Work Text:
At first, Phil hated therapy.
He still doesn't like it much, if he's honest, but the beginning was incredibly rocky. There had been a base level of trust with Robin that simply wasn't there in the first three referrals she'd given him. The first had asked him pointed questions that sounded like she didn't believe his brain injury was real; the second got a suspicious facial tic every time Dan was mentioned; the third kept calling him Philip even after repeated requests to stop.
If it wasn't for Dan, Phil would have given therapy up as a bad job a long time ago. Each new therapist is a reset, in a way, but his exhaustion level certainly isn't disappearing. Opening up isn't just scary, it also makes him bone-tired. He understands now why Dan takes a nap after especially emotional sessions with Robin.
Around his birthday, though, Phil gets referred to Jameson.
Jameson always has animals on his ties. Maybe that's a silly reason for Phil to give someone a shot at trust, but it gets him through the introductory session.
He's been going for weeks and weeks now, and Phil still has no idea whether Jameson is his last name or his first name. It's the only thing he answers to, anyway. He's got a shock of white hair that wouldn't look out of place on a mad scientist and a tendency to laugh nervously whenever Phil grimaces at a question. His hands shake, and his voice is calming.
They haven't built up to talking much about Phil's childhood or deepest regrets or anything like that, because Phil is pretty sure he'll need to see Jameson for a decade before that happens, but they've been working through the anger and confusion from his injury with only minor speedbumps.
So, when Phil comes home from therapy more frustrated than he'd been when he left, Dan frowns at him.
"No good?"
"Just had a bit of a disagreement," Phil says, draping himself over Dan's lap.
Dan waits in that expectant way of his before he remembers himself. "You don't have to talk about it," he says, as if it just occurred to him that Phil might not want to. "But... I'm here. If you want."
"I know you are," Phil says. He already knows that Dan is going to agree with Jameson, though, and isn't sure that he's up for having the same debate.
It takes a few hours. To Dan's credit, he's very patient about Phil more or less circling him all night, trying to figure out the best way to broach the topic, but the quiet and careful conversation is starting to annoy Phil, so.
"Jameson's been talking to my doctor," Phil says, all in a rush, as he and Dan are getting ready for bed. Dan barely pauses in peeling back the duvet at the sudden stream of words. "And they think that I should get a dog. Like. A working dog. For my broken brain."
"Do they," Dan says, carefully noncommittal.
"Yeah, I told him I've already got you for that role."
That surprises a bark of a laugh out of Dan. The sound of it makes their dim, mostly-empty bedroom feel lighter, and Phil's own smile comes more easily when he sees the relaxation in Dan's cheeks.
"You did not."
"Obviously I didn't," Phil laughs. Crawling into bed with Dan feels like home, despite the cardboard boxes lining the walls of this large, still unfamiliar room.
Coming home from Japan had been a readjustment, as if Phil were once again trying to fit himself into a space that didn't quite belong to him. It had been almost a relief to get a call from Ellie about a new place to check out. Phil isn't sure if the house was actually perfect for them or if he and Dan had both just needed to get out of that flat as soon as possible, but he's glad they're here.
It's a bit of a fixer upper, but that's okay. So is Phil.
Dan's big, warm hand rests on Phil's hip, and Phil feels himself sidling closer instinctively.
"What's the problem?" Dan presses, both gentle and exasperated about the topic in the way only Dan can be. "You love dogs. You want a dog. We actually have a yard, now, and nobody to tell us we can't. So what is it?"
"I want a pet dog," Phil mumbles. There's no real bite in the argument, because Dan hasn't been sharp with him yet.
"Service dogs are still dogs, bub."
"But it's not a pet."
There's a long few moments of quiet, then Dan laughs. It's dry - almost humourless - and ends on a breath that sounds an awful lot like a sigh. "It would help, wouldn't it?"
The awful thing is, it probably would. But Phil doesn't want to be someone who needs to be accompanied by a service animal. He wants to be independent.
It's bad enough that he still doesn't recognise himself in the mirror, or that his family is always older than he expects them to be, or that an anxiety attack can take up his whole day. He doesn't want to add all those brain injury symptoms up into a new, worse version of himself.
Being a fixer upper isn't so great when you're not made of brick and mortar. In fact, being the sick one is no fun at all.
He doesn't want to be sick anymore.
None of that is something he wants to get into right this second, though, so he rolls away from Dan and tries to fall asleep.
--
Of course, Phil wants a dog. He's wanted a dog for as long as he can remember. His parents had said no, and then student housing didn't allow pets, and apparently he and Dan had been struggling with landlords on the issue for years.
The problem is, Phil doesn't want this kind of dog. Phil wants a dog that he can play and cuddle with and give exorbitant amounts of treats to. Most importantly, he wants a dog who he takes care of, not the other way around.
A pet dog would be more or less off the table if Phil were to accept a working dog into his home. Jameson had been sympathetic and explained that even working dogs were susceptible to peer pressure, and introducing dogs that aren't trained in the same way could be detrimental to the one trying to do a specific job.
Phil doesn't have it in him to keep retraining dogs over and over. He's still figuring out how to retrain himself. So it's one or the other - a dog who can just be a dog, or a dog that exists to help him.
A dog is still a dog, but this dog would be a constant reminder that Phil is different than other people, different than he was Before, and he doesn't want to start resenting an innocent dog. So Phil doesn't want to even try going down that road.
He thinks that Dan understands that. He's also pretty sure that Dan thinks it's all very unreasonable.
--
Dan isn't very subtle, is the thing. He'd apparently been waiting for this topic to come up, because he's got a physical folder of research. He keeps accosting Phil at random moments to offer service dog trivia, like he's Microsoft's Clippy or something.
"Did you know," Dan says very suddenly around Phil's elbow. Phil nearly falls off the chair he's standing on, saving himself with a quick snag of the kitchen cupboard. "That we could do the training ourselves?"
"I don't want to train a dog for that," Phil sighs. He goes back to his current, very important task of arranging their knick-knacks on top of the cupboards.
"If you had a medical detection dog," Dan says around his toothbrush later, pointedly not calling it a service dog, "then you could go out by yourself again."
"I don't want to go out by myself," Phil lies. He walks out of the bathroom.
"She could sleep in our bed," Dan murmurs into Phil's ear the next morning, voice rough with sleep.
"Dan, drop it. I don't want one."
Dan isn't very subtle, and Phil is pretty sure he's never completely dropped something in his life, but he leaves it alone for the moment.
--
It's good that there's so much else to keep Dan's attention, or Phil is certain that he'd be the one receiving a 'please can we get a dog' letter. Now that they've officially moved into a place with their names on the mortgage, there are a lot of little projects that add up into a monstrous to-do list.
Dan has busied himself with trying to do more than half of the list at once, juggling tasks throughout the day like standing still will cause him physical pain, while Phil focuses on emptying their boxes one at a time.
Today, Phil is unpacking their toiletries while Dan is allegedly painting a living room wall and putting a coffee table together and calling an electrician about their upstairs outlets and cooking dinner and checking the attic for hidden treasures. The list seems daunting to Phil, but he knows Dan well enough by now to know that multiple tasks are easier for him to concentrate on than just one.
Neither of them really expect the whole list to get done. So when Dan comes barreling into the bathroom with paint on his clothes and dust in his hair, rambling about whether to order pizza or Chinese for dinner, Phil isn't surprised by it.
What does surprise him is how confused he is by it. He can hear the words coming out of Dan's mouth, rapidfire, but only some syllables are sticking.
Phil has been so focused on his own task for hours, mindlessly putting things on shelves and in baskets, cleaning as he goes, that his brain is totally scrambled by Dan's sudden appearance.
"What," he starts, and then saying words is as difficult as hearing them. Phil feels tongue-tied and stupid, and he presses both his palms to the sides of his head to try and steady the rattling around inside it. He can't really hear Dan properly, although Dan is certainly asking questions, and all he can do is focus on what he knows while he waits for the wave to pass.
It takes a long time. Dan sits with him on the bathroom tile, his big hands steady on Phil's knees, and gently asks if he's alright every so often. Phil can only shake his head for what feels like ages, but might only be half an hour.
Finally, something in Phil's brain clicks back into place. He's very, very tired all of a sudden.
"I'm fine," he says, lowering his hands to rest on top of Dan's. "Sorry."
"Don't apologise," Dan says, voice still soft. "What happened?"
"I just got so confused," Phil admits. He sounds as helpless as he feels, and he looks at their joined hands rather than meeting Dan's worried gaze. "And I couldn't make sense of anything."
"That sounds scary, bub. Can I get you anything?"
"No," says Phil. "I'm just... tired. I think I need to take a nap."
With careful hands and an even more careful voice, Dan guides him up off the floor and into their bedroom. He even tucks Phil into bed like he's a sick child, and Phil has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop wetness from welling up behind them.
His eyes are still closed when he whispers, "I'm supposed to be getting better."
He knows that Dan hasn't left the room yet - probably won't at all, with Phil in this state - but there's quiet for long enough for Phil to doubt his certainty.
Fingers brush the hair off Phil's forehead so that warm lips can press to it.
"You have a brain injury," Dan says quietly. His voice shakes, but he says it. "That's not going to just go away. You are doing better, I promise."
"I want it to go away," Phil admits, feeling raw and vulnerable and exhausted in a way that he's never really been in front of someone. It's part of why he's been having so much trouble with therapy - he hates this feeling.
"I know," says Dan. He kisses Phil's forehead again. "But if you didn't have it, you wouldn't be you. And I wouldn't be me. We'd be a different Dan and Phil."
"Maybe that Dan is happier."
"Don't say that." Dan's voice is sharp, and Phil winces in apology.
"Sorry."
Dan's palm is so soft against Phil's cheek, but Phil keeps his eyes closed. He can barely handle having this conversation without vibrating out of his skin as it is, he doesn't need to add eye contact to the situation.
"I love you," Dan says, insistent. Like he thinks Phil doesn't believe him. "I love you exactly how you are, stupid."
That's just something Dan calls him. It's got so much fondness around it that it doesn't even sound like an insult - it's more like a term of endearment, slipping off Dan's tongue as easily and lovingly as if it were one.
But Phil is so frustrated by his own broken brain that he flinches away from the word, from Dan's touch, and shakes his head. "Maybe don't... call me that. Anymore. Please."
"Okay," Dan agrees easily. He doesn't apologise, but Phil knows it's not because he isn't sorry.
There's no apology simply because Dan doesn't want to put his own emotions onto Phil's shoulders right now and, honestly, Phil is grateful for it. He'll be more than happy to comfort Dan later.
For now, he does the breathing exercises that Dan taught him and holds tight to Dan's wrist until he manages to fall asleep.
--
Phil doesn't leave bed very much in the days following. Dan had looked ready to argue with him that first morning, hands already settled on his narrow hips and mouth set in a stubborn line, but Phil hadn't even had it in him to give a token protest.
He gets tired more easily than he did when he was younger, in general, but this is different. It feels like he went on a pub-crawl before participating in a triathlon at dawn, and then had to sit in a double therapy session afterwards. He spends most of the day dozing, but he can't even feel good about the break.
Breaks have never been something that Phil is altogether comfortable with. He'd prefer to be doing something - anything - to keep him company from his own mind. Unfortunately, this weird brain breakdown hangover makes everything difficult and un-fun. He can't have a show on, because every time he zones out and the dialogue starts blurring together, he flashes back to the terrible confusion of not understanding Dan. It makes him jolt violently two or three times before Dan realises what's causing it and switches to instrumental music.
That's nice. Dan is nice.
Phil still doesn't feel better.
In moments like this one, where he's got aches in his body that remind him of his age and a brain that, scarily, can't recall regular words sometimes, Phil can't help wondering if he's really doing all he can to improve.
He hears Dan on the phone in the hallway, and he struggles. He doesn't want to eavesdrop in case Dan goes Charlie Brown Adult on him again, but there's something apologetic in Dan's tone that makes Phil curious. He wonders what Dan could possibly have to apologise for.
The words themselves are hard for Phil to hear, let alone process, but he's figured out the gist of the call by the next time his body demands a doze.
Dan had been turning something down, saying that he couldn't possibly go to Los Angeles right now. He'd cited the move and renovations as the reason, but everybody must know what's really holding him back.
This time, Phil welcomes the wave of unconsciousness. If nothing else, it's an easy escape from the guilt churning in his gut.
--
"I'm being selfish."
Dan looks over from his current project - ripping up the carpet in the guest room to expose the floorboards underneath - and gives Phil a small, indulgent smile. "How so?"
It's been a few days now since Phil's episode, but Dan is still making him take it easy. He's sitting in the doorway of their guest room, legs sprawled into the hallway so he isn't in Dan's way, and the most he's been allowed to do is get snacks for them from the kitchen.
That isn't what's bothering Phil, though. He gets that his body and brain need the rest, as much as he's itching to do something.
Phil picks a bit at the edge of the carpet next to him. It really is ugly, although he didn't have the same violent reaction to it that Dan had when they first toured the house.
"If I don't get a service dog," he says, slow. "Then every time something happens, it's on you."
Dan sits up on his knees and shakes his head. "I don't mind."
"I know you don't," says Phil. He can't imagine how Dan manages to be so patient and giving so much of the time, but it's making him realise exactly how much Dan is giving up for him.
All of his creative ideas on hold. All of his future plans thrown into a blender. All of his time spent with Phil, worrying about Phil, making Phil feel safe.
It's been good. It's felt safe. But if Phil isn't getting any better, that means this is Dan's life forever.
"I can't be your only priority," Phil continues. It'll be easier to get through to Dan by using his own feelings, rather than trying to make Dan prioritize himself. "It doesn't feel good, knowing that you're putting things on hold for me. You need to be able to go to meetings out of the city or whatever without me, and I know you wouldn't want to leave me alone."
"No," Dan agrees, that smile still playing around his lips. "It'll be a long time before I leave you for longer than a couple hours. And I still don't like you going out by yourself."
"I know."
"And it's not that I don't think you're capable," says Dan. "I just -"
"Can't go through it again," Phil finishes for him and then smiles. He hopes it doesn't look too sad. "Yeah. Me either."
--
The process of getting a dog is a long one. It isn't the same as going to the shelter and picking out the mongrel with the saddest eyes, as Phil is pretty sure he and Dan had been planning on doing before this whole mess happened.
Luckily, Dan has been hounding very nice members of various organizations for months now in preparation for Phil to make some kind of decision. Apparently, Dan has been thinking about this as an option since early December, when Phil had passed out alone in public. Getting that call from the hospital had been scarier than the first incident, Dan tells him, and Phil curses himself for not seeing this strain on Dan's shoulders earlier.
It's going to take close to two years, probably. Less time if Phil had agreed sooner, but he hadn't. His pride and stubborn, insistent hope that he was going to get better had cost them months on the waiting list.
He's trying not to beat himself up about it. Dan keeps reminding him that the extra months don't matter, really, since it just means they have to spend most of their time together for longer.
They do that anyway. Phil is trying very, very hard not to show how guilty he feels right now.
He suspects that Dan isn't fooled.
--
Jameson, for one, is thrilled by the prospect of Phil officially putting in the request. He wears a tie with dogs all over it in celebration, and reminds Phil no less than four times that he'll be free to bring the dog in with him to their sessions.
The enthusiasm of it makes Phil's lips twitch. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you just want to hang out with a dog."
"Might be a factor," Jameson jokes. His hands shake as he picks up the water jug, and Phil takes it from him to pour their glasses more steadily.
"Here," says Phil. "I got it."
"Cheers," Jameson says with a smile.
They both know that Phil is clumsy, and therefore just as likely to spill everywhere, but they've talked in the past about how useless Phil feels lately, and Jameson is much more gracious about accepting help than Phil has ever been. So Phil pours them water, and he takes what he can get.
"It's a pretty long wait list."
"Always is. Are you worried about getting on in the meantime?"
"No," Phil lies. He hasn't been able to kick the habit of lying to therapists quite yet. He knows that Dan would have things to say about that, but Robin had told him time and time again that it didn't mean he was unhelpable.
"Some people never trust me completely," she'd admitted to him during their second check-in, when Phil had mentioned how hard he'd been finding it to be open and honest. "Only a handful of people can share things in the first few sessions, Phil. Deflecting attention from your own feelings by telling white lies is common in people who would rather not think about those feelings at all."
Phil is pretty sure that Jameson can tell whenever he lies, but he never really calls Phil out on it. He just laughs, something quiet and nervous-sounding that never makes Phil feel like he's being laughed at, and then allows silence for Phil to keep talking if he wants to.
Today, Phil does. "That's not… I mean, it isn't my main concern, no. I know I can handle the wait, I just…"
He looks out the small window, but there's not much to see through the fog. He's quiet for long enough that Jameson gives him a gentle prompt of, "You just?"
Phil swallows hard. He doesn't look away from the fogged-up window.
"I just don't know how I can keep asking this much of Dan," he tells the window rather than telling Jameson. "He's put everything on hold for - this, for me, and it's not like we have a specific end date for when I'll be better. He just has to, like, put up with it. And that doesn't exactly feel good, you know?"
Jameson hums, the sort of thoughtful, encouraging sound that all therapists seem to practice in their spare time, but he's smiling when Phil looks back at him. The other people Phil had tried talking to were pros at keeping their expressions neutral, and that had always made him more anxious. The way Jameson laughs and smiles and reacts to what Phil says makes it all more… reassuring, somehow.
It's a bit more like talking to a friend, in that way.
"Let me ask you a question," Jameson says, taking a shaky sip of his water. "And you don't have to answer it here, today, it's just something I want you to think about."
"Okay," Phil says, warily enough that Jameson laughs again.
"You've only told me a bit about your partner," Jameson says, looking down at his notes as if he's got a Dan cheat sheet in there somewhere. "But you mentioned he's in therapy, too, so let me ask you this, Phil - if Dan needed you, seriously needed you, as in needed you in order to function day to day, would you 'put up with' that? Or is that something you would just do, as his partner, to help him?"
"That's not a fair comparison."
"Why is that, Phil?"
"Because - because I don't feel like I've known him as long as he's known me. We're partners, sure, but he's got… more. There's, like, responsibility there that probably makes him feel like he's obligated or something."
Jameson hums. "You think your relationship is unbalanced."
Phil blinks. "Of course it is."
"Tell me why," says Jameson. He gets more comfortable in his seat, holding onto his water glass as if he's settling in for a long story.
It isn't a long story, though. It's a very short and simple story. Phil thinks it's pretty damn obvious, actually, but he knows that Jameson has him say even the obvious things out loud.
"He gives," says Phil. "I take."
"Do you think that's how Dan views your relationship?"
"No, I know it isn't. He loves me too much."
"You love him, too," Jameson says it like it's a fact, which startles Phil for a moment. Obviously, he loves Dan. He just never thought of it as something that someone would be able to pick up on just by talking to him. "So what's the balance issue?"
Shame and guilt battle it out to be at the forefront of Phil's emotional cyclone, making his tongue feel like it weighs a ton.
Words are hard now, but he can recognise that it isn't due to his broken brain this time. They're hard because Phil knows that saying them out loud will make him feel like a monster.
Jameson waits, though. He waits, and Phil soothes himself by twining his fingers tightly together, and the fog begins clearing outside.
"He'll always love me more than I love him," Phil finally manages in a croak of a voice. He feels, horrifically, like he's about to burst into tears in front of this man who is still mostly a stranger to him. "He's - there's so much, I'm missing so much, and I can't get it back, and I'll never stop feeling that gap -"
Phil's own breath hitching is what interrupts him. He buries his face in his palms, fighting back angry sobs that are threatening to escape.
He doesn't manage to say anything else for the rest of his session. He barely even hears Jameson speaking to him, because he can only focus on one sound at a time right now, and that sound is his own lungs struggling to fill.
--
Phil doesn't talk about it when he gets home, either. It isn't unusual for him to be laconic about therapy, so it doesn't seem like Dan can tell anything out of the ordinary happened.
He just gives Phil that one smile of his - that soft, tired, beautiful one that had single-handedly gotten Phil through the first weeks following the incident - and makes tea for them. He talks about the plans he has for the house this week and lets Phil rest on his shoulder and sits in utter obliviousness at the shame screaming from Phil's pores.
It's obvious. Jameson had made him dance around saying it anyway, but it's been obvious.
Phil doesn't deserve him.
--
Buffy is on, because there's few things on the planet that help Phil feel better more effectively than the Slayer, and now that he's able to actually focus on an episode of television, he's going to do so. He skips around watching his favourite episodes of every season instead of starting another marathon, soaking up the fantasy escapism for what it is.
He's supposed to be picking out paint chips for the guest bathroom, but he's left them all on the coffee table so that he can curl up and let Buffy goodness wash over him. If Dan asks for a final verdict, he'll grab one at random. Any of the pastel-y neutrals would be fine, really, they could just throw a dart at the chips to pick and save themselves the trouble of thinking.
Dan is a whirlwind today, trying to do a dozen things at once again, but every so often he'll stop in the lounge to kiss Phil's hair or to comment on the 90s fashion onscreen. It's nice, but it's also uniquely painful.
Shouldn't Phil be doing all that stuff with him? They own the house together, after all, and all he's done to it is unpack a bunch of stuff he doesn't remember buying.
"What d'you think?" Dan asks, interrupting Phil's latest kick of feeling sorry for himself.
Phil blinks back into focus. "Yeah," he says nonsensically. "That colour does look good on Cordelia."
Dan laughs, a loud bark of a noise that makes the darkest corners of the room feel brighter. He leans over the back of the sofa so that Phil can see him grinning.
"No, stu...pendous," he says, catching himself before he calls Phil stupid again. It's good of him. Yet another thing Phil will never be able to return the favour for. "I said, I'd probably have wished for something bad to happen to Xander. I guess Buffy not coming to Sunnydale is bad for him indirectly, or whatever, but c'mon - he's the one who hurt her, leave Buffy out of it."
"Not really how vengeance works," Phil points out. "You're just going for a low blow, not plotting out the most efficient revenge. Besides, she'd have asked for something else if she knew it would come true."
"Think a lot about vengeance, do you?" Dan teases.
Phil smiles, but he knows there isn't a lot of humour in it. "Some, yeah. You don't?"
"Prefer getting the hell out of Dodge, myself. Best revenge is living without thinking about them, or whatever mum says."
"Something like that," says Phil. He already knows that he’s an angrier person than Dan is, he doesn’t need to be reminded. He’s sure that Dan’s avoidance method isn’t any healthier, but it just feels like another straw on the camel’s back of things that are Wrong With Phil.
"So, what do you think?" Dan asks again, flopping his whole upper body over the back of the couch like a ragdoll. "Assuming you did know something would happen, what would you wish for?"
Dangerous train of thought to go down. Phil keeps it light, not really in the mood for Dan's sad puppy eyes. "If I was Cordy? I'd probably wish for a pipe through his gut. Cheating is bad enough, but, I mean, she almost died because of it! That’s so much worse, automatically."
"Damn," Dan laughs. "Here I was thinking my plot for all his shoes to give him blisters was diabolical."
"Your thing is way more diabolical," Phil reassures him. "I think Anya would just make the pipe kill him. Not really a slow torture there, just... poetic justice. And death."
Dan hums. "So, which would you rather? Quick but painful death from being stabbed, or constant blisters?"
Phil lets the conversation devolve from there, forcing his mind away from the fantasy trap of a wish that could make things back to the way they were. It’s so much easier, so much better, to play a game with Dan.
--
"Pass me the smaller flathead?"
Phil frowns, inspecting each of the screwdrivers in their brand new toolbox to figure out which one has the flattest head. When he looks up, Dan is giving him such a fond look that it takes his breath away for a moment.
"We should label them," he says, like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a grown man not to know these things.
"If you like," says Phil. Labels on everything might make him feel like a little kid, but they could be actually helpful as well. Besides, he’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t have learned any tool names in the past decade anyway - no retraining necessary. He hands Dan the one he points at, smiling sheepishly. "How’d you learn this stuff?"
Dan is triple-checking his pencil marks on the wall, as if they might have changed since the last time he inspected them. It seems silly to Phil, since the screws aren’t holding up a shelf or anything - they’re just suspending the fairy lights in Dan’s office, it’s not like they need to be even. Still, he doesn’t bother questioning Dan about it. That way lies some kind of rant, Phil is sure.
Absently, Dan says, "Dad taught me."
The answer doesn’t really jive with what Phil knows of Dan’s father, and he almost says so, but then he realises what this whole thing reminds him of.
Sitting on a cold cement floor. Passing tools when asked for them. Wondering, worrying, about who was going to do this sort of thing when he and Dan bought a house. Knowing it wasn’t going to be him.
"My dad taught you," Phil says, more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah," says Dan. He’s got a screw in his mouth, now, which doesn’t seem hygienic at all. Luckily it isn’t in there for long, as he finally lines it up with one of his pencil marks. "He showed me some stuff when they heard we were looking for a place. I’ll never be able to, like, build a fucking chair or anything, but I can hang stuff on the wall and fix a faucet."
No lump in his throat appears, like Phil expects it to. He’d expected another wash of that shame, the more familiar one that he’s been dealing with his whole life, the one that stems from feeling like less of a man than anyone else in his family.
Instead, he just feels lost. He can’t figure out a way to say that to Dan without sounding pathetic.
"He didn’t show me," Phil does say.
"He offered," Dan corrects him, too focused on his task to notice the surprise that Phil is sure is lighting up his face right now. "You said you’d literally rather deal with weird London tradesmen for the rest of your life than take a thumb off with a hammer. So, I figured I might as well figure some of it out myself."
"Why does it have to fall to you?" Phil asks, untethered and frustrated. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how he’s going to balance the scales when Dan just keeps doing more things to unbalance them again.
Dan hums, tapping at his chin with the screwdriver in a thoughtful gesture that makes Phil want to laugh. He doesn’t think the laugh would sound very nice right now, so he swallows it back. He sits at Dan’s desk, toolbox open at his useless hands, and he wonders what exactly he’d been bringing to the table even before he cracked his skull on the kitchen tile and lost his mind.
"I guess it doesn’t have to fall to me," Dan says. "It doesn’t really have to fall to either of us. We could’ve hired people to do stuff for us, you had that right."
"So," Phil prompts, "you’re doing it for, what, funsies?"
"Kinda, yeah." Dan laughs, turning back to the wall so he can put another screw in a carefully-chosen place. "It can be fun to work with my hands sometimes. But mostly I just - I don’t know, Phil, I just wanted to feel like I was useful around the house. You know?"
Phil is glad that Dan is facing the wall. The emotion cyclone tears through his body, making him feel as unstable as their back porch, and he has no idea what expressions might be fighting their way onto his face.
"You’re not - you’re so useful, Dan, what are you even talking about?"
There’s another laugh, and this time it doesn’t sound like Dan actually finds it funny. This time, Phil realises that Dan is facing the wall for a reason.
"Sure," he says. "Now."
"What -"
"I was basically a kid when I moved myself into your flat," Dan interrupts him. "You don’t remember that, but you’ve seen pictures and stuff, so you know that I was a fucking baby. I didn’t know how to do a goddamn thing. I cried just trying to buy groceries alone. So, yeah. I wanted to be able to do things, not just - drop my laundry at your feet and have a breakdown in your bed while you do it for me."
Phil doesn’t know if that’s a real example or not. He feels all turned around, can’t even begin to search his shattered memories for something like that.
"But - I don’t know how to do anything, either," he protests.
"Pretty sure nobody does. My parents certainly didn’t, and they must’ve been around our age when I started noticing that. My mum still doesn’t know how to make anything more complicated than rice." Dan looks at him over his shoulder, then, and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re not as far behind as you think you are, bub."
--
One morning, Phil wakes up feeling fine. No aches, no confusion, no anger.
He stares up at the ceiling for longer than he really needs to, basking in what it feels like to be normal. He doesn’t think he’ll ever take a good pain morning for granted again. At least, he won’t until the next time he forgets how bad the bad mornings can get.
He has to get out of bed eventually. He leaves Dan in a lump of blankets and heads to the loo. There are small splatters of water and toothpaste on the sink and basin, he notices while he’s washing his hands. He definitely needs half a pot of coffee before he can tackle anything more complicated than pulling on sweats, but Phil can recognise the bit of mess as something he can fix.
Phil heads for the coffeemaker before he starts doing anything, but the thought of what he could spend the day doing is making him feel weirdly buoyant. He doesn’t think cleaning the bathroom has ever rated higher than a mild nuisance on his agenda.
He answers some emails while he drinks his first cup, reading and typing slow enough that he doesn’t accidentally trigger a migraine. He’s got to clarify some things for the different dog organizations that Dan had gotten in touch with, identifying his exact needs and level of allergy to dog fur. The emails might have sent him spiralling back into the emotion cyclone, if he didn’t know he was taking something off of Dan’s shoulders.
Phil putters about the house for a bit, bringing his second cup of coffee around with him as he improves things little by little. His mum has always said that a tidy house is a tidy mind, but he hadn’t expected just how much it would help to wipe down the mirrors or put his stray socks into the hamper.
It feels like he can finally be useful again. He can do things for Dan, instead of just sitting around while Dan does things for him.
Once Phil’s stomach starts grumbling at him, he decides to do something a bit more complicated than toast or cereal from the box, which are his usual go-tos when left to his own devices. It’s not for him, so much - it’s for Dan, really, to wake him up with something nice. It feels like it would be silly to point at their shoes, lined up by the front door, and proudly tell Dan that he did it all on his own. No, it would be much better if he took pride in breakfast instead.
Phil has never been a culinary expert, and all Dan has managed to teach him in the past eight months or so is how to throw overripe veg into a pan for a stir fry, but he can make a pancake. He’s pretty sure they brought a bottle of syrup with the rest of their kitchen stuff, too, although he’ll have to check it before he confidently pours it all over a plate for Dan.
He hums to himself as he gets breakfast together. The tune is something just on the verge of being familiar, as though it’s right on the tip of his tongue, but Phil doesn’t chase that thought down into the spiral. He’s got more important things to do right now.
He’s being useful.
Phil finds a tray to put plates on, but he doesn’t trust himself to balance it if he adds drinks or anything, so he brings the bare necessities up their creaky stairs and opens the door back up with his hip.
Although Phil has been in and out of the bedroom a couple of times this morning already, Dan hasn’t twitched. He can sleep really deeply when he wants to, and Phil almost feels bad for waking him up from it. Only almost, though, because food always seems to win out over sleep for Dan. The smell of pancakes and syrup alone seems to be effective, as Dan starts wiggling in his blanket wrap.
"Mmf," the lump of blankets mumbles, Dan's curls just barely escaping out the top. "Mm?"
"Yeah," Phil says, as if Dan had asked a full question. "Food."
Dan's big brown eyes blink up at him, the blankets moving away just enough for his face to be visible. "Hmm?"
"Pancakes for you," Phil clarifies.
Dan makes another noise, this one happy, and struggles into a sitting position. It takes him another minute to untangle his arms from the blanket burrito, and by the time he does, Phil has joined him in bed.
Their breakfast is gone before Dan can figure out the English language. Well, he still doesn't quite have it. He says something like, "Pank why?", which Phil interprets as Why did you make pancakes?, but he's still doing better than Phil ever does before coffee.
"Made them for you," he says, hoping that Dan isn't awake enough to ask deeper questions. "And, okay, well, I ate some too, but it was kinda more for you. I just - I want to do things for you today, y’know? Whatever you want."
He hasn't known Dan for ten years, but he's known Dan long enough not to be surprised by the syrupy kiss he's pulled into as soon as their plates are safely on a nightstand. He lets Dan's big, impatient hands tug him closer and slides his own into Dan's mess of curls.
Cleaning, emails, breakfast, sex. These are things Phil can do. They're nowhere near the same level as the things Dan does for him, but it's still… something. It's a start.
There's a kind of anxiety thrumming just under the surface of Phil's motivation, like he thinks he can convince Dan he's worth keeping around on the bad days by cramming a bunch of favours into one good day, but Dan is pretty good at making Phil's brain shut off for a little while. He can deal with that anxiety later, or never. Whichever comes first.
Sometimes it feels like Dan is magic. Phil knows that’s ridiculous, that Dan just has a leg up on him in this, the same way he has a leg up on everything else in their relationship, and it isn’t really a surprise that Dan can play his body like an instrument. It still feels magic, somehow; like something so good that it has to come with a curse attached. Phil feels his brain shut down, gloriously, from a well-placed kiss to his jaw, and he thinks that Dan might not be taking advantage of this the way he should be.
"Wanna do stuff for you," he repeats, shivering at the sensation of Dan’s teeth at his earlobe.
"Got that bit," says Dan. His voice does something low and almost raw in the mornings, and it’s so much stronger when he’s turned on. Phil thinks it’s ridiculously sexy for something so normal. "This is stuff."
Dan’s vocabulary is still somewhere in dreamland, and Phil’s brain is working through molasses right now, so he doesn’t bother trying to explain what he means. He clambers awkwardly out of Dan’s lap, ignoring the grabbing hands that follow him and the adorable pout on Dan’s face, and pats at his blanketed thighs instead.
"Let me," is all he can figure out, but Dan can interpret him, too.
"Yeah," Dan agrees, tossing the covers aside. He’s not bothered to wear anything to bed these days, even if it means he has to double up on the duvets. Phil doesn’t totally understand the mentality behind it, but he isn’t complaining about easy access to Dan’s dick.
Dan is sleepy-eyed and warm and adorable and straining hard, and Phil files the sight of him away before he takes his glasses off. He lets Dan take them from him, lets Dan’s fingers brush through his hair, lets Dan pull him in for another kiss before pushing him down. It’s strange how something that is for Dan still makes Phil like he’s being taken care of in some way.
Dan’s hand stays in Phil’s hair, tightening his grip when Phil takes him in his mouth, and Phil could preen with how good and useful he feels right now.
He doesn’t think Dan would respond favourably to Phil using the word ‘useful’ about a blowjob, as if it’s just another chore on Phil’s list of things to help Dan out, but what Dan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
--
Dan comes home from therapy and immediately lies down on the sofa. He doesn't turn on the telly or say hello or anything, just buries his face in a cushion and stays there.
Phil bites his lip. He knows that Dan has hard, tiring sessions sometimes and that naps are par for the course, but Dan doesn't look like he's settling in for a nap. He's lying face down, his leather jacket pulled taut over his tense shoulders, and he barely even looks like he's breathing.
For a moment, Phil doesn't know what to do. The helpless sensation of it only lasts as long as it takes for him to close his laptop, though.
This is something he knows. It's like music or memories in that way - familiar, but not too familiar.
Phil turns off the overhead light, letting their motley collection of lamps keep him from stubbing his toes. Not all of them are turned on, but that's fine. It makes the room feel more comfortable.
He sits on the edge of the sofa and pulls Dan's feet into his lap so that he can start untying his trainers. Dan normally wouldn't put his shoes on the furniture, but he'd clearly faceplanted into the couch without taking a moment to get comfortable. Phil considers the logistics of trying to take his jacket off, too, but Dan is going to be dead weight right now. Phil doesn't know how he's so sure of that, but he is. He remembers, sort of.
Instead, Phil presses his thumbs into the tense arch of Dan's foot.
Dan inhales sharply, and then exhales much more slowly. He doesn't say anything, or get more comfortable, but he doesn't tell Phil to fuck off, either.
The house is quiet and dark. Phil rubs a bit of the bad day out through the soles of Dan's feet and considers takeaway options. He doesn't say anything to Dan, not wanting to push before Dan is ready, but he won't leave Dan alone like this.
--
"Doesn’t it fucking scare you?"
Phil looks over from his phone, where he’d been lost in a rabbit hole of stim videos, and considers the question. Dan hasn’t said much of anything all day, and Phil doesn’t want to send him spiralling by asking what he means. Dan has got himself into a more upright position, at least, and he finished a whole pizza, so Phil considers it a minor victory.
"Lots of things scare me," says Phil. "I’m a naturally paranoid person."
"Getting old," Dan clarifies as if Phil had actually asked what he was talking about. His big eyes, usually so warm and fond, are dull and fixed on a point in the wall, like he isn’t actually present.
"You’re not old," Phil scoffs.
"Getting older, then," says Dan. "I guess. I guess it’s not a fair question for you, since you, like, skipped a bunch of years. But before that - before you were here, didn’t it fucking… wasn’t it terrifying, turning into an adult?"
"Not really," Phil admits. He locks his phone but keeps it in his hand for something to toy with. "I had what you might call a soft launch of adulthood. My parents and Martyn were always… they helped me, when I didn’t know what I was doing. So it’s less like freefalling and more like falling into a net. Y’know?"
Dan bites his lip. Shakes his head. Says, "No, I have no idea what that’s like."
"Not from your family, I suppose not. But you’ve got my family, and you’ve got friends, and you’ve got Robin. There’s no shortage of people to ask for help with getting older."
"To be honest," says Dan, and his voice is so much smaller now, "I just kind of took it for granted that you’d keep being the person to help me. You were my soft launch. You’re clueless about some of the same stuff I am, but - I dunno. I’d never make it to an airport on time without you, or remember to file my taxes, or stop biting my nails. And you’re - here, and you’re dealing with being suddenly older, and you’re dealing with it so much better than I ever would. I think I’d lock myself in my room for a year, minimum, if I was twenty again. So I just… doesn’t it scare you? That you’re an adult, and everyone expects you to be, and there’s no going back?"
There’s a wince, as if Dan didn’t quite mean to ask the last question in the way he had, but he doesn’t try to take it back. He just waits, watching the wall and chewing on his lower lip. Phil isn’t bothered by the question, in any case.
"Well, yeah," he says. He smiles when Dan whips around to look at him in disbelief. "Of course it’s scary, babe. And I definitely am not dealing with this well."
"No, you are," Dan insists. "You can’t see it, but you are."
"I had you," says Phil. "I have you."
Dan’s expression falls into something like bewilderment, and Phil knows he’s mirroring it back. It feels like they’re having two separate conversations, and he has no idea where Dan is going with this anymore.
"You," Dan starts, then closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath before he tries to speak again. "You didn’t even know me, Phil. How did you not go running for the hills?"
"Because you made me feel safe," Phil says, still confused by what exactly Dan is asking. "And - I don’t know. It felt nice, knowing I would eventually be someone who could deserve someone like you. It was still scary. I think it’s always supposed to be scary. But I had you."
"I had you, too," Dan says, his voice so quiet that Phil almost doesn’t hear him.
A lump is starting to form in Phil’s throat. He swallows around it, looks down at his locked phone so that he doesn’t have to meet Dan’s dull eyes. "You still have me."
"No, yeah, I do," Dan rushes to reassure him. That just makes Phil feel a bit worse about it all. "But I’m scared, Phil. I’m scared, and I feel too young to have these problems and too old to be reacting badly all at once, right, and I need you."
"What could you possibly need me for?"
Phil says it like it’s a joke, but they both must know that it’s not. Dan breathes in so shakily that Phil is worried he’s about to cry.
It surprises him into looking up when Dan starts to laugh instead. Desperate peals of a noise through a raw throat, more alarming than anything else. Phil thinks he might have preferred the crying.
"You’re - shut up," Dan manages.
Then, Dan is crawling into his lap and peppering his face with kisses. He’s still shaking, but whether that’s from residual hysteria or new anxiety, Phil can’t tell.
Dan takes Phil’s face in both hands, giving him a chaste but desperate sort of kiss before leaning their foreheads together.
"Shut up," Dan says again, although Phil hadn’t actually said anything in the gap. "Shut up, shut up - you’re so fucking stupid. No, sorry, I - you’re not, I’m sorry for saying that, but - I can’t believe you just said that to me. Like I’ve ever needed anything the way I need you. I wouldn’t be here, Phil, it’s not about you knowing what tools look like or remembering our first Christmas together or whatever your overactive anxiety thinks is the issue. Me, who I am right now, wouldn’t exist without you. I don’t think I’d like the person I’d be, either."
"I didn’t do all that," Phil counters, feeling a little bit like he’s been hit over the head with a mallet. "That wasn’t me."
"It was, and it wasn’t, whatever, but you’d do it again, wouldn’t you? You’re here, aren’t you?"
"Yeah, but," says Phil. He leans back so that he can frown properly at Dan, who looks like a bit of a mess. Phil tries to keep his tone as soft as possible. "That’s all I am, Dan. I’m just here."
For a long moment, Dan doesn’t say anything. Then, he rubs a large hand over his eyes and murmurs, "So fucking stupid."
"Hey," Phil protests weakly, more stung by the insult than he’d usually be. Dan had already caught himself out for saying it once; Phil must be really messing this up if he’s already resorted back to it.
"Not you, Phil. Me. I’m so fucking stupid."
Phil blinks. "No, you’re not."
"I am," says Dan. He looks and sounds so tired. Phil just wants to wrap him up in some blankets and bring him tea. "You’ve really been sitting here this whole time thinking I could be doing this without you. I’ve - I didn’t want you to see me fall apart over and over again, Phil, so I’m trying to be a grown-up. I’m trying so hard and I am so scared and I just - I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of that."
"I want to deal with that," Phil says, reaching for Dan’s hands and holding them tightly. "Let me help you with that."
Dan keeps worrying at his lip with his teeth, but he eventually nods.
"Please," he says. "I need you. And, I mean, I need Now you, not Before you. Now you is the one who knows how to deal with all this bullshit."
"Now me isn’t going anywhere," Phil promises.
With a shaky sort of smile, Dan leans his head down on Phil’s shoulder and stays there. They’re just breathing together for a few minutes, tangled up and holding hands on the sofa that they’d brought with them from the flat, and this feels familiar, too.
--
Dan reaches into Phil’s personal space, tapping at his laptop screen.
"That’s not editing," he chides, sounding thrilled about it.
"No, I’m taking a break," says Phil. He turns the screen so that Dan can see the gallery of puppies that he’s been scrolling through. It’s almost comical watching Dan melt.
"Look at them, oh my god. Can we have one?"
It’s a pretty normal joke between the two of them, something that they say about any cute animal they see online or on the street, but Phil grins. "Well, yeah. These are the ones who can be trained for me. We can’t exactly pick one yet, since we gotta, like, meet a bunch of them after they’ve been trained a bit to see who’s the best fit, but…"
Phil trails off, realising that Dan isn’t listening to him anymore. He’s taken the laptop completely away from Phil and scrolled until he found a tiny beige Doodle with her eyes mostly closed.
"Oh, her, I want her."
"I’ll see if she can be on my short list," Phil says, amused.
"Short list?" Dan whines. "I can’t just have her? I bet I could train her, let’s just go get her."
"Absolutely not," says Phil. He curls up beside Dan instead of taking his laptop back. "You’ll teach her all sorts of bad habits."
"So would you."
"Yeah, and that’s why I’m not trying to steal her." Phil presses a kiss to Dan’s rosy cheek. "I’ll see if she’s available for the detection training, but don’t get your hopes up."
Dan grumbles a bit, but Phil can tell that it’s just for show. There’s too much relief in him, happy as he is about Phil finally agreeing to this.
"Fine, fine, but if she mysteriously goes missing, don’t look in our backyard."
"I’d never," Phil laughs.
"We’re not naming her Buffy," Dan declares. Phil picks up a couch pillow and hits him with it.
"She’s a golden Doodle! What else would we call her!"
There’s still a part of Phil that resents his own body and brain for conspiring against him, for making him sick, for causing so much grief. He doesn’t think that will ever go away. But that’s not the dog’s fault, and it’s not Dan’s fault, so. He’s going to work on it.
Therapy isn’t his favourite thing in the world, but Phil would do a lot to keep this specific feeling of eagerness and fondness and hope. He doesn’t want to stay resentful forever. So, he’ll try opening up to Jameson. Just a little bit. Enough to talk about his real issues with getting a service dog.
It’ll be a start. As buying this house has taught him, you can’t finish a fixer-upper in a day.