#patrick b.

“Baby,” she croons, close to his face. Her hands are splayed out over his chest, the starched and crisp white of his button-up shirt. She goes to adjust his blazer jacket, smooths it over.

“I know you wouldn’t fuck with me. And I’d never fuck with you,” she says in a way indicating just how likely she really is to fuck with him, just for fun. 

“Patrick —” 

She’s chasing after him. It’s pathetic — especially in these heels, he-llo! Little Miss Girl should really learn how to walk in these things — you know, the strappy high ones that Patrick likes ‘cause they make her calves look good — before she puts them on. 

SHE LISTENS — in bed first thing in the morning, still, all curled up on herself and small.

She clicks off her phone before the voicemail can repeat or her answering machine can ask her how she wants to proceed.

Minutes go by where Spirit just stares at her hands and tries not to cry.

Finally, she calls him again.

"Patrick? Patrick? Patrick?"

None of this — what Patrick is — has really felt real until the gun. In other universes, there is Spirit with the knife, Spirit with her throat exposed to Kieran Glass. But right here, right now, there is Patrick, and the gun, and the imminent threat that he will shoot.

“You’re funny.” 

His verbal abuse is par for the course, at this point. Cruel words slide off of Spirit easily. It’s like she was made to handle them. 

“Because you’ve already wasted a fuckload of time, and you probably won’t be stopping anytime soon.” She’s not just the fuck of the month — she’s his dealer, his connection to the criminal underworld, to resources that help him cover up all his dark and dirty little secrets. 

She gives herself perhaps more credit than is due. Still, she gives it all the same. 

“If I believed in any of that,” she says softly, “I would go crazy.”

They’re in Patrick’s bed. His head is on her chest. She’s stroking his hair idly — savoring the moments she can actually touch him before he redoes his hair and skincare regimen. 

@americanedpsycho grabs her calf; he asks: would you hold still, please?

She's on his kitchen counter. Who allowed her up here? The health and safety risk is undeniable.

He's struggling with the straps of her heels (the ones he picked out, naturally; her chunky platforms won't do for the establishments he frequents).