A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I have some health issues that have made writing difficult lately. My intention going forward is to update more regularly with shorter chapters, so...we'll see! Thanks for your patience if you're still reading. I'd love to hear what you think!
/
There are too-tight hugs and tears of relief all around when Patrick meets his parents at the café. He'd already called them, of course, after speaking to David, to share the good (if not wholly illuminating news) from the neurologist. There'd been a few tears then, too.
Thankfully, Café Tropical is quiet and the few people that are occupying tables pay them no mind. Twyla rushes over to serve them as soon as they're all settled into the nearest booth, handing them each a menu and making a point of reintroducing herself, stage whispering to Patrick afterwards, "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me from yesterday." He thanks her and assures her that he does, in fact, remember her from the day before. It's kind of a sweet gesture, but he still finds himself holding his breath, waiting until she's safely out of earshot before releasing the puff of laughter that rises up in his chest at the sheer ongoing absurdity of the situation. His reaction makes his parents laugh too; all three of them seemingly giddy from relief and a little bit of lingering uncertainty.
He tells them, over celebratory chocolate chip pancakes, about how well his conversation with Rachel had gone ("I'm so glad you two are still friends," his mom tells him, her expression soft and surprisingly genuine; not at all like the misty-eyed, wistful look she'd previously gotten when talking about him and Rachel being 'just friends', making it clear that she didn't quite want to believe it), and then, if a little self-consciously at first, about his subsequent time spent watching baseball with David ("Didn't think he was much of a sports fan." His dad muses. "Oh, he absolutely isn't," Patrick laughs) before going over what Dr. Sharma had told him.
"'Cautiously optimistic' is the term the doctor used," Patrick finishes, after fleshing out some of what he'd already shared on the phone about stress-triggered migraines, follow-up tests and the possible benefits of therapy. "He said that, in the meantime, I should get back to work, get into a normal routine."
"Well, if the doctor thinks it'll help then that's what you should do."
"Yeah," He agrees, dropping his eyes back to his plate before saying the next part, slowly dragging a wedge of pancake through a puddle of syrup. "So I was thinking I should start today. Give David some help at the store."
"Just so long as you feel up to it, sweetie."
"I do, I really do. I feel good," Patrick insists because, against all odds, he does. "And I'm dying to take a look at the books and the contracts. To start getting to know the customers and the vendors."
"And your business partner," Marcy adds, blue eyes still bloodshot as they crinkle in a smile.
Clint tsks at his wife.
"You work so well together," she course-corrects. "You both love the store. And you've made it such a success."
"Just be careful not to overdo it. Especially if stress is a factor in all of this," his dad says, sliding his silverware onto his empty plate.
"I won't, I promise. I don't think David will let me. It took the doctor's okay before he'd agree to let me work at all."
"He'll be glad to have you back." Patrick watches his dad's mouth curve into a soft upside-down smile before adding, "For the sake of the store."
"Yeah," he answers, feeling a little coy at the admission. "I think he will. I, uh, found out that he doesn't ordinarily do early mornings."
"Oh, he isn't a morning person. We all know that."
They all chuckle again and he tells them how they'd both overslept that morning (though not that they had, however innocently, slept together on the cramped little loveseat all night), and that he'd found out, from his phone rather than the man himself, that today is David's birthday.
"Oh my goodness, we completely forgot!" Marcy blusters, hand shooting up to cover her mouth. "It's marked on the kitchen calendar at home, and I had a card all picked out and—"
"It's okay. You didn't exactly plan this trip," Patrick reaches over to grab his mom's free hand. "None of us planned for any of this."
It isn't lost on him that David's birthday is on the kitchen calendar; the one that is reserved exclusively for the birthdays of relatives and certified Big Brewer Extended Family Events. It makes him feel a strange little swell of warmth that helps quell the nerves he feels about what he's about to say next. "I haven't had a chance to ask him yet if he has any—if maybe we had plans."
"Oh, we could all go out for dinner! Maybe see if the Ros—"
"Actually," he swallows thickly around the objection now lodged in his throat. This is the part he's always struggled with; saying no, refusing his parents' requests or recommendations at the risk of causing disappointment. But he knows, now, that it's something he'd managed to do before and neither his world nor theirs had ended as a result. "I was thinking that if he did want to do something, with me, we could keep it small. Maybe just...the two of us. This is all still a lot, you know?"
"Oh. Of course. Of course it is sweetie," Marcy says, her grip tightening on Patrick's hand.
"And, really, now that we know that I'm not…" he trails off, leaving the worst of their fears unspoken. "There's really no need for you guys to stick around here. You could head back home."
"There's no rush, Pat. I was thinking we—"
Twyla chooses that moment to clear their table and cuts Clint off mid-sentence. "Everything good?" She asks with a beaming smile. Patrick pulls his hand back from his mom's to place his napkin on his empty plate. All three Brewers nod and thank her in tandem.
Twyla's presence, as she piles dishes onto one arm, buys him another few seconds to think about how to handle the challenge he knows is likely to come.
He loves his parents, he really does. He loves his cousins and his whole extended family back home, but he also kind of loves the idea of having some distance from them for a while. He'd given it a little thought on his walk to the café (truthfully, he'd given it a lot of thought long before that, too), and ambled towards the conclusion that putting that distance between them before (however poorly it might've been executed at the time) seems to have done him good.
Maybe it could again. Maybe he needs to try it – to take a selfish, for once (that's a thing, right? He's sure he's heard people use that phrase) – in order to find out.
"I'll be right back with your check," Twyla chirps. Patrick watches her disappear into the kitchen before he looks back at his expectant parents.
"I'm really grateful that you dropped everything to come here. It's helped a lot to see you, to hear some of this stuff from you," he tells them sincerely.
His parents both stay silent, sensing the upcoming but.
"But—"
Patrick pulls in a breath. He knows that he's not a very good liar. He'd learned that the hard way when he was a kid (specifically, when he was ten and had failed to successfully cover for his older cousins when they'd snuck an ancient bottle of peach schnapps out of his Aunt Marie's liquor cabinet with predictably disastrous results); his face, apparently, always gives him away. That doesn't mean, though, that he's ever been good at telling the truth, either. Not when it might be difficult, and certainly not when it might upset or upend someone's perception of who and what and how Patrick Brewer is. As a result, he knows that he's become adept at sidestepping tricky questions; at deflecting with half-truths and lies by omission when the whole truth might risk letting someone down (or, maybe worse; might risk letting them in).
He realises now that he's been guilty of doing just that with his parents, and with Rachel, for a very long time. And that, by the sound of it, even after he'd moved away, he'd kept doing it. By letting the people back home think that he hadn't changed; by letting David think that those same people knew that he had. The realisation makes his jaw tighten with regret; he doesn't want to do that anymore.
"But I think…" he falters, frowns, and corrects himself. "I know that I haven't always been honest with you. But I want to be honest now and from what I've heard, I moved here because I needed some time on my own. To get out of old habits and find my feet." To find myself, he thinks. "And I think I have to do that again, now."
"Well…what if we stayed for just a few more days?" His mom counter-offers. "Or if we came back at the weekend?"
"It's just that...it seems like all that's going to happen now is that I'll either remember things, or I won't." Patrick wrings his hands in his lap. "So, what if I call you every day to let you know which one it is?"
His parents share a look. "That could work."
His mom's eyes are glassy again, blue in every sense, when she turns her attention back to her son. "We just worry, sweetie."
Patrick feels something loosen in his chest. His voice cracks a little when he says, "I know."
"You promise to actually keep us in the loop this time?" His dad asks, and neither his small smile or jovial tone quite manages to mask the sadness in the question (nor make it hurt any less).
"I will." Patrick reaches across the table, squeezes his mom's hand again and tries to reassure them both with a smile that it's different this time, because it is; everything is. "I promise."
"You guys should go ahead," Patrick says as his dad motions for him to lead the way out of the café once the bill has been settled. "I'm, uh, just gonna grab something for David before I head over to the store."
"Good idea," Clint says with an astute smile. "He'll appreciate that."
"Yeah. Well. Gotta make a good impression on my first day. And there's the whole birthday thing."
Marcy beams at her son before pulling him in for one last hug, whispering, "I'm sure he'd also appreciate it if you offered to take him out tonight. For the whole birthday thing."
The old familiar wistfulness is back in her eyes when she pulls away.
It makes him think about past-Patrick and how he must've spent months upon months needlessly worrying about what his mom would think if she knew. Past-Patrick obviously hadn't considered the possibility that even if he changed, she'd stay exactly the same.
"We'll see," he says quietly, laughing off the awkwardness of it all.
That is what he wants, though. He wants to do whatever he can to make up for pretty much ruining David's birthday as well as…well, literally everything else. And he has to start somewhere. So, after witnessing first-hand his more-than-just-business-partner's apparent fondness for baked goods, he plans on starting out by getting him a birthday treat to have with his coffee.
With a promise that they'll drop into the store to say goodbye before they head home, Patrick waves his parents off with a renewed sense of hope, maybe. Or, at least, resolve to be…himself, as much as he can be while he figures things out.
"Hey again," Twyla grins at him from behind the counter as she throws a small towel over her shoulder, "What else can I get you?"
The fact that he has no idea, he decides, is only a minor setback.
Bearing edible gifts, Patrick exits the café and makes his way across the street to Rose Apothecary. The store that, he reminds himself a little self-indulgently, he co-owns and co-runs. With David.
Heading towards the entrance feels different than it did the first time; less nerve-wracking despite the same nervous anticipation buzzing under his skin. He's excited. Unlike yesterday, it's not all completely unknown. And he isn't just visiting. Today he'll get the chance to settle in, to look for signs of himself, as well as David, woven into the fabric of the place.
When he opens the door, he catches the lilting sound of David's voice, hushed in conversation – "...pretty much a mystery it happened once, so it seems unlikely that..." – just audible alongside the tinkle of the overhead bell that cuts it short.
David is standing behind the counter, his back to the door and attention on a woman with long dark hair and porcelain skin whose head whips up at the sound of a potential customer. Patrick recognises her from her contact photo on his phone; he thinks she's Stevie, David's best friend who owns the motel that David and his family live in. Her eyes go wide at the sight of him before darting meaningfully back to David, who turns towards the door to see who's just walked in. The way his face lights up in a smile – not the small, bitten back smile he seems to so often employ, but a broad, bright burst of sunshine that dimples his left cheek and transforms his whole face – when he sees that it's Patrick is intensely gratifying.
"Hi," David says in that soft, warm way that's fast becoming familiar.
"Speak of the devil," almost-certainly-Stevie says, her face inscrutable by contrast.
Patrick's hands are both full so he raises a to-go cup in lieu of a more appropriate greeting, eyes flitting between the two of them. "Hey."
"Um. This is Stevie," David says, gesturing towards the woman beside him without taking his eyes off of Patrick
"Hi." Patrick smiles at the now-confirmed Stevie as he makes his way towards the cash. "I'd say it's nice to meet you but I guess—
"There's no need," David interrupts, "It's never nice to meet Stevie. She makes a horrible first impression."
She doesn't bat an eyelid at the insult, which instantly endears her to him.
"Don't listen to David. I don't," she says. "It's literally the only reason we're still friends."
He laughs at that and sets the coffee and box of baked goods on the counter, sliding them towards David. This close, Patrick can see that his eyes are a little puffy, red at the corners. "I, uh—these are for you," Patrick tells him with a small, apologetic smile. "Happy Birthday."
"That's...thank you," David replies, dimple making another fleeting appearance before he picks up the coffee and gives it a wary sniff. He glances at Stevie, eyes narrowing as he takes an even more wary sip. "This is just how I like it."
That declaration probably shouldn't be enough to make Patrick feel pleasantly warm, but it's yet another thing that does, leaving him standing there with both David and Stevie staring at him as his cheeks no doubt start to glow. "Uh, fair disclosure," he says, palming the back of his neck where the short hairs feel like they're standing on end, "I asked Twyla what you usually get. She knew your coffee order but didn't seem so sure about the baked goods, so I just got one of everything they had."
Stevie grins. "Oh, that is what David usually gets."
David shoots his friend a warning glare for the quip and returns his gaze to Patrick, where his expression softens back into a barely-there smile. "Well. That was very sweet of you."
Feeling unjustifiably pleased with himself, Patrick returns David's smile for what might be too long before Stevie clears her throat and snaps him out if it. He shifts his attention to her and gestures at David's coffee, "Sorry, I would've gotten you one too if I'd known you'd be here."
Stevie opens her mouth to reply but is stalled by David waving a dismissive hand in her direction and declaring, "She was just leaving anyway, so don't worry about it."
Her brows lift in apparent surprise at that statement.
"There are plenty of pastries, though," Patrick offers, "so help yourself."
"Oh, no,' Stevie says, expression turning deadly serious. "You gave them to David so they're his now. David doesn't share food."
"No?" Patrick's gaze flicks to David, whose lips are pursed in disapproval. He shifts his focus back to Stevie, who's still straight-faced but has a mischievous glint in her eye that he takes as encouragement. "I learned last night that David doesn't cook food, either, apparently."
"God no," she barks and wrinkles her nose. "Can you even imagine?"
"I can cook! I mean, I could cook, if I wanted to, but I don't. I choose not to." David tilts his chin up and lifts his coffee. "It's a choice."
"Sure, David."
"Okay, David."
Patrick and Stevie agree in sarcastic unison. She shoots him a wicked smile.
He likes her. She shares the same sharp-edged wit as David; cutting but not malicious. It's easy to see why they're friends.
"You should probably know, there are a lot of things that David chooses not to do," Stevie adds, leaning forward across the cash desk conspiratorially. "We need some time together so I can start to bring you back up to speed."
"I think I'd like tha—"
"Okay," David interjects, voice a little too loud, his free hand flying up in protest. "Apparently one of the things David doesn't get to choose is whether or not he can enjoy his birthday without character assassination."
Patrick stifles a chuckle at the look of indignation on David's face, at the contrasting look of delight on Stevie's.
"Well, since I was just leaving," she says with a pointed glance at David, "I'll just grab that wine I was promised."
As Stevie makes her way towards the rack of reds on the far wall, David rolls his eyes, takes another sip of his coffee and asks Patrick, "How did it go with your parents?"
"Good," Patrick replies. "They're relieved."
"Hmm," David hums with a knowing little nod.
"They're packing up to go home, actually."
"Oh?"
"They've filled in all the blanks they can. And now that I've heard from the doctor...I've managed to convince them that I'll be okay without them. Besides, I'll probably be too busy to spend much time with them, anyway. With work and….stuff," Patrick shrugs, feeling a little sheepish. "They're gonna come say goodbye before they leave."
Before David gets a chance to say anything else, Stevie approaches and stands beside Patrick on the customer side of the counter, a bottle of wine clutched in each fist. "Bag, please," she demands.
David frowns at her. "I said you could have a bottle of the good Pinot. One. Singular ."
"But that was just for this morning. Patrick had already promised me a bottle for helping him with...that thing. Last week."
He shoots Patrick a sceptical look, one thick brow raised in query.
Patrick slides his hands into his pockets. "Unfortunately, I am not in a position to either confirm or deny that."
"Well then," Stevie says smugly and shoots a poorly executed wink in Patrick's direction as David, reluctantly, provides the requested tote. She deposits the two bottles of wine into the bag and turns to slap Patrick on the shoulder, expression growing serious again, maybe even a tiny bit uneasy. "I'm glad to hear you're not, y'know, dying or anything," she says.
Patrick can only grin at that. Because, yeah. "Me too."
Without another word, she stalks across the floor with her freebies and shoots an ambiguous look over her shoulder at David before she exits.
Through the window, Patrick watches her disappear around the corner of the store. It was good to meet Stevie; to put a real face to a name that he's so far only aware of through fragments of conversation and details in his phone. It had, however, thrown off his tentative plan to give David an apology alongside his baked goods; to say sorry for not knowing, earlier this morning, that it was his birthday; for not having (at least any knowledge of) a real birthday gift for him; for disrupting whatever plans they might've had to celebrate (and to find out what, if any, alternative plans have since been made).
Patrick rocks back on his heels, eyes still on the street beyond the window, on the probably-not-strangers walking past. He has the chance, he realises, to say all of those things now that it's just the two of them again. But he feels suddenly...shy. Nervous.
"So," he starts instead, eyes flicking back to David. "That was Stevie."
"It was," David replies and tilts his head back in fond exasperation. "Obviously, she is a dear, dear friend."
"Obviously," Patrick agrees and drops his gaze to grin down at his feet. When he looks up again, he finds David's dark eyes already on him, mouth slightly tilted to one side and both hands wrapped tightly around his to-go cup. They just look at one another for a long moment. Patrick tucks his hands deeper, as deep as they'll go, into his pockets, digging for all the things he wants to say.
"David, I'm—"
"Did you mean—"
"Sorry," Patrick dips his chin in mild embarrassment when they both eventually speak at the same time. "Go ahead."
"No," David shakes his head vigorously. "It's—Never mind. You go."
"C'mon, you first."
David looks slightly bashful, reluctant to voice whatever it is he clearly wants to say. His eyes dart to the side, as though checking to make sure there's no one else in the store with them. Several emotions flicker over his face, too quick to read. "Did you…" he sucks in his lips and his shoulders twitch, shaking off his reluctance, "...mean what you said this morning?"
"Wh—Oh." Patrick realises what, exactly, he's asking. About touching. He swallows thickly, "Yeah, I did."
David turns to place his coffee back on the counter and steps out from behind the register. "Just…can I…?" He trails off as he spreads his arms, hesitantly inviting Patrick in for a hug.
That hesitancy pulls at a thread of something knotted in Patrick's stomach; threatens to unravel it. "Of course," he tells him and matches the gesture, opening his arms wide to offer the physical reassurance that had been missing from their phone call earlier.
David wraps him up and pulls him in close. Patrick hooks his chin neatly over David's shoulder (his earlier unvoiced question instantly answered: this sweater is just as soft–softer, even–that the one he'd woken up snuggled against) and allows his hands to brush experimentally down his broad back, over fine wool and firm muscle while David's hands rub small, tentative circles into his shoulders before going still and squeezing tight, like Patrick might just slip through his fingers if he loosens his grip.
Patrick can feel the heat of David's breath mist his skin and the slightest prickle of stubble graze his ear. The dual sensations make him shiver and cause him to nuzzle his face inward, automatically seeking more. In that spot, David smells like the store condensed; like citrus and cedarwood. Patrick presses close and breathes it in, breathes him in.
Hugging David should, Patrick supposes, after starting his day practically wrapped around him, feel at least slightly familiar. But this doesn't; it feels different. More deliberate. Because now he's very much awake to fully appreciate how good it feels, and when he hears, (and god, feels ), David sighing contentedly against him, it becomes pretty clear that David thinks it feels good, too, so he presses a little closer, breathes a little deeper, and allows himself to sink into the unqualified, undeniable comfort of it.
He only realises that his eyes are shut when he feels his lips brush ever-so-faintly against the warm skin at the curve of David's neck, just above his collar, and suddenly it's all he can do not to turn that circumspect brush of lips into something more purposeful. He feels a sharp tug on that same unravelling knot inside him, only lower this time, and he forces himself to swallow a shallow breath and loosen his grip before he risks the humiliation of letting David feel just how much the hug is affecting him.
David pulls slowly back with a self-conscious, soon-concealed smile. He looks almost as affected as Patrick feels, but, thankfully, speaks before Patrick even remembers how. "Um. Sorry, I'm just—it's been—" he starts and stops, then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part and he sighs again; that same soft, contented sigh as before, his broad chest rising and falling with the effort (which is...not at all helpful). "I think I needed that? So, thank you," he says, voice quiet as he shakes his head dismissively and turns to slip back behind the counter.
"Anytime," Patrick responds, hoping to come off as casual but almost certainly sounding breathlessly anything but. He follows David into the small space behind the register.
He thinks he needed it, too.
It may have made him lose sight of all the things he'd thought he found the will to say to David just minutes before, but it has definitely managed to bring some of his other thoughts about David, about himself, even more sharply into focus.
"Um. You started to say something? Before," David says, twirling the ring on his index finger, causing the silvery surface of it to dance in the reflected sunlight pouring in through the windows.
"Oh, yeah," he starts, but before he can restore any of the previously formed thoughts that seemed to scatter and dissolve in David's embrace, Patrick is saved from the seemingly insurmountable effort of forming words into the shape of a sentence when the bell jangles at the storefront.
David's posture shifts and he shoots a tight smile in the direction of the shopper before looking questioningly back at Patrick.
"I was…just gonna say that I might need you to run through the details of some of these products with me again before I try to make a sale."
It's not exactly what he'd planned to say earlier, but it's not a lie.
It's just…not the whole truth, either. He balks internally. Old habits and all that. But he gives himself a pass, because this is new. At least, it feels new. All of it. And he doesn't want to fuck anything up any more than he already inadvertently has by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, so he'll wait until it feels right.
And until there isn't a customer within earshot.
David's gaze lingers on him for a second, his lips slightly pursed.
"Excuse me, do you—"
"I'll be with you in just a second!" He clips, cutting off the customer's query before temporarily turning his attention back to Patrick and dropping his voice low. "Okay. In that case, let me show you how it's done."
Patrick watches, regaining his equilibrium from the relative safety of his position behind the cash register, as David steers the customer – a middle-aged woman with what are, apparently, some very pressing concerns about elbow dryness – around the store, rhyming off various product virtues and applications, encouraging her to sniff and sample and ultimately purchase a whole range of (surprisingly, impressively) expensive products.
It provides a little insight into the success of their business, and watching David work is…something. Entertaining and impressive and completely and utterly compelling.
It also shows him a side of David that he hasn't yet seen. Sales David. Store David. He's helpful and attentive, if a little haughty, and he's more self-assured, more serious though no less charismatic than the kind David, the funny David, the cautious, sarcastic, brave and sometimes slightly ridiculous David that Patrick has gotten to know over these last few days.
He pays close attention when David rings up the customer's purchases (slowly enough for Patrick to observe the necessary steps, but not so slowly as to inconvenience the customer) before sending her on her way with a winning smile and a 'Thank you for shopping at Rose Apothecary'.
He watches an abbreviated version of the same process repeated with the next couple of customers and when there's a lull says, flippantly, "Well, now I know how it's done, why don't I man the register while you go finish your coffee and," Patrick nods to the as yet untouched box of baked goods now tucked into the corner behind a display of lip balms, "have one of those."
"I will absolutely be having one or more of those," David assures him, "but I can multitask."
"Oh, I'm sure you can," Patrick replies, not convinced that it doesn't sound at least a tad suggestive. He clears his throat. "So um, why don't you multitask by eating a muffin while taking a break. The register seems straightforward, and I've worked retail before."
David gives him a look at that and Patrick practically winces because obviously David knows that.
"I just mean that I can handle it."
"I know you can," David confirms, but doesn't touch the box of baked goods until he's run him through the basic operations of the cash register again, 'just in case .
Even after the extra training session, David stays close, hovering in the doorway of the storeroom while he eats a muffin, watching carefully when Patrick sells a teenager a handmade greeting card without incident.
"See? I can do it. Go sit, finish your muffin, I'll be fine," Patrick insists.
It's his first day (kind of), and there's an eager part of him that wants to impress David as much as David has already impressed him; to prove that he is, despite what has happened, still worthy of being David's partner. In business.
"I'm just quietly observing," David says, slightly muffled around an ambitious mouthful of blueberry crunch. "We have high customer service standards to maintain."
Patrick is in absolutely no doubt about that, but he can't help himself. He eyes the trail of crumbs the muffin is currently leaving in its wake. He crosses his arms and raises a taunting eyebrow. "Do we?"
"Yes. Yes, we do." David pops the remaining piece of muffin into his mouth and swiftly shakes away the last of the crumbs that had the audacity to land on his sweater. He ducks behind the curtain and returns with a broom in his hand.
Patrick acknowledges it with a pointed glance but keeps his arms folded in front of him.
"In the interest of maintaining such high standards," David smirks, shoving the broom in Patrick's direction, "I think I might need to see whether or not your sweeping skills are still up to scratch."
Patrick laughs. And takes the broom.
When his parents arrive a couple of hours later to say their goodbyes, Patrick is busy watching David retrace the steps of their last customer, taken by the steely look of concentration on his face, by the agile movements of his hands as they correct disturbed displays and buff offending fingerprints off previously pristine bottles and jars.
In fact, he's so busy watching David fuss that he doesn't even notice anyone, let alone his parents, entering the store until he hears his own mother's voice, bright with amusement, as she asks, "Working hard, sweetie?"
Patrick greets his grinning mom and dad with a quick hello and an abashed smile, foregoing an actual answer, because it was clearly a rhetorical question. A teasing, knowing, slightly mortifying rhetorical question.
He feels a little like he's eight years old again, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except this time, his parents appear to be much more supportive of his penchant for gingerbread men.
David swiftly abandons his buffing and comes over to join Clint and Marcy in front of the counter. "He's been getting some much-needed practice on the register."
Patrick would feel slightly offended by the stress David puts on much needed if it wasn't for the improbably fond expression he wears as he says it.
"Keeping him on his toes, huh?" Clint asks with a chuckle.
"Mmm," David agrees, expression turning a little shy. "Always."
"Glad to hear it," Clint says and holds out a brown paper take-out bag from the café. "We thought we'd bring you boys some lunch before we hit the road."
"Thank you," David says softly as he accepts the bag with a slow smile. "And not just for the sandwich." He peers inside and inhales deeply. "Although…"
"Two BLTs, bacon extra crispy." Marcy declares, then adds, "Your dad was in the café so we checked. He said it would be okay."
David catches Patrick's slightly puzzled look at that statement. "Oh. Because I'm half Jewish," he informs him with an aloof wave of his hand before turning his attention back to Marcy. "But it turns out that's the half that's especially fond of bacon, so. Thank you, this time specifically for the sandwich."
Patrick grins and files away that newest little nugget of information about him.
"Well, it's the least we could do, considering we forgot about your special day," Marcy says, giving David's arm an apologetic squeeze. "I'll bring you some belated birthday butter tart bars next time I visit to make up for it."
"There's nothing to make up for," David assures her. "That said, I will never say no to an alliterative dessert."
Clint and Marcy both laugh at that and each hug David goodbye, making him promise to take good care, to stay in touch, to make sure that Patrick follows through on his pledge to call them every day. He promises that he'll do all of the above before Marcy pulls him close, whispers something in his ear, something Patrick doesn't hear that makes David close his eyes and nod his head slowly, smile a little sadly, before he's seized by an impatient customer, leaving Patrick to walk his parents out to their car.
"Well? How's your first day back been so far?" His dad asks as they turn towards the little lot behind the store.
"Good," Patrick says, honestly. "I mean, I've got a lot to learn—to re-learn—but I'm, uh, enjoying it."
"It certainly looked like it," his mom quips, making his dad stifle a laugh. Patrick tries not to feel too flustered by the implication because they know. They know that he likes David. Not just past-Patrick, but present-Patrick too. And, a little natural self-consciousness aside, it feels fine. Better than fine; it feels freeing.
"We're proud of you son, of everything you've achieved since you came here," his dad tells him, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. His rueful smile suggests he's not just talking about the store. He pulls him into a hug. "I get why you wanna do it on your own again."
"Thanks, Dad."
"Well?" His mom asks as his dad climbs into the passenger seat and it's her turn for a final farewell hug. "Did you make plans for later?"
"Um. It's been pretty busy," he tells her as he pulls back. Which is true. After he'd swept the floors, footfall had picked up and he'd spend most of the morning doing his best to smile at customers, serving them and swerving their questions about his "little problem" (as one nameless guy had put it, complete with "air quotes") while David stayed mostly out on the floor, keeping an unsubtle eye on him while assisting shoppers and replenishing stock. After missing his chance when Stevie left, there really hadn't been another clear opportunity. Not really. "So, no. Not yet."
She only nods, clearly biting her tongue against further encouragement. Somehow, it's that tiny display of restraint that makes him want to open up.
"But I, ah," he exhales heavily, nerves suddenly tightening his throat, "I think I might ask him to dinner? Although, he's probably made other plans by now, or might just be getting sick of—"
"Sweetie," she interrupts and places a hand gently back on his arm, "I'm sure that if you ask him out to dinner, he won't say no."
He ducks his head and huffs out a breath of shy laughter in response. She's probably, almost certainly, right. David hadn't, after all, said no to a much, much bigger question than just a few long days ago.
Still, things are different. Just taking that relatively small step now, asking David out, feels like a big deal. And so does letting his mom know that it's a step he wants to take.
With a final kiss on the cheek and another promise to call, to visit soon, Patrick sees his parents and their car off, and when he's back in the store, David ushers him into the backroom to eat his lunch in peace, half of his own sandwich already gone.
"But I, like you, can multitask," Patrick protests.
"In that case, while you're in here, you can start refamiliarising yourself with—" he swirls a hand in the general vicinity of the desk and screws up his face, "—all of that."
Patrick settles himself and his BLT down in the small workspace while David responds, like one of Pavlov's dogs, to the chime of the front doorbell announcing the arrival of another customer.
He flips open the laptop, keen to start digging into the store's accounts, only to find that it is sensibly, stubbornly password protected. He can hear David talking to someone on the other side of the curtain about just how goat cheese is basically a superfood if you look at it in the right way, so instead of bothering him now, he closes the computer, unwraps his sandwich and takes a closer look at the area David had called his happy place.
Compared to the main shop floor, it's a fairly unassuming space. There are a couple of mismatched chairs and a low table stacked with magazines in a little nook in the far left corner, beyond the rows of boxes and storage baskets that line the built-out shelving. There's a file case and padlocked cabinet that, he imagines, houses a safe. The desk itself is neat and ordered, set out much like the desk at his old job; computer front and centre beside the same well-used calculator he's had since high school. On one side, stray purchase orders and invoices are stacked tidily in a triple-tiered letter tray beside pens and pencils held in a Café Tropical mug; on the other, there's a compact printer and tray holding paperclips and finger grips, a small potted cactus and, tucked into the corner, a letter-size page-a-day planner.
He pulls out the planner and leafs nosily through it as he eats. It should probably feel stranger than it does to see his own handwriting on almost every page, in dates and times, names and places he has no recollection of. Instead, it somehow helps put him more at ease, to make him feel like less of an interloper, as he scans the shape of workweeks gone by; of days filled with vendor appointments and in-store events, morning bank runs and inventory-taking afternoons. He likes the idea of his days being varied like this; of still having the familiar comfort of a desk, but no longer being tied to it.
Some of the dates are marked with stick-on tabs or cryptic post-its, others have business cards or flyers wedged between the pages. It's one distinctive insert, though, that catches his interest: a grainy black and white picture – obviously clipped from a newspaper – of him and David, standing proudly in front of the store under the headline Schitt's Creek's General Store Offers More He picks it up for a closer look at the text underneath just as he hears the curtain rustle behind him.
"I'm just...grabbing a box. Of labels," David says, unconvincingly. What he's actually doing, clearly, is checking up on him. "How was the sandwich?"
Patrick half turns in his seat to look at him. "The lettuce was a little limp, but otherwise it was surprisingly decent."
"Such high praise." David jokes, and edges closer to look over Patrick's shoulder at the clipping in his hand. "Oh. That," David says, fingertips just grazing Patrick's shoulder as he rests one hand on the back of the chair while the other reaches over him to point, "is a picture the Elmdale Chronicle took for a promotional fluff piece Alexis managed to wangle as part of her marketing and public relations course."
"It's a nice picture," Patrick says, because it really is. Even in faded newsprint, the store looks classy and inviting behind David, who's all cheekbones and perfectly coiffed hair, with Patrick at his side, hand on hip, smiling the same unwavering smile he keeps seeing himself wearing whenever he's in photos with David.
"They misspelled 'Apothecary' in the article, even though it's literally right there in the picture, but it was still good for business. It brought more people in from the Elms. We saw a fifteen—no, maybe it was eighteen?—a something-teen per cent uplift in sales that month."
"Impressive," he says and glances down at the picture again. At David, specifically, in the picture. No wonder, he thinks.
"Speaking of sales figures," David says cautiously and runs his fingers, feather-light across Patrick's shoulder as he moves to tap the closed laptop on the desk. "Have you had a chance to take a look? In here?"
"Ah," Patrick says, pushing past the tingling trail David's fleeting touch has left on his skin. "I tried, but I don't know the password and you sounded busy so…."
"Shit, of course you don't," David huffs and motions for Patrick to scoot over so he can lean in to open the laptop and punch in a password.
Patrick tucks the clipping safely back into the planner and shifts to the side.
"Okay, so it's Mariah with a capital M-underscore-two-underscore—"
"Mariah?"
"Mmm."
"As in Carey?"
"I'm a fan of her work," he responds, a little defensively. Patrick gives him his best 'no judgement' face and adds that tidbit to his gradually (re)expanding David Rose file. "I just hope everything in here still makes sense to you because I do not do Excel—"
"You mean you choose not to do Excel?"
A hint of a smile twitches one corner of David's mouth. "Exactly. Which means I'm really not sure what half of these spreadsheets and…things are even for."
"I'm sure I'll be able to figure it out, David."
"Okay, well, I'll leave you to…" he trails off as he stands up and wiggles the fingers on both hands in a parody of typing. "Let me know if you need me. For something. Or anything."
What he needs, he thinks, is to finally ask David about his birthday plans. To ask David if he would, perhaps, like those birthday plans to include him.
"Actually, David there was—"
The bell rings beyond the curtain. David tips his head back and rolls his eyes at the inconvenience before going out to greet whoever just came into the store.
The constant stream of customers is undeniably good for business, if not for his wavering confidence. He sighs and turns his attention back to the now accessible files and folders on the desktop; all just as neatly labelled and well organised as the shelves out front.
He's relieved to feel instantly comfortable among the rows and columns and formulae. It's not familiar exactly – not familiar enough – but he feels something like familiarity as he clicks through the folders and tabs, looks at profit and loss statements and expense reports and sales projections. Maybe it's just the uniformity of numbers in general. Maybe, if he's lucky, it's something more than that; maybe the sense of familiarity is another good sign.
Regardless, what he also feels is a huge, invigorating sense of pride, that same sense of awe he'd had yesterday. Because these aren't just some client's disembodied numbers to crunch, analyse, report; they're his. His and David's. And they're actually pretty good.
He takes a cursory look at some other files – a previously approved grant application and a draft vendor contract – that help further bolster his faith that he's not too far out of his comfort zone (as far as business stuff is concerned, at least) and will quickly get to grips with the day-to-day running of things.
Patrick tells David as much when he's on his next box-retrieval venture into the store-room. "It's all good. I don't think you'll have to learn how to use Excel just yet."
David heaves an elaborate sigh and comes over to peer at the laptop for extra reassurance. He gives Patrick's shoulder another quick, skin-tingling squeeze as he mutters, "Thank fuck for that."
There's a short post-lunch rush which sees Patrick back at the till. It gives him some practice, needed or not, and affords him the chance to put a few more faces to names.
He meets Bob, of Bob's Garage and Cabaret-understudy fame (and okay, maybe now he kind of gets David's point about the man's suitability, or otherwise, for the emcee role) who comes in, initially looking for 'hand stuff' – David, thankfully, steps in to remind him, "Lotion. I keep telling you, it's called hand-lotion, Bob." – before quizzing Patrick about his condition, incredulous that he could forget any of the Roses, never mind all of them (which, from spending time with David alone, is a fair point).
After that, between the randoms, he meets George, the cook at the café and sometime pitcher (or, as David had described him, 'pitchman') for the home team, who shares a story about how he'd once bumped his head in the walk-in and completely forgotten how to cook ("Ah,' David comments, "that actually explains a lot ."), and then there's Theresa, who's apparently a former client from his days working for Ray, and Mr. Hockley, a friendly older man and former vendor for the store who sympathises with Patrick's predicament and offers to rustle up some speciality tea from the herbs in his greenhouse that might help with his 'forgetfulness'. David, politely but firmly, steps in to decline that offer. "The last time we carried Mr. Hockley's 'speciality tea', it almost got us closed down," he explains after he leaves. "And it wasn't even that good."
Everyone who comes in - even when asking him slightly awkward questions - seems nice, even if they are occasionally a little eccentric, but he's glad for a bit of respite when it quietens down mid-afternoon. His mind is buzzing from the newness of everything, from the constant questions and stories and memory-boosting tips, and he's glad when David suggests he take a break from the register to unpack the boxes from this morning's delivery.
They work quietly for a while, after that. Patrick wipes down jars (because shipping dust is, he's reliably informed, the worst), affixes barcode stickers and Rose Apothecary branded labels to jars before passing them off to David to be quality checked, scanned into the system, and shelved to his exacting standards.
Patrick mostly listens as David tells him bits and pieces about each of the new products and how they'd found this particular vendor (there is, though, a whole aside about raw milk that kind of goes over his head). The subject of David's birthday idles on the tip of his tongue whenever the conversation lulls, but it keeps stalling there, too.
Because the longer he leaves the topic unmentioned, the harder it seems to be to broach. And David hasn't mentioned it, either, which means…Patrick isn't sure what. They have already spent the whole day together. Maybe it means that he's made plans with Stevie or his family or…whoever. Or maybe it just means that Patrick's not the only one that is a little scared to think about what might, or might not, happen after five p.m.
"He won't say no," his mom had told him, and those words repeat in his head as he presses another label onto a freshly dusted jar of sea buckthorn sugar scrub. He tries to catch David's eye as he walks back and forth between the counter and a shelf along the back wall, rearranging body butter pots to accommodate the newly sourced products.
He sucks in a breath. Despite his nerves, despite the fact that they've spent the day working together, he still thinks that she's right. He really wants her to be right. But there's only one way to find out.
"Hey, I tried to bring it up earlier, but…do you have plans?" David stops in front of him and tilts his head in question. Patrick clears his suddenly dry throat. "Later, I mean. For your birthday?"
David's posture relaxes a little, he cocks a hip and sets an armful of extraneous tubs down on the counter, "I was supposed to go to the theatre in Elmdale and then party with the cast of the show afterwards, but it turns out there's been a slight hiccup with that plan."
"Ah, " Patrick grimaces. "Sorry about that."
"It's fine. I might be able to persuade my mother to gift me another Xanax? So there's still that."
"I'm sorry that I, uh…" He apologises again and, knowing it's futile, trails off with a shrug.
David shakes his head. "It's fine. My parents forget every year and they don't have your excuse."
"Can I take you out for dinner? To make up for it?"
"You don't have to do that."
"Oh, but I kind of do," Patrick says, and David's eyes dart away from him for a moment, flitting to the ring he's back to twisting on his index finger. The corners of his lips sag into a frown before Patrick adds, "Because there are thirty dinner options on the menu at Café Tropical I haven't had a chance to sample yet." That has the desired effect of encouraging David's frown to shift into that little, tucked away smile that feels like a win, like a reward, every time it appears. "Plus, I would really, really like to."
"Okay," David's head tips back and forth cautiously. "That would be very nice. And actually, if you include salads, there are thirty-seven dinner options on that menu."
"I stand corrected." Patrick laughs, part amusement, part heady relief.
"Not to mention the specials."
Patrick whistles. "Wow, that is a lot of options."
"Yes," David agrees and starts picking up previously discarded products from the counter. "Some might say too many?"
"But not you."
"I, personally, would never say that."
"Shall we say seven o'clock, then? So we have plenty of time to look at all the options?"
"Seven-thirty," David amends, his smile a little wider, now, a little less restrained as he starts backing away from the counter, not breaking eye contact. "I'm still wearing yesterday's jeans. I'll have to get changed, and I obviously didn't have time to shower or do my full skincare routine this morning, so, needs must."
" Okay then. Seven-thirty. It's a—" Patrick pauses, feeling giddy, because he's taking David out for his birthday, on what could, possibly, conceivably, reasonably, be called a date. Even if that's not what he's about to call it, not yet, not until he's sure. So he does his best to contain the smile that feels like it's in danger of cracking him wide open, that's in danger of making his words spill out carelessly, and bites it back before confirming, "—it's a plan."