#davedad

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. Your 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.

--

You have to take your lunch later than usual which leaves you less time for shopping but you know how to shop efficiently. Too many school projects put off until the last minute has trained you to the layouts of many stores. You buy a small collection of clothes in various styles to give your guest more options than your choice because you know you can be fairly conservative as your son has complained a couple of times.

You hesitate in front of a store that sells suitcases. Now that you have a wardrobe for your guest, you realize that he doesn’t quite have anything to keep them in. But you wonder what sort of message a suitcase would send him. It’s a travel item but you don’t want him to feel unwelcomed. But at the same time, anything more substantial might make him feel trapped or obligated. You sigh and bite the bullet, giving yourself the option of deciding how to present it later.

Groceries are handled quickly, replacing your sharply dwindling sandwich supplies and dinner for tonight. His extravagant menu recommendation is a little extreme but there is a sale on ribeyes and you have time to put together a marinade that will tenderize the tougher meat. You get some fresh vegetables as well and two potatoes to bake.

You head home and manage to get the marinade put together before it’s the usual time to go smoke your pipe. Normally you wouldn’t care about your timing, but that’s changed. You seem to have plenty of time though as he shows up just as you are nearing the end of your smoke. As you watch him walk up, you’re not one hundred percent sure but you think he might have a limp which instantly makes you concerned. But you don’t know how to bring it up so you ignore it in favor of lighting his cigarette for him and watching his feature relax under the intake of nicotine. You watch how the smoke curls around his head, twisted and pushed by the calm spring breeze. It’s silent between the two of you. You tamp out your pipe and patiently wait for him to finish his cigarette before the two of you turn into the house together.

“Hey, old man. Thanks for the new threads.”

“You are very welcomed, Dave. There are more fresh ones in the master bedroom.”

“Really?”

“Let me know if there is something you dislike or would like instead and I will correct it. My son tells me that I have a poor sense of style.”

“No way. You are dapper as fuck. I mean, no one else pulls off the button down slacks outfit more naturally and I have seen a lot of suits in my life. Like seriously, if I ever need a suit for anything formal, I am totally having you shop with me to make me look as good as you do.” A blush creeps up on his face as he continues to talk. You hold up a hand to stop him and he looks both mortified that he let out that particular ramble and relieved that you stopped him.

“Please, they are your clothes now, I want to make sure they appeal to your tastes.”

“Ah.” Dave runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Thanks, old man.”

“Again, you are welcomed. I’ll be probably be out back when you finish up.”

He looks at you quizzically and then he nods and disappears upstairs. You head to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

True to your warning, you are outside on the back patio grilling on your latest Father’s Day gift when you hear the back door creak open. Not even a soft walker like Dave would be able to sneak out of that door. He see him pause and sniff the air before coming over.

“Steak? You didn’t...”

“I didn’t get the cut that you wanted and I forgot the lobster, but-”

“I mention steak and I get steak. Wow, old man, wow.” You recognize the ‘face palm’ from how many times your son has given you one but you catch sight of a bright genuine smile under his hand.

You learn that he eats his steak rare which was fortunate timing since his was done nearly as soon as he told you. You like yours a little more well cooked, not by much, but apparently enough to make Dave groan about your choice, calling it a waste of good meat. You grab the vegetables and potatoes from inside and bring them out as he handles the drinks. The weather is too nice to pass up on the opportunity to eat outside.

He bows his head briefly again, you suppose he might have done it also last night when your back was turned before he attempted to sneak a corndog. Then he digs in with enthusiasm. You know he enjoys the steak without him having to say anything. You are getting used to the sensuous moans that Dave makes over your food. You are very flattered that he likes it so much. It does make you wonder if he’s aware at all exactly how he sounds because you have to actively turn your thoughts away from their initial path.

You talk a bit about your day and Dave does laugh lightly at your tale of the phantom inventory. He tells you about a couple interesting tales from his trek across the country. You don’t glean any new information about his situation but you do find he has a love for old cars and scenic landscapes. You get the feeling he would have a scrapbook full of images from his travels if he had a camera.

Night falls while you are still talking with him but eventually his eyes turn upwards to the stars. The sky isn’t as bright as it could be from all of the light exposure from the suburbs, but apparently it is enough.

“I’ve always liked stars. I didn’t get many when I was little. City was too bright. It was more fun to look down than to look up when I was up on the roof. The apartment was right in the middle of the city. Or at least that’s how it felt. I didn’t know maps back then. But I felt like I was the center of the world when I stood on the roof like that.” You change your view from the stars to look at him. “I felt like I was king. Invincible. But I think all kids feel that way but not all kids had the seat at the top of the world like I did. I had proof that I was awesome. Me and...” In the pale light you see a tear roll down his cheek but you don’t think that’s why his voice stops. “The stars were bright when I got out of the city. Like, I didn’t even realize there was that many of those fucking things up in the sky. I just knew of the brightest ones but then out in the middle of fucking nowhere, there they all were. The longer I stared the more stars there were. The sky was so deep and broad and bright and I couldn’t fall asleep because it was so bright and my brain was spinning around until I was asking no one how the stars stayed up there and why they didn’t fall down like rain. I mean, I learned that they weren’t really on the sky but so far away. But I’ll never forget the feeling of that night where the stars were all just right there.”

His ramble dies off and you don’t know how to pick it up again. You go back to watching the stars, the same as him.

“Hey old man. I got dishes tonight.” He pushes himself up to his feet and picks up the plates. He’s heading inside before you can argue. So you continue to sit and stare up at the stars. You brush at your face when you feel a tickle on your cheek and your hand comes away wet.

He comes back out with the brush. He doesn’t pass it to you but sits back down in his chair with his tail across his lap. You start telling him stories about the constellations that you can see. You’ve told your son the same stories years ago, but they come back easily. He nods at you and so you continue on as long as he keeps sliding the brush through his tail. Eventually he stops and you fall silent.

“Thanks. I’m gonna turn in now, old man.”

“Good night, Dave,” you tell him as he slips inside.

You give the grill a once over to make sure nothing is still on and won’t burn the house down over night. When you lower the lid however the back of your knuckles brushes the hot metal. You pull your hand away quickly, letting the lid crash down with a loud sound. You cringe as the sound echos around the backyard. You look down at your hand because it stings and hurts but you can’t see very well out in the faint light. Everything else checks out on the grill though so you head inside, locking the door behind yourself.

The kitchen is nearly spotless with all of the dishes washed and put away, but in the light you can see the redness across your knuckles and the skin already starting to blister. You head to the sink and run cool water over the area to stop any further burn from heat trapped in the skin. It stings lightly but not too badly. You head to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit but find it empty except for some expired aspirin and a single ghost print bandage. You sigh and wish your son had told you the supplies were getting low.

When you get upstairs the door at the end of the hall is already closed, so you go to the guest bathroom. Unfortunately that first aid kit is in a similar state. Either your son has been getting into more injuries than you realized or he took a supply for his college dorm to keep close on hand instead of buying his own.

You sigh and grimace at your hand. It doesn’t need much, just a light wrapping of gauze and some painkillers but now the only source of those would be in the master bath. Through the master bedroom. Where Dave is sleeping. As much as you wish to give Dave his privacy and let him have his much needed sleep and quiet, nothing else would be conveniently open this late.

You pause at the door. You don’t want to wake him up but you have to announce your entrance in case he is awake as well. You settle on a compromise and knock softly. You wait a beat and then open the door. The room is dark of course, but you don’t suppose Dave actually needed much light if he had a cat’s night vision in addition to the other features. But even you can see a small form curled up in the middle of your bed. His breathing is forcibly calm like he’s trying to pretend to you that he is asleep. As a father of a boy who spent years perfecting such an art (and still missing it for the most part), you can tell that he isn’t truly asleep but you won’t call him out on it. He has his reasons as you have yours for invading his privacy. Without whispering an apology you head directly to the bathroom, knowing the route by heart.

You close the door behind you to turn on the light so you don’t blind him, squinting a bit at the brightness yourself however. But it’s a quick trip to find your first aid kit all neat and organized and full, because you’d never let yours get to the poor state of the others. You wrap a light gauze around your hand to protect the blisters to a degree. You have to take the painkillers dry as you seem to have forgotten to bring up a glass from the kitchen but it’s old habit for you. One your son does not understand and professes to be ultra weird.

You turn out the light and let your eyes adjust to the darkness for a little bit before exiting back into the master bedroom. You glance over and find that Dave hasn’t move from his previous position. You are almost to the bedroom door when you hear it. It’s a faint sniffle of someone who has been crying. You pause and you hear another followed by a whimper. With Dave’s penchant for not really knowing the noises he makes all the time, or at least you assume he doesn’t, you continue the assumption that these are unbidden as well. You are torn as you want to respect his privacy and give him time and space if that is what he requires. But on the other hand your heart is breaking at the sorrow laden onto those poor soft sounds.

You close the bedroom door. And then you walk over to the bed.

“Dave,” you say softly, declaring your presence. He probably knew you were there but you take additional care to make sure he knows you aren’t trying to sneak up on him. “Dave, are you alright?” you ask as you sit on the edge of the bed.

There is another half stifled whimper that has you restraining yourself from pulling him directly into your arms and comforting him, but you do not know what’s wrong yet.

“‘m fine. I’m fucking fine. Leave me the fuck alone.” Dave curls up even farther under the sheets, becoming a tight ball.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine.” The two words are said with such hurt that you know it’s an utter and complete lie but you can’t do anything to help him at this point unless he wants you to.

“I’ll be in the other room if you need me,” you tell him as you stand up.

Dave lets out a pitiful whine and it makes you pause when you turn to leave. Then there is a dark hand wrapped around your wrist holding you in place.

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I- I- fuck. Please don’t leave.”

You sit back down on the edge of the bed. He’s now on his knees facing you. Eyes and hair bright in the night even as his skin bleeds in with the shadows. His tail is down and plastered against the back of his legs. His ears are also lowered. You assume that his eyes are even redder than usual as the faint light through the window catches on wetness on his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I d-didn’t mean it. I-I’m not okay.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright not to be okay. I’d like to help though.”

“Like you haven’t already done enough, old man.” Dave brushes a hand across his cheek, a bit of his usual snark in his words.

But then he sinks back down and you just know that it’s another wave of sadness hitting him. This time you don’t hesitate to reach out for him. You’re gentle but as you pull him towards you he doesn’t resist. If anything, he just crumbles towards you. Despite his lanky frame and the awkwardness at the edge of the bed, he fits in your lap just right, tucked up underneath your chin. You wrap your arms around his shoulder, one hand coming up to his hair.

“I swear I haven’t been a sobbing mess every night. Just... tonight with the stars... it’s my brother... Bro used to show me the stars. He’s the one that took me to the roof. He told me I was king. I asked him what he was if I was king and he said he was just the lowly prince. I laughed at him. He used to make me laugh a lot. He taught me how to protect myself too. He taught me how to be cool. He gave me my shades. Told me that nothing could get me. That I had to be tough. That I could get anywhere with confidence. Well, confidence and a security badge. He was my everything. We didn’t have a lot and what we did have was shitty but it was ours and I’ve never had a more comfortable concrete block mattress frame. But none of that matter because I had him. I had him and I had the world. I loved him. I loved my Bro.”

You feel Dave shake in your arms as his words bring forth more sobs and tears. Your shirt is getting wet but you don’t care. You hold him through the happy memories because you know he cherishes them. But you also know that it doesn’t stay happy otherwise he wouldn’t be here in Washington. He wouldn’t be a stray. He’d be in Houston with his brother. You aren’t even sure what you are saying back to him but you just keep talking to him, calming soothing things. You don’t even think he’s listening to more than the rumble in your chest with how tightly he is clinging to you.

“Then it all changed and... and I didn’t have Bro. I don’t have him anymore. And he promised. He promised he’d always be there for me. He lied. I know he didn’t mean to lie but damn it! They made him a liar. He saved me. He got me out. He told me to run and I did. I ran. I-I-” Dave chokes up on his tears and grips tightly at your shirt. You hear the fabric rip a little but the shirt is nothing compared to Dave’s pain. You think tears are dripping onto his hair because his hair is wet where you pet it. “Bro always wanted to take me to the Grand Canyon. So I went there. I waited there. For a long time. Even made friends with the park ranger people. I thought for sure Bro would come. I thought for sure he’d get away. He’d come for me. He’d- he’d come back. He’d be my prince again and make me king again but-”

“But he didn’t. And you had to move on.”

“I went west. Thought about Hollywood. But they are all snooty and I couldn’t get a good bed for anything. And I did try a lot. But no one wanted- no one wanted a stray. Not to keep. So I moved on again.”

“Then you found me.”

“Well you are summing up the story very shortly, but yeah, I found you. Now I am here sobbing into your shirt and making it rags and I’ll buy you a new one and I’ll pay you back for all the new shit and all the dinners and I’ll give you back your bed and fuck!” He’s loud and it echos in the room a little bit but then he returns to his quiet mumblings, “I’ll move on. I won’t cause you anymore-”

“No.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to move on. You are free to stay as long as you want. And no need to pay anything back, Dave. You don’t owe me anything. Everything I’ve given is given freely because I have plenty. Too much really.”

“But-”

“No buts. If you want to move on, you can. But there is no pressure to go or to stay. I’ve enjoyed your company, Dave. That and your compliments are enough.”

He pulls back away from you, his hands still clinging tightly to you, but he looks you in the face as if to read you for a hidden motive. His eyebrows are knitted together as he stares at you. You aren’t hiding anything and you think he can read the honesty because his face twists up again as another wave of emotion hits him and he’s diving back against you hard enough to make you rock.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You don’t know what it means to me. These past couple of days... they’ve been amazing.”

“I’m glad, Dave. All you have to do is let me know if you need something, anything.”

“Yeah, okay.” Silence falls between the two of you for a moment and then, “Actually I got something right now...”

“Yes?”

“Can we lie down? Like can you stay the night? Because this is hella comfortable and wonderful and like chicken soup for this ragged soul and I don’t really want to let go but we’ll be hating it in the morning, well, I’ve slept worse before but you’ll definitely be hating it especially with such a comfy bed sitting right under our asses going to waste.”

“Of course, Dave.”

“Cool.” He slips from your grip like water to move back towards the center of the bed, kicking down the sheets for you to slip under.

“Would you mind if I removed my pants? I still will be wearing my under things but...”

“Course, course,” Dave waves a hand at you, ducking his head a little and you think he might be blushing a little but with the lack of light you have nothing affirmative. You quickly remove your pants, socks, and the remains of your outer shirt, leaving on the white cotton undershirt and then slip under the sheets. It’s a little awkward at the level of intimacy that being under the sheets in bed together implies, but you let Dave arrange the two of you to his satisfaction, which turns out to be both of you on your sides facing each other with him tucked inside of your embrace. Your injured hand is thankfully on top and can stay out of the way even if either of you were to move in the night.

You have just closed your eyes when you feel him move and then you feel something odd. You don’t react or open your eyes as it happens again. You realize he is gently licking your face, soft... kitty licks. You suppose that it is either in thanks or as a comfort to him. Either way the dry, slightly rough tip of his tongue is not unpleasant against your cheek and jawline. You relax into the situation and fall asleep.

--