Duck and Cover (patrickxpeter ficathon)
Title: Duck and Cover
Author: becomingblurred
Pairing: Light Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 3839
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: It's been ten years since WWII. Pete's a veteran with a story, and Patrick's a senior in high school trying to find his own.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fall Out Boy or Bert the Turtle.
Author’s Note: This is for takeaberry! I hope you enjoy this, dear, because this was a lot of fun for me! Thank you so much to clippedwings for betaing. Laid, lie, lay, whatever.
Warnings: Violence and very cynical Pete
Duck and Cover
By Donna
Patrick played with the knobs of the radio, attempting to find the best reception. He paused, listening to the sounds that he uncovered through the radio waves.
“There are other ways you can learn to duck and cover in case of danger.”
Patrick sighed. Bert the Turtle was at it again. He looked at the clock. He should have known that at two twenty-five Bert the Turtle’s radio program came on. The mysteries and dramas didn’t come on until much later. But Patrick had no school and wanted to have fun as best as he could.
“Like the things our teacher told us to do in case of an atom bomb?”
“That’s right! The atom bomb is a new danger in our lives. It can surprise us at any time.”
Patrick felt a shiver crawl down his spine. A lot of things had changed since he started high school four years ago. The face of his town changed, his body changed, everything changed. He pondered, especially when he performed “duck and cover” in the classroom, if he truly wanted the change to come. He preferred being taught how to live, as opposed to actually living it. Sure, kids were cruel, but in the end, wasn’t everyone? You had one thing different, everyone jumped on you. He heard his mother walking in the kitchen. She poked her head out, watching him bent down tinkering with the radio. “Are you going to spend the whole day here?”
Patrick turned his head. “Well, no, I...”
“Please, go have fun. It’s beautiful out.”
Patrick turned off the radio, getting up. “Alright, I’ll go. Only because you asked.”
She smiled, kissing his cheek. “Come home before dinner, please?”
“I will,” Patrick promised. He walked outside, looking up and down the street. He didn’t have a fast car like a lot of the boys at his high school, the only car being his father’s, which he went to work with. He decided to walk. He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking slow steps toward Main Street. He stopped short, hearing brakes scream in his ear. He turned his head to see his friend, Joe (“His name is Joseph, be proper!” his mother would scold), sitting in the front of his old Ford. He leaned over, rolling down the window. “Hey, Stumph, get in the car!”
Patrick stared at the rusty door handle. “I don’t know if it’s safe.”
“Just get in the car!”
Patrick shrugged, pulling the handle open and sitting next to his friend. Joe grinned. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Patrick replied. Joe was the more popular of the two of them. He never took off his varsity jacket, had a girlfriend, and always knew how to have fun. It still baffled Patrick how they were able to stay close, but he loved how Joe was able to complete him and leave him somewhat in the loop of what was going on in the high school (who was with who, who hated who, fights, football...).
“You up for the diner?” Joe asked, smiling.
“Oh, sure! Of course,” Patrick said, “Only if you’re paying.”
Joe winced. “Ouch. Okay, fine. Let’s go.” He started the car up again, Patrick feeling it shake. He gripped the door as he attempted to roll the window back up. “Jesus! Can’t you get that looked at?”
“This car’s always done that!” Joe argued.
They continued to fight as they parked at the diner. They gave up fighting as they arrived at the front door, their favorite diner owner greeting them.
Andy Hurley was a WWII vet that owned the Seville, which was the number one place for boys and girls in and around their small town. He walked with a limp, which was caused from a shot in his leg while fighting in Japan. He was proud of his country, and proud of what he did, and displayed a certificate that signified he earned the Purple Heart by his office. He grinned as he saw Joe and Patrick enter. “Hello, boys, grab a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
They took their seat by the window. Joe looked at the parking lot, pointing out his eyesore of a car. Patrick rolled his eyes, going through the mini jukebox at the side of their table.
Andy made his way over. “You guys getting the usual?”
Joe nodded. “Yep, burger, fries. Patrick, you want anything else?”
“A Coke?”
“Yeah, make it two.”
Andy nodded, scribbling down the order. “My friend from the war’s here, you know.”
“Oh, really?” Patrick asked, honestly interested. He loved hearing Andy’s war stories (even though mostly everyone was tired of them by now). “Which one?”
“Peter, or, Pete, rather. He’s over there.” Andy pointed to a man that sat toward the end of the aisle, sipping coffee. “I’ll let you say hello to him... he’s a little quiet, I’m afraid. He’s been like it since the end of the war.” Andy smiled, weakly. “But, boy, you couldn’t shut him up during it! He had a sharp sense of humor. Still does.”
Patrick pushed himself up on the chair to get a peek. Pete was within earshot to hear Andy talk about him, but didn’t react. He continued to look at his coffee, and hold his head up with his knuckles.
Andy continued his rambling. “I can’t believe it... ten years since the war. He still hasn’t let go of Japan.”
“I’m glad that war’s over,” Joe said.
“Oh, I’m glad, too,” Andy said. “I mean, it was nice... when you weren’t fighting.”
“It seems like as soon as it ended it got worse for... some people,” Patrick tried to say as quiet as possible.
“Go up to the guy, alright?” Andy asked, “You’re so Goddamned curious.”
Patrick looked at Pete again, sinking into his chair.
Joe looked at Andy. “Hey, Andy, get me my food, alright?”
Andy nodded, limping away.
Joe looked at Patrick. “Are you going to say something?”
“...No. That’d be rude.”
“Please, Patrick. Just go up to him, or you’re going to be talking about it for weeks.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Are you queer or something? Just say, ‘Hello, how are you?’”
Patrick sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” He played with his glasses and straightened his shirt. “Alright.”
Pete raised his shoulders at the sound of footsteps on the carpet. He barely turned when Patrick said, “Hello, I’m Patrick. I’ve heard all about you from Andy.”
Pete nodded. “Hello, Patrick. Sit down.”
Patrick sat down and caught sight of Pete’s face. He looked attractive, late twenties, early thirties, clean-shaven and his hair slicked back. His eyes didn’t match. They looked down at his coffee and refused to make direct eye contact with Patrick. He glanced at Patrick. “How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen, sir.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to an old man like me,” Pete said sourly.
Patrick cocked his head. “What do you mean? You are a friend of Andy’s. A friend of Andy’s is a friend of mine.”
“If only you knew...” Pete said, laughing weakly. “He’s only my friend because at one point I could reciprocate.”
Joe looked from his table, grabbing his Coke and sipping it. He looked at Andy, who sat across from him all of a sudden.
“Hey, where’s my burger, Andy?” Joe asked.
“In a minute... I’m studying at the moment.”
“What?” Joe asked.
“I’m trying to see if Pete can finally stop being the little turtle in a shell and realize he’s got a whole life ahead of him. He hasn’t seen any girls. He hasn’t seen any friends. He hasn’t seen a thing aside from me and his apartment.”
Joe felt bad for the war vet, but what could he do? He decided to just use his stomach. “Can I get my burger yet?”
Pete looked at them and back at Patrick. “Andy’s mentioned you to me.”
“Really?”
“He said that you are a boy with Buddy Holly glasses that has his head in the clouds.”
Patrick didn’t mind the reference to Buddy Holly, but Pete’s tone was far from complementary. “Well, then... Andy told me you’re an emotionally closed-off person that used to have the best sense of humor while blowing up Japs.”
Pete smirked. Patrick wanted to think that he broke a little bit, but he knew he didn’t.
Pete got up, taking a final sip of his coffee. “Well, I’m sorry, Pat, but I must be going.”
Patrick growled on his name being degraded and the consistency of his patronizing tone. “Are you going to go back at your place and sulk?”
Pete ignored him, swinging his hands back and forth. Patrick swallowed a gasp.
His right hand was nothing more than a nub.
Patrick walked back to his table, shaking. Joe looked at him, a fry coming out of his mouth. “Maybe that’s why he’s upset.”
“What?” Joe asked, swallowing.
“His hand. Where’s Andy?”
Andy walked in right on cue.
“You didn’t say he’s missing a hand,” Patrick said.
“I figured it didn’t matter. You don’t care about my limp.”
“No... just... I...”
Andy sighed. “Pete lost his hand toward the end of the war. The last time we were out. It took a bullet and couldn’t be saved. He was heartbroken. He was a writer, you know? Righty, to be exact. And now he has to type with one hand and...”
“Andy, please be quiet,” Patrick begged, “I feel terrible enough.”
“I’m just saying. He’s a mess. He’s got that... that shell-shock thing, you know? You can’t say much to him without him thinking about the war. Once I said bomb and he was brought to damn-near tears.” Andy sighed. “I guess he’ll never get better...”
“Don’t say that,” Patrick said, “I’m sure there’s a way.”
“If you find it, let me know. I’d be happy to help.”
***************************************************************
Patrick’s father was in the war, as well, but he wasn’t like Pete. He was older at the time, barely making the cut of a solider. He fought in Europe, and even though he had a close call a few times (more than he told his wife), he came out unscathed. He continued his happy marriage and was a great father, and mentally he seemed all right. He had a job that may have been a little stressful at times, but he was able to overlook the war and keep moving forward.
Patrick didn’t notice this simple fact for a while until the dinner after his meeting with Pete. His dad was reading the evening paper, smiling to himself as he looked at the sports scores. “The Cubs are gonna break the curse, I know it!” he exclaimed as he turned the page. His wife saying “Uh huh, yes dear” from the kitchen. They looked at Patrick as he entered the house.
“Welcome home, son,” his father said, “A little late, I see?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. You know how Joe-Joseph’s car is.”
His father nodded, smiling. “How was your day?”
“Good,” Patrick replied.
“What did you do?”
“I just went to the diner with Joe. We met one of Andy’s war buddies.”
“How is Andy?”
“He’s doing very well, Dad.”
His father smiled widely as he peeked through his paper. “Well, good. He deserves it.”
Patrick wished he had the guts to mention Pete, but he didn’t. Instead, he helped his mom in the kitchen, wondering why his chance meeting couldn’t be shaken off his mind.
After dinner, Patrick decided to go to his room. He lay against his pillow and played with a loose string on his sleeve. He felt so... strange. He honestly couldn’t describe it. Was he sad? He felt bad for the one-handed writer (even though he hadn’t read any of his work), but he didn’t necessarily feel sad because of it. Was he angry? In a sense, yes. Just because his reflexes weren’t fast enough to not get his hand shot, didn’t mean he had to be a cynical bastard.
Then Patrick wondered what he’d do if he was missing a hand, like the one pulling at the string on his sleeve. He got off his bed, staring out the window. He decided to, for once, take a chance.
He looked at the gap between his window and the dogwood tree on the front yard. He wondered if the tree could hold him up. He decided that his height outweighed his, well, weight, and he took a chance. He landed just right on the branch, which was rather thick and, in theory, able to hold his weight. He lunged, nearly letting out a yelp as he reached the branch he was aiming for. He clung to the branch for dear life, wishing he had claws for reassurance. “Don’t break,” he begged the branch as he crawled toward the trunk and shimmied down. He eyed the front window, seeing that no one was present. The last thing he needed to hear was, “Look, honey, our son’s in the tree!”
He dashed across the street, making two lefts to Joe’s house. He stared at the highest window, which was Joe’s room. He grabbed a pebble and threw it dead on. He hissed, “Joe! Open the door!”
Joe poked his head from the window moments later. “What do you want, Stump?”
“Can I borrow your car?”
“Now? It’s eight o’clock.”
“Please, I need to do this.”
“Fine, if you scratch my car, you’re dead.” Joe’s head disappeared back into the room to retrieve his keys. He tossed them down toward Patrick. “Is this over the hand-guy? Man, if I didn’t know you, I would think you were queer or something.”
“Shut it, Trohman,” Patrick growled, walking to Joe’s car. He started it, a loud sputtering hitting his ears. He tensed as he pulled out.
Was he queer? Strange, perhaps. He didn’t feel like dwelling on the subject while he made his was to the Seville. He got out of the car, running up the stairs toward the entrance.
Andy saw him come in. He raised his eyebrows. “Why are you here at this hour?”
“Where’s Pete?” Patrick asked, slightly out of breath.
“He’s at home... in the city.”
“Where in the city?”
“You aren’t going into Chicago at this time!” Andy scolded. “He’s foolish enough to live there nowadays... the city is no place for a boy like you. You’re much too young.”
“Will everyone stop telling me that?” Patrick asked, “I need to do this.”
“Why?”
“I need to tell him something. Face to face.”
Andy sighed. He took a napkin from a napkin holder on the table and scribbled directions. “Here, but if anything begins to get strange, or you are clearly in the wrong area, head straight home.”
“I will... I promise.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re using Joe’s car.”
“Uh, too late,” Patrick said, running out the door.
Andy shook his head. “Dammit, Peter...”
***************************************************************
Patrick followed Andy’s directions rather well. He was avoiding the areas the news mentioned and was well on his way until he heard the worst noise possible at that moment.
The car coughed loudly and stopped. Patrick screamed, “No!” He tried to restart the car, press any pedal he could reach, and pressed all the buttons. He jumped out of the car, trying not to cry or think of the one hundred and one ways that Joe would kill him after the fact.
“I need to get help,” Patrick murmured. He walked to the sidewalk and made his way down the road, following the streetlights. He looked at the buildings and neon signs, trying to not look like a teenage suburban boy lost in the city. He heard a loud crash and bolted. He looked behind him, seeing a taller man begin to chase him. He ran harder, letting out a whimper. “He’s gonna catch me,” Patrick whispered, “He’s gonna catch me and beat me to a bloody pulp!”
The man leaned in and grabbed Patrick’s shirt. Patrick felt his legs fling forward and he started to choke. He whimpered as he was dragged into a nearby alley and pressed against a brick wall. He was shoved once more, his glasses falling off. “My glasses...” he mumbled into the brick.
Crunch.
“Where’s your money, punk?” the man asked.
Patrick turned his head, trying to catch sight of him. All he could make out was the polka-dotted scarf around his neck, a sign of a dandy. “Please, I don’t have anything,” Patrick pleaded.
“Well, then, I guess I don’t quite need money to get something out of this...”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked, tears in his eyes. “Please let go... I’m choking.”
The dandy laughed as he turned Patrick over and attempted to unbutton his shirt.
“Please, don’t do this.”
The dandy looked up, angered by Patrick’s tone. He punched him in the eye and resumed unbuttoning, one hand still firming on his throat.
Patrick closed his good eye, the pain and the touching nearly driving him insane. He felt the hand lift off his throat. He opened his good eye and he reached out for his bad eye. He felt swelling that already was developing, but deemed it not as bad as he thought it would be.
A scream was heard and then a loud crash, but Patrick realized that it wasn’t him going through either of the motions. He shut his eyes and heard a voice ask, “Are you okay, Buddy Holly glasses?”
Patrick opened his good eye again, making out the person in front of him. “P-peter?”
“Yeah. Jesus... your eye...” Pete mumbled, brushing Patrick’s shoulder with his good hand. He attempted to re-button Patrick’s shirt.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Shut up, I’m a pro at this.” Pete managed to button with one hand with some ease. He looked back at Patrick’s eye. “Does it hurt?”
“My eye? No.” His eye focused on the dandy that lay on the ground in the middle of the alley. He knew that Pete did it, seeing as though no one else was around. “How did you find me?”
“Well, I was walking home from my office at the Sun, but I saw your friend’s car... Andy mentioned it a bunch of times. Then I heard the yelling. So I followed it. What on earth brought you to Chicago at night?”
“...uh... see the sights?”
“Why are you really here?” Pete helped Patrick up, his hand on his waist. “Grab the stump for support.”
Patrick felt out Pete’s sleeve and got up off the wall. His legs shook like a newborn giraffe.
“The hospital is right by where I live,” Pete mentioned.
“You don’t have to take me to a doctor.”
“Can you see me.”
Patrick turned so his good eye could see him. “Yes.”
“We’re going.”
Pete sighed. “He didn’t... do anything other than that, did he?”
“Uh... no. He didn’t.”
“Good. Don’t worry about it, alright? The more you think about it, the more it’s gonna hurt.”
“That’s what happened to you, right?” Patrick asked.
“Yeah... that’s what happened, I guess.” There was a silence that came to them. Pete took a deep breath. “Yanno, I’m sorry for today. Honest. But you’re still foolish.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “Now I know. I haven’t quite been in the city and it was foolish.”
“Eh, I guess we all are. When I was your age I thought I was invincible. Now I’m invisible, I guess.”
“You’re not invisible. I’m talking to you and you’re kinda visible... when I turn my head.”
Pete smiled. “I guess you’re right. Uh, the hospital’s across the street. We’re making a left.”
Patrick nodded, finding the curb. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Andy didn’t leave me to die. I sure as hell can’t let myself do that to you. Andy is nuts about you, you’re like his kid.”
They entered the hospital and were sent to the waiting room. Pete looked at Patrick in the bright room. “You’re lucky you can’t see your face.”
“Is it that bad?”
“On this side. What’s your parents’ number?”
“You aren’t going to call them,” Patrick said, “I’ll be in so much trouble.”
Pete sighed. “We’ll just say that you nearly got raped by a guy. The details won’t need to matter at that point.”
“Was I really almost... raped?”
“Well, I don’t think he was trying to steal that shirt.”
“Just... please don’t call them,” Patrick begged, “I just don’t want to go through that yet.”
“And where do you propose you’re going to go if you don’t want to tell them?”
“I don’t know, maybe I can get Joe’s car to work.”
“That reminds me... I need to get that car towed or something. But... where do you propose you’re going to go?” Pete repeated, this time stressing out each word.
“Uh... I’ll...”
“I know where this is going. Do you want to come over my place?”
***************************************************************
“You’re lucky that you didn’t break anything,” Pete mentioned as they walked back to his place. “I mean, do you know how difficult it is to heal that?”
“I assume it’s very hard,” Patrick replied. He was a little uneasy at the thought of entering and sleeping at a house of a man he knew less than twenty-four hours. But the more he talked to Pete, the closer he felt and the more comfortable everything appeared for him. Pete wasn’t the cold bastard at the diner anymore; he was a savior in his own respect, a war hero with a heart of bronze.
“I called Andy,” Pete mentioned as they started to walk up the stairs. “He’s worried, but he’s got everything under control. Careful.”
Patrick grabbed the railing and got up slowly. Pete’s apartment was on the second floor, right by the staircase.
“It’s small,” Pete said, “But it’s home. Oh, and you can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the couch. Are you going to be alright? Want me to get ice?”
“No, it’s alright, I’ll be... alright.”
“Okay. I’ll get you some clothes.”
Patrick didn’t sleep “alright” that night. He rolled around, hitting his bad eye, which caused him to whimper.
Pete looked up from the sofa. “Poor guy,” he said to himself. He got up and lay next to Patrick, holding him still. “Sh, sh, calm down, Patrick.”
Patrick looked up. “What?”
“You’re whimpering. I’m right here. Calm down.”
Patrick calmed down, breathing slowly and making himself comfortable against Pete.
Pete smiled. “Are you good now?”
“Yeah... can you stay?”
“Of course.”
Maybe Joe was right. Patrick may have been a little queer. But he was so proud of himself and what happened today (aside from the whole “getting dragged into an alley” part) and even a little proud of Pete.
Patrick closed his eyes, bringing his hands to his chest. He didn’t know what was going to develop between them, friendship or maybe a somewhat queer relationship, but he was excited.
end
Last update of the year :D Happy new year, guys!
Author: becomingblurred
Pairing: Light Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 3839
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: It's been ten years since WWII. Pete's a veteran with a story, and Patrick's a senior in high school trying to find his own.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fall Out Boy or Bert the Turtle.
Author’s Note: This is for takeaberry! I hope you enjoy this, dear, because this was a lot of fun for me! Thank you so much to clippedwings for betaing. Laid, lie, lay, whatever.
Warnings: Violence and very cynical Pete
Duck and Cover
By Donna
Patrick played with the knobs of the radio, attempting to find the best reception. He paused, listening to the sounds that he uncovered through the radio waves.
“There are other ways you can learn to duck and cover in case of danger.”
Patrick sighed. Bert the Turtle was at it again. He looked at the clock. He should have known that at two twenty-five Bert the Turtle’s radio program came on. The mysteries and dramas didn’t come on until much later. But Patrick had no school and wanted to have fun as best as he could.
“Like the things our teacher told us to do in case of an atom bomb?”
“That’s right! The atom bomb is a new danger in our lives. It can surprise us at any time.”
Patrick felt a shiver crawl down his spine. A lot of things had changed since he started high school four years ago. The face of his town changed, his body changed, everything changed. He pondered, especially when he performed “duck and cover” in the classroom, if he truly wanted the change to come. He preferred being taught how to live, as opposed to actually living it. Sure, kids were cruel, but in the end, wasn’t everyone? You had one thing different, everyone jumped on you. He heard his mother walking in the kitchen. She poked her head out, watching him bent down tinkering with the radio. “Are you going to spend the whole day here?”
Patrick turned his head. “Well, no, I...”
“Please, go have fun. It’s beautiful out.”
Patrick turned off the radio, getting up. “Alright, I’ll go. Only because you asked.”
She smiled, kissing his cheek. “Come home before dinner, please?”
“I will,” Patrick promised. He walked outside, looking up and down the street. He didn’t have a fast car like a lot of the boys at his high school, the only car being his father’s, which he went to work with. He decided to walk. He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking slow steps toward Main Street. He stopped short, hearing brakes scream in his ear. He turned his head to see his friend, Joe (“His name is Joseph, be proper!” his mother would scold), sitting in the front of his old Ford. He leaned over, rolling down the window. “Hey, Stumph, get in the car!”
Patrick stared at the rusty door handle. “I don’t know if it’s safe.”
“Just get in the car!”
Patrick shrugged, pulling the handle open and sitting next to his friend. Joe grinned. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Patrick replied. Joe was the more popular of the two of them. He never took off his varsity jacket, had a girlfriend, and always knew how to have fun. It still baffled Patrick how they were able to stay close, but he loved how Joe was able to complete him and leave him somewhat in the loop of what was going on in the high school (who was with who, who hated who, fights, football...).
“You up for the diner?” Joe asked, smiling.
“Oh, sure! Of course,” Patrick said, “Only if you’re paying.”
Joe winced. “Ouch. Okay, fine. Let’s go.” He started the car up again, Patrick feeling it shake. He gripped the door as he attempted to roll the window back up. “Jesus! Can’t you get that looked at?”
“This car’s always done that!” Joe argued.
They continued to fight as they parked at the diner. They gave up fighting as they arrived at the front door, their favorite diner owner greeting them.
Andy Hurley was a WWII vet that owned the Seville, which was the number one place for boys and girls in and around their small town. He walked with a limp, which was caused from a shot in his leg while fighting in Japan. He was proud of his country, and proud of what he did, and displayed a certificate that signified he earned the Purple Heart by his office. He grinned as he saw Joe and Patrick enter. “Hello, boys, grab a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
They took their seat by the window. Joe looked at the parking lot, pointing out his eyesore of a car. Patrick rolled his eyes, going through the mini jukebox at the side of their table.
Andy made his way over. “You guys getting the usual?”
Joe nodded. “Yep, burger, fries. Patrick, you want anything else?”
“A Coke?”
“Yeah, make it two.”
Andy nodded, scribbling down the order. “My friend from the war’s here, you know.”
“Oh, really?” Patrick asked, honestly interested. He loved hearing Andy’s war stories (even though mostly everyone was tired of them by now). “Which one?”
“Peter, or, Pete, rather. He’s over there.” Andy pointed to a man that sat toward the end of the aisle, sipping coffee. “I’ll let you say hello to him... he’s a little quiet, I’m afraid. He’s been like it since the end of the war.” Andy smiled, weakly. “But, boy, you couldn’t shut him up during it! He had a sharp sense of humor. Still does.”
Patrick pushed himself up on the chair to get a peek. Pete was within earshot to hear Andy talk about him, but didn’t react. He continued to look at his coffee, and hold his head up with his knuckles.
Andy continued his rambling. “I can’t believe it... ten years since the war. He still hasn’t let go of Japan.”
“I’m glad that war’s over,” Joe said.
“Oh, I’m glad, too,” Andy said. “I mean, it was nice... when you weren’t fighting.”
“It seems like as soon as it ended it got worse for... some people,” Patrick tried to say as quiet as possible.
“Go up to the guy, alright?” Andy asked, “You’re so Goddamned curious.”
Patrick looked at Pete again, sinking into his chair.
Joe looked at Andy. “Hey, Andy, get me my food, alright?”
Andy nodded, limping away.
Joe looked at Patrick. “Are you going to say something?”
“...No. That’d be rude.”
“Please, Patrick. Just go up to him, or you’re going to be talking about it for weeks.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Are you queer or something? Just say, ‘Hello, how are you?’”
Patrick sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” He played with his glasses and straightened his shirt. “Alright.”
Pete raised his shoulders at the sound of footsteps on the carpet. He barely turned when Patrick said, “Hello, I’m Patrick. I’ve heard all about you from Andy.”
Pete nodded. “Hello, Patrick. Sit down.”
Patrick sat down and caught sight of Pete’s face. He looked attractive, late twenties, early thirties, clean-shaven and his hair slicked back. His eyes didn’t match. They looked down at his coffee and refused to make direct eye contact with Patrick. He glanced at Patrick. “How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen, sir.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to an old man like me,” Pete said sourly.
Patrick cocked his head. “What do you mean? You are a friend of Andy’s. A friend of Andy’s is a friend of mine.”
“If only you knew...” Pete said, laughing weakly. “He’s only my friend because at one point I could reciprocate.”
Joe looked from his table, grabbing his Coke and sipping it. He looked at Andy, who sat across from him all of a sudden.
“Hey, where’s my burger, Andy?” Joe asked.
“In a minute... I’m studying at the moment.”
“What?” Joe asked.
“I’m trying to see if Pete can finally stop being the little turtle in a shell and realize he’s got a whole life ahead of him. He hasn’t seen any girls. He hasn’t seen any friends. He hasn’t seen a thing aside from me and his apartment.”
Joe felt bad for the war vet, but what could he do? He decided to just use his stomach. “Can I get my burger yet?”
Pete looked at them and back at Patrick. “Andy’s mentioned you to me.”
“Really?”
“He said that you are a boy with Buddy Holly glasses that has his head in the clouds.”
Patrick didn’t mind the reference to Buddy Holly, but Pete’s tone was far from complementary. “Well, then... Andy told me you’re an emotionally closed-off person that used to have the best sense of humor while blowing up Japs.”
Pete smirked. Patrick wanted to think that he broke a little bit, but he knew he didn’t.
Pete got up, taking a final sip of his coffee. “Well, I’m sorry, Pat, but I must be going.”
Patrick growled on his name being degraded and the consistency of his patronizing tone. “Are you going to go back at your place and sulk?”
Pete ignored him, swinging his hands back and forth. Patrick swallowed a gasp.
His right hand was nothing more than a nub.
Patrick walked back to his table, shaking. Joe looked at him, a fry coming out of his mouth. “Maybe that’s why he’s upset.”
“What?” Joe asked, swallowing.
“His hand. Where’s Andy?”
Andy walked in right on cue.
“You didn’t say he’s missing a hand,” Patrick said.
“I figured it didn’t matter. You don’t care about my limp.”
“No... just... I...”
Andy sighed. “Pete lost his hand toward the end of the war. The last time we were out. It took a bullet and couldn’t be saved. He was heartbroken. He was a writer, you know? Righty, to be exact. And now he has to type with one hand and...”
“Andy, please be quiet,” Patrick begged, “I feel terrible enough.”
“I’m just saying. He’s a mess. He’s got that... that shell-shock thing, you know? You can’t say much to him without him thinking about the war. Once I said bomb and he was brought to damn-near tears.” Andy sighed. “I guess he’ll never get better...”
“Don’t say that,” Patrick said, “I’m sure there’s a way.”
“If you find it, let me know. I’d be happy to help.”
***************************************************************
Patrick’s father was in the war, as well, but he wasn’t like Pete. He was older at the time, barely making the cut of a solider. He fought in Europe, and even though he had a close call a few times (more than he told his wife), he came out unscathed. He continued his happy marriage and was a great father, and mentally he seemed all right. He had a job that may have been a little stressful at times, but he was able to overlook the war and keep moving forward.
Patrick didn’t notice this simple fact for a while until the dinner after his meeting with Pete. His dad was reading the evening paper, smiling to himself as he looked at the sports scores. “The Cubs are gonna break the curse, I know it!” he exclaimed as he turned the page. His wife saying “Uh huh, yes dear” from the kitchen. They looked at Patrick as he entered the house.
“Welcome home, son,” his father said, “A little late, I see?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. You know how Joe-Joseph’s car is.”
His father nodded, smiling. “How was your day?”
“Good,” Patrick replied.
“What did you do?”
“I just went to the diner with Joe. We met one of Andy’s war buddies.”
“How is Andy?”
“He’s doing very well, Dad.”
His father smiled widely as he peeked through his paper. “Well, good. He deserves it.”
Patrick wished he had the guts to mention Pete, but he didn’t. Instead, he helped his mom in the kitchen, wondering why his chance meeting couldn’t be shaken off his mind.
After dinner, Patrick decided to go to his room. He lay against his pillow and played with a loose string on his sleeve. He felt so... strange. He honestly couldn’t describe it. Was he sad? He felt bad for the one-handed writer (even though he hadn’t read any of his work), but he didn’t necessarily feel sad because of it. Was he angry? In a sense, yes. Just because his reflexes weren’t fast enough to not get his hand shot, didn’t mean he had to be a cynical bastard.
Then Patrick wondered what he’d do if he was missing a hand, like the one pulling at the string on his sleeve. He got off his bed, staring out the window. He decided to, for once, take a chance.
He looked at the gap between his window and the dogwood tree on the front yard. He wondered if the tree could hold him up. He decided that his height outweighed his, well, weight, and he took a chance. He landed just right on the branch, which was rather thick and, in theory, able to hold his weight. He lunged, nearly letting out a yelp as he reached the branch he was aiming for. He clung to the branch for dear life, wishing he had claws for reassurance. “Don’t break,” he begged the branch as he crawled toward the trunk and shimmied down. He eyed the front window, seeing that no one was present. The last thing he needed to hear was, “Look, honey, our son’s in the tree!”
He dashed across the street, making two lefts to Joe’s house. He stared at the highest window, which was Joe’s room. He grabbed a pebble and threw it dead on. He hissed, “Joe! Open the door!”
Joe poked his head from the window moments later. “What do you want, Stump?”
“Can I borrow your car?”
“Now? It’s eight o’clock.”
“Please, I need to do this.”
“Fine, if you scratch my car, you’re dead.” Joe’s head disappeared back into the room to retrieve his keys. He tossed them down toward Patrick. “Is this over the hand-guy? Man, if I didn’t know you, I would think you were queer or something.”
“Shut it, Trohman,” Patrick growled, walking to Joe’s car. He started it, a loud sputtering hitting his ears. He tensed as he pulled out.
Was he queer? Strange, perhaps. He didn’t feel like dwelling on the subject while he made his was to the Seville. He got out of the car, running up the stairs toward the entrance.
Andy saw him come in. He raised his eyebrows. “Why are you here at this hour?”
“Where’s Pete?” Patrick asked, slightly out of breath.
“He’s at home... in the city.”
“Where in the city?”
“You aren’t going into Chicago at this time!” Andy scolded. “He’s foolish enough to live there nowadays... the city is no place for a boy like you. You’re much too young.”
“Will everyone stop telling me that?” Patrick asked, “I need to do this.”
“Why?”
“I need to tell him something. Face to face.”
Andy sighed. He took a napkin from a napkin holder on the table and scribbled directions. “Here, but if anything begins to get strange, or you are clearly in the wrong area, head straight home.”
“I will... I promise.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re using Joe’s car.”
“Uh, too late,” Patrick said, running out the door.
Andy shook his head. “Dammit, Peter...”
***************************************************************
Patrick followed Andy’s directions rather well. He was avoiding the areas the news mentioned and was well on his way until he heard the worst noise possible at that moment.
The car coughed loudly and stopped. Patrick screamed, “No!” He tried to restart the car, press any pedal he could reach, and pressed all the buttons. He jumped out of the car, trying not to cry or think of the one hundred and one ways that Joe would kill him after the fact.
“I need to get help,” Patrick murmured. He walked to the sidewalk and made his way down the road, following the streetlights. He looked at the buildings and neon signs, trying to not look like a teenage suburban boy lost in the city. He heard a loud crash and bolted. He looked behind him, seeing a taller man begin to chase him. He ran harder, letting out a whimper. “He’s gonna catch me,” Patrick whispered, “He’s gonna catch me and beat me to a bloody pulp!”
The man leaned in and grabbed Patrick’s shirt. Patrick felt his legs fling forward and he started to choke. He whimpered as he was dragged into a nearby alley and pressed against a brick wall. He was shoved once more, his glasses falling off. “My glasses...” he mumbled into the brick.
Crunch.
“Where’s your money, punk?” the man asked.
Patrick turned his head, trying to catch sight of him. All he could make out was the polka-dotted scarf around his neck, a sign of a dandy. “Please, I don’t have anything,” Patrick pleaded.
“Well, then, I guess I don’t quite need money to get something out of this...”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked, tears in his eyes. “Please let go... I’m choking.”
The dandy laughed as he turned Patrick over and attempted to unbutton his shirt.
“Please, don’t do this.”
The dandy looked up, angered by Patrick’s tone. He punched him in the eye and resumed unbuttoning, one hand still firming on his throat.
Patrick closed his good eye, the pain and the touching nearly driving him insane. He felt the hand lift off his throat. He opened his good eye and he reached out for his bad eye. He felt swelling that already was developing, but deemed it not as bad as he thought it would be.
A scream was heard and then a loud crash, but Patrick realized that it wasn’t him going through either of the motions. He shut his eyes and heard a voice ask, “Are you okay, Buddy Holly glasses?”
Patrick opened his good eye again, making out the person in front of him. “P-peter?”
“Yeah. Jesus... your eye...” Pete mumbled, brushing Patrick’s shoulder with his good hand. He attempted to re-button Patrick’s shirt.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Shut up, I’m a pro at this.” Pete managed to button with one hand with some ease. He looked back at Patrick’s eye. “Does it hurt?”
“My eye? No.” His eye focused on the dandy that lay on the ground in the middle of the alley. He knew that Pete did it, seeing as though no one else was around. “How did you find me?”
“Well, I was walking home from my office at the Sun, but I saw your friend’s car... Andy mentioned it a bunch of times. Then I heard the yelling. So I followed it. What on earth brought you to Chicago at night?”
“...uh... see the sights?”
“Why are you really here?” Pete helped Patrick up, his hand on his waist. “Grab the stump for support.”
Patrick felt out Pete’s sleeve and got up off the wall. His legs shook like a newborn giraffe.
“The hospital is right by where I live,” Pete mentioned.
“You don’t have to take me to a doctor.”
“Can you see me.”
Patrick turned so his good eye could see him. “Yes.”
“We’re going.”
Pete sighed. “He didn’t... do anything other than that, did he?”
“Uh... no. He didn’t.”
“Good. Don’t worry about it, alright? The more you think about it, the more it’s gonna hurt.”
“That’s what happened to you, right?” Patrick asked.
“Yeah... that’s what happened, I guess.” There was a silence that came to them. Pete took a deep breath. “Yanno, I’m sorry for today. Honest. But you’re still foolish.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “Now I know. I haven’t quite been in the city and it was foolish.”
“Eh, I guess we all are. When I was your age I thought I was invincible. Now I’m invisible, I guess.”
“You’re not invisible. I’m talking to you and you’re kinda visible... when I turn my head.”
Pete smiled. “I guess you’re right. Uh, the hospital’s across the street. We’re making a left.”
Patrick nodded, finding the curb. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Andy didn’t leave me to die. I sure as hell can’t let myself do that to you. Andy is nuts about you, you’re like his kid.”
They entered the hospital and were sent to the waiting room. Pete looked at Patrick in the bright room. “You’re lucky you can’t see your face.”
“Is it that bad?”
“On this side. What’s your parents’ number?”
“You aren’t going to call them,” Patrick said, “I’ll be in so much trouble.”
Pete sighed. “We’ll just say that you nearly got raped by a guy. The details won’t need to matter at that point.”
“Was I really almost... raped?”
“Well, I don’t think he was trying to steal that shirt.”
“Just... please don’t call them,” Patrick begged, “I just don’t want to go through that yet.”
“And where do you propose you’re going to go if you don’t want to tell them?”
“I don’t know, maybe I can get Joe’s car to work.”
“That reminds me... I need to get that car towed or something. But... where do you propose you’re going to go?” Pete repeated, this time stressing out each word.
“Uh... I’ll...”
“I know where this is going. Do you want to come over my place?”
***************************************************************
“You’re lucky that you didn’t break anything,” Pete mentioned as they walked back to his place. “I mean, do you know how difficult it is to heal that?”
“I assume it’s very hard,” Patrick replied. He was a little uneasy at the thought of entering and sleeping at a house of a man he knew less than twenty-four hours. But the more he talked to Pete, the closer he felt and the more comfortable everything appeared for him. Pete wasn’t the cold bastard at the diner anymore; he was a savior in his own respect, a war hero with a heart of bronze.
“I called Andy,” Pete mentioned as they started to walk up the stairs. “He’s worried, but he’s got everything under control. Careful.”
Patrick grabbed the railing and got up slowly. Pete’s apartment was on the second floor, right by the staircase.
“It’s small,” Pete said, “But it’s home. Oh, and you can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the couch. Are you going to be alright? Want me to get ice?”
“No, it’s alright, I’ll be... alright.”
“Okay. I’ll get you some clothes.”
Patrick didn’t sleep “alright” that night. He rolled around, hitting his bad eye, which caused him to whimper.
Pete looked up from the sofa. “Poor guy,” he said to himself. He got up and lay next to Patrick, holding him still. “Sh, sh, calm down, Patrick.”
Patrick looked up. “What?”
“You’re whimpering. I’m right here. Calm down.”
Patrick calmed down, breathing slowly and making himself comfortable against Pete.
Pete smiled. “Are you good now?”
“Yeah... can you stay?”
“Of course.”
Maybe Joe was right. Patrick may have been a little queer. But he was so proud of himself and what happened today (aside from the whole “getting dragged into an alley” part) and even a little proud of Pete.
Patrick closed his eyes, bringing his hands to his chest. He didn’t know what was going to develop between them, friendship or maybe a somewhat queer relationship, but he was excited.
end
Last update of the year :D Happy new year, guys!