- david watches knife/spear making videos while angel showers. when they finish, without even turning his head to look at them, he’ll open an arm, allowing angel to snuggle in close and watch with him

- every single time angel helps david shave, he kisses their face with shaving cream still on his lips. they eventually learned how to dodge his attacks, forcing him to get creative (which results in full-blown shaving cream fights)

- angel likes to rub their head and face on david’s bicep like a cat

- david will cut angel’s favorite fruit and hand them the plate wordlessly, along with a tiny fork stuck in one of the pieces. if they’re occupied, they’ll let out a demanding “ahh” to instruct david to reluctantly feed them

- when angel picks something off the floor while sitting, david will ALWAYS cover the table’s corner to protect their head as they sit back up

- angel likes to spin david’s wedding ring while playing with his hands. they also enjoy bumping their ring with his just to hear the little *clink*

It was the first Friday of February and it was eleven at night and Asher was supposed to be home an hour ago. Most of the time, Asher running late wasn’t a cause for concern. It was a fact of life you had accepted two years ago after your third date. By that time, he was three for three for being at least fifteen minutes late. He had no concept of time. You managed to train him to at least send a text when he knew he would be running behind, but that was about all you’d managed so far. You knew that the anxiety building up in your stomach was not warranted, at least not yet. Asher’s job didn’t really care about shift schedules and ETA’s. If there was a fire in the last thirty seconds of his shift, it was his responsibility. It wasn’t the first time he had been late by a good amount of time and hadn’t had the time to reach you. 

For as much as Ash was unpredictable, you were regimented. Everything you did, you did just so. You liked consistency in the same way Asher liked variety. So when he was late, you worried. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. 

You scrubbed the single dish you’d dirtied for dinner and stared at the clock that hung above your kitchen window. The window that looked up on the driveway. The window where headlights would flash through brightly as soon as Asher pulled in. Your dish was clean several minutes ago. You lingered anyway. 

It was the first Friday of February and it was eleven-fifteen at night and Asher wasn’t home. 

It was eleven-thirty at night and Asher wasn’t home. 

It was eleven-forty-five at night. 

It was eleven-forty-six. 

Your plate was clean thirty minutes ago. Your wrists itched the soapy water. 

Eleven-forty-seven.

Eleven-forty-eight. 

He was dead. He had to have died in a fire. 

Eleven-forty-nine. 

He didn’t have life insurance. Even in his line of work, he had stupidly put off enrolling every time it opened up. Idiot. You were going to have to pay for the funeral for his charred corpse out of pocket. Might as well cremate him. 

Eleven-fifty. 

David was probably dead too. No way he would let Ash go down in a fire and not try to save him, even at the risk of his own life. At least David had life insurance. And no suffering partner to mourn him. The only person who would mourn David would be Asher. 

Eleven-fifty-one. Headlights flashed through the window. You slammed your plate back down into the sink and turned off the tap. “Asshole,” you muttered.

“Asshole!” You shouted, as soon as the door opened. Asher poked his head in and gave you a pointed, serious look, which shut you up for a moment and paused your anger-panic-meltdown. Something was wrong. Obviously, he wouldn’t show up two hours late without a text if everything was perfectly fine. He shouldered open the door and revealed exactly what was wrong. 

David Shaw was leaning on Asher’s shoulder like he would fall out without his support. David’s dark, warm complexion was pale and drawn. His eyes were distant and red-rimmed. He looked like he was dying, but you couldn’t see any blood or burns. 

“What the hell happened to him?” You instinctively lowered your voice as Asher led him to the couch. 

“He’s… I don’t know.” Ash replied. “Weird, bad call. He got overwhelmed.” 

You huffed out a sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. Of course. Of course David was overwhelmed and of course Asher brought him here instead of his immaculate, silent apartment with no one to piss him off or tap against his hairline trigger. 

You were not David Shaw’s biggest fan. He was a weird, mean guy. Most things he said he said with a curl of anger and cruelty in his tone. He treated Ash like a lackey and everybody else who crossed his path like active enemies, including you. 

All of that you could forgive, in the end. You struggled with your own resting-pissed-off-face and most of the things you said came out in a cold, bitchy monotone. What really set your mind about David Shaw was an ill-planned threesome you’d seen through six months ago. The way that he looked at Asher and the way that Asher looked at him could only be one thing. Love. 

It wasn’t a secret. Asher made his attraction to his best friend very known to you. You didn’t see the appeal, but that was likely because you and David looked just enough alike for self depreciation to curl around your guts when you looked at him. You knew that Asher thought you were both, as he put it, practically edible, but that he wasn’t going to cheat on you with David Shaw. 

“He… changed. When his dad died.” Asher had shrugged and smiled when he explained it all to you. “He was always… stoic, but now he’s… yeah. I couldn’t be with him. Not emotionally. Not really.” 

You believed him. You trusted him. You wouldn’t have suggested the threesome if you didn’t. But when you saw Asher with him like this, fussing over him like he was some sort of lost lamb, you couldn’t get the bitter taste out of your mouth. 

Asher loved you in a way he couldn’t love David. Not safely. Not now. 

But he loved David first. And he loved him totally. He loved him in a way that you didn’t think you understood. 

You watched for a few minutes as Asher gently coaxed David out of his work boots and his ever-present, too-big leather jacket. David wasn’t much help, though he raised a hand to scratch at his chest as soon as his jacket was gone. 

“What material is that shirt made of?” You asked. 

“What?” Asher looked up, still straining to reach around David and unclip his wallet chain. 

“The shirt. Is it cotton? Or a blended fabric?” 

“I don’t-” Asher huffed, reaching back to check the tag. “50% polyester. Why?” 

“It’s irritating his skin.” You mumbled. You sighed and finally stepped forward, reaching around David’s waist and pulling the shirt off. David lifted his arms obediently as you tugged on it. His chest was raw from how much he’d been scratching it. “Good?” You asked him. David nodded. “I’m gonna lower the lights and turn up the heat a little.” 

“Babe-” Ash caught your hand in his for a second. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, baby,” you replied like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. It was actually a whole lot. But you wouldn’t say that. Not with David here. 

You set up the house the way you would if you were overstimulated. You had spent a weekend fitting every light in the house with dimmers soon after moving in. The master-switch by the thermostat lowered everything from the biting full brightness to a softer, less intrusive glow. You raised the heat a few degrees, to the balmy seventy-two that you knew David kept his apartment at at all times. You closed the blinds to block any headlights from moving cars. You ran a soft cloth under lukewarm water and brought it out to the living room. 

Asher had managed to position David on his side, curled in the fetal position, with a throw pillow under his head. David was running his fingers over the soft fabric rhythmically, his eyes closed but clearly not asleep. 

“David?” You asked softly as you knelt next to him. “Is your chest hot? Itchy?” 

“Y-yeah,” David managed, his voice cracking. 

“Okay,” You replied, “that’s okay. I’ve got a damp cloth. It could help. If it doesn’t I’ll stop.”

You gently pressed the cloth to David’s skin. Your mind supplied memories of wiping the same cloth over David’s thighs and stomach as he panted, wrung loose, in your bed. He was overwhelmed then too. You should have known then, how very similar the two of you were. Was he diagnosed? Did he even know? 

“Sorry,” David mumbled, face pressed hard into the pillow. “I don’t…”

“Shh,” you soothed, “don’t say sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I’m… ruining your night.” 

You glanced at the clock in the kitchen as you shook your head, smiling. 

“It’s twelve-o-two. Not a night anymore, so you can’t ruin it.” 

He lapsed into silence again and you didn’t force anything. Asher started to strip away David’s thick, canvas work pants. 

“What happened on the call?” You asked when the silence grew too thick to stand.

“Structure fire.” Asher sighed. “In an apartment complex.” 

“God,” you mumbled. “Did you put it out?”

“Yeah,” Ash nodded, “after it ate through three units. Milo and David must have done twenty-something extractions by the end of it.” 

“Not you?” You asked. Usually, Milo and Asher breached in fires. 

“Nope.” Asher shook his head. “David’s… he’s been making me IC recently.” 

“Huh…” you huffed

David Shaw didn’t strike you as the sort of guy that gave up control easily. As long as you’d known Asher (granted, two years wasn’t all that long in the grand scheme of things), he had always told you David was in charge of every scene they were called to. You didn’t know what it meant, him handing the title of Incident Commander to Asher. It seemed, from the troubled look on his face, that Asher didn’t know either. 

“David,” you bent down in front of him, “do you wanna go to bed?”

“I…” David’s brow scrunched up, seeming to struggle with the decision. “I don’t have my toothbrush.” You huffed out a laugh. 

“We have extras.” You said. “Come on, we can start moving that way.” 

It turned out, Asher kept extras of the very specific brand of toothpaste David had bought for literal decades (he hated mint, apparently, said it was overwhelming), and an extra of the type of toothbrush he used (soft bristles). Under the bright bathroom light, though, one snag in your evening became clear. 

David was filthy. Covered in ash and dirt and sweat. He was the kind of grimy that you would not allow in your bed. And he was the kind of grimy that would surely start tapping on his already frayed nerves in a matter of minutes. 

“David,” Asher said softly, catching his attention, “you gotta take a shower, buddy.” 

David Shaw did something you’d never seen before. His face screwed up and he began to cry. 

Asher had to physically pull David into the shower in the end, and it took you both to scrub away the grime that was covering his body from head to toe. He fought you the entire time, flinching away from the warm water. 

“I thought he loved swimming and stuff like that,” you muttered as David tried to press himself into the cold shower wall. 

“He does,” Asher used his hands to scrub David’s skin instead of a loofa or a cloth. Too rough on his already sensitive skin. “He just doesn’t like it when he’s already…” 

“Overstimulated.” You supplied. “He’s overstimulated, baby. You know what that looks like.” 

You were blessed with pretty cool parents who recognized exactly the genetics they were passing on to their child. When you didn’t start talking when you were meant to, they had you tested. You were diagnosed early and you were taught some pretty incredible coping techniques. 

But you still got overstimulated. You still had the occasional, proper meltdown under enough stress. Asher knew that, and he knew just how to help. 

That was probably why, when presented with David’s predicament, his body took over. He brought him home. He lowered his voice, calmed his constant energy. He made him comfortable, gave him what he needed. Maybe Ash and David had never called this what it was, but this was something that they had done before, and something that Asher was incredible at. You could suddenly place where he got all of the practice. 

Asher scratched his fingers through David’s short-cropped hair, shampoo trailing down his muscled, tense back. You shielded his eyes while Ash washed the soap out. You held him steady at his waist as Asher patted him dry with one of your extra-plush towels. Ash covered his ears while you blasted his hair with your dryer. You knew that, as unpleasant as the loud noise was, a wet pillowcase would be far worse in the long run. 

Three sets of pajamas instead of two. Three pairs of socked feet shuffling from the bathroom to the bedroom. Three bodies, crowded into your bed. 

David was pressed between the two of you, his warmth and yours and Asher’s mingling under the sheets. He huffed out a breath, eyes closing as he rubbed his cheek against your silk pillowcase. 

“There you go, big guy,” you mumbled, brushing the too-fluffy strands of his hair off his forehead. Asher’s arm snaked around him and pressed him close, David’s back to his chest. 

“We’ve got you.” Ash said softly, lips pressed into David’s skin. His green eyes flashed to you in the low light that leaked through the flowy curtains. Exhausted and drained, yeah, but still alert, still tuned in, and still locked on you. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You replied. “We’ve got you.”

You didn’t know who Ash was talking about out of the three of you. You didn’t know if it mattered. The digital clock on Ash’s nightstand blinked at you, harsh and red.