Pete isn't entirely sure it's wise to have dragged a random homeless kid into his nice clean apartment, but he's also not entirely sure he cares.

The kid looks pretty dazed, and his foot's bleeding like hell, so Pete helps him up the steps to his place, eyeing the blood dripping to the floor and trying not to think about what that's gonna do to his lounge carpet. A shower is definitely in order him, his sweater smells like a bacterial breeding ground, and Pete worries that if he can't get the kid cleaned up soon, it might just disintegrate off his body and start a species of its own.

Pete guides him through the door, a twinge of guilt making him wish his apartment wasn't quite this large and flashy, suddenly aware of the 75-inch TV on the wall and the gleam of kitchen appliances across the room.

"I'll just, uh, put you on the couch," he says awkwardly, trying not to squirm at the thought of this smelly kid on his creamy white sofas, trying desperately to push back his built-in stereotypes and not act like the spoilt rich boy he is in front of Patrick.

But Pete thinks Patrick already has him sussed; the look on his face is one that can only be described as awe, his eyes wide in the soft lighting, taking in everything from the double-doored monster fridge to the squishy carpet beneath his one bare foot. Pete can't help but smile inwardly, though, when he sees the boy's toes wriggle, burying themselves in the softness, and - oh god he's dripping blood everywhere, holy crap quick sit him down sit him down!

He coaxes Patrick as quickly as he can - without causing him to topple over - towards the couch and down onto it, taking a slippery hold of his injured foot and placing it on the coffee table after nearly screeching at the boy not to sit cross-legged under any circumstances. Glass, he can clean.

Patrick hisses through gritted teeth when Pete touches him; his face screws up so tight, Pete's worried it might collapse in on itself, and he has to say something just to make the boy open his eyes.

"I, uh, I'll just get some, uh...stuff," he frowns, pointing at Patrick's foot as if he needs reminding what the issue is. And, oh brilliant, his hands are now spotted with blood, too. This is going great, so far.

He hops over to the kitchen, his eyes on his hands, grabbing the nearest piece of anything that has liquid absorbing capabilities, which happens to be kitchen roll. Wiping his hands off as if there was something a lot nastier than blood on them, he pinches the very edge of the tissue and flicks it gingerly into the bin.

As he roots through his cupboards in search of bandages, he wonders what on earth he's got himself into, and why on earth he's got himself into it. There is a homeless kid on my couch who stole fifty quid from me earlier today. What the hell is he doing? This isn't the type of person he is.

But the thing is, that's exactly why he did it. This isn't him, this is the quirky millionaire philanthropist he wants to be; he's like Iron Man, only without, like...well, everything that Iron Man has. Despite everything, though, he can't help but feel a little bit proud, like on the grand scale of goodness, he's gone up a few points. Daring, that's what this is.

Armed with an arsenal of objects possessing various healing properties, he pads back over to the kid, who's hovering his hands around his foot as if it's some kind of crystal ball.

"Do you mind if I, uh..." Pete gestures weakly at the blood-smudged coffee table, his attempt at channelling Iron Man promptly falling flat on its face. Tony Stark would know what to do.

Patrick looks at Pete, but doesn't quite focus on him, nodding slowly, a permanent wince in his face.

With a damp flannel and no idea what he's doing, Pete carefully gets to his knees and stares at the kid's foot, raising the towel and very gently wiping the blood where it's smeared on his ankle and around his toes. He gets as close to the sole of his foot as Patrick will allow; he keeps swatting Pete away, making Pete jump with sharp gasps and wild flinches.

Once the blood is cleared up, Pete can see what the real damage is. And, ah, the cut is no small specimen. It runs diagonally across the arch of Patrick's foot, jagged and oozing dark liquid. I will not throw up, Pete thinks when he tastes bile at the back of his throat, I will not throw up.

"Uh, so, how did you do this?" he asks, trying to distract himself more than anyone else.

Patrick makes a pained noise, closing his eyes, and breathes, "I kicked a bin."

Pete is quite proud of himself for managing to turn his snort of laughter into a noise of sympathy, and hums in reply as he lifts the foot carefully onto one of his, oh god, lovely white towels.

"Don't fucking laugh at me," Patrick snaps suddenly, glaring at Pete and sticking out his jaw.

Shoot, this kid's a piece of work, Pete begins to think, dropping whatever hint of a smile he had on his face, but reminds himself that Patrick's probably not in the best frame of mind at this precise moment.

The bleeding seems to have nearly stopped, but even with his limited medical knowledge, Pete knows it's probably worse than he can really heal with plasters and towels.

He sits back on his heels and sighs, trying to catch Patrick's flitting gaze. "Listen, I, uh, I think I should take you to the hospital."

"No," Patrick says immediately, somehow managing to look more panicked than he did five seconds ago.

"Kid, it's a big cut. You need stitches, I think," he says, peering at the gash and wondering how he ever came to be so close to a stranger's foot.

"No," he says again, "I'll be fine."

"You're not fine, what if it gets infected, or, like, I dunno, doesn't heal?" As it is, the boy's landed himself with a lifelong scar.

"I'm not going to the hospital," he asserts, clenching his jaw and scowling. But it's different, this time, and Pete sees something like...pleading? in his eyes. Maybe he doesn't like needles.

"O-okay," Pete says finally. He's not paying for this kid's funeral when he dies of rotten feet.

Turning back to the wound, Pete tries desperately to remember any kind of first aid lessons he might've had in school. Now that he's thought about it getting infected, though, it's all he can think about, and he decides he has to clean it.

He jumps up and fetches a bottle of Dettol, pouring some in a little bowl and diluting it like he knows what he's doing, then running back over to Patrick, who seems to have calmed down at least a little bit. When he reaches out to his foot, though, his hands are shaking.

"Okay, this might sting a little bit," Pete says in the most doctor-like way he can, dipping a pad of tissue into the solution and pressing it to the cut.

Patrick's reaction is violent and immediate; his whole body jolts and he pulls his foot off the coffee table and back towards him, letting out a cry of pain.

"What the fuck?" he yells, "What in fuck's name is that?"

Pete only just manages to seize the foot back before it stains his couch, "It's antiseptic, it'll stop you getting infected."

"I'd rather get infected than have that...stuff!" he shrieks, waving at the bowl and clutching at his ankle, knuckles bleached white.

"No, you wouldn't, kid, I'm sorry, just, uh...just put your foot back on the table," Pete says as firmly as he can, and it must've worked because Patrick slowly extends his leg back towards the table.

This time, Pete fastens his hand around his ankle and holds it in place as he dabs at the cut. Patrick tries to jerk back with every touch of the tissue, his toes screwed tight and his fingernails digging into the couch. Pete seems to be getting somewhere, though, the cut looks a little bit less angry, the sole of Patrick's foot now probably the cleanest part of his body.

Pete can't find a plaster big enough, so he breaks out the big guns instead, the bandages. Thank god his mum forced him to buy almost an entire pharmacy when he moved out. You never know, she'd always said. You never know when you're gonna run into a bleeding tramp, apparently.

As gently as he can, he wraps the bandage round the kid's foot, shooting glances at his face every so often just to check he's not passed out or anything. His eyes follow Pete's hands, his own hands outstretched like he might have to take Pete down at any moment.

By the time Pete's tucked the end of the bandage in on itself, the whole room stinks of disinfectant, and he's surrounded by various blood-soaked objects, including Patrick's hands, which he quickly throws some tissues at and orders Patrick not to touch anything at all.

The kid's knuckles are a mess, too, but when Pete cleans them up, he finds nothing more than a few shallow scrapes. It's as if they've started to heal already.

"Uh..okay," Pete frowns, getting to his feet and assessing the carnage that's taken over his lounge. Patrick looks a little more with it now, sitting up and looking around the room, poking at his bandaged foot.

It's only when Pete really looks at him in the light that he sees how utterly filthy the boy is; his fingernails are caked with dirt, his hair is lank and tangled under that sewage plant of a hat, and he's got...well, something smudged on his face, Pete has no idea what. He's not about to ask, either.

"So, uh, do - do you want a shower?" he says cautiously, hoping Patrick doesn't take that as an insult to his hygiene (even though his hygiene is practically an insult to Pete), and also hoping the kid agrees so that Pete doesn't have to forcibly throw him in the shower.

Patrick looks up, continually running his fingers over the soft material of the sofa, then narrows his eyes. "Are you saying I smell?"

"No, no, uh, of course not, I just, uh," Pete swallows, trying not to panic, "it might, just, like, calm you down?" he finishes, clasping his hands in front of him and wondering whether his face might be the next thing Patrick splits his knuckles on.

"Uh...okay," the boy says uncertainly, his gaze flicking back to his foot, wincing as he tries to move it from the table.

"Hey, let me help you." Pete immediately reached for Patrick's leg, lifting it carefully and bending his knee until his heel rests lightly on the floor. "You probably shouldn't put any weight on it."

Patrick nods slowly, letting Pete take him by the elbow and raise him to his feet (or foot, really). Pete watches him steadily, seeing him breathe through his teeth and knit his eyebrows together in concentration.

It doesn't pay off, though, because as soon as Patrick takes a small hop forward, he loses his balance and topples to one side, his arms reaching out and grabbing at the nearest stable object, which happens to be Pete. They both start to fall, and Pete only just manages to hook an arm round Patrick's neck, and another at his stomach, before he ends up on the floor.

The boy lets out a slow huff of air, steadying himself a little, but not letting go of Pete. His fingers are clamped around Pete's collar, and his other arm clutches Pete's elbow. By this point, their faces are only a few inches apart, and Pete is trying his utmost not to wrinkle his nose at the feel of Patrick's stale breath on his cheek.

As much as Pete tries to discretely widen the distance between them as they begin to stagger across the lounge, the boy only clings tighter, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks barely conscious.

Patrick seems to be getting the hang of hopping, and they move considerably faster than they did outside on the streets, but every so often he'll knock his foot against the floor or his leg or Pete's own leg and stop dead, leaning heavily into Pete's shoulder. A couple of times, Pete swears he hears the kid let out something like a snarl, a low, growling noise that rips from the back of his throat and makes Pete jump and look at Patrick in alarm.

But the boy doesn't make anything of it, just lets Pete guide him to the bathroom and sit him down on the closed lid of the toilet, his eyes wide as he takes in the polished ceramics and gleaming metal.

Looking around the room, though, and back at Patrick's foot, Pete wonders if a shower is really the best idea for someone who can barely stand. Plus, the kid would be left with soggy bandages, and Pete's not about to let all his hard work go to waste.

"Y'know, I think I'll run a bath for you instead. That way, you can, like, keep your foot dry," he says, nodding in an attempt to feel he has some kind of authority.

Patrick just shrugs, and Pete can feel eyes on him as he turns on the taps and swirls the water around as the tub fills up.

"I'll get you a change of clothes," he says, once he's turned the taps off and checked the bath is a good temperature. "Do you...uh...need help getting, uh, changed?" he winces, waving in the direction of the kid's decomposing clothes, immediately regretting asking that. Please say no, please say no.

"No, you fucking pervert," Patrick spits, crossing his arms and shooting Pete a glare hotter than the bath water.

"Okay," Pete says quickly, resisting the urge to just tell the boy to get back out on the street, if he's gonna be rude. "I'll leave you to it, then. Is pizza okay?"

Patrick's eyebrows knit together and Pete can see him trying to understand something or other.

"Uh, like, pizza for dinner? Cheese and tomato and stuff? Is that okay, do you like pizza?" he clarifies, hoping he doesn't get another round of verbal bullets.

"Yeah, I, uh, I like pizza," Patrick says slowly, like he's just remembering.

"Good," Pete smiles, nodding like an over-enthusiastic air-hostess. "I'll put the clothes outside the door. If you wanna put what you're wearing outside, I'll wash it for you. Shampoo's over there," he points to the new bottle sitting on the edge of the bath, about to be used by the very person who prevented him from buying it the first time, "and if you want conditioner, it's the little bottle. Feel free to use the soap," please use the soap, "and the razor. Give me a shout if you need anything."

The kid nods, his eyes following wherever Pete points, looking a little bewildered by all the talk.

"Right, well, I'll...yes," Pete fumbles, before gesturing to the open door and hopping out of it, away from this laughable excuse for a conversation.

As he makes his way to his bedroom, he wonders what on earth is going on. What possessed him to go and invite a tramp to stay the night? There is a tramp in his bathroom, and not even a polite one.

Pete's slightly irritated about that, as he roots through his drawers in search of spare pyjamas. He's sure any other homeless person would be very grateful to spend a night in a place like this, be fed and watered by a kind stranger such as himself. But no, he had to get the manner-less delinquent. Although, what did he expect from the kid whole stole from him this morning? You're a prize idiot, Pete.

He eventually finds some stripy blue ones which look like they might fit the kid; from what Pete's seen so far, Patrick's pretty small, and a little chubby, if he's being honest. A rather vicious part of his brain wonders if Patrick really needs a meal - he doesn't exactly look starving. Not that he'd ever even think that near the kid; he'd probably get knocked out.

After leaving the clothes outside the bathroom, and picking up the worn ones that Patrick's left, he pretty much sprints to the washing machine, refusing to breathe in until he's certain they're out of nose-range. Those clothes are a lost cause, his fabric softener is wasted on them. He's probably better off burning them before they trigger some deadly virus that leads to the death of billions and the desolation of planet earth.

The next thing he does is clean. He pretty much vaporises everything the kid's touched, scrubbing at the coffee table and the sofa to get every little trace out. And, oh crap, there's red fingerprints smudged on the cushions. Pete's mum is totally gonna kill him for this.

Still, he scrubs 'till his arms ache, sighs at the stains on his carpet, and only then does he start preparing food. It's just pizza, and it's nearly one in the morning, but he's still determined to give the kid a proper meal, so he does some salad and some garlic bread and gets out every sauce he can find. No booze, though, a couple drinks at the club was enough for Pete. And god knows what Patrick's drinking habits are. Pete shudders at the thought.

Finally, and he doesn't feel the best about this, but he knows it had to be done, Pete hunts around his flat and gathers up anything of value, his phone, wallet, laptop, and puts it all in the safe in his bedroom. And yes, he has a safe, it's not his fault his aunt gives him snobby Christmas gifts.

He tells himself he isn't being malicious when he puts a fistful of twenties on the kitchen counter, where Patrick will surely see them. It's more of a...trust exercise, like falling backwards into someone's arms. Except with money. It's not that he wants to label the kid as a thief, but the truth is that he trusts him about as far as he could throw him.

It's just as he's finished laying the table that he hears a shout from the bathroom.

"Pete?"

Pete nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to run to the bathroom and find out what Patrick might've broken. "Coming."

There's no carnage, though, the pyjamas have gone from outside, and the door's open a crack. The kid's eye is pretty much all that's visible of him; he peeks out at Pete, fingers curled around the edge of the door, looking...scared?

"Hey, uh, what's up?" he asks, meeting Patrick's one-eyed gaze.

"Um, where's my jumper?" Patrick says quietly, pushing the door as far shut as he can whilst still being able to see through the gap.

"Oh, I've put your stuff in the wash, if that's okay," Pete says, looking in the direction of the washing machine and knotting his fingers together.

"Can I have it back?"

"Uh, well, as I said, it's in the wash, so you can't have it right now, but, like, if I'm up early I could probably get it dried by the time-"

"Please can I have it?" Patrick asks again, but this time, Pete sees the panic on his face, the way his grip on the door tightens and his gaze darts about the hall. Pete also notes that that might be the first use of manners he's had from Patrick all night.

"If you're cold, I can turn the heating up?" Pete suggests, but Patrick shakes his head. "Uh...I guess if you want a jumper you can borrow one of mine, I mean, it might be a bit long for you but it'll probably be okay," he rambles, mentally searching his wardrobe.

"Um...okay," Patrick nods, wet hair falling over his face. He still looks a little anxious, though. Pete wonders if there's money hidden in that jumper, or something.

But the kid looks rather relieved when Pete comes back from his bedroom with a big cuddly sweater - Pete's school leaver's hoodie - and takes it quickly, shutting the bathroom door behind him before Pete can get another word in.

Pete stands awkwardly outside the bathroom door for a few seconds, frowning at the floor, but also feeling a little bit proud of himself for having a conversation in which he did not get sworn at. The kid actually said please, too. God, if this is what parenting is like, I'm never having kids. Not that he could, anyway.

He spends the next few minutes pacing around the kitchen worrying over whether he really should have sat himself and Patrick opposite each other at the table; he has no desire to be called a pervert twice in one night. He decides turning the lights up makes it look a little less like a romantic dinner.

"Fuck!"

For the second time in five minutes, Pete's running to the bathroom, this time to find Patrick sprawled on the floor, halfway out the door.

He's about to help the kid to his feet, when he hisses, "I can do it myself," and pushes himself up onto his knees, using the door handle to lever himself into a standing position.

Pete takes a step back, hands still outstretched in case Patrick decides to embrace gravity once again, and says in alarm, "what happened?"

Patrick shoots him a glare, and sticks out his jaw. "Stupid fucking foot."

"Ah, okay," Pete nods, kicking himself for having forgotten that the kid basically can't walk. "Uh, you need help?" he asks, extending an arm towards a wobbly-looking Patrick.

Now that Pete actually looks at the boy, he finds himself realising how much of an effect a wash can have on someone; with loose, stripy pyjama bottoms on, Pete's own hoodie and an altogether cleaner demeanour, Patrick seems like a different person. He's shaved, bar the sideburns, and with that and the baggy clothes he looks even younger than he did before. And hell, Pete didn't really think that fat could look good on anyone, but Patrick's doughy middle and chubby cheeks actually make him look sort of - dare he say it - cute.

He smells better, too, as Pete curls his arm around him. His hair's wet, but smells of apple, and whatever was on his face is gone too, replaced with nothing but a slight pinkness. This is much better, Pete thinks, rather pleased with himself. He'd like to be made a saint now, please.

Pete's also inclined to retract his earlier thoughts about the reality of Patrick's hunger when he hears the almighty roar that echoes from the boy's stomach.

"Hungry?" he laughs as they limp over to the kitchen table.

The look on Patrick's face as he sees two full pizzas dripping with cheese sitting on the table is more than enough to answer his question.

Pete helps the boy lower himself into a chair, then grabs the seat opposite him, taking a moment to just watch his facial expressions, his lips gradually falling open and his eyes wide.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" Pete asks, and it's sort of a joke until he sees the kid visibly calculating.

"Uh...someone gave me some soup a couple days ago," he ponders, clearly focussed upon the pizza in front of him.

"Oh, uh, go ahead," Pete says quickly, waving a hand over the table. He suddenly feels bad for skipping breakfast earlier.

But Patrick isn't looking at Pete at all, he's already tucking in. Pete watches the boy grab a slice of pizza and sink his teeth into it, his eyes falling shut and a quiet humming sound creeping from his throat.

And boy, is the kid hungry. For the most part, Pete just sits there watching Patrick munch his way through the pizza and the garlic bread, and the salad too. But he doesn't just shovel it down, he looks at each new piece of food before he eats it, like it's a work of art that should be admired, and chews it slowly, licking his lips and his fingers constantly.

Pete only picks at his own plate, trying to think of something to say, because he hates the silence, and ends up rambling at Patrick, things he would normally only say to his pet cat.

"...I mean, it's not like the country's in a huge mess, I guess a lot of places have it worse, but I just think the benefits system doesn't work, the government keep cutting and cutting and soon there's gonna be nothing left, like, we need some kind of way to know who needs it most, otherwise it just goes to the wrong people, y'know? Not that, like, some people on benefits don't deserve them, it's just, some people do more than others, I guess. Oh, yeah, sure, take mine," he says, pushing his own barely-touched pizza towards Patrick, who's been looking at it hopefully for the past thirty seconds.

"Sorry," Pete sighs, "I know you probably don't care about this. Wait, how old are you?" he asks, in an effort to steer the conversation towards the election, which he's been building up to for most of the meal.

Patrick pauses mid-pizza, and stares blankly at Pete. He swallows his mouthful quickly and puts the half-eaten slice back down on his plate, his teeth now chewing on his lips instead. "Uh...how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four," Pete says uncertainly, wondering why the boy threw the question back so fast. "You?"

Patrick shifts in his seat. "Uh...guess."

Pete frowns, seeing this as yet another opportunity to accidentally insult Patrick. The kid looks like a teenager, maybe eighteen, but Pete decides to play it safe. "Uh...twenty-one?"

The kid's eyes light up a little, and he seems to relax. "Yeah, twenty-one. That's right."

"Oh," Pete says, frowning harder,"Are you lying?" And Pete immediately regrets asking that question.

"No, I'm not fucking lying, you fucking stuck-up asshole!" Patrick spits, his hand coming down on the table and making Pete jump. "Why would I fucking lie about that?!"

So he does think I'm a snob, Pete thinks, and that annoys him enough to snarl back, "I don't know, maybe you want me to get you alcohol or something? Maybe you're an under-age junkie, maybe that's what you spent my damn money on!"

Now, Pete doesn't quite know if he used the word junkie in the right context, but he's still a little bit proud of himself for saying it. And a little bit terrified of what the reaction will be.

"Alcohol?" Patrick practically yells, his eyebrows scrunched with fury and his glare steely, "what the fuck do you think I am?! Some fucking layabout?! You wanna know what I spent your fucking money on? Fucking shoes. But they got fucking stolen, didn't they, by shit-head kids who think I'm fucking garbage! I'm not a fucking drunk, alright?!"

Pete's pretty much pressed himself against the back of the chair as the kid shoots him a huff of air and turns his glare to his plate. "I - uh, I'm sorry," Pete squeaks, cursing himself for ever opening his mouth.

Patrick glances up, and to Pete's relief, doesn't look like he wants to do any face-pulverising tonight. He gives Pete a small nod, then picks up his pizza again and carries on eating.

Phew, okay, well done, Pete tells himself, now change the subject.

All the subjects, however, seem to have gathered together and jumped out of the kitchen window, leaving Pete shifting in his seat with his mouth fidgeting.

"Uh...so, I hope the food's okay," he says weakly, "um, sorry there's no, like, meat on it, if that's what you wanted." He has visions of Patrick fishing dead animals out of bins, like he's some Gollum creature. "It's just I'm veggie, so..." he tails off, when the boy doesn't respond.

But Patrick stops chewing and frowns at him. "What's veggie?"

"Oh, like, vegetarian," Pete clarifies, waving a hand at the salad like it represents him as a person.

But Patrick just keeps on staring at him. "Veg - vega - what?" he fumbles, and Pete very nearly laughs, then thinks better of it.

"Vej-a-teh-ree-uhn," he sounds, "means I don't eat meat." He's never heard that word before? What?

"Oh," Patrick frowns, "okay. Why?"

And that's something Pete can talk about.

"Well, like, my mum is, so she probably got me into it, but I guess mostly it's just 'cause I don't want to be the reason something dies. I mean, I know it doesn't make any difference, really, but I guess it all helps. Like, you should see the conditions they keep these animals in, all packed together, I mean, they don't even get to see the sun before they're ground into...well, whatever they're ground into. Imagine not ever seeing the sky, it's just appalling. And another thing," he continues, and suddenly he's off. He's not even sure Patrick's listening, and he doesn't really care, either.

He ploughs through pretty much everything he can think of to keep the silence away, the conditions, the health issues, the way that people are happy to eat a pig, but the idea of eating a dog is disgusting.

"Do you know what vivisection is?" Pete asks suddenly. His self-consciousness has melted away in the wake of his impassioned speech, and by this point, he's hardly even talking to the kid, who shakes his head all the same. "Well, it's like when scientists do experiments on animals, really horrible ones sometimes. I mean, I guess if it's to cure some deadly disease, then it's kinda justified, but, like, cosmetics and stuff? That's just wrong. No-one wants needles stuck in them every day, or to be, like, blinded in the name of freaking shampoo or something, it's ridiculous," he reels, his hand gestures nearly sweeping everything off the table on more than one occasion.

It takes him a couple more minutes of extensive detail on the treatment of research animals to actually look at Patrick.

The kid's stopped eating, in fact, it looks like he hasn't actually eaten anything since Pete started talking. He's gazing straight at Pete, his mouth slightly open and - wait, are those tears in his eyes?

"Oh, uh, I didn't mean to upset you," Pete says quickly, shuffling closer to the table.

Patrick blinks, then hurriedly wipes at his eyes, ducking away from Pete's stare. "You didn't," he says decidedly, swallowing hard but keeping his eyes on his plate. "Just...why do they do that?"

Pete beckons his eyebrows down from the top of his forehead, and tries not to fall off his chair. "Well, I don't know. People are cruel, I guess."

The rest of the meal goes without a single swear word being uttered. Patrick only begins eating again once Pete has assured him there's no meat in any of this, and that he mostly tries to buy products that state they haven't been tested on animals. And Pete is so very proud of himself.

He's never had a reaction like that. People usually just nod and smile and ignore him, then complain about him when they think he's not listening. But Patrick...well, cared. And that's quite a good feeling.

So instead of cursing himself for letting the kid into his house, Pete's almost smiling as he helps Patrick to the guest room, and bids him goodnight. Well, okay, there's a little bit of cursing when he sees the mess the boy's made of Pete's bathroom - apparently he's incapable of having a bath without causing a tsunami - but other than that, he goes to bed happy.

He decides he hates the boy a tiny bit less, now.