Will & Patrick Wake Up Married by Leta Blake

Patrick opens the door with gusto.
    “I’m looking for Dr. and Mr. Patterson-McCloud,” a man with dark hair and wearing a suit intones in heavily accented English.
    Patrick’s face turns red and he sputters, but he steps back to allow the man to enter the room. The dark man smiles, crosses to where Will sits on the bed, and hands over a gigantic bouquet of brilliant red roses.
    “This is for me?” Will asks.
    The man bows his head and leaves again without waiting for a tip.
    Patrick’s brow crinkles and his blue eyes cloud with confusion. Will’s sure his own expression isn’t much different. Maybe the flowers are from Ryan? Will’s heart skips a beat. Maybe he wants to make up after all? Still, this is extreme for him, and not his style. And wait, the delivery guy had said Dr. and Mr. Patterson-McCloud.
    And this isn’t Will’s hotel room.
    Heart thumping, he pulls out the card nestled among the flowers.
    “Who are they from?” Patrick asks.
    As Will reads the note, the blood drains from his face.
    Congratulations on your marriage, Guglielmo.
    We hope you and Dr. McCloud enjoy a long, happy life together.
    The Molinaro Family.
 

     
    Patrick’s gotta hand it to himself. He’s married well. It turns out, aside from being terrifyingly small, private jets are the schiznit. No lines. No security. Just walk right on up, get on the plane, and fly away. Patrick should ask for alimony in their eventual separation and demand full use of the Good Works jet for the rest of his life. No wonder his Little Lord Fauntleroy is afraid of losing his bucks. It would suck to give this up.
    The pilot provides them with soft drinks and snacks. Will takes a sensible packet of cheese and crackers. Patrick takes three bags of chips and a cellophane-wrapped muffin. Then the pilot, whose name Patrick didn’t bother to catch, excuses himself to the cockpit. Patrick popped a Xanax earlier when he saw the tiny tin can they were going to fly into the sky, and it’s doing its job. He gets another journal out of his briefcase and takes a sip of Sprite before stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth. “There’s more where this came from, right? Because I don’t want to run out.”
    Will cocks his head and looks at Patrick with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression. “You ate before we left the hotel. It’s a four-hour flight. You’ll be fine.”
    “So? I don’t like heights. Food comforts me. Unless you want to see me re-enact a scene from The Exorcist , you’ll keep me in chips and soda.”
    Will’s eyebrow goes up. “Does the almighty Dr. McCloud suffer from human weaknesses?”
    Patrick says nothing, turning to his journal.
    He’s surprised when Will lets it drop. In the short (and yet epically disastrous) time they’ve been together, Will’s basically been like a dog with a bone about everything. Now he’s letting this go. Patrick can’t help but be a little suspicious.
    Will leans forward, elbows on his knees. He drops his head into his hands and stays that way. Patrick looks down at the article— Prioritizing neurosurgical education for pediatricians: Results of a survey of pediatric neurosurgeons. Boring. He’s not in education. He does cuts, not talks. Still, Aldana, the primary author, is someone he doesn’t altogether despise, and he likes to keep up with his work. A survey, though? Please. Give him real science.
    Will makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.
    Patrick flips to the next article. Passive range of motion functional magnetic resonance imaging localizing sensorimotor cortex in sedated children. Ogg is a good scientist, and Patrick would usually be a lot more interested in this. Pediatrics isn’t his primary specialty, but it’s a sub-specialty that he’s taken on willingly since he has the balls for it. Not many people have the confidence to cut into children’s heads.
    Will sits up, wipes a hand over his face, and if there aren’t tears on his cheeks, then Patrick’s sure