Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PATRICK] Everybody Wants Somebody Who Doesn't Want Them - Part 2

Patrick's sitting in the front seat of his expensive Sedan, staring through the rear view mirror at the little girl sitting in the back. She was kicking her legs back and forth and tilting her head side to side, humming a song to herself. The song, ironically, was "Dance Dance" (since you've developed a habit of always playing it for her on your way to her dance classes).

"Can you stop that?" He asks her, annoyed, "You're going to get my seats dirty."

Gabby completely ignores him, waiting for the engine to be cut and for Patrick to tell her that they were there.

The singer heaves a sigh and returns his attention to the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he clenches his jaw, his tolerance for your daughter's little antics wearing thin.  They reach a red light and Patrick brings the car to a stop. Waiting for the light to change, he begins to tap his fingers on the steering wheel; once again he glances back at his and your daughter.

He barely recognizes her. The last time he really saw her was a little more than a year ago, since he went to L.A. to work on his record while you stayed in Chicago with Gabby. She's grown up so much since then. He knows absolutely nothing about her - what she likes, what she doesn't like, stuff like that. He wants to know more about her, but how can he when she refuses to talk to him?

"Hey." He pivots his torso so that he's facing Gabby. "I said stop."

She shifts her gaze from out the window to Patrick. Initially, her expression is blank. But within a second, her eyes furrow and the corner of her lips curl down into a frown. "You can't tell me what to do."

"Yes I can. I'm your dad. I can tell you to do whatever I want, and you have to do it because you're my kid."

"Who says?" She crosses her arms.

"I do."

"Mommy doesn't tell me what to do."

"Well she's your mom. I'm your dad. We're different people; we have different rules."

Before the argument can escalate, the car behind Patrick's honks its horn. He gazes up at the light and sees that it's turned green. He sighs and turns back around and slowly lifts his foot off of the brake, propelling the car forward.

*****

"Alright everyone," The dance class instructor remarks, quieting everyone's applause. "We're going to take a short little break. When we come back, we have a wonderful solo for you presented by our own Miss Gabby Stump. Please stick around!" She turns the mic off and retreats into the wings. Patrick glances down at the watch strapped around his wrist and rolls his eyes.

Just then, Patrick hears a familiar voice saying "Excuse me" over and over again. He glances over in the direction of the voice and sees one of his former band mates and friends making his way toward him. He's got a bouquet of flowers in his hand, and stuck gently inside the bouquet, a little note. He finally reaches Patrick and smiles down at him.

"Is this seat taken?" He questions.

"Pete, what are you doing here?" The singer replies, his eyebrows knitting together.

"I'm here for your daughter's solo," The bassist answers, sitting down in the empty seat and shifting a little bit to make himself more comfortable, "(Y/N) asked me to come. She also asked Joe, but he's kind of busy with Marie. I think they're looking at houses or something - I don't know."

Patrick rubs his hands on his thighs awkwardly and exhales slowly. "You know, it seems like you and the guys are really close with (Y/N)."

"Well yeah, she's our friend. Just like you are."

"But you're close in a way that she and I should be," He argues, looking over at his friend, "I mean, you guys seem to have a bigger part in my daughter's life than I do."

"We're just being there for her, Patrick," Pete explains, meeting his gaze, "Since you're not around, someone has to be. That someone just so happened to be me and the guys. (Y/N) reached out to us, and it's not like we were going to tell her no. And besides, we love Gabby like she's our own. Helping (Y/N) raise her is the least we can do."

Your boyfriend scoffs. "That's the problem, Pete. You think she's your daughter, but she's not. She's mine!"

"Dude, I never said that, I said-"

"I just want her to like me," He cuts Pete short, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands, "Is that too much of me to ask? For my own kid to like me?"

Pete folds his arms over his chests and says, "You can't just get your kid to like you, Pat. You've got to earn it."

"I don't have time to earn it, though," He argues, glancing back over his shoulder, "I've got a music career that's failing right now to worry about. The only reason I'm home is because I put all my money into that album and it flopped. I got kicked out of my apartment and my label threatened to drop me unless I got my shit together in the next six months or so."

Pete narrows his eyes. "Wait, so let me get this straight, you're only here because you're broke? Not because of your family? Your girlfriend and daughter?"

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Of course not. I'm here because of them too. I wanted to take them to L.A. with me, but I didn't have the money."

There's a brief moment of silence before Pete shakes his head and stands up. "God, Patrick, you're so full shit!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You tell me you want to be a better father, but you're more worried about your fucking music than you are your own daughter! There's a reason she doesn't like you, Patrick, and it's the same reason we don't: You don't care about us, you just care about yourself." He shoves the bouquet of flowers at Patrick. "Here, give these to Gabby for me. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't watch her dance, but her dad was being an asshole." With that, Pete leaves.

Patrick looks down at the bouquet and frowns. He picks out the little note and pries it open with his fingers.

Gabby, you were amazing! We love you so much and you make us so proud!
-Mommy, Uncle Pete, Uncle Andy, and Uncle Joe

Resentment boils up inside of Patrick and he places the note back inside the bouquet. He heaves a sigh and sits back in the chair, his jaw clenched and his grip around the stems of the flowers that were tied together and wrapped in colored cellophane, awaiting his daughter's solo.

There's a reason she doesn't like you, Patrick, and it's the same reason we don't: You don't care about us, you just care about yourself.

Author's Note: Hey guys! So what I've decided to do is turn this idea into its own book. It's in the works right now, but as soon as it comes out, I'll be sure to tell you. I hope you'll check it out, and if you don't, that's okay too. Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it! -Rachael