2020-02-13 - that one time i was promised TS but it turned out to be angst

Most couples spend the night before Valentine's Day confirming dinner reservations at fancy restaurants, making last minute decisions on what gifts to purchase, or boning like bunnies. Anne and Patrick are sadly not most couples. It's a cold night, colder still on this side of town by the cemetery where Patrick picks her up, and there's nothing celebratory or exciting about the tone in his car. She gets in, closes the door, and stares down at the grave dirt packed beneath her fingernails, at the scratches over her hands and bruises starting to blossom on her forearms, at the tears in her clothes and the overall mess that she is in the moment. Whatever happened in Billy Gohl's supposed-to-be-final resting place was obviously not good, it revealed no great mysteries or provided any explanation to what happened in Gray Harbor a few days prior. But whatever had happened had obviously affected Anne deep into her bones, considering the stark looks and pale skin and long stares.

She probably would've been happy to spend the ride in utter silence, just lost in her own thoughts. But the last thing Anne wanted to do in the moment was be lost in anything right now. So once he's in the car? "I'm sorry," she knows it's not good enough, but she says it anyway, quietly but firmly and with intent.

Patrick looked her over but briefly before getting back into the car. He's not surprised by the state of Anne or the two she's with, at whom a glance was spared but little else. As soon as he knew where he was picking her up, he braced himself for... well, for arriving to find a dilapidated version of Anne, and that's exactly what he got. So yeah, he's not surprised. It doesn't mean he's fine by any stretch, having managed to exchange angry-worry for angry-disappointment, but at least it's not angry-surprised-disappointment?

Disappointment sans surprise is a far less volatile cocktail, one that has him settling into the car that he left running with a nod at the apology. "I'm sure you are." Windshield wipers turn on, and he's checking for traffic - but there is none, 'cause it's dark and they're leaving the cemetery. "Are you hurt badly?" He also turns up the heater for her, since apparently he drove over here with the car as cold as humanly possible.

It's probably the only reason he didn't crash, 'cause odds are? He's about three drinks in AT LEAST.

She's been bracing herself for the fight she knew was coming; it's left her a little tense, but that just adds to the overall stiffness in her frame from what happened in the grave. The fact that he didn't immediately launch into shouting at her was surprising though, the question lingering for a little as she considers it. "Yes," she murmurs, because that was the truth. But she's quick to shake her head, tugging the sleeve of her shirt down from her elbow and over her wrist. "I mean no, nothing's broken or ruined, just some scratches. Bruises." But still hurt very badly, she wasn't okay.

She lays her her head against the chair, turns her blue eyes to the window to watch the cemetery pass into the distance. "I just want to go home," she admits, and then winces, because what she means is, "To your place, I mean."

Y'know, he could phrase this in such a way as to avoid making Anne's stomach drop, but Patrick's just not feeling like doing it that way, so. "I don't think that's a good idea." Her coming back to his place, he means. The cemetery is way over by the park and the bridge, and both of their houses are on Bayside, so there's a few stoplights between them and the edge of town. He keeps his attention on driving - which is smart, considering the aforementioned <#> of cocktails.

And now that there's been a calculated pause of just enough time that Anne might have time to respond, he presses on, "It's been a long afternoon, and my apartment is a bit of a mess. I'll take you to your house." Again, he doesn't HAVE to pause; he CHOOSES to. Because she clearly needs to be further tortured. "We can sort it out there."

This is precisely why Anne wasn't looking at him, why she was keeping her eyes averted and out the window. Because he says that and she remembers what it was like to look upwards to infinity, the way her stomach tied itself in knots and she knew she was going to be sick if she kept staring. His phrasing, or the pausing, or a combination of the two makes her feel the exact same way; queasy, sick, and her stomach drops and her heart does that free-falling thing as her breath catches in her throat. At least with her head turned, he can't see the way the blue of her eyes starts to swim, the way she grits her teeth and tries to overcome the nausea.

The rest of it that comes doesn't make it any better. She hugs her arms across her chest and drops her head into a faint nod. "Okay," she wasn't going to fight him, at least. "Okay, that's.. fine." No it wasn't. "That's fair." It wasn't that, either.

Patrick, without so much as brushing up against his abilities, successfully makes Anne miserable. He's not rewarded with the full effect because she's stubbornly staring out the window, and that alone makes it almost worth it. Throw it in with everything else the past two days and it's very nearly the straw that breaks the camel's back... but, instead, it winds up the straw that makes the camel tighten his grip on the steering wheel, driving with the exceptional care of a person who oughtn't be driving at all. If he winds up with a DUI, there will come such a reckoning...!

But the cops don't seem to be bent on pulling over a subdued gray Mercedes tonight. Barring anything further from Anne, this is fixing to be an uneventful drive across town. Patrick's got nothing to add right now.

Aww, let's face it. Patrick never has to use his abilities to make Anne miserable, he's just a natural at it! <3 And hey, in the moment? Anne didn't really know what was worse. Literally fading away in the Veil, or sitting here in this car feeling empty and alone. Either way, she was lost. So she hugs herself a little tighter, digs her fingers into her upper arms, and wills herself to keep staring out of this goddamn window, and it would've worked if she hadn't caught his reflection in the glass, the ghost of him making her breath catch all over again. "Patrick, I.." She should just let him drive, let him take her to her place and her dogs, leave her there. It was probably what she deserves. Her leg shakes, it brings a tremble through her body entirely, and she manages to blink away the tears but they still glisten in those bright blue eyes of hers when she turns from the window and his reflection to look at him in the flesh.

"I don't want to be lost anymore," her voice breaks as she says it, the words come out in a rush when she looks at him. It wouldn't make any sense to him, he wasn't there, but it needed to be said. And in that moment, the Dream and the heartbreak and the car ride all come crashing together, and she looks incredibly pale but also a little green around the gills, so - "Pull over. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Patrick, she..? An oblique look answers the false start, and he turns the fan-switch up another notch, making the car kick out a little more warmth. Like it can pick up the slack, since he clearly ain't feeling it right now. The quick tightening of his forehead matches the pull of his brows together, lips parted like he has something to say about her being lost, but Anne's going to be sick, and that takes precedent. He may not be a car-guy, but he doesn't want his Merc full of vomit. So he very quickly drags the car to a halt, veering it off the side of the road till they wind up pulled over on the narrow shoulder of the street that edges around the park, so at least Anne won't be puking in someone's front yard.

While she's ungreening her gills, he puts his elbows on the steering wheel, his head in his hands, and waits it out. But the meat of his reaction really kinda depends on whether or not she's actually about to get sick or just thinks she is.

Patrick's quick reaction in pulling the car to the curb brings about Anne's own sudden response - she pulls off the seatbelt, shoves the passenger door open and leans all the way out. The cold air smacks her right across the cheeks while the overworked fan pours heat over her back; it briefly steals her breath away, and thus there's a delay in the inevitable which makes it seem, for a moment, that it was far more of a think than an actuality. But then it comes, and at least she manages to push herself out of the car entirely, if only because the heat was stifling, making it a good three stumbling steps away before she bends forward and gives up her guts. At least all she had in her stomach was a protein bar and a lot of water!

Patrick waits it out, as mentioned, with his arms on the steering wheel and his head in his hands. Through the worst of the violent bits, he has a sympathetic cringe or two, but he's not well-equipped to deal with people getting sick - unless it's because they're really drunk, but then he's also usually really drunk (not just legally drunk), and it's a whole different ballgame. Anyway, the point is: he wouldn't know how to help Anne even if he felt inclined to do so.

After a bit, he collects himself to quit the car on his side, too, leaving both doors wide open and the heater working its hardest. If the cops were going to decide to check on this car, now is probably the time they'd do it. But he puts that out of mind to come around the front of the car, interrupting the beam of the headlights with his passage, and - arms crossed over his middle - watch Anne in a way that he's almost positive won't make her feel better. Eventually, he asks - with genuine concern, it should be noted, "Do you need to see a doctor?"

Anne hears him open the car door but she's still bent over dry heaving, so let's give her some time to make sure nothing else comes up. Only when she's satisfied that it's over does she wipe the back of her hand over her mouth, then wipes her hand on the back of her jean leggings, before she straightens up with some considerable effort on her part and turns herself around to face him there in the glow of his headlights. It didn't make her feel better, the way he was watching her. But at least there was genuine concern duly noted in his question.

"No, I don't need to see a doctor!" she suddenly explodes, throwing up her hands in an exasperated manner. Maybe now they could fight, maybe she was ready to really go at it! "Why can't you just see that I need --" but even with her hackles raised, the reality of what she needs swells up inside of her and sweeps away the fight she's about to have with him. "That I need.." the words come again quieter now, thick with unshared emotion, and she drops her head into her hands to hide a sob of frustration that rises from her throat. "God dammit," she utters, dropping her hands to her side. She'd been doing so well at hiding how miserable she was, but now it was there in plain view for him to revel in. "If I needed a doctor I would've called an ambulance, Patrick. I don't want a doctor," she breathes out, deflating. "I just want you. I just need you."

In a low, excited tone, Patrick answers that initial explosion with a keen-sounding, "Oh, yes. Let's make this my fault." Like there's nothing in the universe he wants more than that right now. The fight may have been swept out of Anne, but he's had a long afternoon to shore up his defenses, and it's gonna take more than some throw-up and swallowed sobs to soften him up to poor little Anne. Even if the things she says are a gut-punch that makes him close his eyes for a moment till he can inhale and set his jaw properly and look at the state of her rather than just her.

He can stay mad at her a dirty, battered person that just barfed on the side of the road. That's easy.

"It's a good thing I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, then, isn't it." He's going back around to her side of the car now, holding the door. Rain is getting on the interior, plus it really does look bad to be pulled off the road like they are. "Please get in."

"It's not, I'm not --" blaming him, she means, it comes out with gritted teeth and another shudder running through her dirty, battered self. It was cold out here, it was miserable out here, and the only solace was that it looked like he was coming towards her in the moment. Then that hope is dashed, too, when he stops at the door to the car and she winces her eyes shut, sending more tears to dribble down her cheeks. Please get in.

"No," she utters quietly, chokes on another sob, but holds her ground as she balls up her hands into white-knuckled fists. "I don't want to get back in the car. I don't want you to take me to my house and leave me wondering if you're even going to stay. I don't want to be.. I don't want to feel.." her nails dig into the soft of her palms, but her shoulders sag. "Lost. I feel so lost. Like I don't know what to do and I don't know where to go but I don't want to go where you're not, Patrick, please."

"If you don't want to be where I'm not, then get in the fucking car." Because he? Is not going to be standing here much longer. She gets about five seconds to comply before Patrick is going to close the passenger door and drive away. They may be a tense five seconds, too, because he's doing his own white-knuckling where he holds on to the door, fingers pressed against the glass of the passenger window till the tips of them are as pale as bone. The very tiniest he can give is to explain, "I've had several drinks. If I get a ticket on top of everything else - " He can't even quantify how angry he'd be, but he shakes his head and looks at Anne with a suitable collection of BLAME in his eyes right now.

So. Last chance. Get in, or get ditched. The passenger door will get closed, whether she's in it or not, and he'll cross around to get back in the driver's seat.

Welp. Go ahead and mix in a heaping measure of disbelief to the sad eyes Anne's giving Patrick right now. She says all that and this was the response? To get in the fucking car? She huffs like there's more to say - like maybe she's going to challenge his willingness to leave - but there is nothing said. It is a tense couple of seconds, but only two, because on the next heartbeat she's rolling back her shoulders and drying her cheeks with the heels of her hands as she gets in the fucking car.

Patrick stirs the disbelief right in with everything else, gives it a nice tang, and slams the door once she's in the seat with a hard swing, fuck this car door. He's less brutal with his own door, but it still buttons up harder than it should, and now the heater is blasting on two damp people, so the windows fog up immediately - and not even for a fun reason. 🙁 He more mashes the controls to make the defroster come on than just turns it on, then spins the tires when he also mashes on the gas pedal instead of just easing the car back onto the road.

After a harrowing moment when the car spins its wheels on the wet asphalt, slips its grip, makes a nice little skid into the opposite lane (thank god there was nothing coming their direction right then), he gets the thing aimed in the right direction, and finally exhales. Mildly embarrassed after that completely unnecessary tantrum, he goes with, "Thank you." For getting in the car, maybe?

The violet slam of the car door makes Anne jump in the seat; she's a little skittish from her experiences, tyvm. At least she doesn't glare at him through the window - she glares out the windshield at nobody while tugging her seatbelt into place. Thus, she's strapped in and ready to go when he gets in, stomps on the gas pedal and spins the car wheel, making her immediately jerk her hand out to grab hold of his shoulder, like holding onto him is going to somehow magically save them both from dying or something. Which means she's got her fingers digging into him when he rights the car and utters his thanks.

She let's go, but it takes a minute.

"Yeah," she swallows, letting her hand fall back into her lap. She licks her lips and looks down, back to inspecting the dirt under her fingernails. "Yeah, no, I .. uh, I should be the one saying thanks," she takes in a deep breath, lets it sigh back out. "For coming to get me."

"Save it." Seriously, Patrick. Stop saying hateful things and then waiting, like, a solid two seconds before qualifying them into slightly less horrible versions. "At least until you know that I'm not going to drive us into a telephone pole along the way." There are a lot of them jumping out from the side of the road.

Plus, her thanks may be harder to pry loose when he adds, "I'm so angry with you, I can't see straight. So pardon this, but." He just got this car toasty warm, and now he rolls down the window on his side, all the way down, sucking all the heater-air out into the cold night. It's very fortifying, though, the blast of icy air that gets to swirl around the car while he heads them toward Anne's house. The loud sound of the wind coming in through the window does a great job of making it either harder to have a conversation or easier to ignore the lack of one.

Probably, there should have been a driving check in all this, but he really would never speak to any of them again if he got a DUI, so we're skipping that. Instead, he's doing quite well under the circumstances, and they aren't going to die between here and Anne's house.

Save it, Patrick says, and it makes Anne tense up all over again. The follow-up doesn't make it any better, because the follow-up comes with another follow-up about how angry he is with her, and she's far too tired to hold stubbornly onto her emotions anymore. Hopefully it makes him feel better to see just how miserable she was, because now it was on full display. Add in a blast of frigid air, and Anne slumps forward to hang her head in her hands. At least the wind whipping through the windows muffles her crying. And at least her crying means she's not going to talk anymore! So you know, silver lining and all. But perhaps even more thankfully, all the tears manage to fall out along the drive, so by the time they pull up to her house, she's all cried out, scrubbing her cheeks with her sleeves.

They were here. They were here and they were not dead, the car wasn't wrapped around one of those lightposts that likes to jump out into the road. The porchlight is on, but the house is dark; the dog-sitter doesn't stay the night. "Well," she looks out the window, rubs her hands on her legs, and frowns at her reflection in the glass. "We got here." Beat. "So." Pause. "Thank you."

The car gets put in park in the driveway. The headlights get turned off. If those dogs aren't in there losing their minds about the OMGCAR!!! in the driveway, then they're obviously the worst corgis ever, but Patrick does a fine job of ignoring any distant-and-muffled barks sounding from inside the house. It's even easier when he rolls up the window on his side, leaving it open only a crack at the top. To let in some air. Because it won't be fun for him to CHOKE HER TO DEATH if she's already been smothered.

He doesn't kill the ignition yet, just unclips the seatbelt and shifts so he can look at Anne while she's looking at her reflection. She looks bad; he looks tired, bloodshot, but she definitely wins the 'who looks the shittiest' competition.

"What did you do." The twinge at the corner of his eye is because he really did mean that to be a question, not just a weary demand for information. He tries again, forcing his tone to soften, but damn if the effort of doing so doesn't show. "What happened?"

The dogs are, in fact, flipping out inside the house. They are already at the door, yipping with all the excitement that they can muster. But it doesn't even bring a hint of a smile to Anne, it doesn't make her feel any better. In fact, if it were possible for her to feel worse, it would be in this moment at the tired demand/question that comes out of Patrick and makes her grit her teeth again. It takes a whole lot of effort for her to turn away from the window, to unbuckle her seatbelt and twist in her seat to look back at him. She absolutely wins the 'who looks the shittiest' competition - even tired and bloodshot, he still looked so very pretty.

But she keeps her hands in her lap, wringing her hands together. "We were supposed to wind up in the Veil. We were just going to look and come right back, that's what I told them and that's what we were going to do," she begins quietly, flicking a look up to his eyes and then down to his chin, "But that's not where we went. I-I must've messed something up, I'm pretty sure we were in a Dream," and it's obvious that she blames herself for this entirely. "And there was just.. it was like some kind of memorial and there were all these names and there was no way out, there was.."

She takes in a staggering breath, but the next words come in a sob, "We were fading away. But they were okay because they had each other, they were okay with being lost together, and I.." Her shoulders start to shake, and it's obvious she is doing her level best to keep her goddamn hands in her goddamn lap; she was holding one hand with the other so tight, her knuckles were white. "All I wanted to do was get back to you. To find you. But I didn't know how."

Patrick gets his comeuppance for all those stomach-knotting comments he made on the way here. The very beginning of Anne's story - what they were supposed to do, just going to look and come right back - punches him right in the gut, so that when she does the eye-check? His are closed beneath a tightened forehead, a wince of pain that only loosens when he gets his back-teeth to clench and scrape together, grinding them in his ears under the sounds of her talking about the Dream and how the other two had each other. He gets them opened again by the time she's done, so he's looking across this vast expanse of the center console at Anne, having retreated to a slump in the corner of his chair, against the window.

There's a long silence after the last of her words, where he's looking at her with terrific sadness. Not tears, 'cause he's not good at emotions on account of all that blah blah blah back-story, but there's some powerful hurting going on in this car right now, and it ain't all Anne's. Finally, when the silence wants to get to be TOO much, he forces himself to say something. Anything. "Names of what?"

It's not a thing he cares about. It's just a thing to say until he gets back to being angry instead of hurt.

That long silence hurt, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as how sad he looked in the moment. That nearly kills her, that look, the fact that she wanted so badly to reach out and touch him and take it all away and didn't even know if she could. So she keeps her hands in her lap but she doesn't look away - she has to face this, she has to see this, no matter how painful it was. "People," she answers his question, rolls her tongue over her lips. "So many people, I think the names went on forever. It .. it said they were the Lost," she swallows hard, forges ahead. "That we were lost. And I know what I said. That I promised you," she shudders those words out, heavy with meaning. It's like that one promise meant everything, because it had. Because it does.

"But it was right. The wall, what it said. I was lost, I am lost, and I've spent all this time searching for something, anything. Something to bring them back. Something to keep you here, with me, and I.." She sniffles, and forget about what was said about her tears having dried up; they start falling again, fresh and heavy. "Maybe Izzy and Alexander are okay with being lost together but I'm not okay, I'm not okay with that. I don't want to be lost anymore, Patrick, I .." Come on, Anne. "I love you. And maybe it's not enough to keep you here but it has to mean something."

It doesn't break him, exactly. Partially because even an emotionally stunted asshole would have to have known already. But it does soften his resolve to work his way back around to the stompy-rage-hate that fueled the hours between leaving work and coming home to an apartment that's never actually empty on account of he's haunted and hold on... lost my train of thought on this one...

The point is: Patrick can't keep his hate-on effectively when she's being so terrifically pathetic. With a last sigh of tired frustration, like he's irritably conceding defeat here, he reaches across with one hand and thumbs a couple of tears off her cheeks for her, holding her head still enough that he can lean over and press a small kiss to her temple. It's not comfortable, with the center console jabbing him in the abdomen, but he does it anyway, because feels.

"Stop crying," he says against her skin, only leaning back after one more small press of his lips to her cheek. "You're not lost, so it obviously wasn't true. You're just - " He wants to say STUPID so badly that he has to make sure to brush her eyes with his thumb again. Y'know, as a reminder that he's trying to make her stop crying, not start all over again. " - a glutton for punishment, it seems."

Maybe he already knows but it was a hard thing for her to actually admit; she's held onto those words for so long that it was almost painful to get them out. But out they were now, though it provides no relief to have said them, no sense of a weight released from her shoulders. Maybe because she didn't know how he would respond. So if it weren't for the damnable center console, Anne likely would've forced herself into his lap the second that he reaches out to touch her. But the center console was a big uncomfortable barrier in the way, and so she merely drops her cheek readily into his touch, obviously yearning for something so simple. She closes her eyes, shudders out another breath when he kisses her temple, and finally lifts her hand to thread her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to him. Sorry, Patrick's abs, it's gonna be uncomfortable for a little while.

But he was right, you know. About what she was: a glutton for punishment. Because she didn't expect him to say the words back to her, to have those feelings for her, but she let it out there all the same and wanted so badly for him to say something in return. But well, she was all about punishing herself tonight, so whatever. At least the tears stop, coming to a slow trickle as she sniffles and leans into his touch and his lips, another shaky sigh leaving her. "I'm sorry," she murmurs again, "I am. I'm so sorry, I should've waited. I should've.. we were only supposed to go in and look, and I knew something was wrong when I felt the door but I still went in and I.. You're right," she concedes. It's a quiet moment as she relaxes her grip on his hair, lets her fingers come down to stroke the line of his jaw, until her hand comes to rest on his cheek. "Will you spend the night with me, please?"

Oh, God. Did she really expect him to be all 'ilu too'? Because that is tragic. Not 'cause he doesn't feel the same way and all, but 'cause it doesn't even occur to him as a thing to say right this second. Like, that's not what the conversation is about (from his perspective), so why would he bring it up? Patrick's life would probably be a lot smoother if he would go back to communicating with people. Alas.

He does say a few things that are a little tonally appropriate. Things like, "Shh." And, "I know," to her apologies and explanations. But she's gonna have to suss the love-you-too out of the lingering sadness in his eyes, out of the fact that no one else would even get that glimpse, and the fact that he leans his cheek heavy into her hand, like his neck just stopped working and it's on her to keep him from just lolling unprettily.

"Yes." Conversation too serious! Eject, eject! "But only if you let me come inside."

Perfectly fucking deadpans that line. Like. Nailed it.

It was super tragic! But the sadness in his eyes and the lean of his cheek, the tonally appropriate shushes and lingering touches were at least enough to keep her heart from breaking into a thousand pieces. Like, maybe it was okay that she couldn't have the words or the feelings behind them, as long as she could have him for the night. So she drops a kiss to his cheek, to his jaw down near his chin, but she did just throw up about ten minutes ago so she doesn't kiss him on his mouth.

But he wants to come inside, and she can't say no to that, though it doesn't even so much as make her crack a smile. Maybe tomorrow she'll laugh about it, when she's trying to focus on the things that were said and not on the things that went unspoken. "Come on then. I need to wash up," she leans away, reaches for the door, but before she opens it up to head inside? She looks over her shoulder.

"If you don't complain about the dogs..I'll let you come in the bathtub, too." Insert rimshot here.

Patrick ought to revert to communicating, and Anne ought to learn to take the unspoken things to heart. She kisses his cheek, and he breathes audibly, something like relief in his sigh. She kisses his jaw, and he tightens his hand where it cups her cheek in turn, holding her lips to his skin a moment longer before his fingers relax. The softened fingers drag down across her chin in turn, falling off on their way down the line of her neck, finally coming back over to his side of the car. He uses them on the seatbelt, but his eyes hold hers in between the last kiss and the first of her words.

There's a lot there, in that look, however brief it is. Sadness and faded anger turned to weariness, but there's also something there that fetches the shadow of a smile into play for him - even if she's too hateful to so much as crack a smile at his amazing joke up there, frigid bitch. "Yes," is what he winds up saying, nodding a little too forcefully in his agreement that she needs to wash up.

Some grumbly noises follow the deal about the dogs and the bath, but he keeps his comments to himself in favor of getting out of the car. Being honest? There's no bathtub-sex (or sex of any kind) in Patrick's future tonight. This day has been too hard on him for him to be hard for anyone else. Plus, she's all bruised up, and he's not a 'lemme kiss it and make it better' kinda guy.

It's really not her fault that his joke wasn't funny enough to earn him a laugh. Try harder, nerd! Still, that shadow of a smile? She sees that, and while she's far too tired and emotional to find the depth of hidden meaning in his looks.. his smile brings a smile to her own lips, a light quirk there at the edges of her lips, before she finally gets out of the car to head to the house.

But no, there'd be no coming inside after he's come inside. No bathtub sex or shower sex or bedroom sex; she just scrubs the crap out of her teeth and lays with him in the tub with her head on his chest, and lets the warm water wash away the cold and the grave rot and at least a little bit of the sads, until all that was left was the bruises and the heavy weariness and those pervasive dark thoughts that weren't going anywhere, not for awhile. Then it's off to bed, where she doesn't expect him to perform so she can't get disappointed when he doesn't .. and they might not have sex but she has him and that's what seems to matter, at least for tonight. So she curls up close, limbs intertwined and her head on his chest, and she listens to his heartbeat until she falls asleep.. and it was good, because she loved him.

And besides, his penis would be there in the morning. HOPEFULLY!

Patrick gets up in the middle of the night to pee and kick the dogs, though. Not hard or anything, but it has to happen.