Work Text:
Patrick's house is nice for a divorcee. Not that Naomi would know herself but for a downsize it's certainly nicer than anything she would of thought of.
It's cared for too.
Patrick takes care of his house. He's no handyman, he'd never risk his hands and the lives that rest in them even if he doesn't say it out right, but he takes care of his house, WD40 on the hinges, folds away the washing, stains the floor quarterly, shuts the doors as to not cause any additional strain.
Naomi has always treated houses like objects, to be used, and Patrick does too and because he uses his house he cares for it, keeps it the best he can.
It is the closest thing to love Naomi has had in years, if not decades and she wants.
Patrick wants too, and specifically he wants Naomi.
Not some nameless at the bar, not a hot body for a night, or some other kindred who will callously bring him oblivion. He wants to spend time with her after his shift curled up on his pullout, watching old western styled Japanese films or those old weird animated films she likes.
Close as he decompresses from his work and her from hers as she tucks his hand back under the throw blanket from where she'd bit it tenderly, a little blood sloppily running down his forearm that she'd licked up while he watched the tv flicker.
Naomi hasn't laughed during sex in years. There was this one girl, when they'd both been in their twenties who'd she'd been friends with enough that going to bed felt like just part of their relationship, nothing heavy. But Naomi hadn't ever felt the need seek her out.
Not like Patrick.
If anything the sex is scarily largely not focused on lust and more about being close to him, feeling the rushes of blood and pockets of heat that the human body contains that Naomi never appreciated till now.
She also likes making him smile. Like really likes making him smile, whether it's a sad smile that's so beautiful or a pure smile that feels like how sunshine must of felt on her skin once.
Really, she likes it when Patrick is happy, more so when Patrick is comforted. She's not her sister, she won't and can't control his life to suit herself. He works as a pediatric surgeon, Naomi refuses to take the grief and stress and jubilation he experiences from his long hours to hollow him out for her.
She'd die first. Literally, she'd lose something so vital it'd dislodge from her throat and skewer her heart like Abe Lincoln.
Patrick coming home after texting her that a shift has ended and getting half a cheese pizza from Danny's and a prepacked salad from some over priced organic supermarket with the best vinegar sauce he's ever had. Mixed with the oil of the cheesy pizza his blood almost tastes like salt and vinegar chips.
(That's not how it works but they were her favorite flavour so..)
He's vegetarian, apparently he was vegan in collage and he's gotten very good at taking his iron supplements since they've started well, seeing each other.
She's met his parents, twice, on purpose. His bio dad isn't in the picture for the better and his mum is the kind of artsy New England teacher who would of let Naomi stay in her classroom when it was left to Katie to pick her up from school and not been weird about it. His dad, who's been there since Patrick was about four was from Pakistan and ran a industrial water management facility. They'd been great, hadn't given one luck, that she was a 'diabetic', didn't cook and wore a jean jacket to a dinner date.
At first she'd just thought they were just glad their son's divorce rebound was in the same age bracket as him but at the second meeting, which had been almost a year later, when Patrick had had to leave early for work his mum had pulled a out a black velvet box and given Naomi her grandmother's gold locket bracelet.
Naomi had started cry hiccuping at the table, messily and then started crying more when the only fluid that came out was blood and only managed to compose herself when Patrick's dad hugged her tightly against his shoulder and his red button up and then dipped his napkin in his glass so that she could wipe up the red stains without anyone noticing.
She's even met both sides of his grandparents at the same time (not on purpose). She'd even liked them (admittedly not his grandmother who'd said several unprompted comments about the waitresses' weight).
Patrick understood she shouldn't know his family enough to like them for everyone's sakes so meeting the grandparents was a one time thing and her seeing his parents were less than annually.
Naomi had never had a relationship that she could see in years. She'd had one's she could fantasize about the future but it had never felt so undeniably solid even in the face of all that was their lives, her life.
It wasn't unchanging. One day it would change a lot. Patrick would die. And it'd just be Naomi and the bracelet to remind her of him and his line. And then one day, if Naomi hadn't changed by then the bracelet would break, or get lost or stolen and Naomi would no longer have anything to remind her of his laugh when he talked over the phone to his in baby sister or how his hands trembled when he cried in her arms. How she made him feel safe, how cared for he made her feel by letting her care for him. It'd all be gone.
For now though, Patrick has texted her about a late 2am screening of some trashy action film some R2 wouldn't shut up about and she can hold his hand in the theater and lean against him on the walk home, because oddly, Patrick would only ever walk places if he could and a kindred is about as protected against the LA night you're going to get.
Naomi doesn't have to be good at this when they're good for each other.