New fic, new fandom
Title: Standards
Author: Josan
Fandom: Donald Strachey (Books and movies)
Pairing: Donald Strachey/Timmy Callahan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me: Richard Stevenson created them, Chad Allen and Sebastian Spence brought them to life. I'm just filling in some of the spaces.
Summary: Timmy is in a reflective mood.

A.N.: maaseru re-introduced me to this series. I had read the first book many, many years earlier, but had never seen the films. OMG! Sigh. Highly, highly recommend them. Two out so far: "Third Man", "Shock to the System" (available at Amazon) and just perfect for a slashy get-together. Two more in production.

Warning: unbeta'ed...and it shows. Sigh. Must stop thinking in French while writing in English. If you know the fandom, beta in the comments, please. And if you don't...just beta my attempt to write English en français. (TéléQuébec has been showing all these great shows – Tintin, Lucky Luck, Asterix, among others. Three times a day!)

ETA: Thanks for the beta'ing, folks. Much appreciated.

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STANDARDS


Timothy Callahan sat at what he thought of as 'their table'. The one off to one side of the bar, where they could people watch to their pleasure, passing sotto voce snarky remarks on the politicos who hung around the bar or who commandeered a table as though it was their due.

Timmy checked the glass before smiling at the waiter who was bringing him the martini he'd ordered. Olive, not a onion. The last time, the bartender had got the order wrong and there had been an onion. Blasphemy of the highest order in Timmy's mind. Donald had just snickered at his reaction and rejection of the drink, all the while sipping on his beer.

Donald did not understand the delicate balance required in producing the perfect vodka martini. Not that Timmy had as yet had one of those, but these martinis came close to his ideal. Which was why the presence of the onion had so upset him.

He wasn't like Donald, who could down any kind of brew that was set in front of him. Probably a remnant of his Marine days, when Donald chugged down whatever the local beer was wherever he was at the time.

If martinis weren't on the list, then Timmy did without. Or, if pressed, substituted a white wine, depending on what was available. Not that he was a wine snob, but one did have to have standards. He'd learnt that at his father's table and in his father's office and, though the Old Man had disowned him for not having 'Republican' standards, the lesson about standards was ingrained in him.

Which was the crux of the problem he was having with Donald. Who was, yet again, late.

Timmy took a small mouthful of his drink and allowed the bite to saturate his tastebuds before swallowing. He sighed happily. With a raise of his glass, he sent a small nod of appreciation to the bartender who was watching for his response. The man grinned and turned to serve his next customer.

Donald didn't seem to have standards. Not like those that Timmy had. He hadn't been brought up the same way, with Church and Congressman Callahan to please. More Blue Collar than Upper Class. More Presbyterian – if being dragged to services by his mother whenever she could until he was taller than she qualified for that appellation – than American Roman Catholic.

No, the difference was more extreme than that. Timmy wasn't just an American Roman Catholic, he was an American Irish Roman Catholic. The faction of the Church that gave the ultra-conservative pontiff his strongest support in the rampantly materialistic continent of North America.

So, yes, Donald had a problem with standards.

Like martinis. He didn't drink martinis. Wouldn't even try one. Said he had – once! – and hadn't liked it at all.

Timmy had tried to explain that the fabrication of a good martini was an art form and that Donald's must have been made by a fool. But that hadn't worked with Donald. He'd just shrugged and ordered "Whatever's on tap."

Like punctuality. The Congressman had reiterated – ad nauseum! – that it was a sign of class and manners to arrive on time. Oh, there was a leeway of five minutes early for an appointment – never more than five, because that was a sign of anxiety and that wasn't the message any Callahan wished to convey. Five minutes late for a social appointment – unless one was the guest of honor at which time it was incumbent on the honoree to arrive thirty minutes late so that all those who were gathering to honor the guest would have had time to arrive.

Donald never arrived early, but was usually anywhere from twenty to an hour late, always using work as his excuse.

Which brought up the most important standard of all: fidelity.

Because Timmy knew very well that there were times when 'work' was a quickie in the toilet of some bar or hotel, maybe even in the back seat of Donald's car, and had nothing to do with the business of detecting. Unless one considered detecting the size of the prick behind the zipper part of...

Timmy took a large gulp of the chilled liquid in the glass he was holding and swallowed without savouring it.

He caught himself from taking a second in such a manner and placed the glass down on the coaster in front of him. He dropped his hands to his lap.

No, it would not do to abuse a really good martini in that manner. It was unworthy of the effort put into it by the bartender.

Besides, there really wasn't all that much he could do about Donald and his perpetual search for the perfect fuck.

Hell, even Erica Jong had written a book about that hunt. Timmy remembered the book from high school and his reading the salient parts to his then lover, curled up in bed beside him, while his parents had gone off to some political do or other. They'd even played out certain scenes, like the one in the train.

But he'd been a boy then and now he was a man.

Still, he should be more understanding about Donald and his hunt for the perfect fuck. Timmy could say the same about his hunt for the perfect martini. Just because it was a grown-up drink didn't mean there was anything 'mature' about his obsession with it.

Yeah, sure.

Unfortunately, his own hunt was not going to destroy their relationship, whereas Timmy was less than certain about their having a future together due to Donald's.

Timmy was discovering that his standards refused to back down just because Donald was as close to perfect in bed as any man had the right to expect.

In bed.

Over the desk in his office – Donald's office that is. His Senator was very supportive of gay issues, but he doubted she wanted to have the cleaning staff complain about finding dried semen on his desk.

In the back seat of Donald's car.

In the toilets of their favourite restaurant.

Or those of this bar.

Not to mention a certain tree in a certain park.

Timmy wriggled a little in his chair, spreading his legs apart so that his cock had room to deal with that last image.

He picked up his glass and slowly allowed a mouthful of drink to dribble down his throat, rather like the time that Donald's come...

He finished off the martini and gestured to the waiter that he'd like a refill.

He smiled amiably at the waiter, who took his time picking up the empty glass and placing the fresh drink on the coaster.

Timmy had no trouble getting the message. If he wanted, Timmy could indicate to the waiter, a young man who filled his tight trousers very well, whose ass was displayed to its best advantage by the cut of the black wool, that he was wanted in the toilets for the quickest of quickies. And, no doubt, the young man's mouth would prove to be worthy of the large tip Timmy would then leave him.

But there were those damn standards again.

Timmy thanked the waiter and pretended to look around the room. The waiter left – with a very reluctant sigh. It did Timmy's ego a world of good knowing that he was still worth picking up. Sometimes, with Donald...

He slowly twirled the glass by the stem. Maybe he should pay Donald back in kind. Let him see how he liked being the one to wait for Timmy to arrive late, the scent of another man and come on his clothing.

Yeah, right.

As if Donald would even notice the lateness of the time, or the scent of another man on Timmy.

As if he'd care.

"There you are! I didn't see you in this crowd."

Donald dropped into the chair next to Timmy and clasped his arm, giving it a tight squeeze.

Timmy took a long look at his lover and shook his head. "I did say seven o'clock."

Donald grinned that grin of his that went directly to Timmy's cock. "Sorry. Business. You know how it is."

Timmy raised his chin. That was the perfect opening for him to present his argument. For him to point out the need for certain standards.

Their waiter came over to the table. "Molson's on tap tonight."

Donald smiled and Timmy watched as the waiter's zipper began bulging out.

"No. No beer tonight. I'm a little tired of brew. Bring me one of these martinis that Timmy here loves so much. It's time I tried one of those."

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