Author's Notes: 'Patchwork Knight' is set in the Sweet Dreams universe, but is otherwise a standalone story.
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"Patchwork Knight"
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Does everyone remember their first crush with such clarity? Forgetting his is impossible, and if he were honest with himself, he would acknowledge that she is the standard by which every other woman that he has admired or dated is judged, and has found them lacking. He knew that he was not the only one who fell in love with her in those glory days of high school.
The ultimate girl next door, she was the soul of delight and laughter, pent up pleasure in a tightly wrapped package of pinks and blues, her chosen colors. People couldn't help but love being around her, couldn't help but be made better for being around her, because she always had a kind word for everyone and insistence the others have only kind words for each other, no matter how far outside of her social circle they'd been relegated.
Even the jock-tosterone brigade was no match for the brunette's whirlwind graces, and because of that, the number one unspoken rule in school was that any room she happened to be in at the moment was neutral ground. She was the life of parties, and wherever she was... there was a party. Behave, and you could hang with the cool kids, even if only for a short time.
"Dance!" she'd always insisted to anyone fool enough to try and sit out the school events at the gym. "Is it more embarrassing to get out there and have a little fun, or to sit there like a lump where everyone can see you?" Never relenting in her enthusiasm. Everybody danced for her.
Scruffier and scrawnier in those days, he'd been a farm kid without the benefit of the farmer's tan and build, thin and light-skinned enough to be burned tough and leathery by working with his father in the field. No chance he'd have ever strayed into her orbit -- not only would he have gotten a private chat with the jock-tosterone brigade, it was simple fact that was she an upperclassman, he a freshman.
She never knew he existed, but it wasn't the mean ignorance of arrogant and prideful youth, simply too many people and too little time. Kellville was a little school serving only a few townships, but not that small. Always admiring from afar, like so many of her other silently suffering victims of puppy-dog love.
Amelia Collins was the flame, but there were no moths about her, only butterflies - and butterflies in every sense of the word.
Greg Bartels had never let it get him down, though, the plentiful bounty of growing seasons past and school crushes fondly remembered made for great nostalgia, something to keep him warm on long lonely nights when he'd had no desire to drink himself stupid and weepy. There were no truly unhappy memories of Kellville High, only a somewhat drearier place left behind when she'd graduated with her high school sweetheart into whatever the world held in store for her.
***
Yet here he lay, his bare skin against hers, a hand about her waist as she slept, retreading the long road he'd taken from there to here. Kellville was better than two hours drive, a small town edging its way into obscurity as time took a toll on it, nearly every child that graduated from the ancient halls of that decaying school escaping to other cities throughout the state to pursue whatever dreams they had. Far away, in both time and distance, a past locked behind a stint in the service, and later, a college education that the service had helped pay for.
***
You'd think that as a father who believed so strongly in conservative values, Conrad Bartels should have been able to pass down his stringent ideas of what constituted proper personal discipline down to his only son, but Greg had never taken to it. Maybe just doing the shit rebellious kids do, insisting on hanging out with the wrong crowds, getting up to business that might have damaged his entire future if he hadn't had some guardian angel.
One of those bright kids who suffers for lack of direction, Greg had come close to failing out of high school, just skating by with a diploma, and it was only after a campaign of insistence and demands, pleading and bargaining, that he'd been convinced to enlist. The united front his parents presented was a key to that -- Sherry Bartels had seen and agreed with her husband's reasoning that their son had needed a steadier disciplinary hand in his life.
And what do you know? It'd worked, and by the grace of that same unseen angel, he'd gotten out by the skin of his teeth, his time up before the administration in charge had the notion to reinforce the troops in the middle-east with stop-loss. Greg believed in god and country, would have fought as trained and directed, but he'd already lost a buddy stationed there and had more than enough ugly memories.
He didn't sign on again, opting to takes his benefits and channel them into an education. Chance had put him on a paralegal's career path, and with that newfound discipline, he'd buckled down and created a future for himself, earning his associate's in paralegal studies and capturing himself a great job in downtown Shenan Oaks.
His future seemed solid, a steady income and no bad habits to blow it on, taking everything he'd been given or earned for himself over his life and making it into something his father could finally respect. That was what he'd wanted more than anything else, was why he'd finally agreed to enlist, and coupled with good old army discipline, was the motivating force throughout college.
Then he'd met Andrea Dunlap, and life did a 360, spinning in place, never quite sure if he was back where he started.
***
Memories like Andrea weren't what he wanted to call up, lying here next to his girlfriend. Amy wasn't plain. In fact, most people would call her pretty, but Andrea's stunning good-looks always seemed overshadow anyone around her. Willing the traitorous thoughts away, he examined Amy's sleeping form.
Almost what people would refer to as full-figured, without the connotation of obesity, she had a body that was all great curves, with hips and a bottom that swung flirtatiously when she moved, lovely full breasts that were more than a handful. Lovely, really? What was he, some kind of ridiculous poet? he chastised himself as he examined her.
Still... the word fit. She looked not just good, but great; she'd taken care of herself, though her self-image was far lower than the packaging warranted. Fucking Jake. Fucking Freddy. There was a place in Hell for them, and Greg believed that some version of it existed.
***
Bafflement was the only word he could use to describe his relationship with Andrea. There'd been any number of other girls... Greg had two older sisters, and they'd made certain he understood what "romance" met, while his mother had made sure to impress the word "respect" on him as well. So yeah, he might catch them, but not hold them. Definition of nice guys finish last. Until Andrea.
There was another expression that had always confused the hell out of him before he met her -- a mystery wrapped inside an enigma inside a puzzle, or some such. Made sense for her, because he couldn't make sense _of_ her. They'd met while he was doing work for his firm, and he'd been awestruck by not just her good looks, but her skills and competence, the way she'd worked together with him.
Perhaps stupidly, since it could have caused him trouble, he'd dropped into his classic form, making a show of mock-nervousness and asking, "If you don't have other commitments tonight, perhaps you'd give me the opportunity to try and impress you as much as you've impressed me? Dinner, perhaps?" Blushing, she'd laughed and accepted the invitation, and from that point on, they were a couple.
That was how it was supposed to work, anyway.
He'd gone to the party for their date, and found that others were waiting in the lobby as well. More to the point, a tall girly-looking dude was there, and he'd had no idea why the prick was talking about his own date with Greg's girlfriend. Greg believed in standing up for things that matter, and he'd immediately called the punk out, ready to beat the crap out of him.
Andrea showed up, in the process stopping him from embarrassing himself, and worse still, ran the two of them a spiel that convinced him he was being a possessive ass. Horrified at the realization that he was acting completely at odds with what the women of his family had taught him, he'd backed off, and made it his personal challenge to beat the arrogant girly-man in the competition for the hand of the lovely Andrea. No problem, right? Hollywood romances are made of that shit.
Unfortunately, so were comedies. Nothing bleeds the romance out of that kind of challenge like losing the interest of the woman you want. Felt it, a storm-head on the horizon, looming and ready to strike. He didn't deal well with stuff like that, and had taken to drinking far too often. Some people are angry drunks, others simply hilarious when they'd had a few too many. Greg was a weepy drinker, knew it, and hated himself for it.
Feeling it come on again at the end of a long and lonely holiday, he'd finally said enough was enough, ceded victory to the girly-man. Hadn't quite worked out that way for either of them, but he'd dropped the news on Andrea at her job. It had seemed funny when he'd talked about it on the phone, less amusing as he walked in the building's doors, and downright stupid as he approached her office. Instead of taking pleasure on it, Greg had simply told her how it was going to be.
Andrea had stared at him, those beautiful green eyes glittering, and while there was some heat in her cheeks, she'd dismissed him with, "Whatever."
That stung, but he'd already made his decision, and Greg wasn't a man to fuck around with regrets or second thoughts. It was a load off, and he'd rode the elevator to the bottom floor with a tremendous sense of lightness. He could get on with life now. Excellent. Not only that, but he was kinda hungry, and what did we have here?
Vander & Porter didn't have an employee break-room; it had something better: a full-blown public cafeteria that looked better than some restaurants he'd been to. It was classy, and open to anyone who wanted to grab a bite with friends who happened to work here. He'd never eaten there with Andrea, as it always seemed a bit below her standards, but he wasn't going to settle for processed mcshit with smells like this wafting his way. Settling in, he ordered lunch, enjoying his newfound freedom.
