Fic: Pan Goes A Courting - R - Pete/Patrick
Title: Pan Goes A Courting
Author: roxy_palace
Beta: anna_unfolding, who always, always gets it.
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word Count: 6800
Disclaimer: None of this bares so much as a passing similarity to reality.
Warnings: Large doses of crack. And Patrick is too cute for words.
Summary: Once upon a time there was a lonely trickster god named Pan who fell out of an apple tree and in love...
A/N: This is a sequel of sorts to Everyone Comes To Pan’s and was conceived when pennyplainknitssaid she was imagining Patrick with little gossamer wings. Naturally that’s the kind of bunny that deserves immediate attention and care and mountains of juicy orange carrots! Penny my dear, the end result is for you.
*
One upon a time there was a lonely trickster god type guy named Pan (although he preferred to be called Pete).
He was lonely because he spent most of his time finding lost people, giving them a purpose, helping save the world and pulling pranks and tricks on folks; and not nearly enough time at parties, or playing B&A or just hanging around with his buddies.
Pulling pranks took up a lot of his time, and it was really the kind of thing one was better off doing solo...
"Sorry, can I interrupt you there, Rox?"
Pan? I'm right in the middle of...
"I know, it's just... I'm thinking of nixing the whole tricky trickster side of things, to be honest."
Really, Pan? But it kind of goes with the territory, doesn't it? You're a TRICKSTER GOD and all. If you're not tricking people, you're just... GOD, and some people sort of frown on that level of immodesty.
"Hey! Immodest is my middle name, baby.”
No shit.
“I’m like, the king of immodest. I mean, I’m only wearing pants out of deference for your preference for lady parts. Y’dig? Now, are you telling this story or am I? I tell a mean story. I could do it."
*Sigh* I'm telling the story. It's my post...
"TL:DR"
...and I'm telling the story, so if you wouldn't mind.
"Okay, okay. No need to get tetchy. Hey! Don't forget to describe Pattycakes’ hair as the colour of wheat in high summer. And to say his cheeks were like harvest apples - dusky rose and sweet. And...and..."
Yes, yes, I was just getting to that part. No spoilers please. Now -
One day, Pan was sitting in an apple tree...
"I was what in a where now?"
You were in an apple tree... You fell out of it. I mean, that's the story I heard from Patrick.
"Patrick Tinkerbell Von Stumpalina is a lying liar who lies."
Uh-huh.
"He is a fibulous fibber. A perverter of the factual. A fabricator of the actual. He is, in short, a teller of tall tales. Which is ironic."
This is in the Alanis Morrisette sense, isn’t it?
"Because he is so short, you see. That's irony. Tall tales. Short man. See what I did there?"
Yes. I see. Once upon a time there was a trickster God named Pan who wouldn't let the story teller do her job.
*Harumph*
Thank you. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.
Once upon a time there was a lonely Trickster God named Pan who fell out of an apple tree and in love...
****
The first time Pan saw Tinkerbell, the little sprite was having a fist fight with a faun from the wrong side of the forest.
"Take it back!" Tinkerbell yelled, launching a fairly impressive looking haymaker at the surly faun's head, his face all scrunched and crimson with rage. "Take it back or I will box you into next century!"
Pan took a ring side seat on a log next to the clearing where the fight was taking place. There were already a couple of nymphs and a brownie watching too.
"I'm offering good odds on the faun," the brownie said, winking. But Pan wasn't the gambling type. Except for when he was, which was often, so he put a couple of winkies on the blond cherub whose name Pan was now absolutely sure was Tinkerbell.
The faun neatly side stepped Tink’s punch and parried his flailing, ill timed kick, which sent the little faerie sprawling in the dirt. “Ooomf!” was the sound Tink made as he landed. Pan winced. The brownie laughed and started to pocket Pan's coins.
But then suddenly Tinkerbell was back on his feet, and somehow the faun was sprawled in the dust. And it all happened so fast Pan wasn't even sure what he'd seen, except that Tinkerbell was dusting off his hands, pulling down his little dark green tunic and hiking up his pale green tights.
"Blimey!" One of the nymphs giggled.
Blimey indeed! thought Pan, who was president of the Scrappy Little Dudes Fan Club. Tinkerbell was one scrappy little dude.
Tink stood over the faun, both fists raised. "Now, you take it back, or there's a fuck-tonne more where that came from, goat-breath!"
The faun held his bloodied nose. "Imb borry by called boo a pumpling," the faun mumbled.
"And," menaced Tinkerbell.
"Anbd bat I said folk music was gay..."
"And...?" Tink raised a fist.
The faun cowed. "And gay is not a synonym for stupid."
Tinkerbell put his hands on his hips, nodding. "Apology accepted," he said and held out his hand to help the faun up. The faun scrambled to his feet and Tinkerbell helped brush the dirt off his fur, and they shook hands before going their separate ways into the forest.
Only, Pete Pan entirely missed which direction Tink went because he was too busy swooning off his log in a dead faint backwards - although he did manage to grab a hold of the brownie’s ankle as he tried to slink away with Pan’s his winnings.
*
The next time Pan saw Tinkerbell he was wearing a turquoise sweater at a party after the Nearly End of the World.
"Psssssst."
Yes, Pan?
"You should point them to Everyone Comes To Pan’s here. Maybe set up a rogue twitter site, street team a few blogs. Get Perez in on it. You know? PR, baby."
Yes, thank you, Pan. I'm sure everyone knows about the fic.
"Really? Because a quick glance at your comments tally tells a different tale."
...
"Not that there aren't some really great comments."
*taps foot*
"Ooh! And one from Pennyplainknits! Damn girl."
*Arches eyebrow*
"Ahem, so, you were saying? About the end of the world?"
The Nearly End of World.
"Right, that's what I said. So, like, carry on and whatnot."
*long suffering sigh*
*
The beastly dragon was dead; Puck was back and Pan had found him. The Nearly End of the World had not been half as rough a ride as Pan had expected. And now there was a party.
Mikey was sylphed up to the nines and dancing with Ray; Frank and Gerard were, well, nowhere to be found, Pan thought with prurient glee, and there was a big blond guy in the corner trying to ignore a number of curious familiars surrounding him.
That would be Bob, Pan realized, Frank's Faerie ally. Pan really liked Bob.
He was just about to go and sit on Bob's shoulders and demand they play Master-Blaster, from that human film, Mad Max: Beyond the Thunderdome, when he was distracted by an apple-cheeked vision of loveliness loitering at the edge of the dance floor looking pissed.
Pan veered left and made for Tinkerbell, for lo, it was him.
"S'up, beautiful?” Pan said as he sidled up to the little blond. “Heaven must be crying tonight, coz it’s lost an angel."
Tinkerbell turned slowly towards Pan, blushed almost scarlet, shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Mikey tripped lightly off the dance floor next to Pan. “Flamed, bro,” he said, nodding.
Pan sighed. He was going to have to re-think his usual game plan.
Mikey patted him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna have to re-think your usual game plan,” he said.
Pan really agreed.
The pair stood for a while watching the couples swirl by.
Finally Mikey turned to him. “How about I go over there and tell him what a cool guy I think you are?” he asked. “You know, makes up stuff to make you sound good.”
Pan grinned. “Yeah! Hey,” he said, the grin sliding off his face as the back handed compliment slowly seeped through his love struck haze.
Mikey just winked, bounced on his toes a little and headed off after Tinkerbell.
“No, Mikey. Wait.” But Pan was too late. Mikey was already cornering Tink over by the trifle. Pan sighed and went to hide out back by the punch.
Truth be known, Peter Lewis King of the Woods Pan the Third didn't really have a game plan per ce. He was a mythical being, a nature spirit, an elder god. Mostly his plans started with 'shock and awe' and went downhill from there.
"So, one night I will come to him in a shower of golden duckets!” Pan said to Keenan, waving his arms around over the punch bowl as Keenan tried to pour them both a cup. “And then he'll have to love me."
Keenan blinked. "You want to give Patrick a golden shower?"
"Yes! Wait, what?" Pan said, pulling his arms in sharply and cringing. "No! And who the hell is Patrick?!"
Keenan gave Pan a level look. "The little blond sprite y'all been swooning over for the last twenty minutes? Dude’s name is Patrick."
"Seriously?!" Pan said, clasping his hands together and dancing up on his tippy toes. “Really?! Tinkerbell’s name is Pat-trick? Pattycakes? Tickle-trickle! The Trickmeister General! Trick!"
“Um,” Keenan said, wincing and shaking his head. He clutched his cup of punch closer. "Peeeee-ete."
"Keeee-nan," Pan cried, ignoring him in favor of grabbing his arm and splashing punch all over the place. "Am I not a trickster god? Should I not have as the boon companion of my heart a man named Trick?! AKA Tinkerbell?!"
"Pete,” Keenan said, cutting his eyes left.
Perhaps he’d gotten some punch in his eye, thought Pan, who just continued his hysterical rant. "And shouldn't I adore him, and love him, and keep him by my side forever and a day? I will call him Tinkerbell and he will call me Big Dadd - "
"Pan." Keenan hissed.
The tone of Keenan's voice finally broke through Pan's reverie. "What?" He said, rocking back on his heels. Keenan's eyes flicked over Pan's shoulder and he raised his eyebrows.
A small cough sounded behind him. Pan swallowed and leaned forward to whisper to Keenan. "He's standing right there, isn't he?"
Keenan nodded. Pan cringed and made useless grabby hands at Keenan who just turned on his heel and disappeared back to the party. Fucknuts.
"May I get to the punch bowl please?" a small voice said.
Pan turned slowly and stepped aside so Patrick, resplendent in a turquoise argyle sweater and matching knee socks, could pour himself some amber punch.
"Um," Pan said, winningly, tugging on the neck of his shirt. Man, it was hot in the cafe tonight. "Better watch out, that drinks sure packs a-a punch." Please stop talking, Pete, Pan thought desperately, Please.
Pan was in kind of a muddle. No one had ever shot him down before, let alone heard Pan in full tin-hat obsessive fantasy rant about them, like Patrick just had.
Pan was suddenly horribly aware that his usual charm wasn’t going to cut it with Patrick. Patrick was special. Patrick was precious. Patrick was calmly pouring himself a cup of punch right in front of Pan. Please tell me he didn’t hear the Big Daddy thing.
Patrick drank his cup of punch and poured another before turning to face Pan.
"So," he said and looked at the floor. "I hear from Mikey we have you to thank for not being roasted to death in the belly of an angry metaphor."
"Oh, ah," Pan nodded. He waved his hand around a bit. His stomach rolled oddly and his hands felt a little clammy. He had lost his words completely. "Um..." This must be what ordinary people who like other ordinary people feel like all the time. he thought with dawning horror. Glarrrrrgh!
Patrick took a slow sip from his cup and turned to watch the dancers spinning and dipping past. "I, ah, really like this jam," he said with a nod and a tap of his toes.
"Ah, er," Pan swallowed, and forced himself to put his hands in his pockets and stop bouncing on his toes. I could show you a few jams of my...no...I’m a slow jammer... absolutely not. I’d like to jam my... GOD NO...
Pan cocked his hip and nodded. "I like noises," he said and then silently bit his tongue very, very hard. I like noises?! What the actual fuck?
Patrick levelled a look at him over the top of his glasses. His eyes went a little, hazy and he tilted his head; and Pan couldn’t help feeling like Patrick was seeing a lot more than Pan’s too big teeth, sticky out ears and big old goofy jaw that was kind of aching from being made to smile so hard. Patrick quirked a cheek and frowned. “Huh,” he said, mostly to himself, before shaking his head a little and standing up straight.
"So, this is a dance,” he said to Pan. “Maybe we should, you know, dance?"
"Dance," Pan said nodding. "Dance, um, with me?"
Patrick nodded, but before Pan could do anything to ruin it, Patrick had taken his hand and was dragging him out into the melee.
Patrick was a really good dancer. Even though they were kind of more dancing at each other, than with each other, Pan could see that Patrick had all the moves. He was so good that Pan's strange nerves had all but danced themselves out of his body.
"So Tink," Pan said when the music finally turned slow and it seemed like there were a lot of couples pairing up and sliding closer together. Pan slipped his hand around Patrick’s waist and pulled him close. "You come here often?"
Patrick twisted out of Pan's embrace and put his hands firmly on Pan's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. He nodded, his eyes fixed over Pan's shoulder, waiting.
Pan glanced over his shoulder too. “Are we waiting for something?” he asked. Couples flew past them clinging to one another, bumping and grinding and writhing their way around the dance floor. Pan had some ideas about doing a little bumping and grinding of his own on the dance floor. But Patrick didn’t move. “What am I - are we - um, Patrick?”
"Your hands,” Patrick said quietly. “On my shoulders," Patrick said, and Pan saw his jaw get a little tight. "Sprite style."
Oh! Pan thought, he’d heard about all the sprite cultural dances and their different meanings. He was pretty charmed that Patrick wanted to share some of them with him.
He placed his hands on Patrick's shoulders with a wink and a grin. But Patrick's thundery gaze wiped the smile straight off his face. "Oh, um, right," Pan flustered. "Ye Olde Sprite Stylee. Super serious bizniz. I dig it."
Only Pan didn't really dig it. Patrick looked so soft and inviting and Pan felt all...wanty and needy, like, if he couldn't get closer to Patrick, and soon, he was going to combust. It wouldn't be the first time! Pan thought, remembering his brief yet volatile fling with a certain sylph back in the pre-enchantment days.
Patrick rolled his eyes. "Also, you can call me Patrick. Patrick of the Tree Stump," he said and he pushed Pan backwards onto the dance floor.
Pan sidled to the left, narrowly avoiding barrelling into Puck, who was watching the dancers jig by.
“But you look like a Tinkerbell,” Pete said, and tried to turn them.
Patrick's nostrils flared. “Yes, but my name is Patrick,” he said, crisp and terse.
Hmmm, thought Pan. A guy can have more than one name, Pattycakes.
They danced all night with Patrick saying very little except "No thank you," and "I don’t need another drink," and "If you try to touch it again I will punch you."
It was a very trying time for Pan, getting denied and denied and denied while Patrick continued hanging out with him anyway. He totally loved it.
At the end of the night, after Patrick actually did have to punch Pan (“I warned you, Pete!”), and had gone to the bathroom to run his hand under the cold faucet, Pan waited for him to come out so he could offer to walk him home.
But Patrick was nowhere to be found.
As Brandon and the boys packed up their gear and Frank and Gerard disappeared back into the storeroom, Pan found himself alone in the almost empty cafe.
"Well, shitnuts," said Pan with a great deal of feeling.
"I hear that," said Brandon lugging his tuba and accordion cases out into the night.
Pan went home alone. Yet again.
*
Pan, are you okay?
"Sure, sure, I'm fine."
You don't really look fine.
"Nope, I'm good. Just a little speck of sentiment in my eye. Carry on."
Okay.
*
Patrick, it turned out, was a singularly elusive soul. Pan sought him at the mead factory; he sought him at the Fae Dance School; he sought him at Mrs. Miggin's Pie Shoppe and Wand Emporium. But Patrick 'Tinkerbell' of the Tree Stump was not to be found.
"Have you tried looking for him at the Tree Stump, Pete?" Frank asked. He was stacking mermaid eggs in the tide pool tank at the back of the storeroom and the sticky mucous membranes were giving him a really hard time. He flicked more of the goop off his hand and it landed with a splat at Pan's feet.
"The Tree Stump?" Pan asked, scratching his head and taking a big step backwards.
Frank wiped his goopy hands off on his apron. "Patrick of the Tree Stump? I’m no private detective or investigative journalist, Pete, but something tells me the clue to your beau's whereabouts may be hidden in his name."
"Huh," said Pan with a quizzical look. "You think?"
Frank nodded. Really slowly.
Careful to avoid any and all goop, Pan patted Frank on the back and headed off to the Park.
*
In the Fae world Chicago Central Park was a massive rolling wilderness filled with wild woods, magical beasts, questing knights and ice cream carts. It was also filled to the fucking brim with tree stumps. None of which seemed to come with a little blond sprite named Patrick attached.
"Okay, I'm getting seriously pissed off now," Pan said, kicking the everloving shit out of the big, gnarly stump in front of him. "The next stump I kick had better be Patrick's or I'm gonna smack a bitch."
"Hey Pete," a voice said from behind a bush.
Pan leapt up onto the stump which was not Patrick’s and put up his Karate dukes. "Who's there?!" he hollered.
"It's me, Spencer, you idiot," the voice said. "Get off that log and come give me a hand with the cart. It's stuck in a rut right now."
Pan took a deep calming breath. "Phew bro!" he said, leaping into the bushes and finding Spencer on his knees yanking a root for all he was worth. "I was just about to smack a bitch."
"Uh huh," said Spencer, giving Pan the mother of all bitch faces. "Perhaps you could start by smacking this bitchin’ root here and getting the cart into that clearing before the Polar Pops all melt."
Pan magic’d the root out of the way and Spencer smiled. "Ace!"
"Yes, I am," said Pan, completely oblivious to Spencer’s rolling eyes.
The nymph pushed the cart up the small bank into the clearing and set up his little umbrella and rang his little bell. His monkey familiar clambered up his leg and arm onto his shoulder and Spencer smiled.
Pan looked about. “So, um, you get much business off the beaten path like this?” He asked, mouth quirked with concern. It was a pretty dead end part of the forest, miles away from the stream at Beaver Town, or the Squirrelingshireville Oak.
“Enough,” Spencer replied with a sparkle in his eye and a frown on his brow.
Just then a little long-tailed, snub-nosed thing came clambering out of the undergrowth and wound itself around Pan’s leg, before flipping itself over and lying there in the clover, kicking its little webbed feet in the air and chittering to itself.
“Um,” said Pan, looking down at the sleek-looking furry creature batting its long lashes at him.
“Hello...Bden,” Spencer said quietly.
“Bden? That looks more like an otter to me,” Pan said, raising his eyebrows and dropping down to one knee to scratch the otter’s tummy.
From between the trees, a dark-haired elf stepped, wielding a grin bright enough to eclipse Pan’s own. It dropped off his pretty face fairly quickly when he set eyes on Spencer though.
“Hello, Spence,” Brendon said quietly.
Pan looked between the nymph, Spencer and the elf, Brendon. “Wait, I’m confused. If he’s Spencer, and I’m Pete, and he’s Bden, then who and what the hell is this?”
“I am an otter, Mr. Pan,” the little fur friend said from down by Pan’s knee. “I’m Brendon’s new otter familiar, Ian.”
Pan looked up at Brendon. “You named your otter Ian?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Brendon said. “I guess it’s a pretty odd choice, for an otter.”
Spencer sneered. “Because we all spend a lot of time wondering about good otter signifiers don’t we?” he said in his snarkiest tone - and Pan should know, because he’d heard and been the cause of many a snarky tone in the past.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” Brendon replied tartly. “But I like thinking about otter names. I guess we’re just very. Different. People.”
Spencer pursed his lips and his monkey turned his back on Brendon altogether.
Pan blinked between the two chaps, sensing a somewhat icy atmosphere forming in the middle of the summery park.
“Oh, don’t mind them,” Ian the Otter said, tugging on Pan’s tights. “Spencer’s in a snit because Brendon won’t move in with him, and Brendon’s in a snit because he thinks it’ll end in a horrible break-up if they live together.”
The atmosphere got about three thousand percent more icy as Brendon and Spencer patently ignored Ian talking about them - although Spencer’s cheeks had gone a really charming bright red - and continued staring each other out.
“Right, well,” said Pan, laughing a little nervous laugh. He nodded over to the edge of the clearing, and moved in that direction, waiting for Ian the Otter to follow. “I say,” he said, once they were both out of ear shot. “That’s all a bit on the tense side, isn’t it?”
Ian twisted around in the grass a little, did a strange eely kind of flip and sat up on his haunches. “It’s dumb,” he nodded. “But then, elves are kind of stupid.”
“Damned straight,” Pan said seriously.
Ian sighed. “They really, really like each other. Only, Brendon is afraid of change.”
Pan frowned. “Hmmm, change is kind of scary. But also change is good!” Pan dropped to one knee and slung an arm around Ian’s narror ottery shoulders. “Like, last week I was just some ordinary, everyday, old world trickster god, just going about my day. And now I am on a QUEST! To find my one true LOVE! Whose name is PATRICK!”
Ian made a funny little chittering noise, did a little tumble and roll, and sat up again. “Who, old Patrick Von Stump? The Sprite?”
Pan blinked and jumped up. “The very same!” he chimed. “Tell me you know where he lives. I’ve been looking for his tree stump for what seems like forever and...”
“You mean the one he’s standing by,” Ian said, pointing his little webbed claw at a gap in the trees. “Just over there.”
Pan turned and looked through the green leaves, and low and behold yonder was Patrick and his stump. Pan could just make out Patrick’s fire, and he seemed to be sitting on a log prodding something in a big copper cauldron. His clearing was quite a ways off, but Pan would have known him anywhere.
Pan smiled and sighed. “Brilliant, Ian,” he said. “I’m going to give you one wish. But make it snappy buddy because I have a date with a stump.”
Ian writhed around a bit and chittered some more. “Oh, keep your wishes, Mr. Pan,” he said. “I don’t think I need ‘em now.”
Pan glanced in the direction Ian the Otter was looking to see Brendon plastered to Spencer’s face by the mouth and trying to climb him.
“Huzzah!” Pan said happily. “Well, that’s a good omen, little buddy.” He looked down at Ian, who was resting his furry little chin in his fury little otter hands and sighing.
Pan patted Ian on the head and made off through the forest towards his one true love.
*
The Stump was less like a stump and more like a dead tree, leaning at an unlikely angle, leafless and sad looking. It wasn’t anywhere near Autumn yet, so it was odd that the tree should look so dead.
It had been a lot further away than Pete had at first thought, and also there were brambles and nettles and a little stream with snapping turtles and slippery rocks and if Pan wasn’t the god of the woods then he might have thought these woods had something against him.
“Knock it off, you guys,” Pan hissed as a low-hanging branch tangled in his hair and pulled a bunch of it out. “I’m like, the boss of you, so play nice.” A little shrub on the path ahead shuddered and shifted to one side. “That’s better,” Pan said, and promptly tripped over a rock the shrub was hiding, flipped head over ass, and landed in a puddle in the middle of Patrick’s clearing. “Ow.”
“You know,” said Patrick, not looking up from his cauldron. “For a forest deity, you make a hell of a lot of noise thundering around in there.”
“Ha ha!” Pan said, clambering to his feet as gracefully as he could. “Fancy - fancy meeting you here in this neck of the, ah, woods. I was just passing and, wow! Small world!”
Patrick looked at Pan with one raised eyebrow. He turned back to the cauldron in front of him, shaking his head.
“So, this is your stump?” Pan tried.
“It is,” Patrick said, and he lifted the cauldron off the fire with and started fanning the bubbling contents.
Pan winced. Patrick wasn’t much of a cook if the smell coming from that cauldron was anything to go by. Yikes! Pan had socks that smelled better, and that was really saying something.
“Took you long enough to find it,” Patrick said after a little while.
Pan blinked. “You, um, you wanted me to find it?”
Patrick sighed. “I don’t do the sprite courting dance with just anyone, you know. But anyway, it’s no use now. You’re too late,” Patrick said and he looked at Pan unhappily. “I’m leaving soon.”
Pan staggered back. “What? What do you mean? Leaving here? When? For how long?”
Patrick shrugged. “As long as I need.”
Pan stomped his foot and twirled round. “You can’t leave here; I just arrived,” Pan fumed. “I just arrived and it’d be rude, or - or something.”
Patrick walked up to Pan and took both his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You - I...” He shrugged again, went up on his tippy toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of Pan’s mouth. “You should have come sooner,” he said and let Pan go.
“Patrick!” Pan cried. “No!”
But Patrick was waving his hands over the cauldron and whispering something that sounded like a spell. “Sorry Pete,” he said when his spell was done.
And suddenly, there was a thin strand of golden light rising out of the cauldron and attaching itself to the stump way up high, near the very top of the trunk. It started coiling and coiling and coiling, looking for all the world like some kind of knitted sock.
“Well, let me come with you then!” Pan said frantically, tugging at Patrick’s sleeve. “Let me come. I’ll - I’ll carry your bags and, and...”
“You can’t come where I’m going, Pete,” Patrick said wearily. And Pan stamped his foot again. There wasn’t anywhere in this forest that Pan couldn’t go.
“But where...”
And then the golden strand started to wrap itself around Patrick too, pulling him up the stump, winding him inside the crystal construction. Patrick’s eyes were already closed and Pan could hear his breathing get deep and even. Patrick was asleep; he was already gone.
The crystal strands continued spinning and weaving and winding; and Pan stood by, watching as his one true love disappeared.
Finally the strands went still and where there had been a sock, there was now a little crystal ball, faintly glowing golden, hanging from the uppermost branch of Patrick’s dead tree.
“This is total balls,” said Pan, and leapt lightly up to the nearest branch and sat down on it.
The crystal shell that Patrick’s magic had wound him into was smoky and almost opaque, but deep inside it Pan could see the dim outline of Patrick’s body, moving gently.
Pan sighed, pulled his knees up to his chest and waited.
*
He waited all through the summer, although Gerard and Frank came at one point and demanded he come down so the Wild Hunt could start.
“Nope,” Pan said, flicking a stray dandelion head off Patrick’s chrysalis. “You’ll have to start it this year, Puck.”
Frank frowned up at Pan. “Me? Seriously? C’mon dude, you know I’ll screw it up. You start the wild hunt, and Prince Valiant here ends it. That’s how it goes.”
“I’m not leaving so, you’re gonna have to.” Pan wedged himself into the angle of the branch and hung on. They weren’t getting him out of this tree without a fight.
Gerard tugged on Frank’s sleeve. He looked up at Pan. “Well, can we bring you anything, Pan?” Gerard asked. “You want food or...”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Pan said.
And eventually Frank and Gerard left.
Later he heard the raucous sound of the Hunt passing in the nearby forest. Gerard’s horn sounded loud and clear as they thundered by, the ground shuddered and Pan put a steadying hand on the chrysalis, which swung gently with the movement of the ground. Pan let out a long breath and continued to wait.
*
He waited all through the autumn. When the winds got up, blowing red and yellow leaves from the forest onto Patrick’s chrysalis, Pan brushed them off.
He waited all through the winter. Brendon and Spencer came and left him a blanket. And Keenan came and left him a pair of knitted socks. And lots of other Fae came and left tithes for the trickster god with the broken heart.
Pan didn’t really care. He brushed the snow off the chrysalis and held his blanket over it when it rained.
*
Pan realised the spring was coming when he opened his eyes one morning and there were bright spots of green polka-dotting the white blanket of snow covering his forest.
A couple of days later the snow was gone and in its place was a carpet of blue and a wall all around the clearing of green and pink and white and pale, pale orange. The fruit blossoms were out, and so were the bluebells.
The was green and white nearer to him too, because the stump was less of a stump now, and more of a flowering tree. Leaves of the palest green dotted the branches, and nestled within them were tiny white flowers with pale pink hearts.
Apple blossoms! Pan thought. His favorites.
Pan scrambled to stand up on the branch and pull one of the flower-laden boughs closer to him. The scent of the flowers was heady and delicious. He looked down at the chrysalis about to tell Patrick about the changes around them when the words froze in his mouth.
Sometime in the night it had gone completely black.
“Patrick?” Panic - naturally - flaring in his gut, Pan scrambled down the side of the tree to a lower, branch; he pushed the leaves out of the way and leaned closer to the chrysalis. “Pattycakes?”
Pan swiped a hand over the nearest facet. He couldn’t see a thing; it was as black as a shard of onyx. He tapped a finger on the glassy surface. It was hard as glass, too.
“Oh gods,” Pan cried. “No!” He hammered on the surface of the chrysalis. It made an ominous hollow sound. Pan didn’t know what to do. He’d never had a caterpillar for a boyfriend before. This was totally outside his skill set.
He pummelled it with two fists. “Patrick!” He hollered. “Patrick!”
They say the sound of Patrick Von Stump’s chrysalis shattering could be heard all the way from Beaver Town to Oak Park. Some say even the Boggerts’s in Boggert’s Bottom heard the crack. Who knows?
“Well, I know.”
Yes, Pan. I know you know. I was using a little poetic licence there to build a little dramatic tension?
“Oh! Rhetorical and shit. Nice. Keep going. This is the good bit.”
Ahem.
The chrysalis shattered; shards of the glassy structure firing out from the tree in all directions and with such sudden force that Pan was blown clear off his branch and down onto the bluebell-carpeted forest floor.
Pan lay amidst the sweet smelling flowers for what seemed like an age, watching the stars and little sparrows flitting around his head, and listening to his ears ringing.
“Son of bitch!” Pan said, when he was able to unclamp his teeth and feel his lips again.
The tree above him rustled. “Um, Pete?”
Pan shook his head and blinked. “Patrick!”
The leaves in the apple tree shuddered and shimmered and a shower of little white petals rained down on Pete.
“Um, yeah?”
Pan scratched his head. “Well, you don’t sound very sure,” he said. “Have you got a cap on? Are you wearing argyle and are you frowning?”
There was silence from the tree and then a little rustling. “Ah, no, no and yes. No. Well, I mean, I was frowning, but now I’m not.” And there was a sound from the apple tree not unlike a giggle. “I’m a little giddy, to be perfectly frank.”
Hmmmmm, thought Pan. That could be Pattycakes. Could be a monster. I’d better investigate.
“Well, come on out and let’s have a look at you,” Pan said, scrambling to his feet and running to the foot of the tree.
“No!” Probably!Patrick hollered. “No, stay back. I’m - I’m not very nice to look at, Pete. I think you woke me up too early. I feel quite out of sorts and sort of... half cooked.”
Pan bit his lip. Half cooked doesn’t sound so bad, Pan thought. He felt pretty terrible about waking Patrick too soon though. “I didn’t know what else to do,” Pan said, staring up into the branches and trying to get a look at Patrick. “Your chrysalis had gone all black, and...”
The branches shook a little, and more petals fell.
“I’m sorry?” Pan said, hugging the tree. “Maybe I can help, if you come down and let me take a look?”
“Well, okay,” Probably!Patrick said. “But I warn you. I’m looking pretty hideous.”
You could never look hideous to me, ‘Trick, Pan thought, but didn’t say, because he didn’t want an already self-conscious sprite to feel even worse. “I can handle the fugly, baby. Come on down.”
Pan stepped back into the clearing and tried to look casual and relaxed. After some awkward shuffling about and an ill-thought out reclining pose, he settled on tense and staunch with his feet planted wide and his hands on his hips. He swallowed.
The branches rattled and shivered and shimmied. And finally they parted, and Patrick flitted out from between them, landing lightly on the grass in front of Pan.
He hadn’t been lying; he didn’t look the same. Gone were his curvy curves, and comfy rolls, and in their place were lean hips and long legs. His face was sharper too, but his bushy red sideburns were the same. His hair was fuller and brighter and longer, but still looked like spun gold. And when Pan looked beneath the hair he was delighted to see Patrick’s big blue eyes were just as blue and just as Patrick as he’d remembered them.
Of course the glittering gossamer wings which shivered and shimmered over Patrick’s shoulders were completely, devastatingly, gorgeously new. Pan smiled.
“You look fucking terrible,” he said with a smirk.
Patrick leaned back and punched Pan right on the nose.
*
“Oh my gods, I can’t believe you left that bit in!”
Well, I’m sticking to the story as I heard it straight from Patrick, Pan. And he did lamp you a good one, on account of his emotions being all over the place after just coming out of hibernation and all.
“Yeah, but man, that’s not the most romantic ending I ever saw, holy shit.”
Well, I don’t really know from Romantic, Pan. I’m writing fairy stories with imaginary characters, in my pyjamas at 7:30 on a Friday night. I’m kind of relying on the info as given, you know what I mean?
“True, true, you are sorta lame in that way.”
*purses lips*
“Well, if you want I could finish the story then? I can add some fireworks, maybe a procession and dancing girls and boys and maybe, like crowns - yeah, there were definitely crowns - and Patrick swore to love me for all time...”
No thank you Pan, dear. I’m nearly done now. I’ll finish it.
*
“I absolutely will not swear to love you for all time, dickweed,” Patrick said as he flicked through the latest edition of Elven Bride and Groom, his chin resting lightly on his hand as he perused the cumberbunds and cake toppers. Pan peered over his shoulder to see Patrick had circled a picture of a little sprite with a crown of leaves on his head grinning up from the page.
Pan’s shoulders dropped and he screwed up the little scroll he’d been writing on. “Aw, man.”
Patrick looked up. “‘For all time’ is not the Faerie way and you know it. Not even Gerard and Frank said ‘for all time’ and those two are like, glued at the crotch.”
“Ew,” Pan said, recoiling.
Patrick raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, okay, so not ‘ew’,” he grinned. “But I mean, we’re not them. We can say for all time if we want. They’re our vows.”
Patrick sat up and pulled Pan closer. He smiled up at him lovingly and immediately cuffed him round the head. “No,” he said. “We can’t.”
Pan threw himself on the bed with a desultory huff. “Pattycakes,” he whined. “I know knocking me about is the sprite way of showing affection, but sometimes could you just use your words instead?”
Patrick looked at least a tiny bit remorseful. “I just mean that,” he sighed. “I mean that we say ‘for a year and a day’ for a reason. You know? Brownies do it, Nymphs do it...”
“Yeah, yeah, even those little googly-eyed piskie things do it,” Pan said with a note of surrender in his voice. He pushed his tunic up and patted his belly. Looking up he noticed Patrick watching the movement of his hand out of the corner of his eye.
A-ha! thought Pan, and he tilted his hips, arched his back and stretched; his top rode up higher and he let out a little sigh. Inside he was giggling.
Patrick put the magazine aside and clambered over the bed towards Pan, his wings quivering and flicking about, which actually Pan knew was a preeeeety good sign.
“Come here, you,” Patrick said, climbing on top of Pan. His wings dropped forward and brushed over Pan’s shoulders. Pan shivered and stretched up for a kiss.
Patrick sank his fingers into Pan’s hair and nuzzled into his throat. “Even though we say a ‘year and a day’,” he whispered against Pan’s skin. “It doesn’t mean we don’t hope ‘forever and ever’ or even mean it.” Patrick dragged his nose lightly down Pan’s throat and dropped little sucking kisses across his clavicle. “It’s not the terms of the love, just of the union.”
Above them his wings shivered again, as Pan let his hands wander all over Patrick’s back and hips. “Gods...” Patrick’s gossamer wings vibrated and flicked back and forth as his hips pressed against Pan’s. “And then, when the year and a day is over, we get to have another big party and make the vow again, see?”
“I suppose,” Pan sighed, pushing Patrick’s top up to get at the creamy skin beneath. “A year and a day does have a nice ring to it.”
“Right?” Patrick whispered and continued to follow his kisses south.
“Oh - oh - Okay then,” Pan squeaked. “‘A year and a day’ it is.” He sighed and lifted his hips as Patrick peeled his tights off. “But,” Pan breathed as Patrick stopped at the object of his journey down Pan’s body and licked a long, hot stripe up it. “Holy Sunday . - I-ah -I’m still calling you - sweet Frigga’s apples - Tinkerbell. In the ceremony.”
But if Patrick heard, he didn’t say anything, and if he didn’t hear, Pan wasn’t going to repeat it. He had to keep some surprises for their big day. After all, what kind of trickster god would he be if he didn’t?
The End.
*
“And you said you didn’t know from Romantic.”
*shrugs*
“You’re a sly one, you. Hey, thanks.”
No, no, thank you Pan. See you round, okay?
“Sure thing, Rox. Stay golden!”
I’ll do my best, Pan. I’ll do my best.
Author: roxy_palace
Beta: anna_unfolding, who always, always gets it.
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word Count: 6800
Disclaimer: None of this bares so much as a passing similarity to reality.
Warnings: Large doses of crack. And Patrick is too cute for words.
Summary: Once upon a time there was a lonely trickster god named Pan who fell out of an apple tree and in love...
A/N: This is a sequel of sorts to Everyone Comes To Pan’s and was conceived when pennyplainknitssaid she was imagining Patrick with little gossamer wings. Naturally that’s the kind of bunny that deserves immediate attention and care and mountains of juicy orange carrots! Penny my dear, the end result is for you.
*
One upon a time there was a lonely trickster god type guy named Pan (although he preferred to be called Pete).
He was lonely because he spent most of his time finding lost people, giving them a purpose, helping save the world and pulling pranks and tricks on folks; and not nearly enough time at parties, or playing B&A or just hanging around with his buddies.
Pulling pranks took up a lot of his time, and it was really the kind of thing one was better off doing solo...
"Sorry, can I interrupt you there, Rox?"
Pan? I'm right in the middle of...
"I know, it's just... I'm thinking of nixing the whole tricky trickster side of things, to be honest."
Really, Pan? But it kind of goes with the territory, doesn't it? You're a TRICKSTER GOD and all. If you're not tricking people, you're just... GOD, and some people sort of frown on that level of immodesty.
"Hey! Immodest is my middle name, baby.”
No shit.
“I’m like, the king of immodest. I mean, I’m only wearing pants out of deference for your preference for lady parts. Y’dig? Now, are you telling this story or am I? I tell a mean story. I could do it."
*Sigh* I'm telling the story. It's my post...
"TL:DR"
...and I'm telling the story, so if you wouldn't mind.
"Okay, okay. No need to get tetchy. Hey! Don't forget to describe Pattycakes’ hair as the colour of wheat in high summer. And to say his cheeks were like harvest apples - dusky rose and sweet. And...and..."
Yes, yes, I was just getting to that part. No spoilers please. Now -
One day, Pan was sitting in an apple tree...
"I was what in a where now?"
You were in an apple tree... You fell out of it. I mean, that's the story I heard from Patrick.
"Patrick Tinkerbell Von Stumpalina is a lying liar who lies."
Uh-huh.
"He is a fibulous fibber. A perverter of the factual. A fabricator of the actual. He is, in short, a teller of tall tales. Which is ironic."
This is in the Alanis Morrisette sense, isn’t it?
"Because he is so short, you see. That's irony. Tall tales. Short man. See what I did there?"
Yes. I see. Once upon a time there was a trickster God named Pan who wouldn't let the story teller do her job.
*Harumph*
Thank you. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.
Once upon a time there was a lonely Trickster God named Pan who fell out of an apple tree and in love...
****
The first time Pan saw Tinkerbell, the little sprite was having a fist fight with a faun from the wrong side of the forest.
"Take it back!" Tinkerbell yelled, launching a fairly impressive looking haymaker at the surly faun's head, his face all scrunched and crimson with rage. "Take it back or I will box you into next century!"
Pan took a ring side seat on a log next to the clearing where the fight was taking place. There were already a couple of nymphs and a brownie watching too.
"I'm offering good odds on the faun," the brownie said, winking. But Pan wasn't the gambling type. Except for when he was, which was often, so he put a couple of winkies on the blond cherub whose name Pan was now absolutely sure was Tinkerbell.
The faun neatly side stepped Tink’s punch and parried his flailing, ill timed kick, which sent the little faerie sprawling in the dirt. “Ooomf!” was the sound Tink made as he landed. Pan winced. The brownie laughed and started to pocket Pan's coins.
But then suddenly Tinkerbell was back on his feet, and somehow the faun was sprawled in the dust. And it all happened so fast Pan wasn't even sure what he'd seen, except that Tinkerbell was dusting off his hands, pulling down his little dark green tunic and hiking up his pale green tights.
"Blimey!" One of the nymphs giggled.
Blimey indeed! thought Pan, who was president of the Scrappy Little Dudes Fan Club. Tinkerbell was one scrappy little dude.
Tink stood over the faun, both fists raised. "Now, you take it back, or there's a fuck-tonne more where that came from, goat-breath!"
The faun held his bloodied nose. "Imb borry by called boo a pumpling," the faun mumbled.
"And," menaced Tinkerbell.
"Anbd bat I said folk music was gay..."
"And...?" Tink raised a fist.
The faun cowed. "And gay is not a synonym for stupid."
Tinkerbell put his hands on his hips, nodding. "Apology accepted," he said and held out his hand to help the faun up. The faun scrambled to his feet and Tinkerbell helped brush the dirt off his fur, and they shook hands before going their separate ways into the forest.
Only, Pete Pan entirely missed which direction Tink went because he was too busy swooning off his log in a dead faint backwards - although he did manage to grab a hold of the brownie’s ankle as he tried to slink away with Pan’s his winnings.
*
The next time Pan saw Tinkerbell he was wearing a turquoise sweater at a party after the Nearly End of the World.
"Psssssst."
Yes, Pan?
"You should point them to Everyone Comes To Pan’s here. Maybe set up a rogue twitter site, street team a few blogs. Get Perez in on it. You know? PR, baby."
Yes, thank you, Pan. I'm sure everyone knows about the fic.
"Really? Because a quick glance at your comments tally tells a different tale."
...
"Not that there aren't some really great comments."
*taps foot*
"Ooh! And one from Pennyplainknits! Damn girl."
*Arches eyebrow*
"Ahem, so, you were saying? About the end of the world?"
The Nearly End of World.
"Right, that's what I said. So, like, carry on and whatnot."
*long suffering sigh*
*
The beastly dragon was dead; Puck was back and Pan had found him. The Nearly End of the World had not been half as rough a ride as Pan had expected. And now there was a party.
Mikey was sylphed up to the nines and dancing with Ray; Frank and Gerard were, well, nowhere to be found, Pan thought with prurient glee, and there was a big blond guy in the corner trying to ignore a number of curious familiars surrounding him.
That would be Bob, Pan realized, Frank's Faerie ally. Pan really liked Bob.
He was just about to go and sit on Bob's shoulders and demand they play Master-Blaster, from that human film, Mad Max: Beyond the Thunderdome, when he was distracted by an apple-cheeked vision of loveliness loitering at the edge of the dance floor looking pissed.
Pan veered left and made for Tinkerbell, for lo, it was him.
"S'up, beautiful?” Pan said as he sidled up to the little blond. “Heaven must be crying tonight, coz it’s lost an angel."
Tinkerbell turned slowly towards Pan, blushed almost scarlet, shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Mikey tripped lightly off the dance floor next to Pan. “Flamed, bro,” he said, nodding.
Pan sighed. He was going to have to re-think his usual game plan.
Mikey patted him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna have to re-think your usual game plan,” he said.
Pan really agreed.
The pair stood for a while watching the couples swirl by.
Finally Mikey turned to him. “How about I go over there and tell him what a cool guy I think you are?” he asked. “You know, makes up stuff to make you sound good.”
Pan grinned. “Yeah! Hey,” he said, the grin sliding off his face as the back handed compliment slowly seeped through his love struck haze.
Mikey just winked, bounced on his toes a little and headed off after Tinkerbell.
“No, Mikey. Wait.” But Pan was too late. Mikey was already cornering Tink over by the trifle. Pan sighed and went to hide out back by the punch.
Truth be known, Peter Lewis King of the Woods Pan the Third didn't really have a game plan per ce. He was a mythical being, a nature spirit, an elder god. Mostly his plans started with 'shock and awe' and went downhill from there.
"So, one night I will come to him in a shower of golden duckets!” Pan said to Keenan, waving his arms around over the punch bowl as Keenan tried to pour them both a cup. “And then he'll have to love me."
Keenan blinked. "You want to give Patrick a golden shower?"
"Yes! Wait, what?" Pan said, pulling his arms in sharply and cringing. "No! And who the hell is Patrick?!"
Keenan gave Pan a level look. "The little blond sprite y'all been swooning over for the last twenty minutes? Dude’s name is Patrick."
"Seriously?!" Pan said, clasping his hands together and dancing up on his tippy toes. “Really?! Tinkerbell’s name is Pat-trick? Pattycakes? Tickle-trickle! The Trickmeister General! Trick!"
“Um,” Keenan said, wincing and shaking his head. He clutched his cup of punch closer. "Peeeee-ete."
"Keeee-nan," Pan cried, ignoring him in favor of grabbing his arm and splashing punch all over the place. "Am I not a trickster god? Should I not have as the boon companion of my heart a man named Trick?! AKA Tinkerbell?!"
"Pete,” Keenan said, cutting his eyes left.
Perhaps he’d gotten some punch in his eye, thought Pan, who just continued his hysterical rant. "And shouldn't I adore him, and love him, and keep him by my side forever and a day? I will call him Tinkerbell and he will call me Big Dadd - "
"Pan." Keenan hissed.
The tone of Keenan's voice finally broke through Pan's reverie. "What?" He said, rocking back on his heels. Keenan's eyes flicked over Pan's shoulder and he raised his eyebrows.
A small cough sounded behind him. Pan swallowed and leaned forward to whisper to Keenan. "He's standing right there, isn't he?"
Keenan nodded. Pan cringed and made useless grabby hands at Keenan who just turned on his heel and disappeared back to the party. Fucknuts.
"May I get to the punch bowl please?" a small voice said.
Pan turned slowly and stepped aside so Patrick, resplendent in a turquoise argyle sweater and matching knee socks, could pour himself some amber punch.
"Um," Pan said, winningly, tugging on the neck of his shirt. Man, it was hot in the cafe tonight. "Better watch out, that drinks sure packs a-a punch." Please stop talking, Pete, Pan thought desperately, Please.
Pan was in kind of a muddle. No one had ever shot him down before, let alone heard Pan in full tin-hat obsessive fantasy rant about them, like Patrick just had.
Pan was suddenly horribly aware that his usual charm wasn’t going to cut it with Patrick. Patrick was special. Patrick was precious. Patrick was calmly pouring himself a cup of punch right in front of Pan. Please tell me he didn’t hear the Big Daddy thing.
Patrick drank his cup of punch and poured another before turning to face Pan.
"So," he said and looked at the floor. "I hear from Mikey we have you to thank for not being roasted to death in the belly of an angry metaphor."
"Oh, ah," Pan nodded. He waved his hand around a bit. His stomach rolled oddly and his hands felt a little clammy. He had lost his words completely. "Um..." This must be what ordinary people who like other ordinary people feel like all the time. he thought with dawning horror. Glarrrrrgh!
Patrick took a slow sip from his cup and turned to watch the dancers spinning and dipping past. "I, ah, really like this jam," he said with a nod and a tap of his toes.
"Ah, er," Pan swallowed, and forced himself to put his hands in his pockets and stop bouncing on his toes. I could show you a few jams of my...no...I’m a slow jammer... absolutely not. I’d like to jam my... GOD NO...
Pan cocked his hip and nodded. "I like noises," he said and then silently bit his tongue very, very hard. I like noises?! What the actual fuck?
Patrick levelled a look at him over the top of his glasses. His eyes went a little, hazy and he tilted his head; and Pan couldn’t help feeling like Patrick was seeing a lot more than Pan’s too big teeth, sticky out ears and big old goofy jaw that was kind of aching from being made to smile so hard. Patrick quirked a cheek and frowned. “Huh,” he said, mostly to himself, before shaking his head a little and standing up straight.
"So, this is a dance,” he said to Pan. “Maybe we should, you know, dance?"
"Dance," Pan said nodding. "Dance, um, with me?"
Patrick nodded, but before Pan could do anything to ruin it, Patrick had taken his hand and was dragging him out into the melee.
Patrick was a really good dancer. Even though they were kind of more dancing at each other, than with each other, Pan could see that Patrick had all the moves. He was so good that Pan's strange nerves had all but danced themselves out of his body.
"So Tink," Pan said when the music finally turned slow and it seemed like there were a lot of couples pairing up and sliding closer together. Pan slipped his hand around Patrick’s waist and pulled him close. "You come here often?"
Patrick twisted out of Pan's embrace and put his hands firmly on Pan's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. He nodded, his eyes fixed over Pan's shoulder, waiting.
Pan glanced over his shoulder too. “Are we waiting for something?” he asked. Couples flew past them clinging to one another, bumping and grinding and writhing their way around the dance floor. Pan had some ideas about doing a little bumping and grinding of his own on the dance floor. But Patrick didn’t move. “What am I - are we - um, Patrick?”
"Your hands,” Patrick said quietly. “On my shoulders," Patrick said, and Pan saw his jaw get a little tight. "Sprite style."
Oh! Pan thought, he’d heard about all the sprite cultural dances and their different meanings. He was pretty charmed that Patrick wanted to share some of them with him.
He placed his hands on Patrick's shoulders with a wink and a grin. But Patrick's thundery gaze wiped the smile straight off his face. "Oh, um, right," Pan flustered. "Ye Olde Sprite Stylee. Super serious bizniz. I dig it."
Only Pan didn't really dig it. Patrick looked so soft and inviting and Pan felt all...wanty and needy, like, if he couldn't get closer to Patrick, and soon, he was going to combust. It wouldn't be the first time! Pan thought, remembering his brief yet volatile fling with a certain sylph back in the pre-enchantment days.
Patrick rolled his eyes. "Also, you can call me Patrick. Patrick of the Tree Stump," he said and he pushed Pan backwards onto the dance floor.
Pan sidled to the left, narrowly avoiding barrelling into Puck, who was watching the dancers jig by.
“But you look like a Tinkerbell,” Pete said, and tried to turn them.
Patrick's nostrils flared. “Yes, but my name is Patrick,” he said, crisp and terse.
Hmmm, thought Pan. A guy can have more than one name, Pattycakes.
They danced all night with Patrick saying very little except "No thank you," and "I don’t need another drink," and "If you try to touch it again I will punch you."
It was a very trying time for Pan, getting denied and denied and denied while Patrick continued hanging out with him anyway. He totally loved it.
At the end of the night, after Patrick actually did have to punch Pan (“I warned you, Pete!”), and had gone to the bathroom to run his hand under the cold faucet, Pan waited for him to come out so he could offer to walk him home.
But Patrick was nowhere to be found.
As Brandon and the boys packed up their gear and Frank and Gerard disappeared back into the storeroom, Pan found himself alone in the almost empty cafe.
"Well, shitnuts," said Pan with a great deal of feeling.
"I hear that," said Brandon lugging his tuba and accordion cases out into the night.
Pan went home alone. Yet again.
*
Pan, are you okay?
"Sure, sure, I'm fine."
You don't really look fine.
"Nope, I'm good. Just a little speck of sentiment in my eye. Carry on."
Okay.
*
Patrick, it turned out, was a singularly elusive soul. Pan sought him at the mead factory; he sought him at the Fae Dance School; he sought him at Mrs. Miggin's Pie Shoppe and Wand Emporium. But Patrick 'Tinkerbell' of the Tree Stump was not to be found.
"Have you tried looking for him at the Tree Stump, Pete?" Frank asked. He was stacking mermaid eggs in the tide pool tank at the back of the storeroom and the sticky mucous membranes were giving him a really hard time. He flicked more of the goop off his hand and it landed with a splat at Pan's feet.
"The Tree Stump?" Pan asked, scratching his head and taking a big step backwards.
Frank wiped his goopy hands off on his apron. "Patrick of the Tree Stump? I’m no private detective or investigative journalist, Pete, but something tells me the clue to your beau's whereabouts may be hidden in his name."
"Huh," said Pan with a quizzical look. "You think?"
Frank nodded. Really slowly.
Careful to avoid any and all goop, Pan patted Frank on the back and headed off to the Park.
*
In the Fae world Chicago Central Park was a massive rolling wilderness filled with wild woods, magical beasts, questing knights and ice cream carts. It was also filled to the fucking brim with tree stumps. None of which seemed to come with a little blond sprite named Patrick attached.
"Okay, I'm getting seriously pissed off now," Pan said, kicking the everloving shit out of the big, gnarly stump in front of him. "The next stump I kick had better be Patrick's or I'm gonna smack a bitch."
"Hey Pete," a voice said from behind a bush.
Pan leapt up onto the stump which was not Patrick’s and put up his Karate dukes. "Who's there?!" he hollered.
"It's me, Spencer, you idiot," the voice said. "Get off that log and come give me a hand with the cart. It's stuck in a rut right now."
Pan took a deep calming breath. "Phew bro!" he said, leaping into the bushes and finding Spencer on his knees yanking a root for all he was worth. "I was just about to smack a bitch."
"Uh huh," said Spencer, giving Pan the mother of all bitch faces. "Perhaps you could start by smacking this bitchin’ root here and getting the cart into that clearing before the Polar Pops all melt."
Pan magic’d the root out of the way and Spencer smiled. "Ace!"
"Yes, I am," said Pan, completely oblivious to Spencer’s rolling eyes.
The nymph pushed the cart up the small bank into the clearing and set up his little umbrella and rang his little bell. His monkey familiar clambered up his leg and arm onto his shoulder and Spencer smiled.
Pan looked about. “So, um, you get much business off the beaten path like this?” He asked, mouth quirked with concern. It was a pretty dead end part of the forest, miles away from the stream at Beaver Town, or the Squirrelingshireville Oak.
“Enough,” Spencer replied with a sparkle in his eye and a frown on his brow.
Just then a little long-tailed, snub-nosed thing came clambering out of the undergrowth and wound itself around Pan’s leg, before flipping itself over and lying there in the clover, kicking its little webbed feet in the air and chittering to itself.
“Um,” said Pan, looking down at the sleek-looking furry creature batting its long lashes at him.
“Hello...Bden,” Spencer said quietly.
“Bden? That looks more like an otter to me,” Pan said, raising his eyebrows and dropping down to one knee to scratch the otter’s tummy.
From between the trees, a dark-haired elf stepped, wielding a grin bright enough to eclipse Pan’s own. It dropped off his pretty face fairly quickly when he set eyes on Spencer though.
“Hello, Spence,” Brendon said quietly.
Pan looked between the nymph, Spencer and the elf, Brendon. “Wait, I’m confused. If he’s Spencer, and I’m Pete, and he’s Bden, then who and what the hell is this?”
“I am an otter, Mr. Pan,” the little fur friend said from down by Pan’s knee. “I’m Brendon’s new otter familiar, Ian.”
Pan looked up at Brendon. “You named your otter Ian?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Brendon said. “I guess it’s a pretty odd choice, for an otter.”
Spencer sneered. “Because we all spend a lot of time wondering about good otter signifiers don’t we?” he said in his snarkiest tone - and Pan should know, because he’d heard and been the cause of many a snarky tone in the past.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” Brendon replied tartly. “But I like thinking about otter names. I guess we’re just very. Different. People.”
Spencer pursed his lips and his monkey turned his back on Brendon altogether.
Pan blinked between the two chaps, sensing a somewhat icy atmosphere forming in the middle of the summery park.
“Oh, don’t mind them,” Ian the Otter said, tugging on Pan’s tights. “Spencer’s in a snit because Brendon won’t move in with him, and Brendon’s in a snit because he thinks it’ll end in a horrible break-up if they live together.”
The atmosphere got about three thousand percent more icy as Brendon and Spencer patently ignored Ian talking about them - although Spencer’s cheeks had gone a really charming bright red - and continued staring each other out.
“Right, well,” said Pan, laughing a little nervous laugh. He nodded over to the edge of the clearing, and moved in that direction, waiting for Ian the Otter to follow. “I say,” he said, once they were both out of ear shot. “That’s all a bit on the tense side, isn’t it?”
Ian twisted around in the grass a little, did a strange eely kind of flip and sat up on his haunches. “It’s dumb,” he nodded. “But then, elves are kind of stupid.”
“Damned straight,” Pan said seriously.
Ian sighed. “They really, really like each other. Only, Brendon is afraid of change.”
Pan frowned. “Hmmm, change is kind of scary. But also change is good!” Pan dropped to one knee and slung an arm around Ian’s narror ottery shoulders. “Like, last week I was just some ordinary, everyday, old world trickster god, just going about my day. And now I am on a QUEST! To find my one true LOVE! Whose name is PATRICK!”
Ian made a funny little chittering noise, did a little tumble and roll, and sat up again. “Who, old Patrick Von Stump? The Sprite?”
Pan blinked and jumped up. “The very same!” he chimed. “Tell me you know where he lives. I’ve been looking for his tree stump for what seems like forever and...”
“You mean the one he’s standing by,” Ian said, pointing his little webbed claw at a gap in the trees. “Just over there.”
Pan turned and looked through the green leaves, and low and behold yonder was Patrick and his stump. Pan could just make out Patrick’s fire, and he seemed to be sitting on a log prodding something in a big copper cauldron. His clearing was quite a ways off, but Pan would have known him anywhere.
Pan smiled and sighed. “Brilliant, Ian,” he said. “I’m going to give you one wish. But make it snappy buddy because I have a date with a stump.”
Ian writhed around a bit and chittered some more. “Oh, keep your wishes, Mr. Pan,” he said. “I don’t think I need ‘em now.”
Pan glanced in the direction Ian the Otter was looking to see Brendon plastered to Spencer’s face by the mouth and trying to climb him.
“Huzzah!” Pan said happily. “Well, that’s a good omen, little buddy.” He looked down at Ian, who was resting his furry little chin in his fury little otter hands and sighing.
Pan patted Ian on the head and made off through the forest towards his one true love.
*
The Stump was less like a stump and more like a dead tree, leaning at an unlikely angle, leafless and sad looking. It wasn’t anywhere near Autumn yet, so it was odd that the tree should look so dead.
It had been a lot further away than Pete had at first thought, and also there were brambles and nettles and a little stream with snapping turtles and slippery rocks and if Pan wasn’t the god of the woods then he might have thought these woods had something against him.
“Knock it off, you guys,” Pan hissed as a low-hanging branch tangled in his hair and pulled a bunch of it out. “I’m like, the boss of you, so play nice.” A little shrub on the path ahead shuddered and shifted to one side. “That’s better,” Pan said, and promptly tripped over a rock the shrub was hiding, flipped head over ass, and landed in a puddle in the middle of Patrick’s clearing. “Ow.”
“You know,” said Patrick, not looking up from his cauldron. “For a forest deity, you make a hell of a lot of noise thundering around in there.”
“Ha ha!” Pan said, clambering to his feet as gracefully as he could. “Fancy - fancy meeting you here in this neck of the, ah, woods. I was just passing and, wow! Small world!”
Patrick looked at Pan with one raised eyebrow. He turned back to the cauldron in front of him, shaking his head.
“So, this is your stump?” Pan tried.
“It is,” Patrick said, and he lifted the cauldron off the fire with and started fanning the bubbling contents.
Pan winced. Patrick wasn’t much of a cook if the smell coming from that cauldron was anything to go by. Yikes! Pan had socks that smelled better, and that was really saying something.
“Took you long enough to find it,” Patrick said after a little while.
Pan blinked. “You, um, you wanted me to find it?”
Patrick sighed. “I don’t do the sprite courting dance with just anyone, you know. But anyway, it’s no use now. You’re too late,” Patrick said and he looked at Pan unhappily. “I’m leaving soon.”
Pan staggered back. “What? What do you mean? Leaving here? When? For how long?”
Patrick shrugged. “As long as I need.”
Pan stomped his foot and twirled round. “You can’t leave here; I just arrived,” Pan fumed. “I just arrived and it’d be rude, or - or something.”
Patrick walked up to Pan and took both his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You - I...” He shrugged again, went up on his tippy toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of Pan’s mouth. “You should have come sooner,” he said and let Pan go.
“Patrick!” Pan cried. “No!”
But Patrick was waving his hands over the cauldron and whispering something that sounded like a spell. “Sorry Pete,” he said when his spell was done.
And suddenly, there was a thin strand of golden light rising out of the cauldron and attaching itself to the stump way up high, near the very top of the trunk. It started coiling and coiling and coiling, looking for all the world like some kind of knitted sock.
“Well, let me come with you then!” Pan said frantically, tugging at Patrick’s sleeve. “Let me come. I’ll - I’ll carry your bags and, and...”
“You can’t come where I’m going, Pete,” Patrick said wearily. And Pan stamped his foot again. There wasn’t anywhere in this forest that Pan couldn’t go.
“But where...”
And then the golden strand started to wrap itself around Patrick too, pulling him up the stump, winding him inside the crystal construction. Patrick’s eyes were already closed and Pan could hear his breathing get deep and even. Patrick was asleep; he was already gone.
The crystal strands continued spinning and weaving and winding; and Pan stood by, watching as his one true love disappeared.
Finally the strands went still and where there had been a sock, there was now a little crystal ball, faintly glowing golden, hanging from the uppermost branch of Patrick’s dead tree.
“This is total balls,” said Pan, and leapt lightly up to the nearest branch and sat down on it.
The crystal shell that Patrick’s magic had wound him into was smoky and almost opaque, but deep inside it Pan could see the dim outline of Patrick’s body, moving gently.
Pan sighed, pulled his knees up to his chest and waited.
*
He waited all through the summer, although Gerard and Frank came at one point and demanded he come down so the Wild Hunt could start.
“Nope,” Pan said, flicking a stray dandelion head off Patrick’s chrysalis. “You’ll have to start it this year, Puck.”
Frank frowned up at Pan. “Me? Seriously? C’mon dude, you know I’ll screw it up. You start the wild hunt, and Prince Valiant here ends it. That’s how it goes.”
“I’m not leaving so, you’re gonna have to.” Pan wedged himself into the angle of the branch and hung on. They weren’t getting him out of this tree without a fight.
Gerard tugged on Frank’s sleeve. He looked up at Pan. “Well, can we bring you anything, Pan?” Gerard asked. “You want food or...”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Pan said.
And eventually Frank and Gerard left.
Later he heard the raucous sound of the Hunt passing in the nearby forest. Gerard’s horn sounded loud and clear as they thundered by, the ground shuddered and Pan put a steadying hand on the chrysalis, which swung gently with the movement of the ground. Pan let out a long breath and continued to wait.
*
He waited all through the autumn. When the winds got up, blowing red and yellow leaves from the forest onto Patrick’s chrysalis, Pan brushed them off.
He waited all through the winter. Brendon and Spencer came and left him a blanket. And Keenan came and left him a pair of knitted socks. And lots of other Fae came and left tithes for the trickster god with the broken heart.
Pan didn’t really care. He brushed the snow off the chrysalis and held his blanket over it when it rained.
*
Pan realised the spring was coming when he opened his eyes one morning and there were bright spots of green polka-dotting the white blanket of snow covering his forest.
A couple of days later the snow was gone and in its place was a carpet of blue and a wall all around the clearing of green and pink and white and pale, pale orange. The fruit blossoms were out, and so were the bluebells.
The was green and white nearer to him too, because the stump was less of a stump now, and more of a flowering tree. Leaves of the palest green dotted the branches, and nestled within them were tiny white flowers with pale pink hearts.
Apple blossoms! Pan thought. His favorites.
Pan scrambled to stand up on the branch and pull one of the flower-laden boughs closer to him. The scent of the flowers was heady and delicious. He looked down at the chrysalis about to tell Patrick about the changes around them when the words froze in his mouth.
Sometime in the night it had gone completely black.
“Patrick?” Panic - naturally - flaring in his gut, Pan scrambled down the side of the tree to a lower, branch; he pushed the leaves out of the way and leaned closer to the chrysalis. “Pattycakes?”
Pan swiped a hand over the nearest facet. He couldn’t see a thing; it was as black as a shard of onyx. He tapped a finger on the glassy surface. It was hard as glass, too.
“Oh gods,” Pan cried. “No!” He hammered on the surface of the chrysalis. It made an ominous hollow sound. Pan didn’t know what to do. He’d never had a caterpillar for a boyfriend before. This was totally outside his skill set.
He pummelled it with two fists. “Patrick!” He hollered. “Patrick!”
They say the sound of Patrick Von Stump’s chrysalis shattering could be heard all the way from Beaver Town to Oak Park. Some say even the Boggerts’s in Boggert’s Bottom heard the crack. Who knows?
“Well, I know.”
Yes, Pan. I know you know. I was using a little poetic licence there to build a little dramatic tension?
“Oh! Rhetorical and shit. Nice. Keep going. This is the good bit.”
Ahem.
The chrysalis shattered; shards of the glassy structure firing out from the tree in all directions and with such sudden force that Pan was blown clear off his branch and down onto the bluebell-carpeted forest floor.
Pan lay amidst the sweet smelling flowers for what seemed like an age, watching the stars and little sparrows flitting around his head, and listening to his ears ringing.
“Son of bitch!” Pan said, when he was able to unclamp his teeth and feel his lips again.
The tree above him rustled. “Um, Pete?”
Pan shook his head and blinked. “Patrick!”
The leaves in the apple tree shuddered and shimmered and a shower of little white petals rained down on Pete.
“Um, yeah?”
Pan scratched his head. “Well, you don’t sound very sure,” he said. “Have you got a cap on? Are you wearing argyle and are you frowning?”
There was silence from the tree and then a little rustling. “Ah, no, no and yes. No. Well, I mean, I was frowning, but now I’m not.” And there was a sound from the apple tree not unlike a giggle. “I’m a little giddy, to be perfectly frank.”
Hmmmmm, thought Pan. That could be Pattycakes. Could be a monster. I’d better investigate.
“Well, come on out and let’s have a look at you,” Pan said, scrambling to his feet and running to the foot of the tree.
“No!” Probably!Patrick hollered. “No, stay back. I’m - I’m not very nice to look at, Pete. I think you woke me up too early. I feel quite out of sorts and sort of... half cooked.”
Pan bit his lip. Half cooked doesn’t sound so bad, Pan thought. He felt pretty terrible about waking Patrick too soon though. “I didn’t know what else to do,” Pan said, staring up into the branches and trying to get a look at Patrick. “Your chrysalis had gone all black, and...”
The branches shook a little, and more petals fell.
“I’m sorry?” Pan said, hugging the tree. “Maybe I can help, if you come down and let me take a look?”
“Well, okay,” Probably!Patrick said. “But I warn you. I’m looking pretty hideous.”
You could never look hideous to me, ‘Trick, Pan thought, but didn’t say, because he didn’t want an already self-conscious sprite to feel even worse. “I can handle the fugly, baby. Come on down.”
Pan stepped back into the clearing and tried to look casual and relaxed. After some awkward shuffling about and an ill-thought out reclining pose, he settled on tense and staunch with his feet planted wide and his hands on his hips. He swallowed.
The branches rattled and shivered and shimmied. And finally they parted, and Patrick flitted out from between them, landing lightly on the grass in front of Pan.
He hadn’t been lying; he didn’t look the same. Gone were his curvy curves, and comfy rolls, and in their place were lean hips and long legs. His face was sharper too, but his bushy red sideburns were the same. His hair was fuller and brighter and longer, but still looked like spun gold. And when Pan looked beneath the hair he was delighted to see Patrick’s big blue eyes were just as blue and just as Patrick as he’d remembered them.
Of course the glittering gossamer wings which shivered and shimmered over Patrick’s shoulders were completely, devastatingly, gorgeously new. Pan smiled.
“You look fucking terrible,” he said with a smirk.
Patrick leaned back and punched Pan right on the nose.
*
“Oh my gods, I can’t believe you left that bit in!”
Well, I’m sticking to the story as I heard it straight from Patrick, Pan. And he did lamp you a good one, on account of his emotions being all over the place after just coming out of hibernation and all.
“Yeah, but man, that’s not the most romantic ending I ever saw, holy shit.”
Well, I don’t really know from Romantic, Pan. I’m writing fairy stories with imaginary characters, in my pyjamas at 7:30 on a Friday night. I’m kind of relying on the info as given, you know what I mean?
“True, true, you are sorta lame in that way.”
*purses lips*
“Well, if you want I could finish the story then? I can add some fireworks, maybe a procession and dancing girls and boys and maybe, like crowns - yeah, there were definitely crowns - and Patrick swore to love me for all time...”
No thank you Pan, dear. I’m nearly done now. I’ll finish it.
*
“I absolutely will not swear to love you for all time, dickweed,” Patrick said as he flicked through the latest edition of Elven Bride and Groom, his chin resting lightly on his hand as he perused the cumberbunds and cake toppers. Pan peered over his shoulder to see Patrick had circled a picture of a little sprite with a crown of leaves on his head grinning up from the page.
Pan’s shoulders dropped and he screwed up the little scroll he’d been writing on. “Aw, man.”
Patrick looked up. “‘For all time’ is not the Faerie way and you know it. Not even Gerard and Frank said ‘for all time’ and those two are like, glued at the crotch.”
“Ew,” Pan said, recoiling.
Patrick raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, okay, so not ‘ew’,” he grinned. “But I mean, we’re not them. We can say for all time if we want. They’re our vows.”
Patrick sat up and pulled Pan closer. He smiled up at him lovingly and immediately cuffed him round the head. “No,” he said. “We can’t.”
Pan threw himself on the bed with a desultory huff. “Pattycakes,” he whined. “I know knocking me about is the sprite way of showing affection, but sometimes could you just use your words instead?”
Patrick looked at least a tiny bit remorseful. “I just mean that,” he sighed. “I mean that we say ‘for a year and a day’ for a reason. You know? Brownies do it, Nymphs do it...”
“Yeah, yeah, even those little googly-eyed piskie things do it,” Pan said with a note of surrender in his voice. He pushed his tunic up and patted his belly. Looking up he noticed Patrick watching the movement of his hand out of the corner of his eye.
A-ha! thought Pan, and he tilted his hips, arched his back and stretched; his top rode up higher and he let out a little sigh. Inside he was giggling.
Patrick put the magazine aside and clambered over the bed towards Pan, his wings quivering and flicking about, which actually Pan knew was a preeeeety good sign.
“Come here, you,” Patrick said, climbing on top of Pan. His wings dropped forward and brushed over Pan’s shoulders. Pan shivered and stretched up for a kiss.
Patrick sank his fingers into Pan’s hair and nuzzled into his throat. “Even though we say a ‘year and a day’,” he whispered against Pan’s skin. “It doesn’t mean we don’t hope ‘forever and ever’ or even mean it.” Patrick dragged his nose lightly down Pan’s throat and dropped little sucking kisses across his clavicle. “It’s not the terms of the love, just of the union.”
Above them his wings shivered again, as Pan let his hands wander all over Patrick’s back and hips. “Gods...” Patrick’s gossamer wings vibrated and flicked back and forth as his hips pressed against Pan’s. “And then, when the year and a day is over, we get to have another big party and make the vow again, see?”
“I suppose,” Pan sighed, pushing Patrick’s top up to get at the creamy skin beneath. “A year and a day does have a nice ring to it.”
“Right?” Patrick whispered and continued to follow his kisses south.
“Oh - oh - Okay then,” Pan squeaked. “‘A year and a day’ it is.” He sighed and lifted his hips as Patrick peeled his tights off. “But,” Pan breathed as Patrick stopped at the object of his journey down Pan’s body and licked a long, hot stripe up it. “Holy Sunday . - I-ah -I’m still calling you - sweet Frigga’s apples - Tinkerbell. In the ceremony.”
But if Patrick heard, he didn’t say anything, and if he didn’t hear, Pan wasn’t going to repeat it. He had to keep some surprises for their big day. After all, what kind of trickster god would he be if he didn’t?
The End.
*
“And you said you didn’t know from Romantic.”
*shrugs*
“You’re a sly one, you. Hey, thanks.”
No, no, thank you Pan. See you round, okay?
“Sure thing, Rox. Stay golden!”
I’ll do my best, Pan. I’ll do my best.