Partners in Love Page 2

  “Don’t worry about it, man.” Tyler tells him lazily. “Kind of nice having someone else kicking around the place. Besides, I’m pretty sure the couch would get pissed off if I broke up your beautiful relationship, when it’s still in the honeymoon stage anyways. Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Dylan stares at him for a moment and then smiles softly in return, mutters a quiet, “Okay” and then turns back to watching the sunset in peaceful silence. If Tyler doesn’t mind, then he’s not in any big hurry to throw his money away on some sleazy hotel room.

  They spend the rest of the night quietly orbiting each other, only separating when they’re both about to fall asleep in their respective beers. It’s almost too easy, slipping into this kind of comfortable cohabitation with Tyler, but Dylan can’t really bring himself to give a damn.

  ****

  The two of them go grocery shopping the next morning. They shuffle into the local supermarket, walking side by side like zombies, both dressed in sweatpants and ill-fitting t-shirts. Dylan’s shirt is too long, the hem falling three or four inches below what he normally buys, and Tyler’s is too short, barely brushing the waist of his pants.

  Neither of them can bring themselves to care that they’ve obviously put on each other’s shirts instead of their own. even though neither is really sure how it happened. Instead, they wage a silent and yet explosive battle over who gets to drive the cart.

  Dylan wins, of course, with his superior application of elbows and knees.

  Afterwards, they debate on the finer points of coffee vs. tea as they slouch down the aisles. Tyler wins that particular argument, his impassioned speech about how as detectives they’re practically required to drink an unhealthy amount of coffee winning out over Dylan’s casual but pointed mentions of heart attacks and early deaths.

  They meander through the store for a bit, throwing odds and ends into the cart before he sends Tyler after milk. Dylan keeps himself busy for a moment in the produce section when he realizes his partner’s been gone for entirely too long. Sighing in exasperation, and wondering vaguely if Tyler’s managed to stumble upon a kidnapping in progress or something else equally dangerous, he tosses the strawberries he knows Tyler likes into the cart beside his own bag of apples and takes off after him.

  When he finally finds him he’s actually standing in front of the milk cooler, a slightly puzzled look on his face as he gazes at the different choices before him.

  “Hey, bright eyes,” Dylan calls as he slumps to a stop beside him, half bent over the cart’s handle bar, “what’s the hold up? Did the milk insult you, or are you just having second thoughts about the morality of dairy consumption?”

  “I just realized that I don’t remember what kind of milk you like.” Tyler flushes and scratches at the back of his head as he speaks, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that Dylan refuses to refer to as adorable, but is actually about ten shades of helpless to find another word for. “I didn’t want to get the wrong thing, but I didn’t want to go all the way back and ask you either…” Tyler trails off, flushing even deeper at the wide-eyed stare Dylan gives him.

  “Do you mean to tell me that after all this time, you don’t know what kind of milk I like?” Dylan makes sure his voice is as flat and emotionless as he can possibly get it to be, but he’s practically cackling in glee inside at the panicked look that’s slowly overtaking Tyler’s face.

  “It’s milk!” Tyler seems genuinely aggrieved. “It’s just something I’ve never given much thought to, that’s all!”

  Dylan reaches out and smacks Tyler on the chest lightly and adopts the most wounded and put-upon expression he can manage. He even makes his own baby-blues tear up at the corners.

  “Obviously,” he rasps over dramatically, “the only solution is divorce.”

  “D-Divorce?” Tyler sputters at him, flabbergasted and confused for a moment, mouth hanging open and eyebrows disappearing into the thick and unruly mass of hair that falls across his forehead. “What the hell, Dylan?”

  “Yup,” Dylan nods decisively, “divorce. This marriage is never going to make it if you can’t even remember what type of milk I like. Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure you get to see the kids and the sofa on a regular basis.”

  Tyler’s stunned into silence for a moment before he sort of squawks at Dylan and launches into a tirade about how the sofa is his, damn it all to hell, and who says Dylan would get full rights to their non-existent kids anyways? Dylan laughs, tells him because people actually think he’s capable of taking care of another human being, and reaches into the cooler to pull out the two-percent that they both favor and the chocolate milk that Tyler obsesses over but won’t admit to still liking at his age.

  He strolls back down the aisle pushing the cart ahead of him, a half smile tilting his lips as he listens to Tyler go on about child support, visitation, and being a responsible adult. It’s always fun when he’s able to get Tyler worked up like this, when he can say something that sets the other man off in a truly epic fashion. He’ll have to keep this joke in the back of his mind for the next time they can both use some lighthearted bickering.

  Chapter Three

  The strange thing is that it’s like Dylan flipped some kind of switch, because after he makes that one playful jab at Tyler about them being married, suddenly it’s everywhere.

  Literally everywhere.

  Over the next couple of days, they get a coupon in the mail for a honeymoon suite in Waikiki that they, unfortunately, can’t use because they’re not actually married. The diner they normally have lunch at together gives them a meal on the house in ‘congratulations’ and even Tyler’s mailman takes the time to invite them to a gay-friendly couples’ retreat.

  Dylan and Tyler both can only stare in bemusement as each new situation pops up, both of them too stunned to actually deny the change to their relationship status. It dies down after another week or so though, the comments and invitations dwindling away until they’re happening only on and off.

  A week, during which Dylan doesn’t move back into his now fixed apartment and both of them studiously ignore that fact for a while longer. They have a routine that they’re both comfortable with now, a pattern they settled into almost too easily with one another, and they’re both loathe to break it over something as simple as Dylan moving back into his own place.

  Dylan’s pretty sure there’s a conversation they should be having, or should have already had by now, but he doesn’t dwell on it too hard. A not so small part of him doesn’t want to rock the cozy little boat they’ve settled into together.

  But, in his defense, Tyler doesn’t say anything either, so that makes them even.

  ****

  Dylan comes back to the house one day from a rare errand that he’s actually run on his own to find Tyler nowhere to be seen, music drifting up from further into the house, and the living room filled with boxes and totes. The room’s littered with various bits of odds and ends that look suspiciously familiar.

  And by familiar, he means familiar in the sense that he recognizes them because they belong to him. That lamp, the dart board leaning against the coffee table, the stack of pillows on the couch… All of it belongs in his apartment, the apartment that’s explicitly not here, and the one he’s not been back to in days now.

  He keeps his mouth closed, his rapidly growing questions tucked back behind his teeth, as he wanders down the hall and towards the spare room where the music is coming from. The spare room that, he should probably add, is normally filled to the brim with boxes and bags and always has the door firmly shut.

  The door is open now though, the sound of a radio drifting out from inside. When Dylan makes it to the doorway, Tyler’s lean form can be easily spotted in the middle of the amazingly clean floor, standing beside the bed that had previously been packed away in Dylan’s storage closet because of a serious lack of space in his apartment. He’s got a satisfied look on his face as well as a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. />
  “So,” Dylan speaks up abruptly and takes a vindictive kind of enjoyment in the way Tyler jumps and spins around at the unexpected sound. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you were feeling industrious today and decided to do some spring cleaning, and that there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why everything I own is currently sitting in your living room.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Tyler trails off, his expression sheepish and his smile overly innocent in a way that instantly puts Dylan on guard. His suspicions aren’t helped by the way Tyler immediately starts talking a million miles an hour like he does sometimes when he’s nervous. “Well, I figured it’d make more sense like this, you know? I mean, you already live here and you hate that apartment anyways, and we get along just fine … so I figured, yeah, this would work out all right.”

  “What exactly will work out all right, Tyler Wilky?” Dylan knows he sounds like a scolding housewife, but he actually has a pretty good idea about what Tyler’s going on about. And while he isn’t actually all that upset over it, he does like it when he gets the rare chance to make Tyler sweat. So, even though he’s pretty sure it makes him a bad person, he decides to draw the moment out. “An explanation would be real nice right about now.”

  He doesn’t expect the way Tyler’s expression abruptly drops, the way his eyes skirt away from Dylan’s, or the vaguely defeated air that settles around his shoulders. Dylan frowns deeply, upset to have provoked this serious of a reaction instead of the more playful one he’d wanted.

  “Ty-man … Bright eyes,” Dylan coaxes carefully. “What’s the matter? Just spit it out. I’m not going to bite your head off or anything.”

  “I just …,” Tyler shuffles in place, a bashful action that’s out of place in the other man even at his most sheepish. “It’s just that after what happened with the ceiling and everything … I worry, is all. I mean you’re pretty much all I have, and there’s plenty of room here, so I figured you wouldn’t mind. But if it’s a problem, I can take it all back. I mean I didn’t talk to your landlord or anything. I thought we could do that together…” Tyler trails off, and Dylan can’t actually think of anything to do but shake his head in fond exasperation as he walks over to his best friend, tugs the broom and dustpan out of his hands, and drops them onto the floor with a clatter.

  “Come on, big guy.” Dylan reaches up to pat him on the shoulder. “Let’s go talk to my asshole of a landlord and tell him I’m blowing his ratty popsicle-stand for bigger and better things.”

  Tyler perks up instantly and before Dylan knows what’s happening, Tyler’s wrapped his massive arms around him and pulled him into a spine-cracking hug that leaves Dylan breathless and flushed.

  “You know, if you wanted me to be around all the time, you could’ve just asked instead of moving me in all by yourself, you fucking caveman.” He manages to get the words out in what he refuses to acknowledge is a squeak.

  Tyler looks down at him with warm affection bright in his green eyes, and without missing a beat, speaks clearly and confidently.

  “I always want you around, Dylan. I thought you knew that. You’re my best friend.”

  Dylan feels himself flush even deeper, knows that his face is probably an unattractive shade of red and that his short black hair is in complete disarray when he locks his eyes onto Tyler’s.

  “I feel the exact same way, bright eyes,” Dylan answers back just as seriously. “The exact same way.”

  Tyler grins, bright and happy before he finally lets Dylan go only to spin on his heel and head out the door, calling for Dylan to hurry up over his shoulder so that they can break his lease and finish getting his stuff straightened out. Dylan follows after him obediently, pleased to be the reason Tyler’s so happy. He’s not even shocked by the realization that he’d move mountains to keep that look on Tyler’s face for the rest of their lives.

  Honestly, by this point, it’s the most normal thing to have happened to him in weeks, so he just goes with it. Plus, there’s worse things he could be focusing on than the idea of keeping the most important person in his life safe and happy.

  Chapter Four

  They make it through officially living together for roughly a week before the marriage talk starts up again in earnest.

  Only this time, it’s at the precinct.

  The other cops on duty call them “the lovebirds” or “The Wilkys” and only occasionally “The Vancarrs”.

  Dylan’s kind of insulted that they automatically assume he’s the wife. When he brings it up to Tyler, the bastard just smiles and tells Dylan it’s because he’s obviously the delicate one out of the two of them. That of course, sets Dylan on the quest to show Tyler just how far from delicate he really is, but since Tyler mostly just smiles at him in amusement he isn’t sure it’s working.

  Dylan eventually switches tactics by loudly declaring that they would, at the very least, hyphenate.

  Still, Dylan can actually fully understand where the jokes are coming from this time around. It’s not like they’ve been making an effort of any kind to disguise the fact that they’re living together or that they’re almost disgustingly familiar with each other’s likes and dislikes. They share food and drinks, know each other’s alternating lunch orders and allergies by heart. Living together has made it all worse on top of helping them to develop the ability to have entire conversations without ever saying a single word.

  Plus, since Tyler’s become rather fond of some of Dylan’s more outlandish ties and Dylan’s in lust with Tyler’s massive collection of quality leather belts and high-end cuff links, they’re now openly wearing each other’s clothes.

  Overall, they’re comfortable and relaxed in their new routine but none of this actually helps to quell the gossip any. If anything, the further in they settle the more the rumors and gossip seem to grow.

  If Dylan’s being honest with himself he knows that it’s not a new thing either, this closeness between them. They’d clicked almost immediately from the moment they met. Hell, they’ve been each other’s next of kin contacts since three months into being assigned to each other.

  Still, he has no complaints because they’re happy enough together in their own strange type of domestic bliss. So happy, in fact, that neither of them is actually willing to look too closely even with all of the jokes floating around the department about them.

  Again, Dylan has no desire to rock the boat he’s somehow found himself sitting in with Tyler. Not when it could mean the destruction of the best thing in his life at the moment.

  ****

  Things shift in their arrangement one night a few months later.

  They’re on Tyler’s back porch, slumped together side by side on the stone patio and determinedly working their way towards drunk, after a particularly bad day on the job. They’re leaning against the house, shoulders brushing and bodies pressed together from hip to knee, too tired and depressed to even begin to bother with the normally comfortable lawn chairs.

  Dylan knows that they both need the comfort of contact with another person, the reassurance that comes with feeling someone else in your personal space. It’s the kind of thing that both of them always need after cases like this one, cases that involve kids.

  Once, before Tyler came into his life, Dylan would have hit a bar and tried his damndest to pick someone up for the night, to lose himself in someone else's willing arms to try and get what he’d seen out of his head.

  Tyler, he knows, has always been the type more inclined to ignore that inborn need for personal contact. Instead he would have hit the gym, would have turned his knuckles bruised and bloody against a punching bag, his legs weak and trembling on a treadmill.

  Now though, they have each other and the sort of comfort and familiarity that only they can provide for one another. Any kind of reluctance Tyler might normally have is gone, if the way his arm is thrown around Dylan’s shoulder is anything to go by. Dylan doesn't care. Instead he just settles back and presses his head against Tyler�
�s broad chest contentedly. They’re both drinking steadily from the most recent of many beers, the silence stretching between them in a way that’s both comfortable and heavy with the day’s events.

  “Today was one of the worst fucking days of my life,” Dylan announces quietly, his words surprisingly clear and even despite the numbing buzz of alcohol in his system.

  “Yeah.” Tyler practically sighs his agreement as he turns his face into the side of Dylan’s head, burying his nose in Dylan’s hair and inhaling deeply.

  Dylan settles back further against Tyler’s chest, enjoying the heat and strength that exudes from his partner’s sturdy form. Tyler makes him feel safe on days like this where the world seems huge and horrible and like it’ll never be bright again. Makes him believe that things will be all right as long as they have each other’s backs.

  It’s a welcome change from the helplessness and rage that’s gripped them both all day today.

  “Hey, Ty?” Dylan practically whispers.

  “Yeah?” Tyler hums back.

  “Things’ll be better tomorrow, right?” Dylan doesn’t want to admit to the way his voice breaks on the question, doesn’t want to admit that sometimes the job gets to him like this.

  To his credit Tyler doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call Dylan on his moment of weakness and need. Instead he wraps his arm a bit tighter around Dylan’s shoulder, pulls him in closer and moves his face so that he can whisper in his ear.

  “Yeah, princess.” Tyler’s breath is warm against his skin. “They’ll be better tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.”

  The funny thing is that Dylan’s pretty sure that Tyler can do it, and that tomorrow will be better because it won’t dare defy Tyler’s truly epic stubbornness.

  Dylan drifts off into a hazy state of almost sleep, comforted by Tyler’s familiar presence and the rhythmic puffing of warm breath on the side of his neck.