амега (peterick)

seize.

I'd watch him sleep all day, if I could.

I'm not being a creep. It's calming, to just lie and watch and listen to him breathe, his lips wobbling faintly with every exhale. My muscles are warm and numb, but my eyes aren't tired. It's almost like I'm deep in meditation, or dreaming with my eyes open. Thoughts come and go, some of them lingering for too long, but they don't bother me. I'm simply enjoying the feeling of having nothing to do, and having nowhere to go. I don't need to sleep to replenish my energy; only warmth, numbness, rest, and a softly sleeping angel boy.

He twitches. Slowly, he peels the duvet away from his chin. His eyes open and he blinks. He takes a few moments to familiarise himself with his surroundings, getting used to what's real and shrugging away what isn't. When his gaze settles on my face, he conjures up a tiny smile, and I move to let him curl up against the curve of my body.

"Hey, baby," I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead. "You ok?"

His hair brushes my chin as he nods. "Just a little sore."

"Was I too rough?" He shakes his head. It isn't morning, although the groggy coolness of the air suggests it is. You'd think it would be hard to tell, in a room without windows and a boy who prefers to sleep with the bedside lights on, but Patrick's nightly work schedule makes it obvious. Also, as it turns out, people can sleep for America after they've had sex. At least Patrick can, and that excludes being woken by a bad dream, which I haven't forgotten to be concerned about. "You wanna talk about what happened?" I ask.

"Not really."

The first hurdle clips my ankle during my attempt to leap over it. "Have you had nightmares like that in the past?"

"Very rarely. Even when I do, they're never that bad."

"Might it have had something to do with Leo?"

"You shouldn't ask so many questions," he says. You know that shallow ditch of dirty water that comes after the hurdle? I'm lying face first in that right about now. "If an Omega isn't feeling very well, the Alpha usually just knows what's wrong. They don't ask, because they only care about making them feel better."

I shut up. He's only trying to help me out, but I can tell he's growing tired of being the encouraging one, disappointed that I haven't yet been able to take hold of the reins without fear of falling off the horse. I dislike that he feels inclined to be the boss, all because I still don't know how to do my job properly. If his encouragement continues I'm going to start feeling guilty for forcing him away from his protective headspace.

My lips purse to form a silent oh. "Do you need anything else?" Great job, me. It's starting to look like this is the extent of my communication skills; I've officially lost my ability to not ask silly questions. "I can get you-"

"Cuddles," he says, pressing himself closer to me and squeezing me contentedly. "Lots and lots of cuddles. I wouldn't say no to ice cream, though. If we have any, that is." He peeks up at me from below my chin, wittingly, as if to say, "Pretty please?"

He's too cute for his own good. "Unfortunately we don't have any ice cream." I push myself upright, briskly slipping out of bed while Patrick whines and makes grabbing motions with his hands to try to keep me from leaving. "But I can make you a hot drink? Tea, coffee..."

"Hot chocolate?" he asks, his eyes lighting up with childish exhilaration.

"Coming right up."

Feeling unacceptably fresh for this late in the day, I make my way out of the bedroom and down the stairs, hopping them two at a time with a spring in my heel and a smile on my face, like those middle-aged men do in the cheesy Viagra commercials. I even imagine the cheery music playing in my head as I gather the essential ingredients to make Patrick's cocoa, tucked away in their various compartments. My cellphone sits on the counter undisturbed (I have a habit of leaving it in places where it could easily be broken or stolen - if either happened, I probably wouldn't care), and coincidently, as the kettle boils and I'm twisting the lid of the jar holding the chocolate powder, it starts to ring.

I press the phone to my ear using my shoulder so I can pour the water into the mug at exactly the same time as I spoon in the powder (the grains spread more efficiently that way, thus creating a smoother blend, as well as a taste that's less watery, without the need for extra sugar or milk). "What do you want?"

"Choke yourself," Buzz says.

"Charming. I'm a little busy right now, so make it quick."

"Patrick's late for work."

The airy sound of clinking glass resonates from the mug as I stir the mixture evenly, but not too thoroughly. I put down the kettle and move the phone away from my ear to check the time. It's only seven; Patrick's shifts usually don't start until ten or later. Satisfied with that knowledge, I return the device to my ear. "No he isn't."

"Well, one of my Omegas just bailed and I need another one stat. You know how it is."

"Gimmie a sec." I tap the spoon against the rim of the mug and chuck it into the sink before picking up the cocoa and heading back upstairs. Patrick is sitting up patiently in bed when I walk in. "B needs you in work," I tell him as I place his drink down onto the nightstand.

"I can't," he says. He reaches for the chocolate eagerly, but I swipe his hands away, mouthing, too hot.

"Put me on speaker," Buzz instructs. I pull the phone away from my ear and tap the speaker on, directing the receiver toward Patrick. "Are you sick?"

"I'm about to be."

"You don't sound sick."

"My heat's due," Patrick palters.

"Is his heat due?"

"Later this week," I say. "He's alright now, though. I'll bring him in."

Patrick glowers. "But my ass hurts," he complains. "I can't twerk properly if my ass hurts."

At the other end of the line, Buzz gasps. "Peter Wentz," he marvels. "You did not f-"

Flustered and mortified, I hang up before Buzz can finish the sentence, throwing the phone away like dead vermin. Patrick's lips quirk upward in amusement as he retrieves the mug from the nightstand and blows against the steam rolling up from the liquid inside it, palms hugging the rim.

I already know I'm not going to hear the end of it tonight.

"Come on, then," I entice. "Up and dressed."

"What about my hot chocolate?" Patrick sulks.

"Don't worry, I have reusable to-go cups." I hop onto the bed and crawl up the mattress to him, kissing his lips modestly as I take the mug from his hands. "You can drink it on the way," I promise.