Fic -- Donald Strachey Mysteries -- Haunting
Title: Haunting by NyteFlyer
Fandom: The Donald Strachey Mysteries (movie)
Pairing/Characters: Donald/Timmy
Word Count: 1600
Rating/Category: PG-13/slash
Prompt: dancing in the dark
Spoilers: itsy bitsy one for Shock to the System
Summary: A benevolent spirit banishes old ghosts.
Disclaimer: Richard Stevenson created them, Ron Oliver interpreted them, Chad Allen and Sebastian Spence brought them to life. Legal stuff notwithstanding, we all know that Donald and Timmy belong completely and exclusively to each other. Sometimes I get to be a fly on the wall, though….
Gratuitous groveling: to my two betas extraordinaire, bkmikanand storyfan- dunno what I’d do without you!
Note: written for smallfandomfest
Nightswimming
Deserves a quiet night
I'm not sure all these people understand
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught….
“Nightswimming” by R.E.M.
A moonless night. Stars glinting weakly through a hazy darkness. Air thick and steaming. Crickets chirping. The sudden clash of trash can lids from somewhere up the block. The collie next door barks once, then whimpers to silence at the sound of its owner’s voice. Geraniums on the breeze, at once sharp and spicy, dense. A scent of something else, too - something lighter, sweeter, more exotic. The lingering after-bite of martinis.
August.
I listen for a telltale splash, sense more than hear the silken glide of long, strong limbs through night-darkened water. Strokes smooth and economic. Elegant. Always so elegant.
A screen door slams. I pause, waiting for the night to settle, then ease my way to the pool’s edge, feet probing the damp grass til my toes meet concrete. I whisper his name, knowing he’s there, reminding myself he’ll always be there.
A sense of liquid motion, a light sprinkling at my feet.
Join me?
I shed my terrycloth robe, tossing it over the back of a lounge chair next to his. I bend my knees, preparing to leap, braced for the sudden chill.
Hurry up!
Slow motion flight through still air, then a splash and a cool, wet rush. That eerie feeling of leaving the womb as my head breaks the surface. I laugh, gasping.
Very smooth.
I silence him with a kiss. Cool skin, warm lips. I break it off sooner than either of us wants, shivering.
Now swim.
I do as I’m told, diving down and then resurfacing. I paddle the length of the pool, flipping head-over-heels when I reach the opposite end, then float on my back, kicking a lazy rhythm. I feel warmer already. Relaxed. Exhilarated.
Watch out.
My head connects with concrete - not hard, but with enough force to make me smarter next time. Two more rounds, then I scramble onto the bank and find the diving board, try a half-assed flip to impress him, and smack water. I touch bottom off kilter, turned on my side, disoriented, belly and chest stinging. A moment of panic, then I corkscrew and find the surface, kicking and flailing.
You’re crazy.
Ghost hands still me. Ghost arms circle my chest, offer support as I catch my breath.
Okay now?
I nod. The phantom limbs release me and I tread water, getting my bearings as he disappears beneath the surface. Deft fingers slide my trunks over my ass and down my thighs with one smooth tug, then slip them off my feet and send them flying. I hear them land with a soggy plooff several feet away.
I lunge, groping empty water, empty air.
Race you!
I’ll never be able to keep up, yet somehow I do. We swim in tandem the way we live. Side-by-side, we do the dolphin thing, breaking the surface and then going under, breaking the surface and going under, drinking in the pure, crazy joy of it, loving the freedom of it, the caress of water like cool silk washing over bare bellies and bare backs, softly sweeping over bare genitals.
We pause for breath at the shallow end and I reach for him, laughing. Lips brush mine, linger briefly. Then he twists and dodges, evading me.
Catch me.
I move in the direction of his voice, but he’s already gone. I force myself to stand still and listen. Nothing but cricket sound and lapping water, the almost subliminal hum of the filter. I slowly turn, then jump when I realize my ghost is back beside me, matching my moves, mirroring me. I feel him touch and retreat, tickling, teasing before he disappears again. Eventually, he makes another pass and I catch those phantom fingers, grasp a hand, make it real. He comes to me as softly as an answered prayer, pulls me close. Cool, slick skin slides against my own, igniting passion, catching fire. We lean together, each supported, each supporting.
So good.
His cock, warm and bobbing, prods my belly. He’s shed his trunks somewhere along the line, or maybe never bothered to wear them. It shocks me a little - I’m usually the shameless one. But tonight’s an anniversary I’ve been trying hard to forget, and in spite of all the years that have passed, in spite of this home and this life, this love and this man, it haunts me. This one night, it haunts me.
Flashes of clandestine meetings of long ago, other hands, another cock, pleasure inseparable from fear. My lover’s eyes flashing beneath the Kuwaiti moon, both wanting and warning, reminding me always that we were thieves in the night, stealing bits and pieces of a whole that could never rightfully be ours.
Car lights wash the yard, pale and sweeping. A motor hums to silence in a neighbor’s driveway. I tense, muscles bunched for flight. They can’t see us, I know they can’t see us, but specters from my past whisper reminders of how much can be lost in a single, unguarded moment.
I’ve never had as much to lose as I do now.
Hey. Heyyyyyyyyy.
I sense rather than see eyes locking on mine, night-blind and myopic, yet always seeing me with crystal clarity. Car doors open and close, a woman’s voice murmurs and a child’s answers.
Silence.
I force myself to relax, to remember that this isn’t the shadowy desert of my past, but a lush and rich today where secrets are the spice in lovers’ smiles, not a pact for survival. That love is mine to keep, that it will never again burn to ash when brought into the light.
Lips brush my ear, arms tighten around me.
Want to...?
I shake my head fiercely, feeling a flutter of trapped water in my right ear. The last thing I want to do is go inside, hiding what we are like some shameful thing. Why is it, on this one night of the year, I always think of hiding? I’m not ashamed of it, or of him, or of me. Hell, I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.
You okay?
Suddenly, I’m more than okay. I kiss him long and hard, leaving us both gasping. Buoyed by the water and the strength of his embrace, I capture his erection between my thighs, hear his low, protracted groan.
Want you.
He has me.
Children’s voices, raising windows and slamming doors, barking dogs and bad memories - all are vague stirrings around the periphery of my consciousness now, mere ghosts that drift between their world and mine but haunt me no longer. No one can see us here in the dark, softly lapping water, no one can hear the muted curses mixed with endearments I growl into his ear.
Wouldn’t matter if they could.
I have a right to this joy, this man, this night. A right to love him under our roof or under the stars with a quiet intensity as clean and sharp and pure as the night wind in the Arabian Desert. A right that no one can take away from me again.
Just let them try.
He’s moving against me, faster now, his cock slick and hard between my legs, frantic hands clutching my arms, grasping my sides. His mouth grinds against mine. He bites my lips, sucks my teeth and my tongue, devours me whole.
Love me.
I do.
Afterward, we lean together still, waist deep and shivering a little from the contrast between warm water and cooling air. Just another excuse to hold each other close, to rub warm hands over smooth, wet skin, to press spent flesh against spent flesh and whisper breathy promises of another round.
Later, once we’ve rested.
We hear a screen door creak, and old Mrs. Mendelsohn from three doors down mews for her cat. Without thinking, I mew back. Another creak, another apprehensive meow, then a long pause before she calls, “Is anybody there?”
We press our foreheads together, silently laughing. I start to call out, but he clamps a hand over my mouth, laughing harder, then trades the hand for a pair of warm, smooth lips. I smell chlorine and Crest, taste martinis and marigolds, sense something else, too, something strong enough to build a life around. Him, just him. The taste and touch and smell of him. The absence of shame. The antidote for regret. The antithesis of fear.
Fearless. Always so fearless. Always trying in that quiet, gentle way of his to pass that sense of fearlessness on to me.
When we break at last, he climbs out of the pool and finds his robe, pulling it on but not fastening it, then leans over to give me a hand. I scramble up and stand before him, naked and dripping under the stars. His fingertips brush my chest, touching me the way they would a piece of sculpture he loves, an abstract painting he’s struggling to understand. He sighs his approval. I may be a slow study, but I get there. Sooner or later, I always get there.
When he opens his robe, I step inside, burrowing in as he wraps it around us both.
My head finds his shoulder. His fingers comb through my hair. We dance, swaying to the rhythm of crickets and our hearts, two wet, replete spirits in the night.