Legal But Not Socially Acceptable (Peterick)

These Not so Secret Admirers Have it Bad

When Patrick had decided to help the kid out all he thought of it was a good deed. Like throwing a coin into a wishing well...in a way. All he truly expected was positive karma and nothing else - it's as simple as that.

A piece of cake.

The last thing he expected was the boy himself to show up during his shifts hand in hand with donuts, coffee, every stereotypical cop treat you could imagine. Patrick was fairly surprised at first, eyes widened and mouth open in shock.

Patrick had said "I thought I told you I didn't- " right before he was rudely cut off by the boy with a flick of his wrist and a roll of his eyes.

Pete set the coffee down on Patrick's desk. The only noise that could be heard be the swishing of the coffee in the minuscule paper cup as he had pranced off, back held straight, nose pointed up high in the air, and with a pep in his step he was gone.

It continued ever since - every Friday Patrick crossed the parking lot with careful steps, hesitant - he was looking, searching for the boy...Sometimes he caught glimpses of a striped up sweatshirt. Colors red and black - maybe purple thrown in to the loop. Too tight jeans, ripped up and frayed. Dirty converse with dark smudges of gravel and other mysterious stains Patrick decided he'd rather he'd not ponder over.

Patrick found himself too interested, far too observant. He'd scrutinize every detail to a T. His co-workers - his friends, were wondering just who this kid was. Still were even. They'd ask him, but he'd only force a terse chuckle and shrug his shoulders in response.

Gabe, one of his closest friends would nudge him with a grin, would tell him he had a secret admirer. Patrick of course would deny this, wrap his arms narrow around his middle all the while shaking his head. Saying that was ridiculous. Not only profoundly inappropriate, but either way he isn't looking - trying for that.

His friends would take him out regularly - try to get him in the mood. Find someone, get to know them - take them home, maybe. What ever would happen. Patrick went, sure. He talked, yeah. Nobody ever interested him. He'd say there was something wrong with him. Nothing met his eye and really sparked a cord.

Patrick doubted he really sparked anyone else's cord either. He didn't go all out with his looks. He wore band tees, baggy jeans and denim jackets. Sheathed his head in trucker caps and knit caps. It's what he enjoyed, felt comfortable in. Of course he wore his uniform when necessary. He never used his title as a form of pickup. He understood it, people enjoyed a man in uniform - doesn't mean he'll ever try it.

But then in complete honesty Patrick had a hard time denying anything when he felt the warmth of his cheeks, his neck flushing a light shade of pink as his eyes met the heart shaped cookie placed neatly in front of a tall cup of espresso.

"Fuck," he had muttered, noticing the looks Gabe had thrown him from across the room. He flipped said man directing wiggling eyebrows at him the bird before he slumped down into his rigid chair, wiggling slightly as he scooted forward.

"This is not at all what I signed up for," Patrick sighed, taking what he'd call a scandalous gulp of the scalding liquid. Wincing when it splashed the back of his throat, but relishing in the flavor. He rubbed at his neck, frowned deeply and his eyelids fluttered shut before he muffled the words "Today's gonna be a long day," through the palm of his hand as he yawned, big, and loud.

***

Every Friday, every Friday, every Friday...and then not at all. Patrick tilted his head and blinked at the lack of clutter upon his desk. Nothing, nothing at all. Empty. He mentally shook his head. Perhaps the boy had considered his debt finally paid - it didn't really matter. At least Patrick told himself that.

So he ground his teeth and sat hard in his chair. Told himself it was fine - not to worry. Not to do anything. Concerning himself with this boy was not his job - well his job...was to protect the innocent, but not like this.

Not at all like this.

***

After a day of paranoia lurking up atop of Patrick's shoulder. Telling himself something happened, something bad - he's got a churning in his stomach, a pounding in his head. He stood up, ignored the pain in his lower abdomen and went on through the double doors to the parking lot.

Patrick seemed to be finding himself surprised more than ever these past few months when he's ambushed by a tear faced young boy stood right in front of him. In front of his car He stared, and stared, and stared some more. Before the sound of a sniffle shot straight through him. He finally spoke, soft and gentle. "...Pete?"

Pete's head was down - eyes dipped to the concrete. His chest was heaving, with harsh breaths racking through him every few moments and all Patrick could do was watch before he placed a delicate hand to the younger boy's shoulder. He definitely wasn't anticipating the kid to directly flinch away from his touch.

Patrick jerked back, stuck his arms to his sides and bit his lip. "Pete?" He tried again, eyeing the boy with a crook in his neck. Pete finally glanced upwards, looked him straight in the eye, and that's when Patrick noticed with a sudden dread filling his chest. A great, big, and harrowing mark bruising almost half of the boy's entire face.

Before Patrick could ask how - why - when? Pete spoke. Words oddly low - strangely smooth. "C-could we - could we talk?" Tone so hopeful, the cop was already nodding his head as the second word was mumbled.

He felt as if his good karma had been erased instantly from how miserable the state the young teen was in.

With a deep inhale, Patrick had a horrible feeling he already knew just what had happened.