It's the same the next morning when you wake as the morning before. Your bed is empty and remade and a stack of money is on the nightstand. It's a little bit neater and only needs a small reshuffling in your hand as you take it downstairs to add to the jar that you started. A quick check on your sandwich supplies confirms that he's made himself something before he left. You go through your morning routine; coffee, newspaper, sudoku, shower, shave, style, and dress for work. You call into work and talk through a snarl with a recent marketing project. There are a couple more tangles in your email and you have to make several calls to track down a lost order but you get it all resolved in time for lunch. No one will ever say you don't work efficiently.
You make your usual sandwich before you do a little bit of house chores. You check on your guest bathroom and find Dave's old clothes piled up in the trash can and yesterday's outfit shoved into the corner behind the door. You shake your head and put the pieces in the laundry instead. You are about to dump the bathroom trash can into a garbage bag to take out when you curiously take a moment to look at the tags of his old clothes, making note of the sizes. Then you bag them and finish emptying out the waste baskets in the rest of the house.
Next are errands that take you to the local strip mall where there are several clothing stores that cater to the younger generation and you pick up some jeans and some t-shirts that will actually fit your guest for after his shower. If he decides to return.
Then groceries for the dinner that you have in mind. You return home with plenty of time to put everything away and make the batter ahead of time. When the afternoon sun enters your kitchen window you set it aside and go sit out on your porch with your pipe.
You let out a soft sigh hidden in a puff of smoke when you see him walking down the street. He once again has an unlit cigarette when he comes up to your porch.
"Hey old man, show me that matchbook trick again."
And so it starts.
You share a smoke with him until he goes to take a shower. You've already laid out a new outfit, this time with new clothes just for him, on the bathroom counter, so you get straight to work on dinner. Handmade corn dogs would be tricky if your son hadn't given you that fryer three Father's Days ago. You had spent the next week frying anything the internet suggested from meats and vegetables to candy and desserts. Your favorite was the Twinkie. Your son's favorite was bacon. After that week of gratuitous calories, you only pulled the fryer down for particular occasions.
You spear the hot dogs (of the least questionable brand) with skewers and the dip and roll them in the batter. A quick dip through the fryer and they come out perfectly golden. At least they start to after your four or fifth try. But you soon get the hang of it and start piling up your feast. Once those are all complete you start raiding your refrigerator and pantry for dipping sauces.
You hadn't thought ahead for this part of the meal so you will have to get creative. The classic would be mustard which you have plenty of, none of that yellow poison though. This was all high quality grey poupon with the seeds still in it to give it texture. You think a small bowl of ranch with fresh chopped herbs will be nice. Sour cream and chives. Cream cheese and worcester sauce whipped up together. You find a small bottle of barbeque sauce and pour it into another little dish. You find some hot sauce and ketchup. You shrug and decide to combine them, mixing them thoroughly in the small dish.
You have just exhausted any further options in the pantry and are turning back around when you catch Dave with a corndog halfway to his mouth. He catches your bemused smirk and freezes.
"Uh... they look good? I mean, they look delicious and smell like heaven. I could smell them even over the floral tones of the shampoo and steam upstairs. Do you know how hard it is to clean yourself when you are drooling all over yourself? It's pretty hard, but I managed and then I saw these babies and I couldn't help myself. I mean, these are professional level shit without the frost burn that I'm used to."
"Feel free to enjoy them. I suppose we can have an informal dinner tonight." You read the relief in Dave's frame just moments before he shoves the corn dog into his mouth. "Just mind the wooden stick."
He bites through the fluffy batter and tears into the meat, his sharp teeth flashing briefly. He moans around the bite, with tones that make you blush slightly not that he notices with his preoccupation with the food, and quickly swallows to take another. You finish up arranging dinner by making the drinks and then you pull out the stools so that the two of you can sit around the kitchen island comfortably. He's gnawing on the crispy parts left on the stick by the time you both sit down.
"Though you know even though I mention something off hand doesn't mean you have to go out and get them immediately. But in case that is like a compulsion of yours, I'd like filet mignon wrapped in bacon with a side of lobster and damn I'm making myself drool again." He reaches for another corn dog, this time dipping it into the ketchup first before taking over half of it into his mouth at once. He bites through it, barely missing the tip of the skewer, and chews about once before a look of horror crosses his face. You are immediately concerned with his pained look as he quickly finishes the mouth full and then lunges for his apple juice, chugging the entire glass before breathing.
"Dave, are you alright?"
"No! No I'm not. What the hell was that? What have you done to the innocent ketchup because I was sure that was ketchup not the concoction straight from the gates of hell that it actually was. I mean, what did ketchup ever do to you that you've made it betray it's most beloved fan?"
"Oh. Forgive me, Dave. It's just that I suppose my son and I have different tastes. We prefer the spicier side of things and I supposed I just enhanced the ketchup with some hot sauce."
"Enhanced? Enhanced? Wow, old man. And here I thought you were perfect. Some genie granting me my every wish even before I ask for it but here you show your true form of a devil that I've sold my soul to and this is the reaping because you tricked me. You're evil. An evil genius."
Even while he is denouncing your cooking merits, you can't help but smile as his melodramatic rambles as you move around the kitchen. You pull out the ketchup again and a fresh dish and under his cautious eye you remake the condiment, this time without the hot sauce. When you pass it over to Dave, he nearly snatches it out of your hands, holding back with just a modicum of restraint. He does however keep it closest to him and puts the 'traitorous' version far away.
"Feel free to try the others as well, Dave."
"Because you have filled me with such trust. Who knows what hellish ingredients you've tucked away into each of them. I mean, I think that is ranch but it could be ranch with vinegar. And sour cream and grass clippings. And onion dip with syrup."
"Actually that last one is cream cheese and worcester sauce."
"See!" Dave's ears are standing straight up in a comical combination with his eyebrows arching up over the strange triangular shades and accusatory pointing with the remaining half of the corn dog.
"Alright, alright. You don't have to try any of the others. I'll just enjoy them myself." And you do so by picking up a corn dog and choosing one of the other sauces yourself. He continues to watch you suspiciously as you take a bite. You absently note the changes to his ears and tail as you eat your corn dog. His face remains the same except there is a bit more red on his cheeks than before but it's hard to tell after his surprise with the hot sauce. He almost angrily returns to his dish of ketchup and finishes off his own corn dog before turning for a third.
On the fourth you catch him eyeing the other sauces and then he timidly dips the end of his into the first one for a taste. He does so with each, tasting with actual contemplation instead of just inhaling the food. He makes a grimace with the cream cheese one, but that was a stretch even for you to combine with corn dogs, but he goes back for bigger bites of the other two sauces which you are enjoying.
It's harder to eat the lower half of the corn dogs and on one particularly tricky bite, you end up smearing the ranch on one side of your mouth, almost all over your cheek. Once again he freezes when he catches sight of you and his ears twitch again. You laugh and ask him to pass you a napkin to clean up your mess. It takes him a moment to respond but he does pass you one and then ducks his head to return to eating with a passion. It's nice to see someone enjoying your food with such passion, even while trying new things.
You can only eat three corn dogs and even then you are feeling a bit heavy afterwards but Dave has managed to go through the majority of the rest, getting up to a total of eight which is impressive for a boy with his slight frame. You can see him eyeing for a ninth but you interrupt him by offering to save it and the others for later, possibly for lunch. He agrees and the two of you work together to put them away and clean up.
He's a bit fascinated with the fryer, noting the consistency of the oil when you started dishes and when you finally put it back onto the shelf. He watches with wide eyes and ask many questions which you answer patiently about how it works and what you've tried before. You think he might be drooling again when you mention your son's favorite of fried bacon.
The two of you eventually migrate to the living room for your nightly news. He's curled up comfortably on one end of the couch. You hesitate for a moment in deciding between the couch and your recliner. Your decision is made for you when Dave tilts his head subtly towards the brush still lying on the coffee table. You mentally chastise yourself for leaving it out over night but its convenience is helpful as you pick it up and sit on the couch, giving Dave enough room to rearrange himself to you. But instead of offering you his tail, he gingerly lays his head on your lap, slipping his shades off and putting them where the brush had been. You are a bit surprised but also honored at the intimacy that he is offering you. Despite your gaffe with the hot sauce in the ketchup.
There aren't any knots or snarls to work out of his hair and the short fur covering his ears, but you suppose that's not quite the purpose of this arrangement. By the second story of the night, you feel the subsonic purring again, going almost directly into your leg. By the first commercial, it's no longer below hearing but actually audible now. By the weather, it's almost drowning out the television. Not that you are going to stop and complain about the turn of events. His hair is silky soft sliding between your fingers (you've abandoned the brush at his point). You use the tips of your fingers to get all the way down to his scalp which always makes the purring turn up a notch. You suppose he might not be aware of it just as he was startled the night before by his feline behavior.
The late night shows start their introduction at the same time you yawn. But Dave doesn't stir at all. In fact, you think he might be asleep on your lap. You are loath to stir him but the couch is no place for an old man like you to stay the night. It would do terror on your back and neck.
"Dave? Dave, let's move you to a bed," you start gently while rocking his shoulder.
"Huh? Mrow?" You feel him begin to stir. He really was asleep. He sits up a little and blinks around until his eyes finally focus on you. You are taken aback at how soft and open his face is for a moment before it returns to normal. You don't think your heart will be normal after the cute sounds he made upon waking up. "Oh. Oh shit. Sorry I didn't mean to crash." He scrambles for his shades, hesitant to put them on because of the darkness of the room after you turn off the television. But he clutches them to his chest and you can see him take a deep breath to school his emotions again. He looks a bit more put together, a little tougher, a little, dare an old man like you say it, a little cooler. But for all that, he does look a little better than when he first showed up.
"It's perfectly fine, Dave. I just think that a bed will give more rest."
"Right, right."
The two of you climb to your feet, you a little less gracefully after holding still for so long. You're joints are stiff but you grin and bear it. He's stuffed his hands into his pockets and his shoulders are a bit hunched like he's weary. You're not sure why but you definitely don't like the look. You shepard him up the stairs and he stiffens up again when you stop by your son's room again. He glances down the hall towards your room, or his temporary room you suppose. He looks like he's about to ask for something but you're not sure about what.
To break the silence you open your son's room and bid him a soft, "Good night, Dave."
His shoulders drop again. "Night, old man. And... thanks." The last word comes out so softly that you would have missed it if you hadn't been waiting for it. He turns quickly and almost bolts down the hall. You wait for his door to close first before you close yours.
As you lay on your son's bed you think about it. That soft small thanks. You suppose it could be for a lot of things because you've given the boy so much so freely. Not that you'd ever ask for anything in return. You are sure he's seen the 'rent' jar sitting out in the kitchen even though he leaves it untouched. From the first shower and subsequent showers you've opened your house to him. You're happy to provide him the dinners and apparent lunches. You are even happier for the kind feedback. You are content to provide whatever... grooming he needs. You feel that he was also a bit starved for kind attention along with his need for food and sleep. Then you realize the thanks could have been directed as his new clothes as well which you absently realized he was wearing, and wearing well. You make a mental note to buy more because you want him to be as comfortable as possible.
That's your last thought before you fall to sleep.