Title: ManBoy

Rating: FRK
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or situations that are familiar to you
Spoilers: Um... uh... whatever you might recognize.
Summary: Oneshot. As a doctor, he swore to treat everyone with respect and dignity regardless of age, gender or scumbaggery . Unfortunately, for Walter, that also includes Patrick Verona. Slight OOC?

I have altered the lines to the '10 Things' poem to fit my needs. I do not own either poem.

Established Katrick relationship.

I hate the way you talk to her...

If you had of asked him 18 years ago what the most vile word in the English language was, he would have said either 'hormones', 'puberty', or 'male pattern baldness'. But that was 18 years ago, and a lot can change in that time. Now, it had to be 'endearment'. Calling his late wife 'Honey Bunches of Oats' is one thing, cause they were married and he wasn't a hoodlum, but hearing said hoodlum mutter a 'honey', or 'babe' to his not-as-enraged-as-he-had-hoped daughter was something else completely. Not that the hoodlum did it often, but once would have been too much, and it was certainly more than once. It was even more vile when she'd blush in return.

And the way you touch her hair...

Kat's a very simple girl. It doesn't take dinners, or movies, or items to make her happy, so some date nights both of them decide not to go out, allowing him to both supervise and scrutinize the events. Sometimes they'd watch an old movie on the couch, or listen to old records in her (open-doored) room, but from his own observations, they most liked to sit on the porch, Patrick sitting on the wide railing one leg bent up, with the other hanging off, Kat sitting between his legs against his chest. He has no idea what they talk about, but every so often things would get too quiet, and he'd allow himself a peek, and nine times out of ten, they'd both be sitting in silence, looking at nothing, Patrick's sticky little fingers threading through his little girl's hair, holding the strands, then allowing them to sift through before repeating. If the action alone didn't make him queasy, the small, gentle smile on Kat's face would usually do the job.

I hate the way you drive her car...

One of the rules for dating his teenage daughter was absolutely, positively, without question, NO bike. Heaven help you if you disobeyed. And thus far, they hadn't, or they had been very secretive about it, but the point was, that only left one mode of transportation, and while he didn't necessarily like the idea of his eldest gallivanting away in a vehicle with a back seat and a troublemaker at her side, it was better than the alternative. Until he saw the troublemaker pull out of the drive the first time. Too fast, too loud and too distracted. An accident waiting to happen, and his little girl was going to be a casualty. It wasn't enough that he drove like a madman, which Kat seemed oblivious to, but did it carelessly, with neither of his hands at ten and two, instead, a single index finger at about 4, and the other hand hanging out the window. She came back looking more alive than ever.

I hate it when you stare....

Patrick Verona is sitting at his dinning table eating Caesar Salad and sipping on a glass of water. It's heinous, it's bizarre, it's uncomfortable, it's wrong! What's even more wrong is that his eyes tend to gravitate more towards Kat than his own food. He watches her when she leaves to get a condiment she's forgotten, and watches when she comes back. He watches as she brings the fork up to her lips, or when she brings her hand down to wrap it around her glass. He watches brightly as she laughs at something he's said, or throws her hair over her shoulder, away from her face. He watches, even as the conversations turn more awkward as she rubs her collarbone nervously, and bites her lip anxiously. He watches her all the time, and he doesn't seem bothered to know that even as he watches her, he's being watched, himself. He smirks and continues to watch.

I hate your big dumb combat boots...

There used to be a time when he could finish work, open the front door, take off his loafers and not see and/or trip over an extra set of large, clunky combat boots sitting just off to the side on his doormat. But not now. These days, it was a surprise if those scuffed, size tens weren't invading his home, placed haphazardly beside an equally scuffed smaller pair of clompers, almost like they belonged there. They most certainly did not.

And the way you read her mind...

Out of all the people in the world, no one knows his daughters quite like he does. He can tell what mood their in just by a glance, and what they're going to say just by by the topic. When the girls argue, he can pinpoint the exact time one will start yelling and which will win the argument, based on the fact that the tiff has already been argued about before. The only time he doesn't know what's going to be said is when Kat gets on one of her monologues, riddled with facts, logic, and morality. There are just so many of them and all varied in cause to possibly keep track. But ever since that day, he's paid attention. There wasn't anything special about it, other than the girls and HIM were in the kitchen doing something or other, when Bianca attempted to convince the pair to go to a party. She had begged and pleaded, only to have Kat reply 'The party is just a lame excuse for all the idiots at our school to drink beer and rub up against each other in hopes of distracting themselves from the pathetic emptiness of their...' with Patrick adding, '...meaningless, consumer-driven lives. ' After that he became all too aware how well HE knew her.

I hate you so much it makes me sick...

"Dad, I'm going out", "Daddy, Patrick's coming over", "We're going to the movies", "I'm going to Patrick's", "He's gonna work on my car", "I'm meeting him at..." Ugh eegh oooh aaahhh!!! Can't you feel it?! Yes, it's that same ulcer he'd been getting since his little girls became more interested in boys than toys. It starts with an uncomfortable churning in his stomach, much like indigestion, then a lump in his chest sits like a brick, squishing and pushing and suffocating the life out of him every time HIS name is brought up in any form other than 'he's a scumbag and lying dead in a ditch in Bakersfield.' Migraine, leg pain, joint strain, weight gain usually all follow, and by the time HE either leaves, or she comes back, he's about finished writing his own obituary because surely the pain will subside once he's dead. But even that's not a given.

It even makes me rhyme...

If he were a rude man, he'd say something like 'Pat-rick is a ...err...rhymes with ick', or perhaps something more his speed, like 'Patrick Verona is a moana, a goana, should leave his daughter alonea, shouldn't write a letter, or shouldn't telephonea', or just maybe 'Here lies Patrick we bid goodbye, he rests in peace, now so do I'. Admittedly, most of his little jingles are thought up in the shower and washed down the drain.

I hate the way you're always right...

'Gimme a second,' she had said as she ran up the stairs, leaving him standing at the threshold of HIS living room, ankles crossed leaning against the wall. 'Translated from Latin, this Canadian province is to mean New Scotland.' Alex Trebek asked on the screen. 'Newfoundland' the father said with much confidence, 'Nova Scotia' Patrick said with the same. Five anxious seconds passed until Alex answered with a mundane 'Nova Scotia'. He shrugged in a 'what do you know?' kind of manner and turned his vague attention back to the screen. 'This extinct Dinosaur has a scapula of over 6 feet in length,' Alex said next. 'T-Rex' was the father's answer, 'Supersaurus' was his. Before the answer was given, Kat was down the stairs and virtually shoved Patrick out the door. The door closed and the word 'Supersaurus' echoed throughout the house for the rest of the night.

I hate it when you have her lie...

Okay, perhaps 'have' is the wrong word. Kat would never do anything he told her to without wanting to do it herself. She's independent enough to make up her own mind, and smart enough not to do something unwise. That being said, she likes to... omit thing about her time spent with him. The usual whereyougoing?, whatyoudoing?, whoyouhangingoutwith? are usually met with a vague, 'Patrick's' and a 'Dunno' as to the events. He's not that stupid. He knows what teenagers do when they get together alone, hence the battery of tests, and he knows what Patrick Verona wants, the hoodlum he is. But Kat's like her father, and he's grateful, cause she thinks long and hard before doing something, and is usually pretty strict on her own need-to-know basis, but when it comes to Patrick, he's pretty sure the need-to-knows aren't really anything he wants to know.

I hate it when you make her laugh...

He's here. It's obvious, even if it weren't because of the extra boots or leather jacket hanging over the back of a chair in the dining room. It's obvious because she's laughing, and he can hear it from his study. They're in the garage, or more importantly in the driveway, working on her fixer-uper. There is nothing dangerously wrong with it, just an oil change maybe, but Patrick offered, and Kat, the continual learner, allowed. By the fourth time he checks on them, both are under the car, their legs sticking out the front, and Patrick can be heard making comments about some part or other, and then some other off handed comment that seems to tickle her pink and causes her to laugh. She does that a lot these days, and it's always because of him.

Even worse when you make her cry...

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Two people so stubbourn and so surefire just couldn't work together without a few clashes. Yes they've had their disagreements about whatever it was they disagreed about, and they had small little misunderstandings, on his part obviously, that were somewhere, somehow cleared up, but never was a protective father more useless when the one daughter he didn't think he had to worry about came barreling in the house, nose red, eyes glossy and puffy and an angry, painful 'Leave me alone' in her wake. Less than an hour later, he showed up at the door, looking as in-control as ever and asked to see her. The father said no, the daughter in rumpled pajama bottoms standing on the stairs said yes. As he reluctantly excused himself to his office, he never did find out what they argued about, but when he heard an 'I'm not very good at this' from Patrick, it almost made everything better. Almost.

I hate it when you're always around...

The relationship had started off pretty slow, and for which Walter was elated, it was almost as if it wasn't happening, but then, over time, the once or twice a week hangouts became three to four, four to five, and then when he couldn't ignore it any longer, his wise cactus all of a sudden had a boyfriend. It's not like they spent all of their time together though, both of them were too independent, and too much of a social obscurity for that, but it wasn't hit home about how much time was spent in the other's company until the morning he woke up, bright and early at 8, to find Patrick Verona eating toast in his kitchen. A panic rose within him at a vague thought of boys spending the night in his house, but was thankfully squashed when Kat informed him that Patrick was attending the local Cure for Cancer run with her and Bianca today, that started in just over an hour. She didn't return until 8 that night, looking exhausted, but accomplished.

And the fact that you always call...

He's big on family bonding, so every Wednesday night, the girls know homework must be done and guests must be shoved out the door by 7 to provide two or more uninterrupted hours of board games, card games, movies, or discussion as a family unit. The girls aren't a huge fan of what they've named 'Fright Night' a night solely dedicated to him, but they don't complain, and usually end up having fun by the end of it. And then he calls. It's not his fault he doesn't know about 'Fright Night', and once he's informed he gets the picture not to call. 'Fright Night' was invented long before dating and popularity, but it's times like this where he thanks foresight and applauds himself on the tradition.

But mostly I hate the way she doesn't hate you

She's different. She's still his little cactus who's fiercely independent and likes her allotted amount of alone time every day, but she's not just his anymore. Now he has to share her with a boy she'll probably, eventually, grow to love and who'll probably, eventually (he'd better) love her back. She smiles more, she laughs more, she's got this bright little glow about her whenever he kisses her goodnight at the door, or whenever he does something particularly nice, whatever is characterized as nice with him. She's happier than he's ever seen her, even if she does have her moody days, and she seems more tolerant of the things around her, though that still doesn't stop her protests of this, that and the other thing that seems to bother her. She's happy with this boy, and despite his reservations, her happiness is all that matters.

So I can't hate you

Not even close,

Not even a little bit,

Not even at all.

Author's Note: SO MUCH FUN to write, even if it's not as good as my last. ~ The Verona rhyming, I wish I could take as my own, but no, I borrowed it all from The Reduced Shakespeare Company's 'Othello Rap'. ~ Like I said, tweeked the poem, only a little. I'm surprised nobody else thought of this. ~ Also like I said, a tad OOC, but we currently have no idea how they'd act as a couple, so I ad-libbed. ~ I was stumped as to the last 4 lines, so I didn't do anything with them. Deal.