[Patrick Stump] Hey [& Greta Salpeter] Come Back To Me [standalone]
Title: Hey. Come Back To Me.
Author: Me. [ shattered_ink ]
Rated: PG - Drinking & mild language. & Also, clowns.
Disclaimer: Don't own; didn't happen. Greta is not a drunk. :] This is not fluff. It's actually rather depressing and involves drinking, which I use kind of often in stories for some reason. The title is from Where We Went Wrong - The Hush Sound. This isn't my best. I'm sorry. I wrote it and edited it in two shots. It's almost 2 AM & I'm discombobulated & I've got to gear up for more NaNoWriMo & the Panic at the Disco concert later on today! :D
A/N: This was inspired & requested by xmexandxyoux . ( The ending, especially. ) & I also took some inspiration from that pic of Fall Out Boy dressed as Panic at the Disco for Halloween. So please enjoy this. :]
Greta filled three big plastic cups to the brim with beer and gulped all three down. Then she went back to the refreshments table, rinsed and repeated. He said he’d be here tonight; he still hadn’t shown up.
Vampires and witches milled around, mingling and sipping from their wine glasses. If she had been thinking straight, Greta would have felt out of place in her plain, powder-blue shirt and pants. But her head was out of order and all she could think about were a ) the cups of beer in her hands, how good they would feel going down, and b ) Patrick. Because there hadn’t been a second when she wasn’t thinking of him.
“IT’S PANIC AT THE DISCO,” someone shouted - though everything was beginning to sound like shouting to Greta. “SOMEBODY GRAB A CAMERA, THIS IS TOO CUTE.”
Chaotic shuffling ensued until someone unearthed a camera - an ancient Polaroid that clicked and whirred and spit out inky pictures. She shut her eyes to block out the sudden rapid-fire flashes.
“AWESOME COSTUMES YOU GUYS,” another shouter said.
“Thanks,” came the much quieter reply.
Greta moaned and rolled over, wishing the world would shut the hell up. All these voices and noises had begun to record themselves over the one voice she most wanted to remember: Patrick’s.
“Greta?”
Though this voice was freakishly similar.
She opened her eyes and found the world blurred. There was a man standing over her with big red circles painted on his cheeks, white make-up smeared over the rest of his face and a tophat planted on his head. This was not Patrick. This was a circus clown.
“Greta.”
She bolted up. “How do you know my name?”
He frowned, staring straight into the depths of her eyes. All he saw - all there was to see in them - was the bleariness that came with having too much to drink and the fear that came with not knowing something. Not remembering someone. “Don’t you - don’t you remember me?”
She rubbed her eyes and yawned, studied him for a long moment, all to reconfirm what she had already figured out: He was a freaking circus clown.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “I dunno you.”
He brushed her hair aside and gripped her shoulders. “Yes you do,” he said. “You have to. I miss you.”
She flinched - the words sounded so much like Patrick’s. But they weren’t his and she couldn’t pretend they were. Nothing would ever be as good as the real thing. “I’m really sorry,” she gasped, clutching at her hair as the room began to spin. Too much beer, always too much. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I dunno you. Please - could you - please go away?”
He closed his eyes, opened them again, as though that would change the scene falling apart in front of him. “No. I can’t go away. How could you forget me after a few months?” he snapped. “Do you understand how hard it was to get you in one place? How far out of the way me and the guys went to get here? For you?” He laughed a sharp, manic laugh. “I can’t go away,” he said. “I love you.”
His mouth crushed against hers, their teeth gnashing as she fought him off and he kept pushing, desperate. She shoved him hard, tore his lips from hers.
“Look me in the eye,” he breathed, “and tell me you don’t love me.”
“I. Don’t. Know. You. I don’t love you, I don’t know you, please,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
That was all he needed to hear. He crossed the room, disappearing into the spiritless crowd of masked faces. Greta remembered the spinning room and loud voices and the meshing of people and colors and lights, all of it blending together into one final snapshot, the last thing she remembered before she slipped into unconsciousness.
“Greta. Greta, wake up, the party’s over.” Bob poked her with his lightsaber; he’d come dressed as Darth Vader. “Come on, Greta. You don’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell up outta here.”
She woke to the intense pounding of a hangover and the refreshing silence of an almost-cleared-out Halloween party. “Aw, crap.” She sat up too fast; her head sloshed around inside her skull. “How long was I knocked out? Did Patrick show up?”
Bob grinned. “As a matter of fact, he did. They all came as Panic at the Disco.” He scratched his chin. “It was kind of sexy, now that I think about it.”
“He - he came in costume?”
“Well, duh, silly. It’s Halloween, remember? Candy, costumes, throwing eggs at people and running off before they can get a good description of you to give to the police? God, where’s your holiday spirit?”
Greta wasn’t listening. She searched the room for some hint that he’d been there and came up with nothing - until she spotted the single Polaroid resting on the edge of the refreshments table. Her heart quickened as she picked it up.
Four guys in vintage clothes and weird hats and abnormal amounts of make-up stared back at her. Her eyes skimmed over three of them and locked on one.
Big red circles painted on his cheeks. White make-up smeared over the rest of his face. A tophat planted on his head. This was not a circus clown. This was Patrick.
The picture slipped from her hands and fluttered to the ground. As Greta bent to pick it up, she noticed the writing scribbled on the back of it.
If it had been possible for her heart to break even further, it would have. This was yet another chance blown, another open door slammed shut. She read the words until they were as permanent as the Sharpie they were written in:
Patrick was here.
Author: Me. [ shattered_ink ]
Rated: PG - Drinking & mild language. & Also, clowns.
Disclaimer: Don't own; didn't happen. Greta is not a drunk. :] This is not fluff. It's actually rather depressing and involves drinking, which I use kind of often in stories for some reason. The title is from Where We Went Wrong - The Hush Sound. This isn't my best. I'm sorry. I wrote it and edited it in two shots. It's almost 2 AM & I'm discombobulated & I've got to gear up for more NaNoWriMo & the Panic at the Disco concert later on today! :D
A/N: This was inspired & requested by xmexandxyoux . ( The ending, especially. ) & I also took some inspiration from that pic of Fall Out Boy dressed as Panic at the Disco for Halloween. So please enjoy this. :]
Greta filled three big plastic cups to the brim with beer and gulped all three down. Then she went back to the refreshments table, rinsed and repeated. He said he’d be here tonight; he still hadn’t shown up.
Vampires and witches milled around, mingling and sipping from their wine glasses. If she had been thinking straight, Greta would have felt out of place in her plain, powder-blue shirt and pants. But her head was out of order and all she could think about were a ) the cups of beer in her hands, how good they would feel going down, and b ) Patrick. Because there hadn’t been a second when she wasn’t thinking of him.
“IT’S PANIC AT THE DISCO,” someone shouted - though everything was beginning to sound like shouting to Greta. “SOMEBODY GRAB A CAMERA, THIS IS TOO CUTE.”
Chaotic shuffling ensued until someone unearthed a camera - an ancient Polaroid that clicked and whirred and spit out inky pictures. She shut her eyes to block out the sudden rapid-fire flashes.
“AWESOME COSTUMES YOU GUYS,” another shouter said.
“Thanks,” came the much quieter reply.
Greta moaned and rolled over, wishing the world would shut the hell up. All these voices and noises had begun to record themselves over the one voice she most wanted to remember: Patrick’s.
“Greta?”
Though this voice was freakishly similar.
She opened her eyes and found the world blurred. There was a man standing over her with big red circles painted on his cheeks, white make-up smeared over the rest of his face and a tophat planted on his head. This was not Patrick. This was a circus clown.
“Greta.”
She bolted up. “How do you know my name?”
He frowned, staring straight into the depths of her eyes. All he saw - all there was to see in them - was the bleariness that came with having too much to drink and the fear that came with not knowing something. Not remembering someone. “Don’t you - don’t you remember me?”
She rubbed her eyes and yawned, studied him for a long moment, all to reconfirm what she had already figured out: He was a freaking circus clown.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “I dunno you.”
He brushed her hair aside and gripped her shoulders. “Yes you do,” he said. “You have to. I miss you.”
She flinched - the words sounded so much like Patrick’s. But they weren’t his and she couldn’t pretend they were. Nothing would ever be as good as the real thing. “I’m really sorry,” she gasped, clutching at her hair as the room began to spin. Too much beer, always too much. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I dunno you. Please - could you - please go away?”
He closed his eyes, opened them again, as though that would change the scene falling apart in front of him. “No. I can’t go away. How could you forget me after a few months?” he snapped. “Do you understand how hard it was to get you in one place? How far out of the way me and the guys went to get here? For you?” He laughed a sharp, manic laugh. “I can’t go away,” he said. “I love you.”
His mouth crushed against hers, their teeth gnashing as she fought him off and he kept pushing, desperate. She shoved him hard, tore his lips from hers.
“Look me in the eye,” he breathed, “and tell me you don’t love me.”
“I. Don’t. Know. You. I don’t love you, I don’t know you, please,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
That was all he needed to hear. He crossed the room, disappearing into the spiritless crowd of masked faces. Greta remembered the spinning room and loud voices and the meshing of people and colors and lights, all of it blending together into one final snapshot, the last thing she remembered before she slipped into unconsciousness.
“Greta. Greta, wake up, the party’s over.” Bob poked her with his lightsaber; he’d come dressed as Darth Vader. “Come on, Greta. You don’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell up outta here.”
She woke to the intense pounding of a hangover and the refreshing silence of an almost-cleared-out Halloween party. “Aw, crap.” She sat up too fast; her head sloshed around inside her skull. “How long was I knocked out? Did Patrick show up?”
Bob grinned. “As a matter of fact, he did. They all came as Panic at the Disco.” He scratched his chin. “It was kind of sexy, now that I think about it.”
“He - he came in costume?”
“Well, duh, silly. It’s Halloween, remember? Candy, costumes, throwing eggs at people and running off before they can get a good description of you to give to the police? God, where’s your holiday spirit?”
Greta wasn’t listening. She searched the room for some hint that he’d been there and came up with nothing - until she spotted the single Polaroid resting on the edge of the refreshments table. Her heart quickened as she picked it up.
Four guys in vintage clothes and weird hats and abnormal amounts of make-up stared back at her. Her eyes skimmed over three of them and locked on one.
Big red circles painted on his cheeks. White make-up smeared over the rest of his face. A tophat planted on his head. This was not a circus clown. This was Patrick.
The picture slipped from her hands and fluttered to the ground. As Greta bent to pick it up, she noticed the writing scribbled on the back of it.
If it had been possible for her heart to break even further, it would have. This was yet another chance blown, another open door slammed shut. She read the words until they were as permanent as the Sharpie they were written in:
Patrick was here.