Work Text:
You’re having One Of Those Nights. The ones where your head hurts, pulses, pushes against itself in protest to the too late nights where your screen is your best company. The nights where your eyes sting, your back aches and your mind screams out things that don’t bear repeating.
They’re true, you know it all too well, but you’d rather they not worry.
It’s different now. Not a parking lot, not a shaking hand filled with Atavan, dimly lit under the neon glow of the bright yellow and blue sign.
No, this is new.
Your own death on replay behind too tightly closed eyelids. That vision of yourself
falling
falling
falling
a gruesome crack and then you’re a crime investigation waiting to happen. A tabloid tale of what happens when all goes wrong in Hollywood. Sidewalk paint.
You try not to think about it. Immersing yourself in Bronx’s sunshine smiles and Hemmingway’s desire to lick your face until it comes off. It helps, but it’s not always enough, so you drown yourself in work. Making calls and taking chances as the clock on your computer screen boldly announces that it’s 3:50 am and you haven’t slept at all. Which, whoops, there’s a show tomorrow and errands to run and a set list to check and life. But the pounding is still there and a voice like your own is laughing, cruel and sharp.
Then, you’re dialing. You don’t even know who; you don’t care. The line beeps
once
twice
and then you hear a groggy, less than amused, “Pete?”
Your mind starts to clear up a bit. “Yeah.”
"It’s fucking 4 o’ clock in the morning."
"Actually, it’s like 3:52."
There’s a sigh. “Right. That’s way more reasonable, my bad.” There’s sarcasm dripping from his voice but it lacks venom, diluted with sleep.
The line is silent for a beat and you can hear him breathe, shuffling around a bit. It’s comforting for some reason and you can picture the huff of his chest as he pries himself up into a sitting position. Hand blindly fumbling around as he looks for his glasses. You’ll never know why he feels the need to wear them when you know he’s probably going to be asleep again in 15, but it’s better not to waste time arguing.
"So," and then he’s snapped you from your thoughts. "What’s the tune for this fine not-morning?"
"Britney?"
He snorts. “I told you that was a one time thing. Ellen DeGeneres is the only way that’s ever happening again and I really doubt you have her on 3:52 in the morning speed-dial.”
"Unfair," you frown. "Lunchbox, I’m sitting here being awesome and editing the audio files you didn’t finish and you won’t even break out a little pop diva for me? My heart is broken. Damaged even."
"No Danity Kane either."
"But how you gonna fix it? …Fix it. Fix it. How you gonna—"
"Pete," he interrupts with a groan. "I will choose seeing the insides of my eyelids over talking to you in two seconds if you don’t pick a damn song."
He’s lying. Patrick hasn’t chosen sleep over you since you first met him and he really isn’t going to start today. You think. You pick a song anyways because the longer you keep him up, the more liable he is to get pissed off at your next less than brilliant idea.
"Mrs. Robinson?"
It’s quiet, like he’s pondering it. “That’s old.”
"Classic."
"Yeah."
He clears his throat and somewhere between the time he starts singing and the time the last note barrels out of his throat, calm and sweet; you’re out cold.
Another vision comes to you, not of sidewalks or the long way down. But of you and Patrick sitting out on a lawn, not-morning spread across the sky and your head’s leaned against his lap like a pillow with his fingers weaved into your hair. It’s quiet, inner and outer you agree, and there’s nothing to do. Nothing to do but fall
falling
falling
falling
into love.
"God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray…"