33Disclaimer: The characters and content in this story belong to the incredibly talented Becca Fitzpatrick. As much I was wish I owned her ideas, I don't. I'm simply a fan, having fun with her characters and writing about the scenes that she left us wondering about.
This first entry is set before the first book, when Patch was wrapped up in Irish bare-knuckle boxing. This just so happens to be when he picks up the nickname, "Patch." For those of you that are curious, this idea was brought on by the mention of it on page 234 of Hush, Hush.
Now, on with the first chapter. Enjoy!
Patch's POV
"I think that went well." I stated while I walked through the door, tossing my shirt that was no longer recognizable onto the back of a chair. Rixon looked unconvinced, leaning back with his hands resting on the counter tops.
"Aye, it looks like it."
The sarcasm in his voice almost made his Irish accent seem heavier. He pushed himself away from the counter and made forward, reeking of ale although he seemed sober enough, and flicked the light on. He gave me an annoyed glare once he'd seen the damage in the light.
"With a face like that, you'd think you'd take better care of it." He grumbled and shoved a hand into the center of my chest, making me fall back into the chair. I could only chuckle in response.
"Why d'ya keep it up if you know you aren't any good at it, Jev?" Rixon called from the other room where I heard the water running. I rolled my eyes.
"If I remember right, you weren't all that great yourself."
"No," He agreed, reappearing with a wrung out cloth. "But I was smart enough to give it up." I met his laugh with one of my own. Rixon was never quite as stubborn as me.
We used to go together, down to a little bar on the sketchier end of town where you were socially unaccepted if you hadn't been in the pin for at least six months or murdered somebody. Over the years , the bar had become a hotspot for the fallen like us. The entrance was worn down and it blended in with the rest of the red-bricked alley. If you didn't already know it was there on the corner, you would walk right by it.
The door was stiff and covered in chipped, maroon paint. When you opened it, you were always met with the stench of strong whiskey, sweat, and the odor of a particular brand of cigarettes that they sold for cheap at the market down the road. I could never stand it, and was grateful that most of the smell was gone once you reached the basement.
Down the narrow stairway, there was a room that opened up with bright lights overhead that always made me dizzy after the first few slugs were thrown. There was no real ring, but the men that stood on the sidelines were normally enough to form the fighting circle. It wasn't professional by any means, and half the time, I was convinced that it was the reason that I liked it so much.
Me and Rixon both had typically been good for the first few rounds before we'd stagger off and he'd talk me into a drink or two. I think it discouraged him too much, or maybe he was just more interested in the alcohol than the fighting itself, because before too long, he refused to join in anymore. Instead, he was normally stuck fixing me up after the brawl, like he was doing now.
"Hey, I win sometimes." I defended myself with a grin while he threw the damp towel to me.
"Yeah, like hen's teeth." He countered and tapped his left eye. I reached up to my own left eye with the towel, as he instructed. Sure enough, there was gash just below it.
"Nobody likes a smartass," My voice reminded him while he snatched the back of a chair and dragged it over to sit in front of me. He didn't have a comment for me, to my surprise, and just sat there with his goofy grin.
"Damn it all, Jev, you've split your lip again!" Rixon groaned. "I stitched it up only yesterday!"
"And you'll probably be doing it again tomorrow."
I smirked while he glared at me. I was surprised that he thought my lip was bad enough to need stitching. I thought I had done pretty well to avoid swings that were directed at my jaw, but I guess one or two blows to the face was enough to get the job done. No matter, Rixon would get it straight before my face started healing up. It was easier to fix it now than it was to wake up in the morning with something that healed quickly but looked funny because it was too screwed up to heal right.
"You should have seen the other guy."
"That's a fret," He chuckled. "Don't you think it's about time you give boxing up? The world knows it isn't your game."
I rolled my eyes. So, maybe my boxing skills had never seen a good day but really, it didn't make a difference to me.
"It's a good way to blow off steam." I shrugged. I was confident enough to think that I would get better eventually.
"Yeah, yeah." He muttered and stood to get the kit that he had cleverly written, "In the case that Jev still thinks he can win" over the top with a marker. It held sewing utensils and bandages, which were quickly running out.
He made some noise, rustling through the kit for a minute until he seemed to find what he needed and returned. After a round of cussing, he ordered me to mop up the blood so that "he could at least see what he was stitching together."
"Some of the boys want to go out tonight," He said while adding some final touches to his work. "I think I'll join them. Feel up to it?"
I sat back. "Maybe." In all honesty, it got old running around with some of them, but what else would I do to keep myself busy? I snatched my shirt from the back of the chair.
"Let me shower, maybe give this some time to close up." I pointed to the swollen, gashed eye that was already seeming to shrink down to its normal size.
"They might even bring those little blonde gals along," Rixon hinted with raised eyebrows and I chuckled.
"Ya know," He said as if suddenly remembering something while I walked down the hall. "I was telling the lot of them about how often I have to fix you up, with your little boxing obsession." Rixon stopped at the end of the hall and watched as I let my tattered shirt slide into the garbage can.
"Hmm." I hummed, swinging the closet door open to find a towel.
He nodded with a big, teasing smile on his face. "That's right, and they had quite the idea. Seeing as how often I'm patching you up, they figured we ought to start calling you 'Patch.'"
I rolled my eyes and closed the bathroom door, leaving him standing in the hall with his stupid smirk. Patch, I snorted. That would never catch on.
Well, there you have it. I'll admit, it's short and not my best for a first chapter. I hadn't planned on posting this first, originally, but it will do. I hope I didn't completely murder the Irish phrases/sayings but I did want to add something for Rixon. I really wanted to write this out to show the relationship that he and Patch had before. We only really know him as evil, but there must have been some reason that Patch hung around with the guy. ;) Also, it's a glance into our favorite fallen angel's past before he met Nora.
Just as a heads up for future chapters: I won't be posting them in any kind of order, meaning it won't be in order of the books. I'll skip around with them and the POV's that they're written in. In the long run, I do hope that you enjoy reading this.
As always, reviews are appreciated, and I would really love to hear about the scenes that you guys would like to see in this fic.
Until next time! XOXO