Work Text:
It was an ordinary Tuesday. David cued up their opening playlist and lit a cinnamon cedar candle to set the ambiance, hips swaying to the music as he dusted the shelves. Patrick watched him from behind the counter while he counted the float into the till. He couldn’t resist wrapping his hands around David's hips as he shimmied past. David turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to Patrick's lips.
With a smile, he pushed David back toward the sales floor, removing the distraction. He started the count again.
“David, did you move the petty cash somewhere when you closed on Sunday?”
“It should all be in the drawer, did I mess up the count?”
“No the money’s here, but you did mess up the float. We need small bills for when the senior bus comes through,” Patrick sighed. The senior center in Elm Ridge had started bringing its residents in weekly to shop. A whole bus of customers who stocked up on moisturizers, fawned over David, and always needed change for the cash they used to pay. The center had been doing this for months now and they always swapped the float for smaller bills in preparation. Or, at least, he did. David, who’d closed on his own on Sunday, had forgotten.
Patrick tried to hold back the groan of frustration. He’d been looking forward to a quiet morning of teasing his husband, not a frantic rush to the bank.
“I followed that little cheat sheet you keep in the drawer,” David’s voice was quiet as he came around the counter. His arms reached out to settle in their usual place across Patrick’s shoulders.
“I guess I need to make you a separate cheat sheet for days when we’re expecting a lot of cash customers.” It was petty, but he shrugged off David's embrace as he gathered the bills from the counter. “I’m going to run this to the bank and get it swapped out. If I leave now I should be back before the bus gets here.”
“I’m sorry, I can go if you want-” without a shoulder to land on, David’s fingers danced through the air down to his sides.
“No, I want to make sure it’s right, otherwise the whole drawer will be a mess later.” He tucked the cash into the bank bag and made his way toward the door.
Patrick let out a sigh of frustration as he crossed the threshold. There was no reason to make this a huge deal and yet he was doing just that. Yes, David had forgotten, but he was the one choosing to be grumpy about it. He pushed the door shut behind him, cutting off David’s goodbye. He’d stop and get him an apology muffin once he’d cooled down.
-*-
David’s carefully crafted opening playlist was not having its desired effect. Logically, he understood Patrick’s frustration; he should have remembered to change out the float. But he had offered to go fix the problem himself. Patrick’s 'no,’ in that explanatory tone he used with difficult customers, was unnecessary.
That’s why David was blinking back tears at 8:30 a.m.
Not because Patrick had walked away without saying goodbye. Certainly not because he had closed the door on him, trapping his ‘I love you’ inside. His husband was in one of those moods. He’d be back in a bit, acting overly apologetic, they’d talk and things would be fine.
David wiped his knuckles under his eyes once more and shook out his hands. Undereye crisis averted, he continued refacing the stock his dusting had disturbed. He’d just gotten back into the music when the bell chimed over the door.
“Oh we’re actually not open yet--” he turned to the door.
“Give me all your money.”
David recognized the dark aubergine hoodie. Even if he hadn’t, the embarrassment washing over him, was a sharp reminder.
“Great stuff guys”
“You upsold the robber?”
“This sounds like a lucky customer David.”
He wasn’t falling for this again.
“So I know it’s been a while, but our money still isn’t for sale.”
The bulge in the man’s pocket is his hand, not a weapon , David thought to himself. There’s no reason to panic and set this day even further off track.
He turned around, drawing a deep breath the way Twyla taught him at yoga. He thought of every asshole comment he endured on the streets of New York and put on an icy tone, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” The man pulled his hand from his pocket.
Oh, that’s a gun.
A real gun, in my store.
Being pointed at me while this man gestures toward the cash register.
David forgot how to breathe.
“As I was saying, give me all your money, now.”
This isn’t going to end well . David knew that as soon as he opened his mouth.
“So you’re not going to believe this but my husband actually just left with our money. You see I messed up what we needed to keep in the drawer, and he took it to the bank to sort it out. I’ve got about 20 bucks here if you’d like that?”
He rambled as he tried to get around the center table, toward the door. Not that that actually worked. The robber moved the gun toward his chest and walked him back to the register, and didn’t say anything, staring as he waited for David to open it up.
“Okay, so it’s actually only 15 dollars but-”
“What about back here?” the man pushed aside the curtain with the gun and gestured David through. His eyes landed on the safe and he glared at David expectantly.
“Again we’re not even supposed to be open yet. So there’s nothing in the safe because we haven’t actually made any money yet today,” David’s voice rose against his attempted facade. He was trying to sound commanding but it was landing somewhere closer pleading.
“Yeah, you can go ahead and open that for me -- you’ve got to have something in there.”
The man was about David’s height, the baggy hoodie doing nothing to hide the fact that they were the same size. If David had been a braver man, more athletic, he'd have taken his chances and pushed past him. He could’ve run toward the cafe and caused enough of a scene that someone would see -- but he wasn't and he didn’t. He dropped to his knees and tried to steady his hands enough to open the safe he knew was empty.
He was on his third attempt, his breaths increasingly shallow when the bell chimed over the door.
“David, I’m--"
The metal was cool against his head as the room faded to black.
-*-
The line at the bank was blissfully short. Marjorie made Patrick the correct change without even making him fill out a deposit form. He took the long way back, letting the rest of his frustration fade as the trees went past. He parked the car behind the store, the sound of David’s opening playlist drifting through the back door. He considered heading in to apologize now. There was still time to steal one of the quiet moments he’d been looking forward to. Then he remembered slamming the door in David’s face when he left. That was the kind of apology that called for carbohydrates.
Ten minutes later he’d gotten a cinnamon roll and one of the new seasonal lattes Twyla had been testing tucked into a drink tray. There was also a backup macchiato in case David wasn’t feeling cardamom citrus. Patrick was feeling contrite; it had been a long time since he’d picked a fight for no reason, and he didn’t like the way the regret sat on his skin.
He didn’t see David on the sales floor as he pulled open the door, balancing the drinks in one hand. He called out so as not to surprise him. “David I’m back and before you say anything I have something for you.”
There was a muffled whisper and a thud from behind the curtain. Patrick smiled, wondering what he’d caught his husband doing, when the curtain opened and a stranger walked out.
Patrick took in the ski mask, the jumpy posture, the cool silver metal of the gun in the man’s hand. The drink tray crashed to the floor as his eyes landed on his husband, crumpled on the ground in front of the safe.
“David?”
“He’s fine,” the man was surprisingly cavalier about the fact that David was unmoving on the floor, a small line of blood along his hairline. Patrick wanted to go and wipe it clean before it dripped onto David’s sweater. There was more blood on the floor and his husband's head. Things were not fine. He just needed to go and--
“Stop right there.”
Patrick had been moving, unthinking, toward David. Trying to put himself between the gun and the love of his life on the floor. He froze on the spot, shoving his hands deep in his pockets to stop them from reaching out too.
Patrick had always seen himself as a protector. It was his job to make sure David was safe -- from moths, extended contact with Roland, and any of his lingering insecurities. He never thought he’d be standing there, in their store, unable to protect his husband from actual violence.
“Please,” Patrick’s voice was shaking as his eyes searched David’s body for further damage. “Whatever you came for, you can take it. No one needs to get hurt, okay?”
David rolled over with a groan and the robber stepped into Patrick’s space. “On the floor,” he muttered, keeping the gun trained on Patrick, “and slide your phone this way too. I don’t want any funny business.”
Patrick slid his phone out and pushed it across the floor before dropping to sit at the far end of the cash. His eyes stayed trained on David as he pushed himself up against the wall next to the curtain. His heart clenched as David’s head fell against the wall with a soft thump, eyebrows drawn together in pain.
“David?” His voice was still unsteady; his breathing wasn’t much better.
David’s head turned in recognition, eyes widening in panic before he slammed them shut with a wince. The robber kicked his hip where it was resting against the wall and David forced his eyes back open. He looked from the man towering over him to the gun in his hand, trained on Patrick.
“This must be the guy who was at the bank? Your husband right?” The robber posed the question to David, kneeing him in the shoulder when he didn't immediately respond.
“No.” David’s quiet reply shocked Patrick, who watched as his husband drew an obviously unsteady breath. “You’ve got all the money I had here and now you’ve gone and held up one of my customers. This is our busiest morning of the week, and we’re expecting a busload of senior citizens soon. Are you planning to hold all of them at gunpoint too?”
This seemed to give the robber pause, though Patrick was trying to keep up as well. There was a bank bag full of cash in the console of his car. He’d been ready to hand it all over the moment he saw David on the floor. He’d have pulled anything the man wanted off the shelves to get the gun away from his husband.
“You got any cash on you?” The robber gestured toward Patrick.
“I-- uh-- I've got a couple of bucks in my wallet, do you want me to pull it out?”
The man looked between them and the door, no doubt watching for the customers David mentioned before he nodded.
Patrick pulled his wallet from the back of his jeans, laying the bills on the counter before sitting back again. The man pocketed the money and stepped to the middle of the room, gesturing for David to stand where he could see him.
He seemed to be deciding between leaving with the cash or asking for more. His movements were jumpy as he paced the sales floor, the gun pointed between them while the silence stretched on. A sudden sound, like the backfiring of a car, echoed through the store.
The robber looked at the gun in his hand, seemingly in shock, before running toward the back door. Patrick was fighting the urge to follow him when David slumped into the wall behind the counter a smear of red coating the subway tile beside him.
“Fuck that hurt.”
The noise hadn’t been a car. It was a gun. That gun. In their store. Shooting Patrick’s husband.
“David?” He hit his hip on the counter in his rush to get around it, to get his eyes and his hands on his husband and make sure he was okay. Except he wasn’t sure how could David be okay when he'd just been shot while Patrick stood by and watched.
“I’m okay,” David hissed pressing his hand to his shoulder, “hurts, though.”
Patrick pulled his hands back, the need to check the damage warring with the desire not to hurt David any further.
“Can I take a look, baby?”
“Think maybe we should call an ambulance first?” David’s tone was teasing though he couldn’t hide the wince as he leaned toward his phone. He fell back against the wall with a gasp and Patrick tried not to look at the growing redness behind him.
Patrick grabbed the phone, dialing without thought as David grabbed his free hand. The EMS dispatcher took their info, then asked him to find something to put pressure on the wound. He let go of David's hand long enough to grab the blanket from the couch in the back, before holding tight again. Patrick held the blanket against David’s arm as the operator talked out of the phone on the floor between them. They were still sitting there when the paramedics arrived, and then Patrick watched in a daze as the EMTs walked David to the ambulance, asking Patrick to drive behind them to the hospital.
He grabbed his keys and locked the store on autopilot, trying his best not to let his gaze linger on the blood-smeared wall behind the counter.
-*-
By the time Patrick was allowed to join him, David had been patched up and given a hearty dose of painkillers. Or at least enough to make him loudly announce to the nurse that this was his husband, who would agree with him on the tragic loss of his sweater.
He watched Patrick thank the nurse, failing to contain his eye roll at his husband's overwhelming politeness. That nurse had deserved every one of David's complaints. He’d thoroughly dismissed David’s concerns for his sweater. David had survived a robbery and a shooting. So sue him if he was feeling a little protective over his personal possessions.
Patrick was still standing in the doorway, eyes darting between the bed and the floor, too far away for David’s liking. He hadn’t yet made eye contact.
“C’mere,” he said, his usual grabby hands hindered by the sling on his arm. Patrick stepped closer, taking in the sling on his arm and the bandage at his hairline. He ran his hand down the curve of David’s cheek before settling beside him.
“David.”
His voice sounded strained as if it pained him to actually speak. David didn’t understand. He’d done everything right this time, no stock given away, no one seriously hurt. Patrick shouldn’t have been so upset. Patrick’s eyes widened and, damn these drugs, he hadn’t meant to say any of that aloud.
“David no, I’m--I’m so sorry,” Patrick whispered before dropping his head to the hospital bed with a sob. Confused, David did his best to soothe Patrick, running his unencumbered hand through the curls at the back of his husband’s neck. He tried not to panic as Patrick started to cry harder. The angle was all wrong, and David’s shoulder was starting to twinge, but there was something meditative to the action. Without meaning to, his eyes drifted closed, comforted by Patrick's presence.
Sometime later, the sweater-stealing nurse returned. He woke them brusquely, reading off a long list of aftercare instructions. The bullet had grazed David’s shoulder, leaving a nasty cut but no permanent damage. They’d have to watch the sutures over the next few weeks and keep the area clean and covered until they dissolved. The sling was to keep things stabilized and to remind David to take it easy.
Patrick listened attentively to the whole spiel. His thumb rubbed in unconscious circles against David’s thigh as he avoided his gaze once more.
Instructions delivered, the nurse directed David to sign the discharge forms and produced a wheelchair from the hall. Folded neatly in the seat were his jeans and the tattered remains of his Givenchy star sweater. As the realization hit him that he'd have to choose between going to the car shirtless or in a hospital gown, David turned a panicked gaze toward Patrick. His husband was already unbuttoning his own shirt, sliding the familiar blue fabric onto David's uninjured arm. They both tried to ignore the bloodstain darkening the chest.
David thought about protesting the wheelchair; the whole aesthetic was incorrect. One look at Patrick’s face, his brow furrowed in concern, silenced the complaint. Besides he was still feeling a little lightheaded from the medication they’d given him.
Patrick wheeled him to the car, dodging every bump in their path. He helped David into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt before dropping a kiss on his forehead. He was asleep by the time they pulled out of the parking lot.
-*-
As they pulled up to the cottage, Patrick took advantage of the combination of pain medication and David's habit of sleeping in cars to get a good look at his husband.
He’d been in a fog since calling EMS, too ashamed to look at David. Too scared to face the obvious signs of his failure to protect his husband. David looked peaceful for now, the unbandaged side of his head pressed against the window. There was a butterfly bandage covering the cut on his forehead, under his hairline. A larger gauze pad spread across his shoulder, visible under the open collar of his borrowed, bloody, shirt.
Patrick let his gaze trace over his husband's sleeping form, reassuring himself that David was safe and relatively whole beside him. His heart broke as he thought back to the hospital, David’s fears of inadequacy spilling, unfiltered, between them. The thought that the last thing he had done to his husband was close the door in his face -- locking him out over a meaningless squabble. The full force of that thought had hit him as he stood in the door of the hospital room and he’d almost collapsed under the weight of it. And David had been there, as always, comforting him from the hospital bed. Making everything okay.
David snuggled deeper into the seat, waking with a start as the seatbelt caught on the straps of his sling. For a moment his eyes were wild, scanning the small space before finding Patrick's face.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice scratchy with sleep, “d’you think I could get a little help inside, it’s been a bit of day.”
“Of course, David.” Patrick was up and moving, the chance to actually do something for David enough to propel him from his thoughts. He helped David out of the car and into the house, leading him right up to their bedroom. As David settled on the bed, Patrick traded his jeans for a pair of joggers before throwing the blood-stained shirt deep into the back of the closet. He pulled out one of his own zip front sweatshirts, draping it over David’s shoulders. David offered him a grateful smile before using his good arm to pull Patrick down next to him.
Patrick wanted nothing more than to sink into bed with his husband. To hold David close and feel the reassuring beat of his heart-- safe, alive, safe, alive --but he didn’t deserve that comfort. He tried to slip out of the bed, but David stopped him.
“Lay with me?” his voice seemed so unsure, and Patrick’s heart broke again. He’d put that uncertainty there.
David, who had been smart and brave through this whole ordeal, was looking at him so tentatively, as if he’d done something wrong. Patrick was back in the bed in an instant, holding his husband as close as he dared.
David relaxed against him, tucking his head into Patrick’s chest.
“I can hear you thinking you know,” he said, keeping his gaze down.
“I could have lost you today.”
David turned, pressing a kiss right over his heart. “You didn’t, though. I’m okay, the store’s okay--”
“I don’t care about the store David. You--” Patrick forced out a shaky breath, “you were shot.”
“And I’m fine. Well, not fine, but all things considered...”
“Da-David,” he buried his face against his hair.
“Hey, hey,” David turned to press a kiss to Patrick’s chest. “Talk to me now, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Patrick stiffened underneath him. “David, you were shot in our store today. We’re lucky that guy had bad aim because if he hadn’t-- if I’d lost you? The last thing I would have done was argue with you over the stupid drawer float.”
He paused, weaving his fingers through David’s, his thumb brushing over the gold of his wedding band. “I promised I’d always protect you, and I wasn’t there,” he whispered.
“Hey, okay, ouch,” David tried to sit them both up, jostling his bandaged shoulder in the process. “So, I’m at a disadvantage here. You’re going to have to look at me.” He waited as Patrick shifted beside him, fear clouding his eyes.
“Look, I know today was scary, but we’re okay. I just-- obviously we were having a bit of a rough morning--” Patrick let out a humorless laugh, dropping his chin. David pulled it back up with his good arm. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t make things worse or mess them up like last time.”
“David, no.” Patrick was crying again, words mixing with tears as he forced them out. “This morning was stupid. I was being stupid and petty, and I knew it as soon as I walked out the door. I don’t know why, but you have to know-- David” he drew in a breath. “When I walked in and saw you lying on the floor, I thought, I would have given him everything in the store if it would have kept you safe.”
“Okay, but you did keep me safe. If you hadn’t come in--” he let out a yawn, “I knew as soon as I saw you that I had to do what I could to keep you safe and I knew you’d do the same.” David dropped his head back against Patrick’s, holding him close against the pillows as he fought to stay awake. It was a losing battle.
Patrick laid there long after David’s breath had evened out, watching the fading afternoon light as it bounced across his husband's face. He fell asleep with his eyes on David’s bandaged shoulder, their hands twined together as he ran his thumb along the cool metal of the promise he’d failed to keep.
-*-
Two weeks later, David was getting restless. Honestly, he was surprised he wasn’t freaking out. His lingering pride over how well he’d handled things combined with growing concern for Patrick had pushed any potential anxiety spirals aside.
Between the two of them, Patrick was the one who was not handling things well. David was fuzzy on the details of their conversation, but Patrick hadn’t broached the topic so he liked to assume they had worked it out. Patrick had been clingy -- he was a natural caretaker after all -- but there was an air of melancholy hanging over everything they did.
Every time David whined about the itching in his sutures or the fact that he was stuck wearing a toque because his hair was impossible to manage one-handed, Patrick offered up a solution, his teasing nowhere to be found. Patrick had also taken over all David’s least favorite bits at the store, counting inventory without complaint and encouraging his husband to hide in the back when Roland stopped in. Patrick had been cleaning meticulously too, and it hadn’t escaped David’s attention that he’d paid extra attention to the walls behind the cash, scrubbing the tile as if the memories were buried in the cracks.
David knew Patrick wasn’t sleeping, the dark circles beneath his eyes growing deeper each day. Between the lack of sleep and the sudden influx of customers, it was only a matter of time before his husband ran himself ragged. The days were filled with friends and townsfolk stopping in the store to check on them, their curiosity and concern a surprisingly good sales tactic.
Twyla had dropped off muffins and coffee, letting them know that her cousin, the corrections officer, was keeping her posted on any local arrests. She’d also texted a picture to Alexis who’d sent a dozen New York bagels and a new toque, “to cover that horrible little bandaid on your head, David.” David had muted her video calls but texted her a picture, with much better lighting, once the bandage was off. Ray had recommended a new security system before spiraling into a proposal for a “Ray-borhood Watch” program.
Stevie had been the worst, finding excuses to pop in unannounced every time Patrick was out. She'd linger around the store like an overly concerned tsetse fly, bothering him until his husband returned. In fact, David couldn’t think of a single time he’d been alone since the incident.
He was being babysat, like a child who couldn’t be trusted. Which was totally unfair given the fact that none of this was his fault.
And the worst part was that he couldn’t complain to Patrick about it because Patrick was barely holding it together.
It all finally came to a head over the damn bank float.
“So when will I be able to redeem my counting skills?” David asked one day.
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t cashed out the drawer in weeks. I know you're the money guy, but I can take a turn. I’ll double-check the cheat sheet and everything.” David had meant it to be teasing, but Patrick’s shoulders were tense.
“I can do the float, David. It doesn’t have to be a two-person job.”
“I know,” he was treading carefully now, feeling out the edges of this thing between them. “I just wanted to remind you that I also can do the float, you know, if you needed a break.”
“I’m fine David.”
“Okay, it’s just that I’ve watched you restart like three different times already--”
“Well maybe if you‘d stop interrupting me,” Patrick snapped. David ran a tentative hand across his shoulders and Patrick leaned into his touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to snap, I’m just tired today.”
“I can’t imagine why,” David pulled him close. Patrick tucked into his uninjured shoulder, failing to hide the tears rising in his eyes. “Baby, talk to me. I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing's wrong.”
“The bags under your eyes say otherwise.”
“I just-- I can’t stop thinking about everything. I roll over in the bed, and I see the bandage on your shoulder and I’m the reason it’s there. You can’t do your hair how you want because you’re hurt and I wasn’t able to protect you. Anytime I think about leaving you here, even to just go to the cafe, I picture you on the floor and my mind jumps to what would have happened if I was too late.”
Patrick was trembling against him, and David made a point of taking slow, steady breaths, trying to calm them both. He waited until he felt Patrick breathe in before talking.
“You know nothing that happened that day was your fault, right?” Patrick tried to pull his arms away, but David just pulled him closer. “Okay acting like a jerk that morning was totally your fault.” Patrick’s laugh was wet but he didn’t interrupt him. “The rest of it had nothing to do with you. What if I’d gone to the bank instead, or I’d counted the float correctly and we both were here?” David squeezed him, not letting that thought linger. “You can’t blame yourself for someone else's actions. You taught me that.”
Patrick squeezed back, his breath evening out.
“You say that like it's so easy to forget everything.”
“Oh, it’s really fucking hard, no doubt there, but you know what?” David pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips, letting their love building between them. “It’s easier when we work through it together.”
That night, David counted out the drawer. Patrick took the empty boxes from the backroom to the dumpster, leaving David on his own for 30 whole seconds. He peppered him with kisses as soon as he returned, but even that felt like progress after a week of barely-there touches. Patrick’s eyes still lingered on the tile behind the cash as he wiped it down, but when he was done, he turned into David’s arms instead of retreating.
David smiled and held him close, strong and solid and safe.