Chapter Text
In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.
— Benjamin Franklin
Patrick’s just finishing up some final budget adjustments for the day when the lights start appearing in the sky.
The room he’s renting at the property adjacent to Heather’s farm sits right at the limits for the town of Schitt’s Creek, eating a good way into the trip to Elmdale – though without really saving any time, due to the necessity of having to actually get to that main road. On nights like these, when Heather and the gang are overnighting in Elmdale for the farmer’s market and he’s left on his lonesome, burning the midnight oil tweaking some numbers on the spreadsheet in front of him, it’s quiet – the countryside rolling out still and dark, his bedroom window the only source of light for miles, turning the cottage into a landlocked lighthouse. Which is why, when Patrick snaps his laptop shut and flicks off his lamp and his room isn’t dark, he edges back out of bed, twitching open his curtains, and is greeted by a night sky to put all other night skies to shame.
Holy shit. By all accounts, Schitt’s Creek is too far south to get any airtime with the aurora borealis under regular circumstances, so what’s unfolding in front of Patrick’s eyes is nothing short of a winning lottery ticket stamped in the sky – iridescent ribbons of green-blue light, curving gracefully towards the horizon, completely impossible and utterly breathtaking. Patrick presses against the window, torn between the thought of grabbing his phone versus missing a single second of what’s unfolding in front of him, but the sky makes the choice for him – suddenly, the lights flare, the world alight in searing emerald, forcing Patrick to shield his eyes as a crack of dry thunder splits the air. And then, as quick as it came, all the lights are gone – leaving Patrick standing, dumbfounded, in his pitch black bedroom.
“Holy shit,” Patrick repeats, blinking rapidly against the fading purple streaks across his retinas. Correction – it’s not all dark. As his vision clears, he can make out a new light source flickering out in the field.
Shit. That better not have been a meteorite taking a chunk out of Heather’s flock. He needs every one of those goats making chevre if they’re going to get ahead of the first quarter. “Okay, just going to check. Check on the goats,” he mutters to himself, snatching up his car keys and taking the stairs two at a time.
*
Patrick’s not sure what he expected when he brought his car around to the impact site – his imagination had helpfully provided him with an image of charred goat corpses set around a blackened hole, a ghostly quarterly projection in the red superimposed over it – but if he had a list of things that would be reasonable to expect after some kind of solar event, what he’s seeing now wouldn’t have even made that list. Nor the shortlist, for that list. To the point that Patrick isn’t entirely certain that he’s not having a very vivid stress-induced night terror right now.
Sitting in the middle of the field, lit by the glow of Patrick’s headlights back over where he parked the car, is a massive pile of standard issue file boxes. A couple of them have tipped over, and a sudden breeze flings a few papers into the air – Patrick, borne on muscle memory from decades of playing the outfield, grabs them before they can fly away. He frowns down at them – it’s too dark to really make out what’s written on them, but—
“Much appreciated, kind stranger!” comes a voice off to his left, and Patrick whips around to come face to face with what can only be described as a glamorous older couple who’ve wandered off the set of The Great Gatsby. Patrick, in a dressing gown with his checkered pajama bottoms tucked into a pair of gumboots, is suddenly very glad he’s not having this conversation in the unforgiving light of day. The man, in a full three-piece suit and coiffed, salt-and-pepper hair atop a very prominent pair of eyebrows, smiles at him and shifts the box he’s holding in his arms so he can extend a gloved hand. “I’ll take those off your hands, if you don’t mind.”
Patrick blinks, realizes he’s still holding those loose papers, and hands them over. “Are—are you two okay?” he ventures. “I heard this huge crash, and—what on Earth happened here?”
“Oh! So we are in the correct locale,” the lady to his right exclaims in a high, lilting accent Patrick can’t quite place, a vision in some sort of monochrome haute couture ballgown and six inch studded heels. She gives her companion a light slap to the arm, and Patrick notices she’s wearing black leather gloves, which are also studded. “See, didn’t I tell you, Johnny. And you had the temerity to doubt my navigational prowess.”
“Never, not for a second, Moira,” Johnny replies. “Say,” he continues, addressing Patrick, “Are we in the township of, ah, Schitt’s Creek?”
“Technically, yeah, you’re within the limits,” Patrick replies. He points out, past the dot of light of his bedroom in the distance, with his nice warm bed that he’s beginning to regret leaving. “The actual town is around fifteen minutes’ drive down the road, in that direction.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Johnny says. “And would you be the, uh, leader? Of this fine town?”
“Well, I’d like to think I’m a pillar of the community,” Patrick jokes. The two just stare at him blankly. Good lord, they’re serious. “Uh, but if you’re looking for the mayor, that would be Roland Schitt. But I really don’t think he’s going to be available for an appointment at this hour.”
“A pity, but I’m sure we’ll find him in the morning. Well, my name is Johnny Rose, and this is my wife, Moira.”
“Patrick Brewer,” he responds. “I’m ah, happy to help.”
“And we’re glad for it. Would you be so kind as to direct us to the nearest accommodation, so that my family and I can recuperate from our difficult journey?”
Patrick looks to the couple, who give him twin genteel smiles, and then to the pile of file boxes, and considers several things: no tire marks from any kind of transport vehicle that could’ve brought these people and their mountain of paperwork to a field in the middle of relative nowhere. Just, generally, the concept of some old money family, in full black-tie regalia, delighted to be standing in a muddy goat-field at midnight. Apparently, not knowing what a ‘mayor’ is. “There’s a motel on the other side of town,” Patrick says finally. “I can give you a ride, if you’d like.”
“That’s great news! Moira, you stay here, I’ll rally the troops. Alexis!” Johnny yells out, towards the box-pile. “Hurry up with your brother!”
“I am trying,” a third person replies, hidden from sight on the other side of the pile. “His big dumb foot is wedged in there!”
“Hey,” a fourth voice rings out indignantly, “It’s not my fault that—ugh, Alexis, get off. Just go! Just go.”
“Ugh, fine, David! Enjoy your life as a paperweight!” One of them pops out, coming into the light – a woman, around Patrick’s age or younger, looking like a supermodel in a sparkly flapper dress and vintage boots, various pieces of jewelry glinting as she flicks her hair in irritation. She brightens up upon spotting Patrick, tottering over to them unevenly in the mud. A low bleat announces the presence of one of Heather’s goats, thankfully all in one piece, come to see what all the fuss is about.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes in a cute little fuzzy co—OH,” she exclaims, as the goat takes an interest in her dress, and expresses that interest with its teeth. “Ew, can you—this is not edible, I think, get—OFF—”
Patrick and Johnny both move forward at the same time to assist, but Alexis holds up a hand that says let me handle this and then shimmies off one of her elbow length, satiny gloves, passing it back to her other hand. She presses her index finger firmly to the goat’s knobbly brow. “Stop that,” she reprimands. And, miraculously, the goat lets go.
Alexis makes a satisfied little hmm, brushing off her dress as the goat wanders off into the night. Patrick tracks it briefly to be sure it’s not planning to circle back and chew on the mountain of paperwork. “Sorry for the interruption,” she continues, “And, don’t worry – we won’t be seeing that gross thing again, so, no need to thank me, and, you’re welcome.” She extends her gloved arm to Patrick with her hand crooked downwards, like she’s expecting him to kiss it. “I’m Alexis Rose, of the Rose family, and you are?”
At this point, there’s a disturbance among the boxes, and a triumphant shout must indicate that whoever’s foot was trapped beneath them has been freed. “Nice to meet you, Alexis,” Patrick replies, just kind of—grabbing her hand by the fingers and giving it an awkward shake. “I’m—”
He trails off, the words drying up in his mouth, because from behind the boxes has emerged the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen – six miles of legs in a perfectly tailored black suit with crisp white accents, dark hair swept effortlessly back off his forehead, striking brows fixed in a frown atop a pouty, generous mouth, brooding jawline etched in stubble. “Guh,” Patrick says, ineloquently, trying to put the brakes on his train of thought. He feels like a Looney Tunes character, heartbeat thumping through his eyeballs, desperately trying to pull his miles-long tongue back into his mouth. “I’m, Bratrick. Patrick,” he manages, giving himself an internal shake. Get it together, Brewer. “I’m Patrick Brewer. Ah, my car is over there. Obviously. I mean, you can see it, so, follow me.”
“Sweet Pat, we are ever so grateful for your generosity,” Moira says. “David, Alexis, go help your father with the boxes.”
The gorgeous boy, ostensibly David, meets Patrick’s eyes for a brief second – and Patrick should probably be grateful, because even in that short a timeframe it’s enough to give him mild heart palpitations – before huffing and stalking back to the box pile. Patrick does not stare at his ass as he goes. Patrick walks numbly to his car, trailed by a chatty Moira, and pops the trunk, vaguely telling Johnny when he comes back with the first box to just stack them in here, as many as you can, because evidently he’s now somehow ferrying all of these boxes to the motel along with the entire Rose family, one of whom is distressingly attractive, and he’s in his ratty dressing gown and pajamas, and, oh god, there are so many boxes. It’s going to take so many trips. It’s possible he doesn’t even have enough gas in the tank to do it. He stares down into his (mostly) empty trunk and contemplates just crawling into it and pulling the lid down behind him.
“There,” Johnny declares, setting the last box into place. “That’s the last one. A job well done, Roses.” Patrick blinks, snapping back into reality and to a trunk completely packed with boxes. Boxes that were towering in a heap above them just minutes ago, somehow all slotted neatly into his trunk without a problem. That makes sense, and is fine.
“So… what happens now?” David murmurs, from behind Patrick, his breath warm against the nape of his neck.
Patrick swallows heavily, and slams the trunk shut. “Now we drive to the motel,” he says, surprised at how steady his voice is. “Everyone hop in and buckle up, it’s a bit bumpy until we hit the main road.”
He’s halfway to the door of the driver’s seat before he realizes the Roses are still huddling around the trunk, watching him. A crazy thought bubbles up in his head. Maybe they’ve never seen a car before. Which is ridiculous. He pauses a moment longer, and then, wordlessly, reaches back to open the back door, then circles around the front of the car to grab the other two. “Just, ah, make yourselves comfortable,” he calls out, getting in behind the wheel. “Moira, maybe you’d like to ride shotgun?” Because, god knows, having David in the front might actually kill them all. “The front seat,” he clarifies. This is perfectly normal, he thinks, wildly, as the Roses gingerly squeeze their way into his car. Maybe they’re French.
None of them wear their seatbelts. Patrick doesn’t have the energy to deal with that, and figures that with the weight of the boxes in the back, he’ll probably be driving slowly anyway. With one last look out into the field – dark and quiet, nothing out of the ordinary to be seen – Patrick heads out towards Schitt’s Creek.
*
Patrick spends a good fifteen minutes the next morning lying in bed, listening to the aggressively ordinary birdsong outside his window as the sunlight stretches across his ceiling, and wonders if any of it was real.
It’s a fair assessment. He’s been single for a while, now, and putting all of his free time into work to justify his lack of a lovelife, so it makes sense that his overtired and, frankly, understimulated brain would conjure up what is ostensibly the plotline of a very niche porno. It’s certainly got the needlessly nonsensical writing down – Hot Aliens in Need of a Naughty Secretary, For Some Reason, To Do All of Their Paperwork. One very hot alien in particular, that Patrick would press down into that pile of boxes, one hand gripped in that lush head of hair, directing him – feeling that delicious scrape of his stubble between his thighs, as he—
Patrick groans, scrubbing a hand across his face, then rolls out of bed and heads straight for the shower. A very cold shower, in which he runs numbers for the sections of the budget he’s tackling today, shivers, and does not think about David Rose, who may or may not exist.
However. Just in case. He’s sure Stevie wouldn’t say no to a free breakfast. “Ray,” he says down the phone, critiquing his choice of dress shirt in the mirror. “I’m thinking of coming in today. Will that work for you?”
“Patrick, for the last time, you’re always welcome to work in the office space,” comes the voice of Ray Butani, resident realtor, photographer, travel agent and jack-of-all-trades-he-can-get-his-face-on, cheerful and chatty as ever. “As you’re still paying rent, I legally can’t free it up for anyone else. Even if I really want to! Besides, it will be nice to hang out. I’ve missed having you as my roommate.”
Patrick has an immediate and visceral flashback montage of all the times Ray, with his severe and chronic lack of personal boundaries, walked in on him in some very compromising positions, back when he was newly out and catching up on what he’d missed out on all those years, leading to his tendency to prefer working on-site instead of at the office he’s still, somehow, paying for. “Sorry,” Patrick says, weakly, “Can you repeat that? I think I missed the last part.”
“Of course! I said, I’m actually just making breakfast right now, if you’d care to join me.”
“That’s very generous of you, Ray, thank you, but I’ve already made prior plans with Stevie,” Patrick half-lies. “But, hey, I’ll see you later. Let’s, uh, let’s catch up.” He hangs up before Ray can make some lighthearted double-entendre like I’d love to see more of you which would make Patrick want to never leave his house again.
Patrick pulls up to the motel after a brief coffee-and-pastry run to make good on his lie to Ray vis-à-vis breakfasting with Stevie. Since he’s been working on Heather’s business at the very edge of town, it’s been a couple of weeks since they’ve properly hung out, which is dog years when you’re best friends in a community as small and tight-knit as Schitt’s Creek. Unless, last night was real, in which case it’s only been around eight hours since he called her out of bed, bleary-eyed and wearing the same pajama bottoms as him (which should be embarrassing, but, look – they’re cheap, practical, and came in a two-pack) to shuffle four wildly overdressed strangers and the contents of their filing cabinet into a pair of rooms.
Heading into reception, however, he’s immediately greeted with the long line of David Rose leaning up against the desk as he says something low and terse to Stevie, wearing this morning a pair of slouch sweats, a light ribbed sweater and what appear to be off-brand Chuck Taylors. He’s less punch-drunk beautiful in the light of day. There’s a mole on his chin, towards the right side. That mole is a lifeline for Patrick’s sanity. So, question one answered: last night was real. Follow-up question: how did David acquire new clothes, and fancy-looking ones at that, because (a) the Roses didn’t bring any other luggage with them aside from the all of the file boxes but (b) if he was getting them from anywhere in town, he’d be wearing the same pajamas as Patrick and Stevie, and (c) well, there’s a thought.
“Great. And now he’s here,” David says, catching sight of him in the doorway. “The reason I find myself in this godforsaken place. I see you’ve cleaned up. Wish that could be me.”
David’s tone is aloof and standoffish, which says don’t engage, I’m not interested. And if Patrick took that at face value, that would be the end of it – disappointing, but he’s batting pretty far out of his league here, so striking out’s to be expected.
But Patrick caught how David’s eyes had tracked down his body, however briefly, and that says game on.
“Thank you, I try,” Patrick replies. “It was a close call between keeping the same outfit as last night, you know, for consistency, but I figured I’d try out a new look.”
“Very brave of you, to go outside of your comfort zone,” Stevie comments, as Patrick hands over her breakfast. “Ooh, blueberry, thank you.” She pops the lid of her coffee cup, eyeing it critically. “Did you get the—”
“—one pump of vanilla, yes, name one time I’ve forgotten it—”
“Oh my god,” David cuts in, and Stevie and Patrick both turn to him – his eyes are drawn wide, flicking between the two sets of muffins and coffee sitting on the desk. “What are those?”
“Uh, this?” Patrick responds, somewhat thrown. He looks to Stevie, who gives him a shrug as she nibbles at her muffin. “Well, Stevie has a double-shot latte with skim milk and one pump of vanilla and a blueberry muffin, and I have a herbal tea with a banana choc chip…” Patrick trails off as David reaches over the desk, picks up Patrick’s muffin, and bites straight into it. His eyes roll closed as he chews, making a very appreciative noise and a face that he really shouldn’t be making in a public space. “Um,” Patrick says, helplessly, heat rising at the back of his neck, turning again to Stevie, who looks just about as poleaxed as he feels.
“Mm,” David says, low and dreamy, after he’s polished off the muffin in record time. He plucks Stevie’s coffee off of the counter. “I’m going to take this one to go. If you ever manage to locate the towels, please have them delivered directly. Thanks so much.”
“Well, that was,” Stevie says finally.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, huskily. He clears his throat. “It sure, uh, was.”
“This may sound insane,” Stevie says distantly, after a beat, in which they both stare, haunted, out into the reception area, “But it seemed like he’d never seen a muffin before. Or, really, the concept of food. Which is crazy, right? Crazy.”
“Crazy,” Patrick echoes. He then figures there’s no point sitting on the elephant in the room. “So they’re aliens, right?”
“Right?” Stevie exclaims. “Well, I’m glad you said it, so it’s not just me losing my mind.”
Patrick braces his elbows on the desk, leaning in conspiratorially. “For a second, last night, I was thinking time travellers. Because they were dressed like they’re from the Roaring Twenties, but then they didn’t know what a car was? And they definitely had cars back then, I looked it up.”
“You know they paid me for the rooms in like, ancient coins.” Stevie pops the till, rummaging around, and fishes out a handful of heavy golden coins, engraved in symbols Patrick can’t decipher. “What am I meant to do with these? Could you even take them into a bank?”
“I think this is actually solid gold,” Patrick says wonderingly, digging a fingernail into the edge of the coin to test its hardness. “I can call in a valuator, who can price them and get them exchanged for cash.”
“And they’re all like, insanely gorgeous too,” Stevie complains. “Which is so unfair. I mean, that’s the most solid evidence for me that they’re not from this planet, because there’s no way you can get skin that smooth from any moisturizer in our realm of existence. And believe me, I’ve tried. Even David, as annoying as he was about the towels, all I could think was ‘damn, he’s pretty.’”
“Mm,” Patrick agrees.
“So he’s definitely into me,” Stevie says, just as Patrick goes, “I’ve definitely got a shot.”
A beat, and then — “No,” Patrick says, firmly. “No, we cannot do this again. I saw him first.”
“You have stolen two boyfriends from me,” Stevie argues, “You owe me this one.”
“This is exactly the—okay, first of all, one of those boyfriends was me,” Patrick counters. “I can’t steal myself, and even if I could, figuring out you’re not actually into women doesn’t count as a strike against me on the breakup front, technically I had a checked swing and the pitch was a ball.”
“Don’t try to confuse me with sports metaphors,” Stevie says. “The whole thing with Jake—”
“Nope, no, absolutely not,” Patrick says, immediately. “We agreed never to discuss that.” For the sake of their friendship, Patrick’s disastrous headfirst dive out of the closet via a failed foray into polyamory that went from V-to-three-to-minus Stevie is That of Which They Do Not Speak.
“The fact remains,” Stevie continues, crossing her arms across her chest, “That I started out with two boyfriends and ended with zero. That’s pretty simple math – I mean, you’re the numbers guy, I’m pretty sure you can figure it out.” She leans back against the desk, casually-not-so-casually tilting her head over towards a pile of invoices she’s yet to file. “So, unless you have something better to offer…”
Patrick realizes, too late, that he’s walked into a trap. Stevie’s canny like that. “You’re talking about the motel records.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Stevie says, innocently, “But if you’re offering, then I accept.”
Patrick groans, pressing a hand to his temple. “Stevie, your great aunt had the worst filing system known to man. I’m pretty sure it would be a Guinness World Record if the adjudicator survived long enough to ratify it.”
“And it would be pro bono,” Stevie adds.
“Seriously?”
Stevie shrugs, casual as you please, but her eyes say she’s not budging. “He is very pretty.”
Unfortunately, she’s not wrong – in fact, she’s very, extremely correct – and the problem is that once Patrick’s made up his mind to do something, it’s nigh impossible to unmake it. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But there’s a very real chance this might actually kill me. And that would be manslaughter, on your part.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” Stevie says, sticking out her hand for him to shake. Resignedly, Patrick takes it. “You know,” she adds, “The Roses did bring a lot of boxes with them. Looked like file boxes, actually.”
“I’m aware,” Patrick replies, dryly, “Seeing as I was pretty actively involved in their transport.”
“I’m just saying,” Stevie continues, “If you offered your services, it could be a way for you to get closer to David.”
Hot Aliens Need Naughty Secretary, For Some Reason, To Do All of Their Paperwork. Patrick shoves that thought very firmly back in the box it wriggled out of. “Suggestion noted, but I’m sure there’s better services I can provide than going through all of their paperwo—”
“Oh, we gladly accept!” rings out a familiar voice, and Moira Rose sails into reception in an entirely new glamorous ensemble. Seriously, where are they getting all of their clothes? “But, sweet Peter, you are entirely too generous. No! You have done too much for us already. We cannot possibly accept your offer, placing the burden of our troubles upon your strapping young shoulders. You really must value yourself more, dear.” She grips Patrick by said shoulders, offering no avenue of escape. Stevie, very deliberately avoiding his desperate looks by pretending to type something up on her computer, is getting her friendship licence revoked. “Come,” Moira evidently decides, looping her arm through his. “We shall confabulate with Mr. Rose and arrange suitable compensation.”
“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, as he’s practically frogmarched out of the door, “What did I, uh, agree to? Again?”
“Dear, forgetfulness is not a trait well-suited for the task ahead,” Moira admonishes. “Best to nip that in the bud.” She flings open the door to her room, rat-ta-tapping her begloved hand against the doorframe like it’s an afterthought. “Johnny, children, I come bearing tidings of good fortune!”
“—a low profile, okay?” Johnny is saying to Alexis and David, who are wearing expressions in various shades of annoyance, surrounded by teetering piles of file boxes on one side of the room and an entire wall of wigs on the other. Patrick has only a moment to consider this juxtaposition before Johnny starts at the interruption, saying, “Moira, darling, that’s wonderful news, but I really do wish you would knock.”
Moira gives him a very fond look. “And knock I did,” she replies, rapping her knuckles again at the frame in demonstration. “I don’t know how I can announce my presence any more profoundly short of organizing a parade in my honour. Which we shall have! As I have brought you the answer to all of our troubles - young Percy here has graciously offered to return our fortunes to us.”
“Patrick,” Patrick corrects, hesitantly, “And did I—say that?”
“I believe that’s what I said,” Moira says, “And I said to Patrick, I said you cannot grant us this boon without proper remuneration, dear, you mustn’t sell yourself so short.”
“I really don’t think I offered—”
“Patrick Brewer, the man from the field,” Johnny says enthusiastically, shaking his hand, and Patrick is torn between being happy someone has actually remembered his name and despairing at the fact that it’s appended to the man in the field. “I really can’t thank you enough for coming aboard. Of course, you’ll be well compensated for your time. Let’s start right away.”
“Okay, hold on, I need to get a few things straight here,” Patrick says. “First of all, what exactly is the task you need doing?”
“You didn’t tell him?” Johnny directs at Moira.
“You cannot expect me to do everything,” she says. “And, on that note, I believe my work here is done.” She exits with a flourish, leaving Patrick standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.
“Where is she even going,” Alexis asks exasperatedly, not seeming to expect an answer. She then makes for the door to their adjoining room, grabbing David’s arm on the way. “Come on, David, Dad has boring business stuff to discuss with this Patrick guy, I want to try that food thing you were talking about.”
“Now, hold on a minute, kids,” Johnny says. “We were having a pretty important discussion before, so before you go, I need your word that you’ll stick to, ah—” he looks to Patrick for a moment, and then seems to temper his words, “—what we discussed.”
“But Dad,” Alexis whines, “It would make everything so much easier if I could just—”
“Alexis,” Johnny warns.
Alexis throws up her hands. “Ugh! Fine! I promise, or, whatever.”
“You too, David.”
“Yeah, sure,” David says, flipping his hands vaguely. “Hope this all works out.”
“Now David, hang back for a moment,” Johnny calls out. “Patrick and I will need your assistance transporting the files to his office.” David makes a pained face and reluctantly steps away from Alexis, who gives him a smug look and a pinky-finger wave goodbye, closing the door behind her. “I am assuming you do have an office, Patrick, though, I’m sure we could perhaps make a space here…”
“No, I have my own space,” Patrick says, impatiently, “But can someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Of course,” Johnny says mildly, gesturing grandly to the motel’s sad excuse for a dining room table. “Please, join me. David, you can sit in on this too, if you’d like.”
“Okay, but it’s not really a choice, is it,” David says, moodily, “Because you just said you need me to ‘hang back’, so,” giving maybe the most deeply sarcastic airquotes Patrick’s ever seen. Patrick palms his chin to hide a smile.
“Well, son, I suppose you can stand, if that’s what you prefer,” Johnny replies, and David just bodily rejects that, slumping down heavily into the chair adjacent to the one Patrick’s just taken. A thump on the table brings Patrick’s attention back to Johnny, who’s just set one of the identical boxes on top of the table, and ruffles through a few of the papers. “Now, where to begin – when I was a young man, an idea came to me, for a business that would—”
“Oh my god,” David interrupts, tipping his head to the ceiling. He turns to address Patrick. “Our business manager stole our money to go and like, commit crimes or whatever, except everyone thinks we did the crimes, so now we’re hiding out in this backwater town because apparently this is the one place the tax people can’t get to us.”
“Well, it’s missing a few key details, but I suppose that is the gist of it,” Johnny mutters.
“Are you saying that Schitt’s Creek is some kind of… extradition exclusion zone?” Patrick says, incredulously.
“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Johnny says. “What David neglected to mention in his very rushed explanation of our situation is that we own this little, ah, piece of paradise. Off the books, of course – it’s a funny story, truth be told, Moira and I actually won this gentle hamlet in a rousing game of poker in quite the shady part of town back when we were—”
“Dad.”
Johnny clears his throat. “Of course, right you are, David, time is of the essence. Perhaps we’ll reminisce later, then. You see, Patrick, there’s an obscure bylaw pertaining to our case: prosecution of financial fraud cannot be undertaken within the bounds of a conservation area, lest the proceedings disturb the natural ecosystem.”
“I have to say, I’ve never heard of that one,” Patrick responds, perplexed. “But I’m pretty sure Schitt’s Creek isn’t a national park, or none of us would be allowed to live here.”
“Ah, well, I believe the district lines are drawn differently, where we’re from,” Johnny replies, vaguely. Out of the corner of his eye, David – presumably, being slowly consumed by ennui – slips further down into his chair, eyes rocketing up as far as they can to the ceiling. “And, seeing as we own a piece of the land, we can hold out here for as long as we need to clear our names. Which is where you come in.”
“Mr. Rose, from what you’re telling me, it sounds like what you really need is a lawyer, someone specializing in tax or contract law,” Patrick replies. “I’m just a consultant – I work with small businesses in the Schitt’s Creek and greater Elmdale area. I don’t think I’m the person you’re looking for to solve your problem, here. But I can certainly put you in contact with a great firm based up in Elmdale.”
Johnny’s already shaking his head. “Unfortunately, we can’t leave Schitt’s Creek. Which makes you exactly the man we need.”
“Well, I’m sure one of the lawyers up in Elmdale can take up temporary residence down here, for the duration of—”
“Patrick,” Johnny interrupts, gently, “We’ve had the best lawyers what remains of our money can buy looking over the documents, and they’ve come up empty-handed. No, we were defrauded by a business manager, we need someone who thinks like a business manager. See, somewhere in here,” he continues, slapping the side of the box on the table, “They’ve made a mistake. And you can find it.”
Patrick looks at the file boxes stacked ceiling-high all around them, considers just how long this is going to take. He considers the fact that Johnny Rose hasn’t presented him with a clear timeline for completion, or a breakdown of payment, if he even can provide payment, given the state of their finances, because Patrick cannot shoulder two pro bono jobs at once, he’s got to eat – and, even if he wanted to help this family out, putting all his reservations aside, he’s got other clients, who have paid for his full time and attention, that—
“It’s fine,” David says, derailing Patrick’s train of thought. “Dad, he’s clearly not interested. Dying in this town is probably better than prison.”
David’s face is closed off, disdainful, his mouth twisted tight. But there’s a flash of light, and Patrick follows it down to David’s hands, clasped in his lap, twisting one of his heavy silver rings between a thumb and forefinger, a nervous tic he might not even be aware of. He really wants me to say yes, Patrick realizes, with a shock – it’s the first real glimpse he’s gotten of the David behind the mask. And Patrick wants to see more.
“Okay,” Patrick hears himself say. “I’ll do it.”
*
It’s almost lunch by the time they get all the boxes transferred over to Patrick’s office space at Ray’s, owing to the fact that it takes several trips to bring all the boxes over – unlike the previous night, when they all seemed to fit in Patrick’s car in one go. But, then again, it was kind of a surreal experience, and he was having somewhat of a gay existential crisis at the time, so it’s entirely possible he just blanked out the time he spent driving back and forth from that field for half the night.
“Redecorating, are we?” Ray asks, ever-present grin on his face under that very bold moustache as Patrick and the Roses finish solving file box-Tetris against the back wall.
“New clients,” Patrick replies. “Mr. Rose, David – Ray Butani. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him, mostly because he has a hand in a lot of the business around here.”
“Johnny Rose,” Johnny says, proffering his hand to shake. David declines to do the same, simply saying “Hi,” in a neutral tone of voice. Then again, David didn’t offer to shake his hand last night either, Patrick recalls, so maybe it’s just a David thing. Although – as David’s heavy rings glint in the sunlight streaming through the office window, Patrick has the curious realization that, out of all the Roses, David’s the only one who doesn’t wear gloves.
“I’m also in civil service,” Ray adds, sunnily. “I maintain a position on the town council. But yes, as Patrick says, if you have any needs that pertain to real estate, travel, professional photography, or our newest service, closet reorganization, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He offers one of his business cards over to Johnny, who gives him a polite smile, pocketing it. Ray then goes to his desk on the far side of the room, retrieving a manila folder. “Well, I too am dropping off some paperwork, but with much less manpower required,” he continues, giving them a wave. “Please refrain from getting crushed by all of those boxes, gentlemen. The excess on my insurance is very high, and only covers employees.”
Patrick, eyeing the pile stacked up next to David, really hopes Ray is kidding. “Okay,” he says, addressing Johnny Rose. “Show me what we’re dealing with, here.”
Johnny pops the lid on the box that’s sitting on Patrick’s desk, bringing out a few sheets. “These are just a few examples of how the documents are laid out, with…”
Patrick picks up one of the sheets as Johnny explains some of the technical details, scanning the first line, except – the words look all wrong. He squints, rubbing at his eyes, but no, he’s not hallucinating – nothing on the page is in English. Instead, in neat lines from top to bottom are fluted, curling symbols, oddly beautiful, as though designed by a classical calligrapher contracted as a military codemaster. Patrick picks up the second sheet, and the third – all of them, in the same mysterious language. “Hold on, a second, Mr. Rose,” Patrick mutters, “This is in – is it Arabic? Where are your English copies?”
“What do you mean?” Johnny asks, taking the paper from Patrick’s hands and frowning down at it. “’The undersigned takes responsibility for the items outlined in section 13A’...” Patrick looks down to where Johnny’s finger is pointing, and, just as before, can understand jack shit. “Can you not… read it?” Johnny says, more doubtful, this time.
“Is it in code, then?” Patrick asks, feeling a creeping sense of dread. “Mr. Rose, are they… all written like this?”
“Oh dear,” Johnny says, rather faintly, as David provides an equally optimistic, “Oh my god, well, we’re definitely stuck here forever, then.”
“It’s fine, it’s just—going to take a bit longer,” Patrick mutters, absolutely kicking himself for not checking the documents before he jumped into bed with the Roses – and not even the specific bed he’s hoping to jump into. Patrick’s not going to back out once he’s made a commitment – a deal’s a deal, even if it’s not on paper yet – but, good god could this have not been more of a curveball.
“How much do you believe this revelation would affect our timeline?” Johnny asks.
“Months,” Patrick answers, honestly. “At the very least. Every single document will need transcribing. Normally I’d just ask for a cipher, but because this is legal documentation it’s better if everything is translated in its original context, which means someone fluent in this script will need to assist me.” Suddenly it comes to him – there’s an opportunity here. “And I’m sure you’re very busy, Mr. Rose, I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time, so maybe, let’s say, David could come work with me on this project—”
David, scrolling through an iPhone he seems to have acquired overnight, looks up at him sharply, expression unreadable – but Johnny waves Patrick’s suggestion away seemingly without a second thought. “Nonsense, I would be happy to set aside my time. David doesn’t exactly have the, ah, experience in this area that I do.”
“Wow,” David cuts in, offended. “I literally ran three galleries back home. You all came to my openings. And until all of this, they were doing very well, so I feel like I know my way around a business, thank you very much.”
“Your little installations were very impressive, of course we were all very proud,” Johnny replies. “But this is very real and complicated stuff here, son, it’s best we leave this to the professionals.”
“Wow,” David repeats, throwing his hands up. “Well, it seems my apparently fake business acumen is not required here, so. Best of luck with all of that.”
“David,” Johnny calls out after him, as he stalks towards the door, “Make sure we keep the new timeline under wraps, for the time being. Not a word to your mother, until we have a clearer idea of where we stand.”
David shoots Johnny a glare, seemingly in acknowledgment, and slams the door behind him.
Patrick frowns. “Is he…?”
“Our David can be a touch dramatic,” Johnny replies. “Not to worry. Now, what do you say we get these boxes whipped into shape?”
“Sure,” Patrick says, somewhat distantly, lingering on the doorway.
*
The next morning, bright and early, Patrick meets up with Johnny at the Café Tropical to discuss the logistics of how best to split the workload. Johnny is perfectly punctual, dressed as yesterday in a bespoke, expensive suit and fine leather gloves, armed with a briefcase and a can-do attitude. Patrick’s certainly had worse business partners, even if a part of him thinks, vaguely wistfully, about the younger Rose sitting across from him instead, probably doing something obscene to the breakfast sausage that the Rose patriarch is carving up nice and politely with his knife and fork.
“So I’ve set up a meeting with the mayor,” Patrick says, once he’s cleaned his plate of scrambled eggs and they’ve hashed out a pretty respectable timeline between the two of them. Sure, it’s no quicker than the months of work that Patrick had initially guesstimated, but it’s definitely achievable now – this mountain of boxes now has a mapped route, rather than a blind scramble to the summit. “He should be here right about—now, actually,” he finishes, clocking Roland Schitt as he steps into the café. Patrick stands up, waving him over, then allows him to slide into Patrick’s side of the booth before sitting back down himself.
Juxtaposed across the booth – Johnny in crisp formalwear, perfectly groomed and coiffed, and Roland in baggy jeans and a flannel over a suspiciously stained tee, paired with a mullet that’s too much party and not enough business – the two men are like night and day. Roland tips his cap at Johnny, giving him a toothy grin. “A little birdie in a business suit told me there were some fancy new folks in town looking for the mayor. So I present to you: me. Roland Schitt, mayor of Schitt’s Creek. And, if I had to toot my own horn, a pretty stand-up guy – unless I’m sitting down!” He laughs, raucously, at his own joke, grabbing Johnny’s hand and pumping it vigorously. Johnny has a very deer-in-the-headlights expression at this exchange, and Patrick indulges a moment of petty-minded satisfaction at one of the Roses being pushed off-balance for a change. “But hey, enough about me. What brings you to our proud yet humble town?”
“Johnny Rose,” Johnny says, after a moment of recovery. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr., ah, Schitt. My family and I have found ourselves in somewhat unfortunate circumstances, and are taking some time to address our situation from a… healthy distance. I’ve asked Patrick to arrange a meeting with you as I believe we’re entitled to subsidized accommodation as the owners of this town.” He fishes out what is ostensibly the deed to the town from his briefcase, laying it down on the table with a flourish.
“Good one, Johnny,” Roland says, amused, “Kind of niche, but we can work on the delivery—oh, shit. Huh. This is actually the real deal.”
The deed is in English – the only document Patrick’s seen, so far, that is. That, in itself, is interesting – but it’s immediately dwarfed, as Patrick quickly skims through the meat of the litigation, by three key things: first, the date of the document, signed on this day of July 2nd, 1922; second, the actual founder and first mayor of Schitt’s Creek, Horace Schitt, is the one signing away the town, but, finally, the other signee is John Michael Rose.
Could be coincidence, a family line – not uncommon for sons to be named for their fathers, upholding tradition through the generations, and maybe Johnny just decided to break ranks when David was born. Except that Patrick’s gotten a first taste at the Rose financials, and that signature is a dead ringer for Johnny Rose’s own penmanship.
“Well, would you look at that,” Roland exclaims, tapping the signatures. “Your great-grandfather and mine, paving the way for greatness. Seems like we were destined to be the best of friends, huh Johnny-boy?”
“It sure can be, ah, interpreted that way, Roland,” Johnny says, full of false cheer. “Say, Patrick, why don’t you stick around for a—”
“Hey, Patrick, I’ve got your breakfast order,” Twyla interrupts. “You still want this to go? I can get it plated, if you’d like to stay for a while longer.”
“Thank you, Twyla,” Patrick says, getting up from the table and accepting the bag from her. “But I’ve got other business to attend to. Roland, a pleasure, as always – I’ll leave you both to it.”
He walks quickly over to the motel, excitement simmering up under his skin. Proof, this time, actual tangible, documented evidence, that he’s right on the money. “Time travellers,” Patrick says to Stevie, in lieu of greeting. “They have to be. Maybe cars were more common in urban areas in the ‘20s, and rural towns were still using the horse and cart. And sure, David’s probably just really into food. Stevie, the Roses actually own the town. It’s Johnny’s name on the deed, from 1922.”
“That’s a lot to take in before breakfast,” Stevie says, after a moment. Patrick hands her over the paper bag of Café Tropical’s finest – which is to say, moderately edible. “Thanks. So, then, what’s with all the boxes?”
“For all intents and purposes, they’ve been framed for financial crimes,” Patrick replies. “Tax, fraud, laundering – white collar stuff. Apparently owning this town, through some legal loophole, gives them immunity as long as they stay here.”
“Is that? A thing?” Stevie asks, and Patrick shrugs. “Okay, so then, would any of this get you in trouble with, like, the time police?”
“Well, in terms of current legal standings, I should be in the clear,” Patrick says. “The crimes have already been committed, so I’m not an accessory to them if I’m just looking through paperwork.”
“Okay, but what about me, then,” Stevie says, her voice colouring a little with nerves. “Am I harbouring fugitives?”
“Technically, they’re paying you to stay here, and they’re on the books,” Patrick replies. “If it’s all above board, you’re not hiding them. If someone comes for them and you don’t stand in their way, you shouldn’t be liable. But I can double-check that, if it’d make you feel better.”
“Thanks,” Stevie says, shooting him a small smile. Which then turns sly, at the edges. “So you are doing their paperwork, then, huh. Wonder what convinced you to commit to that? Or, should I say, who?”
“Well, it turns out the payment agreement was very generous,” Patrick replies, smirking – which it actually was, innuendo aside, once he and Johnny papered it. Weird, ancient coins runneth over. Stevie gives him a few mhmm, uh huh’s, coupled with an over-exaggerated wink.
“As long as you have time to do—” Stevie begins, then trails off, frowning down at her coffee. Patrick looks over – apropos of nothing, it’s started to ripple. Then, the desk jolts violently, splashing the coffee over the dark wood, as the rest of the room starts to shake.
“What the—” Patrick begins. “Is this an earthquake?”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Stevie splutters, panicked, spinning wildly in place. “The safety guide doesn’t cover earthquakes, what do we do?”
“Doorframe,” Patrick says, grabbing Stevie’s arm, and— “No, wait. Under the desk? Shit, um, one of them is bad, I don’t remember which.”
“Just pick one,” Stevie yells – the desk is closer, so he ducks under it, pulling Stevie with him. Patrick presses his back against the trembling wood, wincing as something loud crashes down behind them, and pulls up his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Stevie gives him a half-terrified, half-incredulous look. “Are you seriously googling it right now?”
“I don’t know!” Patrick shouts, throwing his arms up, to the extent that they can be thrown up in this cramped space. “Maybe I’ll feel better dying if I know I made the right call!”
“I don’t want to know that I’m going to die!” Stevie wails, as the cacophony around them reaches a fever pitch. “Stop it, give me—” she continues, grappling for his phone, and he tries to wrest it out of her iron grip—
As abruptly as it had begun, the shaking ceases. Everything seems to slowly settle around them, the silence only broken by a light rolling sound, and then a single pencil drops to the floor in front of the desk. Stevie looks at Patrick, and Patrick looks at Stevie, and she wordlessly hands him back his phone.
“Huh,” Patrick says, voice cracking a little. He clears his throat, and shows Stevie the page that’s just loaded. “You’re meant to crouch next to the desk, not under it.”
“Good to know for next time,” Stevie replies, faintly. Her eyes then widen. “Oh god, the guests.”
David, Patrick thinks, panic blooming up anew, and they both scramble out from under the desk, somehow managing to elbow each other in the process, Patrick kicking the chair out of the way and Stevie levering herself up with one of the drawer handles. Patrick gets out ahead of her, vaulting over a section of roof planted in the middle of the reception area and skidding a little on the pool of coffee by the entrance, sending him flying straight out of the door – now hanging drunkenly off of his hinges – where he regains his footing in a sideways sprint down to the Rose family’s rooms.
“David,” he yells out, panting, as he flings open the door, “Alexis, Mrs. Rose, are you o…kay.” Patrick trails off, because instead of the carnage he was expecting to see in front of him, Moira and Johnny’s suite is very much intact. David is standing in the middle of the room, clutching his face with an expression of sheer mortification, and Alexis is – kneeling down by the closet, saying something in a low voice. “I, the uh, earthquake,” Patrick continues, lamely. “It’s not safe to be in here, we need to evacuate.”
Alexis turns her head to acknowledge him. “Okay, Patrick, that sounds great,” she says, brightly, “But I’m kind of in the middle of something right now so maybe you can go do the evacuation thing and have, like, so much fun for me, okay? And David,” she continues, her tone hardening a touch, “Maybe you can go get Dad?”
“Right,” David says, pulling his hands off of his face and fidgeting with one of his heavy silver rings. “Yep, okay. I’ll get right onto that.”
“Alexis, the structural integrity of the building is compromised,” Patrick tries, again. “There could be aftershocks. You really must—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine, let’s go,” David mutters, placing a hand on his back to steer him out of the room. A thick sob follows them out of the door, and Patrick cranes his neck back, trying to place it before David shuts it behind them.
“Was that…” Patrick begins, disbelievingly, as he starts piecing a few things together. “Was that Moira crying in the closet?”
“Mm,” David confirms, making a face as he side-steps a twisted section of guttering. “Someone may have let slip that the whole paperwork thing was going to take longer than she anticipated, and, uh, she did not take it well.”
Patrick’s shellshocked brain defaults to its safe space, which is putting together the bare-boned facts of the situation and taking stock: (1) an earthquake tears through the entire motel, except for two rooms, which (2) both happen to be housing the Roses, one of which (3) is evidently having a breakdown, which the other Roses are far more concerned about than the actual earthquake = Moira Rose has turned Stevie’s motel into rubble. Oh my god, Patrick thinks, dazedly, is this even possible? Am I losing my mind? and then he just—he takes a long, calming breath, puts that in a little box and files it away for later.
Some of the other motel guests are milling around outside, looking dusty and dazed, but, thankfully, no one seems to have sustained anything worse than a few bumps and bruises – he clocks Carol, a former client and one of the regular weekenders, and she waves him over. “Patrick, so glad you’re alright,” she says, patting at his cheek. “I have good news, of a sort – I just got off the phone with my sister downtown, and she says they didn’t feel a thing! Whatever this is, it seems like it’s only affected the motel.”
“Very strange,” Patrick says neutrally, glancing over to David, who nods along, mouth pressed in a thin smile. His fidgety hands tell an entirely different story. Well, fuck, he thinks, suspicions pretty much confirmed, guess we’re back to the supernatural.
“I’ve already rallied the troops,” Carol continues cheerily. “My sister and a few of the girls in the bowls club have some rooms to spare between them, so everyone here’s taken care of. I just called you over to ask if you – or your friend, here – were in need of a place to stay.”
“That’s very kind, Carol, but I’m fine – I’ve got a place out of town, I was just here to talk to Stevie.” Patrick smiles, and, without breaking eye contact, gives David an amicable clap to the shoulder. “David here though was renting a couple of rooms along with his family.”
“Oh, you poor dears,” Carol says, rounding on David. David shrinks back, his smile drawing even tighter. “Your whole family, that’s simply awful, how many rooms will you be needing?”
“Ah, no need, no need,” comes the voice of Johnny Rose, and Patrick looks over to see him arrive at the scene, a fatherly arm wrapped around Stevie, who still appears to be in a vague state of shock. Roland, bringing up the rear, whistles at the sight of what’s left of the motel, muttering something to Stevie that Patrick can’t quite make out, except for maybe the words refund and special weekend, which, on second thought, he really doesn’t want to hear about – and, judging from Stevie’s face, neither does she.
“Okay, but why not hear her out?” David asks. “Patrick did say the structural intensity—”
“Integrity,” Patrick provides.
“—integrity of the building has been compromised, and if there’s the possibility of maybe upgrading from a single bed to a—”
“Thank you, ma’am, for your generosity,” Johnny cuts in firmly, “But we could not possibly impose any more than we already have. No, as I’ve already told Stevie here, my family and I will be staying put and we will be taking care of all of this. No expenses spared.” He smiles down at Stevie, who gives him a wobbly one in return, and some of the tension Patrick’s been holding in starts to dissipate. Mr. Rose then turns back to the assembled crowd, pitching his voice louder. “And I would love to see all of you back here, at a time to be determined, for the grand reopening of the, ah—” he hesitates, looking to Stevie again for a moment, and then continues: “The grand reopening of the Budd Motel.”
There’s some scattered applause – it was, unexpectedly, a very rousing speech. Stevie, deeply uncomfortable being the focus of this much public attention, tries her darndest to shrink into the background. “Bless you, Mr. Rose,” Carol says, beaming. “I’ll get the word out. We wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’ll put in a good word to the top brass for some of the permits,” Roland adds, “I know a guy.” He winks, giving Johnny an overly enthusiastic elbow nudge which Johnny weathers with grace.
“Much appreciated, thank you,” Johnny replies, as Roland is taken aside by a few of the guests from the gradually dissipating crowd with more specific concerns. “Now, Stevie,” he says, softer, slipping his arm out from her shoulder and turning to face her, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
Stevie scrubs at the back of her neck, giving him a watery laugh. “Sure, Mr. Rose. I think so.”
“I’ve got her, Mr. Rose,” Patrick says quickly.
Johnny claps his hands together. “Well, if that’s all taken care of, I believe I must attend to my wife,” he says. “Come along now, David.”
David gives Stevie and Patrick a sidelong glance, as though he’d really much rather one of them give him an excuse not to get dragged back into that room, and, well—Patrick can have this big, dumb crush on David and fantasize about their dirty weekend getaways to a charming cottage in the English countryside where David is his spoiled, sultry kept man and they make love six ways from Sunday in a golden field of canola flowers softly undulating in the breeze, and also have zero desire to save him from the consequences of (allegedly) triggering his mother into setting off a seismic event that reduced Stevie’s livelihood into rubble. It’s called multitasking, and Patrick likes to think he’s pretty good at prioritizing what’s more important at any given moment. So he crosses his arms, stonewalling David’s pleading look, and David deflates, allowing his father to lead him over to the only two rooms still standing. God knows how they’re going to work with the plumbing.
Anyway. “‘The Budd Motel’, huh?” Patrick says, gently, nudging his shoulder against Stevie’s. “Didn’t know this place actually had a name. Has a nice ring to it.”
“Sure,” Stevie mutters, swiping her flannel sleeve across her eyes. “For what’s left of it, I guess.”
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Patrick says. “I’m going to get an appointment with that valuator so we can turn all that gold into actual money, and then I’m taking the afternoon off and coming to your place, and you and I are going to have some very strong drinks. How does that sound?”
Stevie takes a fortifying breath, letting it out in a quick huff, and then loops her arm in his. “I think it sounds a lot better than your earthquake safety plan,” she replies sardonically, and Patrick ducks his head, grinning – god, he loves her grit. “So let’s drink to that.”
*
The day after the earthquake, Patrick comes into work early. Not because he feels particularly enthused about seizing the day – he is, in fact, deeply hungover – but because he took the afternoon off yesterday and is thus cursed with the nagging sense of obligation to make up the hours, which forcibly picks up his body like a marionette and drags it into the office. They probably shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of whiskey, but after Stevie was confronted with the revelation that Moira may have destroyed the motel and hit the sauce with a vengeance, Patrick figured it was within his duty of care as a guest in her house to keep up.
He somehow manages to get a halfway decent breakdown of improvements that can be made to Heather’s monthly expenses up by around mid-morning when a loud knock resounds from the doorframe right into his skull. He scrubs at his face, looking up blearily from his laptop, and immediately regrets it. David is here, looking like a million bucks, as per usual, in a chic black and white sweater and dark, artfully distressed skinny jeans, swinging some designer shades casually off one hand. Patrick, wearing yesterday’s clothes and feeling like death, probably comes off more like the Greek economy circa 2010.
“My dad sends his regards, and that he’s unable to come into the office due to the whole thing at the motel,” David says. “And that he can work part-time on the files at the motel and ‘cross-check’ them with you, whatever that means. So, I guess I’m the backup plan. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Patrick says tiredly, waving him over. “Take a seat, I’ll bring out the breakdown we’ve drawn out.” Through his brain sludge, he registers that, technically, he’s just got what he wanted – David working with him. But, oh god, at what cost. It seems like every time he sees David he looks like he’s been just dragged out from under a bridge. And it’s not like Patrick’s a real catch on the best of days – never the Abercrombie & Fitch store model, always the assistant manager – but at this point it’s almost like he’s conditioning David to never find him the least bit attractive.
“Are you… okay?” David asks, and Patrick realizes he’s just been staring down at the sheet in front of him for longer than is strictly polite when in company.
Great. Now he has to admit he’s hungover at work, too, which is deeply unprofessional. “Fine,” Patrick mutters. “Just, had a few too many drinks last night, with Stevie.” You are a mealy little worm, he tells himself, giving into the black pit of despair. You are the lowest, mealiest, worm.
David frowns. “Well, I don’t know why the two of you would try to drown yourselves. Seems like a poor choice. I mean, sure, living in this town is barely a step above death, but if I can weather it, surely the two of you can find the strength to keep your heads above water. So to speak.”
It takes a few moments for the tired gears of Patrick’s brain to click – David’s never been drunk. That could be something fun to unpack once Patrick inevitably reneges on his solemn vow this morning to never drink again. “You’re very brave,” Patrick replies, instead. “I’m deeply moved and inspired by your resilience.”
“Thank you. I’m just taking it one day at a time,” David replies, carelessly. “So, like, what are we doing here, then. Show me the breakdown thingie.”
Patrick considers his throbbing head and his need for a few minutes of reprieve, and makes a quick decision. “Actually, before we do that, there’s one thing I need you to do,” he replies. “There’s three boxes there labelled RF 2, 4 and 10 – can you bring those over to Johnny at the motel, so he can make a start on his sections?”
“You want me to carry all of these?” David asks, skipping up an octave and whipping an accusatory hand at the boxes in question, “All the way to the motel?”
So, that was a mistake. Patrick just wants to lay down and die, right here on this desk. “Maybe just start with one,” he says, weakly. “We’ll see how we go from there.”
How they ‘go from there’ turns out to be mainly downhill – not steeply, but in an area where government funds needed for road maintenance have been as poorly managed as the unsealed road they’re trucking along. The cost of freeing up some time for Patrick to pop a few more Tylenol and basically chug an entire water cooler in the hopes of being less of a disgusting creature by the time David gets back was that being coerced into carrying a single box all the way back to the motel really doesn’t endear him to David at all, leaving said maybe-alien in a sour mood for the rest of the morning. By the time lunch rolls around, Patrick – who normally brings in a healthy packed lunch he eats at his desk – caves into his emotional and physical exhaustion and decides to order pizza into the office.
“Okay, what is happening now,” David says, startling as the pizza boy drops off the delivery. “How are we getting in more boxes? I am not taking these to the motel.”
“Oh, but you just seemed to be having so much fun,” Patrick mutters, pressing a generous tip into the deliveryman’s palm. He checks the first box – margarita, the least guilt-inducing option, that’s for him – and hands the second box over to David. “For your troubles.”
David takes the box, perplexed, and Patrick – now sat atop his desk, own pizza box balanced in his lap – witnesses the exact moment the delicious smell of a greasy, calorific pizza hits his nose. He’s like a kid on Christmas, clocking that the largest box under the tree has air-holes, putting two and two together to figure out he’s getting a puppy. David flips open the lid, eyes like saucers – Patrick ordered him a Hawaiian, on the basis that the pineapple would probably appeal to the sweet tooth David seemed to reveal during Muffingate – and then looks over to Patrick, who’s already chowing down on his first slice. Following Patrick’s lead, David takes a deep bite into his own slice – head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed, sinking down into his chair with a happy sigh. Patrick leans back, grinning around his mouthful of pizza, and enjoys the show. God bless America’s fiftieth state.
“Um, thank you, for this,” David says, softly, once he’s demolished the entire box, licking grease off of his fingers in a way that is – like most things he does – deeply, unfairly sexy. “I’m not going to move any more boxes, but. This was very nice.”
“Well, you’re welcome,” Patrick says, taking his empty box and setting it aside. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”
*
So it turns out that their first day on the job wasn’t just a rough start. No, David Rose is, indeed, somewhat of a nightmare to work with.
Patrick got more work done in the afternoon he spent with Johnny Rose than in the first few days he spends with David. For starters, David’s always late – never gets in before 10 am – and never really wants to stick around more than a few hours. And that’s including lunch. During the time he actually does do anything tantamount to work – which is, ostensibly, reading aloud pages that Patrick dutifully transcribes on his laptop – he frequently peppers it with complaints, or unsolicited opinions on Patrick’s process and his inability to just read the words, as though everyone knows alien runes, or whatever the hell these documents are written in. Patrick, why are there so many globes on your desk, is this the only way you get to see the world outside this office? Lesser men would be driven to madness. For Patrick? The real problem here is it honestly just makes David all the more attractive.
See, the thing about Patrick is that he loves a challenge – getting his teeth into something, grinding it down, cracking through to taste the marrow. That was the problem with Jake, who had an ass that won’t quit and the emotional range of a teacup. It cut short his time with Ken, who was wholesome and sweet and was happy to go along with whatever Patrick wanted to do, which got old fast (and, as an aside, just wore weird-looking shoes). There was a guy in Elmdale he had a brief thing with who was hardworking, disciplined, gorgeous, basically cut from granite – but unfortunately had the intelligence and repartee hewn from the self-same block of stone. And so on. David’s like a Greek statue with a tongue that could flay the skin off his sculptor for fucking up a single strand of hair – and Patrick can’t wait to carve his own notch in that hunk of marble.
The initial meat of the documentation concerns the core financials of what is ostensibly the Rose family business, which seems to be some kind of entertainment empire known as Rose Video. When asked, David hedges that it’s like Netflix, but physical, which raises a couple of questions – first, how David even knows about Netflix, when he’s literally just discovered pizza, and secondly, whether this means they’re literally peddling in videos, VHS slash DVD style, or it’s a translational quirk and like Netflix, but physical pertains to something different entirely, an alien technology Patrick couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Either way, this ex-business manager of theirs knows their shit – dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s, or whatever the equivalent saying is pertaining to what Patrick is referring to in his head as the Rose cipher. Which, as frustrating as it is to have this kind of bottleneck in a project, relying on translation through dictation (David) or transcription (Johnny, occasionally David, when he can be motivated) which both, surprisingly, have the same turnaround time – Stevie tells him, later, that she’s been further burdened with the torturous task of teaching Johnny how to use a computer – it’s also kind of fascinating to be analyzing documents in an entirely different language. In the movies, there would be a montage where he scans all the documents in and then he and David work together to write a software program to automatically decode everything and save them a hell of a lot of time, but he’s no Amy Adams, so the best he can really do is draw up his own little ‘codebreaker’ spreadsheet with terms that frequently crop up.
And by the end of the first week, he gets a new term: David Rose.
The first hint he gets, now branching out into Rose Video subsidiaries, holdings, and, ostensibly, shell corporations – which seem to be, somehow, a universal constant – is when David, reading out a line in a bored tone, abruptly stops, mid-sentence. There’s nothing particularly interesting so far on this subsidiary, so David’s reaction sure is… odd.
“‘Payment, in full, facilitated by Envaline Solutions, to clients with verified purchases from Veilsight, Ten to the Dozen, and Rosetree galleries…’” Patrick prompts.
“Those are my galleries,” David says uncertainly, eyes flicking rapidly as he reads ahead. He taps an incomprehensible set of squiggles. “See? David Rose, right there.”
“You know I can’t read that,” Patrick reminds him.
David huffs in irritation, and goes back to the original line. “‘…Veilsight, Ten to the Dozen, and Rosetree galleries, can only be delivered under the conditions of (1) original invoice provided of purchase of one (1) art piece on display at the listed businesses and (2) signed consent from John Michael Rose or Moira Rose or Eli Lily.'" When that name had first started popping up in documents, Patrick had been perplexed as to why an American pharmaceutical giant was so heavily involved in the Rose financials, before putting together that, no, this Eli Lily is their former business manager. Which also insinuates that the people, for lack of a better term, where the Roses are from are all named after flowers. Not particularly pertinent to any of the work they're actually doing here, but intriguing, nonetheless. "'Any accounts associated with David Rose are strictly prohibited from fulfilling funding requirements'," David continues, increasingly incensed, "Like, what do they mean my accounts aren’t getting credited? Those were my collections, painstakingly curated from the most celebrated artistic minds of a generation. Did that asshole steal money from there, too?”
Patrick considers the document he’s just typed up on his screen. “For starters, David, your accounts are being forbidden from being debited for this payment. Which means the money in there can’t be touched.”
“Well, alright, then,” David says, righteous wind petering out of his sails. “But I still don’t get why this random company is involved with my galleries. Like, okay, my parents provided some startup funding, which I guess is in here somewhere, but we haven’t even gotten to those documents yet.”
“If I’m understanding this correctly,” Patrick says, slowly, “It appears that anyone who bought one of your paintings was wired money after showing proof of purchase to Mr. or Mrs. Rose – which, as a fee for services already rendered, makes this a legal exchange instead of a bribe, so at least that’s—”
“Oh my god,” David squawks, slamming the sheet down on the table and getting up so fast he tips over his chair. He stalks, furious, around the room. “Oh my fucking god, they paid them off. Mom and Dad paid my patrons to do business with me! Every single piece of art I ever sold was bought by my parents!”
A cold breeze flutters some of the papers on Patrick’s desk. Summer storms can come in quick and fast – Ray must’ve left a window open, somewhere. “Hey,” Patrick says, gentling his tone. “Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding.”
“It’s a legal document,” David says, acidly. “Nothing is more clear-cut than that. I may be a complete failure at everything I’ve ever tried to achieve, but at least that’s something I do know.”
This is very real and complicated stuff here, son, Johnny Rose had said, apparently very much on the nose, and Patrick feels a sharp jab of sympathy for David. He can get that, in a family as charmingly dysfunctional as the Roses, it’s a way they’ve tried to lend their support, to make David’s success assured. But it’s just clipping his wings before he even gets a chance to fly. And someone like David could never be satisfied with life on the ground.
Patrick checks the time. “You know what, I think we’ve made pretty good progress. Let’s call it a day. I’m thinking of grabbing an early dinner, if you want to join me.”
Food always manages to cheer David up – right on schedule, the tension seems to drop from his shoulders. He eyes Patrick carefully. “At the café?”
“Further afield, actually,” Patrick replies, packing up. “An old client runs a place I really like. If you’re interested.”
David sniffs. “I suppose I could eat.”
The summer storm doesn’t seem to have broken as they drive up the road towards Elmdale, clouds still swirling moodily above them. Patrick puts the radio on – an old Mariah song comes on, one that Patrick could maybe remember a few words from the chorus if pressed, but David seems to like it, tapping his fingers at the sill, a small-half smile forming on his face. “I think you’ll like this place,” Patrick says, a couple of songs later. “It’s one of the hottest dining spots in Elmdale, and not just because I—”
“Elmdale?” David says, gone from almost-cheerful to panicked in an instant. “No, no, Patrick, I can’t leave Schitt’s Creek, you have to turn back.”
“It’ll be fine, it’s just for a couple hours,” Patrick assures him, “We won’t tell anyone I snuck you out for a quick bite.”
“No, Patrick, you don’t understand,” David says, very panicky, now, “I can’t leave Schitt’s Creek. You have to turn back now.”
“If that’s what you want,” Patrick replies slowly, flicking on his turn signal as they come up to the town limits, the back of the horribly inappropriate Welcome to Schitt's Creek sign looming large in front of them—his car makes a wet, spluttering noise, his accelerator suddenly completely unresponsive, and begins to slow right down. Patrick barely wrests it to the side of the road before it comes to a complete stop – incidentally, right under the sign. “What the fuck,” he mutters, turning on his hazard lights. His gas tank is completely full. Must be some kind of mechanical issue? “Hang tight David, I’m going to—”
The passenger door slams shut, David tripping out onto the grass where it meets the tarmac in his haste to get out of the car. “Get us a tow,” Patrick finishes, to himself. He sighs, and then follows David out of the car, dialling up Bob’s Garage.
Bob gives him an ETA of about an hour, which Patrick manages to sweeten to twenty with the promise of a quick consult about a new bagel business he wants to launch. Patrick hangs up, knowing he still got the better deal – Bob’s Bagels is dead in the water, and it’ll only take about five minutes of his day to swing by and lay out the numbers that will very clearly spell that out for him. For the duration of the call, David’s been kicking around at tufts of grass, periodically rubbing at his wrists, but never walking out past the signpost. As Patrick finishes up, he’s come to a standstill just behind it, staring out into the distance.
Patrick has something lighthearted and snarky to say about Bob’s Bagels that dries up on his tongue once he sees David’s face – achingly beautiful in profile against the grey light of the coming storm, stonily gazing out past the Schitt’s Creek town limits, mouth curled tight and down. “Are you okay?” Patrick asks instead.
David takes a sharp, shuddery breath, gaze still fixed on the road ahead. “Well, I’m stuck in this shitty town, pun very much intended, and I had one thing that was getting me through the day – going back to my life, the legacy I created for myself – or, I thought I did, because, turns out, it’s a complete and total lie. So, I don’t know, Patrick – you tell me. Because I, apparently, know nothing.”
Patrick considers his angle, here, and then steps in front of David, forcing David to look at him instead of the road – well, as much as he can, considering the height difference. “David, your situation sucks. I get that, I do. But the way I see it, you can either sit here and continue to make yourself miserable, or you can do something about it, so, how about this – I can teach you what I know. We’re working on this thing together – why not do it together? That way, everything gets done faster, and when you get back home, you can build something real.”
David looks at him, for a long moment, eyes flinty and unreadable, and Patrick wonders briefly if he went too far – if he should’ve softened his approach, played the sympathy card – but quashes that thought. No clipping the wings, here. Sometimes you just have to push ‘em out of the nest. “Do we have a deal?” Patrick asks, sticking out his hand.
“Okay,” says David, finally. His mouth twists back up, just at one corner. He pulls his sweater sleeve – which looks kind of singed, for some reason – down to cover his hand and takes Patrick’s gingerly, giving it a quick shake.
Which is weird, but. It’s a start.