Chapter Text
It starts with a party at Mutt’s barn, as, Patrick had learned, most things that go wrong in Schitt’s Creek do. The prodigal son himself had been back for eight hours, and, after he’d put in sufficient face time with Jocelyn and Roland, Mutt had declared he was hosting a “rager no one will remember.” David makes a face when Mutt stops by to invite them, but Patrick found him shrugging on his leather jacket that night anyway. “He makes good moonshine,” David said to Patrick’s wordless stare.
Patrick left Stevie and David to judge people silently from the corner to play a game of corn hole with some of the people from the baseball team. By the time he made it back, Twyla had joined the little group. There was pungent smoke curling around them, Twyla and Stevie passing a joint between where they were pressed close together while David popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth.
“Twyla’s cousin sent edibles,” David explained, proffering a piece. Patrick reached out to take one, but Stevie shook her head violently. “They’re zucchini flavored,” she said, and Patrick jerked his hand back. Better that he not have any anyway; he didn’t love the idea of passing out in Mutt’s barn, and the last time they tried to navigate an Uber while they were both stoned, they’d ended up sleeping on Ronnie’s porch. She had given them a blanket, but it had only been big enough for David.
David was cuddly and pliant, the way he always was when he was high, and Patrick relished the feeling of the weight of David against him as they fumbled with the lock at the front door. Patrick was a little too wasted to do anything more than press a few clumsy kisses to David’s neck as they fell into bed, but as David’s breath evened out into deep snuffles, Patrick took a moment to bathe in the glow of the moment. If all the rest of his life was David, sleeping off a bender at his side, Patrick would be content.
~
When he awoke, David’s side of the bed was cold, and that had Patrick’s adrenaline going more than any cold shower or coffee ever could. He could count the times David had woken up before him on one hand: the time Patrick had the flu, the time he’d gotten back late enough from a seminar that David had already fallen asleep, and the incident with the ticks that neither of them would ever speak of again. The only explanation Patrick could conjure was that David had gotten the munchies in the middle of the night and passed out on the couch under a pile of twinkies.
When he came down the stairs into the kitchen, though, David was nowhere to be seen. The car keys were on their designated hook, and a quick peek into the yard showed no sign of David. Patrick swallowed, doing his best to push past the pounding in his head, and tried to figure out where the fuck his husband had gone.
Patrick spun, trying to decide if it was worth getting dressed on the off chance David had brain surgery and had decided to go on a walk the night after a party. He could be at Stevie’s, but—
Patrick spun again, slower this time, paying attention to where he’d spotted movement coming from between the couch and the end table. David must have dropped the twinkies.
But instead of his husband, there was a small child, crouched down and staring up at Patrick as if Patrick would bite. Patrick swallowed, and focused on the big brown eyes underneath even bigger dark eyebrows, and the familiar Loewe’s t-shirt swimming around such a tiny frame. Alexis had shown Patrick and Stevie David’s baby pictures once as revenge for David eating the last of the fancy Elm Glenn macaroons; Patrick had taken pictures on the sly. He knew what face he was looking at, know matter what age it was.
“David?” he asked, just to be sure. The child nodded wordlessly.
Patrick dug his nails into his bicep, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“Okay,” Patrick finally said as the toddler version of his husband watched him with wide doe eyes. Patrick took a deep breath, and tried to figure out his next move: calling Stevie for back up probably ranked above taking a few dozen pictures and/or screaming hysterically.
The phone rang until Stevie Budd, Rosebud Motel Group sounded briskly in his ear. David had lectured Stevie endlessly about how her voicemail needed to be more professional, and Patrick felt a frantic belt of laughter escape. Current David wouldn’t even know what a voicemail was.
He dialed again, and this time, thank God, Stevie picked up, charmingly irritating in only the way Stevie and David could manage. “What the fuck, Brewer. It’s eight thirty on a Sunday.”
“Stevie, I need help,” he said. “It’s David.”
There was a beat of silence, and when Stevie next spoke, the agitation in her voice had been replaced by sheer terror. “What’s wrong?”
“He.” Patrick took a deep breath and tried not to sound too crazy. “He’s now a toddler.”
Another beat. “I’m sorry?”
“He—he was fine when we went to sleep but I woke up and he wasn’t in the bed so I came downstairs and I couldn’t find him but then I did and he’s like five years old maybe.” Patrick took a deep breath, hearing just how much he was rambling.
“Are you still hi—oh, fuck.”
“What?”
There was a muffled whump that sounded like Stevie pulling the phone away from her, and then a muttered conversation between Stevie and another woman. “Twyla’s cousin’s edibles. They’re into some hinky shit. David was the only one that ate any.”
“I’m sorry, are you saying you gave my husband magic pot, and now he’s a baby?”
Stevie laughed, a little, and it loosened something in Patrick’s shoulders. “I’m not not saying that. Look. Twyla and I will come over. Just, keep him entertained until then, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” The line clicked off, and Patrick prayed Stevie would hurry.
Keep him entertained. Right. Patrick had enough experience babysitting that this wasn’t totally out of his wheelhouse; he sent a small prayer of thanks that he and David weren’t in reverse positions, or, worse, they’d both eaten the chocolate. He looked back at where David was still frozen, and bent down, feeling his age as knees creaked. “David?”
David stared wordlessly. “My name is Patrick,” he started, and then paused. How did you explain physics-defying pot to a toddler? “Your parents had to go out of town, so I’m watching you for a little bit,” Patrick finally settled on. “Does that make sense?” A cautious nod sent the riot of black curls bouncing. “You wanna watch tv?”
They made a pit stop for the bathroom, and then Patrick got David settled on the couch with David's stupidly expensive Copic markers and the first kids movie that popped up on Netflix. David was scribbling happily, drawing what looked like the Chanel logo to Patrick’s somewhat familiar eye, but he was still eerily silent. It unnerved Patrick. Every child in the Brewer clan was vocal, to put it mildly, and he couldn’t imagine any child of television’s Moira Rose being afraid to be loud.
Patrick shook off the thought as a gentle knock echoed through the house. Twyla and Stevie were at the door, still in the same clothes from the night before; Twyla’s eyes widened as she caught sight of David, and Stevie let out a strangled hysterical laugh. “Please tell me you’ve taken pictures?” she asked.
“Later,” Patrick said. “Can we please determine if my husband has permanently disappeared into a poof of smoke or not?”
Twyla nodded and bent down, smiling, but before she could say anything to David, he bolted behind Patrick, burying his face in the back of Patrick’s knees.
“Oh buddy,” said Patrick, trying to twist around so that he could see David. “This is Twyla and Stevie. They just came by to say hello.”
Twyla smiled wider; she radiated such friendly energy that David, gripping at Patrick’s pant leg tightly, peeked around to stare at her. “It’s nice to meet you, David.”
Twyla stood and shrugged. “Yeah, it looks like exactly what happened to my cousin Caleb when he was trying to make that artisanal beef jerky. I’m like, 98% sure he’ll be fine. He’ll just age up in spurts over the next few days until he’s back to himself.”
Patrick stared. “And what’s the other 2%?”
She shrugged, unconcerned. “Well, how do you feel about ferrets?”
“We stopped and got some of Rollie Junior’s stuff,” Stevie said, obviously sensing how close Patrick was snapping completely. “Should hold him over for a little bit.”
As much as Patrick was appreciative—David couldn’t live in his oversized t-shirt— “David can never, ever know he wore Roland’s hand me downs.”
Stevie laughed. “Oh my God, can you imagine?”
Eventually, the adrenaline clearly holding Stevie and Twyla up lost to the force of their hangovers. After assuring them Patrick would call if they needed anything, they left with Stevie’s memory card full of pictures of David in a Minion’s t-shirt. Alone, Patrick turned back to his charge. Between the chubby cheeks and tiny hands, it was impossible to think of him as the David Patrick knew, and Patrick felt a fierce longing for his husband. Between work and home, Patrick was used to being around David almost constantly, and his absence felt like the January day Patrick had walked home from school in nothing but shorts and a tank top.
He got David to pick at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and Patrick resigned himself to silence as David continued not to speak. It worried Patrick, but if Twyla was right David would only be like this for a few hours anyway, so Patrick didn’t feel the need to potentially upset him. David seemed unconcerned that he was in a stranger’s care instead of his parents’; as much as Patrick liked his in-laws and knew they were different now, it still boggled his mind that they hadn’t wanted to be around to see every breath of the child in front of him.
They settled back on the couch to watch a movie, and, about twenty minutes in, Patrick felt a small weight settle against his side. When he looked over, David was asleep, warm breath puffing against Patrick’s arm. Patrick did his best not to move, feeling the ridiculous urge to cry at David’s hand curled around the fabric of Patrick’s t-shirt.
Patrick was dozing himself when there was a small whimper from beside him. David stirred, frowning, before bolting up, gasping for air. Patrick hands hovered over him uselessly. “David? You’re okay; it’s okay. It was just a bad dream. I’m here.”
David looked at Patrick, his lip quibbling, and, making the first sound since Patrick had woken up in this upside down world, David burst into wailing, heart wrenching sobs. “Where’s Adelina? I want Adelina!”
Patrick’s heart sank as he murmured to David ineffectively. Adult David, Patrick knew how to comfort. But when confronted with this small child, who barely knew who he was and had already been discarded by the most important people in his life? Patrick felt like he was trying to paint the Mona Lisa blindfolded.
David wouldn’t be back to himself for a few days. As he listened to David cry, Patrick swore to himself that, in the small amount of time he had with this other David, Patrick would give him the best time of his life.