I've got nothing to confess.
Title: I've got nothing to confess
Author: ellenblews
Rating: PG-13. Joe swears.:X
Pairing: Patroh. Joetrick. The one with the beard and the one with the voice.
POV:. Second. Joe-centric.
Summary: FLUFF. AND DRAMA. BECAUSE I CAN'T WRITE ANYTHING BUT.
Disclaimer: This isn't real. If you got here by Googling yourself/your bandmates, I love you like woah, but for the sake of your own sanity, turn back now. If you're Mr. Hurley, STOP LJING YOUR BANDMATES. THAT'S JUST CREEPY.
Beta: Unbeta'd, oh shiizz.
Author Notes: Late Birthday dramarama. Let the fluffiness ensue! :D Also, let this make up for no Fromance. Lost the notebook, don't know if Rad's still around. Title & cut from Patrick's new shit. ALSO. TODAY IS NATIONAL STAR WARS DAY. MAY THE 4TH BE WITH YOU. And Joe's mommy, because it's her birthday today. :3
You look at him from across the table. You smile as you watch him pick up yet another forkful of salad, and bring it to his mouth. You smile again, even bigger, when he reaches across the table and grabs your hand, linking the two of you together. You squeeze his hand, and just look at him. He's lost so much weight, looks so different, but he's still your Tricky. And, when it all comes down to it, that's all you care about. You squeeze his hand again and shovel pasta into your mouth, looking around the restaurant. From the outside, it's a nondescript, ordinary looking place. But inside, it's mind blowing. Dim lighting, candles on every table, and, perhaps best of all, almost noone in the place. You make a mental note to thank Bill, and possibly Gabe, for mentioning this place.
"Hey, Trick?" He looks up at you, his blue, blue eyes piercing yours.
"Yeah?"
"Eat something other than fucking salad, yeah? I know you're keeping up appearances or whatever the fuck it's called, but I hear you at night. You think I'm asleep but I can hear you digging out my PopTarts." You grin at him, and he smiles sheepishly.
"Yeah, but."
"Baby, it's your birthday. There's fuckall but me here. I. Don't. Care-" You break off and start humming the song of the same name, before a cough brings you back to reality. "Yeah, and, um. Pasta. Eat it." He just nods, and you tug on his hand, until he looks up. "Love you."
He smiles, and nods, swallowing before replying with "Love you, too."
You hum happily before turning your attention back to the mountain of pasta lumped on your plate. Your free hand subconciously moves to your stomach, rubbing across the flat expanse. You gulp, and look back at him, sighing before excusing yourself to the bathroom.
When you're in the bathroom, you grip the counter, and look up at yourself in the mirror. You tell yourself he needs to know, that you want him to know, but you can't help the gnawing feeling that he won't be happy. You know it's a stupid, stupid idea; the two of you have practically been dating since the Wild Young Things tour, but. You just don't know how to bring it up, how he'll react. You brace yourself, take a deep breath, and walk back out to the man who loves you, and who you love, telling yourself you're being stupid.
You smile when you see he's already packed the food into doggy bags, and frown when you see the bill's been paid.
"Oh, fuck you, Tricky. I was supposed to pay. You know, because it's your birthday."
He just smiles at you, and all is forgiven, because, even after years of knowing him, of dating him, his smile, his real one, not the one he uses on stage, not the one used for press or meet and greets, but his real smile, still makes you melt like the fifteen year old girls you play for.
"Joey, I don't give a shit. Hey, you ok? You look a little pasty there, man."
Shit. Shit shit shit. You just nod, smiling back at him and pulling him close for a hug, resting your chin on the top of his head. You smile faintly when no hairs tickle your nose, and press a kiss to the chopped locks. "You're getting old, Tricky. Real old." You smile again and pull back, reaching down slightly to press a kiss to his lips. You reach for his hand and lace your fingers together, heading for the door. Out of habit, you start humming again. He smiles when he hears what song it is, and starts singing along quietly. "'I've got nothing to confess.' Wow, Joe. Really?"
You just sort of punch his arm and kiss him again before letting go of his hand and grabbing your own box of food, and walking out the door. You sigh heavily, careful he doesn't see. You hate doing this, but you completely understand why you have to pretend like nothing's going on between the two of you. Something that's going to be harder to do, and you hope that there will still be something to hide. You wave 'bye' to him, before getting in your seperate car, and heading to the home the two of you share, taking the long way home.
By the time you reach the house, you've sufficiently freaked yourself out, but you head to the front door. You open it, step through the door, and you're attacked. You close the door, and grin, just enjoying the feeling of his lips against your skin. You kiss back just as hard as you're being kissed, before he pulls you along to the bedroom. You're pushed down on the bed, and all of a sudden you have a Patrick blanket all for your own. You smile again, before the weight of what you're carrying -no pun intended- hits you. You sigh, and push him up, push him away. You can see the hurt in his eyes, and you wish you could just kiss it away.
"Tricky, I know it's your birthday, but I just can't. I."
He nods and rolls off you, lies beside you. "Spill."
You frown, shocked. "Spill what?"
"There's something going on with you, there has been for days now. Joe, get out of your emo funk, you're not fucking Pete." His mouth twitches up at the corners, but the serious look returns.
You take a deep breath, and kiss him before getting off the bed. "Stay here, I need to go get something, and I need a second."
He nods, and this is why you love him. He listens to you, to what you say. You nod, somewhat awkwardly, and turn to the bathroom, you dig around in the trash can -ok, ew, but there's nothing gross in there- and pick up the plastic stick before turning back to the bedroom, and to Patrick. You tap it lightly against your knuckles, and sit cross legged on the bed. You see his eyes widen, and the question forming on his lips. You can tell how hard it is for him to bite back his question, but you're glad he does.
"Um. So. There's a. Um. Th-there's." You break off and take a deep breath yet again. "There's-"
"Joey. Come on. You've gotten this far."
You smile slightly, and scratch the top of your head, nodding. "'Kay. So, um. I just. Just haven't been feeling well for a few days. It was just the occasional barf here and there. That's why I heard you scoffing my PopTarts." You smile at him, and knock your knee against his before continuing. "And, so. I was talking to Marie, and she sort of brought it up? Like, that it could be, you know. And, before I continue any further, lemme get this out the way. I love you. So much it hurts. I think I always have, ever since you and your freaky self butted in with 'I love Neurosis!' and, I don't ever want to lose you, but I know everything's taking off since the band split, and I know we said we were being careful, but apparently not careful enough, because now I'm having your baby, our baby, and like, fuck. I don't think I've ever been more stressed out, but I love you, and-" Your cut off from your rambling by a pair of lips against your own, and really, Patrick's fantastic at shutting you up, but now you want to hear what he has to say. You push him away, and just look at him, waiting.
"Just. Just promise me one thing. If it turns out to be a girl, we don't name her Padme."
And with that you grin, so hard it hurts, and you lunge forward, kissing him hard. "I love you. I love, love, love you. So much."
"Don't ever scare me like that again. And-" He breaks off, smacking your arm, "You should know better than that. Of course I'd never leave you. Idiot."
"Whatever, you totally love me all the more for it."
"Yeah, you're right, I do." You smile and kiss him again, before breaking it off and turning off the light.
"Happy Birthday, Patrick."
Author: ellenblews
Rating: PG-13. Joe swears.:X
Pairing: Patroh. Joetrick. The one with the beard and the one with the voice.
POV:. Second. Joe-centric.
Summary: FLUFF. AND DRAMA. BECAUSE I CAN'T WRITE ANYTHING BUT.
Disclaimer: This isn't real. If you got here by Googling yourself/your bandmates, I love you like woah, but for the sake of your own sanity, turn back now. If you're Mr. Hurley, STOP LJING YOUR BANDMATES. THAT'S JUST CREEPY.
Beta: Unbeta'd, oh shiizz.
Author Notes: Late Birthday dramarama. Let the fluffiness ensue! :D Also, let this make up for no Fromance. Lost the notebook, don't know if Rad's still around. Title & cut from Patrick's new shit. ALSO. TODAY IS NATIONAL STAR WARS DAY. MAY THE 4TH BE WITH YOU. And Joe's mommy, because it's her birthday today. :3
You look at him from across the table. You smile as you watch him pick up yet another forkful of salad, and bring it to his mouth. You smile again, even bigger, when he reaches across the table and grabs your hand, linking the two of you together. You squeeze his hand, and just look at him. He's lost so much weight, looks so different, but he's still your Tricky. And, when it all comes down to it, that's all you care about. You squeeze his hand again and shovel pasta into your mouth, looking around the restaurant. From the outside, it's a nondescript, ordinary looking place. But inside, it's mind blowing. Dim lighting, candles on every table, and, perhaps best of all, almost noone in the place. You make a mental note to thank Bill, and possibly Gabe, for mentioning this place.
"Hey, Trick?" He looks up at you, his blue, blue eyes piercing yours.
"Yeah?"
"Eat something other than fucking salad, yeah? I know you're keeping up appearances or whatever the fuck it's called, but I hear you at night. You think I'm asleep but I can hear you digging out my PopTarts." You grin at him, and he smiles sheepishly.
"Yeah, but."
"Baby, it's your birthday. There's fuckall but me here. I. Don't. Care-" You break off and start humming the song of the same name, before a cough brings you back to reality. "Yeah, and, um. Pasta. Eat it." He just nods, and you tug on his hand, until he looks up. "Love you."
He smiles, and nods, swallowing before replying with "Love you, too."
You hum happily before turning your attention back to the mountain of pasta lumped on your plate. Your free hand subconciously moves to your stomach, rubbing across the flat expanse. You gulp, and look back at him, sighing before excusing yourself to the bathroom.
When you're in the bathroom, you grip the counter, and look up at yourself in the mirror. You tell yourself he needs to know, that you want him to know, but you can't help the gnawing feeling that he won't be happy. You know it's a stupid, stupid idea; the two of you have practically been dating since the Wild Young Things tour, but. You just don't know how to bring it up, how he'll react. You brace yourself, take a deep breath, and walk back out to the man who loves you, and who you love, telling yourself you're being stupid.
You smile when you see he's already packed the food into doggy bags, and frown when you see the bill's been paid.
"Oh, fuck you, Tricky. I was supposed to pay. You know, because it's your birthday."
He just smiles at you, and all is forgiven, because, even after years of knowing him, of dating him, his smile, his real one, not the one he uses on stage, not the one used for press or meet and greets, but his real smile, still makes you melt like the fifteen year old girls you play for.
"Joey, I don't give a shit. Hey, you ok? You look a little pasty there, man."
Shit. Shit shit shit. You just nod, smiling back at him and pulling him close for a hug, resting your chin on the top of his head. You smile faintly when no hairs tickle your nose, and press a kiss to the chopped locks. "You're getting old, Tricky. Real old." You smile again and pull back, reaching down slightly to press a kiss to his lips. You reach for his hand and lace your fingers together, heading for the door. Out of habit, you start humming again. He smiles when he hears what song it is, and starts singing along quietly. "'I've got nothing to confess.' Wow, Joe. Really?"
You just sort of punch his arm and kiss him again before letting go of his hand and grabbing your own box of food, and walking out the door. You sigh heavily, careful he doesn't see. You hate doing this, but you completely understand why you have to pretend like nothing's going on between the two of you. Something that's going to be harder to do, and you hope that there will still be something to hide. You wave 'bye' to him, before getting in your seperate car, and heading to the home the two of you share, taking the long way home.
By the time you reach the house, you've sufficiently freaked yourself out, but you head to the front door. You open it, step through the door, and you're attacked. You close the door, and grin, just enjoying the feeling of his lips against your skin. You kiss back just as hard as you're being kissed, before he pulls you along to the bedroom. You're pushed down on the bed, and all of a sudden you have a Patrick blanket all for your own. You smile again, before the weight of what you're carrying -no pun intended- hits you. You sigh, and push him up, push him away. You can see the hurt in his eyes, and you wish you could just kiss it away.
"Tricky, I know it's your birthday, but I just can't. I."
He nods and rolls off you, lies beside you. "Spill."
You frown, shocked. "Spill what?"
"There's something going on with you, there has been for days now. Joe, get out of your emo funk, you're not fucking Pete." His mouth twitches up at the corners, but the serious look returns.
You take a deep breath, and kiss him before getting off the bed. "Stay here, I need to go get something, and I need a second."
He nods, and this is why you love him. He listens to you, to what you say. You nod, somewhat awkwardly, and turn to the bathroom, you dig around in the trash can -ok, ew, but there's nothing gross in there- and pick up the plastic stick before turning back to the bedroom, and to Patrick. You tap it lightly against your knuckles, and sit cross legged on the bed. You see his eyes widen, and the question forming on his lips. You can tell how hard it is for him to bite back his question, but you're glad he does.
"Um. So. There's a. Um. Th-there's." You break off and take a deep breath yet again. "There's-"
"Joey. Come on. You've gotten this far."
You smile slightly, and scratch the top of your head, nodding. "'Kay. So, um. I just. Just haven't been feeling well for a few days. It was just the occasional barf here and there. That's why I heard you scoffing my PopTarts." You smile at him, and knock your knee against his before continuing. "And, so. I was talking to Marie, and she sort of brought it up? Like, that it could be, you know. And, before I continue any further, lemme get this out the way. I love you. So much it hurts. I think I always have, ever since you and your freaky self butted in with 'I love Neurosis!' and, I don't ever want to lose you, but I know everything's taking off since the band split, and I know we said we were being careful, but apparently not careful enough, because now I'm having your baby, our baby, and like, fuck. I don't think I've ever been more stressed out, but I love you, and-" Your cut off from your rambling by a pair of lips against your own, and really, Patrick's fantastic at shutting you up, but now you want to hear what he has to say. You push him away, and just look at him, waiting.
"Just. Just promise me one thing. If it turns out to be a girl, we don't name her Padme."
And with that you grin, so hard it hurts, and you lunge forward, kissing him hard. "I love you. I love, love, love you. So much."
"Don't ever scare me like that again. And-" He breaks off, smacking your arm, "You should know better than that. Of course I'd never leave you. Idiot."
"Whatever, you totally love me all the more for it."
"Yeah, you're right, I do." You smile and kiss him again, before breaking it off and turning off the light.
"Happy Birthday, Patrick."