Will & Patrick Fight Their Feelings (#4) (12 page)

“Despite being perfect in every way, according to you, you’re not actually God.” Will touches Patrick’s cheek. “You did your best.”

“Yeah, well, my best might cost an idiot his life.”

Will lifts Patrick’s chin up. “And like you said, you never promised a miracle. Even if he lives, he won’t be the same man she married. That’s on him and his stupid choices.”

Patrick nods, but his eyes are haunted.

They swing by Jimmy’s on the way to the Tallgrass and Patrick waits in the car, citing the likelihood that Andy’s wearing a shirt that might damage his ocular nerves.

“So, my ocular nerves are fair game?” Will says, unbuckling to get out of the car.

“I could repair them. Despite being a super-genius, it’d be hard to operate on myself.”

“If anyone can do it, it’d be you.”

Inside the diner, it’s the late-lunch rush and Andy has no time to chat with Will, something he’s grateful for since the man does tend to question the validity of his marriage more than Will’s comfortable with. Andy also tends to think Patrick’s an ass. Though that’s for good reason.

“And extra pie for your jerkface husband,” Andy says, handing over the bag. He’s wearing a red and purple striped shirt with orange suns overlaid. Patrick was right to stay away. “How’s he doing anyway? Recovered from Ryan’s right hand yet?”

Will ignores that. “Had a rough day at the hospital, but he’ll be okay.”

“Just remember what I told you, kid. You ever need help getting away from him? You just let me know.” He karate chops the air. “I have skills.”

“Thanks, Andy, but you’ve got Patrick all wrong.”

“If you say so. But I still say he’s got you and Buttercup snowed.” Then he turns to the next customer, leaving Will bristling. He knows everyone can’t see through Patrick the way he and Jenny do, but underneath all those porcupine quills, he’s got a truly good heart.

Back at the Tallgrass, Patrick eats his mac ‘n’ joe while mainlining several episodes of
Pawn Stars
while Will answers work emails on his laptop. Patrick’s phone goes off a few minutes after his third episode, letting him know that Shane is stabilizing nicely and doing as well as can be expected. He sighs and shovels in another spoonful.

“You all right?”

“I need candy,” Patrick mutters.

“It’s not good to feed your feelings.”

“I. Need. Candy.”

“You’re. A. Drama. Queen.”

But Will heads down to the lobby store and grabs Mallomars and a bag of Reese’s Pieces. In their room, Patrick takes the candy without a thank you, rips it open, and pours the bag of orange and black candy into his mouth before turning to the Mallomars.

Will tests himself, calculates, and boluses enough insulin to cover the treat before settling down on the sofa with Patrick’s feet in his lap.

“You don’t have to be here. I’m not going to fall apart because things didn’t go as expected.” Patrick licks chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

“I know.” Will bites into his candy, some of the gooey marshmallow getting stuck to his lip. He has to work to lick it off.

“Seriously, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Nope.”

Patrick stares at him. “Why?”

“Because I make my own hours.”

“I don’t need coddling. Patients die. Patients don’t wake up. Patients end up with brain damage. It happens. Life goes on.”

“Yeah, but
you
have an ego the size of Texas, and
you
can’t handle failure.”

“Bullcrap.”

“Oh, did I hit a little too close to home?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, and Will waits for another barb. Instead, Patrick sighs and leans his head against the arm of the couch. “I can still fix him.”

Will smothers a smile. “I know.” He rubs Patrick’s feet some more.

“No, you don’t. I
can
fix him. Well, as fixed as he’s gonna get, which isn’t all that fixed, but that’s not up to me. Now that I know what I’m dealing with, I can go back in and do it right. But dammit, that bleed screwed up everything.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick stands, scrubbing at his face before opening the buttons on his shirt. “I’m going to shower.”

Will waits for an invitation, but apparently Patrick’s not interested in screwing away his troubles. It’s not right to be disappointed, so he opens his laptop, checking his emails again. When Patrick comes out, damp and wearing only his underwear, Will’s cock takes notice. He dares to hope as Patrick pulls back the covers, climbs into bed, and pats the place beside him. “C’mon. Nap with me.”

Will hits send on his final email and sheds his clothes, leaving his boxers on, and slips in next to Patrick. Pulling Patrick against him, they fold into position: Patrick’s head on Will’s chest, arm slung over his stomach. Will’s hand goes to Patrick’s hair, stroking softly.

Surely nap was a euphemism, right?

But as Patrick’s breathing grows regular and even, Will laughs to himself. When has Patrick ever used euphemisms? Will can’t think of a single time. Patrick’s always incredibly blunt about what he wants.
I want to screw you.
Or,
I want to blow you.
Or,
I want to lick your ass
. No, Patrick’s not like Ryan, who only spoke in subtle innuendo about what he wanted. Will had hated guessing just what Ryan was getting at, and knew he’d be to blame if he got it wrong.
When
he got it wrong.

Will kisses the top of Patrick’s head. Whatever. If Patrick says he’s napping, then by God, he’s napping, and Will’s horniness is going to have to wait. He could use some sleep too.

Will wakes to the awareness that Patrick’s not in bed anymore. He cracks open an eye, the weird, gross feeling that sometimes hits him after a nap weighing him down. He needs to test his BG to make sure everything’s kosher. Maybe he’s gone a little low. Sitting up, he sees Patrick putting on his shoes.

“Hey.”

Patrick glances his way. “Hey.”

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, screw Don.” Patrick slaps his hands on his knees before standing. “I’m heading back to the hospital. I can’t do any good here. I need to get a copy of the latest scans and review the video of the operation. I need to make a new plan of attack.”

Patrick grabs his jacket and his keys as Will gets up, walks a little sleepily to the couch, and sits. While Patrick watches, Will tests his blood. It’s not too low, but some sugar would be good, so he decides to eat another Mallomar to bump it up again.

“Good luck,” Will says, unwrapping the candy.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Patrick stands with the door slightly open.

“Of course not.”

“Hey.”

“Mmm?” Will’s mouth is full, and he turns to Patrick.

“Test again after you eat that. To be safe.”

Will nods.

He stares at him a moment longer. “And thanks for caring. About me.”

Will smiles with his mouth full of chocolate-marshmallow goodness, and Patrick rolls his eyes, stalks across the room, and kisses some of the candy from Will’s tongue.

“Gross.”

“Delicious.” Patrick smiles and kisses him quickly again before leaving.

He doesn’t come home that evening, and Will gives up waiting around midnight. A call to the hospital assures him Patrick’s still obsessing over Shane’s case, so he drops off to sleep alone only to wake early the next morning to Patrick’s hard cock pressing against his thigh and fingers sliding down the cleft of his ass.

“Hey,” Will whispers.

“Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

Patrick nods.

“Really?”

“Really.” He holds up a condom for Will to see.

After some quick preparation, Will wraps his arms around Patrick and guides him inside. It’s fast and Patrick comes quickly with a soft whimper, collapsing on Will and breathing roughly against his neck. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Will’s still hard and aching, but he holds Patrick close and whispers, “I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.”

A few days later, Patrick’s more optimistic about Shane Hammond’s chances and more deeply in love with Will. For the first time in his life, he understands addicts like his father and Will: it feels so good and hurts so much, but he wants more of it, and he can’t stop.

He’s never been one to talk problems out, but this time, he’s going to make an exception, and he knows just the ear to bend.

At the hospital, he passes by the waiting room near the OR. He spots Jax and an older woman who must be Jenny’s mother if the resemblance is anything to go by. Jax lifts a hand and Patrick lifts his chin, but otherwise ignores them, walking right past into the recovery area. It doesn’t take a genius to locate the whereabouts of his confidante, and he dodges nurses easily before stepping into the bay where Jenny’s slowly waking from her surgery.

“Hey there, kiddo. You’ve got quite the cheer squad in the waiting room. A certain hot barista is sweating it out there with your mom. And you said it couldn’t last.”

Jenny slits her eyes open and mutters something unintelligible before falling insensible again.

“Good drugs, huh?” Patrick bends over to flash his pen light into her disoriented eyes. Her vitals all look good and the chart he’s snatched from the end of her bed tells him all he needs to know about the surgery itself. If things go half as well on Radar’s end, this entire endeavor should be a win. Assured that she’s coming along fine, he pats her hair and pulls up a chair by her bed.

Recovery’s never been his favorite place to linger, but he’s not going to let his only-friend-who-isn’t-Will have surgery and not drop in to check on her. Besides this is the perfect time to confess his deep, dark, wretched love for Will, when she’s unable to understand anything that he’s saying. All the unburdening, none of the consequences.

Patrick leans over and brushes hair off her forehead. 

Jenny snores.

“So, Buttercup. Turns out you’re doing great. You’ll be up in a room in no time. Your mom will be there for you then, and Jax, if his worried face is anything to go by. Speaking of worry: don’t. I’m picking up your slobber monster from his babysitter in an hour. Will and I’ll take good care of him.”

Jenny snores some more.

Patrick glances around, double checking they’re alone. He hears some nurses dealing with a complication a few curtained bays down, but it’s nothing he needs to get involved in. “I’ve got to put on big boy pants, Jenny. I’m in trouble. Big trouble.”

She snuffles.

“The thing is…” He clears his throat and leans forward, whispering in her ear, “I have feelings for my husband.”

Her eyes flutter. Drool slides from the corner of her mouth.

“Slobber monster. Like mother like son.” Reaching for a tissue, he cleans it up. “Okay, fine. I don’t just have feelings for him. It’s bigger than that. I’ve succumbed to the oxytocin in my system. Gone belly up.” He taps his fingers against his thigh. “I watch him sleep at night. I’m that guy.”

Her eyes move back and forth under her lightly veined lids.

An embarrassing, helpless noise escapes his throat. “I love him. He makes me want to vomit. But in a good way.”

Jenny sighs and shifts. Her eyes slide open and she starts to smile but then she’s gone again.

“I hate it. But I don’t hate him.” Patrick slides his fingers over her soft cheek and smiles down at her. “He’s handsome and smart and funny. He gives the best head of all time. He’s there for me. I think he cares, but he’s so messed up. Ha. Who am I kidding? We’re both messed up.”

Jenny snorts and slobbers some more.

“Keep all that to yourself. Got it?”

He waits for the beautiful release that is supposed to come once all sins are confessed, but nothing happens. He still loves Will and it still sucks a lot. Maybe he needs a reply from his confessor before he gets his reprieve.

“You’re a Libra. What do Libras think about love?” he asks. Then he puts his thumb to her bottom lip and moves it up and down, pitching his voice up high. “What’s the problem, Dr. Jerkface? Love is beautiful. You should be happy. Have my jam doughnut.”

“Only idiots think love is beautiful,” Patrick says in his own voice.

“I’m not an idiot. I’m an optimist.” Her lip is soft but dry under his thumb and she frowns in her sleep. He yanks his hand back as she opens her eyes and says very clearly, “Rodeo seven.” It’s creepy and does nothing to make him feel better. 

He sighs and her lids drop closed again. He only has a few more minutes before a nurse comes to check on her and shoos him out. Maybe if he explains why love isn’t beautiful and why, when it comes to Will, there’s nothing to be optimistic about.

“Will’s happy the way things are. He wants to be ‘friends with benefits.’ I get it. He’s never had freedom before. He should figure out who he is outside a relationship. I already told him I’d never love him anyway.” Patrick bangs his head lightly against the railing surrounding her bed. “After I fuck his brains out, I stare down at his face—” He remembers Will that morning, all wrecked and flushed from coming. “And I
feel
things.”

Effervescent things. Bubbly things. Things that make him tingle.

“It’s awful. I hate it.”

“Mmph,” Jenny says.

He sighs. “I can’t win at this. I don’t know how. But I
don’t
lose. Do you understand?”

He’s going to lose Will, though. That’s something they’ve both agreed on in advance for Pete’s sake.

Standing up, he paces. Two steps forward and another two back. “It’s the damn sex.” He whirls and points his finger at her. “I won’t be held hostage to oxytocin. Understand? I’m brilliant. I’ll find a way to screw Will, be his friend, and enjoy whatever time we have left. This love thing won’t stop me.”

He sounds insane.

Jenny smacks her lips.

He sits back down again, taking some deep, calming yoga breaths. That’s what he needs to do: get back to practicing yoga. He’s replaced it with sex recently and it’s just not the same. His mind goes to the last time he did yoga with Will in the hotel’s gym. “Will’s ass is perfect. His biceps, too. I want to die with my face in his chest hair.”

Holy crap. He’s talking to an unconscious woman about his freaking
feelings.
This is how far he’s fallen. At that moment, a nurse jerks back the curtain.

“Dr. McCloud! I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?”

“Checking on a friend.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize you had a friend.” She turns bright red. “As a patient, I mean—”

“Don’t bother.” He stalks from the bay with a sour expression, discouraging any other nurses from stopping him with questions as he heads toward the lockers. He’ll change, pick up Dylan from the sitter, grab some dinner, and then head back to the Tallgrass to meet Will.

At least he’ll be safe from feelings with the baby around. Dylan will be the perfect buffer.

Who’s he kidding? There’s no buffer in the world that can prevent what’s happened. It’s too late. Has been since he bought that medical bracelet. No, since he set eyes on Will Patterson’s handsome face.

“That’s the oxytocin talking,” he tells himself firmly.

He hangs up his lab coat in the locker and pulls on his thick jacket in preparation for the hellish January weather. Studying himself in the small mirror stuck to the side, he shakes his head sadly.

Damn him for being a genius. He’s too smart to believe his own lies.

A few hours later, Patrick looks up from changing Dylan’s diaper as the door to their hotel room opens and Will comes in wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, with his murse over his shoulder and talking on his cell phone. Patrick’s heart flips, and he sighs. The conversation with Jenny was clearly unsuccessful in lifting his burdensome feelings.

“Thanks, Owen. I appreciate you handling that. See you tomorrow.” Will disconnects the call and grins warmly as he hangs his murse on the coat rack with the coats. Patrick can’t tell if the smile is for him or Dylan, but his heart doesn’t care. It sings like a bird in his chest. Will plops down beside them, all sweaty and smiley. “I didn’t know you change diapers.”

“Just call me Diaper Man.”

“Mind if I don’t? It’s not very sexy.”

Patrick chuckles, snapping Dylan’s overalls closed between his chubby baby thighs. Dylan chews on his fist and stares up at Will with wide, blue, black-fringed eyes. Patrick smirks. The kid’s going to make his future girlfriends cry with envy over those lashes. When Dylan kicks his feet, growing impatient, Patrick grabs a new toy from the bunch on the coffee table to distract him with.

“So how’d you learn to do that?”

“Dinah. She taught me about Di-F-B-R.

“Dief bur? What?”

“Diapering, feeding, burping, rocking. The four letters of successful babysitting.” Patrick gets the last snap closed and Dylan promptly rolls over to crawl away, jabbering to himself in baby talk.

Will scoops him up and stands him on his thighs. “Hello, cutie. Are you having fun with Patrick?” Dylan stares at him wide-eyed and then bursts into tears, straining out of Will’s arms toward Patrick, reaching desperately.

“Stranger anxiety,” Patrick says, heading into the bathroom to wash his hands as Will follows with Dylan still reaching desperately for him. “Apparently, you’re a stranger.”

Flustered and trying to keep Dylan from leaping from his arms, Will mutters, “And you’re not?”

Patrick washes quickly before turning to take Dylan, who stops crying immediately. “Nope.” Dylan casts Will a suspicious glance and then slaps his hands on Patrick’s cheeks, leaning in for a gummy, wet kiss to his jaw. “I’m his favorite person in the world, right, sport?” Patrick chucks Dylan’s soft chin and kisses his nose. “Well, favorite person without tits.”

Will blinks rapidly at him, mouth falling open a little, but then he seems to recover from whatever spasm had temporarily gripped him and he rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re plumping your ego on the basis of an eight-month-old’s opinion of you.”

“If you can’t trust an eight-month-old, who can you trust?” He presses his cheek to Dylan’s fat one and doesn’t flinch when Dylan turns to slobber on his temple where the bruise from Ryan’s fist used to be.

Will laughs. “No one, I guess. What’s the plan for dinner?”

Going over to the giant diaper bag the babysitter had given him, Patrick pulls out two small glass jars. “Dylan’s having mashed carrots, mashed peas, and formula. You’re having whatever you order up from room service.”

“What about you?”

“I ate at Jimmy’s. Sicky wasn’t there, which is good since last time I saw him, he was a dicky. All up in my business about treating you right.”

“He’s got some strange idea that our marriage is mafia related,” Will admits, wincing.

“Wow, that’s crazy, especially since it totally is.”

He chuckles. “So you’re still full? At least for the next ten minutes?”

“I’ll eat some of yours. Go ahead and order so you’re not off your schedule.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n. You know, I kind of like living where they deliver food to the room. I don’t miss having to scrounge in an under-stocked kitchen, that’s for sure.” Will picks up the phone and puts in his order for a chicken salad and a side of steamed spinach. “Oh, and the butternut squash casserole,” he tacks on at the end. “And rolls. With extra butter.” Patrick’s stomach rumbles and Will laughs.

Dylan squirms until Patrick puts him on the floor, then he takes off across the room to pull himself up at the coffee table.

“Wow,” Will says, hanging up the phone. “He’s growing so fast.”

“First year’s one big milestone after another.”

Dylan grabs the remote control in his pudgy little hand, shoves it into his mouth, and chews on the soft keys with his back gums. Saliva runs down over the plastic keys. Patrick says, “That’s not sanitary, buddy.”

Will looks up from where he’s gathering clothes to change into after his shower. “You’re not going to take it away from him?”

“He likes it. I took the batteries out earlier. It’s fine.”

Will’s nose wrinkles. “But it’s had our hands all over it and, like you said, it’s not clean.”

“He’ll live.”

“Oh my God, you’re that parent.”

“What parent?”

“The one who looks at their kid like—” He waves his hand at Patrick’s face. “
That
and lets them lick the sofa, or other people’s hands, or whatever they want.”

“It depends on whose hand. Yours? Probably. Mine? Sure. Perry the room service guy? No way. He’s a snot-nosed rat and who knows where his hand’s been.”

Will smiles, his eyes lighting up like small suns. “You’re a marshmallow. And a sucker.” He saunters toward Patrick and whispers in his ear. “You’re all the sweet stuff. And you like babies.”

“You’re calling me sweet? That’s insane.”

“Babiiiiies.”

“Pfft. We’re biologically programmed to respond to—”

Will laughs. “Shut up. You love babies. Admit it.”

Patrick’s heart trips and he tries to remember that just because Will’s laugh makes his vitals go wonky, it doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s like with Dylan’s baby smell. Chemical. Everything’s chemical. Yep, that’s right. Everyone is just a walking bag of pair-bonding, community-building chemicals. A drug is a drug is a drug, and he’ll just have to suffer through the detox when this is over. He’s a big boy. He can handle that.