Hello everyone! Now, I know what you must be thinking: "the author who has only written one-shots is now writing A THREE-SHOT? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?"

I know, crazy right? :) My first intention was to make this a one-shot, but I have lots of ideas that I'd like to incorporate somehow into this story, and I'm not quite sure how I'm going to do it yet. I didn't want this to be too long, so I'm splitting it up! I had lots of fun writing this and I'm excited to write the next two chapters soon.

This is my first AU Peddie story, so I do hope I kept them in character enough. I'm kind of obsessed with AU Peddie at the moment, so I thought writing AU Peddie would help the obsession, but I think I'm just adding fuel to the fire :D

I also want to give a quick shout out to hiimkassandra: thank you so much for all your reviews! Your reviews always put a smile on my face, make me laugh with joy, or both :) You're so kind and you give me lots of confidence when I write. Thanks again!

AND THANK YOU TO ALL OF YOU WHO READ AND REVIEW MY STORIES! It makes me feel so good when I see that people like what I created-it makes me enjoy what I do even more when I make people smile :) Thanks a billion times! :)

Enough rambling! Do enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I don't own House of Anubis

Behind Closed Doors

Patricia was running late.

Again.

It wasn't her fault for constantly ignoring her alarm clock. It was annoying and utterly rude for waking her up every morning at 6:35 just so she could get up and go to work. She was tired from it all: getting up, going to work, working, coming home, going to sleep. Who knew being a twenty-three-year-old bachelorette with a thriving job and chaotic life could be so exhausting?

Currently, she was rapidly walking up the front steps of her place of employment. Patricia had played her cards right and invested well after she graduated from college over a year ago. She had studied law (a good occupation to release her feisty, witty, and stubborn attitude) and had chosen to take a job offered at the up-and-coming, new law firm in southern Liverpool. The rest of her graduating law class had chosen to work at the credible, older law firm in northern Liverpool.

Needless to say, that firm went under three months after graduation.

Now Patricia Williamson was the "new girl" at her work—the new law firm that was securely making millions. She was the youngest lawyer by far, but she definitely knew her stuff, even more so than the said "veterans" of protecting the law did. If anyone needed to win a case or think of a loophole around a situation to keep the client innocent, they went to Miss Williamson to devise a plan.

She was quite good at what she did.

She just didn't like waking up in the mornings to do so.

Patricia reached the huge double glass doors that led into the building. Her heels click-clacked over the tile floor as she still rapidly walked into the lobby (Patricia was never one for running or even jogging; she'd get there when she'd get there). Barbara and Jose, the two secretaries sitting behind the large oak front desk, gave her a nod in acknowledgment, their faces glued to their computer screens. They didn't need to look up to see who was there: Patricia's lack of punctuality was normal, expected by now.

Patricia went over to the elevators on the left side of the lobby. She punched the "up" button and took a breath while she watched the number above the closed, metallic doors descend. She had a client coming in soon (or was he or she already there? She couldn't remember) and she hadn't prepared anything yet. She needed to get to her office. What would the boss think?

She found herself clicking the "up" button another five times.

Ding! chimed the middle elevator and the doors slid wide open. Patricia hardly waited for them to open wide enough for her to squeeze inside. The time when she really should have gotten out of bed…

Instinctively she punched the glowing "Level 6" button on the left side of the doors. Her office sat on that floor, as did her boss's. He would without a doubt recognize how she wasn't sitting in her desk before her new client showed up. She bit her thumbnail anxiously.

A few seconds went by and the doors didn't close. The elevator was waiting to see if anyone else would be taking the ride up with Patricia. Or that was what Barbara and Jose told everyone who complained the elevator system was slow. The owner/boss of this law firm had decided to host his workplace in one of the oldest buildings in all of Liverpool. It was cheap and he was a young entrepreneur—he had to start somewhere. Everything here ran slow—especially the elevators. The doors always took a long time to open and close. Getting to the second floor felt like ten minutes had passed. Patricia had to get to the sixth floor. Ugh! Why Patricia didn't think to take the stairs, she didn't know, but she really wished she had. Well, she still could; the doors were open.

However, the stairs were on the other side of the lobby. Going over there and up six flights of stairs would require more rapid walking.

Patricia stayed put in her elevator.

No one was in the lobby and after forty-five seconds of waiting, the doors began to slide shut. Patricia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Although the elevators were slow and they were part of the reason why she arrived at her office late all the time, she absolutely loved when she had the whole elevator to herself. It was one of the few moments in the hectic life she lived in where she could consume nothing but her thoughts. It wasn't a completely silent ride thanks to the stupid elevator music her boss picked out (classical music? Really? Could this scream cliché/annoying louder than it already did?), but it was nice to be by herself and think—

"HOLD THE ELEVATOR!" A voice screamed suddenly. Patricia was pulled out of her thoughts. She choked on the breath she was about to let out and flashed her piecing blue eyes open. The doors were halfway shut and as she was roughly coughing to regain a steady breath, she saw a man running like a maniac. He was flapping his arms over his head and his squeaky, shiny shoes galloped rambunctiously over to the elevator.

Her elevator.

"Oh no," Patricia spoke aloud. She was fifteen minutes late to work, her client was on his or her way (or already there), and her boss was probably asking the workers who neighbored her office: "have you seen Miss Williamson?" She couldn't afford to waste one more second of time she didn't have.

Now, a polite, respectable, considerate human being would have simply leaned down and pressed the "Hold Door" button, thus allowing the sprinting man entrance into the elevator. When the man got in, he'd probably say: "gosh, thanks so much," and then the kind human being would shed a small smile and tell him: "don't mention it; it was no trouble at all!" The ride up the building would have gone smoothly and easily, no complications necessary.

However, Patricia Williamson was not your average human being.

She was one of a kind.

She was the person who bent down and purposely clicked the "Close Door" button like it was the last thing she'd ever do. Multiple times she clicked the button in hopes that the doors would shut quicker and quicker, leaving the running man behind so she could travel up five floors and keep her job. It was an awful thing to do, not to mention horribly rude, but this was a desperate time, which meant desperate measures needed to be taken…

Oh what was Patricia thinking? She would have done this exact thing if it meant she could have a few minutes to herself.

(She was never a people person back in high school.)

The elevator doors were inches away from completely shutting. Patricia was about to smile in victory and think maybe today was looking up when a hand slid through the crack, causing the machine to slowly open wide again.

There was the running man. Or more like the wheezing man. He stood in the elevator doorway, his arms outstretched on both of the doorframes to keep them from closing. He had his head bent down and he was inhaling large breaths to steady his beating heart.

See? This was why Patricia stuck to rapid walking, or else she'd look like that.

Once the man started to calm down, he could hear his thoughts rather than his heart pulsing through his ears. If he had just woken up a few minute's earlier, he could have totally remembered to grab a tie before he left home, avoided falling in the parking lot, being late for his interview…

…and he wouldn't have had to encounter a woman who wanted nothing but to keep him from using the elevator.

Patricia watched the man snap his head up to look at her. Frustration flared in his hazel eyes and irritation was apparent on the rest of his face. His blond hair swept over his forehead due to the running and his black work suit was all wrinkly (both from running and from his catastrophe in the parking lot). His lips were pressed into a thick scowl and so many snide remarks were raging through his head. Oh did he have a lot to say…

So he would do it his way.

He stood up straight and cleared his throat. His lips relaxed, the scowl removed from his features. He forced his eyes to meet hers. Surprisingly, he couldn't find one hint of embarrassment or regret on the woman's face for getting caught. That was simply because Patricia wasn't embarrassed or regretful about what she'd done. Why should she be? She had things to do, people to talk to, work to get done.

Oh gosh: work to get done…

'Whatever,' the guy thought. She just made him want to get even more than before. The man walked into the elevator and stood on her right. There was a large gap between the two and honestly, if the man could have more, he would have gladly taken it. Why would she purposely do that? Especially when he was in need of help because he was running far behind schedule? 'Stay cool, stay cool,' he told himself.

The doors slid shut. The elevator didn't start rising; it was old and tired. Neither of them spoke; the elevator music was the only source of sound. It got on the man's nerves rather quickly. The more he thought about the woman's inconsiderate actions, he started to think maybe it was just an accident. Maybe she pressed the "Close Door" button without realizing it was that one, since she was intending the press the "Hold Door" option. He glanced over at her from the corner of his eye and saw her doing the same thing: staring right back at him…like he was inconveniencing her, when he thought it was totally the other way around.

Oh no, she had definitely meant to click the "Close Door" button.

He was so going to bring it up.

The man cleared his throat again. He averted his eyes from her and looked straight ahead at the metallic paneling on the wall/doors in front of him. He saw his and the woman's reflections.

"Thanks for holding the door," he said nonchalantly. He continued to look at their reflections. "It was really thoughtful of you to help me out there."

Patricia sighed obnoxiously loud. Just when she thought this would be the most awkward—but nevertheless silent—elevator ride she'd ever have to experience, the guy had to open his big mouth.

His very American mouth.

Here we go.

"Look, we can all point fingers—" she began, but was rudely interrupted by his thick American accent.

"Really? Because I don't think you could have since your finger was too busy pushing the "Close Door" button." He watched her head turn sharply to glare him through the reflection on the wall. He noticed her dark red hair flip over her shoulders and how the color starkly contrasted her blue eyes; if he wasn't so vastly irritated and offended by her obvious attempts at making an excuse, he might consider thinking she was pretty. However he couldn't get past the rude, defensive attitude or the whiny British accent she possessed. He ignored the daggers she was shooting at him and began to fix his blonde locks, pushing it out of his face. That allowed Patricia to see his large nose and wide smirk more clearly. He then calmly folded his hand over the other and rested them in front of him.

Patricia scoffed. "American and arrogant. I'm not surprised."

"Well, I'm surprised," he said with a shrug. "I thought Brits were supposed to "jolly good" or something like that. What, did you forget your morning tea today?"

"Did you forget your class today?" Patricia narrowed her eyes and placed a hand on her hip.

"It's wherever yours is, love."

"Don't call me that, slimeball," Patricia yelled loudly. That was when the man turned to face her. His eyebrows were raised in both astonishment and something along the lines of interest. Slimeball? Really?

"I have to say, you're third grade insults are quite charming. I guess you pick up men often."

Patricia scoffed. "Like you've got women lining up to get with your sorry self."

The man scoffed. She rolled her eyes. They both turned away to face the metallic wall.

(Neither of them noticed that they had taken a step towards each other).

The elevator finally jolted into action and slowly began to ascend the building. The man suddenly remembered he hadn't pressed one of the level buttons yet. He was supposed to be interviewed by the boss of this place…oh gosh, what floor did he say the interview would take place on? The second? Third? Fourth? He couldn't remember but he knew he had to pick one, or else he'd have to get out wherever this madwoman was going.

He certainly didn't want to do that.

He took a step forward and reached in front of Patricia to click a button without saying excuse me. He pressed "Level 2," but then grimaced. Wrong floor. He then clicked the level three button and it took all of Patricia's might not to rip his hand off his arm. This guy was going to make her even more late! She tapped her foot impatiently to get the anger out and her message across. It was when he was about to click "Level 4" when she snapped.

"Must you click every button and make me later than I already am?" She complained, whipping her head back around to look at this guy. Obviously he didn't work here or else he would have automatically picked the floor he worked on.

Ick, a newbie.

(Although she was a newbie herself…)

"Apparently we're in for a long ride together," the man teased. Patricia looked at his appearance once more rather than the scowl that was back on his face. The tie-less suit (which looked a little stained) gave him away.

"You need to go to the tenth floor," she informed with a sigh. Rookie. She swatted his hand away from the elevator buttons and pressed "Level 10" with much more force than necessary.

"How do you know where I need to be?"

"You're obviously being interviewed," Patricia told him, gesturing to his outfit. "No one wears those monkey suits after they've got their job. It isn't how we roll around here. Plus, the boss interviews on the tenth floor."

The man didn't say anything in response. He looked at how she was dressed and assumed she was right: she wore a teal blouse, black pencil skirt and tights. Her hair was curled and she wore more eyeliner and eye shadow than most women would. She looked professional, but with her own personal flare. He thought about telling her "thank you," but decided otherwise. She did just insult him and she pointed out his flaws and she called him a monkey.

If all the employees were like this woman, he didn't know if this was the job for him.

Ding! went the elevator. The number above the opening doors flashed "2." Gosh, two more stops until Patricia reached the sixth floor. Her client was probably sitting in her office by now, angrily sipping coffee or tapping his or her foot. Jose and Barbara probably warned her client about the slow elevators. He or she may have used his or her brain and taken the stairs. Patricia should do that more often…the taking the stairs part, not the listening to her brain. She was an intelligent girl, honest!

Patricia leaned down to click the "Close Door" button the same time the man did.

"Do you mind?" She glared. She saw the man's face soften ever so slightly when their fingers collided.

"I guess not," he said, recoiling his hand. He found that his lips were curling upwards ever so slowly. "You've got more experience with that button than I do."

Patricia slammed her whole palm against the button and he laughed. The nerve of some people! Why was he messing with her anyway? They weren't friends, but Patricia was sure friends didn't speak to one another like this either. Besides, Patricia had a good reason for what she did, but obviously since the American didn't get his way, he was going to rub it all over her face and—

Wait, was this guy…smiling? Patricia couldn't tell. She had turned herself in his direction so she could tell him off, but his face distracted her. It definitely wasn't scrunched up in a scowl or a frown. He looked a little more relaxed, like he was slipping back into his natural self. 'His natural, cocky self that no woman could ever love,' she thought.

Apparently Patricia had glared at him far too long. The man looked at her through the corner of his eye again. She had stopped yacking. Although he didn't even know her name, it seemed unnatural for her to not talk. He smirked, rolled his shoulders confidently and turned to face her.

"Staring at my good looks?" He questioned with a playful gleam in his eyes. "It's okay; I get that a lot from women. Feel free to take as long as you want."

Patricia's face instantly flashed red. She was certainly NOT doing that! The amount of discomfort she felt before escalated to a whole new high. Was he…no, he couldn't be. No boys ever flirted with Patricia Williamson. If they did, they'd most likely have a scar or were emotionally traumatized by now. And those were the brave ones; boys were scared of Patricia and everything that made her so "Patricia." Because of this, she was probably the only twenty-three-year-old woman in all of England who hadn't had her first kiss yet. To most girls, that would have bothered them. Not Patricia though.

This guy was definitely bothering her now.

"If you must know," Patricia began with a bittersweet smile, "I'm trying to figure out what went wrong in your life to make you this obnoxiously conceited."

"Or maybe what went right," he said with a shrug, that smirk still glued to his face. "I like who I am."

"You're the only one," she scoffed, "I presume you're president of your own fan club too?"

"Interested in signing up?"

"Fat chance!"

Ding! the elevator rang once more. Patricia and the man turned to watch the doors slide open, making them forget their banter. Patricia looked up at the number on the wall and she gave a small gasp when she saw it read "3."

"Is that the elevator?" A new voice said. It was coming from down the hall. The man peered his head out to see who it was, but was yanked violently back inside by Patricia. He rubbed where she had dug her nails (or her claws, he thought) in his arm while he watched her rapidly click the "Close Door" button.

Here we go again…

"Close, close, close, close," she repeatedly muttered under her breath. She was pressing the "Close Door" button with all her might and as quickly as she could. She couldn't afford to slow down since he was walking down the hallway to her elevator.

"Is this you're natural reaction when people want to ride the elevator?" He questioned rather seriously. This was strange behavior, and if she was doing it more than once, maybe she had a problem… "Anti-social much?"

"Shut up, doofus!" Patricia snapped. She turned her attention to him once more. "I don't want him to know I'm in here—"

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Ah!"

Patricia went back to slapping her button. The man could hear the other guy's footsteps getting closer and closer, which only made Patricia practically punch the "Close Door" button. He sighed. Why should she help her when she didn't help him earlier? Well, she actually did tell him the tenth floor was where he needed to go to be interviewed. Even if she was relectant to do it, she still helped him. Oh gosh, now he owed her. He sighed.

He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and let his head lean to the side. He watched her squirm for just another moment, seeing as this was his little taste of revenge, before he finally gave in.

"Just hold the button down!" The man suggested rather forcefully. "Maybe that'll make it go faster."

Patricia glared at him once more, but did as he said (not because he told her to, but because she wanted to try it).

It worked.

"Wait! Hold the—" the sentence was cut off by the doors shutting. The jolt of the elevator put Patricia at ease and she stood back up straight, sighing in relief. That was the last stop until she reached her floor, three floors up from the horrible third floor and a certain person who worked there.

She felt content.

Until she heard the man snickering.

"What are you laughing about?" She sneered. Those good vibes were instantly tarnished, replaced by her usual sourpuss ones.

"The utter desperation you had to avoid that guy," he chuckled. He even had to wipe away a tear. That was too precious, really it was.

"Shut up!" Patricia fought the red from appearing in her face again. Yep, now there was the embarrassment…

"So?" the man asked once he settled down. He took a small step towards her, closing the space between them a little more. Patricia noticed. She took a step away, recreating their original distance.

"So what?" She asked, both confused and a wee bit interested. She placed a hand on her hip and turned to face him completely.

"So who were you trying to get away from?" He asked, genuinely intrigued. This woman didn't come across as someone who often ran away or was frightened easily. She seemed like the one who made people run for their lives. "He must have the bubonic plaque to make you shake and shiver like that."

"I do not "shake and shiver!"" Patricia shouted in indignation. The man slightly cringed at her intensity level. Her yack was loud; it occasionally drowned out the dumb elevator music that was still playing (which he didn't mind). "That's pathetic and for weak people. I am far from weak. And I don't have to tell you my business."

"Why not? I thought we were friends." He asked, feigning hurt. He placed his hand over his heart. She tried to fight it, but lost: Patricia chuckled at his stupid expression.

Chuckle? Patricia? What? 'Get a grip, Williamson!' she scolded at herself, 'this guy is practically your nemesis. Don't give him the idea that you thought that was entertaining because it wasn't.'"

So she didn't.

"Because it's MY business!" She shouted right as the elevator went ding! They both whipped their heads around to watch the doors open. Patricia glanced up at the number "6" above the doors. Finally, she was at her floor!

Oh gosh, she was at her floor.

Time to go to work, meet her furious client, and get chewed out by the boss.

Great.

She and the man noticed no one was waiting for the elevator; they were still alone. Patricia was going to make her point (and avoid work for just a few more minutes): "I don't give out personal information to people whose name I don't even know. You've got to say the name and then earn the trust, buddy. That's how it works."

"You don't have many friends then, do you?" He smirked. "Ow!"

"I hope your arm stings for the rest of the day."

"Don't worry, it will."

"Just something to remember me by."

"So you want me to think about you, hmm? Is this you're way of saying you're attracted to me? Please don't hit me again!"

Patricia recoiled her raised fist. His pleads of mercy just made her day. She thought that was a good note to end on and was ready to move on from this odd elevator ride. She patted the man's cheek and made her way around him to exit the elevator.

Until he grabbed her wrist.

"What now?" Patricia whined. "Unlike you, I actually have a job that I need to get to before I get chucked out of here."

"If I tell you my name, I've got a chance to earn your trust, right?" He asked, rather seriously. It threw Patricia off. His feigned hope (or that was what Patricia thought) flashed across his face for a millisecond. He sort of hoped she didn't see it—the little speck that hoped she'd say: "eh, I guess"—or something like that. It looked like she didn't. Wait, sort of? Did he want her to see it? What?

Patricia rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself for goodness's sake! It's not going to happen. I'm anti-social, remember?" He half-smiled as she mocked him. She gave him an "I won" glare.

She wiggled her wrist out of his grasp. Patricia looked at her watch and saw that the elevator ride had taken a grand total of six minutes to reach her floor. Gosh, she was late. She was grateful that her boss was interviewing this stupid guy today, or else she'd have met him right as the doors were opening. At least she got to avoid him, but her client…

Patricia made no attempt to say farewell. She took two steps forward to exit the elevator, but was intercepted by the man.

Again.

He stood in front of her, holding the "Open Door" button with his right hand. Patricia crossed her arms and put on her most fearsome scowl. What was this guy's problem?

"Get out of my way, loser!"

"You never apologized for closing the doors on me," he reminded her. He cocked his head to the side when she raised her eyebrows indignantly.

"The doors didn't close, stupid. You still wormed your way in here, so I don't think I have anything to say sorry for."

"More of the third grade insults?"

"I'm not afraid of slugging you again. Or would you prefer a kick to the shin? I'm feeling generous. Seriously, get out of my way!"

"Tell me your name and I'll tell you mine," he said in a singsong voice. "Then you can go to work, which I know you're so looking forward too."

His hazel eyes met her blue ones. He noticed the distance between them had shrunk, but not enough to where he felt uncomfortable. He was close enough to see that she wasn't wearing lipstick; her lips were naturally pink, and her eyes were much bluer than he had originally thought.

(He wasn't all that much irritated anymore, so he let himself think that was she was rather pretty).

Patricia stood in silence. They were still standing close together, but not close enough to where she'd consider it creepy or anything. There was a good foot and a half of space between them. However she was close enough to notice…things. Like how the man's short hair was dark dirty blonde and that he was taller than she had originally thought him to be. You know, stuff. Also, she couldn't deny that he did have a rather…oh gosh, was she really going to think this? Even if it was to herself? Why was she thinking this at all? She bit her tongue and forced the words out of her thoughts to just get it over and done with because she knew that if she didn't, it would bother her for the whole day:

This guy had an attractive face.

Patricia thought she was about to vomit.

(Other than that, she felt…surprisingly good.)

Now she was sure she would vomit.

What really got through to her was the playful, lighthearted, mischievous look he had on his face. Patricia hadn't ever seen someone look at her like that before, or like that in general. It was refreshing in a sense; all the adults Patricia worked with were so darn serious and uptight. It was like they didn't understand the concept of having fun. Not this guy though: he was genuinely enjoying this—whatever this was—right now. The taunting, the teasing, the put-downs, the smirks, the scowls, the attention…he was thriving off of it and having a good time.

He was having fun with her.

Patricia didn't know how to react because she…sort of…liked it too.

Yep, there was the "I'm gonna hurl now" feeling again. Her stomach continued to flop this way and that; she couldn't get it under control. Once she realized that they were just standing there, she knew she had to say something.

"What are you, five?" She questioned, but the ferocity in her voice had diminished by a fraction of its original state. It's not exactly what she had wanted to come from her mouth, but she didn't really know what she wanted to say. The whole atmosphere felt a little different. The man noticed it too. He smirked.

"What are you, thirty?" He retorted right back. Patricia liked the jovial jeers that were said before, as did he.

Patricia raised an eyebrow.

He did the same.

She smirked.

His smirk widened.

"Touche." She said. "I'm—"

"Where is Patricia Williamson?" A shrill female voice shouted far too loudly. "She was supposed to meet me thirty minutes ago!"

Patricia grimaced and put her hand to her face. There was her client. The man laughed because the timing was just too ironic. Patricia reopened her blue eyes. He smiled at her expression.

He stepped aside and held out his arm to hold the doors back for her. He nodded at her and Patricia could not deny the smile that rested on his face. "Patricia Williamson."

Patricia gave a huff. "You're possibly the strangest, rudest, and most irritating person I've ever encountered in my life." She shrugged and said: "must be because you're American."

"And hilarious. Don't forget hilarious." He wiggled his eyebrows. He could not deny the small smile that was on Patricia's face.

(Yep, she certainly was pretty, he thought.)

"Good luck with the interview," Patricia said softly. That was how she bid him farewell. Patricia didn't wait for him to say good-bye or thank you in return. She bolted out of the elevator and rapidly walked (again, she never ran or jogged) over to the last door on the floor.

"I'm Eddie by the way!" She heard the man shout over to her. "Eddie Miller."

Patricia scoffed, this time in amusement and continued to walk down the hall. She lifted her arm up in acknowledgement and smirked to herself.

"And I'm not interested."

She heard him—Eddie—laugh, the elevator doors slide shut, and the soft ding! go off a moment later. As she rapidly walked to her office, Patricia noticed she still had the smile etched on her face.

Maybe it was a good thing she didn't take the stairs after all.

Tada! The first of three :) So many questions need to be answered:

Who was Patricia trying to avoid? Will Eddie get the job he was interviewing for? Was there more behind the playful banter/insults than meets the eye?

Okay, so only three questions :) All will be answered soon! Be on the lookout for the next two chapters! I hope you all enjoyed it :)