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December 2015
Winter is the fucking worst.
At least, that’s what Stevie Budd would tell you.
And the funny thing is, in another reality, she might’ve actually enjoyed it. Like, if she’d grown up with a ton of money and no responsibilities, winter might’ve become her favorite time of year… because it’s a great opportunity to do her favorite thing, which is nothing.
The excuse to curl up on the couch with a heated blanket, hot coffee, and a book? Enjoying the peaceful fall of snow without actually having to venture into it? That sounds awesome.
Driving on terrifying, slippery ice? Shoveling snow outside the motel she runs single-handedly? Dealing with cranky guests who, for some reason, thought they were staying somewhere with amenities like central heating? Those things are decidedly not awesome.
Ergo, winter is the fucking worst.
Their new “long-term residents,” the Roses, don’t make it easier with their constant complaining and lack of self-awareness, not to mention their inexperience with doing literally anything for themselves and ignorance about how snow plows (and the world in general) tend to work.
Today, her privileged nightmare comes in the form of David Rose — someone she has, begrudgingly, come to love more than she’ll ever verbally admit — stomping into her office, looking like a plush, designer marshmallow as he complains loudly about the snow.
Draping himself over her desk, he grumbles, “Winter is the fucking worst.”
“Have to agree with you there,” Stevie says. “I hate this time of year.”
David lifts his head. “So, does that mean you don’t have any plans tonight?”
“Tonight?”
He smirks. “Christmas?”
“Oh,” she says. “Right, I forgot about that. No, uh, I just figured I’d drink a holiday party’s worth of wine by myself and call it a night. S’what I usually do.”
David snorts. “You feel about as festive as I do, then.”
“You could, like… come not be festive with me,” she says, slowly. “If you want.”
He looks surprised by the offer. “Really?”
“Sure,” Stevie agrees. “Just… bring your own wine.”
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February 2016
For most of her life, Stevie had been a star underachiever. Inheriting the motel and working with Mr. Rose has given her a new perspective on some things, and she likes to think that she’s inching towards something within herself, but one thing will never change: Stevie Budd does not come in on her day off… unless it’s to watch David Rose shovel snow.
The town saw a pretty rough storm last night, blanketing them all in several feet of snow. Mr. Rose, of course, can’t shovel snow around the motel because of his back, Roland has his own driveway to shovel, and Stevie has the day off, which leaves them with...
“You missed a spot on the left there, David!”
The noise he makes is something akin to a growl. “You’re seriously going to just sit there and watch me — and my knit — suffer?” he shouts back.
“Put your back into it!”
“You’re a sadist, Stevie!”
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December 2017
David nudges the lobby door open with his hip, since his hands are too occupied with the case of wine he’d absconded with this morning. Technically, it's a case he put together — collecting all of the 375ml sample tasting bottles from the local wineries — but wine is wine, so it’ll do.
Just as he suspected, Stevie is collecting her things from behind the counter when he strolls in, and she looks a bit surprised as she adjusts the oversized red toque on her head.
“And what’s that?” she asks, mock-cheerily.
David looks between her and the box. “Wine, obviously,” he replies, raising his brows. “I’ve got, like, twenty in here, but they’re only half bottles so we’re basically even.”
“Where’s Patrick?”
David shrugs. “Home, probably on FaceTime with his parents.”
“You don’t have plans?”
“It’s Christmas.”
Stevie blinks. “Exactly.”
“It’s Christmas,” David says, trying to make his voice as casual as possible. “The party was a surprise success, and… now I have plans with you, like, um. We usually do.” He picks a non-existent speck from his sweater. “I mean, unless you want me to go. I just figure we’ve not celebrated together for the last couple years, so.”
Stevie is doing that thing with her face; David recognizes it instantly. It’s like… her lips get all thin and her eyes dart across the room, as if she’d just burst into flames if she gave away her hand. He knows Stevie’s ticks by now — all of her tiny tells — and, honestly, he’s pretty sure he does the same thing when he’s feeling things he’d rather not acknowledge. Game recognizes game.
“I mean, if you want to hang out, you can.” Her shrug seems a little more exaggerated than strictly necessary. “Y’know, whatever.”
“Great,” David replies, feeling his cheek dimple. “Your place or… uh, here…?”
“My place, definitely.”
***
A few hours later, they’re wine drunk on Stevie’s couch, a Christmas movie (she’ll probably never admit to having watched) on tv. She asks, “So you just… told your boyfriend you had other plans?”
David shrugs. “It’s a tradition.”
“Well,” Stevie hedges, “I guess, next year, we’ll just have to invite him.”
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January 2019
David leans against the wooden railing of his back porch just after midnight.
Inside, the TV blares ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ like it always does right after the ball drops, and David can faintly hear it alongside the chattering of his friends and family filling the house. Further in the distance, he also hears some faint booms and crackles, but the fireworks themselves are too far to see, he guesses. From here, he can only see a dark, starry sky.
Typically, he doesn’t like the sound of exploding fireworks — they put him on edge — but the flares are far enough away now that they only serve to remind David where he is… and, more importantly, where he isn’t. The quiet surrounding his and Patrick’s cottage is surprisingly grounding. Out here, it’s hard to forget that he’s living a completely different life than he once was.
“Hey,” a gruff voice comes from behind him, and David doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Stevie. He does anyway, finding her with a blanket around her shoulders. “You good? It’s freezing.”
David smiles, leaning his back on the little fence instead. “Yeah, just… getting some fresh air,” he says. “Patrick’s still on the phone with Marcy and Clint, and I, uh, actually really like it out here.”
“Not too quiet?”
He shakes his head, and she comes to stand at his side, mirroring his position against the rail. His arm swings around her shoulders. “Just how I like it, as it turns out,” David replies.
Stevie leans into his side. He doesn’t need to look to know she’s smiling.
“Me too,” she says. “Happy New Year, David.”
“Happy New Year, Stevie.”
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December 2021
Stevie chokes on her first sip of David and Patrick’s eggnog (which her inner fourteen-year-old would like to point out is not a super gross euphemism of any kind).
“Holy fuck,” she says, blinking several times as her wife gently pulls the mug from her hand. “How much whiskey is in this stuff?”
Patrick preens. “Brewer family recipe,” he says, which does not answer her question.
Ruth makes a retching sound. “Oh my god,” she blurts with an adorable laugh that can only be described as a giggle. “Brewer family parties must get very interesting, very fast.”
The husbands share a glance and simultaneously reply, “You have no idea,” with equally mirthful laughs. Patrick kisses David’s shoulder. And, oh god. It’s an absolutely disgusting display.
Stevie takes the glass back from Ruth, just to wash down the sentiment (and her secret fondness for it) with whiskey… and a small side of eggnog. It’s yet another thing she’d never say aloud, but it’s times like these that she looks at David and wonders how the everloving fuck they got here. It feels both like days and decades ago since he’d stumbled into her office looking for towels.
Now, they’re in the penthouse Stevie shares with her wife (and co-executive) in Manhattan, drinking eggnog before they head to the Rosebud Motel Group Christmas party. Alexis and Ted are on their way as they speak, and the entire Schitt’s Creek Council (plus Twyla) will probably beat them to the venue. The Jazzagals have an annual performance now and everything.
Seriously, if someone had It’s a Wonderful Life’d Stevie six years ago and showed her this shit, she never would’ve believed it. Like, ever. No way in hell. And honestly? She knows David’s thinking about it too when he smiles that stupid dimpled smile before kissing Patrick’s head.
“Well, I’m going to add some eggnog to this whiskey,” Ruth says, plucking the cup back from Stevie’s hand just as the buzzer signals Alexis and Ted’s arrival. “Or I’ll let them in and then—”
Patrick waves a hand and extracts himself from David. “I’ll get the door,” he says, ushering Ruth off to her own kitchen and poorly winking at his husband before turning towards the foyer.
After a moment, David sighs, sounding content. “You ever wonder how two assholes like us got it this lucky?” he asks, reading her mind, apparently — not for the first time.
“Speak for yourself,” she teases anyway. “I’m a fucking catch.”