FIC: Buy You A Mockingbird (FOB, Pete/Patrick, NC-17)
Okay, so I volunteered to write a commentfic for misspamela in this meme. misspamela suggested Pete/Patrick kidfic. Um. Yeah. So in the past 24 hours I actually ended up writing a 4300 word ficlet. And will most definitely be playing in this universe again from time to time. Oh, yeah. Definitely.
So. Here you go. Bandslash kidfic. You've been warned. :D
Title:Buy You A Mockingbird
Author: Femme
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Fandom: FOB
Rating: NC-17
Word count:4,367
Summary: It’s his first day back home after a week at Decaydance’s offices down in Florida, and he always arranges his flight so he lands at O’Hare in time to pick the girls up from school.
Warnings: KIDFIC. :)
It’s cold outside for late April; sweaters are still a necessity some days, and the rain’s just started again, tapping against the Escalade’s windows as Pete pulls into the driveway. A gust of wind sends the branches of the oak scraping across the yellow brick of the Queen Anne Victorian--built in 1892 just in time for the World’s Fair, the realtor had told them proudly-and green leaves scatter across wet asphalt.
“Into the house before you melt,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition, but the girls are already out the doors, shouting for their dad as they slam them closed, feet pounding against the leaf-strewn driveway, hair and bookbags flying behind them, and Pete can’t help but shake his head and laugh.
It’s his first day back home after a week at Decaydance’s offices down in Florida, and he always arranges his flight so he lands at O’Hare in time to pick the girls up from school.
Pete grabs the mail from the box at the end of the driveway, then hitches his leather duffel bag over his shoulder, his hair falling into his eyes, the rain leaving damp blotches on his green hoodie. He clicks the remote to lock the SUV doors with a beep and a flash of lights and pushes open the back door of the house.
Home. Warm and bright and smelling of the cider vinegar wash and lemon oil that their housekeeper prefers to use. Pete sometimes finds it almost surreal that this is his house, his family, his. It’s something he’s always wanted, this life, but ten years ago, caught on tour buses, miserable in relationships that didn’t quite measure up no matter how hard they tried…yeah. He’d never have thought he’d be here. Not with kids, and with a house in Hinsdale, and with Patrick.
Especially not with Patrick, who’s singing “Cold Sweat” along with James Brown and folding clothes on the kitchen island, piles of bright sweaters and faded khakis and Barbie nightgowns and old band tour shirts with holes in the collars that neither he nor Pete will ever even think of tossing out despite their mothers’ hints.
The girls have already discarded their bookbags and jackets and muddy rainboots just inside the doorway; Pete steps over a pair of green frog Wellingtons and a denim-and-patchwork schoolbag. He tosses the bills and circulars on the kitchen counter and hangs his keys on the rack by the door.
Emily is a cool eight, draped quietly over one of the kitchen chairs, jeans-clad legs stretched out long and thin, a book already in one hand, her dark hair wet and hanging in her face, over her ears and the hearing aids hooked over them. She doesn’t say much until she’s ready to, just watches and thinks and takes in the world around her with her calm, blue eyes. She’s already a year ahead in school, a decision he and Patrick put off until her teacher last year at Manning Elementary pulled them aside, Emily’s IEP in hand, and told them how bored Em was in class, how far ahead her reading comprehension levels were, how much better it’d be for her to be challenged. She’s been mainstreamed-Pete’s mom was insistent on that when Em had gotten old enough for school--and most people don’t realize at first that she’s deaf, the result of meningitis when she was four. Pete still has nightmares about that hospital stay, about her lying so fucking still and pale and tiny in that huge bed.
He and Patrick don’t talk about it much, those days when they weren’t certain she was going to live. They’d been on tour for the summer when it happened, on the last leg, and they’d spent nearly two weeks living off black coffee and cafeteria food in some hospital in Pennsylvania and both their mothers had come to stay with them, sharing a hotel room and looking after two-year-old Katie who hadn’t understood any of it and didn’t know why she couldn’t climb over her ‘Mi.
Katie is the complete opposite of Emily. Six and bubbly and full of energy and bouncing red curls that tumble every which way as she dances around the kitchen singing Frère Jacques at the top of her lungs. Katie is Katie, charming and funny and stubborn as fuck, and the entire family is bemused by her at times.
And then there’s Jack. Pete scoops him up from the floor where he’s sprawled with two Tonka trucks and a Barbie, slipper-socked feet kicking at the polished wood floor. They were going to stop with the girls-they’d not even meant to adopt either of them; it’d just happened the way things sometimes did with him and Patrick. But then Katie had turned three and Patrick’s mom had remarked offhand one Saturday morning when they’d brought the girls over to stay with her for the day how quickly they grew up and didn’t they want another little one, and when they’d gotten back into the car Patrick had looked at Pete and Pete had looked at Patrick.
They’d gone to see the lawyer the following Monday.
“How’s my boy?” Pete asks as he turns the two-year-old upside down and blows against his stomach, sending Jack into shrieks of giggles and shouts of Daddy as his foot smacks into Pete’s cheek.
Hemingway watches the muted chaos from his chair in the corner, next to the warmth of the heating vent, raising his head to yawn; Katie does a perfect cartwheel past him, earning her a hey, hey, hey, not indoors, you know that from Patrick as he tosses a stack of towels into the laundry basket. He grins at Pete.
“Miss us in Tampa?”
Pete sets Jack down with a thump; his son wraps his arms around his leg, still giggling as Pete steps forward, dragging him along with him as he leans in to kiss Patrick. His fingers form letters as he says, “A bit.”
They sign now without thought, their hands following their words. Em can lip-read and can even “hear” a bit with the aids in, but signing’s become second nature. It’s their own language, something that binds them together as a family in a way. Sometimes Pete catches himself signing in business meetings or on stage to the guys or when he’s alone with Patrick. It had taken him a while to pick it up at first-Patrick and the girls had been better at it than he was and now Katie and Emily can carry on conversations quickly and in their own peculiar shorthand so that sometimes neither of their fathers can quite make out what they are saying to each other. Jack started signing before he could speak in full sentences, and he’s puzzled when he signs to someone outside the family or the band and they don’t understand him.
“I thought we had a housekeeper,” Pete says, dragging a laughing Jack across the kitchen to the fridge. He pulls out a sippy cup of juice and hands it to him, then takes a bottle of water for himself.
“If you think I’m letting Franny touch your dirty boxers,” Patrick says, tossing a pair at him, “you’ve lost your mind. No one who doesn’t sleep with you should be forced to.”
Fuck you, Pete mouths at him with a grin, and Em sighs and says, a bit too loudly, “I saw that, Dad.”
“Pay up,” Patrick says, hefting the basket of clothes against his hip and smacking Pete’s ass as he brushes past him. “Rules are rules. And order a pizza, will you?”
He’s out of the room-Katie dancing behind him, chattering away about her school day--before Pete signs traitor at Emily. She just grins at him and signs back I want to go to college. Pete rolls his eyes and shoves five dollars in the ceramic jar with the masking tape along the front. F-jar is written on it in Pete’s black Sharpie scrawl. It was his dad’s idea, of course, a joke after they got Emily when Pete and Patrick had decided that perhaps having fuck be her first word wasn’t exactly the best idea, and Dad had suggested that they start saving for her college fund with a swear jar.
It fills up quickly during tour months. Pete’s pretty certain Dirty’s paid for an entire year of Ivy School education over the past eight years.
James Brown clicks off into Elliott Smith as Pete reaches for the phone, and Emily taps her fingers against the pages of her book. Music is Pete and Patrick’s life, and the last thing they wanted was to exclude their daughter from that, so they decided early on to keep music in the house always, louder than usual for her so that she can feel the vibrations, sense the rhythms.
They’ve a drum kit in the studio downstairs, and Emily spends hours with one or both of them down with her, teaching her how to match beats to their guitar playing. She keeps her eyes on their hands, watching the way their fingers move across the strings, and when Andy comes over, she wants to show him, sitting behind the kit, her hair flying as she throws herself into the rhythmic drumming.
The pizza shows up an hour later-deep dish and filled with cheese and green peppers and black olives-and Pete pays their usual delivery guy from the pizza parlor three streets down, juggling Jack on one hip as he says, “thanks, man” and kicks the door shut with one foot. Patrick’s sitting at the kitchen table with the girls and their schoolbooks, trying in exasperation to get Katie to sit still long enough to go over her reading homework. Instead she’s hanging over the back of the chair, shorts hiked up, trying to coax Hemingway to come over and play.
“Hey, you, leave him alone,” Pete says, setting the pizza on the table, and he dumps Jack into his high chair, strapping him in despite his protests. Katie ignores him, reaching for Hemmy again, and Pete catches her just before she tips the chair over. “Damn it, Kate,” he says, frustrated, and she looks up at him with wide, brown eyes, her bottom lip starting to tremble. Katie always hates being in trouble.
Katie slides down the back of her chair, sullen and eyes bright. Pete rolls his eyes and cuts a slice of pizza into pieces Jack won’t choke himself on. Emily sets the table; Patrick pours juice for the kids and grabs two beers for them.
Dinner’s quiet tonight; the kids are mid-week tired, and Patrick looks exhausted himself. Pete understands. It’s always harder to have them alone; he hates the weeks Patrick spends in New York or L.A. producing because he feels like part of him’s missing, and so do the kids. They’re always crankier when Patrick’s away, more likely to pick at each other, start fights over stupid stuff like whose turn it is on the computer or who gets to watch what on television or who has to take a bath first. When Patrick comes home, Pete always wants to foist them all on him and just curl up and take a nap for a few hours. Just for the fucking silence.
So he grabs Jack from the high chair when he starts throwing scraps of mozzarella across the table at Emily and he wipes Jack's hands and face clean. Somehow--God only knows--Jack’s managed to get tomato sauce in the back of his hair. “Why don’t you go upstairs for a while?” Pete says casually, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and the look of relief Patrick gives him makes Pete smile. “We can clean up here.”
The girls clear the table, and Emily plays with Jack as Pete loads the dishwasher and turns it on. He helps Katie with her reading, then turns her over to Emily for the math because God knows she’s better at it than him, and he takes Jack upstairs for a bath. He sits next to the tub, splashing water at his son. Jack grabs a rubber duck and shouts “ducky, Daddy, ducky,” before throwing it at Pete. Pete catches it and sucks water up into the airhole, then squirts it at Jack, sending him into giggles as he swims around the bathtub, his chin-length brown hair soaked and snarled and water dripping from long, dark lashes.
The girls have their homework done by the time Pete gets back downstairs, and Jack’s tucked into bed-for now at least; he’s got a bad habit of crawling out of his crib just before midnight.
“Baths and bed,” Pete says, signing towards Emily and her book, and she frowns and signs back just at little longer? Please? and Pete sighs. “Katie, let’s take a bath.” He looks at Emily. Only until your sister’s out, his fingers say and she flashes him a bright smile.
She’s sitting cross-legged in the half-dark hall outside the bathroom when he comes back out with Katie, nose still buried in her book, and she looks up when the light from the bathroom falls across the page. You’ll go blind in this light, Pete signs at her and Em shrugs.
So I’ll learn Braille.
Pete tries not to laugh.
Katie rubs at her nose, pulling her towel tighter around her shoulders as she plops down next to her sister. Water from her wet curls drips on the book and Emily pulls it away, frowning at her. Read to me? Katie signs.
“Later,” Pete says. Bath, Em.
She sighs and hands him the book before clambering up. Pete waits to hear the shower start-eight years of parenting have taught him never to entirely trust his kids to do what they’re told-then takes Katie into her room, letting her pick her nightgown and her clothes for the next morning before she crawls into bed. Pete reads a chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to her-Patrick’s already gotten past the Halloween Feast, he notes-and kisses her and tells her to sleep. Before he reaches the door she’s asked for water twice and another chapter.
“Go to sleep,” Pete says firmly, turning off the light. A nightlight glows across the room, casting shadows over piles of stuffed animals in the corner.
Katie yawns and rolls over in her bed. “I’m glad you’re home, Daddy,” she says and Pete swallows past the tight lump in his throat.
“Me too, baby,” he whispers and he closes her door.
He stops by Emily’s room. She’s still reading in the light from the lamp next to her bed, and she looks up when he crouches down beside her.
One hour, he signs, and then bed. I’m serious.
She nods, then leans over and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” she says. Pete smoothes back her hair and presses his forehead to hers.
“Back at you.”
He takes the hearing aids from her ears and sets them on the nightstand, underneath the lamp. There’s a picture of him and Patrick there, holding her when she was just a baby. They’d been on the band bus; they’d found out she’d been born two weeks before tour was over. She’d been a month premature and so tiny and when the lawyer had called to tell them to fly back to Chicago and meet him at the hospital, Pete had panicked. He hadn’t been ready, even though he’d thought maybe he was. Or at least maybe he was more ready than he’d been yet. But then she’d become more than just a possibility and he’d freaked out on Patrick the entire plane ride back, certain that he’d fuck her up for life.
And then he’d held her for the first time and his whole life shifted.
I love you, he signs at her and she smiles and burrows into her pillows.
Patrick’s sitting up in bed when he comes in, and his MacBook is on his lap, his headphones on his ears.
“You’re not supposed to be working,” Pete says with a grin, and he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders and tosses it on the end of the bed.
Patrick slides the headphones off and sets them and the laptop aside. “Not much time for it this week, and I told Travis I’d have this arrangement back to him by Monday.”
“Did they drive you crazy?” Pete sits on the other side of the bed; the mattress dips slightly.
“They miss you when you’re gone.”
Pete raises an eyebrow and grins. “Just them?”
Patrick shrugs one shoulder. “You might have crossed my mind a time or two.”
“Only a time or two.” Pete crawls across the bed, kicking at the comforter. He straddles Patrick. “Are you telling me the magic is gone?”
Patrick’s hands slide up Pete’s sides, under his t-shirt, warm and firm against Pete’s skin. “Well, you go off and leave me for days at a time….”
Pete kisses him then, and Patrick’s mouth is soft and wet and the flick of his tongue over Pete’s sends shivers down Pete’s spine. Ten years it’s been, him and Patrick, except really, it’s been nearly twice as long. They were just too damn stupid to realize it the first six years.
He wants Patrick the way he’s never wanted anyone before. He could get lost in Patrick, wants to, and there are times when as much as he loves his kids, he’s jealous of them because Patrick’s his. He’s always been his.
Pete pulls his t-shirt off over his head and throws it aside. Patrick’s kissing him again, and his hands slide down the small of Pete’s back, fingers dipping into the waistband of Pete’s jeans. Pete rocks forward with a groan; he’s already half-hard and he’s missed Patrick so fucking much.
Patrick rolls him over, presses him into the mattress. He tugs at the zipper on Pete’s jeans as he kisses him, and this is Pete’s favorite part of either of them coming home, when they finally can touch each other.
He hisses as Patrick pulls off his jeans and throws them aside, and Pete’s already jerking at the hem of Patrick’s Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. Patrick’s skin is soft and warm, and Pete’s mouth is on his shoulder. He loves the way Patrick tastes, loves the way Patrick feels, heavy and solid between his thighs.
Patrick mouths over Pete’s briefs, licking at the white cotton, his tongue dragging it over Pete’s cock, and Pete groans and shifts. He’s jerked off every night that he’s been gone, thinking about this, about Patrick, and he hates that Patrick will be away in a few weeks and they’ll have to go through this all again. Pete needs Patrick, wants him, and nothing’s right when they’re not together, something’s always missing.
“I know,” Patrick says against Pete’s hip, and Pete realizes he’s said that aloud. Patrick raises up, and he pushes his jeans down. “God, I’ve missed you,” he chokes out, and Pete shoves his briefs off his hips.
“Come on,” Pete says, breathless, and he rolls over onto his stomach, lifting his hips. “Show me.”
Patrick’s face is against him, and his tongue’s licking, his hands spreading Pete wide, and fuck. Pete presses back against his mouth.
“Jesus, Patrick-“
Patrick pulls away and Pete groans, but he turns his head. Patrick’s fumbling in the nightstand and then he pulls back, lube in hand. They stopped using condoms after they got Katie. They both realized they weren’t going anywhere. Or doing anyone else.
The lube is cold at first, but it warms under Patrick’s touch, and Patrick’s finger is quick and practiced as he slides it into Pete, then another, stretching him just the way Pete likes. Ten years together and this should be dull, Pete thinks with a wild laugh, but it’s not, oh, fuck it’s not, and Patrick knows exactly how to get him turned on, rubbing his dick against the back of Pete’s thigh, leaning over him, biting his shoulder, whispering fucking filthy things in his ear.
“God, come on,” Pete groans, and he spreads his thighs wider. His cock brushes against the mattress, head dragging over the comforter and Jesus fuck.
Patrick pulls his hand away; Pete’s shaking, the backs of his thighs trembling and Christ he wants this-
A press and a push and Patrick’s in him, breathing hard, his cock stretching Pete, filling him. Yes, Pete thinks, yes, and then Patrick moves, and Pete cries out.
It’s slow at first, the way Patrick likes to do it, and he’s telling Pete what he looks like with Patrick’s cock going into him, telling him how ready Pete is for him, and Pete shudders because yes.
And then Patrick pulls him back, and Pete raises up, straddles Patrick’s thighs and Patrick’s so fucking deep inside of him, God, and this is what Pete’s been wanting for days as he jerked himself on the hotel bed, two fingers knuckle-deep in his ass.
“Patrick,” he gasps, and Patrick whispers spread your legs, and Pete lurches forward, knees sliding further open and he grabs at the headboard as Patrick fucks him, rough and quick.
“I missed you so goddamn much,” Patrick says against Pete’s skin, his mouth on Pete’s neck, his dick slamming into Pete ass, and fuck, yeah, Pete breathes as he arches back against him, fingers tight on the headboard slats.
Patrick’s hand is on his cock, twisting down over the head and Pete’s body is tense, his shoulders shaking, and he’s so fucking close, yes, fuck-
“Oh, God,” Pete groans, and he’s coming over Patrick’s hand, against the headboard and his pillow and Patrick’s thrusting into him roughly, his breath hot and wet against Pete’s damp skin.
Patrick shudders against him, his fingers digging into Pete’s hip, his breath coming in sharp, short gasps. Pete almost wishes they could be loud again the way they used to when it didn’t matter if there was anyone sleeping down the hall. He remembers how he could make Patrick scream, make him beg. It’s been too long since they’ve been away by themselves.
They collapse on the bed, silent and breathing hard, and then Patrick slides out of him, slips under Pete’s arm. He lays his head on Pete’s chest, his palm over Pete’s heart.
Pete threads his fingers through Patrick’s sweaty hair. “Your birthday’s coming up,” he says finally, quietly. “The kids want to throw a party.”
Patrick laughs, and he traces circles over Pete’s thorn tattoo. “Do they?”
“Katie wants to buy you a pony.”
“She does?” Patrick rolls over and smiles down at Pete. Pete’s heart clenches. He’s so fucking lucky; he knows this. He’s got no idea why. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I told her last week she couldn’t have one, would it?”
Pete grins and he runs his knuckles over Patrick’s cheek. “She says she could look after it for you when you’re gone.”
It’s not the best thing to say, not when he’s just gotten back. Patrick flops back on the bed and sighs. “Maybe I should put off that trip next month.”
Pete wants to say yes; he wants to so fucking badly. He wants Patrick to stay here with him. With them. Instead he sighs and curls around Patrick, sliding his leg between his thighs. His ass still aches pleasantly. “It’s fine, man. It’s only two weeks. We’ll be okay.”
“Then there’s the tour this summer,” Patrick says, staring up at the ceiling. “And when we go back in the spring. You know we’re going to have to figure out how to take the kids, and the girls have school…” He trails off. “This was a fuck of a lot easier without kids.”
“Mom’ll help us find a tutor.” Pete strokes his fingers over Patrick’s chest. “She’s already said she would. The day school has a list of special education grad students-“
“Like someone would put off their degree for a semester to go touring with Fall Out Boy,” Patrick snaps and Pete just raises an eyebrow. Patrick deflates slightly and laughs. “Okay. All right.” He sighs. “I’m just-“
“Worried,” Pete says. “I get it, man.” He presses his mouth to Patrick’s collarbone. “There’s more to think about with them.”
Patrick turns his head, looks at him. “Yeah.” He brushes Pete’s hair back from his forehead. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“A good crazy.” Pete grins.
“I’ll remind you of that when you call me in New York ready to lock them all in their rooms.” Patrick rolls out of bed, and Pete watches his ass as he stumbles over to the dresser and pulls out two pairs of pajama bottoms. He tosses one at Pete. “Better get dressed before-“
There’s a knock at the door and a quiet Daddy? and Patrick gives Pete a wry smile. “Nightmares.”
Pete’s already pulling on the bottoms, and he opens the door for Katie, who rubs her wet eyes and looks up at him. He’s already picking her up as he says “what’s wrong, baby?”
“I had a bad dream, Daddy,” Katie says, and she wraps her arms around Pete’s neck.
She’s missed you, Patrick signs behind her back and Pete holds his little girl tight. “You want to sleep in here with me and your dad?” he asks and Katie nods.
She giggles as Pete tosses her in the middle of the bed, and Patrick swipes the pillow that Pete came on and replaces it with one from the closet that they keep stored away just for moments like this. Not exactly good parenting to let your kid lie in the wet spot, after all.
They curl up in bed, Katie sprawled between them and Patrick laughs. “Jack’ll be up in an hour or two,” he says, and Pete just grins.
“Guess we’ll have to wake Em up too, then, and Hemmy.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You’re a sucker, Pete Wentz.”
“Won’t hear me complain.”
His daughter shifts against him, and she puts a hand over his mouth. “Shh, I’m sleeping, Daddy,” she whispers, and Pete kisses her palm.
This is happiness, Pete thinks, and he slips his fingers through Patrick’s and smiles.
So. Here you go. Bandslash kidfic. You've been warned. :D
Title:Buy You A Mockingbird
Author: Femme
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Fandom: FOB
Rating: NC-17
Word count:4,367
Summary: It’s his first day back home after a week at Decaydance’s offices down in Florida, and he always arranges his flight so he lands at O’Hare in time to pick the girls up from school.
Warnings: KIDFIC. :)
It’s cold outside for late April; sweaters are still a necessity some days, and the rain’s just started again, tapping against the Escalade’s windows as Pete pulls into the driveway. A gust of wind sends the branches of the oak scraping across the yellow brick of the Queen Anne Victorian--built in 1892 just in time for the World’s Fair, the realtor had told them proudly-and green leaves scatter across wet asphalt.
“Into the house before you melt,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition, but the girls are already out the doors, shouting for their dad as they slam them closed, feet pounding against the leaf-strewn driveway, hair and bookbags flying behind them, and Pete can’t help but shake his head and laugh.
It’s his first day back home after a week at Decaydance’s offices down in Florida, and he always arranges his flight so he lands at O’Hare in time to pick the girls up from school.
Pete grabs the mail from the box at the end of the driveway, then hitches his leather duffel bag over his shoulder, his hair falling into his eyes, the rain leaving damp blotches on his green hoodie. He clicks the remote to lock the SUV doors with a beep and a flash of lights and pushes open the back door of the house.
Home. Warm and bright and smelling of the cider vinegar wash and lemon oil that their housekeeper prefers to use. Pete sometimes finds it almost surreal that this is his house, his family, his. It’s something he’s always wanted, this life, but ten years ago, caught on tour buses, miserable in relationships that didn’t quite measure up no matter how hard they tried…yeah. He’d never have thought he’d be here. Not with kids, and with a house in Hinsdale, and with Patrick.
Especially not with Patrick, who’s singing “Cold Sweat” along with James Brown and folding clothes on the kitchen island, piles of bright sweaters and faded khakis and Barbie nightgowns and old band tour shirts with holes in the collars that neither he nor Pete will ever even think of tossing out despite their mothers’ hints.
The girls have already discarded their bookbags and jackets and muddy rainboots just inside the doorway; Pete steps over a pair of green frog Wellingtons and a denim-and-patchwork schoolbag. He tosses the bills and circulars on the kitchen counter and hangs his keys on the rack by the door.
Emily is a cool eight, draped quietly over one of the kitchen chairs, jeans-clad legs stretched out long and thin, a book already in one hand, her dark hair wet and hanging in her face, over her ears and the hearing aids hooked over them. She doesn’t say much until she’s ready to, just watches and thinks and takes in the world around her with her calm, blue eyes. She’s already a year ahead in school, a decision he and Patrick put off until her teacher last year at Manning Elementary pulled them aside, Emily’s IEP in hand, and told them how bored Em was in class, how far ahead her reading comprehension levels were, how much better it’d be for her to be challenged. She’s been mainstreamed-Pete’s mom was insistent on that when Em had gotten old enough for school--and most people don’t realize at first that she’s deaf, the result of meningitis when she was four. Pete still has nightmares about that hospital stay, about her lying so fucking still and pale and tiny in that huge bed.
He and Patrick don’t talk about it much, those days when they weren’t certain she was going to live. They’d been on tour for the summer when it happened, on the last leg, and they’d spent nearly two weeks living off black coffee and cafeteria food in some hospital in Pennsylvania and both their mothers had come to stay with them, sharing a hotel room and looking after two-year-old Katie who hadn’t understood any of it and didn’t know why she couldn’t climb over her ‘Mi.
Katie is the complete opposite of Emily. Six and bubbly and full of energy and bouncing red curls that tumble every which way as she dances around the kitchen singing Frère Jacques at the top of her lungs. Katie is Katie, charming and funny and stubborn as fuck, and the entire family is bemused by her at times.
And then there’s Jack. Pete scoops him up from the floor where he’s sprawled with two Tonka trucks and a Barbie, slipper-socked feet kicking at the polished wood floor. They were going to stop with the girls-they’d not even meant to adopt either of them; it’d just happened the way things sometimes did with him and Patrick. But then Katie had turned three and Patrick’s mom had remarked offhand one Saturday morning when they’d brought the girls over to stay with her for the day how quickly they grew up and didn’t they want another little one, and when they’d gotten back into the car Patrick had looked at Pete and Pete had looked at Patrick.
They’d gone to see the lawyer the following Monday.
“How’s my boy?” Pete asks as he turns the two-year-old upside down and blows against his stomach, sending Jack into shrieks of giggles and shouts of Daddy as his foot smacks into Pete’s cheek.
Hemingway watches the muted chaos from his chair in the corner, next to the warmth of the heating vent, raising his head to yawn; Katie does a perfect cartwheel past him, earning her a hey, hey, hey, not indoors, you know that from Patrick as he tosses a stack of towels into the laundry basket. He grins at Pete.
“Miss us in Tampa?”
Pete sets Jack down with a thump; his son wraps his arms around his leg, still giggling as Pete steps forward, dragging him along with him as he leans in to kiss Patrick. His fingers form letters as he says, “A bit.”
They sign now without thought, their hands following their words. Em can lip-read and can even “hear” a bit with the aids in, but signing’s become second nature. It’s their own language, something that binds them together as a family in a way. Sometimes Pete catches himself signing in business meetings or on stage to the guys or when he’s alone with Patrick. It had taken him a while to pick it up at first-Patrick and the girls had been better at it than he was and now Katie and Emily can carry on conversations quickly and in their own peculiar shorthand so that sometimes neither of their fathers can quite make out what they are saying to each other. Jack started signing before he could speak in full sentences, and he’s puzzled when he signs to someone outside the family or the band and they don’t understand him.
“I thought we had a housekeeper,” Pete says, dragging a laughing Jack across the kitchen to the fridge. He pulls out a sippy cup of juice and hands it to him, then takes a bottle of water for himself.
“If you think I’m letting Franny touch your dirty boxers,” Patrick says, tossing a pair at him, “you’ve lost your mind. No one who doesn’t sleep with you should be forced to.”
Fuck you, Pete mouths at him with a grin, and Em sighs and says, a bit too loudly, “I saw that, Dad.”
“Pay up,” Patrick says, hefting the basket of clothes against his hip and smacking Pete’s ass as he brushes past him. “Rules are rules. And order a pizza, will you?”
He’s out of the room-Katie dancing behind him, chattering away about her school day--before Pete signs traitor at Emily. She just grins at him and signs back I want to go to college. Pete rolls his eyes and shoves five dollars in the ceramic jar with the masking tape along the front. F-jar is written on it in Pete’s black Sharpie scrawl. It was his dad’s idea, of course, a joke after they got Emily when Pete and Patrick had decided that perhaps having fuck be her first word wasn’t exactly the best idea, and Dad had suggested that they start saving for her college fund with a swear jar.
It fills up quickly during tour months. Pete’s pretty certain Dirty’s paid for an entire year of Ivy School education over the past eight years.
James Brown clicks off into Elliott Smith as Pete reaches for the phone, and Emily taps her fingers against the pages of her book. Music is Pete and Patrick’s life, and the last thing they wanted was to exclude their daughter from that, so they decided early on to keep music in the house always, louder than usual for her so that she can feel the vibrations, sense the rhythms.
They’ve a drum kit in the studio downstairs, and Emily spends hours with one or both of them down with her, teaching her how to match beats to their guitar playing. She keeps her eyes on their hands, watching the way their fingers move across the strings, and when Andy comes over, she wants to show him, sitting behind the kit, her hair flying as she throws herself into the rhythmic drumming.
The pizza shows up an hour later-deep dish and filled with cheese and green peppers and black olives-and Pete pays their usual delivery guy from the pizza parlor three streets down, juggling Jack on one hip as he says, “thanks, man” and kicks the door shut with one foot. Patrick’s sitting at the kitchen table with the girls and their schoolbooks, trying in exasperation to get Katie to sit still long enough to go over her reading homework. Instead she’s hanging over the back of the chair, shorts hiked up, trying to coax Hemingway to come over and play.
“Hey, you, leave him alone,” Pete says, setting the pizza on the table, and he dumps Jack into his high chair, strapping him in despite his protests. Katie ignores him, reaching for Hemmy again, and Pete catches her just before she tips the chair over. “Damn it, Kate,” he says, frustrated, and she looks up at him with wide, brown eyes, her bottom lip starting to tremble. Katie always hates being in trouble.
Katie slides down the back of her chair, sullen and eyes bright. Pete rolls his eyes and cuts a slice of pizza into pieces Jack won’t choke himself on. Emily sets the table; Patrick pours juice for the kids and grabs two beers for them.
Dinner’s quiet tonight; the kids are mid-week tired, and Patrick looks exhausted himself. Pete understands. It’s always harder to have them alone; he hates the weeks Patrick spends in New York or L.A. producing because he feels like part of him’s missing, and so do the kids. They’re always crankier when Patrick’s away, more likely to pick at each other, start fights over stupid stuff like whose turn it is on the computer or who gets to watch what on television or who has to take a bath first. When Patrick comes home, Pete always wants to foist them all on him and just curl up and take a nap for a few hours. Just for the fucking silence.
So he grabs Jack from the high chair when he starts throwing scraps of mozzarella across the table at Emily and he wipes Jack's hands and face clean. Somehow--God only knows--Jack’s managed to get tomato sauce in the back of his hair. “Why don’t you go upstairs for a while?” Pete says casually, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and the look of relief Patrick gives him makes Pete smile. “We can clean up here.”
The girls clear the table, and Emily plays with Jack as Pete loads the dishwasher and turns it on. He helps Katie with her reading, then turns her over to Emily for the math because God knows she’s better at it than him, and he takes Jack upstairs for a bath. He sits next to the tub, splashing water at his son. Jack grabs a rubber duck and shouts “ducky, Daddy, ducky,” before throwing it at Pete. Pete catches it and sucks water up into the airhole, then squirts it at Jack, sending him into giggles as he swims around the bathtub, his chin-length brown hair soaked and snarled and water dripping from long, dark lashes.
The girls have their homework done by the time Pete gets back downstairs, and Jack’s tucked into bed-for now at least; he’s got a bad habit of crawling out of his crib just before midnight.
“Baths and bed,” Pete says, signing towards Emily and her book, and she frowns and signs back just at little longer? Please? and Pete sighs. “Katie, let’s take a bath.” He looks at Emily. Only until your sister’s out, his fingers say and she flashes him a bright smile.
She’s sitting cross-legged in the half-dark hall outside the bathroom when he comes back out with Katie, nose still buried in her book, and she looks up when the light from the bathroom falls across the page. You’ll go blind in this light, Pete signs at her and Em shrugs.
So I’ll learn Braille.
Pete tries not to laugh.
Katie rubs at her nose, pulling her towel tighter around her shoulders as she plops down next to her sister. Water from her wet curls drips on the book and Emily pulls it away, frowning at her. Read to me? Katie signs.
“Later,” Pete says. Bath, Em.
She sighs and hands him the book before clambering up. Pete waits to hear the shower start-eight years of parenting have taught him never to entirely trust his kids to do what they’re told-then takes Katie into her room, letting her pick her nightgown and her clothes for the next morning before she crawls into bed. Pete reads a chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to her-Patrick’s already gotten past the Halloween Feast, he notes-and kisses her and tells her to sleep. Before he reaches the door she’s asked for water twice and another chapter.
“Go to sleep,” Pete says firmly, turning off the light. A nightlight glows across the room, casting shadows over piles of stuffed animals in the corner.
Katie yawns and rolls over in her bed. “I’m glad you’re home, Daddy,” she says and Pete swallows past the tight lump in his throat.
“Me too, baby,” he whispers and he closes her door.
He stops by Emily’s room. She’s still reading in the light from the lamp next to her bed, and she looks up when he crouches down beside her.
One hour, he signs, and then bed. I’m serious.
She nods, then leans over and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” she says. Pete smoothes back her hair and presses his forehead to hers.
“Back at you.”
He takes the hearing aids from her ears and sets them on the nightstand, underneath the lamp. There’s a picture of him and Patrick there, holding her when she was just a baby. They’d been on the band bus; they’d found out she’d been born two weeks before tour was over. She’d been a month premature and so tiny and when the lawyer had called to tell them to fly back to Chicago and meet him at the hospital, Pete had panicked. He hadn’t been ready, even though he’d thought maybe he was. Or at least maybe he was more ready than he’d been yet. But then she’d become more than just a possibility and he’d freaked out on Patrick the entire plane ride back, certain that he’d fuck her up for life.
And then he’d held her for the first time and his whole life shifted.
I love you, he signs at her and she smiles and burrows into her pillows.
Patrick’s sitting up in bed when he comes in, and his MacBook is on his lap, his headphones on his ears.
“You’re not supposed to be working,” Pete says with a grin, and he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders and tosses it on the end of the bed.
Patrick slides the headphones off and sets them and the laptop aside. “Not much time for it this week, and I told Travis I’d have this arrangement back to him by Monday.”
“Did they drive you crazy?” Pete sits on the other side of the bed; the mattress dips slightly.
“They miss you when you’re gone.”
Pete raises an eyebrow and grins. “Just them?”
Patrick shrugs one shoulder. “You might have crossed my mind a time or two.”
“Only a time or two.” Pete crawls across the bed, kicking at the comforter. He straddles Patrick. “Are you telling me the magic is gone?”
Patrick’s hands slide up Pete’s sides, under his t-shirt, warm and firm against Pete’s skin. “Well, you go off and leave me for days at a time….”
Pete kisses him then, and Patrick’s mouth is soft and wet and the flick of his tongue over Pete’s sends shivers down Pete’s spine. Ten years it’s been, him and Patrick, except really, it’s been nearly twice as long. They were just too damn stupid to realize it the first six years.
He wants Patrick the way he’s never wanted anyone before. He could get lost in Patrick, wants to, and there are times when as much as he loves his kids, he’s jealous of them because Patrick’s his. He’s always been his.
Pete pulls his t-shirt off over his head and throws it aside. Patrick’s kissing him again, and his hands slide down the small of Pete’s back, fingers dipping into the waistband of Pete’s jeans. Pete rocks forward with a groan; he’s already half-hard and he’s missed Patrick so fucking much.
Patrick rolls him over, presses him into the mattress. He tugs at the zipper on Pete’s jeans as he kisses him, and this is Pete’s favorite part of either of them coming home, when they finally can touch each other.
He hisses as Patrick pulls off his jeans and throws them aside, and Pete’s already jerking at the hem of Patrick’s Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. Patrick’s skin is soft and warm, and Pete’s mouth is on his shoulder. He loves the way Patrick tastes, loves the way Patrick feels, heavy and solid between his thighs.
Patrick mouths over Pete’s briefs, licking at the white cotton, his tongue dragging it over Pete’s cock, and Pete groans and shifts. He’s jerked off every night that he’s been gone, thinking about this, about Patrick, and he hates that Patrick will be away in a few weeks and they’ll have to go through this all again. Pete needs Patrick, wants him, and nothing’s right when they’re not together, something’s always missing.
“I know,” Patrick says against Pete’s hip, and Pete realizes he’s said that aloud. Patrick raises up, and he pushes his jeans down. “God, I’ve missed you,” he chokes out, and Pete shoves his briefs off his hips.
“Come on,” Pete says, breathless, and he rolls over onto his stomach, lifting his hips. “Show me.”
Patrick’s face is against him, and his tongue’s licking, his hands spreading Pete wide, and fuck. Pete presses back against his mouth.
“Jesus, Patrick-“
Patrick pulls away and Pete groans, but he turns his head. Patrick’s fumbling in the nightstand and then he pulls back, lube in hand. They stopped using condoms after they got Katie. They both realized they weren’t going anywhere. Or doing anyone else.
The lube is cold at first, but it warms under Patrick’s touch, and Patrick’s finger is quick and practiced as he slides it into Pete, then another, stretching him just the way Pete likes. Ten years together and this should be dull, Pete thinks with a wild laugh, but it’s not, oh, fuck it’s not, and Patrick knows exactly how to get him turned on, rubbing his dick against the back of Pete’s thigh, leaning over him, biting his shoulder, whispering fucking filthy things in his ear.
“God, come on,” Pete groans, and he spreads his thighs wider. His cock brushes against the mattress, head dragging over the comforter and Jesus fuck.
Patrick pulls his hand away; Pete’s shaking, the backs of his thighs trembling and Christ he wants this-
A press and a push and Patrick’s in him, breathing hard, his cock stretching Pete, filling him. Yes, Pete thinks, yes, and then Patrick moves, and Pete cries out.
It’s slow at first, the way Patrick likes to do it, and he’s telling Pete what he looks like with Patrick’s cock going into him, telling him how ready Pete is for him, and Pete shudders because yes.
And then Patrick pulls him back, and Pete raises up, straddles Patrick’s thighs and Patrick’s so fucking deep inside of him, God, and this is what Pete’s been wanting for days as he jerked himself on the hotel bed, two fingers knuckle-deep in his ass.
“Patrick,” he gasps, and Patrick whispers spread your legs, and Pete lurches forward, knees sliding further open and he grabs at the headboard as Patrick fucks him, rough and quick.
“I missed you so goddamn much,” Patrick says against Pete’s skin, his mouth on Pete’s neck, his dick slamming into Pete ass, and fuck, yeah, Pete breathes as he arches back against him, fingers tight on the headboard slats.
Patrick’s hand is on his cock, twisting down over the head and Pete’s body is tense, his shoulders shaking, and he’s so fucking close, yes, fuck-
“Oh, God,” Pete groans, and he’s coming over Patrick’s hand, against the headboard and his pillow and Patrick’s thrusting into him roughly, his breath hot and wet against Pete’s damp skin.
Patrick shudders against him, his fingers digging into Pete’s hip, his breath coming in sharp, short gasps. Pete almost wishes they could be loud again the way they used to when it didn’t matter if there was anyone sleeping down the hall. He remembers how he could make Patrick scream, make him beg. It’s been too long since they’ve been away by themselves.
They collapse on the bed, silent and breathing hard, and then Patrick slides out of him, slips under Pete’s arm. He lays his head on Pete’s chest, his palm over Pete’s heart.
Pete threads his fingers through Patrick’s sweaty hair. “Your birthday’s coming up,” he says finally, quietly. “The kids want to throw a party.”
Patrick laughs, and he traces circles over Pete’s thorn tattoo. “Do they?”
“Katie wants to buy you a pony.”
“She does?” Patrick rolls over and smiles down at Pete. Pete’s heart clenches. He’s so fucking lucky; he knows this. He’s got no idea why. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I told her last week she couldn’t have one, would it?”
Pete grins and he runs his knuckles over Patrick’s cheek. “She says she could look after it for you when you’re gone.”
It’s not the best thing to say, not when he’s just gotten back. Patrick flops back on the bed and sighs. “Maybe I should put off that trip next month.”
Pete wants to say yes; he wants to so fucking badly. He wants Patrick to stay here with him. With them. Instead he sighs and curls around Patrick, sliding his leg between his thighs. His ass still aches pleasantly. “It’s fine, man. It’s only two weeks. We’ll be okay.”
“Then there’s the tour this summer,” Patrick says, staring up at the ceiling. “And when we go back in the spring. You know we’re going to have to figure out how to take the kids, and the girls have school…” He trails off. “This was a fuck of a lot easier without kids.”
“Mom’ll help us find a tutor.” Pete strokes his fingers over Patrick’s chest. “She’s already said she would. The day school has a list of special education grad students-“
“Like someone would put off their degree for a semester to go touring with Fall Out Boy,” Patrick snaps and Pete just raises an eyebrow. Patrick deflates slightly and laughs. “Okay. All right.” He sighs. “I’m just-“
“Worried,” Pete says. “I get it, man.” He presses his mouth to Patrick’s collarbone. “There’s more to think about with them.”
Patrick turns his head, looks at him. “Yeah.” He brushes Pete’s hair back from his forehead. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“A good crazy.” Pete grins.
“I’ll remind you of that when you call me in New York ready to lock them all in their rooms.” Patrick rolls out of bed, and Pete watches his ass as he stumbles over to the dresser and pulls out two pairs of pajama bottoms. He tosses one at Pete. “Better get dressed before-“
There’s a knock at the door and a quiet Daddy? and Patrick gives Pete a wry smile. “Nightmares.”
Pete’s already pulling on the bottoms, and he opens the door for Katie, who rubs her wet eyes and looks up at him. He’s already picking her up as he says “what’s wrong, baby?”
“I had a bad dream, Daddy,” Katie says, and she wraps her arms around Pete’s neck.
She’s missed you, Patrick signs behind her back and Pete holds his little girl tight. “You want to sleep in here with me and your dad?” he asks and Katie nods.
She giggles as Pete tosses her in the middle of the bed, and Patrick swipes the pillow that Pete came on and replaces it with one from the closet that they keep stored away just for moments like this. Not exactly good parenting to let your kid lie in the wet spot, after all.
They curl up in bed, Katie sprawled between them and Patrick laughs. “Jack’ll be up in an hour or two,” he says, and Pete just grins.
“Guess we’ll have to wake Em up too, then, and Hemmy.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You’re a sucker, Pete Wentz.”
“Won’t hear me complain.”
His daughter shifts against him, and she puts a hand over his mouth. “Shh, I’m sleeping, Daddy,” she whispers, and Pete kisses her palm.
This is happiness, Pete thinks, and he slips his fingers through Patrick’s and smiles.