FicWad

“Hayden, I’m home! I got pizza for us! Now, I get to be Donatello this time since you made me be Rafael last time, its only fair since—“

Around the corner, holding a pizza and a bottle of soda, came a certain boy wearing a trucker hat.

“Patrick?” I was in shock.

If I was in shock, Patrick was in cardiac arrest.

He immediately stopped in his tracks and looked like he was going to drop the pizza box.

“—Donatello's my favorite.*.” He finished meekly.

“Videl, in my living room.” He muttered to himself once the initial shock of seeing each other out of school was gone. He cleared his throat and looked up at me, “Uh, hey, what are you doing here? In my living room?”

“I seem to have acquired a parasite.” I said before I could stop myself. “Uh, I mean, is this yours?” I looked down and Hayden was gone.

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, and I know where he is,” Patrick muttered, sprinting past me.

“COWABUNGA!”

Hayden jumped out of nowhere wearing a bright yellow shirt and a pair of tighty-whiteys, brown hockey knee pads and a brown belt, and an orange tie around his eyes, complete with a pair of nun-chucks.

He leaped off the back of the couch and into Patrick’s arms; he caught him just in time.
He laughed with accomplishment, causing Patrick to crack up. He was waving a purple mask.

“Donatello, quick! Before the reporter sees!” He paused yelling to look at me.

“You can be the reporter.” Hayden informed me. He turned back to Patrick.

“Here! Quick!” he held out the mask to Patrick, who sheepishly took it and tied it around his head.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile at seeing the ridiculous way Hayden was dressed and how crazy they acted, Patrick appeared to loose himself in thought momentarily as he watched Hayden swinging the nunchucks.

“Hayden,” Patrick suddenly said, with his brows knit together.

“Mmm?” Hayden was already pulling out slices from the pizza box on the floor.

“Is Dad in his room?” Patrick asked, kneeling in front of Hayden.

Hayden shook his head.

“Figures,” I heard Patrick mutter to himself. Hayden’s face looked worried as swallowed his food whole and he stared back at Patrick, who cracked a grin a moment later and tickled Hayden’s sides.

“That just means more for us!”

Hayden giggled and squirmed away. Patrick stood and left the room, coming back with plates.

“Want pizza, April?” Hayden’s mouth was stuffed full again.

“You can stay if you want,” Patrick offered. Hayden grinned widely and cheered. I bit my lip, suddenly feeling nervous and out of place, and like I usually did in most social situations, I pretending to check my phone quickly. “Uh, I think I have to—I’m a vegetarian.”

“What means vegaterrible?”

“It’s vegetarian, Hayden, and it means a person who doesn’t eat meat,” Patrick explained.

“Thanks Donnie,” Hayden muffled, his face full of pizza.

Hayden turned his attention back to me. “Pleaaasee?”

He used his deadliest weapon.

“But it has bacon,”

I couldn’t help but turn up the corners of mouth. “I was only kidding, I love bacon too much to be a vegetarian!”

“Yay for bacon!” Hayden cheered, Patrick grinned and handed me a plate.

“Yay for bacon!” I repeated, toasting a slice.

While we ate, Patrick, Hayden and I settled into the living room to watch, what else, Hayden’s favorite movie. Hayden was nestled between Patrick and I.

“Look at my nunchucks,” Hayden said as the movie started, and held a pair of skillfully crafted nunchucks made of two paper towel rolls and the chain from a dog chain.

“Patrick made them for me!” he handed them to me.

“Wow Patrick you're pretty good with your hands*,” I smirked, admiring the nunchucks for Hayden.

Patrick looked like he wanted badly to make a joke, but he went violently red and coughed, “Thanks.”

Hayden fell asleep pretty soon, nestled between Patrick and I.

It was about this point I was wondering what I was doing sitting on Patrick's couch, watching a movie with him and his kid brother I had risked my life for to save. I always analyze my feelings first with any situation, and then I go for rational. To reverse this process, rationally, it was all supposed to be a very awkward and confusing experience. But to confront that, I was comfortable and safe sitting there, nestled in a strange couch, I glanced over at Patrick who was watching the movie, a hand propped under his chin, and an arm around Hayden, who was snuggled in his side.

Safe.

As soon as he was out Patrick picked him up, cradling him over his shoulder, and took him to the bathroom down the hall. I listened to the water turn on, and I heard Hayden’s mumbled voice. “I don’t wanna wash my face,” Next I heard an electric toothbrush going, Patrick’s voice guiding him. After a few minutes the light turned off and I heard another door open. After a minute of listening to Patrick talk to Hayden, I heard Patrick in Hayden’s room, singing something, but so softly I could barely hear it.

I found myself getting up when I heard this, walking down the hall and coming to stand in the doorway behind them. Patrick had Hayden in his bed, covers wrapped around him so just his face underneath his black hair. Just as Patrick finished singing, Hayden’s eyes fluttered closed and I found myself murmur “Goodnight kid,” which made Patrick jump.

“You startled me,” he said getting up quickly.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I said, making Patrick blush.

“Hayden isn’t my only fan then,” he said with a wistful smile.

“Have you ever sung in front of anyone?” Patrick shook his head violently, closing the door to Hayden’s room to just a crack and leading me down to the hall to a room, and flicked on the light. It was his room.

“This is my room.” He said what I was thinking.

It was a small room with a twin bed in the corner and a desk, light blue walls and a single window, but the most prominent things in the room were the rows of shelves crammed full of records, books, tapes, and the collection of instruments covering every spare inch of floor space. There was drum set crammed in the corner, a music stand, several large amps and two guitars.

“Woah,”I said, glancing around. “You play all these?”

“I play drums,” he said pointing to the drum kit with a sense of pride. He waved a hand at the rest of the instruments.

“These are my old bandmates amps and guitars, we used to practice in my garage but my dad kicked us out of there, and we don’t have anywhere else to put them. I actually taught myself guitar too.”

“But you take beginner guitar.” I pointed out blandly. Patrick shrugged.

“I took it because I needed a class I can fail without getting in trouble, cause I have to skip and work instead.”

“You’ve been skipping to go to work? I was wondering why you were never in class. ” I blurted. Patrick smirked a little. "Yeah, sometimes I have to cover more hours at my jobs."

"You have two jobs?" I said in surprise.

"Yeah. I like to make extra money. You know. For...college."

I noticed he was uncomfortable, so I looked around some more, and I spotted the guitar case he always had with him on the unmade bed and I quickly sat down and pulled the guitar to me.

“I work most of the time, so when I’m not there or at school, I stay here, hang out with Hayden, and play.” He continued.

"Where's your dad?"

Patrick looked uncomfortable. "He's--working."

At this point, not even having known him for long, start to pick up on when he was lying. It seemed like he was incapable of lying to certain people. I didn’t let on to anything, though. I figured if Patrick wanted me to know he'd tell me. I busied myself with taking the guitar out and admiring it.

“How’s your arm?” Patrick piped up, changing the subject.

I scowled at my arm. “Like a brick dragging me down.”

He gave a sympathetic laugh. “I would probably self-destruct if I couldn’t play music.”

I finally pulled the guitar out with some difficulty and settled it across my lap. “Five more weeks and I get to take this off, which is of course right when class ends. I don’t even know if I can get get back to where I was.” I trailed off.

Patrick was fidgeting by his desk. He had never had a girl in his room, I presumed, and didn't know what to do with himself. Or maybe he was thinking about things.

“Well, how about I teach you when semester is over,” Patrick blurted to his shoes, his cheeks reddening.

I glanced up, smiling. “Yeah! I would like that, Patrick.”

Patrick nodded his head quickly and smiled. “Cool.”

I bit my lip a little, suddenly realizing something.

“Patrick, you know who I am don’t you? And you knew ever since we met I had pushed Hayden out of the way from that car, didn’t you?”

Patrick hesitated before nodding. “Is that why you offered to work with me?”

“No,” Patrick said, his voice sincere. “Kinda.” He added as a second thought.

I thought for a minute and raised my eyes again. “Well why didn’t you say anything about it sooner?”

Patrick adjusted his glasses and crossed his arms in front of him, but he didn’t look down. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk about it,” He began. When I was quiet he went on. “I mean, the doctors said you didn’t remember what had happened, that you hit your head pretty hard. I dunno,” he shrugged. “I would feel sort of weird if someone was thanking me for something I don’t remember doing. It would feel like, like I was a different person.”

I raised my eyes and met Patrick’s, and to my surprise he wasn’t looking at me with pity or sympathy like everyone else did when I was cold toward them. It was a quiet understanding. Patrick was the type of person who saw you do things but didn’t judge you or question you all the time. He just understood. I felt a wave of appreciation wash over me and felt my chest constrict.

“Thank you,” I said, somewhat unsure as to what. The pizza? The offer for guitar lessons? Or the feeling of not being alone?

Before I could decide, Patrick reached into his desk and pulled out a picture. “That’s me,” Patrick handed it to me and grinned his awkward little grin. I laughed aloud. It was a picture of him with tiny dreads that stuck out less than two inches away from his head.

"That was me freshman year,"*He continued. “I was in this nu-metal band. Yeah I know, dreads were my look.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I was in a lot of bands, all I did was play.”

He cleared his throat. “Then my mom started to get sick, so I didn’t really play that much cause we always waited at the hospital for her. She was always there. And you know what, she told me that she missed the sound of me banging on my drums.” He laughed; a genuine laugh.

“She was an artist, and she always told me to follow my dreams. She would always paint stuff and tell me that if I loved what I did, nothing else mattered. Everything would fall into place.” He smiled a distant sort of smile.

I nodded smiling and scooted forward a bit. “I would have liked your mom. I love art. I actually used to paint a lot,”

He brightened up. “Really? I want to see your art someday.”

“You teach me guitar, and I’ll paint something for you,” I stuck out my hand.

“Deal.” Patrick shook my hand.

I held the guitar out to him. “Let’s get started.”

Patrick skewed his mouth to the side a little. I giggled at his expression.

“Can you imagine gluing a pick to my cast?”

Patrick laughed and put his hand under his chin. “It could be done,” he joked.

“You’re like a gadgety little guy.” I smiled. Patrick knit his brows. “Uh, I suck with technology. I can barely turn a computer on.”

“Yeah well you’ve got glasses, so you’re the gadgets guy.”

At this Patrick immediately grabbed his glasses and chucked them across the bed. “Now I’m a horrible tech guy,”

I laughed while Patrick immediately went a bit cross-eyed and threw his hands across the bed, searching for his glasses. While he looked for them I smiled and leaned back, feeling more relaxed than I had in a long time. I observed the row of TMNT action figures perched on one part of his rows and rows of shelves crammed full of records and books.

"So that's where Hayden gets it from! I was wondering why he was so obsessed." Patrick grinned, looking at the row of turtles.

"Yeah, actually, and that was a set my mom had gotten me before she,"

There was another awkward silence as I remembered that Hayden had told me. Left and didn't come back. He coughed and immediately crossed to the rows of shelves above the desk. He selected one and put it on the spindle below his desk. I remembered him telling me that he worked at a record shop, and his collection showed that he was an avid vinyl buff.

It was a second I sat there before I realized what I was hearing.

“Ah!” I cried out, a sharp shooting pain pierced my right temple and cringed, crying out. Patrick jumped, startled, looked over at me.

"What's wrong? Videl?" He was by my side in a second.

I cradle my head with my elbows on my knees, breathing hard. The sharp pain disappears, but I feel my nerves standing on end and I taste copper in my mouth. "Patrick," I manage to gasp, I grab at my chest, trying to pull air into my lungs. "I can't--I can't--"

Patrick's face goes white and he bolts out the door, he comes back a minute later with the cordless phone, dialing numbers. I manage to gather myself together enough to stand and stagger to him, grabbing the phone away from him and throwing it over his shoulder. He stares at me as I try to speak between my hyperventilation.

“I’m—okay—don’t call—911. I just can’t breathe—I’m--”

I don’t know what’s happening; but Patrick grabs my shoulders and steadys me. “Videl calm down. You’re having a panic attack.” He tells me.

At this point, where my chest hurts to breathe and I’m sweating bullets, my pulse is riveting through my veins, I’m not doubting anything he says.

“I’ll be right back.”Patrick sprints out of the room and comes back a split second later with a orange bottle and a cup of water. Sitting on the bed next to me, he takes my hand firmly and places 2 pills in my palm. I instantly slap my hand to my mouth without even bothering to question and take the cup from him, my hand shaking around the cup. He puts his hand around mine to help me drink and takes the cup from me. I shut my eyes as tight as I can, and when I open them, Patrick is still looking lost at me, worried lines crossing his face, his lips are in a subconscious pout of worry, his blue eyes are clouded, and his hair is matted to his forehead under his hat with sweat beads. But as I keep my eyes focused on his face, I feel a sudden wave of desperation and reach out for him, pulling myself off the edge of the bed into his arms before my knees give out and I sag into him.

At first he hesitates, not knowing what to do, but after a second he copies and puts his arms around me, holding me up.

When he has a good grip around me, he slowly sinks to the floor, still holding me as tight as he can with my cast poking into his stomach. I try to compose myself, but I know its useless. It wasn’t like a fight inside my head between me and these feelings; its a game of Russian roulette. There was no stopping it when it started; I just had to wait for my turn to point the gun and see if I would live or die.

“Videl, breathe in though your nose and out through your mouth.” The shy, joking Patrick is gone and replaced with someone who knows exactly what is happening to me.

In this state there seemed to be a hyperawareness that controls me, making me notice small details. The record was still playing in the background. I concentrated on Patrick’s warm neck and the slight smell of sweat and closed my eyes, trying to shut the panic alarm in my head off.
The pills don’t have an immediate effect. Soon I won’t feel anything, Patrick tells me. But holding onto Patrick, right now, I overwhelmed by a rush of feelings. I swallow thick with spit, not wanting to say anything to change the mood. Patrick continues to hold me tight, I felt his breath dusting my shoulder through my hoodie and I feel the safest I have in I don’t know how long.

I suddenly noticed the record had stopped and that was when I knew the pills had kicked in. I mustered the courage to pull away from him and mumble for him to please take me home, avoiding his eyes.

Patrick obliges without saying much of anything.
_________________________________________________________________________________
When Patrick pulled up to the driveway, I knew I was cutting curfew. I wasn’t sure how Maryann would react; I hadn’t really had any reason to break her rules yet. I told Patrick goodbye and got out of the car, running up to the front steps, glancing at Maryann’s stationwagon. I didn’t have a phone anymore—when I was hit by the car the phone had been broken to pieces. I knew I should have called Maryann to let her know where I was, but I didn’t. I let myself in, and I heard her in the kitchen. “Walter is that you?” she called, and I walked into the kitchen at that time. She was at the counter putting the finishing touches on a meatloaf, she turned and looked at me, and her blue eyes were surprised. “Videl, where on earth have you been?” she said, concerned. Maryann is short, plump, with a short brunette bob. I should have n been nervous, I’m sure when I had first moved into their house under foster care she had very strictly relayed the rules of curfew to me, not that I remember.

But the pills I had taken me make me indifferent. I know enough to hang my head and say sorry, though. “I went to a friend’s house after school to help her with homework.” I say quickly. Yes, it’s a lie, but lying is the most comfortable weapon I have, right next to sarcasm. Tools of the trade when you’re a supporting role in other people’s lives. Maryann shakes her head. “You need to call me when you’ll be late, at the very least. Don’t make me wonder where you are. Now, dinner’s almost ready, go put your stuff down honey.”

I nod and turn to go, feeling my body suddenly sluggish. Patrick had told me this would happen. “I don’t feel very good. Can I just go to bed? I had a headache today, and I still do.”
Maryann now looked concerned as she came to me and put her hand on my forehead. “Just a headache? Nothing else?”

“Yeah,” I said weakly. “I just want to sleep it off is all. I think I’m just stressed out from school.”
Maryann skewed her lips and gave me a kind smile. “Okay, I’ll save your supper for later. Feel better, honey.” I turned to go up the stairs, my steps feeling heavy, forcing my body to walk straight. I was pretty sure it was kicking in now. My body was responding to what my brain already knew. Numb. Numb is either very familiar or very jolting. I got to my room and dropped my bad off my shoulder, kicking my vans off and landing on the sanctuary of the bed. Without taking off my clothes I sprawled on the bed, my eyes drooping as I stared at the ceiling.

Patrick knows something about me now, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. At least it’s not a very good secret, not like something that could destroy me, but my brain reminds me of how scared I would feel that I let someone see me so defenseless. I know he won’t breathe a word about it.

♠ ♠ ♠
So you get Patrick. I hope he fulfils your needs for now, cause he just kills me everyday. Leave me comments, or recs, or love letters. I should just rename this I Give You Patrick Stump, You are Going To Love Him and You Can't Help it.
Anyway, please comment/recommend. I can't stress this enough. I hope if you like this enough you'll comment and let me know, if it intrigues you, if you have suggestions. I SEE ALL 52 OF YOU READING, ONLY A FEW COMMENT.

-Sabrina
(sorry for spelling errors, will correct soon)