You wake in your own bed which is actually a bit startling after the past several days, but it is empty save for yourself. It seems your guest had gotten up and slipped out without waking you, which is a feat unto itself. You glance over and sure enough there is a small pile of money on the night stand which makes your heart sink because you thought you had made it clear last night. Well, you suppose you didn't address that issue directly. When you read the slip of paper that is with the money, it surprisingly reads 'rainy day' instead of rent and you feel your face curl up into a smile.
You make your bed and then head downstairs. You rename the 'rent' jar to its new proper name. You drink your coffee, read the newspaper, and do the sudoku puzzle. Then it's back upstairs to shower, shave, style, and dress for work. You are a bit distracted with your thoughts when you sit down for work, thinking about last night's discussion. Thankfully work is going smooth with or without your help. You are glad you've managed to collect and assemble such a well functioning team. It makes you wonder if they need you at all. Retirement wouldn't be a bad idea but what else would you do for the first part of your day?
While you eat lunch you find yourself wondering about dinner. Dave hadn't mentioned any other suggestions, most likely on purpose so you'd have to think of something on your own. A quick search proves that giraffe honestly isn't a viable option, but wildebeest is. But not for tonight as it would take several days for it to ship here. Furthermore, how does one even cook wildebeest. You suppose that will be an adventure for another time. Instead you flip through your cookbooks and come up with an idea.
Errands are quick today but that just leaves you more time for preparation. You don't suppose your skills would ever get rusty after the many, many cakes you baked for your son over the years. And you are sure you didn't bake as many as he complained about. You just made sure that there was always something sweet for him to munch on even if he did prefer those plastic candy abominations. But it will be nice to pull out the equipment and brush up on your icing skills.
The scent of vanilla and flour fill the kitchen soon enough as batter is prepared. As much as you are a part of the Crocker Corporation, you do actually prefer to bake from scratch, time permitted. You're son has argued the merits of not using the commercial versions, but you still rely on them when time is a factor. Such as today. But you don't think that Dave would mind. Not after you put the additional time towards decorating the cake. You slide the cake pans into the oven and then turn back to the refrigerator.
The actual dinner itself is easy enough that you prepare it in moments. You mix mustard, thyme, salt, and substituting black pepper for the cayenne as Dave mentioned that he doesn't care for the heat. Or at least he didn't care for the hot sauce. It's better to be safe than sorry, you suppose. You turn the chicken breasts in the mixture to coat completely. Then you mix the parmesan and panko in another bowl and dredge the chicken though. You put the chicken on a baking sheet covered with foil and slip it into the oven for later.
You time it perfectly for when the first layers of cake are ready to be pulled out of the ovens. They smell heavenly and the toothpick comes out clean on the first try. While they cool, you whip up the icing which is most definitely homemade. The store bought versions just have too much oil in them and don't stay light and fluffy which is mandatory for the decorations you wish to make. Thankfully you know the recipes and short cuts by heart and once again, it is good timing for when you have all of the icing in bowls or piping bags ready to go, the cakes come out of their pans perfectly. You are worried for a moment there that the top layer would crack but it doesn't and the crumb coat goes on smoothly. Then you add the base layer of icing. And then you get fancy.
As sugary flowers now cover your countertops you think, perhaps a little too late, that you might have made too many flowers for one poor little cake, but you can't help it. They are so easy to put together and after a while it becomes almost therapeutic to make each petal. You finally set down the piping bag and start gently transferring the flowers from their wax paper squares to surface of the cake. And sure enough, you can only fit about three quarters of the ones that you made. You tuck the other ones into a plastic container and put them safely in the fridge to use on your next cake.
You are putting the finishing touches on the cake, its white base almost completely covered by the bright petals of roses, daisies, daffodils, and other flora, when you glance over at the time. You find that you are late for your smoke. You scramble to finish putting the leaves on the cake to hide the tool marks and open spots and then you hurry to grab your pipe and rush outside.
You have just settled into your chair when he is turning up your sidewalk.
"Hey old man, been busy today?"
You glance down at your hands when your eyes catch a bit of white on your uninjured hand and you suppose you didn't even have time to wash up before coming out here.
"Something like that," you acknowledge back at him while pulling out your matches to light the pipe.
"Here, let me help ya, old man." Dave plucks the book from your hand and expertly does the one handed lighting trick you had shown him. He holds it to the end of your pipe as you puff the flames to life. He repeats the trick for his own cigarette before leaning up against the porch post.
Even with the shades on his face you can tell he keeps taking glances at your hand. You notice he tracks over both of them. The icing would be pretty self explanatory if he is able to identify it, but you suppose the injury happened outside of his vision and you weren't given a chance to explain it before falling asleep last night.
"I've been working on dessert. I suppose I've made more of a mess than I usually do," you tell him, pointing out the icing.
"Yeah, you got flour all over you. Thought you got into a fight with the dough boy. Had to subdue his ass and wrestle him into the pan so that you could throw him into the oven and then eat his delicious flaky flesh after the timer goes off."
You glance down at the rest of your clothes and embarrassingly find that his metaphor, while slightly disturbing, is a plausible explanation for your current appearance.
"Ah well... I suppose I should get cleaned up before dinner."
"You could joi-" Dave cuts himself off with a couple coughs and you take the moment to turn away and try to hide the color in your face as you mentally finish the statement for him.
"I think just changing my outfit will be plenty."
"Right, right. Speaking on clothes... now that I got more than just the shirt on my back and actually I don't even have the one I started with, farewell my loyal friend, peace be with you in clothes heaven because you served me well. Do clothes get a heaven or is it just to the dumpster for them because I guess some of them are granted reincarnation as patches maybe, I don't know, what was I talking about?"
"Your new clothes."
"Ah yeah, so I got a stash now and I feel like it's kinda rude to leave them all piled up in the corner of the room because like you have a place for everything which is a little Stepford but at the same time it's kinda nice because all of your little hidey places make sense unlike Bro's 'cause he was always doing weird shit like cherry bombs in the ice machine or firecrackers in the sink and it was always a surprise when you open up the cabinets but I think that's just how his brain worked, ya know? But here I am in an actual logically organized place and I feel like I'm just throwing my shit everywhere and I know you are kinda cool with it but I was wondering if you had like a spare box that I could tuck everything in? Maybe bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a dresser and wow I'm getting picky about what box I want so just ignore me please."
You fidget with your pipe for a moment. "Actually I think I know of a solution. But please don't read into it anything more than it being a convenient solution but I do have a spare suitcase that would serve perfectly as your wardrobe's home if you chose to use it."
Dave contemplates your words. He's stoic but you think he's just working through the implications that you foresaw earlier as well, but after last night you think he understands that you wouldn't mean it that way. That same conclusion shows up on his face as a soft smile.
"That would be perfect old man. It's help contain my slovenly mess in a perfectly sized box and it's even meant to hold clothes. It's a two for one deal. Savings to the right and to the left. A real homemaker genius you are, old man."
You smile back at him and enjoy the rest of your pipe.
The two of you end up finishing around the same time. He ducks away upstairs for his daily ablutions while you first stop by the kitchen to cover the cake and to slip the chicken into the oven. The vegetable of the night will just be salad, one of the prepackaged ones that are just so handy that you don't know if you'll ever go back to adding all of the ingredients yourself unless it is for a large party.
After the timer is set, you head upstairs to the master bedroom to change clothes while Dave is taking his shower in the guest bath. You change out of your work clothes early and into something much more casual and comfortable, also taking the opportunity to wash your hands of icing and redress your burn. You leave the master bedroom feeling significantly less floury just as the guest bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam.
Once again, it seems Dave foregoes the use of a towel around his waist, keeping it over his shoulders. You pointedly keep your eyes up at the level of his face but still can't help but notice that his tail whips around to the front to cover the rest as soon as he notices you.
He blinks at you several times as you both are caught up in the awkward situation, but then you see him shift subtly, "If I knew you were going to take me up on it, I would have finished the invitation to the shower but it seems you have arrived past fashionably late, old man."
You know you are blushing from the way your ears are burning but you still can't help yourself. "Well, I might not have been fashionably late had the invitation been a bit more specific."
His ears twitch up in interest as his smile grows. You feel proud that you successfully bantered the barb but at the same time you are unsure of the position that you've talked yourself into.
You are saved by the screeching beep of the timer going off for the chicken. Dave nearly jumps at the sound, ears twitching backwards a moment before his head turns to look. You take the opportunity to excuse yourself and dash downstairs, hoping that your blush will settle soon.
You've put the chicken, salad, drinks, and plates on the dining table by the time Dave comes down. Both of you seem to silently agree not to bring up the incident of the upstairs hallway as you sit down to eat. Dave's silent prayer before the meal is longer than usual, but you don't comment about it. You're blush however isn't too far away as Dave starts up with his usual noises over the well cooked food.
Conversation ranges from small details of their day (still with no more information about what Dave does during the day) to older stories about your life and Dave's journey. His brother is mentioned more in stories now that that barrier has been broken down it seems. He stays away from the topic of whatever trauma happened and focuses only on the good happy parts. You assume that it's one style of coping and support it with stories of your own.
When the food is finished, Dave offers to do dishes again which provides you with the opportunity to prepare the cake. Dave glances over his shoulder from his position at the sink when you pull it out. He continues to stare in awe at it as you can't help yourself but show off by turning it so he can see all of the details. You reach for a knife to cut the cake but pause when you hear an upset noise coming from Dave.
"Is everything alright?"
"You can't cut it. It's too pretty."
You are a bit taken aback. "Too pretty?"
"Yeah." He turns off the water and grabs a dish towel to dry his hands so he can come over without dripping all over the kitchen. "The flowers. Wow. Like. Wow. Did you... Did you make this?"
"Of course."
"Wow."
"You've said that." You once again find your cheeks heating up under his praise.
"I know but it's worth saying. I mean this is like professional level. This is the shit that gets put onto wedding cakes and television shows. Those look like real flowers. I mean, my brain knows that they are just sugar and fluff but it just can't get over itself that it looks like I'm about to eat a bouquet given before a date like straight out of the vase the flowers were immediately put in to keep fresh. How are you even supposed to eat something so beautiful? It's like a sin to eat such artwork even. It's like eating the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel."
"Dave, I can always make another. It's just cake."
He frowns at you and you can't help but softly chuckle at his concern for one of your cakes. That just makes him pout even more.
"I promise I will make more."
"Fine," he says with resignation. "But it better be as delicious as it looks."
Moments later he is making positively pornographic noises over his slice of cake. He licks up every crumb and smear of icing off of the plate, uncaring that you are watching.
"You may have another slice if you wish," you offer and he's up out of his chair before you can finish. After years of your son fighting your cakes, it's very pleasant to see someone enjoy one so thoroughly.
Once he has had his fill (which is nearly all of the cake) and all of the dishes put away, the two of you end up on the couch. You sat down first and he curled up next to you, leaning into your side. You simply drape your arm around him and watch the news. He waits with you until after the weather before going upstairs. Like two nights ago the two of you pause in the hallway. You get the feeling Dave wants to ask you something. And tonight he does.
"Hey old man, I need some comfort tonight. Come sleep in the big bed." You suppose he's demanding, not asking, but it's a way of asking in his proud way.
"Alright, Dave." You follow him down the hall to the master bedroom, closing the door gently behind the two of you.