweaty, exhausted tangle of limbs, hearts beating fast against each other.


"I've missed you," Timmy whispered, tears in his eyes.


"I'm right here, sweetheart," Don whispered back, kissing him, then smiling at him. "And I love you so much."


********


"All right, I'm coming," a female voice said, sounding a bit irritated. Their neighbor, Veronica Alden, had a greenhouse full of prize-winning roses behind her house. If it weren't for the locks and the rottweiler she perversely named "Muffin," he would have gone after one himself, so if she was disturbed this early in the morning, she only had her security measures to blame. "Donald?" she asked, looking stunned as she clutched her robe around herself, her hair the victim of a hasty taming before answering the door. "Is something wrong?"


He suspected he didn't look any better, wearing his robe, socks, shoes, and a coat over the top of all of it.


"Not exactly. I know it's early, and this sounds ridiculous, but I need a red rose."


"Excuse me?" she asked, widening her eyes a little. A pretty middle-aged woman with blonde hair and large green eyes, she enjoyed the house and grounds as part of a divorce settlement from her philandering husband - - whom Donald had helpfully photographed in flagrante delicto with his mistress, earning her half again what she would have gotten out of the deal without the photos.


"I need a red rose for Timothy. If I go all the way to the store, I have to get dressed, and then he'll be awake and it'll spoil everything."


"If he wakes up?"


"I want to have it when he wakes up." Don wondered belatedly if he smelled like sweat and sex, or if he was freeze-dried enough in the icy morning air to keep him from being too fragrant with the fruits of their passion.


"I should slam the door on you, you know that, right?"


"Yeah, I know, but you won't. Since you bought the new solid oak front door with the stained glass windows with your settlement money. Be kind of nasty to slam that on me, with the pictures, and all."


"You're an asshole, Donald," she said, laughing. "I have no idea why I like you. Come in. Any specific variety, or will any red rose do for Prince Charming to awaken his Sleeping Beauty?"


"Something beautiful. The most beautiful rose you've got. If there were a contest going on right now, the one you'd enter."


"Actually, there is a contest going on, and you can't have that one. But it's pink anyway, so I don't think you'll lose any sleep over that," she said, leading the way through the house toward the back door. She stuck her feet into a pair of old sneakers and led the way out to the greenhouse.


"You don't have any idea how important this is to me."


"I can see that." She smiled. "If it wasn't so romantic, I wouldn't do it. You know that, right?" The dog was awake now, barking from the back porch. "Muffin, Shhh!" She gestured angrily at the dog. "Enough!"


The rottweiler looked a little nonplused at the reaction, but he did stop barking and sat by the back door.


"You can't blame him for being cranky, with a name like 'Muffin'."


"He's such a big baby, he'd probably rather play with an intruder than bite him. So what did Mr. Wonderful do to deserve this? Or don't you kiss and tell?" She wandered among her prize plants, finally stopping by one with huge red blooms, selecting a rose that was in the first stages of opening. It would have made the finest florist proud.


"Last night was special, and...I'm just so in love with him this morning that I needed a rose."


"If I weren't bitter and divorced right now, I'd think that was really sweet." She handed him the rose.


"It's beautiful, thank you. And huge. It's a big rose."


"Well, Timothy's a big boy, isn't he?" she asked, letting the double entendre linger in the air. "Otherwise, he probably wouldn't be getting roses in the morning."


"Yeah, I guess he is," Don admitted, shaking his head.


"Go on, before he wakes up and this is all for nothing."


"Thanks for doing this. I'll make it up to you."


"Run another check on Larry's bank records? I want to be sure he isn't hiding anything for himself and his little cupcake. I'd like to add on to the greenhouse this spring."


"I can do that," he agreed, grinning. "For what it's worth, I always did think Larry was nuts. You're definitely hotter than his girlfriend's going to be when she's forty-five," he said.


"If you weren't gay and married, that would really make me feel good."


"Sorry about that," he said, laughing. "Better luck next time."


********


Tim felt something tickling his nose, accompanied by an exotic rose scent. Not really wanting to relinquish the peace of sleep, he opened his eyes and looked directly into Donald's big blue eyes and bright smile, as he tickled Tim's nose with the biggest red rose Tim had ever seen.


"Good morning, beautiful," Donald said, hooking his leg over Tim's, snuggling his naked body close.


"Where did you get a rose at this hour?" Tim asked, smelling it again, smiling at Donald, caressing his cheek. He just looked so cute leaning over Tim, up on one elbow, with his rumpled hair and his lovestruck expression. Kind of like a really hot, X-rated cupid without the diaper. Or the arrow.


"It should be a dozen, but the florists aren't open yet. I love you, Timothy." He leaned down for a kiss, and it was as soft and romantic as the gesture of presenting Tim with the rose.


"I love you, too, Donald," Tim replied, still smiling at his husband. "The rose is beautiful, darling. Just like you."


"I was going to make you breakfast in bed, but I figured you'd wake up before I got it done."


"This is much better than breakfast," Tim said, pulling Donald into his arms, hugging him close. "You feel cold."


"I was outside."


"You're naked."


"I had a robe on. And my coat."


"Where did you go for this rose?"


"Just over to Veronica's. Don't worry. I was covered. I didn't give her any cheap thrills."


"You woke up our neighbor to ask her to give you a rose to give to me at dawn? What did you tell her I did?"


"Just that we were playing schoolboy and headmaster again, and you let me be the headmaster this time."


"Donald!"


"I'm joking, Timothy," he said, laughing. It felt good to feel the rumble of Donald's laughter against him. He'd heard and felt far too little of it lately. "I just told her it was really important to me to give you a rose this morning when you woke up. Well, that, and that last night was really special."


"So the neighbor knows we had great sex last night."


"I'm sure she was appalled. She probably thought we were just buddies sharing expenses up 'til now."


"That's so romantic, that you'd go to all that trouble just to bring me a rose," Tim said, feeling more touched by the gesture than he could explain. It was so sweet, so gallant, and so completely Donald.


"Last night was beautiful," Don said, his voice hushed as he rubbed his cheek against Tim's chest, then kissed him there. "When I woke up this morning, I felt like...me again."


"You never stopped being you. My beautiful," kiss, "sweet," kiss, "strong," kiss, "handsome husband and love of my life," bigger kiss.


"I wish we didn't have to go to court today. We could just spend the day in bed and order a pizza when starvation took over."


"Tomorrow's Saturday, and my calendar is clear."


"What a coincidence. Mine is, too," Don added, grinning and squeezing Tim's middle.


"So what do you want on your pizza?" Tim asked, smiling as Don laughed again.


********


When they arrived at the courthouse, they were surprised to be met by Bailey and Carson, and led into a conference room.


"Maxwell's lawyer is willing to talk plea bargain," Carson said as they were all seated.


"Why now?" Don asked.


"I would say it was a bad day at the races for them yesterday," Bailey replied.


"The jury was definitely yours yesterday, Don," Carson replied. "Maxwell's little stunt with giving your partner that look didn't help. That's the kind of thing juries remember more clearly than thousands of pages of physical evidence and testimony. That one look at him acting like the sick asshole he is... You can't pay for better ammunition than that."


"What kind of plea bargain? Are you going to take it?" Tim asked.


"If we enter into the deal, he'll probably do about half the time he would if he's convicted on all the charges. The upside is we'd end all this today, and you wouldn't have to go through cross-examination."


"What do you think our chances are if we push it all the way? Go for it?" Don asked.


"I think we've got a very strong chance of nailing him on all the charges. If you believe one, you pretty much have to believe them all - - kidnapping, rape, aggravated assault...they all go together. Conversely, if you don't believe one...."


"You probably won't believe any of them," Don concluded, sighing. "You think the jury believed me?"                                                                                                                          


"Yes. Juries are funny creatures, though. Sometimes acquittals happen that leave everyone in a state of shock. We run the risk of him walking out of here scot-free. I don't think that'll happen. I think we'll get a conviction."


"Then fuck him. Fuck him and his plea bargain. He's not going to call the shots anymore. He forced me to go through this, to testify to all the sick shit they did to me. Now he doesn't get to decide he's gonna get off easy. I say we go for it, take him to the mat. If they didn't think they were losing, they wouldn't be willing to talk plea deals."


"Donald, if we stop now, you wouldn't have to go through any more testimony. No one's going to think less of you if you don't want to do that," Tim said.


"Maybe not, but if you're game to go the distance," he said to Carson, "I want to do everything it takes to nail his ass."


"That's the spirit," Bailey said, chuckling. "Let's wipe that smirk off his face once and for all."


"Okay, I'll tell his lawyer we're not dealing anymore. The door is closed," Carson concluded, looking smug and satisfied with that thought.


"I suppose telling Maxwell I want his ass handed to me on a plate would be pushing it," Don said.


"It might be outside the boundaries of professional protocol, but I think he'll get that message," Carson replied, chuckling.


********


Carson had done a good job of being just rough enough with Donald during his testimony that it somewhat declawed the defense attorney. All he could do was go back over the same ground covered by the prosecutor, although he spent considerable time trying to confuse Donald about which attacker was which, trying to prove that he couldn't keep them straight. That seemed to only increase the jury's sympathy for a victim who had been abused by so many attackers that he literally would have needed a list and notes to remember one distinctly from another.


Donald found himself strangely calmer through this round of testimony. He didn't know if it was because he'd had to recall everything once already, because he felt like he was in the driver's seat now and Maxwell was his bitch this time, his fate resting on Donald's decision to refuse the plea deal and go for it, or simply because he'd made incredible love to his partner, and he felt more like a man, more like himself, than he had since the rape. And his dear, sweet, wonderful Timmy was wearing the rose in his lapel, looking a bit formal for court, but giving Don something beautiful to think about when things got ugly. Every now and then, he gave Don a look so smoldering that it made him feel on top of the world.


The defense's case was built on painting Donald as a willing participant in the assault, and even as they brought out their witnesses, it seemed to be falling flat with the jury. They were barred from dredging up anything from Donald's sexual history, since he was afforded the protection given to any rape victim. Even if they'd had carte blanche to bring up his past, he didn't have any hidden participation in group orgies for them to uncover. With Fox out of the picture, even Tim's history with him didn't really shed any negative light on Don as a victim. It was weakly implied that somehow Donald had it in for Fox because of that, that it figured into him "crying rape" instead of admitting it was a consensual encounter, that Fox's desperate attempt to compel him to make a public statement was his way of trying to clear his name.


Once the case was with the jury, there was a sense of relief that no more testimony was going to be needed, that it was finally over in a sense, even though no verdict had been rendered. Donald's ordeal on the witness stand was over, and the long days of sitting in court dredging up bad memories and dealing with Maxwell's presence was over, except for returning for the reading of the verdict itself.


As Don and Tim made their way down the courthouse steps, they were harassed by the usual contingent of reporters. They were surprised to see among them a well-known face, Madeleine VanSumeren, from one of the major news networks, jockeying into position among the other reporters.


"Mr. Strachey, I'd like the opportunity to interview you on my show," she said, falling into step with them.


"If I was interested in being interviewed, I'd have returned your calls," Don said, not looking at her. He didn't care that she was one of the best-known cable news network personalities, that she had her own popular show, or that she was chasing him down the courthouse steps just for the chance to interview him. Right then, he just wanted to get away, spend some quiet time with Timmy, put the trial out of his mind.


"The last thing the public saw was you making that false statement about the case."


"That statement didn't mean anything."


"Well, it was a lot more compelling viewing than the follow-up story that barely got airtime. This is your chance to tell your side of the story, to make sure people know the truth - - that the last thing they see of you isn't you telling that your whole testimony was a lie."


"Look, Ms. VanSumeren, I think my partner has been very clear that he's not interested," Tim said. "If you'll excuse us," he added, putting a protective arm around Don.


"I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think there was some benefit in it for you. I'm not in the business of exploiting rape victims," she added. "This kind of positive exposure could be good for your business, and I won't lie, it'll be good for my ratings. We both win."


"Please, leave us alone," Tim said, stopping cold in his tracks, placing himself between Don and the woman.


"Timothy, it's okay. Look," he said to Ms. VanSumeren, "I've testified in court, and I don't really want to go through telling my story again. It was bad enough telling it in a courtroom."


"I'm not suggesting you tell all the salacious details of the rape itself. Frankly, we couldn't even broadcast all that. But the story of what you went through, your encounter with a corrupt cop, the fact you were forced to denounce your own credibility to save your partner's life, that you suffered what you did because one of the assailants had some sick obsession with your partner - - "


"Leave Timothy out of this. I won't go on the air and talk about his personal history. This is why I've avoided the media. I just want my life back. I want to move on from all this. If I go on a national news network, it's only going to make things worse."


"Right now, the media has a whole lot of supposition and half-truths. If you set the record straight, you can explain what really happened. And you could bring attention to a crime that is probably the most under-reported - - male rape."


"That's the whole point," Don shot back. "I don't want to bring attention to it! I don't want attention because I was raped. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to think about it, and I don't want what happened to me to be entertainment for a bunch of true crime junkies to listen to with their evening snacks!"


"Donald, let's just go," Tim said, running his hand across Don's shoulders. "That's enough. We're finished here," he directed at Ms. VanSumeren.


"If you change your mind, this is my direct line," she said, holding out a business card. "My intention was never to offend you or upset you. I really would like to give you a tasteful outlet to tell your side of the story."


Don stared at her and the card a moment, then took it.


"I'm sorry I blew up at you," he said. "I'm very uncomfortable with the media attention. I just want to get through this and go on with my life."


"That's understandable," she said. "If I've made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."


"I'll think about it," he said, tucking the card in his pocket. "Just...if I don't call you, please don't keep calling me, okay?"


"I'll leave it up to you to contact me," she agreed, nodding. She extended her hand to shake, and Don accepted it. "Before my television career, I was a prosecutor. I do realize how much courage it takes to handle testifying in a case like this, and how difficult it is when the media gets involved. I promise you, if you decide to consent to an interview, it won't be lurid or exploitive."


"I'll keep that in mind," he said, withdrawing his hand. "We need to go," he said, and with that, he let Tim guide him the rest of the way toward their car. He didn't argue with Timmy when he took the keys and opened the passenger door for him.


"You okay, honey?" Timmy asked after he got in the car, reaching over to take Don's hand in his.


"I thought I had better control of myself than that. I shouldn't have blown up that way."


"We're both under a lot of stress, waiting for the verdict."


"I just wish they'd leave me alone."


"I know," he agreed, kissing the back of Don's hand.


"Do you think I should do her show?"


"I don't know," Tim said, still holding Don's hand. "I think we need to take a step back and take some pressure off you for a while. You did so well with your testimony, and we still haven't gotten through the verdict. That's going to be your vindication, honey. When Maxwell's found guilty on all charges and ends up doing solid time in prison. You don't have to defend yourself on television."


"I don't have to defend myself at all." Don looked over at Tim with all the love in the world. "My husband defends me whenever I need him," he said, reaching up and touching Timmy's face lightly.

"Your husband would like to take you out on a date tonight," Tim said, catching Don's hand in his. "Dinner and a movie, maybe?"


"I just happen to have a free evening," Don said, smiling, though he still felt that ever-present heaviness in his chest. It must have shown on his face, because Timmy tightened his hold on Don's hand.


"Whatever you decide about that news show, things will eventually get back to normal, Donald. It won't always be messed up like this."

  

For once, he was glad to have a small, cramped car. He could easily lay his head on Tim's shoulder for just a minute, and get the little caress to his cheek and the warm feeling of Timmy's head against his before they started the drive for home.


********


Soft music played in the background, candlelight danced on the table, and Tim found it nearly impossible to keep his eyes on the menu and choose something. Donald was studying the menu with characteristic intensity, and Tim was just enjoying sitting there, studying Donald. Whatever his partner ordered, he'd pick something else, so they could share. He didn't need to waste time on the menu when he had such an unguarded moment of Donald-watching to enjoy. The subject of his loving scrutiny looked at him over the menu, then grinned.


"What?"


"Just wondered what you decided on," Tim said, laying his own menu aside. He'd been there enough times to wing it.


"I'm between the shrimp scampi and the veal parmigiana."


"Why don't I get one and you get the other; we'll share, and then you don't have to choose?"


"What were you going to get?"


"The shrimp," Tim said, though he hadn't actually picked that out. Truthfully, he didn't care which entree he had. The food was all good, and he was there with Donald, and if shrimp and veal made Donald happy, they were fine with Tim.


"That's easy, then. I'll get the veal." He laid his menu on top of Tim's and picked up his wine glass. "I'd like to propose a toast," he said, and Tim smiled, picking up his glass. "To you, for making me so happy and just...being you." The words touched Tim deeply, and he tapped his glass to Don's.


"To finding time for more date nights," he added, and Don smiled a little slyly, since his schedule was usually the reason they couldn't find time for nights like these. He drank to it, anyway. "What did Kenny have to say when you called in? Business picking up a bit?"


"As much as it can with me tied up with the trial. He's doing a lot of routine background checks, some garden-variety surveillance he can handle without me. He's still determined he's going to make partner," he added, smiling.


"Would that be such a bad idea?" Tim asked.


"It's not Kenny. He's a great kid, and with some mentoring and a little maturity, he could be really good at this line of work."


"But...?" Tim prodded.


"I'm used to working alone. I do my own thing, on my own schedule, and make my own decisions. There's a big difference between my considering really hiring him on to do investigative work full-time and actually making him a partner in the business, with a share in the decision-making."


"Maybe he needs to learn to creep before he can walk," Tim suggested, smiling. "Kenny's young and he's impatient. He's anxious to become what he wants to be when he grows up. I remember having that enthusiasm, that impatience with the pace of life."


"Seems like a lifetime ago that I was that young and that anxious for much of anything," Donald said, and the sadness was back in his eyes. Then he looked up at Tim across the table and his whole expression changed. "Except for when I met you. I was impatient to cut through all the courtship and just have you," he said, smiling. Then he hastened to add, "I mean as a life partner, not just have you...you know, for the sex." He sat back in the chair looking disgusted with himself. "That wasn't exactly the romantic proclamation I was shooting for."


"Donald, darling, it was a beautiful thing to say," Tim said sincerely, feeling his eyes fill just a little. He didn't know if it was the lovely sentiment of the comment itself, or the ache he felt that Donald believed he'd somehow said something wrong, when he'd said something so beautiful.


"It's just that until I met you, I didn't get very excited about things. Not after...not with some of the stuff going on with me at the time." He looked up at Tim with that devilish glint back in his eyes. "Not that I didn't want you for the sex, too," he added.


"I got the message that was part of the package," Tim replied, laughing softly. "I know you're worried about that news program. Since the 600-pound gorilla is dining with us, we might as well include him in the conversation."


"Sorry," Don said, though he smiled at Tim's words. "You know, it was irritating enough having everyone tell me I was 'that gay detective' after that magazine article, but honestly, getting clients because they saw me on the news about the case...it makes me feel crawly. I wish...I wish no one knew anything about it. I can understand why people don't report rapes."


"Your situation isn't helped by all the publicity surrounding it. Bailey still hasn't found out who leaked all the extra information to the press?"


"What real difference does that make? Fox forced me into that bogus statement, and now that it's out there, I'd almost have to do something to counter it if I want to be taken seriously again." He took another drink of his wine, looking like he needed it.


"I'm so sorry about Fox, all the pain he's caused you. I never thought - -"


"This isn't your fault, honey. None of it. You just get to live with the fallout of it all the time."


"I don't feel that way about it, Donald. I love you. I care about what you're going through. I just wish I could do something to fix it."


"You jumped out of that SUV in time. That makes us even for the rest of our lives," he said, reaching for Tim's hand across the table. Tim was only too happy to clasp hands as he looked across the table at Donald in the golden glow of the candles. "If I didn't have you..." He took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly.


"But you do have me. You always will."


"I hope so," Don said, his voice strained, his grip on Tim's hand almost painful. His eyes sparkled just a bit too much in the candlelight.


"Honey, it's okay. I'm fine and we're together. We're going to grow old together. Do you honestly think I'd ever go anywhere and miss a minute I could have with you?"


"Promise?"


"I already did. In this world and the next. I take forever pretty seriously," he added, smiling, glad that Donald smiled, too.


"Sorry. I didn't mean to get so morose."


"There's something else bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?"


"I guess it's just that damn letter from my mother," he said, his thumb rubbing over Tim's knuckles lightly as he stared at their clasped hands. "She probably doesn't really believe I was raped," he said, shaking his head a little derisively. "She probably thinks I'm really that depraved, that I got myself into it...because of what I am."


"I'm not sticking up for her, Donald, but she doesn't act like she doesn't believe you."


"She probably thinks of me like people think of a hooker who cries rape. If you can believe someone deserves to burn in hell for being gay, it's not much of a stretch to assume she might think I got what I had coming, or that I brought it on myself. I just wish I didn't care anymore."


"I know it doesn't make up for what's happened with your mother, but you know my mother is just dying to have us home for Christmas."


"You think your dad would be equally enthused?"


"My father never had a problem with you. He might not have picked out the way my life turned out, but he copes with it. You two argue more about politics than you do about homosexuality. He'll take it to his deathbed and never admit it, but he likes you. Besides, it'll go like everything else in our family - - my mother will be ecstatic, and my father will be swept along for the ride," he added, smiling.


They enjoyed the rest of their meal, the conversation finally turning to lighter subjects. Tim knew that Donald walked around with a very heavy weight on his shoulders since the rape, not the least of which was the unsolved mystery of which perpetrator had tampered with their brakes. He'd investigated it, questioned the entire hospital staff on duty that day, and even hunted down a number of patients he'd been able to track by word of mouth, since the hospital wasn't willing to release their information to him. No one had seen the brake tampering, and if they did, they weren't talking.


As much as had happened in that time, it had only been a few months since the attack. Don was cleared to be back to work and back to his usual level of physical activity. He knew Don worried about their sex life, which Tim honestly didn't think had ever been more active, intimate, or loving than it was now. There was no denying that one thing was conspicuous by its absence, and though he'd only admit it to himself, he did miss that wonderful feeling of being inside Donald. He told himself it would all work itself out in time, but he longed to make things right for his partner, to let him off the hook and ease the angst that always seemed to be in his eyes, or just under the surface of his smiles.


He smiled as he watched Don eating a shrimp. His lips were a little shiny from the garlic butter, and he licked a little of it off his fingertip, blissfully unconcerned with the fanciness of the restaurant. Part of Tim longed to be that finger. Even the threat of lingering garlic breath didn't faze him. He ate another of the shrimp himself, figuring they could take care of it with a box of Junior Mints at the movie.


They chose a harmless, inane comedy and settled in with their treats in the back row of the theater, their favorite spot in case they lost interest in the movie and found each other more interesting. It was more for the lark of going on a date together than it was for the movie, anyway. Sitting shoulder to shoulder and sharing a big bucket of popcorn, the rest of the world was held at bay outside the darkened theater for at least a couple hours. Tim didn't even mind when Don dozed off two-thirds of the way through the movie, because Tim had his arm around him, and Don's head was resting on his shoulder. His breathing was soft and even, his hand hooked over the edge of the popcorn bucket. Something about that was very endearing to Tim, that he'd nodded off mid-reach. Don's sleep was still interrupted by nightmares sometimes, and his sleep pattern had been spotty at best most of that week.


Tim rested his cheek on the softness of his lover's hair, tightening his hold on him just a bit. Instinctively, Don shifted a little, tucking his head more completely underneath Tim's, as if he sought shelter in the warmth between Tim's neck and shoulder. Tim kissed his hair, feeling very protective of the man in his arms, and looking forward to taking him home, whether they just curled up on the couch and napped in front of another silly movie, or made love late into the night.


Either way, date night was a great success, and Tim Callahan considered himself one lucky man.


********


"The jury only deliberated about four hours, total," Bailey said, leaning over toward Don and Tim to speak quietly as they were waiting for the jury to file in and take their seats. A verdict was already in by mid-morning of the first full day of deliberations. The jury had the case for two hours the previous afternoon, and since eight o'clock in the morning on the day they reached a verdict, at about ten o'clock. "That's what we like to call a slam-dunk," he added.


"The trial ain't over 'til the fat lady sings," Don whispered back.


"I hate to be unchivalrous, but the jury forewoman is a bit on the plump side," Tim added, and Bailey chuckled.


"I always thought Strachey was the one with the twisted sense of humor," he said, sitting back in his seat as the jury entered. A moment later, the judge came in, and all rose until she called the court to order.


Donald knew there were a variety of legalities going on, but all he could focus on was the tightness in his chest, Tim's hand in his, and Maxwell's face, which didn't hold quite the same arrogant smirk it usually did. He knew his hand flexed in Tim's, and he couldn't help it. Every time he laid eyes on Maxwell, he felt like he was being dragged back into that basement, trying to hold onto the top step with bloody fingernails clutching at the floorboards.


He was distracted from that ugly mental image by the feeling of Tim's other hand covering their joined hands, and the soft sound of Timmy's voice and the warmth of his breath close to Don's ear. He didn't know what Tim said, but it didn't matter. He held onto his hand like a lifeline and let the solace of his voice, the feel of his breath, the scent of his cologne, and the sight of his beautiful and so beloved profile wrap around him like a protective blanket. He felt emotional, angry as it made him to feel so close to tears. One more awful phase of his ordeal was close to an end, and yet he didn't feel much freer of the memories and the fears and the emotions that lingered in the dark recesses of his mind.


One word penetrated all of it: Guilty. Over and over again, Guilty. To each and every charge, for every cruel, depraved, sadistic thing Maxwell had done to him, or participated in doing to him... Guilty.


Part of him wanted to jump up out of the seat and wave his arms, cheering, but he didn't move. It was all too much, too overwhelming. Finally, after all the questioning of his credibility, the nightmare of testifying, watching Maxwell prance into court day after day with that arrogant smirk on his face, wondering if the twelve strangers who listened to him talk about all the awful, grossly personal, and traumatic sexual indignities he'd suffered really believed that he was an innocent victim and not just some male whore crying rape when he got in over his head, like the defense wanted them to believe.


It was over, and twelve strangers who didn't know him, had no personal bias in his favor, and even a few who held biases against him because of his sexual orientation...those twelve people believed him. Took his pain and his suffering and his near death seriously, and held Maxwell accountable for it.


"Donald?" Tim's voice sounded strained, concerned, and Don was aware of gentle hands on his shoulders, of Tim's knees bumping his as he turned toward him. Don hadn't even realized he was leaning forward in his seat, head in his hands, not moving while the verdict was read. He didn't even notice that there were tears on his cheeks, or that he was crying, until Timothy noticed it and produced a handkerchief to dry his tears and then wrapped him up in a hug. "It's over, honey. The good guys won," he said, a little smile in his voice. Timmy understood what he was feeling, why he was crying instead of jumping for joy, why what he needed most was the shelter of that embrace, a hiding place from curious or prying eyes.


He forced himself to give up that warmth and shelter, knowing people were moving about, the courtroom was clearing, and aware of the voices of Bailey and Carson nearby. He wiped off his own face with the handkerchief and wiped his nose, stuffing the cloth in his pocket and giving Timmy the smile and the quick little kiss he deserved for always knowing exactly what Don needed, and always being there to give it to him.


"Carson," he said, shaking hands with the prosecutor, "thank you for taking this all the way."


"I'm just glad the jury made the right decision. You were a solid witness for us, Donald. I hope we can count on you for a statement at the sentencing hearing."


"I'll be there. I have a few things to say to Maxwell I'd like to get off my chest."


"We'll get together and discuss that before the hearing. Maybe right after the first of the year?"


"Okay. Just let me know. We'll be out of town over Christmas, but we should be back right after New Year's," Don said, looking at Tim, who nodded in agreement.


Tim also shook hands with Carson, thanking him for all he did to bring about the conviction. Don didn't really hear what they said, because he was focused on Maxwell being placed in handcuffs and led out of the courtroom. He glanced in Donald's direction, and this time, it was Donald's turn to wear the arrogant smirk.


********


A thick blanket of snow was covering Albany as December wore on, and Don was back to work at his private eye business, the settlement money from the city having paid the bills and Kenny's salary until he was able to get back on his feet again. He'd reluctantly agreed to the interview with Madeleine VanSumeren on the cable news channel, and she'd kept her word to stick to a tasteful set of questions. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't nearly as ugly as testifying. Since his forced, false statement had made national news, it seemed the only way to get similar attention for the truth, to salvage his reputation. Though he refused to talk about the actual assault in any detail, he discussed the stand-off with Fox, the threat to his partner, and his reasons for making the false statement. They'd blurred his face at his request, since appearing on national television would probably be the final nail in the coffin of him ever doing undercover work again.


Don found himself wishing all the issues from the rape were as easily dispensed with as bad publicity. He could tell himself life was back to normal, he had his physical well-being mostly back, though he had to admit, if only to himself, that there were still foods he avoided that he'd been able to eat before his surgery. He wasn't positive if his digestive system really was more sensitive, or if he had the lingering fear of bringing on painful symptoms by abusing it the way he generally did when his schedule was full.


His life with Timmy continued to be as sweet and content as ever, but there were dimensions still missing from their sex life, and Don couldn't honestly think of how or when he'd get them back. He was still afraid of being penetrated, and no matter how affectionate, patient, and gentle Timmy would be, and even though he trusted him more than he'd ever trusted anyone else, ever in his life, he couldn't force himself to deal with it. Intellectually, he knew their lovemaking would have nothing to do with any of that and that his body was healed and able to withstand it, but his mind couldn't convince his body of that fact. Timmy continued to have the undying patience of a saint, but he had to miss it. Had to be feeling deprived, at least on some level.


Trudging up the steps to his office, Don muttered some unsavory words about the weather that had left his coat damp with falling snow. He greeted Kenny as he went into his office, shutting the door. Kenny was engrossed in something on the computer, and Don really didn't know if it was work or play. Truthfully, he didn't care. Kenny kept the files filed, the phones answered, the bills paid, kept the office running while Don was recovering, and handled some surveillance work under Don's watchful eye.


He hung up his damp coat and pulled off his gloves, blowing on his cold fingers. He smiled briefly when he thought of Timmy's way of warming them up for him, taking Don's hands in his and blowing warm air on them, then kissing the cold fingers. He made a mental note to look miserable when he took his gloves off at home so he could prompt such welcome attention. Maybe winter in Albany wasn't so bad, after all.


As Don settled in with a pile of mail to sort, an envelope caught his eye. The return address was from the lab where he'd had his most recent HIV test. He had his results sent to his office because he didn't want Timothy to have to sit with the envelope and agonize over it until Don got home, if it came on a night he worked late. He knew Timmy wouldn't open his mail, but he also knew it would just upset him until he knew what was inside it. Surprised that his hands were shaking a little as he picked up the letter opener, he sliced the top of the envelope decisively and pulled out the sheet of paper, unfolding it. The word Negative jumped off the page at him, and he slumped back in his desk chair with a large expelled sigh of relief. It had been years since he'd even had to think about this, sweat out the arrival of the lab envelope, and he truthfully didn't miss it one bit. Life before monogamy didn't even cross his mind much anymore. He couldn't picture being intimate voluntarily with anyone but Timmy.


While he was still staring at the paper with a faint smile, the front door of the office opened, and Justin Sommers walked in, bearing an even more unsettling resemblance to Timothy in a long, dark topcoat over a suit and tie. He hadn't been wearing glasses the last time Don saw him, but now he had small, fashionable glasses not unlike Timothy's. Of course. He rose and went to the door of his office.


"Justin, come in," Don said, saving Kenny the painfully ridiculous task of buzzing him in his office to ask if he was available while the visitor watched him answer the call through the windows of his office.


"The snow's starting to mix with sleet out there," he said, shivering a little as he followed Don into the office and sat in one of the visitor chairs. Don sat in the other, not bothering with the formality of sitting behind the desk.


"Yeah, I think we're gonna pack it in early and go home before dark," Don said, loud enough for Kenny to overhear. His office manager was grinning visibly as he began to tidy up the items on his desk.


"I won't keep you long," Justin said.


"Don't worry about that. Take your time. What can I do for you?"


"I never really properly thanked you for what you did for me. Maybe 'thanked' isn't exactly the right word. More like apologized for what you went through."


"I never blame my clients if I get hurt on the job. It's my responsibility to watch my back, not theirs."


"Still, you never told on me to Simon. He figured it out, obviously, but I know you didn't tell him, even when it had to be very difficult to protect that confidence."


"Don't try to take this on yourself. I slipped up somehow, and they found me at the gym that night, and they would have done what they did no matter what I did or didn't tell them."


"I sued Simon's estate because of my head injury. I have headaches, mood swings, I can't seem to focus enough to stay in classes to get my degree. The doctor's not sure if it'll get better or not. I'm lucky to be walking, talking, and moderately sane, according to him."


"I hope you get what you deserve to help offset all that," Don said.


"His family settled out of court with me. Gave me his entire estate, anything that couldn't be proven as ill-gotten gains from his criminal activity, that is. With his life insurance, some investments and other assets, it was about half a million dollars. My lawyer got some of it, obviously, but I still got a few hundred thousand. It's not phenomenal, but it'll pay my extra medical expenses, put food on the table until I can figure out if I'm going to be on permanent disability, or if I can go back to school and get a degree in something a little less technical."


"I'm glad for you."


"You settled with the city. I don't want to know specifics or anything, but I hope they were fair."


"Fair enough. We could have pushed for more, but I just wanted enough to put my life back together, maybe make things more comfortable for Timothy and myself financially. Be sure he's taken care of if anything happens to me. I never had the luxury of a huge life insurance policy, but I do now, and it feels great. I know he'd never want for anything, that he'd be secure even through illness or old age if I wasn't there."


"I never paid you for your services, and that seems especially unjust considering what happened, so I just wanted to settle up now."


"Hang onto the money, Justin. You'll need it to take care of yourself."


"That's very kind of you," he said. "There's one other thing."


"What?"


He leaned forward and whispered, "Is your office manager gay?"


"Yes, why?" Don asked, smiling.


"You think he'd go out with me?"


"I wouldn't be surprised," Don replied, chuckling a little. "Is that why you came back here, to ask Kenny out?" He kept his voice low.


"I really did plan to pay you, but I could have mailed a check. I figured this way, I could have a reason to be here. What does he like to do?"


"I think he goes clubbing sometimes, but he's pretty flexible. If he likes you, he'll probably be game to do something you enjoy."


"I can be moody and kind of flaky since I got hurt, but he seems really nice, like he might be willing to overlook some of that."


"Just ask him out. If you hit it off, great. If you don't, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained."


"Okay, I will," he said, smiling.


"I want to show you something," he said. Standing, he reached for the framed photo of Timmy that was always on his desk, always in his line of vision while he worked. "This is my partner, Timothy."


"Oh, my God. I never saw his picture before now. I mean, I saw a couple blurry shots on the news where you guys were running in and out of the courthouse, but nothing up close. I look just like him."


"Very similar," Don said, refraining from saying that no one was quite like his Timothy, physically or in any other way.


"I can't believe that psycho was only with me because I looked like some guy who dumped him years ago. Everything that happened to both of us was the result of some stupid obsession with someone who never gave him a passing thought."


"That's the stalker mentality for you," Don said, taking back the picture. "To be honest with you, it was part of the reason I took your case in the first place. I was kind of backed up when you came in that day, and I almost referred you to a friend of mine who also does very good work. But I saw so much of Timothy in you that I took the case. Maybe I'm as crazy as Fox was."


"We put a lot of stock in looks in this culture. If we didn't, I'd have never dated Simon in the first place. He was my ideal 'type.' I always got turned on by the big muscles," he added. "Now, I'd just like to meet somebody nice who won't dump me when I'm in one of my depressions." He shrugged. "Of course, if they happen to be really cute, too, like Kenny out there, that's an added bonus."


"I'm glad you're doing at least okay, even if you've got some stuff to get through yet," Don said.


"Same to you," he replied, as they both stood. "Are you guys doing something over the holidays?"


"We're spending Christmas with Timothy's family. What about you?"


"That could depend on Kenny out there. I bought tickets on a Christmas cruise to the Caribbean. I know I shouldn't have blown the money, but now I just need someone to go with me."


"Why don't you start with dinner? If that goes well, I don't think you'll be traveling alone."


"Yeah? Man, I hope you're right."


"Hey, what's with the monkey suit, anyway?" Don asked, tugging on Justin's lapel.


"Oh, that. I had a meeting with the lawyer to get my settlement money, and some bank appointments. Thought I'd dress up a little so they'd take me more seriously."


"Go catch Kenny before he leaves. If I don't talk to you before, Merry Christmas."


"Same to you, and Timothy. I hope you have a nice visit with your family."


"We will."


Don went back to his desk, keeping one surreptitious eye on Justin as he talked with Kenny in the outer office. Kenny smiled even more widely at a point, and nodded, and then both of them were laughing about something and exchanging numbers. Not that Don really expected Kenny would turn down a date with a cute guy like Justin Sommers. And not that Kenny was so shallow when push came to shove that he'd pass up getting to know a nice guy he might really like just because that guy came with some baggage.


Smiling and suddenly lonely for his own better half, Don piled up the mail and checked his watch, wondering if it was too early to call Timmy and take him home. He'd driven Timmy to work that morning, since the weather was already ugly and getting worse, and he always liked it when he could personally make sure his partner got safely back and forth in severe weather. Tim was a good driver and more than competent to take care of himself, but Donald liked taking care of him anyway, being his hero, even for a little thing like slippery roads. He almost jumped in his chair when the phone rang and Tim's office number popped up on the caller ID.


"Hi, honey," Don said, not bothering with the pretense of a formal greeting, as if he didn't know who was on the other end of the call.


"Hello, handsome!" Timmy's voice came over the line, cheerful. "I was hoping there was a hot-looking guy in your office who might be free for dinner in front of the fireplace on a dark and stormy night."


"I think Kenny already has plans," he joked.


"Very funny," Tim replied, chuckling. "How about it? Come pick me up?"


"This is just weird. I was going to call you to see if I could come get you and go home early since the storm is getting kind of nasty out there."


"You know storms turn me on," Tim said, his voice dropping a bit in volume and tone. God, it was his bedroom voice. Don wondered if his dick was going to do the ninety-degree salute right there, or if it would behave itself until he got home. No such luck. The telltale sensations were all there.


"You always turn me on, so you've got a deal. Pick you up in half an hour?" Don asked.


"I'll be waiting out front."


"Stay indoors, sweetheart. It's really coming down. I'll come in and get you."


"It's just rain and snow, Donald," Tim replied, a smile in his voice. "I won't melt."


"You left your umbrella in the car and I can't always get very close to the entrance if it's busy over there. Let me dust off my chivalry once in a while, okay?"


"I'll wait for you in the lobby. I love you," he added. Don knew he sometimes took those three little words Tim so often said to him somewhat for granted when he was busy, in a hurry. Today, he focused on them, on the sweetness and love in Timmy's voice when he said them.


"Yeah, I know you do. I love you, too, beautiful. I'll see you in a little while." He hung up, smiling at the phone like the lovesick sap he was.


********


Tim stoked the fire, soaking up the warmth radiating from it before setting the poker aside and plugging in their Christmas tree. He dimmed the rest of the lights and lit some candles. Donald was busily mixing their martinis, and for a moment, Tim just stood there looking at him. They had both shed their wet coats and business clothes and changed into their favorite old cold weather clothes. Donald was wearing heavy socks, sweat pants, and an old sweatshirt from the martial arts school that was next door to his former office. Tim knew he was no more fashionable in his own sweat pants, SUNY Albany sweatshirt, and the ratty old blue cardigan that even his grandfather wouldn't have claimed.


This was the sweet part of being married, of having the love of your life all picked out and yours forever. The cozy domesticity and utter disregard for appearances. As if to underscore his thoughts, Donald unceremoniously scratched his butt and yawned loudly before shuffling to the refrigerator to look for the olives.


"We need to go to the store," he said, returning to the counter with the jar of olives.


"What are we out of now?" Tim asked, joining him in the kitchen, sliding his arms around him from behind, nuzzling his neck.


"The olives are running low, and we're almost out of beer."


"Well, that does it. I'll just go back out in the storm," he quipped.


"Okay, smart ass. Just wait 'til I make you a martini and have to put...I don't know...a mushroom in it or something. Have we ever run out of olives before?"


"I don't think so. Milk and orange juice, occasionally, but never olives that I remember."


"At least we've got our priorities straight," he replied, spearing the olives and adding them to their drinks. He smiled. "You want to let go of me so we can take these in the other room?"


"Not particularly." Tim tightened his hold a little, kissing Donald's ear.


"Okay," he replied, laughing.


"I like being married to you," Tim said, not sure he'd ever really said that to Donald in so many words. They exchanged a lot of "I love yous" and a lot of other romantic words here and there, but after coming so close to losing Donald, it was even more important to him that his partner...no, his husband...knew how much he really treasured what they had together.


"I like being married to you, too, sweetheart. I'm planning on sticking with it until I croak."


"I just wanted you to know that. How happy you make me, all the time."


"All the time?"


"Most of the time," Tim amended, smiling. "No, all the time," he repeated, rubbing his cheek against Donald's. "My knight in shining armor."


"My armor got tarnished a long time ago, Timothy," Don replied, a little tinge of sadness in his voice.


"To me, your armor will always be shiny. Even when we're old and gray."


"Is everything okay, honey?"


"I just thought you should know that. That you're not just my husband. You're the man of my dreams, the guy I used to fantasize about meeting."


"Me? You used to fantasize about meeting someone like me?"


"Oh, absolutely," Tim said, grinning, kissing Donald's cheek this time. "A gorgeous blue-eyed blond, action-hero type, who'd have this soft side no one else knew but me, who'd love me for who I was, be true to me forever, whom I would trust and depend on and love for the rest of my life. Sound like anyone you know?"


"Sounds like the guy I'd like to be for you."


"It's the guy you are, and always have been, and always will be to me, even when the most heroic thing you can do is toddle up to the counter at McDonald's to get me my senior discounted coffee."


"And a pie. I'll get you a pie, too, if you want it," he added, leaning into Tim with a big grin on his face.


"You always have spoiled me," Tim joked, kissing Donald's cheek again, looking oddly forward to every stage of their life together, even old age. "I guess I should let go of you so we can have our martinis, huh?"


"Between you and a martini, no contest."


"Our bucket of chicken is probably getting cold."


"It was probably getting that way when we got home, so who cares?"


They spread out their food on the coffee table by the fire and grazed on it for a while, the evening news droning on the television. The wind was picking up outside, blowing ice and snow against the windows, adding to the already treacherous roads.


"If this keeps up, we might be snowed in tomorrow," Tim said, chewing on a large bite of a drumstick.


"Gee, that'd be awful," Don replied, sarcastic, smiling. "Unless we're planning to skate to work in the morning, I think you're right." He was quiet a moment. "There's something I want to show you."


He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that was tri-folded as if it had been in a business envelope, and then folded over in half to fit in the pocket of his sweat pants. He handed it to Tim, who wiped his hands on his napkin and then opened it. As he read the lab results, he felt his body almost go boneless with relief. They hadn't really thought Donald was at a high risk for HIV from the rape, since all his assailants claimed they used protection, Donald thought they did, at least to the best of his knowledge, and the rape kit hadn't turned up any biological evidence. Still, there was always a marginal risk that someone didn't play it safe, or that something was missed because of the haste and bleeding involved when the evidence was gathered.


"Oh, thank God," Tim said, pressing the paper against his heart. "I wish now we had some champagne on hand," he said, leaning over to kiss Donald.


"It's weird, but the verdict, and then this... I hate the cliché of 'closure,' but this helps, some."


"It's hard to put something behind you when there's still that fear in the back of your mind that you might be at risk for something like this."


"I know this probably doesn't make sense, but I don't feel as...dirty as I did. I finally know I'm physically clean, literally, and the jury believed me. They didn't buy into what the defense was trying to sell."


"I'm glad if the test results or the trial outcome made you feel better, honey, but you never deserved to feel bad about yourself, or dirty. You're still the same beautiful, good man you were before any of this happened."


"You're biased," Don said, snuggling against Tim.


"Yes, well, what's your point?" Tim joked, hugging Donald close, wondering if it was possible to be any happier than he was at that moment. He stroked Don's hair, cradling his head with a gentle hand. Don's eyes were closed, and he sighed, shifting a little, the telltale signs that a night of passion was going to have to wait until he'd had a nap.


"Haven't got one besides the one on top of my head," Donald joked back, stifling a yawn.


Tim chuckled softly, letting himself relax, his eyes drift shut, unconcerned about the weather outside, looking forward to a long evening and night, hopefully followed by a long day snowed in with the man he loved and nothing better to do than enjoy each other's company.


********


While the Callahan spread wasn't going to rival the Kennedy compound, it consisted of some lovely rolling acres of countryside and a large colonial style two-storey white house with black shutters that Anne Callahan had decorated and fashioned into an elegant but comfortable weekend and vacation home. When Tim and Don pulled up in the circle drive in front of the house, Winston was first on the porch to greet them, barking and wagging his tail, at least as much as he ever did. The aging bulldog didn't do a whole lot to strain himself, and the excitement of guests was no exception.


By the time they were unloading luggage from the trunk, Tim's mother had rushed out to the porch, braving the light snow and icy breeze in a heavy cardigan wrapped around her as she excitedly greeted them.


"Oh, hurry and get in here," she urged, motioning with her arm. "I have cocoa and fresh banana bread in the kitchen," she added. As soon as they had set their bags in the foyer, she commenced the requisite flurry of motherly hugs. "Look at you," she said to Donald, taking his face in her hands. "You look so healthy. A hundred percent better than the last time I saw you," she added. "And look at that handsome sweater someone made for you," she quipped, noticing that he had on one of her own creations under his coat, a burgundy sweater that he actually kind of liked, even though she still couldn't get it through her head that his arms were shorter than Tim's.


"Yeah, I've been wearing it a lot since the weather got so cold," he said, smiling. He'd probably had it on twice, although that was "a lot" compared to how often he'd worn some of her other sweaters.


"We'll worry about the bags later, Timmy," she said. "Right now, we're going to get you two warmed up." After taking off their coats and gloves and toeing off the snowy boots, they followed her back to the kitchen, the dog trotting along after them, apparently in hopes of handouts. Once they were seated at the big rectangular oak table, Winston took up residence at Don's feet, licking his considerable jowls and watching his human mark with an unsettling intensity.


"He wants your banana bread," Anne said, serving the hot chocolate to go with the thick, gooey slices of homemade bread. "One bite, no more. He's putting on weight."


"I thought bulldogs were supposed to be fat," Don said, breaking off a large chunk and feeding it to the dog. He liked the portly, jowly old dog, and he always felt sorry for him and shared treats with him, probably the dog's reason for immediately jockeying for position near him.


"Not that fat," she said. "He's getting older, so the vet is urging us to keep him on a healthy diet."


"So he'll live longer, but not really enjoy it," Don said, a note of sympathy in his voice for the aging dog as he stroked its head.


"Well, he can join the rest of us," she replied, laughing.


"Where's Dad?" Tim asked, sipping at the cocoa.


"He'll be here. He went into town for a meeting, but he promised after that, he's off for the holidays. We'll see how long that lasts," she added, rolling her eyes a bit. "Honestly, I don't have the Christmas decorations up, or the presents I need to ship out wrapped or packaged yet, and your father makes the Grinch look like Santa Claus, so I was hoping you two could help me."


"Sounds like fun," Don said.


"You haven't seen her list of out-of-state friends and relatives yet. You'll be qualified to work for UPS once that project's done."


"We'll put on the Christmas music and have snacks while we work. It won't be all that bad," she added.


"Just keep plenty of this banana bread on hand, and I'll do whatever you tell me," Don said, taking another bite. "Mom, I can't do this to him," he said, looking at the big dog at his feet. "One more?"


"One more bite. Not half the piece, Donald. One more bite," she added, laughing as Don broke off a smaller chunk than before and gave it to Winston. "You two should get another dog," she said, watching Don's playful interaction with the dog.


"We're gone so much," Tim said. "Watson was alone a lot, so after he was gone, we just didn't get another dog."


"Well, think about it," she said, giving Tim the eye, noting the fun Don seemed to be having interacting with Winston. "Your father was talking about going to get the tree tonight. You should go with him. He'd like that," she said to Tim.


"What about Donald?" Tim asked.


"Oh, no. You're not taking away my helper. I want to take at least the packages that have to go out to the West Coast in to the post office tomorrow, and you know as well as I do that's not going to be finished in an hour or so."


"Dear God, the entire West Coast branch of the O'Connor family," Tim said, joking about the large number of his mother's relatives who remained in the San Francisco area, where she was originally from.


"That's okay. I don't mind wrapping presents. Makes me feel festive," Don said, taking another swallow of his cocoa, then looking down at Winston, who was looking back at him hopefully.


"Don't even think about it," Anne said, not looking up from her own cup, making Don wonder how she had managed to catch the exchanged looks between dog and man.


********


"This trip was a great idea," Don said, sitting on the side of the double bed in the guest room. "I like this bed. You can't get away from me in it," he joked, and Tim laughed. The room was nicely appointed with heavy oak furniture and a cozy quilt on the bed. The two guest rooms in the house offered either a double bed, or twin beds, and Tim's mother never suggested the twin-bed room for them. The first time they stayed there, she had succeeded in drawing a deep blush out of Tim when she apologized for the cramped bed, saying she'd rather not hear the "thud" in the middle of the night when one of them fell between the beds they'd inevitably push together anyway in the other room.


"I usually don't get very far in the king sized bed at home, anyway," he replied, neatly stowing their clothing in drawers and on hangers. Even underwear and socks had a neat corner of a drawer, instead of residing in their overnight bags.


"We're only going to be here a week. We could just dig around in our bags. That way, we could fool around instead of unpacking and you wouldn't have to be embarrassed in front of your mother that you're having sex at two in the afternoon."


"Donald, 'freshening up' can mean a lot of things. So after we unpack, we'll 'freshen up'."


"Oh, so that's what that means," he replied, grinning.


"I hope you don't mind getting drafted into wrapping presents. I didn't know she was going to spring that on you."


"That's okay. You probably told her I could use some cheering up, and she's trying to give me some 'mom' time," he said, and Tim stared at him, his mouth opening a moment, then closing again. "It's okay, honey," Don said, chuckling. "This is just what I needed, to hang out with family. I know it's ridiculous to still let that situation with my mother bother me, but it does. Thanks for sharing yours with me."


"My mother loves you, and she loves having you here with me. You're family to her."


"That's enough," Don said, moving the nearly empty overnight bag off the bed, and then kneeling on the quilt so he could wrap his arms around Tim's neck. "It's time to freshen up a little." With that, he pulled Timmy on top of him as they both fell on the bed.


Tim took a moment to set his glasses on the nightstand before pouncing on Donald properly, kissing him, pulling at the bottom of his sweater until he raised up enough to take it off. Deciding to make it count, he pulled off his undershirt at the same time, sending them both flying. They dispensed with Timmy's clothes just as quickly, and before long, pants and socks and boxers had joined sweaters and shirts on the floor.


It wasn't that it was unusual for Don's hand to stray down to Tim's ass, even to caress him or squeeze him, but this time, his hand slid over Tim's tailbone and down to his crack, fingers straying between his cheeks.


"Did you bring stuff?" Don asked, and it took Tim's sex-fogged brain a moment to process that "stuff" meant lube.


"In the bag," he said, leaning off the bed to snag the items. While he was leaning in that precarious position, Don was moving over to kiss his back, his lips trailing down Tim's spine. Tim handed him the lube as he adjusted his position so he was comfortably lying on the bed instead of hanging off the side of it.


"I love you, sweetheart," Don whispered in Timmy's ear, kissing it. He rested his head near Tim's a moment, waiting until they were able to look into each other's eyes. "I want you so much."


"Then we're in luck, because I want you, too," Timmy said with a little grin.


"Sometimes...it feels wrong for me to do this when I don't let you do it to me."


"I love feeling you inside me. To hold back, to not make love to me that way when you want to... that would just be denying both of us something we enjoy."


"But I deny you all the time. I won't let you put your hands on me in certain places, and I don't want anything up inside me."


"You went through something very traumatic, and it did a lot of physical damage, too. You were in so much pain, Donald. It takes time to get over that. I don't feel denied. I feel loved, and I feel wanted, and I feel happy, but never denied. I could never feel like I was missing anything I need as long as I'm with you. Okay?" He kissed Donald long and deep, then he smiled. "I also feel cold and I'd like my lover on my back. Literally," he added.


"I can do that," Don agreed, blanketing Timmy's body with his, kissing his hair, his neck, his shoulders, slipping a lubricated finger inside him, lingering over the preparation, making love to Timmy with his lips and his hands, savoring the taste, the scent, and the feel of him.


He hadn't made love to Timothy from the back since his ordeal, since even in such a tender moment, the position could bring back awful memories, and suddenly he'd feel as if he were doing something demeaning and cruel to his partner, rather than something beautiful that he wanted. For some reason, the demons were on holiday, and all he could see and feel was the man he loved, who wanted him, who curved his back and spread his legs as Don moved to enter him.


He let himself enjoy the beauty of his partner's body, the expanse of his back, the swell of his buttocks, the strong, hair-dusted thighs that tapered into the sturdy legs that felt so good when they were wrapped around him. He rocked gently, giving Timmy a good motion but nothing rough. Timmy was moaning a little, quiet sounds coming with each thrust. Donald lost himself in watching Tim moving under him, arching his back and meeting Don's motions with little backward thrusts of his own. The bed was creaking beneath them, and some small part of Donald's mind hoped that wasn't audible downstairs, dismissing worrying about that to enjoy the rush of satisfaction that sound gave him.


Moving a little faster now, he concentrated on Timmy's prostate, making him stifle his cries of pleasure in a pillow. He slid his hands underneath him and rubbed his nipples until they were hard as little pebbles, slipping one hand down to stroke his cock. He was prepared when Timmy pulled his knees up under him, making it easier for Donald to stroke his erection in time with their thrusts. With a combination of a cry and a growl smothered in the pillow, Timmy came, and took Donald along for the ride.


Don barely remembered not to scream Tim's name, not to howl like a wolf at the full moon as he came.


They lay there a while, Tim letting his legs go flat again on the bed, Donald resting on top of him, both of them out of breath and needing time to recover. As Don recovered a few of his senses, he started kissing Timmy's neck, stroking his shoulder and arm, then nuzzling the side of his face until he turned toward Don for kisses. They were still joined, and neither seemed in a hurry to end the physical union.


"Love you, baby," Don mumbled, keeping his face so close to Timmy's that they shared breath. He stroked Timmy's soft hair, wishing there was some better way to express how much he loved him, how close he felt to him beyond their physical connection.


"And I love you, with all my heart," Timmy added, kissing him again, smiling. "And several other parts of me, too." They shared a laugh together at that, indulging in a few more stolen moments of total unity, closeness, and utter contentment.


********


"You're good at wrapping gifts," Anne commented, watching Donald adeptly tape a tidily folded and smoothed edge of a package. "Most men don't have the knack," she added. Tim and his father were on their way to a nearby Christmas tree farm, and Anne had her somewhat obviously engineered alone time with her son-in-law.


"When I was a kid, my family always volunteered to wrap presents for needy families. Our church collected a bunch of stuff. My mother was usually up to her neck in that project. Then one weekend in early December, people from the congregation would get together at the parish hall and box and wrap all the stuff, and we had live Christmas music and all kinds of food. It was fun. We all got really good at wrapping presents."


"Timothy told me about your mother's letter. I'm so sorry, Donald. I can't even picture being able to bear that kind of estrangement with Tim, or with Kelly. Even though we've had our differences with Kelly, we never wanted her to run away. To lose touch with her. We never would have turned her away if she'd come home. I don't know as I ever thanked you for finding her. I know you did it for Timothy, but not knowing where she was, if she was all right...it was one of the hardest periods of my life."


"I'm glad we could find her. I know it was a huge weight on Timothy's mind all those years, so I can only imagine what you felt like, being her mother."


"That tattoo seemed like the end of the world at the time," Anne said, a note of regret in her voice. "We thought she was lost to us, getting tattoos and protesting and running around with...whatever the modern equivalent of hippies is. When she was gone and we couldn't find her, that stupid tattoo seemed so insignificant."


"I keep telling Timmy that he can't judge all mothers based on you. It's so hard for him to see that there just isn't a point...that it's beating a dead horse where my parents are concerned."


"It wasn't easy when we found out Timothy was gay. I knew he was a sensitive, sweet, gentle child, but he was always smart and strong and brave. He just didn't seem to gravitate to the girls the way other boys did, but when he told me he was thinking of going into the seminary, I thought that was why. If he was going to take a vow of celibacy for the rest of his life, what was the point of tasting the forbidden fruit?" She smiled a little as she labeled another finished package and set it aside. "I thought he was saintly, not gay," she added, and Don had to laugh at that.


"I think he's both," Donald quipped. "After the last couple of months, he definitely should be in line for sainthood."


"His father was crushed at first, almost as if he were mourning a loss. I had to remind him that Timothy was gay, not dead. I can't pin everything on him. It took some adjusting on my part, too. All the years I thought he'd grow up and meet some nice girl and get married and father my grandchildren. Then I thought he would be a priest, and with Timmy's brains and ambition, maybe a bishop, or even beyond that...it's a lifetime of planning and dreaming to readjust."


"I can't help you out with the grandchild thing, but I bet I wrap presents as well as any daughter-in-law," Don joked, and Anne laughed.


"Timmy never brought home many young men for us to meet. We met Andrew." She leaned toward Don a bit. "I never liked him. I thought he was too slick."


"You have good instincts."


"When he brought you home, everything fell into place."


"Thanks, that's nice to hear."


"I love both my children dearly, but I was always especially close to Timothy. He's strong, but he has a very tender heart, and he loves so fully and generously when he loves, that my dream for him was always that he'd meet someone who wouldn't just love him, but who would be good to him and faithful to him, and not hurt him. On the eve of your wedding, I told him that my dream for him had come true, even though you definitely weren't the package I thought it would come in," she added.


"He's my whole life, you know that, right? I guess that's why the last couple months have been so hard, because he's been in danger, and he's had to put up with so much. And I don't feel like I can protect him anymore," he added, angry that his voice was shaking and tears were filling his eyes.


"Of course you can, sweetie," she said sympathetically, reaching over and taking his hand where it rested on the table near the box he'd stopped working on. "He told me how you handled that animal, Fox, when he had a gun at Timothy's head. He still thinks of you as his hero, Donald. That hasn't changed."


"Fox still managed to kidnap him and almost kill him. He had to save himself. I can't even take care of myself. I couldn't protect myself when it mattered...how could I defend Timothy from something like that?"


"You couldn't. Unless you were Superman, you couldn't hold off all those men. They took your gun, and there were just too many of them."


"People keep telling me that and in my head, I know it's true. I would have done anything to get out of that situation. I wasn't afraid of them killing me, not once I knew what they were going to do. I was more afraid they weren't going to kill me at a point... I was just outmatched and outnumbered, there was no way out."


"There are very few men walking around, if any, who could have realistically gotten themselves out of that situation. This is real life, not one of those silly action movies Timothy's father likes so well. One man can't beat up ten men at a time and run off to another adventure with barely a scratch on him."


"I kept thinking if I knew some other moves. Better ones. Maybe I could have gotten away. I kept thinking about signing up for a martial arts course. My office used to be right next door to a place that gave lessons. I never did it. Maybe if I had, I could have gotten out of there."


"Do you really believe that?" she asked, squeezing his hand a little.


"No," he said, not looking up at her, brushing at his eyes with his free hand.


"Martial arts experts aren't bulletproof. Do you have any idea how destroyed Timothy would have been if you'd been killed?"


"Probably as destroyed as I'd be if something happened to him."


"You didn't deserve this awful thing that happened to you, sweetie. It's not your fault," she added.


"I didn't want it to ruin Timmy's life. I don't want him to...to feel like he doesn't have me anymore, like I'm not the man he married, that he wanted to spend his life with. I don't want to be this messed up...piece of what I was before."


"Why don't you tell me what's bothering you the most? I know I'm not your real mother, but I do have a lot of mother experience," she said, smiling, patting his shoulder while he still kept a firm grip on her other hand. "And I'm very, very happy to have the chance to play mother to you, if you're looking for a stand-in."


"I'm so...afraid all the time." The words were choked, barely a whisper. It was so hard to say them, to face them, and then there they were, out there in the air. "I don't even know why sometimes. I'm just...afraid."


"That's not too strange considering what you've been through."


"Sometimes I'm afraid in the grocery store. Sometimes I'm afraid in the house, watching a movie with Timmy. Sometimes I'm afraid when I drive to my office in the morning. I just feel afraid and I don't know of what or why. I can understand why I'm afraid when I go out in the middle of the night to do surveillance work. That's what I was doing when...it happened. It's like being afraid of the dark and then someone turns the lights on and you're still just as afraid as you were, but you don't know of what. I feel like I'm losing my mind sometimes, like I'll never be okay again."


"It's okay, honey. That'll get better." She slid her chair closer and gave him a hug, and he didn't resist it. "Do you remember when you were a little boy, and you watched a scary movie, or someone told you a ghost story, and you knew the monsters weren't real, but you were afraid of them anyway?"


"Yes," he managed, nodding, pulling away, relieved when she handed him a tissue. Typical mother, always having something handy to wipe a runny nose on one of her kids, even if he was in his thirties. More so than that, he treasured being counted as one of them.


"Isn't that a little bit how this feels?"


"A lot," he admitted, wiping his eyes and his nose with the tissue, willing himself to settle down, to reel in his emotions. Her words made a lot of sense. "Sorry," he said, feeling more and more self-conscious about spilling his guts.


"Do you remember how, as the days went by, the fear faded and the monsters didn't seem like such a threat anymore? You had to try hard to even picture the thing you were so scared of?"


"I remember. I think any kid who found a way to watch The Exorcist remembers that feeling," he added, finally smiling a bit.


"In time, the fear is going to get better. But if you feel you need to talk to a counselor or a therapist, don't be too hard on yourself to do it. Or you pick up the phone or get in the car and come and see your adopted mom, because sometimes you just need your mother when you're scared and you can't figure things out. Sometimes, I still miss my mother when something bad happens and I wish I could talk to her again, or just blubber on her shoulder like a big baby without worrying about being tough or grown up like I'm supposed to be." She ran her hand across the back of Don's shoulders.


"Thanks, Mom," he said, reaching over to hug her again. When he broke the embrace and took a sip of the hot cider she'd served for them during their wrapping project, she surprised him with a question that seemed to come out of left field.


"Do you feel okay physically? Like you're back to a hundred percent?"


"No, not really," he said honestly.


"I didn't think you ate the way you usually do at dinner. Your portions were small, and you didn't seem to enjoy it very much."


"It was delicious. You're a great cook - - "


"Donald, I know my cooking hasn't changed since the last time you were here. That's not what I'm worried about. This might be more than you want to know, but when Timmy was little, I had surgery. Female surgery. Let's just say that my plumbing was out of whack, badly, and what should have been a fairly routine procedure, even then, turned into a major crisis. I nearly died, and I was in pain like you wouldn't believe. Well, you've had pain that's probably similar to what I went through. Obviously, I didn't die. Everything worked out, got repaired, and I went on with my life."


"I'm glad."


"But what does that have to do with anything?" she asked, seeming to read his thoughts. "After I'd had all my female parts scrambled around, some of them removed, and everything sort of patched back together, it was a long time before I wanted someone poking at them. Long after I wasn't in pain anymore, I just didn't want that whole area of my body poked, prodded, or otherwise bothered. In other words, my married sex life died and didn't really get resuscitated for probably a year or better. My insides didn't feel like they used to. I was afraid of that pain, even when it wasn't there."


"That's exactly how I feel. I thought I was nuts." Then he felt himself blushing, wondering what she made of all this, if she actually knew exactly what it was that he couldn't make himself do in the bedroom.


"Donald, I've had two children and been married for over forty years. I do know a few things about sex, and I didn't really think you and Timothy were living in a state of celibacy."


"So I'm blushing as much as I think I am?"


"More," she said, winking at him. "Give your body time, and it'll catch up. You're young and healthy. You're only a few years younger than I was when I had my surgery. I was young and healthy, too. Eventually, things did come back to normal, and I felt better. You will, too. And it wasn't fair that my husband wasn't enjoying our relationship the way he usually did, but he survived it. Timothy will, too. It's part of the mixed bag of stuff you sign up for when you get married."


"Thanks for telling me about that. It makes so many things seem more...logical. Like I'm not a hypochondriac."


"You are so nervous, sweetie. You're like a cat on a hot tin roof. You've always had nice solid muscles, but when I hugged you, it felt like I was hugging a marble statue. Try to calm down and let your body heal and quit worrying about Timmy. He's not going anywhere, and he's so happy you're alive and healthy and with him that he's on top of the world. You have a lifetime together, and things will work themselves out. Stop trying to pin yourself down to some arbitrary deadline for being fully healed."


"You think I'll stop being afraid of my own shadow and go back to eating greasy burgers on stakeouts?"


"I would stake my reputation as a mother on it," she said. "Now stop slacking off and get back to work. We've got a lot of presents to wrap before Timmy and his father get back with the tree."


"Sorry," he said, laughing.


"Why don't you take those martial arts lessons now?" she asked.


"Kind of like locking the barn door after the horse ran away, isn't it?"


"You've still got more horses in the barn, Donald. Maybe you'd feel more confident; maybe it would help you feel better physically to do something like that. You're back to working out again, aren't you?"


"Yeah, the doctor said I'm okay."


"Why don't you get Timothy to take them with you?"


"You think he'd do something like that?"


"I think he would. I think he'd have fun with it, and he loves doing things with you. What do you want to wager that he'll do it?" Anne asked, a devilish glint in her eye.


"He probably will if he thinks I want him to - - he's more generous about that stuff than I am. He wanted to take ballroom dancing lessons together a couple years ago, but I vetoed that."


"You're wriggling out of betting me."


"You're serious."


"Put your money where your mouth is," she said.


"What do you want?"


"I'm hosting a charity event next week at the children's hospital. My women's club is going to be handing out presents to the children. I need an elf."


"I beg your pardon?"


"I need an elf to hand out the gifts. Our Santa Claus is having bypass surgery, so I'm trying to find someone to dress up like an elf and say he's Santa's helper and hand out the presents."


"If Timothy agrees to martial arts lessons with me, you want me to dress up like an elf?"


"What do you say, Donald? Do you feel lucky?" she asked.


"Oh, come on, don't try to quote Dirty Harry and tell me you don't watch those action movies with Steven."


"I never said I didn't watch them - - or even like them. I only said they were silly. And after all, he is a Callahan, too."


"Okay, if Timmy says 'yes,' I'll do the elf thing. What do I get if I win?"


"What do you want?"


"If you lose, you dress up like an elf with me - - or Mrs. Claus, if you chicken out of wearing the elf get-up, and we'll both hand out presents."


"You're an evil man, Donald," she said, laughing. "It's a deal," she said, smiling affectionately, since he had committed either way to "losing" the bet and donning the elf suit.


********


Donald held the tree steady while the elder Callahan crawled beneath it, lighting into a litany of curses that would make a Marine blush as he wrestled with getting the tree trunk fastened into the stand. He looked under the tree at Tim's father, whose face was turning beet red under his white hair as he struggled with the tree stand.


"You need some help there, Steven?" Though Tim's father had ultimately accepted their relationship and Donald himself as part of their family, he hadn't been invited to call the old congressman "Dad." But then just getting him back on speaking terms with Tim after he took the job with Senator Platt had taken all of Anne's powers of persuasion (and probably a goodly amount of her less friendly pressure and coercion) to accomplish, so getting him to be "Dad" to Tim's male partner was probably going to take a bit longer.


"No, goddammit, I've almost got it."


"Steven, you sound like a longshoreman," Anne said as she stepped over him where he lay on the floor, cursing at the tree. "Let Donald do that before you throw your back out."


"I won't throw my back out," he shot back. A few minutes later, he crawled out from under the tree, satisfied that it was adequately fastened in the stand. It was a large, full, beautifully shaped scotch pine that was well over seven feet tall.


"I think it's a beautiful tree," Anne said, unruffled by her husband's grousing.


"Is the one at your house this big?" he asked Don.


"Actually it's bigger, but it's also fake, so we put it together in four pieces," he replied. "Where's Timmy, anyway?"


"I sent him out for more lights," Steven said. "Fake, huh? You hear that, Anne? Didn't I tell you we should just get one and keep it in the basement?"


"Then you don't have the fresh smell of pine in the air, the fun of picking it out - - "


"I'll make you a deal. Next year, we get a fake tree, and I'll buy you as many pine-scented candles as you want," he replied, accepting the coffee she handed him. After a drink, he smiled. "Irish coffee."


"When I saw the size of that tree, I figured you could use it," she said, holding the tray out to Donald, who, ever the detective, noticed she'd brought out a total of five mugs.


"Are we expecting more company?" he asked.


"Oh, that. I thought Mrs. Daniels from next door might be stopping in. She's part of the Christmas project I talked to you about earlier."


"Oh, yeah, the elf thing," he said, taking a drink of the coffee, his eyes bugging a little.


"It's more Irish than coffee," Steven said, looking much mellower as he sat in his easy chair, in no hurry to launch into trimming the obese tree that had caused him so much aggravation. Donald sat on the opposite end of the couch from where Anne sat, sipping her own drink. No wonder Timothy could hold his liquor with this beverage as a Callahan family tradition. If they didn't all have strong constitutions, they'd spend the holidays shit-faced on this stuff. Since he was in under cover and didn't have to drive anywhere, he took another good swallow himself. Shit-faced had its advantages.


There was commotion at the front door, and Don was on his feet in an instant, figuring that must be Timothy. He felt silly missing his partner like he did for just the few hours he'd been gone, but he was looking forward to getting a little tipsy around the fire with Timmy and his parents, wondering how much Irish coffee they could all drink and still get the lights on the tree.


He froze in his tracks when he saw that Timothy wasn't alone, but accompanied by a small white-haired lady whose coat he was taking to hang in the hall closet.


"Grandma?" he asked, his voice weak with surprise. Tim just stood behind her, grinning, as the elderly woman toddled determinedly toward Donald, arms outstretched.


"Donald!" She hugged him enthusiastically, surprising strength in her bony little arms. He hugged back, so thrilled to see her that he couldn't stop a few tears from escaping. He hadn't seen her in years, since his mother had convinced him that his homosexuality would be too horrifying for the elderly woman to cope with. At eighty-five years old, she was as feisty and cheerful as he remembered.


"Timothy, what did you do?" Donald asked as he pulled back from the hug.


"I thought your grandmother should have a chance to make up her own mind if she'd like to see you or not. So I called her. I told her about us. I know I shouldn't have gone behind your back, but I know how much you love her, and she always sends you cards for every birthday, and the whole thing just seemed utterly insane."


"Donald, why didn't you write to me? Or call me? Did you think I wouldn't want to see you because you were gay?"


"Mom thought you'd be devastated," he said, still in a state of shock.


"I've missed seeing you. I just thought you were too busy to visit your old granny. Now if you ever tell your brothers or any of your cousins I said this, I'll deny it, but you were always my favorite grandchild. Nothing can change that."


"It's so good to see you," he said, hugging her again, looking over her shoulder at Tim, who was smiling, blinking a little rapidly.


"Anne, Steven, this is my grandmother, Elizabeth Vicari," he said, as Tim's parents approached to meet her. There were handshakes and warm greetings all around as they ushered their newest guest into the living room. While his grandmother was momentarily distracted by Tim's parents, Donald turned to his partner. "I can't believe you did this," he said, hugging Timothy. He could feel his partner's sigh of relief.


"I thought you might be angry, but I know how much you love your grandmother, and you always say such nice things about her whenever you get a card from her. I just couldn't believe she'd turn her back on you if she knew you wanted to see her." Tim paused. "That's what the whole tree thing was about, leaving you alone with Mom. I had to go get her at the airport."


"Thank you," Don said sincerely.


"Merry Christmas, my love," Timmy said, kissing him and hugging him again.


The evening passed pleasantly, sipping Irish coffee and decorating the tree. Much to Donald's consternation, his grandmother had brought along a photo album including a veritable pictorial history of his life, from birth through high school. Tim was fascinated to finally get a look at a little Donald who, as a baby, was all big blue eyes and toothless grins.


********


Donald turned over again, bumping into Timmy's leg. He sighed as Tim's eyes opened to slits.


"Are you okay, honey?" he asked, shifting onto his side and taking Don's hand in his, kissing the back of it.


"Just can't sleep. Sorry I woke you."


"You want to talk about anything?"


"Not really."


"Anything special bothering you?" Tim persisted, letting go of Don's hand and stroking his hair gently.


"Just the usual not-so-great night." He sat up in bed, feeling tired, and yet too restless to sleep. "I'm just gonna go downstairs for a little while."


"You want company?"


"I'm okay, sweetheart," he said, leaning over and kissing Timmy. "Why don't you just get some rest?"


"Don't stay up too long, honey. Mom'll be making breakfast pretty early."


"I won't." Donald got up and put on his robe.


"I love you."


"I love you, too," Don replied, smiling affectionately at his partner before leaving the room.


The living room was as warm and inviting as something out of a holiday painting. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, the lights still glowing on the Christmas tree. There were decorations sitting in festive disarray around the tree, where they had left them when everyone started getting tired and decided to head for bed.


He went on to the kitchen, thinking he might find some of Anne's banana bread left. He was surprised to find his grandmother sitting at the kitchen table in her robe and slippers, with a glass of milk and a thick slice of the bread, feeding a chunk to Winston.


"Don't let Timothy's mom catch you doing that," he said, smiling.


"How could you resist that face?" she asked, looking down at the portly dog with affection.


"I can't," he said, crouching by the dog and petting it. "Don't tell me insomnia is hereditary," he said, sitting at the table with her.


"I found myself a little hungry, after all, so I thought I'd slip downstairs and have a bite of something."


"I'm glad Timothy called you. I'm sorry I didn't myself, but I didn't want to upset you, and I didn't want to lie to you, either."


"Well, you never were a good liar, anyway," she said, sipping her milk. "I've missed you all this time. Timothy tells me you have a very successful private investigation business."


"I do all right," he said, smiling. "It's taking a while to get back on my feet after being off work for so long." He paused. "You know what happened?"


"I watch the news. I saw you on that news network, when you did that interview."


"So you already knew that I was gay, before Timmy called you?"


"It was an odd way to find out, but yes, I knew." She took another bite of her bread. "Timothy seems like a lovely young man."

 

"I'm so lucky to have him. He's amazing." Don couldn't help the giant smile that spread across his face at the mention of his partner. "I can't tell you how much it means to me that you accept our relationship, that you want to be part of our lives. I've missed you so much, Grandma."


"I've missed you, too, Donald. I can't condone what you're doing, but that doesn't change how much I love you."


"What do you mean, you can't condone it? You came here to see me, planned this visit with Timothy...but you don't approve of our relationship?"


"I learned a long time ago that disapproving of my grandchildren's choices doesn't change them. So why miss out on spending time with the people I love? Would it change your mind if I tried lecturing you?"


"I thought when you came here, you were in touch with Timothy...I thought you accepted us," he said, feeling a little like the character in the horror movie who trusts the monster when it appears in a harmless, deceptively appealing form, only to be devoured by it when his guard is down.


"I can't tell you that I wouldn't rather see you with some nice young lady, having a family, living a normal life, but I learned long ago that I can't control the choices my grandchildren make."


"So you wish Timothy was some nice young lady, instead of who and what he is? That I was something entirely different than what I am?"


"What I want doesn't matter, dear. It's your life, and your family can't tell you what to do with it. You're still my grandson, and I love you. I already said that I thought Timothy was a lovely young man and I can understand why you're fond of him."


"Fond of him? I love him, Grandma. He's my life partner, my soul mate, the other half of me," he said, not sure why he felt so compelled to defend his relationship with Timothy. Maybe it was the bitter disappointment of thinking that one member of his family accepted him fully, only to find out that his grandmother did indeed love him, but was only tolerating his orientation and his relationship with Timothy.


"Calm down, Donald. You always were so passionate about what you believed, and you always wanted everyone else to believe with you. Remember when you were convinced old Mr. Connors across the street had killed his wife and buried her in the garden?" She chuckled. "Come to find out, she was visiting their daughter in Florida, and he was just installing a small irrigation system for his roses," she concluded, still smiling. "It didn't surprise me when you became a private detective. You were always snooping around into things like that."


"This isn't a joke, Grandma. And it's not some childhood detective game-playing. It's my life, it's the man I'm sharing it with. It's who and what I am. When you showed up here tonight, I thought you accepted that."


"If you're waiting for me to say that I think it's good or it's right that you're living in sin with another man, I'm afraid you're going to have a long wait. I love you dearly, I have since the day you were born, and I always will. I will always be nothing but courteous to your young man, because he's been nothing but nice to me, and I have no animosity toward him. But I can't condone what you're doing."


"Why did you come here? Why do you want to see me if that's what you think of me?"


"Your brother is living with a woman and fathered a child with her, and they're talking about buying a house together and having another child, but they don't even talk about marriage. I guess there's some issue she has with it because she's divorced. I don't approve of that, either, but I still love your brother and my great-grandchild. I came here because I love you, and I want to see you. I'm not going to live forever, Donald. It's why I hold my tongue about the things my children and grandchildren do that I don't approve of. I would rather stay silent and pray for them to find their way, than to preach to them with a lot of unwanted and unheeded advice, and not have the chance to be in their lives."


"I'm sorry I disturbed your snack," he said, standing. "I'm going back to bed." Suddenly, he wanted to be in Timothy's arms, and he didn't want to go on with a conversation that would lead him to say something ugly to his grandmother, whom he loved in spite of the crushing disappointment he felt at her words.


"Donald, dear, I'm sorry if I upset you."


"You know what they did to me, what I went through, and yet you never even asked me if I was okay. But you made sure to let me know that you didn't approve of the one good, decent, right thing in my life - - Timothy."


"I thought you'd be uncomfortable talking to me about something like...your...incident."


"My incident? They almost killed me, Grandma."


"There's no need to upset yourself, dear. I'm sorry if I should have asked you how you were. You seemed fine."


"It's okay," he said, holding up his hand. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm just...tired. I'll see you in the morning," he added, feeling awkward as he planted a little peck on her cheek before leaving the kitchen, trying to avoid running up the steps to get back to the sanctuary of the room he shared with Timmy.


He opened the bedroom door and eased inside, watching Timmy a moment, his heart sinking when he heard his lover's even breathing, indicating he'd fallen back into a good sleep. If he were a considerate partner, he'd sleep in the overstuffed chair by the window, and let Timmy rest. Dismissing that thought, he took off his robe and crawled into the double bed, relieved when Timmy moved, looking over his shoulder in the shadowy room.


"Hey, honey," he said. Turning over, he warmly accepted Donald into his arms, tucking the blankets around them. Donald clung to him, and soaked up the feeling of one of those gentle hands rubbing his back. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.


"I love you."


"I love you, too, baby," he replied, kissing Don's temple, cuddling him close, the tone of his voice letting Don know that he knew there was more to it than the usual little declaration of love as they were dozing off to sleep. "You want to talk?"


"Not now. I just wanted to be with you. Go back to sleep."


"Only if you join me. You'll be tired in the morning, honey."


"Just hold me, okay?"


"I suppose, if I have to," Timmy joked, tilting Don's chin up for a kiss. "Close your eyes and let go of whatever's hurting you, honey. I've got you." Timmy had grown used to Donald's sporadic insomnia since the rape, and his occasional need to just be held and reassured, without going into detail about which thing was eating at his psyche.


"Don't let go."


"I never plan on letting you go, my love." Timmy's arms tightened around him, and Donald let himself drift, let the ache in his heart be soothed the way only his Timothy could.


********


Tim had done as much as he could without rousting Donald out of bed. He'd showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, gone through all of his usual daily grooming rituals, and after pulling on a nice pair of jeans, a turtleneck, and a blue and white blend sweater his mother had knitted him for Christmas last year, he sat on his side of the bed and stroked Donald's hair gently. His partner was on his stomach, face mostly buried in Tim's pillow, where he'd seemed to seek out his partner's presence after Tim got up. Extricating himself from Donald had been a bit like peeling a warm, clinging octopus off his body.


"Donald, darling, it's time to get up," he said softly, moving his hand down to rub Donald's back. "Come on, honey," he coaxed. Neither one of them was opposed to hollering, poking, nudging, or otherwise disturbing his partner when they needed to get a move on, but for some reason this morning, Tim didn't have the heart to say or do anything harsh to his sleeping partner. He leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I smell breakfast," he said in what he hoped was an enticing tone.


"So go eat it," Donald grumbled. Ah, yes, his sweet sleeping prince was awakening.


"I'm not going down there to eat it without my husband."


"It's too damned early," he retorted. Tim probably would have handled that grumpy reply if it hadn't been punctuated by a resounding incident of morning flatulence. Incensed, he grabbed a spare pillow and clobbered Donald soundly with it.


"It's almost eight, and my mother can only keep the food fresh and hot so long. My God, what did you eat yesterday, anyway?"


"You wouldn't be so mean to me if I didn't just fart at you," he aptly accused, blinking, finally rolling onto his side to look at Timothy. "Oh, yeah, that's bad, isn't it? Sorry, honey. I don't know. Must've been the Taco Bell we got at the drive-thru on the way here."


Well, he wanted Donald to regain his confidence and start eating normally again. Wrinkling his nose, he figured the return of the occasional toxic burrito meat fart was part of the price he paid for Donald's ongoing recovery.


"Stomach feel okay?" he asked, rubbing Donald's back, forgetting his momentary irritation. His partner had suffered so much discomfort recovering from the surgery and transitioning back into normal eating that he still worried about him sometimes, and whether or not his stomach was upset.


"Yeah, it feels fine," Donald replied, sitting up, flashing Timmy one of those big grins of his that completely dispelled any of Tim's lingering annoyance. "Man, I could have slept all day," he said through a huge yawn. "I'll get a move on."


"I love you, stinky," Tim said, catching him to plant a big kiss on his mouth. "Sorry about the pillow," he added, as they took a moment for a longer, more involved kiss.


"Yeah, well, sorry about, you know." He gestured at the acrid air he left in his wake. "You want to go downstairs and assuage your mother? I'll be down in a few minutes."


"You won't get back in bed after I leave, will you?"


"That's a hell of an idea. Wish I'd thought of it," Donald said as he started the shower.


"Donald!"


"Relax, sweetheart. I'll be down as soon as I get dressed."


********


Tim's mother did put on a spectacular breakfast spread with fresh fruits, meats, pancakes, warm cinnamon apple muffins, and a selection of fruit juices that would make any upscale buffet envious. By the time Donald made his way downstairs, even hurrying, eating was underway.


"Sorry I'm late, Mom," he said, kissing the hostess's cheek as she served a plate of bacon.


"Oh, you're fine, sweetie. We just got started," she replied, smiling when he pulled out her chair for her and waited until she was seated to join the group.


"It smells great," he added. "Morning, Grandma," he said, making a point of catching her eye and smiling at her. She was way too old, and he loved her too much, to let there be a lingering strain between them. The fact she didn't fully accept his relationship with Timothy was an ache in his gut that made even the incredible breakfast seem a little less appealing, but he still didn't want to spend Christmas at odds with her.


"Good morning, sleepyhead. You never were an early riser," she added.


"It's bad enough that you brought my baby pictures," he said, smiling. "You don't need to tell all my secrets."


"That's not a secret, honey," Timmy corrected, flashing him a look of love, letting his thigh press against Don's as they sat next to each other. He put half of his warm, buttered English muffin on Don's plate, and Don took the best pineapple chunks out of his mixed fruit and put them on Timmy's plate. It wasn't that there was a shortage of food, but Tim's mother had made the English muffin especially for him so it was the only one on the table, and he knew Donald liked them, too. Donald knew that Timmy would politely take a spoonful out of the bowl of mixed fruit without picking through it to get what he really was after - - the pineapple. Don hadn't even realized they were going through the little ritual until he noticed his grandmother was watching them.


"Your grandfather and I used to do that," she said, smiling nostalgically. "We were always dividing up our food."


"I guess that makes it official, then," Timmy said cheerfully. "We're an old married couple."


"Nah, we're still newlyweds," Don said, taking Timmy's hand and kissing the back of it. "It never gets old with you, beautiful," he added, and although Timmy blushed all the way to his ears, his eyes got a little misty, too. He squeezed Don's hand.


"Donald's agreed to be my Christmas elf for my women's club charity event at the children's hospital," Anne announced.


"I think you're forgetting something," Don added, laughing.


"We haven't seen the outcome of the bet yet," she said, sipping her orange juice, looking from Don to Tim, and back again.


"Oh, that's right." Don pulled the envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Tim. "If you agree to do this with me, your mother and I have a little wager going that she's going to have to make good on."


"What is this?" Timmy wiped his hands on his napkin and opened the envelope. Don smiled as he watched his partner's reaction to the paper inside. He'd gone online the evening before and registered them, and this was the printed confirmation. "I don't understand. You said you didn't want to do this," he added, looking at Don, confused.


"I was talking with your mom about taking martial arts lessons. I always meant to do that, and didn't, and she thought maybe you'd take them with me. So we have a little wager going on that. But I changed my mind. I hope you're still interested in learning how to tango with me."


"You signed us up for ballroom dancing lessons? Donald, I believe your exact words were 'I'd rather have a root canal without Novocain' when I suggested this last year."


"I can think of worse things than spending a couple hours, a couple nights a week, dancing with you. This place accepts same-sex couples in the same sessions with all their other couples. I thought that sounded kind of cool."


"I don't know what to say," he said, looking at Don with that sweet, sentimental expression of his when something Don did truly touched him deeply.


"Say yes."


"Oh, yes, of course, I want to take the lessons with you," he replied, beaming.


"Merry Christmas, honey," Don said, accepting the hug from his partner. "Does that still win me the bet, even though they're different lessons?" Don asked, and Tim's mother gave him one of those smiles that made him see so much of Timothy in her that it was uncanny.


"Donald, that's so romantic," she said, looking almost as moved as Tim did himself. "Of course, I'll let you win on those lessons."


"If I survive ballroom dancing, we'll think about martial arts next year," Don added, and the group laughed as they went back to eating their breakfast. "I guess that means we'll both have to get costumes today," he said, casting a knowing eye in Anne's direction.


"You're dressing up as an elf, Mom?" Tim asked, raising his eyebrows.


"He did give me the option of being Mrs. Claus, so I think that's the route I'll go. I think Donald is much more the elf type than I am."


"Gee, thanks, Mom," Don said, shaking his head, laughing.


********


The only thing that would make walking down a windswept path through the woods in the dead of winter remotely appealing was doing so hand in hand with Timmy, seeing the pure joy in his face at the beautiful scenery, stealing kisses under a tree while the snow blew down from the branches in swirls around them, and singing Christmas carols. Donald could barely believe it himself, but there was something about Christmas here that made singing Christmas carols a capella while he was freezing his ass off in the woods seem festive. He'd tried just walking along while Timothy sang, but he only got away with that for a few lines of the first song. Truthfully, he liked listening to Timmy sing anything. He had a good voice, and hearing it just filled Donald with this overwhelming sense of well-being.


"Isn't it weird how we live together, alone, as a couple, and then we come out here to spend the holidays with family, and then go to all this trouble to be alone?" Don asked, and Timmy laughed at that, sending little puffs of visible breath into the icy air.


"There's something incredibly romantic about visiting family and friends as a couple. It makes times like these seem more precious, because they're stolen moments. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine took his partner to visit his family after their commitment ceremony. He said they were so horny by the time they were finally alone and could make some noise, that it was the best sex they ever had," he added, laughing.


"I keep worrying that your mother can hear the springs creaking. I guess there's this evil little part of me that wants your father to hear them."


"You mean just to drive him nuts? He has that effect on people," Tim said, smiling. "I think it's because my mother is so good to us, so accepting, that it seems unthinkable to offend her. At least, that's how I always feel. She doesn't put any conditions on accepting me, and the man I love, so I want to make it as pleasant and easy for her as I can."


"She's an amazing lady. Who had an amazing son." Don squeezed Timmy's hand.


"Do you want to talk about what was keeping you awake last night?"


"Not really," Don answered honestly. Timothy never pushed him when he withdrew, refused to talk. It was one of the reasons he talked to Timmy as much as he did. He didn't feel pressured, probed, intruded upon. Just loved, cared for, worried about. "It was my grandmother."


"In what way?" Tim asked, confused.


"Well, it didn't start out as her. I was just having a restless night. Sometimes I get thinking about things...dwelling on them, I guess. I needed to get up and move around, find something to distract me for a while. When I got downstairs, she was in the kitchen having a snack, feeding Winston banana bread. Don't tell your mother."


"Winston's a lost cause, but my mother keeps trying."


"Anyhow, we got to talking, and I told her how much it meant to me that she accepted us, and our relationship, and wanted to be part of our lives."


"And...?"


"The upshot of it is that she'd prefer you were a woman."


"Well, honey, I'll do a lot to please your family, but that's where I draw the line," he said, that impish grin of his somehow making even that miserable conversation seem less world-ending.


"I'm 'living in sin' with a man. She would rather I married some nice woman and had a family, and a normal life. Even though she thinks you're a lovely young man."


"She's eighty-five, Donald. What did you really expect?"


"You don't see anything wrong with that?"


"I see something horribly wrong with the whole vile history of hatred, discrimination, and utter lack of fundamental human rights that homosexuals have suffered over the decades. I find it nothing short of grotesque that we're the only group of people this country actually enacts legislation to deny our rights. Do you know how I feel to think that you and I don't have a marriage license? Not because we need a piece of paper to make our marriage valid, but because we deserve to have one. Don't even get me started on the whole issue of gay rights. Of human rights. But as far as holding one little old woman who is a product of her time and her upbringing, responsible for all the horrors visited upon homosexuals over the years, I don't see a point to it. She loves you, so she overlooks the fact that she doesn't agree with what you're doing."


"And that's it?"


"Donald, do you think my father, a conservative Republican, is really okay with the path my life has taken? You know things were strained between us when you and I were dating, and then I got the job with Senator Platt, and it was like the straw that broke the camel's back. We had to work hard to rebuild a relationship. Do you know that he's either been absent, or abstained, from voting on the gay rights initiatives that have come up since he found out I was gay? He told me once that he wouldn't vote because if he votes his conscience, or for his constituency, he's voting against a better life for his own son. And if he votes for those initiatives, he's casting a vote he doesn't believe in, and betraying the trust of his constituency."


"So he really doesn't think any of those initiatives should pass?"


"Look, Donald, I love my father very much. I was close to my parents my whole life. For better or worse, they're my parents. The bottom line is, he doesn't agree with gay marriage, and he wouldn't have chosen having his son fall from grace and be kicked out of the seminary for being gay, marry another man, and turn into a Democrat. I still haven't figured which one freaked him out more. But he loves me enough that he overlooks everything he's stood for most of his life and wants me to stay part of this family. He accepts, even likes, my male partner. We fight more about other politics than gay issues, because those are just too close to home."


"You think I should just accept that she thinks our whole relationship is one big sin?"


"You can refuse to accept that and have nothing more to do with her. But I think you need to ask yourself one question first. How great does love have to be to overcome an entire lifetime of beliefs, principles, and in some cases, religious teachings? In your grandmother's time, homosexuality was mental illness at best, criminal depravity at worst. If you had a gay family member, you were disgraced. You hid that fact, you compelled them to hide. They were hellbound sinners if they acted on those impulses. And yet, she's here, having Christmas with us, comparing us at the breakfast table to her husband and herself, tickled to death to be here and see you. She treated me with respect and kindness, and at the first opportunity, she dumped the rest of your family for Christmas so she could travel here and be with us. Her gay grandson and his male partner, at his male partner's family's house."


"Is that your subtle way of telling me that I'm wrong?"


"No, honey, you're not wrong. It's up to you how you feel about her, how you react to what she says. All I'm saying is that it's easy to love people when they're doing what you approve of, but it gets trickier when they aren't. She loves you regardless of the fact that she doesn't agree with you. My grandmother loved me dearly until her dying day, but she prayed constantly for my soul, and lit enough candles for me to illuminate the Sistine Chapel once she knew I was gay. She was pushing ninety when she died - - she wasn't going to change her beliefs. I don't regret one minute I spent with her."


"It just would feel good to have one person from my family love me the way I am. Not love me in spite of who and what I am."


"I know. I honestly thought your grandmother was that person," he said, putting his arm around Donald's shoulders, pulling him close as they walked along the path together. "I'm sorry if bringing her here upset you more than made you happy."


"It was a beautiful thing to do. I love you for trying with my family, but not every family belongs in a Norman fucking Rockwell painting."


"Mine doesn't either, honey. They just have the house for it," he added, smiling. "My sister disappeared for years over a tattoo and some social justice protesting, my father and I didn't speak to each other for quite a while over which party's politics we supported, and my grandmother lit candles and prayed we didn't all go to hell in a handbasket."


"Your mom seems to make it all work."


"She doesn't have a hateful bone in her body. I don't think she could truly hate or shun anyone for who and what they are. Your grandmother isn't hating and shunning you either. She was honest with you, and that's worth something. The fact she loves you is worth a lot more. Why don't you just enjoy your time with her and enjoy that she wants to be with you, that she's nice to me, and you don't have to choose between spending time with her and being loyal to me?"


"It seemed so much worse last night."


"You were having a bad night, and any hurt was bound to hurt worse." Tim was quiet a moment. "Isn't the truth that it hurt so much more because she made you feel like you were somehow dirty or guilty in her eyes, and that's what you've had to work so hard to rise above after what happened?" he asked the question in a soft, gentle voice, and it hit Donald right in the heart. It was all he could do not to break down and bawl in Timmy's arms. Being rejected seemed to hurt him so much lately, even if it was a client who turned him down, or someone who didn't return a phone call... He kept looking at himself as somehow less worthy, that they were withdrawing from him because of what he'd been through, because they knew about the attack.


"You're too fucking smart for your own good," he muttered, letting his head droop on Timmy's shoulder as they walked.


"You know that's a load of baloney, right? That you're not worthy, or you're less somehow because of what happened?"


"I know. Kind of."


"Takes a while for it to make it into your heart and soul, even if it's in your mind." Timmy slowed his pace and looked around. "We're all alone out here," he said.


"That's because we're the only two morons who think taking a walk in sub-zero wind chills is fun," Don replied. Timmy was advancing toward him, encouraging him back until he was against the trunk of a large tree. After kissing him so thoroughly that Don was positive Timmy's tongue had swabbed his tonsils, he knelt in front of Don and began unbuckling his belt. "Oh, no. If I stick it out here, it'll freeze and break off," he protested.


"Trust me."


"With my life, yes, with my dick when it's twenty below, I don't think so."


"It's not twenty below," Tim replied, chuckling. "You're such a cold-weather drama queen," he chided affectionately, unzipping Don's jeans, then pulling off his gloves to seek out the cock that was hiding in the folds of fabric, seeming as reluctant as Donald himself was to be out in the cold.


"Timothy, this isn't funny. My dick is freezing and - - " his protest died when the shocking cold was replaced with the considerable warmth of Timmy's mouth. The changing sensations were electric, not to mention the enthusiasm Timothy was investing in his task. "I'll never complain about the cold again," Don gasped, glad the big tree was behind him for support, since Timmy was sucking all his bones out through his dick.


Timmy always made him feel like the taste of him was the most exotic in the world, as if there was nothing better. He did things with his tongue that Don couldn't remember anyone else doing to him. Whether they just weren't as good at it, didn't care enough to put that kind of effort into it, or if Timothy's mouth was just the most talented one on earth, he wasn't sure. He suspected some combination of the above. All that, and the fact that Timmy loved him so truly and completely that just thinking about it made him weak in the knees.


He indulged in moaning and carrying on with the intensity of the sensations, suddenly glad his partner had dragged him out in the middle of the woods so he could make as much noise as he wanted.


Then Timmy held out his hands toward Donald, and they pressed their palms together, twining their fingers. Timmy had no control over Don's movements now, taking him as deep into his throat as he could manage, trusting him not to get too rough. He knew Don didn't like hands on him there, didn't like having his hips held down or restrained.


Donald knew his grip on Timmy's hands was tightening to a kind of desperate clutch as he struggled to control his body, to keep from arching too fast or too hard as he came, while Timmy drank him down like his come was nectar, as if there was nothing he wanted more that to take in whatever his Donald had to offer. Don felt tears burning behind his lids as he closed his eyes and let himself go limp against the tree. Timothy really did love him that much, wanted him that much, and rejoiced in making love with him as if there could be nothing sweeter in this world.


He was vaguely aware that Timmy took care to tuck him back in his pants, zipping and buckling, making sure he wasn't chilled.


"Your knees are wet," Don observed, feeling almost drunk and a little giggly in the aftermath.


"Ever the detective," Tim replied, gathering Donald in his arms and kissing him again, then just holding him close, taking the task of holding him upright away from the tree. He could have melted into a puddle in the snow, and just frozen to death there with a sappy grin on his face.


"What do you think your mother is going to think when she sees your knees are wet and I look this happy?"


"My mother has a delightful knack of not thinking too much when the answer might freak her out," he replied, nuzzling Don's neck, making him start a little, since Timmy's nose was very cold. Don pulled his face near his and gave him a big, sloppy kiss on the end of his nose. "What's the matter, your aim off?"


"Your nose was cold. I thought I'd warm it up."


"I like that idea. If an appendage is cold, stick it in your partner's mouth until it warms up."


"Sounds like another chapter for the sex manual we're going to write together," Don joked, grinning.


"You want to write a sex manual?" Timmy asked, laughing.


"Nah. It'd be real short. 'Find your soul mate and you won't need this stupid book'."


"I love you, too," Timmy replied, his words and his tone of voice wrapping Don up in a blanket of good emotions. A light snow began to fall, sticking on their coats, hair, and even their eyelashes. Big fat snowflakes that looked like feathers wafting down from the sky.


"The old woman is plucking her goose," Donald said, looking up, so in love and so happy that he didn't even mind being cold, or being snowed on. "My grandmother used to say that when it snowed like this - - big, fat snowflakes."


"You did say plucking, right?" Timmy asked.


"And I thought that big cavity was for the stuffing," Don replied, and then they were laughing like a couple of naughty little boys at a dirty joke.


"We should probably get back. After all, you have to go out and get your elf suit," he teased, knowing that errand was on Don's agenda for that afternoon. "Can I come along? I'm dying to see you in that costume."


"Just watch it, or Santa won't fill your stockings full of joy this Christmas."


"I'd rather have one of his elves fill my boxers full of fun," he said, hugging Don a little closer, kissing him again.


"Your boxers are already full of fun, sweetheart. But if you're looking for a horny elf to jingle your bells, you found him."


"They're bigger than jingle bells," Timmy corrected, smiling as Don kissed him this time.


"Ring your bulbous, enormous, sleigh bells - - is that better?"


"Bulbous makes them sound inflamed," he complained, kissing Don, indulging in the goofiness they were sharing.


"They're beautiful, just like the rest of you. Perfect and beautiful," Donald said, and he meant it, and he said it like he meant it. "I'll never forget the first time I saw you naked."


"Donald," Timmy chided softly, laughing a bit self-consciously, ducking his head a little, even more color in his cheeks now.


"I wished I could paint or sculpt, or even write a decent song, because you deserved that. You take my breath away, Timothy. You always have, always will."


"I feel the same way about you, honey," he replied, resting his forehead against Don's. Donald heard sleigh bells.


"Am I hallucinating, or did you just hear sleigh bells?"


"It's not an hallucination," he replied, laughing. "Dad probably just has a guy at the stable getting things ready for the sleigh rides tonight. Remember last year, the bells on the horses' harnesses? Plus, we borrow a couple extra horses from one of the neighbors. Mom and Dad only actually own a couple of them."


"Yeah, yeah, I remember. But if we can hear sleigh bells from here, then the guys at the stable can hear - - "


"Screams of unrestrained sexual ecstasy?" Tim shrugged. "Maybe."


"I thought we were way out in the woods."


"Honey, to get way out in the woods, we'd have to really hike, and there wouldn't be a defined trail. I'm not ashamed of making love to you. Besides, chances are they're hearing the horses and the bells on the harnesses, not us screwing around in the woods."


"We should probably be getting back."


"Don't want to have to explain to Mom what we were doing out here for so long," Tim agreed, grinning, holding hands with Don while they walked back toward the house, the light snow still coming down, the partial sunshine reflecting in diamonds on the blanket of white around them. Then he began to sing, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas," and Don joined him, swinging their hands a little as they walked, not remembering a time when he was any happier than he was right then.


"Just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten, and children listen," their unified voices sang.


"To hear blow jobs in the snow," Don sang, breaking Timothy up into laughter as he tugged on Don's hand until he was closer, their arms going around each other as they continued their trek toward the house, subjecting Christmas carols to additional irreverent lyric changes.


********


"I'm wearing tights, Timothy," Don said, looking at the elf costume in utter dismay. "How could your mother do this to me?"


"I think you look great," Tim commented, standing in the doorway of the costume shop's small fitting room.


"Pull that closed," he grumbled, making sure the curtain was pulled far enough across the door so only Timmy's head was inside the booth, and no one else could see him. "I look like the star of an all-gay version of Peter Pan."


"Remind me to suggest that to the theater guild next year," he joked. "Honey, you look cute. Like an elf. Elves aren't big on dignity. They're fun. They wear goofy hats and pointed shoes."


"And tights. Fucking tights!"


"Did you think the elf would be wearing leather gauchos? Of course, you're wearing tights, Donald. It's part of the elf thing. Besides, you have great legs."


"I draw the line at the ears. She wanted me to get fake ears. Pointy ones."


"You have cute ears. You shouldn't cover them up."


"You should be doing this. You're her son," he replied, turning to see if the costume looked as ridiculous in the back as it did in the front.


"I'd look like some kind of mutant elf on steroids. I'm too big, and I'm not...impish."


"Impish? Now I'm impish? Why don't you just snip my dick off and call me a eunuch."


"Where's your sense of fun?"


"You have to ask? You can see it in my tights every time the front of the costume flaps up in the breeze."


"I'll see if they have one with pants instead of tights, how about that?" Tim asked, feeling sorry for his partner. While he thought Donald looked utterly adorable in his elf suit, Donald definitely wasn't getting the same thrill from it.


"That would be better."


"Okay. Take that one off, and I'll be right back." Tim found another elf costume that hopefully wouldn't put such a big dent in Donald's dignity. He had to laugh at the sight of his mother trying on white wigs and little granny glasses. Tights or not, Donald did exact a measure of festive revenge on his tormentor.


"What do you think, Timmy?" she asked when she caught sight of him holding the other elf costume.


"I think Mrs. Claus was substantially less glamorous."


"If anyone thinks I'm not wearing my makeup for this, they are sadly mistaken. I go to great lengths not to look this old," she said, gesturing with the glasses.


"Fair enough. Donald won't wear the tights, either. Or the pointy ears."


"He has to wear the ears, Timothy. I can understand the thing about the tights. Those would probably thrill the nurses and the other ladies in my club more than the children, so we can deal with pants instead of tights. But an elf without pointed ears?"


"Okay, I'll see if I can get him to do the ears if he doesn't have to do the tights."


"I knew there was a reason you were good at politics, dear." She patted his arm and carefully removed the white wig, pushing and primping her crushed hair.


********


Timothy thoroughly enjoyed the charity event at the children's hospital. He was more than happy to help with setting things up, and watching his mother and Donald in their festive costumes, handing out the presents, was enough to get anyone in the Christmas spirit. There was a small music group that sang Christmas carols and led a sing-along, and Tim's mother took over Santa's duty of reading The Night Before Christmas.


While the storytelling was going on, Tim noticed that Donald was deep in conversation with a little boy of about eight or nine, who had his arm in a sling and bruises on his face. They were sitting on a couch, a little removed from the group. At one point, Donald took off the elf ears and put them on the child, who smiled for the first time since Tim had been watching them. He couldn't believe anyone could resist one of Donald's big smiles, and apparently, this little boy wasn't immune, either. A moment later, he added the hat to the boy's head, and Tim overheard the phrase "honorary elf" as he did so.


Once the boy had rejoined the group of other children, Don wandered over toward Tim, who had poured them each a cup of punch and handed one to his partner.


"Congratulations. You finally found a way to get rid of the ears that my mother would approve of," Tim joked, and Donald laughed, maybe a little too readily.


"You saw that, huh?"


"It looked like he could use some cheering up."


"His father's a drunk who beat him up, and social services is placing him in foster care after Christmas."


"What about his mother?"


"Dead."


"That's horrible."


"A couple elf ears and a hat isn't worth much against all that," Don replied, watching the boy in question as he sat somewhat listlessly among the other children, staring blankly at Tim's mother while she read the story. "Maybe I shouldn't have said what I did."


"Which was what?"


"That sometimes you go through a period of life kicking you when you're down, but eventually, it gets better. If you're lucky, you meet someone that changes all that," he added, giving Tim a knowing smile. "I told him to keep the faith, that someday he'd look back on this and realize how lucky he is in a new life that's a world away from all this...crap he's dealing with now."


"Speaking from experience?" Tim asked, smiling.


"Yeah, just a little," he replied, smiling back. "I mean, I never had to endure what that kid has when I was his age. But after Kyle died and things fell apart with my family, I didn't have too many prospects for a good Christmas, either. I never would have pictured myself in an elf suit handing out presents for my mother-in-law. Or making love out in the woods with this incredibly sweet, beautiful man who decided to devote his life to me." He reached for Tim's hand, but didn't have to reach far as he was met halfway.


"I couldn't let a catch like you get away," Tim replied. "I know a good thing when I see it."


"Oh, you do, huh?" Don said, grinning, touching Tim's cheek as he planted a quick, chaste little kiss on his lips.  


"Good heavens, there are children present," a hushed female voice said in a scolding tone. It was attached to a tall, willowy elderly woman with carefully coiffed gray hair, a dressy red pantsuit, and obviously expensive jewelry.


"You're quite right, Mrs. Williams," Timothy said, surprising Donald and putting a self-righteous look on the old crone's angular features. "That's why I didn't slip him any tongue this time," he added.


"Your mother would be appalled!" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, not prepared to have been bested by Timothy.


"Timothy's mother is the kindest, most open-minded, classy lady I’ve ever met. The only thing she'd be appalled at is that someone was spreading hate and bigotry at a Christmas function for sick children," Donald said in a hushed tone. "You're in the middle of a room full of children who are seriously ill, some of them abuse victims, some of them terminal, bald from chemo and pushing IV stands around, and the thing you find upsetting is seeing two people express love for each other. I'm sorry, lady, but that's appalling."


"Evelyn, spreading the spirit of Christmas as always," Anne said, having concluded her story presentation and homed in on her women's club colleague, whom she knew only too well. "This isn't the time or place."


"Perhaps you should tell your son that about carrying on with his...his...."


"My son-in-law? They're both still dressed, so what did they do that was so shocking?"


"Kissing in front of the children."


Anne raised an eyebrow at Timmy. "What kind of kiss?"


"An old married couple kiss," he replied.


"Oh, for heaven's sake. We're wasting our time and bad spirits on that when we're supposed to be entertaining a room full of sick children? Evelyn, you never cease to amaze me. With all the horror in the world, you're worried about two people kissing each other? Come on, help me pass out the punch and cookies and quit being such an old sourpuss."


The other woman looked nonplused for a moment, but she allowed Anne to lead her away to help with the final stages of the party. They were still bickering a bit as they prepared the goodies, but by the time they were passing them out to the children, both of them had happy smiles on their faces, even if they were a bit forced.


"Does your mother ever not get her way?" Don asked, amused.


"So far? Her track record is flawless."


"Like mother, like son," Don teased, nudging Timmy with his elbow.


********


While they had passed Christmas Eve day entertaining the children, Steven had taken Donald's grandmother into DC to show her a few sights, and concluded the day by picking Kelly up at the airport. Anne was in her glory preparing a Christmas Eve feast for the family and a few couples who were close friends of Anne's and Steven's, also spending their Christmas a bit removed from the bustle of the Capitol. She enlisted the help from all her "kids" - - Kelly, Timothy, and Donald, each assigned their individual duties - - to put the spread on the table.


If the Callahans at Christmas didn't live up to Norman Rockwell's standards, Donald wasn't sure who would. The food was plentiful and delicious, the dining room table was crowded with family and friends, and the conversation was lively, and the laughter loud and cheerful. Dinner was followed by relaxed conversation around the Christmas tree and a trip to midnight Mass. It was after 2:00 in the morning when they finally returned to their room.


"Alone at last," Don said, taking Timmy by surprise with an enthusiastic hug that pushed him back on the bed, Don on top of him, their faces only inches apart. "Merry Christmas, my love," he said, before interrupting Tim's smile to kiss him.


"Merry Christmas, honey," Tim replied, pulling Donald down for more kisses.


"You know what I was thinking?"


"I have a pretty good idea, but if you want to give me details, I'm all ears," Timmy replied, laughing.


"You, me, hot shower in a cramped bathtub."


"Maybe we should make love in the guest bathroom at home more often."


"Remember the first time we did it in the shower stall in my apartment?" Don asked, grinning.


"There are some places that a hot faucet handle really doesn't feel good," Tim said, shaking his head. "We were so horny we almost killed each other."


"You started thrusting and I hit my head on the wall. You almost knocked me out. Literally."


"I wondered at the time how unethical it would be of me to finish if you were unconscious," Tim joked, and Donald laughed, flopping on his back next to his partner.


"Technically, it would have been consensual, if not a little necrophilic."


"Is that a word?" Tim asked, looking at Don.


"I dunno," Donald replied eloquently. "Does it matter?"


"I guess not," Tim said, yawning.


"There was something kind of sexy about being all wet and naked and not able to get away from each other."


"Thank God for the shower door with a strong latch on that stall. Remember when we were renovating the house, and we were taking a shower in that claw-foot tub?"


"Oh, the one you got that retrofitted shower kit for? Timmy, you're just not meant to take a shower in one of those things. It's like holding a hose over a bucket."


"You did warn me. At least you were nice enough not to bring that up when you were putting the ice pack on my head."


"Maybe it's more accurate to say you're not supposed to have shower sex in a claw-foot tub. I mean, if you lose your balance, there's nothing but a curtain to grab onto."


"Just promise me if I ever fall headfirst, naked, out of a tub again, you'll move me before the ambulance arrives."


"You actually looked kinda sexy with your ass in the air and your head on the floor. If you hadn't been moaning in pain, it could have been one of the best moments of my life."


"You're a sick man."


"No, a sick man would have screwed you and then gotten you an ice pack, before you had time to realize that hitting your head on the floor had given you a headache that throbbed too much when you got excited."


"Forgive me if my mild concussion interfered with our sexual acrobatics," Tim teased, snorting.


"You didn't have a concussion. Just a boo-boo on that beautiful noggin of yours." Donald rolled onto his side, leaning up on an elbow. "I felt so bad that you fell, I probably couldn't have gotten it up if my life depended on it. I just wanted to get rid of that egg on your forehead and be sure you were okay." He leaned over and kissed the spot where the egg had been years ago.


"This tub has shower doors and a non-slip surface," Tim said, mock seriousness to his tone.


"Those non-slip surfaces are a bitch to sit on," Don opined.


"Do I want to know how you know that?"


"Probably not," Don said, shaking his head, then grinning wickedly.


********


Despite their kidding around, the combination of the warm spray of water, close quarters, and wet, slick skin quickly laid joking to rest in favor of passion. Timothy seemed to be in the mood to take the lead, and that was fine with Don. Being wrapped in his lover's arms, feeling those gentle, inventive hands sliding across his shoulders, down his back...and up to his shoulders again. He knew Timmy was trying to respect his boundaries, to avoid putting his hands on places Don didn't like to be touched with hands. It seemed so insane at that moment to not want those wonderful hands on every part of his body, to not let them roam where they wanted, loving him the way only his Timothy could. There was no danger, no brutality, no degradation. Just the two of them, sealed in this steamy little refuge, sharing their bodies with each other.


"Touch me," he said, hoping Timmy would know what he meant, that he wouldn't have to explain himself.


While soft lips found his, a gentle hand slipped down to his hardening cock, stroking it a couple of times, making him gasp and arch into the touch. Timmy's mouth traveled from his lips to his cheeks, his nose, his chin, leaving little kisses in their path. He hid his face against Timmy's warm, wet chest, part of him afraid that all of a sudden, some horrible memory or flashback would intrude on this beautiful feeling, that the good feeling of Timothy's hand on his most intimate places would suddenly remind him of being pawed and handled and humiliated.


Timothy's hand cradled the back of his head, making him feel safe, treasured. The hand down lower found his balls, cupped them, made them feel good in a way he hadn't been able to feel good in months. He hoped he wasn't leaving bruises on Timmy, the way he was clinging to him in a mixture of passion and fear.


"I want to feel you inside me," he said, nearly unable to believe those words had come out of his mouth. No matter that he loved...no, adored...the man in his arms, the thought of having anything enter him struck fear so deep in his soul that he couldn't even express it. And yet part of him wanted it, felt like he needed it to heal, to exorcise the rest of the ghosts that were always lurking at the edges of his memory.


"I want to be inside you, baby," Timmy whispered, wrapping him up in a tight embrace, holding him, kissing him some more, letting his hands roam down Donald's back, ease gently down to caress his ass. Then he felt the gentle urging to turn in his lover's arms, and he did, reminding himself that he had to put himself literally and emotionally in Timothy's very loving hands, he had to trust him to lead him through this darkest part of his journey, to face what he feared most and wanted most at the same time.


Timmy was kissing the back of his neck, his hands sliding across Donald's chest, thumbs rubbing a bit harder over his nipples, bringing them to life. He could feel Timothy's erection against him, and he knew that wasn't by accident. Timmy was giving him a chance to feel it, to ease into what they were about to do. What they hadn't done since the before...IT happened. The great "IT" that had wreaked such a horrible, intimate type of havoc on their lives.


He knew Timmy was opening the tube, that he'd feel a slick finger entering him soon.


"It's okay, honey. It's just us. Just try to relax and let me make you feel good," he said against Don's ear, kissing it as he slipped his finger very gently inside Donald's body, his motions as careful and solicitous as if he were preparing a terrified virgin for his first time.


It didn't hurt. It wasn't awful. There was no tearing, no pain, and whatever had been done to repair the brutal damage that had been done to him, must have worked. All he felt was the slow, easy motion of that one careful finger, and he relaxed.


"I love you," he said, unable to stop himself from smiling, glad when he felt Timmy's answering smile from the point where their faces were pressed together, cheek to cheek.


"I love you, too," came the soft reply, as a second finger eased into him, relaxing him more, making him long for the intimate connection of making love with Timothy this way.


He leaned forward against the tiles, finding that he was looking forward to feeling Timmy enter him, be pressed up against him, nothing between them. It was slow, gentle, and languid, Timmy moving so carefully that he barely felt the stretch of his body to accommodate him. He felt full, and then surrounded in every possible way. Timmy was around him with a sheltering embrace, inside him, his body pressed close against Don's back, one hand gently rubbing across his chest, teasing his nipples, while the other slipped down to stroke his cock. His body was his own to give, to this one and only man he loved more than his own life, and it would only ever be this man who would make him feel this way. Who would hear him moan and cry out in pleasure, who could make him forget the pain and the fear with so much love and tenderness, reminding him how good this was when it was right, when it was done with love.


It never hurt with Timothy, not even once, not even when they played around or got a little wild. And it didn't hurt now. And it wouldn't hurt anymore. The closest thing to pain was the blinding and intense pleasure from the pressure on his prostate. He knew he was close to coming, and he let himself go, counting on the rush of the water to cover his cries of pleasure, counting on Timmy to catch him when his legs got weak.


They stayed curled together like that, on their knees in the tub, Tim still inside him, wrapped around him, protecting him from everything, even the cooling spray of the water.


"You feel good inside me," he finally said, needing to express to the man he loved just how wonderful it had been, how good it still felt, how...whole and healthy and good he felt. Like he had taken back the last part of himself that his attackers had been holding hostage since the rape.


"I love being inside you, honey. My beautiful man, you're all mine again." There was a hitch in Timmy's voice, but he still sounded happy, joyful, like what they had just shared was as vital to his recovery from Donald's ordeal as it was to Donald himself.


When they reluctantly parted, finally gave up the steamy haven of the shower, they dried each other with the big, fluffy towels provided there for their stay. Slipping naked between the sheets, they relished the close confines of the double bed, winding around each other in the middle, kissing, caressing, unable to stop making love to each other after what they had just shared.


Sleep finally overtook them, clinging to one another, the union of their bodies deepening the union in their hearts that outlasted any physical coupling.


********


Fortunately, no one in the Callahan household was stirring early on Christmas morning. There were no small children making a run for the tree and the gifts there, and everyone had been up late the night before. This gave Tim more time to savor lying there in bed, Donald tucked securely in his arms, looking utterly content, sated, and relaxed. He resisted the urge to caress the soft skin, to touch the arm that was around his middle, to feel the silky, golden hair on it, to feel Donald awaken, and enjoy waiting for him to sleepily seek out Tim's mouth for the first kiss of the day.


Donald was sleeping too peacefully, breathing evenly and deeply there against Tim's chest. Tim let his eyes drift shut again and thought about the night before, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. It wasn't just that he loved making love to Donald that way, and that he'd missed it so much. It was what it symbolized for Donald, breaking through that barrier of fear and bad memories. Although he was flooded with a warm feeling when he thought about how much trust Donald really placed in him, part of him felt his family had something to do with Donald's sense of happiness and well-being. Feeling so much a part of the Callahan family, being treated like one of his mother's own children, visiting with his grandmother...all of it had put his partner in a more content, relaxed frame of mind than he'd been in for months.


"Quit thinking so much and fool around with me," Donald mumbled, not opening his eyes.


"How did you know I was awake?"


"Trust me, Timothy, I'm just like Santa Claus. I know when you're sleeping, I know when you're awake...you know the rest. God, wearing that fucking elf suit must have rubbed off on me."


"I like the idea of rubbing off on you."


"Now you're talking," Donald agreed, grinning. "You just breathe differently when you're awake, that's all."


"I do?" Tim asked.


"Don't I?"


"I guess you do."


"You always know when I'm awake," Donald said.


"I didn't this morning."


"That's because you were too busy thinking about other stuff when you should have been paying attention to me," he joked.


"You have my undivided attention now. Does that count?" Tim asked, smiling


"Oh, yeah, it counts," Donald said, slipping under the covers, moving lower in the bed. A moment later, his mouth was around Tim's partial morning erection, his hand gently rolling and massaging his balls.


Tim moaned and shifted a little, flopping his arm up over his head on the pillow, his other hand wandering under the covers to find Donald, to touch and caress him while he lost himself in the wonderful sensations. When he came, he barely remembered to cover his face with the pillow, effectively stifling his response.


"Wow," he said ineloquently, drawing a big smile from Donald as his bed-rumpled head emerged from the covers.


"Good thing you're the PR guy in this partnership," he said, blowing a noisy raspberry on Tim's stomach, making him laugh.


"Donald, knock it off," he objected, still laughing. Donald knew just which parts of his belly were ticklish, and he was definitely not above exploiting that knowledge. Now he was alternating between serious kisses and nibbles to the occasional tickle, making out with Tim's belly as if he couldn't think of a more erotic part of him to play with.


"You suppose anyone would notice if we stayed in bed all day and just made out with each other?"


"The empty places at the table might be a dead giveaway. Besides, we have to open our presents, go on the sleigh rides. It's Christmas, Donald."


"You're cute, you know that?" he asked, twining his fingers and laying his hands on Tim's chest, resting his chin on them. "You make me love Christmas as much as you do," he added.


"You're the best present I could ever get," he said, running his hand along Don's arm. He loved feeling the firm curve of muscles under the soft skin, following the arm until it reached Don's hand, and he could hold hands with him.


"Hey, I'm all unwrapped and ready here," he joked, kissing Tim's hand, nibbling at his fingers.


Laughing, Tim saw no reason not to enjoy himself, so he rolled them over so Donald was on his back, and spent his sweet time kissing and licking at nipples that hardened in an instant. Don's hands were in his hair, trying to guide him where he wanted him to go. He offered no resistance as Tim moved lower to return the favor of a morning blow job that could only feel as good to Donald as it had to him.


He focused on his passionate task, using every trick he could think of to make his lover feel good. He licked and sucked at Donald's balls, indulged in leaving little passion marks on his inner thighs, smiled when he started squirming, but in a very familiar, good way. He took Donald as deep into his throat as he could manage, and a partial shout escaped before Donald stuck a fist in his mouth to keep himself quiet. After he came, he looked at Tim with a little regret.  


"Sorry. I got carried away," he said.


"Honey, you broke the skin on your knuckle," Tim said, taking the hand, kissing the sore area.


"I'd have bitten my hand off for that," he said, grinning, stroking Tim's hair. "God, you're beautiful. What are you doing with me, anyway?"


"I have a twisted fetish for blond PIs," he replied.


"Really? Do they have a name for that condition?"


"Yeah, they do." He pulled Donald close and kissed him for a long time. He caressed his cheek as he spoke. "It's called love," he added, cuddling and nuzzling Donald as they indulged in another little nap together before getting up to enjoy the day's festivities.


********


After a hearty brunch and a relaxed gathering around the tree to open gifts, the party moved outdoors for the sleigh ride, which took the group around the property and through the wooded area on the portion of the trail that was wide enough for the sleigh. The scenery was beautiful, and the mood festive.


Donald and Kelly had been teasing each other about something, and Tim and his mother watched them with some amusement as the sparring match turned into a snowball fight. Don had no reservations about going after Kelly because she was a woman, which was a good thing, since Kelly had no mercy on him because he was married to her brother. Glimpses of this playful side of Donald had been rare since his ordeal, and Tim sat on the porch with Winston at his feet, content to watch the mayhem, and secretly happy he wasn't in the line of fire.


"I haven't seen him carry on like that since he was a little boy," Donald's grandmother observed as she joined Tim and Anne on the porch. Tim's father just shook his head as he walked toward the front door.


"I thought by the time I was this age, my kids would be over playing in the snow," he grumbled, although his tone was more good-natured than his expression. Nonetheless, he'd had his fill of outdoor merriment, and seemed headed like a heat-seeking missile for his easy chair and the warmth of the indoors.


"It's just good to see him laughing like that again," Tim said. "He's gotten through everything so well, but I know there are times there's just...a lot on his mind."


"He didn't get through all that alone, Timothy," Anne said. "He relies on you a lot," she added.


"And I rely on him. I can't imagine living without him." Tim suddenly felt a bit uneasy, as Donald had him in his sights, as if he'd discovered Tim had escaped the cold, wet frolicking by hiding on the porch with the little old ladies.


"I'd duck if I were you, Timothy," Elizabeth stated calmly, just as a snowball flew with unerring precision right into the middle of Tim's chest with a wet splat. Donald and Kelly were standing out there in the snow, both a little out of breath, pointing fingers of blame at each other for the attack.


"That does it," Tim said, rising, tucking his glasses in his coat pocket, descending the porch steps and forming his own snowball, firing it at Donald, whom he knew perfectly well was the culprit. Within minutes, snow was flying in all directions again.


"How long has it been since you've seen Donald?" Anne asked Elizabeth.


"Oh, years. He was just out of the service when I saw him last. I didn't realize his mother was discouraging him from coming home. I thought he was just busy with his life, not interested in coming back home again. Then I saw him on the news, about that whole...situation."


"Your daughter never told you he was gay?"


"No, she didn't. I guess she was positive it would horrify me into an early grave. She doesn't give me credit for a whole lot of strength, my daughter."


"You and his parents must have done something right. Donald is just a delight, and he's so good to Timothy. I couldn't have hand-chosen a better partner for my son. Or a better son-in-law."


"Thank you for saying that. Donald was always a good boy. Oh, he was a bit on the devilish side when he was little, but nothing truly bad. Just enough to keep his parents and me on our toes. His brother was more of a handful than Donald was."


"I don't mean to speak ill of your daughter. I don't even know her. I just know how...crushed Donald was by that letter she sent him...by the fact she doesn't want anything to do with him. I'm not saying it was easy to find out that Timothy was gay, but he was always my son, my baby boy...I couldn't have stood being estranged from him."


"Evelyn is acting on the beliefs we raised her with."


"You're here, though," Anne said.


"Your son is very persuasive," Elizabeth said, smiling. "He told me how much Donald missed having any contact with us, that it wasn't his choice not to see me, that Evelyn was worried it would upset me too much to know the truth about him, and he was respecting her wishes." She shook her head. "They're not what I expected."


"Donald and Timothy?"


"My husband was the love of my life. After he died, I never even thought of remarrying. I was only sixty at the time. I still miss him every minute of every day, and I keep asking God what purpose there is in my life that makes it necessary for me to stay here so long without him," she said, smiling sadly. "I watch the two of them together," she said, nodding toward Don and Timmy, who were brushing the snow off each other, laughing, since they'd been responsible for inflicting most of the mess themselves. Kelly was saying something to them, shaking the snow off the hat she'd pulled off her head. "I see how I was with my Anthony, when we were young. They're so much in love, like we were. I see the look in Donald's eyes when he looks at your Timothy, and it's the way I used to look at my husband until the last day we had together. It's hard for me to see that as wrong."

 

"Hearing that from you would probably mean a lot to Donald."


"The first real conversation I had with him, I told him what a lovely young man I thought Timothy was, but that I wished he'd found some nice girl and had a normal family." She paused. "It's what I thought was right, but I know how much it hurt him, and hurting my grandson never feels right. Now I don't know what to think."


"Maybe we shouldn't think so much," Anne said, smiling. "We have a beautiful son and grandson who are healthy and happy and in love with each other. Maybe it's all the years I've been around politics, and all the corruption and infidelity and general...marital unhappiness I've seen among these good churchgoing people who would condemn them for being a faithful, happily married, decent, ethical couple...it all seems like so much nonsense."


"Sometimes I hear the...hate that comes out of my other grandson, Donald's brother. The slurs he uses about homosexuals. I feel responsible for that. That's what I taught my family - - to shun and hate one of their own, for this?" She gestured toward the snowy, frozen group who were worn-out from snowball fighting and were starting to head toward the house.


"You're the matriarch of that family, Elizabeth. Don't ever sell short the influence you still have over them. Or your purpose for being here so long after your husband. God might be giving you your answer. Because your grandson still needs you."


"Is Dad inside?" Kelly asked as she led the group back on the porch.


"I think he's probably in his easy chair watching TV by now," Anne said.


"That might mean he's put coffee on. I will if he hasn't. Anyone want any?" she asked.


"Let's make hot chocolate for everyone," Anne suggested, rising to follow Kelly into the house.


"Don't forget the marshmallows, Mom," Tim said, and Anne paused, looking at him. For a moment, she expected to see a ten-year-old Timothy scrambling up the steps instead of the grown man who was still as fond of melted marshmallow as he was then.


"I only forgot them once in the last twenty years, dear. It won't happen again, I promise," she teased, following Kelly into the house.


"You warm enough, Grandma? I can get you a blanket from inside," Don offered as he and Timmy sat on the wicker love seat near Elizabeth's chair.


"I'm fine, Donald. I didn't think I'd have another chance to watch my grandson playing the snow," she said, and both men laughed.


"We don't get as much time to play in the snow as we'd like," Tim replied, still smiling. "This vacation is just what we needed. We should go inside and get warmed up," he added, and Elizabeth stood as they did.


"I know that you don't need anyone's permission to be together, or anyone to approve of the two of you to make your lives complete. I can see how complete you are together, and I remember what it feels like to be with someone you love that much." She reached toward Donald, and he met her halfway quickly, holding her hand. "I just want you both to know that you have my blessing, and I hope you have all the love and happiness together that your grandfather and I had in our marriage."


Donald embraced her, and she could feel the little tremor of emotion running through him.


"Grandma..." he began, as if he didn't know what else to say.


"It's okay, honey. I know." She gave him a little squeeze and then pulled back, patting his cold cheek that was still pink from the wind, just like it used to be when he was little and would exhaust himself running and playing in the snow, snowball fighting and roughhousing with his brother and his cousins Christmas afternoon. Even though he was the youngest and smaller than the others, he usually won the snowball fights by sheer determination and a good amount of sneakiness.


"Thank you, Elizabeth," Tim said, stepping forward to hug her. "That means a lot to us." 


"I know how much you loved Grandpa," Donald said as Tim's arm went around his shoulders.


"Oh, I still do. When you find love like that, it's with you forever. Donald, I'm going to have a long talk with your mother when I get home. It's time we set some things right in this family."


"I'm sorry I didn't call you before, say something...I just thought - -"


"You respected your mother's wishes, and honestly, if I hadn't met your young man and seen the two of you together, I don't know what I would have thought about it. For what it's worth, I'm very happy for you."


"You don't still wish Timothy was a woman?" Donald asked, and the strangeness of the question and yet the sincerity of it made Elizabeth smile. He might be older, he might be taller, but Donald was still every bit her youngest grandson with all his wide-eyed earnestness.


"I think Timothy is just fine the way he is," she said, laughing softly.


"That's a relief," Tim replied, sharing the laugh with her, hugging Donald a little closer against him.


********


"Is my tie straight?" Don asked, waiting for Timothy, the human level, to inspect the bow tie on his tuxedo shirt. He wasn't sure if a black-tie New Year's Eve party in DC was a reward or a punishment for visiting a congressman's family over the holidays, but since the whole family seemed abuzz about going to it, he decided to be swept along with the enthusiasm.


"Perfect," Tim said, sliding his arms around Don, kissing him.


"You know it wouldn't take any arm-twisting for me to feel under the weather, and you could stay home and tend to me," he said, wrapping his arms around Timmy's neck, feeling a little guilty that he was ruffling his perfectly combed hair. But not too guilty.


"You look too handsome to stay home," Tim replied, flashing him a bright smile. "Besides, this is the first time my parents have brought us as a couple as their guests to something like this."


"You think your dad's okay with that?" Don stole another kiss and then released Timmy to finish getting ready.


"If he wasn't, we wouldn't be going. My mother does respect his feelings about interacting with the DC jet set. Although I have a feeling she exerted some influence on him."


"Oh, is that what you two call it when you get your way, and your father and I are just helpless pawns in your plans?" Donald asked, laughing.


"Yes," Tim replied with a smile, unrepentant.


"You're sure Kelly doesn't mind staying here with Grandma? She was really flattered that your parents included her in the invitation, but she wilts long before midnight these days," he said, laughing.


"Staying here with your grandmother is a nice, tidy way of getting out of going," Tim said. "If your grandmother wasn't here, she'd have to just outright ditch Dad's invitation, because she doesn't want to spend the evening with the very people she spends her time working against. Her words," he added.


"So your parents are bringing their son and his male partner to a New Year's Eve party for conservative Republicans? Don't tell me that's not your mother's doing. She's the only person I know, besides you, with that kind of nerve."


"My dad isn't the only Republican with a gay son or daughter."


"I'm going to kiss you at midnight, so if that's going to cause an incident, you better be sure we're in a dark corner when the ball drops."



"You better kiss me at midnight, preferably in the middle of the dance floor, with all the other kissing couples."


"Maybe we should practice," Tim joked, and before his lips could reach his lover's, Don's cell phone went off.


"Bailey?" he said, frowning, before answering it. "Happy New Year!" he greeted, flashing a grin at Timmy, who just shook his head.


"Some people are still working, Strachey," Bailey grumbled. "On your case, I might add."


"My case?"


"Guess who's spending New Year's Eve here in lock-up?"


"I really couldn't say," Don replied.


"Who would you really like to think of sitting in jail on New Year's Eve?"


"Either Pollack or Stenski. I included it in my letter to Santa, but I don't think he got it."


"Oh, he got it. Pollack's with us at the moment, but Stenski's being picked up as we speak."


"I don't understand. For what?"


"Pollack was arrested for a domestic violence incident with his girlfriend. He's looking to strike a deal with the DA, since he got a little carried away and put her in the hospital this time. For a reduced assault charge, he's willing to roll on his cousin for fixing your brakes."


"How badly hurt is the girl?"


"He rearranged her face pretty well. She'll be all right, but she'll need some work done to fix her nose at least."


"Don't give him the deal," Donald said.


"What? Donald, attempted murder trumps assault. It's not your call. The DA's on board and we're rolling."


"Who's going to protect that girl when Pollack gets out of the joint?"


"That's not our problem. It can't be."


"He's probably guilty of conspiracy. You know damn well he was probably in on it with Stenski to fix the brakes."


"You know what, he probably was, but we can't prove that. Pollack's already got legal troubles of his own, and we can get Stenski for attempted murder. Two counts. He knew your partner would be picking you up, and he purposely fixed the brakes when you both would be in the car. I thought this would be good news."


"It is. I just feel sorry for that poor girl with the bashed-in face who's somehow less important because Pollack has a bigger fish for the DA. Just because I'm the bigger fish doesn't make me feel good about it."


"You can't win 'em all. Overall, this is a good deal."


"For Pollack and for us," Don said, sitting on the foot of the bed.


"Look, the girl can sue Pollack for damages with his admission and conviction. Stenski won't see the light of day for a very long time. This means it's over, Donald. Don't fight it."


"I know. Thanks for everything you're doing to put this together. I don't mean to sound ungrateful."


"Yeah, well, there are no happy endings in a mess like this. Screwed up as she is, though, that girl was never in danger of dying, and you were. I don't like picking and choosing between victims, but at the end of the day, you suffered more damage than she did, and Stenski not only almost caused your death, he tried to kill you and your partner. Do I think Pollack was in on it? Absolutely, but we've got no proof. We might not get another chance to wrap this up in a neat package."


"I guess when Santa answers your letter, you shouldn't be ungracious about how he makes it happen," Don joked, and Bailey chuckled.


"Tell me that doesn't make me Santa Claus in this whole mess?"


"Well, with the right costume, it could work."


"Thanks a lot, Strachey. I gotta go. They're bringing Stenski in, and I wouldn't miss that for anything."


"Thanks, Bub. Happy New Year."


"Yeah, Happy New Year," he replied, breaking the connection.


"What's going on?" Timmy sat next to him on the bed, and Don sighed.


"Pollack beat up his girlfriend, and after he was arrested, he made a plea deal with the DA by rolling on Stenski for fixing our brakes."


"But you don't feel good about getting Stenski at the expense of reducing the charges against him for brutalizing his girlfriend."


"Plus the fact that Pollack probably conspired with him about the brakes, let him know our whereabouts."


"Do you think the cops are settling too easily, that they should hold out to get the two of them on conspiracy charges?"


"I think that in the old days, I could have solved this case. Put it together somehow."


"You don't know that. Besides, putting together your own case is a different story than putting together someone else's."


"I should feel happy about this," he said, letting his head droop on Timmy's shoulder. "Why don't I?"


"Because you don't feel like Pollack's paying enough for what he's done, and you think you should have done something more or better to make him pay. Donald, honey, it's over. Just let it be over, and let yourself be free of it. We're on the brink of a new year. A whole new beginning to our lives, with those...animals in cages where they belong."


"Every night since the rape, I woke up with this same nightmare still in my head. Always the feeling of these hands on me, all over, in places I only want your hands. Sometimes they hurt, sometimes they were just there..." He hadn't told Timothy this before, not in so many words, though he suspected Timmy knew intuitively when he had nightmares, when he was afraid, because he never woke upset or shaken that there weren't those strong, gentle arms there to hold him and remind him that he was home, safe, and loved. "After we made love Christmas Eve...I don't have that dream anymore."


"I knew you were sleeping more peacefully, not waking up so much," Timmy replied, rubbing his shoulder. "Some of the demons are trying to leave you. Let go of them. If they're done punishing you, isn't it time you quit second-guessing and punishing yourself?"


"Is that what I'm doing?"


"You're very hard on yourself, honey. I love that you care about this girl you don't even know, that you want justice for her, too, but you can't solve everything. She's getting a measure of justice, and so are we. And you deserve that justice, Donald. As much as she does, maybe more. You've suffered for it and paid for it horribly."


"My grandmother barely survived losing my grandfather. Sometimes she still looks so sad when she talks about him. I don't think I could do what she did. Make it through twenty-five years without the man I love. Don't you leave me, Timmy."


"My sweetest wish is to grow very, very old, by your side, and that whichever one of us has to go first, the other follows peacefully, when he's ready."


"If I get to pick when I'm ready, I'll just tag along when you go, okay?"


"There's nowhere I'll ever go that you're not welcome by my side," Timmy said, enclosing Donald in a gentle embrace, just holding him for a few seconds. "I don't think your grandfather is ever far away from your grandmother. Bodies may give out and die, but love never does."


"Yeah, we did promise forever, didn't we? We took that 'til death do us part thing out of there." He pulled back a little and took Timmy's hand that bore his wedding ring in both of his, and kissed it.


"We're not about to let a little inconvenience like death spoil a perfectly beautiful relationship," Timmy stated solemnly, and Donald couldn't believe he was laughing. "Besides, if I go first, you know I'll haunt you."


"Promise?"


"Oh, I promise. How could there be a Heaven for me if I couldn't be close to you?" Timmy stroked Don's hair and pressed their foreheads together. "Happy new year, my love. I can't wait to start another year of our life together."


********


"Hey, we got a postcard from Kenny," Don said, sorting through the mail, standing at the kitchen counter while Tim checked the household phone's voicemail. They'd just arrived home from Virginia, and he didn't really look forward to the ritual of unpacking and doing laundry. Still, it was good to be home, and even better that they still had the weekend before the routine work scheduled started up again. The thought of chilled martinis, a warm Timothy, and a fire in the fireplace put a smile on his face.


"So he went with Justin on the cruise?" Tim asked, jotting down a couple of phone numbers from the phone messages.


"Yeah. He said he's having a great time, that Justin's a lot of fun. He says he finally understands my thing for dark-haired guys with glasses," Donald paraphrased, laughing.


"At least he didn't mention older guys again."

 

"Justin's older than he is, so I notice when the shoe's on the other foot, he's not mentioning age anymore," Don said, smiling and shaking his head. "I hope he lets Justin down easy if he dumps him after this. He's been through a lot."


"Maybe he won't dump him. After all, he is extremely good-looking," Tim joked, grinning.


"No arguments there. He's a good consolation prize if you can't have the original," Don replied, kissing Timmy on the cheek and giving him a little pat on the butt. "I guess I just feel for the guy. Fox smashed his head in, and now he has issues with his memory and his moods... Fox left us both screwed up and fighting like hell to just to be...normal." He paused. "To have something worthwhile to offer, even though we're not what we used to be."


"Hey, you watch how you talk about my husband," Timmy teased gently, putting his arms loosely around Don's waist, kissing him. "You are every bit the strong, sexy, sweet, good man I married. Fox and Maxwell did everything they could to destroy you, to destroy us, and they failed, Donald. You won. We won. It's like any other war - - winning doesn't mean you aren't scarred, that you didn't suffer reaching victory, but we did win. Fox is dead and Maxwell and Stenski are heading for prison. And here we are, still together, still alive, in our home, living our life together."


Donald smiled, wrapping his arms around Timothy, holding on tight. As he felt Timmy's arms around him, felt the warmth of him, let his words sink in, he couldn't stop smiling. And then he was swaying, and his hand slipped into Timmy's. With no music, in the middle of the afternoon, in the kitchen, he was dancing with the love of his life.


We won. And this was worth every desperate, bloody moment of battle. The sweet taste of victory was the sweet taste of kisses and afternoon lovemaking while suitcases sat, still packed, forgotten by the front door.


********

THE END


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