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d8rkmessngrMy dears… New fic, new fandom. Don't kill mommy. My family's quite fond of me. (I hope. LOL.)
Title: At the End of the Day
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
d8rkmessngr
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Starring Chad Allen and Sebastian Spence)
Pairing/Characters: Don/Tim established
Words: 2800+ Complete, betaed
Rating: PG-13 for sexual situations and language
Summary: As the song goes, "So you had a bad day…". Pre-"Third Man Out" movie.
Warnings: No spoilers. If you watch the movies, you may implode with the pretty. ;)
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Richer people than me do which might be for the best because the boys might come out tattered and bruised staying with me. I own my children, my cats, my hubby, my fanzines and my Tivo. I refuse to tell you the order of importance though. LOL.
Mrs. Stratling was appreciative of the photos he took of a certain motel off a certain highway.
Mr. Stratling was not.
Don wearily tugged his office door shut. The glass etched 'Donald Strachey Investigations; rattled. It was a replacement pane put in wrong this morning, outrageous bill paid for by yours truly. The original pane had lain shattered like sharp confetti on the floor thanks to yet another satisfied customer.
The answering machine quit after the sixth irate message of the day. Just as well, Don doubted anyone wanted him to follow a cheating spouse this close to the holidays. The silence of the machine also meant no more usual threats to him, his name (Don scoffed at that one), his genitalia.
But then one of them got creative and threatened Timothy instead.
Don left the window guy to finish repairing his door to drive across town. The disgruntled asshole retracted his threat pretty quickly but Don still needed to call Timmy at work to talk about nothing in particular. He ended up getting to the bank twenty minutes after closing to deposit checks that were three months too late. While it was nice to have a flush account again, it also now meant his rent check might bounce because his new deposits weren't going to clear until Monday. Great.
Window guy was gone by the time Don returned. Just as well, because his blood was still bellowing for violence even after the asshole he'd paid a visit to promised to not even think about his Timothy. At least the repairman shut the office after himself. He didn't leave a note, just a bill for three hundred and eighty bucks taped to his new window.
Reaching out a finger, Don poked the new glass and watched the pebbled surface shake like a bad martini. His shoulders slumped.
Don was sorely tempted to not bother locking his office—considering there was a question of whether it would stillbe his office next month, that is. His keys were in the leather jacket slung over his briefcase by his feet. He couldn't find the energy to shrug into the heavy material because his shoulders ached from when Stratling's associates tried to talk with him outside his favorite Thai place at lunch time. Don had came out on the winning side of that conversation but not before his back was introduced to the street lamppost hard enough that if it were a guy, he would have had to propose to it.
Yawning and grimacing when his ribs expanded and stretched, Don blinked gritty eyes at his office door. He poked at the pane and as it rattled, a band wrapped around his chest and squeezed.
There wasn't anything of value in there except for some pictures of people doing other people in other places not their homes; just shit that would kick up more shit. That was Donald Strachey, for you, Don thought as his chest clenched like it was trying to force out his heart. Strachey, the shit-kicker.
Nothing worth stealing and nothing worth breaking, except for the mug Tim had given him during their seventh date, an impromptu picnic on Tim's apartment floor because Don's car decided to have PMS that day. He'd filled it with the best damn coffee Don had ever tasted, adding to the warmth that had been collecting in his belly since they'd met. He blurted out three words, three words he never thought he would say ever again to anyone. Tim looked like he'd found out Santa Claus was real after all...
Don stooped down to snag his jacket off the floor and fumbled for his keys.
"You got to be kidding me."
Don stared at his car or, he thought the mound was his car. There were bags of trash torn open like eggs on a frying pan, guts all over and Christ, the smell.
That grip around his chest threatened to trap his breath in his lungs. Don ground his teeth as he looked left and right, acutely aware of the gun holstered under his arm, but there was no one around to watch his reaction.
Don lifted his hand up to glower at his watch, then higher to cover his nose, Don set down his briefcase and set to work to at least clear a path to the driver's door. He set his jaw as he shoved aside crushed cups, wet newspaper and rank food containers. If one piece of garbage flew a bit further, with a loud smack, Don blamed it on his haste to go home.
Of course, it began to snow.
"Shit!"
By the time Don could worm into the driver seat (he had to go back out into the snow because he'd left his briefcase on the curb), Don was too pissed, too sweaty, too everything to examine closely the note that was taped on his driver side window. He glanced at the snow-smudged handwriting (whoever it was hadn't even bothered to hide his or her penmanship), then at the jewelry store across from him. He'd ask Joan tomorrow for their security camera footage. Joan was a sucker for blueberry coffee cake and a smile—didn't matter gay or straight.
Don grunted at the scrawled 'faggot' and 'dick' (although he wasn't sure if that was supposed to be an insult to his job or to his equipment but the culprit probably thought it was clever). He tossed the love letter into his circulating file, otherwise known as his backseat, with the mix of blood-spotted shirts, questionable socks and other love letters. He was just that popular of a guy. Don didn't give the backseat a second glance and just slipped the key into the ignition.
The car whined, coughed then whined again.
Groaning, Don dropped his head onto the top of the steering wheel, both hands still on the nine o'clock, three o'clock position because a part of him blindly hoped if he shook the damn thing hard enough, maybe he could resuscitate her. But all that happened was he become aware of the stickiness of the steering wheel to his forehead and the car shuddering still.
Don closed his eyes, but didn't raise his head. Outside, he could hear the wind and the shushing fall of the snow picking up.
Don sighed.
The ride took twice as long in the snow when he finally got the car started again. Don yawned, bleary eyes squeezing out tears as he did. He fidgeted in his seat but it didn't silence the gurgling his stomach made. He sucked in his breath—didn't help either—and kept driving, past the few fast food places still open. If he stopped the car, chances were, it wouldn't start again.
The back of his neck felt tight with the strain of keeping his head up and the burning at the corners of his eyes warned him he was running on the fumes of the last cup of coffee. His lower back burned as he tried to flex his abdomen to sit up higher, to get his spine to stay upright and not sink into the seat which only served to make the vise around his chest wound tighter into a weighty python around him.
Don was running on automatic by the time he parked in front of a building that was finally starting to feel familiar. He nodded absently at the doorman, who knew him by first name now. He sleepwalked into the elevator, his trembling finger somehow finding the right floor. He swayed on his feet, so he rested his face against the panel of buttons. He didn't realize he had fallen asleep standing there until the car jerked and jolted to a stop.
Don swallowed and staggered towards their apartment. He had to rest against the cool frame of the threshold and breathe slowly through his nose before he could walk in.
Everything should have been dark, especially considering how close it was to midnight, but Don found himself blinking under the bright lights, debating if the plate on the kitchen table was a mirage. As he shuffled over, he absently wiggled out of his jacket, toed off his shoes, leaving a mess on the floor Tim was sure to tell him about come morning.
The plate had a ham and turkey sandwich, its bread still chewy and crusty from the warm towel that had been draped over it. Don stood there, idly chewing a corner of of the sandwich, tasting the vinegary sting of too much mustard smeared on the bread. Tim had stuck toothpicks in the halves to keep all its contents neat and intact, but the slippery lettuce kept escaping with each bite anyway.
Don used the pick to spear nuggets of roasted red potatoes in the nearby covered bowl. He mashed a piece inside his mouth with his tongue. It was a bit on the salty side, too garlicky. Tim must still be trying to copy the potatoes they'd had in that bistro last month. Don had ordered it twice there and ever since, there had been a bowl of Tim's newest attempt waiting for Don that were close but not quite the same. Didn't matter. Don was a firm believer you couldn't ever screw up a potato and if you did, there was always ketchup. Don winced though when his tooth ran over an uncracked peppercorn. He spat it out into a cupped hand and hid it within a crumpled napkin before tossing it.
The tautness in the base of his head relaxed as he skewered more potatoes with the toothpick. Don made a face when a tang struck the back of his throat. Timmy must have accidentally used an overripe onion because the bite was sharp with the salt. Nevertheless, it was a whole bowl of potatoes, made because someone noticed Donald Strachey liked them.
There was also a mug of noodle soup waiting for him but unfortunately it had cooled long enough for a greasy skin to form on top of it. Don dissected it with the other toothpick and poked at the overcooked carrots that bobbed up, breaking up the yellow spots of oil on the surface.
Don took a tentative slurp and the corner of his eye twitched. It had cooled into an uneven texture of congealed chicken broth and noodles clumped together that bumped against his upper lip. Don glanced at the microwave that sat by the coffeemaker but decided he didn't have the energy to step away from the table he was leaning against to cross the two feet to heat the soup up.
No martini because Don forgot to pick up the Belvedere yesterday like he'd promised but there was a thermos of hot cocoa standing guard over his food. Don uncapped it and peered into the thick dark brew that smelled sweet yet faintly bitter like good coffee. He grunted. The tightness binding his chest loosened and he found everything blurring as he blinked rapidly into the cocoa.
It was so cliché, so June Cleaver of Tim to do this. Don rested his arms on the kitchen table and stared at the food. He was tired, he just wanted to drop onto the couch so he wouldn't wake Tim and sleep like a corpse and try not to think about cheating clients and broken glass and bouncing checks.
Don drank every drop, ate every crumb.
Don wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He gathered up the plate and mug and carried them to the sink. He grumbled good-naturedly under his breath when he saw a sponge and dishwashing liquid sitting pointedly on top of the drain. He obligingly gave the dishes a few squirts of liquid, ran the faucet until the suds reached his elbows and figured that should keep the roaches away until morning. He absently dried his hands on his already sweat stained shirt, walking drunkenly towards the bedroom as he loosened his tie.
Stopping by the bedroom door, one finger still hooked into the knot of his tie, Don considered the dimmed bedroom. Tim must have been sitting up at one point but had fallen asleep, slumped sideways over onto Don's side of the bed, cocooned in the thick blankets gathered around him like a nest, half his face buried against his pillow, eyeglasses askew. His monthly Economist, vandalized with post-it notes and tattooed with penned comments, had slid off his lap and onto the floor.
Don stood there, his head leaning on the door frame, the corner of his mouth quirked up as he drank in his boyfriend, broad bare shoulders beckoning him within the folds of the thick blanket, the tuck and drape of material hugging possessively around muscled legs.
Two steps took him to the bedside and despite his care, the mattress bounced a little when he sat down on the edge. Tim mumbled, stirred, then went back to sleep happily burrowing into Don's pillow.
It was easier to breathe now as the hot band around him softened to the warmth Don basked in whenever he was with Tim. It was alien when he'd first experienced it, like it was festering inside him like a cancer but lately, Don felt the edges of it acclimated to something more benign. Nowadays, he welcomed it like an old friend, letting it spread all over him.
Don gingerly slipped off Tim's eyewear by grabbing it by the nose piece. He folded them and set them on the nightstand on top of the retrieved magazine making sure they were within easy reach. A nearsighted Tim in the morning had been a cute thing to behold until one day, Tim had nearly taken a header onto the bathroom tile floor.
Don snickered softly when he spied the red indent from where the frame had pressed too deeply under his left eye. He bent down and brushed his mouth lightly along the insulted skin. Tim gave a sleepy snort, wrinkled his nose and one eye languidly opened. Tim did a full body wiggle as he yawned, blinking myopically as he sat up against the headboard.
"You're home," Tim mumbled. "What time is it?"
"Twenty after eleven." Don rubbed a knuckle down Tim's jaw.
His eyes only half-open, Tim could only manage a crooked upward tilt of his mouth, his hand drifting up Don's arm. "You eat yet?"
Don grinned, leaned closer to Tim until their noses touched and burped.
"Donald!" Tim's outrage wasn't convincing as his laughter burst out and washed over Don like cool water. "A yes would have been fine."
"Yes," Don murmured as he placed his hands on either side of Tim and pressed down over Tim's body. "I ate but I didn't get dessert." They wrestled briefly until the blankets were kicked aside and Don tucked a knee between Tim's legs. They lay there, intertwined, breathing heavily as they settled into an unspoken truce. Tim slid fingers over Don's back and ass as if ironing out the wrinkles on his clothes, Don's own fingers mapped out the subtle contours down Tim's bare sides. His skin felt taut and overly warm from the blankets, crisp body hair lightly tickling Don's palms as he swept them down sculpted muscles of a slim swimmer's body tapering down to narrow hips.
Tim murmured sleepily as Don's hands explored, fingers slipping into his boxers briefly and back out again, reaching around to cup firm buttocks to pull Tim closer to him. Tim curled his hands around Don's shoulders in response as he arched up, rubbing against Don's still clothed body, his pelvis tilted up in a plea for more contact, more friction. Don licked a wet trail down Tim's jugular and felt the pulse beating frantically, salty sweet mingling with the taste of dinner lingering in his mouth. Don lowered his head, lips suckling the junction where Tim's neck met shoulder, lapped at the skin there until Tim writhed underneath him. Tim made an unhappy sound when he realized all Don was set on doing was running hands over him, lips tracing the path of his throat, up to his mouth and back down again.
"Donald," Tim protested blurrily. Hooded eyes contemplated him. A furrow appeared between his eyes and whatever he was going to say died. Long, tapered fingers tentatively traced Don's jaw.
"You all right?"
Don sank down on top of the blankets, on his stomach next to Tim. He buried his face on Tim's stomach and felt Tim's fingers carding into his hair. He grunted. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Poor baby." Tim's fingers smoothed over Don's hair and rested warm and heavy on the back of his neck.
Don tilted his head up, Tim's hand curled around his neck lightly yet like Tim didn't want to let go, his hand pleading him to stay because Tim wanted Donald Strachey—despite how other people, including himself, regarded him—to stay with him.
"Bad day?"
Don's mouth stretched into a curve that Tim, although puzzled, happily copied.
"No, not really," Don said as he caught Tim's hand and laced it with his. He felt a brief squeeze around his fingers and his chest expanded as if he was taking a lungful of new air like a diver breaking the water's surface. He squeezed back.
"In fact, it's getting better by the minute."
The End
Author's Note: Many thanks to dearrunriggers, candyjbshsc (I put 100% of the blame on her kidnapping me into this fandom. I did put up a fight. Sort of. LOL.) and sierraindigo. They looked over my first Donald Strachey fic and did not run the other way screaming. To my readers, don't worry, mommy hasn't forgotten about Janto or Kirk/Bones or more importantly, any of you. But look -points at her icon- See how pretty? LOL.
Title: At the End of the Day
Author:
d8rkmessngrFandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Starring Chad Allen and Sebastian Spence)
Pairing/Characters: Don/Tim established
Words: 2800+ Complete, betaed
Rating: PG-13 for sexual situations and language
Summary: As the song goes, "So you had a bad day…". Pre-"Third Man Out" movie.
Warnings: No spoilers. If you watch the movies, you may implode with the pretty. ;)
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Richer people than me do which might be for the best because the boys might come out tattered and bruised staying with me. I own my children, my cats, my hubby, my fanzines and my Tivo. I refuse to tell you the order of importance though. LOL.
Mrs. Stratling was appreciative of the photos he took of a certain motel off a certain highway.
Mr. Stratling was not.
Don wearily tugged his office door shut. The glass etched 'Donald Strachey Investigations; rattled. It was a replacement pane put in wrong this morning, outrageous bill paid for by yours truly. The original pane had lain shattered like sharp confetti on the floor thanks to yet another satisfied customer.
The answering machine quit after the sixth irate message of the day. Just as well, Don doubted anyone wanted him to follow a cheating spouse this close to the holidays. The silence of the machine also meant no more usual threats to him, his name (Don scoffed at that one), his genitalia.
But then one of them got creative and threatened Timothy instead.
Don left the window guy to finish repairing his door to drive across town. The disgruntled asshole retracted his threat pretty quickly but Don still needed to call Timmy at work to talk about nothing in particular. He ended up getting to the bank twenty minutes after closing to deposit checks that were three months too late. While it was nice to have a flush account again, it also now meant his rent check might bounce because his new deposits weren't going to clear until Monday. Great.
Window guy was gone by the time Don returned. Just as well, because his blood was still bellowing for violence even after the asshole he'd paid a visit to promised to not even think about his Timothy. At least the repairman shut the office after himself. He didn't leave a note, just a bill for three hundred and eighty bucks taped to his new window.
Reaching out a finger, Don poked the new glass and watched the pebbled surface shake like a bad martini. His shoulders slumped.
Don was sorely tempted to not bother locking his office—considering there was a question of whether it would stillbe his office next month, that is. His keys were in the leather jacket slung over his briefcase by his feet. He couldn't find the energy to shrug into the heavy material because his shoulders ached from when Stratling's associates tried to talk with him outside his favorite Thai place at lunch time. Don had came out on the winning side of that conversation but not before his back was introduced to the street lamppost hard enough that if it were a guy, he would have had to propose to it.
Yawning and grimacing when his ribs expanded and stretched, Don blinked gritty eyes at his office door. He poked at the pane and as it rattled, a band wrapped around his chest and squeezed.
There wasn't anything of value in there except for some pictures of people doing other people in other places not their homes; just shit that would kick up more shit. That was Donald Strachey, for you, Don thought as his chest clenched like it was trying to force out his heart. Strachey, the shit-kicker.
Nothing worth stealing and nothing worth breaking, except for the mug Tim had given him during their seventh date, an impromptu picnic on Tim's apartment floor because Don's car decided to have PMS that day. He'd filled it with the best damn coffee Don had ever tasted, adding to the warmth that had been collecting in his belly since they'd met. He blurted out three words, three words he never thought he would say ever again to anyone. Tim looked like he'd found out Santa Claus was real after all...
Don stooped down to snag his jacket off the floor and fumbled for his keys.
"You got to be kidding me."
Don stared at his car or, he thought the mound was his car. There were bags of trash torn open like eggs on a frying pan, guts all over and Christ, the smell.
That grip around his chest threatened to trap his breath in his lungs. Don ground his teeth as he looked left and right, acutely aware of the gun holstered under his arm, but there was no one around to watch his reaction.
Don lifted his hand up to glower at his watch, then higher to cover his nose, Don set down his briefcase and set to work to at least clear a path to the driver's door. He set his jaw as he shoved aside crushed cups, wet newspaper and rank food containers. If one piece of garbage flew a bit further, with a loud smack, Don blamed it on his haste to go home.
Of course, it began to snow.
"Shit!"
By the time Don could worm into the driver seat (he had to go back out into the snow because he'd left his briefcase on the curb), Don was too pissed, too sweaty, too everything to examine closely the note that was taped on his driver side window. He glanced at the snow-smudged handwriting (whoever it was hadn't even bothered to hide his or her penmanship), then at the jewelry store across from him. He'd ask Joan tomorrow for their security camera footage. Joan was a sucker for blueberry coffee cake and a smile—didn't matter gay or straight.
Don grunted at the scrawled 'faggot' and 'dick' (although he wasn't sure if that was supposed to be an insult to his job or to his equipment but the culprit probably thought it was clever). He tossed the love letter into his circulating file, otherwise known as his backseat, with the mix of blood-spotted shirts, questionable socks and other love letters. He was just that popular of a guy. Don didn't give the backseat a second glance and just slipped the key into the ignition.
The car whined, coughed then whined again.
Groaning, Don dropped his head onto the top of the steering wheel, both hands still on the nine o'clock, three o'clock position because a part of him blindly hoped if he shook the damn thing hard enough, maybe he could resuscitate her. But all that happened was he become aware of the stickiness of the steering wheel to his forehead and the car shuddering still.
Don closed his eyes, but didn't raise his head. Outside, he could hear the wind and the shushing fall of the snow picking up.
Don sighed.
The ride took twice as long in the snow when he finally got the car started again. Don yawned, bleary eyes squeezing out tears as he did. He fidgeted in his seat but it didn't silence the gurgling his stomach made. He sucked in his breath—didn't help either—and kept driving, past the few fast food places still open. If he stopped the car, chances were, it wouldn't start again.
The back of his neck felt tight with the strain of keeping his head up and the burning at the corners of his eyes warned him he was running on the fumes of the last cup of coffee. His lower back burned as he tried to flex his abdomen to sit up higher, to get his spine to stay upright and not sink into the seat which only served to make the vise around his chest wound tighter into a weighty python around him.
Don was running on automatic by the time he parked in front of a building that was finally starting to feel familiar. He nodded absently at the doorman, who knew him by first name now. He sleepwalked into the elevator, his trembling finger somehow finding the right floor. He swayed on his feet, so he rested his face against the panel of buttons. He didn't realize he had fallen asleep standing there until the car jerked and jolted to a stop.
Don swallowed and staggered towards their apartment. He had to rest against the cool frame of the threshold and breathe slowly through his nose before he could walk in.
Everything should have been dark, especially considering how close it was to midnight, but Don found himself blinking under the bright lights, debating if the plate on the kitchen table was a mirage. As he shuffled over, he absently wiggled out of his jacket, toed off his shoes, leaving a mess on the floor Tim was sure to tell him about come morning.
The plate had a ham and turkey sandwich, its bread still chewy and crusty from the warm towel that had been draped over it. Don stood there, idly chewing a corner of of the sandwich, tasting the vinegary sting of too much mustard smeared on the bread. Tim had stuck toothpicks in the halves to keep all its contents neat and intact, but the slippery lettuce kept escaping with each bite anyway.
Don used the pick to spear nuggets of roasted red potatoes in the nearby covered bowl. He mashed a piece inside his mouth with his tongue. It was a bit on the salty side, too garlicky. Tim must still be trying to copy the potatoes they'd had in that bistro last month. Don had ordered it twice there and ever since, there had been a bowl of Tim's newest attempt waiting for Don that were close but not quite the same. Didn't matter. Don was a firm believer you couldn't ever screw up a potato and if you did, there was always ketchup. Don winced though when his tooth ran over an uncracked peppercorn. He spat it out into a cupped hand and hid it within a crumpled napkin before tossing it.
The tautness in the base of his head relaxed as he skewered more potatoes with the toothpick. Don made a face when a tang struck the back of his throat. Timmy must have accidentally used an overripe onion because the bite was sharp with the salt. Nevertheless, it was a whole bowl of potatoes, made because someone noticed Donald Strachey liked them.
There was also a mug of noodle soup waiting for him but unfortunately it had cooled long enough for a greasy skin to form on top of it. Don dissected it with the other toothpick and poked at the overcooked carrots that bobbed up, breaking up the yellow spots of oil on the surface.
Don took a tentative slurp and the corner of his eye twitched. It had cooled into an uneven texture of congealed chicken broth and noodles clumped together that bumped against his upper lip. Don glanced at the microwave that sat by the coffeemaker but decided he didn't have the energy to step away from the table he was leaning against to cross the two feet to heat the soup up.
No martini because Don forgot to pick up the Belvedere yesterday like he'd promised but there was a thermos of hot cocoa standing guard over his food. Don uncapped it and peered into the thick dark brew that smelled sweet yet faintly bitter like good coffee. He grunted. The tightness binding his chest loosened and he found everything blurring as he blinked rapidly into the cocoa.
It was so cliché, so June Cleaver of Tim to do this. Don rested his arms on the kitchen table and stared at the food. He was tired, he just wanted to drop onto the couch so he wouldn't wake Tim and sleep like a corpse and try not to think about cheating clients and broken glass and bouncing checks.
Don drank every drop, ate every crumb.
Don wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He gathered up the plate and mug and carried them to the sink. He grumbled good-naturedly under his breath when he saw a sponge and dishwashing liquid sitting pointedly on top of the drain. He obligingly gave the dishes a few squirts of liquid, ran the faucet until the suds reached his elbows and figured that should keep the roaches away until morning. He absently dried his hands on his already sweat stained shirt, walking drunkenly towards the bedroom as he loosened his tie.
Stopping by the bedroom door, one finger still hooked into the knot of his tie, Don considered the dimmed bedroom. Tim must have been sitting up at one point but had fallen asleep, slumped sideways over onto Don's side of the bed, cocooned in the thick blankets gathered around him like a nest, half his face buried against his pillow, eyeglasses askew. His monthly Economist, vandalized with post-it notes and tattooed with penned comments, had slid off his lap and onto the floor.
Don stood there, his head leaning on the door frame, the corner of his mouth quirked up as he drank in his boyfriend, broad bare shoulders beckoning him within the folds of the thick blanket, the tuck and drape of material hugging possessively around muscled legs.
Two steps took him to the bedside and despite his care, the mattress bounced a little when he sat down on the edge. Tim mumbled, stirred, then went back to sleep happily burrowing into Don's pillow.
It was easier to breathe now as the hot band around him softened to the warmth Don basked in whenever he was with Tim. It was alien when he'd first experienced it, like it was festering inside him like a cancer but lately, Don felt the edges of it acclimated to something more benign. Nowadays, he welcomed it like an old friend, letting it spread all over him.
Don gingerly slipped off Tim's eyewear by grabbing it by the nose piece. He folded them and set them on the nightstand on top of the retrieved magazine making sure they were within easy reach. A nearsighted Tim in the morning had been a cute thing to behold until one day, Tim had nearly taken a header onto the bathroom tile floor.
Don snickered softly when he spied the red indent from where the frame had pressed too deeply under his left eye. He bent down and brushed his mouth lightly along the insulted skin. Tim gave a sleepy snort, wrinkled his nose and one eye languidly opened. Tim did a full body wiggle as he yawned, blinking myopically as he sat up against the headboard.
"You're home," Tim mumbled. "What time is it?"
"Twenty after eleven." Don rubbed a knuckle down Tim's jaw.
His eyes only half-open, Tim could only manage a crooked upward tilt of his mouth, his hand drifting up Don's arm. "You eat yet?"
Don grinned, leaned closer to Tim until their noses touched and burped.
"Donald!" Tim's outrage wasn't convincing as his laughter burst out and washed over Don like cool water. "A yes would have been fine."
"Yes," Don murmured as he placed his hands on either side of Tim and pressed down over Tim's body. "I ate but I didn't get dessert." They wrestled briefly until the blankets were kicked aside and Don tucked a knee between Tim's legs. They lay there, intertwined, breathing heavily as they settled into an unspoken truce. Tim slid fingers over Don's back and ass as if ironing out the wrinkles on his clothes, Don's own fingers mapped out the subtle contours down Tim's bare sides. His skin felt taut and overly warm from the blankets, crisp body hair lightly tickling Don's palms as he swept them down sculpted muscles of a slim swimmer's body tapering down to narrow hips.
Tim murmured sleepily as Don's hands explored, fingers slipping into his boxers briefly and back out again, reaching around to cup firm buttocks to pull Tim closer to him. Tim curled his hands around Don's shoulders in response as he arched up, rubbing against Don's still clothed body, his pelvis tilted up in a plea for more contact, more friction. Don licked a wet trail down Tim's jugular and felt the pulse beating frantically, salty sweet mingling with the taste of dinner lingering in his mouth. Don lowered his head, lips suckling the junction where Tim's neck met shoulder, lapped at the skin there until Tim writhed underneath him. Tim made an unhappy sound when he realized all Don was set on doing was running hands over him, lips tracing the path of his throat, up to his mouth and back down again.
"Donald," Tim protested blurrily. Hooded eyes contemplated him. A furrow appeared between his eyes and whatever he was going to say died. Long, tapered fingers tentatively traced Don's jaw.
"You all right?"
Don sank down on top of the blankets, on his stomach next to Tim. He buried his face on Tim's stomach and felt Tim's fingers carding into his hair. He grunted. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Poor baby." Tim's fingers smoothed over Don's hair and rested warm and heavy on the back of his neck.
Don tilted his head up, Tim's hand curled around his neck lightly yet like Tim didn't want to let go, his hand pleading him to stay because Tim wanted Donald Strachey—despite how other people, including himself, regarded him—to stay with him.
"Bad day?"
Don's mouth stretched into a curve that Tim, although puzzled, happily copied.
"No, not really," Don said as he caught Tim's hand and laced it with his. He felt a brief squeeze around his fingers and his chest expanded as if he was taking a lungful of new air like a diver breaking the water's surface. He squeezed back.
"In fact, it's getting better by the minute."
The End
Author's Note: Many thanks to dear
runriggers, candyjbshsc (I put 100% of the blame on her kidnapping me into this fandom. I did put up a fight. Sort of. LOL.) and sierraindigo. They looked over my first Donald Strachey fic and did not run the other way screaming. To my readers, don't worry, mommy hasn't forgotten about Janto or Kirk/Bones or more importantly, any of you. But look -points at her icon- See how pretty? LOL.