Work Text:
He goes into work anxious. His forehead is sweating, hands shaking. Luis talks at him in the elevator and he considers wringing his neck; he’s sure he could do it quick enough but dealing with the body would be a pain. So he simply stares ahead, clenching and unclenching his fists and imagining they’re wrapped around the other man’s throat. Apparently he does have self control.
He goes into work having no idea who he is, half expecting the plate outside his office to display a different name. But the letters read Patrick Bateman, as they always have, and he’s not sure if that isn’t the more frightening outcome. He throws his briefcase at the ground instead of out the window like he wants to. It bursts open and papers spill out, and one goes fluttering across the room, thin like butterfly wings he would pluck and tear off as a child.
His Walkman finds a place on top of his desk and Patrick finds his place behind it, sinking heavily into his chair. He’s at work and he’s alive. He’s here like nothing happened. He thinks he has a lunch meeting at 1. He doesn’t know if he killed Paul Allen.
He finds a bottle of Xanax in one of his desk drawers and swallows two dry.
The door opens ten minutes later and Patrick looks up from his crossword. The pencils drops from his hand when he sees her; Chanel skirt, white blouse from some boutique, Valentino heels that elongate her legs in just the right way. Head still attached to the rest of her. Blonde hair framing her face perfectly. He killed her last night.
“Mr. Bateman, you have lunch with Craig McDermott today at The Vine,” Jean says. She keeps her eyes down, staring at her notepad. She bites her lip. Nervous. He didn’t kill her last night but did he try to? No, she wouldn’t be here if he had. He wouldn’t be here if she’d gotten away.
But he is here, sitting at his desk with bile rising in his throat, and she’s here, Jean, Jean, Jean—an angel, a ghost, an alien to him. He killed her last night, he’s sure of it. He didn’t want to; he never wanted to hurt her. But she was there, so perfect and beautiful, and he couldn’t help himself. She’d come over for drinks, stunning and sweet and he didn’t know who designed her dress but for once it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Jean. All that mattered was the way she took Patrick apart, rearranged him, left him a wreck.
She ended up in his bed and he stabbed her as he made her come. Plunging the knife in over and over as her thrust into her again and again and again. Blood everywhere. His face, his sheets. Spilling from her perfect lips. He kissed her and tasted it as he finished. Then he held her body and sobbed.
He thought about driving the knife into his own stomach.
Went to the bathroom and puked until there was nothing left inside him.
Got dressed for work the next day without showering.
But here she is. Breathing. An anomaly. Did she leave after they had sex? Before? Had she even come over to begin with? It seemed there was no way of knowing for sure unless she mentioned it.
“Mr. Bateman?” She’s looking at him now. His bones are broken and every word she says tears his heart open wider.
“Sorry,” he answers with a smile. He’s going for disarming but it probably comes off as manic. “I’m a little distracted this morning.”
“Why don’t I get you a coffee?” she offers.
Patrick nods and she turns to leave. “Jean?”
She stops in the doorway. Looks over her shoulder, and he wants to claw his own heart out of his chest and squeeze it until he feels nothing. “Yes?” she asks.
Like a child plucking petals off a flower—she loves me, she loves me not, I’m going to kill her, I’m going to let her live. I’m going to carve her eyes out. I’m going to make love to her on satin sheets. “Are you free tonight?”