skoosiepants | untitled Toro Girls ficlet

(music meme here is still open)

I am officially old(er) :(

In honor, here's a ficlet and a half from a much larger 'verse that will probably never get fully written.

The piano they’d gotten is a nice upright. Nothing exceptional, but it’s just fine for Patrick. He tunes it by ear, humming, and tries not to think about the baby grand sitting in his parents’ front parlor.

“Wow. That’s sort of the ugliest piano I’ve ever seen.”

Patrick freezes.

There’s a heavy silence behind him, and then, “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot before, so.”

Patrick turns, levels a glare at Pete. “Yeah,” he says, draws it out like that’s the stupidest observation ever, because yeah. Patrick isn’t big on patronizing assholes.

“I’m Pete,” Pete says, stepping forward with this huge hopeful smile, hand extended.

Patrick takes a good long look at him, slides his gaze over the dark vest, the gun at his hip, down his rolled up sleeve and past olive-toned skin to land on his hand, still out, nails perfect, but knuckles angry, chapped. Finally, Patrick slips his hand into his and says, “Patrick.”

“Right, right.” Pete nods, still grinning. He’s bouncing a little, reminding him of Brendon. “So. Nice place you got here.”

Patrick doesn’t exactly know how to take that, so he doesn’t take it at all. “Did you want something?”

“Just checking out the competition.” Pete leans over the piano, presses down on middle C, cocks his head. “You any good?”

Patrick snaps his case of tuning implements shut and arches both his eyebrows at Pete. He doesn’t think it’s any of Pete’s business, especially since he’s just established himself as competition. “I don’t think Mr. Toro would appreciate you spying.”

“Oh no. No spying,” Pete says, knuckling the keys in a discordant mess that makes Patrick wince involuntarily. “Just looking for a good home-cooked meal. Maybe a little entertainment. Tell me, Patrick, do you play cards?”

Patrick wonders if he’d be overstepping if he threw Pete out. “No.”

“Not a gambling man, eh?” Pete’s mouth is still curled up, but it no longer strikes Patrick as a grin. It’s too sharp.

“No,” Patrick says. He pushes up his sleeves and tips his hat back and tries to stand up as straight as he can. Pete isn’t all that tall, but he’s taller than Patrick.

“Well,” Pete says, eyeing him with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Well, we’ll have to see if we can change that.”

Patrick frowns. He frowns, says, “I’m not sure—”

“You’re sort of adorable,” Pete cuts him off, and then he kisses him.

Patrick stands stock still for approximately three seconds before he pushes Pete back with the flat of his hands on Pete’s chest, and then he punches him.

“Ow, fuck,” Pete says, staggering a little and cradling his jaw.

Patrick’s hand hurts and his lips are tingling and Pete is a jackass. “Get out,” Patrick says.

There’s a disturbing twinkle in Pete’s eyes, even as he presses gingerly at the skin around his mouth. “This was fun,” Pete says, and Patrick is definitely not imagining the thread of laughter just under his words. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Patrick?” Gee is hovering in the doorway, hands clasped and big eyes worried.

Pete tips his hat towards her, says, “Ma’am.”

“Everything all right?” Gee asks.

“It’s fine, miss, don’t worry.” Patrick hopes his smile is reassuring. He kind of wants to punch Pete again. For all his unexpectedly pleasant reaction to it, it had certainly been satisfying.

He has to remember that punching random strangers out here is probably even less prudent than punching people back home. He really hopes Brendon doesn’t find out about this.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Pete says, tipping his hat once more, mouth moving up at that sharply amused angle again. “I should be getting back to my saloon.”

*

“I can’t just avoid him forever,” Greta says, her very bad idea still crushed between her fingers. She’d been worrying the note a little, and there’s a tear on one side.

Keltie sweeps her hair back, twisting it up in a quick, loose bun. “You could,” she mumbles around a few hairpins. “He wouldn’t know it was you.”

“He knows my name,” Greta points out.

“You should just be honest,” Michelle says, and there’s something off about Michelle, even though Greta can’t pinpoint exactly what. Her sister Gee, too. It could be Michelle’s horrendously ugly spectacles and Gee’s mismatched stockings, but Greta isn’t normally one to judge someone on their outward appearance. They certainly seem nice enough. Gee has the biggest, brightest smile.

“I should be honest,” Greta says.

“Of course you should,” Ashlee says from her sprawl on her narrow bunk. “When you’re ready, we’ll take William with us.”

Greta frowns. William’s very good company, but there isn’t much to him, is there? “I suppose,” she says doubtfully.

“And Gee,” Ashlee adds, and Michelle jerks her head up, blinks.

“Gee isn’t,” she starts, then pauses, pushes her specs up her nose and purses her lips. She’s got ridiculously short hair, really, and Greta immediately and firmly reprimands herself for being so judgemental. Perhaps there was an unfortunate illness or tree sap incident.

“Gee isn’t what?” Ashlee prompts, leveraging up on her elbows. She’s in an unlady-like sprawl, but still manages to look more womanly than the awkward Michelle, and, honestly, what she’s going to have to do, Greta realizes, is take the young lady under her wing.

“Isn’t, um. Very imposing?”

Yes, Greta nods to herself. She’s going to teach Michelle a thing or three about being a girl, and maybe that’ll take her mind off her own troubles for a little while.

Ashlee rolls her eyes – another unlady-like trait – and says, “She’s pretty. Pretty, shiny things distract men, and that way Mr. Bryar’s likely crushing disappointment at Greta’s rejection won’t be as thoroughly stunning as it could be.”

Greta’s going to have to explain the importance of self restraint to Michelle, because Ashlee’s petite enough that she can get away with most things ladies shouldn’t do, such as eye-rolling and expansive hand gestures, but Michelle is so very thin, long-limbed and long-faced, and she shouldn’t be encouraged to do anything that might draw attention to her innate awkwardness.

Greta blinks when a dove-gray hand waves in front of her face. Haley’s bent over, staring at her.

“Miss Salpeter—”

“Greta,” she automatically corrects.

Haley smiles. “Greta. You were woolgathering.”

Ashlee’s behind her, hand-in-hand with Michelle, and then Gee shows up in the doorway, and Ashlee’s right. Gee is pretty. And a sight more feminine than Michelle. The dour yellow of her dress doesn’t even seem to dampen it. She’s pink-cheeked from climbing the stairs in a rush, tendrils of dark brown hair pulling out of a low knot to fuzz around her face, large-eyed and small-nosed and, really, Greta would kill to have her lovely pale skin.

“What?” Michelle asks.

Gee shakes her head, swallows. “Nothing. Nothing, I.” She shakes her head again, flushes darker, and Greta thinks maybe the stain on her cheeks isn’t from the steps, but from something else entirely. And then she blurts out, “Patrick’s got a gentleman in the dining room.”

“Gee,” Michelle says.

“Or, I mean. He left. Patrick punched him. I. It was.” Gee waves her hands about, and Greta has to force herself not to reach out and catch them. “I think he owns the local saloon.”

“Oh.” Ashlee’s eyes widen. “Oh, how delicious.”