A/N: Two things made me write this fic. One, I'm going through some SEVERE writer's block on Oh, Good Grief, and I desperately needed a break. Two, I realize I've been focusing on Lucy and Schroeder way too much, and I wanted to branch out a bit. So here's a CB x PP story that sort of came to me last night. I hope you enjoy it!
She looked at her grimy face in the bathroom mirror. It was covered in soil and scratches, and her equally dirty hair was all tangled and unkempt, strands of it strewn across her face.
Her lip still had some dried blood on it from where that pig Thibault had scratched it in the fight. It had started normally enough: two of the best players on their baseball team had gotten sick and missed that day's game, and Patty, the only good player left, had had to carry the game mostly by herself. Even though the opposing team (which wasn't Chuck's) had been quite good, the Pelicans had managed to lose by only one run.
After the game, Thibault had gone on one of his usual rants against everyone and everything. Patty was used to it. He'd start up like that every time they lost a game. But today had been different. He started to offend Patty directly, using terms like "an insult to the game" and "not a real girl."
Not a real girl? That was Patty's breaking point. In one swift POW! she knocked him down, leaving him temporarily stunned and motionless. But in another moment, he was on his feet again, swinging a clenched fist back at the girl. And so the fight had broken out. Patty was winning, though with some difficulty, when Marcie came out of the restroom and saw what was happening, and joined in to help defend her best friend.
So they'd sent Thibault home with a dislocated shoulder and a few other lessons in what happens when you mess with Patricia Reichardt. Marcie had made it out mostly unscathed, but Patty had obtained a few scratches in the process, including the one on her lip. She lightly touched it with her right hand and flinched; it hurt.
These were the times when she wished her father didn't travel for work so much. If he were here, he could help her get cleaned up and make her feel better with warm, comforting words.
Mr. Reichardt had always had a bit of a poet's soul. Patricia wondered why he slaved away in a drab office job when he could've written poems and become famous instead. And then maybe he could stay home with her, and she wouldn't need Marcie and Franklin (mostly Marcie) to be the ones to stick up for her.
She thought about all this as she washed her face and applied some ointment to the cut. She sighed contentedly. It felt good to clean up. She began to run a bath and play some music on her stereo — old-fashioned rock n' roll felt appropriate for winding down after a muddy fight.
As she soaked in the tub and scrubbed herself clean, she took a long look at her legs. A slight giggle came out of her when she remembered her old fondness for calling them her "Peggy Fleming" legs; a frown when she realized just how long it had been since she'd last shaved them ("you don't need smooth legs to play baseball," she had argued when Marcie had pointed this out).
But with a sigh and a mutter of "self care," she decided to launch into the tedious task, and reached for her razor.
It was worth it. As she sat on her bed about half an hour later and dried off, she realized how lovely it felt to have her legs (and underarms, while she had been at it) restored to their rightful glory. She happily hummed along to the music as she applied lotion and massaged her achy arms. She was feeling much better already.
She opened her closet, intending to pull on a nightgown and climb into bed for a much-needed early night. But as she pawed through her clothes, she found herself looking at some of the garments that lived in the darker corner of her closet — the ones that had belonged to her mother.
She pulled out a black, sleeveless sheath dress and held it up in front of herself in the mirror. She smiled. It was lovely, and she felt the sudden urge to try it on, so she unzipped it and stepped in.
"It's so pretty," she quietly swooned as she twirled in the mirror. "Oh, and it fits perfectly!"
Her excitement was starting to bubble over, and suddenly Patty had a rather good idea — standing on her toes, she stretched out a hand and just barely managed to grab hold of a pink shoebox on a shelf high in the closet. She set it down on her bed, opened it, and pulled away the wrapping paper inside to reveal a beautiful pair of black pumps she had bought for Homecoming (her freshman year Homecoming, that was — the dance was to be in about a month). With a sly smile, she lifted them out of the box and slipped them on.
Squealing was very much not Patricia Reichardt's style. But tonight, as she stood in front of her full-length mirror and looked at herself in such a beautiful, elegant outfit, she couldn't suppress a little Eep! of excitement. She felt very feminine, and even as she began to brush and dry out her wet hair and put it into a simple twist, her mind couldn't help but wander in Chuck's direction.
What would he say if he saw me like this? she wondered as she sprayed on some jasmine-scented perfume. Ooh, I just feel like a heartbreaker.
One thing led to another, and in mere minutes, Patty found herself dancing around the house, adorned in some other trinkets of her mother's (a pearl necklace and earrings and a thin gold bracelet) and with her lips painted red by a lipstick Marcie had given her for her birthday. It was a strange, wonderful feeling, being all done up and fancy.
She practiced a stance; a walk; a dance. She was in the middle of a twirl through the living room when her doorbell rang, distracting her and making her collapse onto the couch. Patty stood and laughed at herself, and turned down the volume of her stereo before heading to open the door to who she assumed was her dad, who had said he'd be back from his business trip today.
It wasn't her dad.
"Chuck!" she exclaimed, suddenly feeling terribly self-conscious and hiding behind the door. "What are you doing here?"
"H- hey, Patty," he said shily. "Marcie told me what happened at the game. I wanted to come and see if you were all right."
"Oh," she said with a shy smile. "That's so sweet of you."
They stood awkwardly for another moment before Charlie continued. "So… can I come in?"
"Oh! Uh, erm, sure." She stepped back and opened the door wider, allowing him to step inside. "Do you want a water or something?" she asked as she sprinted toward the kitchen.
"No I'm good," he answered, following her. "I just wanted to see you—" He stopped short as he came into the kitchen and laid eyes on her dress. "Whoa. Patty, you look… beautiful!"
She blushed deeply as she heard him speak. "Do you really think so, Chuck?"
He nodded. "Really. You've never looked lovelier."
Patty smiled softly in return, though biting her lip in self-consciousness, before suddenly letting out a sob.
Charlie's eyes widened. "Patty, what is it?"
"Oh… Nothing, Chuck!" she cried as she began to dash back to her room.
He stood there a moment, wondering what had just happened, as he heard her slamming her door.
"Patty?" he called, approaching the room. He knocked. "Patty, what happened? What did I say?"
But Patty made no answer. All he could hear was the sound of her softly crying inside. He wondered what to do. Should he leave, or stay and talk out whatever had just happened? With a determined sigh, Charlie Brown decided this was not the time to be wishy-washy. "Patty, I'm coming in," he warned, slowly turning the handle on her door.
He found her curled up on her bed, weeping into a pillow. He approached cautiously and sat next to her on the bed. "Patty? What's wrong?"
Patty lifted her tear-stained face to look at him. "Oh, Chuck," she whimpered. "I've 'never looked lovelier'? Does that mean I'm ugly the rest of the time?"
"Oh, Patty. How can you say that?" he inquired gently.
"Well, you've always made it pretty clear I'm not your type. Suddenly I dress up nicely, like the kind of girl you like, and that's when I become beautiful?"
"Now, wait a second!" exclaimed Charlie, bolting upright. "What do you mean, 'you're not my type'? When have I ever said that?"
"You don't have to say it. You show it all the time. And it's always Heather this, Heather that…"
Charlie scoffed. "Is that what you think of me? That after everything we've been through together, I'm still pining over Heather?"
"Well, it certainly seems that way," snuffled Patty.
Charlie couldn't believe his ears. Was that the impression he was giving Patty? It looked like he was a lot more wishy-washy than he had realized.
Maybe it had taken him years to fully realize how he felt, but hey, the heck with it all. There couldn't be a more perfect time to speak than now.
"Patricia Reichardt," began Charlie, standing up formally, "let me make this perfectly clear. I have never known any girl as fascinating as you. And maybe it took seeing you in this beautiful dress to get me to say it, but it's the truth."
She shifted her position to face him fully. "Do you mean that?"
"Completely. Tomboy or it girl, I think you're amazing. And if Heather, or that stupid Thibault, or anybody else makes you think any differently, refer them to me, and I'll give them a piece of my mind."
A smile crept onto Patty's features. "Really, Chuck?"
He sat down on the bed again, being right at her eye level, and took her right hand gently. "Really."
"Oh, Chuck!" she yelled gleefully, throwing her arms around his neck. They remained there for a few blissful minutes, the two of them, simply wrapped in a fulfilling, wonderful hug, giggling like two starry-eyed teenagers — but after all, that was what they were.
Finally Charlie loosened his grip on Patty and whispered into her hair, "Patty, will you go to Homecoming with me?"
She smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Oh, you wishy-washy ol' Chuck. Of course I will."
And with this they stood and went into her living room. "So, Chuck, my dad's supposed to come back home tonight. You wanna wait up with me and watch a movie?"
"You bet," answered Charlie, grinning at her as their hands intertwined.