A/N: So this is my first 10TIHAY fic. During the season finale I just got inspired to write this Katrick fic. I really hope this isn't too OOC, I tried my best. So I'm assuming a bunch of people will be doing this idea, but I just really wanted to write this because Patrick is epic.
Summary: Other than the fact that voice did strange and unusual things to her insides, she really didn't remember the rest of that conversation. She didn't remember asking him to come back to her and she definitely didn't remember his coy and smug response.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. All characters and SL belong to 10 TIHAY as well as the movie, which is awesome by the way. The quote at the beginning is what inspired me to write this and isn't mine either. I don't have a beta by the way, so all mistakes are mine.
"Hold my hair."
That's what you said to me at your party. Right before you hurled.
-- Patrick and Kat
Katerina Stratford wasn't the type to get drunk. Then again, when she came to Padua High, she didn't exactly she'd have a gravitational pull towards the mysterious trouble making hunk of a man. Who drove a motorcycle. And wore leather jackets. Not that she was into those sorts of things. Because she wasn't. And she definitely wasn't attracted to the way his deep voice rumbled at her.
However, if she really believed all of these things, she wouldn't have just drank her weight in alcohol and some spiked watermelon. And it was all his vault. She wanted to castrate him. But mostly, she just wanted him here.
She hated how he thought of her. He seemed the only person who wasn't afraid of her and actually accepted her for her radical ideas the same way she sort of didn't mind his rebel exterior. Sort of.
Her first reaction to seeing his hulking and beautiful form in her doorway was to slam the door in his face. Maybe that was a lie. Her first instinct was to slap him. Maybe kiss him. Then slam the door. He deserved it. But somehow again, he wormed his way casually and skillfully into her life when she least expected or even wanted him.
And there he was. Towering over her in her room where he definitely shouldn't be. Her father would freak if he knew that some guy was alone with her in her room while a party raged below them where they probably wouldn't be heard doing the thing her father feared. And the thing that she maybe wanted.
Getting arrested wasn't that attractive of an excuse. But it was a damn good one. Of course, she had to put that wall up like she always did. She hated how she let someone so dangerous get so close. She let him touch her and break down defenses that no one had succeeded even coming close to. Not that they wanted to. But he, for some inexplicable reason did. And it wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair because she was falling so hard and so fast for him without a net. He wasn't safe. She couldn't trust him. But she wanted him. And in the end, it turned out that he was the one storming out of her room and a rage while she was the one broken by him. Again. In her opinion, he really didn't have a right to be angry with her. He left her. But in his opinion, talking to her was like talking to a wall.
It could have been Bianca that drove her over the edge. But in her drunken stupor, if she was being totally and completely honest with herself (which didn't happen often) it was him. It was always, always him. He drove her to do the things that she thought she was never capable of. He drove her to get fake ID's and actually wearing a dress. And now, he was driving her to drink.
In retrospect, this probably wasn't the sign of a healthy relationship (not that she wanted one altogether, with him no less) or that right now her fingers were fumbling over the keypad for the number she didn't even remember getting but it was in her contacts anyway.
His dark voice rumbled over the other end. "Hello?"
Other than the fact that voice did strange and unusual things to her insides, she really didn't remember the rest of that conversation. She didn't remember asking him to come back to her and she definitely didn't remember his coy and smug response.
She did remember, however, stumbling towards the bathroom on the top floor, and collapsing on the tiles, knowing that this would be the last time that she ever did something like this ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever again.
But if it always came attributed with that sweet smell of leather and the heady musk leaning over her as she lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, maybe it was just worth it.
His combat boots sounded against the floor as she lay on her stomach, not really aware of anything. His tremendous shadow fell over her. The lights in the bathroom were blinding, but for some reason, he was the one to give her comfort from it.
"Nice choice of wardrobe," he hinted at the dress shirt that barely covered her. She wasn't even sober enough to have the decency to cover herself. He didn't seem to mind.
It really couldn't have been anyone else, but there was a slight chance that she was delusional. He sighed heavily and kneeled beside her.
"You drunk dialed me," he decided to say.
"No," she contradicted immediately. She wasn't sure if that was a ghost of a smile.
"Its still like talking to a wall."
And she wasn't sure if he was saying it with spite or not.
"Why are you here?"
"You drunk dialed me," he repeated. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe she didn't have to disagree with him this time. She didn't.
"Why are you here?" she asked again. He paused.
"Because I want to be."
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked instead. Always avoiding the serious conversations. Not that she would remember in the morning anyway. Not that she would know that.
"I'm sprawled on my own bathroom floor," she slurred.
"Okay," he said, biting back a smirk at her wryness, even in her current state of being. He sighed again. He took her forearms in his hands.
"What are you doing?" Kat groaned. He didn't answer but just pulled her into a sitting position. She was having a difficult time even holding her own weight. She started to sway backwards. He caught her deftly and without even thinking, just pulled her into his chest. She clutched the front of his jacket like she was holding onto a lifeline. He decided that he didn't mind so much.
Maybe he wasn't Prince Charming, but he wasn't exactly the dragon either. At least, not the sort of dragon that gave damsels distress. She wasn't much for distressing either. Maybe they were just a new kind of fairytale. One that he hadn't thought of before. Or one that hadn't even been written yet.
Kat inhaled deeply. Her head stopped spinning immediately. She didn't like to think that Patrick Verona kept her grounded or safe, but he was probably the only one who could do either.
Patrick wasn't that oblivious either. He didn't like the weird clenching in his chest or the dropping of his stomach at her closeness or the very real realization that she was actually smelling him. And not running the other way. She was the only one who did either. Ever.
"Patrick," she said softly. She lifted her head to meet his beautifully onyx eyes.
"What?" he asked, just as quietly.
"I think I'm going to be sick."
Reflexively, he immediately let her go. She fell, luckily supporting herself on the porcelain basin. If he were anyone else, maybe he would have apologized for almost smashing her face in. Instead, he just put his large hand gently to her back, soothing her in a way that he didn't even know that he possessed. He wasn't one for comforting, but she seemed to like the fact that he was there. For her.
"Patrick," she said again. Maybe he liked the way she said his name, as though it were a secret. As though no one was really supposed to know that he was there.
He didn't answer, just kept holding her in that intimate way that he thought were reserved for those regular people who had steady girlfriends and went to movies and held hands. Or maybe she was the only one he could ever consider himself doing those things with.
"Hold my hair."
He knew she was going to be sick. And it seemed like such a simple get detrimental request. Girls didn't ask Patrick Verona to hold their hair back. They asked him to take them on the back of his bike of have sex with them in the back of cars. They didn't ask him to take care of him. But Kat Stratford really was above the learning curve. And as he grasped her dark, silky locks that streamed down her back, he realized that maybe he was okay with it. He could do this. Maybe. But he could maybe do this only with her.
Her body convulsed as she heaved all the contents of the alcohol and watermelon (strange) that she had consumed that night. He just held her steady so she wouldn't fall. Like he had been doing all along.
When she was done, she shakily shifted from her position, grabbing a towel to clean herself off. Even while inebriated, she was very hygienic, and that was something you just had to admire.
"Patrick," she said hoarsely again.
It was his Achilles Heel. She could say his name and he would come. Or, he would at least hold her hair back while she vomited.
"Are you going to hurl again?" he asked dryly.
"No," she said weakly, going to lay down on the ground. He was about to stop her (she shouldn't be laying on the ground in this state. He didn't like it.) Then she suddenly just curled in his lap. He removed his hands suddenly as though he had been burned.
She shouldn't trust him. It wasn't right. He could really hurt her and he wouldn't be able to stop it. He didn't know how she couldn't understand how bad he was for her. As he watched her innocently hold onto him, he knew that he didn't care. He put his fingers to her silky strands. Now he knew what comforting someone was like. It wasn't that bad. Even if he sort of was stroking her hair which was way weird.
"Thank you," she whispered into his black jeans.
He didn't answer. He wouldn't know what to say. Honestly, he wasn't sure what parts of this night she would remember and what she wouldn't. Part of him wanted her to remember this. Remember him. Know that it was him that took care of her. Then again... it would just be so much fun if she didn't.
Patrick knew when it was time to leave. He couldn't just stay here. He ran his hands through his mess of hair. He tried to pull her up but she shrugged him away.
"No," she said petulantly. He rolled his eyes. He didn't know what he saw in her. She was so annoying. "I want to stay here."
"On the bathroom floor?" he asked incredulously. She rolled away from him and he knew that he couldn't leave without his one moment of sleaze. It was terrible mostly because she was drunk, but he was really good at rationalizing.
The shirt had rode up her perfect thigh. He couldn't just leave her like that, now, could he?
"Fine," he relented. But he knelt down again and pulled the shirt to cover her, letting his hand graze her thigh as he went. It was gross, but then again, so was he.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," he said. "Goodnight, Kat."
She leaned her head against the cold tile of the floor, soothing the pounding headache she was about to get.
He took one last leisurely look at her then walked out into the hallway. He could easily just slip into the throng of drunken partiers and make his escape. Apparently he wasn't as observant as he gave himself credit for.
He walked down the stairs and as soon as he reached the ground floor, he was attacked by what appeared to be water. As though a reflex, he shoved at whatever hit him and his hands made contact with his assailant.
"What the hell?" he yelled, rubbing the water from his eyes.
"Who are you?" his attacker demanded. Patrick raised his dark eyes to meet a blond haired pretty boy which he could most likely kick the crap out of.
"Who am I?" Patrick asked dangerously, knowing his reputation alone could make the guy most likely run for his life.
"Joey, its okay," Kat's equally blond sister said, lowering the water bottle that was still aimed at Patrick.
"Patrick," Bianca said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't mind Little Stratford. After all, if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have had another chance with Kat after the roof debacle during the brush fire.
"Did you climb through Kat's window?" Bianca accused.
"There was a crowd at the door," Patrick replied, realizing now that was probably Bianca trying to get everyone out of her rager. That was the price you paid for throwing a house party. He had been to enough of them to know.
"Oh," Bianca replied, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. The pretty boy was still glaring at him accusingly. Whatever.
"Where's Kat?" she asked.
"Probably still hurling her guts out," Patrick said coolly. Like hell he would let anyone know that he sometimes cared. No.
"And you left her there?" Bianca asked uneasily. Patrick just shrugged, sauntering towards the front door which was so callously slammed in his face hours before. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. After all, he still had a reputation to uphold and if Kat's little cheerleading wannabe sister knew something, the whole school would. And he couldn't have that.
He closed the door behind him and mounted his bike. He didn't wear a helmet this time. Kat's desperate and needy, drunk voice on the other end of the line was enough to get him over quickly enough.
He kicked the bike to life and not for the first time, wondered what it would be like to have persistent and picketing hands around his waist as he rode off. That would only happen after he told her what he knew of course. That would happen after he said that she wanted him too.
In Kat's drunken mind, she couldn't really remember how she ended up on the living room floor with a permanent marker in her hand. All she could remember was the sweet leathery smell encasing her and large strong hands holding her back. You could even tell the intent in her drunken scrawl, even in the morning when she found it later, not realizing who actually wrote it in the first place.
I heart Patrick.