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David steps into his room and shuts the door behind him, the quiet click of the latch sounding muffled, like he has cotton in his ears. He leans against the door, trembling hands pressed flat against the wood, trying to ground himself. He breathes deeply, slowly, audibly—hoping to calm his rapid pulse and fend off the staticy white noise building in his head.
He’d escorted his mother back to her room, head held high, following her inside without once looking back at Sebastien lingering outside his own room. Once inside the safety of their temporary lodgings, he’d sat at the small table in his parents’ room, knees starting to wobble, and only half-listened as his mother regaled his father with the tale of her bold confrontation and David’s daring, Machiavellian rescue mission.
He’d never stood up to Sebastien like that before—to any of his wretched exes—and the thrill of finally winning had felt intoxicating in the moment. But the longer he sat there, considering what he’d done as the adrenaline high began to recede, the more he wondered whether the reward was worth the effort.
His palms had begun to sweat, his skin feeling too tight for his body, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. Sending his parents off to breakfast without him, he’d escaped to his room, where he’s now plastered to the flimsy connecting door, on the verge of collapsing under the weight of the consequences of his actions.
Refusing to give in to what he suspects is quickly becoming a panic attack, he pushes away from the door, sweaty palms slipping against cheap, flaky paint, and starts stripping off clothing.
Silently apologizing to the expensive garment, he tosses his leather jacket onto his bed, where it lands in a rumpled pile. His t-shirt lands on top of it, and he doesn’t even bother untying the laces before toeing off his shoes. His shaking fingers struggle with the fastenings on his pants and he chokes on a frustrated sob before finally loosening the ties and buttons. He shoves them and his boxer briefs down to the floor, hating himself for leaving them like that on the disgusting carpet, and hating himself even more for deciding he deserves it if they are ruined.
Unsteady legs carry him to the tiny bathroom he shares with Alexis and he reaches into the shower to turn the taps on as high and as hot as they will go. He stands on the cold tile, shivering, arms wrapped around himself, waiting for the water to get hot and trying so hard to keep his head empty and quiet. He doesn’t even last a minute before peeling off his socks and stepping under the water he knows can’t be up to temperature yet.
It isn’t, but the shock of cold helps. He gasps, his trembling muscles lock, and the jolt wipes his mind clean of the rising static. His muscles eventually unclench and relax as the water slowly warms and when the white noise starts slithering in again, he moves his head directly under the spray of the shower head. The rhythmic drumming of water on his skull literally drowns out any other noise and he stands there, eyes closed and chest heaving and mind blissfully blank, until the creeping waves of panic fade away.
He tilts his head forward and lets the pounding water massage the tense muscles of his neck. It’s nothing compared to the fancy shower fixtures and incredible water pressure in his last apartment in Manhattan, but it gets the job done. He shifts slightly and winces when the stinging needles of water land on his left shoulder; Sebastien must have bitten him harder than he realized.
Sebastien.
Another crushing wave of panic threatens to overtake him, but he shoves it down, striking the shower wall once with the side of his fist and forcing himself to focus. He tries to visualize and feel each individual point of water from the shower head as it hits his skin, until his mind is clear again.
The water is already starting to cool and giving himself pneumonia from standing in a cold shower all morning is not on his to-do list. He rushes through the rest of his routine, taking care to avoid his left shoulder without explicitly thinking about why, and shivering the last few minutes as the temperature falls just on the wrong side of tolerably cool.
He towels himself dry, rubbing roughly instead of gently patting. He might regret treating his skin so poorly tomorrow, but for now, he concentrates on the sensation of the coarse fabric fibers scraping against it. He wraps one towel around his head and another around his hips, sucking in his waist to secure it tightly. He briefly considers and then abandons his usual skincare routine. Without looking in the mirror, he dabs some moisturizer on his face and gently rubs it in, eyes closed, breathing steadily and carefully.
He steps out of the bathroom and the last of the steam from the shower follows him out. He sits on the edge of his bed and rubs body milk into every bare inch of himself he can reach, the meditative action soothing his abused skin and his nerves.
He stares at the blue glass bottle as he diligently applies the silky moisturizer; it’s the first sample bottle of the body milk he sourced for the store, plain but for a white label with a handwritten list of ingredients. There are boxes and boxes of body milk in the store now, waiting for the official Rose Apothecary labels to be applied, along with an overwhelming quantity of other products in various stages of readiness. He should be there now, unpacking and labeling and planning and organizing; in fact, Patrick is supposed to meet him there after lunch to review and sign some paperwork, after which he’ll probably stick around to help with whatever needs doing. He usually does, these days, if Ray doesn’t need him in the afternoon.
David imagines being in the same room right now with Patrick, the alarmingly capable man with the most intoxicating mix of confidence and humbleness he’s ever seen in another human being. Patrick watches David so closely—not staring, but watching, and not like he’s trying to figure him out, but like he’s trying to understand him. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable the way he thought it should have once he realized Patrick was doing it; he hasn’t really taken the time to figure out exactly how he feels about it, if he’s being honest with himself, because he’s not sure he really wants to know.
He does know, though, that it won’t take Patrick more than a few minutes to realize all is not well with David today. He doesn’t think he can look into that sweet, wholesome face and see those wide, brown eyes turn sad when David lies or refuses to confide in him; or worse, turn distant or judgmental if he does.
He digs his phone out from the depths of the jacket still resting in a rumpled pile on his bed. He pulls up the conversation thread with Patrick, and with slightly jittery fingers, types out a quick message asking to reschedule their meeting for tomorrow. He drops his phone and busies himself with picking up and caring for the clothing he’d scattered throughout the room.
Just as he’s dropping the untangled socks into his small laundry basket of washables, his phone pings with a message notification. It’s Patrick, confirming his request, and David sighs his relief and sends a quick “thank you” in response.
But Patrick is a sweet and generous and nice person and already cares about David in a way he’s slowly realizing not many people ever have—and isn’t that a dark thought that isn’t helping to keep the waves of panic at bay—and several more messages ping in rapid succession. Of course, David and Is everything all right? and Can I help with something?
David bites his bottom lip, eyes stinging for the first time throughout this whole debacle. Of course Patrick wants to help, and David considers for one more second pouring his heart out to his new business partner, and maybe, he thinks, his new friend?
He’s pretty sure Patrick is a genuinely good person who won’t actually react the way David is afraid he will, but he’s not completely sure. He can’t shake the feeling that Patrick might treat him differently if he finds out about this. If he lets himself think about it, he likes the way Patrick sees him now, and desperately doesn’t want anything to change that.
He stares down at his phone as tears gather in his eyes and shakes his head. He can’t risk it; he’s taken enough risks in the last 24 hours to last him a while.
He types out and sends a vague excuse for the cancellation, blaming it on 'a family situation' and assuring Patrick he’ll see him tomorrow. He mutes his phone and shoves it under his pillow to avoid seeing whatever kindness Patrick will reply with this time.
His knee bounces and he bites his thumb as he considers what the fuck he’s gonna do next. He can’t stay here in the room; eventually someone will come home and he really can’t handle anyone from his family right now. He can’t go to Stevie, either, because she’ll want to talk about last night and he’s definitely not ready for that yet. Or, god forbid, what if he runs into Sebastien checking out? No, he needs to get as far away from the motel as possible.
He could go to the store, but he’d already told Patrick he won’t be there today. Even if he tries to stay in the back, Patrick might see the lights, or see him coming in or out. Regardless, he’s pretty sure his nerves are too frazzled to apply labels or neatly arrange products to his own exacting specifications, anyway.
The café is out, too, and so is just taking a walk around town, for the same reasons—he might run into Patrick, or Stevie, or again, god forbid, Sebastien. None of his usual options are going to work today, but if he doesn’t do something to get out and distract himself, he’s pretty sure he’s going to lose his fucking mind and end up locking himself in his mother’s closet.
David closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing again, and feeling his skin prickle with nervous energy. He balls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, and presses down into the mattress on either side of him, physically grounding himself to the bed. When he feels the freshest wave of panic recede, he loosens his fists and wipes his sweaty palms on the towel still wrapped around his waist.
He flips through the mental Rolodex of limited distractions available to him without money, reliable means of transportation, or an elaborate disguise… and only one option comes to mind.
Jake opens the door and smiles with candid delight, immediately reaching out to pull David into a brief kiss. He retreats and leans against the door jamb, arms folded and flexing gorgeously in a soft green henley.
“David, it’s great to see you. You look amazing, as always.” Jake looks over David’s shoulder into the hallway. “Did you change your mind? Is Stevie with you?”
“What? No.” David flutters a hand through the air, as if waving away the very notion. “Stevie doesn’t know I’m here.”
“She didn’t—”
“Why are we talking about Stevie?” David cuts in, changing the subject. Stevie doesn’t know he’s here, and can never know, per their mutual agreement to break things off with Jake. “She’s not here, but I am. And so are you.” David poses with a hand on his hip and what he hopes is a sexy smirk. “You gonna let me in or what?”
“By all means.” Jake pushes off from the doorway and steps aside with one arm spread wide in welcome.
David squeezes past him, stepping much closer than necessary and brushing his hand across Jake’s chest as he passes. He hears Jake’s pleased hum of approval and is relieved. He hadn’t done more than text Jake to ask if he was home and if he was alone, unsure if he was seeing anyone these days, before walking over here and hoping for the best. If all it takes is a simple touch for Jake to acknowledge and receive his advances, this might be just the distraction David is looking for.
“Can I get you a beer? Wine, water?”
Jake wanders toward the kitchen and David follows, leaning against the edge of the counter.
“How about a whisky? Neat?”
Jake pours them both a splash of whisky and hands David a glass, holding his own out to clink them together.
“Cheers.”
They both toss them back in one, and David holds his glass out for another. Jake pours for David, then caps the bottle. David takes his glass and wanders away, sipping slowly this time, as Jake rinses his glass and tidies the kitchen.
David stops in the alcove Jake’s bed is tucked into and swallows back the last of his drink. He sets the empty glass on a small end table, then slips off his leather jacket—not his favorite, not the one he’d worn last night, but his back-up—and lays it across the padded bench at the foot of the bed.
Jake doesn’t mind a bit of conversation before a hook-up gets horizontal, but he doesn’t need it, either, and David’s quite grateful for that this afternoon. The whisky is helping to take the edge off the tension thrumming throughout his body, but David’s eager to get to the real distraction.
He sits on the side of the bed and leans back on his hands, one leg crossed over the other, foot dangling and slowly bouncing. He feels nothing close to relaxed but hopes the suggestive pose projects otherwise; he knows for a fact he looks good like this, with long legs on display, chest open and expanded, arms taut and flexed. He thinks it’s working when he tilts his head back and to the side and sees Jake watching him from the kitchen, lips parted and eyes hooded, waiting for an invitation to his own bed.
“You gonna stand there all day?” He smirks and pats the bed next to him.
“And keep a beautiful man like yourself waiting? Not a chance.” Jake smirks back and saunters closer, reaching behind his head to pull his shirt up and over and off—a simple but effective maneuver that makes David’s mouth water. He flings it onto the bench with David’s jacket, then settles onto the bed next to him, one knee bent onto the mattress so he can face David, who mirrors the pose to face Jake.
Jake reaches forward without hesitation and wraps his hand around the back of David’s neck in a firm but gentle grip. He tugs and they meet in the middle, Jake’s tongue immediately seeking entrance. David parts his lips without hesitation and sighs into the kiss, relieved when Jake’s thorough and proficient exploration of his mouth immediately begins to quiet the static still humming in the background of his mind.
David leans closer, taking a more aggressive role, teasing and seeking out the last traces of whisky on Jake’s tongue. Jake matches him stroke for stroke, then tries to wrestle back control. His hand shifts from David’s neck to shoulder, long and strong fingers pressing into the muscle, and David gasps and jerks away. Jake pulls back instantly, hands up, removing all physical contact.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine, just a little sore. I pulled a muscle or something, it’s fine, keep going.” David’s turbulent mind had already begun to zone out and he brushes off Jake’s concern without a second thought, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. He pitches forward into Jake’s personal space, resting one hand on Jake’s thigh for balance and using the other to pull him in for another kiss.
Jake continues where he left off, resting his hand on David’s waist instead of shoulder this time, and pulls him closer, almost into his lap. They make out for what feels like ages, Jake’s hand sliding and smoothing all over David’s chest and arms and torso, David’s hand steadily stroking Jake’s thigh and teasing his inseam.
Jake’s hand slips around David’s waist and under his arm, reaching up toward his shoulder again, then pauses.
“Wait,” he pants against David’s lips. “There’s something on your shirt. What is that?” His fingers are swiping David’s shirt, near the ache in his shoulder.
“What? Get it off me!” David twists his head to look but can’t see anything.
“It’s wet, I can’t—” Jake fully retreats and stands up to move behind David for a better look. “David, I think you’re bleeding.”
David freezes, realizing it must be where Sebastien had bitten his shoulder, apparently hard enough to break skin. The zap of pain when Jake squeezed it was the wound reopening, and now he's bleeding on this gorgeous man's bed. He's instantly mortified.
“Oh my god,” he hisses under his breath, feeling the icy tendrils of intense embarrassment slithering under his skin. He tries to twist away from Jake’s grasp, but it’s too late; Jake has already lifted David’s shirt almost completely off and is gently probing around the wound.
“Are these teeth marks?”
David doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes and exhales heavily through his nose.
“David,” Jake murmurs, tenderly stroking the unmarred skin around the bite. “Are you okay, man?”
“I’m fine.” David’s answer is terse and clipped, and thankfully Jake doesn’t push for more.
David feels the air around them shift as Jake stands up behind him and he looks over his shoulder to see him disappear into the bathroom. He comes out a few moments later, making a quick stop at the freezer before approaching David with his hands full.
“Will you let me clean that up for you?” He holds up a basic first aid kit in one hand and a cold compress in the other. “A carpenter is always prepared for cuts and bruises.”
David looks up at him for a few moments, completely at a loss for what to do or how to react. He’s embarrassed, ashamed, afraid—but ultimately exhausted. Too tired and overwhelmed to do anything but accept Jake’s offer for what it is.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Thank you.”
Jake helps David carefully peel off his shirt without agitating his shoulder and David holds it in his lap. He distracts himself for a few minutes by considering the various methods for removing bloodstains from fabric and what might work best on this. He’s glad he wore black instead of white, or he might not have been able to salvage it.
He winces only once or twice as Jake carefully cleans and dresses David’s shoulder, exhibiting a gentleness David doesn’t remember ever seeing in his former lover. He was always a generous and kind partner, even when the activities got a little rowdy, but ‘gentle’ was never really in their playbook.
He hears the crumple of discarded wrappers being gathered and scrunched together, then jumps when the compress is pressed over the wound, still icy cold even through the dish towel Jake wrapped around it.
After several minutes of strained and heavy silence, Jake speaks and David is thankful they’re not face to face for this.
“Have you been seeing someone, David?”
“Not— No. Not exactly.”
“But you were with someone last night?”
“Yes,” David whispers.
“And they did this?”
“Yes,” he repeats, barely audible.
“Hmm,” Jake hums, quietly, neutrally. David feels him shift on the bed behind him and press the ice pack more firmly against his shoulder. “From what I remember… hickeys were one thing, and you didn’t mind when things got a little rough, but any marking that breaks the skin was a hard limit for you.”
David says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even want to think about it.
Jake lifts the ice pack and David can feel him carefully tracing the edges of the bandage, pressing the tape down securely. He hadn’t looked at the mark before getting dressed, and still doesn’t want to. He’s glad Jake covered it so he can put it off a bit longer.
Jake applies the ice pack to the wound again, using his whole hand to press it flat against the skin. David feels his lips brush against his other, unmarked shoulder, and the excess of tenderness causes his breath to catch in his throat. If Jake notices, he doesn’t say anything; he just sits quietly with him, stroking his other arm with his free hand.
David says nothing more, doesn’t offer any more details or explanations, and Jake doesn’t ask for them. But he doesn’t entirely drop it, breaking the uncomfortable silence once more.
“Do you need to go to the police, David? I’ll drive you and I’ll stay, if you don’t want to be alone.”
“No. That’s not necessary.”
Jake squeezes his good arm in acknowledgment, but asks, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I really, really don’t want to get into details, but I willingly instigated the whole thing and consented to everything—other than the bite—and regrets are not the same thing as… I wasn’t forced into anything, and I got what I wanted, and now I really just want to forget the whole thing ever happened.”
David can tell that Jake isn’t convinced, he can feel the tension radiating off Jake’s body behind him, but his own chest is heaving and it’s getting harder and harder to catch his breath again, and he appreciates that Jake doesn't push it. Instead, he steps away to fetch a glass of water for David then sits behind him again to reapply the ice pack, silently supportive.
David’s breathing has calmed and the water glass has been emptied by the time the cold compress has done its work, the wound pleasantly numb now. He gently shrugs his shoulder and Jake’s hand falls away. He glances behind him to offer a small smile.
“Thank you. It’s feeling a lot better now.”
Jake nods and rubs David’s back briefly before returning the ice pack and empty glass to the kitchen. He sits in front of David when he returns, settling sideways again to face him.
“If it’s all right with you,” he says quietly but clearly, “I don’t think we should pick up where we left off.”
David doesn’t blame him; he’s not really in the mood himself anymore. But the pain of rejection is still prickly and his eyes sting. He swallows hard to dislodge the lump in his throat and moves to stand up, but Jake grasps both upper arms to hold him in place.
“You don’t have to leave, though. I’d like it if you’d stay. In fact—” He strokes and squeezes David’s arms, careful not to venture past the balls of his shoulders. “If you're into it, I’m told I give excellent massages.” He grins easily. “No hanky panky.”
David hesitates, still feeling overwhelmed and exposed.
“You can leave if you need to, but you came here for a reason, right?” Jake raises an eyebrow and David looks away, blushing. “I don’t think that's what you really need, though, and that’s not really my scene.” He continues stroking David’s arms, warming them and soothing the lingering frizzle of raw nerves just under the skin. “But I can still make you feel good, if you let me.”
David takes a deep breath and mentally shakes off his doubts and reservations. Jake isn’t the type of partner David could have built a long-term relationship with, and their fling may have ended awkwardly, but it was amicable and David doesn’t look back on their time together with any kind of regret or bitterness. Jake is a good guy. He can trust Jake with this.
“Okay. I’d like that.”
“Cool. I’m gonna grab an extra sheet and some towels. Any scent preferences for the oil?”
“Umm. Nothing overly sweet or floral, or too strong. If that’s okay?”
Jake nods and steps away to gather supplies. David stands up and strips the bed down to the top sheet, then carefully folds his stained shirt and rests it on top of his jacket on the bench. He sits down to untie and take off his shoes, neatly aligning them against the bench and out of the way, then stands up when Jake returns, arms full.
David takes the sheet from Jake and spreads it over the bed, then does the same with the towel Jake holds out to him. When he turns back to Jake, he’s rolling up another towel and bending it into an upside-down U-shape, which he places on the bed where the pillow used to be.
“For your head. So we don’t smother you,” Jake explains when David looks at it curiously.
David nods. “Yeah, I figured, I just…” He trails off, glancing up at Jake, surprised at the thoughtfulness, and then feeling guilty for being so surprised. He thinks Jake probably deserves better than the reputation he has around town. But he doesn’t say any of that. Just, “Thanks.”
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants but hesitates, and it doesn’t escape Jake’s notice.
“How about we leave the pants on this time?” Jake suggests, before David can say anything. “Me, too.”
“Yes. Good, okay.” David exhales loudly and shakes out his hands, then climbs onto the bed, face down and resting on Jake’s makeshift massage table pillow.
He focuses on regulating his breathing again, and listens as Jake steps away once more to wander around the apartment, closing curtains and dimming lights. He hears a few clicks and beeps and then quiet music is filling the air; nothing he recognizes, and nothing particularly romantic, which David appreciates. It’s just pleasant noise to avoid what might have otherwise been awkwardly oppressive silence.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Mm,” David murmurs. He feels the bed dip and sway as Jake climbs on and balances on his knees on either side of David’s thighs.
“Is this okay?”
“Mhmm,” David murmurs again, and then after a moment, he adds, “You can sit, if that’s more comfortable. It’s okay.” He feels Jake settle further down, resting his weight on the backs of David’s thighs.
“Like this?”
“Yeah,” David breathes out. “S’good.”
Jake’s hands, warm and dry, press into the middle of David’s back. He rests them there for a few moments, letting David’s body acclimate to his touch and the temperature of his skin, then firmly glides them up and down and around David’s back, shoulders, and arms. David hums, already feeling his body slowly relax.
“I’m gonna use the oil now. Let me know if anything I do isn’t working for you; too soft or too hard or painful, whatever.” Jake speaks softly but clearly, and David hums in acknowledgement. “And I’ll avoid the bandaged area.”
David hears the snick of a cap opening and closing, then the sound of Jake’s slick hands rubbing together to warm the oil. He’s once again surprised and touched by Jake’s thoughtfulness and wonders why he continues to sell the man short.
Jake’s hands return, slippery with oil, pressing more firmly but sliding with ease. David lets out a long, low groan against his will and wants to be embarrassed, but Jake just chuckles.
“Good, huh?”
“Sooo good,” David slurs. He can feel the tension he’s been carrying since Sebastien came to town leeching out of every muscle, even the ones Jake isn’t touching with his magic carpenter’s hands, and sinks further into the mattress.
He’s so focused on the pleasure of this miraculous release that he doesn’t realize he’s crying until his breath hitches in his chest on his next inhale. He tenses in renewed embarrassment and Jake notices immediately.
“Sshhh.” He slows and gentles his hands, rubbing wide circles across David’s entire back. “Sshhh. It’s fine, David, don’t worry. It happens all the time. I told you I’m good,” he adds with a chuckle.
David’s face still burns but he huffs out a laugh between shaky breaths. He eventually relaxes again under Jake’s gentle hands and gentler shushes. When his tears have calmed and Jake’s strong hands are digging in once more, he speaks into the mattress, but loud enough for Jake to hear.
“You’re a good person, Jake.”
“So are you, David.”
He digs a little deeper and opens himself a little further, nervous but determined.
“We’re friends, right?”
Jake doesn’t hesitate for even a moment.
“Totally.”
“Good.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I didn’t—” He falters, and clears his throat. “I don’t have so many friends since I moved here, so. I’m glad.”
Jake’s hands trail down David’s arms, rhythmically squeezing, until he reaches David’s hands. He squeezes them with both of his.
“Me, too. And my door is always open, for whatever you need.”
David sniffles, but a few deep breaths keep any tears at bay.
“Thanks, Jake.”
David doesn’t know how long the massage lasts, only that he’s boneless and his head is completely static-free by the time Jake slows to a stop and carefully climbs off the bed. With great effort, David lifts his head from the towel and turns it to face Jake, who’s wiping his hands clean with a towel and smiling down at David.
“Still good?”
“Still good,” David sighs.
“Excellent. I'm happy I could do this for you.” Jake jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta head to my workshop for a bit. But you’re welcome to stay for as long as you want.”
David thinks he should leave, but he’s not sure his body can move yet, so he nods and whispers his thanks.
Jake saunters over to his dresser and pulls out a plain white t-shirt, which he drops on the bench near David’s jacket and stained shirt.
“I wouldn’t shower yet; leave that bandage on a bit longer. You can wear this home so you don’t get oil on your clothes.”
David blushes and vows to never again underestimate this man’s capacity to consider the needs of his partners, in any scenario.
Jake leans down and brushes a kiss against David’s cheek.
“I’m glad you stopped by, David. It was really great to see you.” He smooths a hand down David’s back, fingertips lingering as he steps back and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? And lock the door behind you on your way out.”
He throws a wink at David as he disappears around the corner and a few moments later, David hears the door open and then shut.
He settles into the mattress, not quite ready to get up yet, but determined not to doze off—he thinks Jake coming home to find him still here, asleep in his bed, would be taking advantage of his extremely generous hospitality.
His shoulder is starting to hurt again, throbbing dully, but he's otherwise more relaxed than he's been in months; the devastating waves of panic that threatened to drown him all morning are gone. He’d come here for a distraction, to escape the darkness of his own chaotic thoughts and the friends and family who would see him too clearly to leave well enough alone. But he’d been underestimating Jake, and where he'd expected to find an ex-lover willing to distract him for an afternoon, he’d found someone else who sees him just as clearly; he’d found another friend.
He keeps finding friends in this backwater hellhole he calls home now. Maybe one of these days it will stop surprising him.