Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a crisp Autumn morning when the Rose family unceremoniously arrived in the town of Schitt’s Creek.

The twenty-four hours leading up to their arrival had been an auditory whirlwind of Moira’s shrieks, Alexis’s frantic phone calls with thirty of her closest friends, and Johnny’s directions choked out to anyone within earshot. Doors slammed, bags zipped shut, and suitcases were dragged first along the smooth marble floors of their family home, then hours later along the gravel parking lot of this ratty motel they were now forced to inhabit. Throughout all the chaos David found himself barely able to think.  It was mid-afternoon by the time they’d finally pulled everything from the moving truck and sorted it into the correct rooms.

David chewed his lips while he unpacked only his essentials: his knits were stored and accounted for, and now he lined his skincare supplies up neatly along the painfully small counter in their shared bathroom.  When he finished, he clustered the rest of his unpacked suitcases along the wall away from the active disaster zone happening on Alexis’s side of the room. He then flopped into his new bed, pulling the covers directly over his head, in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise from the rest of his family. He felt so suffocated by the tornado of sounds still encircling him that he barely scoffed at the stench of cigarettes baked into the sheets.

Every sound, loud or quiet, felt like a scissor blade scraping slowly across his eardrums. At least under the blankets he could cover his ears without a snarky comment from Alexis, but even the relief that provided was minimal; he could hear his own heartbeat in the palms of his hands and he nearly sobbed in frustration realizing he couldn’t even escape the sound of his own pulse. Still, he wouldn’t cry.

The last thing David needed was for Alexis to see him cry over a bit of noise despite being well into his thirties. He always strived to be an emotional rock for his sister (though he could never admit such a thing out loud). On a physical level, if she was determined to frolic around the world with a shady crowd of people, David was determined to provide her with a safety net and (quite literally) a get-out-of-jail free card. Emotionally, though, Alexis and David didn’t often connect - but David promised himself he’d be ready if the day ever came that she needed someone to be there for her that way, too. Lord knew their parents wouldn’t do it. Anyway, David refused to let her hear him cry.

This fury of sounds continued for hours and David was so stunned and overwhelmed that he felt powerless to do anything but lie under those smoky blankets and plead with the universe for silence. He would need to find his earplugs soon, especially given his new prison-like proximity to Alexis, but for the time being he couldn’t imagine unlocking another suitcase and hearing the sound of yet more zippers tear through his ears.

At last the sunlight coming through the moth-eaten curtains dimmed and the door connecting them to his parents’ room finally closed. For the first time all day, Moira and Johnny’s voices faded into the background. Alexis now sat on her bed across the room, no longer yapping to someone, but instead frantically texting. The rhythmic taps of her fingers against her phone’s screen were soft and almost soothing. David unclenched his jaw for the first time in hours, and though he still refused to poke his head out from under the blankets, he finally felt anchored enough in the lumpy, smokey bed to let his mind give way to sleep.

David wakes with a splitting headache; somehow, though, the room feels quieter than yesterday.

Okay, maybe it actually isn’t quieter - he can pick out a lot of the same offending sounds, but today they don’t feel like they’re scraping through his ears and into his skull. Alexis is already on the phone by the time he opens his eyes, and the pipes squeak from what he assumes is his mother attempting to shower next door. Honestly, thinks David, this headache is a welcome tradeoff for the amplified hellscape of yesterday, and hopefully it’s nothing a large cup of coffee can’t fix... though he isn’t sure where to get one just yet.

Johnny lets himself into the room - oof, that’s going to take some getting used to, thinks David, squeezing his eyes shut again - and immediately begins chattering away to the two “kids” about making the most of their day ahead. “I took a walk through town early this morning, sort of a preliminary scout of the premises, and the Café Tropical seems like our best bet for a substantial breakfast,” says Johnny, clapping his hands together like he’s giving someone - himself, perhaps? - a pep talk.

“Yeah, it’s just that I refuse to be seen near any small town eatery striving for a ‘tropical’ aesthetic, much less one based in the rural armpit of southern Ontario,” says David.

“Ew, David.” Alexis momentarily pulls her phone away from her ear. “Could you make this whole situation sound any more gross?”

“Well David, I trust you put some of your money from those galleries in New York toward a cooking class, then, because option two for a restaurant in this town doesn’t seem to exist,” says Johnny.

“Mhmm,” says David. “Well thankfully I never invested my earnings in anything quite that frivolous. Anyway, I can just order from the next town over. With the magic of the internet I plan to avoid any direct human connections for the foreseeable future.”

“We’ll be having breakfast together as a family today,” says Johnny sharply before turning from the room.

“And I will not be going,” David calls before pulling the sheets back over his head. They still reek of cigarettes, but whiffs of his cologne had weaved their way into the stench overnight.

“Oh, come on David!” Alexis pouts. I think it’s going to be fun. You know, this town is honestly kind of cute.” He can’t see her, but David can just imagine the nonchalant little shimmy she gives her shoulders as she says this.

“Excuse me?”

“Think about it! The Café Tropical? That’s like, SO optimistic for this place. It’s like, they really just want to give people some hope. I think it’s so sweet.”

“What is wrong with you?” David groans.

“Maybe Dad’s right! I just think we should try to like, look at the bright side here, okay?”

David presses his fingers against his forehead. Voices and sounds aren’t grating today, thank god, but the continuous stabbing of this headache is making it hard to keep his eyes open. He needs coffee, but straggling along with his sister and parents to get it seems a bit extreme. David sits up, squeezing the sides of his head to dull the motion pain, when it dawns on him: “Oh my god Alexis. Someone’s coming to get you, aren’t they? Who is it? Who’s picking us up? Is it Stavros?”

“Uhm, no silly. Nobody’s picking us up. I’m just... making the most of this little blip in our lives.” She averts her gaze back to her phone.

“How very un-Alexis of you. Frankly it seems astonishingly out of character.”

“Ugh, David! Fine. If you must know, Stavros is flying in on Friday; it won’t be for us, though - at the moment it’s just for me.”

Of course. Had David really expected Schitt’s Creek of all places to be the one she’d finally stay put in? “You’re a monster, Alexis. That’s what you are. A monster.”

“Oh my god, David. Maybe if you picked up the phone and called some of your friends you’d have a ride out too, but instead you’ve just been acting like someone is holding you hostage in that disgusting bed!” Alexis stands up and swings her purse over her shoulder, then steps toward the parents’ room.

“Unlike your friends, most of mine are working professionals and therefore extremely busy,” David mutters.

“Okay well, tough. Anyway, I’m just gonna sit with our parents, order a smoothie, and think fondly of where I’ll be three days from now.” She flicks a stray lock of hair away from her face. “And by the way, if you order your breakfast from anywhere outside of this town, I’ll be shocked if your coffee doesn’t show up lukewarm,” Alexis scoffs.

Fuck. She’s right.

An hour later David has managed to guide himself through his 9-step skincare routine with the bathroom lights off. He dresses quickly, having already mentally planned today’s outfit the moment he woke, then steps out the door into the crisp autumn sunlight. He’d chosen one of his softest sweaters - cashmere - and now he pulls the sleeves over his hands, fingers gripping the fabric from within like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. Coffee. He just needs a cup of coffee.

David pokes his head nervously into the lobby of the motel office. It’s dimly lit, but the fact that it’s illuminated at all is unmistakeable: the lights are so loud that David wonders how in the hell anyone could stand to be in the room for longer than the five minutes it takes to check in. There’s only one person here - thank god - and although she’s got a book in her hand she looks up instantly when the bell above the door jingles to announce David’s arrival. Her hair is long and black and she’s wearing a worn flannel that David suspects she didn’t put much thought into selecting this morning. “Hi,” she says. She looks directly at him, but notably her face doesn’t change. “Can I help you... Mr. Rose?”

“Uh, hi,” says David. “I need coffee.” The woman continues to stare at him like she wants more information. “Judging by the general state of this place I’m guessing you don’t do room service, so...”

“Astute observation,” she says.

“Right... so... coffee. Where can I get it?”

“Rough night?”

David is starting to feel like she’s messing with him. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, it’s just that you just seem so... alive this morning,” she smirks.

“I think you’re kind of rude.”

“Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment. And uh, as for coffee, the café is all we’ve got unless you’re looking for a grocery store, so...”

“And where is the café?”

“Make a left down the road into town. There’s only one main street, you can’t really miss it.”

“Mhmm,” nods David. He considers asking for the woman’s name, just for reference of course, but then remembers that he’s strictly not making connections with people at this time. “Great. Okay. Thanks for your help... I’ll just... go. Bye.”

“Have a good day Mr. Rose,” she says. Once again David notes that her face doesn’t change and her eyebrows never move. As he closes the door behind him he sees her shake her head before cracking her book open again.

Mission finally accomplished, David sips his coffee as he walks back to the motel. The throbbing between his eyes mellows out as he drinks, and he feels comforted just having something hot in his hands to focus on.

The Café Tropical had proven to be almost exactly what he expected: far too much yellow, and a little inconsistent in its theme with all the fake palm trees, pastel beach murals, and a black and white checkered linoleum floor. The waitress was tall and extremely cheerful. David had to make an active effort not to remember her name after she introduced herself, but the prominent name tag on her blouse made this hard.

If he was being honest, he’d felt extremely uncomfortable in the space, and it wasn’t just because it was tacky. The whole time David couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been stripped of his anonymity the moment he walked through the door. Sure, no one except Twyla - dammit! - had been there, but it felt like there was an unspoken assumption from her that he’d be back soon, and he didn’t like that. He didn’t know the rules of the space. All he wanted to do was avoid being part of it, but instead it sucked him in against his will and stripped him down completely. Despite his valiant attempt at nonchalance, he’d been seen.

As he walks, David reasons that he just hasn’t conveyed the right message yet. Rather than someone entirely uninterested in the local social scene who stops into the café out of necessity, he seems to have presented himself as something much less desirable: a fresh face in need of a warm welcome.

He thinks back to the New York gallery circuit; sometimes he’d wanted to hate-visit a gallery just for his own amusement. Over the years he’d devised a pretty successful dress and social code for himself that ensured he could judge something mercilessly while remaining unnoticed and uninterrupted by staff and fellow patrons. The first step was of course to wear an expensive (yet understated) outfit and browse the space alone. He learned quickly that crossing his arms over his chest drew attention because for some reason it led people to believe he wanted to share his thoughts, so instead he would keep his arms at his sides and occasionally force a subdued smile to creep across his face. A smile gave the distinct impression that he was simply enjoying his time and basking in his solitude.

Anyway, thinks David, it had taken him a few hate-visits before he really nailed down his technique, so he can allow himself to be soothed knowing he probably just needs to workshop his approach at the café a few more times before he finds that sweet spot.

A nagging thought in the back of his mind reminds David that he’s never met another person who needs to literally strategize simple social encounters.

He takes the last sip of his coffee. He’s always known his approach to life is a bit more cerebral than most, but this is the first time he is realizing that this might truly present a problem. In New York, whenever people had pointed out his high-strung and overly-cerebral nature, he could always brush it off with a joke because there was no way anyone would leave him behind... not when he was the one fielding the tab.

In Schitt’s Creek, David has no such safety net.

He tosses his coffee cup in a roadside bin and pulls his sleeves back over his hands. Until he finds a way out of this town, he’ll have to be okay - like, really be okay - with flying completely solo.

Chapter Text

It only takes a few days for David to settle into a new routine. The routine itself is an accident; he honestly never intended to get comfortable in this town, knowing full well that he and his family will be gone in a few months at most. However, when he makes it through the first few days relatively unscathed, his brain seems to take note that whatever he’s been doing is working. His neuroses release their hold on him (ever so slightly) and his days fall into autopilot.

David always wakes to the sound of his family getting ready for breakfast in the morning, but he pretends to stay asleep until Alexis clicks the door shut behind her, signalling with certainty that they’ve left without him. His morning routine takes at least an hour, and by the time he’s finished it’s safe to slip out to the café with a guarantee that he won’t run into his family along the way. He drinks his coffee on his walk back to the motel, then spends the rest of the afternoon sketching and updating himself on the latest gossip from his circles in New York. Although breakfast with his family is skippable, David resigns himself to the fact that he can’t completely ignore them; if he does, they might actually forget he’s there and then he’ll be left in the dust by the time they finally sell the town. So, solely to keep up appearances, he returns to the café every evening with them for dinner. With all four of the Roses crammed into one booth and competing for each other’s attention, it’s easy for David to just slip away into his own head unnoticed.

Flying under the radar at the café in the morning is proving to be easier said than done. Each morning David tries a new angle with Twyla in the hopes that she’ll get his message: he doesn’t want to “get to know” anyone in this town.

One morning he pretends to be in the middle of an important phone call, pausing his “conversation” only to recite his order before getting back to business. Unfortunately this leads to Twyla thinking he’s not scheduling enough breaks, and she gives him a look he can’t quite read - pity? concern? - before handing him his drink with a sticky note attached. “Hope this powers you through your day!” it reads, with an obnoxiously large smiley face at the end.

The next day, David recites his order and then intentionally slips into a booth as far away from the counter as possible. Twyla notices the change and brings him his coffee in a porcelain mug instead of a to-go cup, gushing about how happy she is that he’s finally found the time to slow down his mornings. David is forced to manoeuvre his way through a bunch of small talk, during which he acquires far too many details about Twyla’s childhood.

When David returns the following morning, he is completely out of ideas. He sits back at the counter and orders, averting his gaze once again. Twyla smiles at him and immediately begins to tell him about her estranged uncle who’s in town... which is when David snaps.

“Twyla!” he spits, cutting her off mid-ramble.

Twyla shakes her head like she’s been called from a daydream. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I get your order wrong? I can get a little distracted-”

“No, Twyla! I just really don’t want to talk to you - or anyone here, for that matter!” David’s arms are flailing as he speaks, and he tries to reign them in so that he’s not being Too Much again, but he can’t stop. “Frankly, all I want is to wash this disgusting town off my body, but given the size of the hot water tank at the motel that’s basically impossible, so instead I just want my coffee and a morning of silence.”

Twyla freezes and swallows, and David realizes that this is the first time he’s ever seen the huge smile wiped from her face. “Coffee, you got it,” she says, turning away. David twists the silver rings around his fingers. He didn’t mean to actually hurt her feelings - he just desperately, desperately wants to be left alone.

“One skim caramel macchiato, two sweeteners, and a sprinkle of cocoa powder,” says Twyla, averting her gaze. “Enjoy the rest of your day.” She immediately comes out from behind the counter to clear a table before David can mutter his thanks.

Well, you got what you wanted, didn’t you? He feels like an asshole. He’s never had to tell anyone to back off from him before; usually he’s fighting to keep people interested. In the odd moments where he has actually wanted someone to leave, all he has to do is to stop actively trying to make them stay; David can’t remember anyone ever trying to hold on after he’s let go.

Back in New York, David’s therapist Celia tried to help him make friends. He never explicitly asked her to do this, but a lot of conversations began with him recounting events from his social life, and ended with her saying something that always surprised him: “It sounds like you’d really like to be friends with these people.” At first he was confused: he didn’t want to be friends with those people, he was friends with those people. She’d apologized for misreading the situation, but the longer they talked about what friendship meant to David, the more David began to realize that the people he spent time with really weren’t actual friends yet - not really.

David eventually expressed this to Celia, and from that moment forward she started to subtly give him some pointers on intentionally deepening his relationships. They both knew that certain things like sharing private pieces of himself wouldn’t happen right away (and, thought David, would never happen if he could avoid it). But there were some easier practical tips he could implement, like giving genuine compliments, verbally expressing interest in people’s lives, and making sure he wasn’t physically closed off (no crossed arms, eyes off the floor, etc.).

Truthfully, all those tips his therapist gave him never really worked. He knew they improved the quality of the friendship he could offer to others; in short, implementing the tips made him a slightly more palatable human. Still, being attentive to others’ needs wasn’t enough to erase the fact that at his core, David Rose was simultaneously far Too Much for everyone and not nearly enough for anyone. Friends, colleagues, lovers - hell, even his own family - would always naturally move on without him unless he held on to their company by the skin of his teeth.

David bites his tongue in between sips of coffee. He’s pretty sure he feels guilty about what just happened with Twyla, but above all else he feels extremely confused... Twyla is the first person to be hurt, rather than ambivalent or relieved, when David tries to distance himself.

By mid-afternoon David is pacing back and forth in the motel room. He gave up on sketching hours ago, and tried journaling, but he just can’t stop replaying his outburst in the café from that morning. No matter how much Twyla rubbed him the wrong way, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. In fact, she had shown nothing but kindness to David. He felt frustrated because all he wanted was some personal space, and despite his various attempts to communicate that to her, she hadn’t gotten the message. David is pretty sure it’s his own fault, too - he’s a grown adult, for fuck’s sake, he should be able to make himself understood without ripping someone’s head off.

Eventually he strips the sheets on both beds - he needs something mindless to do with his hands - and goes to the office to inquire about where the laundry room is. He stumbles through the door, the pile of sheets and pillow cases in his arms obscuring half his face. The same dark-haired woman sits at the reception desk and David wonders absently if she’s the only employee at this place. “Hi,” says David. “Where’s the laundry room?”

“Oh, uh, it’s around back, but you can just leave those here if you need them washed right away...” says the woman. “Normally I change all the linens on Friday.”

“It’s not... it’s not urgent,” says David half-heartedly, though he really would like his sheets cleaned. “Nothing got spilled or anything. I just... needed something to do, I guess.”

She shrugs. “Mr. Rose, no offence, but your family doesn’t really strike me as the type to do their own housework, and I can’t afford any repairs on our machines right now so... if you need them done, I can take them. But the machines out back are for clothing only, so I can’t let you do these yourself.”

“Okay, first of all, Mr. Rose is my father and it makes me feel very off-brand when you call me that. My name is David. And second, you’d be surprised about housework... in my case anyway. I much prefer not to soak in my own filth.”

“Charming,” says the woman, taking the sheets out of his arms. “I’m still not letting you use the washing machines. We get like, two guests a week maximum minus our... permanent guests...”

“Don’t ever say that again,” mutters David.

“... so I really can’t afford any repairs.”

“Okay, whatever,” says David, turning to leave. “I’ll take the sheets, too. I can wait.”

“Suit yourself. I’m Stevie, by the way,” she says.

“David.”

“... Yes, you’ve said,” she smirks.

Fuck, thinks David, pulling the pile of bedding back into his arms.

David’s days in Schitt’s Creek begin to melt together.

He continues to go to Café Tropical for coffee each morning. He locks the guilt of his outburst away and instead tries to enjoy this new reality where Twyla gets his order started before he even needs to open his mouth.

Sure, every aspect of this town is far beneath David’s standards (from the semi-edible food at the café to the moth-eaten and frankly depressing motel decor), but David can’t deny that he enjoys having nothing to prove to anyone in Schitt’s Creek. He’s easily the best dressed person here, and it’s clear that he’s had more worldly experiences than any of the townsfolk combined. If nothing else, David has some privacy, and it seems impossible for the Rose family to sink any lower from here.

The problem is, David is starting to feel very alone.

It’s not that he never felt lonely in New York; he would never admit this to Alexis, but it hadn’t surprised David whatsoever that not a single one of his “friends” reached out to him after their family lost everything. Loneliness was familiar to him; in fact, David can’t recall a time in his life when he wasn’t lonely. Still, back in New York, David could always cope with that constant ache by ensuring he was never alone.

Loneliness was something David learned to live with by necessity. No matter how much therapy he did, no matter how much effort he put into building up new friendships, it was abundantly clear to David that he couldn’t connect with people the same way everyone else seemed to be able to. People like Alexis could make friends by accident; people like Celia, his therapist, claimed they needed to put a lot of effort into establishing their friendships, and only then were they rewarded with a tight-knit group of lifelong friends. David always felt like he exhausted himself trying to give his peers everything, only to realize that people would still happily wipe him from every guest list the moment he couldn’t pay their bill.

Things are complicated in this town. David doesn’t want to be friends with anyone in Schitt’s Creek, therefore he should be able to choose to exist alone while simultaneously ridding himself of his loneliness, right? How can he feel lonely when there’s not a single person he aches to be friends with?

On Friday morning David wakes to sobs coming from the adjacent bed. He forces himself to sit up rather than feigning sleep, which would be so much easier. Alexis is curled up on her bed with tears pouring down her cheeks that are leaving unsightly streaks in her foundation. “Alexis?”

“Go back to sleep, David,” she mutters.

“Are you...” he stops himself. She’s clearly not okay, so that seems like a silly question to ask, even if she probably expects it.

“I’m fine,” she says, filling in the blanks herself. She rolls over to face the wall away from David.

“That’s a lie,” says David. He gets out of his own bed and moves to sit beside her.

“Ew, David!” she says when the mattress sinks slightly under his added weight. “What are you doing?!”

“You’re crying. What’s... going on?” he tries.

Alexis sniffs. “Stavros isn’t coming.”

David scoffs. “Okay... well I’m going to be honest, given his previous track record of showing up for you... that’s not surprising. Alexis, as far as boyfriends go... he’s kind of a dud.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” Alexis whispers.

“...Oh,” says David, piecing it together. He squeezes his eyes shut and looks up at the ceiling. “Alexis, this sounds like his loss. You were always more than he deserved.”

His sister unfolds herself and sits up to look at him. “Really?” she says, her voice uncharacteristically small.

He presses his lips together and nods. “Mhmm.”

The tiniest smile appears on Alexis’s face, and she throws her arms around David’s torso. It surprises him and he instinctively leans away from the touch, but she just pulls him closer and begins to cry again. David realizes he doesn’t know what to do with his arms in this situation; they are currently in the air like someone commanded him to put his hands up. He squeezes his eyes shut again, both to settle the emotional lump in his throat and to give himself a moment to regroup and figure out what to do with his limbs. Eventually he rests one hand on his own lap and wraps his other arm around his sister’s shoulders, gently stroking her hair while she continues to cry.

“David...” she says. “I don’t actually think this town is cute. I don’t want to stay here.”

David sighs. “I know,” he says. “Me either.”

“What am I supposed to do now...?” Alexis whispers.

“I wish I knew.”

It’s Friday afternoon and David is out at the clothesline the minute his sheets are dry.

“You know, if you really need something to do that isn’t laundry... a bunch of us are getting together on Saturday,” says Stevie, coming out of the office toward him. She’s squinting in the sunlight. “It’s a tailgate party... probably not your thing, but you’re welcome to join us.”

David stares. Her expression is blank as ever, so it’s hard to tell if she’s joking... but there’s a good chance she is because people rarely invite David to things without some sort of catch.

“Okay, you know I’m broke, right? Like, I can’t supply drinks or anything...”

Stevie tilts her head like she’s confused. “O...kay? I didn’t ask you to. Besides, there’ll be plenty of beer to go around. If beer isn’t your thing I recommend bringing your own booze, but I doubt you’ll have to share. People around here are pretty set on beer...”

A door creaks open, and Alexis pokes her head out from their shared room. She looks like she’s just gotten out of the shower, and she’s wearing a navy blue dress. “Wait, did I hear something about a party?” she says.

“Yeah...?” says Stevie. “Tomorrow night. It’s just a tailgate party for locals...”

“Oh, love that journey for me!” says Alexis, stepping out of the room. She’s wearing silver pumps, and clutching a purse like she has somewhere to be, though David can’t imagine where. “What time?”

“Starts around eight,” says Stevie.

“Oh yay!” says Alexis. “We’ll be there!” David can’t help but notice that she seems to have moved past this morning’s Stavros incident very quickly.

“Uh... we?” says David. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can come.”

“Oh, why not David?” whines Alexis.

“I... have things to do,” says David, rolling his eyes.

“Ugh, you’re so boring David. Whatever. See you later Stevie,” says Alexis as she struts off toward the town.

“Bye,” says Stevie, before she turns back to David. “So. You sound... busy.” Her voice is absolutely dripping with sarcasm. “Guess I’ll just hang with your sister since you’ve got so many plans.”

“Okay, fuck you,” says David, though he can’t help but smirk. “I’ll... see you around.”

“Bye Mr. Rose,” she calls.

David flips her off as she wanders back toward the office.

Strangely, he feels a little lighter, even if he won’t be attending. First and foremost, David doesn’t have a clue what a tail-whatever party is. He also has to admit that there are very few parties he is able to stomach without being given at least a week’s notice - and even then, he is prone to ducking out early. This party is tomorrow night; that’s not nearly enough time.

Chapter Text

“Kids, don’t make any plans for tonight. We’re going to Roland’s for dinner,” Johnny calls from the other room. David and Alexis are both sprawled out on their respective beds. David can’t help but notice Alexis’s feet are buried under a pile of clothes - unclear if they’re clean or dirty - at the foot of her bed. He cringes, hoping she’s at least not wearing shoes.

“Um, that’ll be a hard no from me, but thank you for the offer,” says Alexis.

“It wasn’t an offer Alexis; this dinner is an important business meeting, and Roland has requested the attendance of the whole family. It’s non-negotiable.”

“Mm, right, except I already promised Stevie I’d be her moral support at a party tonight, and I don’t think you want me disappointing the one person who brings us fresh towels,” she says, twisting her hair. Johnny steps through the door with his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Fine,” he says. “Alexis, you’re excused - but only because I can only handle so much of your mother’s... excesses... per day. David, be ready at five.”

David still hasn’t looked up from his phone. He’s been scrolling through a list of Brooklyn’s top up-and-coming photographers, curious about which names he recognizes from his old scene... and also praying a certain someone’s name doesn’t come across. “Wait, what? No, I can’t go either. I’m busy.”

Johnny raises his eyebrows so high it looks like they might merge with his hairline. “Busy? Since when are you busy? What on Earth are you busy with?”

“Oooooh, burn David,” says Alexis. “But seriously, what are your plans? Because you were also extremely vague when Stevie asked you to come with us, and now I’m dying to know.”

“Chew on mold, Alexis.”

“Great, that’s settled then,” says Johnny with a satisfied clap of his hands. “David, you’ve got nothing going on tonight, so we’ll see you at five,” he says, swinging the door to his own room shut behind him.

“I hate you,” says David. He hopes Alexis doesn’t hear the crack in his voice.

He rolls over to face the wall and continues to scroll. He tries to ignore the panic rising beneath his skin. David knows nothing about Roland or his wife. If this is a business meeting - which it sounds like it is... something to do with selling the town, probably?... then Roland, his wife, and his parents are going to be the only other people in attendance. There’s probably not going to be a snack table or a bar to linger at, and there’s certainly not going to be a crowd he can blend in with. He’s going to be seen - and worse, heard - by these people. He isn’t ready for this. It can’t happen tonight, definitely not tonight...

Eventually David tosses his phone to the side and covers his head with his pillow, hoping by some miracle he disappears completely.

At 3:30 Alexis steps out of the bathroom in a short black dress and gold heels. Her hair is curled and the top layer is pulled back in a loose bun. David is still pissed that she threw him under the bus, but even he has to admit she’s going to draw a lot of attention tonight. “David, I’m leaving,” she smiles.

“Lucky you,” says David.

“Mm, I’m sorry, I seem to recall it was you that explicitly rejected Stevie’s generous invite to the party.”

“Right, and I seem to recall that it was you who did nothing to save me from the unreasonable demands of our shared father.”

“Oh grow up, David, I’m sure you can handle one dinner.”

“Right, sure, like the expert socialite we both know I am,” he mutters. A look of recognition passes over Alexis’s face for a split second, but then it’s gone. “Wait a minute...” says David. “Isn’t your party at eight? That’s like... five hours away.”

“Um, yes,” she says. “But I found out Twyla is coming, so we made plans to get ready together. Such a sweetie, I just think she could use some fashion advice from someone like me.”

“You think Twyla needs more help than Stevie?”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” says Alexis. “But honestly, Stevie seems more interested in beer than finding a guy. Also, she was definitely more interested in going to the party with you than with me.”

“Wait, really?” says David. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that Stevie wanted to hang out with him.

“Um, obviously, David.” Alexis shakes her head as if he’s being obtuse on purpose. “Anyway, stop dragging your heels about dinner tonight, you’re actually stressing me out. You’ll be fine,” she says.

“Yeah,” says David, unwilling to argue any further.

Alexis pauses by the door. “But text me if you actually need an out - especially if Roland has another bathroom incident.” David scrunches his face; until now, he had pretty successfully erased that detail from his limited catalogue of knowledge about Roland Schitt.

She finally leaves and David drags himself into the shower. Thankfully his sister hasn’t used all the hot water, and he allows the shower to run slightly too hot, directing his thoughts toward the slight burning sensation on his skin rather than his laundry list of what-ifs about tonight. He washes and conditions his hair, shaves, and scrubs his body with his favourite moisturizing soap that smells exactly like the cherry blossoms in Japan.

He knows he needs to finish up; he’s still got the rest of his post-shower skincare routine to get through, but his stomach drops again knowing that once he’s finished in the bathroom, he’ll be forced to get dressed and make his appearance at Roland’s.

David knows his father saw his un-enthusiastic response about dinner this morning as just another case of “David and his Dramatics”. He also knows Alexis thinks the same thing, though she probably pities him at least a little; she would have reacted exactly the same way if she didn’t have a genuine excuse for herself at the ready.

It would be so much easier for his father and Alexis to be right. David wishes he was just being dramatic - though maybe he is, maybe this is what being a drama queen feels like to everyone, maybe he’s just sorely unequipped to handle even his own dramatics - but the truth is he feels genuinely overwhelmed about tonight.

He knows he can handle a lot, socially speaking, but he has to be ready, and that usually means thinking through every plausible scenario at least a week in advance. His dad gave him less than five hours to be ready for this.

He’s not ready.

He’s. Not. Ready.

He’s not ready, and now the shower water is cooling down and he’s starting to shiver and his ears are ringing and the pipes are squeaking and the fan is rickety and his eyes are tearing up and there’s a lump in his throat and David can’t think anymore.

The panic that has been simmering under his skin all day is suddenly boiling and he needs to get it out, he’s going to explode if he doesn’t get it out, so he turns off the faucet and wraps himself in a towel and slides to the floor with his back against the bathroom door so he can be extra certain that no one will be able to walk in on him while he bursts.

David leans against the door and clutches his knees to his chest. He doesn’t cry, just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. He does three full deep breaths, then opens his eyes and begins to recite five things he can see, four things he can hear... that’s about as far as he gets.

He starts to rock himself back and forth so slowly he doesn’t even register it at first. It’s not intentional; his towel-covered back just moves gently off the wall and back again. A few minutes pass like this, back and forth, and David can almost feel the calmer waters he’s trying to reach, but the panic still boils under his skin.

He is pulled back to the present when he registers the sound of a slight, rhythmic thud, and opens his eyes to figure out where it’s coming from. God, if it’s a rat... he doesn’t trust himself not to run out into the parking lot wrapped only in this moth-eaten towel.

It’s not a rat. It’s his own back thudding against the door.

Fuck, he thinks, suddenly embarrassed about what he must look like, even though he’s pretty sure his parents are noisily getting ready for the evening in the next room over. Nevertheless, David scoots himself away from the door.

David begins to rock less gently. It feels like if he allows his body to move fast enough he could blow off all the steam he’s holding in. His arms want to twist and flap too, but he tries letting go of his knees and that makes it harder to rock, and he doesn’t want to stop doing that now because it’s the only thing that’s making him feel better. He squeezes his eyes shut again and focuses on the back-and-forth rhythm to keep from completely falling apart.

This feels soothing, so soothing... and strangely familiar?

David isn’t keeping track of time anymore. By the time his body slows down again his skin feels dry, and his hair is just damp rather than dripping wet. It feels like waking from a dream. A strange calm washes over his whole body, and David almost feels like a protective screen has sprung up between him and his surroundings.

He finally unclasps his fingers and they fall to the floor, releasing their hold on his knees. They feel kind of numb - how long was he in that position? - and without thinking David begins to release the tension by flapping his hands wildly in front of his face. A few seconds pass before David suddenly stops moving. He feels heat rise in his cheeks as he stares at his hands.

What the actual fuck am I doing?

He heaves himself off the floor and hangs up his towel, then desperately gets to work on fixing his hair which he has accidentally allowed to begin air-drying prior to being combed. His phone tells him it’s been almost forty minutes since he got out of the shower; his dad expects him too be fully ready in a mere fifteen minutes. He’ll have to drastically abbreviate his skin-care routine, so his skin will definitely break out tomorrow, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

It’s strange - David wants to scrutinize everything that just happened, because it was so strange, and definitely off-brand and embarrassing, but he can’t bring himself to care. It legitimately made him feel better than any of the many breathing techniques and meditation exercises that therapists have drilled into him over the years.

Hell, now he felt calm enough to just move on without doing his skincare routine properly. Why hasn’t he done this before?

You’re not a child anymore, David Rose; it’s time to start acting like it.

Claustrophobic is the best word David can come up with to describe the Schitt family home. The decor is so busy. Every shelf is cluttered with knick-knacks and photographs of Roland and his wife (Jocelyn, David reminds himself). There’s an overwhelming combination of smells coming from food cooking in the kitchen, and David has a strange realization that he isn’t used to food smells mixed in with a living space. The kitchen in the Rose family home was always closed off from the dining room, and he can count on one hand the number of times he ever actually set foot in it.

Jocelyn offers drinks and sets the Roses up on a single small sofa in front of a coffee table. David, unfortunately, is squished between his parents. He tries to remember the last time he was this close to either of them and finds that he can’t. His arms lay across his legs in what David hopes is a comfortable-looking position; in reality, his hands have a relentless grip on his knees. He wants to curl in on himself, to escape the feeling of the beads on his mother’s gown digging into his arms and his father pressing into him on his other side.

David wants to sit on the floor and rock back and forth again until he can forget every sound, smell, and touch, that is currently bombarding him.

Jocelyn sits on the sofa across from the Roses and Roland joins them all momentarily with an enthusiastic greeting. “Look at us, Roses and Schitts, all together under one roof,” he smirks and pours everyone a glass of (hopefully) water. “A toast!” he says, raising his glass.

“Oh, no thank you dear, I must remain ever vigilant whilst wearing this lipstick,” chimes Moira. David feels Johnny turn his head beside him to glare at his wife.

“A toast!” says Johnny Rose, following suit. David half-heartedly raises his glass, and his mother sighs beside him and does the same. They all take a sip - Moira excluded - and thank goodness it’s nothing more alarming than tap water.

“So,” says Johnny, leaning forward and cupping his hands together. “Why don’t we start off with that signature so we can get all that business-talk out of the way? Then we can really get tonight rolling!”

“Oh Johnny,” says Roland. “I invited you lovely folks for dinner - I’m not about to put you all to work before you’ve even had a bite to eat! Just you wait, Jocelyn’s cooking is to die for.”

“Oh I’m sure it is,” laughs Johnny.

“And I have my epi-pen lying in wait just for this grand moment,” says Moira.

“I’m actually feeling a little queasy,” says David. It’s not a lie. He can’t tell what Jocelyn is making, but the smell is just too much. “I might need to step out for just a moment.” He starts to stand when Johnny grabs his wrist.

“No no,” he says. “Have some more water.”

“Oh John, let me accompany our beloved firstborn out to the deck for a breath of fresh air,” says Moira.

“I could use a breath of fresh air myself if ya know what I mean,” says Roland, winking dramatically. He actually stands up to go.

“No Roland, that won’t be necessary, we’re all just fine here,” says Johnny, waving him back.

“Uh, Johnny. This is my house, and I’m telling you, I have to go,” says Roland. He slips off toward the washroom, and David can’t help but stifle a snort when he sees his father go pale. Just then a loud ding comes from the kitchen.

“Oh, soup’s up!” says Jocelyn, excusing herself to dish out the meal.

The Roses sit in silence; David bounces his leg. He’s surprised to feel Moira’s hand push down against his bouncing knee. David rolls his eyes slightly; this dinner is going absolutely no where, and he’s sitting on a couch wedged like a child between his parents. He’d have to laugh if he wasn’t still profoundly anxious about the whole thing.

Silence lingers between the Roses for several minutes before Moira finally releases a dramatic sigh. “Day-vid,” she says, actually turning to face him. “Be honest, dear, how many of Mommy’s Xanax have you stolen for the occasion to-night?”

David honestly had no idea what her sigh would preface this time, but it certainly wasn’t this. “Excuse me?!” he says.

“Dear, you know I shan’t ever judge you, but I do need to keep track of my supply these days,” she says.

“Ew - I didn’t take a single one,” says David. “I’m not Alexis.” It’s not that he’s never popped a pill as needed over the years, but David has always been very careful to keep his own stash completely separate from his mother’s. After all, historically speaking, he is always the one left to deal with the carnage when Moira runs out.

“Oh Day-vid, I don’t believe you.”

David throws his arms in the air, and he can’t help but flap his hands once, just swiftly, imperceptibly. “I feel like I should be offended! Should I be offended? Why is it so hard to believe that I am, tragically, completely sober for this?”

David flicks his head between both of his parents, trying to figure out what the hell his mother is on about. Johnny seems mortified. “Moira, honey, let’s focus on what we’re here for,” he says carefully. David feels his confusion mounting by the second, and he glares at Moira.

“Thanks for your patience, Roses, it’ll just be another minute!” calls Jocelyn from behind the kitchen counter. She is either oblivious to the mounting tension in the room, or is actively choosing to ignore it.

“I know it’s been a long time since we’ve attended any sort of gathering as a family,” says Moira softly, “and though this... event... hardly passes as such, I will admit it has been an opportunity to see how grown up you’ve become, David.”

“Okay...” says David. “Then the bar is very low, because I’ve done nothing but sit here for the last twenty minutes.”

“Exactly,” says Moira triumphantly. “You’ve been sitting. Sitting still. As a growing young man, you could never be stilled at any function we brought you along to! It lasted well into your teenage years, this dramatic flailing of your hands and arms the instant any minute thing set you off...”

“Moira, that’s enough now,” says Johnny, reaching across David’s lap to grab her hand. David, now leaning as far back into the sofa as possible to avoid his father’s arm, feels as though someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

“I don’t remember any of that,” says David stiffly. It’s mostly true; he doesn’t remember the details from most of his parents’ parties, especially the ones they hosted throughout his childhood. Strangers and parties always made him anxious, and he mostly just recalls trying to just breathe through - or ideally, escape - each one.

“Mm, well... it’s all water under the bridge now,” says Moira.

“I don’t know what that means,” says David.

Moira rolls her eyes, but her voice softens as she puts a hand on his shoulder. “From what I’ve witnessed thus far tonight, you’ve grown up. You’re here, though I know you’d rather be anywhere else, and let’s face it so would I. And more than that, you’re sitting up straight and your hands are in your lap and your body is... relatively still. Poised, even.” David leans away from his mother’s touch, but grimaces when he realizes he’s now pushing more against his father’s arm.

“You know,” continues Moira, “we had to start prepping you for our functions when it was clear to us you wouldn’t grow out of your eccentricities.”

David scoffs. “Oh, I’m sorry - you thought my behaviour was eccentric? I was never the one who spent days at a time living in a literal closet because she couldn’t handle, say, a single backhanded compliment from the press.”

Moira presses on like she hasn’t heard him. “Half a Xan usually did it.” Now David is completely frozen.

“You gave me Xanax before parties?!” breathes David. He turns to Johnny. “And you... let her?” Johnny raises his hands in front of him as if to say I had no say in the matter.

“Oh don’t be so alarmed, dear - you were of age when we started, you were eighteen, and your father and I truly tried everything else first. Lots of therapy... remember Sasha? Poor dear, she was so overworked. But no matter how much she trained you to perform those breathing exercises and meditations, it was like your limbs always had a mind of their own. Why, I genuinely wondered at times if you were possessed, but Sasha always insisted it was just your own peculiar brand of neuroses. Naturally we couldn’t keep presenting you at formal functions in that state, it was quite embarrassing.”

David’s cheeks are burning and he pulls his sleeves over his hands before balling them both into tight fists.

Jocelyn returns to lay out trays of food - nachos, a very thick dip, some sort of casserole - across the coffee table in front of them. He hears the distant flush of a toilet and running water before Roland saunters back to join them.

“Dig in everyone!” smiles Jocelyn, and the dance of small talk begins again.

David tunes everything out. His mind is racing, thinking about how embarrassing his parents had thought he was. How his mother so readily assumed he hadn’t changed. How he has almost no memory of these spasms, or whatever they were, despite the fact that they were clearly the source of so many problems for the Rose family. He doesn’t remember any of this... he doesn’t... right?

His mind flashes an image of what he must have looked like on the floor of the bathroom earlier this afternoon. A grown man, with his eyes squeezed shut, rocking himself back and forth for over half an hour... and then flapping his hands at absolutely nothing the moment he stopped. David hadn’t wanted to stop.

And that’s when he realizes Moira is wrong; David hasn’t grown up at all. He would still happily sit there and flail all evening like he apparently used to, if he could, but he can’t. He is filled to the brim with embarrassment and shame and hatred of every part of him that has ever been Too Much for someone else.

“...David? Did you hear me?” says Jocelyn.

He shakes himself back into the moment. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was just saying, you should tell us about yourself! What did you do back in New York?”

David clasps his hands together. “I... ran a gallery. Galleries. I was a gallerist.” David can’t retain his poise from earlier in the night. He absently twists the rings on his fingers.

Roland laughs. “Gallerist, wow - honey, there’s a ten-dollar word for you!”

“Tell him who you worked with,” Johnny chimes in. David is surprised to catch a note of pride in his voice.

“I... well, a bunch of people...” he says, still twisting his rings. “You know what, actually, I can’t do this,” says David, surprising himself. He gets up and clutches his hands to his chest before Johnny can pull him back down again. He is out the door in seconds and walking quickly, purposefully, away from the house.

It’s dark now, and cool, and he can see under the street lamps that a slight mist has settled over the town. He doesn’t look back, just follows the road that he knows eventually leads back to the motel. His hands are stiff at his sides; he wants desperately to give in and let them fly wildly in front of him  until he no longer feels like he’s about to burst. He won’t, though. That ugly relic of his past got its moment this afternoon; now David is reminded that he needs to reign it in and keep it contained. He can do that. After all, he’s apparently already been doing it for a decade.

All the lights are off at the motel. It’s a split second decision; David walks past the deserted building and continues off down the street toward the edge of town.

Beer sounds perfect to him right now.

Chapter Text

It’s a long walk, but eventually David catches the sound of jumbled voices competing to be heard over a heavy base. This party seems well under way. Several people’s trucks are parked carelessly across an otherwise empty field and amongst them are dozens of young people dancing, chatting, and of course drinking. He can’t make out Alexis or Stevie from where he’s standing, which is fine - he needs a minute.

It’s hard to tell whether he walked too fast to get here or the cold air and his nerves are just finally catching up to him, but he can feel his heart hammering erratically against his chest. His hands are still tight fists, buried comfortably in the sleeves of his fuzzy white and black striped sweater. He holds one of those fists over his heart, pushing firmly against his chest, willing it to slow down.

A few minutes pass. David takes one deep breath after another, then another, and another. Finally it feels like his heart will at least remain inside his chest tonight... thanks so much. He can still feel it beating a little too strongly, and there’s a spot on his neck pulsating so hard he worries it might actually be visible to other people, but he swallows that discomfort for the time being.

An engine revs and there’s a sudden gust of air as some douchebag on a motorcycle zooms past. David stumbles to the side. “What the fuck?!” The words fly out of his mouth stronger than he intends.

“Chuck, beer,” snaps Stevie as soon as Alexis prances off to check out the oh-so-eligible bachelors of Schitt’s Creek. Alexis is nice enough, sure, but she’s way too fresh-faced and put-together for this fiasco... and let’s be real, Stevie only showed up tonight to get blasted out of her mind. She’d learned quickly that it was the only way to get through a tailgate party in this town.

She cracks open the can Chuck hands her. He’s wearing a maroon toque and looks about three days unshaven - typical, she thinks, if the month they dated in college had been any indication - and leans against the window of someone’s grey pickup.

Twyla and Mutt are making out by the bonfire. There’s comfort in the chaos of these parties. It’s second nature for her to drown herself in beer and let the music and laughter wash over her like gentle waves. Since the Roses arrived, Stevie’s intentionally had to find refuge in these moments of small town life normalcy.

The motel office has always been her little oasis; there she can hide out, uninterrupted (save for the occasional check-in or check-out), and fool herself into thinking her own life isn’t embroidered into the very tapestry of Schitt’s Creek.

The mere presence of the Rose family makes Stevie’s personal space feel occupied in a way that the presence of a typical guest never has; she has to constantly anchor herself to reality to avoid being swept away by their superfluous shenanigans. As much as she craves a life outside of this town - and make no mistake, she really, really does - the Rose’s previous lives are a perfect example of something she wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. Money would be nice, but having a constant spotlight over your head because you’re a wealthy socialite? The upkeep required to maintain even a semi-acceptable image for the tabloids? Not a fucking chance.

Though it feels like it’s only been a few minutes Stevie is already halfway through her third beer. Her eyes are comfortably droopy and she hardly feels the bite of the wind through her flannel anymore.

Alexis takes selfies with each of the guys by the bonfire, and Stevie can’t help but smirk. No matter how unwillingly involved she’s becoming in the Roses’s lives, she’ll definitely always be one of the baffled guys in those photos, never the Alexis. She’s more like a clump of weeds or a bale of hay than a Rose.

But what about David?

Stevie still isn’t sure what to think about him. Of the four Roses, he’s the one she’s had the least interaction with so far – he’s been flighty as hell – and yet he’s also the only one she kind of wants to spend more time around. He’s uppity and pretentious and clearly oblivious to the realities of regular people, there’s no question about that. Still, looking him in the eyes makes her feel like she’s towering over a terrified puppy. It’s as if everything is a façade held together solely by those ridiculous sweaters he drowns himself in; somehow the fact that David Rose seems like a façade makes David seem more real. Also, it’s been very funny to watch him flounder around the motel.

She’s shaken away from her thoughts by a sudden shout. “What the fuck?!” someone yells.

Oh. Speak of the devil.

David stumbles toward her, one hand pressed against the side of his neck for some reason. His eyes are darting in every direction like he’s expecting something to jump out from the dark and bite him.

“I nearly got flattened by a motorcycle,” he says. “What is this place?”

“I told you it was a monster truck rally,” Stevie deadpans.

For a split second David’s eyes widen in horror. “Wait what–”

Stevie involuntarily squeals, delighted. “Oh my god. This is going to be so much fun,” she says.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes,” says Stevie. “Yes I am. Anyway, I don’t know why you were so reluctant to show up. You fit right in.” He’s wearing a huge fuzzy white sweater with black stripes; it’s definitely dry-clean only.

“Mhm,” he nods absently, stretching his bottom lip over his upper. His eyes are still darting all over the place. Stevie doesn’t want him to flee – she actually is happy he came – so she offers him a quick moment of sincerity.

“Stay here, I’m grabbing you a drink. It’ll help.”

When she returns, David’s feet are still glued to the same spot. His arms are crossed and he seems ready to fold in on himself completely. It’s an amusing sight, but she does feel slightly bad. That kicked puppy look of his is really poking its head out of the shadows tonight.

“Here,” she says, handing him the beer after cracking it open. “Drink up. Seriously, it’s the only way you’re gonna get through this.”

David un-crosses his arms and accepts it, chugging what looks like half the can in one go. Stevie stares at him, surprised.

“Uh, okay... we’re having a rough night I take it?” she tries.

David coughs, holding what’s left of the beer away from his sweater. “I think you asked me that the first time we met. But yeah... something like that.” He pauses to take a few more sips. “Also I’m here to rescue my sister.”

“Are you? Because I hate to break it to you, but...” she gestures toward Alexis, who’s now telling a story to a group of girls who seem like they’re hanging on to her every word. David glances toward his sister, then leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Great. Classic,” he whispers.

“Look,” says Stevie, “these things honestly aren’t that fun until you’re super wasted. Keep drinking. Also, it helps if you know people. I mean, you’re new here, clearly... but you’ve met me, so you’re already on your way.”

“Mm, right... I’m guessing Alexis must have had a ton of beer tonight then, and also had a chance to get to know every one of these people beforehand?”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “David, it’s fine that you aren’t your sister. Let’s just drink and hang out. You need to chill out a bit. A lot, actually.”

“Okay, I’m going to be really honest here for a second,” says David softly. “I don’t know what ‘hang out’ means.”

Stevie stares at him. “Hang out? Like... to spend time together...?”

“Ugh, no, I mean I get that,” David says, throwing his free hand in the air. A waterfall of words suddenly pours from his mouth, and he puts his beer on the ground seemingly so that he can talk freely with his hands, too. “But like, what does ‘hanging out’ entail? Is this hangout just between you and me, or are we mingling with other people? And if we’re mingling, are we expecting people to come to us, or do we need to do a lap and put out feelers? Is there food? Why are there so many trucks here? Are we actually supposed to lounge on the back of them like I see people doing, or do you need like, special permission? And also, is this strictly a small-talk situation or are you asking me to get drunk and have a heart-to-heart with you? And what if–”

“David,” Stevie says firmly. She reaches out to grab one of his flying hands, but pulls back immediately when he flinches.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers. He looks so agitated, his eyes wide and his lips pursed like he’s biting his tongue to keep from babbling any more. Silence lingers between them for a moment. The song in the background ends, and for a minute all Stevie hears is the slurred chatter of the partygoers around them.

“I just need to know the etiquette.”

“David, please relax. Seriously.”

“Tell me how I’m supposed to relax if I don’t know what to do here!”

Stevie feels genuinely at a loss. “Look, I need another beer. You finished with yours?” David nods, panic still oozing from his eyes. “Great,” she says. “Be right back.”

She intentionally takes her time, chatting for a moment with Chuck before meandering back to their spot beside the grey pickup.

When she returns David’s arms are crossed again, and he’s swaying slightly back and forth. It’s not a drunken sway, though – it seems more like he’s trying to relax himself. Stevie’s honestly starting to feel silly for inviting the guy in the first place. Their few previous interactions evidently hadn’t painted a clear enough picture of David Rose, and so far tonight only served to muddy the colours she once thought she saw.

She hands him the beer wordlessly.

“Sorry,” he whispers, shaking his head. “That was embarrassing. Also I’m genuinely surprised you came back.”

“As easy as it would be for me to chug two of these at once... it didn’t seem like a great look,” Stevie shrugs. “Also, no offence, but I’m getting the sense that it would be cruel to leave you to fend for yourself here.”

“Mm, well, I’ve been romantically and platonically dumped under much weirder circumstances for both parties, so... I kind of assumed it was a sacrifice you were willing to make.” He gives her a half-smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Stevie shrugs and plays along, glazing her voice with sarcasm once again.

“I see, I see,” she says, nodding. “So what you’re saying is... it’s actually very on brand for you to act like an alien suddenly thrust into human society for the first time.”

David’s face goes white.

“Um... that was still a joke, in case it wan’t clear...”

“Mhmm, got that, thanks,” he says. His voice suddenly jumps up an octave. “It’s just... I know it was a joke, but that’s exactly what it feels like?”

Stevie squints. “That’s exactly what... being at this party feels like?”

David is now holding his beer again, this time with both hands, fingers laced together as he plays with the thick silver rings he always wears. “That’s exactly what my entire life feels like.”

Stevie slowly blows a stream of air from puffed cheeks; she definitely doesn’t know what to say to that.

David is suddenly overwhelmingly exhausted. He’s past the point of feeling exposed; in just one short day it feels like every layer of pretend confidence, poise, and competency he’s been wearing has been stripped from his body.

He’s leaning against someone’s ugly truck at some pointless party clutching only his second beer - he’s still woefully sober - and Stevie from the fucking Schitt’s Creek motel has just read him like a book in a way no one ever has before.

Now she’s staring at him like she expects him to say something, but he’s fresh out of words, and even when she’s drunk her eyebrows still never move so he can’t tell if she’s getting a kick out of this whole thing or she’s raging mad. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s probably not good.

He sips his beer. It’s bitter and kind of water-y, but it’s booze nonetheless. He thinks he should just take it for the road; he may as well get the hell out of here before anyone can read him any further tonight.

He opens his mouth to tell Stevie he’s leaving... and lets out nothing but an awkward croak. “Hey, I’m actually tired, I think I’ll call it a night.” Just say that, David! Then you can leave.

“What?” says Stevie.

“...mmm... leave...ing,” David manages.

Fuck. Why won’t the words come out?! David, you’re thirty-four fucking years old. I know this used to happen to you all the time, but that was in high school for fuck’s sake. This is humiliating. Go back to the motel room and hole up because you can officially never show your face in this godforsaken town ever again.

“You’re leaving?” says Stevie.

David nods.

“Okay.” David turns to leave, then stops when she keeps talking. “Wait. David I – I’m sorry? God, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, but clearly I did because you seem... really upset...”

A million thoughts run through David’s head. People don’t usually apologize to David, at least not so sincerely. Stevie looks sincere, right? Stevie didn’t make anything go wrong tonight. This afternoon was weird, the dinner at Roland’s was terrible, he’d embarrassed his whole family (and was reminded that he’d been embarrassing them his whole life), and now he has suddenly jumped from talking a mile a minute to whatever this is, where he can’t for the life of him make his mouth form any of the zillions of words bouncing around in his brain.

David wants to tell Stevie that none of this is her fault. He also wants to thank her for inviting him, and for not being annoyed when he showed up anyway after blowing her off the first time. He wants to tell her that after being here a few weeks, he’s realizing that he can’t do any of this alone, and she’s the best person he’s met since he got here. Not the nicest - that’s probably Twyla, he thinks, swallowing more shame - but definitely the best.

He physically can’t say any of this, so he nods and waves (oh god, he waves). He’s about to turn and leave again when he remembers his phone in his pocket - his phone. He pulls it out and beckons Stevie toward him. She squints, confused.

He pulls open his contacts page and catches a glimpse of some old acquaintances who definitely wouldn’t have come back with a second beer for him tonight. Screw them, he thinks.

He creates a new contact for Stevie, typing in her first name but leaving the last name blank because he realizes he doesn’t know it. He hands his phone to her. She takes it from him and smiles, not even a smirk. She fills everything in, then sends herself a text before returning the phone.

David smiles back, then starts toward the motel. Once the music and voices fade into the distance and it’s just him and his footsteps again on the side of the road, David begins to relax. He texts Stevie. One by one he types out every thought he couldn’t verbalize earlier.

If Stevie really is going to be his friend, she deserves to know that he’s the messy one, not her... and all jokes aside, it meant the world to him that despite the disastrous state of this so-called “hangout” situation, she came back.

Chapter Text

“Stevie?” calls David. By now he knows that the little bronze bell she keeps out on the counter is “just for show.”

“One sec!” comes her voice from upstairs. He leans against the front desk, pressing a hand absently over one of his ears to drown out the annoying buzz of the lights. A few seconds later she appears, smirking. “How can I help you?”

“You and I are having a movie night tonight,” says David.

Stevie snorts. “Oh, we are, are we? Thanks for telling me.” Her eyes are wide, but otherwise her face is blank. Sarcasm, David reminds himself. Her voice is dripping with it.

“7pm. My room. Be there,” he says.

“What’s the occasion for this hangout?”

“Um, friendship?” David says, raising an eyebrow.

Stevie stares right through him.

“Fine, and I’m also about to go do something very off-brand for me, so I need something to look forward to later.”

“There it is,” she grins. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only if you pick movies you don’t care about - I refuse to sit through an hour and a half of regimented silence because Bridget Jones is playing.”

“Fine,” says David, satisfied that she at least accepts he’ll be curating the playlist.

“And then you can tell me what you’re up to this afternoon that’s so off-brand for you.”

“Hmm, that’ll be a hard no,” says David, letting the corner of his mouth twitch into a small smile.

David arrives at the café in the midst of the lunch rush. He squints over all the chatter and clanging silverware, sliding a pair of earplugs out of the pocket of his leather jacket and into his ears.

What if he came back here tonight? He could just as easily pull Twyla aside while he’s dining with his family, but ultimately he decides against it. His mother would have questions and his father would ask if his sexual adventures were really just a phase after all, and that would make this whole endeavour even more embarrassing than it’s already going to be.

He bites his tongue, swallowing the urge to flee, then settles on a stool at the counter. Twyla spots him and gives him a small smile as she begins preparing his coffee order that she’s apparently committed to memory. My God, thinks David, she is literally the nicest person alive.

“Caramel macchiato with skim, two sweeteners, and cocoa powder” says Twyla, sliding his drink toward him. David nods his thanks, then takes a deep breath. Now or never, right?

“Twyla?” he says, just as she’s turning to help another customer. Her eyes widen like she’s surprised to hear his voice.

“Yeah?”

He grips his to-go coffee as hard as he can without popping the lid off. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you that one time.” David knows he should look her in the eye, that’s what a sincere person would do, but his hands are already shaking and if he looks her in the eye he won’t be able to string words together anymore. His eyes wander up to the ceiling instead. Classic. “It was rude... snippy, even...but you’ve been nothing but nice to me.”

Twyla tilts her head to the side. “David, I know I can be a lot sometimes.” She laughs. “Trust me, you’re not the first person who’s done that. It’s just, most people who come here have lived in Schitt’s Creek so long that we’re practically family, and family drama is kind of my specialty... so a little scuffle here and there doesn’t phase me.”

“So... you aren't mad?”

“You were new, and it’s not like you were just passing through... so I was worried I’d gotten us off on the wrong foot irreparably, you know?” she says.

David listens, his eyes still fixed to the ceiling. He’d never considered the possibility of Twyla blaming herself, and somehow that makes the whole thing worse. Normally David loves an opportunity to wiggle his way out of taking the blame for something, but he knows he can't do that this time. Not to her. He sighs. “Pretty sure I was the one who got us off on the wrong foot, actually.”

Twyla shrugs, but smiles. “Well, either way–”

“Twyla, I’m really sorry,” he whispers.

He’s relieved he could get the words out before she moved on completely. To his surprise, Twyla puts down the towel she was holding to lay a hand on his wrist. He cautiously takes his eyes off the ceiling and peers at her, biting back the urge to pull away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says simply, and once again a warm smile crosses her face. “And David?”

“Mhmm?”

“Just tell me next time if it's the noise making you snappy,” she says. “I won’t be offended, and we don’t have to talk.”

David squints. “What makes you think it was– ”

“I can see your earplugs.” She winks and goes back to work.

David sits at the edge of his bed bouncing his leg and waiting for Alexis to finish packing her bag. “And you’re definitely spending the night, right?” he asks, for the third time, just to be safe.

“Oh my god David, yes – and at this point I’m ready to just move in with him until you learn to chill out.”

“Can you do that, actually? Just looking your mess has added about 5 years to my skin. Living in a barn could be really good for you.”

Alexis throws her head back. “Ugh, David. I’m leaving. And if Dad asks, I’m chilling with Twyla, okay? I’m not ready for the Mutt conversation yet.”

As soon as she leaves David springs up and pushes the beds together. He shoves all of the clothes Alexis left on the floor into a single garbage bag, squishing the whole thing forcefully into her closet. He makes the beds, then lays out the snacks he bought across the mattresses for easy access. He’s done by 6:45. He twists his rings and paces the room while he waits, hoping Stevie actually meant it when she said she’d show up.

At 7:05 Stevie crashes through the door.

“You’re late!” David says, but he can’t hide his smile.

“I know, I was here 10 minutes ago but I sat in my car for a while just to make you squirm,” she smirks.

“Oh my god. That is not a nice thing to do to me.”

“You were the one that didn’t even ask if I had plans tonight before inviting me here,” says Stevie.

“I... oh,” he says, recoiling, a squirmy expression on his face. “Did you?”

“Pfft, no.” She kicks her shoes off and climbs onto Alexis’s bed. David joins her and flicks the movie on.

They’re both at the back of the beds against the pillows, eyes on the laptop screen. David is pretty sure it’s a comfortable silence - at least for Stevie - but he feels trapped, worried that as the host he’s supposed to be the one to get conversation flowing. He sits up straight and crosses his legs - criss-cross applesauce, his brain unhelpfully supplies - and absently rocks his upper body. He stops as soon as he realizes he’s doing it, muttering under his breath. Shit, nope, not now.

“What’s not now?” says Stevie.

“Nothing,” he says, straightening his legs to match hers.

His body seems to want to curl up by default, to twist itself into one big knot and shrink, so he’s often cross-legged and cross-armed and whatever else seems comfortable in the moment. He’s not alone right now, though, so puts forth his best effort to sit unfolded and still.

“Oh, wait,” says Stevie suddenly. “I brought wine! Here.” She leans over the side of the bed and pulls two bottles from her bag. “You like red, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. He takes a sip and passes it back to her.

“Oh, no, keep it. I’ll need at least a bottle to myself,” she shrugs.

“Um, okay,” says David, exasperated. “I didn’t realize I was such a taxing person to be around.”

Stevie laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself, I’m just a tank.”

David leans into the moment, alternating between sipping his wine and eating Twizzlers. He can’t remember the name of the movie, but it’s some rom-com from the depths of Interflix that he hoped would fall into “so bad it’s fun to watch” territory. He hasn’t been paying that much attention, but the thirty-something actress seems to have graduated high school and made her foray into dorm life at a university.

“What’s with university campuses being the size of an entire town?” mutters Stevie.

“Um, Schitt’s Creek is a terrible baseline for a town. Everything is bigger than this. I’ve been to malls that are bigger than this.”

“Point taken, but then how do you explain her fancy ass high school? It also looks bigger than this town.”

David rolls his eyes. “That’s not that weird. My high school looks a lot like her university campus, actually...”

Stevie looks at him, incredulous. “You went to a boarding school that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars per year. I don’t think that gives you any right to tell me what’s weird.”

He grimaces. “Point taken.”

There’s a thud as Stevie puts her empty bottle of wine on David’s nightstand before reaching down to pull out another from her bag. David glances at his own, barely a third finished.

“So tell me about boarding school,” Stevie says. “Half the books I read as a kid had boarding schools, and it always seemed like the ideal life. I would’ve killed to be on the other side of the country from my mom when I was 13.”

David takes another bite off his Twizzler, thinking. “It was... I mean, it was fine I guess,” he shrugs. “I don’t think parental distance was much of a factor for me. It was either boarding school or living at home in a completely separate wing of the house. Either way, both options were parent-free.”

“Well my options were living at home with my absent alcoholic mother or living at home with my absent alcoholic mother. I bet you at least got some good stories out of boarding school.”

“Hmm, not as many as you might think,” David says. “I kept to myself most of the time, got very acquainted with the school’s art wing and the third floor of the library.”

“Really?” she said. “No fancy parties or rich kid rebellions?”

“Well, there was one time I stole a stack of books from the library because I was bored and too scared to tell someone I’d lost my card,” he shrugs.

“Wow,” Stevie whispers dramatically. David flips her off. “Okay, seriously though, how did that kid become a New York socialite?”

“Money,” he says.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“No I’m serious, that’s literally all it takes.”

“Why’d you suddenly want to buy your way into hanging out with people though?” she asks, and David flinches slightly at the directness. “I mean, it sounds like you were fine as a loner before.”

“Okay, nope, see that’s where you’re wrong. Keeping to myself at school wasn’t a choice. When you literally live at school your entire existence becomes a public spectacle for your classmates.”

“Pretty sure the same thing happens at regular school, too” says Stevie.

“I don’t think it’s the same thing. Like, obviously they saw every class presentation I couldn’t finish because I was so nervous I forgot how to talk, and every fucking asthma attack I had during gym class... but they also saw me cry after a moth flew next to my ear while I was trying to sleep one night, and they knew they could make me have a panic attack by swapping out my skincare supplies for the school-brand soap.” He shudders, remembering the incorrect goopy texture of that face scrub. “Everyone had, like, an encyclopedic knowledge of all my quirks... and I couldn’t just go home at the end of the day and reset. There was no privacy. Every kid knew I was like that 24/7.”

“Wow, I can’t believe even other rich kids thought you were a gong show,” smirks Stevie, but underneath it her face seems to soften.

“Yeah, well...” he shrugs. “From the sounds of things you weren’t exactly Miss Congeniality either.”

Stevie takes another swig of wine. “It was a choice.”

“So what, you just told anyone who ever talked to you to fuck off?”

“Sometimes,” she smirks. “But usually during lunch I just made a beeline for the library and curled up with a book until the bell rang. Come to think of it, I feel like the librarian didn’t even realize I was there half the time.”

“Huh,” says David. “So if we’d been at the same school we would’ve had to fight for the best lunch hour library spot.”

“Which means the second best spot would’ve basically had your name engraved on it.”

“How dare you! I can fight!” He pulls a fresh Twizzler from the bag and whips her across the shoulder with it.

Stevie snorts, but then yanks it from his hands and shoves the entire thing into her mouth. “Good fight,” she says through the mouthful.

“You’re a disgusting monster.”

The movie ends, and David switches over to the next one on his list. He’s sleepy from the wine, and a glassy-eyed Stevie seems to be feeling the same as she rests her head on his shoulder. He wonders briefly if she was planning to call a cab home later, but finds he honestly doesn’t care.

Stevie smells very flammable, but he’s perfectly happy to pass out exactly like this, stretched out comfortably beside a friend.

Chapter Text

“Ew, David! Ew, ew ew ew–”

“You’re telling me, Alexis! You didn’t have to see it!” says David, pressing his palms against his eyes hard enough that stars pop along the edges of his vision.

“Kids!” calls Johnny through the door. “What you just saw was–”

“We know, thanks so much!” David shouts.

“I will not be shamed by my own offspring for engaging in love-making with my beloved husband!” says Moira, situating herself beside Johnny in a black silk robe, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“At 8am?!” shrieks Alexis. “These walls are like paper! At least wait till we’re out of the house!”

“Listen, dear children, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but at my maturity my daily allotment of energy exhibits its peak between the hours of–”

“Oh. My. God.” David whispers.

Moira and Johnny opt to get breakfast alone, so Alexis and David dance around each other through their morning routines.

David applies a face mask at the end of his skincare sequence and relaxes into the pillows on his bed. He lightly closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, taking notice of the rhythm of his heart as it drums against his ribs. Alexis finishes curling the last lock of her hair and David hears her unplug the iron from the wall beside her bed. “Oooo, David! You never told me how your little night with Stevie went!”

Since the success of the movie night he’s been feeling so much lighter; no matter what happens now, it feels like he won’t have to bear it alone. Stevie is a friend, an actual friend - you don’t willingly fall asleep leaning against someone who isn’t your friend, right?

Of course, he’s not naive enough to think that he’s Stevie’s best friend – to be honest, he actually doesn’t know a lot about the rest of her social life in Schitt’s Creek – but they’re friends nonetheless, and as sad as it sounds he’s more confident about Stevie now than anyone else that might’ve been his friend in his past. This time it doesn’t feel like he’s holding on for dear life just to stay relevant to her; it’s almost easy, actually, the way they drift in and out of each other’s presence day to day. When he wanders into the motel office during the day it’s like she’s relieved to see him, and he feels the same way when she pops into his room unannounced. In fact, he’s grown to like it more when she doesn’t have fresh towels with her, which he never would’ve imagined at the beginning.

“It was nice,” says David simply. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“And...?” Alexis prods.

“And... we talked?”

“About...?”

“Oh my god, none of your business!” says David. “What do you and Mutt talk about, huh?”

“David, can’t I take an interest in my big brother’s love life?”

David sits up. “You think Stevie is my love life?!”

Alexis shakes her head, confused. “Yes? She’s clearly into you, David.”

“Um. No she isn’t,” he says. Truthfully, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might be. Was she into him? Would he be okay with that, if she was?

“David. Come on. She likes you. Don’t throw this away just because she’s not playing hard to get.”

“Ew,” said David, feeling suddenly defensive. “Don’t talk about her like that. I feel like she’d hate it.”

“Ugh, whatever. I just think this could be a good journey for you. And I seriously doubt she’ll be as messy as Sebastian was.”

“Don’t,” said David, drawing the line. “I’m not talking about him.”

She shrugs. “I’m not talking about him, either. I’m talking about Stevie.”

David stares at her, absently twisting his rings around his fingers while his heart continues to flutter uncomfortably in his chest. In a minute he’ll have to get up and peel off this face mask. He briefly weighs his options, and decides he doesn’t have much to lose from being brutally honest with his sister. “Okay, Alexis? It never even occurred to me to wonder if Stevie was into me. I mean, I don’t hate the idea, now that you mention it... but I just like spending time with her... and that’s definitely all this was.”

“Fine...” she says. “I mean... that’s cute too, I guess.” David can’t read her expression, but her words almost sound... disappointed.

“It sounds like you want us to be a thing.”

Alexis shrugs. “I don’t know, I just thought it was good for you. But friendship is good too! And you’re right. It’s none of my business. I’m happy... as long as you’re happy,” she adds.

“I think I am,” says David, and in this specific circumstance he means it; he’s not really looking for anything more in his life right now. Still, as he stands up to peel off his mask, he’s got a nagging feeling that he might need to work a little harder to read Stevie. He doesn’t want to accidentally leave her hanging.

David’s about to leave to pick up his coffee when his parents burst back into the room.

“Your mother and I have decided to get away for a night,” says Johnny. “Tomorrow we’ll be staying at a private cabin out of town, so you won’t be able to reach us – and please don’t try to,” he adds.

David can’t quite believe the gift he’s just received. He immediately begins fantasizing about his night stretched out across the queen bed with a face mask, a cup of tea, and a book. Meanwhile, Alexis tries (and fails) to convince them to take more than one night away.

As soon as their parents return to their room, Alexis squeals. “Oooohhhh, David, I’m so excited! Let’s have a party, it’s been so long since I’ve hosted something!”

“Um, no, absolutely not,” says David, crossing his arms.

Alexis glares. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you miss, like, doing stuff? This town is so boring, and we haven’t had our own space in months!”

“Exactly,” David says. “Which is why I have a date with a queen bed, a face mask, and a book.”

“David, come on! What about something small? Just, like, a little get together.”

“... Like a games night?”

“Oh my god, yes, David, like a games night party! And then if it turns into something else,” she says, waving a hand dismissively, “then it turns into something else.”

“Mm, okay, except it won’t,” says David. “And it’s not a party.”

On his walk to the café he makes a mental list of guests: he and Alexis, obviously, then Stevie, Twyla, Mutt... and... shit, he can’t come up with a sixth person. He resigns himself to asking Stevie to choose someone. He then makes a shopping list and writes down a few games they can play without many supplies; charades, of course, is top of the list. This might actually be fun, he thinks. A games night is something he can handle; it’s something predictable, easy to navigate, and he’s got the rest of the day to plan everything out to his heart’s content. Best of all, if everything goes according to plan, he’ll still have a luxurious night to himself at the end of it all.

By the next morning David is a complete ball of anxiety again. When he throws himself onto the couch in the motel lobby for the third time that day – he has a few more things to run by Stevie for good measure – Stevie stands up from her desk and walks right over to him, arms crossed. David shrinks.

“David,” she says. “You’re going make me break out in hives over this, and it’s not even my party. Take a nap, go for a walk, breathe for a second, do something that isn’t ruminating over every minute detail of this fucking party.”

“It’s a games night” he whispers.

“Fine, it’s a games night,” she says. “But your sister is co-hosting, so I can also guarantee it’s not not a party.”

“Mm no, I explicitly told her it’ll be a three part games night that ends at ten.”

Stevie groans, then flops down onto the other end of the couch crossing her legs. “That’s what you told her is happening. That’s not what’s actually happening.”

David squints. “Mkay, how do you know that? Did she explicitly tell you she’s going to mess this up? Because if she did, I swear to god – ”

“I know that because nobody hosts a three part games night that ends at ten! I was ready to watch you try, but this is the third time you’re reciting this un-freaking-believable schedule to me, and as your friend, I really don’t want to watch this ship sink any further while you’re still clinging to it.”

David rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fine, you don’t have to help me then,” he says. “Clearly this is not your thing–which is weird, because I think we’re both very competitive, but whatever.” He purses his lips.

“Oh my god,” says Stevie. “I just think you need to go with the flow a bit more.”

The problem is that David can sort of see her point.

He’s been turning a blind eye to it for his own sanity, but Alexis isn’t on board for the games night he’s imagining. The thing is, if he lets Alexis run the show, it’s going to be a loud party in a very small space and people are going to puke. If David runs a games night, the rules have to be tight, otherwise there will be too many what-ifs... and he knows from experience that too many what-ifs while he’s in charge will lead to him fully freaking out. So sure, a drill sergeant games night probably won’t be that fun... but he can’t imagine an alternative that doesn’t involve him alone next door burying his head under a hundred pillows.

Stevie is still looking at him, so he tries explaining himself. “I don’t know how to do that,” he says, rapidly tracing circles on the palm of his hand. “I don’t know how to go with the flow. I can’t... I don’t think I can see the flow, if that makes sense? Or feel it? I know what feels correct to me, which in this case is a three part games night that ends at ten, but... apparently that’s not correct for other people.” He swallows, feeling very exposed.

Stevie looks like she’s biting back a smirk, which... okay, at least she has the decency not to fully laugh at him in his moment of vulnerability. He offers her a half smile in return.

“Okay, I’m gathering that that makes me sound completely nuts?”

“Yes, but like, in a way that’s very... you.”

“Mm, great, thanks. You know, I’m feeling so much better now. It feels like you really see me.”

Stevie smirks, but then suddenly replaces it with a much gentler expression. “You’ve planned everything out already; you’ve got nothing else to do until tonight, okay?”

David weaves his fingers together, trying to make himself believe what Stevie’s saying. She’s right, he knows she’s right, so he gives her a slight nod. “Okay.”

The guests are late, because of course they are. Stevie invited some kid named Eric who David is pretty certain is very stoned, which doesn’t really bode well for their team winning charades. All in all, not a great start, and David can already feel any sense of control slipping away from him. Still, he’s determined to at least try to pull this off, so he claps his hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Ok, it’s 8:15 people, 8:15! Let’s all sit down and get started with some charades!” He ends up ushering people to the table himself; Eric looks like he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, and Alexis, Mutt, and Twyla are all chattering together on the other side of the room. By the time everyone is in their chairs, there’s another knock at the door, and Alexis jumps up, squealing. David feels his stomach drop. “Um Alexis, who is that?”

“Oh, just some new friends of mine!” she says, waving them in.

“Who?”

“I don’t know, David, I met them on my way home.”

David watches as they come in and settle, cracking open beers. It’s a group of three guys he’s never seen in his life, and they all look... well... not ready for games night, that’s for sure. “Sup?” one of them says, giving David a fist bump that he reacts to slightly too late.

“Uh, hi,” he whispers. He clasps his hands together in front of his chest, and he suddenly feels supremely aware of all the muscles in his face. How do you look nonchalant, again? He’s not sure, so instead he chews his lip so at least his face is doing something.

“Alright, hey everyone, we’re so glad we could finally have you over! I’m Alexis, that’s my brother David, and this is going to be a really fun night ! Come grab some drinks and–” There’s another knock at the door.

“Oh my god,” David whispers, as another posse of people comes into the room. He feels a hand on his wrist - it’s Stevie, trying to get him to come sit beside her.

“Do you know these people?” hisses David.

Stevie nods, folding her lips together. “Mhmm. They’re basically the worst... but just breathe through it and you’ll be fine. Come sit,” she says, tapping her hand on the chair next to her.

“Okay, well, I haven’t set up enough spots for all of you...” David calls over the chatter.

“All good bro, we’re just here for the party,” says one of the guys.

“This is a games night,” says David, but the guy has clearly moved on.

“Who wants a drink?” shouts Alexis, a bottle of beer already open in her hand. She turns the music on, and suddenly everyone is laughing, drinking, and talking and definitely not writing down any names for charades despite David repeatedly trying to guide their attention back to the table.

The room swims around David. His bottom teeth bite into his upper lip; everyone’s voices are jumbled and loud and he feels completely surrounded, embarrassed, and exposed. Now that Alexis has gotten going, though, there’s nothing he can do to pull things back. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Alexis is saying something to him, probably telling him to relax and stop being such an old man, but he can’t focus enough to be sure. Underneath his panic, he’s furious, and for just a second he lets that rage boil up and over.

“You know what Alexis?!” he shouts over everyone. “You want to have a party, fine, have a fucking party, but there’s a queen bed with my name on it next door, so I’m out. Everybody stay off my bed. And no one throw up!” He slams the door to his parents’ room behind him.

As soon as he’s alone he lets all the tension fly out of him. He shakes his out his hands and arms as hard as he can – he’s certain he’s alone and he’s too stressed out to worry about how ridiculous it looks – and then flops face down onto the bed, burying his face in one of the pillows. He folds and presses the edges of the pillow against his ears to muffle the noise from next door. Eventually he gets sick of feeling his own breath bounce back to him, so he rolls over and stares up at the ceiling, pulling the comforter up past his shoulders.

All the energy he had left in him to perform human-ness is gone, drained by those few moments yelling at Alexis. He can feel the muscles in his face drooping and he knows he couldn’t mould them into anything more presentable if he tried. The inside of his mind feels like molasses. He knows he can hear the party loud and clear through the walls, but it also feels like it’s happening an entire world away while he’s frozen in place.

It’s unclear how long he lays there, but eventually he realizes Stevie is sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. He has to concentrate really hard to pull his gaze away from the ceiling; it feels like he’s underwater. He manages to make himself look at her, but that muffled sensation doesn’t go away. It seems to be enough, though, because she starts talking.

“Here’s the thing. I’m sorry this didn’t work out, and I’m sorry for inviting Eric. That joke was funnier in theory... but I need you to come back in there.”

David stares at her; he’s trying to think of something to say, literally anything, but he’s just so fucking exhausted.

“We’re playing drunken charades, and my team is losing. Badly. And you’re right, we are way too similar for me to be okay with losing... so I need your help. Just one round, David. Please. Then you can tuck yourself right back in to whatever blanket cocoon you’ve got going on here.”

He feels so frozen, so underwater, so... whatever the fuck this feeling is. It feels impossible to do anything; not to mention, he’s pretty embarrassed about that whole ordeal. But he also wants to help her, because David knows exactly how competitive she’s feeling right now.

He sighs, pushes his embarrassment aside, and at least manages to sit up, hoping that maybe he can coax his body into acting human for just a little longer tonight. As he does so, he sees Stevie’s expression change from hopeful to... something else.

“Uh, David?” she says.

“Mmm?”

“...You good?”

“Mm.”

“Okay... no offence, but you look like you’re not quite... here.”

“Mmmm.” Okay, fresh out of words tonight, apparently. He manages a small shrug, then starts to stand. Stevie eyes him carefully.

“Okay, no, stop. You don’t need to do this if you’re really not okay.”

David shakes his head. He’ll do it. He wants to get at least one thing right tonight.

“Wait,” she says, more firmly this time. “Is this... is this like the tailgate party again? I mean, admittedly I was pretty drunk, so I don’t remember a lot, but... you texted me after you left. Something about being too stressed out to talk, right?”

David feels his cheeks go hot. He forgot he let loose that night and told Stevie everything. Had she just... remembered this about him the whole time? He makes an involuntary face of disgust, pulling his body back ever so slightly. Stevie waits expectantly. She seems determined not to let this go, and finally David gives her a tiny nod, wishing the ground would just open up under him and suck him away.

He’s genuinely surprised when Stevie just nods back at him. She pulls her phone out and opens up a blank note, giving it to him. “I need you to be honest, because as much as I hate losing, we’re not going back in there if it’s going to freak you out more. What do you want to do?”

David bites his lip and begins to type:

I want to help you win. It’s charades, and they’re all wasted, right? So I’ll act, you guess, and we’ll kick everyone’s ass.

He gives the phone back to Stevie, and she grins at him. He tries to smile back at her, but even that’s too much for his deadweight face apparently. He waves at her to give him the phone back.

Ok, this is humiliating, but apparently I also can’t do facial expressions? Not intentionally, anyway. So you’re only getting actions. Sorry.

She doesn’t seem bothered. “Fuck it,” she says. “Let’s go beat ‘em.”

They crush the competition. In one round, David and Stevie get her team (which only consisted of her and Eric) from a single point up to eleven. In the last couple seconds, David gets Stevie to guess Roland by replicating the position of his great-grandfather on the town sign, and even though everyone is a little too drunk to be paying that much attention to them, he relishes the sweet vindication that comes with their victory.

The moment the timer dings, Stevie gets so excited she jumps toward him and wraps him in a hug. David freezes instinctively, and she immediately pulls away, looking horrified. “Shit, fuck, I am so sorry,” she says, holding her hands up in front of her. She looks mortified. The sudden touch surprised him, but David realizes he actually doesn’t mind, so he shakes his head at her and holds out his arms. She’s a lot shorter than him, but he allows himself to relax into her embrace. Their hug doesn’t last that long, really, but before she pulls away she squeezes him tighter, and the pressure makes him feel safe... safer than he’s ever felt, maybe. He feels a wave of emotion wash over him, and tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, so he looks away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice.

“I owe you,” she says, grinning.

“Mhmm,” nods David.

He’s well and truly exhausted now, so he slips back into the other room, settling on the queen bed. To his (surprising) relief, Stevie follows him, settling in the space beside him. They lay next to each other in a comfortable silence, and David wonders idly if this is still just friendship or if there’s something more.

“David?” says Stevie, her words slightly slurred.

“Mm?”

She rolls onto her side to face him, her elbow on the pillow and her head resting her on her open hand. “I’m juuuuuuust drunk enough to be a little serious with you,” she says. David squints, worried about where she might be headed. “So I’m gonna ask. Have you... ever talked to anyone about this?” She waves her free hand in the space between them. “The ‘too stressed to speak’ thing?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the question... and annoyed that he doesn’t have a yes or no answer to give her. He tries words again, knowing they won’t come – he’s going to have to sleep it off. “Mm... I... mmmm...” Nope. He groans loudly, frustrated with himself.

“Wait, fuck, here,” says Stevie, pulling her phone out again from her back pocket.

He types:

I’ve had a lot of therapists, if that’s what you mean.

“And they’ve seen this happen? Or you’ve told them about it?”

My parents told them about it when I was a kid. It was one of a million things I had to work on. I think I had more therapy homework than school homework...

“Okay, that sounds... weird,” says Stevie. “And I’m guessing unhelpful?”

David just shrugs.

“I’m just... worried about you,” says Stevie softly.

David doesn’t really know what to do with that... but he does feel bad that his own weird brain things are affecting her.

Oh god, don’t worry about me. It’s fine, I’m used to it. And I know it’s annoying, I’m sorry... I wish I could control it better.

Stevie shoves his shoulder gently. “That’s not what I meant,” she says. “I’ll be perfectly happy texting you for the rest of your life if I have to. Don’t get me wrong, I like hearing your stupid whiny voice –and please forget I ever said that– but I’m not saying this because it’s annoying for me! It just looks really frustrating for you.”

Now David is definitely tearing up, so he huffs and looks back at the ceiling, trying to swallow away his reaction to the care in her words.

“So I take it you haven’t really talked about it much?” she tries.

David shakes his head. He wants his experiences in therapy now to be different from all those appointments his parents drowned him in as a child. He sees therapists on his own terms, and he shares things that weigh on him but aren’t too personal, because maintaining his dignity has always been more important. So no, he hasn’t brought it up, even though it has occurred semi-regularly for as long as he can remember.

It’s too embarrassing, even for therapy. Also I can’t afford a therapist anymore.

He hands the phone back to Stevie, decidedly done talking about it for the night.

Stevie lays on her back again and sighs as she closes her eyes. Her presence is sturdy and soothing next to him. Her breaths become more rhythmic as she drifts off to sleep, but before she’s out completely, David feels her lay a soft hand across his own.

Chapter Text

David awakens the following morning to an empty bed, ringing ears, and a splitting headache. He reaches for his phone and finds a text from Stevie. Apparently she’d already left for work, and she had the audacity to suggest he bring her a coffee. Since the alternative is laying here until his parents inevitably walk in on him, he hauls himself up to make the bed, scrunching his eyes shut against the light leaking through the half-open curtains.

He feels awful - like, really awful. As far as he remembers he didn’t have anything to drink last night, and definitely no drugs, so this isn’t a hangover... but it feels very similar. His movements feel sluggish, and every little noise feels like it’s drilling into his brain. He'd be a lot more concerned if this not-a-hangover situation wasn’t so familiar to him, but it’s long been typical for his own body to get dramatic when it’s pit against any amount of stress. Granted, he hasn’t had a reaction this bad in a while, but... no wonder people think he’s a lot.

Yesterday David had been too exhausted to feel very self-conscious about everything that happened, but it’s all catching up to him now. Fuck, he thinks, he used to be so much better at hiding himself. He doesn’t know what’s changed... unless it’s not him that’s changed, but the people around him. Maybe he wasn’t better at hiding it before, maybe he was just surrounded by people who didn’t care enough to notice his unfortunate quirks.

Back in his own room, he’s pleased to see that Alexis at least had the decency to take out the trash. Everything still smells boozy, though, and it makes his stomach churn. David showers quickly and clumsily. At one point the shampoo bottle slips from his hands and lands on the shower floor with an echoey crash, and he finds himself flapping his hands profusely like that will somehow make the sound easier to process.

After his shower he puts on his softest joggers, a white t-shirt, and a long black cardigan that feels (and looks) more like a blanket than an article of clothing. He still feels like hell but he refuses to let Stevie know that. She’s seen him lose the ability to speak twice over the few months they’ve known each other, and the fact that she is still willing to engage with him at all is baffling. The least he can do is bring her a coffee – and oh god, she’s definitely hungover, so she’ll need it. He grabs a pair sunglasses, shoves earplugs into both of his ears, and slowly walks over to the café.

The motel lobby door swings halfway open and Stevie hears a grunt as David shuffles through holding two to-go cups and a paper bag seemingly full of pastries. He looks exhausted. He clearly prioritized comfort more than usual with today’s outfit, and he’s even wearing earplugs – something he only does when (in his words) the world sounds excessively loud. They look more like wireless earbuds than earplugs, but Stevie knows better now; the first time he wore them in front of her she jokingly scolded him for daring to drown out her beautiful voice with music, which he did not appreciate. David puts everything down on the low table in front of the old sofa, then brings Stevie a carrot muffin and her coffee.

“Morning,” she says flatly, taking a sip while he leans against her desk holding his own drink with two hands. He got her order exactly right: dark roast, a splash of milk, no sugar.

“Morning,” he whispers.

Stevie swallows a smile. She doesn’t want to freak him out, but she’s beyond relieved to hear his voice again. The text begging for coffee was really just a way to get him over here; she wanted to know he wasn’t worse for wear, and she knew he’d brush it off if she asked directly. He didn’t look great, but... things could be worse. “Wanna stay for a bit?” she tries.

He shrugs.

“I personally have a thrilling day ahead consisting of solitaire and washing a few sheets so... if you want in, the couch is all yours.” She smirks, determined to keep things light.

He takes another sip of his coffee, seemingly weighing his options. “Okay. I... let me get my laptop.” He puts his coffee down. “I’m... job hunting.”

Stevie hears the strained effort behind each word. She hopes it’ll at least be quieter for him here than back in his room with the rest of the Roses. He goes to get his laptop and leaves his coffee behind, which means he’s thankfully guaranteed to return.

In truth, Stevie needs the company today too. She’d woken up to a bunch of dramatic family emails. From the sounds of things, some uncle she barely remembers just died, and the only relative she kind of likes - her Aunt Maureen - is apparently very ill. Getting involved in any of this means talking to her mother, though, and that’s not happening any time soon, so her plan is to watch it all from the sidelines and drink her feelings away.

Stevie goes about her workday as usual. She does her best to focus on small details; the computer mouse clicking beneath her fingers, the sporadic bursts of David’s impressively fast typing, the comforting presence of her best friend out of the corner of her eye. She’s thankful he can’t hear her calling him that – it sounds so juvenile and sappy and he’d definitely never let it go – but it’s the truth: he’s quickly become her favourite person.

Sometimes Stevie loses her focus on the details and her brain returns to the emails, the drama, and the deep, lonely, aching hurt flowing underneath it all like a current. She wants to drink, but David’s here - and fine, she’s also at work, but it’s not like there’s any management to hold her accountable. She bites her tongue and stares at the frankly absurd number of business cards arranged on a wire stand on her desk. They’re all so colourful and unique - the average person would never guess that the vast majority of them belonged to just one guy. There, she thinks. Back on track.

For most of the day David doesn’t talk, and Stevie doesn’t push. He actually seems focused on his job search and she doesn’t want to distract him... and she suspects having something to focus on is also the only thing holding him together. Occasionally he leans his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his hands out in front of him. She notices his shoulders loosen slightly when he finishes, so she bites back the urge to poke fun at him. The specific brand of sarcasm they share is like their own private love language, and as it develops, she is also learning to recognize when its best to leave a line uncrossed.

Stevie knows she’s made the right choice when, at one point, she sees him stop flapping his hands after only a few seconds. David clutches his hands to his chest and flushes a deep shade of red as he pointedly looks away from her. Stevie chooses that exact moment to step into the back to switch over the loads of laundry.

As she drags the damp sheets from one machine to the next, she traces her eyes over all the folds of the white fabric, looking for any lingering stains. The two dryers are side by side, and there’s a wooden shelf nailed to the wall above them. It’s cluttered with various bottles, mostly cleaning products - and a single bottle of vodka tucked away for emergencies. She runs the dryers, then unscrews the cap, taking a few swigs. Her throat burns in a comforting way, and she feels the drink settle in her stomach. Some of the tension in her forehead eases. She takes one last sip for good measure, then screws the cap back on, and steps back into the lobby.

Right away Stevie notices that David’s laptop is closed and he’s got a white knuckled grip on his phone. He’s staring blankly across the room, and she can hear him taking deep, intentional breaths.

“David?” she says carefully. No response. She walks toward him softly and gingerly sits next to him on the sofa, being careful to leave a decent gap between them. She douses her voice in sarcasm. “Jeez, clearly I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.”

It takes a minute, the sound of his slow breaths filling the silence, but he eventually responds. “I’m fine.”

“I believe you,” Stevie deadpans. “You look chipper.”

David rolls his eyes. “I got a call... for an interview...”

“Already? That was fast,” says Stevie.

He places his phone on the table, releasing his death grip, and immediately pulls his hands against his chest as he begins to twist his rings. “Mmhm. In Elmdale...tomorrow...”

Stevie nods. The vodka has settled in her stomach and she’s feeling decidedly calmer. With the calm comes a more confident sarcasm, though she’s still being careful not to jostle him too much. “Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but... I think this is a good thing, David.”

“Your breath smells like vodka.”

Fucking hell. “I don’t see what that has to do with the job interview you’re freaking out over,” she says, her tone as level as she can make it.

David glares at her.

“What?” says Stevie, shaking her head for emphasis. His face is flushed and she suddenly realizes there are tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Are you okay?” she says, the question slipping out before she has a chance to realize how unhelpful it sounds.

“I’m...I said I’m fine.”

He’s gripping one of his hands tightly over the other, and the look of pained concentration on his face makes Stevie wonder if he’s intentionally trying to hold his hand in place. Then, it hits her. Oh. He totally is. He’s been flapping his hands on and off all day.

“David? You know I don’t care about the thing with your hands, right?”

His cheeks somehow go even redder than before. “You saw it... walked away... and now you smell like vodka. You do care.”

Stevie sighs - she really wants to avoid making this about her, because fuck talking about her feelings, but apparently David has already dug himself into a deep hole of shame or something. “Do you honestly think that had anything to do with you?” she says, with a slight laugh, hoping the self-deprecation comes through.

David somehow tightens the grip on his hand even more.

“David, stop, let go,” she says.

He shakes his head.

“I’ve got shit going on, okay? And my garbage solution is to be sober for as little of it as possible. So no, I didn’t go back there to, like, wipe my memories of you, or whatever you’ve convinced yourself. There was a bottle back there.”

David swallows, but keeps himself stiff. “...Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, just like David. “Now can we please stop talking about me?”

He nods. They sit in silence for a while, Stevie contemplating going back to her desk a while longer before calling it quits. Beside her, David loosens his grip on his hand and begins rubbing circles over his fingers. It’s him that eventually breaks the silence.

“I’m not supposed to do that with my hands,” David whispers. “I don’t know why I did.”

He looks nervous, embarrassed, and Stevie is both grateful that they’re not talking about her anymore and exasperated that sincerity is still a facet of this conversation. “I don’t think there are any rules about it,” she says.

“It’s not polite to fidget,” he replies, sounding... frankly, ridiculous.

“David, you’re in your thirties. I don’t know who told you that, but like - you’re an adult, just do what you need to do. People fidget all the time!”

“People don’t do that, though.”

“Okay, well, as your friend, I’ve noticed that you live with a frankly concerning amount of anxiety... and like, if doing that makes you feel even a little better... then fuck it, who cares. Just do it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Stevie wants to shake him, to slap sense into him, to make him see that nobody cares if he flaps his hands, but she holds back because she knows he’s right: it’s not that simple. She can’t imagine a single person in Schitt’s Creek would genuinely be bothered (though actually, she’s not sure about the rest of the Roses)... but he’s right, there are definitely people out there who would see that and think less of him. And, she reminds herself, those are probably the kind of people David has spent most of his life surrounded by. She sighs.

“At the very least, do me a favour and stop trying to hide it from me, okay? I’ve already seen you do it, so there’s no point.”

David’s mouth twists. “Fine,” he says. “But you still have to pretend you don’t see it.”

Stevie smirks and rolls her eyes. “You are exhausting.”

“Also,” says David, a sheepish grin crossing his face, “...I will need an extremely generous, extremely sober person to drive me to Elmdale tomorrow morning.”

“Like I said. Exhausting.” And of course she’ll do it.

Stevie is stretched out with a book in the front seat of her car. Her seats don’t actually recline, so she’s classily put her feet up on the dashboard instead. She’s been parked across the street from the Blouse Barn for nearly an hour and at this point her feet are feeling a little numb. Her book is good, but it’s not that good, and she’s getting impatient. Also, the sooner they’re safely back in town, the sooner she can opt out of sobriety for the day. Since when do retail interviews take this long, anyway?

Just as she’s mentally preparing to drag herself out of the car to see what’s taking so long, David steps out of the shop. He slides his sunglasses over his eyes and walks towards her car, his hands held up near his chest as he fiddles with his rings. He looks stressed: Stevie is already trying to think of places they could stop for coffee or ice cream on their way back into town.

“Hey,” she says as David opens the door, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. She pulls her feet off the dashboard and reaches for her seatbelt.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“So...?”

“I got the job,” he says. His voice is shaking.

“Oh my god, what? David! That’s so great!” she says, whacking him gently with her hand.

He smiles, and continues to fidget with his rings as he climbs into the car beside her. “Thanks,” he says. “I... she wanted to see me on the sales floor, I guess? Which is why it took so long?”

“Weird,” says Stevie. “I was literally seconds away from barging in there, by the way.”

“Yeah, I was getting worried about that,” he says. He purses his lips. “The whole thing really caught me off guard, actually...”

Stevie nods. “But it worked out! Should we get ice cream? I thought we’d need emergency comfort food, but now that we don’t, I’m realizing I want it anyway. So it’s celebratory now, I guess.”

“Mhmm, that sounds... good...” he says. “Wait, don’t start the car yet though.”

“Hm?”

“I mean it. I need you to either close your eyes or turn all the way around. Preferably both, actually, since the windows reflect.” He’s bouncing his leg so hard that it’s making the car wobble.

“Because...?”

“I’m going to explode if I don’t let this out.”

“If you don’t let what out?”

“My hands!”

“Okay, yesterday you said you wanted me to pretend not to see you do it. I don’t think I recall you ever saying I’d have to turn away from you in my own car.” She’s being a bit of a brat, she knows, but honestly she’s hurt that David doesn’t trust her not to stare at him.

“Fuck!” he shouts, making Stevie jump.

“Okay, okay, I’m closing my eyes,” she says. She squeezes them shut and turns away from him, her feet on the seat and her head tucked between her knees. She swallows the irritated hurt that’s building in her throat. It’s going to take time for him to trust her with this, apparently.

Stevie hears David’s hands flap back and forth through the air with a desperate force; his bones make a slight crackling sound, though she can’t tell if it’s coming from his wrists or his fingers. It almost sounds painful. She waits, and waits, and after about a minute the sound slows down before stopping completely.

David takes a breath, then puts his seatbelt on. Stevie uncurls herself and starts the car, and they drive through Elmdale in silence.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” David whispers.

She shrugs. “I kind of deserved it.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Stevie isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the yelling or his hands; either way, she shakes her head. “Feel better at least?”

“Mhm... and I think the aforementioned ice-cream will help, too.”

Stevie smirks as she pulls onto the highway.

Chapter Text

David, Alexis, Johnny, and Moira are crammed into a booth at the café in the midst of the lunch rush, despite the fact that the typical Rose family get together is a strictly dinner affair.

Over time, Johnny’s insistence at the family sharing a meal together a few times a week felt like less and less of a chore; David could even admit he actually looked forward to the forty-five minute stretches of time in which each of them took turns chipping away at the stone walls erected between them all in another life. Unfortunately, today wasn’t one of those days.

Yesterday when he’d arrived at the Blouse Barn for his third shift, Wendy appeared frazzled, and David had made the mistake of asking if he could do anything to help. Turned out there was something he could do, she’d said – in the form of babysitting her twelve year old niece the following afternoon. So today, David finds himself incorrectly crammed into a booth with his family at lunch time because he needs to be at the local school before 3pm to pick up a child.

It’s only in the midst of the lunch rush that David fully appreciates the later evening hours of their usual get togethers. Late dinners at the café are quieter and calmer than this. How anyone can think (let alone hold a conversation) during the lunch rush is beyond him. There’s so much clanging silverware, so much scraping furniture, and the bell above the door jingles every five seconds... not to mention the million muffled voices that all melt together across the room. Not every conversation is muffled, though; the voices from the three closest tables slice through David’s mind clear as day, and it’s impossible to ignore what they’re saying despite the fact that he truly doesn’t give a shit about this man’s flat tire, or the possibility of this couple adopting ferrets instead of a dog, or the technical hiccups in Ronnie’s ongoing project of installing ramps in key locations around Schitt’s Creek. If only he could tune half these sounds out - a quarter of them, even - he might feel less like the victim of a hostage situation, but he can’t.

He clenches his jaw and twists his rings. He’s pressed up against Alexis, so he doesn’t dare fidget any more than that, lest she decide to draw attention to it. When Twyla arrives with their coffees, David takes his eagerly, gripping the steaming mug with two hands.

“Oop, careful David! That’s really hot,” says Twyla.

“Mhm, it’s perfect, thank you.”

“Okay, I just don’t want you to burn yourself. Maybe let go? I promise it’s not gonna get up and walk away,” she laughs.

Yes, the mug is hot; in fact, it’s just hot enough that it’s a little painful, which means his brain might focus exclusively on the burning sensation in his palms, blissfully filtering out everything else. It’s desperate, but it’s worked for him before. David doesn’t want to argue, though, so he lets go, noting that his hands come away bright red. As soon as Twyla’s gone, though, he wraps his hands around his drink again. He knows he can’t wear earplugs around his family without comments, so unconventional coping strategies are necessary, even if not ideal. His father glances at his hands and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not that hot!” exclaims David, hoping if he smiles he’ll appear lighthearted rather than defensive, and also trying to imply that maybe Twyla was somehow unaware of the actual temperature of his drink.

It works well enough; his father drops it. “So David,” he says, “tell me, how’s the working life treating you?”

“Uh, it’s fine.” Of course his dad wants him to elaborate, so he racks his brain for something else to say. “We’ll be doing a complete revamp of the store’s layout next week.”

“Oh, well that’s good, that’s good!” says Johnny, nodding.

“Well David, that woman is very lucky to have you - only someone with your sharp eye could breathe fresh life back into such a worn out aesthetic,” Moira says.

David feels his mouth twist into a genuine smile.

“Yes, we’re very proud of you son - you’re a man on a mission, turning that whole establishment around,” Johnny adds.

“Okay, don’t get too carried away. Wendy has me babysitting tonight,” he says, feeling his face twist with disgust.

Alexis nearly spits out her coffee. “I’m sorry, she... what?”

“Alexis, I texted you about this!”

“Um, you said you needed me out of the room tonight,” said Alexis, “so I assumed Stevie was coming over.”

Johnny’s eyes are wide as dinner plates now, and Moira looks... confused, yet delighted.

“Um, okay, that’s never happened the way you’re making it sound,” says David, “and also, fine, maybe I left out the babysitting part, but whatever. You still need to be somewhere else.”

“David, are you sure you can handle something like this?” says Johnny.

He squeezes his mug a little harder. “Okay, we were celebrating my competencies less than thirty seconds ago... can we go back to that?”

“What if it poops, David?” says Alexis.

“She’s like thirteen! Babysitting doesn’t inherently involve actual babies.”

“Whatever, David. Also, what do you even know about thirteen year olds?”

David rolls his eyes, biting back a wave of exasperation: he won’t bring it up, but he did look after Alexis a lot growing up, so he knows more about thirteen year old girls than his family is implying. He doesn’t like kids, and he certainly doesn’t want to be responsible for one, but he’s not incapable of it. In fact, out of everyone at this table, David is probably the most capable of looking after a child... which, okay, the bar is practically underground, and the statement is more than a little alarming considering that Johnny and Moira are the actual parents here... but it’s not nothing. He knows he can do this.

Thankfully, Twyla returns again with their food, and the conversation moves on. He takes his hands off the mug (which is no longer scalding but still warm enough to be comforting) and eats his lunch, pausing between bites to text Stevie. He can handle the job, but that doesn’t mean he won’t complain about it.

David: I need you to come to the café right now and hit me over the head until I pass out so I don’t have to be responsible for a literal child tonight.

Stevie: OMG i forgot u were doing that... can i watch?

David: I was specifically asking for you to gift me with a medical emergency... so no.

Stevie: ok, well i prefer not being in jail, so. pass.

David: Can they still arrest you if it’s consensual?

Stevie: idk, do i look like a lawyer

Stevie: actually dont answer that, too early for your opinions

David: Thanks so much, you’re useless.

Stevie: l ucky for u i’m not off work till 6, so u won’t have to do this completely alone. ur welcome. :)

David: K, no, absolutely not.

Stevie: :) :) :)

David tilts his head back and sighs. The background noise, once again, is unfiltered, so he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stay focused on Stevie. He’s 90% sure the whole interaction is just the two of them wrapping his anxieties up in a joke – which he loves and is very grateful to Stevie for – but he’s also worried she’s not joking about showing up to watch. That absolutely can’t happen, and it’s not just because she’d tease him mercilessly for the rest of time; Stevie is in no state to be around a child.

David has tried to keep tabs on Stevie all week, but it’s hard alongside a job. He stops by the motel lobby every morning with coffee and carbs for them to share before driving out to Elmdale for work. (Wendy, thank fuck, found him a rental car.) Stevie refuses to talk about her family drama – which, fair, he understands what that’s like – but it’s clearly upsetting her because she’s still drinking at work, and he knows it only gets worse once she’s off the clock.

His only real window into her life after 11am is via the increasingly drunk texts he receives from her throughout the day. She won’t even let him come to her apartment in the evenings. David is pretty sure Stevie’s very self-aware about what’s going on – far more, at least, than his mother has ever been during an episode – but that means she’s probably feeling embarrassed and trying to keep everyone away. He wants to respect her space, but at the same time, he hates not doing more for her.

Helping his mother is easier. In contrast to his usual difficulties with reading people, David is the only one of the Roses who can spot the addiction-related nuances of Moira’s behaviour. Even Johnny can’t always tell what’s going to set her off when she’s in crisis.

Throughout his late teens and early twenties, David was often the only one home to witness Moira spiral, so Moira naturally became his responsibility. It felt good to retain a bit of control over his life that way, though; he never felt helpless if things got bad, he could handle it. Even after he moved to New York, he was always the first one his father called, and David would usually book the next flight home to get things under control.

It’s hard to admit, but David also knows that feeling some sense of responsibility for someone else was - no, is - a blessing in disguise for him. It’s a convenient, if painful, way to keep his own substance use in check, something that has been necessary since... well, most of his life, really.

As much as David wants nothing to do with Wendy’s niece – he’d rather be doing pretty much anything else tonight – it’s very important to him that she doesn’t witness... well... an alcoholic. Stevie might be a complete stranger to her, but he knows firmly that the image of someone intoxicated and hurting can stick in a child’s mind for years.

After what feels like forever, Johnny and Moira get up to leave, and Alexis is nudging David out of the booth. Moira has rehearsal with the Jazzagals, and Johnny says he needs to get “back to the office.” It’s too early still to go to the school, so David follows Alexis back to the motel, glad to have another chance to check in with Stevie in person before he’s indisposed.

“You were quiet today,” says Alexis, walking and scrolling on her phone at the same time.

“I was texting Stevie,” says David.

“I mean, yeah, but like, before that. I thought you’d be a lot more yell-ey about the babysitting thing. Also I said I broke up with Mutt.”

“You already told me you broke up with Mutt. I bought you takeout! And I hugged you and everything - frankly, I think I exceeded brotherly expectations.”

“Okay, yes, it’s just that usually you would like, pretend to be shocked in front of Mom and Dad or something. You know how much they hate it if I tell you things first.” David smiles to himself – his parents might hate it, but he’s always felt proud to be the person Alexis trusts most. “You just seemed distracted.”

David is pretty sure Stevie would bury him alive if she found out he’d told Alexis about her drinking. Also, he’s pretty sure the distractedness Alexis is referring to has less to do with his worries about Stevie and more to do with him being unable to think back there. He shrugs.

“You know, if you’re really worried about tonight, you can ask me to stay,” she says.

David snorts. “I think an evening with one Rose will already make this girl plenty uncomfortable. No need to double the dose.”

“Ugh, fine David, don’t let me help.”

David looks at her and feels strangely bad for brushing her off so quickly. “Alexis, I’m going to be fine. But thank you, seriously. It’s really... nice... of you to offer.”

Once Alexis is back in their room, David slips his earplugs in, grateful that Stevie never says anything about them anymore. He finds her staring intently at the computer, cheeks slightly flushed, but otherwise composed enough. She immediately looks up when she hears him come in, and David breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

“I’m still not smashing your skull in, even if you did deliver yourself directly to me,” she says.

“Okay, I don’t recall the phrase ‘smash my skull in’ ever being used.”

“So I take it you were looking for more of a gentle head pat, then.”

“Hmm, okay, so apparently we aren’t as in sync as I hoped.” He rests his elbow on the front desk, giving her a small smile, and feeling a burst of affection.

“Can I help you?” she says. Her voice is controlled, but David notes that she smells more boozy than she did before he left for lunch.

“Just making sure you’re alive.”

“Surprise, I still am,” says Stevie, shimmying her hands in a wholly unenthused way.

“Good,” he says. “Um... and what are your plans for tonight?”

“Well, watching you scar a child for life is pretty high up the list,” she says, smirking.

“No!” says David, too forcefully.

“Jesus, I’m joking,” she says, pushing her chair back from the desk, her hands up.

“Sorry.” He weaves his fingers together. “You mean it though, right? You’re definitely not coming?”

Stevie scoots the chair back to its original spot. “Believe it or not, I actually do have better things to do than standing around laughing while my best friend does his boss a favour.” David can’t help it; his heart swells, even if it probably is just the alcohol loosening her words.

“Right...” he says carefully. “Better things to do, like...?”

“Like... none of your business, Rose.”

“Okay, and as your... what was it you called me? Your best friend? I actually think it’s very much my business.”

Stevie goes pale. “Fuck you.”

“Stevie.” His eyebrows are knitted together in concern, and he’s trying to hold her gaze but he’s pretty sure it’s disgustingly uncomfortable for both of them. David honestly doesn’t know what he’s trying to do. Make her admit she has a problem? But they both already know, and saying it out loud isn’t going to fix anything. He wants her to stop hurting, that’s what he wants, but picking a fight isn’t going to fix that.

“David, I swear I’m not coming anywhere near your room tonight.”

“I know!” he says. “I heard you the first time, and I believe you.”

She crosses her arms. “Then why are we still having this conversation?”

David huffs. “I... I don’t know. Because I’m scared, I guess.”

“Well, don’t be,” she says, shaking her head.

They’re both expertly dancing around the issue, which David finds extremely irritating, and he’s losing the energy to keep playing along. “Tell me why I shouldn’t be,” he snaps.

Stevie stares at him, saying nothing.

David can’t tell what’s going through her head. They both know what’s going on, why can’t they just let it live out in the open? This dance is exhausting, David thinks. And if they could just name it, Stevie could even set better boundaries - David, I don’t want to talk about my drinking today - perfect, clear, done, right? He folds his lips in.

“I have to go,” he says, more gently this time. “Text me as much as you need. And for the love of god, call it a night before you blackout.” She glares back at him. David holds her gaze again for longer than he’s comfortable with, needing her to see how serious he is. Finally, she gives him the slightest nod, and he takes that as enough.

David’s breaths are embarrassingly shaky as he waits for the bell to ring outside the school. He’s standing under a tree away from the main crowd of parents. At this point it’s not so much the prospect of looking after this kid that scares him; it’s the fact that she’s a teenager, at least barely, and historically speaking, teenagers have not been the nicest to him. Granted, he hasn’t interacted with many (or any?) since his own high school days, but nonetheless, it’s not an experience he’s eager to relive. He is prepared, though: he curated a list of twenty movies that they could potentially watch, and will make the final selection based on what he learns about her on their walk back to the motel.

The bell goes and a wave of kids pours out of each door. David folds his arms protectively across his chest. Earlier he texted a description of his sweater (white, with an abstract face in black lines) to Wendy so that her niece could spot him. It only takes a few minutes before a tall girl with an extremely young face approaches him. Her hair is a mixture of blonde and brown and is tied back in a ponytail with stray whisps of hair dancing around her face.

“David?”

“Mhmm. And you are...?”

“Ava.”

He nods. Shit. This is really happening. “So, um, follow me I guess,” he says.

At first, neither of them say anything. David keeps his gaze straight ahead, his hands balled in tight, still fists at his sides. Ava doesn’t seem chatty, either, but he’s not sure if she’s just waiting for him to break the silence or not. He gives it a shot. “How was school?”

She shrugs. “Fine.”

“Well that’s... something,” he says. Fucking small talk. “So... I thought we could get pizza and watch something tonight.”

“Okay.”

David sighs. They walk along Main Street, past the general store and the café, before turning up the smaller road toward the motel. “Listen, I’m sure this is weird for you,” he says, “and to be fair... it’s weird for me too.”

“I feel like I’m too old for a babysitter,” she says.

David actually laughs. “Is it weird that I thought the same thing? Although... I guess I did technically have a nanny until I was sixteen, even if I was alone half the time anyway.”

Ava raises both eyebrows at him. “Okay, wait... a nanny? Like, the full on rich-kid thing?”

David blushes. “Mhmm. I’m... guessing you’re too young to have heard of Rose Video,” he says. “But that was my dad’s company.”

“Oh,” she says. “No, I remember going there as a kid, when I was like 5 or 6. Wow. So you’re like... mega rich, then. Why are you working for my aunt and babysitting?”

David smiles, trying to swallow whatever hangups he has around talking about this. “We were mega rich,” he says. “We’re... well, we live in a motel now. Doesn’t get much more glamorous than that.”

She nods, looking pensive, like she’s trying to fill in all the blanks of his story herself. David doesn’t mind letting her do that; it’s easier than laying it all out. After a few minutes of letting her think – she thankfully doesn’t press him on anything else – he decides to bring the attention back to her.

“Ava, tell me about your interests. What do you like?” He’s surprised when his question makes her face light up, like she’s got an answer prepared and has been waiting for someone to ask.

“I love spiders,” she says. “All of them, really, but right now I am obsessed with jumping spiders. Have you ever seen a picture of a black velvet? I’m pretty sure there’s literally nothing cuter,” she says, and she pulls out her phone to scroll through photos. Suddenly, she’s holding it out toward him.

“Nope,” he says involuntarily. “Nope, nope, nope, do not show me that.”

Her face falls. “Oh,” she says, going quiet again. “Sorry.”

He feels bad; for a minute there Ava actually seemed animated and excited, but he ruined it. He can’t help being afraid of spiders though, and besides, who the fuck gets that excited about them anyway? He was waiting for her to talk about like... Barbies or something. Maybe he shouldn’t be allowed around kids after all. “Um... what else do you like?” he tries.

“It’s stupid,” she shrugs.

“Okay, no it isn’t. It’s not bad to like things. I’m sorry I shut you down, I’m just... really afraid of spiders. And bugs with milky exoskeletons.”

She laughs. “No, it’s fine.”

“So what else do you like?” he asks again.

“Um... makeup?”

“Really?” says David, genuinely surprised. “That’s... unexpected.”

“Why, I can’t like makeup because I told you I like spiders?”

“No! It’s just... you’re not wearing any?”

Ava blushes. “I like costume makeup mostly,” she says. “I mean, regular makeup too, I guess, but I can’t wear it a lot. It feels really weird on my face.”

David nods. He has the same problem; he’d probably at least wear concealer and eyeliner more often if the texture wasn’t guaranteed to grate against his skin all day.

They’re crossing the parking lot of the motel now, and David hopes Alexis left the room presentable. He hadn’t had a chance to come back after talking with Stevie earlier. The two of them stop in front of his door and he unlocks it. “Here we are. Feel free to leave your bag by the door and sit on my bed. I’ll set up the show.” He gestures to the bed closest to the door.

“I thought we were watching a movie?”

David smiles. “We can if you really want to,” he says, “but I have a show I think you’d like. Have you seen Glow Up?”

She squints. “No... I don’t think so.”

“Perfect.” He sets up his laptop and places it on a fold up table between the two beds. It’s not a great set up, but at least they can both see the screen. “It’s a makeup competition. They do a lot of ambitious costume makeup. Sometimes it’s good, but a lot of the time it’s incredibly mediocre. Other times it’s just straight up bad. Fun to watch, though.”

“Ooo,” says Ava, “I’m intrigued.” She gets comfortable, and David settles across the room on Alexis’s bed.

“Wait, pizza first,” he says. “What toppings?”

She doesn't respond, and he looks over, surprised to see her hands pressed over her ears.

"Ava? Everything okay?"

She startles. "What? Yeah, it's good. The lights are just weirdly loud in here."

David's eyes widen. "Yes... yes they are," he says, smiling to himself. "Sorry about that. I can turn them off, if you want?"

"Would you?"

He flicks the switch, and feels relief in his own body, too. Strange. Not even Stevie seems to realize how fucking loud these lights are.

"What do you want on your pizza?" he says again.

She chews her bottom lip. “Um... is it annoying if I just get cheese?”

David raises an eyebrow at her. “No, but as your babysitter, I feel like I’m supposed to encourage you to like... eat a vegetable.”

She nods slowly. “I mean, I know I should,” she says. “I’m just... my stomach is a little upset.” David feels his face pale, and Ava must see it too, because she quickly adds “I’m not going to be sick, I swear. I just... want bread and cheese, and nothing else.”

“Fair enough,” shrugs David. “I’m all for maximizing grease and minimizing flavour – and no, I’m not joking.” He orders two small cheese pizzas so they don’t have to share.

They fall into a nice rhythm, each sharing their own judgements over top of the show’s commentary, and watching in silence in between. During those periods of silence David mostly listens to the show so that he can catch up with Stevie’s texts. She’s watching Breaking Bad, of all things, which David has never seen (thank you very much), but he may as well have seen it at this point because she’s been narrating it to him scene by scene. At least he knows she’s conscious and is still able to string together semi-coherent sentences.

At one point David looks over at Ava and sees her intently watching the screen. What catches his eye, though, is that she’s not still; she’s rocking gently, forward and back, in a way that makes David think she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. He’s never seen anyone do that before. (You’ve done that before, his brain supplies.) Before he can completely acknowledge what he’s seeing, though, he’s distracted by the arrival of the pizza.

Ava barely gets through her first slice before she runs to the bathroom. David takes a minute to centre himself; things are going well, he thinks, but a few deep breaths can’t hurt to keep his anxiety under control. When Ava doesn’t return after nearly ten minutes, David begins to worry.

“Um, Ava... you okay in there?” he calls, not wanting to get up and actually knock on the door in case that freaks her out.

“No... not really? I... I think I got... well, I’m bleeding...”

Shit. David takes a deep breath. He’s actually been here before; he and Alexis were alone the night she first got hers, too, and he’d helped her through it. He can do it again.

“Um... alright, don’t panic, okay? I think Alexis has some... fun products... in there that you can help yourself to,” he says.

“Okay.”

David runs to his closet and pulls out his least favourite t-shirt. He knocks on the door. “This should be big enough to wrap around your waist, if you need...” he says. She cracks the door open and he immediately looks away, stretching his arm out blindly for her to grab the shirt.

“Thank you,” she whispers, closing the door. “Don’t look at your bed, okay?”

David swallows. It’s fine, he thinks. It’ll come out. Even if he doesn’t have anything that can get it out himself, Stevie probably does. “Not looking.”

He sits back down on Alexis’s bed and waits for Ava to return so he can un-pause the show. It was probably just cramps, or something, that made her rock herself like that earlier, right? So he shouldn’t say anything. Part of him wants to, because he doesn’t want her to get in trouble for it the same way he did as a kid - but if it was really just pain-related, then it feels like something no one can fault her for. She had a legitimate thing she was trying to cope with, unlike himself.

Eventually Ava wanders back out, David’s t-shirt around her waist, and her hands clutching her abdomen. She settles back on David’s bed.

“Are you allowed painkillers?” asks David. “You look like you need them.”

Ava shrugs. “My parents give me Ibuprofen when I’m sick sometimes.”

David nods, and digs through the cabinet in their bathroom, coming back with an appropriate dose and a cup of water.

“Thank you,” she says. “Can we keep watching?”

David smiles and lets the show keep playing. He’s surprised that he didn’t feel the need to immediately text Stevie an SOS when he realized what was happening. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t wanted to interrupt her stream of consciousness on Breaking Bad, or maybe he felt like it would be a violation of Ava’s privacy... but at least part of it was that he’d felt competent. He was right; he could look after a child. A teenager, even. There are so many moments in his life where he feels like he’s floundering... so the occasional moment of competency is more than welcome, even if it is while babysitting of all things.

“Oh my god,” moans Ava suddenly.

“Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I feel soooo much better. I think the painkillers kicked in.”

David grins. “Good, that’s good,” he says. “Why don’t you eat a little more, then? I don’t need your parents thinking I starved you.”

She smirks. “Yeah, they might leave you a bad review.”

David scoffs. Thankfully, she does grab her pizza box and continue eating. And rocking. She continues rocking, too.

“I like this guy,” says Ava, referring to one of the contestants. “I hope he wins.”

“Okay, you can’t just root for someone based on them having a tragic backstory.”

“Why not? I think he deserves a break.”

“He’s already getting exposure by being on the show,” shrugs David. “They can’t just hand him the win because he’s had a hard life.”

“I never said I wanted them to hand him the win,” says Ava. “Obviously I want him to earn it. But think about what a turn-around that would be for him.”

David smiles. “Well, just wait and see.”

Sure enough, he scrapes his way to victory – at least for that challenge. Ava squeals when it’s announced. “Yes!” she shouts, flapping her hands. “His model looked so good.”

David stares. Before he can stop himself he says “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” says Ava, still watching.

“With your hands.”

Ava looks down at her hands, which are currently pressed in her lap. “Nothing...?” she says.

“A second ago, after they announced Armaan’s win.”

Ava looks confused. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, David.”

“You flapped your hands!” he practically shouts, demonstrating.

“Oh. Yeah, probably. Why do you care?”

David doesn’t know what to say. Why does he care? Okay, he knows why. He just doesn’t want to admit it to a thirteen year old. He turns the question back to her. “Why did you do it?”

“I guess... because I was happy?”

“People are supposed to smile or laugh when they’re happy.”

“I guess,” shrugs Ava. “Sometimes I smile, but a lot of times when I’m really excited it’s just easier to flap. It gets it all out, you know?”

“I...don’t,” says David, not entirely truthfully. He definitely does know, he’s just not sure it’s ever happened when he’s been happy. Would it, if he allowed it?

“Oh.” Ava hugs her knees. “Well, I guess that makes sense. I think the flapping thing is because I’m autistic,” she says. “Most people don’t do it, which I think is weird because it feels really good. But yeah, I do it when I’m happy. And stressed. Honestly, it’s good for basically any emotion. Like I said, gets it out.”

David’s mind is reeling. “I’m sorry, you do it because you’re what?”

“Autistic. Like, I ‘have Autism’ or whatever.”

“I don’t know what that means,” says David.

Ava rolls her eyes. “Google exists,” she says, like she’s tired of explaining. “Can we watch the next episode?”

“Mhmm,” nods David.

He presses play, and immediately closes his conversation with Stevie. She can wait a minute. He types the word “autism” into Google and begins to read.

Chapter Text

David actually makes himself turn his phone off before reading anything. He can feel that familiar tug in his brain warning him that his full attention is about to get sucked into this new rabbit hole completely, potentially for a span of days or weeks, and he can’t afford for that to happen while he’s still babysitting.

Thankfully, Ava’s mother picks her up halfway through the episode. She tells her mom she had a good time, and David surprises himself by offering his services again if needed. It really wasn’t so bad, and the cash is great. He does breathe a sigh of relief when the door closes behind them, though; his brain feels like it’s turning to static and he desperately just wants to curl up in the dark and begin his descent into the rabbit hole.

David reflexively told Ava that he didn’t know what it meant when she said she was autistic, but it isn’t entirely true. He’s not completely clueless. He’s heard of autism: his mother used to attend an annual fundraiser for some sort of children’s autism charity, and he’s pretty sure it’s some sort of brain thing, but that’s about all he can confidently say on the subject.

Tonight he wants to remedy his ignorance, though, and he tells himself it’s for Ava’s sake. He wants to do an even better job next time she’s here, if there’s a next time, and that’s very responsible of him, right? Except she didn’t really need much of anything from him, really, save for some company and someone to point her in the right direction after she got her period for the first time. David still can’t believe that happened – if he had ever found himself in her situation, he knows he would have lost his mind, but she handled it with an impressive calm. No, he can’t even pretend to convince himself he’s about to do all this research on Ava’s behalf. The truth is, he thinks he saw a glimpse of himself in this teenage girl tonight. It wasn’t just the rocking and her flapping hands (although admittedly that was the moment where it felt like she was holding a mirror up to him.) Ava spoke bluntly, and sometimes it seemed like words poured from her mouth as though she was powerless to stop them. Other times, she seemed to retreat back into herself like she’d been burned. They hadn’t really talked about her life much, but he got the strong sense from her that she was also an independent kid, socially speaking... someone who found things rather than people to occupy her time with, not because she didn’t want company, but because company didn’t want her.

Maybe he’s just projecting – in fact, that’s a very strong possibility – but there were just some inexplicable familiarities he noticed within her, and if autism is the thread they share, then David would like to know about it.

After he powers through his evening skincare routine, drumming his hands impatiently against the bathroom sink as he waits for various serums to set, he throws on a t-shirt, a hoodie, and sweatpants, then curls up in bed, thankful to have the room to himself tonight.

His initial search is confusing. He primarily sees information pertaining to autistic kids, but there isn’t any indication that autism goes away with adulthood. None of it is especially helpful since he has been told very little about what he was like as a child, and he highly doubts his parents remember enough specifics to fill in the gaps for him.

Wikipedia says “ Autism is a neurodevelopmental disorder characterized by difficulties with social interaction and communication, and by restricted and repetitive behaviour,” which... okay, that is slightly more tangible. Difficulties with social interaction could mean a million things, so who knows if this applies to him, but he’s pretty sure Stevie would laugh in his face if he told her social interaction wasn’t difficult for him.

He feels like he does a decent job of communicating with people, though. Except, maybe, for moments like when he yells at Twyla for not understanding that he needs space, or all those times when he literally can’t make words come out of his mouth... okay, so maybe he’s not amazing at communicating. But he’s not bad at it, right? Like Stevie said, it’s okay that he’s not Alexis.

One of the only things he knows for sure about what he was like as a child was that he drove everyone up the walls with how verbose and chatty he was (and how fidgety he was, apparently, if his mother’s story about immediately sedating him with Xanax when he turned 18 is to be believed). His father loves to tease him about his apparently lifelong ability to just absorb new words and regurgitate them at any opportunity. Alexis even did a book report on his journal once, because she said that in addition to it being “very dark”, she found bigger words in his journal than there were in the books she got from the school library, so she thought his journal would get her a better grade.

It’s when David scrolls a little further down and reaches the section on “restricted and repetitive behaviour” that he begins to panic just a little. He skims the six categories of behaviours and finds himself checking a box in his head for almost every one.

• Stereotyped behaviours: Repetitive movements, such as hand-flapping, head rolling, or body rocking.

Calling them “stereotyped behaviours” seems a little judge-y, but fine, whatever, check.

• Compulsive behaviours: Time-consuming behaviours intended to reduce the anxiety that an individual feels compelled to perform repeatedly or according to rigid rules, such as placing objects in a specific order, checking things, or handwashing.

David almost doesn’t check this one off; sure, he organizes things when he’s stressed, but none of it is that time-consuming, and he doesn’t have to do any of it. But then he remembers his skincare routine, and how many times he’s been late because he misjudged how long all nine steps were going to take, and how he can’t leave the house without doing it because that would just be incorrect. Sometimes if he’s not sober he skips it, but otherwise... the only time he’s been able to skip it while sober was the night before Roland’s dinner party, when he managed to calm himself down enough using those fucking “stereotyped behaviours” so that he actually didn’t care if he skipped a few steps. So fine, maybe this one gets a check too.

• Sameness/Ritualistic behaviour: Resistance to change; for example, insisting that the furniture not be moved, or refusing to be interrupted. Unvarying pattern of daily activities, such as an unchanging menu or a dressing ritual.

He had been widely known in the New York art scene as a bit of a control freak when it came to his galleries. Okay, not a bit, a lot. But he totally can compromise, so maybe this isn’t a check? Also, he has fashion sense, not a dressing ritual, and yes, his clothes need very specific care, but anyone who owns a Givenchy knit could tell you that. He’s not checking this one.

• Restricted interests: Interests or fixations that are abnormal in theme or intensity of focus, such as preoccupation with a single television program, toy, or game.

He does have an encyclopedic knowledge of designer knitwear, rom-coms, New York contemporary artists, and Mariah Carey, but everyone knows a lot about things they like, right? Maybe, but not everyone gets legitimately angry when someone talks over a Mariah Carey song.

David puts his phone down. This article somehow feels like an attack on him, and he can feel himself putting up walls of denial. It’s ridiculous. Wikipedia isn’t even a reliable source, it has no right to read him to filth like this. What he hates most, though, is that he feels like he’s reading about all of the most embarrassing parts of himself in one place. His social skills, his fixations, his fidgets, his anxieties... hell, there’s even a bit about sensory sensitivities, and David wants to brush that off too but the reality is that he drowns out sound at every opportunity. He also loves to paint his affinity for high thread count sheets and soft clothing as taste, but there’s more to that, too: cheaper materials sometimes feel scratchy and almost painful against his skin.

He takes a couple of deep breaths. If he is... autistic... then he’s not just too much, he is apparently too much on a pathological level. Then again, someone would have noticed if his brain really was that different, right? The fact that he’s thirty-four and has never once heard the word autism in reference to him is a sign that he’s just reading too much into this. He’s overreacting yet again.

But... what if he isn’t.

He puts his phone on his nightstand and sets an alarm to make sure he’s up on time for work. Eyes closed, he focuses on his breaths, trying to clear his head so he can sleep.

Half an hour later he groans and sits up in frustration. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, pushing hard enough that he sees stars. When he picks up his phone again, it’s 1:30am. He has a pile of unread texts from Stevie, most of which were sent in the last... twenty minutes.

S: did the kid survive

S: daaaaaaaaaavid if u dont answer im gonna think the kid didn’t survive and im not in the mood to help u bury a body

S: daaaaaaaavid ur ignoring me

S: is she gone???

S: i can’t sleep with all these questions

S: also im sad

His stomach jolts at that last admission. Stevie never says things like that outright, even if they’re blatantly obvious from her behaviour. David weighs his options. He has to go to work in the morning, but it doesn’t really matter if he leaves from here or from Stevie’s. He can’t sleep, either, and Stevie has a coffee maker, so maybe he’ll just... go hang out with her.

His brain is still buzzing.

There’s probably quizzes or tests or something he can do to figure out if he’s autistic or not, right? What if he just spent the rest of the night doing that? Then again, what if he just carefully blocked all this from his mind instead of convincing himself that he has some sort of brain thing – a developmental brain thing, according to the internet – rather than just accepting the fact that he’s dramatic and particular and poorly equipped to deal with basic human existence. That seems a lot more plausible. If he could blame it all on his brain development, that would just be too easy.

David presses two fingers on each of his temples, desperate to make this thought spiral stop. It doesn’t help, not really, so he he gets up, packs a bag with his skincare supplies and an outfit for tomorrow, and throws on his Uggs before getting in the car to drive to Stevie’s.

He buzzes Stevie’s apartment three times to no avail, but when he calls her, she picks up immediately.

“Took you long enough. Tell me everything,” she says. David can practically feel her concentration through the phone as she tries not to slur her words. He wraps his free arm around his torso, leaning against the building’s brick wall.

“Let me in first,” says David.

“That was you?”

“Obviously. Open the door.”

“No! I didn’t say you could come over.”

David rolls his eyes. “Then I guess there won’t be any stories for you,” he says.

“You brat,” says Stevie. “It’s a mess up here.”

“Stevie, I’m freezing.”

She lets out a dramatic, elongated sigh before finally buzzing him through.

He finds her apartment with relative ease (there are only four units on each floor) despite never having set foot in the building before. Thankfully the door cracks open shortly after he knocks, though Stevie doesn’t stick around to invite him inside.

He pushes it open himself to reveal a surprisingly cozy looking suite. It’s warmly decorated, lots of browns and reds, and there’s furniture that’s all significantly less moth-eaten than the motel stuff. She even has windows, which seems obvious in hindsight, but somehow he’d always pictured Stevie living underground. Her rugs were probably fluffy once upon a time, but have been well loved and now lay flattened in some places like they’ve been pressed. There are signs of Stevie everywhere; stacks of thriller novels, a Celine Dion poster, and two separate coffee makers in the kitchen despite her being the only inhabitant of the space.

As he stands there scanning the room longer, though, he begins to notice fewer of these cozy lived-in elements and instead more signs of someone in crisis. There is a cluster of empty wine and vodka bottles beside the kitchen sink, and a few more scattered around the living room on various surfaces. The room is stuffy and smells like alcohol. He opens the fridge offhandedly and finds nothing but more bottles of white and a single box of leftover pizza. Stevie herself is buried in a blanket in her bed - her “bedroom” is separated by a single wall from the rest of the living room - and her laptop is open beside her, playing some action movie on Interflix that David doesn’t recognize. Only the top half of her head is visible, the rest covered by her comforter pulled protectively around herself. There’s another untouched comforter under her; it’s like she’s burrito-d herself on top of a freshly made bed.

“Are you done snooping yet, or should I get you a magnifying glass?” Stevie growls. David shrugs, slipping his Uggs off beside the bed and climbing in beside her. He moves the laptop closer to Stevie to give himself a bit more space, but doesn’t crawl under the blankets. He sits tightly, his legs crossed, rubbing his hands together for comfort more than warmth. Stevie raises her eyebrows at him.

“What are you watching?” he says, finally giving into her weird stare.

“Why are you here?”

Because you’re sad. And because I think I might be autistic and I don’t want to think about that right now. “Because you texted me fifty million questions and I come bearing answers.”

“Most people respond to texts in text format,” she says flatly.

“And most people are happy to see their friends when they come over,” David says.

“Well I’m not most people,” she says, burying herself deeper in the comforter.

David watches the human-shaped lump beside him rise and fall steadily with each breath. Her eyes are barely visible – she’s allowed them to poke out just enough so that she can continue watching whatever it is that’s playing. Something action-y. He’s never been in this situation before; the only person he’s really been close enough to to allow himself to worry about was Alexis... and even then, he always had to worry about her from half way across the world. This proximity adds another layer to the situation. David doesn’t really know how to do this tactfully, but doing nothing for his friend seems worse, so he’ll just do what he always does and be clear, concise, and straightforward. (Or, as most people who’ve known him would say... blunt, tactless, and rude. Whatever.)

David takes the extra pillow and hugs it close to his chest. He looks up at the ceiling with his eyes squeezed shut, because it helps him think, and also because then he doesn’t have to focus on looking anyone in the eye – not that Stevie is really available to look at right now, anyway. “You told me you were sad, and... it didn’t feel right to ignore that. I’m worried about you. And for the record, that was the first time you gave me any verbal confirmation that I had something to worry about.”

Stevie makes no move to come out of the burrito she’s made, so her voice is muffled. “That’s not true. We’ve talked about my family shit before. And my drinking.”

“You acknowledged those things, with the addendum every time that you’re fine and don’t want to talk about it, so I accepted that and didn’t talk about it any more. This isn’t the same thing. This time all you said was ‘I’m sad’. You never said you didn’t want to talk about it.” The longer David talks, the higher the pitch of his voice climbs.

“You’re annoying.”

Oh god. He’s suddenly scared he’s doing this all wrong. “Am I?”

Stevie swats the comforter away from her face. “No. Yes. No... I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about this.”

David swallows, not daring to open his eyes. “I think... maybe you need to, though.” Something explodes in the movie in the background and Stevie slams the spacebar to pause it. An oppressive silence falls over the room.

“I think maybe you need to talk about your shit too,” says Stevie. David opens one eye, just for a second, scared that she’s glaring at him. She’s not. She’s flat on her back now, staring up at the ceiling.

“Okay, I’m just going to say it,” says David, “we’ve talked about my shit way more than we’ve ever talked about your shit. So it’s your turn.”

“I still think you should get a therapist. You have an income now.”

David throws his hands in the air and the pillow he was holding flops sadly against the bed. “Fine! You’re probably right! But for the record, you need one too, and also we’re not talking about me for once.”

He picks the pillow up again and squeezes it against him. The pressure is soothing. He’s determined not to let this go tonight, but the silence stretches on to an uncomfortable extent. At one point David’s heart gives a huge lurch, apropos of nothing, and for a second he wonders if this is how he’s going to die, because wow that felt bad and he could feel his pulse everywhere in his body, but then it settles quickly into those calmer, familiar flutters, so he pushes it out of his mind. Stevie still hasn’t said anything; he’s not giving in.

Finally, fucking finally, she sighs. “I don’t know how to talk about myself.”

“You’ve made that very clear,” says David softly.  “If you’re not going to talk to me, can you at least promise to talk to someone?”

“I’ll get there eventually.”

“Well what happens in the meantime, then?” says David, gesturing frantically at the mess of empty bottles strewn around her apartment. “Trust me, this isn’t sustainable.”

Suddenly she stands up and stalks across the room, swiping all the empty bottles off surfaces. She clears her nightstand and the coffee table, and adds them all to the pile beside the kitchen sink. When she’s done, she comes back, leaning against the wall beside her bed. Her hands are in tight fists by her side, and she’s breathing heavily, her brown eyes slicing into David on the bed, even as he looks away. “I don’t need you to tell me this isn’t sustainable.”

David folds his lips in, swaying his body side to side almost imperceptibly, but enough that he can feel it. He’s never had the urge to run from Stevie, but he’s feeling now. It takes all his concentration to hold his ground. He can’t run away from this, he won’t let it happen. “That was a completely incorrect thing to say. I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Stevie is still breathing heavily, and it sounds like some long-ignored fury is spilling out from deep within her. She doesn’t add anything else, though, just stands there, trembling.

“I know you’ve been down this road before. You’ve lived it yourself and you’ve seen it happen to other people. I didn’t mean to take that from you,” says David, trying to be careful yet earnest with his choice of words.

Stevie nods but stays silent. It seems unlikely that she’s going to say much more tonight, and maybe they should both just go to bed. It’s – he glances at his phone – nearly 4am. Stevie’s expression is less tense now, the muscles in her face a little more slack, so David pats the pile of blankets on her side of the bed and hopes that she’ll come join him again. She does, immediately throwing the comforter over her shoulders and propping herself up against the headboard.

“You really don’t have to tell me everything,” says David. “I just... want you to know that you can. If you want.”

She rubs her temples. “I think I’m broken when it comes to genuine human interaction,” she says. “I want to talk, I just really don’t know how.”

“You and me both, then,” says David. He’s always felt comforted by the fact that Stevie’s not the warmest or most charismatic person on the planet. She seems to understand how to socialize better than he does, though, at least in theory, but when it comes to the execution, she’s got walls built up that rival his own. They share that in common, and he treasures every moment that feels like it’s just the two of them against the world. He never got to experience that before Schitt’s Creek. Before Stevie. That acknowledgement brings a new fear with it now, though. If David really is autistic, will Stevie continue to share that camaraderie with him? Or will she look at him differently until the threads of their friendship snap? Not the time for this, thinks David.

He settles back against the headboard beside Stevie and crawls under the covers. He has just one last thing he wants to try. Tentatively, he presses a hand against her shoulder, hoping the gesture is comforting and not... incorrect. “What’s one thing you want me to know about this whole situation?” As usual, he finds himself gesturing wildly as he speaks. Stevie smirks a little when one of his hands nearly whacks her in the face, and David pulls his hand back, biting his lip.

Stevie takes a moment, seemingly pondering his question while it hangs in the air between them. “It’s not about my family.”

David nods slowly, continuing to chew his upper lip. He’s not quite sure what she means, and she seems to realize that.

“It was about my family when it started a few weeks ago. Family drama, drinking to numb whatever feelings it brought up, the usual. But then it just became a convenient excuse to keep going.”

David nods. He does get it. His own reasons for drinking and going on benders that lasted days at a time were rarely just because of a single bad thing that happened.

“It’s easier to say that I’m dealing with family shit,” Stevie says, looking intently at her hands.

“I know.”

“I guess when I told you I was sad... over text... that was the best way I could describe it. Sad. Hollow. Tired.”

David just nods, and moves his hand toward her shoulder again. Feeling weird, he changes his mind and slides it down her arm, until he’s holding a hand that is much smaller than his own. He squeezes it, hoping she knows how thankful he is that she shared that with him. “You know, I like you even when you’re like this.”

Stevie turns to face him, the bags under her eyes somehow even more prominent than they were when he arrived a few hours ago. She shakes her head, and her voice comes out raspy. “Okay, this whole conversation is giving me hives.”

“I know,” says David. “And I have to be up in three hours. My whole face is going to be rugged terrain in the morning.” Stevie actually laughs, and he gives her hand one last squeeze before they both roll over and attempt to fall asleep.

Stevie’s breaths slow almost instantly, and David realizes he never did tell her about his adventures in babysitting. Maybe it’s a better story for another day, though. He’s still got a lot to think about, and at the moment, he doesn’t want anything between Stevie and him to change.

Chapter Text

The following afternoon, with a mere fifteen minutes to go in his shift, David finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open. The newly re-designed Blouse Barn is blurring around him, so he leans against an empty stretch of wall, pleading silently for no new customers to come through the door. Three hours of sleep and a single strong cup of coffee apparently isn’t enough to keep him on his feet and sociable for eight hours in a row. He really needs to sit down, but there’s no where to do that even behind the counter, so he allows himself to close his eyes where he is, just for a second. 

The bell above the door jingles immediately. He sighs and hastily pulls himself together, tugging his shoulders back and plastering something between a smile and a grimace across his face. It all falls away as soon as he opens his eyes. 

It’s his mother.

Today Moira is dressed in a lacy monochrome dress, over which she sports a sparkling black blazer with a heavy brooch pinned to one side. Immediately David can see that she’s fraught with jittery energy, her eyes darting every which way, and her voice unusually squeaky.  “Day-vid, darling, not sleeping on the job I hope? That’s hardly professional.”

What the fuck.

“What are you doing here?” he says, folding his arms. 

Moira wanders up to one of the display tables, running her hands over all the knick-knacks and folded blouses. “Your father sent me to check up on you,” she says dreamily.

David pulls his phone out of his pocket. He doubts very much that his father would do something like that; if anything, he’d waltz into the store himself. He does have an unread text from him though - in all caps, as usual - explaining that Moira was having “one of those days” and that he needed someone to keep an eye on her while he was with Bob.

Nope. Absolutely not. He’s exhausted and all he planned to do after work was drive home and promptly pass out. He replies, saying as much.

D: This isn’t happening, I’m busy, find someone else.

J: YOUR SISTER IS BUSY

D: Are you driving?

J: I PULLED OVER

D: Come back and get her!

J: I’M BUSY

D: So am I, why am I the only one you didn’t bother to check in with?

J: WHAT ARE YOU BUSY WITH

D: I need nap, I slept less than 3 hours last night.

J: SO UR AVAILABLE, TIRED ISN’T BUSY

D: I can’t stay awake to watch her!

J: I’M NOT COMING BACK, KEEP HER OCCUPIED THIS AFTERNOON

David groans, frustration mounting by the second. He was supposed to drive home and sleep. Now what is he supposed to do? Drive home and stay awake? He’s not just going to sit in his parents’ room all afternoon while his mother paces and complains about how bored she is, or worse, climbs into the closet. Past experience tells him she’s just going to complain about being hungry if they don’t eat, so they’ll have to go for lunch, but he’s fucking exhausted and entering another public place is the last thing he planned on doing this afternoon. 

He steps into the back room for a moment. He paces back and forth, giving himself permission to flap his hands in short bursts as needed, while he constructs a new plan for the afternoon which now apparently involves his intoxicated mother. It feels very unfair that he’s his family’s default babysitter for her, but frankly he’s too tired to unpack that right now, and also he did just leave Moira Rose alone on the floor of the store. He pokes his head back out.

“Mmkay, Mom, hands off, stop touching everything. Give me two minutes to clock out and get my bag and then I’ll take you somewhere for lunch.”

“How can you tell I’m peckish, have I made it that obvious to onlookers such as yourself?”

David rolls his eyes. “You’ve clearly taken something, and that always makes you hungry.”

It doesn’t seem like his mother is actually listening to him.

A short time later, David and Moira settle into a table next to the window at the coffee shop he frequents during his lunch breaks. Eating in Elmdale seemed like a safer idea than the café back in town: this way, not everyone would become privy to Moira’s lapse in sobriety, and David could get a bit more caffeine into his system before making the drive back. The food and drinks arrive, and after wolfing his lunch down, he sips at his macchiato, trying to savour it. 

His mother eats more slowly, losing herself in thought between each bite, and occasionally murmuring strings of words to herself out loud that only vaguely make sense to David when he catches them. He watches her, fighting back yawns within himself, and realizes that he’s worried. Despite the tumultuous state of their lives over the past year or so, it’s been a really long time since he’s seen her like this.

If he could just settle into a demeanour appropriate for hanging out with his mother that would be great, but his whole person feels like jell-O. The muscles in his face are lax and he’s pretty sure it looks like he’s glaring across the table at her, though he’s not; it’s just his neutral face, and he doesn’t have the energy to sculpt any sort of emotion into his features like he normally would. This café is quiet, but his tolerance for any noise has been rapidly declining as the day goes on, and even the soft jazz playing over the speakers is making him want to bash his head against the window. He can feel his carefully crafted persona crumbling, leaving behind some flat, lifeless excuse for a person. 

His mother had inhaled her soup and garlic toast, and now she nibbles at her salad every time she remembers it’s in front of her, but he’s not convinced she’s going to finish it. 

He finishes the last sip of his coffee and snaps his fingers in front of her. “Ready to go?” 

“No, dear,” she says, gesturing to her plate. “I’m eating. Have patience. Perhaps you should consume your food with considerably less haste next time.”

David grits his teeth. He deposits his empty mug in the dish tray and walks up to the counter to order another, because if they’re staying longer he’ll need something to keep him occupied. His cheeks flush slightly as he listens to his own voice recite his order: he sounds almost completely monotone. 

He stands off to the side to await his drink, folding his arms tightly to his chest, and delaying the inevitable return to his mother. In his mind he swats away thoughts of things like deficits in nonverbal communication, because fucking hell, he’s exhausted, and he doubts socializing comes so naturally to anyone that they can do it successfully even when running on a measly three hours of sleep.

Fresh coffee in hand, he returns to the table. “Oh David, good, you’re back… I was so bored,” says Moira. He takes a sip in response. “You know, you look remarkably like your father.”

“I’m aware.”

“You must get a lot of attention for those charming looks. Why don’t you ever tell me about any of your potential suitors? You know I live for a good romantic chase,” she says, tripping over several of her words in the process.

“Ew, that’s disgusting,” says David, though it feels like too much work at the moment to contort his face into whatever expression of disgust he would normally exhibit. He feels his eyebrows lurch upwards a bit, and he shakes his head lightly, though, so hopefully the sentiment still translates. “And there’s nothing to tell.”

“Nonsense, you slept with nearly everyone in your old entourage.”

David bites his tongue. “Again, ew, that’s a disgusting thing to hear from my mother. How did you even know – actually, you know what, don’t answer that.”

“Are you lonely, dear?”

“Not particularly.”

“You hardly interact with anyone,” she says. She pushes her salad - still unfinished - to the side, and leans forward conspiratorially. “You’re not becoming a hermit, are you? Even that young man, Mutt I believe, spends time with friends and lovers, and he lives in a barn.”

“I have Stevie.”

“Oh my dear, as much as that girl is growing on me, she’s hardly a substitute for the social life you once had.”

David rolls his eyes. “You’re right, because she’s better than they were in every way.” He’s come to believe that wholeheartedly. And, truth be told, he’s realizing he’s just not that interested in large groups of people. He’s not even sure he was interested in them back in New York – socializing just kind of seemed like something you were required to do, especially in the art scene. He doesn’t miss that aspect of it. But he’s also not going to have this discussion in public with his mother who’s still so high she’s practically floating away in front of him.

Moira grabs onto one of his wrists before he can take another sip of coffee and grips it with both of her bony hands. “You know, we Roses used to fly so high. But now… look at us. Struggling just to keep our heads above the swamp water in this podunk town. But David Rose, you are a dashing young man, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise,” she says, eyes glistening.

“Oh…kay. We should get you home. Are you done with that yet?” he asks, reaching for her plate with his free hand. Moira doesn’t respond, just pierces him with her stare.

“You don’t look very happy,” she says, gripping his wrist harder and shaking it slowly.

“I’m just tired.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not very happy either. Those fuckers called me irrelevant again, and John made me leave the house when I told him explicitly that I wanted no such thing. I was quite cozy in my nest, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, the press says things like that sometimes,” says David. “I can’t fix it. Neither can you, but you don’t have to read it, you know.” He tries to gently tug his hand free from her, but she doesn’t let go. He feels the beginnings of panic sprout somewhere in his chest.

“You know who’s irrelevant? The Hamptons. Mary Kate and Ashley. The Roses are not irrelevant, I am not–“

“Okay, give me my hand back please.”

“–irrelevant. You know, the first time I appeared in the press was–“

“Mom, listen to me. What did you take?” Moira snaps out of her monologue at the firmness of his voice, her eyes loosely meeting his.

“Oh, David, I don’t remember,” she says, brushing the air in front of her aside.

“Can you at least try? I’d like to know if I need to worry about you passing out beside me on the drive home.” She still hasn’t let go of his wrist - if anything, her grip around it has tightened - and David tries to stave off the panic he feels, from seeing his mother cling to him, from being held to one spot, from being touched. He could probably yank his arm away, but he doesn’t want to startle her, and it doesn’t feel worth it to cause that much of a scene in public.

Moira taps her hand against her cheek as if trying to jog her memory. “It was… oh! Something I found in my purse,” she says, a note of triumph in her voice.

“Okay, that’s not nearly as helpful as you think it is.”

“Well David, I don’t know what more you expect from me! Besides, if I could remember what I ingested these drugs wouldn’t be nearly so satisfactory now, would they?”

For a second his neutral visage is replaced with a glare so fiery it feels like anger is trying to  burn its way through his skin. He has to literally bite his tongue to prevent words he’ll regret tumbling out of his mouth. You want to know what more I expect? I expect my own mother to not rely on me as a babysitter every time something slightly upsetting happens to her. Do you know how many years of my life I’ve lost to worrying about you and Alexis? Out of everyone in this family, I’m the one who’s basically a walking anxiety disorder, yet here I am again, making sure everyone else stays in one piece.

Moira cocks her head to the side and finally lets go of his wrist. He immediately pulls it back to his chest, unwilling to let her reach him again. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a breath, trying to settle himself. 

“Day-vid, what ever is the matter?” she drolls. “You look positively frazzled. Why, I might even suspect there’s a glint of anger in those murky eyes of yours.”

“I’m just tired,” he says again. It comes out in a whisper.

“Well perhaps we should get you home,” she says. “Come now, I shall drive!”

“Um, absolutely not, Dad put me in charge and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for you to be behind the wheel right now.”

“I am in no need of an escort, I don’t know what’s gotten into your father lately.”

“Oh, you’re not? Great, then if I leave now you’ll be totally fine to get yourself home then.”

“Well I should hope so, David, we’re only at the café.”

“…In Elmdale. We’re at a café in Elmdale.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. Moira picks at her salad again, and David returns his attention to his coffee.

Another thirty minutes pass, David fighting sleep all the way despite the extra caffeine, before he finally convinces his mother it’s time to go. She wraps her arms around his torso and leans into him as they make their way out of the café. When they get to the car, he opens the passenger side for her, but she doesn’t let go. He’s suddenly very aware of her perfume - some sort of strange vanilla spice concoction - and the very limited range of motion he currently possesses. It’s overwhelming. “Let go please, or we’re never going to get anywhere because I’m the one driving.”

“But if I let go how will I protect you, my beloved firstborn, from the scathing gaze of the world,” Moira mumbles.

David finds her hands and unclasps them himself, straightening her out in the seat and closing the door behind him. He leans against the car for a second, hands clutched up against his chest, knees trembling. He slowly walks around to the other side of the car and gets in.

“Oh, you’re finally here,” says Moira. “You were gone a long time.”

“I was gone for like a minute, tops,” he says, softly, shakily. There’s a lump in his throat and it’s growing bigger by the second. He puts a playlist on, one that’s comforting but would be okay for someone to talk over, and focuses on the road.

“I’m surprised you drive so well,” Moira slurs. “It took you forever to pass your test, you know, you must have taken it a hundred thousand times.”

David chooses not to say anything. Maybe if he says nothing, she’ll just talk herself in circles, or better yet, fall asleep.

“You’re haven’t chattered much today.”

“Mm. Nope.”

“Oh why not David, we so rarely spend any afternoons together anymore, and I can’t help but mourn the days when you behaved like my shadow.”

He feels an odd pang in his stomach. “I’d say it’s a good thing that your adult son isn’t attached at your hip anymore. Besides… you never seemed thrilled to have me there.”

“Well you can hardly blame me when my schedule stretched me so thin. But of course I liked having you there. Why, it was either that or set you loose in a world that only sought to crush you like gravel.”

“So you pitied me.”

“Nonsense, dear. I was protective of you. The bullying you endured was abysmal, I was so relieved when Alexis received nothing of the sort.”

David purses his lips, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “Of course no one bullied her. She’s not… she’s not like me.”

“No, she isn’t,” said Moira, her voice sing-song-y again as she stares out the window, eyes glued to the foliage whipping by on the side of the highway.

“I’m a freak.”At that, David feels Moira turn sharply to face him; he keeps his gaze intent on the road ahead.

“You are no such thing,” she says.

“Well I’m not… normal.” He bites his lip, unsure of why he’s even saying this out loud. She brought up the past, though, and for a moment he feels a sense of overwhelming vulnerability, and he just wants his mother to comfort him. Of course, she’s never been very good at it, but the longing for some sort of motherly comfort has never faded.

“David, I know the world has never felt… easy… for you to navigate,” she says. “And goodness knows I’ve spent years worrying that something out there is going to eat you alive.”

David snorts. “You’ve worried about me?”

He hears her voice tremble, just slightly. “From the moment they pulled your tiny purple body from my womb.”

Nobody is home when they get to the motel. David guides his mother back to her room and tries to corral her into bed, but she leaps up within seconds, declaring that she has too much energy for an afternoon nap.

“Fine,” grumbles David. “But I’m tired.”

“Shh, then you go to sleep,” she says, whispering like he’s already passed out. David rolls his eyes at her.

“I’m supposed to watch you.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Nope. Necessary, because you can’t be trusted not to wander into town and bother Jocelyn or Ronnie.”

“Well what are we going to do here, I’m bored David,” she says.

He groans. This isn’t going to be fun, but it’s the best he can come up with. “Put Sunrise Bay on. Walk me through season 4, I never fucking understood what happened in it.”

“Oh David, it’s really not that complicated,” she says as she gets it going.

He crawls into his parents bed, feeling ridiculous, but too tired to care, and keeps his eyes open long enough to ensure that his mother has tucked herself beside him, chattering away already with her scene-by-scene commentary.

“David!”

He startles awake, rubbing his eyes, annoyed, and suddenly all too aware of his pounding heart, which feels like it’s about to take flight out of his chest. He swallows as his father’s face fades into view looking over him.

“What on Earth on you doing?! I told you to watch your mother, not have an afternoon nap.”

“Where is she?” David says, still too groggy to be fully concerned about her whereabouts.

Johnny gestures sharply with his arm toward their closet. 

David rolls his eyes. “Mmkay, I don’t see what the problem is then, she hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“You were supposed to keep her occupied and out of the closet, I think that was pretty clear.”

“How is this my fault? I meant it when I said I wouldn’t be able to stay awake. I only slept like three hours last night.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, pressing a hand over his heart in a flimsy attempt to still it. This is getting ridiculous, and he’s too young for it to be happening all the time. 

“Well she could be in there for weeks!”

David groans. “I’ll get her out in a minute.”

His father’s eyes fall on the hand he’s holding against his chest. “Oh, are you okay? I – I didn’t mean to scare you, son, it’s just, you know what your mother’s like…”

“Oh my god, yes, I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling his hand down and stalking toward the closet. His vision swims for a second when he gets to his feet, but he pushes past it, unwilling to turn this into a Thing.

It takes him about ten minutes of coaxing before Moira crawls to her feet. He takes her arm and pointedly passes her off to his father. 

He needs to fucking sleep. 

Johnny looks like he’s about to protest for a moment, but David just glares firmly in his direction. He bids his parents goodnight before shutting the door that connects the two rooms and all but throwing himself into bed.

Having fallen asleep absurdly early, David finds himself awake before dawn the following morning. Immediately, he can tell that it’s going to be a rough day. He’s not sleepy, but he’s exhausted in his bones, and the thought of interacting with anyone sounds effortful enough that it makes his stomach churn. He suspects that speaking isn’t going to come easily today. He’ll have to try, though, because he has work.

A wave of curiosity sweeps over him and he begins googling in the dark as Alexis mumbles in her sleep on the other side of the room. It takes a frustrating amount of time, but eventually he comes across terms that start to sound like him. He’s not non-verbal, because he speaks most of the time, but he might be semi-verbal, large emphasis on semi, because he periodically loses his ability to speak, or at least struggles to access it. 

David chews his lip, thinking. He’s still not convinced that he’s really autistic. There are a lot of signs, sure, but they are all things that could still be explained away by saying that he’s finicky, particular, or anxious. Perhaps his loss of speech is just shyness… laziness, even. Besides, if someone held a gun to his head and told him to speak whenever he felt like he couldn’t, he knows he could. Is he just giving up if he decides not to force it? Is he just being difficult?

Maybe it would be helpful to have someone to actually talk to about what this all means. Schitt’s Creek is tiny, he doubts there are any counsellors or therapists in town… but he begins to google anyway. Turns out there are a few in Elmdale. He’s scrolling through a small directory of them when he comes across one in particular that catches his eye. It’s a guy named Keith, who specifically lists himself as, among other things, autism-friendly. Before he can second guess himself, he sends him an email. He doesn’t mention autism anywhere in it, because it doesn’t yet feel like something he can claim for himself – but he has to start somewhere, and it might as well be with this guy, who probably at least knows more about it than David does.

It feels like a victory – a small one, but a victory nonetheless. When he finally pulls himself out of bed and begins getting ready for the day, though, he begins to worry about what the workday will bring. Maybe he’ll be able to spit out a word or two here and there to customers, or maybe he’ll just fake a sore throat and hold up notes on his phone like he does with Stevie. Either way, it’s going to be awkward. The only thing he can think of is to give himself something to look forward to for when it’s all over.

He texts Stevie, declaring that tonight will consist of pizza and movies, no exceptions.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks come at David like a series of tidal waves. 

The first wave comes when Wendy tells him that she’ll be receiving a small settlement from a company in Australia in return for changing the name of her store. It turns out there’s more than one person on Earth who thinks “Blouse Barn” is a marketable name; the company in question wants to use it for a large retail chain. At first David doesn’t think much of it, but the more Wendy talks about her upcoming meeting with the lawyer they’re flying out, the clearer it becomes that this company means big business. It’s obvious they can afford to offer her a lot more than she’s set to receive, and David finds himself overcome with the urge to ensure that Wendy isn’t underselling herself. 

One thing leads to another, and before he knows it, he and Alexis find themselves sitting in on the meeting as Wendy’s “legal team.” A few days later, David pockets a cheque for $40,000, while simultaneously learning he is out of a job because Wendy is closing the Blouse Barn permanently.

All things considered, this is great news: he has some breathing room now with this cheque, and maybe he’ll be able to find something that he’s actually passionate about. Re-branding the creative vision of the Blouse Barn was fun and all, but in the back of his mind he always knew the store was someone else’s baby; he needed to keep the dragon in him (the one that wanted full control over almost every aspect of the business) somewhat contained. 

Still, that evening, David drives back to Schitt’s Creek in a daze. It feels like he should be overcome with feelings of freedom and excitement, or pride, even, because there’s no way things would have worked out this way if he hadn’t followed his gut… but instead, it feels like the house he painstakingly built has just come crumbling down around him. 

What’s he supposed to do now that he doesn’t have to get up and drive to Elmdale five days a week? The further he drives down the highway, the more lost he feels, like a rug is slowly being dragged out from under him. He drums his fingertips so hard against the steering wheel that little dents form where his finger nails are digging in upon contact. His whole body shakes and his ears are ringing, and maybe this is a panic attack, but he’s not necessarily scared; he feels more like a balloon full of emotion set to burst. 

He pulls over and is fully sobbing before he can even think to stop himself. He buries his face in his hands and rocks back and forth, pausing now and then to pull his hands away from his face and flap them as hard as he can, before burying his face against them again. 

He cries because even though it wasn’t much, he had built a routine for himself that felt safe, and now it’s gone, and he doesn’t know what to do next. He cries because in the past year, his family’s lives have changed so much, and he’s been trying to survive for so long that he hasn’t let himself really feel any of it. He cries because even though she’s been slowly improving over the past couple of weeks, he’s still worried sick about Stevie, not to mention his own mother. And finally, he cries because the longer he lives in Schitt’s Creek – the longer he lives a life in which he can’t drown out every waking experience with drugs, alcohol, and crowds of people he doesn’t care about – the clearer it’s becoming that his brain works differently than most people’s.

It was subconscious at the time, but in hindsight David can see that he used to drown everything out because life always felt too complicated to navigate sober. At best, every social interaction made him feel clownish, because he intentionally over-exaggerated his facial expressions while being plagued by excessive had gestures he couldn’t control, all while needing to continuously parse whether someone was speaking literally, figuratively, or sarcastically. At worst, social interactions felt completely impossible, but he learned quickly that words never got stuck in his throat while he was drunk. Some days he’d freeze or tear up because he felt so overwhelmed by noises or smells or textures, but as soon as he wasn’t sober he could allow even the most amplified of sensations to roll right off his back. And he could go to parties, so many parties, drowning himself in music and flashing lights and crowds of people, all things that he knew in the back of his mind would have made him curl up in a ball on the floor without the help. 

Drowning everything out made him feel like a regular person.

Now, for better or worse, there’s no longer an easy way to hide from the things that make his brain feel different – and, as he’s beginning to realize, there is a laundry list of peculiarities about his brain. Not all of them are bad, necessarily – like his overzealous vocabulary or his encyclopedic knowledge of Mariah Carey – but they are all significant enough to make him feel very aware of himself, of his differences. Hell, even his own body feels clunky and foreign to him half the time.

He knows, logically, that being different isn’t bad, but the truth is he doesn’t want to be different. He doesn’t want to feel like an alien. He wants to feel like he’s part of a group, part of the world; he wants to be more than just some kooky onlooker trying (and usually failing) to blend in.

All of these thoughts swirl mercilessly in David’s head as he sits pulled over on the side of the highway. Finally, when it feels like every last drop of emotion has been squeezed from that balloon, he takes a few deep, shaky breaths, and leans back against the headrest. For once his body falls completely still. No rocking, no flapping, no fidgeting, no relentless inner monologue, just a faint ringing in his ears and the sound of his breaths slowly returning to normal.

When he’s ready, he wipes his puffy eyes, puts the key back in ignition, and drives the rest of the way home, blasting Mariah the entire way.

The second wave hits the following morning.

When he’s ready for the day, he makes his trip down to the café, then returns to the motel office with two coffees and some muffins for himself and Stevie. Stevie’s not behind the desk today, though; she’s next to the couch, dressed in all black, and rifling through a large cardboard box sitting on the table in front of her. 

“Did someone die, or are we going through like a mid-life goth phase?” David asks. He’s teasing, of course, but also genuinely confused about the sudden change in aesthetics.

Stevie doesn’t look up from the box she’s bent over. “Someone died.”

David rolls his eyes, though can’t stop himself smiling a bit.

“My great aunt died.”

She still hasn’t looked up, he realizes, and although the tone of her voice rarely changes to match her mood, it’s possible she’s serious. Wouldn’t she take it further if she was trying to be funny? David bites his lip. “Okay, I can’t tell if we’re still joking or not.”

“I’m not.” She moves to take a seat on the couch and looks directly at him, apparently noticing the coffee for the first time; she motions for him to hand it over.

Stevie is unreadable at the best of times, but David thinks he’s gotten pretty decent at it – at least, he thought he had. Right now, he’s lost. He waits for her to say more, but she’s sipping her coffee and looking away again. He hates how juvenile it makes him feel to admit he has no idea what’s going on, but whatever, it seems like his only option. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay, and now I can’t tell whether you’re playing into the joke or whether, um, you’re telling the truth.”

“She was seventy-eight.”

David swallows. Alright. He’s like, eighty percent sure at this point that she’s not joking. If she is, the whole bit is boring and completely unfunny, so he takes his chances. He opens his eyes and clutches his hands close to his chest, twisting his rings. “So you’re not joking… okay, well then I’d like to apologize for everything I’ve said since coming in here today.”

“Why, you didn’t kill her. Also, this is the same aunt I told you about that was super sick. It’s been a long time coming.”

He sits down beside her on the couch,  and they both sip their coffees. She tells him about how this aunt was someone she genuinely liked, and how she was one of the only relatives it didn’t physically pain her to keep in touch with. All the arrangements have fallen to Stevie, too, so either their relationship was special or this wasn’t a very well-liked woman. Possibly both.

David is finding it hard to tell how upset Stevie actually is. She’s not crying, but she sounds stressed, though that may just be because a pile of work she never asked for has suddenly been thrust in her lap. Regardless, he doesn’t want to just leave her to it. Stevie has been drinking noticeably less lately, and he doesn’t want this to set her back. Also, the amount of time he has on his hands now is terrifying, and anything he can find to fill it is a good thing.

“So… this seems like a lot of work,” he says, tapping his fingers against his paper cup, “and if you need help…”

She looks at him, her eyes widening, and a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’m going to need you to finish that sentence.”

“Oh. Um, then I am… happy to help you… in this time of need.”

“As much as I appreciate your reluctant offer, I don’t think you could handle it. This whole thing is super depressing.”

“Mkay, I think we’ll be fine. So, I’m happy to help,” says David. He puts his coffee down and clasps his hands. “… That is what um, friends say to each other, right?”

She actually smiles, and David feels a rush of warmth in his chest. He loves her. Not romantically – it honestly took him a beat too long to differentiate the two with certainty – but in the deepest, platonic sense of the word. He’s never had the privilege of feeling that way about someone before.

“Yes,” she says, “Yes it is.”

They spend the rest of the morning sorting through Maureen Budd’s things, and in the early afternoon, they visit the funeral parlour to pick up her remains. The “funeral” happens later that afternoon; it consists solely of the two of them scattering her ashes in a seemingly random parking lot. Stevie spirals, worried she’s on perfect track to become exactly like her aunt, and David tries his best to reign her back in.

When they return to the motel, a woman in a grey suit is seated in the lobby, scrolling absently on her phone. “Hi, are you here to check in?” Stevie asks.

“Oh, hello! You must be Ms. Budd,” she says, standing up.

“Uh, just Stevie is fine.”

“Right. Stevie. Hi. I was in charge of your great aunt’s will and affairs, and I’m just here to drop off some documents for you.” She hands over a chunky looking folder, which Stevie gingerly opens. 

David puts a hand on Stevie’s wrist. “I’m going to go…” he says softly; he doesn’t want to intrude if they’ve got things to talk about. Suddenly, though, Stevie’s eyes go wide, and she grips his wrist tightly in return.

“Wait, no, don’t,” she says, her voice trembling. She looks up at the woman. “I don’t… are you sure this is for me?”

The woman is long gone. Stevie is still sitting frozen beside him on the couch in the motel lobby – her motel lobby – though the sun is setting, and she should have gone home over an hour ago. “I think… I think I have to sell it.”

David’s stomach jolts. He knows how overwhelming this is for Stevie. He’s spent the last hour listening to her spiral for the second time today, and he gets it, but the possibility of the motel being sold off – demolished, even, since it’s not exactly a booming business – sends him into a spiral of his own. It’s a shithole, yes, but it’s also his home, and he doesn’t think he can survive being uprooted a second time.

He also knows it’s not his decision to make.

He sighs and straightens his back, steadying his breath. “You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he says, taking the folder from her lap and closing it. “Let’s put this away. You should go home.” 

Fuck. I need to go home too, he thinks. 

There’s now a restless panic swirling everywhere in his body. He’s going to lose it soon, just like yesterday. But no one, not even Stevie, can be allowed to see it happen. Part of him wishes for his pre-Schitt’s Creek days, where he could shut everything inside him so tightly that he rarely, rarely burst. Usually he could sleep things off, get high enough to float above it all, or in his very worst moments, lock himself alone in his apartment for a week so he could fully shut down and not have to speak, but living in this town has undone him in so many ways. Even when they first arrived, he just hid away in bed and had a few sporadic bursts over the following weeks, but he never had a full… breakdown.

Stevie sighs. “Look, I feel like a loser for even asking, but… do you want to come over?”

Fuck.

“I…” He weaves his fingers into knots and bounces his leg, trying to keep himself level for a bit longer. He should say no, he wants to say no, because he’s not going to be very good company while his composure is being held together by a piece of tape and a smattering of desperation, but Stevie never asks him to come over, and she probably needs the company as much as he needs to leave. 

In his old life he would have said no. Honestly, he wouldn’t have spent the day helping someone scatter a relative’s ashes to begin with.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Stevie says, but whether she means it or is just saying that because it’s what she’s supposed to say, David can’t tell. 

His heart is pounding – for once, it feels appropriate – and before he can talk himself out of it, he shakes his head. “Nope, I want to. Let’s go.” He follows her to her car, bouncing his wrists, the best middle ground he can find between staying still and fully allowing himself to flap his hands, which is what it feels like he actually needs. 

These movements are called stims, he’s learned, and they’re important for emotional regulation and sensory processing. This makes sense. It makes sense, too, that he stimmed a lot as a child before stopping in early adulthood, because he’d learned to regulate himself in other less healthy ways. And okay, it’s not that he never stimmed anymore once he became an adult… it just wasn’t as noticeable. He still rubbed his hands and fiddled with his rings and sought out pleasant textures. Then he was forced to leave his life in New York behind. David relies on stimming so much more these days, he realizes, which is frustrating because he feels so ashamed and embarrassed about it. Stevie doesn’t mind, even if she doesn’t understand… but he still can’t stomach the shame of letting go completely. 

It’s childish, distracting, and impolite.

The thing about stimming is that even though everyone does it, it’s especially important for autistic people… like him. 

Autistic people like him. 

The more he researches, the more he finds himself testing the waters by labelling himself autistic in his head. He doesn’t know if he can say it out loud yet, but even just in his thoughts, it’s starting to feel very correct.

The drive to Stevie’s is quiet. David bounces his wrists in his lap and wiggles his toes and tries desperately for all of that to be enough, but he can’t stop thinking about the motel being sold and his skin won’t stop prickling.

“What do you want for dinner?” Stevie asks when they get to her apartment. She’s already scrolling through options on her phone.

“Um, whatever you feel like is fine.” He’s curled up on one end of her couch, his eyes darting around the room, still shaking his wrists as much as he dares.

“O…kay. Are you sure? I might order something really wild then, like ambrosia.”

“You’re not that much of a monster. Also, I refuse to believe people still make that in the 21st century.”

“Mm, good point. A side salad for you then, no dressing.”

“Oh my god.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You always have opinions about food.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine. I’m getting pizza with whatever I want on it.”

“Sure.” His ears are ringing and he’s extremely aware of every inch of his body; all of it feels wrong. He just needs a minute alone. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can I shower?”

“… You know I don’t have anything fancy in there, right?”

“I don’t care.”

Stevie shrugs. “Go for it. Pizza will be an hour. I’m putting a movie on.”

David runs the water hot and sits under the steady stream, watching steam rise around him. He stims and cries as quietly as he can while all the energy and emotion tumbles out of him. He wants it to be over with quickly, but each time it sounds like his breaths have returned to normal, something catches in his throat and he feels tears spilling down his cheeks all over again.

Finally, there’s nothing left. 

He stands and turns the water off, too tired to even think about actually washing his hair or his body. He fixes his hair with a comb and is just pulling his sweater back over his head when he hears a knock at the front  door indicating the arrival of their pizza. 

It’s hard to feel hungry when his body and mind feel like a cloth that’s been wrung dry. All he wants is to sleep. Stevie would notice, though, so he joins her on the couch, grabbing a slice. It’s cheese and pepperoni – her threats were empty after all. He takes small bites and fixes his eyes on the movie, though his mind takes none of it in. 

“Feel better?”

David continues to stare straight ahead. She didn’t know he wasn’t really showering, right? Or could she tell? He nods anyway. “Mmhmm, yeah, I do.” Better is one way to put it. Spent is probably more accurate.

Stevie sighs. “I own the motel,” she says, seemingly more to herself than to David. “I own it.”

David puts his pizza down and places his hand on her knee.

The rest of the movie plays out, presumably, but David is fast asleep long before it ends.

David can’t remember the last time he was so emotional, especially two days in a row. It feels serendipitous that his first session with Keith is scheduled for just a few days later. 

It’s a rough couple of days. He forces himself to get up and see Stevie in the mornings, but he never stays long. Then, he spends the rest of the day in bed drifting in and out of sleep. Alexis chastises him for it every time she comes in – “it’s like a witch’s hut in here David!” – but he refuses to explain himself. He’s not even sure he could if he wanted to. At one point, his father comes in and announces that he’s partnering with Stevie to run the motel, and while this feels like objectively great news for Stevie and his family, and certainly lifts some of the weight of his anxiety, he’s still so exhausted that it’s physically difficult to express his enthusiasm sufficiently. 

On the day of his appointment, David borrows Stevie’s car and drives into Elmdale. He’s no stranger to therapy, but this time feels different. He’s nervous.

The office is small, decorated in a colour palette of blue, white, and black. There’s a potted monstera in one corner and a huge scenic painting of a shoreline hung on one of the walls. He sinks into an oversize leather chair across from a man who can’t be much older than him. His hair is shoulder length and falls in loose curls, and David squints for a moment because it reminds him so strongly of one of his exes from years ago. Keith’s voice is soft and articulate, though, and he finds it easy to focus on even as his eyes bounce around the room.

David clasps his hands and bounces his leg as he regurgitates his life story. If Keith was ever familiar with the Rose family, he gives no indication. By the time David finishes talking, his mind feels blank and full of static, and he hopes he can get through the rest of the session using as few words as possible. Keith finishes scrawling a set of notes on the legal pad in front of him. “And how are things now?” he asks.

Now could refer to any stretch of recent time, thinks David, but he decides to interpret it in the most literal sense: today and this present moment. He takes a moment to think so he can be frugal with his words. “I broke down a few days ago after the store I worked at closed down. Then my friend Stevie became the owner of the motel we live in, and she panicked and thought about selling it, and I broke down again. She’s not selling it, it’s fine. But I’m exhausted. I’ve mostly stayed in bed since all of that.”

He listens to Keith talk about trauma responses and how it makes sense that sudden change might affect him more significantly than the average person. The words float around him. It’s the first time he’s told a therapist about what happened to the Roses, and everything he’s saying adds up. In his gut, though, David knows that there’s more to it, and he wants to interrupt him and say I also think I’m autistic, but he can’t make the words come out of his mouth. So instead, he just listens and nods and continues to bounce his leg until Keith says they’re out of time. 

“How are you feeling after all that?”

He’s more exhausted than he was before. He’s relieved because Keith is understanding and gentle and not condescending, but he feels like nothing he shared about himself today is the complete truth. He’s dreading going home and falling asleep again with no structure to hold everything up around him.

All those thoughts swirl in his head clear as day, but all he can do is shrug.

Alexis is there when David gets home. She’s still wearing scrubs – Ted hired her at the vet clinic – and she’s stretched out on her bed watching something on her laptop. 

“Where were you?”

David rubs his fingers against his rings. He’s gotten a lot closer with Alexis, but somehow he’s managed to keep this side of him away from her, either by feigning sleep when he can’t talk or just by being in the right place at the right time. He swallows; maybe he can force his way through this. “Um…”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Okay, honestly, I don’t really care where you were. But you look guilty now, so… what have you done? Did you eat my yogurt again?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay… then what?”

David shrugs.

Alexis huffs. “Oh my god, David. Aloof mysterious guy isn’t a good look on you. Communication is very important.”

David makes a face. This is shockingly sound advice coming from his sister, he just wishes that wasn’t how his present state read to her. He points at his throat - the sore throat excuse has a short shelf life, but thankfully he’s never needed to use it on her.

“Oh… ew, David. Do not get me sick,” she says, pushing herself closer to the other end of her bed.

David rolls his eyes. Crisis averted, at least.

He stretches out on his own bed, staring up at the plaster ceiling and losing himself in thought. Everything feels so strange. On the one hand, he’s beginning to understand himself better than he ever has before. So much of his life makes sense when he considers that he is autistic, that he has always been autistic. On the other hand, though, he’s the only person in his life with this newfound perspective, and in some ways peeling back all these layers of himself has made him feel more alone.

Maybe it’s time to tell someone.

His next appointment with Keith isn’t for a couple of weeks. What he really wants, in the meantime, is for Stevie to know. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t believe him or writes him off as dramatic or thinks less of him afterwards… but at the same time, if she’s going to react that way, maybe it would be better for him to know that now, rather than months or years down the road. Plus if she doesn’t react that way… then the one person who’s made his life here survivable will see him in his entirety. He texts her before he can talk himself out of it.

David: Meet me at the café for dinner tomorrow?

Stevie: Hmmmmmm…convince me

David: … I’ll pay?

Stevie: will there be wine?

David: Um, no, absolutely not. I will not be encouraging you.

Stevie: u can’t stop me from ordering it tho

David: I can if you’re driving.

Stevie: traitor

David: So you’re coming?

Stevie: I guess

That’s good enough for him. He rolls over and sleeps for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day, most of the static is gone from his brain. He spends most of the day working himself up about how Stevie will react at dinner, though, and by the time late afternoon rolls around, he’s practically vibrating, so he makes a trip to the general store just for something to do.

This store has always been a mess. It’s cluttered and disorganized, and there’s no overarching aesthetic. Still, David has walked down these aisles many a time in search of cheap wine and snacks and toothpaste. 

He picks up a few basics, then thinks that wine might be nice tonight after all is said and done. He stands in front of the display, skimming the labels and muttering under his breath about how despicable it is that the foot cream is directly beside the wine. “Who thought this was a good idea?” he says, louder than he meant to.

“The owners, I’m guessing,” says a voice beside him. “Doesn’t look like it worked out in their favour, though, I heard through the grapevine that they’re going out of business.”

He looks to his right to see a man wearing dark blue jeans and a pale blue button up. It’s a lot of blue. His face is soft and clean shaven, and he’s gorgeous, really, in a straight, business major sort of way. David is suddenly very aware of his own oversize sweater in contrast to this man, and he tugs his sleeves over his hands as if that’ll somehow make his whole existence more palatable. “Mm, that’s… very sad for them,” he says. He can’t meet his eyes.

“If only they had someone with taste on their side, am I right?” the guy says. David thinks he’s teasing.

“If only…”

“Someone like you. Hey, maybe now’s your chance!”

“What?”

“Maybe now’s your chance to help this place reach its full potential. It’s a great location, very central.”

He’s definitely joking. “You’re funny.”

“I’m serious. It could be great.”

“What makes you think I could even afford to buy this store?” You probably could, he reminds himself. He has $40,000, and even the most prime real estate in Schitt’s Creek probably isn’t worth much.

The man shrugs. “Just a thought. Also, I’m in charge of business licences in Schitt’s Creek, so… if you ever wanted to give me a call…” He pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to David.

David takes it, confusion probably flooding his features. It feels like he’s being teased, but there’s a note of something else, too – sincerity, maybe? – that he can’t figure out. Also the longer he looks at this man, the prettier he gets, and that’s not what anyone is doing here. He needs to get out. He grabs a bottle of wine off the shelf and pockets the business card without looking at it.

“Okay, it was nice meeting you…” the man says as David begins to back away.

“…David. Rose? David Rose.”

The man smirks, and now he’s definitely mocking him. “You sure about that?”

“Mmm. Yep. That’s my name. Goodbye,” he says.

Only as he makes his way toward the café does he realize that the polite thing to do would have been to ask the man for his name in return.

There’s a bit of a dinner rush tonight, and it’s louder than David would like, but he can wear his earplugs in front of Stevie and they muffle the background noise enough to keep him from being completely overstimulated. She’s sitting across from him sipping wine – she agreed to let him drive them both back to her place afterward – and before he can stop himself, he’s telling her about the guy from the general store in far too much detail.

“He gave you his business card?”

“Yeah, look,” he says, extracting it from his pocket. The card shows his name - Patrick Brewer - in a white serif font on a navy blue background. Underneath it reads Schitt’s Creek Business Consultant, followed by his contact information. It’s pretty much exactly what David expected.

“And this was completely unprompted.”

“No. He was joking - or maybe not joking, I’m not sure - about me leasing the general store for my own business. He said I’d have to go through him to get a business lisence.”

“But you didn’t tell him you were thinking of starting a business or leasing the general store. So it was completely unprompted.”

“I was critiquing the store’s layout choices. I guess he thought I could put my designer’s eye to use.”

Stevie nearly spits out her water. “Oh, I see,” she says. “You realize that’s still a big leap, right?”

“What?”

“Oh my god. David.” She grabs the business card and waves it in front of his face. “He. Was. Flirting. With. You.”

“What? No!”

“He gave you his number completely unprompted.”

“Okay, in my experience, it takes very little to prompt people with business cards to give them out. Also, he wears straight leg jeans and button up shirts and looks like he spends most of his time staring at spreadsheets. He’s not interested in me.”

At that moment, Twyla approaches them, carrying a large plate of mozzarella sticks in one hand and balancing both of their entrees on her other arm. “A guy once gave me three business cards in one night to try to get me to go on a date with him. I looked him up, though, and his business looked more like a front for something else. I think I dodged a bullet.”

“See?” Stevie says, smirking. “Think of what you could be missing out on.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. Hypothetically, even if he – Patrick – had been flirting with him, he definitely won’t be interested anymore. David pretty much slathered the man with an unintentional cold shoulder. 

“I think you should take a chance,” says Stevie. “You’ve basically been on a dry spell the entire time I’ve known you. This could be good for you.”

He can’t help but wonder if she’ll take all of this back after she hears what he’s about to tell her. He leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. “Stevie…”

“Okay, I don’t actually want to argue about this with you. It’s up to you, whatever, I just… think it could be fun.”

He takes a deep breath. “Stevie, I think I’m autistic.” He opens his eyes to make sure she doesn’t stand up and leave right then and there, then grabs a mozzarella stick. His hand shakes along with the rest of his body. Stevie looks at him, her expression blank, but she eventually nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t really have anything insightful to say, but I believe you.”

“I… thank you,” he says. 

Without thinking, he shakes his hands out, the corner of his mouth pulling back into a grin he can’t control. Ava was right – stimming does feel good for any emotion. It takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s still sitting in the café. He pulls his hands back to his chest, just for a moment…but no one is looking at him except Stevie, and she’s smiling. He scrunches his eyes shut again and flaps his hands a few seconds longer. When he stops, it’s because he feels like he’s done, not because he feels like he has to.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Even with this load off his shoulders for the first time, David still feels a bit uncertain. “Just to be sure… you do… know what that means, right?”

She shrugs. “Not exactly. I mean, I know the stereotypes… the super smart socially stunted kid, whatever.”

“Exactly me,” says David.

Stevie snorts. “Very.” Her expression softens, though, before she continues. “Tell me what it means for you.”

David’s mouth twists. It’s such a gentle, genuine question, that he’s almost not sure what to do with it. He wasn’t expecting this. “I mean, apparently it means different things for everyone… so obviously I don’t expect you to like. Know everything about me. I don’t even know everything about me.”

“That makes sense. But what do you know?”

David presses his lips together. “Um… I mean, I know that I’m very sensitive to sound. And touch, and texture, but not in food, because I’ll eat anything.”

“Except ambrosia, apparently.”

David rolls his eyes. “Okay, I don’t think anyone eats that.”

“What else?”

“Do you remember ages ago at that tailgate party? When I told you that I felt like an alien?”

She nods.

“That’s still a pretty accurate summation. Socializing feels like playing chess… which I don’t know how to do.”

“I can see that. I mean. You cover it up, but…”

“Mmm. Also I stim a lot? That’s the hand flapping, and the rest of my fidgeting. It… helps me process, I think.”

She nods again.

“And the last thing I understand is that sometimes the connection between my thoughts and my vocal cords breaks, and then I can’t speak… I go non-verbal. Which you already know. I think it happens most often when I’m stressed or overstimulated.” He looks away. “You’ve been really helpful with that, though…”

“It’s not hard.”

“Still. Thank you.” He bites his lip. “I’m sure there’s more I could say, but… I’m still figuring it out. I just don’t want people to see me differently… because I’m starting to think I can’t separate myself from it. I don’t think there’s a line between me and autism, I’m just… autistic.” He looks down at his plate, twisting noodles around his fork. 

Stevie gives his arm a squeeze before finishing the last sip of her wine. “Well, don’t worry, I find you just as annoying and pretentious as ever.”

Chapter Text

It isn’t long before all that remains of the old general store is its dated storefront. A couple of “for lease” signs have been slapped to the windows with painter’s tape, and every time David walks by them, the business concept floating around in his head nudges its way to the forefront of his thoughts.  A business selling exclusively artisan products feels correct in a small town, especially one like Schitt’s Creek with such an abundance of talented local craftspeople. The store’s sales will benefit both David’s brand and the artists, and the space itself could be something of a community hub. The more he thinks about it, the more feasible it feels, and within a couple of weeks he has sketches, mood boards, and the rough draft of a business plan for the whole thing. 

He tells Stevie about it as soon as he feels capable of articulating the concept accurately – which, admittedly, takes some rehearsal – and even she says it’s a good idea. This surprises him. He wants her to know about these plans, obviously, but he had been prepared to be laughed out of the lobby when he told her.

The final step is to submit the proposal to town council, which means talking to his mother so she’s not shellshocked when his name comes up as a potential lease candidate. David is hopeful – confident, even. He honestly can’t remember the last time he felt this excited about something. He catches his mother one morning in front of her vanity before heading out to a council meeting.

“So… I have some big news,” he says, smiling as he twists the ring around his index finger.

“Oh David, perhaps it can wait, I’m not sure I can stomach another one of your sexual exploits…”

David stares, feeling his cheeks get hot. “Um…” His history – fraught with disastrous relationship situations that somehow always had him rosy and hopeful at their fruition – will never be something he feels like unpacking with his mother. Not now, not ever. But of course that’s what Moira Rose defaults to with him, apparently.

She leans in closer to her mirror, trying to get her wig – Martha? – to sit the way she likes it. “Okay fine, who is it this time?”

“It’s not… I’m actually thinking about going back to work.”

At this, she pulls back from the mirror and faces him, Martha still slightly lopsided on her head. “David, that’s wonderful! You’ve received an offer?”

“Um, not exactly.” He feels his eyes creeping toward the ceiling as he speaks. “It’s more of an idea for a plan… for the general store… for my own store… that I would be working at.” He rubs his knuckles together gently.

Moira sighs, deflating against the wooden back of her chair. “Oh David… perhaps you ought to reign that ambition of yours in just a touch.”

“I think it’s a good idea, actually,” he says. At that moment, Alexis barges through the door – presumably post run, given her headphones and flowery jogging attire – and plops down at the kitchen table, scrolling absentmindedly on her phone. David tries to focus his gaze back on his mother.

“David, a good idea it may be, but you have so little experience, you can’t just start a business and expect it to flourish. And you haven’t got investors or–“

“I don’t need investors, I’m the investor. I want to do this all on my own.”

Moira scoffs. “And you’re sure that’s wise? David, this is the only money we have–“

He bites his bottom lip. It’s strange, how much his mother’s reaction stings. There’s a huge part of him that just wants to make his mother proud – to live up to her in all of her ambition and high fashion, high concept, meticulous artistry. Perhaps this isn’t a choice she’d make for herself, but he’s determined to see the idea through anyway. He can’t just cling to what she thinks; at the end of the day, he’s never going to be Moira Rose. He takes a deep breath. “We? I know we bought a family car, but it’s always been my money!”

Moira purses her lips. She makes the final adjustments on Martha before standing up and grabbing her purse.“Fine,” she says, stepping toward the door. “Far be it from me to stand in your way while you roll the dice with your hard-earned savings.”

David breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, that’s all you had to say.”

The door closes behind her. 

“Um, David…” says Alexis, squinting at him as she looks up from her phone. He’d practically forgotten she was there.

“Um, Alexis,” he replies, mocking.

She ignores him. “You know that wasn’t like, a win for you at the end of that conversation, right?”

He squints back at her. “First of all, it’s rude to eavesdrop. And second of all – a win? What the fuck are you talking about?”

She shakes her head as if she thinks he’s being oblivious on purpose. “When she was like, ‘far be it for me to stand in your way,’” – and wow, her impression of Moira is spot on – “she didn’t mean that literally, David. Mom’s still not with you on this.”

David lets out a half laugh that’s more of a puff of air. “Um, I don’t think she would just straight up lie to me. She’s never been afraid to voice disagreement to my face.”

 “Oh. My. God. David.” She throttles the air in front of her, and David grimaces, taking a tiny step back. “She wasn’t lying, she was being sarcastic, and you thanked her like you thought it was genuine! I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get the wrong impression. So just like, be prepared, or whatever, when you submit your thing to council.”

David studies his sister carefully, trying to parse whether or not she’s messing with him, which at this point feels equally likely. It’s not that Moira never uses sarcasm, but, well, this had sounded pretty straightforward to him. Unless of course he was just hearing what he wanted to hear… ugh. Leave it to Alexis to get in his head. He groans and presses his face into his hands.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re screwed, David, you’ll be fine. Mom’s not the only one on council.”

He bounces his wrists, trying to keep calm as his confusion mounts. “Mm, I just feel like you’re fucking with me.”

Alexis puts her phone facedown on the table and cocks her head slightly to one side, looking up at him. Her words come out softer than before. “Okay, as much as I love riling you up – and it’s so easy – this was definitely not that. I’ve just noticed that sometimes you don’t, like… pick up on things.”

He purses his lips in his sister’s direction. “Great, so you’re not messing with me, you just think I’m stupid. Got it. Thanks so much, Alexis.”

“David. You know that’s not true.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s just… being told he read something wrong after the fact is new. Usually he can tell when he might’ve messed something up, because he’ll find the situation hard to read or react to in the first place. But it hadn’t even crossed his mind this time. What if he’s wrong way more often than he even notices? Do people whisper about all his mistakes as soon as he turns away? His ‘friends’ in New York probably did – he can accept that by now – but do people do that here, too? A rush of embarrassment floods his chest, and he tries telling himself that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to be ashamed, that just because he uses sarcasm all the time doesn’t mean it’s always easy for him to recognize it in other people’s words. 

Alexis reaches out and squeezes one of his wrists. He’s tempted to pull away, but it’s a quick gesture and it’s honestly kind of sweet. She’s always been good at doing or saying the right thing to diffuse situations, but she seems to be even more intentional about it these days… like she’s doing it out of care, not just to steer things to her benefit. The fact that she’s making an effort to help him when it’s always been the other way around, too… it’s touching.

And yet, he’s still embarrassed. “Sometimes I miss things…” he says.

“Mhmm. Yep. You do.” Alexis nods thoughtfully, but doesn’t elaborate. 

He chews his lip. “There’s just a lot of things to keep track of.” Alexis is looking at him but not saying anything, so he keeps talking. “There’s tone, and body language, and facial expressions, and then the actual words… and usually I can keep track of some of them, but not all of them. And, um… I know most people don’t really have to think about these things actively… but I do, I guess. So I mess up sometimes. And I have to think about these things for myself, in addition to other people, which…” He shakes his hands out – in front of his sister – and takes a deep breath so he can keep going. “Which is why I’m like this I guess.” He gestures wildly at his person.

“I didn’t know that…” she says. “I mean, I know making friends has always been like, hard for you, and that you can be kind of oblivious… but I didn’t know things felt that complicated.”

Her voice is gentle, but not small, and David is surprised again at how strange it is to be spilling anything to his sister, and to be on the receiving end of care from her. He shrugs. “I didn’t really know that either until recently. I thought it was like that for everyone and I was just bad at juggling.”

Alexis smiles. “I mean, I think about those things sometimes, but usually only when I need to like… be super persuasive, or extra charming, you know.”

He nods. “You’re very good at… all of it. And um…” He swallows. “Thank you for trying to help me, and not just like, making fun of me.”

She shrugs. “I’ve read the proposal, I think it’s a good idea.”

David glares. “Wait. What?”

“…Sorry,” she says, gritting her teeth as she leans away from him.

“Oh my god, it’s like I need childproof locks on everything with you around.” 

Later, David seals the proposal in a legal envelope and drops it in the mailbox outside the town hall. It’s out of his hands; all he can do is wait.

David’s excitement and confidence get whittled away like wax from a candlestick over the next few days. He’s grateful to Alexis; because of her he understands the reasoning behind all of his mother’s strange glances at him, as well as her careful manipulation of their conversations so they never approach anything work or proposal related. 

His chances of getting the lease start to feel pretty fucking slim, so he starts thinking about how he could translate the concept to an online business, thereby eliminating the need for real estate all together. When the news about Christmas World spreads through town – the tie having been broken by Moira herself – he’s already numb enough to avoid feeling completely gutted. 

Of course, his mother doesn’t stop acting like David is a ticking time bomb. The day after the news breaks, he walks into his parents room, intending on grabbing a snack, and his mother immediately jumps up from her book, exclaiming loudly that a shower sounds absolutely wonderful to her right now. David rolls his eyes.

“Oh my god. I know it was you, okay? It’s very difficult to move on when your guilt about it is like, palpable, though.”

Moira’s hand is already on the bathroom doorknob, but she freezes, lets go, and turns back to face him. “David…” She sighs. “Come, sit,” she says, gesturing to their tiny kitchen table.

Whatever remaining confidence was propelling him to translate his idea to an online business is axed instantly when his mother informs him that he truly has no experience, not even from his galleries, because apparently they were entirely funded by his parents even after they gave him the startup money. How he never picked up on this is beyond him.

He curls up in bed. Maybe he is in over his head. Even as an online business, he’d be doing everything for the first time, completely alone. The only skills he has are design based, and aesthetics alone won’t keep a business afloat. Every time he looks at numbers or paperwork his brain turns to static, and if he’s being honest with himself, even the business proposal he submitted to council probably read more like a descriptive essay than a plan grounded in reality.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say… maybe their intentions were good,” says Stevie from beside him on the couch. It’s late in the afternoon, and Stevie is lingering after the end of her shift at David’s insistence.

“They paid for everything. Everything. It’s like a form of child abuse.”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Devastating.”

David stares at her. “I mean it!” As usual, his hands dance in front of his face as he talks. “I don’t know if I have any skills at this point because they apparently didn’t trust me enough to try.”

 Stevie turns sideways and rests her head on the palm of her hand. “This must be so hard for you. Let it all out.”

He smiles a bit. Stevie’s sarcasm – usually – is easy enough to parse. “Now you’re just being rude.”

“You make it so easy.”

“Okay, I can see that you think I’m like… out of touch or whatever. But you understand what I mean, right? How am I supposed to believe I can do this given that the tiny amounts of success I had in the past were apparently all a sham?”

“Because… everyone has to do things for the first time? I got thrust into motel ownership, and sure it hasn’t been that long, but everything is still standing.”

“My dad is literally in business with you.”

“David, you already know I think this is a good idea, and I think you’re the right person to make it happen. But look, if you want to keep being a huge baby about it, then I’m pretty sure the grocery store will always need more bag boys.”

David grimaces, which seems to satisfy Stevie.

It’s true that self-employment is probably the only option in this town that will feel satisfying for him… but he’s not sure he can handle the possibility of failure. 

The door swings open and David startles, his heart continuing to palpitate even after he recovers from the sound. It’s his mother. 

Stevie puts a hand on his knee as she looks up at Moira, who then informs David that Christmas World has pulled out of the lease. “So… that means the space is yours, dear, if you still want it.”

 It’s a serendipitous moment. It takes David a minute to process what she’s said, and he’s not sure what to do with his face, so he just stares, slightly exasperated, trying to wrap his head around the sudden change. Stevie eventually tightens her hold on his knee. “David.” She flicks her eyes toward Moira, then back to him, and nods, trying to get him to answer the question lingering in the air.

David squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “Okay… yes, yep. I want it.”

“Patrick, David Rose is here!” calls Ray from downstairs. 

David Rose. This man who Patrick has met only once before, several weeks ago, in an awkward exchange at the general store. This man, with his perfectly coiffed hair, eccentric fashion, beautiful broad shoulders, and the most expressive face he has ever seen on another human being. 

When the days after that meeting turned into weeks, Patrick had nearly given up hope of David ever seeking him out again. Obviously you don’t usually just convince a stranger out of the blue to start their own business, but he thought he made it pretty clear that the business card was an excuse to give a total stranger his number. The radio silence really sliced a hole in his whole new town, new Patrick brand of confidence.

Now apparently David really is starting a business.

He knows he needs to treat him like any other client, but the truth is Patrick hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that afternoon. When he left Rachel, he was eighty percent sure it was because he was actually gay; now, there’s not a single doubt in his mind.

He gives himself a final once over in the mirror, squaring his shoulders and putting on his most welcoming customer service face – and if he allows a bit of a flirtatious glint to settle in his eyes, that can stay between him and David Rose.

Patrick finds David already standing in front of his desk. His fingers – dotted with several silver rings – are laced nervously together, and he seems to be gently swaying side to side. His eyes jump around the room before settling on Patrick, and just seeing this man in front of him again makes Patrick’s breath catch in his throat. Without meaning to, he lets out one of the most genuine smiles he has in a long time. “David Rose! You did it, you actually bought the general store,” he says.

“Leased,” David replies, his eyebrows rising.

“Right, leased,” says Patrick, smiling. “That’s a big deal.”

“I guess.”

“Here, have a seat.” He can’t help but notice how David immediately busies himself fiddling with the rings on his fingers. “So you actually took my suggestion,” says Patrick, giving him a small smirk.

“Um, yes, well… it got me thinking, I guess.”

Focus, Patrick. “Okay, well I’ve got the incorporation forms right here, and they shouldn’t take too long to fill out. What’s the name of the business?”

“Oh, um, I’m still oscillating between two names at the moment, so if we could just leave that one blank for now…” says David. Oscillating - that’s a new one. His hands gesticulate as he speaks, almost like he’s directing the words as they come out of his mouth.

“Okay, that’s fine. It’ll give you more time to… oscillate.” He can’t help gently poking fun at this man, and is rewarded immediately when David blinks in surprise at having his own word repeated back to him.

“Address?”

“Um, also working on that… I’m currently staying in a motel and I think it might be confusing if I gave you the address to another business.”

Patrick feels the corners of his mouth pull downward as he tries to hold back a smile. He meets David’s eyes, and David looks back at him, not a hint of a smile anywhere on his face. Shit – he apparently isn’t joking along – he just completely misunderstood the question.

Patrick opts to move on instead of correcting him, because he’s charmed, and also because at this point he’s just going to have to give David the forms to take home and finish anyway. Still, he can’t help but throw in one last quip.

“Batting a thousand here, David.”

“I don’t know what that means.” His eyes wander away from Patrick and he laces his fingers together again. Patrick huffs out a laugh – he can’t help it – but thinks he should probably pull back just a little.

“Can you give me a quick description of the business?”

“Um, it’s a general store, but also a very specific store…” He pauses for a second, opening and closing his mouth a few times, as if he’s trying to reel in his thoughts. “It’s also not just a store, it’s like a place where people can come and grab coffee, or drinks, but it’s not a coffee shop… nor is it a bar.” The description continues on, vague and rambling, and Patrick is completely mesmerized. At times David’s verbiage is oddly formal, yet he seems to be talking in circles, digging himself deeper into a hole, and his expression becomes more and more disgruntled the longer he goes on. All of this coming from someone with the most perfectly groomed hair and a monochromatic outfit that looks carefully curated. By the time David stops talking, he’s swaying back and forth slightly in the chair, his hands clutched tightly in his lap.

“I love the buzzwords, David, but I really do need to put something down.”

“Y-you couldn’t use anything I just said?” he says, his voice softer than before, eyebrows furrowed.

“Tell you what… why don’t you take these home and fill them out after you have a clearer idea of what you want to do with your business.”

David pales. “Okay, um… I d-do have a clear idea.”

“Oh…” says Patrick, smiling to make it clear he’s still teasing. This might be a bit of a gamble, but it’s his favourite way to flirt. “So you’ve settled on a name, then.”

David stares at him, a slight smile creeping onto his face, though Patrick doesn’t know him well enough to tell if he’s flirting back or just flustered. “You’re either very impatient, or extremely sure of yourself,” says David, his tone of voice more matter-of-fact than it was before.

Patrick grins, feeling his cheeks get hot. “Threw you a bit of a change up there, didn’t I?”

“Again, I don’t kn-know what that means,” he says, glancing up from the papers in his hand. “I don’t play cricket.” He stands up and meanders toward the door, eyes still scanning the paperwork as he walks. Patrick’s stomach drops, wondering when he’s going to get a chance to see him again.

“Hang on to my business card,” he calls. “You’re probably going to need it. And let me know when everything’s filled out.”

“Mhmm.”

 “It was nice to meet you again, David.”

David actually looks up this time. “Yeah,” he whispers, looking away just as quickly. Patrick bites his lip, unable to shake the joy that bubbles up in his chest every time he looks at him. 

Good lord, Brewer. You are definitely not straight.

Some days, for no obvious reason, David finds it particularly difficult to get his mouth around words. It feels like he has to slow down and think about enunciating each syllable, because if he doesn’t, the words will mush together and become indecipherable to anyone. His mouth will feel twitchy and his tongue will feel like the wrong size, and it could all just be in his head except he definitely stutters more on these days, and his sentence rhythm is off, and he notices himself pausing at awkward moments as he tries to spit out his r’s and s’s without choking on them. 

Of course today had been one of those days, and his meeting with Patrick turned into a complete disaster. He would have given anything to make Patrick to look away from the strained expressions on his face as he spoke. And sure, realistically, it probably wasn’t that obvious, but that didn’t change the fact that David could feel every muscle in his mouth working overtime just to maintain clarity.

 To make matters worse, he was so nervous about being understood that all of his well-constructed concepts for the store basically dissolved in his head the moment he needed to share them. He couldn’t figure out how to communicate anything in a way that made sense, and eventually Patrick had sent him on his way with the blank forms and another business card. At that moment, David wanted to melt into the floor. He barely even looked up when Patrick said goodbye to him, not wanting to rub salt in his wounded pride by allowing himself another glimpse of the gorgeous and well-put-together man who was obviously out of his league, professionally speaking. (And romantically speaking, but that’s obvious, given that he couldn’t even manage to get it together for their scheduled meeting. There’s no way this sporty, business-major, professional man has any interest in someone like David.)

He’s actually glad he promised Stevie to help her change the rooms over before the weekend rush. The idea of a rush at the motel is still bizarre, but Stevie and his dad – along with some semi-solicited help from Alexis – seemed to really be lifting this motel out of the sinkhole it had spent the past decade in.

“So walk me through this…” says Stevie, tucking fitted sheets under the corners of a mattress. “You’re filling out the paperwork, and then… the guy just outright tells you that your business is a failure?”

“Mm, yeah, basically,” says David. He’s wearing thick rubber gloves over his hands, even for the clean stuff; all he’s done so far is cover a few pillows with fresh cases. Stevie doesn’t seem bothered. 

“Jesus,” says Stevie. “Really? Like, in those exact words?”

“He told me to come back when I had a clearer idea of what I wanted to do with my business.”

“And then he told you it was a failure?”

“He just didn’t write down any of my answers.”

“I’m still trying to figure out when he said it was a failure.”

David glares at her. “He said he needed something he could actually use, which implies that my idea is unusable.”

“Well did you explain it the same way you’ve always explained it to me?”

“Mm, not exactly. And now that I’m playing everything back in my head, I think maybe I was the one that insinuated my business was a failure…”

Stevie’s eyes widen. “Really? You blew something out of proportion?”

“Patrick might be right! I mean, I couldn’t… I literally couldn’t explain it to him.”

Stevie tucks in the last corner of the sheet, then stands up, crossing her arms. “Look. You know I think your idea is good, because I am incapable of faking sincerity, and you’ve also walked me through the idea one too many times.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You know what your idea is. And doing a terrible job of explaining it to that guy–“

“Patrick.”

“–doesn’t make it a bad idea. It just means you had trouble explaining, which happens to everyone.”

“I wish it would stop happening to me,” he grumbles. He knows he’s fixating on this, but he’s just so frustrated. Sometimes it feels like he can’t hold a conversation with anyone without things going horribly wrong.

“David, stop, you’re working yourself up.”

“But–“

“I found this underneath the bed in the last room…” she says, holding up half a joint. “Wanna take a break?”

“That’s disgusting,” says David, recoiling at the thought, “but yes, please.”

Chapter Text

There is a single wooden chair in the middle of David’s otherwise empty store space. The room as a whole is dusty and echoey, and he’s probably going to have to do something about the lighting because it’s currently too harsh for the sand and stone palette he’s imagining. That’ll be a problem for future David, though; right now he’s just here to coax his mind into the right headspace so he can call Patrick and explain his business accurately. Being present in the space while he does this feels correct – even if he does currently feel like he’s floating. Thank you, Stevie. He picks up the chair and moves it to various corners of the room, not quite sure what he’s trying to achieve, but convinced the placement will feel right when he finds it. The feeling never comes. He eventually puts it back in the centre of the room and sits down, his limbs feeling simultaneously floaty and robotic. Every beat of his heart feels solid and sturdy against his chest, and he can’t tell whether it’s actually beating hard or if it’s just the weed.

He dials Patrick’s number one digit at a time, eyes bouncing back and forth between his phone and the business card, then stares at the completed number for what feels like several minutes. This is a bad idea. Making a business phone call while high as a kite is an objectively poor decision. And yet, David knows the anxiety about making this phone call is far less now than it will ever be while he’s sober, and he’s already walked all the way out to the store.

Fuck it. 

He presses call. 

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, David, it’s Patrick–“ 

Shit.  

“Um. Yeah. I just wanted to call to clarify a few things about my business after our meeting today…”

His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s tapping his free hand against his thigh as he stumbles through the main points of his idea. The whole monologue isn’t elegant by any means, but it’s more detailed than the mess he delivered to Patrick earlier. He’s on a roll, words flowing steadily (and somewhat coherently) from his mouth, when suddenly his phone dings, and he startles at the sound so close to his ear. He accidentally disconnects the call.

“Hi, Patrick – um, yeah, I think I called you David? Which, that… that’s not your name. Um. And then a text cut us off. So anyway…”

At last he’s pretty sure he covered everything, so he hangs up and jumps to his feet, shaking his limbs out to release any lingering nervous energy.

David walks home and tries not to worry about what a fool he’s made of himself. People aren’t thinking about him that way –  Patrick isn’t thinking about him that way – at least that’s what Alexis would say… though she hasn’t been a witness to this ongoing social disaster. But even if Patrick does think he’s a mess, it doesn’t matter, because as soon as he gets his business lisence they’ll never have to speak to each other again.

A tiny, unwelcome piece of him is a little bit sad about that. 

The man is very sweet and admittedly very attractive despite his questionable taste. Regardless, aesthetically speaking, Patrick doesn’t seem like the kind of man that would have any interest in him. He strikes David as someone with his life together, and who would want a partner who embodies that same stability. David’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than four months, nor has he had one that didn’t begin in the darkness of a nightclub. Those reasons alone are probably ample reason for Patrick to discount him entirely.

It’s true he isn’t looking for a relationship – after the Sebastian debacle, he isn’t sure he’ll ever be in the market for a relationship again – but he’s never been one to say no to a bit of fun. He just needs to stop imagining it could happen with Patrick. 

It can’t. It won’t.

Stevie can insist that their first encounter was flirtatious all she wants; she wasn’t there, she’s never met the guy – and if she had, she would understand why it could never work. Even in the most absurd timeline where Patrick actually was flirting with him, David has already unequivocally blown it; he was completely oblivious to any flirting, and hasn’t come close to reciprocating it.

Stevie sits with her feet up on the couch in the motel lobby, a bag of cherries open in her lap, and David’s incorporation forms in her hand. He sits beside her on the couch, scrolling on his phone and stealing handfuls of cherries every now and then. She attempts to swipe his hand away, but he’s always too quick.

“Mmm, they look good to me,” she says eventually, handing the paper back to him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes? I mean, I’m not an expert, but there’s no glaring errors.”

David nods. “Okay, it’s just, I need to make sure that I’m not… wasting Patrick’s time… for the third time.”

She widens her eyes, teasing. “This is your third form?”

David purses his lips and shakes his head. “Mmm no, second. But… there may have been a voicemail incident last night.”

Stevie smirks. The way his sentence trails into a whisper at the end tells Stevie that whatever happened must have been iconic. He was either very flustered or still very high. Possibly both. “Oh my god.”

“And now I’m realizing that I definitely shouldn’t have told you that,” he says. “Um, but… my answers make sense and everything? I just… find paperwork to be very unnecessarily complicated,” he says, his eyebrows rising as he speaks. 

“Yeah, I think so.” Stevie does her best to make that sound earnest, though sincerity has never been her strong suit. The forms do look fine – she’s just reluctant to move on from this situation with the mysterious Patrick that she’s enjoying far too much.

“Okay,” he says softly. He bounces his hands in his lap, then suddenly presses both of them against his cheeks. 

Stevie looks down at her phone, attempting to give David space to stim however he needs. Even though they’ve had a few more good chats since the night he told her he’s autistic, Stevie can tell he’s still not entirely comfortable with it himself. So, especially when it comes to things like stimming, she tries to give him grace and look away.

 It’s only a moment before she realizes that’s not what’s happening at all.

“Oh my god – I’m rashy,” David says, both hands trailing down his cheeks.

“What?”

“Feel this.” He grabs one of her hands and presses it against his cheek. It’s hot and blotchy, and slightly puffy.

Stevie pulls her hand away. “Oh my god.”

“I know!”

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What else have you eaten today? Maybe it’s the cherries.”

“What? No, that’s not a thing.”

She looks at him carefully; his neck is turning the same colour as his cheeks. “Pitted fruit allergies are definitely a thing. But, whatever. We need to go to the hospital.”

David shakes his head frantically, his hands swirling through the air in front of him. “Nope. Nope nope nope. I’m fine. I’ll just put some cream on it, you’ll see, my skin usually clears very quickly.”

“Okay, David, you once insisted you were having a pulmonary embolism when you weren’t, and you seemed perfectly fine to go to the hospital then, so what’s with the attitude change?”

“This is very different, it’s just a rash.”

“And what does your throat feel like?”

He rolls his eyes. “A little scratchy. But it’s fine.”

Stevie swallows, remembering one of her classmates in grade school who went into anaphylactic shock at recess. As much as she hates hospitals, she’d rather be on the road to one right now than to find herself staring at her lifeless friend in an hour’s time. She stands. “Get up, we’re going.”

“No!”

“David.” Her voice cracks, and she hates that, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him. He’s still seated on the edge of the couch, his leg bouncing. The difference in colour between the skin she can see through the rips in his jeans and the skin on his face is startling. 

His eyes meet hers for the briefest second, and he sighs, pushing himself to his feet. “Fine. But I’ll be suing you for emotional damages when it turns out I’m fine and that I’ve paraded my monstrosity of a face in front of total strangers for no reason.” 

By the time Stevie pulls into the parking lot at Elmdale General, David’s breaths have wheezy undertones to them, and his demeanour has completely changed. They check in in the lobby and barely have a chance to sit down before a nurse comes to whisk David away.

Stevie watches her friend stand, his hands clasped in front of his chest with a white-knuckled grip. His eyes dart around the busy room. There’s a lot of chatter, a few crying kids, and the lights are bright and fluorescent. Even if he wasn’t in the midst of an allergic reaction, Stevie realizes, this would be an overstimulating place for him to be. She reaches out to squeeze his arm, something he’s done for her on several occasions. She hopes it’s not too much. “You’ll be fine, okay?”

He nods, biting his puffy lip.

“I’ll never forgive you if you’re not.”

The corner of his mouth pulls slightly as he nods again.

“We won’t be too long,” says the nurse. “You can come sit with him once he’s set up.”

And that’s that – the nurse guides David down the hall, and Stevie finds herself alone in the emergency room. 

She pulls her phone out, taking deep breaths, trying to let go of all her pent up adrenaline. Neither David nor Stevie spoke much on the way over. Still, Stevie tried to keep her facade as cool as possible for David’s sake, sensing that his nonchalance had turned to panic about halfway along. Hearing David’s raspy breaths in the car scared her, too. It made everything feel that much more real and urgent, but he made it, and she knows logically he’s going to be fine now. 

The thing is, this whole ‘having a best friend’ thing is still new to her in a lot of ways. Even though she knows David’s going to be fine, it’s not enough to make her worry dissipate. She just drove the one person she cares for more than anyone else in the world to the hospital; he’s probably freaking out, and she’s stuck out here. 

Caring about someone is exhausting, apparently.

Stevie takes a few more deep breaths. Maybe it’s a good thing she has a moment to herself. She hates hospitals, probably more than David does, and he certainly doesn’t need to know that right now. She was seventeen the last time she set foot in one. Her mother had alcohol poisoning. It still holds the title for the most terrifying night of her life, and it was also the moment she realized she couldn’t rely on anyone but herself in life. She moved out several months later. 

Now all the feelings from that night are mixing themselves in with tonight’s drama, and that added emotional weight is throwing her for a loop. 

She scrolls into oblivion on her phone, desperate to fill the space in her brain with something other than those memories. By the time someone comes out calling David’s name, Stevie’s neck aches. She stands, shoving her phone in her back pocket, grateful that she won’t have to wait the rest of this fiasco out alone.

“You’re… David’s girlfriend?” says the nurse. She’s tall, about forty, with thick black hair and kind eyes. 

“Friend. Stevie,” she says, holding out her hand.

She shakes it. “Camille. So, quick rundown, we’re giving him an IV dose of antihistamines and some extra oxygen till the swelling in his throat goes down. Once he’s finished his meds in a couple hours he should be good to go.”

Stevie nods, feeling a bit of relief, even if the news is exactly what she expected – he’s going to be fine.

“Follow me.”

Stevie trails behind the nurse down a hall, crossing her arms like a protective shield between her and the situation. 

“You know, for someone who’s throat was swelling shut, your friend certainly had a lot of opinions,” says Camille.

Stevie lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They come to a large room full of beds separated by curtains. Stevie follows her to David, determined to keep her eyes glued to the floor until they get to the right spot.

David is propped up on a gurney, his face still blotchy and pink, but already looking a little less swollen than before. His eyes are shut, but Stevie suspects he’s awake because his hands are still clasped in a death grip like they were when they got here. The IV drip is in his left arm, and there’s a thin oxygen tube under his nose.

She quietly pulls up a stool beside him. “So, guess I was right to bring you here,” Stevie says, her voice flat.

He opens his eyes instantly, then furrows his brows like the room is too bright. “Mmm, I still maintain that this is weird, though. Who the fuck is allergic to cherries? That’s not a thing,” he mutters.

“You, apparently.”

“Apparently.”

It’s quieter in here than the lobby, and thankfully the curtains dividing the beds manage to muffle some of the sounds coming from other patients. Stevie lets out a breath. David is fine, this is fine. She can do this. “How are you holding up?”

David turns to face her, finally unclasping his hands and tucking his arm without the IV under the pillow. He looks up at the bag of fluid above him, still about three quarters full. “Not thrilled about the rate of this drip. This gown is very off-brand and the fluorescent lights aren’t doing my skin any favours. Nobody needs to see my pores in this much detail.”

Stevie smirks. “Sounds like you’ve been a real treat for the nurses.”

“Mm, unfortunately not enough for them to adjust the aesthetic of this place.” He rolls onto his back again, taking a few deep breaths that sound clearer than earlier. Stevie can see his leg bouncing slightly under the sheet, though, and he’s tapping his fingers rapidly against his torso. His eyes keep flickering shut, but it seems more like he’s reacting to the brightness of the room than falling asleep.

A few minutes pass, both of them looking at their phones. Eventually David puts his aside, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his hands out.

“You’re really uncomfortable, huh?” says Stevie softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He flinches.

“Mmhmm, yep – don’t touch me.”

She pulls back. “Sorry.”

He balls his hands into fists, tapping his knuckles together. His voice comes quiet and flat. “The rash burns. The fabric itches. Everything’s too bright, it hurts, can’t think.”

She nods, biting her lip. “So what you said earlier was a joke, but like, not a joke.”

David shakes his head. “What?”

“The gown is off brand, the lights expose your pores…”

“Oh no, both of those things are very much true,” says David.

 “Sure, but you know you’re being overdramatic when you say things like that.”

“Speak for yourself – now that I’m a business owner, aesthetic brand maintenance is of the utmost importance for me.”

Stevie rolls her eyes. She could just drop it, but something about the way it took David so long to admit he was genuinely uncomfortable makes her heart ache. And fine, maybe it’s also easier for her to sit here digging into David’s emotions rather than acknowledge the way her stomach drops in her gut every time she remembers her surroundings.

“Okay, I know you actually do think the gown is hideous… I just think it’s also safer for you to complain about something superficial than it is to admit you’re struggling. You weren’t afraid to share your unfiltered aesthetic takes with the nurse, right? But I’m guessing you didn’t tell her that you have actual sensory issues, and that wearing the gown is adding to them right now.”

David glares at her.

Stevie folds her arms. “Am I wrong?”

“What good would it have done? They can’t just like, turn off the lights for me. As ideal as that would be – and believe me, I did tell them it could relax the whole mood of the room – my whims alone are apparently not enough.”

“Well… yeah, maybe not. But who knows, they might’ve let you keep your own clothes on. You’re not staying long.”

He shrugs.

“For the record, this is just an observation… I’m not saying you have to stop doing it or whatever, because it’s up to you to decide when it feels safe enough to be honest and ask for help.”

“Ew, my god, you sound like my therapist.”

“Shut up, let me finish. The other day you told me about all these things you realized you do just to mask that you’re autistic… so all I’m saying is, maybe you should add leaning into dramatics to that list.”

He scoffs.

“People can’t cut where it hurts if you’re always being over-the-top on purpose.”

David half-heartedly flicks a hand at Stevie’s face. “That’s enough out of you.”

The moment Stevie coerces him into her car, David’s mind removes itself from his body. His thoughts are fuzzy at best, and when he speaks it feels like his words come from somewhere else. His autopilot voice seems to brush off substantial conversation in favour of sarcastic quips, which is fine by him. This distance seems to have kept any public meltdowns at bay thus far… meltdowns that absolutely would have happened otherwise. 

He wishes his disconnection from the situation also extended to the physical sensations in his body. Sadly, it does not, and so he’s spent the last couple of hours hyper-aware of every bit of noise, every slight flicker of the lights, and every square inch of his flesh. He can’t filter anything out. The ragged sound of his own breathing, the lights so harsh they feel like drills behind his eyes, the rustle of the paper pillowcase every time he shifts his head, the low thread count of the sheets that feels like sandpaper against his skin, the puffy sensation all over his face and the pins and needles that follow as the swelling goes down, his heart banging against his chest – it’s all dialled up to a hundred. 

He’s too numb to truly panic about it, but he can’t stop fidgeting, like if he moves in just the right way he’ll be able to slip away from his body completely. Every so often he flaps his hands, trying to get rid of some of the unpleasant sensations, too numb to care who sees. Nothing helps. 

Finally, about an hour or so after his autopilot voice wiggles free from Stevie’s attempt at earnest conversation, the nurse Camille returns. Stevie immediately gathers David’s neatly folded pile of clothes in her arms; he can’t wait to bury himself in the soft cashmere of his sweater again. 

“Let’s get you home,” says Camille. “You can take the cannula off.”

He tenses against her touch as she removes his IV. She takes his vitals next, and he clenches his jaw, willing his pounding heart to still, though it hasn’t in hours. He hopes he’s just imagining it.

No such luck.

Almost a minute passes and Camille is still leaning over David, stethoscope pressed against his chest. He chances a glance at her and looks away immediately when he sees that her eyebrows are furrowed. She moves the stethoscope around a few more times before tossing it back over her neck.

“Okay, David, the inflammation has gone down almost entirely, and your breathing sounds good, but your heart rhythm is still sounding a little abnormal. Can you hang on another moment?”

David nods, chewing his lip and staring straight ahead. 

He should freak out, but it still feels like some other entity has a hold on his thoughts and feelings. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he sees Stevie pull her knees to her chest. Is Stevie freaking out?

“It’ll be fine,” he mumbles into the silence, because he can feel her looking at him.

“I know.” Her eyes drop back to the floor, and David truly does not understand how he came to be the one talking her down in this situation. 

“Well worry quieter then, please.”

Stevie untucks her knees. “I’m not worrying.”

“Great.”

“I just want to get out of here.”

“You and me both.” He makes no effort to tone his voice with any kindness. Frankly, her reaction doesn’t make any sense to him. She says she’s not worried, but she’s definitely something, and honestly he’s too tired to figure it out. He presses his arm against his eyes, relishing in the darkness.

Camille returns a short time later and David bites his tongue through an EKG, then finds himself being bombarded with a million questions by a shiny haired doctor. 

“Any history of heart problems, David?”

“Uh, not really, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I mean, I was a premie, so I had doctors for like, everything. Possibly heart things. I don’t know.” 

David answers the rest of the questions, feeling like he’s swatting them away like flies. Yes, he can feel his heart right now. Yes, this happens a lot, a few times a week on average. Yes, it’s made him dizzy before, but only on one or two occasions. No, he’s never fainted. No, it doesn’t interfere with his life. It feels like the conversation goes on, and on, and on, and he’s never sure if the man’s expressions are giving away any clues as to what he’s thinking. Eventually he finishes scribbling his last note.

“It sounds like this is a pattern – it’s probably nothing serious, but it’s still worth getting checked out. I can order a few tests and get you connected with a doctor here.”

David grimaces. “Yeah, I’d rather just go home…”

“Oh, yes, of course, this would all be at a later date,” he says, smiling.

“Fine,” says David, though none of it really sounds fine; it sounds like a huge hassle that his future self is going to both resent agreeing to and worry about ceaselessly. At this point though he’s willing to say anything just to tear this gown off and go home.

The doctor finally leaves, and Camille hands David a prescription for an Epi-pen before following suit. Stevie steps out to give David space to change, and for the first time in hours, he’s completely alone. He breathes a dozen sighs of relief as he pulls his own clothing back on, rubbing his hands over and over against the soothing fabric of his sweater. 

Oftentimes, the moment he escapes the gaze of other people is the moment his mask falls off completely. Despite the stress of the night, though, it doesn’t happen. David doesn’t cry, or panic, he just moves through the room with that same physical presence and emotional autopilot he’s been stuck on all night. 

Back in the car, David is too tired to string together many coherent thoughts, but he’s worried that Stevie is mad, or upset, because they haven’t said anything since he snapped at her. She’s looking ahead intently at the road, her face giving nothing away. “We should, um… talk about… all that,” says David, waving his hand around.

“Why?” says Stevie, turning away from the road a moment to face him.

David squints. “Aren’t you upset?”

“Mm, no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay… you seemed upset.”

“Not at you.”

“Oh,” he says. “Um. Okay. Well. I’m really tired, but do you want to talk about it like… tomorrow or something?”

Stevie slathers her voice in dry sarcasm. “Okay. Should we plan a date?”

David throws his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever, keep it to yourself.” He stares out his window for most of the rest of the drive. Just as they’re nearing the motel, Stevie’s voice cracks.

“This was weird for me.”

David bites back things he knows he shouldn’t say. No shit, this was pretty weird for me too.

“I have a thing about hospitals. I don’t want to talk about it tonight either, though. And you should rest,” says Stevie.

He nods. “Okay. Well. Whenever you want. And thank you for doing this for me… I think I might literally owe you my life.”

She smirks at him, and that alone lessens the grip of his worry just a bit. “I’ll make good use of that.”

Setting up the Rose Apothecary turns out to be a monumental task.

David’s focus on the project grows more intense each day, his determination to see it all come together unmatched. He re-schedules his next therapy appointment for the following week, and – thankfully – is even too pre-occupied to dwell much on his heart. Okay, mostly too pre-occupied. Sometimes at night, he spirals, wondering if he’ll wake up in the middle of the night having a heart attack, or if he’ll pass out at the store the following day. 

During the day though, at least, the store is all he thinks about. 

Today, the shop floor is strewn with half open boxes of product, while the new wooden display tables and shelves still sit mostly empty. The only clear paths in sight lead to the front door and the backroom. David has slowly been categorizing the mess, labelling everything with custom-printed labels as he goes, but it’s a slow process. At first Alexis is his only extra set of hands, and she doesn’t contribute much other than her half-baked advice and over-indulgence in product “samples.” 

Mid-afternoon, Patrick comes by to deliver David’s business lisence, and Alexis immediately sweeps him under her wing, directing him to do all the tasks David delegated to her. On the one hand, it turns out to be their most productive day yet, because Alexis’s tasks are actually getting done. On the other hand, David feels inexplicably irritated. Maybe it’s the way Alexis’s voice candies up when she speaks to Patrick; it’s doused in giggles and sounds higher than usual, and it’s so obvious that she’s flirting that it’s almost embarrassing to watch. 

If Alexis wants to go after Patrick, that’s perfectly fine – he just wishes she’d do it another time, preferably far away from David. It’s annoying. And it’s annoying that David has been in a room with Patrick for nearly two hours, and they’ve hardly said ten words to each other since he handed him his framed lisence.

Alexis squeals. “Ooo, Patrick, have you seen these adorable scarves?”

David bites the inside of his cheek as he slaps labels onto bottles of cedar scented moisturizer.

“Mm, yes, very… blue,” says Patrick, laughing.

“David says they’re made of like, tiger hair.”

“Tying it a little tight there, Alexis–“

“Okay, no, stop!” snaps David. “Alexis, that’s not a sample, so untie it and put it back. Also, those scarves are made from cat hair, not tiger hair, but maybe you’d have known that if you’d labelled them like I asked.”

“Um, David, they are labelled,” says Alexis, rolling her eyes and holding up the tag. “Sweet Patrick already did it.”

David crosses his arms. “Well thank you, Patrick,” he says, flashing what he hopes is an expression of genuine sincerity. Patrick’s ears go red and he turns away from David, looking back at Alexis.

“Well, with the exception of activating my allergies.” says Patrick, untying the scarf himself from his neck, “your sister has been a very good director.”

David bites his lip, his stomach sinking. “If only talking a mile a minute actually got things done,” he grumbles, carrying the box of labelled moisturizers over to their designated spot.

“Ugh! Honestly, David, if you don’t want my help, I’ll just leave.”

“Fine by me, you’ve done nothing.”

Alexis pushes a lock of hair out of her face, shaking her head. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll come by after school tomorrow though since I know you’ll regret it as soon as I’m gone.” She grabs her purse and stalks toward the door. “Bye Patrick,” she says, giving him an exaggerated double wink. 

David could honestly slap her, but he pushes the feeling down, busying himself with shelving the bottles in front of him instead. The bell above the door jingles and David takes a deep breath, because now he’s alone with Patrick, and that shouldn’t mean anything but it feels like a moment he needs to do right, whatever that means.

“Um, sorry you had to be here for that,” David says. He’s still crouched beside a shelf, and he knows he should probably stand up to look at Patrick, but this feels safer.

“No no, it’s fine,” says Patrick from the other side of the room. “I, uh, got the sense you could probably use some more help. Some… actual help. Your sister is sweet, but, uh…”

David smirks. “Unreliable?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

David pushes himself to his feet. “Thank you for staying, you didn’t have to–“

Patrick smiles, but somehow pulls the corners of his mouth down at the same time, like he’s trying to hold something back. It feels intimate, and as much as David just wants to stare at this ridiculous smile forever, he drops his eyes, fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

“I wanted to. You know, David… I think you really have something here. But you’ve got a lot going on up front, and you’re definitely going to need some more startup money.”

David pulls his lips in. “Mm, right…” he says, as his eyes dart from his shoes to Patrick’s shoes, then sideways to the shelves and up to the ceiling. “More money. And where do you suppose I’m going to get that?”

“Well, since your whole premise is supporting local businesses, there are actually grants you can apply for.”

David squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeeeeah…. It’s just, well, you’ve kind of already seen the extent of my paperwork skills. It’s, um. Not my forte.” He laughs, dry and self-deprecating, terrified of what Patrick might say next. Did he assume the fiasco with the forms was just some cute stunt David had pulled for sympathy points? Did Patrick think it was sloppiness or laziness that led him to ruining the form and needing to ask for a new one? Who’s going to believe that he had to spend hours getting it semi-right the second time, because something about the way questions are worded on official documents makes David second-guess and overthink everything he knows.

Apparently the answer is none of the above. In fact, Patrick – kind and generous human that he is – doesn’t even bat an eye. “I’d be happy to do them for you. That’s kind of my wheelhouse.”

David stares. “Um… okay, I honestly don’t know what a wheelhouse is, but otherwise that sounds like… an extremely generous offer.”

Again, Patrick laughs, and it’s so warm and welcoming and directed at him that David feels his cheeks go hot. “Well I wouldn’t be doing it for free. See, if all goes according to plan, you’ll have enough to pay me.”

David feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You do realize though that if you don’t manage to get the grants, I won’t have enough to pay you for your time right…?”

“Oh I’m gonna get the money, David.” An intense look crosses over Patrick’s face, and David raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out what the fuck Patrick could be thinking. Whatever it is, he seems very sure of himself, and David could certainly use his help.

Chapter Text

Patrick gets the money, just like he promised. 

For David, the decision to involve someone else in his passion project full-time feels like the biggest risk he’s ever taken. Group work has always been challenging for him. He’s a perfectionist, and he knows it makes him very inflexible, but despite his best attempts he still finds himself physically incapable of relinquishing full control over things he cares about. That, plus the fact that it’s hard for him to connect with people even when he doesn’t need to work with them, makes him worry that this decision has doomed Rose Apothecary to go down in flames before it even opens its doors. 

Something about Patrick feels different, though. Patrick has a quiet confidence about him that makes David feel calm and reassured… and he also has administrative skills that, admittedly, the business is going to need. So, against his better judgement, and despite that nagging voice telling him to take things slow, David takes the leap.

It turns out to be the best decision he’s ever made.

The weeks that follow, as they continue preparing the store for opening day, are some of the best of David’s entire life. Building Rose Apothecary from the ground up is the perfect mesh of creativity and work, and he feels more purposeful, driven, and fulfilled than he has in a very long time. He immerses himself in the project completely, thinking about it from the moment he wakes to the moment he goes to sleep. The usual storm of worries in his brain become mere wisps. He’s excited, he’s focused, he’s happy, and for once in his life he feels like he can fucking breathe. On top of that, he gets to spend every day with Patrick, who is calming, smart, and, as an added bonus, very cute.

Vendor pickups are the best part. He and Patrick spend full afternoons driving along country roads between the various Elms, and David savours every moment, grateful that life has given the pair of them the chance to experience the specific brand of intimacy built via conversations over long drives. 

“Ever been on a road trip?” asks Patrick one afternoon. They’ve just pulled out of town onto the highway, and have five pickups on their list. It’s their second last trip before the store’s opening, now less than a week away.

“Not unless you count the 8 hour drive on a bus from our old estate to Schitt’s Creek.”

Patrick smirks. “Guess not, then. Gotta say, you’re missing out. My family’s road trips were always the best part of the summer.”

David imagines a tiny Patrick crammed into the back seat of a small car, with a stack of books in his lap and cheap beach toys scattered around him, his parents smiling in the front seat. It’s certainly a far cry from his own childhood summers. Road tripping was never something the Rose family ever did back in the day, of course, but despite the cramped seating arrangements and unglamorous accommodations, David always secretly felt there was something romantic about it. “My parents were usually away in the summer. Sometimes they’d fly Alexis and I out for a weekend if there was a beach nearby or something, but I stopped wanting to go anywhere when I got older.”

“What did you do instead?”

He shrugged. “Read, hang out by the pool. One summer I came up with my own fashion line. It was completely hideous in hindsight, but it kept me occupied for a month.”

“Very ‘on-brand’.”

“Mm, I guess. Honestly I hated summer. Even as a kid I couldn’t get past how bright and hot it got, and I pretty much had a constant headache from June to September. Every year I just tried to get through it.” He bites his lip. “Things got a little more tolerable when I got older and started stealing my parents’ booze during the day, but then I also had to start keeping track of Alexis… so I guess you win some you lose some.”

Patrick lets out a long exhale. “That’s, uh… wow. A lot different than a road-trip and two months of little league baseball.”

“Road-tripping does sound fun,” David admits. “But I’m so sorry about the baseball. Truly.”

“Our coaches got us so many free popsicles. And there were barbecues after every game,” teases Patrick, like he thinks food is all it will take to make him envious of people playing sports. The sad thing is, he’s on the right track.

“Mm, tempting. But with all the sweat, and the running, and the teams… is that really a fair trade off?” says David seriously.

Patrick bites back a smile. “I think so. Especially, you know, considering that… playing baseball is its own reward.”

David looks horrified, and Patrick releases the grin he was holding back. His smile is so radiant and joyful that David immediately feels his own face soften. 

Suddenly, looking at Patrick becomes more than he can physically bear. He thinks he might willingly curl up and bask in the light of that smile forever, if he could, but Patrick is just his business partner, and that realization is enough to make him feel a pang of longing that hurts as much as loneliness. He swallows the emotion down as best he can. He refuses to ruin both his new business and what seems to be the second friendship he’s had in his entire life by developing unrequited feelings.

They continue to talk as Patrick drives, David’s gaze now fixed instead on the endless trees, fields, and broken fences passing them by along the side of the highway. They pass the spot where he pulled over to have (what he now understands to be) a meltdown after his last day at the Blouse Barn a few months ago. He couldn’t have known it then, but he really didn’t have much longer to wait before things would finally start to feel okay.

David is continually impressed by the quality of craftsmanship rural Ontario has to offer. It’s late in the afternoon by the time they begin the drive home, the trunk of Patrick’s small car filled to the brim with wool throws and wine and artisan knickknacks.

“So I was thinking about opening day…” says David. So far, Patrick has always been easy to talk to, but he’s been nervous to broach this subject nonetheless.

“Oh, me too actually. We should start getting the word out soon – go big or go home, right?” says Patrick.

David bites his lip because “big” is exactly what he wants to avoid. As much as he’d like to be able to thrive in a busy environment full of strangers, he knows he’s more likely to get overwhelmed. Though he still hasn’t told Keith (his therapist) that he thinks he’s autistic – because part of him is afraid that he’s obviously completely wrong – he’s had enough sessions with him to imagine exactly what Keith would say to him in this situation: knowing his limitations won’t be enough if he doesn’t respect them. 

The launch will become an instant disaster if he has a shutdown partway through. More than that, he doesn’t want Patrick to know about that part of him… not yet, anyway. He wants to find a way to create an environment that accommodates his needs without Patrick knowing why. “Mm, I was actually thinking the opposite,” he says. “A soft-launch, maybe – like an intimate, classy event for a select list of VIPs, and a friends and family discount.”

Patrick makes a face that David doesn’t understand – his eyebrows go up and he’s got that upside-down smile – and whatever it means, it’s not enthusiasm.

“I’ve actually already written up the pre-approved list of people,” says David, hoping Patrick sees he’s got this under control. “So we can start getting the word out any time. Discreetly, of course.”

“Mhmm…” says Patrick, pulling his lips in. “David, this kind of defeats the purpose of a grand opening.”

“Obviously. That’s the point, it’s not a grand opening.”

“Traditionally you want to sell as much as you can right out of the gate.”

“Mm, do you though?”

“… Yes, David. As your numbers guy… that’s kind of how running a business works.”

He bounces his hands in his lap. “Well… who’s to say we can’t try something new?”

Patrick lets out an airy laugh. “I don’t think lessening our sales on our first day is the kind of innovation we want to strive for.” 

David fidgets more with his hands.

“You know that even if we don’t get as big of a turnout as we envision, the store will still be okay, right? ‘Go big or go home’ doesn’t mean we’ll crumble if people don’t show up. But it’s an opportunity for a huge success if we play our cards right, so it doesn’t make sense to just toss that potential aside.”

“I know,” he says softly. 

“What are you worried about, David?”

He stares at his flighty hands. Maybe partial honesty is the way to go… just enough of the truth to be believable and get him what he needs. “You know I’m an anxious person.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

David looks at Patrick, incredulous.

“I’m kidding,” he says, smirking slightly as he turns his eyes back to the road.

“Oh.” His teasing reminds him of Stevie’s, in a way, because he doesn’t feel attacked. It almost feels even more affectionate coming from Patrick, though, and he doesn’t know how to unpack that. He feels very comfortable with Patrick, but they’re technically still getting to know each other. 

“Sorry,” says Patrick. “Keep going.”

David takes a breath, hoping that a watered-down version of the truth isn’t already too much to share. “Right. Um. It’s just that a soft-launch is a little more controlled, so I think taking that route might save me from having a full-blown panic attack on centre stage.”

Relief floods through David when Patrick nods in response. “Okay. That makes sense. Let’s try it, then,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. Profits aside, it’s important that we both get through the day in one piece. Panic attacks aren’t fun.”

“You’ve had one?”

Patrick shrugs. “I used to get them a lot, yeah.”

David nods, absorbing this, and feeling relieved and grateful when Patrick doesn’t ask any more questions. “Thank you,” he says.

Maybe one day he’ll tell him more. In fact, the idea of sharing all of himself with Patrick is becoming more appealing by the minute. David wants Patrick to see him and know every part of him, and he wants to know everything about him, too. He’s never felt this way about someone before, and that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. 

Patrick drops David off at the motel. He closes the door behind him, exhausted but thoroughly content, and ready to curl up in bed early.

“David, is that you?” calls his mother, apparently unable to be bothered opening the door that connects their rooms. He goes to see what she wants because at this point there are actually other motel guests who might care if they start having a screaming conversation through the wall.

“Yes, what?” he says, poking his head through the door.

“Oh good, you’re home. You have mail,” she says, holding out a white envelope. He grabs it.

“It’s… already open.”

Moira’s arms are crossed. “Curiosity can’t always be helped, dear, and secrets can’t be kept in lodgings of this size.” 

“You can’t just read my mail!”

She says nothing else, just looks expectantly between him and the open envelope in his hand. David pulls out the letter, immediately noting the bright blue logo of Elmdale General Hospital in the top corner, and the cardiology department specifically. Fuck. He skims it – they’ve given him two dates, one for tests and another for a follow-up appointment. 

It’s clear he’s not going to get away without a conversation at this point, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. He shoves the letter back in the envelope. “Thank you,” he says, turning to leave.

“So this is where we are now,” she says, forcing him to turn back around as the pitch of her voice climbs. “Some ailment has befallen you, my own son, my first born… and you refuse to so much as inform me of any details.” There’s a crack in her voice, and David is surprised to hear any sort of genuine, undramatized emotion coming from a seemingly-sober Moira. 

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not dying. It’s probably absolutely nothing.” Admittedly, he’s not entirely convinced it’s nothing, and if he thinks about it for too long he can feel his anxiety starting to spiral, but things have been so nice lately for once, and he doesn’t want anything getting in the way of that. He keeps his voice as nonchalant as he can while he elaborates. “A couple weeks ago I found out I’m extremely allergic to pitted fruits, which of course has been emotionally devastating for me because all the best fruits have pits…. Anyway, Stevie brought me to the ER, and at the end of it all they gave me a referral because apparently my heart rhythm is slightly incorrect.” He presses his fingertips together, feeling his good mood slipping away by the second, but hoping he sounded unbothered enough to smooth things over.

Moira sits on the edge of her bed. “Stevie took you to the emergency room?”

“Mhmm.”

“And you didn’t think to tell the family where you’d gone?”

He rolls his eyes. “I was a little distracted.”

“What if you perished?”

“Well, I didn’t, but if I was about to I’m sure Stevie would have let you know.” David folds his arms tightly, comforted by the extra pressure against his chest. He catches an uncharacteristic flash of sadness across his mother’s face, but it’s gone just as soon, replaced by her usual poise. Maybe he just imagined it.

“You should have at least informed me when you returned,” she says.

“Mm, if I recall, you were a little preoccupied that night,” David says.

“With what?”

“Your pills.”

“Ah.” She looks away for a moment.

David looks down, allowing himself to rock gently on the balls of his feet. 

“So it’s happened, at last. Your premature birth is causing damage. You know, I’ve prayed for years that this day would never come,” she says.

David squints at her. “Since when do you–“

“Not the point, dear.” She gestures to the space beside her, inviting David to sit, which he hesitantly does, feeling more confused by the second.

“Also, this doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with my prematurity.”

Moira sighs. “Oh, to be so naïve – though I suppose that’s my own fault, for never fully explaining the circumstances of your birth to you. Of course this is connected, David. You know, your father and I were very proactive about your medical care as a young child.”

“Um… okay. Congratulations on fulfilling your duties as parents, I guess.”

“But then my career really took hold, and of course Rose Video was in its heyday… You were hardly a child anymore, and you were doing so well, that eventually we just relaxed about all of those doctors appointments. Annual visits seemed like enough, but I suspect that in your late teen years, we forgot to even book those.”

 “I just assumed I didn’t need to go anymore,” David mutters. He distinctly remembers that, with the exception of therapy, his semi-frequent medical appointments suddenly ceased in his early teens. He hadn’t questioned it, though, thinking he’d just grown past whatever danger zone he’d been living in. Besides, Alexis never went to the doctor, and it seemed like most kids his age never went more than once a year. 

Moira shrugs. “Given the degree of your prematurity, they said you ought to be followed for life, even just sporadically. You’d always be high risk for all kinds of complications. But aside from your frequent neurosis-induced ailments, you were so healthy… so it was easy for us to brush all that aside so we didn’t have to think about it.”

“So you got lazy.”

“Busy is perhaps the better word here, David. Your father and I were preoccupied. Otherwise engaged.”

This isn’t news to him, really. Sure, he hadn’t known that his sudden departure from the medical system wasn’t actually recommended by any doctors, but… he knew that his parents had often been too busy to do what was right for him and Alexis. It isn’t news, but it still hurts to uncover more ways he wasn’t prioritized. 

His mother seems to be having a moment of clarity this evening, though. It’s hard to see the tears pooling in her eyes, especially when that’s so out of character for Moira Rose, and harder to have to sit and listen to her voice as it continues to crackle under the emotion. “Only now do I fear we made a grave mistake. If we’d only insisted on continuing those check-ups throughout your teens, then handed you the reigns once you were of age, perhaps it wouldn’t have taken an allergic reaction to bring this issue to your attention. But you couldn’t have known to take better care of yourself, because we never told you to.”

David weaves his fingers together as he digests this. “I’m okay though,” he offers, not sure what else to say. “I’m still here, and this is the first time anything has happened… and I’m probably not dying,” he adds, to reassure himself as much as her. 

“Well we don’t know that yet, do we?”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, that attitude is not really helping, thanks so much.” He doesn’t want to absorb his mother’s concern – panic, maybe, is more accurate –  but it’s absolutely radiating off her. “Look, you and Dad obviously could have been more thorough with your parenting…”

Moira blinks as if stunned by his directness, but doesn’t say anything.

“But you can’t go back and change it now, and apparently things have a way of working out, because I unintentionally found my way to a doctor again.”

She nods. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. But David, I’m sorry… whenever I was scared for you, I leaned further into my career. I let myself hold onto that image of you as healthy and happy, as if that could never change… and I let myself believe that you didn’t need me.”

David looks up at the ceiling. It feels like he should say something significant, but he doesn’t know how to respond to his mother’s admission. On the one hand, he’s happy to hear her admit that she hurt him. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to talk about it. A part of him is also irritated that between him and Alexis, he’s always been the fragile one in their parents’ eyes. He understands why, but it doesn’t make him hate the sentiment any less.

In the end, he shakes out his shoulders and head, and just says “Okay.” He promises to keep her updated, and tells her not to worry, and then retreats to his own room, thinking about Patrick’s summers filled with road trips and baseball and his two ever-present parents.

David leans against the freshly stained wood counter sipping a bottle of orange juice he stole from the freshly stocked cooler while Patrick carries out more boxes of product from the back room. The fabric of his shirt pinches his shoulders, and despite all odds, those cheap jeans manage to do great things for his butt. David’s more than a little distracted, which is welcome as he waits for Stevie to pick him up for his appointment in Elmdale.

“You could try grabbing a box yourself, you know,” says Patrick as he places his current stack on the floor in front of an empty shelf.

“Mm, it’s just that you’re so good at it, and I don’t want to get I the way of your groove,” says David. 

“I do my best,” he says, shimmying his shoulders in the same way David does. It’s endearing how quickly Patrick has picked up some of his mannerisms. He’s not sure if he does it to tease him, or just to be affectionate – maybe both – but it makes David feel so seen. Patrick has even managed to make David’s frequent clunky word choices seem cute and charming when he uses them back. “Seriously though, I think we can get the rest of this stuff unpacked by tonight.”

“Okay, a reminder that I will be leaving in the next ten minutes, probably, assuming Stevie is upright and hasn’t forgotten about me.”

Patrick’s shoulders deflate slightly at the reminder, and David can’t help but feel a little bad for bursting his bubble. He had sounded so excited about finishing everything. “I guess we’ll just have to make the most of the next ten minutes then,” he says, perking himself back up.

David rolls his eyes, but at this point he’s down bad and would probably agree to anything Patrick wanted. “Fine. I will put things on shelves, but if you desperately need my box carrying services it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m not getting all sweaty knowing some stranger will be exposed to this,” he says, gesturing broadly to his chest.

“What? Who’s going to be–” There’s a note of something – worry? – in Patrick’s voice. 

“Um, presumably the ultrasound tech.”

“Oh,” he says, his cheeks flushing bright pink.

David gives him a questioning look, trying to figure out where this concern is coming from. “You good?”

“Mhmm, yep,” says Patrick, beelining for the back room to grab more boxes.

He has half a mind to follow him when the bell jingles above the door announcing Stevie’s arrival. Her messenger bag is slung over her shoulder and the sleeves of her flannel are covering her hands.

“Hi,” she says, looking around. “Looks great in here.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he can’t help preening slightly.

Patrick slides out of the back room, another stack of boxes in his arms. “You must be Stevie,” he says as he puts them down, turning to face her. He’s somehow no longer flushed, despite having been beet red only a minute ago.  “Great to finally meet the legend, David’s told me so much about you.”

“None of it is true,” Stevie deadpans, reaching out to shake Patrick’s hand.

“Obviously,” says Patrick. “Anyone with a fibre of common sense could see that.” Patrick grabs the bottle of juice beside David – who’s eyes widen at the audacity – and takes a long sip. Stevie looks between them and fails to disguise the delight flooding her features.

“I don’t recall offering to share,” says David.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Patrick, smiling, and still very much holding the bottle. “It’s just, I don’t recall you paying for this, so since it’s our store, I think we can safely say this is our juice.” He takes another sip.

He really does have a thing about germs, and normally he’d be really mad, but Patrick’s gall and confidence is infuriatingly charming, and David finds himself shaking his head as he bites back a smile. “You’re lucky your mouth doesn’t look sloppy. Now give me my juice back.”

Stevie snorts.

“Excuse me?” Patrick says, now fully laughing at David. “What was that comment about my mouth?”

David rolls his eyes. “I said it looks clean, so I’m willing to overlook the gross reality of sharing drinks so I can get my juice back.”

“Mm, interesting,” says Patrick. There’s a bit of colour coming back into his cheeks. “Sadly that’s not going to work for me.”

“Why not?” says David. It was kind of funny at first, but David really does want the juice back to tide him over for the afternoon.

“Because you have a sloppy mouth,” says Patrick, taking the juice with him as he moves to start unpacking the stack of boxes he just brought out. David feels his own cheeks flush. Patrick is probably joking, but he absently rubs his tongue across his teeth, suddenly embarrassed that he’s been walking around with food stuck between them.

Stevie – noticing David flustered, and frankly enjoying this whole exchange far too much – catches David’s eye and mouths I like him. David glares. 

The last thing he needs is Patrick thinking that he thinks something is going on. His own rogue feelings aside, there’s nothing going on, and Stevie needs to stop insinuating that there is. “Right, we’re going now,” he says, backing towards the door.

Patrick looks up from the box, the teasing tone gone from his voice. “Okay. Um, good luck, hope it goes smoothly, and, um… I’ll see you tomorrow, David?” A small, soft smile appears on his face.

“Yeah, yes. See you tomorrow.” 

Patrick nods, his smile spreading.

David climbs into Stevie’s car, annoyed that he’s forced to do this instead of finishing the afternoon at the store with Patrick. They’ve both been so busy working lately though that they’ve hardly seen each other since the cherry incident, so at least he gets to enjoy the next thirty minutes they have to catch up. Or at least, he thinks gets to, but Stevie chooses to become a complete menace the moment he slams his door shut.

“So how much longer are you planning to bask in Patrick’s heart-eyes before making a move?”

David cocks his head slightly. “What are you– no wait, what? I’m not–“ he stutters. “First of all, what heart-eyes? Patrick’s eyeballs are as spherically shaped as everyone else’s.” He pauses and pulls his lips in, biting back a smile. “And I mean, okay, maybe I might think he’s nice to look at, and like… nice, in general,” he says, his hands gesturing broadly. “But those feelings are not public information, nor do I intend for them to become so.”

“Tell that to your face,” says Stevie.

“Okay, harassing me as you drive me to the hospital is extremely insensitive and tacky–“

“Excuse you, I’m the one doing you a favour.”

“–and also, the fact that Patrick’s still around is all the proof you need that I’m doing an expert job of concealing my feelings.”

“Um, no, it’s further proof that he’s falling in love with you.” She delivers those words in a sing-song voice, and it’s hard to tell if she actually means what she’s saying under the mockery. Patrick’s not falling in love with him. He’s probably enjoying the opportunity to swoop in and use his little math powers to stop David’s attempted business adminbuffoonery in its tracks. Thankfully he also seems to actually like the store, and to David’s enormous surprise and relief they really do mesh well as coworkers, but no. Patrick is not falling in love with him. That is absolutely not happening.

“Unlike you, and many people I interact with, Patrick is a nice person. I’m sorry if you’re confusing his niceness towards me for romantic interest.”

“I like this for you.”

“There’s nothing to like!” says David, louder than he means to.

“Do you really not hear him flirting with you? I was only in the store for like five minutes today, and the tension in the room was palpable. I felt like I was interrupting something.”

“I think he was just annoyed I was leaving early because we were almost done. You getting here meant he’d be on his own and wasn’t going to finish.”

“Sure, David. That must have been why he was so flustered and smiley confirming that you’d be back tomorrow.”

“Or he’s just excited about the store being ready for launch,” he says. He rubs his index fingers against his thumbs, making small circles.

“I highly doubt that.”

In the past, it’s never been difficult for him to tell when someone’s flirting with him. In clubs and bars, people made it pretty explicit when they were after sex, and even when they didn’t say it directly there were more than enough context clues for him to put two and two together.

What if Stevie’s right? Patrick’s obviously not trying to hook up with him, but maybe that’s why he hasn’t clued in to his interest.

They eventually come to the exit on the highway and Stevie goes noticeably quiet as they approach the hospital. Save for a few texts in which she cited “bad Mom memories”, they hadn’t really had a chance to talk about what jostled her so much last time they were here. David bites his lip. “You can just stay in the car, you know. Or like, go for coffee or something.”

Stevie raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me like that, my god, I don’t need a babysitter.” He’s half-teasing, half genuinely annoyed that she’s acting responsible for him. 

She rolls her eyes. “It’s less that I was offering to babysit and more that I thought you might need someone with a rope to pull you away from the edge of the anxiety abyss.”

He grits his teeth, giving her an exasperated look. “Yeah, well even if I did need that – which I don’t, thank you very much, I’m completely under control – I don’t think you’d make a very good lifeline as someone two steps away from spiralling herself.”

“Fine, go,” she says, waving him out of the car. She doesn’t fight him anymore, and he hopes that’s a sign that this was the right call. “Text me when you’re out.” David smiles as she drives off. Until now, he’s done a pretty good job not dwelling on what-ifs’, Patrick and the store being more-than-adequate distractions. But as he walks across the parking lot toward the automatic doors at the front entrance, reality begins to set in. Something might be very wrong. What if they tell him he’s dying? No, even if that’s the case, there won’t be any results today. But what if he dies before they can give him the results? No, he’s being ridiculous. The panic sets in, but he forces himself to take a breath. He rubs his fingers together, a soothing sensation, and something tangible he can focus on.

He just has to believe that everything is going to be okay.

Chapter Text

David barely has a chance to sit down in the waiting room before he’s directed into one of the exam rooms. It’s tiny, consisting of only a single bed that’s folded halfway like a lounge chair. The bed is positioned next to a small computer and a cart full of dangling wires, and a couple of chairs are pushed up against the wall. The lights in the room are pleasantly dim, easing some of his nerves just a smidge. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, wincing like he’s breaking a rule as the paper covering crinkles under him.

Five minutes pass, then ten. He rocks his upper body gently back and forth as he waits; at this point, he’s becoming more impatient than nervous. Finally a young woman enters the room and sits down at the stool in front of the computer. She boots it up as she talks.

“David Rose?”

“Mhm.” He glances up at her, hoping he doesn’t find a glimmer of recognition in her face; thankfully, she’s still not even looking at him. 

It’s been a while since he’s been recognized in public – it never really happened in Schitt’s Creek to begin with, and at this point most people in town know him anyway – but it would occasionally happen when he worked in Elmdale, so he’s always wary when he’s here.

“Great. I’m Ramona. I’ll get you to remove your shirt and lie down – gown’s here if you want some more privacy,” she says, pointing to a folded blue heap next to a white hand towel. David brushes his fingers against the gown, tempted by the thought of a layer of privacy, but immediately pulls his hand away when his brain registers the paper-like texture. He rubs his fingers against his thigh to rid them of the prickly sensation. Then he takes his sweater off, folding it carefully and placing it on one of the empty chairs, and lays back on the examination bed. The disposable paper covering crinkles again and he tries not to think too hard about the texture poking against the skin on his back. He intends to just rest his hands calmly at his sides, but ends up rubbing quick circles between his thumbs and index fingers, unable to keep himself completely still.

He looks up at the ceiling, letting his eyes glaze over as Ramona shaves his chest. She then sticks eight patches to various spots on his chest and abdomen and attaches one of the wires hanging off the cart to each of them. When he’s all hooked up, she explains further, and David can’t help but think she sounds like she’s reciting a well-rehearsed script. The rehearsed nature of her words is oddly comforting because it leaves him with zero pressure to make any further small talk. “The test takes about twenty-five minutes. I’ll be moving this wand around to get a reading, and I might change the pressure or ask you to hold your breath when I need to get pictures. I need you to stay as still as possible,” she adds.

David nods. He slows his fingers a bit, but not entirely, hoping it’s a subtle enough movement that he won’t be called out for it.

“Okay, here we go.” Ramona dips the wand into a tray of gel before placing it firmly against his chest and beginning to manoeuvre it around. 

Entirely involuntarily, David yelps. 

The gel feels so much worse than he could have imagined. It’s cool and thick and slimy and it’s got a clinical smell, and it just might rival the gross soap supplied by his boarding school for the worst texture ever to make contact with his skin. The sensation it brings isn’t so much a burn or an itch, it’s a disgust he can’t quite describe, except to say that he needs to scrub every bit of it off of his flesh this instant. Ramona stops, pulling the wand away as David pushes himself upright, the wires attached to him tugging with his movement.

“Are you okay?”

David shakes his head rapidly. He reaches for the towel, tunnel vision taking the reigns as he scrubs furiously at the gel until it’s gone – at least, to the best of his ability. It feels like there’s a residue leftover that he can’t get rid of, because he can’t see it, and maybe it’s just in his head but it feels like he might never get clean again. Ramona just waits in silence until he puts the towel down beside him. 

“Did that hurt?” she asks eventually. “I’m not seeing a rash, but maybe you’re allergic to the gel.”

He shakes his head, and his hands rub together nervously in his lap. It didn’t hurt, but it felt so unpleasant he almost doesn’t see the point in making a distinction. To his surprise, Ramona is smiling slightly when he glances at her.

“It just felt… wrong, then?”

David nods.

“Okay. Some things make me feel that way too,” she says gently, and a wave of relief washes over David, because she’s not judging him and apparently she understands, or at least is trying to understand. She crosses her arms. “I don’t have another way to administer this test, though… we can’t get clear images without using the gel. Do you think we can try again, now that you know what to expect?”

What he wants to say is no, absolutely not, there’s no way in hell he’s ever letting that gunk touch him again. In his old life he might have just snapped at her to figure it out before waltzing out for good when it became clear that she had no alternative, but he’s trying not to be that person anymore. His only other option is to suffer through it, though, so that’s what he does, careful not to tangle his fingers in the wires as he resigns himself and lays back down. Ramona, oddly, doesn’t move after he’s settled, instead just continuing to sit on her stool with her arms crossed.

“What?” says David, conscious of her gaze in his general direction.

“You didn’t answer my question. Can we try again?”

He would prefer it if she just started, because it’s hard to say yes when he doesn’t mean it, but he also doesn’t want to refuse because he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this any more than he already has. He chews his lip. “What happens if I say no?”

“We don’t do the test.”

“But I need it, don’t I?”

Ramona shrugs. “It would be helpful. If you don’t get the echo, then they might have you try another kind of test, or they might just decide not to investigate any further unless your symptoms get worse.”

“I can… try,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Ramona says. “I’m autistic too, I get it. You can’t control that stuff.”

David’s eyes go wide. “I never said I was autistic,” he says softly.

Ramona flushes. “Oh! Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, I guess I have a tendency to project–“

“You’re probably not wrong, though? I haven’t been diagnosed, but… how did you know?”

She shrugs. “To be clear, I didn’t know, I just assumed. You were stimming when I walked in, too, which probably swayed me.”

David groans.

“What? It’s totally fine, just an observation. But yeah, I noticed that, and then it just became clear that you gave off that vibe.”

“That ‘vibe’?” he says, hearing the challenge in his own voice. On the one hand, validation about being autistic is something he wants; on the other hand, as much as he hates to admit it, he’s embarrassed that she noticed the rocking and his “vibes.”

“Yeah! I don’t really know how to explain it. But sometimes, as an autistic person, you just talk to someone and sense that you’re on the same wavelength. Talking to them just feels familiar. And whenever I feel that energy with someone, I tend to just assume they’re autistic too. And a lot of the time I’m right. Not always, though, or sometimes it’s someone who just hasn’t figured it out yet, so I definitely need to stop running my mouth.”

“So you felt that from me.” He fiddles with one of the wires on his chest, rolling it gently between his thumb and index finger. Ramona eyes him. 

“I did.” Ramona’s confidence, and the ease with which she notices and accepts him, slowly sink in. Even if he can’t finish the echo, driving all the way out here won’t have been for nothing. Of course, David did just tell Ramona he’d try, so he’s not free yet. 

She slides off her stool, eyes glued to where David’s hand is still toying with a wire. “Okay, David. If we’re going to try this again, we need to make sure you stay laying down, that you keep your torso still, and that you’re not touching the wires.” She pulls a little keychain from the front pocket of her scrubs and hands it to him. “Hands away from your chest. I know it’s hard to stay still, but try to focus on this.”

David takes it. It’s three metal keyrings linked together, with a variety of textured beads attached to them. It doesn’t really do anything, as far as he can tell, but looping his fingers through it and feeling the different textures is very satisfying. He must have looked confused, though, because immediately she clarifies, “it’s a fidget!”

“So you just carry this around to… hold it?”

“Isn’t that, in essence, what fidget toys are for?”

“I don’t know, I don’t have any.”

“Oh. Well, you should! They can help with focus, but personally I just like having something in my pocket to stim with. It’s grounding.”

He thinks about this. It sounds nice, the way Ramona talks about stimming, like it’s something she just freely does without agonizing over. He wants to stop drowning in shame and feeling like a child every time he stims, and he wants to stop hating himself for every autistic trait he possesses. Becoming more certain he’s autistic has helped a lot. He knows now that these parts of himself don’t come from nowhere, that he really does have a brain that works differently, but it hasn’t erased the shame entirely. “Maybe.”

Ramona smiles at him, then dips the wand back in the gel tray. “I’ll do this in sections, okay? So after I finish one area, we’ll stop, and you can scrub all the gel off before we move on. How does that sound?”

“Mm… mhmm,” he says, nodding, and trying not to let his traitorous eyebrows give away his anxiety about doing this again. He focuses on the fidget laced in his right hand. It really does help.

Thanks to the fidget and the periodic clean up breaks providing some sensory relief and a bit of a mental reset, he manages to make it through. Ramona detaches the wires, and David peels off all the stickers before scrubbing himself down one final time. “Okay, that’s all!” Ramona says. “You should already have the date for your follow up appointment, correct?”

“Yes. And, um. Thank you. I don’t think I could have done that if you weren’t so… flexible. And patient. That was a lot. Sorry.”

“Anytime,” she says easily. “I get it. Sometimes you don’t know you need an accommodation for something until it’s too late.”

“Mmm.” He hands the fidget toy back to her.

“Keep it,” she says. “I’ve got tons, and it seems like you could use it.”

David feels his cheeks go hot as he reaches for his sweater.

“Look, I know how hard it is at the beginning,” Ramona says. “I’ve been there. But don’t be afraid to make life easier for yourself.”

He nods, not sure what else to say as he follows her to the door.

He texts Stevie and meets her back in the parking lot. The entire drive back to Schitt’s Creek, he keeps his hand in his pocket, rolling beads between his fingers.

Patrick arrives at Rose Apothecary early on opening day – early, even for him. He putters around the store wiping counters, triple checking that the point-of-sale system is correctly set up, and doing a last minute test of his shoddy DIY electrical job with the lights. The product displays, according to David, are already perfectly in order and not to be touched under any circumstances. As he works, a line of early bird customers begins wrapping its way around the store. Patrick is excited and pleased – at least until he realizes the line outside already extends around the corner and they still aren’t due to open for another twenty minutes. 

David is not going to be happy.

He should have realized the residents of Schitt’s Creek would take it upon themselves to tell everyone they knew and the next town over. It’ll be great for business, no doubt, but David had said his social anxiety (or maybe it was just regular old anxiety?) was bad enough that a crowd like this could be a serious concern for him. Patrick suspects David’s plea for a soft launch was just overly cautionary on his part, though. The man was a socialite in New York City for years after all, right? But he also suspected people didn’t often take David’s worries seriously, and he hadn’t wanted to add to his already overflowing pot of other peoples’ skepticism and dismissal, so he had agreed to a soft launch. 

Patrick hums to himself and reaches for his phone to check the time: 9:49am. There are no messages from David, so presumably he must be getting close. Patrick’s stomach flutters at the thought. This is Rose Apothecary’s opening day – the opening day of their store. He really did that. He wormed his way into David Rose’s life through the promise of administrative help, and now they’re business partners. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he’s never been met with any resistance from David to his flirtatious banter. Sometime soon, he’s going to take charge and ask him out. 

At 10:53, David slips through the door, a massive bag slung over his shoulder. He looks immaculate, as always, his black hair perfectly coifed and skin smooth and glowing.  He shuts the door on the crowd outside, and when he turns around, Patrick sees a flicker of panic in his eyes. “So I was just verbally assaulted by a customer in line who was definitely not on our pre-approved guest list.”

Patrick approaches David, stepping as much into his personal space as he dares without crowding him. “Yeah, it looks like this got a little out of hand. Word travels fast in this town, clearly.”

“Who else did you invite?” he says, clearly exasperated.

“David, I promise. It was only the people on the list. Take a deep breath, we’re going to get through this. We’re more than ready.” He wants to reach out and place a comforting hand on his arm, but David is looking through him, chewing his lip and twisting his silver rings with a frantic energy, and it feels like any sort of touch at the moment would be entirely unwelcome.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. Now what? What do we do?” he says, his voice strained.

“It’ll be exactly the same, just with more people, David. It’s going to be fine. Just a little bigger than we imagined. You can take a break whenever you need, okay?”

He nods absently, his fingers still twisting his rings.

“Let me put your bag in the back,” says Patrick, holding his hand out. “Do you want to start behind the till?”

David slides his bag off his arm and gives it to Patrick. He stands behind the counter and Patrick watches his shoulders rise and fall dramatically in tune with his breaths as he presumably tries to calm himself down.

Guilt eats away at Patrick. The fact that so many people showed up isn’t his fault, obviously. He really did concede to the soft launch that David asked for, though maybe he should have been more aggressive in his instructions to everyone to keep the invitation private. But watching the alternative play out on David in real time makes him feel horrible for assuming this was just an over-reaction. David really is struggling. He can only hope it’s just the initial shock, and that it’ll pass soon enough.

“Are we ready?” says Patrick gently.

David grips the side of the counter like he’s trying to stop himself from running away, but he nods. “Mhmm. Ready.”

“Okay,” says Patrick. “Here we go. Let me know if you need to go into the back, okay? I’m here.” He holds David’s gaze, and David gives him another nod with what seems like as much confidence as he can muster. Patrick flips the sign to open and unlocks the door.

Customers file in and it only takes a few minutes before the store is bustling. Patrick chats with customers easily, making suggestions and directing them to specific products instantly with his complete mental map of their inventory. He loves introducing the world to what he and David have built together. 

Every couple of minutes, he steals glances at David to make sure he’s still doing okay. In the first hour, David seems completely comfortable. He makes small talk with the customers, albeit in stints that are much more brief than Patrick’s, and any panic in his eyes from when he arrived has been wiped off his face. Patrick wonders if it’s still there under the surface, or if he managed to settle in unscathed.

By about 11:30, Patrick notices David has started twisting his rings and darting his eyes around the store between each customer. Whatever mask he constructed seems to be rapidly disintegrating. “Go take a break,” says Patrick, sliding behind the counter. “I’ve got this. We can leave the floor alone for a second.”

David says nothing, just nods, and slides off into the back room. He returns about ten minutes later, and to Patrick’s surprise, goes out onto the floor instead instead of coming back behind the counter. A few customers come up to congratulate him, and he seems to be able to keep himself afloat. He keeps one of his hands in the pocket of his jeans the entire time. In between conversing with customers he adjusts the products on the tables, keeping them lined up in perfectly straight rows. 

Eventually, it’s getting close to 1:00, and Patrick feels his stomach rumbling. He packed a lunch for both of them, anticipating that they wouldn’t have time to run across the street to the café today. He flags David over to the counter. “I’m going to take my lunch. Can you take over the till for a bit?” he says.

They switch off. Patrick eats quietly in the back, scrolling on his phone as he does so, and feeling overjoyed at the ongoing babble of muffled voices from out on the floor. It’s so nice to hear the store come to life – it makes everything finally feel real. Then, out of no where, over all the other voices, he hears David. “Don’t touch me!” Patrick jumps to his feet, his sandwich abandoned on the floor.

“What’s going on?” he says, going straight to David’s side. David is backed up against the wall behind the counter, his arms crossed protectively over his chest, full fledged panic filling his eyes. It doesn’t completely surprise Patrick to see that Roland is the customer currently being helped. He’s carrying a bag of Mr. Hockley’s loose leaf tea, and looks both baffled and bemused at David.

“Jeez, Dave, didn’t mean to scare you. I just had a question about this ‘tea’, if you know what I mean, and I thought you might want to keep the answer on the down low.”

“What did you do?” says Patrick, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Nothing!” says Roland. “Leaned in to make sure Dave and I could have a private conversation in a public place. Mighta put my hand on his, nothing weird. I knew this one could be flighty, but yeeeeeesh.”

Patrick feels a little out of his element. He knows by now that David is not a touchy person with other people, despite being very tactile with his hands, but he didn’t think a simple touch would ever get this degree of reaction out of him. He wants to comfort him, to take that panic out of his eyes, but there’s still a line of customers behind Roland. “Go take your lunch, okay?” says Patrick gently to him. “I’ve got this. Text me if you need something.”

He sorts Roland out, making a mental note to check in with Mr. Hockley about what’s actually in that tea, then sends the mayor on his way, more than eager to shepherd him out of their store. When he gets through the rest of the line, the floor is finally reasonably quiet, the grand opening rush having mostly come and gone. They’ll be open for a couple more hours, but hopefully at a less suffocating pace for David – if Patrick can even get him back out today. 

The thing is, from what he can see, David is a very good sales person, and he’s certainly the one with the creative vision that has made Rose Apothecary a reality. But his anxiety is apparently a much bigger hurdle for him than Patrick had ever imagined… not that David didn’t try to warn him. Again, he feels like such an ass.

“Hi everyone!” Patrick calls out to the few customers still browsing. “I just need to sort out a few things in the back, I’ll be back in about five minutes. I appreciate your patience!” He gets a few nods in return before slipping away.

David is curled up on the edge of the old couch Stevie gave them from the motel storage. He’s scrolling quickly through something on his phone, but doesn’t seem to be actually taking anything in. He’s wearing a pair of earbuds, and he doesn’t look up when Patrick enters.

“Hey,” says Patrick softly, sitting carefully on the opposite end of the couch, not entirely sure if David can even hear him over his music. “You looked… really scared. Are you okay?”

David nods, still not looking in Patrick’s direction.

“Okay… what happened? Did he hurt you?”

David shakes his head.

“What do you need?”

He shrugs, and Patrick can’t help but feel disconcerted by this silent version of David. He’s never seen this before, and he’s worried, but not sure what their boundaries are in this kind of situation. He wants to wrap him up in an embrace, to run his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair, to talk to him gently until his shoulders finally release a bit of the tension they’re holding. But instead, he bites his tongue, and says, “Okay… I’m going to give you some space.”

David twists his rings and barely nods this time, but he does finally look up and watch Patrick leave.

“Oh, sorry, quick question before I go – we’ve got a box of scented candles behind the counter that never got unpacked. Should I cram them into the display, or just save them for later?”

Patrick is confused to see David suddenly turn more agitated. He squeezes his eyes shut and flaps his hands in front of his chest for a moment. He shakes his head.

“Uh…” says Patrick, not really sure what to do with that. “Sorry, we don’t have to decide now.” David obviously really needs some space, so he turns to head back out, feeling like a brick has just settled in his stomach.

A few minutes later, he hears David call out from the back, “wait!”,  his voice somehow sounding… not quite right. Patrick pokes his head through the curtain, and David is holding out his phone. Confused, he takes it. It’s open to a notes screen with a small paragraph of text. It reads:

I’m so sorry, Patrick. I’m honestly fine, but I wasn’t completely truthful with you. This is more than social anxiety. I’ll tell you about it soon. I was overstimulated by the crowd, and I was trying to keep my anxiety under control, but then Roland was talking inches from my face and grabbing my hand and… well, you saw what happened. I know it was a lot, I’m embarrassed. It’s easier for me to type than speak right now. I just need to reset. I want to come finish the afternoon. I’m sorry.

Patrick gives David his phone back. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry, too. This shouldn’t have happened. We should have made sure… I should have made sure… that it stayed small.”

David shakes his head, then types something,. He holds his phone out for Patrick to see. Not your fault. People are gossips.

Patrick smiles. “They really are, huh?”

David smiles back at him and his eyebrows relax slightly, becoming less furrowed and more neutral. It’s a huge relief. Even if he does have to finish the afternoon alone, it will be more than manageable. 

David is in one piece. He still wants to be business partners with him, and if anything, he seems ready to open up even more after today. It feels like more than he had any right to hope for.

In the end, David comes back out just before closing. Patrick notes that his face muscles are mostly relaxed, and he’s still twisting his rings but his energy seems far less frantic than it did earlier. He actually comes to stand behind the counter alongside him.

“Hi,” says Patrick, smiling. “You’re here.”

“Hi,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice,” he says, hoping it’s not too forward, but also not really caring.

David shrinks back a bit. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that–“

“No no no, that’s not what I meant!” Patrick says, scrambling to regain his footing. “I’m just relieved that you’re doing better. And I like the sound of your voice.” That last sentiment slips out before he can stop it.

David flushes a deep red. “You… really? I can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

Patrick tries to hold back his smile. “I’m surprised.”

David clears his throat and smiles down at his feet. “I’m going to just, um, make sure everything’s still in order,” he says, as he goes to start straightening out the products on the shelves again.

Patrick’s heart flutters in his stomach as he watches David back in his element, turning each jar and candle minutely until it’s facing forward just so. His face is focused, his movements precise, and it seems like he’s barely making a difference but he’s so dedicated to the process nonetheless. It’s becoming unavoidable. There’s no way he can wait much longer to make his feelings for this man known.

Chapter Text

That night, post launch, David lies in bed, wide awake and flooded with shame.

He wishes he could revert Patrick’s impression of him back to whatever it had been this morning, before he had been forced to pick up the slack for the rest of their first shift while David sat alone in the back room desperately trying to pull himself out of his own head. He can’t help but feel like Patrick will think he’s fragile after that display. And maybe it’s true. Fragile, finicky… two labels he can never seem to shake.

There’s a constant battle within him these days. He wants to be comfortable with being autistic – and he’s trying to get there, he really is – but he’d be lying if he said incidents like this didn’t still make him resentful of his own brain. He tries to be patient and kind with himself, but the metaphorical glass inside his soul is filled to the brim with liquid shame, and it’s a constant balancing act to maintain a mindset that keeps it from spilling over. There is some progress, though: at the very least, the doubts over whether or not he's actually autistic have been nearly eradicated.

The good news is everything at work seems much more bearable on typical business days.  Rose Apothecary attracts a very manageable flow of customers, and the carefully curated lighting and ambiance in their store soothes David’s easily-overstimulated senses. They don’t play music, and he can’t imagine it ever getting as crowded as it did on opening day again, so noise shouldn’t be an issue. 

In fact, David makes it through their second day exhausted, but otherwise unscathed. 

He can’t help but notice Patrick stealing worried glances at him all day, though, as if he’s afraid David is constantly one tap on the arm away from another shutdown. He hates this. What if any semblance of respect or friendship Patrick had for him is gone, wiped away in favour of pity, concern, and growing doubts about David’s competence?

So, despite a lingering layer of exhaustion from yesterday weighing heavily on his brain, he constructs and dons his very best mask. It’s an Emmy-worthy performance, he thinks, fuelled by his bone-deep desire for Patrick to forget what he saw, and aided by the fact that on a day where he wasn’t recovering from a shutdown, being the face of their business would come so naturally to him. David is passionate about what he’s created, and he’s so excited about sharing their store and products with customers that many of the usual social pressures of conversation seem to melt away.

It’s just a little harder today. He is constantly fighting to keep exhaustion and worry off his face, and his cheeks hurt from reminding himself to smile and show interest in everything the customers and Patrick say.

He follows the straightforward social scripts of retail with exaggerated enthusiasm, and for an added tinge of David-normalcy, he forces himself to go off on tangents with customers about products he is particularly enthused about. These tangents come naturally to him, and it’s easy for him to get carried away without realizing, often bringing waves of embarrassment in hindsight, especially if someone else points out the fact that he’s rambling before he notices. He tries not to worry about that embarrassment today, though; he needs to convince Patrick he’s his regular self, not some heavily masked version of David that he can’t reliably maintain even on his best days.
 
He busies himself organizing shelves during lulls, never letting his hands fall still, and makes an effort to ask Patrick how his day is going before Patrick can check in with him first. Even if Patrick likes him less now, at least he’ll see that David is still capable of running this business with him.

“We should talk,” says Patrick at the end of the day. There’s a click of metal as he finishes closing out the register. David’s bag is already slung over his shoulder, a cloth in his hand so he can casually wipe down the shelves one last time while he waits for Patrick to finish. His stomach drops.

“Mm, we should. Yep. Um… about what, exactly?” He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but it’s hard to tell if Patrick just wants to acknowledge what happened, or if he’s ready to completely cut ties with David and Rose Apothecary because of it.

Patrick’s cheeks flush and he crosses his arms. “Oh, uh. Yesterday you said – or typed, I guess – that you’d tell me about it soon. About… whatever was happening to you. But. Um. That’s okay if you’re not ready. I just thought you would want to know that I’m here, whenever you are.”

David bites his bottom lip. What comes out of his mouth next feels like a silly question because Patrick’s voice was so gentle, but he can’t not ask. “Are you upset?”
 
Patrick’s eyes widen. “What? No!” he says, any wavers of uncertainty gone from his voice.

David exhales, tracing circles over the palm of his hand, his dust cloth forgotten between a pair of beeswax candles on the shelf in front of him. “Okay. That’s good,” he says softly.
 
“We’re in this together. I just want to make sure I know how to support you.”

“I do want to tell you, I just can’t stay today.”

“Oh,” says Patrick. “Okay. There’s no rush.”

Does he believe him, or does he just think he’s avoiding the conversation?

“I’m going to an appointment… a therapy appointment,” David clarifies. He looks down at the floor, not sure why this feels like admitting some deep secret.
 
David is not a vulnerable person. He doesn’t share the hard stuff with people. He never has. But then he moved to Schitt’s Creek, and Stevie, the most hardened person alive, tore him open, and now Patrick is taking it upon himself to claw his way through the door she created, too. There was a time when David would have resisted both of them with every fibre of his being, but apparently that’s not who he is anymore.

Patrick actually smiles, the edges of his mouth curling softly down. His shoulders – broad, lean, and very distracting – seem to relax, as if this admission released some of the tension built up over the course of their conversation. “I’m– I’m glad to hear it, David.”

David pulls his lips in, willing the conversation to end, or for his body to simply melt into the floor, whichever option the universe deemed more feasible.

“And I mean it, there’s no rush to tell me. I’m just glad you’re supported.” Patrick’s eyes bore into David’s like gentle lasers, unwavering yet nonthreatening, full of concern and care. 

David still hasn’t brought up autism with Keith. He’s come close the last few sessions, his intentions strong when he walks through the door, but he inevitably stumbles down a rabbit hole of lingering doubts before the hour is up. Not today.
 
This has become an unavoidable possibility, and the voice in his head that keeps telling him he’s just childish, or difficult, or not trying hard enough to connect to people, is slowly being drowned in damning evidence to the contrary. He is trying. And just a few days ago, the ultrasound tech Ramona – who was autistic herself – assumed he was autistic, without so much as an intentional hint from David. That’s not something he can ignore.

At this point, the scariest thing he can imagine is the possibility that he’s completely incorrect about being autistic. While it’s frustrating to accept that he probably can’t just turn off these parts of him when they’re inconvenient, the frustration and lingering shame feel like such small inconveniences when compared to the relief of knowing that there could be a reason for it all. It’s even more of a relief to know there are others like him, and that people can and do find ways to accommodate their needs.

If he’s wrong, if Keith chalks it all up to anxiety, or trauma, or god-forbid a collection of experiences that are “just in his head,” he’ll yet again be completely unmoored, just like the first thirty-something years of his life.

Thankfully the drive to Elmdale offers enough time for David to map out a conversation. After the usual pleasantries, Keith would probably ask how things were going, and since this would be therapy and not a normal conversation, oversharing wouldn’t be a concern and he would have implicit permission to get right to the point. A recent anecdote would be a safe place to start. While yesterday’s launch situation was a more pressing issue – the lingering shame and uncertain footing with Patrick still occupying the majority of his thoughts – it would be safer to immediately have someone else’s unprompted perspective backing him up, so the ultrasound fiasco seemed the obvious choice. Following the anecdote, he would state his point, that his story was just one from a much larger library of experiences that had lead him to conclude he might be autistic. The rest of the evidence compiled since coming to Schitt’s Creek would be held in the back of his mind at the ready.
 
He can do this. He pulls into the parking lot outside the building, gravel crackling beneath his tires.
 
The conversation goes exactly as planned… at least until it doesn’t. David finishes his spiel and a crushing silence fills the space in the absence of his own voice, tousled only by the sound of Keith still scribbling away on his legal pad in the armchair across from him. His pulse thuds deep in his thighs and at the back of his neck, and his thoughts scramble out of control before he can reign them in. Clearly he spoke with too much confidence and not enough evidence, or maybe he just vastly over-estimated the significance of his experiences. Fifteen seconds pass, give or take, as he drowns in his thoughts, but his brain currently can’t differentiate seconds from eons, and before he can stop himself he is filling the suffocating silence with a word salad so out of his control that he barely remembers delivering it.

“For the record, it’s not like Ramona’s comment was the first time I’d thought about it. Autism, I mean, for myself – I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, at least a year probably, and I’ve done research. I don’t relate to everything, obviously, but… a lot of it is shockingly relevant to me.”  As he rattles off the list of traits he’s identified in himself, he can feel his hands giving their own unregulated theatrical production, an accompaniment to his rambling. “My hands are never still, it’s like – I don’t know where to put them. And I know I’m a control-freak, people have never been shy about telling me that, but it feels like I can’t get calm until I plan everything out. My sister was so mad the one time we tried to host a games night together, because apparently it’s “not chill” to follow a guest list and a schedule for that sort of thing, but I just don’t understand why you’d call it a games night at all if that’s not what you’re going to do?! I just… can’t handle unexpected changes, can’t give control to someone else.”
 
He continues listing traits, and the more he does, the more the sensation of static fills his brain. It gets to the point where it’s unclear if he, David, is actually controlling his speech at all, or if some little gremlin has taken the wheel entirely and is just chucking words and phrases at Keith one by one, like a kid pelting snowballs at the enemy from behind a fort. Keith just listens, hands now folded in his lap. Wrap it up, he pleads to himself, or the gremlin, or whoever’s in control. His mouth keeps moving, though, apparently determined to wring every last drop from the cloth of his experiences.
 
“Sounds hurt, sometimes– actually, I guess it’s more than sometimes. I do a lot to avoid noise…”

Wrap. It. Up.
 
“But more than anything, I just really relate to the lonely aspect of being autistic. Not that you’re required to be lonely if you’re autistic – I don’t even think I’m lonely right now, for maybe the first time in my life – but I just mean… it feels like I exist on a separate planet from everybody else.” He swallows. “Try saying that out loud, it is very dark. Anyway. It feels like when I talk to people there’s always a disconnect… like I’m encased in a glass box or something, and as hard as I try to connect with a person, I always come across poorly. I’ve made a point of warning people I’m not an expert on basic human emotion, but it’s redundant. They don’t need me to tell them that; it’s pretty obvious. Maybe I come across as disinterested? Alexis says I can be abrasive, or too blunt, or clueless. But, honestly, usually I don’t mean to be. I’m always trying to be normal… and I always thought one day something would click and I’d suddenly understand how to be like everyone else. But now I’m realizing… maybe I won’t. Because even though I can get by on my social mimicry… there’s still something deeper that makes it hard to genuinely connect.”

Every last thought finally drained out of him, David leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. A fly buzzes around the lights. His heart flutters against his chest.
 
“You’ve given this a lot of thought, David,” says Keith.

“Mmm,” is all David says, as he stops himself from physically rolling his eyes. What else is he supposed to say to that? Yes, clearly he’s given it a lot of thought. That doesn’t need to be said.
 
“Do you want to pursue a diagnosis?”

Does he? He hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. What he really wants is to know is whether or not Keith even agrees with his self-assessment; so far the man sounds like he intends to be very tight-lipped. Maybe David just needs to be more direct. “Do you think I’m autistic?” he asks.

Keith smiles. “I’m not licensed to give diagnoses.”

A frustrated groan escapes David. “I didn’t ask for a diagnosis. You know about autism, your website literally says so, you must have other autistic clients - in your personal opinion, do you think I’m autistic, or am I way off base?”

Keith sighs. He crosses one leg over the other and readjusts his hands in his lap. It’s easier to stare at the loose curls that fall against his shoulders than his eyes. “I think that there are many possible explanations for your experiences.”

His heart plummets. Dread must be evident on his face, because Keith immediately holds a hand up before he can even open his mouth. “Autism is a very plausible one. I will not deny that it’s crossed my mind before during our sessions.”

David leans forward, tempted to jump to his feet, the whiplash from this conversation making it hard to remain seated. “What?! Okay – why wouldn’t you say something? I’ve been tormenting myself for months now–”

“I didn’t know that, David. I’m sorry. I haven’t said anything because it’s been a mere passing notion on my part. There’s no need to force my half-baked thoughts on clients.”

“But you’ve had the thought.”

“I’ve noticed traits, yes. Your need for order and routine. Your difficulties with interpersonal connections. Stimming. But as I’m sure you’re aware, those traits can be indicative of things other than autism. When you put everything together, as you just did, you paint a very clear picture, and I see it more vividly than I did before.”

“Okay,” says David softly.

“I cannot diagnose you, David. I cannot tell you anything with medical certainty. But I believe you. And if autism is a framework that helps you understand and support yourself, then it’s worth holding on to.”

He twists the rings on his fingers, nodding, eyes lost in the black and white pattern on the carpet.

As he drives back to Schitt’s Creek, he ponders Keith’s offer to help him pursue a formal diagnosis. The explanation of the diagnostic process made it sound like it would be a lot of paperwork and interviews with himself and his family, none of which sounded particularly appealing to go through.
 
He has a significant amount of validation now – from Stevie, Ramona, and Keith, and it feels like he’s finally reached a point of self-assurance. Sure, a formal diagnosis would be the final stamp of approval, but maybe the extra drop of validation isn’t worth the hassle for him. Besides, he has other things he wants to focus on. The store, Stevie, his health, Patrick…
 
Oh god, Patrick.

He spends the evening with a book in bed, headphones over his ears to tune out the myriad of noises as Alexis putters around. Even with so much validation acquired, David doesn’t jump to inform his family that he’s autistic. It’s no longer a matter of doubt, but he’s not in any rush, and it feels like a slippery slope to drop that kind of information on any Roses before his own comfort with the label is unshakable… or at least as close to unshakeable as he is capable of being about anything. Since settling in Schitt’s Creek, the Roses are admittedly closer than they’ve ever been, but they are also capable of cutting him where it hurts, and that newfound closeness makes those cuts so much harder to shake off than they used to be.

He’s less than a chapter away from the end of his book when his dad startles him out of his zen. “David, I need you to work the front desk Friday night.”

He shakes his head. “What? No. Why?”

His Dad gestures vaguely toward Alexis like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s Alexis’s graduation, and your mother has performance with the Jazzagals, but one of us has to be there! Unless you’d like to go instead.”

“Ew, no, I went to her first one. It’s not my fault she wasn’t there.”

“We all went, David. But I figured you wouldn’t want to go, so I’m telling you you need to work the front desk instead. We’ve got a busy night booked, and you spend enough time with Stevie – I’m sure you’ve noticed she only has two hands.”

David rolls his eyes.

“Okay, David, enough.”

“Ugh, Dad!” groans Alexis. “It’s seriously not a big deal, I told you you don’t have to come. It’s going to be like, super long and boring, anyway.”

“See!” says David. “Even Alexis doesn’t care.”

“Look. We’re all working on becoming more of a family here–”

“Okay, we don’t need to be weird about it, though,” mutters Alexis.

“–so David, unless you’ve got some special excuse, I need you to work the desk.”

David glances at the calendar on his phone and – oh.  Somehow he’d convinced himself that his birthday was this Saturday, but apparently he’s lost track of time. It’s on Friday. And apparently he’s not the only one that didn’t know that.
 
It’s a little pathetic, he can acknowledge that, but the total obliviousness of his entire family feels a punch in the gut. So much for their newfound closeness and ‘working on being more of a family’, then.
 
“It’s my birthday,” David says, making a point to look his dad right in the eye.

Alexis sucks in a breath. “Ooo, burn, Dad.”

His face drops, and David feels a pang of satisfaction. “Oh, I– yes, of course, I knew that, we’ve got plans, you know, for Saturday, Friday’s just a busy night and…”

David nods. “Mhmm. Right. Well. I hope you find someone to cover.” He makes a show of settling back into his pillows and reopening his book.

By the time he gets to the store the next day, David is somehow more annoyed about his forgotten birthday than he was the night before. His irritation festers like an angry mosquito inside his brain all morning, and he’s unable to stop it from flying right out when a customer asks for a gift receipt on one of their wool throws. Of course, Patrick takes it upon himself to smooth things over by delivering overly-friendly good-bye from the floor as the customer leaves, which only serves to add humiliation to David’s irritation.

“Everything okay, David?”
 
“Mhmm. Yep. Why wouldn’t it be?” he mutters, unable to school his voice into a calmer tone despite wanting to not degrade Patrick’s image of him any further.
 
Patrick, who has been spraying the plants, pauses and puts a hand on his hip. His button-up hugs his arm in all the right places. It’s infuriating. “I, uh, take it today might be your birthday?”

David’s feels his cheeks burn. “It’s tomorrow.” We really do not have to talk about this.
 
“Oh, well, happy birthday! Any big plans?”

He bites his lip, considering a lie, but too irritated and embarrassed to come up with a plausible one. Instead he opts for the most nonchalance he can possibly inject into the truth. “Yeah, actually. I plan on, popping a pill, crying a bit, and going to bed early.”

Patrick’s face contorts into something unreadable. Hopefully he found that at least a little bit amusing.

“We could go for a birthday dinner.”

David widens his eyes, and his face feels even hotter than before. He refuses to become a charity case. He especially refuses to become Patrick’s charity case. He doesn’t even like thinking about his birthday, it was just the principle of his family remembering it at all. “That’s very sweet, but you don’t have to do that.”

“No!” says Patrick, louder than before. “I–I want to. I mean it.”

He takes a breath. They’re business partners, but this could be an opportunity to actually push their relationship into friendship territory, right? It might be a good chance to repair any trust that might have been broken, too… clear up his image, so to speak. David wants Patrick to like him more than he cares to admit. He wants him to like him as a business partner, of course, but also as a friend… and maybe even more than a friend, in some fantastical world. He sincerely doubts Patrick has any interest in pushing things beyond friendship, though. Honestly, the desire to hang out with him outside of work at all is kind of surprising.

“Okay,” agrees David. “Sure. Why not.”

“Great! I hear the food at the Cafe Tropicale is moderately edible – ever been?”

“Mm, yes.”

“I, uh, also think it might be our only option. Shall we say 6 o’clock tomorrow?”

“Sure,” says David, offering what he hopes is a genuine smile.

Patrick bursts into a grin for a split second that he immediately tries to pull back. By the time he finishes spraying the plant, its leaves are dripping as if it rained indoors.

David and Stevie walk to the café together the following evening, arriving at a respectable 5:58. As he goes to pull the door open, Stevie yanks his arm back.
 
“Ow, what?!” he snaps, nerves about seeing Patrick outside of work adding an extra bite to his words.
 
She slaps his noise-cancelling earbuds into his hand. “You ‘forgot’ these.”

David glares at her, stuffing them into his pocket before reaching for the door again. She grabs his wrist again, lighter this time. “David, what are you doing? It’ll be the dinner rush.”

“Trying to maintain a good impression for the guy I’m running my business with.”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Fine, whatever, I’m sure you’ll look great in about fifteen minutes when you’re completely overstimulated.”

He clenches his jaw. “Well, I’ll have them if I need them,” he mutters, before finally stepping inside.

He’s not surprised to see Patrick already seated at one of the booths; what is surprising, though, is the navy blue suit jacket he’s wearing. It’s not designer, by any means, but it’s certainly a step up from his usual polyblends, and much more of an extra effort than the Café Tropicale has ever called for from its clientele. David feels his heart skip a beat as he raises a hand up in greeting and slides into the booth across from him, leaving plenty of room to his left for Stevie. The bustle and noise of the café settles around him. David takes a deep breath and wills his brain to focus on Patrick instead.

“Don’t you look dashing,” says David, unable to keep a smile from spilling out the corner of his mouth.

“Figured I ought to dress for the occasion. Happy birthday David – and Stevie, hi,” he says, offering a nod in her direction. “Is uh, is anyone else coming?”

“No, just us,” says David. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m wildly popular. Some might even venture to call me beloved.”

“Yes, clearly,” says Patrick. “I’m, uh, just going to pop to the bathroom for a sec.”

As soon as he’s gone from view, David feels a hand on his shoulder. Stevie still hasn’t sat down for some reason and is now looking him dead in the eye. “Is this okay?” she says, her voice tinged with skepticism.

David squints, confused. “Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Um, because Patrick clearly asked for a table for two, and is very nicely dressed, and has also brought you a gift. I didn’t even get you a gift.”

“No, yeah, I noticed that.”

Stevie gestures again at the table, shaking her head, as if David ought to understand exactly what she’s hinting at by now. He looks at everything again but comes back empty.
 
“Okay, look, I may have forgotten to tell Patrick you were coming! So it makes perfect sense that he asked for a table for two. I know you’ve only met once but he clearly liked you, so I promise you have nothing to worry about, if that’s what this is about. But also, what’s up with you? I thought you like people thinking you’re rude.”

 Stevie closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose for the briefest moment before letting go and giving David one of the most exasperated expressions he’s ever seen from her. He can’t help sinking back a bit. “I think I’m crashing a date, David.”

“What?! No.”

“He didn’t look thrilled to see me.”

“He likes you, Stevie–”

“I know that!”

“So it’s fine!”

“What will it take to get it through your thick head?! He thinks he’s on a date with you right now. Regardless of his feelings about me personally, it’s always a bit of a buzzkill when your date brings a friend.”

“Oh my god. It’s not a date! Just sit down, it’s fine,” says David, gesturing to the space beside him.

Stevie throws her messenger bag on the ground beside the booth and finally sits. “Fine. I’m here. But David?”

“What?”

“If there is anything even remotely sentimental in that bag, I win, and he is on a date with you.”

“Sure, whatever.” He rolls his eyes, despite the slight nagging feeling growing in his gut. The pair sits in silence for a moment, the clanging cutlery from the booth behind them occasionally piercing his eardrums. He rubs his thumb over the pair of earbuds in his pocket. Patrick will be back any second. Maybe they can settle this debate before then; he reaches across the table and pulls the paper giftbag towards him. All he needs is a quick peek to put this to rest.

“I see you’ve found my present,” says Patrick, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. David freezes. Stevie smirks.

“Oh, I, uh–”

“It’s really not a big deal, you can save it for later–”

“No, open it, open it, open it!” Stevie chants, clapping her hands.
 
Patrick reaches for the bag, but David pulls it all the way into his own lap. “It’s just, um, this is the first present I’ve gotten in a long time that I haven’t bought myself, so…”

“Open it, open it, open–”  David whacks Stevie on the leg, but she, meddling menace that she is, seems undeterred. “–it, open it, open it!”

Stevie cranes her neck like a child over David’s shoulder as he pulls the tissue out and tosses it aside.
 
He takes out a picture frame, black and wooden, with a single strip of paper pressed behind the glass. It’s a receipt. Patrick is now rubbing his hands against his knees and, possibly for the first time in his life, avoiding eye contact. “It’s nothing, just the receipt from the first sale at our store,” he mumbles.

David’s heart plummets into his stomach. Shit, shit, shit, he thinks, overcome with too many emotions at once. A lump forms in his throat, and suddenly – in a good way – the frame feels twice as heavy in his hands. This seemingly ordinary object is brimming with the weight of being seen, believed in, cared for…  maybe even loved. It takes a few seconds before he manages to croak out a response. “Patrick… this is not nothing.”

He looks down again at the frame in his hands. The receipt is so precisely placed, with no embellishments, nothing to detract from the significance of the paper itself. David appreciates that. This gift might change the significance of his “birthday dinner,” Stevie might be right, but there is a freedom knowing that this gift will still mean something regardless of how the night goes.
 
Shit. Reality check. He might be on a date. His hands tremble, the gravity of losing his little argument with Stevie crashing down on him.
 
He wasn’t prepared for this to be a date.

Stevie’s hand squeezes his knee under the table. There’s the ghost of a genuine smile on her face, but it looks like she’s trying to stuff it away. She stands up and slings her bag back over her shoulder. “I just realized I have to go, I have a… plumber… coming tonight. Can’t do my dishes with a busted kitchen sink.”
 
She leaves before David can insist she stay anyway, but not before mouthing “I like this for you.”

Chapter Text

Twyla approaches their table and takes their orders after confirming that it is, indeed, just the two of them for the evening. David is still holding the gift with two hands, thumbs absently stroking the sides of the frame, when Patrick recovers himself enough to rekindle eye contact. He clears his throat and fiddles with his shirt collar. “Listen, David, this can just be a birthday dinner, if that’s what you want.”

“No!” David shouts, a little too loudly despite the bustle of the dinner crowd. “No, I, I– a date is good. Great, even. I love that this is a date.” And he means it. It’s just a lot, suddenly being able to entertain his crush on Patrick, and he’s trying to adjust as quickly as possible. And okay, maybe he’s also embarrassed – slightly – at having brought Stevie along without a second thought.

Patrick seems unconvinced. “You don’t have to do this for me, really. I can move past this. We’ll be just fine. The business will be just fine.”

“But I love that this is a date,” he says again, unsure how he can make himself any clearer. “I want this to be a date. I just… didn’t realize that’s what it was.”

“So you brought Stevie.”

“Well, yeah. It wasn’t a date.”

“It definitely was, though.”

“So we’ve established.”

The corners of Patrick’s mouth pull down like a frown in what David has come to understand is actually a smile, radiant and unabashed. “Seriously, David, how could I have been any clearer?”

David furrows his brow. “Well, you could have started by including the word ‘date’ in a sentence when you invited me to a ‘birthday dinner’.”

The man finds the audacity to smirk at him. “Well, after our weeks upon weeks of flirting, I figured the date element was pretty well implied.”

This statement hits him like a truck, but he digs his nails into his knees in an attempt to prevent his face from doing anything uncouth. “Right. Yeah. Of course. The flirting… big clue. Mhmm.” He nods, knowing full well lying has never been a skill he’s possessed.

Patrick crosses his arms. “David.”

“Mmm?”

“Did you not know I was flirting with you?”

He shrinks back against the booth. “No. No I did not.” Which is true. Despite Stevie taking every opportunity she could to inform him of said flirting, he was so certain that she was either teasing him about his stupid crush, or too far removed to have a reality-based perception of the situation. 

“David – you were flirting back!”

“Um. Was I?” He gently places the frame back on the table.

Worry lines reappear on Patrick’s forehead. “I mean, I certainly hoped so. Are… are you really sure you want to be doing this, David? Because I thought we’d been building to this for a while now, but if you’re not interested, that’s… I mean, it’s admittedly one of my more humiliating experiences in recent memory, which is saying a lot, but… you don’t have to do this just for me.”

Patrick doesn’t strike David as someone who is often humiliated, but he lets that go. “Trust me, I’m not. I may not have a ton of self-respect, but I’ve developed at least enough to not do that to myself,” says David, waving his hand like he can push the ghosts of his past relationships out of the frame of this conversation. He bites his lip. “It’s not that I haven’t been interested, because I very much have been. I very much am. You just… don’t seem like someone who would be interested in someone like me.”

“Ouch.”

“It wasn’t deliberate. Patrick, I am… very interested in this,” he says, waving his hands between them. “And there were moments when I thought I saw the possibility.” Typically these moments consisted of Stevie hitting him over the head and David desperately deflecting any blooming hope with bulldozer levels of denial, but he has the sense now to keep that truth to himself, if only because Patrick sounds genuinely hurt by his obliviousness. “But I was never certain – far from it – and there was too much at stake with the store to leave room for doubt.”

Patrick laughs, a self-deprecating huff. “I thought I’d knocked it out of the park, but apparently my game needs a lot more work.”

“Knocked what out of the park?” asks David. “You know what, um, never mind. Your flirting… game… is probably just fine. Great, even? But I’m not the right person to ask. I’m not used to people looking for something other than a hookup. I haven’t really navigated dating like this before.”

“Okay…”

David twists his rings, his upper body rocking subtly. He doesn’t like the way his blunder seems to have unmoored Patrick, stripped him of his confidence, so he wants to explain, to give Patrick the tools to navigate… him. “I don’t do well with clues. Implications. That sort of thing,” he says. “I can’t really read between the lines. So if you want something, or need me to know something, I need you to just tell me.”

“Noted,” says Patrick. He reaches tentatively across the table for one of David’s hands, still busy with his rings.

David freezes, just for a moment, before dropping a hand into his. Patrick’s fingers curl around his own, ever so gently, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he watches the certainty creep its way back into the other man’s eyes. A squeeze of his hand, forgiving and reassuring, and David feels himself melt. He thinks for a moment how wonderful it would be to run his hands across every inch of Patrick’s arms, shoulders, back – to feel his sturdiness in the tips of his fingers, to ground himself in his physical presence.

He realizes, with a rush of terrifying certainty, that he wants Patrick for more than just tonight. That he has wanted him for a while, but built his walls too high to even allow himself the chance to peer over their edges. “This is nice,” he whispers, just as Twyla comes to place a giant platter of mozzarella sticks between them. She slips away from their moment without saying a word.

“Mmm,” says Patrick. “Your hands are beautiful.”

David feels himself flush, the heat creeping up his neck to his cheeks. He hasn’t received that particular compliment before.

“And these mozzarella sticks look moderately edible,” Patrick continues, letting go of David’s hand and reaching for one. A strand of cheese clings to the plate from the one he picks up.

David reaches for one too, thoughts swirling in his brain, every feeling of correctness from the night so far shadowed by a gnawing feeling of hesitation. Will Patrick still feel confident and interested when he finds out that David is autistic? Will he still think his hands are beautiful? How conditional is his attraction to him?

“Happy birthday, David,” says Patrick, imitating a “cheers” gesture with the mozzarella stick. It takes David a second to catch on, but he stutters a thank you, a smile leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Patrick drives David home, and it’s the first time he’s wished the motel was further away from the café. They park in front of his room, David’s fingers curling stiffly around his knees as he watches a moth flutter around one of the exterior lights. He should get out, but he doesn’t want to leave this little oasis in Patrick’s car – and it’s not just because of the moth.
 
“Well that was… a fun night,” he says. 

“I’m really glad I decided to invest in your business, David.”

David smiles, he can’t help it. “That is a really… lovely… thing to say.” He curses inwardly at the stiltedness of his words, but Patrick takes it in stride, gently ribbing him in a way he is learning to get on board with.

“And I’m so glad you did, Patrick, because you really helped to turn it into the success that it is.”

“Mmm, a bold claim.”

There is a pause in which Patrick never untethers his gaze from him, and in those few seconds, their positions flip. David realizes that for the first time tonight, he might the one steering the situation. Suddenly he can see Patrick’s nerves and desires written all over his face, clear as day, and before he has a chance to second guess what he sees, he leans forward and kisses him, relief flooding his veins when Patrick leans in without hesitation.

The kiss is warm and steady, and David feels like he could keep going forever, but the need to know for certain how Patrick is feeling wins over eventually. He pulls back, smile slipping from the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” says Patrick.

David shakes his head, not worried about the smile he still can’t tuck away. “For what?”

“Um… I’ve never done that before. With a guy.”

“O-okay?”

“Yeah. And uh, I was getting a little scared I was going to let you leave here without us having done that. So um. Thank you… for um, making that happen for us.”

He feels a swirl of guilt, in addition to relief, at Patrick’s response. Patrick wants this, but David can feel doubts and fears knocking at the door of his brain, begging to be let in. Everything will change when Patrick learns he’s autistic. He should have been honest at dinner, or on the drive home, or even in that span of seconds just now when he realized Patrick wanted to kiss him. But now Patrick looks so content, and shy, even, and selfishly, David doesn’t want to drive him away before they’ve even gotten going.

He gently locks the door on those thoughts.
 
Maybe it will bite him in the ass, maybe it won’t, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment for either of them tonight. “Well, fortunately, I am a very generous person, so…”

“Can we talk tomorrow?”

David nods. “Mhm. We can talk whenever you’d like. Just preferably not before 10am, because I’m not really a morning person.” He unlocks the door, stepping out of the car as gracefully as his body will allow.

“Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

He is met with an awkward moment of festivities, courtesy of his family, as soon as he walks in the door. A few minutes later, Moira and Johnny saunter out of the room, both of them having just belted out a celebratory mishmash of a song to their children, the focus straying wildly from his birthday. He’s already so warm and content after his evening, though, that he can’t bring himself to care about everyone’s diverted attention. He takes a slice of the “Alex and Davis” confectionery abomination. The vanilla grocery store icing is far too grainy for his liking, but it’s something he’ll devour nonetheless. Alexis scrapes only the top layer of icing from her slice.

“Patrick kissed me.”

“Patrick kissed you?” says Alexis.

“Well. No, not exactly. I kissed him. In the car. After our dinner. Our dinner which turned out to be a date.”

“Um. Okay. Wow. So like… you just leaned over and kissed him.”

“Yes.”

“And he wanted that.”

“Yes,” he says, feeling suddenly defensive.

“Okay, jeez, I believe you. Look, all I know is, Patrick is a sweet little button face, David, so do not mess this up.”

David squeezes his eyes shut, like that’ll banish all of the ways in which he could potentially mess this up from his brain. “I’ll have you know, this is the healthiest first night of a relationship I've ever had,” he says, taking another bite of his cake.

“Okay, so. Walk me through it then,” says Alexis. “The whole evening. Was it perfect? He didn’t like, tell Twyla it was your birthday or anything, did he? Happy birthday in a public venue is never a cute look.”

“It’s not a ‘cute look’ at any venue. And no, he did not, thank you very much. It was… well, almost perfect.”

“I mean, you did eat at the café.”

“Mmm,” says David. “Yeah.” He twists his rings, wondering how much to share. Alexis is… well, she’s different, these days. He’s always felt responsible for her, but now he finds he actually wants to talk to her. He values her perspective… and it feels like she might actually care about him, too.

She continues to scrape icing from her cake, occasionally licking bits off her fork.

“I messed up,” he says. “We’re on the same page now, I think, but I nearly ruined the whole night because I was so sure it wasn’t a date.”

Alexis sucks air through her teeth, in what he thinks is an I’m-sympathetic-but-you-definitely-messed-up kind of way.

“Yeah…” he says, his gaze fixed on his half eaten cake. “I showed up with Stevie.”

“David! Oof. That’s bad. That’s like, really bad.”

“I know! I mean, I know now. I didn’t mean anything by it, obviously. He said it was a birthday dinner – how else was I supposed to interpret that?!”

“Well, it depends on how much he’s been flirting with you,” she says, not missing a beat.

David bites his lip.

“Uh-oh.”

“Okay, don’t uh-oh me.”

“Was it a lot? Because yikes, David, that had to have stung if you just like, ignored all of that.” Alexis puts her fork down, resting her chin on her hand. She leans towards him. “As your life coach, David, I’m telling you that you have got to start paying at least a little more attention to the people around you before you really mess something up.”

Her words cut him like a knife. He pushes his chair back from the little table and stands up, ready to take whatever shred of dignity he’s still holding onto straight to bed.

“I’m just saying, David,” Alexis says. “It’s endearing on occasion, and I know you sometimes can’t help it, but–”

“Okay, you know what Alexis? Eat glass.”

He expects her to bite back, and it’s almost irritating when she doesn’t. Instead she goes back to her cake, slicing the actual pastry into pieces he doubts she’s going to eat.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about… myself, lately,” says David tentatively.

“Kay well, that’s nothing new for you, David.”

“Not like that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And for the record, you’re just as selfish as I am.”

“Whatever, David, we’re not even talking about me right now.” She looks up, shaking her head.“See? I can be un-selfish.”

David groans. “What I’m saying is, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I’m like this.” He gestures loosely over his entire person. “And…” he says, suddenly hesitant, wondering if there’s another plausible way to end this sentence. He crosses his arms, holding them tight against his chest.

“And?” she prompts, her voice gentler.

“There seems to be a non-insignificant chance… that I’m autistic.” He squeezes his arms tighter against himself, soothed by the pressure. When she doesn’t say anything after what feels like an eternity, though it may only be a couple of seconds, he mumbles, “My therapist agrees.” He cringes at the desperation oozing from his words.

Alexis is looking at him with an expression he can’t read. “I guess I could see that. Yeah.”

“Um okay,” says David. “That’s all you have to say?” It’s not that he wants more of a reaction.  He’s just confused. How can saying any of this out loud be such an earth-shattering deal in his head, and such a non-event in reality?

“Ugh David. I don’t know! I don’t really know what that even is.”

David unfolds his arms and sits back down across from his sister. He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t either, until recently,” he says. And so he explains, as best as he can, trying his best not to gloss over the parts that still sometimes make him want to disappear. Alexis listens, nodding along, and even nibbling through half of her crumbled cake as he talks. By the time he’s finished, he’s ready to bury himself in bed, but Alexis is staring at him with a strange sort of smile on her face.

“I’m glad you went on that journey, David,” she says. “And thank you for telling me… especially after all the things I just said.”

David just nods, unsure of what else to say.

“Patrick will want to know. You know that, right?”

“Mhmm. Yeah. Getting there.”

“You can trust him, David. He’s put up with you this far, anyway.” She shimmies her shoulders. “And it feels nice that you finally trust me, by the way,” she adds, in a tone that makes David squint.

“Finally? Alexis, you’ve never really given me a reason to trust you until recently. I’ve spent most of my life worrying about you because I couldn’t trust you. There was a point where you were were getting yourself into action-film-worthy danger like, once a week.”

Now Alexis crosses her arms, her facial expression edging closer and closer to a full blown pout.  “Ugh David, don’t be such a baby. None of that was a big deal. You didn’t have to worry about me.”

“Yes I did, Alexis. Who else was going to?”

Her expression loosens, and David is surprised to see the slightest hint of a smile creep through. “Fine. Whatever, David. But for what it’s worth, I’ve always worried about you too. I’m not your life coach for nothing.”

“You’re not my life coach,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words this time.

David gives himself space to enjoy the first couple of days of his new relationship without making any surprise disclosures, and to his relief, Patrick doesn’t pry. He knows he’s still waiting for them to have that talk, but it turns out Patrick is a much more patient man than David in these sorts of situations. Or maybe he’s just also enjoying the honeymoon lightness between them.

Now that David knows Patrick is into him, he finds his hands reaching into Patrick’s space all the time. He wraps his arms around his waist from behind while they chat, or freely traces the tips of his fingers down his spine when they pass each other on the floor at work. His shoulders are his favourite place; strong and broad, he reaches for them at every opportunity, having turned them into his own personal grounding point for his otherwise nervous, flighty hands.

One afternoon in Ray’s living room, he finds himself gripping Patrick’s shoulders rather tightly, having just received the date for his follow up appointment from the cardiologist.

“I don’t think things are as bad as you think they are,” Patrick says, gently reaching up to pry David’s hand off his left shoulder where his nails have begun to dig in. He turns to face him, taking both of his hands in his own. “You were just telling me you haven’t had any symptoms in weeks.”

“They come in waves,” says David.

“Okay, but the only reason anyone even checked your heart to begin with was because you had an unexpected allergic reaction. It sounds like a precaution to me more than anything.”

He rubs his thumbs in circles over Patrick’s fingers. He knows he means well, but this doesn’t feel like something he can reason his way out of worrying about, especially because he’s felt the irregularity of his heartbeat throughout his body so many times.

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”

A lump forms in his throat when Patrick says we, and David pulls his hands away to shake them out, willing the flood of emotion to pass. Patrick doesn’t look away.

“I can drive you out there, if you want.”

David is about to say he doesn’t have to do that, because that’s just what you’re supposed to say, but actually he would love for someone else to drive, and wanting to help is one of the fundamental pillars of Patrick’s personality. He nods his assent, and to his delight, Patrick’s endearing upside-down grin makes an appearance.

David is in and out of his appointment in no more than twenty minutes. He’s been given a pamphlet about the unpronounceable congenital heart defect he apparently has, and another titled Healthy Heart Lifestyles that contains far too many images of seniors for his liking. He concedes, with relief, that Patrick was right: it’s nothing serious. He has instructions to inform his doctor if his symptoms escalate, and otherwise is scheduled for follow up appointments once every two years. Apparently some people go their whole lives without knowing they have this abnormality, and others, like him, experience mild, largely unobtrusive symptoms. A tiny fraction have symptoms that become debilitating over time, but David makes the conscious decision to lock that information up, instead focusing on locating Patrick in the waiting room. They hold hands on the way back to the car, David prefacing the explanation of his diagnosis with a firm “no gloating,” which Patrick (mostly) adheres to.

“So,” says Patrick as he navigates out of the Elmdale General parking lot, “in the name of healthy lifestyle choices–”

“Don’t,” says David, though he notes the slight smirk on Patrick’s face.

“–I was thinking we could go for a walk this afternoon.”

“A walk.”

“Mhmm. A date walk.”

“Ah,” says David, allowing sarcasm to work its way into his tone. “And you’re thinking just like a romantic walk up one of Schitt’s Creek’s numerous dirt roads, or…?”

“Yeah, exactly. I was thinking maybe we could even get my old dirt bike involved.”

He feels his eyebrows shoot upwards.

Patrick laughs. “No uh, actually, since we’re out here already, I was thinking about the Elmdale Botanical Gardens.”

David fiddles with the keyring fidget in his pocket, weighing his options. He had envisioned going straight home to bed to process the news, but the outcome has left him feeling surprisingly okay, and it’s hard to say no to botanical gardens, even during the cherry blossom off-season. And, well. More time with Patrick sounds pretty blissful, too.

They spend nearly two hours meandering around the gardens. David glues his hand to Patrick’s, to the occasional annoyance of other guests, who are left with a meagre sliver of pathway to pass the couple by. The air is sweet, and the clouds in the sky allow the sun to peek through in perfect amounts. He wears sunglasses regardless, but it feels like the kind of day where he could probably manage without. He does his best not to stumble into any rambling conversational rabbit holes, instead following Patrick’s lead, which brings them both to sharing more about their lives before they came to Schitt’s Creek. David can clearly imagine Patrick growing up, his life revolving around family, friends, and sports, and smiles to himself at the strangeness of that person ending up hand-in-hand with him. It’s hard to be flexible; opening himself up to new possibilities has always felt scarily unpredictable. And yet, this time – at least now that it’s happening – everything about it feels so correct.

When they’ve been down every path at least twice, they concede that they should probably move along. David points out a small restaurant on the grounds, and they find themselves seated on a patio surrounded by overhanging vines. It’s a relief to be outside, where he is able to leave his earbuds tucked away. Their food comes quickly – a massive plate of decked out nachos to share – and Patrick is mid-bite when David, feeling a surge of bravery after a perfect afternoon, asks, “Would you date someone who was autistic?”

“Um,” says Patrick after a moment. “Maybe? I’m kind of already interested in someone else right now, so… probably not.” David must make a face, because Patrick quickly clarifies, smiling, “You, David.”

He breaths a small sigh of relief. “Mmm. Right. So… let’s say I was autistic, then. Would your interest in me still stand?” His voice is soft, hesitant, and he fights the urge to bolt from their table, his silly moment of bravery clearly over. He puts a handful of nachos back on the plate in favour of twisting his rings again, too preoccupied to even register the inevitable grease smears he’s leaving on the metal.

“It would,” says Patrick, clear and certain. David feels a dozen knots untie themselves in his upper back alone. He reaches his hand across the table and David accepts it, grounding himself in Patrick’s unwavering grip. “And… I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that this is your way of sharing that information with me?”

“You would be correct.”

Patrick squeezes his hand even tighter than before and nods, a soft laugh escaping. “Okay, so, I’m going to move elegantly past the indirect way you brought that up, despite having loudly declared a need for directness on our first date, and just say, thank you, David, for trusting me with that.” His tone is somehow teasing and sincere at the same time, a mixture that feels like it should confuse the hell out of him, but instead is one that feels familiar, trustworthy, and perfectly safe.

Patrick has that effect on him.

Chapter Text

About a week after their first date, David wakes to a text from Patrick. He smiles, the warm honeymoon feeling of good morning texts from this ridiculous early-riser of a man still fresh.

Reminder that Sal will be by at 10 today, not 11, so might be good to get here a few minutes early!

David shrinks, thinking about how he had assured Patrick he wouldn’t forget about the rescheduled time for the meeting with this new prospective vendor, only to have apparently forgotten anyway. Luckily, it’s only 8:45, so if he abbreviates his skincare routine he should still make it.

David replies, brushing his blunder carefully aside, but grateful for the reminder nonetheless. I’ll see you soon!

Patrick responds immediately. Can’t wait! Also, do I need to bring anything for dinner tonight? Right. Dinner. Another thing David forgot. He groans audibly, and Alexis grumbles something about turning his voice down in her sleep next to him. 

A few nights earlier, when Patrick was dropping David back at the motel after work, his parents loudly decided that they wanted to host a family barbecue to “celebrate happy circumstances.” After refusing to elaborate with any specificity as to what circumstances they were celebrating, Moira invited Patrick on the spot, and suddenly it was all too clear to David what was going on. Cue much debate once Patrick left about the correctness of over-celebrating a new releationshionship  - and a borderline panic attack on David’s part - and his parents finally relented to his pleas, saying that the celebration could instead just be a regular dinner at the cafe. Given that Patrick had already joined them incidentally for meals when the store was coming together, David could at least pretend this way that his relationship wasn’t moving along at a disastrous speed.

Nope, he replies.  Just bring yourself. Barbecue was too ambitious, we’ll be at the cafe instead.

The contentedness he’d awoken with mere moments ago is gone though as he throws the covers off and hauls himself out of bed. It’s going to be a long day. He goes into the bathroom and focuses on putting his face together.

The meeting with Sal goes swimmingly.

David and Patrick have fallen into an easy routine when meeting with new clients, where David delivers a tour and selling points of the apothecary, and Patrick backs him up, filling in the gaps with financial numbers and details. David used to have to scramble to get Patrick’s attention with a pointed look in his eyes whenever a question came up that he lacked the technical language to answer, but now with their touch barrier non-existent, he can just give Patrick a subtle squeeze of the shoulder, a silent plea for help, and Patrick knows to jump in.

Sal is easy to talk to, if a little too chatty for David’s liking. And more importantly, his wares are delectable. Patrick might have to physically stop David from devouring their entire stock of his handmade candy when it comes in. By the end of the meeting, Patrick has already drafted up a contract, and Sal leaves with a smile.

Moments before he’s gone, the door chimes and a large group of friends, seemingly from out of town, come through. It’s like they’re waiting to pounce, and as soon as David and Patrick are freed from their meeting, they all have questions. David slips away from them a few times to help Ronnie, then reluctantly, Bob, who trots in looking for “that soap Gwen used to use.” It’s nearly half an hour before the gaggle of friends leaves, an assortment of packages in hand.

For a moment it seems like they might have the store to themselves, but then a woman David recognizes from around town comes in, and another couple follows shortly behind her, one half of whom is very pregnant. Patrick greets them both before David can even process this bizarre rush in their store on a Thursday morning, and lays a hand on the small of David’s back. “Do you need a break?”

He shakes his head automatically. It’s been a busy morning, sure, and Bob was a less than on-brand customer, but he’s fine.

“You sure?” asks Patrick. “We’ve just got a long day ahead of us still, so if you need to take a breath...”

He bites his lip. He’s firmly settled into his people-facing mask at the moment, and he’s noticed he doesn’t enjoy the process of putting it back on after taking it off if he can avoid it. But Patrick has a point. There’s another 5 hours until close, and dinner with his family will still require some performance.

“Why don’t you just take your break early?” he suggests. “Then if you need another later, it’s fine, and if you don’t, you don’t.”

“Yeah, okay.” It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic, and he appreciates Patrick thinking ahead about his needs, even when David himself is determined not to have any. He never thought he would say this about anyone, but Patrick makes it unbelievably easy to ask for help.

In these early stages of their relationship, when butterflies still swarm his stomach each time he glimpses a swish of pale blue out of the corner of his eye, David often finds himself being cautious about coming on too strong. Several things are different this time around compared to his previous relationships, though. For one thing, Patrick knows David is autistic. And for another, Patrick is, well… Patrick. He is attentive to the bits of information David shares about himself (sometimes too attentive, David thinks, as there is only so much of those brown eyes hanging on to his every word he can take), and he seems to always want to learn more about how to help.

As it turns out, the moments where David pushes past his own cautiousness to be vulnerable are actually good for their relationship. Who knew.

David and Patrick arrive at the cafe that evening to find Twyla hastily pushing a few tables together near the window, with Johnny and Moira looking on. “That’s perfect, Twyla, yeah, right there is good,” says Johnny. “Much appreciated, I would have moved them myself but I wasn’t sure how heavy they were, and you know what my back is like.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Rose. I’ll be right back with those menus.”

“Hi Twyla, hi Mr. and Mrs. Rose,” says Patrick, leading David straight into the fire.

“Hello, my dear Patrick,” says Moira, arms wide open in an exaggerated gesture that makes David cringe. He fights the urge to use his own body as a barrier between his parents and Patrick, and instead watches the round of greetings between the three of them from a few steps back, marvelling at the ritual of it all. Stevie appears at his side before it’s finished.

“Well, guess we know who the favourite child is now,” she says.

“Ew, absolutely not,” says David. He herds her into the corner the tables are tucked into, indicating that she should take the head seat in front of the window, so that he and Patrick can fill the two seats on the side. She shrugs and hangs her bag over the chair.

Johnny and Moira correctly settle into the two chairs on the opposite side of the tables, just as David envisioned to make this evening survivable. But then, to his dismay, Patrick picks the left seat on their side, which will leave him sat between him and Alexis rather than him and Stevie, which is obviously the optimal scenario for shielding him from the worst of any Rose family dynamics. David pulls the correct chair out a little further, gesturing to Patrick to shift one over, but somehow he and his mother are still deep in conversation and he doesn’t notice.

“Just sit,” hisses Stevie. He does, begrudgingly, worrying his fingers.

They order drinks, and David loses himself for a minute in the sounds around him. Patrick continues to chat with his mother, and his dad and Stevie talk about the motel. There’s an ease with which Patrick makes small talk, pivoting smoothly from asks about the store, to inquiring about her role on the town council, and David can’t parse whether or not he is actually enjoying the conversation or is in need of a lifeline. He’s pretty sure Stevie and his dad are actually friends, so that part doesn’t worry him.

Alexis arrives late, just as Twyla’s placing their drinks on the table, somehow dressed up and perfectly put-together despite having apparently arrived straight from work.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” says Johnny, “I’d like to propose a cheers.” He raises his glass, a smile flooding his features. Moira follows suit, if a little skeptically, and the rest of them follow suit. “To family,” says Johnny, raising his glass a little higher, “old, and new.”

“Um, excuse me, but I don’t even have a drink yet!” says Alexis, shoving her empty hand into the clattering of glasses. “So what does that make me, chopped meat?”

“Oh it’s just a gesture, dear,” says Moria.

“Thank you for having me,” says Patrick, cutting gracefully into the moment. He turns to David, taking his hand. “And I know we’re both happy to be here.”

“Thank you for saying so, sweet Patrick,” says Moira. “And I would believe you wholeheartedly, if only David would stop appearing so disgruntled.”

“What-”

“Well, it’s been a bit of a long day,” says Patrick smoothly, rubbing a hand over David’s knee. The touch grounds him as he tries to adjust his face, despite not being certain what it was doing in the first place.

David ends up being pleasantly surprised by how much of a backseat he is able to take during dinner. Patrick reacts gracefully to his parents awkwardness, banters playfully with Alexis and Stevie, and the three of them leave easy room for David to weave in and out of the conversation, which is great because he’s reaching the end of his capacity to perform human interactions.

Being around his family feels easier now than it ever has. True, they’re often quick to point out his idiosyncrasies, and sometimes he still feels the pressure to manage their crises, but he can also relax, at least partially, when he’s with them. It never used to be like that.

By the end of the evening, David is absently licking the remnants of grainy cheesecake off his fork, no longer following the conversation. In a moment of wine supported boldness, he’d slipped one of his earbuds in, counted to sixty in his mind, and when nobody said anything, slipped the other one in too. He’s not calmed by the muffle the way he normally would be, his body tense and waiting for the moment Alexis or his parents squint in his direction, but it never comes.

Twyla comes around to clear most of their dishes. “I’m going to pick up the car,” says Johnny.

“Oh good idea dear, I’m positively exhausted,” Moira says, leaning back into her chair.

“I’m actually giving Stevie a ride,” he clarifies, glancing at her as she absently swirls what remains of her beer like it’s a glass of wine. Stevie slides her hand in front of him on the table.

“Mr. Rose, I’m fine, I can-”

“My car’s already at the store, we can drop her off.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you Patrick. And you said ‘we’, does that mean you two will be spending the night?” he asks, eyeing David.

“I think that was the plan, hey?” says Patrick, nudging David’s shoulder.

David hums his affirmation, at this point not really caring where he ends up, as long as he can be home and curled up in bed sooner rather than later.

In the car Stevie mentions something about having weed, and before David knows it, he’s smushed up against Patrick on Stevie’s couch as they pass a joint between them.

“Sure you don’t want any?” asks David, clumsily holding the joint towards Patrick’s face. His features scrunch in response.

“No thanks,” he says, gently pushing David’s hand back.

David shrugs, taking another puff before handing it back to Stevie, who seems to be watching them like a television show.

“It helps take the shell off,” he clarifies.

“The shell?” says Patrick, rubbing David’s shoulder. He leans into the touch.

David feels hazy and exhausted. He also feels more relaxed than he has all day, and he knows that it’s not just the weed, but the two people he’s with. “Yeah. Stevie helps pull it off too, but not as much as weed.”

“Like a bug,” says Stevie matter-of-factly. “A bug shedding its exoskeleton. Maybe even a milky one.”

David makes a face.

“Gonna be honest, I only sort of know what you’re talking about.”

David leans all the way back onto Patrick’s chest and pulls his arms so that they are wrapped firmly around him. He plays with Patrick’s fingers as his mouth babbles on of its own accord. “That’s okay,” says David. “You’ll make it happen, too. You already do, sometimes, when I’m not trying to impress you.”

Patrick squeezes David’s hands, stopping his fingers in their tracks. “David.”

“Hmm?” says David, listening, but not turning around.

“You don’t have to try to impress me. I’m already impressed.”

David does not know what to say to that. Things feel different with Patrick, they do, and all of the evidence he has gathered so far points to Patrick being trustworthy. But there’s trusting him to act in a kind and caring way, and then there’s trusting him to genuinely still do that even when he’s completely raw. He wants to trust him completely, and things feel promising that they’re going to get there, but he’ll need time for his body and his nerves to catch up with what his mind already seems to know.

It took time with Stevie as well, but he got there, and he will with Patrick, too.

David closes his eyes, feeling the hum of the room wash over him and fade away at the same time. In Schitt’s Creek, he has time and space to figure it all out.