Work Text:
After spending the past couple years reminding Mr. Rose every week how to save a file to the desktop, it turns out training pretty much anyone else to run the front desk is unnervingly easy. As much as Stevie hates to admit it, it’s almost disappointingly easy. Apparently she’s going to actually have to be good at other things if she actually wants to contribute to this business.
“Ok, I think I’ve got it!” Casey chirps with a smile and a hint of impatience that Stevie can hardly blame her for. There’s really no need for Stevie to still be standing here while her new employee clicks through the redesigned guest management database like some kind of Gen Z tech prodigy. Twenty minutes in front of the computer screen, and Casey’s already moved beyond anything Stevie can think to show her. Though, Stevie was the one who selected the software for its user-friendliness. And the one who decided that Casey should record her cheery customer-service voice over Stevie’s own defensively indifferent instructions on their phone booking system. She’s delegating. That sounds like something a businesswoman does. What one would expect from the co-owner of a soon-to-be-thriving motel empire.
“Ok, well, text me if anything comes up. That you need help with. Or, just, before you do anything Roland might ask you to do.” Stevie grabs her bag and hurries out the door, hoping she looks busy, and important, and not at all flustered that there’s a disarmingly friendly twenty-something perched behind her desk.
Her old desk. She closes the motel office door gently but firmly behind her and goes to get her old ass in her old car before she does something strange, like pop back in and pluck the computer mouse that’s molded to her fingers out from under Casey’s capable hand.
At least her minesweeper records are safe. Because, well. Probably because no one plays minesweeper anymore. She plops down in her car and backs out smoothly before pulling out onto the road.
Mr. and Mrs. Rose left three weeks ago. Alexis, 16 days ago. In 3 more days, Stevie will leave. But for her, it’ll just be for a few days. She’ll make her way cross-country and check out the run-down shells of motels from here to the coast to see if there are any they can make remotely habitable. The “possibilities,” as Mr. Rose has been eagerly calling them, barely suppressing energetic little fistpumps each time, like an overgrown camp counselor possessing her Zoom screen.
She misses him.
By the time she considers turning her radio on, she’s already pulling up in front of Rose Apothecary, turning off her car and kicking her door open with her boot in a practiced maneuver evident from the pattern of scuff marks on the speaker. Swinging her legs out, she stands and stretches her arms behind her head, looking through the windows of her new office with a small smile.
A few things became clear as they were outlining Stevie’s role as Rosebud Motel Group’s Location Acquisition Manager. First, someone else would need to run the front desk—so they got Casey. And, second, Stevie would need somewhere else to work. Then there were a couple of other things that were already clear—the options for office space available to rent in Schitt’s Creek were slim (by middle school every kid in town knew that Bob’s periodic “offers” were bullshit), and Rosebud didn’t have the money to burn on an Elmdale location for one desk while she wasn’t on the road. For a hot second she thought she was going to have to work at her kitchen counter or squat in the Love Room.
Until, that is, she found out Patrick had been holding out on them. Really, she shouldn’t have been surprised—if there were a Patrick Brewer drinking game, “oh, I guess I should have told you about this before now” would come right after “shows off his forearms” and “says David’s name.” It turns out Patrick has an enviable office set-up on the second floor above the store, and just never mentioned it to her until she was bemoaning trying to have business Zoom meetings from a vibrating heart bed. After she threw up her hands and hurled an indignant “what!? at Patrick’s infuriatingly calm smirk (“I mean, the building is clearly two stories, you did notice there were windows up there, right?”), she informed him that he could make it up to her by agreeing to let RMG sublet part of the office. Because she’s a professional.
And by giving her a bottle of wine, because she’s human.
“Ding Ding,” she calls out now in monotone, pushing through Rose Apothecary’s front door.
“Hey Stevie,” Patrick says from behind the counter, looking up and smiling gently before dropping his eyes back where he’s holding David’s hand, palm up, in two of his. David doesn’t look around from where he’s facing Patrick, but raises his other hand out to the side in what’s apparently a half-assed greeting. Stevie walks over to see David grimacing down at his wrist, Patrick kneading his thumbs slowly but confidently along the base of his palm.
“What happened to you?” she asks, gesturing with her chin and eyebrows to David’s cradled wrist. “Did you get your hand caught in the fridge door again?” Patrick glances up again and catches her eye in fond amusement.
“Ha ha,” David responds dryly, “I’ll have you know this is the battle wound of a dedicated homeowner sacrificing himself for his new kitchen.”
“Meaning he wrenched his wrist trying to pull the cast iron pan from the bottom of a box like it was made of tin foil,” Patrick amends wryly.
“Ok, who needs cookware made of lead?!” exclaims David, punctuating with his free hand as Patrick glances up at him with a chuckle, eyes glinting.
“Hmm, you’re right, I think the manufacturers were attacking you personally,” responds Patrick with mock seriousness, gazing at David with a barely concealed smirk as his hands rub his wrist, soft and sure.
“Well, you’ll just have to take excellent care of me then,” David says with a crooked little smile and coquettish head toss. Patrick raises his eyebrows in mock skepticism, an expression that says “oh, I will, will l?” even as it means “Yes, I always will.”
“What do you think, Nurse Patrick, will we need to amputate?” Stevie probes. “Or will you be able to stroke it back to life with your magic hands?”
Patrick laughs and glances down, a soft blush coloring his cheeks.
“Ok, so you’re a menace,” David points to Stevie with his free hand, “and you,” he turns to Patrick, “can stroke me back to life whenever you like, thank you very much."
“Oh, ok, glad that’s sorted out then,” Patrick affirms, nodding with his eyebrows raised in amusement on his still-pink face.
“Anyway,” Stevie continues, “though I’m definitely very concerned about David’s not-at-all-embarrassing injury, I’m still an office-less…” Stevie tilts her head from one side to the other, considering “...vagrant-slash-motel-mogul. So I think it’s time to see what all you’ve been keeping from me, Patrick.”
“Oh, we don’t have time for all that right now,” David quips quickly, turning to her with a lascivious grin and a small shimmy that moves from his head down through his body. Patrick swats his hip affectionately and steps out from behind the counter. Stevie thinks they both miss her nervous swallow.
“C’mon, let’s get you all set up,” Patrick says cheerily to Stevie with a final reproving look at David, gesturing to Stevie to follow him into the back and up the stairs to his...well, her...well, their office.
The space is small but bright where the sun shines in the windows, with two old but nice-looking wood desks facing away from each other. Patrick gives an efficient run-down, noting that one bin is trash while another identical one is recycling, describing the surprisingly intricate foreplay the printer requires to spit out your documents, and then showing her the wifi password that he’d written on a green post-it sitting inside her top drawer.
“You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome,” Stevie remarks dryly, typing the password (“timeless0317”) into her phone. “If your streaming speed is good I may have to just squat up here on the weekends too.”
“Well hopefully it doesn’t need to come to that. We just got the house all hooked up too, so you can come over there instead.”
“Yea but then we’d just have to watch Downton Abbey for the billionth time, and I’m just not always in the mood to watch Sybil die of consumption again, ya know?”
Patrick snorts. “See that’s why I need you there with me—you hold him down, I’ll take the remote.”
Stevie imagines that Patrick can do a better job of holding David down than she can, but that’s probably not where her mind should wander to right now.
“Are these mine now too?” she asks instead, gesturing to three mini cacti tucked in together in a white stone pot on the corner of what’s now her desk.
“Oh, you can move them over to my desk if you like, I just had them there because it gets a bit more sun.”
“No no, it’s, um, fine, they’re actually pretty cute, so,” Stevie admits, peering at their prickly little stalks that somehow all fit there together. “But yea, you should still be the one who waters them and such–”
“Oh yea, don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of them—they really shouldn’t even be watered anyway, just spritzed a certain amount during the week—”
“Like I said, gonna let you handle that,” Stevie interrupts with a bemused smirk. Leave it to Patrick to get particular about his office plants. At least it’s not poison oak this time. “Well, I guess I’m all good then.”
“Awesome. Well I’m, obviously, right downstairs, if you have any questions or anything.” With a light tap on the desk--a quick farewell to either her or the cactuses–Patrick turns towards the steps again.
“Hey, Patrick,” she calls back. He stops and turns back and tilts his head slightly, invitingly. “Thanks, for letting me squat up here. I hadn’t really worked out what I’d be doing otherwise, so.”
“You know we’re always happy for you to be here. And hey,” he adds with a small shrug, and a soft smile that seems more for himself than for her, “now we have both the family businesses under one roof.”
*****
Work advancement is great and all, but being home and not working will always be better. It’s later that evening, and Stevie is leaning against her headboard, watching tv. She enjoys the last bite of her ice cream sandwich, licking the caked chocolate off her fingers messily. After hesitating for just a second, she wipes her hands on her jeans, because the paper towels are across the room and really, whatever. More importantly, why is she still wearing jeans? She shucks them off onto the floor and wiggles under the comforter to lie on her side, propped up on her elbow with her head resting against her hand, snorting appreciatively at the end of “It’s Always Sunny.” Last one she’s watching tonight.
She almost changes her mind about turning it off when Interflix asks her if she’s still watching because, fuck you, she could be if she wanted. But she’s tired, so she shuts it off and leans over to turn out her light before rolling onto her back.
Ok, so. She’s not tired , per se. Just yet. She rolls her head in a slow, restless circle against her pillow, feeling the pinched tightness in her neck that apparently just lives there, now. She’s not sure how she’s ever going to handle being actually old if her body’s already falling apart on her.
She wonders if David’s wrist is still sore.
Of course it’s possible it was already fine to begin with. Option 1: hand massage, option 2: sweep up. Tough choices indeed. Except, David could presumably get a tender massage from Patrick without faking an injury. And it’s not like Patrick would actually make David sweep up if he didn’t want to.
Well, not unless David wanted Patrick to make him.
Stevie shakes off an embarrassed shiver. It’s really not her fault that David decided the last time they got high that he just really needed to share that Patrick was more than a little bit skilled at being, well, commanding in bed. David hadn’t elaborated much, shockingly, but it hadn’t stopped Stevie from thinking about it…much more than she knew she should. About Patrick, always so gentle, using his strength to take charge, to dominate. She’d seen a glimpse of that fierce focus rehearsing together for Cabaret, when Patrick would set his jaw and pour his whole self into the next scene, the next dance move. The idea that he could be in control and irresistible if he put his mind to it? No, it isn’t hard to imagine.
And something about the thought of David laying himself bare and vulnerable for him, no artifice or shield, is intoxicating. She’d seen David without his clothes, sure, but he wasn’t ever naked for her, not really. They had come together without letting go together. She suspected then what she knows now—that David, like her, had taught himself the hard way how to give pleasure without giving himself. With a guilty warmth, she thinks back to David’s hard and focused expression as they gasped together under a sparkling disco ball, clinging to control until he came with a final groan. She’d thought he was gorgeous then.
But now she’s seen how David’s lips themselves look softer after Patrick kisses them, seen Patrick’s eyes shift to pools of adoration so deep you could drown in them. She’s seen David’s face open and glistening as he walked down the aisle, towards them both, to take Patrick’s hand.
Stevie sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing back the creeping voice that starts to whisper: “ pathetic, pathetic, pathetic .” The voice that tells her she’s a fucking creeper who needs to get a fucking life.
Except she knows that the voice will quiet again tomorrow, soothed by the gentle quirk of Patrick’s mouth as he catches her eye while David fakes nonchalance, by David’s incredulous eyebrows and emphatic head-throwing when she gets him worked him up, by Patrick managing to be both sarcastic and earnest in the same sentence. She knows it just as well as she knows now that they’ll be together tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, settling into the house where David’s already lined up her own pair of house slippers (“we both know you’re going to be here all the time, and it can’t be in those ratty shoes tracking in mud”). Just as well as she knows that she already has a life, dammit. A life together with her two idiots. Her stupid, fucking idiots, who love her.
And, usually, that’s enough.