Angel Pumping Gas [s/a]

Title: Angel Pumping Gas [s/a]
Author: ribbonsonwrists
Rating: G
Word Count: 618
Pairing: Baby!Patrick/Arma!Pete
Summary: Angel pumping gas, why won't this moment last? It's fate my life has brought me here today. Soon I'll be on my way, though I wish that I could stay...
Disclaimer: I don’t know or own any of the men in this story. If you googled yourself/your best friend/coworker/boyfriend to get here, please, please don’t click the cut.
Author's Notes: This is a little ficlet based on "Angel Pumping Gas" by the Postal Service a band that was formerly called Postal, now known as Lindsey Pool. A huge thank you to jenepherre for bringing that to my attention. I can seriously see it having happened, yanno? Anyway, I like underage Patrick fics, and like many of you, I'm convinced Patrick's an angel. He really is. A voice like that and the magic to create music like he does??? Yeah. I thought so.
[x-posted to patrickxpeter]

"Hey! Band Bitch! It's your turn to get the gas!"

"Pete, his name is Joe, and he just got the gas... You know, last time, when you were flirting with the manager's daughter?" Timothy sighed patiently.

"Doesn't matter. It's his turn again!"

Joe gave him a death glare as the other guys piled out of the van, "Fuck you, Peter. Get your ass out of the van and get it yourself. We're getting junk food."

Pete was too busy arguing with his bandmates to see the figure that walked up to him, waiting patiently by the door. "Excuse me, sir. What can I do for you?"

The sweet voice belonged to a short boy, barely able to look into the dirty driver's side window of the crappy van. He had long red-blonde hair, a red and white baseball cap that had the gas station's logo on it covering most of the fine hair that framed his soft face, his blue eyes appearing deeper in the shadow of the brim. He wore a black t-shirt that hugged his stomach and read "Morgan's Fuel Service" on the back, and blue jeans that were obviously too big for him, his red Converse peeking out from under the hems. Pete's loud, stupid laugh was silenced as he saw the boy, the overconfident older man barely managing to stutter out "Unleaded fuel."

The boy nodded, opening the gas tank and starting to pump. He went over to the center aisle, picked up a squeegee and began cleaning the windows, standing on the tips of his toes to reach the front windshield. He flashed Pete a small smile, and kept cleaning the windows.

"I think I love you," Pete breathed, unaware he'd spoken out loud. He was staring at the boy in any reflective surface he could, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Maybe it's just the fumes."

"Uh, sir? Will that be credit or cash?"

"Shit, I guess cash."

"Uhm, you'll have to pay inside..."

Pete could feel his heart breaking, no, shattering, as he sat watching the boy's rounded hips walk over to another car. He slowly got out of the van, walking into the small snack shop to pay. He kept staring out the window, watching the small flash of a smile, the finger pushing glasses up a cute nose, the deep pink mouth opening to speak. He handed the man behind the counter a few crumbled dollar bills, watching the sun glow behind the boy, giving him the halo Pete was sure he'd been born with. Suddenly wished that he could stay right there, watching him move, fill tanks, wipe windows. The man behind the counter, Branden, the nametag said, cleared his throat, "Uh, sir? Your change?" and handed Pete the couple of singles and quarters that made up the difference.

The guys had picked up their food, even grabbing a giant bag of Skittles, a bottle of Coke and a can of Pringles for their fearless leader, and there was no reason for Pete or anyone else to hang around any longer. They piled back into the van, Pete behind the wheel again. He looked all over for that boy, the golden haired angel and found him, standing by the very pump where they had their chance meeting. The boy smiled, his blue eyes sparkling slightly as they caught Pete's dark brown. Pete turned the key and started the van, looking back longingly at the gas station in the rearview mirror.

"What the hell is this?"

"Yo, Pete, did you know that guy?"

"Why?"

"He left this for you."

"See you in a few years, Pete.
Love,
Patrick."