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"Timmy?" Donald calls as he wanders into the house. His voice echoes off the darkened walls, and he realizes that, somehow, he made it home first. He strips off his overcoat, hanging it up on Timothy's antique coatrack that he'd insisted on picking up from the flea market weeks before. At the time, it didn't look like it was sturdy enough to hold a scarf, but after some refinishing (punctuated by a few heated kisses when Donald got overheated by the look of Timothy in an A-shirt and sweatpants, shoulders glistening with sweat brought on by the arduous task), the antique looked fresh and new.
Moving into the kitchen, Donald takes a chilled bottle of vodka out of the freezer to make himself a well-deserved martini. He'd spent far too much time lurking around in the shadows that afternoon, and felt the drink (plus a little downtime with Timothy) would balance the scales. His caseload, plus the fact that Kenny had declared himself on vacation when he'd heard about whatever the latest party was currently being held at Fire Island, was good for billable hours, but left Donald ragged and worn out. Figuring Timothy would be home soon, Donald poured a double into the shaker, tossed in a little olive juice, and waved the bottle of vermouth over the shaker - more for show than taste. He joggles the shaker overhead in three-four time, then pours the crisp liquid into two waiting glasses.
Taking a sip of his martini, Donald hears the sound of a whimper coming from the laundry room - and immediately remembers Doctor Watson, their little Terrier, who spent his days in the mudroom, giving him access to the outside should he need it, but not the rest of the house. "Watson?" Donald calls, walking up to the waist-high barrier. "Hey there, little fella," he says to Watson's wagging form. He leans down, careful of his martini, and picks Watson up into his free arm.
Pressing a kiss into the soft fur of Watson's muzzle, Donald responds to the animal's bark with, "I know... I wish Daddy was home, too." He takes a sip, the martini warming his stomach, and decides to head upstairs. He's in need of a shower, especially after the dumpster-diving episode that he'd gone through just prior to coming home.
Entering their bedroom, Donald sees Timothy's blue suit, which he loved since it plays off of the color in his husband's eyes. Timothy was supposed to come home and change into that before his fundraiser - yes, that's where he is tonight - but obviously something had come up, keeping in the office longer than he'd planned. Donald looks at his watch, then puts Doctor Watson onto his neat little doggie bed. He sighs, wondering just how much longer Timothy will be, as he strips out his clothes, dropping them next to the hamper.
Walking naked into the bathroom, Donald stops and looks back, telling Doctor Watson to "Stay!" and then turns on the spray. He finishes his martini, and then steps under the warm water, letting it cascade over his hair, his chest, his back. It's like every droplet that passes over his body takes with it a tiny bit of the week's stress, whisking it down the drain. By the time the water starts to run cool, he feels emotionally quite a bit lighter, and his muscles are relaxed. Stepping out of the shower, he runs a towel across his chest, then through his hair before tying it around his waist. He crosses the bedroom and steps back out to the hallway, calling, "Timothy?" but gets no answer.
Slipping into a pair of sweatpants, Donald tosses the towel with his clothes. He goes to pick up his martini glass, frowning when he remembers it's empty, so he pads downstairs, Doctor Watson on his heels, and gets Timothy's share. He sips it, then grabs the newspaper from the breakfast island and heads back towards the oasis of their bedroom.
Donald reclines in bed, his naked back resting against the padded headboard, as he sips at his drink and then starts to peruse the newspaper. Watson stirs next to him, and he reaches over, pulling the dog onto the bed with him. They both know that the pup isn't allowed on the bed, but Donald wants the company. So with a stern, "Don't tell Daddy," he lets Watson settle down next to him, and enjoys the warmth as he reads.
Finishing the second martini, Donald yawns; the long day and the alcohol has taken a bit of a toll on him. He finds his eyelids growing heavy, and before he can get out of bed, he falls into a restful sleep, curled up around Watson.
There's a thumping sound that wakes Donald, though he's back asleep before he realizes it. Sometime later, there's a touch on his shoulder, and he turns, finding Timothy leaning over him. "Hello, sweetheart," he says, voice gravelly from sleep.
"Looks like someone's had a restful evening," Timothy says, bright eyes shining happily at him. "Did you make one for me?" he asks, sitting down as he picks up the empty martini glass.
"That one was yours," Donald says through another yawn. Straightening up, he adds, "I could make you one-"
Shaking his head as he shrugs out of his brown suitcoat and then toes off his shoes, Timothy replies, "No, no, no. It's too late for a martini anyway."
"Bite your tongue," Donald quips with a smile.
Beaming at his husband, Timothy counters, "I would, but that's your job, Donald, Darling." As he finishes unbuttoning his sleeves, he leans forward, bracing on each side of Donald's body as he leans down for a kiss. But there's a sudden flutter of activity under the covers, accompanied by a grumpy sounding growl that drags both Donald and Timothy's attention away from the moment.
Standing, Timothy looks down at Donald over his glasses. "Donald Strachey," he says, a playful yet accusing voice dripping from his lips. "Would that happen to be Doctor Watson?"
Donald counters Timothy's tone with a bashful look. "I was lonely. And that furball is a nice little furnace..."
Timothy crosses his arms, not letting up. "On the thousand-thread-count sheets that we got as a wedding present? From my mother?"
Standing, Donald leans up and gives Timothy a kiss. "Why don't you go get a shower," he says, turning his husband towards the bathroom, "while I get the mutt back on his bed, and then go make you a martini."
"Well..." Timothy says, voice playful.
With a gentle whack to Timothy's backside, Donald says, "Go get a move on. And if you're lucky," he says, Timothy turning back as he reaches the door, "then I'll join you in the shower."
Tossing Timothy's retreating form a wink, Donald digs the sleeping form of Doctor Watson from beneath the blankets, and then takes him downstairs, all the while describing how to make the perfect martini for his wet, waiting husband.