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

Word Count: 9627
References/Spoilers: Spoilers for TMO and STTS. This story takes place before the time line of the movies.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: The inner demons Donald is wrestling get the upper hand, while Timothy awaits word on his promotion. Sequel to the story "For Better or For Worse"

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CHERRY TOMATOES

by

Candy Apple

You can lie in bed next to someone and feel lonely. I know that, because all my sexual encounters between Kyle's death, and when I met Timothy, were emotionless. Or, at least, I worked hard at keeping them that way. If I spent any time in the bed after the sex was over, I might as well have been alone. I didn't care about the other person there, even if I ended up "dating" him for a while. I had a couple of "boyfriends" in the interim, but I only called them that because you can't introduce someone in public as, "This is my fuck buddy, Jason."

My last "boyfriend" was Jason, a cute, agreeable guy with a sunny personality and social nature and a big heart. He had to have the big heart because otherwise, he wouldn't have put up with me so long. He was a little shorter than me with long dark hair and big brown eyes. He was a musician. I wonder if he still is? Last I heard he'd moved to New York City, so who knows?

While I don't regret not being with him anymore, I do regret treating him like shit while I was. He was nice to me, tolerant of my schedule - of course, his was strange, too - and he didn't complain about the sex, which had to, at times, make him feel faceless and nameless, because he sure didn't get hearts and flowers from me. It came as no big surprise when he said he'd met someone else. I was happy for him, and I told him so. It was probably one of the most sincere conversations we'd had since we met. I ran into him a couple times after that, and he looked really happy, matched up with another guy who smiled a lot and couldn't seem to keep his hands off him.

His last boyfriend before me used to beat him up all the time, so I guess he thought the way I treated him was a step up. I'm glad he wised up and found what he deserved with someone who didn't abuse him physically like his old boyfriend did, or neglect him emotionally, the way I did.

It was hard to lie there with Timothy and feel that emptiness. We'd had a decent day together. We spent part of it just hanging around, watching movies, his fingers occasionally flying over his laptop keyboard as he did something for work or caught up on his e-mail. I hoped that didn't include e-mailing his mother. I had a feeling my rating wouldn't be too high in one of those messages at the moment.

Later, we went grocery shopping. And I enjoyed myself. In a grocery store. I liked being domestic with Tim, doing dumb things that most people can't stand. I liked watching what he picked out, why he picked it out, and what drove his decisions. Which items he didn't care much about and bought the cheapest store brand, and the ones for which nothing but a specific brand would do.

It intrigued me that he didn't buy his soap, shampoo, and deodorant there. But then I should have known that the good-smelling, attractively bottled products in his bathroom didn't come from the health and beauty aisle of the local grocery store. He didn't look the way he looked, smell the way he smelled, or have skin as smooth and soft as he did by using junk. He was all man, and yet he was refined and groomed and...and...well, just plain beautiful. It would never occur to me in the coming years to consider any of that a waste. You don't maintain a Ferrari with dollar store detergent and some paper towel.

Whenever I was with him, I felt forever in our times together. I could live with this man, age and struggle and figure out all of life's puzzles with him, and love every second of it, even the hard times. I was happy just wheeling the cart while he compared how much fat and sugar was in two different brands of ice cream, or carefully crossed things off his list and directed which aisle we were off to next to find the rest of the items. Deathly sick with the flu, I was happy with him. Lying in bed with my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a roller coaster hurtling off the tracks with a hangover that would ordinarily have left me wishing for a quick death - it was okay because when he got in bed with me and put his arms around me, and I knew he was mad, but not too mad to hold me, I was happy.

That night, we ate in, he did some of his own laundry, and I was even happy sitting on the couch folding towels with him. But something wasn't right. I'd apologized for the night before, and he'd accepted it. We made out a little during one of the movies, when I initiated it, but we didn't use any of a long, free Saturday together to make love. When we went to bed, he kissed me goodnight, rolled over, turned off the light, and didn't say anything else. He wasn't overtly punishing me for our disastrous second date, but he wasn't much in the mood, and that meant he was still angry, but more likely, still hurt. I can cajole Timmy out of being angry. But when I hurt him, I hurt him badly because he loves me like he does, and those wounds are deep and bleed quite a bit before I can stop them, and before I can make them better.

It's the main reason I've learned to hold my tongue, and quit worrying about winning arguments unless it's something that's really that important. The victory is too bitter when I know I've hurt him. Timothy is probably the strongest man I've ever known, and yet I can break his heart with the wrong word or a thoughtless action. And he doesn't deserve to ever have that sweet, good heart of his broken.

As I was lying there, alternating between listening to him breathe, staring at the ceiling, and watching the clock, I tried to picture living without him. When he came to me, like Jason had, all teary-eyed and told me that he'd met someone else, that he still cared about me, but that he needed something more than I could give him. When Jason left, it did kind of hurt, though I wasn't about to admit it to myself, or even really to him. He kept me from getting too morose. He was one of those people you just couldn't keep a straight face with for long. At times his energy and his humor irritated me, but when he was gone, the darkness and the silence were almost overpowering. I don't think I was really in love with him, but he cheered me up.

Timothy cheered me up, made me love life, and I did, without question, love him with every bit of my heart, soul, and whatever else you can tack on to say you love someone with. The sex with him wasn't just physically amazing, it was life-altering. It was emotion so intense that I'd never known human beings could feel that much.

So if I'd gone through a sort of depressed period after Jason left, what was it going to be like when Timothy left me? I wondered if I got out now, if I could still survive it. I needed him so much already. I rolled over on my side and eased up behind him. I didn't touch him, because he hadn't made any moves to sleep in each other's arms. I was kind of in the doghouse, and maybe it was how much that was hurting me that absolutely terrified me of losing him. He was right here, next to me in bed, and I already couldn't stand it because he was mad at me. I inched a little closer, so my forehead was almost touching his pajama-clad back. It was warm next to him, and I was even more afraid. I'd rather curl up next to him like a chastised dog and be ignored, than to have bed-shaking sex with anyone else.

I couldn't believe it when he rolled over and took me in his arms, holding me close so my head was on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. One gentle hand cradled the back of my head, making me feel loved and sheltered.

"Try to get some sleep, honey," he whispered sleepily, expelling a soft breath and relaxing back into sleep himself. I knew I'd been wreaking havoc on his sleeping patterns, and he was tired. I held onto him like a child who's had a nightmare and is still waiting for the boogeyman to pop out of the shadows. My boogeyman was always there, day or night, waiting to remind me that I wasn't forever material. I wasn't enough to make struggle or hard times worthwhile - to remind me that when I screwed up, my ultimate punishment was being left alone. Kyle, my love, my own personal boogeyman.

********

When I woke up Sunday morning, Donald wasn't there. I found a note on the night stand, with my name scrawled on it.

Tim,

Have to work today and tonight. Not sure when I'll get loose. Probably be a couple of days. Call me if you need me.

Don

Don? Not, "Love, Don," but just DON. No "I love you" or any promise of an evening out when the case was wrapped up, nothing. The note could have been from my lover, my mother, or my mechanic. "Call me if you need me?" Fuck, what does that mean? If I want to hire him to follow someone or do a background check? I rarely called him because I needed him. I called him because I loved him and I missed him.

I flopped back on the bed and started scolding myself for making a mountain out of a molehill. We were having a rough patch, and I knew I hadn't entirely forgiven him for Friday night's debacle. When I rolled over and held him the night before, I felt kind of sorry for giving him the cool shoulder. It wasn't the cold shoulder, all the way, but I know he felt the chill in the air, and the chill in the bed. I could feel him inch closer to me in bed, try to sleep right up near me even though he wasn't in my arms and I had my back to him. I get the feeling that for all his bravado and toughness, there's something very fragile, and possibly broken, deep inside him. I also felt as if I'd stepped squarely on it by throwing a bucket of water on our up-to-then steamy sex life, or maybe just by something as simple as not snuggling with him the way we usually did when we were sleeping together.

Not that I really felt like I owed him an all day marathon of making love when he treated me the way he did on our date. I'd just broken up with someone who treated me poorly a good deal of the time, and now that I was away from it, I wasn't about to sign up for another round, not even with Donald. If our second date was who he really was, I wasn't sure I was up for a third.

And then I'd think about how it was when we made love, or when we just held each other, or just held hands at dinner, or had some stupid conversation about nothing in particular. I thought about how I loved hearing his key in the door and feeling him try, so unsuccessfully, to get into bed with me without waking me. How good it felt to steal a quickie at two in the morning and doze off with our underwear all crooked and a wet spot in the bed. How I loved his touch, or just the smell of him on my sheets. I thought about his ugly little bouquets of cheap flowers that I loved more than a thousand of the best roses. I thought about the tumult of emotions I saw in those big blue eyes of his. Love, need, desire, fear... Fear and loneliness. I saw those in there, too. I thought of how he just hugged me so hard the morning I stayed home from work to take care of him. How he looked at me when I put him to bed here after our first date - when I showed him some compassion when he was so tired.

I thought about my daydream of little old Donald doddering around our yard someday, doing a crooked job of trimming the hedges with his arthritic old hands. I thought of living a lifetime with him and growing old with him, and I thought that's what he wanted, too.

But maybe Steve was right. Maybe I was clingy and looking for a wedding ring just to come across. Maybe it had all been too good, too soon, and maybe I'd overpowered him and scared him off, with my daydreams of a house and a vegetable garden and a long term relationship.

The snooze alarm went off again, and Don wasn't there to give me a ride, so I knew I had to get moving. I wondered how long I could force myself to go without calling him. Or if he'd call me. I made sure my cell phone was charged and on.

********

I know I took the coward's way out by leaving Timothy the way I did that Sunday morning. I just couldn't face him when he woke up. I didn't know how to explain myself, exactly, and I wasn't sure what I was doing. All I know was that I was scared, and confused, and pretty much convinced that I would let him down eventually, do something he just couldn't tolerate, or somehow fail him in living up to all he seemed to think I was.

My apartment already felt like a hotel room rather than home, and my car felt empty without Tim in the passenger seat, prattling on a mile a minute about his day or what we should do that weekend. Every time I reached for the phone, I asked myself, if it hurts like this now, how is it gonna feel in six months? A year? Two years?

So I didn't call him Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday. He called me twice on Wednesday, and I didn't call him back. I didn't go over there. It was the worst three days of my life. My heart ached for him, and my body almost physically ached for his touch.

On Thursday, he came to my office. There was no running, no hiding. There he was, looking beautiful as ever, in his suit and tie, having come straight there from his office. My secretary had left for the day, so we were alone.

"I thought it was time we talked, and apparently that's not going to happen by phone," he said, sitting in a chair across from my desk.

"I got a new case, and I've been working pretty much around the clock, tailing this guy. The retainer is huge, so if I can pull it off, I'll have that plus additional charges...I'll be solvent again."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, forcing a little smile. He didn't look right. He looked a little pale, and his eyes looked tired - like he wasn't sleeping...or had been crying. "There's no point in tap dancing around this, Don. Every other time you've been busy, you've called or e-mailed or come over at night..." He looked at me with those sad eyes and I felt about three feet tall for treating him the way I had. "What's happening here? I think I have a pretty good idea, but I need to hear it from you."

"Nothing's happening. I've just been busy, that's all," I lied, and I knew he knew better. Timothy is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. A pushover isn't it, either.

"So busy you can't call me? You haven't eaten or slept or been near a telephone in three days?"

"It's been known to happen before," I retorted, leaning back in my chair. "Look, I just got caught up in the case, and I didn't have time to chat on the phone."

"I didn't expect you to chat. Just a call to let me know you're okay would be nice. No one you know, knows me. I'd have no way of knowing if you're sick or hurt, or worse," he said, and then he seemed to remember to pull back on his emotions. "I'm glad to see you're all right."

"I'm fine. You're right, I should have called. I'm sorry if you worried."

"No, it's okay. It was a reality check," he added, blinking a little too rapidly. Still, he didn't shed a tear. At least, not then. "I realized I've been making some assumptions about you, about us, that you never really confirmed. We never talked about being exclusive, we never talked about a long term commitment..." He swallowed. "You don't have to answer to me, that's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here, if you're not ticked off at me for not calling?" I asked, and as soon as it was out of my mouth, I realized how harsh it sounded.

"Because I missed you, and I wanted to be sure you were all right." He stood. "And I do have kind of an ulterior motive. The fund raiser is in a couple days, and I was hoping you were still planning on it. There's no reason we can't have a nice evening together, no strings attached. I'd really like to have you there for the announcement. I understand if you need some space, if you want to slow this down..."

"You're going to get that job, Timothy. You're the logical choice."

"Thanks," he said, and he looked a little pleased at that. "So, are we still on for Saturday?"

I looked at him, and I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and apologize for being such a dick. The pain in his eyes tore into my soul. But then I reminded myself how putting him in the driver's seat and having him dump me would feel. And it would happen. Guys like me just don't hold onto guys like him. He was rebounding and coming out of a relationship with an asshole who was neglectful to him emotionally at best, and emotionally abusive, at worst - a jerk who was enough of an asshole to come back and beat him up. When Timothy got bearings again, he'd be gone, like a bird with a mended wing flying out of the nest. I was his recovery relationship, before he got back on his horse and realized Steve was a dumb ass, there was nothing wrong with him the way Steve had said there was, and that he could have pretty much anyone he set his sights on. When he got that promotion and spent his time getting up close and personal with politicians and their rich benefactors.

"I'm sorry, but with this case, it's just too hard to make a commitment. I've been tied up every night this week."

"When were you going to call me? Tomorrow? Saturday? Or were you just going to let me get ready and stand around my apartment like a chump waiting for you to show up?"

"No, I wasn't going to do that. I was waiting until I had a better idea what my schedule would be like."

"And you can't get one night off for something that means this much to me?"

"I've never pretended I had a normal schedule, Timothy. All of a fucking sudden, you want me to be perfect. If I drink too much, you're pissed off and give me attitude. If I run into someone I know, you're jealous, and now if my schedule interferes with your party plans, you're ready to rip me a new one," I said, my voice rising. I was pushing him. It was like I was daring him to break up with me, to get so disgusted that he'd leave. Instead of waiting for the hammer to fall, I was giving it a good yank and standing under it. "I'm not one of your ivy league pals or one of your priest friends from your seminary days who never do anything wrong. God, Timothy, get down off your ivory tower and take a good look at the rest of us. We're not all perfect."

He stared at me for a moment. His mouth opened, and then closed again, like he had no idea how to respond to a barrage like that. Something told me he'd come up with a response, and soon. Even behind his glasses, I could see moisture in his eyes.

"I fell in love with you the first night I met you. I don't care what you do, who your friends are, what you've done in the past, or if you have to work every night for the rest of our lives. I love you, and I thought you loved me back, the same way. Now I know I was wrong." He looked down for a moment, as if he were gathering his strength to finish. "We can't control how we feel. We can control what we do about it. I just got out of a relationship with someone who made fun of everything about me, who didn't care how I felt, who thought I was an uptight pain in the ass." He drew in a breath that looked like it was difficult, and looked me right in the eyes. A tear was escaping, and he briefly lifted his glasses to brush it away. "I'm not going through that again. Congratulations, Don," he said softly, the pain very obvious in his voice. "You apparently wanted to get rid of me, but you either didn't have the balls to tell me in so many words, or, I'd like to think better of you than that - that you just didn't have the heart to dump me this soon after Steve did the same thing. It's okay. I got the message." He headed for the door and paused there. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Don. I won't bother you anymore. Feel free to use your key while I'm at work to get your things." He opened the door and it looked like he was taking his time, giving me a moment to protest, to go after him, to tell him he had it all wrong. He looked back at me one last time, with a sad smile. "Someday when I'm old, and I'm working in that vegetable garden, I'm gonna miss you," he said, and then he pulled the door shut and I could hear his footsteps on the stairs outside my office.

I knew I should get up and go after him, drop to my knees, throw myself at his feet, whatever it took...to undo the insane damage I'd just done. He was the best thing that ever happened to me, the most beautiful man, inside and out, that I'd ever met, and certainly the most amazing and remarkable man who ever loved me. Who wanted to be with me. Who saw into the future, into old age, and saw me by his side. And I knew at that moment I'd never love anyone else, ever again, the way I loved him. I'd thought that when I lost Kyle, that no one could take his place. No one ever really did. Timothy didn't take his place, he simply moved into my heart and made his own place, which pushed everything else aside until he owned that somewhat tacky and dilapidated piece of real estate.

I cleared my desk with one angry brush of my arm and sat there in an office that was already so cluttered and disorganized that my tantrum had only made it look marginally worse. I pulled out my gun and looked at it, contemplating sticking it in my mouth and just being done with it. And now the reason I didn't was because even though I'd hurt him about as badly as I could, I knew Tim might be the one to hear the shot and rush back in to find my brains on the wall, or at least, I knew my grisly death after our breakup would haunt him, and hurt him, and he didn't deserve that.

I don't care what you do, who your friends are, what you've done in the past, or if you have to work every night for the rest of our lives. I love you...

Tim's words echoed in my head and I so badly wanted to believe in them. No one in my life ever loved me that way - that unconditionally. Love came with conditions, and when I didn't meet them, that love was taken away. My family loved me until they found out I was gay. My friends in the Army stood shoulder to shoulder with me when we saw action, partied with me when we had downtime...they were the people I thought would always be in my life as buddies, friends I could count on. Until they found out I was gay. The Army recognized talent and promise in me and my career was on a fast track, until they found out I was gay and in love with one of their lieutenants. And then I found myself discharged with no job, and all the dreams of what could have been a distinguished, powerful career in the military, shattered and gone, because yet again, I wasn't what someone thought I was...or should be.

And Kyle...I thought he was the love of my life and I was his, until I said the wrong thing to the wrong person, thinking he loved me and that everything would be okay as long as we had each other. I cost him his career, and before he died, he took his love away from me, too. Because I did something wrong - I told the truth, stood up for our love. Even when I did what I thought was the right thing, it was wrong.

Later on, when John Rutka would have the gall to stand there and imply that I'd somehow ducked my responsibility, that I'd let Kyle take the fall - I could have killed him where he stood for saying that. If I'd kept my mouth shut, denied Kyle and what he meant to me, it's unlikely they'd have had the evidence to destroy my career and throw me out like they did. It never occurred to me that Kyle would deny me. I stood up for us, for who and what we were, and I paid for that. For years I paid for it. Maybe in some ways, I'll always pay for it. The price tag on it for Kyle was permanent.

Loving me killed him. If he hadn't hooked up with me, he'd probably still be alive. Not only did I kill his love for me, I killed him.

I tossed the gun on top of the cleared desk and sat alone in the gathering gloom of late fall twilight and cried like I hadn't cried since Kyle's death.

********

I adjusted my bow tie, and looked at myself in the mirror. I wondered if I was looking at the next Chief Aide to Senator Glassman. Unfortunately, I didn't really care. I'd tried to give myself all kinds of pep talks, to convince myself I'd done the right thing... And for some bizarre reason, I hadn't called my mother and told her about Don. I'm not sure what I was waiting for. I'd ended it, put him out of his misery, let him have the escape he wanted. It's not like there was anything else to say or do, anything to delay the inevitable "I told you so" she'd be nearly rupturing with on this one.

She'd listen to me pour out my pain and when she knew I was hurting as bad as I was, she'd never say it in so many words. She'd be nothing but supportive and kind and reassuring, and be on the next thing flying if she thought I needed her. Maybe if I told her, the breakup would be real, and maybe I was the one who just couldn't handle it.

Don hadn't called, and he hadn't picked up his things, either. I tend to be impatient (another one of my legion of faults that seemed to be driving men out of my life in droves), and I had to remind myself that even though it felt like a lifetime, I'd only broken up with him on Thursday and this was Saturday. If he was tied up with his case, that's why his underwear was still in my drawer. Not because he loved me so much that he couldn't bear to leave me.

I'd had fantasies of him showing up, apologizing, telling me loved me...but as the hours ticked by and turned into days, and I was getting ready to walk out the door for the big event that was the tipping point in our relationship, that seemed less and less likely.

I fastened my watch, the fancy one my father had given me when I graduated from college with my Political Science degree. Donald's words kept running through my head.

I'm not one of your ivy league pals or one of your priest friends from your seminary days who never do anything wrong. God, Timothy, get down off your ivory tower and take a good look at the rest of us. We're not all perfect.

That bothered me. Well, obviously, it bothered me because it hurt me. But it confused me, too. I wasn't ivy league, either. I'd graduated from SUNY Albany, not Yale or Harvard or some similar institution. My father was a Harvard man, but I wasn't my father, in so many ways. My education didn't trump the education and training he'd gone through for military intelligence. And why the mention of my priest friends? I'd only mentioned a couple of them in passing when we were talking about our pasts or vacations we'd taken. I finally got a chance to go to Rome one summer with a couple of my friends who had gone on to become priests. My parents gave me the trip for Christmas, and it's not like I was running around in a Roman collar. I wasn't a priest, and I was already an openly gay man with a boyfriend when I did that.

And since when had I ever looked down on Donald from anywhere? An ivory tower or otherwise?

As I waited for my taxi to show up, I kept rolling all that around in my head. There was a missing piece here, something that had slowly changed Donald from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. All the way from my apartment to the event center, it bothered me. It bothered me constantly, because my heart wasn't broken - instead it felt like there was just a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be. But now it was bothering my brain, too. None of this added up, and I had to figure it out. I was going love Donald and remember him for the rest of my life, and before I accepted that, and closed this chapter, and came to grips with the thought of him not being in my life, not sharing it with me, I had to understand it. And I just didn't.

I'd been angry about him drinking so much, and hurt more than jealous of his flirtation with T.J. and the way he ignored me. It was as if I wasn't allowed to be angry at him. Like we couldn't have a fight like every other couple on Earth - most of whom fight multiple times over a lifetime over everything from money to sex to what color to paint the bathroom. All sorts of stupid things send people into arguments that put them at loggerheads for hours, days...good God, even months, years, and lifetimes.

Even that didn't really make sense because he was apologetic about it. Like he realized he got drunk as a skunk and acted like an asshole. But suddenly that was my fault somehow? I thought of how he eased up behind me in bed, how I could feel him trying to get as close as he could without touching me, and how that moved me and made me roll over and hold him.

Was it possible I'd hurt him so badly by being cool to him while I was angry that he turned on me and wanted to break up? Was it hurt or anger? Did he still want me underneath all that, or was he really trying to get rid of me and just didn't quite have the heart to cut me off?

I didn't enjoy walking into the fund raiser alone. It was almost all couples, and I'd been so looking forward to walking in with Don, introducing him to my friends from work, to people I knew in the community. I could only imagine how handsome he'd look all dressed up in his tux. After what promised to be an excellent gourmet dinner, there was a fine ensemble that would be playing an "enjoyable mix of old standards and contemporary easy listening favorites suitable for dancing" - I should know, I hired them, and that's what their brochure boasted. I chose the menu, made all the arrangements, supervised the guest list, cajoled the people who didn't jump at our invitation into coming, and hopefully bringing their checkbooks. And, if I was lucky, this would really be my night, and I'd get that promotion.

This wasn't the first fancy event I'd attended without a date. I'd been dragged to a few the last time I was visiting my family, before I'd jumped ship and become - gasp of horror and scandal - a Democrat. Still, I'd been reasonably successful at calling on a friend if I was between relationships, or having a boyfriend or someone I was casually seeing that was glad to throw on a tux and rub elbows with the rich folks for a few hours.

Social climbers. I'd dated some real social climbers in recent years, and Don was so different. None of that mattered to him. God, that had been refreshing. This was my job, and I loved it, but it wasn't me, it wasn't my life, it wasn't the thing that made my heart beat faster or made me thank God to be alive.

That was Don, and he was gone.

Don, who said he probably didn't deserve me. Don, who brought up the fact I usually was working for a senator when I took care of business for someone else. Don, who seemed worried about what kind of car Steve drove or that he could afford roses. Don, who didn't want my help financially, who was uneasy about taking anything from me. Don, who'd distanced himself more and more from me beginning with my asking him to this event.

He couldn't actually think that, after what we had shared, any of that nonsense really meant anything to me. That this was me. That this tuxedo and schmoozing old rich people and making them feel happy to part with their money was anything but a professional achievement for me, like tailing a suspect or snapping that ideal photo was for him. He couldn't seriously think that I thought this world was any better, or any more worthwhile, than his world.

"Tim, do you have a moment? I'd like to speak with you privately," Senator Glassman said, pulling me aside.

"Of course, Senator," I said, smiling. We went down the hall from the main banquet room and stepped into a nearby sitting area. We sat on opposite ends of an ornate brocaded sofa.

"Tim, I just want you to understand how much I appreciate all the fine work you've done for me in the last couple of years. You've shown so much initiative, and your work ethic, and the quality of your work have been excellent."

"Thank you, Senator." My stomach flipped over. I felt an enormous "but" on its way.

"In the time you've worked as one of my aides, I've urged Fred to delegate more projects to you, to give you more opportunities for growth, because I felt you were ready to take on more than you were being given. And I've considered you as part of a very short list of candidates for Fred's replacement."

"That's very flattering."

"Unfortunately, Fred is not the greatest delegator. He has been a great help to me for the years he's been my chief aide, and I am nothing but grateful to him for loyal service and excellent performance. But in that one regard, he is very reluctant to relinquish control of projects to someone else, and that has prevented you from getting some of the experience I feel you should have to take on his role." She paused. "Tim, I'll be announcing tonight that the position is going to David Bradley, from Congressman Fielding's office. I didn't want to surprise you with it during my speech."

"I appreciate that, Senator," I said, wondering if any more of my life could fall apart in the next couple of days. I felt so defeated I wanted to cry. Ordinarily, losing a promotion wouldn't make me feel like sobbing uncontrollably and throwing myself on the sofa like a fainting Victorian maiden, but I'd attached a lot of hopes for some emotional healing and psychological bolstering from having something good happen to me professionally when I felt so halved personally.

"I hope you know I am very supportive of advancing your career, and I look forward to seeing you take on more responsibility for me, and potentially growing and developing your present position."

"Thank you. I'll look forward to that, too," I said, forcing a smile

"I know we can count on your help and support in the transition," she added.

Yes, thank you, Senator. I can't wait to help train and then be the errand boy for the person you hired instead of me.

"I'll do my best," I said. I still didn't have another job in mind, and this one paid decently, and despite this decision, Senator Glassman was a good boss, and an ethical politician to work for.

"You always do, Tim. Thank you for being so gracious," she concluded, standing.

Yeah, that's me, gracious Tim.

I went back into the banquet room, and I felt a little zombie-like. I sat at the table with the rest of the senator's staff and their dates and spouses. They all knew I wanted that job, and most of them had been rooting for me to get it. I didn't really want their sympathy. I didn't want anything. I wanted to slink out a back door and disappear. I couldn't remember feeling more blue or discouraged in recent memory than I did right then. Even when Steve left me, I didn't feel this bad. But then, I'd met Don within hours, and suddenly, Steve hadn't mattered.

********

There are moments in your life that you just have to chalk up to fate - things that you can only think of later as "signs." I can honestly say I'd prefer dental surgery without Novocaine or slow, methodical torture, than to sit down and watch one of those daytime dysfunctional relationship shows, complete with the bad acting and staged on-screen fights that keep bringing their viewers back for more. I suppose there's a "train wreck effect" at work there that makes people want to look, want to see people and relationships so completely fucked up that it makes them feel more together and much more fortunate, even if their own lives suck.

I'd been out all night, and I didn't really think about the fact I was too late for the morning news when I turned on the TV. Besides, without the melodic and soothing sound of Timothy's voice going on about something while I ate breakfast, I needed some noise in the empty apartment to distract me. I didn't care much about politics, and sometimes what he'd talk about didn't fascinate me, but I was happy just being near him and hearing him talk. Just the sound of his voice and his presence made things right in my world.

As I drank coffee that probably would have effectively cleaned the rust off my car and seemed a bit on the strong side, even for me, I caved in to being way too tired and too depressed to give a shit what was on TV, and just stared at the screen. Some woman was on there telling her story about this guy she was in love with who had cheated on her, done time in prison, then got out and drained all her bank accounts, cheated on her again, then they reconciled, he knocked her up, and she was sitting there with a lapful of pregnant gut, sniffling and getting emotional because the fucker robbed a liquor store and was back in the joint again.

But at the end of the day, she loved him. I never gave that much thought. I just wrote those people off as idiots who didn't know when to leave a bad thing. Now, I was thinking about it. What could Timothy do that would make me stop loving him? Say or do something mean to me? Turn out to have a criminal past? Cheat on me with another guy? Commit a crime while we were together? Get me thrown in jail because I was with him? Knock me up? Okay, thank God, that's one problem I didn't have to analyze with my morning coffee. But screwing me over somehow and leaving me holding the bag?

In people like the woman on TV, I'd always seen morons. Now, I was seeing unconditional love. It wasn't rational, it didn't make sense, and it sure as hell wasn't smart. She was kind of a nice looking lady, she had a good job, at least according to her...she could do better than the felon whose baby she was hauling around in her gut while she visited him in jail and paid his legal bills and waited for the dumb ass to get out of prison. She could do better but she didn't want to. He was the one she loved.

If she was capable of loving someone like that, why did I think it was so out of the question that Timothy could love someone like me? I wasn't a crook, and with the exception of treating him like shit in the last few days, if I had him in my life again, if I could fix the mess I'd made, I would spend the rest of my life treasuring him, protecting him - at least to the degree he'd let me - and making him happy. I'd work around the clock to make a good life for us, if I had to, and I'd make his dreams, my dreams, and I'd lay down my life for him and die smiling if that's what it cost me. I might not be the best he could do, but I wasn't the worst, and maybe, just maybe, I was the one he wanted, even if he could have something better.

I leaned back on the couch, and my heart ached when I remembered how it felt to lie there, my head in his lap, those gentle fingers stroking my hair, a warm hand rubbing my back. I'd have given my life just to feel that again. Maybe all I had to give was my trust. For some reason, I could more easily envision jumping in front of a speeding truck for Timothy than I could just letting my guard down one more time, and trusting him to love me, even when I screwed up.

The truth was, life without him wasn't proving to be living at all, and I didn't have much choice in the matter. I already loved him, and if I wanted to protect myself from that, I would have had to just ignore him and the problem he was having that night in the club, when that sleazy asshole with the pungent cologne was feeling him up. He had my heart the first time he smiled at me, and I was a goner the first time I danced with him. So then what the hell was I doing sitting here unshaven in my underwear, pining for him? Maybe after shitting on me for all these years, life was finally giving me a shot at something good, and I was just too fucking stupid to see that.

I took another gulp of the horrific coffee I was torturing myself with, and took one last look at the despondent pregnant woman on the TV. If her asshole boyfriend deserved to have someone waiting for him when he got out of the joint and got done nailing some bimbo he picked up in a bar, deserved to have someone love him and miss him while he was locked up, maybe it wasn't such a stretch that I'd paid enough dues to finally deserve someone who loved me like Timothy did. I'm not sure anyone could ever really do enough to deserve him, but if he still wanted me, if he'd still have me, I could spend the rest of my life trying to live up to it.

I got up, tossed the coffee in the sink and rinsed out the cup. I'd gotten in that habit at Tim's place. You just didn't leave dirty dishes and cups of stale coffee on his counter top. And now, I was rinsing my cups and occasionally washing my dishes, and taking my trash out before the odor killed me. These were good omens. Maybe I wouldn't be so bad for him, after all.

I hurried up and got dressed. I had to rent a tux and find someplace that had tomato plants in stock.

********

When I walked into the room, I heard the band playing a tasteful instrumental number, the buzz of quiet conversation, and the clinking of silverware against plates. I recognized Senator Glassman from seeing her on TV a few times, all dressed up in a sparkly but somewhat conservative black evening gown. She was standing near the back of the room, going over something with an aging, balding man I figured was the infamous Fred, whose impending retirement was going to make way for Tim to get what he deserved professionally.

In that sea of people, I didn't see Tim, and I had to get to him before security threw me out or made a scene trying. How I got past them and within reach of the senator is a trade secret.

Oh, well, I was already at a black tie event with a potted cherry tomato plant, so things couldn't really get too much more awkward. I could have done all this in private, but after what I did to Timothy, and how I'd hurt him, he deserved nothing less than a dramatic, romantic gesture, and this was the best I could come up with.

I approached the senator, who looked at me more than a bit strangely. I did clean up all right in my tux, but the plant had her confused. Maybe she thought I was a terrorist, and the explosives were in my plastic pot.

"Senator Glassman?"

"Yes, can I help you?" she looked at me, a bit uneasily now, and Fred didn't exactly throw himself in front of her, ready to take a bullet or the shrapnel from a loaded green cherry tomato.

"I'm looking for Tim Callahan. I was supposed to be here as his guest this evening, and something came up and I didn't think I could make it, but..."

"You must be Don Strachey," she said, smiling, extending her hand. I shook it, and it was my turn to look stunned. He'd talked about me to a senator? Of course, maybe I was on a guest list somewhere that she'd memorized so she could greet everyone personally. Still...

"Yes, that's me. It's a pleasure to meet you in person," I said.

"I'm sure Tim will be happy you could make it." She smiled, gesturing at the plant. "Should I ask?"

"It's kind of a peace offering. Tim'll know what it means. At least, I hope so."

"Well, you should find him now and get seated, because the program will be starting in about ten minutes. He's at table two, right up near the front, with the rest of my staff," she said.

"Thank you. Sorry to have bothered you," I added.

"No bother. I'm glad you could make it."

I wove my way through the congested dining area with all its elegantly appointed dinner tables until I could see him at table two. God, he looked miserable. Instead of his usual big smile and animated personality when he was with people, he was just sitting there, sipping at a glass of wine, looking about as unhappy as I'd ever seen anyone look. When he caught sight of me, his expression was a mixture of hope and confusion. The plant was earning me more than one funny look; he wasn't alone.

"Don, I don't understand," he began, turning his chair a bit to talk to me.

Here goes nothing, I thought.

I got down on one knee and handed him the plant.

"I thought this could be the start of your vegetable garden. I don't know anything about gardening, but I can dig and I can haul and I can water, and anything you grow, I'll help you eat. I want to help you plant that garden and buy the house together that we're going to put it behind. If you can forgive me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy." I smiled when he did, and I leaned into that gentle hand of his when it touched my face. "Marry me, Timothy. I don't have much but whatever I do have, whatever I can become and make of my life, I want to share it with you, if you'll have me. Because none of it means anything without you."

I think one of his co-workers helpfully held the plant while he hugged me, and I hugged back. How I could have ever risked not having those arms around me for the rest of my life, I don't know. When he pulled back, there were tears in his eyes, but he had the biggest smile on his face I've ever seen.

"Don't keep me in suspense," I joked, and by now, we had at least three tables involved in the saga, watching and waiting for him to answer. Tim laughed, and so did they.

"Yes, of course, I'll marry you," he said, as if it were absurd I'd expect any other answer.

"I didn't mean any of that stupid shit I said.  I'm so sorry, honey," I said in a low voice, so only he heard me, holding him again, as we got a little applause from our small audience.

"Me, too."

"You didn't do anything."

"Does it matter anymore who did what?" he whispered, kissing my cheek, holding onto me like he was never going to let go. I pulled away enough to look in his eyes.

"It only matters that you know how much I love you," I said quietly, and we finally kissed, though we held back from the tongue battle we wanted to have. I had a feeling it would be a long, hot night once this stuffed-shirt dinner was behind us.

From somewhere, some kind soul eased a chair into place at the table so I could sit by him. We declined the waiter's offer to bring me a plate of the fancy-looking food most of the guests were nearly finished eating. He'd barely touched his, and we could share. I did accept the offer of a glass of wine. A few minutes later, the waiter returned with two flutes of champagne, setting one at each of our places.

"Compliments of Senator Glassman," he said, smiling.

"Your boss sent us champagne?" I said to Tim, though I was still reeling from the thought he'd said yes, that he didn't hate me for being such a prick to him, that I'd behaved about as badly as I could, and he still loved me. He didn't take his love back because I put him through something painful. He was still there, smiling at me, looking at me like I was the best thing in the world. Like he was the lucky one to have me. Like he saw something in me that no one else had, or maybe ever would. I promised myself that I'd reward that love with never putting him through anything like that ever again. Because I knew now that his love for me would withstand it, I never wanted to hurt him by testing it.

"To our vegetable garden," he said quietly, holding up the glass toward me, and I picked mine up and tapped his lightly.

"To us working in it together when we're old," I said, remembering the pain in those last words he'd uttered before leaving my office that day when I'd almost ruined my life for good. After taking a drink, I whispered to him, "We better save a couple sips for the big announcement." His smile faded a bit, and he set his glass down. He leaned close to me.

"I didn't get the job," he whispered. I could hear the bitter disappointment underlying his words, even though he did his best not to sound as crushed as he was. Still, he gave me a big smile. "I've got bigger and better things to think about right now," he said.

"That's bullshit," I whispered, though considerably less softly than his whispers.

"Don, not here," he replied, his eyes darting around to see if anyone had overheard. If they had, they weren't reacting.

"Who got it?"

"The guy from Congressman Fielding's office."

"Fielding is an idiot," I said. "You know he's being investigated by the IRS, right?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"He's not very bright, so why would his chief aide be all that bright? He's probably crooked, too," I said. "What's his name?"

"Uh-uh," Tim whispered back. "You're not going to go digging for dirt on him. I love that you want to destroy everyone who does me wrong, but you can't go through life running checks and discrediting everyone who causes me trouble."

"So if he's a crook, he deserves to get your promotion?"

"We have no reason to think he's a crook. They do a lot of background checks on people working that closely with legislators."

"And we all know what an ethical bunch they are."

"Let's just be happy. Honey, the job isn't nearly as important to me as what just happened between us." He took my hand and held onto it. "I couldn't be any happier than I am right now. But I love you for wanting to slay all my dragons," he added, squeezing my hand. "My hero," he said, his voice warm and sincere and full of love.

"Okay, okay." I was quiet a minute. "I still might run him through a couple databases - "

"Donald," he scolded, a note of warning in his hushed voice.

"Just to protect the senator's best interests," I said. "After all, she did let me in here with that plant, and send us champagne. I owe her that much."

"This has nothing to do with looking out for Senator Glassman."

"I suppose you think you're the only one in this relationship capable of spinning something in a positive light?"

"Shut up and kiss me," he whispered, and we stole a little chaste-looking lip-lock before the program started. I was still seething that he'd been passed over for that job that was rightfully his, but I didn't want to let that overshadow the joy of the moment, and the happiness I felt just looking at his handsome profile as he paid attention to the senator's speech. I didn't hear a word she said. Well, except for the name of the asshole she hired instead of promoting my boyfriend.

Through all the dry speeches, I held Timothy's hand under the table, grinning like an idiot at the thought of putting a ring on his finger that would mark him as mine forever.

********