Fic - Donald Strachey Mysteries - Whipped
Title: Whipped by NyteFlyer
Fandom: The Donald Strachey Mysteries
Pairings: Donald and Timmy, of course!
Rating: PG-ish
Word count: 2050, give or take a few
Spoilers: None that I can think of
Summary: Even in an all-male household....
Warnings: Humor and fluff, madness and mayhem. Oh, and just a wee bit of whumping. It's my first time, so be gentle with me.
Disclaimer: Alas, these lovely gentleman are not mine. They belong to Richard Stevenson, Ron Oliver, etc. But mostly they belong to each other.
Author's note: This is my maiden voyage into writing fanfiction. Much grateful groveling goes to Bronwyn, who sewed the seeds, and to my very dear friend, Babsalicious, who looks askance at the whole notion of slash but was willing to give this piece the once over.
"But I'm really not a cat person, Timmy," Donald protested, eyeing the scrawny black and white feline that circled his husband's feet, rubbing and trilling.
Donald was relaxing in the back porch glider, soaking up the last rays of evening sun after a long day of tedious research and dead ends, difficult clients and Kenny being...well...Kenny. He wanted to enjoy the remnants of the autumn evening curled around a cold martini and a warm Timothy, not necessarily in that order. Most of all, he wanted to shut off his over-stimulated brain for a while and just not think -- not about work or bills or the distrubing new rattle his car made while the engine idled, and especially not about cats.
"Cat person, dog person. There's no such thing, Donald," Timmy said, settling beside him and tucking an arm through his. "Animals are individuals, just like people are. Some suit us, some don't. And some simply need us."
"Timothy, we can't have a cat in the house. You're allergic, remember?"
Timmy considered the cat gravely. "I had him inside for half the afternoon, and I didn't sneeze once. I don't know what it is about him, but I seem to be immune to his dander."
"Still, you can't just take in any wild animal off the street, sweetheart. It's not safe."
The corner of Timmy's mouth twitched. "Funny, that's what all my friends said when they first met you."
"Oh, ha ha," Donald said, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious here. What if he has rabies?"
"He's perfectly healthy, Donald. The vet said...."
"The vet!"
"...that he's perfectly fine, and now that he's wormed and had all his shots...."
"His shots!"
"...and once I take him in to be neutered on Monday...."
"Timothy...."
"...he should be ready to begin a long and happy life with us. He is a bit underweight, but I think I can take care of that."
Laughing in spite of himself, Donald hooked his fingers through Timmy's belt loop and pulled him in close for a kiss. "Like you did with me, huh? I've gone up two pants sizes since I married you. Not that I'm complaining."
They spent some time in happy lip-lock, neither of them complaining at all. Then Donald heard a creaking meow and watched a two-tone bundle of skin, bones and fur land in Timmy's lap. The cat settled in the dip between Tim's thighs, purring loudly.
Grinning, Timmy nudged Donald's shoulder with his own. "He does rather remind me of you, come to think of it."
"Oh, really? How do you figure that?"
"Let's see. You're approximately the same height...."
"Hey!" Donald said, nudging him back.
"And you did more than your fair share of tomcatting around before we got together...."
"Yeah, but you managed to housebreak me pretty fast, didn't you?"
"Darling, you'll never be housebroken. But you never stray, and that's all that matters. The overflowing litter boxes and the occasional hairballs are things I've learned to live with."
In an instant, Donald's hands were under Timmy's shirt, fingers wriggling against his ribcage. Timmy yelped and doubled over, squirming helplessly. "He's very handsome," he gasped once Donald relented enough for him to draw a breath.
"That's more like it."
"He looks marvelous in his little tux, just like you do."
"Keep it up. We both know flattery will get you everywhere."
"Hmmm. He's also rather cocky and probably not above marking his territory when the situation warrants...."
Great, Donald thought. There goes the furniture. Not to mention the rugs, our shoes....
The cat pawed Timmy's chest, mewing for attention. "...and he's obviously the jealous type...."
"I am not the jealous...."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "The congressman's son who brushed a speck of dust off my lapel at the fundraiser last week and ended up with your drink all over his suit," he said quietly. "The deliveryman who winked at me and 'accidentally' got knocked off the porch. The old friend from college whose number was mysteriously blocked from my cell phone. My former assistant whose wife left him when she somehow learned...."
"All right, all right! Next subject, please!"
With a smug smile, Timmy settled against him once more.. "Oh, and I'm not sure, but I think he may be gay."
"Why do you think that?"
"Well, he does seem to share your obsession with my crotch."
"Oh no, you don't!" Donald informed the cat, scooping him off Tim's lap and holding him at arm's length. "Mine!"
"He'd be good company for me," Timmy said wistfully. "You work so many nights, and since Watson's been gone...."
Caving as they'd both known he would from the beginning, Donald sighed. "All right, you win. You always do," he said with mock gruffness, affecting a put-upon air. But as Timmy and the cat both beamed at him, his grumpy facade crumbled, and an indulgent smile broke through. He gave Timmy a gentle shake. "I'm really, really glad you're not a girl," he said.
"Somehow, I've always rather considered that a given. Why now, in particular?"
"Because you have me wrapped so tight around your little finger it's disgusting. At least you're a guy, so no one can accuse me of being pussy-whipped."
Timmy laughed out loud at that one and reached over to stroke the cat, who had taken up residence in Donald's lap. "I thought Tuxedo Tom might be an appropriate name for him. What do you think?"
"I think it's a helluva mouthful when we're trying to call him to dinner. How about Tux? Short and sweet, whadda ya say?"
Timmy pulled him into a soft kiss. "Short and sweet," he murmured against Donald's lips. "Just the way I like them." Then he guided Donald's hand between his thighs, and they tabled their discussion of matters feline for a while.
Tux curled into a comfortable ball and calmly looked on without comment.
* * * *
Several weeks later, Donald arrived home from a late evening stakeout to find the house in an uproar. As he turned his key in the lock, he heard thumping and banging and a blood-curdling shriek that simultaneously made his heart stand still and his pulse race. Bursting through the door with his gun already half drawn, he was nearly bowled over by a burly intruder who was ricocheting around the room, frantically trying to rid himself of the no longer "slightly underweight" ball of fur and fury that had attached itself to his face. In the half-second it took Donald to assess the situation, he spotted Tim hunkered down in a corner, nursing his head in his hands. Blood oozed between his fingers, and his glasses dangled from one ear, broken and twisted.
The world turned red. Drawing a bead on the wildly careening intruder, Donald roared, "Freeze, asshole, or name your next of kin!"
But Asshole didn't freeze. Asshole couldn't, because four sets of madly flailing claws were shredding his face into crimson coleslaw. One of them -- the man or the cat, Donald couldn't tell which -- yowled eerily, and the besieged intruder staggered close enough for Donald to clip him behind the knee. Asshole went down and Tux went flying -- just in the nick of time, as it turned out, because the man's head hit the hearth with a sickening crack. His limbs convulsed a time or two, then he lay still.
In a heartbeat, Donald had him frisked and cuffed. Then he was on the floor with Timmy, pulling his moaning partner into his arms.
"Donald," Timmy groaned, clutching him with one hand while he continued to cradle his head in the other.
"It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," Donald crooned, carefully keeping the fear out of his voice as he removed the broken glasses and felt Timmy over, searching for injuries. "What the hell happened, honey? What did he do to you?"
"I was unwrapping the new andirons," Timmy said, drawing a shaky breath. "The ones I ordered with the cats on the ends, remember? I was just taking them out of the box when this...this...Neanderthal came to the door and tried to force his way in. He said he was a client and that you'd asked him to meet you here, but that didn't seem right to me. When I pulled out my phone to call you, he shoved his way inside and started pushing me around, yelling something about his marriage and job being shot down the drain -- it didn't make sense. When I told him I was calling the police if he didn't leave, he grabbed an iron and attacked me with it. He hit me so hard I almost blacked out, then he was screaming and Tux was on him and screaming, too, and you came in and stared yelling...." Timmy trailed off, giving Donald a pitiful look. "My head hurts, Donald. My head really, really hurts."
"I bet it does," Donald said, continuing to examine Timmy with gentle fingers. He was scraped, battered and bruised, and a fair-sized goose egg was growing just above his left eyebrow. Though copious amounts of blood smeared Donald's hands and trickled into Timmy's eyes, it all seemed to come from one small scalp laceration. It would take stitches, he decided, and probably hurt like hell, but it wasn't life threatening. Mopping Timmy's face with his own shirtsleeve, he sighed in relief, then fished the phone out of his pocket and dialed 911, barking out requests for police and an ambulance while planting reassuring kisses on Timmy's forehead. The call made, he flipped the phone closed and cuddled Timmy closer, willing some semblance of calm to wash over him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Asshole shift and moan before settling back into less than blissful slumber. Briefly, he considered bringing him around long enough to clobber him over the head with an andiron, just to see if the big bastard took it as well as he dished it out, but he thought better of it. He vaguely remembered the guy, a night watchman named Bradshaw, whose employers had hired Donald to gather evidence that he was stealing and fencing company goods. Last he'd heard, Bradshaw was unemployed, with divorce and conviction both pending. Forcing his touch to remain gentle, Donald gritted his teeth, swallowing back a sudden wave of anger that was aimed at himself as much as it was at Bradshaw.
He'd done it again.
"I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart," he managed to say after a while.
"Don't be ridiculous," Timmy murmured, his breath warm against Donald's neck. "You charged in just in time, the way you always seem to. My own personal posse of one."
"Still your hero, huh?" Donald said wryly.
"Of course. Well, you and Tux." Timmy looked up suddenly, squinting myopically as he searched the room for his cat. "Where is he?" he asked. "He was trying to protect me. If he's hurt...."
As if in answer, a furry head insinuated itself between them, and Tux mewed plaintively. Together they scooped him up and cradled him between their chests as his purr rose to a crescendo.
"Good kitty!" Donald declared, meaning it with all his heart. "Good, good kitty! Honey, you can bring home a thousand cats if you want, as long as they...hey, what's so funny?"
Timmy had collapsed against him, shaking with silent laughter that quickly escalated into hearty guffaws. He cackled until his eyes watered, gripping his head as if it might burst at any moment and flinching from the pain. Lips pressed together in consternation, Donald regarded him with no small amount of concern, fretting over the possibilities of head trauma and permanent injury to the brain.
When was that damned ambulance going to get there, anyway?
Finally, Timmy settled down and scrubbed his face against Donald's forearm, sopping up tears and more blood with the ruined shirtsleeve as he continued to chuckle softly.
"Care to let me in on the joke?" Donald asked, thoroughly confused.
Timmy shook his head and grinned through the gore on his face, then pulled Donald into a messy kiss. "It's not really a joke," he said, wincing even as his grin grew wider. "You were wrong, that's all."
"About?" Donald prompted, relieved to finally hear the wail of approaching sirens.
"The dynamics of our little family, darling." Tim tipped his head toward Tux, then toward Bradshaw's unconscious form, then back to Tux again. Wriggling blood-caked eyebrows at Donald, he leaned close for a conspiratory whisper. "Even in this all-male household, it appears someone managed to get pussy-whipped after all!"
Timmy's Andirons
And Kitty Makes Three