[ Pursuit of Happiness ]

AUTHOR: Isabelle Kennedy

FEEDBACK: [email protected]

WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/retroeighties

CATEGORY: Patrick/Holly AU

SPOILERS: General

RATING: R (Language, Sex)

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of the BBC, Kelsey, Huggett & related companies. No copyright infringement intended. Archive anywhere; just drop me a line first.

SUMMARY: She doesn’t need him. She doesn’t need anyone.

She rests her arms on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and bows her head, exhausted. Her skin is hot and she feels the sweat begin to bead along her hairline. She stands gingerly, using the seat for leverage and staggers to the sink.

Turning on the taps, she stares at her reflection. The force of the retching has brought tears to her eyes and her mouth tastes stale. Cupping the cold water in her hands, she splashes it across her face, destroying the remnants of her makeup. Then she grabs a stack of paper towels and scrubs her face, continuing even when it is dry.

Exiting the toilet, she nearly collides with Dan, who steadies her.

“Are you okay?' he asks. “You look pale.”

She nods, thinking that perhaps he's answered his own question, but doesn't challenge him.

“Fine.”

His hand lingers on her arm slightly too long and he looks back at her as he walks away. She watches him leave, then turns towards the staffroom.

“You look like shit,” he says as she enters the room.

She sits on the nearest seat and looks over at him. “Yeah, that's something every girl wants to hear.”

“You know me, master of the subtle compliment.”

“Subtle is not a word I'd chose to describe you, Patrick.”

He pauses, studying her carefully. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, turning back to the sink.

They sit in silence, the only sound is the hissing of the kettle.

“Do you want to come over tonight?” he asks.

And it's not tender or romantic, but it's enough.

It is dark in his room and she can't ever remember seeing his face when she fucks him. She braces herself against his chest as she straddles him, her knees pressing into his ribcage. His hands graze across her shoulders, then he pulls her down and kisses her firmly. But soon his fingers are sliding down her body until they rest on her thighs, then he draws her over until she is underneath him.

She is used to this, his assertion of power.

His face is against hers and she can feel his breath on her neck. He moves inside her and she wraps her legs around her waist. His hands skim across her stomach, clutching her hips and she starts to feel nauseous. Suddenly, every motion he makes jolts her and she reaches for his shoulders, attempting to still him. But it doesn't work and so she lies there, clenching her stomach muscles and willing the sudden queasiness to disappear.

She wakes in the sharp sunlight, her body aching and sore. The feeling is not entirely unpleasant and she opens her eyes slowly, running a hand over her stomach. The bathroom door is slightly ajar and she can hear him, although she knows that he makes an effort to be quiet. She pushes the sheets aside and climbs out of his bed, padding across the room. He is shaving, the foam covering his face, scraping the plastic razor across his skin. She stands, looking him, until she feels her stomach lurch and she starts forward, barely making it to the toilet before she throws up. He watches her, the razor motionless in his hand, as she vomits.

Several minutes later, she leans back and brushes the hair from her face. He continues to watch as she wipes her mouth with the toilet roll.

“I think I'm pregnant,” she says, looking him in the eye.

He doesn't say a word.

She follows him from the bathroom, still holding the scrap of toilet roll.

“Patrick, did you hear me?”

He turns to her. “Yes.”

“Well?”

“Are you sure?”

“What?”

“Have you taken a test?”

“No, I...”

He cuts her off quickly. “When you do, I'll discuss it.”

And he walks away.

So, that afternoon, she enters the staffroom and the door shuts behind her.

“Are you ready to discuss it now?” she asks, opening her locker.

“What?”

She pauses, looking at him. “I took a test.”

“And?” he responds and she knows that he is worried.

But she is blunt.

“Yes.”

He stumbles over the words. “You're...”

“Yes, Patrick. I'm pregnant.”

She turns away, knowing what he wants to ask. He doesn't, not yet.

“We can't talk about it here.”

Of this, she is adamant.

“No. Can you come round after the shift?”

She agrees, thinking that maybe, this time, she can walk away from him.

Later, she perches on his sofa while he stands uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

“Is it mine?”

She is resigned to this, his insensitivity, has even prepared a withering reply, but she stops short.

“Yes.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, taking in the news.

“What are we going to do?”

His use of the plural does not go unnoticed.

“I'm going to have an abortion.”

“Why?”

Her voice is steady. “Because I don't want it and I'm absolutely certain that you don't.”

“Aren't you even going to talk to me?” he asks and his voice sounds younger.

“You won't make me change my mind, Patrick.”

“I wasn't going to try.”

Her hands clench the sofa cushions tighter. “What, then?”

He moves to sit, but changes his mind.

“I just want to discuss it.”

She replies and her voice is clipped, formal. “You didn't show much inclination to do so yesterday.”

“For fuck's sake, Holly, I was shocked.”

“And you think I wasn't?”

He looks at her sharply. “I think you might have had an idea already...”

There is a long silence, then she stands, facing him.

“So, you want to talk about it now?”

“Yes.”

Her voice becomes higher. “Okay. I'm twenty-nine, Patrick. I don't feel ready to have a child. I worked in paeds... I know what it entails and I'm not... maybe I will, but not now.”

She looks straight at him.

“And I'm only an SHO. How far do you think I'm going to get if I have a child, take maternity leave now? I know it's unfair, a bloody double-standard, but it's true. I might be a registrar, but never a consultant. Perhaps you think I'm being fucking selfish, but I'm not willing to give that up for a child that I don't want.”

Her breathing is harsh and, right now, she resents him for being male.

“Anyway, what about us? Our relationship isn't,” she breaks off. “Fuck, Patrick, we don't even have a proper relationship and at the moment, you're the last person in the world I want to have a child with.”

She doesn't shout it at him, but the effect is the same.

“Well, I guess we're done talking.”

Her voice softens. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that.”

“Yes you did,” he says quietly.

She acknowledges this silently.

“When are you...?” he asks hesitantly.

“I've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow, so probably next week, maybe the week after.”

His response is unexpected. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

She's not sure of anything at the moment.

“I'll be fine, Patrick.”

“Okay,” he responds, unconvinced.

She picks up her bag, walks out and doesn't look back.

Less than a fortnight later, she enters the clinic, the door closing automatically behind her. The light is harsh and, for a second, she is blinded by the sterile whiteness of the place. Then her vision clears and the other colours filter through.

Instinctively, she walks over to the reception. The receptionist is female and as she looks around the room, she realises that this is true of nearly everyone. The women asks her name and then hands her a form to sign. The pen she picks up is inscribed with the clinic's details and she winces inwardly.

Taking a seat, she notices that the burgundy fabric of the chair is strangely reminiscent of dried blood and wonders who chose the furnishings. Women are sitting nearby, flicking through magazines, yet she can't bring herself to do the same.

She's anxious, scared, but she doesn't need him. She doesn't need anyone. And, for the first time in her life, she isn't sure whether it's something of which she should be proud.

That night, she wakes up and there is blood on her sheets.

It's not much and she expected it, but it still shocks her. She stares at the scarlet stain for several moments and then pulls the sheet from her bed, balling it up in the corner. Disturbed, she sits back down, the bare mattress scratching at her back.

She looks at the phone on her bedside table, but can't bring herself to call him, to need him.

So she avoids him instead. Until, almost a month later, she opens her door and he is standing there.

He's apprehensive. “How are you?”

“I'm fine.”

She always is.

“How are you really?” he asks, looking at her intently.

She smiles back wanly. “I'm miserable.”

“Me too.”

There is a magnetic pause, then she speaks.

“We can't go on like before, Patrick, it was...”

“Yeah.”

She leans her hip against the doorframe. “Is there any point if there's, you know, no future in it?”

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks quickly.

“It's what I want now.”

The silence stretches and she has to strain in order to hear his words.

“I miss you.”

She inhales sharply, because this is the closest they've ever come to the truth.

He stands there, on her doorstep and suddenly she realises that loving him doesn't mean needing him, but wanting him.

“Do you want to come in?”

And it's not tender or romantic, but it's enough. It's them.

End.