Wrong Number

A/N:  I've posted the url for the photo of a puppy that looks like Shade, if you're interested.   It's on my author profile page.

 

“Everyone in this country is a fucking idiot.”



Patrick looked up from his sketching.   “Huh?”



“Can’t even find an article from a reputable news agency that isn’t riddled with typos and atrocious grammar.  I mean, these are seventh grade mistakes, here.  I barely scraped through two years of art school, and even I don’t understand how anyone whose job is fucking writing could have possibly missed these errors.”  Lars slammed his laptop onto the coffee table in disgust.



“Okay, but you’re gonna break your computer and give yourself an aneurysm.   It’s really not such a big deal, is it?”   Patrick eyed the progress he’d made on the page in front of him, before his face lit up.  “Oooh!  You’re fluent enough to be able to read things in Spanish, right?”



Lars grunted.



“Well…what if you just read the news in Spanish, from now on?  You’d get the basics of what’s happening in the news, but you probably wouldn’t be able to find as many grammar mistakes…”



“There’d probably be less mistakes, to begin with…I’m sure the education system in Europe isn’t as much of a joke as it is, here.”  Lars unfolded himself from the couch and strolled across the living room to plant an upside-down kiss on Patrick’s forehead.  “You’re a genius.  What’s going on here, then?”



Patrick followed Lars’ gaze to  the page of the sketchbook he’d swiped from Lars’ supply closet.  “Well, I was feeling sort of inspired, now that you’ve started working on the next issue of Spectre, and I thought I’d try to draw some pictures of Shade, since he’s actually being still, for once.”



“Oh.  Uh…that’s Shithead?“ 



“We’re calling him Shade from now on, remember?  It’s close enough to ‘Shithead’ that he’ll recognize it as his name, if we start using it, now, but we need to be consistent.“



“Right.“  Lars rested his chin on Patrick’s head as he looked from the book to his sleeping puppy.  He snorted.  “Babe, I know I should be supportive and everything, but that’s pretty awful.”



Patrick sighed.  “Yeah…it is, isn’t it?  I was hoping that maybe I could discover some kind of hidden talent in myself, so that maybe I wouldn’t feel like an imposter when you take me to meet your Gran and your family, back home.”



Lars slipped a hand under the collar of Patrick’s t-shirt and began to rub his chest.  “You’re being ridiculous, again.  Gran will love you, and my ‘family’ is really just Gran’s dopey bohemian friends, the guys who have worked on the farm since forever, and a few of the people I went to school with.  You don’t need to be arty, I promise.  Hell, Gran’ll probably talk your ear off about animal husbandry and the many uses of soy, so you should feel right at home for most of that.  Anyway, we’ve got weeks before that happens.  Brigid threatened to put a hit out on me if I sneak out of town before I’ve finished at least 250 panels of Spectre.”



“I know.  I’ve just never done the whole Meet-The-Parents thing.  I’ve never had a b-”  Patrick cleared his throat. “…a boyfriend that was that serious, before.”



“You’ll be fine, baby.“  Larson tweaked his nipple before standing upright and moving off into the kitchen.  His muffled voice drifted around the corner:  “Any of that chili left?  I’m fucking starv-  damn.  Not enough for the both of us.  I’m gonna order something.  Pizza, or Lebanese?”



There was an answering yip from a now-awake pit bull puppy.  “Don’t order anything.  Shade needs to go out to pee, and I’ll pop into the little market down the street for some groceries on my way back.”

Patrick scooped Shade from the floor and headed out.



------------



Larson pulled his head out of the refrigerator to answer his phone.  “We’re out of beer.”



“Chrissakes, James, how freaking inept ARE you?  There’s a Beer & Wine  a block and a half from your building.  If you’re too lazy to get off your ass and go get some, I’m sure that if you call them, they will BRING you a freaking case.  I do enough everyday stuff for you, as it is; the least you could do is pretend to be a grown-ass man, once in a while.”



“Alright, alright, Brigid.  Did you call me just to have a conniption, or did you want something?”



There was a beleaguered sigh on the other end.  “I just got a call from an intern at Senator Hammond’s office.  They want to arrange a meeting.”



“Um.  What?”



“Yeah, I thought they had the wrong number, too.  But the dude was insistent that it was definitely you that the Senator wanted to meet with.  Said it wasn’t regarding anything to do with his upcoming campaign.”



“Okay, but what would I have to talk about with Spencer Hammond?  I don’t give a shit about politics.  At least, not his politics.  He’s one of those wafflers who seems to be middle-of-the-road on just about everything.  Didn’t even vocally support the marriage equality bill until it looked like practically a sure thing.”



“I dunno.  The intern I spoke to wouldn’t say exactly what this is all about, but maybe Hammond is interested in reaching out to the gay community?”



“Fine.  But why me?  I’m not the Official Queer Mascot, or anything.”



“Okay, maybe he wants to reach out to the gay dork community?  You‘re probably the mascot for the queer cosplay-and-convention crowd.”



“I really hope not.  They ought to latch onto someone…I don’t know…nice.”



“Definitely.  Listen, I told the intern that I’d run it by you and get back to them about it; so this is me, running it by you.  Should I tell them to fuck off, or not?”



Something was definitely less than kosher about this whole thing, and Larson suspected some kind of shenanigans.



But he was curious.



“Find out when he wants to meet.”



------------



Patrick frowned at the wriggling Shade tucked beneath one arm, as he held a loaf of Italian bread out of his reach with the other.  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring you in here with me.  This bread is not for you!  Stop causing trouble, brat.”



“Need some help?”



Patrick  jumped and whirled to face whoever had just…purred into his ear, nearly tripping over the hand basket full of groceries that he‘d set on the floor.  “Wha- oh!  Um…h-hey, Dan.”



“It’s nice to see you again, Patrick.   Is that a new puppy?  You didn’t have him, before.  I thought you lived across town…did you move?” 



Patrick dropped the bread into his basket, and then hefted the puppy before looking into Dan’s meticulously handsome face.  “Oh, er…no.  I still live across town.  And this isn’t my puppy.”



Dan bent to pick up Patrick‘s basket and moved off down the narrow aisle, a bewildered Patrick trailing behind.  “That’s too bad.  I was hoping maybe you’d moved into my neighborhood.  Listen, we’re still on for coffee tomorrow, right?”  He surveyed the contents of Patrick’s basket.  “Hmmm…dried pasta, huh? Well, not everyone can make their own.  This market has such amazing produce, though.  You should at least use fresh ingredients for your sauce, not this pre-made stuff in a jar.”



“O-okay…”  Patrick followed as Dan moved into the produce section and began selecting perfectly ripe tomatoes.  “I’m not really great at making things from scratch, though…”



“It’s easy, don’t worry.  Just chop all your ingredients evenly, toss them into a pot with some herbs- some of this fresh basil, here -olive oil and maybe a little red wine, leave it on low for an hour, salt and pepper to taste.  Done.”  Dan dropped more ingredients into the basket and moved off to the wine aisle.  “You’ll want a Chianti or a Red Zinfandel with this.”



“But I like white wine…”



“Are you kidding?  Not with a tomato sauce.  No, this is good, you’ll like it.  Are you making dinner for a friend?  Family?  How many people?”



“Uh…just one f-friend.”



“Well, two bottles should be enough, then.  C’mon, let’s get you checked out and I’ll help you get it to your car.”



“W-wait!  Um…I walked here.”



Dan turned to him, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.  “I’ll walk you, then.”



Patrick watched as Dan began placing his items onto the checkout conveyor.  “But…what about your, um, shopping?  You came in to shop, didn’t you?  It’s okay, it’s only two blocks, I can make it on my own with a couple of bags.”



“Actually, I was just walking past and saw you through the window.  Thought I’d come say hi.”



“Oh, wel- hey!  Wait!  You don’t need to pay…please.  I have mon-”



“Don’t worry about it.  I promised you a dinner, didn’t I?  Now you won’t have to endure my company to enjoy it.”  Dan’s eyes were awfully twinkly, and he had a dimple.  Patrick had never noticed that, before.



“Alright, fine.  But I’m paying for the coffee, tomorrow.”



“Anything you want, sweetheart.”



--------



“An hour?!  Babe, we could have had the pizza delivered, by now.  This is an emergency…I’m starving, remember?”



“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t find something to snack on while I was out…I see that the chili’s still in the fridge, but I can smell toast.”



“Only a few pieces, though.  I didn’t even put jam on them, just butter.”



Patrick looked up from his chopping.  There was tomato seed goo on his cheek.  “Well, Brigid told me to make sure you eat real food at least once a week, so no pizza.  Why don’t you open one of those bottles of wine?  That should keep you distracted until dinner is ready.”



“Fine.  Hey, you got Chianti?  I thought you hated red wine?”



“Oh, um…a-a guy at the store said that it would go better with the pasta.  I thought we could give it a try…maybe I’ve just not had good red wine, before.”



There was a popping as Lars uncorked the bottle and then the sound of him pouring a glass, which soon appeared under Patrick’s nose.  He took a sip.



“So?  What’s the verdict?”



“It’s not…not bad.  Give me another taste.”



“Nope.  This is my glass…you’ll have to get your own.”



“Jerk.”



“It’s why you love me.   Better hurry up, I’m taking the bottle with me to watch t.v.”



“Just take it, now.  I’ll open the other bottle.  I need some for the sauce, anyway.”



Lars shuffled off to pick a movie for them to watch over dinner, and Patrick continued to mangle the vegetables intended for his sauce.  He wasn’t sure why, but something had told him not to mention that Dan had been  the “guy at the store.”  That same something had kept him from mentioning the lingering kiss Dan had planted on the corner of his mouth as he’d handed off  Patrick’s groceries to Lou The Doorman, downstairs. 



Or the fact that they were having coffee, tomorrow afternoon.