Title: I'm An Idiot

Summary: In which Patrick attempts to rationalize. Spoilers for 1.17. One-shot.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. It makes me sad.

Yes, I'm an idiot.

I know, ok? So you can stop telling me about it. I get it. A smart guy would have just told her not to go.

But you try it. Go ahead. Spend months holding a girl at arm's length, acting cool, keeping your distance… making a big deal about space and privacy and not labeling things… you try making a relationship as non-exclusive as possible, and then you listen to this girl tell you some douche asked her out on a date, and then you try and tell her, "Don't go."

What's that? Maybe it's not so easy? Yeah. Maybe not.

And I don't want to hear it, so don't bother pointing out that during all those months of our being non-exclusive, there was never another girl in sight, that I was spending all my free time with her, and only her. I know how I feel, all right? I know that she's the only girl in this entire school who I can stand to be around for longer than a twenty-minute make-out session in the backseat of a Lincoln. I know she's the only person in this entire town who I can stand to be around period. But that doesn't have to mean anything. That doesn't mean this thing needs a label.

Besides, she's not supposed to be asking for permission. She's not supposed to want to go. She's supposed to be free to enjoy other people's company, but prefer mine. That's how this whole thing works, if you haven't been picking up on that. That's why this is bothering me so much; it has to be. She's not supposed to want to go.

I don't want to own her. I definitely don't want her to own me. I just want her to like me the best.

I never expected this. Honestly. I never thought that some other guy was going to figure out what I did. This school is full of dumb jocks and clueless surfers and scared little AV geeks, and I just figured that I was the only guy in this school who could handle her. I mean, they're all so stupid. Blind little pack-followers. I thought I was the only guy here with the mental capacity to recognize what she was, or that even if some other guy did see it, he'd be too terrified of her to act on it. I figured I was safe.

Then this Blank guy appeared. And he wasn't scared of her. And he knew what I knew.

And he was a grade A douche, but that's beside the point. Actually, you know what? It is the point. That's the real reason why I don't like this. It's not because I don't want to see her with other guys, it's because she's chosen to spend a night of her time with a douche, when she could be spending it with me. People are going to see her with this sad sack. It's bad for my rep.

Just shut up, will you? Fine, ok? I don't want to see her with anyone that's not me. Will you get off my back?

And now she's on a date with him. Watching some stupid French flick. With subtitles. The exact kind of thing she loves. And I am standing up here, on the second floor, spying on her. Yeah, I followed her here. And I know… hypocritical. When she followed me around last week, I was pissed. So I should be respecting her space, right? Well, I'm not. And I don't care what you think.

It infuriates me that I am standing up here, alone, in the dark, like some sort of brooding, pathetic, vampire cliché. But here I am. And there she is. Down there, watching a foreign film, sitting beside Blank the Douche.

Am I the only one who remembers Meatless Mondays? Am I the only one who remembers what he did to her? I could get the silent treatment for weeks at a time because I sneezed wrong. He performs the ultimate back-stabbing betrayal, and she just lets him off the hook? She goes on a date with the asshole? Where's the justice in that?

And it's a date. An awesome freaking date. This sweater and polo wearing douche bag has gone all out. He's packed a goddamn picnic. A picnic. Guaranteed to make any girl feel special. But she's not your typical girl – that's why I like her.

And yet, she's still a girl. And every girl wants to feel special.

And I'm not any good at that. I know this. She knows this. You want to know how I make a girl feel special? I do absolutely nothing. I parade around school, emitting bad-assery, and they just come. I pick one out of the horde, and I give her the time of day. Something I don't do for most people. And suddenly, the girl thinks she's special.

Yeah, I know, ok? I'm a total asshole. You want to hear the rest of this or not?

He's down there right now, sitting next to my… female acquaintance who I occasionally make out with… and he's making her feel special. And I'm sure she's thinking about how special I don't make her feel – if she's thinking about me at all. It's a romantic film, it's dark, and there is no sign of good old Doc Stratford. Even he has completely let me down. Where are Daddy Dearest and his spray bottle when you need them?

The only hope I have to cling to is that she's not impressed by the gaggles of kids making out on their beach blankets. In fact, she is throwing food at them, and so I have to hope that means she will not be making out with the Royal Douche.

See, this is Kat Stratford. The girl who throws food at fellow brain-dead but hormonal teenagers. This is why we work. She's badass. I'm badass. Together, we terrify all we encounter. I like it. I'm a little ashamed of that… it makes me sound like Spoink… but I like it. Ok? I admit it.

I mean, this guy wears sweater vests, for Christ's sake! What is she doing with him?

And then Sweater Vest pulls out the big guns. Oh, yeah. That's right. He's brought chocolate-covered strawberries. Well played, Blanken-douche. Well played.

I am so screwed.

She eats a strawberry, and he goes in for the kill. Plays off that move like an old pro. Thumb brushing chocolate off her lower lip. And she leans in. She lets him. I can't see that great in the dark, not from this distance, but she seems to enjoy it.

Jesus, Kat. Why don't you just go and suck the damn chocolate off douche bag's finger? That'd honestly be the only way this whole scene could get any more cliché and nauseating.

And then he takes her hand.

I'm jealous. All right? I admit it. I know I've got my issues. There's, oh… the jealousy. And the anger management problems. And the poor communication skills. And the commitment phobia. And that violent streak that rears its ugly head every now and again… and I think tonight might be yet another case of now and again. I can feel the old rage returning.

I know. I shouldn't have been such an idiot, right? And holy crap, I'm an asshole. Just listen, and stop judging me.

She's got her issues too. She's not exactly a picnic. She can be downright mean when she tries. She's every bit as angry and violent as I am. She's judgmental and picky and self-centered and only hears what she wants to hear.

But he's an asshole. He's such an asshole. I'm not that big of an asshole. I'm not. I swear I'm not.

Maybe I am.

Now they're leaving. And I want to believe that they've argued, that the date is over… but I'm not naïve.

They're probably headed for the backseat of a Lincoln. Because this douche bag would totally drive a Lincoln.

So now I'm going to take it a step further. I'm going to follow them out of here. And I'm probably going to do something stupid.

I got to hope she's used to it by now.

So here I go. Down the stairs, round the corner, heading for the exit they're most likely to use. I see them cross the intersecting hallways, and I rush to come around the corner right behind them.

"Where do you think you're going?"

They turn at my voice. She's surprised to see me, to say the least. He doesn't seem all that surprised, though. At least he's not until I slam him into the lockers.

I told you, anger management.

We exchange pleasantries – he congratulates me on walking upright, I invite him to return to Harry Potter land. Kat yells at us. We ignore her. He says he doesn't want to hurt me. I reply that I would like nothing more than to hurt him.

He catches me by surprise, shoving me backwards. I stumble into the wall. And he gets down low to the floor, wielding his arms in some bastardized version of a Kung Fu move he probably stole from The Karate Kid.

He challenges me, officially. I laugh at him. He charges me, and I slam him back into the lockers.

It's a really pathetic fight. It's not even a fight, per say. It's more like a scuffle. We shove each other a lot. I smash him into the lockers a few more times. No one's willing to throw the first punch.

"Sorry guys, but whoever beats the crap out of the other does not win me!"

It's Kat who yells. She's been yelling the whole time, but this is the first line I really hear. She's marching off down the hall now, and that means it's time to end this primal, possessive display.

I mean, if the girl I'm trying to win back isn't around to watch me do it, then it's all pretty pointless, right?

And I think that's what I'm doing. Trying to win her back. Because I don't have words. And I don't have picnics and I don't have chocolate fruit and I don't have a sweater vest. All I have are my fists. And that's why this guy scares me so much. Because Kat isn't impressed by fists. She's impressed by all the things he has, that I don't.

So I throw him off me, into the lockers, with enough force that he doesn't come back at me. He looks almost startled.

And then I say it. Or technically, I shout it. I shout those five fatal words.

"Stay away from my girlfriend!"

Now I've really done it. I've called her the one thing I've been trying so damn hard not to call her.

But it hasn't really sunk in yet, because I'm too busy chasing her. I'm always chasing her. I catch her around the corner, and I grab her arm. I make the biggest understatement of the year.

"Ok. I do have a problem with you seeing other guys."

It's the lamest thing I could have said. It's the most obvious thing I could have said. I'm expecting a sneer. I'm expecting her to say something like "No! Really?" Or maybe something like "Duh."

But Kat surprises me, as she tends to do.

She smiles. She turns and walks away. "Good," she calls over her shoulder. "Then we're exclusive."

And because there are three things I am before anything else – an idiot, an asshole, and a clown – I reply with, "No. I'm still going to see other people. I just don't want you to."

Which makes her laugh. I can almost always make her laugh. At the very least, I've got that going for me.

And there's one more thing I've got that Blank the Douche doesn't. I have a moment, in her car, when she admitted she cared about me.

I'm not going to tell her what that meant to me. I'm not even going to tell you, because I don't do that. Which you should know, because if you've been paying attention, that's how we got into this stupid situation in the first place.

And don't go thinking that moment in the car is why I got so angry and jealous. It's not, ok? It wasn't this big huge thing that made me realize that I wanted to be with her and all that stupid shit. If you say it was, if you tell anyone that, I will kill you.

She grabs me by the jacket and she yanks me out of the school. Pushes me into the wall outside the door. And she kisses me.

Which means I'm forgiven. And I think I understand why. Watching me throw Blank into the lockers isn't the reason she's chosen me. It's because I said that one stupid word.

I called her my girlfriend.

And at the moment, I'm ok with that. It might only be that I'm ok with it because we're currently making out. There's a very good chance I'm going want to take it all back tomorrow morning. Hell, I might want to take it all back later tonight.

In fact, I take it all back. I take it all back, right now. As soon as this make out session is over.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm an idiot.