#patrick jane angst

Pairing: Boyfriend!Patrick Jane x fem!CBI agent!Reader

Summary: you’re dealing with the aftermath of a kidnapping from a case a few weeks back.

Content warnings:mention of past kidnapping, mention of blood, reader had a off duty weapon and it is used(not to shoot), reader has anxiety and a hint of depression, vulnerable talk, nightmares, fear of guns(Patrick), hint of readers fear of codependency, no description of reader, PTSD I think that’s really all I’m not sure

A/N: This is my first mini fic or whatever, I’m open to criticism. I truly just started rambling on with this in google docs, this is not edited Because I’m lazy and not very good at this. I think this like like 2k words. Credits to @cursed-carmine for divider!

The first week after your kidnapping everyone came to see you. Lisbon stopped by with antidotes and food you insisted you didn't need. Grace dropped off a get well gift basket and tried to make you laugh.Cho left a paper bag with your favorite bakery's cinnamon rolls on your doorstep without knocking. Patrick came every day. Sometimes with food. Mostly with tea. Sometimes with absolutely nothing except himself. He never stayed long unless you asked. You never asked. It wasn’t because you didn’t want him there, you did. Desperately. But the thought of becoming someone who was needy, the thought of becoming a person who solely depended on another person just to breathe was not a person you wanted to be, especially not to Patrick, the man you loved, the man who had gone through more than anyone thought, and the man who had enough on his plate without a needy girlfriend. Even if he’d fight you on it, saying it didn’t matter, it did to you.

The physical injuries healed quickly, bruises from the handcuffs faded from angry purple to yellow. The burns from the taser stopped aching. The cuts on your wrists closed and the bruises on your ribs had started to fad. The nightmares didn't. Nor did the panic, the way every unexpected noise sent adrenaline flooding your system before your brain could catch up. The director had signed off on mandatory leave Lisbon had extended it, to your dismay and adequate thought that you were ready. "You'll come back when you're ready." "Im ready." "No." "You haven't even looked at me." Lisbon sighed. "I just watched you check every window in this office before you sat down." Your mouth closed. "You picked the chair closest to the exit." Silence. "You jumped when the copier started." "I was startled." "You were frightened." "I'm fine." Lisbon's expression softened. "No." "I'm surviving." The correction slipped before you could stop it. Lisbon caught it immediately. "Exactly. Two different things. Im giving you this time off so you can figure out how to live again. Not just survive. You went through trauma that would have thrown any of us off.” You stayed silent, you hated hearing what was right. Teresa softened her voice again. “I care about you, enough to know when you're faking it till you make it.”

Patrick noticed different things. You answered your phone still, smiled when he smiled or said some stupid joke, thanked him every time he brought dinner. But you no longer paced your apartment while you talked. You stayed curled tightly into one corner of the couch, startled if he stood up too quickly or made fast moves with his hands. When he reached for your hand, you sometimes hesitated. Only for a second, Patrick noticed, of course he did. You apologized every single time. "I'm sorry." "For what?" "I don't know." That answer alarmed him. You always knew, you always had an answer. You were the one that made him apologize for stupid stunts, this wasn’t you, this was some hollowed out shell. The real you got left in that god-forbid warehouse. He missed you. it felt as though some part of you had stepped several feet backward, watching the world from behind thick glass. He couldn't reach you no matter how much he tried. And god did he try.

On the 17 day of the time off a small shift happened, he showed up carrying two paper bags from your favorite Thai restaurant. You ate together at your kitchen table. Or rather Patrick ate. You pushed rice around your plate. "You don't like it? I thought it was your favorite?" "I do—it is." "You've had four bites." "I'm not very hungry." He frowned. "You used to steal half my dinner." "I did." "I miss defending my spring rolls."

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Just...heavy? Eventually Patrick stood. "I'll clean up." "You don't have to." "I know." He gathered the dishes anyway. When he returned, you were staring blankly out the living room window. "Whatcha thinking about?" You answered honestly. "Nothing." That worried him..

"You want me to stay tonight?" The question surprised you. "You don't have to." "I know." "You've got your own place." "I do." "You'll sleep better there." Patrick smiled sadly. "I don't know about that." You looked down at your hands. "Yeah sure, Okay."

He slept on your couch. you never asked him too. Because it felt less intrusive than sharing your bed. Before heading to sleep, he peeked into your room. You were already lying down, lamp on, eyes closed. "Goodnight." "Night." "I'll be right down the hall." You gave a tiny nod and nothing more. Patrick had never been a particularly heavy sleeper. Years of grief, anxiety and imsomnia had been parts that played to that. Every unfamiliar sound pulled him awake. So when the scream tore through the apartment sometime after three in the morning, he was was moving before he was fully conscious. It wasn't a frightened cry—it was raw, animalistic—a sound of absolute terror. Then a thump, and tumble from your room down the hall. His heart stopped. He sprinted down the hallway. "Love!" No answer.

He reached your bedroom door. It was half open from when he left the room hours ago. The lamp had fallen sideways onto the floor. The blankets were tangled. And you—you were backed into the far corner of the room, breathing in desperate gasps like the air could fill your lungs entirely, like you were coming up for air after being shoved underwater. Both hands gripped your off-duty 9 milimeter. Your hands shook and barrel shook violently too. Pointed directly toward the doorway. Toward danger—Toward him. Patrick froze. Every instinct screamed at him to reach you his heart breaking at the sight of you. Instead, he stayed perfectly still. His stomach twisted. He hated guns. Always had. But he loved you infinitely more than he feared one and he knew this wasn’t you. It wasn’t. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know that you’re safe, he understands and he won’t hold it against you. "Hey, sweetheart." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "It's me." Your eyes darted wildly around the room, refusing to focus, refusing to let you see there wasn’t danger. Only him, only your Patrick. Instead your mind had you trapped somewhere else. "You can't—" Your voice cracked. “Don’t come closer!" His chest tightened. "I'm not." "They said-." Your breathing hitched violently you fought back a sob. "They said if I moved..." Oh. Oh God. Patrick felt sick.

You weren't awake. "You're home." No response. "You're in your bedroom." Another choked off sob. "No." Tears streamed down your face. "I'm still there." He swallowed hard. "No." "I can smell—" Your voice broke. "I can smell the blood." Patrick forced himself to stay calm not to make sudden moves that would scare you further or spiral this nightmare more. "Listen to me, sweetheart," The gun trembled harder. "You are not in that warehouse." "I am." "No." "I can see her." His eyes stung. "The little girl I can see her." You shook your head frantically like you didn’t want to see it, like you couldn’t believe it. "I left her." "No." "I left her." "No, sweetheart." "I promised—" Your breathing dissolved into panicked sobs. "I promised she wouldn't be alone, I promised I’d save her, I’d bring her back to her dad!"

Patrick carefully lowered himself to one knee several feet away. Making himself smaller. Less threatening. "I need you to look at me." You couldn't. "I know, I know baby," He kept his voice impossibly gentle. "So just look at me. ." Another choked sob. Your eyes went toward him for half a second. "There you are." He nodes carefully. The gun lowered an inch. "You live in Sacramento." His voice stayed slow, hoping that if he could give you clues to where and who you are, it’d bring you back to him. "You have a blue couch." "You always leave books on your coffee table." A tear slid down your cheek. "I'm your boyfriend, we’re in your apartment, it’s 3am, and I’m here." Another inch. "You are not alone, baby. As long as I’m breathing you’re not alone." Your arms finally gave out. The gun slipped from trembling fingers and landed on the carpet. Patrick didn't move toward it. He moved toward you. Slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to tell him to stop, or move or do what you needed.

The second he reached you, you collapsed into him. You clung to his shirt with strength, knuckles turning white. Your entire body shook so violently he could barely hold you steady. "I thought—." You couldn't finish, words cut off with a desperate breath. "I know." "I thought they came back." "I know." "I'm sorry." He closed his eyes, kept his arms wrapped tight around you, one arm around your lower back, the other wrapped so he could hold the back of your head. He looked over your shoulder at the pistol lying a few feet away. Unloaded, he didn’t notice, didn’t think to look. The magazine sat on your nightstand. His shoulders loosened just slightly. "You keep it unloaded?" You nodded against his shoulder. "I—." Your breathing hitched. "I can't sleep unless it's there." The confession broke something inside him. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t as welcoming to him sleeping with her.

"I know you hate guns." "I do." "I tried, I did." Your voice was so small. "I tried putting it away." "But then I couldn't breathe, I felt so vulnerable like if I wasn’t careful—." Your voice cracked and you went silent. Patrick wrapped both arms around you. "You don't ever have to hide that from me." "I didn't want you to think that I was crazy."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your face was blotchy from crying. Your hair was a mess. And your eyes….They were exhausted. They held fear and anxiety. "I think," he said quietly, "that someone did something unimaginably cruel to the woman I love." Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "I think your mind is trying very hard to keep you alive." His thumb brushed gently beneath one eye. "I would never think you’re crazy, love. Never ."

"I don't know what's happening to me." "You've been having panic attacks." A tiny nod. "Nightmares?" Another nod. "How long?" "Almost every night." His heart sank, that meant there were nights when he was just a few feet away from you and you’d been suffering, alone. "And you didn't tell me." He sounded heartbroken, not because he was mad, never. But because the thought of you going through this without a word was enough to make him cry. "I didn't know how." He understood that way too well, after Angela and Charlotte, there had been years where language had failed him, too. Sometimes pain simply existed beyond words.

We see him basically turning the CBI office (or rather his couch) and his room in the roof into his "home" because he doesn't want to go home to sleep in the house that his family was murdered in. But does he shower there?? Where does he keep his many many 3-piece suits?? Sure, he could've turned a spare cupboard in the CBI building into his personal closet space, or maybe he even has a locker that Lisbon helped him acquire somewhere...