Antivenom (Peterick)

III. wednesday: arguments and worries

***A/N:  Let the fun begin...***

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"I'm not coming into work today," Patrick tells Pete Wednesday morning.

Pete's surprised and a little disappointed (there's this missing-persons case the police department wanted their help on, and Pete was looking forward to comparing notes), but he nods in understanding. "Take your time, 'Trick," he says, shrugging on his jacket as he heads out the door, though he can't help but wonder why Patrick's had this change of heart.

The office, of course, is rife with speculation.

"He's cheating on you!" Joe shouts when Pete walks into the bullpen, though he's immediately shut down by Andy whacking him upside the head with a case folder and a glare that could probably turn people to stone. Pete tries to ignore him, pushing aside thoughts of Patrick leaving him and never loving him as he slips into his desk chair and waits for his computer to wake up. He loves Joe, but the guy can be such a dick sometimes.

"Any luck?" he asks.

Hayley brings him up to speed on the latest developments in the case, and Pete nods and tells them to "keep searching, I'll go see if Brendon's found anything on the laptop."

He tries to focus on the case, but as he's going about his day he's very much aware of Patrick's absence. The sickened feeling hasn't left his stomach.

[...]

"Babe, I'm home."

Pete kicks off his shoes and drops his bag to the floor, listening for a reply. Silence greets him instead. "Babe?" he calls again. "Babe, you there?"

He's answered by the sounds of retching coming from a distant corner; before he knows it he's sprinting toward the bathroom and throwing the door open. I leave him alone for twelve hours and this is what happens—

"'Trick, are you—" Pete's cut short by another terrible gagging sound as Patrick dry-heaves, panting into the toilet with wet, shallow gasps. "Ah, shit, 'Trick," Pete groans. "'Trick, why didn't you say anything?"

"Pete," Patrick wheezes, before groaning and hurling again, much to Pete's dismay. "Pete," he says again, no less breathless, "Pete, stop, stop, it's nothing, it's fine, go away."

"It's not nothing! You're sick—" Pete pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to calm down. "Christ, Patrick, you're throwing up, that's not nothing."

"'s probably food poisoning. Stop worrying so much."

"You told me you had a sandwich," Pete protests, "at Fields and Pier." He crouches down beside Patrick, who thankfully seems done throwing up and is just trying to catch his breath at this point. He places a hand on Patrick's back and rubs circles, trying not to choke on the smell of acid. Jesus, it reeks in here. "How long has this been going on?" he asks, quieter.

Patrick doesn't respond. He's hunched over and his eyes are screwed shut and he's shaking his head, hand clenched in a fist, but Pete's not taking silence for an answer. "Patrick—" he says warningly.

"I don't—a couple hours, okay?"

A couple hours—?!

"Define a couple—fuck that, define hours, 'Trick, if you're sick, you should've called me." Pete doesn't think he's been this pissed at Patrick since—well, ever, and that's usually because he's the one doing stupid shit and freaking Patrick out. Pete's not supposed to be the responsible one in this relationship, goddamnit.

Patrick gulps for air, chest heaving. "I didn't—" he says, gasping, "I didn't tell you—'cause I didn't—'cause I knew you'd worry—I knew you'd flip your shit, and here you are—here you are flipping your shit, you overreacting asshole—"

"Fuck's sake, 'Trick, would you stop acting like this is about me for one fucking minute and let me fucking look at you?!" Patrick winces at Pete's volume and Pete knows he's screaming, knows he's bordering on hysterical, but he doesn't care—Patrick's sick, he's sick and he's stupid and stubborn and Pete will fucking flip his goddamn shit if he very well pleases.

Patrick groans, resigned, and angles his head to let Pete get a better look. He looks ghostly pale in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, flushed and sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. Pete presses the back of his hand to Patrick's face and frowns. "Babe, you're burning up."

"Gee, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. House." Patrick coughs, violent and rattling.

"Hey, don't get all snippy with me. I'm still pissed that you didn't call." Patrick glares up at him, seemingly unconcerned about his face's proximity to the toilet seat. Pete shakes his head. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll call Travie and the guys and then I'm taking you to the doctor."

"You're doing wha—"

"This isn't a fucking negotiation, 'Trick!" God, Pete is so fucking done with his shit. "Don't move, you hear me? Stay put. I'm getting you a glass of water. Do we have anything for upset stomachs?"

He's already storming into the kitchen as Patrick faintly calls, "Left side cabinet...second door...top shelf," like he's been waiting for this fucking moment his entire life.

Pete's fuming, but under all his fury he's pulsing with fear and he can't seem to shake the awful thought that at this rate, Patrick's probably going to die just to spite him.

[...]

An hour and one hastily gulped-down glass of water later and Patrick's knocked out on their bed, curled up with the covers drawn low over his waist. The same cannot be said for Pete—not necessarily because he can't sleep (on the contrary; his eyes refuse to stay open), but because he doesn't want to sleep. If something happens to Patrick and he can't do anything to stop it because he's not awake—fuck, he'll never be able to forgive himself. And how many times has Patrick stayed up with Pete after a nightmare or a bad spell?

No, Pete can't fall asleep. He can't. He can't. He can't—

He falls asleep.

Not even half an hour after he dozes off his brain faintly registers a shift in weight on the other side of the bed, a creaking of bedsprings, then quick, light footsteps, all of which somehow manage to sneak their way into his dreams, warped and mistranslated and spouted out as some kind of nonsense and Pete almost doesn't realize he's supposed to be worried until he realizes the groaning sound in the other room is actually vomiting.

He really should go help Patrick, he thinks. He's going to help Patrick, and then he's going to call Travie and then he's going to drive Patrick to the doctor's (because there is no way in hell he's letting that fucker drive) and they're going to get this shit sorted the fuck out.

In the distance, there's a coughing spell, and then frantic, panicked gasps for breath.

A crash. A clanging. A thud.

Pete's up and moving before he even realizes what's happening and when he finally makes it to the bathroom after what seems like an eternity, stumbling and cursing, his heart nearly stops.

Patrick's having a seizure. In the middle of their bathroom floor.