four cracktastic bits of advice [or the crack!Patrick Attack]
four cracktastic bits of advice [or the crack!Patrick Attack]
Author:
megyal
Rating: PG for language.
AN: Written forgardengnomegeek's birthday. X-posted to 
peterickfics, patrickxpeter and my flist.
1) two are sometimes better than one;.
actually, it depends if you need a full, rounded harmony; then it would be nice to have three.
"I hate when you clone two at once," Pete spat at the Patricks, who all gave him identical sunny smiles. "Dude, it gives me a headache."
"I need one for melody--" Patrick said, the Original.
"--one for low range--" PatrickOne piped up.
"--and one for upper range. It makes working out the choral parts a whole lot fucking easier, let me tell you." PatrickTwo said, looking at Pete smugly.
"You are so very vain," Pete muttered at them and the Patricks laughed in harmony.
"This from the dude--"
"--who spends forty-five minutes--"
"--bolstering his ego every morning."
"And I HATE when you do that talking-in-rounds thing!" Pete screeched, pulling the hood of his jacket over his eyes. The Patricks laughed again, now in unsettling unison, Patrick arranging himself with his guitar in the middle of the practice area, perched on a stool. It was very late, but Patrick had insisted that he needed to figure out the vocals in one particular song before recording. PatrickOne stood behind him and rested his chin on a steady shoulder. PatrickTwo sprawled comfortably on the floor as Pete stretched in the lone sofa and huffed.
Patrick started, singing the first verse and the other Patricks joined willingly, stopping now and again to adjust a note here and there. PatrickTwo was in charge of the sweet descant and his voice trilled above the other two; how Patrick managed to sound throaty while singing so high was a mystery Pete had yet to figure out. There was a sudden pause as Patrick murmured some instruction to PatrickOne, maybe how to make the low tenor more dynamic; PatrickOne listened carefully and then sang back right in Patrick's ear. Pete noticed how Patrick closed his eyes, nodding slightly and smiling, while PatrickOne's full lower lip brushed against the pink-shell of his ear.
That was extremely weird, because Pete could have sworn that PatrickOne gave Patrick a quick kiss on the damp skin behind his (their) ear; also, it was a mighty fine turn-on. Then PatrickTwo turned his head and winked at Pete.
"Yeah," PatrickTwo said. "It is as hot as you think. Believe me on this one."
"Shit," Pete replied morosely. "A Patrick orgy and no-one ever thought to invite me. I hate you all."
***
2) wings are cool even if flying is technically impossible when you finally get them
"Is it cherubim or seraphim that are the singers in heaven?" Pete said thoughtfully, stroking his fingers through the long white feathers that cascaded down Patrick's back. "All you need now is a halo. You'd be my messenger of all goodliness."
"You'll have to settle with the hair." Patrick's voice was drowsy, Pete's hands on his wings lulling him to sleep. He wriggled on the bed and tried to tuck himself closer into Pete's side while still getting some petting action going on, making little content noises as Pete pressed his hand on that space between his shoulder-blades. That spot itched a little sometimes and always felt exhausted with the weight of the wings. He stretched one out and it made a feathery arch at ceiling level; Pete rubbed the skin on his back where it had been folded against and Patrick sighed happily.
"God, that feels good," he moaned a little, pressing himself more against Pete and testing the bare skin at Pete's neck with his tongue. "If I could fly, I would totally thank you by taking you for a ride, or something."
"You ride me all the time," Pete leered and the wing that made a curve at the roof descended in a trembling rush, covering Pete's chest and stomach in a field of white.
"Shut up," Patrick said, moving the wing in tiny increments against Pete's skin, causing him to inhale sharply. "Shut up and don't stop touching me, please."
***
3) time-travel is clean solid fun
"What you are saying," Patrick said carefully, "Is that in the future, I will be a singer of a band."
"A fairly popular band," The person who claimed he was Patrick from 2007 said, sitting comfortably on Patrick's bed. He wrinkled his nose in a considering movement that Patrick recognised; he saw it in the mirror nearly every morning. "Fairly. As in, very."
"I don't even sing that well," Patrick claimed in amazement. "And I'm fifteen," he went on to clarify, as if that would make a difference. Future-Patrick, who was a lot more heavyset than Patrick thought he should have gotten, rolled his eyes.
"Give yourself some credit," he said wryly. "And you're... ok, you're sexier than you think you are."
"Ok, no," Patrick snorted. "You know why that's not working for me? Just look at us."
"Yeah, no, I don't get it sometimes either." Future-Patrick smiled faintly. "But apparently we have a nice mouth. And now I see what they mean."
"What?!"
"Some call it a blow-job mouth."
Patrick was scandalised. For crying out loud, he was fifteen.
***
4) never trust a talking fish
Joe thrust the baby into Pete's limp grasp, babbling something about a talking fish swimming in the display tank, set in the entrance of a deserted restaurant that he and Patrick went into earlier.
"...and the fish asked Patrick what his wish was, and dude this is where the shit hits the fan because Patrick was thinking aloud! Who thinks aloud when a talking fish is around? I don't even know but Patrick said he wanted to be taken care of, even for a little while and then. There was this baby."
Pete, who was holding the baby at arm's length, stared incredulously; the baby looked at him with large blue eyes. Then the baby made a face and wriggled, trying to squirm out of his hands and Pete adjusted his hold, bringing the sturdy little body into the crook of his arm. The baby had on that cute little monkey cap that Patrick had been wearing this morning, large over his fair little head, in addition to some strange dark-blue swaddling wrapped all about him haphazardly. A pair of glasses was tucked into the folds.
Holy shit.
"You're seriously not telling me that this is Patrick," Pete said faintly and the baby's eyes lit up at the name. He gurgled happily.
"Buyerah!" The little thing--Patrick?!-- yelled and grabbed at Pete's reading-glasses, hefting them off his face and flinging them onto the floor. Pete gaped.
"Yeah and the worst thing is? I couldn't find any diapers. So, um. That's one of your shirts I borrowed earlier. Later!"
Joe moved really quick when he wanted to.
*
Baby Patrick was a bit of a handful at Pete's apartment. Scratch that. The toddling six-toothed bastard was a monster. It was a lucky thing they were on a little break, because Pete had to go find some clothes for him (the salesladies at the JC Penney cooed over Patrick for hours and Patrick looked so very smug) not to mention diapers and food and playthings; what did Patrick do in return? Tore up Pete's lyrics notebook. Made an open call on Pete's sidekick... to China. Bit Hemmy on the tail... after riding him. Yelled in indignant babytalk at Pete when the the bass-guitar was pried out of his grimy grasp. Ate too much cereal and brought it up all over Pete's favourite shoes.
He tried to climb everything and poked his chubby little hand everywhere and crawled into every small space he could find; his head got stuck once in the staircase banister, and the baby laughed merrily as Pete fretted to release him, visions of the police and Children's Services dancing through his head. Pete felt a new respect for stay-at-home mothers, because he wasn't sure how they did it...and apparently Patrick was at the stage where his new favourite word was 'no', even if the activity was somewhat favourable. As in, "Hey, kiddo, how about you fall asleep now? Let your old pal Pete get some rest."
"No!"
Or, "Hey Patrick, want to go get a bath? It's gonna be so cool."
"NO!"
As much as Pete struggled with the baby for days, he still tried to do everything; he figured that one day, he'd like to make a good dad, so he went through the baths, the disastrous hair-washing (Patrick cried even though the shampoo was No More Tears. Pete had to give him a little blue sailboat everytime), the naptime that Patrick never seemed to like. Pete, at his wit's end one day, called Patrick's mother while Andy changed the stinking little fiend.
"Hey! Hi there, long time no talk...tiny question for you. Hypothetical, maybe. If Patrick was a baby, how would you get him to fall asleep?... No, this is, um. For a little article...about us when we were little. Yeah. You used to... sing? Showtunes... no, no, that helps! Who, Patrick? He's around here somewhere, says to tell you hello, you know how he is when he's in-studio, what baby-noises, I don't know what you mean. Bye!"
"There," Andy said, lifting Patrick to sit up and giving his rosy cheek a companionable pinch. Patrick showed his tiny row of teeth in a fit of good-humour and then held his chubby little arms out to Pete, fingers opening and closing in that universal action of baby-begging.
"Peeeet," he said plaintively and Pete felt his heart swell. Andy grinned.
"I guess you're gonna have to remember some show-tunes now, right?"
"Damn straight," Pete said, lifting Patrick in his arms and tickling him without mercy.
*
Pete only knew two songs from musicals and sang them that night in his scatchy voice (he muttered through half of Masquerade) trying hard to keep in-tune. Patrick blinked at him from out of the fussy white crib Pete had had to buy and then wonder of wonders: his eyes grew heavy. Usually, Patrick would totally ignore Pete's attempts to get him to fall asleep, choosing to stand up cutely in his onesie and stagger about in the crib. Now, as Pete gently crooned, Patrick rolled on his side, tucked one hand beneath his cheek like the angel he wasn't and breathed out deeply as he fell asleep.
"Finally," Pete exhaled, reaching down one hand to stroke over Patrick's fine hair. "You're a little piece of shit, though. But I'll take care of you, you know that. I always will."
Patrick made a small content sigh, his left leg giving a tiny kick as he stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Pete grinned at his sleeping form as he doused the lights and crossed the hall to his own bedroom. He fell asleep after searching the internet for cures for a wish from talking fish.
Actually, he didn't quite recall dozing off and when a fully grown Patrick slid into bed with him, clad in boxers and muttering darkly about breaking some really frilly crib, Pete smiled in his dreams.
fin
Author:
megyalRating: PG for language.
AN: Written for
gardengnomegeek's birthday. X-posted to peterickfics, patrickxpeter and my flist.actually, it depends if you need a full, rounded harmony; then it would be nice to have three.
"I hate when you clone two at once," Pete spat at the Patricks, who all gave him identical sunny smiles. "Dude, it gives me a headache."
"I need one for melody--" Patrick said, the Original.
"--one for low range--" PatrickOne piped up.
"--and one for upper range. It makes working out the choral parts a whole lot fucking easier, let me tell you." PatrickTwo said, looking at Pete smugly.
"You are so very vain," Pete muttered at them and the Patricks laughed in harmony.
"This from the dude--"
"--who spends forty-five minutes--"
"--bolstering his ego every morning."
"And I HATE when you do that talking-in-rounds thing!" Pete screeched, pulling the hood of his jacket over his eyes. The Patricks laughed again, now in unsettling unison, Patrick arranging himself with his guitar in the middle of the practice area, perched on a stool. It was very late, but Patrick had insisted that he needed to figure out the vocals in one particular song before recording. PatrickOne stood behind him and rested his chin on a steady shoulder. PatrickTwo sprawled comfortably on the floor as Pete stretched in the lone sofa and huffed.
Patrick started, singing the first verse and the other Patricks joined willingly, stopping now and again to adjust a note here and there. PatrickTwo was in charge of the sweet descant and his voice trilled above the other two; how Patrick managed to sound throaty while singing so high was a mystery Pete had yet to figure out. There was a sudden pause as Patrick murmured some instruction to PatrickOne, maybe how to make the low tenor more dynamic; PatrickOne listened carefully and then sang back right in Patrick's ear. Pete noticed how Patrick closed his eyes, nodding slightly and smiling, while PatrickOne's full lower lip brushed against the pink-shell of his ear.
That was extremely weird, because Pete could have sworn that PatrickOne gave Patrick a quick kiss on the damp skin behind his (their) ear; also, it was a mighty fine turn-on. Then PatrickTwo turned his head and winked at Pete.
"Yeah," PatrickTwo said. "It is as hot as you think. Believe me on this one."
"Shit," Pete replied morosely. "A Patrick orgy and no-one ever thought to invite me. I hate you all."
2) wings are cool even if flying is technically impossible when you finally get them
"Is it cherubim or seraphim that are the singers in heaven?" Pete said thoughtfully, stroking his fingers through the long white feathers that cascaded down Patrick's back. "All you need now is a halo. You'd be my messenger of all goodliness."
"You'll have to settle with the hair." Patrick's voice was drowsy, Pete's hands on his wings lulling him to sleep. He wriggled on the bed and tried to tuck himself closer into Pete's side while still getting some petting action going on, making little content noises as Pete pressed his hand on that space between his shoulder-blades. That spot itched a little sometimes and always felt exhausted with the weight of the wings. He stretched one out and it made a feathery arch at ceiling level; Pete rubbed the skin on his back where it had been folded against and Patrick sighed happily.
"God, that feels good," he moaned a little, pressing himself more against Pete and testing the bare skin at Pete's neck with his tongue. "If I could fly, I would totally thank you by taking you for a ride, or something."
"You ride me all the time," Pete leered and the wing that made a curve at the roof descended in a trembling rush, covering Pete's chest and stomach in a field of white.
"Shut up," Patrick said, moving the wing in tiny increments against Pete's skin, causing him to inhale sharply. "Shut up and don't stop touching me, please."
3) time-travel is clean solid fun
"What you are saying," Patrick said carefully, "Is that in the future, I will be a singer of a band."
"A fairly popular band," The person who claimed he was Patrick from 2007 said, sitting comfortably on Patrick's bed. He wrinkled his nose in a considering movement that Patrick recognised; he saw it in the mirror nearly every morning. "Fairly. As in, very."
"I don't even sing that well," Patrick claimed in amazement. "And I'm fifteen," he went on to clarify, as if that would make a difference. Future-Patrick, who was a lot more heavyset than Patrick thought he should have gotten, rolled his eyes.
"Give yourself some credit," he said wryly. "And you're... ok, you're sexier than you think you are."
"Ok, no," Patrick snorted. "You know why that's not working for me? Just look at us."
"Yeah, no, I don't get it sometimes either." Future-Patrick smiled faintly. "But apparently we have a nice mouth. And now I see what they mean."
"What?!"
"Some call it a blow-job mouth."
Patrick was scandalised. For crying out loud, he was fifteen.
4) never trust a talking fish
Joe thrust the baby into Pete's limp grasp, babbling something about a talking fish swimming in the display tank, set in the entrance of a deserted restaurant that he and Patrick went into earlier.
"...and the fish asked Patrick what his wish was, and dude this is where the shit hits the fan because Patrick was thinking aloud! Who thinks aloud when a talking fish is around? I don't even know but Patrick said he wanted to be taken care of, even for a little while and then. There was this baby."
Pete, who was holding the baby at arm's length, stared incredulously; the baby looked at him with large blue eyes. Then the baby made a face and wriggled, trying to squirm out of his hands and Pete adjusted his hold, bringing the sturdy little body into the crook of his arm. The baby had on that cute little monkey cap that Patrick had been wearing this morning, large over his fair little head, in addition to some strange dark-blue swaddling wrapped all about him haphazardly. A pair of glasses was tucked into the folds.
Holy shit.
"You're seriously not telling me that this is Patrick," Pete said faintly and the baby's eyes lit up at the name. He gurgled happily.
"Buyerah!" The little thing--Patrick?!-- yelled and grabbed at Pete's reading-glasses, hefting them off his face and flinging them onto the floor. Pete gaped.
"Yeah and the worst thing is? I couldn't find any diapers. So, um. That's one of your shirts I borrowed earlier. Later!"
Joe moved really quick when he wanted to.
Baby Patrick was a bit of a handful at Pete's apartment. Scratch that. The toddling six-toothed bastard was a monster. It was a lucky thing they were on a little break, because Pete had to go find some clothes for him (the salesladies at the JC Penney cooed over Patrick for hours and Patrick looked so very smug) not to mention diapers and food and playthings; what did Patrick do in return? Tore up Pete's lyrics notebook. Made an open call on Pete's sidekick... to China. Bit Hemmy on the tail... after riding him. Yelled in indignant babytalk at Pete when the the bass-guitar was pried out of his grimy grasp. Ate too much cereal and brought it up all over Pete's favourite shoes.
He tried to climb everything and poked his chubby little hand everywhere and crawled into every small space he could find; his head got stuck once in the staircase banister, and the baby laughed merrily as Pete fretted to release him, visions of the police and Children's Services dancing through his head. Pete felt a new respect for stay-at-home mothers, because he wasn't sure how they did it...and apparently Patrick was at the stage where his new favourite word was 'no', even if the activity was somewhat favourable. As in, "Hey, kiddo, how about you fall asleep now? Let your old pal Pete get some rest."
"No!"
Or, "Hey Patrick, want to go get a bath? It's gonna be so cool."
"NO!"
As much as Pete struggled with the baby for days, he still tried to do everything; he figured that one day, he'd like to make a good dad, so he went through the baths, the disastrous hair-washing (Patrick cried even though the shampoo was No More Tears. Pete had to give him a little blue sailboat everytime), the naptime that Patrick never seemed to like. Pete, at his wit's end one day, called Patrick's mother while Andy changed the stinking little fiend.
"Hey! Hi there, long time no talk...tiny question for you. Hypothetical, maybe. If Patrick was a baby, how would you get him to fall asleep?... No, this is, um. For a little article...about us when we were little. Yeah. You used to... sing? Showtunes... no, no, that helps! Who, Patrick? He's around here somewhere, says to tell you hello, you know how he is when he's in-studio, what baby-noises, I don't know what you mean. Bye!"
"There," Andy said, lifting Patrick to sit up and giving his rosy cheek a companionable pinch. Patrick showed his tiny row of teeth in a fit of good-humour and then held his chubby little arms out to Pete, fingers opening and closing in that universal action of baby-begging.
"Peeeet," he said plaintively and Pete felt his heart swell. Andy grinned.
"I guess you're gonna have to remember some show-tunes now, right?"
"Damn straight," Pete said, lifting Patrick in his arms and tickling him without mercy.
Pete only knew two songs from musicals and sang them that night in his scatchy voice (he muttered through half of Masquerade) trying hard to keep in-tune. Patrick blinked at him from out of the fussy white crib Pete had had to buy and then wonder of wonders: his eyes grew heavy. Usually, Patrick would totally ignore Pete's attempts to get him to fall asleep, choosing to stand up cutely in his onesie and stagger about in the crib. Now, as Pete gently crooned, Patrick rolled on his side, tucked one hand beneath his cheek like the angel he wasn't and breathed out deeply as he fell asleep.
"Finally," Pete exhaled, reaching down one hand to stroke over Patrick's fine hair. "You're a little piece of shit, though. But I'll take care of you, you know that. I always will."
Patrick made a small content sigh, his left leg giving a tiny kick as he stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Pete grinned at his sleeping form as he doused the lights and crossed the hall to his own bedroom. He fell asleep after searching the internet for cures for a wish from talking fish.
Actually, he didn't quite recall dozing off and when a fully grown Patrick slid into bed with him, clad in boxers and muttering darkly about breaking some really frilly crib, Pete smiled in his dreams.